Twelve executives. Twelve red lights. My three masterâs degrees from one of Franceâs most prestigious universities meant nothing.
It all fell apart because the CEO, Victoria Davenport, asked me a question in French, and I didnât understand a single word. Now, she was on a tirade, calling me a fraud, a liar, a fake.
The studio audience, smelling blood, joined in, a faceless mob chanting for me to get off the stage. They had no idea that Victoriaâs mangled, butchered French was so atrocious that a native Parisian wouldn’t have understood it.
Sheâs the fake.
I tried to explain, but the show’s host, Ryan Shaw, cut me off, his voice dripping with condescending authority. He demanded I admit my degrees were forged.
I refused. The dozen CEOs on the panel grew bolder, a pack of wolves sensing weakness, threatening to have me blackballed from the entire industry.
Backed into a corner with nowhere to run, I had no choice but to pull out the very document they were defamingâmy diploma from a French Grande Ăcole, one of the most elite institutions in the worldâand demand that the French Embassy itself be called to verify it.
“When did your country’s most renowned university become a diploma mill? Don’t you care about your national reputation?”
1
A cold shock washed over me. Seated on the judges’ panel, Victoria Davenportâthe CEO who built her brand on having lived in Paris for a decadeâwas a complete fraud.
In one short, garbled sentence of French, she had made no less than sixteen grammatical and vocabulary errors.
I had politely asked her to repeat the question, hoping to give her a way out. I never imagined that, fearing exposure, she would turn on me with such venom.
âDonât play dumb,â she sneered. âItâs clear you donât understand a word. Some ‘international’ candidate you are.â
Putting on a show of righteous indignation, she picked up her coffee mug and flicked its contents at my face. “Let me help you wake up,” she said as the cold liquid dripped down my chin. âThis is The Boardroom. It’s a stage for genuine talent, not a place for charlatans like you to sneak through!”
The audience erupted in applause for her “integrity.” I could hear them muttering, âServes her right!â
The other executives shook their heads in disappointment. “Young people today,” one of them sighed, “all ambition and no substance. Always looking for the easy way out.”
One by one, they slammed the red buttons on their consoles. The lights above my head went dark. Twelve buzzers, twelve nails in the coffin of my career.
I tried to defend myself, my voice cracking. “I’m not lying! I graduated from one of the top universities in France. You can verify the diploma number on the schoolâs official website!”
Without hesitation, I held my diploma up, turning it toward the camera operator. The truth is the truth, I told myself, a desperate mantra. It has to be.
But before the camera could focus, the host, Ryan Shaw, snatched the document from my hands and presented it to Victoria with a dismissive flourish.
“See, Ms. Davenport? You can tell it’s a fake at a glance.”
“How can you say that?” I shot back at Ryan, my voice trembling with rage. “You didn’t even read it! Do you have any idea what you’re doing? You’re destroying my future!” Was that all it took? One accusation from a powerful CEO? Did being the boss mean you were always right, no matter what? And we, the job seekers, were we just supposed to stand here and take the abuse?
Victoria scoffed at my outburst. “A cornered rat always bites. When you expose a liar, they always claim you’re the bully.” She swore her judgment was impartial. “I’ve looked at it,” she said, holding the paper as if it were contaminated. “It’s a French certificate, I’ll give you that. You really did study abroad. At a vocational-technical school!”
She was deliberately demeaning me. “No wonder your French is so poor. You probably couldn’t handle a real university.”
Fury burned in my chest. Victoria Davenport probably couldn’t even read the diploma, yet here she was, the ultimate authority, condemning me to the academic gutter.
But no one believed me.
The crowd was chanting now. “Get off the stage! Get off!” They were embarrassed for me.
Humiliation coiled in my gut. I clenched my fists. “Give me back my diploma.” I would post it online. I would let the entire world see it and judge for themselves.
Victoriaâs lips curled into a smirk. “Be my guest. I have nothing to hide.” As she spoke, her elbow “accidentally” knocked over a cup on the panel desk.
Hot coffee flooded my diploma.
The culmination of countless sleepless nights, of years of sacrifice, dissolved into a soggy, useless piece of paper. Victoria tossed it to the floor in disgust.
I dove for it, collapsing to my knees, frantically trying to wipe away the dark, spreading stain with my sleeves. Tears I hadn’t realized I was holding back began to fall, mixing with the coffee.
Victoria’s voice cut through my despair. “It’s just a worthless piece of paper from a diploma mill. Who do you think you’re fooling with this little performance?”
That was it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I would expose her, right here, right now.
“You’re the one performing!” I screamed, getting to my feet. “You can’t speak French, and you were terrified I’d call you out, so you attacked me first! You made sure no one would ever believe a word I said!”
My voice raw, I issued a challenge. “Why don’t you have the producers find a native French speaker? Right now! Let him talk to both of us, one-on-one. Let’s see who the real fraud is!”
My outburst stunned the audience into silence. I heard whispers ripple through the crowd; people were saying I didn’t seem like I was acting. They started calling for the show to bring in a French person to test me.
I stood my ground, my heart pounding with a desperate confidence. I waited. But it was Ryan Shaw’s voice that boomed through the studio, not a producer’s.
“That’s enough! This show is not a stage for a liar’s endless theatrics. The twelve executives have made their decision. You have been eliminated. You have no more chances!”
He pointed a finger at me, his face a mask of contempt.
“Now, I’m officially asking you⊠to get the hell off my stage!”
2
Why? I couldnât understand. Are job applicants just disposable? Meant to be summoned and dismissed at will, without even a shred of basic human respect? Or was it simpler than that? In their eyes, we werenât even human.
When I refused to leave, demanding an explanation, Ryanâs face tightened with impatience. He stormed toward me and shoved me, hard, toward the edge of the stage.
I stumbled backward, losing my balance, and tumbled off the platform. Pain shot through my entire body as I hit the floor. I lay there, trembling.
“More theatrics,” Ryan sneered from above. “Why don’t you just admit you lied about your degree? Aren’t you tired of playing the victim?”
I slowly, painfully, held up my hands. They were already starting to bruise from the fall. “Is this an act, too?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Ryan’s expression faltered for a second before he hardened it again. “You did that to yourself!”
But it was too late. This was a live broadcast. Millions of people had just seen him physically assault a candidate.
Fearing a PR nightmare, the production team frantically cut the live feed.
After a commercial break and a hushed, intense discussion, the show returned. Ryan stood center stage, his face arranged into a mask of solemn sincerity, and declared that the show was absolutely, unequivocally fair to all candidates. As a testament to that fairness, he made a magnanimous announcement.
“Stella Morgan, it’s your lucky day. The producers have agreed to invite a French guest to speak with you. You will be given a chance to prove yourself!”
He smiled benevolently. “Please believe me, here at The Boardroom, we never let true talent slip through our fingers!”
The twelve lights above me blinked back on.
Facing the camera, Ryan led the studio in a round of applause for me. Then, as the clapping subsided, he leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper in my ear. “You piece of trash. You’re wasting my time.”
He pulled back, smiling again for the cameras. “The team has decided to bring in a whole panel of French speakers to expose you. Let’s see you talk your way out of that.”
But the person who needed to worry was Victoria Davenport. On the judges’ panel, her face was a sickly shade of pale.
During the extended break, she found me in the drab waiting room. “Stella, you should drop out now,” she said, skipping any preamble.
“Even if you expose me, so what? I’ll be embarrassed for a day. I’ll pay a PR firm to scrub the articles, silence the online mob, and I’ll still be a CEO.”
She could afford to play this game, she told me.
I couldn’t.
If I dared to humiliate her on national television, she would make sure I never worked in this country again.
The absurdity of it was suffocating. “And what if I just leave?” I asked. “If I walk away and let everyone believe I’m a liar? You think my life will be any better?”
No. The entire industry would blacklist me. What would I do then? Collect cans? Work sanitation? How would I support my family? How would I even survive?
Victoria was completely indifferent. “Don’t be so picky. You should be grateful for any job you can get. So what if the pay is low and the work is hard? Young people today are just too soft.”
I had only one thing to say to her.
“Get out.”
Her face contorted in rage, and a stream of curses poured from her mouth. “You stupid bitch! You have no idea what real power is! You’re a fucking nobody, and you think you can challenge me? You think we can’t crush you with a single phone call?”
I pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Get. Out.”
She slammed the door on her way out.
All I had to do was wait. Get back on that stage. Exposing Victoria now would be more effective than showing a thousand diplomas.
But when the show went live again, the promised French guest was nowhere to be seen.
Ryan Shaw grinned at me, a predator’s smile. “Ms. Morgan, the producers have arranged an even more exciting segment for you!”
He exchanged a look with Victoria. A cold dread washed over me. I finally understood. A promise, a chanceâthey could take it away just as easily as they gave it.
The boss always gets the final say.
Ryan’s voice boomed across the studio. “To bring this farce to a swift conclusion, and at the suggestion of Ms. Davenport, we’ve invited two very special guests to the stage.”
As he spoke, two figures walked out from the wings. My parents.
My heart stopped. They stood blinking under the harsh lights, trembling as thousands of eyes fixed on them.
I lost control. “What have you done?” I shrieked at the producers. “Why are you dragging my parents into this? This is about me! Leave them out of it!”
The next thing I knew, a sharp sting exploded across my cheek. My mother had slapped me.
“How dare you!” she hissed, her voice shaking. “You’re the one who caused all this trouble! You’re a liar! Apologize to Ms. Davenport right now!”
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The first day of freshman year, a charity case showed up in our dorm room.
She was schlepping a battered duffel bag that looked like it had been through a war, and her eyes were glued to the durian on my desk.
Just then, I saw the comments pop into my vision, translucent and glowing:
ăOMG, poor baby. She grew up in some backwoods town in Appalachia, she has no idea what a durian even is.ă
A wave of pity washed over me, a familiar, stupid ache. I immediately offered her a piece.
Later, more comments flooded my vision:
ăLook at her clothes, they’re literally falling apart. I bet she got them from a dumpster. If only someone would give her a new outfit.ă
ăSheâs staring at her roommatesâ skincare products. Sheâs so envious but she’d never say anything. She’s terrified they’ll think she’s pathetic.ă
My sympathy went into overdrive.
I didn’t just give her my barely-used designer clothes and La Mer products. I loaded her student dining card with ten grand and told her to go nuts.
I never imagined that on graduation day, Maya would stand on stage and accuse me of being her personal tormentor.
âShe forced me to eat her leftovers, to wear her dirty, blood-stained underwear! I worked two jobs to save up money for my meal plan, and she stole my card to buy thousand-dollar steaks for herself!â
âI endured that for four years! Is it a crime to be poor?! Do I deserve to be humiliated just because I don’t have money?!â
Overnight, Maya became a viral sensation, a symbol of resilience.
I, on the other hand, was doxxed and canceled. It ended when an unhinged internet “crusader” posed as a maintenance guy, got into my apartment, and hacked me to death.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back on the first day of freshman year.
1
It was September. The air in the dorm still hung thick with the last, sticky breath of summer.
I stood in the middle of Room 403. The familiar, sterile smell of old linoleum and cheap paint.
I dug my nails into my palm. The sharp sting of pain was a welcome confirmation: this wasn’t a dream.
I was really back.
Back to four years ago. The day the nightmare began.
*Creeeakâ*
The dorm room door swung open.
I let out a slow, shaky breath and turned around.
A girl was dragging a ridiculously overstuffed, beat-up duffel bag, shuffling into the room like she was trying to make herself invisible.
Same faded, ill-fitting clothes.
Same downcast eyes that refused to meet anyone’s gaze.
Maya.
She dropped her bag with a soft thud and timidly looked up. Her eyes, however, were like spotlights, darting around the room, taking everything in. They swept over our other two roommates, already unpacking, and then landed on my side of the room.
To be more specific, they landed on the spiky, pungent behemoth on my desk: a premium Musang King durian.
Her nose twitched, almost imperceptibly. Her eyes, wide with a kind of raw curiosity, were locked on it.
And right on cue, the familiar, semi-transparent text flickered into existence in front of my face:
ăMy heart breaks for her. Grew up dirt poor in the mountains, probably never even seen a fruit like that.ă
ăLook how curious she is, but she’s too scared to ask. I’m crying. đđă
ăCan’t the rich roommate just offer her a piece? Our girl would be so grateful.ă
A tide of hatred and disgust rose in my throat, so powerful it almost choked me.
In my last life, it was these comments, dripping with fake sympathy and self-righteousness, that turned me into a complete idiot. They made me nurture a venomous snake that repaid my kindness by sinking its fangs into me, leading to my brutal murder.
*”She didn’t just force me to eat her scraps and wear her disgusting, used clothes! She made me use her expired, dollar-store skincare, trying to ruin my face so sheâd feel better about herself!”*
*”And worse, the second I deposited my hard-earned paycheck onto my dining card, sheâd take it and blow it on a hundred-dollar steak! That was my food money for two months!”*
*”I lived like that for four years! Just because I’m poor, does that mean I deserve to be someone’s plaything? I was trying so hard, so damn hard just to survive!”*
*”I’m sorry… I just can’t take it anymore… I don’t think I can go on…”*
Her tear-streaked performance at graduation. The looks of disgust and contempt from the crowd. The frantic, weeping phone calls from my parents after our number was leaked. The dull thud of the blade hitting my bone…
The memories exploded in my head.
2
âHey there.â
My own voice sounded eerily calm.
Maya jumped like a startled deer, her head snapping down as she nervously twisted the hem of her worn-out t-shirt.
âI-Iâm sorry, I just⊠Iâve never seen one of those beforeâŠâ
I smiled, tapping the durian with a manicured nail. âYou know what this is?â
âIs it⊠a durian?â she whispered, her gaze still glued to it. She swallowed, a perfectly timed, delicate motion. âIâve only seen them on TV. It smells⊠interesting.â
ăShe really hasn’t! Come on, give her a taste!ă
ăSheâs so precious and shy. My heart canât take it.ă
ăThe roommate seems nice enough. C’mon, share a little, please! đă
The comments scrolled past.
I methodically found a seam and pried the durian open. The golden, creamy flesh was revealed, its potent, sweet-and-funky aroma flooding the room.
I picked up the plumpest, most perfect pod. But I didnât hand it to Maya.
Instead, right in front of her, I slowly brought it to my own lips and took a huge bite. The flesh was like a rich, sweet custard. Absolutely divine.
âYep, itâs a durian. A tropical fruit,â I said, my voice bright. âA bit on the pricey side, though. This one was almost a hundred bucks.â
I hummed in satisfaction, took another bite, and flashed Maya my most brilliant smile.
âItâs really good. I guess I have my parents to thank. They worked their butts off so I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want, without having to stare at other peopleâs food and drool.â
Silence.
The hopeful look on Maya’s face froze, replaced by a flash of humiliation and resentment so quick I would have missed it if I wasn’t looking for it.
I ignored it, picking up the rest of the durian and walking over to my other two roommates, who had paused their unpacking to watch the awkward scene unfold.
âJess, Lauren, you guys have to try some of this. Thereâs no way I can finish it all myself.â
I smiled and offered them each a piece. They were both from comfortable, upper-middle-class families, but not “drop-a-hundred-bucks-on-a-fruit” rich.
âWow, thanks, Ava!â Jess, the more outgoing of the two, took a piece and nibbled it. Her eyes widened. âWhoa, thatâs amazing! Itâs so sweet!â
âYeah, it really is,â Lauren added quietly, blushing a little. âIâve never had the fancy kind before. Thank you.â
After Iâd shared with them, there was one small piece left on the husk.
ăShe wants some too… Everyone else got a piece, she’s feeling so left out.ă
ăShe’s never had it before. Just a tiny bite is all she wants. She’ll remember your kindness forever.ă
ăThe rich roommate is so nice, I’m sure she’ll give the last piece to Maya, right?ă
3
The comments popped up right on schedule, cheering Maya on from their invisible sidelines.
I saw her out of the corner of my eye. Sheâd taken a tiny step forward. The hurt expression was gone, replaced with one of pure, hopeful anticipation. Her hands were clasped in front of her, like a good little girl waiting for candy.
A cold smirk played on my lips. This was the exact innocent, harmless act that lured me into her trap last time. I actually believed my kindness could heal a wounded, insecure soul.
What a joke.
I picked up the last piece of durian. Mayaâs eyes lit up.
But just as she was about to instinctively reach for it, I flicked my wrist and popped it into my own mouth.
âOh!â I gasped lightly, as if Iâd just remembered something. I gave Maya a deeply apologetic smile.
âIâm so sorry, I just remembered. You know, some people are really allergic to durian? Like, anaphylactic shock, canât-breathe kind of allergic. Since youâve never had it before, itâs probably not safe. It would be terrible if something happened on the first day. Better to be safe than sorry.â
I chewed thoughtfully, my eyes crinkling in enjoyment. âMmm, so good. Yeah, for your own safety, I wonât share this time. Maybe next time. For sure.â
The color drained from Mayaâs face. She stared at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. Her lower lip began to tremble as her eyes filled with tears, but she fought to hold them back. This was clearly not in her script.
âItâs⊠itâs okay,â she choked out, looking down at the floor. âI⊠I donât deserve to eat something so expensive anyway⊠Thanks for looking out for me.â
She looked like the saddest, most pitiful creature on earth.
ăWhat? Why would she do that? Maya just wanted one bite.ă
ăThis is so cruel. Making her watch everyone else eatâŠă
ăMaybe the roommate really was just worried about an allergy⊠I hope soâŠă
âBy the way, Iâm Ava,â I said, briskly changing the subject. âYou must be our new roommate, Maya, right? Your bed is over there, the one by the door. You should get unpacked. Let us know if you need anything.â
I pointed to the worst bed in the roomâthe one right by the noisy hallway, furthest from the A/C unit.
Maya followed my finger, her lips pressing into a thin line. She shuffled over to her duffel bag and started dragging it across the floor.
Jess and Lauren exchanged a look and started to get up, but I shot them a sharp glance and a tiny shake of my head. They hesitated, then sat back down.
Seeing that no one was offering to help, Maya had to haul the heavy bag to her bed all by herself.
4
Just then, the zipper on her bag, which hadnât been closed properly, gave way, and a few items of clothing spilled out onto the floor.
They were all old, faded, and frayed at the edges.
âOh!â she cried, scrambling to pick them up.
The comments went into a frenzy.
ăOMG, LOOK AT HER CLOTHES! The cuffs are torn! Theyâre full of holes!ă
ăMy heart is shattered. Her face is so red, she must be so embarrassed. It’s not her fault she’s poor.ă
ăThatâs probably all she owns. Three outfits she pulled out of a charity bin. I wish someone would buy our girl a new shirt.ă
Last time, it was this little “accidental” spill that had me packing up a huge bag of my own nearly-new designer clothes for her the very next day. Those same clothes she later claimed I forced her to wear, including “dirty, blood-stained underwear.”
This time, I just watched, my expression blank.
Maya stuffed the clothes back in her bag, her cheeks and the rims of her eyes a blotchy red. âS-sorry, I didnât pack very wellâŠâ
âItâs fine,â I said coolly. âItâs move-in day, things are chaotic. But just so you know, the dorm rooms are pretty small, so try to keep your personal stuff contained in your own space, okay? We don’t want to clutter up the common areas.â
Mayaâs body went rigid for a split second.
She mumbled a quiet âOkay,â and went back to unpacking her few meager possessions.
A moment later, she pulled out a generic, unlabeled bottle of lotion. She glanced at the collection of glossy bottles and jars on my vanityâthe La Mer, the Drunk Elephant, the Augustinus Baderâand heaved a perfectly calibrated sigh of longing and despair.
Naturally, the live feed started up again.
ăSheâs secretly looking at her roommateâs skincare. You can see the envy and sadness in her eyes. Iâm dead.ă
ăShe’s probably never used anything but soap and water on her face. This is heartbreaking.ă
ăAnd sheâd never dare ask for any. Sheâs too afraid of being judged for being a country bumpkin.ă
I felt nothing. In fact, a dark humor bubbled up inside me. The very La Mer cream Iâd given her in our last life became “expired, no-name poison” in her sob story. Letâs see how you spin this now, Maya.
I picked up my toner, ostentatiously patting it on my face. âHey Jess,â I said loudly. âWanna hit the mall this weekend? Iâm running low on a few things.â
Jess, caught off guard, replied, âOh, yeah, sure! I need to grab some stuff too.â
Mayaâs movements slowed to a crawl. She was listening intently, the disappointment on her face becoming more and more pronounced.
I paid her no attention.
After she finished unpacking, she just sat on the edge of her bed, looking lost and out of place.
When dinner time rolled around, Jess and Lauren asked, âHey, you guys wanna go to the dining hall?â
Maya was silent for a few seconds before pulling a small, worn cloth pouch from her pocket. She carefully unfolded it, revealing a few crumpled dollar bills. She counted them, then said in a voice as quiet as a mouse, âI, uh, brought my own food. You guys go ahead.â
She reached into her duffel bag and pulled out an old metal tin.
Inside was a dry piece of bread and what looked like a few pickles.
ăIâm actually crying! Thatâs all sheâs eating?!ă
ăShe’s so used to hardship. Grew up never having enough to eat, probably went a whole year without meat. This is just normal for her.ă
ăIf only the rich roommate had a heart and would just take her to dinner. Our girl would repay her a thousand times over!ă
5
Here we go again. The same damn script.
Last time, this was the scene that broke me. This, and the relentless stream of pity-party comments. I was so overwhelmed with guilt that I immediately took her dining card, loaded it with ten grand, and told her it was ours to share.
And my reward?
She accused me of stealing her “hard-earned part-time job money” to buy myself “hundred-dollar steaks.”
The truth was, to save her the embarrassment, I gave her the card to use as her own. I mostly ordered takeout anyway. On the rare occasion I ate at the dining hall, I paid with cash.
Those hundred-dollar steaks? She ordered every single one of them herself.
âOkay, then. Weâll head out,â I said, my face a mask of indifference. âI heard the West End dining hall has a pretty decent grill. Iâm thinking of trying their New York strip tonight.â
Mayaâs head shot up, her eyes flashing with a familiar, greedy light. She was waiting, expecting me to say, âWhy donât you come with us?â
I didnât.
I just grabbed my wallet and walked out of the room with Jess and Lauren.
As the door clicked shut behind me, I could have sworn I heard the sound of a choked sob from inside.
Walking down the hall, Lauren finally broke the silence. âAva⊠you seem a little⊠cold to Maya.â
Jess nodded in agreement, looking at me with curiosity.
I stopped and looked at them both, taking a deep breath.
âJess, Lauren,â I said, my voice low but firm, carrying a weight they couldnât possibly understand. âListen to me, and remember this. No matter how pathetic Maya seems, no matter what sob story she tells you, do not give her anything valuable. Especially not cash. If you feel like you absolutely have to help her, make sure you have a record of it. A receipt. A text message. Something.â
âWhy?â they asked in unison, completely baffled.
âBecause some people are not poor in pocket, theyâre poor in spirit. And helping the wrong person isnât just a mistake. It can get you killed.â
I glanced back at the closed door of Room 403, my eyes like chips of ice.
Your show is just getting started, Maya.
And so is my revenge.
This time, without my bottomless bank account to fund your “resilient poor girl” narrative, letâs see how long you can keep the act up.
You don’t just owe me an apology. You owe me a life.
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1
My desk mate, Tiffany, is basically a princess. On the last day of school before summer break, she asked me, “Should I go to Paris or Tokyo for the next three weeks?”
I asked her, “Should I go back to my grandma’s in Idaho to dig potatoes or detassel corn? Eight hours a day, two hundred bucks, cash.”
Tiffany, in a fit of pity, offered me a gig. She said her cousin, also a rising high school senior, had a serious gaming addiction. Apparently, he was desperate for someone to discipline him, to literally beat the addiction out of him. He wanted to hire a tutor who could get physical.
The pay? Two grand a day, room and board included.
Tiffany even thoughtfully provided me with a starter kit: a ruler, a riding crop, and a thick leather belt.
I followed the address to a mansion in the hills. I rang the bell for what felt like forever before the door finally opened. A handsome guy with bleached blond hair scowled at me. “You’re a girl?”
I slapped him across the face. His artfully arranged bangs flipped to the other side.
“Don’t be sexist,” I said sweetly. “Respect women.”
He was stunned. “Did you just hit me?”
I gave him a deep, formal bow. “My apologies. Tiffany told me this is how you like it.”
He stared at me for a solid ten seconds, his eyes darting away. A slow blush crept up his neck. “Damn it,” he muttered. “How did she know I…” He cleared his throat, suddenly flustered. “F-fine, come in.”
2
He led me up to a room on the third floor. It was a gamer’s paradise, with multiple massive screens and a glowing, transparent PC tower. I’d never seen anything like it.
“So,” I asked, “shall we begin?”
He plopped into a gaming chair. “You can use that setup,” he said, pointing to an identical station next to his.
“How are your gaming skills?” he asked, putting on his headset. “Tiffany said you’re a high-rank player, that you could carry me… whoa, what the hell?! Why did my screen go black?”
I emerged from under the desk. “Because I unplugged your power cord.”
“What is wrong with you?!”
I pulled the ruler from my back pocket and gave his butt a sharp whack. “If you swear again,” I said with a smile, “I’ll use this on your mouth.”
He yelped, clutching his rear and then covering his mouth. “Who are you? What did Tiffany send you here for?”
“My name is Chloe,” I said. “I’m here to tutor you.”
His rebellious streak flared up. “I told her to find me a gaming partner! Not a damn tutor!”
He tried to bolt, but I slammed him against the door and locked it. He struggled, and I pressed my body against his back to hold him in place. He suddenly went still, his breathing becoming heavy. “What… what are you doing?”
I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear. “Studying, of course.”
For some reason, all the fight went out of him. Maybe I’m just good at handling things. I’ve wrestled pigs at my grandma’s, after all.
In the dimly lit room, I asked him, “What’s your name?”
The tough guy was all bravado. He trembled slightly. “L-Liam.”
3
Liam called his cousin. Her phone was off. “You can go home,” he said. “I don’t need a tutor.”
“I can’t,” I replied. “I’ve already been paid.”
He pulled out his phone. “How much did she give you?”
“Thirty grand.”
He immediately tried to Venmo me. “I’ll give you a hundred grand to get out of my house right now.”
I declined the payment and confiscated his phone. I took the leather belt from my waist, tied his hands behind his back, and pushed him into the chair. I opened a textbook and started the lesson.
He refused to cooperate, standing up to leave. I pushed him back down. He stood up again. I slapped him, hard. “Sit down,” I said, my voice ice cold.
He let out a soft gasp. Still, he wouldn’t sit.
I grabbed the riding crop. “Do I have to hurt you to make you happy?” I snapped it against his legs. “Does this feel good? Huh? You’re just asking for it!”
One of the hits must have stung because he actually tried to fight back, raising his fists in a weak imitation of a boxer. “Meow meow combo punch!”
He was definitely trying to provoke me, wanting me to hit harder. So I did. The crop whistled through the air. CRACK!
“Ow! I was just kidding!” he yelped, clutching his head.
Finally, blushing, he sat down.
When I opened the door three hours later, a middle-aged woman was standing there. Liam, still tied up, looked mortified. “Mom…”
His mom looked from him to me, a little flustered. “Are you two… playing?”
“No,” I said. “I’m the tutor Tiffany sent.”
She was shocked. “He’s actually studying?”
“For three hours straight,” I confirmed.
She handed me a set of keys. “Then you’re in charge now, Miss Chloe.”
Liam was still defiant. “Who said I wanted to study?!”
His mom pulled out her phone and showed us his April Fool’s Day post: [Hiring a hitman to hold a knife to my throat and make me study. Must not actually kill me.]
She gave him a knowing look. “Don’t be difficult, Liam. Tiffany’s terrified of you. She would never do this unless you told her to.”
Liam: “!!”
4
It turned out Liam and I went to the same school. We could study together after classes. We were in his study until dark, and he finally threw down his pen. “I’m completely drained… I have nothing left to give…”
He said he had to use the restroom. I untied him and escorted him to the door. When he came out, he was blushing, begging me not to stand guard next time. The pressure was too much.
After dinner, we went to his home gym. He worked out his frustration on the weights, then threw the barbell down on a towel. I walked over, lifted one end with a single hand, and pulled the towel out. I’d been doing farm work since I was a kid; lifting heavy things was second nature. What’s he making such a fuss about? This is easy.
I turned around and saw him staring at me, his jaw on the floor. He suddenly announced he was done working out and wanted to go study.
5
Liam was actually pretty smart, so I didn’t push him too hard. I let him go to bed at midnight. I was asleep in the guest room when the security alarm went off.
Liam had made a run for it. His mom was grabbing the car keys to go after him, but I stopped her. We checked the security cameras and saw him sneak into a storage closet.
I stomped down the stairs loudly and flicked on the light in the closet.
“Are you hiding?” I sang out in a creepy voice. “Ready or not, here I come! Where is our little boy hiding…?”
I dramatically checked behind the curtains, then under a table. I flung open the main cabinet door. “Aha! Found you!”
Liam, a six-foot-plus guy, was curled into a tiny ball, trembling. “You’re terrifying!”
I dragged him out. “Why are you hiding? Isn’t studying fun? You learned over 100 new vocabulary words today!”
“You’re force-feeding me!” he wailed. “I can’t take any more!”
I pointed to his head. “But your brain is begging for more. It wants me to push it to its absolute limit.”
“This is insane! You’re going to break me!”
“Don’t struggle,” I said with a smile, dangling the shiny silver handcuffs his mom had given me. “If you run again, I’ll lock you in the basement and we’ll study until you don’t know what day it is.”
Liam: “!!!”
6
The next morning, Liam was up early, reviewing vocabulary. But his motivation was low. I brought in a pet rat.
Liam, who was terrified of rodents, shot upright. “Get that thing away from me!”
“But he’s so cute,” I cooed, dangling the rat in front of his face. “Okay, 200 words. For every one you get wrong, I’m putting him down your pants and tying the drawstring.”
“You’re a psycho!” he screamed, tied to his chair and unable to escape.
“Keep yelling, and I’ll do it right now.”
The rat’s tail brushed his arm, and he shrieked. “Okay, okay! I’ll do it! I’ll study!”
I put the rat back in its cage. “Good boy.”
Later, during a quiz, he got stuck. “The word for ‘sensitive’ is…”
“Uh…”
I reached for the cage.
“SENSITIVE!” he yelled. The adrenaline was a powerful study aid. After a few hours of this, he passed out from exhaustion.
7
The next morning, at 5 AM, he refused to get out of bed. I leaned over him, whispering like a demon. “Still lying there, your majesty? As you should. You are the king, after all.”
He opened his eyes. His hands and feet were tied to the bedposts. I started layering wet paper towels on his face. “You just rest. Your humble servant will be back later.”
Liam: “!!!”
From then on, his alarm would go off at 5 AM, and he’d spring out of bed like a jack-in-the-box. He became a model student. All he did was study, eat, and use the bathroom. His obedience was almost suspicious.
Then I caught him using the smart fridge’s screen to text his friends. They had a whole system worked out with emojis.
Friend: đ (game) + đź (on)?
Liam: đ (what) + đ§(time)?
Friend: đ (tonight) + đ (three).
Liam: 6785753 (our usual spot).
That night, a shadow crept into my room and stole the keys from my nightstand. It disabled the alarm, snuck out the back, and hopped a fence into a waiting yellow Lamborghini.
“Bro, you’re free!” his friend cried, hugging him.
“Shut up and log on!” Liam hissed.
I appeared in front of the car’s headlights, a ghostly smile on my face. “Going somewhere, darling?”
The screams from inside the car were epic.
8
My bodyguards threw Liam back into his room. He was huddled on the bed, shaking. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to play one game!”
I grabbed a fistful of his bleached hair. “And here I was, thinking you were actually starting to love learning. But you were just thinking about that stupid game the whole time, you little cheater!”
He seemed to… enjoy being yelled at. He swallowed hard. “W-what are you going to do to me?”
“What am I going to do?” I said, my voice dripping with menace. “I’m going to destroy it. I’m going to make you watch as I take your precious game and humiliate it. Then you’ll know what true suffering is.”
I held up his phone. He panicked. “What are you doing with my phone?!”
“Keep yelling, and I’ll post your browser history.”
Liam: “…”
I kicked the back of his knees, forcing him to kneel. “Oh, and by the way, I’m going to take your account, download a bunch of dating sims, and spam all your friends with notifications. I’ll change your algorithm so all you see are thirst traps of shirtless guys. You can even watch the screen recordings of me playing, if you want. See how your precious account moans for me…”
“NO!” he begged, his eyes wide with horror. “I’ll do anything! I’ll study, I swear! Just don’t do that to my account!”
I let out my best evil villain laugh. “I don’t want to torture you, darling. But you just won’t behave.”
“I’ll be good! I promise!” he cried, a crazed look in his eyes. “Every problem you assign, I’ll do it! Every chapter you highlight, I’ll memorize it!”
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My sister was targeted by the ruthless syndicate boss Damien Blackwood, but she loved her boyfriend. When Damien came for her, she knocked me outâher identical twinâand sent me in her place before fleeing the country.
Forced to marry Damien, I never showed him kindness. He treated me as a substitute, rewarding or punishing me on a whim.
Ten years later, my sister returned. She lied to Damien, claiming I had pushed her into a river out of jealousy, causing her to lose her memory. Enraged, Damien threw me into the cellar.
During a visit, my sister wrapped an iron chain around my neck. “If you donât die, my lies will be exposed,” she hissed, strangling me.
I reopened my eyes back on the day Damien first noticed my sister. This time, I volunteered: “Victoria, you go. Iâll marry Damien.”
This time, I would be the one he cherished.
1
“Mom, Dad, please, save me! I don’t want to marry Damien Blackwood!”
My sister Victoriaâs sobs were so close they snapped me back to reality. I was alive. I had been reborn.
“They say he’s a ruthless killer,” she wailed, “that he’s tortured women to death! If I marry him, it’s a death sentence! Besides, I swore I’d only ever marry Caleb. If I can’t be with him, I’d rather die!”
My mother’s voice was thick with tears. “But we can’t afford to cross a man like Damien! If you don’t go, he’ll destroy our whole family!”
My father wiped his eyes. “It’s my fault. I’m useless, I can’t even protect my own daughter. Let them kill me instead. If there’s a body, surely they’ll have to back down.”
“Are you insane?” my mother shrieked. “This is Damien Blackwood, the head of the Syndicate! What does your life mean to him?”
Before Victoria could speak again, I stepped forward.
“Victoria,” I said, my voice clear and steady, “you and Caleb go. I’ll marry Damien in your place.”
My family stared at me in stunned silence. Victoriaâs eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of her head.
“We’re identical twins,” I continued calmly. “He’ll never know the difference.”
My mother hesitated. “It’s a solution, yes, but Damien is an incredibly powerful man. Can we really fool him forever? What if he finds out? He won’t spare any of us.”
But my father had made up his mind. “Victoria, you should go. I’ll give you the fifty thousand dollars I’ve saved up. You and Caleb can go to Australia. The Blackwood familyâs reach shouldn’t extend that far.”
Not once did they express any concern for me. Their hearts and minds were filled with their precious elder daughter. As for me, the younger one, I had always been expendable.
Victoria thought for a long moment. “Mom, Dad⊠why don’t we stage a funeral? Tell everyone that Ava fell into the river and drowned. That way, it won’t seem so suspicious when our family is suddenly one person short.”
Once the plan was settled, they hurriedly packed a small bag for me and put me in the car that had come to collect Damien Blackwood’s bride.
2
In my past life, I had woken up in that car terrified and confused, and my marriage to Damien was poisoned with hostility from the start. Ten years of pure, cold hatred.
But setting aside the rumors, Damien was handsome, powerful, and fiercely protective of his own. Marrying him was, without a doubt, a huge step up in the world.
The first thing Damien said to me was, “I have only one rule for you: Obey.”
I immediately took his hand, my eyes wide and earnest. “My husband, you can count on me. I’ll be the most obedient wife. Tell me to go east, and I’ll never even look west.”
Damien paused, taken aback. Then he beckoned his assistant over.
“Get my wife everything she needs. The wife of Damien Blackwood will not look so⊠plain.”
And just like that, I was showered with a tidal wave of luxury goods. An entire wall of custom cabinetry was installed just for the diamond watches.
During the day, while Damien attended to his business, I would be in the kitchen, creating elaborate meals for him. I personally prepared every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, right down to the dessert.
At night, I transformed into a gentle, affectionate kitten, catering to his every need until he was utterly content.
Gradually, Damien’s demeanor toward me softened. He began to take me with him to public events.
One day, my mother called, telling me my father was gravely ill.
When I walked through the door, I found my father sprawled on the sofa, picking his teeth, the clean-picked bones of a pork knuckle on the table in front of him.
“Dad? You’re not sick?”
“Would you have come back if your mother hadn’t used that excuse?” he grumbled.
My mother jabbed a finger into my temple. “You ungrateful child! You’re living the high life at the Blackwood estate while your parents are left to fend for themselves, is that it?”
“Mom, Dad, if I recall correctly, the day I married into the Blackwood family, you sent me a text. You said that from that day on, my life was no longer your concern. You told me never to contact you again, no matter what happened. You did say that, didn’t you? I still have the message.”
My motherâs eyes blazed. “Have you no heart? We only did that because we were afraid of being a burden to you! And now that you’re comfortable, you’ve forgotten all about your family!”
“Hasn’t Damien been sending you money? I know for a fact he gives you a generous allowance every month. And this mansion? He bought it for you! Isn’t that enough? What more do you want?”
Her anger flared hotter. “Have you forgotten you have a sister?”
“Mother, I suggest you choose your words carefully. I don’t have a sister. I had a younger twin, but she tragically drowned.”
“Don’t you play games with me, not in our house! Let me be blunt. Give your sister one million dollars, and we will never bother you again.”
“A million dollars? Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”
My father shot up, roaring at me. “Damien Blackwood is worth billions! We’re only asking for a million! If you can’t even manage that, then maybe you shouldn’t be Mrs. Blackwood at all!”
I let out a cold laugh. “I don’t have the money. And whether I remain Mrs. Blackwood is not for you to decide.”
3
A month after our argument, my mother called me again.
“Ava, darling, I was out of line before. I’m so sorry. Are you free this weekend? I’d love to cook for you, have you over for a meal.”
It was the first time in the two years since my marriage that my mother had invited me home for dinner. Before I could answer, she started to cry.
“Ava, I’m getting old. Your father and I aren’t in the best of health. Every chance we have to see you is precious.”
My heart softened. “Okay, Mom. I’ll be there this weekend.”
When I arrived, my mother was incredibly warm. She led me inside to a table already laden with all my favorite dishes. I had just sat down when someone emerged from the bedroom.
“Victoria? What are you doing back?”
My heart began to pound in my chest. According to my past life, Victoria wasn’t supposed to return for another eight years.
“Long time no see, little sister.” She sat down next to me, her eyes raking over my clothes. “This whole outfit must be worth a fortune.” She pointed to my bracelet. “And that’s probably worth a small car. Damien really spoils you.”
She sighed dramatically. “You’re living the good life. You have no idea how hard these past two years have been for me abroad.”
“Victoria, didn’t you say you’d be happy eating scraps as long as you were with Caleb?”
“Caleb? There is no Caleb!” she snapped. “Let’s be clear. I’m back to reclaim my identity. From now on, you go back to being Ava, and I will be Victoria again.”
“After dinner, you will take off those clothes and that jewelry and give them to me. I’ll go back to the Blackwood estate in your place. We’re swapping back.”
Her audacity was so shocking I had to laugh. “You have a lot of nerve. Do you really think that after two years of working my ass off to earn Damien’s favor and secure my position, I would just hand it all over to you?”
Victoria slammed her hand on the table. “Damien was supposed to marry me! You’ve been squatting in my place for two years. Do you really intend to keep it forever?”
“You were the one who refused to marry him, nearly getting our entire family killed in the process! I sacrificed myself for you! You should be grateful!”
“And the fact that I won Damien’s affection and became the lady of the house is due to my own efforts! Do you think you can just waltz back in and take my place?”
Victoria shot to her feet. “You have some nerve! I’ve been more than generous letting you enjoy my life for two years! If you don’t switch back with me, I’ll go straight to Damien and expose you! I’ll tell him you pushed me into the river out of jealousy and that’s why I lost my memory! Then we’ll see how you die when he finds out you deceived him!”
I stood up calmly. “Go ahead. Let’s see what happens. We can go down together. I have a recording of the conversation where you all begged me to take your place. We can play it for Damien. If we’re going to die, we’ll die as a family.”
My mother rushed over and slapped me across the face.
“You will switch with your sister today, or I will kill myself right here!”
I clutched my stinging cheek, tears welling in my eyes. “Mom, before I saw Victoria, I really thought you and Dad had a place for me in your hearts. But now I see, you only have one daughter.”
“I am never switching back with her. Give up.”
I turned to leave, desperate to escape that toxic house. But as I took my first step, a sharp, explosive pain erupted at the back of my head.
4
I collapsed into a pool of my own blood.
The pain was so intense my body trembled uncontrollably. I could feel the warm, slick blood pouring from the wound.
Victoria stood over me, holding the weapon: a small ceramic bear I had given her for her birthday years ago.
“Victoria, you hit her too hard!” my mother shrieked. “Did you kill her?”
Seeing my eyes were still open, Victoria relaxed. “She’s still breathing.” She knelt and patted my cheek. “Ava, you brought this on yourself. If you had just agreed to switch, none of this would have happened.”
My vision began to blur, but I bit my lip, forcing myself to stay conscious.
“To look more like you, I even lost twenty pounds and got the same haircut,” Victoria continued, chattering to herself. “Once I’m in your clothes, not even Mom and Dad will be able to tell us apart, let alone Damien. From now on, you’ll be a good little Ava. Otherwise, you’ll force my hand.”
My parents were starting to strip my clothes off when a knock echoed from the front door.
The whole family froze.
“Who is it?” Victoria called out.
“It’s me.”
It was Damien.
I was about to scream when my father clamped a hand over my mouth and dragged me into the bedroom.
“Victoria, why isn’t the door open?” Damien’s voice was sharp.
My mother quickly pulled a rug over the bloodstain on the floor. Only then did Victoria open the door.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“I was nearby, so I came to pick you up.” Damien’s eyes narrowed. “You weren’t wearing that when you left.”
“I spilled something, so I changed into some old clothes. Since you’re here, let’s go.”
I could hear every word from the bedroom. If she left with him, my life would be a repeat of the last. Victoria would never let me live; only the dead can keep secrets.
My father glared at me, mouthing a silent warning. I nodded obediently, my left hand fumbling for the leg of a nearby chair. With a sudden jerk, I pulled it over. It crashed to the floor with a loud thud.
Enraged, my father grabbed my hair and slapped me hard across the face.
“What was that?” Damien asked from the living room.
Victoria quickly blocked his path. “Nothing! Probably just the cat.”
But Damien was already walking toward the bedroom. He bent down and touched the dark stain on the floor just outside the door. “This is blood.” He tried the doorknob. It was locked.
“It’s probably just from the cat, you know, in heat. It’s filthy, let me take you to wash your hands,” Victoria said, trying to pull him away.
“Open the door.”
“My dad’s in there, sleeping one off. We shouldn’t disturb him.”
Seizing my chance while my father was distracted, I slipped the heavy bracelet from my wrist and hurled it at the door. It hit with a loud clang.
Damien’s frown deepened. He took a step back and kicked the door clean off its hinges.
And there he saw me, covered in blood, with my father on top of me, whipping me with a belt.
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I had a history with Rhys Callahan. The kind that doesn’t see the light of day. He paid my way through college; I kept his bed warm.
Then one day, he said he wanted to get married and start a family.
So, he ended it.
Years later, we met again. I was a grad student, following my professor to a pitch meeting to beg for funding.
After too many glasses of wine, I clung to him, refusing to let go.
“I make three grand a month now,” I slurred. “I can give you two. Will you sleep with me?”
The room went silent. My colleagues tried to explain.
“She’s drunk! Mr. Callahan, you just… you must look a lot like her ex-boyfriend. Her… her dead ex-boyfriend.”
His face, already dark, turned black.
“So,” he seethed, “you’ve been telling everyone I’m dead?”
1
Professor Davies was dragging us out to schmooze again.
“Listen to me,” he stressed, “the ones who can drink, you drink. The ones who can talk, you talk. Just be smart. Be charming.”
“We’re researchers, not… escorts,” Sarah, a junior in the lab, muttered.
The rumor was this investor was some rough-around-the-edges, new-money guy. The kind of guy who loves a good ‘ol boys’ club dinner, which is exactly the kind of thing we academics suck at.
“You think I want to do this?” Davies sighed. “The grant money’s gone. If I can’t find funding, I can’t keep the lab open. I’ll have to farm you all out to partner universities.”
That shut us up. We all knew he was in a tough spot.
The door opened.
“Sorry I’m late, Professor.”
A low, smooth voice cut through the room.
The other students started whispering. “I thought you said he was some old rich guy? That man is gorgeous.” “And… intense.”
I looked up, and my blood ran cold.
It had been five years.
Rhys Callahan had changed. The rough-edged, punk vibe was gone, replaced by a perfectly tailored suit. But the wildness in his eyes was still there, just… deeper, more controlled. More dangerous.
Professor Davies shot to his feet. “Mr. Callahan! A pleasure! These are my top students.”
Rhys gave a short nod, taking the seat at the head of the table. His gaze swept over us, casual, cold.
Davies gave us the look. One by one, we stood up to toast him. The same women who were just complaining were now falling all over themselves.
“Mr. Callahan, I’m Sarah. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Mr. Callahan, we’re so excited by the prospect of this partnership.”
I huddled in the corner, trying to shrink, staring at my plate.
“And this,” Professor Davies said, “is my top doctoral candidate, Maya. Maya, don’t just sit there. A toast.”
I stood up, my legs shaking. I raised my glass, unable to meet his eyes. “Mr. Callahan. Hi.”
He just sat there, watching me, not raising his own glass.
Davies quickly jumped in. “She’s a quiet one! All work, this one. Spends all her time buried in research.”
Rhys’s eyes were locked on my face, tracing every line.
Finally, he spoke. “Studious. That’s a good thing.”
“Exactly!” Davies said, relieved. “And Maya’s been with me since her Master’s. Her work is brilliant. This project, I’m telling you, the potential is huge. We just need the capital to…”
He shot me another look.
I took a deep breath, forcing myself to meet Rhys’s gaze. “Mr. Callahan. Our data is solid, and the market applications are… are significant. If you’d be willing to invest…”
He cut me off with a dry, humorless chuckle.
“Ms. …?”
“She’s Maya Harris,” Davies supplied.
“Ms. Harris. I’m a businessman. I only care about one thing: a fair exchange.”
A fair exchange. Those words hit me like a slap.
He was right. That’s all it ever was. He paid my tuition. I slept with him.
And now, here I was, begging him for money again.
2
When I was eighteen, my mom remarried. I’d lost count of which husband this was.
She was so hopeful, dragging me and my suitcase into the home of a man who seemed… nice. Respectable.
He bought me new clothes. He gave me an allowance. He’d smile and ruffle my hair.
For a second, I almost believed I had a father.
Until the night he came into my room.
He said if I was “good” to him, he’d give me money. He’d make sure my mom and I had a good life.
I ran to my mom, crying.
She slapped me.
She asked me why I was dressing like that. She accused me of trying to steal her man. She called me a slut.
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go home.
I had almost no money.
Near the school, there was a 24-hour LAN center. An all-night pass was ten bucks.
The guy who ran it looked like trouble. Bleached-blonde hair, a full sleeve of tattoos. The place was full of keyboard-clacking and cigarette smoke.
I stood outside for a long time before I got the nerve to go in.
“All-night pass,” I whispered.
He looked up. He had intense eyes under a heavy brow. He looked… mean. I started shaking.
“You eighteen?”
I fumbled for my ID. Thank God, I’d just had my birthday.
The center had a small, private booth. One computer, one tiny, hard sofa.
I’d sit there, reading my textbooks, doing homework. When I got hungry, I’d eat the half a sandwich I’d saved from lunch. When I got sleepy, I’d curl up on that sofa.
It was freezing, but it was the cheapest, safest place I could find.
At least there, no one tried to pull my clothes off in the middle of the night.
I did this for days. Finally, one night when I slid my ID across the counter, he looked up, annoyed.
“You’re a student. Why are you in here every night instead of at home?” he grumbled. “You’ll get yourself into trouble.”
I just mumbled, “None of your business.”
He cursed under his breath but didn’t say anything else.
Until the night a couple of guys in the next booth, drunk, kicked my door open.
“Well, look what we have here. All alone, sweetheart? Let’s keep you warm.”
I scrambled into the corner, terrified.
Rhys heard the commotion. He was there in a second. He grabbed the main guy by the collar and threw him out of the booth.
He kicked him, hard. “You think you can pull that shit in my place? Huh?”
He didn’t stop until the guy was begging.
When he came back, he was still furious, glaring at me. “You’re not even using the computer. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I… I am…”
“The monitor’s been off for three hours. What are you playing at?”
He was yelling now. “Get out of here! Go home! This is no place for a kid!”
I wouldn’t move.
After a long, tense silence, I whispered, “I don’t… I don’t have a home.”
He ran his hand through his stupid hair, frustrated. He grabbed my backpack.
“C’mon.”
Behind the LAN center was a crappy, one-bedroom apartment. Clothes piled on the sofa, beer cans on the coffee table.
He pointed. “This place. Ten bucks a day. You in or out?”
I had no choice.
“In.”
He tossed me a key and left.
3
Rhys was barely ever there.
I’d go straight from school to the apartment. I’d eat my leftover sandwich for dinner.
On the fifth day, I was gnawing on a stale piece of bread when he came in.
“Move over,” he said, frowning.
I scooted over on the tiny sofa. He dropped a bag of takeout on the table. Barbecue.
The smell of brisket filled the room. I was so hungry, I couldn’t stop staring.
He glanced at me. “Want some?”
I was wary. “Does it… cost extra?”
He actually laughed. “Just clean up the mess.”
It was the best meal I’d ever had.
After that, he started coming back more often. He’d always bring food. Tacos, pizza, sometimes a hot bowl of pho.
I’d devour it.
“Jesus, Maya,” he’d say, watching me. “You eat like a wolf.”
I was just… starving.
After dinner, I’d study on the sofa. He’d play video games, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
He’d stay up all night, but every so often he’d look at the clock and snap at me.
“It’s midnight. Go to bed.”
I’d pack up my books. “Rhys? Smoking is… it’s bad for you.”
“Live fast, die young,” he’d mutter, not looking away from the screen.
“And,” I added quietly, “I read online… it can make you… infertile.”
He froze.
“Shit,” he cursed, and stubbed out the cigarette. “Why didn’t you say so?”
I slept in the bedroom. He slept on the sofa. It was way too small for him, but he’d just crash, sleeping like a rock.
I never thought my life would intersect with someone like him. He was terrifying. He got into fights. Even the jocks at school were afraid of him.
And here I was, the “good student,” sharing a tiny apartment with him. It was… weird. And safe.
Eventually, my money ran out.
“Rhys… the rent… can I pay you… after I graduate?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Can you cook? Clean?” He nodded at the apartment. “Work it off.”
So I did. I cleaned, I did his laundry. He even started giving me an “allowance.”
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t hungry.
That apartment became my sanctuary.
He had friends over, guys and girls.
“Damn, Rhys,” one of them said, “when did your place get so clean?”
Then they saw me. “Whoa! Hiding one in here, man? If Chrissy finds out, she’s gonna lose it.”
I’d seen Chrissy. Tall, hot, built.
So that was his type.
One day, she cornered me outside. “Who are you to Rhys?”
I just stared at my feet. “Ask him.”
That night, Rhys came home, staring at me. “Maya. Who am I to you?”
My heart pounded. “No one.”
He scoffed, and tossed a bag of walnuts on the table. “Heard these are good for your brain. You need it.”
He spent the next ten minutes trying to crack them with his bare hands.
“Cool, right?” he’d ask, showing me.
He was such an idiot. I didn’t say that, though.
“Rhys,” I asked him once, “why the blonde hair?”
“It’s not blonde,” he snapped. “It’s golden.”
“So… a golden retriever?”
He glared. “You’re getting bold, Maya.”
But I wasn’t scared anymore. His bark was worse than his bite.
“Rhys,” I told him, right before exams, “I’m applying to UT. It’s across town, but I can take the bus.”
He just shoved a handful of walnuts at me. “You think it’s that easy to get into UT? Eat. Your brain needs help.”
4
Before my last final, my mom showed up at school.
“Maya, honey, that bastard is gone. He got into some trouble and skipped town. Come home, baby. I’ll make you dinner.”
She bought me a new dress. She brushed my hair.
I thought… I thought she actually missed me.
Until we got to her apartment, and I saw the strange men sitting on her sofa.
“Maya, this is Mr. Henderson. He owns a factory. He’s a very good man! He wants to marry you.”
She was selling me.
“No.”
She slapped me. “Don’t you ‘no’ me! You think I don’t know about you and that thug from the LAN center? You’re already sleeping around, you might as well get paid for it! I raised you! It’s time you paid me back!”
She took my ID and my phone and locked me in the bedroom.
Two days later, Rhys kicked the door in.
The second he held out his hand, I burst into tears.
My mom screamed. “She’s my daughter! You can’t just have her for free!”
Her voice was so loud the neighbors came out. I was so humiliated I couldn’t move.
Rhys just looked at her, his voice cold. “How much?”
“Twenty… twenty thousand dollars.”
He left. He came back ten minutes later with a duffel bag and dumped it on the floor.
“From now on,” he said, “Maya Harris has nothing to do with you.”
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of that building.
I followed him, sobbing.
He turned, his voice rough. “Stop crying. It’s annoying.”
He drove me to my finals every day that week. He waited outside the entire time.
The night after my last exam, we ate. I was so full of fear and… something else.
I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist.
“Rhys… you can… you can sleep in the bed tonight.”
He went completely still. “What did you say?”
“I can’t pay you back,” I whispered, my face buried in his back. “And… I need money for college…”
The truth was, I was terrified. Finals were over. I had no reason to stay.
I knew about student loans. But I was desperate. I wanted a reason to be tied to him.
He paid $20,000 to buy my freedom.
But it just made me his.
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The year I married my mortal enemy was the year I died.
Because I was tragically beautiful and my death was inconveniently sudden, the Guide who came to collect my soul granted me an extra hour to say my goodbyes. A nice gesture, but my list of loved ones was short. My mother was long dead, my father had remarried, and my brother and my childhood best friend were too busy fighting over my stepsister to care. They hadn’t even glanced at the hospital’s frantic calls, let alone started planning a funeral.
I hovered in the morgue, staring at my own shattered body, when I had a brilliant idea. My dear husband.
The second he picked up, I launched into my performance.
“Hello? I’ve been kidnapped. Venmo me fifty bucks, or your precious wife and the little heir to the Thorne empire are going to die…”
That call, the one he hung up on, would become the great tragedy of Julian Thorne’s life.
1
I pitched my voice high and syrupy, a caricature of a damsel in distress.
“It’s gonna be a really messy death, you know. Like, Humpty Dumpty messy. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men won’t be able to put me back together again.”
“Aw, what a shame for Mr. Thorne’s little baby. Never even got to say ‘daddy.’ Too bad. I was really looking forward to having a kid who looked like both of us, just to piss you off.”
“Nothing to say? Knew it. You cheap bastard. You were probably hoping I’d die sooner.”
“Well, whatever. Thanks for picking up. Vera the Great forgives you. From now on, live a good life. And you’d better find a wife who’s prettier than me, or I’ll be seriously disappointed.”
“And hey, for old times’ sake, bury me somewhere busy, okay? I don’t want to be lonely. Actually, forget it. You’ll probably just toss my ashes in the garbage.”
“One last thing, Julian… I love you.”
I choked out those last three words, a bitter, struggling sound. I took a deep, non-existent breath, fighting the urge to vomit. After delivering my half-true, half-prank final testament, I felt a lightness spread through my soul.
That bastard Julian Thorne had hated my guts since high school. An exiled, illegitimate son of a tycoon, he’d made it his life’s mission to one-up me and sabotage me at every turn. After we got married, he spent his nights out, never coming home, and always had a scowl reserved just for me.
I’d been dying to mess with him one last time.
He was on a business trip when the accident happened. He’d come home to a box of his wife’s ashes.
Heh. Die quietly and see how the enemy reacts. Perfect.
2
The Guide floated beside me, clicking his tongue. “That was incredibly messed up.”
I shook my head. “You don’t know him. That son of a bitch has been cold-blooded since birth. If a line of people were jumping off a bridge in front of him, he’d just cross his legs, pull out his phone, and post it to his Instagram story.”
“Wow. Is that a human thing? Where I’m from, we don’t usually call the person we have hate-sex with a ‘stranger.’”
“Please. That was just biology.” I paused, considering. “He’s worse than a stranger. A stranger jumping off a bridge gets an Instagram story. If I jumped, he’d kick me so hard I’d land in Paris, just to get me out of his sight.”
“But I thought you were, like, universally beloved?” the Guide asked, confused.
“I am. There are eight billion people on the planet. If 0.0001% of them like me, that’s still eighty thousand people. By any metric, that makes me a sensation, right?”
3
It was true, though. My mother gave me her stunning looks and her equally terrible temper. I was bossy, arrogant, and self-centered. Besides my brother, Leo, and my childhood friend, Evan, no one ever stuck around.
When we were kids, Leo adored me. He said it didn’t matter if I had a bad temper; he was the one spoiling me. If anyone said a bad word about me, he’d take care of them. He and Evan promised me I was their one and only little sister, that they’d lay the world at my feet without me having to lift a finger.
I remember when I was little, I ran into the street to save a stray kitten and was nearly hit by a truck. Leo pushed me out of the way and ended up in the hospital for two months. He was barely conscious, but he gently wiped my tears and whispered, “Don’t cry, Vera. You’re more important than anything. Brothers are born to protect their sisters. I’ll always be here for you.”
But I grew up, and they broke their promises.
Not long after Leo’s accident, my mother died. My father married his childhood sweetheart, “the one that got away.” My new stepsister, Chloe, moved into our house.
At first, Leo hated the quiet, docile Chloe as much as I did. Our father loved our stepmother more than he’d ever loved our mom, and he loved Chloe more than he’d ever loved us. Leo tormented her, locking her in the basement overnight. He told me it was because of her and her mother that our mom was gone. I believed him and never gave either of them a moment’s peace.
But then, Leo changed. Chloe’s quiet resilience wore him down. He fell for her.
One year, for my birthday, Chloe gave me a handmade doll. When I threw it in the trash in front of her, Leo slapped me. The shock on his face vanished in an instant, replaced by concern as he rushed to Chloe’s side, inspecting the pinpricks on her fingers.
“Do you have any idea how many nights she stayed up to make that for you, Vera? When are you going to grow up?” he seethed. “I thought you and Mom were so alike. Always stubborn, always selfish, always making everyone hate you.”
The mention of my mother made my vision go red. I smashed a vase over his head.
From that day on, he called me a “psycho,” and I called him a “traitor.” We were at war.
Later, I tried to confide in Evan, but he just sighed. “Just let it go, Vera. You’re all family.” I froze. My eyes fell to his wrist. The expensive watch I’d given him was gone, replaced by a cheap, woven bracelet. He noticed my gaze and quickly hid his hand. “Sorry, I lost the watch.”
I might have believed him if I hadn’t seen that unique, one-of-a-kind watch I designed myself in Chloe’s jewelry box. She later gave it to our housekeeper as a New Year’s gift. But that flimsy, withered bracelet? Evan treasured it like gold.
I told myself it was just a watch. Evan was just a childhood friend. It didn’t matter. They were all the same. I didn’t like Chloe, so they said I was bitter. They told me to move on, but they treated me like an outsider, a wolf in their perfect new family.
When I got sick, Chloe would get sick too. And because she was “frail,” my pain was always dismissed as drama. “You’ve been pampered your whole life, Vera. Stop with these games for attention.” Leo seemed to forget how tough I used to be. Because Chloe was quiet and long-suffering, my pain became attention-seeking. Because she was kind and tried to befriend me, my rejection of her became me being ungrateful. Because she’d “had a hard life,” I was cut off financially in college to “build character” and make up for her supposed hardships.
Leo dropped out of the police academy and switched to a business degree, just to stay by her side. With him and Evan as her champions, Chloe flourished. She learned how to be demanding, how to complain. Spoiled by their devotion, she grew into the very princess she’d replaced. She even had the audacity to smile and tell me that we were equals now; she wouldn’t put up with my attitude anymore.
She was right. She didn’t have to. The moment she walked into our house, I became homeless.
Silence didn’t earn me their respect, and lashing out would only get me sent to a shrink. The bright, fearless girl I once was faded into a past life. I became quiet, calculating, and cynical. My teenage years were a slow, agonizing process of being flayed alive.
Now, I’m twenty-four. Or, I was.
In the years since, I used every dirty trick in the book to reclaim the assets my mother left me, securing twenty percent of my family’s company. I burned every bridge, wrecked their lives, and vowed never to speak to them again.
The last message in our family group chat was from two years ago, on Chloe’s graduation day. I’d crashed the ceremony. Leo, forgetting our vow of silence, was furious enough to text me.
“It would have been better if you’d just died in that car crash all those years ago.”
4
Prophetic words.
The bone cancer they found during a check-up didn’t kill me. A speeding sports car on a random Tuesday evening did. I died broken and bleeding, pathetically hoping the baby in my womb would finally give me a reason to live, a connection to this world. I hadn’t been loved in so long, I’d forgotten how to love back.
Maybe it was for the best. My marriage was a business transaction with my nemesis. A child born into that wouldn’t have been any happier than I was.
The cake I’d just bought was crushed under me. Blood dripped from my forehead into my mouth, metallic and thick. It made me want to cough, but my lungs burned like they were filled with glass.
It hurts so much, Leo. Was it this bad for you?
My trembling finger scrolled through my contacts. I’d meant to call Julian, but my vision blurred, and I accidentally called Leo. I didn’t have the strength to change it.
Dying makes you weak. Makes you sentimental. What was I supposed to say? Would he be angry? Happy? I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell him I was scared. You promised you’d protect me forever. Why did you break your promise?
But he didn’t give me the chance. The call was quickly rejected. A cold, robotic voice answered: Please leave a message after the tone.
Of course. This was how it was supposed to be. But why did unshed tears hurt more than bleeding?
“I… listened to you… Leo… we’re even now.”
The people who loved me died in that first crash. I was going to find them.
Never mind. I’m dying. Think of something else. What was I doing today? Right. It was my birthday.
The baby had sparked a tiny flicker of hope in me. Pregnancy makes you foolishly optimistic. I had bought a cake and was on my way to see Julian, who had just gotten back from his trip. I was going to tell him I had a surprise. I was going to take his hand and place it on my stomach, like any normal woman, and tell my husband: I’m pregnant.
I know you hate me. I know you think I’m an arrogant, petty bitch, and you’re an immature asshole. But I know you’d be a good father. Can we stop fighting? Can we start over? With this little one. Like a normal, boring family. The kind of life I always dreamed of.
No chance for that now.
Isn’t it funny, Julian? Fate really was determined to make us hate each other forever.
The clock tower struck midnight. The massive screen on top lit up, becoming the last thing I ever saw. It was a picture of Chloe, surrounded by adoring fans on a stage.
It was her twenty-fourth birthday, too. One day after mine.
5
“Okay, let’s go,” I said to the Guide, waving a dismissive hand.
I’d crashed my stepmother’s parties, stolen a major deal from my brother, dumped a bucket of pig’s blood on Chloe at her graduation, and even produced an indie film about my father’s affair that went viral. And with my dying breath, I’d gotten one last jab in at my husband.
My relationships were in ruins, but damn, it was satisfying. As my soul left my body, the pain vanished, replaced by a strange sense of freedom. I cackled, thinking about that “I love you.” If I were still alive, I’d be crying with laughter.
I tossed my phone aside and happily followed the Guide, ready to cross over. But he coughed awkwardly and pointed at the phone’s screen.
I glanced over. Call Durationâ0:05.
Are you kidding me? I’d forced myself through that whole dramatic monologue, and he only heard the first sentence.
Whatever. I mentally crushed the phone into dust and took the metaphorical drink of forgetting from the Guide.
Goodbye, cruel world. Here’s to the next life.
…And then I woke up on my enemy’s bed.
“Honey…”
6
My head was splitting. I couldn’t open my eyes. A deep, raspy voice whispered from behind me, sending a jolt down my spine. I knew that voice. But the owner of that voice never, ever called me “honey.”
Even in the throes of passion, when I’d have him pinned down, begging, he’d only ever spit out my full name through gritted teeth.
Nice one, Julian. I knew you had another wife stashed somewhere.
Instinctively, I tried to kick him out of bed, but my foot met only empty air. I kicked again. Nothing. I froze for three seconds, then forced my eyes open.
The bedroom was the same. The sheets were the same. The man beside me was… almost the same.
He was sleeping fitfully, his brows furrowed. His normally sharp, short hair had grown out, falling over his eyes, making him look boyish, like he did in high school. But the sharp angle of his jaw and the exhaustion etched into his features gave him away.
“Pathetic. Look what you’ve done to yourself.”
As the words left my mouth, Julian’s eyes shot open.
He sat up abruptly, staring at the wall for a long moment before covering his face with his hand.
“Another nightmare, honey,” he mumbled. “You told me to bring you a ten-piece bucket from KFC as an offering. I said no, so you threatened to personally batter and fry me into a Zinger.”
…
A small, sad smile touched his lips. He lowered his hand, his expression shifting back to the familiar, detached mask. He turned, his gaze fixed on the spot where I was floating, his eyes empty. “You’d better have moved on, Vera. Because if I ever find you again, you’re finished.”
“I’ll make you pay.”
He finished his threat by flicking his finger through the air, right at my forehead.
?
I was completely dumbfounded.
Julian got up and started putting on a suit, his back to me. My gaze drifted past him to the full-length mirror in the hallway.
Reflected in it was not me, but a creature with fluffy white arms, chubby legs, and a big, fuzzy head.
I had become the ugly polar bear plushie I’d bought at the mall on a whim, just to annoy him.
“Apologies, Ms. Vera,” the Guide’s voice echoed in my head, finally showing up. “There was a… clerical error at the Re-entry Department. That extra hour you were granted has disrupted the causal nexus. It’s going to cause a chain reaction of untimely deaths.”
“In other words, you have to stay here for a while and, uh, save the world.”
Me? All I did was make one prank call!
7
The afterlife had screwed up, and I was paying the price. But the real sicko in this situation was Julian.
Julian Thorne, the ruthless, cold-hearted tycoon of Sterling City, had a thing for inanimate objects. Specifically, an ugly white polar bear he hated, which he now called “wife” in his sleep. I should have been laughing, but I couldn’t.
After getting dressed, Julian rummaged through a closet and pulled out a tiny, black-and-white maid outfit. Without a word, he dressed me in it. Then he picked me up, walked past a line of stone-faced house staff, and strapped me into the passenger seat of his car.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on his desk in his high-rise office. No one batted an eye. It was business as usual.
I pieced things together. It was 2028. Three years had passed since my untimely demise. Nothing had changed. With me out of the picture, Julian’s company was thriving. Most of my old employees now worked for him. Everyone was busy living their lives.
And Julian? He was living it up even more. Nights at the bar, drinking himself into a stupor, only to come home at midnight sharp to cuddle with his polar bear wife. I figured he had a string of women on the side; he was a playboy, after all. But he never took off his wedding ring. I overheard him telling a friend, “It keeps people away. One disastrous marriage was enough to nearly kill me. I don’t have the energy for another relationship.”
Right. He was in a relationship with a polar bear.
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The esports god I have a crush on just humiliated me with a frying pan. Three times.
The match had barely ended when he blew up our teamâs Discord, demanding my number.
I was staring at the screen recording that was already going viral, my brain completely short-circuiting. In the clip, he runs me over with a jeep, then hops out to finish me off with a clang from his frying pan. Later, he wins a close-quarters gunfight, knocking me to my knees, only to pull out that same stupid pan for the final blow.
And in the final circle, with victory just a second awayâa guaranteed “chicken dinner”âhe abandons the win.
He literally runs through enemy fire just to find me, a barely-alive player with a sliver of health, and smack me into oblivion with that godforsaken pan.
Seriously, is my crush a complete psychopath?
1
Iâm a student at Stanford, majoring in data analytics. A bit of a nerd, I guess. My scholarships pay the bills. My younger brother, Leo, is a starting player for the top esports team in the country, ACE.
Last week, he lost a bet on a livestream. The penalty? He had to dye his hair neon pink for a week.
He refused, ghosted his team, and went off the grid, leaving his phone and this whole mess with me.
“Chloe! I’m begging you! Emergency online exhibition match just got announced, it’s mandatory and it counts for my performance score! If I lose this, my monthly bonus is toast!” his panicked text read.
I was in the library, knee-deep in a data model, and didn’t even look up. I texted back: “Got it. Your sister is a Diamond rank, you know. I won’t lose you any points.”
âŠI really wish I could go back in time and slap myself.
Turns out, a “Diamond rank” player looks like a mindless bot to a professional.
I logged into Leo’s account. The moment I saw my teammates’ IDs in the lobby, my heart stopped.
Besides my brother’s tag, “ACE-Leo,” the other two were legends from his team.
And the squad leader’s ID was: “Mars.”
Asher Vance.
The Asher Vance. A campus celebrity, a computer science prodigy, and a legend in the league. Heâd led his team to two world championships. His playstyle was brutally aggressive, his aim was inhuman. His fans called him the God of War.
I’d only ever seen him on the esports club posters in the student union. In the photos, he had sharp eyes and a lazy smirk that always played on his lips.
Before my brain could catch up, the match started.
“Leo, you’re quiet today. No mic?” a teammate named “ACE-Zephyr” asked. “You usually scream your head off before the jump.”
My palms were sweating. I followed them, dropping into the hot zone we called “Estates.”
I quickly typed in chat: “Mic’s broken.”
I had just landed. I hadn’t even found a weapon.
A figure vaulted off a second-story balcony, landed in front of me, and blasted me twice with a shotgun.
I was down.
A notification popped up: “Mars knocked down ACE-Leo with a S686.”
I froze.
Friendly fire?
“Captain, what the hell?” the other teammate, “ACE-Bolt,” sounded just as confused. “You’re shooting Leo?”
Asher didn’t say a word. He walked over to my crawling avatar, switched from his shotgun to his melee weapon, and pulled out his frying pan.
CLANG.
Just like that, I was watching myself dissolve into a loot box.
The team’s voice channel went dead silent.
“…” After a three-second pause, Zephyr spoke.
“Captain, are you still drunk from last night?”
2
My face was burning. I waited for my teammates to revive me at a recall tower.
The second time, we were pushing a new town. I had just taken someone down with an M416 when my screen went gray again.
It was Asher.
It was like he had hacks. He appeared from a blind spot I never saw, and a perfectly cooked grenade sent me flying.
Then, he calmly strolled over, the same frying pan in hand.
CLANG.
Another loot box.
“Captain, do you have a personal problem with Leo?”
“Did Mars eat a bad burrito today? Why is he hunting his own teammate?”
My teammates were shouting now. Asher had team-killed me twice.
The third time, we were in the final circle. It was our full four-man squad against one last solo player. An easy win. I was prone behind a rock, my eyes glued to the field in front of me.
Suddenly, the deafening crack of an AWM sniper rifle echoed, and my level-three helmet shattered.
I was left with a single pixel of health.
The one who shot me? Asher Vance.
“HOLY CRAP! CAPTAIN, ARE YOU INSANE?!” Bolt screamed into his mic.
I watched as Asher charged out of a smoke grenade, completely ignoring the final enemy player, and sprinted directly towards me.
In his hand… was the frying pan.
CLANG!
“ACE has won the match!”
The announcer’s voice rang out, but I felt zero joy. I stared at the man on the screen who had just murdered me with kitchenware, and I couldn’t stop myself. I typed one sentence in the all-chat.
ăDo you have a problem?ă
The channel went quiet.
A few seconds later, a manâs voice, clear and lazy with a hint of amusement, came through the speakers for the first time.
“Leo, send me your girlfriend’s number.”
Girlfriend? My mind went blank.
How did he know I was a girl?
3
Before I could process it, my phone started vibrating like crazy. It was a FaceTime call from Leo. The moment I answered, his frantic face filled the screen.
“Chloe! What did you do to Asher Vance on my account? He just tagged me in the team group chat saying he’s ‘very interested’ in your ‘girlfriend’!”
My face was numb. I sent him the screen recording of the match.
Leo watched it. He went quiet.
After a long pause, he asked cautiously, “Chloe… did you, like… hook up with him and then ghost him or something?”
My hand slipped, and my phone clattered to the floor.
Asher Vance. My university’s resident esports god.
He thought I was his teammate’s girlfriend, and he hunted me down like a serial killer.
And now, he wanted my number.
4
Leo’s attempt to hide out failed miserably. The team manager tracked him down and dragged him back to the team’s gaming house.
He was basically on house arrest, which also meant he was hiding from me. Asher’s frying pan saga had earned my brother a new nickname on the team: “Sells-His-Sister-For-Glory.”
Three days later, I got a call from an unknown number.
“Is this Chloe Hayes? This is the director for the reality show ‘Glory Rush’.”
I frowned. “You have the wrong number.”
“No, I don’t,” the director said cheerfully. “The ACE team recommended you. We’d like to invite you to be their special guest star for the show. It’s a twenty-day shoot.”
I nearly crushed my phone. “I’m not interested.”
“Don’t be so quick to refuse,” he said. “We know you’re not a pro, so we’re offering a very generous appearance fee. Besides, ACE’s captain, Asher Vance, personally requested that you be invited.”
…Asher Vance.
Him again.
I hung up and immediately called Leo. His voice on the other end was dripping with guilt. “Chloe…”
“Leo,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “do you want to see your allowance this month?”
“No, sis, please!” he begged. “It was the Captain’s idea! He said he really admired your… uh… gameplay and thought you had a lot of potential! He wants you to come on the show to learn from the pros.”
“Our manager agreed, too! He said even though you played like garbage, you brought in huge numbers! That ‘Frying Pan Triple Team-Kill’ clip is trending on Twitter!”
…I stared at the hashtag on my screen, took a deep breath.
“Not going.”
“Chloe! Please! I’ll give you my entire tournament bonus for the next three months! I’m begging you!”
I hung up, opened my voice recorder app, and saved the last part of his plea.
Then I sent him a text.
“Send me the address.”
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