Category: English

1 The very first day I met my birth family, I knew my real enemy wasn’t the girl who’d taken my place. It was her sycophantic cousin, standing right beside her. When Sophie, the girl who’d grown up in my stead, was clearing out the master bedroom for me, my cousin Isabelle quietly slipped in and started unpacking her own luggage. She actually thought I would just swallow that. “You’ve just arrived, you’re probably not used to it yet. You can stay in my room for now,” she’d said with a saccharine smile. I walked into the room, grabbed her suitcase, and threw it right out the window. “Now that I’m back,” I announced, my voice calm but cold, “I’m the one who makes the rules in this house.” Behind me, Sophie, who had been bullied and pushed around by Isabelle for more than a decade, started weeping. Tears streamed down her face in two thick, dramatic lines. “I knew you’d come,” she sobbed. “I’m so glad I never gave up hope!” Please. Call me a control freak, I don’t care. If I was going to run the lives of a family I had no blood ties to, you better believe I was going to run this one. … I’ve had this inexplicable urge to control everything around me for as long as I can remember. By the age of three, I was already the tiny, tyrannical matriarch of my household. My adoptive parents and my two older brothers would just scratch their heads in my presence, always repeating the same mantra: “Chloe’s the smartest one in the family. Whatever Chloe says, goes.” I remember when I was a kid, I once stormed into my brothers’ school brandishing two kitchen knives to take care of the punks who were bullying them. The gossip spread through our small town like wildfire. “The Davises are all so quiet and honest,” people would whisper, “but that youngest daughter of theirs is a little terror. You sure she’s really theirs?” Turns out, they were right. The summer I turned nineteen, I was told my birth parents were the Walters family, from the city of Auburndale. Coincidentally, that’s where I was going to college. The Walters family called me repeatedly, making up endless excuses to get me to visit. Curiosity finally got the better of me, and I agreed to go see them. They were well-off, living in a large villa in a gated community, and apparently owned a small company. The day I arrived just so happened to be Mrs. Walters’ birthday, and they were having a small dinner party with relatives. Before the meal, the guests mingled in small groups. Among the younger crowd, one girl, dolled up to an almost painful degree, caught my eye. She was Isabelle, the daughter of Mr. Walters’ younger brother. I couldn’t figure out why a cousin, who was neither the birthday girl nor the host, was dressed like a Christmas tree. She fit my stereotype of a schemer perfectly. And sure enough, it didn’t take long for Isabelle to start showing her true colors. It wasn’t even noon yet, but Sophie had already prepared several hot dishes. She approached me timidly. “Um… I cleaned out the room for you this morning. You can move in whenever you’re ready.” She pointed to the largest bedroom on the second floor. I was surprised; the girl who took my place was more sensible than I’d expected. My gaze shifted from the mountain of plates stacked by the stove to Sophie’s hands, which were covered in small burns. “All this food… did you cook it all by yourself? Didn’t you guys think of going to a restaurant or hiring a caterer?” Sophie managed a shy, awkward smile. “Mom and Dad say homemade food is cleaner. And it shows our sincerity to the relatives.” Sincerity? They were making a young girl cook a three-course meal for a dozen people. If they were so sincere, why didn’t they lift a finger themselves? For the first time, I took a proper look at the girl whose life had been switched with mine. Sophie had her dark hair tied back in a low ponytail. She was thin, with a dark complexion, not very tall, with a pear-shaped figure and a round, plain face. I sighed internally. She was a Davis, through and through; she had our family’s face. Unaware of my thoughts, Sophie said hesitantly, “Chloe… want me to show you to your room?” I smiled and followed her upstairs. The moment we opened the door, the color drained from Sophie’s face. The room was filled with someone else’s luggage. “This isn’t my stuff!” she stammered, her voice trembling. “I swear, I emptied the room for you.” She was on the verge of tears. I just watched her calmly. “So, you’re saying you’ve already given this room to me, which means I can do whatever I want with it, right?” Sophie blinked, then nodded even more vigorously. With her confirmation, I walked in, picked up the duvet and pillows from the bed, and tossed them out the window into the garden below. Then, as Sophie stared in stunned silence, I picked up a laptop from the desk, snapped the screen back until it cracked, and threw it out the window, too. Afterward, I turned to Sophie and smiled. “Don’t worry,” I said, my eyes crinkling. “I know this isn’t your stuff.” “It belongs to your dear cousin, Isabelle.” 2 I’d seen Isabelle sneaking upstairs earlier, dragging her bags into the room. She wanted to claim the best bedroom for herself, thinking she could pull a fast one while I was distracted. I almost laughed out loud. Just how much had the Walters family spoiled this niece of theirs? Did she really think she was so special that I, the actual daughter, would just roll over and accept this insult? Sophie looked at the chaos, then back at me, her eyes shining with pure adoration. I dusted off my hands. “If you really want to thank me, you can help me unpack.” I had only brought a small backpack with some toiletries. The only valuable item was a small aromatherapy diffuser. I have trouble sleeping, and I can’t get a wink without it. Seeing Sophie actually start to reach for my bag, I couldn’t help but pat her on the shoulder. “I’m kidding,” I said, my tone softening. “It was just a joke. You don’t have to act like a maid.” I gently steered her out of the room and downstairs, intending for her to finally sit down and rest. But the girl was pathologically diligent; she scurried right back into the kitchen. The Davis work ethic was clearly hardwired into our genes. Honestly, I had come here with a whole playbook of strategies to deal with the “fake daughter.” I never expected her to be so… disarmingly simple. Luckily, my performative cousin, Isabelle, was still flitting about the party, a big, bright sign on her forehead that practically screamed, “Come at me.” Less than ten minutes after I’d disposed of her luggage, I noticed Isabelle heading back upstairs, probably to bring in more of her things. It was only a matter of time before she discovered her belongings scattered across the lawn. I was curious to see if she would come down and scream at me. That would give me the perfect opening to ask exactly what gave her, a mere cousin, the right to act like the queen of her uncle’s house. But Isabelle was more cunning than that. She decided to give me a taste of my own medicine. A moment later, my things came crashing down from the second-floor window. Then, she came downstairs and sat right across from me without a word. As our eyes met, she shot me a quick, venomous glare. The object she’d thrown was my aromatherapy diffuser. So, later, as she was pouring drinks, she made a point of running her fingers over a glass tumbler and saying to Sophie, “Glass things are just so fragile, aren’t they? Next time you go shopping, you should get the plastic kind. They don’t break, and they last for years.” A command disguised as a suggestion. And Sophie, bless her meek heart, just replied, “Oh, okay. I’ll remember that.” A great-aunt overheard and immediately started fawning over Isabelle. “Isabelle is not only beautiful, but she’s so sensible! Already thinking about being thrifty at her age.” Others chimed in. “I’ve watched this girl grow up. She’s been brilliant since she was a child. Reciting poetry at six, knew her multiplication tables backward and forward at seven.” “I bought her a Lego set once, and she finished it in an afternoon. I knew right then she was going to be successful.” Isabelle’s mother, my Aunt Carol, was a woman whose phoniness was practically an art form. She wrapped an arm around Isabelle’s shoulder and feigned humility. “Well, if she were as smart as you all say, she’d be getting a full scholarship to Auburndale University.” I remembered then—the results for the college entrance exams were being released today. At Aunt Carol’s reminder, everyone started predicting that Isabelle was a shoo-in for A.U. Isabelle smiled demurely. “It’s all thanks to Uncle and Aunt’s guidance. And, of course, the good Walters family genes.” It was a backhanded slap at Sophie—implying she wasn’t smart, wasn’t capable, wasn’t pretty, and now, that her genes were inferior. Sophie sat in silence through it all, her head bowed so low her chin was practically touching her chest. And what were her parents—my parents—doing while this was happening? 3 As the relatives anointed Isabelle the shining star of the family, my own father, Mr. Walters, beamed with pride—at his niece. “That’s just Isabelle being her brilliant self,” he said. “Not like Sophie, who can’t seem to do anything right.” The birthday girl herself, Mrs. Walters, added, “Sophie just isn’t cut out for academics.” Aunt Carol was positively glowing. She raised her glass. “My dear sister-in-law, Isabelle has lived with you for so many years, eaten your food, been shaped by your wisdom… you’ve raised her into such an outstanding young woman. I’m almost ashamed to call myself her mother.” The other relatives piled on. “It’s true! The clothes Isabelle wears, the school supplies she uses—always the best brands.” “Even after my brother’s family made it big, they never forgot about us poor relatives.” “And my sister-in-law is a senior teacher in the district! She treats Isabelle even better than her own daughter, sparing no expense or effort for her education.” An elder of the family nodded sagely. “He’s the head of our generation, after all. He hasn’t forgotten his roots.” My birth parents soaked it all in, sitting at the center of the table, trying and failing to suppress their smug smiles. My suspicions were confirmed. This couple was the type to sacrifice their own child for the sake of appearances, all while patting themselves on the back for their magnanimity. They would bend over backward for a relative just to earn a good reputation. Isabelle knew them inside and out. That’s why she had the audacity to take over my room on the very day I arrived. She knew that even if I made a fuss, they would force me to back down for the sake of their precious public image. And right on cue, my clueless mother opened her mouth. “I treat Isabelle well because she deserves it,” she declared. “Sophie doesn’t look good in anything, unlike her cousin.” Isabelle looked absolutely triumphant. Perhaps tired of picking on the ever-passive Sophie, she decided to set a trap for me. “Chloe has a great figure, too,” she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “You can tell she’s a Walters girl. Now you can wear my old clothes!” I had to stop myself from laughing. She wanted to fight a control freak for territory? I asked her, my voice light and casual, “Why would I wear your hand-me-downs? Do you think you’re worthy?” I was the one who controlled others. No one controlled me. Isabelle froze for a second, then quickly recovered. “Chloe, you just got here, so you don’t know. Sophie could never fit into my clothes, but you’re much thinner than her.” I set down my chopsticks. “What does my being new here have to do with you offering someone your second-hand clothes?” “Or are you saying that Sophie, who was raised as their own daughter for nineteen years, isn’t even worthy of her cousin’s old clothes?” “But me, the daughter who just walked in the door—I’m just barely worthy enough to receive them?” Isabelle started to panic. “Chloe, what are you talking about? You’re their real daughter!” “I’m just a guest here, I don’t have that kind of power.” “Anyone who didn’t know better would think I was bullying my own cousin.” “You’re being too sensitive. You’re probably just not used to things yet. It’s okay, I don’t blame you.” When people know they’re in the wrong, they resort to playing the victim. Too bad for her, we control freaks are masters at spinning the narrative. I folded my hands on the table. “Am I being too sensitive? Or are you, in your own subtle way, trying to lay down the law for me? Telling me that in this house, all the kids have to use your leftovers.” Isabelle shot up from her chair. “Chloe, that’s outrageous! I never meant that at all!” I immediately glanced at the heads of the household, Mr. and Mrs. Walters, whose faces had darkened. They were obsessed with their reputation. The moment they sensed this girl wasn’t as docile as they thought, they would start revoking her privileges. For people like them, their public image was more important than anything. It must be the Walters family’s control-freak gene. As a fellow sufferer, I knew exactly how to treat the symptoms. “Cousin, why are you so angry? Perhaps you should have some soup to cool down.” “We’re celebrating a birthday here. Aren’t you being a little spoiled, raising your voice at someone else’s party? It’s almost like you have no respect for the hosts.” “All the relatives were just saying how sensible you are. Don’t you think you’re making them look bad now?” After a moment of tense silence, my father, Mr. Walters, finally spoke, his voice tinged with displeasure. “Isabelle. Chloe just got home. Some things are for the adults to arrange.” At his words, my cousin froze in place. The rest of the relatives, who had just witnessed my verbal assault, stared in stunned silence. And Sophie… Sophie was looking at me with a newfound reverence. 4 Isabelle didn’t dare say another word. The heads of the Walters household were her patrons, after all. Her parents, my uncle and aunt, worked out of town and only came back for holidays, leaving Isabelle entirely in the care of my parents. Their financial situation was significantly worse than that of my birth family. Originally, Isabelle’s plan was to stir up conflict between me and Sophie, then sit back and reap the benefits. She never imagined I could dismantle her scheme with just a few sentences and leave her completely cornered. My Aunt Carol’s eyes darted around, and she quickly came up with a new tactic. “You’ve misunderstood, brother. Isabelle is just used to being the big sister; she instinctively wants to take care of her younger cousins.” “Isabelle just finished her exams, she’ll be off to college in September. She’s just going to miss Chloe, that’s why she’s being a little overbearing.” This family was certainly good at sweet-talking. No wonder they’d managed to convince my parents to dote on their niece instead of their own daughter. The other relatives quickly jumped in to smooth things over. “If Isabelle gets into A.U., she won’t be able to come home as often.” “Some of her clothes probably won’t be suitable for college anyway, so it makes sense she’d want to leave them for her cousins.” “That’s right, I haven’t even asked yet. Isabelle, what do you think you scored on your exams?” Isabelle casually brushed her hair back. “Well, in all the practice exams, I was scoring over 600.” A few of the male cousins chimed in, “The exams in our district are notoriously hard. Isabelle definitely broke 650, maybe even 700!” Isabelle, sensing another opportunity, turned her attention back to me under the guise of concern. “Sophie and I both took the exams this year. We don’t need to talk about Sophie’s results, but what about you, Chloe? What did you estimate your score to be?” We don’t need to talk about Sophie’s results? Sophie awkwardly stood up. “There are still a few dishes to finish. I’ll just go check on the stove.” No one answered her. No one cared about her feelings. Aunt Carol, however, was fixated on my academic performance. She moved her chair closer to mine. “Don’t be afraid to say, Chloe. No one will blame you if you’re wrong.” One of the cousins added with a smirk, “Yeah, the schools in the countryside don’t have many resources. Just doing your best is enough.” Amid their gleeful, expectant gazes, I answered clearly, “Seven hundred and thirty-five.” The table fell silent for a few seconds, then Isabelle let out a sudden, sharp laugh. She quickly apologized, claiming she’d choked on her water. “I was just so surprised,” she said, feigning innocence. “Chloe, honey, I asked for an estimate. Why did you give such a precise number, down to the single digit?” “Do you have any idea what that score means? You could get into the best program at A.U. with that.” My birth mother, Mrs. Walters, adopted the tone of a seasoned educator. “Don’t the teachers in your town ever analyze the admission scores from previous years?” She was implying my high school teachers were unprofessional, that they couldn’t grasp the exam’s key concepts and gave their students overly simple tests. Aunt Carol seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. She patted my shoulder. “It’s good for young people to have dreams.” Then she started offering “advice.” “If you’re really set on A.U., the Hamiltons’ son next door goes there. You can ask him for some pointers; he’ll give you a reality check.” Mrs. Walters added, “I just ran into Mr. Hamilton yesterday. He said Ethan just got home.” My eyes narrowed slightly. “The Hamiltons? Are you talking about Ethan Hamilton?” The moment I said his name, Isabelle’s face lit up. “He’s a famous e-sports player, on the A.U. team! Do you watch his streams? If you want his autograph, I can get it for you.” I raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Are you two close?” Isabelle exchanged a look with my parents, then lowered her head and bit her lip coyly. “I guess you could say that. If you want to retake the exams next year to get into A.U., I can ask Ethan to help you study.” I couldn’t tell if her little act of blushing modesty was for my benefit or for my parents’. Aunt Carol leaned in, her eyes glinting with cunning. “Ethan and our Isabelle are practically childhood sweethearts,” she whispered conspiratorially. “The Hamiltons are very wealthy, you know. Twenty years ago, they had a chandelier that cost a million dollars. Their son has all the debutantes chasing after him, but he’s always preferred to hang out with our Isabelle.” This was a wealthy neighborhood, home to multi-millionaires. The Walters had snagged this villa, one of the least desirable ones in the corner of the development, purely to network with the upper crust. Their own daughter, Sophie, lacked the charm to do so, but their pretty, tall niece Isabelle was a social asset. A single business deal with the Hamiltons could sustain the Walters’ company for a year. Of course they preferred the niece who could help them. In the end, Aunt Carol’s bragging about exam scores and the boy next door was all about putting me down. She was terrified her daughter would lose her favored status and the perks that came with it. To cement her daughter’s image as an irresistible siren, she continued, her voice full of pride, “Ethan is such a proud boy; he won’t give other girls the time of day. But the moment he sees our Isabelle, it’s ‘Izzy, Izzy’ this and ‘Izzy’ that. He absolutely adores her.” I closed my eyes for a moment, a slow smile spreading across my face. Then I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Ethan Hamilton. Heard you have a lot of little “sisters” throwing themselves at you?

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My mother-in-law was in acute kidney failure and needed dialysis, but my husband, the head of nephrology, let his intern—and mistress—handle the procedure. The intern fumbled with the machine. “Dr. Wright,” she cooed, “there are so many tubes and buttons. I don’t know what to do~” My husband, Toby, patiently spent ten minutes teaching her, ignoring the nurse’s warning about the incorrect parameters. He insisted it was good practice for her. The result? The intern set the flow rate wrong, causing a fatal air embolism. My mother-in-law convulsed and died on the spot. To comfort his crying mistress, Toby wrapped his arms around her and walked out of the ER. He shot me a cold, dismissive glance. “Go,” he ordered, “get your mother’s body out of here. And sign this waiver. It was an equipment malfunction.” “Your mother didn’t have much time left anyway,” he added, his voice devoid of emotion. “Maggie is just starting her career. We can’t let some old woman ruin her future.” I froze. He actually thought the woman lying in that room, the one he had just used as a teaching tool, was my mother. A cold smile spread across my face. “I’m afraid I’m not the right person to sign that.” 1 Toby’s face immediately darkened. “What’s that supposed to mean? You refuse to sign?” His brow furrowed, his impatience palpable. “Audrey, I’m warning you, don’t even think about suing for malpractice. It won’t end well for you.” Maggie peeked out from his arms, her voice a timid whisper. “Audrey, your mother was such a kind woman. I’m sure she wouldn’t want you to make things difficult for Dr. Wright. Just sign it. It’s for the best.” I ignored her saccharine performance and raised my phone, activating the voice recorder. “Of course, I understand,” I said, my voice as calm as if I were discussing the weather. “It was an equipment malfunction. These things happen.” I paused. “But I’m not sure the hospital administration will just take my word for it. Why don’t I record you saying it, too? Just so I have something to show them.” Toby looked at me like I was an idiot. “Are you insane? It’s your mother who died, not mine. What do I care?” Then I remembered. Last month, I had taken my mother-in-law for a check-up. The results showed early signs of kidney failure. She had begged me not to tell Toby, worried it would distract him from his career. But he had found the report. My mother-in-law had been there, her eyes pleading with me. So I had lied. I told him it was my mother’s report. I finally understood the strange, unreadable look in his eyes that day. It was gloating. Seeing me just standing there, holding my phone, Toby’s patience snapped. “Fine, fine! I, Toby Wright, agree that it was an equipment malfunction. Happy now?” he snarled. “Now get lost. Can’t you see Maggie is traumatized?” He shoved past me, his arm around his precious intern, and strode towards his office without a backward glance. Maggie, nestled in his arms, looked back at me, a triumphant, mocking smile playing on her lips. I watched them go, slowly lowering my phone. I sincerely hoped he could maintain that same arrogant swagger in a little while. 2 The hospital’s risk management department soon called me in for a meeting. They looked uncomfortable; Toby was both the doctor involved and a family member of the deceased. It was a messy situation. Before they could even start, I handed them the waiver and the recording. “This is what my husband wants,” I said calmly. “He said that at her age, accidents are bound to happen. We can’t blame the hospital, and we certainly can’t blame the doctors.” The committee members exchanged stunned glances. After the meeting, I went to the morgue to handle the paperwork. And there they were again, Toby and Maggie, hand in hand, looking sickeningly sweet. Toby immediately blocked my path, shoving another piece of paper in my face. “Sign it.” It was an organ donation form. The temperature in the room dropped. “His mother was a devout Buddhist,” I said, my voice cold. “She wanted to leave this world whole, just as she entered it. I will not agree to this.” Maggie let out a snort of laughter. “Audrey, you’re so old-fashioned. What does it matter once she’s ashes?” She smirked. “With a disease like that, she must have done some pretty terrible things in a past life. This is what you call karma. She deserved it.” Toby nodded in agreement. “Audrey, your mother didn’t contribute much in life. Let her do some good in death. Maybe she’ll earn enough good karma for a better reincarnation. It’s like produce at the market; it’s only valuable when it’s fresh. Let it sit too long, and it’s worthless. Understand?” I was trembling with a rage so profound it made me nauseous. Was this man I married a monster in a white coat, or the devil himself? “Toby! That was your mother, too! Have you no soul?” I cried. “I will never agree to this!” I tried to leave, but he grabbed my wrist, his grip like a vice. “You ungrateful bitch. I’ve been too nice to you.” He raised his other hand. I stared him down. “You lay a hand on me, and I swear, my parents will destroy you.” CRACK! The slap was so hard my ears rang, and stars exploded behind my eyes. The stinging pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. The humiliation and shock were a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. “Your parents?” he sneered. “What are they going to do? Without them, you’re nothing.” He forced my hand down onto the form, pressing my thumb into the ink pad and then onto the signature line. He shoved me, and I fell to the floor in a heap. I clutched my cheek, staring up at him in disbelief. This was the man who once couldn’t even bear to speak a harsh word to me. 3 Maggie immediately clung to his arm. “Don’t be angry, honey. She’s not worth it. Your hands are too precious.” Toby’s fury melted away as he looked at her. “You’re right, my love. She’s not worth it.” He looked down at me, his eyes like chips of ice. “Let me make this clear, Audrey. If you donate the body, your mother earns some good karma. If you don’t, she’ll be disposed of as medical waste. Your choice.” He turned to leave, but Maggie stopped him. “You must be exhausted after your surgery, Dr. Wright. Why don’t you go rest? I can handle this. It’ll be good practice, right? You always say practice makes perfect.” He tweaked her nose affectionately. “Clever girl. Go on, then. Think of it as a preview for your anatomy class.” The moment he was gone, Maggie’s sweet smile vanished. She walked over to the gurney and ripped off the white sheet. She picked up a scalpel, brandishing it near my mother-in-law’s eyes. “Old bat was half-blind anyway. These corneas are useless.” She then picked up a bone saw, waving it over the corpse’s head. “And her brain is probably so shriveled up, no one would want it for a specimen.” I retched, a silent scream building in my throat. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t protect you. Just a little longer, I told myself. I will make them pay in blood. She began to cut, pulling out organs and tossing them onto the floor with disgust. She even took out her phone, snapping pictures of her gruesome work and sending them to Toby. His voice message came back, full of praise and affection. “My Maggie is so talented and brave. Don’t worry about making a mess on your first dissection. It’s not like Audrey’s mother has any valuable organs anyway. Just think of it as practice. A worthy end for her.” Maggie grinned at me. “Your mother’s body is in worse shape than the cadavers in the lab. What a waste of my time.” I took a deep breath, forcing down the bile and rage. I lunged forward, my fingers trembling, and snatched the phone from her hand. A tear I couldn’t hold back splashed onto the screen. I held the phone to my mouth and said, each word a shard of glass, “Toby. I want a divorce.”

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I am the resident “sentient flower” for Manhattan’s top tycoon. By his side, you’ll also find the helpless ingénue. The saint. And the red rose. Every single one of them is after the man himself. They want the ring and the Vance name. But not me. I’m just in it for the money. 1 I’m the resident “sentient flower” for Manhattan’s top tycoon. It’s as literal a title as it sounds. When the tycoon suffers, I listen. When love leaves him bitter, I find the sweet. I have another, less formal title: the ultimate doormat. My job is to gently absorb and resolve all of the tycoon’s frustrations without ever causing any of my own. I am a flower that only soothes, never pricks. Beyond that, the relationship between me and the tycoon is purely platonic. He never has to worry about me using him to climb the social ladder, and I never have to worry about him pouncing on me. We exist in a perfect, professional harmony. Tonight is a private gala hosted by the tycoon himself, Edward Vance. To put it bluntly, it’s the annual performance review for the various starlets orbiting his sun. As his sentient flower, I naturally have a role that is both official and clandestine: Edward Vance’s executive assistant. The gala is being held at a flagship hotel under the Vance Group umbrella. Crystal chandeliers cast a glittering rain of light, champagne fountains bubble with a golden glow, and the air is thick with a perfume of money and hormones. A quick scan of the room reveals that the competition is already in full swing. At the center of the ballroom is Penelope, the designated “helpless ingénue” in Edward’s life. She’s currently demonstrating her unique expertise. Dressed in a wispy, ethereal white gown, she times a delicate stumble perfectly as she passes Edward, collapsing with flawless precision into his arms. She drapes herself over his arm, a fragile vine. “Oh, Edward,” she breathes, “it hurts so much…” I take a sip of my tea, my expression blank. Honey, is this a gala or an insurance fraud seminar? You deserve an Oscar for that performance. But this is Edward Vance we’re talking about. The most eligible and untouchable bachelor in all of New York. A master player who strolls through a garden of beauties without letting a single petal cling to him. Penelope is far too green to play games with him. Still, a beautiful woman has fallen into his arms, and Edward is not one to be rude. He steadies her with a grip so practiced it looks robotic. But the curve of his lips… it’s the perfectly calibrated smile of a customer service representative. “Alfred,” he says smoothly to his butler, “please escort Ms. Penelope to the lounge to rest.” With a single sentence, he has her gift-wrapped and shipped out. Penelope opens her mouth to protest, but the polite, unwavering smile on Edward’s face silences her. She knows better than to be voted off the island this early in the game. Contestant number one has made an unfortunate exit. But a tycoon’s garden is never home to just one flower. Next up is Isabelle, “the saint,” dressed in a simple yet elegant silk gown. She glides towards him, a glass of red wine in her hand, her posture impeccable. She’s different from Penelope. She doesn’t flirt or play helpless; she discusses ideals. Her conversations are woven with threads of charity work and underprivileged children. To Edward, she projects an image of pure, untouchable goodness. Even I have to give her points for style. “Edward,” she begins, her voice soft, “I was thinking about that orphanage on the west side…” Edward pinches the bridge of his nose—a tell-tale sign of his impatience. He was up until 3 AM last night finalizing a merger. He’s clearly exhausted and in no mood for this topic. For all his cold exterior, he despises being emotionally manipulated. Just then, Scarlett, “the red rose,” clicks towards them on dangerously high heels, wrapped in a fiery red dress. She radiates an aura of pure power. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries and cuts right to the chase. “Edward, that parcel of land downtown. I hear you’re interested?” Look at that. Bringing business negotiations to a party. This woman knows how to kill a conversation. Edward’s patience has clearly run out. He raises his glass to his lips, only to find it empty. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The second his gaze sweeps in my direction, I stand. I move gracefully through the crowd, retrieve a cup of warm, clear tea from a passing waiter’s tray—a cup I had prepared in advance. Not his usual whiskey, not a pretentious red wine, but a simple tea to cut through the richness of the evening and soothe his fatigue. He’s running on fumes; alcohol would be a mistake. Coffee, while stimulating, wouldn’t offer the same comfort. Tea is perfect. I place the cup in his hand without a word. He takes it, sips, and the hard line of his jaw softens almost imperceptibly. Scarlett is about to press her point. I speak softly, my voice directed at Edward but just loud enough for Scarlett to hear. “Mr. Vance, I reviewed the file on that downtown property. Ms. Scarlett’s company primarily deals in consumer goods. A sudden pivot into a real estate project of this magnitude would likely face resistance from her board. Furthermore, I’ve heard their new European venture has strained their capital chain.” My words are subtle but surgically precise. Scarlett’s expression freezes. Edward sets down his cup and gives me a look. I know that look. It’s the look that says a very, very large bonus is headed my way. He turns to Scarlett and smiles. “Scarlett, in business, knowing your own limits is just as important as knowing your enemy’s.” Her face shifts through several shades of anger before she finally pivots on her heel, shoots me a venomous glare, and storms away. For the entire evening, I haven’t initiated a single conversation with Edward. I haven’t fought to be near him like the others. I simply appeared when he needed me, with the right drink and the right words. As the gala concludes, Edward leans back in the car, his eyes closed. He suddenly tosses a tablet into my lap. “Take a look at this project.” I pick it up. The screen displays a prospectus for a private investment opportunity. The potential returns are astronomical, and the barrier to entry is so high that only those in his innermost circle would ever even hear about it. I know exactly what this is. It’s my reward for being his sentient flower tonight. “Thank you, Mr. Vance,” I say calmly, accepting it. Lesson number one for surviving in Manhattan’s elite circles: the most effective way to win is not to play the game everyone else is playing. Excellent. My startup capital just got a significant boost. My little nest egg is growing quite nicely. 2 I’m an orphan. I never knew my parents, but thanks to the kindness of anonymous benefactors, I had a safe, if unremarkable, upbringing. I was never wealthy, but I was never in want. My childhood was stable, free from the kind of trauma that leaves deep scars. I’m perfectly healthy, both physically and mentally. The only thing I lacked was a parent’s love. As a result, I never developed a deep reliance on familial bonds, let alone romantic ones. It’s as if I were born with a diminished capacity for emotional attachment. After graduation, a chance encounter led me to Edward Vance, and I became his assistant. He once told me I was different from all the other women around him. I didn’t care about that. I cared about the salary and benefits. And God, did he pay well. That’s why I’ve stayed by his side for four years. What’s so great about love? Isn’t making a fortune more satisfying? But in a city like this, gossip travels faster than light. The news that I had earned Edward’s favor was like a torpedo hitting the perfectly curated fish pond of his admirers. For years, they’ve refused to believe that my relationship with him is purely professional. They can’t accept that I just want to take the money and run. They all see me as the enemy. Penelope, naturally, was the first to make a move. It didn’t take long for her to start setting traps, and she aimed right for a project I was managing. It was a small-scale art acquisition, not a lot of money involved, but incredibly detailed. I knew it was a test from Edward to gauge my capabilities. After nearly four years, he was finally starting to delegate real responsibility to me. I had worked too hard to get here. These lovesick fools were not going to ruin my career. Penelope started by whispering in Edward’s ear, her performance complete with crocodile tears. “Edward, that’s not what I meant at all… I just wanted to help Claire out, ease her workload. I didn’t realize she would misunderstand and think I was trying to steal her job… sob…” A true masterclass in manipulation. Edward has a well-known weakness for crying women. He agreed to let her “help” in a heartbeat. And so, she arrived. She enthusiastically forwarded me an artist’s portfolio, making sure to CC the entire project team. The subject line read: “Lightening the load for Claire.” Penelope had an art degree. She used her minor connections in the art world to recommend a young painter with “immense potential.” I didn’t buy her act for a second. When something seems too good to be true, it always is. A quick background check confirmed my suspicions. The artist did indeed have potential—a potential for forgery. Several of his past sales had been mired in plagiarism scandals. His wealthy family had paid a small fortune to scrub his reputation clean, but within the art world, everyone knew the truth. If I acquired his work, I’d be on the front page of every paper. I could already see the headline: Vance Group Scammed in Multi-Million Dollar Art Fraud; Project Manager Claire Dismissed, Faces Massive Lawsuit. I kept my findings to myself. Instead, I replied to Penelope’s email with a cheerful thank you, once again CC’ing the entire department, including Edward. “Penelope, you’re such a lifesaver! Thank you so much for your help.” Then, I got to work. I compiled everything: photos of Penelope meeting with the artist, their text conversations, and proof that she was using her influence to push his paintings onto the acquisition list. I put it all into a crisp PowerPoint presentation, using the official Vance Group template. The title was perfect: Risk Assessment and Background Report on the Artist Recommended by Ms. Penelope Vance. It was professional, meticulous, and irrefutable. To be thorough, I even arranged a meeting with the artist at a discreet tea house, claiming I was sent by Penelope to discuss payment. He let his guard down immediately, his smugness making him careless. He spilled everything, including a direct quote: “Penelope said as long as I get in with Mr. Vance, the price is negotiable.” I recorded the entire conversation. All I had to do was wait. Sure enough, a few days later, Edward summoned both of us to his office. The moment Penelope saw him, her eyes welled up. She spoke first. “Edward, you have to believe me. I had no ill intentions. It’s Claire… she seems to have some sort of prejudice against me.” She looked at me with wounded eyes, as if I were the big bad wolf who had just devoured a lamb. Edward sat behind his massive desk, his face unreadable. He simply looked at me. I didn’t rush to defend myself. Instead, I walked forward and placed a file on his desk. My tone was all business. “Mr. Vance, this is the background check I compiled on the artist Ms. Penelope recommended. I’m sure she was unaware of these details when she so kindly made the suggestion.” I paused, then added, “She is young, after all, and lacks real-world experience. It’s only natural for someone so pure-hearted and trusting to be deceived. We can’t blame her. If anyone is at fault, it’s me, for not advising her properly.” I glanced at Penelope’s face, which had gone deathly pale. I continued, twisting the knife. “A person like Ms. Penelope, someone who could capture your heart under the cherry blossoms, must be fundamentally good. We mustn’t be too harsh on her.” My “magnanimous” defense had backed her into an impossible corner. If she admitted she was naive, she was admitting she was incompetent. If she claimed she knew about the artist’s history, she was admitting she was malicious. Her face flushed red, then white. She sputtered, “That’s not it! I didn’t! I was just trying to help you!” “Help me by recommending a serial plagiarist?” I feigned shock, covering my mouth. “Ms. Penelope, are you being blackmailed? Don’t be afraid. You can tell Mr. Vance. He’ll protect you. You’re a recent graduate, new to all this. If something goes wrong, Mr. Vance has your back, right?” Penelope was an alumna of Edward’s alma mater. They’d met a year ago when he gave a speech on campus. He’d seen her wandering under the blooming cherry trees, a vision in a white dress, and a spark of protective affection had been lit. Coincidentally, she was also the student representative who later toured the Vance Group headquarters. One thing led to another, and after she graduated, she landed a position at his company. With every word of my “defense,” her expression grew more horrified. Edward was no fool. He flipped through the evidence I’d prepared—the photos, the recording, the text messages. The chain of evidence was so complete it could have been a case study for a law school class. Finally, he looked up at Penelope, his expression so cold it could cause frostbite. “Out.” Just one word. Penelope burst into tears and fled the room. Silence descended. I stood there, awaiting my own verdict. “From now on, you have full authority over this project,” Edward said, pushing the file aside. “I’m increasing the budget by fifty percent. And I don’t want to see any more amateurs involved.” The gears in my head were spinning. Excellent. “Of course, Mr. Vance.” I had achieved my goal and was about to leave when Edward let out a heavy sigh. The powerful tycoon, in that moment, slumped forward, resting his head on his desk and staring blankly at a paperweight. When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly. “Claire, tell me… why is it that everyone seems to have an ulterior motive?” “Am I not worthy of being treated with sincerity?” Here we go again. I cleared my throat, my expression turning serious and thoughtful. “Mr. Vance, you absolutely deserve to be treated with sincerity. You just haven’t met the right person yet. Be patient.” He looked at me, his eyes full of earnest vulnerability. Who would have thought that the decisive, domineering Edward Vance had this childish side? My words, as always, soothed him. I am, after all, a professional. I backed out of the room and gently closed the door. I had bigger fish to fry. With the extra funding and full autonomy, I immediately contacted another young artist—one with genuine talent who had been overlooked by the mainstream art world. I signed him to an exclusive five-year contract for a fraction of his market value. The project was a resounding success, and Edward was thrilled. And I, using the opportunity he had given me, not only secured my first major payday in this city but also acquired a future cash cow for myself. It’s just business. Nothing personal. 3 If Penelope was a bronze-level opponent, then Isabelle was silver. She was smarter, more sophisticated, and wouldn’t stoop to sabotaging minor projects. She aimed higher, setting her sights on the hugely influential charitable foundation run by the Vance family. She had a sharp eye. The foundation was Edward’s grandmother’s passion project. Whoever took it over would earn the matriarch’s approval, which was as good as having one foot inside the Vance family’s front door. Isabelle knew her brand: the beautiful, kind-hearted heiress, a benevolent angel floating above the grubby concerns of the world. She was the rare “saint” of her social circle. With Penelope out of the picture, Isabelle ramped up her philanthropic-themed social media presence. One day, she was painting with children at an orphanage; the next, she was donating to a school in a remote mountain village. Every photo was perfectly curated: her makeup flawless, her smile gentle, surrounded by a crowd of adoring, plainly-dressed children. She was the very picture of grace and compassion. Simultaneously, rumors about me began to circulate. “Did you hear about Edward’s assistant, Claire? She looks so plain, but they say her mind is as deep and dark as the Mariana Trench.” “I know, right? She acts like she doesn’t want anything, but she’s the first one to stab you in the back.” “Poor Isabelle, she’s so kind. I heard Claire publicly humiliated her the other day.” …I chose to interpret it all as high praise. But Isabelle wasn’t finished. At a public event, she orchestrated another piece of performance art. She glided towards me, holding a glass of champagne, and then, just a step away… she “tripped,” spilling the entire glass down the front of her own expensive custom gown. The next second, she reached out and grabbed my arm, her face a mask of alarm. “Claire, are you okay? It’s all my fault, I lost my footing.” Eyes from all around us shot in our direction, the unspoken assumption being that I had tripped her. I almost laughed out loud. Honey, your acting skills are on par with Penelope’s. The two of you could start a professional accident business and make a killing. I had her figured out. I knew that for someone as obsessed with her public image as Isabelle, the best way to defeat her was to let her tear down her own carefully constructed stage, with her own hands. I ignored the gossip and spent my time digging into her social circle. It didn’t take long to find something interesting. She had frequent, substantial financial transactions with a notorious tabloid journalist, a man who made his living blackmailing celebrities. It seemed our benevolent saint was buying a lot of her good press with cold, hard cash. That made things easy. My opportunity came at a grand charity gala hosted by the Vance Group. The theme was “Supporting Children with Rare Diseases.” Isabelle, as the most high-profile philanthropist in attendance, was the guest of honor, radiant and in her element. During the media interviews, she deployed her usual tactic, making a pointed statement to the cameras: “I don’t do charity for recognition. I just wish everyone could be a little more sincere and a little less calculating. Unlike some people, who use charity as a stepping stone to climb higher.” Every camera immediately swiveled to face me. I ignored her bait. Instead, I smiled at the host and posed a question. “Tonight’s theme is incredibly moving. I’ve recently been researching Rett syndrome, a condition that causes developmental regression, loss of speech, and purposeful hand use in children. I was wondering if Ms. Isabelle, as such a dedicated advocate, could share her knowledge and insights on this particular rare disease?” The room fell silent. Rett syndrome? What was that? People exchanged confused glances. The vast majority had never even heard of it. All eyes turned to Isabelle. Surely, the kind and knowledgeable saint would know. The smile on Isabelle’s face froze. Her past “charity work” had always focused on well-known, emotionally resonant causes. A highly specific medical term like this was far outside her wheelhouse. She stammered for a moment before deflecting awkwardly, “Every illness… deserves our attention… and compassion has no measure…” “Well said,” I nodded in agreement, then pivoted. “It reminds me of that actress who was recently exposed for her ‘Photoshop philanthropy’—posing for pictures but not donating a dime. It just goes to show that sincerity is always more important than appearances. I wonder, is the journalist who broke that incredible story here tonight? I would love to hear his professional opinion.” My gaze drifted casually towards a shifty-looking man in the corner. It was, of course, the very same tabloid journalist on Isabelle’s payroll. He clearly hadn’t expected to be dragged into the spotlight. The color drained from his face. To save his own skin and distance himself from her immediately, he practically lunged for a nearby reporter’s microphone. “Ms. Claire is absolutely right!” he shouted. “Our duty as journalists is to expose hypocrisy! Like certain so-called ‘saints’ who pay for positive press releases and use charity to build a public persona, when in reality…” He didn’t need to finish. Every eye in the room was now fixed on the deathly pale Isabelle. The message was clear. That night, Isabelle’s persona completely shattered. The hashtag #PhotoshopPhilanthropist went viral, and she became the laughingstock of the city’s elite. Edward had witnessed the entire spectacle. After the gala, he handed me the official seal and authorization documents for the charitable foundation. “From now on, you’re in charge.” He then passed me his phone. “These are the core board members. Add their contacts. If you need anything, go to them directly.” I glanced at the screen. The list was a who’s who of the financial world. Any single one of them could make Wall Street tremble just by clearing their throat. This was a quantum leap. I hadn’t just taken over a foundation; I had inherited Edward’s most exclusive network. Using these top-tier resources, I ran the foundation with ruthless efficiency, building myself an impeccable public reputation while simultaneously using the insider information they occasionally let slip to make my own lucrative investments. My fortune was growing exponentially. The feeling was intoxicating. 4 If Penelope was bronze and Isabelle was silver, then Scarlett was pure platinum. This red rose, with all her thorns, had no time for petty games. She wasn’t playing for Edward’s affection; she was playing for his empire. Her goal was clear: become Mrs. Vance and merge their dynasties. She set her sights on a key subsidiary of the Vance Group. Using her own capital, she began aggressively buying up shares on the open market, attempting a hostile takeover. The Vance Group was in an uproar. Scarlett even approached me directly, her attitude one of supreme confidence. “Claire, you’re a smart woman,” she said, sliding a cup of coffee across the table towards me. Her red lips curled into a smirk. “With Edward, you’ll always be just an assistant. But if you help me, once I take over, your position will be far greater.” She was trying to recruit me, to use me as a pawn in her game. I could barely contain my glee. Lady, you’re literally serving me your head on a platter. I knew Scarlett was ambitious and overconfident, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. Edward Vance was a master strategist. Going head-to-head with her would be foolish. Using her own momentum against her—that was the key. I put on a display of being flattered but conflicted. “Ms. Scarlett, I… I’m just an assistant. I wouldn’t dare…” “Cut the crap,” she snapped. “What’s Edward’s next move? Tell me his strategy for the subsidiary. What’s his contingency plan?” After a long, calculated hesitation, I “reluctantly” shared a piece of top-secret information. “I overheard… that to fight the takeover, Mr. Vance is planning to mortgage the revenue from another major real estate project to raise capital and stabilize the stock price. But that project has a very slow return rate. Right now, he’s overleveraged. His capital chain is stretched to its absolute limit.” It was, of course, a complete lie. This supposed “weakness” was a custom-made trap, designed based on my understanding of Edward’s methods. That old fox loved to feign weakness before delivering the fatal blow. Scarlett took the bait. A person like her, accustomed to being the aggressor, trusts her own intelligence above all else. She immediately doubled down on her acquisition efforts, hoping to force a quick victory while Edward was “financially vulnerable.” She thought she had him by the throat. In reality, she had just stuck her head in a crocodile’s mouth. Edward seemed to be in an unusually good mood over the next few days. He even took me horseback riding at his country estate. Dressed in sharp riding gear, he sat tall and proud on his stallion, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he controlled the powerful animal. He reined in his horse and looked back at me, a bead of sweat tracing the sharp line of his jaw. My God, he was handsome. No wonder women flocked to him. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, still breathless from the exertion. I urged my horse forward to ride alongside him. “I’m thinking that you don’t seem worried at all about Ms. Scarlett’s power play.” He laughed, a playful glint in his eyes. “Why would I be worried about a mad dog that’s voluntarily locked itself in a cage?” He reached out and gently tilted my chin up with the tip of his riding crop. “It’s you, Claire. You always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking.” I didn’t pull away. I met his gaze and said softly, “Because I care about you, Mr. Vance.” The day the trap was sprung was bright and clear. At the subsidiary’s shareholder meeting, Scarlett confidently presented her stake, ready to seize control. Just as she believed victory was hers, an announcement was made. An obscure offshore fund, acting through a series of shell corporations, had secretly acquired a larger stake than hers and was throwing its full support behind the current management. Scarlett was stunned. The massive amount of capital she had poured into the takeover was now trapped, locked into a failing bid and accumulating devastating interest. She had tried to steal the chicken but ended up losing the rice. At that precise moment, I walked into Edward’s office and handed him a file. “Mr. Vance, here is the background information on that offshore fund, along with evidence of its cross-holdings with another one of our overseas projects.” This wasn’t information I had just found. It was the result of months of meticulous digging, using the access and resources Edward himself had given me. I knew about his counter-move all along. I was just waiting for the perfect moment to present it to him, in my role as the all-knowing sentient flower. Edward looked up from the file, his gaze intense. This time, it held more than just approval. There was a deeper, more probing curiosity. He was likely wondering how I could understand him so completely, perhaps even better than he understood himself. Scarlett’s aggressive ambition had utterly repulsed him. Her dream of becoming Mrs. Vance was officially dead. Her defeat was swift and total. She was forced to liquidate her assets and quietly disappear from the New York social scene. And I… I had reached the zenith of my career. Edward’s trust in me was now absolute. He no longer saw me as just a capable assistant, but as a true partner-in-arms. He handed over control of several of the company’s most profitable and promising divisions. “You handle these,” he said, giving me unprecedented authority. I looked at him, my heart perfectly still. I almost wanted to laugh. Dude, you just handed me the keys to the vault. And since you offered, I won’t be polite. I used this golden opportunity to begin the final phase of my plan. Slowly, meticulously, I started restructuring assets, redirecting profits, and funneling everything into a shell corporation I had long ago established overseas—a corporation that was entirely, and untraceably, mine. The process was like ants moving a mountain, grain by grain. Slow, patient, and invisible. Edward Vance thought I was working to secure his legacy. He had no idea I was building my own. The day I could finally set myself free was getting closer and closer.

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The first time I came home, my adopted sister killed herself. The second time, my brother killed me. He did it in the old family crypt, the air thick with the smell of dust and decay. He was screaming, his face twisted with grief. “Bella would still be here if you hadn’t come back! You took her from me!” His hands were strong, the blade of the hunting knife cold against my throat. I remember the gush of warmth, the sudden, shocking inability to breathe, and the sight of my parents watching from the doorway, their faces blank with a kind of horrible relief. The wrong daughter died, their eyes said. Then, I opened mine. And I was back on a Greyhound bus, the Georgia pines blurring past the window, on my way to meet them for the very first time. 1 The bus hissed to a stop. My foster mom, Sarah, gently shook my arm. “Clara, honey. We’re here. This is Savannah.” My eyes snapped open. I saw the familiar Spanish moss dripping from ancient oaks, the cobblestone square. The Azalea Room. The name on the restaurant awning sent a jolt of ice through my veins. This wasn’t possible. A moment ago, my brother, Preston, had sliced my throat. The pain, the cold spreading through my limbs as I bled out on the stone floor… it was real. I could still feel it. Preston’s voice echoed in my memory, a raw, ragged sound. “Why did you have to come back? After all these years, why couldn’t you just stay lost?” he’d sobbed over my body. “You killed her! It’s your fault Bella is dead! Give me back my Bella!” At Bella’s funeral, my own parents had turned on me, their voices dripping with venom. “It should have been you. If you had never been found, our sweet girl would still be with us.” The irony was suffocating. They were the ones who hired the private investigator. They were the ones who wanted this reunion. Bella was the daughter they chose. I was the one they lost. Kidnapped from a crowded festival when I was five. They mourned, they felt guilty, and then they moved on. It was Preston’s idea. “Mom, Dad,” he’d said, “Clara’s gone. Let’s go to the children’s home. We can find another little girl.” So they went to St. Jude’s Home for Children and adopted an orphan who looked a little like me. They named her Isabella—Bella. They showered her with the love, the apologies, and the future that should have been mine. I, meanwhile, was passed from one hell to another until I finally escaped and ended up on the streets. That’s where Sarah found me. A young widow with a son, Leo, just a year younger than me. She didn’t have much, but she took me in. Life with her wasn’t fancy, but I was never cold, never hungry. I was loved. An art teacher in our small town saw I had a knack for drawing and took me on for free. In return, I cleaned his studio. My whole life, I documented in a sketchbook—the dark moments, the small joys. It was my way of holding onto myself. When I was nineteen, my birth parents, Richard and Eleanor Beaumont, finally found me. They arranged this reunion lunch. Here. At The Azalea Room. The memory of the knife was so sharp it made me gasp. Sarah and I stepped off the bus. The air was thick with humidity and the sweet scent of magnolias. The Beaumonts were one of Savannah’s oldest families, their money stretching back generations. The restaurant was closed for their private event. A snooty waiter took one look at our simple clothes and tried to turn us away. The manager, a man with more sense, rushed over. “I’m sorry, we’re closed for a private party for the Beaumont family.” I stepped in front of Sarah. “We’re here for that party. Richard Beaumont is expecting us.” The manager’s eyes widened as he studied my face. “My God,” he whispered. “You have Mrs. Beaumont’s eyes. You must be… the lost daughter?” I just nodded. “Can we go in now?” “Of course! Right this way, Miss Beaumont!” He led us personally. As we walked up the grand, curving staircase, I turned to Sarah. “Mom, did you bring my sketchbook?” “Right here, honey.” She handed me the worn leather-bound book. “Safe and sound.” I opened it. Page after page of my life, drawn in stark charcoal and pencil. Bella had her own collection, I remembered. Not drawings, but professional photographs. A gallery wall in the Beaumont mansion filled with glossy 8x10s of her birthday parties, family vacations, a perfect life, perfectly captured. It was a Southern tradition, documenting life’s big moments. My sketchbook was the version no one wanted to see. Last time, on this day, Bella had fled the lunch in tears. She’d gone home, locked her door, and swallowed a bottle of pills. When my parents brought me to their mansion, full of forced cheer, their housekeeper ran out, wailing, “It’s Miss Bella! She’s taken pills! She’s not breathing!” They’d screamed for the best doctor in Savannah. “Whatever it costs! Just save our little girl!” But it was too late. Next to her body was a note and that stack of glossy photos. “Mom, Dad, Preston… thank you for giving me a beautiful life. But now the real daughter is back, and it’s time for me to give it all back to her. If there’s a next life, I hope I can be your real daughter…” They had wept, holding those pictures of their perfect family. Preston flew home from college and sat with her body all night, his voice a broken whisper. “I’m here now, Bella. I’m here. Why’d you do it? You should have told me. I would have protected you. I’ll make it right, Bella. I swear, I’ll get revenge for you. Just you wait.” They all blamed me. My return was her death sentence. And so, it became mine, too. I shook off the memory and squeezed Sarah’s hand as we reached the top of the stairs. The manager knocked on the private dining room door. It swung open, and there she was. Eleanor Beaumont. Tears welled in her eyes. “My child! My Clara!” She rushed forward to embrace me. I took a small step to the side. She stumbled, catching herself on the doorframe, a look of confusion on her face. “Clara, it’s me,” she said, her voice trembling. “It’s your mother.” Richard Beaumont stood behind her, his face a mask of guilt. “Clara, you’ve suffered so much. We’re here now. We’ll make everything up to you. Come home.” I looked past them, to the girl standing in the corner, dressed in a silk dress that cost more than our monthly rent. Bella. Her face was a perfect portrait of scorn. I brought my gaze back to the Beaumonts. “I didn’t come here to go home with you. I came to tell you I’m staying with my family. The Fosters.” The shock on their faces was almost satisfying. Even Bella looked surprised. Sarah, bless her heart, was horrified. “Clara, no! Your real parents can give you a better life!” I squeezed her arm. “Mom, I’d rather be poor in a home full of love than rich in a house full of ghosts. You raised me. You loved me. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.” Tears filled Sarah’s eyes, this time from pride. Eleanor looked from Sarah to me, a flash of envy in her eyes. “Clara, we will, of course, reward your foster mother handsomely.” Richard signaled to an assistant, who brought forward a heavy briefcase. “Mrs. Foster, please accept this as a small token of our gratitude.” Sarah waved her hands frantically. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. Taking Clara in was the best thing that ever happened to me. She’s a wonderful daughter. I don’t need any money.” My heart swelled. I took my sketchbook and pushed it into Eleanor’s hands. “You gave birth to me, but you didn’t raise me. You missed everything. But I know parents feel what they feel. So here. This is my life. Now you have something to remember me by.” With that, I took Sarah’s arm and walked away. On the bus ride home, Sarah tried to reason with me, afraid I was making a mistake I’d regret. But my mind was made up. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and I was going back to the Beaumonts. But on my terms. Not now. “Mom,” I said, changing the subject. “I got paid for that last commission from Sterling & Co. When we get home, let’s go to the bookstore. Leo’s studying for the bar exam, he could use some new review books.” Sarah sighed. “Clara, honey, you do too much for us. His shelves are already overflowing! You need to save your money for yourself.” She hesitated. “The Beaumonts…” “Mom. Don’t,” I said, my voice firm. “Their money, their world… it’s not a safe place to be.” She nodded. “You’re stubborn, but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I trust you.” Back in Savannah, Eleanor opened the sketchbook. She saw the drawing of a little girl with bruises on her back. A teenager working in a field. A young woman huddled in a doorway. The raw, brutal honesty of my life hit her like a physical blow. “My Clara,” she sobbed. “What have they done to you?” Richard was speechless with rage and regret. Bella snatched the book away. “It’s fake! She drew them to make you feel sorry for her!” The assistant, a man who happened to be an amateur artist, stepped forward. “Ma’am, with respect… the technique, the emotion… no one could fake this. These are drawn from memory. From life.” Bella shot him a venomous look. “What did she pay you to say that?” He just shook his head. “The Fosters are dirt poor, Miss Bella. How could they afford a bribe?” Richard’s face crumpled. He remembered. The festival. Preston, a spoiled seven-year-old, had thrown a tantrum, demanding they ride the Ferris wheel with him. They’d left me, just five years old, by the cotton candy stand, telling the vendor to watch me for a minute. When they came back, I was gone. They saw the man carrying me away, but in the chaos of the crowd, they lost us. They’d spent years blaming Preston, punishing him for his selfishness. And they’d poured all their guilt and misplaced love onto Bella. Now, as they flipped through the pages of my stolen childhood, they wept. “We’re so sorry, Clara… you suffered so much…” Bella couldn’t stand it. She ripped the sketchbook from their hands. “Stop it! She doesn’t even want you! Why are you looking at this garbage?” With a furious scream, she tore the pages to shreds. Eleanor, her face still wet with tears, watched the pieces of my life flutter to the floor. The rage that erupted in her was something I’d never seen. She slapped Bella, hard, across the face. “What have you done?” she shrieked. “That was all we had left of her!” Bella had never been disciplined in her life. The slap stunned her into silence, then into a furious, hateful glare directed at the ghost of me. “You hit me? For her?” she sobbed, then turned and ran from the room. Richard sighed, rubbing his temples. “Eleanor, was that necessary?” The anger drained out of her, replaced by regret. “I don’t know. Maybe when Preston gets home, he can take her shopping. Buy her some jewelry.” Richard nodded. “Good idea. I’ll tell him when he gets back from his trip.” 2 A few days later, a luxury car pulled up to our small house. The Beaumonts, bearing expensive gifts. My art had started to sell under a pseudonym, and my jewelry designs were gaining notice. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t destitute anymore, either. I’d fixed up our house. It was clean and cozy, but to their eyes, it was a hovel. “It’s so… small,” Eleanor murmured, wiping away a tear. “And the humidity… Clara, you can’t live like this.” Sarah looked mortified. “If it’s so awful, Mrs. Beaumont, you’re free to leave,” I said coolly. Eleanor looked wounded. Sarah shot me a warning look. “Your mother is just worried about you,” Richard said, trying to smooth things over. “She hasn’t been able to eat or sleep, just thinking about how to get you to come home.” I forced a smile. “I’m happy here.” They didn’t believe me. “What is it you do, exactly?” Richard asked. “I design jewelry,” I said. Eleanor’s eyes lit up. “Jewelry? But… that’s our business! Beaumont Jewels! Clara, you must come work for us.” “Yes!” Richard jumped in. “Come to Beaumont’s. I’ll pay you double whatever Sterling & Co. is giving you!” Money I wasn’t earning wasn’t worth turning down. And this was the perfect way in. I pulled out my contract with Sterling. “They pay me per design, a buyout price. If you’re willing to double this, I’ll consider it.” Richard glanced at the figure and his jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Done.” “Alright,” I said. “I’ll be there tomorrow.” They left, beaming. A moment later, Leo came home from his study group. When Sarah told him the news, his face darkened. “It’s a trap, Clara. First the job, then they’ll pressure you to move in. I don’t want you to go back there.” He looked at me, his expression stormy. “If you go back, I’m… I’m not speaking to you again!” He looked so earnest and upset, like a little boy. I reached out and pinched his cheek, just like I did when we were kids. “Don’t be mad. You’ll get wrinkles and no girl will want to marry a grumpy old man.” Leo froze, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He batted my hand away. “Hmph. If I can’t get a wife, it’ll be your fault for pinching my face.” “What’s the big deal?” I laughed. “It’s a huge deal!” he muttered, leaning in and whispering something in my ear so quietly I couldn’t make it out. Then he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving me completely baffled. The next day at Beaumont Jewels, Bella was waiting for me, flanked by a furious-looking Preston, just back from his trip. He didn’t even need an introduction. He put a protective arm around Bella and glared at me. “Don’t think because you’re blood you can push Bella around. I only have one sister, and it’s her. Get out of here while you still can, or I’ll make you regret it.” The memory of his knife, the chilling feeling of my life bleeding away, washed over me. Richard walked in just in time to hear Preston’s threat. “What did you just say?” he roared. “That is your sister! How dare you speak to her that way!” “Dad, Preston was just worried about me,” Bella cooed, clinging to Richard’s arm. Preston scowled and stormed out, dragging Bella with him. Later, I learned Richard took me through the history of the company. “Right now,” he said, “Sterling & Co. is our only real competition in Savannah.” I spent the day studying their designs, talking to the staff, even interviewing customers. That evening, I laid out a plan for him. “Give me two years,” I said, “and Sterling & Co. will be a footnote.” He was so impressed, he insisted I come to a family dinner that night. To further my plan, I agreed. At dinner, they brought up the subject of my marriage. “We owe you so much, Clara,” Eleanor said. “The least we can do is find you a suitable husband.” “I have no intention of getting married,” I said flatly. They ignored me. “Wyatt Sterling,” Eleanor mused. “Heir to Sterling & Co. He’s handsome, well-educated. A marriage there would be a fine match for you.” My head spun. They wanted me to marry the son of their biggest rival? Richard nodded. “Your mother is right. If that merger… I mean, marriage… were to happen…” Bella slammed her fork down. “Mother! You said you were going to arrange a meeting for me with Wyatt!” “We did, dear,” Eleanor said gently. “But his mother… she said Wyatt didn’t seem interested.” “What does she know? She’s just his stepmother!” Bella snapped. “Wyatt and I are perfect for each other. He’s taking me to a concert tomorrow!” Eleanor backed down immediately. “Well, alright then. We’ll stick to the original plan.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry, Clara. We’ll find someone else for you.” “Don’t bother,” I said, standing up. “I’m finished.” As I left, Preston got up and followed me out. A moment later, Bella excused herself to “check on her brother.” I was halfway down the block when I realized I’d left the book I’d bought for Leo at the restaurant. As I hurried back, I saw Preston and Bella arguing in a shadowed alleyway. I ducked behind a corner and listened. “Bella, that guy is a shallow playboy. He’s not good enough for you!” Preston hissed. “Oh yeah? And who is? You?” Bella laughed, a bitter sound. “You have a fiancée, Preston! You’re getting married at Christmas!” “That was an arrangement! It means nothing!” he shot back. “You are not marrying Wyatt Sterling! I won’t allow it!” “My marriage is my parents’ business, not yours!” That’s when Preston snapped. He slammed her against the wall and kissed her, a desperate, hungry kiss. I shook my head. Gross. I’m going to need to wash my eyes out. Suddenly, a hand clamped over my mouth and pulled me back into the shadows. I started to struggle, but a familiar voice whispered in my ear. “Shh! It’s me.” Leo. When we were a safe distance away, I spun on him. “Leo? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be studying?” “Shouldn’t you be just designing?” he retorted, his eyes flashing. “What happened to not going to ‘family dinners’?” He looked hurt. “Liar.” “It’s complicated,” I hedged. He snorted. “And what was that? Spying on people making out?” “I was not spying! I was… passing by!” He didn’t look convinced. “Well, your brother is a real piece of work. And that adopted sister of yours is even worse.” “You’re not wrong,” I sighed. “Let’s just go home.” In the weeks that followed, I produced hit after hit for Beaumont Jewels. Richard was thrilled. He saw me as his golden goose. His plan to acquire Sterling & Co. through marriage was still his primary goal. He and Eleanor were so blinded by greed, they couldn’t see the obvious. Why would the Sterlings agree to give up their flagship company as a dowry gift without asking for Beaumont Jewels in return? It made no sense. But they pushed Bella and Wyatt together, oblivious to the trap being laid. 3 Bella and Wyatt’s “courtship” moved quickly. To rub it in my face, she brought him to the showroom one afternoon. “You see, Clara?” she whispered triumphantly. “You’ll never win. Mom and Dad are mine. Preston is mine. And Wyatt will be mine, too.” “Congratulations,” I said, not looking up from my sketchpad. “You can have them all.” As Wyatt walked through the door, Bella suddenly stumbled backward and collapsed onto the floor, her eyes filling with tears. “Sister, why would you push me?” she cried. “I told you I don’t want to fight with you!” I felt my fists clench. Wyatt rushed over and helped her up. I braced myself for his accusation, but instead, he looked at Bella with a cool, appraising eye. “You’re pretty good at that,” he said calmly. “But my stepmother has been pulling that same trick for years. You’ll have to try harder.” Bella stared at him, speechless, her face turning red with humiliation. Wyatt turned to me and smiled. “You must be ‘Aria’,” he said, using my pseudonym. “I’ve admired your work for a long time. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the artist.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost lunch. Would you care to join me at The Azalea Room?” I politely declined. But later, as I was grabbing a quick bowl of soup at a small diner, Wyatt and Bella walked in. “Aria! What a coincidence!” Wyatt said, sliding into the booth across from me. “I’ll have what she’s having.” Bella, ignored, finally exploded. “Clara, you shameless hussy! Wyatt is my fiancé! How dare you try to seduce him!” I put down my spoon. “Did anyone else hear a dog bark?” “Enough!” Wyatt snapped, frowning at Bella. “Are you blind? She was here first. I followed her. And since when are we engaged? We’ve gone out a few times. I’ve paid for everything. Don’t go making up stories.” He looked at me. “Aria, for the record, Miss Beaumont and I are barely acquaintances.” I didn’t care. It was obvious why he was interested in me. The day after the disastrous reunion, the Beaumonts had planted a story in the local paper about their long-lost daughter returning. Everyone in Savannah knew who I was. I had the Beaumont name, plus a talent Bella could only dream of. For the heir of Sterling & Co., I was the far more valuable asset. Bella’s face was crimson. “Barely acquaintances? Is that what you call what we did last night?” she shrieked. I blinked. Was she really airing their dirty laundry in public? Even if it worked and shamed him into marrying her, he’d resent her forever. She was sacrificing her reputation for a man who clearly didn’t respect her. “Fine, Wyatt. Just fine!” she sobbed, then shot me a look of pure hatred. The waiter brought Wyatt’s soup, steam rising from the bowl. In one swift motion, Bella grabbed it and threw it at my face. I dodged. The hot liquid splashed all over Wyatt’s arm and expensive shirt. “You crazy bitch!” he yelled at her. I calmly paid my bill, asked the waiter for another bowl of soup, walked over to the still-fuming Bella, and poured it directly over her head. She was so stunned, she didn’t even move. “Bella,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “I always pay my debts. You come after me again, and I promise you, it won’t be soup next time.” Then I walked out. That afternoon, she showed up at the studio, Preston in tow. “Preston, she poured soup on me! In front of everyone! You have to make her pay!” Preston’s face was thunderous. “Clara! Get over here and apologize to Bella!” He turned to his sister, his voice softening. “You go get a pot of hot tea, Bella. You can do the same thing to her. I’m right here. No one will touch you.” “Are you insane?” I said. “She threw it at me first! She should be apologizing to me!” “I don’t care! You must have provoked her,” he snarled, his hand resting on the hilt of the ornamental dagger he sometimes wore on his belt. “I’m not going to say it again. Get on your knees and apologize.” “I could say it a hundred times, and my answer would still be no.” I took a deep breath, playing my part. “I don’t understand, Preston. I’m your real sister. Why do you hate me so much?” “My sister?” he sneered. “You’re not worthy.” “It was because of you that I was kidnapped,” I said, letting my voice tremble. “I thought when I came back, you’d be sorry. That you’d ask for my forgiveness.” His face contorted with rage. “Sorry? I have nothing to be sorry for! Do you know how many times Mom and Dad beat me over that? How many years they blamed me?” He laughed, a chilling sound. “Honestly, Clara, I wish you had died out there. I wish you’d ended up one of those crippled beggars on the street!” “You’re a monster,” I whispered, letting tears well in my eyes. He grabbed my arm and threw me to the floor. “You wanted to come back so badly? Fine. I’ll make sure every day of your life here is a living hell.” As he loomed over me, I kept my eyes on his twisted face, but in my peripheral vision, I saw what I was waiting for: the corner of a tailored suit jacket, just outside the doorway. Bella came rushing in with a steaming teapot, a triumphant smirk on her face. “This is boiling hot, Clara. Say goodbye to that pretty face. You deserve this!” “STOP!” Richard Beaumont’s roar echoed through the studio. Startled, Bella dropped the teapot. It shattered on the floor, splashing boiling water all over her feet. She screamed in agony. Preston rushed to her side, but Richard grabbed him and slapped him so hard he stumbled. “You monster! How could you treat your sister this way?” “Dad, it’s not what it looks like!” Preston stammered. “We were just… inviting her to dinner!” “Liar!” Richard was shaking with fury. “I heard everything! You resented us all these years! You wished your own sister dead!” Preston’s face went pale. “You were outside? You heard…?” He whirled on me. “You! You set me up! You knew he was coming!” I shook my head, looking innocent. “I report to Mr. Beaumont at this time every day. I’m not a mind reader. How could I possibly know he’d come looking for me?” Richard nodded, buying it completely. “Don’t you dare try to blame her!” he bellowed, slapping Preston again. “I have no son! Get out of my sight! Get out!” As Preston carried the shrieking Bella out of the studio, he shot me a look over his shoulder. A look that promised murder. I knew then, with absolute certainty, he was a madman. But this time, I would be ready. This time, he would be the one who wouldn’t walk away.

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My husband’s mistress was dead. Raped and murdered. That same afternoon, my husband and I were taken to the police station. I honestly didn’t know he was having an affair. If it weren’t for this murder case, I might have stayed in the dark forever. To eliminate suspects, the police fingerprinted both of us and questioned our whereabouts during the time of death. The victim was Melissa Bradley, 28, an office worker. She was killed around 11 PM on the night of July 30th, 2019. Cause of death: her carotid artery was severed by a sharp object, leading to fatal blood loss. That meant today was the third day since her death. 1 Only three days had passed, so the timeline was still fresh in my mind. I clearly remembered my husband was with me the entire night, sleeping soundly beside me. Naturally, I told the police the truth. My husband and I were questioned in separate rooms. I was interviewed by a man and a woman. The man, Detective Miller, was about thirty and the deputy head of the Homicide Division. The woman, Detective Evans, was in her late twenties and strikingly beautiful. They probably saw the red rims of my eyes—a pregnant woman who had just discovered her husband’s infidelity—and worried I was on the verge of a breakdown. Their questions were gentle. Detective Evans, in particular, looked at me with kind eyes. “Mrs. Reed,” she began softly, “I need you to think very carefully. Are you absolutely certain your husband never left the house on the night of the murder? Is it possible he snuck out while you were asleep?” Her question caught me off guard. I considered it for a moment. “Detective, ever since I got pregnant, I’ve been sleeping very heavily. I go to bed early every night. All I can say for sure is that my husband was there when I fell asleep, and he was there when I woke up.” The two detectives exchanged a look. Curiosity got the better of me. “Detective, in a rape case, can’t you collect DNA from the victim’s body? If you suspect my husband, you could just run a test.” Even as I said it, I was thinking, they were already having an affair. Why would he need to rape her? The killer can’t be my husband. Detective Evans shook her head. “The killer was clever. No viable evidence was left behind. It’s making the investigation… complicated.” “Oh,” was all I could say. She then asked how far along I was. I told her a little over four months. She smiled and glanced at my stomach. “You’re showing quite a bit. It could be twins.” She then offered some comforting words, reminding me that pregnant women are prone to emotional swings and that I should try not to dwell on things, to just go home and take care of myself. I was genuinely touched by her kindness. After a bit more small talk, I was allowed to leave. I thought my husband would be coming home with me, but Detective Miller informed me that they needed him for further cooperation. He couldn’t leave just yet. With no other choice, I went home alone. When I got back to our apartment complex, I learned from a neighbor that several officers had been there. They had reviewed the building’s security footage and asked our neighbors if they’d heard our door open or close between 9 PM and midnight on July 30th. When I asked what she’d told them, my neighbor said she hadn’t heard a thing and had reported as much. Her words were a great relief. I assumed my husband would be spending the night at the station. He didn’t answer his phone when I called. But to my surprise, just after I’d had dinner and gone to bed, he came home. He was as cold and distant as ever. I started to get up to heat up some food for him, but he stopped me. “Honey,” I asked, “I called you earlier. Why didn’t you pick up?” “The police took my phone,” he said flatly. “They need to copy my chat logs and call records.” The thought of all the sweet nothings he’d whispered to that woman on his phone made my stomach turn. But then I thought of the baby in my belly and forced it down. The woman was dead. What was the point of fighting over it now? But I was wrong. Just because I was willing to let it go didn’t mean others were. I had just drifted off to sleep when a violent, suffocating pressure on my throat jolted me awake. My eyes flew open to see my husband, his face contorted with madness, strangling me with all his might. He was trying to kill me. 2 I struggled wildly, pushing at his unyielding arms as I choked out the words. “Na… Nathan… I’m… I’m pregnant with your child… Are you… really going to kill us both?” At the last second, my words broke through his rage. He slowly released his grip, but his hands shot to my shoulders, pinning me to the bed. His eyes were bloodshot, blazing with fury. “Laura,” he roared, his voice a raw wound, “tell me the truth! Did you have Melissa killed?” His violent outburst terrified me. I shook my head frantically, stammering, “Nathan, you’re… you’re wrong. I would never do something like that.” “Hmph. Is that so?” he sneered. “You’d better hope I don’t find out it was you. Because if I do, I’ll kill you with my own two hands.” With one last venomous glare, my husband got out of bed and left the room. He didn’t come back that night. I tossed and turned, his furious face burned into my mind. I didn’t fall into a fitful sleep until the sky began to lighten. I was woken again, this time by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. After listening for a moment and realizing no one was going to answer it, I dragged myself out of bed and headed downstairs. But as I descended the staircase, the scene in the living room made me scream. My husband. Nathan. He was slumped motionless on the sofa. And on the floor at his feet was a vast, dark pool of blood. He had cut his wrists. A bloody scalpel lay discarded on the coffee table. The horrifying image sent another scream tearing from my throat. I couldn’t look again. It was too gruesome. My body went limp, and I collapsed onto the floor, shaking uncontrollably. The doorbell kept ringing, growing more urgent after my screams. I wanted to answer it, but I had no strength left. All I could do was sit there on the cold floor and sob. I don’t know how much time passed before the door was forced open. Detective Evans and Detective Miller rushed in, followed by two uniformed officers. They all froze at the sight of my husband. Miller immediately called for the medical examiner, while Evans rushed to my side, helping me to my feet. The ME arrived quickly. The preliminary finding was suicide, with the time of death estimated around 2 AM. It hadn’t been a peaceful end. His face was twisted in a grimace, as if he’d witnessed something terrible in his final moments. Detective Miller told me that my husband was Melissa Bradley’s killer. I couldn’t believe it, but he said the evidence was conclusive. They had pulled the security footage from both our building and Melissa’s. Though Nathan had managed to avoid the blind spots in our building, he wasn’t as familiar with Melissa’s complex. A camera had captured a clear shot of him there at 10 PM on the night of the murder. It seemed impossible. Miller went on to explain that they’d found text messages on Nathan’s phone where he and Melissa had arranged to meet. Their initial theory was that he’d killed himself out of guilt and fear of being caught. The news was a physical blow. I sank to the floor, my body shaking like a leaf in a storm. They took my husband’s body away for a full autopsy. Our home was now a crime scene, the entire living room cordoned off with yellow tape. That dark stain on the rug made my stomach churn every time I looked at it. After taking my statement, Detective Evans was deeply sympathetic. She put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Laura,” she asked in a low voice, “I see bruises on your neck. Did Nathan abuse you?” Her question reminded me of the previous night’s attack. I wiped my tears and whispered, “I confronted him about the affair last night. He… he got angry and lost control.” Detective Evans listened, her expression thoughtful. After a moment, she said, “The neck is a vital area. He was trying to kill you. Why didn’t you call the police?” 3 Her words startled me. I took a deep breath, my hand instinctively going to my throat. “Detective, he was my husband. The father of my child.” Seeing my response, she dropped the subject. As they prepared to leave, she suggested I stay at a nearby hotel if I was afraid to be in the house alone. She gave me her card and told me to call if I needed anything. I nodded and watched them go. I grew up in the countryside, and my parents were still there, miles away. Nathan’s parents lived out of state. We had both found jobs here after college and bought our house together. It was a big house, over two thousand square feet. Now, it was just me. The thought was so overwhelming that I could barely breathe. I went upstairs, packed a small bag, and checked into a nearby hotel. After a small meal, I took out the bank cards I’d found in Nathan’s wallet. I called the automated banking service for each one. To my shock, I discovered he had over half a million dollars in savings. I never knew his PINs. But recently, I had intentionally asked him to take me shopping for baby supplies. Each time he paid, I discreetly watched him enter his code. I gambled that, like most people, he used the same PIN for everything to avoid forgetting it. I was right. I got it on the first try. Since becoming pregnant, I’d suffered from severe morning sickness and had to quit my job as a makeup artist at a photo studio. Nathan had always been guarded about his finances, giving me a meager five hundred dollars a month for living expenses. It was a constant source of resentment for me. I put the cards away, feeling drained and exhausted. I lay down on the bed and fell asleep almost instantly, only to be plunged into a nightmare. I dreamt I was paralyzed in bed, unable to move, while Melissa Bradley and my husband, Nathan, stood over me, their faces twisted into sinister grins. Together, they reached out and wrapped their icy hands around my neck. I woke with a start, my heart pounding. It was just a dream. My throat was parched. As I reached for a glass of water, my phone, lying on the nightstand, buzzed. It was Detective Evans. A cold knot formed in my stomach. I took a deep breath before answering. She asked which hotel I was staying at, saying she had a few more questions. I gave her the name. About thirty minutes later, she arrived, this time alone. I let her into the room. She smiled politely. “Ms. Reed, your husband’s death appears to be a suicide, but the autopsy revealed a significant amount of estazolam in his system. Quite a high dose, in fact. Did he suffer from any related medical conditions?” “Estazolam?” I repeated, racking my brain. “Oh, the sleeping medication. Yes, my husband had insomnia. He’d take a couple of pills when he couldn’t sleep.” “Is that so? Because the amount found in his system was equivalent to at least five pills, not two. How do you explain that?” At her words, I smiled. 4 It was a smile uglier than tears. With a sigh, I said, “Detective, put yourself in his shoes for a moment. Your mistress is suddenly dead, murdered in such a brutal way. Could you sleep soundly? If you already had insomnia, wouldn’t you take a higher dose just to escape the torment?” My explanation left her speechless. After a moment, she looked at me with a strange, searching expression. “Ms. Reed, I expected you to be distraught and overwhelmed by your husband’s death. I did not expect your first priority to be checking his bank account balances.” Her words hit me like a slap. She continued, “Our background check shows that your husband’s parents are still alive. Now that their only son is dead, don’t you think you should inform them?” “His parents are elderly. I haven’t figured out how to break the news yet. And I’m pregnant. I’ll need money to raise this child. I have to plan for the future. Detective, you police certainly involve yourselves in a lot of things.” My tone was sharp and unapologetic. Detective Evans seemed taken aback by the steel in my voice, so contrary to my fragile appearance. She gave an awkward laugh and apologized. Before she left, she casually mentioned something else. A security camera on the building across from our house had been malfunctioning. Due to a wiring issue, the camera had, at some point, shifted its angle and was now aimed directly at our living room window, capturing a partial view of the inside. She gave me another one of those meaningful smiles and left. Her words kept me awake all night. Sure enough, the next day, Detective Evans called again. She asked me to come down to the station, saying there was a new development in my husband’s case. My heart pounding with anxiety, I went. They led me straight to an interrogation room. Once again, it was Detective Evans and Detective Miller. I sat in silence, waiting for them to speak first. Detective Miller played a video on the large screen behind him. It showed a woman in a traditional silk qipao. The image was blurry, but her face was visible. Her long, dark hair was a tangled mess, framing her face in a way that was genuinely terrifying. She looked like a ghost. In the video, she slowly descended a staircase, walked to a window, and pulled the curtains shut. Then, the screen went black. I watched, confused. Although the footage was grainy, I recognized the living room. It was ours. “Detectives,” I asked, bewildered, “who is that woman? What is she doing in my house?” They exchanged a smile. “Ms. Reed,” Evans said, “on the night your husband died, you were the only other person in the house. Are you telling us that woman isn’t you?” “But that’s not me,” I said, my voice rising in anger. “It might not look like you at first,” Miller chimed in. “But with some white makeup and a deliberately ghoulish look, it’s not impossible.” “I’m pregnant. The person in that video is not pregnant.” My statement made them look at each other, unable to argue. Seeing this, Evans said decisively, “The woman in the video does bear a striking resemblance to the deceased, Melissa Bradley. But we don’t believe in ghosts. Laura, would you mind letting me see your stomach?” Her request made me laugh, a bitter, angry sound. “So now you think I’m faking my pregnancy?”

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My parents have a contract, not a marriage. My older brother, Ethan, has my dad’s last name: Miller. My older sister, Olivia, has my mom’s maiden name: Baker. They each only ever looked out for the child who carried their family name. And they never dared to be too kind to me, Chloe, the third kid, the accident. They flipped a coin to decide my last name. And they’d always tell me, “Ethan and Olivia were supposed to have everything. If we give them even a little bit less, it feels like they’ve lost something.” So, when Ethan bombed his SATs, my dad cancelled my tutoring classes to pay for his. When Olivia got called “chunky” by some kid at school, my mom cut my weekly allowance to buy her a new wardrobe. They expressed their devotion to their chosen heir by chipping away at me. But twenty-six years later, Olivia was diagnosed with infertility. Ethan found out he was sterile. Of the three of us, I was the only one who could have children. The day my baby was born, my parents scrambled over each other to get to the hospital. Knowing exactly what they wanted, I held my child close and whispered, just loud enough for them to hear. “Hey, little one. Whoever buys you the bigger house and the nicer car, that’s whose last name you’ll get. How does that sound?” 1 My brother is Ethan Miller. My sister is Olivia Baker. My name is Chloe Miller. But I wasn’t born a Miller in the way my brother was. And I certainly had nothing to do with the Bakers. My last name was the result of a fifty-fifty chance, decided by the flip of a quarter in a sterile hospital hallway. Decades ago, my parents were pioneers of a sort in our small suburban town. They had what they called a “dual-headed marriage.” No dowry, no grand wedding paid for by one side. Everything was split 50/50. Before they even said “I do,” they signed a prenup that would make a corporate lawyer blush. Two kids, it stipulated. One for the Miller legacy, one for the Baker bloodline. Each would inherit from their respective side. No crossover. They saw themselves as a model for modern marriage: fair, independent. Ethan and Olivia were the products of this “fair” agreement. I was the variable they hadn’t planned for. The weight that tipped their perfectly balanced, selfish scales. My arrival was like a rock thrown into a still pond, shattering the fragile “fairness” they had built. The day I was born, there was no joy. Outside the delivery room, my parents argued, their voices sharp and angry, about who would get stuck with me. “Dammit, Sarah,” my dad hissed. “We agreed, one each! Don’t you dare try to palm this extra expense off on me!” “I’m already raising Ethan! Do you have any idea how much it costs to raise a boy? College funds, helping with a car, a down payment on a house one day? I can’t afford a second one. Besides, I promised him he’d be my sole heir!” My mom’s voice was just as fierce. “Don’t you pin this on me, Tom! Why should I take on another kid? I have Olivia! That’s all I wanted. I’m not going to let her feel like her mother’s love is being split in half!” They weren’t fighting for custody of me. They were fighting to get rid of me. In the end, it was my grandma, my mom’s mom, who came up with the solution. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop it, both of you! Just flip a coin. Let fate decide.” And so, on a cold vinyl bench in the hospital corridor, in front of God and everyone, my parents held the most important lottery of my life. My dad pulled a quarter from his pocket. “Heads, she’s a Miller,” he said, his jaw tight. “Tails, a Baker,” my mom shot back, her arms crossed, face a mask of anxiety and disgust. She stared at that quarter like it was a loaded gun. “You call it,” she snapped at my dad. “You’re the man.” My dad’s face was pale. He flicked the coin high into the air. The small silver disc seemed to hang there for an eternity, catching the fluorescent light. He caught it, slapped it onto the back of his hand, and held it there, his knuckles white. He was terrified of seeing a president’s head. Terrified that I would take a slice of the pie that belonged entirely to Ethan. Terrified that he was about to lose this long, transactional game he called a marriage. Finally, he lifted his hand. Heads. A long, slow sigh of relief escaped my mother’s lips. Her face broke into a smile that was pure, undisguised triumph. She patted my dad’s shoulder, her voice light and cruel. “Congratulations, Tom. You’ve got another heir for the Miller dynasty. She’s all yours now. Nothing to do with me, or my Olivia.” My father’s face turned to stone. He stared at George Washington’s profile, then his icy gaze slowly drifted toward the nursery window, toward me. There was no fatherly love in that look. Only the bottomless resentment of a gambler who had just lost a major hand. I wasn’t his daughter. I was a bad bet. A debt he was now forced to carry. 2 I never had a real Thanksgiving dinner. Because of their arrangement, my parents always went their separate ways for the holidays. Dad would take Ethan to the Miller family gathering across town, a loud affair full of football and beer. Mom would take Olivia to the Baker family home in the next county, a quieter gathering with fine china and polite conversation. And I was always the one left behind in the empty, silent house. “Chloe, be a good girl. We’ll bring you back a plate,” Mom would say dismissively, grabbing Olivia’s hand and walking out the door without a backward glance. Dad was even more direct. He wouldn’t even speak to me, just give me a cold look before leading Ethan out to the car. I’d sit by the window, watching the warm lights flick on in the neighbors’ houses, listening to the distant sounds of laughter and the Macy’s parade on TV. My stomach would grumble. The canned laughter from the TV sitcoms felt like it was mocking my loneliness. When they returned, it was always late at night. What they brought back were the scraps, the leftovers from the leftovers. The dry end pieces of the turkey, the gelatinous cranberry sauce nobody wanted, a spoonful of cold, soggy stuffing. “Chloe, come and eat!” Mom would call out, her voice devoid of any real warmth. I’d walk to the table and look at the sad, congealed food. A familiar ache would rise in my chest. “Mom, why can’t I ever go with you to Thanksgiving?” I finally asked one year, when I was seven. Her hand paused. She looked at me, her face blank. “Because your last name is Miller. You’re not a Baker. The Baker’s Thanksgiving is for family.” “Can I go with Dad to the Miller’s house, then?” I asked, turning to him with a flicker of hope. He didn’t even look up from the newspaper. “We don’t need another one. Ethan is enough.” In that moment, I understood. It didn’t matter what my last name was. In this house, I was always going to be the extra one. I thought if I could just endure it, things would get better when I grew up. I thought if I worked hard enough, was smart enough, they’d eventually see my worth. I studied relentlessly, always getting better grades than Ethan and Olivia. I did all the chores—dishes, laundry, vacuuming—without being asked. I walked on eggshells, desperate to please them. But in my junior year of high school, fate slapped me across the face again, harder than ever. 3 My dad threw the refund receipt from the SAT prep center on the kitchen table like it was a piece of trash. In the living room, my brother Ethan was rage-quitting a video game, venting his frustration over yet another abysmal practice test score. Next to the cold, official receipt was my notebook, filled with advanced calculus problems I’d spent three all-nighters solving. The neat, intricate equations suddenly felt like a joke. My dad’s anger was never aimed directly at Ethan. It was always ricocheted, with perfect accuracy, straight at me. He pointed at my notebook, his voice dripping with resentment. “What’s the point of all this? Girls don’t need to be geniuses in math!” he seethed. “If your brother doesn’t get into a decent college, are you going to take responsibility for that?” “We’re cancelling your prep class. We’ll use the money to get Ethan a private tutor!” Ethan didn’t even look up, just grunted in annoyance when his character died again. “God, you guys are so loud! You’re messing up my game!” he yelled. His casual entitlement was more suffocating than my dad’s rage. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, the pain a welcome distraction from the humiliation. It felt like my only purpose was to pay for their failures. Just then, my mom walked in with a plate of sliced fruit, carefully navigating around me to place it next to my sister, Olivia. The apple slices were carved into little swans. As a girl, Olivia’s life was much easier. Her biggest problem was the number on the scale. The other day, she’d come home from school with red, puffy eyes, sobbing in my mom’s arms because a boy had laughed at her “thunder thighs.” My mom’s heart shattered. She held Olivia, comforting her and cursing the “rude, un-raised” boys at school. Then, she found me in the kitchen, eating a piece of dry toast. “Chloe,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m cutting your allowance in half this month. I’m taking your sister shopping to cheer her up.” “And you could stand to eat fewer snacks yourself. It’s better for girls to be thin.” I looked at her, the toast turning to sand in my mouth. My “snacks” were pieces of dry toast. The faded hoodie I was wearing was a hand-me-down from Ethan. For three years of high school, I hadn’t owned a single new piece of clothing. My closet was a recycling bin for my siblings’ cast-offs. Sensing my resentment, my mom sighed. “Your sister is sensitive, Chloe. She’s not tough like you are. When she’s upset, the whole house feels it. Just be understanding. If she’s happy, we’re all happy, right?” From then on, I became a human piggy bank. When Ethan needed money for a tutor, they smashed a piece of me. When Olivia needed money for new clothes, they took a piece of me. They did it without a second thought, and my parents saw it as the natural order of things. 4 The more they took, the harder I studied. If they wouldn’t give me resources, I’d steal them. I used the lunch money I saved to buy used textbooks and AP prep books from the second-hand store. At night, when everyone was asleep, I’d read under my covers, the weak glow of my cheap smartphone illuminating the pages. My world shrank to the small space under my blanket, that single beam of light, and the formulas and vocabulary words that were my ticket out. I craved escape like a dying man in the desert craves water. College was the only lifeboat I could see. My grades quietly skyrocketed. I went from the middle of the pack to the top ten in my class. I hid every report card under a loose floorboard in my closet. They were my secret weapons. I thought I could make it, just quietly survive until graduation, then disappear and cut this toxic family out of my life for good. But a month before finals, my dad lost a major account at work and came home completely drunk. He stumbled into my room in the middle of the night, probably looking for someone to yell at, and kicked over the cardboard box by my bed. With a soft rustle, hundreds of pages of notes, practice tests, and my treasured honor roll certificates spilled across the floor like a flock of startled birds. The air froze. The shock seemed to sober my dad up. He stared at the “Rank: 3” on my latest report card, then looked up at me. There was no pride in his eyes, no joy. Only a cold, stunned fury, as if he’d just discovered a spy in his own home. He looked at me like I was the enemy. “You…” he slurred, pointing a trembling finger at my work, as if it were criminal evidence. “You’ve been lying to us this whole time?” There was no lie. They just never cared enough to ask. But I didn’t answer. I just knelt, trying to gather up the pieces of my shattered hope. My mom, drawn by the noise, rushed in. She got to the papers before I did, snatching a handful of them. Her eyes were red with rage. “What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked at me. “Trying to fly away from us? I won’t let you!” “Your brother is the one who’s supposed to go out and make a name for himself,” my dad added, his voice low and menacing. “He’s the Miller heir. You’re supposed to stay here and take care of us.” My mom nodded in furious agreement. “Yes! We’ve invested so much in Olivia, she deserves to have the best opportunities. How dare you think you can just leapfrog over them and leave?” My dad even raised his hand, ready to strike down my only chance of escape. I stared at him. For the first time, my eyes weren’t filled with tears, but with ice. The hand never fell. Not out of love, but because of the look in my eyes. It wasn’t pleading or fear. It was the dead, hollow look of someone who had burned through every last ounce of hope. He was shaken by it, frozen in place. The papers fluttered from his hand, a silent funeral for the last shred of my delusion that he was my father. I spoke, my voice barely a whisper. “If you don’t let me study, I’ll go to the school counselor. I’ll tell them everything about the neglect, the emotional abuse.” I looked from his face to my mom’s. “You both have respectable jobs in the community. You wouldn’t want people to know what you’re really like, would you? Without your incomes, how would your precious heirs maintain their lifestyles?” They stared at me, stunned into silence by my audacity. My dad took a step back, pointing at me, his finger trembling. “Fine,” he finally choked out. “Just fine. You think you’re so tough, Chloe. You think you can fly. Let’s see how far you get without this family.” 5 After that night, a strange, tense silence fell over the house. They stopped yelling at me, but they watched me like a prisoner planning a jailbreak. I became a ghost in my own home, a silent, breathing shadow. I got what I wanted. I finished my exams, filled out my applications, and waited. The acceptance letter from a state university all the way across the country was the key that unlocked my cage. The day I left, nobody saw me off. I dragged a single, beaten-up suitcase to the bus station by myself. Inside were a few old clothes and my life savings—three thousand dollars I’d scraped together from part-time jobs and skipping lunches for years. When the bus pulled away from the curb, I didn’t look back. The town, the house, and the people inside it blurred into an insignificant smudge on the dirty window, a bad memory I was finally leaving behind. College was the first time in my life I could breathe. I took out student loans and earned every scholarship I could get my hands on. I worked constantly: tutoring, waiting tables, delivering pizzas. I was exhausted, but I was free. I never called home, and I never asked for a dime. When they called, it was a perfunctory check-in, with the sound of the TV or Ethan yelling at a video game always buzzing in the background. After graduation, I stayed in that city. I got a good job, an apartment of my own, and a loving boyfriend, Jake. My life was finally on track. But the family was like an invisible cord, always trying to pull me back just when I thought I was free. I’d go back for major holidays, a joyless obligation. The dinner table conversation was always about Ethan and Olivia. I’d just listen, my heart a placid lake. My dad would boast about Ethan’s “potential,” dropping names of his “connections” who could get him a job. Ethan would be glued to his phone, grunting in response. My sister, Olivia, would be taking selfies with her new Louis Vuitton bag. “Mom, doesn’t this bag just complete my outfit?” she’d ask, pouting for the camera. “All my friends are, like, so jealous.” “It’s perfect, sweetie. You look beautiful in anything,” my mom would coo, beaming with pride. The four of them existed in their own perfect bubble. The father invested in the son’s future, the mother in the daughter’s vanity. The children soaked it all up. I sat in the corner, a spectator at a bizarre play called “Family.” Finally, there was a lull, and the spotlight swung to me. “So, Chloe, how’s the job? You off probation yet?” my dad asked, as if just remembering I existed. “I am,” I said. “Good, good.” He nodded, and that was it. Duty done. 6 Then, Olivia, finished with her photoshoot, suddenly clapped her hands. “Oh my god, I almost forgot! Your birthdays are next month!” She looked at my parents, her smile wide. “They’re only a few days apart, we should celebrate together. What do you guys want for gifts?” My parents waved their hands dismissively. “Oh, it’s the thought that counts. You don’t need to get us anything.” But their eyes shone with expectation. Ethan finally looked up from his phone, suddenly animated. “I already know what I’m getting Dad. The new iPhone Pro Max. He deserves the best.” Not to be outdone, Olivia added, “And I’m getting Mom that super-expensive La Mer skincare set. To keep her looking young and beautiful!” My parents swelled with pride. Then, all at once, their gazes shifted to me. It was an unspoken demand. Olivia nudged me with her elbow. “Chloe? What are you getting them? It’s their first birthday since you got your ‘real job.’ You’ve gotta do something good.” Four pairs of eyes, all locked on me. It felt like a tribunal. My answer would determine if I even deserved a seat at this table. I put down my fork, wiped my mouth with a napkin, and met their stares. “I can’t afford anything.” It was the truth. My salary, after rent and bills, left very little. I was trying to save, to build a future that was actually my own. The air didn’t just freeze; it shattered. “What did you just say?” my dad roared, slamming his hand on the table. The dishes jumped. “You have a job and you have the nerve to say you have no money for your parents’ birthday?” My mom’s eyes instantly welled up with tears of profound disappointment. “Chloe, how could you be so heartless? It’s not about the money, it’s the gesture! How can you be so cold?” Ethan scoffed, tossing his phone down. “Classic. Total freeloader. We pay to put her through college and this is the thanks we get. Ungrateful.” Olivia was the most vicious. She pointed a finger at me, her voice sharp. “I always knew you were selfish, Chloe! You only care about yourself! Mom and Dad raised you, and you can’t even spare a few bucks for a gift? Where does all your money go? You’re pathetic!” It was the same script I’d heard my whole life. But this time, I didn’t stay silent. I didn’t try to defend myself. I just let them finish, let them hurl every insult they could think of. Then, very calmly, I pointed to the Apple Watch on Ethan’s wrist. “How much was that watch, Ethan?” I asked. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise. He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, like, a thousand bucks. Why?” My finger then moved to the designer bag sitting on the chair next to Olivia. “And your bag, Liv?” She looked confused, but her instinct to show off was stronger. “It’s Gucci. It was five thousand. It’s a classic.” They still didn’t get it. They looked proud, even. Then my hand dropped, and I gestured to my own simple, unbranded t-shirt and jeans. “This whole outfit,” I said, looking at each of them in turn, watching their expressions shift from confusion to dawning, horrified realization. “Forty bucks. From the Target clearance rack.” I let the silence hang for a moment. “So, if you want to call me ungrateful, go ahead.” My eyes moved from my dad to my mom, to my brother and sister, landing on each of them like a physical blow. “But you two spent thousands of Mom and Dad’s money on yourselves, and now you’re planning to use more of their money to buy them gifts and perform this little show of ‘gratitude’.” I leaned forward slightly. “The difference is, I didn’t.” “Every single cent I have,” I said, my voice soft but clear as a bell, “I earned it myself.” That statement was a slap in the face to every single person at that table. The meal, needless to say, was over. I stood up and grabbed my purse. “I’m finished. Enjoy the rest of your dinner.” No one said a word. I walked out of the restaurant and didn’t look back. The bright lights of the parking lot felt cleansing. The heavy door swinging shut behind me felt like it was sealing off a tomb. I never went back to that house again.

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The night before our wedding, my fiancée slept with her childhood best friend. I found out from an Instagram post. She thought she was waking up to a wedding day. Instead, she woke up to a single text from me: “We’re done.” 1. The day before my wedding. That was the day Sophie’s childhood friend took her to a club for her “final night of freedom.” The last text I got from her was around dinnertime. “Ethan, grabbing a bite with the girls. Dylan’s planned a surprise party for me later.” That single sentence left me pacing the floor of our apartment until the dead of night. It wasn’t until I was scrolling through my phone, just to feel some connection to the world outside my own head, that I saw Dylan’s Instagram story. And then I understood why she hadn’t had a free hand to text me back. I stared at the photo for a long time, the two of them so close the image seemed to radiate a shared heat. A block of ice formed in my chest. I had never, not in a million scenarios, imagined this happening to me—my fiancée, sleeping with another man the night before we were supposed to get married. My mind, a traitor, started filling in the details. Sophie, snuggled into his arms, the way she sometimes did with me, her voice soft and playful. The thought was a physical blow, a vicious current dragging me back through our shared memories, tainting every single one. And through it all, as my world fractured, there was only silence from her. No explanation. A bitter question echoed in the quiet of our apartment: What was I to her? Really? The pain in my chest was so sharp it was hard to breathe. I got up and walked through the rooms we were supposed to fill with a life, looking at the festive decorations we’d put up, the little touches meant to celebrate our beginning. Next to the photo glowing on my phone, it was all a sick, cruel joke. I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror and saw a grief on my face I didn’t recognize. My own tears, tracking down my cheeks, seemed to belong to a stranger. Steeling myself against the ache, I typed out a message. “Sophie, we’re done. The wedding’s off.” A long time passed. Still no reply. I knew she’d see it eventually. But I no longer cared what her response might be. Numbly, I started putting everything back into its box—the suit I was supposed to wear tomorrow, the gifts, the carefully chosen favors. Unpacking them had filled me with an almost unbearable excitement. Packing them back up was like performing surgery on my own hopes. Sophie was brilliant, beautiful, the kind of woman who seemed destined for greatness. She’d been the campus queen in college, president of the student government. A Fortune 500 company had recruited her right out of her internship, and in just a few years, she’d climbed to an executive position. Everyone said she was a prodigy, that her future was limitless. And everyone said I was punching way above my weight. I’d tried to answer their doubts and their whispers not with words, but with action. With my devotion. I worked hard, I pushed myself, I was supportive and understanding. I had tried, with every fiber of my being, to be the perfect partner for her. And she had betrayed me. There are some things in this world that happen zero times, or they happen a thousand times. There’s no in-between. I refused to spend the rest of my life wondering, looking over my shoulder, living in a world colored green with envy and suspicion. This was the only way. The best way. I sent a text to my mom, telling her the wedding was off. I expected a text back, but my phone rang almost immediately. Her voice was thick with concern, asking what had happened. I didn’t want to ruin her night, but she deserved the truth. I told her. The silence on the other end of the line stretched on. When she finally spoke, her voice was raw. “You do what you need to do, honey. I support you.” My mom had been dreaming of this day for so long. Tomorrow, she was supposed to watch her son get married. I imagine her heartbreak was only a shade less than my own. After we hung up, I moved through the apartment like a ghost, taking down every sign of the celebration that would never happen. Now that it was over, none of it meant anything. Finally, as the first hint of dawn greyed the windows, I packed away the last of it, turned off my phone, and collapsed into bed. 2. I woke to the sound of frantic knocking. It was already past noon. They couldn’t reach me, my phone was off, so of course, they had come to my door. I ignored it, letting the sound echo until it finally faded away. They gave up. If Sophie’s parents hadn’t been so incredibly kind to me over the years, if our own history didn’t mean something, I would have blown everything up. I would have played that photo on a projector at the ceremony for everyone to see. But all I wanted now was a clean break. I wanted nothing more to do with her. The thought of her… it repulsed me. But in the end, she found me anyway. She was wearing a full face of makeup, but it couldn’t hide the raw exhaustion in her eyes. She stared at me for a long moment, her expression hardening into disapproval. “Ethan, do you have any idea how much of a joke you made of me today? Leaving the groom missing on our wedding day!” Her voice trembled, as if she’d been crying. I looked at her, my face a blank mask. “Before you came here to attack me, Sophie,” I said, my voice flat, “did you ever stop to think why?” Her gaze flickered. Her tone softened. “Ethan, don’t be childish.” “I have so much on my plate, I’m so tired. Can’t you just be understanding for once?” On the surface, it sounded like she was conceding, trying to find common ground. But it was just another form of evasion. She never once mentioned the hotel. Or the picture. Of course she had a lot on her plate, busy as she was checking into hotels with other men. And I’m sure she was tired. Juggling two men must be exhausting. “Oh, you’re busy? Then you should go take care of your business. It has nothing to do with me.” I didn’t want to waste another breath on her. I turned to leave. She grabbed my arm. The moment her fingers touched my skin, I recoiled like I’d been burned. “Get off me!” I snapped. She stumbled back two steps, her eyes wide with disbelief. She had never seen me like this. Her eyes immediately welled up, shimmering with tears that threatened to spill over. “Sophie, I’m not in the mood to fight. If you don’t want to make this uglier than it already is, accept that we’re broken up and leave me alone.” When I moved to walk away again, she blocked my path. “Ethan, what is this about? You owe me an explanation for the wedding!” she insisted, biting her lip, her eyes full of a bewildering sense of victimhood. “You know how many people my parents invited. All of our friends. You left me standing there alone, Ethan. Do you know what they’re all saying about me? How they’re all laughing at me?” “I had to face every single one of them, apologize over and over again. I’m just so, so tired,” she finished, her voice cracking. “Couldn’t you have just talked to me?” I looked her straight in the eye. “You deserved it.” “What?” she whispered, frowning. “You heard me. I said you deserved it. Did you think about any of this when you were checking into a hotel room with him?” Her face fell, the mask of victimhood crumbling away. Her jaw tightened. “Your mind is a filthy place, Ethan,” she spat. I couldn’t help but laugh, a bitter, hollow sound. Was she really going to claim they just lay there, innocently? As if sharing a hotel bed was somehow different? “You’re right,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “How could a piece of trash like me ever hope to understand a pristine angel like you?” “We’re done now. You’re free to go find someone more suitable.” Her body tensed, her eyes practically shooting sparks. After a long moment, the anger on her face softened into something more calculated. “Ethan, I didn’t come here to fight with you. But you at least owe my parents an explanation, don’t you think?” 3. I fell silent. She was right about that. I could treat her with the contempt she deserved, but I couldn’t disrespect her parents. Robert and Carol were kind, reasonable people. The complete opposite of their daughter. While everyone else whispered that I was lucky to have Sophie, they had never once looked down on me. They treated me like their own son. My weakness has always been that I assume the best in people. Because her parents were good to me, I poured all of that gratitude back into my relationship with her. I bent over backward for her. I never said no. She was laser-focused on her career, so I made sure to leave work on time to have dinner ready for her. While she ate, I’d draw her a bath, doing everything I could to create a sanctuary where she could unwind from her stressful days. I loved her. And I thought she loved me, too. But for her to do what she did… it meant she never cared about my feelings at all. I let out a heavy sigh and agreed to go to their house for dinner. Not for her. For them. I needed to tell them the truth, face to face. She rushed to open the passenger door of her car for me, but I just glanced at it and walked to my own. In my rearview mirror, I saw her face darken. When I parked outside their house, the familiar smell of a home-cooked meal drifted out. Every time I came over, they’d prepare a feast. I had imagined a future filled with many more of their dinners. I never thought this would be the last one. Before Sophie could even get her key in the door, it swung open. Robert’s face lit up when he saw me. “Ethan! You’re here! Come on in, have a seat. I’m just running out to grab some fruit.” Every time I visited, he made sure the house was stocked with my favorites. Sophie never ate fruit, so they never kept it around otherwise. I opened my mouth to say something, to stop him, but my words felt clumsy and awkward. He was already halfway down the driveway. After leaving their family humiliated at the wedding, I had come prepared for their anger, their disappointment. But here they were, treating me just the same as always. Usually, seeing them filled me with warmth, and I’d greet them enthusiastically. Now, I couldn’t even manage the words to address them. I walked to the dining table just as Carol came out of the kitchen with a steaming platter. “Ethan, you made it!” she said with a bright smile. “Don’t worry about a thing, you just sit down and relax. I’ve got one more dish and we’ll be ready!” They were both so genuinely happy to see me, as if the whole disastrous wedding fiasco had never happened. Their warmth made a bitter lump form in my throat. If only. If only we could have actually been a family. But Sophie had done the one thing I could never forgive. I sat stiffly on the sofa, staring blankly at some mindless show on TV. Sophie poured me a glass of juice and sat down next to me. A little too close. “You’ve never been this formal here before,” she said quietly. I shifted away slightly. “Things are different now. A little distance is appropriate.” Sophie flinched. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on?” she asked, her voice low. “No.” I shook my head. “This is the last time I’ll be here.” She bit her lip, staring at me with a complex expression, saying nothing. The air grew thick with unspoken things. Then, mercifully, the doorbell rang. 4. A cheerful voice called from outside. “Soph! It’s me, open up!” Sophie and I locked eyes. We both knew it was Dylan. After a moment’s hesitation, she got up and opened the door. Dylan breezed in, his voice booming. “Soph, what is Carol cooking? I could smell it from the street!” He walked over to the shoe cabinet and pulled out a pair of slippers identical to Sophie’s, just in a different color. Standing next to each other, they looked like a matched set. A couple. He was carrying two gift bags and started toward the kitchen to greet Carol, but he stopped halfway, his eyes landing on me. “Oh. Ethan,” he said, the word catching in his throat. “You’re here too.” I stared at him, my expression cold, and didn’t bother to reply. My eyes, however, caught the glint of the watch on his wrist. It looked exactly like the one Sophie had been so excited about finding a few weeks ago. The one I’d assumed was a wedding gift for me. A bitter, self-mocking smile touched my lips. As Sophie’s childhood friend, Dylan was a fixture here. He treated their house like his own. At the dinner table, Carol, sensing my discomfort, kept a warm smile fixed on her face. She ladled soup into my bowl and then turned to Sophie. “Honey, put some food on Ethan’s plate.” I quickly interjected. “It’s okay, Carol, really. I can get it myself.” Sophie’s hand, which had been reaching for the serving utensils, froze mid-air. I remembered other dinners, when Carol had made the same request. Sophie had always bristled at it, complaining that sharing utensils was unhygienic. I could still hear her sharp, impatient voice in my head. “It’s gross, all that saliva. Can’t he get it himself?” The memory was a fresh sting. Carol’s smile faltered for a second before she recovered, simply telling me to eat more. Dylan shot me a look, then casually picked up a chicken wing and dropped it into Sophie’s bowl. She didn’t show the slightest hint of displeasure, just picked it up and started eating. So, I was disgusting, but Dylan was acceptable. The double standard was breathtaking. In any other setting, I would have slapped them both. Robert saw the exchange and frowned at his daughter. “Sophie, can you please try to have some manners?” he said, giving her a pointed look. I kept quiet. Sophie glanced at me, then resentfully placed a piece of fish on my plate. This time, both of her parents’ faces fell. They both knew I was allergic to seafood. But Sophie, apparently, had forgotten. Still, I finished the rice in my bowl, leaving only that large, conspicuous piece of fish. I had shared one last meal with them. Now it was time to say what I came to say. “Robert, Carol, thank you so much for dinner.” I took a deep breath. “There are a few things I need to say. First, about the wedding, I want to apologize. I’m truly sorry for embarrassing you.” “Second, Sophie and I have broken up. I won’t be coming around anymore. I’m sorry to have disappointed you both.” They looked at me, stunned, at a loss for words. “Ethan, you…” Sophie started, but Dylan cut her off, his voice rising with indignation. “Ethan, that’s not right! First, you ditch the wedding, and now you’re talking about breaking up? What do you think Sophie is to you?” He puffed out his chest. “I thought I could trust you with her, but it turns out you’re just going to treat her like this. Unbelievable.” 5. The hypocrisy was nauseating. I shot him a look, a cold smile playing on my lips. “My treating her like this… isn’t that exactly what you wanted?” “What are you talking about?” Dylan blustered, putting on a show of cluelessness that only made me feel sicker. “Ethan, that’s enough!” Sophie’s voice was sharp, her face a thundercloud. “How many times do I have to explain it to you? Dylan is like a brother to me! We’re not what you think!” At her words, Dylan’s face darkened, but I just laughed. Like a brother? A brother who tells you it’s better to sleep in his arms? I had no energy left to argue with them. It was pointless. Their little outburst had made things painfully awkward for her parents. I stood up, softening my tone as I addressed them. “Robert, Carol, I have to get going. Thank you again for everything.” “If the opportunity arises, I’d love to take you both out to dinner sometime, just us.” They knew the situation was unsalvageable. They stood up, their faces etched with regret. “Ethan,” Carol said, her voice soft, “please, come and visit us anytime. You’ll always be welcome here.” I knew she meant it. But I also knew I could never come back. After leaving their house, I called my best man, Ben. He’d handled the wedding car, the photographers, everything. After the mess I’d made, I owed him an apology. “So,” he said, sliding into the booth across from me at the bar, a shit-eating grin on his face. “The wedding of your dreams ends with the bride standing solo at the altar?” “Come on, man. I’m going through it. The least you can do is not rub it in.” Seeing the genuine pain on my face, Ben’s teasing expression softened. “You pulling a runaway groom act like that… it had to be something big. Don’t tell me, the night before the wedding…” I didn’t answer. I just downed my whiskey in one go. He shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Damn. You only read about this stuff online. Didn’t think it happened in real life.” “I told you before, man,” he continued, his voice serious now. “I never thought Sophie loved you as much as you loved her. Looks like she was just stringing you along.” Ben had said things like that before, but I’d been too deep in love to listen. Now, with the clarity of a breakup, I could see it. All the little details I had ignored, the small dismissals, the casual inconsiderations. They were all signs. She didn’t love me. “If she doesn’t love me,” I said, my voice rough, “then I’m setting her free.” Ben filled my glass and clinked it with his. “You know what they say. Sometimes you have to lose someone to meet the right one.” He grinned. “Look ahead, man. Better things are waiting for you.” I rolled my eyes at him, and we both broke into a laugh. This whole thing had shattered my heart, but I wasn’t going to drown my sorrows in booze. Just having someone to vent to, someone who got it, was enough to take the edge off. Ben was right. No one is indispensable. No point in wasting my life on someone who didn’t want it. Sophie was an amazing woman, but I wasn’t so bad myself. When it came down to it, all I had lost was someone who didn’t love me. That wasn’t a tragedy worth mourning for long. It happened faster than I expected. My mindset shifted. When I walked back into the office, I felt like myself again. Sharp, focused, ready to go. People who didn’t know any better assumed I was glowing from post-wedding bliss. They offered their congratulations, and I accepted them with a tight smile, the irony a bitter taste in my mouth. Just a few days ago, I’d been the one handing out wedding candy, some of which was still sitting in bowls on people’s desks. In that short time, I had lived through betrayal, a non-wedding, and a breakup. 6. “Ethan, congratulations! You finally did it, man!” a colleague I was friendly with said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Next step, baby prep, right? Get ready for fatherhood.” He lowered his voice. “But you know, that VP position is basically yours. A paternity leave right after the promotion, though… that could be tricky.” I knew he meant well. It was something I had thought about, too. I had worked for years for this promotion; it was the opportunity of a lifetime. Before, I had honestly considered passing it up for my family, to be there for Sophie and a baby. Now, that was no longer a concern. “Like you said, it’s mine for the taking,” I replied, my voice firm. “And right now, my career is the only thing I want to focus on.” My colleague nodded, though he looked a little confused. “Your family’s not pressuring you for kids?” I gazed out the window. “From now on,” I said with a small smile, “I’m just going to live life on my own terms.” He looked at me, a flicker of understanding in his eyes, and finally nodded in agreement. “You’re right. You gotta live for yourself sometimes. Be a little selfish.” I hoped it was really that simple. In the days that followed, I poured every ounce of my being into my work. I’ve always been ambitious, but for Sophie, I had always held a part of myself back, saving my energy for our life at home. Now, with the VP title within reach, I was holding nothing back. And I discovered something strange. When I was completely immersed in my work, I didn’t think about Sophie at all. A full week went by, and I hadn’t seen or heard from her. I started to believe it was really over, that we had finally, cleanly, drawn a line under our story. I was wrong. We were going to see each other again.

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At my son Kevin’s engagement party, his fiancée, Ashley, demanded I produce my children’s birth certificates. She wanted proof that Kevin and my daughter, Chloe, were actually twins. I pulled them out of my purse—the worn, folded documents from twenty-five years ago, detailing their birth dates, blood types, and their relationship to me, their mother. But Ashley wasn’t satisfied. She insisted they were forgeries, that I was trying to deceive her. She wanted to take the originals to have them “verified.” She claimed their relationship was “too close,” not like a normal brother and sister. She demanded they take a DNA test to prove they were siblings. In front of our friends and her family, her words were a poison dart, painting my children with the ugliest kind of suspicion. How could they ever hold their heads up again? And what did this say about me, the woman who raised them? I refused flatly. “If you can’t trust us, then maybe there shouldn’t be an engagement,” I said, my voice shaking with anger. “There’s no need to humiliate my family in public.” But then Kevin, my own son, turned to me, his eyes pleading. “Mom, please,” he begged. “Just let us do the DNA test. Once we have concrete proof, Ashley will stop. I promise.” 1 It all started when Ashley began crying to her parents that Kevin would “disappear” for hours whenever he went out to dinner with his twin sister. She hinted at something sordid, something unnatural, which led to this insane demand for their birth certificates. I was furious. What kind of position did that put my children in? I knew for a fact Kevin had kept her in the loop. I’d seen the texts. He sent pictures, replied instantly. But for Ashley, “disappearing” meant any moment he wasn’t actively showering her with attention. I understood insecurity. I really did. I told Kevin to invite her along, to let her get to know Chloe over dinner. But Ashley’s suspicions only festered. She kept demanding to see the birth certificates. Finally, Kevin caved and sent her a photo of the documents. She claimed it could be photoshopped and demanded the originals. Kevin told her I kept them under lock and key, and that if he asked for them, I’d know about her accusations and it would sour our relationship. So, she chose the engagement party to stage her drama. There she was, sobbing in her mother’s arms. Her father stared daggers at me. Kevin looked helpless, and Chloe’s face was flushed with a mixture of rage and shame. “Sarah, please,” Ashley’s mother said, trying to sound reasonable. “We’re all going to be family. Just show her the papers so we can put her mind at ease.” I looked at the mess this party had become and sighed. Fine. We’re going to be family. I just wanted the nightmare to end. I handed the birth certificates to Ashley. But after scrutinizing them, she snatched them up and stuffed them into her purse. “You handed these over way too easily,” she sneered. “How do I know they’re real? And even if they are, it just says ‘son’ and ‘daughter.’ They don’t even look alike. What if Chloe isn’t your daughter at all? What if you adopted her to be some kind of… companion for your son? I’m not walking into that kind of hell.” She declared, “I’m taking these to get authenticated. I’ll give them back in a few days.” 2 Her words hung in the air, thick and venomous. Not only was she stealing official documents, but she was doubling down on her disgusting insinuations. Saying I adopted a girl to be a “companion” for my son? Had she been watching too many twisted TV dramas? I was a single mom who lost her husband years ago. Life was hard enough. Who in their right mind would spend all that time, money, and energy raising a child that wasn’t their own, just for some perverse purpose? And the “they don’t look alike” argument was ridiculous. They were fraternal twins. A boy and a girl. Of course they didn’t look identical, but anyone with eyes could see the same jawline, the same shape of their eyes. They were cut from the same cloth. Even a saint would have lost her temper. I had already swallowed my pride and shown her the proof. What more did she want? “I’ve shown you the documents,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “If you still don’t believe it, that’s your problem. If you’re this worried, maybe you should just call off the wedding.” “Mom!” Before Ashley could even respond, Kevin jumped in. “How can you say that?” Emboldened by his support, Ashley’s smugness grew. “Why are you getting so defensive, Sarah? I just want to know the truth. You’re acting like you have something to hide.” Her conviction swayed some of the guests. I could feel the hotel staff’s eyes on me, their glances filled with morbid curiosity. My vision started to blur. Chloe, bless her heart, grabbed my arm, her own body trembling with rage. “Mom, your blood pressure,” she whispered. “Breathe. Don’t let her get to you.” My sister-in-law, Susan, and other relatives quickly came to my defense. “We were there when these two were born!” Susan exclaimed. “We saw them in the hospital nursery. Of course they’re siblings!” She pulled out her phone. “Look, I still have the pictures from the day they were born. Their hospital wristbands have their names right on them.” Another cousin chimed in, “Yeah, and we all saw the ultrasound scans! Sarah keeps everything. She has boxes of their childhood things at home.” My relatives passed the phone around, showing everyone the photos. For a moment, I thought the madness was over. But when the phone reached Ashley, she scoffed. “Photos can be faked. How convenient that you just happen to have these pictures ready right when I ask.” She looked around the silent room. “And even if those babies in the picture are siblings, who’s to say those babies are them?” Even Ashley’s own mother looked embarrassed, tugging at her sleeve. But Ashley took our stunned silence as an admission of guilt. “Since you won’t let me verify the birth certificates, there’s only one other way,” she announced triumphantly. “Make them take a DNA test.” She then added the final, insane flourish. “And to make sure you don’t fake the results, they have to do it at every single major accredited lab in the state!” I turned to my son. “Kevin, this wedding is off. We’re going home. I will not let you marry a psychopath.” I tried to pull him toward the door, but he resisted. He looked at me with that same pleading expression. “Mom, just let us do it,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Once we have the results, Ashley will know for sure, and this will all be over.” 3 For a second, I thought I’d misheard him. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking?” I whispered, horrified. “Do you know what this implies? You’re asking your own sister to submit to a test to prove she’s not your lover. How are we supposed to live with that shame?” “She wants us to do it at every lab in the state! Those records are official. Do you understand what that means?” It meant that even if we were proven innocent, the accusation would be permanently logged, a stain we could never wash away, demanded by our own son and brother. An accusation from a stranger is one thing. But from your own flesh and blood? It was a betrayal I couldn’t comprehend. “Kevin!” Chloe cried out, her voice breaking. But he wouldn’t look at her. “Ashley’s just insecure,” he mumbled. “She doesn’t know you guys. After we’re married, it’ll be different.” My head was spinning. “How can you be so naive? If she was going to believe anything, she would have believed the birth certificates or the photos. If she’s determined not to believe, she’ll find a reason to doubt the DNA results too!” Ashley pouted. “You know, in this crazy world, anything can happen. Even between a brother and a…” SLAP! I couldn’t stop myself. The sound echoed through the silent room. “By your logic, anything can happen between you and your father, too!” I screamed, my control completely gone. “Between your husband and your mother! Between all three of you!” I was so furious I just used her own twisted reasoning to hurt her back. “You sick little bitch!” Ashley burst into tears, clutching her cheek. “How can you say something so horrible!” Her parents rushed forward, shouting, “How dare you hit our daughter!” And Kevin, my spineless son, immediately shielded Ashley. “Mom, what is wrong with you? Apologize to Ashley right now!” “Apologize?” I laughed, a broken, bitter sound. “You’re next.” I may have hesitated to hit Ashley, but I had no such qualms about my own idiotic son. “Mom!” He flinched, trying to back away, but my relatives, finally seeing the truth, formed a wall behind him. Ashley’s family, perhaps out of sheer embarrassment, didn’t move to help. I grabbed his arm. “Have I ever let you go hungry? Have I ever deprived you of anything? Have your sister and I ever done a single thing to hurt you, that you would treat us like this? Where is your conscience, Kevin? Did a dog eat it?” He just mumbled, “Mom,” clutching his face where I hadn’t even hit him yet. Seeing his pathetic look, my anger deflated slightly, replaced by a wave of exhaustion. Maybe he really was just that clueless. “Son,” I sighed, “you and Ashley are not right for each other. If she can cause a scene this ugly over you and your own sister, your family… what will she do when she gets jealous of a coworker? A friend? What will you do then?” He looked over the crowd, his gaze locking onto Ashley. A strange smile appeared on his face. Then he turned back to me. “That will never happen, Mom. I’ll never have dinner alone with any woman besides Ashley.” Before I could respond, the ballroom doors swung open and two police officers walked in. “We got a call about a disturbance?” “Here! It was me!” Ashley stepped forward, pointing a trembling finger at me. “That woman forged documents, she’s involved in human trafficking, and she assaulted me! Arrest her!” “That’s an outrageous lie!” Chloe shot back, quickly explaining the whole sordid story to the officers. Still, they had to follow procedure. They verified my ID and the birth certificates. They even expedited a DNA swab test right there. Everything checked out. The documents were real. The DNA proved I was their mother. Ashley, however, wasn’t done. “That just proves they have the same mom,” she muttered. “It doesn’t prove they have the same dad.” Everyone just stared at her like she was an alien. Seeing she had no allies, she changed tactics, clutching her cheek again. “Fine, maybe the other stuff isn’t true, but she did hit me! That’s assault. I want her to apologize, or I’m pressing charges. That’s disorderly conduct, right? That’s a night in jail.” “Over my dead body!” Chloe stepped in front of me. “You started this! You slandered us for hours, and my mom gave you one slap. One! Who here saw an ‘assault’? You’re just making things up!” “I saw it,” a quiet voice said. It was Kevin. He refused to look at me, his eyes fixed on the officers. “The officer is right here. My mom assaulted Ashley. She needs to apologize.” 4 I stared at my son, my heart turning to ice. I knew the hotel had security cameras. He knew it too. How could he lie so blatantly for her? His expression was strained. His eyes darted nervously towards Ashley’s father, then hardened with resolve. And then it all clicked into place. Ashley’s father was a Senior VP at the company where Kevin worked. His boss’s boss’s boss. Kevin wasn’t just doing this for Ashley. He was doing it for her father. He was sucking up. He knew Ashley was creating chaos, but it wasn’t his problem. He was perfectly fine with throwing his mother and sister under the bus as long as it advanced his career. For the first time, I felt like I was truly seeing my son. He was a bottomless pit of self-interest. He hadn’t sold us out before simply because the right offer hadn’t come along. “I’m not apologizing,” I said, my voice steady. “You want to press charges for assault? Fine. I’ll press charges for slander and defamation. We can both spend a few nights in jail. Sounds fun.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper only they could hear. “But when I get out, I’m posting the security footage from tonight all over the internet. I’ll send it to your company, Ashley. To your dad’s company, Kevin. Let’s see what your coworkers think. I’m 60 years old. I have nothing left to lose.” You want to play crazy? I can play crazy too. I’d seen other old ladies make scenes, and while I always thought it was embarrassing, I now understood. You can’t fight a rabid dog with logic. My resolve must have scared her. Ashley’s expression faltered. She finally revealed her true goal. “Fine. No apology. But you have to promise me. You and your daughter are never to see my husband alone again.” So that’s what this was all about. All the drama, the humiliation, the DNA tests… it was just to isolate him. I glanced at Kevin. He stood there silently, his face a blank mask. We weren’t his family anymore. We were just obstacles. He didn’t care that we’d been slandered and abused. He only cared about himself. “Okay,” I said. “I agree.” Ashley smiled, victorious. Kevin quickly added his pledge, “We’ll never meet alone.” My heart, which I thought was already broken, shattered completely. “We won’t just avoid meeting him alone,” I said, my voice as cold as a tombstone. “We will never meet him again. Period.” Kevin’s face went pale. “Mom!” He hadn’t expected such a clean break. “Don’t call me Mom. From this day forward, you are on your own. Our relationship is over.” This selfish, ungrateful boy was no longer my son. The party ended in shambles. As Chloe and I left, all of our relatives got up and walked out with us. My daughter took me straight to the hospital for a check-up. Then I had her go home, pack every single thing that belonged to Kevin, and send it to him via courier. Two hours later, my old phone rang. It was Kevin. He sounded cheerful, as if nothing had happened. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” he cooed. “I was just trying to show Ashley I was on her side. I didn’t know it would hurt you so much.” “I have to go.” “Mom, wait… the final payment for the venue…” I let out a dry laugh. “Weren’t you just trying to impress your rich father-in-law? Ask him. Mr. Miller, we are no longer mother and son. Please don’t call me again. I’m terrified your psychotic wife might accuse me of something else.” “Oh, and by the way,” I added, “since you called, let me make one more thing crystal clear. Since you are no longer my son, your life is your own problem. Your wedding, your house, your car, your bills… that’s all on you now. Good luck.” “Mom…” I hung up. 5 He wanted to use his mother and sister’s reputation to curry favor with his in-laws? Fine. Let’s see how he pays for a wedding on his meager salary without my financial support. He called again and again, but I didn’t answer. I blocked his number. Finally, a text came through from a different number: “If you don’t give me the money, I’ll just move in with them! The baby will take their last name! You’ll have no heir!” How pathetic. As if I cared about a family name that wasn’t even mine to begin with. He could change his own last name for all I cared. My nephew, who still had some contact with Kevin, filled me in on the aftermath. The venue wouldn’t let Kevin leave until the bill was paid. Ashley’s parents, humiliated, tried to slip out, but Ashley threw a tantrum until they paid the six-figure bill. Afterward, her parents, realizing Kevin was broke, tried to convince her to break up with him. But Ashley was “madly in love.” She and Kevin took their marriage license to the courthouse and got married immediately. Meanwhile, Chloe and I were on a trip. She was about to start her Master’s program in a different state, and I had no desire to go back home. To finance Kevin’s wedding, I’d sold the family house. I’d split the money three ways: one part for the wedding that never happened, one part for Chloe, and one part for me. With the money I’d saved for his car, rings, and other expenses, I had over $700,000 in the bank. I could retire anywhere. With financial freedom and distance from the toxicity, I found a strange sense of peace. Listening to the drama unfolding in the Miller family was almost… entertaining. When it came to screwing over their own family, Kevin and Ashley really were a perfect match. But I had severely underestimated Ashley’s capacity for chaos.

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It was midnight when a text from my coworker, Jenna, lit up my phone. “Hey, I know the spare bedroom in your apartment is empty. Any chance I could rent it?” I fought back a wave of sleep to type a one-word reply. “No.” I figured that would be the end of it. But my phone immediately started buzzing again. A stream of texts. “I can pay $9.99 a month. How does that sound?” “I mean, it’s just sitting empty. This way, you could at least make a little something to cover utilities. It’s a win-win.” I switched my phone to silent, done with her. But a moment later, the screen lit up with her name. She was calling. I ignored it. She called again. Fine. “Audrey, don’t just ignore me. I think this is a great idea. Think about it—you’re all alone in that big place, it must get lonely. If I move in, I can keep you company, help out with chores. And $9.99 isn’t nothing. You can’t even get that much for a new user bonus on most apps these days.” 1 Click. I hung up, tossed the phone onto my nightstand, and pulled the covers over my head. The world went blessedly silent. The next morning at the office, the elevator doors opened to reveal Jenna, blocking the entrance. She was beaming, a cardboard tray with two coffees in her hands. “Audrey, good morning! I brought you a latte.” She tried to press one of the cups into my hand. I sidestepped her. “Thanks, but I’m not a fan.” Her hand froze in mid-air, the smile faltering for a fraction of a second. A few of our colleagues glanced over. She recovered quickly, placing the coffee on the corner of my desk. She kept her voice just loud enough for others to hear. “Audrey, listen, I’m sorry if I called too late last night and woke you up. Don’t be mad, I’m just getting really desperate. My lease is up the day after tomorrow, and I still haven’t found a place.” She lowered her gaze, her whole body slumping into a portrait of pitiable despair. A few of her work friends immediately flocked to her side. “Jenna, what’s wrong? You don’t have a place to live?” “Oh my god, where are you going to stay?” Jenna sniffled, her eyes welling up. “I don’t know. Worst case, I guess I’ll have to crash at a 24-hour Starbucks or something.” As she spoke, she shot a quick glance at me from under her eyelashes. “Doesn’t Audrey have a spare room? Maybe she could put you up for a few days,” one of them suggested. Another one chimed in instantly. “Yeah, you’re colleagues! You should help each other out. And Audrey, you live in that huge apartment all by yourself. It’d be nice to have some company.” Jenna looked at me, her eyes shining with anticipation, though the calculation within them was impossible to miss. “Audrey, please? Just for a few days. I promise I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I find something.” I powered on my computer and logged into the system. “It’s not convenient for me.” My refusal was blunt, final, leaving no room for argument. The color drained from Jenna’s face. The air around my desk grew still. She clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white. “Audrey, what is your problem? You have a huge apartment with an empty room. What’s the big deal about letting me stay for a few days? You just can’t stand to see anyone else catch a break, can you?” Her voice grew shrill. I didn’t look up, my eyes fixed on the screen. “My apartment. My decision.” “You—!” She was trembling with rage. “Don’t think you’re so special just because you have money! Living in some fancy high-rise, driving that expensive car… you don’t have a shred of compassion! People like you deserve to be alone forever!” The rest of the office was watching us now, whispering amongst themselves. I finally lifted my eyes to meet hers, my expression calm. “Are you finished? If so, you should probably get to work.” She seemed completely thrown by my lack of reaction, just standing there, frozen. I ignored her and started going through my emails. During my lunch break, I went to the kitchenette to make some coffee. As I approached, I could hear Jenna’s voice. “You should have seen the look on her face. Like she’s some kind of queen. So what if she has a little money? It doesn’t make her better than anyone else.” “Totally. She seems so put-together, but I guess she’s just cold-hearted.” “Jenna, don’t let it get to you. People like that are just selfish. We’ll just stay away from her from now on.” I walked in, holding my mug. The conversation stopped cold. They all looked away, a mixture of guilt and embarrassment on their faces. All except Jenna. She stared right at me, her eyes filled with pure hatred. I acted as if I’d heard nothing, walking over to the coffee machine and pressing the button. Hot water streamed into my mug, steam clouding the air. I turned around, meeting her glare. “Talking about people behind their backs isn’t a good look.” Jenna scoffed. “I said it. So what? What are you going to do about it? Let me tell you, Audrey, this isn’t over.” 2 That afternoon, my director, Mark, called me into his office. He looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Audrey… about this situation with Jenna…” I stood in front of his desk, silent. “She’s a young woman, you know, trying to make it on her own in the city. It’s not easy. She was just in here, crying her eyes out. Said her lease is up and she has nowhere to go.” Mark sighed. “Look, you’ve got that spare room, right? Just… think of it as doing a favor for the team. Let her stay for a little while. We’ll make sure she pays her share of rent and utilities, of course.” I looked at him and, to my own surprise, a small smile touched my lips. “Mark, is this an official company directive, or your personal suggestion?” He was taken aback, his face flushing slightly. “I’m just looking out for my employees. We’re a team. We’re supposed to support each other.” “Then I decline,” I said, my smile vanishing. “My home is my private space. I don’t allow anyone to interfere with it, for any reason. Not you, and not her.” Mark’s expression hardened. “Audrey, what is that attitude? I’m trying to have a discussion with you, not give you an order!” “And the discussion is over. My answer is no.” I turned and pulled open his office door. Jenna was standing right outside, pressing her ear against the wood. The triumphant smirk on her face hadn’t had time to disappear. She jumped when she saw me, her eyes darting away guiltily. I walked past her and went back to my desk. It wasn’t long before a new post appeared on the company’s anonymous internal message board. The title was: “Spill the tea on the cold-blooded coworker who drives a luxury car and lives in a penthouse.” The post was a masterpiece of slander, painting me as a vicious, wealthy bully who got her kicks from tormenting new hires. It didn’t use my name, but every detail pointed directly at me. Within minutes, there were over a hundred replies. “I know who this is about. It’s gotta be Audrey. She always acts so high and mighty.” “Wow, I never would have guessed she was like that. That’s awful.” “Poor Jenna. I can’t believe she’s being treated this way.” I scrolled through the venomous comments, my face a blank mask. My phone vibrated. A text from Ethan. “Ms. Ross, it’s all been taken care of.” I texted back a simple “Okay.” I closed the browser tab and got back to work. Just before five, Jenna appeared at my desk, dragging a massive suitcase behind her. A small group of curious colleagues trailed in her wake. “Audrey, I’m moving in tonight. And you’re not going to stop me.” She looked like she was ready for a fight to the death. I typed the last word of my document, saved the file, and shut down my computer. Then I stood up and grabbed my purse. “I’ll say it one more time. You are not welcome in my home.” “You—!” Jenna sputtered, then suddenly clutched her stomach, her face paling as she doubled over. “Oh god, my stomach hurts so bad.” She collapsed dramatically to the floor, letting out a pained groan. “Jenna, what’s wrong?” “Someone call 911!” Our coworkers descended into chaos. Lying on the floor, through a gap in the legs of the people surrounding her, Jenna shot me a look of pure provocation. I just watched her performance, unmoved. Finally, someone from the on-site first aid office arrived and did a quick check. “She’s fine,” the medic announced. “Just overworked herself and pulled a muscle. A little out of breath from the excitement.” The color on Jenna’s face shifted through five different shades of humiliation. I walked past her, the sharp click-clack of my heels echoing in the now-silent office. “Nice performance,” I said as I passed. “You should try something more challenging next time.” 3 I thought that would be the end of it for a few days. I was wrong. The next evening, she brought the battle to my doorstep. I pulled into my spot in the building’s underground garage and saw her standing by the elevator bank with a middle-aged couple. They looked weathered and tired, their eyes darting around the pristine garage with a mixture of awe and discomfort. As soon as I got out of my car, Jenna rushed over. “Audrey, you’re home.” She gestured to the couple behind her, her voice ringing with self-righteousness. “These are my parents. They came all the way from my hometown to see me, and to thank you in person.” My brow furrowed. Thank me? Jenna’s mother hurried toward me, clutching a reusable grocery bag full of what looked like homemade goods. Her face was stretched into an eager, placating smile. “You must be Audrey. Such a good girl. Our Jenna has been so much trouble for you.” She tried to shove the bag into my hands. I took a step back, avoiding it. “Ma’am, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Jenna’s father, a quiet man, sized me up before speaking in a low, heavy voice. “Jenna told us everything. She said you agreed to let her move in, and that you wouldn’t even charge her rent. As her parents, we can’t let you be so generous without showing our gratitude. This is just a little something from us.” I looked past them to Jenna. She was hiding behind her parents, a victorious smirk playing on her lips. She thought she had me. She thought she could use her parents to morally blackmail me into a corner. “I have not agreed to anything,” I said, my voice ice-cold. The smiles on her parents’ faces froze. Jenna immediately jumped in, her voice thick with fake tears. “Audrey, how could you say that in front of my parents? You promised me yesterday!” She turned to them, the tears now streaming down her face. “Mom, Dad, she’s bullying me! She’s looking down on us because we’re not from the city!” Her mother instantly turned on me, positioning herself as a human shield. “Young lady, how could you? What did our Jenna ever do to you to deserve this?” “You have to have a conscience! Our Jenna thought you were a friend, and you treat her like this!” Their voices grew louder, attracting the attention of other residents passing through the garage. People started to stare, to point. I was being cast as the villain, the cruel landlord bullying the poor girl from out of town. Jenna, safely behind her parents, sobbed as if her heart was breaking. Looking at this ridiculous family drama, I almost wanted to laugh. Instead, I took out my phone and dialed a secure internal number. “Ethan? Yes, it’s Audrey Ross. There’s a disturbance downstairs in the A tower garage affecting other residents. Could you please handle it?” I hung up and crossed my arms, looking at them. “You can continue this scene if you like. However, building security will likely be escorting you out shortly.” Jenna’s mother started to retort, but her father grabbed her arm. Years of hard work had apparently given him better instincts than his daughter. He knew I wasn’t bluffing. A moment later, two uniformed security guards and a man in a sharp suit appeared, walking quickly toward us. It was Ethan. “Ms. Ross,” he said, giving me a respectful nod before turning his attention to Jenna’s family, his expression hardening. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” Seeing what she thought was a neutral party, Jenna immediately played the victim. “We’re relatives of a resident in this building! She won’t let us in!” she cried, pointing at me. Ethan glanced at me. I gave a slight shake of my head. He understood immediately. “Ma’am, we have received no visitor notifications from any resident. Furthermore, your behavior is disturbing the peace. Per the building’s regulations, I must ask you to leave the premises immediately.” His tone was absolute. “You!” Jenna choked out. “Do you even know who she is? She’s just a renter here, like me! Why are you listening to her?” Ethan’s professional demeanor didn’t waver. “I only know that if you do not leave, I will be forced to take further action.” He gestured, and the two guards took a step forward, their presence suddenly much more imposing. Jenna’s parents were finally scared. They grabbed their unwilling daughter and scurried away. Just before they disappeared, Jenna looked back over her shoulder and shot me a look of pure venom. I knew this was only the beginning. 4 Things escalated, just as I expected. A few days later, I found my car keyed in the garage. A long, deep gash ran from the hood to the trunk, cutting straight through the paint. The security camera in that section was, of course, broken. “Aging wiring,” the building management told me. “It’s being repaired.” I didn’t need a camera to know who did it. Next, my deliveries and takeout orders started to “disappear.” I’d find them overturned and spilled on the floor of the mailroom, or tossed directly into the trash. I stopped ordering in and started cooking for myself. Then came the late-night phone calls. Blocked numbers. When I’d answer, there was only the hiss of static. I’d hang up, and they’d call right back. Over and over, until dawn. I blocked all unknown callers. She was determined to wear me down. At work, she became even more brazen. She somehow managed to get assigned to one of my project teams and used her limited access to create chaos. I’d ask her to schedule a meeting with a client, and she’d deliberately give them the wrong time, causing them to show up to an empty conference room. The client was furious and complained directly to Mark. Mark, in turn, chewed me out again. When I walked out of his office, Jenna was waiting for me. “How does it feel, Audrey?” she asked, clutching a stack of files to her chest, a smug smile on her face. “I told you this wasn’t over. As long as you refuse to let me in, I will make your life a living hell.” I just looked at her, my own feelings a complete blank. “Is that so?” I walked away. She watched me go, her expression shifting from simple hatred to something more cunning. I’d heard that my building had recently switched management companies due to some operational issues, and there was a lot of new staff. She must have heard something too, and figured that I was just another tenant. She thought that by getting a job with the new company, she could control me from the inside. She yelled after me, “Don’t look so smug! I found a new job! At the property management company for your precious building!” I paused. She caught up to me, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I pulled some strings to get in. From now on, I’m the one who manages your floor. Your water, your electricity, your gas—it’s all under my control. I can have it shut off whenever I want.” The look on her face was a terrifying mix of madness and glee. “Audrey, our little game is just getting started.” She thought she held the trump card. She thought she finally had me by the throat. She thought she could finally crush me. Looking at her distorted, triumphant face, I felt a sudden urge to laugh. So this was it. This was the brilliant plan she’d spent all this time and energy on. To get inside my world, just so she could abuse her petty authority to make my life miserable. When I got home, I sent a text to Ethan. “Is there a new hire starting at the management office tomorrow?” His call came a second later. “Ms. Ross, you found out? It was my call, I apologize. I thought—” “It’s not your fault,” I cut him off. “Hire her. And then, do exactly as I say.”

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I was born with a cursed tongue. Whatever bad I say, happens. Instantly. When I was four, I dropped a single grain of rice. My grandmother snatched me up and dragged me toward the old cesspit behind the house. “You wasteful thing! Still daring to waste food? I should just drown you now and be done with it!” I looked up at her and said softly, “You’re the one who’s going to fall in and drown.” The words had barely left my lips when her foot slipped on the muddy edge. She pitched forward into the filth and never climbed out. My grandfather pointed a shaking finger at me, his voice cracking. “You’re a jinx! A bad omen!” He said I’d killed her. The next day, he sold me to a man from out of town. As they walked away, I watched his back and whispered, “You and him. A speeding truck is going to hit you both.” No sooner had I spoken than a pickup truck, swerving to avoid a deer, barreled down the dirt road. It crushed them both beneath its wheels. The people in our small town said I was a devil child. They wanted to beat me to death, to silence my cursed mouth before I took them all down with me. My parents, desperate, knelt before the head of a spiritual sanctuary on Quiet Mountain for three days and three nights. They begged her to take me in, to let me live among them, hoping the mountain’s deep silence could contain my voice, could… protect me. They promised they’d come for me when things got better. But I waited and waited. I grew up in the sanctuary, becoming known in whispers as the girl who spoke to the mountain, and still, they never came. Until the day my mother appeared, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow. She had come to take me down the mountain. “Seraphina,” she choked out, “your father… they broke his legs. And your sister… those animals, they ruined her… Come home with me, Sera. Come see them one last time…” Seeing the endless grief on her face, I said nothing. I just packed my simple clothes and walked out of the sanctuary gates for the first time in sixteen years. Since entering that quiet place, I had rarely spoken a word. But now, I was ready to speak. And when I spoke, I would bring ruin to the houses of the wicked. 1 My mother didn’t take me back to our town in the foothills. Instead, we took a train, then another, journeying deep into the heart of a sprawling city, descending into a basement apartment. The room was sunless and suffocating, thick with the stench of sickness and despair. It held nothing but a single, dilapidated bed, upon which lay two people who were already ghosts. My father, once a man of broad shoulders and easy strength, was now a skeleton, his skin stretched thin over jutting bones. One leg was horrifically bent, a shard of bone piercing the skin, the wound crawling with maggots. My sister, Amelia, was even thinner. She was little more than a head on a skeletal frame, a husk wrapped in skin. Her eyes, wide and vacant, stared at nothing. She was a living corpse. A hot rage burned behind my eyes. In all my years at the sanctuary, Amelia’s letters had been my only connection to the world. She’d send them with whatever small comforts my parents could afford—a new shirt, a little cash. She was only two when I left, but I remember her pressing a sticky piece of candy into my mouth, her eyes shining. “For you, Sera. It’s sweet.” That was the one and only time my cursed tongue had ever tried to form a blessing. “You be good, Amelia. May you grow up happy and safe.” For all these years, I had allowed myself to believe she had. That my wish had somehow worked. Today, I learned the truth. My curse only worked one way. I wiped the tear from the corner of my eye. If they were so blind as to lay a hand on my family… Then I would teach them what it truly meant to be cursed. Before my mother could finish explaining, the steel door to the basement crashed and shuddered under a heavy barrage of kicks. “You filthy bitch, get out here! You didn’t take care of us last time, so today you’re gonna pay!” “Little slut! Thought you could crawl into Mr. Blackwood’s bed and get away with it? You pissed off Miss Langford, and now Mr. Blackwood is pissed. He sent us to teach you a lesson, to help Miss Langford cool off. He’s paying us good money to make sure you never walk right again!” Amelia, who had been catatonic, began to tremble violently, her hands flying to her head as she shrieked, “I didn’t… I didn’t climb into his bed! I’m not a homewrecker… It wasn’t me!” My father, gritting his teeth against the agony, dragged his broken body across the mattress to pull her into his arms. Before I could process what was happening, the door burst open with a deafening crash. A bucket of red paint flew through the air, drenching me. In an instant, I was covered head to toe in crimson, dripping like some demon clawed up from the depths of hell. A few thugs with cheap, dyed hair froze when they saw me, then broke into leering grins. “Well, well. You hiding a new one? She’s not bad looking.” “Perfect. We’re tired of the old one anyway. Looks like we’re all getting a turn today, boys!” Spitting filth, they began to spray-paint the walls with words like WHORE, SLUT, HOMEWRECKER… The leader, a cigarette dangling from his lips, sneered at us. “You really think you could hide from us down here?” “Mr. Blackwood’s offer was too good to pass up. We’ve been watching you in shifts. There’s no running.” My mother, her eyes blazing with a fury I’d never seen, screamed, “You can only kill a person once! You broke her father’s leg, you… you did what you did to my daughter! What more do you want? Do you want us all dead?” The thug spat on the floor. “Dead? That’s too easy. Miss Langford is a kind woman. She wants you to live. A long, long time.” “You get to die when she gets bored. Not a second before.” Another one picked up a paintbrush and advanced on my sister with a twisted smile. “Come on, little slut. Let me write a little something on your face. A nice photo for Miss Langford to cheer her up.” “What should we write today? How about… ‘I’m a bitch in heat. Free to use.’” He reached for her, but I threw myself in his path. He kicked me hard in the stomach, sending me sprawling. “Get out of the way, you fucking mutt. You looking to die?” I lay on the filthy concrete, then slowly pushed myself up. A cold, thin smile touched my lips. “You animals don’t deserve to live another day. In a moment, you will all be crushed to death by stones falling from the sky.” The room erupted in mocking laughter. “Stones from the sky? Is she crazy? What the hell is she talking about?” The laughter died in their throats as a tremendous cracking sound echoed from above. The ceiling gave way. A gaping hole opened, and massive slabs of concrete rained down upon them. 2 They were all crushed instantly, their laughter replaced by the sickening crunch of bone. My mother and I didn’t hesitate. We each grabbed one of my parents and hauled them out of that concrete tomb. The moment we cleared the doorway, the entire ceiling collapsed, burying them all. No one could have survived. My mother stared at the rubble, her face pale, her voice a trembling whisper. “Sera… what are we going to do?” I managed a faint smile, pulling a thick wad of cash from my pocket—lifted from the lead thug’s jacket in the chaos. “First, we find a quiet place. A clean place. Then we get Dad and Amelia to a doctor.” A flicker of hope returned to my mother’s eyes. She nodded, her resolve hardening. “Okay. Whatever you say.” We settled them in a small rented house on the edge of the city. As they rested, the full, ugly story finally came out. After I was left at the sanctuary, Amelia dedicated her life to one goal: getting me back. She studied relentlessly, determined to succeed, to make enough money so our family could be whole again. My parents, banished from our hometown, worked themselves to the bone at menial jobs, saving every penny for the day we could be reunited. But even in the city, the best they could afford was that lightless basement. They never wanted me to suffer with them. Life at the sanctuary was austere, but the headmistress was kind. I had food, shelter, and peace. They couldn’t bear to drag me from that. Then, Amelia graduated from college and landed a job at Blackwood Enterprises, as a personal assistant to the CEO, Donovan Blackwood. She was brilliant. She single-handedly secured a major client, earning a massive bonus and a promotion. She called my parents, ecstatic. It was enough. Enough to move out of the basement, enough to get a real house, enough to finally bring me home. But Amelia never saw that bonus. At the company’s annual gala, Donovan Blackwood’s fiancée, Victoria Langford, stormed in. In front of hundreds of colleagues, she slapped Amelia across the face, the sound echoing through the ballroom. “A little slut who slept her way into a job, and you dare show your face here? You think you’ve earned a place at this table?” She looked down her nose at my sister, her voice dripping with venom. “Someone get over here and rip that cheap dress off her! Let’s show everyone the price of being a homewrecker!” Amelia, shaking, looked to Donovan Blackwood, her voice a desperate plea. “Mr. Blackwood, please… tell her. Tell her nothing happened.” He didn’t even meet her eyes. “Amelia, you’ve upset my fiancée. Whatever she decides is a fitting punishment, you deserve it. As long as it makes her happy.” He then wrapped his arm around Victoria and walked away. While the entire company watched, my sister was stripped and humiliated, her spirit shattered. That night, she climbed to the roof of the office building. The wind was cold, and all she wanted was the release of death. But before she could jump, a group of thugs dragged her back from the ledge and pulled her into a dark alley. All night, the only sound was her screaming. The next day, a video of her ordeal was delivered to Victoria Langford. Donovan’s voice was casual, offhand. “See, Victoria? You think I’d waste my time with trash like that? Are you satisfied now?” Victoria pouted, her red lips forming a sneer. “How do I know this isn’t all an act? That you won’t just whisper a few sweet words and have her wrapped around your finger again?” Donovan issued an order on the spot. “Hire some guys. Have them follow her. Let them do whatever they want. They stop when Victoria says she’s not angry anymore.” From that day on, my sister’s life became a living hell. They tortured her with every cruel method imaginable, until there wasn’t an inch of her skin left unscarred. When my father tried to protect her, they shattered his leg on the spot. Listening to this, the quiet stillness I had cultivated for sixteen years burned away, replaced by a fire that consumed everything. Once I saw that my father and sister were stable and safe, I told my mother to lock the doors and trust no one. I took the simple travel bag I’d brought from the mountain and walked out of the house without a backward glance. You used your power and influence to push my family to the brink of death. Now, it’s my turn. Don’t blame my cursed tongue for what comes next. I am simply opening my mouth and sending you on your way. 3 Dressed in the simple, homespun clothes of the sanctuary, I appeared outside the gleaming tower of Blackwood Enterprises. Years of mountain air and quiet contemplation had given me an aura of otherworldly calm. That, combined with a face that had been called beautiful, was enough to stop people in their tracks. Within hours, photos and videos of me went viral. “The Mountain Mystic.” “The Girl Who Speaks Fate.” An endless stream of wealthy young men and reporters came, trying to get a word, a reaction. I remained silent, my expression serene. Until Donovan Blackwood walked past me. For the first time, I spoke. “Sir,” I said, my voice clear and calm. “You have a darkness about your brow. Blood will be spilled today.” A murmur went through the crowd. “She spoke!” “Tell my fortune next!” Donovan Blackwood stopped, his gaze a mixture of surprise and curiosity. “Oh? And what kind of blood are we talking about?” I looked directly into his eyes. “In a moment, sir, your forehead will be cut open.” The crowd of onlookers pressed closer, amused. “Don’t go, Mr. Blackwood! Let’s see if the mystic is right!” He found the whole situation absurd but was intrigued enough to play along. He crossed his arms. “Alright. I’m waiting. Let’s see how accurate this prophecy is…” CRASH! Before he could finish, a car careened out of control, slamming into a nearby street sign. A piece of metal shrapnel flew through the air, slicing across his temple. Blood instantly streamed down his face. The crowd gasped, their amusement turning to stunned awe. Their eyes on me were now filled with a feverish reverence. That evening, Donovan Blackwood hosted a dinner in my honor, attended by the city’s elite. I simply nodded and accepted the invitation. The restaurant was a masterpiece of glass and light, overlooking the glittering city. A table of the finest vegetarian cuisine had been prepared for me. Donovan raised his glass. “To the mystic who spoke today. If not for your warning, that car might have hit me directly. May I ask your name?” I smiled faintly. “You can call me Seraphina.” The men at the table seemed captivated by that small smile. I had just picked up my fork when the restaurant’s grand doors burst open with a violent bang. As expected, Victoria Langford swept in, flanked by a squad of grim-faced bodyguards. She marched straight to me. She raised her hand to strike, but Donovan caught her wrist. “Victoria, don’t be rude! This is Seraphina, a master.” Her eyes were wild and red. “Master? Don’t make me laugh! She’s just another slut in a costume trying to seduce you!” She ripped her arm from Donovan’s grasp. “She calls herself a mystic? Then why does she have hair? Men! Shave her head, right here, right now! Let’s show the whole internet what happens to wannabe-spiritual homewreckers!” She then jabbed a finger at Donovan. “Donovan Blackwood, if you dare stop me, the engagement is off! We’ll see how long your precious family business lasts then!” She glared around the room. “And if anyone else here isn’t afraid of making an enemy of the Langford family, feel free to step in and stop me!” Any words of protest died in the throats of the other guests. The room fell silent. Donovan tried to placate her. “Victoria, this time is different. Please, don’t make a scene.” “I’m making a scene?” Her eyes filled with tears. “You never cared what I did before, but for this… this fortune-telling tramp, you say I’m making a scene?” Her expression hardened instantly. “You forced my hand, Donovan! Men! Don’t just shave her head, break her legs! I’m going to throw her in a pit of snakes and let them bite her to death, piece by piece!” The guests turned pale. Victoria’s reputation as “The She-Devil” was well-earned; her cruelty towards those she deemed beneath her was legendary, and she always made good on her threats. With the Blackwood and Langford families behind her, no one dared to cross her. Seeing her fury, Donovan fell silent. He actually stepped aside, his tone suddenly indulgent. “Alright, alright. Whatever you want. I’ll handle the consequences.” I almost laughed. Consequences? This time, none of you are strong enough to handle the consequences. Donovan’s surrender only fueled her rage. Two bodyguards grabbed me, forcing me to my knees on the floor. She yanked my hair, pulling my head back, and brought her sharp, manicured nails toward my face. I spoke, my voice a low hum. “Victoria Langford, your hand is about to break.” It hadn’t even touched my skin. CRACK! A sickening snap echoed in the silent room. Her wrist bent at an impossible angle. “Aaaah!” she shrieked, letting go of my hair and collapsing in agony. 4 The entire room stared in shock. In that moment of stunned silence, I shook off the dazed bodyguards, smoothed my clothes, and calmly returned to my seat. I picked up my fork and took a deliberate, slow bite of food. Five-star hotel. The food really was delicious. No one moved. No one spoke. They looked at me as if I were a ghost. Victoria was still writhing on the floor, screaming. Donovan’s face was a mask of disbelief as he rushed to her side. “What was that? What did you do? You spoke, and her wrist just… broke?” His voice hardened. “Miss Seraphina, you owe me an explanation. Or I won’t hesitate to use less pleasant methods.” In his arms, Victoria shrieked, “Donovan, kill her! Kill her right now! She did this to me!” I smiled gently. “Miss Langford, everyone saw. I didn’t lay a single finger on you. How could I have possibly broken your wrist?” “Perhaps you have a calcium deficiency. You should get more sun.” Donovan’s face was dark with rage. He lifted her to carry her out. He had taken only two steps when I spoke again, my voice casual. “Donovan Blackwood, you’re about to fall.” Before the words faded, his foot caught on something, and he pitched forward. THUD. He went down hard, sending Victoria flying from his arms. She landed in a heap, crying out in pain. As a Langford heiress, she had only ever been the one to inflict humiliation. To suffer it herself was unthinkable. Forgetting her broken wrist, she screamed at her bodyguards. “Get her! Shut her cursed mouth for good!” Donovan scrambled up, pulling her close, his voice a furious command to his men. “Do what she says!” But seeing what they had just seen, the men hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances. One of the other guests asked tentatively, “Miss Seraphina… how did you know he was going to fall?” I smiled. “Oh, I saw his shoelace was untied. He tripped over it.” The simple explanation seemed to break the tension. The bodyguards took a collective breath and began to close in again. I set down my fork, lifted my tea, and took a slow, deliberate sip. My voice was quiet, but it carried an undeniable warning. “I wouldn’t touch me if I were you. If you do, no one is having a good night.” The bodyguards had already earned a furious glare from Victoria for their hesitation. If they didn’t act now, their own fate would be grim. I spoke again, my voice barely a whisper. “The next person who touches me will have their arm broken.” One of them lunged, his hand brushing my shoulder. He recoiled instantly with a piercing scream. “My arm! My arm!” Everyone watched in horror as his arm, the one that had touched me, dangled at a grotesque, unnatural angle. It was clearly broken. Panic finally erupted. The guests shot to their feet, their eyes wide with terror. “This is… this is witchcraft! Whatever she says comes true!” “What is she? Is she even human? Is she possessed?” Some of the weaker-kneed guests were already starting to collapse. Everyone’s only thought was to escape. This was bad luck on a scale they couldn’t comprehend. Donovan, terrified now, supported Victoria and turned to flee, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and this creature of ill omen. As the crowd surged toward the exit, I spoke one last time, my voice soft but absolute. “Tonight, no one is leaving this room.” SLAM! The instant the words left my mouth, the heavy oak doors swung shut with impossible force. They pushed, they kicked, they threw their bodies against them, but the doors wouldn’t budge. They were as solid as the wall itself. Even when the hotel’s maintenance staff came with power tools, the doors remained sealed tight. Donovan finally lost his composure completely. He spun around and yelled at me. “Miss Seraphina! We have no quarrel with you! This dinner was to thank you! Why are you doing this to us?” Only then did I slowly rise from my chair and walk toward him and Victoria. Victoria, all her previous arrogance gone, shrank behind Donovan, her eyes wide with a primal fear as she met my gaze. Seeing the panic on their faces, I finally let a real smile show, a smile as cold as ice. “I forgot to mention,” I said. “My family name is Song. I am Seraphina Song.” “The woman you slandered as a homewrecker, the woman you had tortured day and night… Amelia Song… is my sister.” “Now,” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper, “tell me again why I shouldn’t make your life a living hell?” The color drained from their faces. They stared at me in pure horror and stumbled back a step.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385470”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel