Category: English

When I begged my multi-millionaire husband for enough money to buy groceries, the girl who had been living in our guest house—his childhood best friend—snapped a hideous photo of me crying. She posted it straight to his Instagram. “The leech is begging for cash again. One like equals one hundred dollars for her allowance. How many likes do we think she’s worth?” I lunged for the phone, desperate to delete it. But my mother-in-law stepped in, grabbing my wrist with a manicured hand. “Leave it,” she said with a cold smile. “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” My husband, Colin, chimed in, praising Melody for her “creative solution.” Right then and there, he decreed that from that day forward, my living expenses would be strictly dictated by the number of likes that humiliating post received. For the sake of my grandmother, who was lying in a hospital bed clinging to life, I swallowed the bitter bile in my throat. I didn’t dare fight back. Over the next three years, the likes dwindled. The joke grew old for his country club friends. When my grandmother was eight thousand dollars short for a life-saving surgery, I begged everyone I knew. The post only garnered 70 likes. When I finally got pregnant, my body was so severely malnourished that I needed prenatal supplements just to keep the baby viable. That post got exactly 2 likes. My grandmother died because her heart couldn’t wait for a check that never came. And the child in my womb, starved of the very nutrients it needed to survive, quietly faded away into a pooling mess of blood on the bathroom floor. It was on the day my heart finally turned to ash, the day I resolved to file for divorce, that Colin was in a horrific car crash. Now, his broken body lay tethered to life-support in the ICU, but his spirit—his arrogant, insufferable soul—was floating near the ceiling, screaming at me. [Get the doctors! Call the best neurologists in the country! Have them flown in!] [If I wake up and find out you delayed this, I swear to God I won’t give you a single dime!] I didn’t flinch. I just pulled out my phone with its cracked screen, snapped a photo of his mangled face wrapped in bandages, and posted it to my Instagram. “Gathering likes. One like, and I pull the plug.” 1 The moment the post went live, Colin’s ghost nearly resurrected himself out of sheer rage. He floated down, thrashing and clawing at the air, muttering violently about how he was going to make me pay. But for all his spectral fury, the most he could manage was a faint breeze that shifted a single strand of my hair. [Jocelyn, are you out of your goddamn mind?] [Delete that post right now! Go tell the doctor you can see me! Make them fix this, or I swear I will—] I clicked my screen off, looking right through his translucent form with a bitter smirk. “Or what? You’ll post a poll on Facebook to make sure my grocery budget is capped at two hundred bucks next month? You’ll make sure I starve?” I tilted my head. “You’ve already done that to me, Colin. You’ve already done your worst. I’m not afraid of you anymore.” Colin’s ethereal face faltered. He knew exactly what that two-hundred-dollar limit had done. He knew it was the reason I miscarried. A flicker of genuine guilt crossed his features, but in true Colin fashion, his bruised ego quickly recovered. [No one is going to like that post,] he sneered, crossing his arms. [No one is going to join your little psychotic break and become an accomplice to murder!] I tapped my screen to check. He wasn’t wrong. The post had been up for fifteen minutes, and the little heart icon remained entirely empty. Zero likes. It made sense, really. For three years, every time Colin posted a photo mocking me for money, I had spammed our mutual friends, begging them to throw a ‘like’ my way just so I could eat. I had exhausted them. Over time, they had all either muted or blocked me. And even the ones who hadn’t wouldn’t dare touch a post joking about murder. I let out a soft, hollow sigh. What a shame. Colin smirked, assuming I had admitted defeat. He started barking orders again, telling me to get off my ass and fetch the attending physician. I didn’t move. I just looked at him, my eyes tracing the terrified contour of his fading jawline. “I know one person who will like it,” I whispered. “Someone who wants you dead more than anyone else in the world.” Before Colin could even process the confusion on his face, I looked down at my screen. I tapped the little heart icon beneath my own post. “One like.” Without giving him a second to react, I reached over to the wall and ripped the ventilator tube straight out of the socket. 2 The moment the oxygen was severed, the symphony of machines keeping Colin’s body alive erupted into a frantic, flashing panic. Alarms shrieked. The monitor above his bed began to draw jagged, desperate lines, warning us both that the meat suit on the mattress was rapidly expiring. The green line of his heartbeat began to flatten, stretching out like a long, terrible sigh. It looked exactly like the monitor next to my grandmother’s bed, on that rainy Tuesday when I sat beside her, sobbing because I couldn’t afford her life. It took a few agonizing seconds for Colin to realize what I had done. I wasn’t playing a game. I wasn’t being dramatic. I truly, deeply wanted him to die. His ghost froze, staring at his own suffocating body, and then he began to scream. He threw himself against the heavy oak door of the ICU suite, pounding his fists against the glass, screaming for help. But the universe has a wickedly ironic sense of humor. He was a ghost. I was the only one who could see him. I was the only one who could hear his terror. Realizing he was trapped, he floated back to me, dropping to his translucent knees. [Jocelyn, stop being crazy! Plug it back in! Call the doctors!] [What happened to your grandmother and our baby… that was an accident! But what you’re doing right now is murder!] [Are you trying to throw your life away for me?] [I’m begging you. Plug it in. I promise, the second I wake up, I won’t hold this against you. We can go back to how things were!] I let out a sharp, breathless laugh. Go back to how things were? A hundred dollars a like? “I don’t think so,” I said, my voice shockingly calm. “You might have stopped seeing me as your wife a long time ago, but legally speaking, I am still your next of kin.” I reached over to the rolling tray and casually picked up the Do Not Resuscitate order the doctors had asked me to review. I waved the paper in the air. “Which means I have the legal right to sign away your life. I can legally, rightfully, and completely lawfully pull your plug and send you straight to hell to apologize to my grandmother and my baby.” I leaned in closer to his shimmering face. “Besides, I played by your rules. I waited the agonizing fifteen minutes until the post got a like before I made my move. I learned this all from you, Colin. Did I do a good job?” 3 Colin was speechless. Because I hadn’t lied. Everything shattered the day Melody—the fragile, golden-haired ghost of his childhood—returned from Paris and declared she had nowhere to go. She moved into our guest house, and my marriage fractured overnight. Colin swallowed every manipulative lie she fed him. He grew cold. Distant. To prove his loyalty to her, he froze my bank accounts. He used his connections in the industry to blacklist me so I couldn’t find a job. He reduced me to a beggar in my own home, forcing me to hold up a whiteboard detailing exactly why I needed money, while Melody snapped pictures for his Instagram. One like, one hundred dollars. Those little digital hearts had stripped me of my dignity, my family, and my future. Looking at my dead eyes, Colin finally understood that the woman who used to love him was gone. He knew I was going to stand there and watch him die. So, he bowed his head and pressed his ghostly forehead against the linoleum floor. [I don’t want to die,] he sobbed. I stood up, looking down at him from a great, insurmountable height. “You don’t want to die? Do you think my grandmother wanted to die? Do you think my baby wanted to turn into blood?” He wept harder, his spectral form shivering as he poured out his apologies. [I know I was wrong. I know it. But please, for the sake of the love we used to have, give me a chance to fix this.] [When I wake up, I’ll treat you like a queen. I’ll send my mother and Melody away. I’ll never let them hurt you again.] [And if you really can’t stand the sight of me, I’ll give you the divorce. We’ll split everything fifty-fifty. We can walk away clean. Please?] A slow, dark smile crept onto my lips. “You know, I really did want a divorce,” I murmured. “But right now, I think being a widow sounds infinitely better.” “You never got around to signing a will, did you? Under state law, I’ll inherit at least three-quarters of your estate. That’s a hell of a lot better than fifty-fifty.” Colin began to frantically kowtow against the floor. It was a bizarre sight—he couldn’t touch the physical world, yet the violent impact of his head against the ground seemed real to his soul. The ghostly skin of his forehead began to bruise, turning a sickly purple before ethereal blood started to seep into his eyes. I felt absolutely nothing. I just turned my gaze back to the monitor, watching the jagged line smooth out into a flat, decisive finality. But at that exact, critical second—the heavy door flew open. A hand snatched the oxygen tube from my grip and jammed it forcefully back into the wall. 4 I sighed, turning my head with a profound sense of disappointment. It was Melody. Colin’s ghost leaped up, vibrating with sheer ecstasy. He rushed over to her, his phantom tears mixing with the spectral blood on his face. [Melody! Oh my god, thank god you’re here!] [This crazy bitch just tried to kill me! Go get the doctors! Tell them to—] But before Colin could finish his sentence, Melody raised her hand and delivered a vicious, stinging slap across my cheek. Her hand phased right through Colin’s incorporeal chest to hit me. [Jocelyn, you calculating little whore,] she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. [Did you honestly think that if this idiot died, you could just waltz in, take his money, and kick me to the curb? In your dreams!] [I told you the very first day I moved into this house. I didn’t come here to join your little family. I came here to destroy it. Did you forget?] I hadn’t forgotten. But Colin had never known. The shock on his face was a masterpiece. He couldn’t fathom that the truth I had screamed at him for years was real—that his sweet, innocent, fragile childhood friend was actually a venomous snake. Seeing the utter devastation in Colin’s eyes, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well?” I said, looking right through Melody to the ghost behind her. “Do you see how amazing your little golden girl is now? Do you finally realize if you were loving a woman or a monster?” Melody followed my gaze, blinking at the empty air. She couldn’t see a thing. “Jocelyn, who the hell are you talking to?” I kindly explained the situation. I told her Colin was floating right between us. But, predictably, Melody just assumed I had finally suffered a complete psychological break. I didn’t waste another breath on her. I simply reached out, intending to yank the cord out again. But Melody lunged. She grabbed my wrists, her grip surprisingly strong, and began to scream at the top of her lungs. “Help! Somebody help!” And then, just as the door handle clicked open, she violently slapped her own face, threw herself onto the cold hospital floor, and burst into hysterical, trembling sobs. “Jocelyn, please! Whatever I did to make you hate me, I’m sorry!” she wailed, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured cheeks. “Take it out on me, but please don’t hurt Colin! Please don’t kill him!” 5 It was a flawless performance. The transition from cruel mastermind to helpless victim was smoother than silk. Colin and I had watched this exact play countless times over the years. Except this time, Colin finally realized that all those times he had punished me for “bullying” her, I had been completely innocent. [What… what is happening?] Colin stammered, staring at her in horror. [She hit herself. She just… did it herself.] I gave him a tired, entirely accustomed smile. “What’s the point of this scene, Melody?” I asked wearily. “Your biggest fan is currently in a coma. Who exactly is this performance for?” Melody’s crying hitched for a fraction of a second. Muscle memory had taken over, and she had momentarily forgotten the context. But she didn’t break character. Instead, she scrambled on her knees toward the bewildered doctor who had just rushed into the room. “Doctor, please! Call the police!” she cried, gripping his lab coat. “I saw her post on Instagram—she threatened to murder him! I’m his best friend, so I rushed over. The second I walked in, this psycho pulled his life support! She’s trying to kill him!” As horrified as Colin was by Melody’s betrayal, his survival instinct trumped his heartbreak. He immediately sided with her. [You’re done, Jocelyn!] he sneered, puffing out his chest. [When you’re rotting in a prison cell, I’ll make sure to visit you just to laugh!] I ignored him entirely, keeping my eyes fixed on the doctor. The physician took one look at the monitors, checked the chart, and let out a heavy sigh, clearly annoyed by the theatrics. “Miss,” the doctor said, gently but firmly prying Melody’s hands off his coat. “Mrs. Jocelyn is the patient’s legal wife and medical proxy.” “She was the first to arrive after the accident. She reviewed his grim prognosis and signed a DNR. What she just did was execute her legal right to refuse further medical intervention. It is fully compliant with state law and hospital ethics. It is “not” murder.” The doctor adjusted his glasses, looking down at Melody. “If you are merely a friend of the patient, you have absolutely no say in his medical care.” Both Colin and Melody froze, sheer panic washing over them. But a split second later, the door slammed open again. “She might not have a say, but I certainly do!” 6 It was Cynthia, my mother-in-law. Since she was Colin’s biological mother, she absolutely had the standing to contest my medical decisions if they hadn’t been formalized through court yet. I rolled my eyes. This is exactly why the villains in movies always lose—they talk too much. I never should have posted that stupid Instagram photo just for a momentary thrill. I should have kept my mouth shut, skipped the monologue, and just pulled the damn plug. The moment Cynthia swept into the room, she bypassed her dying son entirely and immediately helped Melody off the floor, cooing over her. Then, she marched over to the doctor’s chart, snatched the DNR I had signed, and ripped it into pieces. “Resume all life-saving measures immediately,” she barked. “I want a new treatment plan on my desk in an hour.” The medical team, clearly realizing they had stumbled into a vicious family war, nodded awkwardly and hurried out to adjust the machines. The second the door clicked shut, Cynthia turned and slapped me hard across the face. “You ungrateful bitch.” “If Melody hadn’t texted me, I would have lost my son today.” Colin noticed the slap before I even registered the sting. For some inexplicable reason, his ghost rushed forward, throwing his arms up to block his mother’s hand, though it phased right through him. [Mom, stop! It’s not what you think!] [Melody is a snake! We’ve been wrong about Jocelyn this whole time. Honestly, she had every right to pull the plug. Don’t hit her!] Unfortunately for him, Cynthia couldn’t hear the dead. She turned her back on me and gently cupped Melody’s cheek, her eyes filled with maternal grief. “Colin is already lying in a coma,” Cynthia whispered softly to Melody. “Why did you have to play the victim card and hurt yourself like this? Don’t you know how much it breaks my heart to see you in pain?” Colin’s ghost stopped dead in his tracks. [What does she mean by that?] he asked, his voice trembling. [Did she… did she know this whole time? Has she been helping Melody abuse you?] I touched my stinging cheek and nodded. “Yep. Looks like you’re finally meeting the real women in your life, Colin.” Cynthia frowned, confused by my conversation with thin air. Melody quickly jumped in. “She’s faking a psychotic episode, Cynthia. She claims Colin’s ghost is floating right next to us, watching everything.” She stroked Cynthia’s arm. “You should go home and rest. Leave this to me. I’ll handle the trash.” 7 Cynthia nodded, glaring at me one last time before sweeping out of the room. I didn’t leave. I just stood at the foot of the bed, looking at Colin’s shattered spirit. “Congratulations,” I said dryly. “You get to live.” Despite the earth-shattering revelations about his mother and his so-called best friend, Colin’s deeply ingrained narcissism immediately began working overtime to protect his ego. [Melody is just doing this because she loves me so much,] he reasoned, pacing the air. [And my mom only helped her because she knows Melody is the right woman for me!] [I’m not mad at them. I get it. When I wake up, I’m going to use this little psychotic break of yours to lock you in a mental ward, finalize the divorce, and marry Melody!] I smiled slowly. And then, I very generously repeated his entire monologue, word for word, to Melody. Melody stared at me like I was a grotesque alien. “Jocelyn, what kind of sick game are you playing?” she spat, dropping the sweet voice completely. “You know better than anyone that I don’t give a shit about Colin. Only a pathetic loser like you could ever love a moron like him. I’ve only ever been here for the money.” She crossed her arms, smirking. “You knew I was after his cash, and you were so terrified I’d scam your precious husband that you refused to divorce him. You brought every ounce of your suffering upon yourself. You deserve it.” Oh, I knew all of that. That was exactly why I repeated his words. I wanted maximum collateral damage. I wanted Colin to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. I glanced at Colin. He looked like he had been hollowed out with a rusty spoon. Satisfied, I turned to leave. But suddenly, Melody lunged at me again. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. Colin and I both stared at her in utter bewilderment. What was she acting out now? Before I could brace myself, she overpowered me, dragged my hand toward the wall, and used my own grip to rip the oxygen tube out of the socket for the second time. With the life support severed again, Colin’s heart monitor let out a long, uninterrupted shriek. The line went totally flat. I was stunned. Before I could ask what the hell she was doing, Melody threw my arm away, sprinted out into the hallway, and began screaming with bloodcurdling terror. “Help! Murder! Somebody help me!” “Jocelyn is murdering him! She’s killing Colin!”

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My girlfriend, Helena, was a professional voice actress. To protect her vocal cords, she had a strict personal rule: she never repeated a single sentence. Not to anyone. When I proposed to her on a rain-slicked balcony in Manhattan, I begged her to say “yes” just one more time so I could commit it to memory. She turned away, her voice cool and crisp. “The words don’t matter, Jonah. Only the intention does.” To compromise, I started carrying a small digital voice recorder everywhere I went. I was terrified of losing her words, terrified that a momentary distraction would erase a piece of her from my life forever. Until the day our wedding planner called us in to finalize the reception details. Halfway through the meeting, my phone rang with an urgent call from my manager, and I stepped out into the hallway. When I walked back in twenty minutes later, Helena and my best friend, Shane, had already wrapped up the entire session. That night, sitting alone in the quiet dark of my apartment, I clicked open the voice recorder. Out of the seventeen sentences she had spoken during the consultation: Three were spent asking Shane what color pocket square he’d prefer for his suit. Five were spent confirming his specific dietary restrictions for the catered dinner. Seven were dedicated to fretting over whether they should swap his dress shoes for soft-soled loafers, worried his feet might ache after hours of standing. Shane had laughed through the recording, calling her a broken record for repeating herself so many times. And the remaining two? One was spoken directly to the planner: “It’s fine, the groom doesn’t care about these small details.” And the last one was spoken to Shane, her voice soft and entirely uncharacteristic: “I just don’t want the groom’s experience to be ruined.” Referring to Shane. Not me. In that quiet, agonizing second, the truth settled into my chest like lead. She wasn’t incapable of repeating herself. I just wasn’t worth the extra breath. I called the planner and canceled the venue reservation that night. Then, I opened my laptop and accepted the two-year corporate transfer to our Paris branch. If she didn’t care about our wedding, she could give it to someone else. … The line had barely gone dead after I canceled the venue when Helena called. “Jonah, the planner just emailed saying you called off the venue. What is wrong with you?” Her tone was sharp, clipped, laced with disbelief. “We just talked about this yesterday. You cancel on a whim? Do you think this wedding is a joke?” It was always like this. Whenever my actions carried any emotional weight, she never asked why. She never reflected on what she might have done. Her default reaction was to accuse me of being dramatic, of failing to see the bigger picture. In the background, I heard Shane clear his throat with a faint, amused cough. “Told you, Helena. Whenever Jonah throws a fit, he’s just begging you to coddle him. What’s with the attitude? Do you actually want to marry the guy or what?” Helena let out a long, irritated sigh. “Fine, fine,” she muttered. Then, begrudgingly into the receiver: “What is it this time, Jonah? Can’t you just talk to me like an adult?” It was funny, really. Shane’s words always carried far more weight with her than mine ever had. I remembered our last anniversary. She had stood me up at an upscale Italian restaurant downtown. On the quiet drive home, I sat in the passenger seat, my chest tight with unspoken hurt. She hadn’t said a word. When I finally broke down, tears spilling onto my collar as I asked why she couldn’t just offer a single word of comfort, she had only offered a cold, exhausted scoff: “Stop making a scene, Jonah. I’m tired.” She had left me alone to drown in my own feelings. “That’s more like it!” Shane’s cheerful voice drifted through the speaker. “Look, brother, if you’ve got an issue, just spit it out. She’s straightforward—she doesn’t get all these subtle mind games, and she’s slammed with work. She’s lowering her guard here, so don’t be a pain.” Once, I might have thought he was just playing mediator, trying to keep the peace between us. But now, I saw the truth plain as day. He was telling me I was unreasonable. Ungrateful. He was my friend first. He only knew Helena because I had introduced them. Yet somewhere along the line, without me noticing, he had quietly crossed the aisle to stand by her side. I opened my mouth, a lump forming in my throat. “I—” “Hey, folks! What can I get started for you tonight?” a server’s cheerful voice cut through the background. Shane grabbed the phone. “Hold that thought, Jonah. She took me out for some food. We’ll be back soon—we’ll talk when we get home.” My stomach churned into a cold, hollow knot. They were together. Again. Because of her work, Helena rarely had weekends off. Every time I wanted to go on a date, she was either locked in the booth or dissecting scripts. Yesterday’s wedding consultation had been time I literally begged her to carve out of her calendar. Yet tonight, during hours she claimed were reserved for crucial studio meetings, she was out grabbing late-night street food with Shane. She didn’t just refuse to spare extra words for me. She refused to spare time. An hour later, the front door clicked open. They walked in wrapped in a cloud of greasy, extra-spicy chili oil aroma. Helena’s lips were visibly swollen and red, and she was coughing weakly into her elbow. Shane was leaning against the entryway, clutching his stomach with laughter. “You are pathetic! You can’t handle a tiny bit of hot sauce?” Helena had avoided spicy food for years to safeguard her voice. Instinctively, my chest tightened. I stepped toward the kitchen and poured a glass of warm water, handing it to her. “You ate spicy food? I thought you never touched the stuff.” She took the glass but didn’t drink. Instead, she turned and pressed it into Shane’s hands. “Stop dramatic acting. Look at your eyes—they’re practically bleeding. Drink this.” I stood frozen in the middle of the living room. In five years together, I had never tasted spicy food in this apartment. Once, when she was out of town, I made a dish with a hint of red pepper flakes. When she returned and caught the faint lingering scent in the air, she flew into a rage and spent the night sleeping on the couch in her soundproof home studio. Noticing my rigid posture, Helena shifted slightly, stepping between Shane and me like a shield. “I wanted to try it myself,” she said smoothly, her tone defensive. “It has nothing to do with him. Don’t start fussing, Jonah. We know what we’re doing.” “Don’t start fussing. We know what we’re doing.” It was as if I were the outsider crashing their private world. The urge to explain, to argue, vanished instantly. “Right,” I said quietly. “You two rest up. I have work to finish.” Shane gave her shoulder a playful nudge. “See? I told you he wouldn’t hold a grudge! You’re always trying to turn us against each other.” Helena let out a weary laugh, then offered me a plastic container smeared with dark red sauce. “You haven’t eaten, right? You’re always talking about wanting street food, so I packed some leftovers for you.” She pulled her jacket back on. “I’m going to drop him off at his place and then head straight to the studio. Don’t wait up if you’re tired.” They left, their soft laughter echoing down the hallway. The promised conversation about why I canceled the wedding was forgotten before it even began. And despite me saying I had work to finish, neither of them had bothered to ask what that work was. I opened the container. The skewers were cold, drenched in peanut sauce and heavy chili paste—from a street vendor that had given me severe food poisoning two years ago. I tied the plastic bag tight and tossed it directly into the trash. I spent the rest of the afternoon packing up my life. By dusk, as I was folding my clothes into a sleek leather suitcase, Helena returned. She was holding a graphic novel, its cover instantly recognizable. It was the flagship fantasy comic Shane had raved about for months—the one currently being adapted into a high-budget audio drama. She flipped through the pages, softly reciting dialogue under her breath in distinct, theatrical tones. Usually, this meant she was auditioning for a lead role and steeping herself in the character. She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen, a subtle smile touching her lips. As I walked past her to put away a jacket, my eyes caught her screen. [Nailed it! All those late nights were worth it—I got the role. Don’t worry, nobody is going to ruin your favorite girl now. You owe me big time!] The response came back almost instantly from a familiar contact. A tiny burst of audio played through her phone speaker. Even muffled, I recognized Shane’s hyperactive voice. “I literally mentioned it once offhand and you actually landed it?! You spoil me way too much! Quick, say my favorite line! Do the voice!” My throat constricted. Three years ago, I had loved a web novel deeply. The female protagonist shared a quiet, resilient grace that matched Helena’s natural speaking voice perfectly. I had once asked her, almost shyly, if she would read a single paragraph of that character’s monologue for me. She had refused point-blank. “Characters have souls, Jonah,” she had said solemnly. “As a voice artist, I respect the integrity of the work. I don’t use my craft to indulge personal fan-service.” Later, she turned down the official dubbing contract for that very project, claiming the character lacked artistic challenge. Helena glanced at me, locked her phone, and adjusted her tone to something cool and casual. “Recording starts tomorrow. I need to practice in the booth. Don’t bother me, and try not to knock on the door.” Driven by an impulse I couldn’t quite name, I walked down the hall and stood outside her studio. Through the heavy wood paneling, I heard her clear her throat, dropping her pitch into a desperate, velvety whisper. “Even if it means eternal damnation… I will never betray you.” She wasn’t satisfied. She repeated it. Again. And again. Each iteration hit my chest like a dull strike. By the twentieth attempt, her voice was noticeably raspy, entirely stripped of the effortless command she usually brought to her roles. The character in that comic was supposed to be bright and ethereal; her voice was completely ill-suited for it. Yet she kept trying, straining her throat without a second thought. I remembered something she had said to me a few months back. She had told me I lived like an old-fashioned, proper gentleman—predictable, obedient, polite, but ultimately lacking spark. Unlike Shane, she said. Shane had an infectious, chaotic energy that unlocked hidden layers in people, giving her the courage to break her own boundaries and experiment with wilder, unconventional roles. At the time, I thought she was merely offering an objective analysis of how personality types influenced her acting technique. I had been too blind to realize it was the most elegant confession she could muster. I was simply too late to understand. That midnight, the audio production company officially announced the main voice cast on social media. Helena posted her promotional statement at precisely 12:04 AM—a timestamp corresponding directly to Shane’s birthday, December 4th. When she finally emerged from the studio, she caught me staring at the Twitter feed on my laptop. Her brow furrowed slightly. She walked over and gently slid the laptop lid shut. “Don’t read into it, Jonah. I’m just fulfilling a friend’s dream. When I treat him well, it reflects well on you too, doesn’t it?” I couldn’t count how many times she had used that exact justification. She was obsessed with framing her devotion to Shane as an act of generosity that somehow elevated my social standing. She didn’t understand the fundamental truth of love: if you care about someone, your devotion shouldn’t be distributed—it should belong to them first. It didn’t matter anymore. My flight confirmation hit my inbox. In three days, I would be on a plane to Paris. … Audio dramas move fast. By the third afternoon, the production was already recording its emotional climax. Helena had warned me in advance that she’d be doing heavy emotional work and likely wouldn’t be home until late. I was in the bedroom, taping shut the last box of my possessions, when her studio assistant sent me a frantic text. [Jonah, Helena is totally stuck on a scene. Can you come to the studio? She needs help getting into character.] Because voice acting lacks visual sets, actors often rely on external triggers to tap into complex emotions. In the past, I had visited the booth to help her ground herself. Usually, I didn’t have to do anything—just standing where she could see me was enough for her to conjure the quiet intimacy her roles required. I pulled my suitcase to the curb, hailed a cab, and set it for the studio. When I pushed open the soundproof heavy doors of Studio B, a raw, gut-wrenching sob echoed through the speakers in the lobby. I paused, preparing to ask the sound engineer which scene they were tracking, but stopped dead as I looked through the one-way glass into the isolation booth. Helena was on her knees, clutching Shane tightly around the waist, her face buried in his chest, weeping uncontrollably. “Don’t leave me! Please… please don’t leave me!” Shane slowly loosened her grip, stepping back with an expression of tortured longing. They stood there, bathed in the dim booth lights, gazing into each other’s eyes with a devastating, raw intimacy. In the control room, several familiar voice actors exchanged awkward, panicked glances when they noticed me. Afraid I was about to cause a scene, they instinctively took a step back. I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. I just stood there, looking at the girl I had loved for five years as if she were a complete stranger. My eyes fell on the director’s script sitting on the console. It was a tragedy. A scene about irreversible separation. So Helena “was” capable of crying for someone until she broke. Six months ago, I was involved in a severe car accident that left me in a coma for four days. The doctors had urged my family and friends to speak to me constantly to stimulate my brain waves. During those dark, lingering days of semi-consciousness, I remembered hearing her composed, measured voice updating me on her schedule. I remembered hearing her laugh heartily with Shane at the foot of my hospital bed. I even remembered the muffled sobs of the family next door ringing down the corridor. But I had never heard her shed a single tear for me. When I finally woke up, a nurse had gently teased her, saying she was the most remarkably calm girlfriend they’d ever seen—she hadn’t cried once outside the ICU. I had defended her back then. I told myself she was grieving in private, that everyone processed trauma differently. Now I knew the truth. Whether in performance or in reality, I was simply never the man who could move her to tears. The scene wrapped. Shane remained inside the booth, adjusting his headphones. The assistant rushed into the control room, freezing in horror when she saw me standing by the glass. “Jonah! I—I’m so sorry!” she stammered, turning red. “I didn’t know Shane was going to drop by to visit. When he showed up, the director asked him to step in as a reader to help her mood, and I totally forgot to text you not to come!” She looked at me nervously. “Do you… do you want me to ask the director to let you go in and try a take with her?” I looked at the director, who was beaming with satisfaction as he reviewed the waveform on his screen. I smiled faintly and shook my head. “No need. The recording sounds perfect. I won’t ruin your workflow. I have places to be.” … Back at the apartment, while I was grabbing my passport, my phone buzzed with an alert. Someone from the studio had leaked a behind-the-scenes clip of the emotional breakthrough to social media. The comment section was exploding: [Holy crap, is that her boyfriend?! Finally seeing his face! He’s gorgeous!] [No wonder Helena’s acting was so insane—this is pure, unscripted emotion. They look so good together! I’m total trash for this pairing!] [Wait, hold on. I ran into Helena and her partner at a coffee shop last month. Her boyfriend doesn’t look like this at all. Isn’t this guy her boyfriend’s best friend?] [Plus one! I saw her with her actual guy a while back. She never tagged him, but it was obvious. This isn’t him! Is she cheating? I’ve seen this guy on her story like ten times—they’re always out alone together!] Within twenty minutes, the hashtag “#HelenaCheatingBoyfriendsFriend” shot into the top three trending topics. It turned out that complete strangers on the internet could see the blurred boundaries between them instantly. I hadn’t been crazy after all. Before I could close the app, Helena’s caller ID flashed across the screen. I picked up. “Did you leak that studio footage?!” Her voice was hysterical, vibrating with anger. “How could you be so vicious, Jonah? He’s your best friend! He was just helping me get into character! Are you really so insecure that you have to ruin us over work?” “Delete whatever garbage you put online and post an immediate apology and statement,” she commanded, her breathing heavy. “Otherwise, the wedding is off. We are done.” A cold sensation washed over my fingertips. So Shane had become important enough for her to weaponize our entire future together. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “If I tell you I didn’t post it, you won’t believe me anyway. So let’s save ourselves the trouble—we’re done.” “Jonah, wait—” I hung up and turned off the phone. An hour later, as I sat in the back of an Uber toward JFK, my phone lit up with a push notification. Helena’s team had released an official statement. [Official Statement: CV Helena and Mr. Jonah Miller ended their relationship amicably some time ago. There is no truth to the rumors of infidelity. The leaked footage was illegally obtained and released by an internal party to manipulate public opinion. The gentleman in the video is her current partner. We will take strict legal action against all defamatory claims.] I stared at the screen, my fingernails pressing hard into my palms. She had always refused to post about me publicly, claiming she wanted to protect my privacy from toxic internet trolls. Yet now, without a moment’s hesitation, she officially claimed Shane while throwing me to the wolves as a bitter, vengeful ex who leaked private files to sabotage her. This was how she protected me. My inbox immediately overflowed with vile messages from her defensive fanbase. Strangers left comments calling me a loser, a pathetic stalker, a terrible friend. A few extreme fans even managed to track down my firm’s public email, demanding I be fired for corporate misconduct. Interspersed among the harassment was a text from Helena’s secondary burner account: [Don’t take the public statement personally. It’s just a temporary PR strategy the team came up with to save the project. Stay inside for a few days and cool off.] [When the dust settles, I’ll clear your name. Just don’t do anything reckless in the meantime—it will ruin my character arc. If you hadn’t threw a temper tantrum in the first place, none of this would have happened. Take this as a lesson.] A temporary strategy. Their brilliant solution was to turn me into a dishonest trespasser so they could emerge untarnished. A single tear escaped my eye, hitting the glass screen of my phone with a quiet “tap”. It didn’t matter anymore. None of it. I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, deleted her contact, and wiped every messaging app clean. Then, I pulled up the Google Drive folder containing five years of our relationship logs, saved text messages, and the timestamped receipts from the wedding planner showing we were actively booking vendors just six days ago. I uploaded the entire archive onto a public forum thread. I shoved the phone into my pocket, dragged my suitcase through the terminal doors, and boarded the plane. As the jet lifted into the gray afternoon sky, watching the vast expanse of New York shrink into tiny geometric blocks beneath the clouds, I felt a strange, light relief. Helena. Your voice, your time, your love—none of it belongs to me anymore. The ten-hour flight across the Atlantic was the deepest, most uninterrupted sleep I had experienced in years. Yet, in the deepest layers of my dreams, I kept seeing the Helena from five years ago. Back when she was an unknown voice talent, auditioning in cramped apartments. Every time she booked a minor gig, she would run to me, her eyes shining like stars. On the eve of her first major lead, she was so anxious she couldn’t sleep. I remembered waking up at two in the morning to brew her warm chamomile tea, lighting her favorite lavender candle, and rubbing her back as I whispered that she was going to be brilliant. I remembered her leaning her head into the crook of my neck, sleep-addled and soft, whispering, “Just wait until I’m famous, Jonah. I’m going to make sure everyone knows I have the best partner in the world.” Back then, my favorite part of the day was sitting beside her in the evenings, listening to her run lines, helping her analyze script beats, correcting her cadence. When toxic trolls left mean comments on her early dubbing reels, I stayed up late deleting every single one so she wouldn’t wake up to heartbreak. I remembered looking into her eyes and saying, with absolute conviction, “You are going to be the greatest voice actor of our generation.” That was when we were closest. But as the years passed, those quiet evenings grew rarer and rarer. She matured. Her voice found an audience of millions. She didn’t need me to delete her bad reviews anymore—she had a dedicated PR team for that. She needed me less. She stayed with me less. Although a quiet sorrow occasionally settled in my chest, I told myself that her fulfilling her dream was my dream too. Until she met Shane. Shane—who belittled her rules, challenged her boundaries, and treated her profession like a game. Suddenly, my quiet support was “boring.” I wasn’t blind. I had felt the distance widening between us. I had tried to close it. Two years ago, when I received my first offer for an international management transfer, the contract stipulated a two-year deployment that guaranteed a promotion to VP upon return. It was a massive opportunity—one that I hoped would bring my career closer to her rising star. I was ready to tell her over dinner. But the minute I stepped into the apartment, I found the studio in crisis. A competitor’s fanbase had launched a coordinated smear campaign against her; her studio’s latest radio drama was being boycotted, and rumors were destroying her reputation. I opened her door and saw her sitting in her chair, head in her hands, crushed. She had looked up at me with tear-filled eyes and whispered, “You’re finally back. I thought even you were giving up on me.” In that single second, I made my decision. I chose her. I turned down the transfer. The colleague who took the slot in my place returned two years later to run an entire regional office. I never regretted staying. Not once. I never blamed myself for the choices I made back then. They were made out of pure, genuine love, and I took full ownership of them. Even if I was wrong, all I had to do was start over. When I opened my eyes, the morning sun over Paris was cutting through the clouds. The five-year dream was officially over.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556419”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After the family photo session, my younger sister, Lynn, sat hunched over the computer screen, scrolling through the raw shots one by one. Too much squinting—delete. Smile isn’t sweet enough—delete. Showing too much teeth—delete. Out of forty proofs, she finally picked a single shot. She pointed at the monitor with a triumphant nod. “This is the one,” Lynn declared. “Dad looks warm, Mom looks graceful, Jordan looks so handsome, and I look gorgeous.” Our parents leaned in, nodding in eager agreement. My older brother, Jordan, chuckled beside them. “Definitely. That’s the best one by far.” “Our Lynn always has great taste,” Mom praised, beaming. The photographer hesitated, hovering his mouse over the image. “Are you sure you want to go with this one?” Curious, I stepped closer to look over their shoulders. It was only then that I realized what had happened. In the photo, the bright pink balloon Lynn was holding happened to completely block my face. All that was left of me was a tiny sliver of a shoulder tucked into the far right corner of the frame. I stared at the screen, a quiet lump forming in my throat. “Can we pick a different one?” I asked softly. “You can’t even see me in this.” Lynn blinked up at me, innocent as a doll. “So what if you can’t see your face? It’s not like people don’t know you were standing there.” She turned back to the photographer and pointed at the pink orb. “Actually, can you edit this balloon to be a little bigger? It’ll make my face look smaller.” The photographer complied. With a few clicks of his mouse, the balloon expanded. My shoulder vanished completely. Mom patted my arm, her voice laced with mild annoyance. “Carlin, it’s a family photo. Does every single person really need to be visible? Don’t ruin the mood for everyone.” Dad was already pulling out his wallet, urging the photographer to print and frame the enlarged print right away. Later, that portrait was hung smack in the center of our new living room wall. Every guest who came over gushed about what a picture-perfect family of four they were. Not a single person noticed that behind the giant pink balloon stood a fifth member. There was no room for me in that family portrait. But then again, when had there ever been room for me in this house? … “Oh, Beth, this portrait turned out so beautifully!” Aunt Susan gushed the moment she stepped through the front door, her eyes fixed on the canvas in the entryway. “Lynn is stunning, Jordan looks so sharp, and you and David look like a power couple.” She stared at it for a long minute, entirely oblivious to the fact that I wasn’t in it. After showering the portrait with praise, Aunt Susan turned around with a bright smile and pulled two glossy gift bags from her tote bag, handing them to Lynn and Jordan. “For my favorite girl, some designer perfume. And for Jordan, those new sneakers you wanted. Take a look—hope you guys love them!” By the time she turned to me, her hands were empty. Instead, she reached out and casually patted my head, a well-practiced gesture. “Carlin, honey, I wanted to pick something up for you too, but the mall was completely out of stock. Next time, okay? I’ll definitely make it up to you next time.” I nodded, my expression carefully blank. It was always out of stock. It was always “next time”. When I was little, I used to tug on her sleeve and naively ask, “Aunt Susan, when is next time?” It wasn’t until I grew up that I finally understood the polite lies adults tell to keep the peace. A promised “next time” was just a gentler way of saying “never”. Mom soon called us over to the dining table for dinner. In the center sat a platter of steamed blue crabs. Six people at the table, but only five crabs on the plate. Mom picked up her tongs and served Aunt Susan first, then placed the two largest, meatiest crabs into Lynn’s and Jordan’s plates. The remaining two went to Dad and herself. Catching my eye as I looked over, Mom paused, as if suddenly remembering my existence. “Oh, you don’t like crab anyway, right?” I froze. When I was a little girl, crab had been my absolute favorite. But every time I cracked open a shell, Lynn would stare at it with wide, envious eyes. And every time, my parents would say, “She’s younger, Carlin. Let your sister have it.” After years of stepping back, everyone simply convinced themselves that I had never liked it to begin with. I forced a tight smile and quickly lowered my head to eat my rice, terrified that if I paused for even a second, someone would catch the tears brimming in my eyes. Halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. Jordan walked back in carrying a gorgeous three-tiered bakery box, and Lynn squealed, clapping her hands together. “Is that to celebrate me taking first place in the regional dance showcase?” she squeaked. Dad lovingly pinched her cheek. “Of course, sweetheart. Our Lynn worked so hard, we have to celebrate properly.” The candles were lit, casting a warm, golden glow across everyone’s faces. Aunt Susan placed a sparkly birthday crown on Lynn’s head, Dad pulled out his phone to record a video, and Jordan urged her to hurry up and make a wish. It wasn’t even her birthday, yet the fuss they made was grander than any birthday I had ever seen. After making her wish, Lynn began slicing the cake. When my plate was handed to me, it contained a thin, dry sliver of crust from the very edge. I took a tiny bite and said softly, “This bakery is really good. Maybe we can get a cake from here tomorrow too.” The table fell dead silent. Jordan furrowed his brows, glaring across the table at me. “We’re eating cake today, why would we get another one tomorrow? It’s just cake, don’t you get sick of it?” Mom gave me a look of deep disapproval. “We bought this because your sister won an award and everyone is happy. Carlin, why do you have to compete with her over literally everything?” My throat tightened. I bit my tongue and said nothing. Tomorrow was my birthday. Clearly, not a single soul at this table remembered. After dinner, everyone gathered in the living room around Lynn’s laptop to help her curate photos for her social media celebration post. I went into the kitchen alone to clear the table and wash the dishes. A chipped ceramic bowl caught the edge of my thumb, slicing through the skin. Blood immediately welled up, bright and red. I had just rinsed it under the cold tap when Lynn strolled into the kitchen, leaning casually against the doorframe while waving her phone in my face. “Hey, Carlin, I found this dress online, but I’m short about four hundred bucks,” she said smoothly. “Didn’t you just get your academic scholarship check deposited? Transfer it to me.” I turned off the faucet, clutching a paper towel around my thumb. “I need that money for my dorm housing deposit next semester.” Lynn pouted, her lower lip sticking out. “You can just ask Mom and Dad for dorm money. The dress goes off sale in two days!” Over in the living room, Mom heard the commotion and raised her voice in reprimand. “Carlin, Lynn rarely asks you for anything. How can you be so stingy as an older sister?” Jordan added his impatient voice to the chorus. “Just send her the money already. Don’t ruin everyone’s night over a few hundred dollars.” Lynn held up her phone, her payment code already pulled up on the screen, her eyes filled with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t dare say no. I looked at the crimson blood soaking through the paper towel, then at the silent, united wall of judgment from my family. Without a word, I pulled out my phone and transferred the four hundred dollars. When I finally retreated to my bedroom—a space cramped with Lynn’s overflow clutter—a text notification buzzed on my screen. It was from Cassidy, a senior in my department. [Here’s the group photo from our last volunteer teaching trip to the rural schools. It was such an incredible, eye-opening experience. I really hope you’ll consider joining us this summer.] I opened the attached photo. Dozens of students and local kids stood gathered in front of a rustic schoolhouse. No one was blocked. No one was pushed out of the frame. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I slowly typed back: [Cassidy… does everyone who goes actually end up in the group photo?] Her reply came back almost instantly: [Of course! Every single person matters. We wouldn’t leave anyone out.] I looked back at the hallway, toward the living room where that massive family portrait hung with a giant pink balloon obliterating my existence. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I opened the application link and checked the confirmation box. [Cassidy, count me in. I’m going.] The day after I confirmed my spot on the volunteer trip happened to be my birthday. Unsurprisingly, no one in the house uttered a word about it. That afternoon, Jordan’s university called requesting some archived family documentation for his study-abroad file. Mom pulled a folding chair into the home office to reach the top shelf of the tall closet. I watched as she pulled out color-coded pink folders containing Lynn’s vaccination records, growth charts, and even a tiny velvet box holding her baby teeth. Next to Jordan’s birth certificate was a plastic baggie holding the soft hair from his very first haircut. Standing behind her, I couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. “Mom… where are my baby records?” “You lived out in the countryside with your grandmother until you were six,” Mom said without turning around, her tone matter-of-fact. “How could we possibly have kept track of those things?” She stepped down from the chair, her eyebrows pulled into an annoyed scowl. “Besides, we’re pulling files for your brother’s university today. Why are you hovering?” Just as the words left her mouth, a yellowed piece of paper slipped from a crease in the back of the cabinet and fluttered to the floor. Mom bent down to pick it up. As her eyes scanned the birth date printed on the hospital record, she froze for a fraction of a second. “Oh,” she said, her voice entirely flat. “Today’s your birthday.” She brushed a piece of lint off her pants, entirely unbothered. “I’ve been so swamped lately it completely slipped my mind. I’ll make it up to you tonight.” I didn’t ask her why she had never once forgotten Lynn’s or Jordan’s birthdays in her entire life. Just that casual promise—”I’ll make it up to you”—was enough to light a desperate, pathetic flare of hope in my chest. But at five o’clock that evening, Mom and Dad took a frantic phone call and rushed out the door without a word. I sat alone in the quiet, darkening living room, watching the sun dip below the horizon, waiting into the dead of night. Midnight came and went. The front door remained shut. It wasn’t until one in the morning that the key finally turned in the lock. Mom walked in, looking exhausted. When she saw me still sitting on the couch, she blinked in surprise. “Why are you still awake?” Before I could answer, she offered a hasty explanation. “Lynn twisted her ankle during her late dance rehearsal. Your dad and I had to rush her to the ER to get X-rays. Look, today’s already over anyway. Once things settle down around the house, we’ll throw you a proper late birthday, okay?” It had been six years since Grandma passed away and I was brought back to this house. And in those six years, I hadn’t had a single birthday. A wave of bitter injustice crashed over me, and I couldn’t stop the quiet whisper from escaping my lips. “But… you promised you’d make it up to me today.” Jordan stepped through the door behind her, his face instantly hardening. “Carlin, how can you be so damn selfish? Lynn literally twisted her ankle and all you care about is your stupid birthday!” I looked past his shoulder. Lynn had just slipped off Dad’s back. She was currently standing on the foyer rug, balancing effortlessly on both feet without so much as a wince. The words of defense choked in my throat. I swallowed them down, lowered my head, and quickly walked back to my room. Sometime later, a light knock sounded on my door. Dad stepped in, shutting it quietly behind him. He sat down at the edge of my bed and slipped two hundred-dollar bills into my hand. “Take this, go buy yourself something you like,” he murmured gently. “Don’t hold a grudge against your sister. She’s young, and she got hurt today. Naturally, your mother and I had to focus on her a bit more.” When I didn’t respond, Dad let out a long sigh, patted my knee, and stood up to leave. The door clicked shut. Tears finally leaked from the corners of my eyes, tracing hot paths down my temples and soaking into the hair around my ears. Mom had lost her corporate job when she was pregnant with me, and she had resented my existence ever since. The moment I turned a month old, she shipped me off to the countryside to be raised by my grandmother. Lynn felt that my eventual return threatened her status as the undisputed princess of the household, so she hated me. And in Jordan’s eyes, Lynn was his only real sister. In this entire house, Dad was the only one who occasionally threw me a scrap of kindness. But it was only ever this: quietly slipping me a couple of hundred-dollar bills “after” everyone else had trampled over me. Every single time I was wronged, he stood on the sidelines. He never stopped them, and he never took my side. Because compared to the precious peace of the family, my feelings were entirely negligible. This breadcrumb of affection was never enough to make me feel truly loved—yet just enough to keep me from giving up entirely. I pulled up my phone. Cassidy had sent over the final itinerary: our volunteer team was scheduled to depart for the mountain region in five days. I stared at the screen, my hands trembling slightly. Then, I pushed off the bed and walked toward the door. I didn’t want Dad’s half-baked, cowardly love anymore. And I was done using these pathetic scraps of affection to trick myself into staying in this house. I walked down the hallway toward the master bedroom, intending to give the money back. But as I reached the door, Mom’s hushed voice carried through the crack. “Did you give her the money?” “Yeah,” Dad’s voice was low. Mom immediately pressed, “Lynn didn’t see you, right? Last time she found out you gave Carlin cash, she threw a massive fit for two days straight until we bought her that designer handbag!” “She didn’t see.” Mom let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Lynn just doesn’t understand our intentions. We’re only acting nice to Carlin right now for “her” sake! When we get old, someone is going to have to take care of Lynn. Carlin is her older sister. If we don’t keep her leash tight now, who’s going to look after Lynn when we’re gone?” I stood frozen in the hallway, as if doused in a bucket of ice water. A cold, suffocating numbness spread through my limbs. So even Dad’s shallow scraps of affection weren’t born out of love for me. It was just a game of good cop, bad cop. A calculated strategy to make me feel grateful, to keep me weighed down by guilt—so that I would willingly remain in this house as a lifelong servant to their favored daughter. I don’t even remember how I dragged myself back to my room. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I pulled out my suitcase and packed away every single thing I owned. The next morning, Mom pushed my door open without knocking, holding an official university form in her hand. “Carlin, I need you to file for a gap year at school.” She said it casually, handing me the paper. “Lynn’s college entrance auditions for the performing arts academy are coming up, and she needs someone full-time to handle her meals and schedule. Your dad and I have to work, and Jordan is starting his internship. You’re the only one available to accompany her.” Her tone was so offhand, as if pausing my college education wasn’t a life-altering decision. I looked up at her, my voice cold. “I’m not taking a gap year. Lynn is your daughter. I have no obligation to serve her.” Mom’s face instantly darkened. “Your sister is at a critical turning point in her life! As her older sister, can’t you just make a small sacrifice to help her out?” Dad hurried into the room behind her, letting out his signature sigh. “Beth, go outside for a second. Let me talk to Carlin.” Once Mom left, Dad sat at the edge of my bed. “Carlin, Dad knows you feel wronged. But you know how much I care about you. Just do it for Dad—endure it one last time, okay?” Last night, when I stood outside their bedroom door, he hadn’t said a word to defend me. Yet a tiny, pathetic part of me had held onto a thread of delusion—hoping that maybe he was just weak, that deep down, he still cared. Now, that final delusion shattered into dust. I reached under my pillow, pulled out the two hundred-dollar bills, and slapped them firmly into his palm. “You gave me this money just so I’d act as Lynn’s live-in maid?” I asked softly. “Then I don’t want it.” Dad’s face froze, his expression twisting into an irritated scowl. “Why are you being so completely unreasonable?!” Luckily, Lynn’s loud, spoiled voice echoed from the hallway, saving me from further lecture. “I don’t even want her coming with me!” Lynn threw a tantrum, stomping her feet. “She’s clumsy and depressing! Looking at her makes me sick!” She grabbed Mom’s arm, whining, “Mom, you come with me instead! You take time off!” The anger on Mom’s face melted instantly into pure, overflowing tenderness. This was the woman who had resented me for eighteen years because my birth cost her a corporate position. Yet now, with just a few whines from Lynn, she pulled out her phone and dialed her boss right in front of me. “Director Palmer? Hi, yes… I’d like to submit my resignation, effective immediately.” I stood in the doorway, unable to tell whether I felt envy or disgust. We were both her biological daughters. Yet Lynn only had to pout, and Mom would throw away her job without a second thought. While my very existence had been labeled a burden from the day I was born. I turned to go back into my room, but Jordan blocked the doorway. “Carlin,” he said, leaning against the frame, his tone oozing entitlement. “Since you refuse to go with her, you need to contribute financially. Lynn’s intensive dance prep camp costs seven thousand dollars. I put in seven hundred. You need to chip in three hundred.” I squeezed my fists tightly. “I don’t have money.” Jordan let out a harsh scoff. “What about your scholarship money? You gave Lynn four hundred the other day, so you should still have about five hundred left, right? Keep a hundred and fifty for food, and give the rest to your sister.” To Jordan, seven hundred dollars was just skipping a pair of limited-edition sneakers. But that remaining five hundred was my entire living allowance and book budget for the upcoming semester. I shook my head. “No.” Jordan’s expression turned nasty. He pushed past me, grabbed my backpack off the desk, and aggressively unzipped it. “Where’s your debit card?” “Give that back!” I lunged forward to grab it. During the struggle, the backpack zipper burst open with a sharp snap. My ID, student card, and my printed volunteer teaching confirmation form spilled out, scattering across the hardwood floor. My heart shot into my throat. I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the papers. Thankfully, Jordan’s eyes were only searching for plastic. He snatched my bank card off the floor, completely ignoring the official university document lying right beside his shoe. I was leaving in four days anyway. They wouldn’t notice a thing. In the end, he forced the transfer through my online banking app, taking the three hundred dollars. Late that night, a text from Cassidy popped up on my screen: [Hey Carlin! Great news—the university board approved a special grant for our volunteer team. Next semester’s dorm housing fees are completely waived, and all our round-trip train tickets are being fully reimbursed!] The tight, suffocating knot in my chest finally loosened, allowing me to take a real breath. The next afternoon, Mom unexpectedly called out to me. “Carlin, come with us to the mall. Lynn needs supplies for her intensive camp, so come along and see if there’s anything you need.” I stood frozen in the hallway. It was the very first time in my life she had voluntarily asked me what I needed. Even knowing it was just an afterthought, a faint ache bloomed in my chest. At the shopping center, Jordan pushed a massive shopping cart while Mom and Dad hovered on either side, credit cards ready. Lynn complained that the dorm mattresses were too firm, so Dad immediately purchased a high-end latex topper. Lynn mentioned her knees hurt after practice, so Mom picked out imported knee braces, an electric massager, a silk sleep mask, an aroma diffuser, a smart kettle, and a set of luxury travel toiletries. The cart overflowed. I looked down at my phone, checking the simple packing list provided by the volunteer organization: “A sun hat, insect repellent, a pack of Band-Aids, a sturdy water bottle.” Nothing expensive. I hesitated for a long time before finally picking up a cheap tube of clearance sunscreen, a box of discounted Band-Aids, and a pair of thick cotton socks. The total came to less than fifteen dollars. When we got home, Mom dumped the heavy shopping bags onto the living room floor. “Carlin, sort through your sister’s stuff and pack it into her suitcase.” I knelt on the floor, pulling the items out one by one. Lynn’s sleep mask, Lynn’s knee pads, Lynn’s toiletries, Lynn’s plush slippers… Everything belonged to Lynn. When I reached the bottom, the bags were completely empty. My sunscreen, Band-Aids, and socks were nowhere to be found. I sat back on my heels. “Where are my things?” Lynn was busy unboxing her new diffuser on the couch. She didn’t even bother looking up. “Oh, those? I saw some cheap garbage in the bag at checkout and thought some stranger dropped them in by mistake, so I tossed them in the trash.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Honestly, those cheap items looked like something an old lady bought at a flea market.” The living room fell dead silent. My fingers curled into tight fists, my voice raspy. “Those were mine.” Lynn laughed carelessly. “Sis, you actually wanted those? They looked so cheap and low-class.” What Lynn didn’t know was that those “cheap” items were the only things I had built up the courage to put in that cart after standing there for half an hour. Mom, as always, immediately chimed in to defend Lynn. “Carlin, why do you have to be so petty? It was fifteen dollars worth of junk! If it’s lost, it’s lost. Can’t you just buy it again later? Lynn didn’t do it on purpose—do you really have to ruin her mood right before her big training camp?” I didn’t bother explaining. In this house, there was no “later” for me anyway. Over the next two days, the house was a whirlwind of chaotic preparation. Mom was busy completing her resignation paperwork and researching meal prep for Lynn’s training. Dad was frantically calling real estate agents to lease an apartment near the prep center—worried that cheaper places were too far, and closer places were too expensive. Jordan took Lynn out to escape rooms and amusement parks to help her “de-stress.” No one asked me what I was doing. And no one noticed that my bedroom was growing emptier with each passing hour. On the third night, everything was finally arranged. Dad booked a reservation at an upscale restaurant downtown to throw Lynn a send-off dinner. I had just rolled my heavy suitcase to the front door when Mom’s call came through. “Carlin, don’t bother coming tonight,” her voice echoed through the speaker. “Director Hoffman from the state performing arts board is joining us. We worked so hard to secure this dinner with him. He’s always believed Lynn is an only child, so bringing you along would just make introductions awkward.” Tonight was the night my volunteer team was set to board the train. I had never intended to go to their dinner in the first place. Yet hearing those words aloud still sent a sharp, familiar sting through my ribs. By the time I pulled my luggage through the crowded concourse of the train station, my phone buzzed with another text from Mom: [On second thought, get over here right now. Director Hoffman used to be married to your high school principal. He said he remembers you well and asked about you. Stop throwing a tantrum and get an Uber immediately.] I looked down at the glowing screen and let out a bitter, silent laugh. They only ever remembered I existed when I was useful to Lynn. Over the intercom, the boarding call for my train sounded. I didn’t bother replying. I turned off my phone, gripped the handle of my suitcase, and walked toward the gate. Behind me lay a house full of cold indifference. Ahead of me lay thousands of miles of open sky. From this moment on, I would only walk forward. I was never turning back.

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At our wedding rehearsal, my fiancé’s first love walked up to my deaf brother holding a black permanent marker. With deliberate, cruel strokes, she drew a grotesque clown smile across his face. Then, right across his forehead, she scribbled the word “DEFECTIVE” in giant block letters. “The little deaf guy can’t hear all the happy music anyway,” she giggled, holding up the Sharpie like a prize. “I’m just giving him a smile so he can join in on the fun!” Around her, the groomsmen erupted into sharp, mocking laughter, their eyes gleam with the thrill of a side-show entertainment. My brother couldn’t hear their cruel taunts. All he saw was the entire room staring at him. Thinking he had somehow become the beloved center of attention at my wedding, his face lit up. He turned to me, his fingers moving in eager, clumsy sign language. “Sister, everyone is looking at me and smiling. Do I look handsome today?” Ice flooded my veins. My heart felt like it was being fed into a meat grinder, pulverized into raw, bleeding pieces. Before I could move, my fiancé walked over. He casually slid his arm around Vera’s shoulders, pulling her against his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Vera’s just young at heart, Mallory,” he said, his voice dripping with easy condescension. “Look, your brother is actually enjoying it. Don’t ruin the mood with that icy glare.” He allowed another woman to trample my family’s dignity under her heels, and then turned around to blame me for being sensitive. I walked up onto the stage without a word. Gently, with my own hands, I wiped the dark ink off my brother’s face. Then I turned. I ripped the ten-million-dollar diamond engagement ring off my finger and hurled it directly into my fiancé’s face. “Take your child’s play,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, “and get the hell out of my life.” “The wedding is off.” … I ignored the scattered mess on the floor and took my brother Callum’s hand. Callum was still confused. His fingers twitched, signing in clumsy, hesitant movements. “Sister, are we not getting married? Why did everyone stop laughing?” The black marker ink was still smeared faint and dark around his lips. Paired with the innocent, earnest look in his eyes, he looked heartbreakingly fragile—and terribly pitiful. A suppressed snicker broke out among the groomsmen. Elliot strode over, his face dark as a thundercloud. He grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “Mallory, haven’t you made enough of a scene?” “Vera was just pulling a harmless joke! Do you really have to make everything so goddamn ugly?” I yanked my arm back with everything I had, but his grip didn’t loosen. “Let go of me.” Vera came rushing up, her eyes instantly rimmed with tears. She timidly reached out, snatching the edge of my sleeve with trembling fingers. “Mallory, I’m so, so sorry. I swear I didn’t mean anything by it.” “I just felt like the atmosphere was too tense, and I wanted to make everyone laugh. I… I forgot that disabled people are so sensitive about these things. Don’t be mad at Elliot. If you want to blame someone, blame me.” One of the groomsmen, Troy, Chimed in with a scoff. “Seriously, Mallory, Vera had good intentions. A deaf guy usually never gets a chance to stand on a stage like this anyway. What’s the big deal about a little face paint?” “It’s not like it killed him. You’ve got a terrifying temper.” I slapped Elliot’s hand away with a violent swing and pointed straight at the double doors of the ballroom. “A harmless joke?” “Great. How about I take a blade and carve two lines into your face, and then tell you it’s just a joke?” Elliot stepped in front of Vera, his brows knotted in deep disgust. “You used to be so reasonable. Why are you acting like a hysterical lunatic today?” “Vera is flying out tomorrow for her studies abroad. Can’t you just show a little grace and let it go?” “Apologize to Vera right now, and we’ll pretend this never happened.” A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. He wanted me to apologize to the woman who had just publicly humiliated my brother? I turned, pulling Callum toward the exit. Elliot leaned in close to my ear, his voice dropping into a cold, venomous whisper. “If you dare walk out that door today, forget about your brother’s surgery.” My feet froze. Seeing me stall, Elliot’s tone instantly shifted to one of arrogant mercy. “Dr. Reynolds, the top otolaryngologist in the country, lands tomorrow. He’s taking exactly three patients for his new surgical trial.” “I hold one of those three slots.” “Walk out that door, Mallory, and your brother spends the rest of his life as a deaf clown.” My fingernails dug into my palms until I felt the skin break. Callum had lost his hearing five years ago because he threw himself in front of me when a heavy iron beam collapsed at a construction site. He took the impact to his head so I wouldn’t be crushed. Restoring his hearing was the single greatest obsession of my life. To get Dr. Reynolds’ name on our file, I had spent the last six months swallowing my pride, begging Elliot for every favor he was owed. “Elliot,” I rasped, my voice shaking with pure hatred. “You’re using my brother’s medical care to threaten me?” Elliot adjusted the subtle silver cufflinks on his suit sleeves, unfazed. “I’m teaching you how to behave.” “Whether your brother ever hears again depends entirely on how you act for the rest of the evening.” Behind his back, Vera peeked out, flashing me a triumphant, mocking smile. Callum gently tugged my sleeve, his hands moving slowly. “Sister, let’s not leave, okay? You look so pretty in your wedding dress.” Looking into my brother’s hopeful, trusting eyes, the sharp refusal stuck in my throat. Just get the surgical slot. That was all that mattered. I let go of his hand, forcing every muscle in my body to turn back around. “Fine,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “Let’s finish the rehearsal.” Elliot smiled, satisfied, pulling Vera back into his side. “That’s more like it.” “Everyone back to positions! Cue the vows segment!” I was pushed back to the center of the stage like a lifeless puppet on strings. The stage lights dimmed. The officiant stepped up, microphone in hand, attempting to smooth over the tension with a practiced smile. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let us look at the big screen to revisit the beautiful journey of our bride and groom!” The massive LED display flickered to life. Romantic music filled the venue. But the faces that appeared on the screen were not mine and Elliot’s. They were an eighteen-year-old Elliot and a sixteen-year-old Vera. The video showed Elliot carrying Vera on his back, running along a sunlit beach. It showed Vera smearing ice cream onto the tip of Elliot’s nose. It ended on a frozen shot of them in high school uniforms, sitting under a oak tree. Bold text popped up across the bottom: “To my boy—wishing you a happy wedding.” An audible gasp went through the room, followed by low whistles from the groomsmen. I stood under the harsh spotlight, watching a five-minute montage of their childhood-sweetheart romance. The love story video I had spent three sleepless nights editing—frame by frame, capturing five years of my life with Elliot—had vanished without a trace. I turned my head to look at Elliot. “What is the meaning of this?” Elliot kept one hand casually shoved in his pocket, his expression completely indifferent. “It’s just a video, Mallory. Why are you getting worked up again?” “The video you made was too long and boring. Vera re-edited a new version for me.” “She’s leaving the country tomorrow. Consider this her farewell gift to me.” I pointed a shaking finger at the screen. “This is “my” wedding! You’re playing a memory lane video of you and another woman?” Vera stepped up to the stage, biting her lip in an act of deep distress. “Mallory, please don’t misunderstand.” “Elliot and I grew up together. I just wanted to leave a small keepsake before I go.” “If it really bothers you that much, I’ll have them turn it off right now.” Elliot caught her wrist, stopping her. “Don’t turn it off. I think it’s great.” He turned his glare back to me. “Mallory, why are you so petty? You can’t even make room for someone who’s leaving the country tomorrow?” The officiant stood below the stage, clutching his mic in frozen awkwardness. Vera dabbed at the corner of her eyes, where not a single tear existed. “Elliot… if Mallory hates the video, then what about the reception outfit change?” Elliot waved his hand dismissively. “Do whatever you planned.” Vera snapped her fingers. A few stagehands rolled out a rolling rack. Two outfits hung upon it. One was a traditional, hand-stitched silk couture dress featuring intricate phoenix embroidery. I had spent six months crouching over an embroidery frame, stitching every single golden thread with hopes for my future. The other was a cheap, neon-green tulle dress that looked like it had been bought off a dollar-store rack. Vera pointed at my phoenix dress, sighing regretfully. “Mallory, the gown you designed is way too outdated. It doesn’t suit Elliot’s status at all.” “So I picked a new one for you.” “To save you from overthinking it, let’s just dispose of the old one.” She took a massive pair of iron shears from a nearby staff member. Blood rushed to my head. I broke away from the stagehands and threw myself over my dress. “Don’t you dare!” My eyes had gone bloodshot stitching this dress. Every golden strand held the naive dreams I had once nurtured for our life together. Elliot signaled to two security guards. They stepped up instantly, grabbing my arms and pinning me back. “Let go of me! Elliot, are you insane?!” Elliot shook his head in annoyance. “That old dress looks tacky as hell. Vera has way better taste than you.” “Put on the one Vera chose. Stop embarrassing me here.” Vera raised the heavy shears and stepped up to the silk gown. “Snip.” The exquisite gold-stitched phoenix was severed directly down the middle. “Snip.” The delicate metallic threads snapped, spraying like golden dust across the floor. In less than a minute, the gown that carried every ounce of my devotion was reduced to a pile of shredded, useless rags. Below the stage, Callum panicked. He tried to rush up, but the groomsmen tackled him down, pinning him roughly into a metal chair. Vera tossed the cheap, scratchy neon dress directly into my face. “Go put it on, Bride.” The guards released their grip. I sank to my knees, cradling the shredded pieces of silk, my eyes locked on Elliot. “You let her destroy something I built with my own hands… just to feed her need for possession?” Elliot scoffed coldly. “I’m already agreeing to marry you, aren’t I? What more do you want?” “What’s wrong with granting Vera one simple wish?” “Go to the back and change. Don’t push me to lose my temper.” …… The rehearsal was dragged forcibly into the reception tasting phase. I sat at the head table like a walking joke, wearing the itchy, neon-green monstrosity. A waiter pushed out a silver cart. “This is the final specialty dish: Imperial Seafood Bisque.” The heavy ceramic lid was lifted. A cloud of scalding, spicy steam billowed out into the air. It was a pot of boiling seafood soup, heavy with thick red chili oil floating on the surface. Vera immediately stood up, taking the ladle. “Let me serve everyone.” She ladled a bowl for Elliot first, then walked straight over to Callum with a second bowl. “Callum, this is wedding soup! You have to drink it to bring good luck!” Callum couldn’t hear what she was saying; he only stared at her in utter confusion. Vera thrust the bowl directly against Callum’s lips. “Drink it! Everyone’s watching you!” The soup had just come off the flame. The thick layer of red oil trapped all the intense heat underneath, keeping the broth at a dangerously high temperature. Callum couldn’t tolerate spicy food at all—even a tiny hit of chili gave him severe gastric distress. I bolted up from my seat. “My brother can’t eat spicy food, and he can’t drink anything that hot!” Vera completely ignored me. She shoved the bowl forward, splashing drops of scalding red broth onto his shirt. “Mallory, this is celebratory soup! It’s bad luck if he doesn’t drink it!” “Besides, he’s a grown man. Don’t be so delicate.” Troy chimed in from the side. “Yeah, refusing a simple toast? That’s just disrespecting Elliot.” Callum looked around at the cold, pressuring faces. He could sense that my defense of him was making my situation impossible. He gave me an appeasing, gentle smile, his hands moving awkwardly. “Sister, I will drink. Don’t fight.” He took the bowl of boiling, spicy broth and poured it straight into his mouth. The burning oil and searing fluid rushed down his delicate esophagus. Callum’s face instantly flushed a terrifying, dark purple. He clutched his throat, coughing violently as spasms wracked his frame. The ceramic bowl slipped from his hands, shattering into sharp pieces on the floor. The boiling liquid splashed across his arms and hands. His fair skin turned red at a visible, horrifying speed, large walnut-sized blisters ballooning up across his flesh almost instantly. “Callum!” I went completely wild. I charged forward and shoved Vera out of the way with every ounce of strength I had. Vera used the momentum to throw herself backward, landing dramatically on the carpet. “Ah! Ow! It hurts!” Her elbow had scraped against the floor, leaving a tiny scratch barely the size of a sesame seed. Elliot sprinted over instantly, scooping Vera up into his arms. “Vera! Are you okay?!” He turned his head toward me, roaring with fury. “Mallory, what the hell is wrong with you! She was just trying to give him soup, and you physically assault her?!” I didn’t give him a single second of my attention. I grabbed a pitcher of ice water from the table and poured it directly over Callum’s blistered arms. Callum was trembling uncontrollably from the agony, yet he still reached out with his uninjured hand, weakly signing to tell me he was okay. At that exact moment, a sharp, metallic screech echoed from high above our heads. “Creeeeak!” Suspended directly above the main stage was a massive, multi-tiered floral chandelier weighing hundreds of pounds. Due to rusted, neglected rigging, the heavy steel frame began to sway violently. The next second— The entire fixture snapped, plunging straight toward our table. Shadows engulfed Callum and me, as well as Elliot and Vera right beside us. “Watch out!” someone screamed from the crowd. In that split second between life and death— Elliot didn’t hesitate for even a fraction of a millisecond. He gathered Vera into his arms and threw himself into a dive toward the safe zone several feet away. His back was entirely exposed to me. He didn’t turn his head to look at me—not even once. “CRASH!” The chandelier slammed down with crushing force. I threw my entire body over Callum, shielding his head and torso beneath me. A sharp iron beam from the rig slammed brutally into my left shoulder. Warm, thick blood gushed instantly from the impact, dripping down my sleeve and soaking into the carpet. Pandemonium broke out. Dust drifted through the air. I pushed the heavy iron frame off my back, gritting my teeth as I hauled Callum up. The wound on my shoulder was deep enough to expose bone. Crimson blood completely ruined the cheap neon dress. A few feet away on the leather couch— Elliot was gently holding Vera’s forearm, his face filled with panic. He was staring at that microscopic scratch she had gotten when I pushed her. “Where is the first-aid kit?! Call an ambulance! Can’t you see she’s bleeding?!” Elliot screamed at the venue manager. Half a dozen waiters sprinted over holding medical supplies, hovering nervously around Vera. Nobody looked at me, bleeding profusely through my clothes. Nobody looked at Callum, whose arms were covered in horrific burns. I stood frozen in the middle of the wreckage, looking at the man I had loved for five years. Suddenly, the pain stopped hurting. The agony in my heart simply went numb. My purse vibrated against my hip. I used my good hand to pull out my phone. It was an international email from France. The sender was the Royal Arts and Medical Foundation of Paris. The text was entirely in English: “Dear Ms. Mallory Sidney,” “We are profoundly awed by the traditional silk embroidery piece, “All Living Things,” which you submitted to our board.” “After a formal review, our board has decided to grant your brother a full medical sponsorship for his auditory nerve restoration.” “Please arrive in Paris before this Friday. We will provide our premier auditory implant surgery and cover all medical expenses.” I stared at the words on the glowing screen, reading them three times over. The heavy, crushing stone in my chest finally cracked and fell away. I didn’t need Dr. Reynolds. And I certainly didn’t need Elliot’s pathetic charity. I slipped the phone back into my bag, walked over to the main table, and picked up a sharp steak knife. With a hard, decisive slice— I sliced through the ugly, jagged skirt of the neon dress. I ripped off the blood-soaked outer layer of tulle and threw it straight into a nearby trash can. The sudden commotion caught Elliot’s attention. He turned around, and when his eyes landed on the blood dripping down my shoulder, he froze for a second. But his face hardened almost instantly, his voice rising in harsh rebuke. “Mallory, look at what you’ve done!” “If you hadn’t pushed Vera, she wouldn’t have been in the drop zone, and I wouldn’t have had to dive to save her!” “Get over here right now and apologize to her!” Vera nestled deep in Elliot’s chest, her eyes sparkling with the smug triumph of a victor. I held a wad of napkins against my bleeding shoulder. Step by step, I walked right up to Elliot. “Elliot.” He frowned, his tone cold. “What? Acting pitiful won’t work this time. You “will” apologize.” I raised my right hand, pulled off the ten-million-dollar engagement ring, and threw it with full force directly into his face. The heavy diamond cracked against his cheekbone before bouncing off and rolling deep into the cushions of the sofa. “Did you really think,” I whispered, “that because I loved you, you had the right to drag my brother’s dignity through the mud?” Elliot cupped his bruised cheek, his face a storm of shock and disbelief. “Are you insane?! You don’t want your brother’s ears cured anymore?!” A cold scoff broke from my lips. “Keep your precious slot,” I said softly. “Use it to get Vera’s head checked.” “As of today, I don’t love you.” “The two of you make me sick.” Without waiting for a response, I turned, took my brother’s hand, and walked toward the exit without ever looking back.

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In our family, we had an old mountain tradition: on the night a daughter got engaged, her father and brother were supposed to light the heirloom brass hurricane lantern and walk down to the edge of the property at the foot of the ridge to guide the prospective groom home. The old folks used to say that as long as the flame didn’t go out, the daughter’s future would never be swallowed by the dark. My sister and I were engaged on the exact same night. As dusk settled into an inky black, Dad brought out the red-tinted brass lantern that had been in our family for three generations. Tracy, my older brother, filled the reservoir with oil three times over, carefully polishing the glass and tying a fresh crimson silk ribbon around the handle. Josie leaned against Dad’s arm, her voice dripping with spoiled affection. “Dad, don’t walk too fast, okay? It’s Logan’s first time driving up the mountain trail—I don’t want him getting lost.” Dad smiled softly, tapping the tip of her nose. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ll hold the light high. I guarantee I’ll bring your man right to the front door.” Tracy clicked on his heavy-duty flashlight, clicking it to high beam. “And I’ll cover the rear. No matter how hard the mountain wind blows tonight, this light isn’t going out.” Mom looked at them, her face glowing with fond pride. “Our little Josie really is the lucky one, isn’t she?” Not a single person looked at me. My fiancé was waiting at the western approach to the mountain—a completely different trail, miles away on the opposite side of the ridge. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at Dad. “Once you bring Logan in… could you and Tracy go down to the West Fork and guide Jonah up?” Tracy checked his watch, his forehead furrowing into an immediate, impatient scowl. “By the time we trek back and forth, it’ll be pitch black. He’s a grown man. He can look at a map and figure it out himself.” Mom’s voice turned sharp and irritated before I could even reply. “If he can’t even navigate a simple mountain path on his own, how is he supposed to take care of you in the real world?” But the West Fork trail didn’t have a single streetlamp. It was a narrow, unpaved gravel track hugging a sharp, sixty-foot drop-off. I watched the red glow of the brass lantern drift further and further down the eastern trail, until it was nothing more than a tiny, trembling pinprick of light in the dark. Tears blurred my vision. If this family refused to hold a light for me tonight, then no matter how bright my path became in the future, I would never shine it back toward them again. … The red light vanished around the bend, taking the road toward the eastern entrance of the hollow. I stood at the back of the crowd of gathered relatives, staring hopelessly toward the pitch-black western trail. My fiancé, Jonah, was waiting at the other end. Half an hour ago, he had sent me a picture. In it, he was wearing his tailored black suit, a red carnation pinned to his lapel, standing proudly beside six meticulously wrapped, high-end engagement gift boxes. He had no idea that our family possessed only one heirloom lantern. And he certainly didn’t know that from the very beginning, that lantern was never meant to burn for me. Forty minutes later, firecrackers echoed through the yard. Logan Caldwell was escorted through the front gates, surrounded by a noisy, cheering crowd of my family and relatives. I immediately pushed my way through the hubbub and grabbed my brother’s arm. “Tracy, can you go get Jonah now? Please.” Tracy shook his arm free. “It’s pitch dark out there now. Why would I head out now?” “Because it’s pitch dark! The West Fork doesn’t have lighting, and the drop-off is right next to the path!” Frantic, I turned to my father. “Dad, please. Say something.” Dad shifted his weight, refusing to meet my eyes. “There’s nothing I can do, Lydia.” “What do you mean?” “It’s family tradition,” Dad muttered, his tone flat. “The welcome lamp can’t be used to guide two different sons-in-law in a single night. It’s bad luck for the first bride.” I froze. They weren’t exhausted. They weren’t too tired to walk. They were simply terrified that my fiancé might steal a sliver of the good fortune meant for my sister. Tracy hung the glowing lantern directly on the doorframe of Josie’s bedroom. “If Jonah actually cares about you, he’ll crawl through the dark to get here.” Mom pulled me roughly by the elbow toward the kitchen. “Josie’s about to perform the ceremonial tea service. Stop making a scene and causing trouble.” Around us, the aunts and uncles nodded in solemn agreement. “Exactly. If a man doesn’t even have the courage to walk a dark trail, how’s he going to provide for a family?” “It’s a good test. Let’s see if he’s actually sincere.” They spoke so casually, as if that treacherous gravel path along the cliff edge was nothing more than a doorstep in the yard. I stopped pleading. I turned, ran out into the chilly night, and pulled out my phone, my eyes burning. “Jonah, go back. Don’t come up tonight.” His reply came almost instantly: “They aren’t coming to guide me? It’s okay, honey. I have my headlights and a flashlight. I’ll drive slow and walk up.” I wiped away a falling tear and turned to run down the western track to meet him myself, but Mom’s hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going? Josie is pouring tea, and as her older sister, you need to hold the serving tray.” “Jonah is out on the ridge by himself!” “He’s a grown man! He’s not going to dissolve into thin air!” Mom shoved a heavy, scalding silver teapot into my hands. “Every relative we own is sitting in that living room. Put a smile on your face and stop looking like someone died. It’s bad luck.” I was forced to stand behind my sister like a prop. I held the heavy tray through endless rounds of tea poured for aunt after aunt, uncle after uncle. Finally, my Aunt Sarah looked up and asked casually, “Lydia, where’s your guy? Isn’t Jonah coming?” Before I could answer, heavy, uneven footsteps echoed from the porch outside. I dropped the tray onto a nearby table and sprinted for the front door. Jonah was standing on the threshold. His sharp black suit jacket was torn by briars, the back of his right hand was dripping blood, and his right pant leg was shredded from knee to ankle, soaked in dirt and crimson. Yet, held tightly in his arms and stacked carefully at his feet were the six engagement boxes—pristine, spotless, and completely unharmed. When he saw me, he offered a weak, breathless smile. “I… I didn’t keep you waiting too long, did I?” My chest heaved, and the dam broke. Tears poured down my face as I rushed forward to support his weight. Mom strolled out to the porch behind me. When her eyes landed on Jonah, her brows pinched into a deep crease of disapproval. “Goodness, why on earth are you dressed like a stray dog on your engagement night?” Jonah’s smile stiffened. I ignored my mother completely, putting his arm over my shoulder and helping him into my room to tend to his injuries. As I gently pressed an alcohol swab against the gash on his hand, his fingers twitched with agonizing pain. Still, he kept his voice low, trying to comfort me: “Don’t cry, Lydia. Really, it looks worse than it is.” Outside the window, the heirloom red lantern hung high over the porch, glowing brightly, casting a warm, celebratory light over Josie’s loud and merry celebration. I set the cotton swab down and looked up at him through a veil of tears. “Jonah… that overseas company transfer you mentioned last month… is the slot still open?” Jonah blinked, taken aback. My voice broke into a sob. “Say yes. I want to leave with you.” … Early the next morning, Mom spread out the customary return-gift items across the dining room table. According to local custom, when the bride’s family accepts the betrothal gifts, they must prepare an equally lavish set of return gifts the following day to show respect and goodwill to the groom’s family. The table was covered in a pristine red cloth. On it sat two cartons of imported luxury cigars, two bottles of rare, aged scotch, a pair of heavy 18-karat gold dragon-and-phoenix bangles, and a silk embroidery bedding set. Josie picked up the jewelry box, lifting the bangles to the morning light, turning them this way and that. “Mom, aren’t these a little plain? When Logan’s mother came over last week, the bracelet she was wearing was way thicker than this.” Mom instantly snatched the box back. “Then we’ll trade them in. I’ll take you to the fine jeweler downtown this afternoon and pick out a heavier set.” Dad walked over, clipboard in hand, meticulously ticking off every item. “And swap those cigars for the limited-edition ones. Don’t use the standard scotch, either—go to the high-end liquor store in the city and get two bottles of the top-shelf single malt. Our Josie’s return gift can’t let the Caldwell family look down on us.” I stood silently by the door. Only after they finished their meticulous tally did I quiet softly ask, “Mom… what about Jonah’s return gifts?” The room fell dead silent for a second. Mom didn’t even look up from her list. “We’re prioritizing Josie’s stuff first. Yours can wait.” “But both families brought their engagement gifts yesterday,” I said, my voice tight. “Aren’t the return gifts supposed to be prepared together?” Tracy was crouching near the floor, sealing a cardboard shipping crate with heavy tape. Hearing my question, he stood up, his face full of annoyance. “Jonah brought six simple gift boxes. Logan brought eight massive, custom-curated trunks. The return gift reflects the weight of what came in. How are Mom and Dad supposed to make them equal?” Josie whimpered softly under her breath. “Exactly… It’s not like we can send back eight luxury crates for Jonah too. What would Logan’s mother think if she found out we treated them the exact same?” I looked at the table stacked with carefully curated luxuries, feeling a cold, suffocating knot tighten in my throat. This kind of contrast was never new. Josie and I shared the exact same birthday. Yet every year growing up, my parents only bought one gift—for Josie. The cake always bore only her name written in pink frosting. When I was little, Mom would brush it off with a wave of her hand: “You’re celebrating together anyway, what difference does a name make?” But Josie was the one who blew out the candles. Josie was the one who opened the envelopes. I was just the girl standing beside her, expected to clap my hands on cue. When we were kids and there was only one chicken drumstick at dinner, Dad would slide it straight into Josie’s bowl. “Josie’s constitution is delicate. You’re the older sister, Lydia—learn to be generous.” When we reached middle school, the school organized an out-of-town class trip. My parents would only pay for one student. Mom signed Josie up, then turned around to give me a gentle pat on the head. “You have great grades, sweetie. Missing one trip won’t hurt you.” Later, when smartphones became essential, Josie got the brand-new flagship model. I was handed her cracked, discarded hand-me-down—a phone with a shattered corner and a battery that died every four hours. When I mentioned it, Tracy had scoffed: “It still turns on, doesn’t it? Why are you so shallow and materialistic?” From childhood to adulthood, whenever there was only one of something, it automatically belonged to Josie. They gave Josie the absolute best of everything, and then praised me for being “sensible” and “understanding.” Now, it was happening with our engagements. One welcome lantern—reserved exclusively to guide her fiancé. One lavish set of return gifts—curated entirely for her future in-laws. I lowered my eyes, asking no further questions. Mom, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, walked over and jammed a receipt and order slip into my hand. “Since you’re standing around, take Jonah and drive into town,” she instructed crisply. “Josie’s custom engagement pastries are ready for pickup today. While you’re there, buy two more cases of those cigars. We need them for her return boxes urgently.” I gripped the paper tightly. “Jonah’s leg is badly cut up, Mom. He shouldn’t be driving or walking long distances today.” Mom’s brow furrowed in deep irritation. “He’s a young guy with a couple of surface scratches! Since when did men become so delicate? Your brother has to take Josie to the jeweler this afternoon. You two have nothing better to do anyway, so what’s the big deal about running an errand?” I swallowed the bitterness, looking down at the receipt. “Fine.” Back in my bedroom, I grabbed my ID, passport, and bank cards, tucking them securely into my purse. Jonah was leaning against the bedframe, struggling to stand. “Are we heading into town?” I slung his arm gently over my shoulder, holding him steady. “First, we’re going to the urgent care clinic to clean and bandage that leg properly. Then, we’re going to the administrative office to expedite our passport and visa paperwork.” As for Josie’s custom wedding pastries and luxury cigars… I would get to them at the very end of the day. For once in my life, I wanted to put myself first. … By the time we drove back from town, the sky had turned a dark, moody purple. Jonah’s leg had been properly disinfected and stitched, and the doctor had sternly ordered him to keep off it as much as possible for the next few days. Yet, he still dragged his leg, leaning on a pair of wooden crutches I’d bought him, using his free hand to carry the delicate boxes of custom pastries. I followed behind, my arms aching from carrying two heavy cases of cigars. The moment we walked into the gravel courtyard, Mom rushed out to meet us. “What took you two so long? Josie’s been waiting so long she’s practically in tears!” Josie unboxed the pastries, inspected them, and immediately pouted. “Mom, look! Two of the decorative cake boxes are crushed on the corner!” I tried to explain: “The mountain road was bumpy, and Jonah couldn’t carry them smoothly with his crutches—” Tracy cut me off coldly. “If the stuff is damaged, it’s damaged. Why are you dragging Jonah into this? Acting like somebody forced him to go.” Mom picked out the two bruised pastry boxes and shoved them back into my arms with a scowl. “Go back tomorrow and exchange them. Return gifts can’t have dented boxes. It looks cheap and disgraceful.” I opened my mouth to speak. The bakery downtown had explicitly stated that custom, hand-crafted engagement cakes were strictly non-refundable and non-exchangeable. But looking at my mother’s dark, impatient face, I simply lowered my head. “Okay.” Stepping into the hallway, I stopped dead in my tracks. My bedroom door was wide open. My mattress, duvet, and stacks of personal books had been hoisted out and dumped unceremoniously into the narrow corridor. Inside my room, the floor space was completely covered with Josie’s massive wooden return crates, silk gift boxes, and embroidered linens. Even my packed leather suitcase had been shoved into the farthest corner, flattened under two heavy wooden crates of wine. I stood frozen for several seconds. “Mom… why are all these things in my room?” Mom didn’t bother looking up from sorting ribbon. “Josie’s room is too small to fit all these return gifts. Your room is spacious, so we’re borrowing it for a few days.” “Where is Jonah supposed to sleep tonight then? His leg is injured.” Tracy gestured casually toward the backyard with his chin. “The storage shed back there is empty. Sweep it out and he can sleep there.” The backyard storage shed had a leaky roof, dirt floors, and was packed with rusted lawnmowers, bags of fertilizer, and old tools. I couldn’t control the tremor in my voice. “He came here as a fiancé, not a laborer. If people find out we made him sleep in a leaky tool shed on his engagement weekend, what are they going to say about us?” Mom’s face instantly darkened into a mask of rage. “Then what do you propose, Lydia? Should I stack Josie’s thousand-dollar return gifts out in the rain to get ruined?” Josie’s eyes welled with tears on cue. “Sister, if you’re really that unwilling to share, just say so. I’ll move the boxes out right now. If they get ruined in the dirt, I won’t ask you to pay for them!” She bent over, dramatically reaching for the top crate. Mom rushed forward, pulling her back. “Don’t touch that! It’s heavy—what if you pull a muscle in your back?!” Tracy stepped in front of Josie, glaring at me with icy disgust. “We’re borrowing your room for two days and you’re throwing a tantrum? Jonah’s a grown man—he can sleep anywhere for one night! If Josie’s return gifts get damaged, can you afford to replace them?” I stood framed in the doorway, holding two dented boxes of pastries in my arms. It was “my” bedroom. Yet in their eyes, asking a basic question made me an unreasonable, selfish monster. Jonah gently touched my wrist. “It’s okay, Lydia. I can sleep in the shed.” I turned to look at him. Beaded sweat stood out on his pale forehead, and fresh blood was slowly seeping through the white bandages around his knee. Still, he offered me a reassuring, gentle smile. “It’s just for one night. Don’t fight with your family over me.” Hearing Jonah’s concession, Mom’s expression smoothed over slightly. “See? Even Jonah is being reasonable. You’re the only one constantly creating drama.” In the end, Jonah and I spent over an hour hauling rusted metal and heavy sacks out of the tool shed. The wooden cot inside was damp and warped; even covered with an extra blanket, it reeked of mildew and wet earth. The wooden window frame couldn’t close flush, letting icy gusts of wind howl through the cracks. I knelt on the cold ground, carefully changing the bandages on Jonah’s leg. A tear slipped from my eye, landing with a soft “plink” against the gauze. Jonah reached down, his thumb gently wiping the moisture from my cheek. “Don’t cry. Once our paperwork clears, we’re out of here.” I nodded, clamping my lips tight to keep from sobbing aloud. Across the yard in the main house, Mom and Tracy were laughing loudly as they helped Josie do a final count of her gifts. The warmth and cheer echoed right through the thin shed wall, making our dark corner feel like a completely different world. A few minutes later, Mom’s voice yelled out across the dark yard. “Lydia! Stop hiding in there like a lazy bump on a log! Josie’s favor bags aren’t finished yet—get out here and help!” I leaned down, carefully pulling the scratchy blanket over Jonah’s shoulders. “Get some sleep,” I whispered. “I’ll come back as soon as I’m done.” But as I stepped out of the shed into the chilly night air, I paused. The red hurricane lantern still hung high above Josie’s bedroom door, casting a bright, celebratory glow over a house full of laughter and abundance. Only the dark, forgotten storage shed where Jonah and I stood remained buried in the shadows where the light could never reach. … For the next two days, the entire household revolved entirely around Josie’s upcoming formal visit to deliver her return gifts to Logan’s family. Dad walked through the neighborhood, handing out invitations to the departure dinner, beaming at every neighbor he passed. “Our Josie hit the jackpot. The Caldwells cherish her so much, so we can’t look cheap with our return offerings.” Tracy drove into town three times in a single day. When Josie complained that the candy boxes weren’t fancy enough, he immediately drove out to replace them. When she decided the shade of red silk ribbon was slightly off, he hopped right back on his bike to hunt down a different shade. Mom hovered over the pile of gifts, counting and recounting every box, terrified that a tiny oversight might cause Josie to lose face in front of her future in-laws. Nobody asked about Jonah’s return gifts. It was as if I hadn’t gotten engaged at all. I was in the middle of changing Jonah’s bandages in the shed when my phone buzzed with a text from him. “The corporate expedited visa went through. We assemble at the city dispatch office at nine a.m. sharp the day after tomorrow. A company shuttle will take us straight to the airport. Don’t be late.” I stared at the words “the day after tomorrow”, feeling an overwhelming wave of relief wash over my chest. Two more days. Just two more days, and I would be free. My passport and essential documents were already tucked safely inside my purse. I walked back toward my room, intending to grab a few basic changes of clothes. When I entered, Josie’s return boxes were piled so high they spilled from the floor onto the mattress. Cases of liquor, cigars, gift boxes, and embroidered silk filled every square inch, leaving nowhere to even step. My wardrobe doors had been flung wide open—and cleared out entirely. Hanging inside were Josie’s expensive dresses for her visit to the Caldwells, while the bottom drawers were packed to the brim with her velvet jewelry organizers. “Mom, where are the clothes from my closet?” Mom was crouching on the floor, tying a golden ribbon around a wooden crate. She didn’t look up. “Your brother said there wasn’t enough room for the return boxes, so he cleared it out for you.” “Cleared it out to where?” “Under the porch eaves out back. Go look for it yourself.” I walked quickly out to the back porch. Lying in the dirt under the dripping roof eaves were two bulging black trash bags. My clothes, my favorite books, and my daily toiletries had been stuffed inside without care. The top bag hadn’t even been tied closed; a cream-colored cardigan had spilled out onto the muddy ground, covered in dark, filthy boot prints. I knelt down and picked it up. It was the birthday gift Jonah had bought for me last year. I had only worn it twice, keeping it carefully wrapped in tissue paper because I was so afraid of getting it dirty. Now, it was ruined with mud. Tracy came walking around the corner holding a heavy crate of scotch. I held up the muddy sweater, my voice barely above a whisper. “When you moved my stuff… why didn’t you even tell me?” “Tell you what?” Tracy stepped around me impatiently. “Josie’s return gifts are worth tens of thousands of dollars. Did you want me to leave them outside in the rain?” “But that is “my” room.” He stopped, throwing his hands up in irritation. “It’s for two damn days, Lydia! Are you seriously going to throw a fit over this?” Mom heard the rising voices and walked out onto the porch. She glanced indifferently at the ruined cardigan in my hand. “Just toss it in the wash, Lydia. It’s just an old piece of clothing—don’t start drama and ruin everyone’s mood right before Josie heads over to the Caldwells.” Josie appeared at the doorway, her voice small and delicate. “If sister is really that upset, I’ll tell Tracy to move my stuff back out. At worst, we’ll leave the scotch in the yard. If it gets ruined by the weather, we’ll just take the loss.” Mom instantly pulled Josie back. “Don’t you dare touch those heavy crates! She’s just throwin’ a tantrum because she can’t stand seeing the family focus on you for once.” It was “my” room that had been invaded. It was “my” personal belongings that had been dragged into the dirt. Yet somehow, in their minds, I was still the selfish, spoiled sister throwing a senseless fit. I hugged the heavy trash bag against my chest and lowered my head. “Don’t bother moving them,” I said quietly. Mom’s face softened slightly. “That’s more like it. We’re family—stop keeping score over every little detail.” She turned and bustled back inside to help Josie. Through the doorway, I heard her ask warmly, “For your visit to the Caldwells on Thursday morning, do you want your hair styled up in an elegant updos, or left down in loose curls?” Thursday morning… was also the morning I was leaving forever. Gathering every ounce of courage I had left, I called out toward the dimly lit hallway: “Mom… I’m leaving Thursday morning.” Inside, Josie was chattering excitedly about getting a fresh perm at the salon, and Mom was laughing in agreement. My voice was swallowed whole by their joy, unheard and ignored. … On the morning of my departure, the sky was still a bruised, pre-dawn gray. I packed three plain outfits into an old duffel bag and swept the storage shed clean. Jonah stood outside the main gate, leaning heavily on his crutches, waiting for me. Dragging my duffel bag across the courtyard, I passed the main house. The entire family was already bustling awake. Dad was carefully loading crates of fine wine into the trunk of a rental car. Tracy was reverently holding the red brass hurricane lantern, checking its glass. Mom was kneeling on the floor in front of Josie, adjusting the hem of her expensive lace dress. Josie wriggled her shoulders, pouting playfully. “Mom, stop tugging at it, you’re gonna mess up my hair!” “Okay, okay, Mom will be gentle, sweetie.” The small plastic wheels of my duffel bag clattered loudly against the cobblestone path. As I reached the front gate, Mom’s voice suddenly called out behind me. “Lydia.” My boots froze on the gravel. For a tiny, foolish split-second, my heart gave an involuntary leap. The next second, Mom thrust a plastic bag filled with leftover favor candies into my hands. “Since you’re heading toward town, drop these off at your Aunt Sarah’s place on your way. Don’t be lazy and forget.” I set the bag of candy gently down on the fence post. “I’m not going to town,” I said softly. Mom frowned, opening her mouth to scold me, but Josie’s impatient voice called out from the car door: “Mom, hurry up! Logan says his parents are already waiting at the restaurant!” “Coming, sweetie! Coming!” Mom turned around without a second glance, rushing toward the car. Dad held the lantern high. Tracy carried the last velvet box. They formed a tight, protective ring around Josie, guiding her down the eastern road as the sun began to rise. Jonah walked into the courtyard, gently taking the heavy duffel bag from my hands. I stood at the gate, watching the red glow of the heirloom lantern fade into the morning mist. They were escorting their favored daughter toward her glowing future. Jonah and I turned away, walking down the dark western path in the exact opposite direction. Not a single person turned around. Not a single person realized. This time, I was truly gone. And I was never coming back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556436”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There was a Good Girl Point Chart taped to our refrigerator. Dad promised that if I reached one hundred points, he would take me to Disney World. To earn those one hundred points, I sat at the piano with a 102-degree fever, forcing my tiny fingers through scales without shedding a tear. I gave away my golden retriever without putting up a fight. I cleaned the floors, wiped down the baseboards, and pushed myself until I scored a perfect 100% on every single final exam. Only then did Dad finally agree to take me. The truth was, Dad never let me watch cartoons, so I didn’t even know what Disney World was. I didn’t care about Mickey Mouse or fairy-tale castles. I just saw how he had been pulling late shifts every night, working until his stomach ulcers flared up so badly he could barely stand. I thought if I earned this trip, I could force him to take one full day off to rest. I carefully packed my small canvas backpack. Inside, I placed a small clay figurine I had spent three weeks sculpting in art class—it was a picture of Dad holding me high up on his shoulders. Alongside it, I packed a box of medical-grade thermal stomach wraps, purchased with six months of saved allowance money. I zipped the bag up with delicate, trembling care. Then, one minute before we were set to leave, Cynthia—Dad’s college sweetheart—walked through the front door, holding the hand of her seven-year-old son, Landon. Dad glanced at the three printed VIP passes resting on the entryway table. His brow instantly furrowed into a tight knot. “Why are there only three tickets?” he asked, his voice sharp. My chest constricted tightly. Dad didn’t wait for an answer. He walked over, unhooked the canvas backpack from my arms, and slung it directly onto Landon’s shoulders. “Since Piper already packed everything, you can just take her bag, Landon.” I stared at my father, stunned into complete silence. He offered a quick, uncomfortable pat to my shoulder, his tone laced with heavy resignation. “Piper, you’ve had everything your entire life. Landon doesn’t have a father. Be generous for once and give him your turn.” I stood anchored to the doorway, watching my small backpack walk away down the corridor. Once the elevator doors closed, I dialed the international number I had resisted calling for months. “Grandpa,” I whispered into the receiver. “I don’t want my dad anymore. Send your lawyer tomorrow morning to take me to Canada.” … “Piper, what are you doing standing there like a statue?” Grandma’s irritated voice sliced through the hallway. She stood in the frame of the doorway, clutching the trim with one hand, her face contorted in a deep scowl. “Landon has a slight cough,” she snapped. “Go tear down that ridiculous point chart you taped to the wall. Right now.” “And put away that report card on the coffee table. Don’t trigger Landon. He just moved back from abroad and hasn’t adapted to the curriculum here.” I stood in the center of the room, looking at her entitlement. That point chart represented every single night I had practiced piano through a burning fever, every chore I had quietly completed to keep the peace. Every single checkmark on that paper had been drawn by my father’s hand. “I understand,” I said softly. Grandma gave a brief nod and turned to leave, but stopped halfway down the hall. “While we’re away for the next two days, clean the guest room from top to bottom,” she added, her tone coated in casual disgust. “Landon has mild asthma; he can’t tolerate a single speck of dog hair. I told you months ago to get rid of that mutt. The whole house still reeks of it.” She didn’t bother hiding her contempt. In this house, I wasn’t a daughter or a granddaughter. I was an inconvenient presence, a quiet servant to be summoned at will. My mother stepped out of the master bedroom, holding Landon’s spare fleece jacket over her arm. “Piper, your grandmother is right,” Mom said, adjusting her pearl earrings. “You’re staying home anyway, so it’s not like you have anything else to do. Clean the guest room so it’s fresh when we return.” She paused, as if remembering a minor detail. “Oh, and the imported health supplements in the kitchen cabinet—make sure you warm up a bottle every afternoon. Landon needs to build up his immune system when he gets back.” I watched her polished, coral-painted lips open and close. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask why Landon’s comfort required my complete erasure. “Okay,” I said quietly. Dad’s voice boomed from the front door, urging them to hurry up so they wouldn’t miss the morning traffic. Cynthia brought up the rear, holding Landon’s hand, a gentle, triumphant smile playing on her lips. It used to be that whenever I was sad, Dad was the first person to drop to his knees, pull me into his arms, and make me laugh. But now, he merely walked over to where I stood, keeping his distance, his voice low and practiced. “Piper, don’t throw a fit,” he said. “You know Landon just arrived in the country. Everything is strange to him. He was so terrified last night he couldn’t sleep. This trip to Disney is to help him feel at home.” He reached out, intending to ruffle my hair. I casually tilted my head back, dodging his palm. Dad’s hand froze mid-air. A flash of irritation flickered deep in his eyes, though he smoothed it over instantly with a polite smile. “When I find time later, I’ll take you by yourself,” he promised. “You’ve always been the mature one, Piper. Be understanding of the family, okay?” “Mature.” That single word had been an iron weight on my shoulders for seven years. I looked directly into his eyes, my voice entirely flat. “Understood. Have a safe drive.” Dad seemed caught off guard by my lack of resistance. He hesitated, then gave a brief nod. “Be a good girl and wait for us to come home.” The heavy front door shut with a solid “thud”. The foyer plunged into instant silence. I stood motionless for a long time, until the dull ache in my legs turned into complete numbness. Then, I walked into the dining area and stood before the neatly taped “Good Girl Point Chart.” I reached out, grabbed the corner, and ripped it off the wall in one swift motion. I carried it over to the trash can, tore it into tiny, unreadable shreds, and dropped it into the bin. I took the straight-A report card off the coffee table and tossed it in right after. Walking back into my bedroom, I pulled open the top desk drawer. I retrieved the small clay figurine—the one of Dad holding me high above his shoulders—and the unopened box of thermal stomach wraps. I walked over to the open window and dropped both items directly into the neighborhood garbage truck parked in the alley below. My smartwatch buzzed against my wrist. It was a text from my grandfather. “Piper, the lawyer I sent is waiting downstairs. The custody waiver your mother signed last month will take full effect the moment you apply your thumbprint. Are you completely sure about this?” I stared at the screen, my fingers tightening slightly around the frame. “Grandpa, send him up.” I sent the reply and set the watch down. My gaze landed on a silver frame resting on the corner of my desk. It was a photo of Dad and me at a local fair three years ago. He was laughing wildly at the camera, and I was looking up at him with unreserved, reverent adoration. I picked up the frame, slid the photo out, and fed it straight into the trash can. I erased him from my world, right alongside all the wasted love I had spent seven years trying to give him. … Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Mr. Godfery, my grandfather’s senior attorney, pushed a thick stack of legal documents across the coffee table toward me. “Miss Calvin, these are the official Canadian residency papers and school enrollment forms,” Mr. Godfery said softly, his eyes filled with a quiet, lingering pity. “Mr. Winthrop has finalized every detail. Once you place your thumbprint here, you will be completely legally detached from this family.” I reached out, pressing my right thumb firmly onto the red ink pad. “Mr. Godfery,” I asked, my voice calm and small, “after I sign this, do I really have nothing to do with them anymore?” Mr. Godfery paused, his expression heavy. “That is correct. Your mother signed her section last month. To appease your father’s partner, she voluntarily relinquished her maternal rights. You cried and refused to leave at the time, which is why Mr. Winthrop held off on executing the order.” “Refused to leave.” I looked down at the bright red ink on my skin. Last month, my mother had forced me to give away my golden retriever and give up my bedroom to Landon, all to make Cynthia feel welcome. When I sobbed and begged her not to take my dog, Dad told me I was being selfish, and Mom told me I was embarrassing her in front of company. Not a single person in that house had cared about how much my heart was breaking. “Miss Calvin?” Mr. Godfery spoke up gently. “If you’ve changed your mind, there is still time to stop this. Walking away from your parents is a permanent decision.” I took a deep, steady breath, lowered my hand, and pressed a clear, dark thumbprint onto the final page of the document. “I haven’t changed my mind,” I said. “I’m ready to make my own choices.” Mr. Godfery looked at the absolute finality in my eyes and refrained from asking anything else. “Very well. I will process these immediately. Your grandfather has arranged a private flight for six o’clock tomorrow morning.” I thanked him and walked him to the door. Outside, the morning sun poured over the driveway, brilliant and completely devoid of warmth. Back inside, I picked up my tablet. A red notification popped up on social media. It was an update from my mother. She had posted a elaborate nine-photo gallery, each picture brimming with curated family bliss. There were photos of them watching the parade in front of the Cinderella Castle, shots of lavish character breakfasts, and finally, a picture of Dad carrying Landon on his shoulders. Dad was leaning his head up, laughing playfully with Landon, who looked utterly triumphant. The caption read: “A very special day, bringing a perfect surprise to our very special family.” The comment section was filled with likes from relatives. My Aunt Kelly had left a comment: “Where’s Piper? Didn’t you say you were taking her once she reached one hundred points?” Grandma’s reply came almost instantly: “Piper has a dark, difficult temper. She can’t stand seeing anyone else happy. If we brought her along, she would have ruined the mood for everyone.” I stared at those words until my fingertips turned ice-cold. “A dark, difficult temper.” That was all I was to them. They didn’t know that I had played the piano until my knuckles throbbed through a burning fever just to see Dad smile. They didn’t care that I had given up my dog to stop Grandma’s constant complaining, or that I had studied until midnight every night just to hear my mother say she was proud of me. I pressed the “like” button on the post, cleared my history, and logged out forever. Less than twenty-four hours remained. Soon, I would be completely gone. I spent the next few hours cleaning the guest room according to Grandma’s orders. I dragged a damp cloth across every surface, dusting the baseboards and wiping down the large, south-facing windows that flooded the room with sunlight. The room was spacious and bright. The closet was already filled with Landon’s new designer clothes, and the desk was covered in expensive imported toys and limited-edition model kits. As I mopped the hardwood floor, my gaze fell onto the nightstand. Resting there was an elegant wooden box, its lid half-open to reveal a limited-edition starry sky projector. Dad had brought it back from a business trip last month, claiming it was my reward for getting straight As. I had seen the box hidden in his study weeks ago, tagged with a bright yellow sticky note that read: “Piper’s straight-A surprise.” Yet, here it sat, resting on Landon’s bedside table. When I had asked about it, Dad’s explanation had been effortless: “Piper, Landon saw it and loved it, and he’s terrified of the dark. You’re brave, you don’t care about the dark anyway. Let him have it. I’ll buy you a better one later.” I hadn’t thrown a tantrum then. I hadn’t cried. I had simply, quietly, erased that promised night sky from my heart. I pulled the guest room door shut and retreated to my own room. Opening my backpack, I tucked my passport into the deepest interior pocket. It was my single ticket to freedom. I laid down on my narrow bed, staring up at the white ceiling. “If you stop expecting love, you stop feeling the pain of losing it.” It had taken me seven years to learn that truth. The afternoon bled into evening, suffocatingly quiet. I ate a plain sandwich, completed my remaining chores, and packed my sketchbook. Occasionally, the family group chat would chime with new photos. Not a single person sent a text asking if I had eaten dinner. At eight o’clock, my smartwatch buzzed. Dad’s name flashed across the digital screen. I watched it ring for several seconds before pressing answer. “Hello?” The line was filled with loud, chaotic noise—the distant boom of fireworks detonating overhead. Dad’s voice came through, heavy with irritation. “Piper, did you take the engraved silver pendant from Landon’s bag?” I went still. That silver pendant was something Dad had hiked nine hundred and ninety-nine steps up a mountain monastery to get blessed when I was three years old and dying of a sudden blood infection. It was engraved with my date of birth. I had worn it around my neck every day of my life. Before they left that morning, Landon had spotted it, screamed until he got his way, and Dad had forced me to hand it over “just for the day.” “No,” I said, my grip tightening on the watch frame. “Why?” Dad sighed heavily, his impatience palpable through the speaker. “Landon felt like it was scratching his neck during the parade, so he took it off to hold it. Someone bumped into him in the crowd, and he dropped it. We can’t find it anywhere.” My breath hitched violently. “It’s lost? Did you even look for it?” My voice cracked, rising higher than I intended. Over the line, Landon’s pathetic, sniffling voice drifted through. “Piper… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… there were so many people, someone pushed me…” Grandma’s sharp voice immediately took over the speaker. “Piper, why are you screaming at him? It’s just an old piece of silver! How much could it possibly be worth? Landon got his foot trampled in the crowd while trying to look for your stupid trinket. His ankle is completely swollen!” I bit down on the inside of my lip so hard I tasted metallic iron. “A stupid trinket.” Everything I cherished was worthless to them. Dad took the phone back, his tone dripping with cold fatigue. “Piper, your grandmother is right. It’s just an old piece of jewelry. When we get back, I’ll buy you a solid gold lock necklace, something far more valuable. Landon’s foot is hurting right now, so stop making him cry. Be mature.” “Be mature.” I closed my eyes. A single tear escaped, hot and sudden, splashing onto the back of my hand. I didn’t let out a single sound. When I finally spoke, my voice was terrifyingly flat. “Don’t bother.” Dad hesitated. “What do you mean, don’t bother?” “I mean, don’t buy me a new one,” I said, every trace of emotion drained from my tone. “If it’s lost, it’s lost.” It didn’t matter anymore. None of it belonged to me anyway. There was a brief, uncomfortable pause on the line. “Fine,” Dad grumbled. “We’ll bring you back a Disney plush toy tomorrow.” I hung up without replying and tossed the watch onto the desk. I curled into a ball on the bed, wrapping my arms tightly around my knees. When I was three, I had spent a week in the pediatric ICU with a terrifying fever. Dad hadn’t slept for four straight days, sitting beside my crib, holding my tiny hand. He had tied that silver pendant around my neck and whispered, “Don’t be scared, Piper. Daddy prayed for you. This will keep you safe forever.” I had held onto that memory for four years. Then Cynthia returned, and everything collapsed. Dad gave all his tenderness, all his patience, to her son. He had been the final pillar standing between me and Grandma’s cruelty, between me and Mom’s cold indifference. And tonight, that final pillar had handed away my safety charm and let it be trampled into the dirt. I stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and opened the bottom drawer. Inside rested a heavy photo album filled with ticket stubs and photos from every trip Dad and I had ever taken together. I carried the album to the corner of the living room and flipped the power switch on the heavy-duty paper shredder. “Feed.” One page, two pages, three pages. The machine roared, its sharp steel blades devouring the glossy color prints, grinding my childhood memories into fine, hopeless dust. It swallowed every smile, every hug, every lingering piece of love I had held onto. Later that night, the family group chat lit up again. Grandma dropped a long voice message into the thread. “Piper, we’ll be home tomorrow morning around ten. First thing tomorrow, pack up your bedroom and move all your things into the small study down the hall. Landon says he likes your room because of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Clear it out for him before we arrive. The study is plenty big enough for a little girl anyway.” I played the message, set the watch down, and didn’t bother responding. They were entirely confident I would obey. I had never dared to defy Grandma. Mom would never stand up for me. In their eyes, my only purpose in that house was to step aside whenever Landon wanted something, and then fade quietly into the background like a ghost. Dad sent a follow-up text a few minutes later: “Piper, you’re starting primary school soon; it’s time you learned to be independent. That room gets the best morning light, and Landon’s health is delicate—he needs the sun. Clean it up nicely, and I’ll bring home that strawberry shortcake you like tomorrow.” “Independent.” What a convenient word for abandonment. Landon needed the master bedroom, needed the sunlight, needed the whole family revolving around his delicate constitution. I was seven years old, so I was expected to be independent and surrender everything I owned without a murmur. I didn’t text back. I simply muted all notifications on the watch. My room was already bare. Aside from the mattress and the built-in wardrobe, nothing remained. My drawing supplies, my books, my clothes—everything I couldn’t take had already been boxed up and picked up by a local charity donation service earlier that afternoon. I packed three changes of clothes into my small canvas backpack and pulled the zipper shut. My Canadian passport rested quietly on the desk beside my single-way ticket confirmation to Vancouver, scheduled for 6:00 AM. I looked around the room where I had spent seven years of my life. I felt no sorrow, no regret, no lingering warmth. Before midnight, I gave the guest room one final wipe-down. I set the heat supplement bottle inside the warmer in the kitchen. I arranged Landon’s imported toys neatly along the wide windowsill of my former bedroom. Everything was precisely as they had demanded. Perfect. Long before the sun broke over the horizon the next morning, I slung my backpack over my shoulders and stepped out the front door, letting it latch shut with a quiet, final “click”. The morning air was crisp and biting. A sleek black sedan was idling at the gates of the residential complex. A driver in a suit stepped out and held the rear door open. “Miss Calvin,” he said respectfully. “We’re heading to the airport.” I slid into the plush leather seat. As the car pulled away, the neighborhood bled into a blur of passing streetlights. My smartwatch screen illuminated. It was a text from Dad. “Piper, is the room cleaned out yet? Make sure you change Landon’s bed sheets to the Superman set he likes.” I looked at the text message, a bitter, silent laughter rising in my throat. “Change his sheets?” Even at the very end, my only value to them was as an unpaid maid clearing the way for their real child. I tapped his profile picture and hit “Block”. Then I selected my mother’s contact and hit “Block”. Then Grandma. One by one, I erased every line of communication tying me to that house. I unbuckled the smartwatch from my wrist, popped open the back casing with a small hairpin, pulled out the GPS tracking microchip, and snapped it cleanly in half. I dropped the broken plastic into the car’s trash receptacle. At the airport, my grandfather’s assistant escorted me seamlessly through the private terminal and onto the aircraft. I sat in the wide leather armchair of the cabin, looking out at the tarmac lights stretching into the dawn. The overhead speaker chimed, and a polite flight attendant’s voice drifted through the cabin. “Welcome aboard, Miss Calvin. We are cleared for departure to Vancouver…” I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes as the jet engines roared to life, pushing us up into the morning sky. Goodbye to the favoritism and the cold neglect. Goodbye to the little girl who spent seven years begging to be loved. From this day forward, I would never be anyone’s second choice again.

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The entertainment industry was in the middle of a brutal winter, but I was thriving on two fronts: as an A-list leading man on camera, and as the shadow boss behind the biggest PR smear network in Hollywood off camera. With tens of thousands of burner accounts and an ungodly stockpile of industry dirt at my fingertips, I had made countless toxic elite figures vanish overnight. After winning Best Actor at the Academy Awards, my mainstream career skyrocketed. I was planning to sunset the side hustle for good—until a high-paying, encrypted client dropped an outrageous sum into my private portal. “I want you to completely destroy someone.” “My biological son.” My core team went dead silent in the group chat. She sent a voice note over the encrypted app. Her voice was flat, devoid of any discernible warmth. “I have an adopted son who grew up with me. When he launched his career, he was brutally cyberbullied. He developed severe clinical depression and slashed his wrists twice.” “And my biological son—fully aware of what happened—constantly flexes in his face anyway.” “Best Actor trophy today. A major luxury global campaign tomorrow. A magazine cover the day after.” “I want him to taste what it feels like to fall from the sky. But I can’t bring myself to do it directly.” “So I want your team to use the most ruthless, professional methods to leave his reputation in ashes.” As a son myself, my hand holding the mouse went entirely numb. She added another line: “Don’t worry, I don’t want his life. I just want to take him down a peg.” “Smear him for a month. Ruin every project he has lined up.” “My adopted son was dragged through the mud for three years. One month for my birth son is more than fair.” In our private group chat, a few of my key operatives were already rubbing their hands together, eager for the massive payday. I took a sharp breath, preparing to reject this morally bankrupt contract. Then the client sent a password-protected zip file. “Here is the target.” I clicked on the first folder. My own face stared back at me from the screen. …… 1 “Boss… the guy in these photos… isn’t that Logan Archer? The guy who just won Best Actor?” Kyle, my second-in-command in the network, sent a quick voice message. Shock leaked through every syllable. I stared at the monitor. Lying inside the folder was a digitized copy of my intake records from the Oakwood Psychiatric Recovery Center in Chicago, dated back when I was eighteen years old. The watermark was thick across the pages. In the bottom right corner, signed in neat, precise script, was my full name. A sharp, dull ache clamped around my chest, spreading through my ribcage. The year my father died in a head-on collision, I couldn’t pull myself out of the wreckage. I spiraled into severe clinical depression. It was my mother who held my hand, guiding me into that facility to check me in. She had stroked my hair back then, tears brimming in her reddened eyes, swearing to me: “Don’t be afraid, Logan. Mom is here. I will take this secret to my grave.” Now, the woman who swore she would protect me was selling my deepest trauma to the highest bidder on the internet. I typed on my keyboard, switching to the encrypted private chat. “Client, the legal risk on this order is too high.” “Leaking sensitive dirt on an A-lister like this—if we get exposed for defamation, we’re looking at millions in legal damages.” The status at the top of the chat box flickered: “Typing…” Helena Archer didn’t hesitate for a single second. “It isn’t defamation.” “He had severe clinical depression. He was on Prozac for two years. He spent four full months locked in a psych ward.” “A man with a history of mental instability doesn’t deserve to sit on a pedestal under the spotlight.” I read those lines, the coldness creeping slowly down to my fingertips. An icy chill bled from the marrow of my bones, paralyzing me. I forced a deep breath and kept typing, trying to erect a wall. “Even if it’s true, invading medical privacy is illegal. Nocturne doesn’t touch jobs with zero ethical boundaries.” “Money isn’t an issue.” Helena sent a screenshot of a wire transfer. “A two-million-dollar deposit has already hit your offshore escrow account.” “I don’t need you to be the original source.” “Tonight at 11:50 PM, I will use an anonymous offshore burner email to send the original documents directly to his three biggest rival talent agencies.” “Your job is simple: once the leak breaks, push the scandal into the top three trending topics nationwide.” She paused, then sent one last message. “If you won’t take it, I’ll hire another agency.” “But everyone in the industry knows Nocturne has the most bulletproof push algorithm. I need guaranteed destruction.” The digital clock in the top corner of my monitor ticked forward. 11:45 PM. Five minutes left. My fingers tightened around the mouse until my knuckles turned stark white. An offshore burner email, scheduled delivery, sent to my three fiercest industry rivals. Helena had blocked every single exit. She knew I had plenty of ruthless enemies in Hollywood. She knew it better than anyone. The moment that email went out, those rival agencies would spend millions to make sure the scandal suffocated my career entirely. If I turned down this contract, she would simply hire another PR smear firm. And when that happened, the narrative machine would spin completely out of my control. “Boss, are we taking it? The boys are waiting,” Kyle pressed in the group chat. I bit down on the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper. My throat felt plugged with bloody cotton. The biological son Helena insisted “deserved to fall from the clouds”—was me. The victim she was trying to avenge by destroying me—was also me. And she had no idea that she was handing the butcher’s knife straight into my hands. 11:48 PM. I picked up my personal phone and dialed Helena’s private line. It rang three times before she answered. “Logan? Sweetheart, why aren’t you asleep?” Helena’s voice was warm, dripping with the familiar, gentle concern of a loving mother. “Mom,” I said, straining to keep my tone steady. “What are you doing right now?” “Just finished some late work, getting ready to take a shower. What about you? Don’t you have that major global luxury campaign announcement tomorrow? You need your rest.” She brought up the campaign. It was the Cartier contract that Tyler—her adopted son—had been envying for two straight weeks. “Yeah. I’m going to sleep soon. Mom… have you run into any trouble lately?” “No, darling. Why do you ask out of nowhere?” She let out a soft laugh, her tone as light and breezy as if we were discussing the weekend weather. “Nothing. Just missed you. Goodnight.” “Goodnight, sweetie.” I hung up. I stared at the cold, glowing digital countdown on my monitor. 11:50 PM. In that exact instant, the global trending topics page suddenly exploded with a brand-new, deep-red tag: #LoganArcherPsychHistory Helena hadn’t waited for 11:50 PM. She had hit send early. The emails went out faster than I anticipated, and my rivals didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second to pour gas on the fire. In the private portal, Helena sent one final message: “The leak is live. Get to work.” I covered my face with my hands, but no tears came. On the desk, my phone began to vibrate violently. My manager, Sam, was calling. The second I hit answer, his panicked, desperate voice almost shattered my eardrum. “Logan! What the hell are these medical records online?! The luxury brand just put an emergency freeze on the contract! Talk to me!” 2 By 2:00 AM, the crisis management room at my agency was lit up like a stadium. Sam slammed a thick stack of printed web articles down onto the glass table. “We can’t suppress it! We physically cannot drown this out!” “Whoever leaked this went straight for the jugular—the facility ID, the attending doctor’s signature, everything is authentic! A simple search verifies the whole paper trail!” His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at me. “Logan, tell me the truth. Aside from your mother, who else knew about this?” I sat in the corner of the leather sofa, watching the steam fade from my cooling cup of black coffee. “Nobody else.” “Then who leaked it?! We already served legal notices to Oakwood Recovery Center, but the internet doesn’t care about privacy violations—they only care if a top-billed actor with a psych record is going to snap on set!” Sam paced the room like a caged animal. “The director of “The Long Dark” just called. They’re officially reconsidering the lead role.” “You know Tyler’s team has been circling that project for weeks! Now that you’re in the mud, all those resources are going straight into his lap!” At the mention of Tyler’s name, I finally lifted my eyes. “Let him have it.” “What did you just say? Have you lost your mind?!” Sam stared at me, dumbfounded. “I said, don’t fight him for it. Let it cool off.” I stood up, grabbing my coat off the back of the chair. “Sam, trust me this once. Don’t make any sudden moves.” When I pushed open the front door of my house, the sky was already turning a pale grey. The house was empty, saved for a single warm nightlight burning in the foyer. At precisely 8:00 AM, the doorbell rang. I walked over to open it. Helena was standing on the porch, holding a warm brown bag from an artisanal bakery across town. “Logan, you haven’t eaten breakfast yet, have you?” She slipped off her shoes and walked into the kitchen with familiar ease, unpacking gourmet pastries and fresh breakfast boxes onto the island. The rich scent of butter and coffee filled the air. She turned around, looking at my pale, exhausted face, her eyebrows knitting together in deep distress. “I saw the news online. Don’t be afraid, Logan. Mom has already reached out to the top privacy attorneys in the city. We will find whoever leaked this.” She pulled out a chair for me. “Eat something first. Your stomach is delicate, you can’t skip meals.” I stood in place, watching her in complete silence. Those hands—the very same hands that, just hours ago, tapped away on a keyboard to transfer two million dollars to ruin me. Now, those hands were carefully peeling a hard-boiled egg, setting it gently onto a porcelain plate in front of me. “Mom.” “Hmm?” She looked up, her gaze overflowing with maternal heartache. “Who do you think put my medical records on the internet?” Helena’s hand paused for a fraction of a second—so brief it was almost imperceptible. “I don’t know, darling. Maybe an unethical employee at Oakwood looking to make a quick buck. Or maybe one of your rivals paid off someone at the clinic.” She wiped her fingers with a napkin, walked over, and gently patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. If the sky falls, Mom will hold it up for you. I already talked to Tyler—I told him to clear his schedule and come spend time with you.” I couldn’t stop the soft, bitter laugh that escaped my lips. “What’s funny?” she asked smoothly. “Nothing. I just thought… it’s really nice having a mother.” Helena let out a quiet sigh, her expression growing even softer. “Silly boy. I’m your mother. Who else would I be good to if not you?” Her phone, sitting face-up on the island, lit up. The screen wasn’t locked. A preview banner from a messaging app popped up. It was from Tyler. “Mom, did you see the news? Logan is getting destroyed, he even lost the luxury deal. Are we being a little too harsh on him?” Helena had her back turned, pouring a glass of warm milk, and missed the notification. I lowered my eyes, locking my gaze onto the screen. Ten seconds later, Helena walked back with the glass. She picked up her phone, glanced at it, and her expression didn’t shift by a single millimeter. Her thumbs flew effortlessly across the glass. I didn’t need to look to know what she replied. Because in the admin portal of Nocturne, just seconds ago, a new directive had come in from Helena’s alternate account. “Double the pressure. Mix in fake stories about him being abusive to crew members early in his career.” “I want him to have nowhere left to stand by the end of today.” I lifted the glass of milk and took a slow sip. It was sweet. So sweet it made my stomach turn. “Mom… what if I’m really forced out of Hollywood?” I asked softly. Helena sat back down, meeting my eyes with unwavering warmth. “Then you leave. The industry is too toxic anyway—it was never suitable for someone as sensitive as you. You just stay home, and Mom will take care of you for the rest of your life.” Her voice was laced with pure sincerity. Every word carried the undeniable weight of an adoring, self-sacrificing mother. I nodded slowly, picking up the egg she had peeled for me. “Okay.” 3 By the third day, the narrative momentum had turned me into a pariah across the internet. Nocturne’s execution was terrifyingly efficient. Truth mixed seamlessly with meticulously crafted fabrications, rolling over my reputation like a tidal wave. Outlets that had praised my work ethic days ago were now publishing deep dives into my supposed “early signs of mental instability.” At 10:00 AM, I received a formal notice from the corporate legal team. I was required to report to headquarters immediately. Helena insisted on driving me. “In your current state, I can’t let you go alone. What if you run into unhinged anti-fans?” She held the steering wheel with a firm grip, her tone grave. I sat in the passenger seat, watching the city skyline drift past the window. “All right. Thanks, Mom.” The moment her car pulled into the executive underground garage, Tyler’s luxury SUV pulled up right beside us. He stepped out wearing a tailored high-fashion suit, stepping toward us with a look of perfectly calibrated concern. “Logan! Are you okay? I just got back from my audition for “The Long Dark”, and the second I heard you were coming to headquarters, I rushed right over.” He reached out, attempting to pat my arm, but I subtly stepped out of reach. Tyler’s hand froze mid-air. His eyes welled up with instant tears. “Logan… are you still blaming me? Honestly, regarding that luxury endorsement… I had no idea the brand would turn around and offer it to me.” Helena’s eyebrows instantly shot up. She took a swift step forward, placing herself directly between me and Tyler. “Logan, what is wrong with you? Tyler is just showing concern for you! The brand made its own choice—what does that have to do with him?” Her voice wasn’t loud, but the bite of maternal disapproval was unmistakable. “I don’t blame him,” I said, eyeing the mother and son duo. “I just don’t like people touching me.” “You never used to be like this,” Helena sighed, her voice heavy with tragic disappointment. “Is it because the stress is too much… and your condition is…” She trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. But the unspoken words hung in the air like a blade. “Your condition is relapsing.” That was the exact signal she wanted to broadcast to everyone around us. The elevator rode straight to the executive boardroom on the top floor. When I pushed the door open, the entire senior leadership team was seated around the long conference table. Sam sat at the far end, his face ash-grey. “Logan. Have a seat,” CEO Richard Davies said, pointing to an empty chair directly across from him. Helena walked in behind me, pulling out the adjacent chair and sitting down. “Mr. Davies, Logan’s psychological state is extremely fragile right now. As his mother, I need to be present for this conversation.” Richard nodded curtly, sliding a thick document across the polished wood toward me. “Logan, you’ve seen the news. The agency spent incredible resources trying to protect you, but our brand sponsors have formed a coalition. They are demanding immediate contract terminations and millions in liquidated damages.” “On top of that, the producers of “The Long Dark” have officially served us notice. Your lead actor contract has been terminated.” I looked down at the stark black ink on the white paper. “And?” “And so, after a board vote, the company has decided to terminate your representation contract effective immediately.” Richard tapped his fingers on the table. “Of course, considering how much revenue you’ve generated for us in the past, the agency will swallow half of the total breach penalties. The remaining half… you will need to cover out of pocket.” Five million dollars. That was the number I was expected to pay. Sam bolted out of his chair. “Mr. Davies! That isn’t fair! Logan doesn’t have a dangerous mental illness—it was psychological trauma from saving a life years ago!” “Shut up, Sam!” I cut him off sharply. Sam froze, staring at me in utter shock. Helena turned her head toward me, a flash of panic darting through her eyes before she buried it deep beneath her composed facade. “Sam, facts are facts. There’s no point in making excuses,” I said calmly, twirling a pen between my fingers. Helena seized the opportunity effortlessly. “Mr. Davies, Logan genuinely needs to take a step back and rest. Honestly, Tyler’s career momentum has been phenomenal lately. If the agency is willing to reallocate Logan’s remaining project slate to Tyler… I will personally cover Logan’s five-million-dollar penalty.” The room went entirely silent. Richard and the executives exchanged quick, calculating looks. Behind Helena’s chair, Tyler tried—and failed—to keep the triumphant smirk from curling the corners of his lips. This was Helena’s ultimate objective. To use my complete annihilation to pave a golden highway for her adopted son. And to do it while cementing her saintly, devoted mother persona in front of the entire industry. “A mother’s love really is something else,” Richard mused, sliding another document toward Tyler. “In that case, Tyler, come sign the transition agreement.” Tyler stepped forward, trying desperately to mask his wild excitement as he picked up the pen. “Hold on.” My voice cut through the warm, celebratory atmosphere like a shattered sheet of ice. 4 Everyone turned to stare at me. Helena frowned, her voice dropping into a stern whisper. “Logan, don’t throw a tantrum. Mom is trying to save you.” “Save me?” My face remained entirely expressionless as I tossed the pen onto the glass tabletop with a dull “clack”. “No need. I’ll pay my own damages. And as for my projects… nobody touches them.” Tyler looked at Helena with wide, pitiful eyes. “Mom… is Logan getting worse? He’s talking nonsense…” Before he could finish, the heavy boardroom doors were pushed open with sudden force. A breathless young assistant stood in the doorway, clutching the handle. “Mr. Davies! Director Lawrence Drake is here! He brought his entire legal team!” The air in the room instantly turned to stone. Lawrence Drake. The most acclaimed director in modern cinema. An elusive recluse who held a mountain of international awards and answered to no studio. Why on earth was he here? Before anyone could regain their composure, a middle-aged man in a sharp black trench coat strode into the room. Behind him, a fleet of high-powered corporate attorneys carrying leather briefcases exuded a terrifying, ice-cold authority. Richard’s face immediately melted into a groveling, sycophantic smile as he rushed to greet him. “Director Drake! What an unexpected honor! You could have just called—please, take a seat!” Lawrence didn’t even grant him a glance. His sharp eyes swept across the boardroom before locking firmly onto me. Seeing this, Helena immediately grabbed my arm, shifting her body to block me from his view. “Director Drake, hello. I am Logan Archer’s mother. I am so deeply sorry about the scandal online. Logan’s psychological state is completely unstable right now. If he has offended you in any way, I apologize on his behalf.” Helena’s tone was polite, but every word was designed to nail down the narrative that I was out of my mind. Tyler seized the moment, stepping forward with a polished, humble smile. “Director Drake, my brother is unwell and unable to continue working. If you have any upcoming projects that require auditions, I am fully available.” “Who the hell are you to audition for my film?” Lawrence’s cold, rasping voice cut Tyler down where he stood. Tyler’s face flushed an intense, burning red. He froze instantly. Lawrence walked straight up to me. Behind him, one of his attorneys smoothly pulled out a chair for him. He sat down and looked me straight in the eye. “Logan Archer. Regarding those psychiatric records from the Oakwood Recovery Center…” The moment those words left his mouth, Helena’s fingers clenched around my arm with brutal force. She stared at Lawrence, waiting desperately for the explosive rage that was bound to follow. Richard hurriedly tried to wash his hands clean. “Director Drake, we are currently terminating Logan’s contract. His personal actions have zero relation to our agency—” Lawrence let out a harsh, mocking laugh, turning his head toward Richard. “Terminating him? Davies, your agency’s vision is pure, unadulterated trash.” He pulled a gold-embossed leather folder from his attorney’s briefcase and slammed it onto the table. “Mr. Logan Archer. Regarding those photos and intake forms from the recovery center…” He paused, his voice echoing with absolute authority through the silent room. “…that is precisely the broken soul our new masterpiece, “Into the Abyss”, has been searching for.” “Congratulations. The raw resilience you showed in crawling out of your darkest hour completely captivated our board of investors and production team.” “This is the lead actor contract for “Into the Abyss”. Fully funded, fifteen million dollar guaranteed base salary, plus global box office gross backend points.”

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When tickets for the express train to New York went on sale, Bruno habitually ordered two. One for himself. One for Isla. Only after locking in their seats did he turn to me and ask, “Callie, did you get your ticket?” I froze. On his screen, his seat was right next to Isla’s. When I opened the app a second later, the only remaining seat on the train was in the adjacent car. I stared at the seat number, a sudden, hollow laugh catching in my throat. From our summer trips to college orientation, whenever there were three of us, they were always a pair. I was always the odd one out, running to catch up behind them. Not long after, Isla dropped a picture of a lease agreement into our group chat. Under the tenant column were two names: hers and Bruno’s. She tagged me with a cheerful emoji. “Callie, Bruno said it’s safer for you to live in the dorms. But you can always come over to our place for dinner on weekends!” “Our place.” Something sharp pricked my chest. I hadn’t even stepped foot onto a college campus yet, and I had already been locked out of his future. A moment later, Bruno sent me a private text. “Don’t overthink this. Isla renting an apartment on her own isn’t safe. I promised her parents I’d look after her. Don’t make a scene over something so minor.” I stared at the phrase “something so minor”. Slowly, I opened the university portal on my phone. The Columbia University enrollment confirmation page was still active, waiting for my final click. I hit back. I navigated over to the late-clearing admissions portal for University College London. This time, I stopped chasing their train car. And I stopped chasing Bruno’s life. … Canceling my enrollment at Columbia still required me to hand over paper forms in New York. The day the train departed, the station was packed. Bruno and Isla sat side by side, one car ahead of mine. Before we left, he’d promised to help me with my heavy luggage. But after passing through ticket control, he went straight ahead, finding Isla’s seat and lifting her small wheelie bag onto the overhead rack with practiced ease. I was stuck one car back, dragging two oversized suitcases through the narrow aisle. People bumped past me, muttering complaints under their breath. I texted him, asking if he could come help me for a second. Ten minutes later, he replied: “Isla gets motion sick. She just fell asleep.” “My mom specifically told me to keep an eye on her on the way down. I can’t move right now.” I looked at the screen, my hands and feet turning ice-cold. In the end, I had to stand on my tiptoes and hoist the heavy bags up myself. The weight was too much; my wrist gave out, and the suitcase slammed down, sending a shot of numbness straight up my arm. A woman sitting nearby caught the edge just in time, preventing it from hitting anyone. I thanked her profusely, my voice shaking. A minute later, Isla posted a photo in the group chat. In the picture, Bruno was kneeling in front of her, carefully draping his jacket over her shoulders. On the fold-down tray sat a paper cup of hot milk and a box of non-drowsy Dramamine. That box of medication was something I had tucked into his backpack that morning, worried I might feel sick on the ride. I tagged him in the chat. “Could you bring me a Dramamine pill? I’m feeling really nauseous.” Two minutes later, his private text arrived. “You’ve never gotten motion sickness before.” “Just drink some warm water.” I turned off my screen and looked out the window. The dull ache in my chest fermented slowly with every rattle of the train tracks. Halfway through the trip, a heavily intoxicated man sat down in the empty seat next to me. Reeking of cheap whiskey, he kept leaning over, his elbow brushing against me, even reaching out to touch my bag whenever the train lurched. My stomach churned with anxiety. I dialed Bruno’s number. The first time, no one answered. The second time, he hung up on me. Immediately after, a text popped up: “Isla just fell asleep. Stop causing drama.” “Stop causing drama.” Those four words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. In the end, a conductor noticed the situation during her walk-through and reassigned me to a safer seat. It was near midnight when we pulled into Penn Station. Bruno held Isla’s hand as they walked off the platform ahead of me. Watching their fingers intertwined, I suddenly remembered the night of our high school graduation. The summer breeze had been soft that evening. He had held my hand just like that on the school rooftop, whispering softly, “Callie, once we get settled in New York, we’ll make it official.” We had been inseparable since sophomore year. Everyone assumed it was only a matter of time before we put a real label on it. Now, he was holding someone else’s hand, never once turning around to see if I was behind them. Without looking back, Bruno called over his shoulder, “Isla’s blood sugar dropped. I’m taking her straight to the apartment to rest.” “Take a cab to the dorms yourself.” With that, he hailed a yellow cab, shielded Isla as she slid inside, and sped off into the night. I stood in the freezing wind, dragging two massive bags, waiting thirty minutes in the taxi line. The night was pitch-black, and my driver got confused by the road construction, taking a wrong turn into an unfamiliar, deserted industrial strip. Terrified, I texted Bruno my real-time location. The message sank into an abyss. No reply. It wasn’t until my resident advisor noticed I hadn’t checked in and sent two upperclassmen out to locate me that I finally made it to the temporary dorms. My phone battery was down to one percent when his text finally arrived: “Let me know when you arrive. Don’t make people worry.” I stared at that belated burst of concern, a wave of dark irony washing over me. A second later, a push notification popped up on my screen. “UCL Clearing Application: Preliminary Review Passed.” I stared at the prompt asking “Do you wish to proceed?” for a long time. Then, I tapped “Confirm”. …… The next morning, Bruno sent me a text. “Come over for lunch.” My high school transcripts, passport copy, and registration documents were still packed in the side pocket of his suitcase—documents I needed to officially withdraw from Columbia and send to London. I had no choice but to go to their rented place. Bruno opened the door. He punched the passcode into the keypad right in front of me, not even bothering to cover the screen. A string of six beeps. I recognized those numbers instantly. It was Isla’s birthday. My mind flashed back to graduation night, when he had promised that when we had our own place in New York, the front door code would be the date we officially became a couple. Now, the apartment living room was filled with new, spotless furniture. By the window sat a sleek wooden desk—the exact model I had drooled over months ago. Today, it was cluttered with Isla’s makeup mirrors, luxury perfumes, and Polaroid prints. The refrigerator door was covered in sticky notes. “Isla doesn’t eat onions.” “Isla needs warm oat milk in the morning.” “Isla is terrified of the dark—leave the hallway light on.” Every single note was written in Bruno’s unmistakable, neat handwriting. I pointed at the fridge, my voice surprisingly steady. “What am I to you, Bruno?” Bruno paused, his hands resting on his hips. “My parents set this place up for Isla. She’s a girl alone in a huge city with no family. I’m just staying here temporarily to look out for her.” “You can come over whenever you want, of course. But Isla’s a light sleeper, so just let us know in advance before you pop in.” “Let us know in advance.” I looked him dead in the eye. “And what about me? I’m alone in a dorm room on the other side of town. Do you ever worry if I’m scared? If I’m safe?” Bruno frowned, annoyance slipping into his tone. “You’re in a university residence hall. You have roommates, an RA, building security. What could possibly happen to you?” “Isla is different. She hasn’t had parents around since she was a kid.” “Callie, stop being so petty about everything.” The words died in my throat. Isla was our high school classmate, the daughter of a long-time friend of the Lawson family. After her parents died in an accident years ago, Bruno’s family had practically taken her in. His parents treated her like a second daughter. In the past, whenever Bruno ditched me for her, he used the exact same line: “She doesn’t have parents, Callie. Just yield to her a little, okay?” At first, I felt sorry for her too. It was only now, standing in this warm, beautifully lit apartment, that I realized her tragedy had long become his ultimate excuse to ignore me. Without another word to me, he reached into his pocket and dropped a spare set of house keys into Isla’s purse. “You’re always losing things, Isla. Keep a back-up set in your bag.” I stood in the middle of the room like an uninvited guest. At noon, the smell of sautéing peppers drifted from the kitchen. Isla sat on the sofa, dramatically covering her nose, whining that she couldn’t stand spicy food. Bruno immediately turned to me. “Callie, let’s keep things mild today. I’ll make you a full spicy meal another time, okay?” I remembered our dinner dates back home. He used to laugh softly as I ate spicy noodles until tears ran down my cheeks, gently wiping my face with a napkin, teasing that he’d have to buy me safety goggles just so he could cook my favorite meals once we moved in together. Back then, no matter what we talked about, he always framed it around our future life together. Now, I was entirely erased from his present. That evening, a sudden storm caused a power outage in the old apartment complex. The living room plunged into total darkness. Isla shrieked, throwing herself directly into Bruno’s arms. “Bruno! I’m scared!” Bruno wrapped his arms around her tightly. “Don’t worry. I’m right here.” Meanwhile, I was in the dark kitchen, gathering up the lunch dishes. A sharp piece of broken porcelain sliced deep into my index finger. Blood gushed out immediately. In the living room, they whispered gentle words of comfort to each other. Neither of them turned around to check on me. When I left, I demanded my documents back. Bruno unzipped his suitcase. My file folder was crushed and crumpled at the very bottom, while Isla’s medical records, lease forms, and campus orientation maps were neatly organized in a pristine clear sleeve right on top. I pulled my papers out and walked out the door without saying another word. Back in my temporary room, I logged into the London university portal and uploaded all my finalized materials. The day I went to the Columbia administration building to process my formal withdrawal, the cut on my hand still hadn’t healed. Bruno, who had promised to accompany me for campus registration, dropped me the second Isla couldn’t find the medical center building. When his text arrived, my heart gave a dull, familiar ache, though the numbness was already taking over. I told myself it was fine; I was cutting him out of my life anyway. I dragged my luggage to the registration queue alone. The student volunteer looking over my passport paused when she saw my name. “Wait, you’re Callie Palmer?” She smiled warmly. “Isla mentioned you earlier! She said you guys went to high school together, and that you’d be coming over to their place for dinner on weekends.” She chuckled. “She was telling us how sweet they are together. Honestly, you guys must be the power couple of the incoming freshman class!” “High school friend.” “Their place.” “Power couple.” Every phrase felt like a tiny, deliberate twist of a blade. At noon, a notification popped up on my feed. Isla had posted a new photo on Instagram. She was standing in front of the iconic university gates. Bruno stood beside her, holding two iced boba teas and a massive bouquet of sunflowers. Her caption read: “Day one in New York with @Bruno. We both have a brand new home!” The comments were already flooded with high school classmates. “Wait, is this official?!” “What about Callie though?” “Honestly, childhood sweethearts always win in the end.” Bruno didn’t reply to any of them, nor did he deny it. If it had been me tagged in a photo like that, he would have instantly posted a public correction: “Just friends, guys. Don’t make rumors.” A torrential downpour hit the campus around two in the afternoon. I was stuck inside the main administration building while my heavy suitcases and paper records were still sitting under a temporary canvas canopy near the registration plaza. I messaged Bruno, asking if he could push my bags inside the lobby. He texted back: “Isla felt dizzy after her blood draw.” “I need to stay with her in the clinic for another thirty minutes.” “Your luggage is hard-shell and waterproof anyway, stop worrying.” By the time I ran through the rain back to the plaza, the canvas tent had given way. My bags were completely soaked, and my printed files were dripping wet. I grabbed my files. As I pushed myself up, my wet shoe slipped on the marble step. I fell hard, crashing against the concrete ledge. The scab on the back of my hand tore wide open, blood mixing with rainwater as it trickled down my wrist. My vision swam with gray spots. I couldn’t stand up. My assigned advisor happened to pass by and quickly pulled me into the dry hallway. She flipped through my wet registration file, concern written all over her face. “Can you hear me? I need to call your emergency contact. Did he come with you today?” She dialed Bruno’s number on speaker. First call: No answer. Second call: Straight to voicemail. When we were filling out our pre-orientation safety forms back home, Bruno had insisted on being my emergency contact. He had taken my phone, typed his own cell number into the field, and said, “If anything ever happens to you in New York, the school needs to call me first.” I had believed him. The advisor stared at the silent phone for a few seconds, then looked up at me gently. “I can’t reach him, sweetie. Rest here for a bit, and once the rain slows down, I’ll walk you to the health center.” Thirty minutes later, Bruno finally rushed into the lobby—holding a fresh set of dorm bedding he had just picked up for Isla. He took one look at my drenched, disheveled state and scowled. “Callie, why do you always have to make things so complicated?” Isla peeked out from behind his shoulder, her voice tiny and sweet. “It’s all my fault, Callie… If I hadn’t felt sick, Bruno could have come over to help you sooner.” Bruno immediately turned to her, his voice softening. “This has nothing to do with you, Isla.” The advisor stepped forward, her voice sharp and uncompromising. “Is this young man your boyfriend? You were listed as her primary emergency contact, sir. She was injured and stranded in a downpour. If you accept that responsibility, you step up—you don’t come in here and blame the victim.” I lifted my head, staring at his face. For a brief, fleeting second, I wanted to ask him: “Were we ever actually boyfriend and girlfriend?” Then I caught myself, feeling a bitter wave of self-ridicule. Whether we were or weren’t didn’t matter anymore. The answer was already staring me in the face. That night, I logged into the residence portal and officially canceled my dorm reservation. I reprinted my UCL admission documents, carefully placing each clean sheet into a protective plastic sleeve. Just as I tucked the final page into my envelope, an email from London popped up on my screen. “Clearing Application Approved. Please complete final registration and travel verification within three days.” That same night, I booked a one-way flight to London Heathrow for three days later. The night before my flight, the freshman group chats exploded. Someone had taken a screenshot of Isla’s post and re-shared it to the campus gossip page, commenting on the handsome new couple living together off-campus. I stared at the endless stream of comments reading “So cute!” and “Relationship goals!”, my fingertips trembling on the glass. Deep down, a tiny, foolish part of me was still unwilling to accept that years of shared memories were nothing more than a fever dream I had experienced alone. In a moment of final, tragic hope, I typed a comment under the main post: “Don’t misunderstand. He has a girlfriend.” It was the first time I had ever publicly claimed my place in his life. “Just give me one sign,” I thought. “If Bruno stands up for me just once, I’ll give him one last chance.” Within an hour, my comment was screenshotted and pinned at the top of the thread. The new headline was vicious: “Freshmen Living Together? Real Girlfriend Steps Up? Who’s the Side Chick?” The comment section erupted into chaos. “He has a girlfriend and he’s renting an apartment with another girl? Isla is literally a homewrecker.” “Wait, I saw them at orientation, they looked totally like a couple!” “I went to high school with them. Bruno and Callie were definitely dating.” “Isn’t Isla an orphan? The Lawson family has been taking care of her for years.” “Even so, zero boundaries! Who moves in with a guy who has a girlfriend?” Isla was soon sobbing in the group chat. She claimed she was only staying there temporarily, that Bruno was helping her purely out of family obligation. She said being an orphan was hard enough, but now she was being publicly branded a homewrecker on her first week of college. She added that if I was really that insecure, she would break her lease and drop out of school altogether. The post gained so much traction that the department dean called the three of us into her office the following morning. The dean laid her tablet on the desk, the viral post still displayed on the screen. “This is spreading through the incoming class,” she said, looking over her glasses. “Normally, I don’t interfere in students’ personal lives, but campus code of conduct is strict, and this isn’t the reputation we want for our freshmen. I need an explanation.” She looked at Bruno first, asking if the cohabitation was real. Then she turned to me, asking what I meant by “girlfriend.” The office fell deathly quiet. I turned my head to look at Bruno. All he had to do was say one sentence—”She’s my girlfriend”—and the whole nightmare would end. He stayed silent for a terrifyingly long time. Finally, he pulled out his phone and brought up a text thread from months ago, showing a message where I had asked, “Are we officially together now?” He showed only my desperate, insecure question, hiding all his previous replies where he had promised: “When we get to New York, we’ll be official.” He looked the dean dead in the eye. “Professor, Callie has had a crush on me for a long time.” “But I never officially accepted her.” “We are not in a relationship.” “Isla is not a side chick.” “Isla and I are the ones currently seeing each other seriously.” My body went numb. I was pinned to the floor, frozen. All those years of quiet, tender devotion were instantly rewritten as the delusion of a desperate girl who couldn’t take a hint. Isla’s sobs grew louder, delicate and heartbroken. “I just started college… I can’t have everyone calling me a homewrecker…” Bruno immediately turned to comfort her, his hands rubbing her shoulders. Then, turning his back to the dean, he leaned in and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Callie, apologize to Isla right now.” I stared at him. “Apologize for what?” “Her reputation can’t be ruined over this!” he hissed, his eyes pleading and angry all at once. “She doesn’t have parents, Callie. She can’t handle this kind of humiliation. You know what I meant—just don’t make things hard for her right now.” My voice came out barely audible. “So to you… I was never your girlfriend?” Bruno’s throat bobbed. Isla clutched his sleeve, burying her tear-stained face in his arm. He closed his eyes. “At least… not right now.” In that exact second, I heard something deep inside me break into a million pieces. It wasn’t a loud, dramatic shatter. It was just a quiet, final snap. Something that could never, ever be put back together. I stood there for a long time. Then, I turned to Isla. “I’m sorry.” Everyone in the dean’s office let out a long, collective sigh of relief. Only I knew the truth. I wasn’t apologizing for the rumor. I was apologizing to the past version of Callie Palmer—the girl who had spent three years foolishly believing she was loved. When I walked out of the administration building, I didn’t offer another word of explanation to anyone. I opened the UCL registration portal on my phone. “Do you accept your offer of admission to University College London?” I stared at the words for a long moment. Then, I tapped “Accept”. When the green confirmation checkmark flashed onto the screen, I finally let myself swallow the tears choking my throat. Bruno didn’t run out after me. I glanced back once through the glass doors. He was still in the office, using tissues to gently wipe the tears from Isla’s cheeks. He probably assumed I’d be waiting outside, just like I always did, standing in the cold until he was done comforting Isla, waiting for whatever crumbs of explanation he decided to throw my way. That evening, he finally went to the freshman residence hall to look for me. When I ignored his endless stream of texts, he tried asking a passing student to take a message up to my room—only to realize he had no idea what my room number was. Frustrated, he went to the housing desk. The housing coordinator flipped through the system logs and looked up at him. “Callie Palmer withdrew her housing application this afternoon. She moved all her luggage out hours ago.” Bruno’s face drained of color. “What?” A student volunteer standing nearby overheard and chimed in casually, “Oh, Callie? She transferred to UCL in London. She came by to turn in her keys today. Didn’t you guys go to high school together? How did you not know?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556422”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On my birthday, my wife trended on social media with another man. Tim had posted a photo wearing the limited-edition luxury watch I was supposed to unwrap that night. “My favorite little girl sure knows how to show respect,” his caption read. “Gave Papa her husband’s birthday present to wear first. Come kneel and thank me, and I might just grant you a kiss.” The image breaking the internet was a close-up of the two of them, mouths pressed together in an intimate, breathless kiss. Moments later, Adriana called me. “Tim was just messing around,” she said, her voice smooth, devoid of any real apology. “Don’t make a scene over this. I’ll make it up to you.” A notification chimed on my phone a second later: a wire transfer for one million dollars. In our social circle, the high-society trust-fund heirs were having a field day. They mocked me in private group chats, whispering that I couldn’t even hold my ground against my wife’s “guy best friend.” I accepted the money. My heart rate didn’t even spike. I didn’t care. Not anymore. Because three months ago, the System had given me a singular rule: every single cent I made in this world could be transferred back to my real life. I had given Adriana five years of my life. I wasn’t about to walk away empty-handed. Thirty days left. Just thirty more days, and I’d return home as a very, very wealthy man. … Tim posted another update. In the photo, Adriana was asleep on his sofa, her head resting on his shoulder. He angled his face close to hers, holding a single finger to his lips in a “shh” gesture. “Insisted on keeping up with me all night,” he wrote. “My good girl completely wore herself out.” The comments under the post were predictable. “Haha, you really broke her, didn’t you?” “Damn, Tim, the husband’s position is looking real fragile right now!” My phone buzzed relentlessly with direct messages. The guys-only group chat was practically on fire. “Larry, if you don’t put a leash on your wife, get the hell out of this chat. If you’re not embarrassed, we are.” “Letting her ‘platonic bestie’ walk all over you like this? How do you even look in the mirror?” I scrolled through the messages without replying. Sitting alone at the grand dining table, I continued eating my birthday dinner. When I swallowed the last bite of cake, I opened Tim’s post and gave it a polite like. I typed out a comment: “Thanks for looking out for her. She snores when she sleeps like that—make sure to put a blanket over her so she doesn’t catch a chill.” After posting, I opened my banking app to check the transaction history. One million dollars deposited tonight. Nice. At one in the morning, just as I was drifting off to sleep, Adriana called. “Larry!” Her voice was raspy, heavy with sleep. “What the hell is happening online? What did you do?” “I didn’t do anything,” I said mildly. “How is that possible? My parents just called me in a panic!” She was furious now. “I spent a little time playing games with my best friend—is that really worth turning into a national scandal? Do you care about my family’s reputation at all?” So, she cared about her reputation now. My voice remained entirely flat. “Adriana, the people who made a spectacle online were you and Tim. Not me.” “Stop acting so innocent!” She let out a sharp, disdainful sneer. “Today was your birthday. I wasn’t home, and you didn’t call me even once to nag me to come back. That isn’t like you!” “Not today,” I said, looking at the glowing digits on my phone. “It’s past midnight. Yesterday was my birthday.” Adriana went quiet for a beat. “So what?” she snapped, though her tone faltered slightly. “You never used to be like this. You used to blow up my phone until I came home……” I let out a soft laugh. I truly couldn’t follow her logic anymore. “You were spending quality time with your best friend,” I said softly. “If I kept calling to drag you home, wouldn’t I be disrespecting your bond?” Silence stretched across the line. She was right about one thing: I didn’t used to be like this. I used to scream. I used to break things. I used to cry until my throat burned. I used to drive out to Tim’s loft, corner him, and throw punches. But even knowing how much it destroyed me, Adriana refused to cut ties with him. Instead, she blamed me for being unreasonable, for being insecure. “He’s my brother!” she used to yell at me. “When you lay a finger on him, you’re disrespecting me!” Once, she abandoned me to go skateboarding with Tim. We had hired a surrogate who was five months pregnant with our child. I had just picked up the ultrasound reports with the surrogate when Tim came tearing down the concrete path on his board and slammed straight into her. The collision was brutal. We lost the baby that night. When Adriana arrived at the hospital, her expression was indifferent. “He didn’t mean it,” she had said coldly. “Who knew your surrogate was made of glass?” Then, she transferred a million dollars into my account. “Let it go,” she told me. “We can always hire another surrogate later.” She used a million dollars to buy out the life of our unborn child. That night, lying on the hospital cot, I stared at the confirmation page on my phone for hours. And then, I started laughing. I laughed until my chest ached, until tears burned my eyes. It was a bitter, hollow sound. That was the night I remembered the System’s original prompt. [Task: Win Adriana’s heart and stay married to her for five years. Upon completion, you may return to the real world.] [Special Bonus: Any wealth accumulated in this world can be transferred to your real-world bank account.] I had long forgotten about the mission because I had genuinely fallen in love with Adriana. I had wanted to build a real life here with her. But I didn’t want to love her anymore. From that day forward, I started counting down the days. When the five-year mark arrived, I would leave. And I would take every single cent I could get my hands on. The next morning, Adriana came home. She walked into the dining room carrying a bakery box, wearing an expectant smile that practically begged for gratitude. “I stood in line at seven this morning to get your favorite chestnut sponge cake,” she said, setting it in front of me. “Eat up.” I glanced at the cake. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Her smile froze. “I’m severely allergic to chestnuts.” Annoyance flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a sudden, jarring panic. I gave her a polite, unbothered smile. “Don’t you remember? Last year, Tim blended chestnuts into a powder and told me it was a protein smoothie. I drank it and ended up in the ICU.” My voice stayed conversational. “Back then, you told me Tim was just careless and didn’t mean anything by it.” Her mouth opened slightly. A rare pang of guilt washed over her face. “I…… I forgot.” “It’s fine,” I waved my hand dismissively and took my seat at the table. “You’re a busy woman. You can’t be expected to remember every little detail.” Adriana watched me, her gaze analytical, searching my face for a crack in the armor. “Larry…… are you really not angry?” I chuckled, taking a slow sip of my warm milk. “What is there to be angry about? If I had to guess, Tim was the one who suggested you pick up chestnut cake in the first place, wasn’t he?” She parted her lips to explain, but I cut her off gently. “He loves chestnut cake,” I said softly. “It makes complete sense that you’d buy one for him and grab an extra while you were at it. The fact that you thought of bringing one home to me at all is already very sweet.” Adriana stared at me, her expression a messy knot of confusion and guilt. I didn’t look at her again. I quietly ate the breakfast our butler, Frank, had already prepared for me. The grand gesture of bringing me breakfast was a performative act she was late to—Frank had already taken care of it. We ate the rest of the meal in silence. “There’s a company gala tomorrow night,” she said finally, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “I want you to come with me.” It was her classic routine. Every time she stepped out of line, she insisted on dragging me to public events to prove to the world that our marriage was as rock-solid as ever. I pondered it for a second. “Sure. But I’ll need a new suit and a pair of cuff links.” She visibly breathed a sigh of relief. My lack of resistance meant, in her mind, that the storm had passed. She immediately pulled out her phone and wired me five hundred thousand dollars. “Let me know if you need more.” It was more than enough. My closet was lined with custom suits I had bought for past galas. But if she was offering cash, I wasn’t going to turn it down. It had taken me four years to realize that cash was the only thing in this house that wouldn’t betray me. The next night, I arrived at the gala wearing a silver-grey bespoke suit, accessorized with diamond cuff links Adriana had gifted me years ago. Tim was already there. He was wearing a champagne-colored silk suit, cut low at the neck to show off his chest. When he spotted me, he smirked loudly enough for half the room to hear. “Look who it is! My girl actually brought her husband out tonight!” He stepped up, scanning me from head to toe. “Look at you, all dapper. This suit must’ve set you back a few hundred grand, huh?” “It was alright,” I replied coolly. “Thirty-eight thousand.” Tim’s grin faltered for a fraction of a second. My suit was significantly more expensive than his. A waiter carrying a tray of champagne walked past us. Tim executed a sudden, clumsy turn, deliberately brushing against the tray and sending a full flute of champagne splashing across his own chest. “Oh no!” he gasped dramatically. The amber liquid soaked down his front, turning the light silk a dark, ugly yellow. “I’m supposed to give a speech on stage in twenty minutes……” he whined, looking helpless. Adriana frowned, her eyes immediately darting to me. “Larry…… could you swap suits with him?” I remained silent. Tim playfully smacked Adriana on the head. “Hey, little girl, I’m wearing yours! Just take yours off and give it to me, hurry up.” Adriana blushed slightly. “Stop messing around. I have to go on stage later, too.” Then, her eyes locked onto me again. This time, it wasn’t a request. It was an order. I offered a perfectly practiced, polite smile. “Take mine.” Tim’s eyes gleamed with instant triumph. “Larry, you’re a real pal!” We walked into the VIP restroom to swap clothes. The moment the heavy door clicked shut behind us, the easy smile vanished from Tim’s face. “How do you tolerate this?” he asked, staring at me with pure contempt. I unbuttoned my jacket, my voice completely tranquil. “What do you mean? You’re her best friend. Helping you out is the right thing to do, isn’t it?” He let out a cold snort, taking the silver-grey jacket from my hands and slipping into it with agonizing slowness. It fit him like a glove. He turned in front of the mirror, admiring himself. “Honestly, I thought this suit looked tacky when I first saw it.” He glanced at my reflection through the glass. “Every piece of clothing Adriana gives you is something I rejected first.” I smiled softly, entirely unbothered. “Then you definitely made a mistake passing on this one.” I reached out to pick up his stained champagne suit from the counter. Tim casually let his hand slip, letting the dirty jacket tumble straight into the toilet bowl. “Oops. My hand slipped,” he said, his eyes glittering with smug malice. My expression faltered just enough to satisfy him. I was standing there in my undershirt and trousers. Tim grabbed the cuffs of his trousers, spun around on his designer leather shoes, and walked out, the heavy wooden door closing with a firm click. As soon as he was gone, I reached into my pocket and stopped the audio recording on my phone. Then, I dialed Adriana’s number. She picked up on the second ring. “Larry—” “Hey, stop talking on the phone, we’re up next—” Tim’s voice cut in through her speaker. The line went dead. When I tried calling back, her phone was switched off. I took a deep breath, dialed the hotel front desk, and spoke clearly into the receiver. “Hi, please send a size medium staff uniform to the main floor VIP restroom.” Ten minutes later, dressed in a plain black hotel polo and cargo pants, I slipped out of the venue through the service exit. By the time I reached home, my phone rang again. Adriana’s voice erupted with rage the moment I answered. “Where the hell did you go without telling me? Tim said you threw his thirty-thousand-dollar suit into the toilet! You need to pay him back right now!” I didn’t answer. I simply tapped on the audio file I had recorded in the restroom and sent it directly to her chat. Two minutes passed in absolute silence. Then, a voice note arrived from Adriana. “Tim didn’t mean it…… don’t take it to heart.” “He’s wearing your suit home tonight. I’ll reimburse you for it.” My phone buzzed with a bank notification. “Four hundred thousand dollars deposited.” I accepted the transfer, locked my phone, turned over, and fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Twenty-five days left. The following morning, I began quietly liquidating my assets. Over the years, Adriana had transferred two luxury villas, ten prime commercial storefronts, and two plots of land into my name. I didn’t make a grand spectacle of it. Instead, I hired a discreet, high-end real estate broker to list everything quietly. My only condition was speed: sell at slightly below market value, but close as fast as humanly possible. The broker looked at me in surprise. “Mr. Vance—sorry, Mr. Larry—are you in urgent need of cash?” I nodded serenely. “Yes. I’m preparing to make a quick exit.” The broker chuckled, assuming I was pulling his leg. When I returned home that evening, Adriana and Tim were already sitting at the dining table. Frank had just finished serving a spread of elaborate dishes. “Here, try this, it’s amazing,” Tim said, using his own chopsticks to drop a piece of braised pork into Adriana’s bowl. Then, with casual familiarity, he reached into her bowl with the same chopsticks, picked out the green peppers she hated, and popped them into his own mouth. It was an exchange so practiced it looked like second nature. When Tim noticed me entering, he looked up with a easy grin. “Larry’s back! Come on, sit down and eat!” I sat across from them. Tim continued heaping food onto Adriana’s plate. I glanced at the serving utensils sitting untouched in the center of the table. Tim noticed my gaze and laughed it off. “Oh, come on, Larry. Adriana and I go way back. We don’t need to be so formal with serving spoons.” I said nothing, quietly eating the food in my own bowl. Adriana set her chopsticks down and cleared her throat softly. “Larry, I wanted to talk to you about something.” She paused, taking a breath. “Tim’s baby is going to be born soon. He wants to raise the child as a single father.” My hand holding the fork stilled for a fraction of a second. Tim was staring down at an ultrasound photo on his phone, a smug, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. “But his parents are extremely traditional,” Adriana continued, her fingers nervously twisting together. “They refuse to accept him being a single dad and are threatening to force the child into adoption.” She took a breath, watching my face closely. “So…… I was thinking I could enter a temporary, fake marriage with him. Just to get his parents off his back and secure the child’s legal birth certificate. Once the baby’s registered, we’ll get divorced immediately.” She emphasized quickly, “It’s just helping out a friend. It doesn’t mean anything.” I held my bowl, perfectly composed on the outside while a wave of pure, unadulterated thrill washed over me. I had been wondering how to extract one final, massive payout from her before my time was up. I looked up at the two of them. “Whose baby is it?” Tim waved a hand carelessly. “Who cares? Some girl from a party. I’m raising it on my own regardless.” Adriana frowned at him. “Watch your mouth.” I laid my utensils down, my tone entirely flat. “Fine. We can get divorced. But how are we dividing the property?” Adriana froze. “It’s a fake divorce, why would we divide anything? Don’t you trust me?” I shook my head slowly. “Then you transfer everything to my name and walk away with nothing.” I locked eyes with her, speaking each word deliberately. “Do “you” trust “me”?” Adriana’s lips parted, entirely caught off guard. Tim crossed his arms, leaning back with an annoyed scowl. “Walk away with nothing? On what grounds? Are you insane?” I ignored Tim entirely, keeping my eyes fixed on my wife. Adriana remained silent for a few agonizing seconds. “I have to keep the company under my name for operational reasons,” she said slowly. “Everything else…… I’ll sign over to you.” I nodded cleanly. “Deal.” Tim’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief. “Are you out of your mind? What if he—” Adriana offered a confident, relaxed smile. “I trust Larry. Besides, we’ll be remarrying in six months anyway.” I offered her a polite smile in return, choosing not to say a single word. The look Tim hurled at me was no longer just petty jealousy. It was poison. A few days later, Adriana and Tim publicly announced their sudden engagement online: “My best friend is about to become my forever family.” Social media exploded instantly. Old rumors and gossip were dragged back into the light. In front of a swarm of paparazzi, Tim officially moved his luggage into the estate. Adriana pulled me aside, whispering softly, “We have to make it look convincing for the media.” I shook my head gently. “I don’t mind.” I didn’t care. I had one week left. On the day we went to the family court to file for divorce, the entrance was swarming with reporters. Camera flashes went off like lightning strikes. “Ms. Adriana, are you divorcing your husband due to an extramarital affair?” “Mr. Larry, how do you feel about your wife marrying her best friend?” Adriana frowned, reaching out to block the camera lenses. I calmly wrapped my arm through hers, facing the reporters with a relaxed, composed smile. “Adriana signed over all her personal real estate and cash assets to me in the settlement,” I said clearly into the microphones. “What do I have to be unhappy about? Very few women in the world are this generous.” The crowd of journalists went dead silent. Someone whispered loudly in the back, “Damn, so Larry traded his dignity for a paycheck.” Adriana looked up at me, a flick of deep guilt flashing through her eyes. I simply maintained a refined, dignified smile. Inside the building, we filled out the paperwork, signed the agreements, and took the final photographs. When the clerk handed over the finalized divorce certificates, Adriana took hers, her expression deeply unsettled. “Larry…… I’m really sorry about all this.” I smiled softly. “If you’re truly feeling guilty, why don’t you transfer a portion of your company stock to me as well?” I said it lightly, as if making a casual joke. She thought about it for a moment. “Fine. I’ll give you ten percent.” Within two hours, her corporate lawyer drafted the “Equity Transfer Agreement”, and we both signed it without hesitation. As I walked out of the courthouse doors, Tim was waiting outside, leaning against a luxury sports car. The moment he saw us, he stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Adriana’s waist, pulling her toward the marriage registration window. A seamless transition. Very typical of Tim. Flashy, reckless, and entirely unbothered by public decency. Back at the house, I began packing my remaining belongings into a single suitcase. Adriana grabbed my wrist, stopping me. “Why don’t you just stay here? You can help me take care of Tim while he’s recovering.” I glanced down at her hand, then up at her face. “If I stay, what will Tim’s conservative parents think when they come over and see the ex-husband living in the guest room?” Adriana bit her lip, realizing her oversight. “Then…… at least stay until after the wedding,” she pleaded softly. “If you attend and give us your blessing, the rumors outside won’t be so vicious.” I glanced at the digital calendar on my phone. The wedding was scheduled in three days. The very last day of my five-year term. “Sure,” I smiled gently. “I’ll be there.” It was the perfect timing to deliver my final gift.

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My life was down to a ticking clock, so I bought a one-way ticket to Morocco to finish the Sahara expedition Gideon Wells and I had promised each other back when we were still madly in love. On my first day, I barely managed to drag myself through the local bazaar before my body caved. Exhausted, hollowed out by pain, I retreated early to my hotel room. Curled in bed, I unlocked my phone and opened my feed. The top video hit me like a slap to the face: Gideon, standing beneath a canopy of desert stars, down on one knee proposing to Mallory King—my best friend from college. Behind Gideon, a wall of fairy-light letters blazed into the night sky, burning straight into my chest. “Thank you for holding me up through the hardest three years of my life.” Three years ago, when I tore my own heart out and left him, Gideon had looked at me with bloodshot eyes and screamed, “You don’t have a soul, Clara! I’ll never forgive you for this. Not as long as I live!” It turned out that for those three long years, Mallory had been the one keeping him whole. The comment section was a waterfall of congratulations from our old college circle. “Mallory deserves this more than anyone.” “She pulled Gideon out of the gutter and stood by him when he had nothing. It’s about damn time.” “True love survives the storm. Those toxic ghosts from his past finally belong in the trash where they belong.” I locked my screen and set the phone face down. I was dying anyway. Stepping back into the shadows was the kindest thing I could do for everyone. That way, when I slipped away, no one would have to grieve. I forced myself up, clutching my side, and reached for the souvenir I’d picked up at the medina earlier that afternoon: an antique brass lamp, tarnished and heavy. I pulled out a soft cloth and began to polish the dull metal. As the last layer of grime gave way, a dense, violet smoke surged into the room. A towering, translucent shadow materialized before me, bowing low until its silhouette hovered inches from my face. “Speak, my master. Three wishes. Anything within this realm is yours.” I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks, choking on my own breath. My body was so withered, so eaten away by disease, that my mind was inventing fairy tales. Still, looking at the apparition, I whispered the truest, rawest wish buried at the bottom of my soul. “I… I want to live.” … “As you command, my master.” The shadow dissolved slowly into thin air, and the purple fog receded like a dying tide. Suddenly, the deep, gnawing agony in my stomach—the ache that had haunted my every waking hour for three years—simply vanished. I took a tentative, deep breath. My lungs expanded fully. There was no stabbing pain, no metallic taste of blood at the back of my throat. I was… alive? Truly alive? If I wasn’t going to die in a foreign hotel room, there was no need for the absurdly expensive international body repatriation service I’d pre-arranged. I pulled up the agency app, canceled the post-mortem transport, and watched a massive refund post back to my account. With cash in hand, I decided to book a suite at the iconic luxury desert resort nearby. Back when Gideon and I were broke and backpacking through North Africa, we’d stood outside its high gates, looking up at the glowing glass domes. He’d wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered, “One day, Clara. When I make it, I’m taking you here. We’ll get the top-tier star suite, and we’ll lie in bed and watch the Milky Way together.” Now, I was finally here. Alone. My car pulled up to the glowing oasis camp set deep in the dunes, its fairy lights shimmering like fallen constellations. The valet stepped forward to open my door. In the grand open-air lounge, a massive digital screen was cycling through a romantic photo slideshow. My breath hitched. The couple in the high-resolution portraits was Gideon and Mallory. Across the top of the display, bold elegant script read: “From Nothing to Everything: Together Forever.” He had returned to the desert and rented out the entire resort for Mallory’s engagement gala. “Clara? What on earth are you doing here?” A voice broke through the ambient music. I turned to see Tyler Scott, an old mutual friend from our group, staring at me in disbelief. Surrounding him were several familiar faces. When they recognized me, their expressions curdled into collective disdain. “I booked a room,” I said quietly, keeping my posture straight. Another friend sneered, “Oh, look who suddenly found some cash. Following him halfway across the globe?” “Today is Gideon’s big night, Clara. Don’t do something desperate.” “Seriously, after how ruthlessly you dumped him when he was down? Now that he’s a millionaire and happy with Mallory, you crawl back? What is wrong with you?” Tyler cut them off with a dismissive wave, giving me a cold, patronizing smile. “Alright, guys, give it a rest. Look, Clara, just head inside. Gideon’s in the main courtyard greeting real guests.” I nodded silently and wheeled my luggage toward the concierge desk. Behind me, the whispers floated over the desert breeze like venom. “Jesus, why is she so thin? She looks like a ghost.” “Karma, probably. She saw Gideon hit the big time on the news and realized what she threw away. She’s green with envy.” “Serves her right. Mallory stood by him through hell while Clara bounced the second things got tough. Who does she think she is?” I kept my eyes down and handed my passport to the clerk. Suddenly, a heavy hand gripped the handle of my suitcase. I turned around and ran straight into a pair of stormy, familiar eyes. It was Gideon. He wore a tailored linen tuxedo, polished and radiating the quiet authority of a man who had conquered the world. He looked nothing like the broken boy I had walked away from three years ago. “Why are you so thin?” he demanded, his voice dropping an octave. The raw, instinctual concern in his tone made my heart stutter. For a fraction of a second, the years vanished. Then, a flurry of white silk appeared at his side. Mallory wrapped her arm securely around his, her smile radiant, practically dripping with triumphant bliss. She followed Gideon’s gaze to me, her eyes widening in theatrical surprise before softening into a sweet, graceful mask. “Clara? Oh my goodness, it’s been so long! You’ve gotten so thin.” She stepped closer, her voice laced with honey. “Did you really fly all the way to Morocco to celebrate us? I’m so touched. Please, come inside and join the party!” Gideon snapped back to reality, the lingering warmth in his eyes instantly freezing into stone. He pulled his hand back as if my suitcase were contaminated. “Tonight belongs to Mallory and me,” he said coldly. “What kind of scene are you trying to make?” I stared at him, refusing to offer an explanation. Instead, I pulled up my single-room confirmation on my phone and held it out to the receptionist. “I had no idea you were staying here,” I said, my voice smooth and detached. “If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I’ll just cancel.” The clerk processed the cancellation immediately. I grabbed my bag, turned on my heel, and headed for the exit. I passed right by Gideon without giving him a second glance. “Look at her, still playing the tragic martyr,” someone scoffed behind me. “Self-righteous as ever…” I walked out into the cool desert night. A moment later, the hotel manager came hurrying out of the lobby, holding a sheet of paper. Spotting the crowd near the entrance, he assumed Gideon’s group was with me and handed the document over with a professional bow. “Mr. Wells, pardon the intrusion, but the lady left before I could hand her the final refund receipt. Please make sure she gets this.” Gideon didn’t reach for it, but his eyes drifted down to the page. Tucked right beneath the hotel invoice was a fresh fax that the front desk had received on my behalf—a confirmation from my travel insurance provider. The header read in bold, black print: “Terminal Care Services: International Remains Repatriation Service — Cancellation Confirmed.” Gideon froze, his head snapping toward the dark driveway where I was walking. Mallory read the lines over his shoulder, her flawless smile instantly fracturing. “Gideon… what does that mean? ‘Remains repatriation’?” I had doubled back to grab a forgotten coat from the bellhop counter, and I caught the tail end of her panic. “It means nothing,” I said calmly, taking the papers straight out of Gideon’s paralyzed hands. “Just a cheesy marketing bundle the travel agency pushed on me.” Without waiting for a reply, I turned and vanished into the darkness. … The next morning, I plunged into the labyrinthine alleys of the old Medina in Marrakech. The lamp had given me a second chance at life, which meant it was time to purge the ghost of my old one. I stepped into an ancient jewelry shop hidden down a quiet alleyway, the air thick with burning frankincense and aged cedar. From a hidden pocket inside my coat, I pulled out a simple, worn silver cuff bracelet. Gideon had forged it himself. Back when his tech startup was bleeding money and we were living on instant noodles in a drafty apartment, he spent an entire month hand-carving and polishing this bracelet for my birthday. He had pressed his lips to my wrist that night, his eyes shining with fiery promise. “I’m sorry it’s not real jewelry, Clara. But I swear to you, the second I make my first million, I’m going to design the biggest, reddest ruby ring in the world for you. You’re going to be my bride.” Memory was a dust storm, blinding and sharp. I laid the tarnished cuff on the glass counter. “Excuse me. I’d like to sell this.” The silver-bearded Moroccan shopkeeper picked it up, examined it for a second, and shook his head gently. “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. This has no commercial value. It’s just common, low-grade silver.” Before I could answer, the brass wind chimes above the shop door jingled. I turned instinctively. It was Gideon and Mallory. The moment they walked in, the old jeweler’s face lit up. He reached beneath the counter and brought out a plush velvet box. “Ah, Mr. Wells! Perfect timing. Your custom piece is ready.” He popped the latch. Resting on the black velvet was a breathtaking, pigeon-blood ruby ring, set in platinum and glowing beneath the shop lights like a drop of liquid fire. The cut, the intricate vintage band, the hidden heart engraved inside the setting—it was the exact design Gideon had sketched on a napkin five years ago. Mallory gasped, clapping her hands to her mouth. “Gideon! When did you order this? It’s… it’s absolute perfection!” She picked it up, admiring the way the ruby caught the light, before throwing her arms around his neck. “Thank you, baby. I love it so much.” Gideon wrapped his arms around her waist, his voice soft and tender. “You stood by me through the mud, Mal. You deserve the absolute best.” The words weren’t loud, but they struck me like a physical blow. The promise he had made to me in a cold, leaky apartment was now sitting on another woman’s finger. Gideon looked up, his gaze suddenly locking onto me standing at the far end of the counter—and then down to the tarnished, worthless silver cuff resting in front of me. His face drained of color. “It’s… it’s just a standard classic design,” he stammered, his voice unnaturally tight. “I saw it in a catalog…” I looked at him, forcing a soft, faint smile onto my lips. Mallory noticed the silence, her eyes darting between Gideon and the silver bracelet on the glass. The air in the shop instantly curdled into suffocating awkwardness. “My mistake,” I told the jeweler quietly. I pulled the cuff off the glass. “Thank you anyway.” I turned and walked out into the crowded street. Navigating through the sea of tourists and merchants, I walked until I found the administrative office for the central bazaar. Outside the door sat a clear plastic Lost & Found box filled with unclaimed trinkets. I opened the lid and gently slid the silver cuff inside. “Hi,” I told the clerk behind the window. “I found this near the alley. If no one claims it after a week, feel free to toss it.” As I stepped back onto the cobblestones, I felt an physical weight lift off my shoulders. A breath I had been holding for three years finally left my chest. Suddenly, a grip clamped around my wrist from behind, spinning me around. Gideon stood there, glaring down at me, his chest heaving. “Clara! Do you really have to be this dramatic?!” I looked down at his grip and tried to pull away, but his fingers were like steel bands. “Gideon, you’re hurting me.” “Hurting you?” He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You ghosted me three years ago without a word of explanation! You made a fool out of me! Did you ever once stop to think about how much you hurt “me”?!” I stopped struggling and looked straight into his eyes. “You gave the ring you designed for me to someone else,” I said softly, every word measured and calm. “It’s hardly appropriate for me to keep the bracelet anymore.” Gideon froze. His grip went slack, his hand slipping off my wrist. At the entrance of the alley, Mallory stood frozen under the afternoon sun, staring at the two of us. The ruby ring on her hand blazed blindingly in the sunlight. “So…” Mallory’s voice trembled across the distance. “This ring… was meant for her all along?” I didn’t answer her. I smoothed down my sleeve, turned my back on both of them, and walked away. … The desert sky flipped without warning, a wall of dust swallowing the afternoon sun. Within an hour, a sudden sandstorm trapped dozens of travelers—including Gideon, Mallory, and me—inside a stone roadside diner off the main highway. I sat alone in a quiet corner booth, separated from their group by several tables. Shortly after placing my order, I heard a low groan. Mallory was hunched over, clutching her stomach against Gideon’s shoulder. “Gideon… my stomach is killing me.” Gideon immediately pulled her close, raising his hand to shout across the room. “Excuse me! We need some hot water over here! Now, please!” Mallory leaned into his chest, her voice small and pouting. “It’s your fault. You insisted on taking me to that seafood place yesterday. You know how sensitive my stomach is, but you keep spoiling me.” “My fault, totally my fault,” Gideon murmured softly. He unzipped his leather bag and pulled out a travel pill organizer with practiced ease. “Here, take these first.” I watched them quietly from my booth. A dull ghost-pain vibrated in my abdomen—not physical anymore, but emotional. I remembered the night I was diagnosed with terminal late-stage stomach cancer three years ago. I had sat alone on the floor of my tiny rented room, shivering violently as cold sweat soaked through my shirt from the agony. I had gripped my phone, Gideon’s contact pulled up on the glowing screen. That exact night, his company’s funding had fallen through. Creditors were beating down his door, threatening to destroy him. He was drowning. I had told myself over and over: “You can’t burden him. You can’t make him watch you die while his life is falling apart.” I never made that call. I reached into my pocket and pulled out an old, faded prescription bottle. It was the heavy-duty narcotic painkiller I used to rely on just to get through the night. I didn’t need it anymore. I tossed the bottle into the small trash bin beside my booth. As Gideon stood up to get Mallory’s water, his eyes happened to land on the trash bin—and the red warnings printed on the prescription label. His expression shifted instantly. It was a high-grade oncology drug, available only through hospital dispensaries. He frowned, stepping toward my table as if to demand an explanation. “Gideon…” Mallory whimpered behind him, grabbing his hem. “It still hurts so bad…” Gideon’s step halted instantly. He paused, torn for a single second, before turning back to wrap Mallory in his arms. “Shh, it’s okay, baby. The medicine takes a few minutes to kick in. Just hang on.” Mallory rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes drifting over his collar to lock onto me. She looked at the bottle in the trash, her gaze flickering with a dark, complex mix of realization and dread. “Clara,” Mallory called out softly, her voice barely carrying over the howling wind outside. “Have you… have you been sick these past three years?” I took a quiet sip of my water and offered a small, easy smile. “I used to be,” I said softly. “I’m better now.” Outside, the raging wind gradually died down. Rays of late-afternoon sun broke through the dispersing dust clouds, painting the dunes in warm, golden light. I threw some cash on the table, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and walked out of the diner. I flagged down a passing taxi and instructed the driver to head straight to the airport. I was done with this trip. I just wanted to go home. I was moving so fast I didn’t notice that the side mesh pocket of my canvas bag had torn open. An old, deactivated phone and a worn leather document folder slipped out, tumbling quietly onto the roadside gravel. Back at the diner, Gideon stepped outside, his eyes scanning the empty road where my cab had just sped away. His boot kicked against something hard. He looked down and picked up the fallen folder. He opened it, and his entire body went rigid. “Patient: Clara Price.” “Diagnosis: Late-Stage Gastric Carcinoma (Terminal).” Mallory walked out behind him, leaning over to glance at the paper. She instantly clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror. “So… that fax at the hotel… the body transport service…” Mallory whispered, her voice shaking violently. “It wasn’t a joke?” Gideon didn’t utter a single word. Gripping the diagnosis sheet and the dead phone, he sprinted down the road, screaming my name into the empty desert wind. But I was already gone. … That night, Gideon didn’t return to the luxury suite he shared with Mallory. He rented a separate, solitary room on the lower level, plugged my old phone into a charger, and sat in total darkness wait for the screen to light up. When the display finally flickered on, the lock screen wallpaper made his breath hitch. It was a candid selfie of the two of us from three years ago, laughing in the rain. With trembling hands, he unlocked the device and opened the photo gallery. There was only one saved image in the entire album: a high-resolution scan of my terminal cancer diagnosis. The timestamp on the photo was dated precisely one day before I had broken his heart and ended our relationship. He exited the gallery and opened the notes app. At the very top was an unsent draft: “Gideon, I’m leaving. I sold my parents’ old house in the suburbs—the money has been routed directly into your startup’s escrow account through an anonymous trust. That house was the last thing my parents left me, but now it’s yours. Consider it my way of paying you back for the beautiful years you gave me. Don’t look for me. Forget me, and please, build a wonderful life.” It was the original breakup letter I had written before I lost my nerve and replaced it with a cruel, terrible lie. Gideon’s chest heaved as panic choked the air from his lungs. He frantically tapped into the phone’s archived call logs. On the night of his company’s total collapse, at 3:14 AM… My phone had attempted to dial his number three times in a row. Every call had been canceled after two rings—hung up by my own terrified hand. He remembered that night vividly. He had been surrounded by aggressive loan sharks at a bar, overwhelmed and drowning his sorrows. He had turned his phone off and thrown it into his trunk. He had spent that night thinking “he” was the most miserable man in the world. He had no idea that on the other side of the city, I was sitting alone in a sterile hospital hallway, crushed under a death sentence. And the next morning, when he finally turned his phone back on, the first thing he’d received was my icy text message: “Gideon, I’m done. I’m tired of being broke and waiting for your grand dreams to pan out. I met someone else—he has real money. Don’t call me again; it’s pathetic.” “NO! GOD, NO!” Gideon slammed his fist into the concrete wall with monstrous force. The impact cracked the plaster, blood bursting from his knuckles, but he didn’t even flinch. He threw the door open, sprinting frantically down the hallway, desperate to reach the airport, to track down every flight, to tell me he was sorry, that he was an idiot, that he was wrong— “Gideon, stop!” A figure blocked his path at the corner of the corridor. Mallory stood there, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She reached out, grabbing his bleeding hand with all her strength. “I know where you’re going,” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “I know you want to run after her and tell her you still love her.” She stepped closer, clutching his suit jacket. “But what about us, Gideon?! What about the last three years?! I worked twenty-hour days alongside you! I drank with your investors until I vomited blood! I built this company with you from nothing! Are you telling me none of that mattered?!” Gideon stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t stop because he didn’t love me. He stopped because he was paralyzed by the overwhelming weight of reality. He couldn’t simply erase three years of Mallory’s devotion, sacrifice, and presence from his life without feeling like a monster. He looked down at Mallory’s tear-stained face, an agonizing war raging behind his eyes. “Mallory…” he rasped out, his voice hollow. “Just… give me some time.” Standing at the far end of the quiet hallway, I stood partially hidden behind a decorative pillar. I had realized my old phone was missing and had taken a cab back to the hotel to retrieve it. I had heard every word. I saw the hesitation paralyzed in Gideon’s posture. I quietly stepped back. It didn’t matter anymore. He knew the truth, but truth couldn’t rewrite time. These old relics were useless to me now. I slipped down the service stairs without making a sound. Walking down an empty, sunlit street away from the hotel, I pulled the antique brass lamp from my bag and lightly rubbed the cool metal with my thumb. The purple smoke swirled into the desert air once more, the giant shadow bowing before me. “Master… state your second wish.” I looked down the long, endless road stretching into the horizon, and whispered softly. “I want money. I want enough wealth to live comfortably, independently, and freely for the rest of my life.” The moment the words left my mouth, my current phone vibrated in my palm. A major breaking financial news alert popped up on my screen: “Tech Giant Acquires Dormant AI Startup ‘Singularity Labs’ in Shock $2 Billion Deal. Early Angel Investors See Returns Exceeding 10,000%.” Singularity Labs was a tiny, failing project run by a college senior I had thrown a spare ten thousand dollars at five years ago just to help him pay rent. Now, I was a multimillionaire. I boarded my flight home, switched my phone to airplane mode, and leaned my head against the oval window, watching the golden dunes of North Africa shrink into tiny ripples below. Down in the terminal below, Gideon finally broke past security, only to be tackled and held back by airport guards as my plane lifted into the clouds. None of it mattered anymore.

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