Category: English

I am the most miserable man on the internet. Three years in the industry. While others sell smiles and sparkling charm, I market my own gloom. The public calls me dramatic, a fraud, a desperate attention-seeker. My agent begs me: “Man, can you stop playing the tortured artist every time you’re on camera? Your follower count is cratering.” My parents urge me to walk away: “We have enough money. Just quit.” My girlfriend sent me one final text before she blocked my number: “I love you, but I can’t build a life with a man who doesn’t know how to smile.” I ignored them all. Not because I wanted to cultivate some dark, moody persona for the aesthetic, but because of a curse. Before my grandfather died, his skeletal fingers clamped around my wrist like a vice, whispering a terrifying prophecy: “Before you reach adulthood, you will face eighteen deadly trials.” At first, I didn’t believe him. But after surviving one brush with death after another, year after year, the skepticism burned away, leaving only cold, hard certainty. Now, seventeen of those trials are behind me. The shadow hanging over my chest has finally begun to lift. But a week before my eighteenth birthday, my agency suddenly signed me up for a wilderness survival reality show. 1 “Beck, what is the big deal if you let Cyrus borrow your survival pack?” My agent, Gideon, stood in the doorway of the green room, his hand outstretched with effortless entitlement. I pressed my back against the cold, unyielding drywall, my fingers white-knuckled around the waterproof black canvas of my pack. “This is my personal gear,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of warmth. “According to my contract, I don’t share.” “Can you lose the corpse face for five minutes?” Gideon’s patience snapped. He took a sharp step forward, reaching for the bag. “The internet is tearing you to shreds for being a selfish prima donna. This show is your chance to clear your name. Don’t you get that?” I didn’t move an inch. I merely pivoted, letting his hand grasp empty air. Clear my name? In my playbook, public relations didn’t matter. Only survival did. Next week, I would turn eighteen. The final trial my grandfather warned me about was looming, a guillotine suspended by a thread. Getting thrown into a tropical rainforest for a survival show at this exact moment felt less like a career move and more like a carefully orchestrated execution. There was no way in hell I was parting with a bag I had personally inspected twelve times. “Gideon, please don’t force him.” The voice was bright, clear, and dripping with performative warmth. Cyrus Novak, the golden boy of the network, stepped into the room. He was dressed in pristine, high-end technical outerwear, his face—the one fans routinely called ‘the human sunshine’—pinched in a look of perfect, sympathetic distress. “My pack got lost in transit, but it’s really fine. Even without gear, I can manage in the jungle. I’ll make do.” He walked over, looking up at me with eyes so earnest it made my stomach turn. “Beck has been struggling, and he’s always so… heavy. He needs these things to feel safe. I want him to have them.” Gideon’s face softened instantly, morphing into a mask of maternal concern. “Cyrus, you are far too good for your own good. You’re about to shoot a blockbuster film with an Oscar-winning director next month. If you get hurt out there, who pays for it?” Gideon whipped his gaze back to me, eyes spitting venom. “Beck, I am telling you one last time. Give him the bag.” “And I’m telling you,” I replied, my voice dropping to a near-whisper, “no.” In the blind spot where the production cameras couldn’t reach, a flash of pure, venomous malice crossed Cyrus’s eyes. It was gone in a fraction of a second, replaced by a gentle tug on Gideon’s sleeve. “Gideon, let it go. I know Beck has some resentment toward me—he thinks I took his spots, his endorsements. But I’ve always admired him. Everyone drags him online, but his mental strength is incredible. He just does what he wants.” The words were wrapped in compliments, but each one was a calculated strike. He was framing my boundaries as petty jealousy, and my caution as sheer obstinacy. Sure enough, the crew members lingering in the hallway began to whisper. “Jesus, Beck is unbelievable. No wonder his girl packed her bags.” “Cyrus is being a saint, and Beck is still acting like a sociopath.” “Wait till the livestream starts. The chat is going to eat him alive.” The whispers floated through the door, sharp and clear. But my expression didn’t change. I survived my first seventeen trials in the quiet spaces of other people’s mockery. When I was six, I refused to board the school bus. My parents whipped me for it. Thirty minutes later, that bus plunged off a mountain pass. When I was thirteen, I refused to eat a slice of cake my cousin handed me. The family called me ungrateful and rude. The next day, the cake was found to be contaminated with rat poison. So no, I didn’t believe in human kindness. I didn’t trust smiles. I trusted the antivenom, the broad-spectrum antibiotics, and the three distinct tactical knives packed neatly inside my bag. “Cyrus, stop coddling him!” Gideon snapped, lunging forward to wrench the bag from my hand. “He’s handing it over today, whether he likes it or not!” I caught Gideon’s wrist. I didn’t shake him off; I just squeezed, my fingers finding the pressure points with clinical precision. Gideon gasped, a sharp yelp of pain escaping his throat as his grip failed. “You touched me?” he hissed, cradling his wrist, staring at me as if I’d grown a second head. “This bag is my life,” I said, locking eyes with him. “Anyone who touches it gets hurt.” Cyrus immediately rushed to Gideon’s side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, his eyes wide with a perfect mixture of shock and heartbreak. “Beck, that’s enough! Gideon was just trying to look out for the production. How could you be so violent?” Just like that, he branded me the loose cannon. The aggressor. I looked at his flawless, lying face. “Cut the act,” I said softly. 2 “Beck!” Cyrus’s eyes welled with tears, his shoulders trembling like a startled fawn. “I honestly don’t know what I did to make you hate me this much. If it’s about the Best Newcomer award… I’m sorry. I really am.” He bowed his head, a gesture of profound, submissive apology. And right at that moment, the door swung wide. The camera crew stepped in, their lenses catching the final frame of his sorrow. The livestream was officially live. In seconds, the chat overlay on the production monitor turned into a blinding blizzard of hate. “Oh my god! Why is our sweet Cyrus bowing to that freak?” “Is Beck terrorizing people again? Why is he still employed?” “Cancel him! Cancel him now! I can’t stand his miserable face.” “Cyrus is too pure for this world. My heart is breaking.” Seeing the red recording light, Gideon leaped into his role. He cradled his wrist, wincing with a look of stoic endurance. “Beck, we all know you’re going through a dark time. We know about your depression. But Cyrus has no survival gear. The jungle is lethal. How can you sit there and watch him go in unprotected?” It was a brilliant trap. He had just painted me as a cold, calculating monster to millions of live viewers. I turned to the lens. My pulse was steady. My voice held no tremor. “The contract states that the production team provides standard gear. If a participant loses theirs, it is their responsibility to request a replacement. My bag contains specific medical supplies tailored to my physiological needs. If Cyrus needs gear, the network can overnight him a set. This is a cheap attempt at emotional blackmail to steal private property.” My logic was airtight, but logic is useless against a mob. “It’s just some medicine, you psycho! If anything happens to Cyrus, your life wouldn’t be enough to pay for it!” “So selfish. Why is this trash still on our screens?” Cyrus wiped an invisible tear from the corner of his eye. “It’s fine. I don’t blame Beck. I’m a man. I can take care of myself and look out for the others.” He turned to the camera, offering his signature, heart-melting smile. “Please don’t be mean to Beck, everyone. He’s just… scared.” With a few sentences, he cemented his status as the brave, forgiving martyr. The director’s voice crackled urgently through Gideon’s earpiece, demanding we move. Within the hour, the six of us were packed into a helicopter, flying toward the dense, suffocating green canopy of the rainforest. The roar of the rotors was deafening. Cyrus sat directly across from me. When the camera panned toward the window, he caught my eye, his lips moving silently to form four distinct words: “You. Are. Dead. Meat.” I stared back, my expression flat. I reached down, my thumb brushing the tiny micro-tracker concealed inside the cuff of my sleeve. Seventeen trials had taught me one fundamental truth: When someone shows you who they are, you don’t argue. You map out their path to destruction. The helicopter touched down in a muddy clearing, and the nightmare began. Our first task was setting up camp. Cyrus immediately went to work, embodying his “sunshine boy” persona. He took on the heaviest branches, helped Mallory—a rising starlet who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else—pitch her tent, and kept everyone laughing. The camp was thick with praise for him. “Cyrus is literally a lifesaver.” “I know, right? Unlike some people who just sit under a tree holding their precious little bag like a security blanket.” Mallory threw a disgusted look my way. I ignored her. My eyes were busy scanning the topography, calculating the potential angle of a mudslide if the looming clouds decided to burst. This was my survival protocol. That evening, food was rationed. Cyrus was in charge of distributing the limited survival bars provided by the crew. He broke them into small pieces, handing them out with careful, equitable grace. When he reached me, his hand slipped. The bar tumbled directly into a puddle of thick, black mud. “Oh no!” Cyrus gasped, his face instantly falling into a mask of deep regret. “Beck, I am so sorry. My hands are just so sweaty from the work. Here…” He knelt down, reaching for the mud-covered bar. “Maybe… if you wipe it off, it’s still edible? We don’t have much else.” Mallory stood up immediately, her voice sharp. “Cyrus, don’t apologize to him! He didn’t even try to catch it! If he doesn’t want to eat, let him starve.” I looked at the ruined food, then at the tiny, triumphant glint in Cyrus’s eyes. “Don’t bother,” I said. I stood up, hoisting my pack. “I’m going to scout the perimeter.” I walked into the darkening wall of the jungle. Behind me, Cyrus’s voice drifted through the trees, heavy with feigned concern. “Beck, it’s pitch black out there! Don’t go far, it’s dangerous!” I didn’t look back. Because the moment I stepped out of their line of sight, I pulled down my night-vision goggles. The lens flared, and I looked back at the muddy bar left in the dirt. Coating the surface of the chocolate was a very fine, pale yellow powder. I knew exactly what it was: the powdered dander of the golden-fringe moth, a rare rainforest insect. Ingesting even a microgram of it would trigger a violent, acute asthmatic attack within an hour, followed by asphyxiation. My eighteenth trial had officially begun. 3 The next morning, a blood-curdling shriek shattered the quiet of the camp. “Get it off! Get them away from me!” Mallory tumbled out of her tent, scrambling through the dirt on her hands and knees. Three brightly banded coral snakes were coiled near the entrance of her tent, their small heads swaying, tongues tasting the humid air. Cyrus was the first to act. Armed with a thick branch, he stepped between Mallory and the snakes, keeping his voice steady and calm as he guided her back and coaxed the serpents into the thick brush. “Don’t panic. I’ve got you. Just move slowly.” He looked like a hero straight out of a classic adventure film. Mallory threw her arms around him, sobbing into his chest. “Cyrus, thank god. Thank god you were here.” The livestream chat erupted. “Oh my god, he’s literally a prince! Look at how he protected her!” “My heart is beating so fast. He is so brave.” “Where is that useless dark cloud Beck? Is he still sleeping?” All eyes turned toward my tent. The flap was zipped shut. No sound came from inside. Gideon marched over, slamming his fist against the fabric. “Beck! Are you dead in there? Something this massive happens and you can’t even bother to step out? Where is your team spirit?” I unzipped the flap and stepped out, entirely unbothered. I was wearing full-coverage, snake-resistant gaiters and thick canvas sleeves. In my hand, I held a small glass vial. “I’m not dead,” I said, scanning the crowd. “But if I hadn’t stepped out, you might be.” I walked over to Mallory’s tent, crouching down. I pointed to a faint, greasy white residue smeared along the bottom seam of the nylon. “This is snake-attractant paste.” I looked up at Cyrus, my gaze freezing him in place. “Last night, someone went out of their way to paint this around the campsite.” The clearing went dead silent. Cyrus’s expression faltered for a microsecond before smoothing back into his trademark innocence. “Beck, what are you talking about? Attractant paste? This is a rainforest. Snakes live here.” He laughed softly, looking around for support. “You can’t just make up wild conspiracy theories because you’re terrified of the dark.” Mallory chimed in, her voice shrill with indignation. “Exactly! You didn’t do a single thing to help, and now you’re trying to scare everyone! If someone put paste out, why didn’t they get bitten?” I ignored them both. I held up the glass vial. “Because of this.” Inside the vial was a crushed green weed I had harvested from the deep brush during my midnight walk. “This is viper-grass, a plant whose natural oils neutralize the paste’s scent. Unfortunately for the person who smeared the paste, the wind shifted last night. They ended up spreading the scent onto Mallory’s tent—and mine.” I kept my eyes locked on Cyrus’s twitching gaze. “If I hadn’t anticipated this and coated my tent with the crushed viper-grass, the snakes would have been inside my sleeping bag by midnight.” The weight of my words sat heavily in the damp air. Gideon stepped in, red-faced and shouting. “Beck, you are officially losing your mind! Cyrus was exhausted yesterday. He slept like a log. Where would he even get snake paste? You need professional help!” Cyrus took a step back, his eyes swimming with tears. “Beck… if you hate me this much, just say it. But don’t accuse me of trying to kill people. I just wanted to keep everyone safe.” His trembling voice rallied the other male contestants. They stepped forward, closing ranks around him. “Apologize to him, Beck!” “Seriously, he’s a toxic element in this camp. We need to kick him out.” I looked at the group of easily manipulated fools. No anger. No disappointment. Just cold evaluation. Apologize? I’d send him a wreath for his funeral. “Believe whatever you want,” I said, turning back to my tent to pack my gear. “I’m leaving the group. I’ll survive on my own.” This was always my preferred path. Staying with these people only increased the variables of my eighteenth trial. “Good! Go! Nobody wants you here!” Mallory yelled. But Cyrus took a step forward, blocking my path. “Beck, no.” He looked deeply concerned, his eyes wide with noble responsibility. “It’s too dangerous out there alone. You won’t make it. We’re a team. I can’t just let you go off to die.” He looked at the camera lens, his expression resolute. “Even if you hate me, I’m responsible for you.” I looked at the disgusting display. “Move,” I said. 4 “Beck! Show some damn respect!” Gideon shoved his way between us, standing protectively in front of Cyrus. “Cyrus is trying to save your ungrateful skin, and this is how you treat him? If you want to leave so badly, fine.” He pointed to my pack. “Leave the group supplies behind, and you can rot in the jungle for all I care.” I looked at him, my expression dead. “I’ve told you once. This is my personal gear.” “Your bag has the broad-spectrum antibiotics and the water purification tablets!” Mallory shrieked from behind them. “The team actually needs those!” Cyrus sighed, playing the peacemaker once again. “Gideon, Mallory, let it go. Beck is fragile. He needs those things more than we do. We’ll just have to work harder to find a clean spring.” The more he conceded, the more the others hated me. It was a textbook execution of social isolation. No weapons, no direct violence—just letting the collective weight of the group crush me. “No way!” Gideon barked. “If you don’t leave the supplies, you aren’t leaving this clearing.” Two of the other male contestants shifted their weight, blocking my exit path. I calculated my odds in a physical altercation. One hundred percent. But physical violence would trigger a production intervention, and the moment the crew stepped in, I would lose control of the narrative. I would be disqualified, sent back, and my survival would be at the mercy of outside forces. I reached into my bag, pulled out the heavy plastic case of medical supplies, and tossed it into the mud at their feet. “If you want them that badly, take them,” I said, my voice as casual as if I were discarding a wrapper. They all froze, caught off guard by how easily I surrendered. Cyrus’s eyes widened in brief surprise, which quickly melted into quiet satisfaction. He thought he had finally broken me. “Beck, remember, you gave this up voluntarily. No one forced you,” he said, his voice dripping with faux-sweetness. I didn’t answer. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked into the green dark of the jungle without looking back. The silence of the jungle was different from the silence of the city. Here, the damp earth breathed, and every rustle of the canopy was a reminder of my own fragile existence. For two days, I was entirely alone. I followed the contingency plans I had spent my childhood memorizing, mapping out water sources, laying simple snare traps, and constructing a small, high-altitude shelter. It was peaceful, in a way. No cameras. No forced smiles. No Cyrus whispering poison under the guise of concern. Yet, the quiet was deceptive. I knew my eighteenth trial wouldn’t end with snake paste or poisoned chocolate. The universe, or whatever malicious force had pursued me for eighteen years, was just catching its breath. On the afternoon of the third day, the air turned heavy. The sky bruised into a dark purple, and the clouds opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour. In the rainforest, rain of this scale is a death sentence. The clay soil quickly liquefies, and flash floods can tear through ravines in minutes. From my elevated shelter, I was safe. But on the portable receiver I had synced to the production’s emergency channel, I could hear the chaos at the main camp. They were flooded. Cyrus was leading the group toward the high cliffs to the north. It was a massive mistake. The cliffs had no tree cover to buffer the mudslides, and the sheer rock face would be slick as ice. A single slip meant a hundred-foot drop onto jagged limestone. He wasn’t saving them; he was leading them into a slaughterhouse. And I had to go. Because the cliffs were the only route the rescue helicopters could reach in this weather. If I didn’t make it to that clearing, I would be trapped in the valley, cut off from any exit. I pulled on my heavy weather gear, checked my harness, and headed straight into the storm toward the cliffs. When I arrived at the base of the rock face, they were already attempting to scale it using a single, frayed climbing rope. Cyrus claimed the production team had left it there as an emergency line. Gideon and Mallory were already near the top, huddled on a narrow ledge. Cyrus was at the bottom, preparing to climb. When he saw me emerge from the rain, his face went white. “Beck? How are you here?” he yelled over the roar of the wind, his voice losing its polished charm. “Get up here! It’s too dangerous down there!” He stepped aside, gesturing to the rope. “You go first. I’ll spot you from below.” 5 I looked at the rope swaying violently in the gale. The rope itself was professional-grade nylon, but right where it curved over the sharp lip of the cliff, the sheath had been deliberately sliced. A clean, surgical cut. The moment a grown man’s full weight hung on it for more than sixty seconds, the core would snap. Cyrus, is this your grand finale? I let out a cold, breathy laugh. “Sure,” I said. I grabbed the rope and began to climb. Below me, Cyrus watched, his face twisting into a silent grin of pure anticipation. When I reached the halfway point, suspended fifteen yards above the rocky valley floor, a sharp, wet “pop” echoed through the ravine. The nylon outer layer split. “Oh my god!” Mallory screamed from the ledge above. “Beck, the rope is snapping! Get down! Get down!” Gideon roared. I didn’t stop. I kept climbing. Below, Cyrus let out a frantic cry. “Beck, jump! I’ll catch you!” But his eyes were wide, hungry for the sound of my bones breaking against the rocks. “Snap.” The main load-bearing core sheared completely. My body plummeted. The stomach-churning sensation of freefall took over. The wind screamed in my ears. Below me, Cyrus’s face illuminated with the savage joy of a man who had finally won. But a fraction of a second before I hit the ground, I pulled the secondary release cord on my chest harness. “Thwip.” A high-tensile, military-grade steel cable shot from my belt, anchoring itself deep into a crevice in the rock face with a loud, metallic strike. My descent stopped instantly. The sudden deceleration jerked my spine, but the harness held. I swung gently in the air, suspended safe and sound, a foot above the jagged rocks. The ravine went dead silent, save for the pounding rain. I wiped the water from my eyes and looked up. Cyrus’s triumphant grin was frozen, his mouth half-open, looking at me as if I were a ghost. Using the mechanical ascender on my harness, I pulled myself up to a stable ledge near the top. I looked down at him from my high vantage point. “Cyrus,” I called out, my voice cutting through the storm. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you cutting the core of the line?” I spat a mouthful of rainwater onto the rocks. “Your little game ends today.” Thunder cracked, and a flash of lightning illuminated his pale, terrified face. The golden boy’s mask had finally shattered. “Beck… what are you talking about?” he stammered, trying desperately to cling to his innocence. “The rope was old. It was an accident. How could you accuse me of that? You don’t have any proof!” On the ledge above, Gideon found his voice, screaming over the wind. “Beck, you are insane! Cyrus let you go first out of the goodness of his heart, and you’re trying to blame him for a faulty rope?” Mallory was shivering, clinging to Gideon’s wet jacket. “He’s a lunatic! Just leave him! Let’s get out of here!” Even now, they chose to believe the lie. To them, I was just the broken, paranoid kid who saw monsters everywhere. I stood stable on the ledge and reached into my inner, waterproof pocket, pulling out a small, black metal square. It was a military-spec, all-weather recording device. “Proof?” I said. I looked down at Cyrus. “Do you really think I left the camp just to get some peace and quiet?” I pressed the play button. The device was hooked to a high-decibel, waterproof speaker. A voice, clear and cold, cut through the rain.

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My best friend is a prank influencer. She secretly filmed me breaking down after a breakup, added funny captions, and posted it. The internet called me pathetic and codependent, and she gained fifty thousand followers overnight. She fed me mangoes on purpose and livestreamed my allergic reaction while the chat spammed pig emojis. When I blew out my birthday candles, she threw a bowl of flour in my face—the hashtag #WorldsSaddestBirthdayGirl trended nationally. When I begged her to stop filming me, she called me sensitive, dramatic, and a party pooper. Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore and ended the friendship, she posted screenshots of our text messages, crying on camera about how I destroyed our ten-year friendship. I was harassed by eighty thousand people online. I lost my job, my social life, and fell into a deep depression. Until her birthday, when I showed up with all the evidence. “Cheryl, you love to film things, don’t you?” “Today, let’s show everyone who you really are.” 1. My best friend is laughing so hard she’s crying. On the screen, I’m curled up in the corner of the sofa. My entire face is swollen like a balloon, my neck is covered in angry red hives, and my fingernails are bloody from scratching. The itch is driving me insane. It’s hard to breathe, like someone’s hands are clamped around my throat. Cheryl’s voice comes from off-camera, bubbling with laughter. “Look, guys! An allergic reaction really turns you into a total pig face! Spam ‘poor baby’ in the comments and I’ll show you an even uglier angle—” The camera shoves right into my face. Her finger pokes my swollen cheek. “Guys, this is the legendary mango allergy. Doesn’t she look like she got stung by a wasp? Oh my god, isn’t my bestie the funniest?” I try to open my mouth to tell her to turn off the phone, but my throat feels like it’s on fire. No sound comes out. I can only stare at the screen, watching the chat fly by: “LMAO dying” “This girl is a saint for putting up with you” “Your bestie has the best temper, I would have slapped you” “Slapped her? Please, she just can’t take a joke.” One million views. Thirty thousand comments. And Cheryl’s follower count grew by a hundred and fifty thousand in a single night. That was the first time I realized my pain wasn’t pain to her. It was engagement. It was content. It was the first brick of the house she wanted to buy. It had always been this way. Cheryl and I were college roommates, sharing a cramped bunk bed in a tiny dorm room. After graduation, we moved to Seattle together, renting a shabby two-bedroom apartment in an old building. The living room was so small we could only fit a single folding table, but back then, I thought life was perfect. She started making videos first. The beauty niche was oversaturated, and after six months of trying, she hadn’t made any progress. Then, one day, my heart got broken. I cried on her shoulder for three hours. She said, “Let me help you get over him, babe,” and secretly recorded the entire thing. She edited it and posted it online. The title: “My Bestie Cried for Three Hours After Getting Dumped, and I Laughed All Day.” Overnight, it hit half a million views. The comments section was full of: “This friendship is too real,” “You’re a saint,” “Please post more of your daily lives.” She burst into my room, holding her phone up, her eyes shining with a terrifying intensity. “Lauren! We went viral!” At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant by “we.” I thought she meant “us”—you and me. Later, I realized that in her version of “we,” I was the raw material, and she was the creator. I was the product being consumed. She was the one counting the cash. From then on, Cheryl found her niche: pranking her best friend. She branded herself as the “relatable, clumsy girl next door.” But her content was entirely built on capturing my worst moments. Me eating instant ramen with no makeup on, captioned: “The glamorous life of a corporate girlie.” Me running, gasping for breath, trying to catch the bus, edited with fast-forward effects and cartoonish sound effects. Me sleeping in on Saturday, my hair a bird’s nest, which she labeled: “The modern girl’s morning routine.” 2. In the beginning, I didn’t mind. We were friends. We messed around. Everyone has a few embarrassing photos. But then, one day, I was filling my cup in the office breakroom when I heard two interns whispering behind my back. “Is she the girl from those videos? The one who drools in her sleep?” “Yeah, that’s her. I saw it on TikTok. It’s hilarious. Does she actually look like that in real life?” “God, I don’t get how that passes for entertainment.” My finger froze on the water dispenser button. The hot water spilled over the brim, scalding my hand, but I barely felt it. That afternoon, I texted Cheryl: “Can you take down that video of me sleeping? Some people at work saw it. It’s kind of embarrassing.” She replied instantly: “What’s wrong, babe? Did someone say something to you?” “Yeah, my coworkers are talking about it.” “Oh, please! They’re just jealous! Think about it, Lauren, it has eight hundred thousand views. People would die to be in my videos!~” “Cheryl, I’m serious. I feel really uncomfortable. Please delete it.” Five minutes later, she sent a voice memo. Her tone had turned cold and annoyed. “Lauren, aren’t you being a little too sensitive? I only post you because I think you’re adorable. I wouldn’t even film other people if they asked. If you really hate it that much, fine, I won’t do it again.” She didn’t delete the video. And from then on, when she filmed me, she adopted a “post first, ask later” policy. She’d upload the video, and only tell me once it was already live. Every time I said, “I really don’t want to be on camera,” she’d say, “Okay, okay, I’ll be careful next time.” And then she’d do it again. She was like a machine that didn’t know how to find the stop button. No, that wasn’t true. She knew where it was. She just didn’t want to press it. The moment I realized something was deeply wrong was during that breakup. We’d been dating for eight months when he texted me out of the blue saying, “We’re not a good fit.” He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face. I collapsed onto the curb outside our apartment building, crying so hard my makeup melted down my cheeks, mascara blurring my vision. I didn’t know when Cheryl had walked up, but suddenly she was crouching beside me, rubbing my back. “It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s not worth it.” In that moment, I felt so incredibly lucky to have a friend like her. Then the video went up. “My Bestie Cried for Three Hours After Getting Dumped, and I Laughed All Day.” The thumbnail was a picture of me huddled on the curb, my face smeared with black mascara, my eyes swollen like plums, a thread of spit hanging from my lip. I clicked on the video, watching it from start to finish. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. She had edited my breakdown into three distinct segments. The first was sped up. I looked like a twitching shrimp, my mouth opening and closing in fast motion, set to a ridiculous circus soundtrack. The second had captions. When I sobbed, “He said I wasn’t good enough,” the text on screen read: “R.I.P. to my dignity lol.” The third was the sound of me blowing my nose. She had isolated the audio and looped it three times, overlaying a cartoon elephant sticker next to the caption “Honk Honk”. The comments rolled in endlessly. “Lmao the elephant sound had me screaming” “Did she really cry for three hours? That’s so dramatic” “You poor thing, having to deal with such a high-maintenance friend” “What is there even to cry about? So fragile” “Total codependent vibes” Three point two million views. Eighty thousand likes. Over ten thousand comments. I scrolled through them, one by one, until two in the morning. One comment read: “Does her friend know she’s being filmed? This seems a little messed up.” Someone replied: “She’s obviously in on it. It’s a skit.” Another added: “Even if it’s a skit, who cares? It’s funny.” I stared at that last comment, my mind blank except for one loud, clear thought: “I didn’t agree to this. Nobody ever asked me.” 3. Before posting the video, Cheryl had sent me a text: “Babe, I just finished editing a new clip. Take a look?” I was still crying at the time. I hadn’t looked at my phone. Half an hour later, she sent another: “Since you’re not replying, I’m going to assume you’re cool with it!” I hadn’t said a word. So she posted it. I walked down the hall and knocked on her bedroom door. She opened it wearing a sheet mask, holding her iPad with her editing software open. She looked like she was on top of the world. “Cheryl, that video… you didn’t ask me before you posted it.” “I did ask. I texted you.” “I was crying. I wasn’t looking at my phone.” “Well, you didn’t reply, so I thought you were fine with it.” “Fine with it.” The phrase felt like a needle driving straight into my temple. Implicit consent. If you don’t say no, it means yes. If you don’t speak, you’ve agreed. If you were crying and couldn’t check your phone, that’s your own fault. I opened my mouth, a flood of words rushing to my throat. I wanted to tell her she shouldn’t have turned my rawest, most vulnerable moment into content. I wanted to tell her she shouldn’t have written “I laughed all day” in the title. I wanted to explain that it wasn’t a joke, that I was genuinely, deeply hurting. But all that came out was, “Can you please just stop filming me?” Cheryl peeled off her face mask, staring into my eyes. Her expression was dead serious. “Lauren, do you have a problem with me?” “No.” “Then why have you been so hostile lately? I’m making these videos to make a living. Do you think this apartment is free? Do you think our bills pay themselves? You think I enjoy editing until three in the morning every night?” She made it sound like I owed her. Like those three million views were a sacrifice she made to pay my rent. I wanted to scream that I never asked her to film me. That her views were paid for with my tears. That her brand sponsorships bought her a closet full of designer bags I never touched. But I stayed silent. Because her eyes were welling up. She was crying first. “Lauren, I am so exhausted. You think this is easy? People in the comments call me a leech every single day. They say I’m exploiting you. I want to delete the videos, but the account is finally growing. I’ve already signed contracts with advertisers. What do you want me to do? Tell me, what am I supposed to do?” She sobbed, her shoulders shaking. As if she were the victim. As if having three million people watch me collapse was a burden she was carrying for my sake. I stood in her doorway, watching her cry. A voice in my head whispered: “She’s acting.” But another, louder voice drowned it out: “What if she really is hurting? What if she’s under a lot of pressure? What if I really am just being too sensitive?” Finally, I sighed. “Fine. Just keep editing.” She looked up, tears still wet on her cheeks, and smiled. “Really? You’re not mad?” “No.” “I knew you were the best!” She threw her arms around me. “Don’t worry, babe. I promise I’ll ask you before I film anything from now on.” That night, I lay awake in my bed, staring at the ceiling. I realized she had said those exact words so many times before. “I promise I’ll ask next time.” And next time, she still filmed. She filmed, she posted, and when she did ask, she didn’t ask “Can I post this?” She asked “Why are you acting so upset again?” As if being upset made me the defective one. 4. The most humiliating moment happened when we went dress shopping. It was a Saturday, and Cheryl dragged me to the mall, claiming she wanted to shoot a “shopping vlog with my bestie.” I told her I didn’t want to be on camera. She promised, “I’ll only film your back. No faces.” I believed her. On the third floor of a boutique, I saw a dress hanging in the window. It was cream-colored, with a cinched waist and delicate lace trim around the collar. I had gained some weight from working overtime lately, but I wanted to see if it would fit. In the fitting room, the zipper got stuck. Right around the ribs, it wouldn’t go up or down. I held my breath and yanked, my face turning crimson, my arm twisted at an awkward, painful angle. Cheryl burst out laughing outside the curtain. “Did you eat a little too well this week, babe?” “Can you help me with the zipper?” She stepped inside, but she didn’t reach for the zipper. She pulled out her phone and pointed it at me. “Stop filming!” “It’s fine, it’s fine! Just capturing the process. This is too funny.” The zipper never went up. I was trapped in the dress, unable to pull it off or get it on, squeezed into a tight, suffocating tube. My arms were pinned, my hair was a mess, and my face was flushed a deep purple. I looked like a helpless turtle flipped onto its back. Cheryl laughed for two solid minutes, her phone never wavering. Eventually, an employee had to come in and gently wiggle me out of the fabric. After I changed back into my clothes and we left the store, I told her repeatedly, “Do not post that clip.” “Yeah, yeah, got it,” she muttered, her eyes glued to her screen as she replayed the footage, a smug smile playing on her lips. The next morning, I was on the subway. My feed refreshed, and there I was—arms pinned, hair disheveled, dress stuck at my waist, my face contorted in pain. The title: “My Bestie Tried to Squeeze Into a Size 2 and Got Stuck LMAO.” She’d added laugh-track sound effects that played in intervals. The clip of me holding my breath was slowed down with a caption: “Inhale… Inhale…” My red face was zoomed in on, with a cartoon thermometer sticker labeled “Fever Pitch”. The footage of me struggling was looped three times, each with a different comedic sound effect—a slide whistle, a spring boing, and a dramatic “oh no.” The comments mocked me relentlessly. The video had over two million views. Five thousand comments. Some called me fat. Some said I had no self-awareness. Some said I deserved the embarrassment. I scrolled through them on the train, passengers jostling past me. Someone stepped heavily on my foot, but I didn’t feel a thing. I texted her: “You promised you wouldn’t post that.” She replied instantly: “What’s the big deal? The engagement is insane! Already at two million views!” “You said you’d only film my back.” “I did! Your back was in the frame, wasn’t it?” I stared at the screen, my thumb pressing down so hard my nail turned white. I started to wonder if I was the problem for staying friends with someone like this. But when my birthday rolled around, Cheryl offered to plan the whole thing. “You don’t have to lift a finger, babe. Leave it all to me. I promise you a birthday you’ll never forget.” My heart softened. I wanted to believe that, deep down, she still cared about me. I arrived early at the restaurant. Cheryl told me she was still setting up and asked me to wait outside for ten minutes. When she finally let me in, the private dining room was beautifully decorated with balloons, streamers, and fairy lights. A two-tier cake sat on the table, its candles already lit. “Make a wish! Blow them out!” I closed my eyes, pressing my hands together. “Please,” I thought, “let me cry a little less this year.” The moment I blew out the candles, before I could even open my eyes, a heavy blast of white powder hit me square in the face. Flour. A massive bowl of flour, dumped right over my head. It buried me. It got into my eyes, my mouth, my nose. I doubled over, choking and coughing violently. The rapid click-click-click of camera shutters filled the room. I forced my eyes open through the white dust. Three phones. No, four. Cheryl had one in her hand, two were mounted on the table, and another stood on a tripod in the corner. Captured from four different angles, the “World’s Saddest Birthday Girl” was recorded in high definition. “Surprise!” Cheryl shrieked with laughter, bending over. “Guys! This is the birthday surprise I planned for my bestie! Tell me this isn’t the most creative thing ever!” I stood there, covered in white powder, my eyelashes coated in flour, unable to see her face clearly. But I could hear the pure thrill in her voice. It wasn’t excitement for me. It was excitement for the content. I didn’t lose my temper that day. I went to the bathroom and spent thirty minutes trying to wash it off. The flour had mixed with the water, turning into a sticky paste that clumped in my hair and wouldn’t rinse out. My mascara had smeared into the gray sludge on my cheeks. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a joke. Actually, I didn’t just look like one. I was one. 5. When I got back to the apartment that night, I sat on the bathroom floor, letting the shower run over me for an hour just to get the flour paste out of my hair. The water turned cold, then hot, then cold again. I picked up my phone and opened my chat with Cheryl. The screen was filled with her texts: “Babe the video is live! Check it out!” “Over half a million views already, haha!” “Someone commented that you look like a Victorian ghost, I’m literally crying laughing.” I typed out a message, deleted it. Typed it again, deleted it. Finally, I sent it. “Cheryl, we’re done. Delete every single video you’ve ever posted of me.” I shut off my phone and buried myself under the blankets. I knew what she would do. Ten minutes later, Rachel called me, her voice tense. “Lauren, you need to look at TikTok. You’re trending.” Cheryl had screenshot our text about ending the friendship. She posted a video of herself crying, playing a shaky voice memo over it. The title: “My best friend of ten years wants to cut me off over a prank. My heart is completely broken.” On screen, her eyes were red and her voice trembled as she claimed she had “given her heart and soul to this friendship, only to be abandoned over a few harmless videos.” She sobbed, “I just wanted to bring some joy to people. What did I do wrong?” The comments section exploded. “This girl is so fragile.” “Throwing away ten years of friendship? What a coldhearted bitch.” “You deserve better friends, Cheryl.” “Unfollowed the friend. Good riddance.” Someone leaked my private Instagram handle. My inbox was flooded with hate. “How can you treat someone who cared about you like this?” “Cheryl was too good for you.” “I hope you rot alone.” “Why don’t you just kill yourself?” One thousand messages. Two thousand. Five thousand. Eventually, I lost count because I deactivated the account. The next day, HR called me into their office. “Lauren, the company has received some… external feedback. Some of the video content circulating online involving you is beginning to impact our brand image.” I looked at the HR director and said nothing. “Regarding the promotion this month, leadership feels it might be best to go in another direction. We’d like you to transition your current projects over and keep a low profile for a while. Is that okay?” I nodded. As I walked out of the building, Rachel ran after me. “Lauren! Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” I said. “No, you’re not.” She grabbed my arm. “That girl isn’t your friend. She’s been using you from day one.” “I know.” “If you know, then why are you just—” “Rachel,” I said, looking at her. “I know. I just… need a little time.” That night, I didn’t cry. I sat at my desk, opened Cheryl’s profile, and went back to her very first video. I watched them one by one. From the breakup breakdown. To the instant ramen. To the bus chase. To the sleeping compilations. To the allergic reaction. To the birthday flour. 6. Forty-seven videos. Over the span of two years, she had posted forty-seven videos featuring me. Every single one of them was published after I had explicitly told her, “I don’t want to be filmed.” I compiled every link, upload date, view count, and screenshot into a single folder on my laptop. Then, I opened our chat history and searched for keywords: “Delete” “Stop” “Don’t” “Uncomfortable” One hundred and thirty-four results. One hundred and thirty-four times I had said “no”. I took screenshots of the thirty-four clearest, most undeniable objections and saved them to the same folder. At 2:00 AM, a message came in from an unknown number. “Lauren, it’s Tori, Cheryl’s assistant. I have some files I think you should see. I don’t want to ruin her, but… I can’t watch this happen anymore.” I typed back: “What kind of files?” She sent a link to a shared drive. I clicked it open. Inside were screenshots of Cheryl’s direct instructions to her: “Zoom in on Lauren’s face here and add a ‘Meltdown’ caption. Make it punchy.” “Speed this part up by 2x. Make her look manic.” “Stir up the comment section. Get people to call Lauren dramatic. The harsher, the better.” There were also Venmo receipt screenshots. Cheryl had sent payments to an account labeled “Mitch – Promo & Bots”. Five hundred dollars. The memo read: “80k views + 2k comments. Make sure the narrative trashes Lauren.” I dragged every single file into my folder. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Cheryl’s birthday party was held at a trendy new rooftop restaurant in the West End. She had rented out the entire space, invited over thirty people, and set up three professional streaming rigs. Her livestream title was: “Come with me to my birthday party! Live!” I didn’t know if she had intended to invite me. I certainly hadn’t received an invitation. But I was sitting in the coffee shop directly across the street. My laptop was open, connected to the restaurant’s Wi-Fi—Rachel had slipped me the password earlier. The flash drive Tori had given me was plugged into the USB port. I watched the minutes tick by. I was waiting for the perfect moment. At 8:00 PM, the party officially kicked off. Cheryl cut her cake, made a wish, and blew out the candles—an exact replica of my birthday, only this time she was the star of the show. At 8:20 PM, Cheryl slipped away to the restroom to touch up her makeup. Rachel was sitting right next to the restaurant’s projector console. We hadn’t spoken much beforehand. I had only sent her a single text: “Rachel, I need a favor.” She had replied with two words: “Name it.” That is what a real friend looks like. Not someone who screams “besties forever” to a camera, but someone who stands beside you when you need them, without asking questions. At 8:23 PM. Rachel plugged my flash drive into the projector’s input. The massive screen on the restaurant wall flickered. At 8:24 PM. I clicked “Share Screen” on my laptop. The projector came to life.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529607”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was a hopeless, unapologetic mama’s girl. The irony, of course, was that my childhood had been a masterclass in maternal cruelty. For as long as I could remember, I had bent myself into impossible shapes just to earn a single, fleeting smile from the woman I called mother. What did I get in return? Screams, bruises, and the bitter taste of constant rejection. I never understood why she harbored such a visceral, bone-deep hatred for me. Until a sleek black town car pulled up to our dilapidated porch, sent by the ultra-wealthy Carlisle family. Only then did the truth unravel: the woman who had spent eighteen years breaking me wasn’t my mother at all. The moment I stepped through the towering French doors of the Carlisle estate, before I could even catch a glimpse of my biological mother, the girl who had spent her life living my lie began her performance. Her name was Tiffany. She stood on the sweeping marble staircase, her eyes welling with tears that looked entirely too practiced. “Please don’t make me leave, Talia,” she whimpered, her voice trembling like a bruised reed. “I don’t care about the inheritance. I don’t want a single penny. Just let me stay. I’ll work as a maid, I’ll scrub the floors—anything, as long as I can still be near this family…” Her adoptive brother—my biological brother—Christian, immediately stepped in front of her, his jaw clenched, shielding her like a knight protecting a fragile princess. “The only daughter of this house is Tiffany!” Christian hissed, his eyes burning with disgust as they landed on me. “I don’t care what the DNA test says. You are a stranger to us. You better not think you can come in here and play your pathetic little games. I will only ever recognize her as my sister.” In any ordinary story, this would be the moment the long-lost daughter crumbles, her heart shattering at the instant rejection. But my heart didn’t shatter. In fact, my eyes lit up. Because there, standing at the landing of the stairs, was Helena Carlisle. She looked like a classic Hollywood star stepping out of a silver-screen frame—tall, elegant, with a quiet, devastating beauty that commanded the entire room. Every ounce of pain and humiliation I had suffered under Trudy’s roof suddenly melted away. Here was a place to put all that desperate, bottled-up love. A manipulative fake sister? A blind, arrogant brother? They were nothing but noise. I bypassed them entirely, ran up the stairs, and threw my arms tightly around Helena’s waist. “Mommy!” I breathed, burying my face in her shoulder. “You’re so beautiful!” … Helena’s entire body went rigid. As the matriarch of a sprawling corporate empire, she was a woman defined by distance, steel, and a carefully cultivated aura of untouchability. Having her waist suddenly clamped in a vice-like hug by a stranger was clearly not in her daily planner. Her hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure of where to land. Christian’s voice cut through the silence like a whip. “Talia, are you out of your mind? Let go of Mom! You classless street rat!” Tiffany put on a display of delicate shock, fluttering her eyelashes. “She grew up in the backwoods, Christian. She probably doesn’t know how civilized people behave…” A gleam of satisfaction flashed in Tiffany’s eyes. She was waiting for Helena to throw me off, waiting for the humiliation to begin. I ignored them both. I leaned closer, lightly breathing in the faint scent of expensive sandalwood and Chanel that clung to Helena’s neck. “You smell so good, Mommy! You’re a hundred times prettier than the movie stars on TV!” Helena’s hovering fingers twitched. For a long, agonizing second, the silence in the grand foyer was deafening. But she didn’t push me away. Instead, her hands descended, awkwardly but gently patting my back. “Welcome home,” she murmured. Her voice was cool and composed, but beneath my cheek, I could feel the rapid, betrayed flutter of her heartbeat. The fake smile on Tiffany’s face fractured. Sensing the shift in the room, she immediately pivoted her strategy. “Since Talia is back, I suppose it’s time for an outsider like me to clear out,” Tiffany said, her voice dropping an octave as she began walking upstairs, her shoulders trembling with theatrical grief. “I’ll just pack my things and move down to the basement storage room. The master suite belongs to the real daughter.” Christian grabbed her wrist, his eyes wide with protective anger. “What are you talking about? You’ve lived in that room for twenty years! Why should she push you out the second she walks through the door?” He spun around to glare at me. “Talia, don’t you dare get greedy!” Helena’s brow furrowed, her lips parting to de-escalate the tension. But before she could speak, I lifted my head from her shoulder, looking at her with wide, adoring eyes. “I don’t want her room, Mommy. I’ll sleep wherever you want me to. I’d sleep in a dog bed as long as I get to stay close to you!” The grand foyer fell utterly silent. The string of insults Christian had prepared died on his tongue. Helena stared down at me, her piercing gray eyes softening with an emotion she clearly didn’t know how to process. “Butler,” Helena called out, her voice echoing in the quiet house. “Prepare the south-facing suite on the second floor.” “And,” she added, her gaze lingering on my frayed sneakers, “replace all the furniture with the highest-end custom pieces. Make sure the mattress is the softest they have.” At dinner, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. Tiffany carefully selected a piece of sea bass, meticulously removing every tiny bone before placing it onto Helena’s plate. “Mom, I had the chef prepare this sea bass just for you. I know how exhausted you get after those long board meetings.” She shot me a subtle, triumphant smirk. Without a word, I reached over and picked up Helena’s bowl. “Mommy’s worked hard all day,” I declared, scooping up a spoonful of rice and holding it right to Helena’s lips. “Let me feed you, Mommy!” Christian slammed his fork onto the mahogany table. “Talia, are you insane? She’s a grown woman, not a toddler!” Tiffany sighed, playing the role of the refined, embarrassed sister. “Talia, please. You’re making Mom uncomfortable.” Helena did look stiff. Her instinct was to pull back, to maintain the boundaries she had spent a lifetime erecting. I immediately let my lower lip tremble, my eyes filling with unshed tears. “Does Mommy hate me? Back in the town, Trudy barely let me eat. I used to go to bed hungry, dreaming of the day I could finally sit at a table and feed my real mom…” Helena’s breath hitched. She looked at the silver spoon hovering in front of her face, then at my tear-rimmed eyes. Giving in, she leaned forward and took the bite. I practically vibrated with joy. After dinner, Tiffany refused to lose ground. She went out of her way to place her newly won piano trophy right in the center of the living room fireplace mantel. Christian immediately showered her with praise, elevating her to the status of a prodigy while casting pointed looks in my direction. “Our Tiffany is truly exceptional,” Christian said loudly. “Unlike some people who bring nothing but shame to the family name.” Tiffany lowered her head with practiced modesty. “Don’t say that, Christian. I’m sure Talia has her own unique talents. Did you play any instruments in the countryside, Talia? I’d be happy to teach you the basics.” I was sitting on the sofa, practically glued to Helena’s side. Hearing Tiffany’s sweet-poisoned offer, I stood up, my voice bright and clear. “I’m amazing at drawing baths and giving foot massages! That’s my absolute specialty. I’ll make sure Mommy’s feet are perfectly pampered every night!” Tiffany’s eyes rolled back so hard I thought they might get stuck. Christian was left utterly speechless. A delicate, rare blush crept up Helena’s neck. She cleared her throat, trying to hide the small, involuntary curve of her lips. “That’s enough for tonight. Let’s get some rest.” She stood up, and as she passed me, her hand lingered on my head, gently smoothing down my messy hair. In the reflection of the glass cabinets, I saw Tiffany’s face twist with pure, unadulterated envy. The next afternoon, the Carlisle estate was bustling. Tiffany had invited a large group of her high-society friends over for tea. I was wearing a pair of cheap, worn-out jeans and a faded t-shirt I’d bought at a discount store, my hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. A girl draped in a Chanel cardigan giggled behind her hand. “Tiffany, is this the long-lost sister from the backwoods? She looks… incredibly ordinary.” Another girl joined in, her voice dripping with disdain. “I didn’t realize the Carlisles let just anyone walk through the front door these days. It really lowers the standards of our circle.” Christian sat on a nearby armchair, scrolling through his phone, offering no intention of defending me. Tiffany sighed dramatically, her eyes projecting pity. “Please don’t talk about her like that. She just got back, she doesn’t know our lifestyle yet. It takes time to wash off the countryside.” I didn’t care about their petty insults. I was busy cradling the heavy cashmere wrap Helena had left on the sofa the night before. Just then, the heavy front doors opened, and Helena walked in, looking exhausted from a grueling day of corporate negotiations. The girls’ mocking laughter died down, but the insults they had thrown my way still hung in the air. I immediately rushed over to Helena, gently draping the cashmere wrap around her shoulders. “Mommy! You’re finally home! The AC is freezing in here, put this on so you don’t catch a cold.” The tension in Helena’s shoulders visibly melted under the warmth of the wrap. She cast a cool, sweeping glance across the room, taking in the sneering faces of Tiffany’s friends. Without saying a word, she reached into her designer bag and pulled out a sleek black credit card. She pressed it into my hand. “Go buy whatever clothes you want, Talia. A daughter of the Carlisle family wears whatever she pleases.” The silence that followed was absolute. The girl in the Chanel cardigan turned a deep, embarrassed crimson, suddenly looking very small. Within ten minutes, the entire group of high-society girls made polite excuses and scattered like mice. Helena gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before heading upstairs to her study. I held the black card, grinning, and began making my way up the stairs. But as I reached the landing, Tiffany stepped out from the shadows, blocking my path. “Don’t think sucking up to Mom will save you, Talia,” she hissed, her voice low and venomous. Before I could even reply, she suddenly threw herself backward, tumbling down the flight of marble stairs. “Ah! Talia, why did you push me?!” she screamed, her body rolling to a stop at the bottom. Christian, who had been coming out of the kitchen with a glass of water, witnessed the fall. He dropped his glass, the shards shattering across the tile as he rushed over to her. Finding Tiffany crying in pain, he scrambled up the stairs toward me, his face contorted in rage. He raised his hand, aiming a heavy blow straight at my face. “You jealous bitch! I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget!” But the blow never landed. A slender, elegant figure stepped in front of me, absorbing the sharp slap across her own cheek. Helena had stepped out of her study just in time. Christian froze, staring at his trembling hand in sheer terror. He dropped to his knees, his face pale. “Mom… I didn’t mean to—I was trying to protect Tiffany—” I peeked out from behind Helena’s back, wrapping my arms tightly around her waist. “Mommy, does it hurt? Christian can hit me all he wants, but please don’t let him upset you! Your health is what matters!” Helena touched her reddened cheek, her breathing shallow but controlled. She looked down at her son, her voice carrying a terrifying, quiet weight. “Christian. Take Tiffany to her room. And reflect on what you’ve done.” To help me recover from the incident, Helena decided to take me to the exclusive high-society gala that evening. It was the perfect opportunity to officially introduce me to the world as her daughter. Tiffany had begged and pleaded until Helena finally relented, allowing her to tag along. But before we left, Tiffany bribed the family stylist to hand me a hideous, ill-fitting gown in a dusty, depressing shade of purple. The stylist kept insisting it was the height of vintage chic. I put it on without a single complaint, then walked down to find Helena. She was wearing a stunning, tailored ivory silk sheath dress that made her look like a goddess. I spun around her, my eyes shining with genuine awe. “Mommy looks like an angel! I look perfect to be your bag-carrier!” Helena took one look at my ridiculous outfit and her brows knitted together. She immediately pulled out her phone and dialed a number. “Bring the finest piece from your latest collection to my estate. You have ten minutes.” Half an hour later, I walked down the grand staircase wearing a breathtaking, navy-blue gown encrusted with delicate, shimmering diamonds that looked like a starry night sky. Tiffany stood in the corner of the foyer, her knuckles turning white as she clutched her clutch purse. The gala was held in the grand ballroom of the city’s most luxurious seven-star hotel. The moment we arrived, Tiffany slipped away, blending into her circle of wealthy heiresses. She kept gesturing toward me, whispering poison into their ears. Before long, a group of girls in heavy makeup and designer silk sashayed over to me, led by Charlotte Lee, Tiffany’s closest friend. “Oh, so this is the long-lost daughter?” Charlotte purred, looking me up and down with open contempt. “I heard you didn’t even go to a proper school in the countryside. Do you even know how to use a salad fork, or should I give you a lesson?” A chorus of snickers erupted around her. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction. I was holding a small silver plate with a few delicate pastries, keeping a respectful half-step behind Helena. Charlotte, feeling insulted by my silence, stepped directly into my path. “Hey! I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?” I looked up, my expression completely innocent. “My mommy told me not to talk to people with low IQs. She says stupidity is highly contagious.” Charlotte’s face twisted in fury. She raised her wine glass, preparing to splash the red liquid all over my diamond gown. But before she could, Helena spun around, her hand clamping down on Charlotte’s wrist like a steel cuff. “Is this how the Lee family teaches manners to their children?” Helena’s voice was ice, sending a visible shiver through the surrounding crowd. Her gaze swept over the wealthy guests. “This is Talia Carlisle. My biological daughter and the sole heir to the Carlisle Group. Anyone who makes her feel unwelcome makes an enemy of me.” The room fell dead silent. The girls who had been giggling moments ago took a collective step back, holding their breath. Tiffany shrunk into the shadows of the crowd, her face pale. Midway through the evening, while Helena was washing her hands, Tiffany cornered me on the terrace. “Don’t get too comfortable, Talia!” she hissed, her elegant facade completely gone. “Do you honestly think Mom cares about you? She’s just acting out of guilt! My brother runs the operations of the company, and he only recognizes me as his sister. One word from me, and you’ll be thrown right back into the gutter!” Looking at her desperate, ugly anger, I actually felt amused. I leaned casually against the stone balustrade, letting out a soft sigh. “Are you finished?” “If you want the Carlisle fortune, take it. I don’t care about the money.” I looked her dead in the eye. “I only want my Mommy. You get the cash, I get Mommy. It’s a win-win.” Tiffany stared at me, completely speechless. The venomous speech she had prepared seemed to deflate, leaving her red-faced and sputtering. On the ride home in the back of the Maybach, Helena leaned her head against the leather headrest, her eyes closed. I quietly shuffled closer, resting my head against her shoulder. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she shifted her posture slightly, letting me rest more comfortably. “Did you feel wronged tonight?” she asked, her voice soft in the quiet cabin of the car. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll make sure you get it.” I snuggled closer, breathing in her familiar scent. “I don’t feel wronged at all. As long as I can see you and be near you every day, I have everything I could ever want.” Helena didn’t say anything. But I felt her fingers tremble slightly where they rested on her knee. Slowly, her hand rose and rested on my head, gently stroke after stroke, smoothing my hair in the dark. The next morning, as we sat in the dining room, Helena’s phone rang. Her expression turned incredibly serious as she listened to the voice on the other end. Hanging up, she stood and grabbed her coat. “An emergency has come up at our European headquarters. I have to catch a flight immediately.” She walked over to me, gently ruffling my hair, before looking at the three of us. “I’ll be gone for a few days. Behave yourselves while I’m away.” As soon as the front doors closed behind Helena, a dark, calculating smirk spread across Tiffany’s face. That very afternoon, the front doors of the villa were pushed open with a loud bang. Tiffany walked in, trailing a loud, disheveled woman behind her. My heart stopped. It was Trudy, my adoptive mother. Tiffany looked at me with mock sympathy. “Talia, I was out shopping and ran into this woman near the gates. She claims she’s your mother from the countryside and was desperate to see you, so I brought her in.” Trudy’s eyes darted around the opulent living room, instantly filled with naked greed. She marched over to me, her voice echoing through the high ceilings. “Talia, you ungrateful little brat! You hit the jackpot and forgot all about the mother who raised you? You owe me five million dollars for raising you, or I’ll make sure every newspaper in this city hears about how you abandoned me!” Christian stood nearby, his arms crossed, a look of deep disgust on his face. “What a parasite. The moment she comes back, she drags this low-class trash into our home. You’re dragging the Carlisle name through the dirt, Talia.” Ignoring their taunts, I swallowed the panic rising in my throat and ran upstairs. When I returned, I held the heavy velvet box containing the diamond jewelry Helena had bought me. “I don’t have that kind of cash. Take this. It’s worth hundreds of thousands. Take it and never come back!” Trudy snatched the box, her eyes widening as she saw the shimmering gems. She quickly shoved it into her coat pocket. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she would finally leave. But I had severely underestimated her greed. “You think a few pretty rocks are going to buy me off? The Carlisles have billions! I want a luxury penthouse in the city, registered in my name!” My voice shook with anger. “Are you insane? I just got here! Where would I get a penthouse?” Seeing my defiance, Trudy’s face contorted. She lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of my hair and slamming her palm across my cheek. “You little bitch, you think you can talk back to me now? I raised you, and I can destroy you!” The force of her shove sent me flying backward. My head collided sharply with the edge of the marble coffee table. A sharp, searing pain shot through my forehead, and warm blood immediately began to blur my vision. Trudy didn’t stop. She descended upon me, raining down kicks and blows as I curled into a ball on the cold floor. “Please… help me…” I gasped, looking toward my brother. But Christian just watched with cold indifference, even raising a hand to stop the maids who wanted to intervene. “Stay back! This is their family business. Let her learn a lesson about where she came from.” Tiffany stood beside him, her lips curved into a triumphant, cruel smile. Only when Trudy grew tired did she finally stop, wiping the sweat from her brow as she prepared to leave. She pointed a finger at me. “I’ll give you one week, Talia. If I don’t see the deed to a penthouse by then, I’ll go straight to the Carlisle headquarters and make sure everyone knows what an ungrateful dog you are!” Once she left, Christian didn’t even look at me. “I have to get back to the office. Tiffany, clean up this mess.” He grabbed his keys and walked out without a backward glance. I lay on the cold marble floor, my body aching, blood pooling near my temple. Tiffany walked over, stopping right in front of me. She nudged my limp hand with the toe of her expensive designer shoe, laughing softly. “You look like a dying dog, Talia.” She knelt down, her voice dripping with venom. “Did you really think a few days of playing the perfect daughter would make Mom care about you? She’s a cold-blooded monster who only cares about her company. The moment that trashy woman starts causing trouble at the office, Mom will throw you right back to the gutter.” “If I were you, I’d pack my bags and crawl back to the mud where you belong.” I forced my eyes open, staring back at her through the blood. “You’re lying… Mommy wouldn’t do that. She loves me. She won’t abandon me.” Tiffany laughed as if I’d said something incredibly naive. “You’re so pathetic. I called her mother for twenty years. I know exactly who she is. She doesn’t have a heart…” Before she could finish her sentence, the heavy front doors were thrown open with a violent crash. Helena Carlisle, who was supposed to be on a private jet crossing the Atlantic, stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing with a terrifying fury. “Is that really how you see me, Tiffany?”

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My boyfriend, Gavin, was doing it again. At the birthday dinner he threw for me, the cake he brought out still had only two candles on it. “You and Selena only have birthdays two days apart,” he said, his voice entirely too casual. “Might as well celebrate together.” The words cut through me, delivered with an ease that felt like a slap. I couldn’t understand it. If we had to share, why did the date always have to fall on my best friend’s actual birthday? Why was the restaurant’s decor, the menu, even the flower wall styled after Selena’s tastes? The floral arrangement spelling out her initials, “S.P.”, felt like a mockery. This wasn’t my party. It was hers, dressed up in the thin excuse of being mine. “Gavin, who are you actually dating?” I’d asked him more than once. But to Gavin, my hurt was just a symptom of my own insecurity. “You two are best friends,” he’d always say, waving it off. “You share everything. Being good to her is my way of being good to you.” He used that excuse to shield himself while his attention to Selena grew more and more meticulous. Eventually, even our rare dates were split down the middle, with Selena always occupying the other half of the table. She called him the blueprint of a perfect boyfriend—thoughtful, attentive, detail-oriented. Fine. If he wanted to be so good to her, if we had to share our birthdays, maybe they should just share a bed too. … I stood up to leave, but before I could take more than a few steps, Gavin caught my arm. “Don’t ruin Selena’s birthday, Maeve,” he muttered, his brow furrowing with that familiar look of deep disappointment, as if I were the one being utterly unreasonable. “She thinks of you as her sister. How is it going to look if you just walk out?” I stopped, looking at him. “You just said it yourself. It’s “her” birthday, not mine. Why do I have to be here for it?” “You two share everything. What’s the big deal about sharing a birthday?” He paused, shaking his head. “Besides, celebrating together is special. You’re always making a scene over nothing.” That look of exhaustion on his face—I knew it by heart. I didn’t argue. I just choked back my tears and ran out into the rain. I had lost count of how many times we’d fought over Selena. She was a permanent fixture on our dates. When we both caught a cold, he drove to her apartment first to drop off medicine. And when I flew back from a business trip in the middle of the night, he forgot to pick me up because he was keeping Selena company while she worked late. Every fight ended the same way: with me being painted as hysterical, jealous, and crazy. But standing in the cold rain, the truth finally crystallized. I was never the person he thought of first. By the time I got back to our apartment, shivering and wet, my phone buzzed with a text from Gavin. “When you’ve calmed down, come to the theater. I rented out a private screening.” My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. Once, in a rare moment of quiet, I’d told him I wanted to know what it felt like to have an entire movie theater to ourselves. A tiny, foolish spark of warmth flickered in my chest—he had remembered. But the moment I saw the movie title, that spark died. It was the romantic melodrama Selena had been begging to see all week. I hated those types of movies. I tilted my head back, breathing in slowly, and realized our home was practically a monument to Selena. The living room set was in her favorite modern-bohemian style. The massage chair in the corner was bought specifically because her back occasionally ached. Even the photo wall—a collection of Gavin’s photography—was split. Half of it was of Selena; the other half was of the two of them. My face was there, too, but only in a single, small print squeezed into the bottom corner where the light barely reached. The clock struck midnight when Gavin finally walked through the door, holding a small box. “I saved you a slice,” he said, offering a tired smile. “Kept it in the restaurant’s fridge so the frosting wouldn’t melt.” In the past, a gesture like this would have been enough to make me fold. I would have apologized for being difficult. But now, looking at him, the distance between us felt like a chasm. “Do you actually love me, Gavin?” He let out a sharp, impatient sigh. “How many times do we have to go through this? Why do you always have to be so paranoid?” Sensing the chill in the room, he tried to soften his tone. He stepped closer, reaching out to brush my hair back, but I flinched away. “Maeve, I’ve had a really long day. Don’t start this again.” When I didn’t answer, he sighed and headed toward the bathroom. I remembered a time, early on, when asking that question would make him cup my face in his hands and look into my eyes. “‘I love you,’” he’d say. “‘You can ask me a million times, and I’ll always tell you.’” I let out a quiet, bitter laugh. I wasn’t sure if I was laughing at the memory of his words, or at the girl who had actually believed them. Before bed, Gavin did what he’d been doing for the last two weeks: he started a FaceTime call with Selena and kept it active as they fell asleep. It had started when she called him, terrified, claiming she heard footsteps outside her door. I was pulling an all-night shift at the office, so Gavin went to her apartment and stayed until dawn. Ever since, she claimed she couldn’t sleep without the comfort of his voice in her ear. “We should go to Cape Cod for our next trip,” Selena’s voice drifted from the speaker, soft and dreamlike. “I heard making a wish under the summer fireworks there actually works.” Gavin gave a low, fond chuckle. “Sure. If that’s where you want to go.” “What about Maeve? Where does she want to go?” “Why bother asking her? She doesn’t know anything about Cape Cod. She won’t have an opinion anyway.” His voice was so dismissive it was almost casual. In all our group trips, I was little more than a ghost. On our last hike, the two of them had forged ahead so quickly that when I tripped and sprained my ankle, they were already out of sight. The time before that, they had sat on the beach talking about constellations late into the night, their voices rising and falling in a rhythm I couldn’t hope to join. Watching their easy intimacy now, a profound exhaustion settled deep into my bones. “Let’s book it for tomorrow then,” Selena said. “Sounds good.” Gavin shifted under the covers, closing his eyes to sleep without once turning to look at me. “I’m not going,” I whispered. He was too busy murmuring a final goodnight to Selena to hear me. I pulled out my phone and typed a message to the headhunter who had reached out to me the week before about a position in Boston. “What is the earliest I can start?” The next morning, Gavin practically dragged me out of bed, pulling me toward the airport despite my protests. “Selena went out of her way to make sure you were included,” he scolded as we walked through the terminal. “Don’t wear that miserable expression this time. You ruined the mood on our last trip.” Through security, boarding, takeoff—I moved like a marionette, hollowed out. Somewhere mid-flight, the plane shuddered, dropping suddenly in a pocket of severe turbulence. My heart jumped. I instinctively turned my head toward him. Gavin’s body was tense, his knuckles white. He was holding Selena’s hand, gripping it with a fierce, protective urgency. Selena looked startled for a second, then gently patted his arm. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “Just a little bump.” I was the only one who knew Gavin was having a panic attack. Years ago, we’d been on a flight that dropped hundreds of feet in a storm. He had wrapped his arms around me so tightly it hurt, whispering, “‘If we don’t make it, my only regret is that I didn’t get to marry you.’” The burning sincerity in his eyes that day had sustained me through years of growing cold. But now, his reflex was to protect someone else. As he turned his head back toward me, I looked away. My fingers traced the band of my ring, a dull ache blooming in my chest. “Fine,” I thought. “Let this be our goodbye trip.” When we landed, Selena told us to wait by the baggage claim while she went to buy local iced coffees. Suddenly, I felt a familiar, sharp cramp in my lower abdomen. I hurried to the nearest restroom and realized my period had started early. I called Gavin. “Can you buy me some pads?” “Isn’t your cycle at the end of the month? It’s only the fifteenth.” There was a heavy pause on the line. We both knew the fifteenth was Selena’s cycle. He cleared his throat quickly. “Just hang tight. I’ll buy them and have Selena bring them in to you.” I huddled in the stall, waiting until my feet went numb. Nobody came. In the end, I had to call the airport’s guest assistance hotline just to get a basic hygiene kit. I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t need him, but when I stood up, a violent cramp seized my leg. I stumbled, barely catching myself against the wall. The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over. Gavin hadn’t always been like this. He used to be the man who kept track of every detail. When stress was making my hair fall out, he’d spent weeks researching natural remedies, boiling herbal teas for me every night. After graduation, I’d turned down a prestigious job offer in New York to move to his hometown, Seattle, with him. But the climate, the social circle, the job—none of it fit me. I was constantly struggling to adjust, while he thrived. Once, during an argument, the frustration boiled over. “I only moved to this city for you,” I cried. He had looked at me, completely detached. “I didn’t force you to come.” The words had stunned me. I still remembered our first night in Seattle, how he’d held my hand under the streetlights and promised, “‘My home is your home now.’” When I finally limped out of the restroom, I found the two of them standing in the middle of the terminal courtyard. They were participating in a live “Midsummer Couples’ Trivia Challenge” hosted by a local travel booth. I had forgotten today was Sweethearts’ Day. On our last anniversary, I had to work late, so Gavin took the reservation he’d made for us and went with Selena instead. When I got home, we had a screaming match. “You’re seriously blaming me because you had to work?” Gavin had slammed the door. “I even brought you takeout that Selena specifically picked out for you. She was trying to be thoughtful, and you’re just being bitter.” We didn’t speak for three days. But the moment he showed a sliver of regret, I went running back. It wasn’t because I wasn’t hurt; it was because the memory of who he used to be was too beautiful to let go. But today, standing on the edge of the crowd, I just watched them. The host asked a series of rapid-fire questions about Selena’s favorite things, and Gavin answered every single one without a second thought. “Perfect score!” the host boomed into the microphone, grinning. “How do you know her preferences so well?” Gavin leaned toward the mic, his eyes locked onto Selena’s face, a lazy smile playing on his lips. “A lot of practice buying her gifts.” Selena blushed, leaning her shoulder into his chest. The crowd laughed, but I felt entirely hollow. When Selena first moved into her apartment, Gavin insisted on buying her a housewarming gift. Then it became a habit. Every holiday, every trip, he bought everything in duplicate. He told me he was just trying to win over my best friend, but eventually, the line blurred. He’d buy her sunglasses, sundresses, even expensive bath bombs. Every time he went shopping, he saw things that reminded him of her. I couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought something just for me. They walked out of the crowd holding a matching pair of plush prizes. When Gavin’s eyes finally landed on me, his smile faltered. “Oh, the pads,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I completely forgot. Why didn’t you call me again?” I looked at him, my voice flat. “Someone else helped me.” Selena pouts, tapping his chest. “How could you forget something like that?” Gavin immediately ducked his head, his tone soft and placating. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Won’t happen again.” She let out a playful hum of approval. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. “My leg is cramping. I’m going back to the hotel.” Gavin was already typing on his phone, not even looking up. “Sure. We’ve got the fireworks show tonight anyway, so we’ll see you later.” That evening, I sat alone in the dim hotel room, scrolling aimlessly through my phone. On a local travel vlog, a video popped up. “‘Spotted the sweetest couple at the fireworks show tonight!’” the caption read. I watched the screen as my throat tightened. It was the scene I had always imagined for us. Under the bursting colors of the fireworks, Selena was laughing, and Gavin was pulling her closer, his eyes reflecting the light. They looked radiant. They looked perfect. I opened my airline app, booked a one-way ticket back to Seattle, and left for the airport within the hour. Gavin didn’t return to our apartment until the following evening. When he saw me sitting on the couch, he marched over, his face dark with anger. “Why did you just disappear like that? Do you have any idea how worried I was?” I stared at him. His version of worry didn’t include a single phone call or text. He noticed my packed suitcase by the door and ran a hand through his hair, his frustration boiling over. “Are you seriously doing this because I didn’t babysit you for one evening? How old are you, Maeve? Running away like a teenager?” I kept packing in silence. In the past, I fought because I believed things could be fixed. Now, I simply didn’t have the words. He stepped closer, his voice softening into that familiar, condescending tone. “Be reasonable. Every time we have a disagreement, you blow it completely out of proportion. Stop being so dramatic.” He reached into his bag. “Look, Selena spent hours picking out a souvenir for you. I brought it back.” He set a beautifully carved wooden sculpture on the table—and then handed me a cheap, generic refrigerator magnet. Of course. It was always like this. The thoughtful, expensive gifts went to her; the cheap afterthoughts went to me. I had stayed quiet for years because I didn’t want him to think I was materialistic. But the silence had only made me invisible. “Am I really that cheap to you, Gavin? Do I only deserve a refrigerator magnet?” His face twisted with irritation. “You’re the one who said you loved collecting magnets! I went out of my way to buy you one on every single trip!” When we first started dating, we had no money. I had lied and told him I only cared about magnets because I didn’t want him spending his rent money on me. Now, that lie was being used to justify my second-class status. I walked over to the fridge, pulled off every single magnet one by one, and threw them into the trash. “If I have it, Selena gets a version of it. But when did I ever get the things you bought for her?” The room fell dead silent. Then, a sharp “clack” echoed as a coffee mug was knocked over on the counter. I turned around. Gavin wasn’t even looking at me. His eyes were glued to his phone screen, his expression tense and panicked. I walked over and glanced at the screen. It was Selena’s Instagram story. A photo of a dimly lit restaurant table with the caption: “‘First blind date. Wish me luck!’” along with a location tag. “Why are you so panicked about her going on a date?” I asked, keeping my voice steady. His eyes darted around, avoiding mine. “She’s too naive. She doesn’t know how dangerous these setups can be. What if this guy is a creep? Who even set her up with him?” It was almost funny watching him struggle to maintain his composure. “I have to make sure she’s safe,” he muttered, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. I grabbed my purse and followed him out. He drove in absolute silence, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The moment we arrived at the restaurant, he stormed inside, located her table, and slid into the booth right next to Selena. “We’re leaving,” Gavin said, his voice dropping into a hard, commanding register. “This date is over.” The man sitting across from them looked offended. “Who the hell are you to tell her what to do?” Gavin wrapped his arm tightly around Selena’s waist, pulling her flush against his side. He lifted his chin, staring the man down. “Get lost.” The man stood up, cursing under his breath. “Unbelievable. If you have a boyfriend, don’t waste my time.” Once the man was gone, Gavin looked at the table, reaching out to push a plate away. “You hate cilantro. Why did he order this?” He picked up a plate of shrimp, cracked one open, and quietly placed the peeled meat on Selena’s plate. “Why did you suddenly go on a blind date?” he asked, his voice softer now. Selena shot a nervous, guilty look in my direction. “I don’t know what Maeve said to my mom, but my mom suddenly became obsessed with setting me up.” Gavin whipped his head around to glare at me, his eyes burning with fury. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? You’re trying to throw your best friend to the wolves.” He stood up, stepping between Selena and me. “Are you trying to ruin her life?” In reality, Selena’s mother had asked me about her dating life, and I had simply suggested she let Selena find someone naturally. I had no idea her mother would react by arranging an immediate blind date. But looking at Gavin standing there like a knight shielding his princess, I realized explanations were pointless. “Believe whatever you want,” I said. Gavin let out a dry, angry laugh. “If you’re so obsessed with blind dates, why don’t you go on one? Go marry some stranger.” I nodded slowly. “And I assume you’re going to act as her boyfriend and go home with her now?” I picked up my purse and walked out. Before I even reached the street, a text from Selena popped up. “Maeve, you’re misunderstanding. He was just worried about me and spoke without thinking.” I replied: “I’m not misunderstanding. You can have him.” A second later, a furious voice memo from Gavin arrived. “Maeve, what the hell is your problem texting Selena like that? Don’t act like you’re the only girl in the world.” The clicking of my heels on the pavement sounded steady, clear, and final. By the time I got back to the apartment, I had my bags dragged to the door. Just as I was about to walk out, my phone lit up with a text from a mutual friend who worked at the local clinic. “Hey, is Selena okay? I just saw her come into the ER during my shift.” My chest tightened. Despite everything, five years of friendship couldn’t be erased in an instant. I hurried to the clinic. When I found her room, Selena was curled up in Gavin’s arms, her eyes red and swollen. The moment she saw me, she pulled away, her expression shifting into deep unease. I stood at the foot of the bed, my face expressionless. “Are you okay?” She stammered, unable to find words. Gavin stood beside her, his head bowed in a heavy, suffocating silence. Before I could ask anything else, the door swung open. Selena’s mother rushed into the room, her eyes blazing. She bypassed me entirely, marching straight to Gavin and shoving a finger into his chest. “You miserable bastard,” she hissed. “You’re the one who got my daughter pregnant?” My breath caught. I instinctively tried to smooth it over. “Mrs. Palmer, there must be some—” But Gavin didn’t deny it. He hung his head, looking like a man accepting his sentence. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Palmer. I’ll take full responsibility.” The room went entirely cold. The blood rushed out of my face, leaving a deafening ring in my ears. Selena panicked, grabbing her mother’s arm. “Mom, please! We’ve actually been together for a long time. We just didn’t know how to tell you. He’s incredibly good to me, I promise.” I stood frozen as Selena kept talking, her voice fading into background static. I looked at Gavin, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. He kept making subtle gestures with his hands, signaling for me to stay quiet, to play along. When Mrs. Palmer finally left the room to settle the billing, the silence rushed back. “Is it true?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Selena’s eyes flooded with tears. “I’m sorry, Maeve.” With those four words, the last remaining piece of my heart withered. “The relationship story was just to appease my mom,” she sobbed. “But… the baby is real.” I took a sharp breath. She reached out, trying to grab my hand. “You know how I’ve always felt about marriage. I wanted a child, but I didn’t want a husband. Gavin has such incredible genetics, and he’s so responsible, so I thought…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, her head dropping as she began to weep. “I never wanted to take him from you. I just wanted a baby.” Gavin stepped forward, shielding her from me. “She just wanted to be a mother, Maeve. It’s not like she did this out of malice. She’s your best friend. Can you really stand there and condemn her to being alone for the rest of her life?” I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask him how he could look at his girlfriend of five years and defend the fact that he had fathered a child with her best friend. I wanted to ask if he felt even a shred of remorse. But the energy had completely left my body. Seeing my silence, Selena grew frantic. She grabbed my sleeve, her grip tight. “Please, Maeve. If you don’t forgive me, I don’t know how I can go on living. Please.” With every ounce of strength I had left, I flung her hand off. I turned toward the door, but behind me, Selena let out a hysterical cry and lunged toward the concrete wall. Gavin caught her just in time, pinning her to his chest before she could hurt herself. “Are you happy now?” Gavin roared at me, his eyes wild. “Just tell her you forgive her! Do you want her to die?” When I didn’t move, he gripped my shoulders, shaking me. “Say it, Maeve! Say it!” Mrs. Palmer walked back in at that exact moment. Seeing the chaos, she shoved me away from them. “What is wrong with you two?” she screamed. “Are you trying to kill my daughter?” Selena sobbed into her hands. “Mom, don’t. It’s not Maeve’s fault.” Whatever Mrs. Palmer took from that, she immediately pulled out her phone and dialed my mother’s number, leaving a furious voice mail: “‘Your daughter is a homewrecker. She’s trying to ruin my daughter’s life over a man.’” My head throbbed with a blinding pain. I turned around, grabbed my suitcase from the hallway, and walked out. As I hailed a cab outside, Gavin ran out, blocking the passenger door before I could close it. “Selena is unstable right now, Maeve,” he pleaded, his face pale and desperate. “Her only wish is to have you there. If you come back inside, I’ll do whatever you want. We can get married. We can go to the courthouse tomorrow. I’ll give you the wedding you’ve always wanted.” I looked at him, feeling nothing but a profound sense of disgust. “We’re done, Gavin.” “Stop playing games,” he snapped, his desperation turning into venom. “Every time you pack your bags, you just spend a night at a hotel and come crawling back. We’ve lived together for five years. You think you can just walk away? At your age, you’re just damaged goods. You need to think about your future.” Looking at his sneering, desperate face, I realized I didn’t even recognize him anymore. I slammed the door shut. “Drive,” I told the cabby. A minute later, my mother called, her voice trembling. “Maeve, what on earth is happening?” “Gavin got Selena pregnant,” I said, my voice dead and level. There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. “Come home, honey,” she whispered. I looked out the window at the passing city skyline. Five years ago, I had driven down these same streets with a heart full of hope. I never imagined it would end like this. I reached into my phone, popped the SIM card out, and threw it out the window, tossing five years of foolishness into the wind.

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The day my biological parents finally “reclaimed” me from my middle-class life, they didn’t throw a homecoming party. Instead, they packed me up like a piece of unwanted cargo and tossed me straight into a high-stakes horror trial—all to serve as a human shield for their precious, adopted daughter. My birth parents had spent a small fortune on a rare soul-binding artifact. It linked my life force to Tiffany’s, ensuring that any physical harm meant for her would instantly transfer to me. To make sure nothing went wrong, my older brother, Wayne, even volunteered to enter the arena with her, acting as her personal guardian. I stood there in my cheap, pretty dress, clutching the fabric so hard my knuckles turned white. My eyes burned with hot, humiliating tears. “Please,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I don’t want to die.” But they only looked at me with deep, chilling distaste. “A useless thing like you, who does nothing but cry, is just a drain on resources anyway,” my biological father sneered. “Consider it your civic duty,” my mother added, her tone utterly detached. “Taking Tiffany’s place is the only way you’ll ever be of any use to this family.” Beside them, Tiffany smirked, tossing her perfectly curled hair. “They don’t have crybabies in the Trials, sweetie,” she whispered, leaning in close. “A delicate little flower like you? I give you twenty-four hours, max. Just try not to break my expensive artifact too quickly.” Then came the blinding flash of white light, and the world dissolved. But before the terror could fully sink in, before I could even let out a sob, I froze. We were standing in front of a sprawling, gothic manor. Sure, the sky was a bruised, unnatural violet, and the air smelled of ozone and ancient stone. But… wasn’t this my adoptive parents’ house? The very house I had walked out of this morning, where my sweet, eccentric mom and dad had kissed my forehead and tearfully begged me to visit them often? When on earth did my childhood home become an S-Class horror dungeon? And more importantly… did that make my parents the final bosses? … The sky above was stained a violent, bleeding crimson, and a flock of ravens circled the dark spires of the manor. Even the vast rose gardens flanking the driveway seemed to drip with deep, arterial red. If it weren’t for the two stone lions guarding the front gates—the exact ones I had ordered online last summer—I would have convinced myself I was hallucinating. But I had lived here for eighteen years. Not once had my adoptive parents mentioned that our cozy, gothic-revival estate was actually a designated murder-zone for the System. Before I could wrap my head around it, a sharp, white-hot agony flared in my left wrist. The pain was so sudden, so intense, that I gasped, tears instantly spilling over my cheeks. Right beside me, Tiffany let out a thrilled, breathless laugh. “Wayne, look! It actually works! I didn’t feel a thing!” She triumphantly raised her pale, unblemished arm. In her other hand, she held a silver dagger, its tip dripping with fresh blood. I looked down at my own left wrist. A jagged, angry laceration had split the skin, crimson pooling and spilling onto the dirt. Growing up, my adoptive parents had shielded me from everything. I was so sheltered that they literally chased mosquitoes away from me. I had never even scraped a knee, let alone seen my own blood flow like water. The ground tilted. The crimson sky spun. The sheer shock of the pain sent my vision black, and I collapsed onto the damp grass. Through the haze, I heard Tiffany’s annoyed groan. “Seriously? She faints at the sight of blood?” “If the soul-binding artifact didn’t require a direct blood relative, I would never have agreed to bring this useless charity case along,” she grumbled. “If I knew she was this pathetic, I would’ve told Mom and Dad to leave her in the gutter where they found her.” My biological brother, Wayne, stepped forward, gently smoothing her hair. “Mom and Dad only brought her home so she could die for you, Tiff,” he said, his voice dripping with a warmth he had never once shown me. “You’re the only sister I care about. The only daughter of the Whitmore house. As for her… she’s not walking out of this place alive.” He turned, his shadow falling over my shivering form. He looked down at me, his eyes colder than the stone lions behind him. “Hey. Wake up. Get your head straight and don’t think for a second that sharing our DNA gives you any leverage over me. I have one sister, and her name is Tiffany.” I squeezed my eyes shut, my entire body trembling. I was too weak, too utterly drained by the phantom blood loss, to even muster a reply. Before the silence could stretch, another flash of light illuminated the courtyard. Three men materialized near the gates. There was a hulking, muscular man, a scruffy guy with a thick beard, and a lean man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Each of them carried heavy, menacing gear. They radiated a hard, desperate edge. The muscular one, Rex, stepped forward, his eyes scanning our group. “Newbies?” his gaze lingered on Tiffany’s glowing wrist. “And you’ve got an aura-disguising decoy artifact. Fancy.” He gestured subtly to his two companions before turning back to us with a cold, predatory smile. “We’re veterans. Cleaned out three S-Class runs already. We could probably carry you through this hellhole.” He paused, his eyes sliding over to me, shivering on the grass. “But… we’re going to need your little decoy to clear the traps first.” Tiffany’s eyes lit up as she looked at their heavy weaponry. Without a second thought, she blurted out, “Deal! Take her. Use the useless bitch however you want.” “If you get me out of here alive, my family will wire you thirty million dollars the second we hit the real world.” The three veterans exchanged glances, their lips curling into dark, satisfied grins. Satisfied with the arrangement, Wayne marched over and kicked my ribs. Not hard enough to break them, but enough to send a sickening jolt of pain through my abdomen. “Are you deaf?” he snarled. “Get up. Get to the front and start walking.” I clutched my stomach, stumbling to my feet. My face was entirely drained of color as I took the lead, stepping onto the gravel path. But as I walked closer to the massive double doors, a strange, desperate warmth began to bloom in my chest. My adoptive father’s parting words echoed in my mind. On the morning I left, he had hugged me tightly, his voice low and vibrating with a strange, dark intensity: ‘If those people ever hurt you, sweetheart, you tell us. I will make them beg for the release of death.’ I was almost home. With my real parents inside, no one could touch me. My steps grew lighter, more urgent. Tears welled in my eyes, but I blinked them back, swallowing the urge to sob. I didn’t want them to see me looking like a crybaby the second I got back. But the moment I pushed open the heavy oak doors, the atmosphere shifted. The interior of the manor was structurally identical to the home I had left, but the lights were dead. Only a few thick, black wax candles flickered along the grand hallway, throwing long, distorted shadows against the walls. In the center of the foyer stood a tall, slender silhouette. Seeing the familiar, crisp lines of his tailcoat, I let out a shaky breath of pure relief. It was Thomas, our butler. He had practically raised me, slipping me extra sweets when my parents weren’t looking. He would put these awful people in their place. I wiped the tears from my cheeks and rushed forward, a fragile smile breaking across my face. “Thomas—” The butler turned to face me. Under the flickering candlelight, his warm, familiar eyes dissolved into twin pools of liquid crimson. His jaw unhinged with a sickening wet click, tearing all the way back to his earlobes to reveal rows of needle-sharp, glistening fangs. I froze, my breath catching in my throat. In the reflection of his polished spectacles, I saw myself. Except… it wasn’t my face. Thanks to Tiffany’s soul-binding decoy artifact, my appearance and life-force signature had been completely overwritten to match hers. To Thomas, I looked exactly like the spoiled stranger standing behind me. My blood ran ice-cold. He doesn’t recognize me. I instinctively lowered my head, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Thomas’s terrifying, blood-red gaze swept past me, locking onto the five people who had just stepped through the door. His voice was a horrible, grating rasp, like rusty nails grinding against stone. “You are precisely one second late.” “The Master demands absolute punctuality. As a minor warning… one of you must pay the penalty.” The System’s rules for the manor suddenly flashed in the air in glowing, crimson letters: Rule 1: Servants must obey the Masters unconditionally. Rule 2: Servants must perform their duties diligently. No slacking. Rule 3: The Masters value time above all else. Do not be late. Rule 4: Servants have no names. You are only numbers. To survive: Live through three days and secure the master key. Cold sweat beaded on the foreheads of the veterans behind me. In an S-Class dungeon, violating a rule usually meant a swift, excruciating death. Thomas’s head tilted at an unnatural angle, his smile stretching wider. “Let us see… who will be our unfortunate soul tonight?” “For a first offense, we shall keep it light. Just a finger.” Hearing that it wasn’t an immediate death sentence, the group let out a collective, ragged sigh of relief. Tiffany even let out a small, arrogant scoff. The terrifying S-Class boss suddenly seemed much less intimidating if his only punishment was a missing finger. But Rex, the muscle-bound veteran, remained tense. He nudged Tiffany sharply. “Miss Whitmore. Time to use your decoy.” Tiffany smirked, casting a sideways glance at me. “If this clumsy idiot hadn’t dragged her feet outside, we wouldn’t have been late in the first place,” she hissed. “Losing a finger is too good for her.” She stepped forward, thrusting her hand toward the butler with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Take her! She’s my servant. I choose her!” My heart plummeted. Tiffany didn’t just want me to take her physical damage. She wanted to throw me to the wolves for every minor infraction, using me as social currency to buy favor with the veterans. Desperate, I opened my mouth to scream my real name to Thomas. “Thomas, it’s me! I’m Mai—” The words died in my throat. Rule 4: Servants have no names. What would happen if I broke a system rule right in front of him? Would the game force him to execute me before he even realized who I was? I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, tears spilling over. Thomas stared at Tiffany, his crimson eyes gleaming with a malicious, knowing light. With a flick of his wrist, a pair of massive, tarnished iron shears materialized in his hand. I closed my eyes, braced for the agonizing tear of my flesh. Snip. A wet, heavy thud echoed on the hardwood floor. Then, a blood-curdling shriek shattered the silence. I opened my eyes, frantically checking my hands. Both of them were perfectly intact. Instead, Harvey—the glasses-wearing veteran—was on his knees, clutching his left hand where his pinky finger had been cleanly severed. Blood sprayed between his knuckles. Tiffany gasped, her eyes wide with shock and confusion as she stared at the screaming man. “How… how is this possible? I chose her! The artifact is active!” Thomas casually wiped a drop of dark blood from his silver shears, his smile cold and mocking. “Did I ever say… you were the one who got to choose?” The foyer fell into a suffocating, dead silence. No one dared to breathe. They realized, with absolute certainty, that a single wrong word would result in their heads rolling across the floor next. Thomas nodded, seemingly satisfied with the sudden obedience. He pointed a long, pale finger toward the dark, yawning corridor at the end of the hall. “Your quarters are at the end of the hall. Your uniforms are waiting inside. The room numbers correspond to your designated designations.” “Numbers One through Six. Choose wisely.” “And remember… never, ever sleep in the wrong room.” With that cryptic warning, his form dissolved into the shadows, leaving us in pitch darkness. Rex and his bearded companion didn’t waste a second. They grabbed the bleeding Harvey and bolted down the hallway. Wayne grabbed Tiffany’s arm, dragging her along as they scrambled to claim the safest rooms. But they were too late. Rooms One through Three were already claimed, their heavy wooden doors slammed shut. Only Rooms Four, Five, and Six remained. But Room Four had a fresh, wet-looking red handprint smeared across the center of the door. It radiated a heavy, malevolent aura. Wayne took one look at it and instantly made his decision. “You take Room Four,” he barked, shoving me toward the door with the bloody handprint. “Tiffany takes Five. I’ll take Six.” “Tiffany is in the middle, so you’ll be flanked. If anything tries to get to her, you throw yourself in front of it.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh, threatening whisper. “If a single hair on Tiffany’s head is harmed, you won’t survive the night anyway. Remember that.” I looked at the number ‘6’ on his door, my throat tightening. I knew that room. “Don’t go into Room Six…” I whispered, trying to warn him. But Wayne only scoffed, grabbing my injured left wrist and violently throwing me into Room Four. “In this place, you do exactly what I tell you.” Tiffany leaned against the doorframe of Room Five, crossing her arms with a sneer. “The decoy gets the death room. Poetic justice, really.” “Sweet dreams.” The heavy oak door slammed shut, and the lock clicked into place. I clutched my bleeding wrist, tears finally spilling over. If Wayne didn’t view me as human, let alone his sister, then I owed him nothing. I wouldn’t warn him again. What they didn’t know was that the brass numbers on Rooms Six and Nine had been inverted years ago. When I was in elementary school, I had accidentally screwed the number ‘9’ upside down while playing with a screwdriver. Room Six was actually Room Nine. Wayne had just locked himself inside the most dangerous, unstable room in the house. And the terrifying Room Four? It was my childhood art studio. The ‘bloody handprint’ on the door was just some red acrylic paint I had gotten on my hands during an art session three weeks ago. My adoptive mother had found it endearing and refused to let the maid wash it off. Inside, my easel, canvases, and paints were exactly where I had left them. A sudden spark of hope flared in my chest. I couldn’t say my name without breaking the rules, but I could paint. I grabbed a sheet of heavy watercolor paper and a brush. Tomorrow, when Thomas came to check on us, he would see my painting. He would know it was me. Clutching the wet painting to my chest, I climbed onto the plush daybed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. The next morning, I was violently jolted awake by a bucket of ice-cold water drenched over my head. I sat up gasping, my first instinct to shield my painting from the water. Tiffany stood over me, her face contorted in an ugly, hysterical rage. “You did this!” she shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “You cursed Wayne last night! And you—you were sleeping like a dead pig while he was being tortured!” I checked the corner of my painting. Only a tiny smudged edge. I let out a soft sigh of relief. Then, I looked up at Tiffany, keeping my voice quiet and steady. “You were sleeping right next door to him. Why didn’t you go save him?” Tiffany choked on her own breath, her face turning a mottled red. At around one in the morning, a frantic, desperate pounding had echoed through the hallway. It had come from Wayne’s door. “Hehehe… this is my room…” a wet, gurgling voice had whispered through the floorboards. Sometime later, she had heard the door creak open, followed by Wayne’s blood-curdling screams, before the entire floor fell dead silent. Tiffany had huddled under her blankets, shaking violently until dawn. It was only when the three veterans went to investigate Room Six that she had summoned the courage to slip out. Wayne wasn’t dead, but his hair had turned entirely white, and he was staring blankly at the wall in a catatonic state of shock. Remembering my warning from the night before, Tiffany had immediately shifted the blame to me. “You knew!” she screamed, pulling a hunting knife from her boot, her eyes gleaming with absolute malice. “You knew something was wrong with that room! Why didn’t you sleep there instead of him?” “Since you don’t know how to use your mouth to warn people, maybe you don’t need your ears either.” Wayne stood just behind her, his face pale and hollow, his eyes entirely devoid of light. He didn’t stop her. “Just don’t kill her,” he muttered, his voice flat. “We still need her to take the final blow for you.” The three veterans leaned against the doorframe, watching the family drama unfold with cold, amused detachment. Tiffany stepped closer, the steel blade gleaming under the morning light. Just as the tip of the blade brushed against my earlobe, a deep, resonant chime echoed through the manor. Six o’clock. The start of the shift. The color drained from Tiffany’s face. She lowered the knife, casting one last venomous glare at me. “This isn’t over,” she hissed. They all turned and ran toward the foyer. The morning sun streamed through the high stained-glass windows, making the manor look almost normal. Even Thomas had returned to his immaculate, human form. He stood in the center of the hall, assigning our chores: Preparing breakfast, dusting the parlor, tending the gardens, playing with the family pets… Through the window, the roses in the garden seemed to bask in the warm sunlight, their petals unfurling. Wait. I squinted. Nestled within the velvet petals of the central rose were two tiny, dark, bead-like eyes. The rose was tilting its head, curiously peering through the glass at us. Rex noticed it too. “What in the actual hell…” he muttered under his breath. Tiffany and Wayne looked pale. They immediately worked together to dump the gardening duty onto me. The three veterans chose the indoor cleaning chores, knowing that the S-Class master key was far more likely to be hidden inside the manor. But they also knew the manor housed the two final bosses—the masters of the house—who had yet to make an appearance. Tiffany and Wayne, wanting to avoid the inner sanctum of the house, quickly opted for the final chore: playing with the pets. But… when did we ever have pets? Before I could think, Thomas finished his announcements and turned to head up the grand staircase. I clutched my painting and bolted after him. “Thomas! Wait—” A heavy hand clamped over my mouth from behind, dragging me backward. Wayne’s voice hissed in my ear, hot and furious: “Are you trying to get us all killed, you idiot?” Hearing the commotion, Thomas paused on the stairs, looking down at us with a polite, empty smile. “Number Four, Number Six. Your duties await.” Wayne nodded frantically, dragging me by my bruised wrist and throwing me out the heavy front doors. The moment the doors slammed shut, he shoved me onto the gravel. “Have you lost your mind?” he snarled. “Provoking a boss like that… you’re going to get us slaughtered!” My painting slipped from my fingers, landing face-up on the grass. Tiffany snatched it up, took one look, and burst into a cruel, mocking laugh. “Oh, look at this. She’s completely lost her mind.” “She drew a family portrait! What, did you think you could charm S-Class anomalies into letting you go by playing house?” “And look! She wrote ‘Baby’ over her own head. Do you honestly think the boss is going to treat you like a baby, you pathetic freak?” Wayne looked down at the paper. It was a drawing of a young girl riding on one of the stone lions, with three smiling adults standing around her. Above the girl’s head, the word Baby was written in messy, colorful letters. A dark, twisted scowl crossed his face. To him, the three figures represented our biological parents and him. He grabbed the paper, tore it into shreds, and threw the pieces in my face. “Stop dreaming,” he spat. “You will never, ever be a part of this family. You are nothing to us.” But before the paper scraps could even settle on the dirt, a massive, velvety rose head slid over his shoulder. A small, giggling voice echoed from its petals. “Baby.” Then, dozens of tiny eyes blinked open in the bushes. “It’s Baby…” “Baby… thirsty…” Wayne let out a terrified shriek, his face turning translucent. He grabbed Tiffany’s hand, and the two of them bolted toward the courtyard gates, leaving me behind. By the time I sat up, I was completely surrounded by a sea of undulating, walking roses. I had lived here my entire life, but I had never seen the roses sprout leafy little legs. Dozens of tiny, green bead-eyes stared at me with pure, desperate longing. I froze for a second, then realization dawned. They were just thirsty. I slowly walked over to the garden shed, turned on the automated sprinkler valves, and watched the mist settle over the garden. The roses let out tiny, satisfied sighs, stretched their stems, and curled up on the lawn to take a collective nap. The task was shockingly easy. All it took was a little patience and a hose. Meanwhile, Tiffany and Wayne were having a much harder time. The “pets” they were supposed to play with were the two massive stone lions at the gate. And the lions had come to life. The S-Class master key was nestled inside the heavy brass collar of the male lion. To get it, they had been forced to play a terrifying, high-stakes game of fetch with a massive iron ball for four hours straight. Their legs were shaking from sheer exhaustion. The moment the lions began to doze off, Wayne and Tiffany crept forward, successfully untying the brass key from the collar. But the click of the latch woke the male lion. With a deafening, earth-shattering roar, the beast lunged. It swiped its massive paw, pinning Wayne to the ground, its heavy jaws hovering inches from his face. In a desperate bid to save herself, Tiffany grabbed the heavy brass key and threw it directly into my lap as I sat by the rosebeds. “Stupid cat!” she screamed at the lion, her face twisted in a hideous grin. “She took your key! Go kill her!” I didn’t even have time to stand before a massive, terrifying weight slammed into my chest, pinning me to the dirt. The stench of sulfur and ancient stone washed over me. Two massive, jagged fangs hovered right over my throat. Fear, cold and absolute, gripped my heart. But just as the beast opened its jaws to crush my neck, a collective shriek rose from the rose garden. “Baby!” The next instant, the entire estate began to violently shatter. Massive, writhing black tentacles burst from the manor windows, blotting out the morning sky. “Our baby is home!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529610”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was born with a quiet, peculiar curse: I can see the threads of devotion. They grow from the center of a chest—a thin, luminous cord of crimson that snakes out and anchors itself to the wrist of the person they love most. The deeper the shade of red, the more consuming the passion. Ten years ago, the first time Damian looked at me, his cheeks flushed, and a pale pink thread drifted from his chest to bind itself around my left wrist. Over the years, through his confession, his proposal, and finally our wedding, that thread deepened until it glowed like a hot ember—intense, bright, and seemingly permanent. Until the first semester of my pregnancy, on the morning he had promised to finally accompany me to my twelve-week ultrasound. I looked at him, and my heart stopped. A second thread had sprouted from his chest. It didn’t reach for me. Instead, it slithered across the hardwood floor, snaking out toward the front door, reaching for someone I couldn’t see. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, a guilty shadow crossing his face, and walked out onto the balcony to answer it. When he slid the glass door open again, his expression was a mask of practiced anxiety. “Babe, there’s a massive crisis at the office. I have to run in and handle it. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We’ll reschedule the scan.” As he spoke, the second thread pulsed, its crimson hue darkening with terrifying speed. It was in that quiet, devastating moment that I knew. Our marriage was already over. 1 Just as Damian was grabbing his coat for my ultrasound, his phone rang. Through the quiet of our bedroom, I caught the faint, high pitch of a woman’s voice on the other end, though I couldn’t make out the words. Damian shot me a quick, defensive look. He hung up, snatched his car keys off the dresser, and practically bolted for the door. “Babe, something went sideways with one of our accounts. I have to get there right now,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “We’ll do the ultrasound another day, okay?” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was staring, paralyzed, at the second red thread trailing from his chest. Over the past two months, that cord had grown thicker, vibrant with a life of its own, while my own chest felt increasingly hollowed out by a cold, creeping dread. Right now, that second line was taut, pointing directly toward our front entryway. Then, the doorbell rang. Damian froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. When he opened it, a young woman stepped inside. She was carrying bags of gourmet takeout and fresh seafood, kicking off her heels and reaching into our shoe cabinet for a guest slippers with a familiarity that made my stomach turn. She set the containers on the kitchen island, completely at home. And there, coiled around her wrist, was the other end of Damian’s second crimson thread. It hummed between them, thick and tangled. “Hi! I’m Lexi, Damian’s new assistant,” she said, offering a bright, polished smile. “I heard you’ve been having a rough first trimester and keeping things pretty bland. Damian loves this seafood place down the street, so I thought I’d bring some over for you both.” Damian shifted on his feet, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “Don’t overthink it, Maeve,” he muttered quickly. “She’s just a dedicated assistant stopping by on her way to the office.” My nails bit into the palms of my hands, my voice trembling. “Was she the ‘crisis’ on the phone just now? Is this the urgent business you had to handle?” A flicker of impatience crossed Damian’s handsome face, but as his eyes traveled down to my slightly rounded stomach, his expression softened into something resembling guilt. “Don’t start, Maeve. You’re pregnant. You shouldn’t be stressing yourself out. Let me help you up to bed.” But before he could step toward me, Lexi suddenly gasped, doubling over and clutching her stomach. “Oh, gosh,” she whispered, her voice laced with sweet, performative distress. Damian bypassed me entirely, his hands instantly reaching out to steady her. “What is it? Are you okay? Do I need to take you to the clinic?” “It’s just… my monthly cramps,” Lexi murmured, looking up at him through her lashes, her voice dripping with calculated vulnerability. “They get so bad sometimes.” Without another word, Damian led her to the kitchen, his movements fluid and practiced as he began simmering a pot of herbal tea and heating up comfort food. He had never made that tea for me. He had never looked that frantic when I spent my mornings hovering over the toilet, retching until my throat burned. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my lower abdomen. I gripped the edge of the dining table to keep my balance, my hand slipping and knocking my prenatal folder to the floor. The ultrasound papers scattered across the hardwood like dry leaves. Damian glanced over his shoulder, his eyes cool and detached. “You should really go lie down, Maeve.” Then he turned right back to Lexi, blowing gently on the mug of tea he’d prepared for her. When they finally prepared to leave together, Lexi paused at the door, her smile small and triumphant. “Thanks for renting that apartment for me, Damian. And for always keeping me close. Once I learn how to make that chicken recipe you like, I’ll bring some over.” Damian’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You don’t have to do that. I’m a much better cook anyway. I’ll just make it for you.” They walked out into the cool morning air side by side, their silhouettes matching perfectly—exactly the way he and I used to look when we were still in love. The cramping in my belly intensified, a dull, heavy throbbing. I reached for my phone and dialed Damian’s number. Once. Five times. Ten times. No answer. Only the hollow drone of voicemail. Clutching my stomach, my face slick with cold sweat, I called my sister. “Don’t move,” Natalie said, her voice sharp with instant panic. “I’m on my way.” When Natalie burst through the front door, her eyes swept over the empty, quiet house. “Where the hell is Damian?” I couldn’t even find the breath to answer. Her face darkened with a fierce, protective anger as she carefully helped me into her car. Twenty minutes later, I was lying in a cold VIP hospital room. The OB-GYN stared at the ultrasound screen, his forehead creasing into a deep, troubled frown. “Where is the father?” the doctor asked. Natalie took a deep breath, stepping closer to the bed and squeezing my hand. “I’m her sister. You can tell us.” The doctor sighed, pointing to the dark, silent shape on the monitor. “The fetal heart rate is extremely weak, and development has essentially stalled. I’m so sorry, Maeve, but we need to prepare for a D&C. The pregnancy is no longer viable.” The words felt like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. I clutched the edge of the paper sheet, tears spilling silently into my hair, crying until my throat was raw. It was nearly dawn when Damian finally walked into the hospital room. “Damian,” I whispered, my voice cracked and broken. “The baby…” “Maeve, you really shouldn’t have treated Lexi like that yesterday,” he interrupted, his tone laced with irritation. My entire body went rigid. The words I was about to say dissolved like ash on my tongue. “She went out of her way to be nice, and you made her feel incredibly unwelcome,” he continued, pacing at the foot of my bed. “She’s just a young girl who speaks her mind. Do you really have to be this insecure?” I pulled the blanket up to my chin and closed my eyes, the last lingering embers of my desire to communicate with him dying out. While he was in the bathroom showering, his phone buzzed on the bedside table. For the first time in our ten-year relationship, I picked it up. The password was still my birthday. I unlocked it and opened his messages. Lexi’s name was pinned at the very top, saved under a single, devastating contact name: “My World”. I clicked on her profile and scrolled through her social media. It was a digital archive of their intimacy. Photos of them on weekend getaways, matching keychains from his business trips, Lexi standing by his side at corporate galas while I stayed home, nursing my morning sickness alone. I slowly lifted my gaze and looked at his chest. The original thread—the one that had bound him to me for a decade—was now a faint, translucent pink, practically invisible in the sterile hospital light. But the second thread, the one tied to Lexi, was a violent, pulsing red. 2 The next evening, Damian brought a massive bouquet of peonies—my favorite—to the hospital, his eyes filled with a performative guilt. “I’m sorry about yesterday, Maeve,” he murmured, kissing my forehead. “Tomorrow is the weekend. I’m clearing my entire schedule. I’ll stay here, and we’ll get through the next doctor’s visit together.” But by noon the next day, he wasn’t there. Instead, my phone rang with a FaceTime call. When I answered, his face popped up on the screen, bright and animated. “Hey, babe! Lexi insisted on making us lunch to apologize for the misunderstanding. Why don’t you take an Uber over to her place? She’s honestly so sweet, always thinking about others.” He spoke about her with a gentle, protective warmth that he hadn’t used with me in years. In his eyes, Lexi was the angel, and I was merely the obstacle he had to manage. After a long silence, I agreed. I needed to see it. I needed to let the reality burn itself into my retinas so I would never, ever doubt my decision. The address he sent was in a luxury high-rise only ten minutes from our home. Lexi opened the door, wearing a silk robe that draped over her shoulders with the casual grace of a woman who owned the space. And right behind her stood my husband, wearing a pair of comfortable linen loungewear that matched hers perfectly. “Maeve, please, come in! Make yourself at home,” Lexi chirped, though her eyes remained ice-cold. “Take a seat. I’m just going to help Damian finish up in the kitchen.” I stood in the entryway, the silence of the apartment pressing in on me. Driven by some quiet, masochistic urge, I walked toward the open kitchen. “Ow!” A sharp cry cut through the air. Lexi had burned her finger on a pot of boiling water. Damian immediately dropped his spatula, grabbing her hand and pulling it under the cold tap, blowing on her skin with a look of sheer, unadulterated panic. “Are you okay? Do we need to go to the emergency room?” A bitter laugh threatened to choke me. During all those lonely weeks of my pregnancy, he had never found the time to sit with me through a single doctor’s appointment. But for a tiny blister on his assistant’s finger, he looked like his entire world was collapsing. Lexi smiled, leaning into his shoulder. “I’m fine, silly. I just wanted to help you.” Damian gave her a playful, fond shove. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth. Get out of my kitchen. Go sit with Maeve.” He guided her out by the waist, his eyes finally catching mine. His expression cooled instantly. “Lexi is still young, Maeve. Be nice to her.” He offered the brief, dry instruction before turning back to the stove. The air in the living room felt thick and suffocating. As I looked around, I noticed the expensive mid-century modern furniture, the framed art, and the unmistakable presence of dual sets of everything—two matching mugs on the counter, two matching toothbrushes in the bathroom cup. Lexi sat across from me, her sweet smile not reaching her eyes. “I have terrible insomnia, you know. The walls in my old place were paper-thin. Damian was worried my lack of sleep would affect my performance at the office, so he rented this place for me.” She leaned back, running a manicured finger along the rim of her glass. “To make things easier, I keep a wardrobe of his clothes here. He has so many late-night client dinners, and he gets so tired. It’s easier for him to crash here. That way, he doesn’t disturb you while you’re trying to rest.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. “Lunch is ready!” Damian called out. Lexi jumped up excitedly. “Yay! All my favorites—shrimp and lobster!” Damian sat right next to her, naturally picking up a shrimp and peeling it with practiced ease before dropping it onto her plate. When he noticed I hadn’t touched my fork, his brows knit together. “What’s the issue now, Maeve? Why aren’t you eating?” I looked up, staring directly into his eyes. “Damian, how is it that after ten years, you still can’t remember that I am violently allergic to shellfish?” His hand froze. The color drained from his face. Lexi immediately put her fork down, her eyes welling with instant, dramatic tears. “Oh my god, Maeve, I am so, so sorry! It’s all my fault. I should have asked if you had any allergies.” Damian’s guilt instantly morphed into defensive anger. He slammed his fork onto the table. “Can you stop being so incredibly difficult, Maeve?” he snapped. “You’ve completely ruined the lunch she spent hours making, and now you’ve made her cry. Apologize to her.” A sharp, familiar cramp flared in my lower abdomen. I stood up, grabbing my coat, and walked out without saying another word. I stood on the sidewalk outside the building for five minutes, the cold wind biting at my face. I waited, foolishly, to see if he would run down after me. He didn’t. Instead, my phone buzzed with a text message. “Babe, Lexi is absolutely devastated and won’t stop crying. I’m going to stay and calm her down, and then I’ll head straight home. I love you.” He sent that “I love you” every single day. It had started as a fierce promise, but somewhere along the line, it had degraded into a mindless, automated script. We were already strangers. 3 It was past midnight when the front door clicked open and Damian walked in. He didn’t even take off his coat before starting in on me. “Maeve, I don’t understand you. How could you humiliate Lexi like that in her own home?” I turned from the window, looking at him under the dim lamplight. “Damian, do you honestly think your relationship with Lexi is normal? You treat her so well that anyone would think “she” was your wife.” He flinched, a flicker of panic crossing his eyes before he quickly masked it with indignation. “I’m the CEO of Stone Enterprises, Maeve. Taking care of my key employees is part of the job. You’re about to be a mother. When are you going to grow out of this petty jealousy?” “Taking care of her doesn’t require you to play husband in her apartment,” I said, my voice dead and flat. Damian’s face flushed with anger. “Enough! Lexi is a sweet, innocent girl. If anyone hears you talking like that, you’ll ruin her reputation.” No explanations. No frantic denials. His first, instinctual reaction was to shield her from harm. It was a reflex, as natural to him as breathing. A sudden, stabbing pain ripped through my abdomen, so intense that my knees buckled. I slumped onto the sofa, clutching my stomach. Damian’s anger evaporated instantly. He rushed over, kneeling beside me and grabbing my hands. “I’m sorry, Maeve. I lost my temper. Please, don’t get worked up. If you’re hurting, let’s go to the hospital right now.” His face was painted with the exact same devotion I had fallen in love with. But when I looked at his chest, the thread connecting him to me was nothing but a pale, dying shadow. I pulled my hands back, my voice quiet but absolute. “Damian, I can see the threads. I’ve always been able to. And right now, you have two. One is tied to me, and the other is tied to Lexi.” He stared at me, bewildered, before letting out a soft, nervous chuckle. “Threads? Maeve, what are you talking about? You’re letting the stress of the pregnancy get to your head. Tomorrow, I’m finding you a therapist.” “If you want me to feel safe,” I said, ignoring his dismissiveness, “fire her. Block her number. Cut her out of your life completely.” Damian’s face hardened again, his patience snapping. “Will you stop this madness?” he groaned, standing up and grabbing his car keys. “Lexi is in the middle of a massive career transition. She needs my mentorship. I can’t just abandon her because of your delusions.” He headed for the door, throwing his coat over his shoulder. “You need to cool off. Call me when you’re ready to be reasonable.” I let out a soft, hollow laugh as the front door clicked shut. He didn’t understand that my baby and I were the ones who needed him. Or maybe he did understand, and he simply didn’t care. Ten minutes later, my phone pinged with a notification. Lexi had posted a new photo on her Instagram. The caption read: “I wish my favorite person could stay by my side every single night.” But it wasn’t the caption that made my blood run cold. It was the photo. Clutched in Lexi’s hand, wrapped around her wrist, was a hand-carved olivewood prayer bead bracelet. On our first anniversary, Damian had been in a terrible car accident on his way to buy my favorite strawberry cake. The doctors told me he might never wake from his coma. I had spent three weeks walking the grueling spiritual trail of the Camino de Santiago on bleeding knees, praying at every sanctuary, until I found a remote monastery where an old monk gave me those blessed beads. The day I slid that bracelet onto Damian’s wrist, he opened his eyes. He had held me close, crying, swearing he would love me for the rest of his life. I hadn’t realized his lifetime would be so incredibly short. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the phone. I dialed his number. It rang and rang, finally connecting on the sixth attempt. “Where are you?” I demanded. “The office,” he replied, his voice smooth and untroubled. “Why is Lexi wearing my prayer beads, Damian?” The silence on the other end stretched, heavy and defensive, before he sighed. “She saw them on my desk and liked them, so I let her borrow them. It’s just a piece of wood, Maeve. Why do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” “Damian—” “I have work to do. I’ll see you tomorrow.” The line went dead. I sat in the dark, tears streaming down my face, until the sun began to rise. At 8:00 AM, I picked up my phone and sent him a text. “I’ve thought about it. You’re right. There’s no point in fighting anymore. Come home for lunch today, I’ll cook.” He replied almost instantly. “I knew you’d understand, babe! I’ll bring home that strawberry cake you love. Love you.” The text practically bounced with relief. But Damian didn’t know that this wasn’t a reconciliation. It was our final meal. 4 I spent the morning on the phone with a family lawyer, drafting the divorce agreement. By the time I walked into the kitchen to start cooking, the sharp pain in my lower belly flared again, worse than before. Doubling over, I realized I couldn’t stand long enough to chop vegetables. Defeated, I ordered a spread of his favorite dishes from a high-end restaurant down the street. It was nearly 4:00 PM when Damian finally let himself in. The food on the dining table had gone completely cold. He glanced at the spread, his brows furrowing slightly. “I already ate at the office, Maeve. Why did you order so much?” I looked at his chest. The pale pink thread that had once connected him to me was gone. There was only Lexi’s crimson cord, vibrant and thick, pulsing with every beat of his heart. I stared at the empty space where my thread used to be, a strange, hollow calm settling over me. “Damian, you need to take me to the hospital. The baby—” Before I could finish, his phone screen lit up with a video call. He raised a finger, signaling for me to be quiet, and answered with a voice so tender it made my stomach wrench. “Hey, Lexi, what’s wrong? Take a breath. Tell me what happened.” On the screen, Lexi was sobbing, holding up her hand. “Damian… I was trying to cook dinner for you, and the knife slipped. I cut my hand. There’s so much blood…” Damian’s face went pale with terror. “Don’t touch anything, Lexi. I’m coming right now.” He grabbed his coat and ran for the door. As his hand touched the knob, he paused, as if suddenly remembering I was in the room. He didn’t turn around. “I’ll call the driver to take you to your appointment, Maeve.” The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the empty house. A white-hot spike of agony ripped through my pelvis, and I felt a sudden, terrifying warmth gush between my thighs. Trembling, I dialed Natalie’s number, but before she could answer, the world went entirely black. When I opened my eyes, the stark white ceiling of the hospital room stared back at me. Natalie was sitting by my bedside, her eyes swollen and red. She forced a fragile, heartbreaking smile. “Hey,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “The doctors… they saved you. That’s what matters.” I slowly lowered my hand to my stomach. It was flat. Empty. A single tear slipped down my temple, disappearing into my hair. Natalie quietly handed me her phone. Lexi had just posted a new photo—a close-up of her hand resting in Damian’s. On Damian’s left hand, the simple gold band I had placed on his finger was gone. In its place was a matching platinum promise ring. The caption read: “The man of my dreams is finally, truly mine.” The comments below were flooded with congratulations. During my three days in the recovery ward, Damian’s automated text arrived every single morning at exactly 9:00 AM. “I’ll make it up to you for the ultrasound, babe. Love you.” Word for word. A pre-programmed script he hadn’t even bothered to turn off. I stared at the screen, my heart entirely numb, and deleted the messages without replying. When I was finally discharged, I took a taxi back to the house to pack my things. The moment I unlocked the front door, the sound of laughter drifted from the living room. Damian and Lexi were curled up on the sofa, giggling like newlyweds. When Damian saw me, his smile froze, a flicker of awkwardness crossing his features. “Maeve… you’re back. Lexi’s lease was up, and since this place is so big, I figured she might as well move in. It just made sense.” He had stopped trying to hide it. He didn’t even care enough to lie anymore. “Fine,” I said quietly. I walked past them into the master bedroom. My clothes had been pulled from the hangers and piled onto the floor to make room for Lexi’s colorful wardrobe. The bedsheets were crumpled and smelled of her perfume. A wave of intense nausea hit me, and I had to lean against the wall to keep from vomiting. I ignored the clothes on the floor. I grabbed only my passport, my birth certificate, and my legal documents, stuffing them into a small duffel bag. Then, I slid my wedding ring off my finger and tossed it into the trash can by the door. When I walked back out, Damian was waiting in the hallway, his brow furrowed. “Where are you going? You just got home.” As he spoke, his eyes fell to my midsection. He froze. “Your… your stomach…” Before he could process what he was seeing, Lexi’s voice shrieked from the guest bedroom. “Damian! Oh my god, come quick! There’s a massive spider in here, I’m terrified!” Damian’s head whipped toward her voice, his panic instant. Without another word to me, he bolted down the hall to save her. I didn’t wait. I walked out of the house, pulled my phone out, and booked a one-way ticket to Boston. A day later, Damian was tossing a piece of scrap paper into the bedroom trash can when a glint of metal caught his eye. He reached in and pulled out my wedding ring, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. A knock at the door broke the heavy silence of the house. He rushed to open it, a sigh of relief escaping his lips. “Maeve, did you forget your—” But it wasn’t me. A courier stood on the porch, holding a tablet. “Delivery for Damian Stone. Sign here, please.” Damian signed with trembling fingers and took the thick manila envelope. When he slid the contents out and saw the signed divorce papers, the breath left his lungs in a sudden, violent gasp.

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Since I was a child, my heartbeat has been so unnaturally steady that I sometimes wondered if I was actually alive. Even during the grueling physical fitness tests in high school, when everyone else was panting and clutching their chests, my pulse remained a perfectly flat, unbothered line. It was an anomaly. A medical quirk. I never thought much of it until the day Tiffany, my family’s biological daughter, dragged me along to call off her engagement to the reclusive heir of the Dumont empire. That was when I discovered Adrian Dumont had a congenital heart condition. His heart was a ticking time bomb, liable to stop working at any moment. We stood in the grand parlor of the Dumont estate. Tiffany was clinging to the arm of Adrian’s cousin, Zach, looking down her nose at the man sitting in the leather armchair. She sneered, her voice dripping with venom. “I’m not marrying you, Adrian. Everyone knows the Dumont men don’t make it past twenty-five. Zach is the future of the company now. I’m not signing up to be a widow before I’m thirty.” She glanced over at me, a cruel, calculating smile spreading across her face. “But hey, why don’t you marry my charity-case sister instead? You’ve only got about a month left. If you work hard enough, maybe you can get her pregnant so you actually leave an heir behind.” Before I could react, Tiffany shoved me forward by my shoulders. “A broken toy for a broken girl,” she mocked. “You two can rot together.” I stumbled, but my eyes didn’t land on Tiffany. Instead, they were locked onto the sleek, metallic device resting in Adrian’s pale hands. It was the Dumont Group’s highly classified medical prototype—the Heartbeat Resonator. My chest tightened, not with fear, but with a sudden, electric rush of adrenaline. Who said he was going to die? His ultimate cheat code had just walked through the door. If they could sync that device to me, I could take this dying billionaire skydiving, bungee jumping, or through the wildest corporate battles without his pulse skipping a single beat. I looked at Adrian, my eyes shining with an excitement I couldn’t suppress. I reached out my hand toward him. “Hey,” I said, my voice steady, carrying a confidence I didn’t know I possessed. “Are you interested in burning this place to the ground with me? Let’s take back what’s ours.” … “Burn this place to the ground?” Adrian raised his head, his pale, strikingly handsome face clouding with quiet skepticism. He was likely surprised that a girl who looked as fragile and discarded as I did could harbor such sharp ambition. “Don’t waste your energy,” he whispered, looking back down at his hands, retreating into the familiar, heavy melancholy that had clearly defined his life. “My body is failing. I don’t have the strength to match your ambition. Besides, the marriage contract with Tiffany was my grandfather’s dying wish. I have to honor it.” Across the room, Tiffany let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Honoring a dead man’s wish? Adrian, you’ve got one foot in the grave yourself. Anyone with half a brain knows which horse to bet on.” Zach, standing beside her, chuckled warmly as he looked down at Adrian. “Come on, cousin. Tiffany is already pregnant with my child. Don’t embarrass yourself. Or did you already know, and you were just hoping to claim my kid as your own to keep the family seat?” They turned and walked out, their arrogant laughter echoing down the hallway. As the front door clicked shut, a faint, unnatural flush crept up Adrian’s pale neck. He leaned back against the headrest of his chair, chest heaving as he struggled to draw in a breath. Panic flared in my chest. I rushed forward, kneeling beside him to gently rub his back, trying to help him ease the tension. I let out a slow breath and gestured subtly toward the servants in the foyer, who were pretending to be very busy polishing silver and dusting vases. “In their eyes, you’re already dead,” I murmured softly. “Are you really just going to lie here and let them write the ending of your story?” Adrian looked up, his dark eyes searchingly deep as they locked onto mine. I met his gaze, refusing to look away. We were more alike than he realized. Both of us were puppets manipulated by the hands of people who viewed us as disposable. I wasn’t the biological daughter of the family. Because Tiffany had been a sickly child, my parents had adopted me from an orphanage. On paper, I was the second daughter of a wealthy family. In reality, I was a glorified, high-class maid. In high school, I had to run the mile fitness test twice—once for myself, and once under Tiffany’s name. My phone logged fifty thousand steps a day because I was constantly running her errands, carrying her bags, living in her shadow. But looking at Adrian, I knew our fortunes were about to shift. I took his hand—it was cold, his fingers trembling slightly—and pressed it firmly against the center of my chest. He flushed, trying to pull his hand back in embarrassment, but I held it there. And then, he felt it. The heavy, incredibly powerful, rhythmic thrum of my heart. It was a perfect, unyielding metronome. As his eyes widened in sheer disbelief, I leaned in closer, whispering, “Adrian, I am the missing piece you’ve been looking for.” I slid my hand over to his chest. Beneath the fine fabric of his shirt, his heartbeat was so weak, so chaotic, it felt like a dying bird fluttering against a cage. “If I could give you my heart, what do you think would happen?” Adrian went entirely rigid. I let out a soft laugh to break the tension. “Don’t worry, I’m not that saintly. Besides, a transplant is a massive gamble.” I pointed to the silver device cradled in his lap. “I read the tech journals. The Dumont Group’s research team developed this Resonator, right? It was designed to sync a failing heart with a external host’s healthy sinus rhythm. But you couldn’t find a host with a stable enough baseline.” I smiled. “My heart is as steady as a mountain. I was practically made to save you.” A spark of genuine life finally flared in Adrian’s eyes. It was the first time he looked like a man who believed he might have a future. “You’re saying… if I wear this, your heart rate becomes my baseline?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. I nodded. “So, who could possibly be a better match for you than me? What do you say, Adrian? Do you want to marry me?” A slow, beautiful smile broke across his face. He wrapped his pale, almost translucent fingers around mine, squeezing gently. “It’s a deal, partner. Or should I say… my fiancée?” We didn’t waste any time. When the engineers calibrated the device and the first powerful, steady vibration resonated through Adrian’s chest, he looked at me with an expression of pure awe. He pulled me into a sudden, fierce hug. “Sadie,” he breathed into my hair, “I never imagined I would feel this alive again.” I patted his shoulder, a triumphant smirk on my face. “Come on. Let’s go to the office. It’s time to take back your crown.” When we arrived at the executive suite of Dumont Enterprises, the top floor was buzzing with activity. The main boardroom was packed. “Move it, people, this meeting is crucial,” Zach’s personal assistant barked, clutching a stack of folders as he hurried toward the elevators. Adrian frowned, stepping in front of him. “What meeting?” he asked. “Add two chairs. We’re joining.” The assistant glanced at Adrian, then looked right through him as if he were a ghost. I stepped up, waving a hand in his face. “Did you lose your hearing? Your CEO told you to add two chairs.” The assistant sneered, showing a flash of irritation. “I’m sorry, Miss. This meeting is strictly confidential, and the attendee list was finalized days ago. Mr. Zachary Dumont’s orders.” I let out a dry laugh and grabbed Adrian’s arm. “This is Adrian Dumont, the actual head of this company, and I am his fiancée. Since when do we need Zach’s permission to enter our own boardroom?” The assistant ignored me entirely, looking at Adrian with a condescending sigh. “Mr. Dumont, please don’t make this difficult for us.” We were blocking the doorway, and the executives arriving for the meeting began to gather behind us, whispering among themselves. “A fake daughter and a dying man… do they really think they still have a card to play?” “Mr. Dumont, take some advice. Go home, enjoy whatever time you have left. Stress isn’t good for someone in your condition.” These were men Adrian had personally hired and mentored. Hearing their casual betrayal made a hot wave of anger surge through my veins. I started to roll up my sleeves, ready to give these hypocrites a piece of my mind, but Adrian gently took my hand. “It’s fine,” he murmured. He stood there, surrounded by the empire he built, looking incredibly solitary and profoundly hurt. That afternoon, Adrian’s mother, Victoria Dumont, arrived at the headquarters to review the proposals for our next major expansion. Even though we had been barred from the morning session, Adrian had spent the last few hours drafting a flawless, bulletproof counter-strategy. But when it was our turn to present, Victoria didn’t even look at us. Her gaze was fixed entirely on Zach, who sat beside her. Zach stood up, delivering a slick, polished presentation with absolute confidence. But as I listened to his projections, something felt entirely off. It was all superficial buzzwords and theoretical nonsense. Worse, his execution plan was going to cost the company an extra hundred million dollars compared to Adrian’s design. Yet, Victoria nodded with an approving smile. “Excellent work, Zach. I’m pleased. Put together the final draft and bring it to my office.” I was stunned. I nudged Adrian hard with my elbow, urging him to speak up. But he sat there like a statue, silent. Frustrated, I stood up myself. “Adrian has a proposal that is ten times more efficient, and it cuts the budget by a hundred million!” Victoria finally looked at me, her expression cold and indifferent. “Adrian’s health is delicate. You should focus on keeping him comfortable, Sadie.” Beside me, Tiffany let out a soft laugh, looking at me as if I were a clown performing for her amusement. My eyes stung with hot, angry tears. Once the room cleared, Adrian gently took my hand. “I’ve been away from the day-to-day operations for too long because of my health,” he explained quietly. “Zach has effectively cut me out. But don’t worry. I will make this right.” I didn’t know what Adrian said to his mother over the next few days, but when the bidding war commenced, we found ourselves sitting directly across the aisle from Zach and Tiffany at the municipal convention center. Zach leaned over, lowering his voice so only we could hear. “This contract is already ours. Mom promised me that once the papers are signed, she’s handing over full operational control. Adrian is out.” He glanced at Adrian’s calm face and scoffed. “Some people just don’t know when to die gracefully. Try not to have a heart attack when my name is called, cousin.” Adrian didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a glance. The bidding began. When the municipal board projected the target criteria on the screen, my heart skipped a beat. Adrian’s projected budget was within fifty thousand dollars of the city’s ideal margin. It was a statistical masterpiece. Seeing my eyes light up, Adrian offered a small, amused smile. I grinned back, leaning toward Zach. “I think someone’s CEO dreams are about to turn into a nightmare.” When we returned to the office after the session, Victoria’s secretary was waiting for us. She requested our presence in the executive suite immediately. As we reached the door of Victoria’s office, we could hear her voice through the heavy oak panels. She was on the phone with Adrian’s grandmother. “Mom! I already promised Zach the keys to the company once this deal goes through. You know Adrian’s condition. For the sake of the Dumont legacy, I have to let him go.” The secretary standing beside us looked at Adrian with pity in her eyes. “Zach hasn’t secured the contract yet,” the grandmother’s voice faintly Crackled through the receiver. “You’re moving Adrian out of his office prematurely. And Adrian’s business acumen has always surpassed Zach’s.” Victoria sighed, her voice weary. “Even if Adrian wins, what does it matter? It just gives him another month in that office. He’s dying, Mom. In the end, everything he builds will just be inherited by Zach anyway.” Outside the door, Adrian stood perfectly still. He looked entirely abandoned by the world. A protective fury washed over me. I pushed past the secretary, threw the office doors open, and stepped inside, shielding Adrian behind me. “Do you even care about him?” I demanded, confronting Victoria. “Have you ever actually looked at the work he puts into this company?” Victoria froze, holding the phone to her ear. Her dark eyes hardened with displeasure. “Do you honestly think you two can outmaneuver Zach?” she asked coldly. “From what I gather, Sadie, you have zero formal training in corporate finance. Zach spent three years on Wall Street.” To prove her point, Victoria put the phone down and dialed the bidding coordinator. Five minutes later, the speakerphone crackled to life. It was our lead project manager, his voice breathless with excitement. “Mrs. Dumont! We won the bid! The committee was so impressed by the proposal, they’ve offered us a ten-year exclusive contract!” The room fell dead silent. The manager’s voice continued, echoing off the walls. “They said it’s the most brilliant, cost-efficient strategy they’ve seen in a decade. This is a historic win for Dumont Enterprises!” Victoria stared at us, her expression a mix of shock and calculation. “Well, Adrian,” she said slowly. “Tiffany certainly picked an aggressive little helper for you. But your body is failing. When you’re gone, who is going to guide this untrained girl?” She looked at me with open disgust, clearly assuming I was some social climber trying to secure a fortune before my husband-to-be kicked the bucket. Adrian knew his mother too well. He stepped forward, placing a protective hand on my shoulder. “Sadie didn’t write this proposal, Mother. I did. Is it really so hard for you to believe in my capability?” “What difference does capability make when the Dumont curse is hanging over your head?” she snapped. Adrian opened his mouth to explain that his heart was functioning perfectly, but seeing the stubborn, dismissive look in her eyes, his shoulders slumped. He knew she would never believe a piece of wearable tech could solve a genetic death sentence. She wouldn’t risk the company’s stock on a “miracle.” Adrian took my hand and led me out of the office, up to the quiet sanctuary of the rooftop garden. The wind ruffled his dark hair, and his eyes were red-rimmed as he looked at me. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this because of me. My mother has carried the weight of this company alone since my father died. Her own health is deteriorating. She just wants someone reliable to take over so she can finally rest.” I kept my head down, feeling a dull ache in my chest. “But she’s completely written you off. Even with this win, she’s still going to hand the keys to Zach. By tomorrow, they might force you out entirely. Are you really okay with that?” Adrian clenched his fist. “There’s one more way. A way to bypass the board and my mother entirely.” I looked up, blinking. “How?” “Next month is the National Economic Summit in New York,” he explained. “It’s a state-sponsored event. Every major enterprise in the country will be there. If we can secure the manufacturing bids before Zach even gets his foot in the door, the state will recognize us as the primary partners. The board won’t be able to touch me.” I reached out my hand, a spark of hope reigniting. “Let’s go ruin their plans.” By the end of the day, the office was buzzing with the news of the massive Chicago contract. The employees were laughing, planning a celebration dinner—but they completely ignored the two people who had actually won it. Zach had his arm draped around Tiffany, looking smug. “Tonight is on me, everyone! Open bar, order whatever you want!” The room erupted into cheers. “Thanks, boss!” “You’re the best, Zach!” Adrian and I stood near the exit, watching the spectacle. When they noticed us, the cheers died down into an awkward silence. Zach squeezed Tiffany’s shoulder and smirked at us. “Cousin, don’t get ahead of yourself just because you got lucky with one bid. Mom said your health is failing and you need rest. So, I’m taking over.” He took a sip of his drink. “Actually, we have some logistics issues at our manufacturing plants in New York. A few minor discrepancies. I need someone of authority to head down there and handle it personally. I think you’re the perfect man for the job.” Tiffany beamed, clearly thrilled to see her man treating the actual heir of the company like an errand boy. But Adrian and I locked eyes, suppressing our excitement. The National Economic Summit was being held in New York next month. We had been trying to figure out a plausible excuse to slip away and set up our operations there without raising suspicion. Zach had just handed us the perfect cover on a silver platter. Tiffany, assuming our silence was a sign of defeat, smirked. “Zach is the acting COO now, Adrian. You’re just a name on a piece of paper. You wouldn’t want to disobey a direct corporate directive, would you?” I squeezed Adrian’s hand so hard my knuckles turned white. I was already imagining the look on their faces when we stripped them of everything. Adrian nodded slowly, keeping his expression perfectly blank. “If there’s an issue at the plants, I’ll handle it personally.” A week later, we were on a private jet heading to New York. Halfway through the flight, Adrian’s grandmother called from her clinic in Europe. I couldn’t hear the details, but Adrian looked over at me, his gaze soft and unwavering as he spoke into the satellite phone. “No, Grandmother, there’s no need to discuss it further. Sadie is my choice, and she’s the only one I want by my side.” He paused, listening. “I know your concerns. But I am going to take back the Dumont Group legally and publicly. I won’t let it fall apart. Honestly, I’m quite curious to see my mother’s face when her Wall Street prodigy loses everything to a dying man.” He glanced out the window at the clouds below. “She’s still my mother. Once I take over, I’ll arrange a comfortable retirement for her overseas. She doesn’t care for Sadie, so it’s best they don’t have to cross paths.” He hung up, saying nothing, but he took my hand and held it tightly against his chest, where the steady rhythm of our shared pulse beat in perfect unison. The moment we landed in New York, Adrian bypassed the failing factories entirely. We went straight to the private estate of the Chairman of the National Summit. For twenty-four hours, Adrian used his brilliant mind, sharp intuition, and deep understanding of global markets to completely win the elder statesman over. When we finally stood up to leave, the Chairman looked at Adrian with genuine admiration. “I was led to believe the Dumont heir was a fragile, bedridden boy. I didn’t expect you to keep up with an old man’s rambling for an entire day and night.” Adrian looked down at me, a warm smile touching his lips. “My health was poor, sir. But since I met my fiancée, I’ve never felt stronger.” On the day of the summit, Adrian and I sat in a private second-floor gallery overlooking the bustling convention floor. Below us, Zach and his team were running around like headless chickens, failing to secure a single meaningful contract over the course of eight grueling hours. As the closing ceremony commenced, the master of ceremonies took the stage, his voice echoing through the massive hall. “And now, please join me in welcoming our most distinguished guest of the evening. Operating entirely behind the scenes, this individual has swept every major manufacturing contract of this summit—a feat unprecedented in our industry’s history!” The spotlight swept across the room, climbing up to the second floor and landing squarely on us. Down on the main floor, Zach’s face went pale. He stood up from his seat, staring up at us in absolute horror. “How is this possible?!”

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An indie-darling actress and her soft-boy younger brother were building their entire brand around being “humble and unbothered.” But during a hit reality show, they “accidentally” let slip some massive secrets: their grandfather is a legendary Hollywood titan, they grew up in the ultra-exclusive gates of Beverly Park, and the sister’s boyfriend is none other than the city’s most mysterious, old-money heir. The internet immediately lost its mind: [My lord and lady! Where do I sign up to be your live-in maid? I will work for free!] [How is it possible to be this gorgeous and this successful?!] [Drop the tutorial on how to be reborn into this family, please!] Standing off to the side, my sister and I were completely dumbfounded. Excuse me? Since when did my family have a secret set of siblings we’d never heard of? … My sister, Flora, and I started out as child actors. We’ve worked ourselves to the bone since we could walk. I was the type to take any role—from the leading lady in a prestige drama to a minor character who gets killed off sixty seconds into the pilot. Flora, on the other hand, was a method actress to her core; she once shaved her head without a second thought just to play a troubled teenager. In the industry, they called us the “hustle sisters.” To promote our respective new projects, we agreed to guest-star together on the country’s most popular variety talk show, “The Round Table”. Of course, the producers wanted drama. The viewers quickly noticed that the show had invited another set of siblings to serve as our direct foils. The sister, Kylie Holloway, was famous for her effortless “clean-girl” aesthetic, while her brother, Lewis, had starred in a few obscure indie art films. They branded themselves on being low-key, detached, and above the petty drama of Hollywood. Basically, the exact opposite of our relentless hustle. The kicker? Not long ago, the Holloway siblings had hinted in an interview that their grandfather was the creative mastermind behind the legendary 1996 Centennial Olympic ceremonies. The clip went viral on TikTok, racking up millions of views. Internet sleuths even dug up photos of their alleged daily hangout spots, which just so happened to be inside the gated estates of Beverly Park—where land is practically paved with gold. Fans swooned, calling them real-life trust-fund royalty who were just “deigning to experience normal life.” With the producers framing us as opposites, a toxic fan war erupted overnight. [Oh my god, no wonder the Holloways have such an elegant vibe! They’re literally Hollywood royalty.] [Finally, some actual class on our screens instead of the usual desperate try-hards.] [I watch reality TV for this kind of effortless, old-money energy, not to see Valerie and Flora Lancaster acting like desperate attention-seekers.] [Well, when you come from nothing, you have to claw and scrape for every second of screen time. Sad, really.] [If our precious Kylie cared about clout, she’d have destroyed those two Lancasters years ago.] Even our publicists started panicking. “Maybe you girls should tone it down?” they warned us. “Don’t steal the spotlight. If you look too aggressive, the internet will tear you apart. Besides, they have serious backing. Let’s play it safe.” “Yeah… in this economy, people want to romanticize the easy life of the rich. They don’t want to watch the grim reality of working-class grinders.” I was genuinely baffled. “Grinders?” I comforted them. “What’s wrong with working hard? We earn every cent we make with our own sweat. There’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.” And honestly, I couldn’t understand why everyone was losing their minds. Just because their grandfather supposedly planned the Olympics? My grandfather “actually” did that. Flora thought about it for a long time too. “It’s weird,” she whispered. “The people who actually own those Beverly Park estates are currently living in Europe. And as far as I can recall, we don’t have any neighbors named Holloway.” We brushed it off. Work was our priority, and we had a show to shoot. Soon enough, the day of filming arrived. “The Round Table” was a massive hit, and the entire episode was being broadcast live. We were set up in a cozy, rustic courtyard, gathered around an outdoor fire pit to drink tea and chat. Flora and I naturally took our seats in the quiet corner, wanting to stay out of the way. Meanwhile, the Holloway siblings walked in and sat right in the center seats without a moment’s hesitation. The sheer entitlement was palpable. The host immediately handed them the microphone. “It’s incredible,” the host said, beaming. “You two have kept such a low profile in the industry, but it turns out your grandfather is none other than the legendary director Charles Holloway.” Charles Holloway. My grandfather. Flora and I both froze. The familiar name pulled our attention straight to them. By a bizarre stroke of luck, they shared my grandfather’s last name. But my grandfather had actually taken my grandmother’s surname—Lancaster—when they married, building his empire with her family’s immense wealth. He only kept “Holloway” as his professional director pseudonym. That was why Flora and I went by Lancaster. Kylie tilted her head, letting the camera catch her soft, unbothered expression. “That’s all in the past, really. We just want to focus on doing our jobs.” Lewis gave a boyish, dimpled smile that was practically engineered to make fans swoon. “Yeah, Grandfather is eighty now. If he finds out we made him go viral again, he’ll never let us hear the end of it. He hates the fuss.” The live chat stream instantly erupted. [Oh my god, this is literally a movie come to life.] [Can we talk about their dynamic? Kylie is the poised, cool older sister and Lewis is the sweet, playful younger brother. That dimple is killing me!] [They clearly have such a warm relationship with their grandpas. So wholesome!] Beside me, Flora snorted. She quietly tapped her phone screen and slid it over to show me a photo she’d just received. It was a picture of our grandfather, currently kneeling on a pile of LEGO bricks in his living room. “I just texted Grandfather,” Flora whispered, suppressing a laugh. “I asked him if he had a secret family he forgot to tell us about.” “And?” “He panicked and started kneeling on LEGOs to prove his absolute innocence to Grandma.” I shook my head, tapping her forehead to quiet her down. “Don’t say anything yet. We’ll let PR handle this later. Knowing Grandfather’s temper, he’ll probably log onto his verified account and start a digital war anyway.” Unfortunately, our hushed whispering and suppressed giggles didn’t escape the cameras. The live chat noticed. [Wait, what is up with the Lancaster sisters? Are they seriously jealous of someone else’s pedigree?] [Look at those smirk faces. That is so mean-spirited…] [Don’t be so harsh, maybe they’re just curious. I mean, given their B-list status, it’s not like they’d ever get to run in the same circles as the Holloways.] [Gross. I actually liked them before this, but seeing them act like bitter mean girls in front of actual class is disappointing.] [Are we seriously still tearing other women down in this day and age? Get a grip.] If I could see the live comments, I would have had a thousand questions. But the host, sensing the rising engagement, immediately pointed the microphone at Flora and me, eager to play up the contrast. The host smiled warmly. “With genes like that, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you two surpass your grandfather’s legacy. But why don’t you ask Valerie and Flora for some advice? After all, they’re the reigning hustle queens of the industry.” Kylie gave us a brief, dismissive glance before looking away. Her posture practically radiated aristocratic disdain. “Of course. But Lewis and I prefer to take our time. We want to polish our craft and select meaningful scripts, rather than just taking any mindless gig that comes our way.” Lewis nodded, his tone dripping with faux-innocence. “I really admire how the sisters can spend three hundred and sixty-five days a year on dusty soundstages. I could never do that. I can only perform when a character truly speaks to my soul.” My eyebrows twitched. That wasn’t just a subtle dig; it was an open insult. The passive aggression was staggering, yet the live audience ate it up. [Oof, look at Valerie’s face. She’s fuming!] [I mean, they’re not wrong. Calling them ‘hustlers’ is just a nice way of saying they can’t book prestige roles, so they have to accept trashy network television.] [Exactly. Valerie has won some minor awards, but look at her sour expression. She can’t even fake a smile.] [Makes you wonder how they actually got those awards in the first place.] [Can all actors please take notes from the Holloways? It’s so refreshing to hear someone speak the truth!] I clenched my jaw. Years of media training kept me from starting a screaming match on live television. If my family saw me getting into a petty argument with some D-list influencers on a variety show, I’d never hear the end of it. But Flora didn’t have my restraint. She had always been the fiery one. She snatched the microphone, her striking, sharp features hardening. “I’m sorry,” Flora said, her voice icy and deadpan. “I didn’t realize my grandfather had adopted two new grandkids.” “You have some nerve claiming you’re going to surpass his legacy on a couple of indie shorts.” The chat went chaotic. [Did she just claim Charles Holloway is her grandfather? Are the Lancasters serious right now?] [I was literally just thinking, how does Kylie have the audacity to compare herself to Charles Holloway?] [Wait, but their last name is Lancaster. How are they related to Holloway? Did she lose her mind and just start lying?] [Exactly! And why can’t a granddaughter make a joke about her own grandpa? Flora is just bitter because she has zero class.] Kylie’s expression faltered, her polished facade slipping for a fraction of a second. Another guest on the show, eager to defuse the tension, spoke up. “Wait, you’re saying Charles Holloway is your grandfather? But that’s impossible. I remember seeing a viral article a few weeks ago showing him out with his grandchildren, and it was a brother-sister duo.” Hearing this, Kylie quickly regained her composure. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull,” Kylie said smoothly. “But Grandfather has always told me that if I work hard, I’ll make him proud one day.” She paused, reaching into her clear phone case to pull out a slipped-in piece of paper. “He actually wrote me a personal note of encouragement. I keep it with me everywhere I go.” She subtly angled the paper toward the main camera lens. Lewis lifted his chin proudly. “Oh, Kylie, don’t fall into their trap. If Grandfather is watching this right now, he’s probably laughing his head off at how desperate some people are.” Flora stared at the handwriting on the note and froze. “That… is actually Grandfather’s handwriting.” Being the hothead she was, she looked ready to lunge forward and tear the paper from Kylie’s hands. “How dare you use his personal autograph to pull off a scam like this!” I placed a firm, calming hand over Flora’s wrist. “Easy,” I murmured. A few weeks ago, Grandfather had been invited to present at a major film festival, and Flora and I had gone to pick him up from the venue. At the time, Flora had just chopped her waist-length hair into a severe pixie cut for her upcoming military drama. The paparazzi photos from that night had been incredibly blurry—just a grainy shot of Grandfather walking with a woman and what looked like a young man with short hair. To the public, it looked like a brother and sister. And right after those photos leaked, Kylie had started dropping hints in interviews about her “legendary grandfather.” It had been a calculated play from the very beginning. I leaned in and whispered the realization to Flora. I wanted to see exactly how far these two were willing to push this lie. Flora gave me a subtle thumbs-up beneath the table. “Brilliant, sister.” But to the outside world, our quiet whispering looked like defeat. The chat, already biased toward the “chic, old-money” Holloways, turned on us completely. [I don’t even know what Flora was trying to pull. The real heiress is literally sitting right there with receipts!] [The instant karma is sending me! Who just tries to claim a legendary director as their grandpa on live TV?] [She carries his handwritten letter in her phone case. You can’t fake that. My face hurts from laughing at the Lancasters.] The producers were ecstatic. They had expected a simple promo gig, and instead, they had landed the exclusive reveal of Charles Holloway’s grandchildren—complete with a massive family feud. The director immediately sought to capitalize on the drama. “We’ve all heard that Kylie and Lewis live in the exclusive gated community of The Summit,” the director spoke into the earpieces. “Since our studio lot is actually just ten minutes away from those estates, would you mind taking us on a quick tour to see how the other half lives?” Flora and I exchanged a look of pure bewilderment. The Summit was incredibly exclusive, with only a handful of multi-million-dollar estates. Since when could any random person just breeze past security and film a reality show there? Kylie’s expression tightened slightly at the request. “I… I didn’t expect the paparazzi to track our address,” she hesitated, looking appropriately delicate. “I’d really have to ask my family first. Security is quite strict.” The other guests gasped. “Are you going to call Charles Holloway himself?” “Oh my god, I am his biggest fan! If we even get a glimpse of him, my life will be complete!” “Seriously, the man is a total recluse these days.” As the excitement built, Lewis chimed in with a sly grin. “Kylie, are you going to call your boyfriend? He’s the one who actually handles the estate logistics anyway.” That sent a shockwave through the room. For weeks, there had been rumors that Kylie was dating a mysterious, ultra-wealthy heir who also lived in The Summit. Kylie’s cheeks flushed a delicate, practiced pink. “Yes, I just texted him. He said we can go ahead and do a quick walk-through.” With their narrative perfectly aligned, they had successfully solidified their status as Hollywood royalty. The live comments went wild: [Oh my god. Her grandfather is a cinematic genius, she lives in The Summit, and her boyfriend is a literal billionaire heir. How do I unlock this lifestyle?] [Please let me be your housemaid! I’ll clean the marble floors for free!] [They are literally the main characters of the universe.] [Reincarnation goals.] I don’t know what kind of lie Kylie spun to the gate guards at the community entrance, but within twenty minutes, the entire production crew and camera team were marching up the winding, manicured streets of The Summit. But as we got closer, a strange sense of dread settled in my chest. Wait. Why were we walking toward my street? For a brief, terrifying second, I wondered if my parents had actually adopted a secret set of siblings without telling me. But then Kylie turned right, stopping directly in front of the massive, modern estate right next to mine. I froze. Because that house belonged to my childhood best friend—and the man I’d been unofficially seeing—Will Harriet. And Kylie had just claimed she needed to ask her boyfriend for permission to enter. Had Will been seeing Kylie behind my back? Beside me, Flora let out a quiet, wicked chuckle. She nudged my arm, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, well. Will has been out of the country for months, and he comes back to a live-in girlfriend? Now “this” is a show.” She leaned in, whispering, “Valerie, remember: don’t lose your cool.” I ground my teeth. “Oh, I’m perfectly cool.” The estate was breathtaking. I watched in silence as Kylie stepped up to the massive double doors, punched in a very familiar passcode, and pushed the door open. She turned to the crew with a welcoming, slightly apologetic smile. “My grandfather and my boyfriend aren’t home right now, so I’m sorry you won’t get to meet them. But please, make yourselves at home and have some refreshments.” Before she could even finish her sentence, a figure appeared at the top of the grand spiral staircase. It was Will. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his tie perfectly knotted, looking every bit the cold, aristocratic heir he was. He looked down at the sudden influx of strangers in his foyer, his eyes instantly turning to ice. Until his gaze landed on me. Our eyes met across the cavernous room. He arched an elegant eyebrow. “What is going on?” his eyes seemed to ask. In the live chat, an eagle-eyed viewer recognized him immediately. [Holy crap!!! That’s Will Harriet! The actual heir to the Harriet shipping and real estate empire! I saw him once at a charity gala in New York—he is ten times more gorgeous in person.] [Kylie is literally winning at life. How did she bag him?] [Wait, is it just me, or did Will look straight at Valerie the second he walked out?] [Please, Valerie was probably just staring at someone else’s boyfriend like a thirsty fan girl. Classic social climber behavior.] The other guests on the show gasped in awe. “Oh my god, is that Kylie’s boyfriend?” “They look like they belong on a magazine cover!” “Hi, Mr. Harriet! Nice to meet you!” Everyone was whispering and grinning, but I noticed that Kylie’s face had gone completely bloodless. Her hands were trembling as she stood frozen at the base of the stairs. Will looked at the cameras, then at the fawning guests, and pieced together the situation with effortless ease. A cold, dangerous smirk touched his lips. He began walking down the stairs, initially heading straight toward me. But when he saw the warning glare I shot him, he stopped in his tracks, looking like a kicked puppy, and reluctantly turned his attention back to the crowd. I wanted to see exactly how he was going to explain this. Will’s gaze swept over the room, landing squarely on Kylie. His voice, usually warm when he spoke to me, was now sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “But since when did my house get a new mistress?” “Or are we calling home invaders ‘girlfriends’ now?”

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I had just merged onto the interstate in my brand-new, sixty-thousand-dollar Tesla Model Y when the car suddenly choked, locking my speed at precisely twelve miles per hour. Thinking it was some kind of catastrophic system failure, I hastily switched on my hazard lights and called my boyfriend, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. He answered, his voice light with an easy, mocking chuckle. “Myra suddenly decided she wants to go skiing up at Stevens Pass,” Wyatt said. “She was worried you’d drive the car too far away before she could get the keys, so I set the speed limit on the app.” Behind me, horns blared in a deafening, angry chorus. In the rearview mirror, the massive grille of a semi-truck loomed, its brakes screeching as it swerved to avoid me. The sound of the horn seemed to vibrate straight through my skull. I missed a pileup by inches. “Just pull over to the shoulder,” Wyatt added, entirely oblivious to the chaos he had unleashed. “Her cousin Trent is on his way to pick it up from you.” Then came the familiar, heavy-handed sigh. “She rarely gets a chance to have some fun, Lydia. Don’t be so selfish.” I stared at the glowing digital dashboard, the speed frozen at a mockery of twelve miles per hour. Suddenly, the urge to argue, to scream, to explain the terror of almost being crushed by a semi-truck, evaporated. Half an hour later, I managed to limp the car back to the Tesla delivery center. The sales associate who had handed me the keys just an hour prior came jogging out, her face a mix of confusion and worry. “Lydia? Is there something wrong with the registration?” I pushed the purchase contract across the glossy desk. “The paperwork is fine,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “The person is the problem.” 1 The sales associate, Fiona, froze with her hand halfway to the document. “Lydia, the delivery is already finalized on our end,” she said gently, looking out at the heavy Seattle rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. “Reversing a vehicle purchase like this is… well, it’s incredibly complicated.” My hands were still trembling. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the headlights of that semi-truck bearing down on my rear bumper. The phantom blast of its air horn was still ringing in my ears. “I don’t care how complicated it is.” Fiona took a closer look at my pale face and lowered her voice. “Did something happen on the road? If it was a software glitch or a sudden speed limitation, we can have our service team run a diagnostic immediately.” Before she could finish, my phone buzzed on the desk. It was an audio message from Wyatt. I tapped it, and his impatient, sharp voice cut through the quiet showroom: “Lydia, where the hell did you take the car? Trent has been standing out on the shoulder in the freezing rain for thirty minutes. Can you grow up for once? It’s just a car. Do you really have to make everything so ugly?” Fiona’s expression shifted. A couple of sales reps at the desks nearby stopped typing. I closed the message and typed a three-word response: “I returned it.” Within seconds, my phone rang. When I answered, Wyatt’s voice sounded like it had been dragged through gravel. “Have you lost your mind? I spent weeks helping you pick out that spec. You’re just going to return it?” “Did you pay for it?” I asked. The silence in the showroom was so absolute I could hear the hum of the lighting fixtures. “I paid for it,” I said, my voice steady, though my chest felt hollow. “Every single cent.” There was a brief pause on the line. Then, he let out a sharp, condescending laugh. “Oh, so now we’re keeping score, Lydia? You bought this car so we could use it when we get married. What’s the big deal if Myra borrows it for a weekend? Besides, I only put a temporary speed cap on it to make sure she could actually get the keys. It’s not like you got hurt.” A coldness seeped through my ribs, wrapping around my heart. Wyatt was a smart-vehicle integration engineer. Before I bought the car, he had insisted on being involved in every step. He claimed his connections could get me a better corporate discount, and that binding the primary vehicle account to his developer profile would make the security features more robust. On delivery day, he had taken my phone, setting up the car’s profiles and pairing the keys with an air of absolute authority. I had stood there in the delivery bay, watching him explain the features to me as if he were describing the foundation of our future home. At the time, I actually felt a swell of warmth. I thought he was finally putting effort into our life together. Fiona silently set a cup of warm water in front of me. When my fingers brushed the paper cup, I realized just how cold my hands were. From the other end of the line, Myra’s soft, fragile voice drifted through the speaker. “Wyatt, please, let’s just forget it. I’m sure Lydia is just attached to her new car. I don’t need to go skiing anyway. It’s fine. People like me… well, wanting to be happy for once is a luxury I shouldn’t expect.” Wyatt’s tone shifted instantly, turning gentle and protective. “Don’t say that. When have I ever broken a promise to you?” When he spoke to me again, the warmth vanished, replaced by a cold command. “Lydia, drive the car back right now. Myra’s cabin rental is non-refundable. If you ruin this trip for her, I’m not going to bail you out.” I looked down at my signature on the contract. Every stroke of the pen represented a piece of my life. That sixty-thousand-dollar down payment held the fifteen thousand my grandmother had left me, three years of brutal overtime savings, and the money I had set aside to renovate our future home. Wyatt had told me the house could wait. He said we needed a reliable car first. He said his mother’s hips were failing, and we needed something comfortable to take her to physical therapy on weekends. He said my commute was too long, and that a safer car would give him peace of mind. Yet, on day one, that very car had almost cost me my life on the I-90. “Wyatt,” I said, my voice flatter than I expected. “When you remotely locked my car to twelve miles per hour, did you even care that I was in the middle lane of the interstate?” He let out an irritated click of his tongue. “The limit was temporary. Couldn’t you have just pulled over? If your driving skills are that terrible, don’t blame me.” Just then, the glass doors of the showroom slid open. A man in a damp black rain jacket walked in. He glanced around the pristine space before locking eyes with me and walking over. “Lydia, right?” he said, shaking the water off his sleeves. “I’m Myra’s cousin, Trent. Just give me the keys.” Fiona instinctively stepped between us. Trent frowned, looking offended. “What is this place? Since when does dealership staff get involved in family business?” Wyatt’s voice yelled from the phone: “Trent, you there? Lydia, stop acting like a child. Give him the keys.” Trent reached across the table toward my key card. I pulled it back, gripping it tightly. His face darkened. “You’re really something, aren’t you? Myra’s health has been terrible lately. She just wanted to get some fresh mountain air, and you’re here playing gatekeeper over a piece of metal.” Before I could answer, two more people entered the showroom. Myra was clad in a pristine white puffer jacket, the hood lined with soft faux fur dusted with rain. Behind her was Wyatt. He must have rushed over; his hair was damp, and his eyes were burning with a quiet, suppressed fury. Seeing me, Myra’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Lydia, I am so sorry,” she sobbed, her voice trembling. “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have asked to borrow the car. But I… I haven’t been out of the city in so long.” Wyatt stepped in front of her, shielding her with his body. It was a gesture I had seen a thousand times. Back in college, during club dinners, if she couldn’t handle her drinks, he drank for her. After graduation, when her apartment pipes burst in the middle of the night, he went over to fix them. When her cat went missing, he took a day off work to search the neighborhood with her. Every time I questioned it, he had the same answer: “She grew up without a brother, Lydia. I’m just looking out for her. Don’t be so petty.” And now, he stood between my car and my safety, still protecting her. “Lydia, hand over the keys,” Wyatt demanded, holding out his palm. A draft from the automatic doors blew inside, carrying the scent of wet asphalt. The metallic edge of the key fob dug into my palm. Before I could speak, Myra took a step forward, her tears spilling over her pale cheeks. “Lydia, is this because I sat in the passenger seat during the test drive? I promise I’ll never sit in the front again. I’ll ride in the back.” Wyatt’s face went completely cold. “Look how terrified you’ve made her.” He reached out, his fingers wrapping around mine, forcing my grip open. Fiona quickly called out to the showroom security guard. In the scuffle, Wyatt leaned down, his voice a low, threatening hiss in my ear: “Don’t make me humiliate you in front of these people.” With a harsh tug, he wrenched the key card from my hand. The plastic edge scraped hard against the corner of the desk, and a bead of blood welled up on the back of my hand. Myra let out a soft gasp. Wyatt didn’t even look at my hand. He pocketed the key, turned, and handed it to Myra. “Go wait in the car.” 2. The security guard intercepted Trent at the exit, keeping him from leaving immediately. Wyatt turned back to glare at me, his chest heaving. “Are you really going to call the cops over this? Do you want to make it that dramatic?” “Yes,” I said. “Let’s call them.” The anger on his face stiffened for a fraction of a second. Outside, Myra sat in the passenger seat of my Model Y, watching us through the windshield. The wipers weren’t on, and her face was blurred by the cascading rain. Wyatt let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Lydia, do you honestly think the police care about a domestic dispute between a couple? Yes, you paid for the car, but I set up the software. I’m simply managing the access.” Fiona couldn’t stay silent. “Sir, remote-controlling a vehicle without the primary operator’s consent on an active highway is a direct endangerment to public safety. This is not a domestic dispute.” Wyatt shot her a freezing look. “What do you know? You’re just a sales rep. My company handles smart-integration platforms. I know exactly what the legal boundaries are.” My phone screen lit up. It was my mother. The moment I answered, her voice came crashing through the speaker. “Lydia! Wyatt’s mother just called me. She said you’re threatening to have Wyatt arrested over a car? Have you lost your mind?” My throat felt like it was blocked with dry cotton. Wyatt stood beside me, his arms crossed, a smug sense of victory radiating from him. My mother kept going. “Wyatt is a good man, Lydia. You’re turning thirty next year; you can’t keep throwing these tantrums. It’s normal for a man to have female friends. I’ve met Myra—she’s a sweet, tragic girl. If you push things too far, who else is going to want to marry you?” I stared at the drying blood on my hand, my voice barely audible. “Mom, he locked my car at twelve miles per hour on the interstate. I almost died.” The line went quiet for a few seconds. Then, my father’s gruff voice cut in from the background. “But you didn’t die, did you? Why do you always have to blow small things out of proportion?” Wyatt’s shoulders relaxed. Myra had stepped out of the car again, holding an umbrella. She walked back into the showroom, tilting the canopy so it covered Wyatt, leaving my shoulder exposed to the cold mist blowing in through the entrance. “Mrs. Miller, Mr. Miller, please don’t be mad at Lydia,” Myra sobbed into my phone speaker. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t have a father growing up, so Wyatt has always been extra protective of me. I understand why Lydia would misinterpret things.” My mother’s voice softened instantly. “Oh, Myra, sweetie, don’t cry. Lydia has a stubborn streak. I’ll make sure to talk to her.” Everyone in the showroom was watching me now—the sales reps, the security guard, even a couple of customers who had stopped near the service desk. I stood beside the car I had dreamed about for years, feeling like an intruder who had tried to steal someone else’s happiness. Wyatt reached over and took the phone from my hand. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Miller, I’ll handle it,” he said smoothly. “Lydia has just been under a lot of pressure at work lately.” He knew exactly how to play the dutiful partner, wrapping up my humiliation in a neat bow while driving the blade a little deeper. He hung up and tossed the phone back into my lap. “Satisfied?” he muttered. “Take the exit ramp I’m giving you, Lydia. Myra is taking the car today. The discussion about returning it is over.” Fiona looked at me, her eyes filled with quiet concern. “Lydia, do you want us to proceed with contacting the authorities?” Wyatt immediately rounded on her. “If this dealership calls the police, I will file a formal complaint for a breach of customer privacy. This car’s system profile contains proprietary testing data from my engineering account. If that data is compromised, your store will be liable.” Fiona’s face went pale. The store manager, who had finally noticed the commotion, hurried over and pulled Fiona aside. “Lydia, perhaps you and your partner should discuss this privately at home,” the manager said, polite but clearly eager to sweep the scene under the rug. “A vehicle return of this nature does require a formal inspection process anyway.” Wyatt smiled. He stepped closer, leaning down until his breath brushed my ear. “See? No one is standing in your corner, Lydia. Don’t make yourself look any more pathetic than you already do.” Myra tugged gently at his sleeve. “Wyatt, let’s go. We’re going to hit mountain traffic if we don’t leave now.” Wyatt nodded. But as he tried to step past me, I reached out and blocked him. “You can’t take the car,” I said. He creased his brow. “What now?” I opened my hand. The key card was gone, but tucked between my fingers was a small, laminated paper slip. It was the temporary registration and transit permit the delivery center had just printed for me. “Without this, you’re driving an unregistered vehicle,” I said. “You won’t make it past the first state trooper on the highway.” Wyatt’s expression hardened into stone. Myra’s weeping cut off instantly. Trent lunged forward to grab it, but the security guard blocked him again. In the sudden flurry of movement, Myra suddenly clutched her chest, her knees buckling as she sank to the floor. “Wyatt… I can’t… I can’t breathe…” Wyatt’s face went white. He dropped down and scooped her into his arms. He looked up at me, screaming, “Lydia, are you happy now? If anything happens to her, I swear to God I will make you pay!” Myra clung to his neck, but as he lifted her, her hand darted out and caught the hem of my trench coat. With a sharp, downward yank, she pulled me off balance. My knee slammed hard against the concrete step of the display platform, and I tumbled forward. The temporary registration slip flew from my fingers, landing face-down in a muddy puddle of rainwater near the door. Wyatt stepped forward, his heavy boot coming down directly on the paper, grinding it into the wet grit. He bent down, picked up the muddy, torn slip, and didn’t even cast a backward glance at me as I lay on the floor. “Now we can leave,” he said. The heavy thud of the Tesla doors slamming shut echoed through the glass bay. The red taillights flared like two angry eyes as the car sped out of the lot. Fiona kneeled down to help me up. The rain outside had slowed, but wet mist was still clinging to my skin. “Lydia,” she whispered, “do you need to go to the clinic?” I pushed myself up from the cold floor. My knee was throbbing, a dull, aching heat spreading under my jeans. My phone buzzed again. Wyatt: “Go home. I expect you to have this childish attitude out of your system by tonight.” Immediately after, a notification from my bank popped up. “Authorized User Wyatt: $4,000 charged at Crystal Mountain Lodge.” The payment had been processed using my secondary credit card. 3. I had given Wyatt that secondary card for his mother’s medical expenses. When he had transitioned to his new firm, there was a gap between his pay cycles. His mother had been diagnosed with severe spinal stenosis, and I had spent my weekends driving her to specialist appointments, putting her physical therapy and copays on my card. At the time, Wyatt had held me tight, whispering, “Lydia, once my signing bonus clears, I’ll pay you back every dime.” The bonus had cleared months ago. Instead of paying me back, he had bought Myra a designer ski jacket because “she gets cold so easily in the winter.” Fiona helped me clean the scrape on my knee, then handed me a printed document. “This is our store’s incident report,” she said. “I’ve already saved the security footage from the showroom on a thumb drive. My manager told me not to hand it over privately, but you have every right to request it through formal legal channels.” She leaned in, lowering her voice further. “Lydia, the dashcam in your car has a separate loop-recording function. The footage of what happened on the highway should still be on the local storage card.” I nodded. But the car was gone, and the SD card was inside it. Wyatt knew systems. He knew exactly how to erase a drive. By the time I took an Uber back to the apartment, the rain had stopped, leaving only damp reflections on the pavement. Before I could even finish punching in the keypad code to my door, the sound of laughter drifted through the wood. Myra’s voice carried clearly. “Wyatt, this throw pillow is so cute! Can I take it to the lodge with us?” And Wyatt’s reply: “Take whatever you want.” That pillow was the very first item I had bought for our new home. A cream-colored, woven wool piece with the tags still attached. When the door clicked open, the living room fell dead silent. My car keys were lying carelessly on the coffee table. Myra was sitting in the center of the sofa, wrapped in my favorite cashmere throw. On the balcony, Trent was smoking a cigarette, flicking the ashes directly into the pot of the English ivy my grandmother had given me before she passed. Wyatt walked out of the kitchen holding a mug of steaming ginger tea. Seeing me, his brows knit together. “You’re back,” he said, his tone flat. “Good. Myra got chilled in the rain and has a light fever. Go whip up some soup for her.” “I don’t know how,” I said. Beside the shoe rack sat a pair of muddy snow boots, leaving dirty tracks across the hardwood floor I had spent the previous evening scrubbing. I remained standing at the entryway. Wyatt handed the tea to Myra, refusing to meet my eyes. “Don’t start with the attitude again. You put everyone through hell today. The least you can do is make dinner and apologize.” Myra looked down, clutching the mug. “Wyatt, maybe I should just go. I know Lydia is still angry with me. I don’t want to make things difficult.” She said she wanted to leave, but her fingers tightened around my cashmere throw. Trent stepped in from the balcony, stubbing his cigarette out on the railing. “Why should you leave? The only person who needs to go is the one acting like an unstable child. My cousin is sick, and she hasn’t even gotten a single apology.” Wyatt looked at me. “Lydia. Apologize.” The warm, golden lighting of the apartment made the coldness in their eyes even sharper. “Apologize to whom?” I asked. “To Myra.” “For what? Because she wanted to take my car, because you remotely locked it and nearly got me killed, or because you used my credit card to book her luxury lodging?” Myra’s eyes instantly flooded. “I didn’t know the booking went on your card, Lydia. Wyatt told me it was his personal account.” A brief flicker of embarrassment crossed Wyatt’s face, but he quickly covered it with anger. “The card is in my name as an authorized user. I’ll transfer you the money. Do you really have to bring up finances in front of company? Is that who you are now?” “Company?” I looked at Myra. She immediately lowered her head, looking small and fragile. Wyatt’s voice rose. “Myra isn’t some stranger, Lydia.” “Then what am I?” The question hung in the air, cold and heavy. Wyatt stared at me as if I were a bug he wanted to crush. “Lydia, don’t make me say things we both can’t take back. We’ve been together for seven years. If you don’t even have this basic level of trust in our relationship, then there’s no point in us getting married.” In the past, that threat would have sent a spike of panic through my chest. Now, it just left a dull, aching throb. It wasn’t the pain of a fresh wound, but the exhaustion of an old scar being torn open one too many times. Myra suddenly stood up, her body swaying slightly. “Wyatt… my head is spinning…” Wyatt caught her immediately. “You need to lie down. Go use the master bedroom.” My fingers tightened against the edge of the entryway console. “The master bedroom is my room.” Wyatt groaned in exasperation. “The bed is bigger, and she has a fever. She needs proper rest. You can crash in the study for one night.” Myra whispered, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Wyatt. Lydia will mind.” Trent let out a loud snort. “She minds everything. Does the world revolve around her?” Without another word, Wyatt scooped Myra up and walked straight toward my bedroom. As the door swung open, I caught a glimpse of my nightstand, where my grandmother’s old silver heirloom bracelet lay. It was the most precious thing I owned. As Wyatt carried Myra past me, she leaned her head against his shoulder and murmured softly, “Lydia, Wyatt mentioned you’re a really light sleeper. Please don’t come in and wake me up tonight, okay?” The master bedroom door clicked shut in my face. Trent stepped forward, blocking my path to the hallway. “You heard her. Don’t go looking for trouble.” I looked up at him, my expression blank. A second later, Myra’s delighted gasp echoed from behind the closed door. “Oh, Wyatt, look at this silver bracelet! It’s so beautiful!” 4. Wyatt didn’t come out right away. Instead, the muffled sound of my nightstand drawer scraping open vibrated through the wall. I pushed past Trent. He grabbed my arm, his grip tightening like a vise. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Let go of me,” I said. He didn’t. His fingers dug into the fresh bruise on my forearm. Inside the bedroom, Myra’s soft voice rose again. “Is this Lydia’s? It looks antique.” “Yeah,” Wyatt replied casually. “Some old family heirloom from her grandmother. You like it?” Myra giggled softly. “I just wanted to try it on. It feels so classic. I always wished I had a grandmother who left me things like this.” I wrenched my arm free from Trent’s grip and flung the bedroom door open. It wasn’t locked. Inside, Myra was sliding the solid silver band over her wrist. It was a delicate, hand-carved piece, and as it settled against her arm, it made a soft, metallic clink. The sound made my stomach turn. “Take it off,” I said. Wyatt stood by the bed, his face tightening. “She’s just trying it on, Lydia.” “Take. It. Off.” Myra flinched as if I had struck her, hurriedly trying to tug the silver band back over her hand. But her wrist joint was wider than the opening, and the metal caught on her bone. Tears instantly welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry… it’s stuck. I can’t get it off.” Wyatt grabbed her hand gently. “Don’t force it. You’ll bruise yourself.” He spoke to her with such tender care—care he hadn’t shown for my scraped knee or my bleeding hand. I walked over to the dresser. Wyatt stepped in front of me, his chest puffed out. “Lydia, stop acting like a lunatic.” “That belonged to my grandmother.” “I know,” he said, his tone dripping with dismissive boredom. “I’ll take her to a jeweler tomorrow to have it cut off safely if we have to. I’ll pay for the repair.” Myra shook her head, sobbing. “No, we can’t do that tomorrow. We have to leave for the slopes early.” Trent leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “It’s a cheap piece of silver. How much could it possibly be worth? Myra’s skin is turning red, and all you care about is some old metal.” I walked past them to the master bathroom and grabbed a bottle of liquid soap. Wyatt seemed to take this as a sign of submission, his shoulders dropping slightly. “That’s better. You’re not a bad person, Lydia. You’re just way too sensitive.” As I poured the soap over Myra’s wrist, her cries grew louder. She shrank back, burying her face in Wyatt’s chest as if she were being tortured. It took ten agonizing minutes of pulling and maneuvering before the bracelet finally slipped free. The polished silver face now bore a deep, ugly scratch where it had scraped against her bone. I wiped the soap off with a tissue and clutched the cold metal in my palm. Myra sniffled, her nose red. “Lydia, I’m so sorry. I can buy you a new one to make up for it.” I looked at her. “You can’t replace this.” Wyatt’s face fell into a deep scowl. “Enough. She apologized. What more do you want?” Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a FaceTime call from Wyatt’s mother. He swiped to answer, and the camera instantly captured the disarray of my bedroom. Seeing Myra’s tear-stained face, his mother’s voice shrilled through the speaker. “Lydia, are you bullying Myra again?” “Mrs. Miller, no, it’s not her fault,” Myra sobbed into the screen. “I accidentally put on Lydia’s bracelet, and it got stuck.” Wyatt’s mother let out a sharp, disgusted snort. “I thought it was some priceless diamond the way you’re acting. Once you’re married, everything in that household is shared property anyway. What’s the big deal about someone touching a bracelet?” My fingers tightened around the silver band until the edges bit into my skin. His mother continued her lecture. “Wyatt works so hard, and Myra is a sweet girl who knows how to help him unwind. If you actually want to marry into our family, Lydia, you need to learn to be generous.” Down the hall, in the study, sat a box of custom wedding invitations I had spent weeks designing. I had paid the venue deposits. I had booked the photographer. I had paid half of the apartment’s rent and security deposit. His family had told me that since Wyatt was transitioning careers, we should keep things simple and that I should handle the upfront costs. They said I should be patient. And now, even my grandmother’s heirloom was considered “shared property.” “Mrs. Miller,” I said, my voice quiet but perfectly clear. “The wedding is off.” The screen went dead silent. Wyatt snapped his head up, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What did you just say?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “529613”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Twenty years together. For the first time in my life, I picked up Leo’s phone. A contact saved under the name “Crybaby” had sent a selfie. Her cheeks were flushed and broke out in hives from weeping. “Leo, do I look pretty when I cry?” A cold dread washed over me, freezing me from the inside out. The next second, the bedroom door opened and Leo walked out. Seeing the phone in my hand, he calmly reached out. “Give it back.” My knuckles turned white. “Aren’t you going to explain this?” His face remained entirely devoid of emotion. “There’s nothing to explain. It’s exactly what you think. I’m having an affair.” My voice shook. “Why?” He lit a cigarette, looked at me through the rising smoke, and let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Because she’s better at crying than you are. Does that count as a reason?” … The silence in the room became absolute. I watched the gray-white plume of smoke rise from his fingertips, drawing a thin, hazy boundary between us. His gaze drifted past the smoke, landing coldly on my face. “See?” he said, his tone carrying a familiar, weary condescension. “You’re doing it again. Silent, saying nothing. You don’t even have the decency to get red-eyed.” He turned and began walking toward the balcony, clearly done dealing with me. “Leo,” I called out. He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. There were so many questions clawing at the back of my throat. I wanted to ask him when it started. I wanted to ask him how he could do this to me after everything. I wanted to ask him what he meant by “better at crying.” We had dated for ten years and been married for ten. Twenty years in total. I was thirty-six now. My entire adult life had been woven into his. When was the last time I had actually cried in front of him? I couldn’t remember. But I remembered the year he got hurt. He was twenty-two, freshly out of college and trying to launch his first startup. He got into a brutal altercation with some local thugs and was badly beaten. I remember standing in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hospital hallway, sobbing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. When he finally woke up, his face still covered in dried blood and bruises, he reached out with a trembling hand to wipe my tears. His voice was a barely audible rasp. “Baby, don’t cry. Crying is the most useless thing in the world.” “Don’t worry about me. I’m really okay.” From that day on, I stopped crying. No matter what life threw at us, I held it in. When his startup failed and we lived on instant noodles while working seventy-hour weeks, I didn’t cry. When his mother passed away and I had to physically hold him up at the funeral, I didn’t cry. When I suffered a miscarriage so violent it nearly took my life, I kept the physical and emotional agony entirely to myself. I didn’t cry. And later, when he started staying out all night, claiming he was buried in corporate meetings, and I sat alone on the living room sofa watching the sky turn from black to gray, I didn’t cry. The man who taught me that tears were a useless weakness was now telling me he had cheated because another woman was better at it. I swallowed those unasked questions one by one. They felt like rusted nails sliding down my throat, leaving the taste of iron in my mouth. Finally, I spoke. “Do you want to draft the divorce agreement, or should I?” He didn’t move. After a few seconds, he tilted his head to look at me. “Donna,” he said, using my full name, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. “How old are you again?” I didn’t answer. He put the cigarette back between his lips and turned to face me fully, leaning against the balcony doorframe with a lazy, casual posture. “You’re thirty-six, right?” “A woman’s prime only lasts so many years, and yours passed a long time ago. Besides, you don’t have a job, you have no income, your body isn’t what it used to be, and let’s face it—you aren’t exactly a beauty anymore.” “What do you actually have left? Oh, right,” he paused, as if a particularly amusing thought had just struck him. “We’ve been married for ten years without a single scrap of protection, and you’ve never managed to get pregnant once. You don’t even know how to have a baby.” “If you leave me, who on earth do you think would want you?” I froze, paralyzed by the sheer cruelty of his words. I had known this man for two decades. I remembered him at eighteen, running toward me across the high school soccer field after scoring a goal, boasting and grinning. I remembered him at twenty-two, lying in a pool of blood, desperately whispering my name. I remembered him at twenty-five, after his first major business success, getting drunk at a celebratory dinner and holding me tight, whispering, “Donna, I love you. I can finally give you the life you deserve.” The cigarette burned down to the filter. Leo stubbed it out on the balcony railing. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen but didn’t pick up. But I saw it clearly. The caller ID: “Crybaby.” A sudden wave of nausea hit me, acid burning the back of my throat. I bit my lip hard to force it down. Leo slipped the phone back into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a black credit card. “Here’s your allowance for the month.” He held it out. I made no move to take it. He let out a short, dismissive scoff, stepped forward, and shoved the card directly into the pocket of my silk robe. Then he took a step back, studying me. His eyes swept down and up, as if assessing a piece of property to make sure it was still secure. “Donna, you’re not a girl anymore. Throwing a fit at your age doesn’t look like flirting, and it certainly isn’t cute. It just makes you look like a bitter, hysterical housewife.” “So be a good girl and don’t make a scene. Just pretend you didn’t see anything. Pretend you don’t know.” “It’s better for you, and it’s better for me.” The front door clicked shut. He was gone. I stood there in the quiet house. The credit card in my pocket felt like a hot iron searing through the fabric into my skin. The nausea returned, stronger this time. I didn’t fight it. I rushed into the bathroom, gripped the edges of the porcelain toilet, and dry-heaved until my ribs ached. Nothing came out. I slumped against the cold tile floor, resting my forehead against the side of the bowl. My chest throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, and my eyes stung with a dry heat. I wanted to cry. I wanted to sob until my chest collapsed. But not a single tear fell. It was as if my body was mockingly reminding me: “See? He taught you too well. Tears are useless.” And now, he had fallen for a woman who wept at the drop of a hat. But it didn’t matter anymore. It was over. All of it. I stood up, washed my face, and began gathering every piece of jewelry, every designer handbag, and every expensive trinket he had bought me over the years under the guise of “household expenses” and anniversary gifts. I packed them all into a single box and left it in the center of the kitchen island where it couldn’t be missed. Then, I opened my phone and sent a text to my best friend, Beryl. “Come pick me up. I want to go home.” After sending the message, I drove straight to a family lawyer’s office to have a divorce petition drawn up. Only when the paperwork was in my hands did I head to Leo’s office. Just as I reached the lobby, the elevator doors slid open. Leo emerged, carrying a young woman in his arms. Her face was buried in his chest, obscured by her long hair. Seeing me, Leo’s eyes flickered with a brief, cold indifference. He didn’t say a word, stepping past me as if I were a stranger, heading toward his parked car. I stepped into his path, blocking him. I held out the divorce papers. “Sign it.” Leo didn’t even glance at the document. “Get out of the way. I have an emergency. I don’t have time for your tantrums right now.” I didn’t budge. My voice was entirely level. “Leo, I am not throwing a tantrum.” He looked at me as if I had just told a particularly pathetic joke. Without saying another word, he shoved me aside with his free arm. He placed the woman into the passenger seat and drove off. I watched the sleek black Maybach disappear into the city traffic. A sudden, quiet curiosity washed over me. I wanted to see what his “emergency” was. I raised my hand and hailed a passing cab. “Follow that Maybach.” The cab rode through the city streets, eventually pulling up outside a luxury villa in the quiet, wooded suburbs on the edge of town. I paid the driver, stepped out, and walked toward the Maybach parked in the driveway. But as I drew closer, I stopped dead in my tracks. The car was rocking in a slow, rhythmic motion. I froze. A bitter, icy chill spread through my limbs. An emergency. This was the emergency he couldn’t delay. The muffled sounds of a man’s low groans and a woman’s soft, breathless whimpering seemed to echo through the quiet afternoon air, amplifying until they filled my head. But I didn’t run. I stood there, a silent, hollow statue, witnessing the physical betrayal of my husband with another woman. After what felt like an eternity, the car door clicked open. Leo stepped out, wrapping his designer suit jacket around a flushed, tear-stained young woman. When he caught sight of me standing there, he paused for a brief second, then let out a low, mocking laugh. “You actually followed me? You’re really going to make a scene over this?” I said nothing. I simply lifted my numb arm and held out the papers once more. “Sign.” Leo stared at me for ten long seconds, the amusement fading from his eyes, replaced by a cold sneer. “Fine. Wait here.” He scooped the girl up and carried her into the villa. I stood in the driveway. I watched the sun dip below the horizon, letting the darkness swallow the yard. I watched the stars appear, and then watched them fade as the sky turned a pale, bruised purple. I stood there from dusk until dawn. When the morning sun finally broke through the trees, burning my sleep-deprived eyes, the front door of the villa opened. Leo walked out, holding the young woman’s hand. For the first time, I got a clear look at her. She was young, her face full of youthful collagen, wearing a piece from the latest haute couture collection. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and when she smiled, deep, playful dimples showed in her cheeks. Leo was looking down at her, talking softly. It was a look of tender, protective adoration I hadn’t seen directed at me in over a decade. My chest felt incredibly tight, my eyes burning with dryness. But still, no tears came. As they approached, Leo saw me. A flicker of genuine shock crossed his features, as if he couldn’t believe I had actually stood there all night. The girl gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. She immediately clutched Leo’s arm, and tears instantly welled in her eyes, spilling over her perfect cheeks. “Leo, this is all my fault,” she whimpered. “If I hadn’t kept you in bed yesterday, your wife wouldn’t have had to stand out here in the cold all night.” Leo’s face immediately softened with intense pity. He reached out, gently wiping her tears away with his thumb. “Oh, sweetie, don’t say that. It has nothing to do with you,” he murmured, his voice thick with indulgence. “You just cry so beautifully, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to look away. Leo finally turned his gaze to me, tossing his chin toward the car. “You want the divorce? Fine. Get in. We’ll go to my office and discuss the terms.” I didn’t argue. I walked over and reached for the front passenger door handle. Before my fingers could touch it, my arm was violently grabbed and yanked backward. “Mimi always sits in the front,” Leo said coldly, shielding the girl as he guided her into the seat. “You sit in the back.” I had been standing on my feet for nearly fourteen hours. My legs were entirely numb, stiff from the morning chill. When he pulled me, my knees gave way. I stumbled backward and collapsed onto the gravel driveway. A sharp, jagged stone sliced through my jeans, tearing into my knee. I gasped as a sharp, hot pain flared up my leg. When I looked up, Leo was already in the driver’s seat, leaning over to carefully buckle Mimi’s seatbelt. He hadn’t even looked back to see if I was standing. Holding back a grimace, I forced myself up and climbed into the back seat. During the entire drive to the office, the two of them flirted and whispered in the front. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the suburban trees give way to high-rises, feeling completely detached from the reality inside the car. In his spacious corner office, Leo threw a set of documents onto the mahogany desk in front of me. “I’m leaving you the house. That’s it. You don’t get another dime of my assets.” “For the past ten years, you’ve done nothing but sit at home while I built this empire. You contributed nothing to my success, so I owe you nothing.” “So think carefully, Donna. Do you really want this divorce?” “Without me, the comfortable life you’ve grown accustomed to is gone. You will never find another man who can provide for you the way I did.” “But me? There’s a line of young, beautiful women waiting to take your place. And you? If you’re lucky, you’ll end up as some middle-aged guy’s stepmother, and even then—” “Fine,” I said, cutting him off. I couldn’t bear to listen to his voice for another second. Leo froze, his mouth half-open. I picked up the pen, flipped straight to the final page of the agreement, and pressed the nib to the signature line. “Donna!” He slammed his hand down on the paper, his face darkening with sudden rage. “I am giving you one last chance to think this through. Are you seriously going through with this?” “Yes.” I smiled, gently brushing his hand off the document. “I am absolutely going through with this.” I signed my name quickly and cleanly, then slid the paper back across the desk to him. “Now, you sign.” Leo’s expression grew increasingly hostile. “Donna, is all of this really necessary over a minor slip-up? Do you have to be so—” “Leo!” I suddenly raised my voice, the raw, suffocating pain I had kept buried deep inside finally fracturing my composure. “You cheated on me! You slept with another woman, and you have the audacity to ask if this is “necessary”? Do you have any idea how utterly repulsive you are?” Leo stared at me, momentarily stunned by my outburst. Then, he grabbed my shoulders, his grip tight and defensive. “We’ve been together for twenty years, Donna! Twenty years without a single break! People get sick of physical objects after that long, let alone another human being. It’s natural.” “And besides, if you’re so lonely, go find another man. I won’t stop you.” In that moment, looking into his eyes, I realized the boy I had loved at eighteen was entirely dead. The man standing in front of me was a hollow, rotting stranger. I pushed his hands off my shoulders with all the strength I had left. “Don’t touch me, Leo. Don’t make me despise you any more than I already do.” “Just sign the papers.” Leo stood in silence for a few moments. Then, with a harsh scowl, he snatched up the pen. “Fine. If you want to ruin your life, go ahead. Let’s see how long you survive—” He had barely scrawled the first letter of his name when the office door burst open. “Leo… I’m bleeding,” a faint, trembling voice cried out. Mimi stood in the doorway, clutching her stomach. Blood was seeping through her white designer skirt, dripping onto the carpet. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes wide with terror. “Leo, my stomach hurts so bad…” I stared at her, my mind momentarily blanking out. The sight of her clutched abdomen, the bright red blood—it was a mirror image of the afternoon I had lost my own child years ago. So. He had gotten her pregnant. I turned to look at Leo, but before I could even register his expression, a blur of motion passed by me. He had already scooped Mimi into his arms, rushing past me and out the door. His face was a mask of pure, frantic terror. The divorce agreement sat on the desk, bearing only the first letter of his name. I walked over, picked up the pen, and carefully finished his signature, mimicking his handwriting perfectly. Back when he was first starting the company, he used to be so exhausted that he would fall asleep while reviewing contracts. Out of sheer love and pity for him, I had spent hours practicing his signature so I could sign the routine business agreements on his behalf. After thousands of documents, our handwriting had become indistinguishable. I took the signed agreement straight to the courthouse to file for an uncontested dissolution of marriage. On my way out, I contacted a real estate agent and put our house on the market at a below-value price for a quick cash sale. Then, I texted Beryl and sat on a bench by the curb to wait for her. Thirty minutes passed, but she didn’t show up. Just as I was about to call her, my phone rang. It was Leo. “Donna, if you have a problem with me, come say it to my face. Don’t send your psychotic friend to harass Mimi in her hospital bed.” Before I could even ask what he was talking about, the line went dead. I took a cab to the hospital. As soon as I stepped onto the maternity ward, I heard Beryl’s furious voice echoing down the hallway. She had just slapped Leo across the face, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. “You disgusting piece of trash! She gave you twenty years of her life! Twenty years! And now that you’re rich and powerful, this is how you treat her? You cheat on her and get some cheap little girl pregnant? How do you sleep at night?” Leo’s face was dark, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Why should I feel guilty?” “For ten years, she’s lived off my hard work like a parasite. She’s a cold, emotionless machine who doesn’t even know how to cry, let alone give me a child. Why should I waste the rest of my life bound to her?” “Leo!” Beryl’s voice cracked, her entire body trembling with rage. “She stopped crying because of you! And do you have any idea why she couldn’t get pregnant? She did it to—” “Beryl, that’s enough!” I stepped into the corridor, cutting her off, and pulled her back by the arm. Then, I looked at Leo. “I’m sorry for the disruption,” I said quietly. Leo stared at me, a brief shadow of confusion crossing his eyes. Before he could speak, a weak, pathetic cry of “Leo…” drifted out from the hospital room behind him. His expression hardened back into disgust. “Donna, you are genuinely pathetic. I don’t ever want to see your face again.” “I’ll sign those papers when Mimi is out of the hospital. Not a second before.” I wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to bother, that it was already done. But he had already turned his back on me and walked into the room. Beryl tried to push past me to go after him, but I held her tight. “Let it go, Beryl,” I whispered, my voice exhausted but steady. “It’s over. We have a flight to catch. Let’s go home.”

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