Category: English

I was the least favorite princess. Before my father, the King, kicked the bucket, my eight older siblings were at each other’s throats for the throne. Historians would later call this period “The Nine Dragons’ Brawl for the Harley-Davidson.” And me? I was the wildcard in this royal rumble, operating on the principle of “It’s not the winning, it’s the messing-with-people that counts.” By making a bunch of empty promises to various powerful figures, I somehow got crowdfunded onto the throne. Now, as I gaze at the three women I verbally promised to make my queens, a single drop of cold sweat trickles down my temple. This whole “absolute power” thing is turning out to be a bit of a handful. 1 My father, King Harley, was on his last legs. It was pretty clear he wasn’t going to make it through the winter. And so, my eight beloved siblings kicked off the glorious Nine Dragons’ Brawl for the Harley-Davidson. Oh yeah, my dad’s name is actually Harley Davidson. Seriously. I’m the ninth and least favorite of his kids, basically just here to round out the numbers. But participation is key, and I was enthusiastically participating in the chaos. The most critical piece on the chessboard of this succession crisis was the Queen. King Harley and Queen Beatrice were childhood sweethearts, deeply in love. He consulted her on almost everything. Luckily for the rest of us, she was barren. Otherwise, this whole war would’ve been over before we were even embryos. My siblings weren’t idiots. They swarmed the Queen’s chambers like bees to a honeypot. I rushed over, but I was too late. The place was already packed with my fawning relatives. My eldest brother, Prince Albert, was on his knees, declaring, “If you support me, Mother, I will formally adopt you as my own. I will build you a grand cathedral and serve you day and night!” My second sister, Princess Diana, shoved him aside. “Albert, your own mother is still alive! What right do you have to be adopted by the Queen?” Then she turned to Beatrice, her face a mask of sincerity. “Mother, my own mother has passed. My devotion to you will surely surpass my brother’s. Please, think of me as your own daughter!” I discreetly shuffled to the side, hoping the Queen wouldn’t have a sudden maternal meltdown and start adopting people on the spot. My own mother was also gone, and she’d had a hard enough time birthing and raising me. I had zero interest in calling some other woman “Mom.” The other princes and princesses were just as shameless. Some promised to make the Queen’s nephew a Duke, others offered to marry her nieces. One even offered to marry her entire… extended family of unmarried women. Thank God. For a second, I thought her eighty-year-old great-aunt was about to have a very eventful year. My siblings prattled on, but the Queen just maintained a serene smile, giving nothing away. Suddenly, her gaze fell on me in the corner. “Ellie,” she called out. “Do you have anything you’d like to say?” “Huh?” Every head in the room swiveled in my direction. My first instinct was to just parrot some generic flattery like everyone else. But faced with their hostile glares, my rebellious streak kicked in. It’s not like I was going to win anyway. I might as well go nuts while we were all still candidates. They couldn’t do anything to me yet. So, with an air of supreme confidence, I announced, “If I become Queen, I’ll set you up with ten gorgeous boy toys to keep you entertained.” 2 The room went dead silent. Then, chaos. Prince Albert shot to his feet, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Eleanor, have you lost your mind? How can you say such a thing to the Queen? It’s an insult!” The others chimed in. “What do you take her for? She’s not some scandalous historical figure who needs a harem of young men!” “Exactly, Ellie! The Queen is devoted to the King! If he heard you say that, you could kiss any chance of the throne goodbye!” A few of my sisters seemed a little less convincing in their outrage. I rolled my eyes. The old man wasn’t exactly a looker to begin with, and now he was a sickly, wrinkling mess. How was he supposed to hold a woman like Beatrice’s attention? Besides, I wasn’t suggesting she start now. But once King Harley was six feet under, she’d be all alone. Wouldn’t ten handsome companions be a comfort? I was sure the old man’s spirit would appreciate the gesture. The Queen covered her face with her sleeve, trying to hide a laugh. When she’d composed herself, she said, “Now, now. Ellie means well. Don’t be so hard on your sister.” She then turned to me, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ellie, no more jokes, now.” “Of course, Mother,” I said with a grin. No one took me seriously, but I had successfully derailed my siblings’ plans. They left in a huff, each one muttering threats as they passed me. “Ellie, you don’t even have a shot. Why are you acting so crazy?” “Just wait until I’m on the throne. You’ll be sorry!” “You? On the throne? Father would give it to Ellie before he gave it to you!” “What did you just say to me?!” Within seconds, they were at each other’s throats again. Mission accomplished. 3 The next morning, the battle resumed in the royal classroom. Our tutor was the brilliant and handsome Julian Croft, a rising star in the court whom the King had appointed to educate his children. He was smooth, never showing favoritism, which made him a key ally to win over. My siblings tried their best. The brainy ones impressed him with eloquent essays and poetry. The less-than-brainy ones tried to bribe him with expensive art and rare books. I was broke and not particularly bright, so I decided my best strategy was to just annoy him to death. If I could make him quit, all their efforts would be for naught. Heh. After class, I was the only one held back. The jealous glares from my siblings could have drilled holes in me. They couldn’t fathom how I’d managed to get such exclusive time with our tutor. Of course they couldn’t. It involved getting my head whacked repeatedly. Julian held a thick bamboo scroll and used it to rhythmically tap my skull. “Ow, ow, ow!” I yelped. He paused, looking thoughtfully at the scroll. “First time I’ve ever heard a scroll cry out.” “I’m sorry, Tutor,” I said, rubbing my head. “I promise, when I’m Queen, I’ll pay attention in class.” Heh, sucker. The first thing I’ll do when I’m Queen is have you executed. Julian sighed. “You becoming Queen would be the greatest insult to my teaching career.” “Tutor, please listen. I’m just so worried about my father’s health, I can’t concentrate.” “If you were truly worried about your father, you wouldn’t have produced a translation like this.” I looked down at my work. The text was a classic proverb: While your parents are alive, do not wander far. If you must, have a clear destination. My translation: Your parents are my hostages. You won’t get far. And even if you do, I have ways of dragging you back. What was wrong with that? The look on his face told me I wasn’t getting his endorsement. My frustration boiled over. I gave him a cold, threatening smile. “Tutor, I suggest you be nicer to me. Otherwise, when I’m Queen, the very first thing I’ll do is make you my personal plaything. And when I’m bored with you, I’ll have you thrown in the dungeon.” Julian’s long eyelashes fluttered. He leaned in close, his voice a whisper by my ear. “And what if I am nicer to you? How will Your Majesty reward me?” He smelled amazing, a scent completely different from the other stuffy courtiers. My mind went a little fuzzy. “I’ll make you my King Consort!” I blurted out. Thwack. Another hit to the head. I whimpered, looking at him pitifully. Yeah, definitely executing him. Julian just smiled his gentle, infuriating smile. “Go copy the Royal Code of Conduct. Ten times.” 4 That afternoon, I left the palace, books in tow. My escort was Captain Marcus Thorne, the head of the Royal Guard. The King, worried about his children assassinating one another, had ordered that a guard escort was mandatory for any royal leaving the palace grounds. This made Marcus, with his control of the military, a very important person. For me, however, who made daily trips to the city’s finest purveyor of trashy romance novels, it was just awkward. It had taken me a month to go from embarrassed to shamelessly proud of my literary tastes. It took Marcus only three days to go from respectful to disgusted. The first day, it was “Your Highness.” By the third, it was “Alright, smut-peddler, had enough yet?” Today, he greeted me with a deadpan expression. “Smut-peddler. I did some recon yesterday. The book you want, Reborn: I Was a Monk in the Royal Palace, is on the first shelf, third row, tenth from the left. Grab it and let’s go.” I hesitated. “But… there are other books I wanted to get…” “Name them.” “My Husband Ran Off With My Bun in the Oven and Gave Birth to Ten Babies.” Marcus’s face twitched. “Third shelf, first row, seventh from the left.” “A Eunuch’s Tale: The Nine-Thousand-Year-Old Virgin’s Conquest.” “Third shelf, sixth row, fifth from the left.” I stared at him, impressed. My first act as Queen would be to appoint him Royal Librarian. At the bookshop, I met up with my two best friends and partners-in-crime: the Prime Minister’s daughter, Clara, and the Grand Tutor’s son, Leo. Under Marcus’s death glare, I quickly made my purchases and we retreated to a nearby tea house. The Prime Minister was backing my third brother. The Grand Tutor was backing my fourth sister. Their delinquent children were backing me. Completely useless. “I really want to be Queen,” I sighed dramatically. “I really want to marry my darling Caspian,” Clara sighed back. “But he’s just an actor…” I couldn’t bear to see her so sad. “Clara, don’t worry. When I’m Queen, I’ll order you two to be married.” “Me too!” Leo chimed in. Clara shot him a suspicious look. “You’re in love with Caspian too?” “No! I’m in love with his co-star, Julian.” That was… also not ideal. But he was looking at me with such hopeful eyes. I couldn’t play favorites. “When I’m Queen, I’ll order you two to be married as well.” Leo dropped to his knees. “Thank you, Your Majesty!” Marcus looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. “I think all these books have rotted your brain.” I suddenly remembered he was there. Everyone gets a prize. “Captain Thorne, is there anyone you have your eye on? I could arrange a marriage for you too.” “There was,” he said grimly. “But then I saw these books.” I guess the Captain was a man of high literary standards. I laughed. “Don’t worry, Captain. I’m quite fond of you. When I’m Queen, I’ll make you my King Consort, and we can read together!” Marcus’s face went through several shades of red, white, and green. He finally settled on green and ground out one word: “Smut-peddler!” 5 I was just joking with my friends, but they took me seriously. They insisted I go see the Royal Seer to pick auspicious dates for their weddings. I was hesitant. The Seer held a special, powerful position in the court. If I was seen consulting him, my siblings might actually think I was a contender for the throne. Which, I mean, I was. I hurried over to the Seer’s temple before it got dark. The Seer himself, a man named Sterling, stopped me at the entrance. “Before you enter, take out what you’re hiding.” I patted myself down. “I’m not carrying any weapons.” Sterling gave me a cool, appraising look. “What you have is more dangerous than any sword.” I pulled out the book from my coat: My Nights of Captive Passion with the Ice-Cold Royal Seer. He didn’t even glance at it. He just turned away. “Burn it.” I reluctantly tossed my beloved book into the brazier. I didn’t get it. What was so dangerous about a book? Finally inside, my first question was, “Master Seer, can you tell me what day would be most auspicious for my coronation?” “Today would be an excellent day for Your Highness to ascend… to the heavens.” That wasn’t the kind of ascending I had in mind! “Fine,” I pressed on. “Then can you tell me when the old man is going to kick the bucket?” Sterling frowned. “Your Highness, the King is your father.” I didn’t say he wasn’t. “Okay, fine. You can’t do that, you can’t do this. Can you at least give me two auspicious dates for a wedding?” “Your Highness, I am the Royal Seer. I only read the heavens for the monarch.” To the dungeon with you! Sterling sat in the courtyard, brewing tea. His profile was elegant, his aura cool and distant. Before he became the Royal Seer, I used to visit him all the time. I’d ask him to tell me when my mother would come back, when my father would remember I existed. He’d done the calculations and told me I was fated for a lonely, difficult childhood, unloved by both parents. I’d thrown a fit and told him he was a terrible fortune-teller. The next day, he was appointed Royal Seer, which just infuriated me more. I sighed. “I’m kidding. But if I made you my King Consort, could you just find me two good dates for our wedding?” His hand, pouring the tea, paused. He stood up abruptly. “Wait here.” He disappeared into his chambers and didn’t return until nightfall. He looked pale and exhausted. He handed me a stack of ten slips of paper. “These are ten auspicious dates for a wedding. Take them. I will continue my calculations tomorrow.” I stared at the stack of dates, bewildered. Okay, now even I’m starting to ship us. Barely two weeks later, the King was fading fast. He summoned all of us to his bedside.

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I’m secretly married to a university professor who rarely cracks a smile. During one of his public lectures, I accidentally broadcast a steamy romance novel from my phone. He was the male lead. I was the author. The resulting uproar nearly blew the roof off the lecture hall. Dr. Miles’s gaze cut through the crowd and landed squarely on me. “My office. After class.” That night, he pinned me against the door, and I was trembling like a leaf. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I’ll never write it again.” He loosened his tie, his voice a low whisper. “Too late. Ten minutes for every word. You do the math.” 1 It was the first open lecture of the new semester. The hall was packed, standing room only. The moment my roommate dragged me inside, my eyes met a cool, impossibly handsome face. My heart stopped. The man stood at the podium in a crisp white shirt, his calm, intelligent eyes looking at me through thin-framed glasses, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he took in my deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Class is about to start,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “Please find a seat.” My roommate grabbed my arm, foiling my escape attempt, and pulled me into the front row. “Let me introduce you,” she whispered excitedly. “Professor Miles. My ultimate crush.” His hands, shuffling papers on the lectern, were just inches away. A simple wedding band gleamed on his ring finger. It was a perfect match for the one hanging on a chain around my neck. The second our eyes met again, I ducked my head, my entire body rigid. Oh, God. Can someone please tell me why my practically-a-stranger husband, who was supposed to be doing research abroad, is suddenly back in the country? Last month, in a drunken fit of madness, I’d sent him a series of progressively thirstier photos in the middle of the night. Dr. Julian Miles, ever the gentleman, had simply pretended he never saw them. When I sobered up, I remembered we barely knew each other. Our marriage was a family arrangement, a convenience. So why in the world was he suddenly here, at my university, as my new physics professor? This was a nightmare. Professor Miles stood straight, his gaze sweeping over my huddled form before that faint smile returned. “Due to some unforeseen circumstances, I will be taking over this physics course for the semester. I look forward to a productive term with all of you.” His voice was like a cool spring breeze, but it brought back a flood of memories that were suddenly attacking me. His faculty position… it was at Ashton University. I could feel his eyes on me, and I shrank further into my seat. Was he really going to fail me just because I’d sent him a few suggestive texts? He said nothing more about it, and the first lecture of the semester began. Sitting directly under his gaze, listening to that cool, melodic voice, I felt a wave of drowsiness wash over me. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was my editor. Talia, your professor character is pure fire. Polish this up, we’re taking it live! Half-asleep, I tapped the file she sent. The screen froze. A few seconds later, a robotic female voice emanated from my phone’s speaker. “In the dead of night, I slipped on Professor Miles’s white shirt and stumbled through his door, crashing into his arms.” “Oh, Professor… please, hold me tighter…” I jolted awake. My phone’s text-to-speech feature was on, broadcasting my R-rated prose to the entire lecture hall. I fumbled to silence it, but it was too late. Oh my God, oh my God, make it stop… The room was dead silent. Professor Miles had stopped talking. His expression was as serene as ever, but I felt his gaze on me like a physical weight, and I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. “I’m so sorry, my phone is broken…” I stammered, tears welling in my eyes. In my panic, I accidentally turned the volume up. The AI voice launched into the next, even spicier scene. The students around me were beet red, frozen in stunned silence. Professor Miles tapped a piece of chalk against the lectern. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound echoed in the suffocating silence. Finally, he spoke to me for the first time since his return. “Thank you for that… contribution. Please see me in my office after class.” 2 The silence in his office was deafening. I sat across from him, the ticking of the clock in the corner marking every second of my agony. Professor Miles was grading papers, his head bowed. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, its warm, golden light filtering through the leaves and falling across his perfectly tailored shirt, casting long, elegant shadows. He hadn’t said a word to me since I’d walked in. He hadn’t even mentioned the novel. Was he going to divorce me for writing fanfiction about him? “Um, Professor, I’m really sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.” He looked up and smiled faintly. “I understand. Artistic expression.” His gentle tone completely disarmed me. I managed a weak smile back. “Right, right… as long as you understand. I’m actually a very conservative person. My editor makes me write those scenes… there aren’t many of them.” The atmosphere seemed to relax. He pulled out a gift bag and placed it on the desk. His voice was polite and warm. “My return was a bit rushed, so I only managed to get you a cashmere scarf. The shirt will have to wait until next time.” Shirt? Professor Miles’s shirt?! I met his gentle gaze and realized he had completely misunderstood. Oh God, he thinks I’m a creep… Just as I was about to try and salvage my reputation, my phone exploded with a flurry of messages from my editor. The notification sounds drew both of our attention. “Does Julian really like doing it in the kitchen?” “That’s a fire hazard. I suggest you change it.” “The office scene is hot, though! Spill water on him, then pounce, use ‘changing clothes’ as an excuse to get him… where do you come up with this stuff?” My head shot up. Professor Miles’s calm gaze was fixed on my phone screen. Then, his eyes slowly lifted to the cup of water I was clutching in my hands. He smiled. “Are you… going to spill it?” A strange, mortifying silence filled the room. Finally, blushing furiously, I managed to choke out, “I would never do that. You have my word.” 3 After leaving his office, Professor Miles drove me to my parents’ house for dinner. They were thrilled he was back and had cooked a feast. I sat in the passenger seat, feeling like my soul had left my body. My editor was trying to comfort me via text. “Relax. He’s a serious academic. You think he has time to read smut on some little writing platform?” I snuck a glance at him. My heart immediately started doing a frantic tap dance against my ribs. He was focused on the traffic, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the steering wheel. The neon lights of the city washed over his handsome profile, painting him in shifting colors. The air in the car suddenly felt very hot. “He probably thinks I’m a total pervert,” I texted. “Well, aren’t you?” she shot back, along with a screenshot of an illustration I had drawn for the story. The caption read: Professor Miles’s Laundry Day. The top comment: “If you know, you know. He’s doing his own laundry because someone made a mess… and he was happy to do it.” “Someone explain?” a newer comment asked. “Go play somewhere else, kid.” I quickly logged onto the site and posted an update. “Taking a short break, guys. The subject has returned. Please, let’s all be cool.” My fans, however, were anything but. “Let’s go, girl! Get this story to #1 so the Professor can see it!” “A happy author means a happy fandom!” “OMG, this is like a live feed! Author, please, live in my phone!” “We’re here. There’s a car behind us,” Miles’s voice pulled me from my phone. “I didn’t write about a car! You’re mistaken!” I blurted out, shoving my phone away. I looked up and saw his baffled expression. I realized he was talking about the rearview mirror. “So,” he asked, a hint of amused resignation in his voice, “what exactly have you been writing?” “…” Kill me now. I was so flustered that I nearly walked into traffic getting out of the car. Miles grabbed my hand to pull me back. The gentle warmth of his skin and the subtle, woody scent of his cologne was like a spark landing in my palm, spreading a dizzying heat through me. Remembering my disastrous physics grades, I said anxiously, “I’ll study really hard. I promise.” He just grunted in response. Fearing he didn’t believe me, I raised my hand as if taking an oath. “I mean it! I’ll be a model student. Please, just don’t tell my parents about my grades.” He must have seen the genuine panic in my eyes because a soft, helpless laugh escaped him. “Alright,” he said. “I won’t.” His gaze made my heart flutter. Before I could respond, my mother’s booming voice came from the front door. “Talia, what is this you posted online? ‘Used to be scared to tell my parents I was dating, now I’m scared to tell my husband’? What is that supposed to mean?” I froze on the spot. I met Miles’s questioning look and blurted out, “My boyfriend is a fan-art character on a website—” I clamped my mouth shut, nearly biting my tongue. It was fan-art of him, and the thirsty comments were still all over it. Thankfully, he didn’t press for details. He just politely greeted my mom, who immediately forgot her anger and ushered him inside. As we walked in, I heard his low, warm chuckle. “I hope dinner tonight isn’t keeping you from your boyfriend.” “…” I am going to die. That night, to prevent him from finding the story, I frantically deleted comments. My readers were having a field day. “Oh ho, the plot thickens.” “Two minutes and another comment is gone. Don’t worry, I took screenshots. Professor, DM me, I’ll send them for free.” I barely tasted my food. When dinner was over and Miles stood up to leave, I finally breathed a sigh of relief. “You two head home,” my mom said with a loving smile. “Drive safe.” I blinked. “Me too?” “You’re married. If you don’t go home with your husband, where else would you go?” I turned and saw Miles standing by the door, holding my coat, waiting for me. My face went pale. This was a lamb walking willingly into the lion’s den. And so, I was brought to his home. After we’d signed the papers, he’d left for his research fellowship abroad. This was the first night we would ever spend alone together. My heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I stood in the doorway like an ostrich, refusing to go any further. “The master bedroom is that way. Your clothes are in the closet. You can shower first.” I found myself staring at the alluring line of his waist as he bent down to take off his shoes. “So… am I showering alone?” I asked, my face burning. In the dim light, his gaze found mine. “You’re certainly… direct.” I snapped back to my senses and scurried into the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. My whole body felt like it was boiling. I could die of embarrassment. After my shower, I furiously texted my friends. “How do you make a man fall hopelessly in love with you?” My roommate replied instantly: “Talia! Look at you go! Already staying out all night, huh? And you’re still thinking about chasing guys?” They sent me a link to a post on the university’s online forum. My “glorious” moment in the lecture hall had gone viral. Someone had uploaded the video. It already had thousands of comments. “HOLY CRAP, TALIA VANCE IS LADY T! You can find her new story, My Wild Days with Professor Miles, on the Crimson Quill platform!” “Are she and the professor for real? Is this, like, a memoir?” “No way! That’s Julian Miles! Ashton’s untouchable Ice King! His failure rate is insane; they call him the Gentle Blade. Talia’s screwed for finals.” “Noooo, my professor’s reputation! He has such a pure, ascetic face, there’s no way he’s like that in private…” My personal social media accounts had been blown up. People were demanding an explanation. Worse, they were flooding Professor Miles’s official university profile page. “Professor Miles, you should sue her. For real.” “Look at what she wrote about you! (See attached screenshot)” Oh god, they were posting excerpts of my story and the fan-art directly on his page. I could feel a heart attack coming on. It was over. There was no hiding it now. Then, Chloe, the most popular girl in my year, chimed in. “But… isn’t Professor Miles married?” She posted a photo. A clear shot of his hand, with the wedding band unmistakable on his ring finger. Chloe added: “I know his wife. I just spoke with her tonight. My cousin said she had no idea about any of this.” The gossip mill went into overdrive. “Wait, you call her your cousin?” “Yes, we’re very close. She said she hopes Talia Vance will stop fantasizing about her husband. It’s making her very uncomfortable.” “By the way, she’s flying back to the States soon. She said she’d like to treat everyone to dinner to thank them for their support.” The tide of public opinion turned in an instant. “Does anyone know this Talia girl? Tell her to stop embarrassing the rest of us.” “The real wife is coming back. The delulu fanfic girl must be terrified now, lol.” Her words were so confident, for a second, I actually doubted myself. Did I dream up my own marriage? I pulled up the digital copy of our marriage certificate on my phone and stared at it. A handsome man, a beautiful woman. A match made in heaven. Even if God himself descended, I was still Julian Miles’s wife. 4 The internet mob was terrifyingly efficient. Within minutes, Professor Miles’s profile page was wallpapered with my writing and drawings. The thought of him seeing it all made me want to spontaneously combust. I had to get to his phone and delete everything before he saw it. Half an hour later, I pushed open his study door, my heart pounding. The room was quiet. He was sitting at his desk, the soft glow from his laptop screen illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He looked up at the sound, his brow furrowing slightly when he saw me standing there, barefoot. “Still awake?” As I got closer, he finally took in my attire—one of his white button-down shirts. Oh god, this looked less like a stealth mission and more like a seduction attempt. A hot blush flooded my face. His gaze traveled slowly down from my collarbone, over my waist, down my thighs, before finally meeting my crimson face. “Talia,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “What is this?” He set his pen down on the desk with a soft click. The small sound sent a shiver down my spine. My legs were shaking. I started babbling nonsense. “I… I was cold. Just looking for something to wear…” He leaned back in his chair, a half-smile playing on his lips. “This is a study,” he reminded me, his tone laced with amusement. My eyes locked onto his phone, sitting on the corner of the desk. Steeling myself, I swung my leg over and sat on the desk, right in front of him. I managed to snatch the phone. In doing so, I blocked the light from his small desk lamp. His face was instantly plunged into shadow, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, his voice, now husky and deep, drifted out of the darkness. “Talia, you are currently sitting on your physics homework.” “Do you have any idea what this behavior constitutes?” I held my breath, planting a foot on his thigh for balance. “Um, what? I’m just…” In a flash, he was on his feet, his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the desk. Click. He turned off the lamp. Darkness swallowed the room whole. I was enveloped in that woody scent, and before I could react, a strong hand curved around my waist. His voice was a hot breath against my ear. “You’re showing contempt for classroom decorum.” “And disrespecting your professor.” “And, you’ve managed to get your own homework wet.” “I have never had such a difficult student.” There was a hint of censure in his cool tone now. My body went limp. I rested my forehead against his shoulder, on the verge of crying from pure shame. “I’m sorry, Professor…” “I don’t accept apologies. Look at me.” The command was absolute. The moment I lifted my head, his mouth was on mine. Fireworks exploded behind my eyes. My hands scrabbled uselessly at his shirt as I surrendered completely to his aggressive conquest. In the darkness, he paused, his voice laced with a helpless amusement. “You really do have a thing for my shirts, don’t you?” My breathing was ragged, my skin on fire. I was so overwhelmed I thought I was going to pass out. I had pushed his phone aside during the kiss. Suddenly, the screen lit up, a blinding notification cutting through the darkness.

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Eight months pregnant, and I was at the hospital alone for a check-up. As I passed a park bench, I saw my husband, Vincent, who was supposed to be on an overseas business trip. He was kneeling, gently massaging the ankle of his childhood sweetheart, Stella. Vincent, always a man of few words, was now murmuring endless reassurances, making promises to soothe Stella’s petty pouting, letting none of her complaints fall on deaf ears. The sweet nothings I’d never heard from him made her giggle coquettishly. The Vincent I saw then was a stranger, a completely different person from the man I knew. This time, I didn’t collapse. I didn’t rush forward screaming and shouting like I used to. Instead, I slipped the wedding ring from my finger and tossed it onto the side of the road. In the third year of our marriage, I decided I wanted a divorce. 1 It was three in the morning when Vincent finally came home. He froze for a second when he saw me sitting on the sofa, then walked over, the faint scent of another woman’s perfume still clinging to him. “Why are you still up so late? Is the baby kicking up a fuss?” I shook my head and pushed the divorce papers across the coffee table toward him. “Let’s get a divorce.” Vincent let out a soft, weary sigh. He spoke with the casual, placating tone one might use with a child. “Oh, I see. Don’t you think it’s time for bed?” I unlocked my phone, pulled up the photo I’d taken that afternoon, and held it in front of his face. “I saw everything.” He paused for a fraction of a second, his expression unchanging, a familiar look of weary resignation settling on his features—the look that said I was overthinking things, as always. “I just see her as a sister.” With that, he sat down on the sofa opposite me, calmly waiting for the storm to break. He was prepared for the usual scene: me, hysterical and relentless, interrogating him, cornering him, demanding an answer he would never give. He would just sit there, silent, letting me unleash my fury, letting me smash things around the house until I collapsed onto the floor, exhausted. Then, he would shatter my remaining strength with a single, dismissive phrase. “Don’t be dramatic.” He would methodically clean up the chaos I’d created, replacing every broken object with an identical new one, putting everything back in its place. He would help me up, guide me back to our room, and, completely unfazed, even bring me a glass of water. “You must be tired. Have some water. It’ll soothe your throat.” Looking at Vincent’s impassive face, a profound exhaustion washed over me. It all felt so pointless. My emotional turmoil was just a performance to him, and in his eyes, I was no different from a madwoman. The eight-month belly was a heavy, leaden weight, and my legs were swollen and stiff. I calmly pushed myself up from the sofa and presented the signed divorce papers to him again. “Sign it.” My composure seemed to catch him off guard. He pinched the bridge of his nose, then finally relented with a condescending smirk. “Who put you up to this? Playing for such high stakes this time? Aren’t you afraid I’ll actually walk away?” “Fine, I’ll sign. Then you go to bed. Remember the baby.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “We have to go to my parents’ place in a few days. I’ll come and pick you up then.” I knew he wasn’t taking the divorce seriously. He thought that with me being eight months pregnant, an abortion was out of the question. To him, this was just a more sophisticated tantrum than smashing vases. Signing a piece of paper meant nothing; it was just a way to placate me. He scrawled his name with the practiced ease of someone signing a trivial document—messy and indifferent. After signing, he even noticed me struggling to stand and came over to massage my cramping legs, cooing at the baby in my belly. But this time, I was serious. 2 Everyone said I’d married a wonderful man. Mature, stable, and endlessly patient with all my moods. A rising star in the business world with a brilliant future, he was the perfect match for a pampered girl like me. And Vincent played the part perfectly. When we first married, I tried to be the perfect wife. I, who had never cooked a day in my life, tried to make him a meal and nearly burned the kitchen down. As I stood there crying in fear, Vincent came home. He said nothing, just quietly cleaned up the mess. “We have a housekeeper. Just tell her what you want to eat.” The dish I had painstakingly prepared was unceremoniously dumped in the trash. Whenever I clumsily messed something up, whenever I was heartbroken and falling apart, there was no comfort. My feelings were ignored, though he always efficiently fixed the problem. Then he would say: “Crying over something so small is pointless.” I thought that was normal. I thought I was just too clumsy, too sensitive. During my pregnancy, I couldn’t keep anything down. Morning sickness was an all-day affair. The constant nausea and discomfort, a double torment, made my temper increasingly volatile. I’d break down over the smallest things or burst into tears when I caught the scent of an unfamiliar perfume on his clothes. Vincent would just watch. Sometimes, he’d shut me in a room and let me scream and rage, never offering an explanation or a defense. “Pregnant women are sensitive. You’re overthinking it.” And yet, in his own way, he was good to me. He would drive four hours in the middle of the night to get me the specific cream-filled donuts I was craving. He would stand in line for five hours just to buy my favorite cake. He always remembered my cycle, ready with a cup of hot tea and a heating pad. Piece by piece, these gestures built a picture of a perfect, problem-solving husband. But my emotions, never acknowledged, never soothed, were like nails hammered into a board; the slightest touch sent a fresh wave of pain through me, leaving behind a scarred and splintered surface. Looking back on our three years of marriage, I realized I’d become a caricature of a bitter, nagging wife. 3 I packed a bag and went to my best friend’s place. Anna’s jaw dropped when she saw me on her doorstep, pregnant and hauling a suitcase. “You and Vincent had a fight?” she asked, her expression pure disbelief. “No way. It takes two to argue, and Vincent is basically a brick wall. I don’t believe it.” Before I could answer, a small, sweet-smelling bundle of energy launched herself at me. Anna’s four-year-old daughter, Lily, beamed up at me. “Auntie Aria, I missed you so much!” I smiled and stroked her hair. “See? Auntie came to visit you.” Anna gently pulled her daughter back. “You little rascal, be careful! Auntie has a baby in her tummy. Go get her a glass of water.” Watching Lily’s vibrant energy, I instinctively cradled my belly. A faint flutter, a tiny movement, answered my touch. I wondered if my baby would be just like her. I sat down, catching my breath, and got straight to the point. “I got a divorce.” Anna choked on her water. “A divorce? You? I don’t believe it.” “Vincent is so good to you! He remembers every little thing, drives across the state for your cravings, even lets you get away with murder at his company.” “And you,” she continued, “you’re head over heels for him. You analyze every little thing he does, get lost in your thoughts, cry yourself to sleep at the slightest hint of trouble.” “If you two could get a divorce, I’d give up on love entirely.” A tired smile touched my lips. “But that’s not what I wanted. He could handle any problem, but he could never handle my emotions.” “What he felt for me… it wasn’t love. It was a sense of duty.” Anna was speechless, her face etched with concern. “What about the baby? You want your child to be born without a father?” I bit my lip, feeling a wave of uncertainty as my hand went to my stomach again. Seeing my expression, Anna sighed in resignation. “Alright, forget it. Just get some rest for now.” I was drifting in a hazy sleep when a knock on the door startled me awake. A glance at the clock showed it was three in the morning. I opened the door to find Vincent standing there. He was holding a bag. “You didn’t tell me you were staying at a friend’s. You forgot your usual toiletries, and I brought them over, worried you wouldn’t be comfortable. I’ll come back to take you home in a few days.” He then turned to Anna, who had appeared silently behind me. “Pregnant women can be like that,” he said, his tone dripping with false apology. “Please bear with her. I really appreciate you looking after her.” I stared at him. He was so considerate, even bringing a gift for Anna. But he never once asked me why I had left. He just had his one-size-fits-all explanation: she’s pregnant, she’s hormonal, she’s irrational. As Vincent drove away, the passenger-side window rolled down. In the dim glow of the streetlights, I saw her. Stella’s profile. Three in the morning. A man and a woman, alone. A cold, humorless laugh escaped my lips. My heart felt surprisingly calm. So this is what it feels like to be completely numb. If all those unresolved emotions were the fuse, his infidelity was the final, crushing weight that made me certain: I had to get a divorce. 4 The first time I suspected Vincent was cheating was in our second year of marriage, at his company’s annual gala. That night, a torrential downpour swept through the city. I was late because I had been visiting my mother’s grave. Vincent was a man of rigid principles. Punctuality was paramount. So, he left me behind and went to the event by himself. The cemetery was in a remote area. I was soaked to the bone after waiting half an hour in the rain before a car finally stopped for me. By the time I arrived, the gala had already been underway for thirty minutes. I searched everywhere for Vincent but couldn’t find him. I called his assistant, whose voice was hesitant and stammering. “Mr. Blackwood ran into Ms. Stella on the way… she wanted to stop for bubble tea… He’ll probably be here in another half hour.” I waited. Finally, I saw them. Vincent and Stella, arm in arm, strolling into the grand hall. Rage erupted in me. I stormed over, tore Stella away from him, and grabbed the front of his suit jacket. My eyes were red with fury as I confronted him in front of everyone. “So you left me behind to go pick her up?” “Vincent, I am your wife!” Whispers rippled through the crowd. The accusations flew. Vincent, publicly humiliated, didn’t even flinch. Only after I had vented my rage did he speak, his voice smooth and placating. “Aria, Stella is like a sister to me. We grew up together.” He reached for my hand, but I slapped it away. With a sigh of theatrical helplessness, he pulled me into his arms. “My dear wife, you always misunderstand. Isn’t my devotion to you enough? What more do you want from me? Should I tear my heart out for you to see?” He looked out at the guests, his eyes filled with a look of indulgent apology, as if to say, forgive my wife, she has a bit of a temper. The onlookers chuckled knowingly. They saw me as the spoiled princess and him as the doting, world-class husband. Stella chimed in, her voice dripping with innocence. “Aria, please don’t misunderstand. There’s nothing between Vincent and me. If something were going to happen, it would have happened years ago.” I was half-convinced, calmed by Vincent’s gentle reassurances. But the fact that he had broken his own rigid rules for Stella left a deep unease in my heart. It was the first time I had ever seen him bend his principles for anyone. Later, I found out I was pregnant. Vincent’s attitude towards me didn’t change; if anything, he became even more attentive. I let the incident go, but life had another blow waiting for me. I accidentally saw his chat history with Stella on his computer. Their conversation was a constant stream of messages, back and forth, about everything from a stray dog on the street to planning her upcoming birthday. Their chat window was full, vibrant, and alive. I slumped in the chair and opened my chat with him. A month’s worth of my one-sided chatter, my attempts to connect, was met with his terse replies. “Okay.” “Fine.” “Got it.” I had always thought Vincent was just a man of few words. I never realized he saved his words, his stories, and his comfort for someone else. When I brought him lunch at his office, I discovered Stella had become his personal assistant. Vincent seemed rushed when he came out to meet me. As he leaned in, I saw it—a smudge of lipstick on his collar. I don’t remember how I got out of there. All I recall is the image of the overturned lunchbox and Stella crying in Vincent’s arms. It was the first time I had ever seen him comfort someone. He was so gentle, so patient. But I was already pregnant. I didn’t want my child to grow up in a broken home. I didn’t want my child to be without a father. Through countless nights, awake with pain and crying until my pillow was soaked, my spirit completely crumbled. I kept asking myself, what is the point of marriage? Is this what love is supposed to look like? But for the sake of my child, I swallowed the bitter pill and carried on.

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On my birthday, my wife’s childhood sweetheart crashed the party, holding a child. He kicked over the table in front of me, sending champagne flutes and plates scattering across the floor. “Jenna,” he roared, “give us an answer, me and my son. How much longer are you going to make us wait?” It was then that I learned the truth. My wife, who claimed to be allergic to male proteins, had secretly had a child with him. No wonder she never let me touch her. No wonder she refused to have a baby with me. She already had one, and now, he had come knocking. “Jenna, you’re going to explain yourself today, or so help me God. Why did you do this to me?” Jenna’s brow furrowed, but her tone was unapologetic. “It’s my body. I’ll have a child with whomever I please. This is the 21st century. How can anyone still be so backward?” I laughed, a cold, sharp sound, and slapped her across the face. “This is not a burden I will bear. We’re calling a lawyer. Now. We’re drawing up divorce papers.” 1 A hush fell over the room. Every guest held their breath, their eyes fixed on the unfolding drama. Leo, my wife’s lover, jabbed a finger in my face, his voice raw. “You listen to me, Mark. Jenna doesn’t love you. She has always loved me!” “She’s not allergic to anything! That was just an excuse to keep you away from her!” “You’re the one who cheated! You manipulated her father, forced her to marry you!” “You tore us apart! You condemned us to this half-life, leaving Jenna miserable and my son without a mother in the daylight. Do you have any idea how much he’s suffered? Have any of you ever been parents? Do you know what it’s like for a child to grow up without their mother?” His voice boomed through the banquet hall. I saw my mother clutch her chest, her face pale. She tried to speak, to tell them it wasn’t true, but the pain was too much. I saw her distress, and a wave of panic and frustration washed over me. After Leo’s tirade, the guests turned on me, their eyes filled with contempt. I didn’t understand. I was the husband. My wife had a child with another man, and I was the one being judged? “I can’t believe this is the real story. He broke up two people in love.” “How tragic. No wonder they had to sneak around.” “So Mark isn’t the man we thought he was. He’s a monster.” “What a hypocrite. All that charity work he does, probably just to wash away the guilt from his dirty secrets.” Dirty secrets? My vision went red. “What crime did I commit?” I roared at them. “Did I murder someone? Did I burn down your houses?” My outburst silenced them, but only for a moment. I turned back to Jenna, to the face that had lied to me for years, and felt nothing but weariness. “Jenna, tell them. Tell them the real reason I married you.” She hesitated, her eyes darting between me and Leo. The child in his arms began to cry, and her resolve crumbled. She rushed over and took the boy from him. Seeing them together, the rage in my chest burned hotter. I had once believed that child was a distant relative’s. When Jenna had brought him home, asking me to help care for him, my mother and I had treated him like a grandson. And now, I was being told this boy, whom I had cherished, was the product of my wife’s affair. The humiliation was a wound that would never heal. To protect Leo, to shield her son, Jenna looked at me with cold indifference. “You’re the one who slandered Leo to my father,” she said, her voice flat. “That’s why my dad forced me to marry you.” 2 Jenna had no idea the damage her words would cause. Suddenly, all the blame was on me. I was the villain. “What a sham. This party is a joke!” “Let’s tear this place apart! Teach him a lesson!” The room descended into chaos. I saw Leo signal to a few of his friends, who started flipping tables. Soon, others joined in, a wave of destruction sweeping through the hall. My mother, struggling against the pain in her chest, forced herself to stand. “Stop this! All of you!” But no one listened. They were on Leo’s side, eager to see me punished. I lunged toward Jenna, but Leo stepped in front of her, his voice booming. “What do you think you’re doing, Mark?” “Thinking of hitting her to vent your anger? Not while I’m here!” “You’ll have to go through me first. You’ll have to kill me and step over my dead body to get to her!” His dramatic declaration earned him a round of applause. “Now that’s a real man,” someone shouted. “A real man?” I laughed, the sound bitter and incredulous. I was the victim here, yet I was being treated like the home-wrecker. “Step over your dead body?” I challenged. “Who the hell do you think you are? Have I laid a hand on anyone? Has anyone seen me raise a fist?” Silence. “I’m telling you, Leo, slander is a crime. And you, Jenna—was I the one who forced this marriage, or was it your family who came to me, begging for help?” Before I could finish, the boy, clearly coached by Leo, ran over to my mother, pretending to help her. Then, he dramatically threw himself to the ground. “Grandma!” he wailed. “I was just trying to help you because you looked like you were in pain! I’m sorry! It’s all my fault and Daddy’s fault for hurting you!” Then he turned on her. “But I’m innocent! Why did you pinch me and push me down?” My mother’s eyes widened in disbelief. This child she had doted on, this boy she had treated as her own grandson, was a practiced liar. Before she could utter a word of defense, the crowd lost control. They screamed insults at us, someone threw a centerpiece at my mother, calling her a shameless old woman. She had never endured such humiliation. The shock was too much. She collapsed. Panic seized me. I scooped her into my arms, trying to fight my way through the mob to get her to a hospital. But they blocked my path, accusing her of faking it to escape. I yelled for security, but as they tried to clear a path, guests started recording, twisting the scene to make us look like the aggressors. Within minutes, the videos were online, and a storm of digital hatred was unleashed upon me. 3 I had no time to deal with the online mob. I told my assistant to handle it. As my mother was rushed into the emergency room, I got a video call from Jenna. “Mark, is your mom okay?” After all these years of marriage, she had never once called her “our mom.” What truly enraged me was her background. She wasn’t at home. On the wall behind her hung a family portrait: Leo, Jenna, and the boy, smiling together. She noticed my gaze and quickly moved to block the picture. “Mark, listen to me. What I said at the party… I didn’t mean it.” “I thought I didn’t love you, but after all these years… I do have feelings for you.” “Can you understand? It’s all happened. You just have to accept it…” “I will not accept it! If you didn’t love me, why did you propose? Why did you wait until after we were married to feed me that ridiculous lie about being allergic to male proteins?” “And me? I loved you, so I gave in to your every whim. My own mother was desperate for a grandchild, but I never even mentioned it in front of you, afraid it would make you feel bad.” “And all that time, you were having a child with Leo, and then you let him crash my birthday party and destroy my life!” “Jenna, you’ve gone too far!” My accusations hardened her expression. “Because I loved Leo!” she screamed. “My family’s company was on the verge of bankruptcy! Marrying you was the only way to get the capital to save it!” “Mark, what’s done is done! What more do you want?” Her words extinguished the last flicker of affection I had for her. If she had shown even a shred of remorse, a hint of an apology, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so ruthless in the days to come. “I’ll have my lawyer send you the divorce papers. Be ready to sign them.” I hung up before she could respond. A few moments later, a video file from Leo appeared on my phone. My anger, which I thought had peaked, surged anew. As if the public humiliation wasn’t enough. I forced myself to watch. Jenna, who had always been so frigid with me, was a different woman with him. The things they did, the intimacy they shared… it was a level of passion I had never known. She was the teacher, he was the student. The scenes were so graphic, so explicit, that my hatred for her solidified into something cold and permanent. She had played me for a fool, cheating on me while I endured the whispers and rumors about my supposed infertility. Then came a voice message from Leo, dripping with arrogant satisfaction. “Hahaha, see that? Jenna’s not allergic to men, Mark. She’s just allergic to you. We have a child, after all.” “And let me tell you something else. For the past three years, every night, she would come to me before going home to you. After a round with me, of course she had no interest in you. It was easy to make you believe her little story.” “Oh, and one more thing. She’s promised to give our son her entire inheritance.” His words didn’t fuel my anger anymore. Instead, a chilling, exhilarating desire for revenge took its place.

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Barely a month into freshman year, and this girl from my Intro to Lit class hands me a box of Godiva chocolates and asks me to grab lunch at the dining hall. Under the general principle of “there’s no such thing as a free lunch,” and not really looking to get into anything, I brought the chocolates with me, planning to give them back to her face-to-face. The dining hall wasn’t too packed. She shoved her tray into my hands. “You get the food, I’ll go save us a table. I’ll have the mac and cheese, some green beans, and the beer-braised chicken. Oh, and a bowl of chili.” My roommate, trailing behind me, couldn’t stop laughing. Was he jealous? Nah, probably not. The girl looked like she could hold her own, and a single serving of mac and cheese wasn’t going to cut it. I got two double portions of everything and told my roommate to find his own table with our other buddies. I’d drop off the food and the chocolates, and then join them. She’d found a table in the furthest, darkest corner of the hall and was waving at me like I was a ship coming into port. “You’re so nice! It’s such a blessing to have you as a classmate,” she said, gesturing for me to sit across from her. I pointed back toward my roommates. “Here’s your chocolate back. I didn’t really do anything to deserve it. My friends are waiting for me, so, uh, enjoy your meal.” “Wait!” She stuck her fork out to block my path. “Don’t go. I need to talk to you about something. Just sit, eat with me. You see your roommates every day, right?” I glanced over at my friends. They were definitely watching us. “It’s really important,” she insisted. “Seriously. If you want, I can go tell your roommates to let you off the hook for a bit.” I turned back around, and my roommates were already inhaling their food like a pack of wolves, giving me a thumbs-up with their mouths full before grabbing their trays and bolting. I swear, those guys. Did they really think I was on a date? “Fine,” I said, putting my tray down. “What’s up?” We were new freshmen. Even though we were in the same class, I’d known her for maybe three weeks. I couldn’t even remember her name. “You’re from around here, right? A local?” she asked, already digging in. “Yeah, I am.” “That’s so awesome. You can go home on weekends, eat home-cooked meals, sleep in your own bed. You’re so lucky.” “It’s alright, I guess. When you grow up in a city, you kind of take it for granted. I’m actually jealous of you guys who got to go away for college.” In the time it took to say that, I was halfway through my food. The dining hall was buzzing with people, and I really didn’t want any professors or classmates to get the wrong idea—that I was some desperate guy trying to lock down a girlfriend the second I got to campus. “And your family has an empty condo near campus, right?” “Huh? How did you know that?” “You posted it yourself, silly.” Her question, dropped so casually, felt weird. Then it hit me. Three years ago, to motivate me to study for the SATs, my dad bought a condo right near this university. He made a bet with me: if I got in, the place was mine. Junior year of high school, when the building was finished, I went to check it out. It was nice, with a killer view overlooking the campus football field. I got a little full of myself and posted a ridiculously cocky picture on Instagram with a caption like, “Three-year wager, one year to go. Soon, this view and this crib will be mine. Not that I’m greedy, I just hate to lose.” I cringed. “Oh god, that. I was just messing around. Forgot to delete it.” She chuckled. “I thought it was cool. You’re a good writer. You’re lucky, your family must be well-off to buy you a whole new place. Are you gonna move out of the dorms? I saw from the pictures it’s super close to the east gate.” “No, no way. I’m definitely staying in the dorm. It’s freshman year, you don’t just move off-campus unless you’re, like, moving in with a partner or something. We’re not even sure what we’re doing with the place. My parents think it’s too far for them, so we might just sell it after I graduate. Haven’t really thought about it.” “Well, that’s perfect! You can do me a small favor, then.” I was pretty much done eating, ready to make my escape. “Here’s the thing,” she said, putting down her fork and looking me straight in the eye. “My dad’s been sick for a while. He has to come into the city for hospital treatments all the time. We live in a small town a few hours away, and just the bus ride back and forth takes up the whole day. It’s exhausting. We can’t afford to keep him in the hospital for long stretches, and renting a place in the city is just too expensive. It breaks my heart seeing my parents, at their age, go through that hell just to get to the hospital. That’s why I worked my ass off to get into this school…” We don’t have any doctors in my family. Maybe she wanted me to ask my dad to pull some strings, find a specialist? “…and since you have an empty condo you’re not even using, you could just let us use it. For my dad, for when he has his treatments. It would save them the trip, and all that money could go towards his medical bills instead. Don’t worry about utilities and stuff, we’d cover that. I know those units come furnished, but it’s probably missing some things. We can figure that out. We could even pitch in for some furniture, but it has to be good stuff, you know, no formaldehyde. It’s bad for you, especially for someone who’s already sick…” It took a second, but I finally understood what she was saying. And at the same time, I understood nothing at all. “His next treatment is this Saturday,” she continued, “so I can take you with me to pick him up, and then we can swing by the condo to see what we need to buy. We can make a list together.” The words just fell out of my mouth. “Are you… serious? Is this a joke?” She looked confused. “What do you mean? Who’s joking?” “You. I’m not hearing things, am I? You want me to just… give you my family’s condo for your dad to live in?” “Yeah. Did I not explain it clearly? If he has a place to stay here, he won’t have to take that awful bus ride every week. It’s tiring and a waste of money. I could focus on my studies instead of constantly taking days off. It saves money, time, energy, and a whole lot of anxiety. What’s not to like?” She asked it so simply that for a second, I didn’t know how to respond. What’s not to like? I mean, yeah, it sounded great. For her and her dad. It seemed like the only person she hadn’t considered was the actual owner of the condo. “So it’s settled!” She flashed a brilliant smile, her eyes curving into crescents. It was a nice smile, but there was no way in hell I was agreeing to this. Considering we were in the same class and had four more years together, I went for the gentle approach. “Look, it’s my parents’ place. I’d have to ask them. I’ll let you know.” “Great! It’s a deal! Oh, and at the freshman mixer tonight, I’m sitting with you.” “We’ll see what the RAs have planned,” I said, grabbing my tray. “I’m done. I gotta go. You take your time.” I practically ran out of there. I sprinted back to my dorm room to find my roommates giving me shit. One said I was moving too fast, another said I wasn’t picky. With a grim look on my face, I repeated the girl’s entire proposal. I was met with four slack-jawed stares. The funniest part? None of the five of us could remember her name. “So, are you actually going to ask your parents?” my roommate Sam asked. “Of course not! What would I even say? They’d think I got a girl pregnant. In a couple of days, I’ll just tell her they said no, that they already rented it out.” “A couple of days?” Mark, my roommate from Jersey, chimed in. “She said she’s sitting with you tonight. She’s gonna want an answer tonight.” “Fine. I’ll tell her no tonight. Better to rip the band-aid off.” The event that evening was a mixer for our entire department—four different freshman classes, over a hundred people. The RAs said it was about building unity for future stuff like intramural sports and student government events. Basically, it was a bunch of forced icebreakers and cheesy games. At 7 PM, my roommates and I walked into the lecture hall. It was already half-full and buzzing with noise. The first thing I saw was her, waving frantically from the front rows. My stomach dropped. I pretended I didn’t see her and shuffled with my friends towards the back, grabbing seats in the corner. But she was relentless. She got up and marched over, calling out my name. “Liam! Didn’t you hear me calling you?” “Sorry,” I mumbled, embarrassed. “It’s loud in here, I didn’t see you.” “Come on, sit with me.” “Nah, we’re all sitting together. A dorm thing.” She glared at my four roommates, clearly annoyed. After a beat, she snapped, “Well, can one of you guys move? Don’t you have any social awareness?” Mark scoffed. “There are tons of empty seats. Why do you have to squeeze in here with us? Who even are you?” “We’re in the same class! Liam and I are good friends. What’s wrong with wanting to sit together?” Mark actually laughed out loud. “Good friends? School just started. You guys became ‘good friends’ that fast? Damn, that’s efficient. When are you gonna introduce us to some ‘good friends’?” He was from Jersey; subtlety wasn’t his thing. I quickly jumped in. “It’s about to start. You should probably sit with your roommates. It looks like everyone’s sticking with their own floors.” She thought for a moment. “Fine. But I have a surprise for you later.” She went back to the front. Mark leaned over. “A surprise? You sure you didn’t get her pregnant?” I shot him a look that could kill. The mixer started. The RAs had us do some lame team-building exercises. None of us were really into it. Until that girl walked up to the stage. “Hi everyone, my name is Chloe, and I’m from Section One. I’m going to recite a poem for you all, Maya Angelou’s ‘Still I Rise.’” She even had background music playing from her phone. “You may write me down in history, with your bitter, twisted lies, you may trod me in the very dirt, but still, like dust, I’ll rise…” So her name was Chloe. It rang a faint bell from the first day’s introductions. “…Leaving behind nights of terror and fear, I rise. Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear, I rise.” The room broke into applause. To be fair, she was a pretty good public speaker. When the clapping died down, Chloe didn’t leave the stage. She continued, “I want to dedicate this poem to a classmate of mine. Someone who, like a ray of sunshine, has given me warmth and hope.” A collective “Ooooooh” rippled through the lecture hall. You could practically smell the gossip brewing. “You might not know this, but I come from a low-income family. My father is sick, and my mother has worked her fingers to the bone to keep our family afloat. I swore to myself that I would study hard, get into college, and find a way to help my dad get better, to give my mom a break.” The mood in the room suddenly turned serious. “For his treatments, my dad has to come to the city hospital constantly. Sometimes four or five times a month. Every time, he drags his exhausted body onto a stuffy Greyhound bus for a three-hour ride, all because he wants a chance to live. I was starting to lose hope. I felt like I was just watching him get worn down by this endless cycle of pain.” A few girls in the audience were quietly wiping away tears. “And then he came along,” she said, her voice filled with emotion. “When I was just a new student, lost and overwhelmed, he extended a hand as warm as the spring sun. He told me he would lend me his family’s condo, so my dad could stay here in the city, so that three-hour journey could become a short walk. Classmates, this is his family’s new condo. A place no one has ever lived in. How can someone be so kind? So unable to bear witness to the suffering of others? He is my ray of hope. My classmate, Liam!” The lecture hall erupted in applause. Over a hundred pairs of eyes turned to stare at me. Their expressions were a mix of admiration, awe, and maybe something else. I was frozen in my corner, my mind a total blank. My parents divorced when I was a kid and got back together a few years later. It sounds fine, but it made me way more sensitive than other kids. I’m an easy-going guy. I can let things slide. But I will not be walked all over. The head RA smiled. “Liam, why don’t you say a few words?” I could hear girls whispering nearby. “Is he going to confess his feelings?” “Right here? At a freshman mixer? That’s bold.” “In front of the RA and everything. Wow, I must be getting old.” Under the weight of all those expectant stares, I stood up. Facing a teary-eyed Chloe, I spoke clearly and loudly. “You don’t have to thank me. I never said you could use the condo, and I’m not going to.” The chatter in the room died instantly. Every head whipped from me back to Chloe. She looked like she’d been physically struck. She stumbled back a step, grabbing the podium for support. “W-why?” she stammered, tears streaming down her face. “There is no why,” I said. “It’s just not appropriate.” “What’s not appropriate? What?! Tell me what’s not appropriate!” she suddenly shrieked. “First, we’re just classmates who met three weeks ago. When you asked me, I didn’t even remember your name. Why would I lend a brand-new condo to a stranger? Second, you said it’s for your sick father. That makes it even more impossible. Not even my closest relatives would ask for something like that.” “But—” “That’s enough!” The RA cut us off. “You two can discuss this privately. Chloe, please take your seat.” Chloe didn’t move. After a long moment, she covered her face with her hands and ran out of the lecture hall. It was so messed up. It was like I was the one who had bullied her and gone back on my word. Thankfully, the mixer ended soon after. I wasn’t in the mood to stick around anyway. Back in the dorm, I got a call from the RA. She didn’t say much, just asked for my side of the story. After I hung up, my roommates held up their phones. “Dude,” Mark said. “You’re getting put on blast.” It was a new post on the university’s YikYak. A freshly made anonymous account was telling a story about being a freshman who was manipulated by a male classmate. The post claimed this guy had been hitting on her since orientation, bragging about how his family was local and had money and property. He allegedly said if she’d be his girlfriend, he’d do anything for her. So she asked if he could help rent a cheap place near the hospital for her sick father. And that’s when he supposedly turned on her and showed his true colors. The post ended with a long, flowery paragraph about her own resilience. Nothing in the post explicitly connected to me. “Keep scrolling,” Sam said. “Check the replies.” I scrolled down. Another anonymous user had replied: “OMG are you talking about Liam from the English department?” The original poster replied with a smirking emoji. Another reply: “I heard the English dept mixer got shut down early tonight bc of some drama with a guy named Liam.” The OP replied: “Pls don’t spread this around.” All the accounts were brand new. A blind man could see it was a coordinated attack. I screenshotted everything and sent it to my RA, telling her I was going to file a report with campus police for harassment. She called me back immediately, telling me not to be impulsive and that she would handle it. Half an hour later, the YikYak post was gone. The RA then sent a message to our class GroupMe: “Regarding the small incident at tonight’s event, students are reminded not to create, fabricate, or spread false information. We must uphold the image of our class and the integrity of our school. We have four years together, and there will be plenty of opportunities to help one another. Is that understood?” A bunch of people replied with “Got it.” I sent one too. The moment my message went through, a voice memo from Chloe popped up in the chat. Her voice was raw and hoarse. “Liam, what did I ever do to you? Do you want me to die? What’s so wrong with me just wanting to get an education? Do people who need help just deserve to be kicked to the curb? Yes, you have a condo, you have money, you can look down on people. But what rule did I break for you to treat me like this? I’m done. I’m not going to school here anymore. I’m dropping out tomorrow, then you’ll be happy. My whole family can starve and die for all you care, then you’ll be satisfied, right?” Every word was dripping with rage, but a rage that made no sense. The RA replied: “Chloe, the class group chat is not the place for emotional outbursts. If you have a grievance, you can come talk to me. If you have proof that someone has harmed you, the school and I will ensure that justice is served. At the same time, Liam, please write up a formal statement of what you know and submit it to me.” Great. The RA was going for the “blame both sides” approach to smooth things over. I typed directly into the group chat: “Okay, RA. What I know is very simple and can be said in a few sentences. First, I do not know Chloe, nor have I ever paid any attention to her. I didn’t remember her name from the introductions. Second, she approached me, gave me chocolate, and asked me to lunch. I went to the dining hall specifically to return the chocolate, which my roommates can confirm. Third, at the dining hall, she said she had something important to discuss, which is the only reason I sat with her. She then told me about her dad and asked to use my family’s condo. I felt it was inappropriate then, for the same reasons I stated in the lecture hall tonight. Everything after that was her posting about me on YikYak. That is all I know.” The RA replied: “Okay, that’s enough. I will investigate the situation.” It was clear she didn’t fully believe me. But my roommates had my back. One by one, they replied in the chat, confirming that I had planned to return the chocolate from the start, and that none of us in the room could remember her name. A few other classmates who weren’t in my dorm private messaged me to offer their support. “But you agreed!” Chloe typed. “You agreed, so you can’t go back on your word! Are you even a decent human being if you go back on your word?” Then she dropped a file into the chat. An audio file. The second it started playing, I recognized the background noise of the dining hall. She had recorded our conversation. It wasn’t a long clip. I hadn’t said much. When it got to the end, to the part where I said, “Look, it’s my parents’ place. I’d have to ask them. I’ll let you know,” a strange sense of calm washed over me. She was unhinged, but at least she hadn’t edited the recording. Sure enough, a few moments later, the chat filled with confused messages. “Did I hear that right? Doesn’t that sound like he was saying no?” “Yeah, that’s what I heard too. I thought I was the only one.” “He literally said it’s his parents’ place and he can’t make the decision. There’s no way his parents would agree to lend a new condo to a sick stranger they’ve never met.” The chat was blowing up. The RA quickly tried to shut it down: “Everyone stop talking. Chloe, what was the point of you posting that file?” Chloe’s reply, another voice memo, came a minute later: “Everyone listen to it. I have nothing left to say. He agreed in his own words, and then he took it back. I just want to ask, are all guys like this? This is terrifying. Is anyone still going to defend him now? Can you people not see the difference between right and wrong?” The chat filled with question marks. Chloe: “What do you mean? How can you possibly hear that as a rejection? He said he would ask his parents for their permission! That’s not a rejection! Who uses their parents as an excuse to say no? Are you guys deaf, or just stupid?” The question marks stopped. They were replaced by streams of “LMAO” and “Bruh.” Chloe: “What are you laughing at? Stop laughing! I’m telling you, it was an agreement. I have the final say on what it means.” “This is pointless. I’m going to bed,” I typed, then shut my phone off and tossed it on my bed. My roommate Sam, on the bunk next to mine, said, “Before I left for college, my parents told me over and over that you meet all kinds of people out in the world. Good people, crazy people… now I finally get it.” Only Mark was still staring at his phone. After a moment, he frowned. “Yo, I think our RA is kind of biased here.” I grabbed my phone again. The RA had posted a new message: “This discussion is over. Everyone stop. What time is it? Don’t you have class tomorrow? Remember, you are all adults now. You need to communicate clearly to avoid misunderstandings. Serious consequences will be traced back to their source.” A surge of anger shot through me. I started typing a long, furious reply, my thumbs flying across the screen. Just as I was about to hit send, a hand clamped down on my arm.

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My grandfather raised me on scraps, pulling me from the refuse of the world. I knew the bitter taste of poverty all too well. To marry into wealth, I armed myself with designer shopping bags bought from eBay and rented luxury purses for five dollars a day. My days were spent drifting through art galleries, my nights curled up in the waiting areas of five-star hotels. After six months of playing the part of a phantom heiress, a man finally approached me. It was him. The one I’d seen in Forbes last month: Michael Astor, the scion of a New York dynasty. I offered him a business card. Vivian Sterling. A painter signed with the Galerie Saint-Victor in Paris, and curator of the Sterling Gallery. He raised an eyebrow, then beckoned the gallery’s curator over. “Have this piece delivered to Miss Sterling’s home.” The painting Michael pointed to was marked at two million dollars. But before I could even process my elation, comments started scrolling across my vision, like a phantom social media feed only I could see. “The wannabe socialite is on the scene! I can’t wait to see the real heroine expose her.” “Go on, keep up the act! Serves her right for trying to seduce the male lead. She’ll learn her lesson once Michael ships her off to some grimy nightclub in Eastern Europe!” … After dinner with Michael, we were walking to the parking garage when we passed a massive Chanel display window. The soft glow of the lights caressed the latest season’s collection, and for a moment, it captured my entire soul. I turned my head, my feet halting. “Thank you for dinner,” I said, my voice pulling me back to reality. “My treat next time.” My gaze fell upon Michael, his hair slicked back, his face framed by thin, gold-rimmed glasses. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I was worried it might not be to your taste.” I faced him, walking backward slowly with my hands behind my back. “Oh, I used to go there all the time in Europe. After moving back to the States, I often found myself missing those days. I was surprised to see they’d opened a location here, so I had to bring you.” The phantom comments went wild with mockery. 【She spins lies so effortlessly! Europe? She only moved to New York last year. She doesn’t even have a passport!】 【The male lead is so gullible! She couldn’t afford a real Michelin-star place, so she took him to this prix-fixe joint. The whole meal barely cost her a hundred bucks!】 【Just wait, girls. Let’s see what other tall tales this gold digger can cook up!】 “Now I remember,” Michael said, a smile playing on his lips. “A friend took me to their flagship in Paris once. The line was a mile long, and by the time we got in, they were sold out of their signature beef and truffle burger. Thanks to you, I finally got to make up for a regret that’s haunted me for eight years.” We shared a knowing smile. He offered me his arm, and I slipped mine through it. Half an hour later, his car pulled up to a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side. A doorman stepped forward, blocking our way. “Key card, please.” My heart hammered against my ribs as I fumbled through my handbag. After a long moment, the doorman’s patience wore thin. “Ma’am, this is a private residence. If you’re not a resident, you need to leave.” I shot Michael an embarrassed smile. “I can just get out here.” His gaze shifted from me to the doorman, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. “What’s wrong with your security? You don’t even recognize your own residents?” “He must be new,” I stammered, “still learning the faces. It’s been a long night, thank you for everything. I can walk from here.” I reached for the door handle, but Michael locked it with a soft click. He turned to the doorman, his voice carrying an edge of authority. “Her name is Vivian Sterling. She’s a resident. I’m giving you three minutes to verify that, or you can be sure I’ll be filing a formal complaint.” The doorman eyed me warily before muttering into his walkie-talkie. 【Is she getting exposed this quickly?】 【Of course she is. The smallest unit in this building is 1,500 square feet and costs over ten million. No way she can afford that!】 【You have to admit, the girl’s got nerve. She’s got the Astor heir completely fooled!】 Sensing the moment was right, I pulled the key card from my coat pocket and flashed it at the doorman through the window. “My apologies,” I said smoothly. “I forgot I’d slipped it in my coat.” The doorman breathed a sigh of relief, offering me a respectful nod before waving us through. The car stopped in front of one of the towers, and Michael came around to open my door. “There’s an art gala next week,” he said as I stepped out. “Eleanor Davenport will be there. She’s also an alum of the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris. You two would be classmates, in a way. I’m sure you’d have plenty to talk about. Would you like to go?” The threat of my lies unraveling set off alarm bells in my head. I made a vague excuse about checking my schedule with my assistant and managed to deflect. Back in my apartment, I opened my laptop and searched for everything I could find on Eleanor Davenport. Wife of the powerful Davenport family. Her father was a renowned literary figure from the early 20th century, her mother a famous attorney. She was accepted into the oil painting program at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris at sixteen and married into a family that held Washington’s economic strings at twenty-four. She was the real deal—the pinnacle of high society, the woman everyone wanted to impress. To her, a fraud like me would be as obvious as a cheap knock-off. One wrong word, and my entire facade would crumble. The room was dark. I stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, lighting a cigarette. When the cherry died out, I texted Michael back, confirming my attendance at the gala. The reason was simple. Money. After just three dates with Michael, I was already up nearly two million dollars. First, he gave me that two-million-dollar painting, which I discreetly sold for 1.8 million. Then, he gifted me a diamond bracelet, which I pawned for another two hundred thousand. The very apartment I was standing in was a temporary rental, paid for with Michael’s money. The phantom comments were right. I was a fake, a gold digger. Because I was terrified of being poor. I grew up an orphan, found in a dumpster by my grandfather, who raised me by collecting cans and scrap metal. I wore ill-fitting clothes and shoes pulled from the trash, and ate expired bread from grocery store dumpsters. My entire life, poverty had been a magnet for cruelty. If something went missing at school, I was always the first suspect. “Your grandfather even picks up old socks from the trash. Why wouldn’t you steal money?” “So we were wrong last time. That just makes it more likely you did it this time!” That was bad enough, but it got worse. As I hit puberty, my body began to change. The rumors changed with it. “Twenty bucks gets you a night with Vivian. Buy her a coffee in the morning and she’ll let you touch whatever you want. See how big her chest is? That’s how she paid for it.” Once, while I was waiting for a bus, a man pulled over. “You’re starting young, aren’t you? Hope you don’t have anything nasty.” If I was going to be harassed anyway, why not take control and aim for a rich man? So I came to New York, pooled all my money, and reinvented myself as a European-educated socialite. Even if the comments said I’d end up trafficked, so what? To me, there is nothing in this world more terrifying than poverty. Right now, whatever Michael’s motives were for inviting me, if I could actually connect with Eleanor Davenport, even the scraps from her table could set me up for life. Opportunity and risk always go hand in hand. You just have to be prepared. I spent the next three days studying Eleanor Davenport. She hated lilies but loved sandalwood. Her favorite artist was Séraphine Louis, her favorite classical piece Chopin’s Polonaises. By the time the gala arrived, I was ready. Mrs. Davenport gave a brief opening speech but spent the rest of the evening sitting alone in a corner, listening to the music. Several society wives attempted to approach her, only to be deterred by her formidable aura. I moved through the room on Michael’s arm, feeling the fiery glares of debutantes and heiresses. 【Here we go! The first showdown between the real heroine and the wannabe!】 【Ugh, this faker’s act is making me sick. Heroine, please crush her!】 【Our girl Bianca is the real deal! Once she gets Mrs. Davenport’s attention, this imposter is toast!】 As the comments scrolled, a woman dripping in jewels glided toward us, a champagne flute in her hand. “Michael, darling, you came to New York and didn’t even call me?” Her eyes flickered over to me. “And who is this? I don’t believe we’ve met. Which family’s darling might you be?” “This is Vivian Sterling,” Michael said smoothly. “She’s just returned from Europe. She’s a painter.” “Vivian, this is Bianca Vanderbilt, of Vanderbilt Corp. Bianca is very involved in philanthropy. You were saying you wanted to organize a charity exhibition? Perhaps you two could discuss it.” Bianca looked me up and down with a smirk. “Studied in Europe, you say? Which school?” “The École des Beaux-Arts in Paris.” She sniffed dismissively. “Well then, let’s hear some French!” Michael frowned. “Bianca, don’t be ridiculous.” “It’s alright,” I said, cutting Michael off with a gentle touch. I smiled and offered a few pleasantries in fluent, practiced French. Bianca seemed taken aback. “Wow, you’re actually good!” “Vivian is brilliant,” Michael added. “Her work has won numerous international awards.” “Then I’ll have to learn a thing or two from Miss Sterling!” Even though I was prepared, I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my palm under Bianca’s sharp gaze. The awards were fabrications, easily disproven with a single search. I needed to escape. I made a quick excuse and slipped away. But when I came out of the restroom, Bianca was waiting for me. “Let’s drop the act,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “What’s your game, pretending to be a socialite to get close to Michael? Is it his money or his name you’re after?” I clenched my trembling hands into fists. “Miss Vanderbilt, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Your dress can’t be more than three grand, can it? You’re the most cheaply dressed woman here tonight.” “Let me give you a reality check. Michael came to New York to be set up with me. You and he are from different worlds. Stop dreaming. The poor should stick with the poor.” She pulled a wad of cash from her clutch and threw it at my feet. “I had my driver get cash just for this. Take it and get out. Don’t make me expose you in front of him.” 【YESSS, our heroine is so badass!】 【Look at the faker’s face! She looks like she just swallowed a fly. Hilarious!】 【Am I the only one who feels a little bad for her? She hasn’t stolen anything. Michael gave her all those gifts willingly. Does she really deserve this?】 【Are you serious? She’s a gold-digging liar! She deserves to be shamed!】 I picked up the money from the floor and walked back into the ballroom in a daze. The chatter around me felt like a power drill boring into my skull. Why? Why were they born with silver spoons while I had to be looked down upon for my humble origins? We were all human, but even a lifetime of my effort couldn’t get me to their starting line. Is it a crime to be poor? Is it a crime to want money? My eyes found Bianca, who was now fawning over Eleanor Davenport, obsequiously pouring her a cup of tea. Mrs. Davenport, however, looked bored, her face cold as she scrolled through her phone. I let out a bitter laugh, downed my champagne in one gulp, and strode toward them. Perhaps I was moving too fast. I stumbled, bumping into a waiter carrying a tray of red wine. The crimson liquid splashed all over my pristine white gown. Gasps erupted around me. The commotion finally drew Mrs. Davenport’s attention; she turned her head with mild curiosity. The waiter’s face was beet red as he stammered apologies. I touched the stain on my dress, then looked up at the event manager nearby. “Could you possibly bring me some chocolate sauce and a silver foil pen?” I dabbed the chocolate sauce around the edges of the wine stain, blending it softly, then used the silver pen to sketch delicate petals. Thank God for all those online art courses I’d taken to maintain my painter persona. The result was surprisingly decent. “Look at that,” someone whispered. “Her style… it’s a bit like Séraphine Louis!” “You’re right! It does have a hint of Séraphine!” Guests started to gather, murmuring praise. I turned my body slightly toward Mrs. Davenport. When I saw the hint of a smile on her face, I knew I had won. Just as I’d planned, ten minutes later, I was sitting across from Eleanor Davenport. “Causing a scene with a wine stain to get my attention,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “How very creative.” Before I could reply, Bianca materialized out of nowhere.

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The day the army came for my husband, the road into Crow’s Hollow was choked with olive-drab tactical vehicles and elite soldiers who looked like they’d been carved from stone. When they called him Major General Hawthorne, Grant didn’t flinch. It was as if he’d been expecting this all along. But when it came time to decide who was leaving with them, he took our son’s hand and cast an apologetic glance my way. “I’ll take Ryan back with me first. I’ll send for you later.” He paused, his gaze shifting slightly. “As for Lydia… my mother has taken a real liking to her, so I…” He trailed off, waiting for my response. But I didn’t need one. I already knew who was sitting in the back of that military SUV. I knew his ghost was already in the passenger seat. In the years since I’d found Grant, broken and nameless, he’d often complained that I didn’t understand him. His ideals, his sense of duty to a country he couldn’t remember—it was all a world away from me. Yet, when I’d place a plate of the freshest garden greens or the most tender pieces of chicken from the stewpot in front of him, he would nod reluctantly, put down the pen he was always scribbling with, and mutter about the mosquitoes in the house or the mud Ryan had tracked across the floor. I would just nod, my silence a placid lake over a chasm of knowing. He never realized that I could read. I saw the letters he wrote, the ones addressed to “My Dearest.” The name on those letters wasn’t mine. It was Lydia’s. So when he spoke, all I did was give him a simple, clean nod and turn to hoist the foraging basket onto my back. “Who you take with you is your decision, Grant.” My voice was flat. “I’m heading up the mountain to hunt for morels. We can talk later.” 1 The neighborhood kids had come tearing up to our porch with the news while Grant was teaching our son, Ryan, how to practice his cursive script. Ryan’s pen had stuttered, leaving a dark blot of ink blooming on the paper. Grant’s focus hadn’t wavered. “Ryan,” he’d said, his voice calm and steady. “What have I taught you? Penmanship is discipline. A quiet hand comes from a quiet mind.” I knew then what was coming. Grant was about to be reunited with his family. He was going home. Even after his family had gone, leaving us to the sudden quiet, Grant remained impossibly composed. This was the man the Hawthornes had poured everything into shaping—their eldest son. Even with his memory gone, after years of languishing in this forgotten mountain town, the polish of his upbringing, the command in his bearing, had never dulled. And I, somehow, was even calmer than he was. Just like any other day, I went up the mountain. Martha, from down the road, saw me and couldn’t resist a little jab. “Audrey! You’re about to be a general’s wife, living the high life in the city. What are you still doing grubbing around in the woods for mushrooms?” Grant had told his family he needed a day to pack, that they should come back for him tomorrow. He mentioned he’d be bringing two people with him. The whole town was buzzing, saying my ancestors must have done something truly spectacular to bless me with this kind of luck. They’d all forgotten. They’d forgotten when Grant first washed up here, his memory wiped clean, useless at any kind of farm work. They’d forgotten that I was the only one willing to care for him, tending to him like a child. He lived in my house, and the whispers started, staining my name until marriage was the only option left. Even then, it was nothing more than a potluck with a few neighbors and store-bought cupcakes to mark the occasion. After that, for a time, we were happy. He was my husband, mine alone. Now he was leaving, and by all rights, he should be taking his wife and child with him. But I knew better. In my first life, Grant did take two people back to the Hawthorne estate. I wasn’t one of them. I just smiled at Martha. “The morels are especially good this season.” The money from a good haul would be enough. Enough for me to leave this place and find a new life somewhere else. 2 When I got home, Lydia was teaching Ryan French phrases. “You have to practice,” she was saying, her voice a soft melody. “At the academy, boys your age can already hold a simple conversation.” Ryan was hanging on her every word. Lydia smiled and stroked his hair. “You’re such a quick study, Ryan. Not like…” He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist. “It’s all thanks to you, Aunt Lydia. If I sounded like Mom, everyone would laugh at me. She talks like such a hick.” Grant, who had been reading a book in the armchair, looked up. A slow, gentle smile spread across his face. What a picture of domestic bliss. I’ve seen this scene twice now. Two lifetimes of it. Lydia was a local girl, too. Her father was a drunk who used his fists, and her mother died young. Eventually, some relatives from out of state found her and took her away to the city for school. I never understood why she came back. At first, I was grateful to her. Ryan had been playing too close to the creek, and he’d fallen in. Lydia saw him and pulled him out. I owed her his life. But after that, things began to shift in ways I couldn’t quite grasp. She came to our house and saw Grant. He was in the yard, splitting firewood. He moved with an easy, powerful grace, his back straight, the axe swinging in a clean, perfect arc. The rhythm was like a heartbeat. She’d walked right up to him. “Grant, you have such a commanding presence. Audrey is a lucky woman.” I never understood the things Grant talked about—honor, patriotism, the grand sweep of history. Our conversations were about the summer mosquitoes and the winter chill. But the barb in Lydia’s words, the subtle mockery aimed at me—that, I understood perfectly. I just stood there, my hands feeling clumsy and empty. Soon, Lydia was at our house every other day. She even convinced Grant to volunteer as a substitute teacher at the small schoolhouse. From then on, it was always “Grant this” and “Grant that.” After that, whenever I’d bring him his lunch, I’d find Lydia sitting right beside his desk. I’d watch as he’d take the chicken soup I’d simmered all night and carefully ladle it into her bowl. Ryan would be there, laughing. “Mom, Miss Lydia says your cooking is the best!” Yes. I was the one raising them, waking before dawn to forage, trading my best finds with neighbors for an old hen. I was the one who tilled that stubborn patch of earth behind the house until my back screamed, just to coax the most tender greens from the soil. I wouldn’t even let myself eat the best parts. And now, my husband and my son were using my labor to court someone else. In my first life, I screamed those words out loud. Grant’s jaw had tightened, his lips a thin, hard line. He turned to Lydia and gave a slight, formal bow. “Miss Raines, I apologize. My wife is not herself.” He looked at me as if I were the most profound embarrassment he had ever endured. Ryan was even more direct. “If you won’t let Miss Lydia have any, then I don’t want it either!” Lydia, acting every bit the lady of the house, wrapped an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “Ryan, what have I told you? That’s no way to speak to your mother.” Ryan just pouted, burying his face in her side. “I’m sorry, Miss Lydia.” She held him close, her eyes meeting mine over his head. There wasn’t a trace of shame in them. In that moment, with my son and my husband arrayed against me, I was utterly and completely alone. An outcast. A bitter sorrow filled my chest. Lydia was soft and pale, with delicate hands. I spent my days on the mountain and in the dirt; my strength was a wild, unkempt thing. After giving birth to Ryan, the slender shape of my youth was a distant memory. The three of them together—they looked right. They looked like a family. Just like in the first life. She went back with them, and no one ever questioned that she was Ryan’s mother. At first, he called her Lydia, but she’d just smile and correct him gently. “Why don’t you call me Aunt Lydia, sweetie?” It took me far too long to understand the quiet cunning in that suggestion. 3 When I walked in with my basket, the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves clinging to me, Grant stood up and took a half-step back. The smell probably offended his refined senses. He glanced at the basket, overflowing with mushrooms, and a flicker of guilt crossed his face. “Why are you still doing such hard labor?” he asked. “We… we don’t need the money anymore.” He said the last part so softly, it was almost a whisper. In my first life, after he left, he sent money. A check arrived every month, just enough to keep me from starving in this town. Just enough to ensure I could never afford to leave it. I didn’t bother explaining. “I’m used to it. Better than sitting around.” I picked up the needle and thread I’d left on the table and started stitching a small sachet. The herbs I used to repel mosquitoes lost their potency after a week, and Ryan’s legs were already covered in angry red welts. Strangely, the sight didn’t twist my heart the way it used to. Ryan watched me for a moment, his expression disdainful. “Mom, there aren’t any bugs in the city. You don’t have to make those things for us anymore.” No. They never had any use for the things I made. In my first life, just before that military SUV drove away, I’d tearfully stuffed Ryan’s arms with everything I could give him—sachets, a hand-knitted sweater, his favorite carved wooden bird. They didn’t even make it to the end of the road. The items were tossed out, scattered along the dirt track. Martha, recognizing my stitchwork, had gathered them up and brought them back to me. The look in her eyes was a nauseating mix of pity and amusement. At the time, I thought it was Grant’s mother’s doing. I saved up and bought a cheap cellphone from the county seat, just so I could stay in touch. But every time I called, Ryan was impatient. “I have to go, my riding lesson is starting.” “Aunt Lydia is calling me.” I scrimped and saved again, enduring a long, rattling bus ride to visit his boarding school in secret. He saw me from across the manicured lawn. And he ran. He sprinted to a waiting black car, desperate that I might call out his name and reveal his connection to me. Watching his retreating back, I finally understood. It wasn’t the scent of the herbs that had faded. It was his heart. After that, I never tried to see him again. Not until he was a man. By then, years of hard labor had caught up with me. The doctor said I didn’t have much time. I called Grant. After a long silence, all he said was, “I can arrange for a hospital for you.” But I didn’t want treatment. I just wanted to see my son one last time. So I put on my best dress, spent my last savings on getting my hair done, and went to his lavish eighteenth birthday party. “Ryan,” I’d whispered, my voice trembling. “Don’t you remember me? It’s Mom.” He had Lydia on his arm, looking at me with pure disgust. “Who are you? Why are you here, trying to ruin my family’s celebration?” Grant stood nearby, saying nothing. The cold, calculating cruelty of the wealthy was on full display. In that glittering ballroom, I was a rat scurrying from the sewer. Security guards escorted me out, leaving me on the curb. A speeding truck’s headlights blinded me. Lying on the pavement, staring up at the indifferent night sky, a single tear traced a path through the grime on my cheek. What a cruel joke my life had been. And then I blinked. And I was back. Back on the very day his family came to find him. This time, I would not be that pitiful, pathetic fool. 4 So I didn’t plead with them to take the sachets, didn’t try to force my care on them as I had before. I just spoke calmly. “I know you don’t want it. This is for Daisy.” Ryan was clearly thrown. I could be strict with him, but I had always doted on him, always offered him the best of everything first. He pouted. “Daisy’s not a good kid. She’s disrespectful to Miss Lydia! Why would you make something for her?” Daisy was one of the few children in the village who wasn’t completely enchanted by Lydia. As a result, she was often an outcast at school. The truth was, she’d never done anything to disrespect Lydia. She just liked me more. She said I smelled nice. Like growing things. Grant used to say that, too. He’d bury his face in my neck and murmur that I smelled like “life itself.” But in the end, it was Lydia’s perfume he chose. A few days ago, I’d seen the welts on Daisy’s pale little arms and promised her I’d make some sachets. If my own family didn’t want what I had to offer, someone else would. I continued my steady stitching. “I’ll make things for whomever I please.” Ryan’s face clouded over. “You’re mean! I’m going to go find Aunt Lydia! She’s taking me into town to eat at a real restaurant. She’s going to teach me how to use all the different forks.” His eyes darted toward me, a flash of childish malice in them. “You’ve never had a fancy dinner like that, have you, Mom?” I didn’t look up from my work. “No, I haven’t. You go have fun.” His jab had landed on empty air, and he didn’t know what to do. Before, I would have been consumed with jealousy. I would have insisted on tagging along, desperate not to be left out of my own son’s life. I had nearly died giving birth to him. In the haze of pain, I’d gripped Grant’s hand and gasped, “Save… save the baby.” For all the years that followed, I truly believed my child was more important than my husband. But in the end, it was Ryan who delivered the killing blow. 5 After Ryan stormed out, a petulant thundercloud, Grant moved closer. “Audrey. Are you angry with me?” His voice was low, reasonable. “If you are, take it out on me. Don’t involve Ryan.” He sighed, a sound of put-upon patience. “We leave first thing in the morning. Let’s not make this unpleasant for everyone.” Unpleasant? The word struck me, and for a moment, the world felt distant. After they left in my first life, my existence had been scrubbed clean of all joy. And now he had the audacity to stand there and tell me not to make things unpleasant. That day, just like the last time, Grant’s mother had arrived, her body frail from illness, having traveled a thousand miles to see the son she’d lost. But the moment she saw me standing beside him, her face contorted into a mask of pure revulsion. She let out a shrill cry. “Monster! Get that monster away from him!” I froze, stunned. I knew I wasn’t a beauty queen, that a family like the Hawthornes would likely look down on me. But I had never expected this. One of their entourage sighed and explained to Grant, “She hasn’t been right in the head since you disappeared.” Though Grant’s memory hadn’t returned, the primal bond of mother and son was there. A look of profound pain crossed his face. But then the unthinkable happened. His mother’s gaze fell on Lydia, and her entire demeanor softened. She reached for Lydia’s hand, her voice trembling with affection. “Sophie,” she whispered. “You’ve come back.”

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For three years, I was his possession. Then, overnight, my patron went bankrupt. Grayson Hayes left me a parting gift—a substantial sum of money—and then calmly prepared to kill himself. When he faced me, he said, “Don’t… don’t mock me, Thea. And you can go. You’re free.” “No.” I shook my head. “Now, it’s my turn to own you.” 1 The news of Grayson Hayes’s financial collapse spread like wildfire. It had to be true, because his enemies were already circling me like vultures. The quickest way to break a man, after all, is to take his woman. “You’re a sick bastard,” I snarled into the phone at some sleazebag making me a crude offer. “If it itches that bad, maybe you should just cut it off.” Ignoring his indignant sputtering, I smashed the end-call button and blocked the number. A quiet chuckle, exhausted but genuine, came from behind me. Grayson emerged from the entryway and pulled me down onto the sofa, his arms wrapping around me. He sank against me, his head resting heavily in the crook of my neck. “I’ve never seen you lose your temper,” he murmured. “I always thought you were a kitten. Turns out you’ve got claws.” He gave a wry smile. “A shame I figured it out so late. No more chances to see it, I guess.” That was the thing about men like him. Even with nothing left to his name, he could still manage a smile. The air grew thick with unspoken things. “Where’s the card I gave you?” he asked suddenly. “In my purse,” I said. “I put two million in it. Thea,” he said, his voice flat, “just like you always wanted. You’re free.” He said it with half his face cast in shadow, his expression unreadable. It was true, I had craved freedom. But looking back, I don’t think I ever actually planned on leaving him. Life by his side was, in its own twisted way, incredible. The money was endless, the sex was phenomenal, and he was devastatingly handsome. He was just a little… possessive. The ropes, the restraints—it was all part of his world. It hurt, and I’m not a saint, so I’d bite back with a sharp tongue whenever I could get away with it. But now wasn’t the time for venom. “Is it true?” I asked softly. “You’ve really lost everything?” He turned his head away. “Yes.” The word was barely out of his mouth before he added, “Please, don’t mock me. You can go.” The veins on his forearm stood out, stark and blue, like he was fighting a war within himself. I pressed on. “You gave all that money to me. What are you going to do?” My answer was a long, heavy silence. I tossed the dagger I’d found in the bathroom onto the coffee table between us. “Planning on this?” “Thea,” Grayson’s voice dropped, a warning rumble in his chest. “Don’t.” He pushed again, more urgently this time. “You always wanted out, didn’t you? So go. I can’t force you to stay anymore. I don’t have the capital for it.” I leaned back, affecting the same lazy indifference I always had around him, and didn’t answer right away. I can barely remember how pathetic I was when I first met Grayson Hayes. All I know is that I was desperate enough to be considering selling my body to pay off debts when he swept in, slapped a black card on a table, and took me home. I’d heard the whispers about him before then, of course. Civilized monster. A wolf in a designer suit. None of it was flattering. And I did try to escape. More than once. Each time, he dragged me back. He had a GPS tracker bonded to one of my molars. Cameras in my room. The phone and laptop I used were custom-made, his spyware woven into their DNA. He controlled every facet of my life, right down to the flavor of my toothpaste. To him, my struggles were like a kitten batting at a ball of yarn. Amusing. But every act of rebellion came with a punishment. Sometimes I was tied to his grand piano. Other times, strapped to a leather pommel horse. Always in a pose, a position, that he found pleasing. I was forbidden from speaking to any man, or any woman I didn’t already know. If he ever caught me, that person would simply… vanish from my life. For a long time, I was terrified of him. Even now, after our relationship has blurred into something far more complicated, the affection I feel for him is still laced with that old, primal fear. But the heart is an unruly thing. And now… now I might finally have the upper hand. The thought sent a jolt through me. “No,” I repeated, shaking my head as the idea took root and blossomed. “Now, it’s my turn to own you.” 2 “You’re going to…” Grayson hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “How… how exactly do you plan to… own me?” I took a moment to think. Damn. I’d been impulsive. Oh, well. I’d just treat it like I was hiring a very exclusive, very expensive escort. “Thanks to you, I’ve saved a little over the years,” I began, my voice cool and measured. “I also invested in some real estate. If I liquidate everything, and sell off the bags and diamonds you bought me, it should be enough to cover a portion of your debts.” A flicker of something—surprise? admiration?—crossed his face, before his brow furrowed again. “For someone who was being… owned… you have a very clear grasp of your assets.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Were you always planning your escape?” The air chilled with his words. I instinctively shifted back on the cushion. In a flash, he was off the couch, his hands slamming down on either side of me, trapping me. He loomed over me, his presence as overwhelming as ever. “All this time, thinking about running,” he murmured, his voice a low growl. “Did you ever once think about—” My breath caught. But then his tone shifted, becoming weary again. “It doesn’t matter. You got your wish. Go, Thea. Before I change my mind.” For the first time in three years, I rolled my eyes at him. I pointed a finger at the video intercom screen. “Do you have time to change your mind? You’ve got a welcoming committee.” The words had barely left my lips when he glanced at the screen, saw the crowd of angry creditors, and suddenly slammed me against the front door. “We’ve never done it with an audience pounding on the door,” he breathed, his voice rough. “Grayson!” I hissed. The movement must have alerted the men outside. Through the security feed, I was forced to watch as their predatory eyes locked onto the camera, trying to pierce through the door. The man responsible for it all was pressed against me, his lips so close to my ear his breath was a hot whisper. “You can scream loud, if you want. Let them hear you. Maybe they’ll break down the door and kill me.” Ignoring my protests, Grayson pinned my hands behind my back. God, I hated this. I struggled as his fingers went to the buckle of his belt. He paid me no mind, muttering to himself, “I owe them so much money. They’ll probably carve me up, part me out. Sell me for scrap.” Like I gave a damn. “…” I don’t know how much time passed before my wrists were finally free. Furious, I snatched his leather belt and threw it on the floor. One hand on my aching back, I jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t you forget who owns who now. I’m your patron! You do as I say.” “And what are your demands…” Grayson’s expression was placid again, all trace of his earlier desperation gone. “…my patron?” “First,” I said, thinking hard. “No suicide.” “Fine.” “And cut the arrogant act.” “…Fine.” I tossed a new debit card onto the table, adopting his old air of casual authority. “This is in my name. It’s everything I’ve saved over the years. Should be around fifty million.” As he stared, stunned, I produced a portfolio of property deeds and several velvet boxes filled with loose diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires, complete with authentication certificates. “Cash these in. It’ll be another nine figures, at least.” I placed my hands on my hips, savoring the right to be imperious, a right I’d stolen directly from him. “Use it all to pay off your debts. It should be enough to buy you the right to live, at least.” “…Alright.” Grayson’s eyes scanned the small mountain of wealth. “What do you want from me?” I bristled at his tone. It was as if my grand, dramatic rescue was just another one of his manipulative games. But it didn’t matter. Because showering someone in money felt ridiculously good. “I’m going to have the tracker removed from my tooth,” I said, watching his face carefully. “And then I’m going to have it implanted in you.” Grayson’s gaze lifted to meet mine. That one simple look sent a familiar chill down my spine. Some deep, hidden part of my body, conditioned by years of his random “punishments,” instinctively braced for danger. I channeled every memory of his control over me. “From now on, your every move is dictated by me. You will report to me before you go anywhere. All your electronics will share my passwords—no, they’ll be logged into my accounts. And you are not, under any circumstances, to be around any other women.” “Oh, and one more thing,” I added with precision. “I hate mint toothpaste. Get lemon.” Grayson’s eyes never left my face. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice slow and unreadable. “You’re surprisingly good at this game.” “So,” he continued, his tone impossible to decipher, “are you going to punish me… the way I punished you?”

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The first thing I remember when I came back was the sound of a bowl shattering against the floorboards, an explosion of ceramic just inches from my feet. A shard flew up and sliced a line across my temple before I even had a chance to flinch. “For God’s sake, Amelia! When are you going to stop this madness?” My husband, Ethan, stood there, his voice tight with a familiar frustration. “I told you, Leo is gone! Gone! We’re never going to find him! Why can’t you just let it go?” He took a step closer, his face contorted with a pain that I used to think was for me, for us. “Do you have any idea what this is doing to me? If you put half the energy you spend on this hopeless search into… into starting over, we could have another baby by now. Have you ever stopped to think what people are saying about me, with a wife who’s completely lost her mind?” Ethan, always so put-together in his tailored suits, looking like he stepped out of a catalog. But now, his handsome features were twisted into a grimace. He saw the blank look on my face, grabbed me by the shoulders, and shoved me toward the bathroom mirror. He forced my head forward, his voice cracking with something I once mistook for desperation. “Amelia, look at yourself! Wake up! If you keep this up, how are we supposed to live? If you die… what am I supposed to do?” I stared at the reflection. The face looking back was gaunt, haunted, but it was younger. So much younger. And in that moment, I knew. I was back. I had come back. I was reborn into the second year of my own personal hell, the year after our son disappeared. A sob tore through me, a raw, ragged sound that came from a place deeper than memory. It was the sound of ten years of agony crammed into a single, waking moment. Ethan, misinterpreting my grief as he always did, sighed and pulled me into his arms. His embrace felt like a cage. “Amy, please,” he murmured, his voice softening into a practiced, weary tone. “You have to pull yourself together. For me.” “He was my son too, you know,” he continued, stroking my hair. “You think I’m not hurting? But life has to go on. It just… has to.” I dug my nails into my palms, hiding the inferno of hatred that was blazing behind my eyes. He thought I was calming down. He let me go and went to the kitchen to start dinner. I watched him from the doorway. He’d taken off his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, and tied an apron around his waist. Cooking used to be my thing. But after Leo vanished, Ethan took over, insisting he needed to take care of me. He was so tender, so patient. If it weren’t for what I saw just before I died, if I hadn’t been given this impossible second chance, I would have gone to my grave believing he was the perfect, grieving husband. I would have never known that this man—this kind, caring, heartbroken man—was the architect of my entire nightmare. I squeezed my eyes shut, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek. “Amy.” A thumb gently wiped the tear away. “Don’t cry,” Ethan whispered, his voice thick with what I now knew was counterfeit emotion. “When you cry, it breaks my heart.” For a man as stoic as Ethan, those words were the equivalent of a sonnet. “Come on,” he said, leading me to the table. “Dinner’s ready.” He’d made my favorites: braised short ribs and a creamy tomato soup. But my eyes froze on a separate container sitting on the counter, a thermos filled with that same rich soup. Ethan’s eyes followed my gaze. He let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Amy, don’t start. You know Sarah’s been having a hard time, all alone with the baby. Her body is still recovering. And her husband… he’s useless. It’s just a little soup. You wouldn’t finish it all anyway…” Before he could finish his excuse, there was a soft knock at the door. Of course. It was Sarah. She stood on our doorstep, a vision of effortless chic. She was a kindergarten teacher, and she always looked the part—a flowing floral dress, a tasteful cardigan, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. She looked like a woman who had her life completely under control. In my last life, just before the darkness took me for good, I learned the truth. A few days after Sarah brought her own baby home, exhausted from sleepless nights, she’d rolled over in her sleep and accidentally suffocated him in the blankets. Her husband was a foreman at the local steel plant, a man with a temper as fiery as the furnaces he oversaw. Everyone in our small suburban neighborhood knew he had a heavy hand. If he’d found out their only son, the heir to his name, was gone because of her exhaustion… he would have killed her. So my husband, my loving, supportive Ethan, had a solution. He stole our son and gave him to Sarah. That day, Ethan, a rising manager at his firm, had called me in a panic. He needed an urgent file delivered to his office, something too sensitive to send with a courier. I didn’t want to leave Leo, but the urgency in his voice was compelling. Our son had just finished his bottle and was fast asleep in his crib. I asked our elderly neighbor, Mrs. Gable, to just keep an ear out. I’d be back in an hour, tops. I made it back in forty-five minutes. But Leo was gone. We turned the neighborhood upside down. We searched every backyard, every shed. I was convinced a stray dog had carried him off. Then I was sure he’d been kidnapped. I spent countless hours at the police station, begging them, pleading with them to find my baby. My mind became a torture chamber of possibilities. I dreamt he was found in the river that ran behind our town. I woke up screaming and ran barefoot toward the water, not even realizing I’d lost a shoe until a jogger grabbed my arm and pulled me back from the slippery bank. Another time, a nightmare showed me he was at the bottom of the old well on the edge of town. I went there in the middle of the night with a flashlight, peering into the blackness, calling his name until my voice was raw. I leaned too far, my foot slipped, and I plunged into the icy water. The shock took my breath away. As the water closed over my head, I gave up. I thought, If I can’t be a mother, I don’t deserve to live. Let the water take me. But I was saved. A teenager, out for a late-night run, heard the splash. I woke up in the hospital to the sting of Ethan’s hand across my face. He was crying, screaming at me, asking if I was insane, if I wanted to destroy what little we had left. I clung to him, sobbing that I couldn’t live anymore. My mother-in-law called me a curse, a woman who’d lost her golden grandson. I endured it all. But in the dead of night, the silence was filled with the phantom cries of my son, and the pain was a physical thing, a clawing beast in my chest. That day, in the hospital, Ethan held me tight. He kept whispering, “I’m sorry. Amy, I’m so, so sorry.” I didn’t understand it then. I thought he was sorry for my pain, for our loss. Now, I understood perfectly. Ethan. You gave my son to her. You made me live this hell. I stared at Sarah, standing there in my doorway, a portrait of innocence. You’re right to be sorry, Ethan. You have no idea how sorry you’re going to be. Sarah’s gaze flickered past me, her smile soft and gentle as it landed on Ethan. “Ethan, hi. I’m so sorry to bother you, but do you have any infant Tylenol? Ryan feels a little warm.” Ryan. That’s what she called him. My body tensed. I wanted to leap up, to scream, to tear her perfect hair out. But I forced myself to stay put, digging my nails so hard into my thigh that I felt the skin break. Not yet. It’s not time yet. “What? He has a fever?” Ethan was already grabbing his coat. Sarah glanced at me, her expression a perfect mask of concern. “Ethan, maybe you should just give me the medicine. I don’t want to upset Amelia…” He frowned, looking back at me with a warning in his eyes. “Amelia, I don’t care what kind of mood you’re in, a sick child is not something to play games with. You stay here. And if you even think about pulling another stunt, I swear, I’ll have you committed again.” My blood ran cold. He walked past me, grabbing the thermos of soup on his way out. As Sarah followed him, she shot a look back at me over her shoulder. It was a flash of something ugly—triumph, scorn, and a deep, satisfying pity. The door clicked shut. I collapsed onto the floor, my legs giving out from under me. Committed. The word echoed in my mind. In my previous life, that’s exactly what he did. At Sarah’s suggestion, he convinced everyone I was a danger to myself. He had me institutionalized. I spent a year in a haze of medication, a ghost shuffling through white hallways. They told me I was sick, and when I insisted I wasn’t, they upped the dosage. My hair fell out in clumps. My memory became a fog. I learned to be compliant. I learned to say yes, I was sick. Yes, I was a suicide risk. Yes, I would take my pills. When Ethan finally took me home, I was a shell. I’d given up on finding Leo. I just wanted to feel normal again. But then I started noticing things. The way Ethan’s eyes would follow Sarah. The way she’d manufacture reasons for him to come over, to fix a leaky faucet, to help with her car. The intimacy between them was a poison ivy vine, slowly choking the life out of me. One day, I confronted her. I slapped her. And just like that, Ethan said I’d relapsed. He sent me back. This time, for three years. Those years broke me completely. When I finally saw him again, he was shocked by my appearance. He asked if I was being treated well. I didn’t dare cry. I just promised him I was better. I would never look for Leo again. I would never touch Sarah again. I just wanted to come home. He was going to let me out, but Sarah, who had come with him, gently suggested they keep me for “observation.” Just to be sure. Another month of hell, convinced he’d abandoned me forever. When I finally got out, my body was already failing. I lived for another five years, a hollowed-out woman waiting to die. And in those final moments, as my life faded away, the truth finally came to me. Sarah had walked into my room, holding the hand of a ten-year-old boy. My boy. “Ethan,” she’d said, her voice soft. “I brought Ryan to see her one last time. It’s the least we can do. So she can die knowing she was a mother.” He was there. My husband. Watching me suffer, watching me descend into madness, for ten years. He let me believe I was crazy. He let me believe my son was dead. All to protect her. All to give my child to the woman he truly loved. And now, I was back. And this time, Ethan, the agony of losing a child? It’s your turn to feel it.

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I had just flown back to the city after finishing my design degree abroad. The moment I landed, my grandfather informed me that a marriage had been arranged for me since birth. He promptly dragged me to the Ashworth estate to finalize the engagement. I got bored listening to the old men drone on, so I slipped out to wander through the family’s sprawling gardens. Suddenly, a woman stormed up to me and slapped me hard across the face. “Who the hell are you, you little tramp? How dare you steal my things!” I cupped my stinging cheek, staring at her in shock. She tilted her head back, her voice dripping with the kind of arrogance that sounded like charity. “That ruby on your finger? That was a birthday gift from Mr. Ashworth himself! Can a little charity case like you even afford to wear something like that?” My mouth fell open. I was about to tell her it was mine when she slapped me again, even harder this time. “Do you have any idea who I am? I am the future Mrs. Ashworth! This entire estate will be mine one day!” I pulled out my phone, and right in front of her, I sent a message to the contact saved as “Fiancé.” “Stanley Ashworth, there’s a rabid dog in your garden. Are you going to handle it, or should I?” 1 To my surprise, the message was immediately followed by a red exclamation mark. I almost laughed. The engagement wasn’t even official, and he’d already blocked me. “Where did you sneak in from? Give Miss Vance back her property this instant!” An older maid rushed toward me, but I sidestepped her easily. “I am an honored guest of the Ashworth family,” I said, my voice cold. “Is this how you treat your guests?” Penelope Vance scoffed and pulled out her own phone, dialing the man who was supposed to be my fiancé. A deep, smooth voice answered on the first ring. “What is it, Penny?” Not bad, I thought. He has a nice voice. Grandfather has good taste, at least in that. “Stanley, darling! There’s some wretched girl who snuck into your house claiming to be a guest, and she stole the ring you gave me!” I cut through her sickeningly sweet tone before he could get the wrong idea. “Mr. Ashworth, my name is Seraphina Blackwood. I’m your fiancée.” He paused for a beat, as if trying to place the name. When he spoke again, his voice was laced with ice. “What fiancée? No one enters the Ashworth estate without an invitation. Otherwise, you’ll be dealt with as a trespasser.” Then, his tone melted back to honey. “Penny, don’t be upset. It’s just a ring. I’ll buy you a new one when I get back.” This pigeon’s blood ruby was my parents’ engagement ring. There wasn’t another one like it in the entire world. As I was seriously reconsidering the wisdom of this alliance, Penelope was bent over laughing, her eyes raking over me with contempt. “You? Look at you! Your clothes don’t even have a brand name! And you have the nerve to call yourself Stanley’s fiancée? That’s hilarious!” I had been studying fashion design abroad. The clothes I was wearing were my own creations, of course they didn’t have a label. My designs were already sought after by socialites across Europe, but this woman didn’t recognize them. It made me question her credentials. Her little scene had ruined my mood. I turned to leave. Penelope blocked my path. “Didn’t you hear Stanley? You need an invitation to be here! You claim to be a guest? Where is it?” I rolled my eyes and dug into my pockets, but came up empty. I suddenly remembered my grandfather saying we wouldn’t need one. She saw my hesitation, and her smirk widened. “I knew it! You’re a liar! Guards! Get the ring off her finger, tie her up, and throw her out!” I shielded the ring with one hand and took a step back, my expression hardening. Several household staff members approached me, one of them speaking with a hint of pity. “Miss, you should just give the ring back to Miss Vance. If you don’t, you won’t even know what hit you.” “Yeah, that ring is a symbol of their love. Mr. Ashworth and Miss Vance grew up together. He won’t spare you when he finds out.” “I saw it with my own eyes. A guy once spilled a drink on Miss Vance’s dress. The next day, his hand was just… gone.” The staff’s warnings only fueled Penelope’s sneer. “Did you hear that? Now, get on your knees, place this ring respectfully in my hand, and then get the hell out of here. Otherwise, you’ll end up just like the man who dirtied my dress.” 2 In my entire life, I had only ever seen people kneel before me. The last person who dared to speak to me like that has been fertilizing a patch of daisies for years. I stepped forward and slapped Penelope across the face. Her head snapped to the side, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You dare hit me?!” she shrieked, clutching her cheek and ordering the maids to attack. A smirk played on my lips. Before I went abroad, my grandfather, fearing I’d be vulnerable on my own, had personally arranged for me to be trained in Krav Maga. A few beefy housekeepers were nothing. A few quick strikes sent them stumbling back, dazed and confused. “Pathetic,” I muttered, shaking out my slightly numb fist. I turned to leave, ignoring Penelope’s enraged screams. Suddenly, one of the maids shouted, “Mr. Ashworth is back!” I looked up to see a man in a perfectly tailored suit striding toward us, his face a mask of cold fury. In an instant, Penelope’s vicious expression melted away, replaced by one of heartbreaking fragility. She threw herself into Stanley Ashworth’s arms. “Stanley, darling! You’re finally back! I was being bullied so horribly!” I had to admit, Stanley Ashworth was handsome enough to be a movie star. It was a shame that, knowing full well he was engaged to me, he was now cradling his childhood sweetheart with such tender concern. I curled my lip in disgust. I needed to call my grandfather and tell him this wedding was absolutely, unequivocally off. I ignored their little melodrama and headed for the garden exit. “Stop right there,” Stanley’s voice cut through the air, cold as steel. “You think you can just walk away after touching my woman?” He didn’t even look at me, his attention focused on gently wiping away Penelope’s tears. From behind him, several large bodyguards moved to block my path. I let out a resigned sigh and turned back to him. “Mr. Ashworth, my grandfather is currently in your grandfather’s study discussing our engagement. If they were to find out about this, it wouldn’t look good for you, would it?” At the mention of his grandfather, the maids’ expressions flickered. “What? Is she really his fiancée?” “Who cares? Look how protective he is of Miss Vance. This engagement might not even happen.” “Exactly. We’d better not say the wrong thing and get on Miss Vance’s bad side. With her temper, she’ll make our lives a living hell.” The word “engagement” seemed to enrage Stanley even more. His face darkened. “What engagement? I never agreed to anything. Besides, my grandfather adores me. He would never force me to marry some nobody from God knows where.” Penelope looked up from his embrace, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Stanley and I are childhood sweethearts. What right does a common thief have to the title of Mrs. Ashworth?” I nodded slowly. A scumbag and a shrew. They were made for each other. Let them be locked together forever so they couldn’t inflict themselves on anyone else. Still, my grandfather had told me that of all the families who had sought an alliance with ours, the Ashworths had put in the most effort. I had met the elder Mr. Ashworth a few times; he was a kind man. I could only imagine the storm that would erupt when he found out his grandson had single-handedly destroyed the union he had worked so hard to secure. But there was nothing to be done about it. Sometimes a fine bamboo stalk produces a rotten shoot. 3 I shook my head with a sense of pity and was about to leave for good when Penelope shrieked again. “Don’t let her go! The ruby ring you gave me is still on her hand!” At Stanley’s signal, his bodyguards seized me, their hands grabbing for the ring without a shred of gentleness. But the ring had been custom-fitted to my finger. They pulled and twisted, but it wouldn’t budge. “Penelope,” I said, a mocking tone in my voice, “if this ring is yours, why does it fit my finger so perfectly?” My taunt only enraged her further. She shook Stanley’s arm. “She’s fatter than me, obviously! She must have forced it on, and now it’s stuck!” “Then use a power drill!” My face paled. This was bad. I hadn’t brought my own security today. Stanley’s bodyguards were big, and there were too many of them. I fought back, but they quickly found an opening and pinned me to the ground. Penelope crouched in front of me, her eyes alight with manic glee. Her blood-red nails dug into my chin. “Not so tough now, are you?” She slapped me with all her might. The grit from the garden path scraped against my skin, drawing blood. Stanley stared down at me for a moment, a cold smile playing on his lips. “Penny, did you hurt your hand? Want to see something more fun?” Her eyes lit up. “Tie her to the boat in the middle of the pond!” My eyes widened in horror. I looked at Stanley’s face, which was twisted with a strange excitement. Did he know something? “No! You’ll regret this!” I screamed. Penelope’s voice was a cocktail of disdain and thrill. “Regret? That word isn’t in my vocabulary. But you? You’re about to regret ever touching what’s mine.” The guards dragged me to the ornamental pond in the center of the garden and threw me into a rickety old boat, tying me down with coarse rope. Before I could even open my eyes, they flipped me onto my stomach. A high-pitched whirring sound filled the air as a power saw descended toward my hand. A searing pain shot up my arm, and I screamed. Blood splattered onto the pigeon’s blood ruby, making it gleam with a sinister light. “Oh dear, looks like another one’s about to learn a lesson the hard way.” “Such a pretty girl, too. Had to be stubborn. Now Mr. Ashworth won’t let her off. She’ll lose a finger, at least.” “It’s too brutal. I can’t watch.” The maids and servants chattered on the edge of the pond, but their voices were a distant buzz. The pain made me thrash wildly. The old, dilapidated boat rocked violently, slapping against the water. The scene was horribly reminiscent of the night my parents died at sea. A deep-seated terror clawed its way out from the recesses of my mind. My face turned ashen. My hands, acting on their own, flew up to clutch my head as fresh blood from my finger trickled down my cheek. “No! Please! Let me off this boat!” But Penelope and Stanley just stood on the shore, watching the spectacle as if it were a play. He even kicked the boat, sending it drifting toward the center of the pond. I forced my eyes open and saw Penelope clutching the ring, her face a mask of triumph. Stanley had his arm around her, whispering, “That ring is tainted with her filthy blood now. Throw it away. I’ll buy you a new one.” And then, as I screamed, they casually tossed my parents’ ring into the murky water. “Stanley Ashworth! Aren’t you afraid of what my grandfather will do to you?!” 4 He just laughed, his eyes full of contempt, as if he were looking at a piece of trash. “Your grandfather? Who the hell is he to demand an accounting from me?” “Your family is just you and that old fossil now, isn’t it?” “She was bad luck enough to get her own parents killed, and he actually wants me to marry her? In his dreams!” His words—get her own parents killed—were a dagger to my heart. My pupils constricted. On my eighth birthday, my parents were supposed to be on a cruise, coming home to celebrate with me. But a storm had rolled in. The captain of our yacht advised them to wait it out in port. But I had called them, crying, telling them how much I missed them. So they took a smaller boat, determined to make it back for me. Just as they were nearing the shore, a freak squall hit. A fifteen-foot rogue wave crashed over them. Right in front of my eyes, their boat capsized and disappeared into the churning sea. The scene flashed before my eyes, triggered by Stanley’s cruel words. I curled into a ball on the boat, trembling uncontrollably, tears streaming down my face. All I could do was whisper the same words over and over. “Daddy… Mommy… I’m so sorry. I don’t want you to come back for my birthday anymore…” Penelope clapped her hands, delighted by my suffering. “So she’s a jinx! No wonder she has such a foul aura! Stanley, darling, we should stay far away from her, or her bad luck might rub off on us!” Abroad, no one knew my past, so it was never mentioned. At home, to protect me from the pain, my grandfather had forbidden anyone from speaking of it. He’d even had the lake on our estate filled in. The guilt and grief I had suppressed for so long erupted now, a toxic volcano of self-loathing. I felt an overwhelming urge to throw myself into the water and atone for my sins. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was the custom ringtone I had set for my grandfather. A sliver of clarity pierced through the fog of my despair. The Blackwood family was just me and him now. He had already suffered the agony of burying his own children. If I left him, too… I couldn’t bear to think of the consequences. I took a deep breath, fighting down the impulse, and struggled to reach for my phone. But Penelope saw. She ordered one of the guards to throw a rock at me. My body, weakened by the sudden depressive episode, was trembling uncontrollably. The rock hit its mark. My phone flew from my grasp, its screen flickering twice before going dark as it sank into the pond. The rock had also punched two large holes in the bottom of the boat. Icy water seeped through my clothes, making me shudder. “Seraphina Blackwood, weren’t you just dying to join your parents? I’m giving you the chance! You should be thanking me!” Stanley stood with his arms crossed, watching coldly as I began to sink. “And that old geezer of a grandfather of yours… when he gets here, I’ll send your whole family down for a reunion!” I struggled weakly, but it was no use. My mind screamed one last, silent apology. Grandfather… I’m sorry… Just as the water closed over my nose, I heard the sound of familiar footsteps approaching. A heavy, sandalwood cane swung through the air. A voice like thunder roared, “I’d like to see who plans on sending my family to their graves!”

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