Category: English

My name is Angela. I’m the wife of Damian Sterling, the CEO of the Sterling Corporation, and the mother of his two sons. You’d think that having two sons would mean I could walk on air in this high-society world. In circles like these, producing a male heir is the ultimate currency. But I know the truth. My two precious boys… they aren’t exactly normal. They’re human by day, but at night, they turn into cats. So, I’ve learned to keep my head down, to shrink into the background and make myself as small as possible. I live every day in a state of quiet terror, terrified that Damian will discover I’ve cheated on him. The problem is, my supposed rival for his affections is a cat—and where the hell am I supposed to find the other man in that equation? 1 There’s a legend that runs through the Sterling family: because their ancestors were so ruthless, their hands so stained with the blood of their rivals, they were cursed with difficulty in conceiving. For generations, there has only ever been a single heir. So when it came to choosing a wife, it wasn’t just about beauty or family connections. The ability to bear sons was the ultimate trump card. And I, Angela, just so happened to have a mother who was a master at it. After my mom married my dad, she popped them out one after another. Other families might have two kids in three years; my mom had triplets in one go, cranking out six boys in just three years. Six of them. All boys. Can you believe the nerve? Even though we were constantly scraping by with so many mouths to feed, my mom walked with her chin held high, her voice booming with pride. In a world that worshipped sons, who could compete with her fertile womb? Who could dare challenge her track record? Word of her legendary fertility spread, and as her only daughter, I became the town’s most sought-after prize. From the day I turned eighteen, our doorstep was worn thin by suitors. In the end, it was the Sterling family’s offer that won. And just like that, I was married off. My life’s new purpose: to carry on the family line. For a country girl suddenly thrust into the gilded cage of high society, the pressure was suffocating. But for a two-million-dollar marriage settlement, I swallowed my fears. I waved a tearful goodbye to my parents and six older brothers and climbed into the waiting limousine. Of course, those weren’t tears of sorrow for my departure. They were tears of pain from chipping their teeth on gold. My parents and brothers, bless their country-bumpkin hearts, had never seen real gold before. Their first instinct was to bite it. Every single one of them ended up with a broken tooth. Watching the scene unfold, I wanted to scream, “Could you at least try to save me some face?” That was one reason I left. The other was simpler: you don’t argue with a force of nature. Just try saying no to a billionaire family and see what happens. When I first arrived at the Sterling estate, I was left alone for a month to learn etiquette. The second month, I was sent to Damian Sterling’s bed. My first impression of my benefactor? Mr. Sterling was young, formidable in bed, and visited my room with dutiful frequency. As expected, a month later, I was pregnant. A wave of relief washed over me as the doctor confirmed the news. I hadn’t failed my family. I hadn’t tarnished our reputation as premier son-producers. Ten months later, as the woman carrying Damian Sterling’s first son, I was the focus of the entire family. After a full day and night of labor, a piercing cry announced my success. I had delivered the heir. Damian came to see the baby. He glanced into the swaddling clothes, his face a mask of indifference. “You’ve worked hard,” he said, then turned and left without another word. The Sterling matriarch, his mother, rushed in, her face etched with anxiety. She unwrapped the baby, inspecting every inch of him, before she too shook her head and walked out. Their reactions sent a spike of panic through me. Was there something wrong with the son I had worked so hard to deliver? I pushed myself up, ignoring the pain, and leaned over the bassinet to get a closer look at my newborn son. Two eyes, a nose, a mouth. Five fingers, five toes. I looked again. His lips were a perfect bow, his eyes bright and clear, his skin as smooth as porcelain. He was a beautiful baby. A cherub straight out of a Renaissance painting. Not only was there nothing wrong with him, any other family would have been delirious with joy to have such a perfect, healthy boy. I couldn’t understand it. Even if they didn’t praise me, shouldn’t they at least acknowledge my effort? Shouldn’t there be some kind of reward? They gave my family two million dollars just to marry me; now that I’d given them a living, breathing heir, there was nothing? Or maybe they were just stunned with happiness, their brains short-circuiting? Cradling my sweet-smelling little boy, I waited eagerly for my benefactor’s reward. As night fell, I sent the nanny off to have her dinner, wanting a moment alone with my son. But the reward never came. Instead, something happened that nearly scared me to death. The sweet, milky-smelling baby in my arms… dissolved, right before my eyes, into a tiny black kitten. It mewed softly, tumbling and rolling in the blankets on the bed. Oh, my God. My father. My six brothers—what was happening? Where was my son? My beautiful baby boy? Why was he a cat? If I hadn’t seen the transformation with my own eyes, I would never have believed it. I was certain I’d only ever been with Damian, that I hadn’t cheated. So how could my child be a… a hybrid? How was this even possible? I trembled as I watched over the tiny, furry creature all night, refusing to let anyone near the room. As the first rays of dawn touched the horizon, I was sure my life was over. A thousand different ways to die flashed through my mind, but none of them seemed quite right. 2 “Waaah! Waaah!” A human sound from the bundle of fur in my arms? I looked down. The kitten was gone. In its place, nestled in the blankets, was my plump, perfect prince—my precious son. I called the nanny in to feed him while I watched, my heart pounding with suspicion. He ate, he slept, he gurgled and cried when he was hungry—he was a perfectly normal baby. I started to wonder if I’d suffered some kind of postpartum hallucination. My family had no history of… abnormalities. The day passed in a haze of doubt. But as the sun dipped below the horizon, my hybrid—no, my beloved son—transformed into a kitten again, right before my eyes. Cradling the mewing ball of fur, I cried silently. Son, please be quiet! If you keep meowing, they’ll kill us both! After that second transformation, the last of my hope withered and died. My God, my grandmother, my coat, my jacket—my brain felt like it had been scrambled into mush. I spent another sleepless night trying to figure out where this mutation could have come from, but I had no answers. For my own survival, and for the survival of my hybrid child, I learned to be invisible. I stopped going to the gardens. I stopped visiting the kitchens. I stayed by my son’s side, guarding our terrible secret. But then, when my son was six months old, I found out I was pregnant again. The matriarch sent nourishing soups. Her husband sent ginseng. Even the wives of other prominent families sent bolts of fine fabric. After six months of living like a ghost, I could finally hold my head high again. During that time, I’d observed that my hybrid son’s human form was stable during the day. So, I started venturing out again. I went to the gardens, I instructed the kitchen on menus. My pregnancy cravings and late-night hunger even prompted Damian to have a small, private kitchen built in my villa. I, Angela, was back in the game. The other society wives started visiting my villa for tea and gossip again. Soon, another ten months passed, and the day of delivery arrived. My first son’s little brother was born. I peeked at him nervously. He was human. Thank God. Tears of relief pricked my eyes. But Damian’s reaction was the same as before. A grim expression, and then he was gone. The matriarch sighed, shook her head, and left. Still, the birth of my second son earned me a promotion: I was no longer just the wife of the CEO, but the Lady of the house. I was ecstatic—a promotion meant better benefits. With one human child and one hybrid to raise, I needed every penny I could get. My joy, however, was short-lived. As the sun set, my second beautiful, chubby son transformed into a kitten right before my very eyes. He was identical to his hybrid brother, a creature of pure black fur, except for the very tips of his ears, which were white. How thoughtful. Was this so I could tell them apart? This time, I didn’t faint. I just sat there, my heart a block of ice, as two tiny kittens playfully wrestled on my bed. And so, once again, I retreated into the shadows. No more causing trouble. No more tea parties or gossip sessions. No more picking flowers, chasing butterflies, or ordering special meals from my private kitchen. I lived a quiet, peaceful life, raising my two hybrid children. My dedication paid off in an unexpected way. My eldest, once he turned a year old, only transformed into a cat during the midnight hour, between 11 p.m. and 1 a.m. My younger son wasn’t there yet—he still transformed the moment the sun went down. I took care of their every need myself, terrified of letting the secret slip. Ironically, my tireless devotion to my sons earned me a reputation as a model mother, and even the matriarch rewarded me for it. Sometimes, I’d let myself dream. With two healthy sons, maybe I could one day fight for the position of head of the family. Then I’d hear the meows in the dead of night, and the fantasy would shatter. Forget it. I’d be lucky to keep my head. After the birth of my second son, Damian’s visits became less frequent. I didn’t mind. Unlike the other wives, I never tried to win his favor with homemade soups or pastries. In fact, I was the one woman in this entire social circle who genuinely wished for Damian to have more children with other women. The more heirs he had, the less attention he’d pay to mine. And the less attention he paid, the safer my two hybrids would be. The longer the three of us would get to live. God, just thinking about it brought tears to my eyes. 3 Time flew by. In the blink of an eye, my eldest hybrid was five, and my younger one was three. By carefully cultivating the image of a fragile woman recovering from a lingering injury, I had managed to keep our villa quiet and isolated for years. It was as if I’d fallen out of favor. The good news was that my eldest could now maintain his human form almost perfectly, only changing during the full moon. My younger son was still a work in progress—he transformed every three days. To ensure their physical and mental well-being, I lived a life of constant deception. By day, we ate simple, bland meals. By night, we feasted on fish and meat. More accurately, I was practically living on bread and water during the day, stretching the food budget for a CEO’s wife and two young masters just to afford a few extra fish for my boys at night. Watching my two little cat-sons devour their meal, I would shed a silent, bitter tear for myself. My darling hybrids’ father, who are you? Where are you? On the outside, I was a doting mother. On the inside, a storm was raging. I was at my breaking point—my hybrids were now eating seven fish a night. Sob. The kitchen manager I’d bribed told me he couldn’t justify increasing our order any further. Over the years, I’d learned their personalities. My eldest was stoic and serious, always trying to act more mature than his years. He was thoughtful, obedient, and had a small appetite. He doted on his younger brother, respected his mother, and only ate two fish a night. My younger son, on the other hand, was a little terror and a bottomless pit. One day he was tearing up the matriarch’s prized orchids, the next he was scrapping with a society wife’s precious Persian cat. He was a constant source of anxiety. Thankfully, he only caused trouble in his cat form, or our secret would have been out long ago. Lying in bed, I reflected on the challenges of raising two hybrids. It hadn’t been easy. “Mom, Leo’s gone.” My eldest son’s grim face appeared at my door. “What—” The scream died in my throat as he shot me a stern look. “Mom, please wait quietly in his room. I’ll go find him.” “Be careful. Please, be careful.” “I will.” With that, he transformed into a sleek black cat and vaulted over the garden wall, disappearing into the night. “That little rascal,” I sighed, wringing my hands. “He never gives me a moment’s peace. Oh, I hope no one catches him. My baby boy…” I sat on a stool, my mind racing with terrible possibilities. Just as the moon reached its zenith and I was about to sneak out to search for them myself, my two hybrids returned. “Oh my god, what happened to you two?” My eldest’s black fur couldn’t hide the blood matting the corner of his mouth. But my younger son was in worse shape—all four of his legs were limp, completely useless. I quickly lifted the smaller cat from his brother’s back. As my fingers brushed against his soft, broken limbs, tears streamed down my face. “Mom, Leo is badly hurt,” my eldest said, shifting back into his human form. “His internal energy isn’t stable enough to hold his human shape.” “Where did you find him? Where did that little devil run off to?” I asked, my voice choked with panic as I dabbed at the blood on his lip. “Don’t worry, Mom. His injuries aren’t that serious. Our bodies can heal themselves. I found him in Dad’s study. We’ll have to wait until he wakes up to find out who hurt him. You should get some rest. I’ll take him back to our room to recover.” His calm, methodical demeanor managed to soothe my frayed nerves. “Okay, okay. Go quickly. Make sure you take good care of your brother. My poor little hybrid, you must have been in so much pain. Sob…” I called after them, the image of that small, limp body burned into my mind. My heart ached, and I couldn’t stop the tears. What kind of monster would be so cruel to a helpless kitten? Don’t let me find out who hurt my baby boy. I swear, I’ll have my eldest scratch their eyes out. 4 Worried sick about my sons, I only managed to doze off near dawn, slumped against the headboard. “Hurry, hurry…” “Find it…” “Check over here…” “You go that way…” The commotion outside the villa jolted me awake. Bang, bang, bang! Someone was pounding on the main gate. The cleaning lady rushed to open it. For years, I hadn’t even kept a personal maid, all to protect my sons’ secret. I rose, checked my reflection—I looked presentable enough—and pulled back the curtains to see what was happening. “My Lady,” the head of security said, bowing low as he led a team of guards into the courtyard. “Last night, a black cat broke into the master’s study and scratched him. We are under orders to find the creature. We ask for your cooperation.” His words sent a chill down my spine. My hybrid son had scratched Damian? Damian was the one who had hurt my sons? Even a tiger won’t eat its own cubs, but Damian… he had injured both of them in one night. My heart shattered. “My Lady, if you would please allow us, we will be thorough but careful not to damage any of your belongings,” the captain said, bowing again. “Captain, please, do as you must,” I murmured, still lost in a fog of grief over Damian’s cruelty. I sat in the garden pavilion, watching numbly as the guards finished searching the main house and moved towards the side wing where my sons slept. I felt like I was forgetting something important. My head throbbed from lack of sleep. I just couldn’t place it. “Young Master, please open the door. We’re here to conduct a search,” the captain announced, his hand on the hilt of his sword as he bowed toward the door. Wait. A black cat? My younger son was still unconscious. He couldn’t transform back into a human! If they burst in there now, it would all be over.

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After my divorce, I disappeared. I changed my appearance and identity, remarried, had a child, and built a quiet, ordinary life. Everyone, including him, likely thought I’d eventually come back defeated. Seven years later, I returned to Sebastian Murray’s city, expecting him to have married Sophie Reed—the woman he’d promoted at my expense. But at a gala, I saw him. Still strikingly handsome, still single. He didn’t recognize me, yet whispers followed him: “Sebastian, still hung up on his ex-wife. Who will inherit his fortune?” The words confused me. If he loved me, why did he leak my most private photos the night I won my career’s top award? Why did he let my reputation be destroyed until I had to flee in disgrace? … Seven years ago, on the day I was supposed to fly to Cannes to accept the award for Best Actress, my private photos exploded across the internet. Overnight, I went from being a celebrated actress to a pariah, a target for public scorn. I remember staring at the vile comments, my fingertips trembling, before racing home to demand an explanation from Sebastian. But the conversation I overheard from behind his study door froze me in my tracks. “Mr. Murray, isn’t this a bit too harsh? Mrs. Murray has fought her way up in this industry for years. This could destroy her career. She might never work again.” Sebastian’s voice was calm, chillingly detached. “This award was meant for Sophie. For the future of Sophie’s career, what’s sacrificing her once?” My back was pressed flat against the cold wall, a bone-deep chill seeping into my soul. An assistant’s fawning voice continued, “You’re a true visionary, sir. It only took three steps to have Joanna Wells wrapped around your little finger.” “First,” the man gushed, “when she was just starting out, you had the agency trick her into signing doctored contracts designed to trap her.” “Second, you used the fifty-million-dollar penalty clause to force her into those compromising photoshoots.” “And for the third act, you swooped in like a white knight to ‘save her.’ Of course, she fell right into your arms, loyal and obedient, working herself to the bone to become the biggest earner for your company.” “She’s more loyal than a puppy, and you don’t even have to pay her a real salary!” Sebastian’s next words were like a sword through my heart. “This industry is a filthy place. With Joanna clearing the path, breaking the ground, Sophie’s journey to the top will be smooth and clean.” The assistant, noticing the uncharacteristic softness in Sebastian’s eyes whenever he mentioned Sophie Reed, asked, “Then why did you marry Joanna, sir? Did the act become real?” Sebastian swirled the red wine in his glass and scoffed, as if his hand had been forced. “Three years ago, Sophie had just gotten her license. She… she accidentally hit Joanna and her mother. The three-month-old baby Joanna was carrying, and her mother… neither of them made it.” “It wasn’t Sophie’s fault,” he added quickly. “She was terrified. It was Joanna and her mother who didn’t get out of the way in time.” My legs gave out from under me. I bit down on my hand, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth, just to stop myself from screaming. Three years ago. I had been pregnant, taking a walk with my mother, when a speeding car slammed into us. When I woke up, it was to the sight of my mother’s cold, lifeless body. I had shattered, and Sebastian had been there to hold me, to comfort me. “Joanna, my love,” he had whispered, “I will turn this city upside down to find the monster who did this. I swear I will get justice for our baby and your mother.” A month later, he came to me with a look of defeat. “The police said all the surveillance cameras in the area were malfunctioning that night.” “But it’s okay, Joanna,” he’d said, pulling me close. “I’m all you have now, and I’m all you need. I will protect you. I will love you forever.” “Marry me.” I looked down at the wedding band on my finger. This marriage, this life I thought was my salvation, was built on the blood of my mother and my unborn child. Inside the study, Sebastian’s voice continued. “I was afraid Joanna would press the issue and drag Sophie into it. So I offered to marry her. The title of Mrs. Murray was… compensation.” “And as for my Sophie, if I can’t give her my name in this lifetime, then I will give her the world in her career. I will stop at nothing to lift her up.” The brutal truth crushed the last bit of air from my lungs. I fled, scrambling away from that house, that cage. I didn’t stop running until I was blocks away, collapsing in an alley where I finally let out the sobs I had been holding back. When the tears ran dry, my hands shaking, I scrolled to the very bottom of my contacts and dialed a number that had burned in my phone for years. He answered on the first ring. My voice was a raw, trembling whisper. “Does your sister still need my kidney?” “I’m willing to donate it. But I have one condition.” “I want Sebastian Murray and Sophie Reed utterly and completely destroyed.” A low chuckle on the other end. “Done.” After hanging up, I immediately called my lawyer and had him draft the divorce papers. My heart hammered against my ribs when I saw the settlement clause: I would receive half of all Sebastian’s assets. It was a promise he’d made to me years ago, a promise he never dreamed I would be the one to invoke. I had just finished reviewing the documents when he came home. “You’re back? Why didn’t you call me?” he asked, his voice laced with concern. “Security said they never picked you up, and you weren’t answering your phone.” I said nothing. He probably assumed I was still reeling from the photo leak. He scooped me into his arms and carried me to the sofa. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his face buried in my hair. “I thought those photos were destroyed years ago. I never imagined they kept copies.” “I promise you, I’ll take care of this as quickly as possible.” I looked into his eyes, those clear, dark pools, and saw not a single flicker of guilt or deceit. How many lies had he told me over the years? I felt exhausted, hollowed out. “I’m tired,” I said, pushing him away gently. “I’m going to take a shower.” The next morning, Sebastian was already gone when I woke up. I opened my laptop. The top trending story was still about my scandal. But right below it were several new headlines, all about Sophie Reed. #POPULAR STARLET SITS ON DIRECTOR KING’S LAP, PAIR LATER ENTER HOTEL, WOMAN LEAVES DISHEVELED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT# #A-LIST ACTRESS IN HOTEL SCANDAL, SUSPECTED TO BE ‘S. REED’# #SOPHIE REED’S WHEREABOUTS LAST NIGHT UNKNOWN# I clicked on the article. The woman in the grainy photos was wearing a mask, but I recognized her instantly. It was Sophie. No wonder Sebastian had left so early. He was already in crisis mode, doing damage control for her. I let out a bitter laugh, printed the divorce agreement, and slipped it into the middle of a thick stack of contracts on his desk. I knew his habits. He never double-checked paperwork, just flicked the corner and scrawled his signature. Then, I started to pack. When I opened the door to my walk-in closet, a chilling realization hit me. Every single gift Sebastian had ever given me—a dress, a necklace, a handbag—Sophie had an identical one. Even my wedding ring had a counterpart on Sophie’s finger. Hers, I now noticed, was a much better match for Sebastian’s own band. I ripped the ring from my finger and threw it into a drawer, slamming it shut. Just then, my agent called, her voice frantic. “Joanna! Did you know Mr. Murray just called a press conference?” “You have to watch the livestream! He’s going to clear your name, I’m sure of it!” I clicked the link. The conference was just beginning. Sebastian stood at the podium, adjusting the microphone as camera flashes strobed across his handsome face. The camera pulled back to reveal Sophie standing beside him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Good morning, members of the press,” Sebastian began. “I’m here today to address the recent online speculation regarding an artist from my company.” He paused for dramatic effect. “The rumors that one of our actresses was involved with a director to secure a role are, I can confirm, true.” A wave of gasps and frantic murmurs swept through the room. I gripped a sofa cushion, my brow furrowed. Why would he admit it? My eyes darted to Sophie. As she lowered her head, I caught a fleeting, triumphant smirk on her lips. A cold dread washed over me. “However,” Sebastian continued, his voice ringing with authority, “the woman in those photos was not Sophie Reed. At the time the pictures were taken, she was at the office with me, discussing a script.” The reporters and the live chat exploded. “Then who was it?” someone shouted. Sebastian’s gaze found the camera, his voice clear, each word a hammer blow. “It was my wife, Joanna Wells.”

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As the nation’s top animal behaviorist, I was conducting a final evaluation of Caesar, our pride’s alpha lion. The moment I entered the isolation corridor, the heavy alloy gate slammed shut behind me. But instead of an alarm, the PA system blared the voice of the park director’s wife—my wife, Jessica. “Welcome back to the stream, everyone! Today’s ultimate challenge: we’ve locked our ‘top animal trainer’ in with the king of the jungle. Will he wet his pants in ten minutes? Place your bets!” Caesar, the lion I’d raised since he was a cub, was crouched low, growling. I reached for my tranquilizer gun, then froze. The liquid inside wasn’t pale yellow—it was a murky, angry red. The vet Mark’s smug voice came over the speaker. “Leo, forgot to mention—I swapped your tranquilizer for pepper spray. Wouldn’t want you hurting Caesar. You two are best buds, right? Use the power of love!” Caesar’s bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils told me he’d been drugged with agitants. Mark was getting back at me for stopping him from petting a tiger bare-handed last week. I tuned out the speakers, focused only on the 500-pound predator before me. My hand slipped into my pocket and closed around a small remote. I pressed the button—the master override for every electric fence in the predator enclosures. “If you won’t let me live,” I shouted at the nearest camera, “then you’ll all die with me!” “Jessica! This is the master switch for the entire zoo’s predator enclosures!” “The second I press this button, it won’t just be Caesar. Every single big cat, bear, and wolf will be out!” “This zoo is in the heart of downtown! Think about the body count! How many death sentences is that worth for you two?” My voice trembled with fury, but every word was a steel-tipped dart. The PA system went dead silent for a heartbeat before Mark’s terrified shriek pierced the air. “Leo! Dude, don’t do it! Just calm down, man! Be cool!” But then, Jessica let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “Mark, what are you afraid of? He’s bluffing!” “Only the zoo’s owner has access to a switch like that. He’s just a glorified zookeeper. Where would he get something like that?” “Alright, folks!” she announced to her audience, her voice bright again. “Want to see me really get Caesar worked up? Start dropping those Golden Lions in the chat, and I’ll give you a show!” I almost laughed out of sheer, blistering rage. Keeping my eyes locked on Caesar’s every twitch, I yelled back, “Jessica, did it never once occur to you to ask why someone with zero qualifications, like you, was hired as the director of a major zoological park?” I threw myself to the left, dirt and gravel spraying as Caesar lunged, his claws swiping through the air where my head had been a second before. “It’s because I’m the secret owner of this zoo,” I bellowed, my lungs burning. Silence from the other end. Gasping for breath, I started shouting the secret clauses from the employment contract we’d signed—clauses only the two of us and my lawyer knew. Jessica’s breathing on the other end became heavy and ragged, as if a hand were clamped around her throat. Panic finally set in. “Leo, honey, don’t! I was just kidding! It was a prank for the stream!” she pleaded, her voice a desperate whine. “Don’t take it seriously! I’m opening the gate right now! I’m letting you out!” “Just please, don’t press that button!” But Caesar wasn’t giving me a break. I couldn’t dodge in time. His claws, sharp as scalpels, raked across my arm. My heavy work uniform tore like paper, peeling back flesh and sending a gush of hot blood spilling out. The rich, coppery scent of it filled the air. Caesar let out a thunderous, triumphant roar. I stared at the alloy gate. It remained stubbornly, fatally shut. My hope turned to ice in my veins. “You have ten seconds, Jessica! Open this gate NOW!” Her dream, she’d once told me, was to run her own zoo. So I’d poured my life savings into secretly buying this one. To spare her any sense of obligation, I’d set up a shell corporation to hire her, making it all seem like a lucky break. I was going to tell her everything tomorrow, on our wedding anniversary, and sign the whole thing over to her. A surprise. Instead, here she was, trying to impress her sleazy boy-toy by feeding me to a drugged-up lion on a live stream. “Ten!” “Nine!” I began the countdown, each number torn from my throat. In the adjacent enclosure, the scent of my blood had agitated the Bengal tiger. It began slamming its massive body against the fence connecting our two habitats, the impacts echoing like drumbeats of doom. “Jessica! Jessica, do something! I’m freaking out here!” Mark’s voice was a high-pitched squeal. Jessica was completely unraveling. “Honey! Leo, stop counting! Please stop! The gate… it must be malfunctioning! I’ll call maintenance! I’m calling them right now!” I stopped counting. The gash on my arm burned like fire. Using the precious seconds while Caesar regrouped, I scrambled up the rockwork of the lion’s den, clawing my way into the branches of a decorative tree. Before I could even catch my breath, Jessica’s voice, now laced with an unrestrained mockery, echoed from the speakers. “Oh, no, honey. What a shame.” “The maintenance guy says he’s already clocked out for the day. He can come in tomorrow, though.” “Why don’t you just hang out in there for the night?” Below me, Caesar was ramming the tree trunk with his colossal body. The entire tree shuddered violently, groaning as if it might snap at any moment. In my condition, I wouldn’t last an hour, let alone the whole night. Waves of dizziness from the blood loss washed over me, but they were nothing compared to the bone-deep chill of betrayal that had settled in my heart. “You’re insane, Jessica. You actually want me to die, don’t you?” The speakers erupted with their unrestrained, dual laughter. “Took you long enough to figure that out, Leo?” Jessica said. She cleared her throat, and I could just picture her aiming her phone’s camera right at my pathetic, blood-soaked form. “But hey, thanks for that little escape performance just now. The viewer count is through the roof! I guess you’re not completely worthless after all.” A rock whizzed past my head, smacking hard against the trunk. Mark was on the other side of the fence, picking up stones and hurling them at me. “What are you doing all the way up there? Get down here!” he taunted. “Our top donor just said if you fall out of that tree, he’ll drop twenty Supernova gifts!” Jessica squealed with delight, her voice twisted with manic glee. “Did you hear that, Leo? Get down here, now!” “If you don’t start earning your keep, I’m not even buying you an urn when you’re dead!” My life or death had become just another gimmick to farm engagement on their goddamn live stream. I raised the remote again, trying to say something, anything, but another violent slam from Caesar shook the tree so hard I nearly lost my grip. I could only cling to the rough bark, splinters digging into my palms. Watching my desperate struggle, Jessica walked right up to the gate’s bulletproof glass, her face alight with amusement. “Oh, stop the act, Leo.” “The owner’s personal assistant just called me a few days ago,” she said, her voice dripping with condescension. “Told me the big boss is overseas scouting new locations and won’t be back for a while. Did you really think I’d believe a lie that stupid?” My heart clenched. I’d forgotten. To maintain the surprise, all official communication had been routed through my personal assistant, Lynn. Jessica paused, her tone shifting to a syrupy, false gentleness. “Besides, you’re Mr. Morality, aren’t you, Leo? The park hasn’t even closed yet. There are still visitors outside. If you let all the predators out and people get hurt… you couldn’t live with yourself, could you?” “Be a good boy. Climb down and have a little playtime with Caesar. It’s what everyone wants to see.” Her words hit me like a physical blow. My heart plummeted. I had thought the remote was my trump card, the one line she wouldn’t dare cross. But she had already factored my conscience into her sick equation. She knew my decency was her weapon. Seeing my silence, she smiled, satisfied. “You have no parents, Leo. No one to even mourn you.” “And for an animal trainer to be killed by one of his own animals… well, that’s just a workplace accident, isn’t it? Perfectly understandable.” “So just rest in peace. I’ll use the money from this stream to take good care of our child.” Our child? My mind went blank, a deafening roar drowning out everything else. Before I could even process the bombshell, Mark sidled up behind her, placing a hand on her stomach with an air of intimate ownership. “Don’t you worry, Leo,” he said, his voice slick with slime. “I’ll take good care of Jessica and the baby for you.” “After all,” he grinned, “they’re both mine now.” “Oh, and by the way, there should be a pretty hefty life insurance payout from the zoo after you die, right? It’s a big number, but I guess I can do you a favor and spend it for you.” The two of them, a perfect pair, their shamelessness so profound it made my stomach churn with bile. I swore to myself, if I survived this, I would tear them limb from limb. On their stream, the soap-opera-level drama must have triggered a new wave of donations. To please their audience, Mark found a long bamboo pole and began jabbing it at me through the fence. “Get down! Come on, Leo! Get down here!” The pole stabbed into my open wound. The agony was so intense I almost let go of the trunk. I was a broken, bleeding mess, trying to dodge the pole while keeping an eye on the increasingly frantic lion below. Just as Caesar gathered his powerful legs for a soaring leap, I launched myself sideways, landing heavily in the branches of a smaller, neighboring tree. Caesar’s lunge missed, and he crashed to the ground with a heavy thud, letting out a roar so powerful it felt like it would rupture my eardrums. The world was spinning from the blood loss. He was completely feral now. No matter what calming sounds I tried to make, he ignored them, his blood-red eyes fixated on me. I was filled with utter despair. Then, a crackle of static came from the walkie-talkie clipped to my collar. “Kssht… Leo? Leo, you there? How’s it going? Are you done with the assessment?” It was my colleague, Dave! Like a drowning man spotting a lifeline, I fumbled for the talk button. “Dave! Help—” “Dave, please don’t bother my husband while he’s working.” Jessica’s crisp voice cut through the channel, easily overpowering my weak cry. “He’s in a critical phase of calming Caesar down. He can’t have any distractions.” She had a walkie-talkie, too. She had locked me out of the channel. All I could do was listen as Dave’s apologetic voice came through. “Oh! Oh, my bad, my bad! I thought he’d be finished by now. That Leo, what a pro! Alright, I’ll leave you guys to it!” With a final crackle, the radio went silent.

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When I was five, I asked my mom why I didn’t look like anyone else. In our small, isolated town deep in the mountains, everyone had dark hair and dark eyes. Mine was the color of straw. My mother looked at me, her face blank. She didn’t say a word. She just picked up a pair of scissors and shaved my head until it was bare. From then on, I was the only bald kid in town. Two weeks later, I found a slip of paper she’d hidden in the woodpile behind our shack. It had a phone number on it. Barefoot, I ran to the payphone at the town’s only gas station and dialed. That night, a procession of sleek, black cars rolled down our dirt road, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Policemen slammed the man I called ‘Dad’ to the ground. My mother, sobbing, fell into the arms of a man in a clean, sharp suit. They were taking her away. I just stood there, frozen. “Momma,” I whispered to the empty space. “You said if I made the call, you’d kiss me.” 1 It was chaos, but all I could see was my mother. She was being held up by the man in the suit, looking so fragile, like a single gust of wind could shatter her. I instinctively ran toward her, reaching out to grab the edge of her dress. My hand hadn’t even touched the fabric— “No!” She flinched as if she’d been bitten by a snake, her head snapping around to look at me. Her eyes were wide with terror. She pointed a trembling finger at me, her voice a ragged cry to the man in the suit. “Don’t! I don’t want her! Get her away from me! She’s that devil’s child! Leave her here to rot!” I froze, my hand still hanging in the air. The man in the suit pulled my mother into his arms, murmuring softly, “It’s okay, Evelyn. It’s okay. We’ll leave her here. We’ll leave her.” Just then, a man in a driver’s cap looked at me, then stepped forward hesitantly. “Sir, Ma’am… Mr. and Mrs. Ashford… my wife and I, we can’t have children. Seeing this little one… if it’s alright with you… I’d like to adopt her.” My mother nodded instantly, desperately. The suited man—Mr. Ashford—looked from my mother to me, a deep weariness in his eyes. He waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. Yes. That’s for the best.” My mother didn’t look back. She let Mr. Ashford guide her into the fanciest car, the door shutting with a solid, final thud. The engine purred to life. As the car began to move, to take her away forever, something inside me snapped. I tore my hand from the driver’s grip and ran, my bare feet pounding against the sharp gravel of the road. “Momma! Momma!” Pain shot through the soles of my feet, but I didn’t care. I just ran and screamed, tears streaming down my face, blurring the taillights into red streaks. “You promised! You said you’d kiss me! You promised!” The car picked up speed, disappearing around a bend at the end of the road. I stumbled to a stop, doubling over, coughing until my lungs burned. 2 The driver, who told me to call him Leo, parked in front of a house so big and bright it hurt my eyes. It had white pillars and huge windows, grander than all the houses in my town put together. But I didn’t go in through the big, shiny front door. Leo took my hand and led me around the back, to a small, hidden door that opened into the basement. “Kiddo,” he said softly. “This is our home now.” The room was tiny, with a metal-frame bed, a wobbly table, and piles of clutter. The concrete walls were damp to the touch. The only light came from a single, high window, a small rectangle that showed the feet of people walking by outside. I was happy. It was so much better than the shack. And from here, I could see my mother every day. Sometimes, I was allowed into the backyard for a bit of air. I would see her—I learned her name was Evelyn now—drifting through the rose garden. She wore beautiful, silky dresses that shimmered in the sun, like a fairy from a picture book. Mr. Ashford would be at her side, his hand on her arm. She was still pale, but she was slowly gaining weight. Once, I was staring too hard, and her eyes met mine by accident. Her expression froze, then hardened into a look of pure disgust, like she’d just spotted a cockroach. She turned abruptly and hurried back inside. Not long after I moved into the basement, my hair had started to grow back in a fuzzy, blond stubble. The family had guests—Evelyn’s cousin and her daughter, Lily, who was about my age. Lily was dressed in a pink, frilly dress with a big bow in her perfectly curled hair. She looked like a doll. Everyone adored her. Mr. Ashford patted her head gently. Evelyn even gave her a rare, faint smile, telling the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, to bring out the best cookies and toys. I watched from the top of the basement stairs, hidden in the shadows. Leo had warned me to stay out of sight. But Lily found me. She tiptoed down a few steps, her head cocked. Then she pointed at my head and burst out laughing. “Mommy, look! It’s a bald freak! She’s so ugly!” My face burned with shame. I instinctively covered my head with my hands. Her mother gave a half-hearted tug on her arm. “Lily, that’s not nice.” But the adults upstairs paid no mind, their conversation continuing uninterrupted. Lily took that as permission. Later, while the grown-ups were talking in the living room, she snuck over to my basement room. She snatched the only toy I owned—a one-armed doll Leo had found for me—threw it on the floor, and stomped on it. “Baldies only play with trash!” she sneered. I trembled with rage, tears welling in my eyes, but I bit them back. I remembered my mother’s revulsion. I remembered Leo’s warning not to cause trouble. I bit my lip until it bled, picked up my dirt-stained doll, and wiped it clean with my sleeve. That afternoon, she took a sparkly rhinestone hair clip Evelyn had given her, and hid it under the thin, lumpy mattress on my bed. Then she ran upstairs, screaming. “My hair clip is gone! The one Aunt Evelyn gave me! It must have been the bald girl! She was staring at my hair all morning!” The house erupted. Lily’s mom grabbed her crying daughter, her voice sharp. “Evelyn, really… I know the girl comes from a rough place, but you have to teach her not to steal.” Evelyn’s face turned ashen. Without even asking, she snapped at Mrs. Gable, “Go get her. Now.” I was dragged into the living room. My bare, dusty feet were a smudge on the pristine white carpet. I clutched the hem of my worn dress. “I didn’t… I didn’t take it…” I whispered. “Liar!” Evelyn’s voice was shrill. “Did the clip just get up and walk away? I knew you were no good!” Mr. Ashford, sitting on the sofa, simply frowned at his newspaper. “What’s all the noise? It’s a small thing. If she took it, she can give it back. Just try to have cleaner hands in the future.” “Search her room!” Evelyn commanded. Mrs. Gable found the clip in seconds. From behind her mother’s skirt, Lily gave me a smug, triumphant smile. Evelyn looked humiliated. Her chest heaved as she pointed a shaking finger at me, turning to Leo. “Leo! Is this the good girl you’re raising? A common thief? Lock her in the basement. No food for three days! Let her think about what she’s done! I don’t want to see her face!” Leo opened his mouth, then closed it with a heavy sigh. He took my hand and led me back down the stairs. The door clicked shut, plunging the room into near darkness. I curled up on the cold bed, my stomach aching with hunger, but it was nothing compared to the cold in my heart. I didn’t cry. I just thought, Mommy is even angrier now. I did something wrong again. Maybe if I had hair, they wouldn’t think I was a thief. Maybe if I’d hidden better, Lily wouldn’t have found me. The three days were hard. Leo would sneak me crusts of bread and a cup of cold water. As I chewed the stale bread, a single, anxious thought consumed me: What if Mommy gets sick from being so angry? She’s already so frail. 3 Three days later, when the door finally opened, my legs were so weak I could barely stand. The sunlight was a physical blow, and the smell of food from the kitchen made my empty stomach cramp violently. Leo pulled me into a corner and pressed a small bowl of warm broth into my hands. His own hands were trembling, his eyes red. “Kiddo, eat slow. There’s… there’s something I have to tell you.” I looked up at him, my spoon halfway to my mouth. “The missus… your mother… she’s pregnant.” I froze. The spoon clattered against the bowl. Pregnant? Momma… was having another baby? I remembered back in the shack, my mother’s belly had gotten big once before. I’d hidden and watched as she slammed her own body, again and again, against the sharp stone edge of the hearth, until dark red blood soaked through her pants and pooled on the dirt floor. I had been too terrified to even make a sound. But this was different. Here, in this beautiful house, with Mr. Ashford, she wouldn’t have to do that anymore. From that day on, everything revolved around my mother and the baby. Mr. Ashford was home more, his voice softer, full of a joy I’d never heard. The whole house smelled of rich, savory soups Mrs. Gable was always cooking. Sometimes I’d sneak a glance from the backyard and see new, whimsical wind chimes hanging in the windows upstairs. It was all so beautiful, and so far away, like a story from another world. I could only listen to the muffled sounds of them discussing names, my hand drifting up to touch the prickly stubble on my scalp, a hollow ache in my chest. I still couldn’t help but wonder. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it look like her, or Mr. Ashford? My longing to see my mother grew stronger. I knew she hated the sight of me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’d hide behind drying sheets on the clothesline, or in the shade of a large azalea bush, just to catch a glimpse of her. She was gaining more weight, a healthy color returning to her cheeks. Mr. Ashford would walk with her in the garden, and sometimes she would look down at her growing belly, a soft hand resting on it. Once, lost in thought, I wasn’t hidden well enough. She sensed me. Her eyes swept the yard and landed on me. The softness on her face vanished, replaced by a mask of cold fury. She turned and practically ran back inside, slamming the glass patio door shut. The curtains were drawn, a final, definitive barrier. A few days later, I heard her voice from upstairs, hysterical and weeping. “I can’t! I can’t stand it! I have nightmares just knowing she’s here! It will hurt the baby! You have to send her away! Send her so far away I never have to see her again!” Mr. Ashford’s low voice soothed her. “Alright, alright, don’t get worked up. For the baby… whatever you want. I’ll have Leo arrange it.” Leo came down to the basement, his eyes red-rimmed. He silently packed my small bag—two old dresses and my one-armed doll. He kept stroking my head, his voice choked. “Kiddo, you be good, you hear? You take care of yourself… I’m so sorry…” I kept my head down. I didn’t cry. I was being thrown away again. As Leo was leading me towards the back door, a new set of voices echoed from the front of the house. A striking, elderly woman with hair the same natural blonde as mine and eyes like blue jewels was being welcomed in. She was impeccably dressed, carrying a leather handbag, and laughing with Mr. Ashford. We had to cross the hallway to leave, and our paths intersected. The old woman’s eyes landed on me instantly. She stopped, her blue eyes studying me with curiosity. “Oh? And who is this little angel?” she asked in a clear voice with a faint European accent. “Arthur, you didn’t tell me you had such a charming young guest.” The mood in the room shifted. Everyone froze. My mother shrank behind Mr. Ashford. “Aunt Isabella,” Arthur said, his voice strained. “This is our chauffeur’s adopted daughter. From the country. She’s a bit… unruly. We were just sending her back.” The woman, Isabella, nodded thoughtfully. As Leo tried to pull me along, she raised an elegant hand. “Well,” she said, her voice ringing with authority. “If you’re sending her away, you might as well send her to me. I quite adore her.” 4 She looked down at me, her smile gentle. “Oh, my dear little angel, what is your name? How old are you?” A name? The man in the shack had always called me “bastard.” My mother… my mother had always sobbed that I was a “millstone,” a “curse.” I didn’t think I had a name. Just then, Evelyn peeked out from behind Arthur. “Aunt Isabella! She’s just a wild kid from the sticks, no name, no manners! She’s clumsy, she even steals! If you want a child for company, you should take Lily. Lily is smart and polite, you’d…” “Evelyn,” Isabella interrupted her, her tone still gentle but firm. “I was speaking to the child.” She turned back to me, her blue eyes encouraging. I looked at my mother’s pale, desperate face, and clutched my little bag tighter. My mind was a mess. I should go with this lady. It would make my mother happy. If I was gone, she wouldn’t be angry, and it would be better for the baby. But if I left… would I ever see my mother again? Isabella reached out and took my small hand in hers. She then stood and addressed Leo. “Leo, please pack the child’s things. Just the basics. I will buy her everything else new.” And just like that, I was led away like a stray puppy, my hand in hers, walking towards the front door. As we passed my mother, I looked up at her. She buried her face in Arthur’s shoulder, refusing to meet my eyes. Isabella’s car was even fancier than Mr. Ashford’s. She lifted me inside; the seats were like clouds. As the car pulled away, I pressed my face to the window, desperately looking back. The big, bright house grew smaller. Leo was a tiny figure waving from the driveway. Would my mother come out for one last look? No. Everything blurred and then disappeared around the corner. The car was quiet and smelled of lavender. Isabella looked at my bald head and my ill-fitting dress and sighed softly. She took a cashmere shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it around me, cocooning my small body. “Poor little bird,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid. You’re with Grandma now.” After a moment, she asked again, her voice soft. “Tell me your name, dear. I can’t call you ‘little angel’ forever.” I looked down at my lap. “I’m five,” I mumbled. “I don’t have a name.” Isabella was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice that was certain and grand, as if she were making a royal decree, she said, “No name? That simply will not do. You came to me in the summer, like the brightest, warmest sunshine. From now on, your name will be Summer. May your life be as brilliant and warm as your name.” Summer? I had a name. My name… was Summer. I repeated it in my mind, over and over, a secret treasure.

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For eight years, I helped build my boyfriend’s dream from nothing. On our anniversary, we were still in the same attic apartment. He gave me the only egg from his soup. “Eat, Lena. You need strength.” I held my cancer diagnosis and said I wanted to break up. “I can’t wait anymore, Ethan.” He smiled, ruffling my hair. “Don’t be silly.” “I have cancer.” The pain was so sharp I barely remember his response before he rushed off to work—our life already felt like a long-distance relationship. After my follow-up, I went to his glass tower. The receptionist stopped me. “You need an appointment to see the CEO.” I stood frozen. I used to sneak upstairs as a delivery girl. Since when did I need an appointment to see him? 01 Ethan and I were broke. The kind of broke where you count loose change for laundry. How could he possibly be a CEO? I didn’t believe it. I couldn’t. But then, through the frosted glass of a conference room, I saw him. He was dressed in a tailored suit that probably cost more than our rent for a year. Beside him, a young woman in a bright yellow dress was playfully tugging on his arm. “I don’t care!” she pouted, her voice a sweet, cloying melody. “You promised you’d take me to the movies. If you’re backing out now, you have to make it up to me!” Ethan’s smile was a mixture of exasperation and pure indulgence. “Alright, alright. That bag you were looking at… how much was it? Four hundred thousand?” The girl practically bounced with joy, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a kiss near his ear. Ethan pulled a credit card from his wallet, tapping her affectionately on the head as he chuckled. “You little troublemaker.” I watched, feeling like I was trapped in a nightmare. Four hundred thousand dollars. That was enough to buy us a year’s worth of instant noodles with an egg in our attic. All these years, our finances were so tight, I never dared to bring up money, terrified of adding to his pressure. The only time we’d talked about it was the night I got the diagnosis. I held the report in my trembling hands and tried to sound casual. “The cheapest bottle of pills is four thousand three hundred dollars. Can you believe it? It’s robbery! But the guy selling knock-offs downstairs from the hospital only charges eighteen hundred. I could save more than half!” I forced a laugh. “What do you think? I could deliver food during the day and drive for Uber at night. Maybe I’d even make it long enough for you to marry me, hahaha.” We were face to face, but the silence that followed was deafening. I couldn’t even hear him breathe. My fingernails dug into my palms, the paper of the report growing damp with sweat. Damn it. I had wanted to say it with a smile, but a sob was already caught in my throat. Just before a tear could fall, his phone rang. I quickly wiped my eyes and pushed him towards the door, telling him to take the call. Just forget it, I thought. I was a dying woman. The last thing I should do is drag him down with me. Today, I’d worked up the courage to see him, thinking that if I could just say goodbye in person, it would be enough. But now, watching him drop a fortune to appease this girl, it felt like a red-hot poker was twisting in my gut. The pain was so intense it made me gag. Four hundred thousand dollars. It was enough for so many bottles of medicine. Enough time to spend so many more years with him. The glass reflected my own pale face. My lips were colorless, chapped like dry earth. Inside, the girl was vibrant and fresh, her eyes sparkling like jewels. People are drawn to beautiful things. So, in that moment of silence after I told him about the pills, was he thinking about how I was about to die? Or was he thinking about how he was going to spoil this pretty little thing later? I didn’t know. And I realized I didn’t want to know anymore. Suddenly, the conference room door slid open, and the girl walked out, her eyes bright with laughter. She saw me and paused, her gaze filled with curiosity, but her smile never wavered. “Hi,” she said sweetly. “I’m Mia, Mr. Hardy’s executive assistant. Is there something I can help you with?” My eyes were glued to the red string bracelet on her wrist. It was identical to the one Ethan wore. 02 Three months ago, my stomach pains started getting worse. One night, the agony was unbearable. As I fumbled in the dark for some pills, my hand brushed against two red string bracelets on the nightstand. A small wooden charm was tied to each one, carved with intricate symbols. I remembered a coworker telling me about these. You had to make a grueling hike up a mountain to some remote shrine to get them. They were meant to protect your health and bring you peace. One was five hundred dollars. Two of them meant a thousand. That was enough to cover our ramen budget for three months. I was a mix of furious and touched. Furious that he’d spent money we didn’t have, but as my fingers traced the wooden charm, a warmth spread through my chest, and even the pain in my stomach seemed to fade. Giddily, I slipped one onto my wrist, planning to playfully scold him in the morning. “No more wasting money,” I’d say with a smile. But when I woke up, he was standing over the bed, his face a thunderous mask. “That bracelet isn’t for you. Give it back,” he said, his voice cold as ice. “Lena, don’t be so greedy. You can’t have everything.” So, it was for her all along. For the girl standing in front of me now. I forced the bitterness down and managed a weak smile. “Your boss… Mr. Hardy… he seems to take good care of his employees, doesn’t he?” Mia nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes! Even though he comes from a very wealthy family, he’s not arrogant at all. He’s been so kind to me.” Her voice was soft and sweet, her eyes gentle as she pulled out her phone and began swiping through her photo gallery, showing me picture after picture. There they were at a Michelin-star restaurant. At Disneyland. At all the places I could never afford, their faces alight with joy. “He gives me a huge cash bonus every Christmas, and when he found out I’d studied abroad, he started giving me gifts for other holidays too. He got me this bracelet,” she said, holding up her wrist. “I was catching colds all the time.” “Once, another company tried to poach me. Can you believe it? He actually showed me the company’s financials and even his personal bank statements to convince me to stay!” Mia covered her mouth, giggling. “I told him, ‘You only show your bank account to your girlfriend! Why are you showing me?’ He just stared at me for the longest time and said, ‘I just want you to know…’” She trailed off, a blush creeping up her cheeks. She looked up at me. “You know him well, right? Has he ever been this devoted to another girl? What do you think he means by all this?” The pain in my stomach suddenly sharpened, like a knife twisting inside me. I pressed a hand to my abdomen, struggling to swallow the metallic taste rising in my throat. I didn’t know about Ethan’s bank account. I didn’t know about his wealthy family. In his heart, I wasn’t even his girlfriend. What right did I have to be jealous? I opened my mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. I realized that seeing Ethan, saying goodbye, it didn’t matter anymore. I straightened my back, forcing myself to stand tall. My voice came out as a whisper. “Please tell your boss to find some time to return that watch to me.” “And tell him… we’re done.” The words had barely left my lips when a familiar, furious voice cut through the air from behind me. “What do you mean, we’re done? Lena, are you playing games with me?” 03 I turned to see Ethan standing a few feet away, his brow furrowed in a deep scowl, his eyes filled with impatience. I didn’t understand. I was the one who had been deceived. How had he twisted it to make it seem like I was the one playing him? I ignored him. With Mia standing right there, I didn’t want to cause a scene. But Mia’s face had gone pale. She grabbed my arm. “Ma’am, what… what is your relationship with Mr. Hardy?” “The front desk said you didn’t have an appointment. I assumed you were a business partner, but now…” I froze, unsure how to answer. She didn’t know that the receptionist had blocked me, that Ethan hadn’t answered my calls. The only way I’d gotten this far was by showing them a three-year-old screenshot of a text from him: “Lena, as soon as I make it, I’ll marry you. I promise.” I had treasured that screenshot like a precious jewel for three years. But the look the receptionist gave me was the kind you give a pathetic fool. And she was right. Who clings to an empty promise for that long? It was the only proof I had. He and Mia had countless photos together—at Disneyland, in fancy restaurants—each one a portrait of intimacy and happiness. We didn’t have a single decent picture together. Seeing our silence, Mia’s eyes welled up with tears. She turned and began pounding her small fists against Ethan’s chest, her voice choked with emotion. “Ethan, you have a girlfriend? Then why were you so good to me? I just need a straight answer! What am I to you?” She was so brave, so sincere. Even asking such a foolish question, she seemed utterly endearing. Ethan stood there, taking her blows, a look of profound pain on his face. Watching the drama unfold, I was suddenly reminded of my old self. I used to want to ask him, “When are we getting married?” But every time, the words would die on my lips, afraid of pressuring him. They would turn into, “Should we have fried rice for dinner?” After a long, heavy silence, Ethan finally turned his gaze to me. It was a look I knew all too well—a silent plea. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I would spare him the trouble of speaking the words himself. “I’m not his girlfriend.” So this is what it looked like when Ethan Hardy loved someone. Money, time, status—whatever Mia wanted, he gave it to her instantly. No hesitation, no empty promises of “someday.” Not like me. I waited eight years, and all I got was, “Don’t be so greedy.” Even when I was sick, I could only joke about not having long to live, and then I was left helpless by his silence. The pain in my stomach flared again, and tears began to stream down my face. It was obvious now. They had a silent understanding between them. Of course. You can’t hide love. You can’t stop yourself from wanting to give them the world, from wanting to possess them, from feeling like every second apart is an agony. He had never given any of that to me. I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to laugh. To laugh at my mother, who had been right for eight years when she told me to leave him. And to laugh at my own stupidity. I used to be so naive, thinking he was just a workaholic. Now I knew. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to love. It was just that I wasn’t the one he loved. 04 Choking back a sob, I held my hand out to him. “Let’s just end it here. I don’t even want to know why you lied to me.” “Just give me back my watch. And let’s not see each other again.” A crowd of onlookers had gathered by the door. Someone scoffed loudly. “I’ve never seen someone ask for a gift back. So tacky.” “She’s probably just some gold digger trying to cause a scene!” Ethan’s jaw tightened. He’d heard them too. “Don’t you all have work to do?” he roared at the doorway. The crowd scattered. He then turned to Mia, his voice softening as he stroked her hair. “Go on, I’ll explain everything in a minute.” Now it was just the two of us, in a silence so profound I could hear my own heart pounding—a frantic, chaotic rhythm in my chest. I never wanted this. To be so humiliated, so utterly pathetic. But that watch… it was the only thing I had left of my father. It was the gift my mother had given him when they first fell in love. On his deathbed, he had pressed it into my hand. “Lena, honey, you take good care of this watch. Don’t let anything happen to it.” I had to get it back. I was afraid he’d be angry with me when I saw him again on the other side. I held my hand out, insistent. “Give it to me.” A humorless laugh escaped Ethan’s lips. His eyes bored into mine. “You’re really something, Lena. You’ve been after my money this whole time, haven’t you? First you pretend you didn’t know I had it, now you’re trying to break up with me. Playing hard to get? Let’s see how long you can keep up this act!” My nails dug into my palm. I stared into his eyes and asked, each word deliberate and sharp, “Ethan, what are you talking about? You were the one pretending to be a broke failure. When have I ever asked you for a single dime?” He shot me a cold, dismissive look and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. He didn’t light it, just rolled it between his fingers, agitated. His voice was laced with contempt, each word a shard of ice piercing my heart. “Three years ago. You asked me for an apartment in Midtown. That’s when you started plotting all this, wasn’t it?” I was stunned. It took me a moment to remember. Three years ago, we had just moved to the city. The summer was humid, and moisture seeped into the walls of our tiny rental, leaving dark patches of mold. He’d patiently painted over them, then turned to kiss me in the tiny space where we could barely pass each other. “Just a little longer,” he’d whispered. “After I finish this project, we’ll move to a bigger place. Somewhere with more light.” I had dodged his kiss and laughed, teasing him. “No way. I want to live in Midtown! I want a penthouse with a skyline view!” The paintbrush had slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. He straightened up and just stared at me for the longest time. And I, like an idiot, thought he was seriously contemplating our future together. I see now. Back then, he was already planning how to punish me. I let out a long, shuddering breath as tears streamed down my face. So that’s all our eight years together meant to him. A gold-digging scheme from my end, and a weapon for him to use against me.

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1 My only wish was to give Anson a complete family. Despite my fear of pain, I mustered the courage to have his child. But a midwife’s error caused a blood vessel in my brain to rupture, and just like that, the brilliant mathematician became a simpleton who couldn’t even count. Everyone urged Anson to move on. But he’d cradle our baby with one arm and gently wipe crumbs from my mouth with the other. “I can’t let this family fall apart,” he insisted. “I’ll care for her for life.” To cover my medical bills, he buried his pride and became the relentless Mr. Hayes, consumed by work. Juggling the office and two dependents at home, he began to gray by thirty. Then one day, I spilled milk all over the floor again. Anson’s frustration finally boiled over. He shoved my head to the ground, snarling, “Lick it up. Why did you survive? Why didn’t you just die?” Terrified, I wet myself. The sight seemed to shock him back to his senses. He staggered away, pale, and locked himself in his study all night. The next morning, he made a call. “Mrs. Davis? About that woman you mentioned… I’m ready to meet her.” … Anson brought a woman home. As always, I tried to throw myself into his arms, but for the first time, he stepped aside, a frown creasing his brow as he told me to stand properly. I just stood there, stunned, watching him offer a smile to the woman he called Mindy. “This is my wife, Sasha, and our five-year-old son, Leo. I hope you’ll be able to help take care of them.” Mindy’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “We’re family now. No need to be so formal.” Leo clutched my leg, baring his teeth at the stranger like a little guard dog. I didn’t understand the strange ache in my chest, but I patted Leo’s head. “It’s okay, sweetie. She’s our new nanny.” We had a new person come to look after us every few months. A flicker of awkwardness crossed Mindy’s face before she pulled a Spider-Man lollipop from her purse. Leo’s eyes lit up instantly. Then, Mindy gently combed my tangled hair back into place. I saw the look of relief in Anson’s eyes, so I bit my lip and didn’t say a word about how hard she was pulling, how much it hurt. I still remembered making Anson angry last time, and I didn’t want it to happen again. I pulled out the little cookie I’d been saving for him and held it out. “Anson, I promise I’ll be good.” But I’d held it too long. It crumbled in my hand, scattering crumbs all over the floor Mindy had just mopped. Anson’s fury mounted in an instant. “Sasha, for God’s sake, can’t you just give me a moment of peace?” He knelt to clean up the mess with Mindy, his voice laced with apology. “I’m sorry. She’s… simple. You’ll have to be patient with her.” My cheeks puffed out. Anson hated it when people called me that. He’d even gotten into a fight over it once. I shoved the rest of the cookie into my mouth. I wasn’t sharing with him anymore. And just like that, Mindy moved in. Leo was the happiest of all. “My clothes smell so nice every day now!” he’d chirp. “And Auntie Mindy’s cooking is delicious!” He bounced in front of me, full of life, and I looked down at myself—at my increasingly stained collar and the sharp angles of my bones poking through my skin. Apparently, Anson noticed too. He asked Mindy about it. She hesitated before answering. “Sasha can be… difficult to manage.” “When you’re not here, she bites me, hits me… I’m honestly afraid to touch her.” As she spoke, she showed Anson the teeth marks on her arm. “You’re lying!” I shot out like a cornered animal, ramming my head into her stomach. I never bit anyone. Anson would believe me. He had to. The next second, a sharp, solid slap landed across my face. “Sasha, we’re doing everything we can for you! Why can’t you just behave?” Anson’s eyes were red with rage. “Do you have to drag us all down with you to be happy?” Seeing his beloved Mindy on the floor, Leo started pounding on me with his tiny fists. “Sasha’s bad! Don’t bully Mommy!” 2 Anson had told me Leo was the baby I’d risked my life to bring into this world. But he had never once called me “Mommy.” Now, the first time he said the word, it was for another woman. A sour knot formed in my chest. Anson seemed to come to his senses then, staring at his trembling hand in shock. “Sasha, I…” The slap stung, but I knew he didn’t mean it. Anson was a good man, the best man. When the flu hit us hard a while back, both Leo and I got sick. He carried us back and forth from the hospital, refusing to rest even though he was burning up himself. He didn’t collapse until we were both fully recovered. “It’s okay! It doesn’t hurt!” I forced a smile, but the throb in my cheek made me wince. Just then, Mindy approached with a tube of ointment. I slapped it out of her hand. “Bad woman! I don’t want your things!” I’d always been clear about who I liked and who I didn’t. The softness that had just returned to Anson’s eyes hardened again. “Sasha, you are unbelievable!” He grabbed me impatiently and shoved me into the dark, musty wardrobe. “You can come out for dinner when you’ve learned your lesson!” “No! I don’t want to be in here! Let me out!” Anson knew how terrified I was of the dark. We kept the lights on in the house all year round for me. I hammered on the door, my body trembling uncontrollably, but the only response was the cheerful clatter of forks and plates as they started their meal. Realizing that begging Anson was useless, I started screaming for Leo. “Leo, help me! Get me out!” Leo was small, but he was always my sweet boy. I could snatch his snacks and he wouldn’t get mad. If another kid called me a simpleton, he’d find them and punch them. But this time, his voice came back, cold and distant. “Sasha, you’re not being good. I’m not playing with you.” I don’t know how long I screamed. A sweet, metallic taste filled my throat, and my head grew so heavy I could barely hold it up. Suddenly, the door swung open, flooding the darkness with light. Mindy stood there, a bowl of rice in her hand and a saccharine smile on her face. Her words, however, were pure venom. “How does a simpleton like you end up with a rich, devoted husband? God must be blind.” She sneered. “But don’t worry. Everything that’s yours will soon be mine.” With that, she dumped the bowl of rice all over herself, grabbed my hand, and let out a piercing scream. “Ah!” Anson rushed in. Seeing the scene, he sent me flying with a vicious kick to the chest. A sharp pain tore through me, and a spray of crimson erupted from my lips. “I… I was just worried Sasha was hungry,” Mindy sobbed, burying her face in Anson’s chest. “I tried to bring her some food, but she just went crazy… She tried to choke me…” “No, that’s not… that’s not what happened!” I gasped, clutching my chest as I tried to lift my head. But Anson cut me off. “Enough! Sasha, how many times do I have to tell you? You don’t hit people!” I shrank back, terrified. I had never seen this side of him. “Anson, I just… I don’t feel safe here,” Mindy whimpered, her eyes glistening with tears as she looked up at him. “You and Leo are her family, but… I’m all alone.” Anson’s body went rigid. He turned and looked at me, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions too complex for me to understand. Then, he scooped Mindy into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. That night, Mindy was like an opera singer. Her performance went on for hours. 3 From that day on, Mindy’s belly began to swell. Leo told me she was going to have a baby brother for him to play with. An involuntary cramp seized my chest, and I rubbed at the spot. “I want to play with the baby brother, too.” I tiptoed over to where Mindy was napping on the sofa and gently rested my head on her rounded stomach. “Ah!” Her eyes flew open, wide with shock and fear. Suddenly, she clutched her belly, beads of sweat popping on her forehead. They rushed her to the hospital. Anson, already exhausted from a full day of overtime, raced to her side. The baby was fine, but Mindy was hysterical. “Anson! Sasha tried to hurt me and the baby!” she shrieked. “You have to send her away! Please, just until the baby is born. You can bring her back then.” I knew I’d done something wrong. I huddled in a corner, trying to make myself small. Anson raised his hand, his arm trembling with rage, but after a long moment, he let it fall. He sighed, a long, ragged sound, and went to Mindy’s side, whispering something I couldn’t hear. She started screaming and throwing things. Anson led me away. I spoke up, my voice small. “Anson, if you send me away… can you not send me too far?” “I told you, our family is not going to be separated!” His voice was raw, his eyes shot with bloodshot veins. With a gentle push, he backed me into the storage room. Click. The door locked from the outside. “Anson, what are you doing?!” “Just be good, Sasha. You only have to wait until Mindy’s baby is born. Then you can come out.” His voice, muffled and heavy, came through the door. It sounded so, so tired. So I decided to be good. I lay down on the cold floor and waited for Anson to feel better and let me out. But I slept and woke, slept and woke, and the door never opened. My stomach growled, a loud, empty protest. “Shh, tummy, don’t cry. I’ll find you something to eat.” I searched the cluttered room and found only half a piece of stale fruitcake. It was hard and a little bitter. After eating it, I was still just as hungry. “Anson, I’m hungry!” I banged on the door, my voice cracking into a desperate wail. It was late at night when he finally wrenched the door open, his face dark with fury. I just looked at him, my mouth hanging open pitifully. “So hungry…” He seemed to remember then that I hadn’t eaten. A flash of guilt crossed his face. He grabbed a few slices of bread from the fridge and thrust them at me, but my eyes were glued to the pot of chicken soup simmering on the stove. Without a word, he slammed the door shut again. “That’s for Mindy. You can’t have any.” It dawned on me then that the good things in this house were no longer for me first. After eating the dry bread, I remembered I was in the storage room. This wasn’t a place for sleeping. I started banging on the door again. “I’m sleepy! I want to go to bed!” The rhythm of my fists against the wood was like a drum, and I found it strangely entertaining. “Sasha, are you deaf?!” Anson yanked the door open, huge dark circles under his eyes. “Mindy needs to sleep! Can you please just be quiet!” I hiccuped in fear. Just then, Mindy appeared, holding out a small white bottle. “If she takes these, we’ll all get some peace.” Anson hesitated. “She’s just a simpleton, Anson,” Mindy pressed. “She won’t know the difference. It’ll be fine.” His expression hardened. He pried my mouth open and forced several small white pills down my throat. They were bitter, and I wanted to spit them out, but Anson’s fingers pushed them deeper, past my tongue. The world slowly faded to black. I was so, so sleepy. My body went limp, and I collapsed onto the floor. After that, whenever I opened my eyes, they would feed me the little white pills. The periods of darkness grew longer and longer. Finally, even Anson realized something was wrong. He rushed to the storage room and flung open the door. He shook me, slapped my cheeks, but I didn’t respond. Tears, hot and heavy, splashed onto my face. “Sasha, don’t scare me! Please, don’t scare me!” 4 I was rushed to the hospital to have my stomach pumped. Mindy, without a word, packed her bags and went back to her parents’ house, refusing to return. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Leo, screaming and crying at my bedside. “You bad woman, give me back my mommy!” Then I felt a warm drop on the back of my hand. Anson was crying. I panicked, not knowing what to do. “Anson, it doesn’t hurt. Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” “Sasha, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?” He was like a caged animal, pacing and frantic, desperate to break free from the invisible bars surrounding him. “My life was just getting back on track. I can’t let you ruin it all over again.” He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Just go to the asylum, okay? Please?” I didn’t know what an asylum was. But if it would make Anson happy, I would go anywhere. The next day, I was taken to a big house with high walls. “Sasha, Leo and I will visit you every week,” Anson promised before getting in his car and driving away without so much as a wave goodbye. So I started counting the days on my fingers. “Hey, simpleton, you even know how to count?” a few of the nurses snickered amongst themselves. I turned my back to them, my cheeks puffed out in annoyance. Anson used to tell me I was once the country’s youngest mathematical genius! But I’d run out of fingers and toes to count on, and Anson and Leo still hadn’t come. Oh no! The thought struck me like a bolt of lightning. What if something happened to them? The fear grew until it was all I could think about. So, when the nurses weren’t looking, I slipped out. I stumbled along, asking person after person for directions, until I finally found my way back to our street. Seeing the familiar building, I beamed with pride. I’m not a simpleton! I found my way home all by myself! But then I saw it. A pile of my clothes, discarded in a trash heap by the curb. I froze, my eyes drifting up toward our apartment. There, on the balcony, was Anson, gently holding Mindy in his arms as they soaked in the afternoon sun. And Leo was making funny faces at a baby in a cradle, trying to make him laugh. I took a few numb steps forward, just close enough to hear their voices drift down. “What are you planning to do about Sasha?” Mindy asked. Anson’s voice was heavy, final. “I’ve taken care of her long enough. Just let her live out her days in the asylum. You and the baby are my future now.” So that was it. Anson didn’t want me anymore. I must have become too much of a burden. I quietly turned around and walked all the way back to the asylum. Three days later, a morning news report sent shockwaves through the city. “A fire broke out late last night at the Northwood Asylum. Authorities report that among the one hundred and ten patients and staff, there were no survivors.” Anson shot up from his chair, the legs scraping violently against the floor. The next second, his phone began to ring. He answered it numbly. A gentle, pitying voice came through the line. “Mr. Hayes, I’m very sorry to inform you… your wife was among the victims of the fire.”

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The Patek Philippe in my family’s vault, the one with an eight-million-dollar valuation, has the Cole family crest engraved on the caseback. It’s our heirloom. So, I was somewhat surprised to see it on Ryan Asher’s Instagram story. He was dangling it for the camera, the light catching the platinum bezel. The caption was pure, unadulterated pride: A gift from the boss. Said it suited my style. Any experts out there know the value? My fingers were trembling when I texted Isabelle. You have thirty minutes to put that watch back where it belongs. If you don’t, I will burn your family’s entire legacy to the ground. She replied almost instantly, her tone a cloying mix of panic and flirtation. “Ethan, don’t be so harsh. Ryan was just curious, he wanted to wear it for a day…” Thirty minutes later, I made a call. The Monroe Corporation board meeting descended into chaos. Ryan Asher, wearing my family’s heirloom, was trying to schmooze his way toward the head of the table when security grabbed him by the arms. They dragged him out, but not before the watch slipped from his wrist, skittering across the mahogany conference table with a sickening crack. Some things, once broken, are just broken. But the person who breaks them? They have to be buried in the wreckage. 1 “Ethan! Are you out of your mind? You had security throw Ryan out of a board meeting?” Isabelle’s voice, sharp and furious, preceded her into my office. I tapped a finger on my desk, not bothering to look up. “I gave you thirty minutes.” “He’s my executive assistant! He just closed a three-hundred-million-dollar contract with our European partners!” She stormed up to my desk, her stilettos sinking into the plush carpet, and slammed her ludicrously expensive Hermès bag on the floor. “Those old vultures on the board are already looking for any excuse to undermine me because of my age, and you just handed them a goddamn knife, didn’t you? You just had to stick your nose into the Monroe Corporation’s business? You think we can’t survive without the Coles?” I finally lifted my gaze to meet hers, a humorless laugh escaping my lips. “You know exactly what that watch represents, Isabelle.” “It has the Cole family crest on the back. No one outside the direct line of succession is ever supposed to touch it, let alone wear it. And you just gave it to your boy toy?” Isabelle’s face went rigid. With a sweep of her arm, she sent a stack of files cascading to the floor. “I have dozens of watches sitting in my dresser at home!” “Ryan had to close that deal today! It’s a nine-figure account! I let him borrow it to make an impression, what’s the big deal?” “He’s just a kid who fought his way out of nothing in Appalachia, is it so wrong to help him?” “Make an impression?” I loosened my tie, the sound of my own cold laugh echoing in the silent office. “Anyone watching would think he was the kept man you’re hiding on the side.” “Plenty of people fight their way up from nothing. They do it one step at a time, with their own sweat.” “You’re so generous, Isabelle. Why don’t you just liquidate your Monroe shares and buy a Patek for every poor kid in the mountains?” “You’re an asshole, Ethan!” The barb hit its mark. She was trembling with rage, snatching our wedding photo from the corner of my desk and hurling it at me. The silver frame shattered at my feet. I bent down and picked up the photograph, my voice as cold and sharp as the broken glass. “On our sixth anniversary, I booked the entire private island in the Maldives where we honeymooned. I waited for you. You spent that night at a hotel celebrating Ryan’s birthday. He even posted a picture of you feeding him a slice of cake.” Isabelle’s chin jutted out. “Can you stop being such a pathetic, paranoid husband for one second?” “It was Ryan’s birthday, and the client was trying to get him drunk. He has a severe alcohol allergy; he could have ended up in the hospital if I wasn’t there to run interference.” “We have an anniversary every year, Ethan. What if Ryan had died?” I swiped open my phone’s photo gallery. There was Ryan, posing in front of a new Porsche. “For his birthday, you throw him a party and buy him a sports car.” “For my birthday, you have your assistant send a bouquet of fake flowers to my office.” “Isabelle, who is your husband? Me, or Ryan Asher?” “As if you need any of those things,” she scoffed, her eyes dripping with disdain. “Ethan, honestly. Picking on a kid just starting his career? Don’t you find that embarrassing?” “No,” I said. A smile touched my lips, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “But you might want to give your star assistant a heads-up, Isabelle.” “If he ever sets foot in a Monroe Corporation board meeting again, your family can expect the Cole Corporation to pull every last dollar of its funding.”

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I was scrolling through a forum online when a headline caught my eye: 【What do you do when your boss wants your wife?】 The top-voted comment was pure filth: 【Easy. Drop something in her drink. Let him have his fun. She won’t remember a thing in the morning.】 It was so disgusting I flagged the post. Then, that evening, my husband wrapped his arms around me. “Honey,” he whispered into my hair. “I was thinking of having my boss over for dinner this weekend. Would that be okay?” 1 The words buzzed in my skull, a low, angry hum. What were the odds? I forced myself to swallow, to push my heart back down from my throat where it was trying to escape. I leaned back slightly to look at my husband, Ethan, and knitted my brows. “Why here? Can’t you just take him to a restaurant?” Ethan’s arms tightened around my waist, his tone a smooth, reasonable balm. “Babe, I’m on the shortlist for the director position. This is the final push. Being seen out in public could look like I’m trying too hard, you know? A colleague might see, and it could get weird. At home, it’s private. We can actually talk.” He nuzzled my neck. “Besides, Rich has had every five-star meal you can imagine. He keeps talking about wanting something authentic, a real home-cooked meal. And your cooking? I have complete faith in you, honey.” He pulled away just enough to look me in the eyes, his own earnest and wide. “This dinner… it’s basically an audition. A test. Rich is huge on family, on stability. If he sees how happy we are, how solid our marriage is, that director role is as good as mine.” When I just pursed my lips, not answering, Ethan held up a single finger. “Babe. The annual salary for this job starts with this number.” My eyes widened. “Three hundred thousand?” A smug, satisfied smile spread across his face. “And that’s before bonuses and stock options. Lily, with that money, we could pay off the mortgage in a few years. We could finally start talking seriously about having a baby.” I felt a crack in my resolve. He was right. We had just bought this house, and the mortgage was an anchor around our necks. Every month, our paychecks came in and went straight to the bank. We were scraping by, the dream of starting a family pushed further and further into the future. If he got this promotion, we could finally breathe. I stared hard into Ethan’s eyes, searching for a flicker, a single tell that something was wrong. “Just Mr. Hayes? No one else?” Ethan’s smile didn’t waver. “Of course. I’m not an idiot. Why would I share a chance to get this close to the boss with anyone else?” He frowned then, a look of genuine confusion clouding his features. “Lily, what’s wrong? You’ve always been my biggest supporter when it comes to my career.” His expression was flawless. The words were perfectly logical. Was I being paranoid? Was that disgusting forum post just a horrible, sickening coincidence? I dropped my gaze, my voice still laced with a thread of unease. “Ethan… I just… I get a weird vibe from him. The way he looked at me at the company Christmas party last year… it was slimy. It made my skin crawl.” The first and only time I’d met Richard Hayes, he had held my hand for a beat too long, his eyes dragging from my face down to my shoes and back up again. I’d had a nightmare about it that night. Ethan let out a sharp laugh, a pfft of air, and reached out to pinch my cheek playfully. “Oh, honey, you’re overthinking it! His wife, Brenda, is famously terrifying. He wouldn’t dare step out of line. She’d have his balls in a vise.” He puffed out his chest, making a mock-ferocious face. “And you’ve got me here! If he tried anything, even looked at you the wrong way, I’d be the first one to smash a bottle over his head.” He finished by kissing my forehead, his voice softening. “Okay? Stop worrying. We’ve both got work tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep.” He rolled over, and within minutes, his breathing evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep. But my mind was a churning sea of anxiety. The vile words from that forum post kept washing up on the shore of my consciousness, each one more toxic than the last. I lay awake until the digital clock on the nightstand read 2:17 AM. Certain that Ethan was deep in sleep, I carefully reached for his phone, plugged into its charger on his side of the bed. The passcode was our anniversary. It opened on the first try. I took a deep, shaky breath and tapped on the web browser icon. The search history was a punch to the gut. The words seared themselves into my retinas: 【Colorless odorless drops soluble in alcohol fast metabolism】 【How to make someone disoriented and confused】 【Best products for memory gaps after a party】 … And there, at the very top, was the last search. Time-stamped just three hours ago. 【‘Sweet Compliance’ drops are they really undetectable?】 2 A polar chill flooded my veins, seeping into my bones. My fingers trembled as I navigated to the private forum he’d been on earlier. It was no surprise. The original poster was Ethan. He was even a member of a group chat called 【The Winners’ Circle – Resource Sharing】. Inside, he was a prolific contributor, his username a simple, anonymous number:【0】. 【0】: Hey guys, that stuff… is it really as good as you say? She wakes up and remembers nothing? No drama? 【OldDogNewTricks】: Relax, man. I’ve been there. I’ll DM you a link. Get it discreetly, put it in her wine. She’ll just think she blacked out from drinking too much. 【SharingIsCaring】: @0 Bro, I used it on my wife. Me and a few buddies had a six-hour train on her. She woke up thinking it was all me, told me it was the best night of her life. Now she’s making me steak and smoothies every day to ‘keep my strength up’! 【0】: This stuff… how long do the effects last? A few days? 【SharingIsCaring】: A few days? Jesus, dude, you trying to break her? You’d have to up the dose. Last time I used half a vial, we partied for three straight days. It was epic. 【0】: That’s perfect. My boss, see, he has some… specific tastes. Likes to get pretty rough. I wasn’t sure how to keep him happy, but this sounds like it’ll do the trick. 【OldDogNewTricks】: @0 Dude, first time, take it easy. You want this to be a recurring thing, right? Don’t wear out the merchandise on the first go. 【0】: I know, I know. But the boss already has his own supply ready. He specifically told me he’s coming over this weekend. What am I supposed to do? But my wife does yoga, she’s pretty flexible. I’m sure she can handle it, right? 【OldDogNewTricks】: A yoga girl? Holy shit! I’m officially jealous of your boss. Think of all the positions! Bro, you gotta share the video with us after. For educational purposes. The messages that followed descended into even more depraved territory. A wave of nausea roiled in my stomach. I clamped a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to vomit right there in the bed. My proper, gentle, loving husband was, in secret, a monster. 3 According to their chat, he’d already gotten his hands on “the good stuff” today. I slid out of bed, my feet silent on the hardwood floor, and went to his briefcase by the door. In a hidden pocket in the lining, my fingers closed around a small glass vial. I held it up to the faint moonlight filtering through the window. The label was stark white with two words: 【Sweet Compliance】. I took the vial into the bathroom, uncapped it, and carefully poured the entire contents into an old, empty bottle of nail polish remover. Then I rinsed the original vial again and again with hot water, making sure not a single molecule remained. Finally, I refilled the small vial with tap water, dried it meticulously, and placed it back in the hidden pocket of his briefcase. When I slipped back into bed, Ethan was still dead to the world, blissfully unaware, even grinding his teeth softly in his sleep. Looking at his face, so placid and innocent, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. CRACK! The sound of my open palm connecting with his cheek was sharp and loud in the silent room. Ethan jolted awake, sputtering, a hand flying to his face. He blinked at me, dazed and groggy. “Lily! What the hell? Why did you hit me?!” I didn’t answer. I rolled over, facing away from him, and began to breathe deeply and evenly, mimicking sleep, as if it had been nothing more than an unconscious spasm in a dream. He mumbled in confusion for a few moments. “Having a nightmare?” He rubbed his cheek, but the pull of sleep was too strong. He rolled back over, cursed something unintelligible under his breath, and was snoring again within a minute. A slow, cold smile spread across my lips in the darkness. Ethan. You want to please your perverted boss so badly? Fine. You can be the one to offer up your body. 4 The weekend arrived, right on schedule. Richard Hayes showed up at our door holding two bottles of Macallan 18. You’d think Ethan was the boss he was trying to impress. The second he stepped inside, his eyes glued themselves to me, and I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. The dress I was wearing had been Ethan’s choice. Tight. Low-cut. Black lace. It hugged every curve, leaving little to the imagination. His exact words had been: “Honey, if you look stunning, it makes me look good.” Hearing him say it, knowing what I knew now, a bitter laugh rose in my throat. He wasn’t just showing me off. He was serving me up like a prize on a platter. But I didn’t let a hint of my revulsion show. I smiled sweetly and told him I’d even done my makeup just for the occasion. After a few minutes of strained small talk, I excused myself to the kitchen to finish dinner. I looked at the vial of clear liquid in my hand. The one I’d refilled with water. Could this stuff really be as potent as those animals in the forum claimed? I didn’t believe it. So, I took the real vial, the one I’d hidden, and poured the entire thing, every last drop, into the bowl of chicken soup I’d prepared specifically for Ethan. Let’s have my husband be the guinea pig. 5 I carried the soup out to the living room, my smile perfectly placid. “Ethan, Rich. I made my special ginseng chicken soup. I let it simmer for hours. It’s great for your vitality. Have some to start, the rest of the food will be out in a minute.” Neither man suspected a thing. They took the bowls eagerly and drank them down. After I brought the last dish to the table, I sat down and found a glass of white wine waiting for me. I raised an eyebrow at Ethan, my voice full of feigned reluctance. “Honey, you know I’m a lightweight. Maybe I should skip it?” Richard Hayes’s face immediately darkened. The air in the room grew heavy. Ethan nudged me nervously under the table, his voice a harsh whisper. “Lily! Rich poured that for you himself. Just have a little. Don’t be rude!” Seeing him so desperate to push me, to trade me for his own ambition, filled me with a disgust so profound it was almost dizzying. I sighed, a perfect portrait of reluctant compliance, and under the eager, watchful eyes of both men, I picked up the glass. I drained it and set the empty glass back on the table. I saw a flash of triumphant glee exchanged between them. The game had begun. As the meal progressed and more wine was poured, Richard reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a small bottle and shook a few small, blue, diamond-shaped pills into his palm. I timed my expression of mild confusion perfectly. He didn’t miss a beat, his tone casual. “Ah, these are just some imported liver-support tablets. Gotta protect yourself when you’re drinking, you know.” He offered a few to Ethan. “You should have some, Ethan. They work wonders.” Ethan took them without hesitation and swallowed them with a gulp of wine. Then, Richard deliberately extended his hand toward me, the blue pills resting in his sweaty palm. “Lily, how about you? They’re very good for you.” I shook my head. “No, thank you, Mr. Hayes. I’m fine.” He didn’t push, just chuckled and popped the pills into his own mouth. I knew exactly what they were. Viagra. They were leaving nothing to chance. A double-barreled approach to ensure my complete submission. The rest of the dinner became a relentless campaign to get me drunk. To make me drink more, they had to drink more, matching me glass for glass. Suddenly, Richard slumped forward, his face planting right onto the table with a thud. Ethan wasn’t doing much better. He swayed in his chair, blinking at me through a drunken haze. “Honey… I think… I think Rich has had too much. It’s not safe for him to drive home. Can we… can we just let him crash in the guest room tonight?” I pressed a hand to my forehead, acting dizzier than I was, and nodded slowly. “Okay… My head is spinning. I think… I think I need to go lie down…” I stumbled as I stood up and made my way toward our bedroom. The moment before I closed the door, I caught a glimpse of them in the reflection of a picture frame on the wall. They made eye contact, a shared look of smug satisfaction. Their plan was working perfectly. They just didn’t know who the real predator was.

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The check for my brother’s living expenses was one day late. That was all it took for my mom to demand I write a letter disowning myself. “Sarah, I always knew you were a heartless snake,” she rasped over the phone. “From now on, you can stay in your fancy city apartment, and I’ll stay in my goddamn trailer!” I knelt on my apartment floor and called her all night, my voice raw from begging, but I didn’t get a single word of forgiveness. After that, I stopped sending money home. Not a dime. It didn’t take long for Mom to break. She called me, sobbing, cursing, then begging. But Mom, it was too late. I’d already signed the letter. 1 Growing up, I figured I was born to pay back a debt to my mother. She used to tell me that when I was born, my grandma wanted to leave me on the steps of the fire station. “If I hadn’t stopped her,” Mom would say, her voice grim, “you’d be just another statistic, another Jane Doe.” I believed every word. After all, not far from our trailer park, there was a bend in the river everyone called Blackwater Creek. They said it had a nasty undertow. Mom told me I had a baby sister who was “taken by the creek” one spring flood. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if Mom hadn’t fought for me, I would’ve been one of the forgotten things that creek swallowed. I didn’t want to die. My whole world, in my tiny little head, revolved around one single mission: make Mom happy. Repay the debt. But Mom was never happy. She didn’t have a son, and in our corner of rural Ohio, where a man’s name on the mailbox meant everything, that was the original sin. Her mouth was a permanent frown, etched into her face by two deep lines. Even if I managed to make her laugh, a rare and fragile sound, it would soon be shattered by a fight with Dad or a sharp comment from Grandma. The air in our trailer would turn thick again with the smell of stale cigarette smoke and shouting. Sometimes she called me “sweetie.” When she was angry, it was “little bitch” or “another mouth to feed.” When she was really mad, she’d grab whatever was closest—a belt, a wooden spoon, the fly swatter—and just start swinging. There were times I’d be so sore I couldn’t get up, but when I finally did, I’d crawl right back to her side. Back then, I thought, Mom has nothing. She only has me. I was three when I started doing chores. Four when I learned to work the rusty old grill. Five when I could make a pot of mac and cheese by myself. Our trailer was freezing in the winter. A tiny version of me in a hand-me-down coat with holes in the elbows would be out back, stacking firewood or helping Dad split logs. My fingers would get chilblains, swelling up red and itchy, but I never dared complain to Mom. The last thing she wanted was another problem, and I was terrified that one more complaint would earn me another beating. Life was hard then, but looking back now, those first five years were the good old days. Because after that, my brother Leo was born. 2 Leo arrived on a cold winter day. Mom labored for what felt like forever on the stained mattress in their bedroom. He looked like a wrinkly, red little monkey, with barely any hair. But my parents were ecstatic. Dad held him up, showing off his “little fella” to all the relatives who crowded into our trailer. That tiny piece of him was like the fulcrum that lifted the weight off everyone’s shoulders. The family name would go on. I was grinning like an idiot right alongside them, until Mom saw me and slapped me clean across the face. “What are you smiling at? Your brother wet himself. Go wash his damn diapers.” I flinched, then picked up the sour-smelling cloth diapers and took them to the big metal sink. My chapped, chilblained hands plunged into the icy water, and a pain shot up my arms so sharp it felt like the flesh was being peeled from the bone. In the living room, Dad was passing around a cheap bottle of whiskey. Grandma’s laughter was louder than anyone’s. I pictured Mom holding Leo, her face soft with a love I’d never seen, and a single, chilling thought cut through the pain: Leo’s birth was a good thing for everyone. Everyone, maybe, except me. But that was just a fleeting thought. In the years that followed, I was too busy to think much at all. I washed diapers and clothes every day, my hands so swollen they looked like little pink balloons. When Leo got bigger, I’d carry him on my back while I helped Mom in our vegetable garden. He was a mischievous kid. A few times, he peed right down my back, the warm stream soaking through my shirt. Mom would just howl with laughter. “Don’t you worry, Sarah! They say a little boy’s pee is good for what ails ya! You just soak it all up!” I’d look at the wide-open mouths of my mom and grandma, laughing at me, and I’d think that if Leo peed right in their mouths, they’d probably thank him for it. 3 Because I was always taking care of Leo, I started school three years late. But I cherished every second of it. My teachers and classmates always said that when a kid does well in school, it makes their parents proud. I’d seen it myself. My friend Ashley got a B+ on a math test, and her mom baked a cake. I wanted to see my mom smile like that. I studied like my life depended on it. I couldn’t hold a pencil right at first, so I’d wrap rubber bands around my fingers to force them into place. I read every book in the tiny school library twice. But when I brought home a report card with straight A’s, beaming with pride, Mom just slapped it out of my hand and into a puddle of dirty dishwater. “Your brother can already climb the big oak tree and knock down walnuts! What’s so special about some stupid piece of paper?” Tears blurred my vision as I bent to pick it up. The ink was already running, the paper soggy and ruined. That’s when I understood. It didn’t matter if I got a thousand A’s. It would never be as impressive as my brother climbing a tree. When I was in third grade, Leo started school. Suddenly, getting good grades was the most important thing in the world to my mom. But Leo wasn’t built for school. He was always at the bottom of his class. Mom got frustrated, and she started hitting me again. It was my fault, she said. I wasn’t helping him. I was selfish, I was vicious, I was keeping my “book smarts” all to myself. I couldn’t understand. How was it my fault that I was good at school and he wasn’t? I started tutoring him. Every night, after my chores were done, I’d chase him around, trying to get him to sit still and read. He hated it. He’d grab a switch from the yard and whip my legs with it. Mom would just stand there, laughing, and then tell me to get back to teaching him. She even threatened me: if Leo’s grades didn’t improve, she’d make me repeat a grade so I could be in his class and help him directly. I couldn’t bear the thought of being held back again. I was already the oldest kid in my grade. They called me “Lurch” and “Jolly Green Giant.” The only thing that stopped the name-calling was my good grades. So I did everything. I practically followed him to the bathroom to drill multiplication tables. I did my own homework during lunch break at school. Before every test, I’d make him a cheat sheet. It worked. His grades crawled up to a C average, and I escaped the nightmare of being held back. After one report card, I quietly signed my own perfect attendance certificate while Mom paraded Leo’s C-pluses around the neighborhood. “Brenda, you see this? Our Leo’s a real smart cookie!” she’d crow to our neighbor. “Oh, I always knew it! He just needed to apply himself!” Watching my mom’s beaming face, I numbly chewed on a piece of stale bread. My teachers were right after all. See? Leo’s grades got better, and Mom was finally happy. 4 My period started late, in my last year of middle school. I hadn’t had “the talk,” so when I woke up to a dark, crimson stain on the sheets, I was terrified. I was too scared to even get out of bed. But Leo burst in, ripped the covers off me, and started laughing. “Mom! Come look! Sarah peed blood!” Mom came in, took one look, and started hitting me. She called me a filthy mess, screamed about how I’d ruined the only good set of sheets we owned. It was below freezing outside, but she made me take the sheets down to the creek, break a hole in the ice, and wash them. I shivered, my hands plunging the heavy, blood-soaked fabric into the water. It instantly felt as heavy as lead. My chilblained fingers went numb, like they didn’t even belong to me. I don’t really remember how I managed to drag that frozen, heavy sheet back home. But I remember what came after. For weeks, I had no blanket. I had to curl up in a pile of old coats in the coldest corner of the trailer, my body shaking uncontrollably all night. It took days for that sheet to dry on the line, and it took days for the frost to leave my bones. Because of that, for a long time, getting my period filled me with a special kind of dread. It took me years to learn it wasn’t something sinful. It was just what happened to girls. It was part of creating life, a gift, not a punishment. How could that be a sin? Maybe because of that deep chill, my health was never quite the same. But I stumbled my way through middle school. When I started eighth grade, Mom handed me a crumpled wad of bills for school fees. “You see Ashley next door? She dropped out after sixth grade,” she said, as if she were granting me a great favor. “I’m letting you finish middle school. I’m being good to you.” I took the money, my hands trembling. A new thought sparked in my mind. She wasn’t letting me stay in school for my sake. She was doing it so I could keep tutoring Leo. High school was even tougher. I had after-school activities, and the ride home on my rusty old bicycle was down a long, dark country road. But I didn’t mind the work, the studying, or the dark road. My time at school was the only time I felt free. My homeroom teacher, Ms. Miller, was the best part. She had kind eyes and was patient with everyone. One time, I got a bad case of the flu over the summer and couldn’t help Dad with the extra work he picked up, so there was no money for my school registration. When Ms. Miller found out, she didn’t scold me. She paid the fee herself, out of her own pocket. “Just pay me back when you can, Sarah,” she said. She wanted to come to my house for a parent-teacher conference, to tell my parents how much potential I had. I begged her not to. It was the first time I ever refused her anything. “Ms. Miller… my parents… they’re not easy to talk to. Please, don’t come.” I couldn’t stand the thought of her being in my home, hearing the things my mom would say about me. She looked at me for a long moment, then just gently brushed the hair from my face. “Alright, Sarah,” she sighed, her voice full of a pity I wouldn’t understand for another ten years. 5 My grades in high school were even better. In my sophomore year, I was valedictorian. At the school assembly, they gave me a certificate and a fifty-dollar prize from a local business group. My parents didn’t care about the certificate. I tucked it away under my mattress. The fifty dollars, though, was supposed to go straight to Mom. But for some reason, I kept it. I bought Ms. Miller a new planner. I’d seen it in the drugstore window. It had a sturdy, leather-like cover and smelled faintly of lavender. Ms. Miller’s old one was falling apart. I knew she’d love it. And she did. She turned it over and over in her hands, a real smile on her face. Then she asked where I got the money. I lied. “Mom was so happy about the award, she gave me five dollars to buy myself a treat.” Ms. Miller believed me. She patted my head and told me to keep being a good daughter, and maybe my parents would start to see my value. I touched a faded scar on my arm, swallowed the bitter taste in my throat, and smiled up at her. I never imagined that one small, five-dollar lie would cost me a week of school. Mom found out. The neighbor’s daughter told her the prize was fifty dollars. She had waited at home for me to hand over the full amount, but all she got was my shaky lie about the five-dollar “treat.” “You lying little tramp! Stealing from your own mother!” “That money was for your brother! What right do you have to spend it? Do you think you deserve it?” She grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me out onto the front porch, forcing me to my knees. Neighbors paused on their way to the mailbox, staring. The afternoon sun beat down on me, hot and humiliating. I felt like a stalk of corn being shucked in the field, stripped bare for everyone to see. I begged her to stop, but it only made her angrier. I was so ashamed I wanted to die. I felt like I’d committed the world’s greatest crime. How could I lie to my mother? She kept screaming, hitting me with a broom handle on my back, my legs, anywhere she could reach. And my brother, Leo, sat on the top step, happily eating a bag of chips he’d bought with my prize money. That day, my entire world shattered. Eventually, I passed out. A man from down the road finally stepped in and stopped my mom’s frenzied attack. The beating was bad. I was in bed for three days. When I could finally walk again, Mom refused to let me go back to school. She said school taught kids to be liars and thieves. Otherwise, how could her own daughter learn to deceive her? But Mom, you of all people should know. Some things, the darkest things, you don’t have to be taught. 6 In the end, it was Ms. Miller who sorted it out. She came to the trailer. I don’t know what she said to my mom, but a few days later, I was allowed back in school. As I was leaving, Ms. Miller fixed my messy ponytail and sighed. “Sarah,” she said, her voice low. “You need to study hard. You need to get a scholarship and get out of this place.” I just nodded, my eyes wide and confused. “I will, Ms. Miller. I’ll study hard, so one day I can pay you back. And pay my parents back.” She looked at me, her mouth opening and closing as if she wanted to say more. There was something in her eyes, a kind of sad wisdom that would take me more than a decade to finally comprehend. After that, I studied with a desperate intensity. I’d recite vocabulary while washing dishes, read a textbook in the few minutes between classes, and solve math problems in my head on the long bike ride home. From then on, I was always number one in my class. But when I brought my report cards home, my parents wouldn’t even look at them. The only time their faces lit up was when the school gave out small cash awards. They’d snatch the money from my hand, and take Leo to the Dairy Queen. That’s when it finally clicked. My mom didn’t care one bit about my grades. If I had money to give her, only then would she be happy. That thought stayed with me, a cold little stone in my gut, until the year I graduated high school. That’s when I knew for sure it was true. I graduated at the top of my class. I got a partial scholarship to the state university. But Mom wouldn’t let me go. I knelt on the cracked linoleum of our kitchen floor and begged her all night. I banged my head on the floor until my forehead was raw. But she only had one answer. “Sarah, you know we ain’t got the money. The rest of the tuition, books, a dorm room… that’s a few thousand dollars. You got a few thousand dollars for me?” Back then, a few thousand dollars was a mountain I couldn’t possibly climb. It wasn’t until later that I found out the down payment on the new pickup truck Mom bought for Leo was the exact same amount. I never made it to college. On what should have been my last day of high school, Ms. Miller came to find me. She urged me to go, even said she could connect me with programs that might help with the rest of the cost. But I knew the gap between me and college wasn’t just about money. My parents had made their decision. Nothing anyone said could change it. 7 The days after I gave up on college blurred together. I followed some other girls from town and moved to a bigger city, getting a job as a waitress. Every month, I kept a hundred dollars for rent and ramen, and I wired the rest back to Mom. At first, she was pleased. But soon, the complaints started. So-and-so’s daughter’s boyfriend had a brand-new car. So-and-so’s daughter helped her parents buy a new double-wide trailer. I felt guilty at first, but after a while, I just went numb. It didn’t matter how much I sent; it would never be enough. If I bought her a new trailer, she’d start complaining about wanting a real house. Leo dropped out of community college, which Mom had insisted I pay for. After that, she demanded I send him money directly for his “living expenses.” Every month, as I wired a thousand dollars to his account, I couldn’t help but think about that tuition money. A few thousand dollars could have changed my entire life. For Leo, it was just a few months of beer money. My health, always fragile, took a hit. The city winters were damp and cold, a chill that seeped right into your bones. I came down with pneumonia and was out of work for two weeks. The little I had in savings vanished into doctor’s bills and medicine. The check for Leo was two days late. Mom called. There was no “How are you feeling?” No hint of concern. Just pure, uncut rage. She called me a whore, a worthless bitch. She told me to write her a letter, sign it, and officially cut all ties. She never wanted to see my face again. She knew exactly where to stick the knife. She knew that despite everything, the bond to my family was the one thing I couldn’t break. Even her beatings with a rolling pin couldn’t drive me away for good. Being disowned… it felt like a death sentence. I felt like I had committed the ultimate sin, a crime so terrible that nothing I could ever do would atone for it. I took the first Greyhound bus home, my body shaking with fever. By the time I stumbled to the door of the trailer, I could barely stand. I cried and begged Mom to forgive me. She just shoved a piece of notebook paper and a pen at me. “I always knew you were a heartless snake. From now on, you can stay in your fancy city apartment, and I’ll stay in my goddamn trailer!” “Don’t you ever come back!” I don’t remember much of that night. Just the falling snow outside the window, the fire in my own skin, and the soul-deep cold coming up from the linoleum floor where I knelt. That cold, mixed with my mother’s endless stream of insults and my brother’s smug, sarcastic laughter, stabbed me over and over until there was nothing left. I blacked out. When I woke up, I was alone in the quiet trailer. On the coffee table next to me was the piece of paper. My shaky, tear-blotted signature was at the bottom. Signed, No Daughter of Mine. I cried. And then, a strange thing happened. I started to laugh. In that moment, something inside of me, something I had been clinging to for over twenty years, simply died. My obsession, my need for her approval, my lifelong mission to repay a debt that could never be paid… it was all over. She wanted me to sign it. So I did. And now that it was signed, maybe I could finally just walk away. Alone.

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Five years into my marriage, my husband’s mistress was pregnant. I didn’t throw a single plate this time. I didn’t scream until my throat was raw. Instead, I drove to her rundown apartment in a forgotten part of the city and brought her home. She was ten years younger than me, with wide, dark eyes and a gracefully sculpted nose. A ghost of me at twenty. Her hand hovered protectively over her belly. “Ma’am,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can have the baby and then I’ll disappear. I won’t ask for anything, I swear.” I reached out and smoothed a stray strand of hair from her forehead. Don’t be afraid, I thought. I’ll help you take my place as soon as possible. After all, if I waited any longer, the brilliant college boy I had my eye on would be leaving the country. 1 By the time some well-meaning informant slipped the news of Stella’s pregnancy into my hands, she was already three months along. It wasn’t that Donovan had set out to humiliate me. Not this time. It was just that three months ago, on my birthday, we’d had a fight. I’d said things I couldn’t take back, things designed to cut deep, and he had stormed out of our Fifth Avenue apartment in a fury. He must have ended up with her—a girl so desperate to pay for her mother’s medical bills that she’d do just about anything. I don’t know the sordid details of that night. All I saw was the shirt Donovan discarded the next morning. Near the hem, almost invisible against the white cotton, were tiny blossoms of blood. She wasn’t the first substitute he’d found for me. I didn’t give it a second thought. And because of that, I never knew she could be pregnant. The black town car wound its way toward the city’s edges, into a neighborhood of brick tenements and forgotten factories. The farther we went, the deeper the frown etched itself onto my face. “Arthur,” I said, my voice quiet. “Didn’t Mr. Hayes buy this girl an apartment?” Arthur, our driver for the past decade, met my eyes in the rearview mirror. His expression was carefully blank. “He did, Mrs. Hayes. She wouldn’t take it.” A flicker of recognition. That stubborn pride sounded a little like me, a long time ago. When we arrived, my frown tightened. The buildings were packed together so tightly they seemed to be leaning on each other for support, blotting out the sun. She lived on the eighth floor of a walk-up with a narrow, suffocating staircase. Climbing those stairs, one by one, left me breathless, a strange feeling for someone who spent three mornings a week with a personal trainer. The air was thick with the scent of damp and decay, a suffocating closeness that was, in a strange way, achingly familiar. Apartment 801 had a peeling green door. I knocked, and a moment later, it opened to reveal a girl in a simple white dress, her long hair falling over her shoulders. She wore no makeup, but she was beautiful, with wide, startled eyes like a fawn caught in headlights. The color drained from her face as she recognized me. She took an involuntary step back. “Mrs. Hayes.” I gave a cool, practiced nod. “Hello.” The single word made her flinch. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Stella blinked, then scrambled to the side, holding the door open. The apartment was a tiny one-bedroom, so small that the master bathroom in my own home was larger than her entire living space. But it was cozy. A lace coverlet was draped over the sagging sofa, a small television sat on a milk crate, and on a little end table were a few handmade trinkets and a framed photograph of Donovan. Donovan at twenty-one, beaming on a mountain summit, the wind in his hair. I took that picture. I thought he’d lost it. To think he’d brought it here. Stella followed my gaze and quickly moved to block the photo. “I—I’m sorry. Mr. Hayes, he… he made me put it there.” Ten years together. I knew every little game Donovan played. He saw Stella, with her face that was eighty percent mine and a temperament that was fifty percent the girl he fell in love with, and he was trying to claw his way back to the past. I never understood his obsession with it. I smiled faintly and sat on her sofa. “You’re pregnant.” Stella froze. Raw fear bloomed in her eyes. “…Yes.” “But—but it was an accident. I swear, I didn’t know this would happen.” “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hayes. I never wanted to hurt you, I never wanted to come between you. Please, don’t hate me.” Tears welled and spilled, tracing clean paths down her cheeks. She was heartbreakingly lovely when she cried. “I’ll get rid of it,” she sobbed. “I’ll leave, I’ll disappear. Please, just… don’t do anything to my mother. She’s sick, she needs me.” I rose and walked over to her, gently touching her cheek. Her skin was so soft, so new. “Why are you crying?” I murmured. “I never said you had to get an abortion.” 2 I brought Stella back to the Hayes estate. On the drive out to Greenwich, Arthur kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his mouth a tight line. “Mrs. Hayes, are you sure about this? Perhaps we should call Mr. Hayes first. He returns from his business trip in two days. He might… he might be angry.” “He won’t be.” More accurately, he wouldn’t dare. The car passed through the towering wrought-iron gates, navigated the long, winding drive through manicured gardens, and stopped before the imposing front entrance. Stella was trembling like a cornered animal, clutching her stomach and sobbing into her hands. “Please, Mrs. Hayes, I’m begging you, just let me go. My mother has late-stage kidney disease. I’m trying to save money for her treatment.” “I never would have gone near your husband if it wasn’t for the money. I was wrong, I know I was wrong.” Her pleas were a jumbled, desperate mess. I just kept wiping her tears away. “Shh. It’s alright. I told you, I’m not going to hurt you.” Compared to the thirteen mistresses before her—all of them sharp, ambitious, and dripping with contempt—Stella was by far my favorite. That’s why I brought her here. I led her through the grand foyer, down a long marble hallway, and into the private wing of the estate. We took the internal elevator to the deepest, most secluded part of the compound. There, beside a serene reflecting pool, sat a woman with her eyes closed, meditating. A traditional Japanese-style pavilion rose behind her. I walked with Stella to her side. “Mother.” The woman’s eyes opened slowly. Eleanor Hayes. “Mm.” Her gaze, heavy and deliberate, shifted to me, a sharp glint in their depths. “Is this her?” “Yes.” “Have you had it checked?” “I have. It’s a boy.” “Good. See that she’s well taken care of.” “I will.” With that, I took Stella’s hand, bowed my head slightly, and led her away. By now, Stella had stopped crying. She just stared at me, her fear mixed with a profound confusion. “Mrs. Hayes… why did you bring me here?” 3 I genuinely liked this girl, so I answered her with a patience I rarely showed anyone anymore. “To make you official. You’re carrying a child. We can’t have you hiding in the shadows, can we?” Stella’s hand flew to her stomach. “I—I told you, I don’t want to take Mr. Hayes from you…” I cut her off with a gentle smile. “Let’s not talk about that. First, dinner.” It was clear Donovan had never taken her anywhere nice. The evening’s modest fifteen-course tasting menu left Stella utterly overwhelmed. By the end of it, she was clutching my hand like a lifeline, her eyes wide. “Mrs. Hayes, that prosciutto with the fig jam was incredible! And the way they did the eggplant… I’ve never tasted anything like it.” I watched her practically bounce with excitement, reminding her gently to be careful. She laughed, then her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hayes. I grew up poor. I haven’t seen much of the world. I know I’m probably acting like a fool.” I just shook my head and smiled, reaching out to pat her head. “Do you like it?” I asked softly. “This kind of life.” Stella nodded without hesitation. “Yes.” Good, I thought. That makes this easier. I tucked her into a guest suite and waited until the lights were out. The house fell silent. I stood in the garden, breathing in the familiar, suffocating stillness of my life. The head housekeeper approached with my cigarettes and a lighter, her expression as conflicted as Arthur’s had been. “Ma’am, must you do this? I don’t think… I don’t think he really loves this girl.” “She’s young, that’s all. In every other way—education, background, poise—she can’t hold a candle to you.” “And what good has it done me?” I murmured, taking a long drag. “I’m still here, year after year, counting the days like a monk in a monastery.” A life of such exquisite, soul-crushing boredom. Perhaps it was seeing Stella, a living echo of my past, that made the memories surface. Tonight, for the first time in years, I allowed myself to remember. I remembered being a girl who didn’t know the meaning of hardship. My parents were farmers in Ohio. We were poor, but their love was rich. They spoke to each other with a kindness and respect that money could never buy. I was a good student, not brilliant, but good enough to earn a scholarship to NYU. And so, at twenty, when I met the Donovan Hayes—the campus royalty who walked through life like he owned it—I wasn’t scared or intimidated. It never once occurred to me that I wasn’t good enough for him. While every other girl was chasing him, I was trying to figure out what I’d do after graduation. Perhaps it was that indifference that caught his eye. He fell in love with me. He pursued me relentlessly. I didn’t care for money or expensive gifts. So he took a pottery class to make me a coffee mug, his large hands clumsy with the clay. I believed in equality, in partnership. I hated the stuffy, expensive restaurants he liked. So he learned to cook for me, blistering his hands in the process. To marry me, he went to war with his family. I never knew the full extent of what he endured. I only knew that he vanished for three months and returned thirty pounds lighter, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. He just held me and said, “Evelyn, I can finally marry you.” He gave me a wedding that was the talk of New York, our photos plastered across the society pages for a week. And I, like a fool, believed we would love each other forever. 4 The cracks, of course, were there from the beginning. The first time he brought his family to meet mine. A convoy of black cars rolling up the gravel driveway of our small Ohio farmhouse. My parents, their faces weathered by the sun, their hands calloused from work, were terrified. They thought debt collectors had come. When they realized it was a proposal, they were ecstatic. My father offered Donovan one of his good cigars. My mother brought out the special-occasion tea she saved for holidays. I saw the flicker of discomfort in Donovan’s eyes. But he was well-bred, and he covered it smoothly, changing the subject. Sitting beside him, I saw the subtle clenching of his jaw, the slight wrinkle of his nose. He never lit my father’s cigar. The Hayes family staff didn’t touch a single cup of tea. At the time, I just thought, some things are different, and that’s okay. We didn’t have to force it. But I was naive. Those small moments were a map of the chasm that separated our worlds. As the years passed and the initial passion cooled, our different values began to tear us apart. The first time he cheated, my world collapsed. It wasn’t even a real affair. He was out with his friends, a pack of trust-fund heirs, all of them single. They were at some exclusive club, each with a model draped over them. Donovan was sitting alone, and one of them—Wes, his so-called best friend—grabbed a bottle girl and pushed her onto Donovan’s lap. He started to refuse, but then his eyes landed on her, and he stopped. Later, drunk, they ended up in a bathroom stall together. A muffled groan, the sound of a zipper. He handed her a wad of cash and told her to clean herself up. I was at home, fuming that he was late again, when an anonymous text came through with a picture. I drove to the club like a woman possessed. I saw him walking out of the men’s room just as the girl walked out of the women’s. That night, we had the fight of all fights. In front of all his friends, I clawed at his face, leaving red streaks down his cheek. A paparazzo caught the whole thing. It ended up on Page Six. Donovan paid a fortune to kill the story and didn’t come home for a month. But he did come back. He apologized, his pride making the words stick in his throat. It was probably the first time in his life he’d ever had to say sorry to anyone. I cried for days. The next morning, his mother, who had never liked me, gave me a look of pure ice. “You’d do well to learn your place, Evelyn.” I didn’t understand what she meant then. I did after the second affair. And the third. And the thirteenth. I cried over every single one. I made a scene every single time. Number thirteen surfaced the day before my birthday. I thought I was going to lose my mind. Number fourteen was Stella. This time, I didn’t cry. I brought her home. And Donovan, hearing the news while on his business trip, finally rushed back. 5 It was late when Donovan arrived. Stella and I were curled up on the sofa in our pajamas, watching television. She was a child, really. She loved Tom and Jerry. She was giggling, holding a bowl of fruit. “Evelyn, look! The cat is so dumb. How does he keep falling for the same tricks over and over?” Yes, I thought, a bitter smile touching my lips. How stupid. I laughed along with her, and when I looked up, I saw him. Donovan, standing in the doorway, his eyes burning holes in the placid scene. I hadn’t really looked at him in a long, long time. He hadn’t really looked at me, either. Up close, I could see the faint lines forming around his eyes. His gaze locked on Stella, his brow furrowing in rage. “Who the hell let you in here? Get out.” The girl in my arms flinched as if struck. I shot back, my voice dangerously calm. “Don’t yell. You’ll scare the baby.” Donovan’s jaw worked. He looked from me to her, speechless. Finally, he bit out, “Who says it’s my child? And even if it is, there are ways to handle it. She doesn’t have to have it.” The casual cruelty in his voice terrified Stella. I rubbed her back soothingly and told her to go to bed. She clutched at my sleeve, her eyes pleading. “It’s alright,” I murmured. “His bark is worse than his bite. Go on. Pregnant women need their sleep.” Stella finally scurried away, looking back every few steps. The sight seemed to break something in Donovan. He let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Well, congratulations. I have to hand it to you, Evelyn. Is this your new thing? Playing the magnanimous, long-suffering wife? Should I give you a round of applause?” I met his glare with a serene smile. “Donovan, you brought one woman after another into our lives. Weren’t you just testing my limits?” “I know how this world works. Your friends, your business partners, your father, your uncles… they all have their perfect families at home and a string of diversions on the side.” “You used thirteen women to grind down my pride, to break me. Wasn’t this always the goal? Well, I admit it. You won.” For so long, I truly didn’t understand. The man who had once looked at me like I was the only thing in the world, who had been willing to fight everyone for me—how had he become this monster? It wasn’t until the day before my birthday, with mistress number thirteen, that his actions finally slapped me awake. So when I spoke those words of surrender, Donovan looked genuinely stunned. He stared at me, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes a storm of unreadable emotions. “Three months ago you were slitting your wrists in the bathroom. Now you’re telling me you’ve seen the light?”

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