Category: English

When our R&D Director Marcus Vance publicly accused me—again—of trapping him as a “baby daddy,” I didn’t argue. I calmly rejected his purchase order, stating “department funds exhausted.” He stormed over. “The budget was just approved! Where’s the money, Reed?” I ignored him, approving an operations team order right in front of him while rejecting his again. Furious, he dragged our boss Henderson into it. “She’s sabotaging a million-dollar project! If she stays, I quit!” Amid the tension, I pulled out my resignation letter. Marcus grinned triumphantly. Then I handed Henderson a stack of R&D project quotes. His smile vanished. He went pale. … Maybe he thought my silent defiance was a direct challenge to his authority. Marcus snatched the documents from my hand and flung them into the air. Papers fluttered down around me like dead leaves. The office fell dead silent. Every eye was on me, a chorus of whispers rising from the cubicles. “Did your ex-husband take your brain with him when he left?” Marcus sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “You dare to reject my purchase order?” He leaned against my desk, a smug thug, tapping his index finger on the surface. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Let me ask you something,” he said, raising his voice so everyone could hear. “The new budget just came in, and you’re telling me it’s gone? I wonder if someone’s been using company funds to buy baby formula.” I didn’t react, didn’t even look at him. I calmly bent down to pick up the scattered papers, even the one he was stepping on. “The R&D department’s discretionary fund has, in fact, been depleted,” I said, my voice even. “I can’t process the payment. If it’s urgent, you can seek special approval from senior management.” My calm response seemed to throw him off. He shot a glare at the gawking colleagues around us, his tone shifting to a low threat. “It’s Jenna, right? I’m giving you one last chance. Think very carefully before you speak.” I slowly rose to my feet and offered a faint smile. “It’s Ms. Reed, Marcus. And you can give me a thousand chances. The answer will still be the same. No funds, no approval.” He clearly hadn’t expected me to push back so directly. His face contorted with fury, and he pointed a finger right at my nose. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re just a glorified shopper, and now you’re on a power trip!” he bellowed. “The company allocates a hundred thousand dollars to my department every month! It was just deposited ten minutes ago! And you’re telling me it’s gone? Do your damn job or get the hell out!” His voice escalated into a full-blown roar. My colleagues shrank in their seats, not daring to breathe. I remained silent through his tirade. I simply turned and accepted a new purchase order from the Admin department. Right there, in front of him, I submitted it for payment. Less than three minutes later, the confirmation receipt from Finance pinged in my inbox. That single action sent Marcus over the edge. “Jenna, what the hell is your problem?” he shrieked. “You just said there was no money! How can you approve Admin’s request but not mine?” He stepped closer, invading my personal space. “I work my ass off day and night for this company’s products! What are you? A nobody with a little bit of power, using it to screw me over. You better give me a damn good explanation, or I swear to God, you’ll regret this.” Seeing him about to explode, a few of his sycophantic underlings scurried over to play peacemaker. “Easy, Marcus. Don’t let her get to you,” one of them said with a sneer in my direction. “You know what they say—’mommy brain’ is a real thing. Don’t waste your energy on someone like that.” A few others, people I’d once considered friendly, chimed in. “Some people just can’t handle their own miserable lives. Divorced with a kid, so they think the whole world owes them.” “Seriously. Does she think she’s eighteen again, looking for a meal ticket?” “Yeah, well, her personal vendetta is going to screw us all. If this project gets delayed, I can’t even pay my rent…” I quietly organized the papers I’d picked up, my fingers tapping away on my calculator. Click, click, clack. When the final number was entered, I looked up at Marcus, my voice still perfectly level. “Marcus, the items on the Admin department’s order were all priced below market average. Furthermore, they were using their own unspent budget rolled over from last month. Per company policy, their request was eligible for immediate approval.” I held up his signed purchase order. “Your department’s request, on the other hand, is not only marked up by eighty percent, but your budget was already in the red from last month. Therefore,” I delivered the final blow, “all procurement requests from your department will be rejected. Not just for this month, but for the entire quarter.” The quiet hum of the office was suddenly replaced by the frantic clatter of keyboards as every single person who had been watching the drama pretended to be absorbed in their work. No one could believe it. Me—a divorced new mom with no connections, no seniority—had just openly defied the untouchable Director of R&D. Everyone knew Marcus was the boss’s golden boy. He answered to no one but Mr. Henderson and treated every other department like his personal fiefdom. He never imagined he’d be publicly humiliated by a junior employee in the middle of her lactation period—an employee whose name he could barely remember. He glared at me, his eyes filled with venom, before storming off. The door to his corner office slammed with a thunderous crack that echoed through the entire floor. Down below, my coworkers exchanged uneasy glances. A few colleagues who had also been bullied by Marcus in the past sent me private messages, urging me to apologize. Jobs are hard to find… You have a child to think about… Just smooth it over. Apologize? For what? It’s true that I got divorced while on maternity leave. It’s also true that I was transferred to the procurement department just two months ago when I returned to work. But from the moment I took over purchasing for R&D, I realized their books were a complete disaster. At first, they took advantage of my inexperience, sneaking everything from toilet paper for their department bathroom to personal snacks onto their purchase orders. I was the one who got chewed out for it. Then, they started using the excuse of “urgent project needs” to get me to pay for things out of my own pocket. It began with a friendly, manipulative tone. “Jenna, this project is critical, we’re just missing this one component. Could you please just front the money for it? I’ll sign off on the expense report next month, and you’ll get it back from the R&D budget. I promise.” I was soft-hearted. I believed him. I mean, why would a high-level director go out of his way to cheat a single mom with a new baby? But when I brought him the receipts for reimbursement, he acted like he had no idea what I was talking about. After that happened a few times, I saw him for who he really was. When his team tried to get me to front money again, I refused flat out. That’s when he started using my performance reviews to threaten me. “Jenna, raising a kid on your own must be tough financially,” he’d say with a fake smile. “Just keep up the good work, and I’ll put in a good word for you with Mr. Henderson. Promotion, raise, you name it. But if the project gets delayed… well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Pay for what needs to be paid for. You’ll get every penny back when the project funds come through.” He talked a good game, but he still owed me for a three-hundred-dollar consumable he’d promised to reimburse months ago. Just yesterday, when I approached him again about signing my expense form, he didn’t just yell at me in front of the entire office—he twisted the story and accused me of trying to seduce him. “You were the one who was so eager to pay for me, weren’t you?” he’d sneered. “I thought your intentions were suspicious from the start, but I let it slide for the sake of the project. But you? You’re always looking for a shortcut. If you put half the energy you spend chasing me over a few hundred bucks into your work, maybe you wouldn’t be a divorced mother right now.” I trembled with a rage so pure it felt like ice in my veins. I couldn’t believe a man in his position could be so shamelessly vile. To date, I had fronted over a thousand dollars for the R&D department, much of it on my credit card. Meanwhile, because he’d had me transferred, my salary had been cut in half when I returned from leave. I was struggling to support my parents and my baby. The formula was almost gone. My mortgage was three months overdue. If I didn’t get that money back, my family would be out on the street. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I spent all night digging through historical purchasing contracts, compiling a detailed list of every procurement Marcus had overseen. What I found was staggering. Underneath the veneer of legitimate contracts and invoices was a cesspool of massively inflated prices. Worse, many of the specified high-grade materials had been swapped out for cheap substitutes. I cross-referenced the purchase orders with the actual delivery inspection reports. The rot in this R&D project went far deeper than I could have ever imagined. Marcus thought I was just some clueless new mom he could walk all over. He even started a rumor that I was obsessed with him, that I was using the reimbursements as an excuse to harass him after he’d rejected my advances. That’s why this morning, he didn’t feel an ounce of guilt for the money he owed me. He felt entitled. Arrogant. From his office, I could hear his booming voice, a mix of furious rant and whiny complaints to Mr. Henderson. Everyone was whispering, waiting for the show to begin. But I was waiting, too. Waiting for Marcus to push it too far. Waiting for him to play with fire and burn his whole world to the ground. His obsequious, ass-kissing voice drifted down from the office. Everyone knew how this would end. It was an open-and-shut case. Marcus would win, effortlessly. The atmosphere in the office began to shift. The colleague who used to eat lunch with me suddenly had to “work overtime” when I invited her, but I later saw her laughing with the new intern from R&D in the cafeteria. At lunchtime, I always ended up at the back of the line. Just as it was my turn, a group of R&D engineers would cut in front of me. “Must be nice to just clock out for lunch,” one would say loudly. “Unlike us workhorses who have to fight for every second.” “Leave her alone,” another would add with a smirk. “She’s got to breastfeed. If she doesn’t eat on time, the milk will dry up!” Then they would all look at my chest and erupt in loud, vulgar laughter. I’d clench my jaw and say nothing. By the time I finally got to the front, there was nothing left but scraps and watery soup. As soon as I sat down, the cleaning lady would come over and start aggressively wiping my table with a greasy rag, right next to my plate, huffing with disdain. This was just the beginning of Marcus’s campaign. When I returned to my desk, it was buried under a mountain of purchase requests, both urgent and trivial. The intern stood there, holding another thick pile of files, an arrogant look on her face. “Jenna, Marcus said he needs a full report on the supplier qualifications for all products purchased in the last three years. He needs it by the end of the day for a presentation tomorrow.” The whispers and snickers from the surrounding desks followed me. Day after day, the verbal abuse didn’t stop. My silence only seemed to encourage them. Within a week, I’d gone from “the divorced mom” to “the desperate office slut who throws herself at any man who looks her way.” They started openly commenting on my body. “How can she eat that much? Does she think she’s a sow for milking?” “You don’t get it. It’s an excuse to slack off. She goes to the pumping room, locks the door, and disappears for half the day. Who knows what she’s really doing in there?” “Look at those two sad, deflated sacks on her chest. No wonder her husband left her. It’s enough to make you sick.” It didn’t stop there. Trash—fruit peels and crumpled paper—started appearing on my desk. In the wide hallway, people would “accidentally” bump into me, hard. I was called into more and more pointless meetings about my work, with other departments making increasingly bizarre and impossible demands. My desk phone, with its dedicated extension, started ringing with obscene calls. “Fifty bucks an hour. You available?” Marcus thought he could break me, force me to quit. But I played deaf and dumb. The more he harassed me, the more flawlessly I did my job. And the calmer I remained, the more furious he became. Finally, after another week passed and he still hadn’t received my resignation, he snapped. Mr. Henderson returned from his business trip. Not five minutes later, Marcus was scurrying into his office, laptop in hand. The storm was about to break. Sure enough, half an hour later, Marcus emerged from the office like a preening rooster that had just won a cockfight. He announced an emergency, all-hands-on-deck meeting. I was at the front desk picking up a package of supplier invoices and missed the announcement. By the time I arrived, every single person in the conference room was staring at me. Before Mr. Henderson could even speak, Marcus launched his attack. “See, Mr. Henderson? It’s bad enough that she intentionally slows down all of our R&D work, but now she can’t even be bothered to show up to your meetings on time. The company’s generous policies for female employees? She’s exploiting every single one of them to slack off!” Mr. Henderson, fiddling with a string of wooden beads, frowned deeply. “Jenna Reed, is it?” His voice was low but heavy with anger. I didn’t answer. “Why is it that every simple purchase for the R&D department becomes a major drama the second it crosses your desk?” he demanded. “Our key projects are stalled because you can’t get them the materials they need. Our top engineers are threatening to quit because they aren’t getting their project bonuses! This market is a battlefield! Every day you delay is another day you’re handing an advantage to our competitors!” He slammed the string of beads onto the table. They scattered, clattering across the polished wood and onto the floor with a deafening rattle. “This company pays you for eight hours a day. Have I ever shorted any of you on your paychecks?” he roared. “Our frontline teams are bleeding to win us this market share, and you’re going to throw it all away because of some internal ‘procedure’ or ‘budget limit’? Are you all fresh out of grade school? Do I really need to spell this out?” He never said my name, but every word was a bullet aimed directly at me. Across the table, Marcus was on his knees, piously picking up the scattered beads, shooting me a look of pure, malicious triumph. I suddenly felt so tired. This company, so rotten from the inside that its leaders couldn’t see the truth. The “hard-working frontline engineers” he was defending had already hollowed it out like termites. And I, the one holding the line, was getting screamed at. Fine. I let out a long, quiet sigh and answered calmly. “Understood, Mr. Henderson. I know what to do now.” My compliance seemed to please him. His tone softened slightly. “It’s good for young people to be driven. You should learn from Marcus here. Be more tactful in how you handle things.” I nodded numbly and turned to leave. The long-running drama, a performance I had endured for weeks, was finally reaching its curtain call. But then, Marcus’s voice stopped me. “Wait! For the damage you’ve caused our team, I demand that you publicly apologize to us. Now.” “Apologize?” For a second, I thought I’d misheard. But then I saw Mr. Henderson give a subtle, permissive nod. The room erupted in a low buzz of whispers, contempt, and ridicule that washed over me like a tidal wave. The people who had bullied me, isolated me, insulted me, and spread disgusting rumors about me were now demanding an apology. From me. I clenched my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms, forcing myself to stay calm. Seeing my hesitation, Marcus put on a show of being deeply wounded. “Mr. Henderson, just because I didn’t want to be a father to her child, she sabotages my work. Is it too much to ask for an apology? I’m being magnanimous here, letting it go with just an apology, but look at her attitude!” He puffed out his chest, delivering the ultimatum. “I’m putting it all on the line. She apologizes right now, or either she walks, or I walk!” In the tense silence that followed, I stepped forward and placed the resignation letter I had prepared on the conference table. Marcus broke into a triumphant smirk. But when I immediately followed it with a thick stack of R&D project quotes for Mr. Henderson, the smirk vanished. His face went pale.

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My family decrees that the heir must wed a woman of beauty and strength. In my last life, I chose Isabelle Thorne—New York’s radiant darling. She promised me everything, yet five months into our engagement, she locked me in a dog cage, forcing me to watch her with Julian Reed. “You owe him this,” she spat. “His shattered leg, his dead parents—it’s your fault.” Within days, my sister jumped to her death, my father was imprisoned, and Isabelle took over my empire. I died on the ninth day, hearing her laugh as she handed my fortune to Julian. Reborn at the ceremony, I bypassed Isabelle and chose Seraphina Vance—the disfigured “madwoman” everyone feared. Later, it was Isabelle who knelt madly before that same cage, beating her head against the bars. 1 Before a lavish, long table, a dozen men in bespoke suits sat in stern silence. The elders of our Circle. My father, at the head of the table, gave me a warm, encouraging smile. “Asher, it’s time to choose. These uncles and family friends are all eager to see you settled.” On the table lay an array of ivory tokens, each engraved with the name of a daughter from a prominent family. Only one token, tucked away in a corner, looked as if it had never been touched, its ivory yellowed with neglect. My gaze fell upon it. Seraphina Vance. The name was a curse whispered in the gilded halls of the city’s elite. The madwoman. The pariah. Rumor had it she’d set the fire that killed her mother, a blaze that had left her scarred and her left leg permanently damaged. The Vance family hadn’t even sent a proper elder, just a distant cousin to represent her name in the selection. But I remembered. I remembered being trapped in that cage, the sycophantic smiles of these same men turning to cold amusement as they snapped photos of my humiliation. Only Seraphina, in the final moments before I died, had slipped through the guards. She had brought a clean handkerchief and gently wiped the blood and grime from my face. My hand shot out, my fingers closing around the faded token without a hint of hesitation. The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. My father’s face paled. “Asher! You—” “I choose her,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet like steel. My father stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief, before collapsing back into his chair with a heavy sigh. “Fine! But if she ever dares to harm a single hair on your head…” He didn’t need to finish. Everyone in that room understood the weight of his unspoken threat. As I left the hall, I ran straight into Isabelle and Julian. Julian’s eyes were red-rimmed, his shoulders trembling as if he were bearing the weight of the world. “Asher,” he choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I know you despise me, but my art studio… it was my life’s work. Why did you have to destroy it?” Isabelle’s gaze turned to ice. “Asher, did you have to be so cruel just to win my hand?” I gave them a dismissive glance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I tried to walk past, but she grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “Apologize! And you will pay for every penny of damage! Otherwise, you can forget about me ever stepping foot in the Grey family mansion!” Julian quickly tugged at her arm. “Isabelle, don’t! Asher, it’s all my fault, all of it!” He looked at me, tears glistening in his eyes. “I’ll get on my knees. Just please, give me back my studio.” His performance only fueled Isabelle’s fury. “Apologize to Julian. His health is fragile—give him your private clinic. And twenty of the best nurses, a dedicated medical team, on call 24/7.” I ripped my arm from her grasp and let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Isabelle, are you delusional? You vastly overestimate your own importance.” “The token I chose… it wasn’t yours.” A flicker of something unreadable crossed Julian’s face. “What did you say?” Isabelle’s pupils contracted, then her lips twisted into a mocking smile. “Stop posturing. Are you really this jealous of the attention I give Julian?” I couldn’t be bothered to argue. I turned and walked away, a wave of relief washing over me. This time, I was free. Free from the madness of Isabelle Thorne. The next day, I went to my private art gallery, intending to select a painting as a welcoming gift for Seraphina. But when I pushed open the heavy oak doors, I froze. 2 The walls were a shrine to Julian Reed. Portraits of him in every conceivable pose: dashing and confident, brooding and melancholic, a lazy, seductive smile playing on his lips. Each canvas was meticulously framed, gleaming under the gallery lights. “Do you like them?” Isabelle’s voice was a soft caress as she stroked the painted cheek of one of the portraits. “From now on, for every birthday, I’ll give you the most special gift.” A faint blush colored the tips of Julian’s ears. “Isabelle, you’re too good to me. How can I ever repay you?” he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. The kiss deepened, turning desperate and hungry. I rapped my knuckles sharply on the doorframe. They sprang apart, flustered. Isabelle frowned. “What are you doing here?” “My own gallery. Do I need to report to you to enter it?” A familiar tightness gripped my chest. It was here, in this very room, that I had once signed over the keys to my family’s empire to this venomous woman. A smirk played on her lips. “Why so hostile?” She let out a derisive scoff. “Asher, haven’t you been trailing after me like a lost puppy since we were children? What is this, some new game? Playing hard to get?” “Stop pretending,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “You love me so much. You could never truly let me go.” “Security!” My voice was ice. “Get this trash—the paintings and the people—out of my sight!” “Don’t! Isabelle gave these to me!” Julian lunged for my arm, but the moment his fingers brushed my sleeve, he theatrically threw himself backward, stumbling into a glass coffee table. Shards of glass sliced into his calf, and blood began to well up. “Asher!” Isabelle shrieked, shoving me with all her might. I staggered back, crashing into a metal easel. A warm liquid trickled down my cheek, but I felt no pain. Isabelle grabbed a can of paint thinner from a nearby cart and hurled its contents at me. “Asher! Are you insane?” She helped a whimpering Julian to his feet and stormed out. I knelt amidst the wreckage, a sudden, horrifying thought striking me. “My mother’s painting… Spring Serenity… where is it?” A trembling gallery assistant pointed to a corner. The painting, my mother’s last gift to me, was completely defiled by streaks of crimson paint. “Mom…” I whispered, clutching the ruined canvas. Tears mixed with the blood on my face, dripping onto the canvas. Whir… whir… The soft, rhythmic sound of a wheelchair approached. I looked up. A figure sat at the edge of the light, half in shadow. A silver mask gleamed coldly, but it couldn’t hide the slight tremble of her long lashes. It was Seraphina. “Don’t be sad,” she said, her gaze flickering from the gash on my forehead before quickly looking away. “Ointment.” She held out a small, pearlescent tube. Her fingers were long and elegant, but they curled inward as my eyes met hers. “It will scar otherwise.” I stared at the tube in my hand. Of course. The Vance family was a medical dynasty, their name synonymous with healing, their corporation holding a near-monopoly on the city’s pharmaceutical industry. As I took it, her fingertips brushed mine. She flinched as if burned and snatched her hand back. “I know you were forced to choose me,” she said, her voice a low, raspy whisper. Each word was spoken slowly, deliberately. “I will have the engagement annulled. You don’t have to put yourself through this.” The wheels of her chair squeaked as she turned to leave. “Wait!” I scrambled to my feet, blocking her path. Her entire body went rigid. She averted her face, her posture screaming panic. “I’m serious,” I said, looking directly at her, willing her to see the truth in my eyes. “It was always you I chose.” Her fingers gripped the armrests of her wheelchair so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her ears flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. After a long moment, she gave a tiny, almost inaudible nod. “Okay.” 3 Seraphina sent over a trove of medicinal herbs and restorative tonics. The cut on my forehead had already scabbed over. Each time I applied the soothing balm, the image of her crimson ears would flash in my mind, warming me from the inside out. One afternoon, I was heading into a high-end boutique on Fifth Avenue when Julian’s cloying voice drifted out. “Izzy, darling, I adore all of these suits!” As he spoke, he idly fiddled with a cufflink, though his eyes kept darting toward the most expensive items in the showroom. Isabelle’s tone was pure indulgence. “If you like them, take them all. Put it on Asher’s tab.” I stepped through the door with a cold smile. Seeing me, Isabelle showed no guilt, only lifting her chin in defiance. “You hurt Julian the other day. Consider this your apology.” Suddenly, Julian’s eyes landed on the trench coat I was wearing. They lit up. “Isabelle, that coat Asher has on… I want one too.” The store manager looked uncomfortable. “My apologies, sir, but that piece is a limited edition. Mr. Grey placed his reservation for it six months ago.” Julian’s face fell instantly. “Oh, never mind then…” he sighed. “Someone like me, from a simple background… I could never deserve something so fine.” As he spoke, he subconsciously rubbed his left calf, the very spot he’d “accidentally” injured at the gallery. Isabelle’s heart melted. She turned to me, her voice now a sharp command. “Asher, your closet is overflowing. Give him the coat.” I laughed. “And why should I?” “As compensation,” she hissed under her breath. “That push you gave him at the gallery? He was in pain for two weeks.” Before I could retort, Julian let out a pained gasp. Isabelle was at his side in an instant. “What is it? Is it hurting again?” “It’s nothing…” he said weakly, shaking his head, though beads of sweat were already forming on his brow. Isabelle’s eyes hardened into daggers. “Asher. Give him the coat.” I turned to my bodyguards at the door. “Please escort these two out.” But the two men, men my father had hired, merely hesitated. “Mr. Grey, sir, you’ll be marrying Miss Thorne soon. Perhaps it’s best to just listen to her…” Before I could process their betrayal, Isabelle gave a subtle nod. In a flash, the bodyguards seized my arms, twisting them behind my back and forcing me to my knees on the cold marble floor. “Strip it off him!” Isabelle’s voice rang out from above me. The store staff froze, horrified. Isabelle scoffed. “He’s been chasing me for years. Once we’re married, what’s his is mine. Now do it.” A trembling salesman stepped forward and undid the buttons of my coat. As the fabric was torn from my shoulders, my hands clenched into fists, my knuckles turning white. Isabelle draped the coat over Julian’s shoulders. “It looks much better on you, my dear,” she cooed. Julian bit his lip. “But… won’t Asher be angry?” Isabelle pulled out her phone and, aiming it at my disheveled form, snapped several photos. “Asher, if you dare cause Julian any more trouble, I’ll make sure the whole world sees you like this.” “Isabelle,” I ground out, my voice dangerously low. “You are truly disgusting.” The memories of my past life surged, her sneering face overlapping with the one before me now. One of the staff, unable to watch any longer, quietly handed me a spare jacket. I threw it on and stormed out of the store. When my father saw my state, he shattered his teacup against the wall in a blind rage. “That Thorne girl dares to treat you this way?! I’m going to their family right now and demand an explanation!” “Dad, calm down,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. “I have a way to handle them. But first, let’s deal with those traitors.” A week before the wedding, I went to the cemetery alone. “Mom, I won’t make the same mistake again.” My phone buzzed. An urgent notification from my bank. My private $50 million trust fund had been completely emptied. 4 I immediately called my assistant. “Sir, someone forged your signature and transferred the entire amount!” Twenty minutes later, I stormed into Julian Reed’s newly opened studio. “Isabelle!” My voice cut through the air, silencing the entire space. “Who gave you permission to touch my trust fund?” She turned around slowly, a picture of nonchalance. “Asher, you’ve bullied Julian time and again. Consider this money an apology.” She deliberately raised her voice for all to hear. “Besides, it’ll all be community property after we’re married. Don’t be so petty.” My chest heaved. The room began to spin. Just then, a familiar glint of green on Julian’s hand caught my eye. It was my mother’s emerald signet ring, her most cherished possession, which I kept locked away in a bank vault. I grabbed Julian’s wrist. “Take that ring off.” Julian’s eyes immediately welled with tears as he scrambled to hide behind Isabelle. Isabelle sighed in annoyance. “It’s just an old ring…” “I said, take it off!” I lunged for it. In the struggle, the ring slipped from his finger, clattering against the marble floor. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the emerald’s surface. Crack! The sharp sound of my hand striking his face echoed in the room. Julian clutched his cheek. Isabelle, incensed, shoved me back. “Have you lost your mind?” I lifted my head, my gaze cold and hard as I stared her down. She was so taken aback by the look in my eyes that she took an involuntary step back, her voice losing its edge. “It-it’s just a ring. Why are you so angry…?” I slowly knelt, my fingers trembling as I picked up the fractured pieces. Back in my car, the veins on the hand clutching the broken ring stood out like cords. I opened my phone. The internet had exploded. #HeirStrippedInPublic The article featured the photos from the boutique: me, clothes in disarray, while Julian stood beside Isabelle, wearing my coat. The caption read: “Some things, even when stolen, will never truly belong to you.” I shut my phone off. The same words, I thought, could be said for him. Stolen things never last. The online abuse was relentless, a flood of hateful comments that cut like knives. “Asher Grey is such a doormat, letting his fiancée walk all over him!” “Look at that pathetic loser. He deserves to be treated like dirt.” My voice was terrifyingly calm when I called my assistant. “Scrub those posts from the internet. And I want that money back, every last cent. No matter the cost, no matter the means. If the bank gives you any trouble, tell them to prepare for a lawsuit. And if anyone gets in our way…” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Remind them what happens when you cross the Grey family.” On the morning of the wedding, Isabelle called. “Asher…” Her voice was laced with the same old arrogance and certainty. “You terrified Julian the other day over that silly ring. His nerves are completely shot; the doctor says he needs absolute peace and quiet!” I stood before my closet mirror, adjusting my cufflinks. My reflection smirked back at me. “So you plaster my humiliation all over the internet to soothe your little lover’s feelings?” She scoffed. “Don’t forget, your father’s mining venture still depends on my family’s connections. Who else but me can pull those strings for you?” I slowly straightened my tie, my fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the mahogany dresser. “How about this,” she said, her tone that of a queen bestowing a great favor. “Transfer fifty percent of your shares to Julian. Think of it as a pre-wedding gift to me.” She let out a light laugh. “After all, once we’re married, what’s mine is yours.” In the background, I heard Julian call out “Isabelle” affectionately. Her voice instantly softened. “I’ll be right there!” “Just agree to my terms, and I promise, I’ll be at the altar on time.” I ended the call and blocked her number. Inside the grand ballroom, a collective gasp went through the crowd as Seraphina’s wheelchair was guided down the aisle. She wore a simple, elegant silver mask, but when her eyes met mine, they curved into a breathtaking smile. BANG! The main doors were thrown open. Isabelle stormed in, wearing a magnificent white wedding gown, a triumphant smile already on her lips. But when her gaze fell upon Seraphina beside me, her face contorted into a mask of pure fury. “Asher,” she hissed, her voice trembling, “what is the meaning of this?” “Seraphina Vance!” she shrieked suddenly. “What are you doing here?” It was the question on every guest’s mind. The reclusive Seraphina Vance never attended social functions. I took a step forward, placing myself protectively in front of Seraphina’s wheelchair. Isabelle’s face turned a shade of sickly green. “Asher, today is our wedding day. Why is she here?” Julian scurried up beside her. “Asher, even if Isabelle has been spending a bit more time with me lately, you didn’t have to hire a cripple just to make her jealous, did you?” I took a deep breath. “Isabelle—” “Enough!” She lunged forward and grabbed my arm. “I am your wife-to-be! How dare you play these childish games?” I violently shook her off. At that exact moment, the officiant’s voice boomed through the hall’s sound system, clear and resolute. “Distinguished guests, we welcome you to celebrate the union of Mr. Asher Grey and Miss Seraphina Vance.”

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All the children born to Arthur Croft’s girlfriends had something wrong with them. Only the daughter from his first marriage was perfect, and he adored her for it. The son I bore him—the sweet, challenged boy I loved—was thrown to his death by that same daughter. Then, she stabbed me, her voice a venomous whisper in my ear. “So what if you had a son? He was a defective. He was never going to be a Croft.” Now, I’m back. Reborn in a moment before the end, and this time, I’ve woken up with something new. A power I’ll call the Legacy System. The System allows me to conceive with ease. More than that, it lets me choose the sex and the intelligence of my children. This time, I will give Arthur Croft a litter of brilliant, perfect sons. 1 I returned to find my son’s body on the polished marble floor. Sophie, Arthur’s daughter, stood over him, a triumphant smirk on her face. “It’s what he deserved,” she said, her voice chillingly casual. “A defective thing like that has no place here.” I collapsed, gathering my little boy into my arms, the sheer force of my hatred a physical blow. The crack of my palm against her cheek echoed in the cavernous foyer. In the life that was stolen from me, this girl, Sophie, was the one who ended me with a knife. This time, I would settle that debt. She struggled against my grip, her arrogance melting into a child’s panicked tears. “Dad, help me! This psycho is attacking me!” Arthur appeared in seconds, his tailored suit unruffed, his expression unreadable. He saw our son, lifeless in my arms, and his face showed no flicker of pain. His first instinct was for her. “Are you all right, Sophie?” Arthur is my husband. He was always kind to me, in his own distant way. I was, after all, the only woman who had ever given him a son. The fact that the boy had developmental issues, that he could never inherit the Croft empire, was a constant, unspoken tragedy between us. “What’s going on? Who is bullying my granddaughter?” His mother, Mrs. Croft, swept into the room. Seeing me on the floor, she marched over, her hand raised to strike. I caught her wrist, my grip like iron. “She killed my son. Don’t I have the right to touch her?” In my last life, I was a doormat. I absorbed every slight from Sophie, every backhanded comment from her grandmother, and said nothing. Not again. “He’s dead, so he’s dead. He was a defective,” Mrs. Croft said, her voice utterly devoid of warmth. “Sophie was just… cleaning house. Culling a useless person from the Croft line.” I looked at Arthur. He remained silent. Sophie, emboldened, jutted out her chin. “Grandma’s right. Useless things should be disposed of. I’m the future heir to the Croft legacy. I have the right to make these decisions.” She turned her angelic, deceitful face to her father. “Dad, since this woman can’t give you a smart child either, why don’t you just get rid of her?” My heart seized. I couldn’t leave. The Crofts were titans in this city, their fortune woven into its very foundations. To be cast out was to be erased, to be left with nothing. “Arthur,” I said, my voice shaking but clear. “I can give you a brilliant son.” His head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with disbelief. Even his mother paused, her cold fury replaced by a flicker of intense curiosity. Arthur had been with many women, fathered many children. All of them, save Sophie, were born with severe cognitive or physical disabilities. He’d had them all… taken care of. Quietly institutionalized and erased from the family record. He dreamed of a healthy son to carry on the family name, a tradition of male primogeniture that stretched back generations. His generation was the first to falter. But now, I had the Legacy System. Just moments ago, a voice had bloomed in my mind: [Host, you have been activated. If you use the Legacy System to bear Arthur Croft four children, your mission will be complete. You will be granted infinite wealth.] [Furthermore, you can use this system for vengeance. You may bear as many children as you desire, and you may determine their sex and level of intelligence at will.] I had agreed without a second’s hesitation. I would have my revenge, and I would complete my mission. 2. “Dad, don’t listen to her,” Sophie pleaded, rushing to his side. “How could she possibly guarantee a smart son? That’s not something you can just decide to do.” Arthur’s brief flicker of hope died. He looked at me, his expression hardening. “You already gave me a son with problems. That suggests any others would be the same.” He sighed, a gesture of finality. “But you were always the most obedient of my wives, and the only one to give me a boy at all. I’ll give you two million dollars. It’s time for you to leave.” He turned to walk away. I scrambled forward and wrapped my arms around his leg, looking up at him with every ounce of conviction I possessed. “Trust me one more time. I promise you, I can do this. If I fail, if the child isn’t perfect, you can throw me out then. It won’t be too late.” “You manipulative bitch,” Sophie spat, trying to kick me away. But Arthur stopped her. He looked down at me, his voice a low murmur. “You’re sure?” “I swear it.” My certainty caught his mother’s attention. A flame of desperate hope ignited in her eyes. “If you can actually do it,” she said slowly, “then I will finally accept you as my daughter-in-law.” Arthur was swayed. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll try.” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and tightened my grip on my son’s cooling body. Don’t worry, my love, I thought. Mommy will make them all pay. Sophie threw a tantrum. “Dad, you can’t believe her! She’s lying to you!” “Sophie,” I whispered, my voice trembling with practiced vulnerability. “I know you’ve always been afraid a brother would challenge your position as heir. Don’t worry. I would never let him compete with you.” I saw a flash of pity in Arthur’s eyes. He bent down and pulled me into his arms, then looked coldly at his daughter. “That’s enough!” he snapped. “Whether she can do it or not is not for you to decide. We will find out soon enough. And if it is a boy, and if he is healthy… he will be the Croft heir.” The color drained from Sophie’s face. She opened her mouth to argue but choked on the words, silenced by her father’s authority. I hid a smirk against Arthur’s chest. You want the inheritance so badly, Sophie? I will make sure you never see a single dime. 3. My promise to produce an heir transformed my status overnight. Arthur’s demeanor toward me softened, and he even arranged a lavish funeral for our son. At the cemetery, Sophie glared at me, her eyes burning with a hatred so intense it was almost palpable. I ignored her, tightening my grip on Arthur’s arm. In my mind, I whispered to my lost child: Rest now, my sweet boy. Mommy’s work is just beginning. “Darling,” I said to Arthur as we walked back to the car. “Let’s start trying again. Tonight.” A slow smile spread across his face. “All right, Vivi. I’ll trust you this one time. If you can really give me a high-IQ son, I’ll give you the world.” “I will,” I promised. Later that day, I found Sophie waiting for me in the rose garden. Her expression was venomous. “Don’t get too comfortable. When you fail to produce a boy, my father will throw you out so fast your head will spin. And you will fail. After all, it’s his genes that are defective.” “If his genes are defective,” I said, stepping closer until we were inches apart, “then how are you so perfect?” Panic flared in her eyes. She stammered, “I… I misspoke.” In that instant, everything clicked into place. The cold, brutal truth of it settled in my gut. Of course. That was why all of Arthur’s other children had problems. His genetics were flawed. And if Sophie was perfectly healthy… it meant she wasn’t his daughter at all. I said nothing more and walked away, leaving her flustered and exposed. That night, Arthur and I were together. I asked him about the genetic issue, and he admitted he’d been undergoing treatments for years. He believed the problem was likely resolved by now. It didn’t matter to me. Even if his genes were still a mess, the System would correct for it. Afterward, as I lay in the dark, the System’s voice echoed in my mind: [Host, a fertilized egg has implanted. You may now select its sex and intelligence level.] Without hesitation, I gave my command. Boy. High intelligence. I had already lost one son. This next one, and all the ones to follow, would have the world at their feet. They would live the life their older brother never could. 4. A month later, the test was positive. I was pregnant. Arthur was ecstatic. He lifted me up and spun me around the living room, laughing with pure, unadulterated joy. “This is it, Vivi! I love you! The Croft heir is on his way!” “I hope it’s a boy,” he murmured against my hair. “Dad, aren’t you afraid she’ll just pop out another defective one?” Sophie’s voice cut through the moment like a shard of glass. She turned to her grandmother. “Grandma, you know Dad has genetic problems. That’s a fact. So this baby of hers is guaranteed to be a defective, too!” “But if Arthur’s genes are the problem,” I asked softly, “how did you turn out so perfectly normal?” I couldn’t believe she’d be foolish enough to fall into the same trap twice. The expressions on Arthur and his mother’s faces soured as the same realization dawned on them. The air grew thick with suspicion. Just as Arthur was about to speak, his ex-wife, Eleanor, swept into the room. “The doctors explained this years ago,” she said smoothly, coming to her daughter’s rescue. “They said that even with Arthur’s condition, there’s a small chance of a child being born without any issues. Sophie was just our miracle.” She shot a sharp, warning glance at Sophie. Sophie quickly caught on. “Right! Besides, I look just like Dad. How could I not be his daughter?” She rounded on me, her voice dripping with accusation. “I see what you’re doing, Vivian. You’re trying to drive a wedge between us!” “No, I’m not,” I whispered, shrinking back into Arthur’s arms. “Arthur, you believe me, don’t you? I would never.” I knew my husband’s weakness: he had a savior complex. He was drawn to fragile women. As expected, he tightened his hold on me, his protective instincts kicking in. He glared at Eleanor and Sophie. “That’s enough. I don’t want to hear another word about my genes in front of her. I have faith that Vivi’s baby will be perfectly healthy.” But later, in the privacy of our bedroom, his confidence wavered. I saw the worry etched on his face. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my voice a soothing balm. “Don’t worry, Arthur. This child is perfect. I have a friend who’s a doctor, a specialist with cutting-edge equipment. She already ran some preliminary tests for me.” His eyes lit up. “Really?” “Of course,” I lied smoothly. “It’s a healthy baby.” Relief washed over him. He pulled me close, kissing me again and again, his eyes wet with grateful tears. He cared so much about this child. I would use that devotion to control him completely. The Croft fortune, the Croft legacy—everything would belong to my sons. The next morning, Sophie brought me a glass of milk. She was smiling, a saccharine, unsettling expression. “Aunt Vivian, I’m so sorry for how I’ve been acting. Please accept this as an apology.” I looked at the milk. Does she really think I’m that stupid? I knew it was drugged. But I smiled back at her, thanked her, and drank every last drop. Minutes later, a searing pain ripped through my abdomen. Blood streamed down my thighs. I collapsed onto the floor, screaming for help. Sophie stood over me, spitting on the floor beside my head. “There goes your precious baby,” she sneered, her voice full of laughter. “Hahaha! Let’s see how you win my father’s favor now.”

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I died on the eve of the Fourth of July, my neck sliced open by the furious father of a victim. It happened because my husband, a Deputy Chief of Detectives, decided it would be a brilliant PR move for his career to have our five-year-old daughter present a bouquet of flowers to the city’s most notorious serial killer. I fought it with every fiber of my being, and in doing so, became public enemy number one. My husband stared at me, his face a mask of disappointment. “How can you be so selfish?” My daughter screamed through her tears, “Mommy’s bad! I don’t want this mommy! I want a new mommy!” The entire internet branded me a heartless monster. Even the killer, from behind the bars of his cell, claimed that my interference was the only thing stopping him from confessing his crimes. Now, I’ve been reborn. I’m standing here again, surrounded by the blinding flash of media cameras, watching my daughter clutch a bouquet of flowers as she takes timid steps toward that blood-soaked demon. This time, I’ve melted into the crowd. This time, I’m just going to watch. 1 The first thing I did after being reborn was take a pair of nail clippers and a brush to David and Zoe. Then I went straight to a DNA lab. “I want a new mommy! I don’t want this mommy! I hate her!” My daughter’s shrieks from my past life were still ringing in my ears, but it was the two different uses of the word “mommy” that now haunted me. My husband David’s department had already formed a special task force for this case. The lead suspect would be caught soon, which meant I didn’t have much time. I paid extra for a rush job at the lab, and just before they announced the killer’s capture, I got the results. When I opened the envelope and saw the words printed on the page, my legs gave out. The strength drained from my body, and I nearly collapsed right there on the pavement. RESULTS: David Reed is confirmed as the biological father of the subject, Zoe Reed. RESULTS: Claire Sterling is conclusively excluded as the biological mother of the subject, Zoe Reed. The world tilted on its axis. David was Zoe’s father, but I… I had no biological connection to the child I had raised. No wonder Zoe’s attitude toward me had soured over the years, escalating into open defiance. They say children can’t hide their true feelings. Even if she didn’t know the words, her actions had screamed the truth all along. I stumbled out of the clinic and started to laugh, a raw, broken sound. I was such a fool. An absolute idiot. My own husband had cheated on me, swapped our child, and I never suspected a thing. During the storm of public hatred in my past life, it was Zoe’s childish voice that had delivered the final, killing blow. Her televised interview had sent my reputation spiraling into an abyss from which it never recovered. I’d questioned everything—my sanity, my judgment, my very worth as a human being—but I never once questioned my own womb. Thinking back, that sudden blackout I experienced during labor… it had to be his doing. A setup. He had swapped our real baby for this one. For years, he’d used my father’s political influence to claw his way up from a beat cop to Deputy Chief. Now that my father’s power was waning, he wanted me gone. He wanted to bring Zoe’s real mother into our home. He knew I adored Zoe, that I would die for her. So he used that love as a weapon. He orchestrated the whole flower ceremony knowing I would object. It was a win-win for him. If it worked, he’d be hailed as a compassionate genius, paving the way for his next promotion. When I inevitably intervened, he could paint me as an unhinged, hysterical woman, giving him the perfect public excuse to divorce me and play the victim. My fingers crumpled the DNA report into a tight ball. If I was a fool for meddling last time, then this time, I would respect the natural order of things. This time, I’d let fate run its course. The next morning, after an all-night manhunt, one of the lead suspects in the serial robbery-homicides, Carl Russo, was finally in custody. Just like last time, he was a brick wall. No matter how they interrogated him, no matter what evidence they presented, he just stared blankly and repeated the same line. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything.” The case had the city in a panic, and the pressure from above was immense. They had three days to crack it, or the entire task force would be demoted to street patrol. Russo’s known family were all dead. So, with time running out, Deputy Chief David Reed proposed a radical idea. The same idea as last time. They would appeal to the killer’s humanity. They would use the innocence of a child to awaken his conscience. His own daughter, Zoe, would present the killer with flowers. It would be a powerful, emotional spectacle, designed to break down the suspect’s psychological defenses. The proposal was risky, but his superiors, desperate for a breakthrough, approved it. To ensure that I, the mother, would show up at the perfect moment to create a scene, David had a “sympathetic” subordinate place an anonymous tip. In my last life, I took that call and charged onto the scene like a raging bull, screaming and shouting, destroying the ceremony in front of the entire world’s media. This time, when the same number flashed on my screen, I silenced it. I watched the screen light up and go dark, again and again. Thirty minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, I “noticed” the missed calls and raced to the scene. I didn’t ram my car through the police barricades like before. I parked blocks away, slipped into the back of the crowd, and waited. In the center of the cordoned-off area, Zoe stood in a pristine white princess dress, clutching a bouquet. Her eyes darted nervously at the cameras and the murmuring crowd. Carl Russo, shackled at the hands and feet, was led out. I heard the raw cries of anguish and rage from the victims’ families in the crowd. My husband, in his immaculate uniform, knelt beside Zoe. He patted her head, whispering words of encouragement, but his eyes were frantically scanning the crowd. I knew who he was looking for. I ducked lower. The show had to go on. With me still a no-show, David had no choice but to give Zoe a gentle push forward. Just as Zoe stood on her tiptoes, holding the flowers up to the killer, all hell broke loose. With a sudden, violent twist, Russo threw the guards off him. In one fluid motion, he lunged forward, his shackled hands snatching Zoe and pulling her against his body like a shield. “What kind of moronic idea was this?” Russo spat, his voice a low growl. “You people really are idiots.” He tightened his arm around Zoe’s neck, his eyes burning with feral intensity. “I’ve killed enough people to know the more I talk, the faster I die.” “Get me five hundred thousand in cash and a car. Now. Or I’ll snap this little brat’s neck!” The next second, before anyone could react, Russo jammed his thumb into Zoe’s eye socket. With a sickening pop, he ripped the eyeball out. Zoe’s scream was inhuman. Russo threw the severed eye to the ground and crushed it under his heel. By the time I burst screaming from the crowd, Carl Russo was twisting Zoe’s arm, a look of manic glee on his face. The sharp crack of bone breaking, mingled with Zoe’s piercing shriek, sent a wave of nausea through me. Several officers intercepted me, holding me back. I dropped to my knees on the pavement, my voice cracking. “Please! Please, don’t hurt my daughter anymore!” I begged Russo. “She’s only five years old! Let her go, I’m begging you! I’ll do anything, whatever you want, just let her go!” Russo’s eyes glinted as he looked from me to David. “Well, Chief Reed, is this your wife? Not bad looking at all!” He tightened his grip on Zoe, his gaze mocking. “You were so eager to slap the cuffs on me, weren’t you, Chief? What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” “I don’t know how a moron like you made it to Deputy Chief, honestly. You personally delivered a hostage right into my hands. If you weren’t the one who arrested me, I’d think you were my partner.” His expression turned vicious. He leaned down and bit into Zoe’s ear. I screamed as he tore it clean off with his teeth. Zoe went limp in his arms, mercifully unconscious. David’s face was a mask of pure fury, but he was frozen, helpless. “I told you!” Russo roared. “Half a million and a car! You have twenty minutes. If I don’t see it…” CRACK! A single gunshot shattered the air. A blossom of red exploded on Russo’s shoulder, a gaping wound. Instantly, officers swarmed him, wrestling the now-unconscious Zoe from his grasp and slamming him to the ground. A frantic scramble, and Zoe’s limp, bloody body was rushed into an ambulance. In the sterile corridor outside the hospital operating room, I had my hands buried in the collar of David’s uniform, my palms connecting with his face again and again, the slaps echoing in the quiet hall. “Why would you do this? Isn’t she your daughter?” I shrieked. “David, I don’t care if you want to climb the corporate ladder, but to use your own flesh and blood to do it? Are you even human?” His colleagues finally intervened, pulling me away as David’s face began to swell. “That’s enough, Claire!” he finally roared, pushing them off. “If you have a problem, take it up with me! Don’t attack my team!” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “This is all your fault! If you had just shown up on time and stopped the ceremony like you were supposed to, none of this would have happened!” “Yes, it was my idea! But it was for the good of the city! I have a duty to the victims’ families! I have a duty to this uniform!” “I’m busy, I’m at work all the time. I thought I could count on you to take care of her, but you were so careless. You let this happen.” He shook his head, his voice dripping with disappointment. “Zoe is maimed because of you, Claire. I’m so, so disappointed in you.” Seeing his feigned despair, I grabbed a nearby metal trash can and hurled it at him. “You son of a bitch!” I screamed. “You kept this whole thing a secret from me, and now that it’s blown up in your face, you dare to blame me? How dare you?” “If one of your men hadn’t called me, I’d still be in the dark! What happened to Zoe is your fault, and yours alone! If she doesn’t make it, I swear to God, I will kill you!” “Get out!” I shrieked, my voice raw. “All of you, just get the hell out of my sight!” Just then, the light above the operating room door went out. The surgeon emerged, his face grim. I pushed past the officers and rushed to him. “Doctor, my daughter… is she going to be okay?” “The broken bones will heal,” he said, his voice heavy with pity. “But her eye, and her ear… there was nothing we could do.” He sighed. “She’s only five. Such a tragedy.” In the private room, Zoe lay still, her head wrapped in so many bandages she looked like a tiny mummy. Looking at the ruin of her face, the empty socket where an eye used to be, and remembering the words on that DNA report, I felt nothing. Not a single shred of pity. “Mommy is always so strict with me. She makes me do homework all the time. If I don’t listen, she hits me. Sometimes I think she’s going to kill me.” “Daddy is the best. He takes me to the park and buys me ice cream. Mommy just tells me to behave. She never lets me have any fun.” “My daddy is the greatest man in the world. I want to help him. If Mommy didn’t hold him back all the time, he would probably be the police commissioner by now.” “I hate my mommy. Daddy says she’s just dragging him down. I wish I didn’t have a mommy.” I sat by the bed, her words from my past life echoing in my mind. Even if she knew about her birth mother, those weren’t the words of a normal five-year-old. Someone had coached her. Someone had fed her those lines. As I was lost in thought, a soft groan came from the bed. She was awake. The moment her one good eye focused on me, a tear trickled down her cheek. But the words that came out of her mouth were laced with an icy resentment that chilled me to the bone. “It’s all your fault! Daddy said he called you! Why were you so late?” “If you had come sooner, it wouldn’t hurt so much! I hate you!” “I want my mommy! Not you! I want my other mommy!” David had been called back to the station for an emergency meeting about the catastrophic failure of his plan. We were alone. Seeing her writhing and screaming in the bed, I dropped the loving mother act. “You got what you deserved,” I said, my voice flat. “What happened to you today is your father’s fault. It has nothing to do with me.” “You’re lying!” she shrieked. “Daddy told me you never liked me! He wouldn’t lie to me!” “Oh, really? Then why am I the only one here with you right now? Why isn’t your precious daddy here? And this ‘other mommy’… if she loves you so much, where is she?” “Because you’re a bad person!” Zoe sobbed, her remaining eye glaring at me with pure hatred. “Daddy said you’re a bad person, and if my other mommy saw you, you would hurt her! That’s why she has to hide!” I let out a cold laugh. “He’s quite the storyteller, isn’t he? He’s also a liar. The truth is, he and your mother don’t really care about you. They care more about having a little baby boy.” “Why else would your father send you to give flowers to a monster? He never wanted you to survive. If he really cared, why didn’t he stop you himself? Why did he have to call me? It’s not like he’s paralyzed.” A five-year-old’s logic is a fragile thing. My words hit their mark. Her face crumpled, and fresh tears began to fall. “You’re lying,” she whimpered. “Daddy and Mommy love me the most.” I patted her bandaged head. “Keep dreaming, you poor thing.” “Your IV is almost empty. I’m going to get the nurse. You stay here and don’t move.” I walked out of the room and ran right into David, who was just returning from his meeting. “How’s Zoe?” he asked, his tone clipped. “She’s awake. I was just getting the nurse to change her drip.” He crooked a finger at me. “Come with me. I need to talk to you about something.” I followed him to the stairwell. The moment we were inside, the heavy fire door slammed shut behind me. Before I could turn, two of David’s colleagues grabbed me, pinning me against the cold concrete wall. “David, what are you doing?” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and an ink pad. He grabbed my hand and forced my index finger onto the ink. “Zoe’s injuries… there’s going to be an internal investigation,” he said, his voice low. “I can’t take the fall for this, Claire. The whole department would be disciplined. So I need a scapegoat. And that’s you.” “All you have to do is put your fingerprint on this Guardianship Consent Form. It says you voluntarily allowed Zoe to approach the suspect. That way, I keep my job.” “For my career,” he whispered, his face inches from mine, “I’m afraid I have to ask you for this little favor… honey.”

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For twenty-five years, I was in love with a boy from the wrong side of the tracks. We tumbled through life together, a chaotic whirlwind of shared struggles and scraped-together dreams. My sister, Rory, had a different kind of love story. Her boyfriend treated her like a princess, enshrined in gold and jade. When someone made a pass at her once, the man’s hands and feet were broken, and he was thrown into the sea for the sharks by the next morning. The day a rival of Ash’s couldn’t find him and took out their anger on me instead, smashing the fish stall that was my entire livelihood, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. That same night, my sister’s boyfriend forgot to give her a goodnight kiss, so he had fireworks set off across the entire city for three days and three nights just to apologize. Her legendary romance went viral. A legion of followers waited with bated breath for every update. I was one of them. The day Ash was supposed to propose to me, he vanished. At the same time, I was scrolling through my phone when I saw Rory’s latest post. “This time, I’ll let you have your happiness with her.” The accompanying photo showed her locked in a fierce kiss, the corner of her lip bitten red. The man’s face was pixelated, a mosaic of blurred color. But the scar on the back of his hand, a pale, jagged mark from a burn… it was identical to Ash’s. … 1 “Oh my god, my favorite love blogger just updated!” “Damn, her boyfriend has so much tension. Even his scars are sexy.” Hearing the chatter from the customers at my stall, my focus slipped. The blade in my hand slid, slicing deep into my finger. “Are you blind?” a man barked, pointing at the fish on the cutting board. “You cut the gallbladder. How are we supposed to eat that now?” “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” I stammered, bowing my head, my words tumbling out in a frantic apology. “I’ll give you another one, on the house.” Thankfully, a regular customer nearby stepped in to smooth things over, and the man didn’t escalate. “But Anya,” the regular said kindly after he’d left, “that dress really isn’t practical for cleaning fish.” I looked down at the fabric clinging to my body, a bitter taste filling my mouth. I hated this dress. It was tight, impractical, and stained easily. But today was the day Ash was supposed to propose. I just wanted to look beautiful for him. Finally, after the last customer of the rush was gone, Ash came running up, his breath coming in ragged pants as he wrapped his arms around me. “Did some bastard give you trouble just now? I’ll go kill him.” Any other time, I would have grabbed his arm, pleaded with him not to cause a scene. But as I watched him clench his fist, my eyes fixed on the familiar scar on his hand. I took an involuntary step back. I refused to let myself entertain the possibility. Just then, my phone rang. It was Rory. “Congratulations, big sis! Did he pop the question?” “I have good news, too! I got the scholarship, and my boyfriend bought me a huge condo!” I forced my lips into a smile. “That’s amazing, Rory. Congratulations.” “Anya? What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice sharp, sensing the tremor in mine. “It’s nothing. I just cut my hand while cleaning a fish,” I said softly. “No way. Put me on speaker!” The moment I did, her voice, sharp and furious, blasted from the phone. “Ash, you son of a bitch! Aren’t you supposed to be proposing to my sister? Why is she still gutting fish?” Ash shot back without missing a beat, “You don’t know shit. Mind your own business.” He scowled. “Proposal or not, she’s my wife.” He hung up, his brow furrowed. I watched him, his eyes red-rimmed with what looked like concern as he rummaged for a Band-Aid, and I pushed down the strange, sick feeling coiling in my stomach. Not long after, Rory herself burst onto the scene, a full-blown paramedic’s first-aid kit in her arms. “I’m really fine, Rory. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill,” I said, feigning annoyance. She pouted, her expression petulant. “When it comes to my sister, nothing is ever too much!” She looked around my cramped, damp stall. “You should move into the condo my boyfriend gave me.” “How could I possibly do that?” “Your boyfriend is so good to you. Maybe he’s planning for it to be your marital home?” A faint blush crept up Rory’s cheeks. Ash, who had been leaning against the counter, glanced over at her, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight, almost imperceptible smile. Then Rory’s tone shifted, a sharp edge returning to her voice. “Unlike some people, who can’t even take care of their own wife properly,” she said, directing a pointed look at Ash. “Still needs me, the family servant, to come running.” With that, she took a roll of gauze and began wrapping my finger with practiced ease. At her last words, Ash’s brow twitched again, a flicker of something I couldn’t name. A strange impulse took hold of me. I looked at him. “Ash,” I said, my voice steady. “Let’s just get married.” I turned to my sister. “Rory isn’t married yet. She can be our maid of honor.” Rory froze. The half-wrapped roll of gauze slipped from her fingers and fell to the wet floor. “I’m not planning on getting married,” she said, her head bowed so low I couldn’t see her face. “I’m just playing around.” Ash’s body went rigid at her words. “How can you say that? You have to take relationships seriously!” I said, reaching out to touch the top of her head. She flinched away, a subtle but definite movement. “It’s impossible for us,” she murmured. Then she lifted her head, a bright, brittle smile plastered on her face. “You have to be happy, Anya. Promise me.” “I still want to beat the hell out of that guy,” Ash grumbled, his voice laced with frustration, breaking the strange tension. “Who the hell does he think he is, making you bow and scrape like that?” “Ash!” I grabbed his arm, stopping him. “You promised me you wouldn’t get into any more trouble. We’re just ordinary people. We can’t afford to cross someone with money and power.” He stopped, his body still, and a strange expression crossed his face. Rory let out an ill-timed laugh. I looked at her, confused. Realizing her slip, she quickly linked her arm through mine, her touch intimate. “It’s just… this is the first time I’ve ever seen him back down. It’s kind of funny.” For a split second, I thought I saw a look of pure indulgence in Ash’s eyes as he looked at her. I shook my head, clearing it. These two were the most important people in my life. Ash could be impulsive, but he was devoted to me in every other way. Besides, he was a street brawler and I was a fishmonger. Where would he get the kind of money to turn someone into a princess? When Rory left, she clung to me, her face a mask of reluctance. But my eyes caught a glimpse of her phone screen. Her pinned chat at the top of her messaging app was with someone named “Mr. Won’t Say Yes.” I remembered her joking back in high school. “One day, I’m going to call myself ‘Miss Courageous,’” she’d declared. “And I’ll go after anyone I want.” “What are you staring at?” Ash’s voice broke through my thoughts as he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Are you mad that I missed the proposal today?” He lifted me effortlessly, settling me onto his lap. “I ran into someone I have a history with. An old enemy.” He held me tight. “I was afraid he’d find out about you, threaten you. So I led him away.” He kissed my temple. “We’ll have another proposal ceremony, I promise.” I remained still, my fingers tracing the scar on his hand. “I saw one just like this today…” He immediately pulled his sleeve down, covering the mark, and changed the subject. “You’re on your period. You shouldn’t be getting your hands in cold water. I’ll wash your underwear for you.” I leaned back on the sofa, my heart a hollow drum, and mindlessly scrolled through short videos on my phone. Suddenly, I landed on the campus confession page for my sister’s university. I tapped on it out of curiosity. I saw that the page was obsessed with a specific couple, secretly documenting their moments. I chuckled at the blogger’s sneaky devotion to her ‘ship.’ Then I saw a video where the girl was wearing a dress identical to Rory’s. It was a designer piece I had bought for her birthday, a gift that had cost me nearly a year’s savings. She had told me she adored it, that no one else at school would have anything like it. I stared at the screen, my finger hovering over the video, trembling slightly. I scrolled down. The blog had started shipping this couple three years ago. Three years ago? That was when Rory had just started college here. A chill spread through my entire body. I clicked on the very first video. Rory’s back was to the camera. She was calling out to a man, her voice sweet as honey. “Brother…” The camera angle shifted. The man’s face wasn’t visible, but the hand that reached out to cup her cheek was identical to Ash’s. Even the scar—its position, its size—was exactly the same. In the next few videos, the girl’s face was never shown. But the moment I heard her voice, a roar filled my ears, and my breath caught in my throat. The comment section was a frenzy of excitement. “OMG, you can just tell from her voice she’s gorgeous!” “I’m so jealous of the OP, getting to see this up close every day!” The account owner replied: “She’s my roommate! They’re so in love, but the guy is trapped by some other woman who he’s indebted to for saving his life. She’s demanding he marry her.” “I’ve had to wipe her tears so many times. I swear, I want to kill that bitch myself!” Tears blurred my vision completely. I swiped to the next video. The date stamp was the day of my fifth anniversary with Ash. Rory was passed out drunk at a karaoke bar. A moment later, a man burst into the frame, his movements frantic as he gathered her into his arms. After checking that she was okay, he pressed her down onto the sofa, his anger melting into a series of desperate, punishing kisses. Finally, he lifted her into his arms, his breath ragged. Before he left, he shot a warning glare at the camera, and the screen went black. Staring at the final, familiar half-profile of his face, I felt a profound and bottomless despair. The caption read: “Risking my life for this content. Guess if my OTP finally went all the way tonight!” The comments flooded in: “I’ll bet you a bag of chips they did!” “Isn’t it obvious?!” The last video was the one with the highest view count. It was a video of the two of them kissing on the Concord Bridge. The date was today. The day Ash was supposed to propose to me. The Concord Bridge was the highest bridge in the city, the most popular spot for couples. I had asked Ash so many times to go there with me. I’d told him we didn’t even have to go onto the bridge itself, knowing he was afraid of heights. Every single time, without exception, he had refused. The reason was always the same: it was for my own good, for my safety. It turned out he had already done it. With another woman—my own sister. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t go. It was that he wouldn’t go with me. I collapsed onto the floor. My heart felt like it was being slowly, methodically flayed by a dull knife, the pain so intense it made me tremble. Just then, a street sweeper passed by outside. I was too close to the roll-up door and didn’t have time to move. A spray of filthy water drenched me. Looking at the grime staining my clothes, my stomach churned violently. I scrambled to the bathroom and threw up until I was dizzy and empty.

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My brother and the fifty-something man from next door were in the middle of it when I walked in. My mother completely lost it. She broke a chair over the old man’s groin, permanently ending his fun. And for that, my brother hated me. He drugged me, stuffed me in a sack, and left me at an abandoned construction site to be used and discarded by strangers. I died. Then I opened my eyes. I was back on that same day, right before I opened the door to my brother’s room. This time, I quietly turned the lock. Let them have their fun. 01 “Ugh… Are you sure it won’t hurt? Be gentle… I’ve… I’ve never done this before…” Hearing my brother’s voice from behind the door, I realized I was back. Reborn. In my last life, it was this same sweltering afternoon. I was taking out the trash when I heard strange noises coming from my brother’s room. On a whim, I crept closer. The door wasn’t fully closed. Through the crack, I saw my brother, pinned to the bed by Mr. Henderson from next door. They were in a… complicated position. A rush of blood went to my head. I thought my brother was being assaulted. Mr. Henderson was my dad’s best friend of over twenty years, for god’s sake. I screamed and threw the door open. My mother heard the commotion and came running. The sight made her snap. She grabbed a wooden stool and brought it down on Mr. Henderson, again and again. In a symphony of screams, his future as a man was destroyed. And my nightmare began. My mother blamed me for everything. “If you’d kept a better eye on your brother, this pervert would have never gotten to him!” They pulled me out of school and made me go with my brother to therapy. With professional help, he eventually started showing interest in girls again. Everything seemed to be back on track. But my brother never forgave me. He put something in my drink, stuffed me in a burlap sack, and dumped me at an abandoned construction site. That day, my fingernails were torn from their beds. I heard the sickening crack of my own bones. Fists, cigarette butts, beer bottles… I was a broken doll, torn apart again and again. I died in agony. As my consciousness faded, I saw my brother standing a short distance away, recording it all on his phone. “You bitch,” he sneered. “You ruined my life. You deserve this.” After I died, my mother shed a few tears. Then she sighed. “You were always unlucky, sweetie. I’ve already lost you. I can’t lose your brother, too.” Because I had died a “dirty” death, a disgrace to the family name, I wasn’t even allowed to be buried in the family plot. My mother sold my body for a pittance to be the “ghost bride” for some old bachelor who had died young. She used the money to bribe a third-rate college to accept my brother. “Oh… Mr. Henderson…” “Relax, kiddo. Just let it happen. I promise you’ll love it…” The grotesque sounds from the room pulled me back to the present. I crept forward and quietly, firmly, locked the door. This time, let him have all the fun he wants. 02 The second I walked back in the house, my mother grabbed my ear and twisted, her voice a sharp hiss. “Where the hell have you been, you useless girl? Taking out the trash isn’t an all-day affair! Always looking for a way to slack off!” Her eyes were filled with impatience. “What are you standing there for?” She gave me a hard shove. “Go make dinner! Your brother is a growing boy. If he goes hungry, I’ll skin you alive!” On the couch, my dad sat with his feet up, smoking. As I passed, he blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “Told you girls don’t need an education,” he drawled. “Fills their heads with nonsense. My buddy Rick’s daughter, she dropped out of middle school to work in a factory. Sends her old man three hundred bucks a month, regular as clockwork. Rick just found her a husband, too. Guy paid twenty grand for the dowry!” I tuned him out and went into the kitchen. On the cutting board was a mountain of fiery habanero peppers. My brother loved spicy food. I was severely allergic. Even a drop of the juice would make my skin break out in painful, blistering welts. But in this house, for as long as I could remember, there was never a single dish on the table I could eat. I’d tried to protest once. My mother had just scoffed. “Allergic? You’re just being dramatic. Fine, don’t eat. You’re fat as a pig anyway.” I looked down at my arms. My wrist bones jutted out, sharp and skeletal. I was five-foot-one and weighed ninety pounds. I thought about what I had just seen. Mr. Henderson was a gym teacher, all muscle and sinew. My brother’s frail frame… His first time was probably not going to be a gentle experience. Tearing was a definite possibility. A wicked idea began to bloom in my mind. A slow, cruel smile spread across my face. So, you like it spicy, do you, dear brother? Well, tonight, your big sister is going to treat you. You’ll eat until you’re full, until it hurts, until you never forget it. I turned on the faucet, the water rushing. I pulled on a pair of gloves and grabbed a handful of peppers, three times the usual amount. The sharp, acrid smell filled the kitchen. 03 This time, since they weren’t interrupted, my brother didn’t get home until seven. The whole family was already at the table, waiting for him. He was walking strangely, his legs held stiffly apart, each step a pained, awkward shuffle. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead. The moment my mother saw him, she shot out of her chair, her face a mask of concern. “Honey! What’s wrong? What happened?” “N-nothing…” my brother stammered, waving a weak hand. “I just… I fell.” “You fell?” My mother’s voice shot up an octave. “Where did you fall? Let me see! Is it bad?” She reached for his waistband, ready to inspect him right there. My brother flinched back in horror. The sudden movement clearly sent a jolt of pain through him. He sucked in a sharp breath, the sweat on his forehead beading up. He was mortified, and his voice was practically a shout. “Mom! I’m not a kid anymore! Stop trying to pull my pants down all the time!” My mother froze, then replied, bewildered. “You’ll always be my baby! There isn’t a part of you I haven’t seen! Now let me look, or I’ll worry myself sick!” Trapped, my brother had no choice but to pretend he was fine. “I’m really okay, Mom! It doesn’t hurt anymore!” “Really?” she asked, her eyes still glued to his rear end. “Really! Look!” To prove his point, he clenched his jaw and managed a couple of small, stiff hops. With each landing, his face twitched uncontrollably. He quickly changed the subject. “I’m starving, Mom! Can we eat now?” The word “starving” was the magic password. My mother’s attention immediately shifted. “Yes, yes, of course! We can’t let my baby boy go hungry!” She bustled him to the table and pushed him down onto a hard wooden chair. I watched, impassive, as his body went rigid the moment he made contact with the seat. He subtly shifted his weight, perching precariously on the very edge of the chair, most of his weight supported by his legs. My mother, oblivious, was already piling food onto his plate. “Here, honey, your favorite spicy chicken gizzards! I told your sister to add extra peppers, just for you! And the fried intestines! Eat up! Everything is extra hot and spicy tonight!” My brother stared at the volcanic mound of food on his plate, his hand trembling as he picked up his fork. He slowly, painfully, brought a bite to his mouth. With every swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbed in agony. The sweat never stopped trickling down his face. But the slower he ate, the more my mother piled on. “What’s wrong, sweetie? You don’t like it? Is it where you fell? Does it hurt?” He could only shake his head, forcing out a muffled “I’m fine” before shoveling another fiery mouthful into his mouth. I sat quietly across the table, eating my plain boiled vegetables, hiding my smile behind my bowl. 04 That night, just as I finished the dishes, there was a knock at the door. It was a delivery. Curious, I opened the package. The contents were… educational. A tube of ointment for treating tears and abrasions. A bottle of personal lubricant. And a small, uniquely shaped toy. The note read: “Loosen up. It won’t hurt so much next time.” Mr. Henderson was so thoughtful. I had just put everything back in the bag when my brother shuffled out of his room, clutching his backside. He glared at me. “Emily! Who said you could touch my stuff? Keep your grubby hands to yourself!” He snatched the bag and limped back to his room, slamming the door. I have to say, the ointment worked wonders. The pain subsided quickly. Now, my brother heads next door every day, claiming he’s “working on his core” with Mr. Henderson. My parents, unbelievably, bought it. My mother even started making him special “strengthening” soups when she noticed the faint red marks on his neck. This went on for almost a month before my mother finally got suspicious. Deep in the back of the bathroom cabinet, she found the half-empty bottle of lube and the toy, still sticky with a faint yellowish residue. She exploded. 05 “Emily!” My mother stormed into my room and slapped me across the face. My ears rang, my vision swam. When I could finally focus again, I looked up at her, my eyes stinging. “Mom, what did I do now?” “Don’t play dumb with me!” she shrieked, her body trembling with rage. She threw the items at my face, her disgust absolute. “You disgusting slut! How dare you buy this filth and hide it in my house! Tell me! How many boys have you been with? I knew I should have smothered you in your crib!” Right. My birth. She just had to bring that up. When she was pregnant with me, all the signs pointed to a boy. She was ecstatic. Then I came out, a girl. Her first instinct was to abandon me at the hospital. It was my grandmother who stopped her, claiming a fortune teller had said I was a “brother-bringer,” that having a daughter first would ensure a son would follow to be cared for. That’s the only reason I’m here. And sure enough, a year later, my brother, Evan, was born. From that moment on, my only purpose in life was to take care of him. My mother even made me start school a year late so we would be in the same grade, so I could look after him. I got the highest score in the city on the high school entrance exam, but I had to go to a private school. The principal had promised that if I enrolled, they would accept my brother, despite his abysmal grades. And for that, I was grateful. If I hadn’t been useful in that way, I probably would have been forced to drop out and get a job. I stared at her, my voice hard. “Mom. That’s not mine.” Her face turned purple with rage. She raised her hand to hit me again. “Only girls use this stuff! If it’s not yours, is it mine? You’re still going to lie when the evidence is right here? I’ll beat the truth out of you, you little whore!” This time, I dodged it. Her hand froze in mid-air, her face a picture of shock. It was the first time I had ever defied her. In the past, the slightest hint of rebellion would be met with the threat of being pulled out of school. And for the chance to escape this house one day, I had endured it. For years. But I’ve already died once. What was there left to be afraid of? I met her stunned gaze, my voice steady. “I said it’s not mine. There are other people in this house. Why am I the first one you suspect? And…” I glanced at the items in her hand, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “do you really think I could afford to buy this?” 06 In this house, my brother’s daily allowance was five dollars. Mine was five dollars a month. We weren’t allowed to have leftovers. To save money, I skipped breakfast, chugging water to quell the dizziness from hunger. I used the cheapest, no-name brand tampons, carefully rationing each one. I’d thought about collecting cans after school, but between the endless chores and tutoring my brother, there was barely enough time to sleep. And still, my mother called me an “ungrateful brat.” That lube and toy didn’t look cheap. It would probably take me a year to save up enough to buy them. Her expression shifted. She knew I was right. Her eyes darted around as a new, horrifying thought occurred to her. “That bastard, John!” she snarled. “He’s been bringing his cheap whores into my house! I’ll kill them both!” She stormed into the kitchen. I followed silently. She rummaged through the junk drawer until she found a tube of industrial-strength superglue. She swapped the lube for the glue. Then, she took a habanero pepper from the fridge and meticulously coated the toy, inside and out, a cruel smile on her face. “You wanna mess with my husband, you little tramp? I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” She put the items back in their hiding place. When she turned and saw me, she pointed a finger in my face. “If you breathe a word of this to your father, I’ll rip your tongue out and throw you out on the street! Do you hear me?” I nodded obediently. “Don’t worry, Mom. My lips are sealed.” Oh, dear mother. I can’t wait to see the look on your face when you realize you’re the one who just destroyed your precious son. 07 My brother came back from next door, smelling of sweat and something else I didn’t want to identify. But this time, Mr. Henderson was with him. “Hey, Sarah,” he said to my mom with a folksy grin. “Sorry to bother you so late. My power’s out. The repairman can’t come ’til morning.” My mother was all hospitality. “Don’t be a stranger, David! Evan’s been doing so well since he started training with you. He looks stronger, taller even. You’re staying here tonight! Emily!” she barked at me, “you’re sleeping on the couch. Get your room ready for your uncle.” Before I could say anything, Mr. Henderson jumped in. “Oh no, Sarah, don’t trouble the girl. It’s not right.” He slung an arm around my brother’s shoulders. “I’ll just bunk with Evan. We can talk strategy before bed, right, sport?” My brother’s face turned beet red. “Yeah, Mom,” he mumbled. “Let Uncle David stay with me. Don’t make Sis sleep on the couch.” My mother saw nothing wrong with this. “Alright then! That’s settled. Come on, sit down, dinner’s ready.” She turned and saw me still standing there, and her good mood vanished. She pinched my arm, hard. “Emily! What are you waiting for? Get your uncle a plate!” I bit back a cry of pain and went to the kitchen. When I came back, the scene under the table was… illuminating. Mr. Henderson’s foot was rubbing against my brother’s calf, slowly, inch by inch, making its way up his pant leg. My brother was rigid, his ears bright red, his head bowed low over his plate. Mr. Henderson’s toes finally reached their destination. “Ah!” My brother shot up from his chair. “Honey! What’s wrong?” my mother asked, alarmed. “N-nothing!” he stammered. “Just… just a leg cramp!” Mr. Henderson smoothly retracted his foot. “Don’t worry, Sarah. Probably just overdid it with the core exercises this afternoon. I’ll give him a good stretch and massage in the room later. That’ll fix him right up.” My mother was overjoyed. “Oh, David, you’re too good to him! You take better care of him than I do!” Mr. Henderson shot a meaningful look at my blushing brother. “Well, Sarah, Evan’s like a… son to me. Who else am I going to spoil?” My mother just beamed and put another chicken leg on my brother’s plate. “Eat up, sweetie! You need your strength!” Then she tossed the greasy chicken skin into my bowl. “What are you staring at? Eat! And then go clean up your brother’s room.” I picked up my chopsticks and started eating, a small smile playing on my lips. Tonight was going to be a long night. 08 In the middle of the night, a bloodcurdling scream echoed from my brother’s room.

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My childhood sweetheart got into a car accident and lost his memory. He was stuck at eighteen. He complained that I’d aged ten years overnight and insisted on a divorce. The joke was on him. I had just time-traveled from ten years in the past. To me, he was the old man. At first, I thought he’d traveled back in time with me and was just pretending to have amnesia. Then I overheard him talking to a friend. “Amnesia? Nah, I’m faking it.” “The wife’s been a little overbearing lately. A little divorce drama will give us some space to cool off.” “Relax. She’s so in love with me, she’d never actually go through with it.” I didn’t say a word. I just quietly watched him sign the divorce papers. The moment the mandatory cooling-off period was over, I pushed his wheelchair right up to the doors of the city courthouse. As he stared at me, dumbfounded, I planted my hands on my hips. “We are getting this divorce today!” 1 I’d been in this timeline for two days when Barry Pierce, my husband, got into a car crash and conveniently lost his memory. His mind was stuck at eighteen—the year he found me most annoying. The first time I walked into his hospital room, our eyes met. The first words out of his mouth were: “I want a divorce.” He scowled. “You were annoying enough back then. Now that you’re ten years older, you’re even worse.” A hot sting burned behind my eyes. He really did sound like the eighteen-year-old Barry. Just as cruel, just as thoughtless. Staring at this familiar yet foreign man, I remembered my sister’s words from earlier. She’d urged me not to make any rash decisions, to think about my future. She reminded me of how Barry had spent ten years chasing me, just for the chance to marry me. All those beautiful memories we were supposed to have. But I wasn’t that woman. The seventeen-year-old me, the one without a decade of shared history with him, could walk away without a second thought. But what would happen to the twenty-seven-year-old me when—or if—she ever came back? I didn’t argue with the man screaming for a divorce. I just turned, my eyes blurring with tears, and left. I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting alone in the hospital garden. Everything here felt alien. Everyone I knew had changed so much. If only the eighteen-year-old Barry had time-traveled with me… I shot to my feet. Of course! What if he did come with me? How else could you explain the sheer coincidence of his memory stopping exactly at eighteen? The thought sent a jolt of desperate hope through me, and I raced back to the hospital wing, my heart pounding. As I approached his room, I hesitated. If we recognized each other, what would he say? Knowing his arrogant personality, he’d probably complain about his broken leg and demand I wait on him hand and foot. A wicked smile touched my lips. If he was really incapacitated, this was my golden opportunity to get back at him for all the times he’d tormented me, knowing full well I had a crush on him. When I reached his floor, I saw that the hallway outside his room was overflowing with flower arrangements. As I got closer, I could hear a lively mix of male and female voices from inside. I peeked through the doorway. The people inside all looked older than me; I didn’t recognize a single one. I felt a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach. After a moment, I took a deep breath, summoned my courage, and looked inside again. That’s when I saw him. Barry was propped up in bed, letting a young woman feed him peeled grapes. They looked… intimate. 2 Barry seemed to be in high spirits. A crowd of people surrounded his bed, all clamoring for his attention. “Jules, you’re always such a careful driver. How did you manage to total the car?” one of them asked. Barry opened his mouth for another grape, his uninjured hand casually tracing patterns on the back of the woman beside him. “You’ll get it,” he said with a meaningful smirk, “when you have a girl like this in your passenger seat.” The room erupted in knowing laughter and suggestive hoots. “I heard the girl was disfigured,” Barry added, his tone nonchalant. “A real shame.” He said it with a shrug, but there wasn’t an ounce of regret on his face. The others, used to his callousness, changed the subject. “So, what’s this about you losing your memory?” A smug grin spread across Barry’s face. “Amnesia?” he scoffed. “Nah, I’m faking it.” “The wife’s been on my case lately,” he continued, his voice dripping with condescension. “A little divorce drama will give us some space to cool off.” His friends roared with laughter, praising his performance. They’d almost fallen for it. But standing in the doorway, a chill seeped into my bones. How could this be? How could the Barry I knew have turned into such a despicable, cheating scumbag? Or… was this who he’d been all along? And I had actually, genuinely, loved him. He was disgusting. I didn’t want to love him anymore. I wiped away a tear and turned to leave, my heart a hollow ache in my chest. I walked straight into someone. It was Carter Evans. He was Barry’s arch-rival in high school, a guy known for being reserved and aloof. I glanced at the fruit basket in his hands; he must have been here to see Barry, too. Carter steadied me, then immediately let go. He was even colder than I remembered. Just a few days ago, in my timeline, he had been helping me study for our final exams. Now, he was a sophisticated, polished man in a tailored suit. I didn’t know what to say. I managed a tight smile and started to walk away. But he fell into step beside me. His dark eyes were unreadable. “Need a hand?” he asked casually. I looked at him, confused. He raised an eyebrow, gesturing with the legal file he was holding. “I can help you,” he clarified. “With the divorce.” 3 Carter Evans was, without a doubt, a legal prodigy. Within a few days, he had the divorce agreement drafted. He walked me through the process, explaining all the steps. I had no idea getting divorced ten years in the future was so complicated. There was even a mandatory “cooling-off period.” Carter was incredibly professional, reminding me several times to contact him on WhatsApp if anything came up. But I wasn’t used to WhatsApp. As I was leaving his office, I asked him sheepishly, “Can we… use Discord instead?” Carter froze. He gave me a long, searching look, then nodded slowly. “Whatever works for you,” he said, his voice low. I beamed, relieved. Clutching the papers, I waved enthusiastically as I left. “This is great, Carter! Thanks again! Bye!” He gave a small, formal nod and escorted me to the elevator like a perfect gentleman. It wasn’t until the doors opened on the ground floor that he spoke again, his voice quiet and thoughtful. “I haven’t seen you in a dress in years. Why the sudden change?” The question hit me like a physical blow. “Years?!” I blurted out. Good heavens, what kind of life had I been living? I looked down at my own outfit—a delicate, lace-trimmed sundress that screamed “first love.” I looked back at Carter, genuinely puzzled. “I just thought it looked nice. What’s wrong with it?” Carter didn’t say another word, just silently saw me out of the building. 4 Back at home that night, I started going through the divorce agreement. Carter had told me to pay close attention to the division of assets and let him know if anything was missing. Even with the papers in my hand, I felt a flicker of hesitation. Was it fair for me to make this decision for my twenty-seven-year-old self? I mulled it over for a long time but came to no conclusion. The only thing I knew for sure was that, right now, I was on top of the world. No final exams, no school, and I’d painlessly skipped ten years of my life to become… A soon-to-be divorced, incredibly wealthy woman. I counted the string of zeros on the asset list five times. There were so many. My older self and Barry had accumulated a staggering amount of wealth together. I immediately pulled out my phone and ordered the entire new Apple ecosystem—phone, watch, laptop, the works. It was late by the time I finished reading the thick stack of documents. After taking inventory, I realized the agreement didn’t specify who would get the condo I was currently living in. I pinged Carter on Discord to ask him about it. He replied almost instantly. See if you can find the deed. If not, I’ll run a property search. It’s late. You should get some sleep. Don’t worry. Leave the rest to me. Carter was just as reliable as I remembered—quietly competent, always getting things done. His message was a small comfort. Confirmed: Carter, you are officially the most dependable person on the planet. A moment later, three dots appeared, followed by a new message. …That’s a little cheesy, but I’ll take it. I giggled and rolled around on the bed, phone in hand. Then, out of habit, I opened my private blog. First step of the divorce: get rid of the “couples” theme I shared with Barry. But when I logged in, I found the blog was already wiped clean. 5 I don’t know when the “couples” theme was removed. The blog was now starkly empty, save for four private, self-visible posts. The earliest was from six months ago: So tired. So broken. Marriage has changed Barry into someone I don’t even recognize. The second post was four months after that. It was a photo taken from the back seat of a car, showing Barry at the wheel. In the passenger seat was a young woman, her profile uncannily similar to my own. The caption was long: Barry has been so much better lately. He’s been attentive, clingy… it almost feels like we’re dating again. He’s picked me up for a date three days in a row. Today, I had a sudden craving for hot pot and decided to surprise him at his office. When I popped up behind his car, he jumped. He seemed angry. “What are you doing here?” he snapped. I told him I missed him and started to open the passenger door. He stopped me. “Don’t sit there. It’s dangerous. Get in the back.” I just said “oh” and closed the door, my heart sinking as I got in the back. He must have forgotten that I get carsick and always have to sit in the front. For a long time after I got in, he didn’t say a word. He didn’t start the car. He just sat there, head down, texting. My good mood completely evaporated. When he finally finished, he turned to me, frowning, and asked where I wanted to go. He didn’t seem happy either. I’d lost my appetite and was about to ask him to just take me home. But then the passenger door swung open. A young woman slid into the seat. “Let’s get hot pot today, babe!” she said, her tone familiar, almost intimate. I don’t know why, but I took this picture from the back seat. Maybe because in that moment, seeing her, I was thrown back in time, to when I was her age, calling Barry “babe” just as sweetly. The third post was from just a few days later. The image was a photo of a phone screen, showing a text exchange. The other person: Is your wife mad? Barry: She won’t stop crying. I don’t even want to deal with it. She wasn’t like this before. Barry: Women are so much trouble. Married women are the worst. Barry: Be more careful next time. Don’t let her see us together. The other person: Okay, Mr. Pierce. Barry sent a winking emoji. Not “babe” anymore? Barry: I only fast-tracked your hiring because you look so much like my wife did when she was younger. Barry: Don’t be nervous. I just think of you as a little sister. Barry: I’ll take you for a drive sometime soon. Reading this, I suddenly remembered the scene in the hospital, when Barry was talking about “cooling off” with a divorce. The girl by his side had looked intrigued. “Are you really planning to divorce her, Mr. Pierce?” she’d asked tentatively. “You want to take her place?” Barry had sneered, grabbing her chin, his eyes cold and cruel. “You look a little like her, sure. But who the hell do you think you are? You’re not worthy.” He shoved her face away. The room fell silent. Barry’s voice dropped to a menacing growl. “That’s my wife. The one I chased for ten years. You think I’d ever really let her go? I’m just scaring her a little. She’s so in love with me, she’d never agree.” … My gaze returned to the phone screen. There was only one post left. It was dated the day before my arrival in this timeline. Exactly six months after the first post. This time, the picture was of an open safe. Inside, two marriage certificates lay side-by-side with a stack of property deeds. The caption was only four words: I want a divorce. 6 I was rummaging through the safe, searching for treasure, when Barry called. I couldn’t be bothered to answer. I silenced the call and ignored it. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang. I checked the security camera. It was one of the guys from Barry’s hospital room. I didn’t open the door. I spoke through the intercom. “What do you want?” It was the middle of the night. If I’d been asleep, I would have been furious. The guy on the screen looked awkward. “Uh, Mrs. Pierce… Barry is craving your corn chowder. He was hoping you could bring some to him tomorrow.” Corn chowder was one of the few things I knew how to make, and I made it well. I snorted. “He’s got some nerve. We’re getting a divorce and he still expects me to wait on him? Tell him to get lost.” The guy’s face fell. He started to say something else, but I cut him off, my voice sharp. “Are you deaf? I said he can get lost. That goes for you too!” For the next few days, I holed up at home, preparing the divorce documents. Once the agreement was finalized, I had Carter submit it to the court to start the cooling-off period. Then, I took a copy of the agreement and went to see Barry. He’d been stewing over my recent cold shoulder and was already in a foul mood. The second he saw me, his face soured. “Old woman! Who let you in? We’re getting a divorce, what are you doing here?” The other people in the room tried to play peacemaker. “Mrs. Pierce, don’t be mad. Barry’s lost his memory, he’s basically a kid right now. Just say something nice, humor him a little.” I crossed my arms, staring at Barry without a word. Men are boys until they die, huh? Why was everyone telling me not to be angry? Why wasn’t anyone telling him to stop being an ass? “Did I cause his amnesia?” I said, my voice dripping with ice. “Is it my fault he was driving like an idiot and broke his own arms and legs? He’s a child? What am I, then? Am I not my parents’ child? Barry, you wanted a divorce? Fine. You’ve got it.” I threw the prepared agreement onto his lap. “Sign it.” No one had expected this. Barry, especially, looked at me with utter disbelief. “Stella, you want to divorce me?! We’ve only been married for six months! Are you cheating on me? Who is he?” He gritted his teeth, his eyes boring into me. “Don’t you dare tell me it’s Carter Evans.” “Barry,” I said calmly, “you remember we’ve only been married six months? Did you get your memory back?” 7 My question left him speechless. It took him a moment to stammer out a reply. “They… they told me.” He clutched the papers, his knuckles white, his eyes locked on mine. “They also told me I was famous for being a devoted husband. That it took me ten years to win you over. I might not remember that, but you should. Are you really this desperate to leave me?” I was done arguing. I snatched the papers back from him. A wave of relief washed over Barry’s face, but he quickly covered it with a defiant sneer. “Hey, what are you doing? I thought you wanted me to sign.” I didn’t say a word. I flipped to the signature page, placed it in front of him, and handed him a pen. I tapped the line. “Sign.” His face darkened. He snatched the agreement, hopped over to the window on his good leg, and threw the papers out. He shoved away a friend who tried to help him, standing stubbornly before me. “You think I’ll divorce you just because you say so, Stella? Fat chance! You want a divorce? Maybe in your next life!” I sighed, a little exasperated. Then I reached into my bag and pulled out another copy. Before he could protest, I spoke, my voice low and soothing. “Barry, your memory is stuck at eighteen. It’s not fair to you to be tied to me like this. But if you never get your memory back, it’s not fair to me, either. Your friends are here today as witnesses. This agreement is a promise. I’ll give you one month. If you’re still like this in a month, we get the divorce. Of course,” I added, “if you get your memory back, we can talk then.” I didn’t know the twenty-eight-year-old Barry, but I knew the eighteen-year-old one. He was stubborn and rebellious. The only way to handle him was to stroke his ego and humor him. His anger visibly subsided. I watched quietly as he signed the document without even reading it. He then tossed it back at me. “Fine. Who needs you anyway.” I tucked the agreement safely away. Then I looked at him, my eyes pleading. “Barry, I hope you get your memory back soon. There’s so much I want to tell you.” The moment I turned my back, the mask of vulnerability dropped from my face. I walked out, my expression a cold, hard blank. After all, he was unfaithful. And for that, there would be a reckoning. 8 After I left, Barry flew into a rage, smashing everything he could reach in his room. “What the hell is her problem?! We just got married and she wants a divorce?” His remaining friends didn’t dare try to calm him down, fearing they’d become the next target of his fury. In the days that followed, Barry realized I was serious about ignoring him. Panic started to set in. “Do you think… do you think my wife is really angry? Was faking amnesia a mistake?” he asked them, his voice laced with uncertainty. His friends just exchanged nervous glances, unwilling to offer an opinion. But Barry’s arrogance was his default setting. He quickly recovered, blaming everyone but himself. “I get it,” he sneered. “She’s playing hard to get. Trying to use a divorce to control me. Whose idea was that? I almost fell for it. And she probably never imagined I’d actually sign the papers. I bet she’s at home crying her eyes out right now.” With that, he ordered them to arrange for his discharge from the hospital. He pointed at one of his friends. “You. Drive me home.”

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It was my best friend Lauren’s birthday. She posted a carousel of nine perfect Live Photos on her Instagram story. I smiled, tapping through them one by one, until I reached the last one. The frame was shaky, but the background was crystal clear. I heard my husband’s voice, warm and intimate. “Honey, it’s your turn to wash up—” My thumb, hovering over the heart icon, froze mid-air. A cold dread washed over me. Mark’s “Good morning” text from this morning had a location tag clear as day: Boston, a thousand miles away. But his voice, right now, was echoing from a hotel room in Miami. I stared at Lauren’s beaming face on the screen, a pit opening in my stomach. Without a second’s hesitation, I closed Instagram and booked the next flight to Miami. I had to see it with my own eyes— Why the man who was supposedly on a business trip to Boston was whispering sweet nothings in a hotel room in Miami. 1 The three-and-a-half-hour flight was a slow, cold torture, every minute a new incision into my heart. I sat by the window, watching the glittering lights of Miami spread out below me like a blanket of broken glass. My heart felt nothing, only a numb, steely resolve. The taxi took me straight to their hotel. The Onyx. A high-end place known for its discretion. I stood in the lobby, the cavernous, early-morning silence a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. As expected, the front desk clerk cited guest privacy and refused to give me any information, even barring me from going upstairs. So I called Mark directly. It rang for a while before he picked up. “Hello? Lily? Hey, why are you still up so late?” His voice was thick with sleep, a flawless performance of a man woken from a deep slumber. “Where are you?” My own voice was so calm it scared me. “In my hotel in Boston, of course. Just finished a marathon meeting. I’m exhausted, was about to pass out,” he said, punctuating it with a yawn. “Is that so? Why don’t you walk over to the window, take a picture of the Boston night skyline for me?” I said, my eyes fixed on the lobby clock. The line went silent. I could only hear the faint crackle of static. A few seconds later, his voice returned, laced with irritation. “What’s gotten into you? It’s the middle of the night. The curtains are drawn, I’m already in bed.” I was done playing games. “I’m in Miami. In the lobby of The Onyx Hotel. Are you coming down, or am I coming up?” “…” A long, dead silence, then the abrupt beep of a disconnected call. Ten minutes later, Mark appeared in the lobby, dressed in a hotel robe, his hair a mess. “Lillian! Are you insane? What the hell are you doing in Miami in the middle of the night?!” His face was a mask of fury. He lunged first, grabbing my arm, his grip bruising. I wrenched my arm free, my gaze like a blade. “And you? Weren’t you in Boston?” “I… something came up last minute. I had to fly to Miami to handle it. I didn’t have a chance to tell you yet.” His eyes darted around, avoiding mine. “Handle what? With my best friend? In a hotel room?” I pushed past him, heading straight for the elevators. “What’s the room number? I want to see just how you two were ‘handling’ things.” Panic flashed across Mark’s face. He grabbed me again, his voice a harsh whisper. “Stop making a scene! It’s not what you think!” “Lauren was here on a business trip too, and she got her wallet and ID stolen! She couldn’t get a room! I was just helping her out, for your sake! I let her crash in the living room of my suite for one night! Nothing happened between us!” “‘Nothing happened?’” I nearly laughed out loud. “So that ‘honey’ I heard was just part of your purely platonic friendship?” His face went pale. He was speechless. Just then, Lauren herself came down, also in a hotel robe, her hair still damp. Her expression was a perfect picture of panic and hurt. “Lily, what are you doing here? Please don’t misunderstand! I just lost all my things, Mark was kind enough to help me… I swear, nothing happened!” She reached for my hand, but I recoiled as if from a snake. Ignoring their frantic explanations, I forced my way into an elevator. I knew Mark’s habits. I pressed the button for the top floor, the penthouse level. They scrambled in after me, trying to block my way, but the doors slid shut before they could stop me. The suite door was ajar. As soon as I stepped inside, the lingering scent of Lauren’s signature perfume hit me. The living room looked tidy at a glance, but a single one of Lauren’s earrings glinted from the deep cushions of the sofa. The bedroom door was closed, but my eyes caught a tiny sliver of lace—a woman’s underwear—pinched beneath it. On the floor, Mark’s suit jacket and her silk scarf were tangled together in a heap. Just as I took it all in, Mark and Lauren finally caught up, breathless. “Lillian! What the hell do you want?!” Mark was cornered, his voice bordering on hysterical. I pointed at the bedroom door, my voice ice. “Open it.” “Lillian, that’s enough! Don’t you dare push your luck!” Mark’s mask of civility finally shattered. He shouted, trying to intimidate me. “I work my ass off to provide for us, and this is how you repay me? With insane jealousy and paranoia? Coming here to humiliate me? Look at you! You’re acting like a damn shrew!” Lauren, on cue, began to sob as if she were the one who had been wronged. “Lily, after all our years of friendship, how could you not trust me… If I had known this would happen, I would have rather slept on the street than ask Mark for help…” I looked at this pair of master actors, my heart as cold as an Antarctic glacier. “Fine. You won’t open the door. Then I’ll have security pull the surveillance footage.” I turned to leave, but Mark lunged, grabbing my wrist so hard I stumbled. “You have no right! The hotel will never let you see it!” As if on cue, the hotel manager arrived, politely refusing my request. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We have a duty to protect the privacy of all our guests. We cannot release security footage.” Lauren lifted her eyes, casting a quick, triumphant glance in my direction. A flicker of mockery danced in her pupils. I clenched my fists, fury boiling inside me. I had been too impulsive, giving them the perfect chance to spin their lies. Just then, Mark pulled me into a sudden, forceful hug, his voice softening. “Lily, honey, please stop this, okay? Trust me, nothing happened. Let’s go home. We’ll go home, and I’ll explain everything, I promise.” His scent, once a comfort, was now mingled with Lauren’s perfume, turning my stomach. I shoved him away with all my strength. He staggered back, his eyes wide with shock and anger. “Trust you?” I let my gaze sweep over the tainted room, then settle on their two deceitful faces. “I only trust what I see and what I hear.” I knew I wouldn’t be able to expose them tonight. They had already constructed the perfect alibi. Back in New York. I didn’t waste any time. “Mark, I want a divorce.” He shot up from the couch as if he’d been electrocuted. “A divorce? Lillian, you want a divorce over some baseless suspicion? You’re being ridiculous! I’m telling you, I didn’t cheat! Not in a million years!” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving me alone in the vast, empty apartment. I looked around the home that once felt so warm, now every particle of air felt thick with betrayal. Once the initial rage subsided, I started to think. When did it start? About six months ago, I’d asked Mark to get Lauren a job at his company after she’d been laid off. After that, his business trips became more and more frequent. He changed his phone password. His touch became rare, always brushed off with a tired, “I’m exhausted.” With a detective’s focus, I began to hunt for clues in their digital lives. I created a burner account and scoured every one of Lauren’s social media profiles. And there it was, hidden in the details I’d missed. Three months ago, she posted a photo from the corner of a coffee shop with the caption, “Stealing a moment of peace.” In the reflection of the glass, I could see the blurry outline of a man’s watch. It was the limited-edition one I’d given Mark for his birthday. Two months ago, she showed off a new perfume, calling it her “secret weapon.” Around that same time, Mark had started carrying a similar faint scent. Even earlier, she’d posted a cryptic message: “Some people are destined to be your ruin.” And right there, underneath, was a ‘like’ from Mark—a notification I’d somehow never seen. Mark’s own feed was a carefully curated image of work and our life together, but it had holes. The location-tagged photos from his “Boston trips” often had background elements—the view from a window, a lamp on a desk—that were eerily similar to details in Lauren’s posts from the same period. They had been carrying on an affair right under everyone’s noses. I hired a private investigator and began systematically gathering evidence. At the same time, I started taking inventory of our assets. This sprawling downtown penthouse was bought and paid for in full by my parents before our wedding. My car was also a pre-nuptial asset. Mark came from a small town in the middle of nowhere, the textbook case of a man who’d married up. Most of the money he’d earned over the years had been sent back home to support his bottomless pit of a family—his lazy, entitled siblings. He had almost no savings to his name. Our joint expenses were mostly paid for with my secondary credit card. The reason he refused to divorce wasn’t love. It was the comfortable life and the social status I provided. A bitter smile touched my lips. Did he think he could use me as a stepping stone, bleed me dry to support his mistress? Not in his wildest dreams. I wanted a divorce. And I would make sure he left with nothing but the clothes on his back and a ruined name. Armed with evidence, I chose the most direct and satisfying path. I took the partially recovered chat logs and the side-by-side travel comparisons from the investigator and went straight to their office. In front of all their colleagues, I slapped the printouts onto Lauren’s desk. “Lauren, does it feel good? Climbing into my husband’s bed using the job I got for you?” The entire office fell silent. Every eye was on us. Lauren’s face turned white, but the tears came instantly, a well-rehearsed performance. She covered her face, her sobs dramatic and heart-wrenching. “Lily… Lillian! How could you say such things! You’re trying to ruin me! Mark and I are just colleagues! Just because you can’t keep his heart, you want to destroy us both? How could you be so cruel!” Mark rushed over, drawn by the commotion. When he saw the papers scattered on the floor, his face went dark. He lunged, grabbing my wrist with a force that felt like it could shatter bone. “Don’t listen to her! She’s a psycho! Completely paranoid! I’ve had enough of this! I work my ass off, and she sits at home inventing these fantasies, and now she has the nerve to cause a scene at my office! Security! Security! Get this crazy woman out of here!” he roared, for the whole office to hear. Whispers erupted around us. I saw pity in some eyes, but mostly, it was the thrill of office gossip. Someone even pointed at me, muttering the word “jealous.” I was “escorted” out by two security guards. Lauren followed me out, still sobbing. But once we were alone in a quiet corner of the hallway, the tears vanished. Her expression morphed into one of triumphant scorn. “Look at you, Lillian. So pathetic. Did you really think throwing a tantrum like this would make Mark come back to you? You’re wrong. All you did was push him further away.” “He stopped loving you a long time ago. He told me you’re like a block of wood in bed, that touching you makes his skin crawl. The person he loves is me!” Her words were needles dipped in poison, piercing me one by one. All the overlooked details suddenly snapped into focus—the increasing late nights at the office, the way he always slept with his back to me, the perfunctory kisses. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was disgust. Lauren turned and walked away, her head held high. I stood there, my body numb with cold, my heart burning. Just then, my phone rang. It was my lawyer. “Ms. Bright, everything is in place. The asset freeze has been executed, and the divorce settlement is drafted as per your instructions. After compensating for joint expenditures, the savings from his salary are negligible.” “Good.” I hung up, a grim satisfaction settling in. I straightened my clothes, which had been rumpled in the scuffle. I had expected to be thrown out today. All I wanted was to plant the seeds of gossip. Now, it was time to watch them grow. When I got home, Mark was already there, which was a surprise. He was slumped on the sofa, looking drained. When he saw me, his tone softened. He tried to take my hand. “Lily, about today… I was wrong. I shouldn’t have said those things. But you shouldn’t have come to the office. It was a huge mess.” “Here’s what we’ll do. You go and apologize to Lauren, and we’ll put this all behind us. I… I forgive you. We can go back to how things were, okay?” I thought I had misheard him. “You two have an affair, and you want me to apologize to her?” Panic flickered in his eyes, but he held his ground. “I told you! There was no affair! It was a misunderstanding!” “A misunderstanding?” I let out a cold laugh and pulled a USB drive from my purse. “Mark, did you really think I couldn’t get my hands on the real evidence? Money can make anything happen. Even hotel security footage.” I plugged the drive into the TV. The screen lit up with a high-definition video from the hotel corridor, timestamped on the night of Lauren’s birthday. It showed him and Lauren, wrapped in each other’s arms, stumbling out of the elevator. They were kissing feverishly before they even reached the door, his hands already sliding under her robe… The color drained from Mark’s face. His mouth hung open, but no words came out. I took out the divorce papers I had prepared and placed them gently on the coffee table in front of him. “Sign it.”

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The fourth year of my marriage to the bane of my existence. He gets into a car accident, and just like that, he has amnesia. His memory is stuck four years in the past, right before we got married. His eyes land on the wedding band on my finger, and a smirk plays on his lips. “Who’s the unfortunate soul who married you?” 1 I glance at the gauze wrapped around his head and think, Pal, if I told you that soul was you, I’m genuinely afraid you’d hemorrhage on the spot. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, keeping my voice light. “It’s not you.” “When did you get married?” “Four years ago.” “What did I do?” he presses. A saccharine smile spreads across my face. “You gave me a huge wedding gift. Incredibly generous.” He looks down, his brow furrowing. “That’s impossible.” For some reason, a flicker of melancholy crosses his handsome features. So, even with amnesia, he’s still impossible to fool. Given our history, there’s no way he would have given me a generous gift. He would have been more likely to spike the catering with laxatives, turning my wedding into the most humiliating spectacle in New York society. As he sits there, lost in his own confused thoughts, my hand moves faster than my brain. I reach out and pinch his cheek. “Come on. Let’s go home.” “Home?” His eyes suddenly brighten, as if he’s just seen a glimmer of hope. An idea, wicked and wonderful, begins to form in my mind. “Yes,” I say, my tone turning serious. “The Donovan family went bankrupt. Didn’t you know? You’re my manservant now.” The fragile composure of Nathan Donovan, which had been threatening to crack, finally shatters completely. I believe in thoroughness. I call our staff ahead of time to get them on board. I even clear it with his parents, framing it as a necessary deception to let Nathan rest and recover at home, free from the stress of his corporate responsibilities. So, as we’re in the car, he clings to one last shred of hope and calls his father to verify my story. The answer he receives is devastatingly simple. “Son, it’s true. We’re ruined.” He lowers the phone, his eyes rimmed with red. The golden boy of Manhattan, the heir to a dynasty, now reduced to a penniless nobody. After a long silence, he finally speaks, his voice low. “So… what exactly do I do at your house?” “Oh, lots of things,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “Laundry, cooking, serving tea… and you’ll be washing my feet.” He turns his head to stare out the window. The sharp, proud line of his jaw seems to soften in his despair, lending him a fragility that is almost poetic. Anyone seeing him now would sigh and say, “That poor, beautiful man.” Inside, I’m about to explode with glee, but I manage to keep a straight face. You have to understand, the normal Nathan Donovan is an arrogant, untouchable ice king. His life has been a gilded path, a non-stop highlight reel of success and privilege. He’s the kind of man who seems to generate his own lightning. I once joked that the only way I’d ever see Nathan Donovan get misty-eyed for me would be at my funeral. The comment got back to him, of course. He’d just smiled that infuriatingly charming smile of his and said, “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d only come to your funeral to set off fireworks.” And now, seeing him this fragile, this broken? It’s a hit of pure, unadulterated bliss. I spend the entire ride home fighting back a triumphant grin. 2 When we get home, I head straight to my study to deal with a mountain of paperwork. Later, when I walk into my bedroom, I stop dead. Nathan is standing there, a basin of… foot-washing water… at his feet. He’s just standing there, looking dazed. Then my eyes catch what he’s holding, and a silent alarm goes off in my head. It’s his pajama shirt. If there’s one thing you can say about him, it’s that he’s loyal to a fault. He’s been wearing that same damn pajama shirt since college, four years into our marriage. He turns to me, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. “You said you were married. Why are my things in your room?” I smile and walk toward him, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer. The tips of his ears turn a bright, tell-tale red. He averts his gaze, flustered. “What… what are you doing?” My fingertip traces a slow circle on his well-defined chest. “My husband,” I purr, “is always abroad. And you know… a woman gets lonely. I have certain… needs.” His eyes go wide with shock. “So… I’m your affair? Your other man?” “Or is ‘plaything’ more accurate?” I suggest, tilting my head. I open my mouth to say more, but I stop when I see his expression. He lowers his gaze, a shadow of despair coloring the corners of his eyes. His voice is barely a whisper. “Plaything… I can live with that.” For a second, watching him stand there so lost and pathetic, I feel a pang of guilt. Maybe I’ve taken this too far. This is Nathan Donovan, a man whose pride is his entire identity. Waking up to find he’s a bankrupt servant who’s also a part-time gigolo… could that be too much of a blow? But in the next instant, all my guilt evaporates as he pulls me into a fierce embrace. His mouth crashes down on mine, a kiss that is both brutal and utterly desperate, a conquest without mercy. 3 He may have lost his memory, but his skills in this department haven’t diminished one bit. He was in the hospital for two weeks, which means I’ve been celibate for two weeks. The moment his lips touch mine, it’s spontaneous combustion. We stumble, tangled together, onto the bed. He’s more ferocious than usual, his intensity pushing me to the edge until I’m begging for him to slow down. In the pale moonlight filtering through the window, his eyes are dark pools of raw desire and possession. He bites my earlobe, his voice a low growl. “Do you like this?” “Yes… just… gentler…” “Me or your husband. Who’s better?” “…” “Answer me.” “Ah…” He bites my neck, not hard, but enough to make me gasp, his movements becoming more urgent, demanding an answer. My mind is a hazy fog. It’s not that I don’t want to answer, it’s that I honestly don’t know how. “Why him? Why wasn’t it me?” That’s the last thing I hear before I drift off to sleep, the question hanging in the air as someone pulls me into a tight, possessive hold. Turning and curling into his arms has become a kind of instinct. I nuzzle against his chin and murmur, “Honey…” The body holding me goes completely, utterly still. The next morning, I wake up and instinctively reach for the person beside me. My hand finds only cold, empty sheets. I’m instantly awake, sitting bolt upright. My heart only settles when I look downstairs and see him, a whirlwind of activity around the dining table. Habit really is a terrifying thing. When I sit down to eat, Nathan and the rest of the staff stand to the side, waiting. I reach out and tug on his arm. “Aren’t you going to eat? You must be starving after last night.” The teasing words slip out effortlessly. He sits down, a slightly awkward expression on his face. Halfway through his meal, he asks, his voice laced with a pained sort of hesitation, “Your husband. Is it… Adam Bell?” I nearly spit out a mouthful of milk. I manage to swallow it down. Seeing him look so dejected, so utterly lost, it’s clear that Adam Bell still holds a significant place in his fractured memory. 4 Adam Bell was, for all intents and purposes, my first love. Back in college, he was a senior assigned to help with freshman orientation. He was the complete opposite of Nathan. Nathan was the boy my parents always used as a benchmark for my own achievements, the rival I’d been pitted against since we were kids. We’d had a massive fight over who got to play the emperor during a game of make-believe, and from that day on, we were sworn enemies. Unfortunately, our lives seemed to run on parallel tracks. We were always in each other’s orbit, competing over everything. I took up piano; his parents bought him a new Steinway. I started oil painting; he took up charcoal sketching. I said I wanted to go to Columbia; he said he could get into Yale. In the end, he scored thirty points higher than me on the SATs and ended up at the exact same university. I called him a ghost I couldn’t shake. He said it was just my bad luck. On campus, we finally went our separate ways. I was quickly swallowed by the anonymous crowds. One day, feeling adrift, I turned and saw him. Nathan’s height and striking features made him stand out like a lighthouse in a storm. I opened my mouth to call his name, but a girl with flushed cheeks beat me to it, shyly asking for his number. He looked down at her, the afternoon sun catching in his eyes, turning them gold. The word died in my throat. I turned away, never knowing if he gave her his number that day. And that was when I met Adam. He smiled at me, a gentle, warm smile. “Hey, freshman. What’s your major?” He was nothing like Nathan. I confessed my feelings for him after a club outing. We went to an amusement park, and I challenged him to an archery game at one of the stalls. They were giving away little stuffed animals as prizes. “I bet I can win more than you,” I declared. As night fell, the park lights softened everyone’s edges. The evening breeze rustled his hair. He just smiled. “You’re definitely going to win in the end.” “Why’s that?” “Because all of my prizes… are going to you.” I froze. It had never occurred to me that someone would so easily concede, just because they knew I wanted to win. That night, I told him how I felt. And he said yes. Adam was a wonderful boyfriend. He’d bring me breakfast, and he never showed up for a date without a bouquet of my favorite flowers. Even when his pre-med schedule had him practically living in the lab, he always found time to surprise me. If it weren’t for what happened later, perhaps Nathan and I would never have ended up together. Thinking of it now, I can’t help but glance at Nathan’s profile beside me. My silence is a form of confirmation. When I don’t deny it, Nathan lets out a quiet, defeated “Mm.” “I see,” he says. I’m so used to seeing him arrogant and defiant. This wounded, submissive version of him is making me soft. “Look, actually, you—” “I know,” he cuts me off, his voice flat. “I’m just the other man. I have no right to ask so many questions.” He turns his head ninety degrees to stare dramatically out the window, the picture of melancholic despair. 5 You have to hand it to Nathan; his ability to adapt is first-class. Barely a week after his name was mentioned, Adam Bell returned from abroad. He was leading a research team that was partnering with my company. When I saw him at the office, the last traces of his collegiate awkwardness were gone, replaced by a polished, mature elegance. He takes a sip of his coffee, his voice as gentle as I remember it. “Evelyn, I’ve always felt I owed you an apology.” Back then, I was too young to understand his choice. When he told me he was leaving the country for a research fellowship, I insisted on going with him. He had looked at me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Evelyn, I don’t want you to change your life for me.” “Why can’t I go with you, but Rachel can? You two are always in the lab together, and now you’re leaving the country together. Have you fallen for her?!” “Because this is her path, Evelyn,” he’d said patiently. “This was always part of her plan. But it’s not yours. Don’t make this kind of decision for my sake. I can’t bear that weight.” The younger me was stubborn and absolute. “Either let me come with you, or break up with me.” The rest is history. He went across the ocean with the girl who shared his ambitions. For a long time, I hated him for it, convinced he’d left because he’d fallen out of love with me. But looking back, I understand. It’s a heavy burden to carry someone else’s entire life on your shoulders. Adam’s choice wasn’t wrong. I smile and shake my head. “Don’t apologize. I was being childish.” He looks at me, his eyes shining. “Have you been happy all these years?” I nod. His gaze drops to my wedding ring. “I mean… are you truly happy?” My mind flashes to a certain someone at home, who had been clinging to me, begging to come to the office, only to shrink back onto the bed like a scolded puppy when I refused. “You’re right,” he’d said mournfully. “I’m the other man. I can’t be seen in public.” A small smile touches my lips. “Very happy.” A shadow of disappointment crosses Adam’s face before he speaks again. “I heard the news, you know. That you were getting married, just two months after we broke up. I thought about coming back for you, but it was too late. I’ve always felt like I was the one who pushed you into such a rash decision. Maybe…” He pauses, looking up at me, his clear eyes holding a mixture of hope and resolve. “Maybe it’s not too late to fix our mistake.” His words fluster me, and my hand jerks, knocking over my coffee cup. The scalding liquid sears my skin, and I gasp. The back of my hand is instantly red and swollen. Adam shoots to his feet and grabs my hand. Clang. The sound of something metal hitting the floor comes from the doorway. Peeking through the crack of the open door is a devastatingly handsome face. Oh, hell. It’s my amnesiac, unfortunate husband.

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1 I was reborn as the daughter of a villainous, cannon-fodder character. When I was one, I managed to give myself a raging fever, forcing him to abandon his plan to join the main antagonist in a bloody turf war. When I was three, I orchestrated a fall that fractured my leg, making him miss his fated encounter with the story’s female lead. When I was five, I used a local predator as a pawn to stop my father from helping the antagonist target the male lead, Ethan Reed. And now? My cannon-fodder father is screaming, his voice laced with pure terror, “Ethan, you son of a bitch, get your kid’s hands off my daughter! Get them off her! NOW!” Can you picture it? A man who lived for arson, murder, and every crime in the book, transformed overnight into a desperate single dad. To be honest, calling him a villain is giving him too much credit. After all, I’ve never heard of a villain who, right at the start of the story, ends up blinded in one eye, with a shattered leg, and dumped into the ocean by the male lead as shark bait. The real antagonist of this novel was a different breed entirely. He was dangerously beautiful, fought the hero, coveted the heroine, and flew into unpredictable rages, lashing out at anyone in his path. He danced on the edge of a knife until the very end. But my father? The moment he died, the main plot was barely 10% through. The remaining 90% was dedicated to the tempestuous, angsty romance between the main couple and their life-or-death struggles with the true villain. So, “villainous cannon fodder” is the best he gets. Right, Dad? 2 My father, Damian, leaned against the windowsill, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The smoke veiled his sharp, handsome features, giving him an air of untamed arrogance. He was only twenty, yet he possessed none of the lingering awkwardness of youth. Instead, he carried the cold, ruthless edge of a man forged in a world of blood and violence. A hero’s face with a side character’s fate, I thought with a sigh. Well, it’s standard procedure, the System chimed in my head. Any guy who pines for the female lead has to be hot, even the cannon fodder. It’s rule number one. At one year old, I was practicing my first steps. A baby’s bones are soft, my body still a stranger to balance. Inevitably, my left foot tripped over my right, and I face-planted onto the plush carpet. My worrywart of a father had already padded every sharp corner in the house with foam, terrified I’d stumble and crack my head open. So, in a few days, I mused internally, he’s supposed to go to that shootout with the main villain and get a piece of shrapnel in his eye, turning him into a one-eyed monster? The System’s tone turned grave. Correct. This is a prequel event, not detailed in the book. By the time he officially appears, he’s already lost an eye. It’s the catalyst for his descent into a twisted, violent rage. But remember, Host, you can’t just reveal the plot. The universe will literally silence you if you try. Just then, Damian noticed me waddling towards him. “Shit,” he muttered, hastily extinguishing the cigarette in an ashtray and throwing the window wide open. He waved his hand, trying to dissipate the lingering smoke. “I come to my own room for a damn smoke, and you follow me in here? Are you that clingy? Go on, get out! Don’t breathe this crap in.” For a moment, I forgot I was a baby. The acrid smell of smoke stung my nose. I immediately spun around, covering my face. “Dada… stinky,” I mumbled, making a break for the door. Rejected by his own daughter. He had to change his shirt and rinse his mouth out three times before I finally let him pick me up. He gave me a mock-stern look. “Next time you see me smoking, you stay away. Got it? Keep your distance.” I nodded, patting his handsome face with my tiny hands, nearly drooling. Say what you will about my dad being a cold-blooded bastard just like the main villain, but damn, he was gorgeous. I managed to string a few words together. “Dada… stay with me. These days.” A one-year-old’s language skills are a work in progress, so words came out in clumsy bursts. He cradled me against his chest, letting me touch his face as he sank into the sofa. A rare, gentle smile softened his features. “Alright, princess. I’ll spend the next few days with you.” Then, his phone rang. He answered it with a single, clipped word. “Lucian?” The main villain is calling? Oh no, don’t tell me he’s calling about… A rich, melodious voice drifted from the phone. “Damian… day after tomorrow… the arms deal… You and me. If they try to pull a fast one… we’ll burn their whole operation to the ground.” I froze. The prospect of action seemed to jolt my father from his languid state. “That old fox Vargas was never going to play fair,” he said, his voice sharp with excitement. “You jacked up the price on him. You think he wasn’t holding a grudge? This isn’t a deal, it’s an ambush.” I slapped my hand against his cheek. “Bah!” He gently pulled my hand away, giving my fingers a squeeze. “Don’t mess around, princess. Daddy’s talking business.” I glared at him. Your business is getting yourself maimed, you idiot! You’re going to lose an eye! But he couldn’t hear my silent screams. He just shifted my position on his lap to make me more comfortable. “Ga-ga-goo!” I protested again. Lucian chuckled on the other end, his voice a lazy purr. “Oh? Is the little piglet with you?” A surge of fury shot through me. “You… pig! Your family… pigs!” Just because I had a healthy baby appetite and was a little chubby, that asshole had branded me a pig. I remembered the first time I met him. Lucian had been dressed in a wine-red suit, his exquisitely beautiful face looking like something straight out of a dark fairytale. His fox-like eyes held a cold, detached glimmer despite the smile on his lips. He was less a man and more like a blood-fed poppy blooming in the depths of hell—utterly stunning and lethally dangerous. As a connoisseur of pretty faces, I was instantly mesmerized and reached out my arms for him to hold me. Then the beautiful man opened his mouth. “Damian, are you raising a piglet? She’s so fat, I’m surprised she hasn’t broken her stroller.” My world shattered. No girl, not even a baby, likes being called fat. Not even by someone that gorgeous. So when he leaned in to get a closer look, my outstretched hands balled into fists, and I landed two solid punches right on his pretty face. From that day on, I was “the Piglet.” “Your daughter can talk now?” Lucian teased. Damian scratched under my chin. “Just started a few days ago. You know what her first words were? She said, ‘Dada, I love you.’ I nearly passed out from happiness.” “Come on, little one,” Lucian cooed through the phone. “Say ‘Uncle’ for me.” “Piggy… pig,” I babbled sweetly. Damian sighed. “I told you she holds a grudge.” Lucian fell silent for a beat before smoothly changing the subject, steering the conversation back to bloody business—skinning their rivals, breaking legs, the usual gruesome topics. Fearing he’d scare me, Damian set me down on the floor to play and took the call out on the balcony, enthusiastically plotting mayhem with his best friend. When they were done, he scooped me up with one arm and prepared my bottle, his movements now practiced and sure. “Sorry, princess, I have to break my promise. I have something really important to do for the next few days. You be a good girl and wait for me at home, okay? Tell Mrs. Gable if there’s anything you want to eat.” I clutched my bottle, looking up at him with my most pathetic, wide-eyed expression. “Dada… you no go. Stay… with me.” He knelt, stroking my head. “I can’t. This is important.” I stared at him, my gaze unwavering. He met my eyes without flinching. Wailing used to be my go-to trick for derailing his criminal enterprises. But as a one-year-old, it would look less like a baby’s instinct and more like a temper tantrum. I had to be smarter. “Okay,” I whispered, defeated. But secretly, I asked the System, Hey, you have an item in your shop that can induce a high fever, right? We sure do, Host! Are you thinking…? I’m not letting my dad get disabled. How long does it last? Three days, the System replied cheerfully. And completely free of side effects! Perfect. 3 Just as Damian was geared up and ready to ride into battle with Lucian, I swallowed the tiny pill from the System. One minute later, I felt a wave of lethargy wash over me. Five minutes later, my body felt like it was on fire. Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper, had just finished making me a bowl of porridge. The moment she touched my skin to pick me up, her hand recoiled. “Good heavens!” She snatched me up, her face pale with panic, and rushed me to the car. The driver floored it, the tires screeching as we sped towards the hospital. On the way, she took my temperature, her hand trembling. 104°F! My face was flushed, my entire body ached, and I whimpered for my father. Mrs. Gable frantically dialed his number. “Sir, it’s Chloe! She has a fever…” The background on his end was noisy; I could faintly hear an airport announcement. His voice was tight with confusion. “What did you say? Chloe has a fever?!” “I was about to feed her,” Mrs. Gable explained in a rush, “and she was burning up. I just checked—it’s 104! We’re on our way to Mercy General Hospital now!” “What?!” he yelled. I squirmed in her arms, my voice a pathetic whine. “Dada… hot… waaaah… Dada…” “I’m coming back right now!” he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “Chloe, don’t cry, Daddy’s on his way.” I could hear Lucian in the background. “What? You’re just leaving? What about me?” Damian’s voice was ice. “My daughter is sick. I’m going to take care of her. You handle those bastards yourself. You’re more than capable.” A dial tone was Lucian’s only reply. 4 My existence was the result of a scheme meant to trap Lucian, but his best friend, Damian, had walked into it instead. A one-night stand with my birth mother, and poof, I was conceived. Ten months later, she dumped me and a paternity test on the steps of the family mansion. Lost in the haze of the fever, I dreamt of those early days. Before I came along, my father’s motto was: There’s nothing money can’t solve. He promptly hired three top-tier nannies, offering them an exorbitant salary, hoping to pawn me off so he could continue his life of crime with Lucian. It didn’t work. I cried. Constantly. I cried when I wet the bed. I cried when I needed a diaper change. I cried even after I was clean. I cried when the nannies held me, and I cried when they didn’t. I cried when I was hungry, and once I was fed, I used my newfound energy to cry even harder. My wails echoed through the entire villa, a relentless siren of infant misery. The only time I was quiet was when my father was there, shaking a little rattle to distract me. The experienced nannies were at their wits’ end. They could only turn to me, the source of their torment, and my biological father, with pleading eyes. Damian stared back, utterly lost. Finally, unable to bear the noise any longer, he approached, letting the nannies guide him as he clumsily took me into his arms. Like magic, the crying stopped. I gazed up at him, gurgling happily and reaching for his face. “It seems the young miss is very fond of you, sir,” one of the nannies offered, trying to flatter him. Damian stared down at my tear-and-snot-streaked face, his expression pure disgust. “Don’t smile. You’re already ugly. Smiling just makes it worse.” I paused. Then, with great effort, I filled my diaper. A pungent odor slowly wafted through the air. Damian’s face turned a shade of green. The nannies’ smiles froze. “You little brat,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?!” I just blinked at him innocently. What? I’m just a baby. I can’t control my bowels. His obsessive need for cleanliness kicked in. He felt phantom filth crawling all over him and was about to shove me back into a nanny’s arms and run for the shower. But I wrapped my tiny hand around his index finger and cooed. “You want me to clean you up?” he asked, his voice dripping with disbelief. “To change your diaper?!” I blinked again. “Not a chance!” he snarled. “Who do you think you are? I hired professionals for this. Don’t push your luck.” One minute later, Damian was grimly taking a lesson from a nanny on how to handle a baby’s messy diaper. He laid me on the changing mat and peeled off the soiled diaper, tossing it away like a grenade. The same hands that could expertly disassemble a firearm were now gingerly wiping my bottom with warm, wet cloths. After rinsing and drying me, he awkwardly applied diaper cream and fumbled with the tabs of a clean diaper. He stared at me for a long moment, his face a mask of irritation. “You’re the little queen of this castle, aren’t you?” I giggled, holding onto his finger. Something shifted behind his eyes. That cold, cynical heart of his was struck by something impossibly soft. He poked my cheek, creating a small dimple. “You little monster,” he chuckled. “Ahhh,” I replied. “I guess you’re not so bad,” he admitted. “Almost cute.” And with that, my father began his long, grueling, and utterly transformative journey into fatherhood. 5 When Lucian video-called a few months later, he did a double-take. “Damian… what the hell happened to you?” he asked, bewildered. My father looked like a ghost. His face was pale and drawn, his usually sharp, arrogant eyes were shadowed with a half-dead exhaustion. His hair was a mess, stubble shadowed his jaw, and the designer shirt that had fit him perfectly before now hung loosely on his thinned frame. Worse, he was multitasking—dangling a rattle with one hand to soothe me while reviewing a stack of corporate documents with the other. The ruthless mobster had been transformed into a haggard, sleep-deprived dad. Me, on the other hand? I was perched in my crib, plump and rosy-cheeked, babbling contentedly. “The last time you looked this bad was after you took a bullet to the chest and spent three months in the hospital,” Lucian mused. “Is raising a kid really that hard?” “If I hadn’t taken that bullet for you,” Damian snapped, “I wouldn’t be in this mess!” Lucian just clicked his tongue, completely unrepentant. His gaze flickered to me, cold and dismissive. “If you really don’t want to raise her, just dump her on a nanny. Or find a good family to adopt her out. She’s just a little girl. Is she really worth all this effort?” For men like them, who had walked in darkness their entire lives, who had betrayed family and spilled blood to survive, sentiment was a weakness. They were naturally cold-hearted, incapable of loving even themselves, let alone a troublesome infant. Damian shot him a glare, annoyed by his attitude. He reached for a cigarette, then remembered I was there and stopped himself. “She’s not ‘just a little girl.’ She’s my daughter. And I’ll raise her because I damn well want to.” “Fine, have it your way,” Lucian said with a shrug. “Not my problem. Anyway, I came to talk about our joint venture. That project in the West End…” “WAAAAAH!” My peaceful babbling instantly erupted into a deafening, house-shaking scream. Damian panicked. “Oh, my little princess.” He dropped the documents, scooped me up with practiced ease, and gently patted my back. “Is my baby hungry? Daddy will go make you a bottle right now.” Lucian stared, dumbfounded, as his notoriously cold and intimidating best friend—a man who could probably kill a bull with his bare hands—was suddenly radiating the holy light of fatherhood. “About the venture…” Lucian tried again. “Didn’t you hear my daughter crying?” Damian cut him off, his voice sharp with impatience. “She’s crying! I have to make her bottle. I’ve been running on fumes for months, between her and work. We’ll talk about business another time.” He hung up without another word. Lucian just stared at his blank screen. “…The hell?” The next day, Lucian showed up in person. He came bearing gifts—two cases of formula and a mountain of baby toys. Damian, who had just finished feeding me, decided to let his previous transgression slide and sat down to discuss business. After they finalized their plans, Lucian finally deigned to look at me again. He reached out and gently pinched my cheek. I gifted him a gummy, milky smile, my eyes wide and bright. I babbled sweetly and held up my arms, asking to be held. Even a hardened killer like Lucian wasn’t immune to a baby’s charm. My smile seemed to momentarily daze him, and he instinctively lifted me into his arms. Maybe human infants aren’t so bad after all, he probably thought, a flicker of warmth in his cold heart. “You…” In the next second, Lucian’s body went rigid. He felt a warm, wet sensation spreading across his hand and seeping into the fabric of his expensive suit. I tilted my head, my expression one of pure, angelic innocence. “OH, GODDAMMIT!” the villain shrieked. … Lucian’s obsession with cleanliness was even worse than my dad’s. He spent the next two hours scrubbing himself raw in the shower. Meanwhile, I was back in my dad’s arms, happily blowing bubbles. Take that, you big meanie. Serves you right for telling my dad to get rid of me. Damian was trying hard to hide his amusement, but he still put on a show of scolding me. “That’s your uncle, Chloe. You can’t be so rude.” I just cooed in response. When Lucian finally emerged, my dad had already changed me, fed me, and lulled me to sleep with a soft lullaby. Lucian glared at my sleeping form. “That little brat did it on purpose!” “Keep your voice down,” Damian warned, his tone sharp. “Don’t wake her up. It took me forever to get her to sleep.” Lucian extended a malicious finger towards my face, intending to poke me awake. “I don’t care! She messes with me, she doesn’t get to sleep.” “Go ahead,” Damian said coldly. “If you want to be treated to the sound of a screaming baby for the rest of the night, be my guest.” Lucian froze. He glowered at me for another moment before begrudgingly admitting, “She’s a good-looking kid. Takes after you.” He paused. “What’s her name, by the way?” Damian went silent. “You’re kidding me,” Lucian said, staring at him. “You still haven’t named her?” It was true. My dad usually just called me “princess,” “little monster,” “kiddo,” or “sweetheart.” So, the two of them, a crime lord and his top enforcer, spent the next hour poring over a dictionary. Damian was incredibly picky. Nothing seemed good enough, grand enough, for his daughter. Finally, tired of the debate, Lucian simply wrote a name on a piece of paper. Chloe. “It means ‘blooming,’” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Let her have a life that blooms in the sun, not in the shadows like us.”

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