Category: English

I’m on the set of Second Act, the celebrity dating show, and the host asks me which of the male contestants has caught my eye. I let my gaze drift over the three of them—the award-winning actor, the legendary rock star, the fresh-faced pop idol—and offer a serene smile. “One of the men on this stage is a serial killer. Three years ago, you dismembered my sister.” The studio lights feel like interrogations lamps. “You left her in pieces, made sure there was nothing left for us to bury, and turned her into a cautionary tale for the tabloids to mock.” I lean into the microphone, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carries through the silent studio. “Now, it’s my turn to find you.” 1 I’m the youngest deception specialist the department has ever had. After a guest lecture I gave on micro-expressions went viral, my public profile exploded. I was the “human lie detector,” the cop who could read your soul. That’s when the producers of Second Act came calling. They offered me a spot alongside A-listers: Ethan Frost, the acting titan; Marcus Croft, the rock icon; and Liam Scott, the current heartthrob of the moment. My captain encouraged me to take it. “This is a huge opportunity, Hayes. Community outreach, public education… the department needs this win.” I feigned reluctance, but my eyes were already fixed on the wall of my apartment. It’s covered in a constellation of their faces, each photo pinned and connected by a web of red thread. Years of obsessive research, every lead, every rumor, every possible connection mapped out in excruciating detail. It’s a spiderweb, and I’m just waiting for the last strand to be spun. A cold smile touches my lips. The man who killed my sister, Sophie, is in that room. He’s one of those gods. One of those untouchable celebrities. 2 Three years ago, my world ended. Sophie was paying her way through Juilliard by playing the harp at private events. One night, a party of celebrities booked the penthouse lounge. She was called in to perform. She never came home. We found her three days later. A homeless man was scavenging behind a restaurant and found a discarded refrigerator. Inside were several black trash bags, heavy with what he thought was discarded meat from the kitchen. A lucky break, he must have thought. Then he opened the first bag. Countless pieces of my sister spilled onto the grimy asphalt. The toxicology report came back clean. No drugs, no sedatives. There were ligature marks on her wrists and ankles. She was awake for all of it. She was conscious as he took her apart, piece by piece. When the medical examiner gently told me that the remains were too fragmented to reconstruct, I collapsed right there in the morgue, a raw, helpless wail tearing from my throat. That was the day I officially made detective. My first case was my own flesh and blood. The story caused a media firestorm, of course. All the celebrities who attended the party were questioned, but it led nowhere. The exclusive club, citing the privacy of its high-profile clientele, had no security cameras in the penthouse. Their PR machines went into overdrive, expertly spinning a new narrative: Sophie wasn’t just a musician; she was an obsessed fan, a stalker who had gotten too close. It was laughable. My sister was at the top of her class, brilliant and driven. But because she had a favorite actor, she was posthumously branded a “crazy fangirl” who “had it coming.” This season on Second Act, every major suspect from that night is on the cast list. How could I possibly say no? The first day of filming is at a remote lodge upstate. I arrive early, choosing a quiet corner of the grand living room to observe. With my minimal makeup and severe posture, I’m sure I stick out. The live-stream comments are already rolling in: [Can she really tell if you’re lying just by looking at you? Seriously?] [Probably just a gimmick. She looks way too young to be a real detective. All for show.] One of the other contestants, a self-proclaimed tech millionaire, is loudly bemoaning his single status to anyone who will listen. I can’t help but chuckle. “Sir, I think showing up to a dating show while you’re actively cheating on two different women is a bit much, don’t you?” His face freezes. “What are you talking about? I’m completely single, that’s why I’m here!” he barks, his voice a little too loud. The producers gave me one instruction: be myself. “You intentionally raised your volume when you said ‘completely single,’ your eyes darted down and to the left, and you started to bring your hand to your nose before catching yourself—all classic tells of deception,” I state calmly. “Your collar carries a heavy rose perfume, you have a phone in each of your front pockets, and I saw you texting on both. Your expression was annoyed when you replied on one, and you were smiling at the other. My guess? You’re in the messy middle of a divorce and juggling an affair.” He’s not the only one staring. The entire crew is silent. The live chat explodes. [NO WAY. She just met him three minutes ago. That’s insane.] I deliver the final blow. “And you can still see the pale band on your ring finger where your wedding band was until very recently. The skin hasn’t even tanned over yet.” After a frantic background check, the producers confirm he is, in fact, married. He’s promptly kicked off the show. I finish my work and mentally count down. Three, two, one… Right on cue, a man sits down across from me. “Detective Hayes. You live up to the reputation. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet. “Would you do me the honor of being my partner for this first challenge?” He extends a hand, a warm, genuine smile playing on his lips. His face is a masterpiece, the kind of symmetrical perfection that cameras adore. Every lens in the room swivels to capture him. Ethan Frost. Three-time Golden Globe winner. A prodigy who started acting as a child and became a living legend. His filmography is impeccable, his public persona flawless. He funds charities, builds schools in impoverished regions, and has a foundation dedicated to helping fans who have fallen on hard times. I arrange my features into a look of appropriate, flattered surprise. This is exactly what I wanted. My little display of skill was all for him. Ethan Frost was the star my sister, Sophie, loved more than any other. 3 I blink, manufacturing a micro-expression of confusion. “Mr. Frost, I thought you were here as a special guest commentator for the first episode. Did the rules change?” He gives a soft, charming laugh. “The producers verified your claims, and our tech millionaire is no longer with us. They were in a bind, and I happened to be available to fill the spot. It’s a pleasure to be working with you.” When we shake, his hand is warm, his scent clean and subtle, like sunlight and cedar. I study him, my professional mask firmly in place. Could this man, this paragon of virtue, really be the monster who butchered a young woman on a rainy night? My takedown of the first contestant makes me an instant celebrity and a pariah among the other men. They give me a wide berth, terrified I might expose their own secrets. Only Ethan remains by my side, the perfect gentleman. The viewers are eating it up. The live chat is a frenzy. [A walking lie detector. These celebrities better watch their backs.] [Oh no… my fave said he has a phobia of women. Is that true? ASK HER.] I play my part. “Aren’t you afraid of me, Mr. Frost?” Our eyes meet. His smile doesn’t waver. “Everyone has secrets, Detective. But if they aren’t fatal, why be afraid? Or are you telling me you don’t have any secrets of your own?” The comment section sings his praises: [So honest and open. He’s the gold standard. Even if everyone else gets cancelled, he never will.] [Seriously. Talent, integrity, charisma… is there a more perfect man in Hollywood?] I’ve watched his original police interview a hundred times. He passed the most advanced polygraph test without a single flicker. When they showed him the crime scene photos of Sophie—the blurred, unrecognizable masses of flesh—his emotional response was textbook. I’ve magnified the footage, analyzed it frame by frame. “His pupils don’t dilate at all,” I told my captain back then. “He’s not feeling horror. He’s feeling nothing.” “Hayes, I get it, I do,” my colleague had said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “But you can’t let your grief turn into a witch hunt. Our job requires objectivity.” But my gut screamed that he was lying. And I will watch him. I will find the proof. If he is the one, he will not escape my sight. 4 The first episode’s ratings go through the roof. My presence has given the show a completely unexpected edge, and the network is quick to capitalize on it. The second episode’s date activity is set in an escape room. The theme: a murder mystery. We’re in a dilapidated mansion, spattered with fake blood. The lights flicker ominously. Ethan picks up the first clue card. “It says here this scenario is based on a real cold case from thirteen years ago,” he reads. “This mansion is a recreation of the original crime scene…” I don’t even need to look at the card. “The Blackwood Manor Murders.” Everyone turns to me. “Thirteen years ago, a family of three was slaughtered in their beds in a suburban mansion just like this one,” I explain. “The killer was never found. I assume that’s the case this is based on.” Ethan laughs, a low, appreciative sound. “Detective, you do remember this is supposed to be a dating show, right?” I understand my role perfectly. I take a step forward, placing myself in front of him with an air of righteous duty. “The police are here to protect and serve. You have nothing to fear, Mr. Frost.” Ethan sighs, shaking his head with a look of fond exasperation. The live audience goes wild. [Everyone else is playing games and flirting, and these two are solving a cold case. I am SO here for this.] [I’ve never seen him talk this much to a woman on one of these shows. Ever.] We head to the master bedroom on the second floor. A male mannequin, maybe thirty years old, lies on the bed. The prop is disturbingly realistic. While the other contestants shriek and giggle nervously, I scan the room. “The killer only wanted to kill, not to steal. The victim is still wearing his gold wedding ring,” I observe. “This suggests a specific psychological profile. He’s capable of murder, but views theft as beneath him. He likely has a stable job, or at least a strong sense of his own social standing.” Ethan raises an eyebrow. “You don’t just read the living, Detective? You read the dead, too?” “My undergraduate minor was in criminal psychology. What’s your take, Mr. Frost?” “Well, I’d hate to show off in front of an expert,” he says, his tone playful, but his eyes are sharp. He walks over to the balcony, where the female mannequin lies. “The time of death was around 3 a.m. The family was asleep. The killer took care of the child first, then came upstairs. After killing the husband, he could have easily killed the wife right there in the bed. But he didn’t. He dragged her out here.” “Maybe she was trying to escape,” I suggest. “To escape, you’d run for the stairs, for the ground floor. Not onto a balcony cluttered with a washing machine and old furniture.” He points to a single, weather-beaten streetlamp just outside the balcony railing. “He dragged her out here for this.” He closes his eyes, his voice taking on a magnetic, narrative quality. “He used the light. Just enough to see her face. To watch her expression as she died. This killer… he hates women. The husband and child were obstacles. The main event, the real delicacy, is always saved for last.” His words send a shockwave through me. The detail about the streetlamp… no one on the original case file ever noted that. It could be a whole new line of inquiry. Noticing my grim expression, Ethan leans in closer, a playful glint in his eyes. “I just shot a thriller. Did some research for the role. I’m just spitballing here, Detective. You’re not taking me seriously, are you?” His gaze is a challenge. I feel my breath catch. When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. Suddenly, a bloodcurdling scream from one of the female contestants shatters the tension. We rush over to find her pointing at a large prop wardrobe. “Don’t come any closer!” she shrieks. The wardrobe door is slightly ajar. Stuffed inside, folded into an unnatural position, is a female body. It’s not a mannequin. The body is headless. Her feet are bound with duct tape. The cut at the neck is brutally precise. My head snaps toward Ethan. His pupils are dilated, his lips slightly parted. The fleeting expression on his face isn’t shock or fear. It is pure, unadulterated… exhilaration.

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They say the granddaughter of the richest man in the city was switched at birth. And then I was picked up by a black town car and taken to his family’s estate. The butler told me I was the real heiress, the one who’d been lost for over twenty years. But my so-called parents didn’t seem very happy to see me. They called me trash, a hick from the sticks. The next time they were beating me for the sake of the fake heiress, my billionaire grandfather came home. When he saw the state I was in, he brought his cane down right on my father’s head. “You worthless bastard! I raised you all these years, and this is how you treat your own sister?” Then he pointed at me. “That’s my daughter! You dare touch her again!” My father froze, stunned. I was just as stunned. Hold on. Let’s just take a moment to straighten out this family tree. 1 Standing at the gates of the Cole family mansion in Greenwich, my stomach was a knot of anxiety. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rabbit beating against a cage. I was excited to finally meet my birth parents, but terrified they wouldn’t like what they saw. Turns out, I didn’t need to worry about that. They made it perfectly clear. The heavy oak door swung open, revealing a woman dripping in diamonds and disdain. Catherine. My mother. Her eyes scanned me from my worn-out sneakers to my faded jeans, then back again. Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows drew together. “You’re Maya?” Her voice was as cold as the marble floor beneath my feet. “Even if things are rough out in the country, you could have at least worn something clean. Something presentable. Don’t track dirt on our floors.” A sharp sting pierced my chest. I opened my mouth to explain that these were my best clothes, but a girl my age peeked out from behind Catherine. She was dressed in a designer gown that looked like spun sugar, her eyes red as if she’d been crying. She gently tugged on Catherine’s sleeve. “Mom, don’t say that. Maya must have had it so hard. She’s probably never seen a place like this. It’s only natural she’d dress… simply.” Just then, a man strode over, wrapping a protective arm around the girl. Richard. My father. His voice was syrupy sweet when he spoke to her. “Brielle, you’re too kind, always thinking of others. Maya,” he said, turning his flat gaze on me, “I know you’re our biological daughter, but Brielle has been with us since the day she was born. We raised her. She’s everything to us.” So this was my welcome. Not a ‘hello,’ not a single question about the twenty years I’d lost. Just warnings. And I was supposed to learn their names from the way they spoke to each other? What was there to even worry about anymore? My throat tightened, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and hurt. “I never wanted to replace anyone. I just… I just wanted to see you. To know what my real parents looked like.” “See us?” Catherine scoffed, crossing her arms. “Well, you’ve seen us. Don’t get any ideas. The Cole family doesn’t need another daughter. We have Brielle. If you have any sense, you’ll understand where you belong.” Brielle looked up at Richard, her eyes glistening with manufactured tears. “Dad, Mom, please don’t be so harsh. She just got here, she must be so scared. It’s my fault. If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t feel so unwelcome.” Richard stroked her hair, his face a mask of adoration. “Don’t be silly, sweetheart. This has nothing to do with you. She just doesn’t know her place. Speaking of which, your eighteenth birthday is tomorrow. There’s a necklace at the Christie’s auction, ‘The Midnight Sun Diamond.’ Valued at fifty million. I’ll take you right now and we’ll get it for you. A perfect birthday present.” Brielle’s eyes lit up. She threw her arms around his neck. “Really, Daddy? I’ve read about that piece! You’re the best!” Catherine smiled, smoothing the skirt of Brielle’s dress. “We’ll go right now, before someone else snatches it up. For my Brielle, any price is worth it.” The three of them chattered away as they walked toward the garage, Richard calling back to the driver to get the heat just right so Brielle wouldn’t be cold. They never looked at me again. I stood alone in the grand entryway as a cold draft swept through, chilling my skin. Arthur, the family butler, approached with a glass of warm water, pressing it into my hands. “Miss, drink this. Warm yourself up. Mr. and Mrs. Cole… they’re just having a hard time adjusting. They’ve been with Miss Brielle for so many years. It’s a deep bond. Just wait until the master gets back from Europe. He’s a reasonable man. He’ll make things right for you.” I clutched the glass, the warmth of it failing to reach the ice forming in my heart. “Thank you, Arthur. But if my own parents treat me like this… why would a grandfather I’ve never met care about me at all?” The old butler sighed. “Don’t lose hope, Miss. The master nearly turned this state upside down looking for you all those years ago. He has never forgotten you. Just wait. When he returns, everything will be better.” I said nothing, just stared out the window in the direction their car had disappeared, my world a silent, frozen landscape. 2 That night, I lay in the guest room, lost in a bed that was too big and too soft. The unfamiliar luxury, the memory of Richard and Catherine’s cold eyes—it all made my skin crawl. Sleep was impossible. A soft knock echoed through the room. It was Brielle. She held a velvet jewelry box, a sweet smile on her face. “Maya, I saw this necklace at the auction today and thought it would look beautiful on you. I had Dad buy it for you. Please, open it. I hope you like it.” I was taken aback. After her performance this afternoon, this sudden kindness was jarring. But then a flicker of hope ignited. Maybe she was as kind as she pretended to be. Maybe I was just being paranoid. I took the box, my voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, Brielle. You didn’t have to do that.” “We’re sisters now. Of course, I did.” She smiled and leaned closer. Just as my fingers touched the clasp, she snatched the box from my hands and hurled it to the floor. Pearls scattered across the polished hardwood like tiny, broken teeth. In the next instant, she crumpled to the ground, hands flying to her face as she let out a piercing shriek. “Maya, no! Please don’t hit me! How could you just smash the necklace? I know you don’t like me, but I was just trying to be nice!” Her wail was perfectly pitched to carry. Seconds later, the door flew open and Richard and Catherine stormed in. Richard’s eyes locked on Brielle sobbing on the floor, then to the scattered pearls at my feet. His face contorted with rage as he pointed a trembling finger at me. “Maya! You have no class, no upbringing! Brielle brings you a gift from the goodness of her heart, and you throw it in her face? Did they teach you nothing where you came from?” His accusations rang in my ears. “I didn’t throw it!” I protested, my voice cracking. “She snatched it and threw it herself! She’s acting!” “How dare you lie to our faces?” Catherine rushed forward. “We saw the broken necklace at your feet and Brielle on the floor crying. Who else could have done it? Do you think because you’re blood, you can just walk in here and torment her?” “I didn’t!” My own tears started to well up, hot and furious. “I grew up with nothing, it’s true. No one taught me how to be some perfect little heiress. But I wasn’t taught to be a bully, either! You barge in here, you don’t ask a single question, and you just sentence me? You call that a good upbringing? I’m the one who had my life stolen for twenty years, with no one to care for me. If I have no class, it’s because you weren’t there to teach me!” My words hit a nerve. Catherine’s face flushed a deep red. She raised her hand and slapped me, hard. The sound cracked through the silent room. “You ungrateful brat! We brought you into this house. We could have left you to rot on the street, and this is the thanks we get? You dare talk back to me?” The sting on my cheek was a burning fire. I clutched my face, staring at her with all the hatred I could muster. Richard, shaking with fury, bellowed toward the door. “Arthur! Get in here! Lock her in the old storage house out back. No food for three days. Let’s see if she learns some respect then!” Arthur hurried in, placing himself between me and them. “Sir, the storage house is dark and cold. The young miss just arrived, her health… please, reconsider.” “Reconsider?” Richard sneered at the old man, his voice laced with menace. “I think you’re getting senile, meddling in my affairs. You say another word for her, and you can pack your bags and get out. This family doesn’t support traitors.” Arthur’s face went pale. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Two security guards stepped forward, grabbing my arms. They dragged me out of the room, their grips like iron. As they pulled me through the living room, I saw Brielle nestled in Catherine’s embrace. She peeked over her mother’s shoulder and shot me a look, a tiny, triumphant smile playing on her lips. That smile was a needle to my heart, and the world went cold. 3 The storage house was pitch black, a sliver of weak light bleeding from under the door the only proof that a world existed outside. I lay on the cold concrete, my stomach twisting into painful knots. I hadn’t eaten since the night before. I pushed against the heavy door; it was locked tight. My calls for help were swallowed by the oppressive silence. I stumbled around the space, searching for any way out, but was met only by solid, windowless walls. Hours bled into one another. Hunger and cold became a constant, numbing ache. My body trembled, and black spots danced in my vision. My consciousness began to fray at the edges. Just as I felt myself slipping away, the door creaked open. Blinding light flooded the space. Brielle stood silhouetted in the doorway, arms crossed, the two guards behind her. She walked toward me, her heels clicking on the floor, and looked down at my crumpled form. The fragile, gentle girl was gone, replaced by someone cold and mocking. “Maya, I thought you were tougher than this. Look at you. A few words from me, and Mom and Dad have you locked in here, starving. You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” I used the wall to pull myself up. I was weak, but my eyes were steady. “What are you so proud of? You can only get what you want by lying and performing for them. If we were judged on our own merits, you’d be nothing.” “Merits?” She let out a sharp, ugly laugh and patted my cheek. “Why would I need to compete with you? I’ve been in this family for twenty years. They already see me as their real daughter. You’re just some stray they were forced to take in. They could never truly love you.” I slapped her hand away. “I’m not a stray. And you have no right to say that. If you had any real confidence, you wouldn’t need to frame me to get by.” Her face hardened, her voice turning venomous. “Don’t push your luck. I came here to give you an out. Write a statement saying you’re leaving the Cole family voluntarily and will never come back. Otherwise, I’ll let you stay in here until you starve to death.” “I’m not leaving,” I rasped, my jaw tight. “This is my home, too. Why should I be the one to go?” Seeing that I wouldn’t break, she lunged, her hand raised to strike me. In a last burst of adrenaline, I threw myself at her, clamping my teeth down on her ear. “Aaaah!!!” Her scream was shrill enough to shatter glass. I held on, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth. I didn’t let go until I heard the heavy thud of footsteps approaching. Richard and Catherine burst in. They saw Brielle clutching her bleeding ear and me with blood smeared around my mouth. Richard roared, his face purple with rage. “Maya! You’re insane! You actually bit her!” Brielle stumbled into her father’s arms, sobbing. “Daddy, it hurts so much! She tried to kill me! She told me to leave the family, and when I refused, she attacked me!” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and smirked. “Before, when you accused me of hurting her, it was a lie. This is what it actually looks like. You love playing the victim, don’t you, Brielle? Well, this time I made sure you’d actually have a reason to cry.” Catherine stared at Brielle’s torn ear, her voice trembling with fury. “You’re an animal. Brielle has been nothing but kind to you, and you do this? I’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” Richard yelled to the guards, “Tie her up! Hang her from the rafters in the living room. Let her think about what she’s done!” The guards rushed me, brandishing a thick rope. I fought back, kicking and thrashing, but my exhausted body was no match for them. They bound me tightly and dragged me out of the darkness. 4 I hung from a heavy wooden beam in the center of the living room, the ropes digging into my wrists. Blood flow was cut off; my hands were already numb. Having not eaten in days, my head lolled forward, consciousness flickering like a dying candle. A bucket of ice water shocked me back to awareness. The frigid shock made my teeth chatter violently. Richard stood before me, a riding crop in his hand, his eyes filled with disgust. “Today, you will learn what happens when you disrespect the rules of this house.” He swung the crop, and it struck my back with a sickening crack. A line of fire seared across my skin. I bit back a cry. “You think because you share our blood you can do whatever you want?” Another lash. “You grew up wild, with no one to teach you any manners. Today, I’ll take on the responsibility of a father and beat the filth out of you.” Each blow felt like it was tearing me apart. Tears streamed from my eyes, blurring my vision. Catherine sat on the sofa, cradling Brielle, dabbing at her ear while adding her own venom to the assault. “Maya, you are a true snake. We are the Coles, one of the wealthiest families in the country. Letting you in this door was a gift from God, and you repay us by hurting Brielle? Do you have a soul?” “She… deserved it…” I gasped, my voice barely a whisper. “She started it… You just refuse to see…” “Still talking back!” Richard rained blows down on me, again and again. The leather tore through my shirt, and I could feel warm blood trickling down my back. “I see you won’t be satisfied until you’re half-dead! I won’t stop until you admit you were wrong!” His strength was terrifying. Every strike felt like it was breaking my bones. I couldn’t hold on any longer. The world dissolved into blackness. “Throw more water on her!” Richard’s voice was a distant, demonic rumble. “Get the doctor to give her a vitamin shot. I don’t want her dying before I’m done teaching her a lesson! We stop when she begs for forgiveness!” Another splash of icy water jolted me awake. The pain was all-consuming, a blinding white light of agony. I looked at the twisted face of the man in front of me and couldn’t believe he was my father. I regretted it all. I truly regretted it. I should never have listened, never have hoped to find my birth parents, never have come to the Cole estate. All I wanted was to see their faces, to feel a connection I had dreamed of my entire life… But this wasn’t connection. This was torture. Just as I felt the last of my strength give way, the front door crashed open with a deafening bang. A vibrant old man with a thunderous expression, leaning on a heavy cane, stormed into the room. The moment he saw me, he let out a roar of fury and swung his cane with surprising force, cracking it against Richard’s skull. “You degenerate son! How dare you lay a hand on her!”

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I am the most useless child of the Hayes family. When my sister, Sloane, was closing a ten-billion-dollar semiconductor deal in Europe, I was in the glass conservatory on the top floor of our Connecticut estate, tending to my flowers and herbs that nobody cared about. At my father’s birthday gala, Sloane, as the heiress to the family empire, was on his arm, bathing in the adoration and envy of the entire room. Under the flashbulbs of the paparazzi, she was a diamond, born to dazzle. And I was the gravel in the shadows of the corner, a girl whose name the guests couldn’t be bothered to remember. Someone holding a champagne flute raised it to me, their face a polite mask of distant curiosity. “And this young lady is?” Before I could answer, a Mrs. Gable nearby stepped in with a knowing smile. “A distant relative of Mr. Hayes, I’d imagine. Probably her first time at a party like this.” Her voice was just loud enough for me to hear. For twenty years, I’ve been the punchline to the Hayes family joke. 1 My mother, once the undisputed queen of the Manhattan social scene, married my father, the corporate titan Warren Hayes. A merger of dynasties. They had my sister, Sloane. Sloane was the name my grandfather chose. It was sleek, sharp, and successful. A perfect overture. She never disappointed. At three, she could recite Shakespearean sonnets. At seven, she performed at Carnegie Hall. At fifteen, she was accepted into Wharton, and at twenty-two, she returned to the company and turned her first investment into a nine-figure profit. She was the perfect, flawless heiress. So, when my mother had me in an unplanned second pregnancy, everyone considered it a bonus. “With a daughter like Sloane, the next one is bound to be just as brilliant.” But I let them all down. I didn’t have my sister’s photographic memory or her ruthless business acumen. I was indifferent to numbers, allergic to cocktail parties, and I despised any social gathering that required a plastered-on smile. My name is Audrey. Sloane and Audrey. Even our names felt like a deliberate, cruel irony. One is a declaration of success, the other, a quiet afterthought. My parents are civilized people. They pride themselves on being progressive, and would never admit to playing favorites. But actions speak louder than words. On family outings, my father’s right hand was always reserved for my mother, his left always holding Sloane’s. I could only trail behind them, a forgotten accessory. Sloane’s twenty-fifth birthday party was also a celebration of her being officially named the sole heir to the Hayes Corporation. My father, drunk on champagne and pride, slung his arm around a business rival’s shoulder, pointing to the incandescent Sloane under the chandeliers. “That’s my daughter,” he slurred, his voice thick with emotion. “The greatest achievement of my life.” The man offered a polite congratulations. “You’re a lucky man, Warren. But don’t you have a younger daughter as well?” The smile on my father’s face faltered. He waved a dismissive hand, a flicker of old regret and fresh annoyance crossing his features. “Don’t even mention her,” he said. “Sometimes I wish we’d just stopped with Sloane.” “It’s a shame we had Audrey, too.” The entire ballroom seemed to fall silent for a moment. Standing in the crowd, I felt as if I’d been stripped naked and thrown into a snowbank. Later, my father must have sobered up and realized his mistake. He summoned me to his study, a rare occurrence. “Audrey, don’t take it to heart. Your father had too much to drink.” He handed me a black card with no spending limit. “What I meant was, Sloane can stand on her own two feet now, and I’m very proud.” “But you… you still need us to worry about you. The weight on my shoulders is still heavy.” You see, a rich man’s apology is just another form of charity. I lowered my eyes and took the cold, plastic card. “I know, Dad.” …He didn’t mean it, he’d just finally said what he’d been suppressing for twenty years. 2 The year I turned eighteen, Sloane brought her fiancé, Harrison Pierce, home. The Pierces were true East Coast blue bloods, and Harrison was the brightest star of his generation. His union with Sloane Hayes was billed as “the marriage of two empires.” That day, a severe pollen allergy had confined me to my room. I’d told the housekeeper I wouldn’t be down. So when Sloane led Harrison on a tour of the house and pushed open my bedroom door, everyone froze. Sloane frowned, her voice edged with impatience. “Audrey, what are you doing home?” Clearly, no one had told me we were having such an important guest. And no one had remembered that I, their other daughter, also lived in this house. Harrison stood in the doorway, his gaze traveling past my sister to land on me. He wore a perfectly tailored gray suit, his aura cool and aristocratic, but his eyes were kind. He didn’t show the slightest surprise, just offered a small nod. “Hello. I’m Harrison.” I scrambled to sit up in bed, mortified. I was wearing a pilled, old pajama set, my face blotchy and red from the allergy. And standing next to him was my sister, radiant in a Chanel couture suit, her makeup flawless. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. “She’s my sister, Audrey,” Sloane’s introduction was brief, almost reluctant, as if she were pointing out a piece of unfortunate furniture. “She’s not well, stays in her room all day. I didn’t want her to disturb you, so I didn’t have her come down.” My mother quickly smoothed things over with a laugh. “It must be fate for Audrey and Harrison to meet like this.” My excuse of “I’m not feeling well” died on my lips. I was forced to sit at the dinner table next to the elegant, impeccable Sloane, my swollen face a testament to my misery. I didn’t need a mirror to know how cruel the comparison was. While Harrison was on the phone, I whispered to my mother, “Mom, the allergy is getting worse. I’m having trouble breathing. Can we please call the doctor?” My mother shot me a glare, her voice a harsh whisper. “Don’t make a scene. This is Harrison’s first time here, it’s an important day! Can’t you be considerate for once?” I bit my lip. “Then can I at least go back to my room?” “You’ll sit here and behave. Do you want the Pierces to think the Hayes family has no manners?” I ate that meal feeling like I was being slowly suffocated. Harrison was a true gentleman, his good breeding ingrained in every gesture. Even though the conversation revolved around finance and acquisitions, he always managed to steer a sliver of attention my way. “Audrey’s room is very unique,” he said suddenly. “It has a very distinctive scent.” 3 The table went quiet. Sloane laughed, a dismissive, airy sound. “Audrey just likes to mess around with that useless stuff. All those little bottles and jars give me a headache just looking at them.” My father shook his head in agreement. “A young woman should learn something useful. Like finance, or management.” For the first time in my life, I defended myself in front of my family. “It’s not just a scent,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s a perfume I blended myself. The top note is galbanum, the heart is iris and lily of the valley, and the base is oakmoss. I call it ‘First Rain’.” A flicker of surprise, then genuine appreciation, crossed Harrison’s face. “‘First Rain.’ That’s a beautiful name. It’s cool and damp with green notes… it really does smell like a valley after a storm. You have a gift.” In twenty years, that was the first time anyone had ever validated my “useless” passion. My heart, in that moment, felt a small tremor, like a stone dropped into still water, sending out endless ripples. After dinner, as Harrison was leaving, Sloane went to get the car. He walked over to me and handed me a small, elegant gift box. “A little something for our first meeting.” Everyone else assumed it was some expensive piece of jewelry. Sloane glanced at the box, a smirk playing on her lips. I went back to my room and opened it. It wasn’t a luxury item. Inside was a complete, professional-grade perfumer’s organ, along with several vials of rare, raw essences. One of them was Rose de Mai from Grasse, an essence I had been searching for for months. There was also a card, handwritten by Harrison in strong, elegant script. “For the master perfumer of the future.” I clutched the card, my eyes suddenly burning. Sloane pushed the door open, her eyes landing on the kit. Her expression was a mixture of amusement and contempt. “Harrison certainly has a lot of time on his hands, buying you toys for your little games.” She picked up the vial of Rose de Mai, sniffed it, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I thought Harrison had better taste. Turns out he can be fooled by these cheap little tricks, too.” She tossed the bottle carelessly onto my vanity. “Audrey, you’d better learn your place. Don’t think a single compliment from Harrison Pierce means you’ve suddenly made it. In the Hayes family, in the Pierce family, in this entire world, your little hobby isn’t even worthy of being a joke.” I silently picked up the vial of precious essence and placed it carefully back in its box. A voice inside me whispered, At least he sees me more clearly than you, my own sister, ever have. 4 Harrison’s gift became the only light in my gray existence. I began to study perfumery systematically, spending all my days and nights in my glass conservatory. I created fragrances I named ‘Solstice,’ ‘First Frost,’ ‘Harvest Moon’… I named my creations after the quiet, turning moments of the seasons, my only way of fighting back against this cold, sterile mansion. My allergies gradually improved. I became a little brighter. I cut the heavy bangs I used to hide behind, revealing my forehead. My features were nothing compared to my sister’s stunning beauty, but at least now, I could smile at my reflection. My mother was a high priestess of fashion. Normally, if Sloane changed her lipstick shade from a Tom Ford to a Christian Louboutin, my mother could not only identify it but discuss the subtle shifts in power projected by different application techniques. My new haircut went entirely unnoticed for a full week. Still, I tried. At a family dinner, I finally spoke up. “Mom, do you notice anything… different about me today?” My mother’s gaze lifted from a financial journal, swept across my face, and then she waved her hand impatiently, as if shooing away a fly. “Sloane is having some trouble with the European project. I have a headache. Don’t bother me.” In that instant, any desire I had to share my life with them evaporated. From that day on, I don’t think I ever told them another thing about myself. Not even when I won the “Rising Star” award at an international perfumery competition. If they didn’t ask, I didn’t tell. Perhaps my newfound silence was a relief to them. On my twentieth birthday, my father gave me a large check and the deed to a villa with a garden on the outskirts of the city. He called it a “coming-of-age present.” In reality, I knew what it was. I was being gracefully, permanently, exiled. My mother’s talk was cushioned with concern. “Audrey, you’re a grown woman now. You need your own space. With all the business talk and people coming and going here, it must be disruptive for you. It will be quieter for you to move out.” “And your sister and Harrison will be getting engaged soon. We’re redecorating the whole house. It will be a mess, and we wouldn’t want your allergies to act up again.” Every word was for my own good. And every word was telling me that there was no longer a place for me in this house. After a long silence, I quietly accepted. Sloane was there the day I moved. Dressed in sharp riding gear, she had just come back from the stables, a riding crop still in her hand. She leaned against the doorframe, watching the movers carry out my boxes of vials and beakers, her eyes filled with scorn. “Good. You moving out will stop the house from smelling like a swamp.” She paused, tapping one of my boxes of raw materials with the tip of her crop. “Audrey, do you know the difference between you and me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “What I create is value that can double the market cap of the Hayes Corporation. And what you create,” she let out a short, sharp laugh, “is a pile of worthless, fleeting smells.” “Try to be understanding of the family’s decision. We can’t afford to support a freeloader.” 5 I froze, my hands clenching into fists. I’m supposed to be understanding of the family. But who was ever going to be understanding of me? I didn’t voice the question. I knew no one in this house wanted to hear it, and no one would listen. The home I had lived in for twenty years had officially erased my name. I moved into the villa, surrounded by my plants and essences. I thought my life would finally be peaceful. Until the invitation to Sloane and Harrison’s engagement party arrived. It was exquisite, the names “Sloane Hayes & Harrison Pierce” embossed in gold. My name wasn’t on it. I was just a guest. My mother called to give me specific instructions. “Audrey, that day is your sister’s big day. Dress appropriately—not too flashy, but not cheap. Just sit there quietly and don’t embarrass your sister.” I understood what she meant. My very existence was an embarrassment. The engagement party was held at a seven-star hotel owned by the Hayes Corporation, taking over the entire rooftop garden. I didn’t own a suitable gown. Sloane had a walk-in closet full of them, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask. I used the prize money from my competition to buy a simple, long dress in a shade of lavender. When I arrived at the party and saw my sister, the familiar feeling of inadequacy washed over me. She was wearing a custom-made gown by a Lebanese designer, a ‘starlight’ dress covered in thousands of tiny diamonds that glittered under the lights like a captured galaxy. Her flawless figure was showcased to perfection, her smile radiating the confidence of a queen. Beside my sister’s brilliance, I had always been nothing more than dust. But tonight, the feeling of inferiority was so potent it threatened to swallow me whole. I clutched my small handbag as if it were the last remnant of my dignity. I found a corner to sit in, trying to make myself invisible. But Harrison found me anyway. He navigated the glittering, champagne-fueled crowd and stopped in front of me. “You look beautiful tonight,” he said, and it sounded sincere. “Thank you,” I managed a tight smile. “Congratulations to you and Sloane.” His eyes lingered on me for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, but it ended with a soft sigh. The party reached its peak. My father and sister took the stage. “The proudest accomplishment of my life is having a daughter like Sloane! She is my only heir, and the only future leader of the Hayes Corporation!” The applause was thunderous. I watched my triumphant father and my radiant sister on the stage. There was no place for me beside them. There was no role for me in their blueprint for the future. I stood in front of the ladies’ room mirror, a hollow feeling in my chest, and thought, for a girl who is merely average, is having a sister who is extraordinary a blessing, or a curse? Then, a wild, electrifying thought sparked in my mind. If I’m always going to be stuck in the shadows, then I’ll make the shadows bloom with their own unforgettable color. If the only person they can see is my sister, then I’ll stand right next to her. In my own way. I took a deep breath and walked back out. 6 I returned to the main hall and walked directly toward the head table. All eyes were on the stage; no one noticed me. I reached Harrison’s seat, leaned down, and whispered in his ear. “Mr. Pierce, could I have a word? I’ve prepared an engagement gift that I’d like to give to you and Sloane privately.” Surprise flickered in his eyes, but he nodded politely and followed me to a secluded corner of the terrace. From my handbag, I took out a simple, small white porcelain bottle, completely unmarked. “This is the engagement gift I created for you.” I removed the stopper. A strange, indescribable fragrance bloomed in the cool night air. Harrison knew fragrance. He closed his eyes, concentrating. “There’s rose in here… but not a typical rose. And… tuberose and jasmine?” His brow furrowed slightly. “But their scent is being suppressed by something stronger, colder. What is it?” I looked at him and said, word by word: “Datura.” The color drained from Harrison’s face. I let out a soft laugh, a sound that carried twenty years of cold sorrow. “I call it ‘Accomplice’.” “The top notes are Rose de Mai from Grasse, Egyptian jasmine, and Indian tuberose—the three most exquisite, expensive, and beautiful floral scents in the world. They represent my sister, Sloane. She has everything. She is perfect.” “For the heart, I used a heavy dose of white musk and ambergris to create the warm, enveloping texture of skin, like an embrace. This symbolizes you, Mr. Pierce. Your arrival is the final, brilliant coronation of her perfect life.” Harrison’s gaze grew deeper. He listened silently, not interrupting. “But,” my voice turned cold, “can you smell it? Beneath all that extreme romance and beauty, there’s a hidden current. A cold, toxic scent. That is the base note—black datura.” “It represents everything that is covered up by perfection. All the things that can’t be brought into the light. For instance, a life that was never wanted, cries that were always ignored, an existence that was never allowed a name.” I met Harrison’s stunned gaze directly. “This perfume is for you both. When you are basking at the pinnacle of love and success, will you, perhaps, occasionally catch a whiff… of the resentful air from the shadows?” “Congratulations, Mr. Pierce. You are about to marry the light of the Hayes family. From now on, you will have to learn how to coexist with the shadow that this light casts.” I pressed the small porcelain bottle into his cold hand, turned, and walked toward the exit without a backward glance. I didn’t look at Harrison’s expression, nor did I look at my glamorous parents and sister on the stage. From this day forward, I was no longer the awkward footnote in their perfect family story. I am Audrey Hayes. I am the poison in the perfume called ‘Accomplice’. And I am the one and only protagonist of my own life. The moment I stepped out of the hotel, the night wind catching my hair, I felt a lightness I had never known. I took out my phone and dialed the number for the international perfumery competition. “Hello, I’m calling to accept your invitation. I would be honored to serve as a guest judge for the next competition.” Yes, the award notification I had hidden away, the passion they deemed worthless—that was about to become the sharpest weapon in my arsenal. The story of Audrey Hayes was only just beginning. 7 I blocked every number from my family. But I forgot to block my mother’s personal assistant. At three in the morning, the assistant’s call came like a death knell. I answered, and my mother’s voice, seething with a barely contained hysteria, shot through the phone. “Audrey! Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea what you’ve done tonight?” I held the phone away from my ear, listening calmly to her shrill accusations. “Your sister’s engagement party! The Pierce family’s reputation! The Hayes family’s reputation! You’ve ruined it all!” “How could you… how dare you do something so classless? Giving them that… that unlucky thing, saying those passive-aggressive words! Do you think we’ve been too good to you? Have you forgotten who you are?” I said nothing. My silence seemed to enrage her further. “You get yourself back here right now! Apologize to the Pierces, and to your sister! Now! Immediately!” “I’m not coming back,” I said softly, my voice devoid of emotion. “What did you say?” She sounded as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “I said, I’m not coming back,” I repeated. “From the day I moved out, I never planned on returning. That house belongs to Sloane, not me.” The line went dead silent. After a long moment, my mother’s voice came back, exhausted and cold. “Audrey, you will regret this.” The call ended. Immediately, an unknown number rang. It was my father. His voice was much calmer than my mother’s, but it was a calm laced with ice, a pressure that felt like it could shatter the phone. “I’m giving you two choices.” “One, you delete all of your ridiculous social media accounts and go abroad for a few years. You are not to interfere in this family’s affairs again. When this blows over, I’ll arrange a marriage for you. I’ll guarantee you a comfortable life.” “Two,” he paused, his tone one of absolute authority, “I will take back the villa and the credit cards, and cut off all your financial support. The Hayes family will no longer have a daughter named Audrey. You can go out into the world and see how far your ‘hobbies’ get you. See if they can even buy you a meal.” It was the final ultimatum. And it was the same threat I had been hearing for twenty years. It used to make me tremble and obey. But this time, I smiled. “Dad,” I said, “the truth is, I’ve only ever had one choice.” “And that’s to become myself.” I hung up and turned off my phone. The world was finally quiet. I lay in bed, watching the inky black sky outside my window, my heart pounding in my chest. It was a chaotic mix of fear and the exhilarating thrill of a new beginning. As dawn approached, I turned my phone back on. A single text message had come through. It was from Harrison. “I received the perfume. But I don’t think ‘Accomplice’ is the right name.” I assumed he was calling on Sloane’s behalf to condemn me. My fingers hovered over the screen, unsure how to reply. A few seconds later, a second message arrived. “It belongs to you alone. It shouldn’t be tied to anyone else.” “It should be called ‘Monologue’.” My eyes burned. Monologue. Yes. That’s what it was. A grand, sorrowful, twenty-year-long monologue that no one had ever bothered to listen to. And Harrison was the first, and only, person to understand.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “384972”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night Mia was broken, I was there. I watched it all happen. I even filmed it. Eventually, the horror shattered her mind. She was admitted to Mercy General. A few days later, her mother found me. She fell to her knees on the pavement in front of my apartment. “Ethan,” she pleaded, her voice cracking. “Mia said she was going to meet you that night. The night she was… attacked. She said you were nearby. You must have seen who did it. Please.” I looked down at the woman clutching my jeans, her body shaking with sobs. Then I kicked her hand away. “Sorry,” I said, my voice flat. “I didn’t see anything.” 1 Mrs. Miller sprawled back on the concrete, stunned. “You’re lying, Ethan.” Her voice trembled, but she bit down hard, refusing to let the tears fall. “Ever since Mia was admitted, she does nothing but clutch her pillow and whisper your name.” “She says she saw you that night, standing at the end of the alley. She keeps asking why you didn’t save her!” I pulled a cigarette from my pocket. It took three clicks of the lighter for the flame to catch. “Look, I told you,” I said, taking a long drag. “I wasn’t there. Mia’s not… well right now. You can’t take her word for it.” She scrambled to her feet, lunging for my arm. I sidestepped, and she stumbled, catching her balance at the last second. “My daughter has always been honest. She’s never told a lie in her life! Even now, confused as she is, she wouldn’t make up something like that!” My fingers tightened around the cigarette, the heat searing my skin. The sudden pain brought me back. Of course, I knew better than anyone. Mia wasn’t lying. The rain was coming down in sheets that night. I was waiting it out under the awning of the Quick Mart, and I saw them. I saw someone drag her into the dead-end alley next to the store. “I was in my dorm all night,” I said, my voice hard. “I never went near that alley.” I dropped the cigarette and crushed it under my shoe. “Ethan, I’m asking you one last time. Who was it?” Before I could answer, a car pulled up. Mr. Miller got out. He’d taken a bad fall when he heard the news about Mia, and he still walked with a heavy limp. “You and Mia were together for two years,” he said, his voice strained. “She loved you. How can you watch her go through this and not even tell us the truth?” Seeing him like that, frail and limping, felt like a stone in my stomach. But I forced the words out. “I honestly don’t know, sir. If I knew, I would have called the cops myself. I wouldn’t be wasting my time here with you.” “Wasting your time?” His voice erupted in a roar of anger. He shoved me, hard. The force of it threw him off balance, and he crumpled to the ground. Mrs. Miller screamed and rushed to his side. “David! Are you okay? Ethan, you monster!” A small crowd was starting to form. Murmurs rippled through the onlookers. “Isn’t that Ethan? He’s Mia Miller’s boyfriend, right?” “I heard what happened to Mia. Something about a breakdown… So he knows who did it and won’t talk?” “Jesus, what a coward. His own girlfriend gets attacked, and he won’t stand up for her? Then he pushes her dad over?” Mia’s best friend, Chloe, suddenly appeared, pushing her way to the front. She pointed a trembling finger at me. “Are you even a man, Ethan? Do you have any idea how many guys envied you when you and Mia got together?” “She was the girl every guy on campus was in love with, and she chose you! How can you do this to her? Has your conscience been eaten by dogs?!” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Of course, I knew they envied me. At last year’s Founder’s Day ceremony, Mia gave a speech as the student representative. Every man in that auditorium was glued to her. “What good is envy?” I shot back. “You all saw how good she was to me. You have no idea what I did for her. Now that something’s happened, you all line up to point the finger. Do any of you have a clue what really went down?” “It’s because you’re scared, isn’t it?” Chloe spat. “You’re afraid to piss off her attacker. I heard the guy comes from a powerful family. You’re afraid of what they’ll do to you, so you’re keeping your mouth shut.” Her words hit their mark. A raw nerve. I saw Mia again in my mind, curled on the wet asphalt after it was over, her clothes torn, her face a mess of rain and tears. The look of utter despair in her eyes as she grabbed my arm. Mr. Miller, helped to his feet by his wife, was shaking with rage. “You remember this, Ethan. You refuse to talk today? Fine. But I will search this entire city if I have to. I will find the man who did this. And when I do, I don’t know how you’ll ever face Mia again.” “Do whatever you want.” I turned to leave, but Chloe grabbed my arm. “You’re not going anywhere! We already called the police. They’re on their way. Let’s see you tell your story to them!” I yanked my arm free, sending her stumbling back. The crowd’s muttering grew louder, a chorus of “coward” and “bastard.” I glanced toward the Quick Mart at the end of the street. Next to it was the alley where her life fell apart. Mia used to come here all the time. She’d stand right there by the entrance and call me. “Ethan, I got you something special.” Her smile back then… it could light up the whole damn world. A dry, painful laugh scraped its way out of my throat. Because I knew the truth better than any of them. I was hiding everything. 2 “She’s my only daughter, Ethan.” Mr. Miller’s anger had dissolved, replaced by a raw, aching despair. In front of everyone, the big man started to weep. “Mia was always such a good kid. A straight-A student. Never gave us a moment of trouble.” “And now? She’s in a psychiatric ward. Half the time, the only name she says is yours. The rest of the time, she just holds a pillow and cries. She doesn’t even recognize us anymore.” “As her father… seeing her like this… I don’t even want to live anymore.” The eyes of the crowd on me hardened with contempt. Mrs. Miller sniffled, her voice thick with emotion. “The only reason I’m still going is to find out the truth. To find the person who did this and clear her name. Then, even if I die, I can face her in the afterlife.” “You were with her for two years. Even if you have no feelings left, you can’t just stand by and let this happen without saying a single word of truth, can you?” I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. Just then, my academic advisor, Dean Evans, arrived. After a quick briefing from Chloe, his face grew grim. He turned to me, his voice stern. “Ethan, withholding information makes you an accessory. If the perpetrator gets away because you stayed silent, you could be charged with a crime. Do you understand?” “You’re a university student. Do you know what a criminal record means? It’s a permanent mark on your file. Forget about grad school, forget about a decent job. It’s over.” I met his gaze. “Dean Evans, if you think I’ve committed a crime, then by all means, call the cops.” “When they get here, I’ll tell them the same thing I told everyone else. I didn’t see anything. What are they going to do to me?” My defiance left him speechless, his expression darkening. Mr. Miller, however, trembled with renewed fury. “How can you be so cold-blooded, Ethan? Mia is in the hospital, talking about you day and night. She says you were right there. She couldn’t have been mistaken!” I let out another cold laugh. “Sir, with all due respect, your daughter doesn’t even recognize her own parents right now. Can you really trust what she’s saying?” “Maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe she saw someone else and thought it was me. If you really want to help her, you should be at the hospital, not here harassing me.” My words detonated in the small crowd. “Are you even human, Ethan? Mia’s in that state, and you talk about her like that?” “Yeah, even if she’s not lucid, you don’t have to slander her!” Mr. Miller’s face went white with rage. He lunged forward and slapped me across the face. The sting was sharp, electric. “I’m going to kill you, you heartless piece of scum!” he roared. “Mia must have been blind to ever love you!” The students around us murmured their agreement, that a bastard like me deserved it. I stared back at them, a cold smile on my lips. They didn’t give a damn about helping Mia. They’d always been jealous. From the day Mia and I got together, I’d heard the whispers in the hallways, the talk about how a guy like me didn’t deserve a girl like her. This was their chance to tear me down, and they were loving it. I took a deep breath and let the smile spread across my face. “You think I wanted to be with her?” “The truth is, I’ve wanted to break up with her for a long time.” “She’s a goddamn curse!” 3 The moment the words left my mouth, the murmuring exploded into chaos. Mr. and Mrs. Miller looked as if I’d just stabbed them, their faces drained of all color. Mrs. Miller was the first to react, clawing at my hair. “You ungrateful monster! How dare you! What did my daughter ever do to you but love you?” “When you had that terrible flu, she stayed up all night making you broth from scratch! She knew your family didn’t have much, so she was the one helping you pay for things these last two years!” Mr. Miller landed another punch, this one square on my jaw. I stumbled back, my spine slamming into the brick wall behind me. A sharp pain shot through my back. “I used to think you were a decent kid,” he seethed. “I was happy Mia was with you. Now I see I was blind. You call her a curse? You’re the one who’s an animal in human skin!” I rubbed my aching back. As I started to form a retort, Mr. Miller’s eyes narrowed, a strange look clouding his features. It was a mix of suspicion and dawning horror. He took a shaky breath, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Ethan, tell me something. Was it because she wouldn’t sleep with you? Is that why you did it?” I froze. I never imagined he would think that. The crowd quieted, all eyes on me, waiting. “Mia has always been… a good girl,” he continued, his voice thick. “Did you get angry because she said no? She went to meet you that night… and when you couldn’t have her, you took her by force!” Beside him, Mrs. Miller began to sob, nodding frantically. “It must be! Oh, Ethan, you are a devil!” “We already agreed. We were going to let you two get married right after graduation. How could you do this to her?” I looked at them, a feeling of grim, hopeless absurdity washing over me. They would rather believe this insane theory than accept the simple fact that I hadn’t seen the attacker. I fumbled for another cigarette and lit it. “Married?” I let out a puff of smoke and a cold, cruel laugh. “Please. A girl like Mia? Even if you offered her to me for free, I wouldn’t want her now. She’s dirty.” A dead silence fell over the street. Every single person stared at me, their faces a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated fury. Mrs. Miller was shaking so violently I thought she would collapse. But just then, a weak voice cut through the tension from behind me. “Ethan… why are you saying that about me?” It was Mia. Hearing her voice, my entire body went rigid. 4 Everyone turned. Slowly, I did the same. Mia was standing there, flanked by a relative and a doctor from the hospital. She was so much thinner. Her cheeks were hollowed out, making her eyes seem huge and vacant, all their former light extinguished. A dark, bruised purple shadowed the skin beneath them. The oversized hospital gown hung on her frame like a sheet on a scarecrow, as if a strong gust of wind could carry her away. The sight of her was a punch to the gut. Mrs. Miller ran to her, sobbing, and threw her arms around her daughter. But Mia’s gaze was fixed on me. Tears welled up in her haunted eyes and began to trace silent paths down her pale cheeks. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Ethan… I loved you so much. I was so good to you. Why would you say that? Why would you call me dirty?” I looked at her, and the words caught in my throat like gravel. I wanted to turn and run, but my feet felt nailed to the pavement. Seeing my silence, her tears fell faster. “That night… someone pulled me into the alley,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I saw you. I thought you would save me. Why didn’t you save me?” She paused, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, a new wave of despair washing over her face. “And… I saw you. You were holding your phone. You were filming it.” “Ethan, the proof is on your phone. Why won’t you just admit it?” Her words were like gasoline on a fire. The crowd erupted. “What are you still standing there for, you bastard? Hand over the phone!” “Mia remembers the details! What else can you say?” “He did it on purpose! He has the video and he’s protecting the attacker!” I gritted my teeth, my eyes locked on Mia. It took all my strength to force the words out. “She’s talking nonsense! She’s mentally unstable. How can you believe a word she says?” But the doctor accompanying her immediately stepped forward. “Ms. Miller suffers from intermittent psychosis, not total delusion,” he explained calmly. “During her lucid periods, her logic and memory are intact. What she has just said has a high degree of credibility.” The doctor’s words demolished my only defense. Mr. Miller charged at me, his hands grabbing for my pocket. “Give me the phone, Ethan! Give it to me!” I instinctively recoiled, pushing him away. That was the signal. Several of Mia’s male relatives closed in, their faces tight with rage. “You’re going to pay for what you did to Mia.” A fist slammed into my face. I felt a hot, wet crack in my nose, and blood streamed down my mouth. “Get him! Make him talk!” “Beat the hell out of that bastard!” More people surged forward. Fists and feet rained down on me from every direction. I curled into a ball on the ground, covering my head, my body screaming in protest. Every bone felt like it was about to shatter. Blood filled my mouth, metallic and salty. I tried to shout, but a kick to my stomach stole my breath, leaving me gasping in silent agony. A pool of blood spread on the pavement beneath me. My vision started to blur at the edges. Through the haze of pain, I saw Mr. Miller finally snatch my phone. He grabbed my hand, forcing my thumb onto the sensor to unlock it. But a moment later, as he looked at the screen, he froze. The color drained from his face, leaving it a ghastly, bloodless white. The crowd pressed in, desperate to see what was on the screen. Suddenly, Mr. Miller snapped back to reality. With a guttural roar, he hurled the phone to the ground.

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1 My mother always said my father’s eyes were for her and her alone. No other woman was allowed to look at him, not even me, his daughter. The first time I called him “Daddy,” she sealed my lips shut with superglue. “You just have to have his attention, don’t you?” she hissed. “Let’s see you call for him now!” When he came home from a business trip and I ran to hug him, she beat me with a coat hanger until I was covered in blood. “You little slut, trying to steal my husband? Not on my watch!” And the time he took me to Disneyland? When we got home, she threw me out the eighteenth-story window. “Let’s see you seduce my husband when you’re dead!” As my shattered bones lay on the pavement, I prayed with every ounce of my broken soul. A thousand lifetimes of punishing evil and upholding good, I’ll take it. Just please, please give me a different mother next time. And the universe, in its infinite mercy, granted my request. Darkness, then a voice, filled with pure, unadulterated joy. It was my aunt, Claire. “Oh my god, I’m really pregnant? I’m going to be a mom!” “Please, please, let it be a girl!” Thank you, thank you, thank you. The universe had made my aunt my new mother. Aunt Claire was a human sunbeam, her only sorrow being her struggle with infertility. She had seen how miserable I was and had tried to adopt me. I would have given anything to go live with her. But my mother, Jessica, would never allow it. It was a fantasy I held onto until the day I died. And now, my fantasy had come true. I curled up contentedly in my new, safe home, trying not to giggle with glee. But then, a familiar, nightmarish voice shattered my peace. It was Jessica. “We’re pregnant at the same time, sis-in-law,” she said to Claire. “Honey,” she cooed to my father, Mark, “what if we have a girl too?” My father’s voice was full of happiness. “That would be great! A sweet, adorable little girl.” Jessica’s voice tightened. “You’re already so in love with her and she’s not even born yet. What about me? Will you even look at me after she’s here? It’s like I’m giving birth to your mistress!” Claire was stunned. “Jessica, what are you talking about? This is your daughter!” “It doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl!” Claire added, trying to smooth things over. But Jessica wasn’t having it. “What if it is a girl?” she whined. “I have a feeling it is. A little home-wrecker!” She dug her sharp nails into her own stomach, as if trying to kill the fetus inside. A cold suspicion crept over me. Could Jessica have been reborn too? Was that why she thought she was pregnant with me again, and was trying to get rid of the baby from the start? “Honey, this baby is bad luck,” she pleaded with Mark. “It’s a curse. Let’s just get rid of it and try again. I’ll give you a son, I promise!” The doctor cut in. “Mrs. Miller, you have a very specific condition that makes it difficult for you to conceive. This pregnancy is a miracle.” Mark’s voice was stern. “You’re a grown woman, Jessica. Stop talking nonsense. It doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl. Don’t you dare hurt yourself or my child. My parents are so excited to be grandparents.” Claire added, “Jessica, get a grip. Do you really think Mark would have trouble finding someone else to have his children if you can’t?” The message was clear. If she couldn’t or wouldn’t have this baby, plenty of other women would be lining up to take her place. And her husband was her entire world. Jessica immediately changed her tune. “Oh, honey, your angry face is so scary! I’m pregnant, you know! I’ll be good, I’ll take care of the baby, I promise!” In front of Mark, she was the picture of maternal devotion. The second he left, she grabbed her stomach and cursed. “You little bitch. You think you’re safe just because I’m not getting an abortion? You’re not stealing my husband from me this time. Not for one second.” Her venomous words sent a chill through me, dragging me back to the misery of my past life. As if sensing my fear, Claire gently stroked her belly and began to hum a lullaby. This, I thought, this is my real mother. I relaxed. Jessica and Claire were both sent to the same exclusive private hospital, with VIP maternity packages. In front of Mark, Jessica would rub her belly with a beatific smile. But when he wasn’t around, she did everything she could to induce a miscarriage. She spit out her prenatal vitamins, flushed her specially prepared nutritional meals down the toilet, and secretly smoked and drank, and binged on ice cream. “You think you can make me have morning sickness?” she’d mutter to her stomach. “Let’s see how much nutrition you get now! I hope you’re stillborn! Or at least born a wrinkly, ugly little alcoholic that no one will ever want!” She even ordered a set of dumbbells and did endless crunches, her face pale with pain, refusing to stop. When Claire and the nurses tried to intervene, she had a ready excuse. “I’m strengthening my core! It’ll make for an easier delivery and a quicker recovery! I’m not letting this little home-wrecker steal my husband and my figure!” Listening to her, I felt a familiar dread. This must have been what it was like for me last time. My suffering had begun long before I was even born. But this time, I was safe with Claire. So who was the poor soul in Jessica’s belly? Maybe it was a boy. Maybe things would be different for him. If he survived her abuse, that is. Claire’s pregnancy was the complete opposite of Jessica’s self-inflicted nightmare. She ate well, had no morning sickness, and her appetite was only slightly larger than usual. My development was perfectly on track, but her belly was barely showing. From the back, you couldn’t even tell she was pregnant. By the second trimester, Claire was glowing. No complications, not even a single stretch mark. Her skin was radiant. This, of course, was my doing. The other expectant mothers in the hospital were amazed. They gathered around Claire, desperate to know her secret. “Dr. Evans said you’re the most relaxed pregnant woman she’s ever seen!” “You’re even sleeping through the night? If it weren’t for your belly, I wouldn’t even think you were pregnant!” “Look at her face! Not a single blemish!” Claire just laughed. “I don’t know. I guess I just have a well-behaved baby.” My uncle, Tom, was overjoyed. “This baby is a gift. She knows not to cause her mother any trouble!” He was right. I was here to be cherished, and to cherish in return. To finally have a loving mother, and for my aunt to finally have the daughter she’d always wanted. I nudged against Claire’s hand as she rubbed her belly, wishing I could be born right then and kiss her. As if she could feel my joy, she kept her hand there for a long time. Jessica watched from the edge of the crowd, her eyes full of envy. She punched her own stomach, then pushed her way through to Claire. “You know, you’ve been craving sour things,” she said loudly. “Sour for a boy, sweet for a girl. You’re definitely having a boy. I’m having a girl. You always wanted a girl, right? Let’s just swap. Everyone will be happy!” Claire stared at her, dumbfounded. “Jessica, what are you talking about? Are you feeling okay?” Jessica rolled her eyes and stuck out her stomach. “I’m having a girl and I don’t want her! You can have her! You can raise her! And you can give me your son. It’ll save you a fortune in college tuition later.” Even Claire’s legendary patience had its limits. “You smoke and drink and do everything you can to hurt your baby, and now you want to just give her away? Don’t you have any love for the child inside you?” Jessica stamped her foot. “Love? That little bitch is trying to steal my husband! You think I’m going to love her for that? Who are you trying to impress with your sanctimonious act? Fine, don’t swap. See if I care!” She stormed back to her room and started slamming an iPad against her stomach, as if she could beat the baby to death from the outside. She got even worse after that. Coffee, shellfish, intentionally falling down the stairs. The nurses were terrified of her, and started watching her around the clock. But Jessica didn’t care. “It’s my body, my baby. I can do whatever I want!” she’d shriek. “I have to protect my marriage! I’m not giving that little slut a chance!” But the baby stayed put. No miscarriage, not even any spotting. Jessica, furious, ordered a cocktail of dangerous herbs online. “I’ll get rid of you one way or another, you little bitch!” Claire noticed the strange package and immediately told Mark. He came storming into the hospital, his face like a thundercloud, and threw the herbs in the trash. “Have you forgotten this is my child too? What the hell is wrong with you?!” He threw out everything she’d bought and said, his voice deadly serious, “If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I’m done. With you, and with the baby. You can both get out of my life.” Jessica fell to her knees, sobbing. “No, honey, please! I love you! I just can’t stand the thought of you caring about anyone else! Let’s just have a son, please?” Mark sighed and helped her up, wiping away her tears. “Jessica, listen to me,” he said, his voice full of a weary sincerity. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl. You are the woman I love. Nothing and no one will ever change that.” He meant it. And he had kept his word. In my last life, he had seen how Jessica tortured me, but he had looked the other way. He was an accomplice to my abuse. And now, more than ever, I was grateful to be free of both of them. The second Mark left for the office, Jessica was back to her old self, slamming her pregnant belly into the corner of a table. “You little bitch! You’re not even born yet and you’re already making him yell at me! Just you wait!” Claire watched her, a deep frown on her face. She was finally starting to see how truly unhinged her sister-in-law was. What she didn’t see was the strange, calculating smile on Jessica’s face as she watched Claire walk away. I knew Jessica wasn’t done. And I was right. That afternoon, while Claire was napping, Jessica found one of the delivery nurses. “See her?” she said, pointing at Claire’s room. “We’re probably going to give birth around the same time. When we do, I need you to do me a favor. Swap our babies.” The nurse pocketed the thick wad of cash Jessica handed her. “That’s a big risk,” she said. “If I get caught, I’ll lose my job.” Jessica sneered. “If anyone asks, just say I asked you to bring the baby over so I could see my new niece. We’re family. What’s the big deal?” The nurse nodded. “Why do you want to swap, anyway? You don’t even know if you’re both having girls.” Jessica’s eyes were full of a venomous jealousy as she looked at Claire’s door. “She’s already flirting with my brother. Now she’s trying to get cozy with my husband too? And why should she have such an easy pregnancy while I’m suffering? She wants a daughter? Fine, I’ll give her a daughter. Let’s see how she likes it when her own husband starts to stray!” After the nurse left, Jessica muttered to herself, a chilling, evil sound. “Last time, I let you live for a few years. This time, I’m going to kill you the day you’re born. No, no, I can’t even wait that long. The very first day…” My blood ran cold. Was I destined to be killed by this monster, no matter what? But what could I do? I was just a fetus. Thankfully, my limbs were fully formed now. So whenever Jessica came near Claire, I would give a little kick. At first, Claire didn’t notice. She just thought I was finally getting active. “Oh, you’re getting strong in there! Come on, baby, give Mommy a high-five!” It was the only thing I could do. I stayed perfectly still at all other times. But whenever Jessica was around, I’d kick and squirm. After the twentieth time, Claire started to look confused. She didn’t say anything, but she quietly asked Tom if they could switch hospitals. I was overjoyed. Tom was confused. “Why? This is the best hospital in the city.” Claire just said it was a mother’s intuition. In the end, Tom convinced her to stay, worried that the stress of moving so close to the due date would be bad for the baby. But he did get her a larger, more private room at the opposite end of the hall from Jessica. After that, whenever Jessica came by, Claire would pretend to be asleep. Eventually, Jessica got the hint and stopped coming around as often. I finally felt a small measure of relief. I spent my days practicing my positioning, getting ready for the big day. Eight days before my due date, I decided I was ready. Okay, Mom, for my sake, let’s do this thing. I promise I won’t make it too hard on you. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and gave a mighty kick downwards. “Nurse! Doctor! My water just broke! I’m in labor!” Claire’s voice was louder and more powerful than I’d ever heard it. The hospital staff rushed in to take her to the delivery room. Jessica, hearing the commotion, came out of her room. She stared for a second, then ran over and blocked the gurney. “It’s too early! Claire, you can’t have the baby now! We were supposed to give birth on the same day! You have to wait!” Mark, mortified, pulled her away. “What are you talking about? Are you insane?” As the delivery room doors swung shut, Jessica cursed Claire, hoping for a stillbirth. But twenty minutes later, the doors opened again. My cries filled the hallway. Mom! I’m here! The doctors and nurses were all smiling. “I’ve never seen a delivery so fast and so easy! You’re a lucky one!” The family crowded around, cooing over me in my mother’s arms. “Come on, Jessica, come see your new niece. It’ll be your turn in a few days. I’m sure it’ll be just as easy for you!” Jessica forced a smile and walked over. The second she saw me, her face froze. The thermos in her hand slipped, and a stream of boiling water came flying towards me.

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After my dorm mates found out about my $100,000 monthly allowance, one of them became my personal copycat. If I dined at a Michelin-starred restaurant, she’d max out her credit cards to order the exact same tasting menu. If my parents gifted me a limited-edition handbag, she’d commission a high-quality replica from a back-alley workshop when she couldn’t buy the real thing. Everyone told her to stop being a cheap imitation, but she reveled in it. I was beyond annoyed. Until the day she chopped her waist-length hair into a wavy bob, identical to mine. That’s when the pop-up comments first appeared in my vision: [GIRL, WAKE UP! SHE’S NOT TRYING TO COPY YOU, SHE’S TRYING TO REPLACE YOU!] [ONCE THE IMITATION METER HITS 100%, YOUR ENTIRE IDENTITY AS A WEALTHY HEIRESS WILL BECOME HERS. THE PROGRESS BAR IS ALREADY AT 80%.] [THE SCARIEST PART: SHE’S INTENTIONALLY TAKEN OUT A NAKED LOAN. WHEN IT DEFAULTS, YOU’LL BE SADDLED WITH THE DEBT, AND THE COMPROMISING PHOTOS WILL GET YOU EXPELLED!] She wanted to steal my life? I looked at my reflection in the mirror and made a decision that would make my ancestors roll in their graves. I was going to take the hair I’d spent eighteen years caring for… and shave it all off. 1 Seeing my roommate, Jenna, with her new hair—a perfect replica of my own wavy bob—my best friend Kristen finally snapped. “Jenna, what is your damage?” she fumed. “You’re a total wannabe! It was bad enough when you were copying Ava’s every move, but now you have the same exact hair and outfit? Who are you trying to freak out?” Honestly, having someone mimic your every move is deeply unsettling. Our other roommates had tried to talk to her, gently suggesting she focus on her own strengths instead of being someone else’s shadow. But it was like talking to a brick wall. This time was no different. Faced with Kristen’s outrage, Jenna just casually fluffed her newly styled hair. “Everyone has the right to pursue beauty. I happen to like this style right now. What’s the big deal?” “Is Ava Sterling’s name written on this haircut?” she continued, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Can no one else have it? Don’t be so selfish.” She had twisted it around to make us the villains. That was the last straw for me. I was about to let her have it when the comments flooded my vision again: [GIRL, WAKE UP! SHE’S NOT TRYING TO COPY YOU, SHE’S TRYING TO REPLACE YOU!] [ONCE THE IMITATION METER HITS 100%, YOUR ENTIRE IDENTITY AS A WEALTHY HEIRESS WILL BECOME HERS. THE PROGRESS BAR IS ALREADY AT 80%.] [THE SCARIEST PART: SHE’S INTENTIONALLY TAKEN OUT A NAKED LOAN. WHEN IT DEFAULTS, YOU’LL BE SADDLED WITH THE DEBT, AND THE COMPROMISING PHOTOS WILL GET YOU EXPELLED!] I had thought Jenna was just a deeply insecure copycat. I never imagined her intentions were so malicious. In that moment, a plan formed. I put a calming hand on Kristen’s arm. “It’s fine. I was getting tired of this hairstyle anyway.” “But she’ll just—” Kristen started, probably about to say that Jenna would just copy whatever I did next. “Kristen,” I interrupted, my voice sweet but firm. “Jenna just said, she simply likes wavy hair. She’s definitely not intentionally copying me!” We were in the crowded campus dining hall, and I made sure to raise my voice. Heads turned. Everyone saw it: Jenna, a dollar-store version of me in every way except for her face. No one said anything, but the looks of disdain they shot her were loud and clear. Jenna couldn’t stand being the center of negative attention. Her face flushed. She muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “So smug. Just you wait,” before storming out of the hall. Kristen poked my arm. “You’re just going to let her get away with that?” I shrugged. “What else can I do? It’s not like she’s breaking the law.” “You could at least yell at her! The nerve of that copycat, being so arrogant!” “Arguing with someone like that is beneath us,” I said, soothingly. “Besides, a gorgeous girl like you can’t risk getting frown lines. It’s not worth it.” Kristen laughed, but she warned me not to be too nice to Jenna, or she’d take a mile. I wasn’t worried about her copying me. In fact, I was counting on it. With no classes in the afternoon, I told Kristen I was off to get a new look. She was all for it. I left campus and drove to the mansion my parents had bought for me. They were worried I wouldn’t adjust to dorm life, so they’d dropped a cool twenty million on a place nearby. Thinking of Jenna’s smug face, I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the electric clippers, took a deep breath, and shaved off the hair I’d spent eighteen years caring for. The comments went wild. [WHOA! WHAT IS SHE DOING? IS SHE SHAVING HER HEAD TO GET REVENGE?!] [DID SHE FIND OUT ABOUT THE PLOT AND DECIDE TO JUST BURN IT ALL DOWN?] [I MEAN, CREDIT WHERE IT’S DUE, THE GIRL HAS A PERFECTLY SHAPED SKULL. SHE EVEN LOOKS GOOD BALD. BUT DAMN, THIS IS JUST HANDING THE VILLAIN FREE PROGRESS POINTS.] 2 When I returned to the dorm with a freshly buzzed head, dyed a shocking shade of bubblegum pink, Jenna’s face went pale. “Ava! Why would you do that?” she demanded. “And that color! It’s an embarrassment to the whole university! You need to change it back right now!” I scoffed. “What I do with my hair is none of your business. And show me the rule in the student handbook that says we can’t have pink hair.” Knowing she was losing the argument, she changed her tack. “I’m not saying there’s a rule, I just mean… pink doesn’t suit you.” That was all Kristen needed to hear. She jumped to my defense. “Are you serious? My girl is a natural beauty; she doesn’t need your fashion advice. Pink is a tricky color, though. It definitely wouldn’t work on someone with your… complexion.” The comments popped up again. [Kristen is a legend. That little mouth of hers is a lethal weapon. The villain is turning green, LOL!] [No wonder she’s freaking out. She spent all her loan money. Her bank account is flashing red, only two hundred bucks left.] [LMAO, Villain’s dilemma: Change hair, insufficient funds. Don’t change hair, all previous effort wasted!] [I take back what I said before. This girl knows exactly what she’s doing.] An unexpected bonus. But I had underestimated Jenna’s determination to steal my life. The next day, while I was trying on wigs at my mansion, Kristen texted me. “Ava, when are you coming back to campus?” [image] [image] “OMG I’m dying! The copycat dyed her hair pink to match you, and she looks like a gorilla in drag. It’s a crime against humanity!” In the photos, Jenna’s hair was a disastrous shade of pink, making her look like an angry flamingo. Apparently, she’d bought a $3 box of dye and borrowed a flat iron from another roommate. After hours of effort, she had achieved a hairstyle that was a sad, 70% match to my wig. A slow smile spread across my face. I took a long, black, wavy wig from its stand and put it on. I wondered what Jenna’s expression would be when she saw my new new look. When I walked into the dorm, Jenna was in front of the mirror, yanking at her pink hair in frustration. The cheap dye was already fading, the ends turning a sickly yellow. “Ava! You’re finally back!” she chirped, striking what she must have thought was a glamorous pose. “Sorry, I just thought the pink was so pretty, so I…” Her voice trailed off as she saw my hair. Her pupils contracted. “You… you changed it again?!” I twirled a black curl around my finger. “I thought about what you said. You were right. Pink is too flashy. Black suits me better.” “Ava, you…” Jenna was trembling with rage, unable to form a complete sentence. Kristen delivered the final blow. “What’s wrong, Jenna? You’re not smiling. Are you just not a happy person by nature?” [Kristen is a master of psychological warfare. I can’t breathe!] [I mean, say what you will, but at least our girl has the looks to back it up. Jenna with that fluorescent pink skin tone looks like a walking dragon fruit.] [This is what happens when you try to fake it without the resources. A new level of pathetic!] 3 Jenna was so angry she skipped dinner, hiding under her covers and plotting something. I, wearing my black wig, was leisurely enjoying soup with Kristen in the dining hall. “Do you think she’ll dye her hair back to black tomorrow?” Kristen mused, poking a piece of broccoli. “I bet you fifty bucks she’ll try something.” I was about to answer when the pop-up comments exploded: [GIRL, YOUR HOUSE IS BEING ROBBED! THE VILLAIN IS USING A VOICE CHANGER TO CALL YOUR MOM!] [She’s mimicking your voice, whining that she’s out of money and needs her mommy to spoil her!] [OMG, that’s low. She’s trying to use the family connection to speed up the replacement progress bar!] My hand froze, the spoon halfway to my mouth. Jenna was targeting my mother? My mom was a total softy. She was easily swayed by a little sweetness. If Jenna laid it on thick, my mom might actually fall for it. Kristen noticed my expression. “What’s wrong? Are you thinking about Jenna’s horrifying face again?” I shook my head, slowly swallowing a spoonful of soup. “Nothing. I was just thinking that constantly changing my hair is getting boring.” “So what’s next?” Kristen’s eyes lit up. “A whole new style? You’d look amazing in historical costumes!” Just then, a text from my mom popped up on my screen: “Sweetie, I just transferred a million dollars to your account. Don’t be afraid to spend it.” “Oh, and that girl in your dorm, Jenna? She seems so nice. I sent her eighty thousand dollars as a little thank you for looking after you.” She was clever. After failing with me, she’d gone straight to my mom for cash. But no one takes money from the Sterling family that easily. “A new style is boring,” I said, placing my phone on the table. “If I’m going to change, I’ll change into something she can’t possibly copy.” The comments went into a frenzy: [Is she planning a new game? *rubs hands in anticipation*] [I’m almost starting to feel bad for the villain, LOL. She’s getting played so hard.] [The villain’s morals are twisted. She deserves this! Why can’t she just be a normal person instead of trying to steal someone’s life? Serves her right!] “What do you mean?” Kristen asked, her curiosity piqued. I met her gaze and smiled. “Next Wednesday is my birthday. It wouldn’t be too much to treat the entire class to dinner, would it?” On my birthday, I booked out an entire five-star hotel. Jenna showed up, ground her teeth for five minutes, and then left in a huff. “Ava, did you see her face? It was priceless!” Kristen gloated. “She thought she could become you just by copying your clothes. Today, she got a lesson in the difference between the real deal and a nine-ninety-nine knockoff.” I remained silent. I knew Jenna. She wouldn’t give up that easily. Sure enough, a few days later, on Friday night, a message from her appeared in our class group chat, complete with a location pin for the city’s most exclusive private karaoke club. “Hey everyone, I made a little extra money at my part-time job, so I’m treating you all to a night out! Party starts at 7 PM. Hope to see you there!”

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My sister and I spent our lives fighting over the family fortune. She hit me with her car, putting me in the hospital. I snuck into her room in the middle of the night and pulled the oxygen tube from her nose. The year our hatred for each other finally peaked, the family went bankrupt. We were forced into a truce, each of us left to fend for ourselves. Ten years later, my sister, Ava, was a titan of the business world. The first thing she did when she returned to the States was smash the art studio that was my entire life. She ripped the family portrait I’d painted to shreds with her own two hands and screamed for me to come out and fight her. “Leo! We’re not done yet! Don’t be a goddamn coward.” “You love these paintings so much, don’t you?” “If you don’t show your face, I’ll burn every last one of them to the ground!” I threw a punch at her, but my hand passed right through her body. It took me a long moment to remember. I’d been dead for three years. These paintings were my last gift to my sister—to the world. 1. Ava Ashford’s return was an event. The media swarmed the airport, a frenzy of flashing cameras and shouted questions. Business leaders from every sector vied for a meeting. But she turned down every invitation, every partnership offer, and instead sped directly from her private jet to my studio. Studio was a generous term. It was the top floor of a crumbling pre-war building, five flights up and no elevator. Ava was heaving for breath by the time she reached the top, muttering a stream of curses under her breath. “Leo, you son of a bitch. Hiding in a shithole like this just to avoid me.” “You just wait. When I find you, I’ll break your other leg!” I floated a glob of spit at her, wishing I could claw at her perfectly made-up face. She was complaining after one trip up the stairs. For years, I had dragged my shattered leg up and down those same stairs, over and over again. A sudden, violent crash snapped me out of my thoughts. Ava had kicked the door to my studio clean off its hinges. She stood silhouetted in the doorway, a cloud of dust billowing around her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Does a person actually live here?” “Leo, you used to complain if a mattress cost less than ten thousand dollars. What happened to you?” She plopped down on my painting stool, her breathing still ragged. Our last battle had cost me my leg. But Ava hadn’t walked away unscathed. The oxygen deprivation had left her with permanent brain damage, subtle but there. Her heart and lungs were severely weakened. She’d spent a fortune on a dedicated medical team just to keep her alive a few extra years. “Useless,” I muttered, rolling my ghostly eyes. I watched, cold and detached, as Ava directed her men to tear my studio apart. But they were as useless as she was. They found the stash of morphine bottles under my bed, but not a single trace of me. Ava scanned the room, her eyes landing on an empty prescription box. She kicked it across the floor. A bitter smile twisted her lips. “No wonder your life turned into this garbage fire. Got yourself hooked on the hard stuff, didn’t you?” “And you wanted to fight me for the inheritance? Leo, if the Ashford fortune had ended up in your hands, I wouldn’t have been able to rest in my grave.” At that, Ava’s expression flickered, a shadow passing over her eyes. She seemed to be remembering something distant. Remembering the moment our war began. When she looked up again, her face was pure ice. Her gaze swept the room, finally settling on the large painting in the center: the family portrait. The sight of my face, so familiar, finally shattered her composure. She stormed forward and ripped the canvas from its easel. With two violent tears, she shredded it. “You think you deserve to be in a family portrait?” she spat. “I told you, there’s no place for you in the Ashford family. I don’t have a brother like you!” “I have one brother, and one brother only. His name is Noah!” That name, one I hadn’t heard in so long, made my spectral form flicker. Still not satisfied, Ava screamed for me to come out and face her. The dusty studio remained silent. She pulled a Zippo from her pocket, flicking it open. The flame danced dangerously. “Leo, you spineless bastard. What’s the point in hiding?” “I swear to God, I won’t stop until you’re dead! If you don’t come out right now, I’m going to burn every single one of these pathetic paintings!” As the words left her mouth, a small, hidden compartment behind the destroyed portrait clicked open. A single videotape clattered to the floor. And from a digital voice recorder on a nearby shelf, my voice echoed through the room. “Ava, if you dare touch my paintings, I’ll haunt you from the grave.” 2 For a moment, Ava froze. Then, with a snarl, she stomped on the voice recorder, crushing it under her heel. “You think a cheap trick like that is going to scare me? Leo, you haven’t changed at all!” But when her eyes fell on the videotape, she hesitated. After a long three seconds, she drew her foot back. “Let’s just see what other pathetic games you have planned.” The screen flickered to life, revealing my pale, gaunt face. The moment she saw me, Ava’s expression soured with disgust. In the video, I gave a wide, unnerving smile. “Ava. It’s been a while. You’re still alive? What a shame.” “But don’t get too comfortable. I have a little gift for you.” “Watch it. Then you can die.” The camera’s view shifted, panning around a small, cramped bedroom. I was bent over, carefully organizing a stack of canvases. The sleeves of my oversized robe fell back, revealing arms that were nothing but skin, bone, and a constellation of needle marks. I held up the topmost painting to the camera. It was the family portrait. A version of it. In the painting, there were four of us. A younger me was holding Ava’s hand, my smile shy but blissfully happy. The date painted in the corner was July 8th, 2013. The day before I came home to the Ashfords. The police had just busted a major trafficking ring. My “adoptive parents”—the couple who beat me for breathing too loud—were taken away in cuffs. They told me the man and woman who had raised me weren’t my parents at all. They were my kidnappers. They were the monsters who had ruined my life. A kind social worker stroked my hair, her touch so gentle it felt alien. She pressed a few photographs into my hand. “Don’t be scared, Leo. We found your real family. As soon as the paperwork is done, they’re coming to take you home.” That night, I was too excited to sleep. I stared at the three faces in the photos and painted the family I imagined. A beautiful, gentle mother. A tall, strong father. And a big sister who would protect me and play with me. When I finally walked into that house, I saw they had a family portrait of their own hanging over the fireplace. It was almost exactly like the one I had painted. Except I wasn’t in it. My father, Mr. Ashford, explained awkwardly, “After you were taken… your mother was never the same. She was so heartbroken.” “We… we adopted a boy from the local orphanage. He was about your age. It was the only thing that helped.” My mother pulled me into her arms, her tears soaking my shirt. “It’s okay, Leo, my baby. You and Noah are both my sons now. God has given me back what I lost.” “We’re a family again. We’ll never be separated again!” They hired therapists to help me adjust. They scheduled appointments at the best cosmetic clinics to treat my scars. Noah, my new brother, was the first to notice the whip marks on my back and my missing tooth. When he found out my kidnappers had done it, he broke down and sobbed, clutching my hand and repeating over and over, “I’m so sorry, Leo. I’m so sorry.” There was no dramatic rivalry, no fighting for affection. My new family did everything they could to treat us equally. Anything Noah had, I had too. Anything I wanted that Noah didn’t have, they gave me without a second thought. I could always feel it, though—a faint, invisible barrier between us. But after a lifetime of starvation and pain, having a full stomach and people who loved me was more than enough. I was content. Watching the video, Ava’s hands clenched into tight fists. “Leo, I knew you were a manipulative bastard.” “Mom, Dad, and Noah… they were so good to you. And you…” “After all these years, you’re still using that stupid painting to torment me.” “You’re shameless, Leo. You deserve to rot in hell!” Ava shot to her feet, raising her hand to smash the VCR. But just before her fist came down, she stopped dead, her eyes wide with shock.

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My boyfriend had a ghost. Everyone says you can’t compete with the dead. Fine. Then I’ll bring the dead back to life, and then I’ll defeat her. I used a time machine to become her high school classmate, the one who would save her from the edge. I’d give her light. I’d give her love. I’d be the one in her corner. I never expected that in the end… I would become the ghost in her story. 1 I finally saw him—Ethan’s ghost, the girl who died too young. Seraphina. Here I was, standing in the senior classroom of Northwood High’s advanced track, listening to our new homeroom teacher, Mr. Davison, introduce me. “Class, this is Lia. She’s a transfer student from out of state. Let’s make her feel welcome.” A wave of warm applause broke out, but it didn’t stir the girl buried in a book in the back of the room. Seraphina. She sat alone in the last row, an empty seat on every side of her, like a deserted island. Mr. Davison told me to pick any open seat. My mission was clear. I walked straight to the empty desk beside her. I dropped into the chair and beamed at her. “Hey, new desk buddy. I’m Lia. Hope we can get along.” She finally lifted her gaze from her book. And I finally saw her face. She was a classic, fragile kind of beauty. Skin so pale it seemed to glow, features like they were painted on, but her expression was numb, vacant. Honestly, the group photo I’d seen at Ethan’s house didn’t capture a tenth of her beauty. So my rival was this stunning, I thought, a little smugly. At least I won’t lose face. My self-congratulation was cut short by her voice, as cold and flat as a frozen lake. “Find another seat. I don’t like people sitting next to me.” That sharp? Weren’t these idealized ghosts supposed to be gentle, kind, the epitome of all things good? Had I gotten the stereotype all wrong? But I had traveled through time for her. I wasn’t about to give up that easily. I brazenly reached for her hand, my voice dropping into a playful, wheedling tone. “But you’re so pretty. I have a thing for sitting next to gorgeous girls.” She froze. I could tell she had never in her life encountered someone so completely shameless. It took her a solid moment to react. She snatched her hand back and ducked her head, pretending to focus on her book again. She was trying to act like nothing happened, but I could see the blush creeping up her neck. I hid a triumphant smile. When it comes to winning people over, if I’m number two, no one dares claim to be number one. 2 Within a single lunch period, I’d managed to get friendly with most of my new classmates. They were more than happy to share the local gossip. “Seraphina’s mom is terrifying. Like, a total psycho, straight out of a psych ward.” “She forbids anyone from getting close to Sera. She told us if anyone even talks to her, she’ll kill them.” “Sera already had early admission to Yale, but her mom forced her to give it up. She wants Sera to apply the normal way, and she has to be valedictorian with a perfect SAT score.” “She even made our last homeroom teacher cry. He couldn’t take it anymore and transferred, that’s why we have Mr. Davison now.” … From these scattered bits of information, I pieced together a picture of Seraphina’s life. A single-parent household. A controlling, mentally unstable mother. A mandatory six-foot bubble around Seraphina, devoid of any human contact. I finally understood why she had given up. Trapped in a suffocating, toxic environment like that for so long… I’m not sure I could have survived it either. “Just wait until you see her mom at the parent-teacher conference. Lia, you should get away while you still can,” a girl named Maya warned. Just as she said it, Seraphina walked back into the classroom, holding a lunchbox. Her face was a mask of calm as she returned to her seat. She opened the box. Inside was a steaming, home-cooked meal. She picked up her spoon and began to eat in silence. As she raised her arm, her long sleeve slid down, revealing a series of shocking, jagged scars across her wrist. I stared, frozen. Those were… Her senses were razor-sharp. She noticed my gaze instantly. She didn’t say a word, just pulled her sleeve back down with a blank expression, hiding her wrist once more. An inexplicable tightness formed in my chest. I wasn’t sure if she had overheard what Maya said when she came in. After a moment of hesitation, I leaned in and made her a promise. “Don’t worry, Seraphina. I’m not switching seats. I’m staying right here.” The movement of her spoon paused for a fraction of a second. “They’re right,” she replied, her voice soft. “It would be better for both of us if you moved.” She didn’t look at me when she spoke, her eyes fixed on the food in her lunchbox. The steam rose, clinging to her long, curled lashes. Her expression was so cold, yet she looked like she could shatter into a million pieces. Her words said go away, but I could have sworn her soul was screaming: Don’t leave. Save me. I spoke with a fierce determination. “What do you mean, no one is allowed within six feet of you? Screw that. I’m getting closer.” And I didn’t just get closer. I leaned over and wrapped my arms around her in a tight hug. “Seraphina,” I whispered, “whether you believe me or not, I came here for you.” “Let’s be friends, Sera.” If no one else is going to save you, then I will. And then, I’ll beat you, fair and square. 3 Seraphina stared at me, her eyes suddenly turning red and welling up with tears. She didn’t dare blink. She frantically lowered her head to hide her face, shoveling food into her mouth in big, desperate bites. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks with each movement, falling silently into her lap. Damn it, I sighed internally. Seraphina’s mom was a real piece of work, pushing her own daughter to the brink. We spent the next two weeks like this. While Seraphina still greeted me with a cool expression, the numbness in her eyes had begun to fade. She was slowly getting used to my presence. It had been almost half a month since I transferred, and there was still no sign of Ethan. I was getting antsy, so I decided to ask Maya about him. Her face lit up with the expression of someone who’d just stumbled upon prime gossip. “Tsk, tsk,” she clicked her tongue. “I knew it. Why else would someone go through all the trouble of transferring schools in the middle of senior year? You’re here for the golden boy, Ethan, aren’t you?” I started to deny it. “No, I—” She made an ‘O’ with her fingers and playfully clamped it over my mouth, shushing me. She gave me a conspiratorial wink, her face saying, No need to explain, I get it. “Don’t even try. You can lie to me, but can you lie to your own heart?” What was with the cheesy soap opera dialogue? “You’re wasting your talent,” I said, my head aching. “You should be writing novels.” Her eyes lit up as if she’d found her soulmate. “You think so too? I should write a story about you and Ethan! A brave girl fearlessly pursues her love, conquering the untouchable prince of the school…” She was off, lost in her burst of inspiration, rambling on and on. I turned away in exasperation and found myself looking directly into the eyes of Seraphina, who was standing right behind me. I had no idea when she’d returned. She stared at me, her expression unreadable, her eyes a little cold. I felt a strange pang of guilt, though I had no idea what I had to feel guilty about. I fidgeted, suddenly awkward. Seraphina silently returned to her seat. After a moment, she spoke, her voice calm and even. “Ethan already has early admission. He doesn’t have to attend classes. You’ll have a hard time finding him at school.” I scratched my head. “Oh, okay. I see.” He’d never mentioned that when we were dating. So, he had gotten early admission too. He and Seraphina really were a match for each other. My state school degree felt completely inadequate in front of these two academic powerhouses. 4 I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination, but it felt like Seraphina was angry with me. For days, she barely gave me the time of day. That afternoon during lunch, I went to a coffee shop and bought two Caramel Macchiatos, planning to make a peace offering. When I walked back into the classroom, I found it in chaos, a crowd of students gathered in a circle. I pushed my way through the throng. My heart sank at what I saw. Desks and chairs were overturned. Notebooks and pens were crushed and scattered across the floor. The entire area was a disaster zone. Seraphina stood in the middle of it all, soaking wet, her head bowed as she stared blankly at the ground. She was alone, the silent epicenter of a storm of whispers and stares. Everyone was just watching. No one had even bothered to get a teacher. The ringleader, a girl with long, straight black hair, had a lollipop stick hanging from her lips. She stood with her arms crossed, giving a cold command. “Do it.” A guy with a buzz cut standing behind her surged forward, grabbed Seraphina by the hair, and slammed her head against a desk. “You’re just as disgusting as your psycho mom! Freaks like you don’t deserve to be alive—” A hot rush of rage flooded me. I lunged forward and kicked him squarely where it counts. “Say one more word!” The buzz-cut guy crumpled to the floor, curled into a ball, whining and crying. I was completely enraged. I went into a blind fury, landing a few more kicks for good measure, seeing red. “Garbage like you gets to live, but a wonderful girl like Sera doesn’t? Who the hell do you think you are?!” “The person I’ve worked so hard to protect is not about to be bullied by some worthless piece of trash like you! You think you have the right?!” After the furious assault, I still wasn’t satisfied. I spun around and slapped the lollipop girl across the face several times. “You could be anything, and you choose to be a wannabe gangster? Today, I’m going to give you a taste of what real life is like.” Lollipop girl shrieked. “Where did this psycho come from?! What are you standing there for? Help me!” Another one of her goons, a guy with bleached-blond hair, finally snapped out of it and rushed toward me. “Are you looking to die?!” I held up a hand. “Hold it!” The blond guy, confused and wary, actually stopped. I took off my school jacket and draped it over Seraphina’s shoulders. I held her gently, forcing her to look me in the eye. “Seraphina, you listen to me. You are not alone. You have me!” “We promised to be friends, remember? And what are friends for? They’re the ones who have your back when trouble starts!” She looked at me, her eyes slowly clouding over with a film of tears. But I smiled. “Give me the length of one song. I’ll take care of them, and then we’ll have our coffee.” With that, I took the Sony headphones from around my neck and placed them over her ears.

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For five years, I was a ghost. Five screenplays. That’s what it took to turn my boyfriend, an unknown actor scrounging for bit parts, into the industry’s newest leading man. And on the night of his greatest triumph, he stood on stage, clutching his award, and professed his love to the innocent-eyed drama student he mentored. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “to my muse.” The girl, dissolving into perfect, camera-ready tears, whispered, “You shine so brightly, Ryan. I only ever dared to write down each word for you, hidden away in the shadows.” The internet exploded. They were a fairytale. A Hollywood dream. And I, the real author, was dismissed in his official statement as a “hired writer who’d lost her spark.” My agent’s advice? “Swallow it. He’s promised you the next script.” I laughed. That night, I created an account. I wrote a single post. “Hello, everyone. I’m Thea, the writer of Echoes in the Dark.” 1 On the live broadcast of the awards ceremony, Ryan Hayes looked every bit the star in his custom tuxedo. He stood in a halo of light, the perfect amount of ecstatic disbelief gracing his handsome features as he gripped the golden statuette—the highest honor in our world. I sat in my dark living room, the glow of my laptop screen illuminating my face. The file for his acceptance speech was still open. I had written it. Every word calibrated, every pause engineered for maximum effect. For Echoes in the Dark, the film that made him a legend, I had pulled seven all-nighters in a row. When I finally sent the last draft, my heart felt like it was being squeezed in a fist, each breath a painful gasp. The doctor called it severe cardiac strain. He said I was one deadline away from a fatal heart attack. I hid the diagnosis. I traded it for his glory tonight. “…thank you to the Academy, to my team,” his voice, rich and smooth, poured from the speakers. “But tonight, the person I need to thank the most… is someone very special.” My heart skipped. I sat up straighter, my back rigid. On the couch beside me was a pillow he’d signed in silver ink: “For Thea, my favorite ghost.” For five years, I had written from the shadows, building him, script by script, from a nobody into the man on that stage. We had a deal. The moment he won, we would go public. He would take my hand in front of the world and tell them that I, Thea Hayes, was the architect of his career. On the screen, his gaze swept over the adoring crowd. “She built the entire world of this film for me. She is my muse. Without her, the Ryan Hayes you see here tonight wouldn’t exist.” My breath caught. That wasn’t the line. The camera followed his gaze, panning across the audience before settling on a seat in a discreet corner. A young woman in a simple white dress stood up. Long hair, a face scrubbed clean and radiating innocence. It was Maya, the film student he sponsored, the one he always talked about. The spotlight found her instantly. Her eyes welled up, tears brimming, threatening to fall but never quite spilling over. Ryan extended a hand toward her, his voice softening to a tender murmur. “Maya, come up here. This belongs to you as much as it does to me. My brilliant ghost.” Clutching her dress, Maya walked onto the stage that was supposed to have been mine. She took the microphone from Ryan, her voice a trembling, tear-choked whisper. “Ryan, you’re just… you’re too much. I… I only ever dared to write down the little words that flickered in my mind, for you. I never imagined…” Her broken sentences were a masterpiece. They were all the audience needed to write the rest of the story themselves: a tale of a brilliant artist discovering a hidden gem, of humble genius rewarded. And just like that, every sleepless night, every word I’d bled onto the page, became her quiet, selfless devotion. Every plot twist I’d agonized over became a product of their soul-deep connection. I, Thea, on the night of Ryan Hayes’s coronation, had been erased. I was nothing more than a nameless extra in their sweeping love story. Instantly, the internet was on fire. #RyanAndMayaFairytale #ActorRewardsMuse #MayaTheGenius My phone buzzed violently. It was my agent, Diane. I answered, my own voice feeling foreign in my ears. Her tone was ice. “Thea. You’re watching. For the good of everyone, you will say nothing.” “The good of everyone?” My voice was a dry rasp. “Diane, I wrote that script.” “We know,” she snapped, her impatience palpable. “But the ‘pure, undiscovered talent’ narrative plays better than ‘bitter ghostwriter in the attic.’ Thea, you need to accept where you are. To be blunt, your spark has been running on fumes for a year. The fact that Ryan still uses you… that’s a blessing.” A blessing. So that’s what the last five years of my life, the very marrow of my bones, amounted to. A tool, easily replaced. My fingers tightened around the phone, my knuckles turning white. Sensing my silence, Diane dangled the bait. “Just keep your head down. No drama. Ryan promised. His next tentpole project—the script is yours. It’s an S-plus production. Don’t be an idiot.” She hung up. The living room was deathly quiet. My eyes drifted over the stacks of screenwriting books, the boxes of old drafts, the framed awards on the wall—my awards, the ones Ryan had never allowed me to publicly claim. Suddenly, the pain in my chest was gone. When you push agony past its limit, all that’s left is a cold, clean numbness. I rose slowly and walked to my laptop. I opened a web browser. Using my driver’s license, I registered a new Twitter account. In the bio, I typed a single line. “Hello, everyone. I’m Thea, the writer of Echoes in the Dark.” 2 My tweet was a single stone dropped into the raging ocean of the internet. It made a tiny ripple, then was immediately swallowed by a tidal wave of mockery and vitriol. “Who is this psycho? Desperate for her 15 minutes of fame.” “LMAO, this is the most pathetic attempt to ride someone’s coattails I’ve ever seen. Jealous much?” “Jilted ex-girlfriend? Or just a stalker? This is a new low.” “Honey, if you’re gonna make a claim like that, you need receipts. Nobody believes a random tweet.” Ryan’s fanbase was a terrifyingly efficient army. They descended on my account, flooding my mentions and DMs with a torrent of filth. I didn’t respond. I just watched it all unfold, a silent observer to my own crucifixion. Late that night, Maya went live on Instagram. No makeup, wearing a plain white t-shirt, she broadcasted from a spartan-looking dorm room. Her eyes were puffy and red, her face pale. She was the very picture of persecuted innocence. “I don’t know how all of this happened…” Her voice broke as she bowed deeply to the camera. “I’m so sorry for taking up everyone’s time. I… I’ve always admired Thea. I’ve read her early work. She’s incredibly talented.” She praised me first, a masterful move. Then, the pivot. A single, perfect tear slid down her cheek. “But… inspiration… you can’t control it. When Ryan and I would talk about the story, ideas would just… they would just pour out. It was like we were two halves of the same soul. I honestly didn’t mean for any of this to happen… If my existence has hurt Thea in any way, I am so, so sorry.” It was flawless. She was the innocent, the humble admirer of my past work, a helpless victim of her own overwhelming talent and a once-in-a-generation connection. In the same breath, she subtly painted me as a has-been, a technician who could only write formulaic, soulless commercial scripts while she was the true artist, the one who communed with Ryan’s soul. Just then, my phone rang. It was Ryan. “Thea, stop it. You’re embarrassing yourself.” His voice was laced with a hangover and undisguised annoyance. “I’ll have accounting wire you the final payment for Echoes tomorrow. Double. Just delete the tweet, keep your mouth shut, and you’ll get paid for the next one.” He didn’t even bother to ask, to argue, to explain. He just used money as a muzzle. “And if I don’t?” I asked softly. A cold, humorless laugh came from his end. “Thea, don’t push me. You can’t win against me, and you can’t win against the studio. Don’t burn the last bridge you have.” He hung up. I held the cold phone in my hand and smiled. He was right. How could I possibly win? He was the beloved new star, backed by a mountain of money and a ruthless PR machine. And I was just a ghostwriter, a lemon squeezed dry, ready to be discarded. The next day, I went back to the apartment Ryan and I had shared for five years—the place that had also been my studio—to pack my things. I had just wrestled a heavy box of manuscripts to the door when I ran straight into Maya. “Thea. Thanks for taking care of Ryan all these years. I’ll take it from here.” She smiled, her eyes dropping to the box in my arms. “And I should thank you for this, too. A writer like you, with no real spark, just a lot of discipline… you were born to be a ghostwriter. The perfect person to do the grunt work for our love story.” A needle of pain pierced my heart, but my face remained a mask of calm. My silence seemed to infuriate her. She picked up a mug of steaming coffee from a nearby table. With a theatrical little gasp of “oops,” she let her hand slip, sending the entire scalding contents splashing across the box in my arms. It was the original draft of Echoes in the Dark. Five years of my life, covered in my own frantic, hand-written notes. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry, Thea! I’m so clumsy!” she cried out, her voice dripping with fake alarm. I lost my composure. I lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. “Maya!” This was exactly what she wanted. The instant my fingers closed around her arm, she let out a blood-curdling scream, threw herself backward against the wall, and slid dramatically to the floor. “Ahh! Thea, don’t hit me! I know you hate me, but you can’t assault me!” she shrieked, clutching her arm and sobbing hysterically. The apartment door swung open at that exact moment. Ryan, looking like he’d rushed back from a photoshoot, saw the scene: Maya, crumpled and weeping on the floor, and me, standing over her, my hand on her wrist, my face a mask of fury. He didn’t ask a single question. He didn’t even look at me. He bolted forward and shoved me, hard. Caught off balance, I stumbled back, my head hitting the cold wall. The box fell from my arms, scattering the coffee-soaked pages across the floor. Ryan knelt, gathering Maya into his arms, murmuring soft comforts. “It’s okay, Maya, I’m here. You’re safe.” Then, he turned to me, his eyes filled with a disgust so profound it stole my breath. “Thea, I was so wrong about you. I knew you’d lost your talent, but I didn’t know you were this venomous.” Every word was a perfectly aimed dagger, twisting into a heart that was already in shreds. “She’s a kid, just starting out. And you pull this kind of shit on her? Can’t you stand to see anyone else succeed?” I stared at him, at the triumphant smirk peeking through Maya’s crocodile tears, and the sheer absurdity of it all washed over me. I opened my mouth, but no words came out. What was the point? In this tableau, any explanation would sound like a lie. Seeing my silence, the disgust in Ryan’s eyes hardened into something colder. He pulled out his phone, dialed Diane, and put it on speaker. “Diane, call legal. Terminate Thea’s contract. Effective immediately. My team has no room for a vindictive, washed-up hack.” His voice was glacial. “I never want to see her again. Thea, you’re fired.” 3 The next day, a termination letter from the studio’s legal department was delivered by courier to the cheap motel I was staying in. The reason cited was “breach of contract via disclosure of confidential company information, causing severe reputational damage to the studio’s talent.” They weren’t just firing me. They were demanding I repay all my earnings from the past year and pay an eight-figure sum in damages. At the same time, the production company I had registered, which the studio had funded, was being forcibly dissolved and its assets seized. This wasn’t a termination. It was an execution. They wanted to leave me with nothing but a mountain of debt I could never possibly repay. Before I could even process the letter, my phone buzzed with a text message. It was from Ryan’s number. I opened it. It was a photo. Maya was curled up in his arms like a cat, and the background was our bedroom—the bedroom we had shared for five years. Ryan’s arm was wrapped around her, his head bent to kiss the top of her hair. It was a scene of domestic bliss that felt like a violation. Beneath the photo was a single line of text: “Thanks for making room, Thea.” A wave of nausea washed over me. Moments later, I heard a commotion outside. Peeking through the blinds, I saw movers from one of those junk removal services, unceremoniously dumping my belongings onto the curb. The sofa I’d picked out. The pillows I’d cried into during late-night writing sessions. Even the one he had signed, “For Thea, my favorite ghost,” was tossed into the dirt. Ryan wasn’t even giving me the dignity of packing my own life away. I closed the blinds, shutting out the world. Over the next few days, I learned the true meaning of being blacklisted. Ryan’s studio put the word out to every production house and streaming service in the business: anyone who hired Thea Hayes was an enemy of Ryan Hayes. The dozens of résumés I sent out vanished into a black hole. Producers who had once showered me with praise now ignored my calls and left my texts on “read.” The exile was swift and absolute. Worse, though, was the doxxing. Maya’s fans, somehow, found my location. My motel room door was pelted with garbage. Threatening notes were slipped underneath it. Every knock sent a jolt of fear through me. I unplugged my laptop. I turned off my phone. I sealed myself off from the world. I didn’t cry. I didn’t rage. I simply sat on the floor of that dingy room, surrounded by the wreckage of my life, and began to calmly, methodically, take inventory of my legacy. The coffee-stained manuscript pages. I carefully blotted each one, smoothing out the wrinkles. The words were blurred, but they were the raw, undeniable proof of my process. I found all my old laptops and hard drives. From the very first day I worked with Ryan, I’d had a habit: I recorded every important conversation. Every draft, every outline, every revision of every script—I had saved every version, each with a timestamped digital file. It was a writer’s instinct, a subconscious need to protect my work. I never thought these files would become my arsenal. As I sorted through an encrypted folder, my hand froze. The folder was two years old. It was labeled: Daybreak. I clicked it open. Inside was the complete world-building bible, detailed character biographies, a 30,000-word beat sheet for the entire series, and… the full scripts for the first three episodes. My heart began to hammer against my ribs. I remembered something. Before I even started writing Echoes in the Dark, Ryan’s team had pushed me to begin developing their next S-plus project, Daybreak. To protect this new world, the one I had poured all my ambition into, I had done something different. Before I ever submitted it to the studio, I had registered the copyright for the Daybreak treatment, bible, and pilot script under my own name. And the development contract I’d signed with the studio contained only a vague clause about an “option to license.” It never mentioned a transfer of the underlying rights. They thought they could just kick me to the curb and the project would be theirs. They thought they could install their new muse, Maya, and seamlessly steal my creation. They were wrong. My hand trembled as I gripped the mouse. This was my checkmate. Just then, my reconnected laptop pinged with a news alert. The headline read: [Golden Boy Ryan Hayes and Genius Newcomer Maya Linwood to Launch S-Plus Epic, Daybreak, with Press Conference Next Week!] The accompanying photo was of Ryan and Maya, beaming, their arms around each other. The conquerors. I looked at the glowing screen, at their triumphant faces, and I started to laugh. Tears streamed down my face, but this time, they were not tears of sorrow.

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I asked a DoorDash driver to help me deliver a baby. “Deliver to who?” he asked. “The CEO of Sterling Corporation,” I said. “Alexander Sterling. He’s sterile.” Alexander was about to be forced out of his own company because he couldn’t produce an heir. Today was the press conference where they were going to announce that his illegitimate half-brother would be taking over. The Dasher arrived at the press conference, held the baby up high, and shouted, “Who’s Alexander Sterling? Your DoorDash delivery is here. It’s a baby boy.” “Can you sign for him, please? I’ve got another delivery to make.” 1 A hush fell over the room, followed by a wave of frantic whispers. “Is this for real? I thought he couldn’t have kids. Isn’t that why his father is kicking him out and giving the company to the other son?” “Yeah, that earthquake three years ago. He was saving a kid and a piece of rebar got him. No more kids. That’s when his father announced he had a ‘secret’ son in college, to ‘secure the family line.’” Now, three years later, that “secret” son, Ethan, was back, ready to push his older, legitimate brother out of the way and take over the company. Ethan had been gloating about it, his voice dripping with condescension. “Don’t blame me, big brother. Who told you to be a hero? An earthquake hits, and you run *towards* it to join a rescue team? Don’t you know that no good deed goes unpunished?” “You saved some random kid, and now you can never have one of your own. It’s almost… tragic. You had it all, and you just threw it away. I thought I’d be the bastard son forever, but look at me now. Winning without even trying.” I had been at the mall nearby, dressed in a furry bunny costume, trying to earn some money for baby formula. I’d gone to the restroom on my break and overheard Ethan mocking my baby’s father. I decided then and there that I had to do something. I found a Dasher outside. “I’ll Venmo you fifty bucks to make a delivery to the Sterling Corporation press conference. It’s an express order.” “What am I delivering?” he asked. I held up a sweet, pink, sleeping baby. “Deliver this to the sterile CEO, Alexander Sterling. Tell him it’s his son. And if he doesn’t believe you, tell him to get a paternity test.” The Dasher’s eyes went wide. “Are you serious? You’re not trying to pull a fast one on me, are you? This isn’t some kidnapped baby, right? Everyone knows that guy can’t have kids.” I didn’t know how to explain. But then his expression changed. “You know what? I’ll do it. I can’t stand seeing illegitimate kids steal what’s not theirs. Let’s do this.” Ten minutes later, just as Alexander’s father was about to announce that Ethan would be taking over as CEO, the Dasher burst in. “Who’s Alexander Sterling? Your DoorDash baby is here. Sign for it, I’m in a hurry.” The room exploded. Reporters swarmed the Dasher, microphones and cameras in his face. “What did you just say you were delivering?” “His son,” the Dasher said, his voice booming. “Now, where is he? Mr. Sterling, your kid is here. Can you come sign, please? I’ve got another delivery to make.” 2 I was watching the whole thing on a live stream from my phone, laughing so hard I could barely breathe. I could only imagine the looks on their faces, especially that arrogant little prick, Ethan. And my baby’s father, Alexander. It had all started a year ago. I’m a shifter, a bunny shifter. And once a month, my hormones go haywire. I was tossing and turning in my little bunny burrow, unable to sleep. So I shifted into my human form and hopped on my scooter to go to the pharmacy for some hormone suppressants. I was already feeling hot and bothered, and I got distracted. I’m colorblind, and I accidentally ran a red light. A Maybach swerved to avoid me, right into the path of an oncoming truck. The truck sent the Maybach flying, then sped off. I ran over to the wreckage and found Alexander slumped in the driver’s seat, barely breathing. “Hey, stay with me.” I managed to pull him out of the car. His breathing was so shallow, I knew he wouldn’t make it to the hospital. And it was my fault. In a panic, I did the only thing I could think of. I bit him. It’s a little-known fact about bunny shifters: when our hormones are raging, our saliva has healing properties. “What are you doing? Get off me!” he groaned, his body trembling in pain. “Shut up if you don’t want to die!” I snarled. After I bit him, the heat in my own body intensified. This man… he was a work of art. His face, his chest, his waist, his legs… every inch of him was perfect. It was a dark and stormy night, the perfect setting for a little… mischief. He was weak, helpless, completely at my mercy. And I remembered the comments I’d seen online: “Who cares how successful he is? He’s broken where it counts. No respectable woman would want him.” My lips were dry. The internet may not have wanted him, but my hormone-crazed self definitely did. And besides, if he was sterile, what was the harm? All he had to do was lie there. I could do all the work. 3 My hormones were in control. I couldn’t resist. I pushed him back into the wrecked Maybach. What happened next was a blur of passion and chaos. “What are you doing? Who do you think you are? Stop touching me!” He was being so loud. So I took off his tie and blindfolded him. I leaned in and bit his neck, my voice a low growl. “Shut up. I saved your life. Now you’re mine.” When it was all over, I heard the faint sound of sirens. I pulled up my pants and ran. Before I sped off on my scooter, I couldn’t resist leaving him with one last, dramatic declaration. “Remember this. You’ve been marked by me. Even if you are sterile, you will remain faithful to me. And in return, I will protect you for the rest of your life.” He probably thought I was crazy. I never thought I’d actually have to make good on that promise. And I definitely never thought… I thought he was sterile. I thought there would be no consequences. But then, a few weeks later, I was hit with a wave of morning sickness. You’ve got to be kidding me. “Sterile,” my ass. Well, if I was pregnant, I was having the baby. Single motherhood sounded kind of awesome, actually. So I gave birth to a whole litter of bunnies. Seven of them. Six of them were still in their bunny forms, adorable little fluffballs. Only the seventh, my little Lucky, was a human baby. He must have taken after his father. I had no intention of using my son to get anything from his father. But then that little bastard Ethan started bullying him. And Alexander Sterling had been marked by me. That made him mine. And my biggest flaw is that I’m fiercely protective of what’s mine. My second biggest flaw? I love chaos. 4 The press conference was in complete pandemonium. Only Alexander remained seated, calm and composed. He clearly didn’t believe the baby was his. But his mother, Eleanor, had already rushed over to the Dasher and taken the baby, tears of joy streaming down her face. “He… he looks just like Alexander did as a baby! This is my grandson! It has to be!” She turned to her husband, her voice triumphant. “Do you see this, Richard? I have a grandson! And you still want to say my son isn’t fit to be the heir?” After years of dealing with her son’s infertility, her husband’s betrayal, and the humiliation of his illegitimate son, Eleanor was done playing nice. She didn’t care if the baby was actually her grandson or not. She was going to use him to burn it all down. Richard Sterling rushed over. “What is the meaning of this, Alexander?” Alexander didn’t move. The reporters were shouting questions. “Mr. Sterling, is this really your son? Weren’t you sterile? Who is the mother? Are you just using this baby to disrupt the press conference?” Alexander didn’t answer. It was Ethan who was losing his mind. “Dad, this is ridiculous! This baby could be anyone’s! They’re just trying to cause a scene! It won’t work! A paternity test will prove he’s not Alexander’s! Just make the announcement! Let me take over the company!” Eleanor walked over to Ethan and slapped him across the face. “A paternity test? I don’t need a test to know my own grandson.” Ethan almost hit her back, but he restrained himself. “Dad, see? They’re scared! They know the baby isn’t his!” Suddenly, Alexander stood up. He walked out of the room without a word, like he wanted no part in the ridiculous drama. His back was straight, but there was a sadness in his posture that was heartbreaking. The cameras followed him until he disappeared through a side door, surrounded by his bodyguards. 5 The internet was buzzing. Someone tweeted at Alexander: “If you could go back in time, would you still save that kid in the earthquake? If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have to be pulling this fake baby stunt to save face.” His reply was short and to the point: “Yes.” That’s my baby daddy. But why wasn’t he getting a paternity test? Who said Lucky was a fake baby? If my other six little bunnies could shift into human form, I would have sent them all. I was at the mall, buying more formula, when two large men in suits blocked my path. “Ma’am, Mr. Sterling would like to see you.” “What? Why? I don’t even know him,” I said, my heart pounding. I didn’t mind sending him a son, but I hadn’t planned on revealing myself. How did they find me so fast? “We know you’re the one who hired the Dasher,” one of the men said. “Please, come with us.” I had no choice. They led me to a black Maybach. The same one from the accident, now fully repaired. Alexander was sitting inside. He looked at me, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. “You?” “Hi,” I said with a nervous smile. “Fancy seeing you here.” His calm, composed mask finally cracked. “Is the baby yours?” Before I could answer, he shook his head. “No, it’s impossible. I can’t have children.” The disappointment in his voice was palpable. I took a deep breath, and with a pop, my two long, fluffy bunny ears sprang from the top of my head. I wiggled them at him. “I’m not a normal woman. I’m a bunny shifter. See? You can touch them if you don’t believe me.” He did. His fingers were so soft against my fur. My cheeks flushed. “Damn it. I forgot you’re not supposed to touch a bunny’s ears. It… makes us… you know.” He quickly pulled his hand back, his own ears turning a bright red. “You’re incorrigible,” he muttered. “It’s a normal biological reaction,” I said defensively. “If I were to touch your… you know…” My eyes traveled down his long, muscular legs, and I had to stop myself from drooling. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t have a reaction?” He immediately shifted in his seat, trying to hide himself from my gaze. “Are you even a woman?” he said, his voice a mixture of outrage and embarrassment. What’s the big deal? I’ve touched it before. I’ve touched every inch of him. Why were men so proud of sleeping with women, but so embarrassed when a woman was proud of sleeping with them? His blush just made me want to tease him more. 6 Just then, his phone rang. It was his mother. “Alexander, where are you? You need to get out of town. Your father is sending people to find you. He’s insisting on a paternity test. He says he won’t let some random baby with ‘unclear bloodlines’ into the family. The nerve of that man, after he brought his own bastard son into our lives.” “This whole ‘delivery baby’ thing was brilliant, by the way. But you need to lay low for a while. Go on a vacation. You haven’t had one in years. As long as you’re gone, he can’t do anything. I’ll just keep insisting the baby is my grandson. He can’t prove otherwise. He wants to make my life a living hell? Well, two can play at that game. I’m going to use this baby to drive him insane!” His mother was a force of nature. But then, Alexander looked at me, a strange expression on his face, and said, “I’m on my way back to do the paternity test right now.”

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