Category: English

I followed a niche but incredibly heartwarming couple’s blog. It was a simple, intimate chronicle of a woman’s life with her boyfriend. The little moments. They’d bicker over sharing a single bowl of pasta, then laugh and call each other a child who’d never grow up. They’d hold each other tight under a canopy of stars on some remote hilltop, wishing time would freeze in that perfect moment. The blogger never showed her face, but her words created a world I fell in love with. Until yesterday, the day before my wedding, when the account updated one last time. 【A decade of love ends here.】 【From this day forward, he will be her husband. And I will only be her maid of honor.】 【This account will no longer be updated. Wishing my best friend, and the man she loves most, a lifetime of happiness.】 The accompanying photo was a picture of my fiancé and me, our backs turned to the camera. 1 The photo was from last week, at the bridal boutique. I remember Clara fussing with my veil, chattering away as she adjusted the delicate lace. In the mirror, her smile was wider and brighter than my own, as if she were the one about to walk down the aisle. “Zoe, you look stunning,” she’d said, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Nathan is the luckiest guy on the planet.” Nathan was standing a short distance away, his head bowed over his phone. At the sound of his name, he looked up and offered us a warm smile. But even then, I sensed a flicker of something strained behind his eyes. “You’re exaggerating,” I laughed, taking Clara’s hand. “If you hadn’t dragged me here, I probably would’ve just bought a dress online.” “Absolutely not!” Clara’s eyes went wide. “My absolute favorite person in the world only gets one wedding! We can’t just ‘wing it’!” She turned to Nathan. “Isn’t that right?” Nathan pocketed his phone and walked over, his arm settling naturally around my shoulders. “Why would you ever do that? My Zoe looks beautiful in everything.” His eyes scanned my dress, full of admiration. “But this one… this one is perfect for you.” Just before we left to scout locations for the photoshoot, Clara snapped a picture of us from behind. The click of the shutter was loud in the quiet boutique. When I turned to look, she just smiled and said she wanted a candid shot for memory’s sake. The night before the wedding was my bachelorette party. I got utterly wasted, and Clara, as always, was there to take care of me. When Nathan arrived to pick me up, she was gently dabbing my forehead with a cool, damp cloth. “I’ve got her,” she told him, blocking the doorway. “This is her last night of freedom. The groom-to-be isn’t allowed to interfere.” Nathan just stood there, not making a move to come inside. His gaze was fixed on Clara, his expression unreadable, complex. I was slumped on the sofa, watching them through a drunken haze. “Nathan…” I murmured his name. Only then did his eyes shift to me. He crossed the room and gathered me into his arms. “Why’d you drink so much?” Clara laughed brightly. “She’s happy, of course! She’s getting married.” “Zoe said back in college that if she ever got married, she’d get completely hammered at her bachelorette party. Tonight, her dream came true.” I did say that, I remembered vaguely. We were watching some cheesy romance movie in our dorm room. We’d promised then and there that we would be each other’s maid of honor. That promise held, even after I started dating Nathan. He lifted me carefully into his arms. “Thanks for looking after her,” he said to Clara. “It’s my duty,” Clara’s voice dropped, suddenly low. “After all… this is the last time.” I was too drunk to catch the chilling finality in her words. It wasn’t until the next morning, when I woke up alone in my hotel room and saw the notification on my phone, that it all came crashing down. I groggily tapped on the post from the blog I followed. In that single, heart-stopping moment, the hangover pounding in my head vanished, replaced by a chilling clarity. 2 I’d found the account by pure chance. I was scrolling through my phone one night when the app suggested a local user to follow. The profile picture was a character from an anime I loved. Curious, I clicked. The account only had a few thousand followers. The latest post was from three days prior. It was a photo of a desk late at night, piled with work. The caption read: 【Working late again. He said he’d stay hungry with me, but ended up ordering us both takeout. That idiot.】 I found myself scrolling down, drawn in. 【He said I wasn’t eating enough and insisted on giving me the steak out of his own bowl. I told him I didn’t like it, and he just laughed and called me a picky kid.】 【Stargazing on the mountain tonight. He said he wished time could just stop right here. Me too.】 【Caught a cold, so he skipped work to take care of me. He can’t cook to save his life, but he tried to make me soup. It was burnt, but it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.】 … Reading through their story, my heart ached with a strange sense of longing. The quiet, ordinary moments, the tender details—it was the kind of love I had always dreamed of. I wanted to leave a comment, to wish them well, but comments were disabled. So I just hit ‘Follow.’ But now I knew. In every single one of their cherished memories, I was the oblivious third wheel. She said they had been in love for ten years. Nathan and I had been together for ten years. Clara and I had been friends for twenty. She moved in next door when we were ten. The first time we met, she had her hair in pigtails and handed me a strawberry lollipop. “I’m Clara,” she’d said. “We’re going to be friends now!” From grade school through college, we were inseparable. She knew all my secrets. She was there for every milestone. Sophomore year of college, I met Nathan. He was the star of the architecture department. The line of girls trying to get his attention stretched from the lecture hall to the athletic field. I was just… me. Plain, unremarkable. I never imagined he’d even notice I existed. “What are you afraid of?” Clara had encouraged me. “You’re the most brilliant girl in the Liberal Arts college. Want me to get his number for you?” Somehow, it worked. Nathan and I started dating. The first person I told was Clara. She spun me around in a hug, more excited than I was. “Yes! My girl finally got her man!” I know, in that moment, she was genuinely happy for me. There’s that joke online, that a best friend is like a second mother-in-law to a boyfriend. No matter how great he is, he’ll never be good enough for her precious girl. That was Clara. She was thrilled for me, but the first time she actually met Nathan, she looked at him like he was something she’d scraped off her shoe. Nathan and I were on a date at the campus dining hall. I’d done my makeup, picked a nice outfit. Clara had just pulled an all-nighter for a group project. She showed up with dark circles under her eyes, her hair greasy, wearing stained pajamas and flip-flops. She shoved past Nathan and plopped down next to me. He blinked, stunned, and moved to the seat across from us. Clara’s eyes raked over him, her face a mask of pure disgust. “This is him? Sweetie, I think I was wrong to be happy for you. Maybe you should reconsider?” She was merciless. Nathan’s face tightened. Later, when I asked him what he thought of my best friend, he just scoffed. “She’s… something.” I remember laughing and playfully hitting his arm. “She’s my best friend, and you’re the man I love. You two have to get along.” After graduation, Nathan and I rented a small apartment together. Clara was over constantly, crashing on our couch whenever it got too late. “You know,” she joked once, “with you two like this, it feels like I’m your adopted daughter.” Nathan would play along, putting on a stern fatherly face. “Alright then, sweet daughter, stop freeloading and go do the dishes.” The apartment was always filled with our laughter. I never imagined that our happy little world was a mirage, built on a foundation of lies. 3 I stumbled into the bathroom, splashing my face with cold water again and again, but the frantic pounding in my chest wouldn’t stop. Tomorrow was my wedding. The invitations were sent. The venue was booked. My dress was hanging in the closet. Everything was ready. My hand trembled as I tried to call Nathan. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. I stared at the screen for a long time before, like a puppet on a string, my fingers dialed Clara’s number. The same automated message. The person you are calling is unavailable. My heart plummeted into a black abyss. I couldn’t understand. When they were together, hiding from me, enjoying their secret world… did they ever feel a single shred of guilt? Or was it just a thrill, the cheap high of a clandestine affair? I knew Clara was a travel blogger, documenting her every move across a dozen different platforms. And I knew people in social media always had countless alt accounts. I searched the hotel’s name, filtering by IP address, and scrolled through hundreds of posts. Finally, I found it. An account named OnlyTheUnlovedAreHomewreckers. The latest photo was of a man’s hands, the long, elegant fingers popping a bottle of champagne. On his wrist was the watch I’d given him for his birthday last year. It was Nathan. The caption was a single, devastating line: 【Stolen moments. Every second is a countdown.】 The comments were a mix of people cheering for their “true love” and others calling her out for being a homewrecker. Shaking, I clicked on the profile. This account was the polar opposite of the sweet, private blog. This one had over a hundred thousand followers, and it had been active for years. On this account, she had documented the story of the three of us. The very first post dripped with passive-aggressive venom. 【If I knew the campus heartthrob was this easy, I would’ve gone for him myself. Can’t believe my best friend actually pulled it off.】 【And she didn’t even tell me they were on a date. Did she have to make me show up in my pajamas with no makeup on, just so she could look better? So annoying.】 Someone in the comments joked, “Sounds like fake friends lol,” and she’d replied with a smirking emoji. When I got sick with the flu and Nathan came over to take care of me, she wrote: 【Someone’s a real princess. Just a little fever and she needs a babysitter.】 【A blessing in disguise, though. It gave him and me some time alone. She’s surprisingly good at creating opportunities for us~】 In the corners I couldn’t see, they had already built their own world. Clara posted: 【We both added each other on our private accounts without even discussing it. Is that what you call being on the same wavelength?】 Attached were screenshots of their chats, names blurred out. They talked about music, about their dreams—all the things Nathan thought were beyond my understanding. Clara was always there with the perfect compliment, the perfect validation. Talking to you is just so easy, he’d told her. For Valentine’s Day, Clara made him artisanal chocolates and mailed them to his office. She refused his offer of a gift in return, saying she didn’t want him to spend money on her. He was so touched. You’re such a special girl, he’d messaged her. They carefully maintained their plausible deniability. Every post came with a disclaimer, a nod to our friendship. He gave her a gift to thank her for taking care of me. He took her to dinner to test out a restaurant for my birthday. In her narrative, I was the spoiled, clueless girlfriend. The demanding princess. And under that flimsy cover, they reveled in the illicit thrill of their betrayal. 4 For Clara’s birthday, I bought her the limited-edition designer handbag she’d been coveting for months. The next day, she “ran into” Nathan at a coffee shop, carrying the new bag. She posted a selfie where he was “accidentally” captured in the background. She posted a photo from a movie we all saw together, of their hands secretly clasped over the armrest in the dark. The day Nathan proposed to me, Clara wrote a long, soul-baring post about her pain and her refusal to give up. 【Tonight, I need an answer,】 she wrote. 【If he loves me too, he can’t let this happen.】 She got her answer. That night, when she kissed him, Nathan didn’t pull away. They made a pact: one last wild, secret vacation together before the wedding. So Nathan told me he had to go on a week-long business trip. A wave of nausea washed over me. What overtime? What business dinners? All of it—all of it was just an excuse for their trysts. During that week, Clara’s blog was a flurry of activity. She was going to overwrite all of my memories with Nathan, she wrote, so that his future would be filled with nothing but her shadow. Like a form of self-torture, I watched every update. The same restaurants, the same hotels, the same hiking trails. The same scenery, but with a different woman by his side. I watched, first with the agony of a knife to the heart, then with a creeping numbness, and finally, with a strange sense of the absurd. I realized that once your heart truly dies, even hatred feels like a waste of energy. As dawn approached, I made a decision. The wedding had to be canceled. I opened my laptop and started drafting an email to our guests. Each keystroke was a fresh stab of pain. Ten years of love, twenty years of friendship, all turned to ash in a single night. Before I could hit send, my phone rang. It was Clara. “Zoe? Why are you calling so early?” Her voice was cheerful, completely normal. “You’re about to be the most beautiful bride in the world! You can’t be pulling an all-nighter.” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Sensing something was wrong, her tone shifted to one of concern. “Zoe? Are you okay? Are you just having some pre-wedding jitters?” She continued, her voice laced with feigned indignation. “Where’s that idiot Nathan? Why isn’t he with you? Don’t tell me he’s not answering his phone again because of ‘work’.” “God, that boy. If you weren’t getting married tomorrow, I’d call him right now and chew him out for you!” The irony was suffocating. Just hours ago, she had posted her dramatic farewell, and now she was comforting me with the practiced ease of a devoted friend. “I’m… I’m fine,” I finally managed to choke out. “Just a little nervous. I suddenly wanted to hear your voice.” “…You silly girl,” she laughed softly. “Don’t worry. Everything will be perfect tomorrow, I promise.” “Right now, the only thing you need to do is get some sleep. I’ll handle everything else.” Suddenly, I heard a man’s muffled gasp from her end of the line. It was Nathan’s voice. I fought back the tears that were burning my eyes. “Clara,” I asked, my voice dangerously calm, “is there anything you’ve been hiding from me?” There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end, followed by a frantic, clumsy denial. “What are you talking about, Zoe? What’s wrong?” “Put your phone on speaker,” I said. Clara hesitated, but then I heard the tell-tale echo. “Clara. Nathan.” My voice was clear and steady, without a trace of a tremor. “I’m calling off the wedding.” “And I wish you two all the happiness you deserve.”

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In the tenth year of my marriage to Chris, I died in a car crash. After my death, I watched, invisible, as he calmly went to identify my mangled body. He handled the funeral arrangements with perfunctory efficiency, notifying relatives as if checking off a list. Worried I might linger and haunt him, he even hired a spiritualist to perform a cleansing ritual. Before even a week had passed since my death, he was living with Seraphina, the one that got away. It’s true that I had forced him into our marriage, but after ten years, I truly believed that he had grown to love me, at least a little. When I was reborn, the first thing I did was destroy our engagement. Before I could even process what was happening, I heard myself say the words. “You’re free.” 1 I was still reeling from the disorienting sensation of being a disembodied spirit, a ghost that could fly. Chris’s cold scoff echoed in my ear. “So, it was just a game after all.” “How many times have you pulled this stunt now?” A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I paled, steadying myself on a nearby chair. Chris watched me the entire time, his expression a mask of detached calm. “It’s not a game,” I managed to say. “From now on, you can be with whoever you want. I won’t force you to do anything ever again.” “This whole marriage alliance… it was a mistake.” Chris strode toward me, his fists clenched at his sides. “You promised your father would invest in my family’s company. Are you backing out now?” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I knew it. You never stick with anything for more than five minutes.” At the mention of the investment, a flicker of anxiety broke through his composure. He stood before me like a wall, and the dizziness intensified, a queasy feeling rising in my stomach. I gave his shin a light kick. “Go get me a glass of ice water.” At my command, his expression instantly smoothed back into that familiar calm. As I took the glass from his hand, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. It was as if we were back in our home in my previous life. He’d just come home from work, and I was on the sofa, ordering him to wash fruit for me, demanding a leg massage while he was in the middle of cooking. I looked up and met his placid eyes again. I wondered, how did he manage it? How did he serve someone he didn’t love, sleep beside someone he didn’t love, for ten long years? A bitter taste filled my mouth. It must have been unbearable. I lowered my gaze and answered his question. “My family will proceed with the investment.” Chris’s father was a man of immense pride. His company, Keystone Foods, was built on quality and integrity, slowly earning a stellar reputation. But in this cutthroat era, staying afloat was a struggle, and the cost of modernization was massive. If my family were to pull our funding now, it would be a death blow. A man as proud as his father would never survive it. That was why Chris had endured it. He had endured me, giving up the woman he loved and submitting to my every unreasonable demand, all to repay that debt of gratitude. Even after his family’s company was back on its feet, he never broke his promise to me. For ten years, he took care of me to the best of his ability. He just didn’t love me. But now, there was still time to fix everything. “We’ll do it by the book. A standard investment contract, with dividends paid according to shares. I’ll even add a second round of funding if you run into any issues. Keystone is a good company. I grew up eating your snacks. There are no other conditions.” I took a deep breath. After all, for ten years, I had truly loved him. Pushing down the ache in my chest, I continued, “I was wrong to force you before. I won’t do it again.” I looked up, meeting his gaze. He stared back, his lips parting as if to say something, but no words came out. I stood and opened the door, turning my back to him to hide the stinging in my eyes. “This time,” I said, my voice quiet but firm, “I want to try with someone else.” When Chris left, his footsteps were hurried, almost frantic. He was probably afraid I’d change my mind. 2 Chris’s parents were deeply in love, and he was raised as a well-mannered, educated young gentleman. When I was a child, my father would often take me to visit their home, and Chris would always treat me with patient hospitality, never showing an ounce of irritation at my tantrums. It wasn’t until I overheard that he had followed his childhood neighbor, Seraphina, to Seaview University that I understood. All of his patience, his emotional stability around me, was simply the polite tolerance one shows a guest. Even someone as perfect as him had a love he couldn’t attain. Seraphina was beautiful and brilliant, but I wasn’t so bad myself. I was so naive back then. I thought that if I just had enough time, he would eventually fall in love with me. For ten years, we got along well enough, like any ordinary married couple, which created the illusion that we were in love. But not even a week had passed after my death before he was living with her. I was like the evil side character in a romance novel, the one who tears the main couple apart, only to receive my karmic retribution in the final chapter. I gazed out the floor-to-ceiling window at the blue sky and sparkling sea. Nothing felt better than being alive again. To prove my sincerity, I had my father complete the investment the very next day and formally dissolve our engagement. My father gave me a knowing look as he signed my name on the contract, making the investment officially in my name. Even he could see how I felt about Chris. I didn’t bother explaining. Neither family mentioned the engagement again. 3 Returning to university life was a strange adjustment. The campus was huge. Chris and I were in different programs—he was in finance, I was in art. It was perfectly normal that our paths wouldn’t cross. A full month went by without a single sighting of him. I’ll admit, it was unsettling at first. I threw myself into campus life to distract myself. I fed the stray cats. I joined the mountaineering club. I posted pictures of my sculptures and myself covered in clay. I went on sketching trips with my classmates. My roommates started a betting pool in our group chat, speculating on whether I had genuinely moved on or was just trying a new strategy. They had all witnessed my single-minded pursuit of Chris before. They debated freely, completely ignoring the fact that I was in the chat. I finally typed a reply. “So, what are the odds?” My roommate, Chloe, responded instantly: “Four to one… P.S: I’m the one.” Even though they all thought I would regroup and launch a new offensive, this time, I had truly given up. I placed a bet on myself moving on. My cousin, Leo Sterling, came looking for me. He rolled up in a flashy sports car, his hair bleached a shocking blond, and yelled my name at the top of his lungs outside the sculpture studio late at night. “Aria!” He lunged forward to sling an arm around my neck, then skidded to a halt when he saw I was covered in wet clay. “Heard you invested in Chris’s company, but now you’re avoiding him?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with gossip. “What’s the deal? Playing hard to get?” I shot him a withering glare. “Hard to get my foot!” I turned to go back inside, wanting nothing to do with him. We’d been close since we were kids, distant cousins thrice removed. He was a classic slacker, and his dad had shipped him off to study abroad. He was a frequent flyer, though, coming back more often than not. Leo stroked his chin thoughtfully. “How about this? I’ll help you kidnap him. You can tie him up and have your way with him.” I took a deep breath and turned back to him with a sweet smile. The next second, all the clay on my hands was transferred perfectly to his face. He let out a squeal like a pig being slaughtered. “Aria Thorne, I’m going to kill you!” As I dodged his attack, I glanced down the hallway and saw Chris standing at the far end, holding two cups of bubble tea. It was the first time I’d seen him since that day. Remembering that his beloved Seraphina had classes in this building, it all made sense. He shot us a cold look, scoffed, and turned away. “What’s his problem?” I muttered. Later, while we were at a hot pot place, Leo asked again about Chris. “I just don’t like him anymore,” I said. Leo’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean, you don’t like him anymore? Is it because of Seraphina?” I snatched a piece of tripe from his chopsticks and rolled my eyes. “You already know, so why ask?” Leo put on a look of profound grief. “My dear Seraphina… so she’s really going to be snatched away by that guy.” His words made my own heart ache a little. That night, the two of us, unlucky in love, drank ourselves into a stupor. My roommate Chloe, who was working a part-time job nearby, had to drag me home. The next day, she showed me a video of Leo and me belting out sad love songs in the middle of the street. She then used it as blackmail to get me to cover her shift for the debate club. She was juggling eighteen part-time jobs and was completely swamped. 4 I thought I would never cross paths with Chris again. I didn’t expect to see him at the debate club. He was organizing files on a shelf. He froze for a second when I walked in, then turned back to his task without a word. I felt a surge of awkwardness. He didn’t think I came here on purpose, did he? We worked in silence. I started cleaning up, just as Chloe had instructed. To be honest, it was a bit of a challenge for me. As I stood on a chair, cloth in hand, trying to reach the top of a window, the chair wobbled. I lost my balance and braced myself for the fall. The expected pain never came. A pair of searing hot hands gripped my waist, steadying me. My face flushed instantly. I was thrown back to my past life, after Chris and I were married. He was usually silent, reserved, and stoic. It was only in bed that he would become a different person, gripping my waist with a fierce possessiveness, his breathing heavy and ragged. His hands were always this hot. He wouldn’t speak, just work with a relentless intensity until my voice grew hoarse from begging, at which point he would finally relent, his attention shifting to my lips for a brief reprieve. I drifted for a moment. So, there had been times when it felt like love. “Get down.” His cold voice behind me pulled me from my reverie. I felt a pang of embarrassment. He probably thought I’d faked the fall. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking deeply annoyed. Just as I was trying to figure out how to explain, my phone rang. I scrambled to answer it, eager to escape. It was Leo. He must have just woken up. “Aria, my little darling, for the sake of your happiness, your big bro is going to give it another shot!” My heart sank. A shot at what? I had a terrible feeling Leo was about to make a fool of himself. I rushed out to find him, and after circling the campus, I finally spotted him in front of the dorms. Chris had found him first. When I arrived, Leo and Chris were in a standoff. The scene was ludicrously over the top. The ground was blanketed in a sea of roses. Seraphina stood behind Chris in a white dress, looking completely bewildered. I approached slowly. I had to admit, the sight still stung. It was a delayed, creeping kind of pain. In my past life, not long after I forced Chris to marry me, Seraphina’s family went bankrupt. Chris immediately sent her abroad. I was happy at the time, thinking no one could get between us anymore. Looking back now, I realize he was probably just afraid I would persecute her now that she had nothing. He really did love her. Just like now. The grand confession was for Seraphina. But it was Chris who stood in front of her, shielding her, rejecting the advance on her behalf. Seraphina’s eyes were red. She tugged gently on Chris’s sleeve, shaking her head. Then, she saw me. She seemed to want to explain something, but after opening her mouth, she just lowered her gaze and said nothing. This scene felt familiar. I suddenly remembered my own afterlife. After my death, Chris brought Seraphina into our home. Leo had shown up then, too, causing a scene. He had pointed at Chris’s nose, screaming at him, accusing him of disrespecting my memory. I had floated beside them, trying to explain. “No, he didn’t cheat on me.” “I know what kind of man he is. He would never do that.” “I was the one who forced him.” “He didn’t wrong me. He can go back to his love.” “I was the one who wronged him all these years.” “Leo, I’m dead. He’s free.” But no one could hear me. That day had been the seventh day after my death. Back in the present, I walked toward them. Chris’s gaze fell on me, cold and hard. It was as if he were saying: Aria Thorne, you’re pathetic. Using Leo to get to Seraphina. Leo stood opposite him, his flamboyant hair looking limp and lifeless. Looking at the ridiculous display of roses and luxury gifts piled in his sports car, I grimaced. His taste was atrocious. Any normal girl would die of secondhand embarrassment. He must have had rocks in his head to come up with this plan. He seemed to realize it, too. He shot me a desperate look and whispered, “Help me.” “If my dad finds out I’m back in the country pulling this crap, I’m dead meat!” I rolled my eyes. “You didn’t ask for my help before you pulled this crap. It’s too late now.” “It wasn’t me!” he hissed. “I just wanted to give her some flowers! My idiot friends got wind of it and put all this together!” I glanced over and, sure enough, saw a few of his usual cronies whispering together. Seeing the growing crowd, Leo gritted his teeth. “Help me out of this, and I’ll steal my dad’s yacht for you. We can have a party. With male models.” I nodded instantly. “Deal.” I took the bouquet from Leo’s hand, turned to Seraphina, and put on my most lovesick expression. “Sera, I’ve admired you for so long! Do you like these Bulgarian roses, freshly flown in just for you?” Then, pretending to just notice Chris, I covered my mouth in shock. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize you already had a boyfriend.” I feigned tears. “It seems I was one step too late. In the next life, I’ll be sure to come sooner!” Someone in the crowd muttered, “Wait, I thought Aria was chasing Chris?” Seraphina looked at me, confused. Crap. “It was a diversionary tactic!” I announced. “An attempt to weaken the enemy from within! It failed, so this was my last desperate gambit!” Nods of understanding rippled through the crowd. Seraphina’s expression was complicated, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. I sighed dramatically. “My lady, you must be happy! My quest is over, and I shall retreat…” Leo clamped a hand over my mouth. “Sorry, she’s overcome with grief and talking nonsense. I’ll take her away to recover.” I was just getting into character and shot him a glare. Across from us, Seraphina reached out a hand, about to speak, but Chris clamped a hand over her mouth. And just like that, the two main parties of the confession were both silenced and dragged away. As we left, I glanced back. Chris’s eyes were dark and inscrutable. Seraphina stared after us, looking dazed. Leo and I ran for our lives.

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I was using the new smart fridge my husband, Julian, had just installed, trying to put together a shopping list for the weekend. Suddenly, a shared family account he’d forgotten to log out of popped up on the screen. It only had one other user profile, one I didn’t recognize. I tapped on it. A list titled “Rose Care Guide” was staring back at me. *Rose is allergic to shellfish, avoid spicy food.* *Rose gets emotional, buy her favorite white chocolate to calm her down.* *Rose gets cold easily, keep the thermostat set to a constant 78 degrees.* I scrolled down with a cold smile, my eyes landing on the last item, a bolded calendar reminder: **“Next Wednesday, take Rose to pick out a wedding gown.”** My face was a mask of calm as I closed the list and picked up my phone to call him. “Darling,” I said, my voice sweet, “does your Rose prefer a classic or modern wedding dress? I’d love to help you pick one out.” … On the other end of the line, my husband Julian’s breath caught for a fraction of a second. “Ava, what kind of joke is this?” His voice, the same warm, magnetic tone I’d known for eight years, was perfectly steady. “What rose? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He let out a low chuckle, his words dripping with practiced affection. “The only rose I have is you, sweetheart.” I clutched the phone, my eyes scanning the dark night outside the window as a smirk played on my lips. “The one from your shared list. The rose who’s going to be trying on wedding gowns.” His voice immediately relaxed, a hint of manufactured realization in his tone. “Oh, *that*. That’s for Mark. He’s getting ready to propose to his girlfriend, and he asked me to help him plan the wedding details.” “You know how he is, a total mess with this stuff. I’ll have to chew him out later for syncing his lists to my account and making my Ava jealous.” It was the perfect excuse. Mark was his best friend from childhood, the best man at our wedding. He was certain I’d never doubt it. “That’s just Mark for you,” he continued smoothly. “Always dumping his problems on me. I’m sorry he made you worry, honey.” “Is that so?” I asked lightly. “You two must be close if he needs you to help him choose his fiancée’s wedding dress.” Julian went right along with it. “You know it. We’ve been brothers since we were kids. Honestly, the way he spoils his girlfriend, I’m almost jealous.” “Ava, don’t overthink this. You’re the only one for me. Is your dress for the gala tomorrow night ready? I can have the driver pick it up.” “No need,” I said. “I’ve already made my own arrangements.” I ended the call, tossed my apron aside, and took a complete screenshot of the list. The lock turned. Not even fifteen minutes had passed before Julian was home. He walked in and immediately wrapped his arms around me from behind, resting his chin in the crook of my neck. He smelled of the cool night air. “Ava, I was still worried. I cancelled the rest of my meetings and came straight home.” He cupped my face, his deep eyes filled with sincerity and concern. “Have I been too busy lately? Have I been neglecting you, letting your mind run wild like this?” “Your voice on the phone… it didn’t sound right. My heart just sank. No business deal is more important than you.” “It’s all my fault. I haven’t been thinking about your feelings these past few weeks.” He took all the blame, shouldered all the responsibility, painting me as the hysterical, paranoid wife seeing ghosts. I stared at the face I had once been so completely lost in, a bitter taste rising in my throat. “No, it’s not you. I think I’m just tired lately.” He let out a quiet, audible sigh of relief. “You silly girl.” He brushed his fingertip against my nose. “Alright, stop worrying. I’ll go run you a bath.” He shrugged off his custom-tailored suit jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a chair. I watched him walk into the bathroom, then reached for the jacket to hang it in the closet. A thick, gold-embossed card fell out of the pocket. I picked it up. It was a collection voucher from a private couture atelier. The name of the custom gown was “Starry Night Rose.” The listed materials and labor hours indicated a price tag that was astronomical. At the bottom, in handwritten script, was the recipient’s information. It wasn’t me. And it wasn’t Mark’s fiancée. Clutching the thin card, I dialed my best friend, Zara. She was a shark—the top divorce lawyer in the city, with a network that was frankly terrifying. “Zara, I’m sending you a name and an address. Find out everything you can. I want to know her connection to Julian.” For the next few days, Julian was the picture of devotion. Kisses in the morning, embraces at night. He started driving me to and from work and even began looking up recipes, cooking elaborate meals for me. He was playing the part of the perfect husband, wracked with guilt over a near-misunderstanding and desperate to make amends. On Tuesday afternoon, Julian’s grandfather called. The old man asked about my health before changing the subject. “Ava, you and Julian have been married three years now. It’s time you started shifting your focus more toward the family.” “A man is in the prime of his career. He needs a supportive wife at home.” “Our Julian is a capable man, and he adores you. You need to make sure the home front is secure for him.” Every word was a nail wrapped in cotton candy. Not fatal, but it pierced deep. I gave a few noncommittal answers to get him off the phone. Julian walked in with a bowl of soup, sitting down next to me. “Grandpa giving you another lecture?” I nodded. He sighed, pulling me into his arms. “Don’t listen to him. He’s from a different era.” “You just do what makes you happy, Ava. I’ll support you no matter what.” He said all the right things. I nestled against his chest, inhaling the sour, rotten scent of fermented lies. On Thursday, Zara called. “I’ve got it all,” she said, her voice cold as ice. “The woman at that address is named Rose Miller. Twenty-three years old. She started at Croft Enterprises three months ago.” “She has that innocent, girl-next-door look. Calls him ‘Jules’ in front of everyone.” “And here’s the kicker. I had someone pull the security footage.” “The day before yesterday, Julian personally took her to the atelier. He was there for the entire fitting, helping her choose the style, watching them take her measurements.” An invisible hand squeezed my heart. Zara scoffed. “It gets worse.” “I got into her private cloud storage. The password was Julian’s birthday.” “It’s filled with photos of them together.” I hung up and opened the folder of photos Zara had sent me. Rose’s album was titled *My Knight*. The most recent picture was posted two days ago. *【J says this gown is all mine, just like he is.】* *【He’s going to give me the title I deserve at the family gala next week.】* The photo was of a breathtakingly beautiful gown, the exact same design as the one on the collection voucher. The fabric was a rare, one-of-a-kind silk that Julian had recently purchased at a high price from a master artisan—a bolt of fabric he told me was for my wedding anniversary gift. I scrolled down. *【On a night when I was falling apart, J drove across the entire city to be with me. He brought me my favorite white chocolate and held me all night.】* *【He said that from now on, he’ll never let me be hurt again.】* The photo was of Julian’s sleeping profile, his brow slightly furrowed, one of his hands tightly gripping Rose’s. The picture was taken in our bedroom. In our marital bed. The home I had poured my heart and soul into designing, a place filled with our memories. I scrolled again. *【My new car from J! He even had the interior customized in my favorite color! He said it’s my own private pumpkin carriage, and one day it will take me to a castle.】* The photo was a selfie of her in the driver’s seat, smiling at the luxury car logo on the steering wheel. It was the new car Julian had brought home last week. The phone slipped from my numb fingers, the screen shattering on the hardwood floor. I sank into the sofa, every ounce of strength draining from my body. Eight years. Eight years from high school sweethearts to husband and wife. All the promises he’d made, all the things he’d done for me, now felt like red-hot branding irons searing my heart over and over again. He said he loved me, yet he held another woman in our bed. He said he was in a late meeting, but he was comforting another woman’s fragile emotions. He said I was his only rose, but he had already prepared a wedding gown and a new title for someone else. A wave of nausea washed over me. I ran to the bathroom and threw up until I was dizzy. Why? What did I do wrong? Julian, how could you do this to me? My heart was torn to shreds, the pain so intense I couldn’t breathe. I leaned against the cold tile, crying until no more sounds would come out. And then, somewhere in the middle of the silent sobs, I started to laugh. I stood up and splashed cold water on my face. My pain wouldn’t earn his guilt. My tears were worthless. *You want to give her a title, Julian? Fine. I’ll help you make it a night to remember.* Just then, Julian pushed the door open. Seeing my state, his expression changed instantly. “Ava, what’s wrong? Why are you so pale?” He rushed over, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. I looked up at him, my eyes red and swollen from crying. “Julian, I don’t think… I can do this anymore.” He froze, his face a perfect mask of concern and heartache. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? We’re going to the hospital, right now.” He started to grab his coat. “No,” I said, grabbing his wrist. “It’s just… my heart. It feels so heavy.” Julian stopped. He knelt before me, taking my hands in his, his face a portrait of regret. “It’s all my fault. I’ve been so focused on work, I’ve completely ignored how you feel.” “Ava, listen to me. The business doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Only you.” “I’m clearing my schedule tomorrow. We’ll go to Aspen, just like you’ve always wanted. We’ll go see the snow. How does that sound?” He was so earnest, as if all my pain stemmed from his neglect, not his betrayal. I looked at him and, to his surprise, I smiled. “Okay,” I whispered. “Whatever you say.” The family gala next week was actually the Croft Foundation’s annual charity ball. The Crofts were one of the city’s founding families, and the event was a massive affair held at their sprawling country estate. As the most brilliant heir of his generation, Julian was naturally the center of attention. He looked impeccable in a tailored black tuxedo, moving through the crowd of socialites and billionaires with an easy smile. My mother-in-law, dripping in jewels, stood beside him, her face beaming with pride. His grandfather, the patriarch of the Croft empire, sat at the head table, leaning on a dragon-headed cane, his presence commanding the room. “Ava, come here.” The old man beckoned to me. I walked over, and he patted the empty seat beside him. “Sit.” “Tonight’s guests are all very important people. Don’t walk around with such a long face. People will think the Croft family mistreats you.” “Julian is out there building an empire. You need to learn to be the woman behind him. Be softer. More supportive.” “And another thing, it’s about time that belly of yours showed some activity!” His words were gentle, but they carried the weight of an order. I lowered my eyes and said nothing. He seemed ready to continue his lecture, but Julian appeared with a glass of champagne. “Grandpa, are you scolding Ava again?” He stood naturally behind me, resting a hand on the back of my chair and smiling at his grandfather. “Ava hasn’t been feeling well lately. I’ve told her to rest and not to worry about a thing.” He was always like this, flawlessly protecting me in public, giving me the ultimate appearance of respect. The old man grunted and turned to speak to someone else. Julian leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Don’t listen to him. I love you just the way you are.” I smiled, my gaze drifting over his shoulder, where I saw a face that had no business being here. Rose. She was wearing a pale pink slip dress, a white silk shawl draped over her shoulders. Her long hair was curled, her makeup was light and dewy, and her expression was a mixture of timidness and poorly concealed triumph. Her hand rested unconsciously on her lower abdomen. She was standing near one of Julian’s cousins, pretending to be his date. Julian’s eyes flickered in her direction. It was only for a second, but I saw it all: the joy, the possessiveness, the certainty of a man who believes he has won. Halfway through the evening, it was time for the old man to give his speech and announce the company’s major plans for the coming year. As the heir apparent, Julian was called to the stage. He took the microphone and began by reporting on the year’s successes. Then, his tone shifted. His eyes swept across the room before finally landing on me. “I want to thank my grandfather, my uncles, and all of our partners. But most of all, I want to thank my wife, Ava Croft.” Every eye in the room turned to me. “However,” he paused, “tonight, I must also announce a difficult decision.” His gaze finally moved away from my face, becoming cold and unfamiliar. “I, Julian Croft, will be seeking a divorce from Ava.” A wave of gasps and murmurs rippled through the hall. “What? A divorce?” “What’s going on? I thought they were the perfect couple.” “My God, announcing a divorce at the family gala? Is he insane?” His grandfather’s face darkened. He banged his cane on the floor. “Julian! What is the meaning of this nonsense!” Julian ignored him, his voice as cold as a tombstone. “This isn’t nonsense.” “Ava and I have irreconcilable differences. Our marriage has been over in all but name for years.” “For too long, she has been consumed by her own career, neglecting her duties to me and to this family. She has failed to provide the support and care that a wife should.” “That is, until I met a girl who is willing to put family first. A girl who is willing to build a home with me.” “And she is carrying my child. I have a responsibility to her, and I intend to give her the title she deserves.” He turned and extended his hand toward Rose. “Rose, come up here.” With tears streaming down her face, Rose lifted the hem of her dress and, in the dead silence, walked step by step onto the stage. She went to Julian’s side, and he pulled her into his arms. He bent his head, tenderly kissing a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered into the microphone. “I’m sorry you had to endure this.” Then, he looked up, his eyes fixing on me with the air of a judge delivering a sentence. “Ava, for the sake of the years we spent together, you can leave now with your dignity intact. We can keep this civil.” “I will provide you with a settlement generous enough to ensure you live comfortably for the rest of your life.” “But if you choose to make a scene, the only person you will humiliate is yourself.” He had planned it all perfectly. In this place, in this way, he would nail me to a cross of public shame. He wanted everyone to know that it was me, Ava, the barren wife, who was selfishly clinging to the Croft name. And he was just the victim, a man fighting for true love and the family he so desperately wanted. I looked at the two actors on the stage. I looked at the old man at the head table, his face shifting from rage to disappointment. And I smiled. Step by step, I walked onto the stage. I took the other microphone from the stunned emcee. In an instant, every camera, every pair of eyes in the entire estate, was fixed on me.

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At the end of the year, while closing the books, I noticed something was wrong. After pulling several all-nighters to fix it, I found the company account was off by a single cent. I spent another three sleepless nights re-doing the books from scratch, only to discover that the new secretary had been depositing one cent into the company account every single day. When I confronted her, she tearfully explained, “I just saw you staying late every night, struggling with the numbers, and I wanted to help.” My boss chimed in, “Vivian was just trying to be nice, Chloe. You don’t have to be so aggressive.” Under a chorus of accusations, I was branded a workplace bully. I was fired. Then Vivian started a livestream to smear my name online. I was tormented until I fell into a deep depression and took my own life. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at my desk, staring at the accounting error. 1 Seeing that single, extra cent on the balance sheet again, my mouse met the desk with a sharp crack. I spun around in my chair, my voice echoing across the open-plan office. “Who the hell is depositing one cent into the company account every day?” I yelled. “Do you have any idea how expensive things are? Save that penny! Put it towards your own damn coffin!” Jaws dropped. My colleagues stared at me, frozen. It was the kind of collective shock that only happens when the quietest person in the room finally explodes. After a moment of stunned silence, Leo, a colleague, burst out laughing. “Chloe, who lit a fire under you? Struck out on another date? Don’t take it out on us!” Leo, with his three years at the company, fancied himself the office comedian. My failed attempts at dating were his favorite punchline. My face was a stone mask. “Was it you, Leo?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “It might only be a cent, but it throws off the entire financial statement. If the audit comes back messy because of this, none of us are getting a quiet holiday season. Do you understand?” I was exaggerating, I’ll admit. But the mere mention of accountability wiped the smirk right off his face. “Hey, not me, Chloe. Nothing to do with me.” I ignored him, my gaze sweeping across the room, meeting each person’s eyes. “Whoever did this knows exactly who they are. Don’t make me go through the transaction logs. I’ll give you three seconds to come forward and admit it. Otherwise, when this blows up, you’ll be the one who screwed over the entire company.” I had barely started my countdown when Vivian, the new secretary, burst through the door, flustered. “Chloe, I-I’m so sorry! It was me. I deposited the money.” As she apologized, she was already handing out coffees she’d brought with her. “I figured everyone was sick of the free stuff in the breakroom. My treat, don’t be shy!” It’s hard to stay mad at someone offering you a latte. As my colleagues took the cups, their expressions softened into smiles. “How much was it? I’ll Venmo you.” “You’re too much, Viv! You’re always bringing us coffee, I almost feel bad taking it.” “Vivian, you must be loaded. There’s no way your intern salary covers all this!” Vivian just waved her hand with a sweet smile. “It’s no fun drinking alone! It’s better when we all enjoy it together. And don’t worry about my wallet, it can handle it.” In less than a month, Vivian had won over the entire office with these small acts of generosity. She navigated the social currents like a fish in water. Leo took a sip of his coffee and shot a look in my direction. “You know, Vivian, if only everyone was as easygoing as you. Some people have been here five years and still haven’t managed to fit in.” Vivian blinked her wide, innocent eyes. “Who? Is it someone I know?” she asked, a masterclass in feigned ignorance. A few people nearby stifled their laughter. It was a scene that had played out a thousand times in my previous life. 2 On Vivian’s first day, Leo was assigned to show her the ropes. The two of them hit it off immediately, bonding over their shared hobby: making my life difficult. In my past life, when I discovered the accounting error, I worked myself into the ground for three days straight, nearly tearing my hair out trying to find the source. It was only then that I found Vivian’s daily one-cent deposits. When I confronted her, she broke down. “I just saw you staying up all night, struggling with the numbers,” she sobbed. “I wanted to help.” My colleagues all rushed to her defense. “She’s new, she’s still learning. Vivian is trying her best.” Even my boss, Mr. Harrison, stepped in. “Vivian was just trying to be nice, Chloe. You don’t have to be so aggressive.” And just like that, I became the villain, the office bully. The company used it as the perfect excuse to kick me to the curb. No severance package, and they even withheld my last month’s salary. Then came the online smear campaign. Vivian started a livestream, and my boss and former colleagues appeared as “witnesses,” confirming her stories. The “workplace bully” label stuck. At that exact moment, my mother, back in my hometown, fell gravely ill. She needed a huge sum of money for treatment, fast. But I had been doxxed. I sent out hundreds of resumes, and every single one vanished into a black hole. Without enough money, my mom missed the best window for treatment. She passed away. My father, lost without her, followed not long after. I was tormented into a deep depression, and I took my own life. When I opened my eyes again, I was staring at that long string of numbers on the screen, with that one extra cent at the end. And this time, I snapped. You either explode, or you die in silence. This life, I was choosing to explode. And I was taking Vivian, Leo, and the rest of those venomous people down with me. 3 After handing out the coffees, Vivian realized she was one short. She clasped her hands together and came over to my desk. “I’m so sorry, Chloe. Here, you can have mine.” I took her by the arm and gently pushed her down into my chair. “Here you go,” I said with a thin smile. “Whoever made the mess can clean it up. It’s time for you to learn about accountability.” Vivian stared blankly at the complex accounting software on my screen, her eyes welling up with tears. “Chloe, I’m an admin major… I don’t know how to do any of this…” “That’s okay,” I interrupted smoothly. “You can learn. Since you were so interested in our finances that you made daily deposits, I’m sure you’ll pick it up in no time.” I stretched, cracking my back, and began clearing my personal items off the desk. Leo frowned. “Chloe, this is just bullying a new employee. You can’t just hand off important work like this. What if she messes something up?” He sounded so righteous. But I knew him for what he was: a professional pot-stirrer. And the best way to deal with someone like him is to drag them into the mud with you. I slid his chair over next to Vivian’s. “Leo, aren’t you Vivian’s mentor? This is a perfect opportunity for you to teach her. You two can figure out the problem together.” Vivian’s eyes reddened. “Chloe, I know you don’t like me,” she said, her voice trembling with manufactured strength. “I’m new, I haven’t even finished my probation, so I know I can’t fight back when you bully me. But Leo is a senior employee! He has his own work to do! How can you just dump your responsibilities on him? I can work overtime every day, but Leo has a child at home! He needs to be with his wife and kid. Can’t you just leave the people around me out of this? If you have a problem, take it out on me!” Her brave facade immediately earned her the sympathy of the room—and drew their ire towards me. “Chloe, you can’t just throw your weight around because you’ve been here longer. This is unfair to Leo and Vivian!” “Yeah, I can’t stand it! She just sits in the corner with that sour look on her face all day. You’d think the company owes her a million bucks. Such a killjoy.” “Everyone’s busy. Even the new girl has a ton on her plate. Now someone’s using that as an excuse to palm off her own work. What a slick move.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a faint smirk touch Vivian’s lips. In my previous life, I never would have irresponsibly handed my work to someone else. But I would never forget the ugly look on my boss’s face when he fired me for “bullying,” all to avoid paying me a proper severance. A company like that didn’t deserve another ounce of my energy. “Fine,” I said, my voice ringing with challenge. “Since you’re all so eager to defend them, you can do the work. I’ve worked nineteen straight days of overtime on these books. I nearly died from exhaustion. And it was all because she thought it would be ‘helpful’ to deposit a single cent every day, throwing everything off. I’m not a saint. I can’t just forgive someone for a stupid act that almost put me in an early grave. Don’t stand there talking. If you support them so much, come on over and help re-check the accounts!” I rolled up my sleeves, ready for a fight. “What is all this noise? Don’t you people have work to do?” Mr. Harrison, the boss, appeared, his face a thundercloud. Vivian’s eyes filled with tears. “Mr. Harrison, it’s all my fault. Chloe assigned her work to me as a sign of her trust in my abilities. I shouldn’t have refused.” The others immediately chimed in, painting a perfect picture of me as the villain who bullied the new girl. I waited patiently for them to finish. “You all mention me giving her my work, but why does no one mention the fact that she deliberately sabotaged my work by making daily deposits? This is a workplace, not her mommy’s house. When you make a mistake, you take responsibility and you fix it. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?” After getting the gist of the situation, Mr. Harrison reverted to his usual role of conflict-smoother. “Alright, alright, that’s enough. Chloe, I know you’ve been working hard. I’ll give you a half-day off sometime.” Three consecutive weekends of unpaid overtime, and this cheapskate offers me half a day. Before I could even react, Vivian jumped in. “Mr. Harrison, Chloe has worked so hard. Please give her more time off! I’ll cover her work while she’s gone!” The boss beamed, praising her as the most dedicated employee he’d ever seen. He didn’t miss the chance to throw some shade at certain “senior employees” with poor work ethics. Vivian smiled and turned to the others. “None of you need to come in this Saturday. It’s just sending out some materials to clients. I can handle it all.” The others made a show of refusing, but she persisted. “I’ve been interning for a month now! Think of it as a test. I want to prove myself. Please, just give me this chance!” Mr. Harrison waved his hand magnanimously. “Approved.” After he left, my colleagues swarmed Vivian, showering her with praise. Leo declared she was a literal angel. Vivian took out a small notebook and dutifully jotted down everything they needed her to do. She then circled back to my desk. “Chloe, do you still need my help checking the accounts?” she asked. Leo scoffed. “Help her? Be careful. If anything goes wrong, she’ll pin it all on you.” I looked at him calmly. “So, you won’t blame her?” Leo looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Of course not. She’s offering to help out of the goodness of her heart. Regardless of the outcome, you have to appreciate the gesture.” Mark, one of Leo’s buddies, chimed in. “Exactly. Not like some people who won’t even grab a package for you when they’re heading out.” Vivian looked so moved she could have cried. She swore to them all that she would do her absolute best. I had to suppress a laugh. A weirdo who had enough free time to deposit a cent into the company account every single day? I wasn’t holding my breath. Now, it was time for them to experience the full extent of Vivian’s “kindness.”

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1 Three years into my marriage with the woman I’d once moved heaven and earth for, a suffocating boredom had settled over my life. The thought of spending the rest of my days with just one person made my skin crawl. It was an itch I desperately needed to scratch. Just as I was plotting how to find a little excitement behind my wife’s back, my younger brother, Leo, appeared with a royal decree in his hands. “Brother,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial, “His Majesty needs an envoy in the southern province of Veridia. The floods have caused chaos, and someone needs to restore order.” A spark ignited within me. This was my chance. But then, a familiar worry crept in. My wife, Eleanor, would never let me go alone. She’d insist on following, smothering me with her devotion. Leo, seeing the hesitation in my eyes, offered a reassuring, almost sycophantic, smile. “You go and make your mark, brother. I’ll stay behind and take care of everything… including Eleanor.” … The moment the words left his lips, we heard footsteps approaching the study. They were light, delicate, punctuated by the soft clinking of silver charms on a belt. I didn’t need to guess. It was my wife. As expected, she entered without knocking, clad in a sea-green gown and carrying a small bowl. It was her honey-lotus pudding. Her eyes met mine, and she graced me with that gentle, placid smile of hers. “You’ve been working so hard, my love,” she murmured. “I made this for you. Please, try it.” Then, as if just noticing my brother, she feigned a look of surprise. “Oh, Leo! I didn’t realize you were here. I only made one bowl. What a pity.” Every gesture, every word, was exactly as I’d predicted. There were no surprises with Eleanor anymore. No thrill. It was utterly, painfully dull. Looking at her, the last vestiges of guilt I felt for wanting to stray simply evaporated. This life was a cage, and surely, my loving wife wouldn’t want me to wither away in it, would she? “Your cooking is divine, Eleanor,” Leo sighed dramatically. “It’s a shame I’m not blessed enough to enjoy it.” His voice pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced at him, his eyes fixed on the pudding with an almost pathetic longing. I couldn’t fathom why he’d use a word like “blessed” for a simple dessert. Eleanor, despite being the daughter of a Marquis, had none of the ambition or grace of her station. She was content to potter around in our estate’s kitchens, experimenting with sweets. I’ll admit, they were delicious. If she’d only been willing to apply that talent to my businesses, she could have been of some real use. But she only wanted to create, never to profit, presenting me with her concoctions day after day, asking for my opinion until even the most exquisite flavors turned to ash in my mouth. With a heavy sigh, I pushed the bowl across the desk to Leo. “Here, you have it. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like you’re cursed without it.” Leo’s eyes widened. “Brother, I couldn’t. This is from Eleanor… a token of her love for you.” God, I hated it when these military types tried to sound like poets. He was practically drooling, yet he still had to put on this noble act. Such a hypocrite. “I’ve had too many sweets today,” I waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t want it.” As I said it, I saw something flicker across Eleanor’s usually serene face: pure, unadulterated shock. It was as if I’d struck her. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, welled with tears. Without a single word, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room. Not a bow, not a curtsy. Not an ounce of decorum. I frowned, a sharp rebuke on the tip of my tongue. But with Leo still here, I held it back, rubbing my temples in frustration. My affection had spoiled her, it seemed. It had made her bold enough to show me such disrespect. My mind drifted back to the day I had knelt for hours outside her family’s manor, proclaiming my undying love in front of a crowd of nobles, swearing an oath of fidelity—one man, one woman, for all time. If I had known then how painfully predictable she would become, I would never have made such a foolish vow. Now, if I so much as exchanged a pleasant word with another woman, rumors would fly, and some court sycophant would be reporting my “infidelity” to the King. “Brother, is she angry?” Leo’s voice was laced with feigned concern. “Was it my fault? I shouldn’t have been so greedy.” His apology only fueled my irritation. It was just a damn bowl of pudding, and she was throwing a tantrum. How could a woman so petty ever be fit to be the Duchess of my estate? 2 That night, Leo devoured the honey-lotus pudding, practically licking the bowl clean. If I hadn’t stopped him, he probably would have taken the dish with him. I despised that about him. He was the only trueborn son of the Duke, yet he carried himself like a common street rogue with no ambition. Thankfully, the laws of succession in our kingdom were clear: the title passes to the firstborn, not the son of the primary wife. Otherwise, I couldn’t imagine how long our great House would last in his clumsy hands. I sighed, watching him leave before instructing my page to buy a box of cakes from the East Street bakery. Eleanor had a sweet tooth, both for making and eating desserts. Usually, whenever I upset her, a simple offering of pastries was enough to bring back her smile. Her temper was like a kitten’s scratch—sharp for a moment, then easily soothed. It was amusing at first, but now, it just felt tiresome. I’d rather have a courtesan from the pleasure district who could throw a playful insult while fanning herself with a silk handkerchief. Shaking my head, I took the box of cakes from the page and went to our chambers. Eleanor was there, just as I’d expected, sitting at her vanity and brushing her hair. She didn’t even look up when I entered. I slid up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist in a gesture of reconciliation. “My dear, forgive my harsh words. I never meant to cause you pain.” Our eyes met in the polished bronze mirror. “Who ate the pudding?” she asked, her voice flat. I didn’t understand her obsession with this trivial matter. What did it matter if I ate it or Leo ate it? We were family. Frankly, it was her fault for only making one serving. My giving it away was a sign of brotherly generosity, and still, she chose to be difficult. I forced a smile. “I did, of course. How could I give away something made for me with such care?” A small, knowing smile touched her lips. “Good.” I placed the box of cakes in her lap and watched her expression closely. Seeing the familiar delight return to her eyes, I relaxed. “Eleanor, there’s something I need to discuss with you.” This time, however, she didn’t tear into the box with her usual excitement. She merely glanced at it before setting it aside on her vanity. I was surprised but didn’t dwell on it. People change. If I could predict her every move, I wouldn’t have fought so hard to marry her in the first place. A little change wasn’t a crisis; it was… intriguing. “His Majesty wants to send an envoy to Veridia to restore order after the floods. I want to volunteer.” She finally turned to look at me, her gaze steady. “Do you have to go?” I nodded, launching into the speech I had prepared. “Our House has lost favor at court. If I succeed in Veridia, I could earn great prestige for our family. It might be the key to securing my position as the official Heir to the Duchy.” It was true. While the law favored the firstborn, my father had broken his marriage pact with the Duke’s official wife by taking my mother, who was already pregnant with me, as a consort. The King, in his fury, had stripped our House of its guaranteed succession, leaving the title of Heir in limbo. For years, I had schemed and strived, but I could never reclaim the title outright. His Majesty forbade both me and Leo from earning glory on the battlefield, so this mission to Veridia was my only real chance. I laid all this out for Eleanor. She listened patiently, then offered a serene smile. “If this is about securing your legacy, then I would never stand in your way.” She paused, her eyes unreadable. “If your mind is made up, then you should go.” Her calm acceptance left me feeling strangely hollow. She didn’t even ask to come with me. How odd. 3 Still, her not asking saved me the trouble of inventing an excuse to leave her behind. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. As I was about to leave, I noticed a bowl sitting on the windowsill. It looked identical to the one that had held the honey-lotus pudding. But this one was pristine, as if it had never been used. It struck me as strange. Eleanor never bought things in pairs; she found it wasteful. Curious, I asked, “Why did you buy two identical bowls?” She paused for a moment, then gave me an enigmatic smile. “If you believe them to be the same, my love, then I suppose they are.” Her tone had a sharp, sarcastic edge to it, but it was just a bowl. It wasn’t worth arguing over. I swallowed my annoyance. “I’m going to the palace to see His Majesty,” I said. “I’ll need you to pack for me. The situation in Veridia is dire; I’ll probably need a good deal of coin.” Eleanor smiled and agreed. Reassured, I left the estate and made my way to the royal palace. The King wasn’t surprised to see me. He asked me only one question: “In your estimation, what is the true source of the turmoil in Veridia?” I bowed respectfully. “Corruption, Your Majesty. I suspect the relief funds and grain shipments never reached the people who needed them.” The King raised an eyebrow but said nothing more. He simply motioned for a eunuch to bring me the official decree and the robes of a Royal Emissary. On the day of my departure, Eleanor and Leo came to see me off at the city gates. I was dressed in the deep green of my station, while they both wore plain, unadorned white. Standing together, the contrast was jarring, almost offensive. “Eleanor,” I couldn’t help but say, “while I’m gone, perhaps you could wear some other colors. You look so drab in white all the time.” She didn’t answer, but Leo piped up with a grin. “Why pick on her, brother? I’m wearing white too. Besides, she’s been dressing this way for a while now. Why does it bother you today?” He was far more talkative than usual. “You’re noisy,” I snapped, my patience wearing thin. Eleanor shot me a look. “You should get going. The roads are treacherous after dark.” I nodded, signaling the driver to move. As the carriage lurched forward, an odd impulse made me pull back the curtain for one last look. I saw Eleanor pinching Leo’s ear, a stern look on her face. He was saying something, and then he broke into a placating, boyish grin. It was strange, but I dismissed it. I knew how much Eleanor loved me. For her, Leo would always be just a brother-in-law. Nothing more. We traveled day and night, finally reaching the province of Veridia before the month was out. The moment I set foot in the capital, Port Seraphine, the sheer opulence of the place was staggering. Everywhere I looked, there were jewels and precious metals. Women were draped in gold and silver, and even the men wore heavy, expensive-looking signet rings and jade cufflinks. The common folk on the street were adorned with glittering baubles. This was the wealthiest region in the kingdom, no doubt about it. I didn’t start my investigation right away. After parting with my driver, I rented a small, private villa—costly, but Eleanor had packed plenty of silver. That evening, under the cloak of darkness, I changed into common clothes and made my way to the city’s most famous pleasure house, The Silken Siren. My timing was perfect. They were auctioning off a young dancer’s first night. I wasn’t interested. Inexperienced girls were often more trouble than they were worth—even more awkward than Eleanor. Sipping my wine, I scanned the room, my eyes drifting over the courtesans. And then I saw her. A vision in crimson silk, her every movement a symphony of seduction. My heart hammered against my ribs. 4 I summoned the house madam, my voice tight with anticipation. Pointing to the dancer, I said, “Her. I want her for the night.” Before the madam could even begin to haggle, I slapped a heavy gold sovereign down on the table. Her professional smile instantly became genuine. She led me to a private suite and had a bottle of the finest wine delivered. A short while later, the woman of my dreams arrived. She was dressed in veils of silk so thin they were almost transparent, her body a masterpiece of feminine allure. I was mesmerized. I reached out, my hand tracing the soft, supple curve of her waist. This, I thought with a deep, satisfying sigh, is what a woman should feel like. She was nothing like Eleanor, who would go rigid with shyness beneath me. Nothing like my wife, who seemed to view intimacy as a duty, a task to be completed with quiet resignation. As I held this dancer in my arms, ready to lose myself in her, my mind flashed back to my wedding night. Eleanor, beautiful and virginal in her crimson wedding gown, had looked exquisite. I had anticipated a night of passion. Instead, her shyness had been a wall between us. No matter what I did, she remained tense, unyielding. I told myself it was just first-night nerves, that she would soften with time. But she never did. She seemed to resist the very idea of physical pleasure. Worse, she had declared that she would not bear me a child until I had officially secured the title of Heir. Such a cold, calculating heart. Such a passionless existence. My thoughts returned to the present. The dancer from The Silken Siren was a true artist. One night with her was enough to make me feel reborn, to make me want to spend an eternity in her bed. But I hadn’t forgotten my mission entirely. After three nights of bliss, I finally roused myself and began my investigation. Yet no matter where I looked or who I spoke to, Port Seraphine remained a picture of perfect prosperity. The people were wealthy, happy, and spoke of the local authorities with nothing but praise. There wasn’t a hint of the turmoil the King had spoken of. I started to doubt His Majesty’s intelligence. But soon enough, my mind was elsewhere again. The dancer was intoxicating. I, who had never considered myself a man of great appetites, found myself wanting her at all hours, indulging in decadent, sun-drenched afternoons of lovemaking. Before I knew it, I had become her sole patron. Time slipped away. Nearly three months had passed since I’d left the capital. For the first month, I’d received letters from both Eleanor and Leo—mundane updates about the household, polite inquiries about my health. I sent back brief replies and a few local silks and spices. But then the dancer had consumed my thoughts, and I forgot all about writing home. It was only when I realized my funds were dwindling that I noticed it had been over a month since I’d received a letter from either of them. I was a little surprised. I considered writing to ask what was wrong, but then a better idea struck me. There was no unrest in Veridia, the new year was approaching, and my money was almost gone. It was the perfect time to return to the capital. The local officials, hearing of my departure, threw me a lavish farewell banquet, complete with a troupe of dancers. Another night of pleasure. Stroking the dancer’s soft skin, a pang of regret hit me. After I returned to the capital, when would I ever see her again? She was everything I wanted in a woman. A bold, reckless idea took root in my mind. Secretly, using the last of my silver, I bought the dancer’s freedom. I smuggled her into my carriage, hidden from view, and we set off for home. We had just passed through the city gates when my carriage came to an abrupt halt. I looked out to see Eleanor standing in the road, with Leo at her side, blocking our path. “Julian,” she called out, her voice dangerously calm. “You’ve returned to the capital, yet you aren’t heading home. Are you in a rush to get somewhere else?” A spike of fear and annoyance shot through me. If Eleanor discovered the dancer, there would be a terrible scene. The scandal would spread through the court, and the Royal Censors would have a field day. I sighed, ready to offer some flimsy excuse. Then Eleanor’s voice rang out, sharp as shattering glass. “Julian Vance, get out of that carriage now, or we are filing for a divorce!”

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To land a ten-million-dollar deal, I’d spent all night with a client, nursing coffees until my ulcer felt like it was burning a hole through my stomach. I got to the office the next morning and clocked in three seconds late. My boss’s son, Kyle, stormed up to me and threw a cup of scalding coffee right in my face. “You have the nerve to show your face?” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. “Look at you. You look like you just crawled out of a gutter. Which C-level exec did you have to sleep with last night to get your win?” “Don’t bring your filth into this office,” he added, wrinkling his nose. “We’re not a dumpster for every piece of trash.” “You really think you’re something special because you closed one deal? You’re just a pretty boy who knows how to sweet-talk clients.” My boss, Don Harrison, called me into his office. He told me to apologize to his son and that he was docking my entire commission. Without a word, I tore my ID badge off its lanyard and threw the shattered plastic in his face. The day I quit, their whole company started to fall apart. 1 The plastic clasp of my badge holder made a sharp crack. “To hell with this job. Let someone else have it.” I threw the two pieces of my ID badge squarely at Don Harrison’s greasy face. His face flushed with rage. He shot up from his chair, jabbing a finger so close to my eye I could feel the heat coming off it. “You! You’re fired! Get the hell out of my office, now!” he bellowed. “And from this day forward, every client you managed is being transferred to my son, Kyle!” “Including Orion Enterprises!” he added, his voice laced with the thrill of revenge. As if on cue, the door to the adjoining office opened. Kyle leaned against the frame, a smug, triumphant smile on his face. “Leo,” he said, his tone mocking. “I’ll be optimizing the management of your former clients from now on.” I ignored them both and walked out of that suffocating office. Back at my desk, my colleagues shot me a mix of complicated looks. Some were sympathetic, others regretful. A few were clearly enjoying the show. I paid them no mind, quietly packing my personal belongings into a small cardboard box. It didn’t take long. Before I logged out for the last time, I opened my work computer. I found an encrypted folder. Inside was every template for client relations I’d built over the years, every data analysis model, every private note on the personal preferences of our major accounts—the product of countless sleepless nights. I selected the folder. Right-clicked. Permanently deleted. Not a moment of hesitation. With that done, I picked up my box and, under the gaze of the entire office, walked out the front doors without a backward glance. The sunlight outside was harsh, but I felt a sense of relief so profound it was almost dizzying. I gave myself a vacation. Booked a flight to the coast. Sand, sun, the sound of waves. Lying on a beach chair, I felt my phone buzz. It was a text from my former colleague, Amy. “Leo, it’s absolute chaos here since you left!” “That idiot Kyle held a meeting on his first day. You won’t believe the crap he was spouting.” I texted back a question mark. “He said he wants to ’empower our synergy,’ ‘close the loop on our deliverables,’ ‘find new levers,’ and ‘drill down to the core logic of our pipeline’!” “My brain is still buzzing. What does any of that even mean?” “Then he rolled out this insane new client communication process. A ‘Client Needs SOP.’ It’s a bureaucratic nightmare. You need to fill out three reports and get seven approvals for the smallest damn thing.” “Yesterday, I was just trying to follow up on an invoice. It took me an hour to write the request form, and by the time he finally approved it, the client’s accounting department had already closed for the day!” “He also lost a critical overnight package because his new protocol requires all deliveries to go to the admin desk first for ‘sanitization and logging.’ It delayed everything by a day, and the client was furious.” “And he reamed out Mark, our top salesman from last month, saying he didn’t understand ‘matrix management’ or ‘talent profiling.’ Mark almost quit on the spot.” I could perfectly picture Kyle, puffed up and spouting corporate buzzword salad. A bitter laugh escaped me. “What else?” I typed. “Oh, it gets better. This afternoon, Mr. Peterson from Orion—a client we’ve had for five years—called with an urgent question about a technical spec. The kind of thing you used to know off the top of your head.” “Kyle fumbled through the files for ten minutes, stammering, and couldn’t give him a straight answer. Mr. Peterson just lost his patience and hung up on him!” “His exact words were, ‘Is there anyone left at your company who knows what they’re doing? Why am I being handled by this incompetent fool?’” Reading the text, I felt a wave of dark satisfaction. “Any other genius moves?” “Plenty! To prove how brilliant he is, he’s forcing all our long-term clients to sign a new ‘standardized’ contract that he drafted himself.” “I took a peek at it. The terms are predatory. All liability is shifted to the client. It’s insane, pure poison.” A knot formed in my stomach. “He’s not going to try that with Mr. Peterson at Orion, is he?” “Who knows? He acts like landing the Orion renewal was his own personal victory. Walks around bragging about how his dad’s ‘masterful strategy’ made it happen.” I sent a warning to Amy. “Peterson hates being disrespected more than anything. Stay out of it. Don’t get caught in the crossfire.” “I know, Leo. Just needed to vent. This place is a sinking ship.” I’d just put my phone down when a notification popped up from the old department group chat. An @everyone tag. It was Kyle. “Team, next Monday, I will personally lead our delegation to visit our most important strategic partner, Orion Enterprises!” “In this visit, we will be finalizing a new, more comprehensive multi-million-dollar renewal contract with Mr. Peterson, securing my first big win! It will show certain people who the real sales elite are!” Immediately after he sent it, his father, Don, chimed in. “Kyle is a graduate of a prestigious international business school. He’s a classically trained management professional, not like some ‘street-level’ salesman who gets by on schmoozing and free dinners.” “All of you should learn from Kyle. The future of this company belongs to young talents like him!” The chat immediately flooded with sycophantic praise. “Incredible, Kyle!” “One meeting from you is worth ten from anyone else!” “Congratulations in advance on the huge win!” I stared at the nauseating display on my screen and let out a cold laugh. The deal you’re all dreaming of is now a ticking time bomb. I shut off my phone and tossed it aside. The sea breeze swept over me, thick with the smell of salt. The real show was just about to begin. On Monday, Kyle and his sister, Tiffany, strode into the Orion Enterprises headquarters like they owned the place. They were dressed to the nines, their faces radiating an unshakeable sense of entitlement. Inside Mr. Peterson’s office, Kyle didn’t even bother with pleasantries. He slapped the binder containing his proud “standardized” contract down on the polished mahogany desk. “Mr. Peterson, this is our new contract, drafted by our corporate legal team. It reflects our company’s professionalism. Take a look, and if there are no issues, you can go ahead and sign.” Tiffany stood beside him, adding with a condescending air, “My father has decided our company needs to formalize its procedures. The old, messy way of doing business is over. This is for your benefit as well.” Mr. Peterson picked up the contract. He only had to flip through two pages before his expression hardened. The draconian clauses were a direct assault on his intelligence. Things like “The supplier reserves the right to unilaterally terminate the contract without liability,” and “Payment terms are extended to net 180 days.” He looked up, his gaze falling on the two arrogant, utterly insincere young people before him. His fury was immediate and absolute. “This is your professionalism? This is your formal procedure?” He slammed the contract down on the desk. “Security! Get these two out of my building!” When the news hit our old office, it was like a bomb had gone off. Amy sent me a voice message, her voice trembling. “Leo, it’s a disaster! Orion isn’t just refusing to renew; they’re terminating all existing contracts, effective immediately!” “The finance department is in a full-blown panic. The early termination penalty means we have to refund a fortune in pre-payments. The company doesn’t have that kind of cash on hand!” “Don has locked himself in his office. We can hear him throwing things!” “And it gets worse! They’re demanding an immediate refund of all the advance payments from this quarter!” That money, I knew, had already been spent. Don had used it to buy Kyle a new sports car. The company’s cash flow was instantly frozen. Don Harrison, sweating profusely, personally called Mr. Peterson. When the call connected, his voice was dripping with humility. “Mr. Peterson, please, calm down. There must be some misunderstanding. The kids… they don’t know any better. Don’t hold it against them.” A single, ice-cold sentence came from the other end of the line. “Don, the only person I’ll talk to is Leo Morgan.” “Anyone else from your company calls me, they can go to hell.” The line went dead. Don stood there, clutching the phone, his face a ghastly shade of gray. In the main office, Tiffany, rather than reflecting on her catastrophic failure, was screaming, placing all the blame on me. “It’s all Leo’s fault!” she shrieked at the remaining sales staff. “That backstabbing snake! He must have set this up behind our backs, dug a trap for us to fall into!” “That ungrateful bastard! We basically raised a viper in our own house!” Cornered and desperate, Don Harrison finally remembered me. He called my phone. It rang for a long time before I leisurely answered. “Leo! I’m ordering you to come back to the company right now! You need to fix this mess with Orion!” he roared, his voice accustomed to command. “If you come back, I’m willing to forget what happened before!” I put the phone on speaker. The sound of waves crashing against the sand was clearly audible. “Mr. Harrison, I’m currently unemployed,” I said, my voice perfectly calm. “I have neither the authority nor the ability to handle your company’s business.” “You! Leo, don’t push your luck! After all the years this company invested in you, this is how you repay us? You’re a goddamn traitor!” Before he could finish his tirade, I hung up. Then, I blocked his number. The news of Orion’s contract termination exploded across the industry. Our company’s reputation as Orion’s long-term, trusted supplier was shattered overnight. The next day, our stock price plummeted at the opening bell, wiping out tens of millions in market value in a matter of hours. Several other major clients who had been on the fence about signing new deals immediately called to terminate negotiations. A distribution partner we’d worked with for years showed up in person, demanding payment for long-overdue invoices. The dominoes had begun to fall. To try and salvage morale, Don Harrison started spreading rumors. At an all-hands meeting, he publicly announced that I had taken kickbacks from our competitor, Stellar Dynamics, claiming I was a corporate spy who had intentionally sabotaged the Orion deal. “This industry should blacklist vermin like him who have no professional ethics! He didn’t just take bribes; he stole our most valuable client strategies!” he declared, his voice full of manufactured outrage. Amy secretly recorded it and sent it to me. I listened, and all I could do was laugh. Kyle, desperate to redeem himself, tried to salvage what he could from my other accounts. He logged into my old work computer, planning to contact my clients. But he found that all my core client data was protected by a standalone encryption program. He couldn’t open a single file. It was a personal security measure I had written myself to protect sensitive information. Only I knew the password. Panicked, Kyle called the IT department, demanding they crack it by force. The head of IT, sweating bullets, tried to warn him. “Mr. Harrison, this encryption is custom-built. A brute-force attack is extremely risky. There’s a 99% chance it will cause permanent, physical damage to the entire database!” “It would be like setting the company’s entire lifeline on fire! I can’t proceed unless you sign this waiver, accepting full responsibility!” “Just do it! If anything happens, it’s on me!” Kyle yelled, scribbling his name on a piece of paper and shoving it at the IT director. “I need it open today! That’s an order!” Forced, the IT department had no choice but to try. There was a faint click. A red warning box flashed onto the screen: DATABASE FILE CORRUPTED. RECOVERY IMPOSSIBLE. All the crucial client files, contact information, and contract histories turned into a meaningless jumble of symbols. The data was gone. Forever. The company’s last thread of hope had just been severed. When the news spread, the entire office ground to a halt. Without Orion as its anchor and with all core client data wiped, the company was, for all intents and purposes, bankrupt. When Don Harrison heard, he nearly collapsed. And just as their company was consumed by chaos, a major announcement lit up the industry’s social media feeds. Our competitor, Stellar Dynamics, proudly announced it had entered into a long-term strategic partnership with Orion Enterprises. A powerful alliance, poised for the future. The announcement included a celebratory photo from the signing ceremony. In the photo, Mr. Peterson from Orion and the CEO of Stellar Dynamics were shaking hands, beaming at the camera. And standing behind them, listed under the title of Lead Representative, was my name. In the picture, I was wearing a sharp, well-fitted suit. And I looked like I was on top of the world.

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The Mercedes was gone. My heels clicked on the polished concrete of the garage, the sound echoing in the empty space where the G-Wagon should have been. “Susan?” I called out, walking into the house. “Did you see where the Mercedes went?” The housekeeper, Mrs. Evans, was lounging on my custom-made Italian leather sofa, shelling pistachios. The television blared a daytime talk show, and she didn’t bother to look away from the screen when I walked in. “My son took his girlfriend out for the day,” she said, her tone casual, as if she were talking about the weather. “It’s hard to get around without a car. You weren’t using it, so I told him to go ahead.” I stared at her, at the discarded pistachio shells scattered on the floor around her. “You let your son take my car?” “You have other cars,” she said, finally turning to look at me, her expression one of mild annoyance, as if I were the one being unreasonable. “And you hardly ever drive that one. Better to let Derek get some use out of it than let it just sit there collecting dust.” She tossed another shell onto the pile. “He’ll even put gas in it for you. See? He’s practically doing you a favor. Cars fall apart when you don’t drive them.” My jaw tightened. “I want you to call your son. I want him to bring my car back. You have two hours.” She sighed, a heavy, put-upon sound. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. They’re all the way downtown. It’s not convenient for them to come back now. Don’t be so stingy.” I didn’t say another word. I turned, walked straight to my bedroom, closed the door, and dialed 911. “911, what’s your emergency?” “Hello,” I said, my voice steady. “My name is Kate Holloway. I need to report a stolen vehicle.” Less than half an hour later, a frantic pounding erupted on my bedroom door. “Kate! Open this door right now! You get out here!” Mrs. Evans shrieked, her voice raw with fury. “You have the guts to call the cops on my son, but not the guts to open this door? Get out here, you little bitch!” 1 This woman, Susan Evans, had become a tyrant in my own home. Her audacity was breathtaking. I’d overlooked her earlier transgressions, chalking them up to cultural differences or a lack of professional boundaries. I had even tried to gently remind her of her role, to suggest that she refrain from commenting on my personal life. She hadn’t listened. If anything, my polite requests had only emboldened her. She’d started treating my deference as weakness, my home as her own, and my life as a project she needed to manage. She began speaking to me not as an employer, but as a disapproving, overbearing mother-in-law I never asked for. It started small. Expensive cheeses and bottles of wine disappearing from the fridge. Then came the constant, unsolicited advice. She’d sneer at my takeout containers, telling me I’d never find a husband if I didn’t learn to cook. She’d leave sinks full of dishes and patches of dusty floor for me to clean when I got home from a twelve-hour workday, clucking her tongue about my “laziness.” The absurdity peaked last week. Her daughter was coming for a visit, and because my house is in a gated community a good forty-five minutes from the city, she demanded that I leave work early, pick her daughter up from the train station, and stop at the gourmet market for fresh lobster on the way home. “Cindy just loves lobster,” she’d said, “and I’m going to make her my special bisque.” Even my own health routines became her property. I’d ask her to prepare my morning collagen drink, and she’d make two—one for me, and one for herself. Mine would be the plain powder dissolved in water. Hers would be a concoction brimming with organic berries, manuka honey, and goji powder from my pantry. When I asked why mine was so spartan, she’d replied, with no hint of shame, “You only asked for the collagen. You didn’t say to add anything else.” The final straw before the car had been the truffle oil. A friend had brought me an incredibly rare, expensive bottle of white truffle oil back from a trip to Italy. I came home one day to find her complaining of a stomach ache. The bottle of oil, nearly full the day before, was almost empty. She didn’t apologize. She blamed me. “You shouldn’t keep things that are so rich in the house. It’s not good for people.” And now this. Handing the keys to my $150,000 vehicle to her son so he could impress his girlfriend. I’d only noticed because the garage door was left wide open when I pulled in tonight, a gaping invitation to any opportunist in the neighborhood. The moment I saw the empty space, I knew she was behind it. Forget the sheer entitlement—think of the liability. If her son, Derek, got into an accident, if he hurt someone, I was the registered owner. I would be the one sued. If he couldn’t pay, the financial and legal fallout would land squarely on me. I had tried to be reasonable. I had planned to just demand the car back and let it go. But her attitude when I walked in—lounging on my sofa like she owned the place, the floor littered with her mess—ignited a cold fury in me. A housekeeper, a professional, should at the very least stand up when her employer gets home. She should ask if I’ve eaten, if I need anything. Instead, she’d just gestured vaguely towards the kitchen with a pistachio-filled hand. “Dinner’s in the fridge. You can heat it up yourself.” A glance into the kitchen confirmed my suspicions. The sink was piled high with dirty dishes, and the trashcan overflowed with the carcasses of a roasted chicken and empty oyster shells. She’d hosted her son for a feast in my home before sending him off in my car. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I went to my room, took out my phone, and made the call. “Yes, 911? I need to report a stolen car. The GPS tracker shows it’s currently near the waterfront district in the next city over.” My voice was calm, almost detached. “That’s right. It was taken from my home. Without my knowledge or permission.” Thirty minutes later, the banging began. 2 “Kate, did you call the police?” Susan Evans screamed through the door. “Derek just called me. The police have him pulled over!” The pounding intensified. “I know you’re in there, Kate! Stop hiding and come out here and face me! You coward!” I took a deep breath, walked to the door, and opened it. Susan’s face was a mask of crimson rage. “Are you out of your mind? I told you he was just borrowing it! I said he’d put gas in it! What is wrong with you?” She advanced on me, stabbing a finger in my direction. “He was just taking his girlfriend for a drive! Is that a crime? You have so many cars, what does it matter if he borrows one? Does it take a pound of your precious flesh?” Her voice rose to a fever pitch. “I have worked my fingers to the bone in this house! I’ve earned a little consideration! And you call the police over something this small? Now my son is being held by the police in another city! You’re humiliating him! If his girlfriend breaks up with him over this, will you take responsibility for that?” I leaned against the doorframe, my arms crossed. “Susan, I gave you a chance. I asked you, politely, to have your son bring the car back, and I would have forgotten the whole thing. Do you remember what you told me?” “Do you have any idea the kind of risk I’m exposed to when your son is driving my car?” I continued, my voice low and even. “If he hits someone and can’t pay for the damages, I’m the one who has to pay for everything.” “So what?” she spat. “You’re rich! I work for you! Shouldn’t you help us out? It’s just a car! It’s not like he wrecked it! He was going to buy you gas! Do you have to be so cruel? I see what this is. You rich people are all the same. You can’t stand to see working-class people have a single nice thing.” As she was winding up for another tirade, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She snatched it out, glanced at the screen, and jabbed the answer button, putting it on speaker. A man’s voice, shrill and panicked, crackled through the tiny speaker. The faint wail of a siren whined in the background. “Mom, what the hell is taking so long? These pigs have me boxed in, and they’re about to impound the car! You need to get her to call this off! Right now!” There was a pause, then: “My girlfriend is right here watching all of this! This is a total fucking disaster! If she dumps me over this, it’s on you! Do you want me to be alone forever?” A deeper, calmer voice interrupted from the other end. “Sir, who are you calling pigs?” Derek’s voice exploded from the phone. “I’m calling you a pig! What are you gonna do about it, you fucking asshole?” He was practically screaming now. “Are you blind? This is a goddamn G-Wagon! I’ll have your badge for this! I’ll have all your fucking jobs!” Hearing the escalating chaos, Susan shoved the phone toward my face. “This is your fault! None of this would be happening if you hadn’t called them! You tell them to let him go! Retract your statement right now!” “No.” I looked her dead in the eye. “You had your son steal my car, and you think you’re the victim here? Let him spend a night in a holding cell. Maybe he’ll learn something.” I took a breath. “And you? Don’t bother coming in tomorrow. You’re fired.” For a split second, she just stared. Then, her face contorted, and she lunged. The sharp crack of her hand across my cheek echoed in the hallway. “You worthless bitch!” she screamed, her voice guttural. “You want to ruin my son? I’ll kill you!”

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The year I was dirt poor, I walked into the factory and let the gears mangle two of my fingers for my grandmother’s thirty-thousand-dollar surgery. The owner, his face etched with pity, offered me eighty thousand in compensation. Drowning in guilt, I only took the thirty. Years have passed. My grandmother is long gone. But then I saw the trending news. That same factory had burned to the ground. The owner was dead—a heart attack, they said. His wife was missing. Their twelve-year-old son had been sent to an orphanage. I stared at the boy’s helpless, terrified eyes on the screen, then at the pills I was about to swallow. I washed them down the drain. Alright then… time to live again. All for the sake of that thirty thousand. 1 Even after all these years, the sight of my own hand, the two missing fingers, could still summon a thick, choking wave of guilt. But if I could go back, I know I’d do it again. Because back then, I was out of options. Utterly and completely. My grandmother found me in a dumpster on a snowy night. Without her, I would have frozen to death in the biting cold before my first sunrise. Now, she had stomach cancer, and the doctor said the surgery and follow-up treatments would cost eighty thousand dollars, minimum. We sold everything. Our tiny, crumbling one-room apartment, the mismatched, worthless furniture inside—all of it. It brought in a little over fifty thousand. We were still thirty thousand short. “Let’s not do it, Tally,” she’d said, her voice thin as old paper. “I’ve lived a full life. I can’t have you sleeping on the streets because of me.” I shook my head, my throat tight. “I’d rather sleep on the street than be without you, Nana. We… we have to do this.” She pulled me into her arms, her sigh melting into a sob. We just held each other and cried, a single, desperate knot of grief in the cold, dark night. We both knew what thirty thousand dollars was to us: an impossible, astronomical sum. Where could we possibly find that kind of money? She had no other family. She only had me. And I didn’t have the thirty thousand dollars that could save her. But at nineteen, I had a boundless, reckless courage. The moment I shoved my hand into the blur of the spinning gears, the pain was so blinding I nearly passed out. But through the haze, I saw the panicked, horrified faces of my coworkers, and in their eyes, I saw a flicker of hope. Nana was going to be saved. It was the only way. The only door I could find that led to her survival. 2 Mr. Henderson, the factory owner, was a good man. By the time he rushed to the hospital, my hand was already bandaged. He knelt beside my bed, his brow furrowed with such genuine pain. He reached out, wanting to touch my mutilated hand, but hovered, helpless, not knowing where to put his own. Finally, all he could manage was a heavy, heartbroken sigh. “Kid… you’re so young. What are you going to do now?” I turned my head away, unable to meet his eyes. I wasn’t a good kid. I didn’t deserve his sincere compassion. His wife, Anna, came to take care of me personally. She missed nothing. She would gently comb the tangles from my messy hair. She’d cut fruit into small, perfect bites, warm them slightly, and feed them to me one by one. It was a mother’s tenderness, a gentleness I had never known. It was completely different from the love Nana gave me. A coworker who came to visit whispered a warning in my ear. “Be careful. This is a classic gentle trap. They’re being nice now so they can pay you less in compensation later.” A switch flipped in my head. I became guarded, suspicious. I started trying to refuse their kindness. But they kept on, ignoring my deliberate coldness, tending to my physical needs and trying to soothe my spirit. When I was discharged, Mr. Henderson and Anna drove me home themselves. Nana cradled my hand, her palm holding the two stumps where my fingers used to be, and silent tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t speak, her whole body trembling with choked-back sobs. In that moment, a sliver of regret pierced through me. Maybe this hadn’t been the right way. The Hendersons were wiping their own eyes, looking around our bare, grim apartment. Nana’s skin had a sickly, yellowish tint; it was obvious to anyone that she was very unwell. They placed eighty thousand dollars in cash on our small, wobbly table. Neat stacks of bills. Nana shot up from her chair, her hands flapping in a panic, too flustered to form words. She could only look at me, her eyes wide with a silent, anxious question. “This is the company’s compensation for Tally,” Mr. Henderson said softly. “Please, take it. We’ll also cover any future medical expenses.” Shame washed over me, hot and heavy. I stared at the floor. The amount was far more than I expected. I’d consulted a legal aid lawyer, and the figure he’d quoted was significantly lower. This was a small factory, the kind where the owner himself had to go out every day to drum up business. Every dollar was earned with sweat. I was desperate for money, but… I couldn’t be that shameless. I couldn’t take more than I was owed. Assuming I had any conscience left at all. “It’s too much,” I mumbled. “I can’t take all of it.” Anna stroked my hair. “Don’t feel bad, sweetie,” she said, her voice a balm. “You have a long road ahead. Use this money. Learn a trade, something you can do to support yourself.” I kept my head down, tears dripping from my chin no matter how fast I tried to wipe them away. I couldn’t speak, just stubbornly shook my head, my neck stiff. I took thirty thousand dollars. I pushed the rest back toward them, my refusal absolute. Nana stared at the three stacks of bills I’d left on the table. Thirty. Thirty thousand. A number that was painfully, intimately familiar to her. Her expression shifted from confusion to shock, and then… a flicker of understanding, of dawning, soul-crushing pain. No one else understood why she suddenly broke down, her wails echoing in that tiny room. Only I did. I kept my head bowed, not daring to look anyone in the eye. I was afraid to see my own reflection in their pupils—despicable, shameful, ugly. In the end, my stubbornness won. I practically shoved them out the door, my face a cold mask. I even threw the remaining fifty thousand dollars after them, the stacks hitting Mr. Henderson’s chest and falling to the floor. I knew it was rude, unforgivable. But I didn’t know how else to refuse a kindness so warm it felt like it was burning me alive. Nana cried all night. No one was more heartbroken than her. My only regret was that I hadn’t hidden my plan better, that she had figured it out so easily. The next day, we packed our few belongings, left that tiny, broken-down room, and moved into the hospital. We said goodbye to our home. The only home Nana and I had ever had. I had no home anymore. But I still had Nana. And as long as I had Nana, I had a home. 3 Nana’s surgery was a success. But when she was discharged, we had nowhere to go. We ended up in a tent pitched under a highway overpass. Renting an apartment, even a room in a cheap motel, would have eaten through our money. Every single dollar had to be stretched to its breaking point. I had no idea how much her follow-up treatments would cost. All I could do was cut our expenses down to the bone. There were moments, many of them, when I regretted not taking that other fifty thousand. But I also knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my gut, that even if I could go back in time, I still wouldn’t have taken it. If I had, the weight of it would have broken my spine for good. I’d never have been able to stand up straight again. After two rounds of chemotherapy, Nana’s body was clearly struggling. She couldn’t stay in a drafty tent any longer. We moved into a cheap rental in a cramped, narrow alleyway. Winter was coming. It was so cold. I found a job doing food delivery. I worked like a machine that never needed to rest, juggling deliveries and taking care of Nana. On the side, I’d take any gig I could find at the downtown clubs—promo girl, shot girl, anything to fill the gaps. Whatever it took to make money. That was the closest I ever came to falling into the abyss. I saw so many ways to make fast cash, easy money that preyed on the desperate. My own sanity pulled me back from the edge. If I truly fell, if Nana ever found out, she would rather die than accept another day of treatment. Mr. Henderson and Anna found us during that time. They came to visit us once. I have no idea how much effort it took them to track down our new address. “Tally,” Mr. Henderson said, his voice gentle. “You could always come back to the factory. We could find a less strenuous position for you.” My fingernails dug into my palms. “A less strenuous job would mean lower pay, wouldn’t it?” I asked, my voice hard and hostile. “Are you going to be charitable and pay me more than I’m worth?” He nodded without a second’s hesitation. I didn’t accept the kindness. “I don’t need it. Are you pitying us? I can take care of my grandmother just fine on my own.” They both opened their mouths to speak, then closed them. Their faces were etched with pain, but they didn’t say anything more. Nana seemed scared of something. She waved her hands clumsily, rejecting the offer for me. “Our Tally isn’t going back to work there. Thank you. Thank you so much.” She stroked my scarred hand, her eyes filled with a raw terror. The Hendersons finally left with a heavy sigh, looking back every few steps. I watched their backs disappear down the alley and whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Forgive my rudeness. Forgive my ugly, twisted heart. My tough act was a sham, built on a foundation of my own despicable actions. I wasn’t a good person. At least, I didn’t feel like one. Nana started crying, too. “It’s my fault, Tally. I’m a burden to you. This old woman… how could I drag down a child like this?” I spun around and hugged her tight, terrified. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re all I have, Nana. You just get better. Everything is going to be okay.” But would it? Looking at her waxy, sallow face, a seed of helpless despair took root in my heart. Nana didn’t speak, but the tears soaking into my sleeve said everything. One after another, an endless stream. She had suffered so much. How could I let her leave this world without knowing a single day of peace? I absolutely could not. That night, a plastic grocery bag appeared on our doorstep. Inside were two containers of nutritional powder for seniors. Underneath them, stacked neatly, was fifty thousand dollars in cash. Fifty. Another sensitive number. I knew immediately who it was from. I tried calling Mr. Henderson, but the phone just rang and rang, unanswered. Nana gently touched my hand, my fingers chapped and rough from the cold. “Tally, stop calling. We’ll take it. And someday… we’ll find a way to pay them back.” I looked at her, and her cloudy eyes were filled with a heartbreak that shattered me. I nodded, turning my head so my tears could fall into the shadows. It was the last stand of my youthful pride, my final, stubborn concession. 4 That winter was the most grueling and yet the most purposeful time of my life. Delivering food by day, working gigs at the clubs by night. I was so exhausted I could fall asleep sitting up anywhere. It was exhausting, yes, but the decent monthly income did little to ease the constant anxiety gnawing at me. Nana had chemotherapy every three weeks. Medical bills and nutrition were costs I couldn’t cut. The doctor said that if she ate well and kept her strength up, the side effects of the chemo would be less severe. During that time, every extra bite of rice she ate, every spoonful of soup she drank, would fill me with joy for hours. It was as if she wasn’t consuming food, but life itself. After her fourth round of chemo, it was time for a routine check-up. I was in the middle of a delivery run when my phone rang. It was her oncologist. “Your grandmother isn’t responding well to the chemotherapy,” he said, his voice flat with professionalism. “The scans show the tumors… they’ve spread to her liver and lungs.” The city flowed around me, a river of people and cars. I stumbled to the corner of the street, squatted down, and cried, my body shaking with huge, helpless sobs. Why? After everything I had done, why was this still the result? Couldn’t fate spare us just one small kindness? I clocked out early that day. I went to see the oncologist alone first. When I asked about the next steps, the treatment plan, all I got were heavy, regretful sighs. He was a young doctor, not much older than me. “Take your grandmother home, kid,” he said gently. “Don’t spend any more money at the hospital. Whatever she wants to eat, let her have it.” I knew he meant well, but I didn’t want to hear it. Every word felt like a death sentence, a final judgment from a god I had stopped believing in. It was impossible to accept for someone who had been clinging so desperately to the hope of a miracle. “If we just go home… what will happen to her?” “She’ll be in a lot of pain,” he said, his voice getting quieter. “She might run a fever, lose her appetite, not want to move. There could be fluid buildup in her abdomen.” He looked away, pretending to be busy with the screen on his desk. “What if I insist on continuing treatment?” I pressed, unwilling to give up. The doctor looked up, his eyes meeting mine. He lowered his voice. “If you insist on treatment… your grandmother will still go through all of that.” His words were the final blow. The tears I’d been holding back burst forth.

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We were on a reality show when my husband and his brother both fell into the lake. My wife, Cassandra, a strong swimmer, didn’t hesitate. She dove in and saved her childhood friend, my brother-in-law, Leo. I watched as she, frantic and tender, had her security detail lift him from the water, wrapping him in blankets and whisking him away without a single backward glance. I was left behind, sinking. The production crew pulled me out just as my lungs gave up. The next day, when I placed the divorce papers on her desk, Cassandra’s face hardened. “Leo can’t swim, River. That’s why I went for him first. Are you seriously going to be jealous about this?” I looked her straight in the eye, my own heart a placid, dead sea. “Yes. Sign them.” 1 We signed the papers with a quiet efficiency that felt more like a business deal than the end of a marriage. Cassandra’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows were knitted together, a look that once would have sent a pang through my chest, but now stirred nothing. She slipped the documents into an exquisite, limited-edition Hermès bag. “I’ll give you a ride.” I shook my head. “No, thank you.” A flicker of irritation crossed her face. “River, you don’t have to be like this. We were married for three years. A divorce doesn’t mean we become strangers.” I was genuinely shocked for a second. I couldn’t believe those words were coming from her. Now that Leo was back—her golden boy, the one that got away—I thought she’d be thrilled that I was so gracefully stepping aside. “For me, Mrs. Sterling, a divorce is exactly that. It means we’re done. We’re not family. We can’t be friends.” “You…” “And since we have no children, no real ties, there’s no reason to stay in touch.” Stung, she turned on her heel and walked away. I watched her go, a long, weary sigh escaping my lips. But then I thought of the balance in my bank account, and the sadness evaporated. Though I was technically a Harrison, the eldest son, I’d never seen a dime of the family fortune. It was the divorce that finally made me a wealthy man. The Sterling family would never have agreed to a 50/50 split, so when my lawyer drafted the agreement, I asked for a clean twenty million. Cassandra agreed without a fight. She also signed over two sprawling properties in New York and L.A., three other houses across the country, and six commercial condos in prime downtown locations. It was enough to live on for the rest of my life, comfortably. Staring at the cold, hard numbers on my banking app, I started to laugh. It was real. I could finally start living for myself. The day after the divorce was final, I moved into a sleek downtown loft that was already in my name. The feeling of ownership, of having something that was truly mine, gave me a sense of security I’d never known. I had braced myself for an avalanche of grief. I thought leaving Cassandra would destroy me. For three years, despite everything, I had loved her. But that night, I had the best sleep of my life. A profound, long-overdue relaxation settled over me, and I didn’t wake up until noon the next day. 2 Cassandra and I were a product of a corporate merger in human form. Her grandfather and my own had been friends, business partners who had sealed a pact with the promise of a marriage between their families. But that promise was originally meant for Leo. He was, after all, the Harrison family’s little prince, cherished for eighteen years. I was the biological son they’d discovered by accident. The changeling. Before I was a Harrison, a girl like Cassandra—class valedictorian, campus queen, heiress to a billion-dollar empire—was in a different universe. We would never have met, let alone fallen in love. Then, at eighteen, my biological parents found me. They showed up in a black town car at the group home where I lived, weeping about a hospital mix-up, a careless nurse, a stolen life. I saw their expensive clothes and imagined a future of ease. A future where I wouldn’t have to collect cans to pay for textbooks, where I wouldn’t have to worry if the underfunded home could afford to send me to college. But the reunion didn’t bring the tearful apologies and lavish affection I’d read about in novels. It brought a polite, cold distance. That’s fine, I told myself. As long as I can go to school, that’s all that matters. They told me Leo’s biological parents had passed away, so he would be staying. He was their son. But their treatment of us was night and day. I wasn’t the son of the house; I felt more like the chauffeur’s kid. The reason they finally needed me came in the form of a catastrophe. Cassandra, the brilliant, untouchable girl Leo had been trailing after for years, had a horrific car accident. The doctors said her leg was permanently damaged. She would walk with a limp for the rest of her life. For a woman like her, it was a devastating blow. It wasn’t just about the loss of grace, but the inability to ever again wear the beautiful heels and short dresses she loved. Leo, upon hearing the news, had a screaming tantrum. He would not, he declared, marry a “cripple.” And so, the duty fell to me. I could have refused. But the image of that cool, stunning face, a face I hadn’t seen in over a year since starting college, flashed in my mind. On a strange, self-destructive impulse, I agreed. I was twenty, about to start my sophomore year at Columbia. My new parents had me withdraw from my classes and, at an age when most guys are figuring out their majors, I married into the Sterling dynasty. When I went to see her before the wedding, she was a storm of fury. She hurled a vase that shattered at my feet. “Get out! Tell Leo to come see me!” she screamed. But Leo was already gone. My parents had given him a black card and sent him off to study abroad, far away from the inconvenient reality of his “damaged” fiancée. The Harrison family business depended on the Sterlings, and while Leo refused to marry Cassandra, someone had to maintain the alliance. I was the placeholder. The spare part. It was the first and only time my mother, Mrs. Harrison, showed me anything resembling kindness. She cried, telling me how much the family was struggling, how pitiful poor Leo was, how my father’s hair was turning gray from stress. I was unmoved. Why all the drama? I was marrying Cassandra because I wanted to. Not for them. For her. 3 During my freshman year, Cassandra was a senior. She was a legend at Columbia—the brilliant campus beauty, with a confession page full of anonymous love letters and a line of wealthy suitors she consistently ignored. Back then, the only person she ever had by her side was Leo. His association with her made him a campus celebrity. He would boast about his unique place in her life, the unshakable position he held in her heart. I’ve always appreciated beauty, but it was her mind that truly captivated me. Her passion for mathematics, the way she could lose herself in complex theories, led to a series of papers published in prestigious academic journals. I read every single one. Her work clarified several problems that had stumped me for months. I was enthralled by her intellect. The slide from admiration to love was short and steep. On our wedding day, Cassandra didn’t smile once. I was so nervous my hands wouldn’t stop sweating, and I kept wiping them on my trousers. When I took her hand at the altar, I nearly stumbled. A ripple of laughter went through the guests. I felt like a cheap, clumsy impostor. I heard someone whisper Leo’s name, and Cassandra’s expression darkened even more. She loves him, I thought. Of course she does. Otherwise, why would she hate me so much? In that moment, I regretted everything—the marriage, my silent, stupid crush. That night, she was in control. I lay passive as she moved above me, her commands sharp and clear. I wasn’t to touch her, wasn’t to do anything that might displease her. Her injured leg made her movements awkward, and my own frustration grew. I wanted to flip her over, to take the lead, but the raw pain in her red-rimmed eyes stopped me. This wasn’t about pleasure for her; it was about release, about reclaiming some kind of power. Soon, our breathing grew heavy. A flush crept up her neck, and in the midst of her calculated control, I felt a flicker of genuine connection, a shared, unexpected pleasure. 4 Life within the Sterling family was surprisingly peaceful. There were no power struggles or family dramas. I was more at ease there than I ever was at the Harrisons’. I loved to read, to lose myself in the academic problems I’d left behind at Columbia. I may have dropped out of school, but I never stopped learning. Cassandra, in turn, began to change. The nights she spent away from home grew less frequent, until she was coming home every evening. Even on her busiest days, she’d send a text letting me know her schedule. I found an old Chinese medicine practitioner and learned therapeutic massage techniques. I thought, maybe, I could help her leg heal. I remember the first time I suggested it. My voice shook. But I started, and I persisted. For six months, I worked on her leg every single night. I became an expert, memorizing the entire map of the human body’s pressure points. My hands grew strong and sure. Cassandra went from protesting, to tolerating, to finally, eagerly anticipating our nightly thirty-minute sessions. Life was simple. To break the monotony one day, I went to deliver a file she’d forgotten to the Sterling Tower. In the lobby, a casting director for a web series stopped me. He said they were looking for an actor to play a brainy supporting character, a “nerd-type,” and that I had the perfect look. On a whim, I said yes. Cassandra didn’t object. To everyone’s surprise, the series became a viral hit. My character, the nerdy best friend, gained a small but devoted following. It was a strange new world, this entertainment business I’d stumbled into. Sterling Industries owned countless ventures; Rainfall Entertainment was just a tiny subsidiary. Cassandra’s only rule was that I never use the Sterling name for leverage. She said I was free to “play around” as I wished. So, I got an agent, Maria, and a small assistant. I started landing minor roles in bigger projects—the fourth, fifth, sixth supporting character. I became a B-list actor, and I found a strange joy in scrolling through comments on social media. One night, I was lying in bed, reading funny fan messages to Cassandra while my other hand worked on her leg. Lost in the moment, my hand drifted higher up her thigh. She let out a soft gasp. I thought I’d hurt her and immediately dropped my phone. But when I looked up, her face was flushed, her eyes wide with a different kind of emotion. The kiss that followed felt inevitable. What came after was natural, a seamless union. We found a rhythm, a deep and satisfying intimacy we had both been craving. From that point on, our relationship blossomed. She would bring me complex Lego sets she knew I’d love, buy me clothes and watches, and sometimes, she’d pull me out of the house for a movie or a quiet walk by the lake. We were like any other married couple. And her leg, under my constant care, was improving. Her doctor called it a miracle. Now, as long as she didn’t walk too fast, you could barely notice her limp. Then, in our third year of marriage, Leo came back. 5 The day he returned was the first time in a long time that Cassandra didn’t need me close. It was also the first time in three years my parents called, summoning both of us to the Harrison estate. Leo had been gone for three years without a single visit home. At the rare holiday gathering, my parents would awkwardly explain that his studies were too demanding. Cassandra would sit in stony silence, her thoughts a mystery. I, their biological son, had barely set foot in that house since my wedding day, yet the Sterling family’s generous support of the Harrison businesses had never wavered. When we arrived, we saw him—a handsome young man, rushing like the wind and throwing himself into Cassandra’s arms. I stood beside them, invisible, as Cassandra made no move to push him away. Nestled against her shoulder, Leo looked more mature, but he still called her “Cassie, Cassie,” his voice thick with emotion. Fat tears fell from his eyes, darkening the fabric of her white silk dress. Watching them, I felt a sharp, needle-like pain in my chest. I regretted coming back here more than anything. Finally noticing me, Leo straightened up. “Sorry, man. I was just so happy to see her. Cassie… oh, wait. Should I be calling you sister-in-law now?” A muscle in Cassandra’s jaw twitched. She shot him a cold look, took my hand, and led me to the dinner table. Leo stared at our joined hands, his eyes wide with shock. The meal was excruciating. My parents didn’t ask me a single question about my life. Instead, they focused all their energy on Leo and Cassandra, reminiscing about how he had always thought of his “Cassie-sis” while he was away. It felt like they were pimps, and Leo was their prized commodity. From that day on, Leo was a constant presence, a buzzing fly in our lives. And Cassandra, after less than a month of initial resistance, accepted it. Leo wanted to be an actor, so Cassandra assigned Rainfall Entertainment’s top agent to him. He started waltzing into the Sterling Tower like he owned the place. Everyone assumed he was the true son-in-law. My own identity at Rainfall was a secret; no one knew about my connection to Cassandra. But Leo was different. He’d call her from the lobby, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear as he flirted and wheedled, before taking takeout up to her executive office. After Cassandra had once coldly told me not to visit her at work, I never went back. Most people there thought I was just another desperate actor trying to sleep my way to the top. Leo was handsome and charming. With Cassandra’s backing, he skyrocketed to fame. The company’s resources were funneled directly to him. When my agent, Maria, asked if I knew him, I lied and said the shared last name was a coincidence. She launched into a tirade of gossip about him—how he was a diva on set, how he used his connection to the CEO to steal endorsements from other actors. It wasn’t until he’d stolen three major campaigns from me that I realized he was targeting me specifically. Cassandra, who had never given me a single advantage in my career, would walk past me in the hallways as if I were a stranger. Even then, I didn’t think about divorce. I really, truly loved her. Until something happened that, to her, was a small thing. But for me, it was the moment I knew we were over. 6 It was on the set of a popular wilderness survival show. They had invited both me and Leo. For the most part, it was fine. Leo played the part of the cheerful, energetic college kid, and I pulled my weight in the challenges. One afternoon, Cassandra made a rare visit to the set. The directors and producers swarmed around her, fawning. And that’s when the accident happened. We were on an old bamboo bridge over the lake. It was rotten, and when both Leo and I stepped onto it at the same time, it snapped. We both plunged into the cold water. Chaos erupted. Crew members started scrambling to help. But before anyone could move, Cassandra, the CEO of Sterling Industries, dove into the lake herself. Swimming was the only exercise she enjoyed after her accident; she was incredibly skilled. I can’t swim. When I saw her slicing through the water, I thought she was coming for me. Her husband. But then I watched as she reached past me, grabbed Leo, and started pulling him toward the shore. In that single, clarifying moment, my heart didn’t break. It simply went still. Three years, I thought. And she still doesn’t love me. It was as if she didn’t even see me struggling. She screamed for her bodyguards to get Leo, and then a whole entourage surrounded him, carrying him to her waiting Maybach. The panic on her face, the fierce protectiveness—it was all for him. As I slipped beneath the surface, the last thing I saw was the glint of her car driving away. By the time the crew realized I was still in the water and pulled me out, I was unconscious. It was a cruel twist of fate. Everyone had assumed someone else was saving me. In the commotion Cassandra had created, I had been completely forgotten. It was only when the assistant director screamed my name that they remembered I existed. I was rushed to the hospital. The show was put on hold. When I woke up, the only person by my side was my agent, Maria. She looked terrified, her eyes red and puffy. I tried to sit up. My body ached, but I seemed to be in one piece. “Maria, I didn’t die.” “Don’t you dare say that!” she scolded, her voice thick with emotion. “You scared the hell out of me, River. It’s all her fault, showing up like that, making a big show of saving that little brat. They just forgot about you. Does it… does it hurt?” “No,” I said, and it was the truth. “I don’t feel a thing.” My heart was calm. I had foolishly believed that being husband and wife made us a single entity. Reality had just delivered a brutal correction. Our story, I knew, was over. That afternoon, as I was being discharged, I saw them. Cassandra was supporting Leo, and walking beside them, beaming, were my parents. They looked like a perfect, happy family. Leo was leaning his full weight on Cassandra, completely oblivious to her bad leg, while my mother gently draped a coat over his shoulders. It was as if I didn’t exist to any of them. I watched them walk away, then pulled out my phone and dialed the number for the lawyer Maria had recommended. I told him to draw up divorce papers.

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1 I came home soaked to the bone, and in Frank’s closet, I found a thick stack of old train tickets. He once took a twenty-eight-hour train ride just to see his first love. But he wouldn’t spare thirty minutes to pick me up from work when I had a raging fever. “Monica, is it fun, going through other people’s things?” I turned and held the tickets out to the man standing in the doorway. My voice was unnervingly calm. “Let’s call off the wedding.” Frank flicked his lighter open, and right in front of me, he burned the tickets until they were nothing but ash. “Happy now?” he asked, his tone flat. “Still want to call it off?” I nodded, my gaze serious. “Yes.” … “Monica, what do you want from me? What will it take to make you happy?” Frank’s brow furrowed, his voice laced with an exhaustion and impatience he didn’t bother to hide. “I’ll take my vacation time as soon as this project is done. We’ll go to Europe, a pre-honeymoon trip. How does that sound?” When I didn’t answer, he reached out, a familiar habit, and ruffled my hair. “I mean it this time. I won’t back out. Okay?” A bitter smile touched my lips. I mean it this time. So, he was aware. He knew just how many promises he’d broken. Holiday plans were always canceled at the last minute for an “emergency meeting.” Restaurant reservations always ended with me sitting alone, staring at cold food until the staff started closing up around me. Frank had a talent for forgetting the things he promised me, dismissing them as if they were trivial. And now, this offer, delivered with the magnanimity of a king bestowing a great favor. “No, thank you.” The fever made the room spin. I took a deep breath to fight back the lump forming in my throat. “We’re calling off the wedding. What’s the point of a honeymoon?” The warmth in his expression vanished, his eyes turning cold and dark. “Fine. Don’t go.” He straightened up, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I’m giving you a chance right now, Monica. You’re the one walking away from it. Don’t bring this up later, accusing me of breaking another promise.” I didn’t have the energy to argue. The rice porridge I’d put on the stove was ready. I ladled a bowl of the thin, watery soup—the only thing I could stomach when I was sick. Frank watched me, his nose wrinkled in distaste. “Is that all you’re making?” “Mhm.” He stared at me for a long moment, then snatched his suit jacket from the sofa and headed for the door. I didn’t follow him. I didn’t ask where he was going, what he was doing, or if he could please, just this once, stay with me. His hand rested on the doorknob, his movement faltering for a fraction of a second. He was waiting. He didn’t get the plea he was expecting. Click. Thump. The door closed. And the door to my heart, which had always been open for him, sealed shut forever. I used to be so naive. I thought a man like Frank, born into a world so far above my own, was just naturally aloof, incapable of deep affection. Until I saw that stack of faded tickets. They were proof that he could love. And they were proof that he didn’t love me. The drenching from yesterday made my fever worse. My best friend, Maya, had to take me to the hospital. “How did it get this bad?” she asked, pressing the back of her hand to my forehead the second she saw me. Her face was a mixture of worry and fury. “And where is Frank? He’s your fiancé, for God’s sake. Is this his idea of taking care of you?” I shook my head. “Not anymore.” “What does that mean?” Maya had watched me fall for him, step by agonizing step. She’d seen every fight, every cold war, and she’d seen me be the one to surrender every single time. I looked down, a small, sad smile on my face. “She’s back.” Seraphina. The first love Frank could never forget. Even though I’d never met her, her presence had been a shadow hanging over me for years. Frank said posting on social media was childish, yet every profile picture he’d ever had before me was a photo of her. He hated having his whereabouts questioned, but he’d voluntarily checked in with her constantly. The first perfume he ever gave me was gardenia—her favorite scent. He claimed gallery-hopping with me was a waste of time, but he had once walked with her through every hidden corner of the city. From the day we started dating to the day we got engaged, he had never let her go. And me? I was just a strategic choice. The suitable partner he’d selected after weighing the pros and cons. I was the fiancée, not the love of his life. Maya stayed with me while I was on an IV drip, trying to comfort me until a call from her boss dragged her away for a work emergency. “I’ll be fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “Go on, make that money.” As she left, a young couple, glowing with new love, took the spot next to me. The girl was whining playfully about how sick she felt. The boy’s eyes were red with worry, calling her “sweetheart” and “baby” as he fussed over her. I watched them in silence. I used to be so envious of couples like that, the ones who were openly affectionate in public. Why did they get to have their partners by their side, while mine was always somewhere else? Why? The answer had been right in front of me all along. It had taken me three years of making excuses for him, of telling myself he was just emotionally distant by nature, to finally see it. By the time the IV bag was empty, the sky outside had darkened. As I stepped out of the clinic, I heard a familiar voice. “Frank, I just twisted my ankle. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble and bring me to the hospital.” I turned. There he was, carefully helping a woman in a long, cream-colored dress. He was holding her high heels in one hand, his brow creased with concern. “Why are you wearing heels this high? Are you trying to break your ankle?” He saw me then. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before it settled back into its usual cool, distant mask. He probably expected me to rush over, to make a scene. But I just looked away, my gaze dropping to my phone to check the status of my rideshare. The fever had left me weak, and a wracking cough escaped my lips. Frank’s eyes snapped to me, lingering for a second on my pale, tired face. His frown deepened. “Get in the car, Monica.” He walked over to me, his tone condescending. “If you wanted me to drive you home, you just had to ask.” “I didn’t.” He didn’t seem interested in whether I was telling the truth. He simply grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards his car. The air was thick with a familiar gardenia scent. It was coming from her. Seraphina. He handed me a bottle of water. I didn’t take it, so he tossed it onto the seat beside him. The silence in the car was suffocating. Seraphina let out a few delicate coughs. “Frank, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice soft and fragile. “I think I caught a chill yesterday. My throat is a little sore.” Instantly, Frank opened the glove compartment and handed her a box of throat lozenges. His voice was laced with a tenderness I had never heard before. “I told you the temperature drops at night here. I told you to bring a jacket, but you never listen.” Seraphina popped one into her mouth and smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. “You’re always so thoughtful.” Frank? Thoughtful? I scoffed internally. Only for her. They fell into easy conversation, reminiscing about old times, their words flowing with an unspoken intimacy and shared history. I sat in the back, a complete outsider. Eventually, I just closed my eyes. When I opened them again, we were home. Seraphina was gone. Frank unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to look at me, his gaze lingering on my pale face. His brow was knitted in a tight knot. “Monica,” he said, his voice low and tinged with an irritation he couldn’t hide. “Do we really have to do this?” I met his eyes, confused. “If you want my attention, you can just say so. You don’t have to make yourself sick just to get me to notice you.” His voice was even, but every word was a razor blade, slicing at a heart that was already in pieces. I didn’t know what he was so angry about. Maybe I had ruined his precious reunion with Seraphina. Maybe I was just an inconvenience he was forced to deal with. “You give yourself way too much credit, Frank.” My voice was hoarse, but I fought to keep it steady. “I didn’t want a ride, and I certainly wasn’t trying to get your attention. It’s just a fever. I’m not an invalid.” I paused, then delivered the final blow. “Besides, it doesn’t matter. We’re not together anymore.” He let out a short, sharp laugh. “Not together? Monica, don’t forget, you still have the heirloom my grandmother gave you for our engagement.” His voice turned hard. “This whole ‘calling off the wedding’ tantrum is getting old. I’ll let it slide once or twice. I’ll even play along and humor you. But if you say it again, I’ll make it real. And when that happens, don’t you dare come crawling back to me.” My throat was raw. I didn’t have the energy for this. I opened the car door, but he was faster. He got out, came around to my side, and swept me up into his arms. It wasn’t a gentle gesture; it was rough, angry, but he didn’t let me fall. Inside, he placed me on the sofa and found the first-aid kit. He took my temperature and got me a glass of water, his movements efficient, his expression cold. I let him do it, my body pliant and silent. This was Frank. Hot and cold, a puzzle I could never solve. He would offer these small, almost insignificant moments of care that would send my hopes soaring, only to plunge me back into despair. But I was done trying to figure him out. “Thanks,” I rasped. I met his deep gaze and asked calmly, “Is there anything else?” His lips tightened. He seemed to be wrestling with himself before he finally spoke. “Don’t you have anything to ask me?” I shook my head. I didn’t need to. I’d already seen Seraphina’s latest social media post. A photo geotagged at the airport with the caption: “It’s been a while. Hope you’ve been well.” Frank had liked it. “I’m really tired. I need to rest,” I said, pushing myself up from the sofa. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.” In a few days, once my things were packed, I would be gone for good. He grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. “Monica!” His voice was laced with a frustrated helplessness. “I picked Sera up because she doesn’t know anyone else here. She twisted her ankle. I couldn’t just leave her there, could I?” It was the first time he had ever offered me an explanation. But I no longer cared to hear it. “Of course,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “You did the right thing.” He stared at me, searching my blank expression for any sign of jealousy or hurt. He found none. “Monica, Sera and I are just friends now.” “I know,” I said, nodding with a disinterest that was entirely genuine. Suddenly, he pulled me against him, his body a familiar, burning warmth that I had once craved more than anything. He knew I loved his hugs. He thought this one simple gesture could break down my defenses, just like it always had before. But my body remained stiff. I raised my hands and pushed against his chest. “Let go of me, Frank.” He froze, clearly stunned by my reaction. A dark, ugly expression clouded his face. The next day, I went to my office to hand in my resignation. I was told a major client was visiting. And there was Frank, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, exuding an aura of power as he led the way. The “secretary” by his side was Seraphina. “This way, please,” I said, my voice so professional it surprised even me. I led them to the conference room. Throughout the meeting, Frank’s eyes would occasionally drift to me, analytical and assessing. Seraphina would catch his eye and they would share a small, knowing smile. I overheard two junior colleagues whispering behind me. “Mr. Vance is so handsome. And so successful. Did you see how thoughtful he was with his secretary?” “I know! He even pulled out her chair for her. They look so perfect together.” Their words were like tiny needles piercing my heart. In three years, Frank had never once come to my office, not even to pick me up. The first time he ever set foot in my workplace was for this. With her. The irony was crushing. After my presentation, Frank spoke, his tone dismissive. “Ms. Ross is clearly an expert on this project. She will be your point of contact going forward.” “But, sir…” one of my colleagues started, about to mention my impending resignation. But Frank had already turned and was walking away, Seraphina at his side. He didn’t look back. Their silhouettes, side by side, were a perfect match. A picture-perfect couple. It had taken me three years to finally understand that the place beside him was never meant for me. This weekend was his grandmother’s 80th birthday. I had promised her months ago that I would be there. After much hesitation, I decided to go. After all, I had something I needed to return. The party was held in the grand ballroom of the city’s finest hotel, filled with industry titans and socialites. It was as much a business gathering as a family celebration. Frank, of course, was one of the stars of the show. And standing next to him, exquisitely dressed, was Seraphina. He was leaning in, listening intently as she spoke. His eyes occasionally swept over to my side of the room, as if gauging my reaction. A moment later, Seraphina seemed to choke on her champagne. He was instantly at her side with a napkin, his movements practiced and intimate. Halfway through the dinner, I needed some air. I stepped out onto the terrace and heard voices coming from the shadows. It was Frank and his best friend. “Fighting with Monica again?” Frank grunted an affirmation, swirling the wine in his glass. His friend sighed. “Man, I don’t get you. You obviously care about her, but you always have to be so difficult. You always make her be the one to back down. You’re lucky she’s so patient.” “I know,” Frank said, his voice unreadable. “You know? You know, and you still bring Seraphina to your grandmother’s birthday party? That’s a slap in the face, and you know it. She has to know about your history.” “Aren’t you afraid you’ll push her too far? That she’ll finally get fed up and leave you?” There was a pause. “She won’t,” Frank said, his tone one of absolute certainty. “Monica… she would never leave me.” He was always so confident. Confident in my love, in my tolerance, in the belief that I would always forgive him. It’s what allowed him to be so reckless. I was about to turn away when a soft voice spoke from behind me. “Ms. Ross? Fancy seeing you here. Can we talk for a moment?” Seraphina approached, her tone as warm as if we were old friends. “We’ve never had the chance to be properly introduced. I’m Seraphina.” She smiled, but her eyes held a glint of challenge. “You’ve probably heard of me, but I’m just Frank’s secretary now. I hope that’s not a problem for you.” My expression remained neutral. “Are we supposed to know each other, Ms. Vane?” My calm dismissal clearly annoyed her. A flicker of anger crossed her face. Then, she swayed, stumbled, and fell to the ground, taking a champagne tower down with her. The crash was deafening. Frank was there in an instant. “Monica, what the hell did you do?” he snarled, his eyes blazing. “What is wrong with you?” I didn’t bother to explain. Instead, I picked up a fresh glass of red wine, walked right up to him, and threw its contents in his face. As he stared at me in stunned disbelief, and Seraphina gaped from the floor, I raised an eyebrow. “See that, Frank?” I said. “That I did.”

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