Category: English

For three months, I’d been scouring the city like a woman possessed. Three months since Caleb, my supposedly broke, post-grad boyfriend, had vanished into the night air. I’d even taken a job as a courier, a delivery driver on a beat-up scooter, just for the excuse to crisscross every neighborhood, to peer down every alley, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. That’s how I ended up at The Sterling Gallery, delivering a rush document. And that’s how I saw him. Dressed in a suit so exquisitely tailored it probably cost more than my college tuition, looking utterly serene as he raised a paddle to bid on a piece of antique jewelry. Thirty-two million dollars. A stunning woman beside him, all shimmering hair and a killer smile, laughed lightly. “Still the last of the big spenders, Caleb.” He gave her cheek a familiar, affectionate pinch. Someone nearby chimed in. “And he’s got a soft heart, too. Finally cut ties with that little charity case he was slumming it with.” Then, his gaze shifted. And it landed squarely on me. Everything descended into chaos. 1 “Twenty million.” “Twenty-three.” The bids volleyed back and forth, the auction hall electric with tension. I stood at the entrance, the whole scene laid out before me. A man in a sharp suit hurried over, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Thank God, you made it.” I handed him the document folder with a practiced smile, my blue courier jacket feeling a size too small under the weight of the chandeliers. “You call me, it gets there. Fast and on time.” This was an express job; I was hoping for a good review. The man gave me a quick once-over. “Alright, come in, grab a bottle of water. Just… stay out of the way. And for God’s sake, don’t disturb the guests.” He led me down a corridor flanking the main hall. Ahead, an open, unglazed archway—some kind of European affectation—offered a perfect, hidden vantage point. I glanced through. Just in time to see a hand lift a bidding paddle. On the wrist, a simple red cord bracelet. The contrast against the crisp, white cuff was stark under the spotlights. My breath hitched. I instinctively ducked back behind the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Hey,” I said, forcing a smile, trying to look like some wide-eyed kid who’d never seen real money before. “What’s the main event in there?” The man arched an eyebrow. “A playground for the rich.” Just then, the sharp crack of a gavel echoed through the hall. “Sold! For thirty-two million dollars. Congratulations to Mr. Hayes.” The suited man let out a low whistle. “That Caleb Hayes… looks young, but he’s the real deal. Dropping thirty mil on some old royal necklace like it’s nothing.” I barely heard him. A single thought consumed me, squeezing my heart tight. Mr. Hayes? But… he was broke. Wasn’t he? 2 I’d been searching for Caleb Hayes for three solid months, ever since he’d disappeared from our tiny apartment in the middle of the night. I’d quit my other gigs to take this courier job because it kept me moving, always looking. Every delivery was a chance to scan a new face, a new building. I watched the local news every night, terrified I’d see his face in a police report or an obituary. The applause inside the gallery was polite but firm. The lights all converged on the necklace, its diamonds scattering a brilliant, painful light across the room. It burned my eyes. I didn’t go in. I couldn’t. I just risked one more glance through the archway. He was in a casual but clearly expensive suit, his head tilted slightly as he spoke patiently to the woman beside him. He looked like he belonged there. Nothing like the man who shared my cramped, messy life. She was gorgeous. A cascade of auburn waves, makeup so perfect it looked like it was part of her skin. She didn’t need spotlights to shine. And the man on Caleb’s other side… I knew him. Rhys. Caleb’s best friend from his prep school days. They were all laughing, talking easily, as if thirty-two million dollars was just a number, a stray thought. “Damn, man. Good to have you back,” Rhys said, clapping Caleb on the shoulder. “A hell of a lot better than playing house with that sad-sack artist.” Caleb pressed the palm of his hand against Rhys’s forehead, a playful shove. “Don’t remind me. I almost forgot what it felt like to spend money.” The woman giggled, leaning into him. “Only thirty million, Caleb? Is that all?” Even from here, I could smell a perfume that was probably worth more than my scooter. “If you’re feeling so generous, maybe you could buy me those earrings I wanted?” Her eyes were intoxicating, alluring. “You did complete my little assignment, after all. You know I always reward good behavior.” Rhys let out an exaggerated laugh. “Jesus, Sloane. If the poor girl knew this was all just a game for you, she’d probably have an aneurysm.” Sloane’s expression was placid, almost bored. “I just wanted to see what a real-life Cinderella story looked like. It was disappointing.” Caleb squeezed her face again, a fond, indulgent smile playing on his lips. “You’ve been impossible since we were kids.” She pouted. “Whatever. Just make sure you wash the smell of that girl off you before tonight. Or you’ll be sorry.” I saw a flicker of something in Caleb’s eyes. Lust. Desire. He leaned in and whispered something in Sloane’s ear, a look I had seen a thousand times, a look I thought was reserved for me. “Is that a promise?” They shared a private smile, the possessiveness in his eyes utterly naked. Rhys just laughed again. “Classic Sloane. You’re the one who told him to go date the broke girl in the first place, and now you’re the one who’s disgusted by it. You never change.” “That was then,” she said, and for a split second, her eyes flicked toward the archway. Toward me. I flinched back, my blood running cold. I shouldn’t have looked again. I should have just run. But my feet were rooted to the spot, and I saw her mouth form the words, clear as day. “This is now. And now, he’s mine.” 3 Caleb was always perceptive. The next second, our eyes met across the cavernous room. Panic seized me. I spun around and bolted. I could hear the scrape of a chair, the frantic sound of footsteps on polished marble. Just as I reached the main exit, a hand clamped down on my arm. Caleb. “Mr. Hayes,” I mumbled, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor. I stared at the red cord on his pale wrist. It looked so wrong now, so out of place. “Leah? What are you doing here?” I sniffled, forcing myself to look up. “Can’t you see, Mr. Hayes?” Rhys and Sloane had followed him out, their expensive shoes clicking on the floor. “No,” I corrected myself, a bitter taste in my mouth. “I guess I’m the one who’s been blind.” The judgment in their three pairs of eyes was suffocating. They looked at my blue courier uniform, the company logo stitched plainly on the chest. Caleb’s brow was furrowed in a tight knot. Sloane stamped her foot, a petulant little motion. “Caleb, don’t tell me you actually fell for her?” As if her words had burned him, Caleb snatched his hand back from my arm. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a sleek, black credit card. “Here. It’s linked to my main account. Take it.” I didn’t move. I just stared at the card, cold and dead in his hand. “What is this, Caleb? A severance package?” I let out a hollow laugh. “Don’t worry. The cheap crap in our old apartment isn’t worth a fraction of this.” His face hardened with frustration. “Then what do you want?” What do I want? He had the audacity to ask me that. I doubled over, a laugh escaping my lips that sounded more like a sob. I looked at him, at the two people flanking him like designer-clad vultures, and my voice went cold and sharp. “I told you, Caleb Hayes. The one thing I can’t stand is being lied to.” Sloane rolled her eyes. “So much drama.” It was a quiet comment, but in the tense silence, it landed like a slap. It was meant for me to hear. “Sloane, don’t,” Caleb snapped, but it was the tone you use on a misbehaving puppy, not an equal. 4 I’d heard that tone before. When I was a kid and my cousin would come over, he loved to “excavate for treasure” in my bedroom. My drawings, the ones that took me days to finish, the special paints my mom had saved for months to buy me—he’d smear them all together into a muddy, useless mess, getting streaks of color all over his face. My grandmother would come in, chuckling, and wipe his cheeks. “Oh, you little rascal. Such a troublemaker.” She’d hug him tight. “You can’t do that again, you hear?” It was a scolding with no teeth. It meant nothing. Just like now. Caleb was telling Sloane to stop, but the intimacy in his voice only empowered her, made her feel more secure. She made a face at him, then looked away with a dismissive little huff. Rhys stepped in to play peacemaker. “Alright, alright, it’s getting late. Caleb, let’s not keep the lady from her job.” That was it. I tore off the blue courier jacket and threw it at him. It hit him square in the chest. “Since you’re obviously not dead in a ditch somewhere, I guess I don’t need this job anymore.” Caleb froze, his whole body rigid. The color drained from his face, replaced by a glacial fury. I’m sure in his entire privileged life, no one had ever done something like that to him. The city lights flickered on, casting long shadows down the street. I got on my scooter and drove away. Through the visor of my helmet, the world blurred. I suddenly remembered the first time I met him. He was standing under a giant oak tree on campus, wearing a simple white shirt, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves and dusting him in gold. His hazel eyes were full of light. “You a freshman?” he’d asked. He was a junior, working the student orientation table. “You should join the activities committee.” So I did. Just to be in his orbit. It gave me an excuse to have his number. The first time I ever texted him, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely type. What do you even say? I’d spent the entire day rehearsing, from the moment I woke up until the dorm lights went out. Finally, I sent three pathetic little words. Hey, it’s Leah. He must have been holding his phone. The reply came back instantly. You’re up late. But now, when I opened our message thread, it was just a monologue. My monologue. Long, desperate green bubbles of text, unanswered. A digital monument to my own stupidity. How could a person like me ever think someone like him could truly love me? It was all a lie. A calculated, cruel lie, right from the very beginning. 5 Caleb and I got together the night he graduated. He was drunk, stumbling out of a bar near campus. I worked up every ounce of courage I had and followed him. He was so out of it he could barely see straight. He grabbed my wrist, pinning me against a brick wall. “You want to do this?” he slurred, his eyes hazy, half-closed, a dangerous charm radiating off him even then. Like a fool, I said yes. And to my shock, he didn’t take it back the next day. He remembered. He stayed. So I worked harder than ever. I took on extra shifts, sold my paintings on the side—anything to feel like I wasn’t completely out of my league. My income was a joke compared to his, but it was something. It was mine. But Caleb’s world was different. A single shirt he owned was worth more than my annual salary. He’d just ruffle my hair and say, “You’re doing great, Leah.” And that one sentence would be enough to keep me going for weeks. It didn’t last long. A few months into our relationship, his family’s company went bankrupt. His parents, he said, had fled the country to escape their debts. The moment I heard the news, I rushed to find him. He was sitting on the front steps of his family’s empty, foreclosed mansion with nothing but the clothes on his back. He just looked up at me, his shadow stretching long and lonely under the streetlights. “Go home, Leah,” he said, his voice hollow. “I have nothing left to give you.” I was crying, but I was also smiling. For the first time, I sat down next to him without being invited. I took his arm in mine. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “I’ve got you now.” He flinched, then turned, and his mouth was on mine. A desperate, all-consuming kiss. It was the closest we’d ever been. 6 Back in our—my—tiny rental apartment, the ghost of him was everywhere. The ceramic bowls we’d painted together at a pottery class. The coasters we’d tried to knit one drunken Tuesday night. The matching pair of slippers by the door. I started packing it all into trash bags. One thing at a time. It was only then, as I purged our life from the apartment, that I realized we didn’t have a single photograph together. Not one. A cold thought began to form in my mind. He knew it was a game from the start. That’s why he never wanted any evidence that we were real. I opened his Instagram. Nothing. Not a single post, not a single story that ever included me. We had never even made it official. We just… were. And now we… weren’t. I clipped my bangs back from my face and splashed my face with cold water. The water made the thin, white scar on my forehead stand out in sharp relief. Closing my eyes, I was back in the moment. The screech of tires. He’d run across the street to grab a cake for my birthday. A car came out of nowhere, speeding. I didn’t think; I just moved, shoving him out of the way. I took the hit instead. The bruises faded, the bones healed, but this scar, this one mark on my forehead, never quite went away. So stupid. For the first time in years, I took out my concealer. It felt like I was trying to spackle over the hole in my chest. A pathetic act of self-deception. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely hold the brush. A car horn blared outside, making me jump. The brush slipped from my fingers and clattered into the wet sink. You’re pathetic, Leah. All the disappointment, the anxiety, the desperate hope I’d been holding onto for three months—it all came crashing down. I didn’t even know what I was crying for anymore. For my shaking hands? For a love affair that no one else in the world even knew existed? I slid down the cool tile wall until I was curled up in a ball on the floor. I don’t know how long I stayed there. Hours, maybe. Long enough for the dark square of the window to melt completely into the night sky. Finally, I moved my dry, cracked lips. “Caleb Hayes,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m done with you.” From this day forward, we were over. For good. 7 Truthfully, Caleb didn’t have much stuff at my place. It only took two hours to clear out every trace of him. I called the old man who collects junk in our neighborhood and gave him everything. Suddenly, the apartment felt clean. Bigger. There was nothing in pairs anymore. It was calming. I started making a list of things to do, plans for finding a new job tomorrow. Then my phone buzzed. A new message. It was a photo. Caleb, his eyes half-lidded, lounging in the arms of Sloane. They were in some impossibly glamorous VIP lounge, the background a blur of champagne bottles and neon lights. The moody lighting cast shadows on his face, giving him a debauched, rakish look I’d never seen before. Sloane hadn’t written a single word. She didn’t have to. The message was loud and clear: This man belongs to me. After the emotional dam had broken earlier, I just felt… numb. I deleted the photo and, with a steady hand, went to the kitchen to make myself a bowl of instant noodles. Crying over him once was enough. Crying over a man more than that was just plain stupid. The noodles were barely cooked when my phone rang. An unknown number. “Hey, broke girl. No, wait. Leah.” It was Rhys’s booming, obnoxious voice. “Caleb’s wasted. He’s refusing to leave the bar until you come pick him up. Get over here.” I slurped a mouthful of noodles. “Caleb who? Don’t know him.” “What are you talking about? Just hurry up. They’re about to close, and he’s going to end up sleeping on the damn sidewalk.” “Then let him,” I said, finishing the noodles in three more bites. “Even better if he’s dead.” Rhys started to argue, but I just hung up. A waste of my phone plan. I switched my phone off completely and went to bed. For the first time in months, I slept soundly. When I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window, pooling on the floor. I realized that as long as I wasn’t waiting for Caleb, I could actually rest. It was the first day of my life without him, and even the bed felt bigger, more spacious. I was about to get up when a head poked out of my bathroom.

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I once “kept” a dancer. For a hundred thousand dollars and two years of her life, she surrendered all her dignity. Then, my world collapsed into bankruptcy and debt, while she rose, collecting championships and dazzling the world. The next time we met, my beat-up electric scooter crashed into her Maybach. 1 I still don’t know how I managed to hit the Maybach. The rain was a torrential downpour, and I was in a hurry, rushing a delivery of fresh fish to a restaurant. One moment of distraction, and then impact. As I hit the slick asphalt, the sight of the Maybach’s shattered headlight sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the rain. Five thousand dollars. Minimum. The car door swung open, a silent wing in the roaring storm. I sat there, surrounded by the wreckage of my styrofoam boxes and the frantic, slapping bodies of escaping fish, a dull roar filling my ears. Wrong way on a one-way street, overloaded scooter. I was entirely at fault. A pair of women’s stilettos cut through the deluge, stopping just inches from my sprawled form. My voice was numb. “Sorry,” I mumbled, “I shouldn’t have turned here…” A flash of red sole followed as a man hurried over, his crisp voice laced with concern. “Hey, man, you alright?” The voice was familiar. I looked up and saw a handsome, impeccably sculpted face. It was Leo Vance, the A-list idol whose face was plastered across every magazine. And standing beside him, holding the umbrella, was Cora. The dancer who had been mine for two years. Three days earlier, the production crew for the reality show Hometown Echoes had descended upon my small town of Misty Hollow. Cora, the new star of the dance world, and Leo, the nation’s heartthrob, were the show’s headliners. The whole town was buzzing, every household hoping for a glimpse of the celebrities. I wanted no part of it. I had been actively avoiding them. Now, she knelt, her slender, porcelain fingers reaching out to remove my helmet. They brushed against my cheek, cool and deliberate. She stared at me, her voice as cold as mountain snow. “Once the damages are assessed, we’ll settle this by the book.” Leo tugged at her sleeve. “Cora, come on. Let it go. He looks like he’s having a rough time.” Cora rose to her full height, looking down at me as if from a great distance. “Everyone has to pay for their mistakes.” Which mistake was she talking about? Hitting her car? Shattering her dignity all those years ago? Or tempting her to taste a forbidden fruit? A bitter laugh escaped me. I pulled out my ID and handed it to her. “I’ll pay for my mistake,” I said. “But if you don’t mind, I need to deliver my fish. Don’t worry, you can hold onto this. I’m not going to run.” 2 A poor man has no time for self-pity. I found a styrofoam box that was mostly intact and began gathering the gasping fish, one by one. This was over two hundred dollars’ worth of product. I couldn’t afford to lose it. Hugging the box, I started to strap it to the back of my scooter, but a hand stopped me. In a single, fluid motion, Cora took the box from my arms and placed it in the trunk of her Maybach. “Get in. We’re going to the hospital.” I started to refuse, but her tone was absolute. “If you crash again on your way there, it’ll just complicate things.” I didn’t argue. Soaking wet, I climbed into the back of her car. Leo took the passenger seat, trying to break the heavy silence. “Hey, your English is perfect. You don’t sound like a local. Are you from out of town?” I nodded, my voice barely a whisper. “Yeah.” “Misty Hollow is my hometown, actually,” he went on, oblivious to the tension. “Lived here when I was a little kid.” I knew. Hometown Echoes took each guest back to their roots, and Misty Hollow was the final stop. The tabloids were all saying Cora and Leo were going to make their relationship official here. “So what brought you to Misty Hollow?” he asked with a friendly smile. “Fall for one of the local girls?” The ringing in my head was getting worse, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I just wanted him to stop talking. I gave a noncommittal grunt. “Mmm.” In the rearview mirror, I saw Cora’s eyes. They were like frozen pools, sharp and unforgiving. The car suddenly accelerated, pressing me back into the plush leather. When we arrived at the restaurant, Cora got out and carried the box of fish inside without a word. Al, the owner, stared, his eyes wide. He pulled me aside, whispering, “Isn’t that… you know who? Looks like that Olympic skier, the world champion! What’s she doing delivering fish for you?” “You’re seeing things,” I lied, my voice low. “She’s just a cousin of mine, here on vacation.” I turned and met Cora’s gaze. It was as deep and dark as a well. I shouldn’t have told that lie. I had said those exact words once before. The first summer she was with me, I took her to a friend’s birthday party. Someone had slung an arm around me, smirking. “Well, Rhys. This one’s a knockout. How much did she cost you?” Cora had gone rigid, humiliation coloring her cheeks. I’d swirled the wine in my glass, leaning casually against her shoulder. “What are you talking about?” I’d drawled. “She’s just a cousin of mine.” 3 Cora dropped off the fish and wordlessly returned to the car. The hospital was only five minutes away. I filled out the paperwork at the front desk while Cora, now wearing a mask and a baseball cap, leaned against a railing nearby. In my memory, she was always standing just like that. Quietly waiting outside my window, in the corner of a room, in a field of snow, or on a silent beach. Four years, and it was as if nothing had changed. The image of the slender, poised woman before me blurred with the girl from my past. My mind drifted back to a scorching summer afternoon. She stood on the veranda, straight and proud as a young poplar tree. Her faded floral blouse and washed-out jeans couldn’t hide the perfect lines of her body—a portrait of desperate poverty and defiant youth. I was inside, behind the floor-to-ceiling window, my brush capturing the sun-kissed skin of her arms and legs. She had come looking for her father, my family’s chauffeur, begging for money for her grandfather’s medical bills. He’d refused her. I gave her two thousand dollars to be my model for the day. She accepted. The scene shifted. A ski resort. Cora’s life was a constant struggle. She worked multiple jobs—ski instructor, swimming coach, delivery driver—all to pay for her grandfather’s mounting hospital fees. I pretended I couldn’t ski and hired her as my private instructor. She was quiet, reserved, speaking only when it was about technique. The night before I left, she brought my skis to my room. Flushed with alcohol, I leaned in and whispered in her ear, asking if she wanted an easier life. She just frowned, shook her head, and refused. Then came the rainy night. She called me. “Mr. Archer,” she’d said, her voice tight, “are you… still interested in me?” When I arrived at the ICU, she was hunched over, clutching a bill with an astronomical figure, leaning against the sterile hallway wall like a pine tree broken by the weight of snow. I reached for her, but my hand closed on empty air. In my disoriented state, I called out, “Cora.” My fingers finally found something to grip. A stranger’s voice cut through the fog. “It’s nothing serious. A mild concussion. Just get some rest for a few days.” My own voice, slurred and distant, answered automatically. “I have to sell fish tomorrow.” “Absolutely not,” the doctor said. “You need to rest.” “It’s not tiring.” My vision slowly sharpened. I was in a hospital bed, and my hand was clenched tightly around Cora’s. A hot flush of embarrassment washed over me. I let go. 4 The hour of observation in that hospital bed felt like an eternity on a hot griddle. Leo had to leave for an urgent matter with the show, leaving just Cora and me in the sterile, silent room. The only sound was the relentless tick-tock of the wall clock. I pretended to be dizzy and turned over, facing the wall, my back to her. But I could feel her eyes on me, sharp as needles. “I’m fine,” I finally said, breaking the silence. “You should go. You must be busy.” After a moment, her cold voice replied, “Can’t you even say, ‘It’s been a long time’?” She was right. It was basic courtesy. “Yeah, it has been a long time,” I said. “You seem to be doing well, so I didn’t feel the need to ask.” “And how, exactly, did you determine that I’m ‘doing well’?” I pulled the thin blanket tighter around me. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? You’re a world champion, a huge star. You’re doing better than ninety-five percent of the people on this planet.” “Are you doing well?” she asked. “I’m fine. I have enough to eat.” She fell silent. As she was leaving, a nurse recognized her, and she was instantly swarmed by fans asking for autographs. I didn’t wait. I just left. Back at my small courtyard home, Mrs. Gable was waiting anxiously at the gate. “Rhys, dear! Are you alright? Why are you wearing… is that a Gucci tracksuit?” Before he left, Leo had insisted I change out of my wet clothes, worried I’d catch a cold. “I ran into a kind person,” I said. “They lent it to me.” Mrs. Gable didn’t press, her face beaming. “Hurry inside! Dinner’s ready, and Maya’s waiting. And guess what? I made seventy-five dollars today from my eyebrow-shaping livestream! Once I get more followers, I’ll be making real money. Then you won’t have to sell fish anymore. You can just focus on your painting.” Hearing my voice, Maya, my little sister, came running out and grabbed my hand, her words tumbling out in a rush of excitement. “Brother, guess what we’re having for dinner! Spicy river shrimp! Mom caught them in the creek with a net!” I didn’t mention the five-thousand-dollar repair bill hanging over my head. And Mrs. Gable didn’t mention that the landlord had come by again, demanding the rent. 5 Late that night, I pulled a worn, white notebook from a paint-splattered drawer. It was filled with names. Some were crossed out, their debts repaid. Others, those in desperate need, were marked with a star. They were the workers injured in the explosion. Years ago, my family’s chemical plant had a catastrophic accident. The casualties were staggering. My father was held liable and sentenced to five years in prison. All our assets were liquidated for compensation, and it still wasn’t enough. The last time I visited him in prison, he wept. “Rhys, your sister is so young, and your stepmother has no way to support herself. Please, take care of them for me. As for the debts… wait for me to get out. I’ll find a way.” As I left, I squeezed his hand. “I will.” For years, I’ve spent every penny I had, sold my art for next to nothing, and worked day and night to compensate the victims. It was never enough. Some were worse off than me, their calls for help always hesitant and apologetic. Others were filled with rage, calling regularly to curse my entire family. As I was trying to decide who to pay this week, an unknown number lit up my phone. It was Cora. “Rhys. I’m outside.” Hearing my name on her lips felt both familiar and strangely alien. I froze. “It’s too late. It’s not a good time.” “The estimate for the headlight is in,” she said. “Just tell me the amount. You have my ID. I told you I’d pay.” Her voice grew colder. “Don’t you want your scooter back?” In the faint moonlight, Cora stood alone under the willow tree by the creek. She looked elegant, distant, and completely out of place next to the battered, paint-chipped electric scooter. I had no idea how she’d gotten it here; it wouldn’t have fit in her trunk. I stayed by the gate. “Thanks for bringing it back,” I said. “You could have just left it. People in this town are honest. No one would have stolen it.” I paused. “How much for the headlight?” She walked toward me, casting a long shadow that swallowed me whole. The feeling of being cornered made me take an involuntary step back. She stared into my eyes, then her gaze dropped to my lips. “Can you afford to pay me right now?” I couldn’t. In my white notebook of debts, Cora’s name wouldn’t even appear in the first thirty pages. “Give me some time,” I said. “I’ll pay you back.” Cora’s voice was a whisper of ice. “You have another option.” “Remember that little game we played when we first met? Two thousand dollars for a day. The headlight is five thousand. You give me three days.” 6 Everyone has to pay for their mistakes. I finally understood what she meant. An eye for an eye. Three days. A game… My throat went dry. She let out a short, sharp laugh. “Relax. I have no intention of sleeping with you.” The knot in my chest loosened. “Fine,” I said. Five thousand dollars was a fortune to me now. Besides, I didn’t want to be entangled with her any longer than necessary. I got in the car. She drove, fast, up the winding mountain road to a villa perched on the hillside. I knew the place; I could see it from my little courtyard. It used to belong to a foreign photographer, then sat empty for two years. Someone bought it six months ago but had rarely been seen. So, it was her. I remembered the gossip from the kid at the vegetable stall—that Misty Hollow was Leo Vance’s childhood home, that he and Cora were going to announce their relationship here. She must have bought it for him. I hesitated at the front door. She glanced back. “What? Having second thoughts?” “I still have Leo’s clothes,” I said quietly. I had no idea what she was planning, but whatever it was, this felt wrong. I was trying to remind her she had a boyfriend. Cora pushed the door open, her voice fading as she walked inside. “You can keep them. He has plenty of clothes.” I took a deep breath and followed her in. The villa was cavernous and cold, showing no signs of being lived in. In the vast, empty living room, Cora poured herself a glass of wine. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, sipping her drink as she gazed at the twinkling lights of the town below. I stood awkwardly in the center of the room. “What do you want me to do?” My question was met with a long, heavy silence. I asked again. “Cora, what do you—” “Take off your clothes,” she said. I froze. Years ago, I had poured a glass of wine just like that and told her to do the same thing. I had paid off her grandfather’s hundred-thousand-dollar medical bill, and in return, she had packed a bag and come to the address I gave her. My private art studio. She stood nervously in the enormous glass-walled room. I had studied her, paintbrush in hand. “Take off your clothes,” I’d commanded. The blood drained from her face as she stripped, piece by piece. When she was down to her underwear, her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. “All of it,” I’d said. … Life’s reversals are cruel and swift. Back then, I never imagined our positions would ever be so completely flipped. My voice was steady. “We agreed you weren’t—” “I said I wouldn’t sleep with you,” she cut in, her tone still unnervingly calm. “And I won’t.” “Then why are you asking me to undress? I may be broke, but I won’t be put on display for five thousand dollars.” I had made her undress to paint her. What was her reason? To humiliate me? She walked towards me, her presence overwhelming. She leaned in, her lips close to my ear, her voice a low murmur. “What about fifty thousand? Five hundred thousand? Or five million?” Fifty thousand could pay for the plastic surgery for the daughter of one of the workers, whose face was horribly burned. Five hundred thousand could give two dozen families a chance to breathe. Five million… five million could erase more than half the names in my white notebook. I didn’t hesitate. I started unbuttoning my shirt.

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Growing up in the sticks, there was one person I envied more than anyone: the daughter of the richest man in the state. It all started when an orange, fallen from one of our town’s trees, happened to soil her impossibly expensive heels. With a single phone call, she had men come and tear down every single orange grove in our town. The very trees that were our lifeblood. But then, one day, the tycoon himself showed up at my door. It turned out I was his real daughter. I packed my bags that night, grabbed my little golden mutt, Buddy, and said my heartfelt goodbyes to all the folks in town. With tears in their eyes, they all waved me off. “Willow, you go live that good life now. Don’t you ever come back to this hardship.” I just shook my head. No way. The Sterling estate wasn’t even as big as one of the hills back home. There was barely enough room for me and Buddy to get a good run in. I was just going to collect what they owed us. And if they wouldn’t give it to me… well, they were about to see me lose my mind. 1 On the drive to his mansion, Richard Sterling, my billionaire father, laid down three rules for me: First, I was not to reveal my true identity to anyone. Second, I was not to drive away Sophia, the girl who had been raised in my place. Third, I was not to compete with Sophia for his affection. So, when I stepped into the grand living room and saw Sophia crying a river of pearlescent tears, I immediately turned, Buddy at my heels, and headed for the garden. “Oh, Sophia, don’t cry. You will always be my only daughter.” Right. That was Eleanor Sterling, my birth mother. “That’s right. You’re my only sister. That girl from the sticks doesn’t even deserve to call me her brother.” I raised an eyebrow. That must be my brilliant older brother, Julian. I couldn’t be bothered to listen to the rest of their little drama. I just took Buddy for a couple of laps around the garden. He panted, his tongue lolling out in what looked like sheer disdain. I had to agree. The Sterling family’s garden was smaller than a single hill back home. No wonder Buddy was unimpressed. Figuring Sophia’s performance had to be wrapping up, I led Buddy back into the living room and plopped myself down on a lone armchair. Buddy settled obediently at my feet. The moment I sat down, Richard Sterling—the same man who had been all smiles and kindness in the car—shot me a look as cold as ice. “Have you already forgotten everything I just told you?” My dear brother Julian glared at me as if I were something filthy that had crawled in from the street. I held up my hand and pointed a finger toward Sophia. “One, I haven’t told a soul who I am. Two, I haven’t tried to kick her out. And three, I haven’t tried to steal her spotlight.” Richard choked, the words catching in his throat. “Sister… do you not like me?” Sophia asked, her face a mask of wounded innocence, her eyes instantly welling up. Eleanor immediately rushed to her side, patting her hand comfortingly before turning her venom on me. Her voice was sharp, dripping with acid. “Willow, now that you’re back in the Sterling household, you need to learn our ways. Don’t bring your crude, country manners in here.” She sniffed disdainfully. “And that dog of yours is filthy. How could you bring it into the living room? I’ll have someone get rid of it tomorrow.” I slowly stroked Buddy’s head, then finally met her gaze. “When he came to get me, he promised I could bring Buddy.” I leaned on the word “he,” my eyes shifting to the silent Richard Sterling. “As for the rules, I’ve followed the three he gave me. And my rule is that people should keep their promises.” Richard’s face flushed with a hint of embarrassment. He cleared his throat. Julian, who had been silent until now, let out a cold snort. “Dad was just trying to be nice. But a family’s image is important.” He looked me up and down. “You need to adapt to high society, not drag the whole village in here with you.” He paused, the contempt in his eyes deepening. “After all, your name is Sterling now.” “My name is Willow,” I corrected him calmly. “As in the tree.” My words hung in the air, freezing the entire room. Sophia’s tears finally spilled over. “Julian, don’t say that to her. It’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, sister wouldn’t have suffered so much out there.” Her voice trembled. “Sister, you have every right to blame me. You can hit me, you can scream at me, whatever it takes for you to feel better. It doesn’t matter if you kick me out of this house, I just…” I watched this perfectly orchestrated performance. One played the villain, one the victim, one the mediator, and one the judge, all working in flawless harmony. They were trying to put me in my place, to make me understand my lowly status, to make me grateful for their charity and guilty about Sophia. Too bad they had it all wrong from the very beginning. I wasn’t here for a family reunion. I was here to collect a debt. I reached into my worn canvas tote bag and pulled out a thick stack of papers, neatly bound with a staple, and placed it right in the center of the coffee table. “Now then,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “Let’s talk about the compensation.” For a moment, everyone just stared, utterly speechless. 2 Julian let out a sharp bark of laughter, as if I’d just told the funniest joke in the world. He snatched the papers off the table. He only got two pages in before the smirk on his face curdled into a mask of rage. “Assessment of damage to orange groves… based on a five-year average yield per acre… projecting total production loss over the next ten years… including labor costs, land maintenance, brand value depreciation… for a total of one hundred thirty-two million, seven hundred and forty thousand dollars?” His voice trembled as he read the final number. He slammed the stack down on the table, sending pages scattering across the floor. “Are you insane? This is extortion!” Eleanor grabbed a few of the scattered sheets, her eyes widening in disbelief before she erupted in a shriek. “You ungrateful brat! We take you into our home, offer you the best of everything, and instead of being thankful, you try to squeeze money out of us? Over a hundred million? Why don’t you just rob a bank!” I ignored their hysterics, my gaze fixed on Sophia. Her performance was, as always, right on cue. Tears streamed down her face like broken pearls. She staggered to her feet, her body swaying as if she might faint, her voice choked with endless grief and self-blame. “Sister… I know it’s all my fault. I was thoughtless, I ruined the town’s groves…” Her voice was a pathetic whisper. “But I didn’t mean to…” “Blame me, please, just blame me. You can hit me, you can yell at me, anything… why would you use money to hurt Mom and Dad’s feelings? We’re a family…” She took a step toward me, making as if she was about to drop to her knees. “I’ll apologize, I’ll beg for your forgiveness, please, just don’t do this…” Julian and Eleanor lunged forward to catch her. The three of them clung to each other, a united front glaring at me as if I were the wicked villain tearing their happy family apart. “Willow! Look what you’ve done to Sophia!” Richard Sterling finally roared, slamming his fist on the table. He pointed a trembling finger at my face, his own contorted with disappointment and rage. “This family owes you nothing! Taking you in was a kindness, not an obligation! If you’re going to keep making trouble, then you can get the hell out!” I waited until their storm of outrage had passed. Then, I began to speak. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the tension, clear and sharp. “First, this isn’t extortion. It’s restitution.” “What Sophia destroyed was the livelihood of over a hundred families for the next decade. That data,” I said, nodding toward the scattered papers, “was compiled from the logbooks my grandfather kept for decades. Every harvest from every single tree is accounted for.” I paused, letting my gaze sweep over each of their faces. “Second, as I’ve already told you, my name is Willow. I didn’t come back to find a family, and I certainly didn’t come back to be anyone’s ‘sister’.” I rose to my feet, looking down on this ridiculous, self-pitying quartet. I spoke each word with deliberate, chilling calm. “I’m here to collect a debt. And debts must be paid.” “As for your family’s affection?” I let a small, cold smile touch my lips. “It’s worthless. And I’m not interested.” 3 In the end, Richard Sterling took my hundred-and-thirty-two-million-dollar compensation claim. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no. Instead, he studied me for a long time with a new, complex expression in his eyes before making a decision: he was sending me to school. The same school as Sophia: the prestigious Blackwood Preparatory Academy. Eleanor was thrilled with the idea. The look she gave me was filled with malicious glee. “Good. Maybe you’ll finally learn some manners. Stop acting so uncultured and embarrassing the Sterling name.” Julian added with a sneer, “Sophia’s friends are all from the best families. It will be a real eye-opener for you. Maybe you’ll stop being so obsessed with your pathetic orange money and see the bigger picture.” I knew exactly what they were doing. They were throwing me into an environment where pedigree and wealth were everything, a world where I didn’t belong. They wanted me to feel small, to see the vast, unbridgeable chasm between myself and Sophia. They hoped I would be so intimidated that I’d give up my “extortion” attempt and become their obedient little puppet. It was a decent plan. Too bad it wouldn’t work on me. On my first day at Blackwood Prep, I became an instant celebrity. Not because I was the long-lost Sterling heir, but because I showed up in a pair of faded canvas sneakers, carrying a worn tote bag, with a wagging, golden-haired mutt trailing behind me. Buddy, of course, couldn’t come inside. I had him wait by the security booth at the main gate. The guard was a nice guy; he even gave him a bowl of water. Sophia’s friends were buzzing around like flies, led by a girl named Tiffany. They would “accidentally” spill milk on my homework. They would loudly mock my “thrift-store” clothes behind my back. They even started stuffing trash into my desk. Through it all, Sophia maintained her facade of sweet innocence, occasionally offering a fake, half-hearted defense. “Tiffany, please don’t be so mean to my sister. She’s just not used to things here.” This, of course, only made Tiffany and her friends worse, claiming they were just “standing up” for poor, victimized Sophia. I couldn’t be bothered to engage. Arguing with a pack of spoiled, overgrown toddlers was a waste of time. I wasn’t here to make friends or fit in. I was just waiting for my payment of one hundred thirty-two million, seven hundred and forty thousand dollars to clear. Soon, the school announced a mandatory placement exam for all students. This became the new source of amusement for Tiffany’s crew. They spread rumors that the “illiterate girl from the sticks” probably didn’t even know how to fill in a bubble sheet. They crowed that I was destined to rank dead last, bringing shame to Sophia’s class. On the day of the exam, I finished all the sections with half an hour to spare. I then put my head down on the desk and slept until the final bell rang. This only solidified my image as a hopeless case in their eyes. Even Sophia shot me a look tinged with what looked like pity. The day the results were posted, the bulletin board was mobbed. The crowd was three deep, a chaotic buzz of voices. I had no interest in joining the spectacle and was about to take a detour when a sudden, collective gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a dead, stunned silence. Then, as one, every head turned. Every pair of eyes locked onto me like a row of searchlights. Confused, I felt someone grab my arm and pull me toward the front. The crowd parted for me like the Red Sea. I looked up at the red paper posted at the very top of the board, reserved for the top scores. At the number one spot, two words were printed in stark black ink: Willow Reed. 4 Beneath my name was a string of figures: English Lit 145, Calculus 150, Chemistry 148, Physics 305. Total: 748. It was a commanding, almost terrifying score. The student in second place, the perennial top student of the year, had a total of 695. As for Sophia, I scanned down the list and found her name in seventh place, with a score of 681. The hallway was utterly silent. Tiffany’s mouth hung open, her expression one of someone who had just seen a ghost. Further down the hall, Sophia stood frozen, her face ashen, her hands clenched so tightly her knuckles were white. That night, the atmosphere at the Sterling dinner table was heavier than ever before. Richard, Eleanor, and Julian all held copies of my report card, staring at them as if trying to decipher some ancient, impossible text. For the first time, they didn’t dare treat me like some simple girl from the country they could easily manipulate. After the exam results, a tense quiet fell over the Sterling household. At dinner, Eleanor no longer made her usual sarcastic remarks, and Julian stopped trying to belittle me with his theories on high-society etiquette. They ate in silence, watching me with a new, probing curiosity, their gazes tinged with suspicion and even a hint of alarm. This quiet was more unsettling than their previous hostility. I knew it was just the calm before the storm. Having failed in their first attempt to break me, they would simply find a new, more insidious way. Especially Sophia. The way she looked at me had changed completely. Gone was the cat-and-mouse amusement and condescending pity. In its place was a cold, simmering hatred, a toxic brew of jealousy and malice. She still tried to play the part of the gentle, harmless victim whenever I was around, but her acting had grown sloppy. Sometimes, the raw hatred would leak out from behind her eyes, sharp and cold as a poisoned needle. She didn’t have to wait long for what she thought was her next opportunity. 5 The school was holding its annual Chemistry Competition. The winners not only got a significant boost for their college applications but also a prestigious line item on their resumes, coveted by Ivy League schools. As a consistent top student, Sophia was determined to win. The competition required teams of two. To everyone’s surprise, Sophia publicly invited me to be her partner. She stood before my desk, her smile as warm and gentle as ever. “Sister, let’s team up. Your theoretical knowledge is incredible, and I’m better with the practical experiments. Together, we’ll definitely take first place.” I put down my pen and looked up at her. Then, I nodded calmly. “Okay.” I knew it was a trap. But I also knew you can’t spend your whole life watching for thieves. Better to let them make their move. I had come to the Sterling house to collect a debt, after all. A flicker of triumph flashed in Sophia’s eyes, so fast it was almost invisible. From that day on, a little gadget I’d ordered online came in handy—a miniature recording device, perfectly disguised as an ordinary fountain pen. During the preparation phase, everything seemed normal. The afternoon before the competition, we were in the lab running our final data simulations. Halfway through, Sophia suddenly complained of feeling unwell and said she needed to go to the nurse’s office. She asked Tiffany to stay behind and “help” me. I nodded and went back to the reagents I was measuring. After Sophia left, Tiffany sidled up to me. “Hey, Willow, doesn’t the calibration on that beaker look a little off? Let me check it for you.” As she leaned over, pretending to inspect the equipment and drawing my attention, I heard the faintest sound behind me—the whisper of a zipper, and then the tiny, distinct click of a memory card being ejected from the data logger. I didn’t turn around. By the time I looked back, Tiffany was standing where she had been before, though her face was a little pale. And the card slot on the data logger I had left on the lab bench was empty. “Where’s my data card?” I asked. 6 Tiffany’s eyes darted around nervously. “I… I don’t know. Wasn’t it just there a second ago?” Right on cue, Sophia returned, her face a mask of concern. “What’s wrong?” I looked at her. She met my gaze, her eyes wide with pure, unblemished innocence. “My experiment data card is missing.” “What? How could that be?” Sophia exclaimed, feigning shock. Then, as if a thought had just struck her, she whirled on Tiffany. “Tiffany, was it you? Were you jealous that sister and I were working together, so you hid it?” Tiffany, stunned by the accusation, burst into tears. “Sophia, how could you say that! I didn’t do it! I was with her the whole time, I didn’t touch anything!” Soon, the supervising teacher arrived, drawn by the commotion. Sophia explained the situation through her tears, every word seemingly defending me, yet subtly implying that, as someone from the country, I probably didn’t understand the importance of the competition and might have carelessly lost the card myself. I remained silent through the entire spectacle, watching their pathetic little show. The outcome was predictable. With the key data missing, our team was disqualified. Sophia, for her “graciousness under pressure” and “willingness to protect her sister,” earned the sympathy of everyone involved. And I became the “idiot sister,” the clumsy liability who couldn’t even keep track of her own work and had dragged down the brilliant Sophia. That night, I went back to my room and locked the door. I took the “fountain pen” from my pocket and pressed the playback button. After a brief crackle of static, the hushed voices of two girls filled the room. Tiffany: “Sophia, are we really doing this? What if we get caught?” Sophia: “What is there to be afraid of? She’s a country bumpkin. No one will believe her. I’m going to teach her that Blackwood Prep is no place for people like her. First place was supposed to be mine! Just do what I said, get her data card, and leave the rest to me.” Tiffany: “So… what happens to the card after I take it?” Sophia: “I’ll hide it for now. When the teacher shows up, I’ll suggest she lost it herself and then tried to blame you. By the end of it, everyone will think she’s not just stupid, but a liar too. I’m going to ruin her reputation.” … I turned off the recording and carefully put the pen away. I didn’t expose them on the spot. I knew that a minor chemistry competition was nowhere near a fitting price for what Sophia had done. I was here for a full reckoning, with interest. And this recording was excellent collateral, to be cashed in when it would yield the highest possible return. 7 The fallout from the chemistry competition at the Sterling mansion was both smaller and larger than I had anticipated. Smaller, because in their eyes, it was perfectly normal for the “wild girl from the country” to screw something important up. Eleanor’s gaze reverted to one of pure contempt, now mixed with a smug “I told you so” satisfaction. Julian simply treated me as if I were invisible, not even bothering to waste a glance on me. Larger, because the incident cemented Sophia’s image as the “perfect victim.” Not only did she not blame me, but she went out of her way to make excuses for me, her magnanimity earning even more praise from Richard Sterling. This situation actually worked in my favor. A hunter has the easiest time when the prey feels completely safe. A new opportunity presented itself soon enough. At dinner one evening, Richard, who usually ate in silence, made a rare announcement. The Sterling Group was preparing a bid for a massive, government-backed environmental project. It was a cornerstone of the company’s ten-year strategic plan, and its importance could not be overstated. After laying out the context, his gaze swept over both me and Sophia before finally settling on her, his eyes filled with undisguised pride and expectation. “To be fair, and to give you young people a chance,” he began, clearing his throat in a pompous tone, “I’ve decided to let both Sophia and Willow prepare a proposal for this project.” “Whichever proposal is more creative and feasible will earn its creator a leading role on the project team.” The words were barely out of his mouth before Eleanor laughed, her tone dripping with condescension. “Is there even a competition? Our Sophia has been learning the business at her father’s side since she was a little girl. How could some people possibly compare?” Julian put down his fork and frowned at his father. “Dad, this project is too important to be treated like a game. Don’t let unprofessional people waste everyone’s time.” They were a perfect tag team, writing me off completely. Sophia, ever the humble one, quickly waved her hands. “Mom, Julian, don’t say that. Sister’s grades are so good, her theoretical knowledge is definitely stronger than mine. I’m grateful Dad is giving us this chance, and I’ll work my hardest. I hope sister will bring her best effort too, so we can have a fair competition.” Her words were flawless, showcasing her own generosity while simultaneously painting me as someone who was only good on paper. I ignored their family drama and simply said one word to Richard: “Okay.” To them, my calm acceptance must have looked like the height of foolish arrogance. For the next few days, I locked myself in my room. I didn’t research complex business cases or study financial models. I just took out a blank sheet of paper. My mind filled with images of the ruined orange groves back home, of the old village chief’s calloused hands, of the decades of harvest notes he had kept. My proposal was fundamentally different from anything Sophia could conceive. She was thinking about how to please her father, how to package a slick and impressive-looking business plan. I was thinking about how to bring a piece of land back to life. I combined the old chief’s wisdom with modern ecological farming principles I’d studied, creating a blueprint for an “agricultural eco-cycle system” based on my hometown’s environment. The system wouldn’t just solve the project’s environmental requirements; it would create far more economic value than anticipated and revitalize an entire region. It was a love letter to the orange groves, and it was the most important debt I planned to collect. Knowing the value of what I was creating, I was extremely careful. My computer was protected with a complex password, and the file itself was encrypted. But I had still underestimated Sophia’s greed and shamelessness.

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My brother Adrian and I were at war. He believed I caused the car crash that left his beloved Penny comatose, and without hesitation, he imprisoned me for three years. After our parents died, we became like unchained mad dogs, taking pleasure in destroying each other. He poisoned my food; I burned his assets. He once tied me to a helicopter and flew me like a kite; I drugged him and threw him into a wild animal pen. Our twisted games only stopped when Penny finally “woke up.” The woman he adored for three years slapped disownment papers in front of me, smiling triumphantly. “Sign this, or I’ll arrange another accident and frame you.” I laughed sharply, eyes stinging, then stabbed her in the stomach. I called Adrian on speaker, letting him hear her screams. He raged, “Rosalie, are you trying to get yourself killed?” I swallowed blood and hummed defiantly. He needn’t have bothered—the doctor had already told me. Terminal brain cancer. Three days left to live. 1 When Adrian burst through the door with his men, he found me casually crossing my legs, twirling the blood-slicked blade in my hand. Penny lay at my feet, her body wracked with tremors of pain. The moment she saw Adrian, she let out a desperate, piercing cry for help. “Adrian, it hurts! She’s trying to kill me!” The sight of her, covered in blood, turned his eyes a furious shade of red. He took a single step forward, and my stiletto heel pressed down on the wound in her stomach. Penny couldn’t even scream anymore, just curled into a helpless ball of agony. “Let her go!” Adrian roared, surging forward. But with every foot closer he got, I applied more pressure. Fresh blood seeped out, tracing crimson patterns beneath my shoe. Seeing this, Adrian stopped dead in his tracks, his face a mask of bitter defeat. His hands, hanging by his sides, clenched into tight fists. In a strained, hoarse voice, he used a title I hadn’t heard from him in years. “Sister… name your price. What will it take for you to let Penny go?” Before I could answer, he rattled off a desperate list of offers. “Forty percent of the company shares? The West End property? All my real estate in the city? Or… my life?” “Just say the word. It’s all yours.” A mocking laugh escaped me. I was about to throw the disownment papers Penny had brought right back in his face when the world suddenly went dark. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Damn it, I cursed internally. Of all the times for this to happen. Sure enough, by the time my vision cleared, the cold edge of a blade was pressed against my neck. Another inch, and it would slice through my carotid artery. I met his cold gaze, a defiant smirk playing on my lips as I deliberately leaned into the knife’s edge. Adrian’s pupils contracted, a flicker of hesitation—of panic—crossing his face. And just like that, the tables turned. With a vicious grin, I snatched the knife from his hand. I was about to drive it through his palm when my eyes caught sight of a long, faded scar on his forearm. It stretched for inches, a pale reminder of our childhood. I had dragged him to an abandoned amusement park, a place forbidden to us. In the middle of our reckless games, the rusted frame of a roller coaster had groaned and collapsed right above my head. In that split second, Adrian had thrown himself at me, shoving me out of the way. When the rescue team finally dug him out, his right arm was shattered, nearly beyond repair. As they wheeled him into the operating room, he had gritted his teeth against the pain and forced a smile to comfort me. “Don’t cry, Rose. This is nothing.” A storm of emotions crashed within my chest. Clenching my jaw, I released my grip on the knife. My voice was ice as I bit out each word. “Take that idiot and get the hell out of my sight!” The next second, a blinding agony ripped through my skull, making it hard to breathe. I was going mad with pain, the only relief coming from slamming my head against the wall again and again. Adrian had just scooped Penny into his arms when he turned and saw me on the floor, clawing at my own hair and writhing. He froze for a moment, then let out a cold, derisive laugh. “If you’re going to put on an act, at least make it convincing. I nicked your neck, not your head.” He walked over and kicked me, his voice laced with contempt. “As for today… if you apologize to Penny, I can pretend none of this ever happened.” I turned my head and, with a bitter smile, sank my teeth into his leg. He let out a muffled grunt of pain, his face instantly darkening. Meeting his furious glare, I raised a single middle finger. “Me, apologize to her?” “In your next life.” Adrian’s chest heaved with rage. His final words were a chilling promise. “You chose this.” “Just you wait.” 2 The pain kept me awake all night. As dawn painted the sky in pale shades of gray, a wave of exhaustion finally washed over me. But before I could drift off, bodyguards were dragging me out of bed. Downstairs, I saw that the city’s elite, a who’s who of high society, had been invited to our home. In front of them all, I was thrown onto the doorstep like a piece of trash. A pair of expensive leather shoes entered my line of sight. Adrian’s cold voice drifted down. “You’ll have to understand. I’m throwing a birthday party for Penny, and our guests are… distinguished. The last thing we need is a criminal under this roof.” I fought to swallow the blood rising in my throat and looked up at him with a sneer. “Your methods are getting more childish by the day.” Adrian lit a cigarette, his gaze chillingly cold. He wasn’t looking at his sister; he was looking at an enemy. He blew out a perfect ring of smoke. “My offer still stands. Apologize to her, and this all goes away.” I stretched my lips into a silent, mocking grin. My answer was clear. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh and walked away. But just moments after he left, a commotion erupted from inside. Faintly, I heard my own name being spoken. A sudden, sharp sense of dread coiled in my stomach. I pushed my way through the crowd and saw it—a massive screen at the front of the room, cycling through a series of photographs. When I saw what they were, it was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. The cold spread from my limbs straight to my heart. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging so deep into my palms that they drew blood. They were photos taken during my time in prison. Photos of my humiliation. The darkest, most brutal moments of my life. Those agonizing memories mixed with the sneers and whispers of the crowd, drilling into my mind. “Look at Rosalie on her knees, begging like a dog. Who knew the madwoman had a breaking point?” “I wonder if I could use these pics to get her into bed. Think she’d say yes?” “Forget it. Who’d want a woman who’s been to prison, anyway?” I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. Spotting Adrian in the crowd, I lunged forward, grabbed him by the collar, and threw a punch with all my remaining strength. But it was a pathetic attempt. Ravaged by illness, my fist landed on him with all the force of a gentle tap. For the first time, Adrian looked genuinely confused. He grabbed my wrists and pulled me off him, his face flushed with anger. “What the hell is wrong with you? I didn’t put those photos up there!” Nearby, I caught the flash of triumph in Penny’s eyes. A cold laugh escaped me. “Penny. Looks like yesterday’s lesson didn’t stick, did it?” Penny immediately switched to her damsel-in-distress act, clutching at Adrian’s sleeve. “Adrian, it wasn’t me,” she whimpered. “Why does your sister always misunderstand me? Does she hate me that much?” Adrian instantly moved to shield her. The absurdity of it all made me laugh. “Adrian, how can you be so stupid?” I spat. “Besides you, she’s the only one who knows about my time in prison. Who else could have leaked those photos?” His voice was cold, certain. “It wasn’t Penny. She’s too timid. She wouldn’t dare.” I was done talking. I grabbed a nearby wine bottle and charged at Penny. But before I could reach her, Adrian’s bodyguards grabbed me by the hair and started dragging me out. The mocking, disdainful stares of the crowd felt like a thousand tiny needles piercing my heart. The rage and humiliation overwhelmed me. My vision went black, and I coughed up a mouthful of dark, thick blood. As my body went limp and I fell to the ground, the last thing I heard was a desperate, horrified shout. “Sister!” 3 When I woke up, my eyes met Adrian’s. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot. The next thing I knew, he threw a blood pack, and it splattered across my face. His voice was like ice. “Quite the performance, Rosalie. Too bad Penny found the blood pack you had prepared. Faking a collapse in front of all those people just to frame me… your little schemes have gotten much more clever.” I stared at him, stunned, for a long second. Then I grabbed the vase from the nightstand and hurled it at him. A satisfying line of red bloomed on his forehead, and only then did the inferno in my chest die down to a simmer. My voice was a raw rasp. “You idiot. Get out. I don’t want to see your face.” Adrian let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-scoff, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Penny and I are moving out tomorrow. From now on, you can throw your tantrums all you want. There will be no one left to stop you.” I turned my head away, my voice flat and cold. “Good. Out of sight, out of mind.” But the moment the door slammed shut, tears streamed down my face like broken strings of pearls. That bastard. I muttered curses under my breath as I got up and pulled a worn, yellowed photograph from a drawer. It was a picture of our family of four. My trembling fingers traced the smiling faces of our parents. Mom, Dad… your precious daughter is dying tomorrow, and there’s no one left to even claim her body. Just as I regained a sliver of strength, Penny showed up at my door with a food container. She wore the same smug, triumphant smile I had come to despise. She laid out the food—a spread of rich, greasy dishes. The cancer had spread everywhere, even to my stomach. I could barely handle liquids, let alone something so heavy with oil and salt. I looked at her, my eyes cold, and pointed to the door. “You have sixty seconds to get out. When time’s up, I’m throwing this food, and you, out the window.” Penny gasped, covering her mouth in mock surprise. She looked me up and down, her voice dripping with exaggerated pity. “You really are sick.” “Is this what they call karma, Rosalie?” The words had barely left her mouth before I snatched a bowl of hot, red soup and flung its contents directly at her face. The scalding liquid made her shriek in agony. The sound was music to my ears, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across my face. But at that exact moment, the door opened. Standing in the doorway was Adrian, his face as black as thunder. Behind him stood a dozen doctors and nurses, their mouths slightly agape in shock at the scene before them. One of the doctors couldn’t help but ask, “Mr. Sterling, who exactly is the patient?” Adrian pulled the weeping, red-faced Penny into his arms. He remained surprisingly calm as he instructed the butler to see the medical team out. “We don’t need doctors. Call the morgue. They can wait to collect her corpse.” His voice was devoid of all emotion. “She’ll kill herself with one of her fits eventually.” He glanced at the food spilled on the floor. “And don’t bother bringing her any more of this.” I laughed, a raw, broken sound, and shouted at his retreating back. “Hey, you bastard! On the day of my funeral, don’t forget to burn the house down for me too!” In all the years of fighting with Adrian, going hungry was nothing new. But this time was different. I couldn’t bear it. The searing pain in my head and the gnawing ache in my stomach sent me into waves of dizziness. I’d pass out at my computer, wake up, and pass out again. I was racing against the clock, knowing that every second was precious. After all this time, my investigation into our parents’ death was finally bearing fruit—and all signs pointed to Penny’s family. After another sleepless night, fueled by nothing but adrenaline, the chain of evidence was complete. I backed up one copy and sent another to the police. With that done, I dragged my exhausted body back to my room. I wanted to close my eyes for the last time in this room, a place that still held the warmth of our family. But when I opened the drawer, the spot where our family portrait should have been was empty. 4 My breath caught in my throat. Like a madwoman, I dragged my weak, tired body downstairs. And there she was. Penny, sitting on the sofa. She was toying with the photograph. When she saw me, a defiant smirk twisted her lips. “Look what I found.” “The great Rosalie’s one weakness.” My hands clenched into fists. I fought to suppress the murderous rage boiling inside me. “You’ve already won everything. Why are you still wasting your time on a dying woman?” Penny blinked innocently. “I have to make sure you die for good this time.” With that, she took out a lighter and set the corner of our family portrait on fire. The flickering flames danced across her pretty face, twisting her features into the mask of a demon. “You should have just died sooner, you know? I had to pretend to be in a coma for three years because of you.” “Your idiot brother is completely devoted to me. Once you’re gone, the Sterling family fortune will be all mine.” Perhaps it was a final burst of energy before death, a last flicker of a dying flame. I moved faster than I thought possible, lunging at her, grabbing her hair, and slamming her head against the floor. Penny, not expecting me to have any strength left, screamed, her face contorting with fear. “How dare you touch me! Adrian will never forgive you for this!” I looked at the photograph, now half-consumed by flames, and a grim, cold smile spread across my face. “It’s true, I’m dying. But before I go… how about I drag you down to hell with me?” Ignoring her terrified screams, I took the lighter and set her hair ablaze. Penny scrambled away, shrieking and batting at the flames, fumbling for her phone to call Adrian for help. I watched the chaos unfold, laughing until tears streamed down my face. But what I didn’t know, what neither of us knew, was that Penny was pregnant. And in the struggle, she lost the baby. It was the first time I had ever seen Adrian on the verge of tears. He looked like he wanted to kill me, but instead, he just dragged me to the family hall of ancestors. “Tell me,” Adrian’s voice was shaking uncontrollably. “Why did you go after Penny and the baby?” I placed the half-burnt photograph in front of him. “She burned this.” Suddenly, Adrian snapped. He snatched the remaining half of the photo and ripped it to shreds. “Stop lying!” he roared, his face contorted with rage and disappointment. It was the same look he’d given me years ago when Penny had her accident and he refused to believe my innocence. “Someone like you doesn’t have a shred of family feeling left in your heart!” “I’ve known it all along. You wanted the family fortune all to yourself. When you realized you couldn’t get rid of me, you decided to make sure I’d never have an heir.” “I’m done giving you chances.” He let go, and a single sheet of paper fluttered down in front of me. The disownment papers. “From this day on, we are no longer family. We split the inheritance, fifty-fifty.” I stared at him, numb, and asked, my voice barely a whisper, “You know the price of this, don’t you?” Adrian refused to look at me. He knelt ramrod-straight before our parents’ memorial tablets and, in a loud, clear voice, declared for all to hear: “The Sterling family creed is absolute. Those who break the bonds of family must endure the ninety-nine lashes!” “And I have summoned the witnesses.” His voice cracked for a moment before he continued. “As for your ninety-nine… I will take sixty-six of them for you. Consider it repayment for our childhood.” The pain in my heart was so intense it was a physical thing, but I let none of it show on my face. My body was failing, but I forced myself into a posture of pure, biting contempt. “Fine by me. I couldn’t be happier.” The barbed whip fell. By the tenth lash, I couldn’t hold on anymore. My vision swam with red. A pain unlike anything I’d ever known ripped a sob from my throat, and I found myself crying out for our parents. In the room next to me, Adrian remained silent. He took his hundred lashes without making a sound. When the punishment was over, he limped to the doorway to look at me. He was silhouetted against the light, so he couldn’t see the blood streaming from my eyes, nose, and mouth. A sudden, disdainful scoff broke the silence. “Stop faking it, Rosalie. I’ve fought you for three years, and you’ve always bounced back. Thirty-three lashes? That’s nothing more than a scratch to you.” “I’m leaving. Good luck.” I didn’t even have the strength to give him the finger. And then, the pain vanished. In my fading vision, I saw Mom and Dad, smiling at me. At the same time, Adrian stepped outside, just in time to see Penny being forced into a police car.

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The first thing my best friend did was threaten me with our old chat logs. “Hey girlie,” she texted. “I’ve gone through three phones, but I never deleted our conversations. I was waiting for a day like today.” “Don’t you forget where you came from. You promised that if you ever made it big, you’d take care of me for life.” “So, let’s start with a new apartment. Your secrets are my insurance policy, after all.” I smiled and agreed. But even after I bought her the apartment, she leaked the chat logs anyway. She said she needed to expose my “dirt” to launch her own channel. I was cyberbullied into a deep depression and fell from a rooftop. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I decided to become a content creator. 1 “Claire, my bestie! Are you really going to do it? Start your own channel?” When I heard Lily’s familiar voice, I knew. I had been reborn. In my past life, from the moment I started creating content, Lily became exactly like all those “best friends” you see in the comments online. Just waiting for me to go viral so she could live off my success. “Our chat history is the most valuable thing we have now,” she’d said. “I won’t delete a single word. When you’re famous, this is all prime dirt.” “If you dare forget about me,” she’d joked, “your downfall will be swift. Career announced in the morning, receipts leaked by noon, and you’re canceled by evening.” At the time, I thought she was just kidding. She was my only real friend, after all. If I made it, of course she’d share in the rewards. And I did make it. I went viral, just as I’d dreamed. I treated her like family, showering her with cars, apartments, and cash. But at the absolute peak of my career, she went live and broadcast our private conversations to the world. “Claire,” she’d said, “you’ve hit the social media jackpot. Surely you won’t mind letting me get a piece of it?” “Don’t worry, I’m just using you to get my channel off the ground. Once my follower count is stable, I’ll help you clean up your image.” The moment those chats were leaked, my reputation was destroyed. The online hate was relentless. I developed severe depression and ended my life on that rooftop. But now, I’m back. This time, I looked at Lily’s excited face and smiled. “Yeah, I am. But my phone’s dead. Can I borrow yours for a sec?” She eagerly handed it over. “Of course! Use it for whatever you want.” “What’s mine is yours!” she chirped. “Just don’t forget me when you’re famous!” I took her phone, found my own contact, and opened our chat. Then, I deleted the entire history. Lily sprang up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “Claire! What are you doing?!” I handed the phone back to her, my face a mask of innocence. “Oh my god, Lily, I’m so sorry. My hand slipped.” I shrugged. “It wasn’t anything important anyway. Deleted is deleted.” Lily fumbled with the phone, her face paling. “What do you mean, not important? That was years of my hard work!” “If you get famous, those were my leverage.” I fought back a cold laugh and wrapped my arm around her shoulder affectionately. “Lily, what’s all this talk about leverage? You’re my one and only bestie. You think I could ever forget you?” She seemed to calm down, her expression softening. She took my arm in return. “I knew you were the best. Then it’s settled. I’m your number one.” My number one? Heh. A backstabbing snake like you? You like launching your career by tearing others down? This time, just watch how I ruin you. 2 Back home, I immediately started filming my first video. I already had the experience of going viral once; recreating my own path to fame wouldn’t be hard. After posting my first transition video, the likes hit over 10,000 that same night. Lily saw it and messaged me instantly. “Claire, your video has 10k likes! I have a feeling you’re about to blow up!” “So, listen, I saw this bag today… maybe you could just buy it for me?” “I mean, with numbers like these, it’s like a small advance on your future earnings, right?” Before I could even reply, she sent a payment link. I clicked it. The bag was nearly five thousand dollars. Just like last time, the moment she saw a flicker of success, she was already demanding her cut. I didn’t reply. I didn’t pay. Late that night, another message came through. “Claire, long night. Wanna see some… spicy videos?” My guard went up immediately. She realized the old chat logs were gone and was now trying to manufacture new dirt. This time, I was smarter. I replied with two simple words. “Not interested.” But Lily persisted, sending a flurry of links. “I’ve vetted all of these. Total eye candy!” “All top-tier guys. You’re missing out if you don’t look~” Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with a girl enjoying a little eye candy. But for a public figure, it’s a liability. In my past life, all of our private, girl-talk moments became tools she used to climb on top of my ruin. My face was grim as I typed back. “Lily, I don’t watch that stuff. Please don’t send it to me again.” She sent back a string of question marks. “Claire, who are you kidding? You used to beg me for this stuff.” “What, one viral video and suddenly you’re a saint? Give me a break.” Her wording was clever. I thought for a moment before replying. “Lily, how could you think that of me?” “When have we ever gone out to eat and I didn’t pay? When you were sick in the middle of the night, didn’t I drive across town to take you to the hospital?” “I’ve never done you wrong. This aggressive attitude of yours is honestly breaking my heart.” Checkmate. Furious, she called me. “Claire, are you insane?” I suppressed my anger and quietly started a voice recording on my other phone. “What’s wrong, Lily? Why are you so angry?” Her shrill voice pierced my ear. “Are you on something? What’s with this saintly act? Have you read the crap you just sent me? Are you possessed?” “And you didn’t buy me the bag I sent you. Didn’t you promise you’d take care of me when you got famous?” “Don’t you forget where you came from.” I faked a sob. “Lily, I’ve had one video do well. I don’t even have a brand deal yet. Where would I get the money?” “You have savings, don’t you? You can afford a five-thousand-dollar bag.” I laid it on thick, playing the victim. “But if I buy you the bag, I won’t have enough money for food.” “You’re so cruel. How could you do this to me?” Lily was losing her patience. “You’ll be earning way more soon! A single brand deal is worth tens of thousands.” I made sure to reinforce my own persona. “Well, even then, I’d have to choose carefully. I can’t just take shady sponsorships.” She blurted out, “Pfft! You and your high horse. If I got famous, I’d take any ad that paid. Money is money!” Hearing that, I was incredibly grateful I had hit record. Seeing that her guilt trip wasn’t working, Lily backed off. “Fine. You’re just starting out, it’s not easy. I’ll let you off the hook this time.” “But the second you land a sponsorship, I’m coming to collect.” 3 After that first taste of viral success, Lily pestered me daily to post new content. This time, I was planning to recreate the video that had garnered tens of millions of likes in my past life, so the prep work took longer. She was impatient. “Ugh, you could post anything and it would go viral. Who takes half a month to make one video?” “At this rate, I’ll be waiting forever for you to support me!” I ignored her and stuck to my own schedule. Three days later, the video was finally edited and ready. The moment I hit “post,” a wave of relief washed over me. After two weeks of exhausting work, I could finally get a good night’s sleep. The next morning, I was woken up by a barrage of calls from Lily. “Claire! Why are you still sleeping? You’ve blown up! Do you know?” “Your video got 5 million likes overnight! You have over a million followers now!” Her voice was electric with excitement. “You’re a real influencer now! You can’t have any more excuses to say no to me!” “Okay, here’s the plan. First, you’re buying me that bag. Then this afternoon, I’m going to go look at cars. What do you think?” I cut off her greedy monologue by hanging up. The next second, I moved her contact to my block list. Phew. The relief was incredible. After I blocked her, she started trying to contact me through our mutual friends. I told them to stay out of it, that it was between me and Lily. One of them messaged me, “Lily says if you don’t respond, she’s going to expose you. She’s saying you forgot your friends the second you got famous.” “She claims she has a lot of dirt on you and that you should watch yourself.” I’d deleted everything. What dirt could she possibly have? She was bluffing. To my surprise, that evening, I stumbled upon Lily’s livestream. The title was: [Spill the Tea! My Influencer Bestie Got Famous and Ditched Me!] For whatever reason, she wasn’t showing her face, hiding behind a virtual avatar mask. “I’m just here to give a warning today,” she said to the camera. “To a certain someone who forgot where she came from. Don’t force me to leak the receipts!” Viewers poured into the stream, the audience growing by the second. The chat was on fire. [Who is it? Can you just drop the name?] [I bet it’s that new girl who just blew up. I saw one of her videos, she looked shady!] [I’m staying neutral. I get burned every time I pick a side in these things.] [Spit it out! If you don’t name names, I’m calling it fake.] Lily waved a dismissive hand. “We were friends for a long time. I don’t want to be too cruel.” “I just hope she sees this stream and has a change of heart. And maybe unblocks me.” The keyboard warriors went wild. [What? Blocked you after getting famous? If my bestie did that, I’d slap her into next week!] [She was never your real friend. You were the first person she cut off when she made it.] [Your ‘bestie’ is probably so high on her main character energy she doesn’t know which way is up.] [If my friend did that to me, I wouldn’t just leak dirt. I’d ruin her so badly she could never make a comeback.] I used to read comments like these and laugh. Now I knew the truth: the first person to resent your success is often the one closest to you. The moment you stop catering to their every whim, they accuse you of changing, of forgetting them. They take the trust you gave them and turn it into a weapon, hoping to bleed you dry for the rest of your life. Lily continued her performance, her voice dripping with false sincerity. “I was with her through everything, through her toughest times. Now that she’s finally made it, I just… I can’t bring myself to hurt her.” The chat erupted in sympathy. [Girls are always too kind. Your friend treats you like this and you’re still protecting her!] [OMG, be my bestie! If I got famous, I’d spoil you rotten.] [Don’t be so soft! You have to expose toxic people like her!] Lily sighed dramatically. “I know, I’m just too soft-hearted.” “If I wasn’t, I’d be dropping all her secrets right now. She has a closet full of skeletons!” I was getting angrier by the second. I switched to my burner account and typed in the chat. [How do we know any of this is real?] [You’re probably just using this drama to launch your own channel!] A few other viewers still had their wits about them. [Yeah, where’s the proof? It’s just you talking to a camera. You could be making it all up.] [Show the receipts or we’re out. I’ve got other drama to catch up on.] [I got played by someone like this last time. I’m not saying a word until I see proof.] But many were completely on Lily’s side. [She already said she doesn’t want to ruin her! What more do you vultures want?] [You’re defending her friend so much, you’re probably the friend herself, aren’t you?] [Big enough to block someone, but too scared to show up on your main account?] [My heart breaks for you, girl. Getting blocked by your ungrateful bestie and still trying to protect her, only to have these people demand proof.] That was the last straw. I pulled Lily out of my block list and sent her a message. What the hell do you think you’re doing? On the livestream, Lily picked up her phone and gasped theatrically. “Oh my god, you guys! My bestie just unblocked me!” “Do you think she’s watching the stream?” The chat flew by. [Was that commenter from before actually her?] [What did she say? Did she apologize?] [Don’t forgive her just like that! She’s not sorry, she’s just scared of her career being ruined!] [Exactly! We support you! Don’t back down!] Lily gave a bitter smile. “You want to know what she said to me?” She covered my profile picture with her thumb and held the phone up for everyone to see. “My ‘bestie’ is demanding to know what the hell I think I’m doing.” As she spoke, tears started to stream down her face. “I thought our friendship of over ten years was unbreakable. That we were more like sisters. But I guess I was the only one who felt that way.” “To her, I was just someone she could throw away the second she got famous.” The chat filled with messages of comfort. [Baby, don’t cry. She’s not worth it.] [You’re so much prettier than her anyway. You should make your own content, you’d be way more successful. I’m your first fan!] [Even after all this, you still didn’t drop her name. You’re such a good person. My heart hurts for you.] [+1. We can’t let ungrateful people succeed. We’ll make you the next big thing!] Lily sniffled, her voice thick with fake emotion. “I’m going to end the stream here for tonight. I need to go talk to her.” “I’ll see you all next time, guys.” She even teased her next stream, a clear ploy to gain followers. Her desperation to be famous was practically leaking through the screen.

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My mother was once a celebrated actress, bathed in the glow of the spotlight. But when my father’s first love returned from overseas, that glow soured, and the world branded my mother a homewrecker who had schemed her way to the top. She divorced my father and abandoned the career she cherished. Everyone said it was karma, that she was finally getting what she deserved. But it wasn’t until after she died, when five videos she recorded before her death dominated the trending topics, that the truth finally began to claw its way into the light. 1 “Julie Whitlock is dead!” The exclamation ripped through the classroom chatter. The guy in front of me was staring at his phone, his face a mask of shock. I had been dozing, my head pillowed on my arms, but the sudden crescendo of noise jolted me awake. I lifted my head, blinking, and saw my classmates clustered together, their faces lit by the blue light of their screens, buzzing with excitement. Class wouldn’t start for another few minutes. I glanced at my watch, stretched languidly, and, mimicking the others, pulled out my own phone. The words blazing across the top of the screen froze the air in my lungs. “Whoa, even the class hermit is rocked by this news,” the guy in front of me said, turning around. “I guess it makes sense. Julie Whitlock was famously shameless. A homewrecker who bullied her way through every set. Who’d have thought someone like her would kill herself?” “Guilt, probably,” someone else chimed in. “Everyone knows she stole Director Marsh’s first love and basically forced her out of the country for years.” “But she retired, right? Why commit suicide now?” “I don’t know. Karma’s a bitch, I guess.” The discussion spiraled, their voices a chaotic symphony of speculation. The chirping gossip inside and the deafening drone of cicadas outside scorched my sanity. The sweltering summer air seemed to warp the world around me, bending it into a grotesque funhouse mirror. I sat frozen, silent. Beneath the desk, my hands clenched into fists so tight my nails bit deep into my palms, drawing blood. The shameless woman they were dissecting, Julie Whitlock… She was my mother. 2 My mother was the youngest actress to ever win the prestigious Golden Iris Award. She was also, by all accounts, the bravest. She was twenty-eight when she accepted the award, and on that very same night, during her acceptance speech, she announced her marriage to my father. The move was polarizing. Her fanbase hemorrhaged overnight. But it also earned her a wave of admiration. People called her genuine, spirited, a woman who lived by her own rules. As a celebrated screenwriter and an award-winning actress, their love story became the stuff of Hollywood legend. After I was born, my mother didn’t slow down. She dove back into her work with a ferocious passion, and with my father’s unwavering support, she collected awards like they were sea shells on a beach. Directors lined up, desperate to catch a ride on her rising star. Among them was the woman who would ultimately be the architect of my mother’s downfall. Lydia Marsh. Like my mother, she was a titan in her field. After studying film abroad, she made a name for herself with a unique and powerful visual language, racking up international awards while still in her youth. At the time, everyone believed a collaboration between Lydia and my mother would be a historic event, a bridge between domestic and international cinema. But then, a single piece of gossip shattered the calm. 3 Fame, reputation, the court of public opinion—they are all a double-edged sword. When you’re on top, everyone is your friend. But when you fall, they’re the ones pushing you down. During the theatrical run of their film, First Love, a rumor about my father, Graham Thorne, and the director, Lydia Marsh, began to spread like wildfire. The story was that the film’s protagonists, tragically separated by a cruel twist of fate, were based on them. And the villain of the piece, the malicious rival who spread lies, bullied the heroine, and drove her from her home? That was my mother, Julie Whitlock. The rumor was a cancer, a creeping rot that ate away at the public’s reason. Soon, the admiration for a young, brilliant actress curdled into a morbid curiosity, a collective hunger to see someone who had soared so high be torn from the sky, broken and bleeding. A flawless saint is admirable, but a twisted, fallen angel is far more entertaining. I was only five at the time, but I could feel the atmosphere in our home shift, growing heavy and cold. There was nothing I could do. I could only watch as my mother’s spirit frayed, as she wasted away, becoming a ghost of her former self. I thought, with the naivete of a child, that the storm would pass, that time would wash the scandal from public memory. But a few months later, the news of my parents’ divorce pierced my world. 4 Due to her “deteriorating mental state,” the court deemed my mother unfit to raise me. My father took me to his new home. And just like that, Lydia Marsh became my stepmother. She was much as I’d imagined. She wore rimless glasses and favored loose, bohemian-style linen shirts. At first glance, she projected an aura of gentle, intellectual warmth. But when I looked at her, all I could see was the hidden mass of an iceberg, the vast, deadly bulk of it concealed beneath a placid surface. The scandal had an unintended side effect: First Love shattered box-office records. Lydia Marsh became a household name. Meanwhile, the negative press about my mother became a relentless deluge. Bullying actors, sordid affairs, trading favors for roles, diva-like behavior on set—a torrent of accusations, some true, some fabricated, all stuck to her name like tar. In those days, you could say anything you wanted about Julie Whitlock, and the world would nod in agreement, adding their own poison to the pot. I never felt comfortable in my new home. I would wake from nightmares, crying out for my real mother. Whenever this happened, my father’s face would harden. He would grip my shoulders, forcing me to meet his cold, unwavering gaze. “Cassia,” he would say, his voice low and final. “Listen to me. From now on, Lydia is your mother.” “But she’s not—” “Quiet!” My father wasn’t a man given to smiles, but he wasn’t prone to anger either. In my memory, he was always calm, unflappable, a man of few emotional waves. The sudden, sharp command startled the protest from my lips. I never dared to speak of it again. My intuition, a child’s unerring compass, screamed at me. None of this was normal. And there was a secret buried at the heart of it all, a secret I knew I must never, ever touch. 5 After the divorce, I hardly ever saw my mother. The only glimpses I got of her were through the cruel filter of the internet. She held a press conference. She admitted to everything. On camera, her hair was neatly combed, her clothes impeccable, but the raw, bloodshot state of her eyes betrayed the hell she’d been living through. Assailed by a barrage of questions from reporters, she announced her retirement from acting. The announcement was like throwing meat to sharks. The public, seizing the opportunity, launched into one final, brutal character assassination. And then, buried under an avalanche of condemnation, the name Julie Whitlock vanished from the world. Until fifteen years later, when the news of her death dragged her back into the spotlight. “Cassia? You’re not even listening. This is huge… Hey, class is about to start. Where are you going?” Ignoring the voice calling after me, I grabbed my backpack and walked out of the classroom. On the way home, I called my father again and again, but every call went straight to voicemail. I tried Lydia, but her phone was switched off. A strange tide of unease washed over me. I tried to steady my hammering heart as I pushed open the front door to my house. “Cassia, shouldn’t you be at school—” I didn’t let Lydia finish. I brushed past her, my eyes scanning the house for my father. I pushed open the door to the conservatory, and the cloying scent of flowers hit me like a physical blow. I wrinkled my nose and stepped inside, searching. Finally, I saw him. He was resting in a wicker rocking chair, bathed in a sliver of sunlight pouring through the glass panes. “My mother is dead,” I said, my voice flat. “Your mother is outside, preparing lunch.” “You know that’s not who I mean.” I was ready to argue, but he opened his eyes. He looked me up and down, a slow, deliberate appraisal. Then he stood, and his hand shot out, clamping down on my shoulder like a vice. “Cassia Thorne,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Your mother is standing right behind you.” My body went rigid. I turned my head, a slow, mechanical movement. Lydia was there, a smile plastered on her face. The dappled shadows of leaves danced across her features, twisting her expression into something grotesque and alien. The sunlight sliced the conservatory into geometric shapes of light and dark. He stood in the light, she stood in the shadow, and I was trapped on the line between them. 6 In the age of information, waves of public interest crest and crash with bewildering speed. A week later, my mother’s death was old news, forgotten by the masses. Just as before, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t pry a single piece of information about her from my father or Lydia. Our house was an island, completely cut off from anything related to Julie Whitlock. My questions and frustrations festered with no outlet. On the night that marked a week since her death, I snuck out into the backyard. I was going to light a candle for her, a small, secret vigil. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the chime of my phone. A flood of notifications poured in, and my mother’s name once again commanded my attention. The trending topics were dominated by hashtags: #JulieWhitlockVideo, #JulieWhitlockResurrected, #JulieWhitlock, #SchoolBullying. My fingers shaking, I tapped on the first one. My mother’s official social media account, dormant for over a decade, had just posted a video. The footage was grainy, clearly old. In the video, a girl with a high ponytail was on the ground, her clothes disheveled. Two pairs of feet were visible, relentlessly kicking and stomping on her body. After a moment of brutal violence and muffled sobs, a figure in the same school uniform emerged from behind the camera. She stepped forward, gently caressed the crying girl’s cheek, and then, in a swift, vicious motion, grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head against the floor. The sound was a sickening crack. The screen went black just before the blood could stain the lens. The mysterious video sparked a firestorm online. The shocking content, the timing of the post, the fact that it came from a dead woman’s account—any one of these elements would have been enough to fuel days of frantic speculation. But as I watched it, a chill that had nothing to do with the night air crept down my spine. Others might be confused by the blurry footage. But I wasn’t. I would know that silhouette anywhere. The figure who emerged at the end, the one who delivered that final, brutal blow… that was my mother. 7 A dead woman posting videos from beyond the grave became the internet’s new obsession. Phone in hand, I found my father and shoved the screen in his face. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who this is.” He was sitting under the small locust tree in the conservatory. He gave the screen a dismissive glance. The harsh sunlight glinted off his glasses, obscuring his eyes, but I could see his hands, tending to the plant, never once faltering. “Cassia, you should be in school.” “Then you need to tell me what’s going on. Why would Mom’s account suddenly post a video like this with no context? People aren’t stupid. It won’t take them long to figure out—” “Do you think,” he interrupted, his voice calm, “that what the person in that video did was right?” The unexpected question stopped me cold. My father stood up, his body blocking the sun. He reached past me and picked up a Blu-ray case from the table. It was Lydia’s masterpiece, First Love. The cover art was famous: it didn’t show the faces of the stars, only their backs as they stood in a swirling snowstorm, facing a warmly lit phone booth. Critics had called it a symbol of missed connections and eventual reunion. I didn’t understand why he was showing it to me now. “Of course it wasn’t right. But at a time like this, a video like this—” “Then should they have repented?” His voice was hoarse, his brow deeply furrowed. “Dad, what are you hiding from me?” My question seemed to pull him back to reality. He picked up the Blu-ray case, polished it absently with his thumb, and then pressed it into my hand. “That’s enough. Don’t overthink it. Go get some rest.” 8 I was certain my father was hiding something. But getting the truth from him right now was clearly impossible. I spent hours online, digging through archives, searching for anything related to my mother’s high school years. She was always a perfectionist. Even after deciding to pursue acting, she never let her grades slip. Her name and photo were regulars on the school’s honor roll. In the photos, she wore a crisp white shirt, her shoulder-length hair neatly styled. She looked every bit the model student. Beneath one picture was a quote she had chosen as her personal motto at seventeen. “Despair is not an option. And so, farewell.” It was a line from a Sylvia Plath poem. It felt jarringly out of place. As I scrolled through the school’s archived website, a familiar name in a small information box caught my eye. Lydia Marsh. She had founded a photography club with a few other students. One of their projects had even won a local award. And my mother… had joined the club in the second semester of her junior year. I’d already suspected that Lydia and my mother knew each other from way back, given the whole “first love” scandal, but I never imagined they were in the same club in high school. If that bullying video was real, could Lydia have been involved? Could one of the two pairs of kicking feet at the beginning have belonged to her? And did their secret have something to do with my father? Who was the girl being beaten? And did any of this have to do with my mother’s death? Staring at the list of photography club members, I was lost in a labyrinth of questions. 9 “Cassia? Were you looking for me?” Lydia stopped adjusting the lens on her camera and turned to me, a warm smile on her face. “Yeah.” I pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. She seemed completely at ease, nodding as if she were ready to give me her full attention. My fingers tightened around the recording pen in my pocket. I took a deep breath and showed her the video on my phone. She took the phone, her expression unchanging as she watched. When it finished, her gaze shifted back to me. “That was just something I shot for fun in high school,” she said lightly. “You could say it was my first real foray into filmmaking.” “The girl in it… the main one… that was my mother, wasn’t it?” “Yes.” She admitted it so readily that it threw me off balance. Perhaps a flicker of my confusion showed on my face, because a small, knowing smile touched her lips. “Cassia, are you curious about Julie? About your mother?” The tables had turned. She was now the one in control, and I didn’t know how to respond. She stood up, walked behind me, and placed a glass of lemonade on the table before resting her hands gently on my shoulders. “We were the best of friends in high school. Inseparable. We even made a pact: I would become the world’s greatest director, and she would be the world’s greatest actress.” She let out a soft sigh. “Unfortunately, Julie… she always had a terrible temper. You saw the video. She couldn’t handle it when another girl was cast as the lead in the school play instead of her. So she took it out on her.” “The girl in the video?” Lydia’s hands squeezed my shoulders gently. “Yes. The incident got pretty big, and our little club was quietly disbanded. After that, our ideals no longer aligned. We drifted apart.” Her answers were so direct, her story so logical. I replayed it in my mind, searching for a crack, a flaw in the narrative, but found none. I must have been silent for too long, because Lydia circled around and knelt in front of me, taking my hands in hers. “I know this is hard to accept, Cassia. Your father didn’t tell you any of this for all these years because he didn’t want to hurt you.” “What happened to the girl who was bullied?” I asked, my voice flat. Lydia’s grip on my hands tightened for a fraction of a second. She lowered her head, her expression unreadable, and sighed again. “She died.”

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After I started dating Alexander Malon, I overheard his twin brother say: “Come on, bro. Let me pretend to be you and mess with Mia for a bit.” Alexander’s voice was casual. “Fine.” I pretended not to know and dated the fake Alexander. But when the real Alexander saw the marks on my neck, he went ballistic. He grabbed his own brother by the throat and snarled: “Who the hell gave you permission to touch her?!” 1. It was late. I had just stepped out of the shower when a message from Alexander Malon lit up my phone. It was the address of an exclusive private club. My grip on the phone tightened. When I didn’t reply immediately, another message came through: “Don’t keep me waiting, Mia.” I sighed and typed back, “On my way.” I quickly threw on some clothes. As I left the bathroom, my stepfather was standing right outside the door, his cloudy eyes filled with a nauseating desire. “All showered and still dressed so buttoned-up? Going out?” He took a drag from his cigarette and moved closer. I took two steps back, putting distance between us. “Alexander is waiting for me.” At the mention of his name, my stepfather froze, a flicker of fear in his eyes. I used the opening to slip past him and grab the doorknob. “Shameless little tramp,” he spat from behind me. “Think you can use him to threaten me just because you found your golden ticket? You think I’m scared to touch you now?” I glanced back at him, my voice cold. “Are you?” Then I slammed the door shut, the sound echoing along with his curses. 2. The club was dripping with luxury, its patrons all dressed in designer clothes that screamed wealth and privilege. In my simple hoodie, I stuck out like a sore thumb. A hostess led me to a private suite on the top floor. As we approached, I could hear voices from inside. “So, Alex, I hear this Mia girl is really good to you, huh?” “Let me pretend to be you and have some fun with her.” The suggestion was met with a chorus of whoops and jeers. “Damn, Matt, you’re not even trying to be subtle about poaching your brother’s girl.” “You don’t get it. That Mia is the real deal. Makes him soup, reminds him to take his medicine… Who could resist that level of devotion?” “You think the great Alexander Malon would share?” “Are you kidding? Alex and Matt are two peas in a pod. This isn’t the first time they’ve played a game like this.” … After the noise died down, Alexander’s deep voice finally cut through, laced with an indifferent amusement. “Fine. Consider it my welcome-home gift to you.” The hooting and hollering grew louder. The hostess stood frozen, looking at me with an awkward pity. As the subject of their little game, I felt nothing. I just smiled at her and pushed the door open. My reasons for getting close to Alexander Malon were simple: I needed the Malon family’s protection. Protection from the bullies at school, and from my stepfather’s predatory gaze at home. When a person’s life is hanging by a thread, all they want is a way to climb out. It doesn’t matter who is holding the rope. In the end, all ropes are cast aside. 3. The rich kids in the suite whistled when they saw me, their expressions a mixture of arrogance and lazy amusement. I kept a gentle smile on my face as I walked toward the main sofa. Alexander and his brother, Matt, sat side by side, watching me with unreadable expressions. Like predators waiting for their prey to walk into the cage. They had the exact same face. The same cool, pale skin, the same devastating good looks. “Mia, you’re here.” A hand reached out and pulled me down beside him. I looked at that face and sneered internally. Matt and Alexander may have looked identical, but their auras were completely different. Alexander was a storm cloud of dark, oppressive energy. Matt was a wildfire of wild, rebellious charm. It didn’t matter to me. I didn’t care if he was Alexander or Matt. As long as he could get me through my final exams and out of that rotten house, he could be anyone. I took Matt’s hand naturally, as if I truly believed he was Alexander. He seemed pleased, lacing his fingers through mine before gesturing to the man beside him. “This is my brother, Matt.” I saw Alexander’s brow twitch at the title, but his expression quickly smoothed over. He gave me a small nod, as if we were meeting for the very first time. I returned the polite greeting, then turned to Matt, my eyes full of affection. “Alexander, I bought you some sobriety pills on the way here. You should take one.” I had said this to the real Alexander many times. I always had something ready for him when he was drinking. After taking him home, I would even make him a warm, stomach-settling soup. Matt looked at the pill in my hand, an eyebrow raised. “Alright,” he said with a grin. “But you have to feed it to me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Alexander, a cigarette held between his fingers, unlit. He was lost in thought. I brought the pill to Matt’s lips and watched him take it. 4. After a few rounds of drinks, someone suggested a game. “King says the Three and Six of Clubs have to kiss for thirty seconds,” one of the guys announced, waving the King card. Matt and I revealed our cards at the same time. “Well, look at that. A perfect match,” the guy said with a wink. He was a friend of the brothers and knew about the switch, playing along smoothly. Matt cupped my chin, his face leaning in. Just as his lips were about to touch mine, there was a loud thud. The coffee table in front of Alexander had been violently kicked aside. He stood up, looming over us. “I’m done. Party’s over.” Matt paused, inches from my mouth, the playfulness in his eyes turning cold. After a long moment, he let go of me and pulled me to my feet. “Right. I forgot you just got back today, Matt. Guess we’ll call it a night.” He was still playing his part, looking at his brother’s thunderous expression. As we were about to leave, I reached over and gently zipped up Matt’s open jacket. “It’s cold out. You just got over your fever, don’t catch another chill.” As I said this, the real Alexander was standing right behind his brother, his eyes burning into me. He had been sick just a few days ago. I was the one who went to his house to take care of him, coaxing him to take his medicine and making him soup and porridge. “Mia, let’s go home.” Matt froze for a second before wrapping an arm around me, pulling me into a light embrace. As we walked away, Alexander, who had been silent, finally spoke. “Mia.” I stopped and looked back at him as if he were a complete stranger. His brow furrowed, his voice deepening. “Who is it that you love?” I lowered my eyes to hide the flash of scorn, then looked up at the man whose arm was around me. “It’s Alexander,” I said, my voice clear. “The man I love is Alexander Malon.” I felt Matt’s expression harden at my words, but he forced himself to keep up the act. 5. Alexander Malon thought I was deeply in love with him. Everyone around him thought so. What they didn’t know was that it was all an elaborate lie, a performance designed just for him. A performance for survival, to crawl out of that sewer of a home. If sickness hadn’t taken my father, I would have grown up surrounded by wealth and love. My mother passed away when I was very young, but my stepmother had always been kind to me. She would bake me sweet cookies, tell me stories, and cover for me when my father scolded me for being lazy. I thought I would grow up happy. But on my twelfth birthday, my father collapsed. He was diagnosed with late-stage cancer. A year later, he was gone. I remember him in the hospital, holding my hand and wiping away my tears. “It’s my fault, Mia. I couldn’t even get you your twelfth birthday cake.” “I won’t be here for your thirteenth. You won’t be angry with me, will you?” I was crying too hard to speak, only able to shake my head through my sobs. I didn’t want a cake. I just wanted my father. If I could, I would have traded every birthday cake for the rest of my life to have him healthy and safe. But the gods didn’t hear my prayers. The final bell tolled. His last words to me were, “You have to live well, Mia. Promise me.” From that moment on, a storm cloud seemed to settle permanently over my life. My stepmother tried to invest what little money my father left, but she was scammed out of everything. Suddenly, I became her biggest burden. My patriarchal grandfather wanted nothing to do with me. My maternal grandparents had passed away long ago. The only person I had left was the stepmother who no longer loved me. 6. “What are you looking at? I’m not raising you. It’s your father’s fault for dying so young!” she screamed, shoving me aside before getting into a taxi without a backward glance. Ignoring my scraped knees, I scrambled to my feet and ran after the car, crying. “Mom, please don’t leave me! I’ll be good, I won’t eat much!” I don’t know how long I ran, but eventually, the car stopped. I saw my stepmother’s eyes, red-rimmed with a mixture of hatred and helpless resignation. And so, we stayed together. Later, she remarried. The man was ten years older than her. That marriage became my personal hell. The very first night we moved in, the man used a key to open my locked bedroom door. When I ran to tell my stepmother, she slapped me. “Don’t you dare spread rumors in this house! He was just worried you’d kick off your blankets. If you try to ruin my marriage, you can get out!” After that, I barricaded my door with my desk every night. I’d stand by my bed, scissors in hand, staring at the doorknob as it turned, again and again. I’d wait for him to give up, for the sounds to fade. School became my only sanctuary. No lecherous stepfather, no indifferent mother who let it all happen. But that sanctuary became another form of hell after a mock exam. I had just been celebrating my first-place rank when I was dragged into the girls’ bathroom and doused with a bucket of cold water. They held me down. I couldn’t fight back. The ringleader was a beautiful transfer student. Her name was Isabelle Cavendish. “It’s your fault, Mia,” she hissed, pinching my chin and looking at me like I was vermin. “Because of you, I came in second. Do you have any idea how badly I was beaten at home?” A slap landed on my cheek. One of her friends started counting, each number a tick of a clock in an execution chamber. It was a long, agonizing wait. When I told the teacher, all I got was, “Isabelle is an excellent student. She wouldn’t do something like that. When classmates have disagreements, you should try to be more understanding.” That’s when I knew. It wasn’t that Isabelle wouldn’t do it. It was that the Cavendish family was too powerful for the school to dare to intervene. As I left the office, I saw a boy walking down the hall, surrounded by a crowd of admirers. From the way everyone reacted, I could tell they were all afraid of him. 7. When I got home, still in my wet clothes, I found the man who was supposed to be on vacation with my stepmother. His eyes slithered over me like a snake’s tongue, making my skin crawl. “Mia, what happened to you?” he said with a sickening smile. “Don’t call me that!” I snapped, desperately searching for my stepmother. “Looking for someone? She’s not here. She’s on vacation,” he said, rising to his feet. “I told her I had some business to take care of and that I’d meet her there.” He walked toward me, step by step. I fumbled in my school bag for the new craft knife I’d bought. “You’re getting more beautiful every day, Mia.” His gaze darkened, and as if he could no longer control himself, he lunged. I slashed the knife across his forearm. Blood welled up instantly. “You little bitch!” he roared in pain. “Touch me again, and I’ll kill you,” I hissed. “I have nothing to lose.” I shoved the knife back in my bag and ran. I had lied. I had everything to lose. I had my life. I had promised my father I would live. Suddenly, I thought of the boy I had passed in the hallway. I thought I heard someone call him Alexander Malon. An idea began to form. I started watching Alexander, gathering every scrap of information I could find. I waited outside the bar he frequented for several nights until I finally saw him, drunk and alone, sitting on a bench outside. He was smoking, lost in thought. I adjusted my school uniform’s name tag, making sure it was visible, then bought a piece of hard candy meant to sober you up. “You look like you’re not feeling well,” I said, approaching him. “This is for hangovers. Do you want one?” Alexander looked up, his dark eyes heavy. When he didn’t answer, I smiled, took his hand, and placed the candy in his palm. “Don’t worry, it’s sweet.” He looked me up and down, then took a drag from his cigarette. “In a school uniform at a bar?” My cheeks flushed. “No, I just… I was worried about you, so I came.” He leaned back, a smirk playing on his lips. “Following me?” I feigned embarrassment and nodded. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to be sick from drinking.” His smile was unreadable. “You like me?” I bit my lip and nodded again. “Yes. I like you. And I’ll be good to you.” His hand, holding the cigarette, paused. He stood up, closing the distance between us, and his fingers brushed against my name tag. “Mia Jiang. Class Three.” “I’ll give you a chance,” he said, his voice casual. Before I could react, he kissed me. Just as my lungs were about to burst, he pulled away. “Remember to breathe next time. Go home. And don’t come back here.” Then he turned and walked back into the bar. The shy, joyful expression on my face slowly faded. I wiped my mouth. Then, a satisfied smile spread across my lips. The plan was a success. 9. The next time Isabelle Cavendish and her friends cornered me, Alexander appeared. The door to the abandoned storage room was kicked open. He stood behind his bodyguards, his eyes radiating a glacial cold. It was the first time I had ever seen Isabelle look so panicked and pathetic. She was forced to her knees and slapped, over and over. “You don’t touch what’s mine, Isabelle,” Alexander said, pulling me into his side and looking down at her with contempt. Yes. What was his. To Alexander, I was nothing more than a pet—an obedient creature who would be good to him. When he dropped me off at home, we ran into my stepfather, who was just returning from the hospital. Seeing me step out of a luxury car, he grabbed a handful of my hair. “You shameless whore! Acting all high and mighty with me, and this is what you are?” “Today, I’m going to—” The rest of his words were choked off as one of Alexander’s bodyguards seized his wrist. He cried out in pain, his grip on my hair loosening. A second later, a kick sent him sprawling to the ground. He was beaten until he was screaming for mercy. He spent the next month in the hospital. I counted the days until my exams, playing the part of the devoted, loving girlfriend. I ignored Alexander’s flirtations and affairs with other women. I didn’t want his love. Slowly, I became the person who had stayed by his side the longest. There were even rumors that he had developed real feelings for me. Until today. Today, they all realized that Alexander Malon was incapable of real feelings. In his eyes, I was still just a pet, something to be given away at a whim. But I didn’t care. Because soon, I would be free of them all. 10. “Mia, you’ve been spacing out this whole time.” Matt’s voice snapped me back to the present. I looked at the upscale apartment building in front of us and feigned confusion. “Alexander, did you move?” Matt seemed annoyed by the name, his grip on my hand tightening. “Yeah. I have a lot of places.” The moment we were inside, he pushed me down onto the sofa. “What were you thinking about just now, Mia?” “I was thinking about what kind of soup to make for you tonight,” I replied sweetly. A flicker of something soft appeared in his dark eyes. “Such a good girl, Mia.” He took my hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Mia, who am I?” he whispered, his voice husky. “Alexander. You’re Alexander.” “Ow! Why did you bite me?” I suppressed a sneer and feigned pain. His fingers traced the bite mark he’d left on my skin. “Mia, who am I?” he repeated. I bit my lip. “You’re Alexander.” “Ah! You bit me again!” This time, he bit my neck, like a predator marking his prey. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. The doorbell rang insistently, urgently. Matt gritted his teeth and got up to answer it. “What are you doing here?” Alexander brushed past him without a word and strode directly toward me. “The game is over,” he said coldly, stopping in front of me and looking at his brother. “This is no fun,” Matt said with a twisted smile. Alexander didn’t waste any more words. He pulled me up from the sofa. The bite mark on my neck was in plain view. He froze. A storm gathered in his eyes, a terrifying, eerie calm before the tempest. Before I could react, there was a deafening bang. Alexander had slammed Matt against the wall, his hand wrapped around his brother’s throat. “You forgot the rules while you were gone, didn’t you?” he snarled. “Who the hell gave you permission to touch her?!” 11. This was an Alexander I had never seen before—out of control, radiating pure, unadulterated rage. Matt seemed surprised too. After a stunned second, a wicked grin spread across his face. “What’s got you so worked up, big brother? Weren’t you the one who sent her to me?” “Don’t play the good guy now.” The veins on Alexander’s arm bulged. After a tense moment, he silently released his grip. Matt rubbed the red marks on his neck and waved at me. “Hello, Mia. Let’s reintroduce ourselves. I’m Matt Malon.” There was no panic at being caught, no embarrassment for his deception. Just a casual, indifferent smile. Alexander stepped in front of me, blocking my view, his eyes dark and unreadable. I couldn’t decipher his emotions, but I knew exactly what part I needed to play. I looked up at him, tears welling in my eyes. My voice wasn’t accusatory, just a soft, wounded whisper. “Did I do something wrong? Are you throwing me away?” I saw his shoulders tense, his Adam’s apple bob. A moment later, I was pulled into a warm embrace. “I’ll take you home,” he said, his voice low and surprisingly gentle. I’m through this round, I thought with relief. Over Alexander’s shoulder, I saw the smile fade from Matt’s face, his dark eyes becoming bottomless pits as he stared at me. As Alexander led me out, he glanced back at his brother. “I told you. The game is over.” “Stay away from her.” Matt leaned back against a table, his hands in his pockets, that rebellious smirk returning. “Can’t promise that.” A corner of Alexander’s mouth lifted in a look of pure disdain. “You can try.” Matt laughed, a picture of innocence. “Don’t be like that, bro. We’ve played this game before. You never cared.” “Shut your mouth,” Alexander warned. Matt raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Game over. It’s no fun once the secret’s out anyway.” He snapped his fingers in my direction. “Remember the name, Mia. Matt Malon. Don’t get it wrong next time.” Alexander’s patience had run out. He pulled me into the elevator, done wasting his breath on his psycho brother. 12. As we exited the elevator, a car pulled up. Once inside, Alexander immediately raised the privacy divider, sealing us in the back. A sense of unease washed over me. When his hand reached for me, I reacted on instinct, grabbing his wrist with a strength that surprised us both. My eyes were cold, my disgust for his touch unconcealed. It was a self-preservation instinct, honed from years of living in danger. In that silent moment, I realized my mask had slipped. As I scrambled for a plausible explanation, Alexander spoke. “What, are you afraid I’m going to hit you?” His voice wasn’t angry or suspicious. It was laced with a tired, helpless smile. “Have I ever hit you?” I stared at him for a second, then shook my head and let go. He pulled me closer, tilting my head to get a better look at my neck. “Let me see if he broke the skin. I might have to take you for a rabies shot.” Hearing him call his own brother a dog, I couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. I felt his hand freeze. I looked up. His gaze had shifted from my neck to my face. He was just watching me. I fluttered my eyelashes, feigning confusion. After a few seconds, I heard him sigh, his fingers gently stroking my hair. “Mia, this won’t happen again.” I put my mask back on, rubbing my head against his palm like the docile creature he knew. After what had just happened, I decided it was safer to stick with Alexander as my rope. Matt and his brand of crazy were far too unpredictable. 13. Alexander dropped me off at home that night. The next day, a diamond necklace was delivered to my door as compensation. Then, silence. I knew the drill. Whenever I caught him with another girl, he would send an expensive gift. Like tossing a treat to a pet, a simple offering to smooth things over. I hid the jewelry away with the rest, planning to sell it all for a nest egg before I left. My thoughts were on my future as I handed in my school transfer application. “Mia, the college entrance exams are next semester. Are you sure you want to transfer after this term?” my homeroom teacher asked, her brow furrowed with concern. I nodded. “My uncle has already spoken with you about it. The school I’m transferring to is excellent. They’ve reviewed my grades and competition scores and have already accepted me.” “My uncle feels that as my only remaining relative, he can take better care of me if I’m closer.” “And as you know, my stepmother and her husband… they don’t really look after me.” The teacher didn’t argue. She knew no one had ever come to my parent-teacher conferences. My step-parents’ numbers were always unreachable. After leaving her office, I ducked into a restroom and called back the number that had been trying to reach me. After a short ringtone, a sleazy male voice answered. “Hey, Mia, I got that transfer sorted for you. When are you sending the money?” A cold smile touched my lips. This was my uncle. When my father was alive, he was always sucking up to him. The moment my father got sick, he cut all ties. When I had nowhere to go, he told me to get lost. “You’re not trying to back out, are you? Do you know how many strings I had to pull for you?” “If Kevin wasn’t in such a hurry for the money, I wouldn’t have bothered with your mess.” Kevin, my uncle’s useless son, had gotten into a fight and needed money to pay for damages. “If you hadn’t bothered,” I said with a sneer, “your son would be in jail. Don’t try to act high and mighty with me. I’ll send the rest of the payment when I feel like it.” I hung up, cutting off his string of curses. Sunlight streamed into the quiet restroom. Dust motes danced in the light, spiraling upwards, as if chasing freedom. Just like me.

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For three years, I chased Justin Young. For three years, he was a ghost I could never quite touch, always just out of reach. On his birthday, I gave him a keychain I’d spent three months embroidering. Not long after, I saw it dangling from the fingers of his “charity case” classmate, Maya Lynn. The little moon pattern I’d so carefully stitched swayed back and forth, until it slipped and fell into a muddy puddle. Maya looked up at Justin, her eyes wide with feigned distress. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry, I got your thing dirty. I’ll go get it.” Justin caught her hand before she could move. “Forget it. It’s not important. Get back to your homework. Your GPA dropped by 0.1 points.” I looked down at my own hands, at the tiny pinprick scars covering my fingertips, and for the first time, I thought: Forget it. I retreated. I went back to being just the girl next door, the one he walked to and from school with out of habit. After graduation, I left the country. Five years later, I came home to get married. Justin was the one who picked me up from the airport. He held out the old, faded keychain, his gaze soft. “Remember this? The one you gave me.” “All these years,” he said, his voice a low murmur, “I’ve been waiting for you to come back.” 1. As Justin offered me the keychain, my phone buzzed. My fiancé was on the other end, being a big baby, whining about how he couldn’t stand being apart for a whole month. With someone else in the car, I felt a little self-conscious, so I placated him with a few sweet words and promised to call him later. When I hung up, Justin was still watching me. I cleared my throat awkwardly. “That thing is so old. It’s useless, really. You can just toss it.” Justin’s eyes met mine. “I couldn’t. It was a gift from you.” In all the years I’d known him, it was the first time he’d ever spoken to me with such warmth. It was… unsettling. I fidgeted with my seatbelt. “Let’s just go. I’m starving.” The thought of real, home-cooked food after years away made my stomach rumble. The car moved smoothly through the city streets. A familiar, melancholic love song drifted from the speakers. Justin reached into the center console and placed a packet of wheat crackers in my hand, his other hand steady on the wheel. “This was your favorite song. I put it on for you,” he said. “And your favorite crackers. To tide you over.” If I hadn’t known him for over a decade, I would have found it touching. Instead, I was just baffled. “Justin, did you get struck by lightning or something? What’s with the personality transplant?” The Justin I remembered was the untouchable prince of our elite circle, a boy who held the world at a cool distance. Well, not the entire world. There was one person he’d let in. And it wasn’t me. All his patience, all his kindness, had been reserved for Maya Lynn, the scholarship student. They were the couple everyone in high school had obsessed over. A small, ironic smile touched my lips. Time really does heal all wounds. And erases all delusions. Justin’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. He glanced at me, a nervous energy about him. “Jasmine, I haven’t changed. I just… I’ve really missed you.” 2. If he’d said that to me five years ago, I probably would have shrieked with joy and launched myself into his arms. Now, my heart was a placid lake. I managed a polite, worldly chuckle to save him the embarrassment. “Don’t be silly, Justin. We’ve known each other for ages. No need for formalities.” It was a standard, brush-off line, but he seemed to hear something else entirely. He fell silent, but a small smile played on his lips, and the way he looked at me was suddenly open, intense, and utterly undisguised. Ugh. Well, he’d figure it out soon enough when he heard me planning my wedding. Forty minutes later, we pulled up to my family’s villa. The Youngs lived right next door. Justin’s parents were away on business, so when my mom saw him, she insisted he stay for dinner. Since I was back for a while, I’d brought three enormous suitcases. Justin grabbed the handle of the luggage cart with one hand and reached for my shoulder bag with the other. I gave him a strange look. He just shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “You… always wanted me to carry your bag for you, didn’t you?” That was a long, long time ago. On my birthday our freshman year of high school, I’d come down with a nasty flu. I was dizzy and weak, but I’d insisted on going to school with him. When we got out of the car, my vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges. Justin was already a few paces ahead, waiting, his hands shoved in his pockets. His expression was the usual mask of cool indifference. “Hurry up,” he’d said. “We’re going to be late.” I was so foolish back then. I thought his impatience was concern. My body was screaming, but I managed a clumsy jog to catch up, arriving before him breathless, my face pale and slick with sweat. “Justin,” I’d wheezed, trying for a playful pout. “My bag is so heavy.” Please, carry it for me. He’d simply raised an eyebrow, unmoved. After a three-second pause, his icy gaze made my heart freeze over. I instantly regretted my forwardness. When I dared to look up again, he was already gone. For that one moment of asking for too much, Justin had given me the silent treatment for two weeks. It was only after I swallowed my pride and apologized profusely that he’d resumed our shared commutes. I’d completely forgotten about that day. I was surprised he remembered. I pulled my bag back from his grasp and offered a polite smile. “I’m not that delicate. I’ve got it.” I started pulling one of the suitcases myself. Justin’s expression darkened. He opened his mouth to say something, but another voice cut in from behind us. It was Maya Lynn. I hadn’t seen her in years. “Jasmine, you’re back! It’s been so long!” she chirped. “Justin, why didn’t you tell me you were picking Jasmine up today? I would have come with you! Poor Jasmine, coming all this way back home, it must have been so tough!” 3. Maya had changed. She’d shed the timid, mousy demeanor of her high school years, replaced by a polished confidence. Her long, silky hair was paired with a crisp blouse and a tailored skirt, the picture of a competent professional. She took one of the suitcases from Justin as if she were the lady of the house and breezed past me into the foyer, her eyes shining with a manufactured delight. “Jasmine, how was it, living abroad? Are you back to look for a job?” she asked, her tone oozing casual intimacy. “Not exactly,” I said coolly, walking past her. “Just back to take care of some things.” My parents were waiting inside and enveloped me in a crushing hug. “You’re so thin!” my mom cried, her eyes welling up. “My baby girl, you haven’t been eating properly, have you?” “I told you not to go to that godforsaken country for school, but you wouldn’t listen. Look at you, you’re all worn out.” I went to the UK, not Siberia. But I knew she wasn’t just talking about the distance. Everyone in my family knew about my hopeless crush on Justin. Her words were laced with sympathy for my past heart-break. The problem was, the man in question was standing right behind me. And his… girlfriend… was right there with him. I had to smooth things over. “Mom, stop. It wasn’t that bad. I had a great time,” I said, patting her arm. “And I’m not worn out, I’m just tan. I went surfing in Hawaii last month.” It was the truth, but they didn’t seem to believe me. My mom just squeezed my hand and sighed. “Alright, alright, let’s not talk about sad things. I made all your favorites. Go get changed, dinner is almost ready.” By now, Justin and Maya had brought the rest of the luggage in and were standing awkwardly in the living room. My dad, ever the gracious host, started to greet them, but froze when he saw Maya. “Hey, aren’t you that…” Maya stepped forward, a practiced smile on her face. “Hello, Mr. Davis. I’m an old classmate of Jasmine and Justin’s. I used to visit the Youngs’ house often, so we may have met before. My name is Maya Lynn.” My dad blinked. “Oh. Right. Hello. Well, since you’re here, you might as well stay for dinner.” Men and women are wired differently. My dad just saw an unexpected guest. My mom saw a predator staking her claim. As I headed to my room to change, she followed me, her face a thundercloud. “Isn’t that the girl who ruined things between you and Justin?” she whispered furiously. “And what is Justin thinking, bringing her here today? What is that supposed to mean?” She was clearly ready to go to war for me. “Mom, please, calm down,” I said quickly. “I honestly don’t care. Please don’t make a scene. Besides, I told you, I have a boyfriend. I’m back to get engaged. Justin is ancient history.” I meant every word, but my mom wasn’t convinced. She’d been a front-row spectator to my years of obsessive devotion to Justin. At dinner, the table was laden with my favorite dishes: king crab legs, a whole lobster, seared scallops, and a rich, creamy bisque. My parents had clearly pulled out all the stops, terrified I’d been living on ramen noodles for five years. We had just sat down when Maya let out a dramatic sigh. “Jasmine, you’re still so… extravagant.” She cast a wounded look at Justin, that familiar, doe-eyed vulnerability shining in her eyes. “After all these years, I thought you would have outgrown this. But you haven’t changed at all.” She gestured at the feast. “A single meal that costs more than my monthly salary… more than what some children in impoverished countries see in years. I’m not trying to criticize you, but can’t you change this wasteful habit? Can’t we just have a normal, simple dinner? Do you always have to play the princess?” 4. My parents’ faces fell at her sudden, sanctimonious lecture. They didn’t know that this was a replay of countless scenes from high school. Back then, her words would leave me hurt and speechless, and Justin would just sit there, silent. When she was finished and I tried to defend myself, he would cut me off with a cold, “Jasmine, just drop it.” So, Maya was used to lecturing me with impunity. She assumed I would take it, just like I always had. She was wrong. I wasn’t that girl anymore. I slowly set down my fork and met her gaze, a cool smile playing on my lips. My eyes were devoid of warmth. “Miss Lynn, is there a problem with the food at my house?” Her lips thinned. “No, I’m just pointing out your bad habit of being wasteful. It’s for your own good.” “Oh. Well, since you find my habits so disagreeable, perhaps you shouldn’t eat my family’s food. I wouldn’t want you to choke.” My gaze flickered meaningfully to the large piece of lobster she had just placed in her bowl, next to a generous helping of bisque. Her eyes welled up with tears. She turned to Justin. “Justin, look at her…” Justin said nothing. I laughed, a little louder this time. “He can’t help you here. Miss Lynn, please leave. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” There was no coming back from that. Maya’s face crumpled. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stood, casting one last, pleading look at Justin. When he remained silent, she shot me a look of pure hatred and fled. A wave of profound satisfaction washed over me. I ladled some bisque into my bowl and began to eat with gusto. After a long moment, Justin sighed. “There. You got to vent. You feel better now?” he asked, a hint of smugness in his voice. “Jasmine, you’re still so childish.” He clearly thought my little outburst was all about him, a pathetic act of jealousy. He placed a few kernels of corn on my plate. “You don’t like Maya, so I let you have your revenge. You wanted to blow off some steam, so I let you make a scene. I was wrong in the past, Jasmine. You can get back at me however you want, as long as it makes you happy.” He paused, his tone shifting to one of reasonable explanation. “But… Maya comes from a difficult background. She was on financial aid all through school. Seeing all this… waste… it’s only natural she’d be a little upset. Her words were harsh, but you have to understand where she’s coming from. Don’t hold it against her.” His patronizing, tone-deaf speech made even my mom’s expression curdle. Justin, oblivious, continued. “Alright, you finish eating. I’m going to head out.” He stood up. “You were a little rude just now. Maya is an old classmate, after all. It’s not good to be on such bad terms. I’ll go explain things to her on your behalf.” He hurried out. My mom followed him to the door and slammed it shut with a resounding bang. When she turned around, the look of admiration she used to have for him was gone, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated frustration of dealing with a complete moron. “Seriously,” she fumed, “when did that boy become such a clueless idiot? Is he sick in the head?”

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Theodore Thorne doesn’t love me. He doesn’t hold our child. He pays no mind to my career. Whenever reporters mention my name in public, his lips press into a thin, hard line. He never responds. During our last fight, I asked him with a hollow laugh, “Theo, don’t I even deserve an introduction to your friends? Am I that embarrassing? Or am I just not good enough for you?” He would always counter with reddened eyes, his voice strained. “Evelyn, please don’t do this. Just… wait a little longer, okay?” I laughed until tears streamed down my face. “Then let’s get a divorce.” 1 The day our daughter was born, Theodore was nowhere to be seen. I glanced at the tiny infant nestled beside me, then shifted my gaze to his aunt, who was pacing by the window. Her brow was furrowed in frustration as she dialed his number again and again, each call going straight to voicemail. “Aunt Carol, please, just stop,” I said, a bitter sense of absurdity washing over me. “He’s not coming back.” Tonight was the opening night of the renowned violinist Seraphina Claudio’s European tour in London. Yesterday evening, after marathon sessions to close a major project, Theodore hadn’t even bothered to come home. He’d booked the first flight to London, all to witness the premiere of his old flame. My phone screen lit up silently, pushing a news alert. Violinist Seraphina Claudio’s Opening Night a Resounding Success. I put on my headphones and played the interview. On camera, Seraphina was the picture of grace in a champagne-colored gown, her makeup flawless, her smile gentle and warm. “Thank you all so much,” she said. “I’m deeply honored to begin my tour here and to receive such a wonderful reception.” A reporter pressed on with a smile. “Ms. Claudio, backstage we saw so many legends of the music world showing their support. Is there anyone in particular you’d like to thank tonight?” Seraphina offered a sweet, knowing smile to the camera. “I’m grateful to every mentor and friend who came.” She paused, as if choosing her words with care. “But tonight, the person I want to thank most is a friend I’ve known for many, many years.” She lifted her head, her gaze boring directly into the lens. “There’s so much I don’t know how to say to him in person, so I hope he’ll let me borrow this special moment.” Her voice trembled, just slightly. She seemed to choke back a wave of emotion. “Even though, all those years ago… we were separated by… circumstances beyond our control, in my heart, he will always, always be my dearest friend.” “I want him to know,” she continued, her voice soft but clear, “that I’ve always known he is a good, truly good man.” My heart stuttered to a stop. A chilling numbness spread through my fingertips. I opened the comments section, and my breath caught in my throat. 【OMG, she’s totally talking about Theodore Thorne! It’s so obvious!】 【100% him. They were the perfect couple back in the day—the tragic high-society romance, the beautiful artist and the brooding heir. It’s a classic story!】 【”Friends?” Who is she kidding? That look in her eyes is pure, undiluted love.】 【I’m crying. The one that got away will always be the one. No one else ever stands a chance!】 【Theo is so devoted. He flew across the ocean just for her opening night. Turns out even titans of industry have someone they can’t let go of.】 【I bet Mrs. Thorne is crying her eyes out in the maternity ward right now. Well, that’s what you get for marrying a man with an epic lost love in his past.】 【Losing to the old flame… how humiliating. But it’s not like Evelyn Reed has any right to be upset. Their marriage was just a business arrangement. You can’t compare that to true love.】 Every word was a barb, a fresh twist of the knife. I switched off my phone, a final, cold resignation settling over me. Theodore is my husband. Seraphina was the great, passionate love of his youth. And I… I am just a joke. 2 Later that night, the door to my room creaked open. I looked up. Theodore stood in the doorway. His suit was immaculate, but his hair was a mess, and dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes. For a fleeting moment, our gazes met before I quickly looked away. The maternity nurse, Mrs. Gable, was gently rocking our daughter in her arms. Seeing Theodore, she smiled warmly. “Congratulations, Mr. Thorne. You have a beautiful baby girl.” Theodore’s eyes flickered to the baby, but his expression remained flat, unreadable. “Is she healthy?” Mrs. Gable, assuming he’d want to hold his child, moved to pass the bundle to him. But Theodore made no move to take her, his arms remaining rigidly at his sides. An awkward silence hung in the air before Mrs. Gable drew back. “All her vitals are perfect,” she said, recovering smoothly. “She was a little early, but her weight is good. No need for the incubator.” Theodore nodded once. “Thank you for your hard work.” He then addressed her directly. “Could you take the baby out for a moment? I need to speak with Evelyn alone.” As she left, he turned to the assistant hovering by the door, his tone all business. “Contact PR. Prepare a press release announcing the birth of the Thorne Industries heiress. And execute the donation plan we discussed—five hundred million, split among the charitable foundations on my list. Also, that new foundation proposal I drafted? Start the paperwork tomorrow.” Theodore was always methodical, always detached. He approached every situation with a clinical precision, devoid of emotion. Even faced with the birth of his own child, there wasn’t a flicker of excitement or joy. Just a calm, orderly execution of a plan. I once thought I was different. I thought, perhaps, that with me, he allowed himself to feel. Just a little. After all, I loved him so much. But in the end, I had vastly overestimated my own importance. The assistant closed the door behind him, leaving us alone. The vast suite was silent, the scent of white roses on the table doing nothing to cut through the suffocating tension. “Evelyn,” Theodore said, stepping closer. His face was a mask of apology. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I was on the plane all day. I didn’t see the calls or texts until we landed.” “Theodore,” I said, my voice calmer than I could have imagined. “Let’s get a divorce.” “What?” He froze, genuine shock flickering in his eyes. “Evelyn, are you joking?” The hospital lights cast harsh shadows on his face, accentuating his exhaustion. “I know I let you down,” he said, his voice earnest, logical, like a negotiator trying to close a deal. “But I swear it wasn’t intentional. I had the timeline perfectly calculated. I was going to wrap up that project proposal and then clear my schedule completely to be here with you. I never imagined the baby would come early… I never thought you’d… that you almost died on the operating table. I’m sorry. It was my oversight.” If I were anyone else… If I hadn’t spent years waiting for him… If I hadn’t seen that interview… Maybe, just maybe, I would have believed him. But I was done lying to myself. I cut him off, taking a deep breath to steady my voice. “Theodore. That’s not the reason.” It was never just about that. 3 Theodore didn’t press his case. He didn’t leave, either. Instead, he sank into the armchair by the window, pulling his laptop from his briefcase. He started typing, perhaps dealing with work, perhaps scrolling through the gossip columns buzzing with his name. His presence was meant to be a silent, placating apology. A way to manage the situation. But that was never what I needed from him. The room was so quiet I could hear the sound of our breathing. Seraphina had called Theodore a good, truly good man. Perhaps he was. But all of his goodness, all of his warmth, was reserved for someone else. He loved Seraphina when they were young. After our marriage, he never mentioned her name, but a wall of polite distance always stood between us. He was never truly mine. He wouldn’t even hold our child. “Theodore,” I said, my voice raspy. “Please leave. I don’t want to see you.” I took a steadying breath. “And have your lawyer draft the divorce papers as soon as possible.” This time, I was setting him free. And in doing so, I was finally freeing myself. From outside the door, our daughter’s heartbroken cries tore through the silence. Mrs. Gable brought her to me, and I held her close, whispering soothing words as a wave of guilt threatened to drown me. I had dreamed that my daughter would be the happiest child in the world. I would give her everything: a loving home, endless affection, the very best of what life had to offer. I truly believed Theodore and I were healing, that our relationship was finally on solid ground. I thought her father would be as overjoyed by her arrival as I was. Reality had delivered a vicious slap to the face. I was wrong. So terribly, devastatingly wrong. 4 Sometime during the night, the rain had stopped. I took the bottle from Mrs. Gable and gently placed it at my daughter’s lips. Hope. That’s what I named her. Her father might not welcome her into this world, but it didn’t matter. Beyond my connection to Theodore, I came from a family of considerable means. For the rest of my life, as long as I was here, I would ensure my daughter wanted for nothing. I didn’t ask for much. I just wanted her to be happy and safe. The next morning, a knock came at the door. A young woman with a sharp, chic bob and a dimpled smile introduced herself as Lily, an employee from Theodore’s company. She was carrying a bouquet of pink roses so fresh they looked like they were still beaded with morning dew. “Good morning, Mrs. Thorne,” she chirped. “Mr. Thorne had these ordered for you especially. I just picked them up from the florist.” She worked with a cheerful efficiency, finding a vase, filling it with water, and arranging the stems with a practiced hand. Next, she produced a velvet jewelry box from her tote bag and placed it on the table beside me, opening it with a flourish. “And this, Mrs. Thorne. Mr. Thorne acquired it at an auction last month. He said emeralds are your favorite.” Lying on the black velvet was a breathtaking necklace. A massive, brilliant-green emerald served as the centerpiece, surrounded by a halo of dazzling diamonds that caught the light and scattered it in a fiery display. Anyone could see it was a collector’s piece, flawless and incredibly valuable. A year ago, I might have been thrilled. I might have seen it as a sign that Theodore was finally starting to care. But after yesterday, I would never again be so foolish as to flatter myself. That kind of humiliation was something you only needed to experience once. “Mr. Thorne was incredibly busy at the time, but he insisted on going to the Christie’s auction himself,” Lily chattered on. “He said he wanted to prepare the perfect surprise for you with his own hands.” “Thank you,” I said, my voice flat. I didn’t have the heart to refuse. Lily seemed bright and earnest, untouched by the weary cynicism of corporate life. She was probably new. My issues with Theodore were my own; there was no need to make this young woman’s job more difficult. Theodore didn’t have any female assistants. He’d always claimed he was awkward around women. Lily must have been called up from the front desk. If I sent her back with the necklace, she’d have to explain her failure to her boss, and I wouldn’t do that to her. “Mr. Thorne has a series of unavoidable meetings today, which is why he sent me,” she explained, though a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “But he said he’ll come see you and the baby as soon as he can tonight…” I simply nodded, indicating I understood. Staring at the priceless piece of jewelry—a treasure that would make any woman swoon—I just felt tired. It wasn’t a gift. It was compensation. Theodore was trying to smooth things over, to patch up the wound he’d inflicted. He always did this. Every conflict between us, every disappointment he caused, was eventually papered over with some extravagant purchase. He seemed to believe that money and material things could mend any emotional rift, fill any void. But if money was what I wanted, why would I have married him when he was at his lowest, when his company was on the brink of collapse? What I wanted, what I had always wanted, was his heart. He had once promised me he could learn to return my affection. I had believed him. And all it had brought me was a landscape of disappointment. Hope stirred in her bassinet, her eyes blinking open. For once, she was quiet, not crying. Lily’s attention was immediately captivated. “Oh, she’s adorable!” she cooed. “How can a newborn be so fair, with such a perfect little nose?” She beamed at me. “You and Mr. Thorne are so lucky. Imagine coming home to a beautiful baby like this every day…” I managed a weak smile. “Thank you.” But behind the flicker of pride was a vast, hollow emptiness. Theodore didn’t like this child. Why would he ever be happy to come home to her? 5 After a while, Mrs. Gable took the baby for a walk down the hall. “Lily,” I said, meeting her gaze directly. I had to say it. “Thank you for coming all this way.” “When you get back to the office, could you pass along a message for me?” Lily’s cheerful demeanor vanished, replaced by a professional focus. “Of course, Mrs. Thorne. What should I tell him?” I held her gaze, my voice steady and clear. “Tell him that what I said last night… I meant every word.” “I want a divorce.” This wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a cry for attention. When I loved someone, I gave them my entire being. But when I stopped loving them, I would tear myself away with the same ferocious intensity. Every word I spoke was the truth. “Mrs. Thorne?” Lily’s composure shattered, her voice trembling slightly. “Did you say… a divorce?” “Yes,” I confirmed. The word, once spoken aloud, felt like a heavy stone being lifted from my chest. The suffocating weight, the constant ache—it was finally gone. “Please, ask him to have the papers drawn up as soon as possible.” I was done loving Theodore Thorne. This long, arduous journey toward him, a journey I had walked alone, was now, officially, over. Perhaps it should have ended years ago. It should have ended when I walked toward him, my heart wide open, and he never once turned to welcome me in. All those years of waiting felt like a farcical play, and the only way to salvage what was left of myself was to erase his name from my life completely.

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1 My brother and I were transported into one of those trashy, high-society romance novels. When our mission was over, I chose to leave. He, however, had fallen for the story’s obsessive female lead and decided to stay for her. Eight years later, the System informed me that she had thrown him into a psychiatric hospital. He had three days left to live. When I arrived, he was strapped to a hospital bed, his eyes vacant, muttering my name over and over again. Meanwhile, his loving CEO wife was planning a wedding of the century with her one true love, the male lead. I looked at my brother’s hands—hands that once commanded a grand piano—and saw nothing but a horrifying tapestry of track marks. “You came… I knew you’d come…” He strained, turning his head with the last ounce of his strength. “I was such a fool. I thought my devotion, my presence, was the ultimate declaration of love. But I was just a stepping stone for her.” “Take me home, Raymond. I don’t want to die here…” “Roberta…” My voice was a raw, trembling whisper. “Of course. We’re going home.” Blinking back the hot tears that threatened to spill, I forced a broken smile onto my face. “I’m here to take you home!” His clouded eyes shifted, as if he was trying to smile back, but only a single, rigid muscle in his cheek twitched. “Raymond… Raymond…” His voice was so faint I could barely hear it, each word a final, desperate gasp of life. My hands trembled as I reached for the leather restraints digging into his wrists. They were embedded so deeply into his flesh that dark, crusted scabs had formed around them. A doctor in a white coat entered, his face a mask of indifference. He shot me a cold look. “Who are you? Visiting hours are over.” I snapped my head around, the ice in my eyes making him flinch and take an involuntary step back. “What did you do to him?” The doctor adjusted his glasses, reciting a rehearsed, clinical line. “The patient suffers from severe delusions and exhibits violent tendencies. These are necessary protective measures.” “His legal guardian signed the consent forms. All treatments are administered in accordance with hospital policy.” Guardian? That monster, Seraphina Vance? My gaze fell back to Roberta. I gently pushed up the sleeve of his worn hospital gown. The hands that once danced across ivory keys, weaving the world’s most beautiful melodies, were now just a skeletal ruin of bruised skin and puncture wounds, new marks layered over old. There wasn’t an inch of undamaged skin. “Does it hurt?” I choked out the words. He didn’t seem to hear me. He just stared at me, his lips moving soundlessly. “She’s getting married… It’s all over the news… Her and Liam. They look so perfect together…” “Don’t say another word!” I cut him off, my voice sharp, my heart shattering into a million pieces. The doctor knocked impatiently on the doorframe. “Ms. Vance gave specific instructions not to agitate him. Sir, you need to leave. Now.” I ignored him, leaning in close to whisper in Roberta’s ear. “Roberta, hang on. I’m getting you out of here.” “We’ll go back to our own world. There’s no Seraphina, no Liam. Just us.” “I even booked you a world tour. Your fans, they’re all waiting for you.” At the mention of the piano, a flicker of light sparked in his empty eyes, only to be extinguished a moment later. “My hands… they’re ruined…” he mumbled. “They give me injections… shock therapy… My mind… it’s not right anymore. I can’t remember the music…” I bit down on my lip so hard that the coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. I couldn’t cry. Roberta needed me to be strong. “It’s okay. I’ll remember for you,” I said, clutching his ice-cold hand. “I don’t care about any of that. I just need you to live. Let’s go home, okay?” “Okay… home…” The last flicker of light in his eyes died out. His head lolled to the side, coming to rest on my shoulder. In that instant, the world went silent. The only person I had ever cared for, my only anchor in this universe, had died so quietly in my arms. And at that very moment, on the other side of the city, Seraphina Vance was throwing a lavish engagement party for the love of her life. The television showed her radiant face, her smile full of adoration as she stood beside Liam, a picture-perfect couple. They were celebrating. I held Roberta’s cooling body and a slow, cold smile spread across my face. You dragged him through hell? Then I’ll turn this world into your own personal inferno. The Vance Corporation’s engagement party of the century was held at the most exclusive seven-star hotel on the bay. The ballroom glittered with high society, a sea of couture gowns and expensive champagne. Seraphina, draped in a bespoke gown, gracefully accepted the endless stream of congratulations. Beside her, Liam wore a pristine white suit, his smile as pure and innocent as a prince from a fairy tale. “Seraphina, thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” Liam said softly, his eyes brimming with love. She gazed back at him, her voice thick with affection. “For you, my darling, anything is worth it.” BOOM! The grand, gilded doors of the ballroom burst open with a deafening bang. Every head turned. I stood in the doorway, dressed in a stark black suit that was a stark contrast to the festive opulence of the room. My expression was darker than the suit I wore, my gaze a dagger aimed straight at the couple on the dais. “Raymond?!” Seraphina’s eyes widened, her pupils contracting in shock the moment she recognized me. So, she remembered. Eight years ago, Roberta and I appeared in her life together. But I had chosen to leave. Liam clutched Seraphina’s arm, affecting a look of startled vulnerability. “Seraphina, who is this gentleman…?” “Who are you? Who let you in? Security!” Seraphina’s assistant immediately stepped forward, her voice sharp and commanding. A team of guards quickly moved to surround me, ready to drag me out. I swept a cold glance over them and uttered a single word. “Leave.” The hulking guards, professionals trained for violence, were frozen by the sheer menace in my eyes. They hesitated, suddenly unwilling to touch me. I began to walk, my leather shoes clicking with sharp, deliberate taps against the marble floor as I advanced toward the stage. “I brought you a gift, Seraphina.” With that, I reached into my suit jacket and produced a small, simple urn. I placed it gently on the crimson-draped table. The stark white of the box was a glaring wound against the sea of festive red. “You lunatic! You’re insane!” Seraphina’s face turned ashen. She swiped the urn off the table, sending it crashing to the floor. The ashes within spilled out across the pristine marble. “Ah!” Liam cried out, his face pale as he scrambled to hide behind Seraphina. My eyes fixed on the gray dust on the floor, and a hot, red wave of fury washed over me. “Seraphina,” I said, my voice a low growl, each word forced through clenched teeth. “You personally shoved Roberta into hell. And now you shatter even the last peace he had left?” “What nonsense are you spouting?!” she shrieked. “Roberta had a psychotic break! His death has nothing to do with me!” “Nothing to do with you?” I laughed, a sound devoid of any humor. “Eight years of his life, paving your way to the top, deflecting every corporate attack aimed at you, taking all the blame for your dirty work. And his reward? You label him a madman?” “You locked him away in that hellhole, torturing him with drugs and electroshock day after day. You destroyed his hands, shattered his mind, all to make room for your precious boy toy!” My voice rose with every word, each syllable a sledgehammer blow landing on the hearts of the listening guests. Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The looks directed at Seraphina and Liam began to shift, filled with suspicion and dawning horror. “Lies! All of it!” Seraphina was losing control. “Get this maniac out of my sight! Throw him out!” This time, the guards charged. A predatory gleam entered my eyes. I sidestepped their clumsy rush, a blur of motion. In the split second of their confusion, I moved. A swift wrist-lock, a clean takedown. In less than ten seconds, all four guards were writhing on the floor, groaning in pain. The ballroom fell into a stunned, dead silence. No one had expected this slender man to possess such terrifying skill. I turned my attention back to Seraphina, a chilling smile playing on my lips. “Seraphina. And you, Liam…” I pointed a finger at them, sealing their fate. “I will not only ruin you, leave you with nothing… I will make you feel every ounce of the agony Roberta endured.” “And I will make you kneel at his grave and beg for a forgiveness you’ll never receive until the day you die!” The engagement party was a disaster. Seraphina and Liam became the laughingstock of the city. The next day, the Vance Corporation’s PR machine went into overdrive. The internet was flooded with stories designed to discredit me. [Mysterious Man Crashes High-Profile Engagement, Spurned Ex-Lover Suspected?] [Insider Reveals: Man Identified as Raymond Croft Has Family History of Mental Illness. Ms. Vance’s Compassion Was Her Undoing.] [Raymond Croft: The Man Who Vanished Eight Years Ago. A Troubled Past, A Violent Present.] They were painting me as the lunatic, framing Roberta’s death as the inevitable outcome of his own fragile mind. Public opinion began to sway, and sympathy started pouring in for the “victims,” Seraphina and Liam. Liam even gave a tearful interview, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with sorrow. “I… I don’t know Mr. Croft, and I don’t understand why he harbors such animosity towards me. As for Roberta… my heart breaks for him. Seraphina did so much for him over the years. We all just wanted him to get better…” What a perfect, pitiful performance. A true wolf in sheep’s clothing. In her office, Seraphina scrolled through the comments online, a sliver of relief easing the tension in her face. “Where is Raymond Croft now?” she asked her assistant. “We can’t find him. It’s like he vanished into thin air. He’s not on any surveillance footage, no digital footprint, nothing.” Seraphina’s brow furrowed again. The man had been an enigma eight years ago; now, he was an unfathomable phantom. “Find him. I don’t care what it takes.” She had no idea I hadn’t gone anywhere. At that very moment, I was sitting in a quiet café, my fingers flying across the keyboard of my laptop. On the screen, cascading lines of code flowed like a waterfall. “You want to play the media game?” I murmured to myself, my eyes cold with contempt. “Then let’s see how you handle a real storm.” At three o’clock that afternoon, the Vance Corporation held an emergency press conference. Seraphina and Liam sat side-by-side, ready to play the victims for a national audience and scrub their reputations clean. “Regarding the recent rumors, I would like to clarify…” Seraphina began. Suddenly, every screen in the conference hall—the massive displays, the reporters’ laptops, their phones—flickered and changed. A high-definition video began to play. The scene was a hallway in the psychiatric hospital. In the grainy footage, Liam was speaking to a doctor, his face twisted with malice. “Up the dosage. I want him to be a drooling vegetable, incapable of a single coherent thought.” The doctor hesitated. “Mr. Sterling, at this rate, the patient could die.” Liam sneered. “Even better. A clean slate. The man of the Vance family can only be me, Liam Sterling. That worthless piece of trash, Roberta Croft? He was never worthy.” The scene cut. Now, it was a conversation between Liam and Roberta. “Don’t blame me, Roberta,” Liam said, a sickly sweet smile on his face. “You just got in my way. Seraphina has always loved me. You were just the stepping stone she needed for her career. Now that she’s on top, it’s time for that stone to be kicked aside.” In the video, Roberta struggled, shouting in protest, but two orderlies pinned him down, forcing him into the electroshock therapy room. His agonized screams echoed through the speakers, filling the press conference with a sound of pure horror. The reporters went wild. A blinding storm of camera flashes erupted, all aimed at the blood-drained faces on the stage. “No… that’s not real! It’s a fake! It’s been doctored!” Liam shrieked, his composure completely shattered. Seraphina was stunned into silence, staring at the venomous man on the screen, unable to reconcile him with the pure, innocent angel she thought she loved. The video ended with a final message from me, my voice a cold, synthesized tone that chilled the room to the bone: “Did you see that, Seraphina? That is the man you swore to protect for the rest of your life. You’re not just blind, you’re blind to the core. Consider this my first gift. You should be excited. The real show is just getting started.”

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