Category: English

My patron took me to a gala, and I got into a fistfight with the woman everyone thought he’d marry. He dragged me out of the chaos. I glared at him, my hair a tangled mess. “You’re taking her side?” He said nothing, his jaw tight. I ripped the ring from my finger and threw it in his face. “Fine. Then I’m dumping you.” 1 I’d been Julian Archer’s canary for three years. He was handsome, wealthy, and incredible in bed. He was generous, too. His only rule? No on-screen kissing. It cost me a few roles, and plenty of people online called me a “fake prude.” I didn’t care. I’ve always been the type to keep my head down and stay out of trouble. I never caused problems for him. I just never imagined that the first time I did, it would be this spectacular. I’d just assaulted the woman who’d been his childhood sweetheart, fresh off her return from overseas. 2 It started when Julian asked me to be his date for a gala. I never fit in with his high-society crowd and wanted to say no. But I’d been on location shooting for three months, and the truth was, I desperately missed him. So, I went. And, just as I’d feared, I saw people I’d rather avoid. I tried to keep my distance, but they always seemed to find me. I slipped out to the terrace for a breath of fresh air, only for Claire and Jenna to follow me out. Claire was Julian’s childhood friend; her family had moved their business abroad years ago, and she’d only recently returned. Jenna, on the other hand, was my personal nemesis, the one who constantly fed negative stories about me to the tabloids. I hadn’t realized they knew each other. I sat on a stone bench, hoping they’d ignore me. Jenna, picking at her nails, started talking loudly, aiming her words right at me. “Isn’t this the Dalton’s engagement party? How did they let just anyone in?” Claire glanced at me, her tone flat. “You dragged me out here to say something, Jenna. Was this it?” Jenna shot her a sycophantic smile. “Don’t be like that, Claire. It was so stuffy inside. I just thought we could get some air, chat while we walk.” Claire didn’t respond, just leaned gracefully against the fountain. “So, Claire,” Jenna pressed on, “is it true you and Julian are finally getting engaged? A merger of the families?” “Yes, it’s more or less settled.” “That’s wonderful! A perfect match. A true power couple. Some people should really learn to take a hint and exit gracefully.” Claire remained silent. Jenna kept prattling on, and I’d had enough. I stood to leave, but her next words froze me in place. “Some people aren’t just trash themselves; their whole family is a train wreck. That construction project that went south… cost so many people their livelihoods. If you ask me, the man in charge getting his leg crippled was just karma.” My vision went red. I spun around, marched up to her, and slapped her twice, hard. Jenna clutched her face, her eyes wide with shock. “Elara, are you insane?” “Talking trash behind my back is one thing,” I seethed, “but saying it to my face? Did you really think I wouldn’t touch you?” Claire frowned, stepping forward. “Miss Christian, this is the Dalton’s home. Have you considered the consequences of making a scene like this?” My eyes, sharp as daggers, locked onto hers. “Miss Sterling, if someone spoke about your parents that way, I truly hope you’d have the presence of mind to consider the consequences first.” Claire was speechless, but Jenna lunged, grabbing a fistful of my hair. We tumbled into a heap of flailing limbs and torn silk. I don’t know how Claire got pulled into it, but by the time Julian and the others arrived, the three of us were a chaotic tangle on the flagstones. Julian’s face was a thundercloud as he yanked me out of the fray. I was a wreck. Across from me, Claire looked mostly unharmed. I glared at Julian. “You’re taking her side?” His brow was furrowed, but he remained silent. That silence was all the answer I needed. I ripped the diamond ring he’d given me from my finger and hurled it at his chest. “I’m dumping you!” Holding back a sob, I bolted from the party and threw myself into the first taxi I saw. The moment the door shut, the dam broke. A wave of gut-wrenching betrayal washed over me, and I wept. I’d wrapped my latest film just yesterday and had come to him, heart full of longing. We’d barely exchanged a few words, and now this? Humiliated by others, and he defends them? My phone buzzed relentlessly. It was Julian. I answered, my voice dripping with ice. “The penthouse at The Sterling is in my name. I want you out in a week.” I hung up and blocked his number, his social media, everything. That bastard. We were finished. 3 I didn’t go back to The Sterling. I found a random hotel and checked in. After a long, hot shower, as the steam cleared, so did my head. A sliver of doubt crept in. I had to be the first canary in history to kick her patron out of his own gilded cage. My boldness with Julian had grown over the years. When we first met, I was the one who was timid and meek. I met him at an industry party my agent had forced me to attend, a meat market where I was supposed to charm directors and investors. My family had been well-off once. But then my father’s construction business went under. An accident on site not only cost him a leg but also wiped out our savings to compensate the injured workers. We were drowning in debt. My parents were sick with worry. Desperate to help, I was scouted and tricked into signing a predatory contract. I got no roles, just orders to attend these parties and be decorative arm candy. I didn’t have the money to break the contract, so I dodged a few events by faking illnesses. But that night, there was no escaping it. When I entered the private room, it was filled with leering, middle-aged men. But there, in the center of it all, was Julian Archer. He was like a cool, sharp slash of marble in a room of melting wax. He was leaving just as I arrived. In a moment of sheer panic, I followed him out. “Mr. Archer,” I asked, my voice trembling, “can I… come with you?” He was a full head taller than me, and he looked down, a wry smile playing on his lips. “And why is that? Do I look like the easiest target?” He looked like the most dangerous man in the room, but I couldn’t say that. I shook my head, my voice earnest. “You’re the most handsome.” He let out a short, dismissive laugh. “I’m aware.” Sensing his impatience, I blurted out, “And you… you seem like a good person.” His smile turned sharp, tinged with irony. “Then your judgment is seriously flawed.” And with that, he left. My agent dragged me back inside. They plied me with alcohol until a fat-fingered director’s hand slithered onto my thigh. I fought, knocking over a wine glass in my struggle. He slapped me, snarling that I didn’t know what was good for me, his other hand fumbling with the zipper of my dress. In blind panic, I grabbed a shard of the broken glass and plunged it into his leg. My first thought was: I’m going to jail. Then, the door to the room swung open. Julian stood there, framed in the doorway. He scanned the scene, his gaze cold. The director, who had been screaming like a pig at slaughter, fell silent. “Weren’t you coming with me?” Julian’s voice cut through the tension. “Get over here.” I dropped the glass shard and scrambled into his arms, shaking so violently I could barely stand. He held me, then swept me up and carried me out of that nightmare. 4 Julian took me back to his penthouse at The Sterling. Hours later, I’d showered but was too terrified to leave the bathroom. I could hear him on the phone in the living room, his voice calm and authoritative as he cleaned up my mess. When the call ended, I wrapped a towel around myself and stepped out. He was lounging on the sofa, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone. I walked over to him, took a deep breath, and let the towel drop to the floor. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him. He stood up, picked up the towel, and wrapped it back around me, his voice laced with amusement. “You’re young, but you’ve certainly got a flair for the dramatic.” My face burned. “I… I’ve never done this before,” I stammered. “I don’t know the… protocol.” “Look at me.” Clutching the towel, I forced myself to meet his eyes. They were calm, a playful glint dancing in their depths. He was captivating and dangerous all at once. “You trust me that easily?” he murmured. “Not afraid I’m worse than them?” A jolt of fear shot through me. I scrambled for an answer. “No. Beautiful people are always kind.” He laughed, a genuine, rich sound. He pulled me close, his body warm against mine, and then his lips were on mine. It was my first real kiss, and my head spun. His thumb traced the outline of my lips as he pulled back, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper. “Go to bed. Can you sleep alone?” I nodded, dazed. “Hmm? Is that how you show your gratitude?” The playful warning in his tone sent a shiver down my spine. I threw my arms around his neck. “No. I’m scared. I need you to hold me.” He seemed satisfied with that. He tucked me into his bed, then went back outside to make another call. Half an hour later, he returned, sliding in beside me and pulling me into the safety of his arms. For days, I scoured the news, but there was nothing. No mention of an actress assaulting a director. A week later, my predatory contract was terminated. Julian set me up with a new agency, a new agent, and the director who’d tried to assault me vanished from the industry. For the next three years, Julian hand-picked my roles, always finding projects that were perfect for me. I went from a nobody to a rising star. I paid off my family’s debts. My parents opened a small shop back home. On the surface, everything was getting better. But I knew the truth. Deep down, things were getting worse. Because I was falling hopelessly in love with Julian Archer. He was my patron, but in the quiet moments, in the safety of his arms, I let myself believe he was my love. When did it start? I can’t pinpoint the exact moment. Falling for Julian was just too damn easy. 5 The next morning, I woke up to hundreds of missed calls, most of them from Carla, my agent. Confused, I called her back. Her booming voice blasted away the last dregs of my sleep. “My God, Elara, you finally answered! Do you have any idea what’s happening? All hell has broken loose!” “What did you do last night? What is going on?” I was still reeling as I pulled up the trending topics on my phone. #ElaraChristianAttacksJenna #CancelElaraChristian #ElaraChristianIsOverParty Someone had filmed our fight. The video was cleverly edited, starting right as I lunged at Jenna, conveniently cutting out everything that led up to it. I closed my eyes and explained everything to Carla, including the part where I’d ended things with Julian. After all, I no longer had a powerful patron in my corner. Carla was silent for a long moment. “Alright,” she sighed. “Just lay low for a few days. Stay off social media. I’ll see what I can do.” After we hung up, I watched the video again. It was shot from a hidden angle, clearly premeditated. Claire had been completely cropped out, leaving only me and Jenna. The comments were a tidal wave of hate. [Look at her face. You can just tell she’s a vicious bitch. How dare she hit someone? Someone needs to put her in her place.] [I heard she has a rich sugar daddy. Explains how she got so many roles with her terrible acting.] [Insider info: she was just a stand-in for his real girlfriend. Now that the real one is back, she’s been kicked to the curb.] The “stand-in” comments had Jenna’s fingerprints all over them. But I felt strangely numb. Let them say what they want. It comes with the territory. As long as they left my family out of it, I could take it. As for being a stand-in… that was pure fiction. Early in our relationship, Julian had been so good to me it was unnerving. One night, after he picked me from a dinner, I got up the liquid courage to ask him if I looked like someone he used to know. He’d pulled me into his lap and flicked my forehead. “Are you method acting? A stand-in? I don’t do knockoffs, Elara.” Pushing my luck, I asked if there was anyone else. He scoffed. “Do I look like I have the time?” His answer had made me ridiculously happy for weeks. Maybe Julian didn’t truly love me. Maybe it was just novelty, or maybe he was just too lazy to find someone new. It didn’t matter. At least for the time we were together, there was no one else. I could live without being loved. I could even live without being his final choice. But I couldn’t live without my last shred of dignity. 6 With the storm of negative press, a variety show appearance I had scheduled was canceled. I was now holed up in my hotel room, genuinely afraid to go out. The vitriol online was terrifying. Two years ago, I played a brilliant but unhinged villain. The character was beautiful and psychotic, and I portrayed her so convincingly that people online joked I wasn’t even acting. I never imagined someone would take it so seriously. While my leg was in a cast from a minor set injury, a so-called “fan” ambushed me and threw a hornet’s nest at me, trying to disfigure me. Julian got to me just in time. He tore off his own thousand-dollar bespoke suit jacket, set it on fire, and used the smoke to drive the hornets away. I shook my head, trying to force the memory away. Why did I keep thinking about him? I checked my phone. Missed calls, texts. All of them were from friends, offering support and encouragement. Not a single one was from Julian. Then it hit me. I’d blocked him. Every possible way he could reach me. I tossed my phone aside, angry at myself. He’s Julian Archer. If he really wanted to find me, he could. He just didn’t care enough. Sitting by the window, I felt like a mess of contradictions. I knew it was impossible, but a part of me still clung to hope. I always felt like… he had to like me, at least a little. After all, he was the one who, on a night when the world was celebrating with family, had shown up on my doorstep, covered in snow, just to be with me. It was our first Christmas together. My schedule was packed, so I couldn’t go home. I was alone in the penthouse. On Christmas Eve, I was drifting off to sleep when I heard the front door open. I shot up in bed, grabbed a heavy table lamp, and crept into the hallway. Julian stood in the foyer, snowflakes still melting on his shoulders. He saw the lamp in my hand and raised an eyebrow. “Is this your idea of a warm holiday welcome?” I dropped the lamp and launched myself into his arms. I wanted to ask why he was here, but I knew he wouldn’t want to hear the question. So I changed my words. “How is it that you always appear right when I’m thinking of you?” He scooped me up and carried me toward the bedroom, his voice a low tease in my ear. “Show me exactly where you were thinking of me.” Outside, the winter wind howled. Inside, the air grew thick and warm. Later, when he came out of the shower, I was already half-asleep. Through the haze of drowsiness, I felt him slip a thick envelope under my pillow, and then his lips pressed against my forehead. “Merry Christmas, Elara.” It was the first Christmas I’d spent away from my parents, but I hadn’t been lonely at all. 7 I stayed in the hotel for three days. I was about to venture out for some supplies when another text from Carla sent me scurrying back into hiding. The news about me hitting Jenna was still raging, and now, a new story had been thrown on the fire. Mr. Finch, the director I’d stabbed, had come forward. He claimed I’d tried to seduce him for a role, but then dumped him when I’d landed a bigger fish. He didn’t dare name my new patron, but he painted a detailed picture of how his career had been systematically destroyed for years, backing it up with a mix of truths and half-lies. Carla was at her wit’s end. This was a fire she couldn’t put out on her own. “Elara, please,” she begged over the phone. “Can’t you just call Mr. Archer? Swallow your pride? This is nothing for him. He could make this disappear with a snap of his fingers.” I fell silent, a lump forming in my throat. This kind of baseless slander had surfaced before, but it was always snuffed out before it could gain traction. This time, it was an inferno. “He won’t help me anymore,” I said, my voice low. “He’s getting married. Me breaking things off is exactly what he wanted.” Carla sighed. “If we can’t get this under control, you might not work again for a very long time.” “It’s okay, Carla. I’ll post a statement in a bit. People can believe it or not. I’m done trying to prove myself.” “Thank you for everything these past few years. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.” She tried to comfort me, but I knew the situation was dire. I scrolled through the comments. They were brutal. [How has this trashy actress not been blacklisted yet? It’s disgusting.] [I knew she was sleeping her way to the top. There’s no way she got where she is with that joke of an acting ability.] [Looks like her sugar daddy got tired of her. Where is he now?] [I’m so curious who her patron is. He must be blind to have picked her.] [Didn’t they say he had an old flame he never got over? She was probably just the other woman.] [I heard her dad is some crooked contractor. Like father, like daughter.] A few lone voices tried to defend me, but they were quickly drowned in the tsunami of hate. I opened my social media app and started typing. Hello everyone, this is Elara Christian. I apologize for taking up public attention with my personal issues, but as this situation has escalated, I hope you can take a moment to understand the truth. First, regarding Director Finch, there was no seduction. There was no relationship. When I was new to this industry, I was tricked into a predatory contract. My agent at the time forced me to attend parties, and Mr. Finch attempted to assault me. I defended myself with a piece of broken glass and escaped. He didn’t give up on preying on young women; he just moved on to others. I know of at least two other girls I personally helped get away from him. I’m not saying this for praise, only so you know what kind of man he is. To the women I helped: you don’t need to speak up for me. No one should have to relive that kind of trauma. Second, please direct any and all malice toward me. Do not involve my family. They have done nothing to any of you. If you continue to spread lies, I sincerely hope every ugly word you type comes back to you. Finally, I was never a mistress. I was never a stand-in. And we are no longer together. Thank you for reading. I posted the carefully worded statement and then turned off my phone. Leaning against the cool glass of the bay window, I felt a profound exhaustion settle over me, even though I had done nothing at all.

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I went back to the day he confessed to me. He was lounging on the sofa, one leg casually crossed over the other, a newly lit cigarette dangling from his fingers. His gaze swept lazily across the room before landing on the figure huddled in the corner. “Her, then.” In the sudden silence, his voice was pitched just right—not too loud, not too soft—and dripping with casual indifference. “Hey. I like you.” And just like that, I was back in that moment. 1. The private lounge was a chaotic blur of noise and flashing lights, the air thick with the cloying mix of smoke and spilled liquor. “Alright, everyone, quiet down! Time for Jason’s dare!” A buzz-cut guy from the card table stood up, holding a card aloft. He read from it dramatically, “Find any woman in this room…” He paused, his voice climbing with excitement, “and confess your love to her!” “Damn, Jason only lost one round and the dare is this intense?” “But his actual target isn’t even here. Who’s he supposed to confess to?” A murmur rippled through the room. Amidst the chaos, the boy on the sofa remained the sole point of stillness, leaning back with a lazy grace and lighting a cigarette as if he were the only one there. “Jason, shouldn’t you wait for Lana…” He lifted his gaze just slightly, and the room fell silent. The jokes, the whispers, the arguments—all of it evaporated. It was as if he couldn’t even be bothered to fully open his eyes. His gaze drifted for a second before settling, with deliberate carelessness, on the darkest corner of the room. “Her, then.” He tilted his chin, his voice a familiar, lazy drawl that was laced with a flippant sort of cruelty. “Hey. I like you.” I was back. 2. At eighteen, Jason was all sharp angles and defiant eyes. Every move he made radiated a kind of reckless charm. Our eyes met across the dimly lit room, and in that instant, mine filled with tears. “Jason, man, I don’t know about this…” No one had expected him to end the game so quickly, so carelessly. And no one had expected him to choose me as the “lucky” one. The guy with the buzz cut, Finn, lowered his voice. “Dude, that’s Lana’s sister. It’s not cool.” Tonight was Lana Monroe’s eighteenth birthday party. Everyone at Crestwood High knew she was in love with Jason. The whole night had been building towards their big moment; everyone assumed he’d use the dare to finally ask her out. No one saw this coming. Finn glanced at me and saw the tears welling in my eyes. He flinched. “She’s a good kid… Look, you made her cry.” Jason had already looked away, the cigarette halfway to his lips. At Finn’s words, he froze, his gaze snapping back to me. A slight frown creased his brow, and the air around him grew colder, as if my inability to take a joke had personally offended him. The silence stretched. Finn was scratching his head, about to try and smooth things over, when I finally found my voice, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Say it again.” I stared straight at him, my tone unwavering, though my voice trembled. “I didn’t hear you. Say it again.” 3. At seventeen, I was a walking bundle of insecurities—shy, sensitive, and a loner, but with a fierce, fragile pride. I was the kind of girl who could disappear into a crowd. But because my sister was Lana, I was always being watched. The Monroes were real estate tycoons in Crestwood. Lana was my opposite in every way: stunningly beautiful, effortlessly charming, born for the spotlight. I was their adopted daughter, brought in to be her playmate. Lana had a wide circle of friends and loved to party, and she always dragged me along. To everyone else, I was just Lana’s shadow. She was always telling me to lighten up, to make some friends, but she never understood how much I hated those scenes. My quiet awkwardness only served to highlight her dazzling confidence. On her eighteenth birthday, I did what I always did: I found a dark corner and tried to become invisible, praying for the night to end. Until Jason looked at me. 4. I knew who Jason was. I knew all of Lana’s friends. He smoked, he drank, he cut class, he partied… he was the biggest degenerate of them all. A single, lazy glance from him was enough to make girls swoon. He treated affection like a game, thoughtless and cruel, embodying every single trait I despised in teenage boys. Someone like me, crippled by insecurity, could only burn with a silent, helpless rage. I was so focused on my own humiliation that I didn’t notice the cigarette slip from his fingers and fall to the floor. Back then, I hated Jason. But now, I wanted a fresh start with him. 5. If Jason confessing to me was a shock, me demanding he do it again was an earthquake. Who dared to speak to Jason with that kind of command in their voice? Especially me, the girl who barely spoke at all. An awkward silence fell over the room, broken only when the door swung open. A collective sigh of relief went through the crowd. It was Lana, back from schmoozing in the next lounge. “Well, well, why the sudden silence?” she asked, her red lips curved into a smile as she sauntered toward the card table in her high heels. “What are you guys playing?” Finn, still holding the dare card, quickly handed it to her. “Lana, you’re back just in time! I lost again, and I was trying to figure out which girl to hit on for my dare.” He made a goofy heart shape with his hands. “Lana, I love you!” The room erupted in laughter and jeers, the tension finally breaking. “Sorry, sweetie, but I’ve already got my eye on someone,” Lana said, her smile bright and confident as she walked over to Jason. “Jason. Be my boyfriend.” He had already looked away before she even reached him. His eyes were downcast as he stubbed out the untouched cigarette in the ashtray. His voice, stripped of its usual laziness, was low and deep. “Not interested.” 6. “Oh, well. Let me know when you are.” Lana just shrugged, completely unfazed by the stares, and rallied everyone to start another game. The room filled with noise again. I took one last, long look at Jason and slipped out of the lounge unnoticed. Outside, the street was a river of traffic and neon lights. I stood under the bus stop sign, lost in thought. In my past life, Jason and I had crossed paths a few times. We ended up at the same university, in different programs. He always seemed to show up right when I needed help, but I just assumed he was doing it as a favor to my sister and tried to avoid him. He grew up a lot over those years, and I eventually shed some of my insecurities. There were moments when I wondered… but after that night, he never once told me he liked me. Not even at the end, when he lay bleeding out to save me, all he could manage was a weak smile. “Don’t cry…” I was lost in the memory when a shadow fell over me. “Can’t the good girl take a joke?” It was Jason, a cocky smirk on his face. I looked up, and the smirk vanished. “You’re… crying?” I blinked, tears streaming down my face. For a second, eighteen-year-old Jason blurred with the twenty-two-year-old version. His voice softened, a hint of panic in it. “Don’t cry…” 7. The eighteen-year-old Jason didn’t know how to comfort anyone. His voice was softer, but his face was tense, his eyes dark and stormy. When my tears kept falling, he kicked the bus stop sign in frustration. The sudden noise startled me, and I stopped crying, staring at him in shock. Jason glared at me for a second, then turned his back, shoving his hands in his pockets. His entire posture radiated a tense, frustrated energy. He looked genuinely menacing. “So you think I took advantage of you?” he snapped, his voice rough with irritation. “Fine. I’ll let you get me back. What are you crying for?” I stared at his back, dazed. “How?” I asked quietly. A long moment passed before his voice came back, feigning nonchalance. “…How about you confess to me to make it even?” 8. The night breeze felt cold as it swirled in the space between us. I was silent. I could feel the tension in his rigid back, and my heart ached. I forced a small laugh, changing the subject. “Do you have a tissue?” I tried to wipe my face, but my hands were slick with tears. I was shocked at what a mess I was. I was about to use my sleeve when a pair of hands cupped my face, their warmth startling. Jason leaned in close, the rough pads of his thumbs gently brushing away my tears. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Tissues are dirty,” he mumbled, as if that explained everything. I stared at him, at his completely serious expression, and found it oddly amusing. I sniffled. “You smell like smoke,” I said, my own attempt at deflection. His hands stilled. He curled his fingers slightly, and when he continued, his touch was impossibly gentle, a delicate dance between tenderness and caution. He lifted his gaze just enough to meet mine, his voice dropping to a husky rasp. “You like guys who don’t smoke?” From my upturned angle, I could see the streetlight reflecting in his pupils, tiny fragments of light that burned straight through me. This time, it was my turn to look away. I didn’t know… I didn’t know if the Jason of four years from now still smoked. I didn’t know why he had been so good to me. I didn’t know when he had started to like me… I knew nothing about him. My entire understanding of Jason was built on a foundation of prejudice. 9. Jason took me home that night. I had a dream, a memory from my freshman year of college. I was taking a bus from campus to the suburbs. Just as the doors were closing, Jason appeared out of nowhere and squeezed on. The bus was packed. I was clinging to a pole, trying to make myself as small as possible. The bus lurched to a stop, and the person in front of me stumbled back, sending me falling backward… Directly into Jason’s chest. Looking up and seeing his face, I panicked more than if I’d hit the floor. “S-sorry.” I tried to pull away, but he reached out, gripping the seats on either side of me and trapping me in a cage of his arms. He leaned down. “That scared of me?” I said nothing, just turned my head away. He straightened up. “Where are you headed?” I mumbled my answer, my eyes on the floor. “Out of the city.” I was running an errand for a professor, fact-checking an article with an interviewee. “You want to be a journalist?” I was surprised he knew. “Yeah.” I thought I heard him chuckle. “A quiet journalist is kind of an oxymoron, don’t you think?” I didn’t answer. I took it as a slight, another black mark against his name in my mental ledger. When I got off the bus, I glanced back. The bus wasn’t crowded anymore, but he was still standing in the same spot, staring at me through the window. His gaze was so intense it scared me. I turned and walked away as fast as I could. 10. I never wondered where Jason had been going that day. I never questioned why a guy who drove a Porsche to campus was riding a city bus. But last night, sitting on that bus, I asked him directly, “Do you know my name?” “Maya.” “Yeah,” I said, my voice tinged with self-deprecating humor. “Maya. As in, ‘Maybe I’m not wanted.’” “Just a friendly tip,” I continued, the words feeling reckless, “next time you confess to someone, you should probably use their name. ‘Hey’ isn’t very sincere.” My palms were sweating. I didn’t dare look at him. I just leaned my head against the cool glass of the window and pretended to sleep. I was twenty-one now, I told myself. I wasn’t that timid, insecure girl anymore. I was still quiet, but I had found my voice in my work, becoming a promising young journalist before I even graduated. I had investigated countless stories, always searching for the objective truth. And now, my subject was Jason. I must have drifted off for real, but I was awake when he gently lifted my head and rested it on his shoulder. I heard his voice, a soft murmur from just above me. “It’s for ‘the rest of my life.’” 11. As the first semester of senior year drew to a close, Jason was still cutting class like it was his job. I waited for days, but I never saw him at school. I did, however, hear the rumors. Jason had brutally rejected some girl who confessed to him, practically knocking her over. Jason had dropped a fortune at some downtown bar, spending an absurd amount in one night. Jason this, Jason that… It was always the same old stories, the same ones that had fueled my prejudice against him before. “I just saw Jason in the alley behind the school,” someone whispered. “He’s with that crew from the vocational school… I think they’re about to fight.” I froze, then grabbed my backpack and bolted for the exit. By the time I reached the alley, Jason was just landing a clean punch, knocking the other crew’s leader to the ground. He calmly stepped back as the two groups descended into a chaotic brawl. He leaned against the brick wall, his hand slipping into his pocket as if to pull something out, then stopping. I suspected he was reaching for a cigarette but changed his mind. Perhaps because that was the moment he looked up and saw me standing at the mouth of the alley. 12. We stared at each other for a few seconds. Then, he turned and started walking down a side path. Without thinking, I ran after him. “Jason!” At the sound of my voice, he stiffened but walked even faster. I picked up my pace, panicked, and promptly tripped over my own feet. I was about to eat dirt when a strong pair of arms caught me, and I slammed into his chest with enough force to make him grunt. I looked up. We spoke at the same time. “Why are you running?” “…” I untangled myself from his arms. “I heard you were fighting, so I came to see.” “Nothing to see here.” I tilted my head. “It’s the first time I’ve seen you like this. It’s…” I paused, meeting his gaze, which was a mixture of anxiety and feigned indifference. I smiled. “It’s actually kind of cool.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward. He quickly looked away, clearing his throat. “Hmph.” “But Jason,” I asked, my voice sincere, “don’t you have classes to attend?” “…” By the time Jason’s friends finished their fight and found us, I was pressing a thick stack of notebooks into his hands. I looked at him with the gravity of someone entrusting their last will and testament. “Jason, these are my notes for every subject. Take them and study hard, okay?” His hand, clutching the notebooks, was so tight his knuckles were white. His face cycled through shades of red and pale. His friends, peeking around the corner, quickly ducked back. “Dude,” one of them whispered loudly, “you can’t hit a girl!” I saw his eyelid twitch. “It took me three all-nighters to make these,” I added. He forced the word through gritted teeth. “…Fine.” 13. I pressed my advantage, inviting him to study with me at the library the next evening. He agreed, probably out of sheer resignation. The next day, I checked to make sure he was actually at school. Satisfied, I packed a few extra practice exams to bring to the library. He hadn’t arrived yet, but I ran into my deskmate, Mike. Mike was the class genius. He was always number one; I was always number two. He was quiet and studious, just like me. People used to gossip that we were a couple of nerds made for each other. He was one of the only classmates I ever really talked to, mostly about difficult homework problems. “Maya,” he called out. I walked over. He pointed to a reading comprehension passage on an English test. My English was better than his, and I was grateful for all the times he’d helped me with physics, so I sat down next to him and explained it. The passage was about high school romance. After we finished, Mike suddenly asked, “What do you think about dating in high school?” “I’ve never really thought about it.” “People say if you don’t date in high school, it’s harder to find someone later… Are you waiting for college?” “Yeah. I’ll think about it in college.” “Are you applying to Avington University?” “Yeah.” Mike smiled. “I’m applying there too.” “Good luck,” I said earnestly. As the words left my mouth, I froze. This exact scene, this exact conversation… it had happened in my past life. Back then, after I’d spoken, I had looked up and seen Jason standing by a nearby bookshelf, watching me with an unreadable expression. Not long after that, rumors started flying that Jason had suddenly started studying, his grades skyrocketing. I felt like I was grasping something important. I whipped my head up. Jason was leaning against the bookshelf, his gaze even darker and more inscrutable than I remembered. Before I could decipher his expression, he turned and walked away.

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1 A searing pain tore through my gut, and everything went black. I checked my phone, then the fruit stand ahead. After a split-second hesitation, I rushed over, started a livestream, and began frantically shoving mangoes into my mouth. The chat exploded: Is this guy insane? Look at the owner’s face! What a way to go viral! Viewers spiked. Someone called the police as I counted down. Ten minutes later, I collapsed on cue, foaming at the mouth. In my past life, I was framed for raping and murdering a student. My girlfriend Mia gave police a video of me dragging the girl inside. My own parents testified they heard screams from my room. That sealed it. Twenty years in prison, I never understood why. They welcomed me home with a feast—then I woke as a ghost, reading the headline: Evan Cross, Guilty, Commits Suicide. When I opened my eyes, I was back. Back to the night of the frame-up. Fine. If they wanted a criminal, they’d get one—with an ironclad alibi. I’d eat my way into the ER. Let’s see them frame me now. The moment I lost consciousness, the live chat went from mockery to alarm. Is he allergic? This isn’t a joke! Swollen lips, trouble breathing, hives breaking out all over… that’s anaphylactic shock! Somebody call 911! The fruit stand owner’s anger had morphed into stunned horror. He took a step back, holding his hands up as if to ward off a ghost. Sticky, yellow juice covered my hands, the taste in my mouth a cloying mix of sweet and bitter. Only one thought burned in my mind. Even if I die, I’m dragging every last person who wronged me down to hell with me. The wail of the ambulance siren was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. As the paramedics rushed toward me, the fruit stand owner grabbed my hand, his voice trembling. “Kid, whatever it is, it ain’t worth this. If you die, I’ll never sell another mango in my life!” His words were a punch to the gut. It was a complete stranger, a man I’d met only moments ago, who showed me this kindness. The irony was suffocating. I gripped his hand back, my voice a desperate rasp. “Sir, please… can you keep the stream running? All the way to the hospital?” In the chaos, unnoticed, I slipped a small paring knife from his stand into my pocket. The chat was a mix of advice and scorn. Don’t get stuck with his medical bills, old man! It’s not worth it! That owner has the worst luck in the world. Wait… isn’t that my coworker? Evan? He’s the quietest guy I know. What the hell is going on? Seeing that comment, a sharp pang shot through my chest. It was tragically funny. In my last life, the only people who ever believed in my innocence were my colleagues. I’d been arrested right after work that day, expecting to be released quickly. But then my father came to visit me in the holding cell. His first words were, “Just confess, Evan.” “Son, don’t be stubborn,” he’d said, his face a mask of weary disappointment. “As your father, I can’t cover for you any longer.” I had stared at him, completely bewildered. The lead detective on the case, a man named Miller, was a pillar of righteousness. He’d grabbed me by the collar, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “You animal. Do you have any idea she was just eighteen? She had just gotten into college.” The evidence against me was impossibly perfect. Mia had even provided a video she claimed showed me kidnapping the victim. The fruit stand owner hesitated now, looking at the phone in his hand. I clutched it tighter, turning my frantic gaze on the approaching paramedics. “If you don’t let me keep streaming, I’m not going to the hospital!” I screamed. Two of them moved to restrain me, but I didn’t hesitate. I pulled the paring knife from my pocket, my eyes wild with resolve. “You come any closer, and I’ll kill myself right here!” The live chat erupted. WHOA! What the hell happened to this guy? He looks… desperate. That look in his eyes isn’t an act! He’s completely lost it. My coworker Evan is about to get married, he has a house, a car… why would he be doing this? Fruit Stand Owner’s internal monologue: Oh god, that’s my knife! A police car screeched to a halt. The man who stepped out made my blood run cold. Detective Miller. He strode forward, his brow furrowed with a mixture of concern and authority. “Son,” he said, his voice firm but patient. “Whatever’s going on, we can solve it. Don’t do something you can’t take back.” The familiar words sent a shiver down my spine. The live chat fell silent. In my past life, this was the man who had personally locked me away. The fruit stand owner rushed forward. “Kid, I’ll do it! I’ll stream for you! Just please, put the knife down!” Every eye was on me. Clutching the phone in one hand and the knife in the other, I spoke, my voice shaking. “I don’t trust anyone. Stream this. All the way to the hospital.” The viewership had swelled to twenty million people. The owner nodded, taking the phone. I finally let them help me onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. The chat was already buzzing with conspiracy theories. On the way to the hospital, the police identified me and contacted my parents. My phone rang. It was my father. The fruit stand owner held the phone up for me, and I nodded. “Evan, you are a complete disappointment,” my father’s voice boomed, cold and hard. “You might as well just die in that hospital. Making a scene like this… do you have any respect for me at all?” He didn’t wait for a response. “I’m telling you right now, you get online and you apologize to everyone, or you’re not welcome in this house ever again.” He hung up. The chat was divided. Some praised my father for his strict morals; others called him heartless. Detective Miller, riding with us in the ambulance, muttered under his breath, “That’s one hell of a father.” His words reached me. I turned to look at him, the truth a burning coal in my throat. But who would believe me? The man in that video looked exactly like me. The police themselves had verified it wasn’t a fake. And my own parents had corroborated the story. What kind of parents would frame their own son? Miller caught my gaze, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. I thought of the girl, the one who had just started college. I dredged up the hazy memories of that night and beckoned him closer with a finger. I leaned in and whispered a few words in his ear. Miller shot up so fast his head hit the roof of the ambulance. His face was a mask of grim seriousness. “Are you telling me the truth?” I nodded. This time, let’s see how they frame me now. I lay in a hospital bed, the steady drip of the IV a metronome marking the time. The chat was filled with comments of “Boring,” “Just another clout-chaser,” “Epic fail.” But I had what I needed: twenty million witnesses. Then, I saw the time on my phone’s lock screen. 8:31 PM. The time was a recurring nightmare. In the video, that’s when it all began. “I” dragged the girl through the door, started tearing at her clothes, spewing vile obscenities. If I’d had more time after being reborn, I wouldn’t have resorted to such a desperate measure. My parents never came. Mia never came. The fruit stand owner, who had stayed with me, looked increasingly grim. “Kid,” he said, trying to comfort me, “maybe they’re just caught up with something. Don’t overthink it. What do you want to eat?” Yeah, right. Right up until the moment they poisoned me, I had foolishly believed they were being threatened, that it was all some grand conspiracy to protect them. But after they fed me the poison, they had my body cremated immediately and fed the media a story about my suicide. “You can turn off the stream now,” I told him. As he fumbled with the phone, it rang. He answered, and a sharp voice cut through the speaker. “This is Detective Miller. Is Evan Cross awake? Put him on.” He knew. He must have been watching the stream. I ignored the phone and looked directly into the camera lens, a small, cryptic smile on my face. “Detective Miller, I think you’re wondering how I knew what I told you. You’ll have your answer in a few days.” I ended the livestream, leaving a torrent of questions and accusations in the chat. The phone call was still connected. Miller’s voice was tight with suppressed fury. “If you knew this was going to happen, why didn’t you stop it? She was only eighteen—” “Her whole life was just beginning,” I finished for him, my voice eerily calm. It was the exact phrase he’d used on me, over and over, during my interrogation. My life had just been beginning too. I’d just paid off my mortgage and car loans. I was about to propose to Mia. And then they all betrayed me and threw me in a cage for twenty years. Even then, I never blamed them. I came out wanting nothing more than to live a quiet life with my family. I never imagined they wanted me dead. “Detective,” I said softly, my eyes starting to burn, “today is my birthday.” I hung up and looked at the fruit stand owner. “Sir, I’d really like a bowl of noodles.” He jumped to his feet, ready to run out and buy them, but then he sat back down, pulled out his phone, and handed it to me. “Here. Order whatever you want. It’s on me. I hope from now on, you don’t face any more hurdles you can’t overcome.” Last time, I was so busy with work that I didn’t even remember my birthday until the next day. Four days later, I was arrested. The light in the hospital room was dim, but for the first time, it felt like a light was finally dawning on my own life. The fruit stand owner watched me eat, his eyes glistening. “My daughter,” he said, his voice thick with pride and sorrow, “she just got into college this year. She’s out there delivering for DoorDash to save me some money.” The girl who died… she had been delivering food to earn money too. It couldn’t be a coincidence. “She’s a better person than me,” I said, my voice gentle. “Brave and thoughtful.” Late that night, after the IV was finished, I went home. The fruit stand owner had left in a hurry after a phone call, but not before I managed to stuff all the cash I had on me into his pocket. I opened the door. The apartment was clean and tidy, just like last time. Mia was in bed, stirring as I entered. “What took you so long?” she murmured sleepily. “You must be exhausted.” She wrapped her arms around me. My body went rigid. I couldn’t close my eyes. This was the woman whose video had cost me twenty years of my life. I leaned down and kissed her forehead, just like I always did, then went to the bathroom to shower. What now? Later, as her steady breathing filled the room, I took her phone. Under the cover of darkness, I slipped out and went to my best friend Leo’s house. I burst in and handed him the phone. “I need you to back up everything on this to my cloud drive,” I said, my words tumbling out in a rush. “Then install a tracker on it for me.” Leo rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Evan? What’s the rush? Did Mia cheat on you or something?” I ignored the question. “Five thousand dollars. If you can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can.” “I’m on it, I’m on it!” He got to work while I crashed on his couch. Around five in the morning, I took the phone and headed back, picking up breakfast for Mia on the way. Leo’s words echoed in my head. “Dude, I checked everything. There’s nothing weird on there. Don’t be paranoid.” The next few days passed in a tense, quiet haze. I lived in a state of constant dread, but I also wrote a will and had it notarized. Upon my death, all my assets are to be donated to charity. On the fifth day, I was at work when he arrived. Detective Miller, in full uniform, approached my desk, his expression conflicted. “Evan Cross, you’re a suspect in a rape and murder investigation. You need to come with us.” I calmly held out my hands to be cuffed. My coworkers stared, a few of them shrinking back in fear. After the mango incident, I was lucky my boss hadn’t fired me on the spot. Miller seemed to notice their reactions. He glanced at my manager’s name tag. “Mr. Davis, just so you know, we’re bringing him in for questioning. It doesn’t mean he’s guilty.” It was something he never said in my past life. The city blurred past the windows of the police car. I calmly recounted to Miller everything my parents and Mia would say, every piece of “evidence” they would provide. “Detective,” I said, “I have an idea. We can’t figure out why they’re framing me, right? So why don’t we put on a show? Livestream the whole interrogation. Maybe the real killer is watching.” They all knew I had an ironclad alibi for that night. And they knew Mia’s video was also considered solid evidence. It was a paradox. Miller agreed. As soon as I stepped out of the car at the station, a hand cracked across my face. It was my father, his voice trembling with rage. “You animal! I raised you to be a man, not this!” He grabbed my ear, forcing me to look away from him. “Confess right now and beg for the victim’s forgiveness!” I followed his gaze, and my blood ran cold. The man standing there… it was the fruit stand owner. But in my last life, I never once met the victim’s family. He looked at me, his expression unreadable. The fists clenched at his sides slowly relaxed. He stepped forward, placing himself between me and my father. The official police department livestream had just gone live, and the chat was already a chaotic mess. The Mango Man saga continues? Why are they at a police station? HOLY SHIT, this stream is from an official government account! Is it just me or does the fruit stand owner look like he’s been crying for days? Did the kid trash his stand again? The moment my parents saw the cameras, they instinctively flinched away. “This case is full of contradictions,” Detective Miller announced, his voice carrying an official weight. “I do not believe Evan Cross is the killer. I can’t disclose the details at this time.” My mother pushed forward, her voice a dramatic wail. “Oh, the sin of it all! I heard the poor girl screaming that night! But I was a coward! I didn’t say anything, to protect my son!” Mia stepped up next to her, her face a mask of righteous fury. “Detective, are you really going to cover for this monster? You saw the video! He raped and killed that girl! He doesn’t deserve anyone’s forgiveness!” They were strangers to me. After living through it once, I was able to remain calm. I asked the question I never got to ask last time. “Mom, Dad, Mia… why are you framing me?” The live chat, swayed by their performance, turned on me. The screen filled with insults: “Maniac,” “Murderer,” “Sicko.” Miller cleared his throat. “The forensic analysis of the video is not yet complete. Furthermore…” I tugged on his sleeve, a small gesture that the viewers immediately misinterpreted as me having bribed him. The chat turned on him, too. They were even more confused when the fruit stand owner spoke up, his voice firm. “I believe Mr. Cross. There’s something else going on here.” The chat spiraled. Why were the detective and the victim’s father on my side? Just then, a man in a lab coat hurried out. “Detective Miller, the preliminary analysis is complete. The video is authentic.” The chat exploded with rage, demanding my immediate execution. But I only asked one question. “Mr. Technician, the video timestamp is 8:31 PM, five days ago, correct?” The technician, caught off guard, nodded. A connection sparked across the millions of viewers watching. The chat froze, then erupted. Five days ago? NO WAY! A person can’t be in two places at once! 8:30 PM? Mango Man was in the ER! I WATCHED THE WHOLE THING LIVE! I let a smirk touch my lips and turned to my family. “On the night in question, I was in the hospital having my stomach pumped for a severe allergic reaction to mangoes. So tell me, how could I have also been at home, raping and killing someone?” Panic flashed across their faces. It was fleeting, but the cameras caught it. My mother quickly recovered. “I heard my son’s voice with my own ears!” she insisted. “There’s no mistake! Do you think I would condemn my only son if I wasn’t sure?” My father snorted. “You probably went to the fruit stand a day later and staged the whole thing to create a fake alibi. Stop the act, Evan.” He turned to the police. “Officer, I’m telling you, the man I saw that night was him. I’ll swear to it.” Their words were designed to bury me. I glanced at my father. “Dad,” I said softly, “why don’t you check your call history? See what time you called me while I was in the hospital?” “You’ve been a liar your whole life! I don’t believe a word you say!” he shot back, turning away without even reaching for his phone. Mia stepped forward again. “Detective, the man in that video is absolutely him. Even the way he… moves… it’s exactly the same!” My breath hitched. To protect someone I didn’t even know, she would say something so intimate, so damning? Who the hell were they protecting? The chat was hooked, but some were starting to think critically. Could this guy have known this was coming? Is that why he staged that whole scene on that specific day? To create an alibi for a crime he knew he was going to be framed for? Holy crap, I think you’re right. But a person can’t be in two places at once. Someone is lying. Three possibilities: 1. The video is fake. 2. The parents and girlfriend are lying. 3. Aliens messed with the detective’s and the fruit stand owner’s memories. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth! Detective Miller looked past the young technician. “Dr. Albright,” he called out to an older man who had just arrived. “We need your expertise on this video.” He turned back to my family, his voice cold. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but a young woman is dead. I suggest you start telling the truth.” They knew we had no other evidence. They were confident. “Interfering with a judicial investigation and providing false testimony are serious crimes,” Miller added. I saw Mia flinch, but my mother grabbed her arm, her expression defiant. “I’m just an ordinary citizen doing my duty, providing evidence. What are you going to do to us?” She raised her voice, a ringing declaration of false piety. “If I’m lying, may I never rest in peace!” Her oath was like a knife in my back. Why would my own mother go this far? The chat was just as baffled. This is too weird. Are there two identical Evans? I started to wonder myself. But I was an only child. I always had been. In my past life, the one thing I could never understand was why, even after I’d served my time, they still felt the need to poison me. The key to this mystery had to be me. Dr. Albright, the senior forensic expert, emerged with his findings. He looked at Detective Miller and shook his head slightly. “The video is authentic, timestamped five days ago at 8:31 PM. No signs of digital manipulation or AI synthesis. Unless…” The entire chat, the room, the world, held its breath.

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I was saving a patient’s life when I cut through her bra with a pair of trauma shears. My fiancée, Monica, posted a video of me performing chest compressions online. “I know you’re saving a life,” she wrote, “but doesn’t the patient’s privacy matter? And your hands were all over her… As your fiancée, that makes me really uncomfortable.” The story blew up online. The hospital, wanting to avoid a PR nightmare, chose the path of least resistance. I was demoted, my entire annual bonus was docked, and a formal reprimand was placed in my file. After years of dedicating my life to saving people, I was being branded a pervert. So I gave up. I wouldn’t save another soul. And that’s when the whole hospital started to panic. 1 “George, this is a lesson for you,” Monica said, her arms crossed. “We’re getting married soon. Even if you’re a doctor, you need to show some respect for our relationship!” I just stared at her, at this woman I was about to marry. “Are you done?” Monica froze. “What kind of attitude is that? You still don’t think you did anything wrong?” “Whatever you say.” As the words left my mouth, I felt something essential between us shatter into a million pieces. Her face flushed crimson, as if I’d just slapped her. “Fine! ‘Whatever I say’? George, we’re through! This wedding is off!” She snatched her phone from the table, spun around, and stormed out. Dr. Matthews, the department head, scowled and tapped his pen on the desk. “Look at this mess you’ve made! Do you see how upset Monica is?” He slid a piece of paper toward me. “To contain the fallout, you’ll write a formal, detailed apology. You will read it aloud at the next hospital-wide assembly and admit to your inappropriate conduct.” I looked at him, saying nothing. His eyes darted away for a second before he regained his authoritative glare. “That’s an order, George. And it’s your only chance.” The next day, a notice of my disciplinary action was posted on the hospital’s internal network and on every bulletin board. The wording was severe. “Improper medical procedure.” “Lack of sufficient humanistic care for the patient.” “Dr. George Cole is hereby demoted, with forfeiture of his full annual performance bonus. This is to serve as a warning to all staff.” Every word felt like a public execution. Kevin, one of the interns, sent me a discreet text. “George, we all have your back. We know you were just trying to save her. But… you should probably lay low for a while. Dr. Matthews is on the warpath.” I switched off my phone. I could have guessed. Dr. Matthews’ nephew, Ryan, had just returned with a fancy fellowship degree from overseas and started at the hospital last week. The old man had been itching to promote him, to give him my position as an attending physician. Monica’s little drama had handed him the perfect excuse. I walked back to my desk and silently booted up my computer. I meticulously organized, printed, and compiled all the case files, surgical records, and post-op follow-up plans for every critical patient under my care. Then, I formatted the personal drive on my work computer, erasing years of my research data and draft papers. A week later, at the hospital-wide assembly, Dr. Matthews stood at the podium, his voice booming. “…and in light of Dr. Cole’s unprofessional conduct, the board has decided to revoke his status as an attending physician.” The auditorium was dead silent. “Now, please join me in giving a warm welcome to the newest member of our cardiothoracic surgery team, a brilliant mind joining us from his fellowship abroad, Dr. Ryan Matthews!” A young man in a crisp new lab coat, his hair slicked back with gel, stood up and gave the crowd a condescending nod. Dr. Matthews beamed at him. “Effective today, Dr. Ryan Matthews will be officially taking over all of Dr. Cole’s former duties.” I sat in the back corner, my face a mask of stone. Ryan sauntered over to my desk and rapped his knuckles on it. “Hey. Time to clear out your stuff.” His chin was tilted up, his expression a perfect blend of arrogance and disdain. “Your new spot is over there in the corner. Where the residents belong.” He leaned in. “Also, your work computer stays. I need to inspect it to make sure you’re not taking any sensitive department data with you.” I glanced up at him, didn’t say a word, and began packing the few personal items I kept at my desk. That didn’t seem to be enough for him. “Oh, and one more thing,” he added. “From now on, let’s try to maintain a certain level of professionalism in this department. A little less… back-alley medic, you know?” I paused and looked him straight in the eye. “In that case, perhaps you can enlighten me. What are the diagnostic criteria and differential points for Takotsubo cardiomyopathy?” Ryan’s smug expression faltered. He sputtered, “Well, that’s… obviously based on the specific EKG and echocardiogram findings… it’s a type of…” I’d already turned away. Realizing he’d made a fool of himself, he scoffed and stalked off. I thought back to three years ago, when the old hospital director had personally come to recruit me from the ICU at St. Jude’s Regional. He had gripped my hand and said, “George, come work with us. I’ll give you full autonomy. Your world-class CPR skills could save so many more lives here.” What a joke it all seemed now. As a resident, my workload was significantly lighter. I no longer participated in any emergency surgeries. I followed the resident’s protocol to the letter: rounds, charts, orders. I handed off my cases on time and clocked out the second my shift was over. Yesterday, a critical patient from a car wreck was brought in. A nurse, out of habit, yelled for me. I took one look at the monitor and told her calmly, “Find Dr. Ryan. He’s the attending on call.” “Dr. Ryan is in his office!” she said, her voice frantic. “He said he’s compiling important academic data!” I didn’t reply. I just walked out of the room. I no longer spent an extra minute on any critical patient. After work, for the first time in years, I didn’t go to the hospital library to review medical journals. I went to a fencing club. I suited up in the heavy protective gear, pulled on the helmet, and gripped the cold steel of the épée. I channeled all my rage and suffocating frustration into the sharp, clean lines of the duel. The next day, a file appeared in the department’s group chat, posted by Ryan. The title was: A Trial Initiative for the Optimization of Departmental Charting Standards in Alignment with Advanced International Medical Documentation Systems. It was a dozen-page PDF filled with convoluted charts and jargon, outlining a brand-new template for patient notes. It demanded that all medical terms be written out in their full, official names—no common abbreviations allowed—and added numerous new sections for data analysis and literature citations. The group chat went silent. A few seconds later, my phone exploded with private messages. “George, what the hell is this guy’s problem? He wants us to write a Ph.D. thesis for every patient chart?” “Is he insane? We’re treating people in America, not writing for some European journal. What’s with all this pretentious crap?” “During rounds today, he insisted a nurse say ‘cardiac pulsation frequency’ instead of ‘heart rate.’ It’s just making things more complicated for no reason!” “This isn’t about international standards; it’s about creating pointless busy work! By the time we finish one of his charts, the patient in the ER will be long dead!” “He’s a textbook doctor. All theory, no practice.” I saw Ryan’s condescending announcement in the chat and said nothing. An older colleague messaged me, asking what a few of the “standardized terminologies” even meant. I quietly explained them to him. Then I shut off my phone. My complete detachment and Ryan’s clueless micromanagement created a stark contrast in the department. I used to be the anchor. No matter how chaotic the emergency, everyone felt grounded when I was there. Now, every time a critical case came in, the ward devolved into panic and confusion. Ryan would just stand on the sidelines, barking orders using his new “standardized terms,” never getting his own hands dirty. The resentment among my colleagues was growing thicker by the day. People started whispering about how much they missed my efficiency and decisiveness. I knew what they were waiting for. They were waiting for a real crisis to erupt. I submitted my request for annual leave to Dr. Matthews. Thirty days. The full amount of vacation time I’d accrued over the past five years. His face darkened the moment he saw the form. “George, what is the meaning of this?” He crumpled the paper and threw it at me. “The department is short-staffed as it is. Are you taking this much time off just to spite me?” He lowered his voice, his tone laced with menace. “Don’t think you’re untouchable just because you’re a resident now. You have a long career ahead of you. Piss me off, and I have plenty of ways to make sure you never practice in this state again. You think a demotion is bad? Believe me, I can have you fired.” I said nothing. I just reached into my pocket, pulled out the report from my recent physical, and placed it on his desk. “Dr. Matthews, I’ve been experiencing cardiac arrhythmias. My doctor has advised complete rest.” My voice was calm, almost serene. “Long-term, high-stress work isn’t good for the heart. As a senior physician, you understand that better than anyone.” He snatched the report, his face shifting from red to pale as he scanned it. He couldn’t find a single thing to argue against. “Hmph!” he grunted, grabbing a pen and angrily scrawling his signature on my leave request. As I turned to leave, Monica appeared, clinging to Ryan’s arm. “Well, well, if it isn’t Dr. Cole,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Couldn’t handle a little setback, so you’re running away?” Ryan puffed out his chest. “Some people just don’t have the mental fortitude. Back where I trained, people like him would have washed out on day one.” “Don’t think the department can’t function without you,” Monica added, her eyes flashing. “Ryan is ten times the doctor you’ll ever be. He’s a true professional.” I didn’t even bother to look at them as I walked out of the office. Sarah, the head nurse, caught me at the end of the hall. “George.” She pressed an apple into my hand. “You remember that woman you saved the other day? The one from the video?” I nodded. “She’s the only daughter of the CEO of Orion Corporation. He sent someone to ask about you. He wanted to thank you personally.” Sarah sighed. “But Dr. Matthews intercepted them. He said it was a departmental success, all thanks to Dr. Ryan’s brilliant leadership.” She shook her head. “You’re just too damn honest, George. You never fight for yourself.” I just nodded, thinking, You have no idea what kind of trouble you’ve invited. I settled into my seat on the train back to my hometown. Just as it pulled out of the station, my phone rang. It was Kevin, the intern, and he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. “George! It’s bad! Something terrible has happened!” “The CEO of Orion Corporation—he had a massive heart attack! He’s here, in our ICU!” My stomach dropped. “Ryan’s the attending. He saw the EKG, knows it’s a major MI, but the CEO has a rare drug allergy, and Ryan’s too scared to use the standard thrombolytics!” “He’s just been staring at his tablet, looking up research papers, mumbling about ‘evidence-based medicine,’ but he won’t make a decision! He’s afraid to risk an emergency angioplasty, so now he’s trying to get the family to sign transfer papers!” Kevin’s voice cracked. “George, it’s a STEMI! Every minute counts! How can he even think about transferring him?” Before I could answer, another call came in. Dr. Matthews. I hung up on Kevin and answered. Matthews’ voice was a raw, unfiltered roar. “George! You get your ass back here right now! If anything happens to the CEO of Orion, I’ll make sure you regret it for the rest of your life!” I held the phone away from my ear until he was done screaming. Then, I replied calmly. “Dr. Matthews, first, I am currently on approved medical leave. Second, I am only a resident. I have neither the qualifications nor the authority to handle a patient of this magnitude. Isn’t your esteemed, foreign-trained Dr. Ryan the expert you have on hand for precisely these kinds of complex cases?” Then I hung up. A new text from Kevin popped up, laced with pure panic. “George, the CEO’s condition worsened in the ambulance! His heart stopped for a minute! The family is losing their minds. They called the hospital president directly, threatening to sue us into oblivion!” “The whole hospital is in lockdown! The president, the VPs, they’re all down in our department!” Another message followed. “Dr. Matthews is spreading a rumor that you intentionally hid the CEO’s allergy records to make Ryan look bad. He’s telling everyone you knew about the special case and kept it secret to sabotage him!” I stared at the screen and let out a cold laugh. The man was a master of shifting blame. As if that wasn’t enough, things got worse. Another critical patient in the ICU, one who’d just had bypass surgery, suddenly went into ventricular fibrillation. The monitors shrieked. Kevin’s live commentary continued via text. “Ryan is fumbling with the defibrillator! He’s shocked the patient multiple times, but there’s no response! He even set the energy levels wrong! A nurse tried to correct him, and he screamed at her!” “Sarah is saying they need to put the patient on ECMO immediately! It’s the last hope!” ECMO. Extracorporeal membrane oxygenation. The multi-million dollar, state-of-the-art machine our department imported from Germany. The ultimate lifeline. “Ryan is trying to start the ECMO, but it’s failing! The alarm keeps going off!” Sarah was shouting, “The startup sequence and calibration parameters for this machine are specific! Only Dr. Cole knows them inside and out! He’s the only one who ever operates it! Don’t touch it!” Ryan shoved her aside. “I’ve used these machines all over Europe! The principles are the same! What does a nurse know?” “The previous parameters must have been set wrong! They don’t meet the latest international standards!” He forced a system reboot and tried to directly modify the core operating parameters. “George, oh my God! The ECMO is smoking!” Following Ryan’s ham-fisted attempt, the main console let out a piercing screech. The screen flashed violently and went black. A foul smell of burnt plastic filled the ICU. The multi-million dollar lifeline was dead. Two critical patients: one’s golden hour for treatment squandered, leaving him knocking on death’s door. The other’s last chance for survival gone, his EKG about to flatline. The sounds of families crying and screaming, mixed with the piercing wail of the monitors, turned the entire cardiothoracic unit into a scene from a nightmare. The hospital president’s face went white. He looked like he was about to faint. With a trembling hand, he called the ECMO manufacturer’s technical support line in Germany. The German engineer on the other end, in heavily accented English, regretfully informed him that their nearest technician was in Europe. It would take at least two days for them to fly over. A suffocating despair settled over the room. Just as the president was about to hang up, the engineer added one more thing. “Perhaps you could contact the team of Professor Langdon, who helped us with the initial on-site calibration. I recall he had a brilliant protégé… a young doctor with the last name Cole. I believe he works at your hospital.” The president’s hand froze in mid-air. He whipped his head around, his eyes locking onto Dr. Matthews. The color drained from Matthews’ face, leaving it a ghastly, corpselike white. He knew better than anyone. The brilliant protégé of Dr. Langdon, the nation’s foremost authority in cardiopulmonary medicine… That doctor named Cole… Was me. The man he had personally destroyed, now sitting on a train, on vacation.

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My 71-year-old mom is trapped in her walk-up by severe rheumatism. She called hesitantly today, asking if I could help find her an elevator apartment—just a simple one-bedroom, maybe $800 a month. But my wife, Chloe, immediately pulled up our finances on her tablet. “You went $300 over budget on a tie last month, David. And now this?” It hit me: I earn a seven-figure salary, yet I can’t even buy a tie freely. Mom was already backtracking. “Don’t worry, it was just a thought. I’m used to it here.” I hung up, a knot tightening in my chest. I’m a partner at a top law firm. What part of this is difficult? The difficult part is my wife—a junior associate who appointed herself our “Chief Asset Allocation Officer” and controls every paycheck. 1 “Chloe, that’s my mother we’re talking about.” My voice was tight. “What’s eight hundred dollars to us?” She didn’t even look up from her spreadsheet. “David, familial sentiment cannot override the principles of sound asset allocation. Eight hundred dollars, multiplied by twelve months, is nine thousand, six hundred dollars. That represents a 0.096% fluctuation in our annual yield. Any expenditure outside the budget is a liability against our future.” She paused, tapping on an app and turning the tablet toward me. “Look. Last month, your unauthorized tie purchase caused the ‘Non-essential Lifestyle Goods’ category to exceed its budget by $312.50. This month, it’s rent for your mother. What about next month? Will you want to hire a full-time nurse for her?” I stared at the glaring red number, the sheer absurdity of it all making my head spin. Last month, I won a massive case. On my way home, I saw a tasteful tie in a boutique window. My others were getting frayed. I wanted a new one. It was that simple. That three-hundred-dollar tie was the only purchase I had made in six months without her explicit approval. I took a deep breath, fighting down the inferno rising in my gut. “I make twelve million dollars a year. My mother needs an eight-hundred-dollar apartment. Since when do I need your permission for that?” She smiled, but her eyes were sharp as shattered glass. “David, we are a married couple. Your income is marital property. And let’s not forget, three years ago you signed the Irrevocable Family Trust Agreement. I am the sole administrator of this family’s assets.” She added coolly, “Therefore, I am obligated to eliminate all irrational spending.” She closed the app and pulled a sleek, velvet box from a drawer. “Speaking of which, it’s my mother’s birthday next week. I used our joint account to order her a little something from Chanel. It’s already been logged under the ‘Familial Relations Maintenance’ category—a reasonable expense in service of a core objective.” The knot in my chest exploded. Eight hundred dollars for my mother’s rent was an irrational expense. A twenty-five-thousand-dollar handbag for hers was a reasonable one. My gaze hardened. “Chloe, is your risk management strategy exclusively designed to hedge against my family?” She sighed, as if explaining a complex theory to a child. “David, why can’t you understand? My mother’s social circle requires certain things to maintain her standing. Your mother is a retired factory worker. Living in an old, low-rise building is more… authentic for her. It’s better for her well-being.” With that, she stood up and poured me a glass of lukewarm water. “Let’s not fight. Go to bed early; you have that hearing tomorrow. Oh, and by the way, you’ve already used 87% of your credit card limit for the month. I’ve placed a temporary hold on the card to prevent any impulse buys. It will automatically reset on the first.” I held the glass, my fingertips numb and cold. 2 The next morning, I checked my mobile banking app. Every account in my name—salary, bonus, dividend—I tapped through them one by one. Each displayed the same insulting three-digit balance. On the first of every month, every cent I earned was automatically swept into a single “Family Trust Fund” account managed exclusively by Chloe. Any payment from that fund required her digital signature. I ordered breakfast delivery, only to find that my payment app had also been linked to her account. For any purchase over fifteen dollars, she received an alert. A new message popped up on my screen. It was from her. “Just have the oatmeal and coffee for breakfast. The French cruller platter is $18. Both the calories and the price are excessive.” I deleted the message. On the drive to the firm, I called my best friend, Marcus. Marcus is a shark of a divorce attorney, all sharp angles and brutal efficiency. After hearing me out, he exploded. “Are you fucking kidding me, David? You’re one of the best commercial litigators in the city, and you’re being played like this by a junior associate? What were you thinking when you signed that goddamn agreement? Did a donkey kick you in the head? That’s not a contract, it’s an indenture! If word of this gets out, you’ll be a laughingstock.” I gave a bitter laugh. “I’d just made partner. I was drowning in work. She said she’d handle the finances so I could focus on my career. I didn’t think twice.” “Bullshit! That’s not management; that’s legal fucking embezzlement!” Marcus swore, then his tone turned serious. “You didn’t keep anything on the side?” “My equity, my stock options… it’s all in the trust for tax-sheltering purposes.” “Then you go scorched-earth! Sue her! File for an emergency injunction to freeze the assets!” I shook my head. “She’s smart. The agreement was notarized by the best contract lawyer at Sterling & Cole. The clauses are ironclad. If I file for divorce, the case will drag on for at least two years. In the meantime, every single asset will be frozen.” I let the reality of it sink in. “Two years, Marcus. My partnership, my equity distributions, my active cases… everything would be compromised.” “So you’re just going to let her use your money to buy her mom a twenty-five-thousand-dollar purse while your own mother can’t afford an eight-hundred-dollar apartment?” he roared. He paused, thinking. “Okay, if we can’t go through the front door, we’ll find a back one.” I could hear him typing. “I’m sending you a contact. Sofia. She used to be a forensic investigator specializing in financial crime. Now she runs her own consulting firm. She eats people like your wife for breakfast.” “What can she do?” “She has a saying,” Marcus said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “A balance sheet can be cooked, but greed always leaves a trail. She’s the best at following that trail right to the hole.” 3 That evening, I came home to the rare and welcoming aroma of a home-cooked meal. Chloe, wearing an apron, emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming pot of soup. “David, you’re back! Go wash up. I made your favorite mushroom and chicken soup to help you de-stress.” She smiled so warmly, it was as if yesterday’s ugliness had never happened. Against my better judgment, the last ember of warmth I felt for her began to glow again. Maybe she was just overly principled, not malicious. Maybe this was just the friction of marriage. I was about to say something to smooth things over when she produced a document from behind her back and placed it on the table in front of me. “Honey, I need you to sign this first.” It was an Equity Pledge and Unlimited Personal Guarantee. My pupils contracted. She pointed to a clause. “A friend of mine has a new renewable energy project. The potential is enormous, but it requires a lot of upfront capital. I want to invest fifty million from our fund, but they need your credit backing and personal guarantee as a partner at the firm.” I flipped directly to the last page and saw the company’s name. “HelioCore Renewables?” I looked up at her. “This company just got a risk advisory warning from the SEC last month. The founder, Zara, served time three years ago for securities fraud.” The smile on Chloe’s face faded. “David, you can’t be so one-dimensional. Higher risk means higher reward. Zara doesn’t have a criminal record; she has experience.” “So you want to gamble our entire net worth on a convicted con artist’s new venture?” She took a deep breath. “This is an investment! It’s for our future!” She suddenly smiled again, her voice softening into a purr. “How about this? You sign the papers, and I’ll call the realtor right now. We’ll get your mom that apartment she wanted. Better yet, I’ll pay for three years’ rent upfront. And I’ll throw in a top-of-the-line shiatsu massage chair and a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for her. How does that sound?” Baiting me with my mother’s $800 rent to sign a contract that could bankrupt us. What did she take me for? A dog that could be bought with a bone? I laughed, a cold, sharp sound, and pushed the contract back across the table. “Chloe, do you know what my legal specialty is?” She froze. “Corporate bankruptcy and liquidation,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “I’ve seen countless investors just like you, blinded by greed, who ended up losing everything, right down to their underwear.” Her face turned to stone. “David, don’t be a fool! I’m trying to elevate us to the next level!” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, and a cruel smirk touched her lips. “Your uncle just called me. I ignored it. He’s probably calling about your mother’s apartment. I suggest you reconsider. My patience is wearing thin.” Before she even finished speaking, my phone lit up. It was a picture message from my uncle. It was my mom, sitting alone on the dusty steps of her building’s stairwell, her head bowed, her silhouette a portrait of loneliness. Beneath the picture was a line of text. David, your mom’s leg is acting up again. She’s in too much pain to leave the apartment. It’s a shame, son. You’re making millions, but you can’t even spare a little for an elevator for her. The whole family is talking… My heart seized, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. 4 At two in the morning, I lay awake, listening to the steady rhythm of Chloe’s breathing beside me. We shared a bed, but there were mountains between us. I slipped out of the room and went to the study. Her laptop was open, a single password-protected folder on the screen. I tried our anniversary. Her birthday. Her mother’s birthday. All incorrect. On a dark impulse, I typed in the date we signed the Irrevocable Family Trust Agreement. Click. The folder opened. Inside was a document: Formal Complaint for Professional Misconduct, prepared for submission to the State Bar Association. Complainant: Chloe. Subject of Complaint: David. She had taken some of the most complex and difficult cases of my career, twisted the facts, and reframed them as gross professional negligence on my part. She had attached audio and video clips as evidence. One was a clip of me at home, yelling in frustration after losing a tough case. She’d labeled it “Emotional Instability, Lacks Professional Temperament.” Another was a recording of me venting to her about an unreasonable client, edited to make it sound like I held all clients in contempt and lacked professional ethics. But the fatal blow was a hidden clause she cited from our Trust Agreement: “In the event that either party has their professional license suspended or revoked due to personal conduct, thereby creating a joint liability risk to the family’s assets, the other party shall automatically gain sole and exclusive right of disposal over the Family Trust Fund.” She was planning to destroy my career, get my law license revoked, and then legally seize every asset we owned. A chill shot up my spine, cold as ice. I forced myself to be calm. The lawyer in me took over. I took a deep breath, encrypted the entire folder, uploaded it to my private cloud server, and then meticulously erased every trace of my activity from her computer. The second I closed the laptop, the study door creaked open. Chloe stood there, leaning against the doorframe in her silk robe. “What are you looking for?” she asked lazily. “You woke me up.” My heart skipped a beat, but my face remained a mask of calm. I gestured to the computer. “Just remembered a detail about the evidence for tomorrow’s hearing. Wanted to double-check.” She stared at me for a few long seconds, then chuckled. “Such a workaholic. Have you seen the time? Our electricity bill is going to be through the roof again this quarter.” She turned and left. I stood frozen in the dark, a profound cold seeping into my bones. She wanted to use the law as her weapon. Fine. I would use the very thing I was best at to personally liquidate her. 5 “Ms. Sofia, I’d like to hire you to investigate my wife, Chloe.” She leaned back in her chair, raising an eyebrow. “Investigate what?” “Everything. Her financial transactions, her social networks, her call logs. And the background of that renewable energy friend of hers, Zara.” Sofia arched a brow. “That won’t be cheap, Mr. David.” I slid a debit card across the desk. “PIN is six eights. If you need more, just ask.” She didn’t take it. She just smiled. “I don’t take cases based on the fee. I take them based on how interesting they are. Give me a reason to be interested.” I met her gaze directly. “She’s using the money I earned to build a legal trap designed to end my career and leave me with nothing. I want you to help me switch the roles of the hunter and the prey.” The smile vanished from Sofia’s face. “Now that’s interesting.” She picked up the card, spinning it deftly between her fingers. “Three days. I’ll have a report for you that you’ll be very happy with.” I went back to the firm and called my paralegal. “Jake, I need you to draft a complaint. The cause of action is a ‘Petition to Revoke the Irrevocable Family Trust Agreement.’ The defendant is Chloe.” Jake was silent for a moment. “Uh… partner? Are you… are you sure?” “Just do it. Also, schedule an appointment with the firm’s chief notary. I need to execute a new will and a durable power of attorney.” In the will, I would stipulate that in the event of my death, all my personal assets, after funding a trust for my mother’s care, would be donated to the senior center in her neighborhood. In the power of attorney, I would designate that if I ever became incapacitated, my legal guardian would be my best friend, Marcus. You want to leave me with nothing, Chloe? I won’t give you the satisfaction. That afternoon, Chloe called, her voice tight with suppressed rage. “David, what the hell is this? You’re suing me?” “As an attorney,” I replied calmly, “when my rights are violated, I trust the law to provide a just resolution.” “Are you insane? Do you have any idea what this will do? All our assets will be frozen! What about my HelioCore deal?” “That’s your deal, Chloe. Not ours.” “David!” she shrieked. “You will regret this! I have a hundred ways to make you drop this suit before we ever see a courtroom!” I hung up and looked out at the river of traffic below. You want to take everything from me? I’ll use the very trap you set to make you swallow your own poison. Game on, Chloe. 6 Chloe’s retaliation came faster than I expected. The next day, a post appeared on the firm’s internal message board. It was anonymous and pinned to the top. “SHOCKING: Top Partner at Prestigious Firm Suffering from Severe Bipolar Disorder, Has Allegedly Threatened Suicide Multiple Times!” The post detailed my supposed emotional breakdowns, complete with several blurred photos that were still clearly identifiable as me. They were the same files I’d found on her computer. The post ended with a concerned question: “How can a lawyer in such an unstable mental state be responsible for his clients’ massive assets?” It was like dropping a bomb in a quiet library. The firm’s managing partner, Mr. Davison, called me into his office immediately. His face was grim. “David, what in God’s name is this?” I handed him the psychological evaluation report I had already prepared. “Mr. Davison, I had a full psychological workup done last week at Mount Sinai. The report concludes that I am in perfect mental health.” He scanned the report, but his brow remained furrowed. “The damage is already done, David. Clients are talking. Two of our biggest accounts have already requested a new lead attorney.” I knew. This was Chloe’s real goal. To sabotage my career, cut off my income, and turn me into a dependent she could control. As I walked back to my office, I could feel the questioning stares of my colleagues burning into my back. I shut the door and called Marcus. “Marcus, I need a favor. Pull the last five years of call logs between Chloe and her best friend, the one who’s a psychiatrist.” Marcus chuckled on the other end. “Oh, so we’re hitting back now, are we?” “She went after my livelihood. It’s only fair I return the favor.” Later that afternoon, Sofia called. Her voice was electric with excitement. “Well, David, your little ‘Asset Allocation Officer’ is quite the treasure trove.” “The highlights, Sofia.” “First, her friend Zara. In that securities fraud case three years ago, Chloe was her defense attorney. She got her a reduced sentence. The quid pro quo? Once Zara got out, she was to help Chloe set up a new scheme to lure in more investors. They were going to split the profits.” I let out a cold laugh. “A den of vipers.” “Exactly,” Sofia said. “Second, and this is the masterpiece. Over the past three years, Chloe has used an SPV she registered in the British Virgin Islands to funnel five million dollars out of your family trust under the guise of ‘overseas asset diversification.’ On paper, the money went into an art fund in Panama. In reality, that fund’s only assets are a handful of limited-edition classic cars parked in her mother’s garage and the anonymous ownership of a private vineyard in Bordeaux. The investment was written off as a market loss, but in reality, the money was just converted into her family’s private property.” My heart turned to a block of ice. “The reason she’s so desperate for you to guarantee Zara’s new project is because she needs a massive infusion of new cash to cover the hole she created in the books. And to make you complicit in the process.” Sofia let out a low whistle. “Using your own money to dig your grave, then making you thank her for the shovel. David, your wife is a goddamn financial genius.” I hung up and stared out the window as the sky began to bleed into dusk. Five million dollars. My money. Earned through years of grinding, case after brutal case. She had laundered it, effortlessly, into her own family’s pockets. And yet, she couldn’t spare eight hundred dollars a month for my mom. I picked up my phone and called my mother. “Mom, don’t stay in that old building anymore. I bought you a new place downtown. A corner unit with a view. It’s fully furnished. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow.” On the other end, her voice was a mix of shock and worry. “David, how… how much did that cost? Did you talk to Chloe?” “Mom,” I said, my voice steady for the first time in months. “This is from your son. It has nothing to do with anyone else.” After hanging up, I sent a text to Sofia. [Compile all the evidence into the most professional, airtight legal opinion you can. I’m going to destroy her in court.]

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When I was 19, I dated a rich kid. I was idealistic back then, a firm believer that true love conquered all. I didn’t realize the four cruel words—class divide—could drown a person. The year we graduated, we broke up amicably. He went abroad to study finance; I went back to my village to manage greenhouses. When we met again years later, it was an awkward reunion. To fill the silence, I desperately searched for things to talk about. I asked him what our old classmates were doing now. I asked him if the stray cat we adopted together was doing well. But Liam just watched me silently. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice soft. “What about me?” “Aren’t you going to ask if I was okay these past few years?” 1 The call from Jason came when I was standing on the dirt hill at the edge of my village. The other villagers were staring at the sky, their faces etched with worry. I was trying to reassure them, telling them this was the only rain forecasted for the week, that it wouldn’t delay the watermelon harvest. That’s when my phone rang. “Rebecca, are you still messing with those stupid greenhouses? We have a huge problem! Liam’s back in the country!” “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. He’s been on a rampage ever since he landed, trying to find you. Bro, I can’t hold him off any longer.” Hearing his name after so long, I froze. “Why is he looking for me?” Jason sounded exasperated. “What do you think? He’s still hung up on you. Everyone knew he was crazy in love with you in college. Seriously, you were cold-blooded, breaking up with him like that. You nearly drove him insane.” “You’re out here playing farmer with your damn watermelons, but Liam… he had a rough time overseas. Anyway, just watch out.” Liam. I breathed out his name. Honestly, I didn’t know what I was supposed to “watch out” for. His name had been the soundtrack to my four years of college and had haunted my dreams for three years after. I thought I would never forget him, that the memory would be etched into my soul forever. But time, it turns out, really does wash everything away. Hearing his name now, I felt surprisingly calm. “Tell him not to come. It’s not convenient.” The village’s dirt roads were a muddy mess from the rain. I was a wreck, covered in mud and holding a farming tool. I thought back to my time with Liam and politely declined. “He’ll have to take a train from the airport, then a bus, then another bus, and finally a motorcycle taxi.” “It’s too much for him. He can’t handle that kind of hardship.” 2 I wasn’t lying. Liam was the long-awaited only child in his family. He grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth, pampered and doted on. Looks, family background, education, ability—he was a golden boy, top-tier in every way. The only hardships Liam had ever faced were because of me. I took him to a cheap, spicy noodle shop and landed him in the hospital with a high fever. The scarf I knitted for him gave him a rash that lasted a month. Liam told me it was okay, that the rash wasn’t serious. But the next day, I found the scarf in the trash. I quietly retrieved it and buried it at the bottom of my suitcase. At 10, I didn’t understand what “low-quality chocolate” meant. I only knew it was a luxury I could only have on my birthday. Just like at 19, I couldn’t tell the difference between a taxi and a Maybach. I didn’t know that one pair of Liam’s shoes cost more than my living expenses for an entire year. I had never worn an evening gown and didn’t know the first thing about social etiquette. So for every formal event at school, Liam would attend with his childhood friend, an elegant girl named Stella. He always had a reason. “Rebecca, you’re always busy with your part-time jobs. And you don’t like these kinds of parties anyway. You wouldn’t be comfortable.” The school’s social media page was filled with photos of them, looking close. Among the countless comments, one stood out: “A perfect match. They actually belong in the same world.” So, the year we graduated, we broke up. He went abroad to study finance; I went back to my village to manage greenhouses. College blurred the lines, but graduation sent us back to our respective social classes. That’s why when Jason said he was still hung up on me, I didn’t believe it. If anything, he was probably just bitter that I was the one who ended things. After all, a poor girl from a small town who got into a good school had dared to break up with the heir to a massive fortune. Everyone had laughed at me back then. They said I was playing hard to get, that I was being manipulative. They laughed at my ignorance. 3 That night, the old college group chat was buzzing. “Did you guys hear? Liam from the business school is back. He’s probably the most successful one from our year, right? He already has several companies to his name.” “Can’t be jealous of that. He was born with it. Even if he didn’t start his own businesses, the family fortune is enough for him to live lavishly forever.” “He’s handsome and successful. How can one person have it all? And Stella, I saw her movie poster today. She’s gorgeous.” The conversation quickly centered on Liam and Stella. They had been the “it” couple in college, the campus king and queen. Even after graduation, they were still a hot topic. Amidst the envy and admiration, someone typed: “Aren’t they engaged already?” The chat went silent for a second, then exploded. “Don’t spread rumors. Since when were they engaged? I haven’t heard anything about them dating.” “Well, they are childhood friends, from similar backgrounds. A lot of people shipped them back then. There was even a fan group.” “Let’s not guess. What if they’re not engaged? That would be slander.” The person who started it seemed hesitant but then posted a photo. “It’s not me saying it. Stella admitted it herself. Her family is arranging her engagement, a childhood betrothal. And people figured out that the picture she posted was taken at the Thorne family villa. Who else could it be but Liam?” The photo seemed to convince some people, but others were still skeptical. “If they had a childhood betrothal, why didn’t they announce it before? And if they were engaged, why didn’t they date in college?” “Yeah, I remember Liam’s girlfriend back then wasn’t her. That girl was an idiot. If she had just held on to Liam, she’d be a rich man’s wife by now.” “I heard she was the one who dumped him. Then he went abroad and had a really tough time, he was…” The messages stopped abruptly as people realized who was in the chat. I stared at the photo for a long time before closing the app. I was the girl they were talking about. Liam and I dated for four years, from when I was 19 to 23. I was the girlfriend who was ignored, cropped out of photos. I was the gold-digging, manipulative, innocent-looking poor girl in his friends’ eyes. I was the foolish, laughable ex-girlfriend in my classmates’ eyes. I put down my phone, not letting their words get to me. When I was younger, I was proud, and my pride was more important than my life. But now… I looked up at the sky, just praying that the price for this year’s harvest would be good. Love, and all that… none of it was as important as my watermelons. 4 My village is remote, the roads are bad, and transportation is a nightmare. Every year, the buyers who come for our watermelons use that as leverage to drive the price down. This year, we had a bumper crop, and they were trying to lowball us with a price that was frankly insulting. I was in the middle of a heated argument with a merchant over a few cents a pound when Jason’s call came through. His voice was urgent. “Liam’s really on his way to you. Be careful, don’t—” I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. Because the man he was talking about was standing right in front of me. I looked up and met a pair of silent, watching eyes. Liam was dressed in a black jacket and black leather shoes, his expression unreadable. He looked at me, and I looked at him. Neither of us spoke. The loud voice of our village mayor boomed from the doorway. “Oh my goodness, I am so sorry! The road is slippery from the rain. I gave that boy on the motorcycle a real talking-to. I’ll have him come apologize to you right away…” Our village roads are narrow, and motorcycles often skid and fall. The mayor was insisting the driver compensate Liam for his jacket, but Liam just waved a hand, saying it wasn’t necessary. I noticed the designer logo on the hem—a brand Liam often wore, with a price tag that would make you gasp. The kid on the motorcycle probably couldn’t afford to replace it with a year’s wages. The mayor apologized again and again, then eagerly pulled me forward. “This is Mr. Thorne, a businessman from the city! He heard our watermelons are top quality and came all this way. If this works out, he wants to sign a long-term contract and make us his official supplier. Rebecca, you have to talk to Mr. Thorne, show him the best we have to offer.” I was the only person in the village with a college degree and the one who had spearheaded the greenhouse initiative. The mayor had always valued my opinion, and I was the designated liaison with outsiders. Getting a buyer to come all this way was a huge deal, especially one from the city. The mayor’s face was flushed with excitement as he pushed me to be a good hostess. 5 I took Liam to the local clinic to get his scrapes treated. Then I arranged for him to stay in the nicest house in the village so he could shower and change. The entire time, the silence between us was deafening. Jason’s texts were making my phone vibrate nonstop, but I ignored them. I stared at the distant mountains, lost in thought. Liam said nothing. By the afternoon, I finally broke the silence. “Shredded potatoes, scrambled eggs, and that stewed chicken the mayor brought over. Is that okay for dinner?” I hesitated. “I’m sorry, the village is a bit rustic. There isn’t much to offer.” Liam finally turned to look at me. “Is this what you eat every day?” Of course not. The free-range chickens here are delicious, but the villagers rarely eat them. They sell them in town or to truck drivers passing through. A single chicken could fetch a good price. My family only ever had chicken on holidays or special occasions. This one had been stewed specifically to welcome him. When the food was on the table, Liam picked up his chopsticks and said suddenly, “You still remember I don’t eat onions.” I paused, saying nothing. Liam and I were polar opposites. I had no dietary restrictions; I loved spicy food and was always eager to try new things. He was a fitness fanatic with a bland palate. No onions, no spice, no mushrooms, no seaweed… The list was endless. Besides his family’s private chef, I was the person who knew his restrictions best. After the time I sent him to the hospital with that spicy noodle soup, I became incredibly careful about his food. I was so overwhelmed with guilt that I started working multiple part-time jobs, saving up every penny. My simple goal back then was to treat him to one meal at a high-end restaurant. It was only later that I learned that the restaurant I had researched and worked three jobs a day to afford was just an everyday occurrence for him. “Yeah, well, you don’t like them, Jason doesn’t like them, and I remember my old roommate was allergic to shellfish, and another one didn’t eat beef. I’ve always had a good memory.” The slight smile on Liam’s lips slowly faded. Maybe it was just because we hadn’t seen each other in so long, but the silence kept creeping back in. I thought about the mountains of watermelons in the greenhouses, about the hopeful look in the mayor’s eyes. If Liam was really here to source produce, I needed to smooth things over. My pride wasn’t worth jeopardizing the village’s livelihood. The past was the past. I started searching for a topic of conversation. “Do you still keep in touch with anyone from college? I wonder what they’re all doing now.” “Oh, and what about that stray cat we found by the dorms? The one you adopted. How is he? Is he doing okay?” “Have you been back to visit any of our old professors? I heard Professor Albright is retiring this year.” My voice was the only sound in the small, quiet room. I talked about our classmates, about the cat, and the memories started to surface. I rambled on for a while before I realized Liam hadn’t said a word. I trailed off, a wave of regret washing over me. I must have been talking his ear off, annoying him with all my questions. The wind rustled past the window. Liam finally looked up. He didn’t answer any of my questions. Instead, he just looked at me, his voice soft and low. “You ask about our classmates, about the cat, about our professors… what about me?” “Aren’t you going to ask if I was okay these past few years?”

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I’m Hollywood’s resident Ice Queen, the beautiful statue who can’t act her way out of a paper bag. My agent, in a stroke of what she called “brand expansion genius,” shoved me onto a live-streamed celebrity survival show to, in her words, “boost my relatability.” Nobody expected the show’s engineered crisis—a mechanical wolf meant to add a dash of drama—to malfunction. Nobody expected it to hunt me with single-minded, metallic fury. And certainly, nobody expected me, under the unflinching eye of a dozen drone cameras, to snap a branch from a dead tree, sharpen it on a rock in three fluid motions, and pin the machine to the forest floor with one clean, powerful thrust through its synthetic heart. Later, staring blankly into a drone lens, I offered my only explanation. “I grew up in the country.” A pause. “We had a hog farm. You learn a thing or two about butchering. It’s practical, right?” 1 The day I retired, my handler—Director K—placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. His voice was as gravelly and devoid of emotion as ever. “Spectre,” he said, using my call sign. “You’ve lived up to the name. For years, you’ve been the sharpest point of The Blade. You’ve earned your rest.” He stared at me with those piercing gray eyes. “The organization will grant you one request for your new life. Anything.” A thrill, the first I’d felt in years that wasn’t followed by the scent of blood, shot through me. My eyes, I’m sure, lit up with visions of a life I’d only ever seen in movies. “My new life?” I leaned forward, my voice practically buzzing. “I want it all. The glamour, the scandal, the mindless decadence. I want to burn through money, dance until dawn, and be utterly, gloriously frivolous.” Director K’s perpetually grim face twitched. It was the closest I’d ever seen him come to a smile. He nodded slowly, the picture of managerial solemnity. “Understood,” he said. “You want to experience the rewarding, hands-on labor of a federal penitentiary. An excellent choice for personal growth.” I blinked. A week later, the organization unceremoniously dropped me into the glittering cesspool of Los Angeles. According to K, it had all the glamour and decadence I’d asked for, but the paychecks were, technically, legal. Three years later, my unblinking stare and an acting ability so wooden a director once famously declared me “splinter-proof” had cemented my status as Hollywood’s Ice Queen. While the gossip blogs and internet trolls debated which powerful producer I was sleeping with to maintain my career, no one could possibly guess the truth. That I was Spectre, the top field operative for The Blade, a clandestine organization that operated in the shadows to protect national interests. That I held the standing record for a solo infiltration: thirty elite hostiles neutralized in under five minutes. A record that remained unbroken. If The Blade was the ghost that guarded the country, I was the ghost that other ghosts feared. Back then, they had a saying in the underworld: “A glimpse of the Spectre is the Reaper’s kiss.” 2 “Declan, don’t look back!” I woke with a gasp, the words torn from my throat. The air in the cheap production tent was humid and stale, and cold sweat slicked my forehead. Outside, a voice dripped with saccharine poison. “Well, well. Some people really think this is a vacation, don’t they?” The voice belonged to Isabelle Vance, Hollywood’s reigning sweetheart and a rising star known for her girl-next-door charm and fiercely loyal fanbase. “An ice queen with nothing to offer but a pretty face, having nightmares in broad daylight. How unlucky for the rest of us.” She let out a fake little laugh. “And shouting a man’s name? Desperate for a little attention, are we?” Isabelle and I were at the same agency, but we were oil and water. Being cast on the same show was a carefully engineered ratings ploy. It was working. The phantom heat of the explosion still clung to my skin, my heart hammering against my ribs. It took me a few seconds to focus on the swaying palm trees and the painfully bright sunlight outside. A few seconds to remember. Declan was already dead. The man who was all easy smiles and infuriating charm, the one who always managed to shield me in the moments when death felt certain, had been vaporized in that firestorm. There was nothing left to bury. Only then did her words fully register. I pushed open the tent flap, squinting against the light. “What did you say? About a man?” Isabelle crossed her arms, her eyes raking over me with disdain. “Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you. I’m talking about Mr. Scott, of course. The mysterious heir to the Sterling-Scott fortune.” She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper meant for the hidden camera I knew was clipped to a nearby tree. “A piece of advice? A blank slate like you could never hope to catch the eye of a man like Dylan Scott. So don’t even try.” She smiled, a triumphant, venomous little thing. “I, on the other hand, am the only actress who received a personal invitation to his charity auction next month. It’s being held on The Stratos, his private jumbo jet. I hear Mr. Scott will be there personally.” Her smile widened. “I have a feeling he and I will find we have a great deal in common.” “As for you,” she finished, with a dismissive flick of her wrist, “you couldn’t even get a ticket to the airport.” I watched her, this preening, posturing fool, and felt the ghost of a real smile touch my lips. It felt foreign. “You should probably get some more Botox before you go,” I suggested, my voice flat. “The crow’s feet around your eyes are deep enough to lose a dime in. You wouldn’t want to scare Mr. Scott away.” I let my gaze drift over her. “And for the record? When you’re born with a face like this, you don’t have to try. You wouldn’t understand, but I don’t blame you.” 3 After my little chat with Isabelle, I tracked down the show’s director and demanded the use of his satellite phone. He stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. To be fair, less than an hour ago, I had twisted the head clean off his thousand-pound mechanical wolf. I just stared back. Three seconds later, he was handing me the phone like a holy relic. The moment the call connected, I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Jenna! That charity auction next month, the one on The Stratos. You have to get me in.” The line went silent for a full thirty seconds. The only sound was the wind rustling through the jungle canopy. Just as I was about to lose my patience, my agent’s weary voice came through. “Sweetheart. You mean the auction that sent you a gilded, hand-delivered invitation three weeks ago? The one you immediately ran through the office shredder because, and I quote, ‘attending a pointless social gathering is a criminal waste of my finite existence’?” Right. That had happened. At the time, the idea of sipping champagne and making small talk with a bunch of billionaires sounded less appealing than a root canal. Besides, Isabelle’s PR team had already flooded the blogs with stories about her being the “exclusive celebrity guest.” I had no desire to play second fiddle and give her a free publicity boost. I cleared my throat, my tone shifting from demanding to syrupy sweet. “Right. About that. I know I was wrong, Jenna, you know I’m impulsive! Please don’t be mad.” I took a breath. “Out of curiosity, what was the appearance fee they offered?” Jenna’s sigh was heavy enough to be felt across continents. “One million dollars.” I didn’t hesitate. “A waste of my existence? Who cares! For a million bucks, I’d sell my soul and do a little dance while I’m at it! Jenna, you’re the best. Make it happen!” Jenna… Declan Shaw… Dylan Scott… I knew the odds of it being a coincidence were astronomical. I knew it was impossible. But deep inside me, in a place I thought had long turned to ash, a tiny, stubborn ember flickered back to life. Even if there was only a one-in-a-billion chance. I had to see for myself. 4 Jenna, being the miracle worker she was, pulled a string so obscure even I was impressed and secured me an invitation at the eleventh hour. As the most exclusive private aircraft in the world, The Stratos hosting a gala for the global elite was a media frenzy. The live streams were pulling in millions of viewers before the first guest even stepped on board. [Holy crap! It’s finally happening! I’ve never seen a plane this insane!] [An auction in the sky. Rich people are a different species.] [Look! It’s Isabelle Vance! That white dress is stunning. A true goddess!] [Did you guys hear the rumor? A major mystery guest is supposed to be on board!] [Yeah, I heard that too! The head of some secret global conglomerate or something…] [It’s gotta be for Isabelle! They’d be the ultimate power couple!] [Ugh, why is Ava Sterling there? She probably bribed her way on. So tacky.] I leaned against the curved window, scrolling through the comments on my phone with a profound sense of boredom. The hate was just background noise at this point. Suddenly, a quiet, powerful voice spoke from behind me. “I never thought I’d have the pleasure of seeing you again.” The voice was old, but the tone was firm. “Miss Spectre.” 5 I had heard the soft tread of his expensive shoes approaching, so the voice wasn’t a surprise. I turned slowly and gave a slight nod of my head. “Mr. Peterson. It’s good to see you looking so well.” The man was Marcus Peterson, a titan of industry and a true patriot. Over the decades, he’d funneled billions from his tech empire into national interests, from scientific research to infrastructure. His personal motto was famous: “The nation is the foundation; business is just the scaffolding.” As his influence grew, he’d become a target for foreign powers. At one point, a consortium of his rivals had pooled their resources and hired one of the world’s top ten mercenary guilds to put a kill order on him. My mission had been to provide close protection. In one month, I made sure that mercenary guild ceased to exist. He was the only person outside of The Blade who knew my real identity. Before we could say more, a flurry of motion and camera flashes interrupted us. Isabelle Vance, flanked by a gaggle of reporters and assistants, swept toward us like a queen holding court. One reporter shoved a microphone forward. “Isabelle, the internet is buzzing that you’re here tonight as a special guest of honor. Can you confirm a personal relationship with the mysterious Mr. Scott?” Isabelle didn’t answer directly, offering instead a shy, demure smile. “I think we should all focus on the wonderful charity this event is supporting. It’s better to keep a little mystery in life, don’t you think?” A wave of knowing murmurs and excited gasps rippled through the press pool. I had to physically restrain myself from laughing out loud. Her non-denial-denial was a masterclass in PR manipulation. I was willing to bet her own team had planted the rumors online. After all, no one in the world could have possibly traced my invitation back to me. Perhaps my smirk was a little too obvious. Isabelle’s gaze snapped to me, her eyes narrowing. Then she saw who I was standing with. Her entire demeanor shifted. Her eyes lit up with craven opportunity. She glided over, high heels clicking on the polished floor, the cameras trailing her like pilot fish. “Ava Sterling. You are just everywhere, aren’t you?” she said, her voice loud enough for every microphone to catch. “I thought you turned down the invitation. What happened? The moment you heard Mr. Scott would be here, you came crawling back?” She gestured towards Marcus. “And now you’re harassing Mr. Peterson? Honestly, your methods are so predictable. Some of us in this industry try to maintain a little dignity.” Just like that, she’d painted me as a desperate, social-climbing harpy. As she intended, the live stream chat exploded. [OMG I’m cringing so hard. Ava is so pathetic!] [First she’s a bad actress, now we know she has no morals either!] Having successfully trashed me, Isabelle turned a dazzling smile on Marcus Peterson and extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Mr. Peterson, it is such an honor. I’ve admired your work for years. I’ve always hoped for a chance to meet you.” Marcus Peterson was a legend. A few soundbites with him, caught on camera, would elevate Isabelle’s brand from mere celebrity to a serious public figure. A brilliant move. Except for one small problem. Marcus didn’t even glance at her outstretched hand. He simply stared at her as if she were a mildly interesting insect, his expression utterly flat. “I doubt that,” he said, his voice cold enough to freeze champagne. “My own company’s CEO has to book an appointment six months in advance to see me. Who, exactly, are you?” Isabelle’s face went from pristine white to a blotchy, mortified crimson. The silence in the cabin was so absolute you could hear the hum of the engines. Into that silence, Marcus turned back to me. With the deep, formal respect a knight might show a queen, he made a slight bow. “Miss Spectre,” he said, his voice resonating with warmth. “Would I have the honor of buying you a drink in the lounge?”

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Ten years ago, my twin sister, Lily, helped me get a date with the boy I was in love with. Then she started dating him herself. Later, when she was dying of acute leukemia, I was her only perfect match for a bone marrow transplant. The day the final test results came in, I calmly signed the official form to decline the donation. My mother collapsed on the spot. She slapped me so hard the world spun. “Chloe! Are you insane? That’s your sister!” My father pointed a shaking finger in my face, his whole body trembling with rage. “How did we raise a monster like you?” And Ethan Archer, the man whose name filled every page of my high school diaries, asked me in anguish, “Chloe, why won’t you save her?” Ten years later, on the Fourth of July, with the sky over the Washington Monument about to burst into a sea of fireworks, Ethan came back. At the pinnacle of that national celebration, he held out a diamond ring. “Chloe,” he said. “Marry me.” 1 The tips of my fingers were ice-cold. Ethan was on one knee, surrounded by the roar of the crowd and the flash of a hundred cell phone cameras. He wore a tailored black coat that made him look solid and dependable, his features sharp and deep-set. A decade in the service had carved the boyishness from his face, leaving behind a man who was more handsome than I remembered. But the eyes looking up at me held none of the love I had once dreamed of seeing there. There was only the silent, deep water of a calm ocean. Isn’t it ironic? Ten years ago, my twin sister, Lily, had squeezed my hand, her own eyes shining as she described this exact scene. “Chloe, when Ethan gets back from his deployment, he’s going to propose to me right on the National Mall! Everyone will be there to celebrate with us!” “You have to be my maid of honor, promise?” Now, she was in the ground, and I was standing here, the reluctant star of her favorite fantasy. My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from the hospital’s surgical unit. Urgent. I steadied myself, pushing aside the hand that held the ring. “I have an emergency surgery tonight.” Ethan’s posture stiffened for a fraction of a second before he smoothed it over. He stood, taking my hand and forcing the ring into my palm. The metal, warm from his skin, dug painfully into my flesh. “Chloe, don’t do this.” His tone was flat. Not a request, but a statement. An order. “We’re getting married. It was Lily’s last wish.” There it was again. Lily. It was always, always about Lily. I looked down at the diamond in my hand and let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Fine.” “I’ll marry you, Ethan.” With that, I turned and pushed my way out of the crowd, leaving the sudden eruption of cheers and astonished murmurs behind me. But the voices followed me, little ghosts nipping at my heels. “Oh my God, isn’t that Major Ethan Archer? The war hero? He’s even hotter in person!” “Wait, didn’t his fiancée die years ago? Who is that?” “I think that’s her sister… Wow. Swooping in on your dead sister’s fiancé. Classy.” It was three in the morning when I finally got home. The surgery was a success, but I felt no joy, only a weariness that had settled deep into my bones. I pulled off my scrubs and stared at my pale reflection in the bathroom mirror before dialing my parents’ number. “Mom, Dad.” “Ethan and I are getting married.” A long, dead silence stretched across the line. Then, my mother’s hysterical scream. “Chloe! Have you no soul? How dare you!” 2 When I arrived at my parents’ house, the living room was in shambles. A collection of aunts and cousins were gathered, pointing at me the moment I walked in. Ethan followed close behind me. My mother’s red-rimmed eyes locked onto him. “Ethan! How could you do this to Lily’s memory? You promised you would take care of her for the rest of your life!” My aunt immediately chimed in. “Exactly! Lily’s not even cold in her grave, and you two are getting married? What will people say? Think of this family’s reputation!” Ethan looked at the floor, his voice steady. “Ma’am, Mr. Hale… marrying Chloe is what Lily wanted. It was her last wish.” “Before she passed, she said she hoped I could take her place, and take care of her sister for the rest of my life.” And with that single sentence, he nailed me to the cross of selfishness all over again. See? It wasn’t him who had a change of heart, nor was it me who stole him away. It was me, the charity case, the broken thing that needed to be “taken care of,” stepping into the spot that rightfully belonged to my sister. Everyone looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust, as if I were some parasite, shamelessly living off the scraps of a dead girl’s legacy. Crack. The sound of the slap was sharp and clean. My mother, trembling from head to toe, pointed at me. “Chloe! Your sister was thinking of you even as she was dying, and what about you? Do you deserve it? You’re a murderer!” My cheek burned. I licked the coppery taste of blood from the corner of my mouth and finally lifted my head, my gaze calm as I looked at the twisted faces of my “family.” “She was a thief,” I said, my voice even and clear. The room fell instantly silent. My father shot to his feet, staring at me in disbelief. “What… what did you just say?” “I said, Lily was a thief.” I repeated the words, a smile spreading across my lips. “She stole my diary, found out I was in love with Ethan, and then she put on the dress I bought, used the lines I practiced in the mirror, and went to tell him she was in love with him.” “She stole the award certificate that should have been mine—first place in the National Science Scholar competition—and used my name and my work to get into the early admissions program at Johns Hopkins.” “She stole my life. She stole everything from me. Did you know that?” I turned to my parents. “Did you know that the research paper she submitted—every data point, every single equation—was the result of dozens of sleepless nights I spent in the lab?” “All you knew was how proud you were when she won, how you could boast about her to all our relatives.” “Did you know I was dragged into the dean’s office and accused of plagiarism? That I was nearly expelled?” “You didn’t know.” I looked at their stunned, speechless faces, and I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks. “All you ever knew was your precious younger daughter. So innocent, so kind, so fragile. A perfect little angel.” “And me? I was born healthier, stronger. So I deserved to be ignored. I deserved to be her stepping stone. I deserved to give up everything for her. Even… my life.” Ten years. This was the first time I had ever said the words out loud. Everyone was frozen, including Ethan. His brow was furrowed, and for the first time, a flicker of confusion crossed his face. My mother, after the initial shock, turned deathly pale. She looked like she was remembering something, her lips trembling as she failed to form a single word. I took a deep breath and looked directly at Ethan. “Why do you think, even on her deathbed, she was so obsessed with you ‘taking care’ of me?” “Because she was guilty.” “She was afraid I would tell you the truth. She was terrified that after she was gone, you would find out from someone, anyone, what kind of person the girl you loved for all those years truly was.” In the silent living room, only my cold voice remained. That, and the sound of my mother’s choked, breaking sobs. I suddenly remembered that last afternoon in the hospital, just before Lily died. Everyone else was gone. It was just the two of us in the sterile room. She had gripped my hand, her voice as thin as thread. “Chloe, don’t save me.” “I’m begging you. Don’t donate your marrow.” Ethan was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke, his voice raspy. “Lily… she wouldn’t lie to me.” The answer I expected. “The wedding is in three days,” I announced to the room. “Come or don’t. I don’t care.” I turned and walked out, not sparing any of them a final glance.

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Hayden Shaw came to St. Jude’s Home for Children to choose a sister. Every other girl scrambled to be seen, praying they’d be the one. I was the only one hidden away, fast asleep in a wardrobe. I thought I could escape it this time. Escape the fate of becoming a Shaw, and eventually, becoming Hayden Shaw’s wife. I thought I could finally live a life that was my own, free and happy. But when I woke up, the first thing I saw was Hayden, standing before the open wardrobe door. He smiled and asked me, “Cora, how would you like to come home with me?” 1 When Hayden Shaw’s face swam into view, my first thought was that I was still trapped in the nightmare. It wasn’t until the director’s sharp voice cut through the haze that I knew it was real. “Cora, what are you doing sleeping in there?” The fog in my head cleared. This was happening. Seeing me frozen, the director, Mrs. Davison, reached in and pulled me out of the wardrobe. The smell of mothballs and old wool clung to me. She straightened my collar, her fingers rough, and then nudged me forward, towards the Shaws. “You were asleep. Mr. Shaw was kind enough to ask us not to wake you.” Her voice was tight with an unspoken reprimand. “We’ve all been waiting for you.” Hayden stood just in front of his parents, a faint, unreadable smile on his face as he looked at me. He was different from the cold, distant Hayden I remembered. Softer. Younger. He spoke first. “Hi, Cora.” For some reason, hearing my name from his lips felt deeply, unnervingly strange. I frowned, my gaze dropping to the floor to avoid his. A question burned in my mind: they could have picked anyone else. Why wait for me? “Waiting for me? For what?” Mrs. Davison crouched down, her usual stern expression replaced by a rare, strained smile. “They want to adopt you, Cora. You’re going to have a family. A mother, a father… and a brother.” I think she was trying to be happy for me. For any child at St. Jude’s, being chosen was like winning the lottery. But Mrs. Davison didn’t know my secret. I’d lived this life before. I knew Hayden Shaw was coming today. That’s precisely why I’d hidden in the wardrobe. “Cora, sweetheart, won’t you come home with us?” Mrs. Shaw took my hand. Her touch was soft, her voice gentle. “Hayden has always wanted a little sister. You could be his sister.” The scene was a perfect, horrifying replica of the last time. The past flickered through my mind like a broken film projector. I snatched my hand back. I looked up, not at them, but at the director. “Mrs. Davison, I don’t want to be adopted by them.” A collective, sharp intake of breath filled the room. Everyone was stunned. Hayden’s reaction was the strongest. His smile vanished, his brow furrowing. “Why?” “Because I don’t want to be your sister.” Despite my rejection, no anger appeared on his face. Instead, his voice became even gentler, laced with an unnerving thread of indulgence. “Then don’t be my sister. Just come home with the Shaws. Live with us. Is that okay?” Mrs. Davison gave my sleeve a sharp tug, a silent, desperate plea. It didn’t stop me from refusing him again. “No.” I thought that would be the end of it. But when the director, flustered, asked the Shaws if they’d like to see the other girls, Hayden’s voice rang out, loud and clear. “Mom. I want her.” He looked straight at me. “Only her. She’s the one who looks the most like my sister.” 2 Last time, that was the reason he’d given, too. I looked like his dead sister. Back then, when I learned I was chosen, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world. I was taken to the Shaw’s sprawling estate, given a new name—Cora Shaw—and my very own room in their enormous house. I didn’t care that the room wasn’t truly mine. I was just grateful to have it. “Girls from the system can be… unpolished,” Mrs. Shaw had said. “Their manners aren’t fit for our world.” So, I shed my old self like a snake sheds its skin, molding myself into someone I no longer recognized. Mrs. Shaw was exacting. I was forced to practice the piano for hours upon hours every day. Even when my teacher insisted I had no natural talent, Mrs. Shaw would sit with me, a constant, smiling presence. But you can’t force a flower to bloom in barren soil. “I’m sorry, Mom. I still can’t get it right,” I’d apologize, my fingers aching. And every time, she would look at me with that same indulgent expression and soothe me. “It’s alright, darling. As long as you keep trying, you’ll be wonderful one day.” It was much later that I learned her deceased daughter had loved the piano. All of Mrs. Shaw’s affection was just her projecting a ghost onto me. I was a stand-in. I didn’t care. A drowning fish doesn’t question the purity of the water; it only gasps for a breath. Her love was my water. I would take it, clean or not. I tried harder at the piano, harder at pleasing her. We grew closer, our relationship blurring into something that felt real. Until Hayden’s engagement party. He was drugged. I was the one who stumbled into his room. When Mr. Shaw found us, the shock sent him into a fatal collapse. Mrs. Shaw slapped me across the face, her eyes blazing with a hatred I’d never seen. “I should never have brought you into this house.” Hayden just watched me, his expression unreadable. But I knew. I knew he was regretting it, too. Regretting the day he chose me to be his sister. “I don’t know what happened,” I pleaded, my voice raw. “I didn’t drug him. I swear.” No one believed me. Later, for years, during every betrayal, every public humiliation in our forced marriage, he would sneer, “You drugged your own brother to marry him. Don’t you dare play the victim now. This is your karma.” Hayden hated me. He took pleasure in shaming me, in making sure everyone in our circle knew I was beneath him. They all placed bets on how long our marriage would last. “A year, tops,” they’d whisper. “The second that baby is born, he’ll kick her to the curb.” They were all wrong. Hayden and I were tangled together for nineteen years. Even after I died, the words carved on my tombstone were: Beloved Wife of Hayden Shaw. … “Cora, tell me. Why don’t you want to be adopted by the Shaws?” After his parents left, Mrs. Davison called me into her office. I was silent for a long time before offering a weak lie. “I don’t want to leave you and everyone here.” She sighed, a heavy, tired sound, and urged me to reconsider. I knew she meant well. She wanted a better life for me. But I refused to walk that path again. I would not have anything to do with Hayden Shaw. That night, a fire broke out, and all my plans went up in smoke. 3 “Did you set the fire?” I stared at him from my hospital cot, my voice cold and flat. “No,” Hayden said, his denial swift and earnest. “The fire department investigated. It was old wiring.” He let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. “Cora, you think I’m a monster.” In this life, we’d only met a handful of times, yet he spoke to me with a disturbing familiarity. “I just want to help you,” he said, his voice low. “If you agree to come home with me, I’ll cover all of Mrs. Davison’s medical bills.” She had been badly burned trying to get us all out. I let out a cold laugh. “Taking advantage of a tragedy. Does that make you a good person?” He didn’t try to defend himself. He just said, “Cora, you don’t have to be my sister. You can just be a foster child. Living with us.” He was persuasive, relentless in his compromise. But it only made me more suspicious. “Why are you so desperate to have me at your house?” “My mother… she’s been missing my sister a lot lately. And you look so much like her,” Hayden said. “I thought bringing you home might comfort her.” I was only half-convinced. His behavior was too strange, too intense. I pressed him. “Is that all?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “That’s all.” I didn’t want anything to do with him, but Mrs. Davison was lying in a hospital bed, her life hanging in the balance. I had no choice. On the drive to the Shaw estate, Hayden kept trying to talk to me, but I remained silent, staring out the window. He must have sensed my hostility, because his tone softened, became almost pleading. “The Shaws can give you a better life. It’s better than the group home, no matter how you look at it,” he said. “Cora, don’t be angry with me. I’m doing this for your own good.” I’m doing this for your own good… He’d said that in our last life, too. After hating me for more than a decade, his attitude had softened in my final days. But by then, the cancer was untreatable. My only companion was a small stray cat I’d taken in. One day, on a whim, Hayden came to visit me at the villa. The first thing he did was have someone throw the cat out. I’d asked him, my voice weak, “Why?” He’d looked down at me, his expression cool. “I’m doing this for your own good.” I knew then what it meant. It was never about my well-being. It was an excuse he used to satisfy his own selfish desires, his need for control. Or maybe it was just another way to torture me. He’d always been like that. Whatever I cherished, he destroyed. … As the car pulled up to the house, I saw Mrs. Shaw waiting at the front door. Hayden had called ahead. A room on the second floor had already been prepared. “Cora, this will be your room,” she said, taking my hand with a cloying familiarity. “Do you like it?” I looked down at our joined hands for a moment before pulling mine away. I was no longer the desperate, love-starved girl from my past life. “Mrs. Shaw,” I said, my voice even. “This was your daughter’s room, wasn’t it?” I gestured to the perfectly preserved space. “You’ve kept all her things. You clearly treasure them.” I met her eyes. “If I stayed in here, I might accidentally break something. I wouldn’t want to cause you any pain.” I finished, “I saw there’s a guest room downstairs. I’ll stay there.” Mrs. Shaw looked at me, about to argue. “But…” “Mom,” Hayden cut in. “If Cora wants to stay downstairs, just have the housekeeper prepare it.” I glanced at him, the one who was supposedly speaking up for me. He had no idea. The real reason I refused to stay on the second floor was because his bedroom was right next door. In our past life, before the engagement party, we’d had a harmonious relationship, or so I thought. I was a teenager with a crush. I remember Mrs. Shaw asking me, “Cora, what kind of boys do you like?” I’d looked over at Hayden, flushed and sweaty from his morning run, and smiled. “Someone like my brother.” That innocent, offhand remark later became evidence in the trial of my character. Proof that I had plotted to drug my own brother. Every time I tried to defend myself—“I didn’t drug you”—Hayden would grab me, his fingers digging into my neck. “You told my mother you liked me when you were sixteen,” he’d hiss. “You were obsessed. You drugged me to force my hand, and now you don’t have the guts to admit it?” 4 Perhaps it was being back in this house, but that night, my dreams were filled with memories of the life before. In my final days, my oncologist had suggested, “You shouldn’t be alone all the time. Call your family, your friends. Have them visit.” “I don’t have any family,” I had told her. As for friends… my best friend used to be Hayden’s fiancée, Scarlett Jensen. She returned to the country five years into my marriage with Hayden. He picked her up from the airport himself and threw a lavish ‘welcome home’ party for her. Someone deliberately recorded a video at that party and sent it to me. It showed the two of them in a dark corner, locked in a passionate kiss. It was only a few seconds long, but I watched it on a loop all night. That was the night I made a choice. I gave up on our second child, and I asked Hayden for a divorce. He asked me, “On what grounds?” I showed him the video. “Hayden, I know you were forced to marry me. But Scarlett is back now, and it looks like she’s forgiven you. Let’s divorce. We can go our separate ways.” I had asked for a divorce many times before, and he had always refused. I thought, with Scarlett’s return, he would finally agree. But Hayden just tore up the papers I’d prepared and deleted the video from my phone. … “Cora? Cora?” I woke with a gasp, my hand lashing out, connecting with a sharp crack against Hayden’s cheek. He looked at me, a boy’s face, his eyes wide with something that looked like hurt. “I heard you crying from the hall,” he said softly. “I just came in to check on you.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “You should get up. We’re going to be late for school.” Just like last time, the Shaws had enrolled me in Hayden’s high school. As I followed him into the classroom, someone called out, “Hey, Hayden, who’s that?” He introduced me. “This is Cora. She’s staying with my family for now.” A flicker of memory. In our past life, before everything went wrong, he always introduced me with pride. “This is my sister, Cora Shaw.” I looked at Hayden, standing just a foot away from me, and a strange realization dawned. He wasn’t the same as the boy I remembered from my first life. But he wasn’t the cruel, vengeful man he became, either. He was… something else. My heart hammered against my ribs. A terrifying thought began to form. “Hayden.” “Hayden.” Another voice called his name at the exact same moment as mine. He glanced at me, then looked past me, towards the classroom door. I turned to follow his gaze. It was Scarlett Jensen. “Hayden, wait for me after school. I need to talk to you,” she said, her eyes fixed on him. Only then did she seem to notice me standing beside him. Her expression soured instantly. She sized me up, a quick, dismissive scan from head to toe. “So you’re the girl staying at the Shaws’?” She was my best friend in my past life. I knew her tells. And right now, the hostility rolling off her was unmistakable. This was completely different. Back then, when Scarlett learned I was Hayden’s sister, she had looped her arm through mine, called me Cora, and welcomed me into her inner circle. Now, she looked at me the way she did the very last time I saw her. It had been an ugly confrontation. I had asked her, “The security footage shows only you and I went into Hayden’s room that night. I didn’t drug him. So it was you, wasn’t it?” I couldn’t understand it. She loved him so much. Why would she ruin their own engagement party? “Her name is Cora,” Hayden answered for me. Scarlett forced a tight smile, then said nothing more. Throughout the morning classes, I could feel her eyes on my back. As much as it unsettled me, I forced myself to ignore her, to focus on the words in the textbook in front of me. 5 In my past life, I was a terrible student. Mrs. Shaw never cared. In fact, the worse my grades were, the happier she seemed. “Cora is becoming more and more like my little girl,” she would say. “She never cared for books either.” A parent who truly loves their child plans for their future. What mother wishes for her daughter to be nothing more than a beautiful, empty shell? In the end, she never saw me as her daughter. I was just a toy, a comfort object to ease her grief. This time, I refused to live that way again. I wouldn’t spend the first half of my life as a substitute for a dead girl, and the second half as a useless, gilded canary, wasting away in a cage. Education was my only way out. But it wasn’t easy. Frustrated by my inability to understand the material, I pushed my chair back and stood up. Hayden, who had been talking with some friends, noticed the movement immediately. He turned to me. “Where are you going?” “The restroom,” I snapped, my patience worn thin. I remembered the girls’ restroom being perpetually crowded during breaks, but today, it was eerily empty. The moment I pushed the door open, I knew something was wrong. A group of girls inside all turned to look at me in unison. The one closest to me was Scarlett. She dropped a cigarette butt to the floor, grinding it out with her shoe. She glanced at another girl, crumpled on the wet floor and soaked with grimy water, before turning her attention to me. “Just messing around,” Scarlett said with a lazy smile. “You’re not going to tell Hayden, are you?” I looked from the cigarette to the girl on the floor. I realized then that I had never known Scarlett at all. I never knew she smoked, or that she was a bully. After a moment, I said, “Hayden and I aren’t that close.” “Really?” she asked, though her expression had already relaxed. “I thought you were living with him.” I met her gaze directly. “Living in the same house doesn’t mean we’re close.” Scarlett nodded. “Good.” With that, she and her friends filed out. Once they were gone, I looked at the girl on the floor. After a moment, I walked past her into a stall. When I came out, she was standing at the utility sink, her back to me. She was only in a thin camisole, washing her school-issued button-down shirt under the faucet. Hearing the door, she quickly wrung out the shirt and slipped the damp fabric back on. Head down, she made a dash for the exit. As she passed me, I reached out and grabbed her arm. The girl looked up at me, her eyes wide with confusion. We stared at each other for a long moment before I remembered her name. Leah. I took off my own cardigan and pushed it into her hands. “Your shirt is wet. Wear this.” Leah ducked her head, mumbling, “No, it’s okay.” “It’s see-through,” I said bluntly. “You can see your camisole right through it.” Her ears turned a deep shade of red. She clutched her arms across her chest, hesitating for a long moment before finally taking my cardigan. As Leah went into a stall to change, I let out a quiet breath of relief. I wasn’t the type to get involved. But I remembered her. In my last life, not long after I transferred here, Leah had jumped from the roof of the school. The official explanation was family problems and academic pressure. But seeing this now, I suspected there was more to her story. It was a life… a young life. “Thank you.” Leah’s voice was soft when she came out, now wearing my sweater. The words “you’re welcome” were on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them. An idea was forming. “You get good grades, right?” I asked her. I remembered that before she died, she had been first in our year. She looked surprised, then nodded. “They’re okay.” “Leah,” I said, glancing at the cardigan she was wearing. “I’ll lend you my sweater. In return, you can tutor me.” I didn’t give her a chance to refuse. “After the next pop quiz, they’re rearranging the seating chart. We’ll be desk mates. It’ll be easier for you to help me.” Leah hesitated for a long time before finally agreeing. After school, Hayden insisted I ride home with him. The moment I got in the car, Scarlett ran up to the window. “Hayden, can we talk?” I had no interest in their drama and tried to tune them out. But the parking lot was quiet, and Scarlett’s voice was high and emotional, carrying on the wind. It drifted right into the car. “Is it because of her? Is Cora why you’re breaking up with me?” she demanded. “Hayden, we’ve been together for so long. The minute she shows up, you end things. What other reason could there be?” Hayden’s voice was weary. “It’s not about anyone else, Scarlett. I just… I suddenly realized that what I feel for you isn’t romantic. I’ve always seen you as a sister.” In that instant, everything clicked into place. I finally understood why Scarlett had been watching me all day, why she saw me as a threat.

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1 To save me from an invader, my parents traded their lives to the System. After they died, our assets were frozen. My brother, now hating me, was diagnosed with leukemia. I worked as a movie corpse to pay for his treatment. After ten coffin scenes, I finally had enough for one chemo session. Then I saw my “dead” parents taking a family photo with Tiana, my lookalike. My mother suggested inviting me, but my healthy brother objected, “This was her punishment. We’ll tell her when she’s no longer a threat. Besides, she’s bad luck now.” Clutching the money, I cried laughing. My phone buzzed: “Get treatment or you’ll die, Willow!” … “I’m not getting treatment,” I whispered. I shut off my phone and sat on the curb, the world fading to black around me. The pain, sharp and splintering like broken bones, seized my body again. Fumbling, I pulled out the painkillers I always carried, swallowing more than a dozen pills until the agony receded to a dull throb. My phone chimed. I opened it to see that their family portrait was trending online. Though their faces were artfully blurred, I knew it was them. The parents and the brother who had once cherished me. The sense of familiarity was a phantom limb, an ache I couldn’t shake. The caption read: ‘Billionaire and family dote on their beloved princess for a stunning family portrait!’ I had endured the agony of bone cancer without a single tear, but those words… a wave of grief so profound washed over me, and I finally broke. My brother’s call came through. “Where’s the money you earned today? Get it to me now! I heard you were in a coffin ten times. I want every single cent!” “Okay,” I answered, my voice flat as I swallowed the bitterness. My coldness must have unsettled him. “Don’t try anything funny,” he warned. “Every dollar you earn for the rest of your life belongs to me.” After hanging up, I drifted to the bus stop in a daze. As I waited, a luxury car glided past. It was only there for a few seconds, but through the window, I saw it all. My mother, her face glowing with affection, fastened a necklace around Tiana’s neck. My father stood beside them, clapping and smiling. Tiana sat between them… a perfect little princess. Before she had taken over my life, I was the princess. I was the one they had adored. In fact, until today, I had believed it was still true. I thought my parents had sacrificed their lives for me, that my brother’s hatred was just a mask for his unbearable grief. But it was all a lie. The person they loved was Tiana. For her, they had constructed this elaborate, cruel theater to deceive me, to punish me, to ensure I would live forever drowning in guilt for their ‘deaths.’ The pain was coming more frequently now. I stumbled back to my dingy walk-up, collapsing to the floor in a tight, agonized ball. I fumbled with the pill bottle, but just as I was about to shake some out, the door flew open. My brother was there, and he slapped the bottle from my hand, sending pills scattering across the dirty floor. “What’s with the act? If you want to sleep, go to your room! Don’t lie here like a corpse. Or have you gotten too used to the role?” I wrapped my arms around myself, my body convulsing in silent, excruciating pain. He kicked me, his voice laced with rage. “Hey! If you’re going to play dead, don’t do it on my doorstep! Go back to your coffin! You’re such bad luck!” When I didn’t move, he gave me one last, vicious kick and slammed the door shut. A moment later, the neighbor, Mrs. Gable, came out to take out her trash. She saw me and gasped. “Oh my God! Honey, your nose is bleeding!” 2 I scrambled to scoop a handful of the scattered pills from the floor and shoved them into my mouth. The door creaked open again. My brother stood there, his eyes wide with shock at the sight of my bloodied face and the small pool of crimson on the floor. He spoke, his concern awkward and forced. “What the hell happened? Why’s your nose bleeding?” The pills began to work their magic, dulling the sharpest edges of the pain. I used the wall to haul myself to my feet and stumbled inside. “It’s nothing.” Mrs. Gable’s eyes were filled with worry. Before she left, she called into the apartment, “Young man, you should take your sister to a hospital! She doesn’t look well at all!” I slumped onto a stool, closing my eyes and waiting for the world to stop spinning. My brother crossed his arms, studying me with a detached curiosity. “Willow, have you been playing dead for too long? The more I look at you, the more you look like you’re actually dying.” He smirked. “You look more like a patient than I do.” “Now, where’s the money you earned today? Hand it over. I need to get my prescription.” I pulled the wad of cash from my pocket—my payment for ten descents into a wooden box—and placed it in his outstretched hand. He slapped it against his other palm and turned to leave, then paused at the door, his gaze cold. “Don’t go in tomorrow. This is enough for a while. You wouldn’t want to actually die playing the part.” A bitter smile twisted my lips. I couldn’t tell if it was a flicker of concern or just more of his biting sarcasm. I must have dozed off, slumped against the wall, because the ping of my phone jolted me awake. The extras’ group chat was blowing up. “OMG! Who is that CEO brother?! He rented a luxury yacht for his sister for a whole month!” “I know, right?! He’s the best! He was so happy today he was literally throwing money off the deck! I’d be a janitor on that yacht for a month just to pick up cash all day!” … I scrolled up and found the video that had sent them into a frenzy. I pressed play, and the blood in my veins turned to ice. My brother’s voice, unmistakable and cheerful, filled the air. “Take it! This money feels tainted anyway! It’s the corpse cash my dead-beat sister earned!” “If I wasn’t faking being sick, I wouldn’t even touch this stuff.” With a grand gesture, he flung my hard-earned money into the sea. Then he turned and placed a diamond tiara, worth millions, on Tiana’s head. My body shook violently. I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob. He had thrown away my blood and sweat. To pay for his ‘leukemia,’ I hadn’t spent a single dollar on myself. I stretched one meal from the set into three. My clothes were patched and washed so thin they were nearly transparent. The only money I had ever spent was for the hospital visit that had diagnosed my bone cancer. And even then, I hadn’t dared to start treatment. The money was for him. And now I knew. He thought my money was tainted. Tears streamed down my face, my shoulders shaking with silent, racking sobs. The emotional shock sent a fresh wave of agony through my bones. Overwhelmed, I pitched forward and the world went black. When I woke up, I was in a hospital. It was Mrs. Gable. She had been worried about me, and after wrestling with her thoughts, she had decided to check on me. She’d found me unconscious on the floor and rushed me here. Her voice was tight with concern. “Honey! How could you, at your age…” Just then, my brother burst through the door, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Willow! What the hell are you doing, causing trouble? You get a little sick and I have to come running? I’m busy! You’re messing up my plans!” 3 I stared at him for a moment, a bitter smile touching my lips. A complete stranger could see that I was unwell, but my own brother, who saw me every day, was blind to it. The image of him laughing as he crowned Tiana flashed in my mind, and a single tear traced a path to my temple. His genuine, adoring smile would never be for me again. Mrs. Gable opened her mouth to tell him the truth, but I gripped her hand and shook my head. She reluctantly fell silent. As she left, she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Young man, stop being so hard on your sister. Just be good to her.” Ethan ignored her completely, striding over to my bed. He glared at me, then sat down with a sigh, as if forced. “Willow, I have something to tell you. Try not to get too excited.” I kept my head turned away, my eyes closed. He didn’t care. He continued, “Mom and Dad aren’t dead. They’re coming back tomorrow.” His words hit me like a physical blow. I shot up in bed, my mouth opening and closing, unable to form a word. They were coming back? They hadn’t abandoned me. Of course. I was their precious daughter, the one they had cherished. How could they discard me for someone like Tiana? A genuine laugh escaped my lips, a terrifying sound coming from my pale, gaunt face. Ethan recoiled in disgust and left. Even with the searing pain knitting through my bones, my heart felt light. I ripped the IV from my hand and ran home. The reflection in the mirror startled me. My complexion was a ghostly, ashen white. My parents would be so worried if they saw me like this. I dug out a jar from under my bed, filled with years of saved-up coins. Pennies, dimes, nickels. I clutched a handful and ran to a dollar store, buying the cheapest, brightest red lipstick I could find. The next morning, I was up at dawn. I applied a thick layer of lipstick and dabbed some on my cheeks for color. I checked myself in the mirror again and again, satisfied that the ghastly pallor was hidden. Then, I sat by the door to wait. The hands on the clock spun, and waves of pain washed over me, each one a trial. Finally, as dusk settled, they arrived. My mother was dressed in a stunning gown, my father in a tailored suit. I looked down at my own tattered clothes and felt a pang of insecurity. As tears welled in my eyes, I stepped forward and whispered, “Mom…” She wrinkled her nose and took several steps back, her eyes filled with undisguised distaste. “Willow, it’s natural for a girl to want to look beautiful, but you don’t have to try so hard. It’s just laughable.” I forced down the lump in my throat, telling myself, It’s just because we’ve been apart. In a few days, it will be like it was before. My mother continued, “We came to take you home today.” “But, I have one condition.” I nodded eagerly. To spend my last days with them, I would agree to anything. She gestured toward the door. “Tiana, sweetheart, you can come in.” A moment later, Ethan walked in, leading Tiana by the hand. I was confused, until my mother spoke again. “It must be strange for you, seeing Tiana, who looks exactly like you.” “There can only be one face like this in the world.” “So…” She placed a small, sharp fruit knife on the table between us. “Ruin your face.” For a second, the world stopped. I stumbled back, my mind blank. What… What did she mean? My father’s cold voice pulled me from my stupor. 4 “Willow? Did you hear your mother’s condition?” “Just do as she says. Even with a ruined face, you’ll still be our precious daughter.” So, that was it. This was the reason they had come. Ethan picked up the knife and pressed it into my hand. “Don’t hesitate. You love Mom and Dad, don’t you? You want to live with them again, right?” He looked away, mumbling, “If you do this, I’ll… I’ll admit you’re still my sister.” Ha. He couldn’t even bring himself to say it clearly. I looked at them—the family who had once adored me, now cornering me like a pack of wolves for a stranger. A wild, unhinged laugh tore from my throat. The cheap lipstick smeared with my tears, running down my cheeks in grotesque, crimson rivers, mocking my foolish hope. I turned away, wiping my eyes. “You don’t have to do this. I’m going to die soon. Then, there will only be one Tiana.” Their expressions instantly soured. Ethan was the first to explode. “Willow! What’s this about dying? Is this your excuse to get out of it? You think playing a corpse makes you an expert on death?” Even my quiet father couldn’t hold back his anger. “If you don’t want to do it, just say so! Stop playing these manipulative games! You’re a young woman. What kind of person talks about dying all the time?” “Fine! Let there be two identical faces in the world. We’ll just disown you!” At his words, Tiana burst into tears, as if she were the one being wronged. “It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have taken over her body. Daddy, Mommy, please don’t be angry!” “Let me be the one to do it! Let me ruin my face so there’s only one Willow!” She snatched the knife and raised it to her own cheek. But before the blade could touch her skin, Ethan lunged, grabbing the knife. Blood dripped from his hand. He threw the knife at my feet. “Tiana! You’re not the one in the wrong!” My mother rushed to Tiana’s side, fussing over her. “Oh, my darling girl, why would you do that? What if you had really hurt yourself?” I stood outside their circle of four, the villain in their story. Ethan glared at me, then suddenly lunged forward, snatching the fruit knife from the floor. He tackled me, and a searing line of fire ripped across my cheek. The fall sent a jolt of agony through my already ravaged body. The sharp, repeated agony of the knife on my face, combined with the deep, grinding pain in my bones, was more than I could bear. But I didn’t struggle. I didn’t reach for my pills. My mother stood by, directing him. “Ethan, a few more times. Make sure it’s completely unrecognizable. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of Willow at home. After this, she won’t have to suffer another day.” He only stopped when my face was a bloody, unrecognizable mess. They all waited for me to get up, but I could only lie there, convulsing. They stared, their brows furrowed in confusion. Ethan finally nudged me with his foot. “Hey! Get up. You were always talking about Mom’s cooking. They brought ingredients to make you a meal at home.” Suddenly, there was a frantic banging on the door. After a few loud thumps, the door burst open, and Mrs. Gable rushed in. She saw me lying in a pool of my own blood, my body emaciated, and she let out a horrified shriek, her eyes wide with terror. “My God! What have you done?! The poor girl has bone cancer! She only has days to live! Couldn’t you just let her die in peace?!”

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