Category: English

1 In my third year as a maid for the ultra-wealthy Sinclair family, I suddenly gained the ability to hear thoughts. The first voice belonged to matriarch Eleanor, walking toward her husband’s medical suite with saffron consommé. I’m moving early. Pin the murder on the maid. Not a dime for that little bitch. I nearly dropped the mop, hands sweating. Then younger daughter Julie sauntered down the stairs, flashing a sweet smile. Her inner voice sneered: In my past life, this stupid maid took the fall. I’ll use her again. I froze, neck hairs prickling. Head butler Arthur brushed past, his thoughts cold: Kill these two, frame the maid, forge a DNA test, and take the Sinclair fortune. The water glass in my hand shook violently. None knew Richard Sinclair, the patriarch lying in the suite, had a steady heartbeat. His mind roared: This life, I’ll find who tried to kill me! Four reincarnated people. Three murder plots. All aimed to make me the scapegoat. Since they wanted me dead, I’d strike first. … “Ivy, you psychotic, venomous bitch! How dare you poison Mr. Sinclair’s broth!” Eleanor’s shrill voice pierced the quiet of the mansion like acrylic nails gouging a chalkboard. A gold-rimmed bone china bowl flew right past my scalp and shattered violently against the wall behind me. The thick, golden broth splattered all over my uniform. I stood completely still. My fingers gripped the handle of the mop so hard my knuckles turned white. Ten minutes ago, I had heard Eleanor’s thoughts. To get ahead of her game, I had already swapped the poisoned consommé for a bowl of plain mushroom broth. The actual poisoned soup was currently sitting quietly in my insulated thermos, waiting to be used as hard evidence. But I never expected Eleanor to skip the lab tests entirely and just sentence me on the spot! Flanked by two heavily muscled bodyguards, Eleanor aggressively backed me into a corner. “I saw you sneaking around the kitchen with my own two eyes! You touched the serving pot!” “Spit it out! What kind of lethal filth did you put in there?” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm as I met her vicious glare. “Ma’am, I did not poison anything. That was just an ordinary mushroom broth.” “If you do not believe me, you can call the doctor right now to test the puddle on the floor!” Eleanor’s heavily contoured face twisted in pure rage. Her inner voice immediately rang out, frantic and malicious. [This dumb maid actually dares to talk back? Whatever, I was the one who poisoned it anyway. Whether it was saffron or mushrooms, she is not walking out of here on her own two feet today!] Eleanor let out a cold sneer and raised her hand, slapping me hard across the face. “You still dare to make excuses? You were the only one in the kitchen. If it wasn’t you, who else could it be?” The force of the slap was brutal. Stars danced in my vision, and the heavy, metallic taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth. The surrounding staff were too terrified to even breathe, all of them keeping their heads down as they backed away. Right at that moment, light footsteps echoed from the stairs. Julie walked down wearing a pure silk slip dress. “Mom, what is going on? Why are you so angry?” She covered her mouth, pretending to be absolutely horrified. But when her gaze shifted to me, her eyes gleamed with a sick, twisted excitement. Her thoughts were colder than a viper’s. [In the last life, this stupid maid took the fall. She is just as dumb this time around.] [Since the old bat has already started the show, I might as well add some fuel to the fire and weld this crime to the maid’s back for good!] Julie hurried over to her mother, gently rubbing Eleanor’s back to calm her down. “Mom, Ivy might have sticky fingers sometimes, but she wouldn’t have the guts to kill someone, right?” “Why don’t we search her room first? Maybe there is just some big misunderstanding.” I snapped my head up, staring at Julie in disbelief. Sticky fingers? She was blatantly framing me in front of everyone! My voice cracked from panic. “Julie, why are you making things up? I have never stolen a single cent from this house!” Before I could defend myself any further, the butler, Arthur, emerged from the hallway corner like a ghost. His wrinkled face was completely stiff, his eyes terrifyingly dark. A thought flashed through his mind, plunging me into a bath of ice water. [Make a scene. The bigger the better. Once I get rid of these two women and pin it on the maid, the Sinclair family’s billion-dollar empire will be all mine.] Arthur walked up to Eleanor and offered a slight bow. His tone carried undeniable authority. “Ma’am, Julie is right. For the absolute safety of Mr. Sinclair, we must thoroughly search the maid’s quarters.” “I have already sent the security team to look. We should have results momentarily.” A loud ringing echoed in my ears. It felt like a massive boulder was crushing my chest. This was not a spur-of-the-moment accusation. They had cast an inescapable net! Four people, three venomous plots, and their target was surprisingly unanimous. They all wanted me to die as the scapegoat! My face twisted in sheer desperation as I tried to push my way out. “This is illegal! I didn’t poison anyone, and you have no right to search my private property!” “If you touch my things, I am calling the cops right now!” Eleanor looked at me as if I had just told the funniest joke in the world. She eyed me with pure disdain. “The cops? In this house, my word is the law!” “Hold this crazy bitch down!” The two bodyguards lunged forward like hungry wolves, aggressively twisting my arms behind my back. I struggled wildly. My knees slammed into the freezing marble floor so hard my bones cracked under the pressure. A few minutes later. A young maid ran out from the direction of my room, looking absolutely frantic. She held a small white plastic bottle high in the air, her voice trembling. “Ma’am! Mr. Arthur! We found this hidden under Ivy’s mattress!” “The label is entirely in Cyrillic, but it looks like some kind of highly toxic chemical!” My pupils shrank as I locked eyes with the bottle. That wasn’t mine! I didn’t even know how to read Russian! Julie covered her lips, letting out a wildly exaggerated gasp. “Oh my god. Ivy, you were actually hiding lethal poison in your room?” “My father treated you so well. How could you be so evil?” Eleanor reached her boiling point. She snatched the bottle and smashed it brutally against my forehead. “The evidence is right here! What else do you have to say for yourself now?” “I am going to beat you to death today, you murdering little slut!” Her sharp manicured nails dug deep into my flesh, the searing pain making my whole body violently shake. I forced my head up. Tears and fresh blood mixed together, blurring my vision. Through gritted teeth, I glared at their hypocritical faces. “That bottle is not mine! Someone planted it!” “You haven’t even checked it for fingerprints! You can’t just declare me guilty based on nothing!” Arthur let out a cold laugh. He walked slowly toward me, looking down at me from his high horse. “Ivy, we have witnesses and physical evidence. Are you still going to be stubborn?” “Take her down to the wine cellar. Lock her up until Mr. Sinclair wakes up to deal with her.” 2 The cellar was freezing and damp, the air thick with the pungent smell of mildew. The two bodyguards dragged me in like a dead dog and threw me heavily onto the cold concrete floor. My forehead was still steadily oozing blood, and half of my face had gone completely numb from the swelling. “You can’t lock me up like this! I am innocent!” Ignoring the agonizing pain, I scrambled up and threw myself at the heavy iron door just as it was about to swing shut. “There are cameras in the main hall! There are cameras outside the kitchen!” “Just pull the security footage! It will prove I never touched that bottle and I never poisoned the soup!” Outside the iron bars, Arthur’s footsteps paused. He turned around and offered me a spine-chilling, artificial smile through the metal grating. “Cameras?” He purposely lowered his voice, his tone dripping with mockery. “Ivy, did that hit to the head make you stupid?” “We had electrical maintenance this morning. All the cameras short-circuited and died half an hour ago.” My body stiffened. I stared into his completely lifeless eyes with pure horror. He had planned everything! A smug thought flashed through Arthur’s mind. [Idiot. I cut the power to the servers myself. Even if the cops show up, they won’t find a single thing.] [Just be a good girl and wait to die in here. Once those two women drop dead from the poison, I will send you straight to hell with them.] “You sick bastard!” I was shaking with rage. My hands gripped the iron bars so tightly my fingernails began to crack. “Arthur, karma is real! Do you really think you can play God?” He completely ignored my screaming. He simply turned to the bodyguards and issued a cold command. “Keep an eye on her. Until the Madam says so, do not even give her a drop of water.” With a loud metallic clank, the heavy lock secured the door, plunging the cellar into deathly darkness. I collapsed onto the floor in despair, gasping for air. Fear wrapped around my heart like a venomous snake, squeezing tighter and tighter. But I knew I couldn’t afford a breakdown right now. The second I gave up, I was truly dead. I fumbled around in the dark, forcing my brain to work at maximum speed. The poisoned consommé I had swapped earlier was still hidden in a secret compartment under my bed frame. That was my only wild card! If I could just get that thermos, I could prove Eleanor was the one who poisoned the soup! I don’t know how much time passed before the sharp clicking of high heels echoed outside the door. A blinding beam from a heavy-duty flashlight pierced through the metal grating. Julie stood outside in her silk slip dress, looking down at my pathetic state. “Tsk, tsk. Look at you, Ivy. What a pitiful sight.” She pinched her nose, unable to hide the sheer disgust on her face. “I actually feel a bit sorry for you. After all, you are just a maid working for minimum wage.” I cautiously backed away, glaring at her coldly. “What kind of sick game are you playing now, Julie?” She sighed and tossed a piece of stale, hardened bread through the bars. “What game? I just took pity on you and brought you a snack.” “All you have to do is confess. Just admit that you got greedy and wanted to kill my dad for a piece of the inheritance.” “I promise, when the cops get here, I will put in a good word for you so you get a lighter sentence.” She was speaking with such fake generosity. But in my ears, I could hear the most vicious, roaring thoughts echoing from the deepest, darkest corner of her mind. [Hurry up and confess, you stupid bitch! The second you sign that paper, I will have someone slit your throat in county jail!] [As soon as that old bat finishes her herbal tonic and dies from the poison, the entire Sinclair fortune will be mine!] My skin crawled. A strong wave of nausea hit my stomach. This twenty-year-old girl possessed a mind so twisted and evil it was beyond comprehension! I kicked the stale bread right back to the iron door. “Save your hypocritical acting, Julie.” I lifted my chin, meeting her gaze without an ounce of retreat. “I will die before I confess to something I didn’t do.” “Do you really think the filthy little secrets between you and your mother will stay buried forever?” Julie’s face dropped for a split second before she pointed her hostility right back at me. “You ungrateful piece of trash!” “If you want to die so badly, I will happily grant your wish!” She angrily kicked the iron door, turning to scream at the bodyguard beside her. “Tie her hands up! Let’s see how tough she acts then!” The two bodyguards unlocked the door and rushed in, violently pinning me to the ground. Thick, rough hemp rope was pulled brutally tight around my wrists, tearing my skin open. The pain was excruciating. Wearing a sinister grin, Julie stepped closer and closer in her expensive heels. She raised her foot, bringing the sharp stiletto heel down hard on the back of my hand, grinding it into the concrete. “Ah!” A blood-curdling scream ripped from my throat. Tears poured uncontrollably down my face. “Scream! Keep screaming!” Julie laughed like an absolute maniac. Her voice was laced with a twisted, sadistic pleasure. “In this house, if I say you are the killer, you are the killer!” “You are nothing but a dog meant to take the fall for me!” 3 The searing pain nearly made me pass out, but I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to let out another cry. I stared at Julie’s distorted, overly excited face, etching her cruelty into my memory. Just as she raised her foot to stomp on my other hand, a piercing, high-pitched alarm echoed from the second floor! It was the critical alert from the private medical suite! Julie froze mid-motion. “What is going on? Is the old bastard finally dead?” She scrambled toward the stairs, running so fast she lost one of her heels and didn’t even bother to pick it up. The two bodyguards exchanged nervous glances, immediately letting me go to chase after her. I lay on the freezing concrete, taking deep, jagged breaths. The back of my hand was a mangled mess of blood and torn skin. The medical alarm? Something happened to Mr. Sinclair? No, that was impossible! I distinctly remembered that the man lying in that bed had a heartbeat as steady as an athlete’s. He was playing possum! This sudden alarm had to be his doing. He was drawing the snakes out of the grass! A few minutes later, chaotic footsteps thundered on the stairs again. “Drag that venomous bitch up here!” Eleanor’s hysterical screech tore through the floorboards. Like a broken ragdoll, I was dragged all the way up the cellar stairs and tossed into the grand, luxurious living room. The massive crystal chandelier blinded me for a second. The family doctor, Dr. Harding, stood in the center of the room, sweating profusely while clutching a freshly printed medical report. “Ma’am, Mr. Sinclair’s blood work suddenly showed extreme abnormalities. He is showing signs of imminent organ failure!” “This is absolutely a reaction to heavy metal poisoning!” The moment the words left his mouth, Eleanor charged at me like a wild animal. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my head brutally against the solid marble coffee table. “You bitch! What did you feed him! Give me my husband back!” A sickening thud echoed through the room. The wound on my forehead split open again. Fresh blood ran down the bridge of my nose and into my mouth, the salty, copper taste making me want to gag. My head was spinning, but I used every ounce of strength I had left to scream. “I didn’t do it! He has been on a feeding tube for days. The doctor mixes all his nutritional fluids. I don’t even have access to them!” I tried desperately to pull away from her demonic grip, my face twisted in panic. “Why are you trying to pin this on me, Eleanor? You know exactly what you did!” Eleanor’s movements hitched. A flash of panic crossed her eyes. Her shrill inner voice screamed in her head. [Did this little tramp figure it out? Impossible! No one saw me slip the poison in!] [No, I cannot let her keep running her mouth. I have to kill her right now!] She snapped her head toward the butler, her eyes wide with madness. “Arthur! Get the confession letter! Force her hand down and make her sign it!” “If anything happens to my husband today, I will bury her entire family with him!” Arthur remained expressionless as he pulled a pre-prepared legal document from his briefcase. He walked over to me, his voice as cold as iron. “Ivy, just sign it. It will save you a lot of physical suffering.” “Admit that you poisoned him because you were jealous of the Madam’s lifestyle, and the Sinclair family will at least leave you with a whole corpse.” Looking at the densely typed confession, I actually laughed through the pain. They had already written out the entire script for me! “In your dreams!” I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva right into Arthur’s face. “You are a bunch of murderers. Do you really think you can hide the truth forever? The police will figure it out!” Arthur slowly wiped the bloody spit from his cheek. His eyes instantly turned murderous. “You ungrateful piece of trash.” He raised his heavy leather shoe and kicked me squarely in the stomach. A violent spasm folded my body in half. I curled up on the floor, unable to even scream, only dry-heaving in sheer agony. Just as Arthur prepared to stomp on my fingers to force my signature, Julie, who had been watching coldly from the sidelines, suddenly let out a blood-curdling shriek. “Ah! It hurts! My stomach hurts so much!” Her knees buckled. She crashed heavily onto the floor, clutching her stomach as she thrashed around wildly. A second later, she gagged and violently vomited a massive pool of black blood! The pristine white rug was instantly ruined. Eleanor screamed in absolute terror, dropping to the floor and pulling her daughter into her arms. “Julie! What is wrong? Don’t scare Mommy!” Julie was convulsing, her fingers clawing frantically at her own throat, her eyes bulging out of her head. Her inner thoughts were a chaotic mess of pure terror. [What is happening? I only put the poison in the old bat’s herbal tonic! Why am I being poisoned?] [Did I… Did I drink from the wrong bowl? Help! I don’t want to die!]

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1 During graduation trip talks, my foster sister Monica and I argued. I wanted the American Southwest; she chose Iceland. Wyatt, grinning, said, “Iceland’s perfect! My new DSLR will capture Monica beautifully.” Parents nodded. “Scenery’s great. Her new down coat fits the weather.” They looked a perfect family. No one noticed the Southwest itinerary I’d spent two weeks planning, hidden under the fruit bowl. I tried to speak, but Wyatt cut in, frowning. “Southwest’s dust and sun. Monica’s too fragile for that. How’d she survive?” Mom slid a $2,000 gift card across the table. “Desert’s not going anywhere. Let Monica have this. I’ll take you next year.” I stared at the card, bitter smile on my lips, silent. Three years ago, they’d wept, promising a family Southwest trip post-graduation to make up for my 18 lost years. But I’d learned: Monica’s tears meant I yielded. My things, space, even their promises—sacrificed for her. Blood meant nothing against favoritism. Since I’d never win against their precious foster daughter, I quit their game. They could have Iceland. I’d take the long train to the desert alone. From now on, my own path. They could keep their high society and the Presley “real daughter” title. Wyatt noticed me staring silently at the gift card, and his scowl deepened. He reached over, snatched the detailed road trip itinerary from under the fruit bowl, and held it by the corner with obvious disgust. “What is this garbage? It’s just in the way, wrinkling Monica’s visa documents.” With a careless twist of his wrists, he crumpled the thick packet of paper, along with the translated documents for the DuPont merger I had stayed up all night to finish for my father, and threw them into the trash can. I stared at the crumpled paper, taking a slow, deep breath. When the Presleys first brought me back from the desert, my father had gripped my hands with tears in his eyes. Evelyn, you’ve suffered so much. When you graduate, I will rent two off-road vehicles and the whole family will take you back to the desert to see the golden cottonwoods. I had held onto that promise for three long years. I had researched every supply station, mapped out every mile, and calculated every stop. And for what? Monica only had to squeeze out a few tears and whisper, I heard the Northern Lights can bring a lifetime of good fortune. With my weak health, I don’t know if I’ll live long enough to see them again, and every single plan was instantly obliterated. “Evelyn, do not start throwing a tantrum now,” my father warned, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Our trip to Iceland is partly to meet with the executives of the DuPont Group at their private golf club. This is a matter of our family’s standing in high society. As our biological daughter, do you lack even this basic sense of the bigger picture?” Monica’s eyes immediately pooled with tears. “Dad, please don’t fight. It’s all my fault for having such poor health. If Evelyn really wants to go to the desert, I… I don’t have to go to Iceland. You should all go with Evelyn instead.” “What are you talking about?” Wyatt snapped, turning his glare back to me. “Evelyn, are you completely heartless? The Southwest is a wasteland of dust and scorching UV rays. Monica would lose a layer of skin out there! Do you have to torture her to be satisfied?” Looking at the three of them standing united against me, I felt as though a lump of lead was wedged in my throat, impossible to swallow or spit out. I took a step toward the trash can, wanting to salvage the itinerary that had cost me so many sleepless nights. But Wyatt kicked the bin away, letting out a sharp laugh. “What, still haven’t given up? What use is this stupid paper anyway, other than letting you play the victim?” I stood frozen, my fingernails digging into my palms until they bled. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and looked up with perfect calm. “Fine. I’ll go get my passport.” Hearing my surrender, my mother’s face finally relaxed. “That’s my sensible girl. Go get the original documents. The travel agency is waiting to finalize the booking.” I turned and walked back to my small room, which was essentially a converted maid’s quarters in the corner of the first floor. Once I handed my passport to the waiting butler, I shut the door, cutting off the sounds of their laughter as they discussed the northern lights. Sitting on my narrow single bed, I pulled out my cracked phone and opened a travel app. I entered the coordinates of the Southwest desert, setting the departure date for the exact same day they were scheduled to fly to Iceland. Since they wanted to see the northern lights, I would see the golden cottonwoods by myself. When the confirmation screen flashed, showing my purchase of a one-way ticket on a slow, regional train, a soft smile finally touched my lips. A single, one-way ticket. It was my passage to freedom. To prepare for the trip, the family drove to a high-end outdoor gear store in the city center the following morning. Monica drifted through the racks of premium winter coats, with my mother and Wyatt following close behind, carrying hats and gloves for her to try. I walked silently at the very back of the group. “Excuse me, ma’am,” a sales associate said, stepping up to me and handing me a stack of heavy coats. “Could you please carry these to the fitting room for our young lady?” The entire group went quiet. Monica bit her lip to hide a smug smile, making absolutely no effort to clarify who I was. I took the coats without a word. My mother finally seemed to realize what was happening and cleared her throat, looking slightly embarrassed. “This is actually our… our oldest daughter.” The associate apologized profusely, but I had already turned and walked toward the fitting room. Over the last three years, I had grown completely numb to being mistaken for a maid or a hired hand. When we reached the register, my father swiped his card for fifteen thousand dollars without blinking, purchasing Monica’s entire set of premium gear. Only as we were preparing to leave did my mother seem to notice my empty hands. She turned back to the clearance rack, grabbed an outdated, oversized utility jacket, and tossed it into my arms. “You can wear this. You’re used to the cold from your childhood in the countryside anyway. Even with the discount, this still cost over two hundred dollars.” Monica looked at the cheap jacket in my hands, putting on her best display of sweet generosity. “Mom, that jacket is far too thin for Iceland. Why don’t I give Evelyn the red coat I bought in Switzerland last year? It’s a bit worn, but it’s very warm.” Offering me her discarded hand-me-downs to highlight her own saintly nature was her favorite game. I stepped aside, avoiding her touch. “No, thank you. I don’t need it.” “Evelyn, what is with that attitude?” my father barked, his voice sharp with anger. “You’ve been back with us for three years, and you still haven’t lost that bitter, sensitive pride from the gutter! Monica is trying to be kind to you, and you treat her like this?” Wyatt was busy adjusting his camera, not even looking up. “Dad, don’t waste your breath on her. When we get to Iceland, I’m only taking photos of Monica anyway. Even if Evelyn freezes to death, I won’t waste a single frame on her.” When we returned home, the dining table was laden with a massive seafood feast to celebrate the approval of our visas. There were oysters, lobster tails, and a large bowl of steamed crab cakes. I stood by the table, making no move to sit down. “I had stomach surgery last month,” I said quietly, looking at my mother. “The doctor strictly warned me not to eat raw or cold seafood for at least six months.” There wasn’t a single dish on the table that I could safely eat. My mother’s hand paused, a brief flicker of guilt crossing her face, but it was quickly replaced by irritation. “We are celebrating a wonderful trip, and you have to ruin the mood with your illnesses? It was a minor surgery! A little seafood isn’t going to kill you. Stop being so delicate!” She waved over a maid. “Go heat up some of yesterday’s leftover porridge for her.” As I stared at the bowl of sour, day-old porridge, a wave of nausea hit my stomach. After dinner, Monica directed the staff to line up five massive suitcases in the center of the living room, and the family gathered around to pack them with snacks and designer winter wear. The spacious room was so crowded with their belongings that there wasn’t even a path for me to walk through. I knew then, with absolute certainty, that I had no place in this house. “Oh, my head… I feel so dizzy…” Monica murmured, pressing her hand to her forehead as she collapsed onto the plush sofa. My mother let out a sharp cry of alarm, and the entire room erupted into chaos. Wyatt rushed to hold her up, while my father barked orders at the butler to fetch the medical kit. They acted as though she were facing a terminal crisis, when in reality, she was simply experiencing a mild sugar drop from staying up late to look at travel blogs. I stood at the corner of the hallway, shivering as the cold wind drifted in from a half-open window. A sharp, familiar pain shot through my right knee. It was the chronic joint pain I had developed when I was twelve, after falling into an icy creek while gathering wild herbs in the high desert. Whenever the weather turned damp or I grew exhausted, the pain in my bones became almost unbearable. I limped back to my room and pulled open my nightstand drawer, searching for the herbal patches I had bought to manage the pain. But the drawer was completely empty. All ten boxes of the specialized patches I had purchased with my own meager savings were gone. Sweating from the pain, I limped back to the living room. My eyes swept over Monica’s open suitcase, and there, tucked into a side pocket, were the familiar brown paper boxes. I walked over, reaching out to reclaim my medication. Before my fingers could touch the box, my mother delivered a sharp, stinging slap to my hand. My skin immediately began to swell and redden. “What do you think you’re doing? Those are Monica’s heating patches for the cold weather!” she snapped, shielding the suitcase with her body. I gasped from the pain, forcing myself to explain. “Mom, those aren’t regular heat patches. They contain raw aconite and thunder god vine root. It’s a high-potency prescription herbal patch specifically formulated for severe joint pain!” “If someone without the condition uses them, they can cause severe skin ulcerations and even systemic toxicity!” “Stop making up these ridiculous stories!” Wyatt sneered, standing up to block me. “Evelyn, you really will resort to any lie just to steal from Monica, won’t you? Monica is going to a freezing place like Iceland. If she gets cold because of you, can you even afford to make it up to her?” Monica leaned back against the cushions, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Evelyn, if you’re really going to fight me over a few heating patches, I’ll give them back. I know I’m just an outsider in this family anyway…” “Monica, don’t say that! These belong to you!” my father declared, turning a furious glare on me. “Get back to your room! Get out of our sight!” Looking at their stubborn, united front, I decided to stop fighting. Even if I told them the absolute truth, they would only see it as a malicious lie. I pulled my throbbing hand back and let the pain in my knee burn. I turned and limped back to my room without another word. If Monica chose to burn her skin off with those patches, she would have no one to blame but herself. Two days later, we had to go to the agency to verify our fingerprints. When I walked out of the house with my documents, they were already sitting in the family SUV. I walked up to the window and looked inside. The butler sat in the passenger seat, and the four of them occupied the remaining rows. The spacious cargo area and the footwells were completely packed with Monica’s carry-on bags and makeup cases. There wasn’t a single inch of space left for me. “There’s no room in the car,” my father said, rolling down the window with a frown. “And your cheap canvas bag will scratch Monica’s leather suitcases.” “Then how am I supposed to get there?” I asked, my voice flat. “Figure it out yourself! Find a rental bike outside the estate, or walk to the subway station!” my father snapped impatiently. “We are on a tight schedule. Do not be late!” The window rolled up, and the driver hit the gas. The tires rolled through a muddy puddle, splashing dirty water all over my face and my cheap jacket. I stood in the driveway, wiping the mud from my eyes as I watched the vehicle disappear. The very last spark of hope I had held for this family died in that puddle. The damp wind bit through my clothes. I didn’t search for a bike, and I didn’t walk to the subway. I turned around and walked back into the empty house. My body was shaking from the cold, and my throat felt dry. I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of cold water, and swallowed two cold tablets. The bitter taste coated my tongue, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness in my heart. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a notification from the family group chat. Five minutes ago, they had arrived at the airport lounge. The chat was flooded with photos: Monica eating pastries, Wyatt adjusting his camera lenses, and my mother discussing the premium travel insurance she had purchased for Iceland. Not a single person asked if I had found a ride, or if I was caught in the rain. I turned off the screen and went back to my dark room. Since I wasn’t going with them, it was time for me to leave. I knelt on the floor and pried away a loose piece of the baseboard under my bed. Hidden inside was a small iron box. This was the only piece of my past I had brought from the desert: a collection of hand-written folk songs my late adoptive mother, Martha, had penned for me, and her old, worn pocket watch. It was the only thing that had kept me going through three years of isolation in this house. But when my hand reached into the dark space, my fingers met nothing but cold, empty air. The box was gone. A sharp ringing sound filled my ears, and my heart seemed to stop. I bolted out of the room, running up the stairs toward the source of some faint noise on the second floor. When I reached the top of the stairs, my legs went rigid. Wyatt was standing in the hallway, throwing a paper airplane made from a sheet of yellowed paper. I could see Martha’s neat, looping handwriting covering the wings. Monica stood in front of the full-length mirror, a heavy metal chain around her neck. Suspended from the bottom of the chain was my adoptive mother’s old pocket watch. The glass cover of the watch had been crudely pried off, the delicate hands and face ripped out to expose the bare, gold gears. She was displaying it to Wyatt as if it were a trendy “steampunk” accessory. “You have to admit, Wyatt, this old junk actually looks incredibly chic once you modify it,” Monica said with a smirk. “What are you doing?!” I screamed, my eyes turning red with fury as I lunged toward them. My mother walked out of the adjacent room holding a pair of scissors, her brow furrowing in irritation. “What is all this screaming about? Your room was full of dusty, moldy garbage that made the entire first floor smell like a gutter. I had the maids clean it out. Is there a problem with that?” “That was my mother’s legacy! You stole it! You destroyed it!” My body was shaking so violently I could barely speak. I reached for the chain around Monica’s neck. “Give it back to me!” “Evelyn, are you insane?!” Wyatt yelled, stepping in front of Monica and shoving me back with all his force. “It’s just a piece of old brass! It’s an honor that Monica even wants to wear your trash! Why are you acting like a hysterical wild animal over a piece of garbage?” Monica shrank back, putting on a display of terror as tears spilled from her eyes. “Evelyn, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this was so important to you. I’ll give it back, please don’t hurt me…” She fumbled with the clasp, her hands shaking, and the delicate watch slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. As she tried to step back, her heavy designer boot landed directly on the exposed gears. A sharp crunch echoed through the hallway. The delicate inner workings of the watch were crushed into unrecognizable fragments. My breath caught in my throat. A dull, heavy pain bloomed in my chest, so intense that no tears could fall. “You ungrateful brat!” my father roared as he strode up the stairs, having heard the noise. He pointed a finger at my face, his expression contorted with rage. “You would threaten your own sister over a piece of country trash? You have completely humiliated this family!” “Guards! Lock her in the basement storage room! No one is to let her out until she learns how to behave!” Two burly security guards stepped forward, grabbing me by the arms and dragging me down the stairs. I didn’t fight them. My hand was clenched tightly around the sharp shards of glass I had gathered from the floor, the blood dripping from my palm and staining the white hallway carpet. The heavy metal door slammed shut, plunging the basement into absolute darkness. From upstairs, the faint sound of their laughter drifted down as they discussed what outfits they would wear to see the northern lights. I leaned against the cold stone wall and slid slowly to the floor. Over the next three days, the family acted as if I didn’t exist. Only the maid came once a day, sliding a piece of stale bread and a half-filled bottle of water under the door, as if she were feeding an animal. They were using isolation and physical confinement to force me to beg for their forgiveness. But they had entirely miscalculated. On the third evening, the sound of the front door closing echoed from upstairs. Tonight was the eve of their departure for Iceland. The family had booked the most exclusive restaurant in Boston to host a grand send-off celebration for Monica. The estate was finally completely silent. I pulled a bobby pin from my hair. Using the skills I had developed during my years in the dry country, and guided by the faint light of my phone’s low-battery screen, I manipulated the mechanism of the lock. With a soft click, the heavy padlock fell open. When I walked back up to the first floor, I didn’t call the police, and I didn’t wait to confront them. I walked into the living room, gathered every single piece of clothing and jewelry the Presleys had bought for me, along with our family portraits, and threw them into the fireplace, watching them burn to ash. I pulled the SIM card from my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed the device into the deep waters of the garden pond. Finally, I picked up the worn canvas bag I had brought with me from the desert three years ago. Fourteen hours later, I was sitting near the window of a long-distance train, watching the green hills fade into the endless, sun-baked plains of the Southwest. The wheels clattered against the iron rails, a rhythmic, beautiful sound that carried me away from my prison. The Presley family could keep their biological daughter’s title. I was going home.

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1 After my diagnosis of Emotional Apathy Syndrome, my feelings grew dull. When Gideon favored his first love, Lorelei, I stayed calm. Even seeing him give her our tenth-anniversary diamond ring drew no tears. He rarely came home, always claiming, “Lorelei is afraid of the dark.” When I called to tell him about my condition, Lorelei answered his phone. “Gideon is in the shower,” she mocked sweetly. “Call back later.” I hung up and let him bring her as his plus-one to our anniversary gala. Before the guests, he wrapped his arm around her waist. “Marrying you was punishment for losing a bet. Lorelei is my only love. You have played Mrs. Harrington for ten years. Be satisfied.” Lorelei giggled against his chest, triumphant. I simply smiled, picked up the photo album I had compiled, and dropped it into the champagne bucket. In my mind, memories of Gideon were dissolving. Soon, I would forget him and our agonizing ten years entirely. On the ride back to the estate, I voluntarily opened the front passenger door and gestured for Lorelei to take the seat. Gideon was used to my sharp tongue, my hysterical outbursts, and the desperate way I used to fight for his attention whenever Lorelei was around. My sudden grace and indifference only seemed to irritate him. Once we pulled up to the driveway and Lorelei stepped away, I turned to him and spoke quietly. “I’m not angry, Gideon. And I’m certainly not jealous.” Lorelei lingered by the porch, her voice trembling with manufactured tears. “Gideon, did I do something wrong? Fiona seems to despise me. Maybe I should just check into a hotel.” Gideon caught her by the hand, his voice laced with cold impatience as he looked at me. “Why should you leave? This is your home now.” He strode over and grabbed my wrist, his grip tightening. “Fiona, don’t think you can play these reverse psychology games with me. My parents forced me to marry you back then. Now that Lorelei is back, you need to grow up and accept it.” My eyes remained flat, reflecting nothing. “I understand. Let her move in. I’ll pack my things and let her have the master bedroom as well.” A flicker of suspicion crossed his features. “I’ll say it one more time. Pretending to be saintly won’t work on me. If you’re upset, throw a tantrum. Cry. Scream. I can easily buy you whatever designer bags or jewelry you want to make up for it.” Lorelei stepped up, resting her hand on Gideon’s arm. “Fiona, how could I possibly take the master bedroom? That wouldn’t be right.” Gideon let out a cold snort. “Since you’re so eager to play the generous wife, Lorelei and I will sleep in the master suite tonight.” He pulled her along, leaving me standing in the cold hallway. Deep within my mind, another piece of my memory of him shattered and faded into mist. That night, I booked a moving service for the following morning and purchased a one-way ticket to Europe, scheduled for one week from today. When I walked out of the guest room the next morning, Lorelei was already sorting through a cardboard box by the stairs. It was filled with the countless gifts Gideon had given me over the years. “Fiona,” she cooed, clutching a soft velvet throw pillow to her chest. “This is so comfortable. Gideon said I could have it.” I stared at the pillow. Three years ago, Gideon and I had found it at a flea market during a rare weekend trip. He had argued with the vendor for half an hour just to get it for me, eventually laughing as he tucked it into my arms, promising he would hold me just as tightly for the rest of his life. Now, as I looked at the handmade music box and the intricate wooden carvings he had crafted for me, the emotions attached to those memories felt as though they were being systematically extracted from my brain. “If you like it, keep it,” I said, my voice empty of cadence. “It’s all just old junk anyway.” I took my car keys and turned back toward the guest room. Gideon stepped into my path, blocking the doorway. “Fiona, what is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Before this, if Lorelei so much as looked at me, you would scream and fight with me for three days. Now I bring her into our home, and you don’t even have a single question?” I looked at him, finding the confusion on his face almost amusing. “Isn’t this exactly what you always wanted, Gideon? No fighting, no drama. Isn’t this better?” He stood frozen, unable to find a reply. I closed the door, shutting out his gaze. By the next morning, the moving truck was idling outside the villa. My belongings were packed into just two small boxes resting at my feet. Gideon emerged from the master bedroom, his face dark with fury when he saw the boxes. “Fiona, have you had your fun yet? Put your things back before I lose my temper.” The boy I had loved in my youth had become an unrecognizable shadow. I bent down to tape the box shut. “Let’s get a divorce, Gideon. I’ll have my lawyer mail the papers to your office in a few days.” Lorelei gasped dramatically from the hallway, though she couldn’t quite hide the spark of delight in her eyes. Gideon’s expression turned murderous. “What did you just say?” “I said, we are getting a divorce. I’ll send you the paperwork.” “Fiona, you’re getting bold, trying to threaten me with divorce,” he sneered, stepping closer. “It was just a ring. I already told you I would compensate you. What are you still throwing a tantrum for?” I met his anger with a long, hollow silence. Eventually, his patience snapped, and he slammed the front door as he left. With the sound of that slam, the details of his face seemed to blur even further in my mind. I realized I could no longer remember what his smile looked like. “We can go,” I told the mover. As the truck rolled down the driveway, I didn’t look back. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It was a text from Gideon. Be at the Grand Plaza Hotel at eight tonight. It’s Lorelei’s birthday. If you still want to keep your title as Mrs. Harrington, you will show up on time. I stared at the screen for a moment, then quietly blocked his number. Gideon, from this moment on, you are nothing but a stranger. That night, I scrolled past my friends’ social media posts showing updates from the party. It was a lavish affair, far grander than any anniversary or birthday Gideon had ever given me. In one video, he was down on one knee, presenting Lorelei with a massive bouquet of white roses. My best friend called me, crying on my behalf, furious at the injustice of it all. I listened to her sob, but my own chest remained light and hollow. The next afternoon, the head housekeeper of the Harrington estate called my temporary number, her voice tight with panic. “Fiona, please come to the manor immediately! Madam Beatrice has collapsed, and she keeps calling your name!” My mind immediately conjured the warm, gentle face of Gideon’s grandmother. She was the only person in that entire family who had ever treated me with genuine kindness, always holding my hand and telling me to come to her whenever I felt wronged. “I’m on my way,” I said, grabbing my coat. When I stepped into the grand parlor of the estate, the sound of Lorelei’s giggling echoed through the room. “Grandmother, Gideon flew this rare wellness tea in from abroad especially for you. Please try some.” Gideon sat on the adjacent sofa, looking bored. When he noticed me enter, his posture stiffened slightly, and his mouth curved into a familiar sneer. “So you finally decided to show up? I thought you were far too proud to care whether Grandmother lived or died.” Grandmother Beatrice looked up, a soft smile gracing her wrinkled face when she saw me. “Fiona, dear, come sit by me. I’m perfectly fine, just a slight spell of high blood pressure. Gideon was just overreacting and insisted on bringing you back here.” Lorelei chimed in, her tone dripping with sweet poison. “Yes, Fiona. Gideon was simply worried about Grandmother. But you’ve been so busy lately, you haven’t even had time to visit her.” She was clearly painting me as the unfilial, cold-hearted wife. In the past, I would have desperately tried to explain myself, sick with the fear of Gideon’s disapproval. Now, I merely offered a polite smile. “Since you have so much free time on your hands, Lorelei, perhaps you can fulfill those duties in my place.” Lorelei’s smile faltered, and she looked toward Gideon with wide, wounded eyes. “Gideon…” Gideon set his newspaper down, his gaze drilling into me. “Fiona, did you forget to take your medication today? Lorelei was only trying to help, and this is how you treat her?” I looked him dead in the eye. “My attitude is perfectly fine.” Grandmother Beatrice looked between us, her brow furrowing. “Gideon, Fiona, have you two been fighting?” “No, Grandmother,” Gideon lied smoothly. He stood up, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me out into the private garden. “You returned the secondary credit card, blocked my number, and now you won’t even show respect at the family estate?” he hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Do you honestly think I won’t go through with a divorce? Have you forgotten about your brother lying in that hospital bed?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Every single dollar of his medical bills comes from my family’s pocket. Without that money, he won’t survive three days.” He was entirely certain he held the leash. At the mention of my little brother, Toby, a sharp, localized pang of grief pierced through the numbness of my chest. It was a fleeting, agonizing reminder of the love I once felt. I looked up at him, and to his surprise, I let out a soft laugh. “Gideon, my brother died six months ago.” The smug triumph on his face froze, replaced by a sudden, chaotic panic. “What? Why wasn’t I told?” I stared at him, the last remnants of my affection evaporating into the autumn air. “Because you were busy watching the penguins in Antarctica with Lorelei. You don’t have to worry about my family anymore, Gideon. We are entirely even.” I took a step back. “We are done.” A rare flash of embarrassment crossed his face. “I’m… I’m sorry about your brother. I truly didn’t know.” “You only care about things that involve Lorelei,” I said. “You’ve never known anything about my life.” His jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened with a sudden, ugly suspicion. “Are you so determined to get this divorce because there is someone else?” The sheer insult of his words broke through my apathy. Before I could process the impulse, my hand swung out and delivered a sharp, resounding slap across his face. The sound cracked through the quiet garden. “I simply do not love you anymore,” I said. Gideon clutched his burning cheek, his eyes wide with utter disbelief. “That’s impossible. You loved me more than anything.” He was right. I had loved him once, with a desperation that consumed my entire youth. In the early days of our marriage, under Grandmother’s guidance, we had shared genuine happiness. He would bring home the pastries I casually mentioned wanting, and I would stay up all night cooking porridge for him whenever his stomach flared up. We had loved each other with a clumsy, earnest devotion. But every year, Lorelei would return, and every year, the scale would tip in her favor. His blatant, unapologetic preference for her slowly eroded every ounce of love I had to give. Ten years of devotion, systematically destroyed by a thousand quiet disappointments. Gideon remained standing in the garden, staring at me as if I were a stranger. “That was a long time ago,” I said, and walked away. The next afternoon, Gideon sat in his high-rise office, staring out at the San Francisco skyline. His secretary stood by his desk, speaking in a hesitant whisper. “Mr. Harrington, the real estate agent confirmed that Mrs. Harrington has officially listed her downtown apartment for sale.” Gideon’s hand clenched around his gold pen. “What else is she selling?” “All of the high-end jewelry and designer watches you gifted her over the years. She took them to a luxury consignment shop to be liquidated for cash.” Gideon snapped the pen in half, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. That evening, as I was drying my hair in my hotel room, my phone rang with an unrecognized number. I answered it, and Gideon’s furious voice boomed through the speaker. “Fiona, you are getting entirely out of hand. You dare to block my number?” I pulled the phone slightly away from my ear, keeping my voice level. “Is there something you need, Mr. Harrington?” The formal address seemed to strike him like a physical blow. The line went silent for a few seconds before he snarled, “What did you just call me? We are not divorced yet. I am still your husband!” “Not for much longer,” I said, and disconnected the call. A moment later, a text message arrived from another unknown number. Fiona, stop playing games. Gideon is already exhausted by your pathetic attempts to get his attention. Attached was a photo. In the image, Lorelei was wearing a silk nightgown, smiling sweetly at the camera as she curled into Gideon’s arm on a plush hotel bed. Gideon’s eyes were closed, seemingly asleep, though his brow was furrowed even in rest. A sudden knock sounded at my door. Thinking it was room service, I pulled the door open, only for Gideon to barge in, slamming the door behind him and pushing me back onto the bed. Before I could speak, he grabbed my hand and began violently shoving several diamond rings onto my fingers. “Fiona, what will it take to make you stop this?” he demanded, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and desperation. He was trying to use these rings to erase the memory of the one he had given to Lorelei. When I didn’t answer, his eyes flared with anger, and he leaned down to kiss me. I gathered all my strength, wrenched my hands free, and struck him across the face again. He stumbled back, the anger in his eyes suddenly giving way to a profound, broken defeat. “My relationship with Lorelei is complicated,” he whispered, his head bowed. “I can’t just cut her out of my life completely. But she will never take your place as my wife. Why can’t you just accept that?” Before I could reply, his phone began to ring. It was Lorelei. Her tearful, whimpering voice was easily audible in the quiet room. “Gideon… where are you? My stomach hurts so badly…” Gideon looked at me, torn, before stepping toward the door. “I’ll be right there,” he murmured into the phone, and rushed out, leaving the scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the air. I quietly slipped the diamond rings off my fingers and listed them on a local resale app. The next day, the specialist at the clinic stared at my brain scans, letting out a long, heavy sigh. “If this progression continues, you will lose not only your emotional capacity but your cognitive memory as well,” the doctor warned. “While the condition isn’t fatal, it will make it incredibly difficult to live a normal life.” I offered a small smile, realizing that even the muscles in my face felt heavy and unresponsive. “That’s alright. Perhaps it’s for the best.” I took my bag of medication and walked out of the clinic. As I rounded the corner of the sterile hallway, I collided with someone. “Fiona? What are you doing here?” Gideon’s voice cut through the quiet corridor, dripping with immediate suspicion. Beside him stood Lorelei, wearing a hospital gown, looking pale and fragile. “Gideon, is Fiona sick?” Lorelei asked, bending down to reach for the pill bottle that had fallen from my hand. “It’s none of your concern,” I said, retrieving the bottle before she could touch it. Gideon’s expression darkened. “Fiona, are you tracking us now? Is there no limit to how low you’ll stoop?” I looked at him with absolute indifference. “I came here to see my doctor. I don’t have the time or the energy to follow you.” Gideon let out a harsh laugh, snatching the paper bag of medication from my hands. “You’re pretending to be ill just to get my attention. This is pathetic, Fiona. Stop dragging this out.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed my medication into a nearby biohazard bin. “You disgust me.” As the bag hit the bottom of the bin, the last remaining memories of Gideon in my mind began to dissolve, turning into nothing but gray, lifeless smoke. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and walked away. A few days later, my attorney called. “Fiona, Mr. Harrington is refusing to sign the dissolution papers.” “I see,” I replied, staring at the IV drip in my arm. My memory was deteriorating much faster than the doctors had predicted. I was starting to forget simple things—where I had left my keys, what I had eaten for breakfast, the faces of casual acquaintances. As I sat in a quiet cafe downtown, staring at the cold latte in front of my hands, I realized I couldn’t remember when I had ordered it. The squeal of tires cut through my thoughts. Gideon strode into the cafe, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me toward his car. “You’re coming with me to Grandmother’s birthday gala,” he commanded as the car sped onto the highway. “Her health is fragile. I won’t have you stressing her with talk of a divorce.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. The Harrington manor was alight with grand decorations. Luxury cars lined the private drive, and the ballroom was packed with the city’s elite. As I walked in beside Gideon, whispering voices immediately rippled through the crowd. “Look, the wife actually showed up.” “I heard Gideon has been living with the Lorelei girl. I thought the wife would have been thrown out by now.” “It’s a complete mess.” I remained entirely untroubled by their whispers. Gideon, however, looked tense, his hand dropping to grip my waist in a performative display of unity. “Fiona, sweetheart, come here,” Grandmother Beatrice called from her seat at the head of the main table, waving me over. I walked over and handed her the gift Gideon’s assistant had prepared for me. “Happy birthday, Grandmother. I wish you many more years of health and happiness.” The elderly woman took my hand, her eyes shining with warmth. But before she could speak, a commotion at the entrance drew everyone’s attention. Lorelei stepped into the ballroom, holding a beautifully wrapped silk box. She walked directly to Grandmother Beatrice. “Happy birthday, Grandmother,” she said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “I personally brought this rare herbal elixir from Switzerland for you. I hope it brings you strength.” Grandmother’s smile faded slightly, and she gave a polite, distant nod. “Thank you, Lorelei.” Lorelei’s jaw tightened slightly at the cold reception. She turned her gaze to me, her eyes sweeping over my simple black dress. “Fiona, you look lovely tonight. Did Gideon pick out that dress for you?” She was wearing a custom couture gown, clearly trying to highlight the stark contrast between us. “Lorelei, you aren’t fully recovered yet. Why did you come?” Gideon stepped forward, his arm immediately finding her waist, his voice filled with genuine concern. As Lorelei moved past me, her heel caught on the edge of the carpet. With a dramatic cry, she stumbled directly toward the grand champagne tower nearby. “Ah!” The delicate crystal tower began to collapse. Without a second thought, Gideon lunged forward, throwing his body over Lorelei to shield her from the falling glass. The heavy crystal glasses shattered over my head, drenching me in sticky champagne, the sharp shards slicing deep cuts into my exposed arms. “Fiona! Why did you push her?” Gideon roared, looking up from where he held Lorelei in his arms. But as his eyes fell on my bleeding arms and soaked dress, his anger faltered, replaced by a sudden flicker of guilt. He turned to the head housekeeper. “Get the medical kit! Clean her up!” The housekeeper rushed over with the kit, but I politely pushed her hands away. I turned to Grandmother Beatrice, offering a shallow bow. “Grandmother, I’m feeling slightly unwell. Please excuse me.” Grandmother looked at my bleeding arms and ruined dress, her eyes filled with deep sorrow. “Go, child. Go take care of your wounds. Have the driver take you.” “There’s no need,” I said quietly. “I’ll take a taxi.” Gideon tried to follow me as I walked toward the exit, but I reached into my bag, pulled out the thick brown envelope, and pressed it into his chest. “Goodbye, Gideon.” I walked out into the cool night air, leaving him behind. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the airport lounge, waiting for my flight to Finland, that I realized I had accidentally left my medical diagnosis files inside that brown envelope along with the divorce papers. I stared out the window at the dark tarmac. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. The engines roared to life, and the plane began its long ascent into the sky. Gideon, this is the last time we will ever exist in the same world.

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1 The day I got into Juilliard, the Sinclairs brought me home. Eleanor wept, promising to make up for lost years. Brent bought me a Maserati and enrolled me in the best driving school, vowing to drive me to college. The night before my road test, Ken, their foster son, stole the car and killed a man in a hit and run. Rachel squeezed my hand. “Austin, take the fall. His heart is weak. Prison will kill him.” Eleanor knelt, sobbing. “You can rebuild. Ken cannot.” Brent slid a pre-written confession over, promising freedom in six months. Gwen smashed the dashcam card. “I will wait for you.” I was sentenced to seven years. Ken wore Eleanor’s custom suit for my debut, flying to a European conservatory with Gwen waving beside him. On a damp autumn evening, I finished washing a Porsche Cayenne and handed over the keys. Gwen stood there, holding a five-year-old boy’s hand. “Austin, why didn’t you come find me? Still hate us?” I pushed the Venmo QR code toward her, not looking up. “That is eighty dollars. Scan, please. Card or Venmo?” She didn’t move. She simply stood with the boy just outside the muddy puddles of the washing bay. Her designer coat was pristine, completely out of place in this wet, gritty environment. The boy stared with wide eyes at the high-pressure water gun in my hand, while Gwen’s gaze drifted down to my cheap, water-stained rubber boots and plastic apron. “Austin, you shouldn’t have let yourself fall this low,” she said, her voice laced with disappointment. “Even if you are angry, you shouldn’t ruin your own future just to spite us.” I shut off the water pump, tossed the dirty rag into the bucket, and watched the murky water splash over my boots. “Do you want to scan the code, or should I call my manager?” Suddenly, the boy broke free from Gwen’s grip. He pointed at the glass cabinet behind the counter, shouting that he wanted to play with the old cello bow resting inside. Before I could stop him, he reached out to grab it. I lunged to intercept him, but the sudden movement tore at the old fracture in my wrist. A sharp, white-hot pain shot up my forearm. My fingers slipped, and the bow clattered onto the wet concrete. Gwen yanked the boy back, her eyes dropping to my exposed wrist. Under the harsh fluorescent light, the thick, jagged scar running across the bone looked monstrous. Her face drained of color. “What happened to your hand?” I pulled my sleeve down, hiding the scar, and bent to pick up the bow. “It has nothing to do with you.” Gwen frowned, her tone softening into that familiar, condescending pleading. “Austin, stop acting like this. The Sinclairs told me you were only supposed to be in there for six months. You chose to disappear for seven years just to make everyone feel guilty. Who are you trying to punish? Do you have any idea how sick Eleanor got because she thought you ran away?” My hands froze on the damp rag. Six months? I had spent seven grueling years in a concrete cell. Seven years of absolute hell, and to them, it was nothing but a childish tantrum. I wiped down the wet counter, my voice dead. “I didn’t run away. I’ve been working here.” Gwen’s expression darkened. “Ken hasn’t had an easy time either. He loses sleep every night because of his guilt. Just come back with me. If there are misunderstandings, we can sit down and talk them through.” She reached out to grab my arm. I took a sharp step back, avoiding her touch entirely. “The car is clean. Pay the bill and leave. Don’t block my station.” A soft chime sounded from my phone. The payment had gone through. I slung the rag over my shoulder. “Have a good evening, Gwen.” Ten minutes later, a black Audi sedan screeched to a halt by the curb. The door slammed open, and Rachel stepped out, her high heels clicking loudly against the wet pavement. She looked at the cheap neon sign of the car wash, then sneered at my face. “Austin, your mother is desperately ill in the hospital. How long do you plan on carrying out this ridiculous drama?” She didn’t ask how I was. She didn’t ask where I had been. She only stared at my stained apron and rubber boots with absolute disgust. “A Sinclair son washing cars for pocket change? You are dragging our family name through the mud. Pack your things and come home to apologize to Mom right now.” I threw the wet rag back into the bucket. The dirty water splashed onto the hem of her expensive trousers. “You have the wrong person,” I said quietly. “My name is Austin Reed. I am not a Sinclair.” Rachel’s jaw clenched, a vein throbbing at her temple. “Ken already apologized for what happened back then. Besides, you only spent six months in a low-security facility, and the family compensated you generously. You vanished without a word after you got out. Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” Looking for me? A wave of nausea hit me so hard I nearly gagged. This city wasn’t that big. They didn’t even bother to check how long I had actually served, yet they had the audacity to claim they had been searching for me for seven years. The only person who had ever looked for me was my adoptive mother, Mary. Gwen sighed, attempting to play the peacemaker again. “Austin, Rachel is just worried. Your mother was admitted to the hospital again two days ago. No matter how resentful you are, you should at least go see her.” Rachel pulled out her phone, dialed a video call, and shoved the screen in front of my face. On the screen, Eleanor lay in a sterile hospital bed, her face pale and sunken. When she saw me, her eyes immediately filled with tears. “Austin, do I have to get on my knees and beg you to come home?” She clutched her chest, her voice trembling. “Do you know how many nightmares I’ve had about you? Even if you hate us for what happened, how could you be so cruel as to hide from your own mother for seven years?” I stared at her perfectly moisturized face. Seven years ago, when she knelt in front of me begging me to take Ken’s place, she had cried the exact same way. “Austin, say something,” Gwen urged. “Do you really have to make this so ugly?” I looked up, meeting their eyes. “What do you want me to say? That I should be grateful? That going to prison for Ken was a privilege granted to me by the grand Sinclair family?” Rachel’s face turned icy. “Don’t take that sarcastic tone with me.” I let out a soft laugh. “But you always loved it when I was agreeable, didn’t you? I used to say exactly what you wanted to hear.” The night of my welcome-home gala, Brent had insisted I perform a cello solo in front of all of Boston high society. He wanted to prove that his biological son was the true prodigy. I wore the custom tuxedo Eleanor had bought for me. I had practiced that piece for weeks, my fingers raw and blistered, just wanting to make them proud. But right before I was supposed to go on stage, I discovered someone had loosened the pegs of my cello and stolen my backup sheet music. Ken had walked into the dressing room, a bright, innocent smile on his face. He leaned in and whispered, “Do you really think you can just walk back into this family and take what’s mine?” I didn’t have time to confront him. I had to go on stage and play from memory. Midway through the performance, the tension in the damaged string snapped. The thick steel wire sliced deep into my finger, dripping blood onto my white shirt. I rushed backstage, holding my bleeding hand, wanting to demand answers from Ken. But he was already collapsed on the sofa, clutching his chest, weeping louder than I ever could. “Austin, I’m so sorry. I only wanted to help you tune your cello. Please don’t hate me for ruining your big night.” Eleanor had pushed past me, screaming for a doctor. Rachel had grabbed my shoulder and demanded I apologize. “You’ve been back for five minutes and you’re already bullying your brother? You know he has a weak heart!” Even Gwen, who had seen my hand dripping blood, pushed me down. “Austin, Ken is sick. Just let it go and apologize.” That was the night I learned that in the face of Ken’s tears, the truth meant absolutely nothing. No one cared about my bleeding fingers. They only cared that Ken was crying. Later, I overheard Ken yelling at a maid in the hallway. “As long as he is in this house, I am the outsider. I will make sure he never feels welcome.” When I confronted him, he screamed and threw himself down the stairs. Rachel didn’t even bother to look at the security cameras. She slapped me across the face so hard my lip split. “How can you be so vicious? He is sick!” That night, Gwen came to my room. She told me Ken was just insecure and that I should be the bigger person. “Austin,” Gwen said, cutting through my silence, her patience clearly wearing thin. “You pushed Ken so hard back then. He had to sneak away to Europe just to escape your shadow.” She looked at me as if I were a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “Can you please stop using the past to torture everyone?” Gwen honestly believed Ken was the victim. She had no idea that I was the one who had been pushed into an abyss. During my first year in prison, a guard looked the other way while an inmate broke my wrist with a heavy metal spoon in the cafeteria. The incident was swept under the rug as a common brawl, and I was thrown into solitary confinement for three days. Before the heavy steel door slammed shut, the inmate whispered in my ear, “Ken Sinclair sends his regards. He told me to make sure you were well taken care of.” Now, because of that shattered wrist, I could barely hold a coffee cup, let alone play the cello. Rachel took my silence as submission. “If you come home and apologize, the family will overlook your dramatic disappearance,” she said coldly. “Overlook it?” I looked down at the muddy water beneath my boots. Suddenly, I didn’t even have the energy to explain. They weren’t ignorant of the truth. They simply chose not to know. On the night before my final road test, a torrential storm was raging. Ken had stolen the keys to the Maserati Brent had bought for me. At three in the morning, he had stumbled back into the house, drenched in mud, sobbing that he had run someone over. Brent’s first reaction wasn’t to call an ambulance. He locked the front gates and threatened the staff to keep their mouths shut. Rachel had gripped my hand until my bones ached. “Austin, you are stronger than Ken. You have to take the blame.” Eleanor knelt on the floor, weeping hysterically. Brent pushed the written confession into my hands. “We have the best lawyers, Austin. It will be six months at most. I swear I will get you out.” I refused. I cried, telling them I was terrified, that my test was tomorrow, and my Juilliard classes started next month. Seeing my resistance, Ken clutched his chest and collapsed onto the sofa. The entire family rushed to his side, leaving me standing alone in the cold hallway. Gwen dragged me to the end of the corridor. Her eyes were filled with a desperate, suffocating devotion. “Austin, I will wait for you. It’s only six months. I’ll help you rebuild everything.” I clung to her coat like a drowning man grasping a straw. “The dashcam. There’s a camera in the car. It can prove I wasn’t driving!” Gwen was silent for a very long time, until the motion-sensor lights in the hallway flickered off, plunging us into darkness. “That camera,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “will destroy Ken’s life.” I watched her walk out to the driveway, pull the memory card from the camera, and smash it with a heavy stone. The plastic shards scattered across the wet gravel. She walked back to me, wiped my tears, and said, “I love you. But this is the only way to save him.” I was so foolish back then. I actually believed six months would pass quickly. I believed they would keep their promise and bring me home. The day I was transported to the prison, the sky was a mockery of brilliant blue. Through the barred window of the transport van, I saw Ken dressing in my concert suit, getting into a luxury car bound for the airport. Gwen stood by the passenger door, smiling as she opened it for him. I pulled myself out of the memory and looked at Rachel and Gwen. “Are you finished?” I asked quietly. “If you are, get out of here. You’re dirtying my shop.” I turned, peeled off my wet apron, and walked toward the small, cramped room at the back of the car wash. Under my cot was a dusty cardboard box. It had been delivered to me by a stranger shortly after my adoptive mother passed away. I knelt down and peeled back the yellowing tape. Inside lay a neatly folded letter, a worn leather-bound journal, and a faded receipt from an auto repair shop. I opened the letter first. Austin, I never believed you were the one who ran that poor man down. You couldn’t even bear to step on an insect when you were a child. There is no way you would leave a human being to die in the street. The letter explained that after I went to prison, Mary never stopped looking for the truth. She visited the crash site, went to the hospital, and tracked down the repair shop. She had even knelt outside the Sinclair estate, begging for a copy of my court files. The Sinclairs had told her I was being well taken care of, and warned her that if she kept causing trouble, it would ruin my chances of early parole. She didn’t understand the law. She had no money or power. All she could do was use the simplest, most painstaking methods to record every discrepancy she could find. I folded the letter carefully and pressed it against my chest, my tears finally falling onto the old scar on my wrist. Over the next two days, after my shifts ended, I followed the addresses in Mary’s journal, searching for any scrap of evidence. On the third day, chaos descended upon the car wash. A rusted van screeched to a halt outside the bay. Several people wearing medical masks jumped out. The leader, a middle-aged woman, held up a blown-up newspaper clipping showing my mugshot from seven years ago. “Look at this man! He’s a murderer!” she shrieked, her voice drawing a crowd of onlookers instantly. “He ran my husband over and fled the scene! He only served a tiny fraction of his sentence because his family is rich! My husband is dead, and my children grew up without a father, while he works here as if nothing happened!” The crowd grew, murmuring in disgust. People pulled out their phones to record me. A bucket of dirty, foul-smelling water was thrown from the crowd, soaking my shoulder. A man in a black hoodie stepped out from the onlookers. He wore a mask, but I recognized his eyes instantly. Ken. He leaned in close, his voice a malicious whisper meant only for me. “You should have stayed dead, Austin. Look at you. Do you honestly think you have a place in the Sinclair family looking like this?” I stared at his retreating back, my fingers turning numb with cold. As the harassment continued, Cassie, the owner of the car wash, rushed out from the garage. She pulled me behind her, blocking the flying debris and the camera lenses with her own body. She pulled out her phone to call the police. “If you have a grievance, take it to the police station! Anyone who throws another thing is getting arrested for assault!” The screaming woman flinched but kept shouting, “He’s a killer! He killed my husband!” I held my wet collar and looked at her. “What was your husband’s name?” I asked. The woman hesitated. “What day did the accident happen? What was he wearing? Which hospital was he taken to? Who did he speak to before he died? Do you know any of those things?” She took a step back, unable to answer. At the edge of the crowd, Rachel’s Audi pulled up. Gwen got out first. She jogged over, her nose wrinkling at the sight of my stained clothes. She reached for me, but I stepped back. Her hand remained empty in the air, a flash of embarrassment crossing her face. “Austin, just apologize and lower your head,” she pleaded. “It’s natural for the victim’s family to be angry. You shouldn’t provoke them. If this gets out, it will ruin the Sinclair family’s reputation, and yours too.” I looked at her and laughed. Seven years ago, she told me Ken’s heart was too weak for prison and asked me to understand. Seven years later, she told me the victim’s family was grieving and asked me to bow my head. There was always someone else she needed to protect. And I was always the one who was expected to sacrifice. Eleanor arrived next, supported by Rachel. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Austin, if you just come home, our PR team will handle this mess. I promise no one will ever bring up this accident again.” I looked at her. “Handle it? Like you handled the dashcam seven years ago? Like you handled the court records? Like you handled your own son?” Eleanor’s face drained of color. Rachel took a step forward, whispering a harsh warning. “Austin, don’t let your petty resentment destroy the peace our family and Ken have built.” “Rachel,” I said, my voice dead calm. “Did Ken tell you I only served six months?” Rachel froze. Gwen’s brows furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing her eyes. “What do you mean?” I didn’t answer. I walked back into the office and retrieved a thick folder from the bottom of my locker. The wail of sirens grew louder as two police officers pushed through the crowd, asking who had called. I raised my hand. “I did. There is a mob harassing my workplace, and I suspect someone has paid this woman to instigate this riot.” The woman screamed, “Officer, he’s a murderer! He ran my husband down!” I placed the folder on the hood of a nearby car in front of the officers. On top was my official release certificate from the state penitentiary. The paper was slightly wrinkled from the damp air, but the bold black ink was unmistakable: Seven Years Served. Gwen’s eyes fell on the paper, and the color vanished from her face. Rachel stared at the document, her lips parting, but no sound came out. “Officers,” I said, looking directly at the police. “I would like to file for a formal review of the vehicular manslaughter case from seven years ago.” “I was framed.” “And I have the evidence to prove it.”

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1 When my parents divorced, I was left as useless baggage on Gran’s doorstep. By four each morning, she’d drag me out to feed pigs, split wood, and scrub the drafty house. My hands were raw with chilblains and thick calluses. Dad, living comfortably in the city, kept promising to bring me over, but Gran locked me in my room like a lunatic. Buried in textbooks, I swore: the day I got into university, I’d leave and never look back. But on the day I planned to run to Dad’s, my phone buzzed with a strange email, dated exactly one year ahead. The attached video showed me, a year later, sobbing at Gran’s fresh grave. I stared, scowling at my reflection. “What are you crying for? The old hag’s gone. Pop champagne, don’t weep.” The girl on screen slapped herself, screaming, voice cracking. “Idiot! That loving dad? He remarried years ago—new wife, precious son. He wants you in the city to sell you to an old creep for a twenty-thousand-dollar dowry!” She gasped. “The grandmother you hated? She spent freezing nights digging through trash heaps, scraping pennies for your tuition! But the day you were to register for uni, she was shoved while stopping them from dragging you away. Hit her head. Never woke up.” Future-me stared, eyes swollen, choking back sobs. “Don’t trust him. If you get a second chance, save Gran. Give her the life she deserves.” I stood in the dim stairwell of my father’s apartment building, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was skeptical. My dad called me every month, his voice always dripping with affection. Could he really be planning to sell me? With trembling fingers, I dialed his number. The line clicked open. “Sylvia, sweetheart,” his voice was warm, almost too sweet. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Dad, I’m almost at your place. I wanted to come see you.” He let out a delighted chuckle. “That’s wonderful! I’ll head out right now and buy all your favorite foods. Hurry on up, okay?” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. It was all a mistake. The email was just a sick, twisted joke. But then, through the thin apartment door, a muffled voice drifted into the hallway. “Is that the daughter you were talking about?” a man’s gruff voice asked. “Sounds like a sweet thing. If we get this settled, the twenty thousand dollars is yours. Every single penny.” My blood turned to ice. Then came my father’s frantic whisper. “Keep your voice down! Just make sure you have the cash ready. Once she walks through that door, she isn’t escaping.” I took a sharp step back, my boot squeaking against the concrete. Panic tore through me. I turned and sprinted down the stairs like a hunted animal. When I finally burst out of the building, my stomach violently rebelled. I leaned against a rusted lamppost, dry-heaving until my throat burned. The raw, desperate screams from that future video echoed in my ears, louder than the city traffic. He was going to sell me. My own father was going to trade my life to secure a future for his new wife and son. With shaking legs, I boarded the overnight bus back to our rural town. Tears silently tracked down my face, freezing in the midnight air. It was three in the morning when I pushed open the creaking wooden gate of our yard. Gran’s house was dark, save for the single dim bulb hanging in the main room. I crept inside, my footsteps silent on the packed-dirt floor. Gran was crouching by the well. The water was near-freezing, and her hands were swollen, raw, and bleeding in places as she scrubbed a pile of salvaged scrap metal. She stopped every few seconds to cough, a deep, rattling sound that shook her frail frame. The scene hit me like a physical blow. The video, the cold numbers on a scrap paper, her tragic end: it was all real. A choked sob escaped my throat. Gran whirled around, her eyes wide. When she saw me, her expression instantly hardened into a scowl. She grabbed a dirty broom resting against the well, pointing it at me like a weapon. “You miserable brat!” she barked, though her voice cracked. “Where the hell have you been? Trying to sneak off to that deadbeat father of yours again?” She raised the broom high, but as her eyes swept over my tear-streaked face and blue lips, her hand froze. She lowered the broom, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “Get inside, you useless thing,” she muttered, turning back to the well. “There’s a cold sweet potato in the pot. Eat it and get back to your books.” I didn’t move toward the kitchen. Instead, I threw my arms around her bent, bony shoulders, burying my face in her rough, dirt-stained coat. Gran went completely rigid. “Gran, I’m sorry,” I wept, my tears soaking into the worn fabric. “I’m not leaving. I’ll never try to find him again. I’m going to study, I’m going to get into a great university.” I squeezed her tighter, feeling the sharp outline of her ribs. “Once I make it, I’m going to take you away from here. I’m going to give you a wonderful life.” Gran’s hands remained suspended in the air for a long moment. Finally, she let out a rough sigh and gave my back a clumsy, trembling pat. “Stop talking nonsense,” she mumbled, her voice surprisingly thick. “If you don’t pass those exams, I’ll break your legs.” Her words were harsh, but her touch was incredibly gentle. For the rest of the spring semester, I became a ghost in my own house, living only for my textbooks. I studied until my eyes burned and my fingers cramped. Gran still scolded me daily, complaining that I was too slow with my chores. But every night I fell asleep at my desk, I would wake up with her heavy wool coat draped over my shoulders. And every morning, a soft-boiled egg and a tube of cheap ointment for my cracked hands would be waiting next to my books. We lived in a silent truce, bound by an unvoiced understanding. Then, on a humid afternoon in April, Richard showed up. He brought two flashy boxes of cheap vitamins, and behind him stood his new wife, Vivian. She held a silk handkerchief over her nose, her eyes filled with disgust as she surveyed our crumbling yard. Richard spotted me scrubbing clothes by the tub. He immediately put on a warm, paternal smile and marched over. “Sylvia, look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’re skin and bones. What’s the point of a girl studying so hard anyway? I found a wonderful family for you in the city. The husband is a wealthy businessman. You’ll be living in luxury. We can finally be a real family again.” Looking at his eager, greedy eyes, a wave of intense nausea hit me. This businessman was the old creep who bought girls for twenty thousand dollars. I wrung out a wet shirt, keeping my voice cold and flat. “No, thank you. I want to take my exams first.” Richard’s smile faltered, but before he could snap, Vivian chimed in with a sharp sneer. “Oh, please. You really think you’re university material? Your father is trying to save you from a lifetime of shoveling dirt. Even if you manage to get into some low-rate college, how do you expect to pay for it? We certainly aren’t funding your little dream. We don’t have money to waste on a useless girl. Be smart and pack your bags.” The back door slammed open. “Keep your filthy mouth shut!” Gran roared. She charged out of the house, wielding a broom covered in chicken coop grime. Without a second thought, she swung it directly at Richard and Vivian. “Get out! Get the hell off my property!” “My granddaughter’s education is none of your business, you parasitic bastards!” Richard tried to duck, but the dirty bristles swiped across his expensive trousers, leaving a streak of filth. He went red, pointing a finger at Gran’s face. “You crazy old hag! Watch your step! I’m her legal father, and what I say goes!” Gran let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Her father? You drove her poor mother to her grave, and now you want to sell her daughter? You miserable piece of trash. As long as I have breath in my lungs, you won’t touch a hair on her head!” She swung the broom again, striking Richard’s arm. Vivian shrieked, ducking behind him. “Keep acting tough, you old corpse!” Vivian yelled, her voice screeching across the yard. “Richard hasn’t sent you a single dollar of child support in five years! You think you can put her through college on the pennies you make selling trash? You’re delusional!” The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Five years without a single dollar? I stared at Gran in absolute shock. Gran didn’t look at me. Instead, she grabbed one of the vitamin boxes they had brought and threw it directly at Vivian’s head. “Get out! Get out before I get the pitchfork!” Richard scrambled backward, shielding his wife as they retreated to their car. Before slamming the door, he rolled down the window, his eyes dark with malice. “Fine! Let’s see how long you can feed her! When she’s starving, you’ll come crawling to me on your knees!” The car sped off, kicking up a cloud of red dust. The yard fell into a heavy silence. Gran dropped the broom, her chest heaving as she leaned heavily against the wooden doorframe. I walked over and gently touched her arm. “Gran, is it true? He hasn’t paid anything in five years?” She violently shook my hand off, her face twisting in anger. “That’s grown-up business! Get back to your room and study! If you don’t get into university, I’ll throw you out myself!” She turned and limped inside, her back more hunched than ever. That night, after her breathing turned slow and heavy, I quietly crept into her room and opened the bottom drawer of her wooden cabinet. There was no bankbook. Only a bundle of crumpled paper scraps and torn cigarette boxes, covered in crooked pencil marks. “June 6th: Sold scrap metal for two dollars fifty.” “July 10th: Sylvia’s practice exams, thirty dollars.” “October 5th: The pigs are growing well. There is hope for Sylvia’s tuition.” The very last entry, dated yesterday: “Sylvia is looking too thin. Go to the market tomorrow and buy half a pound of beef.” My tears fell silently, wetting the rough paper. She was killing herself to build a bridge for my future, just like the video had said. That was why she stayed up until dawn. That was why she never touched the eggs she prepared for me. Every single penny she scraped together was meant for my escape. I gripped the paper scraps tightly. I swore I would rewrite our story. I would make Richard pay, and I would give Gran the life she deserved. In June, just three days before the state exams, a massive storm hit the valley. The temperature plummeted, and I came down with a vicious fever of 103 degrees, shivering violently under my thin blankets. Gran stood over my bed, grumbling angrily. “Of all the times to get sick! You really are a curse on my life! I must have done something terrible to deserve you!” She slammed the door and went out into the pouring rain. I lay there, my joints aching, drifting in and out of consciousness. Hours later, I felt a damp presence by my bed. I opened my eyes. Gran was standing there, soaked to the skin, her clothes plastered with yellow mud. In her hands, she held a chipped ceramic bowl. Steam rose from a fresh bowl of chicken noodle soup, with a beautifully fried egg hidden beneath the surface. “Eat this,” she ordered, her voice hoarse. “And take these.” She set the bowl down and pulled out two boxes of fever medicine from her coat. They were wrapped in three layers of plastic bags, completely dry. My throat tightened. The nearest pharmacy was in the town five miles away. This frail old woman had walked ten miles through a torrential storm, risking her life on the muddy mountain roads, just to fetch me medicine. “Gran…” I whispered, my voice cracked. “Shut up and eat!” she snapped, turning away quickly. But I could see her shoulders trembling. The medicine broke my fever by morning. Three days later, I walked into the exam hall with a clear head. When the results came out, the entire county was in an uproar. I had scored in the top five of the state, securing the top spot in our district. Admissions officers from prestigious universities called our neighbor’s phone throughout the night. Gran did something she had never done before: she bought several rolls of firecrackers and set them off in the yard, filling the air with smoke and noise. She stood at the gate, handing out cheap candies to anyone who walked by. “My girl did it!” she beamed, her chest puffed out with pride. “She’s going to the big city! She’s going to be someone!” But the joy was short-lived. The following afternoon, our wooden gate was kicked off its hinges. Richard marched into the yard, followed by three burly men. “Well, aren’t you a clever little bitch, Sylvia?” he sneered, his eyes scanning the yard. “Mr. Henderson saw the news. He said since you’re the top scorer, he’ll raise the dowry to fifty thousand dollars! That’s enough to buy a nice apartment in the city for your brother Toby.” He waved his hand to the men. “Find her acceptance letter. Without that piece of paper, she can’t register anyway.” The men lunged toward the house, tossing chairs and tearing down shelves. “Stop it! You thieves!” Gran screamed, charging at them with a wooden cane. One of the thugs grunted in pain as she struck his leg. He whirled around and slapped her across the face with brutal force. Gran hit the floor, her lip split and bleeding. But even as she fell, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. I noticed a bulge beneath her shirt: she had tucked my university acceptance letter inside her inner vest, keeping it safe against her skin. “Hand it over, you old corpse!” Richard yelled, stepping forward and grabbing Gran by her gray hair. Gran groaned, her eyes shut tight in pain. Vivian stood by the gate, holding her nose. “Richard, why are you wasting your breath on this old lunatic? Just grab the girl and let’s go. Toby is waiting at home for his new toys.” Richard nodded, releasing Gran’s hair and stepping toward me. Gran tried to crawl forward to grab his ankle, but she was too weak. I didn’t think. I sprinted into the kitchen, grabbed the heavy meat cleaver from the counter, and lunged back into the yard. “Get the hell back!” I screamed, holding the heavy blade with both hands, pointing it straight at Richard’s chest. My vision was red. I was shaking, but my grip on the handle was iron-clad. “Touch my grandmother again, and I swear to God I will gut you right here!” My voice carried a raw, murderous conviction that stopped the men in their tracks. Richard froze, his face going pale as he took two steps back. “You… you dare point a knife at your own father?” “Try me!” I snarled, stepping forward. “I would rather go to prison for murder than let you sell me. Get your dogs out of our yard right now, or I’ll start swinging.” The thugs exchanged uneasy glances. None of them wanted to risk getting hacked by a desperate teenager. Richard spat on the ground, trying to salvage his pride. “Fine! You want to play tough? Let’s see how long you can protect this old hag!” They scrambled back to their cars and sped away, leaving the yard in ruins. I dropped the cleaver, my knees giving out as I collapsed next to Gran, sobbing hysterically. Gran pulled me against her chest, her thin arms shaking as she held me close. It was the first time she had ever embraced me so tightly. “Don’t cry, Sylvia,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Gran is here. Even if it kills me, I’ll get you out of these mountains.” Hearing my name from her lips for the first time, a strange sense of peace washed over my terror. I held her tight, and with my free hand, I pulled out my phone. I compiled the video from the future along with audio recordings of Richard’s threats and photos of Gran’s injuries, and sent them directly to the regional police and child protection services. It was time to end this. The monsters were going to pay. By late August, our backyard pigpen was empty. Gran had sold the two fat pigs we had raised all year. That evening, she sat on the edge of her creaking bed, a rusty needle in her hand, sewing beneath the dim bulb. Spread out on the blanket was a pile of crumpled small bills and a few crisp hundreds. “It’s twelve hundred dollars,” she murmured, folding the bills neatly and wrapping them in a piece of red cloth. Then, she took my old undershirt and began stitching the cloth pouch securely into the inner lining. “When you’re in the city, don’t go flashing your money,” she said without looking up, her voice thick. “Buy decent food. Wear what the city girls wear. Don’t let them look down on you because of where you come from.” I sat beside her, staring at her calloused, scarred hands. “Gran, once I get settled and find a part-time job, I’ll bring you to the city to live with me.” She snorted, clicking her tongue. “Who wants to live in the city? Go on your own. Once you’re gone, I’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” She was as stubborn as ever. But as she pulled the thread tight, I saw a single tear fall onto the red cloth, darkening the fabric. The next morning, we left before dawn to catch the long-distance bus to the provincial capital. If we could just get on that bus, we would be free. It was half-past three in the morning when we quietly slipped out of the yard. But as we reached the dirt road at the town entrance, three vans suddenly lurched out of the darkness, blocking our path. The doors slid open, and a dozen heavy-set men stepped out. Richard stood at the front, and beside him, Vivian was waving my official registry documents with a triumphant smirk. “Running away?” Richard sneered. “Did you really think getting into college meant you won, Sylvia? I used your legal documents to officially withdraw your registration at the university. You’re not enrolled anymore. You have nowhere to go but to Mr. Henderson.” With those few words, he shattered everything. The late nights, the frozen hands, the miles Gran had walked in the storm: all of it, wiped out by a stroke of a pen. Pure, unadulterated hatred flared in my chest. “You’re insane! This is kidnapping! It’s illegal!” “Kidnapping?” Richard laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “A father arranging a marriage for his daughter? Even the sheriff won’t touch this. Grab her!” Two men stepped toward me. “Don’t you dare touch my girl!” Gran screamed. She dropped her worn canvas bag and hurled her frail body at the first man, her teeth sinking deep into his arm. “Ah! The old bitch bit me!” the man roared, violently throwing his arm back. Gran was flung to the ground, but she scrambled right back up, throwing herself in front of me. “Sylvia, run! Run to the highway!” Richard’s face twisted with rage. “Get this old pest out of my way! Now!” One of the thugs raised a heavy boot and kicked Gran squarely in the chest. A sickening thud echoed through the silent morning. Gran was thrown backward, her head striking a sharp, jagged rock on the side of the road. Blood, thick and dark, immediately pooled in the dirt. The sight of that crimson stain seared itself into my brain. Gran lay motionless in the mud, her eyes turning to me with a faint, fading light. Her lips moved slightly, making no sound, but I knew what she was saying: Run. “No! No! Please, God, no!” A choked, animalistic shriek tore from my throat. I fell to my knees, scrambling through the dirt to reach her. I pressed both hands against her head, trying to stop the blood, but it kept seeping through my fingers, warm and sticky. The horrific vision from the future had caught up to us. I gathered her rapidly cooling body into my arms, my world collapsing into absolute darkness. “Gran! Please! Gran!”

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For two consecutive months, my clients backed out at the very last second before signing. Instead, they all chose Chloe Bennett, the newly hired intern. No matter how much sweat and tears I poured into a project, she always managed to snatch it from me right at the finish line. Because of my failing KPIs, Marcus Kane, the Director of Sales, had already called me into his office twice. My colleagues sneered whenever they saw me in the breakroom. “Oh look, Vivian got rejected by another client. What a surprise.” But Chloe had never even met my clients. Why on earth did they keep choosing her? It wasn’t until the night before the annual project bidding gala that I suddenly saw translucent words floating in the air before my eyes: *[The female lead is the darling of destiny! This Exchange System is so satisfying!]* *[She’s taking all of the supporting female lead’s resources by exchanging their items. So what if the rival is a senior manager? She’s just a stepping stone for our girl Chloe!]* I stared at the floating text for three seconds. Finally, I understood. It wasn’t that I lacked ability. Chloe had a cheat system. So, I quietly swapped the luxury gift I had prepared for my client with a bag of fresh dog poop.

I prepared two gift boxes ahead of time. One was a gorgeous, Tiffany-blue box. Inside lay a fresh piece of dog poop, wrapped so exquisitely it looked like a high-end French dessert from Ladurée. The other was a plain, brown paper bag. Inside was a vintage bottle of Macallan whisky and a limited-edition Montblanc pen. I placed the Tiffany-blue box in the most conspicuous spot on my desk, wrapping it with the most expensive silk ribbon. Then, holding my coffee, I casually strolled past Chloe’s desk. I slowly slipped the gorgeous box into the outermost pocket of my briefcase. “Tonight’s dinner with Mr. Vance depends entirely on this baby,” I muttered to myself. My voice wasn’t too loud, but it was just enough for her to hear. Once the dinner at the upscale Manhattan restaurant began, I excused myself to the ladies’ room. When I returned, I subtly felt my briefcase. The gorgeous box was still there, but the weight was off. I stealthily opened it. The dog poop was gone. In its place was a cheap, synthetic silk scarf. Chloe sat across the table, her lips curving into a smug, victorious smile. Right next to her hand sat the Tiffany-blue box. She thought she had won. At the climax of the dinner, Chloe stood up. She held the gorgeous Tiffany-blue box with both hands and presented it to Mr. Vance with a sweet, doll-like smile. “Mr. Vance, this is a special gift I personally selected for you. I hope you like it.” Mr. Vance smiled, taking the box and slowly opening it under the expectant gaze of everyone at the table. The moment the lid was lifted, the air in the private dining room froze. A neat pile of dog poop lay peacefully on the black velvet lining. Mr. Vance’s face turned instantly as black as charcoal. He slammed the lid shut and threw the box heavily onto the table. “Chloe Bennett! What is the meaning of this?!” Chloe’s face drained of all color. Her lips trembled, but no words came out. In sheer panic, she shot a frantic look at me. I stood up unhurriedly, pulled the plain paper bag from beneath my seat, and presented it to Mr. Vance with both hands. “Mr. Vance, this is a small token of my appreciation. Just a little something to show my respect.” Mr. Vance took it and opened it. Seeing the vintage Macallan and the limited-edition Montblanc pen, his face finally softened. “At least Vivian knows how to conduct professional business. Some people… not only lack capability, but their character is downright trash.” Chloe slumped in the corner, her face as pale as a sheet of paper. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms they drew blood. *[Hahaha! The green tea bitch got the dog poop!]* *[Vivian is so much smarter!]* A faint, cold smile played on my lips. She probably had no idea that the gorgeous box she “exchanged” from me was a trap I had custom-made just for her.

The moment I stepped out of the restaurant, I heard a trembling, pitiful sob. “Julian… Vivian is here.” I looked up and saw Chloe throwing herself into the arms of my husband, Julian Sterling. Several of our colleagues from Apex Marketing were standing around them, their necks craned, eyes gleaming with pure gossip. Seeing me approach, Chloe raised her tear-stained face, deliberately raising her voice so everyone could hear. “Vivian, I know you hate me because my quarterly evaluations always beat yours. But you didn’t have to humiliate me with dog poop tonight!” “How am I supposed to close this deal after being embarrassed in front of the client like that?” “Even if you’re jealous of my performance, you shouldn’t ruin my career!” As soon as she finished, the crowd gasped. I saw a few colleagues pull out their phones, recording me while whispering to each other. “It’s her. The one who kept losing clients to Chloe. Turns out she’s just malicious and vindictive.” *[Oh my god, how can the supporting character be so evil? Framing the female lead with dog poop?]* *[People like her should be fired, not promoted!]* *[I feel so bad for Chloe. She’s so strong, still trying to work after being publicly humiliated.]* Julian’s face darkened instantly. He pointed a finger at my nose and roared, “How did I end up marrying such a toxic woman!” “You’re incompetent yourself, so you decide to sabotage Chloe?” I stood there, watching them stand side-by-side like a perfect couple. I, the actual wife, looked like an unwelcome intruder. The Tiffany-blue box was clearly snatched by Chloe using her system, yet she effortlessly pinned the blame on me. I hadn’t had time to record the swap during the dinner. If I tried to defend myself now, who would believe me? Just as I opened my mouth, Julian waved his hand in disgust, as if shooing away a stray dog. “Get lost. Don’t ruin our night. I’m taking Chloe to Nobu to cheer her up. She needs to be rested for tomorrow’s meeting.” Leaning against Julian’s chest, Chloe peeked over his shoulder. She shot me a quick, triumphant wink, a smug smirk plastering her face. Where was the crying, victimized girl from a second ago? They turned and walked away without looking back. The crowd, having had their fill of drama, dispersed while pointing fingers at me. I wasn’t angry. Instead, my lips curled up. The next morning at the office, Chloe deliberately strolled past my cubicle. She leaned down, her voice barely a whisper in my ear. “Loser. You’re destined to rot in this cubicle forever. The VP of Operations position is mine.” *[Hahaha, Chloe put her in her place! The rival is just a clown!]* I ignored her. The moment I booted up my laptop, I began plotting my next move. Since Chloe could exchange things from me, I was going to let her “exchange” a beautifully wrapped poison bait. I unlocked my phone, opened Snapchat, and brought up a chat with a contact named “Mr. Harrington.” I tilted my screen slightly, ensuring Chloe would catch a glimpse of the messages as she walked past. *Vivian: “Mr. Harrington, regarding the partnership we discussed last time, I see massive potential. Let’s grab coffee soon to finalize the details.”* Arthur Harrington was a well-known figure in the industry. On the surface, he was a wealthy big shot. In reality, he was a notorious sexual predator whose company was drowning in millions of dollars of debt, on the verge of bankruptcy. But Chloe didn’t know that. As she passed my desk, her eyes lingered on my screen for two seconds before she walked off, pretending nothing happened. I smiled. She had taken the bait. Over the next few days, it was the same routine. I casually dropped Mr. Harrington’s name in front of Chloe, raving about how lucrative his company was and how this contract would secure anyone a partner seat. After a few times, she finally couldn’t resist. She used her Exchange System to “steal” this connection from me. She had no idea that the golden goose she thought she stole was actually a ticking time bomb.

When I walked through the front door of our apartment carrying my briefcase, the laughter in the living room abruptly died. Julian walked out of the kitchen. Seeing me, his face instantly turned cold. “Why are you just standing there like a statue?” “We’re celebrating Chloe’s big win tonight. She just landed a massive client, and her promotion to VP of Operations is practically sealed. Don’t you dare ruin her mood.” Chloe, lounging on the couch, looked up and waved her phone at me. “Vivian, have you signed any clients lately?” “My colleagues keep asking how you’re doing. After all, you used to be the top manager before I came along.” I didn’t reply. I walked straight into my home office and shut the door, blocking out their noise. I opened Instagram. The very first post on my feed was from Chloe, posted ten minutes ago: *[Just landed the legendary Mr. Harrington! Hard work always pays off! 🥂💼]* The comment section was already flooded with dozens of comments from our colleagues kissing her feet: *[Oh my god, you are a sales queen!]* *[VP of Operations is yours! Unlike a certain someone who keeps losing clients and probably only gets base pay now. 😂]* I scrolled down to a post I made three months ago when I won the Employee of the Year bonus. The recent comments on it were filled with disgusting vitriol: *[How did you even win Employee of the Year with this level of performance? Did you steal Chloe’s work back then?]* *[Can’t steal anything now, huh? Enjoy your zero sales!]* My fingers paused. I closed the app and tossed my phone aside. A moment later, Chloe’s voice drifted in from the living room. She was on speakerphone with Marcus Kane, the Director of Sales. “Chloe, darling! I heard about you landing Harrington! Absolute genius!” “Once the quarterly evaluations are officially out, I’m putting you up for the President’s Award and writing your recommendation letter for the VP role. You are the pride of Apex Marketing!” Chloe giggled, her voice dripping with sweet vanity. After hanging up, she yelled toward my room: “Julian! Marcus is writing my recommendation letter!” Julian’s booming laughter shook the walls. I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and pulled up the real background check on Arthur Harrington. The credit report showed his company was $8 million in debt, with seven active lawsuits and two sexual harassment filings pending. I then pulled out a locked document box from the bottom of my safe—one I hadn’t touched in six months. Inside lay twenty folders containing client data, original pitch decks, and communication logs from every single quarterly evaluation over the past year. I photographed every single page to back them up. Every client I had worked hard to secure had magically ended up in Chloe’s name, but my original files were packed with deep market analysis, client pain points, and call logs that she could never replicate. I organized these proofs by date and uploaded them into a double-encrypted cloud drive. The moment the Harrington deal blew up, these would be the final nails in her coffin. Feeling thirsty, I went downstairs to grab an iced coffee. When I returned, my heart stopped. The pitch decks on my desk and the project timelines pinned to my wall had been ripped to shreds, scattered all over the floor. My body trembled with pure rage. “Oh, you’re back?” I spun around. Chloe was leaning against the doorframe of my study, chewing bubblegum. She shrugged, giving me an innocent, doll-like smile. “I came in to look for something and saw all this scrap paper taking up space. Since you’re never getting promoted anyway, these garbage plans are useless. I did you a favor and thrashed them. Don’t mention it.” *[Nice! Those trash files deserved to be ripped!]* *[Why is the rival even hoarding files?]* *[It’s useless anyway. You’re a loser, Vivian.]* On the day of the quarterly evaluation, I was still sweeping up the shredded paper in my home office. Julian banged on the door, telling me to hurry up and get to the office for the meeting. When I arrived at the main conference room, Marcus Kane and the executive board were already seated. The projector screen showed the quarterly performance ranking list. Chloe was leaning back in her chair, sending a voice note on Snapchat: “Yeah, the results are coming out. Landing Mr. Harrington guarantees my top spot. I’m taking everyone out for drinks tonight!” Seeing me walk in, she arched an eyebrow and raised her voice: “By the way, Vivian, once my rank is displayed, don’t you think you owe me an apology? You must have been so bitter being crushed by me every single time.” Julian glared at me, frowning. “What are you standing there for?” “Take notes from Chloe. If you want to keep your job, stop being a useless househusband’s burden and learn something.” Marcus Kane cleared his throat, standing up to announce, “Alright team, let’s display this quarter’s final performance rankings.” He clicked the remote. The spreadsheet appeared on the screen. From the top down… First place, second place, third place… The scroll went all the way to the very bottom. And there, sitting dead last at the absolute bottom of the list, was: *Chloe Bennett.* TheThe entire conference room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. “No… This is impossible! There must be a glitch!” Chloe’s shriek shattered the silence.

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One week before the wedding, the hotel suddenly notified me that my reception booking had been canceled. I rushed to open the booking app and swiped to the order page. The status indeed read *Canceled*, and the timestamp showed it was done three days ago. For this wedding, my fiancé, Ethan, and I had stayed up for three consecutive nights. We compared prices venue by venue and tasted every single dish on the menu. How could it be canceled? The hotel must have made a mistake. I dialed the hotel’s number, and someone picked up almost immediately. “Hi, I’m the coordinator for the wedding booked for May 20th.” “I just received a notification saying the reception was canceled. Is there a glitch in your system?” The receptionist paused for a second. “Ma’am, our records show that a Mr. Ethan Carter came to the front desk in person three days ago to complete the cancellation. He signed the paperwork himself.” “Maybe you should double-check with him?” The receptionist’s voice was still echoing in my ear, and my fingers holding the phone went cold. Canceled three days ago? But three days ago, Ethan was still discussing the invitation designs with me. He was still asking if the bridesmaids’ dresses were the right shade of blush, and if we should do another makeup trial this weekend. I hung up, standing frozen in the living room, staring at the wedding itinerary spread out on the coffee table. The door lock clicked. I heard the familiar sound of Ethan kicking off his shoes at the entryway. “Maya, I got those artisan cronuts you love,” his voice called out from the hallway. “I stood in line for half an hour. Managed to snag the very last box.” I didn’t move. He walked in carrying the bag, a bright smile on his face. When he looked up and saw me, his smile faltered. “What’s wrong? Why are you just standing there?” I watched him put the bag on the coffee table. I watched him open the box, get out the forks, and hand one to me, just like he always did. “Try one. They’re still warm.” I didn’t take it. “Ethan.” “Is there something you need to tell me?” His hand froze mid-air. Then, he slowly set the fork back on the box. He looked up at me, forced that same smile back onto his face, and said, “Like what? Oh, about my mom visiting this weekend? She just texted me—” “About the hotel.” He went completely silent. The living room fell dead quiet. He stood on one side of the coffee table, and I stood on the other. Between us was a table littered with wedding pamphlets and seating charts. “The hotel coordinator called me today. She said you walked up to the front desk three days ago and canceled everything.” Ethan looked down, his eyes scanning the papers on the table. “Maya,” he started, his voice incredibly quiet. “I was actually just about to talk to you about this.” “Talk to me? About what?” “The wedding.” He finally looked up to meet my eyes. “I just feel like all of this is so unnecessary. It’s a massive waste of money. Look at this catering bill—thousands of dollars for a venue, thousands more for dinner, just for a few hours of partying.” “And the planner, the DJ, the photographer… that’s another ten grand. If we save this money, think of what we could actually do with it.” I stared at his moving lips, barely processing his words. “But we already agreed on this, Ethan.” “You were the one who said a wedding only happens once in a lifetime. You said it didn’t matter if we went a little over budget.” “You said we needed a top-tier photographer so we wouldn’t have any regrets when we looked back at the photos.” “I thought about it more, and I realized it’s just not worth it.” “Honestly, young couples don’t even do big weddings anymore. An elopement trip is so much better. It saves money and stress. We could go to Napa Valley—you’ve always wanted to go there, right?”

“Ethan.” “Yeah?” “Look me in the eyes.” He did. “Is there another reason?” I asked. “What other reason could there be?” “Do you just not want to marry me anymore?” He frowned, looking irritated. “What are you talking about? When did I ever say I don’t want to marry you?” “Then why did you cancel the wedding behind my back? Why didn’t you tell me?” “I told you. I think it’s a waste of money.” “Ethan.” I cut him off. “We’ve been together for three years. Do you really think I don’t know you? You just got a raise last month, your annual bonus cleared, and the savings your dad set aside for our wedding hasn’t even been touched.” “Since when did you care this much about a few thousand dollars?” He shut his mouth. “If you truly thought the wedding was too much, we could have sat down and talked.” I took a step closer. “Why did you sneak around and cancel it? Why didn’t you consult me?” “Aren’t I consulting you right now?” “This is consulting?” I pointed at the papers on the coffee table. “You already canceled it, and now you’re ‘consulting’ me? This isn’t a conversation, Ethan. This is an announcement!” He took a deep breath and looked away. “I already told my mom.” “You should probably tell your parents, too. Let them know the wedding is off.” A loud buzzing sound filled my head. “You told your mother?” “Yeah.” “And what did she say?” “She said…” He hesitated. “She said it’s our decision to make.” I stared at his profile. “Ethan.” “Give me your phone.” “What?” “Your phone. Let me see it.” His hand twitched backward—just a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch. But I caught it. “See what?” he said, his voice tightening. “There’s nothing to see on my phone.” “You used to let me use it whenever I wanted.” “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you get to audit it every single day.” I walked toward him and reached out. “Give it to me.” He took a step back. “Maya, don’t do this.” “Do what?” “You’re being…” He dodged my hand. “You’re being paranoid. You don’t trust me.” I let out a dry laugh. “I don’t trust you? Ethan, you went behind my back and canceled our entire wedding! You lied to me for three days! And now you’re telling me *I* don’t trust *you*?” He didn’t say a word. His hand was shoved deep inside his pocket, and I knew he was clutching his phone. “Take it out,” I demanded. “No.” “Ethan.” “I said no!” His voice hardened. “My phone is my private property. I have a right to privacy.” “That’s not what you used to say.” “You used to say we didn’t have secrets. You said I could look at it whenever I wanted.” “That was then.” “And what about now?” Silence. I looked at him—at the man I had loved for three years. He stood on the other side of the coffee table, just a few feet away, but he felt like a stranger standing on a different continent. “Are you hiding something from me?” I asked.

“No.” “Then let me see the phone.” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I said so.” I stepped around the coffee table and lunged toward him. He backed up until his spine hit the shoe cabinet near the entryway. “Maya!” I reached for his pocket. He grabbed my wrist. His grip was so tight that a sharp pain shot up my arm, making me gasp. “Let go of me!” “Stop acting crazy!” “Ethan, let go!” His fingers clamped down like steel handcuffs. His knuckles were white. He was terrified of what I would find in that phone. And the more terrified he was, the more desperately I needed to see it. “Maya!” he roared, and shoved me away with all his strength. I stumbled back, losing my balance. My back slammed hard against the drywall, and the impact knocked the wind out of me. He stood at the entryway, his chest heaving, his hand squeezing his phone as if his life depended on it. We stared at each other. Neither of us said a word. After what felt like an eternity, he broke eye contact. “I’m going out,” he muttered, his voice dropping. “We both need to cool down.” He grabbed his jacket, opened the door, and slammed it behind him. The loud bang echoed through the empty apartment. I slid down the wall and sat on the cold floor. I sat there for a long time, until the sunlight faded and the apartment plunged into total darkness. Finally, I dragged myself up and looked for my phone. I scrolled to “Mom” and dialed. She picked up on the second ring. “Maya? Sweetie, why are you calling so late?” Hearing her warm, familiar voice, my eyes instantly stung with tears. “Mom,” I choked out, my throat tight. “The wedding is canceled.” “What? What do you mean?” “Ethan went to the hotel and canceled it. He didn’t tell me. I just found out today.” Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. Then, my mom’s voice exploded with rage. “What does he mean he canceled it? Who does he think he is? Did you two get into a fight?” “No.” “Then why on earth did he do that?” “He said it’s a waste of money.” I leaned back against the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling. “He said he already told his parents. He told me to tell you guys.” “That is absolute bullshit!” My mom rarely swore, but she was livid now. “A waste of money? Who was the one begging to have a big wedding in the first place? Who insisted on giving you a beautiful ceremony? And now he claims it’s a waste of money?” I couldn’t find the words to reply. “Maya, tell me the truth. Is there something else going on?” “I don’t know.” “I tried to look at his phone. He wouldn’t let me, and then… he shoved me.” “He shoved you?! That bastard! You stay right there. I’m calling your dad. We are coming over right now!” “Mom, no, you don’t have to—” “Don’t tell me what to do! You stay in that apartment and don’t go anywhere! We’re only a few miles away. We’ll be there in ten minutes.” The line went dead. I tossed my phone onto the couch, stood up, and walked into the bedroom. On the nightstand sat a framed photo of us from our trip to Savannah last year. He had his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder, and I was leaning into his chest, both of us laughing so hard our eyes were squinted shut. On the back of the photo, he had written in his messy handwriting: *Maya & Ethan, Forever.* Forever. How long exactly was “forever”? I threw open the closet, grabbed his clothes, and began ripping them off the hangers, throwing them onto the bed one by one. His t-shirts, his button-downs, his jackets. When I was done, his side of the closet was completely bare, and his clothes formed a messy mountain on the mattress. I sat down next to the pile, staring at it blankly. Then, I stood up and walked into the study. There was an iPad on the desk. It belonged to Ethan, but he usually left it at home for casual use. I knew the passcode. It was the same as his phone—the date we officially started dating. I unlocked the iPad. The screen lit up with his usual apps. His Snapchat and iMessage were synced.

I opened his chat list and started scrolling. Nothing looked suspicious at first. Just work group chats on WhatsApp, a few college friends, and some old threads from days ago. But I wasn’t convinced. I checked his photo gallery, his Safari history—still nothing. Was I wrong? Was he really just being cheap about the wedding? But then I remembered his shiftiness, his defensive body language, and the way he shoved me. I opened his Amazon app. Three orders were currently pending delivery. The shipping address was not our apartment. I stared at the address, burning it into my memory. It was an apartment complex on the other side of town. A place I had never heard of. I tapped on the order details. First order: One week ago. A designer silk dress, size Small, $350. I wore a medium. Second order: Five days ago. A high-end skincare set from Sephora, $280. Not the brand I used. Third order: Three days ago—the exact day he canceled our wedding. A bottle of luxury perfume, $150. Not my scent. I set the iPad down on the desk. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely control them. I tapped on his past order history and scrolled back further. Two months ago: A box of gourmet Swiss chocolates. One month ago: A pair of gold hoop earrings. Two weeks ago: A bouquet of red roses, delivered to that exact same address. The recipient’s name was listed on the shipping label: *Olivia Styles*. I stared at the name “Olivia” over and over, confirming I had absolutely no idea who this woman was. Next, I opened his bank statements, his Uber history, and his food delivery apps. The more I scrolled, the harder I shook. A reservation for a Michelin-star restaurant for two, last Thursday. That night, he told me he had to work late at the office. He didn’t get home until 9:30 PM, claiming he was exhausted and had grabbed a soggy sandwich from the cafeteria. Two movie tickets, two Sundays ago. He told me he had an urgent team meeting. He left in the afternoon and didn’t return until late. I had spent that entire Sunday alone, watching Netflix and waiting for him to come home for dinner. His Uber history showed trips to that apartment complex at least twice a week. The most recent ride was three days ago. I closed the iPad. My phone buzzed. It was a text from my mom: *Your dad and I are downstairs. Coming up now.* I stood up, but my knees felt like jelly. I had to lean against the wall for a moment to steady myself. I walked to the living room, unlocked the front door, and sat back down on the couch. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. My mom burst through the door first, with my dad following closely behind. The second my mom saw my face, her expression softened into deep worry. She rushed over, cupping my face in her hands. “Where did he hit you? Are you hurt?” “He didn’t hit me, Mom. He just shoved me.” “Where?” “My back. Against the wall.” My mom immediately reached to pull up my shirt to check for bruises, but I gently stopped her. “Mom, I’m fine. Really, I’m okay.” “Where is Ethan?” “He left.” “Where did he go?” “I don’t know.” My mom sat down beside me, while my dad stood by the coffee table, his face grave. “Maya,” my dad said, his voice calm but incredibly heavy. “Tell me exactly what’s going on.” I looked at my dad. I told them everything, from the hotel’s phone call to Ethan’s sudden excuses about the budget, to his refusal to show me his phone, and finally, how he shoved me out of the way and walked out. I didn’t mention the iPad yet. By the time I finished, my mom’s face was flushed with anger. “This wedding is off,” she declared. “He has the nerve to lay a hand on you before you’re even married? What happens after? Who does Ethan think he is? Our daughter is way too good for him!” “There is nothing to discuss. If he can cancel a wedding behind your back today, God knows what else he’ll do tomorrow. You cannot marry this man.”

My dad remained silent, keeping his eyes on me. “Maya,” he said softly. “What do you want to do?” What did I want to do? I thought about the Amazon orders. The apartment address. The name *Olivia*. I thought about all the times he claimed he was working late, or attending emergency meetings, or just “too tired” to talk to me. “Dad, I need to confirm one more thing.” I stood up, went into the study, and brought out the iPad. I opened the order history and handed it to my dad. As my dad scrolled through the screen, his eyebrows knitted together. My mom leaned over to look. When she saw the purchases, her eyes widened, and then they welled with tears of pure fury. “That’s not our address,” I said quietly. “And none of those things were bought for me.” The living room fell silent again. My mom wiped a tear from her cheek, while my dad stared at the screen for a long time. “How do you want to handle this?” my dad asked. I looked at him, then at my mother. “I want to wait for him to come back.” “I want to hear what he has to say for himself.” “What is there left to say?!” my mom cried, wiping her eyes. “The proof is right here! He’s a liar and a cheater!” “Mom, I need to hear him admit it to my face.” My dad placed a comforting hand on my mom’s shoulder. “Let her handle this her way, Helen.” My mom wanted to argue, but my dad gently pulled her back. He looked at me and said, “Call us the second you need anything. Doesn’t matter how late it is.” “I know, Dad.” “We’ll head out now.” “Okay.” They walked to the door, but my mom turned around at the last second and threw her arms around me. She hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe. “Maya, I can stay with you,” she whispered. “No, Mom, go home with Dad. I need some time alone.” She let go, looking at me with deep heartache, before finally sighing and leaving with my dad. The door clicked shut, and the apartment was quiet once more. Ethan didn’t come back that night. I sent him a single text: *Come home. We need to talk.* He didn’t reply. I sat on the couch all night, staring at the pile of wedding itineraries, the untouched box of cronuts, and the remnants of a life we were supposed to build together. When the sun began to rise, the door lock finally clicked. I raised my head and watched Ethan walk in. He saw me sitting on the couch and flinched slightly. Avoiding my gaze, he walked straight past me and into the bedroom. I stood up and followed him. He had dragged his suitcase out of the closet and was laying it flat on the bed. He began grabbing his t-shirts, his shirts, and his jackets—the ones I had thrown onto the mattress the night before—and started folding them. “Ethan.” He didn’t stop. “Ethan, look at me.” He kept folding. I walked over and grabbed his wrist. He violently shook me off and continued packing. “We need some space,” he said, his eyes glued to the suitcase. “I’m going to stay at a hotel for a few days. We both need to cool down.” I looked at his hands, watching how carefully he was folding his clothes. “Cool down for a few days?” I asked. “Yeah. Just a few days.” “And then what?” He finally stopped and looked up at me. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed his words. “Ethan,” I said, my voice entirely flat. “Don’t bother cooling down.” He stared at me. “We’re over. It’s finished.” His hand paused for a fraction of a second before he went back to packing. “Maya, don’t be dramatic. I just wanted to save some money because I didn’t think a massive wedding was necessary. Is that really worth throwing our relationship away?” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “To save money?” “Yes.” “To save money for whom, Ethan?” He went stiff. “To save money for Olivia Styles?” “Buying her designer dresses, Sephora skincare, and expensive perfume? Taking her to fancy dinners and movies? Is that where our wedding budget went?”

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On the day the results for the National Physics Olympiad Selection were posted, the bulletin board at Oakwood Prep was packed. I, Logan, was at the very top. As always. Chloe was second. Also as always. The gap between our scores was always prepensely and precisely locked at exactly 0.5 points. She was the crown jewel of Oakwood Prep—the heiress to a billionaire estate, as arrogant as a peacock. I, on the other hand, was the scholarship kid from the wrong side of the tracks, cold and unbreakable as a block of ice. “Logan, is this the piece of trash you call study notes?” Chloe’s voice cut through the murmuring crowd. Between her manicured fingers, she was pinching the physics notebook I had stayed up all night organizing. Just yesterday, in the pouring rain, she had cornered me at the lab door with red rims around her eyes, begging to borrow it. At the time, she had sniffled, “Logan, I just want to see how the top scorer thinks. I don’t want to lose so embarrassingly next time.” But now, right in front of the school’s top academic elite, she tossed that heavily annotated notebook directly into the trash can outside the hallway as if it were a piece of used tissue. ####

With a dull thud, the notebook landed in the damp waste paper, its leather cover instantly stained with dirt. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She flipped her long, blonde hair, looking down at me with pure disdain. “I brought it home and skimmed through it. It was full of loopholes. Logan, I was just studying my opponent’s weaknesses. You didn’t actually think I needed your help, did you?” Whispers erupted around us. “The ice queen is still the ice queen, huh?” “The nerd finally tripped. I heard he never lends his notes to anyone, but he made an exception for Chloe.” I stood there, staring at her, my face completely expressionless. “Are you done?” I asked, my voice flat and devoid of any emotion. Chloe blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She probably expected me to blow up or look devastated. Clenching her jaw, she sneered, “Don’t bring this kind of garbage near me again. After all, our relationship begins and ends with being rivals.” With that, she turned on her heel like a victorious general, leading her clique of girls down the hallway. Under the watchful eyes of everyone, I walked over to the trash can, bent down, and picked up the dirty notebook. There was a deep crease on the cover. No one else knew that on the very last page of this notebook, there was a Polaroid picture of the two of us—our only photo together. It was taken at the national awards ceremony last year. The backstage area was a chaotic mess, and she had accidentally tripped and fallen right into my arms. A passing photographer caught the split-second moment. In the photo, she was clutching my collar in panic, and I was looking down at her, my eyes softer than they had ever been. At 10:00 PM, I was in the school library. I was staying late to prepare for the final round of the National Team Selection. Outside, thunder rumbled, and a sudden autumn storm slammed against the massive glass windows. My phone buzzed on the wooden table. It was an unknown number. I knew it was her because just this afternoon, Chloe had dramatically left the class Snapchat group and blocked my main account. I tapped the message, and my pupils dilated. *“The third method for that physics problem… you only wrote the beginning in your notebook. I… I can’t solve it.”* I frowned. This demanding, bratty tone could belong to absolutely no one else. But I didn’t reply. I locked my phone and went back to calculating the vector forces on my scratch paper. Ten minutes later, my phone started buzzing like crazy. *“Logan, are you dead? Would it kill you to text back?”* *“And why did you sketch my side profile in your notebook? It’s so ugly! My face is not that round!”* *“During the tournament, why did you slide your eraser to me? It totally threw me off! If it weren’t for your stupid eraser, I wouldn’t have messed up the last question. Did you want to beat me that badly?”* I watched the texts stream in, the tip of my pen digging heavily into the paper. A sketch of her profile? That was from that afternoon in the lab when she was hunched over her desk. I had drawn it unconsciously. I thought I had hidden it well enough, but she had found it. The messages kept coming, getting more ridiculous by the second. *“Logan, are you an idiot? I threw your notes in the trash! Why didn’t you yell at me? You could have at least cursed me out! You acting all calm makes me feel like I’m the only one losing my mind here!”* *“It’s pouring outside, and I don’t have an umbrella. I’m standing right outside the library. I know you’re in there.”* *“If you’re willing to explain the last problem to me, bring an umbrella and come out. If not… I’ll just stand here until sunrise. It’s just rain anyway. It won’t kill me.”* I turned my head to look out the window. Through the heavy sheets of rain, under the dim streetlamp, I could see a small, fragile figure. She was wearing her thin school uniform skirt, standing stubbornly in the storm like a drenched kitten. Another text popped up. *“Hubby…”* The moment those six letters hit my eyes, my heart skipped a beat. But within two seconds, the message was unsent. Immediately after, a long voice-to-text message appeared: *“I hate you so much. I hate how you’re always so calm. I hate how you make me feel like a complete fool! I hate how you clearly like me, but you’re too chicken to say a single word!”* ####

The last text felt like a final ultimatum: *“Counting down from three. If you don’t come out, I’m… I’m really never talking to you again. Three. Two. One…”* I slammed my textbook shut, grabbed my black umbrella, and bolted out of the reading room. By the time I pushed open the heavy double doors of the library, the spot under the streetlamp was empty. Only a pool of water remained, reflecting the cold white light. And in the middle of that puddle lay a small, pink rhinestone hair clip. I picked it up, my heart sinking to the pit of my stomach. It was Chloe’s favorite hair clip. No one was ever allowed to touch it. Now, it was abandoned in the mud. A dark SUV had just sped away from the curb, its tires splashing rainwater onto the sidewalk. A voice memo on my phone—which had automatically recorded her voice-to-text—captured a faint, deep male voice in the background: *“Miss Vanderbilt, it’s time to go. Your father has been waiting a long time.”* Then, Chloe’s tearful, desperate voice: *“I’m not going back! All he cares about is his business mergers! I told him I’m not going to that closed-off training camp!”* I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. It was her family’s security detail. But right after, a wave of cold anger washed over me. If she was going to let them take her, why did she have to text me and mess with my head first? I unlocked my phone and dialed the unknown number. It rang twice before someone picked up. The background was quiet, save for Chloe’s shaky, muffled breathing. “Chloe,” I said, my voice sharp and tense. “…Logan.” Her voice was quiet, thick with tears. “Why did you come out? The three seconds were already up.” “I have your hair clip,” I said, ignoring her question. “Where are you?” “In the car. My dad is sending me to the elite prep camp upstate tonight.” Her voice suddenly cracked, filled with bitter resentment. “Logan, do you think I’m pathetic? I humiliate you in public during the day, and then I cling to you like a desperate ghost at night. Honestly, I disgust myself too.” “What are you trying to say, Chloe?” “I’m saying… I took the photo from your notebook. And I tore out the sketch. You’re free now, Logan. No one’s going to fight you for the top spot anymore. And no one’s going to use ‘academic discussions’ as an excuse to stare at you.” The heavy click of automatic car door locks echoed through the line. “Goodbye, Logan.” The call went dead. I stood in the rain, my knuckles turning white around the pink hair clip. Everyone at Oakwood Prep said Logan was just a heartless, test-taking machine. But only I knew how many calculations I had to run to perfectly maintain that 0.5-point gap right behind her, just to keep her looking back at me. I walked back into the library and opened my notification history. Even though she had unsent the message quickly, the preview on my lock screen still clearly showed those six letters. *Hubby.* It was a stupid nickname from a game of Truth or Dare back in freshman year. She had lost the dare, blushed furiously, and promised that if we both got into Oakwood Prep, she would call me that forever. But once we got in, she put her armor back on, becoming the untouchable heiress once again, acting as if that promise had never existed. I sat back down at my desk and flipped to the damp last page of my notebook. Underneath where she had torn out the sketch, there was another hidden note I had written in tiny font: *“If the final equation of physics is love, I admit defeat. I am completely, utterly helpless.”* I picked up my phone and sent her my first text of the night. “I’m only explaining the third method for that physics problem once. If you don’t show up at the National Selection next week, I’ll drag you out of the Vanderbilt mansion myself.” Three seconds later, a one-word reply came back: *“Screw you.”* Right after, she sent a picture. It was a selfie taken in the backseat of the luxury SUV. Chloe was hiding in the shadows, wiping away tears, but her hand was clutching the Polaroid photo she had stolen from my notebook. Her caption read: *“Just you wait, Logan. I’m going to crush you next week.”* *** The exam room for the National Team Selection was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I sat right in the middle of the front row. The desk to my left was empty. That was Chloe’s seat. The proctor checked his watch for the third time. Only five minutes left before the doors locked. “Um… son, please place your ID card flat on the table,” the proctor said, tapping my desk. I looked down and realized I was gripping my permit so hard my knuckles were white, the edges of the paper completely wrinkled. “Sir,” I said, my voice dry. “Is Chloe Vanderbilt not coming?” The proctor adjusted his glasses and sighed. “The administration office just got a call from the Vanderbilt family. They withdrew her from the competition. Something about… medical issues.” Medical issues? Bullshit. When she was yelling at me on the phone yesterday, she sounded like a wild cat. Just then, a commotion broke out at the entrance of the hall. A middle-aged woman in a neat maid uniform was arguing frantically with the security guard. When she saw me turn around, her eyes lit up. She broke past the guard and ran toward the window next to my row. It was Maria, the maid from Chloe’s house. Through the glass pane, her face was twisted with panic. She frantically gestured to me, mouth opening wide to silently scream two words: *HELP HER.* I stood up abruptly. “Mr. Logan! The exam is about to start. Where do you think you’re going?” the proctor barked. ####

I stood in the aisle, looking up at the clock on the wall. Two minutes until the exam started. Two hours until it ended. This selection was my only ticket to the International Olympiad, the only way a poor kid like me could secure a full-ride to MIT. It was also the “meet me at the top” promise Chloe and I had made. But now, the peak was still here, and she was gone. I sat back down and picked up my pen. “Sir, you can hand out the papers.” The proctor let out a sigh of relief. “Good choice, kid. Don’t let distractions ruin your future.” The moment the exam paper landed on my desk, I scanned the questions. They were brutal. Truly national-level difficulty. The final, high-weight question involved complex non-linear dynamics. If Chloe were here, she would probably be chewing on her pen, crying her eyes out. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and all I could see was her tear-stained face in that photo, saying *Logan, just you wait.* If I didn’t go, her life might actually be ruined by her father’s forced arrangements. If I did go and abandoned this exam, my life might be ruined too. This choice was harder than any physics problem I had ever solved. But I, Logan, don’t do single-choice questions. I put pen to paper, my hand moving at lightning speed. Because of my speed, the scratching of my pen against the paper was incredibly loud in the silent room. The students around me looked over in sheer terror. Forty-five minutes. It took me exactly forty-five minutes to finish a high-level exam designed for two hours. I wrote down the final derivation for the last question, then slammed my pen onto the table. “I’m turning in my paper, sir.” Amidst the dead silence of the room and the slack-jawed stare of the proctor, I grabbed my backpack, leaped right over the first-floor window sill, and landed in front of Maria. “Lead the way,” I said coldly. “Take me to the engagement venue.” The black sedan sped down the coastal highway. Maria was shivering in the passenger seat while I sat in the back, searching up Chloe’s supposed “fiancé” on my phone—Julian Vance. Julian Vance. The sole heir to the Vance tech empire. A prodigy who entered college at fourteen and won two international gold medals. He wasn’t just rich; he was an intellectual beast. No wonder Chloe’s dad looked down on me. To billionaires, a scholarship kid who got high scores through sheer hard work wasn’t even fit to shine Julian’s shoes. “Mr. Logan,” Maria said, her voice trembling. “The road ahead is blocked. Mr. Vanderbilt has private security guarding the estate. You can’t get in without an invitation. And… I heard Mr. Vance has a horrible temper. Last time a guy tried to talk to Miss Chloe, Julian had his legs broken.” I looked out the window. Indeed, five hundred yards ahead, a security checkpoint had been set up. Several burly men in black suits were patrolling with guard dogs. “Pull over,” I said suddenly. “What? Here?” the driver stammered. “The front entrance is suicide.” I pushed the door open, pointing toward a brick wall adjacent to the estate. “That’s the exhaust vent for the hotel’s kitchen. Based on the architectural blueprint of this estate, that vent has a structural weakness and is constantly under maintenance. There will be a gap.” Maria stared at me like I was an alien. “How… how could you possibly know that?” “Because the blueprint of this hotel was used as a structural stress analysis problem in one of our prep tests.” I ripped off my school tie and wrapped it around my knuckles. “You guys go back. I’ll take it from here.” Ten minutes later, covered in dust and soot, I dropped from the kitchen ventilation shaft onto the backstage area of the grand ballroom. The elegant sound of a violin quartet floated through the air. The master of ceremonies was speaking into a microphone with mock enthusiasm: “And now, please welcome our brilliant groom-to-be, Julian Vance!” The crowd erupted into applause. I hid behind the heavy red velvet curtains, peeking through a gap. Under the massive crystal chandelier stood Chloe. She was wearing a stunning white strapless gown, looking breathtakingly beautiful. But her face was a mask of despair, her eyes completely hollow as she stared at the floor. Beside her stood a guy in a sleek white tuxedo. He wore gold-rimmed glasses, looking like a textbook sociopath with a polished, smug grin. That was Julian Vance. “Chloe,” Julian said into his lapel mic, his voice so smooth it made my skin crawl. “I heard you had a very… passionate rival back at Oakwood Prep? On a big day like today, why didn’t you invite him to bear witness?” Chloe snapped her head up, glaring at him. “Julian, don’t push it. This is a business deal between our families. Leave innocent people out of this.” “Innocent?” Julian adjusted his glasses, his smile widening. “But I heard that just last night, in the middle of a storm, someone called him ‘hubby’ on Snapchat.” ####

The crowd gasped. Chloe’s father, Mr. Vanderbilt, looked absolutely livid. Suddenly, Julian turned his head, his eyes locking precisely onto the curtain where I was hiding. His gaze was filled with the arrogant superiority of a man who thought he owned the world. “Since you’re already here, why play the mouse, Logan? Come on out.” I had been spotted. I had to hand it to him; the gold medalist’s observation skills were indeed top-tier. Taking a deep breath, I ripped the curtain open. Amidst the gasps of the wealthy guests, I stepped onto the polished floor, wearing my dust-covered school uniform, and walked right into the spotlight. The moment Chloe saw me, tears streamed down her face. She frantically shook her head, mouthing: *Go! Get out of here!* I didn’t look at her. I kept my eyes locked on Julian. “Mr. Vance,” I said, brushing the soot off my sleeves. “You got your variables mixed up. Chloe didn’t call me that because she wanted to. It was a dumb Truth or Dare game. But for a guy with a gold medal, you seem pretty bad at distinguishing independent and dependent variables. Her emotions are controlled by me. What kind of constant do you think you are in her life?” The entire ballroom went dead silent. “What? Scared?” Julian looked down at me, casually spinning a multi-million-dollar diamond ring between his fingers. Chloe rushed forward, shielding me like a protective kitten. “Julian! You’re disgusting! Logan is just a high school senior, he hasn’t even taken college-level quantum mechanics! You’re just trying to humiliate him!” “Oh? You care about him that much?” Julian’s eyes went cold. He reached out to grab Chloe’s wrist. “Since your little boyfriend is a coward, why don’t you just put the ring on?” Before his hand could touch her, I intercepted him. My grip was iron-clad. Years of doing heavy labor at my parents’ farm had given me a level of raw strength that this spoiled rich kid couldn’t match. Julian’s face twisted in pain. “Who said I was a coward?” I shoved his hand away, pulling Chloe behind me. “Give me the test.” The guests began to murmur, and Mr. Vanderbilt looked ready to call security, but Julian raised a hand to stop them. A projector screen rolled down, and a incredibly complex quantum mechanics wave function equation appeared on the screen. “Solve the Schrödinger equation for a particle in a finite potential well under these boundary conditions,” Julian sneered. “I’ll give you ten minutes.” Chloe closed her eyes in despair. But looking at the screen, I actually smiled. How incredibly ironic. This exact advanced problem was something I had taught myself and derived in that very notebook Chloe had thrown into the trash—just to show off to her. My annotation next to that equation had been: *“I am like this particle, forever trapped in the potential well called Chloe. No matter how much my probability wave spreads, I can never escape you.”* She had thrown the notebook away, but had she read it? If she had, she would know I could solve this in my sleep. I grabbed the digital stylus and began writing on the smartboard. No hesitation. No pauses. One line. Two lines. Ten lines… As my derivation expanded, the smug smirk on Julian’s face gradually dissolved, replaced by a horrified stiffness. “This is impossible… this derivation isn’t even in the standard undergraduate syllabus…” he muttered to himself. Writing the final symbol, I tossed the stylus aside and turned to face the pale-faced billionaire heir. “Schrödinger’s cat is both dead and alive before you open the box,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “But when it comes to Chloe, there is only one wave-function collapse—she is mine.” The room erupted into chaos. Ignoring the shocked stares of the elite, I grabbed Chloe’s hand. Her fingers were ice-cold and trembling. “Let’s go,” I said. “Where… where are we going?” she asked blankly. “Back to school.” I pulled her toward the exit. As we passed Mr. Vanderbilt, I stopped. The older man was shaking with rage, pointing a finger at me. “Logan! If you dare walk out that door with her, I will have you expelled from Oakwood Prep by tonight! Your scholarship, your Ivy League recommendations—gone! I will make sure you have no future in this country!” Chloe flinched, trying to pull her hand back. “Logan, don’t… I’m not worth ruining your life over…” I tightened my grip, locking my fingers with hers. I turned to the man who held all the wealth and power, my gaze colder than the winter rain. “Mr. Vanderbilt, you have one thing wrong.” “Oakwood Prep didn’t give me a chance. Oakwood Prep needs me to keep their Ivy League admission rates up. As for my future…” I pulled out my crumpled exam permit from my pocket and flicked it in front of his face. “I finished the national selection exam in forty-five minutes. I am absolutely certain I got a perfect score. Once I make the national team and bring back a gold medal, MIT and Princeton will be begging me to join them. Do you think your influence is bigger than the academic prestige of the United States of America?” Without waiting for his response, I pulled Chloe with me and kicked open the heavy oak doors of the ballroom. Outside, the storm had cleared, and golden sunlight was piercing through the clouds. Chloe stumbled along beside me. One of her high heels had slipped off, so she simply kicked the other one off too, running barefoot on the wet asphalt. We ran until we were miles away, finally stopping under a bridge to catch our breath. She slid down against the concrete wall, burying her face in her knees, and began to sob uncontrollably. “Logan, are you an idiot?! *Sob*… You provoked the Vance family, you provoked my dad… What if you didn’t pass? What if you got that equation wrong?!”

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“Mr. Carter, are you absolutely sure about this? Lily is only five years old—” I cut the lawyer off, sliding my pen across the paper to sign my name on the sole custody agreement. “I’m sure.” Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the rain was pouring over Chicago. I looked up at the skyscraper across the street. On the thirty-seventh floor of the Vance Group headquarters, Charlotte Vance, the CEO, was leading a board meeting. She wore a flawlessly tailored white pantsuit, her expression icy, carrying herself with the commanding aura of a business queen that everyone in the city feared and respected. Nobody knew that this woman was legally my wife. And nobody knew that we shared a five-year-old daughter. *** It had been three years. For the past three years, I had worked as her personal driver. Every day, I drove her back and forth, listening to her cold instructions from the backseat: “Leo, take a left,” or “Leo, park here.” She never spared me a second glance in public. To the world, we were nothing more than an employer and her hired help. Lily had learned to call me “Daddy” since she was two, but she never dared to call Charlotte “Mommy.” Because Charlotte had once looked down at her with a freezing gaze and said, “Don’t ever let me hear that word in public.” Lily was a good girl. She never said it again. But I knew that every single night, she would hug that cheap plush rabbit—the only thing Charlotte had ever bought her—and whisper to it, “Goodnight, Mommy. You looked so beautiful today. Will you look at me tomorrow, Mommy?” That plush rabbit was just a ten-dollar toy Charlotte had grabbed from a drugstore checkout line three years ago. But to Lily, it was her most precious treasure. She hadn’t let go of it for three whole years. “I’m working late tonight, Leo. You can go home first.” Charlotte walked out of the conference room. She didn’t even pause as she passed me, tossing the words over her shoulder as she headed straight for her private office. I stood up, about to speak, when her phone rang. She picked it up, and her voice instantly transformed—soft, warm, and filled with a rare tenderness. “Julian? You’ve landed? Great, I’m coming down to meet you now.” Julian. Julian Sterling. Charlotte’s college sweetheart. He had moved to London three years ago, and today, he was back. I watched her figure disappear into the executive elevator. With a bitter smile, I took out my phone and messaged Lily’s kindergarten teacher on Snapchat. “Hi Ms. Jenkins, I’ll be picking Lily up on time today.” The teacher replied almost instantly. “Sounds good, Leo! Lily drew a picture today. She said she can’t wait to give it to her mom.” Staring at the word “mom,” I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my chest. Lily had no idea that Charlotte had never looked at a single one of her drawings. Once, Lily had saved up a month’s worth of her doodles and carefully placed them on Charlotte’s nightstand. The next morning, they were sitting neatly in the trash can. Not a single page was missing. Lily hadn’t cried. But she never picked up a crayon again after that day. I packed my things and went downstairs. The moment I stepped out of the lobby elevator, I saw three people standing in the center of the hall. Charlotte, Julian, and a four-year-old boy. The boy looked just like Julian. He was tugging at Charlotte’s blazer, saying in a sweet, childish voice, “Charlotte, can we get ice cream?” Julian smiled, rubbing the boy’s hair. “Teddy, don’t bother her.” Charlotte actually knelt down, her face softening into a gentle expression I hadn’t seen in years. “It’s fine. I’ll take you to get some.” When she stood back up, her eyes swept over me as if I were a complete stranger. I lowered my head and walked past them. As our shoulders brushed, I heard Julian ask, “Charlotte, it’s been so many years. Why are you still single?” Charlotte didn’t answer. But I could hear the sweet, silent smile in her breath. When I arrived at the kindergarten, Lily was standing by the gate, standing on her tiptoes to peer through the crowd. Seeing my car, her eyes lit up, and she waved her little hands. “Daddy!” I got out of the car and lifted her into my arms. She wrapped her tiny arms around my neck and whispered, “Daddy, is Charlotte coming home for dinner tonight?” My heart clenched. “She’s very busy with work today, sweetie. She might not make it.” “Oh.” Lily lowered her head, but then she looked up again, her eyes bright. “Then we can wait for her! I drew a picture. I want to show her!” Looking at her innocent, hopeful face, I couldn’t bring myself to tell her the truth. I could only nod. “Okay. We’ll wait for her.” By 9:00 PM, Lily was sitting on the living room rug, clutching her drawing, her eyes glued to the front door. 10:00 PM. 11:00 PM. Lily leaned against my chest, her eyelids growing heavier by the second, but she fought to stay awake. “Mommy… Charlotte will be home soon, right?” I gently patted her back. “Go to sleep, baby. Daddy’s here.” “But when she comes back, you have to wake me up, Daddy…” “I will.” Lily finally drifted off, her little fingers still tightly gripping the piece of paper. At 2:00 AM, the front lock clicked. Charlotte walked in, carrying the faint scent of wine. Seeing me holding Lily on the sofa, she paused, her eyebrows knitting together. “Why aren’t you guys in bed?” I looked at her, my voice dead calm. “Lily was waiting for you.” “Waiting for me for what?” “She drew a picture. She wanted to show you.” Charlotte glanced at the paper in Lily’s hand. It was a crayon drawing of three people holding hands under a giant yellow sun—a woman in a dress, a man with glasses, and a little girl with pigtails. Charlotte looked away. “I have an early meeting tomorrow. Go to bed.” She turned toward the master bedroom. But just before she reached the door, she stopped. “By the way, there’s a family event at her kindergarten tomorrow. You go.” “But—” “I have plans tomorrow.” She didn’t turn around. “Julian just got back and needs help settling in. I’m helping him run some errands.” I held Lily closer, watching the bedroom door shut. I couldn’t say a word. Lily stirred in my arms, murmuring a faint, sleepy whisper. “Mommy…” I looked down and saw a tear slipping from the corner of her closed eye. She hadn’t been asleep at all. ***

The next morning, Lily woke up early. She dressed herself, brushed her teeth, and ran to the kitchen door, whispering, “Daddy, is Charlotte awake?” I paused my cooking. “She already left.” “Oh.” Lily’s shoulders slumped, but then she looked up again. “Can she make it to the family craft day later?” I knelt down and looked into her eyes. “Lily, Daddy is going with you today, okay?” Lily bit her lip, staying silent. After a long moment, she nodded slowly. “Okay.” But her eyes were filled with a profound disappointment she couldn’t hide. The family craft day was themed “Parents and Kids DIY.” In the classroom, every other child had both their mom and dad sitting beside them. Only Lily sat with just me. While we were cutting paper, a little boy next to us asked his mother, “Mom, why does Lily only have her dad here?” His mother whispered back, “Shh, don’t ask. Probably a broken home.” Lily kept her head low, her hands crumpling the colored paper in her lap. I reached out and wrapped my arm around her. “Hey, Lily. Daddy’s going to make the coolest project with you, okay?” Lily looked up, her eyes red, but she forced a brave smile. “Okay.” Near the end of the event, the teacher announced it was time for a group family photo on stage. The other kids eagerly dragged their parents up, laughing and shouting. Only Lily sat frozen in her seat. “Lily, do you want to go up and take a photo?” I asked gently. Lily shook her head. “Daddy, can we just go home?” She took my hand and led me out of the classroom. But as we reached the exit, she couldn’t help but look back one last time. I knew what she was looking at. She was watching the other kids holding their mothers’ hands. On the drive back, Lily didn’t say a single word. As we reached our porch, she suddenly asked, “Daddy, does Charlotte hate me?” I froze. Lily looked up, tears finally spilling over. “Is it because I’m not good enough? I can be better, Daddy. I won’t ask for snacks anymore, and I won’t bother her. I just want her to like me…” I knelt down and pulled her into a tight embrace. “No, Lily. It’s not your fault. It is never your fault.” Lily cried into my shoulder, her little body trembling. “Then why… why doesn’t she want me?” I didn’t know how to answer. Because I wanted to ask the same thing. *Charlotte, why don’t you want us?* ***

That night, Charlotte actually came home early. Lily was playing with blocks in the living room. When she saw the door open, her eyes lit up, but she remained frozen, too scared to approach. Charlotte glanced at her briefly, said nothing, and walked straight to her bedroom. Lily lowered her head and went back to her blocks. Standing by the kitchen door, I felt an unbearable tightness in my chest. During dinner, Charlotte’s phone rang. “Julian? Sure, I’ll be right over.” She put down her fork and stood up to leave. Lily finally couldn’t help herself. She called out in a tiny voice, “Mo—” Charlotte stopped, turning around with a cold glare. “How many times have I told you not to call me that?” Lily’s face turned paper-white. Her lips trembled. “Charlotte… are you going out?” “Yes.” Charlotte turned and left. The moment the front door clicked shut, Lily’s tears fell. But she didn’t make a sound. She just wiped her face with the back of her hand. Seeing her like this, the string that had been pulled tight in my heart for three years finally snapped. I walked over and knelt before her. “Lily, Daddy wants to ask you something.” Lily looked up, her eyes red and puffy. “If Daddy takes you to a place far away, a place without Charlotte… would you want to go?” Lily stared at me. After a long pause, she whispered, “Will she come looking for us?” I stayed silent for a moment. “No.” Lily looked down, thinking for what felt like an eternity. Then, she looked up and wrapped her arms around my neck. “Wherever Daddy goes, I go.” At that moment, my mind was made up. Over the next few days, I began making quiet preparations. I resigned from my job as her driver, sold my car, and secured a small apartment and a school placement in a quiet coastal town in Maine. Every day when I picked Lily up, I would ask her, “Lily, are you sure you want to go with Daddy?” And every time, she would nod. “Yes.” But at night, before she slept, I still heard her hugging that plush rabbit, whispering, “Goodbye, Mommy.” On the fifth night, Charlotte called me. “Tomorrow is the weekend. Bring Lily to the mall. I want to buy her some clothes.” I was stunned. In three years, this was the first time she had ever offered to buy Lily anything. “Okay.” The next day, we met at the mall. Charlotte walked ahead, while Lily and I followed a few paces behind. Lily held my hand tightly, her eyes fixed on Charlotte’s back. At the kids’ clothing section, Charlotte stopped and grabbed a few dresses. “Try these on.” Lily was overwhelmed with joy. She took the clothes carefully and whispered, “Thank you, Charlotte.” Charlotte frowned slightly but said nothing. In the fitting room, Lily poked her head out. “Daddy, does this look pretty?” I smiled. “Beautiful, sweetheart.” Lily then looked at Charlotte. “Charlotte, do you like it?” Charlotte was staring at her phone, not even looking up. “Yeah.” The smile on Lily’s face dimmed, but she still tried to stay happy. At the register, the cashier smiled at Lily. “Your mom has great taste, sweetie.” Lily froze, lowering her head in silence. Charlotte paid with a blank expression. As soon as we stepped out of the mall, Charlotte’s phone rang again. “Julian? Okay, I’m on my way.” She hung up and turned to me. “Take an Uber back. I have things to do.” She walked away without looking back. Lily stood there, watching her mother’s figure disappear into the bustling crowd. After a long time, she looked up at me. “Daddy, did she leave us again?” I picked her up. “She didn’t leave us, baby. She just has her own life to live.” Lily buried her face in my shoulder. But I felt her warm tears soaking into my neck. *** 3 (Cont.) That night, I signed the final relocation documents. Our flight was scheduled for the day after tomorrow at 10:00 AM. The lease was terminated, and the suitcases were packed. Everything was ready. Before bed, I went into Lily’s room. She was asleep, hugging her plush rabbit, with dried tear tracks on her cheeks. I gently pulled the blanket over her and kissed her forehead. “Lily, Daddy is taking you away. We’re going to build our own life.” The next morning, Charlotte suddenly came home. She stood in the living room, looking at the packed suitcases, her brow furrowing. “Are you going somewhere?” “Yeah. Taking Lily on a short trip.” She didn’t ask further. She only said, “Julian and Teddy are staying here for a few days. It’s actually perfect that you two won’t be around. Less crowded.” I looked at her, suddenly finding the situation incredibly tragic. “Okay.” Charlotte turned to leave, but then remembered something. “Oh, tomorrow is Teddy’s birthday. I promised to take him to the amusement park. If Lily wants to join, she can. The kids can play together.” Before I could decline, Lily ran out of her room, her eyes shining. “Charlotte, can I really go?” Charlotte looked at her and nodded. “Sure.” Lily literally jumped with joy. But I knew she wasn’t excited about the amusement park. She was excited about being with her mother. Looking at her bright smile, my heart ached. We were leaving tomorrow anyway. *Let her have this one happy day,* I thought. ***

At the amusement park. Charlotte was on the carousel with Teddy, while Lily stood outside the railing with me. Teddy waved happily, screaming, “Charlotte, look at me!” Charlotte smiled, snapping photos of him with her phone. Lily watched them with envy, whispering, “Daddy, can I ride too?” I took her to join the queue. But by the time we got on, Charlotte had already taken Teddy to the next ride. Sitting on the wooden horse, Lily kept turning her head, searching for Charlotte’s figure in the crowd. Once we got off, she tugged my hand. “Daddy, let’s find them, please?” I nodded and led her forward. We found them at the bumper cars. Teddy was sitting next to Charlotte, laughing loudly. Lily stood against the railing, watching them, completely still. After a while, Teddy spotted us. He pointed at Lily and asked, “Charlotte, who is that girl?” Charlotte glanced at us, her voice indifferent. “Just a friend’s kid.” *Just a friend’s kid.* Hearing those words, Lily’s face crumbled as if something inside her had shattered. But she didn’t cry. She just lowered her head and gripped my hand with all her might. That afternoon, Lily didn’t smile again. On the ride home, she remained completely silent. That night, after checking our bags one last time, I went into her room. She was sitting on her bed, clutching her rabbit. “Daddy,” she looked up. “Are we leaving tomorrow?” “Yes.” “Will…” she hesitated. “Will she miss us?” I was silent for a long time. “Lily, some people simply don’t have room in their hearts for others.” Lily looked down, digesting my words. Then, she looked up and hugged me tight. “That’s okay. I only need Daddy.” My tears almost spilled over. The next morning, we were ready to leave. As I opened the door, Charlotte and Teddy were standing on the porch. She paused, her eyes sweeping over our luggage. “You’re leaving for your trip this early?” “Yeah.” Teddy ran out from behind her. Seeing the plush rabbit in Lily’s arms, he snatched it away. “What is this? It’s so ugly!” Lily gasped, instinctively trying to grab it back. Teddy threw the rabbit onto the muddy ground and stomped on it. “Trash!” Lily’s eyes welled with tears, but she held them back. Charlotte frowned slightly and told Teddy, “Don’t do that.” Then she looked at me. “Have a safe trip.” She led Teddy inside, brushing past us without sparing Lily a single glance. Lily knelt down, picked up her dirt-covered rabbit, and carefully patted the dust off its fur. “Let’s go, Daddy.” I nodded, took her hand, and walked away. At the gate of the neighborhood, I looked back at the building. Three years ago, I thought this was a home. Now I realized it was just a house we lived in. “To the airport, please,” I told the taxi driver. As the car merged onto the highway, Lily leaned against me and whispered, “Daddy, I’m not sad.” I wrapped my arm around her. “I know, baby.” “Because I have you.” Looking at the city skyline fading in the window, I thought to myself: *Goodbye, Charlotte.* *This time, it’s for real.*

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On the sixth year of our long-distance relationship, I secretly flew to New York City to give my girlfriend a surprise for her birthday. Inside the trendiest bakery downtown, my eyes caught the custom cake the guy next to me was picking up. The icing on it read: [Happy Birthday, Vivian, My Love]. My girlfriend’s name was also Vivian. Noticing my lingering gaze, the man struck up a conversation. “Ordering a cake? You’ve got great taste. I get my girl’s birthday cake here every single year.” His buddy smirked and nudged him. “Still calling her your girl? She’s basically your fiancée now!” A tender smile spread across the man’s face. “Shut up, man.” He pulled out his phone and showed me photos of the different custom cakes he’d ordered over the years. “Here, bro. These are some past designs. Just to give you some ideas.” In the photos, a girl was snuggled tightly in his arms. They were both beaming with pure happiness, holding a cake together. It wasn’t a coincidence. It wasn’t just someone with the same name. His fiancée was my Vivian.

Those photos didn’t just show birthday cakes. There were anniversaries, Valentine’s Days, and New Year’s Eves. The very last photo showed a cake with the words [999 Days] written on it. I stood there, frozen, for what felt like an eternity. Doing the math, Vivian had been with another man since the third year of our long-distance relationship. She used to tell me, *”Asher, baby, please understand. Work is so crazy right now, and flights are so expensive. Let’s save every penny we can so we can get married sooner.”* My heart had ached for her back then. I swallowed all my loneliness and promised to be patient. That was why we talked less and saw each other less. It turned out she was spending all that saved time in the arms of another man. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms, desperately suppressing the bitter wave of betrayal and fury rising in my chest. The man didn’t notice my distress. He offered his hand. “By the way, I’m Julian.” “What a coincidence that you’re celebrating today too. I booked the best rooftop restaurant overlooking Manhattan tonight. If you don’t mind, why don’t you join us?” My mind was a chaotic mess. Acting on pure, desperate impulse, I nodded. Until I saw Vivian with my own eyes, I refused to let my heart die. We took the elevator up to the 49th floor. The restaurant had a breathtaking view, offering a stunning panoramic look at the NYC skyline. “Grab a seat, bro. I need to set up a little surprise for my baby. She went all out for me on New Year’s and Valentine’s, so I have to return the favor.” I managed a tight nod, my heart aching with a sharp, stabbing pain. Vivian had always told me she hated “senseless, commercial holidays.” So, in our ten years together, we only ever celebrated our actual birthdays. But for this man, she made exceptions. “Man, they are so disgustingly cute. Pure couple goals,” Julian’s friend said, looking on with envy. “You have no idea. When his fiancée made her first million from her startup, she spent almost the entire thing on a Patek Philippe watch for Julian. Over a hundred and fifty grand, just like that.” “Julian loves the ocean, so every year she rents a luxury yacht and sets off private fireworks over the harbor just to make him smile.” I stopped breathing. Vivian had lied to me. She told me her startup was struggling, that she was barely making ends meet. I had worked day and night at my job in Ohio, sending her money transfers under every excuse I could think of, terrified she was starving or stressed. On my birthday last year, Vivian said she was too busy to travel and only ordered a tiny, cheap grocery-store cake to be delivered to my apartment. I had eaten every single bite of that dry cake and sent her a video. *”Thank you, baby. The cake is great. It feels like we’re celebrating together anyway. My only wish is to finally end the distance and move in with you.”* She hadn’t replied until the next day: *”Great. You’re so understanding, Asher.”* Julian was busy pinning polaroid photos onto silk ribbons hanging from the ceiling. “Are you celebrating your birthday alone? Your girl didn’t come with you?” My eyes scanned the photos. Every single one of them was a sweet, intimate shot of him and Vivian. Them kissing with their eyes closed, him carrying her bridal-style, her laughing as she sat on his shoulders… Vivian smiled so brightly in those pictures. I couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled at me like that. “We’re long-distance. I wanted to surprise her,” I said, staring at Julian. “I was actually planning to move to her city, propose, and finally end the distance.” When we graduated, Vivian chose to stay in New York to build her business, while my father fell gravely ill, forcing me to go back to Ohio to care for my parents. She always told me to wait. To wait until her startup took off to get married, to wait until her company was stable so she could move to my town. I never once doubted Vivian’s love. So, the moment my parents’ health stabilized, I rushed here to be with her. I didn’t want her to exhaust herself traveling back and forth for me. But I never expected to walk into this. “Is that so? Sounds like you love her a lot,” Julian said, his smile unchanged. “But honestly, bro? If a man has nothing to his name, if he can’t even afford a decent life for himself, what kind of happiness can he really offer a woman? Better not drag her down.” Before I could reply, his friend gasped, looking at his phone. “Julian! Get ready! Boss Vivian is downstairs!”

“Surprise!” The elevator doors slid open, and the crowd popped confetti cannons. In the middle of the falling colorful rain, Vivian looked at Julian with eyes full of tenderness. She didn’t notice me at all, standing there in the dark corner. She ran straight into Julian’s arms. Julian leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Happy birthday, baby!” Vivian affectionately brushed a piece of confetti off his shoulder and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. “Thank you, handsome.” Amidst the cheers and teasing from their friends, Julian brought out the cake, lit the candles, and gestured for her to make a wish. Vivian stood on her tip-toes and kissed him deeply on the lips. “I don’t need to make a wish. Heaven has already given me the best gift I could ever ask for right here.” I stared blankly at the flickering candle flames. Six years of long-distance. To see Vivian, I had saved stacks of cheap bus and train tickets. I never let her make the tiring trip to see me even once. On my birthday during our fourth year, she sat beside me, completely distracted, staring at her phone all night. For the last two years, she was virtually non-existent in my life. And now, she was calling Julian the best gift heaven had ever given her. My chest felt completely numb, a dull, agonizing ache. A single question echoed in my mind over and over again. *What about me? What was I to you?* Julian smiled, helping Vivian blow out the candles. “If you won’t make a wish, then I will.” Someone in the crowd yelled, “What did you wish for, Julian? Let me guess, does it involve Vivian?” “Duh! Everyone knows Julian is a total simp for her. His whole world revolves around Vivian.” Vivian blushed, playfully hitting Julian’s chest. He gave her a doting look, and in the next second, he dropped to one knee. The room erupted. Julian pulled out a red velvet box, his expression dead serious and full of devotion. “Vivian, it’s been four years. Will you marry me?” Vivian covered her mouth, her eyes instantly filling with tears. Everyone held their breath, waiting for her answer. But then, a cold laugh broke the silence of the room. “Four years? Vivian, what about my ten years? What did our ten years mean to you?” Everyone whipped their heads around to look at me. Vivian turned, her face freezing in absolute horror and shock. Their friends looked back and forth between us, whispering. “Who is this guy?” “No idea.” One of Julian’s friends walked up and threw a heavy punch straight at my face. “Are you out of your mind? Julian was nice enough to let you join the party, and you come in here to ruin his proposal?!” The blow left me dazed for a second. Julian looked back at Vivian, confused. “Babe, do you know him?” “No.” Vivian coldly pulled her gaze away from me without a single shred of hesitation. She forced a sigh. “Julian, you really shouldn’t just invite any random street rat to your parties. Just ignore him.” My eyes widened. This was the woman who once cried hysterically when I got a tiny paper cut. Now, she watched someone punch me and didn’t even blink. I loved Vivian for ten years, only to be called a “street rat.” With shaking hands, I threw a heavy punch right back at the guy who hit me. He fell straight to the floor, groaning. The next second, two heavy security guards pinned me down. At Julian’s nod, the guards didn’t hold back. In front of everyone, I was beaten until my face swelled and my ears rang. As the guards held me down, Julian walked up to me and kicked my knee hard. I let out a sharp cry and collapsed onto my knees before him. My dignity and my ten years of devotion shattered completely in that exact moment. Vivian stood to the side, motionless, though a tiny flicker of hesitation crossed her eyes. Julian’s lips curled into a mocking sneer. “I tried to be a nice guy and let you hang out. I didn’t expect you to be a psycho.” “Beating you up is wasting my energy. Throw him out like the trash he is!”

The security guards dragged me by my arms toward the exit. I was too dizzy and weak to fight back. Everyone in the room stared at me with pure disgust. “This loser clearly has nothing going for him. Just trying to cause drama.” “He’s probably just jealous! Trying to be a homewrecker because he’s broke. Trash like him deserves to get run over by a car.” The vicious insults rained down on me, but Vivian never looked back. Behind me, I heard her clearly say, *”Yes, I’ll marry you,”* followed by a deafening cheer of celebration. Outside, a cold drizzle was falling. The guards threw me onto the wet pavement and kicked me twice in the ribs for good measure. A kind passerby tried to step in, but one of the guards glared at him. “This creep tried to stalk Boss Vivian and ruin her engagement. You want to take his side?” The passerby’s expression instantly changed to disgust. “Get a life, man. Stop trying to ruin other people’s happiness.” “So pathetic. If he were my son, I’d die of embarrassment.” My entire body screamed in pain, and my vision began to fade to black. “I’m… I’m not…” But no one was listening. Everyone just walked past me coldly. The rain soaked through my clothes. As I lay in a puddle, right before I lost consciousness, I heard that familiar female voice. “Take him to my apartment near the office. And take his phone.” In my feverish, chaotic sleep, I dreamed of Vivian when she was twenty-two. Back then, we were just two broke college graduates trying to survive in New York, renting the cheapest, moldiest studio apartment. We believed that if we just worked hard, everything would be okay. But a year later, my dad got terribly sick, and we needed a massive amount of money. I emptied my savings and borrowed from everyone I knew. Without telling me, Vivian emptied her own bank account and took out personal loans to send the money to my family. *”This is my family’s mess! I didn’t want you to go into debt! I didn’t want to drag you down…”* The winter nights in NYC were freezing back then. We couldn’t afford heating, so we huddled under a single thin blanket on our squeaking wooden bed to keep each other warm. Hearing my sobbing complaints, Vivian held me tighter. *”Your dad is my dad, Asher. I couldn’t just stand by. I wanted to do this.”* *”It’s going to get better. I promise.”* New York was where the money was, so Vivian had to stay to build her career, while I had to go back to Ohio to care for my parents. The moment I finished my day job, I did food delivery until 3 AM, only to wake up at 7 AM. I pushed myself to the absolute limit, eating free crackers from the office pantry for lunch to save every dollar. We survived those brutal two years and paid off eighty thousand dollars in debt. Just when life seemed to be getting easier, Vivian told me, *”Asher, I want to start my own company.”* I didn’t hesitate for a second. *”Do it. I’ll support you.”* I gave her every single penny I had left. But the corporate world was brutal. Vivian drank herself to stomach bleeding trying to pitch to investors, but couldn’t get a single dime. I couldn’t bear to see her destroy herself. Without telling her, I reached out to a wealthy senior from my college, Seraphina. After making a deal with Seraphina, Vivian miraculously received her first major seed funding. Vivian told me, *”Asher, just wait for me a little longer.”* We had survived the hardest times. I never believed that distance could ever destroy our love. But I was dead wrong. I snapped my eyes open. The sweet face of twenty-two-year-old Vivian vanished, replaced by the cold, unfamiliar twenty-nine-year-old woman standing over me. She sighed. “Let me explain, Asher.”

Vivian held a glass of water to my lips, helping me drink. My body was burning with a fever, my head felt like it was splitting open, and my voice was completely hoarse. “My phone… give me my phone.” “Asher, don’t even think about calling the cops. It won’t work.” She was worried I would file a report against Julian. She cupped my face, her eyes filled with pity. “You have to believe me. With Julian… I had no choice. There’s a reason.” I pushed her hands away, struggling to stand up. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know. Vivian, we’re done. It’s over.” I stumbled into the living room and froze. On the coffee table sat a framed photo of Vivian and Julian holding a golden retriever puppy. Next to the frame lay a few unused condom wrappers. A pair of black stockings lay crumpled on the couch, with a lace thong hanging off the edge. Beside the couch was a dog bed, lined with a worn-out piece of clothing. It was a designer shirt I had saved up for months to buy her for her birthday. It cost me $800. Inside the dog bed was a chewed-up, ruined plush black cat keychain—something she had begged me to hand-make for her years ago. We had promised that when we got married, we would get a black cat together. My heart began to spasm in agony again. I gasped for air, suffocating. “Vivian… you could have just broken up with me. Why did you lie? Why did you give the things I bought you to a dog? Why did you have to drag my love through the mud like this?!” “Don’t call him a dog! That was the puppy Julian and I raised for years. He was family, and he passed away in an accident. Do you have to be so hateful?” Vivian rubbed her temples, looking exhausted. “Asher, stop being so childish. My startup went through a massive financial crisis years ago. If Julian hadn’t begged his dad to bail me out, I wouldn’t have any of this today.” “You should be grateful to him.” How incredibly absurd. I stared at her blankly, realizing it was useless to speak to her. “Sure. Whatever you say.” I coldly began searching the living room for my belongings, wanting nothing more than to escape this disgusting woman forever. But Vivian rushed forward and hugged me tightly from behind. “Asher, stop throwing a tantrum. Aren’t you tired of being broke? I have money now. We don’t have to be long-distance anymore. In a few weeks, I’ll buy you that luxury penthouse overlooking Central Park you always wanted. We can go back to how we used to be…” I cut her off, my voice ice-cold. “Vivian, are you asking me to be your side piece, or are you making Julian one?”

Vivian fell silent for a long moment before whispering, “I have to marry Julian.” Suddenly, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, and her face went pale. She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the guest bedroom. “Julian is coming up. Hide in here. If you go down now, you’ll run right into him.” “No, let me go—” Losing her patience, Vivian slapped me hard across the face. “Stop acting up!” My head spun, and I realized my body felt incredibly weak and heavy. I suddenly remembered the glass of water she had just given me. “You drugged me? Vivian, I’m literally sick with a fever!” “Asher, I had no choice. I need to make sure you behave. Just cooperate, okay?” She dragged me into the bedroom, pulled out a set of restraint ropes she kept for her private games, and tried to tie me to a chair. The sedative wasn’t that strong. I could have fought her off. But then, Vivian softened her voice, speaking to me like a child. “We’ve been together for ten years, Asher. We can’t just end. And don’t forget… I lost your baby once. You owe me for the rest of your life. You can never pay me back for that.” The words hit me like a physical blow. I froze, letting her wrap the ropes around my body, coil by coil. The pregnancy had been an accident. Years ago, after I visited her in New York, she told me she was pregnant but lost the baby due to high stress and exhaustion at work. We had always used protection, but she claimed it was a freak accident. By the time I found out about the baby, it was already gone. I had fallen to my knees back then, promising her I would spend the rest of my life making it up to her. And now, the woman who had cried in my arms used my deepest, most agonizing guilt to blackmail me. She tied a tight knot behind my back. “Don’t hate me. You’re too emotional right now. Just be a good boy and stay here.” Vivian kissed my forehead, then tore a piece of heavy duct tape and slapped it over my mouth. Outside, the sound of the front door passcode lock beeped. Vivian locked the guest bedroom door from the outside. A moment later, Julian’s ecstatic voice echoed from the living room. “Babe! I saw the pregnancy test on the counter! Two pink lines! You’re pregnant! Why didn’t you tell me?! We need to move the wedding up right away.” “We lost our last baby to an accident… This time, I won’t let anything happen to our child…” My pupils dilated in sheer horror. The baby Vivian had lost back then… wasn’t mine. “I was going to tell you once the doctor said it was stable… Honey, I’m sorry about last time…” From outside the door, the unmistakable, muffled sounds of heavy breathing and moaning began to drift in. I bit my tongue so hard the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, my stomach turning in violent disgust. I don’t know how much time passed before they finally stopped. The sound of the front door closing left me in a state of sudden terror. *Vivian will come back to untie me, right? She knows I have a high fever!* I waited. And waited. The sun went down, and a new day broke. She never came back. I lost track of how long I had been without food or water. Eventually, the darkness swallowed me whole. When I finally opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed, my body completely drained. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Asher. Boss Vivian got caught up in wedding prep and… forgot about you. She asked me to apologize on her behalf.” Vivian’s assistant placed a check on the bedside table. “This is compensation from Boss Vivian. She’ll come visit you in a few days.” I didn’t say a word. My phone buzzed with a trending notification: [The Royal Wedding of Tech Mogul Vivian and Julian, Heir to the Mercer Empire.] With a blank expression, I swiped the notification away and sent a text to Seraphina: *”I lost the bet. I keep my word.”* She replied almost instantly: *”I’m coming to pick you up right now.”* My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I sent one last text to Vivian: *”Vivian, we are done. For good.”* Ten years of devotion, and I never got to see the dawn. For the rest of our lives, may we never meet again.

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