Category: English

1 Ever since my eye surgery, I have been able to see the emotional auras radiating from people. When someone deeply cares about another person, a warm orange glow surrounds them. I saw it when my neighbor returned from a business trip, his entire porch bathed in a passionate, glowing tangerine. I saw it when the old man down the street bought roasted chestnuts for his wife, a faint, tender warmth enveloping his frail shoulders. But my husband, Declan, always emitted a pale, sterile gray. Throughout the months following my surgery, his aura never changed. When he sat by my hospital bed and fed me soup, he was gray. When he fastened a diamond necklace around my neck for our anniversary, he was gray. Even in the dead of night, when our bodies were tangled together and his fingers interlocked with mine, that lifeless ash color remained. I used to convince myself that he was just a stoic man, someone who buried his love deep beneath a calm surface. That was until yesterday, at the welcome home party for my best friend, Sophie. The banquet hall suddenly lost power. Terrified of the dark, Sophie let out a piercing scream from the middle of the crowd. Declan lunged forward without a second thought. He slammed right into me, knocking me hard to the floor, just so he could pull Sophie into his arms. “Don’t be scared. I’ve got you.” In the pitch black of that hall, an explosive, blinding orange light erupted from his body. It was the first time I had ever seen his aura shine so brightly. It looked like it was burning. … “Summer, are you hurt?” The emergency generators kicked in. The lights flickered back on. Every single guest saw Declan half kneeling on the carpet, holding Sophie tightly against his chest. And there I was, crumpled beside a long table two meters away. The skin on my elbow was sliced open, blood dripping steadily down my forearm. My knees had slammed into the unforgiving marble floor, throbbing with a sickening numbness. Declan finally looked away from Sophie and let his gaze land on me. That blinding orange halo around him still had not faded. In seven years, it was the absolute first time I had seen that color on him. It was scorching hot. But it was not for me. Sophie gently pulled out of his embrace and smoothed her hair. “I’m fine, Declan.” She turned to look at me, her tone casually familiar. “You should check on Summer. It looks like she took a bad fall.” Declan stood up and walked toward me. I gripped the edge of the table and slowly forced myself to stand. I did not cry. I did not make a scene. I did not even ask him why he shoved his own wife out of the way. I simply looked at the fading orange light around his shoulders, turned my back on him, and walked out of the hall. “Summer.” Declan caught up to me at the hotel entrance, grabbing my wrist. He frowned at the blood running down my arm. “The power outage was completely unexpected. You know how terrified Sophie is of the dark.” His voice was perfectly level, offering a justification that he clearly believed I should accept without question. He did not bother explaining who he cared about more. He just used the words “you know” to force me back into the box of the understanding, low maintenance wife. I stared at his aura. It had settled back into that familiar, dead gray. “So when you knocked me over, did you know it was me?” Declan froze for a fraction of a second. “It was chaos in there. I couldn’t see anything.” He let go of my wrist and reached into his pocket for his keys. “Summer, the three of us have been friends for years. Let’s not make this ugly over an accident.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and got into the passenger seat without a word. He insisted on taking me to a nearby urgent care. The sharp sting of iodine on my torn skin made me flinch. As the doctor was cleaning the wound, Declan’s phone vibrated. He glanced at the screen and answered immediately. “Declan, I think I left my car keys on one of the tables. Is there any way you could come back?” Sophie’s voice drifted through the speaker, just loud enough for me to hear. Declan looked at me. My arm was still actively bleeding. The gauze wasn’t even taped down yet. “Finish getting patched up,” he said, tossing his credit card onto the small clinical table. “I’ll be right back.” The clinic door swung open and shut. I watched him walk away into the night. I did not ask him to stay. Half an hour later, the doctor finished wrapping my arm. The clinic door opened again. Sophie walked in, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a pharmacy bag. “Summer, please don’t be mad at Declan. He just panicked,” she said, offering me the coffee with an open, guiltless smile. “You know I got stuck in an elevator as a kid. The dark really messes with my head.” I didn’t take the cup. “He definitely panicked.” Sophie smiled, taking a seat next to me. “We’ve all been tight for years. Let’s not let things get weird just because I moved back.” She was not fighting me. She was not acting malicious. She simply placed herself right in the middle of our marriage, assuming she belonged in the “we” just as much as I did. It was late into the night when Declan finally came home after dropping her off. I had already showered and was sitting quietly on the living room sofa. He tossed a small pharmacy bag onto the coffee table. “I got you some scar cream. Stop giving me the cold shoulder.” He took off his jacket, sounding utterly exhausted. “Sophie just got back to the States. Her welcome party turned into a disaster, and she feels terrible about it.” I looked at the suffocating gray light surrounding him. “Declan,” I said softly. “If Sophie was the one bleeding on the floor tonight, would you still tell her to stop giving you the cold shoulder?” His brow furrowed instantly, annoyance flashing across his face. “But that didn’t happen, did it?” He turned and walked toward the master bathroom. “Go to sleep. Stop overthinking things.” The sound of the shower started running. I picked up my phone and opened an email I had received two weeks ago. The subject line read: Acceptance Confirmation for the London Art Restoration Project. My finger hovered over the screen. Without a single ounce of hesitation, I hit confirm. The next morning, I walked into the kitchen. Declan had already made breakfast. He pushed a bowl of sweet vanilla oatmeal toward me. “You lost blood last night. Eat something warm,” he said, taking his seat with a gentle tone. I stared at the steaming bowl and didn’t touch my spoon. I hated sweet oatmeal. The smell of the vanilla made me nauseous. The person who loved vanilla oatmeal was Sophie. I preferred a savory breakfast skillet. We had been married for three years, and he still had no idea what I liked to eat. “Why aren’t you eating?” he asked. “It’s too hot,” I lied, pushing the bowl away. My phone buzzed on the table. Sophie had sent a message to our group chat. “Thanks again for last night, Declan. How is Summer’s arm? Do you guys need me to drop off some painkillers?” I glanced at the screen. It was the old group chat from college that had been dead for three years. The name was still “The Original Trio.” Declan picked up his phone and typed back rapidly. “No need. You’re still jet lagged. Get some rest.” I watched his fingers move across the screen. My bandages hadn’t even been changed yet, but his first priority was making sure she caught up on her sleep. “Let’s eat out tonight.” Declan put his phone down. “Sophie isn’t used to the city anymore. We’ll grab dinner, just the three of us. Make up for the meal we missed last night.” I looked up at him. “Do you know what today is?” Today was my birthday. Declan paused. Not a single ripple of emotion crossed his face. “We can celebrate your birthday another day.” He took a sip of his black coffee. “Sophie’s welcome back dinner is a one time thing.” I sat in silence, watching that pale, dead gray aura envelop him like a stone that could never be warmed. “Okay,” I nodded, standing up from the table. That afternoon, on my way to the restaurant, I opened the group chat. I changed the name from “The Original Trio” to “Declan and His Friend.” The chat went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, Sophie sent a laughing emoji. “Wow Summer, that sounds so formal. We used to be a lot closer than that.” A second later, a private message from Declan popped up on my screen. “Why would you change the group name?” “Sophie just got back. Why are you purposely making things awkward for her?” I typed a single reply. “I’m just making the relationship status accurate.” He didn’t reply. Dinner was at an upscale French bistro. Sophie wore a stunning red dress and sat right next to Declan. When the waiter handed out the wine list, Sophie smiled and looked at me. “Declan used to drink everyone under the table. Do you keep him on a tight leash now, Summer?” I picked up my water glass and took a sip. “He has stomach ulcers. He doesn’t drink hard liquor anymore.” Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Really?” She turned to Declan. “Back in college, you took shots with me until three in the morning and still made it to your morning lecture.” Declan didn’t correct her. He just sliced his steak, a very faint, fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We were young back then.” Right as those words left his lips, a soft, unmistakable layer of orange light shimmered around him. It was faint, but it was incredibly real. I watched that light, and the very last shred of hope in my heart quietly died. Halfway through the meal, I stood up. “I have some restoration files to sort through. I’m heading home.” Declan frowned. “Finish your food. I’ll drive you.” “No need.” I grabbed my purse and walked out without looking back. As I reached the parking lot, I heard footsteps behind me. “Summer.” Sophie was leaning against a parked car, her voice utterly calm. “I know you hate that I’m back.” She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, holding it between her fingers. “But Declan and I knew each other long before you came along. There is a lot of history between us, and you can’t just erase that just because you’re uncomfortable.” I looked at her. “And?” Sophie let out a soft laugh and blew a ring of smoke. “And if you can’t handle it, you should have spoken up sooner. Don’t play the silent martyr and make everyone else miserable.” I stared at her unapologetic face and didn’t bother arguing. When I got home, I opened my laptop. I pulled up the email from the London restoration center and began filling out my visa application. Over the next few days, I quietly started gathering my documents and packing my portfolio. The floor of my home office was covered in specialized tools and historical reference books. When Declan pushed the door open, I was sealing some ancient manuscripts my grandfather had left me into moisture proof bags. His eyes swept over the open suitcase on the floor. He frowned. “Are you going on a business trip?” I zipped the bag shut. “Something like that.” He walked closer, looking like he wanted to ask more, but his phone started ringing in his pocket. His tone softened the second he answered. “You found the venue? Okay, I’m on my way.” He hung up and grabbed his coat from the back of the chair. “Sophie wants to host a small photography exhibition, but there’s a problem with the gallery space.” He looked at me. “I’m going to go help her sort it out. We’ll talk about your trip when I get back.” I didn’t even look up. “Okay.” The moment the front door clicked shut, I shoved the final stack of paperwork into my luggage. He didn’t even have five minutes to hear where I was going. That afternoon, I went to the bank to print out six months of bank statements for my visa application. When the teller handed me the receipt, I froze, staring at the final balance. More than half of the money in our joint savings account the fund we had been building for our trip to Iceland was gone. The transfer note read: Deposit for Sophie’s Gallery Venue. Two years ago, when my vision finally stabilized after the surgery, I told Declan I wanted to see the Northern Lights. He had held my hands, his voice thick with sincerity. “As soon as you’re fully healed, I will take you.” We saved that money for two years. Now, my Northern Lights had been traded in for Sophie’s spotlight. I folded the bank statement, put it in my bag, and hailed a cab to the gallery. The exhibition hall was a mess of scaffolding and workers setting up partitions. I walked inside and immediately noticed the centerpiece in the main glass display. It was an antique film camera. My grandfather’s camera. Next to it, an elegant little placard read: The early inspiration for Sophie’s artistic journey. I stood in front of the glass, my fingers turning icy cold. “Summer? What are you doing here?” Declan walked over with a clipboard, looking completely unbothered. “Sophie is just borrowing it for a few days.” He pointed at the camera. “Your grandfather kept it in great condition. It fits the vintage theme of the exhibition perfectly.” I turned my head to look at him. “Did you even think to ask me?” Declan went silent for a moment, rolling up the blueprints in his hand. “Do we really need to draw such harsh lines between what’s yours and what’s mine?” His tone held a hint of reprimand, as if I were being entirely unreasonable. Sophie climbed down from a nearby ladder, dusting off her hands. “Summer, perfect timing!” She walked over, her smile bright and easy. “I was just about to text you. Your grandpa’s camera has such a beautiful aesthetic. It’s exactly what this display needed.” I stared right through her. “That belongs to me.” Sophie blinked, then her smile grew wider. “Of course it does. I’m not keeping it.” She glanced at Declan. “Declan said you wouldn’t mind, so I went ahead and used it.” Declan stepped forward, physically placing himself between me and Sophie. “Summer, it is just a camera. You’ll get it back when the show is over.” He dropped his voice, leaning in. “This exhibition is a huge deal for Sophie’s return. Do not embarrass her right now.” I looked at the suffocating, dead ash gray radiating from his body. “Declan,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let’s get a divorce.” His face drained of color, his eyes turning dark and sharp. “Over a camera?” He looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Leave Sophie out of this. It wasn’t easy for her to move back here and start over. We have all been friends for years. There is no need to nuke our marriage just because you’re feeling sensitive.” I didn’t argue. I reached past him, slid open the unlocked glass door of the display cabinet, and took my grandfather’s camera. Then I turned around and walked out. It was raining lightly on the opening day of Sophie’s exhibition. I had zero intention of going, but I realized I was missing a crucial document for my visa. Declan had absentmindedly stuffed it into his briefcase two days ago. I had no choice but to go find him. When I walked into the lobby, Declan was standing near the guest book. He looked surprised to see me, his hand instinctively reaching out to touch my shoulder. I stepped sideways, avoiding him completely. His hand froze in midair, then dropped back to his side. “Since you’re here, do you want to walk through the gallery together?” His aura was still that sickening, pale gray. I shook my head and started looking for his briefcase. But my eyes were drawn to a massive projector screen near the entrance. The title read: Reunion The Ten Years We Walked Together. I froze in my tracks. The video showed a sprawling lavender field in Provence. Sophie was running ahead, looking over her shoulder and laughing at the camera. Declan was walking beside her, carrying her heavy equipment bag. The golden hour sun stretched their shadows together across the grass. The next clip was by the Seine River. Twilight. They were leaning against the stone bridge. Sophie rested her head on his shoulder, watching the sunset. Declan leaned down and whispered something. She laughed, swatting his chest playfully, and he smiled back. The next shot was outside a small street cafe. Sophie was shivering, blowing on her hands. Declan took off his trench coat the one I bought for his birthday last year and draped it over her shoulders. In the bottom right corner, there were date stamps. October 15th, 17th, 20th. I remembered those days vividly. I had been stuck in bed with a brutal fever. “The fifteenth,” I said, my voice completely flat. “Weren’t you supposed to be on a business trip in Chicago?” Declan went dead silent. “Sophie was stuck overseas by herself. She didn’t speak the language well. I just flew out to help her.” His aura remained a lifeless gray. The lights in the gallery dimmed, signaling the start of the opening ceremony. Sophie stood on the small stage in a flowing white dress, smiling softly into the microphone. “Before we begin, I want to invite someone very special up here.” Her eyes cut through the crowd and landed straight on my husband. “Declan, come stand with me.” Declan walked up the steps. The spotlight hit them both. And then, I saw it. The moment he stood next to her, the gray aura around him fractured. A vibrant, warm orange light bled through the cracks, growing brighter by the second. He didn’t even have to do anything. Just standing next to her made him light up. Sophie tilted her head to look at him, then turned back to the audience, her voice dripping with affection. “This exhibition would not exist without this man.” “From choosing the theme, to booking the venue, to hauling equipment around he was there for every single step.” “When a torrential downpour ruined our shooting schedule in Paris, he walked the streets with me for hours just to find new locations.” She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper. “When I broke down crying at four in the morning, I made one phone call, and he was at my door in twenty minutes.” “Without Declan, there would be no Reunion today.” The applause was deafening. The orange light around him flared even brighter. A reporter in the front row raised his hand. “Sophie, care to clarify your relationship with Declan? If you told us you two were married, we’d believe it.” The crowd cheered and whistled. Declan shifted his weight and raised the microphone. “We are actually just” Sophie suddenly leaned into his side and whispered something. It looked a lot like: Declan, please, just this once. The media is here, I need the hype. Summer won’t mind. She looked up at him, her eyes crinkling with a sweet smile. Declan stopped talking. He didn’t nod, but he didn’t finish his sentence, either. Sophie turned to the crowd, flashing a radiant smile. “Since everyone is so curious… Declan is definitely much more than just a friend to me!” The room erupted. Camera flashes turned the hall blinding white. Sophie turned to him, reaching her hand out until her fingertips brushed against the back of his hand. He looked down at it. One second. Two seconds. He didn’t pull away. She slid her fingers through his, interlocking them completely. The warm orange light surrounding him exploded into a raging fire, so bright it practically flooded the room. The crowd went wild. “They are perfect for each other!” “Is this the official hard launch?” I stood in the back of the room, looking up at the two beautiful, glowing auras blending perfectly together on stage. They really were a perfect match. My phone buzzed in my pocket. “Miss Bennett, your car to the airport is waiting outside.” I turned around, slipped through the crowd, found his briefcase on a side table, and pulled out my visa document. The blistering orange light continued to shine behind me, but none of it had anything to do with me anymore. Walking out of the gallery, the rain was coming down harder than before. “Let’s go,” I told the driver. As the car merged onto the highway, I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching the raindrops slide down like tears. My phone screen lit up. It was a text from Declan: “Where did you go?” I stared at it for a few seconds, then powered off my phone. The airport was quiet. I printed my boarding pass, checked my luggage, and walked through security. The intercom echoed overhead. “Flight 482 to London is now boarding.” I stood up, grabbed my carry-on, and walked toward the gate. Goodbye, Declan.

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1 Five years after I walked away from Harrison Cole, I flew back to San Francisco for an architectural retrospective. I was at the baggage carousel at SFO when a venture capitalist who had shared my first-class row from Munich recognized me. His voice carried that distinct Silicon Valley frequency—part genuine reverence, part opportunistic regret. “Audrey Shaw, right?” He offered a manicured hand, his smile tight with envy. “I still kick myself for passing on the seed round for Daybreak Studios back in the day. What you and Harrison built straight out of college was nothing short of miraculous.” I took his hand, offering a practiced, neutral nod. “Thank you. That feels like a lifetime ago.” “And then Apex Technologies swooped in,” he continued, leaning in as if sharing privileged market gossip. “The holy grail. Word around Sand Hill Road was that Apex wanted Harrison’s core generative framework so badly they wrote an unprecedented dual-partner executive track into the acquisition term sheet. One seat for him, one guaranteed for his co-founder. Everyone in the valley knew that second desk was yours.” He chuckled warmly. “Power couple of the decade. I take it congratulations are in order by now? You two must be married.” A dull, familiar ache settled beneath my ribs, like an old fracture predicting rain. Years ago, everyone in our studio had been just as certain as this stranger. The champagne had been chilling on ice in our converted warehouse loft in SoMa. Our team had already engraved matching walnut desk plates for the new executive suite. Yet on the morning the ink dried on the Apex merger, the woman standing beside Harrison at the press podium—wearing an ivory silk blouse that caught the flashbulbs—was our junior intern, Natalie Ward. Afterward, in the glass-walled conference room that smelled of dry-erase markers and damp eucalyptus from the courtyard, Harrison had held my wrists with trembling, earnest hands. “Natalie needs the institutional safety net, Audrey. You don’t,” he had pleaded, his voice thick with a patronizing tenderness that made my stomach turn. “Her family is drowning in debt. She needs the visa sponsorship. Your design philosophy is pure art—it’s too visionary, too uncompromising. Apex’s corporate board will only suffocate your voice.” He had pulled a glossy brochure from his leather portfolio. He had enrolled me in a prestigious, self-directed fellowship at a local private design academy across town, paying the tuition in full. “Go hone your craft without commercial pressure,” he had promised, wrapping his cashmere coat around my shoulders. “The second your program wraps, we’ll get married. I swear it.” I didn’t take the fellowship. I bought a one-way ticket to Berlin, walked away from my equity, and threw myself into the brutal, cold-water current of the European architectural circuit until my hands bled graphite and my lungs forgot how to breathe in his cadence. Standing by the carousel in San Francisco, looking at this venture capitalist who knew only the folklore and none of the wreckage, I smiled faintly. “We broke up a long time ago,” I said, my voice as calm as still water. “Creative differences. It was better for both of us not to hold each other back.” The man’s smile froze into a mask of acute embarrassment. “Oh. I—I’m so sorry. I had no idea.” My phone vibrated in my palm, saving him from his stammering. The screen lit up with a notification from the dispatch driver sent by the gallery. “Excuse me,” I said, sliding my dark sunglasses back over my eyes. “My ride is outside.” I caught the strap of my Rimowa case and walked toward the sliding glass doors into the chilly, salt-scented Bay breeze, deliberately not looking back to see his bewildered expression. Once inside the black town car, I leaned my head against the cool leather headrest and closed my eyes. But the city had already begun its ambush. Harrison Cole. Even now, the name carried the weight of an anchor dropped into deep water. He had been the boy whose initials I etched into the margins of my calculus notebooks during our junior year of high school in Palo Alto. He had been the valedictorian with ink stains on his cuffs and an unshakeable, quiet brilliance that terrified our teachers and intoxicated me. At our graduation bonfire on Half Moon Bay, when the smoke smelled of charred cedar and ocean brine, I had confessed to him with burning cheeks. He hadn’t laughed. He had simply smiled, caught my cold fingers in his, and kissed my forehead while our classmates cheered around the flames. To find out that the person you worshipped in secret had been quietly loving you from the exact same distance felt like winning a cosmic lottery. When we both went to Stanford, our mutual obsession crystallized into Daybreak Studios. The late-night takeouts on the floor of our dorm room; the awards that began piling up on our shared shelf; the seventy-hour sprints where we lived on cold cold-brew and each other’s adrenaline—we built every stone of that enterprise believing it was the foundation of our shared life. Just as everyone had assumed the executive partner seat at Apex belonged to me. Except when the future finally arrived, I wasn’t his partner. And I was no longer his girl. The drive into downtown felt endless, every highway exit dredging up a memory I thought I had buried beneath layers of German concrete. As the car pulled up to the curb of the hotel on Nob Hill, my phone rang. The caller ID displayed a familiar name, and my chest instantly unknotted. Marcus. “Have you checked in yet?” His voice came through the receiver, low and gravelly, colored with the gentle warmth of an afternoon in Munich. “How was the landing? Did the turbulence over the Rockies shake you up?” “Just pulling up to the hotel now,” I said, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “The flight was fine.” A beat of silence stretched across the satellite connection. Marcus knew me too well. “You sound quiet, Audrey. What happened?” That was the thing about Marcus Bennett. He never missed a tremor in my voice. In the four years we had shared a life, he had never once asked me to perform strength when I was tired. “Nothing serious,” I murmured, watching the doorman approach the car. “Just the jet lag catching up to me. The city feels… loud.” “Then take a hot bath, order room service, and sleep,” Marcus said softly. “Don’t let them run you ragged before the opening night.” “I will. I promise.” “I love you,” he added, the words easy and solid, like an oak beam holding up a roof. “I love you too.” After unpacking, I lay on the king-sized bed, staring at the ornate molding on the ceiling. The time change clawed at my temples, making sleep impossible. Just as dusk began painting the skyline in shades of bruised violet, my phone buzzed again. It was Sadie Wells. She had been our most talented junior architect at Daybreak, a girl two years behind us who had remained my fiercest defender long after I left the country. “Audrey!” Sadie shrieked through the speaker the second I picked up. “You’re in town and you didn’t tell me? I literally just saw a photo of you on the alumni tech board!” “The tech board?” “Yes! Some VC posted a candid shot of you at SFO with your sunglasses on. The thread is completely out of control!” I opened my laptop, navigating to the private network our university cohort still used for industry gossip. Sure enough, right at the top of the feed was a high-res photo of me by the baggage claim, captioned: “The original queen of Daybreak Studios is back in the Bay. Confirmed in the flesh.” The comments section was moving faster than a trading floor: —Even behind Tom Ford shades, Audrey Shaw still looks like royalty. —Wait, is she alone? Where’s Harrison Cole? —The original poster said she was completely solo. —Are you guys living under a rock? They broke up years ago right after graduation! —Bullshit. They were the gold standard of Stanford engineering. Harrison worshipped the ground she walked on. What the hell happened? Someone spill the tea! I shut the laptop with a sharp snap. There it was again. No matter how many international design biennials I curated, no matter how many European monographs bore only my name, my identity in this valley was still tethered to Harrison Cole by an invisible, suffocating cord. A text from Sadie popped up on my phone: Where are you staying? Please let me take you to dinner. I need to hug you. I hesitated, but Sadie was one of the few people whose loyalty had never wavered. I sent her the address of the restaurant adjacent to the hotel. I had no idea that fate, in its cruelest, most theatrical humor, had booked Harrison Cole into a private rehearsal dinner in the very same establishment that evening. Sadie arrived in a blur of camel wool and bright laughter, throwing her arms around my neck the moment she reached my table in the courtyard lounge. “Look at you!” she gasped, pulling back to inspect my face. “You look chic, untouchable, and disgustingly European. God, I missed you.” She rattled on over our appetizers, catching me up on the mutual acquaintances who had sold out to big tech and the ones who had washed out. But halfway through her second glass of Pinot Noir, her expression softened into something heavy with melancholy. “You know Professor Adler still talks about you,” Sadie said quietly, tracing the rim of her wine glass. “She was devastated when you turned down that open fellowship offer from Omni Labs years ago. She told the entire department that you had a once-in-a-generation eye. She couldn’t understand why you gave it all up for Harrison…” Sadie stopped abruptly. Her fork suspended in midair, her eyes widening as she stared at something over my left shoulder. The air in the courtyard seemed to drop ten degrees. I turned slowly. Ten feet away, emerging from the private dining annex, stood a man in bespoke navy wool. His Italian leather oxfords gleamed under the amber patio lights. His dark hair was cut with severe precision, the soft, boyish curls of our college years ironed out into ruthless executive polish. Harrison Cole. Six years. He had shed every trace of the unkempt, idealistic boy who used to fall asleep with his head on my lap while our rendering programs compiled. In his place stood a titan of industry—austere, impeccably composed, radiating that cold, impenetrable authority that billions of dollars in valuation grant a man. Yet when his dark eyes caught mine, that manufactured armor cracked instantly. His pupils dilated, his breath hitching audibly in the quiet space. The walkway between our tables shrank into a suffocating vacuum. “Harrison, darling, everyone is seated. They’re waiting for your toast.” A soft, melodic voice broke the silence. Natalie Ward stepped out from behind him, her petite frame wrapped in an understated cream cashmere dress. Her diamond studs caught the light. When Natalie looked up and saw me, the polite society smile vanished from her face. Her throat convulsed. “Aud… Audrey?” Her voice carried an unmistakable shudder of panic. I looked at her, and an unexpected wave of pity washed over me. She had spent six years walking in my shoes, occupying the seat I had designed, standing beside the man she had coveted. She had won every single prize she set out to claim. Why was she still trembling like a thief caught in the foyer? If that VC from the airport were standing here now, I would have told him: You see? She was the one who went to Apex. She was the one who took the partner seat. Before I turned twenty-one, everyone in our circle operated under a universal law: where Audrey Shaw went, Harrison Cole followed like gravity. In his very first solo software architecture release, he had hidden my birthdate in the source code as an encrypted easter egg. At every design gala, before he acknowledged our venture backers or our lead engineers, his first words into the microphone were always, “None of this exists without Audrey.” Whenever I hit a creative wall, sitting on the floor surrounded by crumpled vellum, he would appear without a word, set a fresh strawberry tart and an iced Americano beside my drawing board, and pull all-nighters just cross-referencing structural specs so I wouldn’t have to break my flow. Until sophomore year, when Natalie Ward transferred into our lab as a work-study intern. She was quiet at first, almost invisible. But during a mid-semester project review, she presented an interaction framework that bore a terrifying, uncanny resemblance to Harrison’s conceptual style. “Audrey, her sketches look like Harrison drew them in his sleep,” Sadie had warned me back then over greasy campus burgers. “Aren’t you worried she’s trying to study your playbook?” I had laughed it off. “Harrison and I have a decade of history. Nobody steps into that overnight.” How young I was. How spectacularly arrogant. Slowly, imperceptibly, Natalie’s name became a fixture in Harrison’s vocabulary. She was the one who offered an alternative logic tree when a client rejected our proposal; she was the one whose database design cleared the technical review an hour before Harrison’s; she was the co-author on the regional tech grant that won them gold while I took silver in solo design. Daybreak hung celebratory banners across the loft for weeks. I watched it happen in slow motion, convincing myself that professional synergy had nothing to do with intimacy. Until the end of our senior year, when Harrison came to me and said he wanted to sell Daybreak to Apex. Even though we were already fighting constantly about Natalie’s encroaching presence, I had swallowed my pride and backed him completely. “If that’s where your ambition is, I’ll help you carry it across the line.” Only later did I discover that Apex had never been Harrison’s dream. It had been Natalie’s. She had an obsession with their corporate ecosystem since high school. And when Apex offered that coveted dual-partner seat, Harrison came to my apartment, looked me in the eye, and asked me to surrender my half of our company’s legacy so Natalie wouldn’t be left behind. “Natalie needs this position far more than you do,” he had said. “Let her have it.” Now, standing on the flagstones of Nob Hill, Natalie instinctively reached out and hooked her slender hand around Harrison’s forearm. It was an unmistakable gesture—a desperate, territorial staking of a claim. “Audrey,” Natalie breathed, forcing a polite tilt to her chin. “When did you get back to the States? You didn’t give anyone a heads-up.” I had lived in Germany for half a decade, but I wasn’t deaf. I knew what the industry whispered about them. They were Apex’s golden duo. They shared patents, shared stage time at tech summits, shared an elite reputation as soulmates forged in silicon. How hollow it all looked up close. I remembered what Natalie had whispered to me in the studio kitchen on the night before I left for Europe: “You only have Harrison because you were there first. If we started from the exact same starting line in the real corporate world, you wouldn’t stand a chance.” Sadie stepped forward, putting herself between me and the couple. Her eyes shot daggers at Natalie. “And who exactly are you to Audrey?” Sadie snapped. “Why on earth would she report her itinerary to you?” Natalie’s face drained of color. She tugged at Harrison’s sleeve, clearly waiting for him to step in, to deploy his razor-sharp eloquence and shield her the way he always had. But Harrison was entirely numb. He stood there like a hollow marble statue, his gaze locked onto my face with an agonizing, unblinking intensity. He didn’t even flinch when Natalie pulled on his coat. “This is toxic,” Sadie muttered, grabbing my wrist. “Come on, Audrey. We’re changing places.” We paid our tab and moved to a quiet bistro four blocks away. Yet Harrison Cole’s obsession proved far more reckless than either of us anticipated. Halfway through our dinner, I glanced out the tall front windows of the bistro. Parked directly across the street under the glow of a streetlamp was a slate-gray Porsche. I recognized the license plate instantly. It was our old anniversary. October 14th. Through the tinted windshield, I could see his silhouette. He sat motionless behind the steering wheel, his face pale in the dashboard light, staring across the wet pavement directly into the restaurant. Staring at me with an expression so drenched in grief and yearning it bordered on madness. A flare of cold fury ignited in my chest. I excused myself from the table, pushed through the heavy glass doors of the bistro, and marched across the street. The San Francisco fog was rolling in, cold and sharp against my bare throat. I tapped my knuckles sharply against the driver’s side glass. Harrison hit the button. The window slid down smoothly. When he looked up at me, his eyes were bloodshot, the rims raw and inflamed. “Audrey,” he choked out, his voice cracking like dry wood. “How can you be this cruel?” A tear spilled over his lower lash line, tracking down his hollow cheek. Harrison Cole was crying. My mind involuntarily flashed back to our senior year, to an off-site corporate mixer where a senior executive from a prospective client had cornered me near the terrace, running a hand down my bare shoulder under the guise of discussing our render pipelines. Harrison had crossed the ballroom like a tempest. He didn’t use corporate tact; he didn’t protect our firm’s future. He had slammed our physical presentation deck onto the glass coffee table with such violence the tempered glass shattered. When the executive’s boss demanded an immediate apology on threat of blacklisting Daybreak from the entire venture network, Harrison had stood over them, snarling like a feral animal: “You want an apology? If anyone ever uses business leverage to touch Audrey Shaw again, I will burn your firm to the ground.” He had been barred from the university lab for two months. When I went to his apartment the next day, I found him curled on his futon, trembling from the adrenaline crash, tears soaking his pillow. When I cried for him, asking if destroying his early career was worth it, he had pulled me into his arms, kissing away my salt: “Always worth it. Don’t ever ask me that again.” Even in his darkest hour, he had never wept out of self-pity. Yet here he was now, weeping because I had dared to exist without him for six years. He thought my absence was a punishment inflicted upon him, rather than a survival instinct that had saved my life. “Cruel?” I repeated, my voice devoid of temperature. “I haven’t thought about you in years, Harrison.” “Six years,” he whispered, his chest heaving beneath his tailored suit. “Not a single email. Not a postcard. Everyone thought you were throwing a tantrum. I thought… I thought you’d come home.” I remembered the afternoon before I boarded my flight. He had tracked me down at my packed apartment, desperately offering another compromise: “Audrey, I’ve already reached out to an elite design institute in France. We can arrange your placement there. We can still work together across borders. The moment your courses end, we’ll get married. Okay?” He had known how terrified I was of losing him, because back then, I loved him with every fiber of my being. But youthful love does not survive betrayal. I looked at him now. The boy on the Half Moon Bay beach was dead. The man in front of me was a stranger wearing a ghost’s eyes, trapped in a tragic narrative of his own manufacturing. I felt no rage. I felt no lingering heartbreak. Only an overwhelming, suffocating exhaustion. I stepped back from the car and raised a hand toward the hotel doorman standing under the awning fifty feet away. “Excuse me,” I called out clearly. The doorman jogged over, his eyes darting between my designer coat and the distressed man in the idling sports car. “Yes, ma’am? Everything all right?” “This vehicle has been following me since downtown,” I said calmly. “He is loitering and harassing me. Please ensure he does not disturb me any further.” The doorman’s posture hardened. He stepped directly between Harrison’s window and me, resting a hand on his radio. “Sir, you need to turn the ignition and move along. Right now.” Harrison stared at me through the gap between the doorman’s shoulders, his face a portrait of utter devastation. I didn’t offer him another second. I turned on my heel and walked away. Three days later, I took a car down to Palo Alto to visit Professor Adler at the Stanford design labs. The older woman looked frail in her signature oversized linen smock, but her eyes were as sharp as diamonds. She took both of my hands in hers, squeezing them until her silver rings dug into my skin. “Audrey,” she murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. “Look at you. Tell me you’re still designing. Tell me you didn’t let that Silicon Valley corporate nonsense extinguish your gift.” “I never stopped, Professor,” I said gently. “Not for a single day.” I reached into my leather tote and withdrew a heavy, matte-black exhibition card embossed with silver typography. I placed it in her hands. “I came back because Omni Technologies invited me to host my solo retrospective.” Professor Adler looked down. Her breath caught in her throat. “Omni Technologies?” she read aloud, her voice climbing in disbelief. “A solo architectural and spatial design retrospective? Your solo retrospective?” She read the card line by line, her shock slowly melting into profound, maternal pride. Tears welled in the old woman’s eyes. She pressed the card against her chest, her shoulders shaking with quiet relief. “I knew it,” she wept softly, wiping a stray tear with the back of her sleeve. “When you walked away from Daybreak, when you refused to go to Omni all those years ago because of Harrison Cole… I was terrified you were sacrificing your life for his ambition. I spent years mourning what you could have been. And look at you. You fought your way back to the very top on your own terms.” “You were always my compass,” I said, feeling a prick of moisture in my own eyes. “I will be there on opening night,” she promised fiercely. She looked at me closely, tilting her head. “Your line work… the drafts in your European catalogs. They’re different, Audrey. Stronger. There is a profound stillness in your structures now.” I smiled softly, thinking of the quiet, sun-drenched flat in Munich and the man who waited for me there. “It’s exactly what you think, Professor.” She nodded knowingly, squeezing my hands one last time. “Congratulations, my dear. Truly.” When the cab dropped me back at the Nob Hill hotel late that afternoon, the head concierge stepped out from behind the mahogany desk, his face lined with polite concern. “Ms. Shaw? May I have a brief word?” I paused by the elevator bank. “Yes?” He pointed discreetly toward the glass entrance. “That gentleman is back again.”

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1 I have a hereditary fat metabolism disorder. Overeat slightly, and my weight and blood sugar spiral out of control. After diagnosis, my best friend Wendy quit sweets and fried foods with me so I could look perfect for my wedding. My fiancé Hank was deeply moved. Three days before the wedding, Hank said, “We’re at the finish line. I’m taking Wendy out for a cheat meal tonight. What are you craving, Wendy?” My fork of plain chicken breast froze mid-air. He asked her, not me. Wendy squealed, hugging my arm. “Sushi! The expensive kind!” Hank chuckled. “You got it, little glutton.” He turned to me. “Tracy, your dress is a size smaller. I’ll take you for spicy hotpot after the wedding. I need to compensate Wendy first for suffering through this diet with you.” I lowered my head. The dry chicken tasted like cardboard. He gave Wendy all the credit and rewards, while I got all the discipline and sacrifice. Throughout my diet, he never encouraged me once. He only pitied her. Wendy grabbed Hank’s hand, pulling him toward the door. “Let’s run there so we can eat even more! Catch us, Tracy!” I stayed put until they disappeared down the street. My eyes drifted to the snowboard shop on the corner. For months, I’d talked about wanting to go snowboarding. But I wanted hotpot right now. And I didn’t want to wait until the honeymoon to snowboard either. … I was picking up my third snowboard when Hank finally called me. When I answered, it was Wendy’s voice coming through the speaker. “Tracy, we already started eating! What’s taking you so long?” Before I could even respond, she flipped the camera around. The screen showed Hank, meticulously peeling a shrimp with absolute patience. “Don’t worry, Tracy! Your fiancé is taking amazing care of me!” Hank looked down with a soft smile, handing her the peeled shrimp with practiced ease. We had been together for seven years. He had never peeled a shrimp for me. I carried the snowboard toward the checkout counter. “I’m not coming. You guys enjoy yourselves.” The line went dead silent for a second. Wendy flipped the camera back to herself. “What’s wrong, Tracy? Are you mad?” She chewed loudly as she spoke. I looked away from the screen and handed the board to the cashier. “Hi, I’ll take this one, please.” Wendy choked slightly on her food. The camera shook violently before the phone was handed back to Hank. “Tracy?” I waited until the cashier started ringing up the board before looking back at the screen. Hank lowered his voice into a hushed, reprimanding tone. “Stop throwing a tantrum at Wendy. She completely lost her appetite because of you. “If you’re not coming, just go home early. We’ll talk tonight. “I promised you I’d never let you go to sleep angry.” My fingers paused. I thought, maybe I could give him one last chance. “Alright. Buy me that snowsuit I’ve been asking for, and we’ll talk.” I left the shop’s shipping address with the cashier and hailed a cab to the university district. When I stepped out, snow had started falling from the dark sky. I pushed the door of the hotpot shop open. “Auntie Martha, the usual, please.” Auntie Martha walked out of the kitchen with a warm, wrinkled smile. “Tracy! What a surprise. Where’s Hank today?” I looked away. “He’s busy.” Auntie Martha didn’t notice my tone and started expertly tossing my favorite vegetables into the boiling broth. “I heard that after your old boss ran off, you two started your own design firm! So young and successful. I’m so proud of you both.” I forced a smile and pulled a wedding invitation out of my purse. Auntie Martha froze for a second before wiping her hands on her apron, her face breaking into a huge, delighted grin. “Oh my goodness! Congratulations! I will absolutely be there. I need to get you two a massive red envelope!” I quickly waved my hands. “Just bring yourself, Auntie. You helped us so much back then. Hank and I are incredibly grateful.” In college, Hank and I survived purely on student loans and part-time jobs. At the end of every month, when we were completely broke, we would come here and order the cheapest vegetarian combo. Over time, Auntie Martha memorized our faces. Eventually, we started finding extra slices of meat hidden at the bottom of our bowls. Just as I finished eating and stood up to leave, the front door swung open. I came face to face with Hank. Behind him was Wendy, draped in a brand-new, luxurious wool coat. The moment she walked in, her eyes grew red and teary. “Tracy, if you didn’t want sushi, why didn’t you just say so?” She looked around the tiny, rundown shop with blatant disgust. “Why would you come to a place like this? It’s so unsanitary.” Auntie Martha, who had just started walking over to greet them, froze dead in her tracks, completely humiliated. My face instantly hardened. Hank’s jaw tightened. Seeing Wendy open her mouth to complain again, he quickly grabbed her arm. I took a deep breath, turned to Auntie Martha, and apologized profusely, begging her not to take the insult to heart. Then, I grabbed Wendy by the arm and dragged her outside. She immediately started shrieking. “Let go of me, Tracy! This coat is brand new! It’s handmade! You’re ruining it!” I forcefully shoved her away. Before I could even open my mouth, Hank cut me off. “Enough, Tracy. Wendy isn’t wrong.” My lungs completely stopped working. “What did you just say?” Hank sighed and stepped between us, deliberately shielding her from me. “I mean, we have a different status now. Coming back to a dump like this is degrading.” The cold winter air fell into an absolute, suffocating silence. I slowly looked up and met his eyes. I couldn’t recognize the man looking back at me anymore. I slowly shook my head. “A dump like this? Hank, did you forget how you survived those years?” Hank’s brow furrowed in irritation. “I haven’t forgotten. But people need to move on and leave the past behind, don’t they?” I stood frozen on the sidewalk. Wendy suddenly let out a delicate sneeze. Hank instantly spun around, unscrewing the thermos he had been holding the entire time. “Here, drink some hot water quickly.” When he turned back to me, his tone had shifted to pure impatience. “Tracy, stop being so dramatic, okay?” I pointed a shaking finger at my own chest. “I’m being dramatic?” “Aren’t you? Wendy and I went home, and you weren’t there. Your phone was off. We were losing our minds with worry. “Wendy has been freezing out here for an hour trying to find you, and this is how you treat her?” I opened my mouth, but it felt like a soaked sponge had been shoved down my throat. I couldn’t utter a single syllable. Hank and I did owe Wendy. When we first started our firm, nobody wanted to hire two fresh graduates. We were on the verge of bankruptcy. Wendy convinced her wealthy father to pull some strings and get us into a massive bidding war. That was the only reason we survived. Ever since that day, Hank treated Wendy like royalty. He catered to her every whim. But whenever she left, he would bury his face in my neck, groaning in exhaustion. “Tracy, networking is so exhausting.” He used to raise his hand and swear to me. “I promise, I’m just buttering up the client! I’m doing this all for the company!” I used to laugh at how dramatic he was. But when exactly did Hank turn this “networking” into a genuine obsession? Maybe it was the first time he practically begged to drive her home. Maybe it was during my business trips, when they started going out for private dinners, night after night. When I finally caught them, he looked at me with that tired, condescending expression. “The only reason we have this lifestyle is because of her. I am just fulfilling my duty as a businessman to keep the client happy. Stop being so paranoid.” Suddenly, a freezing gust of wind ripped down the street, and my body shivered uncontrollably. Hank’s face instantly changed. He rushed forward, grabbing my hands, letting out a sharp gasp. “Why are your hands so cold?” He frantically breathed hot air into his palms, rubbing my hands vigorously, trying to transfer his body heat to me. Deep down in my chest, a pathetic, stupid sliver of warmth flared back to life. “Hank.” I forced a tight smile. “Did you buy the snowsuit I wanted?” Hank’s hands stopped moving. “Tracy,” he said, glancing back at Wendy for a split second. “You don’t actually need that snowsuit right now, do you?” I froze. “What?” Wendy immediately rushed forward and linked her arm through mine. “Come on, Tracy! You’re not going snowboarding tomorrow, right? “After we finished our sushi, we walked past this designer coat boutique. I made Hank go in with me.” She smiled, looking incredibly pleased with herself. “He kept saying everything looked perfect on me. He gave absolutely zero constructive feedback!” Hank looked up at the sky, laughing helplessly. “That’s because you were the model. Everything looks good on you.” He turned back to me, the fond smile still lingering on his lips. Before he could speak, I violently ripped my hands out of his grip. “So,” I stared dead into his eyes. “Something I’ve been begging for was cast aside for her impulsive shopping trip. Again. Right?” Hank’s brow snapped together in instant frustration. Wendy looked confused for a second before her face hardened with offense. “Excuse me? What did I even do?” Hank’s voice immediately turned harsh and protective, exactly like a boyfriend defending his girl from an attack. “Tracy, I don’t understand you. “Why are you throwing a fit right now? Even if I bought it, you wouldn’t use it until we go on our honeymoon, right?” Wendy pouted her lips, nodding in aggressive agreement. Hank kept going. “If you keep acting like this, I’m just going to take Wendy snowboarding instead and leave you at home.” I looked at him, pronouncing every single word with absolute clarity. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t need you to take me.” Hank blinked, caught off guard. “What does that mean?” I took a breath. “It means the wedding is off.” The second those words left my mouth, both of their faces morphed into pure shock. Wendy jumped backward. “Tracy, are you out of your mind? You’re ruining your wedding over a coat?!” Hank just stared deeply into my eyes. “You’re doing this over a cheat meal? Or is it because of the stupid snowsuit?” I slowly shook my head. “I just suddenly realized that you already have someone you genuinely want to spend your life with. Why should I force myself into the picture?” Hank’s face turned as black as thunder. Wendy suddenly let out a dramatic sob, her eyes turning bright red. “This is all my fault! Fine, I’ll leave!” She turned around and sprinted blindly into the freezing snowstorm. Hank instantly lunged forward to chase her. He took two steps, then violently whipped his head back to look at me. “Tracy,” his voice was hoarse and furious. “When we had absolutely nothing, Wendy was the only one who threw us a lifeline. “I coddle her, I spoil her, I agree with her because it is basic human networking! Why can’t you ever understand that?!” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and bolted after her into the blizzard. Once again, I was left standing entirely alone on the street. A snowflake landed on my lip. It was strange. Why did it taste like salt? I walked into a sports store, bought the exact snowsuit I wanted, and hailed a cab home. When I stepped out of the car, I checked my phone. Zero missed calls. The only notification was a text from the snowboard shop employee, confirming that my board had been delivered to my front door. But when I reached my porch, the board was gone. I was about to call building security when I accidentally opened my Instagram feed. Wendy had just posted a new photo: “There’s no sadness a little snow can’t fix!” The photo was of the exact snowboard I had spent weeks researching and selecting. The background was my own living room. A sickening mix of confusion and anger washed over me. My hands shook as I unlocked the front door. The entryway lights were blazing. Wendy was sitting on my couch, caressing the snowboard as if it were a priceless artifact. Hank was standing next to her, looking down at his phone, typing notes. The second he saw me, his expression dissolved into pure panic. He practically teleported across the room. Before I could even speak, he clamped a heavy hand over my mouth and physically shoved me back out the front door into the freezing hallway. I violently ripped his hand off my face. “Hank, you better give me a damn good explanation for why she has my snowboard.” Hank dug his fingers into my shoulders, his eyes darting frantically toward the door, aggressively shushing me. “Keep your voice down! Don’t let Wendy hear you! “She has been spoiled her whole life. She can’t handle being criticized. She was crying so hard, so I just… told her you bought the board specifically for her as an apology.” My eyes widened in absolute disbelief. “Me? Apologize to her?” Suddenly, the front door swung open. Wendy launched herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck. “Tracy, I forgive you! We’re still besties!” Out of the corner of my eye, Hank was frantically signaling me to play along. I slowly, deliberately peeled her arms off my shoulders. Then, I pulled out my phone, typed “911” into the keypad, and held the glowing screen right in front of their faces. I spoke slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “Taking things without permission is called theft.” Wendy froze instantly. All the blood drained from Hank’s face. He grabbed my wrist with a vice-like grip and dragged me into the master bedroom, slamming the door shut behind us. His eyes were completely bloodshot. “Do you really have to humiliate her like this? “It’s just a piece of plastic! Are you insane?” I stared at him for a long time. Suddenly, all the tension left my muscles. I just felt entirely, overwhelmingly exhausted. “You’re right. It’s not worth it.” “Let’s break up, Hank.” A raw, guttural roar ripped out of Hank’s throat. “No!” I flinched, startled by the sheer violence in his voice. He realized he had lost control and immediately lowered his tone into a harsh, desperate whisper. “If you dump me right now, do you have any idea how embarrassed Wendy will be? “Tracy, you are an adult! Can you stop throwing irrational tantrums like a child?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I’m throwing a tantrum?” Hank took a step closer, towering over me. “Are you telling me I’m the villain here? “I am breaking my back trying to keep your best friend happy! I spend more time managing her emotions than I do yours! And I’m doing all of it for the company! I’m doing it so I can give you a better life!” The room fell dead silent. I heard my own voice whisper, hollow and broken. “But I never asked you to sacrifice yourself like that for me.” Tears flooded my vision. I dropped to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around myself. Hank let out a long, heavy sigh. He gently slipped my phone out of my hand and typed a quick apology message to Wendy on my behalf. After he finished, his voice became soft and gentle again. “Tracy, just take some time to really think about this. “It’s getting late. I’m going to drive Wendy home.” Just as his hand touched the doorknob, I called out to him. “Hank. Are you really doing all of this to give me a better life? Or did you just construct an elaborate excuse so you could justify spending all your time with her without feeling guilty?” The air in the room stood still for a terrifying second. Then, Hank let out a light, completely unabashed laugh. “Does it really matter? You’re the one I’m marrying in the end. Isn’t that enough?” He looked down at the floor, sighing softly. “It’s just… the more time I spend with Wendy, the more I realize how heavy my life is with you. When I look at you, I just get reminded of those miserable, poverty-stricken years. “Carrying the weight of this company and our future is exhausting, Tracy. You have to let me find my own happiness somewhere.” With that, he opened the door and walked out. I sat slumped on the hardwood floor, staring blindly at the wall. A few hours later, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Hank. “Wendy is having a panic attack and can’t sleep. I’m going to stay at her place tonight. Don’t wait up.” I stared at the glowing text message for a very long time. The final, microscopic ember of hope in my chest permanently died. With frozen fingers, I opened a travel app and bought a one-way ticket to a ski resort out West. My flight left at dawn. Hank, I am never waiting for you again. Early the next morning, someone started violently pounding on my front door. When I opened it, Hank was standing there, his face completely twisted with rage. Wendy was standing right behind him, her eyes swollen, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. “Tracy, what the hell is wrong with you?” I looked up, completely lost. Hank aggressively shoved his phone screen directly into my face. That’s when I saw it. Our company’s internal forum was completely blowing up. An anonymous account was mass-posting vicious rumors, accusing Hank and Wendy of having an illicit, sleazy affair. His voice dropped into a lethal whisper. “Tracy, if you want to break up, fine. But why do you have to be so incredibly vindictive? Why are you trying to destroy our reputations?” My entire body flinched. I froze in the doorway. “I… I didn’t do that.” Wendy choked on a sob and stepped forward, playing the ultimate victim. “Tracy, I know you’ve always been jealous that I was the one who saved the company, but you can’t fake a real emotional connection! “How could you use such a disgusting, dirty trick against me… If this leaks to the industry, my life is ruined!” She looked like she was about to collapse from the sheer injustice of it all. Hank stared at me like I was a complete monster. “Tracy, you are going to go online and post a public retraction right now!” My throat tightened painfully. My fingernails dug so deep into my palms I almost drew blood. “What exactly do you want me to do?” Hank was momentarily stunned by how eerily calm I sounded. But Wendy’s eyes immediately lit up. She quickly unzipped her designer purse and pulled out two crisp sheets of paper. The first was a formal letter of apology and a full confession to the rumors. The second was a termination notice. She looked at me with those big, tear-filled eyes. “Tracy, we have to kill this rumor before it spreads. I drafted an apology letter on my way over. All you have to do is sign it.” My voice felt like sandpaper. “And the termination notice?” Wendy instantly stopped crying and glanced nervously at Hank. He lowered his voice, trying to sound reasonable. “That was my decision. Just to avoid any more internal drama, I need you to stay away from the office for a while. “Once this whole mess blows over, I’ll officially rehire you.” I looked down at the paper. The official company seal—my company’s seal—was stamped in red ink at the bottom. I let out a dry, hollow laugh and signed my name on both pages. Hank let out a massive sigh of relief, as if a huge burden had just been lifted off his shoulders. He took the papers, grabbed Wendy’s arm, and the two of them hurried back toward the office to do damage control. I leaned against the doorframe, taking one final, lingering look at the apartment we had shared for years. Then, I grabbed my snowboard, walked out, and never looked back.

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1 I spent three years living like a stray dog in a back-alley bordello, convinced my soul had slipped through a seam in the universe and landed in a feudal nightmare. It had happened only days after the Aldridge family brought me back to their gated estate in Connecticut. One night I went to sleep in silk sheets; the next, I woke up on a damp straw mattress, an indentured plaything in a filthy, candlelit den of mud and blood. For three agonizing years, I learned to crawl. I learned to kneel at the polished boots of men who reeked of gin and cruelty, begging for scraps of breath, knowing that a single misstep meant a shattered bone or a leather crop peeling the skin from my spine. The only thread keeping my mind tethered to sanity was the young lord. He was a nobleman who visited the parlor—a man with the exact, aristocratic face of my older brother, Harrison Aldridge. In that living hell, he was the only soul who treated me like a human being. When the others tore me apart, he brought medicinal salves. He sat beside my pallet, slipping a warm, honeyed pastry from the inside pocket of his wool coat into my trembling fingers, listening patiently while I wept into his chest, choking out how desperately I wanted to go home. I clung to him like a dying woman clings to an altar. I swore to myself that if I ever woke from this nightmare, if I ever returned to the modern world, I would throw my arms around Harrison’s neck and tell him how his likeness had kept me alive. Until that final afternoon. Garrett, the sadistic heir to a political dynasty in that wretched world, had beaten me within an inch of my life. When he grew tired of my weeping, he dragged me out by the hair and tossed me into the freezing courtyard like a discarded rag doll. The cold seeped into my cracked ribs. Blood pooled beneath my cheek, turning the pristine white snow into a mottled, bruised purple. Through swollen eyelids, I caught sight of the young lord standing near the courtyard gate. My savior. My protector. He was smiling. He pulled a silver lighter from his coat, flicked a flame, and casually offered a cigarette to the men who had just broken my body. When he spoke, the archaic cadence was gone. In its place was the flat, familiar drawl of Harrison Aldridge: “Her wild streak needed breaking anyway. Sienna’s bound to a wheelchair for the rest of her life because of her.” He took a long drag, the smoke drifting into the freezing air. “Three years in the gutter ought to settle the score for Sienna. Shut the system down. Sienna texted me—she said she’s bored of watching.” In the blink of an eye, the swirling blizzard dissolved. The stone walls, the mud, the falling flakes—all of it flickered and died, replaced by the sterile, blinding neon of a private research laboratory. I lay strapped to a central pod, staring at my brother’s immaculate silhouette across the control room. And right there, beneath the hum of cooling servers, my heart finally gave up. My consciousness drifted upward, floating near the acoustic ceiling tiles. In the simulation chamber below, the residual projection of the snowstorm slowly faded over my physical form. Garrett stepped forward in his designer sneakers, nudging my limp forehead with the toe of his leather boot. “She passed out already? We barely got started today.” Damian dusted fake frost from his cashmere sleeves and turned toward Harrison, who sat by the monitoring deck sipping Earl Grey. “Gotta hand it to your little stray, Aldridge. She took a beating. Three years ago she crawled back to the quarters with three cracked ribs and still kept breathing.” He let out a low chuckle. “Did you see her fingers clawing at the synthetic snow when Garrett threw her out? That desperate, pleading look—God, it was almost pathetic enough to make you feel bad.” Brooks, the enforcer they’d brought in to play the palace guard, twirled a braided leather whip between his fingers. The tip was still stained with my biological matter from the sensory-feedback rig. “I still remember the first time she tested positive in the reproductive cycle sim. She knelt in the gravel, kissing my shoes, begging me not to flush the fetus. One dose of abortifacient and she was rolling on the flagstones, screaming until her vocal cords shredded. Sounded like music.” They sat around the server consoles like frat boys dissecting a video game. “Pity she caught that pelvic infection in Year Two,” Garrett said, clicking his tongue. “The necrosis ruined her skin. Used to be so smooth.” Harrison set his porcelain teacup onto the glass desk, the chime of fine china sharp and final. Steam clouded his cold, handsome features. “Enough. The original plan was to sever the motor nerves in her legs so she’d know what it feels like. But Sienna didn’t want her sister in a chair like her. Sienna forgave her, so the game is over.” Garrett frowned, taking a step back toward the pod. “Come on, Harrison. Give us a couple more days. We’re not done. By the third year, she was doing whatever we told her. Every session had a new trick.” Harrison stood up. He adjusted the lapels of his tailored overcoat, his jaw setting hard. “I said it’s over.” The authority in his voice silenced them instantly. They exchanged sullen, sheepish glances and stepped back. “Turn off the neural feed,” Harrison commanded the technician in the glass booth. “Sienna says she’s tired of watching the stream.” The last ambient projections evaporated, leaving behind four stark, soundproof walls. Harrison turned on his heel and walked out, his leather soles clicking against the linoleum. Not one of them looked back at the monitor where my vitals had flatlined. 2 Three years ago, on the day the Aldridge family brought me back from the foster care system, their Greenwich mansion had been practically drowned in blush-pink balloons. My mother had wept, soaking the collar of my thrift-store sweater as she clutched me to her chest. My father, a titan of private equity, had slid a stack of black cards into my palm with trembling hands. “Natalie,” he had rumbled, his voice thick with emotion, “this is your home now. No one will ever make you feel small again.” Harrison had walked away from a nine-figure merger closing just to cook dinner for my welcome-home party. He had ruffled my hair at the dining table, his blue eyes soft with a big brother’s protective warmth. “You’ve had it rough, Nat. From now on, you’ve got me. Nobody touches a hair on your head.” It was the fairy tale I had constructed a thousand times in cold dormitory beds. I thought I had finally crawled out of the gutters of neglect, that this family would be my fortress. Then, six weeks later, Sienna tumbled down the grand marble staircase. She was the daughter they had adopted when they thought they would never find me. Sitting in her newly delivered titanium wheelchair, tears streaming down her porcelain cheeks, she had looked at the family and whispered: “Even if Natalie pushed me, she didn’t mean it. It’s my fault. I stole twenty years of her life as the Aldridge daughter. If losing my legs pays for that… I’m glad.” With a single breath, I went from the long-lost daughter to an irredeemable monster. That night, Harrison pushed open my bedroom door holding a warm glass of milk. “Natalie,” he’d said gently, sitting on the edge of my mattress. “I was harsh earlier. Drink this, get some sleep, and tomorrow we’ll fix everything.” Touched beyond words, terrified of being discarded, I had drained the glass without hesitation. The last thing I remembered before blacking out was Harrison’s quiet, clinical sigh from above: “When you do bad things, Natalie, you have to be punished.” When my consciousness reconstituted, I was in that foul, lantern-lit hell. A burly brothel keeper stood over me, swinging a heavy leather strap across my collarbone before I could even draw breath. “Playing dead, you worthless bitch? The minister’s boy is waiting upstairs. Get your ass up and earn your keep!” From that hour on, I was reduced to a piece of meat. To survive, I dragged myself through mud and filth, learning how to press my forehead to the dirt and kiss the boots of wealthy sadists. Garrett, who played the minister’s heir, had a fetish for broken bones. He once planted his heel on my sternum and pressed his full weight down until three ribs snapped like dry twigs, watching with dead eyes as I choked on my own blood. Damian preferred visceral butchery. Over those thirty-six months, the simulation algorithm subjected my avatar to nine phantom pregnancies. Every single time, Damian pinned my head to the floor with his knee, pried my jaws open, and forced a bowl of boiling black pennyroyal down my throat until the lining of my esophagus peeled. I remembered curling up on the foul straw, feeling warmth and life drain out between my thighs, leaving behind dark, clotted pools. The child inside me never had the chance to draw a simulated breath before it was washed away into the soil. My nails scraped against the brick walls until the beds tore and bled, accompanied only by their raucous, drunken laughter. Eventually, the system simulated a chronic pelvic infection. My flesh festered; foul fluid seeped from open sores. The madam considered me bad luck and threw me into a crumbling, rat-infested outhouse to rot. Yet, I endured. I clung to life with a feral, terrifying obstinacy. All because of my secret promise to the young lord—the man who shared Harrison’s face, the man who stepped through the shadows time and time again to save me. I have to wake up. I have to make it back to the real world. During the worst infection, when fever burned through my nervous system and death felt like a welcoming shadow, the young lord had come. He stepped delicately over the filth, knelt in the muck beside my pallet, and used a clean linen cloth to apply soothing balm to my lesions. “Hold on, Natalie,” he had whispered, his voice an oasis in a desert of screams. “Just hold on. I’m going to take you away from here.” Every time he visited, he pulled a warm pastry from his coat, fragrant with honey and cinnamon, carrying the heat of his own body. I would bury my face in his lap, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. “Harrison… I want to go home… I miss you so much…” He would stroke my matted hair, his touch infinitely gentle. “Soon, Nat. Just endure a little longer, and I’ll take you home.” Because of those words, I let Garrett grind lit cigar butts into my shoulder blades. I let Brooks flay the skin off my back with his riding crop without biting through my tongue. I rehearsed the speech a million times in the dark: When I wake up, I’ll hold Harrison’s hand. I’ll tell him I’m sorry for whatever I did wrong, and thank him for never leaving me alone. It was only in the final seconds before my brain flatlined that the truth ripped through me. The savior who brought me ointment, who listened to me weep, who promised me freedom—the man under the neural interface was my brother. The savior, the sadist with the cigars, and the butcher with the abortifacient—they were all part of the same VIP suite. Harrison had rented out the system, invited his sociopathic friends, and watched from behind a double-sided monitor as I begged for mercy from his own avatar. He had constructed a beacon of hope with his own hands, solely so he could watch the light leave my eyes when he shattered it. 3 The high-pitched wail of the telemetry monitor shattered the silence of the warehouse. “Mr. Aldridge! The subject’s cardiac rhythm has ceased!” The lead physician’s shriek halted Harrison in the doorway. He pivoted sharply, his gaze locking onto the flat red lines glowing on the primary console. “What do you mean? You said her physiological baseline was stable enough to handle the transition!” Harrison sprinted back to the terminal, shoving the frantic medical tech aside. The physician’s hands shook as he adjusted the emergency overrides. “Sir, three years of continuous neural immersion… Even with nutritional IVs and physical therapy in the stasis pod, her psyche has undergone complete catastrophic collapse. When the mind surrenders, the autonomic nervous system shuts down in sympathy!” Through the haze of my floating perspective, I watched the medical team rip away the remnants of my hospital gown, exposing the physical ruin beneath. Five distinct deformities ridged my ribcage where repeated sensory fractures had forced abnormal bone remodeling. Across my lower abdomen ran a deep, jagged scar—the physical consequence of an emergency surgical intervention from Year Two, when severe internal hemorrhaging from uterine trauma nearly killed me in the tank. “Resuscitate her! I didn’t give her permission to die!” Harrison swung his hand, cracking his palm across the doctor’s cheek. Years of unrelenting terror had wasted my physical frame down to sinew and bone. My eye sockets were sunken hollows; my skin had the translucent, grayish hue of parchment. The crash cart buzzed. The chest compressions went on for three grueling hours. When the first fragile, erratic pulse finally flickered across the screen, the chief physician collapsed against the cold floor, soaking in his own sweat. “We stabilized her, Mr. Aldridge. But her neurological thresholds are completely shot. If she experiences even a minor emotional shock, she will arrest again.” Harrison stood beside the gurney, his eyes fixed on my hollowed face. He reached out a trembling hand, fingers hovering inches above my cheek, before pulling back as if burned. A flicker of something resembling nausea crossed his features. The faint hum of an electric motor sounded at the door. Sienna was wheeled into the room by a private nurse. Seeing my state, she clamped a hand over her mouth, her eyes welling with instant, theatrical tears. “Harrison… is Natalie angry with me? Is that why she won’t wake up?” She reached out, clutching the hem of his cashmere coat. “If Mom and Dad see her like this, they’ll destroy you. Why don’t we tell them she received an overseas scholarship? We can move her to a private sanatorium in Switzerland—the recovery facilities there are world-class. It’s better for everyone.” Harrison remained silent for a long, suffocating minute, staring down at my bruised, needle-tracked forearms. “Move her to the private facility in upstate New York,” he said quietly. “Full NDA protocols. Total information blackout.” By the following afternoon, I was transferred under heavy sedation to a secluded estate clinic nestled in the Adirondacks. Harrison personally vetted every nurse, enforcing multi-million-dollar non-disclosure agreements. To our parents, the story was flawless: Natalie had been accepted into a prestigious, fully funded fellowship abroad. Harrison even hired a digital effects firm to render deepfake video updates for our parents. On their iPads, an AI-generated version of me smiled under Parisian sunshine, bright-eyed and whole, as if those three years of torture had never occurred. 4 Three months crawled by. The upstate clinic was permanently overcast, wrapped in a blanket of damp pine needles and gray mist. Harrison visited every Wednesday, always alone. My mother, unable to reach me directly for weeks, finally forced a FaceTime call to Harrison’s phone. “Harrison, why is Natalie wearing long sleeves in every video clip? It’s ninety degrees in southern France right now.” In the background of the screen, my father slammed his hand onto his mahogany desk, his voice booming with icy authority. “Book the tickets for tomorrow, Eleanor. I’m flying over to see her myself.” A crack showed in Harrison’s practiced mask, though his voice remained smooth. “Natalie was selected for a classified corporate research retreat by her department head, Dad. They have strict signal jamming on the compound. No personal devices.” My mother sighed softly. “Alright… just take care of her.” The screen went dark. Harrison let out a slow, ragged exhale. He set his phone aside and picked up an artisan pastry box from the nightstand. “It’s your birthday today,” he said to the quiet room. “You’re twenty-one.” He cut a small slice of vanilla cake and lifted a fork toward my mouth. I was awake, my eyes vacant, staring straight through him. The butter cream touched my lower lip, smeared, and slid down my chin onto the white linen pillowcase. Harrison stared at the smudge. Suddenly, his composure fractured. He hurled the fork across the room; it clattered loudly against the wastebasket. “How long are you going to keep doing this, Natalie? The doctors told me your physical vitals have stabilized.” He leaned in, his voice dropping into a desperate hiss. “I admit the punishment went too far. But it was meant to teach you a lesson! If you hadn’t pushed Sienna down the stairs, if you had just swallowed your pride and apologized in the first place, do you think I would have kept you in that rig for three years?” I offered him nothing. My gaze remained locked on the ceiling tiles. Enraged by the silence, he slammed his fist onto the side table. “Who are you putting on this pathetic display for? Mom and Dad ask about you every single day. I’m living on edge twenty-four hours a day because of you! I’ve neglected board meetings, I missed Sienna’s physical therapy sessions—all because of this!” He snatched my wrist. My arm was so wasted his thumb easily overlapped his index finger around the bone. “Wake up, Natalie. Just wake up, say you’re sorry, and I’ll forgive you. We can go back to how things were before…” His voice hitched, catching in his throat. A sharp knock broke the tension. Harrison’s executive assistant cracked the door open, his face pale with panic. “Mr. Aldridge. Your parents just touched down at the regional airfield. They didn’t notify the flight desk—they chartered a private jet straight here.” Harrison froze, the color draining from his face. He dropped my arm and grabbed his jacket. “Intercept their security detail. Tell them I’m in an emergency teleconference—” “We can’t intercept them, sir,” the assistant whispered, glancing nervously down the hall. “Their motorcade just entered the front gates. Mrs. Aldridge said she received an anonymous courier delivery an hour ago…” Before the sentence ended, frantic footsteps echoed along the hardwood corridor. My mother’s voice, raw and frantic, tore through the quiet: “Harrison! Where is my daughter?!” The heavy oak door was violently pushed open. My mother stumbled into the room, clutching a manila folder filled with glossy photographs, her face streaked with tears. Then she saw the bed. She froze mid-step. The photographs slipped from her fingers, fluttering across the floor like dead leaves. My father rushed in behind her, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes fell upon the contents of the scattered prints.

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Chapter 1 I am an immortal vampire. Six centuries ago, to conceal my existence among mortals, I bestowed my fortune in gold upon my servant, elevating him to the wealthiest merchant in the realm. In exchange, he and his bloodline swore an eternal covenant: to serve me without question and to deliver my tribute of wealth each month. Yet six hundred years later, his twelfth-generation descendant broke the oath. Flanked by his fiancée, he stood before me and tore the contract to shreds. “Ms. Vance, Julian is the chief executive of a multi-billion-dollar enterprise. He works around the clock,” Chloe Montgomery said, her voice dripping with disdain. “While you do nothing but vacation and shop. What makes you think you’re entitled to sixty percent of this company’s net profits?” Julian Sterling looked at me and let out a weary sigh. “Times have changed, Vivian,” he said smoothly. “In the modern world, capital belongs to those who generate value.” I nodded slowly, setting down my untouched glass of wine. Times had indeed changed. It seemed my gold was never coming back. In that case, I would simply take back the land beneath Sterling Tower. “So the Sterling family intends to unilaterally breach our covenant?” I withdrew a linen napkin from the table and meticulously dabbed at a faint droplet of red wine on my fingertip. Chloe scoffed at my reaction. She tossed her styled blonde curls over her shoulder and looked down at me from behind the gala’s VIP table. “Get one thing straight, Ms. Vance. This isn’t a breach of contract,” she said, tapping her French-manicured nails against the mahogany. “This is corporate restructuring. We are simply excising deadweight and eliminating useless sunk costs.” With a flick of her wrist, she slapped a freshly printed legal agreement onto the tablecloth in front of me. “Frankly, I have no idea how you managed to leach off this firm for so long. You hold no executive title. You generate zero revenue. Why on earth did Julian’s father wire sixty percent of our monthly dividend yield directly into your private trust? Because of some archaic family superstition? It’s absurd.” The moment the words left her mouth, several senior vice presidents seated around the table leaned in, murmuring in agreement. I knew exactly what puzzled them. Six centuries had passed; my true nature had long faded into myth. None of them knew of the original transaction, nor did they realize that every existential crisis Sterling Enterprises had faced over the decades had been quietly erased by my hand. To them, I was merely Vivian Vance—a shadowy socialite bound to the family by a centuries-old tradition that dictated unconditional deference to my name. “She’s right,” one executive whispered. “We kill ourselves sixty hours a week, and she pulls nine figures while lounging in the Hamptons.” “Julian just closed that five-billion-dollar cross-border AI partnership,” another chimed in. “He’s the sole architect of this empire.” I ignored the background noise and cast my gaze over the new document. Under the distribution clause, my sixty-percent profit entitlement had been slashed to one-tenth of one percent. Below that, an added stipulation demanded that I irrevocably surrender all proprietary executive privileges and hidden voting rights tied to Sterling Enterprises. I lifted my chin, locking eyes with Julian, who had remained silent while swirling an amber scotch in his crystal tumbler. “Is this your doing?” I asked. Julian finally looked up. His eyes held the cold, condescending pity unique to young men blinded by early success. “Chloe’s delivery may be blunt, Vivian, but the core premise is sound,” he said, setting his glass down with an arrogant sense of finality. “To close that five-billion-dollar deal, my team and I worked ourselves ragged for a month straight. Meanwhile, you spend your afternoons tending orchids in the penthouse conservatory and sipping tea.” Julian leaned back into his leather chair, crossing one tailored leg over the other. “I am not my father. I don’t answer to ghost stories or medieval loyalty pledges. Times have changed. Only those who produce results get a seat at the table.” I looked at his youthful, ambitious face. For a fleeting second, another face overlapped with his—raw, blistered with frostbite, weeping in the bitter snows of a winter six hundred years ago. In the courtyard of an ancient stone estate, a starving beggar named Barnaby Sterling had fallen to his knees, clutching my velvet pouch of gold coins to his chest. My Lady, thank you for this mercy, he had sobbed. You took a wretch doomed to freeze in the mud and made him a master of coin. In return, I and every son born of my line shall serve you without condition, laying our wealth at your feet until the end of days. I had never needed money; I merely required a human identity to walk unnoticed among mortal society. Barnaby needed bread and power; I needed camouflage. It had been an agreeable arrangement. Throughout the centuries, I opened doors, smoothed over regulatory ruin, and funneled sovereign connections into their lap, ensuring the Sterling empire flourished with unnatural ease. Yet six hundred years later, his bloodline genuinely believed they had built this empire with their bare hands. Especially this crowning jewel of theirs—the five-billion-dollar AI enterprise deal. “Are you deaf?” Chloe snapped, rapping her knuckles against the polished table. “Julian was generous enough to leave you a fraction of a percent. That’s still a couple million a year—plenty for a woman with no marketable skills to live comfortably in early retirement. Sign the paperwork, and let’s end this with some dignity.” I picked up the Montblanc pen from the table, spun it lazily between my fingers, and let it drop with a sharp clatter. “And if I refuse?” Chloe froze, caught off guard by my flat indifference. Her practiced corporate smile vanished entirely. “Vivian, are you out of your mind?” Her voice rose an octave, drawing the attention of the surrounding tables. “Do you honestly think you have leverage? With one call from Julian, our finance department will freeze every single transfer to your account by sunrise.” Watching her flush with frantic venom was almost tedious. “Then freeze them,” I said mildly. Fools. The wealth I had granted Barnaby Sterling was merely my surplus liquid coin. My actual foundations—the sovereign land deeds, centuries of real estate, antique vaults, and diversified trusts—yielded returns beyond their comprehension. The allowance Sterling Enterprises wired me every month was little more than pocket change. I rose from the table, done indulging an insolent socialite. “I will not sign,” I said, meeting Julian’s eyes. “Since you are so thoroughly convinced that five-billion-dollar triumph belongs entirely to your genius, let us see if it survives without me.” I turned and walked toward the grand doors of the ballroom. Behind me, Chloe’s shrill laughter echoed across the hall. “Who does she think she is? Don’t tell me she’s taking credit for the AI merger! A decorative parasite who spends her life tanning on the roof wouldn’t know the first thing about venture capital!” Chapter 2 The following morning, I arrived at the ground-floor lobby of Sterling Tower precisely at nine. After six centuries, routine was second nature. Empires rose and collapsed, yet I still enjoyed watching the morning sun break over Manhattan. The crown jewel of Sterling Tower—the penthouse terrace overlooking Central Park—had always offered the finest light. I walked toward the private executive elevator and swiped my encrypted keycard. The reader flashed red. Two sharp beeps chimed through the brass enclosure: Access Denied. I raised an eyebrow. Nearby, a public elevator opened, and several junior analysts stepped out. Recognizing me, they ducked their heads and began whispering behind their lanyards. “Isn’t that Ms. Vance from the penthouse suite?” “Heard Julian cut her off completely last night.” “They pulled her executive clearance, and she still showed up? Shameless.” Ignoring them, I walked over to the reception desk. The young receptionist blanched the moment our eyes met, shifting her gaze away guiltily. “Ms. Vance… Ms. Montgomery ordered your private elevator clearance revoked first thing this morning.” I nodded gently. “And the public elevators?” “Those… those are still open to the public floors, ma’am.” “Thank you.” I stepped into an open service elevator and rode it straight to the top. The doors slid open on the fiftieth floor to the sound of crashing porcelain and frantic scraping. Several facilities workers were hauling my potted winter orchids out into the hallway. Near the entrance, my favorite seventeenth-century antique tea set sat tossed into an open cardboard box—its hand-carved porcelain lid chipped at the rim. Chloe Montgomery stood in the center of my former private office, barking orders. “Toss all this antique garbage into the compactor. The place smells like a musty museum. Replace it with an imported Italian leather sectional and bring in an ebony executive desk by noon.” She turned around and spotted me standing by the threshold. Her lips instantly twisted into an exaggerated, mocking pout. “My goodness, Vivian! What are you still doing here?” She clicked across the marble floor in her Christian Louboutins, her eyes gleaming with malice. “I do apologize for the mess. Julian mentioned that my previous office was entirely too modest for the Chief Strategy Officer. Seeing as your penthouse suite was sitting empty doing nothing, I took the initiative to requisition it.” I looked down at the chipped porcelain lid on the floor. It had been crafted by a master artisan in Europe over three hundred years ago. It held little financial consequence to me, but I had grown fond of using it. “Pained by your little trinkets?” Chloe followed my gaze, dripping with theatrical pity. “Just obsolete junk, really. If you’re genuinely that attached to it, I’ll Venmo you twenty bucks so you can take it down to a thrift store.” Just then, Julian stepped out of the private corridor accompanied by three senior associates. Seeing the standoff, he offered a mild scowl. “What’s going on here?” Chloe’s arrogance instantly melted into vulnerable distress as she glided to his side. “Julian, I was only trying to prepare a proper workspace for our European partners, but Ms. Vance seems upset. She doesn’t even handle corporate business—leaving this entire floor to her is an absolute waste of firm resources.” Julian patted her hand reassuringly, then looked at me, his jaw set in cold annoyance. “It’s just an office, Vivian,” he said, his tone clipped. “Chloe is spearheading our international expansion next year. She requires an appropriate venue to entertain sovereign wealth funds.” He paused, his expression hardening. “As for you, if you aren’t comfortable hot-desking on the trading floor, there’s a vacant storage room by the second-floor stairwell. Have facilities clear out the file boxes, and you can sit there.” Behind him, two associates barely choked back their laughter. Banishing a woman who had drawn sixty percent of the firm’s dividends to a windowless basement utility closet was a deliberate, calculated humiliation. I looked straight at Julian. There was no remorse in his eyes—only the impatient hunger of a predator eager to shed an obsolete burden. “You want me in a second-floor utility closet?” I asked, my voice calm. Unsettled by my stillness, Julian squared his shoulders. “This is purely business, Vivian. Sterling Enterprises does not carry deadweight. If you feel slighted, you are free to tender your formal resignation. Naturally, out of respect for our shared past, I’ll instruct payroll to cut you a standard severance check.” I nodded slowly. “Very well.” Without another word, I stepped over the shattered porcelain at my feet and walked back toward the elevator bank. Behind me, Chloe’s triumphant laughter echoed through the marble hallway. “At least she knows when she’s beaten.” Chapter 3 I bypassed the second-floor storage closet entirely and walked out into the crisp autumn air. The morning sun was brilliant, but my appetite for basking in it had vanished. I spent the morning at a quiet private lounge nearby. Around noon, my phone rang. It was Richard Sterling. Julian’s father. A man who possessed just enough competence to manage an inheritance, but lacked the spine to rule it. The moment I answered, his cautious, strained voice came through the receiver. “Ms. Vance… is this a convenient time to speak?” “Go ahead,” I said, sipping my Earl Grey. Richard sighed heavily, his voice laden with timid hesitation. “Julian and Chloe… the children acted rashly. I heard about what happened this morning. It’s completely unacceptable!” His condemnation was loud, but entirely hollow. “However, Ms. Vance, you know I’ve stepped back from daily operations. Julian runs the board now. The boy was educated abroad—he looks at nothing but quarterly yields and EBITDA. He has little patience for… our family’s ancient customs.” I rested against my chair, watching the traffic crawl down Fifth Avenue. “Your point, Richard?” He choked on his words for a brief second before continuing. “What I mean is, the current executive committee was handpicked by Julian. They harbor significant resentment over the sheer volume of dividends allocated to you each month. Ms. Vance, perhaps we can find an amicable compromise?” He was finally circling toward his real objective. “If you would just concede a step. Let us lower your dividend distribution to ten percent, and I will personally arrange an executive suite for you on another floor. A mutual compromise to preserve family harmony. What do you say?” I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Richard Sterling, are you attempting to negotiate terms with me?” The line went dead silent. “Twenty years ago, when your reckless leveraged buyout brought Sterling Enterprises to the brink of federal liquidation, it was my capital that insulated your board from bankruptcy,” I said softly, the weight of centuries pressing through the receiver. “You know better than anyone what sits in my vaults. Now that the balance sheet is flush and the company has found new momentum, you believe you can discard me?” Panic crept into Richard’s voice. “No, no, Ms. Vance! That was never my intention! I was only… trying to shield you from the board—” “Enough,” I cut him off. “In all my centuries, I have despised compromise. What is mine remains mine to the cent. Since your son believes I contribute nothing to this firm, let us see how well he fares on his own.” I ended the call without waiting for a reply. When I returned to the Sterling family estate in Westchester that afternoon, I found my personal belongings boxed up and piled haphazardly on the front driveway. Inside, Chloe was lounging on the velvet sofa, admiring her fresh manicure. She didn’t bother looking up as the front door opened. “Oh, Vivian, so sorry about the mess,” she said breezily, blowing on her glossy red nails. “Julian and I are hosting our engagement gala next month, and we’re renovating the estate from top to bottom. Your vintage clutter was taking up far too much square footage, so I had the groundskeepers pack it up.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t fret. Julian leased a charming one-bedroom apartment for you out in Queens. Quiet neighborhood. Perfect for someone transitioning into retirement.” I stared at the cardboard boxes stacked by the entrance. Packed haphazardly inside were first-edition manuscripts, illuminated medieval texts, and classical oil paintings I had acquired over the centuries. Several rare canvases had been crudely folded to fit into the cardboard containers. “Who authorized you to touch my possessions?” I walked over to the sofa and looked down at her. My gaze was cold enough to make her instinctively flinch backward into the cushions. But within seconds, she remembered whose house she was in and snapped to her feet. “I authorized it!” she sneered, puffing her chest. “This estate belongs to the Sterling trust. You’ve squatted here rent-free for decades. Asking you to vacate is entirely within our legal rights. Don’t flatter yourself, Vivian.” She thrust a manicured finger within inches of my nose. “All you know how to do is posture. Scream all you want—by nightfall, you’re off this property!” I looked at her face, twisted by petty greed and unearned arrogance. I felt no rage, only a profound weariness. Human stupidity truly was an incurable, hereditary disease. I took half a step back, brushing her hand away. “You don’t need to throw me out. I’m leaving.” I pulled out my phone and dialed my private estate manager. Within eight minutes, two midnight-black Maybachs glided silently through the estate gates, stopping before the front steps. Four private security operatives in charcoal suits stepped out, methodically loading my boxes into the trunks with white-glove precision. Chloe watched the multi-million-dollar motorcade, her sneer faltering for a split second before curdling into bitter spite. “Renting high-end town cars with Julian’s dividend checks… how pathetic.” I didn’t dignify her venom with a response. At the car door, I paused and cast a final look back at her. “Remember every word you spoke today, Chloe,” I said calmly. “I will collect on this debt, with compound interest.” Chapter 4 Three days later. Sterling Enterprises convened an extraordinary general meeting of shareholders. As the largest registered individual beneficiary on file, I received formal notification. When I pushed open the double doors of the boardroom, the room fell dead silent. Every eye turned toward me—glares laced with curiosity, mockery, and naked schadenfreude. The long boardroom table was packed with senior executives and institutional representatives. At the head of the table sat Julian Sterling. Chloe sat directly to his right in her capacity as Chief Strategy Officer. Scanning the room, I noticed that my customary chair at the head of the table had been occupied by an unfamiliar new vice president. “Apologies, Ms. Vance. Seating is exceptionally tight today,” Chloe said with a saccharine smile, pointing toward a far corner near the service exit. A single red plastic folding chair sat alone on the carpet. “You rarely participate in proxy votes anyway,” she added smoothly. “Feel free to observe from over there.” A ripple of muted chuckles echoed down the mahogany table. Several department heads exchanged amused glances. She really showed up after being stripped of her credentials. Desperate. Probably here to stage a scene. A scene? Julian could blacklist her from the tristate area with a single phone call. I absorbed their whispers without expression. Walking past the rows of tailored suits, I took a seat on the folding chair. “Proceed,” I said quietly. Disappointed that I hadn’t erupted into an undignified tantrum, Chloe clicked her tongue and signaled the corporate secretary to begin. The initial agenda consisted of mundane operational updates and quarterly earnings projections. Then came the final item. Julian adjusted his silk tie and cleared his throat, commanding the room. “Gentlemen, the final order of business today is our most critical strategic initiative: the complete recapitalization of our equity structure, alongside the formal revocation of Vivian Vance’s permanent veto authority.” He tossed a thick legal docket onto the center of the table. “A modern corporation cannot remain shackled to legacy burdens. Over the past three decades, Ms. Vance has contributed precisely zero operational value to this balance sheet. I move to formally terminate her special director privileges and permanently cap her profit participation at one-tenth of one percent of net common dividends.” Julian looked around the room. “The floor is open for a vote.” Silence reigned for half a second before Chloe raised her hand high. “I vote in favor of the Chief Executive’s motion,” she declared loudly. “Sterling Enterprises belongs to its builders, not to retired parasites.” With her lead, every executive and shareholder along the table raised their hands in rapid succession. Unanimous approval. Not a single soul looked in my direction. In their minds, I was already erased. Julian reviewed the tallied votes, a smug, triumphant smirk curling the edge of his mouth. He turned toward my corner, fixing me with the gaze of a conqueror looking down on a captive. “The resolution carries, Vivian,” he said coldly. “As of this moment, your connection to the Sterling family is reduced to a non-voting fraction of a percent. Pack whatever remains in your drawers and remove yourself from our premises.” The executives held their breath, waiting for me to slink out like a kicked stray. I rose slowly from the plastic chair, smoothing the lapel of my tailored coat. “Stripping my veto authority?” I asked, my voice soft yet carrying effortlessly across the cavernous room. “Very well.” “Terminating my profit distribution?” I paused, meeting his gaze. “That is acceptable as well.” Chloe let out a sharp scoff. “At least she understands her place. Now get out.” Ignoring her entirely, I reached into my leather tote and drew out an ancient, dark walnut box. Chapter 5 I unclasped the brass lock and lifted the lid. Inside lay a single sheet of vellum, yellowed with age, its edges brittle and dark. Holding the parchment, I walked deliberately toward the center of the boardroom. “Since you consider me an idle parasite and wish to sever all historic ties,” I said, my heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor, “then we have some long-overdue accounts to settle.” I set the ancient vellum flat before Julian. “You may revoke my board seat. But you will also vacate this building.”

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1 Fifteen days after giving birth, my milk ducts clogged into hot, concrete knots. Desperate and feverish, I booked an emergency appointment at the nearest comprehensive breast clinic—only to find that the specialist sitting behind the computer, impeccably composed in a pristine white coat, was the first love I had callously dumped five years ago. Logan Hayes. He looked up from the screen, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes pinning me to the linoleum floor. The chill in his gaze made the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “Cece Mercer,” he said, rolling the syllables over his tongue like gravel. “Clogged ducts?” I froze, clutching my diaper bag like a shield. He leaned back slightly, his expression cold and razor-sharp. “What’s the matter? The second you left me, your body stopped functioning?” The clinical air in the examination room was freezing against my flushed skin. “Shirt up. Unhook your bra,” Logan commanded, snapping on a pair of blue nitrile gloves with a sharp, practiced snap. Five years ago, we spent three years tangled up in each other’s sheets. Today, he was standing over an examination table in surgical scrubs, preparing to palpate my swollen, agonized breasts. I swallowed hard, my throat dry as chalk. “Doctor… could you please be gentle?” He glanced down at me, his eyes devoid of warmth. “I don’t recall ever being rough with you.” A choked, awkward laugh caught in my throat. I didn’t dare take the bait. I wasn’t being dramatic; engorgement was sheer agony. Ever since I delivered my son, Toby, my milk ducts had felt like a minefield. Toby would latch and pull until he was red-faced and starving, unable to draw anything down, leaving me sobbing into the pillows from the blistering pain. The baby suffered, and so did I. That was the only reason I had swallowed my pride and dragged myself here. “Delivery date?” he asked, his clinical tone flat and detached. “Fifteen days ago.” “How long have you been blocked?” “It was mild for the past two days,” I mumbled, staring at the acoustic ceiling tiles. “It turned unbearable last night.” His gloved fingers pressed into the inflamed tissue. Even through the thin nitrile layer, I could feel the searing heat radiating from his palms. A familiar, suffocating rush of heat swept up my neck to my ears. I threw an arm over my eyes. Running into your ex while half-naked on an exam table was a level of humiliation Dante forgot to map out. Logan stepped back, stripped the gloves into the biohazard bin, and sat at his desk, typing rapidly on the keyboard. A moment later, a printer chattered to life, and he tore off a clinical order. “You have significant focal mastitis. Early abscess formation can’t be ruled out without an ultrasound. You need to be admitted for IV antibiotics and therapeutic drainage.” He shoved the paperwork across the desk. “Take this down to billing, pay the deposit, then take the west elevator to the ninth floor of the surgical tower.” I stared at the slip, my chest tightening with genuine panic. “Um… is there any way I can treat this as an outpatient? Oral antibiotics?” Logan looked up from his monitor, fixing me with an icy, incredulous stare. “What do you think?” God. He was just as brutal as he used to be. “Fine,” I muttered under my breath. “I’ll admit myself. You don’t have to bite my head off.” 2 The only reason I had fought the admission was that I had no one to watch the baby. Once the paperwork was processed, I took a frantic cab home, packed a weekend bag, buckled Toby into his infant car seat, and brought him right back into the pediatric-friendly wing of the hospital. By two in the morning, Toby was screaming for a bottle. The nursery-grade sterile water in my room had run out, and the call button yielded a recording that the floor nurse was attending an emergency code down the hall. In sheer desperation, I gathered my shrieking, red-faced newborn in one arm, gripped an empty bottle in the other, and shuffled down the hall in my hospital slippers to knock on Dr. Hayes’s on-call room. The heavy door swung open to reveal Logan, dark circles bruised under his bloodshot eyes, radiating pure, exhausted hostility. “What?” he demanded. I stood there, swaying on my feet, Toby wailing between us at top volume. “Dr. Hayes… do you have filtered water? I just need to mix two ounces of formula.” Toby’s cries escalated into shrill, breathless hiccups. Logan ran a hand roughly through his sleep-mussed dark hair, exhaling a low, venomous growl. “Bring your kid inside. Now.” I scurried through the door before he could slam it in our faces. Inside the small room, he snatched the bottle from my fingers, his jaw ticking tightly. “Cece Mercer, you really haven’t lost your knack for torturing me, have you?” He measured water from a temperature-controlled dispenser, his knuckles white. “Five years, and you haven’t grown up a bit. You get admitted to a hospital and you drag an infant with you? Where is his father? Dead?” I pressed my lips together, stung by his vitriol. “He can’t take care of him.” Logan didn’t look at me, but his voice went dangerously quiet. “Why?” “Just like you said,” I whispered, looking down at Toby’s tiny fist clutching my hospital gown. “He’s dead.” Silence dropped like an iron weight. The next second, the floodgates broke. Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and uncontrollable. It wasn’t grief over a dead phantom; it was the raw, bone-deep exhaustion of a single mother running on forty-five minutes of sleep, drowning in hormones, pain, and isolation. The sheer pressure of the last nine months cracked wide open. Perhaps because my breakdown was so sudden and unscripted, the perennial ice in his expression fractured. “Cece… I…” He reached out awkwardly, his hand hovering. “I didn’t mean—” I rubbed my wet sleeves across my cheeks, choking on a sob. “Save it. I know I deserve this. My life went completely to hell after I dumped you. Are you satisfied now?” 3 Logan froze. His eyes narrowed, searching my ruined face. “So… you regret it?” “I—” “Too late,” he cut in coldly. He set the prepared bottle on the counter, stepped toward me, and backed me against the closed door. His tall frame blocked out the harsh fluorescent light, and the familiar scent of cedar and clean soap washed over me, accompanied by his hot, uneven breath near my ear. “Dumping me five years ago gave you quite the rush, didn’t it, Cece?” A vivid, traitorous memory seized my brain: the early days of our college relationship, when he used to back me into the corner of the campus library, breathing this exact same fire against my skin before kissing me senseless. Looking at the sharp planes of his face now, my heart gave a sickening, painful thud. The air between us grew thick and suffocating. Thankfully, Toby’s frantic wailing broke the spell. I shoved past Logan’s shoulder, grabbed the lukewarm bottle, and tipped the nipple into my son’s mouth. I leaned against the desk, feeding Toby with practiced rhythm. Logan stood three feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, watching in total silence. That was his tell. When Logan was in a state of absolute, simmering rage, he went mute. Back when we were dating, whenever he got like this, it took twenty apologies and at least fifty desperate kisses to drag him out of his shell. I lowered my gaze. I didn’t have the right to kiss him anymore. Suddenly, a foul, unmistakable smell bloomed in the small room. Logan and I exchanged a glance. His face darkened into a caricature of utter disgust. As a severe germaphobe whose apartment used to smell permanently of hospital-grade disinfectant, this was his personal nightmare. “I’ll… I’ll go get a diaper,” I muttered, moving toward the door. When I hurried back from my room with the pack of Pampers and wipes, Logan had already laid Toby out on his pristine twin bed, having unfastened the infant’s onesie with two gingerly pinched fingers. “He had a blowout,” I whispered, feeling guilty. “I can change him.” His hand twitched toward his pocket, clearly looking for a cigarette he couldn’t smoke inside, before he jammed his fist back into his scrub trousers. “I have eyes, Cece.” “Well, you don’t have to look at him like he’s toxic waste. If you’re that disgusted, wait outside.” He ground his molars together. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is my on-call room.” “Right. Enjoy the bouquet, then.” I ripped open the wet wipes, but before I could touch Toby, Logan nudged my shoulder aside. “Give it here.” “You know how?” “Shut up.” I kept my mouth shut. I watched in stunned silence as a premier surgical fellow handled an explosive newborn diaper. His movements were undeniably stiff, but surprisingly tender. His large, scarred surgeon’s hands cradled Toby’s tiny hips with immense care, cleaning him thoroughly with warm, dampened paper towels before securing the fresh tabs with mathematical precision. The quiet domesticity of the scene hit me like a physical blow. With a clean diaper and a full stomach, Toby let out a soft sigh, fluttered his dark eyelashes, and drifted straight to sleep against Logan’s military-tucked sheets. The room settled into an oppressive silence. I fidgeted with the hem of my cardigan, acutely aware of Logan’s dark gaze boring into the side of my face. “Cece.” “What?” “In the last five years… did you ever regret walking out? Even for a minute?” He was sitting on the edge of the rolling chair. Beneath the harsh desk lamp, his eyes were bloodshot, shimmering with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. I picked up the empty bottle, keeping my eyes fixed on the plastic cap. “Of course I did. You’re a brilliant surgeon, successful, wealthy, ridiculously handsome. I started regretting it years ago.” I thought giving him the petty satisfaction of knowing I had ruined my own life would soothe his bruised ego. After all, what better victory over an ex than watching them grovel in regret? Instead, his jaw hardened, and his eyes flashed with furious disgust. He lunged up, scooped the sleeping baby off the mattress, shoved the swaddled bundle and the dirty bottle into my arms, and opened the door. “Get out.” “Logan—” “Did you come back just to find an idiot to finance your kid?” he snarled, his voice trembling with repressed fury. “Play the tragic widow, reel me in, and then kick me to the curb again once your life gets comfortable? Get out before I have security escort you to your room.” The door clicked shut in my face. Standing in the dim hallway with a sleeping infant in my arms, I was utterly speechless. God as my witness, I had never even thought of that. 4 The following afternoon, my younger brother, Seth, arrived on an interstate flight. The moment he walked into my hospital room and saw me hooked to an IV drip while nursing Toby with a silicone shield, he blew a gasket. “Cece, you are an absolute idiot,” he hissed, throwing his duffel bag onto the chair. “A single mother at twenty-six. You decided to play Russian roulette with a one-night stand, had the kid, and now look at you. Do you finally realize how rough life is?” “Seth, keep your voice down—” “When Mom and Dad begged you to terminate the pregnancy and marry the accountant they set you up with, you packed your bags and lived out of a studio apartment! What the hell is wrong with your brain?” I shrank back against the pillows, murmuring defensively, “I know life is rough.” Seth glared at the bassinet, angrily shaking a bottle of pre-mixed formula he had brought. He looked like an angry bull, but the moment he reached into the crib, his hands were entirely gentle. “Was the guy really worth this?” he muttered, his voice cracking slightly. “Ruining your body, wearing adult diapers, going into labor completely alone in an underfunded county hospital? You used to obsess over your waistline. You used to cry over a single stretch mark.” Seth had always been blunt, but hearing it out loud made my chest ache. I had gained thirty pounds during the pregnancy. My skin was loose, my breasts were leaking, and my hips were wider. I had swallowed every bit of it in silence. “I know I messed up,” I whispered, reaching out to tug his sleeve. “Please, Seth. Just help me watch him for three days until they discharge me. When he grows up, I promise he’ll buy his favorite uncle a car.” “He’d better,” Seth grunted, sitting down and gently tipping the bottle into Toby’s mouth. The door handle clicked. Logan walked in, holding a royal blue clinical clipboard. His expression was carved from granite. “Morning rounds,” he said, not looking at either of us. He grabbed the privacy curtain and yanked it across the bed with a violent metallic screech. “Shirt up.” I flinched. “Logan, you don’t have to be so—” “Up.” I meekly peeled back my hospital gown, barely daring to breathe while he conducted the palpation. His fingers were colder today, efficient and clinical, though he didn’t press nearly as hard as he had yesterday. When he yanked the curtain back, his eyes locked onto Seth, who was holding the baby near the window. Seth froze, his mouth dropping open until he looked like a landed fish. “L-Logan?” Seth stuttered. “Logan Hayes? Holy shit… the ghost of Christmases past has returned.” Logan didn’t even blink. He signed the chart, turned on his heel, and walked out of the room without uttering a single syllable. “Arrogant jerk,” I muttered under my breath. “Act like you’re God’s gift to medicine. See if I care.” I turned to glare at Seth, who was still staring at the open doorway. “Why did you call him that? He’s not your brother-in-law.” “You made me call him that for three straight years in college!” Seth snapped, turning around. Back when Logan was the star pre-med student at our university, Seth had trailed behind him like an eager puppy, begging for gym advice and calling him ‘bro’ at every turn. Suddenly, Seth’s eyes narrowed into sharp, suspicious slits. He marched over to the bed, holding Toby up like Exhibit A. “Cece. Look me in the eye. Is Toby his?” My heart slammed against my ribs. I forced my face into an expression of utter boredom. “Are you insane? We broke up five years ago. Did I get pregnant through an interstate telepathic link?” Seth gave me a deeply unconvinced, smirking squint. “You’re lying. I know that twitch in your eyebrow.” I grabbed the plastic water pitcher to hide my trembling hands. “Shut up and feed the baby. Stop asking stupid questions.” 5 By the third evening, the fever had broken, and the swelling had finally softened under the assault of broad-spectrum IV antibiotics. Bored and restless, I dragged my IV pole down the hallway to stretch my legs. As I passed the central nurses’ station, a familiar silhouette caught my eye. Serena Ward. She was leaning gracefully against the reception counter, dressed in a pale lavender silk dress and designer heels, laughing softly with the charge nurse. “Dr. Hayes is in the second-floor OR right now, Miss Ward,” the nurse said warmly. “You just missed him.” “That’s fine,” Serena replied, her voice melodic and polished. “I was just running errands nearby and brought him some fresh strawberries and honeydew melon. He never eats during long shifts.” Honeydew melon. Logan’s absolute favorite fruit. A sharp, sour ache twisted in the pit of my stomach. “He might be tied up for another two hours,” the nurse offered. “No problem at all,” Serena said, offering a dazzling smile. “I’ll just wait in his private office. I have some emails to catch up on anyway.” She picked up her luxury shopping tote and walked down the restricted corridor with the easy confidence of someone who had a permanent key. My chest felt hollow. If she had unrestricted access to his office, their relationship wasn’t just cordial—it was cemented. Then my stomach plummeted. The small auxiliary bottle I had used for Toby’s formula two nights ago was still sitting on Logan’s desk. If Serena saw an infant’s bottle in his private study… I turned on my heel, intending to ask a nurse to retrieve it, when two floor aides leaned over their computer monitors, whispering in hushed, excited tones. “Did you hear the rumor? Dr. Hayes and Miss Ward are finalizing an engagement.” “Seriously? How did you hear that?” “My mom is in the same country club circle as his aunt. Apparently the families have been pushing for it for years. Childhood sweethearts, both brilliant… it was only a matter of time.” “God, there goes the finest bachelor in the entire surgical department. Taken off the market.” A roar filled my ears, drowning out the ambient hospital beeps. Engaged. They were getting engaged. The nurse looked up, noticing me rooted to the linoleum. “Ma’am? Do you need assistance back to your room?” “No,” I whispered, clutching my IV pole until my knuckles turned white. “I’m fine. Thank you.” I retreated to my room, feeling thoroughly small and pathetic. Of course they were together. They had grown up in the same small town, shared the same scholarship struggles, understood each other’s worlds. Theirs was a classic romance, sweet and destined. And I had merely been the arrogant, wealthy monster who tore them apart for three years before crashing into ruin. 6 I made sure never to cross paths with Serena. Later that night, after Logan and Serena had left the hospital together, I quietly slipped into the staff corridor and retrieved Toby’s bottle from the break room counter where Logan had apparently placed it. The reality of my life was waiting for me outside these hospital walls. When my family discovered I was carrying a child whose father I refused to name, my father suffered an ischemic stroke from the rage, declaring to our extended family that he had no daughter. My mother had thrown a suitcase at my feet, washing her hands of my disgrace. Only Seth had secretly slipped me cash from his paycheck and checked on me in the dark. My great-aunt, who ran a boutique matchmaking agency, was terrified I would remain an unmarriageable outcast forever. The moment Toby was born, she had aggressively matched me with a client who specifically preferred a partner with a child. His name was Bennett Cole. I had agreed to meet him once at a coffee shop before I fell ill, expecting an arrogant eccentric. Instead, Bennett had been surprisingly gentle, a mild-mannered corporate consultant wearing elegant wire-rimmed glasses. When he heard through my aunt that I had been hospitalized, he insisted on visiting. “Cece, how is the inflammation?” Bennett asked, sitting politely on the guest chair, setting down a bouquet of pale lilies. “I read that severe mastitis can lead to systemic sepsis if it’s untreated. You need to prioritize resting.” “I’m feeling much better,” I said softly, grateful for the normalcy. “The doctor said one more round of IV fluids tomorrow, and I can be discharged the following morning.” “I have Thursday morning off,” Bennett smiled warmly. “Let me bring my car around and drive you and Toby home.” “That’s very kind of you, Bennett. Thank you.” He was genuinely considerate. People always say you don’t appreciate the steady, dependable men until you’ve been burned by the brilliant, dangerous ones. Bennett was safe. “Cece Mercer. You’re not being discharged on Thursday.” The cold, clipped voice cut through the room like a scalpel. Logan stood in the doorway, his chart folder tucked under his arm, his eyes dark and menacing behind his frames. I blinked. “What? Why? You literally told me yesterday—” “The hospital-wide electronic discharge system is undergoing an internal server migration on Thursday,” he said smoothly, without a flicker of hesitation. “No discharges can be processed.” His face was an impassive mask of medical authority. I had no reason to doubt him. I turned back to Bennett, embarrassed. “Bennett, I’m so sorry. It looks like the schedule changed. You don’t have to trouble yourself; I’ll take an Uber.” “Don’t worry about it,” Bennett said, checking his watch as his phone began to vibrate. “Take care of yourself first. Call me if you need anything at all, alright?” After Bennett stepped out, the room fell into a suffocating quiet. “Boyfriend?” Logan asked, his voice dripping with venomous mockery. Knowing he was about to put a ring on Serena Ward’s finger, my petty pride flared up. I lifted my chin. “Something like that.” “Something like that?” He let out a harsh, mocking bark of laughter. “I truly underestimated you, Cece. It’s been two weeks since you gave birth, and you’ve already lined up a replacement father?” The injustice of it struck a raw nerve. “Dr. Hayes, with all due respect, my personal life is none of your business.” He sneered. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he slapped an official white envelope onto my bedside table. “He’s my son,” Logan said, his voice dropping into a deadly register. “Tell me again how this isn’t my business.” The room spun. I looked at the document. A DNA paternity report from the hospital’s genetic diagnostics lab. Probability of paternity: 99.99%. “You…” I stammered, blood draining from my face. “You swabbed him?” “You’re damn right I did.” The ice in his eyes finally shattered, revealing a roaring, terrifying furnace beneath. “Cece Mercer, the debt from that night at the hotel—when you used me, slept with me, and vanished like a thief before sunrise—I haven’t even begun to collect on it.”

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1 At the high school reunion, someone introduced me to my secret boyfriend of five years. “Director Coop, Beth is an associate researcher in your department. Why don’t you two give it a shot?” I stepped toward him, wanting to use this moment to finally come clean. But Coop took a step back and gestured toward his childhood sweetheart, who had just returned from abroad. “No need. I already have someone I love.” To avoid suspicion, his face was cold and distant. “If you’re eager to get married, I can introduce you to someone. He’d suit you quite well.” Looking at the three-foot gap he put between us, I let out a dry, hollow laugh. Five years in the dark. Five years where Coop was perpetually single to the world, perpetually keeping his distance from me. I waited five years for him to go public. I wasn’t waiting anymore. “Sure. Send his contact over.” … The air went dead silent. Coop looked stunned, clearly not expecting me to actually agree. He frowned, about to ask something, but under the expectant gazes of his friends, he pulled out his phone and pushed a contact card over. He called the guy right then and there. “Didn’t you say your family is pressing you to settle down?” “I found a blind date for you. Beth, a Ph.D. graduate, senior researcher in our lab. You guys should chat.” After listening to the guy’s profuse thanks, Coop hung up. If a mutual friend hadn’t called him over, he would have treated me like a ghost, just as he always did, maintaining that strict three-foot perimeter. The bitter burn of bourbon exploded in my mouth. I dug my fingernails deep into my palm just to keep my face composed. Another friend, seeing my willingness to date, pushed a second contact card to my phone. “He’s been asking me about you for ages, but you always refused. His background is solid, Beth. Give him a chance.” Instinctively, I glanced toward Coop. He was standing beside Sienna, a soft smile on his lips, not sparing me a single look. Coop’s buddy chuckled, teasing him. “Coop, everyone knows Beth clings to you because she’s crazy about you. Giving her a matchmaker setup is brutal.” “Yeah, she bought thousands of dollars worth of boba and coffees just to butter us up over the years, and you never gave her an inch.” Sienna swirled her wine glass, raising an eyebrow at him. “Were you waiting for me to come back from overseas all this time? If so, why haven’t you confessed yet?” Coop looked at her dotingly. “Because the ceremony isn’t ready yet. My Sienna deserves the best.” Sienna was beaming. My throat tightened at his words. When we got together, there was no grand gesture, no ceremony. Coop had simply asked me, “Beth, do you like me?” I had harbored a crush on him for three years. When I nodded, he said, “We can be together, but we stay secret. If a single person finds out, we’re done.” Back then, blinded by the pure joy of being with him, I thought he recognized my sincerity. I believed our hidden love would one day see the light. I squeezed my way into his social circle, enduring cold shoulders, holding out hope that he would one day introduce me as his girl. Instead, he pushed me off to another man just to draw a line between us. I smiled, a bitter sting behind my eyes. Seeing me add the second guy, my friend sighed in relief. “You used to reject me saying you had someone you loved, but that guy kept you on a leash without making it official. It’s high time you moved on! Trust me, this guy won’t disappoint!” I kept my head down. He was right. I should have moved on long ago. The friend lowered his voice and glanced at Coop. “By the way, the guy Coop pushed to you is Garrett from the corporate side. Skip that one. He’s a notorious player, sleeps around with models. Everyone knows his family is desperate for him to marry. He’ll take anyone willing.” Before leaving, my friend muttered under his breath, “How could Coop say you two are a good match?” The smile froze on my face. So Coop’s idea of a good match was simply two people desperate to tie the knot. A while back, when my parents pressured me about marriage, I texted Coop. I thought he’d finally agree to meet my parents and go public. Instead, he ignored my message and didn’t come home for a month. If Coop had no interest in entering my world, I was done forcing my way into his. I turned and left, submitting an official request for a transfer out of Boston. Just then, a text popped up from the second blind date: [Are you free to meet tomorrow?] After replying with a time and place, I saw Coop’s latest post on social media: My best friends around me, and the love of my life right across the table. The photo showed him surrounded by friends, with Sienna occupying the center spot. In the group chat, messages flooded in: [Nice, Coop! Sienna’s finally back! Congrats to the old flames going official!] [What do you mean going official? Coop loving Sienna has been common knowledge forever.] [What about Beth? Didn’t she chase Coop for five years?] [Chase? That was pure desperate clinging. Now that the true queen is back, why would Coop waste time on her?] [Even before Sienna landed, Coop had a proposal ceremony and a diamond ring prepped. Is it that hard to see who he really loves?] [Wait… did we post this in the group chat where Beth is in?] A second later, I was removed from the group chat. A dull, suffocating ache swelled in my chest. To fit into his world, I had begged him to add me to that group. I sent countless digital gift cards to liven up the atmosphere, but Coop had only frowned. “Don’t bother sending money, they don’t care about a few bucks.” After that, the group went quiet. Coop told me, “Everyone’s busy with work, nobody has time to chat.” Turns out they weren’t busy; they just had a separate group without me. And the grand public reveal and ceremony I had yearned for? Sienna merely had to exist, and Coop handed it to her on a silver platter. I sat by the river, replying to messages before finally heading home. Exiting the elevator, I ran right into Coop and Sienna following close behind him. Seeing me, his brows furrowed in immediate guarded hostility. “Beth, what are you doing here?” I opened my mouth to say I was just coming home, but remembered his strict rule: never reveal we lived together. To avoid suspicion, he had set rigid schedules for when I could enter and leave. Even living under the same roof, we had never walked through the front door together. Afraid Sienna might suspect something, Coop cut in sharply before I could speak. “Can you stop following me around? I don’t want people getting the wrong idea.” I stood frozen in place. My phone buzzed with a message he had just sent: [Don’t come back for a while.] [Sienna just got back and has nowhere to stay, so I’m letting her stay here.] [I had your stuff packed and sent to the outer suburbs. Move there for now.] I stepped aside toward the elevator. Sienna asked him who I was. Coop’s tone was dismissive and flat. “Just a persistent admirer. Can’t believe she followed me all the way to my front door. Go ahead inside. I’ll have security tighten up the floor.” Before the elevator doors slid shut, Sienna’s cute laugh echoed out. “Coop, you haven’t changed the door code in five years! It’s still the exact day I went abroad!” “I told you to wait five years for me, and you really counted down every single day?” My hand froze on the elevator button. When I first moved in and learned the door code, I had been secretly thrilled. Coop refused to make our relationship public, but the door code was the exact date we got together. I thought it was his silent way of showing love, that he was just bad at grand gestures. Turns out even that tiny bit of joy belonged to someone else. Heavy-hearted, I went to the outer suburb apartment and unpacked my things. Late at night, seeing that I hadn’t replied, Coop sent another text: [Don’t overthink it. Sienna just returned, and I’m just helping an old friend as best I can.] [As for going public, give me a little more time.] I didn’t reply. I just removed him from my pinned contacts. The next morning, I went to work as usual. My assistant mentioned a new addition to the department. When I walked in, I saw Sienna. Coop introduced her to everyone without an ounce of hesitation. “Sienna is a close friend of mine. Her research abroad aligns with our lab’s focus, so she’s here to observe and collaborate. Please take good care of her on my account.” Although Coop was the Director of the research institute, he was notoriously strict about nepotism. When his own mentor’s son wanted to tour his research lab, Coop had bluntly shut him down. Wealthy donors trying to buy research spots were turned away without exception. Hearing him personally ask the team to favor Sienna, whispers rippled through the room. “Director Coop is usually strictly by the book! For him to say that, their relationship must be crazy deep!” “Sienna, are you two an item?” “Come on, tell us! We promise not to spill!” Sienna glanced sideways at Coop, a knowing smile at the edge of her lips. “Us? Well, we grew up together. Childhood sweethearts, you could say.” At her words, Coop’s ears flushed red. Someone cheered with a chuckle, “Childhood sweethearts! Match made in heaven!” Coop’s smile widened. He cleared his throat lightly. “To welcome our newcomer, lunch today is on me. Pick the most expensive place.” The rest of the staff started loudly teasing Sienna, calling her “Mrs. Director” and “the boss’s lady.” I stood still, quietly watching Sienna. The spot right beside Coop, three years of crushing, five years of dating. I had dreamed of this exact moment, dreaming of the day Coop would proudly introduce me as his girlfriend. I was done waiting. Ignoring the noise, I turned and walked away. After work, Coop invited the team out for dinner. Noticing I wasn’t there, he asked, “Where’s Beth?” My assistant gave a vague answer. “She left right after her shift. Heard she had a blind date to catch?” Hearing that I went on a blind date, Coop’s tense shoulders visibly relaxed. He knew the guy’s reputation in their circle. He was certain I wouldn’t waste time with someone like that. At ten that night, right after I got home, the department group chat blew up with several videos. Coop stood holding a bouquet of flowers in his left hand and a diamond ring in his right, framed by a massive backdrop of champagne roses and a heart formed by glowing candles surrounding Sienna. The camera angles were perfect, capturing every bit of emotion on their faces. Coop knelt on one knee, eyes overflowing with passion. “Sienna, the day you left, you told me to wait for you. I waited five full years. Now that you’re back, I finally have the chance to tell you how I feel.” Sienna nodded through tears. Passersby marveled at the lavish setup, and congratulations flooded the chat. I stared fixedly at the video, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. Because the entire setup, the roses, the candles, the diamond ring, the kneeling, was identical to the proposal ceremony Coop had promised me a month ago. A month ago, he had asked me what kind of proposal I wanted. Thinking he was finally going to go public, I enthusiastically described my dream setup: classic roses, candles, a diamond ring, and him kneeling before me. Coop had noted down every single detail. I thought he was preparing to reveal our relationship, so I spent an extra hour every morning doing my makeup, waiting for the day. Turns out he only asked so he could use my dream on Sienna. Tears spilled uncontrollably onto my phone screen. In that precise moment, I cut myself completely free from this hidden, humiliating nightmare. The next day, I started organizing my work handovers, passing experimental data to my assistant. Since the new lab in Seattle was short-staffed, my transfer approval came through almost immediately. Sienna walked up to my desk out of nowhere. “Beth, right? Why didn’t you come to Coop’s dinner party yesterday?” I replied with professional detachment. “I had personal business.” She let out a sudden, mocking laugh. “Personal business? Or did you stay away because you knew Coop was proposing to me?” I frowned, catching the blatant hostility in her eyes. She curled her red lips into a venomous smile. “After all, while I was away, you were basically Coop’s little side piece, weren’t you?” The moment the words left her mouth, nearby colleagues turned to look, their eyes filled with curiosity, confusion, and disgust. “I wasn’t,” I denied instinctively. Sienna pulled out her phone and played a voice recording from one of Coop’s friends: “Beth? Yeah, she’s been taking care of Coop’s physical needs for the last five years. Knowing Sienna went abroad, she practically crawled into his bed that very night. Everyone in our circle knows Coop and Sienna are childhood sweethearts. Only Beth was thick-skinned enough to force herself into his life.” The recording stopped. The cruel words sliced through my nerves like blades. Sienna smirked at me. “Still want to deny it, Beth?” The looks from my colleagues shifted to pure contempt and disgust. Whispers broke out. “Unbelievable. Professional researcher by day, side piece by night.” “Who knows how many times she’s done this? Maybe she slept her way through her Ph.D. too.” “No wonder Director Coop always kept his distance from her. He probably found her disgusting.” I clenched my hands tightly, striving to stay composed. “I was never a side piece. We were…” A few colleagues who had always disliked me rolled their eyes. “Were what? The recording spelled it out clearly! The moment Sienna left, you crawled into his bed. Are you really trying to pretend you’re innocent?” “Someone like her belongs in a lab? Don’t even bother transferring her, just fire her!” I dug my nails into my palms, trying to defend myself. “Coop and I were in a legitimate relationship!” Before the words fully faded, Coop walked over in a hurry, anxiety clearly written across his face. I pinned my last shred of hope on him. “Coop, you came at the right time. Tell them, haven’t we been together for five years?” He walked right past me, stepping straight to Sienna’s side. “Are you okay, Sienna?” Seeing this, the mocking laughter around us grew even louder. “Beth, this is the relationship you’re talking about?” “Legitimate? Or delusional? It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” A colleague pointed back and forth between Sienna and me, her tone laced with mockery. “Did Director Coop even spare you a single glance?” Refusing to accept it, I kept my eyes locked on Coop. He looked uncomfortable. After a brief pause, he finally opened his mouth. “What could there possibly be between us?” “Sienna and I grew up together. How could I ever be with you?” The surrounding sneers crashed over me like a wave. “Hear that, Beth? The relationship you imagined was just your own one-sided obsession after sneaking into his bed. The Director didn’t even know what you were talking about.” I bit my lip to hold back tears, a metallic taste of blood spreading in my mouth. Meeting my gaze, Coop looked as if he had been burned, quickly averting his eyes. In a cold voice, he revoked my transfer request on the spot. “Beth, suspend your work and go home for now.” I curled my lips into a bitter, sarcastic smile. “Coop, we are never seeing each other again.” The snickering from colleagues continued: “Listen to her, ‘never seeing each other again’!” “Director Coop was cursed to have someone like her spreading filthy rumors about him.” I didn’t reply. I silently packed my belongings and walked out. After I left, Coop pulled Sienna back into his office, his voice unusually cold. “Sienna, you said you wanted the proposal announcement so you could fit in with the team as my girlfriend. Why did you go out of your way to harass Beth?” Sienna pouted. “Coop, I was just trying to test her for you! If she really cared, wouldn’t she come back and fight for you?” Hearing her excuse, Coop sighed and dropped the subject. A week passed. Then two weeks. He received no calls, no messages from me. Unable to hold back any longer, Coop finally dialed my number. When the call connected, all he heard was a chaotic, noisy background. Through the loud crackle of firecrackers and festive music, a voice boomed clearly: “Beth, sweetie, how could you leave your phone behind when stepping into the bridal car?”

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1 Ever since my husband started reserving every single weekend for his late buddy’s sister and her kid, my son started stuffing coins into an old cookie tin. When his teacher asked what he was saving up for, he tilted his head up and said, “To rent a dad for a day.” On the day of the school’s father-son field day, while other kids held their fathers’ hands and sprinted across the finish line, Sam stood alone on the sidelines holding a card. On the back of the card, written in crooked, childish handwriting, were the words: Space available for rent. Half days accepted. I tried to pull him away, but he looked up and whispered, “Mom, did Aunt Amber buy out all of Dad’s time?” Later, when my husband finally realized something was wrong, he rushed home carrying a limited-edition robot kit to make up for missing Sam’s birthday. The front door was ajar. On the living room coffee table lay a return slip drawn by our son. Under the reason for return, it read: Dad is constantly out of stock. Customer service is terrible. Item no longer wanted. … “Rachel, is this how you raise our son?” Nicholas slammed the paper return slip onto the glass table. The thin paper crumpled under his palm. At the top was a grid drawn with colored markers in Sam’s shaky hand. Item Name: Dad. Duration of Use: Six years. Damage Level: Constantly missing, breaks promises, gives my belongings to other people. Reason for Return: Out of stock long term, terrible customer service. Item no longer wanted. Nicholas stared at the words, his face pale and tight. “I’m not even dead, and he’s treating me like broken junk to be returned?” I pulled Sam behind my back. “You’re not junk.” Nicholas choked on his next word. He glared at me, his temper flaring higher. “Rachel, stop with the passive-aggressive commentary. I cleared my schedule to come back and celebrate his birthday today. What more do you want?” I glanced at the limited-edition robot kit in his hand. The corner of the box was crushed. The security tape had already been sliced open and peeled back. “Did Mason reject it first?” I asked quietly. Nicholas froze for a split second. “Can you stop dragging Amber and Mason into everything? Mason is young, he opened it to take a look and didn’t care for it. I knew Sam would like it, so I brought it home.” Before I could reply, Sam poked his small head out from behind my hip. He stared at the battered box, his voice barely a whisper. “Dad, is my birthday present just someone else’s leftovers?” Nicholas knit his brows into a harsh line. “Don’t be so petty, Sam.” Sam squeezed the hem of his shirt. “Then can I have the remote-controlled car you bought for Mason after he’s done looking at it?” Nicholas’s expression darkened. “Sam, Mason’s situation is different. His mom is raising him on her own, and he has sensory processing issues. What’s wrong with me taking a little extra care of him?” Sam slowly lowered his head. “I only have one mom, too.” Nicholas went still. A flicker of guilt flashed across his eyes, but he quickly shoved it down. He reached out to pat Sam’s head, but Sam flinched and ducked away. Nicholas’s hand hovered in the air, his pride wounded. “Sam, I’m your father.” Sam looked up at him. There were no tears, no screaming, no tantrum. Just a terrifyingly quiet gaze. “Can a dad expire?” Nicholas was rendered completely speechless. That night, Sam didn’t touch his birthday cake. He dragged out his metal cookie tin from under his bed and placed it in the center of my palm. Inside was one hundred seventy-three dollars and fifty cents, the bills and coins neatly stacked and sorted. “Sam isn’t renting Dad anymore,” he said, trying his best to offer me a smile. “Mom, keep the money for train tickets.” My throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper. I pulled him into my arms. His small, thin shoulders were tense, but he didn’t shed a single tear. For years, Nicholas always claimed he was busy. Busy with the technology center projects. Busy with the youth robotics league. When Amber’s hallway light broke, he was busy fixing it. When Mason had a mild fever, he was busy rushing them to the emergency room. Whenever Amber sighed and said, “Nicholas, my brother ruined his hand back then just to save your life,” Nicholas would drop everything and walk out on Sam’s parent-teacher conferences in the middle of the night. Yet when Sam had his first terrifying high fever at age five, Nicholas didn’t come home. When Sam graduated from kindergarten, Nicholas didn’t come home. When Sam fell on the pavement downstairs and chipped his front teeth, Nicholas didn’t come home. Every single time, he had an excuse. And every single time, the excuse involved Amber and her son. After Sam fell asleep, I walked into the study. At the very bottom of my desk drawer lay an employment contract. Lead Curator, Southwest Ancient Manuscript Restoration Center. I had once stayed in this city for Nicholas, turning down two advanced fellowship programs and giving up a chance to lead my own research team. I wasn’t waiting anymore. I picked up a pen and drew a red circle around a date twelve days from now on the calendar. That was the final deadline to report for duty. In twelve days, I would take Sam and leave. As for Nicholas… since he had been returned, he didn’t need to take up space in our lives any longer. 2 Nine days until departure. I stepped out of the museum’s storage vault, still carrying the faint scent of turpentine and aged paper. When I unlocked the front door, the apartment was in absolute chaos. The rug in Sam’s bedroom had been kicked aside. Two movers were hauling his custom electronics workbench toward the doorway. Mounted on the table was a robotic arm he had spent three months assembling. I had gone out of my way to source those specific, delicate components from a specialized supplier. Every day after finishing his homework, Sam would put on his safety goggles and lean over the desk like a tiny engineer, adjusting every wire with pride. He had named that robotic arm “Little Boat.” He told me that when Dad finally came home, he would program Little Boat to hand Dad a glass of water. Now, Little Boat was shoved carelessly into a cardboard box. Wires were snapped, and half the arm hung limply over the side. Nicholas stood near the hallway, directing the crew. “Careful with those parts. Don’t lose anything. Mason needs them for his competition next week.” I froze in my tracks. “Nicholas, what are you moving?” He turned around, his tone entirely offhand. “I’m borrowing Sam’s setup for Mason for a few days. Mason is competing in the city innovation fair, and they don’t have a proper workbench at their place.” “Borrowing?” I walked over and stepped directly in front of the movers. “Did you ask Sam?” Nicholas frowned. “Sam is just a kid, what does he know? Leaving this gear here is just playing around. Mason actually needs it for serious work.” Just then, Sam ran out of the bathroom. Seeing his workbench being hauled away, his face drained of all color. “Dad, no!” He sprinted forward and wrapped his small arms around the table leg. “Little Boat isn’t finished! The teacher needs to check it tomorrow, I promised her!” Nicholas grabbed Sam by the collar and pulled him back. “Stop throwing a fit.” Sam panicked, tears brimming in his eyes. “You said this workbench was mine!” Nicholas said sternly, “Mason needs it more than you do.” Sam stared up at him, bewildered. “What about me?” Nicholas lost his patience entirely. “You have your mother to stay with you every day. You have a complete home. What does Mason have? His mother is struggling on her own, and his uncle lost his livelihood because of my past accident. Why can’t you just yield to him for once?” I let out a cold laugh. “So you’re paying off your debts to the family by stealing from your own son?” Nicholas’s expression shifted. “Rachel, watch your mouth!” “Is it too harsh?” I pointed at the snapped wires of the robotic arm. “You crushed three months of your son’s hard work just to curry favor with someone else’s child, and I’m supposed to applaud you?” Nicholas suppressed his anger. “Don’t make this a moral crusade. I’ll buy him a brand new set tomorrow.” Sam suddenly spoke up, his voice barely audible. “You said that last time, too.” Nicholas stiffened. Sam looked up, counting on his fingers one by one. “You said you’d buy me a telescope, but you gave it to Mason.” “You said you’d take me to the astronomy exhibit, but you went to the hospital with Aunt Amber.” “You said you’d teach me how to solder circuit boards, but Mason cried, so you left.” He sniffled softly. “Dad, are your tomorrows only reserved for other people?” Nicholas’s face darkened inch by inch. “Sam, don’t pick up your mother’s dramatic habits.” Sam flinched at the harshness in his tone. I stepped forward and gathered Sam into my arms. “You want to move it? Fine.” Nicholas looked at me, caught off guard, as if he hadn’t expected me to yield. I pulled out my phone and hit record. “State it clearly for the camera. This equipment belongs to Sam. You are taking it without his consent. Any damage will be reimbursed at full price, and the credit for his design remains solely under his name.” Nicholas sneered. “You’re recording this? Rachel, you’ve become completely unhinged.” I nodded. “Yes, because I know exactly how reasonable you like to pretend you are.” The movers stood there awkwardly. Nicholas pressed his lips into a tight line, but ultimately signaled the workers to carry the boxes out. At eleven that night, Amber posted an update on social media. In the photo, Mason sat at Sam’s workbench, grinning brightly with his prominent canine teeth showing. The caption read: Mason finally has his very own tiny laboratory. Thank you, Nicholas. You always say my brother ruined his hand for you, but I know you’ve always considered us your real family. The very first like on the post came from Nicholas. Sam leaned against my side. When he saw the photo, he didn’t cry. He simply walked over to his bedroom wall, peeled off a sticky note that read Dad and Sam build a Mars rover together, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash can. I closed my phone, opened my laptop, and finalized the lease agreement for a two-bedroom apartment in the new city. The landlord messaged asking when I could move in. I replied: As soon as humanly possible. Three minutes later, a text from Nicholas popped up. Is Sam still throwing a tantrum? Soften him up a bit. I’ll take him behind the scenes at the tech museum this weekend to make it up to him. Looking at the word compensation, a hollow wave of absurdity washed over me. He always assumed injuries could be discounted. He had no idea that some things, once broken, came with no customer support at all. 3 Four days until departure. Sam’s youth robotics showcase was held at the community center. Without his workbench, he had been forced to piece together a crude, makeshift vehicle using spare parts from old toys. Before leaving the house, he polished the tiny plastic chassis three times. Then, he carefully tucked an entry ticket into his jacket pocket. It was the ticket he had saved for Nicholas. I asked him, “Are you still waiting for him?” Sam kept his head down, snapping a small wheel into place. “He said he would definitely come today.” I didn’t shatter his hope. When we arrived at the venue, other children were fine-tuning impressive, polished creations. Sam sat in a quiet corner, cradling his humble little car, his eyes darting toward the glass entrance every few seconds. Five minutes before the presentations began, Nicholas sent a text. Emergency system glitch at the technology center. I’ll be late. Tell Sam not to make a scene. I put the phone away. Sam had already seen the notification banner on my screen. He asked quietly, “He’s not coming again, right?” I knelt down and straightened his collar. “Mom is here to watch you.” He nodded gently. “Okay.” When Sam’s name was called, he walked onto the small stage, his voice trembling slightly into the microphone. “My project is named… The Homecoming.” A few parents in the audience chuckled softly. Sam held the controller tightly. “It can automatically detect paths, navigate around obstacles, and find its pre-set destination.” The little car hummed to life. Though it moved slowly, it navigated around every barrier on the board with steady precision, finally stopping right in front of a small wooden block labeled Home. The instructor led the applause. A faint smile finally touched Sam’s face. At that exact moment, familiar voices echoed from the back door. “Mason, slow down, watch your step.” Nicholas walked in, holding Mason’s hand. Amber followed right behind them, her voice soft and sweet. “Nicholas, it’s Mason’s first time on stage. He feels so much safer with you here.” The smile on Sam’s face instantly froze. I turned around to look at Nicholas. When his eyes met mine, a flash of guilt crossed his face, but he quickly composed himself and walked over. “See? I made it.” I looked down at the project in Mason’s hands. It was a robotic arm. The outer casing had been covered in shiny new stickers, but I recognized the jagged scratch along the base immediately. That was Sam’s Little Boat. Sam recognized it, too. His fingers turned white around his controller. “Dad… that’s mine.” Nicholas frowned. “It’s just borrowed for Mason’s presentation.” Mason shrank behind Nicholas’s jacket, his eyes welling up with tears. “Uncle Nicholas, am I not allowed to use it? Does Sam hate me?” Amber immediately knelt down to hug her son. “Sam, I don’t mean to criticize you, but your father just wants Mason to build some confidence. You’re so smart, missing one minor opportunity won’t hurt you.” Sam looked at her. “Then why can’t he miss an opportunity?” Amber’s smile stiffened. Nicholas snapped sharply, “Sam!” The entire room fell dead silent. Sam flinched from the sudden shout, but he didn’t back down. “It’s mine.” Nicholas lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Stop making a fool of me in public.” I stepped firmly between Nicholas and my son. “The only person making a fool of himself here is you.” Noticing the surrounding stares from other parents, Nicholas’s temper flared. He reached out aggressively to snatch the makeshift car from Sam’s arms. “Since you don’t know how to behave, I’m taking this back until you learn some manners!” “No!” Sam pleaded, clinging to the toy with all his strength. During the struggle, the small vehicle slipped from their hands and smashed onto the hard floor. A sharp, jagged piece of metal sheared off and sliced straight across Sam’s open palm. Blood welled up immediately. Sam turned pale from the sudden, searing pain. I lunged forward and grabbed his wrist. “Don’t move!” Nicholas panicked for a split second. “Sam… I didn’t mean to…” Sam looked at his shattered project on the floor, then down at the bright red blood dripping from his hand. Slowly, he pulled the crumpled entry ticket out of his jacket pocket. It was crushed from being held tightly all morning. He held it out toward Nicholas. “Dad, I’m returning your ticket.” Nicholas’s voice went raspy. “Sam…” Sam raised his left arm to wipe away his tears. “You don’t have to come anymore.” I rushed Sam straight to the urgent care clinic. While the doctor stitched his palm, he bit his lower lip hard, refusing to let out a single cry. The nurse praised him for being brave. Sam stared at his heavily bandaged hand and whispered, “It’s better if it hurts a little.” My heart squeezed tightly. “Why?” He looked up at me. “So I’ll remember never to save a ticket for him again.” I wrapped my arms around him, tears threatening to spill over. When we got home, Sam sat at his desk and emptied every coin remaining in his cookie tin. He counted them one by one, then took a marker and wrote new words on the lid. It no longer said Rent a Dad. It said Moving Fund. I pulled up the travel app on my phone, selected our train tickets scheduled for five days later, and rescheduled them for the day after tomorrow. There was nothing left in this house worth waiting for. 4 The day before our departure. I took Sam to the main branch of the technology museum to retrieve his stolen workbench. Nicholas wasn’t at his office desk. A staff member mentioned that the annual youth science festival was taking place, and Nicholas was downstairs at the underground hydro-stage area accompanying special guests. I held Sam’s hand as we walked toward the lower exhibition hall. As soon as we reached the entrance, I saw Nicholas standing beside the water curtain stage. He was leaning over, carefully adjusting a pair of protective goggles for Mason. Amber stood right beside him, smoothing down the collar of his suit jacket with a natural, practiced intimacy. Sam stopped dead in his tracks. I felt his tiny hand go completely limp in mine. Nicholas spotted us. He instinctively pulled away from Amber’s touch. “Rachel? What are you doing here?” “Taking back what belongs to my son,” I said. Amber offered a gentle, sorrowful smile. “Rachel, Mason is still using the workbench. Could you grant us just two more days? His final evaluation is coming up, and switching equipment now would cause him a complete meltdown.” I stared cold eyes at her. “If he has a meltdown, what does that have to do with my son?” Amber’s eyes instantly welled with tears. Nicholas’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “Rachel, can you stop starting a fight the moment you show up?” Sam suddenly spoke, his voice unnaturally calm. “Dad, I don’t want it anymore.” Nicholas blinked, caught off guard. “What?” Sam pointed toward the back door. “I don’t want the workbench, and I don’t want Dad anymore. Let me and Mom go.” He turned around and pulled my hand. At that precise moment, the red warning lights above the hydro-stage flashed frantically. An ear-splitting alarm blared through the underground speakers. Warning: Drainage failure detected in the underground exhibit. All visitors, evacuate immediately. Panic erupted instantly. Staff members yelled through megaphones, “Do not crowd the water curtain area! Use the exits on the right!” A second later, the overhead emergency high-pressure sprayers malfunctioned, pouring massive torrents of water down like a waterfall. Water accumulated rapidly across the polished floor. People slipped, and children screamed in terror. I instinctively scooped Sam into my arms and sprinted toward the main exit. In the surging chaos, Mason was knocked over by the fleeing crowd, tumbling into the narrow maintenance trench beside the stage. Sam was bumped out of my grip by a rushing crowd, falling backward into an equipment alcove on the opposite side. The automatic fire door of the alcove short-circuited, slamming down halfway and jamming securely in place. Water surged inside, quickly submerging Sam up to his knees. I threw myself against the crowd, screaming like a lunatic. “Sam!” Nicholas was closest to the stage. He saw Sam first, but in the next fraction of a second, his eyes caught sight of Mason trapped in the trench. Sam gripped the bottom edge of the metal door, his voice shaking. “Dad! Save me!” Mason was crying hysterically. “Uncle Nicholas! I’m scared!” Amber shrieked frantically, “Nicholas! Mason can’t swim! Please save him first!” In that single instant, Nicholas hesitated. It was truly only a split second. But I saw it with horrifying clarity. He turned his back on Sam and sprinted straight toward Mason. Sam saw it, too. The small hand he had reached out through the gap slowly dropped to his side. A burst of raw agony exploded in my chest. “Nicholas!” My voice was instantly drowned out by the roar of rushing water and frantic screams. I threw myself against the jammed door, slamming my shoulder into the heavy frame once, twice, again and again. Water surged up to my waist. Sam’s face grew paler by the second. His trapped right hand was caught underneath the heavy metal frame, blood seeping out and diffusing into the rising water. He didn’t call for his father again. He just looked at me. “Mom… it hurts.” I gritted my teeth and forced my fingers into the narrow gap beneath the door. Sharp metal edges sliced into the back of my hands, but I felt no pain. “Sam, look at Mom,” I sobbed, prying upward with everything I had. “Don’t close your eyes. Mom is taking you out.” Behind us, Nicholas had already lifted Mason into his arms and carried him to the safety platform. Amber threw her arms around him, weeping and calling his name. Using every ounce of strength in my body, I managed to wedge the door open enough to drag Sam out. His right hand hung completely limp. His little body was ice cold. When the paramedics arrived, I carried him straight into the back of the ambulance. Nicholas came running after us, his clothes soaked through. “Rachel! How is Sam?” I shoved him back, refusing to let his fingers touch the gurney. Seeing Sam’s pale, bloodless face, terror finally took hold of Nicholas’s eyes. “Sam! Dad is right here!” Sam kept his eyes closed, giving no reaction at all. The paramedics pushed me back, and the doors of the emergency bay slammed shut. The red light flickered on above the entrance. I sat on the cold metal bench in the hallway, blood still dripping slowly from the gashes on my knuckles. My phone screen was shattered and water-damaged. I opened the chat window with my attorney and sent over the signed documents. The divorce papers are finalized. Custody and asset division will go through litigation. I want a permanent order keeping Nicholas away from my son. After hitting send, I opened the transit app. I changed our tickets scheduled for tomorrow morning to the final train leaving tonight. Nicholas… you didn’t just fail to choose him today. You failed to choose him every single time.

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1 The welcome-home banquet was halfway through cutting the second tier of the cake when the fake heir suddenly grabbed my hand, his eyes brimming with tears. “Brent, could you… please move out first?” The grand ballroom fell dead silent. Whispers rippled through the guests. He looked like he was about to crumble right there, his voice trembling. “I know you’re the true Smith heir. But I’ve lived here for eighteen years. Ever since you came back, I live in constant terror that I’ll be thrown out.” “Please, Brent, I’m begging you. Just move out for a little while. Give me time to adapt, please?” My father, Richard, instinctively pulled Tristan into his arms, his eyes red with heartache. My fiancée, Audrey, stepped up beside him, throwing a cold, disgusted glare in my direction. In the next second, luminous floating text flashed across my vision. [Don’t you dare agree! You’re the legitimate heir! Why should you leave?] [Call him out right now! He’s intentionally backing you into a corner!] [Cry! Throw a tantrum! Make your parents feel guilty!] In my past life, I fell for those floating comments. I smashed a glass at the gala, forced my parents to pick between us, and created a massive scene. The result? The entire elite circle branded me a ruthless, ungrateful monster. My adoptive parents ended up dead and crippled because of Tristan’s schemes, and I burned to death in a rigged fire. This time, I just let out a quiet, amused chuckle. … “Sure. If you’re that terrified, I’ll pack my bags.” Tristan’s sniffling hitched. He stared at me, dumbfounded. Audrey frowned, the harsh lecture she had ready completely catching in her throat. Some guests pitied me, others laughed silently, and a few already had their phones out, waiting for the wild child from the countryside to go insane. I reached over and casually straightened Tristan’s crooked silk tie. “You’re used to the main estate. Don’t stress yourself out. I’ll move into a hotel.” Richard let out an immediate sigh of relief. But realizing how bad it looked, he hastily reached for my arm. “Brent, that’s not what I meant. You just got back. How could we make you stay in a hotel?” Tristan burrowed deeper into his shoulder, tears spilling over. “Dad, I didn’t mean to drive Brent away. I’m just… I’m so scared.” Audrey immediately cooed softly, comforting him. “No one blames you, sweetie.” I smiled. “Let’s just do as he says.” The floating text went wild. [Are you out of your mind? He told you to get lost and you’re actually doing it?] [This is high-society power play, not a charity show!] [Give him an inch and he’ll crush you into dust later!] I lowered my eyes, ignoring the glowing glyphs. In my past life, I thought the same way. I felt robbed of eighteen years. I thought I deserved a bedroom, a hug, a little favoritism. So I fought. I forced Tristan out of the master suite, forced my parents to admit he was just adopted, forced Audrey to honor her engagement with the real Smith heir. And what did I get? He faked a high fever, and Richard nearly fainted from grief. Audrey publicly sneered, “Bloodline isn’t a pass for cruelty, Brent. You’re heartless.” By playing the delicate, fragile victim, Tristan turned everyone against me. In the end, my adoptive father was run down by a truck on a rainy night while trying to deliver evidence that proved my innocence. My adoptive mother died of illness under the stigma of blackmailing a wealthy family, asking me with her final breath, “Brent… are you eating well at the Smiths’?” I never had the heart to answer her. In this life, I won’t fight for a room. A bedroom isn’t a life. Audrey stared at me coldly. “Brent, don’t play hard to get.” I met her gaze with a soft laugh. “Don’t worry, Audrey. I won’t fight you for him either.” Her expression turned rigid. Tristan clutched Richard’s sleeve tightly. “The arrangement between our families was always meant for the two of you over all these years,” I said, raising my glass just loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear clearly. “Since you only recognize him, keep it that way. I wish you two a long and happy life together.” Muffled gasps broke out among the guests. Tristan’s face drained of color. He wanted me to lose my temper, not to publicly bless them. Once the blessing was spoken aloud in front of high society, he and Audrey were bound together in the public eye. The romance was theirs, but so was the shared liability. After the banquet ended, the butler asked if I wanted to rest in the main house first. I shook my head. “Book me a hotel room. I’m leaving tonight.” Richard panicked. “Brent, please don’t do this. You’re breaking my heart.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Dad, Tristan said he’s afraid.” He choked on his words. Up on the landing, Tristan stood wrapped in a cashmere blanket, a glint of quiet triumph buried deep in his eyes. The hotel suite was silent. I unzipped my suitcase. I didn’t have many clothes. Stuffed at the very bottom was a battered leather folder left by my adoptive mother, Hannah. She and my adoptive father, Thomas, ran a small pharmacy in a quiet upstate town. Growing up, I learned to sort pillboxes, check lot numbers, and verify invoices alongside them. When the Smith family finally tracked me down, everyone scoffed at the faint smell of antiseptic on my clothes. Only Thomas had neatly folded every single piece of my clothing before I left. “Brent, rich or poor doesn’t matter. Just don’t let anyone step on you.” I pulled out the folder. Inside was a faded copy of an old ledger and a heavily worn security badge. The badge read: Aegis Pharma – Sector 7. The serial number ended in 07. It was the logistics pass from the old plant the year I was snatched away. Before I died in my past life, I finally learned that my disappearance had been no accident. I whipped out my phone and texted my adoptive sister, Zoe. Put the original badge into a bank vault. Dad and Mom shouldn’t go out alone recently, and record every single unknown caller. Zoe replied in seconds. Are the Smiths picking on you again? My throat tightened as I stared at the screen. The ones who truly gave a damn about me were never my blood relatives. No. I moved out on my own terms. A string of exclamation marks flooded the screen. Bro, did they kick you out?! I chuckled softly and typed back: I walked out voluntarily. Standing outside the mansion is the only way to see what’s really rotting inside. Early the next morning, the executive secretary arrived at my hotel to take me to Old Man Smith’s estate. Grandfather was the sole surviving founder of Aegis Pharmaceuticals, holding the master keys to the family trust. In my past life, I wept and ranted in his study about how unfair life was. He had looked at me with cold disgust and asked, “Besides crying, what else can you actually do?” After that, he gave up on me entirely. This time, I walked into his sunlit study and placed three formal documents directly on his mahogany desk. “Re-verification of DNA Ancestry Records.” “Archive Access Request for Aegis Sector 7.” “Agreement on Smith Family Asset Boundary Division.” The old man lifted his sharp eyes. “You just got back, and you’re already dividing up the estate?” “Clarifying it,” I corrected calmly. “Tristan can keep living in the main house, keep being the precious Smith son, and keep using family resources. That’s fine by me. But every authorization needs to be spelled out in black and white.” Grandfather narrowed his eyes. “Why?” “Because emotions can be messy, but accounts must be spotless.” Silence stretched across the study. Suddenly, the old man let out a short, dry laugh. “You don’t look like the pushover everyone saw at the party last night.” “Too many eyes last night,” I replied coolly. “Bad for business.” He flipped through the pages. The luxury real estate, sports cars, personal drivers, PR team, and jewelry access Tristan enjoyed were all categorized as Smith Family Authorizations, not natural inheritance. His role as Executive Chairman of the Aegis Foundation would remain, but every grant approval, facial authentication log, digital signature, and public statement had to be archived and traceable. Grandfather set down his fountain pen. “You’re giving him a graceful way out?” “I’m buying insurance for the family.” He studied me for a long moment before signing his name with a heavy flourish. “Take this to your father.” That afternoon, in the Smith living room. Tristan’s face paled when he saw the document. Richard didn’t understand the legalities; he just felt I was stirring up unnecessary trouble. “Brent, Tristan already let you move back… Why are you pushing this legal junk?” “Precisely because I moved out,” I said smoothly. “It stops the press from claiming the Smiths mistreat their adopted son, and stops anyone from saying I came back to purge him.” Audrey picked up the paper and scanned it. “This just ensures Tristan stays protected under the Smith name?” “Exactly.” Her tense posture relaxed slightly. Evelyn, my biological mother, thought it over. “Sign it. It looks good to the public.” Tristan had no valid ground to refuse. He signed his name with trembling fingers, tears welling in his eyes. As his pen pressed into the paper, I caught the white hue of his knuckles. Perfect. He had just personally turned the first key to his own ruin. I stayed at the hotel for two weeks, yet the family contacted me far more than they ever did in my past life. Evelyn sent clothes via the driver. Richard sent homemade soup, always looking like he wanted to say more. “Brent, don’t hold a grudge against Tristan. His heart is frail; he can’t handle stress.” I took the thermos. “I understand.” “Then when are you moving home?” “When he stops being terrified.” Richard stood speechless. I didn’t move back, but I started spending my days in the Aegis Archives. Grandfather had granted me temporary clearance. The flagship project of Aegis was called The Beacon Initiative. Twenty years ago, the company made its fortune off a rare-disease drug, later folding its entire neuro-pharma pipeline into Beacon. Rumor had it that after Tristan was adopted, Aegis miraculously secured key regulatory approvals. From then on, he was dubbed the family’s blessing. He played the part brilliantly, gala dinners, hospital visits, children’s foundation campaigns. He was always the face of gentle virtue. In the deep archives, however, I found an archived email. The sender was my adoptive mother, Hannah. Years ago, she had documented severe adverse reactions from that drug in local community pharmacies and urged Aegis to update its warning labels and clinical filings. Aegis had quietly adopted her recommendations back then. Only then did the regulatory approval pass. Staring at the printed email, my fingertips went icy cold. His so-called blessing was built on the quiet brilliance of my adoptive mother. The door opened. Tristan walked in holding a cup of coffee, a dutiful, innocent smile on his face. “Brent! I heard you’ve been grinding away in the archives. I brought you a hot latte.” I didn’t reach for it. His eyes instantly welled up. Outside the open doorway, several employees walked past, slowing their steps to peek inside. I reached out, took the coffee, and set it on the desk. “Thanks.” Tristan glanced at the old files beside my hand. “The Beacon Initiative is really complex. It must be tough for you since you just got back. Grandmother used to say that in pharma, trust and consistency are everything.” I looked up at him. “So you think it should be handed over to you?” He flinched, waving his hands in exaggerated panic. “That’s not what I meant at all!” “Good.” I handed him the draft schedule for the upcoming Anniversary Gala. “Aegis’s anniversary is next month. You’ll continue representing the foundation as the keynote speaker. The public loves your story. You can talk about Beacon while you’re up there.” A flash of greed lit up his eyes before he quickly suppressed it. “Is that… okay? You just came back…” “Your public image is solid, and the media knows you. You’re the best fit.” The floating text flared back up. [Are you insane?! He’s going to use this to lock in his position as the true heir!] [Don’t give him the spotlight!] [Take the microphone back!] I didn’t even give the floating glyphs a second glance. Without a stage, how could he suffer a grand downfall? That night, Zoe sent me a photo. Bro, the manager of Sector 7 back then was Victoria Smith. She’s currently the Executive Vice President. Aunt Victoria. Tristan’s biggest ally. In my past life, when I was framed for leaking trade secrets, she was the first to hand over the evidence to the police. I texted back: Don’t dig any deeper. Stay safe. Duh, I value my life. I smiled faintly at the screen. This time, we’d play it smart. A week before the anniversary, Tristan dominated the trending topics. #SmithFamilyBlessing #EighteenYearsOfLove #TheGentleFaceOfAegis Media outlets painted a tear-jerking narrative. How Aegis was on the brink of collapse until Tristan was brought home, how he started doing charity at thirteen, how the late matriarch called him the light of the Smith family. The comments were full of applause: [The real son moved to a hotel immediately. Guess the family knows who really matters.] [Tristan is the real gentleman here.] [Who cares about bloodlines? Contribution is what counts.] Evelyn frowned over the PR report. “Tristan, these articles are laying it on too thick.” Tristan hung his head, looking pitiful. “Mom, I had no idea my team wrote it like that. If Brent is unhappy, I’ll have them take it down immediately.” Audrey immediately jumped to his defense. “Taking it down will only make us look guilty! Tristan has done charity work for years. It’s normal for the press to praise him.” Richard nodded along. “Exactly. Brent isn’t that narrow-minded.” Everyone turned to look at me. I casually flicked through the foundation’s back-end authorization system. “The traction is great. The anniversary needs publicity.” Evelyn blinked. “You don’t mind?” “Would it matter if I did?” She went quiet. I slid the tablet across the table to Tristan. “Since the press will ask about charity projects, you should personally sign off on these three major patient support partnerships tonight.” Tristan’s fingers stiffened. “Doesn’t the foundation’s secretariat usually process these?” “You’re the Executive Chairman,” I reminded him coolly. “You always tell the media you’re hands-on. You can’t have other people signing your name forever.” Audrey frowned. “Brent, there’s no need to hassle him over paperwork.” “When you take over your family firm, Audrey, do you let your secretary sign legal contracts for you?” Her face turned red with frustration. Tristan had no choice but to pick up the tablet. Facial recognition. Digital signature. Project confirmation. One after another. By the time he finished, his face was pale as chalk. I felt fantastic. On the night of the Aegis Gala, the grand ballroom lights were blinding. Partner hospitals, regulatory consultants, board members, press outlets, and financial influencers, everyone was present. Tristan stood under the spotlight in a bespoke tuxedo, looking like a delicate flower cultivated in a glass house. Audrey stood by his side. Noticing me, she leaned in and whispered coldly, “Brent, don’t make a scene tonight. Tristan prepared for months.” I smiled softly. “Relax. Nobody wants to see his full performance more than I do.” She scowled. The event began, and Tristan stepped up to deliver the opening address for the foundation. His tone was soft, his cadence practiced. “I may not bear the Smith blood, but this family gave me my name, and taught me to honor every human life.” Thunderous applause erupted. The main screen displayed photos of him visiting sick children, sterile hospital rooms, smiles, flowers, warm hugs. Picture-perfect PR. Then, the host transitioned into The Beacon Initiative. Tristan’s eyes glistened with tears. “My grandmother handed this legacy to me with her blessing. I have never let her down.” Just as his voice trailed off, the giant screen abruptly went black. An archived video cut in. In the footage, the late Mrs. Smith lay in a hospital bed, her voice frail but unmistakable: “Beacon… must never, under any circumstances… be given to Tristan…” The entire hall erupted into chaos. Evelyn bolted upright from her seat.

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I finally pulled a secret chaser figure from a mystery box, beaming as I proudly displayed it on my husband’s desk. He glanced at it for a fraction of a second, then tossed it right into the trash can. “You’re twenty-six years old. Isn’t playing with this stuff a little childish?” Swallowing my hurt, I retrieved the figure and listed it on a local reselling app. Almost immediately, a buyer from nearby snapped it up. She mentioned she lived close and asked if I could deliver it in person. The moment I stepped into her home, I froze at the entryway. An entire wall of display cabinets stretched across the room, packed with insanely expensive, limited-edition figures. The hostess gave me a warm smile. “My younger boyfriend bought all of these for me. I told him I’m in my thirties and playing with toys makes me look silly, but he insists that in his eyes, I’ll always be a girl.” Just then, the front door clicked open. A man walked in holding two iced beverages, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on her cheek. I stepped aside, but as my eyes caught his profile in my peripheral vision, the blood in my veins turned to ice. This man, who spent fortunes collecting rare figures and treated her like a queen, was the exact same husband who had called me childish and thrown away my secret chaser just yesterday. Joey. 1 Our eyes locked, and the color drained from his face instantly. “Joey, you’re staring at her. Don’t scare the poor girl,” Stella said playfully, wrapping her arm around his. She handed me one of the drinks. “She’s the girl who sold me the secret chaser figure. Her name is Gemma. You two should introduce yourselves.” Joey regained his composure, giving me a curt nod. “Hello.” He turned straight back to Stella, his voice dripping with unbearable tenderness. “You don’t need to buy secondhand stuff anymore. Whatever you want, I’ll buy it brand new for you.” Stella swayed his arm gently. “Secondhand is fine. Otherwise, my heart aches seeing you wait in line for hours every time a limited edition drops.” I dug my nails into my palms until they nearly drew blood, yet I felt no pain at all. Stella had bragged that the figures on the wall were rare collectibles gathered from all over the world. One particular figure made my eyes sting. It was an overseas exclusive released a year ago that I had coveted for months. Joey had been on a business trip to that country back then. I hadn’t even dared to ask for the whole figure, only begging him to bring back a matching commemorative sticker. He had frowned and snapped at me at the time, telling me he had a mountain of work to do and no time for useless garbage. It turned out he wasn’t short on time. He just refused to spare a single shred of patience for me. Yet for Stella, he was more than willing to queue up all day for an entire exclusive figure. “Oh, Gemma, I have a duplicate figure I’d love to gift you,” Stella suddenly offered. “Let me grab it from the bedroom.” The moment she turned the corner, Joey stepped forward, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the shadow of the entryway. “Go home first,” he hissed in a low whisper. “I’ll explain everything when I get back.” My voice rasped with bitter humor. “Explain what? Explain that you’re hiding a mistress and cheating on your wife?” Panic flashed across his eyes. He shoved me toward the door, slamming it shut with a loud bang. My wrist throbbed with a burning pain, and tears streamed down uncontrollably. Through the thin wood of the door, muffled voices drifted out. “Oh? Why did Gemma leave? I didn’t get to give her the gift.” “I just let her go. She’s just a stranger selling secondhand toys, there’s no need to get close to her.” Then came the sound of wet, affectionate kissing. I leaned against the hallway wall, my stomach churning with pure nausea. Suddenly, a realization struck me like a lightning bolt. My period was a month late. I stumbled back to my apartment, tore open a pregnancy test, and waited. Two bold red lines appeared. I was pregnant. Before I could digest the news, the lock clicked. Joey was home. In a rush, I wrapped the test in paper and threw it into the trash. He walked in, catching sight of my deathly pale face, and his brows furrowed. “Why do you look so sick? Are you feeling unwell?” He reached out to touch my forehead, but I pulled away coldly. He withdrew his hand, letting out a heavy sigh. “What happened earlier wasn’t what you think. Stella is the older girl from next door where I grew up. When I was young and my family struggled to eat, her family helped us out. She has a congenital heart condition. Before her mother passed away, she begged me to look after her. I only agreed to pretend to be her boyfriend so she could recover in peace.” “So you cheated on your wife and bought her an entire wall of limited edition figures?” My chest felt as though a crushing weight had settled on it, making it hard to breathe. “Joey, I just realized you have a whole second home out there.” “And she’s eight years older than you!” My voice rose uncontrollably, my whole body shaking. “You called my hobby childish, but you flew across the world to build a wall of toys for her!” Guilt flickered in Joey’s eyes, and his tone softened slightly. “Fine, I already thought those toys were silly anyway. If you like them, I’ll buy them for you from now on. I’ll handle Stella properly. Her heart is weak and she can’t take stress, so don’t go making a scene.” I stared at this man I had loved for six years, feeling an overwhelming sense of strangerhood. “Joey, let’s get a divorce.” He dismissed it as a temper tantrum, a sneer tugging at his lips. “Stop dramatic. I’m just taking care of her. It’s not like I don’t love you. You’re the one who holds the marriage certificate with me.” “Besides, you can’t live without me. Don’t ever mention divorce again. I’m taking Stella to the movies now. Stay home and stop being unreasonable.” The door clicked shut gently. Six years of dating, three years of marriage. I had given him my heart and soul, only to be told not to trouble his mistress. Before I could process the pain, a message popped up from Stella. I’m so sorry, sweetie. My boyfriend has a quick temper and couldn’t host you properly. I saved a figure for you, drop by whenever you’re free to pick it up. I clicked into her social media profile and scrolled through years of posts, every single one revolving around Joey. My dream figure was completely out of print, so Joey contacted the manufacturer directly to custom-make a set for me. Birthday surprise: a huge box of mystery figures! He canceled an important business meeting just to line up for them. Love my younger boy so much! I casually mentioned a celebrity figure, and he delivered it to my hands the next morning. My boy always keeps his promises. Every photo hid subtle traces of Joey. Back when I drank until I threw up at business dinners just to help him secure clients, all I asked for in return was one afternoon accompanying me to a toy shop. Yet he turned around and grabbed every new release for Stella at the first opportunity. By the time I reached the bottom of her feed, the sharp sting in my chest had numbed into complete emptiness. I replied with a short text. No thanks. I don’t want it anymore. I didn’t care about the figures, and I didn’t want Joey anymore either. I contacted a divorce attorney immediately, sending over all the evidence of his infidelity. That wall of figures was purchased with marital assets after our wedding, and in court, I wouldn’t yield a single cent. That night, Joey returned home holding a newly released box set of figures, holding it out to me. “Look, isn’t this the series you wanted before?” I didn’t look up, folding my clothes neatly. “Return it. I don’t want it.” The smile on his face vanished, replaced by annoyance. “You cried begging me for it before. Now that I bought it, you’re pushing it away. Stop looking for trouble.” “I really don’t want it,” I repeated calmly. “What you owe me was never just a toy set.” He lost his temper completely. “Gemma, are you ever going to drop this!” Right then, his phone rang. In his rush, he accidentally hit the speakerphone button, and Stella’s tearful voice echoed loudly. “Joey, my heart hurts so much… my chest feels so tight…” Joey’s face paled. He bolted toward the door, his arm swinging wildly as he stood up, shoving me hard onto the floor. My lower back slammed against the sharp corner of the table, causing me to gasp in agony. In the next second, a searing, excruciating pain flared up in my lower abdomen. “Joey!” I grabbed his sleeve tightly, eyes red. “My stomach hurts so bad, please take me to the hospital, I’m begging you…” He yanked his arm free in frustration. “Enough! Stop using fake pain to compete for attention! This is a matter of life and death for her!” He walked out without looking back once. The pain worsened, and warm blood trickled down my legs. I forced myself to dial emergency services, and an ambulance rushed me to the hospital. Because of that blow, I suffered a miscarriage. Lying in the hospital bed, my eyes remained dry, unable to squeeze out a single tear. While the procedure tormented me, Stella updated her social media. The photo showed her snuggled in Joey’s arms, his hand resting gently over her chest. The caption read: Joey was terrified! Honestly my heart didn’t even hurt that much, I just wanted to trick him into staying longer, teehee. Hidden from him! Seeing those words, the emotional dam broke, and I sobbed uncontrollably. I had prayed for this child for three years. Gone, all because of a single lie. Soon after, another message from Stella popped up. Gemma, let’s meet up. You really need to take this figure, or I’ll feel too guilty. My fingers hovered over the screen before typing a response. Okay. Good. It was time to lay everything out in the open. The next day, as I reached the entrance of the cafe, Stella rushed toward me and slapped me hard across the face. A loud crack echoed through the air. “Gemma, do you have no shame?” Stella’s eyes were red, her voice trembling. “I treated you like a friend, and you tried to seduce my boyfriend behind my back!” I covered my burning cheek, my ears ringing. She shoved her phone in front of my face, showing a photo taken a month ago of Joey and me holding hands in the park. “I went through your social media and realized you two were together all along! Selling me that figure and coming to my house was just a deliberate act to brag and trigger me, wasn’t it?” Her voice rose into a dramatic sob, her hand clutching her chest as her knees buckled toward the ground. “I’m begging you! My heart is weak, I can’t live without Joey! Please let us go, I’ll give you my entire wall of figures!” Bystanders gathered, pointing fingers while phone cameras aimed straight at me. “How shameless! Being a side chick and picking on a sick woman!” I took a deep breath, raised my hand, and slapped Stella right back across the face. “Your boyfriend?” My voice trembled as I pulled our marriage certificate from my bag. “Joey and I registered three years ago. We are legally married.” “As for that wall of figures, it was bought with marital assets. My lawyer has prepared the paperwork, and I will reclaim every single cent.” The crowd fell silent for a moment. “They have a marriage certificate?” “So the sick woman is the mistress?” Stella swayed, her eyes welling up with tears. “Impossible… Joey told me he wasn’t married…” Before she could finish, a heavy force shoved me back. “Gemma!” Joey rushed forward, wrapping Stella securely in his arms, his eyes filled with rage as he glared at me. “Who gave you permission to hit her? You know her heart is bad!” Stella leaned against him, clutching her chest as she whimpered. “Joey, tell me, are you really married? Am I… am I the mistress?” Joey hesitated for only a second. “No.” “She has delusions. This marriage certificate is a forgery. She’s just a crazy woman who has been stalking me.” Those words pinned me to the spot like ice. “Joey, have you lost your mind? We are legally…” His expression turned completely cold as he grabbed Stella’s wrist. “Stella, slap her back.” I stared at him in disbelief, hearing only his frozen voice. “She hurt you just now. Hit her back. I will never let anyone bully my girlfriend.” That gave Stella all the confidence she needed. SLAP! Another heavy strike landed on my other cheek. Stella bit her lip. “That’s what you get for lying and playing the homewrecker.” She looked at Joey, feigning worry. “But… where did she get such a realistic marriage certificate? Forgery is illegal, shouldn’t we call the police?” A flicker of reluctance crossed Joey’s eyes, but in the next second, he snatched the marriage certificate from my hand and tore it to shreds! The scraps fell to the ground like drops of blood. On the day we registered, he had held that certificate in his hands, kissing it over and over. Gemma, you’re finally my legal wife! In just three short years, for another woman, he tore apart our marriage with his own hands. “It’s just a fake document anyway. Let’s see how you spread rumors now,” he said, his voice raspy and final.

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