Category: English

Chapter 1 The day before my final interview for a promotion at corporate headquarters, my girlfriend secretly submitted an application to transfer me to our Africa branch. I was furious and demanded to know why she did it. She just shrugged and said carelessly, “Liam used my laptop the other day and accidentally submitted it for you. It was just a joke.” “Doesn’t it require a two-step verification? Just reject it.” Liam. The new intern on Emma’s project team this year. He was young, athletic, and spent every waking moment hovering around her. She knew perfectly well that if the application wasn’t rejected within 12 hours, the system would auto-confirm it. I would be stationed in Africa for three years. It turned out that in her eyes, my career and my future were nothing more than a punchline. I didn’t say a single word. I logged in and confirmed the transfer to Africa. Later, when Emma saw my passport and visa processing, panic finally set in. “Didn’t it require two-step verification?! Why didn’t you reject it?!” 1 When I received the transfer order for Africa, the blood in my veins turned to ice. Yesterday, I had asked Emma to submit my application for the internal promotion to the Marketing Department at corporate HQ. Instead, the only email in my inbox was an approval for a “Three-Year Residency in West Africa.” A message from HR popped up: “Hey Ethan, did you submit this by mistake? You have 12 hours to decline the transfer.” Emma and I had been dating for six years. I was planning to propose to her by the end of this year. Everyone in the company knew there was absolutely zero chance I would volunteer for Africa right now. My hands were shaking. When I dialed Emma’s number, my fingernails were digging so hard into my palms they almost drew blood. “What is going on? I just got an email saying I’m being transferred to Africa.” A careless, lighthearted laugh came through the speaker. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Liam came into my office the other day while I was working on your files. He started talking about how the Great Migration in Africa is so epic, so he submitted an application for the West Africa branch as a joke.” “He’s just an intern, he doesn’t know any better. He was just messing around.” “Doesn’t it ask for a second confirmation? Just click decline.” She talked about it like someone had accidentally ordered the wrong coffee. “You think this doesn’t matter?” Her tone shifted, lacing with impatience. “You’re overthinking this again.” “Do you have to be so dramatic? Just change it back.” “If Lucy from HR hadn’t messaged me, this transfer would be final.” “Liam illegally accessed the company’s computer system and violated my privacy. I can report him to HR.” Emma’s voice instantly went freezing cold. “Ethan, you are being completely unreasonable right now.” “It was a joke, and you want to report him to HR?! When are you going to drop this ridiculous hostility toward him?” She paused, her tone growing harsher. “How many times do I have to tell you? He just graduated. He doesn’t know anyone in the company. As his mentor, what is wrong with me looking out for him?” “He made a harmless joke! If you want to report him, you might as well report me too!” She hung up on me. I sat at my desk in a total daze. Seven years. From college clubs to the same company, from being interns together to being project partners. Everyone always said we were the perfect couple. But now, she was staying in the Marketing Department, and I was going to West Africa. With the entire Sahara Desert and a guy named Liam standing between us. Canceling the application only required a single click of the mouse. But I stared at the screen, completely motionless. A coworker tapped on my cubicle divider. “Ethan, someone’s at the front desk for you.” Liam was wearing a loose, oversized grey hoodie, holding two cups of coffee in his hands. When he saw me, he strode over. “Hey, Ethan.” He handed one of the coffees to me. “I just got off the phone with Emma. She’s in a bad mood, so she wants to get everyone together for a camping trip this weekend. Do you think… it’s appropriate for me to go?” His voice was dripping with provocation, his eyes practically gleaming with smug satisfaction. It had been three months. Ever since he was assigned to our department as an intern, it had been like this. Pretending to be innocent while constantly, subtly challenging me. I took the coffee, didn’t drink it, and shot back: “What do you think?” Liam scratched his head, acting bashful. “I don’t know, I didn’t want you to misunderstand. Emma said you’ve had an issue with her lately, so I thought, maybe I should keep my distance…” “Then don’t go.” He froze. “Didn’t you come here to ask for my opinion?” I set the coffee down on the reception desk. “My opinion is: don’t go.” Liam’s face contorted. Before he could respond, the elevator doors chimed open. Emma walked out. Seeing the two of us, her brows instantly pulled into a deep frown. “Liam, I told you to wait for me downstairs. Why are you up here?” “I just came to ask Ethan if it was okay for me to come camping with you guys…” Liam lowered his head, his voice dripping with fabricated victimhood. “I was afraid he’d be mad.” Emma patted Liam’s shoulder protectively. “Don’t be silly, why are you asking him? I invited you, so you’re coming.” Liam looked up at her, his eyes lighting up like a puppy’s, before casting a hesitant, fearful glance in my direction. Emma turned to me, her tone dripping with intense irritation. “Look at how much Liam cares about your feelings, and look at you. You can’t even take a simple joke.” I pointed at Liam. “He cares about my feelings? Do you have any idea how much shit he’s pulled in the last three months?” “Bringing you breakfast and leaving cute little sticky notes right in front of me? Posting ambiguous, flirty things on his Instagram? Who exactly is he performing for?!” “I am your boyfriend! He is aggressively trying to steal my girlfriend right to my face!” “Following you around all day calling you ‘Emma this’ and ‘Emma that.’ It’s disgusting.” “He calls me ‘bro’ to my face, but behind my back, he’s praying I disappear so he can cling to you for a promotion!” Liam went completely pale. Emma glared at me, her expression turning lethal. “Are you done?! When did you become so bitter and toxic?!” “Your mind is so twisted! It’s a completely normal professional relationship and you’re blowing it wildly out of proportion!” “Liam is being the bigger person by not holding this against you. You owe him an apology, and then we’re dropping this.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Are you insane? Me? Apologize to this little pretty-boy? Never going to happen.” Emma’s face went completely flat. “Ethan, I suggest you stop testing my boundaries!” I smiled. Boundaries? I’m practically wearing a neon sign on my head saying my girlfriend is cheating on me, and she wants to talk about boundaries? Oh, right. I used to be her boundary. Looks like she swapped it out for a new one. “Then let’s break up.” Emma scoffed coldly. “Fine, let’s break up. Just don’t come crawling back begging me to get back together later.” With that, Emma grabbed Liam’s arm and pulled him toward the elevator. As the doors closed, I heard her say to him: “Just ignore him. Let’s go plan the camping trip.” Back at my desk, the HR portal was still open on my monitor. The countdown timer to cancel the transfer had exactly one hour left. I started Googling information about the West Africa projects, what to prepare for a long-term overseas residency, and business reports on the Sub-Saharan region. The minutes ticked by. 12:00 PM on the dot. The countdown hit zero. The window to cancel had expired. “Transfer Confirmed. West Africa Project Team, Three-Year Residency. Please report to the branch office within one month.” Even though working in Africa was going to be grueling, the expatriate salary was double my current pay, and I’d be guaranteed a two-level promotion upon returning to the States. It honestly didn’t seem like a bad deal at all. Before this, I had planned a much more conservative career trajectory just so I could align with Emma’s goals. Now, I regretted holding myself back. I closed my laptop just as a text from my buddy, Mark, popped up. “Ethan! I’m at the Blue Note Bar and I just saw Emma and Liam! Dude, they’re practically making out in the booth.” He attached a video. It was a little blurry, but I could clearly see Emma surrounded by people cheering, with Liam sitting right next to her, staring at her with pure, unfiltered adoration. “Emma, truth or dare? A dare could be hugging the closest guy to you for a whole minute!” Amidst the howling laughter, Emma turned and threw her arms around Liam. The booth erupted into cheers and whistles. My heart gave a sharp, painful twinge, but then, almost instantly, it settled into complete calmness. I texted Mark back: “It’s fine.” Then, I started packing up my desk. Two weeks later, Emma’s executive assistant brought a heavy, embossed envelope to my desk. “Director Emma is hosting a project celebration dinner at the Skyline Club tonight. She specifically requested that you attend.” “I’m not going.” The assistant looked shocked. “Why not? You were a core member of this project…” “I have other plans.” The assistant forced a polite smile. “You can bring a plus-one! Director Emma made it very clear she expects you to be there.” A few coworkers glanced over from their cubicles. I took the invitation. That night at the Skyline Club, Liam was standing at the entrance of the banquet hall, wearing a sharply tailored suit, greeting the guests like he was the host. When he saw me, he immediately walked over and clapped me on the shoulder. “Ethan, you made it! Today is the day I officially transition from an intern to a full-time employee. I wanted to celebrate, so I begged Emma to combine my welcome party with her project dinner!” I nodded. “Congratulations.” “Thanks, bro.” He smiled even brighter. “Go on in, I saved you a seat at the head table.” I ignored him and found an empty chair at a table near the back wall. A few minutes later, Emma tracked me down. “Ethan, go to the head table. What are you doing hiding back here?” “It’s fine right here.” Emma took a deep breath. “I let you ignore my calls and ice me out for two weeks. Are you still throwing a tantrum?” “When have you ever not sat next to me at a celebration dinner? Over a stupid little transfer application? Really?” People at the neighboring tables started looking over. A coworker I was friendly with tried to smooth things over. “Ethan, come sit with us, we saved your spot.” I reluctantly moved to the head table. There was one empty seat right next to Emma. As I pulled out my chair, Liam casually strolled over and slid right into the empty seat beside her. “Oh, hey Ethan, you’re here too.” He smiled smoothly. “Emma and I were just discussing the upcoming Industry Summit. Now that I’m officially full-time, she said she wants to take me along to show me the ropes.” He raised a single eyebrow at me. “Should all three of us go together?” I picked up my water glass and took a slow sip. At the end of last year, Emma had promised to take me to the biggest Industry Summit of the year. She said she was going to personally introduce me to the heavy hitters in the industry.”Make sure we take a lot of photos for Instagram,” she had said, adjusting my collar in the mirror. “I want everyone who says you only succeed because of me to see that you have your own merits.” I had teased her about it back then, but inside, I had felt incredibly warm. Seven years. Even after all that time, my heart still skipped a beat when I looked at her. But now… absolutely nothing. I just felt a profound sense of absurdity. “You two go ahead.” “I have too much handover work to do right now. I don’t have time.” After the dinner, I stepped out onto the terrace to get some fresh air. Emma followed me out and grabbed my wrist. “Ethan, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what it sounds like.” I pulled my arm out of her grip. Emma let out a furious, exasperated laugh. “How long are you going to keep up this passive-aggressive act? The transfer thing? Just go into the portal and cancel the application!” “I asked Liam about it. He was planning on telling you anyway, you just happened to see it first. Even if you hadn’t, he would have reminded you the next day!” I nodded slowly. “Wow. I guess I really owe him a huge thank you, then.” “Don’t talk to me with that tone.” She crossed her arms, her voice turning commanding. “You are coming with me to the Industry Summit on Monday. I promised you months ago, and you are going!” She turned on her heel and marched back inside. At 9:00 AM on Monday, I stood by the window in my office, looking down at the street. Emma and Liam were standing by her car near the building entrance, occasionally glancing up toward my floor. I pulled the blinds shut. My phone buzzed. A text from Emma: “Come down here. Do you really want me to come up there and drag you down?” I replied: “Busy. Not going.””What could you possibly be busy with? The HQ interviews are already over!””If you don’t come today, you are going to deeply regret it!” She drove off with Liam. That afternoon, she posted three updates on Instagram in a row. Liam was prominently featured in every single one.[Taking the new guy to see the top-tier industry summit. Seeing the light in his eyes reminds me of when I first started out.][The kid got praised by some massive CEOs today, he was so shy!][Summit group photo! The new guys need as much exposure as they can get.] … The comments section was blowing up.”Is Director Emma mentoring an employee or showing off a new boyfriend? So dedicated!””Did Ethan not go? Did the golden duo finally split up?””Liam really knows how to play the game. Director Emma has a great eye.” Mark screenshotted the posts and sent them to me, absolutely livid.”Is Liam doing this on purpose?! This is purely to piss you off. You guys might not be ‘public’ at work, but everyone with a brain knows you’re together! He’s literally rubbing it in your face.””He’s desperately throwing himself at her like a pathetic homewrecker.””Are you really not going to do anything?!” Was I pissed off? No. I just felt it was pathetic. But at the same time, I felt incredibly light. It only took one intern to show me exactly what her “love” was actually worth. For the last seven years, I had put her on such a high pedestal that I was practically a lapdog. The more I loved her, the more recklessly she treated me. The deadline to cancel the transfer had passed, and that was that. I started packing my bags for my international move. Adjusting to West Africa wouldn’t be easy. I had to get malaria pills, a laundry list of vaccines, and undergo specialized training. But once my mindset shifted, it actually felt like an exciting new beginning. Right before I left, I asked Mark to grab dinner with me at an African restaurant in the city, just to get my palate used to the food. Mark was baffled. “After the stunt Emma pulled last night, you’re actually in the mood to try a new restaurant? This doesn’t seem like you.” “Why wouldn’t I be?” I smiled. Work was work, and life was life. I used to tolerate Emma’s drama and coax her through everything, but this time, she had completely obliterated my boundaries. West African cuisine was heavy on spices, but beneath the heat, there was a raw, vibrant energy that I surprisingly enjoyed. Walking back to my apartment, I found myself humming a song. Mark gave me a weird look. “Are you really over it? Because I saw Emma and Liam’s Instagrams… after last night, they seem even closer…” I didn’t answer. As we walked past a building near our office, I told Mark to head home first. I took the elevator up to the rooftop to get some fresh air. During my first year at the company, this rooftop was my sanctuary. Whenever the pressure of a project got too heavy, this was where I came to breathe. Back then, Emma was my manager. Once, a project I was in charge of got completely rejected by a client. I hid in the stairwell, smoking and feeling like a failure. She found me and brought me up to this rooftop. “Look down there,” she had said, pointing at the sea of city lights. “A failed project doesn’t even register as a single pixel in all that light.” The terrified, insecure rookie eventually grew into her most reliable right-hand man. Later on, we spent countless nights up here, brainstorming proposals, venting about clients, and gossiping. When we eventually became equals at the same management level, we still came up here after late nights at the office. Emma liked to lean against the railing, staring out at the glowing skyscrapers in the distance. “Ethan, the speed at which you’re improving… it’s actually giving me anxiety.” I had grinned at her playfully. “Then Director Emma better work harder, or I’m going to leave you in the dust.” In my third year, the team I was leading hit a critical data error on a major project. The client’s representative stood in a conference room full of people, pointing his finger directly at my face, calling me incompetent, and threatening to terminate the contract. Emma stood up and defended me in front of everyone. “Mr. Wang, I am the lead director for this project. I take full responsibility for any errors. I personally approved Ethan’s final data. If you’re going to yell at someone, yell at me.” She took all the heat, and after the meeting, she proactively offered to cut our management fee as an apology. After the client left, I stood in the empty conference room, staring at Emma’s back as she organized her files. My throat felt incredibly tight. That was the day I started pursuing her like a madman. Six months later, we were officially together. I stood on the rooftop, letting the wind hit my face, quietly watching the city below. My phone vibrated. It was my mother. “Ethan… your dad is in the hospital. The doctor says it might be cancer. He needs surgery immediately, and the deposit is $15,000…” She broke down sobbing. “Can you… can you please lend Mom some money? Your sister is still in college, I honestly don’t know what else to do…” My throat constricted. My relationship with my father had always been terrible. He was an alcoholic and a gambler, and my parents divorced when I was in middle school. But blood is blood. “How much do you need?” “We need to put down $15,000 right now… and there will probably be more bills after…” I hung up, leaning heavily against the railing, feeling as if every ounce of strength had been drained from my body. I had savings from working all these years, but I had just bought a house the year before last, and my monthly mortgage was heavy. If I scraped together every cent of liquid cash I had, it was about $10,000. I was short $5,000. I scrolled through my contacts and called Emma three times. She didn’t answer. Ever since we started dating, I transferred her $1,000 every single month for her to do whatever she wanted with. She lived in my apartment rent-free and had almost zero living expenses. When she didn’t pick up, I called a few close friends and managed to borrow $3,000. I was still short $2,000. I got back to my apartment late that night, and a notification from Liam popped up. It wasn’t a direct message; it was an Instagram post specifically filtered so only I could see it. The photo was of Emma’s desk. Sitting on the desk was a velvet jewelry box holding a luxury watch. The caption: [Oh my god! I have the best mentor in the world! Emma said I did an amazing job these last three months, so she got me a reward! It’s the best birthday present ever! I’m so happy, I’m going to work even harder!] The location tag was set to Emma’s apartment. The timestamp was one hour ago. I stared at the post, my stomach violently churning. That watch cost at least $3,000. It was nearly a month’s salary for me. In the end, I had to ask Mark. Without hesitation, he transferred me $2,000. “No rush, pay me back whenever you’re comfortable. We’re brothers, don’t even worry about it.” It wasn’t until the following afternoon that Emma finally returned my call. “What happened last night? I was helping Liam review his very first independent project, my phone was on silent.” I stared at the scanned copies of my father’s medical records on my computer monitor, forcing down the heavy lump in my throat. “Did that watch you gave the intern cost a lot?” Emma went silent for a few seconds. “Are you being paranoid again? I know you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately, but honestly, are you seriously throwing a fit over an encouragement gift for an intern?” “Liam and I have a completely normal mentor-mentee relationship. He just finished his first solo project, and as his mentor, I wanted to show my appreciation. What exactly is the problem?” Encouragement is fine. Giving a gift is fine. But inviting him to your apartment late at night to give him a luxury watch? Not fine. I hung up the phone without another word. A text from Emma popped up immediately. “Did you cancel the transfer application yet?” “None of your business.” I had no desire to tell her that I was already confirmed for West Africa. Emma sent an eye-rolling emoji. “I know you’re going to cancel it eventually. We’ve been partners for seven years, you can’t survive without me.” “Before you transfer to the Marketing Department, you have to formally apologize to Liam. Otherwise, you can handle your onboarding by yourself. I won’t introduce you to the directors!” We had agreed on this months ago. She was going to leverage her connections in Marketing to introduce me to the senior leadership, smoothing my transition. Obviously, I could prove myself on my own, but having her pave the way would have made things exponentially easier. Unfortunately, I wasn’t going to the Marketing Department anymore. I blocked her work number, and her personal number. I was going to Africa.

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My best friend sent me a screenshot of a wedding invitation. “Is this your husband?” her text read. I tapped the image to enlarge it. The screen showed a professional engagement portrait of a man and a woman smiling radiantly. I didn’t know the woman, but the man—I would recognize his face even if it were burned to ash. Tyler. My husband of five years. The elegant script on the digital invite read: “Join us for the wedding of Victoria Albright and Tyler Lawson. Next Saturday, twelve o’clock in the afternoon, at The Grandview Hotel.” A second later, a voice note from my best friend popped up: “I asked my husband about it. He said Tyler’s ex-wife ran off with someone else two years ago and took every penny he had. He said this is Tyler’s second marriage.” “Ran off?” But I was still here. I was sitting right here on our living room sofa. Just last week, we had gone to a movie together. He had bought two iced coffees, and when I told him I wanted mine with light sweet, he had smiled and said, “I know, babe. I always know.” And now, he was telling the entire world that I had run away with another man? That I had embezzled his money and vanished? On the day of the wedding, I kicked open the heavy double doors of the Grandview ballroom, caught my husband’s eye, and offered him a sweet, steady smile. “Sweetheart,” I said, my voice carrying over the music. “A wedding this grand, and you forgot to invite your own wife?” … I didn’t reply to my best friend’s messages. I just sat on the sofa, my ears ringing with a dull, heavy hum. Five years ago, when I married Tyler, his family was struggling. I didn’t ask for a dowry, an expensive ring, or a big ceremony. We simply went to city hall, got our license, and had a small dinner with our parents. That was it. He had held my hands that night and promised me that once things got better, we’d have a real wedding. He promised me the white dress. It had been five years, and we never had that wedding. Now, he was giving it to someone else. I pulled our marriage certificate out from the desk drawer. The two people in the photo looked so young, smiling with uncomplicated joy. Back then, Tyler had just quit his stable job to start his own logistics firm. He was so broke that when we went to a local diner, he’d count pennies to see if we could afford to share a slice of pie. I lived with him in a drafty apartment over a laundromat. There was no central AC in the sweltering summer, and the radiator hissed but barely gave off heat in the freezing winter. He’d wrap his arms around me on those cold nights and whisper, “I swear, Lydia, I’m going to give you the world.” A man’s promises. You hear them, and then you learn to let them fade. On Saturday, I drove to The Grandview Hotel. A line of luxury cars was parked at the valet. At the very front stood a sleek black Maybach, adorned with fresh white roses and satin ribbons. A massive, life-sized welcome sign stood next to the revolving doors. It featured the same photo from the invitation. Tyler’s arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, their heads tilted together, smiling with pure, effortless joy. That photo triggered a memory. The year we got married, I suggested we get professional couple’s portraits done, even if we went to a cheap local studio. He had brushed it off, saying, “Why waste the money? Marriage is about us, not showing off to strangers.” I never brought it up again, and neither did he. In five years, we didn’t have a single professional photo together. Not one. Now I realized the truth. It wasn’t that he hated photos. He just hated photos with me. Next to the welcome sign was a guest reception table. A young man and woman sat behind it, logging gifts and sorting a thick stack of white envelopes. I reached into my bag, pulled out two fifty-dollar bills, and walked over. The girl looked up, smiling politely. “Hello, welcome! May I have your name, please?” I thought about it for a second, then slid the bills across the table. “The ex-wife who ran off with another man.” The girl froze. “I’m sorry, what?” “Is this some kind of inside joke for the card?” the young man next to her asked, looking confused. I smiled. “Just make sure Tyler gets it. Tell him it’s a gift from his ex.” The young man paled, starting to say something, but I ignored him and walked straight past. The ballroom was massive. Easily forty tables, draped in champagne-colored silk, each centered with a towering floral arrangement and luxury party favors. I peeked at one of the favors—artisan chocolate truffles and a miniature bottle of designer perfume. Just one of these guest bags must have cost nearly fifty dollars. I quietly slipped into a seat at a table tucked in the back corner. The people at the adjacent table were talking loudly. From their conversation, they seemed to be relatives from the groom’s side. I lowered my head, letting my hair fall over my face, and listened. “Tyler really hit the jackpot this time. The Albrights are in international trade. We’re talking millions in annual revenue,” a middle-aged man boomed. A woman chimed in, “I know! I heard the bride went to school in London. She’s an only child. Tyler won’t have to work a hard day in his life after this.” “Didn’t he used to be married?” “Oh, yeah. But the first one wasn’t right. Sickly, poor thing. She passed away a couple of years ago.” “Bad luck. A drain on him.” “A drain on him.” I gripped the strap of my purse so hard my knuckles turned white. When his mother was hospitalized, I was the one who spent seven straight nights sleeping on a plastic chair in her room, helping her to the bathroom, cleaning her up. When his father broke his leg, I drove forty minutes after my own shifts to cook them dinner and clean their house before driving back to our cold apartment. Every holiday card, every thoughtful gift, every family dinner—I handled it all. And in their stories, I was the sickly, dead first wife who drained him? I looked toward the head table. Tyler’s parents were seated there, dressed in expensive custom formalwear, looking radiant. Relatives flocked to congratulate them. My mother-in-law, Beatrice, had a smile so wide the heavy powder on her cheeks looked ready to crack. “Oh, Beatrice, your Tyler has really done it,” a relative gushed. “Marrying into the Albright family, he’s set for life!” Beatrice held her relative’s hand, her voice loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear: “Isn’t she lovely? Victoria is so brilliant, educated in the UK, so refined and elegant. Not like the last one. She couldn’t even hold a proper conversation in public. We were embarrassed to take her anywhere.” My father-in-law joined in. “I never approved of that first marriage. Tyler was just stubborn.” “Well, she didn’t require a dowry or a proper wedding, so we tolerated it,” Beatrice sniffed. “But you get what you pay for, as they say. This time, we gave Victoria a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar wedding gift wire transfer. That’s a real daughter-in-law.” “You get what you pay for.” When I told them I didn’t need an expensive ring or a dowry because I wanted us to save for a home, they called me a “sensible, good girl.” They told me they would cherish me. Now, they spend a fortune on someone else and laugh about how cheap I was. My nails dug into my palms, the sharp pain keeping me grounded. A few tables away, men were passing around high-end cigars. I heard a familiar voice say, “Mr. Lawson, we saw that new Maybach in the company lot last month. And here you are, trying to play it low-key.” “Maybach.” Tyler used to take the subway or ride a rented city bike to meet me after work, claiming his truck was in the shop or he was trying to save on gas. He told me his logistics startup was barely scraping by, earning maybe three thousand a month. On rainy days, he’d refuse to call an Uber, dragging me into crowded buses, whispering, “Let’s save the fare so I can buy you those boots you wanted.” I believed him. He never bought the boots. I used my own salary to pay for groceries, utilities, and rent, hesitating for hours before buying myself a single sweater on sale. Meanwhile, he was sitting on millions, secretly funding an entirely separate life. Just as the anger began to burn through my veins, my phone buzzed in my lap. Caller ID: “Beatrice”. I hesitated for two seconds, then swiped to answer. “Lydia, I need you to transfer ten thousand dollars to my account right now. It’s urgent,” her voice snapped through the receiver, demanding and cold. “What kind of emergency costs ten thousand dollars, Beatrice?” “Don’t ask questions. A friend of mine and I are investing in a boutique business, and the owner needs the deposit today. Just send it.” A boutique business. I almost laughed out loud. “Beatrice, who is this friend? What’s the business? Have you signed a contract? Who carries the liability?” She sighed, clearly irritated. “Why are you asking so many questions? Are you trying to find an excuse not to give it to me? Let me remind you, this is my son’s hard-earned money you’re sitting on. I have every right to use it.” “Your son gives me twelve hundred dollars a month for household expenses,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Our mortgage is eight hundred. That leaves four hundred for groceries, electricity, and car insurance. Do you honestly think there’s ten thousand dollars lying around?” There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by an even colder tone. “That’s your problem to figure out. Just get the transfer done today.” “I don’t have it.” “You make over five thousand a month at your marketing firm. Where is your money going?” “Into keeping a roof over our heads.” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Keeping a roof over your heads? Or are you secretly sending it back to your own family? Let’s be honest, Lydia. In the five years you’ve been married to my son, we haven’t seen a single benefit from your family. Your parents are practically broke. If you weren’t so plain and compliant, Tyler would never have settled for you in the first place.” I took a deep breath, clutching the phone tightly. “Beatrice, you begged me to marry him. You told me his business was failing, that no other woman would stand by his side, and asked me to have patience. Do you want me to play back the voice notes from five years ago to jog your memory?” The line went dead. She had hung up on me. I slipped the phone back into my purse, my hands trembling. Not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated rage. The music in the ballroom shifted to a romantic, sweeping instrumental. The MC took the stage to warm up the crowd. I didn’t stay seated. I stood up and walked toward the bridal suite. At the end of the long, carpeted hallway, the door to the suite was cracked open. The bride, Victoria, sat in front of a vanity mirror while two makeup artists adjusted her hair. Three or four bridesmaids in champagne silk dresses fluttered around her, chattering like excited birds. I stood just outside, the doorframe shielding most of my body. One bridesmaid leaned over Victoria’s shoulder, staring at her hand. “Oh my god, Victoria, it’s huge! Is that three carats? Four?” Victoria smiled, a soft, modest expression. “I didn’t ask. Tyler just said he wanted me to have the best. He told me if I liked it, the price didn’t matter.” “You two are literally goals!” the bridesmaid squealed. Another bridesmaid chimed in, “I heard Tyler’s company cleared over a million in net distributions last year. Is that true?” Victoria giggled. “Something like that. I don’t really handle the corporate accounts. He told me all the household finances will be transferred to my name anyway, so I don’t have to stress about it.” Over a million dollars. Managed by her. Meanwhile, I spent my weekends driving to two different grocery stores just to compare prices and save thirty dollars on the weekly bill. He wore custom-tailored suits, while I wore fifteen-dollar t-shirts because he told me, “As the face of the company, I need to look successful, Lydia. Please understand.” I understood for five years. And my reward was being declared dead. The first bridesmaid lowered her voice. “By the way… didn’t Tyler have a first wife?” Victoria’s smile faltered slightly. She glanced at the door, then whispered, “Yes. But she ran off with someone else two years ago. Took a chunk of his business accounts with her.” “Ugh, seriously? How classless. Who leaves a guy like Tyler for some random loser? Good riddance, honestly. She sounds terrible.” “Yeah,” Victoria agreed softly. “He hates talking about it. It really broke him. So please, don’t mention it to him. He acts strong, but he’s incredibly vulnerable under it all.” The bridesmaids nodded solemnly, their faces filled with pity. “Ex-wife who ran off with another man.” Just last week, we sat at his parents’ kitchen table. His mother had cooked pot roast. He put a piece on my plate and told me I was working too hard. My father was in the hospital last month, and Tyler had driven me there, waiting in the parking lot for two hours without a single complaint. And all the while, he was spinning a web of lies to his new social circle, making me the villain who ruined him. As I reached for the doorknob to step inside, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Tyler was walking toward the suite, flanked by three of his business associates. He wore a sharp, midnight-blue tuxedo. His hair was perfectly styled, his cufflinks catching the bright hallway lights. He looked more polished and confident than I had ever seen him at home. One of his colleagues clapped him on the shoulder. “Man, congratulations! Four years of playing the long game, and you finally landed the Albright empire.” Tyler offered a humble smile. “Just lucky, I guess. Right place, right time.” “Lucky.” I stepped back into the shadows of the alcove as they passed. He didn’t even glance in my direction. He was too wrapped up in his conversation. “Victoria’s father already promised to handle the international distribution channels,” Tyler was saying. “I’ll just focus on domestic operations.” “Must be nice. You just skipped twenty years of grinding.” “Like I said, lucky.” Their voices faded as they walked into the suite. Four years. He had been with her for four years. I did the math in my head. Four years ago… That was the winter I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis. I had a fever of 104, vomiting continuously. When I called him, crying, he told me he was in Chicago securing a critical shipping contract and couldn’t get a flight back. I spent the night alone in the ER. The nurse had to change my IV, and the woman in the next bed brought me a cup of warm water. He wasn’t in Chicago. He was with Victoria. We had been married for five years, and he had been with Victoria for four. Which meant the betrayal started almost immediately after we signed our marriage license. And what was I doing during that second year? I was managing the renovation of our starter home. In the dead of summer, I walked through dusty tile warehouses, arguing with contractors, negotiating with cabinet makers to save every penny. He told me he was “too overwhelmed” with work and asked me to handle it. I didn’t mind the work. I thought I was building our future. But he was busy managing two households, two women. A master of time management. Truly impressive. I took a slow, deep breath, letting the cold air clear my head, and walked back into the ballroom. The lights had dimmed. A single spotlight focused on the grand entrance. Victoria stood at the doors, clutching her father’s arm. She had changed into a spectacular tulle ballgown with a massive train that swept behind her. Two flower girls stood behind, carefully holding the fabric. The MC’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise and welcome the bride!” The crowd stood. The music swelled. The spotlight followed her. Victoria walked slowly down the aisle. Her father took measured, heavy steps, as if delivering something priceless. At the altar, Tyler stood waiting, his eyes glistening with tears, his lips trembling with emotion. I stood at the very back row, refusing to sit. When Victoria reached the altar, her father placed her hand in Tyler’s. He whispered a few words of blessing, lost to the crowd. Tyler nodded, a tear slipping down his cheek. The MC smiled, raising his microphone. “Tyler, looking at your beautiful bride today, is there anything you’d like to say to her?” Tyler took the microphone, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve waited four years for this day. Victoria, thank you for choosing me. Thank you for making me whole.” The guests erupted into applause. Behind me, a woman whispered, “Oh, it’s so romantic. Look at him, he’s actually crying.” Four years. He waited four years for her. Then what did my five years mean? The MC kept the mood light, asking, “We know you went through a difficult period before finding Victoria. How did you manage to heal and move forward?” The room quieted. Tyler’s expression softened into a look of practiced melancholy. He lowered his voice. “My previous relationship was… painful. My ex-wife was unfaithful. She cleared out my personal accounts and walked away when I needed her most. I was entirely broken.” “But Victoria was my light in the dark. She stood by me when I had nothing. Without her, I wouldn’t be standing here today.” He turned to Victoria, his eyes filled with devotion. Flawless. Moving. I began to walk toward the stage. The lights lining the runway were blinding, but my simple black dress kept me hidden in the shadows of the outer aisle. Nobody noticed me. Step by step, I approached the altar, stepping onto the low stage platform. The MC saw me first. He froze, the microphone slipping slightly in his hand, causing a sharp squeal of feedback through the speakers. Guests began to look up, murmuring in confusion. Tyler followed the MC’s gaze, turning around. The expression on his face is something I will carry to my grave. First, absolute blankness. Then, his pupils dilated in sheer terror. The color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, ghostly pale. His lips parted, but his body remained completely frozen, as if pinned to the floor. “L… Lydia…” the word caught in his throat, coming out as a strangled whisper. The entire room of three hundred guests fell dead silent. I offered him a sweet, gentle smile, looking directly into his eyes. The spotlight caught him, while I stood at the edge of the shadow, perfectly visible to everyone. “Sweetheart,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “A wedding this grand, and you forgot to invite your own wife?”

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For five years, I was a prisoner inside my own ribcage. A traveler from another world took over my life, armed with a system and a mission to win over the people I loved. I had always been loud, fierce, and fiercely passionate. She was quiet, dull, and painfully awkward. The moment she slipped into my skin, my parents and my husband knew she wasn’t me. For the first three years, they didn’t even try to hide their disgust for the intruder. But the universe—her “system”—had a rule: I could only return once she successfully completed her mission of making them love her. She was too terrified to make a move. So, desperate to bring me back, my family began guiding her, holding her hand through the steps to win themselves over. I truly believed they loved me beyond measure. Until I woke up early. When I finally opened my eyes, I found Christian gripping my wrists, his eyes swimming with terror and desperation. “The mission is almost over…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Please… can’t you just stay?” My parents sat beside the bed, nodding through their tears. “Sweetheart, we came back from ten years in the future.” “In that future, after you left, our real daughter returned. But nothing felt right anymore. We weren’t used to her.” “We tried to find you, only to discover that when you went back to your original world… you died.” I let out a quiet, hollow laugh. So that was it. There was no one left in this world waiting for me to come home. But it didn’t matter. What they didn’t know was that I had a system of my own. Since all my ties to this life were severed, my work here was done. This time, I could leave without looking back. … Deep in my mind, I summoned my system. “Confirming abandonment of my current identity. Requesting immediate extraction.” The cold, synthesized voice chimed in instantly: “Application received. Extraction sequence initiated. Countdown: twenty-four hours. After today, your soul will be permanently returned to your original world.” Sensing my silence, Christian tightened his grip on my wrist. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling. “Please, Gloria,” he pleaded. “Stay. I beg you.” I stared at him for what felt like an eternity, then let out a soft, tired sigh. My mother lunged forward, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “Yes, Gloria. I can’t survive without you. Please, just stay with us.” My father stood at the foot of the bed. He didn’t speak, but his eyes were filled with desperate hope. They were calling for Gloria. The name of the traveler. I looked at the three people who used to be my entire universe. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat, masking every ounce of grief behind a blank stare. Then, mimicking Gloria’s soft, timid cadence, I whispered, “Okay. I won’t leave.” The moment the words left my lips, Christian pulled me into a crushing embrace. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his hot tears spilling onto my skin. “Thank God… thank you, Gloria.” My mother covered her mouth, sobbing with relief, while my father turned away to wipe his eyes, a heavy weight lifting from his shoulders. They were so incredibly happy. So consumed by their relief that they failed to realize the person sitting right in front of them was the daughter my mother had carried for nine months, the girl Christian had grown up with and loved since childhood. They didn’t see Iris. I rested stiffly against Christian’s shoulder, my eyes drifting to the framed family photo on the nightstand. It was taken five years ago. In the picture, I was wearing a vibrant red dress, laughing hysterically as I piggybacked on Christian. Back then, Christian used to tell me I was his sun. He swore to the heavens that no one would ever take his sun away. Back then, my mother spent hours in the kitchen every Sunday making my favorite chicken pot pie, pulling the golden crust fresh from the oven just for me. And when someone at a high-society gala whispered that I was too wild, too spoiled to be the daughter of Thomas, my father had flipped the table in a rage, pointing a finger in the man’s face and telling him to get the hell out. He had roared that his daughter had earned the right to be spoiled for the rest of her life. But everything shifted the moment the traveler invaded my body. And my own system had been powerless to stop it. During the first year, when Gloria had first taken over, Christian had shoved away a glass of water she tried to hand him. “Don’t use Iris’s face to look so pathetic,” he had sneered, disgust dripping from his voice. “It makes me sick.” In the second year, when Gloria clumsily cut her finger in the kitchen, my mother had watched her bleed with cold indifference. “My daughter has never stepped foot in a kitchen,” she had snapped. “Stop pretending to be a dutiful housewife.” By the third year, Gloria’s progress had stalled completely, triggering a penalty warning from her system. Desperate to get me back, my father swallowed his pride and his hatred, teaching Gloria step-by-step how to please Christian, how to win his heart back. It was around that time that my soul, drained of all its energy, fell into a deep slumber. I slept for two years, believing my family was enduring a living nightmare just to rescue me. I didn’t realize that while I slept, their hearts had quietly drifted away. What had happened during those two years? “System,” I called out in the silence of my mind. “Show me the memory logs from my slumber.” The system complied, projecting a stream of memories directly into my consciousness. The reel began to spin. Year Four. Gloria had drank herself to a stomach hemorrhage at a business dinner to save Christian from a client. Christian stayed by her hospital bed for three days and nights, gently wiping her brow with a warm cloth. When she finally opened her eyes, he kissed the back of her hand, his eyes red. “You’re so clumsy,” he had murmured, his voice thick with a tenderness he could no longer hide. “How are you going to survive without me?” Later that year, Gloria sat crying, unable to memorize the complex social etiquettes my father was trying to drill into her. For the first time, Thomas didn’t yell. Instead, he handed her a tissue. “If you can’t learn it, don’t,” he said softly. “Being quiet is nice, too. At least you don’t cause trouble like Iris did.” Then, Gloria cut her finger again while trying to complete a cooking challenge set by her system. My mother rushed into the kitchen, snatched the knife, and threw it into the trash. Hugging Gloria tight, she wept, “To hell with the mission! We don’t care about bringing Iris back anymore! Just don’t hurt yourself!” Year Five. Margaret took Gloria shopping. She walked right past the vibrant red dresses I used to adore, instead filling a wardrobe with soft, minimalist white linen dresses. “White suits you so well, Gloria,” my mother had said, smiling warmly. “It’s so clean and peaceful.” The projection faded. I reached up and quietly wiped away a tear before it could fall. Just two years. In just two short years, they had taken an outsider and, piece by piece, raised her to be the darling of their hearts. Gently, I pushed Christian away. Using Gloria’s quiet, hesitant voice, I asked, “If I stay… what happens to Iris?” The living room fell dead silent. My father stared down at the hardwood floor. My mother gripped my hands tightly, her voice cracking with emotion. “Gloria, like we said, we came back from ten years in the future.” “In that future, you finished your mission and gave Iris her body back. But we realized we couldn’t go back to the way things were. We weren’t used to her anymore. Iris… she wouldn’t even let us speak your name. She made us throw away everything that belonged to you.” “We missed you so much. We missed the dishes you baked, the quiet way you waited by the door for us to come home.” “So, we decided to go look for you. But we found out that when you returned to your original world… you died in an accident.” Christian grabbed my shoulders, desperation clawing at his face. “We regretted it so much. We prayed to every god, made bargains with the universe, begging on our knees for a second chance.” “And the universe answered. We were sent back to this moment, before you left. This time, we are never letting you go.” Listening to them, my throat felt like it was clogged with ash. So in that other lifetime, I hadn’t just lost their love; I had been branded an unreasonable, bitter woman for wanting my own life back. They had crossed a decade, weeping and begging the heavens, not to save me—but to rescue Gloria. Still playing Gloria, I asked softly, “But what about Iris? Are you just going to abandon her?” My father let out a heavy sigh. “We’ll find a way. Iris is our daughter, but you’re our daughter now, too. We want both of you.” I turned my gaze to Christian. “Do you feel that way too?” Christian looked up, his eyes shining with naked devotion. “Yes, Gloria. I can’t live without you either. As for Iris…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ll make it up to her. I’ll sign over my shares to her name. She’ll have enough money to never work a day in her life.” I stared at his earnest face. Seven years of love and shared history, reduced to a financial settlement. I offered a gentle nod, keeping Gloria’s placid smile on my face. “Well, congratulations,” I thought. “You succeeded. You kept your precious Gloria. And I, finally, get to leave.” My mother squeezed my hands. “Gloria, you have such a soft heart. We know you feel guilty about taking Iris’s body. We know you’d never want to hurt her just to save yourself.” I looked at her, saying nothing, and slowly pulled my hands back. In the corner of my vision, my countdown clock was ticking away. My father sighed. “That’s why we went to your system. We asked if there was a way for both of your souls to co-exist, without either of you having to sleep forever.” My grip tightened around my glass of water. “The system told us that for one body to host two conscious souls, it requires massive energy. To achieve that balance, we have to weaken the original soul’s anchor to this world.” “We have to destroy the three things Iris treasures most in this world.” Christian chimed in quickly. “But don’t worry, it’s just a temporary hardship for her. If it weren’t for you looking after her parents and taking care of me these past five years, this family would have fallen apart long ago. What’s a little suffering compared to that?” Margaret’s eyes welled with tears. “Don’t carry this burden, Gloria. We can’t let you die. Iris doesn’t know any of this anyway. We’ll explain it to her later when she wakes up.” My father nodded in agreement. “Exactly. This is the only way you both survive. Making Iris suffer a little in exchange for two lives—it’s worth it.” Even though I had already checked out of this world, hearing those words pour from their mouths carved a sharp, fresh ache into my chest. “Sacrificing me for my own good.” What a beautifully twisted joke. But thankfully, Iris wouldn’t be needing their mercy anymore. I summoned Gloria’s quiet, submissive smile. “Okay. I trust you.” A wave of relief washed over the room. Christian turned to my parents, immediately mapping out the system’s instructions. “First, Iris’s art gallery downtown. I’ll have my people clear it out tomorrow and put the property up for sale.” My mother hesitated for a split second. “But she worked so hard to build that place. She loved that gallery.” “Mom, we spoiled her too much in the last life,” Christian said, his voice dropping. My father nodded. “A gallery can be rebuilt. Once her soul is stable, I’ll buy her a bigger space in a prime location.” “Second,” Christian paused, his eyes falling on the ring on my finger. “Our seventh anniversary. The ceremony is tomorrow. I’ll announce its cancellation publicly, revoking my vows to Iris.” I listened in silence, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of my lips. That was the ring he had slipped onto my finger while kneeling in front of our entire university class. He had sworn to the world that Iris would be his wife, and only his, forever. “And the third?” my mother asked. My father took a breath. “Third, we erase every trace of Iris from this house. Her bedroom will be completely gutted and remodeled into a style Gloria likes.” My father looked at me, his voice soothing. “Gloria, we are keeping you with us in this life. When we found you in your world, you were lying on a cold slab in a morgue.” Margaret chimed in, tears spilling over. “That’s why we’d rather let Iris suffer a little than lose you again. She’s our flesh and blood—she’ll understand our sacrifices once she wakes up.” I watched the three of them console one another. They had fully convinced themselves of their righteousness. To save Gloria, they were going to tear my life apart, all under the guise of loving me. Right there in front of me, Christian called his assistant. “Liquidate every painting in Iris’s gallery. Sell them off, give them away, do whatever it takes. I want the deed transferred by the end of the day.” Hanging up, he looked at me eagerly. “Step one is done, Gloria. Did the system’s progress bar move?” I stared at the empty air, pretending to look at a holographic screen, and nodded. “It did.” Christian exhaled a long breath. Then, he pulled up his social media account, which had millions of followers. For years, his feed had been a public monument to our love. Now, without a shred of hesitation, his thumb swiped across the screen. He hit delete on every photo, every love letter, every anniversary post, and our engagement announcement. He topped it off by posting a public statement: “Seven years, and it’s over. We have gone our separate ways. I wish her the best.” I watched the post go live. Within five minutes, his phone was blowing up with texts and calls from mutual friends. Christian simply powered it off. He turned to comfort me—or perhaps to comfort himself. “It doesn’t matter. Reputation, pride… none of it matters as long as we keep you both alive. I’ll explain everything to Iris when she’s back.” Upstairs, the deafening sound of drilling began. My parents had personally escorted a construction crew into the bedroom I had lived in for twenty-five years. I walked up the stairs and leaned against the doorframe, watching. My mother pointed at the framed certificates and paintings on my wall, her voice sharp and clinical. “Take all of these down. Throw them in the dumpster outside.” “Get rid of the bed too,” my father ordered the workmen. “Replace it with a simple single bed. Strip the wallpaper. Paint everything solid white.” That was the pink wallpaper my mother had spent a whole weekend helping me hang. That was the custom oak display case my father had commissioned for me when I won the state art championship. Now, the workers ripped them down, piling them in the hallway like junk. My mother pulled a thick leather photo album from my desk drawer—our family album, filled with memories of the three of us from my childhood to my twenties. Without a single glance inside, she tossed it directly into a heavy black trash bag. “Is there anything else we should change, Gloria?” she asked, turning to me. I shook my head slowly. “No, it’s perfect. The system says the tasks are complete.” In reality, the voice ringing in my head was saying: “Extraction countdown: ten minutes.” As the last of my belongings hit the bottom of the trash bag, a violent, tearing pain flared through my chest. The physical toll of the soul extraction hit me all at once. I tasted copper, and a splash of blood spilled past my lips. My mother gasped, rushing forward to support me. “Gloria! What’s happening?” My father hovered over us, panic in his eyes. “Is this a side effect of the balance transfer?” I nodded, my face turning deathly pale. “The system says… Iris’s soul is experiencing rejection pain. My body is just feeling the resonance. It will pass once the countdown ends.” Hearing that it was Iris who was suffering, the tension melted from their faces. Christian gently wiped the blood from my chin, his voice incredibly soft. “Hold on. It’ll be over soon.” Five minutes. I pushed Christian’s hand away and stood up straight, steadying myself. I looked around the room, at the bare walls, at the three people who once meant everything to me. I felt absolutely nothing. One minute left. The voice echoed: “Extraction sequence ready.” I looked at Christian, at Thomas, and at Margaret. They were staring at me with eyes full of hope, waiting for Gloria to stabilize, waiting for the beautiful future where both souls lived in harmony. I counted down in my head. “Three. Two. One.” “Erase all soul traces of Iris from this world,” I commanded my system. A violent wave of weightlessness hit me. My soul was ripped from the physical shell. From a height, I watched my body collapse, losing all strength. Christian lunged forward, catching her in his arms. “Gloria!” My parents scrambled over. “Why did she faint? Did it work?” Margaret cried. “Is Iris awake?” “It should be fine,” my father reassured her, though his voice shook. “We did everything the system asked. Iris should be waking up now.” On the sofa, the woman’s eyelashes fluttered. She slowly opened her eyes, the haze of unconsciousness giving way to sharp, clear recognition. Christian gripped her hand, his voice thick with tenderness. “Gloria, you’re awake. How do you feel? Is Iris there? Can she hear us?” Gloria stared at Christian’s hand around hers, then looked at the worried faces of Thomas and Margaret. She flinched, her voice trembling. “How… how am I back? I’m alive?” Christian froze. “Gloria, what are you talking about? Of course you’re back. Can you feel Iris? Is she in there with you?” Gloria’s eyes widened in horror. “But… my system told me that this final day belonged to Iris. She took control of the body for twenty-four hours to say her final goodbyes.” She swallowed hard, looking around the empty, ruined room. “Did she already leave?”

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I went to the insurance office to cash out my modest personal accident policy. I needed to scrape together five thousand dollars to pay for my mother’s cataract surgery. She was slowly losing her sight, the edges of her world blurring into shadow, and I was desperate to save what was left of her vision. But the customer service representative stared at me, her expression a mix of profound confusion and mild suspicion. “Ma’am,” she said, tapping her screen. “There is a matured high-net-worth private trust linked directly to your primary account. Its current surrender cash value is eighty-four million dollars. Are you sure you want to cancel a basic accident policy worth five hundred bucks?” The room tilted. For a terrifying second, the ground felt entirely liquid under my feet. “Eighty-four million dollars.” The number buzzed in my ears like static. My mind flashed back to the previous night—the harsh, sterile glare of the hospital corridor, my husband, Thomas, screaming at my fragile mother outside her ward. He had ranted about how we were drowning in debt, how we couldn’t even afford groceries, and how she needed to sign the AMA forms and go home to wait for the end. For five years, Thomas had controlled every single penny we made. He made me feel like a parasite. When I was in labor, he had treated my hospital stay as an extravagant, unnecessary expense. I swallowed the lump of bile in my throat, forced my hands to stop shaking, and looked the agent dead in the eye. “Liquidate the trust,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Transfer the entire balance to a new, private account solely in my name. And print me a certified copy of the original policy agreement with the policyholder’s signature.” That very afternoon, Thomas burst into the hospital wing, dropping to his knees beside my mother’s bed with a theatrical thud. … “Mom, I’m begging you. If not for me, do it for Freda. Have some mercy on us. Let’s just go home.” Thomas clutched the edge of the mattress, his knees hitting the linoleum floor. The shared six-bed ward fell into a dead, suffocating silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out tears, wiping his face with the back of his hand in a display of practiced misery. “Freda only makes four thousand a month, and my salary barely covers our mortgage,” he sobbed, his voice cracking perfectly on cue. “This illness of yours is a black hole. If we keep paying for these treatments, we’re going to end up on the street!” His shoulders trembled, the perfect picture of a devoted, desperate son-in-law pushed to his absolute limit. Right then, his mother, Martha, squeezed through the curtained doorway. She shuffled over to Thomas’s side, instantly wiping her dry eyes with a tissue she had brought for the occasion. “Abigail, look at what you’re doing to my boy,” Martha wailed, her voice carrying across the ward. “He’s taken out payday loans just to keep up with your bills. The collectors are calling him day and night, cursing him out. As parents, we can’t be so selfish. You can’t destroy the kids’ lives just to buy yourself a few more months.” Watching them perform made my stomach churn with pure disgust. Just twelve hours ago, in the dim hallway outside, Thomas had jabbed his finger into my collarbone, his face twisted in venomous rage. “The old bag is going to die anyway,” he had hissed. “Unplug her. Stop wasting my hard-earned money.” Now, he had donned a brand-new mask, staging this pathetic melodrama to weaponize the pity of strangers and guilt my mother into submission. On the bed, my mother looked visits-impossibly small, her face pale and sunken against the cheap hospital pillows. The shame in her eyes broke my heart. “Thomas… please, stand up,” she whispered, her voice cracking with defeat. “I’ll stop the treatments. I’ll go home with you.” Thomas immediately straightened up, sliding a crumpled sheet of paper from his coat pocket and pressing a pen into her trembling hand. “This is the AMA discharge release. Just sign here, and I’ll call an Uber to take us home right now.” I stepped forward, snatching the paper out of his hand before her pen could touch the line. Thomas froze, staring up at me, his eyes narrowing. “Freda, what the hell are you doing? Your mother already agreed.” I folded the paper in half and shoved it deep into my coat pocket. “If she’s leaving, I’ll sign the paperwork myself after I talk to her doctor.” Thomas bolted to his feet, his polite facade slipping for a fraction of a second. “You can’t sign it! The hospital policy says the patient has to sign it themselves!” Martha chimed in, her voice shrill. “Exactly! What does a useless spendthrift like you know? Give the paper back and let your mother sign!” I locked eyes with Thomas, feeling a cold, sharp clarity wash over me. “Thomas, are you absolutely sure this is just a standard medical discharge form?” A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He stiffened his neck. “Of course it is! What else would it be?” “Fine. Let me read it out loud to the ward then.” Before I could pull the paper out, Thomas lunged forward, slamming his palm over my mouth. “Freda! Do you want to ruin us? Are you trying to drive me to suicide?” His grip was viciously tight, cutting off my breath. I clawed at his fingers, digging my nails into his skin until he gasped and let go. I stumbled back, catching my breath in the heavy, silent room. Every eye in the ward was pinned on us. “I’m driving “you” to ruin?” I whispered, staring at the man I had been married to for five years. Five years. Every single paycheck I earned was automatically deposited into his account under the guise of “smart family investing.” In return, he gave me a weekly allowance of two hundred dollars. I was expected to buy groceries, pay the utility bills, and purchase household essentials on that. I had to ask for his permission—and endure a lecture—just to buy a pack of tampons. Two years ago, when I was in labor, writhing in agony on the hospital bed, I had begged him to let me get an epidural. It was an extra fifteen hundred dollars out-of-network. He had stood outside the delivery room door, shouting so everyone could hear: “Every other woman handles it, Freda! Why are you so fragile? Just push through it. Think of how many boxes of formula fifteen hundred dollars can buy!” I had eventually passed out from the sheer intensity of the pain. And now, he stood here telling me I was the one pushing him to the edge. On the bed, my mother reached out blindly, her hand brushing against my sleeve. “Freda, please, don’t fight. I really don’t want the surgery. I haven’t been able to leave you anything in this life… I won’t let myself be a burden to you in death.” Martha rushed over, covering my mother’s frail hand with her own. “That’s exactly right, Abigail. We all have our time. It’s God’s plan. Don’t worry, once we get you home, I’ll take real good care of you.” The hypocrisy made me physically ill. When my mother was first admitted last month, Martha had visited exactly once. She had stood by the door, holding her nose, complaining loudly that the ward smelled like a hospice. Seeing my silence, Thomas assumed I had broken. His expression softened into that patronizing, gentle tone he used whenever he wanted to manipulate me. He reached out to take my arm. “Freda, look, even Mom agrees. Give me the paper. Let’s get her signature and get this over with.” I stepped back, letting his hand fall into empty air. His face darkened instantly. He whipped out his phone, pulling up a screenshot and shoving it inches from my nose. “Look at this! You think I’m a monster? I literally don’t have the money, Freda! Two hundred thousand dollars in debt! How am I supposed to pay this off?” I glanced at the glowing screen. The loan statement was real, and his name was clearly on it. But not a single dollar of that money had gone toward my mother’s treatment. For the past six months, I had begged friends for loans and pawned my grandmother’s gold necklace just to pay for her medication. Thomas hadn’t contributed a dime. Looking at his shifting, defensive eyes, a sickening realization began to take shape. “Thomas, you didn’t spend a single cent of this loan on my mother. Where did that money actually go? You know the answer, don’t you?” Thomas blew up, his face turning a mottled purple. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Freda? You’re accusing me? I work myself to the bone every damn day for this family, and this is the thanks I get?” He pointed an aggressive finger at me. “Fine! If you’re so independent, you pay for her! From this second on, I’m not paying a single cent for this old woman’s bills!” Martha spat on the floor. “Ungrateful brat! Come on, Thomas, let’s leave her with this mess. Let’s see how long she lasts!” Thomas turned on his heel. At the threshold of the ward, he stopped, throwing a vicious glare over his shoulder. “I’m warning you, Freda. If you don’t get her to sign those forms today, don’t bother coming back to my house. You’re locked out!” With that, he dragged his mother down the corridor. I stood in the quiet of the ward, taking a slow, shaky breath. My mother was weeping silently on the bed, her shoulders shaking. “Freda, sweetie… I’m so sorry. I’m ruining your life.” I walked over and gently held her thin, worn hand. “Mom, stop. Don’t ever say that.” But she couldn’t stop crying. “Freda, listen to me. Go after him. Apologize. You need a husband, you can’t be on your own…” I didn’t go after him. Instead, I quietly buzzed the nurse to help freshen my mother’s linens, kissed her forehead, and stepped out. I took the elevator straight to the top floor—The Pavilion, the hospital’s exclusive private wing. I walked up to the polished mahogany reception desk and handed my newly issued black debit card to the receptionist. “I’d like to transfer my mother, Abigail Lance, to a private suite in this wing immediately. And I want the best ophthalmic surgeon in the country scheduled for her cataract removal as soon as possible.” The receptionist accepted the card with practiced grace and slid it through her terminal. A tiny green light flashed. “Of course, Mrs. Lance. We can arrange the transfer within the hour. Just to inform you, the private suites here are five thousand eight hundred dollars a day, and secure booking for a top-tier specialist will run approximately one hundred thousand dollars. Is that acceptable?” I didn’t blink. “Money is not an issue. Just get it done.” Once the paperwork was settled, I asked the head nurse to look after my mother for a few hours. I needed to go home. I needed to gather her medical records, my passport, and my critical documents. Half an hour later, I stood outside the townhouse we had shared for five years. I reached out and punched our anniversary into the keypad. “Beep, beep, beep. Access Denied.” I stared at the flashing red light. I tried again, slower this time. “Access Denied.” My throat went dry. I pulled out my phone and dialed Thomas. It rang for an agonizingly long time before connecting. “Hello?” a woman’s soft, purring voice answered. The sound hit me like a physical blow. The blood rushed to my ears, hot and deafening. “Who is this?” I demanded, my grip tightening on the phone. “Where is Thomas?” “Oh, you’re looking for Tommy? He’s in the shower,” she giggled, a light, musical sound that made me want to scream. “You must be Freda. Tommy said you’d be crawling back today. Honestly, I thought you had more pride than this. Calling to beg so soon?” I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. “Put him on the phone,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Oh, don’t get hostile with me, sweetie,” she said smoothly. “Tommy said you know exactly what you need to do to get back in. Otherwise, don’t bother.” The line went dead. I stood on the porch, staring at the front door. The brass monogrammed “L” we had bought at a flea market still hung there. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, the lock clicked. The door swung open, and Martha stood there. Without a word, she shoved my old canvas suitcase over the threshold, letting it tumble down the steps. The heavy oak door slammed shut in my face. I stood there, the silence of the suburban street settling around me. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked away. Standing by the curb, I made a call to a trusted associate, then booked a room at a boutique hotel downtown. I showered, washed off the hospital grime, and collapsed onto the bed. I had barely closed my eyes when my phone began to buzz against the nightstand. The screen lit up: “Thomas”. I stared at it, then slid to answer. “Hello?” It wasn’t his voice. It was the same woman from earlier, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Freda, hi. It’s Tiffany. Thomas’s girlfriend.” My fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles turned white. “Thomas wanted me to tell you to stop making a scene,” she said, her tone dripping with pity. “Your mother is a lost cause anyway. Just take her home and let nature take its course. Stop wasting his money.” She let out another soft laugh. “Oh, and by the way, I’m staying at the townhouse now. I absolutely love the decor you chose. Thomas promised me that you won’t get a single penny of his assets in the divorce. We’re actually hosting our engagement dinner next weekend. If you have the nerve, you should come grab a drink.” In the background, I heard Thomas’s muffled, impatient voice: “Baby, why are you even talking to her? Hang up.” And the line clicked off. I stared at the dark screen, and to my surprise, a dry laugh escaped my throat. The next morning, as I was preparing to head back to the hospital, my phone rang. It was the nurse’s station at Mercy General. “Freda! You need to get here immediately! Your husband is in your mother’s room with two men. They’re trying to force her out!” The nurse’s voice was panicked, punctuated by the sound of glass breaking and angry shouting in the background. “He just pulled out her IV line!” I bolted upright, my arm sweeping a glass of water off the nightstand. It shattered on the floor. “I’m on my way!” I sprinted out of the lobby, hailed a cab, and threw a hundred-dollar bill at the driver. “Mercy General Hospital. Run the lights if you have to. I’ll pay double the ticket.” Fifteen minutes later, I threw open the door to my mother’s ward. The room was in complete disarray. The bedside table had been overturned, a plastic pitcher lay split on the floor with water pooling across the tile. My mother was cowering in the corner of the bed, clutching her hand where blood was dripping onto the sheets from her violently torn-out IV. Thomas stood there, flanked by two burly men in matching moving-company t-shirts. “Hurry up!” he was barking. “Get the old lady into the wheelchair!” I lunged forward, shoving one of the movers out of the way. “Thomas! Get your hands off her!” Thomas turned, a cold, smug sneer spreading across his face. “Ah, Freda. I already signed the forms for you. Today, this old burden is leaving this hospital.”

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For five years, Elliot and I lived crammed inside a rented room barely large enough to fit a double bed. It was the price we paid for survival. Three years ago, he threw himself in front of a spinning car to shield me, losing his sight in the crash. After that, he could never work again. The weight of keeping us afloat fell entirely on my shoulders. I took on three different part-time jobs, stretching my days until my bones ached. Just three hours ago, I stood frozen in the grocery store aisle, agonizing over whether to spend five dollars on a pre-packaged sandwich or three dollars on instant ramen. I swallowed the dry lump of hunger in my throat and walked away, returning to our cramped kitchen to boil a handful of plain, unseasoned noodles in water. But for Elliot, I had spent over an hour carefully simmering a rich pork rib broth, infusing it with every bit of nutrition we could afford. I didn’t let myself taste a single spoonful. We were so close. The jar of savings I’d scraped together over the years was exactly three hundred dollars short of what we needed for his corrective eye surgery. Then came my final delivery of the night at the upscale lounge where I worked. The heavy door of VIP Suite 4 was left slightly ajar, and through the crack, his voice drifted out, clear and sharp, shattering my world. “That is incredibly cruel, man. Just to test if Leah really loves you, you’ve been playing blind for three whole years?” “Making your girl pull triple shifts while you play sugar daddy to Caroline? You’re on another level.” “I heard she took a brutal spill on her bike during a delivery last month. She was in agony for weeks but wouldn’t even step foot in a clinic to save money. Doesn’t that break your heart?” Tears welled up, spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. I forgot to wipe them away. He wasn’t blind. It was all an elaborate crucible. He had spun a web of lies spanning seven years, all to measure the depth of my devotion. Maybe I should have let go of him a long time ago. … Inside the room, the air hung heavy and silent for a few beats. Then, Elliot’s lazy, familiar drawl cut through the quiet. “It doesn’t.” “It was just a fall. It’s not like she died.” “Besides, the insurance settlement wasn’t even enough to buy Caroline that new necklace.” “Leah’s too soft-headed. She didn’t even think to demand more.” The bottle in my hands felt like lead. I looked down at the label—a vintage bottle of Romanée-Conti, priced at over thirty-eight thousand dollars. A sum I could work my entire life and never save. Yet, to Elliot, it was just a casual drink on a Tuesday night. A drop in the bucket compared to the jewelry he bought for Caroline. But that “fall” had nearly cost me my life. I remembered the exact moment the sedan clipped my scooter. I was thrown onto the asphalt, but even as my vision blurred, my fingers clutched the delivery bag in a white-knuckled grip, terrified that a spilled container of soup would mean a deduction from my meager pay. The police ruled the other driver entirely at fault, resulting in a settlement of two thousand three hundred and fifty dollars. Even though my joints throbbed so hard my teeth rattled, I couldn’t bring myself to spend a single penny of it on a doctor. I gritted my teeth, pocketed the check, and added it straight to the surgery fund. I bought a cheap bottle of pain-relief liniment from the corner drugstore and rubbed it into my swollen skin in our dim bathroom. I had stared at his contact on my phone for an hour, debating whether to call. In the end, I locked the screen. I told myself that telling him would only make him worry, and what could a blind man do but feel helpless? But now, he sat in that plush room, declaring that it wouldn’t kill me. He had known all along. He just didn’t care. That was why he never once questioned the sharp, medicinal smell of liniment that clung to my skin for weeks. I took a deep, shaky breath, pulled my face mask tight over my nose, and pushed the door open. I had never told him that this third job was the final push to secure his sight. My hands trembled slightly as I placed the heavy crystal decanter on the table. Elliot didn’t look at me. He casually averted his eyes, completely indifferent to the server in front of him. The chatter around the table resumed, the words drifting into my ears like poison. “And that wedding of yours—man, talk about minimalist. A dollar for a symbolic dowry, no house, nothing. You planned it that way, didn’t you? And she still stuck by you for seven years.” Something inside my chest snapped, leaving behind a hollow, bitter laugh. The realization was a set of clean, sharp needles, stitching agony directly into my heart. Five years of marriage, seven years of devotion. It was long enough to build a life, and apparently, long enough for a man to rot from the inside out. I had loved him because once, his love for me was the only real thing in my world. My father had been a ruthless gambler, desperate enough to sell me off to a wealthy sixty-year-old local to clear his debts. Elliot had shown up with nothing but reckless courage, breaking into the house and carrying me out on his back. My father caught us at the edge of town, wielding a rusted kitchen knife. He stabbed Elliot repeatedly—five, maybe six times. But Elliot didn’t make a sound. He just gritted his teeth, held me tighter, and kept running through the dark. Only when we reached the safety of the highway did he finally collapse. Even as his strength faded, he squeezed my hand and whispered, “Don’t be scared. I’ve got you.” In that moment, I resolved to give him my entire life. Through all the grueling years that followed, whenever the exhaustion threatened to swallow me whole, I would repeat those words to myself. They were my anchor, pulling me through the darkest nights. I used to tell myself that the wedding, the house, the stability—they would all come in time. How foolish I was to believe in a future he had already locked away from me. I stepped out of the lounge, pulled out my phone, and sent him a voice message. [When are you coming home for dinner?] [Do you need me to come pick you up?] Inside the suite, his custom ringtone chimed. A chorus of knowing chuckles erupted. His face tightened in a brief flash of panic before he smoothly pulled out his phone, typing with practiced ease. With his other hand, he raised his glass to the group. “To a long night, gentlemen.” My screen lit up. I tapped the audio message, and my tears splashed onto the glass. His voice was casual, practiced, a script he had read a thousand times: [Still stuck at the cleaning gig, babe. It’s hard for me to get around in this weather. Go to sleep early.] In that quiet hallway, the final thread of my endurance broke. I dialed my boss’s number. “Diane, thank you for everything over the years. I’m putting in my notice.” Diane’s voice was warm with genuine relief. “Oh, Leah! Did you finally save up enough for his surgery? God knows you’ve earned it. Once Elliot gets his eyes back, you two can finally go watch those sunsets you always talk about.” I murmured a vague reply and hung up. It wasn’t that the fund was complete; it was that it no longer mattered. I could watch the sunset on my own. When Elliot first “lost his sight,” he had refused to leave our small apartment. So, I had put on a blindfold, stepping into the dark first. I mapped out every curb, every cracked pavement, every obstacle within a ten-block radius so I could teach him how to navigate the world. I fell more times than I could count, my knees and elbows permanently painted in shades of purple and blue. I learned to use a cane better than he did, memorizing the exact count of steps to the grocery store, reciting them to him like a prayer. I begged our neighbors to look out for him, but pleaded with them not to treat him with pity. I fled back to our apartment. It was a dark, damp basement unit, smelling of stale mildew and cheap wood. On the stove, the pork rib soup was still simmering, filling the cramped space with a rich, savory aroma. I picked up a spoon, blew on it, and tasted it. The warmth hit my tongue, and I broke down, sobbing into the quiet room. How had I been so blind? How had I never questioned how a sightless man could walk the streets of the city so flawlessly, never returning with a single scratch or a speck of dust on his clothes? I sat at the tiny kitchen table, staring into the dark until the sky turned a pale, sickly gray. It was dawn when Elliot finally returned. In his hand, he carried a plastic container of leftovers from his lavish dinner, offering it to me like a hard-won prize. “Leah, the kitchen manager at the diner let me take these home. Let’s eat together, okay?” He walked right past the bottle of extra-strength painkillers sitting on the counter, his eyes completely unblinking, perfectly deadpan. I watched him. Even now, he was still playing the part. Three steps from the kitchen to the table. Five steps from the table to the bed. I had wrapped every sharp corner of our mismatched furniture in soft foam padding, desperate to preserve his dignity and keep him safe from harm. He executed his familiar, hesitant shuffle across the linoleum floor. But this time, I didn’t rush forward to guide his elbow. I clenched my fists in my lap, my voice barely a whisper. “Elliot… what if we stop saving for the surgery? I’m just…” “So tired.” But he cut me off before the words could leave my throat. “You’ve held on for this long, Leah. Why would you give up now? We are so close to the goal.” I picked up the plastic container of leftovers and dumped it straight into the trash. His eyes widened, flashing with sudden, cold anger as he stared directly at me. “Are you out of your mind? There’s a limit to throwing tantrums.” I wanted to tell him about the endless shifts, the deep calluses on my palms that didn’t belong on a woman my age. I wanted to ask him why he lied to me, how the man who once bled for me could turn into a stranger. But the words dissolved into ash in my throat. I couldn’t utter a single syllable. There was no warmth in his gaze—not even a flicker of genuine concern. I silently cleared the table, pouring the untouched pork broth back into the pot. He hovered by the kitchen doorway, hesitating before stepping closer. “Is this about money? Are you unhappy at work? Just hang in there, Leah. Please. I only act like this because I’m terrified of losing you, because I love you so much… The doctor said the surgery will work. Once I have my sight back, I can finally take care of you.” No matter what went wrong in my life, his answer was always the same: “just hang in there”. Just endure the pain, and it will pass. Just work another shift, and the money will be there. Just hold on, and things will get better. But I didn’t want to endure anymore. The very words that used to comfort me now felt like salt in an open wound. For years, I had been the willing fool in his elaborate game. I gave a quiet, hollow nod. “Okay. I understand.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw things. I was entirely calm. Elliot let out a slow, relieved breath, turned on his heel, and went into the bathroom to shower. As the water started running, his phone screen lit up on the nightstand. A message appeared from “Caroline (Wife)”. [Don’t forget my birthday next week.] [I love the Starry Orbit necklace you got me. It’s perfect for everyday wear.] [Also, my period started. Can you pick up some pads for me?] I pulled out my own cheap phone, my fingers trembling as I searched the name of the necklace. The screen lagged for a few excruciating seconds before revealing the price: fifteen thousand dollars. A casual gift. A sum that would take me half a lifetime of grueling labor to save. On my birthdays, my hands were raw from carrying heavy shipments, my feet blistered from the scorching heat of double shifts. I never took a day off. I was always running, always chasing the illusion of a better life. My celebration was always a five-dollar grocery store cupcake. I had treated every penny like it was a matter of life and death. Yet every single year, Elliot was by Caroline’s side, celebrating her birthdays with custom cakes and five-figure jewelry. Every tiny, odd detail I had forced myself to ignore over the years came rushing back with terrifying clarity. He had used his “blindness” as an excuse for everything. No matching profile pictures. No social media presence. But his phone’s lock screen was a portrait of Caroline in a stunning white dress. I had never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at her in that photo—with absolute, reverent adoration. They looked like a couple in a bridal magazine. And my contact name on his phone? It was just a random string of alphanumeric code. How pathetic. Everything I had been denied—the romance, the respect, the security—had been given to someone else. All I had was a piece of paper called a marriage certificate. When I had once begged him to put up a photo of us, his expression had turned deeply wounded. “‘Leah, navigating those settings is so hard for me. Please don’t make things difficult.’” Inside the bathroom, his voice called out over the sound of the shower. “Leah, can you grab me a dry towel? Leah, come help me.” He had never seen me as a wife. I was just a live-in nurse. A servant he could dismiss when the shift was over. The water stopped. I slipped his phone back onto the nightstand and lay down, letting the quiet tears soak into my pillow. Elliot stepped out, picked up his phone, and typed out his replies. After a moment, he turned in my direction. “Leah, do you know what brand of pads is best? Like, for a heavy flow?” My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Realizing his mistake, he quickly turned back to his phone, pretending to clumsily search the web. I stared at the ceiling, digging my fingernails into my palms until they bled. “Let’s get a divorce,” I said, my voice hoarse. Elliot didn’t even pause. He either hadn’t heard me, or simply didn’t care enough to acknowledge it. My mind drifted back to New Year’s Eve when we were twenty. He had proposed under a sky filled with fireworks, his eyes burning with an intensity that made me believe every word. “‘I’m going to buy you the biggest house one day, Leah. I’m going to give you the life you deserve.’” I suppose promises are only currency when love is alive. Once it dies, they’re just worthless paper. I slipped the cheap, tarnished band off my ring finger. The metal had begun to rust, a perfect reflection of what we had become. I unlocked my phone and booked a one-way ticket to Seattle. I could learn to watch the sunrise alone. Ten minutes later, Elliot was fully dressed, grabbing his coat. “My boss needs me to cover an early shift, babe. Go back to sleep. What did you say earlier?” He leaned down and pressed a soft, meaningless kiss to my forehead. I remained perfectly still, refusing to repeat myself, as the tears rolled silently into my hair. I stood by the window and watched him walk down the street to the 24-hour convenience store. Through the glass storefront, I watched his eyes scan the shelves. He didn’t hesitate; he reached for the premium, organic brand on the top shelf. A familiar, dull ache bloomed in my chest. I had always bought the cheapest, bulk-packaged pads online, half of them without proper branding. Elliot had seen them a thousand times and never once questioned it. He had never cared. I had ended up in the hospital with a severe infection from a bad batch of those cheap products, spending two agonizing weeks in a ward. Elliot had been so detached during that hospital stay, letting me hold his hand like it was a chore. When the doctor insisted I remain hospitalized for a month, I discharged myself early. I couldn’t afford to lose my shifts at the diner and the coffee shop. I had cried myself to sleep that night in our damp bed. Elliot didn’t hold me. He had only muttered, “You’re out now, so it’s fine.” To this day, my hand still instinctively reached for the budget brand on the bottom shelf. I didn’t know how we had drifted so far into this abyss. There was a time when he would hold me tight, whispering apologies for not being able to give me a better life. And now? Elliot walked out of the store and stepped directly into the back of a waiting luxury sedan. Through the tinted window, I saw the driver bow his head. “Mr. Aldridge, your wife has been waiting for you.” I stood frozen on the sidewalk for a long moment before hailing a cab. I needed to see her. I needed to see the woman he had spent five years protecting. The cab followed his car to an upscale brownstone. Elliot stepped out carrying a bouquet of fresh red roses and knocked on the door. Caroline opened it, throwing her arms around his neck, teasingly reaching into his coat pockets for her gift. Elliot laughed, stroking her hair with an unmistakable tenderness. He produced a jewelry box, fastening the delicate necklace around her throat. She beamed, kissing his cheek. Then, they leaned into each other, lost in a deep, intimate kiss. I knew I was done with him, but watching the betrayal play out in front of me still felt like a physical blow. I stood in the shadow of a streetlamp, biting my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, desperate to keep from making a sound. My knees buckled, and I sank onto the cold concrete, wrapping my arms around myself as if to shield the broken girl I had been for seven years. Eventually, I forced myself to stand and walk away from her doorstep. But my mind was elsewhere, and I missed my footing on the steep concrete stairs. I went tumbling down, crashing heavily onto the pavement. My knees tore open, and sharp pain flared across my arms and ribs. Years ago, I had been diagnosed with a mild clotting disorder. I had never told Elliot—medical treatments were a luxury our budget couldn’t support. Now, the dark blood seeped through my jeans, refusing to stop. Kneeling on the freezing pavement, my fingers shook as I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. It was a pathetic, desperate gamble. I wanted to see if there was any shred of me left in his heart, if seven years of unpaid devotion bought me even a single moment of his concern. I dialed again and again. The screen flashed and died, reflecting my pale, tear-streaked face. Finally, the line connected, but there was no voice. Only the sound of rustling sheets and soft, breathless sighs echoing through the receiver into the empty street. A cold, absolute despair washed over me, like the endless gray rain that had defined my life for so long. In that quiet stairwell, the last embers of my love for Elliot quietly went out. Minutes later, a text arrived: [Leah, did you forget I’m blind? I can’t exactly drive over to get you.] The same excuse. The same lie he had used to bind me to him. My eyelids grew heavy. I was too weak to stand. I remembered the day of the crash, how he had sprinted toward me as the truck lost control, throwing his body over mine. The deafening screech of metal on metal had filled the air. Surrounded by shattered glass and rising smoke, he had pinned me to the pavement, covering my ears, his ragged breath hot against my neck. “‘If we get out of this alive, Leah, we’re getting married.’” We did get married. But promises made in the heat of a fire are easily scattered once the ashes grow cold. This time, as I lay bleeding on the concrete, Elliot never looked back. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a sterile hospital ward. A neighbor had found me unconscious on the sidewalk and called 911, saving my life. By the time my leg healed enough for my discharge, the winter had broken, and the streets were bright with early spring sunshine. When I packed up the basement apartment, I realized how little of myself I had allowed to exist there. All my belongings fit easily into two small suitcases. The apartment was empty, and so was I. I left without leaving a single trace behind. Miles away, in his spacious study, Elliot felt an odd, nagging ache in his chest—like a missing rib. Then, his phone chimed with an audio message. [Elliot. You’ve been able to see for a long time, haven’t you? Let’s get a divorce.] In an instant, the color drained from his face, and the crystal glass in his hand slipped, shattering on the hardwood floor.

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I was the internet’s favorite punching bag—the lazy, unmotivated starlet who somehow stumbled into fame. So when the network announced I was joining the cast of The Edge, a brutal wilderness survival reality show, the comment sections erupted. To make matters worse, they had also cast Courtney Ross. Courtney was the industry’s undisputed queen of the hustle. She was the girl who woke up at four in the morning to drink green juice and post motivational quotes about “the grind.” She was tireless; I was indolent. She actively looked for chores to do; I fell asleep the second my head hit a flat surface. The internet was having a field day. [Does she even realize this is a literal survival show? This isn’t a spa day.] [Courtney has been training in the Rockies for months. Mandy is just begging to be humiliated at this point.] [Courtney Ross: Pure work ethic. Mandy Cornell: Lazy, useless trash.] Even Brody Henderson, the show’s golden-boy actor, couldn’t help but sneer in his pre-show interview: “Being on a show like this with someone who clearly doesn’t want to work is an insult to the rest of us.” But when the cameras started rolling, things didn’t go quite the way they expected. Courtney, eager to prove her mettle, immediately fell upon the first challenge, hacking away at half an acre of barley by hand until her palms bled. The live chat was swooning, gearing up to drag me for being a useless slacker. But then the camera panned to me. I was rumbling down the field in a massive, air-conditioned combine harvester, waving lazily from the glass cabin. The chat went dead silent. [Holy shit. I guess technology really is the ultimate life hack.] … I was jolted awake by a rough hand on my shoulder. I blinked against the harsh sunlight filtering through the window of the production bus. “Are we there?” The director was staring down at me, his expression a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “We’ve been here for an hour, Mandy. The other contestants are practically finished with their first challenge.” “And nobody thought to wake me up?” The live feed was already scrolling with comments. [Of course she slept the entire drive. The slacker persona is real.] [Meanwhile, Courtney has already cleared her rows. Look at her hands—they’re practically raw. That’s dedication!] The Edge was designed to be a brutal, elimination-style survival show. Only one winner would walk away with the grand prize. Even before the first episode aired, my name had been trending for all the wrong reasons. The consensus was clear: a lazy, corner-cutting actress like me had no business being on a show that celebrated grit. But the producers knew that hate-watching brought in the highest ratings. The director leaned in, speaking rapidly. “The first task is harvesting a plot of barley within the time limit. The last person to finish is immediately disqualified.” He paused, offering a pitying shrug that didn’t reach his eyes. “But, well… more than half the time has already passed.” I knew exactly what they were doing. They had left me on the bus on purpose. They wanted me to fail, to look like a fool, to draw in the angry mobs for the ratings. Without a word, I stood up and stepped off the bus. The midday sun was punishing. In the distance, several contestants were bent double, sweat soaking through their shirts as they hacked at the barley with hand scythes. Courtney was miles ahead of the pack, her movements practiced and furious. Brody Henderson looked up as I approached, his eyes dripping with disdain. “Oh, look who finally decided to join us. I thought you were just going to sleep your way to an early exit.” He pointed a finger toward Courtney. “Look at her. She’s already cleared half an acre.” Courtney paused, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She offered me a soft, sympathetic smile that felt entirely rehearsed. “It’s fine, Brody. Everyone has a different approach to work. I just… I want to make sure I don’t disappoint the people who believed in me.” I shoved my hands into my pockets, my voice flat. “If you have enough breath to give a speech, Courtney, you’re clearly not working hard enough.” Brody let out a harsh laugh. “Keep talking. The clock is ticking. Enjoy your flight home tonight.” He turned to Courtney, his voice softening into reverence. “This show is meant for people like you. People who actually prepare.” Courtney sighed, her expression sweet and humble. “I did spend months in physical training for this. I guess some of us are just more used to hard work than others.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Good for you. I hope you enjoy it. You can have my share of the hard work, too.” Courtney’s smile stiffened. She raised her voice, clearly playing to the cameras to secure the moral high ground. “Mandy, this is a competition. You can’t expect the rest of us to carry you. If you choose to slack off, you have to face the consequences.” With that, they turned their backs on me and went back to their labor, treating me as if I were already gone. I didn’t bother arguing. I turned around and walked back toward the edge of the field. The chat exploded again. [Did she just walk off? Did she quit?] [Can we just disqualify her already? I can’t stand her face.] A few minutes later, a low, mechanical rumble began to vibrate through the earth. The sound grew louder, a steady, roaring thrum that drowned out the wind. In the fields, the contestants stopped, shielding their eyes against the glare as they looked toward the perimeter. I was sitting in the high-backed cabin of a massive green harvester, navigating the giant rotating blades directly into my designated plot of barley. As the machine rolled forward, the barley fell in clean, effortless sweeps. The contestants froze. The production crew dropped their clipboards. The live chat went entirely blank for a second, then shattered. [Holy shit. Is she driving a combine?] [Tell me I’m hallucinating. Since when does Mandy Cornell know how to operate heavy farm machinery?] [Where did she even find that thing?!] My plot was cleared in less than ten minutes. I shut down the engine, climbed down from the cabin, and dusted off my jeans. “You cheated!” Brody was the first to find his voice, his face flushed red with anger. “Using a machine doesn’t count!” “We’ve been sweating out here for hours, our hands are blistered, and you just drive in? It’s insulting to the concept of hard work!” Courtney added, her eyes welling with tears as she cradled her reddened palms. “We’re all giving this our everything, Mandy. Finding a loophole like this… it feels incredibly unfair. It feels like you’re mocking our effort.” I tilted my head toward the edge of the field. “The harvesters were parked right by the barn. The keys were hanging on the peg inside. There are three more over there. Nobody stopped you from using them.” The silence that followed was heavy. The live chat was starting to turn. [Honestly… she has a point. The machines were right there.] [Wait, the real question is… who the hell knows how to drive a combine harvester in Hollywood?] The director, staring at the skyrocketing real-time viewership numbers, had a massive grin on his face. This was pure gold. He stepped forward, raising his megaphone. “The harvesters were indeed placed as environmental props by the production crew. Mandy utilized her resources within the rules. Her harvest is valid—first place goes to Mandy Cornell!” “And as the winner of the first challenge,” the director continued, “Mandy gets first pick of tonight’s accommodations.” As evening fell, the director presented the options. The first was a cramped, low-profile bivouac tent at the base of the ridge, surrounded by thick brush. The second was a luxury canvas yurt pitched at the very peak of the hill, offering a stunning, unobstructed view of the valley below. “I’ll take the base,” I said without hesitation. Brody let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Classic. The lazy girl can’t even handle a thirty-minute hike up the hill. Have fun in your dirt coffin.” Courtney shook her head with patronizing pity. “The view up there is beautiful, Mandy. It’s really not that far. You shouldn’t let laziness rob you of the experience.” I looked at them, then up at the sky. The clouds were hanging low, bruised and heavy. The wind was starting to carry a sharp, damp chill. “Why do you care what I choose?” They scoffed and turned away, eager to begin their ascent to the peak. Left to myself, I unzipped my single backpack and pulled out a simple yellow Bic lighter. Within minutes, I had a crackling, warm fire going under the natural rock overhang of my campsite. Brody and Courtney, who were just about to head up the trail, stopped dead in their tracks. “Where did you get fire?” Brody demanded, his eyes wide. “I brought a lighter,” I said simply. I looked at Courtney. “Courtney, you did a three-part video series showing off your packing list. You had fifteen different color-coordinated dry bags. Don’t tell me you forgot a lighter?” Courtney’s expression shifted through several shades of pale. She bit her lip, her voice turning defensive. “I had so much to prepare… some things naturally get overlooked. Besides, rubbing sticks together is the authentic way to survive. Using a lighter defeats the purpose of being out here.” The chat began to crack. [Wait… did she actually bring a portable fan and setting spray but forgot a lighter?] [I looked up her ‘essential wilderness list’ on Instagram. It’s literally just skincare and influencer gear.] Brody stepped in, trying to dominate the space. “Since you already have the fire started, Mandy, give us the lighter. We’re going up to the ridge. It’s colder up there. We need it more.” Courtney nodded, her voice soft and pleading. “Yes, Mandy. It’s freezing on the peak. If we don’t have a fire, we could genuinely get sick. You wouldn’t want us to freeze, would you?” The live chat piped up. [They should share. It’s just decent.] [Yeah, let them have it.] I slipped the lighter back into my pocket. “Didn’t you two just tell me this is a competition? That I shouldn’t expect handouts? Why is the lazy girl suddenly your emergency services?” They both froze. Brody sneered, “Whatever. We don’t need your cheap lighter anyway.” Courtney raised her chin. “The survival guides show exactly how to friction-start a fire. We’ll be fine.” I didn’t bother replying. I crawled into my small tent and zipped it shut. Night fell quickly, and with it came the storm. The wind screamed through the valley, rattling the branches above. Then came the deluge—a freezing, torrential mountain rain. My campsite, nestled against a three-sided rock face, remained completely dry and shielded from the gale. But up on the peak, there was no protection. The wind caught the luxury yurt, snapping the poles, and the entire structure sailed off into the darkness like a broken kite. Soaked to the bone, shivering, and losing their gear to the dark, Courtney and Brody came scrambling down the mountain trail, slipping in the mud until they reached my tent. Brody pounded on the wet fabric. “Mandy! Open up! Let us in!” I lay comfortable on my sleeping pad, warm and dry. “My tent fits one. You won’t fit.” “Are you seriously that cruel?” Brody’s voice cracked with rage. “It’s pouring out here! Courtney is freezing! If she gets hypothermia, that’s on you!” Beside him, Courtney let out a theatrical, shivering cough. The chat was divided. [This is kind of messed up. She’s letting them freeze.] [But wait, this is a survival show, not a charity. Why didn’t they plan better?] I didn’t budge. “If she gets sick, that’s her own doing. If you can’t handle a little rain, call the medic. There’s a heated production trailer parked half a mile down. You can tap out right now.” The shouting stopped. They weren’t going to quit and lose their shot at the show. The next morning, the sun rose on a washed-out valley. I stepped out of my tent, feeling perfectly rested. The other contestants looked like drowned rats, their expensive gear ruined and their food supplies soaked. Courtney approached me, a tight, desperate smile plastered on her face. “Mandy… all our rations were ruined in the storm. Surely you have some extra food?” Brody followed close behind. “You left us out in the cold last night. The least you can do is share some food. We’re starving.” I looked at them. “Didn’t you guys say yesterday that my single backpack meant I didn’t bring anything ‘substantial’? Since I have so little, how could I possibly have enough to share?” They stood there, speechless. The chat was loving it. [Oof. She kept receipts.] [Mandy: I’m lazy, but my memory is flawless.] The director, seeing the record-breaking live views, decided to stir the pot. A production assistant walked over to me, looking thoroughly guilty. “I am so sorry, Mandy,” the assistant said, his acting terrible. “We accidentally packed your bag with the trash during the storm cleanup. It’s gone.” Brody let out a loud, vindictive laugh. “Looks like karma exists after all.” Courtney offered a patronizing pat on my arm. “Don’t worry, Mandy. We’re all in the same boat now. It’s only fair.” I shrugged. “Whatever. It was mostly empty anyway.” Courtney smiled, convinced I was just trying to save face. The director announced: “Since all contestants have lost their starting supplies, you must now forage for your own food. You are entirely on your own!” Courtney immediately took charge, trying to reclaim her leader status. “Don’t panic! If we work together, we can find plenty. Nature is our grocery store!” She gave out vague orders: “You find vegetables, you catch fish, you hunt.” But she didn’t explain how. [She sounds exactly like my manager giving a pep talk.] [Do any of these people actually know what a wild onion looks like?] Courtney turned to me. “Mandy, we won’t ask you to join us. You didn’t help us last night, so I’m sure you don’t need our help now.” “Suits me,” I said. I grew up in rural Iowa. This forest was practically a buffet. By afternoon, I returned to camp with a pocketful of fresh wild berries. Courtney’s “foraging squad” limped back shortly after, empty-handed, exhausted, and covered in scratches. They had seen mushrooms but didn’t know if they were toxic. They tried to fish but couldn’t catch anything. They stared hungrily at my berries. Courtney stepped forward, her sweet-talking smile returning. I cut her off before she could speak. “We agreed to keep things separate.” I looked at the rest of them. “Surely a group of elite survivalists isn’t planning to beg a lazy girl for her food?” Courtney’s jaw tightened. The others looked away in shame. I set the berries down near my tent and walked down to the creek to check the water source. When I got back, the berries were gone. My expression went cold. I walked straight to Courtney’s camp. “Where are my berries?” Brody scoffs. “Lost your food again? First your bag, now this. Maybe you need to learn some basic responsibility.” Courtney sighed. “You’re always losing things, Mandy. Maybe it’s a habit you need to work on.” They thought I won’t cause a scene on live television. They thought I had no proof. But they didn’t know me. I looked directly at her. “Courtney, you stole them.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “526570”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Every Father’s Day, my husband’s old college flame, Caitlin, found a new emergency to lure him away. This year was no exception. He glanced at his phone, his face instantly tightening, and stood up from the dinner table. “Caitlin says Toby won’t stop crying,” Patrick said, already grabbing his coat. “She’s overwhelmed and can’t calm him down. I need to go talk to him.” “She doesn’t know how to cook, so I’m going to pack up the dinner you made and take it over. You and Lucy can just order takeout.” The bright, hopeful smile on Lucy’s face vanished. She reached out, tugging at the hem of his shirt with small, trembling fingers. “Daddy, please. You promised today would be just for us. Can’t you stay? Just this once?” Patrick’s expression hardened. He looked down at her, his voice clipped and dry. “Lucy, how many times do we have to go over this? You’re a big girl now. You need to start being more understanding.” Seeing the tears welling in her eyes, his expression softened slightly, and he gave her head a dismissive pat. “You and Toby are classmates. He doesn’t have a father, Lucy. It’s hard on him. You should be lifting him up, not dragging him down.” “I’m his teacher, and looking after my students is my job. Now, you and your mother wait for me to come home. Be good.” He didn’t wait for an answer. The heavy front door clicked shut behind him, leaving nothing but the cold drafts of our quiet apartment and a table full of untouched, rapidly cooling food. Lucy stared down at the small, crumpled sketchbook in her hands. “This is the sixth Father’s Day Toby has taken Daddy away,” she whispered. A sharp pain bloomed in my chest. I pulled her into my lap, burying her small head against my shoulder. She wrapped her thin arms tightly around my neck, her voice muffled against my collarbone. “Mommy… he’s always playing dad to someone else’s kid. We don’t need him anymore, do we?” “No,” I whispered back, my voice cracking. “We don’t.” … Lucy slowly tore the crumpled sketchbook into tiny, jagged pieces and dropped them into the trash can. She had spent every afternoon for the last two weeks working on it, meticulously drawing the three of us together, filling the pages with her quiet wishes for her father. Now, it was just trash. I carried the serving plates to the sink. My hands moved on autopilot, reaching for the sponge and the dish soap. It was a muscle memory born of seven years of domesticity. Looking down at my hands, a bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. This tiny, suffocating kitchen had been my entire world for seven years. My phone buzzed on the counter. It was a notification from Facebook. Caitlin had just posted. “Thank you, Patrick, for making Toby’s wish come true today, even if it was just for a little while. I wish we never had to wake up from this beautiful dream.” The post featured a photo of Patrick’s large hand cradling Toby’s small one, alongside a child’s crayon drawing of three figures holding hands. In the background was the elaborate dinner I had spent four hours preparing. Patrick had liked the post immediately. His comment sat right at the top: “Once a teacher, always a father. Toby is as good as my own.” My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned stark white. “His own.” If Toby was his own, what did that make Lucy? What did that make me? He had taken the food I slaved over to play happy family with the woman he had spent his youth pining after, leaving his actual daughter with nothing. My eyes began to sting. I told myself it was just the fumes of the dish soap, but the tears came anyway, blurring my vision. For the first time in seven years, I threw the wet sponge into the sink, grabbed Lucy’s coat, and took her to McDonald’s. She had asked to go so many times, but every single plan had been canceled because Caitlin had an “emergency” or Toby needed Patrick’s attention. Our plans were always expendable. Watching her eat her chicken nuggets with frantic, eager bites, a wave of sorrow hit me. I had to look away to keep from sobbing. “Eat slow, sweetheart,” I managed, smoothing her hair. “We can come here whenever you want from now on.” By the time we got back, night had fallen. Patrick was sitting on the living room sofa, calmly reading a book. “Where have you two been?” he asked. It sounded like concern, but his voice carried that flat, accusatory tone I had grown to dread. The anger I had spent the evening bottling up boiled over. “Where? You walked out of here with the dinner I cooked to feed another woman’s family. What were we supposed to eat, Patrick? Air?” Patrick frowned, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before his defensive walls went right back up. “It was just a meal, Giselle. Why do you always have to be so incredibly petty? I’m his teacher. You’re his teacher’s wife. It was just a nice gesture.” “You’re a grown woman. Honestly, you could learn a thing or two from Toby about being supportive.” Supportive. Mature. Understanding. No matter what I did, those were the words he threw at me like weapons. “Look, I brought back the leftovers Caitlin packed for you guys. Stop making a scene and just eat.” I looked at the greasy paper bag he placed on the table. The torn logo on the side matched the exact takeout boxes from Caitlin’s social media post. Leftovers. Scraps from another woman’s table. The coldness in my chest solidified. “We’re full. Give them to Toby since you care so much about his feelings.” “If you don’t want them, Lucy can have them,” Patrick snapped, his patience wearing thin. “Toby specifically insisted on saving this for her. He was trying to be sweet.” Before I could speak, Lucy stepped forward and swatted the bag off the table. “I’m not hungry. I want to go to bed.” She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward her room. Patrick’s face darkened. “Lucy! Toby went out of his way to save that for you, and you throw it on the floor? Is this the kind of behavior your mother is teaching you?” He turned his glare onto me. “Are you happy? Teaching our daughter to be this bitter? If everyone acted as small-minded as you, how am I supposed to run my classroom?” I kept my voice flat, empty of emotion. “I have never said a single negative thing about you to Lucy. If she’s pulling away, you need to look at your own actions.” Patrick’s jaw clenched. Realizing he was losing ground, he knelt down to Lucy’s eye level, his tone softening into a patronizing plea. “Lucy, Daddy is sorry he couldn’t play with you today. I had school work. But didn’t you say you made something for me?” Before Lucy could answer, Patrick’s phone rang. The screen lit up with Caitlin’s name. He answered it immediately, putting it on speaker as if to prove his innocence. Caitlin’s soft, trembling voice filled the quiet room. “Patrick… I hope Giselle isn’t upset. Toby was just so emotional today, and I felt so terrible dragging you away on Father’s Day. I just wanted to explain…” Patrick looked up at me, his eyes pleading for validation. “See? If there was anything going on between us, would she be calling like this? We have nothing to hide.” I didn’t say a word. Lucy reached into her pocket, pulled out a stark, blank white envelope, and dropped it into Patrick’s hand. Patrick stared at the blank card, his brief attempt at patience vanishing. “Are you serious, Lucy? A blank card? What is this supposed to mean? Are you trying to punish me?” Lucy threw herself in front of me, her small, thin arms outstretched to shield me. “Don’t yell at my mommy! You’re Toby’s dad, not mine! Go live with him!” Patrick stood up, looking at us both with absolute disgust. “I sacrifice so much for this family, and neither of you has an ounce of appreciation.” Seven years of marriage. Six of them spent arguing over Caitlin. And the script was always the same: he was the saintly, selfless mentor, and I was the bitter, insecure housewife. “Today was Father’s Day,” I said, my voice barely a whisper but cutting through his anger. “Lucy spent two weeks making something for you, and you threw her aside for another woman’s child. Tonight, Lucy and I are sleeping in her room. Take the guest bed.” “She’s a child, Giselle, but what’s your excuse?” Patrick sighed, his voice thick with exhaustion. “They are a single-parent family. Caitlin is doing this completely alone. You grew up in a bubble, Giselle. You have no idea what real hardship looks like. You just have to twist everything into something ugly and cheap.” “Ugly and cheap.” I squeezed Lucy’s hand. The sheer volume of buried resentment in my chest began to rise, choking me. I was done keeping his secrets. “Last year, during the flash flood, you insisted on driving Caitlin and Toby home. You left Lucy stranded at school in the dark. She was terrified of closed spaces for months after that. And when it rained for three days straight, Caitlin called because her lightbulb broke, and you flew out the door in the middle of the night. You left me to climb a ladder alone to patch our leaking roof. I fell, Patrick. I broke my ankle, and the neighbor had to drive me to the emergency room because you wouldn’t answer your phone.” “You’ve spent six Father’s Days with them, and not a single one with your own daughter.” The silence in the room was heavy. I looked him dead in the eye. “She has it hard, Patrick. So my daughter and I are just supposed to bleed for her?” Patrick’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him the chance to speak. I led Lucy into her room and shut the door, locking out the sound of his breathing. In the middle of the night, I woke up to Lucy’s skin burning hot against mine. Her fever was dangerously high. Panicking, I threw on a coat, lifted her in my arms, and ran to the guest room to find Patrick. But before I could knock, the door opened. Patrick was fully dressed, coat already on, car keys in hand. He froze when he saw me. “Giselle? What are you doing up?” For a fraction of a second, I thought he had heard Lucy coughing and was coming to help. But his next words shattered that illusion completely. “Caitlin called. She’s hysterical. She says there’s some creep lingering in her building’s hallway. I need to go make sure she’s safe. Why are you holding Lucy?” I grabbed his sleeve, my fingers digging into the fabric. “Lucy has a high fever, Patrick. Look at her. We need to go to the hospital right now. Please drive us.” Patrick hesitated, looking between his keys and our daughter. But then his phone began to vibrate in his palm. He answered it on the first ring. Caitlin’s weeping voice broke through the speaker. “Patrick, he’s knocking on my door… please… I’m so scared…” “I’m coming. I’m right down the street, Caitlin. Hang up and keep the chain on.” He hung up, his eyes darting away from mine in a flash of shame. “Caitlin’s life is in danger, Giselle. Call an Uber and take Lucy. I’ll meet you at the ER as soon as I make sure she’s safe. I promise.” He pulled his arm from my grip and ran down the stairs. I sat in the sterile hospital hallway all night, holding my feverish child. Lucy’s fever finally broke at dawn. Patrick never showed up. No calls, no texts, nothing. When I finally brought my exhausted, pale daughter back to the apartment, we walked in to find Toby sitting in the middle of our living room floor. He was systematically tearing apart the elaborate Lego castle Lucy had spent months building, scattering the pieces across the hardwood. A primal, protective rage took over. I marched over and shoved Toby away from the toys. Toby let out a loud, dramatic wail, which immediately brought Patrick rushing out of our bedroom. “Toby! What happened? Who hurt you?” Patrick stopped mid-sentence when he saw me standing there. His eyes flickered with unease. “You’re back… is Lucy’s fever down?” Before I could answer, a woman’s voice called out from the hallway behind him. “Patrick, where do you keep the hair dryer?” Caitlin walked out of our bathroom, wearing my favorite silk bathrobe. Patrick stiffened. He began rubbing his thumb against his index finger—the nervous tick he only did when he was caught in a lie. “Giselle… look,” he stammered. “Caitlin’s neighborhood isn’t safe right now. I thought it would be best if they stayed here for a few days until things blow over.” He couldn’t find five seconds to check if his daughter was alive, but he had all night to move another woman into my home. My heart felt completely numb, cold as ice. “No.” Caitlin’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Giselle, please don’t be mad. We left in such a hurry last night, I didn’t even pack clothes. Patrick was just trying to help. Maybe Toby and I should leave… I don’t want to cause any trouble.” “Toby is my student,” Patrick intervened, his voice rising defensively. “If a student is in danger, it’s my duty to protect them.” “But Patrick…” Caitlin sniffled, looking up at him. “If I’m coming between you and Giselle, I’ll never forgive myself.” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “If you were so worried about causing trouble, Caitlin, why didn’t you call the police last night instead of another woman’s husband?” “Giselle!” Patrick roared, his face flushing red. “That’s enough. You’ve crossed the line. Go into the kitchen, make some lunch, and apologize to Caitlin right now.” I looked at the two of them standing in my home. “Apologize? She’s wearing my clothes in my house, and you want me to play maid?” Patrick grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the kitchen away from them. “I know you’re angry about last night, okay? But be reasonable. I’ll make it up to you and Lucy, I promise. Just drop it for now.” A slap, then a promise of a sweet. The same endless cycle. I was finally done. “Let’s get a divorce, Patrick. Lucy and I will pack our things so the three of you can have the space.” Patrick stared at me, a condescending sneer creeping onto his lips. “Divorce? What kind of childish game is this? You’re a stay-at-home mom, Giselle. You have no career, no income. How do you plan on supporting Lucy? On wishful thinking?” He sighed, softening his tone slightly, as if dealing with a difficult child. “Stop acting out. I’m giving you a way out of this argument. Don’t ruin it.” I looked at him, feeling absolutely nothing. “I’ll see you at the courthouse on Tuesday morning.” He flinched at the finality in my voice, but quickly recovered, muttering, “Go cool down. I’m not playing this game with you,” before walking away. That weekend, the school organized a community charity drive. It was a big volunteer event, and Lucy had worked tirelessly all day. By the end of the afternoon, she was awarded the “Young Humanitarian Star.” But as she went up to accept her medal, Caitlin sighed loudly, looking down at Toby. “Lucy is so lucky. Toby’s always been so insecure because he doesn’t have a dad. He’s never won anything in his life. Lucy, sweetie, could you maybe let Toby have this one? Just to make him feel special?” Lucy held her medal tight and shook her head. “No.” The volunteer coordinator looked incredibly uncomfortable and turned to Patrick. “Mr. Vance… what do you think?” Patrick didn’t hesitate. He looked at Lucy, his expression stern. “Lucy, you did a great job today, but you have plenty of trophies at home. Toby needs this encouragement more than you do. Let Toby have the medal.” With one casual sentence, he crushed all her hard work. Tears spilled over Lucy’s cheeks. “Why? I earned it!” Caitlin stepped in, looking remorseful. “It’s fine, Patrick. I shouldn’t have said anything.” “No, it’s fine,” Patrick snapped. “We’ll get you another one next time, Lucy. You’re older than Toby. Be the bigger person.” “Be the bigger person.” My fists clenched so hard my nails bit into my palms. I stepped forward to confront him, but Lucy grabbed my hand and gently shook her head. The light in her eyes had completely gone out. After the event, Patrick walked over to us, patting Lucy on the shoulder. “That’s my good girl. Showing kindness and sharing with those less fortunate—that’s what real character is.” I smacked his hand away from my daughter. “From this moment on, save your lessons on virtue and charity for Caitlin and her son,” I said, my voice shaking with rage. “My daughter and I don’t want them anymore.” That afternoon, worried about Lucy’s sudden silence, I decided to go back to the school to check on her. But as I reached her classroom, I heard Caitlin’s tearful voice coming from inside. “Patrick, it’s all my fault! I didn’t raise Toby well! He was so happy about the medal, but the other kids all side with Lucy. They told Toby he stole it and started leaving him out. Toby is so sensitive… he just acted out because he was hurt…” I stood outside the door, waiting to see what Patrick would do. He walked into the room, and without even looking at Lucy—who had a fresh scratch on her forearm—he immediately went on the attack. “Lucy, who taught you to turn your classmates against each other? I am deeply disappointed in you.” “I thought you were mature, but you’re still throwing a tantrum over a piece of plastic.” “Did your mother teach you to be this vindictive?” Lucy looked up, her lower lip trembling. “I didn’t do anything! Don’t talk about my mommy like that!” “Don’t talk back to me,” Patrick snapped, completely ignoring her tears. “Apologize to Toby right now.” “I didn’t do anything…” “I said, apologize!” The room fell into a suffocating silence. Lucy kept her head down, refusing to move. Caitlin stepped in with her usual faux-sweetness, gently pushing Toby forward. “Toby made a mistake too. He shouldn’t have pushed you. Toby, apologize to Lucy first.” This display of “generosity” only fueled Patrick’s anger. He grabbed Lucy by the shoulder, forcing her down in front of Toby. “Apologize. Now.” Lucy gritted her teeth, silent. Suddenly, Toby shoved her with all his might. “You’re just jealous! Mr. Patrick gave this to me! You’re just a useless piece of trash, you don’t deserve anything!” No one expected him to strike so violently. I watched in horror as Lucy’s small body was thrown backward, her head striking the sharp, metal corner of the window sill. There was a sickening, heavy thud. The sharp metal sliced her forehead open, and blood began to pour, staining her collar and the floor. I screamed, lunging forward to catch her before she hit the ground, pressing my hands against the wound. Warm blood leaked through my fingers, pooling on the floor. Patrick stood there, pale and frozen, taking a step toward us. But the sheer hatred in my eyes made him halt. “If anything happens to my daughter, Patrick, I will destroy you,” I whispered. “Giselle, I…” “Get out!” I called the paramedics and rode with her in the ambulance to the hospital. Standing under the harsh lights of the ER hallway, I paced frantically, my clothes stained with my daughter’s blood. Patrick arrived shortly after, his face dripping with sweat. “How is she?” The ER doors swung open, and the doctor stepped out, his face grave. My heart stopped. I felt my knees buckle, and I grabbed the nearest chair to keep from falling. “Doctor… is she…?” The doctor realized what I was thinking and quickly shook his head. “No, she’s out of danger. But the cut is very deep. She’ll need stitches, and it will leave a permanent scar.” Patrick let out a sigh of relief, muttering under his breath, “Kids play rough. It’s not as serious as you made it out to be.” A white-hot rage took over. I spun around and slapped Patrick across the face with everything I had left. “Are you blind?” I screamed. “Look at the blood on my hands! Look at her face!” My hand was shaking, the warmth of her blood still lingering on my skin. I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to become dead quiet. “Tuesday morning. Eight o’clock. Outside the courthouse. Don’t be late.” “Giselle, I know you’re emotional right now, but you need to think about what’s best for Lucy.” “I am thinking about what’s best for Lucy. That’s why I’m divorcing you.” He looked at my face, saw the utter lack of negotiation, and fled the hospital in a panic. On Tuesday morning, he showed up late, still trying to play the rational one. “Are you sure about this? Lucy’s care is going to cost a lot of money. You’re a housewife with no income…” I didn’t answer. I walked straight up to the window and handed over my paperwork. My silence spoke louder than any argument. Patrick’s face darkened, and he signed the papers in a fit of pride. “Fine. Have it your way. Don’t come crying to me when you regret this.” We walked out of the courthouse, separate. The morning air felt incredibly crisp and clean. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. I was ready to start over with my daughter. But then, my phone rang. “Is this Lucy’s mother? Your daughter has just collapsed. She’s vomiting blood. We’ve issued a critical condition notice. You need to get to the ICU immediately.”

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The newly opened high-end shopping center downtown was running a promotion. Couples who maintained a 99-day messaging streak could claim a free prize. In our five years together, it was the first time I’d ever begged Wright to keep a streak with me. He stared at his phone, frowning for what felt like an eternity, before finally giving a reluctant nod. But on the 98th day, the streak went cold. I called Wright a dozen times, only to get a brusque, impatient response: “I’m busy with work. I don’t have time for this.” On the other end of the line, his voice bristled with annoyance. “Joanna, how old are you? Still obsessing over cheap freebies?” I watched the 98-day flame icon flicker and die, and I cried myself to sleep. The next day, as I was passing by the mall courtyard, the crowd suddenly erupted into cheers. “Oh my god, someone actually won the grand prize! A solid gold designer cuff!” “A 999-day streak? How deeply in love do you have to be to keep that going?” I was about to sigh at how beautiful such commitment must be when my phone buzzed in my palm. My best friend had sent me a photo. On her wrist was a gleaming gold bracelet. “Babe, got this for free. Isn’t it gorgeous?” The background of her photo was the very courtyard I was standing in. Excited, I pushed through the crowd toward the prize pavilion to congratulate her. Only to discover that the man who shared a 999-day streak with my best friend was none other than my fiancé, Wright. … Wright and Serena were standing in the center of the stage, surrounded by a cheering crowd. The massive LED screen projected their account profiles, showcasing a glowing 999-day streak badge. The host yelled into the microphone, “Congratulations to our beautiful couple for keeping their flame alive for 999 days! Here is your grand prize—the solid gold designer bracelet!” The applause was deafening. People in the crowd started chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! You can’t leave the stage without a kiss!” Serena flushed, looking up at Wright with wide, shy eyes. Wright pulled her by the waist, leaning in close. The crowd’s screams grew louder. I stared at the two of them on stage, my nails digging into my palms until it stung. Just before their lips touched, Wright turned his head slightly, pulling her into a protective, warm embrace instead. “Sorry, guys, my girl is a little shy,” he said with an easy, charming smile, holding Serena’s hand as they stepped down from the stage. I couldn’t take it anymore. I marched straight up to them. The moment they saw me, they dropped each other’s hands like they’d been shocked. Wright’s eyes flickered with panic for a split second before his expression smoothed over. “Joanna? What are you doing here?” Serena’s face went pale. “Joanna, please don’t get the wrong idea! We just pretended to be a couple to get the prize.” She held up her wrist, flashing the gold bracelet. “See? Just for keeping a 999-day streak, we got this. It was such a steal!” “Just?” To her, a 999-day streak with Wright was a daily habit. She had no idea Wright wouldn’t even give me 99 days. I didn’t look at her. My eyes were locked on Wright. “Wright, I didn’t know you had another girlfriend.” Wright remained remarkably poised. “Serena just told you, we played along for a freebie. You know how she is—still young, loves these silly little promotions.” The sheer tenderness in his voice when he spoke about her made my chest burn. He didn’t even realize how he sounded. A sudden, blinding anger flared up inside me. “Wright, I begged you to keep a 99-day streak and you said you had no time. But you have time to keep a 999-day streak with her?” “Joanna, that’s enough!” Wright’s face darkened. “We’re getting married next month. Why are you throwing a tantrum over this? I’ll buy you a better bracelet later, okay?” Looking at his condescending expression, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. Five years. He never understood that it was never about the prize. It was about the quiet intimacy of doing something small, together. He had time to keep a three-year streak with Serena, time to accompany her to the mall, but no time to reply to my messages. I wanted to scream at him. He had told me this morning that he had to go to the office to work overtime. Why was he here with my best friend instead? But asking now felt entirely pointless. Seeing the heavy silence between us, Serena quickly tried to play peacemaker. “Come on, Wright, don’t be so harsh on Joanna.” She slipped the bracelet off her wrist and shoved it into my hand. “Joanna, don’t be mad. I’ll give you the gold bracelet. I wish you and Wright a lifetime of happiness.” Before I could reject it, Wright snatched the bracelet back and slid it back onto Serena’s wrist. “This is your prize. Why give it to her? Didn’t you say you’ve wanted this forever?” “I…” Serena’s face turned red, then pale, stammering. Wright turned back to me, his brow furrowed. “Joanna, are you seriously going to steal a prize from your own best friend?” I looked at their hands, still hovering close to each other, and laughed. “Is that what you think of me, Wright? Is that how badly you need to protect her?” Wright froze. I didn’t wait for him to answer. I turned and walked out of the mall. No footsteps followed me. Once again, Wright didn’t chase after me. I pulled out my phone and called home. On the other end, my mother excitedly rattled off updates about the wedding preparations back in our hometown. I stayed quiet for a long moment. “Mom, let’s cancel the wedding. I’m not marrying him.” After hanging up, I looked at the fresh groceries piled on my kitchen counter. I began putting them away in the fridge, one by one. Today was the weekend. I had gone to the market early this morning to prepare a feast for Wright. I had even learned a few new recipes—all his favorites. None of it mattered now. True to form, Wright didn’t come home for dinner. Every time we argued, he would freeze me out, waiting until I couldn’t take the silence anymore and crawled back to apologize. An hour later, Serena updated her social media. The photo showed Wright cutting a steak for her. The location tag was at the Michelin-starred restaurant I’d mentioned wanting to visit a dozen times—the one Wright always claimed he was “too busy” to take me to. Her caption read: “Look who treated me to dinner again~” It was pure, unadulterated gloating. Within minutes of posting, she blocked me from seeing her posts. Then, she sent me a direct text: “Joanna, come join us for dinner! Wright is here too. You two need to make up.” I replied coldly: “No.” Every time the three of us ate together, I was always the ghost at the table. Wright would pour her water, clean her utensils, and put food on her plate. He knew her exact culinary preferences; every dish ordered was her favorite. Yet, after five years, he still couldn’t remember that I hated cilantro. When we went shopping, if Serena stared at something a second too long, he bought it for her. If she liked a plush toy in a claw machine, he’d spend hundreds of dollars in coins until he caught it. When I asked him to catch one for me, he called me childish. He always said, “Serena is young. She needs looking after.” But she was only a year younger than me. He had never looked after me that way. Wright had always been strict with me. I was the intern he had personally trained. If there was even a minor error in my proposals, he would haul me into his office and tear me to shreds. I had cried so many times, rewriting drafts through tears. The whole office called him “the Devil.” Yet, the Devil never once raised his voice at Serena. When she didn’t know how to write a proposal, he sat with her and guided her line by line. When she made a massive error that infuriated a client, he personally handled the damage control, absorbing all the blame. For my mistakes, however, he had zero tolerance. Salary cuts, demotions—he enforced them without mercy. My phone rang. It was the bridal boutique. “Hi, Ms. Rodney, your custom wedding dress has arrived. You can come in for a fitting.” I gripped the phone tightly. “No need. Just keep it there.” I hung up, canceled the hotel venue, and canceled the wedding photographer. Then, I crawled up on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest, and sobbed until my throat burned. When we first got engaged, Wright said he was too busy with the company merger and left the entire wedding planning to me. I worked my day job and spent my nights drafting seating charts and menus. Whenever I asked for his opinion, his answers were always dismissive. “Whatever you want, Joanna.” The only time he finally agreed to accompany me for a fitting, I walked out of the dressing room in my gown only to find him gone. I waited in the boutique for two hours. All I got was a text: “Something came up at work. We’ll do this another day.” The next morning, I found out he had personally driven Serena to an out-of-town conference. Wright’s favoritism toward Serena was an open secret at the office. Everyone knew it. Except him. I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, my voice was hoarse, and my eyes were swollen shut. The sound of the front door unlocking broke the silence. Seeing my disheveled state, a flicker of guilt and worry crossed Wright’s eyes. “Joanna, stop crying. We can start the streak again tomorrow, okay?” He reached behind his back and produced a small box. It was the third-tier prize—the silver couple’s bracelets you got for keeping a 99-day streak. “Didn’t you want this? I bought it for you.” He still didn’t get it. He thought I was throwing a fit over a piece of cheap metal. He grabbed my wrist, trying to force the bracelet onto me. I held his hand back, looking him dead in the eye. “Wright, let’s break up.” His hand froze. But in the next second, he gripped my wrist tighter and forced the bracelet over my hand. “Break up? Joanna, is this the only card you know how to play?” “I’m serious.” He didn’t believe me. He gave me a cold, dismissive look. “You don’t get to break up with me. If anyone is ending this, it’ll be me.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, forcing back the tears. While Wright was in the shower, his phone lit up on the nightstand. The contact name read “Serena.” I realized then that my contact, which used to be pinned to the top of his messages, had been replaced by her. I picked up his phone and tried to unlock it. The passcode was no longer our anniversary. I held my breath and typed in Serena’s birthday. It unlocked instantly. Their chat screen opened. The streak flame next to her name read “1000”. One thousand days. Almost three years. Their streak had started the very week she joined the company. I scrolled up. Every silly meme and video she sent, Wright replied to. Meanwhile, my daily texts about grocery lists and apartment maintenance were buried, unread. The most recent exchange was from fifteen minutes ago. Serena had sent a video of a handsome actor, asking: “Wright, do you know what my type is?” Wright had replied: “Looking to get into a relationship?” She sent a blushing emoji: “Why don’t you ask me who my type is?” “Who is it then?” Serena replied with a voice note. I tapped it. Her voice was sweet, dripping with affectation: “I only like guys who are exactly like you.” Rage boiled in my chest. I pressed the record button and yelled into his phone: “Serena, do you have any shame whatsoever trying to steal your best friend’s fiancé?” Before the message finished sending, the phone was ripped out of my hand. Wright stood there, fresh out of the shower, water dripping from his hair. His face was livid. “Joanna! Serena is your best friend. How can you speak to her like that?” “Listen to what she just said to you!” I snatched the phone back and turned the volume to the maximum. The sugary, intimate voice note echoed through the living room. Wright froze. He lunged forward, grabbed the phone, and quickly powered it off. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. Finally, Wright found his voice. “Serena was just joking around. Don’t take it so seriously.” “Joking? Then is changing your passcode to her birthday also a joke?” Wright frowned, stepping forward to grab my shoulders. “Joanna, whether you believe me or not, nothing physical has ever happened between Serena and me. We are getting married next month. Don’t make a scene over nothing.” I shook his hands off and slammed the bedroom door shut. The moment the latch clicked, the tears finally spilled over. The next morning, the company Slack and group chats erupted. Someone had leaked the video of Wright and Serena at the mall. The video showed Wright holding Serena’s hand, publicly referring to her as his “girlfriend.” The chat rooms were in chaos. “Holy crap, is Serena actually a homewrecker?” “How is this even a question? Mr. Harrison literally called her his girlfriend.” “Isn’t she Joanna’s best friend? Stealing your best friend’s guy… that’s incredibly low.” When I closed the app, my phone was buzzing with over ninety-nine unread messages. Coworkers and friends asking if I was okay. I ignored them all and drove to the office. The rumor mill moved fast. Someone had uploaded the video to TikTok and Twitter. Within two hours, “Local community college grad hooks corporate heir” was trending locally. My name was dragged into the comments. The moment I stepped into the office, I was summoned to the executive suite. The office was in total disarray. The PR team was running around, phones ringing off the hook. Serena sat on the couch, sobbing hysterically. A thick stack of printed reports was suddenly hurled at my head. I stumbled backward, falling onto the carpet. From above, Wright’s voice boomed with fury: “Joanna! Look at what you’ve done! Apologize to Serena right now!” In five years, I had never seen him this angry. Serena pointed a trembling finger at me, weeping. “Joanna, I thought you were my best friend. How could you do this to me?” I stood up, dusting off my pants, and looked Wright straight in the eye. “I didn’t do this.” “I didn’t leak that video, and I didn’t buy any trends.” Wright clearly didn’t believe a word. “Joanna, who else would want to ruin Serena’s reputation besides you? She’s your friend. How could you be so cruel?” “Friend.” Looking at her performative tears, a wave of disgust hit me. Wright signaled his assistant, who handed me a drafted public apology. “Joanna, I don’t care if you did it or not. You are signing this retraction. Serena shouldn’t have to carry this kind of dirt on her name.” I let out a soft, bitter laugh. I took the paper and ripped it to shreds right in front of him. “I won’t apologize for something I didn’t do. And the internet isn’t wrong. Serena is exactly what they say she is.” Wright slammed his hand on the desk, kicking his chair back. “Joanna!” I didn’t stay to watch him rage. I turned around and walked out of his office. After that, a cold war settled between us. Wright didn’t come home for days. The trend was quickly suppressed; the videos were scrubbed from the internet, and all forum discussions were deleted. Discussion of the incident was strictly banned within the company. Two employees were summarily fired by Wright just for whispering about Serena in the breakroom. The old Wright used to value talent above all else; he would never fire someone over petty gossip. But everything was different now. At the end of the month, the promotion review came out. I was ranked first in performance, a shoo-in for the director role. My colleagues had already booked a restaurant to celebrate. But when the official announcement was posted, everyone gasped. My name wasn’t on the list. The position that belonged to me had been given to Serena. I grabbed the printout and marched to HR. The HR director sighed, looking pityingly at me. “Joanna, the board approved your promotion. But Mr. Harrison… he personally exercised his veto power.” It was Wright. He had always been fiercely objective about work. I never imagined he would use his corporate power to play favorites. But he broke his own golden rule for Serena. I pushed open the door to Wright’s office and threw the announcement onto his desk. “Why, Wright?” “You always preached about merit and fair competition. Why did you block my promotion?” To secure this promotion, I had worked myself to the bone, pulling eighty-hour weeks. By tenure, by numbers, Serena didn’t even come close to me. Compared to my raw outrage, Wright was chillingly calm. “Joanna, Serena has been through hell because of that online scandal. What’s wrong with giving her a break? There will be other promotions next year. I promise I’ll make sure you get the next one.” “I don’t want the next one!” My voice cracked, tears stinging my eyes. “I want a fair review. Put me and Serena side-by-side, and let the work speak for itself!” Wright let out a condescending scoff. “Fair? Joanna, you’re talking to me about fair?” He stood up, towering over me. “If I hadn’t personally told HR you were my girlfriend five years ago, you wouldn’t have even gotten past the first interview. Do you honestly think you’d be sitting in this office today without me backing you up all these years?” The words felt like a physical blow. My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. The narrative I had built for myself—that I was smart, capable, and self-made—shattered into dust. I don’t remember how I stumbled out of his office. When I got back to my desk, my face was wet with tears. Serena was surrounded by a crowd of coworkers. The same people who had promised to celebrate with me were now showering her with congratulations and gifts. I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and began packing my things. Serena walked over, a bright smile plastered on her face. “Joanna, we’re going out to celebrate tonight. My treat. You should come!” Looking at her face, I remembered how she had looked when she first started. She had been so timid, so eager to please. I had spent hours teaching her how to format spreadsheets and pitch clients. When Wright needed an assistant, I was the one who put her name forward. My reward for that kindness was a knife straight to my back. I didn’t say a word. I picked up my box of personal belongings and walked out of the building. When I got home, I drafted a formal resignation letter and emailed it to HR. Then, I booked a one-way ticket to Charleston. I packed my life into three suitcases and left the city I had called home for five years. Wright hadn’t seen Joanna at the office for two days. In the past, no matter how furious she was, she never skipped work without notice. But by the third day, her desk remained empty. He called the head of HR into his office. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he muttered, “Get Joanna back to her desk. Unexcused absences are unprofessional.” The HR manager trembled. “Mr. Harrison… Joanna has officially resigned.”

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With only seven days left until the wedding, the coordinator asked Larry and me to finalize our procession playlist. I had chosen the indie track that played during the credits of the very first movie we ever watched together. Larry looked at the screen, frowned, and deleted it. “It’s too obscure, Carol. No one is going to get it.” A second later, he dragged and dropped Sasha’s favorite song into the slot for our main theme. As I froze, Sasha offered a soft, apologetic smile. “Oh, Carol, please don’t be mad. I only mentioned that song once in passing. I had no idea he’d actually remember.” Larry took the iPad from my hands, his tone dismissive yet gentle. “You’ve never cared about these little details anyway, right?” But I did care. I cared deeply. To find that specific track, I had dug through an old memory box to find our ticket stub from seven years ago, spending hours hunting down the original vinyl rip. Later, when I went to the study to retrieve the ring box, I overheard Larry on the phone. “It’s just a wedding,” he was saying, his voice low. “She isn’t going to make a fuss over a song. But if you’re unhappy that day… that’s what I’m worried about.” Standing outside the half-open door, I suddenly felt the song lose all its meaning. I realized that when a relationship finally falls apart, the first thing to go quiet isn’t the music. It’s the silent accumulation of your own unspoken hurts. … I put the ring box back into the drawer just as Larry pushed the door open. He was holding the printed music cue sheet—the one with my song crossed out. “Why are you still up? You have your makeup trial tomorrow.” My eyes drifted to the black ink slashing through my choice. Larry followed my gaze and sighed softly. “It’s just a song, Carol. Don’t overthink it.” “Do you even remember it?” I asked. He paused, searching his memory. “Sure I do. That rainy afternoon at the indie theater. You cried so hard during the credits.” “You told me that day,” I murmured, “that we’d play it at our wedding.” Larry’s phone buzzed. A voice note from Sasha. Before tapping play, he shot me a warning look—a silent plea not to make a scene. Sasha’s bright, airy voice filled the quiet study: “Larry, I listened to the theme again. It really is perfect for you guys! Tell me if I’m being a total busybody, okay?” He typed back immediately: “Not at all. You’ve always had the best taste.” Watching him, my mind drifted back seven years to that tiny, run-down theater. When the credits rolled, he had pushed his half-eaten popcorn into my lap, teasing me for crying like my dog had died. He had laughed, wrapping an arm around me. “We’re playing this at our wedding. That way, everyone will know how easy you are to make happy.” Now, he didn’t remember the song’s name, let alone his promise. He only remembered that Sasha had good taste. “Carol, you know Sasha’s health has been delicate since we were kids. She’s sensitive. Don’t take things so personally.” I stared at him. “Is she really just your sister, Larry?” His brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “In every way that matters, yes. My parents took her in when she was ten. You know this.” Of course I knew. Sasha was the daughter of his father’s late business partner. She moved into the Fletcher estate at ten, followed Larry to college in Boston at eighteen, and returned home at twenty-three to become the fragile girl who constantly needed his protection. In our seven years together, the phrases I heard most were “Sasha has had it hard”, “Sasha will be upset”, or “Sasha didn’t mean anything by it”. His phone lit up again. Sasha had sent a photo. In it, she was wearing a pair of vintage pearl earrings—the exact ones I had admired but ultimately decided not to buy when I picked out my wedding dress. “Larry, do you think these are too much for a bridesmaid? I don’t want to upstage the bride!” He gave a soft chuckle. “She’s just playing around. Don’t take it to heart.” I stared at the pearls. “Did you buy those for her?” Larry’s patience finally snapped. “She’s spending her whole day helping you with your fitting tomorrow. I picked them up as a small thank-you. Carol, stop overcomplicating everything.” I nodded slowly, sealing my lips. Satisfied with my silence, he reached out and gently stroked my hair. “That’s my girl. We only have seven days left. Let’s not make this harder on everyone than it needs to be.” I looked up into his eyes. “What if I told you I still want our song?” His hand froze. “The playlist has already been sent to the DJ, Carol. It looks unprofessional to keep changing things last minute.” A soft knock sounded at the door. Sasha peeked through the gap, her face bright with a helpful smile. “Am I interrupting? Larry, your parents said there’s a slight issue with the rehearsal seating chart. They wanted me to double-check with Carol.” She walked in carrying a printed seating layout. One glance at the head table made my chest tighten. Under “Mother of the Bride”, my late mother’s name had been neatly crossed out. Sasha placed the paper on the desk, her smile fading into a look of delicate concern. “Carol, please don’t take this the wrong way. I just thought… since your mom passed, leaving an empty seat at the front might feel a bit somber for the guests. People might whisper.” Standing behind her, Larry murmured his agreement. “Sasha makes a fair point. There will be a lot of people there. We don’t need guests whispering about an empty chair during the ceremony.” My throat burned. Before my mother passed away, her deepest regret was knowing she wouldn’t see me walk down the aisle. I had designed a quiet tribute: a reserved seat at the front, draped with a simple white ribbon, holding a single bouquet of her favorite yellow tulips. It was the only detail in this over-commercialized, heavily-altered wedding that still belonged entirely to me. I looked up at Larry. “You want to delete this, too?” He sighed, adjusting his cufflinks. “It’s not deleting, Carol. It’s about keeping things elegant. We have to design this for the living, too.” Sasha’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Larry, please don’t argue with Carol because of me. I can sit at the back. It’s fine. I know I don’t really matter in this.” Larry turned to her, his voice softening. “Don’t say that.” A dry laugh escaped my throat. Larry shot me a warning look. “What’s funny?” I pushed the seating chart back toward them. “Nothing. Just realizing that I’m the one who doesn’t matter here.” The study fell dead silent. Larry picked up a pen and drew a circle next to my mother’s designated seat. “Let’s leave it like this for tonight. I’ll have the wedding planner adjust it before the rehearsal tomorrow.” I stared at the black ink. “Did you even think to ask me?” Larry paused, looking up. “Carol, you never used to be like this.” I wanted to ask him what “like this” meant. Did he mean the version of me who silently agreed when he changed the florist? The one who nodded when he swapped out the color scheme? The one who kept quiet as Sasha’s name crept into every single aspect of our wedding planning? Sasha gently tugged at Larry’s sleeve. “Larry, forget it. Carol is probably just feeling pre-wedding anxiety. I’m sure she isn’t targeting me on purpose.” She played the peacemaker beautifully, taking a step back with every word—while standing firmly on my ground. The next afternoon at the makeup trial, the stylist praised how a clean, low bun suited my features. Sasha sat nearby, resting her chin in her hands. “Don’t you think that’s a little too plain, Carol? Wedding cameras wash you out. Something bolder and brighter would look much better.” Larry didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Listen to Sasha. She’s helped coordinate charity galas before.” The stylist looked between us, clearing her throat. “Carol, what do you think?” I stared at my reflection, looking at the pale, heavily powdered face in the mirror. “I want to go with my original plan,” I said quietly. Sasha’s polite smile faltered. Larry finally put down his tablet and walked over, placing his hands on the back of my chair. “Let’s not make things difficult, Carol. There’s a whole crew waiting on the schedule today. If you change one detail, it affects the entire timeline.” Near the door, a few assistants paused their whispering and looked our way. Sasha stepped in with her usual gentle tone. “Larry, let’s just do what Carol wants. Even if it doesn’t photograph as well, her happiness is what matters.” In the mirror, I watched Larry’s expression turn ice-cold. He leaned down, whispering in my ear. “Do you really have to embarrass me in front of the staff?” My hands clenched into fists on my lap. The words were quiet, but they stung worse than the pen scratching out my mother’s seat. When the trial wrapped up, the stylist handed me a small, faded slip of paper. “Carol, this fell out of your folder when we were reviewing the playlist.” It was the movie ticket stub from seven years ago. The edges were yellowed, and on the back, in Larry’s messy, youthful handwriting, were the words: “We play this at our wedding. No excuses.” Sasha leaned over to read it, letting out a soft laugh. “Oh, that’s cute. Larry, your handwriting was so childish back then.” Larry stared at the ink, his face freezing for a fraction of a second. But just as quickly, he snatched the stub from my fingers and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “That was a lifetime ago. Keeping things like this is pointless.” I reached for the bin, but an assistant had already picked it up, tossing it into a large heavy-duty bag filled with discarded mockups and trash. By the time I caught up with them at the end of the hallway, the bag was being handed over to the venue coordinator. The coordinator looked at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, Carol. That load is going straight to the incinerator. Mr. Fletcher told us earlier to clear out all the old, unnecessary clutter before tomorrow’s setup.” I turned to look at Larry. He was standing a few feet away, his tone exasperated. “It’s just a scrap of paper, Carol. Don’t make the entire staff stop their work to search for trash.” Sasha draped her bridesmaid shawl over her shoulders and stepped beside him. “Carol, I get that you’re sentimental, but a wedding is a public celebration. Things that are too private just don’t translate well to a crowd.” I felt a sudden, chilling admiration for her. She never had to grab anything with her own hands. She only had to whisper that something was “unsuitable,” and Larry would gladly tear it away from me for her. That evening, both of our families gathered for dinner. A long table was filled with Larry’s extended family. His mother, reviewing the itinerary, smiled warmly at Sasha. “Sasha, you’ve put so much effort into this. You’ve handled the music, the seating… honestly, anyone walking in would think you were the one getting married.” Laughter rippled across the table. Sasha lowered her head, blushing perfectly on cue. “Please don’t tease me, Mrs. Fletcher. I was just worried Larry would be overwhelmed with all the planning.” Larry placed a piece of roasted duck onto her plate. “You’ve been a lifesaver.” I sat next to him, watching the water in my glass go from warm to room temperature. His mother turned her gaze to me, her voice gentle but laced with a quiet reprimand. “Carol, dear, don’t stress yourself out too much. When it comes to weddings, it’s best to let the groom handle the heavy lifting. A woman who overthinks every detail only ends up exhausted.” “I only wanted to keep the seat for my mother,” I said softly. A sudden silence fell over the table. The smile on Mrs. Fletcher’s face withered. “Well, dear, she’s gone. It’s the thought that counts. A wedding is supposed to be a joyous occasion. Let’s not bring a somber note that makes the older relatives uncomfortable.” Larry gripped his water glass, his voice warning. “Carol.” Those two syllables weren’t comfort. They were a command to shut down. Sasha immediately stood up, holding her glass as she walked over to my side. “Carol, I’m so sorry. This is entirely my fault. If it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to sit at the head table. I can sit anywhere, really.” Her voice trembled with fragile grace, making it look as though I were publicly bullying her. Larry’s aunt frowned. “Sasha is such a sweet girl. Carol, you shouldn’t make a mountain out of a molehill. If you’re going to be this difficult before the wedding, how are you two going to survive a marriage?” I looked at Larry, waiting for him to say something. Anything. Just a simple acknowledgement that this was a tribute we had agreed on months ago. But he merely slid my water glass closer to me. “Take a sip of water. Let’s not make a scene.” At that moment, I realized I was done waiting. After dinner, I went to the restroom to touch up my lipstick. From inside the stall, I heard the door open, followed by Sasha’s voice and one of her friends. “Aren’t you worried Carol is going to snap?” the friend asked with a giggle. The sound of running water started. “Let her,” Sasha replied, her voice light and careless. “What’s she going to do? Larry can’t stand seeing me upset. Besides, she’s been putting up with it for seven years. She isn’t going to start fighting now.” The friend lowered her voice. “But he is actually marrying her.” There was a brief pause, then a soft chuckle from Sasha. “A wedding is just a show. People are what matter. The playlist is mine, the head table is mine. All she’s getting is a piece of paper.” The faucet clicked shut. “By the way, did you manage to grab that old ticket stub for me?” Sasha asked. “Yeah, it’s in your bag,” her friend replied, sounding curious. “Why do you even want it?” Sasha murmured, “Larry wrote something on the back years ago. I just wanted to see exactly how pathetic and childish he used to be for her.” Standing in the stall, my fingers trembled, the cap of my lipstick scraping against the red balm, smearing it across my palm. After their footsteps faded, I stepped out. There, sitting on the marble vanity, was Sasha’s designer clutch. The zipper was half-open, and the unmistakable yellowed corner of my ticket stub was peeking out. I pulled it out and slipped it behind my phone case. When I returned to the private dining room, Larry was finalizing the cue sheets with the coordinator. “Mr. Fletcher, we’ve updated the procession track to the version Sasha provided,” the coordinator said with a polite nod. “We’ll run the new track at tomorrow’s rehearsal.” I pulled out my chair and sat down. “What new version?” Larry glanced at me, a flicker of annoyance in his eyes at my interruption, though his voice remained measured. “Sasha found a modern arrangement that works better with the sound system. Your version is too old, and the audio quality isn’t great.” My fingers brushed the edge of my phone case. “Did you even listen to the original track I found?” The hand flipping through his itinerary paused. “It doesn’t matter, Carol. The guests want an atmosphere, not a soundtrack to your private memories.” Sasha slid a glass of warm water toward me. “Carol, please don’t be upset. I was just trying to polish things up. I’m not trying to take anything from you.” I looked directly into her eyes. “Was stealing my ticket stub part of your polishing process?” Sasha’s face drained of color. Larry frowned. “What ticket stub?” I placed my phone face down on the table. “The one from seven years ago. The one she had her friend salvage from the trash.” Sasha’s eyes filled with tears instantly. “Larry, I didn’t! I just knew how much it meant to Carol, so I wanted to find it for her.” She fumbled with her bag, pulling out a creased ticket slip. But it wasn’t mine. The seat numbers were wrong, and the handwriting on the back wasn’t Larry’s. Larry barely glanced at it before sliding it over to me. “See? She found it. Are you satisfied now?” I stared at the fake ticket stub. The energy to argue drained out of me completely. It didn’t matter what the truth was; the moment Sasha shed a tear, reality rearranged itself to protect her. During the rehearsal that night, the house lights dimmed, and the music swelled through the venue’s speakers. Within the first second of the intro, my chest tightened. The track used the sample from my original version, but they had edited out the quiet monologue at the end, weaving in the synth melodies Sasha preferred. It felt like someone had dismantled a sacred memory I’d kept safe for seven years, reconstructing it to spell out her name. “Bride, you may begin your procession!” the coordinator called out over the microphone. I held the mock bouquet and started walking down the aisle. The giant projector screens on either side of the altar were supposed to play a slideshow of Larry and me over the years. Instead, a video package Sasha had “curated” began to play. There she was with Larry on his college campus in Boston, standing together in the gardens of the Fletcher estate—reclaiming years I had never been a part of. A few wedding assistants whispered near the back. “Is this a tribute to the bridesmaid?” Sasha sprang up from her seat, looking horrified. “Oh my god, did they play the wrong file? Larry, I told them to delete that folder!” Larry strode quickly to the AV booth, his voice sharp and low. “Cut it. Now.” The screen froze on a single image: Larry’s twentieth birthday. Sasha was wearing a paper crown, leaning her head against his shoulder. In the corner of the wooden table in the background lay a movie ticket stub. The exact duplicate of the one behind my phone case. Finally, the pieces clicked together. Seven years ago, we hadn’t been alone in that theater. Sasha had been there, too. She hadn’t stumbled onto our song years later. She had known about it from the very beginning. The coordinator held the mic awkwardly. “Mr. Fletcher, which media package are we running for tomorrow?” Larry turned to look at me, his jaw tight. “Carol, let’s just get through the rehearsal first. Don’t stand there.” Sasha suddenly pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing turning shallow. “Larry… my chest feels tight. Did I ruin everything again?” Larry rushed to her side, catching her before she could stumble. He didn’t even look back at me as he instructed the coordinator, “Run Sasha’s cut tomorrow. I’ll handle Carol.” I looked down at my phone. The chat with the wedding planner was still open. Her last message read: “Carol, if you want to officially cancel the venue and vendors, I need your final confirmation.” Larry guided Sasha past me toward the exit, his voice low with exhaustion. “It’s just a rehearsal, Carol. Don’t start a fight now.” I tapped and held the microphone icon. “I confirm…”

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The diagnosis felt like a quiet death sentence: stage-four stomach cancer. Three months, maybe less. When I told my boyfriend, he didn’t cry. He didn’t even reach out to hold my hand. Instead, he sat in a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Then, his voice cracking slightly, he asked, “Since you’re… since you don’t have much time left, is there any way you could donate your heart to my sister?” His younger sister, Maisie, had been born with a severe congenital heart defect. She had spent her entire life on the transplant list, waiting for a miracle that never came. In that moment, the pain was so sharp I couldn’t even breathe, let alone cry. But I loved him. So, I agreed. I signed the organ donor consent forms, effectively signing my life away. Yet, right before I was wheeled into the operating room, my attending physician—who also happened to be the chief of surgery and the head of the hospital—tore the agreement to shreds. He looked at my boyfriend, his eyes as cold as chipped ice. “She doesn’t have stomach cancer. You falsified her medical records. And besides, who the hell do you think you are, touching what’s mine?” My boyfriend froze. As I stared at the doctor’s strikingly familiar face, the fog in my mind cleared. I finally remembered who he was. He was Nicky, the brilliant, scholarship kid I had financially sponsored back when we were in high school. … The moment I signed that thin sheet of paper, it felt as though the last remaining drop of energy had been siphoned from my body. Trevor carefully folded the donor agreement. He slid it into his leather briefcase with a slow, reverent precision, as if it were the most precious artifact in the world. Then, he looked up at me, offering a warm, gentle smile I hadn’t seen in months. “Nicole, I made dinner for us. All your favorites.” The dining table was set with flickering candles, a bottle of dark red wine, perfectly seared steaks, and a slice of the Black Forest cake I loved. This had been our ritual for every anniversary of our seven years together. But today wasn’t an anniversary. Today was the day I agreed to die. He cut my steak into bite-sized pieces and slid the plate toward me, his voice incredibly soft. “Eat up. You need to keep your strength up.” A sharp, violent spasm twisted my stomach. It wasn’t from the supposed cancer cells eating away at my lining; it was from the chilling, casual nature of his voice. He raised his wine glass, not to toast me, but to the empty air. “Once Maisie gets your heart, she’ll finally be able to live like a normal girl. She can go back to college, fall in love, get married.” He looked at me, his eyes gleaming. “She’s going to be so grateful to you, Nicole.” My hand shook so violently the fork clattered against the porcelain. “What about me?” I managed to whisper, the words catching in my throat. “Trevor… will you remember me?” He blinked, seemingly startled by the question, before offering a reassuring, almost patronizing smile. “Of course. You’ll always be the love of my life. And you’ll be the savior of our family.” The love of his life? His family’s savior? So that was what my seven years of devotion amounted to—a transaction of flesh and blood, repackaged as a noble sacrifice to be remembered. He didn’t notice my silence. He pulled out his phone, swiped it open, and turned the screen toward me. “Look, Maisie’s color is already returning just thinking about it. She’s so excited for this new lease on life.” On the screen, Maisie was propped up against her hospital pillows, her cheeks flushed, her smile bright and innocent. Trevor’s voice drifted over me like a slow poison. “Your heart will keep beating inside her. In a way, it’s like your own life is continuing, isn’t it?” A wave of intense nausea hit me. “Excuse me,” I choked out, pushing my chair back so hard it screeched against the hardwood. I bolted to the bathroom, collapsing over the toilet as my body racked with violent, dry heaves. There was nothing in my stomach but bile and acid. “Nicole? Are you okay in there?” Trevor’s voice came through the door, carrying a carefully measured note of concern—and something else. Tension. “Did you eat too fast? You have to take care of yourself.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, yet the words cut through the wood like a knife. “Try not to throw up too much. It might affect your cardiac vitals. We need you in peak condition.” I leaned my forehead against the cold tile wall, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back was hollow, pale, and entirely unrecognizable. For the sake of his sister’s future heart, even the food I put into my mouth had to be monitored. It was a sick comedy. I wiped my mouth, stood up, and opened the door. I looked at him and said quietly, “I’m tired. I want to check into the hospital early.” A flash of relief washed over his face, so quick I almost missed it. “Of course. I’ll arrange it immediately. The best private suite, the best doctors. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” He squeezed my hand. His grip was incredibly tight, as if he were terrified I would slip away or change my mind. But the relief in his eyes felt like a needle driving straight into my numb heart. I was admitted to the VIP wing of the hospital. The room was beautiful—bright, spacious, with a view of a manicured courtyard garden. But to me, it felt like a gilded cage. Soon after we arrived, Trevor confiscated my phone. His excuse was flawless: “The blue light and the notifications will disrupt your rest. The doctors say you need absolute quiet. I’ll handle all your calls and emails for you.” Just like that, my bridge to the outside world was cut. The next afternoon, my best friend, Zoe, came to visit, carrying a basket of fresh fruit. Trevor blocked her at the door. I could hear their muffled, heated voices through the thick wood of the patient room. “Trevor? What the hell is this? Let me see Nicole!” “Zoe, please. Nicole is resting. The medical staff has strictly forbidden visitors right now.” Trevor’s voice was calm, reasonable, and unyielding. “Bullshit! I’m her best friend! She’s sick, of course I’m going to see her. Let me in, or get her to come to the door!” “She’s asleep under sedation. Please don’t disrupt her recovery. It’s not good for her condition.” “Trevor, I swear to God, if you are doing anything to hurt her—” “Zoe,” Trevor’s voice dropped, turning icy. “If you actually care about her, you’ll leave. Otherwise, I’ll have security escort you out.” The hallway went quiet. A moment later, I heard the faint, angry click of Zoe’s heels fading down the corridor. My heart sank into a dark, bottomless pit. Trevor walked back into the room, slipping his gentle mask back on. “Nicole, you’re awake? Zoe is just so loud and dramatic. I was worried she’d stress you out. Don’t be mad at me.” I stared at him, my throat dry, unable to utter a single word. He had systematically cut off my only lifeline, and he had done it with a smile. This room was no longer a place of healing. It was a tomb. My attending physician came to do his rounds for the first time later that evening. His name tag read Dr. Nicholas Foster. He was tall, lean, and wore a pair of thin, gold-rimmed glasses that gave him an air of quiet, clinical detachment. He flipped through my physical chart, his long, pale fingers turning the pages as his brow furrowed in a barely perceptible frown. He asked me a few basic questions about my symptoms, his voice deep and entirely devoid of emotion. Trevor stood at my bedside, answering every question before I could even open my mouth, acting as if he were the one experiencing the illness. Dr. Foster didn’t push. He simply closed the chart and said, “Get some rest.” But as he turned to leave, the corner of his clipboard brushed against the back of my hand. The cold, brief touch sent a strange jolt through me, though I dismissed it at the time. Over the next few days, Trevor’s “care” grew smothering. He hired a private nurse to watch me twenty-four hours a day. Every mealtime, he personally brought in a thermos of specialized broth from home, watching me like a hawk until I swallowed every last drop. The broth had a strange, faintly metallic bitterness to it. When I complained that I couldn’t stomach it, he would stroke my hair, coaxing me as if I were a stubborn child. “Come on, sweetheart. Do it for Maisie. We need your heart in perfect condition. This is a special recipe from a holistic specialist.” Always for Maisie. Always for the heart. Every ounce of his affection was a transaction, itemized and billed against my survival. Despite the hospital’s supposedly world-class care, my health deteriorated rapidly. I began to fall into deep, heavy sleeps, my waking hours shrinking with each passing day. The nurses came in regularly to adjust my IV drip, and though I noticed the labels on the bags looked altered, I lacked the strength to even raise a finger to point at them. The pain in my abdomen grew excruciating. Every wave felt like a dull blade twisting in my stomach. Vomiting and sleeping became my entire existence. One afternoon, Dr. Foster came into my room alone, without his usual retinue of residents. He walked over to my bed, picked up the IV bag, and examined the port and the labeling. His expression darkened instantly. He turned to Trevor, who was sitting on the sofa. “Who authorized these supplemental pain meds and sedation adjusters?” Trevor didn’t blink. “I consulted with an outside specialist. Nicole was in so much pain, I wanted to make sure she was comfortable.” “Comfortable?” Dr. Foster repeated the word, his voice carrying an icy, dangerous edge. He looked down at me, his eyes dark and incredibly intense. There was a storm of emotions in them—anger, pity, and a fierce, quiet resolve. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Sometime later, I woke from a feverish, drug-induced haze. The room was dark, save for the blue glow of Trevor’s phone. He was sitting in the armchair, replying to work emails, his face tight with impatience. I gathered every ounce of strength I had left and reached out, catching the edge of his sleeve. “Trevor…” my voice was barely a whisper. He dragged his eyes away from the screen, letting out a soft, irritated sigh. “Yeah?” “Do you remember…” I swallowed hard, trying to clear the dryness in my throat. “Junior year of college? We went to the lake to watch the meteor shower… I was freezing, and you gave me your only jacket…” I was clawing at the walls, desperate to find some remnant of the man I had loved for seven years. I wanted to believe there was still a soul inside him. “You told me then… that you’d love me forever. That you’d always protect me…” “Nicole, stop,” he snapped, jerking his sleeve out of my weak grasp. “Look at the state of you. Why are you bringing up useless old stories now?” He unlocked his phone, opened his calendar, and tapped a date just three days away. “The surgical team is ready. Maisie’s vitals are slipping, and she can’t wait much longer. Can you just… stop dragging this out?” My hand fell limply back onto the white sheet. The last flickering ember of hope inside me was brutally extinguished. He didn’t just want my heart. He was furious that I wasn’t dying fast enough. I closed my eyes, letting a single, cold tear slip into my hair. Fine, Trevor. If you want me gone so badly, I won’t fight you anymore. I only hoped that in the quiet hours of the night, he would feel even a shred of remorse for what he had done to me. Though deep down, I knew he wouldn’t. The morning of the surgery arrived. I was changed into a sterile gown and placed on a gurney. The hallway ceiling lights flashed overhead in a rhythmic, dizzying blur, feeling like a fast-forward reel of my short, foolish life. Trevor and Maisie walked alongside the gurney. Maisie was sobbing hysterically, her voice trembling as she clutched my hand. “I’m so sorry, Nicole… I’m so, so sorry…” But Trevor’s face held no grief. There was only a restless, electric excitement humming beneath his skin—the look of a man who was about to inherit everything he had ever wanted. He even had the audacity to pat his sister’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, Maisie. This is a beautiful thing. You should be happy for Nicole. She’s going to live on through you.” I stared at the ceiling, feeling entirely hollow. Yes, what a beautiful thing. My life traded for hers. When we reached the double doors of the surgical suite, Trevor signaled the orderly to stop. He leaned down, placing his lips close to my ear, and whispered his final words to me. It wasn’t I love you. It wasn’t even Goodbye. He whispered, “Don’t worry, Nicole. It’ll be over soon. Maisie is going to take your heart and see all the places you never got to see.” He spoke as if he were discarding a piece of used property. He didn’t even bother to fake the love anymore. My last tear fell. Not for him, but for the girl I used to be, who had wasted her youth on a monster. I was wheeled into the sterile prep room. The cold steel instruments, the bright lights, the masked faces—everything felt detached, like a movie I was watching from far away. The anesthesiologist approached with a syringe. I closed my eyes and let go. Death, I realized, was a relief compared to this. Suddenly— Thud. The heavy double doors of the operating room were violently thrown open. Dr. Nicholas Foster walked in. He wasn’t in scrubs. He wore his pristine white lab coat, and behind him stood three stern-faced members of the hospital board, flanked by two burly security guards. The room fell into a dead, shocked silence. Trevor, who had sneaked into the prep area against protocol, stepped forward, his face twisting with anger. “Dr. Foster? What is the meaning of this? The surgery is scheduled for right now!” Nicholas ignored him entirely. He strode directly to Trevor, reached out, and pulled my signed donor agreement straight out of the open briefcase Trevor was holding. The paper that dictated my life or death. Nicholas looked down at me, his cool, gray eyes burning with a raw, unspoken fury and pain that I couldn’t comprehend. Then, with absolute deliberation, he tore the contract in half. He tore it again, and again, until the pieces fluttered to the sterile floor like snow. Trevor lunged forward to stop him, but the security guards instantly grabbed his arms, pinning him back. “Nicholas! Are you insane?!” Trevor screamed, thrashing against their grip. “Do you have any idea how important that agreement is to my sister?!” Nicholas finally turned to face him. A cold, lethal smile touched his lips. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a sledgehammer. “First of all, Nicole Cross does not have stomach cancer. She has an acute gastric ulcer induced by deliberate poisoning.” He paused, letting the words sink in, before pointing a finger at Trevor. “You bribed Dr. Howard, the deputy chief, to falsify her charts.” Nicholas stepped closer, his gaze locking onto Trevor’s pale face like a vice. “And second… who the hell do you think you are, touching what’s mine?”

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