Category: English

My boyfriend was always busy. When my appendix nearly ruptured and I needed emergency surgery, he was in the middle of a multinational board meeting. He told me the surgeons were top-tier, so his presence wouldn’t change the medical outcome anyway. When a pipe burst and flooded our brownstone into a miniature lake, he was boarding a flight. Through the static of airport announcements, he told me to handle it with the building management myself. Even the night my mother passed away, he was out entertaining clients at a steakhouse. He sent a brief text – “My condolences” – followed by a bank transfer to cover the burial plot. It wasn’t until I stood outside City Hall, holding the notification of our eighth canceled marriage license appointment, that the truth finally settled in. I stared at the cold words on my screen, then looked up at the historic brick facade of the municipal building. Today was supposed to be our fifth anniversary. It would have been the day we finally made it official, if the last seven attempts hadn’t been derailed. My phone vibrated again. It was a custom alert for his childhood friend’s social media. Ruth Conrad had posted a photo. Propped up in a sterile hospital bed, her face pale but smiling, she was flashing a victory sign. “Gideon still cares about me the most~” I locked the screen and turned around. This time, I didn’t text him back to ask which day we would reschedule. Because deep down, I knew there wouldn’t be a next time. … The first time he canceled was three years ago. Ruth had just gone through a messy breakup. In the middle of the night, she called Gideon, weeping and threatening to jump from her balcony. Gideon threw on a pair of slides and ran out the door, spending the night talking her down until dawn. When I called to ask when he’d be home, his voice was a harsh, hurried whisper. Can you stop crowding me? Ruth is incredibly unstable right now. I gripped my phone, swallowing the words I actually wanted to say. Ruth’s parents were gone, and her older brother had died saving Gideon’s life years ago. I knew Gideon felt a debt to her. I understood it. So I waited. I waited for five long years, expecting that debt to eventually be paid. I took a cab back to the place we called home. In the entryway sat a pair of plush pink slippers. They weren’t mine. Ruth had a key to our place. Gideon claimed she needed a safe haven in case she ever felt overwhelmed and couldn’t reach anyone. Walking past the living room, I noticed a half-empty matcha latte on the coffee table, a vivid red lipstick mark staining the straw. The master bedroom was on the left; my bedroom was on the right. We had been sleeping in separate rooms since our third year together. At first, he framed it as a courtesy – so he wouldn’t wake me when he came home late from the office. But then Ruth started staying over more frequently, sleeping in the guest room right next to the master suite. Closer to him than I ever was. I began to pack. Five years of living together, yet my entire life fit neatly into a single suitcase. The heart, however, was a different story. I had left mine somewhere in this house, and I knew I would never get it back. At 2:00 AM, the front door clicked open. Gideon walked in, carrying the distinct, sharp scent of hospital antiseptic. Still awake? His voice was slightly hoarse. I didn’t answer. He walked over to the edge of my bed, reaching out naturally to touch my shoulder. Could you whip up some pasta? Ruth said the hospital food was inedible, so I didn’t eat either. My stomach is killing me. I looked up at him. He was striking – strong jaw, deep-set eyes under dark brows. Even worn thin by exhaustion, he was the kind of handsome that made your chest ache. Gideon, I said, we need to talk. His brow furrowed, that familiar twitch of irritation settling over his features. Tomorrow. I’m exhausted. In the past, I would have pushed, letting the words spill out of me. But tonight, I felt entirely hollow. I nodded. Okay. He blinked, caught off guard by how easily I had let it go. The next morning, I woke up early. Or rather, I barely slept at all. When I walked downstairs, Gideon was already seated at the dining table, scrolling through his tablet. He looked up at the sound of my footsteps. You’re up. There’s some plain pasta in the pot. Help yourself. His tone was perfectly even, as if the night before had never happened. I walked into the kitchen and lifted the lid. It was just dry noodles with a couple of wilted spinach leaves thrown in. Nothing like the rich bone-broth ramen with soft-boiled eggs and chopped scallions I used to make for him. I poured a glass of milk from the fridge and sat down across from him. Are we talking today? I asked. Gideon’s fingers paused on the screen. He raised his head, his gaze heavy and guarded. Naomi, I was incredibly tired yesterday. Things are complicated with Ruth right now, I – When are things ever simple with her? I interrupted. Gideon’s face darkened. What is that supposed to mean? Exactly what I said. I took a sip of my milk. In the last five years, she’s had three breakups, two layoffs, four bouts of acute stomach flu, one appendectomy, a car accident, and two cases of food poisoning. I set the glass down. Gideon, are you actually blind, or are you just pretending to be? He stared at me, his jaw clenching tightly. Naomi! Stop being unreasonable! Her brother died for me! I promised him I’d look after her for the rest of her life! Can’t you show a little empathy?! Always the same argument. Every single time. I looked into his reddening eyes and, surprisingly, I found myself smiling. Gideon, I said, gently pulling my hand back as he tried to reach for it. Go ahead and look after her. Marry her. Just stop ruining my life. I turned and walked upstairs. Below me, his voice echoed through the high ceilings. Naomi! Get back down here! We aren’t finished! I let out a quiet laugh. I laughed at how foolish I had been, thinking we could actually sit down and have a mature, clean break. After five years, everything that needed to be said had already been worn down to dust. The only thing left was goodbye. I had just booked a one-way ticket for three days from now when I heard the front door open downstairs. It wouldn’t be Gideon. He had a partner meeting; he’d be trapped in a boardroom at this hour. Sure enough, Ruth was standing in the living room, wearing her plush pink slippers and a silk slip nightgown. Over her shoulders was my limited-edition designer silk robe – the one I hadn’t even unwrapped yet. She was grabbing a yogurt from the fridge. When she saw me, her face lit up with a sweet, fragile smile. Oh, Naomi, you’re home? I thought you’d be at the restoration studio. She took a little spin, the hem of my robe fluttering around her knees. Gideon gave this to me. He said the color really brings out my eyes. You don’t mind, do you? I walked over to her, my eyes locking onto her neck. I recognized the necklace. It was a vintage platinum pendant with a rare Ceylon sapphire, carved with an intricate Art Deco filigree. It was the Harrison family heirloom, given to me by Gideon’s grandmother just before she passed. Now, it was resting against Ruth’s collarbone. Did Gideon give you the necklace, too? Ruth touched the sapphire, her smile widening. Oh, this? Gideon said it was a shame to keep it locked away in a safe. He told me to wear it for fun. If you want it back, Naomi, I can take it off? Three years ago, in this very living room, she had worn my sweater and my earrings for the first time. Gideon had brushed it off, saying, “She was cold, Naomi. It’s just a sweater. Why are you making a big deal out of it?” Then Ruth had burst into tears, crying like a faucet. “Naomi, do you hate me? Gideon and I really don’t have anything going on. If we did, we would have been together years ago…” Once upon a time, those tears made me feel guilty, like I was the petty, narrow-minded one. Now, it just felt pathetic. Take the robe off, I said. It cost five thousand dollars. Either take it off right now, or I’ll assist you. Her smile faltered, but she recovered quickly, putting on a wounded expression. Naomi, is it really that serious? It’s just a piece of clothing… It is. I pulled out my phone. Are you paying via transfer, or should we discuss this with the police? The front door clicked open again. Gideon walked in, carrying a pastry box from the high-end bakery Ruth loved. He froze when he saw the two of us in the living room. His eyes swept over the silk robe she was wearing, and he frowned slightly. Why are you wearing so little? You’re going to catch a cold. Just like that. No questions about why she was here, or why she was wearing my clothes. When things reach a certain level of absurdity, you can’t help but laugh. I let out a sharp, genuine chuckle. Gideon looked at me, his frown deepening. What are you throwing a tantrum over now? Your childhood sweetheart is wearing my five-thousand-dollar designer robe. Pay me for it, or I call the police for trespassing and theft. Your choice. Gideon looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and exhaustion, as if dealing with a petulant child. Naomi, it’s just a robe. Do you have to be this incredibly petty? Just a robe. Two years ago, it was much more than that. Ruth had knocked over and shattered a vintage mother-of-pearl brooch my mother had left me – the only physical piece of her I had left. Ruth had wept, offering endless apologies, while Gideon wrapped an arm around her shoulders to comfort her. “Out with the old, in with the new, Naomi,” he had told me. “I’ll buy you a better one.” Fine, I said, nodding slowly. Then don’t blame me for being petty. I dialed 911 and reported an illegal intruder who had stolen high-value personal property. Ruth’s face went completely pale. Naomi, what are you doing?! Gideon told me I could come over! Gideon snatched the phone from my hand, speaking quickly to the operator. Apologies, there’s been a misunderstanding. Everything is fine. He ended the call and glared at me. Naomi, do you have to make everything look this ugly? Who is the one making it ugly? I pointed directly at Ruth. She has a key because you gave it to her. She wears my clothes and my family heirloom because you allow it. Why are you even with me? Am I just a prop in whatever twisted game you two are playing? Ruth shrank back behind Gideon, let out a soft, trembling sob. Gideon, I didn’t mean to… I just thought the robe was beautiful, and I wanted to try it on… Try it on? I laughed. To the point of cutting off the tags? To the point of lounging around in it? Gideon took a deep breath, pulled his wallet from his coat, and tossed his black card onto the coffee table. Is this enough? If not, I’ll wire you more. I looked at the sleek piece of plastic, feeling an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. Five years. Every conflict ended this way. He threw money at it, as if a transaction could erase every insult, every humiliation. I walked into the study, grabbed my tablet, unlocked it, and pulled up a specific folder. I brought it back to the living room and held it out. This is the timeline of Ruth’s emergencies over the past five years. Three years ago, our first appointment to get a marriage license: she threatens to jump from a balcony. Two years ago, my birthday: she gets food poisoning. Last year, our engagement dinner: she gets into a car accident. This Valentine’s Day: she gets acute appendicitis. Every single milestone of ours, she manages to derail with perfect precision. Gideon, are you genuinely blind, or do you just enjoy the drama? Gideon stared at the screen, his mouth tightening into a thin line. I swiped to the next page. And this is Ruth’s private burner account on Twitter. The tweets were laid out in a damning row. “Success again~ He actually dumped that woman to come rescue me [giggle]” “Men are so easy. Keep them drowning in guilt, and they’ll never leave~” “Finally got the sapphire necklace! It’s an antique, but at least it’s a family heirloom~” “This silk robe is gorgeous. I cut the tags so she can’t wear it [laughing emoji]” Ruth’s face lost all color. You… you hacked my account?! I turned the tablet toward Gideon. Every single one of these tweets was posted from this house’s IP address. Gideon stared at the screen, his fingers clenching so hard they turned white. For a second, I thought he would snap. I thought he would demand answers, or at least look at me and say he was sorry. But when he raised his eyes, his voice was quiet, almost pleading. Ruth just lacks security, Naomi. Her parents passed early, her brother… she only has me. Can’t you just be the bigger person for once? The heating in the townhouse was running high, but a sudden, violent chill swept through me, making my teeth chatter. Five years. I was already planning my exit, yet having the courage to ask the question only to receive an answer like this was a different kind of pain. The next evening was Franklin Harrison’s seventieth birthday party. I hadn’t wanted to go. But the elder Mr. Harrison had called me himself, his voice weak and raspy over the phone. Naomi, sweetheart, you have to come… Has that foolish boy of mine been mistreating you again? Tell me, and I’ll straighten him out. My heart softened. Franklin had always been exceptionally kind to me. Five years ago, when Gideon first brought me to meet his family, Franklin had taken my hand in his, his eyes warm and paternal. If this boy ever treats you poorly, you let me know. I’ll break his legs myself. Before the dinner, Gideon came to find me. The dinner starts at six. I’ll pick you up. I kept my eyes on my work, not looking at him. Go ahead without me. Naomi, his voice dropped an octave, warning me. My father isn’t in good health. Do you really have to pick now to throw a tantrum? I set down my tweezers and turned to face him. Your father has been nothing but kind to me, and I respect him. I am going for him, not for you. Gideon stared at me, his gaze lingering. I used to love seeing him in a tailored suit. Tonight, it just made me feel slightly sick. The sapphire necklace is back, he said quietly. Ruth gave it to me. She didn’t ‘give’ it back, I corrected him. It was returned to its rightful owner. And I wired the five thousand for the robe to your account. His voice carried an edge of controlled frustration. Every single cent. Are we good now? I looked at him, letting out a soft sigh. Gideon, you will never understand what the actual problem is. The celebration was held at the Harrison estate – a grand, sprawling colonial house adorned with lights and packed with New York’s elite. The moment I walked through the door, I saw Ruth. She was standing beside Lydia Harrison, Gideon’s mother, laughing brightly. Lydia was holding her hand, nodding along to whatever she was saying. Gideon paused next to me, muttering under his breath, I didn’t invite her. She must have come on her own. None of my business, I said, slipping my hand out of his arm and walking ahead. I spent some time chatting with Franklin in the study. He patted my hand, sighing softly. Naomi, I know you’ve put up with a lot. I shook my head. It’s fine, Mr. Harrison. It’s all in the past. And it was. I was leaving the country in less than forty-eight hours. Everything that had transpired here would soon be a lifetime away. When the dinner began and the toasts were being made, Franklin suddenly spoke up, raising his glass toward our table. Gideon, you and Naomi have been together for five years now. When are we going to hear wedding bells? Dad, Gideon offered a strained smile. We’ve both been swamped with the new venture. Once things settle down – Busy! You’re always busy! Franklin slammed his cane against the floor. Naomi has waited five years for you! How much longer do you expect her to wait?! Oh, Mr. Harrison, Ruth’s sweet voice chimed in from across the table. Gideon is incredibly talented, of course his career has to come first. Besides, Naomi is so understanding. She doesn’t mind waiting, do you, Naomi? She flashed a triumphant, mocking smile. I picked up my glass and took a slow sip. You’re right. I understand perfectly. I set the glass down and stood up. Excuse me, I need to use the restroom. Behind me, I could hear Franklin’s angry protests and Gideon trying to quiet him, but I didn’t look back. I walked out to the second-floor terrace, leaning against the stone balustrade. I pulled a cigarette from my purse and lit it. I had quit three years ago, but tonight, I needed something to take the edge off. Smoking isn’t great for an art conservator’s hands. The voice was deep, smooth, carrying a hint of amusement. I turned around. And you are? Jude Harrison, he said, stepping into the dim light. He was holding two glasses of Pinot Noir, offering one to me. Gideon’s uncle. I took the glass but didn’t drink. Is the uncle out here to lecture me, too? Just escaping the noise. I read your paper on the restoration of the “Pompeii Fragments”. I felt a sudden jolt of surprise. That project had been completed under a strict pseudonym. How did you know that was me? Your brushwork, Jude said, taking a slow sip of his wine. Your technique is incredibly distinct. You have this habit of hiding your starting stroke and finishing with a perfectly rounded edge. I saw it once in a gallery years ago, and I never forgot it. He turned to look at me, his eyes catching the light of the garden below. You’re a genius, Naomi. The wind brushed past us, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. I remained silent. Jude didn’t press. He simply stood beside me, sharing the quiet space. After a long moment, he spoke again. Gideon doesn’t deserve you. I let out a soft laugh. Is this the part where the uncle apologizes on behalf of the family? No, Jude said, shaking his head. Just stating a cold fact. He leaned closer. I’m putting together a team for a major international recovery project. We’ve located a cache of looted medieval manuscripts in Florence. I need a master-class conservator to oversee the authentication and restoration. It’s a three-month contract, based entirely in Italy. He looked at me intently. I believe it aligns perfectly with your current plans. What do you say? When I returned to the main hall, the party was in full swing. Ruth was at the center of a small crowd, pouring wine for Franklin and sweet-talking the older guests. Gideon stood nearby, looking hollow and distant. I tried to slip past them to say my goodbyes to the host, but as I walked by, Ruth suddenly let out a sharp cry and stumbled directly into me. The dark red liquid splashed across the front of my cream silk dress, staining the fabric in a brutal, ugly smear. Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! Ruth cried out, instantly grabbing a napkin and dabbing frantically at my chest. Naomi, I swear I didn’t mean to, I just tripped – Gideon immediately stepped in, pulling her back by her waist. Are you okay? The question was directed at her, though his eyes darted to me for a fraction of a second. I looked down at the ruined silk, and a memory from five years ago flashed through my mind. We had been at a gallery opening, and someone had accidentally spilled a drink on me. Gideon had gone absolutely livid, demanding an apology on the spot. “If anyone ever treats you with disrespect, Naomi, I’ll ruin them,” he had promised me back then. It’s fine, I heard myself say, my voice flat. I’m used to it. Gideon’s face hardened. Naomi, she said it was an accident. Don’t start – Whether it was an accident or not, you know the truth. I turned toward the exit. Behind me, I heard Franklin calling my name, Ruth’s soft whimpering, and then Jude’s calm, cutting voice: The first rule of the Harrison family is to protect our own, Gideon. Have you forgotten that? The night air was freezing. I got into the waiting cab, where my luggage was already packed in the trunk. As we neared JFK, my phone began to buzz violently in my bag. It was Gideon. When the hell did you pack up your entire life?!

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The headlines were savage: “Oscar-Winning Actress’s Secret Ten-Year-Old Child Exposed.” At virtually the same hour, a photo of me berating my ten-year-old daughter on a public sidewalk trended worldwide. The court of public opinion immediately reached its verdict. They decided that I, a D-list indie actor clawing for relevance, was using a child as a cheap publicity stunt to ride the coat-tails of a scandal. They even gave me a charming nickname: “The Toxic Father.” Before the dust could even settle, Christian Croft—the golden-boy heartthrob of the moment—dropped a carousel of photos on Instagram. In them, he was feeding my daughter ice cream, smiling warmly, and kneeling on the pavement to tie her sneakers. His caption read: “Well, the secret’s out. I wanted to wait until she was a teenager to share her with the world, but here we are.” Within minutes, the post had millions of likes. The internet exploded with headlines: “Meet Caroline Maxwell’s Gorgeous Daughter and Her Devoted Husband.” I stared at my tablet, my brow furrowing deeper with every comment I read. Finally, I turned to the woman lying beside me, her limbs tangled in our duvet, and asked, “Did you find our daughter a second dad behind my back?” Caroline bolted upright, immediately dropping to her knees on the mattress. “Babe, I swear to God, I would never!” … I watched her, the tight knot in my chest loosening just a fraction at her sheer panic. “Then explain the trending page.” Caroline wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, her words tumbling out in a nervous rush. “I was running late to my shoot. Hazel came to find me, and I was going to leave her with my publicist for a bit. But Christian was just… there. He insisted on watching her. You know what Hazel is like—she sees a handsome face and her brain turns to mush. I figured nothing bad could happen since my publicist was right down the hall. I didn’t think he’d do this!” She held up three fingers, her expression deadly serious. “Babe, if I ever did anything to betray you, may lightning strike me down, and may I never be allowed to hold you again.” I rolled my eyes. What a dramatic, ridiculous curse. Caroline scrambled closer, burying her face in the crook of my neck, her breath warm against my skin. “You know you’re the only one for me. I literally turned down Harvard just to follow you to LA. I worked so hard to finally have you. Why would I ever risk losing this?” She wasn’t lying about that part. Our love story didn’t have much drama. We were high school sweethearts. We shared a desk for three years, a slow-burning friction that eventually caught fire. She was the valedictorian destined for greatness; I was the boy who spent his afternoons memorizing monologues, desperate to break into acting. She never forced me to solve calculus equations; instead, she spent her nights browsing theater forums, compiling binders of casting calls and trivia about my favorite actors. During my drama school auditions, we lived apart, but she would call me from a dusty payphone, her voice a fragile wire connecting us across the distance, telling me how much she missed me. In the end, she walked away from her Ivy League acceptance. She chose a local university just to accompany me to bleak, empty casting offices, holding my jacket while I auditioned for roles I’d never get. Years bled by. I remained an obscure indie actor, a shadow in the background, while her raw, effortless talent caught the eye of a legendary director. She became the youngest woman to win an Academy Award. The very night she clutched that gold statuette, she looked past the flashing cameras, came home, and proposed. “Marry me, Tom.” On the day we signed our marriage license, she wanted to post it—to hard-launch us to the world. I put a stop to it immediately. “Caroline, my career is hanging by a thread. I finally built a tiny, loyal fanbase that respects my work. If you drop this bomb now, the narrative will become about you pulling strings for me. If you ruin this, I’m leaving.” She had cried about it countless times over the decade. Even now, she was complaining. “Other actresses get to have their beautiful, public fairytale weddings. And look at me. I have a ten-year-old child, and I’m still living like your dirty little secret.” She nudged her nose against my chest, sensing my hesitation. “Now that the rumors are flying anyway, why don’t we just do it? Let’s go public. It’s been ten years, Tom. Hazel has to call you ‘uncle’ when we’re out, and she can’t even hold my hand in public. It’s hurting her. And it’s killing me.” Before I could formulate an objection, she sat up, a look of fierce determination in her eyes. “We’re doing it. You have that press panel tomorrow morning, right? I’m going to crash it. I’ll stand by you.” She didn’t wait for my approval; she practically bolted from the room. The next morning, the venue was buzzing. My agent, Mike, met me backstage, his face pale as paper. “Tom, look at Twitter. It’s a bloodbath.” He handed me his phone. The hashtags were brutal: #CancelTomMaxwell, #ToxicDad, #TheRealFatherChristian. Christian had poured gasoline on the fire overnight. He’d posted two more photos. The first showed him with a soft, cinematic gaze, watching Hazel kick a soccer ball in a park. Caption: “Pure bliss. Everyone I love, right here.” The second was a close-up of two hands clasped together. Caption: “Happy 10th anniversary ;)” The internet swallowed it whole. “So Christian is Caroline’s secret husband! They look so good together.” “They worked on that indie film ten years ago; Christian was a minor character. It all makes sense now!” “Such a romantic hard launch.” “Chris, tell us, is Caroline next to you right now?” Christian had liked that last comment. I stared at the screen. Wait. If Caroline was wrapped around me in our bed all night… who the hell was he holding hands with? Mike looked like he was preparing for a funeral. “Tom, with the way things are blowing up, the media is going to crucify you today. Christian is also on the panel. If you were officially Caroline’s husband, the organizers would be kissing your feet. But right now, everyone thinks Christian is her man. With her clout backing him, they are going to drag you through the mud. Whatever they ask, you have to keep your composure.” Christian and I had been pitted against each other for years. We had a similar “brooding, classic-Hollywood” aesthetic, which meant his rabid fanbase accused me of plagiarizing his entire existence. If I wore a charcoal suit, I was copying him. If I posted a melancholy quote, I was throwing shade. If I was caught on camera looking in his direction, they claimed I was glaring at him in pure envy. Some corners of the internet even insisted I’d gone under the knife to copy his face. I found it exhausting. He was basically a glorified fast-fashion model; why would I reconstruct my jawline to look like a guy who made a living selling tea-toxes on Instagram? The panel was being broadcast live. Because of the brewing scandal, the viewer count skyrocketed into the millions within seconds. The host, Sean Kelly, wasted no time. He went straight for the jugular, asking both Christian and me about the viral photos. Christian grabbed the mic first, offering the camera a weary, practiced sigh. “I honestly didn’t expect the paparazzi to catch us. Her mom was so distraught this morning, blaming herself for not protecting our privacy. Even though my girl and her mother have been wanting to go public for a long time, I’ve always felt that, as public figures, we still deserve a small corner of the world just for ourselves.” Sean’s eyes practically turned into dollar signs. “So, Chris, you’re officially confirming your marriage to Academy Award winner Caroline Maxwell?” Christian’s ears flushed a performative pink. He offered a bashful, evasive smile. “Ah, let’s keep the focus on my little girl, shall we?” Sean took the bait, pivoting smoothly. “Of course. Let’s talk about the little princess. Looking at those photos, you two seem incredibly close. What’s your parenting style like?” Christian smiled warmly, adjusting his collar with casual elegance. “I think I’m what people call an old-school dad. I always save the best for her. If there’s a dessert she likes, I won’t touch it; it’s hers. I love leaving little surprise gifts for her. I just want to give her the absolute best.” The live chat went wild. “He’s so gentle, I’m crying!” “The perfect dad, the perfect mom. This kid won the genetic lottery.” “I need to see their daily life!” Sean caught the sentiment and immediately put Christian on the spot. “Any chance we could get a sneak peek at one of these sweet father-daughter moments?” Christian nodded, pulling out his phone. He tapped a file, and the camera zoomed in on his screen. On screen, Christian’s voice was honey-sweet: “Careful, sweetheart. I got your favorite soda right here.” A second later, Hazel came sprinting into the frame on her chubby little legs, throwing herself into his arms. Her squeaky voice echoed through the studio speakers: “Thank you! You are literally the most handsome boy in the entire world!” My eyes rolled so far back into my head I nearly saw my own brain. I knew I banned high-fructose corn syrup at home, but did she really have to sell her soul to a stranger for a single can of Fanta? Naturally, the internet caught my reaction. “Is Tom Maxwell seriously rolling his eyes at this? The jealousy is dripping off him.” “Of course he’s bitter. He tried to claim he was her dad, got exposed as a fraud, and now he has to watch the real father be perfect.” Christian glanced at the live feed and gave a soft, paternal smile. “You have to spoil your own kid, right? There’s really nothing to worry about. We’re incredibly happy.” “Chris is literally a romance novel hero brought to life. He makes it look so easy.” “Didn’t Caroline say in an old interview that she fell in love with her husband at first sight? She was totally talking about Chris!” Christian ducked his head, clearing his throat with a sheepish grin. “Please, guys, let’s not get into that. I promised her I’d keep those memories private.” Within minutes, the trending topics shifted: #CarolineFirstLove, #TheRealChrisAndCaroline, #LoveAtFirstSight. It was physically painful to watch. I didn’t know if Caroline had ever felt love at first sight for Christian, but she certainly hadn’t for me. We spent our first two years of high school actively trying to ruin each other’s lives before we realized we were in love. There was no magical spark; it was a slow, grueling war of attrition. Sean turned to me, a predatory gleam in his eyes, and shoved the microphone in my face. “Tell us, Mr. Maxwell. Do you believe in love at first sight? Or, perhaps more to the point… how exactly do you plan on proving that the child in those photos is yours?” I frowned, ready to spit out some generic, publicist-approved platitude to deflect. But then I pictured Caroline’s tear-stained face in our bedroom last night, her exhaustion from living in the dark. The words changed in my mouth. “Why should a father have to prove his own child belongs to him?” I asked, my voice steady, cutting through the studio noise. “Is it any different from having to prove you exist? And frankly, I don’t care much for ‘love at first sight.’ I prefer the kind of love that actually survives the quiet, hard years.” “Is he seriously shading Chris right now?” “Get him off the stage. This nobody wouldn’t know real love if it hit him in the face.” “Sure, you can prove you exist, but you definitely can’t prove that kid is yours, loser.” Sean smirked at the live feed, then turned back to me with a chilling coldness. “Well, since Mr. Maxwell seems unable to offer any real proof, why don’t we let the little princess speak for herself? We actually managed to get a brief video interview with her. Chris, I assume you don’t mind?” Christian feigned surprise, but his eyes locked onto mine, shining with vicious triumph. “Of course,” he said, adjusting his posture. “I want my daughter to grow up knowing the truth. She needs to understand that the world can be a dangerous place, and that some people will use any lie to get ahead.” “This poor baby, being used as a pawn by a clout-chaser.” “Bring out the clip! Let the kid expose this creep!” Sean signaled the control room. The massive screen behind us flickered to life. There she was. My darling daughter. The background was a generic, sterile hotel room—definitely not our house. She was wearing an oversized blazer that swam on her small frame. She looked directly at the lens, her eyes rimmed with red, looking entirely traumatized. My stomach bottomed out. Fear spiked through my veins, and I whipped my head around to glare at Christian. He met my gaze, a slow, smug smile spreading across his face. On screen, an off-camera interviewer spoke: “Sweetheart, can you tell us about your relationship with Mr. Tom Maxwell?” Hazel paused, sniffing dramatically, and then—right on cue—a single tear rolled down her cheek. My heart hammered against my ribs. Had she actually been hurt? Had this bastard done something to her? I was half-ready to leap off the stage and throttle Christian. But then she spoke. My foot froze. My fingers curled into fists—not from fear, but from sheer, unadulterated frustration. “He…” Hazel whimpered, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “He hits me. One time, I gave him a nice face mask as a present, and he… he beat me for three days. I was so scared.” The chat exploded into a frenzy of rage. “Child abuser! Lock him up!” “Oh my God, someone call Child Protective Services immediately!” “Get him off the screen! Put him in jail!” Even the cameramen and production crew in the studio were glaring at me like I was a monster. Christian’s eyes welled with performative tears. His voice shook with anger. “I… I was so busy with filming last month. I trusted Tom. We’ve known each other for years, so I asked him to watch her for a few days. How could he do this? She’s just a little girl! She was only trying to make him happy!” He turned away, taking a deep, ragged breath as if struggling to contain his grief. The comments flooded with sympathy for Christian and death threats for me. I stared at the screen, watching my ten-year-old theatrical prodigy squeeze out another round of crocodile tears. My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. Hazel wasn’t finished. “And when I tried to help him feed his pet fish,” she sobbed, “he threw a massive fit and locked me in my room!” The interviewer’s voice soft-balled: “And how is Mr. Christian Croft to you?” Hazel let out a wet hiccup, her tone suddenly brightening. “Oh, he’s amazing! He always gives me candy and takes me to the amusement park!” The studio was in an uproar. Christian stood up, marching over to my chair. He stood over me, looking down with righteous indignation. “Mr. Maxwell, how could you do that to her? She’s an innocent child! How could you lay a hand on her? Don’t you think you owe me—owe the public—an explanation?” I let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Why on earth would I owe “you” an explanation?” “You are a monster,” Christian snarled, raising his hand as if to strike me on live television. But before his arm could come down, a voice cut through the chaos. “Touch him and I will destroy you.” I looked up. Standing at the entrance of the stage was Caroline, her face set in stone, firmly holding our pint-sized fugitive by the collar of her oversized blazer.

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My fiancée stole my master design proposal, and she did it for one reason: so her darling college senior could win the prestigious Apex Gold Medal. When I confronted her, she didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. She just stood there, entirely unbothered. “You’re a genius, Larry,” she said, her voice carrying that effortless, exhausting dismissiveness I had grown to dread. “You can sketch a new masterpiece on a napkin in your sleep. This competition is Trevor’s last shot at a real career. Don’t be so incredibly petty.” So, I did the only logical thing. I walked away from the competition entirely, packed my bags, and went home to inherit my family’s real estate empire. Suddenly, my “petty” fiancée went into a full-blown panic. “Larry, stop throwing a tantrum!” she screamed over the phone. “Architecture is your life. You’ve bled for this career. You can’t just walk away from it!” Even her precious senior, the guy who had happily slapped his name on my stolen blueprints, started losing his mind. “This project has years of your sweat and tears in it,” Trevor stammered. “Are you really going to let it go over a little misunderstanding?” I hung up the phone. I didn’t feel a thing. What Linda didn’t realize was that the stolen design was the conceptual blueprint for her own family firm’s newest, most expensive municipal contract. And without my final structural calculations, she was handing her golden boy a ticking time bomb. I couldn’t wait to see how he was going to stop it from exploding. 1 “Larry, why did you plagiarize my design?” Under the harsh, fluorescent lights of the department exhibition hall, surrounded by our peers and professors, Trevor pointed a trembling finger at me, playing the part of the wronged artist to perfection. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but before I could utter a word, Linda, my fiancée, stepped forward. “Larry, I know how badly you wanted to win this competition,” she said, her voice thick with staged disappointment. She looked at me with a face full of sorrow, as if she were mourning my lost morality. “But plagiarism is pathetic. You can’t just steal someone else’s hard work and present it as your own. Have some dignity.” Only Linda and I knew the truth. Only we knew about the endless sleepless nights I had pulled, the countless cups of lukewarm coffee, the three computer monitors that had burned out under the strain of rendering those complex, organic curves. She had waited until the night before the submission deadline, waiting until I finally collapsed into a deep sleep, to copy my entire digital archive onto a flash drive. All to hand it over to her college crush, her “white moonlight,” so he could secure the Apex Gold Medal and jumpstart his career. We were the department’s golden couple; our relationship had been sweet, steady, and envied for years. Naturally, no one in that room doubted her words. If his own fiancée was calling him a thief, he must be a thief. The whispers began, sharp and venomous, cutting through the heavy air of the gallery. My chest tightened, my hands trembling with a rage so hot it felt like physical pain. But Linda wasn’t done playing the martyr. She turned to the crowd, offering a deeply apologetic bow on my behalf. “I am so incredibly sorry, everyone. I never imagined Larry would stoop to this level. As his fiancée, I feel it’s my responsibility to apologize for his actions. I just hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive him, for the sake of our years as classmates.” My stomach turned. Before I could speak, Linda grabbed my arm, her grip tight, urging me under her breath, “Larry, just apologize to Trevor. Do it now.” I looked at Trevor. He was standing just behind her, his lips curved into a smug, victorious smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. I wrenched my arm out of Linda’s grasp. “I won’t apologize,” I said, my voice quiet but echoing clearly in the sudden silence of the room. “Because I didn’t steal a damn thing. But you don’t have to worry about me competing. I withdraw. I’m out.” I turned on my heel and walked out of the design institute, leaving the whispers behind. But Linda wasn’t going to let me go that easily. She chased me down the concrete steps of the plaza, grabbing my elbow to spin me around. “Larry! Architecture is your dream! Do you have any idea how much you’ve sacrificed for this? So what if you copied a few ideas? If you just go back in there, apologize sincerely, and play nice, we can still get you back into the running!” “She’s right, Larry,” Trevor added, stepping into view with a saintly, patronizing smile. “I don’t hold a grudge. Just apologize, and I’ll tell the committee it was a collaborative misunderstanding. You can still participate.” Looking at the two of them—their faces molded into identical expressions of false concern—I felt a wave of profound disgust. I shook Linda off, reached up to my lapel, and unpinned the silver institute badge that had once been my proudest possession. I let it drop onto the pavement between us. “No thanks,” I said, looking Linda dead in the eye. “The air in here is too suffocating. I’d hate to trip over the snakes in the dark.” 2 I went back to our shared apartment and systematically packed my life into three suitcases. I sat at my desk, looking at the custom-built PC that had been my companion through seven years of intense study. I initiated a factory reset, watching the screen go black, wiping away every trace of my digital existence in that apartment. Just as the progress bar hit one hundred percent, my phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Larry, sweetheart,” her warm, elegant voice flowed through the speaker. “How is the Apex competition going? Are you holding up okay?” I stared out the window at the gray Chicago skyline. “I dropped out, Mom.” Before she could ask why, I added quietly, “I’m coming home.” There was a beat of stunned silence on the other end, followed by a gasp of pure, unadulterated joy. “Oh, thank God! Larry, you’re finally coming back to us! I’m calling the driver right now to pick you up!” “Thanks, Mom,” I said, hanging up. For the first time in years, a genuine sense of relief washed over me. My family’s company, the Mercer Group, was a real estate titan. Our net worth dwarfed Linda’s family business by a landslide. But seven years ago, because Linda loved architecture, I had defied my parents, walked away from my finance track, and transferred into the design program. From my bachelor’s degree straight through to my doctoral research, I had poured my soul into this field. I had won major student awards, and more importantly, I had personally designed several high-profile projects that allowed Linda’s father’s company, Crestview Developments, to win massive municipal bids. I had given Linda everything. I had built a pedestal for her with my own two hands, only for her to push me off it the moment her old flame whistled. I took a deep breath, picked up my personal laptop, and drove back to the campus administrative office to return the university-issued equipment. But Linda was already waiting for me at the entrance of the building, her arms crossed, her eyes flashing with anger. “Larry, why are you being so stubborn? Why won’t you just admit you used Trevor’s concepts?” A dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. “Why should I admit to a lie, Linda?” “Linda, nobody else in that department knows the truth, but you lived with me. You watched me pull consecutive all-nighters. You saw the blisters on my fingers from building those physical models. You knew how much this specific proposal meant to me…” “Oh, enough!” Linda interrupted, throwing her hands up in the air. “You’ve already won so many awards, Larry! Would it honestly kill you to let someone else have this one? Yes, I took the files and gave them to Trevor. So what? You’re the certified genius of the department. Everyone knows you can doodle on a napkin and turn it into a masterpiece. This award is Trevor’s only ticket to a secure future. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “Petty.” It was her favorite word for me. Over our seven years together, whenever I stood up for myself, I was being “petty.” When a taxi driver charged us double and I demanded a refund, she called me petty. When the department head gave her scholarship money to another student and I went to the dean to argue her case, she told me I was being petty. Now, when she had literally stolen years of my intellectual labor to hand-deliver it to another man, she still called me petty. I realized then that in Linda’s mind, my boundaries were just inconveniences. 3 A profound, bone-deep exhaustion settled over me. I didn’t want to waste another breath on her. I took a step to bypass her, but she lunged forward, blocking the glass doors. “Where do you think you’re going?” “To the department office,” I said flatly. Linda’s brow furrowed into a tight, hard line. “You’re still withdrawing from the competition? Seriously?” “Why wouldn’t I?” I asked. “Do you honestly expect me to stay here, play the obedient little assistant, and watch him take the credit for my life’s work?” That, of course, was exactly what she expected. She adjusted her designer handbag, her voice taking on a maternal, patronizing tone. “You can’t just quit, Larry. I know your financial situation. Without a degree and a recommendation from this department, what are you going to do? How are you going to survive?” She stepped closer, her voice softening into a transactional sweetness. “Stay. Finish the project under Trevor’s name. Once the competition is over and he gets the Apex job, I’ll talk to my dad. I’ll get you a starting position at Crestview Developments.” I stared at her, genuinely stunned by her audacity. It was almost comical. Linda had spent our entire relationship believing I was a struggling scholarship student who depended entirely on her family’s grace. She had built this entire narrative in her head to keep me small, to keep me compliant. “I appreciate the offer,” I said, my voice dripping with cold irony. “But I’ll pass.” I pushed past her, but she screamed after me, her voice echoing off the concrete walls of the hallway. “Larry! If you walk out of this building today, we are done! Do you hear me? We are through!” In our seven years together, Linda had threatened to break up with me at least a hundred times. And every single time, I had been the one to swallow my pride, buy her flowers, and beg for her forgiveness. She was a princess accustomed to her throne, and I had been her most loyal subject. But the throne was empty now. “Okay,” I said quietly, without turning around. “We’re done.” I walked into the office, submitted my formal withdrawal papers, and returned the laptop. Professor Martha Geoffrey, my academic advisor, sat behind her mahogany desk, peering at me over her gold-rimmed glasses. She sighed, a performative, maternal sound. “Larry, I heard about the unpleasantness this morning. Look, we all make mistakes under pressure. Nobody is going to crucify you over a little lapse in academic judgment. There’s no need to ruin your entire academic career over this.” Her words were smooth, designed to soothe, but I knew better. Geoffrey had been lobbying for Trevor to get a faculty recommendation for months; she needed this win for him to boost her own department’s prestige. “Professor Geoffrey,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “You and I both know the caliber of my work, and we both know Trevor’s. You know exactly whose design that is.” Geoffrey’s face hardened instantly. “What are you implying, Larry? Are you accusing this department of bias? Let me tell you something—architecture requires character. If your attitude is this fragile, you won’t last a day in the real world.” “Which is why I’m leaving,” I said, offering a polite, empty nod. “Have a nice day.” As I turned to leave the office, the door swung open, and Linda and Trevor walked in. Hearing the tail end of our conversation, Trevor stepped forward with a display of grand, fraudulent generosity. “Larry, look, we’re all adults here. I’ve already spoken with Professor Geoffrey. We’re willing to keep the plagiarism accusation quiet. You can be listed as my primary design assistant on the submission. When we win, your name will still be on the secondary credits. What do you say?” 4 I wanted to laugh. He was truly magnificent in his shamelessness. I looked at him, letting the silence stretch between us until his smile began to falter. “Trevor,” I said slowly. “You’ve been in this industry long enough to know that assistants don’t get nominated for the Apex Prize. The gold medalist gets a fast-track executive role at Apex Holdings. An assistant’s name is just footnote ink. I don’t do footnotes.” Linda’s face flushed red with anger. “What is wrong with you? The design isn’t even yours anymore! Trevor is throwing you a lifeline, and you’re spitting in his face! If you don’t take this assistant position, I personally guarantee you will never get a single design contract in Chicago.” Professor Geoffrey leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing. “I have a lot of influence in the academic community, Larry. A student with a black mark like plagiarism on their record… well, let’s just say you won’t find another graduate program willing to take you.” “And if I remember correctly,” Trevor added, his voice dripping with faux-concern, “you’re on a direct-track PhD program, aren’t you? If you leave now, all those years of coursework go down the drain. You’ll have nothing.” They stood there, a united front of arrogance, entirely convinced they had backed me into a corner. They thought my passion for design was a leash they could pull. I looked at their smug, self-satisfied faces, and a new plan began to take shape in my mind. “Fine,” I said, letting my shoulders drop as if defeated. “I’ll do it.” Linda’s expression instantly shifted into a triumphant, smug grin. “I knew you’d see sense. Just do a good job, Larry. I’ve already talked to my dad. Once the award is ours, we’ll get married, and you can come work for Crestview.” Professor Geoffrey smiled warmly, promising me that my academic standing would remain secure. But I didn’t want their marriage, their job, or their degree anymore. I wanted something else entirely. 5 With less than twenty-four hours until the final submission deadline, I was practically locked in the department’s advanced rendering lab. Under the guise of “collaboration,” Trevor and Linda took turns monitoring me, barely leaving me alone for a second. They wanted to make sure I didn’t sabotage the files. I only had a few precious moments in the restroom to check my phone. My mother had sent me several messages. “Larry, is everything okay? Why aren’t you answering my calls?” I typed back quickly: “I have some loose ends to tie up, Mom. I’ll be home tomorrow, I promise.” With their eyes burning into the back of my neck, I worked with deliberate speed. Within twelve hours, I had finalized the remaining structural equations and polished the aesthetic rendering. But I left one tiny, crucial detail incomplete. The final 3D interactive model—the core presentation tool the Apex judges used to test structural integrity under simulated stress—had a deep rendering bug hidden in its source code. Without my specific administrative key to run the patch, the model would look perfect statically, but the moment the judges tried to interact with it, the file would glitch. Trevor, staring at the screen, was sweating profusely. He could sense something was off, but his lack of technical skill meant he couldn’t pinpoint the issue. Linda was pacing behind me, complaining about my pacing. “I’ve been staring at this screen for fifteen hours,” I said, rubbing my eyes and sighing with exhausted resignation. “Even a machine needs to recharge. How about I go back to the apartment, get a few hours of sleep, and come back tomorrow morning to fix the final bugs? The submission isn’t until tomorrow afternoon anyway.” Linda immediately shook her head. “No way. What if we run out of time?” Looking at her—at the woman I had loved for seven years, who now looked at me not as a partner, but as a utility to be drained dry for another man—I felt a coldness settle deep in my chest. “My head is splitting,” I muttered, pressing my hand to my temple. I let my knees buckle, letting myself slide off the chair and onto the carpeted floor of the lab. I feigned a dead faint. The panic in the room was instantaneous. I was rushed to the university hospital, where they ran a battery of tests. The doctor eventually emerged to tell a frantic Linda and Trevor that I was simply suffering from severe physical exhaustion and dehydration. “He just needs rest,” the doctor said. Linda and Trevor let out visible sighs of relief. But because I refused to “wake up,” they were forced to stay by my bedside, waiting for me to regain consciousness so I could fix the file. In the dead of night, the hospital room was quiet save for the steady beep of the monitor. Believing I was deeply asleep, the two of them began to whisper, their voices low and urgent. Then, I heard the rustle of clothing. “Don’t,” Linda whispered, her voice carrying a breathy, performative reluctance. “Larry is right there.” Trevor’s voice was slick with arrogance and heat. “So what? It makes it hotter. Besides, once I win the Apex Gold Medal tomorrow, I’m heading straight to their corporate headquarters. Larry will be nothing but a shadow in our rearview mirror. Why are you still worrying about him?” Linda giggled, a sound that made my skin crawl. Within seconds, the quiet room was filled with the soft, wet sounds of their mouths meeting. I lay perfectly still under the thin hospital blanket, my hands clenched into fists beneath the sheets, forcing my breathing to remain slow and steady. The last lingering shred of pain in my heart died in that moment, replaced by a cold, clinical detachment. I waited until their movements shifted, until they slipped out of the room to find a more private corner in the stairwell. The moment the door clicked shut, I pulled the IV line from the back of my hand, grabbed my coat and my duffel bag, and slipped out of the hospital through the side exit. My family’s private driver was already waiting for me at the curb. By the time Linda and Trevor returned to an empty hospital bed and began frantically dialing my phone, I was already sitting in the first-class cabin of a flight leaving Chicago. I watched the screen of my phone light up with Linda’s contact name over and over again. With a calm, steady hand, I switched the device to airplane mode, leaned my head back against the leather seat, and closed my eyes. For the first time in seven years, I slept peacefully.

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My father was sitting alone on a sterile plastic chair in the emergency room lobby, clutching his mangled, bloody forearm, when I finally sprinted through the double doors. “Sweetheart, don’t worry,” he said, his voice trembling as he tried to offer me a reassuring smile. “I’m just an old fool. I couldn’t figure out how to work that high-tech check-in kiosk. The machine wouldn’t respond when I pressed it, and the folks waiting behind me in line started getting upset…” … A sharp, hot lump rose in my throat, and I had to fight back the tears stinging my eyes. The doctor on duty cut away my father’s dusty flannel sleeve, his brow furrowing deeply as he inspected the wound. “Why did you wait so long to bring him in? This laceration is incredibly deep. If you had delayed any longer, he could have lost permanent mobility in this hand.” The dried blood had fused the fabric of his shirt to his torn skin. As the nurse gently peeled it away, the wound began to bleed afresh, raw and angry. Yet, my father kept trying to play it down. “It’s alright, Doc. I still need to get back to the job site. Just throw a few quick stitches in it. No need for any of that expensive medicine.” It took eight stitches to close the gash. Throughout the entire process, my father gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound, still trying to comfort me with his eyes. Every time the needle pierced his flesh, it felt as though it were tearing through my own heart. Finally, the tears spilled over. I walked out into the hallway and dialed Blake’s number. “Blake, you claim you couldn’t understand my dad’s thick country accent, but are you seriously telling me you couldn’t see that his arm was gushing blood?” A faint rustle of static came through the receiver, followed by Blake’s smooth, impatient sigh. “Maeve, I had a massive quarterly meeting this afternoon. I couldn’t jeopardize a multi-million-dollar deal just to walk your father through an check-in screen. Those automated kiosks have voice prompts. If it was really that hard, you should have taught him how to read the screen beforehand. He can’t rely on me to hold his hand for every little thing.” Hearing him lay out his excuses so righteously left me entirely breathless. Before I could even find my voice to reply, a soft, familiar whimper sounded in the background. “Blake,” a sweet, girlish voice called out. “The vet is ready to draw Coco’s blood now…” With a sharp “click”, the line went dead. My father, his arm now heavily bandaged, stepped out of the treatment room. He looked at my pale, silent face and gently tugged at the sleeve of my jacket. “Don’t go starting a fight with Blake, sweetheart,” he muttered, looking down at his worn-out work boots. “He’s a busy man, running a big company. His time is valuable. I’m just an old construction worker who can’t read a computer screen. I’m the one who caused all this trouble.” Seeing the deep humiliation in his eyes made my chest ache. “Dad, would you like to take a trip? Let’s go somewhere far away. Just the two of us.” After booking the tickets on my phone, I helped my father out of the hospital. Just as we reached the curb, a familiar black SUV pulled up, and the driver’s side window rolled down. Blake waved his hand dismissively. “Get in. I’ll take you guys home.” He didn’t even look at my father, let alone greet him. Yet, my father immediately nodded, offering a grateful, hurried smile as he reached for the door. At that moment, the passenger window rolled down. Inside, a tiny toy poodle nestled in the arms of Amber, Blake’s new intern. The dog began barking frantically at us. My father flinched, stepping back so quickly he nearly tripped over my foot. Amber pouted, stroking the dog’s head as she muttered under her breath, “Grown men who are scared of little dogs are so weird.” Blake didn’t correct her. Instead, he checked his watch, his tone clipped. “Hurry up and get in. It’s about to pour.” I helped my father into the backseat, making sure he was settled before sliding in beside him. Almost immediately, a light, cold drizzle began to fall. The window next to my father was wide open, and the freezing wind, carrying droplets of rain, whipped directly against his freshly bandaged arm. I reached for the window control on the door panel, but the button was completely unresponsive. “Blake, can you roll up the back window, please?” He didn’t even bother to look in the rearview mirror. “Amber gets car sick easily. She can’t stand the smell in enclosed spaces. She’ll throw up.” My father’s hands clenched his worn jeans. He shrank himself further into the corner of the seat, trying to occupy as little space as possible, remaining entirely silent. Looking at his defeated posture, a wave of cold fury washed over me. “I thought you had a massive quarterly meeting this afternoon,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “How did you find the time to take her dog to the vet?” Blake let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “What, are you jealous of a dog now, Maeve? Amber is trying to make a living in this city all on her own. She doesn’t have any family here. As her boss, it’s only natural that I look out for her.” I had heard that exact excuse more times than I cared to count. On our fifth wedding anniversary, he had stood me up for the entire evening because Amber had just broken up with her boyfriend and “needed a friend to keep her from doing something reckless.” When I was bedridden with severe food poisoning, unable to even stand up to get water, he was at the office pulling an all-nighter with Amber because “it was her first big presentation, and she needed the moral support.” When I got into a minor car accident and was waiting in the rain for the tow truck, he was at a concert with Amber, later dismissing it with a careless, “I was out of town on business, Maeve. Don’t be dramatic.” Each act of “professional guidance” had been bolder than the last. Perhaps I should have stepped aside a long time ago. When the car finally pulled up to our apartment building, Blake kept the engine running. “You two head up first. Amber has a marketing proposal she’s struggling with, so I’m going to drop her off and help her walk through the strategy. Oh, and I went ahead and bought your dad’s train ticket back home for tomorrow morning.” Just like always, Blake couldn’t wait to push my family out of his sterile, perfect life. But this time, I didn’t back down. “Don’t worry about my father’s schedule,” I said, staring at the back of his head. “He’s going to stay here with me for a while.” His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, filled with a fleeting touch of surprise. Seeing the cold resolve in my gaze, he backed down. “Fine. Whatever you want. I have a lot of late nights ahead of us at the office, so I’ll probably just crash at the corporate apartment.” When we reached our floor, my father instinctively reached down to the shoe rack, looking for the cheap, disposable paper slippers we kept for delivery workers. I gently placed my hand over his. “Dad, use the guest slippers.” He hesitated, looking at the plush, high-end slippers Blake had explicitly forbidden him from using during his last visit, before slowly sliding his feet into them. Our living room sofa was massive and incredibly soft, but my father only dared to sit on the very edge of the cushion, his hands resting stiffly on his knees. “Maeve, this is all my fault,” he whispered, looking at me with a worried, anxious expression. “I’ve caused a rift between you and Blake. Maybe… maybe I should just take that morning train back tomorrow.” I didn’t answer. I simply turned toward the kitchen. “I’m going to make some dinner.” When I pulled open the double doors of the refrigerator, I froze. The shelves, which Blake used to keep stocked with my favorite sparkling waters and organic snacks, were practically bare, save for a thin layer of frost. It had been months since we had gone grocery shopping together, months since we had sat down for a proper, home-cooked meal. “Maeve,” my father’s quiet, hesitant voice drifted in from the living room. “Are you… are you happy with him?” “Of course I am, Dad,” I replied automatically, though the words tasted like ash in my mouth. “Look at this place. I have everything I could ever want.” There was a long, heavy silence. When I turned around, my father was standing in the doorway, his eyes filled with a deep, sorrowful pity. “Maeve,” he said softly. “I didn’t ask if you have things. I asked if you are happy.” A sudden, sharp pain flared in my chest, and my eyes welled with tears. To the rest of the world, I was the lucky girl who had married into high society, the envy of everyone who knew us. But no one had ever bothered to ask if I was happy. When Blake and I first met, his family was already arranging a marriage for him with a woman from a prominent dynasty. Yet, he had pursued me with a fierce, unrelenting passion. When his mother had tracked me down at the coffee shop where I worked and slid a blank check across the table, Blake had burst through the doors, grabbed the check, and torn it to shreds right in front of her. “She is the only woman I will ever marry,” he had shouted, his voice echoing in the quiet shop. “If you don’t like it, you can write me out of the family.” To keep us apart, his family had sent him overseas for his master’s degree. But during those four years of long-distance, Blake had flown back to see me over fifty times, enduring grueling twenty-five-hour layovers just to spend a single weekend in my arms. “I promised I’d see you every single month,” he would whisper, holding me close. “And I never break my promises to you.” Back then, his love had been like the summer sun—blinding, intense, and warm enough to keep the rest of the cold world at bay. But the sun always sets. Our love had slowly cooled, dissolving into the mundane, repetitive routine of daily life, until it became practically imperceptible. And then, Amber arrived. It was only then that I realized the sun hadn’t burnt out. It had simply stopped shining on me. The way Blake looked at Amber, the rules he broke for her, the frantic worry in his voice when she called—it was a flawless, mirror image of the passionate boy who had fought his entire family for me a decade ago. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an Instagram notification. Amber had just posted to her story. “So grateful for the late-night fuel from the best boss ever! Now I have the energy to crush this presentation!” The photo showed a lavish spread of high-end takeout. But it was the corner of the image that caught my attention—a man’s hand resting on the edge of the mahogany table, a familiar platinum band catching the light of the desk lamp. I turned back to my father and forced a small, bright smile. “Dad, let’s go out. I’m taking you to that steakhouse you’ve always wanted to try.” The prime rib, which I usually loved, felt like cardboard in my mouth. At one in the morning, the front door clicked open. I was lying on the sofa, scrolling aimlessly through my phone. I didn’t get up to take his coat or put away his briefcase like I usually did. Blake walked straight toward the kitchen, stopping short when he saw the clean countertops. “Did you not brew my herbal tea tonight?” “I was busy. I forgot,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on my screen. He let out a long, weary sigh, walking over to the sofa and sitting down beside me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “Are you still throwing a tantrum over this afternoon?” “I told you, Maeve. She’s just an intern. There is absolutely nothing going on between us.” But whether they had crossed a physical line or not didn’t matter anymore. The casual disregard, the subtle classism directed at my father, the slow, agonizing accumulation of neglect—I was simply done. I gently but firmly pushed his arms away and stood up. “I’m going to bed.” “I’ve been sleeping poorly lately, and you toss and turn a lot. You should sleep in the guest room tonight.” On my nightstand lay a folded white paper I had brought home from the clinic earlier that morning. “Positive. Six weeks.” I had planned to present it to him as a surprise for our upcoming anniversary. Now, looking at the sterile black ink, I realized there was no point. The next morning, the rich, savory aroma of breakfast woke me. My father had already prepared a spread of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toasted English muffins. But on the edge of the dining table, a sleek black American Express card sat reflecting the morning light. My father looked at it uncomfortably. “Maeve, Blake left that for me before he went to work. He said it was a gesture of appreciation for my visit.” “I didn’t touch it. I didn’t want to make things difficult for you.” I set my fork down, picked up the titanium card, and tossed it directly into the trash can beside the pantry. “Eat up, Dad. The nurse is coming to help me take you to the clinic to get those stitches checked.” The private nurse I had hired arrived right on time. Just as we reached the front door, my phone rang. Blake’s voice was laced with irritation. “Why didn’t you tell me you were taking your dad to his follow-up appointment?” “There was no need to hire outside help. I have an opening in my schedule this afternoon. I was going to drive him myself.” Hearing this, my father immediately began slipping his jacket off, looking toward the living room. “Oh, well, if Blake is coming, we should probably wait. Save the money on the nurse.” I shook my head gently, taking my father’s arm. “No, Dad. Let’s go. We aren’t waiting on him anymore.” He had made too many promises he couldn’t keep. His credit had run out. An hour later, I was sitting on a cold vinyl bench in the hallway of the women’s clinic, waiting for my name to be called. “Maeve Franklin, room three.” Just as I stood up to walk toward the examination room, a sudden commotion broke out at the far end of the corridor. Blake was walking briskly down the hall, his face pale with worry, carrying Amber in his arms. “Where is the attending physician?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. “Get her into a private room immediately!” A nurse hurried over. “Sir, what is the emergency?” “She has severe dysmenorrhea. She’s practically fainting from the pain! You need to give her an intravenous analgesic right away!” As he turned, his eyes collided with mine. He froze. After carefully laying Amber onto a gurney, his face hardened, and he walked over to me, his presence suffocatingly tense. “Maeve? What are you doing here?” His eyes narrowed. “Are you tracking my phone?” I saw a faint, distinct smudge of red lipstick near his collar. I instinctively slid the appointment slip behind my back. But Blake’s eyes were sharp. He caught the movement and reached out, trying to snatch the paper from my fingers. Before he could, Amber’s weak, tearful voice drifted from the treatment room. “Blake… it hurts so much… where are you?” Blake let out a heavy, conflicted sigh, his hand dropping to his side. “She collapsed at her desk during a project review. It’s technically a workplace injury, so it’s my responsibility to oversee her care. If you’re feeling under the weather, go to our family’s private practice. Use the VIP concierge. I’m just too swamped to deal with this right now.” Without waiting for my reply, he turned on his heel and disappeared into her room. Through the cracked door, I could hear his low, soothing murmurs as he comforted her. I turned back to the nurse holding the clipboard. “I’m ready for the procedure.” The doctor looked over my chart, confirming the details. “Six weeks. We can proceed with the vacuum aspiration under conscious sedation. Is your partner here to sign the consent form?” “I’m a widow,” I said, my voice entirely flat. The pre-op routine was a blur of blood draws, ultrasounds, and blood pressure checks. I navigated the corridors alone, a ghost passing through a crowd of expectant couples. As I walked past the private recovery suites, I noticed one door was left slightly ajar. Blake was sitting at the edge of the bed, holding a paper cup of warm water, blowing gently on it before holding it to Amber’s lips. “Slow down. Don’t burn yourself.” Through the gap, Amber’s eyes met mine. She didn’t look away. Instead, she leaned her head slightly closer to Blake’s shoulder, a faint, victorious smile playing on her lips. It was a quiet, unmistakable declaration of ownership. I felt a strange, hollow sensation in my chest as I walked into the operating room and lay down on the cold table. As the anesthesiologist prepared the IV, the nurses began chatting quietly amongst themselves. “Did you see the gentleman who brought that girl in earlier? I thought she was his wife, the way he was panicking.” “Oh, no, his actual wife is someone else. But did you see how devoted he is? I heard that years ago, he literally let his family disown him and took a beating with a cane just so he could marry her.” “Really? Wow. I guess after five years, even the strongest marriages lose their spark.” The cold sedative began to flow into my veins, sending a shivering chill up my arm. As my consciousness began to drift, a single, hot tear escaped my eye and slid into my hair. The boy who had loved me fiercely at twenty was gone. And he was never coming back. I left the hospital an hour later, leaning heavily against the brick wall, my lower abdomen aching with a dull, throbbing pain. Suddenly, a barrage of blinding white flashes erupted in front of me. A dozen reporters, carrying heavy telephoto lenses and microphones, blocked the exit, creating a chaotic bottleneck. Through the crowd, Blake emerged, his jacket draped over Amber’s head, shielding her entirely from the cameras as he pushed his way through. “Mr. Luther! Is this the mysterious wife you’ve kept hidden from the public for the last five years?” “Mrs. Luther, how did you and Blake meet?” “Are you visiting the women’s clinic because you’re expecting an heir to the firm?” Blake didn’t deny it. He didn’t offer a single word of correction. He simply kept his arm tightly secured around Amber’s shoulders, his expression dark. “Out of the way. Let us through.” Within ten minutes, the local business and tabloid sites were flooded with notifications. “CEO Blake Luther and His Wife Spotted at Women’s Clinic—A Devoted Marriage Unbroken by Time.” The accompanying photos showed Blake shielding Amber with an intense, possessive protectiveness. Overnight, Amber had become the envy of the city—the official Mrs. Luther. My phone began to vibrate constantly. Among the stream of confused texts from acquaintances was a single, vitriolic message from my mother-in-law: “I knew a girl from your background would never hold a husband’s attention. Absolute disgrace.” I stared at the screen for a moment, then quietly blocked her number. A few seconds later, Blake’s call came through. “Maeve, the media thing was an accident,” he said quickly, his voice tight. “If I had denied she was my wife on camera, the press would have run wild with rumors about an affair, and our stock price would have plummeted before the morning bell. You know we’re in a critical transition phase right now. I can’t let anything disrupt the company’s valuation.” My voice was incredibly hoarse. “So you calculated everything. The company’s stock, her reputation, the public’s perception… but did you think about me, Blake? Even for a second?” His tone shifted, anger coloring his words. “Can you please stop making a mountain out of a molehill? I’ve had a brutal day, I’m exhausted, and I don’t have the energy to stand here and be interrogated by you.” I held my aching abdomen, and a quiet, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “You claim you’re so busy. But you’re never too busy to drive her to the clinic, or to cook her dinner, or to make sure her water is the perfect temperature. Do you tuck her in at night, too?” “Maeve, you are being completely unreasonable!” he snapped, slamming the phone down. I arranged for a car to take my father to the airport to wait for me, then returned to our apartment alone to pack my things. Five years of marriage, and my entire life fit into half of a single suitcase. I slipped my platinum wedding ring off my finger and placed it quietly on the dark wood of the nightstand. Just as I reached for the zipper of my suitcase, the front door lock clicked. Blake walked in, looking disheveled, a strong scent of whiskey clinging to his clothes. He held up his phone, showing me a photo of Amber smiling beside a handsome young man. “She has a boyfriend,” he said, his eyes bloodshot, his voice carrying a strange, defensive edge. “Are you satisfied now?” He looked like a man who had just lost a fight, trying desperately to sound like a victor. He was trying to reassure me, but the hollow look in his eyes belonged to someone who had just had their heart broken. His gaze drifted down to the suitcase by my feet, and a tentative, relieved smile touched his lips. “Oh, you already packed? Perfect. I booked a trip to Iceland for you and your dad.” “I know I messed up this time, Maeve. Once this merger goes through, I’ll set the record straight with the media. Take your dad and go have a good time. Consider it my apology.” I looked at him for a long moment, then quietly nodded. “Okay.” He let out a long breath, as if a massive weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He reached behind his back and produced a beautifully wrapped, heavy black box with a gold-embossed logo. It was a limited-edition handbag I had searched for months to find, with only three pieces available worldwide. “I had to pull a lot of favors to get this for you,” he said, holding it out. “Since I can’t go with you, take this to Iceland.” I didn’t take the box. I simply pointed to the sofa. “Just leave it there.” Seeing my lack of enthusiasm, he reached out and gently smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear. “Go get some rest. Keep your phone on, and call me when you land.” I pulled my suitcase toward the door. He had no idea that once I walked out of that apartment, I was never coming back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “524613”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When Tyler and I first started dating, he told me we’d get married as soon as we drove across the entire country together. For the first four years, we made it to ninety-nine percent of our goal. But in our fifth year, his college ex, Gwen, became his coworker. After that, our final destination—Lake Tahoe, the place we had sworn we’d finally get our marriage license—was planned ten times. And canceled ten times. The day before our sixth anniversary, I finally took matters into my own hands. I booked a cabin and a guided tour package for the two of us and sent him the confirmation. Poking him playfully in the chest, I teased, “If you make my parents wait around for us there again, don’t even think about showing your face at Sunday dinner.” Tyler didn’t even look up from his phone. “Cancel it. I don’t have the time. Tomorrow I’m helping Gwen pick up her new kitten, next week I’m taking her to the vet for its checkup, in ten days she wants to see that concert, and at the end of the month… she gets terrible cramps, and she needs someone around to take care of her.” He Venmoed me the cancellation fee, adding a casual line: “Next time, check with me before you book anything. Let’s make sure it doesn’t clash with Gwen’s schedule.” I froze, staring at the screen. He could remember Gwen’s menstrual cycle down to the day. Yet he couldn’t remember what my parents had said on the phone just forty-eight hours ago: “If you two don’t get married by your anniversary, Cassidy, you might as well come back home and let us set you up with someone else.” I declined the Venmo transfer and changed the destination of my flight ticket to my hometown. Fine. I won’t waste your precious time anymore. … “Why did you send the money back? Not enough? I can send you more.” I locked my screen. “Don’t worry about it.” He glanced up, his expression entirely devoid of curiosity. He didn’t ask why. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “She doesn’t really have anyone else out here. It’s only right that I look out for her. We can go on a trip anytime, Cassidy. There’s no need to make a big deal out of this.” It sounded like an explanation, but it was actually a warning. A gentle reminder not to make a scene. This was the tenth time he’d said some variation of this. The last time we were about to leave, Gwen’s kitchen pipe burst. Tyler said he’d just run over to help her find a plumber and come right back. But he ended up playing handyman himself, rolling up his sleeves and coming home two hours late, making us miss our flight. The time before that, the night before our departure, Gwen had to pull an all-nighter at the office because of a botched proposal. He said he’d just stop by to offer some pointers and head home. But he ended up staying all night to finish the project for her. His phone died, and he didn’t answer a single one of my calls. The very first time it happened, I told him straight out that I was hurt. He told me I was overthinking, getting jealous over ancient history, and twisting his good intentions. Every time after that, if I showed even a flicker of frustration, he’d meet it with quiet resentment, as if my hurt was an accusation of infidelity. I opened my mouth. “But my mom said this time—” “I don’t know, I think ‘Lucky’ sounds a bit generic,” Tyler murmured into his phone, sending a voice note. “A female kitten needs something softer. Like ‘Mimi’ or ‘Peaches’.” He locked his screen and looked back at me. “What were you saying? But what?” The words died in my throat, leaving a heavy, suffocating weight in my chest. It wasn’t just that he’d cut me off. It was the endless, effortless patience he had for her—a patience he never seemed to spare for me. Whenever I asked him to look at wedding venues or photographer portfolios, he’d glance at them for two seconds and say, “Yeah, looks fine. Whatever you want, babe.” But for Gwen, even a kitten’s name deserved his undivided contemplation. It was so exhausting. “Nothing. Go back to what you were doing.” I got up and headed toward the bedroom, but his hand shot out, catching my arm. “If something’s on your mind, just say it. I honestly didn’t hear you. I wasn’t trying to ignore you.” I took a slow, deep breath, looking into his eyes. They seemed so earnest, so sincere. But just as I opened my mouth to speak, his phone rang. It was Gwen. “Tyler, what was the name of that stomach medicine you bought me last time? My…” He bolted upright. “What’s wrong? Is your gastritis flaring up again? Hang on, don’t hang up. I’m coming over right now!” He let go of my arm instantly, grabbing his shoes and scrambling into his jacket. He didn’t look at me once before the door slammed shut. I stood there, feeling utterly hollowed out, surrounded by a heavy, stifling silence. I pulled out my phone and saw a text from the travel agent asking if I wanted to reschedule for next month. I slowly typed out my reply: “No, thank you. Cancel the trip permanently.” This time, I was done waiting. When Tyler came home, I was out on the balcony, folding laundry. “Gwen’s stomach is really acting up, and she can’t cook for herself. Delivery takes forever on the weekends, so she’s going to hang out here today.” Gwen peeked out from behind him, looking small and apologetic. “I’m so sorry, Cassidy. I told him I’d be fine, but he insisted on bringing me here. I hope I’m not intruding.” Tyler smiled warmly. “Don’t worry about it. Cass isn’t the type to get petty over something like this.” Then he turned to her. “What do you feel like eating? Still want some oatmeal?” Gwen nodded. “I’d love—” Before she could finish, Tyler blurted out, “A spoon of sugar, light on the oat, slow-cooked until it’s completely smooth and velvety?” She looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise. “You still remember that? After all this time?” Tyler just smiled, offering no reply. But I already knew the answer. He kept quiet only because I was standing there, trying to avoid a fight over “insignificant details.” After all, every time he cooked a dish with cilantro—which I absolutely detest—he would always say he forgot. I used to make excuses for him, telling myself his mind was simply too crowded with the demands of his job. Now, I saw the truth. The human brain only has so much room. He had filled his to the brim with Gwen, leaving nothing but scraps for me. A dull, persistent ache bloomed behind my ribs, heavy and suffocating. I couldn’t stand watching their little domestic scene a moment longer. I walked back into the bedroom and started packing my bags. Halfway through, I stepped out to grab something from the hallway. They were already seated at the dining table. Gwen was sipping her oatmeal, and Tyler sat across from her, his gaze filled with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. “Slow down. It’s hot.” The warm, starchy scent of the oatmeal drifted through the air, and my stomach betrayingly growled. Gwen looked up at me with a sweet smile. “Come join us, Cassidy! Tyler makes the absolute best oatmeal.” Before I could decline, the warmth drained from Tyler’s face. “She doesn’t like oatmeal,” he said coldly. “She can just order takeout.” My feet froze. “I don’t like oatmeal?” Tyler rarely cooked for me. It was always takeout or dining out. On the rare occasions I was sick and craved oatmeal, whatever he made was either half-raw or scorched to the bottom of the pot. Over time, I simply stopped asking him to make it. Seeing me stand there frozen, Tyler’s voice took on a warning, dismissive edge. “Her stomach is really sensitive today, Cass. She needs the oatmeal. Don’t fight her on this. If you want some, I’ll make you a batch another time.” Tears stung my eyes. I took a sharp breath, marched straight to the entryway, and grabbed my coat with unnecessary force. “Don’t bother. I’ll eat out.” He stood up, crossing the room with a deep furrow in his brow. “Do you have to be so passive-aggressive when we have a guest? You’re going to make her feel too uncomfortable to ever come back.” I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Did you ever think about whether “I” feel comfortable in my own home?” “You tell me not to overthink, but every single thing you do is designed to cater to her, protecting “her” feelings while you walk all over mine. Do you even remember that I’m your girlfriend?” His jaw tightened, his mouth opening and closing as if the words had lodged in his throat. I shook off his hand and slammed the door behind me. Through the thin wood of the apartment door, I could still hear Gwen’s fragile, trembling voice. “I told you she’d be upset if I came.” Tyler didn’t try to pacify her by blaming me, but he didn’t follow me either. “It’s not your fault,” he sighed. “She’s just throwing a tantrum because I can’t take her on that trip. Give her a couple of days to cool off. She’ll get over it.” “But shouldn’t you go after her? It’s getting dark. Is it safe for her out there alone?” There was a brief pause. “Don’t worry about her. She knows how to take care of herself. Just eat your food. You need to eat on time, or your stomach will start hurting again.” The voices faded, but they continued to echo in my chest like a physical blow. During our first year of long-distance, a stranger had followed me to my apartment and tried to break in. Tyler had driven through the night to meet me at the police station. Holding me as I shook, he had sobbed and whispered, “I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never let you be alone again.” He went back, handed in his resignation, and moved to my city. From that day on, he had never let me walk alone at night. I didn’t even realize I was crying until my collar felt damp. My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from my mom: “Tomorrow is your six-year anniversary. What are you two planning? Have you made up your minds yet?” I wiped my tears and booked a one-way ticket home. “I’m coming home the day after tomorrow. Go ahead and set up those blind dates. I’m ready.” It was ten at night when Tyler finally found me sitting on the swings in the neighborhood park. “You should know better than to stay out this late,” he said, walking over. “I called her an Uber. Come on, let’s go home.” He reached out to take my hand, but I pulled away. He blinked, looking confused. “What? Are you still mad?” The anger had evaporated hours ago. All that was left was a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. I stared up at the crescent moon. “Tomorrow is our sixth anniversary. You remember that, right?” He nodded. “Of course I do.” I looked at him, a faint, humorless smile touching my lips. “But you’re taking Gwen to pick out her kitten tomorrow, aren’t you? What if I ask you not to go?” His expression hardened. “Don’t be childish, Cass. I gave her my word weeks ago, and tomorrow is the only day she has off.” “But look, I’ve already planned it out. We’ll do a big makeup celebration next month. I haven’t forgotten about you.” I didn’t say another word. I pulled my hand from his grip, stood up, and walked toward our apartment building. “I’m not being childish. I won’t ever be childish again.” The next morning, I woke up gasping for air, a fierce, tickling itch burning my nose and throat. I opened my eyes to see a fluffy, long-haired kitten sitting right beside my pillow, licking my bare arm. Panicking, I threw my hand over my nose and bolted into the living room. “Tyler, the cat—my allergies—” Before I could finish, Gwen, who was kneeling on the floor assembling a cat condo, scrambled over and rubbed some catnip-infused spray onto my hands. “Isn’t her coat gorgeous? Here, let her get used to your scent, and she’ll love you in no time!” Instantly, a violent, stinging rash began to spread across my skin. I shoved her away, my voice raspy and choked. “Get away from me! Who told you that you could bring a cat in here? I’m severely allergic!” I rushed to the kitchen sink, turning the water on high to scrub my skin raw. Behind me, Tyler was already hovering over Gwen, inspecting a tiny red mark on her forearm with deep concern. He whirled around, his voice sharp with anger. “She didn’t know you were allergic! Did you have to shove her like that? Look at her arm, it’s completely red!” But his fury faltered when he saw my neck. The massive, angry red hives blooming across my skin made his jaw drop. “How is it this bad? I thought as long as you didn’t play with it, you’d be fine…” My hands froze under the running water. I stared at him, unable to comprehend what I was hearing. A suffocating weight settled on my chest, cutting off my breath. “So you “knew”. You knew I was allergic, and you brought it here anyway. You let it into my bedroom. You let it sleep right next to my head.” When we first started dating, he had pet a stray cat and brought some stray hairs home on his shirt, which triggered a severe allergic reaction that put me in the urgent care clinic. From that day on, he stayed ten feet away from any cat he saw. If he accidentally came into contact with one, he would immediately shower, sanitize, and change his clothes before coming near me. Yet now, just to keep his high school sweetheart from feeling disappointed, he had brushed aside my health as if it were a minor inconvenience. Gwen’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m so sorry… I wanted to show her the kitten, so I opened the door. It’s all my fault. Don’t blame Tyler.” Tyler let out a heavy sigh, gently rubbing her shoulder. “It’s my fault for not making it clear. You have nothing to apologize for.” He reached out to touch my face, but I slapped his hand away. Stumbling over to the bathroom, I pulled down the first-aid kit to find my rescue inhaler and EpiPen, or at least some strong antihistamines. But when I flipped the lid open, the compartments were entirely empty. I stared at the empty plastic box for what felt like an eternity. Then, a memory surfaced. A few weeks ago, Tyler mentioned that Gwen had suffered a terrible dust allergy at the office. He told me he’d given her my imported prescription antihistamines because they worked so well. “I’ll replace them,” he had promised when I got upset. I told him those pills were specialty imports that required a long waitlist. He had pinched my cheek then, swearing up and down that as long as he was around, he would never let anything trigger my allergies anyway. Gasping for air, my throat closing rapidly, I turned to look at him, my eyes burning. “Where is my medicine, Tyler?” Panic finally flickered in his eyes. “I… oh god. Cassidy, I’m sorry. I forgot to reorder them. I’ll take you to the ER right now!” Tears spilled down my cheeks, hot and angry. I summoned every ounce of my remaining strength to push him away. “Don’t touch me! You make me sick.” But as I tried to take a step, the world spun, and everything went black. The last thing I heard before slipping into the dark was Tyler screaming my name. When I woke up, the hospital room was completely silent and empty. A sharp pinch in the back of my hand drew my attention to my IV line—dark red blood was backing up into the plastic tube. I pressed the call button. The nurse hurried in, clicking her tongue as she adjusted the line. “Where did your boyfriend go? He swore he’d watch the drip and call me when it ran low. Why is he gone?” Just as she finished speaking, Tyler walked through the door, his hand resting gently on Gwen’s back as she sobbed. “Shh, stop crying. She’s not going to blame you.” He looked up and froze, seeing the nurse flushing my line and cleaning the dried blood off my skin. Before he could say a word, the nurse glared at him. “What is wrong with you? You specifically told me to let her rest because you’d keep an eye on her. How could you just wander off?” “She is incredibly weak right now. How can you be so careless with your girlfriend?” Tyler’s face flushed with embarrassment. He looked at me with deep guilt. “I’m so sorry, Cass. Gwen was hysterical, and I thought I’d only be gone for a second…” I took a slow, painful breath. “Save it. Do whatever you want.” He frowned and knelt beside my bed, trying to capture my gaze. “Cassidy, please don’t be like this. I know I messed up, and I swear I’ll make it up to you. I promise this will never happen again.” “Don’t be mad at her. She didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was my fault for not warning her. She feels absolutely terrible.” Even now, with my throat still raw and my skin covered in hives, his priority was clearing her name. He didn’t see the dark bruise forming on the back of my hand, or the red welts still lingering on my neck, or my dry, cracked lips. All he saw was Gwen’s tear-stained, pitiful face. A bitter lump swelled in my throat, but I forced it down. I managed a small, empty laugh. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. It’s my fault for being allergic to the things she likes.” “If you’re done here, you should go back to comforting her. I’m perfectly fine.” Hearing this, Gwen looked as though she might collapse. Her tears fell thick and fast onto the linoleum floor. She bowed deeply to me, her voice trembling. “I am so, so sorry! This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t be ruining your lives like this!” With a dramatic sob, she turned and ran out of the room. Tyler’s eyes flared—a volatile mix of heartbreak for her and anger at me. He bolted upright, staring down at me with profound disappointment, but he didn’t say a word. Just as his foot crossed the threshold, I called out, my voice flat and cold. “Tyler. If you walk out that door, we’re done.” He froze, then slowly turned back, his expression twisted with sheer frustration. “Enough, Cassidy! I’ve had it with you picking on her. Now you’re using our relationship to threaten me? I told you, she is just a friend. Stop letting your paranoia hurt innocent people!” A hot wave of tears threatened to spill over. “If she were the one lying in this hospital bed today, is that what you would say to her?” He locked eyes with me. For a moment, seeing the quiet, mocking smile on my face, he seemed to falter. After a long pause, his jaw tightened. “Hypothetical questions are pointless. Stop making a scene, Cass. Today is our anniversary. Let’s not ruin it.” And with that, he turned and ran after her. Tears finally escaped, hot and silent against my cheeks. I let out a dry laugh. I had known he wouldn’t stay. But some stubborn, foolish part of me had desperately wanted to prove myself wrong. Six years. Reduced to a “pointless” question. How utterly pathetic. The moment they were out of sight, I pulled up my phone and changed my ticket to the earliest train home. I couldn’t spend another second in this city. After checking myself out, I went back to the apartment to grab my bags. But as I walked out of the building lobby, I spotted them sitting side-by-side under the courtyard gazebo. Gwen’s voice was soft, laced with a gentle concern. “Are you sure you should have left like that? What if she actually breaks up with you?” “Didn’t you say her mom called the other day? That if you guys didn’t get married today, her parents were going to force her to go back home for set-ups?” Tyler leaned back, staring up at the gray sky. “She won’t leave. We’ve been together for six years; she doesn’t have the heart to throw that away. The whole setup thing is just her parents trying to pressure us.” “Then why aren’t you marrying her?” Tyler reached over and patted her head, his tone light but laden with affection. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It just doesn’t feel like the right time. Honestly, I won’t feel right settling down until I know you’ve found someone stable to take care of you. I worry about you.” “She already has it out for you. If we got married now, she’d make sure I never saw you again. That’s why I always find some excuse to back out of our trips at the last minute.” “Maybe next year. Hurry up and find a boyfriend so I can finally get married in peace.” I stood frozen in the shadow of the doorway, the blood draining from my face. My knees trembled so violently I had to lean against the brick wall to keep from collapsing. Eleven times. A year and a half of canceled plans. I had spent eighteen months making excuses for him, convincing myself he was just stressed, too busy, or forgetful. But the truth was far simpler. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was deliberately putting our entire future on hold—watching my parents break my heart with pressure—just because he couldn’t bear to leave his first love’s side. I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted rust. “Enough.” This pathetic, one-sided show had run its course. I dragged my suitcase past them, keeping my head down, and hailed a cab to the airport. Right before boarding, my screen lit up with a text from Tyler: “What do you want for dinner? I can pick something up.” I didn’t reply. Instead, I blocked his number and deleted him from every social media platform I owned. “Tyler, since you couldn’t make a choice, I made it for you.” “Now, there is no one left to stand between you and your precious first love.”

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The night before Viola proposed to me, my mother was diagnosed with a malignant tumor. Combining every cent I had in the world, I was still thirty thousand dollars short of the deposit required for her emergency surgery. I called Viola, sobbing, begging to borrow the money. But the voice that answered her phone belonged to her—three years in the future. “Viola… my mom gets better, right?” I whispered into the receiver, my hand trembling against my chest. “You’ll help me save her. You always do, right?” Silence stretched over the line, heavy and cold, for three agonizing seconds. When she finally spoke, her voice was stripped of any warmth I had ever known. “Your mother is dead,” the future Viola said. “You asked me for thirty grand, and I turned you down. But the very next day, I bought your best friend a thirty-thousand-dollar Cartier bracelet.” My fingers tightened around the phone, my other hand squeezing the biopsy report so hard the paper crinkled in my grip. She let out a dry, mirthless laugh. “Honestly, Tyler had been throwing himself at me for months. I only held back because of you. But I didn’t realize how cheap you were beneath it all. Begging me for thirty thousand dollars like a common parasite.” The next evening, Viola got down on one knee in front of me, holding out a diamond ring, asking me to marry her. In that moment, all I could think about was the last thing her future self had said before she hung up the phone the night before: “If things go as planned, tomorrow night will be our first time together—Tyler and me.” “Of course, you can choose not to ask me for the money. But without my charity, your mother will only die faster.” “Your move, Jesse. You decide.” … “Will you make me the happiest woman alive? Will you marry me, Jesse?” The moment the words left her lips, both of our phones chimed. Mine was a text notification from the hospital, a stark demand for the outstanding balance. Hers was a rapid, rhythmic series of text alerts, vibrating incessantly against her thigh. “Who is texting you?” I asked, my voice cracking. “Let me see.” I saw the brief, guilty flicker in her eyes before she quickly turned her body, shielding the screen. But I was fast enough. I caught the name and the words glowing on the glass. It was Tyler. My best friend since childhood. “I know you’re getting married tomorrow. Just give me tonight. Please.” The world tilted. My foot caught on the edge of the brick pathway, and I fell hard onto the gravel. The sharp stones sliced open my palms, hot blood welling up instantly. Behind Viola, the elaborate firework display she had commissioned began to detonate against the dark sky. A brilliant, colorful explosion. A magnificent, cruel joke. I let out a broken, breathless laugh, tearing off the formal tie around my neck. The blood from my hands smeared across the dark silk, soaking the fabric. Tears finally spilled over, blurring the face of the woman I had loved for five years. When I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper. “Forget it, Viola. I won’t marry you.” I pushed myself up and ran in the opposite direction. She made a move to follow, but her ringing phone anchored her to the spot. Through the freezing wind, her voice drifted over to me. She didn’t sound devastated. If anything, there was a strange, unsettling note of relief in her tone: “Yeah. I just proposed. He said no.” “Hey, stop crying. I’m on my way to you now…” …… At the hospital, I pressed my forehead against the cold glass of the ICU window, looking at my mother. The cancer had wasted her away in a matter of hours. It is true what they say—sickness arrives like a landslide. Only yesterday she had collapsed, and today I was holding a terminal diagnosis. “Mr. Fletcher,” the billing administrator said, tapping a pen on the counter. “The deposit you made won’t cover her next round of intensive care. You need to clear the balance downstairs.” I reached into my pocket, pulling out my phone to check my banking app. My total net worth: $4,053.62. Not even a fraction of the tens of thousands needed for her treatment. Originally, I had more than enough saved. But two weeks ago, Tyler had come to me, begging for a loan to jumpstart his “business venture.” I remembered how he had clutched my hand, tears streaming down his face. “Jesse, I don’t have a wealthy girlfriend like you do. If you don’t help me, my family is going to force me to marry some older woman back home just to pay off their debts.” I hadn’t hesitated. I gave him every cent of my savings, not even asking for a promissory note. I had no idea that along with my life savings, he was also taking my future wife. I took a deep breath and called Tyler. The word “repay” had barely left my mouth when a familiar, sleepy voice echoed from his end of the line. “I’m out of the shower. Who’s calling?” “Wrong number…” Tyler cut himself off. There was a pause, and then I heard him let out a soft, mocking chuckle. He raised his voice, clearly intending for her—and me—to hear. “Viola, darling, did Jesse turn down your proposal because you didn’t offer him a big enough trust fund? He always did say he’d marry anyone who paid off his debts.” I had never said anything of the sort. But on the other end, Viola said nothing. No denial. No defense. Soon, the sickeningly intimate sound of rustling sheets and soft murmurs filled the receiver. This was it. The first time the future Viola had warned me about. The call ended with a sharp click. I tried calling back, desperate, but it went straight to voicemail. I slid down the hospital wall, burying my face in my hands as the tears finally broke through. The sheer, suffocating weight of it all pressed down on my chest, sending a violent wave of nausea through my stomach. I dragged myself to the nearest trash can and retched until there was nothing left. For the first twenty-five years of my life, my world had revolved around three people: my mother, Tyler, and Viola. I never could have imagined that in a single night, I would lose all of them. Desperate, I did something I had never done before—I began calling every acquaintance, distant relative, and old classmate in my contacts, begging for a loan. The responses fell into three categories: a polite “I don’t have it,” an awkward excuse, or a pitiful hundred-dollar transfer to quiet their own consciences. To make up the difference, I took on three separate temp jobs, working myself to the bone. Aside from the hours I spent sleeping or sitting by my mother’s bedside, I didn’t allow myself a single moment of rest. During this time, Viola sent me one text message. Just three words: “Don’t regret this.” Viola would probably never understand why I had suddenly become a different person. Just as I still couldn’t comprehend how five years of love could be so easily poisoned by a third party. It was her future self who reached out to me more often, her texts appearing on my screen like ghosts: “You don’t have to push yourself like this.” “Even if you work yourself to death, you can’t save her. What’s the point?” When I saw those messages, I was standing under a brutal ninety-degree sun, handing out flyers for fifteen dollars an hour. I didn’t have the breath or the energy to reply. That evening, a coordinator from my staffing agency texted asking if I could cover a VIP shift at an upscale lounge downtown. “The tips alone are more than we make in a month,” she urged. “If my kid weren’t sick, I’d never give this up.” I couldn’t afford to say no. But I never expected that when I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private suite, I would see Viola again. She was sitting at the center of the plush leather booth, her eyes locking onto mine through the dim, smoky light. Curled up tightly against her side was Tyler, looking smug and radiant. One of her wealthy friends sneered, looking me up and down. “Well, look who it is. Viola, isn’t this the gold-digging ex who wouldn’t marry you without a massive payout? Working as a barback now? What’s the play, Jesse? Looking for a new sugar mommy?” The room erupted into laughter. Tyler’s laugh was the loudest. Clearly, he had spent the last few weeks painting me as a villain to her social circle. Now that he had successfully climbed into her bed, he didn’t need to pretend anymore. He leaned his head on Viola’s shoulder, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Viola, Jesse seems really desperate for cash lately. He’s been hitting up all our mutual friends for loans. Shouldn’t we do something to help him out?” Viola’s expression remained unreadable. After a long, tense silence, a cold smile played on her lips. “Sure,” she said. She tapped the toe of her designer heel against the row of expensive, high-proof whiskey bottles lined up on the low table. “A thousand dollars a shot. You game?” She knew I was severely allergic to alcohol. She was doing this purely to humiliate me, to watch me crawl. But what she didn’t expect was that under the mocking stares of the entire room, I didn’t hesitate for a single second. I reached down, grabbed a bottle of neat whiskey, tilted my head back, and began to drink. The burning liquid scorched my throat, sending an immediate, violent spasm through my stomach. I dug my fingernails into my palms, drawing blood, forcing myself to swallow, fighting the urge to vomit. By the time Viola snapped out of her daze and ripped the bottle from my hands, more than half of it was gone. “Jesse, are you fucking insane?!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Why do you need money this badly?!” Under the sudden rush of alcohol, my eyes stung with tears. For a split second, I wanted to tell her how exhausted I was. How scared I was. How desperately I wanted my mother to live. But the future Viola had already proved to me that even if I told her the truth now, nothing would change. I wiped the wetness from my chin and held up my phone, showing her my digital payment code. My voice was flat, empty of emotion. “What I drank… that should be at least twelve grand, right?” She cursed under her breath, her fingers trembling as she scanned the code and transferred the money. Then, she pointed at the door. “Get out.” The moment I stumbled out of the suite, my legs gave way. I collapsed against the hallway wall, sliding down to the carpeted floor. Looking at the notification of the twelve-thousand-dollar transfer, I let out a jagged laugh. But the laughter quickly turned into tears. With this money, combined with what I had saved and borrowed, I finally had enough for my mother’s surgery deposit. But right then, my phone rang. The screen flashed with the hospital’s number, shattering my fragile hope. “Mr. Fletcher, your mother’s condition has suddenly deteriorated!” the nurse gasped. “It’s an emergency. You need to get here immediately!” I don’t know how many times I tripped and fell on the dark streets. By the time I burst through the hospital doors, my knees were torn and bleeding, and I had lost one of my shoes. But I was still too late. I didn’t get to say goodbye. All that was waiting for me was a cold sheet and a death certificate. I threw myself over her cooling body, sobbing until my chest felt like it would split open. “Mom… please. Don’t leave me alone. Take me with you… please, mom…” Even the ICU nurses, who saw death every day, turned away to wipe their eyes. “Mr. Fletcher, I’m so sorry,” one of them whispered, handing me a tissue. There was an old superstition in my family that you must never let your tears fall on the face of the deceased. If you did, their soul wouldn’t find peace, and they might take the person they loved most along with them. In that dark room, I wished with everything in me that the superstition was true. My mother was my only family, my entire world. With her gone, what was the point of drawing another breath? My phone buzzed. It was a call from the future Viola. “Jesse, your mother…” “Why?！” I screamed into the receiver, not letting her finish. The dam broke, and every ounce of pain, betrayal, and exhaustion poured out of me. “Why, Viola? Tell me why!” “Why is it that no matter what I do, I can’t save her?!” “Why did you and Tyler betray me when I did nothing wrong?!” “Why did the woman I loved for five years end up in bed with my best friend?!” “Tell me why! Just tell me!” There was a dead, suffocating silence on the other end. And then, a sound I hadn’t expected: a quiet, muffled sob. After a long pause, she whispered, “I’m sorry.” The anger drained out of me, leaving me entirely hollow. I slid down the wall, sitting flat on the cold hospital floor. A question slipped past my lips: “Viola… do you regret it now?” The future Viola didn’t answer. Instead, she said something strange, her voice sharp with sudden panic: “Jesse, don’t look out the window.” But she was too late. As soon as the words left her mouth, a massive firework detonated in the night sky outside the hospital window. One after another, brilliant bursts of light illuminated the dark room like artificial daylight. Two young nurses walked past the door, their voices drifting in: “Oh, look! That’s the display Ms. Clifford ordered for her new boyfriend. It’s supposed to go on all night.” “Must be nice. I heard her ex-boyfriend refused to marry her because she wouldn’t pay off his debts. What a leech. Glad she found someone better.” Right. I had almost forgotten. Today was Tyler’s birthday. I opened my social media. My feed was flooded with pictures of Tyler wrapped in Viola’s arms, surrounded by a mountain of designer gift boxes. His caption read: “I asked for money, love, and the world. She gave it all to me with a smile, and called me cute for asking.” I stared at the screen, my face completely blank. I liked the post, and then I blocked him. A second later, my phone rang. It was the present-day Viola. “Jesse, are you out of your mind? Today is Tyler’s birthday! Why did you block him?!” she demanded. “He’s literally crying his eyes out right now. You need to apologize to him immediately!” I opened my mouth to speak, but a sudden, blinding pain seized my chest. A metallic taste flooded my mouth. The world spun, blackness encroached on my vision, and I collapsed backward into the dark. When I opened my eyes, a doctor was standing over my bed, his expression grim. “Mr. Fletcher, we got your lab results back. It’s not good.” “Severe physical exhaustion combined with extreme psychological trauma has triggered acute myocardial damage. Your heart is failing.” I held the paper, staring at the diagnosis code for a long time. Then, I dialed the future Viola’s number. “Am I… going to die?” The silence stretched again, but this time, her choked sobs were loud and undisguised. “I’m so sorry, Jesse… I’m so sorry…” So, even my own life was running out. There was a strange comfort in that. Her voice turned desperate, begging: “Please, start the treatment now. Don’t push yourself anymore… do it for me, please?” I hung up. I pressed my hand against my aching chest. Even if she hadn’t told me, I had no intention of fighting. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’ll be with you soon.” If my mother’s death was a fixed point, and nothing I did could alter it, then why keep fighting? I might as well surrender now and spare myself the agony. Thirty minutes later, I walked out to the hallway, rejecting every medical intervention the hospital offered. But physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I dragged my heavy limbs to the administrative office, finalized my mother’s death certificate, signed the cremation authorization, and sat on a wooden bench outside the crematorium. I watched the thin spiral of gray smoke rise from the chimney, dissolving into the white clouds. I reached out, trying to catch it, but my fingers closed on empty air. In the end, I decided to take her ashes back to our old apartment. She would be safe there, with me. But as I walked up the steps holding the urn, I found Viola and Tyler waiting at my door. “Where the hell have you been?!” Viola snapped. “I told you to apologize to Tyler. Did you not hear me?!” I didn’t even look at her. I lowered my head and tried to brush past them, but Viola grabbed my arm. Her eyes swept over my pale, sunken face, and she froze for a fraction of a second. “Why do you look like this?” I winced, trying to pull away. In the confusion, Tyler suddenly reached out and snatched the ceramic urn from my arms. “Jesse, what’s this? What are you hiding?” “Give it back!” I lunged at him like a wild animal. It all happened in a blur—Tyler shrieked, ducking behind Viola, and let go of the urn. It shattered against the concrete floor. A cloud of fine, gray dust rose into the air. Without thinking, I swung my arm and slapped Tyler hard across the face. In the next second, Viola lunged forward, shoving me hard. I fell backward onto the concrete. “What is wrong with you?! Over a stupid vase?!” she yelled. The sharp ceramic shards sliced deep into my palms, but I felt nothing. I crawled forward on my knees, desperately scraping my mother’s ashes back together with my bare hands. I knelt there in the quiet, scraping up the dust, watching my own blood stain the gray remains of the only person who had ever truly loved me. I didn’t even hear the front door click shut when they left. That night, clutching a framed photo of my mother, I swallowed a handful of sleeping pills I had bought on the way home. As my eyelids grew heavy, I heard the faint chime of the wind chimes on the balcony. With the last of my strength, I turned my head and saw a figure standing in the doorway… Mom. My phone lay on the mattress, the screen glowing with my last text to the future Viola: “Thank you for telling me the truth. It’s finally over.” …… At 1:00 AM, Viola’s phone rang. It was the hospital. “Hello, is this the emergency contact for Jesse Fletcher? He’s just been admitted for an intentional overdose of sleeping pills. We are running his stomach now.” Viola didn’t remember how she got to the hospital. Her mind was a complete blank as she ran red lights across the city. It wasn’t until she saw Jesse’s name on the critical care sheet that her denial shattered. Just then, Jesse’s phone, which she had scooped up from his apartment floor, began to ring. She answered it mechanically. But she never expected the voice on the other end to be her own. Only, it sounded years older, raspy, and completely broken.

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I was working past midnight when my husband, Logan, sent me a text. “Forgot to grab your package. You’ll have to get it tomorrow.” Almost simultaneously, an update popped up on my feed. His childhood best friend, Kylie, had posted a new photo on Instagram. “Free home delivery. My personal courier.” The photo showed a man wheeling a handcart stacked high with cardboard boxes. The shot was taken from behind, but I’d recognize those shoulders anywhere. It was Logan. In the three years we’d been married, Logan always managed to forget my packages. But whenever Kylie ordered something, he was there, ready to hand-deliver it to her doorstep. When she ordered an ergonomic office chair, he said she wasn’t good with tools and went over to assemble it. When she ordered groceries, he said she was too weak to carry them and personally stocked her fridge. He even picked up her lingerie deliveries, claiming that personal items shouldn’t pass through a stranger’s hands. Rain or shine, he never missed a delivery for her. A mutual friend had commented on Kylie’s post: “You two are too much. Stop feeding us dog food!” I quietly double-tapped and liked the photo. Within seconds, Logan’s name flashed on my screen. “Don’t be mad,” he said as soon as I picked up. “I had to go out of town on an unexpected business trip today. I’ll grab your package as soon as I’m back tomorrow.” I stared out the window at the endless grid of city lights, my voice barely a whisper. “Don’t bother.” This particular package was from my lawyer. It contained the divorce papers. From now on, he would never have to pick up a package for me again. … I stayed at the office a little longer, finally unlocking the front door of our apartment at 2:00 AM. My phone lit up again—another automated, relentless text from the lobby’s parcel locker reminding me to collect my delivery. I looked at the dark, hollow living room, turned back around, and took the elevator back down to the lobby. As I pulled the thin cardboard envelope from the metal locker, a profound sense of unreality washed over me. From eighteen to twenty-eight. Ten years of my life with Logan, ending in something so incredibly cheap. As I walked back across the courtyard, a man smelling heavily of alcohol stumbled out of the shadows, blocking my path. “Hey, beautiful. Why are you out so late all by yourself?” Before my brain could register the danger, he lunged, tackling me to the concrete. The stench of cheap liquor and sweat filled my nose, snapping me out of my shock. I screamed, kicking and clawing with everything I had. Every inch of skin he touched felt like it was burning, rotting away. Thankfully, the night security guard heard the commotion and rushed over, pulling the drunk off me and calling the police. Soon, I was sitting in the brightly lit precinct, waiting to give my statement. The drunk was still belligerent, shouting to the officers, “We’re dating! It was just a little lovers’ quarrel!” “I’m married,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.” The man scoffed, gesturing wildly. “Well, your husband’s worse than me then! Leaving you to wander around alone at this hour. You were practically asking for it!” “Shut your mouth,” a young officer snapped, shoving him into a holding cell. He turned back to me, his eyes softening with pity. “I remember you,” the officer said quietly. “You were here last year for something similar. Didn’t your husband swear up and down back then that he’d never let you walk alone at night again?” The memory hit me like a physical blow, leaving a hollow ache where my chest used to be. That time, too, Logan had dropped me off at the entrance of our neighborhood so he could rush off to deliver a package to Kylie. He told me to just walk the rest of the way. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. “He’s… out of town on business.” The officer sighed. “You should still call him. Let him know.” With numb fingers, I dialed the number I knew by heart. He answered almost immediately, but the background was loud, filled with the roar of a crowd and commentators. A game. “Is everything okay?” His tone wasn’t cold, but it lacked any real warmth. Before I could speak, Kylie’s voice cut through the noise. “Logan! Stop lingering! The game’s starting! Get over here!” My grip tightened on the phone. “I thought you said you were out of town on business. Why is she there?” Logan’s voice muffled slightly, as if he had placed his hand over the receiver. “I was just dropping off her package before I left, but when she found out I was traveling, she begged to come along. It’s… her time of the month, and she’s been in a really bad head space. I didn’t feel right leaving her alone in her apartment, so I brought her with me to get her mind off things.” He paused, as if waiting for me to argue. “I got her her own room next door. She’ll go back right after the game.” He knew her cycle. He knew her mood. I looked down at my torn collar, at the raw red scratches on my arms. “What about me?” There was a brief silence on the line. “What about you? Don’t start, Gloria. She’s careless and fragile; I’ve been looking out for her for twenty years. It’s just second nature now. You’re different. You don’t make me worry.” “Are you coming back tomorrow?” “Yeah.” “We need to talk about a divorce.” “What?” The roar of the stadium drowned out my voice. I didn’t try to repeat myself. I didn’t even feel angry. I was just tired. When he was with Kylie, he could never hear me, and he could never see that I needed him too. I hung up first. The next afternoon, the front door unlocked. Logan walked in, with Kylie trailing close behind. “Logan, you are the absolute worst!” Kylie kicked off her shoes, tossing them aside as she collapsed onto our sofa. “We promised we’d stay up for the whole game, and you fell asleep halfway through! I had to drag your heavy ass to bed!” Logan picked up her shoes, placing them neatly in the entryway with an indulgent sigh. “You’re one to talk. Who was the little pig snoring so loudly she almost rolled off the bed? I had to reach over and pull you back.” Kylie threw a sofa cushion at him, her eyes wide. “Liar! One more word and I’m not helping you wheel my packages next time!” They bickered, entirely wrapped up in each other. As if this weren’t my home, but their playground. It took several minutes before Kylie seemed to remember I was sitting there. She let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Gloria, please don’t get the wrong idea. I lost my key card and I’m terrified of the dark, so I forced him to let me crash in his room. We’ve known each other for twenty years—I have zero interest in him like that.” I said nothing. Logan jumped in. “Honey, don’t listen to her. I must have owed her a massive debt in a past life, and now I’m stuck cleaning up her messes. She wouldn’t survive a day without me.” He walked over and held out a beautifully wrapped gift bag. “She bought this mango-scented diffuser for you. She said it’s supposed to help with insomnia.” “Thank you,” I said, but I didn’t reach for it. Logan frowned. “Aren’t you going to look at it? She spent forever picking it out.” I looked up, my gaze completely flat. “I’m allergic to mangoes, Logan. I hate the smell.” The room went dead silent. Logan shifted on his feet, looking away guiltily. He quickly cleared his throat to change the subject. “So, why did you call last night? Was there something you needed?” Kylie instantly piped up, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “What else could it be? She missed you, obviously.” “Go away,” Logan muttered, though there was no heat in it. “We’re an old married couple. We don’t do cheesy.” I remembered a few weeks ago, when Logan had left his phone on the kitchen counter. A notification had popped up from Kylie. Her contact name in his phone was “Chatty Little Peacock”, and her messages were a constant stream of consciousness: “Logan, I’m bored.” “Logan, I miss you.” “Make sure you’re thinking of me.” My contact name in his phone was simply “Gloria”. Our text history was a dry ledger of logistics: “Working late? What time will you be home? I ate already.” That was the day I had called the attorney to draw up the papers. Now, I noticed a colorful, hand-woven bracelet on Logan’s wrist. Kylie wore an identical one on hers. We had been together for five years before marrying, and we had been married for another three. In all that time, he had never worn a single piece of matching jewelry with me. He had taken his wedding band off the day after our ceremony, locking it away in our safe. “A grown man looks ridiculous wearing that kind of stuff,” he had said. Looking at the bright thread around his wrist now, my chest throbbed. “Last night, I was assaulted,” I said. “I spent the night at the station giving a statement.” The air in the room instantly froze. Logan’s face went rigid. His voice cracked as he raised it. “Why didn’t you tell me?!” Before I could answer, Kylie chimed in again. “And do what? You had drank so much, Logan. It’s not like you could have driven back. Gloria is always so independent and understanding. I could never be that strong.” Just like that, Logan’s attention drifted right back to her. “Oh, so you’re proud of being codependent now? If it were you, you would’ve been crying and begging me to rush home. You should learn a thing or two from Gloria.” He didn’t see the torn fabric of my collar. He didn’t ask if I was hurt. His world only had room for one person. A profound exhaustion settled deep into my bones. The vows we took three years ago about being partners for life felt like a storm with a time delay. My side of the world was drowning in the deluge, while his remained perfectly dry. I stood up, walked to the cabinet, and placed the envelope in front of him. “Take a look. If it looks okay, sign it.” Before Logan could reach for the papers, Kylie’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then habitually looped her arm through Logan’s. “My new dress just arrived at the lockers! Come with me to grab it. I want to wear it to the party tonight!” Logan looked at me, a brief flash of hesitation in his eyes. Kylie’s lower lip trembled, her expression turning fragile. “Gloria just said she was assaulted. Now I’m terrified to go down there alone. You know what happened to me when I was a kid… I still have trauma.” Logan stiffened. When he turned back to me, his tone carried an edge of blame. “You really shouldn’t have gone down there. I told you I’d get your package today. Why did you have to go in the middle of the night? If you had just waited, none of this would have happened.” The memory of the drunk’s face flashed before my eyes. I clenched my fists and let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Right. My fault.” Logan opened his mouth to say more, but Kylie tugged his arm, pulling him toward the door. “Come on, let’s go. We’re going to be late.” At the door, Logan knelt down to help Kylie slip into her heels. He was half-bent before her, looking exactly like a man proposing. I turned and went upstairs to pack. There was a lot to go through, but so much of it was tainted by Logan’s presence that I left almost everything behind. I only packed my everyday clothes and my documents. As for my job, I had submitted my resignation a month ago. Working late last night had just been to finish the handoff. The transfer to our firm’s Los Angeles office had already been approved; they were just waiting for me to report for duty. As I placed the last dress into my suitcase, I paused. Logan had bought this dress for me right after we got married. He said I looked beautiful in it. Back then, there was a light in his eyes when he looked at me. I couldn’t remember when that light had gone out. I didn’t want to think about it anymore. My phone rang. It was Kylie. Her voice was bubbling with excitement. “Gloria, get dressed and come down! Today is your anniversary, and Logan’s been planning this party for weeks. You absolutely have to be here.” I froze. In three years of marriage, he had never once celebrated our anniversary. I used to care, but he always told me that marriage was about daily life, not showing off for others. I didn’t know what had changed, but since I was leaving anyway, I figured this could be our final goodbye. “Okay.” I changed into a simple outfit and walked down. Kylie was already sitting in the passenger seat of Logan’s car. On the dashboard, there was a small customized sticker: “Little Princess’s Seat”. As I opened the back door, Kylie gasped, slapping her forehead. “Oh my gosh, Gloria! Do you want to sit up front? I’m just so used to sitting here, I swear I didn’t mean to take your spot.” “It’s fine. Stay there.” I got into the back. Kylie immediately turned and playfully punched Logan’s shoulder. “You lucky dog. You hit the jackpot marrying someone as sweet as Gloria. You were just saying she’d be mad at me, but look at her—she doesn’t mind at all.” Logan caught my eye in the rearview mirror, then quickly looked away. “Just sit tight and behave.” We navigated the streets in silence—or at least, my silence. In the front, they talked and laughed the entire ride. I sat in the back, as quiet as a passenger in transit. When we arrived at the lounge, the doors swung open, and a crowd of our friends shouted, “Happy Anniversary!” Confetti rained down on my face. But the crowd was surrounding Logan and Kylie. On the wall behind them, a banner read: “Celebrating 20 Years of Best Friendship!” Kylie looked at me, a sudden look of realization on her face. “Oh… Gloria, I’m so sorry. I must have gotten the dates mixed up.” She hadn’t mixed anything up. I had. I had gotten everything wrong for a very long time. “It’s fine,” I said, finding a quiet corner to sit down. Logan was surrounded by his friends. Kylie mentioned she wanted some grapes, and he immediately began peeling them, laughing as he fed them to her. Our friends cheered and egged them on. Nobody noticed me sitting in the shadows. After a few rounds of drinks, someone started a game of Truth or Dare, thrusting a microphone in front of Logan. “Alright, Logan, truth time. Have you and Kylie ever actually had feelings for each other?” Logan stayed silent, but a visibly tipsy Kylie leaned her head onto his shoulder, tears brimming in her eyes as she whispered, “Of course we did. You jerk… How could you call another woman your wife? You promised you’d marry me when we grew up.” The room fell dead silent. Every eye in the lounge slowly turned toward me. I remembered what a mentor had told me when Logan and I first started dating: “Don’t date a guy with a tight-knit childhood crew. You’ll always be the outsider.” But back then, I was already too deep. Logan was handsome, we shared the same values, and he seemed completely devoted to me. I thought love could overcome anything. When we were dating, Kylie lived out of state and rarely visited. On the rare occasions she did, I viewed her as a younger sister. It was only after we got married that her shadow truly fell over my life. If she couldn’t figure out her tracking numbers, Logan had her route her packages to our address so he could personally deliver them to her. When she had cramps, he knew her cycle better than an alarm clock, bringing brown sugar tea and pain meds to her bedside. When she had a presentation at work, he stayed up all night formatting her slides. But when I asked him to pick up a package for me, he always forgot, or said he was too busy. Once, when I went back to visit my parents for a month, I ordered two boxes of fruit that ended up rotting in the parcel locker. During that same month, Logan had delivered packages to Kylie seventeen times. “Have fun, everyone. I’m going to head home.” Leaving the stunned crowd behind, I walked out of the lounge. Logan ran out after me, panic written all over his face. “Gloria, wait! Don’t misunderstand. She’s just drunk and talking nonsense. We’ve been friends for so long, if anything was going to happen, it would have happened years ago.” I looked at him, my voice very quiet. “Can you drive me home? I don’t want to walk in the dark.” He glanced back toward the lounge, his brow furrowing. “Can I call you an Uber? Or maybe the doorman can walk you to the door when you get there? Kylie’s really drunk, and I don’t feel safe leaving her alone.” He raised his hand to hail a cab, opening the door for me. “Just this once,” I said, looking at him. “Can you please just take me home?” We were standing inches apart, yet he felt miles away. A flicker of impatience crossed his face. “Stop making a scene, Gloria. It’s not the first time you’ve gone home by yourself.” He turned and walked back inside. He didn’t look back. I got into the cab and gave the driver my address. The city lights blurred past the window, a visual tracker of the ten years I had wasted. When I got home, I dragged my suitcase to the door and looked around the apartment we had shared for three years. Our wedding portrait hung on the wall, but on the coffee table, Kylie’s sunglasses and lipstick sat neatly in a tray. Ten years, and I had never managed to fit into his world. I slipped my wedding band off my finger and placed it directly on top of the divorce papers. The door clicked shut behind me. The cab was still waiting downstairs. I climbed in, turned my phone to airplane mode, and gave the driver our final destination: the airport.

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In our custody battle, my ex-husband, Thomas, had one main argument: “She can’t even speak proper English. How is she supposed to help our son with his prep school coursework?” His attorney pressed play on a recording. It was me, trying to teach our son, Toby, his bedtime vocabulary. My voice was halting, the vowels flat and clumsy, the consonants tripping over themselves. A faint, condescending snicker rippled through the gallery. “My client,” Thomas’s lawyer said, adjusting his glasses, “can provide the child with superior educational resources and, crucially, a domestic environment free of linguistic barriers.” He enunciated those last words with a sharp, pointed clarity. The judge turned her gaze to me. “Does the mother have anything to add?” I opened my mouth, but the words withered on my tongue. There was nothing to say. He was telling the truth. My spoken English was a disaster. I was a textbook grinder, a girl from a provincial, dirt-road town overseas who had studied her way across oceans through sheer brute memorization and standardized tests. I could write a flawless academic paper, but in conversation, my tongue still stumbled. Even now, the simple “th” sound felt like a wall I couldn’t climb. I lost. The judge awarded primary custody to him. Outside the courthouse, Thomas’s new girlfriend, Regina, was waiting. She held Toby’s report card—straight A’s—and offered me a sweet, pitying smile. “Elena, don’t take it too hard,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “Honestly, Toby was starting to pick up that heavy, provincial drawl of yours. It’s going to take me at least six months of speech coaching to undo the damage.” I squeezed the custody papers in my fist, my nails cutting into the paper. I couldn’t find my voice. Thomas was already ushering Toby into the back of his pristine SUV. As the car pulled away, Toby pressed his small face against the glass, tears streaming down his cheeks. I collapsed onto the concrete steps of the courthouse, sobbing until my chest ached and my legs refused to carry me. But the judge’s final words echoed in my mind, carved in stone: “Should the mother demonstrate stable, competent educational and linguistic support capabilities, she may petition for a modification of custody.” A week later, I swallowed my pride and pushed open the door of a small, unpretentious community language clinic at the edge of my neighborhood. The instructor looked up from his desk, slid a printed paragraph toward me, and gestured for me to read. I stumbled through the sentences, my throat dry, my accent thick and wooden. When I finished, I whispered a quiet “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “You aren’t unable,” he said softly. “You’re just afraid.” … I paid the registration fee and took a seat in the very back row. There were twelve students in the room. Eleven of them were five-year-olds. I was the only adult. The plastic chairs were designed for toddlers; when I sat down, my knees practically brushed my chin. The man at the whiteboard was Gideon. He tapped a marker against a series of phonics rules, leading the class in a rhythmic call-and-response. When it was my turn, my tongue grazed the roof of my mouth, and I instinctively recoiled. I swallowed the final consonant, the word emerging flat and warped by my native tongue. A little boy in the front row turned around, pointing. “Mr. Gideon, that lady said it wrong.” The classroom fell dead silent. I lowered my head, my ears burning with a fierce, humiliating heat. After class, I went to a local bookstore. I spent forty dollars—a significant amount for my tight budget—on a beautifully illustrated set of phonics readers. I took a grueling one-hour bus ride to the gated suburban community where Thomas lived. Regina came down to the gate to meet me, wrapped in an elegant silk loungewear set. She smiled gently. “Elena, sweetie, please don’t bring these things anymore. We honestly can’t let Toby use them.” She took the plastic bag without another word. I turned and began the walk back to the bus stop. After a few steps, I realized my transit card had slipped from my pocket. I doubled back to search the grass. Through the wrought-iron fence, I saw Regina casually drop the bookstore bag into a large trash bin. Thomas walked up, frowning. “Was that her? What did she bring?” Regina’s voice drifted over the hedge, airy and light. “Just some cheap, poorly translated paperbacks from a discount store. The phonetic guides are all wrong. I’ve already ordered the original British audiobooks for Toby. Keeping stuff like this around will only ruin his linguistic foundation.” Thomas nodded. “You’re right. Don’t let her junk past the gate again.” I sank down behind the manicured shrubbery outside the fence, watching the colorful spines of the books I had spent an entire afternoon hand-picking rest among the garbage. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, refusing to let a single sob escape. That night, I sat on the edge of my twin bed in my cramped apartment, recording my voice on my phone. I recorded it dozens of times, my voice shaking with every attempt. Finally, I sent a clip to Gideon. Ten minutes later, his voice message came back. “No crying in the recordings,” his tone was clipped, professional. “Your ‘th’ is still too far back. Stick your tongue out, bite down slightly, and push the air. Redo it. Tears won’t fix a bad accent.” I wiped my face, held down the record button, and forced myself to speak again. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a text from Thomas: “Next Friday is Toby’s preschool International Day. Parents are expected to interact entirely in English. Don’t come. I don’t want you embarrassing him in front of the faculty.” On Friday afternoon, I went anyway. I stood at the edge of the sprawling, pristine playground of the bilingual academy, wearing my best white button-down shirt. My fingers tightly gripped an index card covered in handwritten English phrases. I had practiced these simple greetings with Gideon for an entire week, wanting nothing more than to ask the teachers directly how Toby was adjusting. In the center of the lawn, Regina and Thomas stood side-by-side. An expatriate teacher was leaning down, ruffling Toby’s hair and smiling warmly at Regina. I stepped closer, close enough to catch their conversation. “Your boy is exceptionally bright,” the teacher said in standard, polished English. “You must be a wonderful mother.” Regina smiled gracefully, offering no correction. Instead, she slipped into an impeccable, fluid British-inflected accent, discussing Toby’s reading list and vocabulary progression with effortless charm. Toby stood beside her, looking up at her with pure, unquestioning adoration. My feet felt like lead, but I forced myself forward. “Hello,” I said, my voice tight and strained with anxiety. The teacher turned, looking at me with polite confusion. I wanted to ask how Toby was sleeping, how his lunches were. But under Regina’s cool, smiling gaze, the vocabulary I had rehearsed for days evaporated. My pronunciation became a muddled slur, my grammar fracturing into pieces. The teacher’s confusion deepened. He turned to Regina, lowering his voice. “Is this lady Toby’s nanny?” Regina gave a soft, delicate gasp, covering her mouth. “Oh, no, she is…” Before she could finish, Thomas grabbed my arm and dragged me away from the crowd. He pulled me behind the brick corner of the school building, his face livid. “Elena, are you out of your mind?” he hissed. “Regina spent six months networking to get Toby integrated into this elite circle! And you show up here, sounding like a backward immigrant, broadcasting to the entire school that Toby has a mother who can barely string a sentence together?” He shoved my shoulder back against the wall. The pain was sharp. I looked at him, my vision blurring. “I am his mother. I have every right to see him, to ask how he is doing.” Thomas let out a cruel, dry laugh. “His mother? Does being his mother give you the right to drag him down to your level? When the teacher took Regina for his mother just now, Toby didn’t correct him. He looked proud. Face it, Elena. You don’t belong in his world anymore.” He walked away, leaving me leaning against the cold brick, shivering from the inside out. During class that evening, I couldn’t utter a single syllable. No matter how many times Gideon tapped the board, my throat felt like it had been poured full of concrete. When the session ended, we were the only two left in the quiet room. Gideon walked over to my low desk and handed me a dry-erase marker. “Write it on the desk,” he said. “Write what?” my voice was barely a whisper. “Write: “I am his only mother.” He adjusted his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes piercingly sharp. “Write it down. Look at it. And read it aloud until you believe it.” I gripped the marker, my hand trembling violently. My phone screen lit up on the plastic table. It was an email from Thomas’s attorney. “In light of the mother’s severe deficiency in providing necessary educational and linguistic support for a competitive preparatory environment, our client will petition the court to terminate all visitation rights and initiate paperwork for the child’s enrollment in an overseas boarding program.” Terminate visitation. The words felt like a rusted saw dragging across my chest. The next morning, Thomas sent me a video file. In it, Toby sat in a spacious, sunlit office wearing a tailored navy blazer. Sitting across from him was an admissions officer from an elite private academy. The interviewer asked, “And who helps you with your homework at home, Toby?” Toby’s eyes darted toward someone off-camera—Regina. In a sweet, practiced voice, he replied, “Aunt Regina. She’s just like a real mom to me.” The clip cut off. My phone immediately rang; it was Thomas. “Did you see that? That’s Toby’s mock interview for the academy next month. They require a fully supportive, English-fluent home environment.” His tone was casual, which only made it more vicious. “Sign the waiver, Elena. Give up your visitation. Right now, your existence is just a blemish on his transcript. That fifty-dollar community class of yours wouldn’t even qualify as a joke to the board of admissions.” My fingers dug into the glass screen of my phone, my nails leaving smudges. “And if I refuse?” “Then we go to court,” Thomas sneered. “And I’ll make sure the judge sees exactly how a woman who sits in a room of five-year-olds learning basic phonics is sabotaging her own son’s future.” The line went dead. I collapsed onto the curb, gasping for air. He was erasing me from my child’s life, piece by piece. That afternoon, I walked straight to the family court and filed a petition for a custody review hearing. Win or lose, I had to stand my ground. That evening at the center, Gideon didn’t make me sit with the children. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat directly across from me. He switched entirely to English, his delivery rapid, his words sharp. “If you stand in that courtroom, and their lawyer calls you a low-income, linguistically deficient mother who has nothing to offer her child, how do you counter?” I froze. He began grilling me, adopting the aggressive, precise cadence of a seasoned trial lawyer. I stammered, “I… I love my baby…” “Not enough!” Gideon cut me off, his voice commanding and heavy with pressure. “Love is the cheapest word in a courtroom. Give me facts. Give me logic. Again!” For hours, under the relentless storm of his questioning, I was on the verge of breaking. But at the peak of my humiliation and despair, something shifted. A strange, quiet clarity washed over me. I opened my mouth and, using every ounce of phonetic training I had hammered into my brain over the past months, I hurled the English words back at him, line by line, steady and clear. Gideon listened in silence until my final rebuttal. He slowly took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Your pronunciation,” he said softly, “is more than ready.” He stood up, stacking his lesson plans. “Go show them you aren’t a joke.” Wednesday morning. The family court hearing room. Thomas wore a bespoke dark suit, with Regina sitting beside him. She looked elegant and understated—light makeup, a simple pearl necklace—the picture-perfect image of an educated, high-class mother. The hearing commenced. Thomas’s lawyer immediately delivered his opening salvo. “Your Honor, we submit this letter of intent from the prestigious Wellington Academy. The institution mandates a rigorous, English-fluent domestic environment. Meanwhile, the biological mother, Elena…” He paused, letting a condescending smile play on his lips. “As far as we have documented, is currently enrolled in a community center class, learning basic alphabet phonics alongside toddlers.” A few low snickers came from the gallery. The lawyer’s voice grew colder. “The biological mother’s linguistic proficiency is literally at a preschool level. It is highly improbable that a woman who requires basic remedial classes alongside five-year-olds can offer any meaningful academic support. Her continued influence will only stifle the child’s social mobility and cognitive development.” Thomas looked at me, his eyes full of that familiar, patronizing pity. The judge turned to me. “Does the petitioner have a response?” I stood up slowly. I lifted my chin, looking directly at Thomas and his high-priced lawyer. Then, drawing a breath, I delivered my statement entirely in English. My pace was deliberate, but every single syllable was steady, carved with precision. “It is true that I study at a fifty-dollar-a-month community program,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet room. “Because that is the absolute limit of what my current income allows. But I do not believe a mother who starts from zero, practicing her pronunciation hundreds of times a day against a bare wall for her son, is a blemish. The real blemish is using wealth and social class as weapons to sever a child’s bond with his own mother.” A dead silence fell over the courtroom. The pity on Thomas’s face hardened into a freeze. Regina’s eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp panic. The clarity of my speech and the structure of my argument had caught them completely off guard. But Thomas’s lawyer recovered quickly, leaping to his feet. “Your Honor, I object! This emotional speech is clearly ghostwritten and mechanically memorized over weeks of rote practice. It does not reflect her actual day-to-day communication or educational capacity!” The lawyer pressed forward, zeroing in on what he thought was my weakest point. “Tell us, who is the instructor who coached you to recite this? Is it the coordinator of that unregistered, unaccredited neighborhood daycare center? Your Honor, rote memorization under the guidance of an uncertified community center worker carries zero academic weight. It cannot be accepted as proof of educational competence.” He pointed a finger at me, his gaze sharp and venomous. “Unless she can prove her instructor holds internationally recognized credentials in education or linguistics, this entire performance is a fraud!” I was backed into a corner. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I had no idea what credentials Gideon held; he was just the man who taught at the cheap community center. Thomas leaned back in his chair, a smug smile creeping back onto his lips. The judge frowned, looking down at me. “Can the petitioner provide any documentation regarding the qualifications of her instructor?” I closed my eyes, a cold wave of despair washing over me. At that exact moment, the heavy double doors of the hearing room were pushed open. Gideon walked in, wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, one hand in his trouser pocket. He moved with effortless authority, stepping right past the gallery and dropping a thick, sealed portfolio bearing a heavy metallic seal directly onto the desk in front of Thomas’s lawyer. “I am her instructor,” Gideon said, his voice quiet but commanding. “Feel free to open that and see if I am qualified to provide her endorsement.” The lawyer gave him a skeptical look and pulled the documents from the envelope. The moment his eyes brushed the official letterhead and the signature at the bottom, the smug color drained from his face, leaving him entirely pale.

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It was past midnight when I missed the last train home. Shivering on the empty platform, I called my husband, asking him to come pick me up. He answered, his voice airy and completely unbothered. “Give me an hour.” In that single second, the illusion shattered. I knew exactly what that “hour” meant. Tonight, like so many nights before, would be a test of endurance. A waiting game with no end. For the years we’d been married, Wayne had used this petty, calculated tactic to punish me. A lingering retaliation for the times I’d run late putting on my makeup when we first started dating. When my grandmother was on her deathbed, drawing her final, shallow breaths, he lied about the driving distance. “It’s only a three-hour drive, Gloria. We have time.” By the time we pulled into my childhood driveway, there was nothing left but a cold casket and a room smelling of incense. When my appendix flared up—a white-hot, blinding pain in my lower abdomen—he texted that his car was pulling into the driveway. Instead, he left me writhing on the freezing hardwood kitchen floor for thirty agonizing minutes. Now, I sat on the curb of a desolate street, gently rubbing my blistered, swollen heels, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. My phone buzzed in my palm. A foolish, desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. It was extinguished instantly. “By the way, did you drop Delilah’s dress off at the dry cleaners?” his text read. “Her commencement ceremony is in exactly seventy-two hours, five minutes, and twenty-one seconds.” Looking at those numbers—so agonizingly precise, down to the very second—the dam broke. Years of swallowed tears and quiet compromises came rushing out. I stared into the dark, empty street, and for the first time, I simply didn’t want to hold on anymore. … My entire body ached by the time I finally dragged myself through the front door. I fumbled with the medicine cabinet, pulling out a bottle of soothing ointment to tend to my bruised heels myself. After years of marriage, I had become an expert at carrying my own heavy, silent burdens. A moment later, the bedroom door clicked open. Wayne stood in the hallway, his eyes locking onto me as I massaged my raw skin. He frowned, a slight crease forming between his brows. “I was just getting ready to head out to get you,” he said, his tone casual. “Why did you walk back? And wearing those ridiculous heels? You’re just asking for trouble.” “It wasn’t that far,” I muttered, my voice stiff as I walked past him toward the kitchen. I was looking for the microwave. I’d texted him this morning, asking him to save me some dinner. But when I pulled the microwave door open, my hands froze. It was completely empty. “Did you take Delilah’s dress to the cleaners?” Wayne asked again, ignoring my silence. He leaned against the counter. Delilah was a college student we’d been sponsoring together. Lately, though, the boundaries between them had begun to blur in ways that made my skin crawl. I was slowly realizing I’d brought a viper into my home. Seeing my blank stare, Wayne pressed on, his voice taking on that familiar defensive edge. “I know she told me last week there was no rush. But she’s a young girl, Gloria. She wants to look beautiful for her graduation. Just get it done early.” “You asked me to do something this morning,” I started, turning to face him. “But I—” Before I could finish, his phone blared. Wayne stepped away into the living room, murmuring into the receiver. When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying a takeout bag. “Since you haven’t eaten,” he said, setting it on the table. “Here.” He turned back toward the bedroom, and as he did, a sudden glint of silver caught the light. It was a small, masculine ear stud. I had bought him countless pieces of jewelry over the years, but he had always rejected them, calling them “too feminine” or “not his style.” Yet, last week, when we took Delilah out to dinner, she had giggled over a magazine ad of a male celebrity with a cartilage piercing, calling it incredibly hot. The very next afternoon, Wayne had come home with a fresh hole in his left ear. During the early, rocky years of our marriage, I had begged him to compromise on the little things. He’d always shrugged me off, claiming he was a free spirit who hated being managed. Now, the truth was glaringly obvious. It wasn’t that he couldn’t change. It was just that I wasn’t worth the effort. I shook the thoughts from my head and ripped open the plastic takeout bag with a loud, sharp snap. Inside was a bowl of extra-spicy Sichuan noodle soup, the broth hidden beneath a thick, angry layer of red chili oil. Wayne lived for spicy food. I couldn’t tolerate a single drop. Normally, even when he was being dismissive, he never made mistakes when it came to my allergies or food preferences. But then I saw the receipt stapled to the bag. On the back, written in a neat, loopy handwriting, was a note: “Thank you for giving me this internship opportunity, Professor! You’ve been working so hard. I ordered this specially for you—make sure to eat it while it’s hot!” I wasn’t even getting a meal he’d bought for me. I was getting her unwanted leftovers. A hot spike of anger flared in my chest. I crumpled the receipt into a tight ball and threw it fiercely into the trash can. Wayne came back out for a glass of water, letting out a soft, exasperated laugh. “What is it now? You’re picking fights over a bowl of noodles?” “You gave Delilah a job at your firm?” I demanded. “Yeah,” he said, taking a sip of water. “Her grades aren’t stellar, but she’s young, eager, and has a lot of potential.” “But when I asked you to interview my cousin last semester, you said your company had a strict policy against nepotism,” I said, the hurt cutting deep into my voice. Wayne sighed, looking at me as if I were a difficult child. “Babe, that’s completely different. Skill is one thing, but brand image is another. Delilah has the look. She represents the energy we want.” The fight drained out of me. My shoulders slumped. “Oh, and by the way,” Wayne added, pausing at the bedroom door. “You don’t need to buy me any more accessories. They’re a bit… dated. Delilah offered to help me pick out some new pieces. She’s an art major; she actually understands modern aesthetics.” He closed the door behind him, leaving me alone in the dim kitchen. I walked into the bathroom to wash my face. As my hand touched the brass handle, my eyes locked onto a brand-new digital clock mounted directly above the mirror. A bitter memory surfaced. Last week, Wayne had spent ten minutes extra in the shower, and Delilah had called my phone repeatedly, frantic, crying that she was terrified he had slipped and hit his head. The next day, this clock appeared. I looked around, suddenly feeling like a stranger in my own home. On the towel rack, his old blue bath towel—the one he’d used for a year—was gone. In its place hung a plush, lavender-colored one. Lavender: Delilah’s absolute favorite color. In the corner of the vanity, a clear plastic cup was neatly wrapped in a ziplock bag and tucked away safely. It was the cup Delilah had used when she stayed over on our couch a few weeks ago. He couldn’t even bring himself to throw away her used cup; he had preserved it like a relic. Meanwhile, my old things—my favorite hand lotions, my worn-out vanity organizers—had been cleared out and thrown away to make room. The sense of sanctuary, the delicate order I had fought so hard to maintain in this marriage, was completely gone. My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from my mother: “Gloria, sweetie, have you made up your mind? Your father and I are settled here in Sydney now. What are you going to do over there all by yourself?” My mother had seen through my marriage long ago. She had spent the last year begging me to leave him and join them in Australia. I typed back, my fingers surprisingly steady: “Mom, please start the visa paperwork for me. I don’t want to keep hurting myself like this.” The next morning, I woke up to find we were out of my usual facial cotton pads. On the marble counter, Wayne had placed three unopened packs of a new brand. The packaging was covered in bright, cutesy pink cartoon characters—completely jarring against the minimalist, neutral aesthetic of our bathroom. My hand hovered over the box. Wayne leaned against the doorframe, a faint smile on his lips. “Those are super popular right now. There was a summer sale, and Delilah grabbed a whole case for us.” “Right,” I murmured. The cotton felt soft against my skin, but it felt like tiny needles. My face stung. I’ve always been particular about my skincare, only buying brands I’ve trusted for years. Before we married, I told him I would handle the household shopping. Now, slowly, silently, a stranger was taking over my space. “I’m not used to this brand,” I said quietly. “Let’s stick to the old one next time.” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll use these. You can buy whatever you want. It’s not a big deal.” When I walked into the living room, Wayne was kneeling on the carpet, playing with a small tabby cat. He had a severe allergy to cat dander; years ago, when I had begged him for a kitten, he had flatly refused, claiming it would kill his sinuses. Now, he was wearing a medical mask and thick gloves, laughing as the kitten batted at a string. It was a stray Delilah had found shivering near a dumpster last week, and her dorm didn’t allow pets. The kitten broke away from Wayne and came over to rub against my ankle. As I stepped back to avoid it, Wayne raised his phone. “Don’t move,” he said. A sharp click echoed in the room. “Delilah’s always worried you hate the cat,” Wayne said, looking down at his screen. “Sending her a picture of you two will put her mind at ease.” “I actually don’t like it,” I said flatly. “Once she graduates and finds an apartment, she needs to take it.” Wayne’s face stiffened for a fraction of a second. Sensing my coldness, his tone softened, trying to coax me. “Come on, Gloria, don’t be like that. Didn’t you always want a cat? I thought you’d be happy.” But I had wanted “our” cat. A pet we chose together. Not an interloper that took over our living room. At breakfast, looking at the plain ceramic plate in front of me, another memory drifted back, sharp and unbidden. A few months ago, during a weekend trip to a pottery retreat in the Hudson Valley, I had spent hours throwing a beautiful, hand-painted blue-and-white porcelain dinner set. I wanted to bring it home as a gift for my parents. But on the drive back, Wayne had insisted on packing the heavy plates at the very top of our largest suitcase, right under the lid. He claimed he needed to cushion a giant, fluffy plush bear Delilah had won at an arcade. When we unpacked, the porcelain set was in shattered, jagged pieces. The suitcase lining was dusted in blue glaze. Delilah stood next to him, her eyes welling with tears because a tiny bit of stuffing was leaking from her bear’s arm. “The plates breaking is just bad luck, Gloria. We’ll file a claim with the airline,” Wayne had said, barely looking at the ruins of my hard work. “Help Delilah sew her bear back together, okay?” In the end, my hours of careful creation were swept into a trash bin at the airport. I had returned home empty-handed. “Don’t forget about Delilah’s dress,” Wayne muttered, bringing me back to the present. “We can’t delay it anymore.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I’m running a company, Gloria. I’m incredibly busy. I hope this is the last time I have to remind you of this.” The mention of the dress made the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. He was so meticulous, so fiercely protective of a rented gown for a girl who wasn’t his family. Yet for me, there was only the leftover scraps of his attention. I gripped my fork, a sudden wave of anger washing over me, but then I slowly let it go, exhaling a quiet breath. Why even bother arguing? In a few days, I would be gone anyway. Years ago, when we first started dating and talked about the future, he told me he hated the bureaucratic trap of a marriage certificate. He suggested we wait to sign the papers until I got pregnant. I had agreed, blinded by love. But in all these years, he had never truly touched me with real intimacy. We had the ceremony, the big party, the shared house—but we had never actually gone to the courthouse. I didn’t even need to hire a divorce lawyer. There were no assets to split, no legal ties to sever. How beautifully simple. I spent the day wrapping up my remaining projects at the university. By evening, I walked across the campus to turn in my keys and final resignation papers to the administration office. As I neared the grand campus auditorium, the rich, swelling chords of an orchestra drifted through the double doors—the graduation gala. I intended to walk past, but something made me stop. My gaze anchored onto the center of the polished dance floor. Delilah was spinning in a slow, graceful circle, wearing a stunning champagne-colored gown. She was radiant, her face lit up with a brilliant smile. Holding her by the waist, guiding her steps with effortless poise, was Wayne. My breath caught, a cold lump forming in my throat. That champagne gown was my wedding reception dress. My absolute favorite piece of clothing, tucked away in the back of my closet. Wayne had gotten a haircut, styling his hair to look like a college student himself. He looked youthful, laughing softly at something she whispered. They were close—so close their shoulders brushed with every step. A wave of dizziness washed over me. Years ago, I was the administrator who had personally reviewed the financial aid applications. I saw that Delilah’s parents had passed away, that she was living on government assistance, and my heart had broken for her. I was the one who convinced Wayne that we should sponsor her tuition, her rent, her life. I pulled her out of the mud. And here she was, wearing my dress, holding my husband, standing in the spot that belonged to me. Perhaps my stare was too intense. Wayne froze mid-step, his eyes catching mine. He slowly let go of Delilah’s waist and walked toward me, his expression tightening with a sudden, nervous energy. “I came to the university to sign the endowment papers,” he said, his voice hurried, defensive. “I just ran into Delilah. It wasn’t planned.” The more he explained, the guiltier he looked. I smiled, a genuine, light feeling washing over me. “It’s fine. Keep her company. I have things to do.” He blinked, momentarily stunned by my reaction. Usually, if I saw him looking too closely at a waitress or texting late at night, I would lose my temper. Today, I was perfectly, uncannily calm. “Delilah is the student you sponsored, after all,” Wayne said, trying to regain his footing. “I’m just looking out for her on your behalf.” “Gloria, we need you to sign the final exit forms,” a colleague called out, rushing toward us with a clipboard. “What exit forms?” Wayne’s brow furrowed. I didn’t answer. He shook his head, a patronizing smile returning to his face. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter anyway. I can easily support both of you.” After I finished the paperwork, my phone buzzed with a text from Wayne. It was a rare, urgent message: “I’m coming to pick you up. Stay right there. Seriously, ten minutes this time. If I’m late by even a second, I’ll Venmo you ten thousand dollars.” I stared at the screen, looking at the desperate promise. The urge to walk to the train station vanished. I pulled up a chair in the campus security booth instead. “Waiting for the husband again, Gloria?” the elderly guard, Mr. Hudson, asked with a warm, sympathetic smile. “Is he going to make it on time today? I’m supposed to lock up and pick up my grandson soon.” A flush of embarrassment warmed my cheeks. Wayne was always late. Even the campus security guards knew my husband couldn’t be bothered to show up on time for me. Nine minutes later, my phone chimed. A Venmo notification: “Wayne Garrick sent you $10,000.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. I stood up, walked out into the baking afternoon heat, and headed straight for the subway station. By the time I reached the entrance of our gated community, I was drenched in sweat. I stopped by the mailroom to pick up our packages. The young clerk behind the counter smiled brightly when he saw me. “Oh, hey! I have a package for ‘WayneLovesDelilah.’ That’s your husband’s account, right? I’ll grab it for you.” He handed it over, his eyes shining with admiration. “You guys have the cutest couple name. Seriously, relationship goals.” The words felt like a physical slap across my face. I took the package, my fingers cold against the cardboard. The temperature of my blood seemed to drop a few degrees. Without my noticing, Delilah had invaded almost every corner of my life. His keys now carried a little plush fox—her favorite animal. His classic leather-wrapped flask had been replaced by a trendy, pastel travel mug. Even the smart lock code to our front door had been changed to her birthday. When he first changed the lock, I had been touched, thinking he had finally remembered my birthday. It was only later that I realized Delilah and I shared the exact same day. I collapsed onto the sofa, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram. Delilah’s latest post popped up on my feed—a photo of her and Wayne, head-to-head, smiling broadly. “How lucky am I to have someone so gentle in my corner?” her caption read. “Mr. Garrick, here’s to another year of standing by each other. More than just friends.” A second later, a little red heart popped up. Wayne had liked it instantly. I stared at that tiny red heart for a long, quiet moment. Then, with a numb finger, I swiped past. The front door clicked open. Wayne walked in, holding the champagne wedding gown in his hand, crumpled and smelling of cheap perfume. He tossed it onto the sofa next to me. “Get this dry cleaned and put it away,” he said casually. “You and Delilah are basically the same size. She really wanted to try on a designer piece, so I let her have her moment. Don’t be mad.” I looked at the wrinkled fabric of the dress I had treasured for years. I didn’t even look up at him. “Don’t bother cleaning it,” I said. “Just throw it in the trash.” He froze, staring at me in disbelief. “What? You love this dress. You’ve kept it preserved like gold. Why would you throw it away?” A dull ache throbbed in my chest. He knew. He had always known how much that dress meant to me. Yet, the moment Delilah asked, he hadn’t hesitated for a single second to hand it over. Seeing the hollow look in my eyes, Wayne pulled out his phone and made a quick call. Within an hour, a delivery service arrived, lining our living room with racks of the latest designer gowns. One of them was a breathtaking, limited-edition piece. Wayne lifted the dress from the rack, holding it up with a triumphant smile. “I saw you liked this on your Pinterest board yesterday. I knew you’d want it. I had my assistant track down a personal shopper in Paris to get it flown in overnight. Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” Looking at the beautiful silk, I realized how incredibly easy I used to be to appease. An expensive toy to quiet a crying child. Even though I had officially resigned, the dean had personally requested that I give a brief speech at the commencement ceremony as the graduating class’s administrative counselor. Standing on the stage, looking out at the rows of students in black caps and gowns, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. “After years in education, watching class after class step into the world,” I spoke into the microphone, my voice steady and resonant, “seeing student Delilah Cross, whom my husband and I have sponsored for years, graduate today… feels like the perfect, quiet closing chapter to my own career here.” As the applause faded, Delilah walked up the steps to the stage. She was wearing the freshly pressed champagne gown, standing out like a star under the stage lights. She took the microphone, launched into a long, emotional speech, and spent five minutes praising Wayne’s generosity. She didn’t mention my name once. I stood off to the side, my brows drawing together as a cold sense of dread settled in my stomach. Suddenly, Delilah paused, a playful, sharp smile spreading across her lips. She looked down at the audience, then turned her eyes to me. “I’m sure you’re all wondering why I haven’t thanked Mrs. Whitman,” she said, her voice amplified clearly through the speakers. “Gloria Whitman, our university counselor, is listed as my official sponsor on paper. But in reality, she has never given me a single dollar of her own money. She doesn’t deserve a single word of my gratitude.” A collective gasp rippled through the auditorium. Hundreds of faces turned toward me. The whispers started instantly—sharp, mocking, judgmental. I froze on the stage, the blood rushing to my ears, turning my hands icy cold. Delilah’s smile widened. She leaned closer to the microphone, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “And there’s one more thing.” “I know for a fact that Mrs. Whitman and Mr. Garrick were never legally married. They aren’t husband and wife. In fact, they broke up weeks ago.” She turned her gaze to the front row, where Wayne sat, his face drained of all color. “Today, as I graduate, I finally have the courage to say what’s in my heart. Wayne, you’ve stood by me through seven years of school. You are my savior, my mentor, my everything. Will you marry me?” The auditorium went dead silent for a fraction of a second, before exploding into a deafening roar of cheers and applause. I looked desperately toward Wayne. His face was stark white. He stumbled up the stairs of the stage, almost tripping over his own feet. He grabbed the microphone from Delilah’s hand. “I do,” he said into the mic. The words echoed off the high ceilings. My mind went entirely blank, the last of my strength evaporating. I turned and ran. I fled down the backstage stairs, tears blurring my vision as I burst out into the cool night air. He didn’t run after me. My phone vibrated violently in my hand, a string of desperate texts lighting up the screen: “Gloria, please. I didn’t know she was going to do that.” “I only said yes to calm her down, to protect the company’s image.” “Give me five minutes. Just five minutes, I’m coming to find you.” I stared at the blinking screen, my vision swimming in hot tears. I pressed the record button, my voice cracking into a ragged, broken sob: “Wayne! In all these years, have you ever been on time even once?! I’ve waited five years for you to show up. I am done waiting! We are over!” I raised my hand, hailed a passing cab, and gave the driver the address of the airport. My parents were already waiting at the terminal. The moment my mother saw my tear-streaked face, she pulled me into her arms, stroking my hair without a word. As the plane rolled down the runway and lifted into the sky, the tight, suffocating knot in my chest finally began to loosen. Meanwhile, back in the city, Wayne had finally managed to dodge the reporters and quiet Delilah down. When he finally rushed through the front door of our empty apartment, two hours had already passed. He stepped into the elevator, his heart pounding against his ribs, preparing himself to face my rage. Instead, he ran into our next-door neighbor, who was returning from a weekend trip. The neighbor smiled, nodding politely. “Hey, Wayne. Is Gloria going on a trip? I just landed at JFK and swear I saw her walking toward the international departures gate. What country is she off to?” Wayne froze on the spot, his face turning a sickly, hollow white.

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Alyssa and I were standing in the county clerk’s office. We were just one step away—waiting for our photo to be taken for the marriage license—when her phone rang, and she walked out. She left me standing there in the middle of the registry office, stranded and utterly humiliated. I called her. No answer. I texted her. Nothing but silence. Finally, out of options, I dialed her childhood best friend’s number. Sure enough, Alyssa picked up. “Steven, seriously, can you stop nagging me?” Alyssa’s voice was sharp with irritation. “Chase has a fever. I have to stay here and take care of him today. Stop calling and waking him up. We can just reschedule the marriage license for another day.” I sat frozen on the plastic waiting room chair, the phone pressed to my ear. “This is the seventh time we’ve rescheduled, Alyssa,” I whispered, my voice barely carrying. “So what?” she snapped. “The clerk’s office isn’t going anywhere. It’s not like it’s going to disappear!” My face went entirely numb, though inside, it felt like a knife was twisting in my chest. The clerk behind the counter gave me a look of deep, painful sympathy. “Are we still doing this, sir?” she asked gently. I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded slowly. “Yes. We are.” … I pulled up my contacts and called Tyler’s older sister, Viola. I told her I was in. I agreed to her proposal. After hanging up, I asked the clerk if she could give me just a few minutes. I was still sitting there, dazed, when Viola walked through the double doors. She had parked her sleek, cherry-red Ferrari right out front, and the moment she stepped inside, she commanded the room. People actually stopped murmuring just to look at her. Viola walked straight to me and sat down in the plastic chair beside mine. She crossed her long legs, her expression cool, sharp, and businesslike. “Changed your mind?” she asked, looking at me intently. “You’re ready to go through with this sham marriage to get our families off our backs?” I nodded quietly. It wasn’t just about escaping my family’s constant nagging. For me, the clock was ticking. I needed my grandmother to find peace before she left this world. Six months ago, her health had taken a sharp turn for the worse. She had been confined to a hospital bed ever since, and every single time I visited, she would take my hand and ask when I was going to settle down. She wanted to see me married. She wanted to know I wouldn’t be left behind in this world. She kept saying that if she knew someone was by my side, she could close her eyes without worrying about leaving me all alone. That was why I had been begging Alyssa to marry me for the last six months. We had made it to the county clerk’s office seven times. Seven times we stood on the precipice of a life together, and seven times she had walked away, always for some urgent crisis involving Chase. The last time, Chase had sprained his ankle, and she had to rush to his apartment because he “couldn’t bear the pain.” The time before that, Chase had locked himself out of his apartment, and she had to drive across town with his spare key. And the time before that, Chase was craving a specific bowl of ramen from a diner uptown, and she abandoned me to go wait in line for him. Every single one of those seven times was because of Chase. Every single time, Alyssa had abandoned me without a second thought. The irony was suffocating. I had given her seven chances. And she couldn’t even spare five minutes to take a photo with me to seal our future. But honestly, as I watched her walk out this time, I didn’t feel the sharp sting of heartbreak. Maybe I had simply gone numb. Or maybe, deep down, I had been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead, my mind drifted to what my grandmother had whispered to me from her hospital bed last week. “Steven, sweetie, I don’t think I have much time left. I might not make it to your wedding. But even if you end up alone, you have to promise me you’ll be strong. Don’t let anyone walk all over you.” I had promised her I would be strong. So, I was done compromising. I was done waiting. “Alyssa, I gave you your chances. Seven of them.” The paperwork with Viola went smoothly. But just as we stepped into the small booth to have our photo taken, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Alyssa. “Don’t be mad, Steven. I really couldn’t leave Chase today. But I’m back home now, and I’ve cooked your favorite pasta. I’ll be waiting for you! xoxo” Viola glanced over at my screen, her expression unreadable. “Still want to go through with this?” she asked quietly. I took a deep, steadying breath. “Keep going,” I said, looking straight at the camera. We walked out of the office a few minutes later, holding our official marriage certificate. Before she got back into her car, I turned to her. “Are you free tomorrow? There’s somewhere I need you to go with me.” Viola swung her long legs into the driver’s seat of the Ferrari. “Call me with the details,” she said, starting the engine. “And be ready. My parents will probably require your presence in a couple of days to prove we actually did this.” With a quick nod, she drove off. Life is a strange, unpredictable thing. I had spent four years in college and three years afterward building a life with Alyssa, only for it to crumble into nothing. Yet here I was, legally bound to Tyler’s older sister—a woman I had barely spoken to before today. On my way back to the apartment, Alyssa texted again, this time with a photo. The dining table was covered in a massive spread of food. “Where are you? Dinner is ready! If you’re late, there won’t be any left!” She meant it, too. By the time I unlocked the door and walked inside, the dining table was a disaster zone. The plates were scraped clean, with nothing left but stained napkins and empty serving dishes. Chase was sitting there, looking every bit the innocent, bright-eyed golden boy. He looked up at me with mock contrition. “Oh, Steven, I’m so sorry. I was just starving, and Alyssa insisted I eat first. I hope you don’t mind.” Even a blind man could see the smug provocation in his eyes. For a split second, my blood boiled, and my hands clenched into tight fists at my sides. Chase and Alyssa had been inseparable since they were toddlers. In Alyssa’s world, he occupied a sacred space that no one else could touch. Our relationship used to be easy, full of laughter and effortless love. We rarely argued. And when we did, I was always the one to cave, to apologize, to take the blame just to keep the peace. I carried the weight of her temper because I loved her. My friends used to tell Alyssa how lucky she was to have someone who adored her so unconditionally. But the moment Chase came back into her life after college, everything changed. She became someone I barely recognized. “Steven, why are you just getting back now? I texted you hours ago,” Alyssa said, stepping out of the kitchen. She frowned the moment she saw me. In her mind, she was used to me dropping everything and rushing home the second she snapped her fingers. “I had some things to take care of,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “What could possibly be more important than coming home to the dinner I made for you?” Her tone was casual, but the underlying accusation was clear. I had no intention of telling her about my marriage to Viola. Since I had already made up my mind to leave, Alyssa was nothing more than a stranger to me now. I had only come back to pack. “Nothing major. I have an unexpected business trip, and I need to pack a bag,” I said. Without waiting for her response, I walked straight past her and into the bedroom. But the moment I pushed the bedroom door open, I froze. The bed sheets I had neatly made that morning were a tangled mess, and the closet doors swung open, my clothes rifled through. I could have overlooked that. But on my nightstand, the intricate, handcrafted wooden replica of an old cathedral—the one my grandmother had spent weeks putting together for me—was snapped in half. Tiny pieces of wood and delicate carvings lay scattered across the hardwood floor. Something inside me snapped. “Alyssa!” I yelled, my voice shaking. “Who was in here? Who broke my things?” Alyssa sauntered in, her brow furrowing slightly before smoothing out into complete indifference. “Oh, please. It’s just a wooden toy. I’ll hire someone to glue it back together for you later.” I stared at her, utterly speechless. That flippant, dismissive tone was the perfect summary of how little I meant to her. And looking at her face, I knew immediately who had done it. Only Chase could warrant this level of immediate, defensive protection. “Chase broke it, didn’t he?” I said quietly. My calm voice seemed to ignite a fire in her. Her eyes flared with anger as she stepped into my space. “Do you have proof that Chase did it? Maybe you didn’t build it right and it fell over on its own! Don’t you dare start throwing wild accusations at him, Steven. Unless you have actual proof, keep your mouth shut before I sue you for slander!” I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. She protected him so fiercely, so effortlessly. One simple, logical question, and she was threatening to take me to court. But she hadn’t always been like this. I still remembered the rainy night I fell in love with her. I had gotten into a minor car crash, and she had run three blocks through a downpour without an umbrella to find me. That proud, image-conscious girl had stood in the pouring rain, screaming at the reckless driver who hit me, completely unconcerned with how she looked. What happened to that girl? How did she turn into this? I didn’t argue. She was right about one thing—I didn’t have proof. I knelt on the floor and began carefully picking up the wooden shards, placing the broken halves of the cathedral into a box. From the doorway, Chase’s pathetic, whining voice drifted in. He limped into the room, leaning heavily on the doorframe. “Alyssa, please don’t fight with Steven because of me. Even though I didn’t touch it, if Steven wants to blame me, let him. Nobody really liked me when I was growing up anyway. It’s only natural he hates me too.” He hobbled over and knelt beside me, pretending to help. But as he did, he deliberately planted his sneaker firmly onto one of the larger wooden carvings on the floor and ground his heel into it, crushing it to splinters. Leaning in close, he whispered so only I could hear: “I broke it. What are you gonna do about it?” A white-hot rage flared in my chest, and I shoved him away. But before my hand even made full contact with his shoulder, he threw himself backward onto the floor, his bandaged ankle hitting the corner of the nightstand with dramatic force. He let out a sharp cry of pain. “Steven! I was just trying to help!” Before I could even process the theatricality of his fall, Alyssa grabbed my arm, her grip bruising. Her face was twisted in a savage glare I had never seen before. She looked at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Even if you hate him, did you have to physically assault him? He’s injured, Steven! He’s a patient!” I looked at her, my arm aching in her grip, and felt a profound sadness wash over me. The girl I loved was entirely gone. “I barely even touched him,” I said, my voice dead. The slap was sudden and deafening. My head snapped to the side, and a hot, throbbing pain flared across my cheek. “You’re still lying!” Alyssa screamed. “Do you think I’m blind, Steven? I was standing right there! I saw you push him! First you lie about him breaking your toy, and now you attack him? I never knew you could be this cruel. You’re vicious!” I couldn’t even breathe. I didn’t bother trying to defend myself anymore. What was the point? She had already written the script in her head. She let go of my arm, looking down at me with cold disgust. “Nothing to say? You’re pathetic, Steven. Truly pathetic.” But instead of anger, I felt a strange sense of relief. If there had been any lingering warmth, any foolish hope left in my heart, that slap had extinguished it completely. I didn’t argue. I didn’t struggle to explain. As Alyssa helped Chase to his feet, he looked over her shoulder and mouthed a single sentence to me: “You never stood a chance.” If you want her so badly, she’s yours. Terrified that Chase had aggravated his ankle, Alyssa quickly called an Uber and practically carried him out of the apartment to the hospital. I slowly stood up, my legs slightly shaking. In the full-length mirror near the closet, the bright red imprint of her hand was already bruising on my cheek. She had hit me with everything she had. I let out a soft, humorless laugh, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of my lip. That slap had shattered the last of my illusions. I spent the next hour packing every single piece of clothing I owned into a suitcase. What I couldn’t fit, I dragged down to the dumpster. Before I walked out, I called a local real estate agent and listed the apartment. It was mine, bought with my grandmother’s hard-earned savings as a wedding gift for my future. Now, the thought of staying here made my skin crawl. Some things are too dirty to clean. I dragged my suitcase to a nearby hotel for the night. From here on out, I was going to spend every spare second with my grandmother. The next morning, I called Viola. Her voice was thick with sleep when she answered. It took a few gentle nudges—and a quick call to Tyler to help coax her out of bed—before she finally got moving. On our way to the hospital, Viola and I rehearsed our story. My grandmother had met Alyssa before and knew she was the one I had planned to marry. To keep her from worrying during her final days, I asked Viola to play along, hoping we wouldn’t slip up. To my surprise, Viola was a natural. She connected with my grandmother instantly, chatting effortlessly about everything from the hardships of the older generation to modern technology. By the time we had to leave, my grandmother was holding Viola’s hand, reluctant to let go. She pulled me close, patting my hand gently. “Stevenary, dear… this one is good. She’s a hundred times better than that Alyssa girl.” A wave of panic hit me. I didn’t want my grandmother to know I had rushed into a marriage of convenience, so I forced a laugh and whispered, “Grandma, you must be getting confused. This is Alyssa.” My grandmother gave me a knowing, gentle look. “I may be sick, Stevenary, but I’m not blind. I know exactly who she is. I just hope my old bones can hold out long enough to see your wedding reception…” I quickly pulled our marriage certificate out of my coat pocket and placed it in her frail hands. “You don’t have to wait, Grandma. We’re already married. See? And we’re planning the party right now. You’ll make it.” She pulled out her reading glasses and studied the document carefully. Finally, a warm smile spread across her face. “I knew it. Not that Alyssa girl. Viola… Viola. What a beautiful name.” I gave her an affectionate, exasperated look before stepping out of the room. Viola was waiting for me in the hallway, but she wasn’t alone. She seemed to be in the middle of a tense confrontation. As I drew closer, I realized the people she was arguing with were Alyssa and Chase. I didn’t know what had started it, but Alyssa’s voice cut through the quiet corridor, making my chest tighten painfully. “My boyfriend made a mistake, okay? I already apologized on his behalf. But for a woman who looks as refined as you, you sure are acting like a classless, shameless brat!” “My boyfriend.” The words echoed in my ears. To her, Chase was her boyfriend. So what was I? Just a placeholder? A convenience? “If you make a mess, you clean it up,” Viola replied, her voice cool and lethal. “If everyone had your twisted logic, we wouldn’t need laws. Being injured doesn’t give him a free pass to act like an animal.” Alyssa and Chase stood there, completely outmatched. Right then, Alyssa spotted me walking toward them.

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