Category: English

It took my roommate a whole week of cornering Holden Pierce outside his frat house just to get him to give up his number for me. To thank her for helping me take that terrifying first step, I drained my entire summer internship savings to buy her the Prada bag she’d been obsessing over. Right after that, I threw my entire soul into texting Holden. I agonized over every word. By day, we shared the mundane little details of our lives; by night, we traded our deepest, quietest secrets in the dark. A year passed. We became the kind of intimately tethered friends who could talk about absolutely anything. Finally, I gathered every ounce of courage I had. “The weather is gorgeous tomorrow. Do you want to finally meet up?” Holden replied instantly. “Baby, didn’t we just say goodnight?” I stared at the glowing screen, my brow furrowing in confusion. The door to our apartment swung open. Blakely walked in, her arms wrapped around a massive bouquet of roses. Her cheeks were flushed, and she offered me a sheepish, breathless smile. “When I got his number for you?” she said, her voice dripping with an apologetic lilt. “I think I kinda forgot to mention I was asking for a friend.” “He… he’s always thought the person he’s been texting was me.” 01 The entire room went dead silent. The only sound left in the world was the rapid-fire pinging of my phone. Holden’s messages came flooding in, one after another: “Did I scare you with the sudden confession?” “I’ve been preparing for this for a long time, honestly.” “Over this past year of talking to you, I’ve felt just how incredibly sweet and genuine you are.” “At first, I thought I just saw you as a friend. But then, whenever I didn’t hear from you, this physical ache would settle in my chest. That’s when I knew. I fell in love with you.” “I’m so sorry for just tracking you down and springing this on you without warning – ” But the thought remained unfinished. One by one, right before my eyes, the messages vanished. “Unsent.” “I’m really sorry,” Blakely said with a shy, giggling smile. She set the roses on her desk and pulled a velvet box from her Prada bag. She opened it, kept the necklace for herself, and casually tossed the matching earrings onto my bed. “Faye… I said yes to him,” she hummed. “So, obviously, I can’t have him texting you anymore.” She crouched by my feet, resting her chin on her hands as she leaned on my knees, looking up at me with bright, beaming eyes. “I just gave him my actual number. I told him my old phone got hacked, so…” A cold, prickly sweat broke out across my forehead. My mind scrambled, violently rejecting the impossible reality unfolding in front of me. With trembling fingers, I typed a single “?” into our thread. Send. A second later. The text bubble stayed stubbornly green. Beneath it, a harsh, unforgiving notification: “Message Not Delivered.” My heart didn’t just break; it flatlined. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Just like that, Holden had blocked me. Erased me. Even though just last night, we had stayed up texting until 2 AM, baring our souls. Seeing me frozen, Blakely unceremoniously shoved the earrings into my palm. “Oh, come on,” she said, her tone light and breezy. “Honestly, if I hadn’t been the one asking for his number in the first place, Holden probably would never have talked to you anyway. You know how he is. Aloof. Untouchable. Half the girls on campus have tried and failed. Just take the earrings as a – ” “Blakely,” I said. My voice was hollow. I turned my head, physically unable to look at her. “We aren’t friends anymore.” Before she could manufacture a response, I pushed past her. Clinging to whatever shred of dignity I had left, I climbed into my bed and violently yanked the privacy curtain shut. In the dim, enclosed space, I scrolled through a year’s worth of history. In the beginning, it was a sea of blue bubbles – just me, trying so hard. Then, he started replying. A trickle at first. Eventually, if I went quiet for a few hours, Holden would be the one sending the “?” For the last three months, it was as if our roles had flipped. He was the one chasing my attention, initiating the late-night talks. I had been so incandescently happy. My chest had felt full of light. I thought I had poured every drop of bravery I possessed into getting to know Holden Pierce, and I truly believed it hadn’t been in vain. …But now. It was all shattered glass. I pulled the duvet over my head and wept until my lungs ached, eventually spiraling into an exhausted, feverish sleep. Early the next morning, a voice called out from the apartment doorway. “Faye! There’s a guy downstairs looking for you. Tall, lean, incredibly gorgeous. He said his name is Holden.” 02 The sleep vanished from my veins instantly. I glanced over. Blakely’s bed was empty. I scrambled down, moving purely on adrenaline. A part of me wanted to dress up, to look perfect, but a larger part panicked at the thought of keeping him waiting. I threw on a heavy oversized coat, pulled a surgical mask over my face to hide my swollen eyes, and bolted downstairs. During that three-minute elevator ride, a thousand wild hopes bloomed in my chest. The most logical explanation? He spent the night with Blakely and realized her vibe, her way of speaking, completely contradicted the girl he’d been texting for a year. He figured it out. He was here to apologize… “Faye.” His voice cut through the brisk morning air – crisp, resonant, beautiful. I tried to steady my erratic breathing, keeping my eyes cast downward. My gaze landed on his wrist. He was wearing the matte-black watch we had spent a whole night picking out together online. I let out a muffled, hesitant, “Yeah.” “What is it that you want?” Holden asked. My head snapped up. I looked at him through my thick-rimmed glasses. His face was an unreadable mask of stone. His eyes, usually so warm in my imagination, were devastatingly cold. “Blakely was crying all night,” he said, his voice laced with ice. “Because of you. I don’t know when you first found out about me, or when you developed this little obsession – ” He let out a harsh breath, his brow furrowing as he raked a disgusted look over me. He was barely keeping a lid on his impatience. “Let me make this perfectly clear. The girl I want is Blakely. Now, and forever. That isn’t going to change. So I’d appreciate it if you stopped taking your jealousy out on her. Do you understand?” Tears instantly blurred the edges of the world. I dug my nails into my palms, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Actually… the person who was texting you all year… it was me.” The moment the words hung in the air, a cruel, mocking laugh dropped from above me. “Blakely called it,” he sneered. “She said you were exactly this kind of person. She warned me you’d do anything to get your way – even lie and claim you were the one behind the screen.” The look he gave me then was one of pure, visceral repulsion. He leaned in, his expression deadly serious. “So let me spell it out for you. Even if it “had” been you, I would never look at you twice. I only want Blakely – ” I stopped breathing for a second. Then, a quiet, self-deprecating laugh slipped from my lips. I unclasped the matching matte-black watch from my own wrist – the one I’d bought to match his – and dropped it onto the concrete. As I turned my back to walk away, I heard a flicker of hesitation in his voice. “Faye – ” 03 Like an idiot, my feet stopped moving. I couldn’t help it. I had harbored a quiet, burning crush on this boy for two years. I had spent another entire year agonizing over every text, building a bridge between us. You can’t just amputate that kind of love in a single morning. A foolish, desperate part of me thought: “If he asks, I’ll pull out my phone right now. I’ll show him the logs. I’ll prove it.” “Faye?” His tone had softened. It almost sounded… placating. He stepped up behind me, his voice dropping low. “Blakely just got her period. I bought her these pads, but I forgot to ask that other girl to run them up. Could you – ” “Fine.” I snatched the pharmacy bag from his hand and marched straight back into the dorm building. The last ember of hope in my chest fizzled out, turning to cold, gray ash. I realized then that Blakely was right. If she hadn’t been the beautiful, popular girl stopping him on the sidewalk to ask for his number, Holden Pierce never would have given me the time of day. 04 I tossed the pharmacy bag onto Blakely’s bed. A few minutes later, she breezed in from the apartment next door, a trailing entourage of her new sorority friends in tow. “Faye!” she chimed. “My boyfriend is treating us all to dinner tomorrow night. You’re coming, right?” I didn’t even blink. I kept my back to her. “No.” The second the word left my mouth, a chorus of catty, hushed giggles erupted from her friends. “Oh my god, I told you. She’s still completely hung up on him.” “Does she seriously think Holden would ever date “her”?” “If you hadn’t practically begged him for his number for a week, a wallflower like her wouldn’t even be on Holden’s radar. He wouldn’t know she existed.” “Guys, stop it!” Blakely interrupted, her voice entirely too loud, dripping with faux reprimand as she walked over to me. “Faye isn’t like that. She’s just having a hard time adjusting. Right, Faye?” She batted her wide, glossy eyes at me, slipping into that familiar, cloying pout she’d used on me a hundred times before. “My ex just cheated on me, and then out of nowhere, Holden confesses his love? It feels like destiny. You’re my best friend. I just really want your blessing.” As she spoke, she purposefully let her cardigan slip off her shoulder, revealing the jagged, ugly scar near her collarbone. The scar she got “saving my life.” My chest tightened. The guilt, as always, did its job. I looked away, swallowing the bile in my throat. “Fine.” 05 I spent the entire next day forcing myself to swallow reality like a jagged pill. When evening came, I washed my face, skipped the makeup, and walked to the restaurant. When I arrived at the private room, Blakely and her entourage were in the restroom. Holden was sitting alone at the large table. He glanced up, his eyes sweeping over me with cold indifference. He gave a microscopic nod, then visibly pulled his hands off the table and leaned back, putting physical distance between us as if I were a threat. My heart still did a stupid, pathetic little stutter. Unbidden, memories of the old Holden – my Holden – rushed into my mind: “I think I just saw that stray cat you were feeding yesterday. Is this her?” “Thank you for listening to me vent last night. Are you really still not going to tell me your name?” “Please don’t cry. Just stay away from guys like that. He’s taking advantage of the fact that you have too big of a heart.” … I was snapped out of my daze as the door swung open and Blakely made her grand entrance, flanked by her girls. The moment her eyes locked onto me, her radiant smile froze. A flash of genuine panic crossed her face. “F-Faye… why didn’t you text me you were here? I… I would have come outside to walk in with you.” Before I could answer, Holden’s demeanor flipped like a switch. The ice melted into a warm, adoring smile. He reached out, pulling her hand into his, his voice a low, intimate murmur. “She’s a grown woman, baby. She doesn’t need an escort. You’re cramping, you should just be focusing on yourself right now.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a sage-green Yeti tumbler, placing it gently in front of her. “Ginger tea.” The table erupted in a chorus of “awwws”. Blakely flushed, playing the blushing girlfriend perfectly. She took the tumbler, but then, without thinking, asked, “Is this green cup yours?” Before he could answer, she coyly picked a chunk of pineapple off the fruit platter with a fork and held it to Holden’s lips. “You are so sweet to me, Holden.” Holden didn’t move. Blakely’s hand hovered there, the atmosphere turning slightly awkward. She pushed the fork a little closer to his mouth. “He’s deathly allergic to pineapple.” The words were on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out. But I watched as the light in Holden’s eyes suddenly dimmed. Something dark and conflicted passed over his face. In the blink of an eye, the mask was back in place. He smiled, opened his mouth, and ate the pineapple. His eyes crinkled in absolute adoration. “Thanks, baby.” 06 Holden sat there, leaning lazily back in his chair, watching Blakely chatter and laugh with her friends. His fingers rhythmically, almost anxiously, tapped against the mahogany table. His eyes were dark and unreadable. I knew exactly what was spinning in his head. He was wondering how the girl who had spent three weeks helping him pick out that exact sage-green Yeti tumbler could possibly ask him whose cup it was. “I’m going to run to the restroom,” Holden said, flashing a polite, effortless smile as he stood up. As he walked past, I caught a glimpse of what was clenched tightly in his fist. Benadryl. Blakely didn’t notice a thing. As soon as the door clicked shut, she turned her benevolent, queen-bee gaze on me. “Faye, did you order yet? Seriously, get whatever you want. Holden said he’s paying for everything as a ‘thank you’ for putting up with my mood swings.” I don’t know what was wrong with me. I had been starving all day, but suddenly, the thought of food made me nauseous. “Whatever is fine,” I mumbled. “Okay!” Blakely stuck her tongue out playfully and waved the waiter over. “We’ll take all of this. Oh, and my friend here is deathly allergic to cilantro, so please make sure there’s absolutely none in her food. She’ll literally throw up.” She looked up at the door, flashing a perfect, sickeningly sweet smile. Holden had just walked back in. She was putting on a masterclass in ‘Look what a caring friend I am.’ But Holden just stood by the door. His face went entirely blank, his eyes losing focus as a sudden, heavy realization seemed to hit him. 07 When Holden stepped out to take a phone call later, Blakely leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper for her friends. “We went out to the quad last night, and you guys… he kissed me! We were just looking at the stars, and he went totally quiet, stared at me for like two whole minutes, and just went for it. He was so romantic. He told me I was breathtaking and that I needed to stop being so insecure…” Amidst the squeals of her friends, she turned to me. The shy act dropped, replaced by cold calculation. She reached under the table and pulled out the Prada bag I had bought her a year ago. “I was actually going to tell Holden the truth,” she whispered, her eyes locking onto mine. “But you saw it yourself… I’m the one he’s in love with. So, I can’t just hand him over to you. Here. This is the bag you bought me for getting his number. I’m giving it back. We’re officially even.” “Screeech.” My chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor. I couldn’t breathe in this room anymore. “I have to go,” I choked out. I bolted for the door. I was moving too fast, completely blinded by tears. As I rushed down the hallway, I slammed hard into a solid wall of a chest. I didn’t even look up. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, my voice shattering as I shoved past him and ran out into the night. 08 After that night, Holden and Blakely became the campus IT couple. Their romance was loud, public, and cinematic. Everyone across the university knew that Holden Pierce, the untouchable ice prince, had finally been tamed by Blakely Davenport. The guy who used to look through people was suddenly opening car doors and carrying her tote bags, sickeningly gentle around her. Blakely was completely drunk on the power and the romance. She didn’t bother pretending to care about our fractured friendship anymore. As for me, I survived by burying myself in campus clubs, student government, anything to keep me exhausted so I wouldn’t have to think about it. Until one evening. I was walking back to the apartment when I saw two silhouettes tangled together in the shadows beneath a large oak tree. I was going to keep my head down and walk past. But the voices anchored me to the sidewalk. “Baby, why are you mad? Why would I ever like Faye?” Holden sounded genuinely baffled. “I have strict boundaries. I don’t even talk to other girls. You – ” “I just hate knowing she wanted you!” Blakely whined, pushing him away slightly to pout. “We live in the same apartment. Whenever you come over, you’re going to see her… Why don’t I just move out and we get a place off-campus together?” “I’m not doing that to you,” Holden said, his brow furrowing in the moonlight. He looked at her, a strange, calculating look in his eyes. “For a whole year, you were so shy you wouldn’t even tell me your name. Why are you suddenly rushing everything?” He took a deep breath, dropping his voice into a soothing, methodical cadence. “It’s not fair to you. I want to do this right. When we graduate, we can move in together properly. We have our whole lives. There’s no need to rush, okay?” The autumn leaves rustled above them, making Holden’s voice sound impossibly crisp in the cold air. Then, slowly, deliberately, he said, “I do have a friend who’s single, though.” “He’s gorgeous, but… he’s arrogant, a little reckless, total bad-boy energy.” Holden clicked his tongue. “Honestly, I have no idea if Faye could even handle a guy like him.” Blakely let out an awkward, breathy laugh. “Yeah… that’s a great idea.” She muttered, “I’ll tell her when I go inside. I’m sure she’ll be “thrilled”.” 09 Graduation was looming. I had already signed a lease for a small studio off-campus to get away from Blakely. So, to avoid any more drama in our final months, when Blakely pitched the idea of setting me up with Holden’s friend, I just flatly said yes. A few nights later, Blakely was on FaceTime with Holden. She yanked me into the frame, grinning maliciously. “Holden’s friend is insane looking, Faye. Like, model gorgeous. I mean, his temper is awful, so you’ll just have to deal with that. He actually got arrested in high school, but hey, I heard he hasn’t put anyone in the hospital in a while!” On the other side of the screen, a guy was yelling in the background, his voice dripping with pure, aggressive irritation. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Holden? When have I ever wanted to be set up? Who told you to give out my number? I’ve told you a million times, I’m not dating anyone! Get that phone out of my face, I’d rather jump off a bridge than – ” He shoved his face into the camera to yell at Holden. Then, our eyes met. The guy froze.

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After I shoved Wayne out of the path of a speeding truck, my cognitive development froze. I was physically growing, but mentally, I stayed five years old. From then on, Wayne became the one who raised me. He spent years teaching me how to write my name, over and over. He taught me to memorize our phone number, to boil pasta. Until Isla showed up. She was his new assistant at the firm—brilliant, polished, and glowing. They were a team. He secured the clients; she drafted the proposals. Everyone said they were the perfect match. Slowly, I noticed him staring at her photos on his phone, lost in thought. Meanwhile, no matter how hard I tried to boil pasta without letting it stick to the pot, no matter how hard I tried to stay out of his way… He stopped teaching me. “Marina, what can a child’s brain actually learn? No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be like Isla.” The exhaustion and annoyance in his eyes suffocated me. Finally, I tried getting a part-time job. But I couldn’t remember how many spoonfuls of sugar went into a coffee. The shop manager yelled at me, called me stupid, and kicked me out. I walked home in tears. I stared at the old academic certificates plastering my bedroom walls—relics from before the accident—and cried for three days straight. I hated myself. I screamed at my own mind, asking why I had thrown my brain away. When the tears dried, I begged Wayne to help me practice one last time. He was busy proofreading a long email for Isla. He didn’t want her to face any heat from the gallery curators, so he spent ten minutes agonizing over a single comma. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Without even looking up, he shoved a flyer into my hand. “If you really want to learn, go to the Beacon Center. Even the kids there are smarter than you.” I didn’t say a word. I just took the flyer and followed the map. The classroom was bright, lined with colorful foam play mats. A man in a light gray button-down shirt was kneeling on the floor, patiently teaching an eight-year-old boy how to tie his shoelaces, over and over. He looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He paused, then offered a warm, gentle smile. “Are you here to learn how to tie laces, too?” … I stared at his smile, my voice stumbling over the words as I tried to explain my situation. “I… I want to grow up. I want to live on my own. I don’t want to be a burden anymore…” The man stood up quietly, waiting patiently for me to piece my broken sentences together. “You’re different from the children here. You’re capable of basic self-care. Are you sure you want to enroll?” Was even this place going to turn me away? Panicked, I dug into my pockets and pulled out every dollar bill I had. “I can pay tuition!” He let out a soft sigh, pulled out a registration form, and began writing. “I’m Simon. Simon Beckett. I’m the instructor here.” “I’m very strict, Marina. Learning here will be hard work.” “I’m not afraid.” Once the form was filled out, he had me ink my thumbprint at the bottom and sit among the children. As soon as I sat down, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was Wayne. “I’m taking Isla to meet the curator. I’ll be back late.” “Stay inside. Don’t go wandering off. There’s food in the fridge, use the microwave—” He cut himself off with a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “Forget it. You don’t even have a normal brain. What do I expect you to remember?” “Just eat it cold. Don’t touch the microwave, the outlets, or the stove.” A dull ache bloomed in my chest. I knew how to use those things. I wasn’t as stupid as he thought. But before I could speak, the line went dead. While I was staring at the blank screen, Simon called my name. “Marina, I was just explaining how we build memory association. Why don’t you show us?” Anxious, I stood up. He laid out three cards on the table. One showed a sugar bowl, one a licking flame, one a snowflake. “Marina, when you worked at the coffee shop, what scared you the most?” “I… I was scared of forgetting if the customers wanted sugar, or if they wanted it iced or hot…” He spread the cards before me, explaining that the sugar bowl meant extra sweet, the flame meant hot, and the snowflake meant iced. Then he drew one at random. “What does this one mean?” I scrambled for the answer, but my mind suddenly went completely blank. My face burned. Instinctively, I covered my ears and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for the look of pure disappointment. Whenever I failed to memorize our phone number, Wayne would look at me exactly like that. “You’ve been trying to memorize a simple number for months, Marina. Are you a blockhead? Even a toddler is smarter than you! Forget it. Teaching you is a waste of time.” But then, a gentle hand pulled my fingers away from my ears. Simon laid the card flat in front of me. “Don’t rush. When you try to think too fast, your brain locks up.” He pointed to the card with the flame. “What is this?” “A fire.” “And what does fire represent?” “Hot.” “Exactly. If a customer wants a hot drink, you associate it with the flame.” He walked me through each card like that. On the final draw, I pictured the symbols just as he had suggested. This time, I remembered. “See? No rush. You can do this.” As we walked back to our seats, a little girl wearing a mushroom-patterned dress held her hand high in the air for a high-five. “You did so good!” she cheered. Nobody had called me good since my father died. My throat tightened, but I blinked the tears back. When class ended, a cold wave of anxiety washed over me. I had spent all my money on the tuition. I didn’t have enough for a cab, I didn’t know the way, and I had never taken the public bus alone. Simon watched the last of the children leave, then turned his gaze to me. “Where do you live? Getting you home is your final lesson for today.” On the bus, at every stop, he pointed out landmarks. “Look at the curved green bench. Look at the gray pedestrian bridge…” Finally, the bus pulled up next to a massive bed of blooming roses. “This is your stop, Marina. If you can’t remember the street names, remember the roses. They’ll guide you home.” I stared at the apartment complex. For the first time in my life, I hadn’t waited for Wayne to fetch me. Whenever I used to ask Wayne to teach me the way home, his impatience would flare. “Why do you need to know the directions? With your brain, you can’t go out alone anyway. Stop making trouble. Nobody has time to hunt you down every single day.” Eventually, I stopped asking. Venturing out meant making trouble. And making trouble was terrifying. At the entrance of the complex, I saw Wayne. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The moment he caught sight of me, he lunged forward and grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip. “I told you to stay put! Why can’t you just listen to plain English?” He squeezed so hard I thought my bones would snap. “Isla is still waiting for me to meet the curator, and I had to spend the last hour scouring the streets for you! Are you doing this on purpose?” His eyes were rimmed with red, burning with the same desperate anger I’d seen years ago. Once, we had gotten separated in a crowded mall. He had panicked so badly he tripped and cracked his kneecap searching for me. After that, he tied a red string around both our wrists. The cord chafed his skin until it bled, but he refused to take it off. “This way, I can show you the world, and I never have to worry about losing you.” But then Isla came along, the red string disappeared, and Wayne locked me inside. “I was at the training center,” I whimpered, shaking my head through the pain. “Dr. Beckett is teaching me.” Wayne stiffened. A cold, mocking sneer crept onto his face. “Dr. Beckett? You’ve known him for a day and you already trust him?” “You’re beyond help, Marina. If you actually want to get better, you should check into an asylum.” I bit my lip, forcing my voice to remain steady. “I’m not crazy. I learned how to take the bus home today.” He looked down at me, his expression icy. “Something a normal toddler can do, and you think you’ve accomplished a miracle?” He banned me from going back. “You’re just begging to get conned. What else do you know how to do besides be a burden?” The next day, Wayne stayed home. Isla came over to the apartment, too. Her voice was sweet and bright, and she looked at me with an air of amused curiosity. “Wayne mentioned you went to some… special development center?” She reached into her purse, pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped box, and slid it across the table. “A little gift. I’m sure you can use it in your classes.” She opened the box with a sweet smile. Inside was a pink pacifier. I recognized the words on the label: “Soothing. Ages 0-2.” “If you can’t understand what’s going on and want to call Wayne, just use this. Newborns chew on these and quiet down instantly. It’ll keep you nice and quiet so you don’t keep calling Wayne and interrupting his work.” My fingers clenched into fists. I understood. She was laughing at me, treating me like a brainless baby. I pushed the box back. “I don’t need it. Dr. Beckett can teach me.” Wayne’s voice rang out, devoid of warmth. “She went out of her way to bring you a gift, and this is how you behave?” “Honestly, Marina, what Isla brought is probably more useful than whatever that fly-by-night teacher of yours is peddling.” His cold stare made my chest ache. It brought back a memory from childhood, when some older neighborhood boys tried to trick me into eating mud, promising it would make me smart. Wayne had tracked them down and fought them all. He came home bloody and bruised, but he wouldn’t back down. “Marina isn’t stupid! Nobody gets to treat her like she’s stupid!” But now, he was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the people who mocked me. Was it because I had grown even stupider in his eyes? I pressed my lips together. “I don’t care. I’m going to class.” Wayne’s face darkened. He grabbed my arm, dragged me out of the apartment, and forced me into his car. He drove in silence, eventually pulling over at a chaotic, unfamiliar intersection. Groups of men lounged on the corner, smoking and drinking from cheap beer bottles. “Didn’t your precious teacher show you how to navigate?” Wayne hissed. “Let’s see if his little tricks actually work.” He put the car in drive, giving me one last, piercing look. “It’s been twenty years, Marina. I’d love nothing more than for you to prove me wrong.” The car sped away, leaving me on the curb. One of the smoking men turned his head and whistled. “Hey sweetheart, boyfriend dump you? Want a ride?” I scrambled backward, panic flooding my chest, and ran as fast as my legs could carry me. I ran until my lungs burned and my knees shook. I collapsed in a crying heap in front of a small convenience store. My phone buzzed. It was Simon. “If you can’t commit to showing up for class, Marina, don’t come back.” I gripped the phone tightly, sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m so useless. I’m lost again.” A heavy silence hung on the other end of the line. “Don’t cry,” he said, his voice firm but quiet. “I taught you how to read the streets. Tell me, what do you see around you?” I forced my tears back, blinking rapidly. “A green grocery store… and a bridge shaped like butterfly wings…” “Excellent. Stay right there. Don’t move.” I crouched near the storefront. After what felt like an eternity, a figure came sprinting through the intersection. Simon’s collar was unbuttoned, his breathing heavy. Instinctively, I threw my arms around his neck, burying my face in his chest. His ears flushed a deep crimson, and he gently, firmly pushed me back to arm’s length. “Next time, do exactly this. The clearer you describe your surroundings, the faster someone can find you.” He paused, his gaze softening. “But next time, you’ll find your own way home.” I nodded quickly. For that day’s lesson, Simon rode the city buses with me for four straight hours. By the end of it, I had finally figured out how to identify the correct routes. As we wrapped up, a wave of exhaustion and self-doubt hit me. “How long does it take to become an adult?” I asked quietly. He reached out and gently ruffled my hair. “Even if you feel like a child, you are the brightest one I know.” “Before this, you just didn’t have anyone to guide you properly.” “Let’s give it a month. Let’s work hard together, okay?” When I got home that evening, Isla was still there. Wayne was meticulously editing her proposal. “Don’t just say ‘we are highly professional,’” Wayne murmured, his voice patient. “It sounds too cold, too aggressive. Read the next line for me.” He guided her through the text, syllable by syllable, polishing every word. He had only ever used that tone with me once—years ago, when he was tracing the letters of my name on a sheet of paper. In the years since, whenever I asked him to help me read, his patience had evaporated into frustration. “You’re going to be like this forever, Marina. What’s the point of learning a few letters?” Wayne looked up as I walked through the door, his eyes scanning me coldly. “How many strangers did you have to beg to get yourself home today?” Isla rose from the couch, offering a patronizing smile. “Well, at least she made it back. That’s better than getting caught in the rain because she didn’t know enough to run inside.” The mockery behind her smile made my stomach turn. I wanted to retreat to my room, but Isla stepped into my path, pointing to a book in my hands. “Marina, I noticed that math textbook in your room. I’m actually really interested in advanced mathematics. Would you mind letting me have it?” My heart seized. I clutched the book tightly to my chest. It was the only thing I had left of my father. Growing up, it had just been my dad and me. He used to hold me in his lap, pointing at the numbers and equations in this very book. “This book kept me company while I grew up, Marina. Now it’s going to help you grow up, too. You’re going to be a mathematician, just like your old man.” But when I was seven, on Wayne’s birthday, my father and I had gone to celebrate with him. I had run into the street, and my father had dove to push me out of the way. He was struck by a speeding car and died instantly. The trauma and head injury froze my mind at five. My father was gone. My brain was broken. And this book was the only physical piece of his warmth I could still touch. Wayne stood up, stepping over and reaching for the book. “Give it to Isla, Marina. She’s a brilliant student. You can’t even read half the words in there. Keeping it in your room is just a waste of space.” I squeezed the book tighter, tears springing to my eyes. “No! Wayne, you promised! You know this was my dad’s!” Wayne’s face hardened, a dark shadow crossing his features. “Marina, I know exactly what I owe you and your father. You don’t need to constantly throw it in my face.” He yanked the book from my hands with a sudden, violent pull. “Rip.” The spine snapped. The worn pages tore down the middle, scattering across the hardwood floor like dead leaves. I dropped to my knees, frantically trying to gather the torn sheets, my tears blurring my vision and dampening the paper. Wayne’s jaw clenched. He looked like he wanted to say something, but his voice came out cold and sharp. “I’ve spent twenty years of my life taking care of you, and I didn’t cry. You lose a stupid book and you act like the victim.” He grabbed his coat and left with Isla. I sat on the floor, trying to piece the shredded pages back together, but they wouldn’t fit. My phone buzzed. It was Simon, checking my homework. “Marina, did you memorize the symbols I gave you?” I wiped my face with a trembling hand. “Dr. Beckett… my dad’s book is broken. Can you… can you teach me how to fix it?” The line went silent for a beat. Then, he read out an address. “Okay. Remember the path I taught you. Use your landmarks and find your way to this address.” “If you can find me, I’ll help you fix your book.” I wiped away my tears and stood up. “I can do it.” The sycamore tree. The gray utility pole. The blue iron gate. Maplecrest Road. I had made it. Simon was standing near the bus stop, his shadow stretched long under the amber glow of the streetlamp. “You found it,” he said softly. “Looks like I have a book to repair.” He led me into a small workshop filled with tools and machines I couldn’t name. Putting on a pair of thin gloves, he meticulously aligned the torn edges of the pages, applying a clear, specialized adhesive with steady fingers. As he pressed the final page down, he looked up. “We’ll let the glue cure overnight, and it’ll be as good as new.” He paused. “Did your father write these notes in the margins?” I looked down, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness. “Yes. My dad always said I had a mind for numbers, just like him. He said one day I’d be able to read this book.” I instantly regretted saying it. I braced myself for the inevitable. He was going to tell me I was foolish, just like Wayne did. But Simon only handled the page with utmost reverence. “He was right,” Simon said, his tone quiet and utterly serious. “I will teach you.” “We’ll start with the vocabulary. One day, you’ll read every single page.” I stared at his downcast eyelashes. In my chest, it felt like a butterfly had suddenly fluttered its wings. I threw myself into my lessons every day. I learned how to measure and mix cleaning solutions with water. I learned how to pick fresh vegetables at the market. During our last session, Simon played the role of a coffee shop customer. “Flame card: hot coffee. Three sugar bowl cards: extra sweet.” I got it perfectly right. He gently patted my head. “Your mistakes in the past weren’t because you couldn’t do it, Marina. They were because you were afraid. Just be brave. You’re going to be fine.” When the coffee shop manager had kicked me out, Wayne had blamed my tears. “Look at you. Of course they threw you out. What did you expect?” That tone had always convinced me that I was fundamentally broken. But now, sitting across from Simon, I realized that maybe things could actually be different. I packed up my flashcards, feeling like the day I could finally leave Wayne’s shadow was drawing closer. When I got home, Wayne was packing a suitcase. “I didn’t make a single mistake with the coffee orders today,” I said, wanting him to know. Wayne’s eyes flickered with an emotion I couldn’t read. “And? What of it?” “Does that mean you can stand by my side like Isla does? Does that mean people will stop looking at me with pity because I’m saddled with a stray?” He zipped his suitcase without looking at me. “I’m going abroad with Isla for a week. She’s been planning this exhibition for months, and it’s incredibly important to her. I need to make sure everything goes off without a hitch.” I watched his back. I remembered a few months ago, when I had caught a terrible fever. I had crept into his room holding a bottle of medicine. “Can you teach me how to read this label? I don’t want to take the wrong dose.” He hadn’t even looked up from his laptop. “With your brain, I could explain it a thousand times and you’d still get it wrong. Isn’t it enough that I portioned them out for you?” “But what if you’re not here?” I had asked. “Then you wait until I get back. Stop making everything so difficult.” His patience hadn’t vanished. It had just been redirected to someone else. Before he walked out the door, I asked in a small voice, “Wayne… what if one day I can take care of myself?” He cut me off, his voice flat. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m not going to abandon you, Marina. But do me a favor and just stay put for the next few days. Please.” To keep me from wandering off, he locked the deadbolt from the outside. He said he left food, but he had forgotten. The fridge was practically empty—just a bag of frozen dumplings and a couple of eggs. I stared at the stove, my hands trembling as I took a step back. The last time I tried to cook, the pot had boiled dry, filling the kitchen with thick, black smoke. After Wayne put out the fire, he had smacked my palms as punishment. “I’m going to take care of you for the rest of your life. Isn’t that enough? Why do you keep doing stupid things?” I had never touched the stove since. But my stomach was screaming with hunger. With trembling fingers, I called Simon. “Dr. Beckett… the door is locked from the outside. Can you… can you teach me how to boil dumplings over the phone?” His voice came through the receiver, calm and incredibly patient. “Fill the pot halfway with water.” “Once the water starts bubbling, count to a hundred and twenty.” I counted. One, two, three… “Dr. Beckett, they didn’t burn! They’re perfect!” But then, a strange, sweet, sulfurous smell hit my nose. Like rotten eggs. I remembered what Simon had taught me. “A rotten egg smell means a gas leak.” Wayne had mentioned a faulty pipe weeks ago, but he had brushed it off. “You don’t know how to use the stove anyway, so there’s no point in fixing it.” “BOOM.” A sudden blast of heat knocked me off my feet as flames erupted from beneath the stove. I dropped to my knees, crawling frantically toward the living room, coughing violently. Instinctively, I dialed Wayne’s number. The call connected, but his voice was tight with annoyance. “Marina, for God’s sake, give me a second to breathe, will you?” The line went dead. He had turned off his phone. A searing pain shot through my arm—a stray ember had scorched my skin. Tears of pain and terror streamed down my face. “Think, Marina. Simon taught you what to do. Think.” Damp towel. Cover your nose and mouth. I dragged myself into the bathroom, slamming the door and stuffing a towel into the crack beneath it. The smoke began to seep through. My throat burned. My eyelids felt heavy, pulling me down into a dark, suffocating weight. With the last of my strength, my thumb pressed a contact on my screen. I didn’t even see who it was before everything went black. When I opened my eyes, the sterile smell of disinfectant filled my nose. I was in a hospital bed. Wayne’s mother, Mrs. Adler, was sitting beside me, her face pale and her eyes swollen from crying. She clutched my hand, sobbing, begging my deceased father for forgiveness. “Thank God a good Samaritan got to you in time… We couldn’t reach that stupid boy of mine. The doctor said if they had been even a minute later…” She glanced toward the corner of the room. Simon was standing there, his face haggard. I realized then that my last call had been to him. I stared up at the white ceiling tiles, my voice raspy but clear. “Mrs. Adler… can I have the keys to my father’s old apartment now?” Mrs. Adler’s sobs redoubled. “Marina, sweetie, how can you live on your own? Wayne is supposed to look after you forever.” I looked at her, my gaze steady. “I’m twenty-five. I want to grow up now.” Mr. Adler, who had been standing silently by the window, walked over. Without a word, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a brass key, and gently pressed it into my palm. Because I had managed to block the door and protect my airway, my injuries were minor, and I was discharged a few days later. I moved into my father’s old apartment. Simon came over to help me unpack. “Marina, do you know what the most terrifying, yet most wonderful thing in the world is?” he asked. I shook my head. “It’s knowing that you have only yourself to rely on.” I looked at him and smiled, the sun catching the dust motes in the quiet room. “I know, Simon. I know.” … Wayne and Isla spent seven days abroad. The moment his plane touched down, he turned on his phone. A barrage of missed calls and urgent text messages flooded his screen. The final message was from his mother. “From this day on, consider Marina dead to you.” Panic-stricken, he raced back to the apartment, only to find the building charred and black, surrounded by yellow caution tape. The neighbors were standing in clusters, whispering. “The fire was massive. They carried the poor girl out, and she wasn’t even breathing. Who knows if she made it.” “Did you see the guy who carried her out? He looked absolutely terrified. I guess she has a new boyfriend.” Every drop of blood in Wayne’s veins turned to ice.

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At the annual Met Gala-style charity auction, I wore the exact same bespoke tuxedo as my fiancée’s personal assistant. Chase stood across from me, a smug, barely suppressed snicker pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, Lucas,” he whispered, loud enough for the nearby photographers to catch. “You’re supposed to be a man of pedigree. Why on earth are you wearing a knockoff? And a cheap, bargain-bin replica at that?” Cassandra, my fiancée, stared at me with unmasked disgust. “Your attire is utterly embarrassing tonight, Lucas. Chase, you’ll be my escort for the evening.” I stood perfectly still under the flashing lights of the ballroom. I knew my best friend, who had gifted me the suit, would never buy a fake. He’d spent months coordinating with a legendary Savile Row designer to get it made. There was only one logical explanation. A thief had entered my home. I didn’t argue. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply turned away from Cassandra and walked toward the quietest corner of the ballroom, where her older sister sat alone in a polished titanium wheelchair. “Tonight,” I said, offering a slight bow, “I would be honored to be your escort.” In our world, the arrangement was absolute: a man of the Mercer family had to marry a woman of the Langford dynasty to secure the generational trust. But the contract never specified which Langford daughter. Beatrice Langford had lost the bitter family power struggle to her younger sister, Cassandra, only because a devastating car accident six months ago had left her paralyzed from the waist down. What the Langfords didn’t know was that I possessed a legacy of my own. Beyond my family’s declining real estate empire, I was the sole practitioner of a rare, near-mythical school of neuro-regeneration—a lineage of precision micro-acupuncture known in whispered high-society circles as “The Weaver.” I had restored movement to patients on the brink of total paralysis. A pair of damaged legs was nothing more than a puzzle waiting to be solved. … Three months into my engagement with Cassandra, my prospective father-in-law had insisted we attend this high-profile charity gala together to present a united front to the Wall Street press. Before we left, my future in-laws had repeatedly lectured me about looking presentable, desperate to ensure I didn’t tarnish the pristine Langford brand. By chance, the event fell on my birthday. My closest friend, Toby, had surprised me with a custom-tailored, bespoke tuxedo. I had hoped to step into the grand ballroom and finally feel like I belonged in this glittering, superficial world. Instead, the moment I walked through the heavy mahogany doors of the Plaza Hotel, I saw him. Chase, Cassandra’s twenty-four-year-old personal assistant, was wearing the exact same midnight-blue tuxedo with silk-faille lapels. We were identical. Except we weren’t. As I approached him, my eyes locked onto the drape of his jacket. It was flawless. The fabric had a liquid sheen, the stitching invisible. Then I looked down at my own lapels. The fabric was stiff, the cut slightly off, the lining cheap polyester. Mine was a blatant, embarrassing imitation. Chase covered his mouth, letting out a soft, theatrical giggle. “Honestly, Lucas, you have a family name to uphold. How could you show up in a replica that looks like it was bought off a discount rack?” He adjusted his cuffs, making sure the diamonds on his links caught the light. “An event this important, and you dress like this? It’s a slap in the face to Cassandra.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a toxic purr. “If you couldn’t afford a real custom piece, you should have just asked. I’m sure Cassandra would have bought you something passable.” I ignored the bait. “Where did you get that suit, Chase?” “Cassandra bought it for me, of course,” he said, puffing out his chest. “She was terrified I’d look as provincial as you, so she had it imported.” He emphasized the word provincial with a sickening, triumphant grin. Cassandra stepped up beside him, her expression hardening the moment she saw me. “Did you take my suit, Cassandra?” I asked quietly. Her face flushed with immediate outrage. “Lucas, watch your tongue. It’s a tuxedo. Do you honestly think I can’t afford to buy one for my staff?” “This specific tuxedo was hand-crafted by a master tailor in London. It is a one-of-a-kind piece,” I replied, my voice steady. “Toby pulled every favor he had to secure it for my birthday. If the real one is on your assistant’s back, then someone took it from my closet and replaced it with this trash.” Cassandra let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You are being utterly ridiculous. I am a Langford. Why would I ever resort to petty theft? I didn’t realize you were this pathetic, Lucas.” Toby, who had just entered the ballroom, rushed over to my side. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes darting between me and Chase. “Wait… Lucas, what is going on? That’s the tuxedo I got you. Why is he wearing it? And why are you in a knockoff?” I kept my gaze fixed on my fiancée. “You’ll have to ask Cassandra.” “Toby,” Cassandra snapped, “you bought Lucas a fake, and now you’re trying to pin your cheapness on me!” “I have never bought a counterfeit in my life! Especially not for Lucas!” Toby, furious, grabbed the hem of Chase’s jacket. “This is the exact garment I picked up from the courier!” “Get your hands off him!” With a sharp crack, Cassandra’s palm struck Toby’s cheek. The sound echoed in the immediate radius of the lobby. I watched Toby’s cheek bloom into a violent red, and a cold, dangerous fury ignited in my chest. “Cassandra!” I stepped forward, my fist clenching, but Toby grabbed my forearm, his grip tight and pleading. “Lucas, don’t,” he muttered, his voice shaking. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Please, don’t ruin things with her. We can’t afford to anger the Langfords.” Chase watched the interaction with a smug satisfaction he barely bothered to hide, though he quickly lowered his eyes to play the martyr. “Cassandra, maybe I should just go change. I don’t want to be the reason you and your fiancé have a falling out. If Lucas wants the suit so badly, he can have it.” “Don’t waste your breath on him,” Cassandra said, brushing a hand over Chase’s shoulder. “He’s just a classless, insecure boy from a family of failing developers. He doesn’t know any better.” She turned her icy glare back to me. “Your presence here is an embarrassment. Chase will be my guest. Don’t speak to me for the rest of the night.” She slipped her hand through Chase’s arm, and they walked away, leaving us in the shadow of the grand staircase. I led Toby into the private holding room down the hall, waving over a server to bring us a bucket of ice. Wrapping a handful of cubes in a cloth, I gently pressed it against his swollen cheek. My chest burned with a mixture of rage and guilt. “I’m going to make her pay for that, Toby. I swear to God.” “It’s just a slap, Lucas. It’ll fade by tomorrow,” Toby said, trying to offer a reassuring smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just don’t fight her. Your dad’s entire restructuring loan is dependent on this marriage. We can’t fight the Langfords.” “She set me up,” I whispered, my teeth grinding. “She stole my suit to humiliate me in public, and then she laid a hand on you. I won’t let this go.” But Toby’s words lingered, heavy and suffocating. I remembered my father sitting in his study three months ago, his hands trembling as he held a glass of whiskey. “Lucas, the Langfords approached us. They want an alliance. They are willing to inject enough capital to save our entire portfolio and expand us nationwide. The only condition is that you marry into their family.” “Why us?” I had asked, skeptical. “New York is swimming with eligible bachelors from families ten times wealthier than ours.” “Superstition,” my father had sighed. “Their patriarch believes in old-world cosmic alignments. An astrologer told him that the Langford dynasty will crumble in this generation unless a daughter marries a son of the Mercer bloodline. It’s foolish, but to them, it’s life or death.” “It’s absurd. I’ve never even met Cassandra.” “If you don’t do this, Lucas… everything we’ve built for three generations will go into foreclosure. We’ll be ruined.” Looking at my father’s tear-stained face, I had yielded. I had no one in my life, no great love to protect. I figured a marriage of convenience was a small price to pay to save my family. When I first met Cassandra, she seemed cold but competent. I figured we could coexist. But her infatuation with her assistant had quickly crossed the line of professional boundaries. I recalled a afternoon a month ago when I was riding in the back of Cassandra’s town car. Chase was in the front passenger seat. I was nursing a severe migraine, suffocating in the stagnant air of the cabin. When I reached to roll down the window, Cassandra snapped at me. “Leave it. Chase gets hot easily, and I have the climate control set perfectly for him. If you open the window, you’ll ruin the air.” “I’m nauseous, Cassandra. I need some air.” “Then close your eyes and deal with it. It’s a short drive. Stop being so dramatic.” Before I could reply, she locked the windows from the master console. When the car finally pulled up to our destination, I stumbled out and threw up on the pavement. Instead of checking on me, Cassandra had immediately inspected the side of her car to ensure none of her pristine paintwork had been soiled. I had tolerated the disrespect because I believed it was simply the price of a transaction. But tonight, the transaction was void. The Langfords needed a Mercer to secure their legacy. But Cassandra wasn’t the only Langford daughter. Leaving Toby in the lounge, I walked back into the ballroom and headed straight for the dim corner where Beatrice sat. “Beatrice,” I said, looking down at her. “Do you have a companion tonight?” She blinked, startled by my sudden presence, before glancing down at her lap. “No. I usually keep to myself these days.” “Then tonight, I am your date.” Beatrice stared at me, her brow furrowing. “Aren’t you engaged to my sister?” “I am,” I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. “But I can easily become yours.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “You’re losing your mind, Lucas.” “You know the terms of the family trust,” I murmured, leaning down slightly. “The Langford heir must marry a Mercer. Do you have no desire to reclaim your birthright?” Beatrice looked down at her useless legs, the spark of fire in her eyes briefly dimmed by grief. “My father will never hand the keys of the empire to a woman who cannot even stand on her own.” “What if I can heal you?” She froze, her breath catching. “What?” “If I make you walk again, will you have the courage to take back what belongs to you?” “If I hadn’t survived that crash intact, Cassandra wouldn’t even be in the conversation,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “The throne was always meant for me.” “Then let’s make a deal. I heal you, and you become my shield.” “And if you fail?” “Then my life is yours to dispose of.” Beatrice studied my face, searching for any sign of deceit. Finding none, she leaned back, a cold, calculating smile gracing her lips. “Very well, Lucas. I’ll take that bet.” I stepped behind her wheelchair and began pushing her toward the center of the glittering ballroom. Within seconds, Cassandra and Chase intercepted us, their faces twisted in amusement. “Lucas? What on earth are you doing with my sister?” Cassandra asked, her voice dripping with condescension. “Since you found yourself a new escort, I figured I should do the same.” “So you chose the cripple?” Chase chuckled softly beside her. “Well, Ms. Langford, I suppose a man wearing a knockoff tuxedo belongs with a broken-down partner. It’s a fitting match.” Beatrice didn’t flinch. She slowly looked Chase up and down, her gaze colder than ice. “Interesting. Looking at the two of you, I would have assumed the fake was the one standing next to my sister. I suppose natural elegance is something you’re born with, whereas certain street rats can be dressed in the finest silks and still smell of the gutter.” Chase’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. “How dare you!” He tugged on Cassandra’s arm. “Cassandra, your sister is humiliating me!” As Cassandra opened her mouth to lash out, Beatrice raised a hand, cutting her off. “What? Are you going to slap me too, Cassandra? Go ahead. Let the press have a field day with the Langford sisters brawling at a charity gala.” Cassandra clenched her jaw, pulling Chase back. “Forget it. We don’t waste our time on charity cases.” She turned her venomous gaze to me. “But Lucas, you are still my fiancé. Parading around with my sister is a public insult to me.” “And replacing my bespoke wardrobe with cheap replicas to dress your assistant is a compliment?” I retorted, stepping closer. “If people laugh tonight, Cassandra, they won’t laugh because I can’t afford a real suit. They will laugh because the great Cassandra Langford is too cheap to dress her own fiancé properly, choosing instead to lavish her resources on her help.” Cassandra’s chest heaved with fury. “You—!” “What? Want to try slapping me too?” I asked quietly. “Furthermore, let me make one thing clear. From this moment on, I will be attending to Beatrice. I am taking over as her personal physician to repair the nerve damage in her legs.” Cassandra let out a loud, mocking laugh. “You? A doctor? The finest neurosurgeons in Switzerland couldn’t fix her spine, and you think your little family remedies will do the trick?” “Western medicine has its limits,” I said calmly. “I practice a different art.” Cassandra sneered at Beatrice. “You’re actually going to let this fraud touch you? Don’t cry to Father when he leaves you completely paralyzed.” “Being dead would be preferable to living under your shadow, Cassandra,” Beatrice replied smoothly. “Fine. But let me remind you, Lucas—if you happen to kill my sister with your little needles, my father will ensure you spend the rest of your life in a dark cell.” “I welcome the challenge.” At that moment, Virginia, Cassandra’s mother, swept into the circle, her face tight with irritation. “Lucas, there you are! I have been looking for you everywhere. Why are you lingering in the corner with Beatrice instead of standing by Cassandra’s side? And what in heaven’s name are you wearing? Are you deliberately trying to embarrass our family?” “If you find me that embarrassing, Mrs. Langford, you are more than welcome to call off the engagement,” I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. “No one is forcing your daughter to marry me.” Without waiting for her reply, I wheeled Beatrice toward the exit. Behind us, Virginia’s voice rose in a shrill screech. “Did he just walk away from me? The nerve of that boy! I will ensure his father’s business is ruined by morning!” Cassandra’s cruel laughter followed us into the night. “Don’t worry, Mother. Let him play doctor. When he fails and kills her, Father will destroy him for us.” We ignored them, stepping out into the cool New York air and boarding a waiting town car. Once we arrived at Beatrice’s private penthouse, I unlocked a velvet-lined rosewood box containing my family’s heirloom silver needles. I looked into her eyes. “Do you trust me, Beatrice?” Without a single moment of hesitation, she nodded. “Start.” “It will take thirteen days,” I said, gently rolling up the hem of her trousers. “On the thirteenth day, you will stand.” I paused, looking at her. “Your mother… she is still in a vegetative state at Mount Sinai, correct?” “Yes,” Beatrice whispered, a shadow of profound grief crossing her face. Beatrice and Cassandra were half-sisters. Six months ago, a brutal car crash had not only shattered Beatrice’s spine but had plunged her mother, Miriam—the true matriarch of the Langford fortune—into a deep, irreversible coma. Conveniently, Virginia and Cassandra had seized control of the family estate immediately afterward. “If you trust me,” I said, “I can wake her up too.” Thirteen days later, the grand ballroom of the St. Regis was decorated for my formal engagement party to Cassandra. I arrived wearing a meticulously tailored, modern high-collar obsidian suit, a sharp contrast to the western formalwear of the guests. When I entered the reception hall, I found Cassandra and Chase already holding court near the champagne tower. Chase was dressed in an identical obsidian suit, though his was adorned with ostentatious gold embroidery along the collar. To any outsider, it was impossible to tell which of us was the groom. Cassandra smiled mockingly as I approached. “Lucas, look. Chase is acting as your best man today. Isn’t that wonderful?” “A best man who dresses identically to the groom?” I asked, my voice dry. “And this is an engagement party, not a wedding. Why would I need a best man?” “Oh, don’t be so sensitive,” Cassandra dismissed with a wave of her hand. “It looks festive. Stop being so incredibly petty.” “I’m not petty at all,” I replied, a slow smile gracing my lips. “In fact, I don’t care what he wears. Because I’m not the one getting engaged to you today.” Cassandra’s smile faltered. “What are you talking about? If you aren’t marrying me, who else would you marry? Beatrice?” “Exactly.” I stepped back as the double doors of the ballroom swung open. I wheeled Beatrice directly toward her father, Robert Langford, who was standing with a group of major shareholders. “Mr. Langford,” I announced, my voice echoing across the silent hall. “I am ready to fulfill the Mercer alliance. But the woman I am marrying is Beatrice.” Cassandra rushed forward, her face contorting with rage. “Are you insane? Beatrice is a useless cripple! She can’t inherit the firm, and she certainly can’t lead this family!” “Who says Beatrice is a cripple?” I asked. Before the eyes of the city’s elite, Beatrice placed her hands on the armrests of her chair. With slow, deliberate grace, she rose to her feet. At that exact second, Robert’s personal assistant burst through the doors, pale and breathless. “Sir! Mr. Langford! Your wife… Miriam has just woken up!”

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I have always struggled with social anxiety, and growing up, Leo was always the one who stepped in to speak for me. “My Hope is a little shy,” he’d say, a protective arm slung over my shoulder. “Don’t scare her.” For years, I believed him. I believed that his protection was my sanctuary. Until the night before the varsity debate tournament. I was huddled in the quietest corner of the campus library, clutching my speech, my palms slick with sweat. Leo had promised to run through my arguments with me. But then Phoebe, the new transfer student in our department, sent him a text saying her laptop had crashed. Just like that, he stood up and walked away. Before he left, he slapped a sticky note onto my desk. “I wrote the entire brief for you,” he said, his voice flat. “Just read it. You can’t rely on me for everything, Hope.” I stared at that sticky note, waiting for him to come back. I waited the entire night. Later, as I walked past the computer lab, I heard Phoebe’s soft, teasing laugh drift through the cracked door. “Are you sure you should have left her like that? What if she cries?” Leo’s response was low, dismissive. “Let her cry. She needs to grow up anyway.” The next day, under the harsh auditorium lights, my throat closed up. I choked on my opening statement. In the past, Leo would have been the first to jump in, to seamlessly pivot and cover for me. But that day, he was sitting right next to the judges’ panel, his head bent toward Phoebe, effortlessly twisting open a bottle of water for her. When the round ended, he finally looked at me, his forehead creasing with irritation. “Hope, honestly, you embarrassed me out there today.” I looked at the water bottle in his hand, and then at the sticky note in mine. The ink of his handwriting was still clear. But the shield that had protected me from the wind for years had turned its back, leaving me entirely in the cold. … When Leo finally held the bottle out to me, the cap was already loosened. I didn’t take it. My thumb pressed against the corner of the sticky note, the paper softened and warped by the sweat of my palms. It held the opening hook he had crafted for me. Phoebe stood right beside him, a soft, sympathetic smile on her lips. “Oh, Leo, don’t be so hard on her. She was already so nervous.” Leo’s brow didn’t clear. “I’m not being hard on her. I’m just trying to make her realize that in the real world, you can’t always count on someone to swoop in and save you.” Ryan, our third speaker, glanced between us and offered a quiet, awkward shrug. “I mean, Leo has a point, Hope. It was pretty rough up there. Even the judges were looking uncomfortable.” I lowered my eyes, quietly tucking the sticky note into the folder of my printed brief. “Yeah. I know.” My flat response seemed to catch Leo off guard. His hand hovered in the air, the water bottle suspended between us. “Good,” he muttered, pulling his hand back. “Because the divisional round is next week. You need to go back to the dorm and practice. A lot.” Phoebe leaned in, her eyes bright. “Honestly, Hope’s writing is beautiful. It’s just her delivery—it’s a little too soft. Maybe I could run some drills with her before the next round?” Leo turned to look at Phoebe, his tone instantly softening. “Focus on your own laptop first. We don’t need it crashing in the middle of the night again.” A few other teammates chuckled. Someone cracked a joke: “Listen to him. He sounds like a nagging husband already.” Phoebe’s ears flushed pink. She gave Leo a playful shove. “Shut up, you guys. Stop making things up.” Leo didn’t pull away. He just let out a low, comfortable laugh. My hands froze on my papers. I took a slow breath and packed them into my tote bag, zipping it shut. Once, that warm, intimate laugh had belonged solely to me. I remembered our freshman year, during our first seminar. The professor had made everyone stand up and introduce themselves. I had stood at the front of the lecture hall, my fingers frantically digging into my sleeves, unable to squeeze out a single syllable. Leo had stood up from the very back row, offering a charming, easy smile to the room. “Her name is Hope,” he had said. “She’s a bit shy, so don’t stare too hard, guys. Give her a break.” The room had chuckled, the tension dissolving. And I had breathed a sigh of relief. He still laughed like that now. Only the recipient had changed. On the way back to the dorms, Leo caught up to me. His fingers wrapped gently around my wrist, pulling me to a halt. “Why are you walking so fast?” he asked, looking down at me. “Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment because of what I said? I was just trying to help.” I tried to tug my wrist back, but his grip remained firm. “I’m fine.” He watched me, the familiar warmth of his palm seeping through my skin. “Hope, I know you better than anyone. When you say you’re fine, you’re the exact opposite.” Phoebe caught up with us then, her footsteps light on the pavement. “You two have that childhood-friend telepathy, don’t you? Even your arguments have secret codes.” Leo let go of my wrist, adjusting his jacket with a shrug. “She’s always been like this. Quiet. A little dramatic. You just have to humor her and she’ll bounce back.” I clutched my folder a little tighter against my chest. “I don’t need to be humored, Leo.” Leo blinked, clearly taken aback, before letting out a soft laugh. “Alright, no humoring. But you’re going to read through your opening arguments three times tonight. I’ll test you tomorrow.” Phoebe tilted her head. “Can you test me too, Leo? I’m terrified I’m going to drag the team down during the divisionals.” Leo reached over and took the heavy binder from her arms. “You don’t need it. Your impromptu delivery is much better than hers.” He said it so casually, so naturally, that it felt like a physical blow. My eyes fell to the corner of the yellow sticky note peeking out of my bag, and suddenly, his neat, bold handwriting felt like an eyesore. At the entrance of my dorm building, Leo pulled a fresh pad of sticky notes from his backpack and handed them to me. “You always forget to highlight your transitions,” he said. “Take these. I’ll help you map out your logic tomorrow.” They were pastel yellow. Ever since middle school, he had always bought me this exact shade. He used to say that yellow was bright enough to cut through my cluttered thoughts, helping me find my focus. I took the pad, my lips parting to say thank you, when Phoebe suddenly gasped, frantically rummaging through her purse. “Oh no! I think I left my campus card in the debate hall.” Leo immediately turned around. “I’ll go back with you to get it.” He took a couple of steps, then looked back over his shoulder. “Go on up, Hope. Don’t wait for me. Make sure you practice tonight. No slacking.” I stood there, watching them walk away shoulder to shoulder. A sudden gust of wind caught the sticky notes in my hand, flipping the top page open. There was handwriting on the very first sheet. Three words, written in Leo’s unmistakable hand: “For Phoebe.” I stared at it. I walked up to my room, placed the pad on the corner of my desk, and didn’t touch it for the rest of the night. My roommate, Bella, walked out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her wet hair. Seeing me motionless at my desk, she tapped the wood. “You’ve been staring at that piece of paper for thirty minutes, Hope. Is it going to sprout legs and talk to you?” I slowly peeled off the top sheet, crumpling it into my fist. “Leo gave me the wrong pad.” Bella leaned in, squinting at my hand. “Is that… Phoebe’s name?” I nodded, pushing the rest of the yellow pad away. “He probably bought them together and got them mixed up.” Bella dropped onto her bed, sighing heavily. “Stop making excuses for him, Hope. He didn’t speak up for you once today. But the second Phoebe looked at him, he couldn’t wait to play the gentleman and open her water bottle.” I didn’t answer. I just opened my laptop to revise my brief, the bright screen illuminating my pale face. A notification popped up on my phone. It was a text from Leo. “10:00 AM tomorrow. Debate room. Don’t be late.” A few seconds later, another message followed: “Let’s move past today. Don’t let a small thing get between us.” I stared at the words for a long time before typing out a single word: “Okay.” The next morning, I arrived at the debate room ten minutes early. The door wasn’t fully closed. Through the gap, Phoebe’s voice drifted out. “Do you think my delivery would sound more persuasive for this rebuttal? Hope is just… so soft. She doesn’t really hold the room’s attention.” Then, Leo’s low murmur replied: “That’s why I want you to practice it. We aren’t officially changing speakers yet, but we need a solid backup.” My hand froze on the doorknob. Inside, someone on the team chuckled. “Wow, Leo. Talk about planning ahead. But if Hope finds out you wrote a parallel brief for Phoebe, won’t she shut down again?” Leo’s voice remained calm, entirely indifferent. “She won’t make a scene. She’ll just hide in her room and pout for a couple of days. She always does.” Phoebe let out a soft, pleased laugh. “You really have her figured out, don’t you?” Leo didn’t deny it. “She can’t function without me.” When I finally pushed the door open, the room fell into a sudden, awkward silence. Leo looked up and saw me, his expression smoothing out instantly. “You’re here. Sit down, don’t just stand at the door.” I noticed the papers in Phoebe’s hand. They were identical to mine—even the placement of the sticky notes was exactly the same. I stared at them, my voice barely a whisper. “Is that… my brief?” Leo’s tone took on a professional, slightly stern edge. “Your arguments are strong, Hope, but your delivery is too unstable. Phoebe is going to run through it to demonstrate how it should sound. Watch and learn from her.” I looked from the papers to Phoebe’s face. “So… am I still the second speaker for the divisionals?” Phoebe didn’t say anything. She just smoothed down the edges of the paper. Leo leaned back in his chair, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “Right now, you should be focusing on how to improve, not obsessing over who gets to read the speech.” Bella walked into the room behind me, letting out a sharp, cold laugh. “Hope stayed up all night writing that brief, Leo. Since when did her work become community property?” Leo raised his head, his tone polite but icy. “This is debate team business, Bella. Stay out of it.” Bella opened her mouth to argue, but I reached out and gently pulled her sleeve. “It’s fine,” I murmured. Hearing those words, the tension in Leo’s shoulders visibly eased. He probably thought I was doing what I always did—shrinking back, letting him have his way. When the practice run began, Phoebe took the podium with my notes. Her voice was clear, her pacing immaculate. The rest of the team immediately showered her with praise. “Now that’s what a second speaker should sound like!” “Honestly, Phoebe makes this brief sound so much better.” “Hope, you should really take some notes. Don’t let Leo’s prep work go to waste.” Leo stood by the whiteboard, glancing over at me. “See? No one is attacking you, Hope. I’m doing this for your own good.” I nodded slowly. “I see.” My calm reaction didn’t seem to satisfy him. He walked over, ripping off a sticky note and slapping it onto my folder. “Revise this transition. Don’t make it so convoluted. The judges won’t have the patience to sit through your build-up.” I looked down at the note. In the bottom corner, instead of the star he usually drew for me, there was a tiny sketched flower. Phoebe giggled from behind him. “Oh, I drew that. Just a habit. You don’t mind, do you?” I shut my folder. “No. I don’t mind.” Leo kept his eyes on me, his tone dropping. “You’re acting weird today.” I met his gaze. “I’m just taking your advice. Trying to grow up.” During the lunch break, I went to the campus print shop to make fresh copies of my revised notes. Next to the main printer, a draft of the divisional roster was lying face-up. The wind rustled the pages, revealing a yellow sticky note stuck to the corner. “Hope’s emotional state is too unstable. Slotting Phoebe in as second speaker.” The signature at the bottom belonged to Leo. The printer attendant stepped out, glancing at the machine. “Your copies are ready, miss. Don’t forget your papers.” I picked up my warm sheets of paper, my voice barely audible. “Excuse me… is the divisional roster being submitted today?” The clerk flipped through some files on the counter. “Yep. Has to be turned in to the Student Government by five tonight. Why?” I shook my head. “Nothing. Thank you.” When I returned to the debate room, Leo was walking Phoebe through the cross-examination strategy. He held a red pen, patiently circling key points on her sheet. His voice was unusually gentle. “Pause for half a second here,” he instructed. “Don’t rush. When you rush, you sound overly defensive.” Phoebe rested her chin in her hands, looking up at him. “What about Hope? When she gets nervous, she just stops talking altogether.” Leo smiled faintly. “That’s why she needs to practice.” I walked in and set my printed files on the table. “Leo, I need to ask you something.” He didn’t look up from Phoebe’s paper. “In a minute. Let me finish smoothing out this section for Phoebe.” Bella stood up from her corner. “How long does it take to answer a single question, Leo? Didn’t you use to say that whatever Hope had to say was the most important thing in the room?” Leo finally raised his head, his expression hardening. “Bella, you’ve been looking for a fight all day.” Phoebe quickly tried to play peacemaker. “Hey, let’s not fight. We’re all on the same team. Hope, what did you want to ask?” I kept my eyes on Leo. “The divisional roster. Have you turned it in yet?” Leo’s fingers tensed around his red pen. He slowly set it down. “Not yet. Why do you ask?” “Can I see it?” He slid his folder shut, his voice dropping an octave. “Hope, don’t you trust me?” He had asked me that same question before. Back in high school, before the homecoming assembly, I had been terrified of forgetting my lines and asked if he could stay late to help me run through them. He had pressed a sticky note onto the back of my hand then, smiling. “Don’t you trust me? If I say you can do this, you can.” He had stayed with me until midnight that night. And for years, whenever he said “trust me”, I did. But now, looking at his hand firmly clamping the folder shut, I slowly retracted my hand. “I do.” Leo’s posture relaxed slightly. “Then stop overthinking. I’ll take care of it this afternoon.” Phoebe slid a paper cup of milk tea toward me. “Here, Hope, have something sweet. Don’t be so tense. Leo is just tough love, but he has a soft heart.” Bella reached over and pushed the cup away. “She doesn’t drink taro milk tea. Phoebe doesn’t know that, Leo, but did you forget too?” Leo went quiet for a beat. “It slipped my mind.” Phoebe looked appropriately embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry! I thought all girls liked taro.” I shook my head. “It’s fine.” Suddenly, a couple of students from the Student Government knocked and entered the room. The senior in the lead, Adrian, was holding a stack of official forms. His eyes swept across the room. “We’re collecting the signed divisional rosters today. Who is Hope?” I stood up. “I am.” Adrian handed me a sheet. “There’s been a change to your registration details. I need you to review it and sign to confirm if everything is correct.” Leo reached out to intercept the paper before it reached me. “She gets overwhelmed easily. I’ll review it for her.” Adrian didn’t let go of the form. “The student has to sign it themselves. No proxies allowed.” Leo’s hand hovered in the air, his polite smile fading. “I’m the team captain. I’ve always handled her paperwork.” Adrian ignored him and looked directly at me. “Do you need him to handle it for you, Hope?” The room fell dead silent. Everyone was waiting for my answer. I swallowed hard, forcing the words out of my tight throat. “No. I don’t.” Leo shot me a warning, displeased look. I took the form from Adrian. My eyes scanned the page. Under the slot for the second speaker, my name had been crossed out, and “Phoebe” was written in its place. In the remarks section, there was a typed note: “Hope has voluntarily stepped down to serve as a research assistant.” I clutched the paper, my fingers trembling slightly. I didn’t sign. Adrian spoke softly. “If this wasn’t your decision, you have the right to refuse to sign.” Leo stepped closer, his finger pressing down on the corner of the paper. “Hope, let’s not make a scene in front of guests. Just sign it, and I’ll explain everything later.” I looked up at him. “Why am I the research assistant?” He glanced around the room, keeping his voice low and measured. “Because your current headstate isn’t suited for the stage. Phoebe can win this for us. We can’t risk the entire team’s performance just to accommodate your anxiety.” Phoebe bit her lip. “Hope, please don’t misunderstand. I only just found out about this. Leo said you were under too much pressure, so I agreed to help out.” Ryan chimed in quietly from the back. “Actually, it makes sense. Hope writes the arguments, Phoebe delivers them. It’s a pretty efficient division of labor.” Bella let out a bitter, mocking laugh. “Efficient? You steal her work, kick her off the stage, and then force her to sign a paper saying she did it voluntarily? Yeah, sounds real fair.” Leo tapped his knuckles on the table. “That’s enough. Quiet down.” I stared down at the form. My eyes drifted to the open binder on Leo’s desk, where a corner of a print receipt was peeking out. The print timestamp was from two nights ago, at the third-floor library printer. The night he had told me Phoebe’s laptop crashed. But the receipt showed that Phoebe’s account had been used to print my entire, completed brief. I slowly folded the registration form and handed it back to Adrian. “I need some time to verify this.” Adrian nodded understandingly. “Sure. Bring it to the Student Government office before five. After that, the system locks.” Once Adrian was out of earshot, Leo turned on me, his eyes dark. “Hope, you just put me in an incredibly difficult position.” I pulled my tote bag close. “You could have told me beforehand.” “And if I did, would you have agreed?” he countered, exasperated. “You would have cried, shut down, and made everyone walk on eggshells around you. How would we have prepped for the debate then?” Phoebe said softly, “Leo, don’t say that. I’m sure she didn’t mean to make things hard.” Leo rubbed his temples. “I know she didn’t. That’s why I made the decision for her.” I stared at him. “For me?” “Hope, I’ve spent our entire lives shielding you from things,” he said, his tone softening back into that patronizing warmth. “You know that. This is no different. I’m helping you.” Bella grabbed my wrist. “Hope, let’s get out of here.” Leo stepped in front of the door, blocking our path. “We have a mock trial at three. You can’t leave yet. At least hand over your research notes before you go.” I looked at his outstretched hand. The hand that used to block microphones when I was too terrified to speak. The hand that used to slip reassuring notes into my palms. Now, it was just a barrier keeping me trapped. I handed my bag to Bella. “I need to use the restroom.” Leo stepped aside. “Don’t be long.” I didn’t go to the restroom. I went straight to the third floor of the library. The printer tracking system in the campus lab was still logged in. The student worker on duty recognized me and pulled up the logs, offering a casual comment: “Your debate team has been printing a lot lately. Actually, that tall guy—Leo, right?—came by last night asking to delete one of the print history entries. Said he didn’t want his girlfriend to get the wrong idea.” My chest tightened. “Which entry?” “Uh, let me look… He said someone borrowed his account, and leaving the log would cause a misunderstanding. It was Phoebe’s account, printing a full brief at 9:27 PM two nights ago.” I stared at the screen. The digital footprints were clear as day. Phoebe’s account: 9:27 PM, printing my debate brief. Leo’s account: 9:29 PM, printing the registration change form. At 9:30 PM, he had sent me that text: “Don’t be nervous. I’ll be right there with you tomorrow.” I took a photo of the screen on my phone. When I returned to the debate room, the mock trial was already underway. Phoebe was standing at the podium, delivering my words with effortless charisma. Leo sat by the judges’ table, a thick pad of yellow sticky notes in his hand. Every time she finished a point, he would walk over and stick one onto her folder. “Great job here.” “Brilliant point.” “Flawless finish.” Every single note was pastel yellow. I stood by the doorway, listening to the quiet chatter of the team members. “Phoebe is honestly such a better fit than Hope.” “Yeah, Leo should have made this swap weeks ago. Hope’s writing is fine, but her delivery is just too painful to watch.” “But won’t Hope be upset?” “Ah, Leo said she’s codependent. He’ll just buy her some food and she’ll be fine.” When the mock round concluded, Phoebe had scored the highest marks in the room. Leo stood up, clapping his hands. “Perfect. We’re running this exact version for the tournament.” I stepped into the room. “And what about me?” He turned, his brow furrowing when he saw me. “Where were you? The team’s been waiting for you to hand over the research.” Phoebe trotted over, clutching her notes, her expression a mask of sweet guilt. “Hope, I’m so sorry. We ran a trial and the chemistry was just so good. Do you think I could take this round? I promise I’ll make it up to you and let you have the next one.” I looked past her, straight at Leo. “Is that what you want too?” Leo’s voice remained even, bathed in that familiar, reasonable tone. “Hope, don’t put so much weight on a single tournament. Pushing yourself onto a stage you’re not ready for will only make you look foolish.” I gave a small nod. “I didn’t sign the change form.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a different sheet of paper. “I figured. That’s why I prepared a withdrawal statement for you. You just need to sign this.” Bella’s voice shook with rage. “Leo, are you out of your mind?” Leo ignored her, holding the pen out to me. “Just sign it, Hope. Don’t make things difficult for the team.” I looked down at the paper. In the section for the reason for withdrawal, it read: “Student is experiencing psychological instability and is currently unfit for public speaking engagements.” Phoebe said softly, “Hope, please don’t be mad at Leo. He stayed up so late last night drafting this to make sure the wording was gentle enough so it wouldn’t impact your future applications for campus clubs.” Leo snapped his head toward her. “Phoebe.” She quickly shut her mouth, realizing she had let something slip. But the truth was already out in the open. It wasn’t a last-minute decision. He had planned this long in advance. Leo pushed the pen closer to my hand. “Come on, Hope. Be good. Sign it, and I’ll take you out to that diner you love.” I took the pen. Just a second before the nib could touch the paper, Adrian’s voice drifted in from the doorway. “Hope, I brought your original registration form.”

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During our dinners, Logan would always snap the sharp wooden tips off the skewers and place them right next to Cassie’s hand. He made sure the broken, blunt ends faced outward so she could grab them easily without looking. I sat across from them, watching in silence as Logan anticipated her every need. “Be careful,” he murmured, his eyes fixed on her. “Don’t poke your lip like you did last time.” Meanwhile, the table in front of me was crowded with plates of extra-spicy wings and chili-laden dishes. There wasn’t a single thing I could eat. Once Cassie had eaten her fill, Logan reached over and pushed her leftover skewers toward me like an act of charity. “Go ahead and finish these. Don’t let them go to waste.” I looked down at my hand. The faint, jagged scar between my thumb and forefinger was still visible—a reminder of the heavy, rusted kitchen shears he had handed me last month. He hadn’t asked if I was hurt then; he had only sighed, annoyed, and told me to go buy some Neosporin. But right now, because Cassie had managed to get a microscopic wooden splinter in her finger, he was holding her hand like it was made of spun glass, spent five minutes delicately working a pair of tweezers. I quietly pushed the remaining chili-covered skewers back to the center of the table and stood up. “It’s going to rain soon. You two finish up, I’m going to head back.” I thought of our wedding, scheduled for next month. Deep down, a quiet certainty settled in my chest: the groom had to change. … Logan looked up at me, his hand holding the tweezers pausing for a fraction of a second. “Wait for me—” He cut himself off, his eyes lingering on my thin jacket before shifting to Cassie, who was shivering slightly beside him. “Get home safe,” he said. The bulb above our apartment porch had been dead for over a year. I had asked Logan to fix it countless times, but he never got around to it. Every night, I had to fumble through the pitch-black entryway to find my keys. Our neighbor, Mrs. Gable, caught me struggling in the dark. “Back alone again, Naomi? I thought you two were heading out of town today to visit your parents.” I forced a polite smile. “Something came up at his work. He couldn’t get away.” It was four hours later when the front door finally clicked open. Logan’s right shoulder was dark and soaked from the rain. He shook off his coat and hung it on the rack. “It’s supposed to freeze tomorrow. Make sure you pack an extra jacket for Cassie when you go out. You know how she always forgets.” “Why are you so late?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Logan glanced at me, kicking off his shoes. “You left too early. If you’d stayed, you could’ve caught the movie with us. If you really want to see it, I can take you this weekend to see it again, or you can just go by yourself.” “When this weekend?” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Things are just crazy at work right now. I can’t say for sure. Besides, Cassie’s been struggling to find a job since she moved here, and she’s really depressed. I need to keep an eye on her.” I stared at him. “Crazy at work.” I had heard those three words for years. Whenever my plans clashed with Cassie’s needs, I was always the one expected to yield, to compromise, to step back. In the end, his solution was always for me to do things alone. “My parents called,” I said. “They wanted to know why we canceled again.” “Didn’t I tell you to just tell them I was slammed with a new project? We’ll go down together next time. It’s the same thing.” He sighed, loosening his collar. “Cassie is completely alone in this city. She doesn’t know anyone. It’s exactly like how we were when we first arrived.” Looking into his eyes, a sudden wave of memory washed over me. When I first followed Logan to this city, I had nothing but a single, battered suitcase. He had held my hands, his eyes burning with a fierce, protective warmth. “We’ll buy our own place here,” he had whispered. “I promise I’ll take care of you forever, Naomi.” I had believed him. But somewhere along the way, I had ceased to be the only person he wanted to protect. I had simply become one of his many responsibilities—and the easiest one to neglect. “I know I’ve been spending a lot of time helping her lately,” Logan said, stepping closer and tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “But her mother practically begged me to look after her. She’s like a little sister to me, Naomi. Once she gets settled on her own feet, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” I flinched slightly, tilting my head away from his touch. I didn’t answer. He could plan out Cassie’s future so clearly, yet he completely forgot how long my parents had been waiting for us to visit. I hadn’t been home for the holidays in years, and this trip had been his idea in the first place. I had spent weeks looking forward to it. Now, a simple “she’s like a sister” was supposed to excuse everything, pinning me to a wall of quiet humiliation. It wasn’t that he was too busy. He just didn’t think I was worth his time or his patience. He noticed the mug in my hand and frowned. “Is that hot chamomile tea?” “I’m not feeling well. My stomach has been cramping.” His brow furrowed further. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d known, I would’ve ordered some soup to the apartment. You shouldn’t have come out to a spicy diner in the first place.” He paused, adjusting his watch. “Look, since you’re under the weather, I’ll just partner up with Cassie for the neighborhood association’s charity scavenger hunt next week.” “You know that’s an event for couples, right?” I said. Sensing the coldness in my voice, Logan reached out and squeezed my hand. His voice dropped to a coaxing murmur. “I know, babe. But the grand prize is a luxury weekend getaway voucher. It’s a waste not to try. Once we win it, you and I will go on a trip. Just the two of us.” I had spent three consecutive days refreshing the registration page just to secure a spot for us in that event. The voucher was for a coastal resort I had dreamed of visiting for months. Yet even a promise like that could be reassigned to Cassie without a second thought. I remembered last New Year’s Eve. A single, panicked phone call from Cassie about a blown fuse was all it took for Logan to leave me in the middle of our dinner. I had spent the night curled up alone in bed, flinching at the sound of the thunder outside, unable to sleep until the sky turned gray. Since Cassie moved to this city, I had lost count of how many nights I spent waiting up for a husband-to-be who never came home. “Oh, by the way,” Logan added, “Cassie has a business trip next weekend. I’ll need to go with her.” “When?” “Next Friday. Her mother asked me to accompany her to make sure she’s safe.” The tightness in my throat was almost suffocating, but I forced the words out anyway. “You promised we’d go to my parents’ house next weekend. Do you even remember what day next Saturday is?” He blinked, his mind blank as he tried to calculate the date. “Cassie’s trip is her very first major assignment for her new job. We can visit your parents anytime, Naomi. And we can celebrate your birthday when I get back.” He poured a little warm water into my mug, his tone incredibly reasonable. “How about we celebrate your birthday a few days early? And just ask your parents to wait a little longer.” “My parents haven’t seen us in a year, Logan.” “It’s fine. I’ll buy some really nice gifts to bring over when we finally go. They’ll understand.” A profound, hollow exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I didn’t want to fight anymore. “Fine. Whatever you want.” Logan froze, surprised by my sudden compliance. “You’re agreeing just like that?” I offered a small, empty smile. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” It really didn’t. I used to scream, to cry, to demand his attention. But the result was always exactly the same. On my birthday last year, he had stayed late to help Cassie finish a project at her apartment. The small strawberry cake I had bought sat on the counter, melting into a sweet, sticky mess by the time he finally unlocked the door. His only comment back then had been: “You shouldn’t eat cake so late at night, Naomi. It’s bad for your figure.” Before I could say anything, a sharp wave of nausea hit me. I bolted to the bathroom and threw up until my ribs ached. When I finally wiped my mouth and walked back out, Logan was already gone. The bedroom light was turned off. It was always like this. He never waited for me. I pulled out my phone, opened my contacts, and sent a message to a name I hadn’t written to in a long time. [I’m getting married next month. Do you want to be the groom?] Then, I opened a travel app and booked a one-way ticket for the following week. Seven days. That should be more than enough time to pack up my life. Since he was never going to accompany me home, I would simply go alone—and never come back. “Can you drop me off at the office today? It’s pouring outside,” I asked the next morning. Logan was standing by the counter, carefully packing fresh, warm croissants from the bakery down the street into a brown paper bag. “Cassie’s been craving these French pastries all week. If I don’t get them to her office right now, they’ll get cold,” he said, his fingers busy with the tape. He didn’t even look up at me. “When will you be home?” “Not sure. She’s still settling into her apartment, so I should probably drop by after work to see if she needs help with anything.” He paused, finally looking at me. “Make sure you grab some breakfast downstairs. That new bakery Cassie likes is really good. You should try it.” His phone buzzed. He picked it up and began typing rapidly. I caught a glimpse of the screen. Cassie’s contact name was saved with an ‘A’ in front of it, ensuring she always remained at the very top of his list. Without another word, he grabbed his keys and rushed out the door, leaving me alone in the quiet apartment. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the windowpane. I zipped my coat up to my chin and grabbed the old, squeaky black umbrella from the stand by the door. The good, sturdy one was gone; Logan had taken it to Cassie because she “liked the bright color.” By midday, my stomach cramps had escalated into a sharp, burning pain. Unable to focus, I took a sick day and returned home to rest. But as I reached our door, the sound of muffled laughter and playful banter filtered through the wood. “It’s pouring out there! Thank God you picked me up, Logan.” “I’m completely soaked. You’re seriously the best, keeping a change of my clothes here.” “Stop squirming. Your hair is still dripping. You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t dry it.” I stood frozen in the hallway, my hand hovering over the handle. I had no idea what face to wear if I walked in. Should I smile and tell them to carry on? Or should I demand to know why Cassie had a wardrobe in our shared home? Before I could make up my mind, the door swung open from the inside. “Naomi! What are you doing standing out here?” Cassie squeaked, her eyes wide. “Logan and I were just about to run out and grab some road trip snacks for next weekend. You should come with us!” She was wearing my favorite oversized knit sweater. On her feet were the matching couple’s slippers I had bought for our home. “My stomach is killing me,” I said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. “Could you bring back some medicine?” Logan’s eyebrows drew together. “What’s wrong? All of a sudden?” “Probably the spicy food from last night.” “I told you that you shouldn’t have gone out,” Logan sighed, his tone a mix of irritation and mild concern. “Just wait inside. I’ll text you when I buy it.” I didn’t reply. I walked past them into the living room and sat on the sofa. On the coffee table, the hair dryer was still warm to the touch. Logan hadn’t dried my hair in years. He always said it took too long and made his wrists ache. Two hours crawled by. My phone remained completely silent. Unable to bear the throbbing in my abdomen any longer, I opened an app and ordered the medicine myself. The nearest pharmacy was barely two hundred yards away. Within ten minutes, the delivery courier was knocking on the door. He looked at my pale face and the sweat beaded on my forehead. “Are you alright, ma’am? Is there no one else here to help you?” Before I could answer, the elevator doors down the hall chimed. Logan walked out, his arms laden with grocery bags and boxes of snacks. There was no pharmacy bag in his hands. He saw the delivery courier and blinked. “Oh, you already ordered it? Perfect, saved me a trip down.” I took the package, thanked the courier, and shut the door without saying a word. Cassie bounded into the living room, dropping her bags and grabbing my hand. “Naomi, you have to help me yell at Logan! His photography skills are absolutely tragic. He took a photo of me, and my face looks so weird! I just caught him taking ugly candid pictures of me on his phone.” She held up Logan’s phone, scrolling through the screen. I glanced at it. His camera roll was a dense gallery of Cassie—Cassie laughing at a cafe, Cassie walking in the park, Cassie looking at the rain. There was barely a trace of me on his device. “Cassie wants your signature spicy garlic noodles tonight,” Logan said, walking into the kitchen. “I still don’t feel well,” I said, my voice flat. “I can’t cook tonight.” Logan poured a glass of lukewarm water and handed it to me. “Come on, Naomi. She’s been talking about your garlic noodles for weeks. Just make it quickly, and then you can go straight to bed.” Cassie stood beside me in the kitchen, casually reaching into the cabinets and pulling out the pans as if she owned the place. “Yours are just so much better, Naomi. Logan’s cooking is practically a biohazard.” My hands froze. In our five years together, Logan had never cooked a single meal for me. “Naomi,” Cassie said, leaning against the counter as the water began to boil. “You’re not mad that Logan is going on the trip with me over your birthday, right?” “No,” I said. And I meant it. I wasn’t angry anymore. Even if I were, it wouldn’t change a single thing. “Cassie’s going to stay over tonight,” Logan announced later that evening as he cleared the table. “I’ve already made up the guest room. The light fixture in her apartment broke, and the landlord can’t get a repairman out there until tomorrow.” “Do whatever you want,” I replied, looking out the window at our own porch, still swallowed by the dark. I let out a soft, dry laugh. The next morning, I was awoken by whispered arguments from the hallway. When I went into the bathroom to wash my face, I saw a brand-new pink toothbrush resting in the holder, pressed tightly against Logan’s. “Our neighbor saw me coming out of the building this morning and looked at me like I was some kind of homewrecker,” Cassie sobbed, her voice muffled against Logan’s chest in the living room. “Logan, maybe we shouldn’t hang out so much. Is Naomi upset because you didn’t go to her parents’ place?” Logan gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Don’t talk nonsense. Naomi and I have been together for years. She’s not the type to get worked up over something so trivial.” They caught sight of me standing at the edge of the hallway and stiffened. Logan cleared his throat and stood up. “You’re up. The neighborhood association just posted the final participant list for the scavenger hunt in the group chat.” He looked at me expectantly. “Go into the chat and clarify things for everyone so they don’t get the wrong idea.” “Clarify what?” I asked. “Just tell them you willingly gave your spot to Cassie because she really wanted to go. She’s feeling incredibly hurt by all the gossip.” “Okay.” I pulled out my phone and sent the message to the neighborhood group chat immediately. But the neighbors weren’t easily appeased. Within seconds, a message popped up: [The rules clearly state this event is for couples and spouses only. What exactly are Logan and Cassie supposed to be?] Cassie’s eyes immediately welled with fresh tears. “I’m so sorry, Naomi… I didn’t know. I just wanted to win that trip with Logan. Maybe you should go with him instead, and I’ll just watch from the sidelines.” “No need,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “It’s just a neighborhood game. We can go on a trip anytime without a voucher.” Hearing this, Cassie’s face instantly cleared, and she beamed. I stood there, my nails digging hard into my palms. I loved traveling. But ever since Cassie arrived, Logan’s free time had been entirely consumed by her. The last time we had managed to align our schedules for a vacation, we had only driven to a neighboring county for a single afternoon because he was terrified Cassie would get lonely. No one had asked for my input, yet the decision had already been made. Logan glanced at me. “I bought breakfast. Come eat. It’s oatmeal.” I looked at the cardboard cup on the table. It was maple-flavored oatmeal, a scent that had made me nauseous since childhood. “Logan, why do you always buy the things I hate?” Cassie quickly stepped forward, grabbing my hands with an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry, Naomi! I picked it out. I didn’t know what you liked.” I pulled my hands back and turned to walk back to the bedroom. Logan’s voice followed me down the hall. “Cassie was just trying to be nice, Naomi. It’s just breakfast, no need to make a big deal out of it. I’ll get you something else next time. By the way, there’s a high school reunion dinner tonight. Are you coming?” “No,” I said. “I’m free tonight, so let’s all three of us go,” Logan said, completely ignoring my refusal. “Cassie wants to make some new friends in the city.” I didn’t argue further. I simply nodded. When we reached the car, Cassie naturally opened the front passenger door and climbed in. “Cassie gets carsick easily,” Logan said, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Go ahead and sit in the back, Naomi.” When we arrived at the restaurant, Cassie immediately linked her arm through Logan’s. “Walk on my right, Logan. It’s safer away from the street.” Logan cast a brief glance back at me over his shoulder. “Watch out for the traffic, Naomi.” I trailed behind them at a leisurely pace, watching them laugh and tease each other. When the traffic light turned yellow, they hurried across, leaving me stranded on the opposite side of the intersection. At the entrance of the restaurant, several of our old classmates recognized them and waved excitedly. “Logan! Look at you, bringing a date!” “Are you guys wearing matching neutral tones? That is so adorable!” “You two look so happy. When’s the big day? When are we getting wedding invitations?” The wedding I had spent six months planning was supposed to happen next month. But now, there was no longer any need for it. Logan laughed off the comments, looking down at Cassie before casting a reassuring, placating glance in my direction. “Stop teasing, guys. She gets embarrassed easily.” He paused, then added, “We’ll be finalizing the wedding plans soon. I’ll make sure you all get invitations.” He didn’t deny his relationship with Cassie. And he didn’t mention my name once. At the banquet table, Cassie sat directly next to Logan. I sat on the opposite side, facing them. Throughout the meal, Logan peeled shrimp, placing them into Cassie’s plate one by one. Someone at the table looked across at me. “Naomi, where’s your boyfriend tonight?” “He was busy,” I said smoothly. “He couldn’t make it.” “Oh, come on. No matter how busy a guy is, he should make time for you. Just look at how attentive Logan is to his girl.” Logan’s hands didn’t falter. He continued peeling the shrimp, his focus entirely on Cassie’s plate. I laid my chopsticks down. He really was an incredibly attentive man. Just not to me. Cassie giggled, holding a peeled shrimp up to Logan’s lips. “You eat some too, Logan.” He leaned forward and took it from her fingers. Someone at the table began to cheer. “Oh, look at you two! Get a room! Or at least give us a kiss!” Logan didn’t offer any explanation. He merely offered a warm, boyish smile. Cassie blushed, hiding her face in her hands. “Stop it, you guys are terrible!” By the time the dinner ended, Cassie was visibly tipsy. Logan supported her with an arm wrapped around her waist as they walked out. Realizing I had left my coat on the chair, I turned back to retrieve it. When I finally walked out to the parking lot, they were already sitting in the car. An old classmate who was walking by noticed me getting in. “Wait, is Naomi riding with you guys too?” “We’re heading the same way,” Logan replied casually. The drive back was cramped and silent. “Cassie’s not feeling well,” Logan said quietly, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Let her lean against you so she can sleep. You should close your eyes too. I’ll wake you up when we get there.” I leaned my forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the streetlights blur into long, yellow smears. “The day after tomorrow, Cassie and I will celebrate your birthday early,” Logan continued. “Her business trip might run a bit long, so I want to make sure we do something before she leaves. We’ll go to that upscale Italian place you’ve been wanting to try.” I stared at the lock screen of my phone. The countdown timer showed only a few days left. “Okay,” I murmured. Even my own birthday had to be scheduled around Cassie’s availability, Cassie’s tastes, and Cassie’s convenience. Logan drove straight to Cassie’s building, seamlessly punching in the security code at her door. Inside, two pairs of matching house slippers lay neatly on the rug. I didn’t ask. He lifted Cassie into a bridal carry and bore her gently to her bed. “Logan… can you stay with me tonight?” Cassie whimpered from the pillows, clutching his sleeve. Logan turned around, looking at me with a deeply conflicted expression. “She’s always been afraid of the dark since we were kids, Naomi. Can I just…” I looked him dead in the eye. “Logan, do you know what tomorrow is?” He blinked, momentarily lost. “What?” “Never mind,” I said. “Forget it.” The night was pitch-black, and the wind was cold as I walked home alone. For a second, fear crept in, and I pulled out my phone to call him. But my finger hovered over his name, and then I slowly locked the screen. The next morning, 9:00 AM came and went. There was no message from Logan. I took a cab to the bridal boutique alone. The first time we had passed this shop, Logan had literally dragged me inside by the hand. He had stared at me, his eyes shining with absolute certainty. “Do you like it?” I had laughed and told him I did, but urged him to leave, telling him we weren’t ready. But his face had turned incredibly solemn. “It’s going to happen sooner or later, Naomi. I’m going to marry you anyway. We might as well pick it out now before someone else steals the most beautiful bride in the world from me.” Now, I was the only one standing in front of the mirrors. The consultant looked behind me anxiously. “Ms. West… your wedding is next month, but the groom still hasn’t come in for his final fitting…” I forced a faint smile. “I’d like to look at some other styles first.” I waited for exactly thirty minutes. Logan’s figure never appeared in the doorway. I let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Actually, don’t hold the dress. Cancel the entire order, please.” As I stepped out of the boutique, the sunlight felt blindingly bright. The streets were filled with couples holding hands, laughing, sharing umbrellas. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Sweetie, the invitations are being printed today. Is Cassie going to be your maid of honor, or do you have other bridesmaids?” I froze. “Mom, who told you Cassie was the maid of honor?” “Logan called us a couple of weeks ago,” my mother said, sounding confused. “He said he had already ordered a custom dress for her and everything.” The afternoon sun was warm, but a sudden, icy chill settled deep in my chest. “Mom,” I said, my voice steady. “The groom isn’t Logan. Don’t send invitations to him or Cassie.” I hung up and sent Logan a text: [Are you free today? I have something to tell you.] I stood on the sidewalk for forty minutes. No reply, no call. It wasn’t until noon that his reply finally flashed on my screen. [Cassie’s stomach is acting up again. I’m at the clinic with her while she gets an IV. Let’s talk another day.] I stared at the words for a long time. When my stomach was cramping, he forgot to buy the medicine. But the moment Cassie felt a slight discomfort, he could abandon everything to sit by her hospital bed. Six months ago, he had told me he wanted to give me the wedding of my dreams. I had spent every day since then planning, organizing, and executing every single detail alone because he was always “too busy.” Suddenly, I didn’t even have the energy to feel angry. [No need for another day, Logan. Let’s break up.] Within seconds, a FaceTime request flashed on my screen. When I answered, Cassie’s face appeared, pale but pleading. “Naomi, please don’t be mad at Logan! I’ll tell him to go to the bridal shop right now, I swear!” Logan’s guilt-ridden face appeared behind her shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Naomi. I didn’t forget about the fitting. But Cassie drank too much last night and was throwing up blood this morning. I’ll make it up to you and go with you tomorrow, I promise.” Before he could finish, Cassie let out a small gasp in the background. “Logan! The restaurant just messaged. They said they only have a table for two available for tomorrow night!” The line fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Logan’s brow furrowed tightly. He bit his lower lip, looking deeply conflicted. After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke. “Cassie, let’s cancel the dinner. Tomorrow is Naomi’s birthday, and I promised to go to the bridal shop with her. You leave for your business trip the day after. If we don’t go tomorrow, Naomi and I won’t have another chance before the wedding.” Cassie’s lower lip trembled, and she began to pout. I offered a small, thin smile to the camera. “It’s fine. You two go ahead.” Logan’s brow furrowed deeper. “Naomi…” Cassie quickly tugged at his sleeve. “See, Logan? Naomi said it’s fine. She’s not mad.” Logan remained quiet for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Alright… then we’ll go to the bridal shop the second I get back, okay?” “Okay,” I said. “I’ll call you later,” Logan said, looking relieved. The call disconnected. It had lasted less than sixty seconds. The following evening, a mutual friend sent me a screenshot of Cassie’s private Instagram feed. It was a photo of an elegant, candlelit dinner. [My 400th meal with Logan.] In the center of the table was a beautifully decorated cake with the number ‘400’ piped in gold icing. They could find the time to celebrate a arbitrary number, yet my actual birthday was treated as an inconvenience to be negotiated. I screenshotted the image and forwarded it to Logan. Below her post, our old classmates had left dozens of comments: “You two are literally soulmates,” “So sweet!” Logan replied to my text almost instantly: [Cassie is just young and childish, Naomi. She doesn’t mean anything by it.] A few minutes later, another message popped up: [Naomi, I’m so sorry. Cassie’s flight got bumped up. I have to drive her to the airport tonight.] I replied: [Okay.] At exactly 12:05 AM, a final text arrived: [Happy birthday, Naomi. I promise you, by the end of this year, I’m going to make you my wife.] I stared at the words. In all the years we had been together, this was the very first time he had remembered to wish me a happy birthday so early. He was finally promising to marry me, but I no longer wanted to be his wife. The next morning, as the plane tore through the clouds, Logan sat in his seat, his brow furrowed in a tight knot. His thumb scrolled aimlessly over his phone screen. I hadn’t replied to his birthday message. Just before his signal vanished completely, his social media feed refreshed one last time. An old high school friend had posted a photo of a thick, gold-embossed wedding invitation. But the name of the groom printed on the card was not Logan Barrett.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “524607”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My wife was a communications officer on a deep-sea research vessel, yet I could never seem to reach her. Every time she went out to sea, she told me the satellite connection was unstable, that waiting three to five days for a reply was just part of the job. I believed her. I believed her for two whole years. Until her ex-boyfriend, Chase, posted a series of screenshots on his feed. They were FaceTime calls. Thirty-one times in a single month. The shortest session lasted forty minutes. The resolution was so crisp I could see the polished wooden deck of the vessel and the raw, star-strewn sky stretching out behind her. I went back and scrolled through my own chat logs with her. Her longest delay had been fourteen days. When she finally replied, she sent two words: “Sounds good.” After that, I stopped staying up late, staring at my screen and waiting for it to light up. I stopped sending long, rambling paragraphs about how much I missed her. My messages shrank from three lines to a single sentence: “Stay safe.” Then, to just one word: “Safe.” Eventually, all I sent was a single period. And then, not even that. When she finally came ashore and returned home, she looked at me, her brow furrowed in annoyance. “Why haven’t you been texting me lately?” I only smiled. There were only three days left before our divorce hearing. It was about to end, and she didn’t even have a clue. … Gloria stood in the entryway, her heavy canvas duffel bag slung over her shoulder. In the past, I would have changed the sheets to fresh cotton, waited at the pier for hours just to catch her eye, and lined up her house slippers so they faced the door the moment she walked in. Today, I didn’t get up. I sat at the dining table, quietly sorting through a stack of legal documents. She stared at the thick pile of paper, her eyebrows knitting together. “Ryan, I’m talking to you.” I pressed down on the stapler. The sharp “click” echoed in the quiet room. “How long do you have ashore this time?” The question caught her off guard. Her sharp tone softened, just a fraction. “A week. I head back to the ship next Tuesday. The crew is having a welcome-back dinner tomorrow night.” For the past two years, whenever she docked, she claimed she was too exhausted to do anything but sleep. But on Chase’s Instagram, she was always awake—strolling along the marina with him, helping him select camera gear, staying on video calls with him until the sky turned gray. I kept my head down, aligning the edges of the papers, and didn’t reply. Gloria slid a small, silver box across the table. “For you. I was at sea during our anniversary. Consider this a makeup gift.” My fingers stilled against the paper. I opened the box. Inside was a bracelet made of coarse, unpolished sea shells. The edges were jagged, and the tiny paper tag on the underside read: “Harbor Souvenirs – Clearance $4.99.” Before I could say a word, my phone buzzed on the table. Chase had just updated his feed. In the photo, he was standing at the edge of the pier, a string of deep-blue, iridescent sea pearls draped around his neck. In the bottom corner of the frame, I spotted the distinctive navy-blue cuff of Gloria’s department jacket. His caption read: “Someone remembered that I’m afraid of the dark, so she brought me a piece of the ocean.” I turned my phone screen toward Gloria. She glanced at it. Her expression faltered for a second, but she quickly smoothed it over. “He needed those pearls for his documentary shoot. He’s just borrowing them. The shell bracelet is much more practical. It suits you.” I nodded slowly. “Right. Chase gets the deep-sea pearls, and I get the clearance rack.” She opened her mouth, clearly unaccustomed to this quiet, detached version of me, but her phone cut her off with a cheerful FaceTime chime. Chase’s name flashed across the screen. Gloria answered almost instinctively. On screen, Chase was wearing a black technical windbreaker. I recognized it instantly—Gloria had bought it before her last voyage, insisting the ship’s deck got too cold and that she couldn’t go without it. His voice sounded thick, raspy. “Gloria… I think I have a fever. The hotel lobby’s closed, and the pharmacy down the street is locked up. I’m a little scared out here by myself.” Gloria looked at me. There was a brief flicker of hesitation in her eyes, followed quickly by the quiet apology of someone who had already made up her mind. “Ryan, he just got to the harbor. He doesn’t know anyone here. I’m just going to drop off some medicine. I’ll be back soon.” I watched her hand reach for the car keys. “You just got home,” I said quietly. “We haven’t seen each other in months.” She frowned, her patience wearing thin. “Don’t be like this. He’s sick, Ryan.” When the door clicked shut, the silence in the house felt heavy, almost physical. I sat back down at the table, placed the cheap shell bracelet into a clear plastic evidence bag, and sealed it. I wrote a neat label on the front: “Anniversary Gift Discrepancy.” Then I pulled up my messages and texted Donna, my attorney. “Adding one more item to the filing.” Donna replied almost instantly: “Understood. Saved to file.” Half an hour later, Chase sent me a direct message. It was a photo of a box of Tylenol, a steaming mug of tea, and Gloria’s hand gently resting on his forehead. “Hope you don’t mind, man.” I typed out a reply: “I don’t.” After sending it, I set my digital voice recorder on the counter to charge. The next evening, Gloria sent me a location pin. “Dinner is at seven. Don’t be late. My director and colleagues are all going to be there. Please, give me some grace tonight.” I read the text, slipped the small voice recorder into my coat pocket, and left the house. The dinner was held at a seafood restaurant overlooking the docks. When I entered the private dining room, it was already packed. Gloria was in her formal whites, and Chase sat right beside her, her official team jacket draped over his shoulders. Pinched to his lapel was her authorized research communications badge. I recognized that badge. Before her voyage, I had asked if I could keep it on my desk as a keepsake while she was away. She had refused, telling me strict maritime protocols prohibited civilians from handling official equipment. Now, it sat on Chase’s chest like a quiet, public seal of ownership. Gloria looked up, noticed me, and pointed toward a small table near the service door. “Why don’t you sit over there? The main table is mostly for the active crew. It might be awkward for you.” Chase looked up, offering a small, sheepish smile. “Hey, Ryan. Gloria, why don’t you let him sit here? I can move to the corner.” Despite his words, his hands remained flat on the table. He didn’t make the slightest move to stand. Gloria waved it off, her voice low. “Don’t worry about it. He’s fine over there.” I took my seat by the door, reached into my pocket, and silently switched on the recorder. It didn’t take long for the alcohol to loosen everyone’s tongues. “Chase and Gloria really are the dream team,” one of the junior researchers laughed, clinking his glass. “One captures the ocean on camera, the other keeps us connected to the shore.” “Honestly, back before you two broke up, we all said you were made for each other.” “And Gloria really looks out for him. No matter how bad the satellite connection got out there, Chase’s video calls never seemed to drop.” Gloria only smiled, sipping her wine. “Stop it, you guys.” She never once looked in my direction. Chase lowered his head, his cheeks flushing pink, playing the part of the modest, misunderstood artist. When the main courses arrived, Gloria carefully flaked the tender flesh from the center of the baked salmon and placed it on Chase’s plate. “Watch out for the bones,” she murmured. Then she slid his iced soda away and replaced it with a cup of warm chamomile tea. “Your stomach has been acting up. Why are you still drinking cold things?” I stared at the platter of raw oysters in the center of my own table. She knew my digestive system couldn’t handle raw, cold shellfish. During our first year of dating, she would call restaurants ahead of time to make sure there was a warm broth prepared for me. Somewhere along the way, the person she remembered to care for had changed. Chase picked up his glass and walked over to my table. “Ryan, I want to toast you. Honestly, I’ve wanted to apologize for a while now.” The table grew quiet. “The sea is incredibly isolating, and Gloria gets so lonely out there. Sometimes I only call her because I’m worried the pressure will get to her.” A colleague at my table chimed in, eager to keep the peace. “Yeah, Ryan, you have to understand the nature of the job. The mental toll on a communications officer is intense.” “Don’t take it personally, man. Chase is family to us. He’s not an outsider.” “Exactly. Gloria is so devoted to her home. You young guys shouldn’t let small things ruin a good marriage.” I looked at their earnest, dismissive faces. A quiet, dry laugh escaped my throat. “Thirty-one video calls in a single month, averaging forty minutes each,” I said, my voice steady. “Is that what we’re calling ‘professional support’ these to-and-fros?” The room went dead silent. Gloria’s face turned a sharp, dangerous crimson. “Ryan. Do you really have to do this here?” Chase’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Ryan, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m working on a documentary. I needed to verify maritime data. Gloria was only helping me review the technical coordinates.” I pulled my phone out and laid it flat on the table, letting the screen light up. “Does verifying technical coordinates require her to sing you Happy Birthday at two in the morning?” For a fraction of a second, the sweet, helpless look on Chase’s face cracked. But he quickly recovered, his shoulders trembling slightly. “I was having a panic attack that night. She was just trying to keep me grounded.” Gloria took over, her voice hardening. “Ryan, Chase was severely depressed last year. I couldn’t just stand by and watch a friend spiral.” “Friend.” The ultimate, all-forgiving shield. I didn’t say another word. I simply set my glass down. The mood of the dinner was thoroughly ruined, and for the rest of the evening, no one dared look my way. Gloria threw several sharp, resentful glances in my direction. When I stepped out to the restroom, Chase followed me in. He stood at the mirror, adjusting the collar of Gloria’s jacket, a faint, cold smirk playing on his lips. “You really don’t need to be so threatened by me, Ryan,” he said, turning on the faucet. “If Gloria actually cared about you, nothing I do would make a difference anyway.” I washed my hands, the cold water splashing over my skin. “Did you know,” he continued, drying his hands with a paper towel, “that even out in the middle of the ocean, I’m the first person she pings when she gets a signal?” He stepped closer. “The stars, the storms, the exact minute they drop anchor—I hear about it before you do.” I turned off the tap. “You know she’s married.” He met my gaze in the mirror. “I do. That’s why I’ve never pushed her. She’s the one who can’t let go of what we had.” He pulled out his phone and showed me a text message from Gloria. “He’s stopped texting me,” she had written. “It’s actually a relief. It’s so peaceful.” The timestamp matched the exact day I stopped sending her the single period. Chase smiled softly. “Ryan, a woman doesn’t leave because you make a scene. She leaves because you’ve lost your value, and you’re just too stubborn to walk away with your dignity intact.” I grabbed a towel and dried my hands. “You can save that speech for the judge.” His smirk vanished. I walked back out into the corridor. Gloria was waiting near the exit, her arms crossed, her eyes burning with resentment. “The second you walk into a room, everyone is miserable,” she hissed. “Ryan, can you please stop bringing your domestic insecurities into my professional life?” I looked at her, seeing her clearly, perhaps for the first time in years. “I’m going to stay at my dad’s house starting tomorrow.” She let out a harsh, impatient breath. “I only have a few days off, and you’re still going to play these childish games?” I walked past her, back into the dining room to grab my coat. In my pocket, the tiny red light on the voice recorder was still silently blinking. When we got back to the house, I immediately went to the bedroom and began packing my things. Gloria stood in the doorway, her arms folded, her face tight. “If you leave tonight, our parents are going to know we had a fight. Is that what you want?” I folded my sweaters into my suitcase. “It’s not a fight, Gloria. It’s a separation.” “Ryan.” She said my name with that slow, patronizing patience she always used when she was trying to keep her temper. “I admit I talked to Chase more than I should have. But you don’t have to make a perfectly normal friendship look so ugly.” I stopped folding. “When my stomach was cramping so badly last winter that I couldn’t stand, I texted you. It took you fourteen days to reply. That exact night, you spent an hour on FaceTime with him.” She scoffed. “The ship has strict bandwidth rules. Personal messages are deprioritized.” I reached into my briefcase, pulled out a stack of printed logs, and laid them on the bed. “March fifteenth. I had a hundred and two fever. I asked if you could just call me for five minutes. You didn’t reply. That same night, Chase posted a screenshot of a sixty-three-minute video call with you.” “April twentieth. A water main burst in our basement. I had to deal with the flooding alone until dawn. Chase posted a video of you showing him the moonlight reflecting off the ocean.” “May ninth. My dad had a heart attack. I was standing at the hospital billing window, my hands shaking so badly I couldn’t type my PIN. You were busy singing Chase Happy Birthday while your crewmates whistled in the background.” She stared at the printouts. For a long moment, she couldn’t find her voice. “Chase was in a really dark place then,” she whispered. “His family had cut him off. I was genuinely afraid he was going to hurt himself.” I let out a soft laugh. “The day my dad was in surgery, I was afraid too.” Her eyes flickered, a sudden, brief look of regret washing over her features. But then, her phone rang. It was Chase. She picked up, pressing the speaker button. Chase’s voice came through, thick with tears and ragged breathing. “Gloria… I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come tonight. Your husband… he cornered me in the restroom. He said he was going to expose me, that he was going to ruin my career and make sure I never work in this town again.” Gloria’s head snapped up, her gaze hardening instantly. “You threatened him?” I went back to packing my shirts. “The restaurant has cameras.” “There’s no need to check,” she snapped, her voice cold. “Chase wouldn’t make up something like this.” A bitter wave of clarity washed over me. For the past two years, every single one of my grievances required a mountain of proof to be taken seriously. But Chase only had to cry once, and it became an absolute truth. Chase’s voice continued over the speaker: “Am I just causing trouble for you guys? I just… I didn’t want you to feel lonely out there on the water, Gloria…” “Don’t cry,” Gloria said, her voice dropping to a gentle, comforting murmur. “It’s not your fault.” She hung up and glared at me. “Why do you have to push someone who is already so fragile?” “Does he have a clinical diagnosis?” I asked. “Ryan, do you have to be so incredibly heartless?” I reached into my drawer and pulled out another document. It was a printed transcript of a voice memo I had sent her last winter. “Gloria, I’m barely holding on. The house is so cold, and my stomach is killing me. I don’t want to be a burden, I just… I just need to hear your voice.” I had sent that audio file to her, and only her. Yet yesterday afternoon, Chase had forwarded that exact file back to me with a brief text: “Honestly, Ryan, you really need to see a therapist.” I held my phone up, showing her the message. “Did you send this to him?” The color drained from Gloria’s face. “I… I only wanted him to help me understand if you were going through a manic episode. He took some psychology classes in college.” My hand began to tremble. The glass of water on the nightstand slipped from my fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. A stray shard sliced across my palm, and bright red blood began to well up in the crease of my hand. Gloria saw the blood. But her first instinct was to grab her phone and text Chase: “He’s losing his temper. Don’t be scared.” I looked down at the blood dripping onto the floor. It was funny, really. When you reach a certain level of exhaustion, even physical pain takes a moment to register. I grabbed a tissue, pressed it against my hand, picked up my suitcase, and walked out the door. The ER lobby was brightly lit, smelling of antiseptic and cold air. Donna was waiting for me near the entrance, holding a folder containing the court papers. When she saw my hand, she went to the nurses’ desk to grab some sterile gauze before handing me the documents. “The court date is set,” she said softly. “Three days from now. Nine in the morning.” I took the papers with my good hand. “Perfect.” Donna hesitated, looking at me closely. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to try mediation first?” I looked at the clean, straight cut across my palm. “I’m sure.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. Gloria: “Chase is really shaken up by how you acted. I’m going to stay at his place tonight to make sure he’s okay. Please use this time to calm down.” Donna caught a glimpse of the screen but said nothing. I took a screenshot of the message and saved it to the drive. The next morning, Gloria called me. “I’m taking Chase out to the old lighthouse today to help him shoot some b-roll. You’ll have to take your dad to his follow-up appointment yourself.” I stared at the medical slip in my hand. “You promised you’d come with us.” “It’s just a routine check-up, Ryan, not surgery,” she said defensively. “Stop using your family to guilt-trip me.” My dad was standing right next to me at the clinic entrance, holding his travel mug. He didn’t ask any questions. He just handed me the warm mug and patted my shoulder. “Let’s go, son. Let’s get these tests out of the way.” After reviewing the scans, the doctor recommended a more detailed screening. My dad smiled weakly. “Well, when you get to my age, the machinery starts to rust.” The quieter he was, the tighter my chest felt. While I was standing in line at the billing counter, I tried calling Gloria. It went straight to voicemail. But on Instagram, Chase’s documentary account had just uploaded a reel. The wind was howling at the lighthouse. Gloria was standing right behind him, holding the legs of his tripod steady. Chase smiled into the camera: “The best part of this job is knowing that whether she’s out at sea or back on land, she’s always within reach.” My dad looked down at my phone screen, watching the video loop. It took him a long time to speak. “Has it always been like this, Ryan?” I locked the phone and slid it into my pocket. “Yeah.” For the first time, I didn’t try to make an excuse for her. At eight that evening, Gloria finally came home. She set a plastic container of seafood chowder on the dining table. “We finished shooting near the harbor. I grabbed this on the way back. It’s still warm, you and Dad can share it.” My dad was severely allergic to shellfish. My stomach couldn’t handle heavy, cream-based soups. She had forgotten all of it. I walked over to the table, picked up the container, and dropped it directly into the trash can. For the first time, Gloria lost her temper. “Ryan! What is wrong with you lately? I try to bring home dinner, and you throw a tantrum. I don’t bring anything, and you complain that I don’t care. Is there literally anything I can do right in your eyes?” My dad stood up from the sofa. “Gloria,” he said, his voice quiet but heavy. “Ryan spent the entire day running around the hospital with me. You promised you would be there.” Gloria’s tone softened slightly, but her jaw remained tight. “Dad, it’s not that I didn’t want to go. Chase has a deadline, and he was out at the lighthouse alone. If his equipment failed, he would have lost weeks of progress.” My dad didn’t say another word. He just turned and walked into the guest room. My phone vibrated again. Chase had sent another screenshot. It was a photo of him and Gloria standing under the shadow of the lighthouse, the golden sunset spilling over the ocean behind them. “Ryan, please don’t be mad at her. She’s just too kind-hearted to say no.” I typed a quick reply: “We’ll let the judge look at her kindness tomorrow morning.” Within sixty seconds, the photo was deleted from his feed, and the video was taken down. Then, Gloria’s phone rang. She answered, and Chase’s panicked voice spilled out. “Gloria… Ryan just texted me. He said something about court tomorrow. Is he actually suing me? I just wanted to share a nice memory. Why is he trying to destroy my life?” Gloria stared at me, a sudden, genuine look of fear finally creeping into her eyes. “Ryan… what is he talking about?” I walked into the study, picked up the thick manila envelope from my desk, and laid it out in front of her. The court summons, the petition for divorce, the detailed communication logs. One by one, I spread them across the table.

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I had just laid down in bed when my best friend’s frantic ringtone blared out, shattering the quiet of my room. “Weston, where the hell are you? The ceremony is about to start! Why aren’t you here yet?” I blinked, completely dazed. “What ceremony?” Tayler sounded like he was about to have a stroke. “Your wedding to Sabina Lancaster, you idiot!” I figured he was pulling some elaborate prank, but then he flipped the camera. The screen filled with the glittering, high-ceilinged ballroom of the Olympic Hotel—one of Seattle’s most exclusive venues. There were my parents, all our aunts, uncles, and family friends, dressed to the nines and mingling around beautifully decorated tables. And right there, beside the grand floral arch at the entrance, stood an elegant gold-trimmed welcome sign: “The Wedding of Weston Davis & Sabina Lancaster” My stomach did a violent flip. Sabina Lancaster. The brilliant, untouchable tech mogul who had recently topped the city’s billionaire list. She was also the girl I had harbored a silent, agonizing crush on all through high school. She was Seattle royalty. I was just another underpaid corporate drone grinding out a living on an entry-level salary. I hadn’t seen her since our graduation night, and I didn’t even have her phone number, let alone her social media. Getting married? To “her”? What kind of sick, impossible joke was this? But Tayler sounded dead serious, and in the background, I could hear the anxious murmur of a crowd waiting for the groom. Determined to get to the bottom of whatever madness was happening, I threw on a jacket and bolted out the door. But the very second I stepped onto the street, the blinding headlights of an out-of-control semi-truck roared around the corner. There was a deafening screech of tires, a violent impact, and then—nothing. When my eyes snapped open, the phantom pain was still vibrating through my bones. I was back in my bed, panting for breath, right at the exact moment Tayler’s call began to ring again. … I woke up drenched in cold sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs. The memory of the truck hitting me felt incredibly real, but even in the face of death, a single question consumed me: “Why did everyone think today was my wedding day?” With trembling fingers, I grabbed my phone and searched: “Sabina Lancaster wedding.” Nothing. No press releases, no social media speculation, absolutely no news about her dating, let alone getting married today. I checked my contacts, my call logs, my text history, and my photo archives. There wasn’t a single trace of her name or face. My phone vibrated violently in my hand again. Tayler’s anxious voice cut through the speaker. “Weston, the coordinator is losing her mind. Where are you?” “The guests are starting to whisper. You need to get down here right now, man. It’s showtime!” The sheer panic in his voice made my blood run cold. I took a screenshot of my clean search results and fired it over to him. “Tayler, jokes have limits. Sabina Lancaster and I live in entirely different worlds. We have zero connection. How on earth could we be getting married?” There was a stunned silence on the other end. Then, Tayler flipped his camera again, panning across the crowded chapel lobby. There she was. Sabina Lancaster, breathtaking in a sweeping white silk gown, surrounded by her bridesmaids and a flock of venue coordinators. “Are you losing your mind, Weston? You literally signed the marriage license last week. Now you’re claiming you’re single? What is this, some weird panic attack where you pretend you’re a bachelor from five years ago?” “Stop screwing around. Everyone is waiting.” The rest of the groomsmen crowded into the frame. “Weston, buddy, where did you go? You disappeared out of the dressing room, we’ve been turning this hotel upside down!” “The woman proposed to you ninety-nine times! She spent over ten million dollars on this wedding alone. What more do you want?” “Sabina proposed to me ninety-nine times?” It was laughable. She was Seattle’s famous “Ice Queen”—untouchable, brilliant, and notoriously private. What could a guy like me possibly offer to capture the heart of a tech billionaire? Suddenly, her clear, crisp voice echoed near the microphone in the background. “Did anyone find Weston? Is his phone connected?” “No, not yet…” Tayler stammered, quickly cupping his hand over the receiver. Sabina’s eyes darkened. She turned to her security detail, her voice turning to pure steel. “Check the hotel cameras. Find Weston Davis. Now.” Tayler lowered his voice, whispering frantically into the phone. “Did you hear that? She’s been looking for you for hours.” “Stop playing games. I don’t care how much she spoils you, if you leave her standing at the altar in front of the entire city’s elite, she will never recover from the humiliation. And frankly, neither will you.” “If you don’t show up in five minutes, I can’t protect you.” He aimed the camera toward the entrance. My parents stood there, their faces drawn with anxiety, scanning the lobby. Guests were whispering behind their champagne flutes. Their panic felt too real to be an act. But in my previous life—just minutes ago—I had believed them, and it had cost me my life on that asphalt. I clenched my fists, my knuckles turning white. “Tayler, I have never dated Sabina Lancaster. We are not getting married. If this is some sick AI deepfake prank, I’m hanging up.” Tayler let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “AI? Weston, did a mule kick you in the head? Look at this. Does this look like a simulation?” “This is your wedding, not mine. If you want to ruin your own life, fine. I’m done.” He snatched a screenshot of something, fired it over to me, and slammed the phone down. I stared at my screen, completely numb. It was a picture of a marriage certificate. And there, clearly stamped and authenticated by the state, were our names and photos: “Weston Davis” and “Sabina Lancaster”. I zoomed in, looking for any signs of digital manipulation, overlapping pixels, or editing. Nothing. It looked entirely authentic. But I had no memory of signing it. My phone’s camera roll didn’t have this photo. My brain was short-circuiting. Tayler and I had been best friends since we were kids; he was a terrible liar who always stuttered when he tried to pull a fast one. He hadn’t hesitated once. And my parents had no reason to participate in such a cruel, elaborate hoax. If it was real… why did I have absolutely no memory of loving her? Then, I remembered someone. My Aunt Martha worked at the county clerk’s office. If there was a marriage certificate on file, she would know. I messaged her the screenshot immediately. “Aunt Martha, please tell me the truth. Is this real?” She called me back instantly, sounding exasperated. “Weston Davis, if this is another one of your stunts to get me off your back about settling down, it isn’t funny! I have set you up with half the eligible people in this city, and you’ve shot every single one of them down. Now you’re sending me fake certificates?” Hearing her familiar, nagging voice grounded me. “So… it’s a fake?” “Of course it is!” She flipped her camera to show her dual computer screens at the government office. “Look at the registry yourself. Your file says ‘Single.’ I’m the clerk for this district. If you got married here, do you really think I wouldn’t be the one processing the paperwork?” I stared at the screen. The status column clearly read: “Unmarried”. One of her coworkers leaned into the frame, chuckling. “Gotta admit, though, whoever forged that did a hell of a job with the seals.” “Weston, your aunt is losing sleep over your bachelor status,” the coworker teased. “Stop messing with her and bring a real partner in to sign the papers!” I let out a long, shuddering breath. Thank God. My aunt loved me like her own; there was no way she would skip my wedding to work a weekend shift. If the state database said I was single, then I was single. But then, my phone buzzed again. A new group chat named “Operation: The Big Day” popped up. Notifications began flooding in, tagging me repeatedly. “Weston, where the hell are you? The officiant has asked three times. We need you in the wings!” “Hurry up! The press outside is starting to ask questions!” My head throbbed. When had this group chat even been created? Why had I never noticed it before? Then, a voice note came through. “Weston, are we doing this or not?” It was Sabina. Her voice was clipped, carrying a sharp, dangerous edge of irritation. Then my mother’s voice popped up: “Weston, honey, what is going on? Marriage isn’t a game. Why are you hiding? Get down here right now. Sabina has been pacing the green room for an hour. If you’re doing this to be stubborn, your father and I are going to be extremely angry. Get in here.” Frustration bubbled up in my chest. I screen-recorded my video call with Aunt Martha showing the registry and threw it into the group chat. “Mom, Dad, what is wrong with you guys? Why are you playing along with this? I’m not married. This joke isn’t funny anymore.” I expected them to back down, to admit the prank had gone too far. Instead, my mother’s voice came back, practically shrieking. “Martha! What the hell are you doing? The boy is having a panic attack, and you’re helping him play make-believe? Are you out of your mind?” Then, Aunt Martha’s voice came through the chat, sounding sheepish and defensive. “Oh, Grace, I’m sorry! I thought Weston was just having cold feet and wanted me to help him stall! I didn’t think he’d actually hide from his own wedding!” “Weston, sweetie, I’m so sorry! You really are getting married today. I filed the papers myself last Tuesday! Just go inside. I’m waiting in the second row to watch you walk down the aisle!” I stared at the screen, my mind completely fracturing. If Aunt Martha was sitting in the wedding chapel, who was the woman working at the county clerk’s office? I frantically dialed my aunt’s direct work number. She picked up, sitting at her desk in her beige cardigan, looking thoroughly annoyed. “Weston, I am in the middle of a stack of deeds. Why are you calling me again?” A cold sweat broke out across my back. How was this possible? How could there be two of her? Both versions of her felt entirely authentic, real down to the subtle cadence of her speech. I forwarded the call log to the group chat, my fingers shaking violently. “I’m not married. Look at this. What are you guys trying to do to me?” The group chat, which had been a flurry of notifications, suddenly went dead silent. Then, a direct voice note from Sabina arrived. “Weston, you keep sending these absurd deepfakes. What are you trying to prove?” “My patience is wearing thin. I am giving you exactly five minutes. If you aren’t here, you will have to deal with the consequences.” I shivered. Sabina Lancaster was a titan of industry. She wielded power that could ruin families with a single phone call. Why would a woman of her stature spend millions of dollars and enlist my entire family to play a psychological game with an ordinary guy like me? The sheer cost of the flowers alone—cascading white Juliet roses flown in from France—cost more than my entire net worth. My phone rang again. The screen lit up: “Sabina Lancaster”. My breath caught. My fingers trembled so hard I nearly dropped the phone. I had searched my contacts ten times. Her name had not been there. How was it suddenly appearing now? With a racing heart, I slid the bar to answer. Sabina’s striking, pale face appeared on the screen, framed by her bridal veil. Her eyes were rimmed with red. “Weston,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, painful whisper. “Time’s up. Are you… really not coming?” A strange, sharp ache bloomed in my chest. “Sabina… we… we aren’t married. We don’t even know each other. Right?” Her eyelashes fluttered, and she closed her eyes for a long, agonizing second. A bitter, tragic smile touched her lips. “Wow. You really are something, Weston.” “Three years. We’ve been together for three years. I thought if I loved you unconditionally, if I gave you everything you ever wanted, I could finally break through that wall of yours…” “But I guess I was delusional.” Seeing the raw devastation on her face, I felt an instinctual urge to reach out. “No, it’s not like that…” Deep down, a part of me wanted this to be true. I had loved her from afar since our sophomore year of high school. The reason I had remained single all these years was because no one else could ever compare to the memory of her. But my survival instinct screamed at me. I had died in the street because of this wedding. I couldn’t gamble my life on a hallucination. I took a deep breath, looking at her with a heavy heart. “Sabina… we aren’t together. Please… stop playing this game with me.” The warmth drained from her eyes, leaving them as cold as winter ice. She nodded slowly, a single tear escaping down her cheek, and ended the call. Before I could process the silence, my parents called back. “Weston, have you lost your mind? Sabina is a saint! She has cherished you, and you’re throwing her away like garbage!” “How can you be so incredibly selfish? You spent our entire relationship demanding she prove her love to you because of your insecurities, and now you pull this stunt on your wedding day? What is wrong with you?” I was on the verge of tears. “Mom, Dad, please listen to me! We never dated! I don’t know her!” My father’s roaring voice cut me off. “Enough of this ridiculous act!” “I’m telling you right now, Weston—if you do not walk through those chapel doors in ten minutes, you are no longer our son.” The line went dead. When I tried to call back, a robotic voice informed me the number was no longer in service. Panicking, I looked up the Olympic Hotel’s public number and dialed the front desk. “Hi, is there a wedding scheduled today for Sabina Lancaster and Weston Davis?” The receptionist’s polite voice answered immediately. “I’m sorry, sir, but our main ballroom is currently closed for a complete structural renovation. There are no events scheduled today. Would you like me to connect you with our events coordinator for a future booking?” The tension in my shoulders finally broke. I knew it! They were lying to me. It had to be an incredibly elaborate setup orchestrated by Sabina. She had the resources to manipulate everyone around me. But why? What did she want from a nobody like me? Then Tayler sent me a link. I clicked it, and my vision blurred at the sight on my screen. It was a live broadcast. Sabina was standing on the steps of the hotel ballroom. Her eyes were bloodshot as she addressed the crowd, announcing the cancellation of the wedding. A mob of reporters surrounded her, their flashbulbs illuminating her pale, stoic face. The internet was already exploding with headlines: “Tech Heiress Left at the Altar by No-Name Fiancé”. My parents and Tayler were desperately trying to hold her back. “Sabina, please, just give him a few more minutes!” “Weston isn’t like this. Something must have happened to him on the way. Please, let us find him!” “I’ll go to his apartment myself,” Tayler pleaded, sweat dripping down his face. “I’ll drag him here, and he will explain everything, I promise!” Aunt Martha was crying in the background. “Yes, Sabina! Weston loves you so much! He acts distant sometimes because he’s intimidated by your success, but he’s wanted this his entire life. He was crying tears of joy when you got your license! He wouldn’t do this on purpose!” Sabina let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “Not on purpose?” “Three years ago, the moment I saw him again, I promised myself I would never let him go.” “I gave him my entire heart. We planned this day for a year. I thought he was as excited as I was, but it turns out I was just making a fool of myself.” “He thinks he can humiliate me in front of the entire world and get away with it.” She pushed past the reporters, ready to leave. Tayler grabbed her arm. “No, Sabina, please! Weston might be an idiot, but he wouldn’t do this. Give him one more chance!” Then, Tayler turned directly to the camera, screaming into the lens: “Weston, what the hell are you doing?!” “Stop throwing a tantrum and get down here! Are you really going to destroy your own happiness over this?!” Seeing the genuine agony on their faces, my resolve began to crumble. Could it be true? Was my memory flawed? I grabbed my keys and bolted out of my apartment. In the hallway, my neighbor, Mrs. Hudson, looked up from her mail in surprise. “Oh, Weston! Didn’t you just get home from work? Going out again?” My throat tightened. “Mrs. Hudson… do you know if… if I was supposed to get married today?” She blinked, then chuckled warmly. “Oh, Weston, you and your sense of humor. Aren’t you still very much single?” A chill ran down my spine, but I didn’t stop. I pressed the elevator button and ran toward the street. No matter what game was being played, I had to see it with my own eyes. Every muscle in my body was tense as I drove, constantly checking the mirrors for any rogue semi-trucks. But I made it to the Olympic Hotel without incident. I ran through the revolving doors and into the lobby, but the moment I reached the entrance of the ballroom, the blood froze in my veins. I collapsed to my knees, gasping for air. The grand, glittering ballroom from the video was gone. In its place was a dark, hollow cavern of concrete, exposed wires, and dust. Not a single soul was inside. “No… this can’t be happening,” I whispered, looking around in terror. “Where is everyone? Where is the wedding?” A man in a hard hat and a high-visibility vest walked over to me. “Sir? Can I help you?” “The wedding…” I gasped. “Sabina Lancaster… the wedding?” “We’ve been under structural renovation for the last two months, buddy,” he said gently, reaching down to help me up. “No events here. You must have the wrong venue.” As he pulled me up, my eyes locked onto a distinct tattoo on the web of his hand—a small, dark crescent moon. In that split second, everything clicked.

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Ethan Vance, my boyfriend of ten years, was asking me to register our marriage at City Hall for the 100th time. He sent me a text, his tone unusually solemn: “Put on your wedding dress and come to City Hall right now. I’m serious this time. I won’t lie to you again.” For the past ninety-nine times, he had used fake proposals to trick me into rushing to City Hall, only to place bets with his childhood best friend, Chloe Miller, laughing at my desperate reactions. But this time, he promised me over and over that this would be his last prank. He even swore that on our 100th time, he would finally keep his word. I believed him. Until I pushed open the doors of the hall, and erupted into a wave of mocking laughter. Ethan curled his lips into a smirk: “You actually came? I bet Chloe you wouldn’t show up this time. I bet against you, and she bet on you.” “The stakes were: if I won, we’d get married today. Since I lost, I guess we’ll have to wait until next time.” He shrugged. “So, I lost the bet. Guess we’ll get married next time.” Looking at Ethan’s casual, mocking face, my heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. So, in his eyes, our marriage was nothing more than a joke to gamble on with his friends. He didn’t even remember that today was our ten-year anniversary. I took off the promise ring I had worn for ten years and dropped it into his palm. “Ethan, I waited for your 100th proposal.” “But I don’t want to marry you anymore.”

Even the clerk at the desk threw me a sympathetic look. But Ethan got angry. “What is that supposed to mean? It was just a joke.” “Do you really have to pull a face like that?” “Everyone is watching. Don’t embarrass me.” I said nothing. Chloe, his little green-tea best friend, let out a soft giggle. “Ethan, is your girlfriend actually mad?” “She’s such a party pooper.” “Maybe she just doesn’t love you anymore.” Ethan’s face instantly darkened. “No way.” “For the 37th proposal, I joked that I’d marry her if she jumped off a 100-meter high dive. She has severe vertigo, but she still jumped.” “For the 55th proposal, I lied and said my family went bankrupt. She ate nothing but expired bread for six months just to save money for me. She starved herself until her stomach bled and ended up in the ICU.” “As long as I say the word ‘marriage,’ she’d die for me. If that’s not love, what is?” A wave of sheer absurdity washed over me. So, he knew. He knew all along. He knew exactly how much damage he had caused me. Yet, every single time, he chose to place another bet with Chloe. Over and over again, he treated my pain as his personal entertainment. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat. With one last shred of hope, I looked at Ethan. “So, this time, did you ever actually intend to marry me?” Ethan leaned in, kissed my cheek, and smiled: “Babe, it’s just a game. Don’t take it so seriously.” “Next time. I promise it’ll be real next time.” I looked into his eyes, my gaze steady. “There won’t be a next time, Ethan.” “Are you going to marry me today, or not?” Before Ethan could speak, Chloe chimed in coldly: “Ethan, your girlfriend is being ridiculous.” “She’s pushing so hard for marriage. Is she after your family’s money or something?” Ethan’s grip on my hand slowly loosened. His expression hardened. “Yeah, my parents haven’t even accepted you yet.” “Stop being so sensitive.” “Can’t you be more like Chloe? Just relax a little.” But Ethan. I couldn’t wait any longer. For ten years, I hadn’t gone home once. I had cut ties with my parents. All because of your promise: “I’ll marry you on the 100th time.” I flew into your fire like a moth, over and over. I lost a baby. I ended up in the ICU five times. I became a running joke in everyone’s eyes. I let out a long sigh, feeling ten years older. “But I’m tired.” Ethan violently let go of my hand. “Fine! Don’t marry me then!” With that, he took out the ring, dropped to one knee in front of Chloe. “Chloe, marry me.” Even as he said it, his eyes were locked on me, trying to provoke me. Chloe began to cry tears of joy, throwing herself into his arms. Ethan shot me a defiant smirk. “See? You didn’t want it, but plenty of girls do.” The ring I had waited ten years for was handed to someone else just like that. I watched them sign the marriage papers right there in City Hall. My chest tightened, but surprisingly, it didn’t hurt anymore. Just pure, hollow absurdity. I smiled bitterly. Ethan had no idea. I had a ten-year agreement with my parents. And tonight was the final deadline.

Looking at the marriage certificate in their hands, I forced a tight smile. “Congratulations. I hope you’re happy.” Ethan scoffed. “I don’t want to wait another second.” “We’re having the wedding tomorrow.” “Let’s go, Chloe. I’m taking you to get your wedding dress!” He looked me up and down, his eyes filled with contempt. As Chloe walked past me, she paused and whispered, “Some people just don’t look like brides, even in a wedding dress.” “Ten years of waiting, and you’re still just an outsider.” She reached up to adjust her hair. The diamond earrings she wore caught the light, sparkling brilliantly. I recognized them instantly. They were heirlooms from Ethan’s grandmother. Ethan once told me those earrings would only be given to his future wife. Yet in our ten years together, I had never once been invited to a Vance family gathering. When I used to complain to him about it, he would just brush me off. “Is meeting them really that important?” “You’re marrying me, not my family.” Later, I asked him, “Why does Chloe get to go on family vacations with you every year?” He laughed. “She grew up with us.” “My mom treats her like a daughter.” “If I actually liked her, would I even be with you?” “Stop overthinking.” That afternoon, Ethan booked the most exclusive bridal boutique in the city. He ordered her a custom-designed gown adorned with a hundred diamonds, each worth millions. Chloe spitefully sent me a Snapchat video to brag. Champagne towers, a live string quartet, a sea of roses. Ethan knelt on one knee, gently putting the wedding shoes on her feet. As I watched, my eyes still burned. Not out of jealousy. But out of pity for myself. Pity for how pathetic and small I had been for the last ten years. Ethan always told me that true love shouldn’t be measured by money. So, during our ten years, I lived frugally, never asking him for a dime. The most expensive thing he ever gave me was a cheap $5 dollar-store glass bracelet. One winter, I caught severe pneumonia. I couldn’t afford the medical bills and called Ethan to borrow $300. He didn’t pick up once. Hours later, he replied with a text: “Babe, don’t use things like this to test me.” “I hate women who use money to prove love.” “Once we’re married, everything I have will be yours anyway.” He thought I was faking an illness to get cash out of him, so he turned off his phone and ignored me. That night, I coughed up blood. To this day, my lungs have never fully recovered. I blocked Chloe on Snapchat. Then, I called my parents. “Dad, Mom… I lost.” “Book my flight for tomorrow night. I’m coming home.” Suddenly, a pair of warm hands wrapped around my waist from behind. Ethan’s dark, suffocating gaze locked onto me. “Which home are you going to?”

My heart skipped a beat. I quickly broke free from his embrace. “My parents cut me off years ago. What other home would I have?” Ethan let out a soft laugh and pulled me back into his arms. He rubbed his face against the back of my neck affectionately. “Babe, you blocked Chloe because you’re jealous, right?” “I knew you still cared about me.” “Be good. Just apologize to her, and on our 101st time, I’ll divorce Chloe and marry you for real, okay?” “Why should I apologize?” I pushed his arms away. “You guys are the ones playing games, you’re the ones who disrespected me, so why am I the one who has to apologize?” Ethan frowned, looking at me as if I were a spoiled child. His voice went cold. “I told you, Chloe is just a friend. It was a harmless joke.” “Plus, we had a deal.” “Once you passed my 100 tests, we’d get married.” “We were only one test away. Do you have to be this dramatic?” Even now, he still didn’t understand why I was angry. I ripped the ridiculous veil off my head. I tore off the cheap wedding dress that had cost me a whole year’s savings, the one they had laughed at. But I didn’t let my tears fall. “You wanted to play a game, so you used me as your toy.” “Ethan, what am I to you?” “You said you weren’t ready, that you lacked security, so you made me go through 100 tests.” “I had to walk 100 steps to get to you.” “But Chloe didn’t have to do a single thing for you to run to her.” Ethan smiled, brushing a stray hair from my face. “So you really are just jealous.” “If you hadn’t embarrassed me in front of my friends, we wouldn’t be here.” “Are you scared now?” “Don’t worry, I won’t throw you away. Just say you’re sorry…” I pushed him back, my voice firm. “What I mean is,” “We are done. It’s over.” “Have a nice wedding, Ethan.” Ethan grit his teeth, his face twisting in anger. “Fine. Fine! If you want to play tough, don’t come crawling back crying to me.” “Tomorrow is my wedding. As my generous ex, you better show up.” Ethan turned on his heel and slammed the door. I sank to the floor. The cheap glass bracelet he had given me slipped off my wrist. *Shatter.* It broke into a million pieces. Glass is so fragile. Why couldn’t Ethan ever understand that?

The news of the Vance and Miller families marrying exploded all over social media. The wedding cost eighty million dollars. Ethan’s parents were thrilled. They gifted Chloe ten million dollars in cash and a prime commercial building in downtown Manhattan. Ethan’s friends were spamming their group chat on Snapchat: [I knew they’d end up together.] [We finally got rid of that gold-digger. If she found out the “100 proposal tests” was actually Ethan’s idea to make Chloe laugh, she’d lose her mind.] [That’s nothing. Remember when Sera almost got assaulted and Ethan played the hero to win her over? That was Chloe’s idea too, and Ethan agreed without a second thought.] They seemed to have forgotten I was still in the group. I read every single word. Each letter felt like a dagger to my chest. My entire body went numb with cold. We had met at an art gallery. Ethan claimed it was love at first sight and pursued me relentlessly. At the time, I didn’t know if he had recognized my real identity or if he was just lusting after me. I kept rejecting him. Until one night, I was grabbed by some thugs on the street. Ethan appeared out of nowhere, taking a knife to the shoulder to save me. Even as he bled, he held me and wiped my tears. “You look prettier when you smile. Don’t cry. If I die, at least nobody will bother you anymore.” For ten years, I used that single memory to forgive him a thousand times over. But now, reality told me even that was a lie. My heart felt like it was dissolving in acid. I stared at the screen until a notification from Ethan popped up. [There’s still thirty minutes left. It’s not too late to regret your choice.] [Sera, if you show up at the venue and apologize to Chloe and me in front of everyone, I’ll take you back.] I swallowed the lump in my throat. I blocked him on everything. I packed my bags and walked out. Chloe was waiting for me in the lobby, a smug smile on her face. “You saw the messages?” “Did you do that on purpose?” “I just wanted to help you see reality,” Chloe sneered. “A prince like Ethan was never going to marry a charity case like you.” “You were just his toy while I was away. Now that I’m back, it’s time to return what’s mine.” I let out a cold laugh. “Then congratulations.” “A trashy man for a trashy girl. You two deserve each other.” Chloe’s eyes narrowed, but she quickly recovered. “All you have is your mouth, Sera. But guess what? Your miscarriage three years ago? It wasn’t an accident.” My pupils dilated. That baby was a scar I never dared to touch. It was because of that loss that I felt guilty toward Ethan, enduring his friends’ humiliations for years. “It was Christmas. I flew back to surprise Ethan,” Chloe whispered maliciously. “But he wanted to spend it with you. He even said he wanted to end the game and settle down.” “I lost my mind. I was the one who caused your car crash.” “I was terrified, but Ethan comforted me. He said his parents wouldn’t have accepted the kid anyway, so it was for the best.” “He told me he’d keep it a secret from you forever.” Chloe’s proud smirk burned into my brain. But Ethan had told me he was looking forward to that baby. He had said his mother was finally going to let me into the family, but because I failed to protect the child… I had slipped into severe depression, unable to sleep for six months. And it was all a lie? I burst into hysterical laughter, tears streaming down my face. So this was what it felt like to have your soul completely crushed. Chloe mockingly handed me a tissue. I ignored her. As I turned to leave, I heard Ethan’s voice complaining nearby. “Why isn’t she here yet?” “I thought you said she’d come crawling back once the wedding started?” “Just wait a bit longer,” Chloe replied smoothly. “If she doesn’t show up, I’ll just have to marry you instead.” “Stop joking. You’re like a sister to me.” I didn’t look back. I boarded the private jet my parents had sent for me. At the same time, I couriered the shattered glass bracelet and a recording of Chloe’s confession directly to the wedding venue. Ethan waited and waited, but I never showed up. As the ceremony neared, panic began to set in. Suddenly, a figure appeared. He gasped in relief, but when he got closer, it was a stranger. “Are you Ethan Vance?” “This is a wedding gift from Seraphina Belmont. She insisted you open it immediately.” “What is this?” Ethan opened the box. The shattered glass bracelet fell to the floor, breaking into even smaller pieces. And then, the recording began to play. Ethan’s hand shook, the color completely draining from his face.

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My dear daughter Rosie has been begging to go to Disneyland for months. My husband Colin promised we’d take her together for her sixth birthday—then bailed last minute. I handed him the keys to my family’s empire after my father died—made him the Don of the Devlin family myself—and now he can’t even show up for his own kid. But fine. He’s busy. Rosie and I can still have a perfect day. Rosie’s bouncing on her toes at the gate, clutching her little Mickey ears headband, when the attendant scans my VIP card and frowns. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This membership has been canceled.” I blink. “That’s impossible. Run it again.” She does. Same result. “It’s showing as deactivated, ma’am. As of this morning.” Before I can even process that, my phone rings. A number I don’t recognize. “Mrs. Devlin, this is Tessa Nolan. Your husband hired me as Rosie’s childcare consultant. I canceled the membership. From now on, all of Rosie’s activities and expenses need to go through me for approval.” I open my mouth, but she keeps talking. “Disneyland is excessive. It encourages wasteful habits. Going forward, Rosie is not allowed to participate in any recreational activity costing over a hundred dollars. Twice a month, maximum. I’ve calculated her monthly allowance for snacks and entertainment—two hundred and fifty dollars. I’ve already sent it.” She hangs up before I can say a single word. My phone buzzes. A bank transfer. $250. I stare at the screen. Two hundred and fifty dollars. For my daughter. My daughter, who has never wanted for anything because everything she has comes from me. From my family. From the empire my grandfather built and my father died protecting. And some woman I’ve never met just put a price tag on my child. I call Colin. Straight to voicemail. I text him. “Colin, what the hell is going on? Who is Tessa Nolan, and why is she making decisions about OUR daughter? Get rid of her. Now. Don’t forget—that seat you’re sitting in? I put you there. I can take it back just as fast.” No reply. I call again. And again. Nothing. Rosie tugs my sleeve. She’s watching the other kids stream through the gates, one by one, laughing and skipping. She looks up at me with those big brown eyes. “Mommy, does this mean I can’t go in?” My heart cracks right down the middle. This trip was supposed to make up for all the times Colin wasn’t there. For all the dinners he missed. For every promise he broke. And now I can’t even get her through the Disneyland gate. I crouch down and brush the hair from her face. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Something came up. But I promise—Mommy will bring you back tomorrow. I swear.” Disneyland is all digital tickets now. The VIP card was our fast pass to everything. I never thought I’d need a backup plan because I never imagined anyone would dare do this. And that makes me even angrier. But Rosie just tilts her head and smiles. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’ve been here lots of times. And Daddy’s not here today anyway, so let’s just come back with Daddy next time. The other kids can have my turn.” She’s six. Six years old, and she’s the one comforting me. My chest aches. Since the day this little girl was born, I have never once broken a promise to her. Not once. And now, because of some woman named Tessa Nolan, today is the first time. I squeeze her hand and force a smile. “You’re the best girl in the whole world, you know that? Okay, how about this—you go home with Marco first and have some lunch. Mommy has to go see Daddy real quick. And I’ll bring you back a cake. Deal?” “Deal! A unicorn cake. The sparkly kind!” “The sparkly kind. Got it. One unicorn cake for my princess, coming right up.” I buckle Rosie into the back seat. Marco is one of the few men left from my father’s days—loyal, solid, been driving this family since before I was born. I trust him with my life. I watch the car pull away. I watch until it disappears around the corner. I call Sal. “Send me a car. Now. I’m at the Disneyland parking lot and I need to get to Colin.” The car shows up fast. One of our guys, no questions asked. The VIP card is registered under my name. If Tessa canceled it, she needed authorization from the account holder—which means Colin gave it to her. He knew we were coming to Disneyland today. He knew, and he let this happen. He let some stranger humiliate me and disappoint our daughter without even a heads-up. He’s going to explain this to my face. But before I even make it halfway, my bracelet starts screaming.

The alarm is sharp, relentless—three fast beeps over and over. My blood runs cold. This GPS bracelet is custom-made. I had three of them built—one for me, one for Colin, one for Rosie. It’s designed for one thing only: emergencies. I told Rosie a long time ago—if you’re ever scared, if anything bad happens, press the button. Mommy will come. But Rosie is in the car. She’s on her way home. Marco is with her. What could possibly— I pull up the GPS tracker. The dot blinks on the screen. She’s at the house. She’s already home. So why is she hitting the panic button? I don’t think. I just react. “Turn around!” I shout at the driver. “Take me home. Now.” I start calling the house. One by one. Nobody picks up. Finally, Maria—the head maid who’s been with me for six years—answers from her personal phone. “Mrs. Devlin, we were all let go. Tessa showed up at six this morning with four men we’d never seen before. She said the Don ordered a full staff replacement. Told us if we didn’t leave quietly, things would get ugly.” “She handed out cash—three months’ pay each—and had us escorted off. We didn’t even get to pack our things.” “She said the Don authorized it. That all household staff needed to be re-screened by her personally. We tried calling you, but our numbers had already been blocked.” “She said WHAT?” I hang up. My whole body goes cold. Every single person in that house—every maid, every guard, every face my daughter knows and trusts—gone. Replaced overnight. Without anyone asking me. “Tessa Nolan, you’re a dead woman,” I whisper. Then I think about Rosie’s bracelet. My baby is in that house with strangers, and she’s calling for help. “Turn around! My daughter’s in trouble. Step on it!” The house feels wrong the second we pull through the gate. The gate guards are faces I’ve never seen. The familiar staff are all gone. Instead, there are a few young women in the foyer—mid-twenties, dressed like they’re going to brunch, not running the household of a Don. Not one of them even asks who I am. They just stare. When my father was alive, a stranger couldn’t get within a mile of this house without clearance. Now they’re standing in my foyer like they own the place. I don’t stop. I run past all of them. I’ll deal with every last one of them later. “Rosie! ROSIE!” I find her in the dining room. My daughter is on the floor. Curled up in a ball. Shaking. Her lips are purple. Angry red welts cover her face and arms. Allergic reaction. A bad one. My eyes snap to the table. A plate of noodles tossed with crushed peanuts sits in the center. My vision goes white. Rosie is deathly allergic to peanuts. Any trace—peanut oil, peanut butter, a single crushed shell—sends her body into overdrive. Mild exposure means fever and hives. Serious exposure means her throat swells shut. It means she stops breathing. It means she can die. And this woman made her eat peanuts. Tessa is standing right there, arms crossed, looking down at my daughter like she’s being dramatic. She nudges Rosie with her foot. “Stop faking it, you little brat. I cooked this meal myself and you won’t eat it? I’m not your pushover mother. You eat what I give you. Now get up.” Something snaps inside me. I cross the room in three steps and my fist connects with Tessa’s face so hard she staggers back into the wall. “Touch my daughter again and I’ll kill you myself.” I’m already pulling out my phone, dialing 911, scooping Rosie off the floor with one arm. She’s burning up. She’s barely breathing. Her little body is limp against my chest. But Tessa—her nose bleeding, her eyes wild—throws herself in front of the door. “Are you insane?! I am a professional childcare consultant! Your husband hired me! He said every decision about this child goes through ME. Put her down. Right now.” She wipes the blood from her lip and takes a step closer. “And you just hit me. You’d better believe Colin is going to hear about this. You owe me an apology.” I look at her. I look at my daughter’s face—swollen, purple, twisted in pain. I kick Tessa out of my way. Hard. “You want an apology? Here’s your apology. If my daughter dies, I will bury you and Colin both. Now get out of my way.” Rosie is limp in my arms. Her lips are turning blue.

Tessa doesn’t try to stop me again. I think the look in my eyes tells her exactly what will happen if she does. I burst out of the house with Rosie in my arms. The family driver is still out front. “Children’s hospital. Drive. NOW.” By the time we get through the ER doors, Rosie is completely unconscious. “Help! Someone help me! My daughter—she’s not breathing—” A nurse rushes over, takes one look, and calls a code. “Severe allergic reaction. Get her in now. Prep for gastric lavage. Mom, I need you to go to the billing desk.” They take her from my arms. They put her on a gurney and wheel her through those double doors, and I stand there watching them disappear with my baby, my hands shaking, tears running down my face. She’s going to be okay. She has to be okay. I go to billing. “I need to pay for my daughter’s treatment. Rosie Devlin.” The clerk types, waits, types again. Frowns. “Mrs. Devlin, all four of your cards have been frozen. None of them are going through.” I stare at her. Four cards. Every single family account. There’s at least ten million dollars across those accounts—money that came from my family, my inheritance, my blood. Frozen. There’s only one person who could do that. The person I stupidly gave full access to everything. Colin. I call him. For once, he actually picks up. But before I can open my mouth, he’s already screaming. “Natasha, have you lost your mind?! Tessa is someone I personally brought in to take care of Rosie, and you put your hands on her?” “I run the family. My word is law in this house. Get back here right now and apologize, or you’re going to find out what happens when you cross me.” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Colin. Listen to me. Rosie is in the emergency room right now. That woman forced Rosie to eat peanuts. Rosie almost died. She is in there right now fighting for her life, and you want me to APOLOGIZE?” “Bullshit! Tessa is a certified expert. I told her about Rosie’s peanut allergy myself—she would never do that. You’re just jealous because she’s younger and more qualified than you’ll ever be, so you make up lies to get rid of her. You know what, Natasha? You’re pathetic.” “I—” He laughs. Actually laughs. “I’m the Don, Natasha. Everything in this family moves because I say so. You want your accounts back? Go home. Apologize to Tessa. If she forgives you, maybe I’ll think about it.” Click. He hangs up on me. I stand there in the hospital hallway, phone in my hand, tears drying on my face. My daughter is behind those doors. Unconscious. Maybe dying. And my husband just laughed at me and told me to beg the woman who poisoned her. I can’t think about this right now. Rosie needs me. I call Sal. “Sal. St. Mary’s Children’s ER. Bring cash. Rosie’s in critical care and that son of a bitch froze every account I have.” A pause. When Sal speaks, his voice is low and steady. The same voice I remember from when I was a little girl sitting on my father’s knee. “I’m on my way. And Miss Devlin—say the word, and this ends tonight.” “Not yet. Just get here.” The bill gets paid. Rosie is still in surgery—stomach pump, IV steroids, oxygen support. I sit on the cold bench in the hallway. The red light above the OR door burns steady. Eight years. I married Colin when I was twenty-two. We grew up together—after his parents died, my mom and dad took him in, raised him like their own son. When my father passed, the family was mine. The seat, the men, the money, the name—all mine. But I didn’t want to rule alone. I loved Colin. I trusted him. So I made him the Don and stepped back, because I thought that’s what a good wife does. I handed a nobody the keys to a kingdom. And now he can’t even keep our daughter alive. Was any of it worth it? Was he ever worth it? My phone buzzes. A video. From Tessa’s number. I open it. Colin is lying on the couch at home. His head is in Tessa’s lap. She’s cleaning the bruise on his cheek—gently, carefully, like he’s the one who got hurt. He looks up at her like she’s made of glass. Tessa’s voice comes through, sweet as poison. “Your wife really messed me up, babe. But you came straight home the second you heard. That means a lot.” She giggles. Then the camera shifts. Tessa looks right into the lens. “Hey, Natasha. How’s your daughter? I heard serious allergic reactions can be fatal. And you can’t even pay the hospital bill? That’s rough.” The video ends. I set the phone down. My hands aren’t shaking anymore. I pick it back up and dial. “Sal. I want it all back. The title. The accounts. The men. Every single thing I gave him. By morning, Colin Marsh is nobody again. And that woman—find out who she really is. Where she came from. What she wants. I want everything, and I want it tonight.”

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The call from my mother came in just as I was signing off on a ten-million-dollar patent licensing deal. She gave the order the way she always did. “Serena’s getting married this weekend. You need to be there.” She hung up. I opened the family group chat I’d had on mute for months. For once, my brother Elliot had actually tagged me. “Wear something decent. Don’t embarrass Serena. The Ashfords are old money. Every guest at that wedding matters.” Message Form my childhood friend Ethan Cole also popped up in right after. “It’s been ten years since we graduated. If you’d worked half as hard as Serena and gotten into an Ivy, you wouldn’t be living alone in some basement, scavenging expired bread just to get by.” I read every message, one by one. Then I stopped on a message from Melanie Reed, the girl who used to be my best friend. “Hazel, Serena’s marrying into the Ashfords. If things in New York aren’t working out, come home. Have the Ashfords find you something local. Anything’s better than digging through trash.” I looked down. The Ashfords. Sterling Ashford, the head of the Ashford family, had reached out three times through Dr. Langley, MIT’s Provost, requesting thirty minutes of my time. He’d been trying for three months. They thought I was scraping by in Queens. My actual apartment was in Cambridge, a fifteen-minute walk from my lab at MIT. The chat kept lighting up. I couldn’t be bothered to read any more of it. I just typed back, “OK. I’ll be there.” Serena sent a Venmo request within seconds. $0.01 The memo read: “For your flight home ❤️ Can’t wait to see you, Hazel!!” Elliot’s voice message came in immediately after. “With everything Serena’s paying for right now, how can you actually accept that? Send it back.” Ethan: “Just because Serena pulls $200k a year doesn’t give you the right to guilt her into paying your way.” I was about to type a response. Melanie dropped in with a sighing emoji. “Come on, you guys. Can we stop coming at Hazel every chance we get?” “Look, she went the furthest and earns the least out of all of us. She was too embarrassed to face us, so she’s been avoiding us for ten years. She’s finally coming home. Don’t scare her off.” I looked down again. At eighteen, yes. I really had been avoiding them. Senior year of high school, Serena had transferred in from California and slid effortlessly into my little circle of three. Me, Ethan, and Melanie. Just like at home, I quickly became the invisible one. We’d be walking down the hallway, and out of nowhere all three of them would stop at the same time. Ethan would tip his chin up slightly. Melanie would follow his eyes. Serena would look down and smile. I’d just be standing there. At first, I’d ask what they were laughing about. A few times. They always said it was nothing. Eventually, I stopped trying to force my way into a circle that didn’t want me. I started avoiding them instead. Then MIT’s early admission letter came, and every waking hour of mine went into the lab. I didn’t have time to avoid anyone anymore. A DM from Serena pulled me back. “Hazel, don’t take the Venmo thing personally.” Her tone was all soft edges. “I know rent in New York is brutal and things are tight for you. I just wanted to help cover your flight. That’s all I meant by it.” A teary-eyed emoji followed. Right on cue, the group chat filled up with people praising how thoughtful she was. I screenshotted the Venmo request and sent her $0.01 back. The chat went quiet for a few seconds. Elliot was the first to snap. “Hazel, what the hell? You think it’s not enough? Everyone at this wedding is in the Ashfords’ circle. You didn’t even finish college, and Serena’s still willing to have you there. And you’re going to nickel-and-dime her over a Venmo?” Ethan: “A penny’s still a gesture.” Melanie: “Serena actually cares about you. Did you think for one second how that screenshot made her feel?” I leaned back in my chair and took a sip of coffee. At eighteen, that kind of one-sided defense would’ve kept me up all night. At twenty-eight, I didn’t feel a thing. Serena sent a voice memo. Careful, apologetic. “Hazel, I got so excited when I heard you were coming home, my hand slipped. Please don’t be upset, okay?” “I really do worry about you out there in New York on your own. I already talked to Julian about finding you something at his firm.” “But they have standards, you know? Bachelor’s degree minimum. With your background… maybe a receptionist role, or admin assistant. Don’t take it the wrong way.” Elliot scoffed. “What right does she have to take it the wrong way? She’s the one who dropped the ball. When my colleagues ask about her SAT scores, I can barely bring myself to say them out loud.” Ten years ago, on the day college decisions came in the mail. Serena got into Yale. I got one rejection letter and a waitlist notice from the local community college. My parents booked a two-week trip through Europe with Serena and Elliot. They handed me $50. Said it was for two weeks of groceries. They didn’t even pretend to feel bad about it. “It wouldn’t be fair to the kids who worked hard if we took the underperformer along.” I wanted to say that a family shouldn’t rank its children by a report card. But I remembered the coffee mug that had split the skin above my eyebrow the year before. I swallowed it. Just like I swallowed the fact that I’d won gold at the USAMO, and that MIT had already offered me early admission with a full Presidential Scholarship. I never told them. A knock at the door. Emma, my assistant, stood in the doorway, her voice careful and respectful. “Dr. Whitmore, Dr. Langley called personally this time. He’s asking if you could spare thirty minutes for Mr. Ashford.” Ashford Industries had already sunk half a billion dollars into their BCI program. It had been stalled for two years on one specific neural signal decoding algorithm. I happened to hold the patent that would unlock it. Emma hesitated. “Do you want me to decline again?” I laughed softly. “No. Tell Mr. Ashford I’ll be in Newport this weekend.”

Friday. I flew into Providence and drove down to Newport. No one came to meet me. I took a black car service straight to my parents’ house. Melanie opened the door. She did a small double take, something flickering behind her eyes. “Hazel… I almost didn’t recognize you. The city’s been good to you, huh? That outfit doesn’t exactly scream two grand a month take-home.” I didn’t respond. I walked past her into the house. Serena’s eyes tracked to the watch on my wrist, then swept over my coat. She pressed her lips together. “Hazel, come on, we’re family. You don’t need to put on a show like this. How many credit cards did you max out?” Elliot glanced at me. “Ten years away, and you haven’t picked up a single skill. Just the ego.” Ethan chimed in, laughing. “Impressive, Hazel. You used to be so plain in high school. Now you’ve learned how to work a knockoff.” I looked at them. Ten years, them had changed. Elliot had put on weight. Melanie had lines at the corners of her eyes. Ethan’s hairline had retreated visibly. Serena was the exception. Porcelain-smooth, immaculate, styled to within an inch of her life. But one thing was the same across all four faces. That same faint, casual condescension when they looked at me. I raised an eyebrow. “From the day I graduated until now, I have never once mentioned my income to any of you. I have never sent any of you a private message complaining about money. So where exactly are you getting your numbers from?” Nobody had an answer. My mother came out of the kitchen carrying a serving dish. She glanced at me. “With no college degree, what kind of job could she possibly get in New York? Three grand a month, tops.” My father clapped me on the shoulder. “Alright, alright. We’re family. Nobody here’s going to judge you for struggling. Let’s just eat.” Eight dishes. Ethan and Melanie both cooed over them. “Mrs. Whitmore, you remembered I love the ribs!” “You made the lemon cream salmon again! Mrs. Whitmore, that was my favorite last time.” I glanced across the table. Every person at the table had their favorite in front of them. Even the golden retriever curled up at the foot of the couch had a small bowl of beef set aside by my mother. Every person except me. At the table, my mother sliced the tenderest piece of prime rib and pushed it onto Serena’s plate. “We’ve made a few real estate investments along the Newport coast over the years. One property for Elliot. One for Serena. One we live in. And a smaller one we’re renting out.” She looked up at me. “Hazel, Elliot and Serena both went to top schools. It’s only right that they get property. If you got one too, when you didn’t even finish college, it wouldn’t be fair to them.” I set down my fork and let out a small laugh. “So the way this family divides property is by GPA. Not by how many biological children you have.” The table went dead silent. My mother’s face flushed red. Her palm came down on the table hard enough to rattle the glasses. “Hazel! Ten years, not so much as a phone call, and you walk into this house and start attacking me?!” “If I’d known you’d turn out this ungrateful, I should have given you up for adoption at the hospital!” Exactly like ten years ago. The day my mother saw my SAT score report. The mug flew straight at my forehead. Hit hard enough to split the skin above my eyebrow. Blood ran down the side of my face and dripped onto the hardwood. She’d worn the same expression. “The one thing I regret in this life is not giving you up at the hospital. It would have saved me the embarrassment.” Ten years was long enough to give up on whatever thin sliver of maternal love I’d once hoped for. Right now, I didn’t feel a thing. My father tried to smooth things over. “You know how your mother is. She says things she doesn’t mean. Don’t take it personally.” He forced a laugh and changed the subject. “Serena, I got my hands on a bottle of Macallan 25 through a friend. We’ll give it to Mr. Ashford tomorrow. He’ll love it.” Serena smiled tightly. Something guarded moved behind her eyes. “Dad… Mr. Ashford might not be able to make it.”

My father froze. “What do you mean, he’s not coming? It’s Julian’s wedding. How is he not showing up?” Serena sighed. “Julian said there’s an important guest flying in from out of town this weekend. Mr. Ashford has to host them personally. He can’t get away.” Elliot frowned. “Who is this person? More important than his own grandson’s wedding?” “I’m not exactly sure,” Serena said, shaking her head. “Julian just said someone from the East Coast. Apparently Mr. Ashford spent months working his network just to get this meeting on the calendar.” Melanie looked baffled. “What kind of person makes an Ashford wait that long? Do you know what that family is worth in New England?” Ethan scoffed. “Exactly. Nothing tops Serena’s wedding.” Serena waved them off quickly. “Don’t say that. Julian told me this person holds a technical patent that’s exactly what Ashford Industries needs right now. Mr. Ashford said if they can close this deal, the family is set for the next decade.” She paused. Then, with studied casualness, she glanced at me. “Hazel, you’ve been out there a while. Have you heard anything about who this might be?” I shook my head. “Not really.” Elliot let out a short, derisive laugh. “She never finished college. What would she have heard? Serena, stop dragging her into every conversation. She can’t keep up.” I kept eating and said nothing. What was I supposed to say? That the person Mr. Ashford had been chasing for months was me? They’d laugh in my face and hit me with a “Come on, don’t flatter yourself.” After dinner, I sat around for a while and was about to get up when my father stopped me. “Hazel, your mom cleaned out your old room a few days ago. You haven’t been home in ten years. She won’t say it, but she’s missed you.” He added, with a small smile, “New sheets, new pillowcases. She picked them out herself.” Right on cue, my mother came out of the kitchen wiping her hands, her voice flat. “Melanie’s taking the guest room tonight. Hazel, you can crash on the couch.” My father’s smile stiffened on his face. Melanie looked up from the couch, glanced at me, and the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Mrs. Whitmore, please, I couldn’t. I can just book an Airbnb.” My mother’s tone left no room for discussion. “You come home so rarely. I’m not letting you stay at some stranger’s place. Hazel’s family. She can take the couch.” I stood next to the dining table and said nothing. The summer after I finished the SAT, Melanie stayed over. I gave her my room and curled up on the living room couch all night. The AC broke that night. In August. I woke up sweating three times. By morning my shirt was soaked through and my neck was cramped from the couch arm. When my mother saw me the next morning, all she said was, “You should’ve grabbed a blanket from the closet and slept on the guest room floor. Guest room has the window unit.” Melanie stayed over a few more times after that. Once, I stood in the doorway of my own room and watched my mother bend over the guest bed, carefully smoothing fresh sheets, a soft smile on her face. I stood there thinking I looked like a guest who’d wandered into the wrong house. “Hazel?” My mother’s voice pulled me back. She was frowning, apparently annoyed that I hadn’t immediately agreed. I stood up. “That’s alright. I already booked a hotel.” Her face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean? You’d rather stay in a hotel than at home? Is the couch beneath you now?” I picked up my coat and started toward the door. “I sleep better in my own bed.” Behind me, I heard my mother mutter to my father, “Ten years away, and her attitude’s out of control. Every single thing has to be a fight.” The door closed behind me. Ten years ago, the girl who spent that night on the couch would have cried into her pillow, unable to understand why her mother was kinder to other people’s daughters than to her own. The Hazel of ten years later doesn’t cry over that. The deposits kept coming in. Patent licensing fees. Equity distributions. Royalty payments. Each one trailed by so many zeros I’d stopped counting. She’d stopped needing anyone else to be good to her. She was good to herself. Generously.

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