Category: English

It took twenty-four hours for a nurse to find my body. By then, I was a cold weight in a pool of my own blood, a piece of forgotten medical waste. On my tenth birthday, my parents left this world forever. From that day on, my brother threw me out of our home. He packed my life into a suitcase and sent me to a boarding school where I stayed for eight years. He didn’t just dislike me; he loathed the very fact of my existence. As I died on that operating table, I could hear him in the next room. His voice was a velvet caress, a comfort I hadn’t felt in a decade. He was telling Hailey, his adopted sister, not to be nervous. He promised he would save her. He didn’t mention that he was harvesting my brain—my life—to give to her. The last thing he ever said to me over the phone was: “What is it this time? Coughing up blood or another fake fainting spell? I’m warning you, unless you’re actually dead, stop bothering me.” Then, he hung up. 1 After I died, my soul remained tethered to my brother. I watched him, my tether, as he stood outside the Intensive Care Unit like a gargoyle carved from grief and anxiety. Hailey had been moved there after the surgery. Through the observation window, he stared at her pale, fragile face with a look of pure, agonizing devotion. “The next twenty-four hours will determine if the transplant was a success,” Dr. Whitmore said, stopping beside him to offer a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done everything a surgeon could do, Beckett. The rest is up to fate. If the best neurosurgeon in the state couldn’t save her, then no one could.” “By the way,” the doctor added, “your phone was blowing up while you were in the OR.” He handed the device back. Beckett unlocked the screen, saw the name flashing there, and his jaw tightened until the muscles jumped. It was my homeroom teacher. He held the button down to delete the notification, but the phone rang again immediately. “You should probably take that,” Dr. Whitmore suggested gently. “They’ve called a dozen times. Maybe something happened to Wren at school?” At the mention of my name, Beckett’s eyes flashed with a visceral, jagged hatred. “Something is always happening to Wren,” he spat. “She faints, she vomits blood—it’s a goddamn theatrical performance. Every time I show up, she’s fine. She treats me like a dog on a leash. If she were even half as decent as Hailey, I wouldn’t have had to cut off her tuition.” He gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white. “Don’t bring her up. Every time I hear her name, I see my parents’ mangled bodies in that wreckage.” I stood beside him, a transparent ghost, my heart aching with a familiar, hollow despair. Beckett, I wasn’t lying. I would never play games with you. I only took the suppressants before you arrived because I didn’t want you to see me fading. I didn’t want to burden you. From the day our parents died, the brother who used to tuck me in at night began looking at me like I was a murderer. After the funeral, he volunteered for a medical mission in the rural South. That’s where he found Hailey—a girl with a brain tumor and a family too poor to afford a bandage, let alone surgery. He brought her back to our house. He sent me to boarding school. From that day on, he had only one sister. He wouldn’t spare me a glance, yet he moved heaven and earth for Hailey. To fulfill his promise of curing her before her twentieth birthday, he spent years searching for a donor, even putting up his entire life savings as a bounty for a “willing” match. I knew this was my only path to his forgiveness. When I realized I was terminal, I signed the organ donation papers. I thought that if my death saved the girl he loved, he might finally stop hating me. Tears I couldn’t feel rolled down my ghostly face. Just before the call timed out, Beckett finally snapped and pressed ‘accept.’ “Hello? Is this Wren’s guardian?” the teacher’s voice came through, frantic. “She’s—” “I don’t want to hear it!” Beckett barked, cutting her off. “If she’s dead, call me to pick up the body. Otherwise, lose my number.” Beckett, usually the epitome of the calm, collected surgeon, only lost his mind when it came to me. Or Hailey. He treated Hailey like a second chance at penance—as if saving her would earn him a pardon from our parents’ ghosts. Dr. Whitmore, who had been a peer of our parents, watched Beckett’s rage with a look of deep concern. “Beckett, it’s been eight years. The plane crash wasn’t Wren’s fault. I watched that girl grow up alongside you. She is the only family you have left in this world.” “Dr. Whitmore, please,” Beckett said, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. “Don’t mention her again. My only priority is Hailey.” The senior doctor sighed and walked away. A nurse approached timidly. “Dr. Moore, your remaining clinic appointments for today—” “Cancel them all. I’m staying right here until she wakes up. I won’t leave her side for a second.” I felt a bitter smile touch my lips. I looked through the glass at Hailey. I was overwhelmed by a cold, sharp envy. I had donated my entire physical form, and it hadn’t bought me a single smile. She simply had to exist to make him abandon his principles, his patients, and his life. He used to be the kind of doctor who stayed late to see every single person in the waiting room. But for Hailey, the rules didn’t apply. Suddenly, Dr. Whitmore called his cell again. Beckett hit speakerphone without looking away from Hailey’s bed. “Beckett, I just saw Wren’s name on the hospital registry,” Whitmore said, his voice grave. “Did something happen?” 2 Beckett’s brow furrowed. I could see the fuse of his patience burning short. He glanced at the date on his phone, and his chest began to heave with jagged breaths. “Does she have no shame? Does she not know what day it is?” he hissed. “Tell her to get out. I don’t want to see her.” Today was my eighteenth birthday. It was Hailey’s nineteenth. And it was the eight-year anniversary of our parents’ death. “Beckett, this isn’t the visitor’s log,” Whitmore said, his tone dropping an octave. “It’s the inpatient list. Ask her if she’s okay.” “Or check your office,” Whitmore continued. “Whenever she comes to see you, she waits there. She’s a quiet kid; she wouldn’t tell you if she was hurting.” The dam broke. Beckett roared into the phone, “She’s been ‘hurting’ since the day they died! Every day it’s a new symptom, a new crisis, and every time I check, there’s nothing. I’m a doctor—do you think I can’t tell when someone is faking? Her face is yellow as cornmeal, and she doesn’t even have the decency to use the right foundation to hide the ‘sickness’ she’s pretending to have. I don’t know that liar. Stop talking to me about her!” On the other end, Dr. Whitmore sounded breathless with anger. “If you won’t ask, I will. You’re going to regret this, Beckett. If your parents were alive, they would never allow you to treat their daughter this way.” “Wren is no daughter of theirs!” Beckett screamed, his face a mask of fire. “She doesn’t deserve the name. As soon as Hailey wakes up, I’m taking her to the courthouse to legally put her on our family registry.” Dr. Whitmore sputtered, his voice thick with suppressed rage. “If your father were alive, you would be the one kicked out of the family. For eight years, you cut her off. Have you ever wondered how a young girl survives on her own? Have you ever looked in her dorm? She has more work uniforms for her three part-time jobs than she has school clothes! You’re a brilliant surgeon, Beckett, but as a human being, you aren’t worth the dirt under your father’s fingernails.” The line went quiet. Beckett’s eyes were bloodshot. He stood in the sterile hallway and screamed at the ceiling: “Don’t you dare bring them up! If it wasn’t for Wren, they would never have changed that flight! They wouldn’t be dead! I will never forgive her until the day she dies!” His words hit me like a physical blow, pinning me against the wall. A wave of exhaustion washed over my soul. I slid down the wall, burying my head in my hands. I had wanted to be like them. I wanted to be a healer. I worked three jobs to pay for the dream he stole from me. I studied by the light of streetlamps and worked double shifts, and the stress turned into a silent killer. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with liver cancer. I remember the day I tried to show him the report. I was trembling, my hand shaking as I held out the envelope. He didn’t even open it. He tore it into confetti and threw it in my face. “Wren, do you think if you pretend to be sick like Hailey, I’ll love you? In your dreams. If you bring me another fake lab report, I’m calling the police for fraud.” It was a report from his hospital. All he had to do was type my name into the system. I never mentioned it again. When I fainted at school, the teacher would call, and I couldn’t stop her in time. But don’t worry, Beckett. The calls are going to stop now. This time, I’m really gone. 3 My body lay on the cold steel of the operating table in the basement. Piece by piece, the parts of me not ravaged by cancer were being harvested. And upstairs, Beckett was still a sentinel at Hailey’s door. A nurse, hurried and harried, rushed past him toward the service elevator, but he caught her arm. “Wait, keep an eye on her for me,” he said, nodding toward Hailey. “Don’t leave for a second. If there’s a spike in her heart rate, page me. I’m just going to the restroom.” The nurse looked conflicted. “But the donor’s body… we need to prep for transport to the crematorium…” Beckett waved her off, frowning. “The donor saved my sister’s life. I’ll handle the final arrangements personally later. Right now, watch Hailey.” He walked away, glancing back three times, his heart visible on his sleeve. Half an hour later, he returned. It was shift change. The hallway was empty save for the skeleton crew. My body remained on that table, forgotten in the transition of paperwork. A young nurse ran up to him, holding a bag of takeout. “Dr. Moore, this was dropped off at the front desk for you.” Beckett pulled his gaze away from Hailey. He rubbed his tired eyes and saw Hailey’s name on the receipt. A warm, genuine smile broke across his face. “She’s an angel,” he whispered. “Even before surgery, she was thinking about making sure I ate.” There was a long note in the “special instructions” section. Beckett read it word for word, his eyes shimmering. [Big brother, if you’re reading this, the surgery must be over. Are you tired? Did you forget to eat again? I ordered this specifically for you. When I wake up, I’m going to make sure you take better care of yourself. You’re the most important person in the world to me!] Beckett wiped a tear with a napkin and ate the meal standing up. Just as he tossed the trash, Dr. Whitmore called again. “I found Wren’s room number. I’m sending it to you. Go see her. I’m stuck in a consultation.” The warmth vanished from Beckett’s face instantly. “What is she pulling now? Doesn’t she know I’m busy? Did she tell you to call me? If she’s not dead, tell her to crawl over here herself! I am not leaving Hailey until she’s out of the woods!” He gripped the phone, his voice shaking with resentment. “Dr. Whitmore, I call you ‘Uncle’ out of respect for my father. But look at the difference. My biological sister does nothing but cause trouble while I’m trying to save lives. My adopted sister, while facing death, orders me dinner because she’s worried I’m hungry. Do you honestly still think Wren deserves a place in this family?” He slammed the phone shut. It was the first time he had ever truly defied his mentor. And once again, it was because of me. Don’t worry, Beckett. When you finally find out, you’ll never have to be angry again. 4 Beckett glanced at the room number on his screen, his face hardening into a mask of ice. He deleted the message. On his way back from the trash bin, he passed the door to the room I had occupied. He paused for a fraction of a second. His lip curled in a sneer. “Drama queen,” he muttered under his breath. My heart—the ghost of it—leaped into my throat. Just turn the handle, Beckett. Just look inside. You’ll see I wasn’t lying. But he didn’t stop. The weight of his disappointment was so heavy it felt like lead in my soul. I followed him to the corner, where he stopped, breathing hard. Suddenly, he spun around. He marched back to my room and threw the door open with a crash. “Wren! Get out here!” he barked into the silence. There was no answer. He took two steps inside and saw the bed. It was half-stripped, the pillows neatly stacked, but the mattress was empty. Look closer, Beckett! Look at the nightstand! I left everything for you! I didn’t kill them… I swear I didn’t… But he had no patience for me. Seeing the empty bed was proof enough for him. He slammed the door so hard the frame rattled. Back in the hallway, he pulled me out of his block list. He took a deep breath and sent a voice memo, his voice vibrating with rage: “Wren, if you waste hospital resources one more time, I will have security drag you out. If you aren’t in your bed, you aren’t sick. You’re a fraud. I’m giving you twenty-four hours to check yourself out. If you don’t, never call me your brother again.” As the message sent, my phone—sitting on the pillow in that empty room—chimed softly. No one was there to hear it. Beckett returned to Hailey’s window. He seemed to remember something and texted Dr. Whitmore: [I checked. She’s not even in her room. You fell for her act again.] Inside the ICU, Hailey’s finger twitched. Beckett pressed his face to the glass, his eyes wide. When he saw her eyelids flutter, he forgot all about me. He pulled out his phone and started shopping—jewelry, a designer bag, things a girl her age would love. Then he opened a food app and ordered a strawberry cake, her favorite. He paced the hall, muttering to himself. “What else does she like? What else?” He snapped his fingers and ran toward his office. He grabbed his briefcase and pulled out the legal documents for the family registry—the ones he’d had prepared for months. He was running so fast he collided with the nurse who had been assigned to me. She looked up, her eyes lighting up when she saw him. “Dr. Moore! Your sister, Miss Moore, she—” “Not now!” Beckett waved her off, not letting her finish. He burst into Hailey’s room just as she opened her eyes. He let out a long, shuddering breath of relief. Then, his phone rang. It was the morgue coordinator. “Dr. Moore, your sister… the organ donor… she’s still on the table in OR 3. The staff just realized. We need you to come down and sign for the body. There are no other family members on file.”

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Everyone tells me I’m the luckiest man alive for marrying a woman like Margot. They see the devoted wife, the powerhouse CEO, the woman who stands by her husband’s bedside with red-rimmed eyes. They don’t know that those same hands—the ones currently smoothing my hair—are the ones that systematically destroyed mine. It happened the day the “prodigal son” returned. Margot’s eyes had been a manic, bloodshot red as she swung the heavy paperweight. She didn’t stop until my hands were a pulp of shredded skin and splintered bone. The sound of my own skeleton snapping is a rhythm that still plays in my nightmares. Her tears had fallen directly into the open, weeping wounds on my wrists. She kept whispering, “Don’t hate me, Gideon. Please, don’t hate me,” like it was a prayer that could undo the carnage. Afterward, she shifted into a terrifyingly efficient caregiver. She paced the hospital halls, barking orders at the nation’s top orthopedic surgeons, her voice trembling with a faux-desperate humility. “He’s the star of the cardiothoracic department,” she pleaded with the Chief of Surgery, her knuckles white. “Please, save his hands. I don’t care about the cost. Just make him functional again.” She stayed by my bed every hour of every day, a saint in designer silk, performing a tireless act of penance. “If you can’t hold a scalpel, Gideon,” she whispered one night when she thought I was asleep, “then Timothy can finally take his rightful place as the best surgeon in the country. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I’ll take care of you forever.” I didn’t even look at her. It was almost funny, in a dark, twisted way. She really thought that by breaking my hands, she could hand my talent to Timothy. She forgot one thing: Timothy was a hack. Even with me out of the way, he’d never be more than a shadow. 1 I kept my mouth shut. There was no point in arguing with a fanatic. For the next week, Margot cleared her schedule. She walked away from billion-dollar mergers to wash my face and spoon-feed me broth. I caught the nurses whispering in the hall, their voices thick with envy. “Gideon Wayne hit the jackpot with that woman. You don’t see devotion like that anymore.” I felt a cold, sharp laugh echoing in my chest. Was it guilt driving her? Or was it the thrill of the “compensation” she planned to provide for the rest of my crippled life? On the seventh day, her closest friend, Tinsley, came to visit. She dropped off a basket of overpriced fruit, offered a few perfunctory words of sympathy, and then pulled Margot toward the doorway. The room was deathly silent, making their “hushed” conversation vibrate against the walls. “Margot, you’ve pushed three major acquisitions for this. The board is breathing down your neck to get back to the office, and you haven’t slept in days.” “I can’t leave him yet,” Margot replied. “You love him, I get it,” Tinsley countered, her voice dropping. “But if you wanted to keep him home, a simple accident would have sufficed. Did you really have to go that far? To actually break the bone and tendon?” Margot’s voice turned icy, the warmth of the “devoted wife” vanishing instantly. “His hands had to be destroyed completely. It’s the only way to ensure Timothy’s seat at the top is secure. Gideon stole Timothy’s life, his legacy as the Wayne heir, and the prestige that comes with it. Timothy cares about that surgical chair more than anything. I’m just protecting what belongs to him.” Timothy. The pretender. The man who had occupied my place in the Wayne family for twenty years while I grew up in the back of a dusty laundromat with people who treated me like an unwanted chore. When the DNA tests finally revealed the truth and I was brought back to the Wayne estate, I was a scrawny, awkward kid with defensive eyes. Standing next to the polished, charismatic Timothy, I looked like a mistake. Margot had been the one to approach me. “The Wayne-Cross marriage pact was always intended for the true heir,” she’d said, taking my hand. “Now that the real Mr. Wayne is back, the engagement should return to its rightful owner.” I had been so moved by her, so desperate for a shred of genuine affection, that I swore I’d spend my life being worthy of her. Looking back, it was all a game. Timothy had probably pissed her off by choosing a year-long backpacking trip through Europe over their wedding date. I was just a pawn in their lovers’ spat. But then I worked. I studied until my eyes bled. I discovered I had a gift—a steadiness in my hands that Timothy never possessed. Within years, I was the one the medical journals were calling a prodigy. I became the “star” that outshone the original “sun.” If the tool becomes more brilliant than the master, it has to be broken. She couldn’t kill me; my parents were too consumed by “survivor’s guilt” for the years I spent in poverty. If I died, Timothy would be the first suspect, and he’d lose the Wayne inheritance forever. So, she took my hands instead. She wanted to turn me into a dull, quiet accessory. But she made a mistake. She thought a man who had clawed his way out of the gutters of a nameless town would just lie down and be slaughtered. “With the Wayne fortune and the Cross family backing him, he can spend the rest of his life as a wealthy socialite husband,” I heard her tell Tinsley. “It’s a good life.” That sentence stung worse than the fractures. My foster parents had treated me like livestock. To change my fate, I had worked two jobs at greasy diners while studying under streetlights. I had built a kingdom out of nothing, only for her to burn it down because Timothy felt insecure. I stopped listening. My mind, however, was clearer than it had ever been. This woman had to go. A few minutes later, Margot crept back in. She tucked the blanket around me with a touch as light as a feather. “Gideon,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of you forever.” You already ended me forever, I thought. Now it’s my turn. 2 Margot became even more suffocating as the days passed. She barely left my side, her phone tossed carelessly onto the nightstand, ignored. In a different life, I would have been moved. Now, I just felt the chill of the predator watching the prey. She wasn’t worried about my health; she was monitoring the damage. She was terrified I might recover enough to threaten Timothy again, or that I’d cut a deal with the doctors behind her back. I played the part. I was silent, passive, and let her do everything. I let her wash me, dress me, and watch every painful bandage change. The pain was a living thing—hot, throbbing, and visceral. But beneath the agony, my plan was taking root. A month later, the lead surgeon finally unwrapped the final layers. What lay beneath wasn’t a pair of hands. It was a twisted map of angry, purple scars and distorted joints. Margot’s eyes welled up. She dropped to her knees by the bed, clutching my lifeless fingers. “Gideon, I’m so sorry…” I looked at her, my stomach churning. You did this. You did this so a mediocre boy could play God in an OR. Timothy had been a “rising star” since he was nineteen, mostly because he had the Wayne name and the Cross money buying his way into research papers. He had five percent of the family company handed to him for simply existing. I, on the other hand, was the “Research Machine.” I was the doctor who never slept because I remembered the way my grandmother died of heart failure in a cramped apartment because we couldn’t afford the specialist. I didn’t want to be a trophy; I wanted to be a savior. When the Waynes brought me back, they admired my grit but didn’t know how to handle my intensity. Timothy had hugged me then, saying, “Brother, our research interests align. If you ever need help, just ask.” I believed him. I shared my data. I shared my theories. And he published them under his name while I was busy in the lab. When I found out, Margot had stepped in. She told me she’d use every resource her family had to make me the greatest surgeon in history. She promised me the top of the mountain. On our wedding night, her passion was frightening. I thought it was love. Now I realize I was just a tool she was using to make Timothy jealous, to punish him for leaving her. She played the perfect wife for two years. She helped me reach the peak. But now that Timothy was coming home from his “soul-searching” travels, she decided the mountain belonged to him again. I was being retired. But I hated being “kept” more than anything in this world. My foster parents had “kept” me like a dog. Margot wanted to keep me like a bird with clipped wings. 3 Timothy returned two weeks later. I saw it on the morning news. The hospital held a massive gala for him. The headlines were nauseating: The Return of the Prodigy: Dr. Timothy Wayne Back to Save Lives. The hospital gossip shifted instantly. The nurses who used to pity “poor Gideon” were now whispering that the “true master” had returned. “Gideon was good, but Timothy has that natural flair,” I heard one say. “I heard Margot was always supposed to be Timothy’s. Gideon just moved in while the seat was warm. Now the real drama begins…” Margot walked in just as the whispers died down. She snapped at the nursing station, her voice like a whip. “Is this a hospital or a tabloid office? If I hear my husband’s name in your mouths again, you’ll be looking for work in another state.” The hallway went silent. Margot entered my room, softening instantly. She sat on the edge of the bed. “Don’t listen to them, Gideon. I love you. Only you.” I nodded slowly. I didn’t say a word. Her heart had never been mine. After we married, she used to love kissing my hands. I thought it was a fetish for my talent. Now I knew she was just measuring the threat. She pulled out a warm salt pack and placed it over my scarred knuckles. “The doctor says heat helps the circulation.” The door pushed open. It was Timothy. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly tousled in that “effortless” way that cost two hundred dollars at a salon. He looked vibrant, tan, and utterly unburdened. His face went through a rehearsed series of emotions: shock, then devastating grief. He practically fell to his knees at the foot of my bed. “Gideon… brother. How did this happen?” His tears were perfect. They didn’t even ruin his bronzer. He looked like a tragic hero in a prestige drama. I looked at him and remembered Margot’s words: Only if you can’t hold a scalpel can Timothy be the best. Was he here to mourn me, or to verify the kill? “Brother, why won’t you speak?” Timothy sobbed. “Do you hate me for not being here to save you?” I shook my head. “I’ll do anything,” he continued, clutching the bedsheets. “I’ll spend every cent I have to find a way to fix this.” “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice raspy from disuse. He reached for my hand, but I flinched away. “You should go, Timothy.” His face flickered—a moment of genuine annoyance. “You’re kicking me out?” “Our parents miss you,” I said. That was his weak spot. He craved their adoration. Then his career. Then Margot. Margot walked him to the door. When she came back, she watched me carefully. “Gideon, Timothy had nothing to do with this. Don’t take your anger out on him. If you have to hate someone, hate me.” I gave a non-committal hum. She relaxed, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes. Guilt? No. Just the satisfaction of a plan coming together. She didn’t want love; she wanted a husband who matched her stature, and a lover who made her feel like a queen. She wanted the “shining” version of Timothy, and she wanted me to be the silent, grateful ghost in the background. 4 After Timothy’s visit, Margot’s “devotion” hit a fever pitch. She flew in specialists from Germany and Tokyo. “I will fix this, Gideon. When you’re better, we’ll go to conferences together. I’ll be your hands. We’ll be a power couple.” She said it so often I almost started to believe the lie. I looked at her, finally speaking more than a sentence. “Margot, can you do me a favor? Can you look after Timothy? He’s my brother, and I don’t want him to struggle while I’m… like this.” I looked down at my mangled hands, letting my voice crack. “I can’t be the man he needs anymore. Or the man you need.” The joy in her eyes was almost obscene. She tried to hide it, but her smile twitched. “Whatever makes you happy, Gideon. I’ll do anything.” I looked her in the eyes. “If Timothy hadn’t gone on that trip, he would have been the one to marry you. Now I’m just a burden. I’m an embarrassment to you.” Margot’s face went pale. “Enough!” she snapped, then lowered her voice. “Gideon, don’t think like that. Timothy was a placeholder. I didn’t love him then.” Liar. If she didn’t love him, why did she break me for him? She knelt before me, looking like a lost child. “Please, believe me.” I just nodded. She let out a long, shaky breath, convinced that even though she’d ruined my life, I was still her loyal, pathetic lapdog. To fulfill her “promise” to me, she started spending more time with Timothy. She helped him prep for his return gala, accompanied him to high-society fundraisers, and soon, they were all over the tabloids. The CEO and the Surgeon: A Match Made in Heaven? The hospital gossip grew cruel. “He crawled his way into that family, and now that the real heir is back, he’s discarded like trash.” “He thought he could be a star. Look at him now. Can’t even tie his own shoes.” I stayed silent. I didn’t argue. The harder they hit now, the more they’d bleed later. On the day of my discharge, Timothy came to pick me up. Margot was at the Wayne estate, busy “decorating” a private wing for my recovery. “Gideon, my keynote symposium is next week,” Timothy said, helping me into the car. “You’ll come, right? It would mean the world to me.” “No,” I said flatly. Timothy’s eyes went red instantly. “Are you still blaming me because your hands didn’t heal?” I looked at him until he started to fidget. “Margot broke my hands, Timothy. She did it so I couldn’t compete with you. She did it to secure your ‘top surgeon’ title.” He froze. It wasn’t shock on his face. It was a terrifying, subtle ripple of triumph and ego. Before he could speak, I laughed. “I’m kidding. Why do you look so serious?” Timothy exhaled, a ragged, relieved sound. On the day of the symposium, the auditorium was packed with the elite of the medical world and every major news outlet in the city. I wasn’t supposed to be there. But as Timothy stood at the podium, bathed in a spotlight, I walked onto the stage. Timothy’s jaw dropped. I didn’t give him a second to recover. I hit the remote for the projector. The flashbulbs began to explode like gunfire. The room erupted.

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My husband, Liam, recently took in a young woman who wasn’t very well-behaved. He spoiled her so much she forgot her place and actually came causing trouble right in front of me. The girl’s eyes were bright, and she stubbornly refused to call me “Mrs. Sterling”: “Miss Reed, in love, the one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel.” I smiled, reached out a slender finger, and forcefully yanked the pearl earring from her ear. Drops of blood instantly bloomed on her earlobe. Behind us, Liam appeared, his jaw tight. Chloe just stood there with red eyes: “Mr. Sterling, please don’t be angry. Miss Reed probably didn’t mean it.” Liam just took my hand, blowing on it gently: “Abby, does your hand hurt?” Chloe stared at him in disbelief as a large tear rolled down her cheek. And I just offered a faint smile. 1 Chloe was taken away by Liam’s secretary. She seemed to have a thousand things to say, probably not understanding how the man who had been somewhat gentle with her yesterday could turn like this today. Liam’s affection for me wasn’t entirely fake. He noticed a faint, barely visible mark on my finger and kissed it repeatedly. “Abby, a woman like that isn’t worth dirtying your own hands,” he said, a hint of disapproval in his dark eyes. I looked at Liam, my expression normal. I wasn’t surprised by his actions. We were childhood sweethearts, growing up together. By nature, he wasn’t a particularly docile person, yet he was always tolerant and considerate of me. In prominent, old-money families like ours, rotting marriages are everywhere. But he was the one I had actively chosen. Even when we got married, my best friend, Serena, was endlessly envious. After all, when people reach a certain status, they view basic moral constraints with cold indifference. Liam was genuine toward me. Serena said that in elite families, fidelity is often viewed as a weakness. When wealth expands to a certain level, expecting a man to remain forever faithful is truly rare. For many arranged marriages between powerful families, maintaining a facade of peace is already an achievement. But Serena had seen how Liam served me food, seen how he unknowingly smiled just at the mention of me. He truly cared for me. But his care wasn’t one hundred percent. In his position, not having beautiful women swarming around him would be abnormal. The few “understanding companions” Liam occasionally kept were nothing in Serena’s eyes. It was just too common. It seems that when corruption becomes the norm, innocence becomes the anomaly. 2 Dinner was cooked by Liam. For a young, successful man like him to be willing to cook was truly rare. Even my usually picky mother was full of praise. They all seemed to envy me for having the vast majority of Liam’s love and his complete tolerance. I only had to frown, and Liam could make whatever I disliked disappear forever. He carefully cut my steak for me, and I lowered my eyes, taking small, slow bites. His phone kept lighting up. I instinctively reached for it, and he, thinking I wanted the wine from his glass, thoughtfully handed it to me. When he saw I was reaching for his phone, he just smiled, picked up a napkin to wipe his hands, and then handed the phone to me. “Wife, it’s rare for you to check up on me.” The smile in his eyes was genuine. Liam never really hid his “understanding companions” from me. It was probably because the men around him behaved far worse than he did. He gave his wife total respect, consideration, and always put me first. Moreover, even my own parents each had their own separate lives outside. I knew for a fact they had several illegitimate children. My mother didn’t have a son, so she chose a relatively decent illegitimate son to inherit the family business. He respected my mother and was quite protective of me, his sister. In old-money families, fidelity is a joke. No matter how gentle the surface appears, the bones are rotten. I unlocked the phone. I couldn’t find Chloe anymore. I understood; after offending me, Liam wouldn’t let her off easily. Scrolling further down, I saw Mia. She had been by Liam’s side for a while now. I had heard of her—a submissive, obedient type. When she saw me, she acted like a frightened quail. She kept her head as low as possible. Liam was very satisfied with her tactfulness, so she was getting good resources now. A few days ago, I even saw her at a jewelry exhibition. I attended as Mrs. Sterling. Liam sat to my right, and Mia, wearing a diamond necklace, sat opposite us, essentially displaying that necklace to me. I glanced at it a couple of times, and Liam bought it. Mia thanked me softly. She was very tactful, didn’t stay long, and certainly didn’t flaunt her status in my face. That night, Liam even sensed my displeasure and whispered in my ear, “Don’t like her? I’ll swap her for someone else right away.” The affection in his eyes was real. Whatever I disliked, he could discard. I smiled, my eyes curving. “Liam, aren’t you being a bit too sensitive?” Ever since we were little, I called him by his full name. When we were young, I would sit behind him on his bike, the wind blowing his shirt like a sail, and I would press my cheek against his back. It smelled like sunshine. It was the fluttering of a young heart. It was the budding of love. Liam patted my hand. The lighting was dim, but his tone was sweet: “Abby, I often think about the path we’ve walked together.” I didn’t say a word, just stared silently into the distance. 3 That night, Liam didn’t sleep beside me. He said he had business at the company. I properly straightened his clothes and watched him leave. Not long after, Serena called: “Hey, I think I saw your Liam. He’s with my bastard husband. I heard they ordered quite a few escorts, but don’t worry, your Liam doesn’t play that wild; it’s usually just one-on-one.” In the dark, I turned on the lamp: “And how many male models did you order?” Serena burst out laughing: “I used to invite you out, but you’re an outlier. You hate this stuff and don’t understand the fun of it. Abby, you need to broaden your horizons. It’s better when husbands and wives play together. If one stays strictly faithful, it just leads to frustration.” I remained silent. Her voice continued: “Abby, I know what you want. But you have to realize, when you reach a certain level, women swarm these men, and they’re surrounded by flattery and sycophants. It’s too hard to stay clean.” “I haven’t stayed clean,” I said quietly. Serena let out a sound of surprise, sounding very interested: “You’re keeping someone too? Who is it? Tell me.” I was just about to speak when I heard the sound of the front door unlocking. I smiled and hung up the phone abruptly. 4 I stood at the landing of the stairs, looking toward the door. Elias, dressed in simple, clean clothes, familiarly turned on the light, took off his shoes, and walked inside. The young man had gentle features. Seeing me, he offered a shy smile and made a gesture with his hands. I met Elias on a rainy day, right after I found out Liam was seeing someone else. I was sitting on the bench at a bus stop, the rain mixing with my tears, dripping down continuously. When you love someone, you use all your strength, leading to possessiveness. Suddenly hearing about his infidelity, no matter how good your temper usually is, jealousy spreads through your entire body. But I had seen too much of this. My friends, relatives, and parents had all set very bad examples for me. When they talked about these things, they didn’t even take it to heart. For a long time, I felt like I was the freak. Even Serena, who understood me best, looked at my depressed state with sheer bewilderment: “Abby, the Sterling family is valued at over thirty billion, and Liam is the standout among them. With a status like that, it’s unrealistic for him not to have a few women hovering around.” Everyone told me to relax, that Liam was just lacking in fidelity, and that it was a harmless flaw. But I suppressed my pain, not daring to show it, because I had seen how pathetic my mother looked. Vases shattered all over the floor; the torment made my usually gentle mother somewhat unhinged. Later, she frequently sought comfort outside too. At first, it was out of revenge, but later, it became an addiction. With a look of lust in her eyes, she told me that when you can’t fight it, you just have to go with the flow. Elias, holding an umbrella, appeared in front of me. The young man was very tall, his knuckles smooth like jade. When he smiled, dimples appeared on his cheeks. I looked up and told him to get lost. But he seemed not to hear me. He just tried to hand the umbrella to me. I poured all my unvented anger into the most vicious words directed at this stranger, but Elias only looked at me with a calm face. His eyes were as vast and accepting as the ocean. After a long while, he looked down at his phone and typed a sentence: [I’m sorry, I sent my hearing aids in for repair today. I can’t hear what you’re saying.] He smiled, his eyes curving like crescent moons. The words got stuck in my throat, unable to go up or down. I felt ashamed. I had actually vented my anger on such a gentle boy. We met again in a university lecture hall. I was invited as a successful alumna to speak about the ups and downs of life. During the ribbon-cutting ceremony, I saw him. As an outstanding student, he took a photo with me. Surprisingly, when I received that photo from my assistant, the boy’s features were gentle, radiant like stars and the moon. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I had my assistant send him a pair of high-end hearing aids. 5 While I was lost in thought, Elias, wearing a backpack, tapped on my car window. My assistant looked displeased, but I told her to shut up. The young man smiled and handed the expensive hearing aids back to me: “Hello, this belongs to you.” He looked at me calmly, and in that moment, I suddenly realized he had already forgotten that I was the pathetic woman in the heavy rain that day. After that, I frequently appeared near Elias. At first, I didn’t plan to do anything. It was probably just because people this pure rarely appeared around me. Maybe when money reaches a certain amount, life becomes truly boring, and you want to find some amusement. During that time, Liam found his second “understanding companion”—a girl who dared to love and hate, bright and sunny. He was probably just enjoying the novelty of it and was so caught up in his pleasure that I rarely saw him. He even slipped up in front of me several times. I suppressed my anger, eating and watching TV in silence. Liam would pat my hair: “But Abby, the path we’ve walked together is ultimately different.” Of course, I understood the meaning of those words, and I knew he meant it sincerely. After all, my relationship with him was indeed different. I never doubted his sincerity toward me. We were from equally matched families, both proud. In a secluded grassy field, I had spontaneously kicked off my heels and danced under the moonlight. He good-naturedly held my shoes, his eyes filled with nothing but my image. At our grand wedding, he said he would love me forever, but he didn’t say he would only love me forever. 6 Elias was reserved and strictly followed the rules. Before I even realized it, I suddenly noticed he had developed feelings for me. Because every time I spoke to him, the tips of his ears would turn bright red. Sometimes I couldn’t help but laugh and asked if he wanted to listen to me play the piano. At that time, the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. On the tree-lined campus path, students walked in twos and threes. I walked a long way with him. The hill behind the school was next to the train tracks, and cargo trains always passed by. That day, under the setting sun, the light flowed across his cheeks. Behind us was the deafening roar of the train. Elias touched my hand, seemingly afraid I would be startled by the noise. He reached out and covered my ears. His fingertips were warm. Right at that moment, the boy opened his lips and said a sentence. I asked him what he said, but he didn’t make a sound. Later, sitting in the car as it drove toward the residential enclave, I rested my hand against my forehead and suddenly smiled. Actually, after knowing Elias for a while, I had learned sign language and lip-reading. If I wasn’t mistaken, what Elias said then was, “I like you.” The boy’s love was earnest, but I felt despicable. He didn’t even know I was already married. Someone like him, bright and clean as the moon, could never understand the unspoken games played within elite families. 7 For a long time, Elias knew I suffered from insomnia at night, so he would take a cab to my house to read me stories. I didn’t cross any physical boundaries with him. Sometimes I even felt a bit self-destructive. I didn’t erase Liam’s presence from the house, but interestingly enough, Liam’s footprint in this house wasn’t that significant anyway. He was probably having too much fun outside, and later, while I maintained a calm facade, I had already distanced myself emotionally. Just like today, Elias read me a fairy tale as usual. I was raised by nannies when I was little. My parents’ love was there, but it didn’t feel deep. The classmates at my international school started competing with each other at age eight. My overly premature entry into adult life meant I wasn’t really exposed to fairy tales. I blinked and asked Elias: “So, the huntsman wanted to kill Snow White, but in the end, he let her go. Would Snow White forgive the huntsman?” He was used to answering my questions every day, so he wasn’t surprised. Without a moment’s hesitation, he answered directly: “She would.” “Why?” I asked him back. “If I were Snow White, I would never forgive. The person who wanted to kill me should burn in hell forever, never seeing the light of day.” “But why shouldn’t someone who realizes their mistake and turns back be forgiven?” he said from half a meter away. I don’t know what I was thinking in that moment. Since birth, I had never really cared about anything involving money. People around me flattered me, sought my favor; I had my own circle. Some people behaved recklessly, wildly, and even played some very intense games. Although I didn’t participate, I had seen so much of it that for a long time, I was used to it. I suddenly stood up, tilted my head, and kissed Elias on the cheek. His snow-white skin instantly turned beet red. His eyes shone with unshed tears as he blinked his large eyes: “Abby… Abby…” My chest filled with a warm sensation: “Elias, do you like me?” Even the boy’s neck turned bright red.

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Three years. I’ve spent three long, stifling years inside this fallout shelter—The Citadel. I haven’t seen a single “Xeno-beast,” and I wouldn’t know what radiation looked like if it hit me in the face. My life is a repetitive cycle of eating, sleeping, and existing in a state of enforced luxury that feels more like a high-end nursing home than a survival bunker. It’s not that I haven’t tried to do my part. I’ve begged to join the surface scavengers, to actually earn my keep. But every time I opened my mouth, the Director shut me down. His refusal was always the same: absolute, immovable, and shrouded in that creepy, paternalistic concern. He told me that my only job was to stay happy. He claimed that as long as I was “joyful,” the monsters within a hundred-mile radius wouldn’t dare approach. That was my “great contribution.” He even warned me that if I so much as scraped a knee, the entire Citadel would pay the price. So, I became a golden prisoner. I stayed in my climate-controlled suite, killing time with the only thing they allowed me: video games. Until the day the Strike Team came back. A man—Briggs, the Director’s son—burst into my room, his face a mask of gore and fury. He didn’t say a word before he grabbed my console and slammed it into the floor. The screen shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. His eyes were bloodshot, screaming at me through a throat raw from howling. He told me they were out there bleeding, that AJ’s insides had been torn out in front of him. That “Six” was gone—half his head bitten off by a Ravager. Fifteen men died on that run. He pointed a shaking, grease-stained finger at me and demanded to know why I got to sit in the AC, eating steak and playing games, while his brothers were being fed to the meat grinder. 1 “GAME OVER” flashed across the screen in a mocking, jagged red. I groaned, tossing the controller onto the velvet sofa. That was the seventh time tonight. This new expansion boss was tuned to be impossible; it wasn’t even fun anymore, just punishing. “Stress levels are up 3.7%. Heart rate at 105. I strongly suggest you terminate high-intensity entertainment immediately.” The voice was cool and clinical. Dr. Naomi Foster stood in the doorway, tapping a stylus against a tablet that displayed my biometrics in real-time. Even in the middle of a literal apocalypse, she kept her white lab coat pressed and her expression perfectly neutral. “I’m fine, Naomi. I was one hit away from clearing it,” I muttered, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. She ignored me, walking over to scan my wrist with a handheld sensor. “Director Killian’s orders are explicit. Your mood must remain within the ‘Optimal Joy’ bracket. Any factor contributing to negative emotional variance must be eliminated.” She reached for the power cable of the console. “Wait! Don’t!” I shielded the machine like it was a living thing. “I promise, the next run is the one. When I win, my mood will skyrocket. Dopamine hit, right?” Naomi paused, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses as she weighed my desperation against her protocols. Just then, a rich, savory aroma wafted through the door. “Hey there, kiddo. Hungry? Look what Saul managed to whip up for you.” Old Man Saul, the head of the mess hall, shuffled in with a silver thermal container. He was all smiles, his face a roadmap of deep-set wrinkles. When he popped the lid, the room was suddenly filled with the scent of slow-roasted brisket and fresh herbs—real food. In a world where most people killed for a sleeve of stale crackers, this meal was a king’s ransom. “Saul, you’re spoiling me again,” I said, though my eyes were already glued to the plate. “Hey, you deserve it! If it weren’t for you, my hydroponic garden would’ve succumbed to the blight months ago,” Saul chuckled, patting my shoulder. “Eat up! Happy belly, happy heart. And if you’re happy, we all get to sleep a little sounder tonight.” Naomi looked at Saul, then at me, and finally pulled her hand away from the power cord. She logged something on her tablet. “Protein and fat intake will assist in dopamine regulation. Permitted. But I’m checking your glucose in thirty minutes.” I dug in, the warmth of the food chasing away the residual frustration of the game. Saul and Naomi watched me from either side—one like a doting grandfather, the other like a scientist observing a prized specimen. This was my life. I was the Citadel’s most precious resource, pampered and protected with a single, bizarre mission: Stay happy. Because I was the “Sanctifier.” They told me that as long as I remained content, an invisible, intangible power within me projected a barrier that kept the radiation and the nightmares at bay. I finished the last bite, letting out a satisfied breath. I was reaching for the controller again, ready for a rematch, when a piercing, rhythmic shriek tore through the silence of the bunker. It wasn’t the red alert for a breach. it was the heavy, grinding groan of the main blast doors opening. Saul’s smile vanished. Naomi’s grip tightened on her tablet. Briggs and his team were back. 2 The sound of metal on metal echoed up the shafts, heavy and ominous. The atmosphere in my suite curdled instantly. Saul’s face went pale, and Naomi instinctively checked the lock on her tablet. The scent hit us first—not the sterile air of the bunker, but the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of spent gunpowder. Then came the boots. Heavy, frantic, and followed by the low, guttural moans of men in agony. I had just picked up the controller when my door—a door that usually hummed open with a soft beep—was kicked off its hinges. CRACK. The frame splintered, and the door slammed against the wall. Briggs stood there, a vision from a nightmare. He was coated in a thick layer of dark blood and soot. His tactical vest was shredded, and his left arm hung at a useless, nauseating angle. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrifying, manic grief. They darted from the empty dinner plate to the controller in my hand. His gaze felt like a physical weight, something heavy and sharp enough to draw blood. “Captain…” Saul started, his voice trembling. Briggs didn’t hear him. He marched into the room, leaving a trail of wet, crimson footprints on my white carpet. He walked straight to the TV, and before I could even blink, he ripped the cables from the wall. He hoisted the console high above his head and brought it down against the floor with a sickening crunch. Internal components shattered. Plastic shards flew like shrapnel. “What the hell are you doing?!” I yelled, jumping up from the sofa. That was the only piece of my old life I had left. “What am I doing?” Briggs turned, his voice a low, vibrating growl that erupted into a roar. He shoved a finger into my chest. “I’m out there in the dirt! I watched AJ get disemboweled by a crawler! I watched Six get his head crushed like a grape! We lost fifteen men today!” He was vibrating with rage, spit flying from his lips. “And you? You sit here in the cool air, eating real meat, playing your fucking games? Tell me… how is that fair?” “Briggs, back off!” Naomi stepped between us, her voice sharp. She held up her tablet like a shield. “You know the protocol! His emotional stability dictates the integrity of the Citadel’s field! You’re endangering every soul in this bunker!” “To hell with your protocols!” Briggs shoved her aside. She stumbled against the wall, her tablet clattering to the floor. “I’m tired of hearing about ‘importance.’ My brothers are dead! And for what? To protect this… this leech?” Saul tried to intervene, his voice breaking. “Captain, please, Jude didn’t choose this, he—” “Shut up, old man!” Briggs didn’t even look at him. He grabbed the collar of my shirt and hauled me off my feet. He was pure, raw muscle fueled by adrenaline and spite. I couldn’t breathe; my toes barely brushed the floor. His face, smeared with the lifeblood of his friends, was inches from mine. The smell of death on him was overwhelming. “You think losing your toy is bad? You think I’m ruining your ‘vibe’?” He let out a twisted, jagged laugh and began dragging me toward the door. “Come on. I’m going to show you what the world actually looks like. I’m going to show you exactly what people are paying for your ‘good mood.’” 3 My heels scraped uselessly against the cold metal floor. Briggs’s grip was like an iron vice. I was a passenger in my own kidnapping. The corridor outside was lined with people—survivors, technicians, the remaining soldiers. They had gathered to welcome their heroes home, but now they stood in a heavy, suffocating silence, watching me with eyes that had turned cold and predatory. “Look at him! Everyone, look at our ‘Chosen One’!” Briggs’s voice boomed, echoing through the narrow hall. “The great Sanctifier! Our precious little secret!” He threw me toward the entrance of the medical bay. Inside, it was a butcher shop. The smell of bleach couldn’t mask the copper of the blood. A soldier was screaming as a medic tried to tourniquet a stump where his leg used to be. Another man lay on a cot, his chest crushed, a ventilator wheezing a useless, rhythmic sigh. Near the back, a row of bodies lay under stained white sheets. My stomach did a violent somersault. I’d seen gore in games, but this was visceral. It was the smell of voided bowels and the sight of yellow fat clinging to torn muscle. “See that?” Briggs hissed in my ear. “The one on the left? That’s Miller. He got half his torso taken out trying to scavenge the specific brand of canned peaches you like. And that small one under the sheet? That’s Six. He was nineteen. Before we left, he told me he wanted to see you—just once. He wanted to see what ‘hope’ looked like. Well, here you are.” The crowd shifted. The pity and confusion I usually saw in their eyes had curdled into a dark, infectious resentment. “Why him?” a man with a missing arm rasped. “Why do we die out there while he rots in luxury?” “Parasite!” someone spat. “Throw him out!” The anger was spreading like a wildfire in a dry forest. “Stop this! All of you!” Naomi finally pushed through the throng. Her face was deathly pale. She looked at her shattered tablet, then at the monitor on the wall. A red line was spiking into a jagged mountain range. “The sensors are screaming! The radiation levels outside the perimeter are climbing! You’re killing us all!” She looked toward the end of the hall, toward the observation deck. I followed her gaze. Director Killian stood there in his crisp uniform, his face unreadable. He didn’t move. He didn’t call for the guards. He watched his son incite a lynch mob against his most “valuable asset” and did absolutely nothing. His silence was a death sentence. Saul rushed forward, trying to shield me with his frail body. “You can’t do this! If the field drops, we’re all dead! Director, say something!” “Get out of the way, you old fossil!” Briggs kicked Saul in the stomach. The old man gasped, crumpling into a ball on the floor. “Saul!” I screamed, trying to reach him, but Briggs caught me by the throat, pinning me against the wall. “You still care about others?” Briggs leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper meant only for me. “Cowardly science and old-man sentimentality don’t mean a damn thing here. Today, I’m going to expose the lie.” I looked at Saul on the floor. I looked at Naomi, held back by the crowd. Finally, I looked up at Killian, who remained as cold as a statue. A bone-deep chill spread from my heart to my fingertips. In that moment, I felt the Citadel shudder. A low, vibrating hum—so subtle I thought I imagined it—echoed in my ears. Briggs wasn’t finished. He dragged me to the center of the common area and raised a hand to silence the crowd. He pulled a serrated hunting knife from his belt. The blade caught the overhead LEDs, gleaming with a cruel, cold light. “You want to know what makes him so special?” Briggs laughed, pressing the tip of the blade against my cheek. “I’m going to open him up. Let’s see if our ‘Sanctifier’ is made of divinity… or if he’s just leaking the same pathetic blood as the rest of us.” 4 The cold steel bit into my skin. The room went dead silent. “Briggs, stop!” Naomi’s voice was a frantic shriek. “The alarms are going off! The external radiation is off the charts! You’re triggering a collapse!” Briggs didn’t even blink. He grinned at the crowd, a predator basking in the spotlight. “Do you hear that? The same old ghost stories,” he shouted. “We survive out there with steel and lead, not with ‘vibes’ and graphs!” He twisted his wrist. The blade sliced into my cheek. The pain was a white-hot spike. I let out a choked cry as warm blood traced a path down my jaw, dripping onto the sterile floor. But he was just getting started. He kicked my legs out from under me and pinned me face-down. His knee was a mountain in the small of my back. Then, he began to cut. It wasn’t a stab. It wasn’t a slash. It was a slow, methodical, agonizingly precise flaying. He traced the lines of my shoulders, peeling back the skin with the practiced hand of someone who had dressed a thousand kills. I heard Naomi’s hysterical sobbing. I heard the dull thuds of Saul being kicked as he tried to crawl toward me. And I heard the crowd—the terrifying, rhythmic chanting of people who had found a scapegoat for their misery. In a gap between the waves of agony, I managed to turn my head. I looked past the boots and the blood toward the high walkway. Killian was still there. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t horrified. He was merely… observing. The realization was colder than the knife. He wasn’t just allowing this; he had planned it. I was no longer useful as a mascot, so I would serve as a sacrifice to vent the colony’s rage. Inside me, something shifted. That “inner sun” they always talked about—that warm, pulsing core of energy that had always felt like a soft summer afternoon—began to flicker. In the face of this absolute betrayal, it didn’t just dim. It curdled. The light turned black. The warmth turned to sub-zero ice. Like a star collapsing into a black hole, my “Sanctity” died. The world changed. I could “feel” the invisible dome over the Citadel melting away like wax. I could “feel” the things outside—the ancient, hungry, irradiated malice—noticing the hole. They were like sharks catching a scent of blood in the water. By the time Briggs finished his grisly work, I couldn’t even feel the physical pain anymore. I was a hollow shell of raw nerves and cold void. “See?” Briggs hoisted my bloodied, ruined form up for the crowd to see. “Look at your god! He bleeds. He screams. He’s nothing!” The crowd roared, a sound of primal, fearful triumph. “Throw him out!” Briggs commanded. Two soldiers grabbed my arms and dragged me toward the airlock. I left a thick, smeared trail of red across the floor of the only home I’d ever known. The heavy gears of the blast door groaned. They tossed me out like a piece of spoiled meat into the grey, ash-choked wasteland. The doors hissed shut behind me. I lay in the dirt, a heap of flayed muscle and broken spirit. Above me, on the ramparts, Briggs appeared. He looked down at me, laughing, his voice carrying over the dead plains. “See? The ‘Sanctifier’ is gone, and the sky hasn’t fallen! It was all a—” His laugh was cut short by a sound that didn’t come from a human throat. It was a siren, but not the bunker’s. It was the sound of the world itself screaming.

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When I finally came to on the studio floor, the carnage surrounding me and the rhythmic throbbing in my body told me everything I needed to know: last night wasn’t a fever dream. It was a massacre. I called my father. When he picked up, my voice was a haunting, hollow thing—shatterproof and terrifyingly calm. “Dad,” I said. “They broke your daughter.” The night before the National Fine Arts Competition, the man I had loved for five years, Parker Prescott, told me he needed a live model for his final piece. He’d looked at me with that signature warmth, the kind that usually felt like home, and asked me to strip. I let my guard down. I drank the glass of water he handed me, and then the world began to blur at the edges. I remember the echoes of laughter. Harsh, masculine voices. They were commenting on my body, their words slick with a grease that made me want to claw my skin off. Then, a familiar voice drifted from above. Parker’s voice, breezy and dismissive. “Don’t call her that. She’s not really my ‘girlfriend.’ She’s just… available.” His childhood friend, Tinsley Price, let out a high-pitched, melodic giggle. “She’s a utility, Parker. Her only value is helping me win this competition. Let’s be honest.” Through the hazy scratching of charcoal on canvas, Tinsley sounded triumphant. “This was brilliant, Parker. Tomorrow’s trophy is already mine.” They moved me. They posed my limp, unconscious body in ways that were designed to strip me of every ounce of humanity. Just before the darkness took me completely, I heard Parker’s final instruction to the others in the room: “Don’t rush it. Make sure Tinsley sees the movement. She needs the anatomical detail.” In that moment, the girl who loved Parker Prescott died. I wasn’t just betrayed; I was a prop in their sick game of ego and ambition. The cold reality acted like smelling salts. I dragged myself up. I was going to burn their world down. … I had just hung up with my father when footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the half-open studio door. Parker and Tinsley. They were walking side-by-side, their conversation bleeding through the crack in the door with a casual cruelty that made my stomach turn. “Parker, honestly, how many guys showed up last night? I was so into the zone, I lost count,” Tinsley asked, her voice dripping with a perverse kind of curiosity. Parker let out a low, nonchalant chuckle, the kind he used to save for jokes over Sunday brunch. “Six or seven, I think. I didn’t exactly take attendance.” My fingers dug into the paint-stained floorboards. My nails caught on a splinter, drawing a thin line of blood, but I felt nothing. Six or seven. Those three words were a rusted saw, slowly hacking through my nervous system. “One of them was a bit of a prick, though,” Parker added, his tone teasing. “He wouldn’t leave until he’d taken a dozen photos and some video. Said he wanted a souvenir.” Tinsley gasped, though it sounded more like a thrill than a shock. “My god. And you just let him?” Parker gave a dark, throaty laugh. “I didn’t let him do it for free. I charged him ninety-nine cents on Venmo.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Ninety-nine cents. My sanctity, my dignity, five years of shared secrets and whispered promises—in the eyes of the man I loved, I was worth less than a song on iTunes. Parker’s voice drifted in again, light as a feather: “By now, that video is probably circulating through the entire frat row. She’s a viral sensation.” Right on cue, my phone began to vibrate violently against the floor. Notification after notification. A relentless, demonic hum. Horrific messages from unknown numbers, screenshots of my own face in states of vulnerability I couldn’t bear to look at. Tears hit the floorboards, silent and heavy. Five years ago, we were in the university library when a creep tried to take a photo up my skirt. Parker had turned into a literal lion. He’d smashed the guy’s phone and held me while I shook, whispering into my hair, “Jade, I’ve got you. No one gets to look at you like that. No one.” And now, he was the one who had peeled me like fruit and offered me to the world. Suddenly, a loud bang shattered the silence. The studio door was kicked open. A wave of students flooded in, a sea of glowing phone screens held aloft like torches. The camera flashes were blinding, rhythmic stabs of light. “Holy shit, it is Jade Lancaster!” “Those photos are real! Damn, Jade, you acted like such a saint on campus. Who knew you were this much of a slut behind closed doors?” I scrambled for a piece of discarded drop cloth, desperately trying to shroud my broken body. I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled. The crowd parted. Parker walked in, Tinsley clinging to his arm. He looked down at me, clapping his hands slowly to quiet the mob. “Relax, everyone. This is just our new life model. She’s here for the sake of art.” “Take your photos, do your sketches,” he said, his eyes empty of any warmth I recognized. “There’s enough of her to go around today.” I looked up at him, my eyes burning a raw, jagged red. My voice came out as a broken rasp. “Parker… why? Why would you do this to me?” He glanced at me as if I were a stain he’d forgotten to bleach. “Tinsley said you had the best lines for her piece. What’s the big deal? Art requires sacrifice, Jade. You should be honored to be part of a masterpiece.” Slap. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent studio. My palm stung, my whole body vibrating with a rage so pure it felt like electricity. “You’re a monster, Parker. A goddamn animal.” The room went dead still. Parker’s head stayed turned for a second. He licked the inside of his cheek where his teeth had cut his skin, and when he looked back at me, his expression was murderous. “Playing the victim now?” He grabbed my jaw, his grip so tight I heard the bone groan. “This was for Tinsley. It was for her career. You think anyone is ever going to want your used-up body after today anyway?” He leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper intended only for me. “I knew about that night in the alley years ago, Jade. You were already ‘ruined’ by those thugs back then. Why do you care if a few more people see the goods now?” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. I froze. That night in the alley… the darkest nightmare of my life. Parker was the one who had pulled me out of the wreckage. He told me it didn’t matter. He told me he didn’t care about my past, that I was his “Golden Girl,” his most precious treasure. He hadn’t forgotten. He hadn’t forgiven it. He had just tucked that blade away, waiting for the perfect moment to twist it into my heart. The crowd erupted into whispers. “Wait, she was a victim of a gang thing before?” “Explains why she’s so comfortable being the campus plaything now. Once a slut, always a slut.” The insults hit me like physical blows. I was drowning. “No… that’s not… it wasn’t like that…” I opened my mouth to tell them I’d been drugged, but Tinsley stepped forward, her voice like honeyed poison. “Alright, Parker, let’s not waste time.” She smirked at me, her eyes dancing with malice. “Everyone, get your easels ready. This model only cost us ninety-nine cents, so let’s make sure we get our money’s worth.” A roar of laughter followed. A guy from the back of the room stepped forward, licking his lips. “If it’s for art, we need to make sure we’re seeing the real thing, right? Maybe she’s wearing a bodysuit. I should probably do a physical check.” He reached out, his hand diving toward the cloth I was clutching. I screamed, shrinking back. Just as his fingers grazed me, Parker’s hand shot out, catching the guy’s wrist. Parker frowned. “Stick to the brushes, man. No touching the display.” The student grumbled but backed off, his eyes still devouring me. I couldn’t take it. I turned, trying to bolt for the door, but Tinsley caught a handful of my hair. She yanked me back with a force that nearly tore my scalp. “Jade, honey,” she whispered in my ear, “you’ve been paid. You have to perform.” She held up her phone, showing the $0.99 transaction Parker had sent to me. Then, her voice dropped to a hiss. “You really thought you could compete with me for that scholarship? This is what happens to girls who get in my way.” She grabbed two lengths of industrial rope from an easel and lashed my wrists to the metal rack in the center of the room. I was displayed. Exposed. A specimen. I looked through the crowd, searching for Parker. I begged him with my eyes, my tears a torrential downpour. He just turned his back on me and started sharpening Tinsley’s pencils. For three hours, I was a ghost. I endured a thousand leering eyes and a thousand filthy critiques. When it was finally over and the room emptied, I collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. I threw on some discarded clothes and walked back to my dorm like a zombie. The first thing I did was take the PEP (Post-Exposure Prophylaxis) pills I had hidden in my drawer, swallowing them dry with the salt of my own tears. My roommate walked in, immediately covering her nose. “Ugh, you smell like sex and cheap gin. Gross.” She pulled out her phone and started recording. “I’m posting this on the campus board. ‘The Fall of Saint Jade.’ Everyone needs to see how dirty you really are.” I ignored her. I had one singular focus. Today was the submission deadline. If my painting won, I’d get the full international scholarship. I could leave. I could escape Parker and this hellhole. But when I stumbled into the storage locker where my masterpiece was kept… my heart stopped. Three months of my soul. A painting my professor had called “transcendent.” It was gone. In its place was a canvas drenched in black tar-like paint. It had been shredded with a knife, and across the ruins, someone had scrawled the word “WHORE” in thick, crimson acrylic. I broke. I fell to my knees and wailed. Only two people had the key to this climate-controlled locker. Me. And Parker. With shaking hands, I dialed his number. He picked up after a dozen rings, his voice heavy with boredom. “What now?” “You destroyed my painting, didn’t you?” I screamed, the sound tearing my throat. Parker let out a soft, mocking huff. “Yeah. I did.” “Consider it a lesson. You weren’t a very ‘good girl’ last night. You moved too much, and Tinsley had to fix her lines so many times her wrist started aching. This is your punishment. Forget the scholarship, Jade. Try again next year.” He hung up. I stared at the dead screen, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. Last year, when I stayed up all night painting for a mid-term, my wrist had flared up with tendonitis. Parker had stayed awake with me, applying warm compresses and massaging my hand, telling me my hands were “made for creating miracles” and that he’d never let anything hurt them. Now, he’d destroyed my future because Tinsley’s wrist was “sore.” The last thread of my sanity snapped. I stood up and ran toward the main gallery hall like a hunted animal. The hall was packed. Tinsley was surrounded by a sycophantic circle of admirers. On the main easel sat the piece she’d finished last night—a haunting, hyper-realistic painting of my own violation. “Tinsley, the lighting! The raw emotion! This is it,” someone gushed. “The gold medal is yours.” Tinsley touched her throat, feigning modesty. “Honestly, it was all about the model. She was… very vocal. Her screams really helped me find the right aesthetic.” The crowd chuckled knowingly. “Tinsley! You bitch!” I charged through the crowd like a wounded beast. I tackled her, my fingers seeking her throat. She shrieked, her heels skidding on the marble, and we went down hard. “My leg! Parker!” she wailed. Before I could land a second blow, a massive force threw me backward. Parker was there, his face a mask of rage. He backhanded me so hard my vision went white and blood bloomed in my mouth. He gathered Tinsley into his arms, looking at me with the kind of coldness you reserve for a rabid dog. “Apologize to her. Now,” he commanded. I spat blood at his shoes. “I’d rather die. You ruined my life! You ruined my art!” “No apology?” Parker’s eyes turned predatory. “Fine. You love art so much? You think your ‘talent’ makes you special?” He stepped toward me, his shadow swallowing me whole. “Let’s see how you paint with a broken hand.” He looked at two of his frat brothers standing nearby. “Break it.” They didn’t hesitate. They grabbed a heavy, solid oak easel. They pinned me to the floor, my right arm stretched out against the cold stone. CRACK. The sound of my bones splintering was the loudest thing I’d ever heard. “AAAAAHHH!” The scream that left my lungs didn’t sound human. The pain was a white-hot iron searing through my brain. I writhed on the floor, soaked in a cold, agonizing sweat. Parker watched me with total indifference. I bit my lip until it bled, using my left hand to fumbled for my phone in my pocket. “Parker… this is a crime. I’m calling the police…” My thumb hovered over the digits. Parker lunged, snatched the phone, and shattered it against the wall. “You don’t get it, do you, Jade?” He sneered. “You fucked up. You attacked Tinsley. Now you want to play the law card?” He grabbed the collar of my shirt. Rrip. He tore the fabric down the middle, exposing me once again to the room full of spectators. He pulled out his own phone and took several high-resolution photos of my battered, exposed body. “Still want to act tough?” He shook the phone. “I’ll sell these to the highest bidder for ninety-nine cents. Given your performance last night, I’m sure there’s a long line of buyers.” I closed my eyes, the tears falling like broken glass. I had nothing left. No fight. No hope. Five years ago, in that alley, Parker had taken a knife for me. He’d bled for me and told me I was safe. And now, he was the one delivering the killing blow. Tinsley stepped forward then, clutching a small, greyish-white ceramic urn. She leaned against Parker’s shoulder, her voice saccharine. “Parker, it’s okay if she won’t apologize. I found something better for my final touch. I read in a journal that using human bone ash in pigment creates the most exquisite, haunting shades of white.” She rattled the urn. My heart stopped. My blood felt like it was flowing backward. I knew that pattern. I knew that urn. The year before, I had gotten pregnant. Parker said we weren’t ready, that our careers came first. I’d had the procedure, heartbroken, and I’d kept the tiny, unformed remains after cremation in that specific urn. “Parker!” I shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated soul-death. “You told me… you said you buried our baby on the South Hill!” Parker looked at my frantic state. A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was gone in an instant, replaced by a callous shrug. “I did bury it. But Tinsley wanted to use that spot for a garden project, so she dug it up. It’s just a jar of ash, Jade. Don’t be dramatic.” The world collapsed. He had cried with me after the surgery. He had sworn to protect that memory. And now, he was letting this woman use our child as paint thinner. “Give him back to me!” I lunged with a strength born of pure madness. I clawed at Tinsley, my nails leaving jagged red tracks across her cheek. “My face! Parker, she’s scarring me!” Tinsley screamed. Parker’s boot caught me square in the stomach, sending me flying back. He snatched the urn from Tinsley’s hands. “You want it so bad?” His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a snarl. He pointed to the open window three stories up. “Go get it!” He threw the urn. It arched through the air, a grey blur against the sky, and vanished out the window. “NO!” That was my life. That was the only thing I had left to live for. I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate. I vaulted over the windowsill and threw myself into the empty air after it. As I fell, the last thing I heard was Parker’s voice, suddenly high and terrified, screaming my name. “JADE!”

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I picked up a beautiful man. I lived frugally, just to buy him a five-figure watch because he said he liked it. But one day, I saw him casually toss the watch into a lake while talking nonchalantly on the phone: “It was just for fun. I didn’t expect her to be so gullible. “Let’s make another bet. A ten-thousand-dollar leather bag. Let’s see if she’ll buy it.” Later, I decided I didn’t want him anymore. But everyone said the heir to the Sterling family had gone mad, searching the entire lake just to find a broken watch. 1 It was very late by the time I finished my part-time job and got home. As soon as I opened the door, I was pulled into a warm embrace. “You’re back.” Julian buried his face in my neck, nuzzling me: “I missed you so much.” I blushed: “The coffee shop was really busy today… I accidentally worked late. Have you eaten?” He blinked his eyes: “No, I was waiting for you.” I had picked Julian up off the street. The day I found him, it was pouring rain. He was crouching outside the coffee shop, soaking wet, like an abandoned puppy. “Audrey, look at that guy. He’s been sitting there for days.” My coworker pointed at him: “He looks so pitiful. Should we let him come inside and sit?” But the coffee shop was about to close. I thought for a moment, poured a steaming cup of coffee, pushed the door open, went outside, and crouched in front of him. “Hello.” That was the first thing I said to him. “It’s cold out. Have a cup of coffee.” Julian looked up, and I realized he was incredibly good-looking. Too good-looking to look like someone who would be homeless on the streets. “Thank you.” But he blinked, his expression innocent: “I seem… to have forgotten who I am. Can you take me home?” At that time, I was deceived by his appearance. I actually took him home. 2 The sound of pots and pans clinking came from the kitchen. While I was busy, I asked: “Julian, what do you want to eat?” He stood outside the kitchen door: “Whatever you make is fine.” Julian—that was the name I found in his wallet. Written on a slip of paper. But the entire wallet contained nothing but that single slip of paper. I considered taking him to the police station. But he was incredibly resistant to the idea. “Don’t take me there,” Julian hugged me tightly, as if trying to merge into me, his voice trembling slightly. “Audrey, please, let me stay with you.” He was like a newborn child, clutching onto a hard-won piece of kindness, begging humbly. My heart suddenly softened. I took him in, and it’s been several months. Even the neighbors knew I had a very handsome boyfriend. It’s just that he rarely went out, and no one knew what he did for a living. I didn’t know either. Every time I brought up helping him find his family, Julian would react strongly, hugging me and acting cute. He always said: “Audrey, don’t abandon me.” 3 I bought Julian a phone so he could easily contact me. When I was at work, he loved to spam me with messages. The content was always the same, things that made me blush and my heart race: [Audrey, your bed is so soft. Can I sleep on it next time?] [Audrey, next time you wake up to go to work, can you wake me up? I want a good morning kiss.] [Audrey, please don’t work overtime tonight. Let’s go shopping.] I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but I couldn’t help smiling when I replied. A coworker leaned over slyly: “Ooh, the iron tree is blossoming! Our Audrey finally has a boyfriend?” Of course, I didn’t dare say it was Julian. I just played along: “Mhm… we haven’t been dating for long.” She gave a “say no more” look and said: “Honeymoon phase, honeymoon phase. You have to let us meet him someday.” I nodded while typing a reply to Julian: “Okay. “Come find me.” 4 I walked arm-in-arm with Julian as we went shopping. He seemed very interested in the mall, constantly asking about this and that. Until we reached the elevator, and he wanted to go upstairs. I was a bit hesitant: “Upstairs… there’s nothing really to shop for.” Julian blinked: “Why?” Upstairs was where the luxury goods were sold. Working two jobs just to make ends meet, I naturally didn’t dare go up there. I remembered helping a classmate pick something up from a boutique once, and the sales associate looked at me with a complex expression: “Name. Double-check it. Don’t get it wrong.” But Julian really wanted to go. He pulled my hand: “Let’s just go look. Audrey, please?” I ultimately agreed. Once upstairs, I felt a difference. Julian seemed completely natural. Coupled with his outstanding looks, even his simple, worn-out clothes looked high-end on him. A sales associate’s eyes lit up: “Mr. Sterling, you…” “What Mr. Sterling?” Julian frowned and tightened his grip on my hand: “Audrey, do you like those bags?” Actually, hearing that “Mr. Sterling,” my heart skipped a beat. But Julian’s actions brought me back to my senses slightly: “I… not really.” That sales associate was the exact same one who had mocked me before. But right now, she was extremely attentive, constantly glancing at Julian while enthusiastically pitching to me: “Miss, are you sure you don’t want to take a look? We have a lot of new arrivals in our store. Other places haven’t even gotten them yet.” I turned her down and pulled Julian downstairs. He looked at me, confused: “What’s wrong, Audrey? Did something happen?” I looked at his handsome face, momentarily losing myself. “Julian, before… did you come here often?” 5 Actually, it wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about what would happen if Julian remembered his past. But I had never thought about what would happen if he were very wealthy—worlds apart from me—and where we would go from there. “I haven’t,” Julian ignored the stares of passersby, leaning down to hug me. “Audrey, do you not like it there? Then we’ll go somewhere else. “Audrey, look at me. Let’s go.” Only then did I hold his hand: “Okay.” As I led him out of the mall, I was still thinking that if Julian really was very wealthy, I wasn’t after his money anyway. I had a clear conscience; I was just dating him. But… what if he still wanted to be with me then? I was lost in thought. I completely failed to notice that on the face of Julian beside me, not a trace of that obedient puppy look could be found. Replaced by a coldness I had never seen before. 6 I was searching for a watch on my phone. Actually, when we were upstairs, Julian and I had looked at a watch boutique. He held a watch that looked expensive at a glance and gestured towards me: “Audrey, look, does this look good?” I checked the price—five figures, enough to cover several months of rent. Even the sales associate was persuading: “Yes, sir has great taste. This is a popular model in our store, and we only have the last one left.” Julian’s eyes were sparkling, and he looked like he really wanted it. I had no choice but to say: “Then let’s come back and buy it another day.” Then, I pulled him away. But his gaze kept lingering behind. That was when I decided I would buy it for him. “What is Audrey looking at?” Julian pounced over again, and I quickly locked my phone screen: “Nothing.” He humph’d: “Audrey is lying.” Then he picked me up and carried me into my bedroom: “Your punishment is sleeping with me tonight.” It started raining outside. I was kissed dizzy by Julian. The pitter-patter of the rain covered the sounds of our kisses. Before he turned off the light, he asked hoarsely in my ear: “…Can I?” I nodded. 7 When the watch arrived, I was in the kitchen cooking. I asked Julian to answer the door. “Audrey! Did you buy this?” I saw a fleeting flash of surprise in his eyes, followed by overwhelming joy. He picked me up: “Audrey, you’re so good to me.” The kitchen was steamy. I told him to get out, but he refused. He turned off the stove, set me on the counter, and leaned down to kiss me. I held his strong waist, kissed until I was in a daze. At that time, it was my first time loving someone like this. Loving him so much I forgot that, besides his name, I knew absolutely nothing about Julian. 8 Julian couldn’t put that watch down. Consequently, he became even more clingy towards me. An hour before my shift ended, I received a call from him: “Getting off work soon, right? I’ll come pick you up, let’s go out and play for a bit.” I coaxed him helplessly: “Julian, I still have an hour left on my shift.” He humph’d: “Don’t care. We haven’t had a date in so long. I’ll wait for you by the lake.” After I hung up, my coworker leaned over slyly again: “Got it, another date. Looks like I have to hurry up today.” “Audrey, you leave early. I’ll cover your shift!” Unable to resist their enthusiasm, I really did take off my apron. Then I touched up my makeup and left the coffee shop, feeling shy and expectant. 9 There were a lot of people by the lake. But I spotted that standout figure at a glance. Julian was wearing the new jacket I bought him, standing by the lake with his back to me, talking on the phone. I was a bit confused. Besides me, who else did he know? So I quietly walked over, wanting to give him a surprise. “Got it, I’ll play a little longer and then head back. “Tsk, do you think I’d actually like a girl who works at a coffee shop? Stop joking, she’s just gullible. “It’s just a watch worth a few tens of thousands. Let’s make another bet. A ten-thousand-dollar leather bag. Let’s see if she’ll buy it. Place your bets, I bet I win.” In that instant, my mind went completely blank. Julian’s voice lacked any of his usual naive sweetness. He was cold and disdainful. The next second, I saw him take off the watch I bought him from his wrist. Then, he casually tossed it into the shimmering lake, without a hint of hesitation in his movements. “The watch is lost. Wearing it really brings down my value.” Julian said, suddenly turning his head. A few steps away, he looked astonished, making eye contact with me. I was completely unaware that I was crying. The person on the other end of Julian’s call was still asking: “Hello? Julian, why aren’t you saying anything? Ten thousand is too low, right? That naive girlfriend of yours is so love-struck, she wouldn’t bet something that big…” But he had already taken a step towards me: “Audrey…” 10 I don’t remember how I left. I only remember Julian’s expression instantly becoming stunned, shocked, and at a loss. “Audrey, no, listen to me, I…” “Julian,” but I only called his name, cutting him off. “I heard everything.” Word for word. The lover who was whispering sweet nothings the day before had just stated this was only a game the next day. He stood coldly on the sidelines, acting superior, watching me, the participant, love him so much I lost my mind. “Audrey.” “Don’t come near me.” I abruptly stepped back twice, as if Julian were a terrifying monster. I looked up at this familiar yet strange man. Those thin lips were saying yesterday: “Sister, don’t abandon me.” Today, they were confidently talking on the phone with someone else, saying: “I bet I win.” So I smiled at him: “Julian, you’re right. “You won the bet.” 11 Julian called me constantly the whole way. I didn’t answer a single one and blocked his number. I knew he was following right behind me. He was tall with long legs; no matter how I ran, he could easily catch up. Even in love, he was just as fearless and arrogant. Halfway there, it started to rain. “Audrey!” He called my name: “It’s raining. Let’s go home. Can we go home and talk about it?” I didn’t look back. He said again: “Audrey, please listen to my explanation, okay?” I still didn’t look back. Until the rain started pouring heavily, pattering on the ground. I clutched my wet clothes and walked to the bottom of my apartment building without ever looking back. Julian followed me the whole way like that. I made eye contact with him through the mirror on the front door. He had gotten rained on too. His black hair drooped, looking obedient and soft. His eyes were wet, tinged with red. His clothes were soaked and clung to his body, revealing his physique. Very similar to the day we first met, yet entirely different. I suddenly stopped. In the mirror, Julian stopped too. He looked slightly panicked because I turned my head. “The day I picked you up, it was raining this heavily too, right?” I smiled, and he seemed to guess what I was going to say: “Audrey, I admit to this, but I…” “That’s enough.” I didn’t want to hear it. Something that was wrong from the start, no matter how smoothly it went, was still wrong. “Julian, I wish I had never met you. I regret picking you up and bringing you home. Just leave. Go back to where you belong.”

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The day my parents split up, my sister—with her sun-kissed hair and honeyed words—left with our mother. My brother, the bouncy, charismatic golden boy, was scooped up by our father. When it was finally my turn, they looked at me and spoke in perfect, chilling unison. “You need to be the sensible one, Myra.” “You’re practically an adult now. You can take care of yourself.” 1 They left me, a ten-year-old girl, at my grandmother’s drafty, decaying farmhouse in rural Ohio. Then, they wrapped their arms around their favorite children and drove away, entirely satisfied with their choices. I already knew I was unloved. That wasn’t new. But in that moment? My chest caved in. It physically hurt, a sharp, twisting agony behind my ribs. My name is Myra Callahan. Since the day I was born, I’ve been the leftover part of the equation. After they had my sister, Bianca, they wanted a boy to complete the perfect picture. Instead, they got me. Another girl. A disappointment. So, they dumped me in the country with my grandmother. They didn’t bring me back to their manicured suburban life until I was six, right after she died. And now, four years later, they were throwing me right back. Except this time, the old house was completely empty. My grandmother wasn’t here anymore. Not that she had loved me much when she was alive—she was quick to slap and quicker to curse when she was in a foul mood—but at least she was a warm body in a cold room. Kids need someone. Anyone. But my parents never seemed to grasp that concept. It didn’t matter that my mother, Evelyn, was an award-winning literature teacher at a prestigious prep school. Or that my father, Robert, was a highly respected associate professor at the university. They had eyes only for the children they deemed worthy. They never paused to wonder if their middle daughter might need them, too. And just like that, I was left behind. 2 I became the wildest, most untethered kid in the county. I could climb to the very top of the old oak trees to peek into bird nests without anyone yelling at me to get down. I could wade into the freezing creek and swim for hours until my lips turned blue. If I stayed out all day, it didn’t matter. The other kids in town were bitterly jealous. “Man, I wish my parents didn’t care what I did,” they’d groan. “If I climbed that high, my dad would actually ground me for a year.” They envied my freedom, but God, I envied their chains. They had parents. Parents who cared if they fell. My parents had stopped caring a long time ago. When late afternoon rolled around, the air would shift. You’d hear Tommy’s mom shouting from her porch, telling him dinner was on the table. You’d see Sarah’s grandma shuffling down the gravel road to drag her inside. One by one, the woods would empty. And I would become entirely alone. I would sit in the branches, watching them retreat toward warmly lit windows, before slowly sliding down the bark and making the long walk back to my own dark house. It was so quiet inside. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears. I cooked for myself. I ate by myself. Spring, summer, fall, winter. It never changed. When night fell, I would crawl under the damp, heavy quilts of my bed. But no matter how long I lay there, I could never get warm. The icy wind would whistle through the cracks in the ancient window frames, seeping straight into my marrow. I remember staring out the window, confused. It was early autumn; it shouldn’t be this cold. Why was I shivering? I would pull my knees to my chest, cocooning myself in every blanket I owned, waiting for a pocket of body heat that never came. I didn’t understand it when I was little. It was only when I got older that I realized the truth. It wasn’t my body that was freezing. It was my soul. It was the absolute, hollow chill of having nothing and no one to anchor you to the world. Children are supposed to be insulated by love. I had none. So even buried under a mountain of cotton, I remained freezing. I grew up in that cold. Inch by inch. Year by year. By the time I was a senior in high school, sitting in a fluorescent-lit classroom churning through AP practice exams, I had come to a quiet revelation. It was okay not to be loved. It was okay not to have a family. I could survive on my own. Graduation was months away. Once I got my diploma, I could leave this town, this state, this life. I would go somewhere new, build a fresh existence, and surround myself with so many friends that the gaping hole left by my parents wouldn’t matter anymore. I had a plan. And then, I got sick. 3 Two months before graduation, my already irregular period turned into an unrelenting, heavy hemorrhage. I was terrified. I scraped together every dollar of my meager savings and took a bus to the main hospital in the city. The ultrasound tech was quiet. The doctor was grave. She told me there was a mass growing inside my uterus. A massive fibroid cyst. That was what had been destroying my cycle and causing the bleeding. The doctor looked at me with deep, unmistakable pity. “Honey, hasn’t this been agonizing? A mass this size… medically speaking, you should have been in debilitating pain for a long time.” I stared at my knees. “And your periods being this erratic,” she continued, her brow furrowing. “You’re young, maybe you didn’t know it wasn’t normal, but didn’t your mother notice? Has she never brought you in for a checkup?” “A simple ultrasound years ago would have caught this,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “If we had seen it early, you wouldn’t be looking at surgical intervention right now.” I dug my nails into my palms and forced a tight, brittle smile. “It doesn’t hurt that much.” “And… I never told my mom about my periods. She doesn’t know.” But that was a lie. I had told her. I told her that my cycle was a nightmare. That I would skip months, and when it finally came, I would bleed for three weeks straight. I told her about the blinding, white-hot pain in my abdomen. Twice, the cramps had been so violent I actually passed out cold. Her response? “Stop being so dramatic, Myra.” “Your sister never acts like this. When Bianca gets cramps, I make her some herbal tea and she’s fine.” “She doesn’t call me crying, claiming she’s ‘dying.’ You’re just weak. No wonder people find you exhausting.” “I don’t have time for this, her SAT prep tutor is waiting. I’ll Venmo you. Go buy some Advil. Honestly, all you ever do is ask for money.” My phone had buzzed a minute later. Ten dollars. Exactly enough for a generic bottle of ibuprofen at the pharmacy. I had tried telling my dad, too. He wasn’t any better. It was the second time the pain made me black out. I had collapsed on the hardwood floor of my lonely house, hitting my head on the coffee table. I woke up with blood in my hair. A kind classmate had helped me to the school nurse the next morning. I was young and terrified, but even I knew something was profoundly wrong inside my body. Sobbing, I called my father. It rang and rang. When he finally picked up, his voice was ice. “Myra. What on earth possesses you to blow up my phone like this? Do you have any idea that your brother is currently on stage performing his violin solo?” “If I hadn’t muted my phone in time, you would have ruined his entire competition.” “Thomas needs to win this to secure his conservatory admissions. You are nothing but a liability. No wonder your siblings call you the ‘Mistake.’” Myra the Mistake. That was the nickname Bianca and Thomas gave me. Kids are brutally honest in their cruelty. When they brought me back from the country at age six, Thomas was five. He was the prince of the house. Bianca was the prized princess. They each had their own massive bedrooms. Neither of them wanted the weird, feral country girl encroaching on their territory. Mistake. Get back to your doghouse. My dad had heard them say it once. He frowned and scolded them. “Don’t speak to your blood like that,” he’d said. Then, he cleared out a corner of the enclosed sunporch and put my bed there. Because of that one half-hearted scolding, I used to foolishly believe my dad was the only one who didn’t think I was a burden. But he was exactly like them. That day on the phone, bleeding and terrified, I stammered through my tears, trying to explain my symptoms. He met my terror with irritated exhaustion. “Fine, I get it. You don’t feel good.” “This is just a pathetic excuse to beg for your allowance early, isn’t it? Thomas is right. Teenage girls are just a nightmare of manufactured drama.” “Making up lies about dying just to get cash. It’s actually sickening, Myra.” He hung up on me. Hours later, I got a Venmo notification for $200. The note read: Your allowance for the month. Do not ask for more. And so, my illness festered in the dark, growing until it demanded to be cut out. Thankfully, the doctor assured me the surgery was relatively straightforward. An incision, a removal, and I would be cured. The catch? After my meager insurance, the out-of-pocket cost was $5,000. Thinking of the $10 sitting in my bank account, I swallowed the heavy lump in my throat. “Doctor… can the surgery wait? Just two months?” Graduation was in two months. Once I was out, I could get a factory job, work double shifts, and save the five grand. Her next words shattered that fragile hope. “Wait two months? Honey, you need to be admitted today.” “This cyst is causing active hemorrhaging. If we don’t intervene, you are at extremely high risk of bleeding out. You could go into cardiac arrest.” She leaned forward, her voice softening into a desperate plea. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Do not let stubbornness or fear cost you your life.” “Go home. Bring your parents back here to sign the consent forms and pay the deposit.” She was right. My life hadn’t even truly begun yet. I couldn’t just die over five thousand dollars. In my civics class, we learned about parental obligation. They brought me into this world; legally, they had to keep me alive in it. Paying me a pathetic $200 a month to rot in a farmhouse wasn’t enough. They had to pay for my medical care. They had to. 4 My mother’s manicured suburb was a long way from my part of the county. My bank account was running on fumes, but I spent $5 on a commuter train ticket to get to her house. I reasoned with myself on the ride over. She was a woman. Surely, when confronted with a mass growing inside my uterus, the sheer, terrifying reality of female anatomy betraying itself, she would understand. I stood on her pristine porch for a long time before I finally knocked. The door swung open. It was Bianca. Where I was gaunt, pale, and trembling, she was glowing. Her skin was flawless, her hair glossy. She radiated the kind of vibrant health that only comes from being deeply, expensively nurtured. She was the hothouse rose. I was the weed growing in the asphalt. We shared the same DNA, but our universes couldn’t have been further apart. Bianca looked at me, her brow furrowing in instant, deep annoyance. She looked at me like I was a tax auditor showing up unannounced. “What are you doing here?” “Didn’t Mom already send your pathetic allowance?” She planted her body firmly in the doorway, blocking the entrance. I opened my dry lips to speak, but my mother’s voice drifted out from the kitchen. “Is Thomas here yet? Tell them to come in!” Bianca rolled her eyes. “No. It’s Myra.” The house went dead silent for three agonizing seconds. Then, my mother’s voice, laced with heavy reluctance: “Oh. Well… let her in, then.” Bianca stepped aside just enough for me to squeeze past, acting as if she were bestowing a grand blessing upon me. The moment I stepped into the dining room, I understood why she hadn’t wanted me inside. The sprawling mahogany table was groaning under the weight of a feast. Filet mignon, butter-roasted lobster tails, artisanal sides I didn’t even know the names of. And right in the center, a towering, gorgeous custom birthday cake. My mother emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of glazed chicken wings. She paused when she saw me. “Myra. Why are you here?” “You really should have called ahead. It’s your sister’s birthday today. We’re expecting guests and I didn’t make extra food.” My stomach, hollowed out by days of rationing crackers, gave a violent ache. I pressed my hand against it. “I’m not hungry,” I lied quickly. “I ate before I came.” Bianca crossed her arms and flopped onto the velvet sofa. “Doesn’t matter if you called ahead anyway. I don’t want a bloodsucker who only shows up to beg for cash ruining my birthday.” My face flushed a hot, dark red. The sheer humiliation of why I was actually there made my skin crawl. My mother didn’t correct her. She just looked at me, her silence a loud, ringing endorsement of Bianca’s words. Tears burned the back of my eyes. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t true. The only times I ever asked for money was when they completely “forgot” to send my allowance. I would wait. Days would pass. A week. And nothing would hit my account. Yet, they never forgot to reward Bianca with a trip to the Bahamas for bringing her math grade up a single letter. They never forgot to buy Thomas a three-thousand-dollar gaming rig because he learned a new concerto. I survived by eating dollar-store ramen and plain bread. But sometimes, even that ran out. I remembered sitting in class, my vision swimming from hunger, looking at the teacher’s pink eraser and hallucinating that it was a piece of meat. I only called them when I was so starved I was eyeing the half-eaten sandwiches in the cafeteria trash cans. Only then did I break down and ask for my own money. But to Bianca, I was a bloodsucker. What kind of vampire survives on two hundred dollars a month? “Mom,” I choked out, fighting the tears. “I’m not a bloodsucker. I only asked for money when my account was negative…” My mother held up a hand, cutting me off. “Enough. You’re a fine kid, Myra, but your sister isn’t entirely wrong. I’ve spent plenty of money on you over the years.” “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is being a single mother to a teenager? Let alone having to support you out in the country on top of it?” “Bianca didn’t do well on her SATs last year, so I had to put her in that elite prep course. That was fifteen thousand dollars upfront. Things are tight right now. You calling and demanding cash… you can’t blame your sister for being irritated.” Her words felt like liquid nitrogen poured straight into my veins. For a split second, she made me feel like the villain of the story. But I wasn’t the one draining her bank account. I cost her two hundred dollars. Something inside my chest, a dark, jagged thing, began to claw at my throat. I felt like I was going insane. I needed to scream. Before I could, my mother sighed. “Anyway, you’ve made your appearance. You should head back.” “You don’t know any of Bianca’s friends. It’s going to be awkward for everyone if you just hover here.” Panic seized me. I pulled the crumpled, slightly damp medical report from my jacket pocket and thrust it toward her. “Mom, please, I came because I have to tell you something. I’m sick…” Ding-Dong. The doorbell chimed, bright and cheerful. Bianca instantly lunged forward, grabbing my arm and shoving me hard toward the kitchen. Her face was twisted in absolute disgust. “Listen to me, you little freak,” she hissed. “If you don’t want to get thrown out on the street, you stay in this kitchen and keep your mouth shut. Do not tell anyone you are my sister.” “I am not letting my friends know I’m related to a trash-dwelling charity case. One word, and I’ll drag you out by your hair.” I thought of the blood, the doctor’s warning, the $5,000 I desperately needed just to survive. I shrank back against the refrigerator. “I won’t say anything,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Just please don’t kick me out yet.” Bianca shot me a look of pure venom, smoothed down her dress, and walked back out to greet her friends. 5 Bianca’s friends were exactly like her. Polished, loud, practically dripping in wealth. Standing in the shadows of the kitchen in my faded, hand-me-down sweater—clothes Bianca had discarded years ago—I truly did look like a feral animal that had wandered indoors. Soon, the house was filled with the sound of “Happy Birthday.” The clinking of glasses. The rich smell of expensive food being devoured. Just as they were about to cut the cake, the front door opened again. Two familiar voices echoed in the entryway. “Happy birthday to my beautiful girl! Sorry Dad is late!” And then, my brother, Thomas—who had never spoken to me without a sneer—sounded like the perfect, charming sibling. “Sorry, B. My fault entirely. Rehearsal ran late. I brought you that new Prada bag you wanted to make up for it.” A girl in the living room gasped loudly. “Oh my god, is this the famous violin prodigy brother?” “He’s exactly like the rumors! So handsome and so sweet.” Another voice chimed in. “Sweet? He’s a genius. He skipped two grades in middle school. He’s taking the SATs with us this year.” “No way! Thomas, what colleges are you looking at? Let a girl know so I can apply there too!” Thomas chuckled, the sound smooth and practiced. “Mostly just the Ivy League. Harvard’s humanities program has a better vibe than Yale, I think.” The girls practically swooned. “God, a prodigy brother and a gorgeous, smart sister,” someone sighed. “Bianca’s top of our class, too. Your parents’ genetics are absolutely insane.” My parents laughed. It was a warm, deeply satisfied sound. “Oh, stop. We aren’t that special,” my mother demurred modestly. “We’re just educators.” “Such a humble-brag!” a boy laughed. “Seriously, your family is like a poster for perfection.” The atmosphere in the living room was euphoric. I stood perfectly still in the dark kitchen, watching the warm glow of the dining room light spill across the floor. I felt like a thief, peering through a window at a family I was never allowed to join. Then, someone asked the question. “With genes like that, why didn’t you guys have more kids? Imagine how perfect a third sibling would be.” My breath hitched. My fingernails dug half-moons into my palms. What will they say? Would they, for one brief, fleeting moment, acknowledge that I existed? My father let out a short, dismissive scoff. “Actually, we do have another one. But she… didn’t exactly get the family traits.” “Oh?” a girl asked, intrigued. “What do you mean?” My father’s tone darkened. “I don’t know if it’s a genetic misfire, or if being raised by her grandmother out in the sticks stunted her brain. She’s dull. Slow. We brought her back when she was young, but she has no social skills. Completely withdrawn.” My mother, riding the high of the party, eagerly joined in. “Exactly. Zero emotional intelligence. She never even calls us.” “The only time we hear from her is when she wants money. Honestly, sometimes I look at her and wonder how Robert and I could have produced someone so… lacking. But thankfully, she turns eighteen soon.” “Once she’s a legal adult, our obligations are done. We won’t have to deal with it anymore.” The words didn’t just hurt. They severed something deep inside me. I stared blankly at the tableau in the living room. So, their love was entirely conditional. Because I wasn’t as aggressively brilliant as Thomas, or as socially dominant as Bianca, I wasn’t fit to be their daughter. That was why they dumped me during the divorce. That was why they never bothered to ask who I really was. If they had, they would know that my bad grades in elementary school were because the underfunded rural school never taught me phonics or basic math. When I was dropped into their suburban district in first grade, I was drowning. But that was elementary school. By middle school, I was never out of the top ten. Now, at my high school, I was ranked third in my entire senior class. My teachers called me brilliant. They said I was a lock for MIT or Stanford. My classmates loved me. I stayed late to tutor anyone who asked, breaking down complex physics problems with infinite patience. But to my own parents? I was a dull, stunted, emotionally deficient genetic mistake. It was hilarious. Truly, bitterly hilarious. Through the doorway, Bianca’s eyes locked onto mine. She wasn’t hiding her vicious, triumphant smirk. Under her piercing gaze, I suddenly felt dirty. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I felt like a cockroach caught on the kitchen tiles. I took a panicked step backward, desperate to hide deeper in the shadows. My foot hit something hard. CLANG. A heavy metal pot lid went spinning across the tile floor. The noise was deafening in the quiet kitchen. The laughter in the living room died instantly. “Who’s in there?” my dad demanded, his voice dropping an octave. Bianca sneered. “Probably just a rat.” In the dark, I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking violently. Please don’t come in. Please just ignore it. If I wasn’t seen, I could pretend this night never happened. But the heavy footsteps grew louder. “That wasn’t a rat. That sounded like a person,” my dad said, his voice hard. “Get out here, right now.” Click. The harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen flickered to life. And there I was. Stripped of the dark, exposed in my ragged clothes, looking like the most pathetic clown in the world. 6 A girl in the hallway shrieked. “Oh my god! There’s actually someone in there! Is she a burglar? Call 911!” Thomas let out a dry, cruel bark of laughter. “Relax, guys. It’s not a burglar. It’s just my idiot sister.” “What are you doing skulking around in the dark, Myra? Come to beg for more cash?” A dozen pairs of eyes shifted from fear to profound, morbid disgust as they stared at me. My mother sighed loudly, playing the weary, martyred parent. “Everyone, I’m so sorry. Myra isn’t a thief. She just came to visit and must have fallen asleep in the kitchen.” She turned to me, her eyes dead. “Alright, Myra. You’re awake now. It’s time for you to go back. You have graduation coming up. I know you aren’t going to get into a real college, but you still need to pass.” “Try not to fail out completely. It’s embarrassing enough for your siblings as it is.” She was stepping toward me, her hand reaching out to physically push me toward the back door. But I couldn’t leave. I didn’t have the surgery money. As her hand clamped onto my shoulder, the last shred of my dignity evaporated. I dug into my pocket and yanked out the crumpled hospital paperwork. My face was completely bloodless as I looked up at her, begging. “Mom, please don’t make me leave.” “Thomas is right. I did come for money.” The air in the room turned hostile. My mother’s face contorted in fury. I spoke as fast as I could, terrified that if I stopped, my throat would close up and I would choke on my own grief. “I’m sick. The doctor said I need surgery immediately. It’s not even that much, Mom, it’s just five thousand dollars for the copay.” Five thousand dollars. Less than half the cost of the Prada bag Thomas had just casually handed Bianca. A fraction of what his violin cost. But saying the number out loud felt like I had pulled a pin on a grenade. My father, who hadn’t spoken directly to me in months, closed the distance between us in two strides. SMACK. His hand cracked across my cheek with brutal force. “Five thousand dollars isn’t a lot?!” he roared. “Do you have any concept of how hard I work?” “You absolute embarrassment. You skulk in the shadows like a rat, you don’t even have the decency to wish your sister a happy birthday, and then you ambush us in front of guests for five grand?” My cheek burned like it had been held to an open flame. But the pain in my face was nothing compared to the violent tearing in my chest. “Bianca told me to hide!” I screamed, the truth ripping out of me. “She said she didn’t want anyone to know she had a trashy sister! And is five thousand really that much to you, Dad? Bianca’s new bag costs ten! Thomas’s bow alone costs more than my surgery!” “I’m in agony, Dad! I’m bleeding! I pass out at school from the pain, and you know that because the nurse called you!” For a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt crossed his eyes. But his ego quickly crushed it, and his self-righteous rage returned. “You don’t get to compare yourself to them!” he spat. “Bianca is top of her class! Thomas wins national awards! They earn their rewards!” “What have you ever done but bring us down? Why should we invest a dime in you?” “And this supposed illness? I’m sure it’s just another one of your psychotic lies. You’ve been making up stories for attention since you were a kid.” Thomas stepped forward, snatching the crumpled ultrasound paper from my shaking hand. “Yeah, let’s see what terminal disease you’ve invented this time, Mistake.” He scanned the paper. Suddenly, he dropped it like it was coated in acid, wiping his hand aggressively on his jeans. He looked at me, his eyes wide with exaggerated, theatrical disgust. “A 10-centimeter uterine mass? Bleeding?” Thomas yelled, making sure the entire living room heard him. “Are you kidding me, Myra? You’re begging us for money because you caught some dirty STD?”

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This was my fifth wedding. Or, more accurately, my fifth attempt at one. The groom, Logan, was late. Again. My phone buzzed on the vanity, a push notification from a local trending thread: “Now that you’ve finally landed the guy you’ve pined after for years, what’s the most reckless thing you’ve done?” The original poster had answered her own prompt: “Become his wife, obviously. And steal him away from his ‘best friend’s’ wedding. Five times and counting.” She added a follow-up: “We just finished in the bridal suite. It was world-shifting.” The comment section was a vitriolic bloodbath, but the poster didn’t seem to care. She uploaded a photo—shot from the neck down, skin flushed and damp with sweat. Her face wasn’t visible, but the bridesmaid’s dress she was wearing was unmistakable. Beside her, a man in a tailored tuxedo was partially visible, his sharp profile caught in the shadows. A cold, hollow sensation settled in my chest. I knew that profile. I knew that dress. The heavy double doors of the bridal suite creaked open. Two people walked in, looking exactly like the figures in the photo. It felt like the temperature in the room plummeted forty degrees. One was Melanie, my “soul sister” and best friend of thirteen years. The other was Logan, the man I had legally married five years ago, even if we’d never managed to make it down the aisle. 1 My father stood up so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. He ripped the boutonniere from his lapel, his face contorted with rage, the veins in his neck bulging. “Five times, Logan. Five goddamn times. What could possibly be more important than your own wedding ceremony?” the guests in the hall held their breath, the silence thick and suffocating. Logan offered a practiced, charming smile, stepping forward to placate him. “Please, Tom, calm down. There was an emergency at the office. A crisis that couldn’t wait.” After settling my father, he turned to me. He pulled a velvet box from his pocket, a diamond ring glittering inside. His expression was light, almost teasing. “I didn’t mean to be late, Jo. Tell me how I can make it up to you, and I will. Anything you want.” He moved closer, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur. “Let’s just get through the vows, okay?” But my eyes weren’t on the diamond. They were on the small, flesh-colored bandage on his neck. It was positioned perfectly to hide a fresh bite mark—Melanie’s signature. “Is that so?” I asked, a sharp, jagged laugh escaping my throat. He blinked, startled. He likely thought I was so blinded by love that I’d offer him a sixth chance. He looked relieved. In the next heartbeat, I lunged. I grabbed Melanie by her perfectly styled hair and emptied a glass of vintage red wine directly over her head. “Diana, have you lost your mind?!” Logan roared. As I threw the glass down, it shattered against the marble. Logan’s first instinct wasn’t to check on me, but to shield Melanie. A flying shard of glass sliced a thin line across my cheek. Every guest in the room stared at me with horror, as if I were the one who had just committed an act of madness. Logan tucked Melanie behind him, his eyes burning with a sudden, sharp loathing. “Yes, Melanie had a family emergency, and I went to help her. That’s why I was late. She’s been your sister since you were kids—how could you do this to her?” His voice rose, thick with accusation. “How can you be so vicious?” I tried to remember when he had started caring for her so much. In college, Melanie’s crush on him was a joke everyone was in on. Back then, Logan spoke of her with a curated disgust. “She’s exhausting,” he’d say. “Not particularly bright, either. I don’t know why you’re friends with her.” It was cruel, but back then, I felt a shameful sense of relief. I thought I had secured both my love and my friendship. I was a fool. He had gone to the mat for me once. He had stood before his grandfather, the patriarch of the wealthy family firm, and endured a literal beating to prove his devotion. “I won’t marry anyone but Diana,” he’d shouted. “I’ll die before I give her up.” And Melanie? She had stood in the sweltering heat outside their estate for five hours, pleading my case. “Diana’s happiness is everything,” she had sobbed. “Please, let her be with the man she loves.” Now, Melanie stood there, drenched in wine, looking at me with a performative, guilty flinch. The guests whispered. My father looked broken. Logan stood there with the air of a man granting a stay of execution. “Enough drama,” he said. “Let’s just finish the ceremony.” I reached up and unpinned the pathetic corsage from my dress. My voice sounded like it was coming from someone else—someone cold and terrifyingly calm. “I’m done, Logan. I want a divorce. I don’t want you anymore.” Logan froze. He searched my face for a hint of a bluff, a sign that I was just throwing a tantrum. We’d been legally married for five years; this wedding was supposed to be a formality, a celebration of a life already built. But he didn’t realize that I had spent those five years waiting for this one day. As he stepped toward me, Melanie caught his arm. “Diana, I know you’ve been resentful since the wedding planning started,” she whimpered. “But don’t do this. Don’t embarrass Logan just to get attention. It’s your big day. Don’t ruin it.” Logan’s eyes turned icy. If there was one thing he hated, it was feeling manipulated. “You’re the one who told me to look out for her, Diana,” he snapped. “You said she was alone in this city, that she had no one. Now you’re turning into a paranoid shrew? You’re making us look like a joke. Think about the family’s reputation!” Suddenly, the narrative shifted. I was the villain. I could feel the judgmental weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. Logan’s grandfather, who had remained silent until now, spoke with a gravelly, authoritative venom. “I knew a girl from a family like yours would be trouble. Security! Escort her out and deal with this insolence.” Logan looked at his grandfather, then at me. He chose silence. As the security guards moved in to grab my arms, my father surged forward. He swung a mahogany chair at the guards. “You stay the hell away from my daughter!” But with a single nod from Logan, the guards overpowered him, dragging him toward the exit. “Tom, look at her,” Logan said, his voice devoid of warmth. “She’s out of control. We have standards in this family. We won’t let her spread these lies.” 2 The first blow from the heavy wooden ruler across my back sent me sprawling to the floor. It was a custom-made piece, used for “disciplinary” purposes in the family’s old-school tradition. By the third strike, I felt the warm, sticky bloom of blood soaking through the white silk of my wedding gown. Involuntary tears blurred my vision. I remembered when Logan had taken ten strikes for me, years ago, after we eloped behind his grandfather’s back. He had emerged pale, drenched in sweat, but he had smiled at me through the pain. “Anything to be with you,” he’d whispered. He knew exactly how this felt. And yet, he was letting them do it to me. The dress felt like it was made of lead, heavy with blood. I crawled toward him, clutching at the hem of his trousers, my voice a broken rasp. “Please… take me to the hospital.” Before the words fully left my lips, Melanie gasped and collapsed into his arms. “Logan, my head… everything is spinning. I think I’m going to pass out.” Logan caught her instantly, his face a mask of concern. He didn’t look down at me again. The room cleared out. The “family” business was done. By the time a sympathetic catering staff member got me to the ER, I was drifting in and out of consciousness. The doctors treated the lacerations on my back. As soon as I could hold a pen, I called my lawyer. “Draft the papers,” I said. “Everything. I want out.” I fell into a heavy, medicated sleep, only to be jolted awake by a frantic call from my father. “Diana, you have to get here! A construction crew… they’re at the house. They say they’re tearing the old place down!” Before I could answer, a sickening thud echoed through the line, followed by my father’s agonizing scream. Then, silence. The world tilted. I ripped the IV out of my arm and threw on my clothes, racing to my childhood home. I found him pinned beneath the treads of a bulldozer. He was gasping for air, his voice a thready whisper. “Diana… don’t… don’t beg him. Not for me.” The ambulance took him away, but the crew didn’t stop. They kept moving, iron and steel grinding against the history of my life. “Stop! Who authorized this?!” I screamed. The foreman stepped forward and shoved me back. “Move it, lady. Mr. Logan personally called this in. We have the permits.” I fumbled through my bag, pulling out our marriage certificate. “I’m his wife! I’m telling you to stop!” The crew gathered around, looking at the paper. Then, a roar of laughter erupted. “You’re really trying to pull a fast one with a fake document?” the foreman mocked. “There’s no seal on this, lady. It’s a prop. Get lost before we call the cops on you.” I looked down at the certificate. He was right. There was no state seal. No official signature. I remembered Melanie’s post. “My husband.” She meant legally. In the eyes of the law, I was a ghost. I was a laughingstock. I waited outside the operating room like a hollowed-out shell. I called Logan, my hand shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. “How could you?” I sobbed. “Why are you tearing down my father’s house? Your people… they crushed him, Logan. He’s in surgery!” Logan’s voice came back as a vicious snarl. “Then he shouldn’t have gone around telling people Melanie was a mistress. He shouldn’t have posted her private photos online!” “What are you talking about?” “You want the medical bills paid? Fine. Go on a livestream. Apologize. Tell the world you lied because you were jealous of Melanie. Do it now, or don’t expect a cent from me.” I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. I didn’t say a word. But he wasn’t done. Within the hour, I found my bank accounts frozen. I was penniless. I tried to apply for emergency loans, for jobs, for anything—but every door slammed in my face. A sympathetic HR manager eventually showed me why. My name was tagged in a private industry database: History of instability. Violent tendencies. Narcissistic personality disorder. He had once promised to make me the happiest woman in the world. Now, he was grinding me into the dirt to make me bow to Melanie. The hospital’s billing department called every twenty minutes. The pressure was a physical weight on my chest. Finally, I broke. I agreed to the public apology. Logan’s voice on the phone was smug. “I knew you’d see reason. It’s your father’s fault, really. He brought this on himself. Be a good girl, Diana. Or watch him die.” He flicked a gold credit card against the camera during our video call. “I’m holding the check for his surgery right here.” He used to say I’d never have to worry about money again. He was right. He’d made sure I was completely dependent on his mercy. 3 I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. As I stood before the bank of microphones at the press conference, Melanie stepped forward with a look of faux-sympathy, reaching out to steady me. “Diana, I never wanted it to come to this,” she whispered, loud enough for the mics to catch. “But your father’s lies… the things he said about me being a ‘homewrecker’… the photos… I’ve been living in a nightmare. If we’re truly sisters, you’ll do the right thing.” The word sisters made my stomach turn. I wanted to reach out and tear her throat out. Before I could speak, Logan’s voice cut through the room, cool and detached. “She’s right, Jo. You gave those photos to your father, didn’t you? It’s only fair that you give Melanie a sincere, public apology. In fact, maybe you should show everyone the kind of ‘remorse’ you expect from others.” I stared at him, my heart stopping. “Are you insane? Logan, I’m your wife!” The flashes from the cameras were blinding. In the harsh light, Logan looked like a stranger. “You’re wasting time,” he said. “And your father is running out of it.” The reporters surged forward, hungry for the fall of the “Golden Girl.” Melanie played the protector. “Give her a moment, please. She’s going to apologize.” I looked at her beautiful, lying face and spat on the floor at her feet. The room gasped. Logan’s expression darkened into something murderous. Suddenly, my smartwatch chimed—a notification from my father’s home security system back at the old house. My neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was calling. “Diana! Some men are here—they’re auctioning off the furniture right off the lawn! They’re saying the house is sold!” I looked up at Logan, my eyes wide. “You’re selling the house? My father will die if he loses that place.” “Apologize,” Logan said. “And I’ll stop the sale. It’s just a few words, Diana. Don’t let your pride kill your father.” A jagged, hysterical laugh broke from me. With numb fingers, I began to unbutton my coat. I let the cold air hit my skin. I didn’t care who was watching anymore. I didn’t care about the cameras. I knelt on the hard floor. I pressed my forehead against the linoleum until it bled. “I. Am. Sorry.” When I looked up, blood was trickling into my eyes. “Are we done?” Melanie couldn’t hide the glint of triumph in her eyes. Logan, however, looked momentarily stunned. He cleared his throat and tossed his blazer and a credit card at my feet. “Stop making a scene. Put your clothes on. This will cover the hospital bills.” I kicked the card away. I didn’t look back as I bolted out of the room. As he watched me run, a flicker of unease finally crossed Logan’s face. But Melanie was already pulling at his sleeve. “The interviewers are waiting, Logan.” “Right.” He turned to the cameras. And then, the world exploded. A massive boom shook the building, shattering the windows behind us.

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My mom once dumped the richest man in our city. Eight years later, I beat up his son. My teacher forced my mom to get on her knees and beg for forgiveness. The billionaire pushed open the classroom door and froze. “I used to treat you like a princess, terrified you’d melt if I didn’t hold you tight enough. And you’re on your f***ing knees?” “Sarah, whose pride are you trashing right now?” 1 I never had a dad. I didn’t even know any of my extended family. As long as I could remember, it was just my mom raising me. She worked the night shift at a convenience store and often came home very late. So, she asked our neighbor, Mrs. Higgins, to add an extra plate for me when she made dinner for her own granddaughter. It wasn’t a handout, of course. My mom paid Mrs. Higgins for my meals every month. But Mrs. Higgins would take that money and turn around to buy me milk and fresh fruit. She constantly sighed about how hard my mom worked and told me not to tell her about the extra treats. I’d nod, and she’d praise me for being such a good girl. Honestly, I just felt that if I was good, it would make things a little easier for my mom. At school, I was the most invisible kid in the class. I paid attention during lessons, but I never raised my hand or showed off. My classmates called me the “Little Mute” because they thought I didn’t like to talk. The truth was, I just liked listening to them talk. In third grade, the most popular topic of conversation was everyone’s families. Some kids would broadcast everything—from their dad’s hemorrhoids to their mom fighting off his mistress. There was a boy in my class named Connor Hayes. He was a new transfer student, and he constantly complained about his CEO dad. He said his dad had a temper like a rabid dog and a face as cold as a widower. He said his dad never had time for him; it was just drivers and nannies at home every day. He said his dad only cared about money. For his birthday, he just had his secretary drop off a black Amex card. … Long story short, he hated his dad. But I envied him for having one. I didn’t know why, but out of all the kids in class, I wanted to be close to Connor the most. Because I didn’t have a dad, and rumor had it, Connor didn’t have a mom. In a way, we were the same kind of different. One day, while we were lining up to go home, Connor was complaining about how terrible his dad’s cooking was. I couldn’t help but chime in: “My mom makes really good desserts.” If he just talked to me, I thought, I could bring him some of my mom’s desserts. But Connor turned his head and glared at me viciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I looked at him, confused. “You’re making fun of me for not having a mom, right?” Connor shoved me hard, his face twisted in anger. I fell hard onto the pavement. While I was still in shock, my homeroom teacher, Ms. Evans, yelled from behind: “Chloe! Are you blind? You’re ruining the line formation! Get up right now!” I had no choice but to slowly pick myself up and brush the dirt off my clothes. Ever since I spoke to Connor that day after school, I inexplicably became the thorn in his and his little posse’s side. Every time he walked past my desk, he’d pinch my arm through my shirt. If we crossed paths in the hallway, he’d purposely ram his shoulder into mine. Not to mention, he was always surrounded by a gang of followers. Every time I walked by, they would yell out of nowhere: “Chloe, the Little Mute, what a loser.” Then they’d make weird, mocking noises with their mouths. I gathered my courage and decided to tell the teacher. However, when I went to Ms. Evans’s office, she was sitting cross-legged, holding her phone. I didn’t know who she was talking to, but it was “Mr. Hayes” this and “Mr. Hayes” that, and her whole face was lit up with a smile. I stood at the door for ten minutes, and she didn’t even notice me. The bell rang. The next period was English. I had no choice but to go back to class. Our English teacher had assigned an essay that day. The prompt was: “My Father.” I didn’t know how to start, so I sat there staring at a blank page for the entire period. The sky outside was an ashy gray, looking like it was about to rain, making everyone feel gloomy. Connor, however, was ecstatic. He announced to the whole class that his dad was coming to pick him up today. When school let out, it started pouring. In a cruel twist of irony, out of the entire massive school campus, Connor and I were the only two kids left without anyone to pick us up. The security guard brought us into the guardhouse. Connor looked furious. He kept yelling into his smartwatch: “I don’t care! I don’t want to hear your excuses! You have to come get me!” Then he dropped his wrist and started stomping the floor violently, thump-thump-thump. I thought he looked like an angry, unreasonable little monkey. I don’t know how much time passed, but the Hayes family’s driver finally appeared outside the guardhouse. “I don’t want you. Where is my dad?!” The little tyrant threw a tantrum at the driver outside the window. Looking troubled, the driver made a phone call. Not long after, a tall man holding a massive black umbrella walked over at an unhurried pace. The sky was still dark, and the wind was howling outside— Although the umbrella obscured his face, you could tell from his straight, imposing posture that he possessed a calm confidence, unafraid of any storm. Connor jumped up, rushed out of the guardhouse, and threw himself toward the man. The man reached out a single hand and effortlessly caught Connor by the collar of his jacket, stopping him mid-air. It was a hand that looked powerful and safe—large, with pronounced knuckles. It looked exactly like a father’s hand should. The man set Connor down. Holding the umbrella with one hand, he tilted it so it mostly covered Connor. Then, without hesitation, he smacked the back of Connor’s head. It was a crisp, solid thwack, like slapping a ripe watermelon. I stared, a little dazed. Connor didn’t mind. Instead, he suddenly turned around and shot me a smug, gloating smile. “Loser.” He taunted me with a funny face. “Have fun waiting by yourself!” 2 I ended up just staying in the guardhouse. I practically finished all my homework before the torrential rain finally stopped. The security guard, Mr. Miller, even shared his dinner with me—a delicious basket of steamed buns. I thanked him and walked back to the apartment my mom and I rented. I did a quick sweep with the mop, read a chapter of a book, and my mom finally came home. The bedroom door pushed open, and my mom poked half her body in, smiling brightly: “Hey sweetie, why aren’t you asleep yet?” I instantly noticed she was hiding her other arm behind the door. “Mom! Did you hurt your left hand?” She scratched her head: “You’ve got sharp eyes, kiddo. 20/20 vision for sure.” I asked her what happened. “A box fell on it at work,” she sighed. “It’s fine now, but I can’t use my left hand for a couple of weeks.” “Does that mean you can stay home and rest for those couple of weeks?” I asked carefully. “What kind of generous capitalist do you think I work for? Taking two weeks off? Do I still want a job?” I lowered my eyes, feeling a bit upset. “Ta-da! Look what I got!” My mom suddenly raised her voice, quickly pulling out a container of roast duck and a can of beer from behind her back to change the subject. “My boss actually gave this to me.” “Were you planning on eating it all by yourself before you saw me?” I asked quietly. She scratched her cheek. “Am I that kind of person?” I had to remind her of the numerous “cold cases” where she had secretly eaten takeout, drank boba, and binge-watched TV shows in the living room while I was asleep… In the dim light, we polished off the roast duck. I suddenly remembered seeing Connor’s dad today, so I softly asked: “Mom, what kind of person was my dad?” I knew my mom didn’t like talking about my dad. But after a moment of silence, she actually told me: He had a bad temper. He spent all his time working. To solve problems, he only knew how to throw around black credit cards… “What did he look like? Did he have big hands?” “Pretty big. He was pretty tall too.” My mom burst out laughing. “Why are you asking?” I wanted to hear her say more, but my mom’s voice went flat: “Kiddo, knowing these things is useless. He’s dead.” I had to ask one last question with pleading eyes: “Did Dad love me back then?” She stroked my hair, her voice softening. “Go to sleep, sweetie.” I don’t know why, but her smiling face looked so sad. The next day, I got to school early and finished writing the English essay I hadn’t completed yesterday. When I turned the essay in, Ms. Evans actually took mine and read it aloud to the whole class as a model essay. “My Father” My father often has a stern face and always looks unhappy. My father is always very busy and has no time to take care of me, but I know he is always by my side. My father is the best father in the world. Whenever it rains, he drops all his work to come to school and pick me up. His hands are so big, just like his big black umbrella, capable of shielding me and my mother from the storms of the entire world… After school, Connor found me, his face filled with rage: “You thief! You clearly wrote about my dad.” He reached out to shove me. I quickly backed away, but he chased after me, pinning me against the wall at the back of the classroom, yelling fiercely: “Thief!” I suddenly felt a surge of anger. I used all my strength to shove him forward. I was actually taller and stronger than him. He fell hard onto the floor, his face immediately turning black as he started cursing at me. I had never heard so many vicious words in my life! The new and old grudges combined. Not only did I not let him go, but I straddled him, throwing a punch for every curse word he spat. By the time we came to our senses, Ms. Evans had rushed into the classroom. She let out a shriek, yanked me off Connor, and held him, comforting him for a long time. Connor put on a fake crying act, whimpering a few times, and cried out emotionally: “Ms. Evans, my dad entrusted me to you. I’ve always seen you as a mother. You’re all I have left, boo-hoo-hoo.” Ms. Evans turned her head and glared at me fiercely: “Chloe! Right now, immediately, tell your mother to come to the school!” 3 “Does your daughter have violent tendencies?” Ms. Evans’s voice was shrill. “Look at what she did to Connor!” Connor immediately let out a whimper, pretending to be in extreme pain. Ms. Evans turned to him, her voice turning gentle. “Connor, be a good boy. I called your dad; he’s on his way.” My mom had her left arm in a sling. She was still wearing the green vest from the convenience store, and a cheap baseball cap with the store’s logo. She looked like she had rushed over; her bangs were blown into a messy tangle. She glanced at me and said anxiously, “Chloe is usually very well-behaved. She wouldn’t hit someone for no reason.” Ms. Evans raised her voice. “Are you saying I’m framing your daughter?” “That’s not what I mean,” my mom said quickly. “I just want to hear the child explain what happened.” “Chloe,” Ms. Evans turned to me coldly. “Tell me yourself, what did you do wrong?” I stubbornly pressed my lips together. Ms. Evans seemed furious. “Fine, if you won’t say it, I will.” “When lining up to go home, you broke the rules.” “Your classmates don’t like you. You have absolutely no ability to integrate into the group.” “And now you’ve resorted to assaulting a classmate.” “Earlier, when I asked you, you wouldn’t say a word. You’ve even started being deceitful.” “I’m asking you, do you have any respect for me as your homeroom teacher?” My mom looked at me, her lips moving. “Ms. Evans, there must be some misunderstanding…” Ms. Evans let out a contemptuous laugh. “Since you insist on turning a blind eye to your daughter’s faults, I have nothing more to say.” She firmly placed her thermos on her desk. “I can’t teach her. You need to find another teacher. Go ask around yourself and see which homeroom teacher in this school is willing to take her, and transfer her out immediately.” My mom turned pale as soon as she heard that. Although she wasn’t a very conventional mother, she was extremely strict when it came to education. Usually, if I scored below an 80 on a test, she wouldn’t hesitate to give me a spanking. To her, education was more important than her own life. “That’s not true.” My mom was starting to panic. She pleaded, “Ms. Evans, please give Chloe one more chance. She’s young; she doesn’t know better.” Ms. Evans turned her head away, let out a cold hmph, and faced the wall. My mom continued to plead bitterly, saying almost everything she could think of. But no matter what my mom said, Ms. Evans just told her to find someone else to take me. But in a school, what homeroom teacher would willingly take a student that someone else rejected? “Please, have some mercy.” My mom raised her injured arm. “I will discipline Chloe properly when we get home. Please don’t give up on her.” Ms. Evans turned back, but still spoke critically, “How can I trust you?” My mom paused, as if making up her mind. “Ms. Evans, I’m usually very busy with work and don’t have time to pay attention to Chloe’s mental state. She’s always been alone, and no one taught her what she should or shouldn’t do.” I stared at my mom, stunned. It was the first time I had ever seen her speak so formally. But my mom gripped the armrest of a chair, slowly knelt onto the floor, and pleaded once more. “Ms. Evans, the person who made the mistake is actually me, her mother. I failed to raise her right; it’s not Chloe’s fault. Please, give her one more chance.” As she spoke, her shoulders, which were usually thin but straight, hunched forward deeply. I stared at her, paralyzed. This was my mom—the woman who was usually joking around, never taking anything seriously; the woman who was kneeling on the floor, humbling herself to beg the teacher not to give up on me; the woman who taught me to be an honest person and to work hard in my studies… A difficult life had never crushed her, but at this moment, she surrendered her dignity for me. I couldn’t hold on any longer. I immediately hugged my mom’s shoulders and knelt down beside her. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault. Mom, it’s not your fault.” I had never regretted anything so much in my life. Tears poured from my eyes, and I felt like my heart was breaking into pieces. Ms. Evans seemed startled too, and she lowered her voice. “That’s not what I meant…” “I’m sorry, Ms. Evans.” I started crying too. “I promise I’ll never hit anyone again.” Amidst the commotion, Connor suddenly yelled excitedly, “Dad, you’re finally here.” Ms. Evans was startled. She quickly pushed us aside, bent over, and hurriedly applied lipstick using a small mirror on her desk. The first thing I heard was a cold voice: “Connor, tell me yourself, what trouble have you caused this time?” The office door was pushed open, and footsteps approached from a distance. The man’s voice seemed to carry a mix of exhaustion and annoyance: “Confess right now, before I have to hit you.” I felt my mom’s body stiffen. She turned her head for a glance, then immediately lowered it, as if she had seen something unbelievable. For a moment, I felt like she wanted to hide under the desk. “Mr. Hayes.” Ms. Evans stood up with a radiant smile. “You misunderstood. Connor was the one being bullied today. Please don’t scold him.” The man stopped casually behind her. “Who bullied him?” “Her.” Ms. Evans pointed at me, sighing. “There’s something wrong with this girl’s head.” I didn’t dare argue back. I could only turn around, lay prostrate on the floor, and say, “I’m sorry.” The man crouched down. He looked at the bruises on Connor’s face, his tone completely flat. “You got beat up? Does it hurt?” Connor quickly let out a pitiful “Mhm.” The man frowned, yet said mercilessly, “Useless.” After criticizing Connor, his sharp eyes swept toward me. “A little girl, getting into fights at such a young age. Didn’t your parents teach you any manners?” I was glared at by his dark, menacing eyes, almost scared to tears again, and could only bite my lip tightly. “She really lacks proper upbringing at home,” Ms. Evans quickly interjected. “I’ve already lectured her, and her mother even knelt down to apologize. Sigh… Mr. Hayes, how do you think we should handle this?” “How to handle it?” The man slowly repeated the question, his voice dripping with unmistakable coldness. Hearing this, I immediately sat up, scrambled forward blindly, and grabbed the hem of his suit jacket. “Sir, I didn’t mean to. I swear, I’ll never bother him again.” Mr. Hayes looked down at me, suddenly frowning. With one hand, he pinched my chin, his gaze revealing a mix of confusion and bewilderment. “Why do you… look so much like…” He didn’t finish his sentence. After a long silence, he just shook his head. “Ms. Evans, let it go.” Connor, however, shrieked, “How can we just let it go?” “Then what do you want?” Mr. Hayes’s tone was impatient. “I want Chloe to apologize to me in front of the whole class tomorrow.” Connor rattled on. “She also mocked me for not having a mom last time.” Mr. Hayes’s face turned dark as a storm cloud, while my mom’s face went completely white. She sneakily glanced at Connor, her eyes filled with pain and conflict. She seemed to want to say something but bit her lip, burying her head even lower, her body trembling slightly. I was a bit worried and quickly squeezed my mom’s hand tightly. “Enough, you little brat.” Mr. Hayes raised his hand and grabbed Connor by the collar. “I think you really are asking for a beating.” “Getting beat up by a little girl is embarrassing enough, and you want the whole class to laugh at you?” Ms. Evans seemed completely surprised that the matter would be dropped so easily. She pursed her lips and said, “Since Mr. Hayes isn’t pursuing it, Chloe’s mom, you should apologize to Mr. Hayes.” My mom didn’t say a word, trembling even more violently. Ms. Evans was getting impatient. “Chloe’s mom? Does muteness run in your family?” Mr. Hayes seemed to finally notice the woman still kneeling on the floor. He turned his head casually, and with just one glance, he froze. He released his grip on Connor’s collar and stood up instantly. “I’m sorry.” My mom finally spoke softly, her head still buried low. The man’s lips parted, as if it took all his strength to call out a name: “Sarah… is that you?” I had no idea how he knew my mom’s name. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.” My mom immediately turned her face away, but her left hand, trapped in the cast, agonizingly clenched into a fist, as if enduring something terrible. “It’s you.” Mr. Hayes stared fixedly at my mom. The expression on his face was indiscernible—whether he was crying or laughing, hateful or joyous, his entire face twisted terribly. “Sarah—” He seemed to chew the name up, his eyes locked onto my mom. “When did you get back?” My mom turned her head away, refusing to meet his gaze. Even Ms. Evans noticed something was wrong. Her face changed instantly. “Does Mr. Hayes know her?” “More than know her.” He seemed utterly furious, unable to hold back any longer. He grabbed my mom with one hand and pulled her up from the floor. “Eight years since we last saw each other, and this is how you look? Poor and pathetic?” “Sarah, I treated you like a princess back then. I was terrified you’d melt if I didn’t hold you tight enough, and today you’re kneeling on the fucking floor?” “Whose pride are you trashing right now?” “Get up!” After pulling my mom up, she immediately grabbed my hand, looking like she wanted to drag me away as fast as possible. But Mr. Hayes maintained a tight grip on my mom’s thin wrist. Under everyone’s gaze, this tall, imposing man’s eyes actually grew red-rimmed. “Sarah, after all these years, won’t you even look at me?” He seemed to realize something and suddenly looked at me. “How old are you?” I nervously darted my eyes between the two of them. I was actually eight years old. I didn’t know why my mom lied about my age. But I figured she must have had her reasons. Mr. Hayes, hearing her answer, looked devastated. “You… you got married?” 4 Perhaps sensing the tension, Connor started groaning and clutching his stomach, complaining that he felt sick. Ms. Evans quickly reminded Mr. Hayes to take his son to the hospital for a check-up. My mom gave Connor a deeply concerned look, bit her lip, and followed them to the hospital. The doctor said Connor was fine. My mom wanted to pay the medical bill, but Mr. Hayes wouldn’t let her. He said pointedly, “Since you haven’t shown any concern for eight years… there’s no need to fake it now.” After the check-up, Connor demanded his dad buy him roasted chicken wings. My mom stood by for a long time, looking like she wanted to say something, her eyes entirely glued to Connor. And Mr. Hayes’s eyes were entirely glued to my mom. I rubbed my stomach and told my mom I was hungry. As if suddenly remembering, she tightly grabbed my hand and got ready to leave, but Mr. Hayes wouldn’t let us. I don’t know what he said, but my mom reluctantly agreed to have dinner together. She just looked like a wilted flower. I sat across from Connor, and they sat across from each other. This was my first time at a fried chicken place. I buried my head in my bowl and kept eating. “Has this child never had a full meal?” Mr. Hayes’s tone sounded inexplicably sour. “Does her dad not want to feed her?” My mom let out a cold laugh but didn’t say anything. I lifted my head from my bowl, looking gloomy. “My dad is dead.” Mr. Hayes’s dull eyes lit up again. I didn’t know what he was plotting. Halfway through the meal, they started arguing again about some topic I couldn’t catch. Mainly, it was Mr. Hayes speaking with a sharp, passive-aggressive edge. It was uncomfortable to listen to. My mom ignored him and told me to finish eating quickly. Halfway through, Connor made a fuss about needing to go to the restroom to wash his hands. My mom patted his head and took him to the restroom. I found it a bit strange. My mom actually really disliked other people’s kids. Just now at the hospital, and while eating, my mom had been proactively taking care of him. She almost seemed to have forgotten about me… Mr. Hayes glanced up at me and said, “That’s your second bucket. Can you really still eat?” I sheepishly put down my chicken wing. Mr. Hayes suddenly pulled out a napkin and wiped my hands for me. I secretly watched him. I suddenly noticed that this Mr. Hayes had exceptionally long eyelashes. When he looked down and didn’t speak, he was as handsome as a movie star. In a flash, he seemed to transform from an overbearing CEO into a disappointed, wounded middle-aged man. “Was your dad… good to your mom before?” he asked me in a low, bitter voice. I had never met my dad, so I didn’t know how to answer. At that moment, my mom returned, standing at the restaurant exit and calling my name. I quickly stood up. “You should ask my mom… but you need to use a nicer tone.” “Chloe.” Mr. Hayes suddenly grabbed me. I looked at him in surprise. I had no idea how he knew my name. He slipped a piece of paper into my hand. Mr. Hayes whispered to me, “This is my contact info. If you ever run into a situation where someone bullies your mom like today, call the number on here. Uncle will come, no matter how busy he is.” He hesitated for a moment, looking at me, and added reluctantly, “If someone bullies you, you can call too.” My mom firmly declined Mr. Hayes’s offer to give us a ride. She held my little hand as we walked home. I decided to ask her directly, “Mom, do you like my classmate?” “Yes,” she answered. I felt a bit sad, so I decided to badmouth him a little. “Mom, don’t let his pathetic act fool you. He’s actually just a really spoiled, angry little monkey.” My mom smiled. “Why did Chloe beat him up today, and say he doesn’t have a mom?” I quickly recounted the whole story from start to finish. My mom fell silent for a moment before saying, “How about this… why don’t we invite him over for fried chicken wings this weekend, Chloe? I’ll make some really good ones, and we can explain things to him face-to-face?” I was reluctant, but I nodded anyway. We walked a bit further, and my mom asked hesitantly, “What… what did Mr. Hayes say to you?” I hesitated a bit, but I told my mom and then asked, “Do you hate Mr. Hayes, Mom?” My mom said “Mhm.” “Then can I keep his business card?” I looked up at her. She hesitated. “Keep it… but if you need something, come to me. You are not allowed to go to him.” A question suddenly popped into my head: “Mom… did you and Mr. Hayes have some kind of relationship before?” Under the moonlight, my mom’s expression seemed dark. After a long pause, she finally spoke: “We used to be… in love. Now… he probably wants to get revenge on me.” Before going to bed, I went to close the living room window. But under the window, I saw a parked Rolls Royce. I had seen Mr. Hayes driving it today, and even the license plate was the same. Was Mr. Hayes downstairs? My heart started pounding. My mom said he was an enemy, so was he keeping an eye on us? I pulled out the business card he gave me earlier that day. It read: Arthur Hayes. It turned out his name was Arthur Hayes. I felt like I had seen that name before. Where had I seen it? Oh… at my mom’s place. On the nightstand in her bedroom, there was a framed poem— “The light skiff has passed ten thousand mountains.” (Note: The Chinese character for “ten thousand mountains” is Wan Guo Shan, which was the original Chinese name. The English name Arthur Hayes is used here, but the poem reference loses its direct connection. A localized alternative could be a framed quote or a special memento related to the name Arthur, like a King Arthur legend quote, but to keep the poem vibe, we’ll adapt.) “The once and future king.” I tilted my head in confusion, then placed the business card on the coffee table. I had a feeling… he didn’t seem like someone who came to get revenge on my mom.

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My “Lawyer-on-Call” livestreams had become an accidental sensation. One evening, a caller joined the queue, her voice heavily distorted by a digital modulator. “Attorney Valentine,” she began, the robotic pitch masking her age. “I’m seeing a man—an ‘uncle,’ though we aren’t related by blood. Is there anything in the law that says we can’t be together?” I pushed down a sudden, inexplicable prickle of unease. “Legally? No. If there’s no biological tie and both are consenting adults, it’s not a crime.” “Then I have nothing to worry about,” she said, her tone visibly lighter even through the filter. “He’s getting married next Saturday. I’m planning to confess everything to him at the altar.” I fell silent for a few seconds, the ethics of the situation clashing with my professional detachment. “Sweetheart, if he’s marrying someone else, it means he’s made his choice. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t throw away your dignity for a man who’s already at the finish line with someone else.” To my surprise, she let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “He’s afraid of the dark, Attorney Valentine. Did you know that? Even if he has to slip his fiancée a sedative in her milk, he still comes to my room to hold me until I fall asleep. Tell me… is that not love?” I froze. The air in my study suddenly felt too thin. As I scrambled for a response—some piece of advice to pull this girl back from the edge—the heavy oak door to my study pushed open. My fiancé, Garrett, walked in. He was carrying a glass of warm milk, a soft, practiced smile on his face. … Looking at that swaying glass of white liquid, my brain let out a high-pitched ring. I snapped my head up to look at Garrett. The girl on the stream said her “uncle” put sedatives in the milk. Coincidentally, Garrett had a niece. I forced myself to remain still, my eyes darting toward the monitor. The girl had disconnected, leaving behind a chaotic waterfall of comments that confirmed this wasn’t a fever dream. Poor fiancée… for the love of God, don’t drink the milk. This ‘uncle’ and ‘niece’ are monsters. Using someone’s health as a tool for their affair? There’s a special place in hell. I checked—the girl’s using a burner account. This was a targeted strike on Brooke’s stream. I took a jagged breath and clicked the “End Stream” button. “Everything okay?” Garrett asked, stepping closer. “You look pale. Too many hours on the screen?” He leaned down and pressed a dry, cool kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry, Brooke. Maisie was being impulsive. It’s her fault you lost your position at the firm, and now you’re forced to hustle on these streams just to keep your reputation alive.” A month ago, Maisie had thrown a tantrum because Garrett and I went to a charity gala without her. In retaliation, she filed a formal, anonymous complaint with the State Bar, accusing me of bribing a federal prosecutor. I was suspended pending an investigation. Though I was eventually cleared, the stain on my “Golden Girl” reputation was indelible. I was forced to resign to save the firm’s face. “You don’t have to work this hard, you know,” Garrett murmured, brushing a stray hair from my face. “I can take care of you. After the wedding, you can just focus on the house. We’ll have three boys, and they’ll grow up happy with Maisie right there to help us. Like one big family.” “Here,” he said, pressing the glass against my lips. “Drink this. You need to sleep. Stop overthinking.” I swallowed hard, the cold rim of the glass clinking against my teeth. The girl’s voice echoed in the silence of my mind: He’s taking the milk to her now. It’s got the pills in it. It felt like a conspiracy theory, a glitch in the Matrix. But the hair on my arms stood up. I faked a heavy cough and pushed his hand away. “I’m not thirsty right now. I’ll drink it in a minute.” Garrett’s expression instantly soured. His features, usually so handsome and refined, twisted into something sharp and unrecognizable. “Are you still holding a grudge against Maisie?” He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight enough to leave a ghost of a bruise. “Do you have any idea how much guilt that girl is carrying? She can’t sleep because of what happened at the firm! She’s just a kid, Brooke. The pressure is killing her. To be honest, she’s the one who warmed this for you. She said if you drink it, it means you’ve finally forgiven her. Otherwise—” “Garrett, let go. You’re hurting me.” I struggled, but his hand was like a lead shackle. “Auntie Brooke… do you really hate me that much?” I hadn’t heard her come in. Maisie stood in the doorway, wearing a white silk nightgown that looked more like a slip. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Without warning, she crossed the room and dropped to her knees in front of my chair. I was stunned into silence. Garrett immediately let go of me to scoop Maisie up, pulling her into his chest. He turned on me, his voice trembling with a terrifying kind of righteous anger. “Brooke, are you trying to destroy this family?” “I’ve told you a thousand times—Maisie’s father died in my arms in the Sandbox. He was my brother-in-arms. He left her to me. It is my sacred duty to protect her for the rest of her life! In this house, her well-being comes first!” My heart felt like it was being crushed by a giant’s hand. My voice came out as a fragile whisper. “Does her ‘well-being’ include lying to the Bar? Does it include ruining my career because of a missed dinner?” When she found out I was pregnant two years ago—during her finals week—the two of them sat me down and shamed me. They told me I was “undisciplined,” that my timing was “selfish” and “disgusting.” The stress became a physical weight. I miscarried three days later. I had endured it all for Garrett. I had swallowed the bitterness because I believed in his “heroism.” But he didn’t care about my sacrifice. “You’re a grown woman arguing semantics with a twenty-year-old?” Garrett hissed. “You can find another job. But if you break her spirit, that’s forever!” “Garrett,” Maisie sobbed, clutching his shirt. “It’s my fault. Please don’t fight. If Brooke can’t stand the sight of me, I’ll just… I’ll just end it! I don’t want to live in a world where I’m a burden!” She broke from his arms and ran toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Garrett lunged for her. In his haste, he shoved me aside. I hit the edge of the mahogany desk, a sharp pain exploding in my temple as a knot began to form. Maisie struggled in his arms, her cries growing louder. “She won’t drink the milk! She hates me! I just want to go be with my dad in heaven!” My head was spinning, my vision blurring. Through the fog, I heard Garrett’s barking command: “Brooke! Drink it! Now! Show her you forgive her or so help me—” “You know what she means to me! If you drive her to the edge, you’re driving me there too!” Watching them—the “grieving” veteran and his “broken” ward—I felt a sudden, profound exhaustion. The fight left me. I stood up unsteadily, picked up the glass, and downed the milk in three long gulps. When the glass hit the table empty, I caught a glimpse of Maisie’s face over Garrett’s shoulder. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was wearing a tiny, predatory smile. My gut screamed at me. Something was wrong. I waited until they left the room, then stumbled into the bathroom. I didn’t hesitate. I shoved two fingers down my throat and forced everything back up until my stomach was empty and my throat burned. At 3:00 AM, I heard the faint floorboards creak in the hallway. “Garrett? Are you still coming?” My heart stopped. Garrett’s voice was a low, firm murmur. “Of course. You’ve been afraid of the dark since you were five. I’m not letting your father down tonight.” A moment later, my bedroom door eased open. Garrett crept in, checking on me. “Shh, she’s out cold,” he whispered to someone in the hall. Maisie stepped into the room, giggling softly. “I told you. She’s not waking up for a long time.” She walked over to my closet and pulled it open with a flourish. “God, Brooke is such a closeted flirt. Look at all this lace. She won’t mind if I borrow something, will she?” Garrett looked nervous. “Maisie, don’t. If she finds out, she’ll blow up. You know her temper.” Maisie ignored him, sliding a sheer negligee over her shoulders. “Let her. I’ll put it back before she even stirs. I want her clothes, Garrett… and I want her man, too.” She jumped onto Garrett’s back, whispering into his ear, “Actually, I prefer sleeping with nothing on. Is that okay, Uncle?” Garrett’s ears turned bright red. He glanced one last time at my “sleeping” form, his face a mask of conflict and desire, before carrying her out and closing the door. The moment the latch clicked, a single, hot tear tracked down my temple. It was her. The girl on the livestream. It had been Maisie all along. I didn’t sleep a wink. At 6:00 AM, Garrett slid back into bed beside me, radiating the scent of Maisie’s floral perfume. He kissed the corner of my mouth. “I love you, Brooke.” The bile rose in my throat. I nearly vomited on him right then and there. At 8:00 AM, I walked downstairs, the dark circles under my eyes heavy enough to feel. Maisie was in the kitchen, glowing with energy, stirring a pot of steel-cut oats. “Brooke! I heard you love honey and cinnamon oats. I got up at six just to make them for you. I felt so bad about the firm… I wanted to do something nice.” Her voice was a sugary poison. I felt a violent shiver run down my spine. “I’m not hungry.” I reached out to gently move her hand away from the bowl she was offering. The next second, the bowl hit the floor with a ceramic crash. Maisie let out a theatrical shriek. “It’s hot! Brooke, why would you push me?!” Garrett, half-dressed, came flying down the stairs. “Brooke! What is wrong with you? I leave the room for five minutes and you’re bullying her?” He grabbed Maisie’s hand and thrust it under the cold tap. “It’s okay, Maisie. I’ve got you.” “Don’t be mad at her, Garrett,” Maisie whimpered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It’s my fault. I’m just… so sore and exhausted from last night. I was clumsy. My legs felt like jelly.” Garrett’s face flushed deep crimson. “If you’re that tired, you shouldn’t be standing. Come here.” He swept her up into a bridal carry. As they reached the stairs, they didn’t even bother to lower their voices. “Garrett, you’re so mean to her. What if she doesn’t marry you next week?” Garrett let out a ragged breath. “Please. She wouldn’t dare.” “We’ve been together seven years. She’s obsessed with me. She has nowhere else to go.” I watched them go, my eyes finally dampening. Seven years ago, he was my mountain guide on a trek through the Grand Tetons. We got caught in an avalanche. In that moment, he defied every human instinct for self-preservation and threw his body over mine. When he woke up in the hospital, the first thing he said was, “You’re mine. I’ll keep you safe forever.” I had been so swept away that I walked away from a pre-arranged family merger, a life of high-society security, just to be with him. Seven years later, the rugged guide was the CEO of a luxury travel empire. We had everything now. But his heart had rotted along the way. If Maisie was more important than me, then it was time I looked for my own version of “forever.” I pulled out my phone and dialed the wedding planner. “About the ceremony next Saturday,” I said, my voice cold and clear. “Change the venue. All of it.” “And… we’re going to need a different groom.” The night before the wedding, I went live one last time. The viewer count exploded—over a hundred thousand people in minutes. My stomach dropped. Something was wrong. The comments were a blur of vitriol: Look at the trending news, Brooke. You’re a fraud. I opened a news app. My name was at the top of the social media scandal board. SHOCKING: FAMOUS ‘VIRTUE’ LAWYER BROOKE VALENTINE REVEALED AS SERIAL BRIBERY OFFENDER. SECRET ABORTION FOR HIGH-PROFILE CLIENT EXPOSED. An hour before my stream, an account claiming to be my “former assistant” had posted a massive thread. It accused me of systemic bribery during my time at the firm. Even worse, it posted a photo of me from two years ago—masked, looking haggard and broken, sitting outside an OB-GYN clinic. The comments were merciless: No wonder her win rate was so high. She was buying judges. Preaches about the law and justice, but she’s just a high-end fixer. Who knows if she paid with money or her body? Probably both. I stood up, phone in hand, and kicked open the door to Garrett’s study. “It wasn’t her,” Garrett said before I could even speak. “Maisie is twenty. She doesn’t have the resources or the malice for a hit job like this. You probably pissed off the wrong person at the firm and they’re coming for blood.” I shoved the phone in his face. “Look at the account handle. This person joined my livestream yesterday. Look at the clip.” I played the recording. The distorted voice was clear: Is it legally problematic if I’m seeing an ‘uncle’—not by blood, obviously? Garrett’s brow furrowed as the clip played. The realization was right there, written in his eyes. But he shook his head, hardening his expression. “You’re so obsessed with winning, Brooke. It’s pathetic.” “You’re actually framing a young girl just to save your own skin? You don’t know Maisie. She’s gentle. She’s kind. She would never drug someone. But you—” He stood up, looking at me with pure disdain. “You’re a criminal defense lawyer. You know every dirty trick in the book. You’ve probably been planning this ‘scandal’ for months just to make her look like a villain.” I stood there, paralyzed. A sharp, acidic burn rose in my throat. “You think I would destroy my own career? My own reputation? Just to spite her?” I tried to breathe, but the air felt like shards of glass. He hadn’t just broken my heart; he was trying to erase my soul. My phone buzzed. It was the wedding coordinator. “Brooke, we’ve seen the news. About tomorrow… is the ceremony still on?” I looked Garrett dead in the eye. “Yes. Everything is proceeding as planned.” Garrett leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “You really are desperate to marry me, aren’t you? Too bad.” He dragged out the words. “You’ve spent so much time attacking my Maisie that you deserve a lesson. Don’t expect me to show up on time tomorrow. Maybe I won’t show up at all.” A smirk touched my lips. “Suit yourself.” On my way out, I passed Maisie in the hall. She raised an eyebrow, her face full of triumph. “Oh, Auntie. Going out to try and fix the ‘leaks’? Honestly, you should just admit it. The internet has a short memory. In a few months, everyone will forget you ever existed.” “And by then, you’ll have no job, no money, and no name. You’ll just be a housewife, totally dependent on Garrett. I wonder how long his ‘protection’ lasts for a loser like you.” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I walked out the front door. The wedding was in ten hours. … “Garrett, are you really not going?” Maisie stood before a mirror, her eyes gleaming as she adjusted Garrett’s silk tie. He was already in his tuxedo. “Let her wait.” Garrett pinched her nose playfully. “She went out of her way to frame you. I can’t just forgive that. I’m going to let her sweat. Let her realize who actually holds the power in this relationship.” Maisie wrapped her arms around his waist. “Garrett… after you’re married, will you still love me best?” “Always. I promised your father.” “Then… why can’t you just marry me?” She looked up at him, her lips parted. Garrett stiffened slightly, then gently pushed her back. “Maisie, don’t be silly. You’re family. I sleep in your room because you’re scared, that’s all. It’s… different.” He checked the gold watch on his wrist and picked up a bouquet of white roses. “Okay. It’s been two hours. That’s enough of a lesson. Let’s go.” When they arrived at the cathedral, Garrett stepped into the foyer and stopped dead. The place was empty. He grabbed a wandering janitor by the shoulder. “Where is everyone? Where’s the Valentine-Miller wedding?” The man looked at him like he was insane. “Mister, you’ve got the wrong day or the wrong place. This hall wasn’t booked for today. It’s empty.” Garrett felt the blood drain from his face. He had booked this venue six months ago. He had paid the deposit himself. How could it be empty? He dialed my number frantically. Busy signal. Over and over. In a fit of rage, he hurled his phone against the marble floor, shattering it into pieces. Seeing his meltdown, the janitor pointed upward. “Maybe try the rooftop garden? There’s a huge wedding happening up there. Started a while ago. Looks real fancy.” I had always been the one with the money. I had planned every detail of this day. Garrett felt a surge of relief. She moved it to the rooftop. Of course. She wanted a better view. He sprinted up the stairs. Halfway up, he collided with me. I was in my full Vera Wang gown, radiant and composed. The moment he saw me, he exploded. “Brooke! What the hell is wrong with you? Changing the venue without telling me? Do you have any idea how many people are waiting?” I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. From behind me, Callum walked forward and swept me into his arms.

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