Category: English

When the layoff list went up on the intranet, my name was sitting on the third line. Devin Shaw. Finance Department. Senior Analyst, Level 4. The HR director handed over the severance agreement with a smile so bright you’d think she’d just closed a multi-million-dollar escrow. “Just sign here, Devin. Three months’ severance plus transition. Honestly, the company is being incredibly generous.” I glanced at the total payout. It was less than the pocket money my wife had wired me the previous month. I signed. I packed. I walked out. The entire process took exactly seven minutes. My colleagues watched me leave with the kind of blank, pitying stares you reserve for a dead goldfish being flushed down the drain. No one tried to stop me. No one thought there was any reason to. A month later, the books for our three most critical projects completely imploded. The phones at reception were ringing off the hook with furious vendors demanding payment, eventually driving the receptionist to quit in tears. My wife walked down from her office on the twenty-eight floor, flipped open the personnel directory, and stared at the pages. Her expression was darker than her custom black Maybach. “Who approved this layoff list?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. “Who—the hell—fired my husband?” Meanwhile, I was stretched out on our living room sofa, a bag of chips in one hand and the TV remote in the other. My phone screen lit up, buzzed, went dark, and lit up again. Thirty-ninth missed call. I took a slow sip of my soda. Freedom tasted incredibly good. 1 It was a rainy Wednesday. I remember it clearly because Wednesdays were always gourmet smash burger days at the office cafeteria. I had planned to head down early to grab a window seat, but just past nine-thirty, Rhonda Kelly, the HR director, drifted over to my cubicle. “Devin, do you have a quick minute?” She wore her signature corporate smile—exactly thirty degrees of upward lip curve, exposing exactly eight teeth. The HR special. I had seen it too many times before. She had given that exact same smile to our old colleague when she escorted him out last month. I set down my spreadsheet and followed her into the small, glass-walled conference room. On the mahogany table sat two copies of a document and a glass of lukewarm water. The classic execution setup. Rhonda sat down and cleared her throat. “So, Devin, as you know, the company has been looking at ways to optimize our organizational structure…” Optimize. They really were getting creative with the vocabulary. Last year it was “strategic rightsizing,” and the year before that it was “talent realignment.” At the end of the day, it all meant the same thing: you’re fired. “…and after a thorough evaluation, your position has been identified for optimization.” She slid a sheet of paper across the table. Separation and Release Agreement. The severance package: twelve weeks of pay. I scanned the numbers. It was enough to cover my takeout and craft beer habit for a few months, though it wouldn’t even cover the cost of a single bottle of wine my wife, Victoria Mercer, ordered at her corporate dinners. “Do you have any questions, Devin?” Rhonda asked, tilting her head with a subtle, condescending pity. I knew that look. It was the look you gave to someone you assumed had no leverage, no safety net, and no way to fight back. And to be fair, she wasn’t entirely wrong to assume that. During my three years at Mercer Enterprises, I had been a ghost. I came in at nine, left at five. I didn’t steal credit, I didn’t play politics, and I never sat at the main table during corporate events. I was the guy who drank punch in the corner and kept his head down. My employee badge photo was taken with my eyes half-shut because I’d been nursing a hangover that morning. I was the perfect, invisible candidate to help HR hit their layoff quota. I picked up the pen. “Wait,” Rhonda said, startled by my lack of hesitation. “Don’t you want to think about it?” “Think about what?” “Well… don’t you want to talk to your manager? Or perhaps…” I looked at her. Rhonda was wearing a crisp new silk blouse with silver cufflinks. They bore the initials R.C.—a gift from Regina Cross. Regina Cross, our Executive VP. She was also the person who had personally put my name on the chopping block. Three months ago, Regina had too much to drink at the annual charity gala. She cornered me in a dim hallway near the restrooms. “Devin, a guy with your looks and brain is wasted in Finance,” she’d whispered, stepping close enough for me to smell the expensive gin on her breath. “Come work directly under me. I’ll fast-track you to Director of Operations.” She reached out, her fingers brushing toward my shoulder. I took a deliberate step back. “Ms. Cross, I think you’ve had too much to drink.” “I’m perfectly sober,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Do you have any idea how many people in this building would kill for an opportunity like this?” “Ms. Cross,” I said, my back pressing against the cold glass of a fire extinguisher cabinet. “I’m married.” She stared at me for a few seconds, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Married? To whom? Your emergency contact in the system is your father, and your HR file lists you as single.” I had been too lazy to update my forms when we got married. Who knew people actually dug through personnel files for leverage? “Married or not,” I said, looking her straight in the eyes, “I’m not interested.” The hallway went dead silent for three long seconds. Regina eventually stepped back, her expression souring as if she’d just swallowed a wasp. And now, here I was on the layoff list. The narrative arc was perfectly logical. I signed the agreement. My handwriting was steady, the lines clean and straight. Rhonda quickly pulled the documents back, letting out a visible sigh of relief. She had probably prepared herself for tears, anger, or a threatened lawsuit. Sorry to disappoint. I stood up, my chair legs scraping softly against the hardwood floor. “Oh, Rhonda?” She looked up. “Yes?” “They’re serving those shaved prime rib sandwiches in the cafeteria today. Do me a favor and grab one? My badge is still active, and I’ve got eighty bucks left on my dining account.” “What?” I didn’t wait for her to answer. I walked back to my desk to pack up. I didn’t have much. A ceramic mug that read World’s Laziest Husband—a five-dollar flea market find Victoria had bought me as a joke—a small potted cactus that had survived three years of neglect, and a stack of colorful sticky notes covered in complex project reconciliation formulas and vendor payment cycles. I swept the mug and the cactus into a canvas tote bag. Then I looked at the sticky notes. After a second of thought, I tossed them into the bag too. They wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway. As I walked past the breakroom, I caught snatches of whispered gossip. “Devin got laid off? The analyst in Finance?” “Which one? Oh, the guy who’s always the first to arrive and the last to leave?” “Yeah, him. Honestly, it was bound to happen. He never really made a name for himself.” “I heard VP Cross personally requested his name be on the list.” “Yikes. Pissing off Regina Cross is a career death sentence…” I kept walking, my pace steady. Near the elevator bank, I ran into Toby. He was an associate in Admin, a few years younger than me, and my only real friend at the office. When he saw the canvas bag in my hand, his eyes turned instantly red. “Devin! Tell me it’s not true. They didn’t—” “Yeah,” I said softly. “Why didn’t you fight it? The amount of work you do for this department, they don’t even—” “Toby,” I interrupted, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine. Really.” “But—” “I’ll see you around.” The elevator doors slid open. I stepped inside and turned around. Toby stood in the hallway, his face twisted in a mix of anger and grief. I gave him a quick “call me” gesture. Just as the doors began to close, I heard him yell, “Don’t worry, man! If things get bad, I’ll cover your rent!” The elevator glided downward. In the lobby, the security guard, Bill, looked up from his desk, surprised to see me carrying a bag. “Leaving early today, Devin?” “Yeah, Bill. Got let go.” “What? You?” “Take care, Bill.” The heavy glass doors closed behind me. Outside, a light mist was falling. I took a deep breath. The air smelled of wet asphalt and the sweet, buttery scent of the bakery down the block. It was beautiful. I wouldn’t have to wake up at six-thirty tomorrow to squeeze onto a crowded subway train. I pulled out my phone and dialed a familiar number. It rang twice before she picked up. “Devin? Why are you calling at this hour? Is everything okay?” Victoria’s voice carried a hint of tension. She was on a business trip in Tokyo. With the thirteen-hour time difference, it was in the middle of the night for her. “Nothing major,” I said, walking toward the subway station. “My company just laid me off.” The line went completely dead for five seconds. “What did you say?” “I was optimized. Got my severance, signed the papers, and I’m walking to the train.” Another long silence. Then, I heard the rustle of sheets and the sound of a chair being pushed back. She was throwing off the covers. “Who approved the list? Which department made the decision? Who put your name on it?” Her voice was low, vibrating with a quiet, lethal anger. I had known Victoria for seven years, from our college days to our marriage. When she was truly furious, she didn’t scream. Her voice simply dropped an octave, delivering each word like a slow, deliberate strike. “Victoria,” I said gently. “Yes?” “Don’t do anything.” “Devin—” “I mean it,” I said, my tone flat. “I spent three years at this company without using a single bit of your influence. Nobody knows who I am. Now that I’m gone, I don’t want a massive scene just because of your title.” There was a quiet pause on the line. Then, she let out a long, heavy sigh. “Fine,” she murmured, clearly fighting to keep her temper in check. “I won’t interfere. Not yet. But I’m flying back next week, and when I get there—” “We’ll talk then.” “Get some rest.” “I can’t sleep now.” “Go hit the gym, then.” She let out a soft, dry laugh. “Fine. You win.” After we hung up, my phone buzzed with a text message from her. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’ll make you braised short ribs when I get home. I replied with two words: Make them spicy. 2 Day one of unemployment. I slept in until my body decided it was done sleeping. Ten-thirty. A thin sliver of golden sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains, warming my face. I rolled over and drifted off for another half hour. By eleven, my stomach grumbled, finally forcing me out of bed. I padded into the kitchen in my sweatpants, boiled some gourmet ramen, added two soft-boiled eggs, and threw in some leftover bacon. I took the steaming bowl to the sofa, turned on the TV, and found a cheesy reality show. I took a bite. It was absolute heaven. My phone was filled with notifications. Toby had sent seventeen frantic voice memos. I didn’t need to listen to know what they were about: Are you okay? This is so unfair. I’m going to lose my mind. I sent him a meme of a cat face-planted on a pillow with the caption: The world is exhausting, but ramen is reliable. He replied instantly: How can you be sending memes right now?! Because I have time, I typed back. Are you seriously not angry? You practically ran that department! For three years! All those reports, the month-end reconciliations, the— Toby, relax. The water is deeper than you think. What does that mean? Just sit back and watch. Day two. I drove over to the local market and bought three bags of gourmet snacks, two cases of soda, and a ridiculously comfortable cashmere lounge set. Once I got home, I opened a job board, scrolling through the listings without any real urgency. I was mostly just curious to see what my market value was. By the third page, my phone rang. An unrecognized local number. “Hello, is this Devin Shaw? My name is Elena with Madison Executive Search…” A headhunter. “We noticed your status recently updated on LinkedIn. We have an opening for a Vice President of Finance that we think would be a perfect fit. The base salary is…” She named a figure. I almost dropped my chip. The salary she quoted was exactly eight times what I had been making at Victoria’s subsidiary. “Devin? Are you still there?” “Yes. Please go on.” “The position is with Vertex Group…” Vertex. Mercer Enterprises’ fiercest competitor in the market. I chewed my chip slowly, enjoying the satisfying crunch. “Send the job description to my email. I’ll review it.” “Of course! We look forward to—” I hung up and opened my notes app, creating a new entry. Devin’s Fun Unemployment Journal. Line 1: Day 2. Competitor headhunter called. Offered 8x my old salary. Officially winning at life. Line 2: Expenses: Chips $6.50, soda $4.00. Total $10.50. Line 3: Mental state: Exceptionally stable. Day three. I spent the afternoon cooking a massive four-course meal: slow-roasted garlic herb ribs, roasted asparagus, creamy potatoes, and a rich corn chowder. As I ate, I scrolled through social media. My former colleagues were posting their usual content. Some posted photos of late-night office views with captions about “the hustle.” Others shared company PR articles with generic motivational quotes. Everything seemed peaceful. Business as usual. It was almost funny how quickly a corporate machine could make you feel like you never existed. I scrolled further and found Rhonda’s latest post. It was a photo of her and Regina Cross standing on a sunny golf course, captioned: So grateful for incredible mentors who inspire us to reach higher. I set my phone down and sipped my tea. My heart rate didn’t spike. My anger didn’t flare. Because I knew the real show hadn’t even started yet. They genuinely believed that firing a mid-level analyst would have zero consequences. But what they didn’t realize was that the financial models for our three core projects—the algorithms, the formulas, the hidden dependencies, and the manual reconciliation logic—existed solely inside my head. Handover? I had left a beautifully formatted three-page document on the shared drive. But content-wise, it was the equivalent of handing a non-swimmer a pamphlet on fluid dynamics and throwing them into the Mariana Trench. You can’t blame me. They didn’t give me the time to transition my work, nor did they bother to assign anyone to shadow me. 3 Day five of unemployment. The cracks were beginning to show. Toby’s updates went from three texts a day to thirty. “Devin! The Finance department is in absolute chaos!” “Ashley was assigned to take over your accounts. She tried to reconcile the accounts payable for the A3 project. She’s been at it for two days and she’s off by three point seven million dollars!” “Exactly 3.7 million! She’s literally crying at her desk!” I listened to his frantic voice notes while relaxing with a charcoal sheet mask on my face. Ashley was the kind of colleague who excelled at shifting blame and leaving the office at precisely five-to-five every evening. The 3.7-million-dollar variance. I knew exactly where it was. It was a prepayment to Valero Corp processed through a non-standard clearing channel, parked under a tertiary ledger in “Other Receivables.” It required manual reconciliation based on a side-letter milestone schedule. That logic wasn’t programmed into our automated ERP system. It was in my brain. “Did she ask Linda, the Finance Director?” I texted back. “Yes! Linda said she had no idea how you structured it and told Ashley to figure it out herself!” I smiled under my mask. Linda. My direct supervisor. A twenty-year corporate climber whose primary skills involved scheduling meetings, drinking tea, and signing off on expense reports. For three years, ninety percent of the complex reports she signed had been built entirely by me. Did she ever actually review them? Sure. Did she understand them? Not even close. “Devin, tell me you aren’t secretly laughing at this,” Toby messaged. “I would never,” I replied, though the grin on my face almost peeled the mask off my skin. Day seven. The B7 project went sideways. It was Mercer Enterprises’ largest initiative of the fiscal year—a two-hundred-million-dollar contract. With month-end approaching, they needed to deliver a comprehensive cash flow utilization report to our partner, Summit Holdings. The report required consolidating twelve sub-accounts, calculating exchange rate conversions for three cross-border payments, and amortizing milestone costs. Normally, I compiled this report with my eyes closed. But for anyone else… “Devin!!!” Toby’s voice memo was practically vibrating with panic. “Summit is threatening to pull out! They said if the financial report isn’t on their desk in forty-eight hours, they’re triggering the material breach clause!” “What’s the penalty?” I asked. “Five percent of the total contract value!” Five percent of two hundred million. Ten million dollars. I picked up my mug, gently blowing on my hot tea. The rich aroma of Earl Grey filled the room. “Let’s wait and see what happens next,” I murmured. Day nine. The suppliers for the C12 project halted deliveries. I had personally structured the payment schedule for that project, mapping out six installment phases to perfectly align with our monthly cash flow. The issue was that the priority rankings, supplier account updates, and the joint-authorization memos with Procurement were all saved in my encrypted local work folder. When I left, IT had performed a standard factory reset on my laptop. It was company protocol to wipe all departing employees’ hard drives immediately. You can’t blame me for that. As for the physical copies of those memos? They had been tucked away in the very bottom drawer of my desk. Since they looked like my personal working notes, I had simply packed them into my canvas bag when I cleared out my cubicle. An honest mistake, really. Without those payment releases, the suppliers’ payment systems began flagging the accounts as delinquent. Furious vendors called the front desk from eight in the morning until eight at night. Tyler, the young guy working reception, handled over a hundred screaming calls a day. By day two, he was thoroughly traumatized. By day three, he handed in his resignation.

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Chapter 1 Arthur Sterling was the CEO of Sterling Enterprises, and our company’s biggest client. Yet, every time he finished a meeting at our office, he would walk past my desk and ask a very strange question. “Ms. Hayes, are you desperate for money lately?” I thought he was insulting me. Until today, when he stood in front of me again and lowered his voice: “If you are truly in a difficult situation, you can tell me directly.” I was just about to ask him what he meant when a line of glowing, floating text suddenly drifted across my vision. 【He’s asking you this because he is your online boyfriend.】 Online boyfriend? But I’ve never dated anyone online. 【Your real boyfriend is using your identity to catfish him.】 【He has already scammed him out of $150,000.】 【If you don’t do something right now, you are going to take the fall and go to prison.】 【And your boyfriend will take the money and fly far away with his mistress.】 The file folder in my hands smacked onto the floor. Everyone in the office turned to look at me. I crouched down to pick up the papers, my fingertips trembling violently. Arthur bent down as well, picking up the top sheet of paper for me. He handed it back, his voice low: “Why do you look so pale?” I looked up at him. In his eyes, there was scrutiny, restraint, and a kind of exhaustion I couldn’t quite read. I replied, “I’m fine.” The floating text was still scrolling. 【Do not speak recklessly.】 【Right now, all surface-level evidence points to you.】 【The profile picture is yours, the lifestyle photos are yours, and the Instagram captions are yours.】 【The bank account receiving the money is legally registered under the name Clara Hayes.】 My back was instantly drenched in cold sweat. Arthur looked at me for a few seconds, as if he wanted to keep asking. Finally, he just said, “Do you have time after work?” The looks in my co-workers’ eyes immediately shifted. My supervisor peeked out from the conference room door, smiling cautiously: “Mr. Sterling, is there an issue with the project? I can have the project manager walk you through it.” “No need.” Arthur didn’t look at anyone else, keeping his eyes entirely on me. “I want to speak with Ms. Hayes privately.” My palms were slick with sweat. He already suspected me. Or rather, he fully believed I was the woman who had taken his $150,000. I forced myself to stand steady. “Mr. Sterling, I apologize, but I have plans tonight.” His gaze darkened. “Tomorrow, then.” It wasn’t a negotiation. It wasn’t a threat, either. But he clearly had no intention of letting this go. I nodded. “Okay.” After Arthur left, the office exploded. “Clara, do you know Mr. Sterling?” “Why did he ask for you specifically?” “Are you secretly dating the client behind our backs?” I didn’t answer a single question. I sat back at my desk and stared at my phone screen. Derek had texted me half an hour ago. “Babe, come home early tonight. I’m making your favorite sweet and sour chicken.” It was followed by a kissing emoji. In the past, seeing that would have made me feel sweet. Now, it just felt terrifying. Derek and I had been together for three years. He didn’t have a stable job. But he always claimed he was day-trading and investing—sometimes making a quick buck, sometimes taking a loss. Whenever I pushed him to get a real job, he would hug me and say: “Clara, just give me a little more time. I promise I’ll give you a good life.” I believed him. Because he was always generous with me. After work, I didn’t go straight home. I sat in the convenience store downstairs from my office and bought a bottle of water. As I twisted the cap off, my hands were still shaking. The floating text intermittently appeared again. 【Don’t confront him directly.】 【Derek is a great actor. His first reaction will be to deny it, and then he’ll accuse you of trying to climb into Arthur Sterling’s bed.】 【First, ask him if he knows Arthur.】 【The burner phone is hidden inside the bottom lining of the living room sofa.】 【The passcode is your birthday, backward.】 I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to believe the floating text. But Arthur’s reaction today, combined with Derek’s spending habits over the past six months, made everything line up perfectly. When I got home, Derek was transferring takeout into proper bowls. Seeing me, he smiled gently. “You’re back? Why are you so late today?” I stood in the entryway, not even taking my shoes off. “Derek, do you know Arthur Sterling?” The chopsticks in his hand paused for a fraction of a second. “Who?” He quickly smiled. “The CEO of Sterling Enterprises? How would I know him?” I stared at him. “Oh. It’s just that he’s been paying a lot of attention to me lately at work. I thought maybe you guys knew each other.” The smile on Derek’s face faded. “Clara, what is that supposed to mean?” He put the chopsticks down, his tone instantly shifting to defensive and victimized. “Don’t tell me you’ve caught feelings for the guy.” I didn’t speak. He grew more agitated: “You look down on me because I don’t have a corporate job, don’t you? Do you think I’m not good enough for you? Have you been wanting to find a rich guy this whole time?” In the past, I would have panicked. I would have explained myself. I would have comforted him first. But today, I only felt a freezing chill. I said quietly, “I was just asking.” Derek stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly softened and walked over to hug me. “I’m sorry, I’m just too sensitive. I’m so scared of losing you.” I didn’t push him away. I didn’t hug him back, either. The glowing text drifted over his shoulder. 【See that?】 【He’s not feeling guilty.】 【He’s just testing you to see how much you know.】 Late that night, after Derek had fallen into a deep sleep, I slowly slid his arm off my waist. I walked barefoot into the living room, not daring to turn on the lights. There was a narrow tear in the fabric under the left side of the sofa. I reached my hand inside and felt something hard. An old smartphone. Black casing, matte screen protector. I held the power button. The screen lit up, asking for a passcode. I typed in my birthday, backward. It unlocked. In that moment, the blood in my veins ran ice cold. The phone was logged into an alternate WhatsApp account. The profile picture was me. The display name was “Ellie.” The status updates were filled with fragments of my daily life. The cake I burnt last weekend. The view from my office lobby on a rainy day. A picture of my back taken when my best friend and I went to the beach. There was even a selfie I had posted on Instagram two years ago and subsequently deleted. Except, all the captions had been altered. They had been rewritten to sound like a gentle, fragile, lonely woman who was incredibly good at playing the victim. Pinned to the top of the chat list was the name: Mr. Sterling. I tapped into it. The chat logs were dense. “Ellie” talked about how exhausted she was, and how her family was forcing her to go on blind dates. “Ellie” said she didn’t want to bow to reality, but she truly had no money. “Ellie” said if someone could just pull her out of this hole, she would remember it for the rest of her life. Arthur didn’t reply often. But every response was earnest. “Don’t make decisions against your heart just for money.” “If you just need cash to bridge the gap, I can help you.” “Worry about paying it back when you’re financially stable.” Then came the transfer receipts. $3,000. $5,000. $10,000. $20,000. $50,000. Up until the very last transaction, three days ago: $60,000. The excuse was that my mother was hospitalized and needed the money for surgery deposits. Meanwhile, my mother was back in Ohio playing pickleball every single day, healthy enough to scream at my dad for half an hour straight over a missed shot. I kept scrolling down the chat list. There was another conversation. The contact name was Vanessa. The profile picture was a woman wearing heavy makeup. Vanessa: Did Arthur go to Clara’s office again today? Derek: Yeah. Vanessa: Is he suspicious? Derek: Probably. The real Clara isn’t as soft and submissive as the character I play. He’ll realize something is off sooner or later. Vanessa: Then let’s wrap this up. Don’t drag it out. Derek: I’m going to scam him for one last $100,000 “wedding ring” fund. Once the money clears, I’m taking you and we’re leaving. Vanessa: What about Clara? Derek: The bank account is in her name, the photos are hers, the persona is her. If shit hits the fan, she can explain it to the cops herself. Vanessa: True, she’s the perfect scapegoat. Perfect scapegoat. Those words twisted like a knife in my chest. Derek and I had been together for three years. I had paid his rent, transferred him money for groceries, and eaten instant ramen with him during his lowest points. He told me I was the best girl he had ever met in his life. It turned out that by “best,” he meant I was the best human shield to take a felony charge for him. I took out my own phone and hit record. I started by filming the burner phone’s exterior. Then the device serial number. The login details. The account information. The chat logs with Arthur. The transfer details. And finally, Derek and Vanessa’s conversation planning the split. I recorded it page by page, until my arms ached and my eyes stung. Right as I was finishing, a new message popped up from Vanessa. Vanessa: Have Clara go meet Arthur in person tomorrow. Vanessa: If she physically sits in front of him, he’ll definitely believe it. Vanessa: When it goes down, just say the account is hers and she asked you to handle the communication for her. You’re just a messenger. Derek: Will do. She’s easy to manipulate. I stared at those words and suddenly smiled. I smiled until my eyes burned. I heard him shifting on the mattress in the bedroom. I immediately locked the screen and shoved the burner phone back into the base of the sofa. When I climbed back into bed, Derek groggily pulled me into his arms. “Babe, where did you go?” I closed my eyes. “Just getting some water.” He kissed my hair. “Good girl.” My body was entirely rigid. I didn’t move an inch. The floating text slowly appeared above us. 【First piece of evidence acquired.】 【But it’s not enough.】 【Tomorrow, he’s going to propose to you. He’ll use marriage to bait you into his trap.】 【Do not go soft on him.】 The next day, Derek acted as if nothing was wrong. He warmed up milk for me, squeezed my toothpaste, and held me tightly before I left for work. “Clara, come home early tonight. I have a surprise for you.” I looked at his face. “What kind of surprise?” He smiled adoringly. “You’ll find out tonight.” I smiled back. “Okay.” When I got to the office, the very first thing I did was back up the evidence. One copy uploaded to a secure cloud drive. One copy emailed to a brand new email address. And another copy saved to a flash drive, tucked securely into the innermost zipper of my purse. I couldn’t take any chances. If Derek could open a bank account in my name, it meant he had my social security number and ID information. Maybe he stole it last year when he suggested we open a joint savings account. Or maybe even earlier. At the time, he had said: “We’re going to save up for a house together, we need a joint account.” He held my driver’s license and had me blink at the banking app’s facial recognition screen. I didn’t even suspect a thing. Looking back, every time he said “Let me help you,” it was a trap. In the afternoon, Arthur’s assistant walked into our department. His name was Mr. Bennett. He wore a dark suit and spoke very politely. “Ms. Hayes, Mr. Sterling wanted me to confirm: is 7:00 PM at The Grand Court Restaurant still convenient for you?” All my colleagues perked their ears up. I nodded. “Yes, it is.” Assistant Bennett visibly sighed in relief. “I can pick you up downstairs.” “No need, I’ll get there myself.” He hesitated for a moment but didn’t insist. After work, I went to The Grand Court. Arthur had booked a private dining room. It wasn’t a romantic setting; it felt more like a boardroom. When I walked in, he was already there. He wore a dark grey dress shirt, cuffs neatly buttoned, and there were only two glasses of warm water on the table. He stood up and pulled a chair out for me. “Sit.” I sat down, my palms sweating. Arthur noticed. But he didn’t immediately slam the bank transfers on the table to interrogate me. And he didn’t use his status as my client to pressure me. He simply asked, “Have you truly not run into any financial difficulties recently?” He had asked this same question many times. But this time, I knew why. I asked back, “Mr. Sterling, why do you constantly assume I’m desperate for money?” Arthur fell silent for a moment. “Because you told me you were.” My heart sank. “When did I ever say that?” He looked at me, his eyes complex. “Many times.” I gripped my water glass. “I don’t remember.” He asked again: “Then do you remember what the reason was the very first time you asked to borrow money from me?” I shook my head. “I have never asked to borrow money from you.” The private room went dead quiet. The light in Arthur’s eyes slowly dimmed—not into anger, but as if the last shred of hope he was clinging to had just been crushed. He pulled out his phone and pushed it across the table toward me. On the screen was his chat log with “Ellie”. “Ellie” had sent a photo of me at a bookstore. That photo was taken by Derek. I was standing in front of a bookshelf, turning back to smile at the camera. I used to love that picture. But now, beneath the photo was a caption that I had never written. “Mr. Sterling, sometimes I feel like I just can’t hold on anymore.” Arthur had replied: “Don’t carry it all by yourself.” I stared at those words, my chest tight with a mix of fury and sorrow. My face, used to feign weakness. My life, used to stage a play. I looked up. “Mr. Sterling, if someone scammed you out of a lot of money, what would you do?” Arthur looked at me. “It depends on whether it was intentional.” I froze. His voice was very low. “I’m not afraid of losing money. I’m afraid that I’ve become so blind I can’t even tell if the person I like is real or fake.” My breath hitched. He wasn’t just trying to catch a scammer. He was scammed out of his money, and his feelings. Yet, even after meeting the real me in person, he hadn’t exposed me in public, and hadn’t cornered me in front of my colleagues. He booked a private room, closed the door, and left me my dignity. The glowing text drifted past. 【You can show your hand now.】 【He suspected you, but he never wanted to destroy you.】 【The person who truly wants to destroy you is waiting for you at home.】 I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I pulled the flash drive and my phone out of my purse. “Mr. Sterling, I have evidence.” His gaze sharpened. I slid the USB drive across the table. “The person you’ve been texting… wasn’t me.” “It was my boyfriend. Derek Cole.” Arthur didn’t speak right away. His face was cold, like jade trapped under frost. I knew how absurd that sentence sounded to him. He had waited for six months, tested the waters for six months, suspected me for six months. And now I was telling him that the person on the other side of the screen wasn’t me. It wasn’t even a woman. He stared at the chat logs on my phone for a very long time. The private room was deathly silent.

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I had barely made it back from the clinic, my body still numb from the anesthesia, when I found the manila envelope sitting on my welcome mat. Inside, there was only a single medical report. On the back, written in a hand that looked frighteningly identical to my own, was a jagged note: “Do not keep this baby. He will be born with a severe heart defect. He will tear you and Wright apart until there is nothing left but hatred.” The next morning, my hand trembling, I signed the consent form to terminate the pregnancy. When Wright finally stormed into the hospital lobby, the nurse was handing me my discharge papers. He snatched the sheet from my hand, his knuckles turning white, his eyes wild as he demanded to know if I had lost my mind. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t explain. Three days later, at the afterparty celebrating Lacey’s opening night, I stood in the shadows of the restaurant restroom and heard her laugh. “She actually fell for it,” she boasted to one of her friends. “I told you, Naomi looks smart, but she’s the easiest person in the world to fool.” “Aren’t you afraid she’ll trace it back to you?” her friend whispered. Lacey’s voice dropped, thick with a smugness she couldn’t hide. “Why would I be? I hired someone to forge her handwriting, and the medical lab report was aged to look real. Even if Wright finds out, he’ll just think of it as one of my silly little pranks.” Then Wright’s deep voice drifted in from the hallway outside. “Don’t let there be a next time.” He wasn’t angry. He was scolding her the way one might scold a petulant child. Lacey immediately squealed with delight. “See? I told you Wright would never actually stay mad at me.” Standing inside the bathroom stall, I stared down at the small square of surgical tape on the inside of my wrist and let out a quiet, hollow laugh. Of course I knew the envelope was a setup. And I knew my baby was perfectly healthy. I signed those papers because I was a ghost. I had died, and by some cruel miracle, I had just woken up ten years in the past. … In the private dining room, Lacey was perched on the arm of Wright’s chair, spearing a strawberry from her cake and holding it to his lips. Around the table, their friends laughed and egged them on. Wright looked up, his eyes catching mine as I walked in. His glass froze halfway to his mouth. “Naomi? I told you to stay home and rest.” Someone muted the overhead music. Lacey stood up, breezing past the awkward silence to catch my arm like a concerned sister. “Oh my god, Naomi, you look so pale. You just had surgery—you shouldn’t be on your feet. Here, take my seat.” I didn’t take the seat. I raised my hand and slapped her across the face. The sharp, echoing crack instantly killed whatever warmth was left in the room. Lacey clutched her cheek, tears welling in her eyes with practiced ease. “Naomi… what did I do wrong this time?” Wright moved instantly, pulling her behind him, his voice low and vibrating with fury. “Apologize, Naomi. Now.” I threw the manila envelope onto the center of the table. “She forged a lab report to trick me into getting an abortion. Wright, she killed our baby.” Lacey shook her head violently, sobbing. “I didn’t mean it like that! It was just a joke… a stupid prank. I didn’t think you’d actually go through with it.” At the far end of the table, someone murmured under their breath, “Who the hell pranks someone about a pregnancy?” Wright shot a warning glare across the room, and the table fell dead silent again. When he turned back to me, there wasn’t a trace of sympathy in his eyes. “Lacey was acting childish, yes. But you’re an adult, Naomi. You mean to tell me you didn’t think to get a second opinion before signing those papers?” I looked at him, my voice flat. “So it’s my fault?” Wright looked away, his jaw tight. “I’m hurting too. We lost a child. But you can’t just dump all the blame on Lacey.” I reached down, picked up a glass of cranberry juice from the table, and poured it directly over the front of Lacey’s white silk dress. “Then let me take responsibility for this first,” I said. Lacey shrieked, backing away as the red liquid seeped into the fabric like blood. My gaze locked onto the silver magnolia brooch pinned to her collar, and the last traces of my smile faded. Wright had given me that brooch for my eighteenth birthday. He had whispered in my ear that the magnolia was a symbol meant only for me. But in my previous life, during the ten years that followed, Lacey wore it in every family photo we ever took. Wright’s hand struck my face before I could react. My cheek went numb, and within seconds, the copper taste of blood filled my mouth. He gathered Lacey into his arms, shielding her. “You’re a disappointment, Naomi. You’ve lost your mind.” I bent down, picked up the scattered pieces of the fake lab report, and folded them neatly, one by one. “Wright,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “From this moment on, we are even. I owe you nothing.” He frowned, a flicker of unease crossing his face. “What is that supposed to mean?” I didn’t give him an answer. I left the venue and drove straight to the studio of the Evergreen Dance Company. Lacey was scheduled to headline their national showcase next month as a rising star. Her official bio was painted in glowing, tragic strokes: “The daughter of a fallen firefighter, raised with Gill and resilience by her late father’s close friends, the Carter family.” I took out a folder of printouts. There was a photo of her sitting intimately on Wright’s lap, a screenshot of the texts she sent to get the forged lab report, and the original receipt for the silver magnolia brooch. I pinned them all directly onto the dance company’s central bulletin board. Lacey came rushing out of the rehearsal room, her ballet flats slapping against the hardwood floor. “Naomi! Are you trying to destroy my life?” I pressed the final pin into the corner of Wright’s receipt, smoothing the paper down. “You weren’t afraid of destroying an unborn child. Why are you so terrified of a piece of paper?” Other dancers began to gather around, whispering as they read the papers. Lacey fell to her knees, gasping for air between her sobs. “I’m not a homewrecker! Wright and I… it’s not what you think!” One of the male leads crossed his arms, frowning at the photo. “Then why are you sitting on her husband’s lap, Lacey?” Lacey bit her lip so hard it nearly bled. When she saw Wright push through the studio doors, she threw herself into his arms. “Wright! She’s trying to ruin me!” Wright immediately pulled her behind his back, his face hard as he pulled out his phone to call the police. “This is public defamation, Naomi. She is the daughter of a fallen hero, and you are spreading malicious, fabricated lies. You used to work for the District Attorney’s office—you of all people should know the legal consequences of this.” I nodded slowly. “I do.” I spent that night in an interrogation room at the local precinct. By the next morning, both of our families had arrived. My mother threw a folded document onto the table in front of me—a formal notice of my termination from the law firm where I had been working. “They let you go, Naomi,” she said, her voice shaking with shame. “Are you happy now?” My father slammed his hand on the table. “Lacey is our daughter too! She grew up without her biological parents, and you choose to rip open her old wounds like this? What is wrong with you?” Wright sat across from me, his cuffs still smudged with Lacey’s foundation. “If you issue a public apology,” he said quietly, “I won’t press charges.” I looked at the three of them. “And what about my baby?” No one spoke. My mother waved her hand dismissively. “You can have other children, Naomi. But Lacey only gets one shot at this showcase.” I picked up my termination letter, folded it carefully, and slid it into my purse. “Then let’s hope she doesn’t slip on stage.” My father pointed toward the exit. “Go home and think about what you’ve done. Don’t bother coming back until you’re ready to get on your knees and beg Lacey for forgiveness.” As I walked to the door, I heard Lacey’s soft whimpers behind me. “Dad, Mom, please don’t be mad at Naomi. I’ve already lost my real parents… I don’t want to lose my sister too.” Wright rubbed her shoulder, his voice soothing. “She’ll regret this, Lacey.” I opened the door and walked out into the cold morning air. I “had” regretted it—in that other life. I had regretted keeping quiet to protect the family name. I had regretted letting Wright hold his old sacrifices over my head. I had regretted cleaning up Lacey’s messes, year after year, until there was nothing left of me. In that life, I had ended up as a detective in a bleak border town. On a freezing, rainy night, I had responded to a security call at a luxury resort, only to find Wright, Lacey, and their three beautiful children vacationing there. Lacey had looked at my silver police badge and laughed. “Still playing cop, Naomi?” she had said, loud enough for the hotel staff to hear. “Sounds exhausting. If I were you, I’d have settled down a long time ago.” Later that same night, I managed to rescue a kidnapped young girl from an abandoned warehouse. But I got trapped inside when the place was set ablaze. As the smoke filled my lungs and the fire closed in, I stared at the last text message on my phone. It was from Wright. “Lacey says she wants to see you. Can we just put the past behind us?” We couldn’t. Some debts could never be settled with a text. If the universe had dragged me back to this moment, it wasn’t so I could suffer in silence all over again. When Wright returned to our apartment that evening, Lacey was right behind him, dragging a pastel-pink suitcase. She stood at the threshold, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Naomi… the company asked me to take a temporary leave. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, and Wright said I could stay here for a few days.” I didn’t answer. I was busy packing away the things I had bought for the nursery—the tiny onesies, the little socks, and the wooden rattle Wright had picked out himself. I tossed the rattle into a black garbage bag. Wright reached out, stopping my hand. “What are you doing?” “Throwing it out.” “I bought that for our baby.” I looked up at him, my eyes cold. “Oh. You remember?” His grip loosened, and his hand fell away. Lacey stood by his side, her voice barely a whisper. “Naomi, please don’t be angry with Wright. He hasn’t slept in days.” I pulled the drawstring tight on the trash bag. “As long as you’re sleeping fine, Lacey, that’s all that matters.” Her face went pale. Wright scowled. “Naomi, is it really necessary to be this hostile?” I pointed toward the guest bedroom. “She can stay there. But the lock has been changed, and there is nothing of hers left in that room.” Lacey blinked, startled. “What do you mean? Where are my old trophies? My high school yearbooks?” “Donated.” Refusing to believe me, she pushed past me and threw open the guest room closet. It was completely empty. Nothing remained but a bare mattress on the bed frame. Wright’s face darkened. “Those were her childhood memories, Naomi.” I tossed a set of keys onto the coffee table. “Why should her childhood memories occupy space in my marital home?” Lacey leaned against the doorframe, tears spilling onto the hardwood floor. “I know you hate me, Naomi. You can yell at me, you can hit me, but how could you throw away the photos of my parents?” I looked at her, unblinking. “I didn’t throw away the photos of your biological parents.” She froze. “I threw away the fake scrapbook my parents made to help you play house,” I continued. “Naomi!” Wright snapped. I unlocked my phone and held the screen up to his face. “Here is the number for the local recycling center. If you want them back, you can go dig through the bins yourself.” Lacey screamed, lunging forward to grab my phone. I stepped aside. She lost her footing, crashing hard onto the floor, her knees hitting the wood with a sickening thud. Wright dropped to his knees to pull her up. “Naomi! What the hell is wrong with you?” I squatted down to retie the garbage bag. “I learned from the best.” The doorbell rang. The building manager was standing in the hallway, flanked by two security guards. “Excuse me, Mrs. Carter, but we received a noise complaint from the neighbors downstairs. They reported shouting and glass breaking.” Lacey scrambled toward them like they were her savior. “Oh, thank God. Please, you have to help us. My sister is having a nervous breakdown. She just had major surgery, and she’s not in her right mind.” The manager glanced at me, then turned to Wright. “Mr. Carter, do we need to call an ambulance? Or perhaps her doctor?” Wright stayed silent, letting the implication hang in the air. That was always his favorite weapon. He loved painting my anger as hysteria, and my retaliation as sickness. I walked over to the coffee table and picked up my medical records. “We don’t need a hospital. But you might want to call the police.” The building manager blinked. “Excuse me?” I handed him the folder. “I was coerced into a medical procedure using forged documents. Mr. Carter and Miss Carter here just admitted to their involvement inside my apartment. I believe you heard them.” One of the younger guards looked up, his eyes widening. Wright’s face went pale. “I didn’t admit to anything!” Lacey cried out, her voice cracking. “I didn’t say a word!” I pointed to the small, blinking light of a newly installed security camera in the corner of the ceiling. “The camera records audio.” Lacey spun around to look at Wright, panic rising in her eyes. Wright stared at me as if he were looking at a stranger. “You put cameras in our home to spy on us?” I dragged the heavy black trash bag to the front door. “To catch thieves.” Lacey sobbed hysterically. “Wright, I can’t stay here. Let’s go.” Wright helped her up, guiding her past the security guards. Before he walked out, he turned back to me, his voice dripping with venom. “You’re going to beg her to come back, Naomi.” I slammed the door in his face. The second the latch clicked, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an unknown number. “Ms. Carter, the files for the cold case have been secured. Are we starting tonight?” I deleted the message. Not yet. It wasn’t time. The next afternoon, my mother brought Lacey back to my parents’ house. The living room was packed with relatives when I walked in. Before I could even take off my coat, my aunt slammed her teacup onto the saucer. “Naomi, look at your sister! She’s practically skin and bones, and you’re still carrying on with this ridiculous feud?” Lacey was wearing a high-collared knit sweater. The slap mark on her cheek had faded, but a fresh piece of sterile gauze was taped to her neck. She tilted her head, making sure everyone saw the bandage. “I’m fine, Auntie. Really.” My mother clutched Lacey’s hand, tears spilling instantly. “Lacey was so distraught last night she almost did something reckless. Naomi, are you trying to drive her to the edge?” My father slid a printed document across the coffee table toward me. “Sign this. We’re going to post it online. It says you suffered a temporary emotional breakdown due to the miscarriage and misconstrued the situation between Lacey and Wright.” I scanned the page. It was beautifully drafted. It painted Lacey as an innocent victim of a grieving sister’s paranoia, and Wright as a devoted, long-suffering husband standing by his troubled wife. “Who wrote this?” I asked. Lacey looked up, her eyes wide and pleading. “Wright had his legal team draft it. Naomi, if you just post this, the dance company will let me back into the showcase.” “Your sister’s entire career shouldn’t be ruined because of your temper,” my father grunted. I picked up the pen. A collective sigh of relief swept through the room. But instead of signing, I wrote three words across the signature line in thick, black ink: “Go to hell.” My aunt threw her hands up. “What is wrong with this girl? Why are you so stubborn?” I ignored her, locking eyes with my father. “Dad, when you adopted Lacey, you told everyone it was because her father saved your life. Right?” My father’s face hardened. “Why are you bringing up the past now?” “I want to hear her say it,” I replied, turning to Lacey. Lacey lowered her head, sniffing. “My father died in the line of duty to save Uncle Thomas.” I nodded slowly. “And you claim he was a firefighter?” My mother stood up abruptly. “Naomi! That is enough. Shut your mouth.” Lacey clutched a crumpled tissue in her fist. “Are you really going to insult my dead father now, Naomi?” I didn’t push it further. In my previous life, I had spent years digging into her background. Her “heroic” father was never a firefighter. He was a low-level smuggler, a middleman in a child-trafficking ring who had died fleeing from the police. The Carter family had adopted Lacey because my mother was soft-hearted, and because my father needed to cover up a critical, career-ending mistake he had made during that investigation. But if I exposed them now without hard evidence, they would only use it to lock me away in a psych ward. I tore the apology letter in half. “If you want me to apologize, fine. Have Wright hand over his phone records from the day of my surgery. And have Lacey bring the man who forged my medical report to this house.” The color drained from Lacey’s face. My father roared, “You’re going to cross-examine your own family now?” I stood up, brushing off my coat. “Real family doesn’t murder my baby.” The front door opened, and Wright stepped in. He was holding a printed sheet of paper—an appointment confirmation for a psychiatric evaluation. “Naomi, you need to go get tested,” he said, his voice flat. I stared at the paper. In my previous life, he had used this exact same tactic. He used a forced psychiatric evaluation to prove I was suffering from postpartum psychosis, rendering all my accusations legally useless. Even after I was reassigned to the department in Charleston, that red flag had followed me in my files. Every promotion, every transfer, there was always someone asking: “Is it true you were mentally unstable back then?” I took the paper from his hand and ripped it to shreds right in front of them. “I’m not getting evaluated, Wright.” Wright’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “Don’t force my hand, Naomi.” Lacey reached out to grab his arm. “Wright, stop. She’s just grieving. She’s in so much pain.” I picked up a cup of cold tea from the table and poured it directly over Wright’s expensive leather shoes. “Stop pretending to care,” I spat. He grabbed my wrist, his grip like iron. Ignoring the pain, I turned my gaze to Lacey. “You love to cry, don’t you? Let’s hear it. Cry louder for everyone.” Lacey shrank back under my stare, and the room erupted into angry shouts from my aunts and uncles. Wright dragged me toward the front door. “You are moving out of our apartment. Tonight.” I let out a sharp laugh. “I bought that apartment before we even got engaged, Wright.” He froze. I pulled a copy of the deed from my purse and slapped it against the wall by the door. “From today on, if anyone catches Lacey inside my apartment, I’m filing breaking-and-entering charges.” My father raised his hand to slap me, but before he could swing, there was a sharp knock at the door. A middle-aged woman wearing a worn gray trench coat stood on the porch. She looked past me into the living room, her eyes locking onto Lacey. She paused. “Are you Lacey Carter?” Lacey stepped back, instantly on guard. “Who are you?” The woman reached into her canvas bag and pulled out a faded photograph. “Your father owes my family a life. I’ve been looking for you for seventeen years.” Every eye in the room turned to Lacey. The crumpled tissue slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.

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Chapter 1 After living in a different state from my husband for an entire year, I ran into one of his female coworkers at the mall. She smiled brightly and greeted me, “Congratulations! I heard the amazing news about your new baby girl.” I froze, struck by lightning. Without noticing the color draining from my face, she continued, “I’ll definitely be at the baby’s welcome party this weekend!” As she spoke, she waved an elegant, gold-embossed invitation in her hand. “The design on this is absolutely stunning. So thoughtful.” I forced a stiff smile, pretending to be calm as I took the invitation from her hand to get a closer look. Under Father, I saw my husband’s name: Mark Sterling. Under Mother, a name I didn’t recognize: Chloe Bennett. I silently memorized the hotel address on the card and handed it back. “Thank you. See you this weekend.” When the weekend arrived, I drove to the upscale hotel listed on the invitation. The venue was bustling with people. A beautiful, well-dressed woman stood by the entrance, holding a one-month-old baby girl as she greeted guests. She smiled warmly as I approached. “You must be one of my husband’s coworkers! He always says his office has so many beautiful women. Please, come on in and take a seat.” … A violent storm raged in my chest. I glanced at the baby girl in her arms. She had fair skin and features that undeniably mirrored Mark’s. I kept my face entirely expressionless. “Where’s Mark?” He was nowhere to be seen in the hall. However, I did spot several familiar faces—Mark’s relatives. I had only met his extended family once at our own wedding seven years ago, but I have a sharp memory and recognized a few of the older aunts and uncles. I couldn’t believe Mark had the audacity to publicly parade his illegitimate daughter in front of his entire family. “Mark went to pick up my in-laws. He should be back any minute,” Chloe answered cheerfully. Another gaping hole tore through my heart, the pain so sharp it was suffocating. Just two days ago, my parents-in-law told me they had booked a senior bus tour to Florida. They said they would be traveling for two weeks. Worried their social security wouldn’t cover all their expenses, I had transferred them an extra $1,500 as a vacation fund. They had been in poor health for years, constantly relying on medication, and had never traveled. When they said they wanted to get away and relax, I fully supported them. For the past seven years, I had treated them like my own flesh and blood. To my face, and to everyone else, they always praised me for being a rare, devoted, and filial daughter-in-law. I never imagined they were treating me like a complete fool, helping Mark deceive me. Chloe didn’t notice the turbulent emotions swirling in my eyes. She guided me over to the section reserved for Mark’s colleagues. As soon as we approached, a middle-aged man looked at Chloe with envy. “I’m so jealous of Mark. Not only does he have a gorgeous wife, but an even more beautiful daughter.” The men and women at the table chimed in, one after another. “Chloe, you really won the lottery. When you quit your job to be a stay-at-home mom, I was a little worried for you. But it’s been over six years, and you and Mark are still so happy. Now you have this beautiful symbol of your love. I’m so thrilled for you.” My hands clenched into tight fists, my nails digging deep into my palms. I had only been married to Mark for seven years. He had been cheating on me with Chloe for over six. What was even more laughable was that during those agonizingly long seven years, I suspected absolutely nothing. Even this morning, he had sent me his usual good morning text with a kissing emoji, saying: Morning honey, I miss you so much. For seven years, I thought we had a wonderful marriage. He never lost his temper. He told me his salary was $10,000 a month, and he always gave $9,000 to me, keeping only $1,000 for his own expenses. Every year with his holiday bonus, he would buy me a piece of gold jewelry. Just from those pieces alone, I had saved up quite a bit. A year ago, he sat me down and told me he had a chance to be transferred to a branch a few states away. The promotion would increase his salary by $5,000 a month. “We have to plan for Leo’s future,” he had said. “College, a house… everything costs money. I want to earn more to secure our son’s future.” After careful consideration, I agreed to let him take the out-of-state transfer. Only now did I realize that he was like the dark of night—I had never been able to see him clearly at all. “Mark is amazing. He’s been the top sales rep for years now. His base is $10k, sure, but he rakes in massive commissions every single month.” “He’s a great provider and treats his wife like a queen. Such a rare, good man.” Commissions. I finally understood. He had told me his base salary, but all those massive commission checks went straight to funding his second family. Chloe’s face beamed with happiness. “We are very blessed.” Another coworker sighed enviously, “Time flies! We were just at your wedding six years ago, and now you have a baby.” They even had a lavish, public wedding. When Mark and I got married, we just had a small, modest reception in his rural hometown. He never invited any of his coworkers. I stood silently in the crowd, listening to the hidden, sickening secrets of my husband’s double life. A female colleague linked arms with Chloe, asking for advice. “Chloe, you really know how to manage a husband. Teach me! How do you get Mark to be so obedient and treat you so perfectly?” I, too, was curious. I cast a discreet glance at Chloe. Her smile radiated the carefree bliss of a woman who had never worried about paying a single bill. “Mark is just a genuinely good person. It’s my blessing to have met him,” Chloe said. “But marriage is about understanding. If you’re ever worried about a man’s loyalty, you have to control the finances. Mark hands over his entire paycheck to me; he only keeps a few hundred bucks a month for cigars and golf.” “And every year, he uses his massive year-end bonus to buy me genuine Cartier diamond bracelets. A man’s heart is wherever his money goes!” My already shattered heart took another brutal hit. His bonuses went to buying her Cartier diamonds? What had he been giving me all these years? Cheap gold-plated trinkets. Emotions surged up my throat like a tidal wave. They were chatting so enthusiastically, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing there like an iceberg—silent, entirely out of place. Chloe’s phone rang. She smiled. “Mark is calling me.” She casually handed the baby over to me. “Could you hold her for a second?” I froze. The baby girl, soft as cotton, lay quietly in my arms. She stared up at me with bright, shiny eyes, not crying or fusing at all. I looked down at her with a heavy, complicated heart. Even though I was on the verge of a total breakdown, looking at this fragile little creature, I forced my emotions back down. Chloe was standing right next to me, and Mark’s voice drifted clearly through the phone speaker. “Honey, you just finished recovering from childbirth, please don’t overwork yourself today.” “I picked up my parents. Traffic is a little heavy, so don’t stress, we’re on our way.” Chloe replied with gentle understanding. “I’m not tired at all. Drive safe, don’t rush.” As soon as she hung up, the crowd swooned. “You two are so in love! Even at work, he texts you every hour.” “You’ve been together for so long, and the spark hasn’t faded at all. If anything, he’s more obsessed with you!” “Mark acts like he’s terrified you’ll run away. Chloe, you really found a unicorn. Even if every other man in the world cheated, Mark absolutely never would!” I used to think Mark was deeply devoted to me, too. He called me once a day, sent me a text every morning. Though the calls were never long—usually under a minute—I never suspected he had ulterior motives. Between my job, managing the household, and raising our son, my time was entirely consumed. He said work was demanding, so I understood the brief calls. I never expected that he was sharing the intimate, meticulous details of his daily life with another woman. I carried the baby to an empty seat and sat down. Suddenly, I noticed a piece of custom gold jewelry clasped around the baby’s tiny wrist. The charm was shaped like an intricate guardian angel. I recognized it instantly. Seven years ago, when I first found out I was pregnant with boy-girl twins, my mother went to a famous jeweler to custom-design a pair of matching gold angel pendants. She even traveled across the state to have them blessed by a bishop at our hometown cathedral. But fate was cruel. There were complications during delivery. Only my son survived. I was completely devastated. The physical trauma ruined my body, making it impossible for me to ever have a second child. My son, Leo, had worn the boy’s angel pendant on his wrist since the day he was born. The girl’s pendant had been carefully locked away in our home safe. Every time I thought of the daughter I lost, I would hold that little gold angel and cry until I couldn’t breathe. My hand trembled as I touched the lifelike wings of the charm on this baby’s wrist. I gently turned it over. Engraved clearly on the back was a single name: Joy. That was the name I had spent months picking out for my unborn daughter. I wanted her life to be filled with nothing but joy. “My daughter’s name is Joy. Mark picked it out,” Chloe smiled, walking over to sit beside me. “That jewelry was custom-made by Mark, too. You have no idea how much he loves having a daughter.” My heart cracked into tiny, jagged pieces, but I kept my composure. “He treats you very well.” Chloe smiled, treating me like an old friend. “You must be relatively new to the company, right? I used to know all the senior staff before I left. Mark told me they had a lot of new hires recently.” I forced a hollow “Yeah” past my lips. “The company has great benefits, but the travel is awful. Thankfully, Mark hasn’t had to travel for work for the past year.” “He used to be on business trips constantly—sometimes we wouldn’t see each other for half the month. But we finally made it through the hard part!” A bitter, cynical smile touched the corners of my mouth. “Yeah, you did.” Before Mark was “relocated” a year ago, he used to go on business trips for about two weeks out of every month. I used to feel so bad for him, constantly flying from city to city. I never let him worry about anything at home. When his parents got sick, when they were hospitalized, when they needed 24/7 care—I handled all of it. Even as our physical intimacy dwindled over the years, I never complained. Now I realized he was never on business trips. He was just taking turns living in a completely different house. Chloe made no move to take the baby back, occasionally standing up to greet passing friends. She looked down at the baby resting peacefully in my arms and looked surprised. “My daughter really likes you! Usually, when my friends try to hold her, she screams.” “You’ve been holding her for a while now and she hasn’t made a peep. It’s like magic.” “Probably because I have a child of my own,” I said flatly. “I have experience.” She was thrilled and didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it. “Could you watch her for just a little bit longer? I need to go greet some guests arriving at the front.” I gave a slight nod. She walked away, completely at ease. I stared at the massive banner hanging in the center of the banquet hall. Congratulations to Mark and Chloe on the One-Month Celebration of their beloved daughter, Joy! My veins felt like they were pumping crushed glass. My son, Leo, never had a one-month celebration. At the time, our whole family was drowning in the grief of losing his twin sister. Mark had suggested we skip the party. My parents disagreed, arguing that celebrating the surviving baby was important, but Mark adamantly refused. He claimed the pain of losing his daughter was just too much to bear. But now he finally had a daughter, and he could throw a joyous, lavish party for her! I was the only one still mourning the daughter who never got to live. Suddenly, my mother-in-law called my cell phone. I didn’t hesitate. I pressed answer. “Clara, did you not see my text?” her voice sounded completely normal. “No,” I replied, my voice as cold as ice. “Are you at the grocery store? It sounds noisy over there.” “Check your messages. I can’t hear you clearly, just text me back.” She hung up. I opened my messages and saw a text from twenty minutes ago. Clara, a relative back home just had a baby, and I need to send a gift. I don’t have enough cash on me. Wire me $3,000. It’s proper etiquette, we can’t afford to be rude. The pads of my fingers turned white as I gripped the phone. My blood boiled. This entire family wasn’t just treating me like an idiot—they wanted me to play the ultimate sucker, bankrolling the cash gift for my husband’s bastard child! I laughed out loud, purely from rage. I didn’t reply. She texted again, rushing me: Hurry up and transfer it! We have to maintain our manners. The Sterling family cannot lose face. I still didn’t reply. I would wait for her to show her face at the venue. Soon enough, another message popped up. I always thought you were a reasonable woman. I never expected you to be this stingy. Forget it. If you won’t give it to me, I’ll figure it out myself. A mocking sneer formed on my lips. I treat you like my own daughter. You’re the best daughter-in-law in the world. Our family must have done something incredibly right in a past life to get you. All of it was a disgusting, manipulative joke. When Chloe walked back over, she was on the phone. I could hear Mark’s voice loud and clear through her receiver: “Honey, my mom got another piece of gold jewelry for our princess.” “I told her she didn’t have to, the baby has enough jewelry, but Mom insisted.” Mark added specifically: “This piece is different, though. It’s got an angel design and was blessed by the Bishop. It’s highly symbolic, not just some standard jewelry store piece.” My blood pressure spiked so hard my vision blurred. Two days ago, my son left for a summer camp. Before he got on the bus, my mother-in-law told him to take off his gold angel bracelet so he wouldn’t lose it. My son took it off and handed it to her for safekeeping. I never imagined this old woman would steal my son’s protective charm and give it to her son’s illegitimate daughter! Chloe smiled sweetly. “Aww, please thank Mom for me. That is so incredibly thoughtful.” My mother-in-law’s voice chimed in through the phone: “No need to thank me! It’s my duty as a grandmother. You gave me a beautiful, precious granddaughter, I’m the one who should be thanking you. We’ll be there in just a minute, thanks for holding down the fort with the guests.” Hanging up, Chloe reached out to take the baby, but caught sight of new guests arriving in the distance. She quickly hurried off to greet them again. I continued holding the illegitimate child. She was still remarkably quiet in my arms. I looked down at her and whispered self-deprecatingly: “Don’t worry. Your welcome party is going to be something everyone remembers for the rest of their lives.” Finally, I heard the commotion of Mark and his family making their grand, belated entrance into the hall. Carrying his child, I walked straight up onto the venue’s center stage. Just as I heard Mark ask Chloe, “Honey, where’s our baby?” I raised the microphone to my lips. My voice echoed like cracking ice through the venue speakers: “Husband, your bastard child is right here in my arms.”

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During our team dinner, my boyfriend went out of his way to run down the street and grab two specialized iced teas. He handed one to my best friend across the table, and set the other in front of me. Sadie smiled warmly, offering a quick thank-you. “You’re always so thoughtful, Zachary. You remembered my stomach can’t handle ice.” I looked down at the mango-coconut smoothie sitting in front of me. Without a word, I pushed it away. “What’s wrong?” Zachary asked, barely looking up from his phone. “I have a severe mango allergy, Zachary. Did you forget? Again?” He paused, a brief flicker of hesitation crossing his face before he brushed it off with a light, dismissive laugh. “It’s just a little bit of mango. Can’t you just scoop it out?” Yet, he had no trouble remembering that Sadie hated cilantro, despised green onions, and only ever drank her tea half-sweet with no ice. But for me, a girl whose throat would constrict at the mere touch of mango, his only solution was to “scoop it out.” I realized then that when someone’s heart has shifted, even your survival becomes a minor detail, easily brushed aside. On the drive home, I sat in the backseat. Watching the silhouette of their shoulders sitting so close together in the front, I felt a sudden, unexpected wave of relief. A relationship where even my life-threatening allergies couldn’t find a place in his memory was a relationship I no longer wanted. … By the time the SUV pulled into our apartment complex, the two of them were still deep in conversation about a movie that had opened over the weekend. It was the same movie Zachary had promised to take me to last Friday, before he canceled at the last minute, claiming he had to work late. They bounced from the tragic fate of the main characters to the subtle nuances of female solidarity. I couldn’t tell you how many times I had been left out of their inside jokes, sitting in the back like an uninvited guest. Eventually, their laughter began to taper off. Zachary glanced at the rearview mirror, his brow furrowing in mild surprise. “Why haven’t you gotten out yet?” I looked up, my voice entirely flat. “You didn’t unlock the doors.” A heavy silence fell over the car. Sadie immediately jumped in to smooth things over. “Oh, my gosh, that’s on me! I get so carried away when we start talking.” She leaned forward, familiarly reaching over the center console to press the unlock button. This car was bought with the first major bonus Zachary made at the firm. I still remembered him smiling, telling me I’d never have to squeeze onto the crowded morning subways again. Then Sadie moved to Boston to seek our help. Our quiet morning commutes quickly went from a party of two to three. And because Sadie suffered from severe motion sickness, I was the one who voluntarily moved from the passenger seat to the back. Three years in the back had made me forget where the dashboard controls even were. Sadie, however, knew them all by heart. She handled the console with the easy familiarity of someone who owned the place. “Lauren, don’t be mad at him,” Sadie said, turning back with a sympathetic pout. “I’ll make sure to give him a piece of my mind on the drive to my apartment.” Zachary let out a soft, amused chuckle, offering no defense. Having lived with him for so long, I could easily detect the sheer fondness laced in that laugh. When we first started dating, if I so much as mentioned that I didn’t like the smell of cigarette smoke, Zachary would freeze me out for days, calling me controlling and demanding to know why I couldn’t just let him have his one outlet for stress. But now, the man who detested being critiqued had grown entirely accustomed to Sadie’s playful nagging. Outside, a sudden gust of wind blew rain through the half-open window, sending a chill straight down my spine. I pushed the door open and practically fled into the night. Of course, the downpour chose that exact moment to turn violent. I ran to the shelter of the building’s awning, completely drenched. When I turned back to look at the driveway, I saw Zachary reaching over, gently wiping a stray drop of rain from Sadie’s cheek. I reached up and wiped the water off my own face. But no matter how hard I rubbed, the dampness remained. Back in the apartment, I took a long, steaming shower. By the time I walked out, drying my hair with a towel, my department manager was calling my phone. “Lauren, are you absolutely sure about this resignation?” he asked, his voice tinged with regret. “You just brought in our biggest account of the quarter. I was actually planning to speak with Zachary about putting you up for a promotion and a salary bump.” In my six years at this company, I had applied for a promotion twelve times. And without fail, every single request had been vetoed by Zachary. When my colleagues praised my campaign strategies, he called it “just doing her basic job.” When the department head recommended me for a prestigious overseas training program, he claimed my “core capabilities were still lacking.” Even when the entire team collectively signed a petition to elevate my title, he rejected it. I had been hurt, but I kept quiet, trying to be the supportive partner. Meanwhile, Sadie, whom I had personally referred to the HR department, had climbed three ranks in less than three years. Her salary had tripled. When I finally lost my temper and demanded an explanation, Zachary had looked at me with disappointment. He told me that because of our relationship, we had to maintain strict boundaries to avoid any appearance of nepotism. He told me to be mature, to be generous. Sadie was new to the industry, he said. She needed guidance, protection, and patience. But I was done being patient. I took a slow, deep breath. “There’s no need to speak with him, Mr. Winston. I’ve made up my mind. I’m leaving.” Hearing the finality in my voice, the manager sighed and didn’t press further. Just then, the front door clicked open. Zachary walked in, catching the tail end of my conversation. “Made up your mind about what?” he asked, kicking off his shoes. “Nothing.” Zachary didn’t push. He was holding a small cardboard package he’d picked up from the mailroom. He walked over to the couch, slicing it open with his pocket knife. Inside was a signature green box. He pulled out a red Carnelian Van Cleef Alhambra bracelet. He looked up at me, holding it up to the light. “Is it pretty?” That exact bracelet had been sitting in my online shopping cart for over a year. Every time I showed it to him, he would scoff, calling it a waste of money and a textbook example of corporate marketing. He told me those delicate, flashy pieces didn’t suit my style anyway. For a split second, a stupid, foolish hope flared up in my chest. I thought he had remembered. Then, his next words shattered the illusion. “You and Sadie are best friends. Do you think she’ll like it?” My breath caught. I swallowed the lump in my throat and managed a small nod. “She’ll love it.” Sensing the sudden shift in my mood, Zachary offered a rare, defensive explanation. “Tomorrow is her three-year anniversary at the firm. I wanted to get her something special. After all, she moved all this way to Boston to be near us. We don’t want her to feel like we’re neglecting her.” He paused, his eyes falling briefly on my bare wrist. “If you really like it, I’ll get you one for your birthday.” I was his actual girlfriend, yet I was being asked to wait for some vague, distant promise of a consolation prize. But the old Zachary didn’t make empty promises. He used to show his love through immediate, quiet actions. If I shared a post about a new restaurant, he would drive me there the very next weekend. If I casually mentioned a craving for dim sum, he would wake up early on a Saturday to buy it before I even opened my eyes. When I turned down a lucrative six-figure offer in New York to end our year of long-distance, he didn’t say much. He simply worked grueling eighty-hour weeks to close deals. Then, he had handed me a deed to our apartment with both of our names printed on it. “Lauren,” he had whispered, pulling me close. “We finally have a home.” I looked away from the red bracelet. “No need. I don’t even like red.” Zachary’s brow furrowed. “Suit yourself.” He loosened his tie and headed toward the bathroom. “I’m going to shower. Don’t say anything to Sadie tonight. I want it to be a surprise tomorrow.” The sound of rushing water soon filled the apartment, drowning out the ambient noise of the city. On the coffee table, Zachary’s phone vibrated. I glanced down. A preview banner popped up on the lock screen. Home yet? The sender’s name was saved simply as a blue whale emoji. It was Sadie. Just last year, Zachary and I had a screaming match over this exact issue. I had discovered that while Sadie was saved under a cute, affectionate whale emoji, my contact name had been changed from “My Sweet Gardenia” to a cold, clinical “7.14 Lauren”—our anniversary date followed by my first name. I had cried, packed my bags, and walked out. Terrified of losing me, Zachary had begged for forgiveness. He promised to quit smoking, promised to change my contact name back, and swore he would keep his distance from Sadie. For a while, it felt like we were in the honeymoon phase again. I would wake up to breakfast on the table. He would wait for me by the elevators so we could walk out together at the end of the day. But deep down, I knew an invisible, hairline fracture had formed between us. Then, three months ago, Sadie was hospitalized after drinking on my behalf at a client dinner. Just like that, she insinuated herself back into the center of our lives. I had spent months waiting for a definitive line to be crossed, some smoking gun of a physical affair. But they were always careful. They never technically crossed the line. Instead, they simply built a world of shared jokes and industry gossip that slowly, systematically locked me out. Like tonight, at the end of the dinner. I had only bent down for fifteen seconds to tie my shoe. They couldn’t even wait that long. When I stood up, they were already gone, vanishing around the street corner together. The next morning, I went straight to the HR department and left my signed resignation letter and transition files on the director’s desk. As I walked back to my desk, Sadie ran up and threw her arm around my shoulder. “I still can’t believe Zachary forgot you were allergic to mangoes!” she chirped, throwing a playful punch into the air. “Don’t worry, I gave him a massive guilt trip about it on the ride home last night.” But he remembered that your stomach can’t handle ice. The words rose to the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them down. It felt too pathetic, too desperate. I gently slipped my shoulder out of her grip. “We didn’t fight. I’m just tired.” Sadie didn’t seem to notice my coldness. She kept her bright, sunny smile locked on me. “Then you need to rest! Let me buy you a massive dinner tonight to make up for it.” Looking at her flawless, unbothered expression, I felt a sharp pang of exhaustion. When Sadie first arrived in Boston, she was entirely alone. I had made it my mission to shield her, taking on extra work so she wouldn’t feel overwhelmed, letting myself be pushed aside if it made her happy. But I had been alone once, too. When I first arrived in this city, I had no one but Zachary. At least when Sadie arrived, she had me to hold her hand. And eventually, she had Zachary to cherish her. “I can’t tonight. I have plans,” I said quietly, turning back to my computer screen. A moment later, a notification popped up in the department group chat. It was from Zachary. Celebrating Sadie’s 3rd year with the team today. Afternoon tea is on me! Beneath it was a screenshot of a receipt from an upscale French patisserie downtown—the kind of place where reservations had to be made weeks in advance. Last weekend, I had brought home a single pastry from that shop. Zachary had looked at it and asked, “Do all girls like stuff from there?” I had assumed he was trying to learn my tastes, and excitedly rambled about their signature raspberry tarts. Now I realized he was just doing market research for Sadie’s celebration. In the middle of the office, Sadie was surrounded by a crowd of adoring colleagues, her face flushed with happiness. Zachary stood just outside the circle, watching her with a soft, steady gaze. For a fleeting second, they looked like the perfect couple. And I was just an intruder who had accidentally stumbled into their frame. Sadie walked over to my desk, holding a beautifully plated piece of cake. She gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I saved you the most expensive one.” But no matter how expensive the slice was, it didn’t compare to the price of Zachary buying pastries for the entire office just to make her smile. Still, I didn’t want to cause a scene. “Thank you,” I said. Sadie clasped her hands together, shifting into her familiar, pleading routine. “Lauren, I have this major campaign pitch due by Friday and I’m completely swamped. You’re the absolute best, can you please, please help me finish it?” She dropped a thick stack of folders onto my desk before I could even answer. She assumed I would do what I had always done—silently absorb her workload, stay up all night pulling the data together, and let her put her name on the cover page. The new Van Cleef bracelet caught the fluorescent lights of the office, gleaming on her wrist. The red was blinding. I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Sadie. I have my own work to wrap up. I don’t have time.” Her eyes instantly welled with tears. “Lauren… are you mad at me? You’ve never said no to me before.” Zachary appeared out of nowhere, stepping in front of Sadie like a shield. “Lauren, what the hell is your problem now?” I calmly explained the situation, half-hoping—with a bitter streak of malice—that he would reprimand her. Zachary prided himself on professional integrity; he hated when people slacked off or stole credit, having suffered through plenty of that early in his career. Instead, he looked at me with cold disgust. “Sadie is your superior. When she assigns you work, you don’t have the luxury of refusing.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You’ve been at this company for six years and you’re still sitting at a junior desk. Have you ever stopped to wonder why? It’s because of this petty, calculative attitude. You throw a tantrum the moment you’re asked to do a little extra work!” I almost wanted to laugh. The people who had started at the same time as me—even those with half my billable hours—had all been promoted to team leads. Only I had been kept in place. The newer employees might not have known why, but did Zachary really think I was blind to the truth? Sadie gently tugged at Zachary’s sleeve, her voice dripping with sweet martyrdom. “It’s okay, Zachary. If Lauren doesn’t want to help, I’ll just stay up and do it myself.” Zachary’s glare hardened. “Lauren, if you keep bringing this toxic attitude to the office, I’ll have no choice but to recommend HR terminate your—” “Let’s break up,” I interrupted. The entire corner of the office went dead silent. The color drained from Zachary’s face, his eyes widening in shock. “What did you just say?” I looked him dead in the eye, speaking clearly. “I said, we are over.” Sadie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Lauren! Why are you doing this over nothing? Zachary has been so good to you…” Ignoring her completely, I began packing my personal belongings into my bag. Zachary grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight my bones ached. “Lauren, is this another one of your pathetic stunts?” “What are you talking about?” He let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Threatening to break up in front of the entire office just to force me to take our relationship public? Haven’t I told you a thousand times? It’s unprofessional. It creates gossip!” I looked down at his white knuckles squeezing my red skin. The exhaustion finally settled deep into my bones. It was always the same. If I showed even a sliver of hurt, I was being dramatic, petty, or crazy. But if Sadie so much as sighed, he would move heaven and earth to fix it. I pulled my arm back with everything I had, breaking his grip. “Now that we’re broken up,” I said, stepping back, “you won’t have to worry about anyone accusing you of favoring your girlfriend.” The minute the clock struck five, I went back to our apartment and packed my bags. I had lived in this space for five years. The worn velvet sofa was something I had dragged home from a flea market when we were still sharing a cramped studio. When we moved here, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It felt like a monument to the hard years we had survived together. I had spent weekends comparing fabric swatches just to find the perfect curtains. On the wall, a framed photo from moving day still hung. Zachary had paint splatters on his nose; I was holding a dusty broom. We looked exhausted, dirty, and utterly radiant. We had built a home in a city that felt so hostile. I took the frame off the wall, took out the photo, tore it into pieces, and dropped it into the kitchen trash can. My resignation required a one-week transition period, so I checked into a boutique hotel near the office. But by the next morning, the atmosphere at work had shifted. The rumors of our breakup had spread, and the team’s attitude toward me turned cold. Some assumed I had tried to use a relationship with the creative director to get ahead and failed. Suddenly, I was the one tasked with printing thick decks, running down to get coffee, and doing menial data entry. Mr. Winston knew the truth about my resignation and tried to intervene when he saw me being mistreated, but it only made the office gossip worse. Within days, a rumor started that I had broken up with Zachary because I was sleeping with Mr. Winston—a married man in his late forties who was simply a decent human being. The isolation was absolute. And through it all, Zachary never said a single word in my defense. Perhaps he didn’t know, or perhaps he believed I deserved it. On the third afternoon, Zachary stormed over to my desk and slammed a thick marketing deck in front of me. “Lauren, is this the absolute garbage you’re turning in now? It’s a complete disaster!” I stared at the cover page. The credit line read: Lead Strategist: Lauren. But I hadn’t touched a new campaign in weeks. I was on my way out the door. Before I could speak, Sadie hurried over, grabbing Zachary’s arm with tears streaming down her face. “Zachary, please don’t yell at Lauren. It’s my fault, I should have checked her work closer…” Zachary’s expression remained frozen as he looked at me. “Don’t think because Sadie is willing to take the blame for you that you’re off the hook.” “The client is furious with this draft. Your commission for this entire quarter is forfeited.” I hadn’t spent a single second on this project, yet I was being publicly dragged through the mud for its failure. Around us, my coworkers whispered and smirked, enjoying the fall of the girl who had “tried to play the system.” I stood up, holding my ground. “I didn’t write this pitch.” Zachary leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper. “Lauren, you’re leaving the company anyway. A black mark on your record here won’t matter once you’re gone.” “But Sadie is different. I just submitted her name for the director promotion. If the executive board finds out she botched a major client pitch right now, her career is over.” “Just take the fall for her. Do it as a favor to me. One last time.” Looking into his pleading eyes, the very last thread of affection I had held for him snapped. Beside him, Sadie offered me a look of profound, silent guilt, but she didn’t open her mouth to correct him. A quiet laugh escaped my lips. “Okay.” Consider it my final payment for the night she spent in the hospital. Because of the “gross negligence” on the pitch, HR was instructed to terminate me immediately. At three o’clock, Mr. Winston called me into his office. “Lauren, you’ve been severely let down by this place,” he said softly. He had personally gone to HR and had my voluntary resignation converted into an involuntary termination with full severance benefits. I signed the paperwork and thanked him from the bottom of my heart. When the workday ended, I was the last one to leave. I emptied my desk, dumping every remaining pen and notepad into the trash can. Back at the hotel, my phone lit up with near-simultaneous messages from Zachary and Sadie. They wanted to take me out to a high-end restaurant downtown to “make things up to me.” It was a trendy, romantic spot where they had gone together dozens of times, always ordering the couple’s tasting menu. Each time, they had explained it was just a practical, cost-effective choice. But Zachary had never once taken me there. I had only ever seen the dining room through Sadie’s Instagram stories. I didn’t bother replying. I packed my suitcase and took a cab to Logan Airport. Before boarding, I saw their texts still pouring in, telling me they had a “huge surprise” waiting for me at the restaurant. I blocked both of their numbers. Six years ago, I had packed a single suitcase and flown to this city, ready to conquer the world by Zachary’s side. Six years later, his world was filled with Sadie, and there was no room left for me. It was time to go home.

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Chapter 1 This year, as the leading neurosurgical authority in the country, I received a request for a fly-in surgery in another state. Twenty years ago, I had been in this very operating room. My mother suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, and the lead surgeon missed by half a centimeter. My mother died, and it was my first love, Oliver Sterling, who comforted me and helped me move on. Only later did I discover that the lead surgeon was his father, the hospital’s renowned Chief of Neurosurgery, but the one actually holding the scalpel was Oliver, a medical intern. He and Chloe had planned it all along, using my mother’s surgery to let him practice and pave the way for his career. After the accident, Chloe, using her status as the hospital director’s daughter, completely suppressed the incident. From that day on, I gave up my guaranteed spot in a master’s program. I retook the entrance exams, went to medical school, and worked my way from an undergraduate degree to a postdoctoral fellowship. I spent exactly twenty years turning myself into someone who “would never make a mistake again.” Hoping only that one day, my mother’s tragedy would not be repeated. Today, my assistant slid the patient’s file in front of me: brainstem tumor, late stage, extremely high risk. That face had aged significantly, but I recognized it at a glance. I pushed the file back to my assistant and took off my white coat. “I can’t do this surgery.” …… “Dr. Lin… what do you mean?” My assistant, Hannah, stood frozen in shock as I started packing my things. “Literally what I said. Change my flight back to tonight.” “But… there isn’t another surgeon in the entire state who can operate on a brainstem tumor. If you leave, the patient is…” “I know, but I can’t take this case.” I opened the door and walked out of the conference room. Dr. Sullivan, the Chief of Neurosurgery at the state hospital, hurried over, squeezing out a smile. “Dr. Lin, I’m Dr. Sullivan from Neurosurgery.” He extended a hand; I didn’t take it. He awkwardly pulled it back and rubbed his hands together. “We’ve been preparing for this surgery for three months. It wasn’t easy getting you to fly out from New York. The patient’s family…” “Dr. Sullivan,” I cut him off directly. “I will submit my reasons for recusal in writing.” He paused, then lowered his voice and leaned in. “Dr. Lin, you might not fully understand the situation. The patient’s son is Oliver Sterling, the Vice President of our hospital. His daughter-in-law, Chloe, is the daughter of our former hospital director, Dr. Hastings. If you just walk away, I won’t be able to explain this to them.” “That is your problem.” I walked past him and continued toward the exit. Dr. Sullivan chased after me for a few steps, his tone growing urgent. “Dr. Lin, at least give me a reason so I can tell the family! Is there an issue with the surgical plan? Are you unhappy with our facilities? Equipment, team, post-op care—just tell us what you need, and we will fully accommodate you!” “I have no issues with the facilities. The surgery is possible, but you need to find someone else to do it.” “Is it about the fee? The family said money is no object—name your price!” “It’s not about the money.” Before he could continue, I shut him down completely. “Dr. Sullivan, my decision is final.” Before the elevator doors closed, Dr. Sullivan finally snapped out of it and pulled out his phone to make a call. Hannah followed me downstairs, jogging to catch up as we reached the parking garage. “Dr. Lin, what exactly is going on?” She blocked the car door, her forehead slick with sweat. “This isn’t like you. You’ve taken every impossible case there is! You’ve faced situations far more perilous than this, and today, just one look at a medical chart and…” “Hannah.” I looked at her, and she stopped talking. “You’ve worked with me for four years. Have you ever seen my hands shake in the operating room?” “No.” “What if I told you that for this surgery, I am absolutely certain my hands would shake from nerves?” Hannah frowned, opening her mouth to speak, but hesitating. “Neurosurgery has zero tolerance for even half a millimeter of error.” Twenty years. I had spent twenty years making my hands absolutely steady. Even during a twelve-hour continuous surgery, my margin of error wouldn’t exceed three millimeters. My peers considered me a precision instrument, impossibly calm in any situation. But today, when I saw that name and that face, I couldn’t keep my composure. Twenty years ago, because of a half-centimeter error, my mother was left on that operating table forever. My phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. “Dr. Lin, hello. I am the patient’s family member. I heard you declined the surgery. Could you give us a chance to meet?” I didn’t know exactly who sent the message, but I knew Oliver Sterling was among the family members. I didn’t reply. Soon, a second text arrived: [As doctors, our greatest fear shouldn’t be a failed surgery, but refusing to save a life.] “Dr. Lin, please wait! The former director’s daughter insists on seeing you no matter what!” Dr. Sullivan threw himself in front of my car, looking as if he was ready to risk his life to stop me. “Chloe?” “You know her?” Of course I did. Oliver’s wife, Director Hastings’ only daughter. Twenty years ago, when she was still a student, she walked around the hospital like she owned the place, riding on her father’s influence. “I don’t know her, but I’ve heard the name.” Dr. Sullivan sighed. “The patient’s son, Oliver Sterling, is Chloe’s husband. He’s also our state’s… well, Deputy Chief of Neurosurgery.” He weighed his words carefully, speaking to me with extreme caution. “Dr. Lin, I know you must have your reasons. But if this blows up, it’s bad for both of us. Could you just stay, meet with the family, and talk it over?” “I have nothing to talk about.” “Dr. Lin!” Dr. Sullivan was desperate, leaning right up against my car window. “Listen to me, Chloe and the Sterling family have strong backgrounds and resources. Whatever concerns or demands you have, just put them on the table. I’m sure they’ll do everything they can to meet them. But if I let you leave today without a word, both you and I are going to face significant trouble.” “Just do this as a favor to me. Even if it’s just meeting with the Hastings and Dr. Sterling for a few minutes!” “Dr. Sullivan, just report my refusal upwards. The medical board will coordinate another expert. Wouldn’t that be faster?” He gave a bitter smile. “You are the top-ranked expert. If you refuse, the people below you will be even more afraid to take the case.” I was about to offer him some reassurance when my phone rang. “Hello, is this Maya Lin?” An unfamiliar female voice, but I didn’t need an introduction to know who it was. “I am the patient’s daughter-in-law, Chloe Hastings. I heard you refused my father-in-law’s surgery. I’d like to meet with you face-to-face to discuss it. Would tomorrow morning work for you?” I tried hard to suppress the emotions rising inside me. When I didn’t speak, she continued. “I don’t care what your thoughts are, but walking away after one glance without any explanation is hardly professional. Let’s meet.” “I will submit a formal written report promptly.” “Isn’t meeting face-to-face faster than submitting a report? Is there something you’re afraid to discuss in person?” Chloe’s tone carried a hint of anger; she clearly thought I was just throwing my weight around. “Fine. I will return to the hospital tomorrow.” My voice regained its calm. Perhaps it was time to settle certain matters once and for all. “Good. My husband, Dr. Sterling, and I will be there tomorrow.” “No problem.” Dr. Sullivan finally let out a sigh of relief when he heard me agree. “Dr. Lin, then we’ll see you tomorrow!” He bowed slightly, then turned and walked away. I sat back down and glanced at Hannah. “Cancel the flight. We’re staying.” Early the next morning, I arrived at the conference room to wait. Not long after, a woman in a trench coat walked in, exuding an air of aggressive urgency. Behind her followed a man, maintaining that same composed demeanor I still recognized instantly after twenty years. I had fantasized about the moment I would see him again countless times, yet I still felt the urge to rush forward and end him. “Are you Dr. Lin?” The woman swept her gaze around the room before settling on me. Dr. Sullivan quickly stood up. “Chloe, this is Dr. Lin. Dr. Lin, this is…” “You are Dr. Lin?” Chloe cut him off, walking straight up to me. She didn’t recognize me. The girl who had cried until she fainted outside the morgue twenty years ago was worlds apart from the neurosurgical authority sitting before her, with six publications in The Lancet. “Dr. Lin, what is the meaning of this? You just say no and that’s it? We confirmed your schedule with your team three days ago. The equipment is calibrated, the nursing plan is set, and now you’re just washing your hands of it?” “Ms. Hastings, I have already told Dr. Sullivan that I will submit a report.” “Submit what report?” She let out a scoffing laugh. “You execute flawless surgeries far more complex than this. Are you telling me this surgery scared you?” Sensing the tension, Oliver quickly stepped in to smooth things over. “Dr. Lin, I am the patient’s son, Oliver Sterling. I understand you may have your own considerations, but my father’s situation is extremely critical. If this is about the fee…” “It’s not about the fee.” “Then what is it?” Chloe slammed her purse down onto a chair. “Is our hospital too small to accommodate a big shot like you?” Dr. Sullivan hurriedly intervened. “Chloe, please calm down. Dr. Lin might genuinely have…” “Genuinely have what? A top-tier neurosurgeon who turns her back on a patient waiting for a lifesaving operation?” She turned and glared at me. “Let me tell you something, Maya Lin. My father may be retired, but he’s still an advisory board member for the State Medical Board. One phone call from me and you could…” “Chloe.” Oliver grabbed her arm, lowering his voice. “Calm down.” He then looked at me, offering an apologetic smile. I knew that smile very well. It was the exact same smile he gave me twenty years ago outside the morgue when he comforted me: “Maya, you have to be strong.” Yet, he turned around and got engaged to Chloe immediately, while my formal complaint was simultaneously dismissed. “Dr. Lin, I don’t know the real reason for your refusal. But as a fellow medical professional, I believe you are a doctor with strong ethics. My father is…” I couldn’t listen to his speech, so I interrupted him. “Dr. Sterling, my decision will not be changed by anyone’s persuasion.” Chloe’s face darkened completely. “Fine. You’re tough. You’re an expert, you’re amazing. But let me tell you this: the State Expert Committee is convening tomorrow to discuss this matter. I hope you maintain this exact attitude then.” She grabbed her purse, turned, and threw one last sentence over her shoulder. “The people I despise the most in this life are those who get a little skill and suddenly think they’re above it all. Healing the sick and saving lives is a doctor’s natural duty. It’s not up to you to pick and choose.” The clatter of her high heels faded away down the hall. Oliver hesitated for a moment before speaking to me again. “Dr. Lin, I apologize. My wife has a quick temper. Please consider it carefully. My phone is always on.” Dr. Sullivan hadn’t dared to breathe heavily the entire time. Only after Oliver left did he speak up cautiously. “Dr. Lin, why must it be this way? Even if you have concerns, we could discuss them…” “Dr. Sullivan, I truly have my own reasons. I absolutely cannot perform this surgery.” “Well… you better prepare yourself for tomorrow. I’m afraid she won’t let this go easily.” I nodded, gesturing for Hannah to get ready to leave. Whether Chloe would let it go or not, I didn’t know. But tomorrow, I didn’t plan on letting it go either. “Dr. Lin, what is your reason for refusing this surgery?” The speaker was Arthur Vance, the Deputy Director of the State Medical Board. The next morning, at the Expert Committee discussion. In attendance were not only the hospital’s department heads but also two representatives sent by the Medical Board. “I cannot guarantee absolute optimal condition during the procedure.” “What do you mean, you cannot guarantee?” Arthur flipped through the materials in front of him. “Dr. Lin, I’ve reviewed your resume. Over the past three years, you have been the lead surgeon on forty-seven high-difficulty procedures, with a 100% success rate. How could you not be confident?” “For this particular case, I am not.” “Why?” I didn’t answer immediately. Another representative interjected, “Dr. Lin, we understand that every doctor has their own judgment. But this case is quite unique. The patient’s surgical window is very short. If you don’t take it, his survival rate is practically zero.” “My personal refusal does not mean there are no other options. You can contact other teams.” Arthur cleared his throat. “We have contacted everyone. You are the only one who has both the capability and the availability.” “I cannot do it.” “There is a difference between cannot do it and do not want to do it, Dr. Lin.” The door was pushed open. Chloe walked in, followed by Oliver and an old man leaning on a cane. The old man looked to be in his seventies, his face sallow but his back perfectly straight. “Director Hastings, why are you here?” Dr. Sullivan stood up. Dr. Hastings was his old boss. “This concerns Richard. I couldn’t stay out of it.” Hastings walked slowly to the table and sat down, glancing at me. “Dr. Lin,” Hastings coughed lightly. “I’m Dr. Hastings. I worked at this hospital for forty years. Richard Sterling is my old partner, my old friend. This illness of his cannot afford any delays.” “Director Hastings, I understand your feelings. But—” “Hear me out first.” He raised a hand, stopping me. “I know you’re a big expert from out of state. Your time is precious, and your skills are incredible. But in the medical profession, skill isn’t the only thing that matters.” He stared at me, his eyes cloudy but piercing. “The most important thing is conscience.” Chloe stood behind her father, her expression still cold and arrogant. Oliver sat beside them, looking pained and earnest. “I refused the surgery precisely because of my conscience.” “Explain.” “Brainstem surgery demands impossibly strict psychological stability from the lead surgeon. Any emotional fluctuation could lead to an intraoperative error. I evaluated my own state of mind, and I know I cannot remain absolutely calm.” “Are you saying you have personal feelings regarding my father?” Oliver frowned, his tone laced with surprise. “Dr. Lin, to my knowledge, we have never crossed paths before.” I looked at him, and he looked back at me, his gaze open and entirely devoid of guilt. No crossing paths. He didn’t recognize me, yet I had remembered him for twenty years. “Whether we crossed paths is irrelevant.” I took a small sip of my tea. “What matters is that once I am on that operating table, I cannot guarantee 100% focus. On that point alone, I shouldn’t take the case.” Arthur impatiently tapped the table. “Dr. Lin, let’s speak frankly. There is no regulation stating a doctor can refuse a surgery without cause. If you cannot provide a clear reason for recusal, this is negligence.” “Deputy Vance, the Medical Practice Act…” “Don’t quote the book at me.” He slammed his pen down on the table. “I’ll tell you the situation plainly. Tomorrow, every major medical news outlet will be covering this. A top-tier expert flies a thousand miles for a surgery, looks at the chart, and walks away. Do you think that looks good?” I remained silent. Chloe took a step forward. “Dr. Lin, my words yesterday might have been a bit harsh, and I apologize. But think about it—if word gets out that you left a man to die, how will you live with yourself?” Oliver also stood up and gave me a slight bow. “Dr. Lin, if my father or I have done anything to make you uncomfortable, I apologize. I understand your concerns. How about this: we will double your surgical fee, and to help with your emotional state, I personally will…” “Dr. Sterling,” I cut him off. “Can you answer one question for me?” He froze, then nodded. “Please.” “Your father has practiced medicine for forty years. How many surgeries has he handled?” “Thousands. He is the founding father of neurosurgery in our state.” Oliver puffed his chest out slightly as he said it. “Out of those thousands of surgeries, were there many failures?” The atmosphere in the conference room thickened. Oliver’s gaze didn’t shift, but he hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Every surgery carries risks. 100% success is impossible.” “And the families of those patients who didn’t make it… what happened to them?” “Dr. Lin, this has nothing to do with the current situation.” “Is that so.” I stood up and grabbed my bag. “Then my refusal also has nothing to do with the current situation. Excuse me.” From behind, Chloe’s sharp voice rang out. “Go! If you leave, don’t even think about coming back! I’ll make sure the entire industry knows that Maya Lin is a piece of trash who leaves people to die!” As I pushed open the door, Hannah couldn’t help but lean into my ear. “Dr. Lin, what if… you just tell me the truth? Why won’t you do this surgery?” I turned to look at her. Three years ago, when she graduated with her master’s and sent out over a hundred resumes with no luck, I was the one who hired her. She trusted me and she knew me well. But I had never told her about this. “Hannah.” “Yes?” “Twenty years ago, a man-made medical accident happened in this hospital’s neurosurgery department. The patient’s name was Clara Lin.” Her expression slowly changed. “Clara Lin… is she your…?” “My mother.” She stood there, stunned, unsure of what to say. “The lead surgeon’s name was Richard Sterling. The exact same man lying in that hospital bed waiting for me to save him.” Hannah froze, speechless for a long time. “Prepare a formal Recusal Application for me. Tomorrow, at the ethics committee meeting, I’ll explain it myself.” As we walked out the main entrance, Hannah called out to me softly from behind. “Dr. Lin… would your hands really shake?” I clenched my fists and let out a sigh. “As long as that face is in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to control it.”

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First stop of our first road trip together. I went into the rest stop to grab a bottle of water. When I walked back out to the parking lot, his car was gone. I called Wright ten times. He declined every single one. An hour later, the call finally went through, but the voice on the other end belonged to my best friend, Serena. “I’m so sorry, Gwen. Wright turned back to pick me up. We just got on the interstate. We’ll be at your rest stop in an hour, tops.” After she hung up, I opened Instagram. Before we left, I had logged into Wright’s account on my phone. His latest post was flooded with comments. Under a sea of “couple goals” and “finally!” comments, there was one from Serena, complete with a pouty emoji: “Secretly going on a trip without me? I’m mad!” Wright had replied: “Come downstairs. I’m coming back to get you.” I wanted to laugh. For the last year and a half, Wright had been too lazy to grab me a bottle of water when he went to the store. He was too lazy to pull over and pick me up from work, even when it was on his way. Because of his constant lethargy, it had taken eighteen months of begging, pleading, and compromising just to get him to agree to this pre-marital road trip. He’d even planned the itinerary himself—a sudden burst of effort that had kept me awake for nights, giddy with excitement. Now, staring at my phone in the sterile light of the rest stop lobby, I realized that the change I had fought so hard for was something someone else could extract from him without even trying. … By the time Wright’s SUV finally pulled into the parking lot, the crowd around me had cycled through three times. Serena stepped out of the passenger side, clutching a vibrant iced drink from a local café, her smile radiant. “My queen!” she called out, walking toward me. “I know I kept you waiting. I brought a peace offering!” She pulled a straw out of the bag, stabbed it through the lid, and gently pressed the cup against my lips. Instinctively, I took a sip. The moment the sweet, heavy taste of mango hit my tongue, I recoiled, turning away to cough violently. My throat began to itch, a tight, suffocating burn spreading down my windpipe. I leaned against the brick wall of the rest stop, coughing until tears blurred my vision. “Oh my god!” Serena gasped, turning back to glare at the car. “Wright, what is wrong with you? I told you to buy her a drink, and you got mango? Gwen is severely allergic!” Wright leaned out of the driver’s side window, his face a mask of mild annoyance. “I didn’t know what to get. I just grabbed two of those mango matcha lattes because you liked them.” “You idiot,” Serena sighed, though her voice lacked any real bite. “You were supposed to get what Gwen likes. Just because you saw me order it once, you thought that’s the only thing on the menu?” I wiped the tears from my eyes. Wright finally got out of the car, walking over to hand me a cheap bottle of water. I took it in silence. I had heard his excuse a thousand times before: “If it’s Gwen, plain water is fine. She’s not like you, Serena. You always make me remember all those complicated, ridiculous orders. It’s exhausting.” But no matter how exhausting it was, he had remembered hers, hadn’t he? The thought settled heavily in my chest. I loved iced lattes too. I used to tease him, asking him to pick one up for me on his way home. But he was always too tired. Too lazy to open the app, too lazy to check the ingredients to make sure there was no cross-contamination with mango. He would promise to remember, and then immediately forget. He’d sit on the couch, staring at his phone, already mid-game in a match, without looking up. “Water is healthier anyway,” he’d say. “Who actually memorizes those complicated drink orders?” I had ordered the exact same drink in front of him dozens of times. Yet, it couldn’t compete with a casual glance he’d given Serena’s cup when he picked us up from a movie theater two years ago. Wright and Serena walked ahead of me toward the car. I lingered a step behind, digging through my purse for my medicine. When I looked up, Serena was already buckled into the passenger seat. Our eyes met through the glass. She tapped her forehead, looking sheepish. “Oh, look at my brain. Gwen, come take the front. I’ll hop in the back.” “No, it’s fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about it,” Wright said at the same exact time. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He was used to me making a fuss. Usually, whenever Serena “accidentally” took the passenger seat, I would quietly but firmly ask her to move. But today, it felt entirely pointless. I pulled open the backdoor and slid into the rear seat. Serena turned around in her seat, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Are we telepathic or something? The ski resort you guys picked is literally the exact place I’ve been dying to go. I didn’t even know you wanted to go there, Gwen, since you don’t even know how to ski.” Wright caught my eye in the mirror again as he steered the car onto the highway. “We were originally going to San Diego,” he said casually. “But Gwen was worried about getting sunburned, so I switched the booking to Aspen. She said she wanted to learn.” Serena listened intently, reaching into the center console to pull out her favorite hand cream, applying it with practiced ease. “San Diego would have been amazing, too. You know how much I love the beach.” “Alright, can we get some quiet?” Wright muttered, reaching over to turn on the music. The melody that filled the car was a soft acoustic track—Wright’s morning alarm. My mind drifted back to a year ago, the morning after he had finally agreed to this trip. I had woken up early, filled with a jittery, childlike excitement. After turning off his alarm so he could sleep in, a strange, quiet impulse had driven me to open his phone. Serena had sent him a barrage of texts the night before, complaining about her job. I scrolled through them, my fingers freezing on the screen. “I need a vacation so bad. I want to go to the beach. Pleeease.” “Wright, if you guys go to the coast, you have to bring me along!” Wright’s reply had been instant: “Sure.” I had stared at those messages for ten minutes, my eyes burning, before locking the phone and putting it back. When Wright finally woke up and wrapped his arms around me from behind, I had kept my voice light, pretending it was a passing thought. “Hey, let’s not go to the beach for our trip. You always say I burn too easily anyway.” At the time, I told myself I didn’t mind Serena coming along. We had all known each other for over a decade. But why did the destination have to be the exact one she had begged him for? Wright hadn’t hesitated. He kissed my cheek. “Sure. Let’s go skiing instead. I’ll teach you.” Sitting in the backseat now, the memory made me laugh out loud. Wright glanced back. “What’s funny?” “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. I was just laughing at how naive I had been a year ago. I had genuinely believed he was changing for me. I had ignored the fact that I didn’t care for the cold, and that I had absolutely no interest in skiing. I unlocked my phone, opened my airline app, and booked a one-way ticket to a completely different city. This time, I was going somewhere I actually wanted to go. We checked into a cozy mountain lodge. We were supposed to hit the slopes tomorrow, but I had already decided I wasn’t going up. I only took my personal duffel bag out of the trunk, leaving my rented ski gear untouched in the back of the SUV. Wright stopped, his brow furrowing with a rare moment of perception. “Why are you leaving your ski gear?” “Just forgot it,” I said dismissively. I didn’t turn back to grab it, breaking the years of habit where I would have rushed to correct my mistake. I keyed into the suite. A moment later, Wright walked in, carrying my bag. He watched me crouch down to unzip my suitcase. “Are you mad?” he asked, stepping closer. I didn’t look up. “No.” He reached down, pulling me up by my wrists and folding me into his arms. Wright’s chest was always warm. He had a way of hugging me that made all my anger feel foolish, dissolving my defenses before I could even voice them. When we were kids, I had only ever seen him as an older brother figure. But then, the summer after freshman year of college, he had chased off a guy who was stalking me. He had held me in his arms afterward, whispering that I was safe, and my heart had beaten so hard I thought it would burst. Now, pressed against his chest, my pulse was entirely, chillingly flat. Wright chuckled softly. “You’re jealous, aren’t you? Because I brought Serena along?” “I only brought her because she’s your best friend, Gwen. Otherwise, I wouldn’t even look her way.” He cupped my face, leaning down to press a few light kisses on my forehead. “Serena told me you were getting sensitive about things lately. I didn’t believe her, but I guess she was right.” His laugh felt like a dull needle pricking at my chest. Before I could pull away, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, read the screen, and sighed with mild exasperation. “Serena forgot her hand warmers. I’m going to drop some off for her.” He bent down, unzipped my suitcase, grabbed the large bulk pack of HotHands I had packed, and walked out the door to the room next door. I looked down at the empty corner of my suitcase, where only two stray packets remained. A sudden chill settled over me. I remembered a night a few months ago when I was in the shower and realized I had forgotten my towel. Wright was sitting right outside the bathroom door, but when I called out to him, he told me he was too comfortable on the couch to get up. Now, walking ten steps down the hallway to Serena’s room didn’t even warrant a second thought. He didn’t come back for two hours. By the time the door clicked open, I had already turned my back to his side of the bed, pretending to be fast asleep. When I opened my eyes the next morning, Wright was already dressed in his winter gear. He was standing by the vanity, carefully zipping up Serena’s jacket. “Keep it zipped to the top,” he was saying softly. “The wind is brutal today.” Serena giggled, sticking her tongue out at him. I sat up in bed, taking in the scene. “You guys go ahead,” I said, my voice dry. “I’m staying here today.” Looking at the easy, quiet intimacy between them, I knew my presence would only be an anchor. “Gwen, you’re awake!” Serena said, blinking innocently. She nudged Wright’s arm. “Gwen’s talking to you. Say something.” Wright smiled, his eyes lingering on Serena. “She’s not like you. She doesn’t need to be coddled to get out of bed.” He turned to me, his tone shifting to a casual, business-like note. “I wanted to let you sleep in, but I forgot to set an alarm to wake you. Go wash up quickly, we’re about to head out.” He grabbed his gloves. “Serena and I will go start the car. We’ll wait for you downstairs.” I stood up and walked to the window. Down in the parking lot, Serena was walking ahead of him, turning back every few steps to laugh at something he said. Wright was replying, his face animated—a stark contrast to the quiet, monosyllabic hums he usually gave me. They had always had so much to talk about. I didn’t care for video games, and I despised extreme sports. I couldn’t join him when he went cave diving, skiing, or skydiving. But for the ten years we had been together, I hadn’t thought that was a death sentence for us. I believed couples didn’t need to be identical to survive. But watching him laugh through the glass, I realized he was happy. A hundred times happier than he ever was sitting on our couch on a Friday night, politely choking down the experimental cocktails I made for him. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Wright asking if I was coming down. I opened our chat. I wanted to type “It’s over,” but my fingers felt incredibly stiff in the chilly room. Instead, I sent two voice notes. The first: “You guys go ahead. I’m not going.” The second: “Wright, we aren’t right for each other. Let’s break up.” He replied with a text: “Okay.” And then sent a voice note of his own: “Okay, just hurry up and catch up. We’ll wait for you at the lift.” He was being lazy again. Out of the two voice notes I sent, he had only tapped the first one to convert it to text. He hadn’t even bothered to listen to the second one. He probably assumed the second note was just me telling them to wait for me. He had always been like this. I set the phone down on the nightstand, staring at the ceiling in the quiet room. The hotel phone rang. I picked it up. “Yes, that’s correct. I booked a shuttle to the airport.” The mountain air was getting to me, and I could feel a low-grade fever starting to burn in my temples. By the time I gathered my things, my head was heavy and swimming. I must have drifted off on the lobby sofa because when I opened my eyes, my phone was lit up with dozens of missed calls. Before I could even process the screen, a shadow fell over me. “Gwen! Why the hell didn’t you come up?” Wright stood over me, his face dark with fury. When his eyes landed on the suitcase beside me, his voice rose to a harsh bark. “What kind of stunt are you pulling now?” “Do you have any idea how worried Serena was when she couldn’t reach you? She went looking for you, took a bad spill down the slope, and we still haven’t found her!” I rubbed my temples, my head throbbing. I looked down at the missed calls. “She never called me—” Before I could finish, Wright slapped the phone out of my hand. It skittered across the tiled floor and slid into the snow just outside the automatic doors. His eyes were like ice. “Gwen, you’re throwing a tantrum just because I brought Serena along. And now she’s hurt because of your petty jealousy. How can you act so innocent?” “I never realized you were the kind of person who could let her best friend freeze on a mountain just to make a point.” My head was pounding so hard I could hear my pulse in my ears. I slowly stood up, walked outside, and retrieved my cold, wet phone from the snow. “If that’s what you want to believe,” I whispered, “then go ahead.” I gripped the handle of my suitcase to leave, but his hand clamped around my wrist like a vice. “You think you’re just going to walk away after this? You’re coming up the mountain to help find her.” Wright was stronger than me, and the fever had sapped whatever strength I had left. I didn’t even have a chance to grab my heavy coat before he dragged me out into the biting wind. The search and rescue team was already at the mid-station, but the wind was picking up, turning the afternoon into a blinding whiteout. Wright dragged me along the trail. The only sound was our heavy breathing. He frowned, glancing back at me. “How many of those hand warmers did you use? Why are your hands so hot?” My lips were dry and cracked. “None.” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Still playing the victim.” We walked another hundred yards. The wind howled, reducing visibility to less than a foot. Suddenly, a faint, muffled cry pierced through the roar of the wind. Before I could even register the sound, Wright let go of my hand with a violent shove. “Serena! I’m here!” The snow beneath my boots was fresh and unstable. Lacking any support, I stumbled backward, losing my footing entirely. I slid ten yards down the steep embankment, my back slamming violently against a jagged rock before I stopped. Through the swirling white curtain, I watched Wright lift Serena onto his back. Their figures merged into a single silhouette against the snow. “Where’s Gwen?” Serena cried out, her voice muffled by his collar. “Is she okay?” Wright looked back toward the path, but my fallen figure was swallowed by the storm. “Don’t worry about her,” he shouted over the wind. “You’re the one who matters right now.” When I woke up, I was lying in a cramped room in the local clinic at the base of the mountain. Serena was sitting by my bedside, her eyes red and swollen as she clutched my hand. “You’re finally awake! You scared me to death!” “It’s all my fault. There was no service on the mountain, so I couldn’t get through to you, and then I slipped. But Wright shouldn’t have dragged you up there in that weather!” I stared at the ceiling, letting her voice wash over me until she finally ran out of words. “Gwen? Why aren’t you saying anything? Is your throat okay?” “She has nothing to say because she knows she’s in the wrong,” Wright’s cold voice cut in. He walked into the room carrying a paper bag. “I got you some chicken chowder from the diner downstairs. Gwen, if you had a fever, you could have just stayed at the hotel. Why didn’t you just tell us?” “You’re an adult. Can you stop acting so childish?” I stared at the paper cup of soup. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I took the plastic spoon and stirred the thick liquid. The smell of onions and celery made my stomach turn. Wright let out an irritated sigh. He snatched the spoon from my hand, scooped up a portion, and shoved it toward my mouth. I whipped my head away. “I don’t want it. I hate celery.” “What are you talking about? You always—” Serena reached out quickly to defuse the tension. “Hey, let me take it—” But her hand clipped the hot cup. The soup spilled, splashing hot liquid across my lap and the white sheets. Wright’s face went pale with panic. “Serena! Are you okay?” Serena welled up with tears, quickly pulling off her soiled jacket and dabbing her hands with a napkin. “I’m fine… it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have come on this trip.” “If I just leave, you guys will stop fighting.” She bowed her head slightly to apologize. And that was when I saw it. Deep on the side of her neck, partially hidden by her collar, was a fresh, dark hickey. For a brief second, our eyes met. She didn’t look away. The fever in my brain flared into a hot, blinding rage. I lunged forward and slapped her across the face with every ounce of strength I had left. “Gwen!” Before I could even blink, Wright’s hand swung out. A sharp crack echoed through the room as his palm struck my cheek. My head whipped to the side. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out everything else. Wright gathered Serena in his arms, heading for the door. Before he left, he threw one last look over his shoulder. “You’ve lost your mind. She’s your best friend.” I let out a quiet, trembling laugh. My hand pressed against my burning cheek, feeling the dampness of my own tears. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A notification appeared: “Your train departs in three hours.” I closed my eyes. It was time to go.

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It was 8:00 PM, and I was about to authorize the final installment on a limited-edition timepiece in my virtual cart, only for the transaction to flash red: “Declined.” Before I could even process what was happening, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from Connor, the newly appointed Chief Financial Officer—hired by my wife, Meredith. “Hey, Wesley. Just letting you know I suspended your corporate card,” Connor said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Meredith asked me to tighten the leash on all personal expenditures.” “Honestly, you’re at home doing chores. You don’t have clients to impress or deals to close. Why on earth do you need a fifty-thousand-dollar watch?” “I actually just ordered you a kids’ smartwatch on Amazon. Fifteen bucks. It’s got a step counter and everything. Perfect for you.” He hung up. A second later, a text popped up with a screenshot of the order confirmation. The delivery note read: “Moisturizer for Wesley.” It was so absurd it was almost funny. Then came another text: “Make sure to clear any future purchases with me first!” The sheer audacity. I was spending my own money, and I was expected to clear it with an outsider? He was using my wealth to lecture me on frugality. Without a word, I forwarded the screenshot straight to Meredith. “Fire this Connor guy before the end of the day. Or tomorrow, I’ll have you packed up and sent back to shoveling manure in Idaho.” … “Wow, Wesley. Going straight to the boss to complain? Really?” When my phone rang again, it was Connor, his voice carrying a cold, mocking chuckle. “Why do you have Meredith’s phone?” I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the heat rising in my chest. “Put her on.” “Meredith is in a closed-door meeting,” Connor said, his tone thick with unearned superiority. “She’s currently working her tail off to secure our next eight-figure deal. She doesn’t have time for your tantrums.” “She’s out there earning the millions while you’re at home living the dream. Aren’t you satisfied?” “Unfreeze my card, Connor. Now.” “Sorry, pal. Can’t do that.” Connor scoffed. “Meredith’s personal accounts, corporate accounts—they’re all under my management now. Oh, by the way? I canceled your golf club membership and your private gym pass. Refunded them right back into the company’s operating capital. And that housekeeper you have? Fifteen grand a month is absurdly lavish. She’s been let go.” I froze. I could hear the blood rushing in my ears. Who the hell did Connor think he was, coming into my life and dictating terms? “Who gave you the authority to interfere in my private life?” “Meredith did, obviously.” Connor sounded entirely self-righteous. “The company is in a hyper-growth phase. Every dollar counts. Your extravagant spending habits have to go. I’m not just monitoring the corporate accounts; I’m supervising you. From now on, any grocery runs require physical receipts brought directly to my office. Anything over a hundred bucks won’t be approved.” He didn’t even give me a chance to respond. “Wesley, Meredith is a self-made, brilliant CEO. She’s worth nine figures. There are plenty of young, highly educated, ambitious men waiting in line for a shot at her. The only reason you’re still holding onto the title of her husband is because she’s a sentimental woman.” He hung up. When I tried calling back, it went straight to voicemail. Blocked. My hands were shaking. I was about to call my driver to head to the office when the front door swung open. Martha, our housekeeper, was standing in the foyer. Her eyes were red, and she was clutching a single suitcase. “Mr. Pendleton,” Martha said, her voice trembling. “That new CFO called. He told me to pack my things and get out immediately. He said if I stayed, he’d have me arrested for trespassing. Did… did I do something wrong?” Seeing Martha cry broke something inside me. “You did nothing wrong, Martha. Put your bag down. No one is kicking you out of this house.” I dialed Meredith’s personal cell. Turned off. Perfect. Beautifully done, Meredith. You’re so desperate to play the role of the ruthless female tech tycoon that you’ve handed over the keys to a complete stranger. Suddenly, my phone vibrated. It was the Presbyterian Hospital downtown. “Mr. Pendleton? We’re calling regarding your father’s VIP oncology suite. The automated payment failed today. If the balance isn’t settled by tomorrow morning, we’ll have to suspend his targeted therapy. Please come down and resolve this as soon as possible.” My heart dropped. My dad was diagnosed with early-stage lung cancer two weeks ago and was scheduled for surgery. His medical bills were tied directly to our family trust account. How could it possibly fail? “I’ll be right there.” I sped all the way to the hospital’s private wing. As I approached my dad’s VIP suite, I saw nurses wheeling his bed out into the hallway. Connor was standing there, arms crossed, barking orders at the orderly team. “Hurry it up. A VIP suite costs thousands a day. It’s a complete waste of company resources. Move him to a standard six-person ward. He won’t die from sharing a room.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I charged forward and shoved Connor backward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Who gave you permission to touch my father?” Connor stumbled, catching himself against the wall. He glared at me with pure disgust. “Wesley, I just did a deep dive into the company books. Do you know how much cash is being funneled to this hospital every month? Your father is occupying a luxury VIP suite and using top-tier imported experimental drugs. You’re literally bleeding Meredith dry!” My fists clenched so hard my knuckles turned white. “Connor, that is a private family account specifically set up for my father’s care!” “You don’t earn a single penny. It’s all Meredith’s money anyway,” Connor sneered, rolling his eyes. “I’ve frozen that account. Meredith said the company is launching a new project and liquidity is tight. All non-essential expenses are cut. Period.” The head nurse looked at me apologetically. “Mr. Pendleton, if the account isn’t funded, our hands are tied…” “If you don’t have the money, go to the general ward!” Connor raised his voice, making sure everyone in the corridor could hear. “You’re taking Meredith’s hard-earned cash and throwing it away on luxury healthcare? For an old man, basic insurance-covered medicine is fine. Spending tens of thousands on imported shots is just pure selfishness!” “I’ve already downgraded him. A bed in a six-room ward is only fifty bucks a night. Much more appropriate for his station.” My father was trembling with anger, clutching my hand. “Wes…” “Dad, don’t say a word. I’ve got this.” I squeezed his hand, then turned a murderous gaze onto Connor. “Connor, you’re playing with my father’s life.” “Oh, come on, Wesley. Don’t play the victim card with me. If your family can’t afford treatment, that’s your problem. Don’t try to guilt-trip Meredith.” Connor pulled out a crumpled wad of cash from his designer briefcase and tosses it at my feet. “Here’s five hundred bucks from my own pocket. Go buy the old man some vitamins. Stop leeching off your wife. A parasite should know its place.” Whispers broke out among the onlookers in the hallway. “So he’s just a trophy husband spending her cash…” “How shameless. His wife works so hard, and he’s out here demanding VIP rooms.” “That executive is so responsible. Saving the company money.” Connor basked in the murmurs, a smug grin plastered across his face. He pulled out his phone and started recording a video of my dad and me. “I’m going to send this to Meredith. Let her see how entitled you really are. Once she realizes what a drag you are on her life, she’ll kick you to the curb where you belong.” I looked at him, my voice dangerously calm. “Remember this moment, Connor. Remember every single word you just said.” I turned to the head nurse. “Put my father back in the VIP suite. The bills will be paid in full tomorrow morning.” I instructed the orderlies to wheel my dad back. Connor, seeing himself ignored, stomped his foot in frustration. “Wesley Pendleton! You just wait!” The next morning, I took a cab straight to the Aegis Group headquarters. The moment the elevator doors opened on the penthouse floor, two burly security guards blocked my path. “This is the executive wing. No visitors without an appointment.” I looked at them. Fresh faces. “I’m Wesley Pendleton. Step aside.” “Mr. Connor gave strict orders. We have an important board meeting today. No unauthorized personnel allowed.” Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Connor emerged, surrounded by an entourage of department managers. He spotted me, and a sarcastic smirk spread across his face. “Well, well. Look who it is. Our resident house-husband who only knows how to swipe credit cards.” The managers chuckled in unison. “Mr. Connor, who is this?” a newly hired receptionist asked mockingly. “This is Meredith’s useless husband,” Connor announced loudly. “The guy who tried to blow fifty grand on a luxury watch two nights ago. A total deadweight.” He walked over to me, looking down his nose. “Wesley, if you came here to beg Meredith to unfreeze your cards, save your breath. The company’s financial reins are entirely in my hands now. In this building, what I say goes.” “What you say goes?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh, looking around at the spectators. “Do all of you believe he’s the one in charge here?” “Obviously,” the receptionist scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Mr. Connor is Mrs. Pendleton’s right-hand man. He’s saved this company millions. Who do you think you are, coming in here and causing a scene?” Connor smugly adjusted his tie and turned to the guards. “What are you waiting for? Meredith is about to arrive with our major clients for an inspection. Throw this trash out of here. Don’t let him ruin the company’s image.” The two guards grabbed my shoulders, aggressively dragging me toward the elevator. “Get your hands off me!” I struggled, but my physical strength was no match for two trained security guards. “Face reality, Wesley,” Connor called out behind me, his voice dripping with malice. “Meredith is sick of you. You’re completely useless. You think you’re still the powerful husband of a high-flying CEO? In this company, Meredith is god. And I am her prophet.” The staff watched me get manhandled, murmuring and snickering under their breath. “Look at him, the spoiled husband. How pathetic.” “Meredith is so brilliant. How did she end up with a loser like this?” “Mr. Connor is so capable. Honestly, they look like a much better match.” Suddenly, the chime of the private executive elevator rang out. A group of men in bespoke suits stepped out. Leading them was Meredith, who had been missing in action for thirty-six hours. “What is going on here? Why is there so much noise?” Meredith demanded, her voice sharp and authoritative. Connor’s arrogant demeanor instantly vanished. He put on a victimized, trembling expression and ran to Meredith’s side. “Meredith, thank goodness you’re here!” Connor’s eyes welled up with fake tears. “Wesley… he came here to make a scene. All I did was try to save the company some money by canceling his luxury cards, and he came barging in, screaming, threatening me, and trying to lay hands on me.” “I was worried he’d ruin the meeting with your VIP clients, so I had security escort him out.” Meredith’s face darkened. She stepped through the crowd and stood in front of me. Looking at my disheveled state, there was no sympathy in her eyes. Only cold, deep-seated embarrassment and disdain. “Wesley, have you lost your mind?” she snapped. “It’s one thing to throw tantrums at home, but bringing your drama to my office? Connor is a highly sought-after CFO whom I personally recruited. He froze your accounts under my direct authorization!” I looked at the woman I’ve shared a bed with for five years. A wave of nausea washed over me. “Meredith, is this really how you want to play this?” I ask quietly. “He cut off my father’s cancer treatment. He fired Martha. Were you aware of that?” Meredith didn’t even flinch. “The company is at a critical juncture! We need every ounce of liquidity we can get! Connor is doing his job. He’s trimmed millions in waste!” “Instead of reflecting on your own uselessness, you come here to bully my CFO? Apologize to Connor. Now!” Connor stood behind Meredith, a victorious, sneering smirk playing on his lips. His eyes were filled with smug triumph. Seeing their boss take a stand, the surrounding employees immediately chimed in. “The husband is so incredibly selfish. He has no idea how hard Meredith works.” “Exactly. He needs to apologize to Mr. Connor and stop embarrassing himself.” Meredith assumed my silence was fear. She scoffed. “Wesley, I’m warning you. Apologize to Connor right now and go home. Otherwise, don’t expect another dime of allowance from me.” I felt a laugh bubbling up from my chest. It started as a chuckle and turned into a full laugh. I shook off the guards’ grip and stood tall. “Meredith, have you sat in that throne for so long that you actually believe it belongs to you?” Meredith blinked, momentarily taken aback. “What nonsense are you spouting? Have you gone mad?” “Who’s mad? You’re about to find out.” I pulled out my phone and dialed a direct line. “Mr. Adler. Bring the legal and audit teams up to the penthouse floor. Now.” I hung up. Within thirty seconds, the doors to the private express elevator slid open with a heavy thud. Mr. Adler, the company’s second-largest shareholder, stepped out, flanked by a team of stone-faced corporate lawyers and forensic auditors. Meredith’s expression shifted. “Mr. Adler? What is the meaning of this? I didn’t call a board meeting today.” Mr. Adler completely ignored her. He walked straight past her, stopped in front of me, and bowed deeply. “The entire team is here, Mr. Pendleton. We await your instructions.” The entire floor fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Every jaw in the room dropped in sheer, unadulterated shock.

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In my previous life, I took a blade for my stepsister, Cassie, three times. The first time, she was kidnapped by one of her father’s ruthless business rivals. I traded my own safety to give her a window to escape, earning a jagged, permanent scar that stretched across my shoulder blades. She didn’t even look at the bandages when I got home. She just shrugged and said, “You got lucky.” The second time, her hot-tempered fiancé threw a heavy crystal decanter at her during a public argument. I lunged in front of her, my cheek and neck shredded by flying shards. She looked at the blood on my shirt, frowned, and muttered, “Stop interfering in my life.” The third time, when her startup faced a sudden liquidity crisis, I secretly sold the plot of land my late biological mother had left me, scraping together ten million dollars to deposit anonymously into her corporate account. When she finally tracked down the source of the funds, she slapped me hard in front of her entire board of directors. “Are you pathetic, Dylan? Do you think I need your charity?” That night, I drank myself into a stupor in my car in the basement garage. I never saw the out-of-control SUV that crashed through the concrete barrier, crushing my car and killing me instantly. When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the year Cassie was first brought into the Wilder estate. This time, when I saw her cornered by street thugs in an alley, I simply put my headphones on and took the long way home. When she collapsed from a high fever at her desk in the study, I walked right past the door, acting like I saw nothing. Now, her eyes are rimmed with red as she corners me in the hallway, asking, “Dylan, why did you stop caring about me?” I tilt my head, my smile polite, distant, and utterly hollow. “Well, Cassie… didn’t you tell me to stay away from you?” 1 The moment the words leave my mouth, Cassie freezes. She struggles to maintain her composure, leaning back against the leather sofa in the hall. Those cold, domineering eyes of hers stare at me, and then a tight, humorless laugh escapes her lips. “What are you even throwing a tantrum about?” she asks, her voice tight. “Is this because I invited Jared to my birthday party? I know you two don’t get along, but is it really worth making a scene like this?” Jared Westbrook. Just hearing his name makes a wave of physical revulsion crash over me. He was the golden boy of our social circle—charming, polite, and completely harmless in the eyes of our parents. But behind closed doors, he was a sociopath who spent years systematically isolating and tormenting me. I will never forget that rainy autumn afternoon during our sophomore year of high school. He pretended to walk with me under his umbrella, only to steer me toward an unbolted storm drain cover hidden under a pile of wet leaves. I plunged straight into the freezing, flooded concrete shaft. I fell feet-first into the dark, my knees scraping against the jagged iron edges until they bled. The foul, stagnant water rose to my chin, filling my throat every time I gasped for air, leaving me with a visceral terror of drowning that still makes my chest tighten on rainy days. Jared stood above the grate, looking down at me with a lazy smile. “Your mind is filthy, Dylan. Let the rainwater wash it clean.” He only hauled me out when he got scared I’d actually drown and get him caught. Then, sobbing hysterically to my parents, he said, “It’s all my fault. I should have held his hand tighter… I didn’t see him slip.” Everyone believed his tears. They thought I was just clumsy and dramatic. The more I tried to explain what happened, the more they accused me of being ungrateful to the boy who “saved” me. Even Cassie chimed in back then, looking at me with deep disappointment. “Jared scraped his arm trying to pull you out of that sewer, and you’re pointing fingers? Show some respect.” The suffocating chill of those old memories creeps back into my chest, but I swallow the rising tide of bitterness. I keep my face perfectly smooth, devoid of anger or defensiveness. “I’m not angry,” I say quietly. “Mr. Westbrook is your fiancé. Going to his party is your business. It has nothing to do with me.” The boundary is drawn, sharp and clean. Cassie’s face darkens, the confusion in her eyes hardening into a sullen glare. She cannot accept this absolute detachment. But I don’t care to watch her play-act her emotions anymore. I remember tonight’s party all too well. In my last life, this was the night I ruined myself. Desperate, young, and foolishly in love, I gathered all my courage to confess my feelings to Cassie in front of all our guests. The result was a public scandal. My parents were furious, calling me shameless and a disgrace to the family name. That was the day my living nightmare truly began. Cassie grew to despise me, and the mockery from our peers, combined with my family’s relentless scorn, crushed my pride into dust. But this time? My only goal is to protect my parents, protect myself, and live a quiet, decent life. As for the past, my only lingering obsession is finding out who caused that fatal “accident” in the garage and making them pay. I turn and walk away without looking back. That night, the Wilder mansion is ablaze with light, filled with the city’s elite celebrating Cassie’s birthday in grand, ostentatious style. Jared, her classmate and golden-boy suitor, arrived early. He glides through the crowd, charming the elders, a picture of effortless grace. I watch him from a quiet corner, my blood running cold. Last time, I was the clown of the evening. I had spent a month folding nine hundred and ninety-nine paper cranes, writing Cassie’s name on every single wing, pouring my silent, agonizing crush into a massive glass jar. I wanted to give it to her tonight. Instead, Jared intercepted me, smiling warmly as he took the jar from my hands. “Dylan, this is so sweet. Such a beautiful gift for your sister.” Then, pretending to lose his grip, he flipped it upside down. The paper cranes scattered across the marble floor. White paper wings everywhere, each one bearing her name in my unmistakable handwriting. The room went dead silent. Whispers and looks of disgust pinned me to the spot. My parents’ faces twisted in shame and anger. And Cassie, standing in the center of the room, looked as if she had swallowed glass. But Jared delivered the killing blow, gasping in mock horror: “Dylan… how could you harbor those kinds of feelings for your own sister?” That single word—sister—sealed my fate. I was branded a degenerate. 2 Standing in the familiar grand ballroom this time around, the glittering lights and false laughter only leave me feeling hollow. Jared strolls over, champagne flute in hand, his eyes locking onto the glass jar in my arms. “A gift for your sister? How thoughtful. All handmade, I assume?” He reaches out, his fingers clawing for the glass. It is the exact same play as before. I pull the jar back, my voice flat and sharp. “Yes. And only my sister touches it. Keep your hands to yourself, Jared.” His smile falters, a flash of pure malice crossing his eyes. Right on cue, a server carrying a tray of champagne walks past. Jared nudges her hard, sending her crashing straight into me. The collision is violent and sudden. The glass jar slips from my grip, shattering against the polished marble floor. The jar bursts, and instead of cranes, hundreds of colorful, tightly rolled scrolls of paper spill across the floor, scattering among the shards. The entire room goes quiet. In my past life, this floor was covered in my shame. This time, guests instinctively kneel down to help sweep up the mess, picking up the small scrolls. Naturally, they read the neat, elegant ink on the pages: ‘May my parents find peace, health, and happiness in all things.’ ‘May our family remain united and free of worry.’ ‘May my sister find joy on her birthday, and may her path ahead be bright and safe.’ Line after wish. Clean, honest, and entirely appropriate. There is no forbidden longing here. No desperate confession. Just a brother’s quiet, genuine blessings for his family. The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly. The disgust in the guests’ eyes turns into warm, approving smiles. “He made these for the whole family? What a sweet, thoughtful boy.” “To write so many by hand, wishing them safety… he’s so devoted.” “Where did those awful rumors even come from? He’s clearly a good kid.” My parents stand in the crowd, their expressions softening into relief and quiet pride. Only Jared looks like he’s about to explode. While everyone is distracted, he leans in close, whispering in my ear: “Don’t play cute with me, Dylan. I know exactly how obsessed you are with Cassie. You better hide it well, because you won’t get this lucky next time.” I offer him a faint, mocking smile. My heart doesn’t even skip a beat. Obsessed? My love for her rotted in the dirt of that freezing garage a long time ago. I don’t bother wasting my breath on him. I look past his shoulder, my eyes finding Cassie. She is kneeling on the floor, her fingers trembling as she holds one of the stray paper slips. She stares at the words written in my steady, clean handwriting: ‘May my sister find joy on her birthday, and may her path ahead be bright.’ Her thick eyelashes cast long shadows over her face, hiding her eyes, but her entire posture screams devastation. I don’t care to watch her self-inflicted misery. I turn my back on the noise and step out onto the terrace. The night breeze is cool, sweeping away the stifling heat of the ballroom and calming the ghosts of my past. Soft footsteps click behind me. Cassie. She stops a half-step away, close enough to block my escape but far enough to respect my space. “Dylan… you’re back.” My spine goes rigid. My heart drops into my stomach, my blood turning to ice. You’re back. Two simple words, but heavy with an impossible truth. She isn’t talking about the terrace. She’s talking about the rebirth. I force my face to remain a mask of calm. “What do you mean, back? I’ve been here the whole time.” I try to play dumb. But Cassie knows me too well. Two lifetimes of codependency mean she reads my every micro-expression. She looks up, her eyes desperate. “You came back too, didn’t you?” So, I wasn’t the only one given a second chance. I let the feigned ignorance drop. My eyes turn to flint as I face her, done with the charade. “Yes,” I say, my voice dead. “I’m back.” “But I didn’t come back for you, Cassie.” “In our last life, I was foolish enough, tired enough, broken enough. I bled for you, ruined myself financially for you, endured every humiliation, and died alone in a dark garage. This time, I only want to protect my parents and live my own life.” “You and I are done. No more ties. No more us.” The color drains from her face. Panic flares in her eyes, and she reaches out to grab my hand. “Dylan, no… please, let me explain—” I don’t want her regret. I don’t want her dynamic, useless amends. I raise my hand and slap her across the face with every ounce of strength I have left. Her head snaps back, a bright red mark blooming on her pale cheek. I look at her, my gaze frozen. “That’s for the slap you gave me in our last life. Now, we’re even.” I turn to leave, but before I can take a step, she throws herself forward, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist, burying her face into my chest. Her body is shaking violently as she sobs. “No, we can’t be even,” she weeps, her voice muffled against my shirt. “Dylan, I can’t watch you die again… I can’t let you leave me. I’ve always loved you. I won’t let go this time. I’ll prove it to you. I’ll show you I mean it.” I stand frozen in her embrace, my heart a flat, silent line. 3 Of course, I remember. After I died in that garage, my spirit lingered for a while, floating above my cold body. I saw her break down. I saw the untouchable, ruthless Cassandra Wilder collapse on the concrete beside my corpse, weeping until she couldn’t breathe. I heard her desperate, empty confessions. But so what? Late affection is cheaper than dirt. I firmly push her off me, my voice devoid of warmth. “I can’t afford your love, Cassie. And I don’t want it.” Without waiting for her to wipe her tears, I turn and walk back into the bright, noisy ballroom. The moment I step inside, Jared is waiting for me. He must have been stewing in his own frustration. Seeing me alone, he corners me, his voice a quiet, venomous hiss. “You think changing a few paper slips makes you a saint, Dylan? You and your mother are nothing but parasites. She sold her body to Charles Wilder to get you a seat at this table. Don’t act like your hands are clean.” That is the line he shouldn’t have crossed. I can tolerate people dragging my name through the mud, but I will never let anyone insult my mother. My fist connects with his jaw before he can finish the sentence. “Keep her name out of your filthy mouth,” I spit. Jared stumbles back, clutching his face, his eyes instantly welling with theatrical tears as he prepares to play the victim. The guests gasp, crowding around us to watch the drama unfold. Everyone expects Cassie to step in, to scold me for being violent and unhinged, just like she always did. But instead, a slender figure steps in front of me, shielding me from the crowd. Cassie glares at Jared, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “If you can’t control your tongue, you deserve to be taught a lesson.” The room falls into a stunned silence. Before anyone can process her defense of me, Cassie raises her chin, her voice echoing clearly across the ballroom. “I would like to make an announcement. Effective immediately, my engagement to Jared Westbrook is off.” The room explodes. The Wilder-Westbrook alliance was a massive corporate merger masquerading as a marriage. It was a done deal, tying billions of dollars together. Jared turns pale, staring at her in sheer disbelief as tears stream down his face. “Cassie! Do you have any idea what you’re saying?!” “Enough!” An authoritative, booming voice cuts through the chaos from the top of the stairs. Thomas Wilder, my step-grandfather, stands there, leaning heavily on his gold-headed cane. His presence instantly suffocates the room. He glares down at Cassie. “A child’s temper tantrum is nothing to take seriously. The alliance stands. No one speaks of canceling the engagement again.” He waves his hand dismissively to the security detail. “Take her upstairs. She is confined to her quarters until she reflects on her behavior.” The guards step forward, ignoring Cassie’s stiff resistance, and lead her away. Before she disappears, she throws one last, desperate look at me, her eyes burning with stubborn possessiveness. After the party, I return to the family estate. Unsurprisingly, the patriarch orders me confined as well—no leaving the grounds, no outside contact. I accept it without a fight. A few days later, Helen, my mother, slips into my room late at night. She sits on the edge of my bed, her eyes searching mine with a mix of guilt and hesitation. “Dylan… would you like to go study in London?” I look at her, my mind clear. This isn’t a question; it’s an ultimatum from Thomas Wilder. He wants me gone. He wants to eliminate the variable, separate me from Cassie, and force the Westbrook alliance back on track. I nod slowly. “Sure. I’ll go.” In the days leading up to my departure, Cassie tries everything to reach me. Her actions are frantic, borderline obsessive. She floods me with quiet, desperate gestures of affection, trying to undo a lifetime of neglect. It’s as if she wants to lay the world at my feet to make up for the past. But my heart remains a block of ice. The day of my flight is bright and cloudless. It is also the day of Cassie and Jared’s rescheduled wedding. On one side of the city, the cathedral doors are open, the red carpet rolled out, guests arriving for a grand ceremony. On the other side, I sit in the back of a black town car, quietly heading toward the airport, chasing a new life. The silence in the car is heavy, almost suffocating. Just as the car climbs onto the suspension bridge overlooking the bay, the driver, who hasn’t spoken a word the entire trip, says quietly: “I’m sorry, Mr. Wilder.” 4 Before I can even process his words, the driver yanks the steering wheel to the side, slamming his foot on the gas. The car swerves violently, crashing straight through the concrete guardrails! The wind roars through the shattered glass as we go airborne, gravity disappearing for one terrifying second. Then, we plunge. The car slams into the freezing, dark waters of the bay. The sea swallows the light instantly, pressing against the windows, filling the cabin, choking the breath right out of my throat. I can’t even struggle. A deep, bitter sorrow fills my chest. Even with a second chance, I couldn’t escape my fate. In my last life, it was an “accident” in a garage. This life, a plunge off a bridge. It was never an accident. Someone wanted me dead, wanted me erased from this family completely. As my consciousness fades, I don’t think of Cassie’s late love, or the messy entanglements of our past lives. I think of my mother’s warm smile, and the quiet life I never got to live. A fierce, desperate anger grips my soul, refusing to let me close my eyes. I refuse to die like this, leaving my killer to walk free. Suddenly, a blinding beam of light pierces through the dark water.

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The day my mother arrived in Boston to seek treatment for the sudden, terrifying deafness in her left ear, I brought her straight back to our apartment. But the very first thing my husband said to her was when she was on the phone. “Keep it down, would you?” Mom froze. She gave him a timid, apologetic look, her weathered face forcing a tight, fragile smile. Her hand trembled as she hung up the call. “I’m so sorry, Zachary. I’ll go outside to finish.” She hunched her shoulders, her back curved under the weight of her coat. With every step she took, the cheap plastic medical booties he’d forced her to wear squeaked and rustled against the dark hardwood floor. Before she even made it to the balcony, I heard my husband and his “bro” complaining behind my back. “Zachary, when did a deaf person move into your place? She’s talking so loud, it’s deafening.” “Did she mess up your audio? Can you hear the footsteps now? Is it better?” Their playful banter resumed over the rapid-fire clicking of their controllers. On the floor by the sofa, a scattered trail of potato chip crumbs glared back at me. I looked away, my chest tightening as I stepped out onto the cold balcony. “Don’t worry, honey. Naomi’s taking great care of me. My son-in-law is wonderful, too.” She had just hung up with my brother. Mom looked down, embarrassed, and squeezed my hand. “Nay, maybe you should just check me into the hospital.” Behind us, the simulated gunfire from their television blasted through the glass door. I nodded, squeezing her calloused hand back. “Mom, once you’re discharged, I’m going back home with you.” … It wasn’t until I had fully checked my mother into her hospital room that Zachary finally called. His ringtone felt like a dull ache. “Where did you go?” “Do you know it’s already six o’clock?” “By the way, did your mom go into my office earlier? There’s this stale, sour smell in here.” I bit my lip, refusing to give him a reaction. He didn’t even notice my silence. “Book a professional deep clean for tomorrow, will you? There’s some grease on the sofa.” That was the tipping point. The dam I’d built over four years of marriage cracked, and the anger came rushing out. “Zachary,” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t you think you went way too far today?” He sounded utterly unfazed. He didn’t even know what he had done. “About what?” I took a ragged breath, swallowing the bitterness in my throat. “Forcing my mother to wear those plastic booties. Telling her to take her call outside. We were already planning on calling the cleaners anyway. Did you stop to think for one second how that made her feel?” “That’s what you’re upset about?” Zachary’s voice was dismissive, light, as if I were making a mountain out of an anthill. I ran my tongue over my teeth, waiting for him to say more. “You’re seriously picking a fight and refusing to come home over “that”?” His tone was cold. In his eyes, this was nothing but a trivial, annoying blip in his evening. My mind flashed back to the hours before my mother had arrived. He had brought Cheryl over early. She had just come from a tennis match, drenched in sweat and tracking mud from the rain all over our foyer. But Zachary—who claimed to have severe, debilitating OCD—didn’t make her wear booties. Instead, he handed her a plush towel and ushered her into his private bathroom to freshen up. But when it was my mother, he stood at the door, watching her like a hawk to make sure she wiped her shoes raw, then sprayed her down with Lysol like she was a biohazard. “Yes. Exactly because of that,” I said, my voice dropping. A heavy silence stretched over the line. When Zachary spoke again, his tone was a mix of calm superiority and irritation. “Are you serious, Naomi?” “It’s a pair of shoe covers. Why are you making this a federal case?” “Just shoe covers?” In the four hours she spent at our place, he had complained about her five times. The first time, she had accidentally bumped the volume button on her tablet. The second time, she asked me for a glass of water. … And finally, the only time he spoke to her was to tell her to keep it down—not because she was disrupting his work, but because her voice was interfering with Cheryl’s ability to hear footsteps in their game. I could still see the image of my mother’s hands, trembling and useless, clasped in her lap. “Zachary, we’ve been married for four years. The times my mother has visited can be counted on one hand.” “This time, if my brother hadn’t let it slip, she would have kept her diagnosis a secret from me forever. Do you know why?” My eyes blurred, the hospital corridor dissolving into a watercolor of sterile white and blue. By the time I found out about her sudden hearing loss, she had already been enduring the excruciating pain for eight days following a minor farm accident. The discharge from her ear wouldn’t stop running. When I first heard, I begged Zachary to help me book a specialist appointment through his connections. He told me it was too much of a hassle. Then, he turned around and spent two days negotiating with online sellers to buy a rare, high-tier cosmetic skin for Cheryl’s gaming account. I should have seen through him long ago. “Maybe she’s faking it.” My hand froze. My ears rang, the noise of the hospital fading into static. On the other end of the line, Zachary was still talking, his voice dripping with casual authority. “Naomi, I’ve read a lot about narcissistic parents online. I forgot the details, but you should look up NPD. People like her…” I hung up. The screen went black. My chest heaved, my heart hammering against my ribs. I didn’t go home that night. Instead, I sat in the hospital lobby and had a lawyer draft a divorce agreement, which I sent directly to his phone. Thirty minutes passed. No reply from Zachary. But he did find the time to double-tap Cheryl’s latest Instagram post. The next afternoon, I went back to the apartment to pack my things. I ran into Zachary in the living room. He was working at his laptop and barely looked up when the front door opened. “You’re back. Did you forget to call the cleaner yesterday?” I ignored him, walking straight past. Cheryl stepped out of our bedroom, stretching her arms above her head. When she saw me, her lips curled into a sweet, mocking smile. “Naomi, didn’t you see those articles on narcissistic parents I forwarded to you? Honestly, you can’t even call people like that parents. More like old parasites—” Before she could finish, I swung my hand and slapped her across the face. Hard. The crack echoed in the quiet apartment. Cheryl’s eyes went wide, instantly welling with tears. “What did I say wrong? She was shouting on the phone yesterday just to get attention. Typical hillbilly behavior!” Zachary finally slammed his laptop shut and stood up, inserting himself between me and Cheryl. He tapped rapidly on his phone screen, then held it up to my face. “If you don’t apologize to her right now, I’m freezing the funds for your mother’s surgery. It’s embarrassing enough that you’re using our marital assets to fund her little drama, and now you’re assaulting my friends.” We stared at each other, our breathing synchronized in anger. Just then, my phone buzzed. A text from my mother’s doctor: “We’ve finalized the surgical plan. There’s a high chance of a full recovery.” I looked back at Zachary. He was already leading Cheryl to the sofa, gently pressing a bag of frozen peas to her reddening cheek. “Zachary, let’s get a divorce.” The words were quiet, almost weightless. Zachary didn’t even look up from Cheryl’s face. “Marrying me was your ticket out of the sticks, Naomi. You’re not a child anymore. Don’t say things you can’t walk back.” “It makes it hard to clean up the mess later.” He helped Cheryl into the guest room, shutting the door behind her. A few minutes later, he came out and sat across from me at the kitchen island. “Let’s talk.” I looked at his face, searching for the man I met five years ago. I had shown up to our first meeting covered in dust from moving boxes, feeling small and out of place in the city. He hadn’t looked down on me. Instead, he pulled a tissue from his pocket and gently wiped a smudge of dirt from my cheek. “You’re so cute,” he had whispered. I had fallen so hard for him that day, thinking he was my sanctuary. Until now. “Okay,” I said quietly. “Are you doing this because of Cheryl? Look, she’s struggling to find a job in the city. Since we’re close, letting her crash here for a bit shouldn’t be a big deal.” His eyes were clear, seemingly innocent. I didn’t answer. I picked up my half-empty water glass and placed it directly in front of him. He didn’t move. I forced it into his hand, then walked over to the trash can, picked up his favorite ceramic mug, and tossed it into the bin. “I just threw your cup away. Are you willing to drink out of mine?” He stared at the glass in his hand, then shook his head, his expression hardening. “Boundaries, Naomi. That’s just basic hygiene and manners. Please respect that.” I nodded. Yet, just yesterday, I had watched him and Cheryl drink from the same mug. When I called him out on it, he had laughed and said they were “just like brothers.” I stood up, too tired to argue. “We can discuss the divorce later. But I need the money for my mother’s surgery.” My phone chimed. The transfer went through. Zachary looked at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He was used to me emphasizing that she was “our mother.” He had always been quick to correct me, insisting on keeping things separate. Hearing me call her “my mother” seemed to bring him a sense of relief, a lifting of an unwanted obligation. When I got back to the hospital, I initiated a video call with my brother, Jesse. “Mom’s surgery is tonight. The doctor says the success rate is very high, so don’t worry.” Jesse’s dark, weathered face appeared on the screen, his wide smile filled with relief and worry. “That’s great, Nay. I’ll be waiting for you guys to come home.” Just as I hung up, the heavy wooden door of the room swung open. Zachary stood there, holding a luxury fruit basket. “You’re going back? For how long?” Mom’s eyes lit up when she saw him, though her practical, frugal nature made her wince at the lavish basket. “This must have cost a fortune, Zachary. You shouldn’t have.” It was the first gift he had given her in four years of marriage. Normally, Zachary barely spoke to my mother. Even at our wedding, he had gotten by with polite, brief nods. But today, he sat quietly by her bedside, listening to her talk. My throat tightened. Mom had told me so many times how much she wanted to just sit and chat with Zachary, to tell him stories about my childhood and talk about our future. She had waited four years for this moment. “I’ll be here for the surgery tomorrow,” Zachary said, letting her hold his hand without pulling away. Mom’s eyes shone with a sudden, hopeful light. She squeezed his hand and whispered, “Zachary, could you… could you call me ‘Mom’ just once?” She always defended him to our neighbors back home, telling everyone how wonderful and responsible he was. But her deepest, quietest regret was that he had never once addressed her as his mother. Zachary’s face darkened, the warmth evaporating instantly. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. He pulled his hand back, reached into his pocket, and slid a credit card onto the bedside table. “I heard the nurse mention billing. Take this. I have some urgent things to handle at the office. I have to go.” He left so quickly he didn’t even look back. The light in Mom’s eyes died, replaced by a quiet, resigned sadness. “I’m tired, Nay. Can you lower the bed for me?” That night, unable to sleep, I scrolled through my phone and saw Cheryl’s Instagram story. “My mom is complaining about her health again. Old people are so high-maintenance. Thank god I have Zachary!” Down in the comments, Zachary had written: “Your mom is my mom. It’s normal for her to worry at her age. Don’t let her get upset.” I stared at the screen, completely numb. Beside me, Mom rolled over in the dark. I knew she was awake, too. The surgery was scheduled for nine in the morning. At eight, I sat by the window, staring at Zachary’s profile picture—a matching cartoon set he shared with Cheryl. I had tried to change it once; he had changed it back within minutes. I texted him: “Surgery is at nine.” No reply. Ten minutes later, I sent another: “If you can’t make it, call her. She’s been waiting since six.” “On my way,” he replied. Outside in the hallway, two nurses walked past, their hushed voices carrying through the heavy door. “Did you see that guy in the VIP wing? He’s so sweet. He’s been taking care of his mother-in-law all night, calling her ‘Mom’ the whole time.” “I know! It’s just a minor issue, but he was so worried he didn’t sleep a wink. As soon as a private room opened up, he paid double to move her in.” Their voices faded down the corridor. Mom had heard them, too. “Is Zachary not here yet? If he’s busy…” “He said he’s on his way.” I knelt beside her bed, but my mind was stuck on the nurses’ words. Before Mom arrived, I had asked Zachary if we could book her a private room because she couldn’t tolerate loud noises. He had dismissed it instantly. “People shouldn’t grow up so entitled,” he had said. My palms grew cold and damp. I typed another text: “Where are you? She’s about to go in.” “Cheryl’s mom wanted some premium bird’s nest tonic. I’m at the high-end apothecary waiting for them to brew it.” “How long?” “Ten minutes. I’ll make it before she goes into the operating room.” I locked my phone. The doctor came in, pulling a wheelchair behind him. “Where is the other family member? We need to go down in five minutes.” I looked at Mom’s expectant, searching eyes. For the first time, I didn’t know what to say. A profound sense of powerlessness and shame washed over me. “I’m her only family,” I said, my voice steady as I took the pen and signed the consent form. I took Mom’s hand. “I’ll be right outside. You’ve got this.” She smiled, her gaze finally drifting away from the door. “Okay.” The heavy double doors of the operating room swung shut. The red light flared to life. My phone began to vibrate in my pocket. “What’s her room number again?” I ignored it. He called immediately. “Naomi, there’s some extra tonic left over. Ask your mom if she wants it.” In the background, Cheryl’s mother sneered, “A country woman like her probably only deserves the cheap, broken scraps anyway.” Cheryl laughed. “Even scraps are too good. It’s for anti-aging, but with a face as dark as a soot-covered pot, I don’t think any amount of tonic can save her…” Zachary made a quiet, disapproving sound, but he didn’t defend my mother. To him, the only embarrassing part was that I had overheard. This time, I didn’t hold back. “Zachary, I don’t care if you spend your money to play the dutiful son to someone else. But that is marital property. Once we divorce, my lawyer will demand Cheryl return every single cent. Without a dog like you feeding them, they’d probably have to take out a loan just to buy scraps.” Cheryl started screaming in the background. Zachary cut in, his voice rising in panic. “What do you mean, divorce? I’m not agreeing to that.” I hung up. A few hours later, the red light went out. The doctor stepped out of the operating room. “The surgery was a complete success. Once she’s back in her room for thirty minutes of observation, you’re cleared to go.” I nodded, gently holding Mom’s hand as we wheeled her back. In the quiet room, Zachary’s texts kept lighting up my screen. “What’s her room number? I’m coming right now. We need to talk.” Outside, the shift change was happening. Another pair of nurses walked by. “Did you see that guy downstairs? He’s literally stopping everyone in the lobby asking where Naomi’s mother is. It’s so weird—how do you show up to visit a patient and not even know her name?” I looked away from the door. My phone buzzed again. “What floor are you on? Just tell me the floor.” I ignored it, turning the phone to silent and placing it face down. Thirty minutes later, I helped Mom put on her coat. “Let’s go home, Mom. Jesse said he misses us.” She didn’t ask about Zachary. She simply nodded and took my arm. We walked out to the curb and flagged a cab. “To the train station, please.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “522948”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel