Category: English

The day we moved into our first home, Elliot asked me to set the keypad lock code. I typed in our wedding anniversary: 0521. He glanced at the screen, reached out, and casually changed it to a different sequence. “This is easier to remember,” he said. I didn’t think much of it at the time. But later, I noticed. 0912 was everywhere. The front door, the digital safe, his phone passcode, his Apple Pay—all of them were 0912. It wasn’t until I went to connect to the Wi-Fi and saw the network password, “celine0912”, that the pieces finally clicked. Celine. His ex-girlfriend. 0912 was her birthday, September twelfth. The birthday of a woman he had broken up with five years ago was woven into the security of our home, guarding every threshold of our life together. And mine? This year, I told him three days in advance that Saturday was my birthday. He said he’d remember. I spent Saturday afternoon cooking a full dinner, waiting at the dining table from six o’clock until eleven. When he finally pushed the door open, he reeked of alcohol. “Just had a quick dinner with some colleagues,” he muttered. But then his phone, tossed carelessly onto the table, lit up with a text from his ex-girlfriend’s mother: “Thank you for coming to Celine’s birthday party tonight, Elliot. She was so happy to see you.” I stared at the cold, honey-glazed short ribs on the table, and then at that glowing screen. It was time to change the code that guarded every lock in my life. … When the trash can lid slammed shut, the entire dinner became a blurred mess. The dark, sticky sauce of the short ribs bled into the lemon-butter cod, ruining any trace of what they had been. I tied the trash bag tight and dragged it to the front door. In the master bedroom, the shower was running. When Elliot walked in, he’d offered only a curt, “I already ate, don’t wait up,” before heading straight upstairs. He hadn’t even glanced at the dining table. My phone buzzed in my hand. A voice message from Mary. “Flora! Happy birthday, babe! What did Elliot get you? Spill!” I stared at the 59-second audio file for a long time. I typed back: “It was nice. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” Then I flipped the phone face down on the kitchen counter. The shower stopped. The soft hum of a hair dryer drifted from the bedroom. I picked up my phone and re-read the text. “Thank you for coming to Celine’s birthday party tonight, Elliot. She was so happy to see you. —Mrs. Davis.” I switched off the living room lights and walked upstairs. Elliot was leaning against the headboard, scrolling through his phone. His hair was damp, the duvet only half-covering him. My instinct was to grab a dry towel for him. My hand even hovered near the edge of the bed before I stopped myself. I sat down beside him. “Elliot.” “Yeah?” “Today was my birthday.” His fingers paused on the screen. “I know. Didn’t I say we’d make it up to you?” He hadn’t. I remembered every word. “You didn’t say that.” “Well, I’m saying it now. I’ll take you somewhere nice this weekend.” “You went to Celine’s birthday party today.” He locked his screen, turned his head to look at me, his brow furrowing. “Her mom called me three times. I’ve known their family for over a decade, Flora. I couldn’t just blow them off.” “You could have come home to eat with me first.” “By the time I got back, what time would it have been? You’d have been asleep anyway.” “I wasn’t asleep. I had four dishes sitting on the table from six to eleven. I was waiting for you.” He didn’t answer that. After a few seconds, he sighed. “Alright, I get it. Next weekend. I’ll make it up to you.” I looked at his phone screen, which had lit up again. “All of your passwords are 0912.” “I told you, I just set them randomly. It’s easy to remember.” “My birthday is also September twelfth.” His fingers froze over the screen. The hands of the grandfather clock in the hallway ticked through the silence. “Well, isn’t that perfect then?” he said, trying to soften his voice. “It’s the same day. It’s not like I don’t know when your birthday is.” “You know, but you chose to spend it with her. You didn’t come home to spend it with me.” Elliot tossed his phone onto the nightstand with a sharp clack. “Flora, what do you want from me? Are we really going to fight over a birthday? I said I’d make it up to you. What more do you want?” I looked at him. His frown was deep, etched with an impatience that felt like it had been building for a long time. I didn’t say another word. I turned off the lamp, lay down, and turned my back to him. He rolled over. Within two minutes, his breathing was slow and even. I stared into the dark, perfectly still, counting to a hundred and twenty. Then I slid my phone out, dimmed the brightness to the absolute minimum, and opened Safari. I typed in three words: “apartments for rent”. After twenty minutes of scrolling, I bookmarked three listings. Then I scrolled through my contacts until I found a number I’d saved last month. “Charles Alden, Divorce Attorney.” It was too late to call now. I’d do it tomorrow. I locked the phone and closed my eyes. Every lock in this house was still secured by the exact same numbers. “It’s the same day,” he had said. “It’s not like I don’t know.” But of the two women who shared that birthday, he only remembered to celebrate one. The next morning when I went downstairs, he was already putting on his shoes. “I’m in a rush,” he said, pulling open the door. The keypad lit up briefly. “Wait,” I called out. “You said you’d make it up to me. When?” “Next Saturday. I’ll book a restaurant.” “Don’t book French food. I don’t eat it.” He glanced back at me. “Fine.” The door clicked shut, and the lock’s screen glowed for two more seconds. I dialed Charles Alden’s office. We scheduled a consultation for tomorrow afternoon at three. He told me to bring the deed to the house, our marriage certificate, and bank statements. I texted Mary: “Are you free the day after tomorrow? I need to see you.” She replied instantly with a barrage of questions. I typed back three words: “In person, please.” I sat at the kitchen island and poured myself a glass of water. On the bottom of the glass was a faded, barely visible letter: “C”. I stared at it for a moment. Then I set it back in the cupboard and left for work. Mr. Alden flipped through my documents, jotting down notes on his legal pad. “Flora, I’ll be straight with you. From a financial standpoint, this marriage offers you very limited protection. Are you absolutely certain you want to proceed with a divorce?” “I am.” “If we go to court, we’ll need evidence of an irretrievable breakdown. Can you share the primary reason?” I paused for a few seconds. “Every password in our home is his ex-girlfriend’s birthday. The front door, the Wi-Fi, the safe, his phone passcode, his payment accounts. All of them are 0912. The Wi-Fi network is literally named “celine0912″.” Mr. Alden looked up from his pad. “How long has this been going on?” “Three years. Since the day we moved in.” “Have you brought this up with him?” “Twice. He told me he set them casually because they were easy to remember, and that I was being overly sensitive.” Mr. Alden drew a thick line across his pad. “Understood. I should have a draft of the separation agreement ready for you in three to five business days.” “Thank you.” I left the law office at four in the afternoon. Walking past a bakery, I spotted a tiny single-serving cake in the display case, complete with a thin, unlit candle. I stared at it for a few seconds, but I didn’t buy it. When I got home, Elliot wasn’t back from work yet. I slipped off my shoes and stood in the middle of the living room, really looking at the space for the first time. The sofa was a deep, cold charcoal grey. I preferred warm tones. The curtains were a stark, sterile white. I preferred textured linen. On the bookshelf was a row of untouched French novels in their original bindings. I didn’t read French. The house had been fully furnished before I moved in. Elliot had told me there was no point in redoing it. I knelt by the bed, pulled out the digital safe, and punched in “0912”. The lock clicked open. Inside lay our marriage certificate, the property deed, and a few insurance policies. At the very bottom, tucked away, was a small black velvet jewelry box. I pulled it out and opened it. A silver band. Engraved on the inner loop in elegant cursive were the words: “Celine 0912”. Elliot rarely wore his wedding ring; he usually kept it on the nightstand. But this ring was kept in the safe, locked away at the very bottom. I closed the box, slipped it back into its corner, closed the safe, and pushed it back under the bed. Then I opened his side of the closet. In the far corner sat a heavy canvas tote bag. I unzipped it. Inside was a stack of postcards and a bundle of letters. The top postcard was written in delicate, flowing handwriting: “Elliot, Paris is breathtaking. Next time, let’s come here together.” It was signed with a single letter: “C”. I flipped through them one by one. Paris, London, Iceland. Each bore the same signature: “C”. The postmark on the last one was from four years ago. They had broken up five years ago. He hadn’t thrown a single one away. I put them back in order, zipped the bag, and pushed it back into the dark corner of the closet. My phone buzzed with another frantic voice note from Mary. “If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I won’t sleep tonight.” I texted her back: “The safe passcode is 0912. Inside, there’s a ring engraved with his ex’s name and birthday.” Mary’s reply was a single-word text: “Jesus.” I met Mary the next day at a quiet diner near my office. The moment she sat down, she grabbed my hands. “Don’t say a word yet. Just eat.” She ordered me a bowl of hot chicken ramen. I pushed the bowl slightly to the side and laid out everything—the code, the ring, the postcards, and the night of my birthday. She listened in complete silence. “He didn’t change a single thing when you got married?” she asked quietly. “He said it was easier this way.” “The sofa, the curtains… did you actually like them?” “No.” Mary leaned back in her booth. “This place… he decorated it when he was still with Celine, didn’t he?” “The renovations were finished the year they broke up.” “So her birthday is the code. Her taste is the decor. Her ring is in the safe, and her letters are in the closet. Flora, you didn’t marry Elliot. You moved into a hollow shell she left behind.” My fingers tightened around the crumpled napkin on the table. “I know.” “You knew?” “I didn’t just find out today.” Mary looked at me, her expression a mix of sorrow and confusion. “Then why did it take you this long to walk away?” “I kept telling myself that things would get better with time. But it’s been one thousand and ninety-six days, Mary. And he hasn’t changed a single password.” Mary’s eyes welled with tears. “What did the lawyer say?” “He’ll have the draft ready in three to five days.” “And the house?” “He bought it before we got married. It’s his.” “So you walk away with nothing.” “I don’t want any of it anyway.” Mary pressed her lips together tightly. “You’re moving in with me.” “Not yet. There’s one last thing I want to do.” “What?” “He said he’d make up my birthday to me this weekend. I want to see where he takes me.” On Saturday afternoon at five, Elliot sent me a pinned location. It was a trendy Japanese izakaya downtown. When I arrived, he was already flipping through the menu. “Order whatever you want. It’s on me.” I ordered two simple dishes. Elliot added a carafe of sake and a platter of salmon sashimi. When the food arrived, I picked up my chopsticks. “Have you been here before?” “A few times,” he said, pouring the sake. “The food is great.” “Who did you come with?” His hand froze mid-pour. “Just some work dinners.” I pulled out my phone, opened Yelp, and searched for the restaurant. The very first featured review had six photos attached. The last photo was a selfie of Celine. The review ended with: “We come here every year for our anniversary. The staff always recognizes us. Thank you, Elliot, for taking me.” The timestamp was four years ago. The username: “LunaOnTheMoon”. I turned the screen and slid the phone across the table toward him. Elliot’s face paled. “You went looking for this?” “It’s the first review on Yelp, Elliot. I didn’t have to look.” “That was a long time ago, Flora.” “So to make up my birthday to me, you brought me to the place you always took her. And you ordered the exact same dishes.” He set his chopsticks down, his voice dropping an octave. “Flora, aren’t you tired of this? I brought you here because the food is good. What does it matter who I came here with before?” “Then tell me one dish that I actually like.” He stared at me. “What?” “Just name one thing. What is my favorite food?” The surrounding tables were filled with laughter, clinking glasses, and chatter, making the silence at our table suffocating. Elliot opened his mouth, then closed it. “You’re not a picky eater.” “Okay, let’s try an easier one. What is one thing I “don’t” eat?” He didn’t answer. “I don’t eat raw fish, Elliot. I never eat sashimi. I told you that the first month we moved in together. You just ordered salmon sashimi.” “You never made a big deal out of it.” “I told you. You just didn’t listen. Your memory was already too full of 0912.” His jaw clenched. “What are you trying to do here, Flora?” I laid my chopsticks down, picked up my purse, and stood up. “I’m leaving.” “Flora.” I didn’t look back. “Do you have to make a scene out of everything?” he called after me. I pushed through the door and walked out. A light drizzle was falling. I stood under the awning of a neighboring shop, waiting for an Uber. My phone buzzed. A text from Elliot: “You’re overreacting. It was just a dinner. Was that really worth storming out?” I silenced my notifications and got into the car. The rain streaked down the window, leaving long, distorted tracks. I texted Mary: “It’s done. Please get the guest room ready for me.” On Sunday morning, Elliot left to play basketball. I pulled a suitcase out of the closet and started packing. My clothes, my skincare, a few books—it barely filled half the suitcase. My jewelry box held only a pair of studs and a simple necklace, both of which I had bought for myself. I looked around the master bedroom. That was it. That was everything I owned in this house. One thousand and ninety-six days, reduced to half a suitcase. I rolled the bag to the front door, put on my coat, and took one last look. Our framed wedding photo still sat on the entryway table. I left it there. I reached for the keypad on the door and found the settings menu. “Current code: 0912.” “New code.” I stared at the blinking prompt for a second. Then I punched in four digits. The code I had set on our very first day here. Our wedding anniversary. The one he had deleted right in front of me. I changed it back. “Confirm.” The lock let out a soft chime, and the screen went dark. I walked out, pulling my suitcase behind me, and the door clicked shut. I took a cab to Mary’s place and rolled my suitcase into her spare room. Mary helped me make the bed, stopping halfway through. “Are you holding up okay?” “I’m fine.” “Do you need to cry? It’s okay to cry.” “No, I don’t.” She slipped the pillowcase on and patted it smooth. “Are you hungry? I made some chicken soup.” “Yes, please.” I was sitting at her kitchen counter sipping the warm broth when my phone started vibrating. Elliot called three times in a row. I let them go to voicemail. Then the texts started. “Where are you?” “Why isn’t the door code working?” “Flora, answer your phone.” When he called a fourth time, I picked up. “What the hell is going on?” His voice was loud, vibrating with a frustration that suggested he’d been standing on the porch for a while. “I changed the code,” I said quietly. “To what?” “I’m not telling you.” “This is my house, Flora. You changed my lock and you’re not telling me the code?” “You’re right. It is your house.” There was a long pause on the other end. “Where are you?” “I moved out.” “Stop being dramatic, alright? Just come back and change the code.” “I’m not coming back, Elliot.” “You’re throwing our marriage away over a dinner?” I held the warm bowl in my hands, watching the steam rise. “It was never about the dinner.” “Then what is it?” “Because that house was never my home.” “You lived here for three years! How was it not your home?” “The door code was her birthday. The safe held her ring. The closet held her letters. The restaurants we went to were the ones you shared with her. I lived there for three years, Elliot, but I never actually moved in.” He went silent. “Call a locksmith,” I said. “I’m not giving you the code.” I hung up. Mary sat across from me, watching me quietly. After a moment, she said, “Eat your soup before it gets cold.” “Okay.” I finished the soup. My phone buzzed again a few times. I turned it on silent and placed it face down on the table. About half an hour later, the screen lit up with a text from Elliot. “Locksmith just left. I’m in.” “And I changed the code back.” I stared at the screen, took a screenshot of the message, and saved it to a folder labeled “Evidence”. “He changed it?” Mary asked, noticing my expression. “Probably back to 0912,” I said with a faint smile. Mary sighed. “He can change the numbers back all he wants, Flora. But he can’t get you back.” Outside, the sky was turning a deep twilight blue. Mary’s living room was bathed in a warm, amber glow. Sitting on her sofa, I realized something. In the three years I had lived in Elliot’s house, I had never once noticed the color of the light.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “522971”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Lately, after my late-night video chats with my online boyfriend, his demands had been escalating, his kinks twisting into something darker and increasingly bizarre. I was just starting to worry about the toll it was taking on him when a strange, translucent text began scrolling across my field of vision like a live-feed comment section. [LMAO, the tragic side-bitch is so ugly and clueless. She has no idea she’s dealing with triplets! All three of them are sharing one account and using her as their personal Pornhub~] [It’s her own fault for stealing the heroine’s photos to date the male lead. Kellan’s a proud guy. When he figured out the truth, he decided to play along and let his two virgin older brothers use her to practice their bedroom skills!] [Hahaha, this is a top-tier reverse-harem dark college romance. All three Carmichael brothers are campus gods. Six-foot-two, eight inches, and can go all night. The heroine is going to feast later on! It’s just a shame this cheap knock-off gets to enjoy them first :(] [Who cares? Once Kellan leaks her explicit videos online, the cyberbullying will push her to jump off a building. So satisfying~] Ah. So that was it. The thing is, I never stole anyone’s photos to date online. But I had no desire to explain myself. If they wanted to play me, they couldn’t blame me when I decided to treat them like dogs and play them right back. I made the first move by tracking down the middle brother, Hudson—the one who fronted as innocent but harbored the darkest, most voracious appetite of them all. Looking into his clean, detached eyes, I wrapped my arms tightly around his waist, tilted my head back, and offered him a blinding smile. “Take me to bed tonight. Okay?” 01 The moment the words left my mouth, Hudson recoiled as if a lunatic had just latched onto him. He grabbed my arms, shoving me back. But then his eyes focused on my face. He froze. The look in his eyes morphed from repulsion into utter, mesmerized shock. The floating text in my vision went wild. [WHAT THE FUCK! Nobody mentioned the side character was this gorgeous!] [If I’m reading this right, it’s not that the side character stole the heroine’s pics. The heroine stole HER pics to catfish the male lead!] [Oh, calm down, what’s the big deal? Kellan loves the heroine for her inner beauty, not just a face.] [Exactly. The side chick is so stupid, she hasn’t even realized this isn’t Kellan, it’s his brother Hudson.] … It was only today, reading these surreal, floating comments, that I finally understood the reality of my existence. I was living inside a steamy BookTok sensation. I was the impoverished, disposable collateral damage. The heroine was my trust-fund roommate, Camille. The male lead was Kellan Carmichael, the scion of a top-tier billionaire dynasty. The supporting male leads were his older brothers: Declan, the eldest, and Hudson, the middle child. Kellan and I met through an online game. He fell hard, spending the last three years absolutely spoiling me, funding my life from afar. That was, until things got spicy, and I refused to show my face on camera. Camille, who had her sights set on Kellan, saw an opportunity. She used an AI deepfake of my face to video-chat him. Kellan, assuming I was the fraud who had stolen Camille’s photos, decided to punish me. He handed over the login to his brothers, letting them take turns using me as a digital plaything. Eventually, when the truth came out, the Carmichael brothers would decide that my poverty made me a gold-digger, inherently cheap and undeserving, while Camille remained pure, elegant, and high-class. To wash their hands of me and appease Camille, they would leak my private videos. The resulting cyberbullying would drive me off the roof of a building. These filthy, entitled men. When they wanted to get off, they’d give their lives for my body. But once they were satisfied, they wanted me dead. So, while they were still inexperienced, arrogant virgins, I was going to sleep with all of them. I was going to make them tear each other apart. And then, I was going to walk away without looking back. I blinked up at Hudson, batting my eyelashes. “Why are you looking at me like that? Do you not recognize me?” Hudson snapped out of his trance. His voice was a magnetic, crisp baritone. “I recognize you.” “You’re Camille.” I shook my head, my smile widening. “Nope.” “I’m Faye.” Confusion and shock warred on his handsome features. Without breaking eye contact, I pulled out my phone and dialed Kellan’s number via FaceTime. A second later, the phone in Hudson’s pocket began to buzz. He looked down, then brought his gaze back to me, disbelief written in every line of his face. “You… you’re really Sweet Cream?” Sweet Cream was my online handle. I grinned at him. “Yeah.” “Didn’t you say you missed me?” “Well, here I am. I came all this way so we can do all those dirty things we talked about.” Hudson swallowed hard. His pale, aristocratic face flushed so deeply it looked like it might bleed. “This… this isn’t right.” “…It’s too fast.” A strange thrill fluttered in my chest. He was even more repressed and bashful than I had observed. Yet, according to the script, he was the one with the most insatiable libido. I kept my tone light, teasing. “We’ve been dating online for three years. I wouldn’t call this fast.” “Besides, I’ve helped you out on video so many times.” I paused, letting my smile slip just a fraction. “Or… are you disappointed with how I look in person?” Hudson opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat. The text scrolled by: [Hudson is obsessed with her body, but he knows she belongs to his precious baby brother. Kellan misunderstood her, and Hudson knows he’s just an imposter. He can’t sleep with her.] Oh. Now we care about brotherly love and moral boundaries? Where was that morality when you were conspiring to humiliate me? I reached up, hooked my arms around Hudson’s neck, and pulled his mouth down to mine. 02 The second our lips met, Hudson’s eyes flew wide open. His breath hitched, a sharp intake of air that vibrated against my mouth. But his heartbeat was deafening. And his physical reaction was undeniable. The moment my body pressed flush against his, the hard evidence of his arousal pressed back… making me even more excited. I kissed him with reckless abandon. But after a moment, Hudson awkwardly pushed me away, stumbling two steps backward. His voice was raspy, frantic. “Sweet Cream, don’t do this.” I let my lower lip tremble. I looked at him, forcing tears to well up in my eyes until they were rimmed with red. “Kellan… you don’t actually like me, do you? All those times you said you loved me online, you were just lying.” “No!” Hudson denied instantly. “Then why are you pushing me away?” I choked out, a perfect picture of heartbreak. “I’m offering myself to you.” Hudson just stared at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing silently. I lowered my eyes. I let my voice crack. “I get it.” “You think I’m poor. You think I’m not good enough for you.” “But it’s not like you just found out about my background.” “You’re a liar.” “We’re done. Let’s break up.” “I’m blocking you, and you’ll never hear from me again.” I pulled up his profile on my phone, my thumb hovering over the Delete Contact button. Suddenly, Hudson lunged forward and clamped his hand over my wrist. I looked up. Two perfect, crystalline tears slid slowly down my flushed cheeks. Hudson’s eyelashes fluttered. For a long, suspended moment, we just looked at each other in the heavy silence. Then, as if a dam had burst within him, his hot palm cupped the back of my neck, and he crashed his mouth down on mine with the force of a hurricane. It was like he couldn’t get enough, couldn’t breathe enough of me in. He scooped me up into his arms, kissing me blindly as he carried me toward Kellan’s bedroom. My pleated skirt, the crisp white button-down, the black lace… they formed a trail from the doorway to the edge of the bed. The room filled with the heavy, tangled sounds of our breathing. The comment section was losing its mind: [AHHH! Wasn’t Hudson supposed to save himself for the heroine? Why is he giving it to the side chick?] [It’s all this bitch’s fault for threatening to break up! Hudson is just trying to save his brother’s relationship, so he has to commit to the bit!] [NGL, healthy relationships are great, but toxic, forbidden lust is so much hotter!] [LMAO I know right?! The taboo vibes are insane! Hudson’s V-line and that stamina are making me weak in the knees!] I hissed in a sharp breath, a physiological tear leaking from the corner of my eye. Hudson froze instantly. He looked down, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You… you’re a virgin?” I gave a shy, breathless “Mhm.” The hands gripping my waist tightened possessively. Kellan had sworn that Sweet Cream was a cheap cam-girl who would sleep with anyone for cash, that she was used goods. But her eyes, her reactions, her very body told him the absolute truth: she was untouched. She was clean. She was worthy of being loved. A wave of intense guilt washed over Hudson. But when he remembered that his idiot brother Kellan had gone out to find Camille tonight, that guilt rapidly morphed into a twisted sense of relief. Thank god Kellan had gone to Camille. Thank god this perfect, sweet girl was his now. Hudson tenderly kissed the tear from the corner of my eye. His voice was a dark, gravelly murmur, thick with adoration. “Baby, I’m going to take such good care of you.” I sneered internally. Yeah, right. Once I had my fun with all three of them, they’d be nothing but a bad memory. But on the outside, I played the part of the profoundly moved lover. “I’ll take good care of you, too.” I initiated the next kiss. And the man—who had always been slave to his own repressed desires—kissed me back harder, faster, more desperate than before. I lost track of how many times we went at it. Until, suddenly, the bedroom door swung open. Hudson and I, along with the figure standing in the doorway, all froze. In the dead, suffocating silence, I peeked over Hudson’s shoulder. It was a tall, imposing man. But before I could even make out his features, Hudson snapped back to reality and yanked the heavy duvet completely over my head. Plunged into darkness, I felt him slip out of the bed. He leaned close to the blanket, whispering frantically. “I have to step out.” “Stay in bed. Don’t come out.” “Wait for me to come back for you.” 03 Hudson shut the door tightly behind him. But thanks to the floating comments, I had a front-row seat to the drama unfolding in the living room. Out there, Declan was staring at the red scratch marks raked down Hudson’s arms. His eyes were dark, his voice low and dangerous. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Bringing some girl back to fool around in Kellan’s bed.” Hudson didn’t flinch. His tone was eerily calm. “That girl is Sweet Cream. She thinks I’m Kellan.” Declan stiffened. Then a harsh, mocking laugh escaped him. “You really are pathetic.” “A girl who’s been around the block with god knows how many guys, and you’re treating her like some delicacy?” Hudson’s expression turned ice-cold. “She was a virgin. She’s completely pure.” “And she never lied to Kellan. She looks exactly like her photos. Camille was the one who stole her face and manipulated him.” Declan was stunned into silence. It took him a long time to find his voice. “Then you definitely shouldn’t have touched her.” “You know how obsessed Kellan is with her.” Meeting his older brother’s disappointed glare, Hudson didn’t back down. “I’m obsessed with her, too.” “Besides, Kellan is basically with Camille now.” “I need you to cover for me. Don’t tell Kellan, and don’t tell Sweet Cream. Let me keep being Kellan to her.” “I don’t want to break her heart. When the time is right, I’ll explain everything to her myself.” Declan’s face was stormy. “I’m not helping you with this sick game.” Hudson stared at him for a long beat. “…Is it because you want her for yourself?” Declan looked as if he’d been slapped. He swore under his breath. “I’m not as depraved as you. I wouldn’t touch my own brother’s girlfriend.” A cruel, knowing smile touched Hudson’s lips. “Really? Because you certainly didn’t mind jerking off to her videos.” Declan choked on his next words. It was true. He had only let me “help” him out once on video. But once was still a fact. Hudson’s voice hardened into steel. “I’m not logging into Kellan’s account for you tomorrow.” “She’s mine. I’m going to marry her.” “Neither of you gets to take her from me.” Declan let out a cold scoff, his gaze sharpening into blades. “Did you forget she is currently Kellan’s girlfriend?” “You’re not even the other man, you’re just a cheap knock-off, and you’re planning a wedding?” “You need to get her out of here right now, and put Kellan’s room back exactly the way you found it.” “Unless you want Kellan coming at you with a knife when he finds out!” Declan was immovable. But Hudson refused to yield. “Kellan went to see Camille. He won’t be back for days.” “As long as you keep your mouth shut, no one has to get hurt.” Declan opened his mouth to argue, but Hudson cut him off. “I took her virginity. Are you telling me I should act like some deadbeat and not take responsibility?” Declan aggressively rubbed his temples, utterly exasperated by his useless brother. He tried to find a compromise. “I can keep quiet for now.” “But if Kellan decides it’s her he really wants, you have to back off.” “Why?” “Because he’s the youngest. As his older brother, it’s your job to step aside for him.” Hudson let out a soft, hollow laugh. “I’m your younger brother, too. Why don’t you ever step aside for me?” “Why do you always trample over my feelings and force me to do things I hate?” Declan’s lips parted, but whatever argument he had died on his tongue, weighed down by guilt. Hudson threw a final, “Remember to call me Kellan in front of her,” over his shoulder before coming back into the room. But the mood was broken. He just climbed into bed and held me silently against his chest. Which was fine by me. My body was aching from the sheer intensity of what we’d just done. I needed the rest. The comments, however, were absolutely seething. 04 [This side character is a literal plague! Declan and Hudson have NEVER fought, and now they’re at each other’s throats over her!] [Hudson was already obsessed with her voice and body on screen. Now that he’s actually held her and tasted her, there’s no way in hell he’s letting go.] [I can’t wait to see who Declan sides with when Hudson and Kellan inevitably try to kill each other over her.] Who would he side with? Hahaha. I was going to make sure Declan was throwing punches right alongside them. With me in the picture, this “brotherly bond” was going to burn to the ground. The next morning. Alerted by the comments that Declan was up and working out, I slipped out of bed to find him. In the faint, hazy morning light, I found Declan on the balcony. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants, holding a perfect plank. The lines of his shoulders were sharp and fluid. Veins popped along his forearms. His fiercely defined abs tightened and relaxed with every controlled exhale. It was like a silent, primal invitation. The raw testosterone rolling off him was intoxicating. I swallowed lightly. I finally understood the phrase: He was just breathing; I was seducing. I slid the glass door open. “Kellan?” I murmured. Declan stiffened. He immediately broke his form and stood up, looking down at me. I quietly took him in. Though the triplets shared the same face, their auras couldn’t be more different. Kellan was arrogant and spoiled. Hudson was repressed and elegant. Declan had a rugged, untamed danger to him. His voice was a block of ice. “I’m not Kellan. I’m Declan.” I let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Declan, Kellan, whatever… aren’t you just my boyfriend?” I stepped right into his space and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my cheek against his warm, sweat-slicked chest. Damn. He felt like a brick wall. Declan frowned deeply and shoved me off. His tone dropped another ten degrees. “We are triplets. I am the oldest. My name is Declan.” I feigned utter embarrassment, letting my cheeks flush red. “Oh! Oh my god, Kellan never mentioned… um, I’ll just… go back to the room.” Glancing one last time at the faint pink smudge I had intentionally left on his chest, I jogged back to the bedroom, immensely satisfied. I hadn’t been under the covers for more than a few minutes before Hudson stirred. Seeing me awake, he hauled me flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He pressed a few groggy kisses to my skin before murmuring, his voice rough with sleep, “Baby, I want you again.” I widened my eyes in mock shock. “Didn’t you just have me out there? You’re still not satisfied?” Hudson froze. His sleepy eyes snapped into sharp, terrified focus.

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On senior portrait day, my boyfriend, Tayler, took over two hundred photos of Flora, the campus it-girl. He was the president of the university’s photography club, a master of finding the perfect angles, capturing the way the light fell. Flora stood beneath the golden oak trees, smiling softly. “Am I being too much of a pain?” Tayler didn’t look up from his viewfinder, his voice dripping with gentleness. “Never. You look beautiful in every frame.” When it was my turn, I nervously smoothed down my dress and stepped into the frame. But Tayler only clicked the shutter twice, barely looking. “Alright, we’re done.” I froze. “That’s it?” He frowned, a familiar flash of irritation crossing his face. “You’re just not photogenic, Iris. Let’s not waste everyone’s time.” I looked at the screen of his camera. There were exactly two shots of me. In one, my eyes were half-closed. In the other, a harsh shadow from the branches cut my face completely in half. I asked him to take a few more. Instead, he pulled out his phone and posted on the student forum: [$20 bounty for anyone willing to take a few quick graduation shots of my girlfriend.] Within thirty minutes, a user with a blank profile picture slid into my DMs. I sent over my location, typing out a quiet warning: “Just so you know, I don’t photograph well.” The reply came almost instantly: “That’s just because whoever took your photos didn’t know how to guide you.” When the shoot was over, he sent me the raw files. I stared at my phone, completely speechless. For the first time in my life, I realized I could actually look beautiful. What was even wilder? This twenty-dollar photographer seemed infinitely more professional than the president of the photography club. … The photographer sent over a few more raw files. No heavy edits, no filters. Just different angles of me. I was standing there, my eyes bright with a spark I didn’t even recognize. “Your features are great,” he texted. “You just tense up the second you see a lens.” Whenever Tayler used to shoot me, his go-to line was always: “Can you just smile naturally for once?” After three or four clicks, he would lower the camera with a heavy sigh. “Forget it.” Then he’d roll his eyes, blaming me. “You have zero camera presence.” He said it so often that I started believing it. Eventually, whenever a camera was pointed at me, my instinct was to look down, to hide, convinced I would look terrible. My phone buzzed. My roommate, Katie, had forwarded Flora’s latest post. A perfect nine-grid layout of graduation portraits, all taken by Tayler. Flora stood beneath the old oak trees, her hair caught in a flawless, cinematic breeze. “So incredibly lucky to have the photography club president as my personal shooter! ” The comments were already flooded: “These could literally be the university’s official catalog!” “Flora is the ultimate college sweetheart.” Flora had replied with a blushing emoji: “He’s seriously so good at directing! I was so nervous, but he kept making me laugh.” I zoomed in on her photos, a quiet, familiar ache settling in my chest. It wasn’t that Tayler didn’t know how to guide someone. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to make a girl feel comfortable. He just never cared to try with me. Just then, a notification popped up from the official university app: [Admissions Campaign: Search for the New Face of the University.] [Submit a headshot and a one-minute video introduction. The winner will be featured in next year’s national admissions campaign.] I instinctively swiped it away. That kind of spotlight was never meant for someone like me. Tayler had made sure I knew that. But then, a message from the twenty-dollar photographer lit up my screen: “Did you see the admissions post?” I blinked, surprised. “Yeah, I did.” “You should apply.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard. “I don’t think I’m the type.” He replied immediately: “Trust me. No one is more suited for this than you.” A few seconds later, another message came through: “They aren’t looking for a plastic pageant queen.” “They’re looking for someone real. Someone who makes people want to step onto that campus.” I stared at his words for a long time, unable to move. Then, he sent over a structured shoot schedule: Three days of practice with camera presence, three days of shooting on-campus locations, and three days of editing the final one-minute video. A sudden wave of emotion hit me, making my throat tight. The truth was, I used to love photos. But over the four years I’d spent with Tayler, I had slowly learned to fear the camera. The next morning, the moment I walked into the photography club room, Tayler spotted my printout of the application form. He frowned. “Iris, are you seriously entering this?” I nodded. “Yes.” He let out a scoff, as if I’d just told a hilarious joke. “The face of the university? Come on. Don’t do this just because you’re throwing a tantrum over the graduation photos.” Flora was sitting beside him, offering a sweet, pitying smile. “Iris, honestly, working behind the scenes is wonderful too. Being the public face of the school comes with so much pressure. If the photos don’t turn out perfect, people online can be brutal.” In the past, those words would have made me shrink instantly. But this time, I simply folded the form and tucked it into my bag. “Whether I’m good enough is for the committee to decide,” I said quietly. “You don’t need to disqualify me in advance.” Tayler’s face darkened. “Why are you being so stubborn?” My phone buzzed. It was the photographer: “4:00 PM. West entrance of the library.” “We’ll do our first shoot.” “No need to overthink it. Just show up as you are.” I looked down at the screen, took a soft breath, and looked up at Tayler. “I have a photographer.” Tayler’s jaw tightened. “Without me, you won’t even have a single photo worth showing.” I ignored him and walked out. At four o’clock, I stood at the west entrance of the library. For years, when Tayler took photos, I was the helper in the shadows. When he shot Flora, I was the one carrying his heavy lenses, holding the reflector, passing him water bottles, and watching their bags. If Flora’s dress was slightly out of place, I was the one who rushed over to smooth it down. Afterward, Tayler would have me import and organize the files. But when it came to me, he wouldn’t even bother adjusting his camera settings. Today, for the first time, I didn’t have to stand outside the frame. The photographer didn’t rush to lift his camera. He just had me stand near the stone steps. “Relax your shoulders,” he said. “Forget about the lens.” “Pretend it isn’t there. Look at the wind, look at the trees, look at whatever catches your eye.” I looked up, my body still stiff. He met my eyes. “Iris. The camera isn’t Tayler. It’s not going to criticize you.” A sudden sting hit the back of my throat. My eyes welled up, and I quickly looked up to blink away the tears. He didn’t rush me. He just waited, letting me find my footing in the quiet space. We shot for half an hour. He didn’t talk much, but his directions were clear and reassuring. “Don’t clench your dress.” “Look at that maple tree on the left.” “Now, look back at me.” “Perfect. Keep that expression.” For the first time, I realized that taking photos could actually feel effortless. The next morning, Tayler messaged me in the club group chat. “Need you to hold the reflector this afternoon. Flora is shooting her admissions portfolio.” Normally, I would have agreed without a second thought. But this time, I replied: “I’m shooting my own photos this afternoon.” The group chat went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, Tayler private-messaged me. “Are you seriously taking that twenty-dollar Craigslist guy seriously?” “Flora’s portfolio is the club’s priority right now. Don’t hold back actual work.” I stared at the words “actual work.” I wanted to laugh. To him, “actual work” meant Flora. My graduation portraits, my dreams, my attempt at finding my courage—none of it was real work. That afternoon, I went to the science building for my video shoot. Passing the track field, I saw Tayler shooting Flora. She stood in the center of the grassy field, bathed in gorgeous afternoon light. Tayler was kneeling, constantly shifting his angles. “Take your time. Turn your head when the breeze hits.” “If you can’t smile, just look at me.” “Beautiful. Let’s do one more.” Flora laughed. “Am I being super high-maintenance?” Tayler’s voice was incredibly gentle. “Not at all. You have amazing camera presence.” I stood by the edge of the track, my hands slowly tightening into fists. So he did know how to soothe someone. He did know how to make a girl feel safe in front of a lens. It was just that the girl was never me. My photographer noticed my expression, but he didn’t pry. Instead, he held the camera out toward me. “Today, we’re doing motion,” he said. “Just walk, look at the camera, and tell me why you love this university.” I looked down. “I don’t know what to say.” “Then just pretend you’re talking to me.” I thought about it for a long moment before looking up at the lens. “Because the people here always seem to be running forward,” I said softly. “It makes me feel like, as long as you don’t give up, even the most ordinary person can find their own strength.” He didn’t interrupt. When we finished, he showed me the playback. In the video, I wasn’t as sweet or practiced as Flora. But I was real. That evening, students in the admissions group chat started sharing their raw materials for feedback. My photographer had helped me pick a candid shot of me near the library’s side entrance. Almost immediately after I posted it, a comment popped up: “Is that Iris?” “Wow, there’s so much emotion in this shot.” I held my phone, a tiny, warm spark blooming in my chest. But Tayler was quick to dampen it. “It’s just an atmospheric shot,” he texted. “Tricking the eye with lighting and composition.” “Admissions needs a well-rounded representative, not a glamor shoot.” Flora chimed in right after: “Exactly. Video is so much harder than photos. Motion easily exposes your angles and expressions.” I stared at their messages. My chest tightened slightly, but I didn’t feel the usual panic. I didn’t feel the desperate urge to explain or prove myself to them. I only typed: “I’ll keep practicing.” That night, my photographer sent over a new plan. “Tomorrow, we shoot by the graduation wall.” “Don’t be afraid.” “Just be yourself.” By the deadline, I submitted my video. I had watched the one-minute clip at least fifty times. It opened at the west entrance of the library. I was walking up the steps holding a stack of books, turning back to catch the lens. The middle featured the track field, the labs, and the graduation wall. The final shot was me standing by the main gate, saying: “I hope that when you come here, you’ll slowly find yourself too.” My fingers were shaking when I clicked submit. My photographer texted me: “You did amazing.” “Now, get some sleep.” But sleep wouldn’t come. I had spent years hiding behind others. For the first time, I had put myself on display. Three days later, the preliminary list was released on the Admissions Office’s social media page. First Place: Iris Wen. Second Place: Flora Lin. I stared at the screen, paralyzed. My roommate Katie screamed, throwing her arms around me. “Iris! You’re first!” “You actually got first!” Before I could even process the joy, the photography club group chat erupted. “Iris is first?” “Flora is second?” “Tayler’s shoot actually lost?” Tayler remained silent. Until someone tagged him: “President, what do you think?” He finally replied: “I’m sure the administration will verify the authenticity of the materials.” In that instant, my heart sank. He didn’t congratulate me. He didn’t ask how I had managed to pull it off. His immediate reaction was that it had to be fake. Flora private-messaged me soon after. “Iris, you’re so amazing! But is your photographer a professional?” “To get quality like that for twenty dollars… it doesn’t really feel like a regular student did it.” Naturally, someone screenshotted her message and leaked it to the group chat. The tide turned instantly. “Yeah, that quality is definitely not twenty dollars.” “Did she hire a professional agency to boost her?” “Is it heavily photoshopped?” “Aren’t admissions ambassadors supposed to represent real students?” “Does her photographer have connections in the admissions office?” Before long, a thread appeared on the student forum: [Admissions preliminary results controversy: Did a certain female student hire an agency to fake her portfolio?] [Is it realistic for a twenty-dollar photographer to produce a campaign-level video?] The comments grew vicious. “Wasn’t she famous for being completely unphotogenic?” “Suddenly she looks like an indie film star? Who’s buying that?” “She must be desperate for attention.” I stared at the screen, my fingers turning cold. Tayler’s text popped up: “Who is this photographer, really?” “Did he bring in a professional team for you?” “Iris, the admissions campaign isn’t a private photoshoot. Don’t use the university’s image to feed your vanity.” I stared at his words for a long time before replying: “You think I cheated too?” He shot back instantly: “You know better than anyone how unphotogenic you used to be.” The words stung like a needle to the chest. Even when I succeeded, even when I looked beautiful, he refused to believe it was really me. To him, I was a lie. That afternoon, I got a call from the admissions office. “Iris Wen? Please come down to the administration building.” “A student filed a formal complaint alleging your submission was produced by a commercial team, heavily edited, and benefited from unfair resources.” “We need to verify the authenticity of your files.” I stood in the hallway of my dorm, my mind going blank. My phone buzzed. My photographer had sent a message: “Deep breath.” “Don’t be scared.” “You didn’t suddenly become beautiful.” “You were just finally photographed the way you deserved.” Staring at his words, the warmth slowly returned to my fingers. But then Tayler sent another text: “I’ll go with you.” “I can testify to how you usually perform in front of a camera.” I held my phone tightly as I walked toward the administration building. The forum was still blowing up. “She actually went in for questioning?” “So it’s true?” “An admissions ambassador represents the school’s integrity. Cheating is a joke.” “I bet she has a thing going on with that photographer.” My steps faltered. Those words were worse than being called ugly. They weren’t just questioning my photos; they were dragging my character through the mud. Inside the office, the admissions director, a marketing coordinator, and the dean of student affairs were waiting. On the desk lay printed screenshots of the forum posts and stills from my video. The director looked at me with a grave expression. “Iris, a student has filed a formal report claiming your submission was the work of a commercial agency.” “There are also allegations of improper relationship and resource trading with your photographer.” “This campaign represents the integrity of our university. We must take this seriously.” The word “integrity” felt like a physical blow. I handed my phone over. “I didn’t hire an agency.” “It isn’t heavily edited.” “The photographer is someone Tayler hired off the student forum.” “For twenty dollars.” The director reviewed the chat logs and the transaction receipt, but his brow remained furrowed. “But looking at your past student records and club photos, the difference in camera presence is indeed stark. We need an explanation.” Just then, Tayler knocked and entered. The director looked at him. “Tayler, you’re the head of the photography club. Are you familiar with Iris’s past camera performance?” I looked at him. In that split second, a tiny, foolish shred of hope flickered in my chest. He knew he was the one who posted the forum ad. He knew my terrible graduation photos were the result of his own careless clicks. Tayler hesitated. “She’s… not unattractive.” My chest loosened slightly. Then he continued: “But she was always incredibly stiff in front of a camera.” “I’m not saying she cheated.” “But the level of this portfolio… it doesn’t look like the work of a twenty-dollar amateur.” The office fell silent. He hadn’t outright accused me of lying, but he had neatly validated every doubt. I stared at him. “Tayler. You know exactly who posted that ad.” “You’re the one who told me I was unphotogenic and threw twenty dollars at a stranger to get rid of me.” “And now that someone else took the time to do it right, you think it’s fake.” “You don’t doubt the photographer.” “You just can’t stand the fact that I look beautiful in a photo that you didn’t take.” Tayler’s face froze. The door creaked open. Flora was standing there, her eyes rimmed with red. “Director, may I say something?” she whispered. “I don’t doubt Iris at all. I just… I know how much she used to hate the camera.” “I’m just worried that someone took advantage of her desire to prove herself and over-packaged her…” She trailed off, leaving the unspoken accusation hanging in the air. My hands and feet went cold. The director sighed. “Iris, until we clarify this, your preliminary ranking will be suspended.” “Please provide the raw files, behind-the-scenes footage, and the photographer’s contact details.” I walked out of the office. A crowd of students had gathered in the hallway. “Suspended? That basically means she’s guilty, right?” “It’s just a school campaign, why go to such lengths?” As I reached the stairs, my phone rang. It was my mother. “Iris, why did the university just call us?” “It’s just a picture, don’t let this ruin your graduation.” “Mom, I didn’t lie,” I whispered. A beat of silence on the other end. Then my father’s voice cut in: “If you didn’t lie, why is the school investigating you?” My fingers were completely numb as I hung up. Tayler caught up to me. “The best thing you can do right now is blame the photographer,” he said quickly. “Say you didn’t know he brought in an outside team. The school will go easy on you.” I looked at him, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Now you’re worried about me?” “But Tayler, wasn’t he the twenty-dollar photographer “you” found?” Tayler went rigid. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from the photographer: “I’m downstairs at the admin building.” “Iris, don’t worry.” “I’ll clear this up.”

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My buddy knew how hopelessly in love I was with Serena Cross. He spent an entire week cornering her around campus, badgering her until she finally gave him her number so he could pass it to me. To show my gratitude for helping me make that first terrifying leap, I emptied my entire savings account to buy him a designer watch. Immediately after, I began agonizing over what to text Serena. During the day, I’d send her little snapshots of my life; at night, we’d stay up late, whispering our deepest secrets through blue text bubbles. Within a year, we had become inseparable, sharing a connection that felt deeper than anything I’d ever known. Finally, I gathered every ounce of courage I had and sent her a text: [The weather’s supposed to be nice tomorrow. Want to get coffee?] Serena replied almost instantly: [Babe, we literally just said goodbye?] While I sat there staring at my phone, completely baffled, my buddy pushed open our dorm room door. He was holding a gift box, looking sheepish and red-faced. “Hey, Jude,” he said, sounding terribly apologetic. “So, when I got her number last year… I think I forgot to mention it was for you. She’s been under the impression that the person texting her this whole time was… well, me.” 1 The entire dorm room went dead silent. The only sound was the sharp, repeated chime of my phone vibrating against the desk. Serena’s messages were flooding in, one after another: [Did I scare you by confessing so suddenly?] [Actually, I’ve been building up to this for a long time.] [This past year of texting you… I could feel how sweet and genuine you are.] [At first, I thought I just saw you as a close friend. But then, whenever I didn’t hear from you, my chest would ache. That’s when I knew. I’ve fallen for you.] [I’m sorry to spring this on you out of nowhere and just confess like this—] But before the next sentence could load, every single one of those messages vanished. [Message unsent.] [Message unsent.] “I’m so sorry, Jude,” Zachary said, offering a soft, sympathetic smile. He set the gift box on his desk and pulled out a sleek velvet case. He opened it, admired the designer tie clip inside, and kept it. Then, he tossed the matching cufflinks over to me. “I actually just said yes to Serena. She asked me out. So, obviously, I can’t let her keep texting you anymore.” He knelt beside my chair, resting his chin on his hands as he looked up at me with bright, innocent eyes. “I gave her my actual number and told her my old account got hacked. So…” A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. A sickening, impossible realization began to take shape in my mind. With trembling fingers, I opened our chat, typed a single question mark, and hit send. A second later, a harsh red error circle flared onto the screen. [Message failed to deliver.] My heart dropped into a bottomless, icy pit. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Just like that, Serena had erased me. We had literally stayed up talking until four in the morning. Seeing me frozen, Zachary shoved the silver cufflinks into my palm and chuckled. “Oh, come on. Honestly, if she hadn’t thought she was talking to me from the start, she probably wouldn’t have even given you the time of day. You know how cold and untouchable Serena is. Half the guys on campus have tried and failed. Just think of these cufflinks as a little—” “Zachary,” I interrupted, my voice flat and hollow. I turned my head away, unable to bear the sight of him. “We’re not friends anymore. Don’t call me your brother.” Before he could say anything, I pushed past him, climbed up to my bunk bed, and drew the curtains shut, clinging to the last shred of my dignity. Huddled in the dark, I scrolled back through a year’s worth of messages with Serena. At the beginning, the screen had been a wall of my blue bubbles, with her replying in polite, brief sentences. But slowly, her tone had shifted. If I went silent for a few hours, she’d send a tentative [Hey, you there?] For the past three months, our roles had completely reversed. She was the one who was constantly reaching out, eager to share every mundane detail of her day. I had been so full of hope. My heart had felt light, buoyed by the belief that all my quiet courage hadn’t been in vain. But now, it was all shattered. I buried my face in my pillow and cried until sleep finally claimed me. The next morning, someone yelled from the doorway. “Jude! There’s a really gorgeous girl downstairs looking for you. She said her name is Serena.” 2 My eyes snapped open, every trace of sleep instantly vanishing. I glanced over at Zachary’s empty mattress, threw off my blankets, and scrambled out of bed. Part of me wanted to run to the mirror and make myself presentable, but the panic of keeping her waiting won out. I grabbed a black face mask, threw on a heavy winter coat to hide my rumpled clothes, and hurried down the stairs. During that brief descent, a dozen desperate hopes raced through my mind. Maybe she had realized that Zachary’s personality didn’t match the texts at all. Maybe she had figured out the truth, and she was here to apologize… “Jude.” A cool, beautiful voice called out. I tried to steady my breathing, keeping my eyes downcast. I looked at the silver bracelet on her wrist—the one we had spent three hours choosing together over text. I gave a quiet, muffled, “Yeah?” “What is it that you want?” Serena asked. I jerked my head up, staring at her through my glasses. Serena was completely expressionless, her gaze distant and cold. “Zachary was crying last night. Because of you. I don’t know when you first noticed me, or when you decided you had a crush on me—” She took a slow, deep breath, her brow furrowed in a tight line of irritation. She looked at me with a cold, impatient disdain she’d never once shown in her messages. “But let me make one thing entirely clear: Zachary is my boyfriend. That is my choice, and it isn’t going to change. Not now, not ever. So I don’t want you taking your frustrations out on him. Do you understand?” Tears stung the backs of my eyes, blurring her cold silhouette. I dug my fingernails into my palms and forced the words past the lump in my throat. “The person you talked to every night… that was me, Serena. It was always me.” A harsh, mocking laugh cut through the cold morning air. “Zachary warned me about you. He said you were desperate enough to try this. He said you’d lie and claim his words as your own just to get to me.” Serena’s gaze turned to pure disgust, sharp and unyielding. “So let me tell you this, Jude: even if it [had[ been you behind those messages, I still wouldn’t want you. I want Zachary.” The words felt like a physical blow. I stood there, feeling incredibly small, and let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I reached down, unclasped the matching silver bracelet from my own wrist, and let it slip through my fingers. It hit the pavement with a dull, hollow clink. As I turned my back on her, I heard her voice soften with a sudden, tense hesitation. “Jude—” 3 Like a fool, I stopped. I couldn’t help it. I had spent two years secretly admiring her from afar, and an entire year pouring my heart out to her through a screen. You don’t just switch that off. I told myself that if she asked, if she showed even a shred of doubt, I would pull out my phone and show her every single message. “Jude?” Serena’s tone turned gentle, almost coaxing. She stepped closer behind me and whispered, “Zachary’s ulcer is flaring up again. I bought him some medicine, but I forgot to give it to the guy who came down earlier. Could you take it up to him?” “Sure,” I said. I grabbed the white paper bag from her hand and walked back toward the dorm entrance without looking back. The very last ember of warmth in my chest went cold. Maybe Zachary had been right all along. If it hadn’t been for his face, Serena never would have spared me a single glance. 4 I tossed the medicine onto Zachary’s unmade bed. A few minutes later, the door swung open, and Zachary walked in, flanked by a couple of guys from down the hall. “Hey, Jude,” Zachary said, his voice bright. “My girl is treating us all to dinner tomorrow night. You should come with.” I kept my back to him, staring blankly at my desk. “I’m good.” Behind me, one of the guys let out a quiet, mocking snicker. “Told you so, Zachary. He’s still crying over Serena. As if she’d ever look at him. If you hadn’t cornered her to get her number, a guy like him would be completely invisible to her.” “Hey, cut it out,” Zachary scolded gently, though there was a smug undercurrent to his voice. He walked over to my desk, leaning in. “Jude’s not like that. He just needs a little time to process everything. Right, buddy?” He blinked his wide, watery eyes, adopting that familiar, wounded-puppy look he always used when he wanted something. “Look, after my ex broke my heart, Serena just fell into my life. It feels like fate, Jude. You’re my best friend. I just really want your blessing.” As he gestured, his sleeve slipped back, exposing the jagged, pale scar on his forearm. The scar he’d gotten three years ago when he pulled me out of the way of a falling metal rack at a university exhibition. My chest tightened. The guilt, heavy and familiar, washed over me. I looked away, swallowing the bitterness. “Fine,” I muttered. 5 I spent the next twenty-four hours forcing myself to swallow the bitter pill of reality. By the time evening rolled around, I splashed some cold water on my face, didn’t bother styling my hair, and headed out to the restaurant. When I walked into the private dining room, Zachary and the other guys were still in the restroom. Serena was sitting alone at the large round table. She looked up, her gaze scanning my plain t-shirt and tired face. She gave a curt nod, then defensively pulled her hands off the table, leaning back into her chair as if to establish a boundary. My heart gave a painful twitch. Sitting across from her cold, guarded form, my mind flashed back to the warmth of her texts: [I think I found that stray cat you were feeding yesterday. Is this him?] [Thank you for listening to me vent tonight. Are you ever going to tell me your name?] [Don’t cry over people who don’t deserve you. They only target you because you’re too kind.] The door opened, and Zachary returned, surrounded by his laughing entourage. The moment his eyes landed on me, his smile stiffened, a flicker of panic crossing his features. “Jude! Hey, man… I didn’t know you were already here. You should’ve texted, I would’ve met you at the lobby…” Serena reached over, wrapping her fingers gently around his. “He’s a grown man, Zachary,” she said, her voice softening into an affectionate coo. “He doesn’t need an escort. You need to focus on your own health.” She reached into her bag and placed a sage-green thermos in front of him. “Here. Warm water, just like you like.” Amid the appreciative teasing of the other guys, Zachary took the thermos. A brief flash of confusion crossed his face before he smiled. “Is this green one yours?” Then, he picked up a slice of fresh pineapple from the fruit platter with his fork and held it up to her lips. “Serena, you’re seriously the best.” Serena didn’t open her mouth. She just stared at the yellow fruit. Zachary’s smile faltered, looking slightly embarrassed as he nudged the fork closer to her lips. “Come on, take a bite.” She’s deathly allergic to pineapple.[ The warning practically leaped to the tip of my tongue, but I forced myself to choke it down. I watched as Serena’s eyes went dark for a fraction of a second. But then, she smoothed her expression, leaned forward, and ate the pineapple. She smiled warmly at him. “Thanks, babe.” 6 Serena watched Zachary as he went back to laughing and talking with his friends. She leaned back against her chair, her index finger tapping a slow, rhythmic beat against the dark wood of the table. Her eyes were clouded and intense. I knew exactly what she was thinking. She was wondering why the boy who had allegedly spent three days texting her about the “perfect sage-green thermos” he’d bought for her would look at it and ask if it was hers. “Excuse me, I’m going to run to the restroom,” Serena said, standing up with a tight, polite smile. As she pulled her hand away, I caught a glimpse of what she was clutching in her palm: a blister pack of allergy medicine. Zachary paid her departure no mind. He turned to me, his voice dripping with magnanimity. “Jude, did you order anything yet? Seriously, don’t be shy. Serena wanted to treat everyone to thank you guys for looking out for me in the dorm.” I looked at the menu, feeling a dull ache in my stomach. “Whatever is fine.” “Alright,” Zachary said, turning to the waiter. “We’ll go with these. Oh, and make sure there’s absolutely no cilantro in any of the dishes. My buddy here gets physically sick if he eats it.” He looked around the table, wearing a proud, self-satisfied grin that practically screamed, [See what a thoughtful friend I am? 7 With Serena out of the room, Zachary leaned in and whispered to the guys, his chest puffed out. “We went out last night, and she kissed me. We were lying on the grass looking at the stars, and she just stared at me for the longest time before leaning in. She told me I’m perfect just the way I am, and that I need to be more confident…” Amid the low, excited jeers of the guys, Zachary reached into his pocket and pulled out the designer watch I had gifted him a year ago. He slid it across the table toward me. “I wanted to tell her the truth, Jude. I really did. But you saw how she looks at me… she’s in love with me. I can’t just hand her over. This is the watch you gave me to say thanks. I’m returning it. We’re even now.” The screech of my chair legs scraping against the hardwood floor cut through the room’s chatter. I couldn’t do this for another second. “I have to go,” I said, my voice thick. I practically bolted for the exit. In my haste, I didn’t see the door opening and collided straight into someone, burying my face into a soft, fragrant shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, a tear finally slipping down my cheek as I pushed past her and ran. 8 After that night, Zachary and Serena’s relationship became the talk of the campus. It seemed everyone knew that the untouchable Serena Cross had finally been tamed. Around Zachary, she was softer, sweeter than anyone had ever seen her. Zachary, entirely swept up in the thrill of his sudden romance, completely stopped trying to mend things with me. I threw myself into every extracurricular activity I could find, filling my schedule to the brim just to keep my mind from wandering back to those blue text bubbles. It worked, for the most part, until a warm evening a few weeks later. I was walking back to the dorm late when I noticed two figures arguing quietly in the shadow of the oak trees near the courtyard. “Babe, please stop being like this. How could you think I have feelings for Jude?” Serena sounded utterly exasperated. “I keep my distance from everyone. I don’t even have other guy friends. You—” “I just can’t stand the way he looks at you,” Zachary grumbled, pulling his arm away from her. “We share a room, Serena. Every time you come over to see me, he’s right there. Maybe… maybe I should just move out. We could get an apartment together.” “That’s not a good idea,” Serena said, her voice tightening with a subtle note of scrutiny. “For an entire year, you were too shy to even tell me your name over text. Why are you suddenly in such a rush to move in together?” She let out a slow, measured breath, her tone shifting to something more clinical. “I want us to do this right. We have our whole lives after graduation. We don’t need to rush this, do we?” The leaves rustled in the dry breeze. Then, Serena spoke again, her voice cool and calculated. “Actually, I have a friend who’s single. She’s gorgeous, though her temper is… a bit much. I wonder if we could set them up. I doubt a guy like Jude could ever catch her attention, but it would keep him occupied.” Zachary let out an awkward, nervous chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a great idea. I’ll pitch it to him when I get back. He’ll probably be thrilled.” 9 With graduation looming, I had already signed a lease on a small apartment off-campus. To keep the peace and avoid any more awkward confrontations, I didn’t object when Zachary brought up the blind date. I just nodded and agreed. A couple of days later, Zachary was on a FaceTime call with Serena in our room. He grabbed my shoulder and yanked me in front of the screen. “See, Serena? I told him. Jude, seriously, her friend is a total knockout. She’s got a bit of a wild side—she actually got arrested once—but she’s harmless. Mostly.” On Serena’s end of the screen, a girl’s voice was ranting in the background, sharp and dripping with annoyance. “Are you kidding me, Serena? Why are you trying to set me up? Who said you could give out my number? I’ve said it a thousand times, I am not looking for a boyfriend! I would literally rather jump off a bridge than go on a—” The girl leaned into the frame to grab her phone, and our eyes met through the screen. She froze mid-sentence.

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Chapter 1 Clutching the late-stage stomach cancer diagnosis, I sat on the cold hospital bench. I dialed my husband, Julian Vance. “The doctor says I need surgery. It’s going to cost a hundred thousand dollars out of pocket… can you lend me some money?” “Lily, our prenup is very clear. We keep our finances separate.” “Your illness is a personal liability. I shouldn’t be expected to take on that risk.” “Just set up a GoFundMe and post it on your socials.” Over the phone, I could faintly hear our son’s childish, excited cheer: “Aunt Chloe, Daddy bought this gift for you! I wish you were my mommy!” “Well, you can call me Mommy if you want to.” A young woman’s smiling voice echoed through the receiver: “Julian, thank you for the investment. The five hundred thousand just hit my account…” I numbly hung up the phone and walked back to our cold, empty house. Late that night, Julian brought our son home and saw me sitting quietly on the sofa. He walked over, his thumb gently brushing the corner of my eye. “Lily, I’m doing this for your own good.” “In the adult world, no one is a safe harbor for anyone else.” “You have to learn to provide your own safety net, otherwise, how will you survive in this society?” I nodded calmly, turned to go back to the bedroom, and called my lawyer. “Help me draft the divorce papers.” … After hanging up, I shoved the diagnosis report to the very bottom of my medical folder. From the living room came Leo’s laughter. “Daddy, Aunt Chloe says she’s taking me to the indoor water park this weekend!” Julian replied softly, “Finish your homework first.” Julian and I had been married for seven years. Leo was six years old. The night he was born, I suffered massive hemorrhaging. Julian had gripped my hand outside the operating room, his eyes red. “Lily, you and the baby both have to make it.” The first time Leo called me “Mommy,” he was only ten months old. He threw his arms around my neck, drooling all over my face. I was so happy that day I took dozens of videos. But now, my own flesh and blood had just said on the phone: I wish Aunt Chloe was my mommy. The door pushed open. Julian stood in the doorway, his dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms, holding a scarf. “Leo picked this out for you.” He walked over and draped the scarf over my shoulders. His movements were incredibly light. So light, it was as if there were no GoFundMe, no cancer diagnosis between us. And no other woman that he favored. He remembered I hated the cold. He remembered I didn’t drink cold water before bed. But he conveniently forgot that I would be terrified when I was dying. “You don’t look well today.” I looked at him. “I have late-stage stomach cancer.” His fingers paused. A second later, he looked down and adjusted the edge of the scarf. “Lily, don’t try to scare me with things like that.” “Where’s the report?” I gave a small smile. “Didn’t you say my illness is a personal liability?” Julian looked up at me. “I was talking about principles.” “Principles aren’t cold-blooded.” I asked: “So telling me to start a GoFundMe is also a principle?” He frowned. “Lily, I don’t like it when you twist my words.” “Telling you to crowdfund gives you another option.” “Adults can’t dump all their risks onto their partners.” I unlocked my phone and pushed a credit card transaction screenshot in front of him. Fifty thousand dollars. A luxury jewelry boutique. Recipient: Chloe Bennett. Julian barely glanced at it, his expression completely unfazed. “Chloe just got back from overseas and is heading up a new project. She needs to meet investors.” “Looking the part is a business expense.” I nodded. “And the five hundred thousand?” Julian’s face finally darkened. “Lily, do you really have to put yourself in a position to compete with her?” Footsteps padded toward the door. Leo ran in clutching his Legos. “Daddy, Aunt Chloe said she’ll help me build this tomorrow!” He stopped when he finally noticed me. The smile on his face faded instantly. “Oh. You’re here, Mommy.” I asked him, “What did you say on the phone earlier?” Leo’s eyes darted away. “I didn’t say anything.” Julian spoke up, his voice low. “It was just a kid talking nonsense. Don’t make a big deal out of it.” I looked at my son. “Leo, do you want Aunt Chloe to be your mommy?” He clutched his Legos tighter, his voice very small. “Aunt Chloe says even though she’s not my mommy, she understands me better.” “She doesn’t force me to do homework, and she doesn’t get sick all the time.” The room went dead silent. My fingertips curled slowly into my palms. Julian looked at me. “He’s just a child. Don’t take it to heart.” I asked calmly, “Are you?” He stiffened. I took the scarf off and placed it back into his hands. “Julian, tomorrow morning, ten o’clock. My lawyer’s office.” He looked as if he’d just heard something absurd. “Because of a title?” “No.” I looked at him. “Because today, I finally realized there is no place for me in this house.” Julian stared at me, dropping his tone. “Lily, stop throwing a tantrum.” “You’re in a bad mood right now. I can tolerate this.” He reached out to touch my head. In the past, whenever he did this, my heart would soften. But this time, I tilted my head away. His hand froze in midair. I said: “I don’t need your tolerance.” “I just need your signature.” The next day, Julian didn’t show up at the lawyer’s office. I waited until eleven-thirty. He sent a text. 【Chloe has a big project pitch today. I can’t get away.】 Another text popped up right after. 【If you really want a divorce, have your lawyer contact me.】 I stood on the street corner, clutching my purse. I didn’t reply. I turned around and went to the hospital. The doctor looked over my scans, his expression heavy. “Ms. Morgan, I strongly advise you to be admitted immediately.” “If we want to fight for a chance at surgery, you cannot delay the preliminary treatments.” I asked: “How much will it cost?” The doctor gave me a number. One hundred thousand dollars. I nodded. “I understand.” At the billing window, I swiped three different cards. Insufficient funds. The clerk looked up at me. “Is your family not here with you?” I said, “No.” When the word slipped out, even I froze for a second. I had a husband. I had a biological son. But standing in front of the hospital billing window, I was completely alone. That afternoon, I went home to get my passport and social security card. The moment I pushed the door open, I heard a woman’s laughter in the living room. Chloe was sitting on the sofa. She was wearing a beige dress suit, and on her wrist was the fifty-thousand-dollar Cartier bracelet. Leo was draped over her lap, playing on his iPad. Julian stood next to her, pouring her a glass of warm water. Before handing it over, he tested the temperature against the back of his hand. He used to test my water like that. Back then, I thought it was love. Now I knew: it wasn’t that he was incapable of being gentle. He was just selective. Seeing me, Chloe immediately stood up. “Lily, you’re back.” She sounded perfectly sweet. But the bracelet on her wrist caught the light. The glare made my eyes hurt. I had lingered by the display case for that exact bracelet on my birthday. Julian had said to me: “Things like this aren’t practical.” “You’ve never been a vain person.” Now, it was shining on Chloe’s wrist. Julian glanced at me. “Why are you back?” I looked at him. “This is my house.” Chloe’s face paled slightly. Julian set the water glass down. “Chloe’s pitch was a success. I brought her back to grab a file.” “And let Leo hang out with her for a bit.” And. I was standing in line at the hospital trying to pay for cancer treatment. He was in my house throwing a celebration for another woman. Leo looked up from his iPad. “Mommy, can you be a little quieter?” “Aunt Chloe is really tired today.” I looked at my son. Suddenly, I remembered when he was three and had a terrible fever in the middle of the night. He was convulsing, clinging to my neck, crying. “Mommy, don’t go.” I didn’t close my eyes for a single second that night. Julian called his name in a low warning: “Leo.” But it was just a name. No reprimand. No correction. Chloe hurriedly patted the child’s head. “Kids just say things, don’t mind him, Lily.” She paused, her tone growing even softer. “Though… Julian did mention your health hasn’t been great.” “I’ve been working on my EmpowerHer Wellness Initiative lately, and I’ve seen a lot of cases like yours.” “Women need to have their own financial independence.” “You can’t just get sick and turn your pain into a bargaining chip to extort others.” I looked at her. “Did he teach you that line?” She flushed. Julian frowned. “Lily, stop being so passive-aggressive.” I didn’t say another word. I walked into the bedroom to pack my documents. Julian followed me in and shut the door. “Did you go to the hospital today?” I put my passport in my bag. “Yes.” “What were the results?” “Late stage.” His eyes shifted. But quickly, he pushed whatever emotion that was back down. “Show me the report.” I looked up. “What are you looking for?” “Trying to figure out if I’m still worth the investment?” Julian’s face darkened. “Lily, do you have to be this bitter?” “I just want to verify the situation.” I zipped my bag. “There’s no need.” He blocked the doorway. “Don’t leave today.” I gave a dry laugh. “Why?” “Afraid I’ll drop dead outside and there’ll be no one to pick up the kid from school?” He fell silent for a second. And in that second, the answer was crystal clear. From the living room, Leo yelled: “Daddy, Aunt Chloe says we’re going to get truffle pizza!” Julian turned his head and answered: “Wait for me.” I stared at his profile. He used to answer me like that too. I’d tell him Leo had a fever. He’d say, Wait for me. I’d tell him I was breaking down. He’d say, Wait for me. Later, I finally understood. His “wait for me” was never a promise. It was a delay tactic. I walked past him. He suddenly grabbed my wrist. “Lily.” His voice dropped, the way he used to coax me. “Don’t make this difficult for me.” I turned to look at him. “Julian.” “You make staying alive difficult for me.” “Do you really think I care about making things difficult for you?” I listed the small condo I owned before we got married for an emergency quick sale. Hearing my asking price, the realtor fell silent for a few seconds. “Ms. Morgan, this price is incredibly low.” “Are you absolutely sure?” I said, “I’m sure.” After hanging up, I sat in the hospital stairwell. My phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Chloe had posted a new update. In the photo, she was standing on a presentation stage. The screen behind her read: 【EmpowerHer Wellness Initiative】 The next slide read: 【Healing isn’t about pills; it’s about spiritual rescue.】 Julian was sitting in the front row, looking up at her. I hadn’t seen that kind of patience from him in years. The caption read: 【Only when you are firmly supported do you dare to move forward.】 Someone commented: 【The way Mr. Vance is looking at you! So sweet.】 Chloe replied: 【He said I deserve to be seen.】 I stared at it for a long time. Then I locked my screen. The husband of a stomach cancer patient tells his wife to crowdfund her treatment. Then he turns around and invests in a wellness course for another woman. I guess you can put life’s most absurd tragedies into a PowerPoint after all. The doctor notified me it was time to check-in for admission. I took the deposit slip to the window. The clerk told me I was short forty thousand dollars. I called Julian. This time, he picked up. “What is it?” The background was quiet. Sounded like a conference room. I said: “I’m forty thousand short for my hospital deposit.” “Consider it a loan.” The other end of the line paused. “Lily, it’s not that I won’t give it to you.” “But your treatment plan hasn’t even been finalized yet.” “Blindly throwing money at it isn’t rational.” I closed my eyes. “The doctor says it can’t wait.” “Of course the doctor would say that.” His tone was perfectly steady. “Start with the basic treatments. We can talk when there’s a definitive plan.” I asked: “Is Chloe’s project plan definitive?” His voice went cold. “Don’t drag her into everything.” “Her project has societal value.” “What you’re doing right now is an emotional expense.” An emotional expense. I looked down at the medical bill. I let out a sudden laugh. “Julian, I’m dying of cancer, and you call it an emotional expense?” He stayed quiet for two seconds. “You know that’s not what I meant.” I opened my mouth to speak. Then I heard Chloe’s voice over his phone. “Julian, the investors are here.” Julian immediately said: “I have to go.” Right before he hung up, he added: “I had my assistant compile a list of medical relief grants and crowdfunding platforms for you.” “Stop rejecting the solutions people offer you.” The call ended. Less than a minute later, his assistant emailed me a document. The subject line was: 【Guide to Setting up Personal Crowdfunding for Critical Illnesses】 I stood in front of the billing window, my fingers stiff and freezing. The contract for my condo was signed that same night. The buyer negotiated ruthlessly. I didn’t counteroffer. As I signed the papers, the realtor asked quietly: “Ms. Morgan, do you have any family to help you?” I stared at my signature. “Yes.” “But they’re very busy.” Busy applauding another woman. Busy treating my cancer like an emotional expense. Busy teaching me to be independent. That night, I went back to the house to pack my hospital bag. There was a pair of unfamiliar heels by the door. The smell of soup drifted from the kitchen. Chloe was wearing my apron, ladling soup into bowls. Leo was sitting at the dining table. “Mommy Chloe, that smells so good.” Leo turned, saw me, and froze instantly. “I… I said it wrong.” Julian walked out of his home office. Seeing me, his brows knitted together. “Why are you coming back without letting anyone know again?” I looked at him. “Do I need to make an appointment to enter my own house?” Julian lowered his voice. “The kid didn’t mean anything by it.” I walked over to the table. There were three sets of bowls and silverware. None for me. Suddenly, I realized asking questions was pointless. They weren’t having a spontaneous celebration. They were already practicing being a family of three. Chloe’s eyes reddened. “Lily, I really didn’t mean to take your place.” “Leo is just lacking companionship.” “He said you always look so sick lately, and it scares him.” I looked at her. “So you taught him to call you Mommy Chloe?” Chloe bit her lip. “No, I didn’t.” Julian’s face went dark. “Lily, leave the child out of adult conflicts.” I laughed. “Adults?” “I gave birth to him.” “You two hand him a knife to stab me with, and now you say ‘leave the child out of it’?” Leo burst into tears. “Daddy, I don’t like Mommy when she’s like this!” “She’s so mean!” Julian immediately hugged him, soothing him softly. “It’s okay, Daddy’s here.” Then he looked up at me, his eyes icy. “You’re sick, I can understand that.” “But don’t take your pain out on our child.” I looked at Leo crying in his arms. I looked at Chloe standing beside them with red eyes. I finally understood that in this house, I didn’t even have the right to lose my mind. I turned and walked into the bedroom. I grabbed my hospital bag and dug out our marriage certificate. In the nightstand, there was a set of matching light-blue family outfits. I had bought them a month ago. Back then, I didn’t know I had cancer. I thought we could wear them as a family of three for Leo’s parent-teacher day at school. I didn’t need them anymore. When I went to leave, Julian was standing by the front door. His voice was heavy. “Lily, if you walk out this door tonight, don’t expect me to come to the hospital and beg you to come back.” I stopped in my tracks. I looked back at him. “Julian, have you ever begged me for anything?” He froze. I didn’t wait for an answer. Because the answer had been there all along.

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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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