Category: English

At our engagement gala, my fiancé’s executive assistant suggested a game of “Bizarre Wedding Blind Boxes” to kick off the night. I reached into the silk-lined bowl and drew a black velvet card. I pulled the Funeral Box. In an instant, the centerpiece of crimson roses on our table was swapped for arrangements of stark white lilies. The vibrant red gown I had tailored over six months was replaced on the digital displays with a tailored white burial shroud. On the main screen, my smiling face in our engagement portraits had been edited into black-and-white. Standing beside me in the altered photo was a tall, sharp-jawed man with dark, glacial eyes. Whitney’s manicured nail tapped against the glass of the display case. “He’s been dead for ten years,” she purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “But I picked him out just for you. Isn’t he gorgeous?” The blood drained from my face, my pulse hammering in my ears. My voice shook, thick with rising fury. “Whitney, this is my engagement party. What the hell is wrong with you?!” Beck stepped smoothly between us, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. His tone was dismissive, almost bored. “Shirley, stop making a scene. Whitney was just trying to liven up the room with a little lighthearted prank. Don’t be so dramatic and ruin the night for everyone.” Beside him, one of his groomsmen leaned in, whispering under his breath, “Beck, man, isn’t this taking it a bit far? Shirley’s waited seven years for this. Whitney sabotages her engagement party every single year. Aren’t you worried she’s actually going to walk this time?” “Worried about what?” Beck murmured, picking up a white bloom and idly twirling it between his fingers. “She’s pushing thirty. Who else is going to take her?” That single sentence shattered seven years of devotion, patience, and silent endurance. Under the cruel, amused gazes of two hundred high-society guests, I turned and walked out into the rain. Late that night, in the quiet darkness of my bedroom, a dream pulled me under. Someone gently brushed my damp hair away from my forehead. The man from the photograph—dressed in the same dark, bespoke suit—hovered over me. The pad of his thumb wiped a stray tear from my cheek. His voice was low and resonant, echoing as if rising through a subterranean mist: “When I return to the living realm, I am coming to claim you as my bride.” … I opened my eyes as the morning sun broke through the blinds, the dream receding like a tidal wave. The man’s voice lingered in my mind—deep, heavy, yet searing warm against the shell of my ear. Something deep within me whispered that he was far from mortal. A sharp chime from my phone startled me back to reality. A bank notification flashed on the screen. My account had just been credited with fifty million dollars. The memo line contained only two words: “Bride Price.” On my nightstand lay a sheet of thick crimson parchment—a traditional marriage contract. Written in bold, commanding calligraphy were the words: “Groom: Dorian.” My whole body went rigid. It hadn’t been a dream. From the hallway outside, Whitney’s softly cooing, performatively anxious voice drifted through the crack in the door. “Beck… do you think I went too far yesterday? Is Shirley angry with me?” She paused, lowering her voice to a suggestive whisper. “People at the office are already gossiping. They say I intentionally ruin your engagement parties every year because… because of how I feel about you…” The sentence hung in the air, weighted with deliberate flirtation. I looked through the sliver of the doorway. Beck was leaning down, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s fine,” he said quietly. “People will forget in a few weeks. Shirley isn’t that petty.” Seven years. For seven years, he had always been generous with my grace, offering forgiveness on my behalf for wounds he never felt. I swallowed the lump in my throat and pushed the door open. My gaze landed on the platinum diamond engagement ring on Beck’s finger. It had once been the beacon of everything I hoped our future would be. I walked up to Whitney, took off the matching diamond band I had spent the night staring at, and took her hand. I slid the platinum band onto her ring finger. “It’s always been a little too tight on me,” I said, my voice steady. “It fits you perfectly.” The night before the party, when I had tried it on, I mentioned it pinched my knuckle. Beck had barely looked up from his tablet, asking, “Have you gained weight recently?” It was never a matter of size. The ring had simply never belonged to me. Beck froze, his tone shifting into his usual patronizing humoring. “Still throwing a tantrum? Shirley, don’t be like this.” That casual, throwaway dismissal snapped the last string of my self-control. The humiliation of the night before rushed back. The celebratory pink rose petals had felt like funeral confetti. The crowded ballroom had felt less like a celebration and more like a mockery arranged for my public execution. Whitney had stood in the center of the room, beaming. “Shirley, it’s just a prank game. You’re older than the rest of us—you ought to be a good sport.” Every word a subtle reminder that I was almost thirty, the desperate woman clinging to a man who refused to lock the door. And Beck had only offered her a mild, indulgent reprimand: “Whitney, just this once. Don’t cause trouble next time.” No defense. No comfort. Not a single word spoken to protect my dignity. Seeing the shift in my expression, Beck stepped closer, offering the same empty promise I’d heard for seven years. “Sweetheart, stop being angry. Next year, no games, no gimmicks. I’ll marry you properly. Our actual wedding will be a thousand times grander than this.” Always the same. Soft tones, grand promises, and a distant, ever-receding “next time.” The first year, Whitney “accidentally” spilled red wine down the front of my gown. Beck said, “She’s new to the firm, she doesn’t know better.” The second year, she falsely claimed his mother had been rushed to the emergency room right before our vows. Beck said, “She was just worried about my family.” The third year, she hired six male models to crash the reception pretending to be my exes. Beck said, “It was a joke. Don’t be so thin-skinned.” Year after year, the same script. I had waited from twenty-three to thirty, until people started calling me the leftover girl, while Beck couldn’t even be bothered to stand up for me once. I met the eyes of the man I had loved for seven years and spoke quietly. “Beck, if you won’t marry me, I’m going to marry someone else.” As the words left my mouth, a pathetic, lingering sliver of hope flickered in my chest. I wanted him to panic. I wanted him to grab my wrist, to plead, to finally promise me something real. But the panic never came. Beck let out a low, amused breath, looking down at me with condescending pity. “Shirley, you know how much I hate being threatened. Seven years, seven engagement parties—when have you ever actually walked away?” I opened my mouth to tell him that this time was different. Before I could speak, Whitney stepped forward holding a velvet jewelry box. “Shirley, I came to apologize,” she said softly, opening the box to reveal a pair of modest pearl earrings. “Yesterday was my fault. Beck already scolded me. Please forgive me.” She reached out in a show of delicate reconciliation, but my eyes locked onto the solid white jade bracelet on her wrist. I knew that hand-carved pattern intimately. It was the heirloom bracelet Beck had given me as an anniversary gift years ago. It had gone missing from my jewelry box a month ago. It hadn’t been lost. He had simply given it to her. Whitney caught my gaze, a flash of smug triumph gleaming in her eyes before she instantly put on a look of panic, reaching down as if to strip the bracelet off. “Shirley, I forgot this was yours! I’ll take it off right now—” A cold numbness flooded my veins. I didn’t reach out to catch it. I didn’t want dirty things back. Her movements were frantic, exaggerated. In the clumsy scuffle, the heavy jade slipped from her hand and slammed into the hardwood floor, shattering into sharp white splinters. A flying shard scraped across my cheek. A thin line of red trickled down my jaw. Beck’s eyes narrowed, his temper flaring instantly. “Shirley, haven’t you had enough?!” he snapped. “I didn’t even blame you when you lost that bracelet, and now when Whitney tries to return it out of the goodness of her heart, you smash it on purpose? You’re becoming completely unreasonable!” His blind accusation crushed the absolute last remnant of my foolishness. Without waiting for an explanation, he took the tearful Whitney by the arm and walked away. In the silence of the empty hall, the deep voice from my dream echoed in my mind: “If you are unwilling, marry another within seven days, and the covenant will be broken.” But the man I wanted to marry no longer wanted me. I walked down the long corridor and opened the door at the very end. It was the room Beck had once designed to be a nursery. Years ago, he had wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered, “Shirley, we’ll have a daughter. We’ll paint the walls pastel pink and fill a closet with tiny princess dresses.” His tenderness back then had been so real, so grounded, that I had believed in it for years. Now, the grand room was nothing more than a graveyard for seven ruined engagements. Twenty-three draft versions of custom invitations; six sets of discarded bridal portraits; champagne flutes glued back together after being knocked over; a veil stained dark with spilled Merlot… And at the very top of the debris lay the ruined gown from yesterday, splattered in harsh white paint. In the framed photo beside it, I stood in that ruined dress, looking small and desolate. Beck stood half a step behind me, one hand tucked carelessly into his pocket, looking at me like an adult watching a child throw a ridiculous tantrum. I pulled the cool, heavy crimson paper from my coat pocket. A drop of blood from the cut on my cheek fell onto the page, right over the space designated for the bride. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed a pen and signed my name in clear, unwavering strokes: “Shirley Perry.” The moment the ink dried, the invisible chain that had bound my heart for seven years finally snapped. That evening, Beck moved out to stay at his corporate penthouse. “Shirley, take a few days to cool off,” he texted me. “Stop acting out. It’s pathetic.” It was fine. He needed to cool off, and I needed to clear out. I called a moving company to help me pack up the house that had held seven years of my life. Memories kept bleeding through the noise. Once upon a time, Beck would kneel in public to tie my shoelace. He would pick the onions out of my food. He would curl up with me on the bay window bench, planning a life for three. The love hadn’t been fake; it had simply rotted. While packing, I opened social media and saw an update from Whitney. The photo was a close-up of the sunlit bay window nook in my master bedroom. A comment below asked: “Where is this?” Whitney’s reply was brief: “My future home.” Those three words extinguished the final spark of warmth left in my chest. A sudden, aggressive pounding echoed off the front door. I went to answer it, thinking it was the movers. The moment the lock clicked, two heavy hands clamped onto my shoulders, and a rag soaked in a sweet, chemical scent was shoved over my nose and mouth. I thrashed violently, but my limbs grew heavy. A smooth, venomous voice drifted into my ear. “Shirley, did you really think playing the ‘breakup’ card would make Beck come crawling back to you?” Whitney whispered softly. “Once you’re legally bound to a dead man, Beck will never touch you again.” Her words sent a jolt of terror through me. I reached blindly into my coat pocket, pulling out the crimson paper. “I’m not trying to get him back… I’ve already agreed to marry someone else…” Whitney let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Marry who? That corpse?” she sneered. “Shirley, if you’re going to lie, come up with something believable. You’ve been obsessed with Beck for seven years—how could you ever let him go?” She turned to the muscular men holding me down. “Take her.” They dragged me toward an unmarked van parked in the driveway. As I fought against the waning light of my consciousness, a familiar voice cut through the air. “Whitney? What are you guys doing?” It was Beck. Whitney’s aggressive stance vanished instantly, replaced by her signature soft, trembling posture. “Beck! What are you doing back? Shirley said she wants to break up with you for good and go back home to do setup dates. I was just trying to talk her out of it…” Beck didn’t question her for a second. His face hardened with cold contempt. “Let her go!” he called out coldly toward the van. “I want to see who on earth would ever marry her after this.” I curled up on the floor of the vehicle, absorbing every jagged, merciless word. The van jolted over uneven roads for what felt like hours. When it finally stopped, the men dragged my semi-conscious body into a cold, dimly lit stone hall and shoved me into a heavy, wooden coffin. I had always been terrified of the dark, terrified of tight, enclosed spaces. From outside the heavy oak box, vulgar, muffled voices echoed. “Man, this chick is gorgeous. Cruel as hell that she’s being forced into a shadow marriage with a dead guy.” “The guy’s been dead ten years anyway. He ain’t gonna use her. Might as well let us have some fun first.” “Once the ceremony wrapping is done, let’s pry the lid back open…” Before I could process the words, a rough, calloused hand reached into the gap of the lid, grabbing at my shoulder. Gathering every ounce of strength left in my drugged body, I leaned forward and bit down viciously on his wrist. The taste of copper filled my mouth. The man screamed in pain. The heavy coffin lid was shoved back with a deafening rattle. “You bitch!” A heavy blow struck the side of my face, sending fresh blood trickling down my jaw. Hands reached in, grabbing, tearing at my clothes. An overwhelming wave of humiliation and horror threatened to break my sanity. Then, a thunderous crash shattered the air. It sounded as if a massive structure had collapsed against the far wall. The framed portrait of Dorian hanging above the alter slipped from its iron hooks, crashing to the stone floor. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, but the sharp, carved lines of his face remained intact, his faint, dark smile unbothered. “Ghost—it’s a ghost!” someone shrieked. Pandemonium erupted through the hall. “He’s alive! The guy from the picture is alive!” “It’s the underworld lord! Run!” “We were forced into this! Please, spare us!” The men didn’t even see who—or what—was attacking them. Invisible force waves slammed through the room, throwing heavy men against stone pillars. Bones cracked; screams of agony filled the air. The lingering sedative in my blood reached its peak. In the final second before darkness took me entirely, a cool, gentle breeze swept over my face, brushing away the cold sweat on my forehead. A tall, broad-shouldered figure knelt beside the coffin. A low, velvet voice brushed against my ear, melting away every trace of terror. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.” I forced my heavy eyelids open. Through a blurred, fading field of vision, the sharp, elegant face from my dreams came into absolute focus. He wasn’t wearing ancient robes or dark shadows. He wore an impeccably tailored modern suit that set off his commanding, athletic frame. The emotional shock, combined with the lingering drug, dragged me under. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the dark. … At that exact moment, Beck walked back into his empty house. An uncharacteristic knot of anxiety tightened in his chest. Usually, after any fight, he would receive a text from me by the following morning at the latest. Sometimes a photo of breakfast, sometimes a gentle “It’s cold today, wear a heavier coat,” or just a simple emoji. He was used to that tacit rhythm—the idea that no matter how hard I cried, I would always self-soothe and return. Today, there was nothing. The silence in the house was heavy. His groomsmen, who had come over to watch the game, tried to break the tension. “Beck, Shirley’s stuck by you through seven engagement disasters. All it takes is a quick phone call and a decent apology, and she’ll be back.” Beck let out a cold snort, leaning back against the leather sofa with practiced arrogance. “No need. You guys actually buy into this push-and-pull game women play?” Yet even as he spoke the words, his thumb kept refreshing his phone screen. A social media notification popped up from a mutual acquaintance. “A match made in heaven. What a breathtaking couple!” Beck’s thumb froze. What day was today? He stared at the screen for half a second before remembering a conversation from last year. His mother had checked the almanac and said, “This specific date next year is the luckiest day for a wedding. Set it for then.” They had set it, delayed it, canceled it, and rescheduled it through seven iterations. But today was, in fact, that exact date. He refreshed the feed again. Another friend had posted an update filled with exclamation points: “The bride is stunning! Absolute royalty energy!” Attached was a somewhat blurry, candid shot of a bride from a distance. Despite the soft focus, the elegant profile, the line of the neck, the delicate jawline were unmistakably mine. Beck stared at the photo for three full seconds, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edges of his phone. “Let’s go, let’s go!” his friends teased, catching a glimpse of his screen. “Look at you, Beck—you put on your wedding suit hours ago and pretended you didn’t care!” Beck looked down at the tailored three-piece suit he had put on that morning. A faint, triumphant smirk touched the corner of his lips. His pride was stiff, but his actions were swift. He stood up, adjusted his silk tie, and prepared to head out—ready to offer me a graceful way down from my stance. The moment he reached for the door handle, his phone buzzed violently. It was one of his groomsmen who had stayed behind near the city venue. The guy’s voice was shaking, breathless with utter shock. “Beck! Who the hell is the man standing next to Shirley?!” “Isn’t today supposed to be “your” wedding?!”

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My line of work came with teeth, so my fiancé used my safety as an excuse for everything. Any time there was a “first” in our lives, he insisted my best friend, Cecilia, try it out before me—to make sure it was safe. The first time was an industry gala. Adam was a guest presenter. He gave the seat right beside him to Cecilia. “You’re an undercover journalist,” he whispered to me in the lobby, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. “It’s safer if you stay in the back, out of sight.” It was the VIP balcony. Security was ironclad. Nobody was going to compromise my identity in a room full of heavily vetted donors and city officials. I stood near the shadow of the exit doors, watching from afar as he walked onto the stage, holding Cecilia’s hand to guide her down the steps. When the lights went up and the crowd surged toward the banquet hall, I was swept out through the side doors. Lost in the maze of service corridors, I called Adam’s cell. Cecilia answered. Her voice was light, high, and breathless with laughter. “I’m taking drinks for Adam tonight! He’s way too busy to talk right now. Just follow the exit signs, babe. If you really can’t figure it out, go ask a security guard.” A cold ache bloomed behind my ribs. Six months prior, while working an undercover story on illicit pharmaceuticals, I was forced to drink a glass of tainted liquor. I spent the night double over on the bathroom floor with gastric spasms. When I called Adam sobbing for help, he told me he was terrible at handling social situations and would never drink on anyone else’s behalf. Yet there he was, letting Cecilia take drinks for him—and drinking for her. Three years later, the keys to our long-awaited brownstone were finally handed over. I pushed the front door open, expecting empty rooms and fresh paint. Instead, Cecilia walked out of the hallway wrapped in a heavy charcoal men’s bathrobe. Adam was right behind her, a dry plush towel in his hands, gently drying the tips of her wet hair. “This neighborhood gets a lot of foot traffic,” Adam said, his eyes skimming over me without a flicker of guilt. “I was worried someone you upset during your investigations might track you here. I had Cecilia stay over first to test the security.” He stepped closer to her, his shoulder brushing hers, leaving barely two millimeters of air between them. “Don’t overthink it,” he added. Looking at the two of them, I realized something with sudden, brutal clarity. I wasn’t being protected. I was the outsider. All that talk about “vetting” things for my safety, about “testing the waters”—it was just a convenient lie. A way for him to hand over everything that was supposed to be mine, wrapped in a neat bow, to Cecilia. If that was what he wanted, I was done standing in his way. … “Rose, I checked out the place for you,” Cecilia said smoothly, her tone devoid of any awkwardness. She walked past me into the master bedroom—the room meant for Adam and me—as if she already owned the floorboards beneath her feet. “The neighbors are all professionals, and the building security is strict. You can move your stuff in tomorrow. Oh, and the Ferris wheel near Adam’s office? Quiet during the weekdays. Completely safe for you.” Adam followed her inside, towel still clutched in his hand. He hadn’t looked me in the eye once. On my way over, I’d been caught in a sudden downpour. Rushing out of the subway, I’d slipped on the wet embankment and fallen into the mud. Rainwater mixed with grime was still dripping down my neck, soaking the collar of my coat. “Go take a look at the layout,” Adam commanded, his voice cold and flat, the exact tone he used when delegating busywork to his lab assistants. “Cecilia picked out the interior design according to her taste. See if you like it. If there’s anything you don’t, we can tweak it—but only the wallpaper shade or the placement of small decor.” Yet when he looked back at Cecilia, his expression softened instantly. “When did the keys come in?” I asked, releasing my grip on the door handle and walking into the living room. My knees felt hollow. I knew asking wouldn’t change a thing. I had already decided to walk away. But I needed the truth, if only to give myself closure for the five years I’d wasted on him. “When we signed the papers, this unit was completely unfurnished. When were all these furniture pieces and renovations added?” Adam’s jaw tightened. “Why do you have to question everything?” he snapped. “Does the timeline really matter? What matters is that you can move in today. This is going to be your home.” There was nothing about this place that felt like home. There wasn’t a single trace of me in it. The interior was decorated in Cecilia’s favorite vintage cream aesthetic. The walls were covered in the warm almond-coffee wallpaper she’d been obsessing over on Pinterest for months. In the guest room, a large glass terrarium sat on a mahogany side table. Inside, coiled against a heat lamp, was a corn snake—a reptile Adam knew I’d been terrified of since childhood. And on the windowsill sat a wide ceramic planter filled with baby’s breath. My throat tightened. I was severely allergic to gypsophila. “I didn’t tell you earlier because I wanted it to be a surprise,” Adam said, stepping into the hallway with an open bottle of walnut-infused oat milk, handing it toward me with an air of practiced sacrifice. “Having Cecilia stay here was purely for your benefit. Given your line of work, if one of those criminals you exposed targeted you, the consequences would be fatal.” He looked at me as if he deserved a medal. Five years ago, when we first started dating, I told him about the time I nearly suffocated from a walnut allergy as a child. It had left me with severe anxiety around nuts of any kind. Back then, he had squeezed my hands, his eyes full of tenderness. “I can’t believe you went through something so scary, Rose. Don’t worry. From now on, I’ll keep you safe.” For a long time, he kept that promise. Walnuts vanished from his apartment, his car, his life. Until Cecilia arrived. “Get that away from me,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t drink anything with walnuts.” Adam’s arm froze in midair. A flash of genuine panic crossed his feature, but it was gone in a fraction of a second, replaced by his usual defensive mask. “Right. Sorry. Cecilia likes it.” Cecilia immediately shot Adam a reproachful glare. “Even if I like it, you can’t bring it around Rose! You know she can’t touch it. We shouldn’t keep stuff like this in the house.” She snatched the bottle from his hand and tossed it into the trash can, setting down rules in our home as if she were the lady of the manor. “From now on, nothing with nuts is allowed in this building!” Then, with a sweet smile, she picked up a glass tumbler from the counter and offered it to me. “Here, have some fresh mango juice instead.” Mangoes were my other deadly trigger. When Cecilia and I first met in college, she hadn’t known. She offered me a slice of mango tart. I ended up in the ICU for a week with anaphylactic shock. Back then, she had sat by my hospital bed, sobbing, clutching my hand. “I’ll protect you for the rest of my life, Rose. I’ll never let anything hurt you again.” Now, she was the one holding the blade. “I don’t drink mango juice either,” I said quietly, looking her dead in the eye. “Unless you’re trying to put me back in the hospital.” I turned on my heel and walked out the door. Behind me, Adam’s irritated voice cut through the air. “You have so many restrictions, Rose! Who could possibly keep track of all of them? Stop making such a huge deal out of everything!” I remembered the night he proposed. “You have so many little quirks and allergies, but I’ve memorized every single one. No matter where we go, I’ll remember. Always.” As I reached the main gate of the complex, I overheard two security guards chatting near the guardhouse. “Hey, the couple in Unit 302… they’ve been living here for two years already, right? When are they finally getting married?” “Oh yeah, the professor and his research assistant! Smart pair, great fit. They look like a match made in heaven.” A match made in heaven. My feet felt as heavy as lead. Unit 302 in Building 3 was the exact brownstone Adam and I had bought. They had been living here together for two years. No wonder he’d been spending so many late nights “at the university laboratory.” No wonder he rarely came home to our old apartment. He hadn’t been analyzing data. He’d been playing house with Cecilia. The final ember of warmth in my chest flickered and died. I headed straight back to my rental unit and pulled out my suitcases. A week ago, my editor, Sam, had pulled strings to secure me a three-year assignment as an overseas investigative correspondent. I had pushed the start date back by two months, desperate to stay close to Adam before our wedding. I didn’t want to delay it anymore. That evening, my phone buzzed. It was a long text from Cecilia. “Rose, are you still mad about earlier? I really didn’t mean to forget about your allergies. Adam and I are at the venue right now, testing the wedding rehearsal flow for you. Security here is super tight, so no dangerous people from your old stories could ever sneak in.” Attached was a photo. Cecilia was wearing the custom lace wedding gown I had spent four months designing. Adam was holding her hand, looking down at her with an intensity I hadn’t seen in years. They were standing on a stage covered in fresh white roses, gazing into each other’s eyes under the warm spotlight. It was the first time Adam had ever stepped onto a wedding stage. The last time I had asked him to take engagement photos with me, he had frowned, his patience running thin. “Again with this? We’ve established that Cecilia needs to test things out for us first to make sure there are no security risks. Once everything is confirmed safe, then you can do it!” Ever since an unknown man followed me home during an undercover story three years ago, Cecilia had used that incident as an unbreakable shield. She insisted on “testing” everything first. I had explained to her a hundred times that I was new to field reporting back then and didn’t know how to protect myself, but after three years in investigative journalism, I knew how to handle threats. She refused to listen. She hid behind the word “protection” while systematically taking every “first” that belonged to Adam and me. Our first formal dinner date. Our first music festival. Our first weekend getaway to the coast. And now, the walkthrough of our own wedding. Around eight in the evening, the front door opened. Adam walked in, carrying a bouquet of white lilies. “Don’t be angry anymore,” he said, setting the flowers on the dining table. “I spoke too harshly earlier. I’m sorry.” He stepped closer, reaching out to touch my arm. “Cecilia helped you finalize the wedding date. It’s set for the eighth of next month.” The eighth of next month. March 8th. My mother’s death anniversary. My entire body went numb. My fingers started to shake uncontrollably. Every year on that day, I spent hours alone at the cemetery. Five years ago, when Adam and I first got together, I had cried in his arms and told him that March 8th was the one day of the year I could never celebrate anything. He didn’t remember my throat closing up from walnuts. He didn’t remember my allergic reaction to mangoes. And he had completely wiped my mother’s death anniversary from his mind. Cecilia knew. She had known for ten years. She had picked that date on purpose. “Are you trying to destroy me?” I asked, my voice trembling so hard I could barely articulate the words. Adam froze. “What?” “She picks out my house. She picks out my decor. She walks my wedding aisle, wears my dress, and chooses the day I stand at the altar,” I said, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my chest. “Since she’s managing every single detail of my life, why don’t the two of you just go ahead and plan my funeral, too?” “What the hell are you talking about?!” Adam shoved me back in frustration. I lost my balance, my foot catching on the rug, and the back of my head slammed hard against the sharp edge of the coffee table. A dull, thumping pain shot through my scalp. But physical pain was nothing compared to the agony tearing through my chest. “Rose!” Adam reached down, his hands extending toward me—until his phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out. “Cecilia.” Without a second thought, he withdrew his hands and stepped back. “Okay, stay right there, don’t move. I’m on my way!” he blurted into the receiver. He turned and bolted toward the front door, slamming it open. Before rushing out, he turned back to glare at me on the floor. “This is on you! Cecilia goes out of her way to protect you, and you treat her like trash! Now look what happened—one of the criminals you pissed off locked her in a deserted warehouse on the dock! Are you happy now?!” … By the time I stumbled into the emergency room hallway, Cecilia was sobbing softly against Adam’s chest. “I was so terrified!” she whimpered, her hands clutching his shirt. “I thought I’d never see you again! You have no idea how cruel those men were… they mistook me for Rose. They didn’t hold back at all! If I hadn’t managed to run, the baby… the baby wouldn’t have survived!” The hallway seemed to tilt. “Baby?” Adam’s expression was grim. His hand rested gently over her lower abdomen, his voice dropping into a tender murmur. “I’m sorry. I let my guard down. But don’t worry—no matter what happens, I will never let anyone hurt you or our child.” I stood there at the end of the corridor, holding a small plastic bag of ice for my head. It slipped from my numb fingers and hit the linoleum floor with a wet thud. The two of them turned around. Adam didn’t look remotely guilty at being caught. Instead, his eyes darkened with immediate rage. “Look at the mess you caused!” he barked, pointing an accusing finger at me. “If you didn’t spend your life digging up trouble for your stories, Cecilia wouldn’t have had to go through this horror! Aren’t you going to apologize to her? Aren’t you going to say thank you?!” Cecilia clutched his sleeve, her eyes wide and full of unshed tears. “Adam, please don’t yell at Rose. It’s fine. I volunteered to take the risk for her. As long as I can shield her from danger, it doesn’t matter what happens to me.” She looked at me, then quickly covered her stomach with her hand, putting on an anxious, pathetic display. “Rose, I… I just wanted to make sure Adam was healthy enough to have kids. He is. You can marry him and start trying for a baby with total peace of mind. Don’t worry about me—I’m only two months along. I can get an abortion anytime.” I stared at her, stunned into absolute silence. She had slept with my fiancé, gotten pregnant, and was now wrapping her betrayal in the cloak of noble self-sacrifice—making me look like a heartless villain for standing there bleeding from my head. Adam wrapped his arm tighter around her shoulders. “What are you talking about?! Abortion ruins a woman’s health. That child is mine, Cecilia. I’m going to take responsibility for you.” He glared back at me. “Cecilia did this for your sake! She took a terrifying risk while pregnant, and you’re standing there with an attitude? You should be thanking her!” Thanking her? A cold, mirthless laugh broke from my lips. She took my home. She slept with my man. She carried his baby. And she stole every milestone of my relationship under the guise of “protecting” me. And I was expected to bow down and express my gratitude? “Don’t force Rose, Adam… this is all my fault…” Cecilia whimpered, pulling back slightly. “Nobody’s forcing me,” I said, staring straight through her weak act. “I’ll say it. Thank you.” “Thank you for moving into my house. Thank you for seducing my fiancé and getting pregnant. Thank you for tearing down every belief I had about friendship. And thank you… for showing me what a pathetic pair of hypocrites you really are.” “That’s enough!” Before I could finish the sentence, Adam stepped forward and slammed me back against the doorframe. My head throbbed. On my way to the hospital, feverish from the rain and frantic over Cecilia’s panicked call, I had fallen twice in the dark. A passing car’s side mirror had scraped deep into my left forearm, tearing open a raw, jagged wound. The impact against the doorframe tore the wound wide open again. Blood soaked instantly through my jacket sleeve. “Adam… my arm,” I gasped, the pain turning my vision spotted. “I’m bleeding out. Open the door… let me sit down—” Adam didn’t even look at my arm. He pulled out his keys, unlocked his car in the parking lot, and shoved me into the passenger seat, locking the doors behind us before I could scramble out. “Stop acting,” he sneered, sliding into the driver’s seat and hitting the gas. “You’re just jealous that Cecilia moved into the brownstone. You’re jealous she’s carrying my baby. I know I screwed up on the timeline, but you don’t get to act like a monster and throw vile accusations at her!” The car sped out of the city, leaving the bright streetlights behind. Twenty minutes later, he slammed on the brakes in a pitch-black, deserted alley near the industrial district. He reached across, unlocked my door, and shoved me out into the dirt. “If you don’t experience the terror Cecilia felt tonight, you’ll never learn how to empathize with what she went through!” he cold-bloodedly declared. I collapsed onto the gravel, clutching my bleeding arm. “Adam… no. I can’t be here. Please. You have to take me with you.” He ignored my pleas completely, pulled the door shut, and hit the door lock. The cold night wind whistled through the abandoned alleyway. The loss of blood was making my head spin, and my strength was draining fast. Adam had no idea what this alley was. This was a blacklisted zone for investigative journalists. Three years ago, my team and I had spent two months undercover here, busting a human trafficking ring and shutting down an illegal gambling den. The people who frequented these alleys were the very criminals I had put behind bars—men who had sworn revenge on the reporter who ruined them. There were no streetlights, no security cameras, and no police patrols. “Adam… wait…” I gasped, dragging my body inch by inch through the mud toward the red glow of his taillights. Fifty yards away, Adam was standing outside his car under a lone streetlight, his hands casually shoved into his coat pockets, waiting to see if I would crawl back and beg for forgiveness. “Adam!” Behind me, heavy footsteps crunched on gravel. Three dark figures emerged from the shadows, carrying wooden baseball bats. The moment the lead man’s eyes landed on my face, his lip curled into a sadistic grin. They recognized me immediately. I screamed his name with every drop of air left in my lungs, pointing toward the light. The man who had promised to guard me with his life didn’t even turn his head. He got into his car, put it in reverse, and drove away without a single second of hesitation. Just as the first heavy bat swung toward my shoulder, headlights blinded the alley. An SUV tore around the corner, engine roaring, and slammed to a halt between me and the men. The driver’s side door flew open. Sam, my editor, leaped out, dragged me into the passenger seat, and hit the gas, leaving the shouting men behind in a cloud of exhaust. He drove straight to the international terminal. Before I boarded the flight, Sam handed me a thick manila envelope. “You need to see this before you leave,” he said gently. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Adam. “I still love you, Rose, and I still intend to marry you. But Cecilia is carrying my child, and I can’t abandon her. If you agree to accept her and the baby into our lives, I’ll turn the car around right now and pick you up.” A cold laugh broke from my lips. I opened Sam’s envelope, scanned the documents, attached every single file to a draft, and sent it straight to Adam’s phone.

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On our fifth wedding anniversary, I took the day off work and spent hours preparing a lavish dinner filled with all of Tracy’s favorite dishes. When he finally walked through the door, he wasn’t alone. He brought half his team from the office—including his new executive assistant, Sadie. “Sadie can’t stand onions,” Tracy said without looking at me as he hung up his coat. “Go pick them out of the dishes.” Then he glanced toward the kitchen. “Do we have any sparkling peach soda? If not, run downstairs and grab a case. Sadie loves it.” When I stood there, frozen, he narrowed his eyes, his tone dropping into a familiar, icy reprimand. “Everyone came over to celebrate us tonight, Regina. Be reasonable.” I opened my mouth, but the words withered in my throat. Turning back to the bedroom, I peeled off the elegant, backless dress I’d picked out just for him, put on a pair of oversized sweatpants, and walked out into the cold night air. By the time I returned, carrying a heavy box of soda that left deep, red ridges across my palms, laughter and raucous cheering echoed from the living room. “Truth or Dare! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” I paused near the entryway, clutching the cardboard box. “I pick Truth,” a sweet, bubbly voice chimed above the noise. It was Sadie, the night’s big winner. She leaned across the coffee table, her eyes glittering with faux innocence as she looked at Tracy. “Tracy, you’ve been married for so long. Do you still love Regina?” The room went dead silent. My heart slammed against my ribs, a sharp, hopeful pang so intense it almost made me forget the burning pain in my fingers. “Yes,” Tracy replied simply. The single word sent a tremor through my chest. “She’s easy to live with,” Tracy continued casually, taking a sip of his drink. “Compliant. Low maintenance. I’m allergic to latex, and she’s had to go through three abortions without ever complaining. She’s a model wife.” A low hum of laughter rippled through the room. I stood in the shadows of the hallway, numbness spreading from the tips of my toes all the way to my head. Something inside me snapped—quietly, cleanly, like a dry twig in the dead of winter. It suddenly felt so agonizingly pointless. I didn’t want to be the compliant one anymore. If I could do it all over again, I thought, I would choose a love where I didn’t have to shrink myself just to be tolerable. … I pushed open the glass door and set the sodas on the dining table, only to find Sadie perched in my usual chair, right beside Tracy. “Thanks so much, Regina! You’re such a good cook,” Sadie cooed, her eyes bright as she effortlessly grabbed a bottle of the peach soda. Before she could unscrew the cap, Tracy snatched it out of her hand. His brow furrowed as his fingers brushed the chilled glass. “It’s icy cold. You shouldn’t be having cold drinks right now.” Sadie reached up playfully to grab it back, but Tracy held it high above her reach. In her attempt to catch it, Sadie tumbled forward, practically collapsing into his lap. The crowd broke into a chorus of catcalls and whistles, entirely unbothered by the intimate display. It was as if this was a routine they had all seen a hundred times before. “Regina,” Tracy called out, his voice completely level. “Sadie’s cramping today. Having an iced drink will make her stomach ache worse. Go brew a pot of warm brown sugar tea with sweet rice.” My throat felt tight, choked with ash. I gave a vague, frantic nod, ducking my head to hide the hot shame flushing across my face. Five years of marriage. Tracy still didn’t know I was violently allergic to peaches. He could never remember my birthday. I couldn’t handle spicy food, yet his absolute favorite was fire-hot Hunan cuisine—which meant a bowl of lukewarm tap water lived permanently beside my plate so I could rinse off every piece of meat before eating it. The food I ate was always washed bare of flavor, rendered soggy and bland. For years, I had convinced myself that Tracy was simply born cold—a distant, quiet man who just didn’t know how to tenderly love a woman. Until Sadie arrived. She was a scholarship student from a impoverished Appalachian town whom I had sponsored through college. When she graduated and moved to our city, Tracy initially resisted my idea of letting her stay in our guest room. Yet slowly, quietly, the shift happened. He learned the name of her favorite pop star. He brought home armfuls of sunflowers because she mentioned loving them. And now, he had even memorized the precise dates of her menstrual cycle. “What are you standing there for?” Tracy’s voice snapped me back. “Go make the tea.” I fled to the kitchen. My hands were shaking so violently I couldn’t tie the strings of my apron. The kitchen door creaked open. Seeing my clumsy efforts, Tracy stepped up behind me and reached around my waist to pull the string tight. The moment his fingers brushed against mine, I flinched as if I’d touched a live wire, pulling back sharply. Tracy frowned. “Regina, just make the tea and join us at the table. Don’t make everyone feel awkward.” I wanted so desperately to ask him: “With Sadie sitting in my chair, where exactly am I supposed to sit?” He didn’t give me the chance to speak. He turned to the upper cupboard and pulled out a set of yellow pastel ceramic tableware. It was a set Sadie had bought when she was staying with us. Tracy used to sneer at it, calling it tacky and immature. Yet after she moved out to her own apartment, I watched him secretly tuck it away into the top shelf, out of sight. On the stove, the pot of water began to boil, thick bubbles popping aggressively. I put on thick oven mitts and lifted the heavy pot. As I turned toward the doorway, a shadow suddenly crossed the threshold. The collision was instantaneous. The sound of shattering ceramic echoed through the apartment, mingled with screaming. Most of the boiling, sticky liquid washed directly over my bare feet and ankles, while a few tiny droplets splashed onto the hem of Sadie’s white dress. “Sadie! Are you okay?” Tracy lunged forward like a frantic shadow. He didn’t even cast a glance at me as I staggered back, gripping the counter to keep from falling. His eyes were wide with a raw, agonizing panic as he inspected Sadie. “Regina, how many times have I told you? I only view Sadie as a little sister. Why do you have to make things so difficult for her?” Tracy turned on me, his face contorted in fury. “You know she has her final board presentation for her internship tomorrow morning! What if she got burned?” A white-hot, agonizing pain radiated from my feet, searing through my nerves. I clamped my jaws together, forcing myself not to let a single tear drop. “You’re right, Tracy,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “I’m useless. I’m impossible. So let’s get a divorce.” Tracy’s anger instantly dissolved into absolute shock. “Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what today is? What kind of ridiculous scene are you trying to pull?” So he “did” remember what day it was. It was our fifth wedding anniversary. Two weeks ago, I had begged him: “Honey, for our fifth anniversary, can we just have a quiet dinner at home and watch a movie together? Just the two of us?” No expensive gifts, no luxury trips. All I had wanted was a single evening of his undivided presence. And now, here I was—drenched in brown, scalded liquid, my bare ankles already blistering into angry, fluid-filled bubbles. I was broken, bleeding, and somehow, I was the one making a scene. “Tracy… it hurts so much,” Sadie sobbed softly, tugging at his sleeve with trembling fingers. Without another word, Tracy scooped Sadie into his arms, turning toward the door. One of his younger male colleagues stood by the dining room, looking uncomfortable. “Tracy… Mrs. Walker looks really badly burned.” Tracy’s footsteps paused for a fraction of a second. He didn’t turn around. “Sadie’s skin prone to keloid scarring. If we don’t treat her burns immediately, she’ll be marked for life.” Then he rushed out, slamming the door behind him. He left me standing alone in the middle of the ruined room. The nearest hospital was six miles away. He had left without an ounce of hesitation. I took a cab to the emergency room, every single step feeling like I was walking on shattered glass. I suddenly remembered the story of the Little Mermaid—giving up her voice, stepping on knives with every movement, all for the sake of love. Was it ever worth it? “How did you get burned this badly without running cold water over it first?” the doctor chid, gently cleansing the wounds with sterile saline. “The blistering is terrible. Even after this heals, you’re likely going to need skin grafts if you want it to look normal.” The doctor was as gentle as possible, but cold sweat drenched my back nonetheless. “Skin grafts.” To cut away the dead, ruined flesh so something healthy could grow back. Maybe my marriage needed the exact same procedure. Cut out the rotten past so I could retain what little dignity I had left. Because of the risk of severe infection, the doctor admitted me to the observation ward for twenty-four hours. In the bed beside mine was an elderly woman who had sliced her hand while chopping vegetables. Her white-haired husband sat beside her, wringing his hands, drowning in self-reproach. “It was just my own clumsiness, dear. It really doesn’t hurt,” the old woman soothed softly. Her husband shook his head, insisting on feeding her broth, acting as though he wished he could bear every ounce of her pain himself. Seeing me stare at them, the old man gently extended a hand and offered me half a sliced apple. “Here, sweetheart. You’re hurt so badly… where’s your family?” I took a bite of the apple. It tasted bitter and sour. “He… he had something very important to handle. He couldn’t come.” At that moment, my phone buzzed repeatedly. It was a barrage of social media updates from Sadie. Photos of an amusement park. Tracy sitting beside her on a brightly lit carousel, his eyes soft and glowing like stars. Sadie twirling with a sparkler while Tracy held up his phone, capturing her laughter, a look of unadulterated adoration on his face. Tracy, a man who suffered from severe acrophobia, was sitting inside a Ferris wheel, smiling gently at the girl across from him. For five years, every time I had asked him to drive back with me to my hometown to visit my ailing father, he would sigh with deep annoyance: “Regina, you know I get terrible motion sickness and vertigo. I can’t handle long trips. Just go by yourself.” It turned out he wasn’t afraid of heights at all. I was simply never worth his courage. That night in the hospital, I watched the old man wake up countless times to adjust his wife’s blankets and fetch her water. And quietly, amidst the cold sterile smell of antiseptic, I wept until every last drop of love I held for Tracy Walker was completely drained. The next morning, a nurse walked in holding a lab report. “Ms. Walker? Your blood work came back. We need to schedule an ultrasound right away.” She looked up at me with a serious expression. “You’re pregnant.” …… When I discharged myself and returned to the apartment, the mess on the floor remained untouched. Over the past two days, the sticky brown tea had dried into a dark, crusted, disgusting stain across the hardwood. I walked straight into the master bedroom. On the nightstand stood our wedding photo. Tracy was unsmiling, looking distant as always, but back then, I had convinced myself that the subtle warmth in his eyes was real. My mind drifted back to our very first pregnancy, three years ago. His company was just taking off. When I showed him the positive test, it was the first time I had ever seen tears in his eyes. “Regina,” he had whispered, pulling me close. “I’m terrified I won’t be able to provide for you and a baby right now. Can you give me a little more time?” I loved him so fiercely that I couldn’t bear to see him stressed. So I went to the clinic alone. By the third time I fell pregnant, just last year, his tone had morphed into cold indifference: “You know the drill at the women’s clinic. The doctors know you. Just take an Uber.” The warning signs had been there all along. I had simply chosen to be an ostrich, burying my head in the sand, pretending that if I gave enough, he would love me back. I rested my hand against my lower abdomen, remembering the doctor’s warning earlier that morning: “Your uterine lining is dangerously thin from past procedures. If you want a child, I strongly advise you to keep this one. If you terminate, you may never be able to conceive again.” I had finally mustered the courage to walk away from this marriage, only for this miracle to arrive now. I picked up my phone. Not a single text from Tracy. Not a single missed call. I typed out a short message: [Come home. We need to talk.] …… Tracy arrived sooner than I expected. Right before he unlocked the door, I had been thinking about the elderly couple in the hospital ward. I had wondered, foolishly: “If Sadie had never entered our lives, would Tracy and I have quietly drifted into old age together?” The front door slammed open. Tracy strode in, his face dark with fury. The look he threw me was sharp enough to draw blood. “Regina, I missed one stupid anniversary dinner with you, and this is how you react? How could you do something so malicious to Sadie?” “What are you talking about?” I asked quietly. I had summoned him here to tell him about the baby, and to hand him the divorce terms. He thrust his phone directly into my face. “Stop playing dumb! Exposing Sadie’s private background online? Spreading rumors that she’s a homewrecker? Don’t tell me this wasn’t your doing!” Confused, I took the phone. It was a trending post on X: [Real-life Snake in the Grass: Poverty-Stricken Student Seduces Her Benefactor’s Husband.] The post laid out Sadie’s background in excruciating detail. It detailed how I had funded her high school education, helped her apply for colleges, bought her first smartphone, paid four years of her tuition, and landed her an internship at our firm upon graduation. Every word was true, though the tone was dripping with moral outrage. At the bottom of the article were several candid photos. One showed Sadie leaning over Tracy’s desk in his corporate office, adjusting his necktie. Another showed them inside his Tesla—Tracy reaching across to pull her seatbelt, Sadie’s lips practically brushed against his cheek. There were no curse words in the article, but the comment section was an absolute bloodbath of public condemnation. “I didn’t write this,” I said softly. Yet a familiar, sickening ache flared in my chest. I hadn’t sat in the passenger seat of Tracy’s car in months. The last time I tried to open the passenger door, he had snapped at me impatiently: “Sit in the back, Regina. Sadie left her ergonomic lumbar pillow up front, and she hates when people touch her stuff.” I remembered that pillow clearly. It was a bright, obnoxious pink—a color Tracy used to claim he despised. “Regina, wasn’t it “you” who asked me to take care of Sadie in the first place?” Tracy’s voice rose, dense with suppressed rage. “I did exactly what you asked! And now you fabricate rumors to ruin her? How can you be so ruthless? Do you have any idea how hard a girl from her background has worked just to survive?” I looked at him, feeling an overwhelming sense of absurdity. The article was tame compared to the cozy photos Sadie had personally texted me late at night. “You need to issue a public statement right now apologizing to Sadie,” Tracy ordered, his voice cold and hard. “I didn’t write it,” I repeated, looking him dead in the eye. “And I’m not apologizing for something I didn’t do.” Tracy stared at me, his eyes filled with profound disappointment. “Regina… you used to be so understanding. So sensible. When did you turn into someone so vindictive?” “Sensible.” Ever since we started dating, he had always told me he loved how low-maintenance and sensible I was. So while he built his company, I worked a full-time job while simultaneously managing his parents’ healthcare and household needs. Because I was “sensible,” when I was sick, I drove myself to the urgent care clinic. When I was involved in a minor car accident last year, cornered by an aggressive driver on the highway, I didn’t dare call him to interrupt his board meeting; I sat in the broken vehicle, shivering violently, waiting alone for the police. To be sensible was to compromise. And in love, the person who compromises is always the one taken for granted. “Tracy,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let’s get a divorce.” Tracy’s chest heaved. “You’re using divorce to threaten me just so you can destroy a young girl’s life? Fine. You want to play dirty? Don’t blame me for ignoring five years of marriage.” He pulled out his phone and dialed a number on speaker. “Dr. Harrison? This is Tracy Walker. Cut the life-support and monitoring equipment for Thomas Walker in Room 36. Go ahead and process his discharge paperwork this afternoon.” I stared at him in utter disbelief. “Tracy… you’re cutting off my father’s medical care… for Sadie?” My mother died young. My father worked brutal hours in construction to raise me. After I married Tracy, I threw myself into his business, taking care of his needs, spending every holiday with his family while my own father sat alone in his tiny house. Two years ago, my father suffered a massive hemorrhagic stroke. If a neighbor hadn’t knocked on his door the next day, I would have lost him forever. I had been consumed by guilt. Back then, Tracy had pulled me into his arms, wiping my tears, promising: “Don’t be scared, honey. I’ll hire the best neurologists in the country. We’ll move him to a premier care facility near us so you can see him every day.” When my father became paralyzed, he felt like a burden and wanted to give up. It was Tracy who convinced him to enter the private facility. “As long as your father is alive, Regina, you still have a home.” Those words were still echoing in my mind. How could the same man be so utterly ruthless today? “Regina, you came from a small town too,” Tracy spat, stepping closer. “You know how brutal it is for someone like Sadie. You’re backing her into a corner, trying to kill her!” Who was backing whom into a corner? My feet were wrapped in thick bandages. I was carrying a high-risk pregnancy. And my paralyzed father wouldn’t survive three days without the specialized machinery at the facility. An agonizing, suffocating despair surged through me, strangling the breath from my lungs. “It really wasn’t me,” I choked out. “Tracy… if you love Sadie so much, let’s just get divorced. I’m letting you go.” Tracy pulled at his tie in frustration. “Stop using divorce as a weapon! Sadie and I are clean—there’s nothing trashy going on between us!” I closed my eyes. What was the point of his denial now? “I’m giving you half a day,” Tracy said coldly, heading for the front door. “If I don’t see a public retraction and apology from you by tonight, your father gets turned out onto the street. You decide what’s more important.” He turned to leave. I surged forward to stop him, but the sharp pain in my bandaged feet shot straight up my spine. My knees buckled, and I fell heavily onto the hardwood floor. A sharp, unbearable contraction ripped through my lower abdomen. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead instantly. The doctor’s stark warnings flashed through my mind. “Tracy… stop… take me to the hospital,” I gasped, my voice trembling violently as panic seized my throat. “I’m… I’m pregnant.” Tracy paused near the door. He turned around, looking down at me on the floor, his expression entirely devoid of warmth. “You know Sadie threatened to end her life today, so now you’re pulling a fake pregnancy stunt to keep me here?” He shook his head, disgust written all over his face. “Regina, you’ve become so manipulative I barely recognize you.” “I’m not lying… the medical report is right on the coffee table! Just look at it—” A sudden, warm burst of fluid soaked through my linen pants. Pain rolled through my core in violent waves. “Please,” I sobbed, stretching my hand out toward his trousers. “I’m begging you…” Just as my fingers were an inch from his hem, Tracy stepped back neatly, avoiding my touch. “If you want to beg someone, beg Sadie. She’s the victim here.” At that exact second, Tracy’s phone rang loudly. He snatched it up immediately. Sadie’s frantic, hysterical crying echoed through the speaker: “Tracy… I don’t want to live anymore… there’s media outside my apartment…” Tracy didn’t give me another glance. He turned, opened the door, and strode out into the hallway. I tried desperately to drag myself up, but the pain tore through me like a physical knife. I pushed myself up once, twice, only to collapse back down into the puddle of my own blood. As the crimson pool expanded across the floor, taking my strength and my baby with it, my vision began to blur around the edges. I stopped fighting. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness swallow me whole. Maybe… if my child, my father, and I all left this world together, it would finally be a quiet kind of peace.

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The night he proposed, Bruno rented out the entire bistro where we had our very first date. He’d arranged everything: armfuls of fresh white roses, a platinum ring, and a feature wall covered in photographs capturing four years of our memories. Everyone in the room cheered, whispering that the stoic Bruno had finally learned how to be a romantic. For a second, I almost believed it too. Until he dropped to one knee, and his phone screen flashed on the table beside us. A notification popped up—his ex-girlfriend, Kendra, had just announced her engagement. Bruno’s gaze snagged on that banner for two long seconds. Then, without breaking stride, he pushed the ring box closer to me. “Let’s post this on Instagram tonight,” he said, his voice smooth. “And we’ll go down to the courthouse tomorrow morning. What do you say?” I asked him why he was suddenly in such a hurry. He pinched my cheek with a easy laugh. “Just terrified you’ll realize you can do better.” After I posted the announcement, Bruno kept his phone facedown on the table. But every few minutes, his hand would casually drift over, flipping it faceup to check the screen. When our friends started chanting for him to kiss me, he subtly turned his head away, catching my wrist and angling my hand toward the photographer instead. “Get the ring first. Make sure it’s in focus.” At the end of the night, while standing outside the restrooms, I heard him on his phone in the quiet hallway. “She didn’t react at all?” A pause while his friend answered on the other end. “Isn’t she trying on wedding dresses tomorrow?” Bruno’s voice was flat, measured. “Send the photos directly to her.” I stood frozen behind the cracked door. The diamond on my finger suddenly felt like a cluster of needles. The flowers, the surprise, the lifelong promise—none of it had been created for me. It was all just a reply letter written to another woman. And I was merely the signature line at the bottom of the page. … When I walked out of the hallway, Bruno was leaning against the wall, waiting for me. Seeing me, he naturally took the crumpled paper towel from my hand and gently wiped the stray drops of water off the back of my wrist. “You were in there so long, I thought my bride pulled a runner.” “Who were you asking about earlier?” I looked straight at him. “When you asked who didn’t react?” His hand stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he smiled. “Kendra.” He admitted it so candidly that it made my confrontation feel childish, like I was picking a fight out of nowhere. “She announced her engagement today, and you proposed to me tonight,” I said softly. “Is that really just a coincidence?” “She posted her news, and I booked this restaurant weeks ago,” Bruno said, sliding a hand around my waist to pull me closer. He leaned down, his forehead gently resting against mine. “Can I control the exact minute she decides to update her status? The ring is on your finger, Mallory. You’re the one signing the marriage license with me tomorrow. If I happen to let her know I’m doing just fine, where’s the conflict?” “So you’re using me as a prop for her?” “Why do you always have to phrase things so harshly?” He pinched my cheek again, his tone dripping with fond condescension, as if teasing a toddler who didn’t know any better. “I just got down on one knee in front of a room full of people. Are you really going to pick a fight over a ghost from my past?” Inside the private room, someone shouted for us to come back and cut the cake. Bruno took my hand and led me back to the table. He cut the first slice, carefully picking off every single hazelnut before handing the plate to me. He remembered my nut allergy. I took the plate, the cold knot in my chest loosening just a fraction. But then his phone buzzed on the mahogany table. A text from his best friend flashed across the lock screen: “Sent her the pictures. She only replied with ‘Congratulations.’” Someone sitting next to us caught a glimpse of the screen and bumped Bruno’s shoulder with a laugh. “Kendra’s getting married, man. You still gotta win one last time?” Bruno set the cake knife down on the table with a soft “clack”. “Who’s trying to win?” he said, his voice laced with a cold, dismissive edge. “I just couldn’t stand the way she acted back then—like my life was completely over without her.” His hand was still resting comfortably on my hip while he said it. His friend immediately tried to smooth it over. “Don’t pay him any mind, Mallory. Bruno just has a big mouth. If he were still hung up on Kendra, why would he be on his knees for you tonight?” The table erupted into easy laughter. Someone called for a toast, urging us to lock arms and drink. Bruno lifted his glass to my lips, but as his phone vibrated again, his hand instinctively slackened. The wine sloshed over the rim, staining the hem of my silk dress. “Sorry,” he muttered, but his eyes had already darted down to the glowing screen. I was the only one close enough to see it: the moment he heard Kendra’s name, his instinct wasn’t to look at me—it was to check his phone. He pulled a napkin to dab at my dress, but his fingers trailed off after two half-hearted swipes. The screen still displayed that cool, detached word: “Congratulations.” “She gave you her blessing,” I said quietly. “Are you unhappy about it?” He flipped the phone face down. “She’s just putting on a show.” With that, he pulled me tighter against his side, his grip heavy, as if trying to prove a point to an invisible audience. The crowd cheered again. He leaned down to kiss me, his lips pressing against mine, but his eyes stayed wide open. When the party finally wound down, he brought me back to his apartment. He unclasped my earrings and knelt beside the bed to gently rub my ankles, swollen from hours in high heels. “We have to take our license photos tomorrow,” he murmured, his thumb stroking my warm skin. “Don’t ruin your sleep over nonsense tonight.” His palms were warm, his movements so practiced and tender that it felt like he had loved me deeply for a lifetime. At two in the morning, a wave of cold air woke me. Out on the balcony, Bruno was standing in the dark, scrolling through Kendra’s engagement post over and over again. He didn’t like the post, nor did he leave a comment. He simply zoomed in on her new fiancé’s face, then zoomed back out. There was no warmth or nostalgia in his eyes. Only the raw, restless irritation of a sore loser waiting for a rematch that wasn’t coming. He wasn’t waiting for Kendra to come back to him. He was waiting for her to regret leaving. But she didn’t. Which meant the expensive platinum ring sitting on my finger hadn’t won him the game after all. The next morning, Bruno canceled our appointment at the city clerk’s office. He claimed his eyes were puffy from drinking the night before, adding that a marriage certificate lasts a lifetime, so we couldn’t afford to have a bad photo. I looked into his eyes—clear, sharp, and entirely sober—and didn’t bother calling out the lie. That afternoon, he took me bridal shopping instead. I fell in love with a minimalist silk gown—clean lines, a tailored waist, no glitz, no sweeping train. Bruno took one look at it, then signaled the stylist to bring over a bold, crimson-red evening dress with a dramatic cut. “Try this one.” “People don’t wear crimson for the license photos,” I said. “For the reception, then.” “I don’t like red.” He pressed the heavy fabric into my arms, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of my ear. “Just wear it once for me. If it looks bad, I’ll take the blame. You can punish me however you want when we get home.” Bruno knew exactly how to dismantle my defenses. Whenever his voice dropped to that low, persuasive register and his eyes crinkled at the corners, my mind would drift back to a rainy night four years ago, when my mother was rushed into emergency surgery. My family was stuck out of town, the billing department was pressing for immediate payment, and I was sitting alone on the cold hospital floor, sobbing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. Bruno had driven six hours through a storm to get to me. He ran up and down six flights of stairs, handling every form, paying every fee. When I finally drifted off, leaning against his leg, he draped his heavy coat over my shoulders and sat on the freezing linoleum, guarding me all night. The next morning, I found a handwritten note on the back of the medical receipt: “Don’t be scared. I’m not going anywhere until your mom walks out of those doors.” Ever since that night, I had convinced myself that Bruno just had a sharp, stubborn edge to his personality. I believed that when it truly mattered, he would never abandon me. I changed into the crimson dress and walked out of the fitting room. Bruno’s eyes lit up. He stepped forward to adjust the thin strap on my shoulder. “I told you,” he murmured softly. “You carry it off brilliantly.” The photographer in the studio showered us with compliments. Bruno guided me under the studio lights, angling my hand toward the camera lens so the ring caught the light. He reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, smiling gently. “Keep your face visible. Didn’t someone use to say you couldn’t pull off high-profile looks?” Just then, Bruno’s childhood friend walked in to drop off some paperwork for the venue. When he saw the brilliant red dress, he let out a low whistle and chuckled. “Man, Kendra always used to say she’d only wear bright red for her wedding. You still remember that, Bruno?” Bruno’s hand froze against my waist. I turned around to unfasten the zipper myself, but he pressed a hand against my shoulder to stop me. “Red is traditional. It has nothing to do with her.” “I didn’t say a word, Bruno.” His patience evaporated instantly. “Mallory, are you going to bristle every single time her name comes up? I pick out a dress for my fiancée, and you turn it into a trial for infidelity.” I went back into the fitting room and changed into my own clothes. The new heels I’d worn today had rubbed the skin on my heels raw; after just two steps, I felt a sharp sting as a bead of blood seeped out. Bruno noticed it instantly. His expression darkened, and he immediately knelt on the floor, pulling a Band-Aid from his wallet. “If it hurt, why didn’t you say something?” He lifted my foot onto his knee, his fingers incredibly gentle, his brow furrowed deeper than mine. I stared down at the dark crown of his head, a sudden wave of bitterness rising in my chest. He had this infuriating talent—just as I made up my mind to give up on him, he’d offer me a crumb of tenderness to keep me hooked. A second later, he lifted the hem of my skirt, snapped a quick photo of my bloodied heel resting in the red shoe next to the ring, and uploaded it to his story. The caption read: “She looks best in red.” As soon as it posted, his thumb instinctively tapped the viewer log. Kendra’s name wasn’t there. Bruno’s hand stilled on my shoe for two seconds. When he looked up, he forced another easy smile. “If you really don’t like the dress, we won’t get it. What are you crying for?” It finally clicked. He wasn’t standing up for me. He was simply using me to prove to Kendra that she had misjudged him—and misjudged me. But I was the person who was supposed to build a life with him. I was not a trophy he could hold up to score points against his ex. …… Kendra blocked Bruno. He didn’t tell me. I found out on my own. At three in the morning, I woke up to get a glass of water and found him sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding my phone. The screen was lit up with photos Kendra had just posted of her own wedding dress fitting. Bruno was using my account, slowly swiping through every single image. I snatched the phone out of his hand. “What do you think you’re doing?” He didn’t look remotely guilty. “Just looking.” “She blocked you, so you’re using my phone to spy on her?” “We’re getting married in a few weeks,” he said smoothly. “What’s the difference between your phone and mine?” I opened the app’s message history and found something far worse. Ten minutes ago, my account had sent Kendra a photo. It was the shot of me in the crimson dress, my hand angled to show off the ring. Underneath, a message read: “I heard you’re fitting dresses today too. Wishing you all the best.” My fingers went cold. “You sent this?” Bruno frowned, irritation creeping into his voice. “Mallory, I just used your account to send a picture. I wasn’t flirting with her under your name.” “Why use my name at all?” “Because she wouldn’t block you.” He stated it as if it were the most logical thing in the world. My shoulders shook with quiet fury. Seeing my reaction, he reached out and pulled me, quilt and all, into a firm embrace. “Alright, I was wrong. How many years do I get for looking at your phone? Here, take my passcodes. Search whatever you want.” He shoved his own phone into my hand. The device was completely clean; Kendra’s contact profile had already been deleted. “See? There’s nothing between us.” He appeared to be apologizing, but in reality, he was subtly lecturing me—reminding me that I didn’t even have a valid reason to be jealous. Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. A reply from Kendra. “Mallory, I saw the photo, and I truly wish you happiness. But please stop letting Bruno use you to send me messages. Whatever point he’s trying to prove, tell him to come say it to my face.” Bruno snatched the phone back instantly, his fingers flying across the screen as he typed out: “You’re overthinking it.” I pressed my hand over his wrist. “Enough.” He looked up at me, and for the very first time, I saw a flash of raw, pathetic embarrassment break through his composure. “Mallory… I just couldn’t swallow my pride.” “So you dragged me into your pathetic pride war?” He went quiet for a few seconds, then leaned forward to press a soft kiss between my brows. “Once we sign the papers tomorrow, I’ll never look her up again. I promise.” I didn’t pull away, but a tear slipped down my cheek. Bruno wiped it away, his tone a mix of mild annoyance and practiced tenderness. “Stop crying. Your eyes swell up so easily. If the photos look bad tomorrow, you’re going to blame me again.” He pulled two tissues to dab at my face, then leaned down to kiss my eyelids, just like he always did after our arguments. He knew my soft spots. He knew exactly how to make me melt. His lips brushed my temple, his voice softening into a hush. “Come on, sweetheart. I’m giving you my entire life. What else are you trying to interrogate out of me?” He remembered that I cared about the photos, and he remembered how to make me yield. But he had no idea why I was crying. “What if she never regrets it?” I asked quietly. “What then?” Bruno’s lips stilled against my forehead. A long moment passed before he let out a brief, humorless laugh. “Then she’s an idiot.” In that moment, there was no love in his eyes. Only the bitter, festering resentment of a man whose ego had been bruised. I suddenly realized that Kendra wasn’t the hurdle standing between us. The real obstacle was Bruno’s insatiable, toxic need to win. And even as I stood on the brink of becoming his wife, my name, my phone, and my wedding gown were nothing more than rented gear for his petty competition. …… On the morning we were supposed to register our marriage, Bruno woke up at six o’clock. He tried to cook breakfast, ruining two eggs before managing an acceptable third. While heating the milk, he accidentally scalded the back of his hand. When he brought the tray to me, he offered a charmingly sheepish grin. “First time being a groom. Still out of practice.” Instinctively, I reached out toward his reddened skin. Just as my fingertips were about to touch his hand, I pulled back. Bruno noticed, but he didn’t call me out. Instead, he took his cold, undamaged hand and pressed it gently against my cheek. “Don’t be nervous. Today, don’t think about anyone else. Just think about me.” Before we left, he placed both of our family registries, our IDs, and our appointment confirmation into a clear plastic folder. “From now on, you hold onto all the important documents,” he said softly. “I’ll just focus on doing what I’m told.” The city clerk’s office was packed with couples. We pulled a ticket from the dispenser: Number 107. Bruno snapped a photo of the slip, but he didn’t post it to social media. He simply held it out for me to see. “No audience this time. Happy now?” I nodded. He tucked my hand deep inside his heavy coat pocket, lacing his fingers tightly through mine. “After this, we’ll grab that claypot porridge you love. We’ll come back every year on this exact date, until our teeth fall out.” It sounded so much like a real future. For a fleeting second, I let myself believe that he was finally ready to inhabit our actual life together. When the overhead speaker called out Number 98, Bruno’s phone buzzed. It was a voice message from Kendra. “Bruno, I’m boarding a flight to move overseas today. If you can… can we meet one last time?” Bruno put in an earbud and played the audio. Then he played it a second time. By the third time, the muscle in his jaw was visibly clenched. I reached over and closed the messaging app. “She’s at the airport?” I asked, staring at him. “You want to go?” Bruno stood up abruptly, reaching into his pocket for his car keys. “I just need to ask her one thing. I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” The speaker chimed: “Now serving Number 103.” I laid my hand over the plastic document folder resting on my lap. “Today is our wedding day, Bruno.” “I know.” He leaned down, carefully tucking my scarf around my neck. The gesture was gentle, but his tone left no room for negotiation. “Look, we have history. She’s leaving the country, and she wants to say goodbye. I’m just going to see her off.” “I’m standing at the door of the government building with you. There’s no need to get paranoid over something this small. Just sit here and rest for a bit. I’ll be right back.” Another post-dated check. As long as I was willing to keep waiting, he was always brilliant at promising a beautiful tomorrow. “Bruno, do you honestly not know what she’s doing?” His gaze darkened, his voice dropping into a stern whisper. “Mallory, the woman I came here to marry is you. Don’t force me into a fight on our wedding day, alright?” He turned and walked away. The automated system called out the numbers rhythmically. “One hundred and five.” “One hundred and six.” “One hundred and seven.” I called Bruno’s phone once. It rang until it hit voicemail. A second later, a short text popped up from him: “Almost there.” Ten minutes passed. The words “Almost there” remained frozen on my screen while the system moved on to the next block of numbers. A clerk stepped out from behind the counter. “Is the groom for 107 here? If you missed your window, the ticket is void.” I stared down at the clear plastic folder resting on my knees, a strange, overwhelming silence settling in my chest. “He’s not coming,” I said quietly. “Cancel it.” I unzipped the folder, pulled out my own ID and documents, and left his behind. Inside the bag remained Bruno’s papers, the platinum ring box, and the paper slip stamped with Number 107. I flipped the slip over, wrote a single line on the back, and placed it beneath the bridal bouquet we’d bought that morning. When Bruno finally rushed back late that night, the main lobby lights were already turned off. The security guard on duty handed him the clear plastic folder. On the back of the ticket, written in my neat handwriting, were nine words: “Ticket 107 is void.” “Bruno, so are we.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556418”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I begged my multi-millionaire husband for enough money to buy groceries, the girl who had been living in our guest house—his childhood best friend—snapped a hideous photo of me crying. She posted it straight to his Instagram. “The leech is begging for cash again. One like equals one hundred dollars for her allowance. How many likes do we think she’s worth?” I lunged for the phone, desperate to delete it. But my mother-in-law stepped in, grabbing my wrist with a manicured hand. “Leave it,” she said with a cold smile. “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” My husband, Colin, chimed in, praising Melody for her “creative solution.” Right then and there, he decreed that from that day forward, my living expenses would be strictly dictated by the number of likes that humiliating post received. For the sake of my grandmother, who was lying in a hospital bed clinging to life, I swallowed the bitter bile in my throat. I didn’t dare fight back. Over the next three years, the likes dwindled. The joke grew old for his country club friends. When my grandmother was eight thousand dollars short for a life-saving surgery, I begged everyone I knew. The post only garnered 70 likes. When I finally got pregnant, my body was so severely malnourished that I needed prenatal supplements just to keep the baby viable. That post got exactly 2 likes. My grandmother died because her heart couldn’t wait for a check that never came. And the child in my womb, starved of the very nutrients it needed to survive, quietly faded away into a pooling mess of blood on the bathroom floor. It was on the day my heart finally turned to ash, the day I resolved to file for divorce, that Colin was in a horrific car crash. Now, his broken body lay tethered to life-support in the ICU, but his spirit—his arrogant, insufferable soul—was floating near the ceiling, screaming at me. [Get the doctors! Call the best neurologists in the country! Have them flown in!] [If I wake up and find out you delayed this, I swear to God I won’t give you a single dime!] I didn’t flinch. I just pulled out my phone with its cracked screen, snapped a photo of his mangled face wrapped in bandages, and posted it to my Instagram. “Gathering likes. One like, and I pull the plug.” 1 The moment the post went live, Colin’s ghost nearly resurrected himself out of sheer rage. He floated down, thrashing and clawing at the air, muttering violently about how he was going to make me pay. But for all his spectral fury, the most he could manage was a faint breeze that shifted a single strand of my hair. [Jocelyn, are you out of your goddamn mind?] [Delete that post right now! Go tell the doctor you can see me! Make them fix this, or I swear I will—] I clicked my screen off, looking right through his translucent form with a bitter smirk. “Or what? You’ll post a poll on Facebook to make sure my grocery budget is capped at two hundred bucks next month? You’ll make sure I starve?” I tilted my head. “You’ve already done that to me, Colin. You’ve already done your worst. I’m not afraid of you anymore.” Colin’s ethereal face faltered. He knew exactly what that two-hundred-dollar limit had done. He knew it was the reason I miscarried. A flicker of genuine guilt crossed his features, but in true Colin fashion, his bruised ego quickly recovered. [No one is going to like that post,] he sneered, crossing his arms. [No one is going to join your little psychotic break and become an accomplice to murder!] I tapped my screen to check. He wasn’t wrong. The post had been up for fifteen minutes, and the little heart icon remained entirely empty. Zero likes. It made sense, really. For three years, every time Colin posted a photo mocking me for money, I had spammed our mutual friends, begging them to throw a ‘like’ my way just so I could eat. I had exhausted them. Over time, they had all either muted or blocked me. And even the ones who hadn’t wouldn’t dare touch a post joking about murder. I let out a soft, hollow sigh. What a shame. Colin smirked, assuming I had admitted defeat. He started barking orders again, telling me to get off my ass and fetch the attending physician. I didn’t move. I just looked at him, my eyes tracing the terrified contour of his fading jawline. “I know one person who will like it,” I whispered. “Someone who wants you dead more than anyone else in the world.” Before Colin could even process the confusion on his face, I looked down at my screen. I tapped the little heart icon beneath my own post. “One like.” Without giving him a second to react, I reached over to the wall and ripped the ventilator tube straight out of the socket. 2 The moment the oxygen was severed, the symphony of machines keeping Colin’s body alive erupted into a frantic, flashing panic. Alarms shrieked. The monitor above his bed began to draw jagged, desperate lines, warning us both that the meat suit on the mattress was rapidly expiring. The green line of his heartbeat began to flatten, stretching out like a long, terrible sigh. It looked exactly like the monitor next to my grandmother’s bed, on that rainy Tuesday when I sat beside her, sobbing because I couldn’t afford her life. It took a few agonizing seconds for Colin to realize what I had done. I wasn’t playing a game. I wasn’t being dramatic. I truly, deeply wanted him to die. His ghost froze, staring at his own suffocating body, and then he began to scream. He threw himself against the heavy oak door of the ICU suite, pounding his fists against the glass, screaming for help. But the universe has a wickedly ironic sense of humor. He was a ghost. I was the only one who could see him. I was the only one who could hear his terror. Realizing he was trapped, he floated back to me, dropping to his translucent knees. [Jocelyn, stop being crazy! Plug it back in! Call the doctors!] [What happened to your grandmother and our baby… that was an accident! But what you’re doing right now is murder!] [Are you trying to throw your life away for me?] [I’m begging you. Plug it in. I promise, the second I wake up, I won’t hold this against you. We can go back to how things were!] I let out a sharp, breathless laugh. Go back to how things were? A hundred dollars a like? “I don’t think so,” I said, my voice shockingly calm. “You might have stopped seeing me as your wife a long time ago, but legally speaking, I am still your next of kin.” I reached over to the rolling tray and casually picked up the Do Not Resuscitate order the doctors had asked me to review. I waved the paper in the air. “Which means I have the legal right to sign away your life. I can legally, rightfully, and completely lawfully pull your plug and send you straight to hell to apologize to my grandmother and my baby.” I leaned in closer to his shimmering face. “Besides, I played by your rules. I waited the agonizing fifteen minutes until the post got a like before I made my move. I learned this all from you, Colin. Did I do a good job?” 3 Colin was speechless. Because I hadn’t lied. Everything shattered the day Melody—the fragile, golden-haired ghost of his childhood—returned from Paris and declared she had nowhere to go. She moved into our guest house, and my marriage fractured overnight. Colin swallowed every manipulative lie she fed him. He grew cold. Distant. To prove his loyalty to her, he froze my bank accounts. He used his connections in the industry to blacklist me so I couldn’t find a job. He reduced me to a beggar in my own home, forcing me to hold up a whiteboard detailing exactly why I needed money, while Melody snapped pictures for his Instagram. One like, one hundred dollars. Those little digital hearts had stripped me of my dignity, my family, and my future. Looking at my dead eyes, Colin finally understood that the woman who used to love him was gone. He knew I was going to stand there and watch him die. So, he bowed his head and pressed his ghostly forehead against the linoleum floor. [I don’t want to die,] he sobbed. I stood up, looking down at him from a great, insurmountable height. “You don’t want to die? Do you think my grandmother wanted to die? Do you think my baby wanted to turn into blood?” He wept harder, his spectral form shivering as he poured out his apologies. [I know I was wrong. I know it. But please, for the sake of the love we used to have, give me a chance to fix this.] [When I wake up, I’ll treat you like a queen. I’ll send my mother and Melody away. I’ll never let them hurt you again.] [And if you really can’t stand the sight of me, I’ll give you the divorce. We’ll split everything fifty-fifty. We can walk away clean. Please?] A slow, dark smile crept onto my lips. “You know, I really did want a divorce,” I murmured. “But right now, I think being a widow sounds infinitely better.” “You never got around to signing a will, did you? Under state law, I’ll inherit at least three-quarters of your estate. That’s a hell of a lot better than fifty-fifty.” Colin began to frantically kowtow against the floor. It was a bizarre sight—he couldn’t touch the physical world, yet the violent impact of his head against the ground seemed real to his soul. The ghostly skin of his forehead began to bruise, turning a sickly purple before ethereal blood started to seep into his eyes. I felt absolutely nothing. I just turned my gaze back to the monitor, watching the jagged line smooth out into a flat, decisive finality. But at that exact, critical second—the heavy door flew open. A hand snatched the oxygen tube from my grip and jammed it forcefully back into the wall. 4 I sighed, turning my head with a profound sense of disappointment. It was Melody. Colin’s ghost leaped up, vibrating with sheer ecstasy. He rushed over to her, his phantom tears mixing with the spectral blood on his face. [Melody! Oh my god, thank god you’re here!] [This crazy bitch just tried to kill me! Go get the doctors! Tell them to—] But before Colin could finish his sentence, Melody raised her hand and delivered a vicious, stinging slap across my cheek. Her hand phased right through Colin’s incorporeal chest to hit me. [Jocelyn, you calculating little whore,] she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. [Did you honestly think that if this idiot died, you could just waltz in, take his money, and kick me to the curb? In your dreams!] [I told you the very first day I moved into this house. I didn’t come here to join your little family. I came here to destroy it. Did you forget?] I hadn’t forgotten. But Colin had never known. The shock on his face was a masterpiece. He couldn’t fathom that the truth I had screamed at him for years was real—that his sweet, innocent, fragile childhood friend was actually a venomous snake. Seeing the utter devastation in Colin’s eyes, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well?” I said, looking right through Melody to the ghost behind her. “Do you see how amazing your little golden girl is now? Do you finally realize if you were loving a woman or a monster?” Melody followed my gaze, blinking at the empty air. She couldn’t see a thing. “Jocelyn, who the hell are you talking to?” I kindly explained the situation. I told her Colin was floating right between us. But, predictably, Melody just assumed I had finally suffered a complete psychological break. I didn’t waste another breath on her. I simply reached out, intending to yank the cord out again. But Melody lunged. She grabbed my wrists, her grip surprisingly strong, and began to scream at the top of her lungs. “Help! Somebody help!” And then, just as the door handle clicked open, she violently slapped her own face, threw herself onto the cold hospital floor, and burst into hysterical, trembling sobs. “Jocelyn, please! Whatever I did to make you hate me, I’m sorry!” she wailed, tears streaming down her perfectly contoured cheeks. “Take it out on me, but please don’t hurt Colin! Please don’t kill him!” 5 It was a flawless performance. The transition from cruel mastermind to helpless victim was smoother than silk. Colin and I had watched this exact play countless times over the years. Except this time, Colin finally realized that all those times he had punished me for “bullying” her, I had been completely innocent. [What… what is happening?] Colin stammered, staring at her in horror. [She hit herself. She just… did it herself.] I gave him a tired, entirely accustomed smile. “What’s the point of this scene, Melody?” I asked wearily. “Your biggest fan is currently in a coma. Who exactly is this performance for?” Melody’s crying hitched for a fraction of a second. Muscle memory had taken over, and she had momentarily forgotten the context. But she didn’t break character. Instead, she scrambled on her knees toward the bewildered doctor who had just rushed into the room. “Doctor, please! Call the police!” she cried, gripping his lab coat. “I saw her post on Instagram—she threatened to murder him! I’m his best friend, so I rushed over. The second I walked in, this psycho pulled his life support! She’s trying to kill him!” As horrified as Colin was by Melody’s betrayal, his survival instinct trumped his heartbreak. He immediately sided with her. [You’re done, Jocelyn!] he sneered, puffing out his chest. [When you’re rotting in a prison cell, I’ll make sure to visit you just to laugh!] I ignored him entirely, keeping my eyes fixed on the doctor. The physician took one look at the monitors, checked the chart, and let out a heavy sigh, clearly annoyed by the theatrics. “Miss,” the doctor said, gently but firmly prying Melody’s hands off his coat. “Mrs. Jocelyn is the patient’s legal wife and medical proxy.” “She was the first to arrive after the accident. She reviewed his grim prognosis and signed a DNR. What she just did was execute her legal right to refuse further medical intervention. It is fully compliant with state law and hospital ethics. It is “not” murder.” The doctor adjusted his glasses, looking down at Melody. “If you are merely a friend of the patient, you have absolutely no say in his medical care.” Both Colin and Melody froze, sheer panic washing over them. But a split second later, the door slammed open again. “She might not have a say, but I certainly do!” 6 It was Cynthia, my mother-in-law. Since she was Colin’s biological mother, she absolutely had the standing to contest my medical decisions if they hadn’t been formalized through court yet. I rolled my eyes. This is exactly why the villains in movies always lose—they talk too much. I never should have posted that stupid Instagram photo just for a momentary thrill. I should have kept my mouth shut, skipped the monologue, and just pulled the damn plug. The moment Cynthia swept into the room, she bypassed her dying son entirely and immediately helped Melody off the floor, cooing over her. Then, she marched over to the doctor’s chart, snatched the DNR I had signed, and ripped it into pieces. “Resume all life-saving measures immediately,” she barked. “I want a new treatment plan on my desk in an hour.” The medical team, clearly realizing they had stumbled into a vicious family war, nodded awkwardly and hurried out to adjust the machines. The second the door clicked shut, Cynthia turned and slapped me hard across the face. “You ungrateful bitch.” “If Melody hadn’t texted me, I would have lost my son today.” Colin noticed the slap before I even registered the sting. For some inexplicable reason, his ghost rushed forward, throwing his arms up to block his mother’s hand, though it phased right through him. [Mom, stop! It’s not what you think!] [Melody is a snake! We’ve been wrong about Jocelyn this whole time. Honestly, she had every right to pull the plug. Don’t hit her!] Unfortunately for him, Cynthia couldn’t hear the dead. She turned her back on me and gently cupped Melody’s cheek, her eyes filled with maternal grief. “Colin is already lying in a coma,” Cynthia whispered softly to Melody. “Why did you have to play the victim card and hurt yourself like this? Don’t you know how much it breaks my heart to see you in pain?” Colin’s ghost stopped dead in his tracks. [What does she mean by that?] he asked, his voice trembling. [Did she… did she know this whole time? Has she been helping Melody abuse you?] I touched my stinging cheek and nodded. “Yep. Looks like you’re finally meeting the real women in your life, Colin.” Cynthia frowned, confused by my conversation with thin air. Melody quickly jumped in. “She’s faking a psychotic episode, Cynthia. She claims Colin’s ghost is floating right next to us, watching everything.” She stroked Cynthia’s arm. “You should go home and rest. Leave this to me. I’ll handle the trash.” 7 Cynthia nodded, glaring at me one last time before sweeping out of the room. I didn’t leave. I just stood at the foot of the bed, looking at Colin’s shattered spirit. “Congratulations,” I said dryly. “You get to live.” Despite the earth-shattering revelations about his mother and his so-called best friend, Colin’s deeply ingrained narcissism immediately began working overtime to protect his ego. [Melody is just doing this because she loves me so much,] he reasoned, pacing the air. [And my mom only helped her because she knows Melody is the right woman for me!] [I’m not mad at them. I get it. When I wake up, I’m going to use this little psychotic break of yours to lock you in a mental ward, finalize the divorce, and marry Melody!] I smiled slowly. And then, I very generously repeated his entire monologue, word for word, to Melody. Melody stared at me like I was a grotesque alien. “Jocelyn, what kind of sick game are you playing?” she spat, dropping the sweet voice completely. “You know better than anyone that I don’t give a shit about Colin. Only a pathetic loser like you could ever love a moron like him. I’ve only ever been here for the money.” She crossed her arms, smirking. “You knew I was after his cash, and you were so terrified I’d scam your precious husband that you refused to divorce him. You brought every ounce of your suffering upon yourself. You deserve it.” Oh, I knew all of that. That was exactly why I repeated his words. I wanted maximum collateral damage. I wanted Colin to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. I glanced at Colin. He looked like he had been hollowed out with a rusty spoon. Satisfied, I turned to leave. But suddenly, Melody lunged at me again. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. Colin and I both stared at her in utter bewilderment. What was she acting out now? Before I could brace myself, she overpowered me, dragged my hand toward the wall, and used my own grip to rip the oxygen tube out of the socket for the second time. With the life support severed again, Colin’s heart monitor let out a long, uninterrupted shriek. The line went totally flat. I was stunned. Before I could ask what the hell she was doing, Melody threw my arm away, sprinted out into the hallway, and began screaming with bloodcurdling terror. “Help! Murder! Somebody help me!” “Jocelyn is murdering him! She’s killing Colin!”

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My girlfriend, Helena, was a professional voice actress. To protect her vocal cords, she had a strict personal rule: she never repeated a single sentence. Not to anyone. When I proposed to her on a rain-slicked balcony in Manhattan, I begged her to say “yes” just one more time so I could commit it to memory. She turned away, her voice cool and crisp. “The words don’t matter, Jonah. Only the intention does.” To compromise, I started carrying a small digital voice recorder everywhere I went. I was terrified of losing her words, terrified that a momentary distraction would erase a piece of her from my life forever. Until the day our wedding planner called us in to finalize the reception details. Halfway through the meeting, my phone rang with an urgent call from my manager, and I stepped out into the hallway. When I walked back in twenty minutes later, Helena and my best friend, Shane, had already wrapped up the entire session. That night, sitting alone in the quiet dark of my apartment, I clicked open the voice recorder. Out of the seventeen sentences she had spoken during the consultation: Three were spent asking Shane what color pocket square he’d prefer for his suit. Five were spent confirming his specific dietary restrictions for the catered dinner. Seven were dedicated to fretting over whether they should swap his dress shoes for soft-soled loafers, worried his feet might ache after hours of standing. Shane had laughed through the recording, calling her a broken record for repeating herself so many times. And the remaining two? One was spoken directly to the planner: “It’s fine, the groom doesn’t care about these small details.” And the last one was spoken to Shane, her voice soft and entirely uncharacteristic: “I just don’t want the groom’s experience to be ruined.” Referring to Shane. Not me. In that quiet, agonizing second, the truth settled into my chest like lead. She wasn’t incapable of repeating herself. I just wasn’t worth the extra breath. I called the planner and canceled the venue reservation that night. Then, I opened my laptop and accepted the two-year corporate transfer to our Paris branch. If she didn’t care about our wedding, she could give it to someone else. … The line had barely gone dead after I canceled the venue when Helena called. “Jonah, the planner just emailed saying you called off the venue. What is wrong with you?” Her tone was sharp, clipped, laced with disbelief. “We just talked about this yesterday. You cancel on a whim? Do you think this wedding is a joke?” It was always like this. Whenever my actions carried any emotional weight, she never asked why. She never reflected on what she might have done. Her default reaction was to accuse me of being dramatic, of failing to see the bigger picture. In the background, I heard Shane clear his throat with a faint, amused cough. “Told you, Helena. Whenever Jonah throws a fit, he’s just begging you to coddle him. What’s with the attitude? Do you actually want to marry the guy or what?” Helena let out a long, irritated sigh. “Fine, fine,” she muttered. Then, begrudgingly into the receiver: “What is it this time, Jonah? Can’t you just talk to me like an adult?” It was funny, really. Shane’s words always carried far more weight with her than mine ever had. I remembered our last anniversary. She had stood me up at an upscale Italian restaurant downtown. On the quiet drive home, I sat in the passenger seat, my chest tight with unspoken hurt. She hadn’t said a word. When I finally broke down, tears spilling onto my collar as I asked why she couldn’t just offer a single word of comfort, she had only offered a cold, exhausted scoff: “Stop making a scene, Jonah. I’m tired.” She had left me alone to drown in my own feelings. “That’s more like it!” Shane’s cheerful voice drifted through the speaker. “Look, brother, if you’ve got an issue, just spit it out. She’s straightforward—she doesn’t get all these subtle mind games, and she’s slammed with work. She’s lowering her guard here, so don’t be a pain.” Once, I might have thought he was just playing mediator, trying to keep the peace between us. But now, I saw the truth plain as day. He was telling me I was unreasonable. Ungrateful. He was my friend first. He only knew Helena because I had introduced them. Yet somewhere along the line, without me noticing, he had quietly crossed the aisle to stand by her side. I opened my mouth, a lump forming in my throat. “I—” “Hey, folks! What can I get started for you tonight?” a server’s cheerful voice cut through the background. Shane grabbed the phone. “Hold that thought, Jonah. She took me out for some food. We’ll be back soon—we’ll talk when we get home.” My stomach churned into a cold, hollow knot. They were together. Again. Because of her work, Helena rarely had weekends off. Every time I wanted to go on a date, she was either locked in the booth or dissecting scripts. Yesterday’s wedding consultation had been time I literally begged her to carve out of her calendar. Yet tonight, during hours she claimed were reserved for crucial studio meetings, she was out grabbing late-night street food with Shane. She didn’t just refuse to spare extra words for me. She refused to spare time. An hour later, the front door clicked open. They walked in wrapped in a cloud of greasy, extra-spicy chili oil aroma. Helena’s lips were visibly swollen and red, and she was coughing weakly into her elbow. Shane was leaning against the entryway, clutching his stomach with laughter. “You are pathetic! You can’t handle a tiny bit of hot sauce?” Helena had avoided spicy food for years to safeguard her voice. Instinctively, my chest tightened. I stepped toward the kitchen and poured a glass of warm water, handing it to her. “You ate spicy food? I thought you never touched the stuff.” She took the glass but didn’t drink. Instead, she turned and pressed it into Shane’s hands. “Stop dramatic acting. Look at your eyes—they’re practically bleeding. Drink this.” I stood frozen in the middle of the living room. In five years together, I had never tasted spicy food in this apartment. Once, when she was out of town, I made a dish with a hint of red pepper flakes. When she returned and caught the faint lingering scent in the air, she flew into a rage and spent the night sleeping on the couch in her soundproof home studio. Noticing my rigid posture, Helena shifted slightly, stepping between Shane and me like a shield. “I wanted to try it myself,” she said smoothly, her tone defensive. “It has nothing to do with him. Don’t start fussing, Jonah. We know what we’re doing.” “Don’t start fussing. We know what we’re doing.” It was as if I were the outsider crashing their private world. The urge to explain, to argue, vanished instantly. “Right,” I said quietly. “You two rest up. I have work to finish.” Shane gave her shoulder a playful nudge. “See? I told you he wouldn’t hold a grudge! You’re always trying to turn us against each other.” Helena let out a weary laugh, then offered me a plastic container smeared with dark red sauce. “You haven’t eaten, right? You’re always talking about wanting street food, so I packed some leftovers for you.” She pulled her jacket back on. “I’m going to drop him off at his place and then head straight to the studio. Don’t wait up if you’re tired.” They left, their soft laughter echoing down the hallway. The promised conversation about why I canceled the wedding was forgotten before it even began. And despite me saying I had work to finish, neither of them had bothered to ask what that work was. I opened the container. The skewers were cold, drenched in peanut sauce and heavy chili paste—from a street vendor that had given me severe food poisoning two years ago. I tied the plastic bag tight and tossed it directly into the trash. I spent the rest of the afternoon packing up my life. By dusk, as I was folding my clothes into a sleek leather suitcase, Helena returned. She was holding a graphic novel, its cover instantly recognizable. It was the flagship fantasy comic Shane had raved about for months—the one currently being adapted into a high-budget audio drama. She flipped through the pages, softly reciting dialogue under her breath in distinct, theatrical tones. Usually, this meant she was auditioning for a lead role and steeping herself in the character. She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen, a subtle smile touching her lips. As I walked past her to put away a jacket, my eyes caught her screen. [Nailed it! All those late nights were worth it—I got the role. Don’t worry, nobody is going to ruin your favorite girl now. You owe me big time!] The response came back almost instantly from a familiar contact. A tiny burst of audio played through her phone speaker. Even muffled, I recognized Shane’s hyperactive voice. “I literally mentioned it once offhand and you actually landed it?! You spoil me way too much! Quick, say my favorite line! Do the voice!” My throat constricted. Three years ago, I had loved a web novel deeply. The female protagonist shared a quiet, resilient grace that matched Helena’s natural speaking voice perfectly. I had once asked her, almost shyly, if she would read a single paragraph of that character’s monologue for me. She had refused point-blank. “Characters have souls, Jonah,” she had said solemnly. “As a voice artist, I respect the integrity of the work. I don’t use my craft to indulge personal fan-service.” Later, she turned down the official dubbing contract for that very project, claiming the character lacked artistic challenge. Helena glanced at me, locked her phone, and adjusted her tone to something cool and casual. “Recording starts tomorrow. I need to practice in the booth. Don’t bother me, and try not to knock on the door.” Driven by an impulse I couldn’t quite name, I walked down the hall and stood outside her studio. Through the heavy wood paneling, I heard her clear her throat, dropping her pitch into a desperate, velvety whisper. “Even if it means eternal damnation… I will never betray you.” She wasn’t satisfied. She repeated it. Again. And again. Each iteration hit my chest like a dull strike. By the twentieth attempt, her voice was noticeably raspy, entirely stripped of the effortless command she usually brought to her roles. The character in that comic was supposed to be bright and ethereal; her voice was completely ill-suited for it. Yet she kept trying, straining her throat without a second thought. I remembered something she had said to me a few months back. She had told me I lived like an old-fashioned, proper gentleman—predictable, obedient, polite, but ultimately lacking spark. Unlike Shane, she said. Shane had an infectious, chaotic energy that unlocked hidden layers in people, giving her the courage to break her own boundaries and experiment with wilder, unconventional roles. At the time, I thought she was merely offering an objective analysis of how personality types influenced her acting technique. I had been too blind to realize it was the most elegant confession she could muster. I was simply too late to understand. That midnight, the audio production company officially announced the main voice cast on social media. Helena posted her promotional statement at precisely 12:04 AM—a timestamp corresponding directly to Shane’s birthday, December 4th. When she finally emerged from the studio, she caught me staring at the Twitter feed on my laptop. Her brow furrowed slightly. She walked over and gently slid the laptop lid shut. “Don’t read into it, Jonah. I’m just fulfilling a friend’s dream. When I treat him well, it reflects well on you too, doesn’t it?” I couldn’t count how many times she had used that exact justification. She was obsessed with framing her devotion to Shane as an act of generosity that somehow elevated my social standing. She didn’t understand the fundamental truth of love: if you care about someone, your devotion shouldn’t be distributed—it should belong to them first. It didn’t matter anymore. My flight confirmation hit my inbox. In three days, I would be on a plane to Paris. … Audio dramas move fast. By the third afternoon, the production was already recording its emotional climax. Helena had warned me in advance that she’d be doing heavy emotional work and likely wouldn’t be home until late. I was in the bedroom, taping shut the last box of my possessions, when her studio assistant sent me a frantic text. [Jonah, Helena is totally stuck on a scene. Can you come to the studio? She needs help getting into character.] Because voice acting lacks visual sets, actors often rely on external triggers to tap into complex emotions. In the past, I had visited the booth to help her ground herself. Usually, I didn’t have to do anything—just standing where she could see me was enough for her to conjure the quiet intimacy her roles required. I pulled my suitcase to the curb, hailed a cab, and set it for the studio. When I pushed open the soundproof heavy doors of Studio B, a raw, gut-wrenching sob echoed through the speakers in the lobby. I paused, preparing to ask the sound engineer which scene they were tracking, but stopped dead as I looked through the one-way glass into the isolation booth. Helena was on her knees, clutching Shane tightly around the waist, her face buried in his chest, weeping uncontrollably. “Don’t leave me! Please… please don’t leave me!” Shane slowly loosened her grip, stepping back with an expression of tortured longing. They stood there, bathed in the dim booth lights, gazing into each other’s eyes with a devastating, raw intimacy. In the control room, several familiar voice actors exchanged awkward, panicked glances when they noticed me. Afraid I was about to cause a scene, they instinctively took a step back. I didn’t yell. I didn’t scream. I just stood there, looking at the girl I had loved for five years as if she were a complete stranger. My eyes fell on the director’s script sitting on the console. It was a tragedy. A scene about irreversible separation. So Helena “was” capable of crying for someone until she broke. Six months ago, I was involved in a severe car accident that left me in a coma for four days. The doctors had urged my family and friends to speak to me constantly to stimulate my brain waves. During those dark, lingering days of semi-consciousness, I remembered hearing her composed, measured voice updating me on her schedule. I remembered hearing her laugh heartily with Shane at the foot of my hospital bed. I even remembered the muffled sobs of the family next door ringing down the corridor. But I had never heard her shed a single tear for me. When I finally woke up, a nurse had gently teased her, saying she was the most remarkably calm girlfriend they’d ever seen—she hadn’t cried once outside the ICU. I had defended her back then. I told myself she was grieving in private, that everyone processed trauma differently. Now I knew the truth. Whether in performance or in reality, I was simply never the man who could move her to tears. The scene wrapped. Shane remained inside the booth, adjusting his headphones. The assistant rushed into the control room, freezing in horror when she saw me standing by the glass. “Jonah! I—I’m so sorry!” she stammered, turning red. “I didn’t know Shane was going to drop by to visit. When he showed up, the director asked him to step in as a reader to help her mood, and I totally forgot to text you not to come!” She looked at me nervously. “Do you… do you want me to ask the director to let you go in and try a take with her?” I looked at the director, who was beaming with satisfaction as he reviewed the waveform on his screen. I smiled faintly and shook my head. “No need. The recording sounds perfect. I won’t ruin your workflow. I have places to be.” … Back at the apartment, while I was grabbing my passport, my phone buzzed with an alert. Someone from the studio had leaked a behind-the-scenes clip of the emotional breakthrough to social media. The comment section was exploding: [Holy crap, is that her boyfriend?! Finally seeing his face! He’s gorgeous!] [No wonder Helena’s acting was so insane—this is pure, unscripted emotion. They look so good together! I’m total trash for this pairing!] [Wait, hold on. I ran into Helena and her partner at a coffee shop last month. Her boyfriend doesn’t look like this at all. Isn’t this guy her boyfriend’s best friend?] [Plus one! I saw her with her actual guy a while back. She never tagged him, but it was obvious. This isn’t him! Is she cheating? I’ve seen this guy on her story like ten times—they’re always out alone together!] Within twenty minutes, the hashtag “#HelenaCheatingBoyfriendsFriend” shot into the top three trending topics. It turned out that complete strangers on the internet could see the blurred boundaries between them instantly. I hadn’t been crazy after all. Before I could close the app, Helena’s caller ID flashed across the screen. I picked up. “Did you leak that studio footage?!” Her voice was hysterical, vibrating with anger. “How could you be so vicious, Jonah? He’s your best friend! He was just helping me get into character! Are you really so insecure that you have to ruin us over work?” “Delete whatever garbage you put online and post an immediate apology and statement,” she commanded, her breathing heavy. “Otherwise, the wedding is off. We are done.” A cold sensation washed over my fingertips. So Shane had become important enough for her to weaponize our entire future together. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “If I tell you I didn’t post it, you won’t believe me anyway. So let’s save ourselves the trouble—we’re done.” “Jonah, wait—” I hung up and turned off the phone. An hour later, as I sat in the back of an Uber toward JFK, my phone lit up with a push notification. Helena’s team had released an official statement. [Official Statement: CV Helena and Mr. Jonah Miller ended their relationship amicably some time ago. There is no truth to the rumors of infidelity. The leaked footage was illegally obtained and released by an internal party to manipulate public opinion. The gentleman in the video is her current partner. We will take strict legal action against all defamatory claims.] I stared at the screen, my fingernails pressing hard into my palms. She had always refused to post about me publicly, claiming she wanted to protect my privacy from toxic internet trolls. Yet now, without a moment’s hesitation, she officially claimed Shane while throwing me to the wolves as a bitter, vengeful ex who leaked private files to sabotage her. This was how she protected me. My inbox immediately overflowed with vile messages from her defensive fanbase. Strangers left comments calling me a loser, a pathetic stalker, a terrible friend. A few extreme fans even managed to track down my firm’s public email, demanding I be fired for corporate misconduct. Interspersed among the harassment was a text from Helena’s secondary burner account: [Don’t take the public statement personally. It’s just a temporary PR strategy the team came up with to save the project. Stay inside for a few days and cool off.] [When the dust settles, I’ll clear your name. Just don’t do anything reckless in the meantime—it will ruin my character arc. If you hadn’t threw a temper tantrum in the first place, none of this would have happened. Take this as a lesson.] A temporary strategy. Their brilliant solution was to turn me into a dishonest trespasser so they could emerge untarnished. A single tear escaped my eye, hitting the glass screen of my phone with a quiet “tap”. It didn’t matter anymore. None of it. I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, deleted her contact, and wiped every messaging app clean. Then, I pulled up the Google Drive folder containing five years of our relationship logs, saved text messages, and the timestamped receipts from the wedding planner showing we were actively booking vendors just six days ago. I uploaded the entire archive onto a public forum thread. I shoved the phone into my pocket, dragged my suitcase through the terminal doors, and boarded the plane. As the jet lifted into the gray afternoon sky, watching the vast expanse of New York shrink into tiny geometric blocks beneath the clouds, I felt a strange, light relief. Helena. Your voice, your time, your love—none of it belongs to me anymore. The ten-hour flight across the Atlantic was the deepest, most uninterrupted sleep I had experienced in years. Yet, in the deepest layers of my dreams, I kept seeing the Helena from five years ago. Back when she was an unknown voice talent, auditioning in cramped apartments. Every time she booked a minor gig, she would run to me, her eyes shining like stars. On the eve of her first major lead, she was so anxious she couldn’t sleep. I remembered waking up at two in the morning to brew her warm chamomile tea, lighting her favorite lavender candle, and rubbing her back as I whispered that she was going to be brilliant. I remembered her leaning her head into the crook of my neck, sleep-addled and soft, whispering, “Just wait until I’m famous, Jonah. I’m going to make sure everyone knows I have the best partner in the world.” Back then, my favorite part of the day was sitting beside her in the evenings, listening to her run lines, helping her analyze script beats, correcting her cadence. When toxic trolls left mean comments on her early dubbing reels, I stayed up late deleting every single one so she wouldn’t wake up to heartbreak. I remembered looking into her eyes and saying, with absolute conviction, “You are going to be the greatest voice actor of our generation.” That was when we were closest. But as the years passed, those quiet evenings grew rarer and rarer. She matured. Her voice found an audience of millions. She didn’t need me to delete her bad reviews anymore—she had a dedicated PR team for that. She needed me less. She stayed with me less. Although a quiet sorrow occasionally settled in my chest, I told myself that her fulfilling her dream was my dream too. Until she met Shane. Shane—who belittled her rules, challenged her boundaries, and treated her profession like a game. Suddenly, my quiet support was “boring.” I wasn’t blind. I had felt the distance widening between us. I had tried to close it. Two years ago, when I received my first offer for an international management transfer, the contract stipulated a two-year deployment that guaranteed a promotion to VP upon return. It was a massive opportunity—one that I hoped would bring my career closer to her rising star. I was ready to tell her over dinner. But the minute I stepped into the apartment, I found the studio in crisis. A competitor’s fanbase had launched a coordinated smear campaign against her; her studio’s latest radio drama was being boycotted, and rumors were destroying her reputation. I opened her door and saw her sitting in her chair, head in her hands, crushed. She had looked up at me with tear-filled eyes and whispered, “You’re finally back. I thought even you were giving up on me.” In that single second, I made my decision. I chose her. I turned down the transfer. The colleague who took the slot in my place returned two years later to run an entire regional office. I never regretted staying. Not once. I never blamed myself for the choices I made back then. They were made out of pure, genuine love, and I took full ownership of them. Even if I was wrong, all I had to do was start over. When I opened my eyes, the morning sun over Paris was cutting through the clouds. The five-year dream was officially over.

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After the family photo session, my younger sister, Lynn, sat hunched over the computer screen, scrolling through the raw shots one by one. Too much squinting—delete. Smile isn’t sweet enough—delete. Showing too much teeth—delete. Out of forty proofs, she finally picked a single shot. She pointed at the monitor with a triumphant nod. “This is the one,” Lynn declared. “Dad looks warm, Mom looks graceful, Jordan looks so handsome, and I look gorgeous.” Our parents leaned in, nodding in eager agreement. My older brother, Jordan, chuckled beside them. “Definitely. That’s the best one by far.” “Our Lynn always has great taste,” Mom praised, beaming. The photographer hesitated, hovering his mouse over the image. “Are you sure you want to go with this one?” Curious, I stepped closer to look over their shoulders. It was only then that I realized what had happened. In the photo, the bright pink balloon Lynn was holding happened to completely block my face. All that was left of me was a tiny sliver of a shoulder tucked into the far right corner of the frame. I stared at the screen, a quiet lump forming in my throat. “Can we pick a different one?” I asked softly. “You can’t even see me in this.” Lynn blinked up at me, innocent as a doll. “So what if you can’t see your face? It’s not like people don’t know you were standing there.” She turned back to the photographer and pointed at the pink orb. “Actually, can you edit this balloon to be a little bigger? It’ll make my face look smaller.” The photographer complied. With a few clicks of his mouse, the balloon expanded. My shoulder vanished completely. Mom patted my arm, her voice laced with mild annoyance. “Carlin, it’s a family photo. Does every single person really need to be visible? Don’t ruin the mood for everyone.” Dad was already pulling out his wallet, urging the photographer to print and frame the enlarged print right away. Later, that portrait was hung smack in the center of our new living room wall. Every guest who came over gushed about what a picture-perfect family of four they were. Not a single person noticed that behind the giant pink balloon stood a fifth member. There was no room for me in that family portrait. But then again, when had there ever been room for me in this house? … “Oh, Beth, this portrait turned out so beautifully!” Aunt Susan gushed the moment she stepped through the front door, her eyes fixed on the canvas in the entryway. “Lynn is stunning, Jordan looks so sharp, and you and David look like a power couple.” She stared at it for a long minute, entirely oblivious to the fact that I wasn’t in it. After showering the portrait with praise, Aunt Susan turned around with a bright smile and pulled two glossy gift bags from her tote bag, handing them to Lynn and Jordan. “For my favorite girl, some designer perfume. And for Jordan, those new sneakers you wanted. Take a look—hope you guys love them!” By the time she turned to me, her hands were empty. Instead, she reached out and casually patted my head, a well-practiced gesture. “Carlin, honey, I wanted to pick something up for you too, but the mall was completely out of stock. Next time, okay? I’ll definitely make it up to you next time.” I nodded, my expression carefully blank. It was always out of stock. It was always “next time”. When I was little, I used to tug on her sleeve and naively ask, “Aunt Susan, when is next time?” It wasn’t until I grew up that I finally understood the polite lies adults tell to keep the peace. A promised “next time” was just a gentler way of saying “never”. Mom soon called us over to the dining table for dinner. In the center sat a platter of steamed blue crabs. Six people at the table, but only five crabs on the plate. Mom picked up her tongs and served Aunt Susan first, then placed the two largest, meatiest crabs into Lynn’s and Jordan’s plates. The remaining two went to Dad and herself. Catching my eye as I looked over, Mom paused, as if suddenly remembering my existence. “Oh, you don’t like crab anyway, right?” I froze. When I was a little girl, crab had been my absolute favorite. But every time I cracked open a shell, Lynn would stare at it with wide, envious eyes. And every time, my parents would say, “She’s younger, Carlin. Let your sister have it.” After years of stepping back, everyone simply convinced themselves that I had never liked it to begin with. I forced a tight smile and quickly lowered my head to eat my rice, terrified that if I paused for even a second, someone would catch the tears brimming in my eyes. Halfway through dinner, the doorbell rang. Jordan walked back in carrying a gorgeous three-tiered bakery box, and Lynn squealed, clapping her hands together. “Is that to celebrate me taking first place in the regional dance showcase?” she squeaked. Dad lovingly pinched her cheek. “Of course, sweetheart. Our Lynn worked so hard, we have to celebrate properly.” The candles were lit, casting a warm, golden glow across everyone’s faces. Aunt Susan placed a sparkly birthday crown on Lynn’s head, Dad pulled out his phone to record a video, and Jordan urged her to hurry up and make a wish. It wasn’t even her birthday, yet the fuss they made was grander than any birthday I had ever seen. After making her wish, Lynn began slicing the cake. When my plate was handed to me, it contained a thin, dry sliver of crust from the very edge. I took a tiny bite and said softly, “This bakery is really good. Maybe we can get a cake from here tomorrow too.” The table fell dead silent. Jordan furrowed his brows, glaring across the table at me. “We’re eating cake today, why would we get another one tomorrow? It’s just cake, don’t you get sick of it?” Mom gave me a look of deep disapproval. “We bought this because your sister won an award and everyone is happy. Carlin, why do you have to compete with her over literally everything?” My throat tightened. I bit my tongue and said nothing. Tomorrow was my birthday. Clearly, not a single soul at this table remembered. After dinner, everyone gathered in the living room around Lynn’s laptop to help her curate photos for her social media celebration post. I went into the kitchen alone to clear the table and wash the dishes. A chipped ceramic bowl caught the edge of my thumb, slicing through the skin. Blood immediately welled up, bright and red. I had just rinsed it under the cold tap when Lynn strolled into the kitchen, leaning casually against the doorframe while waving her phone in my face. “Hey, Carlin, I found this dress online, but I’m short about four hundred bucks,” she said smoothly. “Didn’t you just get your academic scholarship check deposited? Transfer it to me.” I turned off the faucet, clutching a paper towel around my thumb. “I need that money for my dorm housing deposit next semester.” Lynn pouted, her lower lip sticking out. “You can just ask Mom and Dad for dorm money. The dress goes off sale in two days!” Over in the living room, Mom heard the commotion and raised her voice in reprimand. “Carlin, Lynn rarely asks you for anything. How can you be so stingy as an older sister?” Jordan added his impatient voice to the chorus. “Just send her the money already. Don’t ruin everyone’s night over a few hundred dollars.” Lynn held up her phone, her payment code already pulled up on the screen, her eyes filled with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t dare say no. I looked at the crimson blood soaking through the paper towel, then at the silent, united wall of judgment from my family. Without a word, I pulled out my phone and transferred the four hundred dollars. When I finally retreated to my bedroom—a space cramped with Lynn’s overflow clutter—a text notification buzzed on my screen. It was from Cassidy, a senior in my department. [Here’s the group photo from our last volunteer teaching trip to the rural schools. It was such an incredible, eye-opening experience. I really hope you’ll consider joining us this summer.] I opened the attached photo. Dozens of students and local kids stood gathered in front of a rustic schoolhouse. No one was blocked. No one was pushed out of the frame. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I slowly typed back: [Cassidy… does everyone who goes actually end up in the group photo?] Her reply came back almost instantly: [Of course! Every single person matters. We wouldn’t leave anyone out.] I looked back at the hallway, toward the living room where that massive family portrait hung with a giant pink balloon obliterating my existence. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I opened the application link and checked the confirmation box. [Cassidy, count me in. I’m going.] The day after I confirmed my spot on the volunteer trip happened to be my birthday. Unsurprisingly, no one in the house uttered a word about it. That afternoon, Jordan’s university called requesting some archived family documentation for his study-abroad file. Mom pulled a folding chair into the home office to reach the top shelf of the tall closet. I watched as she pulled out color-coded pink folders containing Lynn’s vaccination records, growth charts, and even a tiny velvet box holding her baby teeth. Next to Jordan’s birth certificate was a plastic baggie holding the soft hair from his very first haircut. Standing behind her, I couldn’t stop the question from slipping out. “Mom… where are my baby records?” “You lived out in the countryside with your grandmother until you were six,” Mom said without turning around, her tone matter-of-fact. “How could we possibly have kept track of those things?” She stepped down from the chair, her eyebrows pulled into an annoyed scowl. “Besides, we’re pulling files for your brother’s university today. Why are you hovering?” Just as the words left her mouth, a yellowed piece of paper slipped from a crease in the back of the cabinet and fluttered to the floor. Mom bent down to pick it up. As her eyes scanned the birth date printed on the hospital record, she froze for a fraction of a second. “Oh,” she said, her voice entirely flat. “Today’s your birthday.” She brushed a piece of lint off her pants, entirely unbothered. “I’ve been so swamped lately it completely slipped my mind. I’ll make it up to you tonight.” I didn’t ask her why she had never once forgotten Lynn’s or Jordan’s birthdays in her entire life. Just that casual promise—”I’ll make it up to you”—was enough to light a desperate, pathetic flare of hope in my chest. But at five o’clock that evening, Mom and Dad took a frantic phone call and rushed out the door without a word. I sat alone in the quiet, darkening living room, watching the sun dip below the horizon, waiting into the dead of night. Midnight came and went. The front door remained shut. It wasn’t until one in the morning that the key finally turned in the lock. Mom walked in, looking exhausted. When she saw me still sitting on the couch, she blinked in surprise. “Why are you still awake?” Before I could answer, she offered a hasty explanation. “Lynn twisted her ankle during her late dance rehearsal. Your dad and I had to rush her to the ER to get X-rays. Look, today’s already over anyway. Once things settle down around the house, we’ll throw you a proper late birthday, okay?” It had been six years since Grandma passed away and I was brought back to this house. And in those six years, I hadn’t had a single birthday. A wave of bitter injustice crashed over me, and I couldn’t stop the quiet whisper from escaping my lips. “But… you promised you’d make it up to me today.” Jordan stepped through the door behind her, his face instantly hardening. “Carlin, how can you be so damn selfish? Lynn literally twisted her ankle and all you care about is your stupid birthday!” I looked past his shoulder. Lynn had just slipped off Dad’s back. She was currently standing on the foyer rug, balancing effortlessly on both feet without so much as a wince. The words of defense choked in my throat. I swallowed them down, lowered my head, and quickly walked back to my room. Sometime later, a light knock sounded on my door. Dad stepped in, shutting it quietly behind him. He sat down at the edge of my bed and slipped two hundred-dollar bills into my hand. “Take this, go buy yourself something you like,” he murmured gently. “Don’t hold a grudge against your sister. She’s young, and she got hurt today. Naturally, your mother and I had to focus on her a bit more.” When I didn’t respond, Dad let out a long sigh, patted my knee, and stood up to leave. The door clicked shut. Tears finally leaked from the corners of my eyes, tracing hot paths down my temples and soaking into the hair around my ears. Mom had lost her corporate job when she was pregnant with me, and she had resented my existence ever since. The moment I turned a month old, she shipped me off to the countryside to be raised by my grandmother. Lynn felt that my eventual return threatened her status as the undisputed princess of the household, so she hated me. And in Jordan’s eyes, Lynn was his only real sister. In this entire house, Dad was the only one who occasionally threw me a scrap of kindness. But it was only ever this: quietly slipping me a couple of hundred-dollar bills “after” everyone else had trampled over me. Every single time I was wronged, he stood on the sidelines. He never stopped them, and he never took my side. Because compared to the precious peace of the family, my feelings were entirely negligible. This breadcrumb of affection was never enough to make me feel truly loved—yet just enough to keep me from giving up entirely. I pulled up my phone. Cassidy had sent over the final itinerary: our volunteer team was scheduled to depart for the mountain region in five days. I stared at the screen, my hands trembling slightly. Then, I pushed off the bed and walked toward the door. I didn’t want Dad’s half-baked, cowardly love anymore. And I was done using these pathetic scraps of affection to trick myself into staying in this house. I walked down the hallway toward the master bedroom, intending to give the money back. But as I reached the door, Mom’s hushed voice carried through the crack. “Did you give her the money?” “Yeah,” Dad’s voice was low. Mom immediately pressed, “Lynn didn’t see you, right? Last time she found out you gave Carlin cash, she threw a massive fit for two days straight until we bought her that designer handbag!” “She didn’t see.” Mom let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Lynn just doesn’t understand our intentions. We’re only acting nice to Carlin right now for “her” sake! When we get old, someone is going to have to take care of Lynn. Carlin is her older sister. If we don’t keep her leash tight now, who’s going to look after Lynn when we’re gone?” I stood frozen in the hallway, as if doused in a bucket of ice water. A cold, suffocating numbness spread through my limbs. So even Dad’s shallow scraps of affection weren’t born out of love for me. It was just a game of good cop, bad cop. A calculated strategy to make me feel grateful, to keep me weighed down by guilt—so that I would willingly remain in this house as a lifelong servant to their favored daughter. I don’t even remember how I dragged myself back to my room. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I pulled out my suitcase and packed away every single thing I owned. The next morning, Mom pushed my door open without knocking, holding an official university form in her hand. “Carlin, I need you to file for a gap year at school.” She said it casually, handing me the paper. “Lynn’s college entrance auditions for the performing arts academy are coming up, and she needs someone full-time to handle her meals and schedule. Your dad and I have to work, and Jordan is starting his internship. You’re the only one available to accompany her.” Her tone was so offhand, as if pausing my college education wasn’t a life-altering decision. I looked up at her, my voice cold. “I’m not taking a gap year. Lynn is your daughter. I have no obligation to serve her.” Mom’s face instantly darkened. “Your sister is at a critical turning point in her life! As her older sister, can’t you just make a small sacrifice to help her out?” Dad hurried into the room behind her, letting out his signature sigh. “Beth, go outside for a second. Let me talk to Carlin.” Once Mom left, Dad sat at the edge of my bed. “Carlin, Dad knows you feel wronged. But you know how much I care about you. Just do it for Dad—endure it one last time, okay?” Last night, when I stood outside their bedroom door, he hadn’t said a word to defend me. Yet a tiny, pathetic part of me had held onto a thread of delusion—hoping that maybe he was just weak, that deep down, he still cared. Now, that final delusion shattered into dust. I reached under my pillow, pulled out the two hundred-dollar bills, and slapped them firmly into his palm. “You gave me this money just so I’d act as Lynn’s live-in maid?” I asked softly. “Then I don’t want it.” Dad’s face froze, his expression twisting into an irritated scowl. “Why are you being so completely unreasonable?!” Luckily, Lynn’s loud, spoiled voice echoed from the hallway, saving me from further lecture. “I don’t even want her coming with me!” Lynn threw a tantrum, stomping her feet. “She’s clumsy and depressing! Looking at her makes me sick!” She grabbed Mom’s arm, whining, “Mom, you come with me instead! You take time off!” The anger on Mom’s face melted instantly into pure, overflowing tenderness. This was the woman who had resented me for eighteen years because my birth cost her a corporate position. Yet now, with just a few whines from Lynn, she pulled out her phone and dialed her boss right in front of me. “Director Palmer? Hi, yes… I’d like to submit my resignation, effective immediately.” I stood in the doorway, unable to tell whether I felt envy or disgust. We were both her biological daughters. Yet Lynn only had to pout, and Mom would throw away her job without a second thought. While my very existence had been labeled a burden from the day I was born. I turned to go back into my room, but Jordan blocked the doorway. “Carlin,” he said, leaning against the frame, his tone oozing entitlement. “Since you refuse to go with her, you need to contribute financially. Lynn’s intensive dance prep camp costs seven thousand dollars. I put in seven hundred. You need to chip in three hundred.” I squeezed my fists tightly. “I don’t have money.” Jordan let out a harsh scoff. “What about your scholarship money? You gave Lynn four hundred the other day, so you should still have about five hundred left, right? Keep a hundred and fifty for food, and give the rest to your sister.” To Jordan, seven hundred dollars was just skipping a pair of limited-edition sneakers. But that remaining five hundred was my entire living allowance and book budget for the upcoming semester. I shook my head. “No.” Jordan’s expression turned nasty. He pushed past me, grabbed my backpack off the desk, and aggressively unzipped it. “Where’s your debit card?” “Give that back!” I lunged forward to grab it. During the struggle, the backpack zipper burst open with a sharp snap. My ID, student card, and my printed volunteer teaching confirmation form spilled out, scattering across the hardwood floor. My heart shot into my throat. I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the papers. Thankfully, Jordan’s eyes were only searching for plastic. He snatched my bank card off the floor, completely ignoring the official university document lying right beside his shoe. I was leaving in four days anyway. They wouldn’t notice a thing. In the end, he forced the transfer through my online banking app, taking the three hundred dollars. Late that night, a text from Cassidy popped up on my screen: [Hey Carlin! Great news—the university board approved a special grant for our volunteer team. Next semester’s dorm housing fees are completely waived, and all our round-trip train tickets are being fully reimbursed!] The tight, suffocating knot in my chest finally loosened, allowing me to take a real breath. The next afternoon, Mom unexpectedly called out to me. “Carlin, come with us to the mall. Lynn needs supplies for her intensive camp, so come along and see if there’s anything you need.” I stood frozen in the hallway. It was the very first time in my life she had voluntarily asked me what I needed. Even knowing it was just an afterthought, a faint ache bloomed in my chest. At the shopping center, Jordan pushed a massive shopping cart while Mom and Dad hovered on either side, credit cards ready. Lynn complained that the dorm mattresses were too firm, so Dad immediately purchased a high-end latex topper. Lynn mentioned her knees hurt after practice, so Mom picked out imported knee braces, an electric massager, a silk sleep mask, an aroma diffuser, a smart kettle, and a set of luxury travel toiletries. The cart overflowed. I looked down at my phone, checking the simple packing list provided by the volunteer organization: “A sun hat, insect repellent, a pack of Band-Aids, a sturdy water bottle.” Nothing expensive. I hesitated for a long time before finally picking up a cheap tube of clearance sunscreen, a box of discounted Band-Aids, and a pair of thick cotton socks. The total came to less than fifteen dollars. When we got home, Mom dumped the heavy shopping bags onto the living room floor. “Carlin, sort through your sister’s stuff and pack it into her suitcase.” I knelt on the floor, pulling the items out one by one. Lynn’s sleep mask, Lynn’s knee pads, Lynn’s toiletries, Lynn’s plush slippers… Everything belonged to Lynn. When I reached the bottom, the bags were completely empty. My sunscreen, Band-Aids, and socks were nowhere to be found. I sat back on my heels. “Where are my things?” Lynn was busy unboxing her new diffuser on the couch. She didn’t even bother looking up. “Oh, those? I saw some cheap garbage in the bag at checkout and thought some stranger dropped them in by mistake, so I tossed them in the trash.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Honestly, those cheap items looked like something an old lady bought at a flea market.” The living room fell dead silent. My fingers curled into tight fists, my voice raspy. “Those were mine.” Lynn laughed carelessly. “Sis, you actually wanted those? They looked so cheap and low-class.” What Lynn didn’t know was that those “cheap” items were the only things I had built up the courage to put in that cart after standing there for half an hour. Mom, as always, immediately chimed in to defend Lynn. “Carlin, why do you have to be so petty? It was fifteen dollars worth of junk! If it’s lost, it’s lost. Can’t you just buy it again later? Lynn didn’t do it on purpose—do you really have to ruin her mood right before her big training camp?” I didn’t bother explaining. In this house, there was no “later” for me anyway. Over the next two days, the house was a whirlwind of chaotic preparation. Mom was busy completing her resignation paperwork and researching meal prep for Lynn’s training. Dad was frantically calling real estate agents to lease an apartment near the prep center—worried that cheaper places were too far, and closer places were too expensive. Jordan took Lynn out to escape rooms and amusement parks to help her “de-stress.” No one asked me what I was doing. And no one noticed that my bedroom was growing emptier with each passing hour. On the third night, everything was finally arranged. Dad booked a reservation at an upscale restaurant downtown to throw Lynn a send-off dinner. I had just rolled my heavy suitcase to the front door when Mom’s call came through. “Carlin, don’t bother coming tonight,” her voice echoed through the speaker. “Director Hoffman from the state performing arts board is joining us. We worked so hard to secure this dinner with him. He’s always believed Lynn is an only child, so bringing you along would just make introductions awkward.” Tonight was the night my volunteer team was set to board the train. I had never intended to go to their dinner in the first place. Yet hearing those words aloud still sent a sharp, familiar sting through my ribs. By the time I pulled my luggage through the crowded concourse of the train station, my phone buzzed with another text from Mom: [On second thought, get over here right now. Director Hoffman used to be married to your high school principal. He said he remembers you well and asked about you. Stop throwing a tantrum and get an Uber immediately.] I looked down at the glowing screen and let out a bitter, silent laugh. They only ever remembered I existed when I was useful to Lynn. Over the intercom, the boarding call for my train sounded. I didn’t bother replying. I turned off my phone, gripped the handle of my suitcase, and walked toward the gate. Behind me lay a house full of cold indifference. Ahead of me lay thousands of miles of open sky. From this moment on, I would only walk forward. I was never turning back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556435”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At our wedding rehearsal, my fiancé’s first love walked up to my deaf brother holding a black permanent marker. With deliberate, cruel strokes, she drew a grotesque clown smile across his face. Then, right across his forehead, she scribbled the word “DEFECTIVE” in giant block letters. “The little deaf guy can’t hear all the happy music anyway,” she giggled, holding up the Sharpie like a prize. “I’m just giving him a smile so he can join in on the fun!” Around her, the groomsmen erupted into sharp, mocking laughter, their eyes gleam with the thrill of a side-show entertainment. My brother couldn’t hear their cruel taunts. All he saw was the entire room staring at him. Thinking he had somehow become the beloved center of attention at my wedding, his face lit up. He turned to me, his fingers moving in eager, clumsy sign language. “Sister, everyone is looking at me and smiling. Do I look handsome today?” Ice flooded my veins. My heart felt like it was being fed into a meat grinder, pulverized into raw, bleeding pieces. Before I could move, my fiancé walked over. He casually slid his arm around Vera’s shoulders, pulling her against his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Vera’s just young at heart, Mallory,” he said, his voice dripping with easy condescension. “Look, your brother is actually enjoying it. Don’t ruin the mood with that icy glare.” He allowed another woman to trample my family’s dignity under her heels, and then turned around to blame me for being sensitive. I walked up onto the stage without a word. Gently, with my own hands, I wiped the dark ink off my brother’s face. Then I turned. I ripped the ten-million-dollar diamond engagement ring off my finger and hurled it directly into my fiancé’s face. “Take your child’s play,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, “and get the hell out of my life.” “The wedding is off.” … I ignored the scattered mess on the floor and took my brother Callum’s hand. Callum was still confused. His fingers twitched, signing in clumsy, hesitant movements. “Sister, are we not getting married? Why did everyone stop laughing?” The black marker ink was still smeared faint and dark around his lips. Paired with the innocent, earnest look in his eyes, he looked heartbreakingly fragile—and terribly pitiful. A suppressed snicker broke out among the groomsmen. Elliot strode over, his face dark as a thundercloud. He grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “Mallory, haven’t you made enough of a scene?” “Vera was just pulling a harmless joke! Do you really have to make everything so goddamn ugly?” I yanked my arm back with everything I had, but his grip didn’t loosen. “Let go of me.” Vera came rushing up, her eyes instantly rimmed with tears. She timidly reached out, snatching the edge of my sleeve with trembling fingers. “Mallory, I’m so, so sorry. I swear I didn’t mean anything by it.” “I just felt like the atmosphere was too tense, and I wanted to make everyone laugh. I… I forgot that disabled people are so sensitive about these things. Don’t be mad at Elliot. If you want to blame someone, blame me.” One of the groomsmen, Troy, Chimed in with a scoff. “Seriously, Mallory, Vera had good intentions. A deaf guy usually never gets a chance to stand on a stage like this anyway. What’s the big deal about a little face paint?” “It’s not like it killed him. You’ve got a terrifying temper.” I slapped Elliot’s hand away with a violent swing and pointed straight at the double doors of the ballroom. “A harmless joke?” “Great. How about I take a blade and carve two lines into your face, and then tell you it’s just a joke?” Elliot stepped in front of Vera, his brows knotted in deep disgust. “You used to be so reasonable. Why are you acting like a hysterical lunatic today?” “Vera is flying out tomorrow for her studies abroad. Can’t you just show a little grace and let it go?” “Apologize to Vera right now, and we’ll pretend this never happened.” A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. He wanted me to apologize to the woman who had just publicly humiliated my brother? I turned, pulling Callum toward the exit. Elliot leaned in close to my ear, his voice dropping into a cold, venomous whisper. “If you dare walk out that door today, forget about your brother’s surgery.” My feet froze. Seeing me stall, Elliot’s tone instantly shifted to one of arrogant mercy. “Dr. Reynolds, the top otolaryngologist in the country, lands tomorrow. He’s taking exactly three patients for his new surgical trial.” “I hold one of those three slots.” “Walk out that door, Mallory, and your brother spends the rest of his life as a deaf clown.” My fingernails dug into my palms until I felt the skin break. Callum had lost his hearing five years ago because he threw himself in front of me when a heavy iron beam collapsed at a construction site. He took the impact to his head so I wouldn’t be crushed. Restoring his hearing was the single greatest obsession of my life. To get Dr. Reynolds’ name on our file, I had spent the last six months swallowing my pride, begging Elliot for every favor he was owed. “Elliot,” I rasped, my voice shaking with pure hatred. “You’re using my brother’s medical care to threaten me?” Elliot adjusted the subtle silver cufflinks on his suit sleeves, unfazed. “I’m teaching you how to behave.” “Whether your brother ever hears again depends entirely on how you act for the rest of the evening.” Behind his back, Vera peeked out, flashing me a triumphant, mocking smile. Callum gently tugged my sleeve, his hands moving slowly. “Sister, let’s not leave, okay? You look so pretty in your wedding dress.” Looking into my brother’s hopeful, trusting eyes, the sharp refusal stuck in my throat. Just get the surgical slot. That was all that mattered. I let go of his hand, forcing every muscle in my body to turn back around. “Fine,” I said, my voice dead and flat. “Let’s finish the rehearsal.” Elliot smiled, satisfied, pulling Vera back into his side. “That’s more like it.” “Everyone back to positions! Cue the vows segment!” I was pushed back to the center of the stage like a lifeless puppet on strings. The stage lights dimmed. The officiant stepped up, microphone in hand, attempting to smooth over the tension with a practiced smile. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let us look at the big screen to revisit the beautiful journey of our bride and groom!” The massive LED display flickered to life. Romantic music filled the venue. But the faces that appeared on the screen were not mine and Elliot’s. They were an eighteen-year-old Elliot and a sixteen-year-old Vera. The video showed Elliot carrying Vera on his back, running along a sunlit beach. It showed Vera smearing ice cream onto the tip of Elliot’s nose. It ended on a frozen shot of them in high school uniforms, sitting under a oak tree. Bold text popped up across the bottom: “To my boy—wishing you a happy wedding.” An audible gasp went through the room, followed by low whistles from the groomsmen. I stood under the harsh spotlight, watching a five-minute montage of their childhood-sweetheart romance. The love story video I had spent three sleepless nights editing—frame by frame, capturing five years of my life with Elliot—had vanished without a trace. I turned my head to look at Elliot. “What is the meaning of this?” Elliot kept one hand casually shoved in his pocket, his expression completely indifferent. “It’s just a video, Mallory. Why are you getting worked up again?” “The video you made was too long and boring. Vera re-edited a new version for me.” “She’s leaving the country tomorrow. Consider this her farewell gift to me.” I pointed a shaking finger at the screen. “This is “my” wedding! You’re playing a memory lane video of you and another woman?” Vera stepped up to the stage, biting her lip in an act of deep distress. “Mallory, please don’t misunderstand.” “Elliot and I grew up together. I just wanted to leave a small keepsake before I go.” “If it really bothers you that much, I’ll have them turn it off right now.” Elliot caught her wrist, stopping her. “Don’t turn it off. I think it’s great.” He turned his glare back to me. “Mallory, why are you so petty? You can’t even make room for someone who’s leaving the country tomorrow?” The officiant stood below the stage, clutching his mic in frozen awkwardness. Vera dabbed at the corner of her eyes, where not a single tear existed. “Elliot… if Mallory hates the video, then what about the reception outfit change?” Elliot waved his hand dismissively. “Do whatever you planned.” Vera snapped her fingers. A few stagehands rolled out a rolling rack. Two outfits hung upon it. One was a traditional, hand-stitched silk couture dress featuring intricate phoenix embroidery. I had spent six months crouching over an embroidery frame, stitching every single golden thread with hopes for my future. The other was a cheap, neon-green tulle dress that looked like it had been bought off a dollar-store rack. Vera pointed at my phoenix dress, sighing regretfully. “Mallory, the gown you designed is way too outdated. It doesn’t suit Elliot’s status at all.” “So I picked a new one for you.” “To save you from overthinking it, let’s just dispose of the old one.” She took a massive pair of iron shears from a nearby staff member. Blood rushed to my head. I broke away from the stagehands and threw myself over my dress. “Don’t you dare!” My eyes had gone bloodshot stitching this dress. Every golden strand held the naive dreams I had once nurtured for our life together. Elliot signaled to two security guards. They stepped up instantly, grabbing my arms and pinning me back. “Let go of me! Elliot, are you insane?!” Elliot shook his head in annoyance. “That old dress looks tacky as hell. Vera has way better taste than you.” “Put on the one Vera chose. Stop embarrassing me here.” Vera raised the heavy shears and stepped up to the silk gown. “Snip.” The exquisite gold-stitched phoenix was severed directly down the middle. “Snip.” The delicate metallic threads snapped, spraying like golden dust across the floor. In less than a minute, the gown that carried every ounce of my devotion was reduced to a pile of shredded, useless rags. Below the stage, Callum panicked. He tried to rush up, but the groomsmen tackled him down, pinning him roughly into a metal chair. Vera tossed the cheap, scratchy neon dress directly into my face. “Go put it on, Bride.” The guards released their grip. I sank to my knees, cradling the shredded pieces of silk, my eyes locked on Elliot. “You let her destroy something I built with my own hands… just to feed her need for possession?” Elliot scoffed coldly. “I’m already agreeing to marry you, aren’t I? What more do you want?” “What’s wrong with granting Vera one simple wish?” “Go to the back and change. Don’t push me to lose my temper.” …… The rehearsal was dragged forcibly into the reception tasting phase. I sat at the head table like a walking joke, wearing the itchy, neon-green monstrosity. A waiter pushed out a silver cart. “This is the final specialty dish: Imperial Seafood Bisque.” The heavy ceramic lid was lifted. A cloud of scalding, spicy steam billowed out into the air. It was a pot of boiling seafood soup, heavy with thick red chili oil floating on the surface. Vera immediately stood up, taking the ladle. “Let me serve everyone.” She ladled a bowl for Elliot first, then walked straight over to Callum with a second bowl. “Callum, this is wedding soup! You have to drink it to bring good luck!” Callum couldn’t hear what she was saying; he only stared at her in utter confusion. Vera thrust the bowl directly against Callum’s lips. “Drink it! Everyone’s watching you!” The soup had just come off the flame. The thick layer of red oil trapped all the intense heat underneath, keeping the broth at a dangerously high temperature. Callum couldn’t tolerate spicy food at all—even a tiny hit of chili gave him severe gastric distress. I bolted up from my seat. “My brother can’t eat spicy food, and he can’t drink anything that hot!” Vera completely ignored me. She shoved the bowl forward, splashing drops of scalding red broth onto his shirt. “Mallory, this is celebratory soup! It’s bad luck if he doesn’t drink it!” “Besides, he’s a grown man. Don’t be so delicate.” Troy chimed in from the side. “Yeah, refusing a simple toast? That’s just disrespecting Elliot.” Callum looked around at the cold, pressuring faces. He could sense that my defense of him was making my situation impossible. He gave me an appeasing, gentle smile, his hands moving awkwardly. “Sister, I will drink. Don’t fight.” He took the bowl of boiling, spicy broth and poured it straight into his mouth. The burning oil and searing fluid rushed down his delicate esophagus. Callum’s face instantly flushed a terrifying, dark purple. He clutched his throat, coughing violently as spasms wracked his frame. The ceramic bowl slipped from his hands, shattering into sharp pieces on the floor. The boiling liquid splashed across his arms and hands. His fair skin turned red at a visible, horrifying speed, large walnut-sized blisters ballooning up across his flesh almost instantly. “Callum!” I went completely wild. I charged forward and shoved Vera out of the way with every ounce of strength I had. Vera used the momentum to throw herself backward, landing dramatically on the carpet. “Ah! Ow! It hurts!” Her elbow had scraped against the floor, leaving a tiny scratch barely the size of a sesame seed. Elliot sprinted over instantly, scooping Vera up into his arms. “Vera! Are you okay?!” He turned his head toward me, roaring with fury. “Mallory, what the hell is wrong with you! She was just trying to give him soup, and you physically assault her?!” I didn’t give him a single second of my attention. I grabbed a pitcher of ice water from the table and poured it directly over Callum’s blistered arms. Callum was trembling uncontrollably from the agony, yet he still reached out with his uninjured hand, weakly signing to tell me he was okay. At that exact moment, a sharp, metallic screech echoed from high above our heads. “Creeeeak!” Suspended directly above the main stage was a massive, multi-tiered floral chandelier weighing hundreds of pounds. Due to rusted, neglected rigging, the heavy steel frame began to sway violently. The next second— The entire fixture snapped, plunging straight toward our table. Shadows engulfed Callum and me, as well as Elliot and Vera right beside us. “Watch out!” someone screamed from the crowd. In that split second between life and death— Elliot didn’t hesitate for even a fraction of a millisecond. He gathered Vera into his arms and threw himself into a dive toward the safe zone several feet away. His back was entirely exposed to me. He didn’t turn his head to look at me—not even once. “CRASH!” The chandelier slammed down with crushing force. I threw my entire body over Callum, shielding his head and torso beneath me. A sharp iron beam from the rig slammed brutally into my left shoulder. Warm, thick blood gushed instantly from the impact, dripping down my sleeve and soaking into the carpet. Pandemonium broke out. Dust drifted through the air. I pushed the heavy iron frame off my back, gritting my teeth as I hauled Callum up. The wound on my shoulder was deep enough to expose bone. Crimson blood completely ruined the cheap neon dress. A few feet away on the leather couch— Elliot was gently holding Vera’s forearm, his face filled with panic. He was staring at that microscopic scratch she had gotten when I pushed her. “Where is the first-aid kit?! Call an ambulance! Can’t you see she’s bleeding?!” Elliot screamed at the venue manager. Half a dozen waiters sprinted over holding medical supplies, hovering nervously around Vera. Nobody looked at me, bleeding profusely through my clothes. Nobody looked at Callum, whose arms were covered in horrific burns. I stood frozen in the middle of the wreckage, looking at the man I had loved for five years. Suddenly, the pain stopped hurting. The agony in my heart simply went numb. My purse vibrated against my hip. I used my good hand to pull out my phone. It was an international email from France. The sender was the Royal Arts and Medical Foundation of Paris. The text was entirely in English: “Dear Ms. Mallory Sidney,” “We are profoundly awed by the traditional silk embroidery piece, “All Living Things,” which you submitted to our board.” “After a formal review, our board has decided to grant your brother a full medical sponsorship for his auditory nerve restoration.” “Please arrive in Paris before this Friday. We will provide our premier auditory implant surgery and cover all medical expenses.” I stared at the words on the glowing screen, reading them three times over. The heavy, crushing stone in my chest finally cracked and fell away. I didn’t need Dr. Reynolds. And I certainly didn’t need Elliot’s pathetic charity. I slipped the phone back into my bag, walked over to the main table, and picked up a sharp steak knife. With a hard, decisive slice— I sliced through the ugly, jagged skirt of the neon dress. I ripped off the blood-soaked outer layer of tulle and threw it straight into a nearby trash can. The sudden commotion caught Elliot’s attention. He turned around, and when his eyes landed on the blood dripping down my shoulder, he froze for a second. But his face hardened almost instantly, his voice rising in harsh rebuke. “Mallory, look at what you’ve done!” “If you hadn’t pushed Vera, she wouldn’t have been in the drop zone, and I wouldn’t have had to dive to save her!” “Get over here right now and apologize to her!” Vera nestled deep in Elliot’s chest, her eyes sparkling with the smug triumph of a victor. I held a wad of napkins against my bleeding shoulder. Step by step, I walked right up to Elliot. “Elliot.” He frowned, his tone cold. “What? Acting pitiful won’t work this time. You “will” apologize.” I raised my right hand, pulled off the ten-million-dollar engagement ring, and threw it with full force directly into his face. The heavy diamond cracked against his cheekbone before bouncing off and rolling deep into the cushions of the sofa. “Did you really think,” I whispered, “that because I loved you, you had the right to drag my brother’s dignity through the mud?” Elliot cupped his bruised cheek, his face a storm of shock and disbelief. “Are you insane?! You don’t want your brother’s ears cured anymore?!” A cold scoff broke from my lips. “Keep your precious slot,” I said softly. “Use it to get Vera’s head checked.” “As of today, I don’t love you.” “The two of you make me sick.” Without waiting for a response, I turned, took my brother’s hand, and walked toward the exit without ever looking back.

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In our family, we had an old mountain tradition: on the night a daughter got engaged, her father and brother were supposed to light the heirloom brass hurricane lantern and walk down to the edge of the property at the foot of the ridge to guide the prospective groom home. The old folks used to say that as long as the flame didn’t go out, the daughter’s future would never be swallowed by the dark. My sister and I were engaged on the exact same night. As dusk settled into an inky black, Dad brought out the red-tinted brass lantern that had been in our family for three generations. Tracy, my older brother, filled the reservoir with oil three times over, carefully polishing the glass and tying a fresh crimson silk ribbon around the handle. Josie leaned against Dad’s arm, her voice dripping with spoiled affection. “Dad, don’t walk too fast, okay? It’s Logan’s first time driving up the mountain trail—I don’t want him getting lost.” Dad smiled softly, tapping the tip of her nose. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. I’ll hold the light high. I guarantee I’ll bring your man right to the front door.” Tracy clicked on his heavy-duty flashlight, clicking it to high beam. “And I’ll cover the rear. No matter how hard the mountain wind blows tonight, this light isn’t going out.” Mom looked at them, her face glowing with fond pride. “Our little Josie really is the lucky one, isn’t she?” Not a single person looked at me. My fiancé was waiting at the western approach to the mountain—a completely different trail, miles away on the opposite side of the ridge. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at Dad. “Once you bring Logan in… could you and Tracy go down to the West Fork and guide Jonah up?” Tracy checked his watch, his forehead furrowing into an immediate, impatient scowl. “By the time we trek back and forth, it’ll be pitch black. He’s a grown man. He can look at a map and figure it out himself.” Mom’s voice turned sharp and irritated before I could even reply. “If he can’t even navigate a simple mountain path on his own, how is he supposed to take care of you in the real world?” But the West Fork trail didn’t have a single streetlamp. It was a narrow, unpaved gravel track hugging a sharp, sixty-foot drop-off. I watched the red glow of the brass lantern drift further and further down the eastern trail, until it was nothing more than a tiny, trembling pinprick of light in the dark. Tears blurred my vision. If this family refused to hold a light for me tonight, then no matter how bright my path became in the future, I would never shine it back toward them again. … The red light vanished around the bend, taking the road toward the eastern entrance of the hollow. I stood at the back of the crowd of gathered relatives, staring hopelessly toward the pitch-black western trail. My fiancé, Jonah, was waiting at the other end. Half an hour ago, he had sent me a picture. In it, he was wearing his tailored black suit, a red carnation pinned to his lapel, standing proudly beside six meticulously wrapped, high-end engagement gift boxes. He had no idea that our family possessed only one heirloom lantern. And he certainly didn’t know that from the very beginning, that lantern was never meant to burn for me. Forty minutes later, firecrackers echoed through the yard. Logan Caldwell was escorted through the front gates, surrounded by a noisy, cheering crowd of my family and relatives. I immediately pushed my way through the hubbub and grabbed my brother’s arm. “Tracy, can you go get Jonah now? Please.” Tracy shook his arm free. “It’s pitch dark out there now. Why would I head out now?” “Because it’s pitch dark! The West Fork doesn’t have lighting, and the drop-off is right next to the path!” Frantic, I turned to my father. “Dad, please. Say something.” Dad shifted his weight, refusing to meet my eyes. “There’s nothing I can do, Lydia.” “What do you mean?” “It’s family tradition,” Dad muttered, his tone flat. “The welcome lamp can’t be used to guide two different sons-in-law in a single night. It’s bad luck for the first bride.” I froze. They weren’t exhausted. They weren’t too tired to walk. They were simply terrified that my fiancé might steal a sliver of the good fortune meant for my sister. Tracy hung the glowing lantern directly on the doorframe of Josie’s bedroom. “If Jonah actually cares about you, he’ll crawl through the dark to get here.” Mom pulled me roughly by the elbow toward the kitchen. “Josie’s about to perform the ceremonial tea service. Stop making a scene and causing trouble.” Around us, the aunts and uncles nodded in solemn agreement. “Exactly. If a man doesn’t even have the courage to walk a dark trail, how’s he going to provide for a family?” “It’s a good test. Let’s see if he’s actually sincere.” They spoke so casually, as if that treacherous gravel path along the cliff edge was nothing more than a doorstep in the yard. I stopped pleading. I turned, ran out into the chilly night, and pulled out my phone, my eyes burning. “Jonah, go back. Don’t come up tonight.” His reply came almost instantly: “They aren’t coming to guide me? It’s okay, honey. I have my headlights and a flashlight. I’ll drive slow and walk up.” I wiped away a falling tear and turned to run down the western track to meet him myself, but Mom’s hand clamped down hard on my shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going? Josie is pouring tea, and as her older sister, you need to hold the serving tray.” “Jonah is out on the ridge by himself!” “He’s a grown man! He’s not going to dissolve into thin air!” Mom shoved a heavy, scalding silver teapot into my hands. “Every relative we own is sitting in that living room. Put a smile on your face and stop looking like someone died. It’s bad luck.” I was forced to stand behind my sister like a prop. I held the heavy tray through endless rounds of tea poured for aunt after aunt, uncle after uncle. Finally, my Aunt Sarah looked up and asked casually, “Lydia, where’s your guy? Isn’t Jonah coming?” Before I could answer, heavy, uneven footsteps echoed from the porch outside. I dropped the tray onto a nearby table and sprinted for the front door. Jonah was standing on the threshold. His sharp black suit jacket was torn by briars, the back of his right hand was dripping blood, and his right pant leg was shredded from knee to ankle, soaked in dirt and crimson. Yet, held tightly in his arms and stacked carefully at his feet were the six engagement boxes—pristine, spotless, and completely unharmed. When he saw me, he offered a weak, breathless smile. “I… I didn’t keep you waiting too long, did I?” My chest heaved, and the dam broke. Tears poured down my face as I rushed forward to support his weight. Mom strolled out to the porch behind me. When her eyes landed on Jonah, her brows pinched into a deep crease of disapproval. “Goodness, why on earth are you dressed like a stray dog on your engagement night?” Jonah’s smile stiffened. I ignored my mother completely, putting his arm over my shoulder and helping him into my room to tend to his injuries. As I gently pressed an alcohol swab against the gash on his hand, his fingers twitched with agonizing pain. Still, he kept his voice low, trying to comfort me: “Don’t cry, Lydia. Really, it looks worse than it is.” Outside the window, the heirloom red lantern hung high over the porch, glowing brightly, casting a warm, celebratory light over Josie’s loud and merry celebration. I set the cotton swab down and looked up at him through a veil of tears. “Jonah… that overseas company transfer you mentioned last month… is the slot still open?” Jonah blinked, taken aback. My voice broke into a sob. “Say yes. I want to leave with you.” … Early the next morning, Mom spread out the customary return-gift items across the dining room table. According to local custom, when the bride’s family accepts the betrothal gifts, they must prepare an equally lavish set of return gifts the following day to show respect and goodwill to the groom’s family. The table was covered in a pristine red cloth. On it sat two cartons of imported luxury cigars, two bottles of rare, aged scotch, a pair of heavy 18-karat gold dragon-and-phoenix bangles, and a silk embroidery bedding set. Josie picked up the jewelry box, lifting the bangles to the morning light, turning them this way and that. “Mom, aren’t these a little plain? When Logan’s mother came over last week, the bracelet she was wearing was way thicker than this.” Mom instantly snatched the box back. “Then we’ll trade them in. I’ll take you to the fine jeweler downtown this afternoon and pick out a heavier set.” Dad walked over, clipboard in hand, meticulously ticking off every item. “And swap those cigars for the limited-edition ones. Don’t use the standard scotch, either—go to the high-end liquor store in the city and get two bottles of the top-shelf single malt. Our Josie’s return gift can’t let the Caldwell family look down on us.” I stood silently by the door. Only after they finished their meticulous tally did I quiet softly ask, “Mom… what about Jonah’s return gifts?” The room fell dead silent for a second. Mom didn’t even look up from her list. “We’re prioritizing Josie’s stuff first. Yours can wait.” “But both families brought their engagement gifts yesterday,” I said, my voice tight. “Aren’t the return gifts supposed to be prepared together?” Tracy was crouching near the floor, sealing a cardboard shipping crate with heavy tape. Hearing my question, he stood up, his face full of annoyance. “Jonah brought six simple gift boxes. Logan brought eight massive, custom-curated trunks. The return gift reflects the weight of what came in. How are Mom and Dad supposed to make them equal?” Josie whimpered softly under her breath. “Exactly… It’s not like we can send back eight luxury crates for Jonah too. What would Logan’s mother think if she found out we treated them the exact same?” I looked at the table stacked with carefully curated luxuries, feeling a cold, suffocating knot tighten in my throat. This kind of contrast was never new. Josie and I shared the exact same birthday. Yet every year growing up, my parents only bought one gift—for Josie. The cake always bore only her name written in pink frosting. When I was little, Mom would brush it off with a wave of her hand: “You’re celebrating together anyway, what difference does a name make?” But Josie was the one who blew out the candles. Josie was the one who opened the envelopes. I was just the girl standing beside her, expected to clap my hands on cue. When we were kids and there was only one chicken drumstick at dinner, Dad would slide it straight into Josie’s bowl. “Josie’s constitution is delicate. You’re the older sister, Lydia—learn to be generous.” When we reached middle school, the school organized an out-of-town class trip. My parents would only pay for one student. Mom signed Josie up, then turned around to give me a gentle pat on the head. “You have great grades, sweetie. Missing one trip won’t hurt you.” Later, when smartphones became essential, Josie got the brand-new flagship model. I was handed her cracked, discarded hand-me-down—a phone with a shattered corner and a battery that died every four hours. When I mentioned it, Tracy had scoffed: “It still turns on, doesn’t it? Why are you so shallow and materialistic?” From childhood to adulthood, whenever there was only one of something, it automatically belonged to Josie. They gave Josie the absolute best of everything, and then praised me for being “sensible” and “understanding.” Now, it was happening with our engagements. One welcome lantern—reserved exclusively to guide her fiancé. One lavish set of return gifts—curated entirely for her future in-laws. I lowered my eyes, asking no further questions. Mom, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, walked over and jammed a receipt and order slip into my hand. “Since you’re standing around, take Jonah and drive into town,” she instructed crisply. “Josie’s custom engagement pastries are ready for pickup today. While you’re there, buy two more cases of those cigars. We need them for her return boxes urgently.” I gripped the paper tightly. “Jonah’s leg is badly cut up, Mom. He shouldn’t be driving or walking long distances today.” Mom’s brow furrowed in deep irritation. “He’s a young guy with a couple of surface scratches! Since when did men become so delicate? Your brother has to take Josie to the jeweler this afternoon. You two have nothing better to do anyway, so what’s the big deal about running an errand?” I swallowed the bitterness, looking down at the receipt. “Fine.” Back in my bedroom, I grabbed my ID, passport, and bank cards, tucking them securely into my purse. Jonah was leaning against the bedframe, struggling to stand. “Are we heading into town?” I slung his arm gently over my shoulder, holding him steady. “First, we’re going to the urgent care clinic to clean and bandage that leg properly. Then, we’re going to the administrative office to expedite our passport and visa paperwork.” As for Josie’s custom wedding pastries and luxury cigars… I would get to them at the very end of the day. For once in my life, I wanted to put myself first. … By the time we drove back from town, the sky had turned a dark, moody purple. Jonah’s leg had been properly disinfected and stitched, and the doctor had sternly ordered him to keep off it as much as possible for the next few days. Yet, he still dragged his leg, leaning on a pair of wooden crutches I’d bought him, using his free hand to carry the delicate boxes of custom pastries. I followed behind, my arms aching from carrying two heavy cases of cigars. The moment we walked into the gravel courtyard, Mom rushed out to meet us. “What took you two so long? Josie’s been waiting so long she’s practically in tears!” Josie unboxed the pastries, inspected them, and immediately pouted. “Mom, look! Two of the decorative cake boxes are crushed on the corner!” I tried to explain: “The mountain road was bumpy, and Jonah couldn’t carry them smoothly with his crutches—” Tracy cut me off coldly. “If the stuff is damaged, it’s damaged. Why are you dragging Jonah into this? Acting like somebody forced him to go.” Mom picked out the two bruised pastry boxes and shoved them back into my arms with a scowl. “Go back tomorrow and exchange them. Return gifts can’t have dented boxes. It looks cheap and disgraceful.” I opened my mouth to speak. The bakery downtown had explicitly stated that custom, hand-crafted engagement cakes were strictly non-refundable and non-exchangeable. But looking at my mother’s dark, impatient face, I simply lowered my head. “Okay.” Stepping into the hallway, I stopped dead in my tracks. My bedroom door was wide open. My mattress, duvet, and stacks of personal books had been hoisted out and dumped unceremoniously into the narrow corridor. Inside my room, the floor space was completely covered with Josie’s massive wooden return crates, silk gift boxes, and embroidered linens. Even my packed leather suitcase had been shoved into the farthest corner, flattened under two heavy wooden crates of wine. I stood frozen for several seconds. “Mom… why are all these things in my room?” Mom didn’t bother looking up from sorting ribbon. “Josie’s room is too small to fit all these return gifts. Your room is spacious, so we’re borrowing it for a few days.” “Where is Jonah supposed to sleep tonight then? His leg is injured.” Tracy gestured casually toward the backyard with his chin. “The storage shed back there is empty. Sweep it out and he can sleep there.” The backyard storage shed had a leaky roof, dirt floors, and was packed with rusted lawnmowers, bags of fertilizer, and old tools. I couldn’t control the tremor in my voice. “He came here as a fiancé, not a laborer. If people find out we made him sleep in a leaky tool shed on his engagement weekend, what are they going to say about us?” Mom’s face instantly darkened into a mask of rage. “Then what do you propose, Lydia? Should I stack Josie’s thousand-dollar return gifts out in the rain to get ruined?” Josie’s eyes welled with tears on cue. “Sister, if you’re really that unwilling to share, just say so. I’ll move the boxes out right now. If they get ruined in the dirt, I won’t ask you to pay for them!” She bent over, dramatically reaching for the top crate. Mom rushed forward, pulling her back. “Don’t touch that! It’s heavy—what if you pull a muscle in your back?!” Tracy stepped in front of Josie, glaring at me with icy disgust. “We’re borrowing your room for two days and you’re throwing a tantrum? Jonah’s a grown man—he can sleep anywhere for one night! If Josie’s return gifts get damaged, can you afford to replace them?” I stood framed in the doorway, holding two dented boxes of pastries in my arms. It was “my” bedroom. Yet in their eyes, asking a basic question made me an unreasonable, selfish monster. Jonah gently touched my wrist. “It’s okay, Lydia. I can sleep in the shed.” I turned to look at him. Beaded sweat stood out on his pale forehead, and fresh blood was slowly seeping through the white bandages around his knee. Still, he offered me a reassuring, gentle smile. “It’s just for one night. Don’t fight with your family over me.” Hearing Jonah’s concession, Mom’s expression smoothed over slightly. “See? Even Jonah is being reasonable. You’re the only one constantly creating drama.” In the end, Jonah and I spent over an hour hauling rusted metal and heavy sacks out of the tool shed. The wooden cot inside was damp and warped; even covered with an extra blanket, it reeked of mildew and wet earth. The wooden window frame couldn’t close flush, letting icy gusts of wind howl through the cracks. I knelt on the cold ground, carefully changing the bandages on Jonah’s leg. A tear slipped from my eye, landing with a soft “plink” against the gauze. Jonah reached down, his thumb gently wiping the moisture from my cheek. “Don’t cry. Once our paperwork clears, we’re out of here.” I nodded, clamping my lips tight to keep from sobbing aloud. Across the yard in the main house, Mom and Tracy were laughing loudly as they helped Josie do a final count of her gifts. The warmth and cheer echoed right through the thin shed wall, making our dark corner feel like a completely different world. A few minutes later, Mom’s voice yelled out across the dark yard. “Lydia! Stop hiding in there like a lazy bump on a log! Josie’s favor bags aren’t finished yet—get out here and help!” I leaned down, carefully pulling the scratchy blanket over Jonah’s shoulders. “Get some sleep,” I whispered. “I’ll come back as soon as I’m done.” But as I stepped out of the shed into the chilly night air, I paused. The red hurricane lantern still hung high above Josie’s bedroom door, casting a bright, celebratory glow over a house full of laughter and abundance. Only the dark, forgotten storage shed where Jonah and I stood remained buried in the shadows where the light could never reach. … For the next two days, the entire household revolved entirely around Josie’s upcoming formal visit to deliver her return gifts to Logan’s family. Dad walked through the neighborhood, handing out invitations to the departure dinner, beaming at every neighbor he passed. “Our Josie hit the jackpot. The Caldwells cherish her so much, so we can’t look cheap with our return offerings.” Tracy drove into town three times in a single day. When Josie complained that the candy boxes weren’t fancy enough, he immediately drove out to replace them. When she decided the shade of red silk ribbon was slightly off, he hopped right back on his bike to hunt down a different shade. Mom hovered over the pile of gifts, counting and recounting every box, terrified that a tiny oversight might cause Josie to lose face in front of her future in-laws. Nobody asked about Jonah’s return gifts. It was as if I hadn’t gotten engaged at all. I was in the middle of changing Jonah’s bandages in the shed when my phone buzzed with a text from him. “The corporate expedited visa went through. We assemble at the city dispatch office at nine a.m. sharp the day after tomorrow. A company shuttle will take us straight to the airport. Don’t be late.” I stared at the words “the day after tomorrow”, feeling an overwhelming wave of relief wash over my chest. Two more days. Just two more days, and I would be free. My passport and essential documents were already tucked safely inside my purse. I walked back toward my room, intending to grab a few basic changes of clothes. When I entered, Josie’s return boxes were piled so high they spilled from the floor onto the mattress. Cases of liquor, cigars, gift boxes, and embroidered silk filled every square inch, leaving nowhere to even step. My wardrobe doors had been flung wide open—and cleared out entirely. Hanging inside were Josie’s expensive dresses for her visit to the Caldwells, while the bottom drawers were packed to the brim with her velvet jewelry organizers. “Mom, where are the clothes from my closet?” Mom was crouching on the floor, tying a golden ribbon around a wooden crate. She didn’t look up. “Your brother said there wasn’t enough room for the return boxes, so he cleared it out for you.” “Cleared it out to where?” “Under the porch eaves out back. Go look for it yourself.” I walked quickly out to the back porch. Lying in the dirt under the dripping roof eaves were two bulging black trash bags. My clothes, my favorite books, and my daily toiletries had been stuffed inside without care. The top bag hadn’t even been tied closed; a cream-colored cardigan had spilled out onto the muddy ground, covered in dark, filthy boot prints. I knelt down and picked it up. It was the birthday gift Jonah had bought for me last year. I had only worn it twice, keeping it carefully wrapped in tissue paper because I was so afraid of getting it dirty. Now, it was ruined with mud. Tracy came walking around the corner holding a heavy crate of scotch. I held up the muddy sweater, my voice barely above a whisper. “When you moved my stuff… why didn’t you even tell me?” “Tell you what?” Tracy stepped around me impatiently. “Josie’s return gifts are worth tens of thousands of dollars. Did you want me to leave them outside in the rain?” “But that is “my” room.” He stopped, throwing his hands up in irritation. “It’s for two damn days, Lydia! Are you seriously going to throw a fit over this?” Mom heard the rising voices and walked out onto the porch. She glanced indifferently at the ruined cardigan in my hand. “Just toss it in the wash, Lydia. It’s just an old piece of clothing—don’t start drama and ruin everyone’s mood right before Josie heads over to the Caldwells.” Josie appeared at the doorway, her voice small and delicate. “If sister is really that upset, I’ll tell Tracy to move my stuff back out. At worst, we’ll leave the scotch in the yard. If it gets ruined by the weather, we’ll just take the loss.” Mom instantly pulled Josie back. “Don’t you dare touch those heavy crates! She’s just throwin’ a tantrum because she can’t stand seeing the family focus on you for once.” It was “my” room that had been invaded. It was “my” personal belongings that had been dragged into the dirt. Yet somehow, in their minds, I was still the selfish, spoiled sister throwing a senseless fit. I hugged the heavy trash bag against my chest and lowered my head. “Don’t bother moving them,” I said quietly. Mom’s face softened slightly. “That’s more like it. We’re family—stop keeping score over every little detail.” She turned and bustled back inside to help Josie. Through the doorway, I heard her ask warmly, “For your visit to the Caldwells on Thursday morning, do you want your hair styled up in an elegant updos, or left down in loose curls?” Thursday morning… was also the morning I was leaving forever. Gathering every ounce of courage I had left, I called out toward the dimly lit hallway: “Mom… I’m leaving Thursday morning.” Inside, Josie was chattering excitedly about getting a fresh perm at the salon, and Mom was laughing in agreement. My voice was swallowed whole by their joy, unheard and ignored. … On the morning of my departure, the sky was still a bruised, pre-dawn gray. I packed three plain outfits into an old duffel bag and swept the storage shed clean. Jonah stood outside the main gate, leaning heavily on his crutches, waiting for me. Dragging my duffel bag across the courtyard, I passed the main house. The entire family was already bustling awake. Dad was carefully loading crates of fine wine into the trunk of a rental car. Tracy was reverently holding the red brass hurricane lantern, checking its glass. Mom was kneeling on the floor in front of Josie, adjusting the hem of her expensive lace dress. Josie wriggled her shoulders, pouting playfully. “Mom, stop tugging at it, you’re gonna mess up my hair!” “Okay, okay, Mom will be gentle, sweetie.” The small plastic wheels of my duffel bag clattered loudly against the cobblestone path. As I reached the front gate, Mom’s voice suddenly called out behind me. “Lydia.” My boots froze on the gravel. For a tiny, foolish split-second, my heart gave an involuntary leap. The next second, Mom thrust a plastic bag filled with leftover favor candies into my hands. “Since you’re heading toward town, drop these off at your Aunt Sarah’s place on your way. Don’t be lazy and forget.” I set the bag of candy gently down on the fence post. “I’m not going to town,” I said softly. Mom frowned, opening her mouth to scold me, but Josie’s impatient voice called out from the car door: “Mom, hurry up! Logan says his parents are already waiting at the restaurant!” “Coming, sweetie! Coming!” Mom turned around without a second glance, rushing toward the car. Dad held the lantern high. Tracy carried the last velvet box. They formed a tight, protective ring around Josie, guiding her down the eastern road as the sun began to rise. Jonah walked into the courtyard, gently taking the heavy duffel bag from my hands. I stood at the gate, watching the red glow of the heirloom lantern fade into the morning mist. They were escorting their favored daughter toward her glowing future. Jonah and I turned away, walking down the dark western path in the exact opposite direction. Not a single person turned around. Not a single person realized. This time, I was truly gone. And I was never coming back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “556436”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There was a Good Girl Point Chart taped to our refrigerator. Dad promised that if I reached one hundred points, he would take me to Disney World. To earn those one hundred points, I sat at the piano with a 102-degree fever, forcing my tiny fingers through scales without shedding a tear. I gave away my golden retriever without putting up a fight. I cleaned the floors, wiped down the baseboards, and pushed myself until I scored a perfect 100% on every single final exam. Only then did Dad finally agree to take me. The truth was, Dad never let me watch cartoons, so I didn’t even know what Disney World was. I didn’t care about Mickey Mouse or fairy-tale castles. I just saw how he had been pulling late shifts every night, working until his stomach ulcers flared up so badly he could barely stand. I thought if I earned this trip, I could force him to take one full day off to rest. I carefully packed my small canvas backpack. Inside, I placed a small clay figurine I had spent three weeks sculpting in art class—it was a picture of Dad holding me high up on his shoulders. Alongside it, I packed a box of medical-grade thermal stomach wraps, purchased with six months of saved allowance money. I zipped the bag up with delicate, trembling care. Then, one minute before we were set to leave, Cynthia—Dad’s college sweetheart—walked through the front door, holding the hand of her seven-year-old son, Landon. Dad glanced at the three printed VIP passes resting on the entryway table. His brow instantly furrowed into a tight knot. “Why are there only three tickets?” he asked, his voice sharp. My chest constricted tightly. Dad didn’t wait for an answer. He walked over, unhooked the canvas backpack from my arms, and slung it directly onto Landon’s shoulders. “Since Piper already packed everything, you can just take her bag, Landon.” I stared at my father, stunned into complete silence. He offered a quick, uncomfortable pat to my shoulder, his tone laced with heavy resignation. “Piper, you’ve had everything your entire life. Landon doesn’t have a father. Be generous for once and give him your turn.” I stood anchored to the doorway, watching my small backpack walk away down the corridor. Once the elevator doors closed, I dialed the international number I had resisted calling for months. “Grandpa,” I whispered into the receiver. “I don’t want my dad anymore. Send your lawyer tomorrow morning to take me to Canada.” … “Piper, what are you doing standing there like a statue?” Grandma’s irritated voice sliced through the hallway. She stood in the frame of the doorway, clutching the trim with one hand, her face contorted in a deep scowl. “Landon has a slight cough,” she snapped. “Go tear down that ridiculous point chart you taped to the wall. Right now.” “And put away that report card on the coffee table. Don’t trigger Landon. He just moved back from abroad and hasn’t adapted to the curriculum here.” I stood in the center of the room, looking at her entitlement. That point chart represented every single night I had practiced piano through a burning fever, every chore I had quietly completed to keep the peace. Every single checkmark on that paper had been drawn by my father’s hand. “I understand,” I said softly. Grandma gave a brief nod and turned to leave, but stopped halfway down the hall. “While we’re away for the next two days, clean the guest room from top to bottom,” she added, her tone coated in casual disgust. “Landon has mild asthma; he can’t tolerate a single speck of dog hair. I told you months ago to get rid of that mutt. The whole house still reeks of it.” She didn’t bother hiding her contempt. In this house, I wasn’t a daughter or a granddaughter. I was an inconvenient presence, a quiet servant to be summoned at will. My mother stepped out of the master bedroom, holding Landon’s spare fleece jacket over her arm. “Piper, your grandmother is right,” Mom said, adjusting her pearl earrings. “You’re staying home anyway, so it’s not like you have anything else to do. Clean the guest room so it’s fresh when we return.” She paused, as if remembering a minor detail. “Oh, and the imported health supplements in the kitchen cabinet—make sure you warm up a bottle every afternoon. Landon needs to build up his immune system when he gets back.” I watched her polished, coral-painted lips open and close. I didn’t argue. I didn’t ask why Landon’s comfort required my complete erasure. “Okay,” I said quietly. Dad’s voice boomed from the front door, urging them to hurry up so they wouldn’t miss the morning traffic. Cynthia brought up the rear, holding Landon’s hand, a gentle, triumphant smile playing on her lips. It used to be that whenever I was sad, Dad was the first person to drop to his knees, pull me into his arms, and make me laugh. But now, he merely walked over to where I stood, keeping his distance, his voice low and practiced. “Piper, don’t throw a fit,” he said. “You know Landon just arrived in the country. Everything is strange to him. He was so terrified last night he couldn’t sleep. This trip to Disney is to help him feel at home.” He reached out, intending to ruffle my hair. I casually tilted my head back, dodging his palm. Dad’s hand froze mid-air. A flash of irritation flickered deep in his eyes, though he smoothed it over instantly with a polite smile. “When I find time later, I’ll take you by yourself,” he promised. “You’ve always been the mature one, Piper. Be understanding of the family, okay?” “Mature.” That single word had been an iron weight on my shoulders for seven years. I looked directly into his eyes, my voice entirely flat. “Understood. Have a safe drive.” Dad seemed caught off guard by my lack of resistance. He hesitated, then gave a brief nod. “Be a good girl and wait for us to come home.” The heavy front door shut with a solid “thud”. The foyer plunged into instant silence. I stood motionless for a long time, until the dull ache in my legs turned into complete numbness. Then, I walked into the dining area and stood before the neatly taped “Good Girl Point Chart.” I reached out, grabbed the corner, and ripped it off the wall in one swift motion. I carried it over to the trash can, tore it into tiny, unreadable shreds, and dropped it into the bin. I took the straight-A report card off the coffee table and tossed it in right after. Walking back into my bedroom, I pulled open the top desk drawer. I retrieved the small clay figurine—the one of Dad holding me high above his shoulders—and the unopened box of thermal stomach wraps. I walked over to the open window and dropped both items directly into the neighborhood garbage truck parked in the alley below. My smartwatch buzzed against my wrist. It was a text from my grandfather. “Piper, the lawyer I sent is waiting downstairs. The custody waiver your mother signed last month will take full effect the moment you apply your thumbprint. Are you completely sure about this?” I stared at the screen, my fingers tightening slightly around the frame. “Grandpa, send him up.” I sent the reply and set the watch down. My gaze landed on a silver frame resting on the corner of my desk. It was a photo of Dad and me at a local fair three years ago. He was laughing wildly at the camera, and I was looking up at him with unreserved, reverent adoration. I picked up the frame, slid the photo out, and fed it straight into the trash can. I erased him from my world, right alongside all the wasted love I had spent seven years trying to give him. … Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Mr. Godfery, my grandfather’s senior attorney, pushed a thick stack of legal documents across the coffee table toward me. “Miss Calvin, these are the official Canadian residency papers and school enrollment forms,” Mr. Godfery said softly, his eyes filled with a quiet, lingering pity. “Mr. Winthrop has finalized every detail. Once you place your thumbprint here, you will be completely legally detached from this family.” I reached out, pressing my right thumb firmly onto the red ink pad. “Mr. Godfery,” I asked, my voice calm and small, “after I sign this, do I really have nothing to do with them anymore?” Mr. Godfery paused, his expression heavy. “That is correct. Your mother signed her section last month. To appease your father’s partner, she voluntarily relinquished her maternal rights. You cried and refused to leave at the time, which is why Mr. Winthrop held off on executing the order.” “Refused to leave.” I looked down at the bright red ink on my skin. Last month, my mother had forced me to give away my golden retriever and give up my bedroom to Landon, all to make Cynthia feel welcome. When I sobbed and begged her not to take my dog, Dad told me I was being selfish, and Mom told me I was embarrassing her in front of company. Not a single person in that house had cared about how much my heart was breaking. “Miss Calvin?” Mr. Godfery spoke up gently. “If you’ve changed your mind, there is still time to stop this. Walking away from your parents is a permanent decision.” I took a deep, steady breath, lowered my hand, and pressed a clear, dark thumbprint onto the final page of the document. “I haven’t changed my mind,” I said. “I’m ready to make my own choices.” Mr. Godfery looked at the absolute finality in my eyes and refrained from asking anything else. “Very well. I will process these immediately. Your grandfather has arranged a private flight for six o’clock tomorrow morning.” I thanked him and walked him to the door. Outside, the morning sun poured over the driveway, brilliant and completely devoid of warmth. Back inside, I picked up my tablet. A red notification popped up on social media. It was an update from my mother. She had posted a elaborate nine-photo gallery, each picture brimming with curated family bliss. There were photos of them watching the parade in front of the Cinderella Castle, shots of lavish character breakfasts, and finally, a picture of Dad carrying Landon on his shoulders. Dad was leaning his head up, laughing playfully with Landon, who looked utterly triumphant. The caption read: “A very special day, bringing a perfect surprise to our very special family.” The comment section was filled with likes from relatives. My Aunt Kelly had left a comment: “Where’s Piper? Didn’t you say you were taking her once she reached one hundred points?” Grandma’s reply came almost instantly: “Piper has a dark, difficult temper. She can’t stand seeing anyone else happy. If we brought her along, she would have ruined the mood for everyone.” I stared at those words until my fingertips turned ice-cold. “A dark, difficult temper.” That was all I was to them. They didn’t know that I had played the piano until my knuckles throbbed through a burning fever just to see Dad smile. They didn’t care that I had given up my dog to stop Grandma’s constant complaining, or that I had studied until midnight every night just to hear my mother say she was proud of me. I pressed the “like” button on the post, cleared my history, and logged out forever. Less than twenty-four hours remained. Soon, I would be completely gone. I spent the next few hours cleaning the guest room according to Grandma’s orders. I dragged a damp cloth across every surface, dusting the baseboards and wiping down the large, south-facing windows that flooded the room with sunlight. The room was spacious and bright. The closet was already filled with Landon’s new designer clothes, and the desk was covered in expensive imported toys and limited-edition model kits. As I mopped the hardwood floor, my gaze fell onto the nightstand. Resting there was an elegant wooden box, its lid half-open to reveal a limited-edition starry sky projector. Dad had brought it back from a business trip last month, claiming it was my reward for getting straight As. I had seen the box hidden in his study weeks ago, tagged with a bright yellow sticky note that read: “Piper’s straight-A surprise.” Yet, here it sat, resting on Landon’s bedside table. When I had asked about it, Dad’s explanation had been effortless: “Piper, Landon saw it and loved it, and he’s terrified of the dark. You’re brave, you don’t care about the dark anyway. Let him have it. I’ll buy you a better one later.” I hadn’t thrown a tantrum then. I hadn’t cried. I had simply, quietly, erased that promised night sky from my heart. I pulled the guest room door shut and retreated to my own room. Opening my backpack, I tucked my passport into the deepest interior pocket. It was my single ticket to freedom. I laid down on my narrow bed, staring up at the white ceiling. “If you stop expecting love, you stop feeling the pain of losing it.” It had taken me seven years to learn that truth. The afternoon bled into evening, suffocatingly quiet. I ate a plain sandwich, completed my remaining chores, and packed my sketchbook. Occasionally, the family group chat would chime with new photos. Not a single person sent a text asking if I had eaten dinner. At eight o’clock, my smartwatch buzzed. Dad’s name flashed across the digital screen. I watched it ring for several seconds before pressing answer. “Hello?” The line was filled with loud, chaotic noise—the distant boom of fireworks detonating overhead. Dad’s voice came through, heavy with irritation. “Piper, did you take the engraved silver pendant from Landon’s bag?” I went still. That silver pendant was something Dad had hiked nine hundred and ninety-nine steps up a mountain monastery to get blessed when I was three years old and dying of a sudden blood infection. It was engraved with my date of birth. I had worn it around my neck every day of my life. Before they left that morning, Landon had spotted it, screamed until he got his way, and Dad had forced me to hand it over “just for the day.” “No,” I said, my grip tightening on the watch frame. “Why?” Dad sighed heavily, his impatience palpable through the speaker. “Landon felt like it was scratching his neck during the parade, so he took it off to hold it. Someone bumped into him in the crowd, and he dropped it. We can’t find it anywhere.” My breath hitched violently. “It’s lost? Did you even look for it?” My voice cracked, rising higher than I intended. Over the line, Landon’s pathetic, sniffling voice drifted through. “Piper… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… there were so many people, someone pushed me…” Grandma’s sharp voice immediately took over the speaker. “Piper, why are you screaming at him? It’s just an old piece of silver! How much could it possibly be worth? Landon got his foot trampled in the crowd while trying to look for your stupid trinket. His ankle is completely swollen!” I bit down on the inside of my lip so hard I tasted metallic iron. “A stupid trinket.” Everything I cherished was worthless to them. Dad took the phone back, his tone dripping with cold fatigue. “Piper, your grandmother is right. It’s just an old piece of jewelry. When we get back, I’ll buy you a solid gold lock necklace, something far more valuable. Landon’s foot is hurting right now, so stop making him cry. Be mature.” “Be mature.” I closed my eyes. A single tear escaped, hot and sudden, splashing onto the back of my hand. I didn’t let out a single sound. When I finally spoke, my voice was terrifyingly flat. “Don’t bother.” Dad hesitated. “What do you mean, don’t bother?” “I mean, don’t buy me a new one,” I said, every trace of emotion drained from my tone. “If it’s lost, it’s lost.” It didn’t matter anymore. None of it belonged to me anyway. There was a brief, uncomfortable pause on the line. “Fine,” Dad grumbled. “We’ll bring you back a Disney plush toy tomorrow.” I hung up without replying and tossed the watch onto the desk. I curled into a ball on the bed, wrapping my arms tightly around my knees. When I was three, I had spent a week in the pediatric ICU with a terrifying fever. Dad hadn’t slept for four straight days, sitting beside my crib, holding my tiny hand. He had tied that silver pendant around my neck and whispered, “Don’t be scared, Piper. Daddy prayed for you. This will keep you safe forever.” I had held onto that memory for four years. Then Cynthia returned, and everything collapsed. Dad gave all his tenderness, all his patience, to her son. He had been the final pillar standing between me and Grandma’s cruelty, between me and Mom’s cold indifference. And tonight, that final pillar had handed away my safety charm and let it be trampled into the dirt. I stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and opened the bottom drawer. Inside rested a heavy photo album filled with ticket stubs and photos from every trip Dad and I had ever taken together. I carried the album to the corner of the living room and flipped the power switch on the heavy-duty paper shredder. “Feed.” One page, two pages, three pages. The machine roared, its sharp steel blades devouring the glossy color prints, grinding my childhood memories into fine, hopeless dust. It swallowed every smile, every hug, every lingering piece of love I had held onto. Later that night, the family group chat lit up again. Grandma dropped a long voice message into the thread. “Piper, we’ll be home tomorrow morning around ten. First thing tomorrow, pack up your bedroom and move all your things into the small study down the hall. Landon says he likes your room because of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Clear it out for him before we arrive. The study is plenty big enough for a little girl anyway.” I played the message, set the watch down, and didn’t bother responding. They were entirely confident I would obey. I had never dared to defy Grandma. Mom would never stand up for me. In their eyes, my only purpose in that house was to step aside whenever Landon wanted something, and then fade quietly into the background like a ghost. Dad sent a follow-up text a few minutes later: “Piper, you’re starting primary school soon; it’s time you learned to be independent. That room gets the best morning light, and Landon’s health is delicate—he needs the sun. Clean it up nicely, and I’ll bring home that strawberry shortcake you like tomorrow.” “Independent.” What a convenient word for abandonment. Landon needed the master bedroom, needed the sunlight, needed the whole family revolving around his delicate constitution. I was seven years old, so I was expected to be independent and surrender everything I owned without a murmur. I didn’t text back. I simply muted all notifications on the watch. My room was already bare. Aside from the mattress and the built-in wardrobe, nothing remained. My drawing supplies, my books, my clothes—everything I couldn’t take had already been boxed up and picked up by a local charity donation service earlier that afternoon. I packed three changes of clothes into my small canvas backpack and pulled the zipper shut. My Canadian passport rested quietly on the desk beside my single-way ticket confirmation to Vancouver, scheduled for 6:00 AM. I looked around the room where I had spent seven years of my life. I felt no sorrow, no regret, no lingering warmth. Before midnight, I gave the guest room one final wipe-down. I set the heat supplement bottle inside the warmer in the kitchen. I arranged Landon’s imported toys neatly along the wide windowsill of my former bedroom. Everything was precisely as they had demanded. Perfect. Long before the sun broke over the horizon the next morning, I slung my backpack over my shoulders and stepped out the front door, letting it latch shut with a quiet, final “click”. The morning air was crisp and biting. A sleek black sedan was idling at the gates of the residential complex. A driver in a suit stepped out and held the rear door open. “Miss Calvin,” he said respectfully. “We’re heading to the airport.” I slid into the plush leather seat. As the car pulled away, the neighborhood bled into a blur of passing streetlights. My smartwatch screen illuminated. It was a text from Dad. “Piper, is the room cleaned out yet? Make sure you change Landon’s bed sheets to the Superman set he likes.” I looked at the text message, a bitter, silent laughter rising in my throat. “Change his sheets?” Even at the very end, my only value to them was as an unpaid maid clearing the way for their real child. I tapped his profile picture and hit “Block”. Then I selected my mother’s contact and hit “Block”. Then Grandma. One by one, I erased every line of communication tying me to that house. I unbuckled the smartwatch from my wrist, popped open the back casing with a small hairpin, pulled out the GPS tracking microchip, and snapped it cleanly in half. I dropped the broken plastic into the car’s trash receptacle. At the airport, my grandfather’s assistant escorted me seamlessly through the private terminal and onto the aircraft. I sat in the wide leather armchair of the cabin, looking out at the tarmac lights stretching into the dawn. The overhead speaker chimed, and a polite flight attendant’s voice drifted through the cabin. “Welcome aboard, Miss Calvin. We are cleared for departure to Vancouver…” I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes as the jet engines roared to life, pushing us up into the morning sky. Goodbye to the favoritism and the cold neglect. Goodbye to the little girl who spent seven years begging to be loved. From this day forward, I would never be anyone’s second choice again.

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