Category: English

Today is the highly publicized “Love of the Century” mega-wedding event, and my fiancé, Isaac, and I are one of the couples. Fifty couples are scheduled to sign their marriage licenses and say their vows on a live, nationwide broadcast. According to the network’s run-of-show, the grooms are currently downstairs navigating the “Groom’s Gauntlet”—a televised obstacle course and trivia game—while the brides wait in our respective hotel suites. I wanted to give Isaac a little surprise. I slipped out of my suite and crept down the hall, planning to hide in the alcove so I could jump out when he finally made it to my floor. I had just ducked behind the ice machine when I heard the low, hushed voices of Isaac and his groomsmen. “Isaac, man, I don’t know about this,” one of his friends muttered, sounding frantic. “This is a massive, officially sponsored live broadcast. If you use this setup to secretly marry your brother’s widow, Josie is going to be publicly humiliated.” I froze. My breath caught in my throat. Then, Isaac’s voice drifted over, dripping with an exhausted kind of martyrdom. “I don’t have a choice. Lola has been a widow for three years. My parents treat her like absolute garbage, blaming her for Declan’s death. The only way she gets legal protection and access to the family trust is if she has my name.” “And as for Josie,” he continued smoothly, “she and I have always had a connection that transcends a piece of paper. We are soulmates. We don’t need a marriage license to validate what we have. She won’t care about the legalities.” The groomsman still sounded hesitant. “But dude, you’re forgetting something. When your brother dumped Josie for Lola at their engagement party three years ago, Josie nearly drowned herself in the river. It took you three years to pull her out of that dark place. If she finds out… she’s losing her husband to the exact same woman twice. She’ll lose her mind.” Isaac cut him off, his tone dismissive and cold. “It’s a fifty-couple wedding. It’s chaos down there. The network mandates that all brides wear those heavy, opaque vintage lace veils for the ‘blind reveal’ at the altar. I’ll just say I couldn’t see through the lace and grabbed the wrong hand. No one is going to investigate it.” “Besides, you guys know the truth. The only reason I pursued Josie back then was to keep her occupied so Lola could marry my brother in peace. Now that Declan is gone, it’s my duty to protect Lola.” He turned to the other two groomsmen, his voice dropping into a hard, authoritative register. “Go stand outside Room 302. Don’t let Josie out. Once the ink is dry on the license and the live broadcast wraps, it’ll be legally binding. Even if my parents throw a fit, it’ll be too late to undo it.” Listening to him, a hollow, freezing sensation washed over me. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just let out a quiet, bitter exhale, and silently slipped back into my room. I pulled out my phone, opened the massive group chat the network had set up for the couples, and scrolled until I found the guy who had originally been paired with Isaac’s sister-in-law for the broadcast. I typed out a quick text: Room 302 is missing a groom. You want to swap in? …… 1 I set my phone face-down on the vanity. The screen was still glowing. “Josie, get over to the door! Isaac’s group just passed the first checkpoint!” The corner of my mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile. Seeing me frozen there, my best friend Gemma rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Hurry up! They’re on the second floor. When he gets up here, what kind of riddle should we make him solve to get in?” “Don’t bother,” I said, gently pulling my arm out of her grip. Gemma blinked, confused. “What do you mean?” I looked at her, enunciating every word. “I don’t think this wedding is happening.” Gemma stared at me, completely lost. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You two have been waiting for this broadcast for months. You fought tooth and nail to get one of the fifty spots. What do you mean it’s not happening?” I didn’t answer. Fought tooth and nail to get a spot… Three months ago, Isaac had slammed the application forms onto my kitchen counter. He told me about this massive network event. A live-streamed wedding. Fifty couples. The whole country watching. He told me he had stayed up for forty-eight hours straight just to secure our audition spot. He said he was only going to do this once in his life, and he wanted it to be spectacular. I had hesitated. Because right around that time, my mother had been moved into the ICU. Her biggest regret in life was that she and my dad never had a real wedding. They were poor; they signed some papers at the courthouse and called it a day. She always told me that when I found the right man, she wanted to see me in a white dress. She wanted to physically place my hand into his. I wanted her to have that. I took the application to her hospital room. I showed her the fine print at the bottom of the page: “Due to live-broadcast logistical constraints, the traditional parental give-away will not be permitted.” My mom had smiled a frail, paper-thin smile and said it was fine. “As long as I live long enough to see you marry him, I don’t care about the logistics.” But when she flipped to the page showing the venue layout, she had gone quiet for a long time. “So… I won’t even get to see you walk down the aisle?” she had whispered. I had broken down in the hospital corridor that afternoon. That night, I begged Isaac. “Can we just pull out of the TV thing? Let’s just do something tiny. A backyard ceremony. Let my mom sit in her wheelchair and hand me over to you…” Isaac had pulled me into his arms, stroking my hair. “Baby, don’t be unreasonable. We fought so hard for this spot. It’s going to be broadcast live. Your mom can watch it from her hospital bed. It’s the same thing.” “It’s not the same,” I had cried. “When I come to pick you up at the hotel, we’ll FaceTime her,” he promised, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s the same thing, Josie.” I stopped fighting him. Because when he said it, his eyes were red. He told me he just wanted to give me the most magnificent day of my life. I believed him. My mom’s condition deteriorated. She was moved to the palliative respiratory ward. On the last day she was truly lucid, she held my hand and wheezed, “Momma isn’t going to get to see you in your dress.” “You will,” I promised, swallowing my tears. “It’s on TV. I’ll have the nurses turn it on. You have to watch.” She nodded. “Okay.” And yet today, just moments ago, the man I was supposed to marry said: “She and I have always had a connection that transcends a piece of paper. She won’t care about the legalities.” My mother was lying in a hospital bed right now, her eyes glued to a television screen, completely unaware that her daughter didn’t even deserve a piece of paper. Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside our suite. Gemma’s head snapped toward the door, her eyes narrowing. “That’s weird. Why is it only two groomsmen? Where’s Isaac?” 2 She looked back at me, her face scrunched in confusion. “The gauntlet is over. Shouldn’t he be the first one sprinting up here to get his bride?” I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Gem… when the groom gets here, don’t give him too hard of a time.” Gemma paused, then covered her mouth and giggled. “Oh, whatever! I know you’re just protective of him.” “Fine,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Considering the poor guy chased you for three years, I’ll tell the other bridesmaids to go easy on him. Maybe just twenty push-ups at the door.” She rapidly typed out a text to the girls in the hall. “Bride’s orders. Don’t be too vicious. Leave the groom some dignity.” The corners of my mouth curved up slightly, but I stayed silent. Under any other circumstances, this would have been such a sweet, perfect moment. Gemma tucked her phone away and came over to loop her arm through mine. “Honestly, Isaac is going to look devastating in his tux today. You guys have been together for three years, and he’s always treated you like fragile glass. You’re finally making it official. Are you nervous?” “No,” I said. Gemma laughed. “Liar. Your lips are completely white.” Just as the words left her mouth, my phone buzzed on the vanity. It was a FaceTime call from my mom. She had just finished her final, desperate round of chemo. She was completely bald, her skin a sickly, jaundiced yellow, but her eyes were crinkled in absolute joy. “My beautiful girl,” she rasped, beaming. “I’m watching the broadcast. Isaac was working so hard during those silly games to get to you. You tell your friends not to torture him too much…” I forced out a laugh and nodded. “I just can’t wait to see you two sign those papers,” she whispered. A nurse walked into the frame to adjust her IV and glanced at the screen. “Oh, is your daughter one of the TV brides today?” “Yes she is! Fifty couples, live on national television!” My mom’s voice was as frail as a flickering candle in the wind, but it was filled with so much pride. “She found herself a wonderful man. Three years, and he’s never given me a single reason to worry. He cherishes her like she’s the most precious thing in the world.” I gripped my phone so hard my fingernails dug half-moons into my palms. She didn’t know. She didn’t know that the man who had pursued me for three years, who had “loved” me for three years, had orchestrated this massive television spectacle for one singular purpose. To use the chaos of the broadcast to marry his brother’s widow. To force his parents’ hands into accepting an unholy alliance, live on television, where they couldn’t scream and stop it. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and smiled into the camera. “Alright, Mom, the signal is getting a little choppy. I’ll call you as soon as the ink is dry.” I hung up. Gemma stepped behind me and carefully draped the heavy, opaque vintage lace veil over my head, completely obscuring my face. “You know, this whole vintage veil gimmick is actually kind of romantic,” she mused, adjusting the lace. “And your mom being able to watch it live… I bet just seeing this will cure her halfway.” She wandered over to the window and peered down at the courtyard. “Where is Isaac?” she muttered. “The other rooms are already clearing out. The host on the loudspeaker is already calling the twenty-eighth couple down.” 3 She turned back, picked up a favor box of jordan almonds from the table, popped one into her mouth, and crunched down. “But seriously,” she said, her voice softening. “Three years ago, if someone had told me you’d be marrying him today, I would have thought they were crazy.” I didn’t say anything. Gemma chewed her candy, her gaze drifting to a memory. “When Declan broke your heart like that, I was genuinely terrified we were going to lose you.” “Declan was such a manipulative piece of trash,” she spat. “When you two were together, he acted like he would pull the stars from the sky for you. We all thought you two were endgame.” Her voice dropped. “And then Lola showed up.” My fingers curled inward, the heavy lace of my dress scratching against my skin. Lola. I hadn’t let anyone say that name around me in a long time. It wasn’t until I had been dating Isaac for six months that he finally brought me home to meet his family. That was the day I found out that my ex-fiancé, Declan, was his older brother. And the woman who had destroyed my life, Lola, was already his sister-in-law. I had started shaking violently. I turned to walk right back out the door. Isaac had grabbed my hand, his grip tight, his voice shaking. “Josie, please. Give me a chance. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Let the past be the past. Please.” I had struggled with it for months. Every time I had to sit across from Declan and Lola at family dinners, my stomach churned with nausea. But Isaac… Isaac was so incredibly good to me. He never forced me to call Declan ‘brother’ or Lola ‘sister’. He intercepted the wine glasses they tried to hand me. He filled my plate. At family gatherings, he acted as a physical shield, ensuring they never even got close to me. “You don’t have to talk to them,” he would whisper. “They don’t exist in our world.” But I didn’t want him to be caught in the middle. He was a part of that family. Lola was his sister-in-law. Holidays were inevitable. The better he treated me, the more guilty I felt for holding onto my trauma. After eight months of inner warfare, I finally raised my glass at Thanksgiving, looked right at the woman who ruined my engagement, and smiled. “To you, Lola.” Beneath the table, Isaac had gripped my hand so hard, his eyes shining with unshed tears. From that day on, I played the part. For him. But it wasn’t long after that Declan was killed. A freak accident on a construction site. Gone in an instant. Lola became a widow overnight. “I really didn’t want to bring all this up on your wedding day,” Gemma scoffed, pulling me out of my memories. “I’m just so pissed off. My boyfriend and I couldn’t even get on the waitlist for this TV wedding, but somehow she gets to participate?” “And the guy she’s marrying is Brandon? Isaac’s old college roommate who just moved back from London?” She threw her hands up. “Like, seriously? Does every man on earth just fall for her tragic, helpless act?” She was getting angrier the more she spoke, her fingers crushing the cardboard favor box. “When you and Declan were celebrating your engagement, he literally abandoned you in front of both your families to run to Lola because she ‘wasn’t feeling well’ and ‘needed someone to take care of her’. And how did he take care of her? By sleeping with her!” Gemma’s voice cracked, tears suddenly springing to her eyes. “That night… you went down to the river all by yourself…” I lowered my eyes beneath the veil. My eyelashes fluttered. “If Isaac hadn’t jumped in and dragged you out…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She aggressively wiped at her face. I handed her a tissue from my lap. “Isaac,” Gemma sniffled, taking the tissue and forcing a watery smile. “He was soaking wet. His lips were literally blue from the cold. And he just knelt there in the mud, holding you, saying, ‘Don’t be afraid, I’ve got you.’ Why would a total stranger do that for someone?” Her tone lightened, filled with that survivor’s reverence she always had when talking about my relationship. “He told us he understood you. He said he had been betrayed too, and that he was willing to spend his whole life helping you heal.” “Do you remember? You had withered away to nothing. You wouldn’t speak to anyone. But when he came over, you’d finally eat. We all thought he was a literal angel sent to save you. He chased you for three years. He respected your boundaries so much he barely even held your hand for the first year. We used to joke that maybe he had intimacy issues—but looking back, what kind of man has that much patience? A man who is truly, deeply in love with you.” Her eyes were bloodshot by the time she said the last word. I tilted my head up, looking toward the window, my face hidden beneath the thick lace. I let out a soft laugh. “He didn’t love me.” Gemma froze. “What did you say?” 4 My lips parted in a dry, humorless smile. “He only approached me to keep me out of the way, so his precious Lola could marry his brother in peace.” Gemma was completely derailed. “Wh… what does that mean?” I looked at her blurred silhouette through the veil. Suddenly, I felt utterly exhausted. There was no point in explaining it all now. Why ruin her day, too? All she saw was the Isaac who saved me. The Isaac who treated me like royalty. She didn’t know about the late-night phone calls he took in the driveway whenever the ‘widow’ was having a panic attack. She didn’t hear the way eight out of ten sentences out of his mouth ended with, “Lola has it so hard, Josie, please just be understanding.” She didn’t know that for every birthday, every anniversary, he insisted on taking Lola to lunch first, because she ‘needed the company’, before coming to celebrate with me. I should have woken up a long time ago. But I couldn’t let go. I couldn’t let go of the man who had pulled me out of the freezing water. “You… you always do this. You swallow everything and only tell me the good stuff. What’s going on?” Gemma’s voice was trembling now, her eyes locked onto me. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. The way Isaac treats his sister-in-law… it’s crossed the line into weird so many times.” “I used to ask you about it, and you’d always just brush it off. ‘It’s fine, she’s his family, he’s just being supportive.’ You seemed so okay with it, so I kept my mouth shut.” She sniffled, a sob catching in her throat. “But I kept track of it. I worried about it.” “Until the day he proposed to you. In the plaza below your office building. Hundreds of roses. When he yelled your name, his voice was literally cracking. I thought to myself, how could a man who looks at her like that not love her?” She forced a laugh, wiping her nose. “So I threw all those doubts away. Because today is the day my Josie finally gets her happily ever after.” Right on cue, a chorus of cheers and laughter erupted from the hallway. “The groom is here! The groom is here! Pay the toll!” Gemma’s eyes lit up instantly. She wiped the last of her tears away, a massive grin breaking across her face. “He’s here! Isaac is finally here!” “Okay, sit up straight, fix the veil, don’t let him see you yet—wait, is my makeup ruined?” I sat perfectly still, watching her flurry of movement through the lace. She was smiling. I was smiling, too. She was smiling because she thought Isaac had finally arrived. I was smiling because my groom had finally arrived. 5 The moment the door swung open, the smile vanished from Gemma’s face. The man who walked in was not Isaac. The other brides’ bridesmaids were still in the hallway, cheering and yelling things like, “Give us the envelopes!” and “Sing us a song!” They didn’t know Isaac; they just assumed the man walking into 302 was the groom assigned to this suite. But Gemma knew. Her head whipped back to look at me, her eyes immediately welling up again. The look on her face was a devastating cocktail of confusion, panic, and a dark, sinking realization that she had just put the pieces together. I reached out and gently squeezed her hand. It was as if she had been struck physically. The tears spilled over her eyelashes. She didn’t ask why. Maybe the sentence I had just spoken—”He only approached me so Lola could marry his brother”—finally clicked into place. Or maybe it was because the woman sitting beneath the heavy lace veil was so eerily calm. She understood. In an instant, she understood everything. Biting down hard on her lower lip, Gemma took a step back and gave a shaky wave to the man in the doorway. The man walked in. He didn’t say a word. He simply reached out, took my hand in his, and led me out the door. The hallway was eerily quiet now. All the other suites had been emptied out in a flurry of laughter and camera flashes. Only Room 302 remained, its bride walking silently away, her hand held by a complete stranger. When we reached the outdoor plaza, the fifty brides in their identical vintage lace veils were lined up in five perfect rows. The network host’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Alright! The final couple has taken their place! Fifty couples, all present and accounted for!” “It is time for the couples to take their vows—” Isaac, who had been whispering and laughing with Lola, heard the words ‘all present’ and frowned. “Wait,” he said sharply.

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Three years ago, the global outbreak of the “Dark Strain” plunged me, along with the rest of humanity, into permanent midnight. And then, this morning, I opened my eyes and the world was there again. It was nothing short of a miracle. My heart hammered against my ribs, wild and euphoric. I couldn’t wait to run downstairs and tell Dad. But as I sat up and looked around my bedroom, the breath completely left my lungs. My body went rigid. Across every single wall of my room, smeared in thick, frantic strokes of dark paint, was the exact same warning. The letters wrapped around me like a brand, screaming in silence: DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. — 1 The sheer joy in my chest curdled into a cold, heavy knot of confusion. Surely, this was a prank. But who could have crept into my room in the dead of night to paint all of this without making a sound? Mom and Dad? That was impossible. They were entirely blind, just like me. Before my mind could spiral further, Dad’s voice drifted up from the foot of the stairs. Warm. Familiar. “Breakfast is ready, kiddo!” I pushed the dread down. There was no time to overthink it. I scrambled out of bed and jogged out of my bedroom. The dining table was laden with all my favorites: a stack of golden buttermilk pancakes, crispy thick-cut bacon, scrambled eggs, and a steaming hazelnut latte. “Thanks, Dad,” I chirped. He reached out, his hand finding the top of my head with practiced, gentle precision, ruffling my hair before pressing my backpack into my arms. Over by the sofa, Mom was quietly zipping up her own tote bag for work. Everything was devastatingly normal. It had to be a sick joke. Maybe some kids from the neighborhood broke in? I shook my head, desperate to toss the absurd, terrifying thoughts away. “I’m heading out to campus, Dad.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the front door. I had just wrapped my fingers around the brass doorknob when a hand slipped over my shoulder. It was utterly soundless. “You forgot your cane, sweetie.” I forced out an awkward, breathless laugh. “Oh, right. Guess I’m just in a rush.” Dad pressed the collapsible white cane into my palm. His tone was breezy, almost conversational. “Your vision came back, didn’t it?” My pulse spiked. I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek, debating whether to tell the truth. But then Dad chuckled, tapping a finger against his own temple near his eyes. “I don’t know how it happened,” he said, smiling softly. “I woke up this morning, and the blindness was just… gone. I was actually going to suggest we skip school and go to the hospital to get checked out.” A massive wave of relief washed over me. “Wait, you can see?” I gasped. “Sure can.” Whatever the hell was written on my walls, it didn’t matter. Dad would never hurt me. The tension drained from my shoulders in a long, shaky exhale. “Oh my god, really? Dad, my sight came back too! Just this morning, I—” The smile froze on my face. A sudden, wet tearing sound echoed in the foyer. I looked down, my brain struggling to process the visual. The sharp metal tip of a mobility cane was buried deep in my abdomen. Blood, hot and shockingly red, poured over the white shaft, pooling onto the hardwood floor. My eyes tracked the length of the cane to the hands gripping the handle. Mom’s hands. My lips parted, but all that came out was a wet gasp. “Why…?” Dad was standing right in front of me, staring at my face. His eyes were entirely dead. He didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hands and shoved me backward with a brutal, mechanical force. There was a sickening thud as my body pitched backward down the porch steps. Then, a sharp, deafening crack. I felt the spine in my neck sever. A gurgling sound scraped up my throat. The blood pooled around my head, thick and warm. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My vision began to blur at the edges, tunneling into darkness. But in my final, fading second of consciousness, I looked up. Dad was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. The gentle, paternal warmth had completely melted off his face, leaving behind something utterly hollow. Something that wasn’t human at all. 2 I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was staring at the walls again. DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. My chest heaved as I sucked in greedy, panicked breaths. I looked around wildly. “What the hell…?” I yanked up the hem of my shirt, staring at my stomach. Smooth skin. No blood. No gaping hole. Had I… reset? Was it morning again? I sat in my familiar bed, surrounded by my familiar things, but a creeping, suffocating terror wrapped around my throat. What is happening? Downstairs, the voice rang out again. Cheerful. Warm. “Breakfast is ready, kiddo!” I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to breathe. Hiding up here wouldn’t do any good. If I stayed, they would eventually come up. I needed to take control of the narrative. I pasted a smile onto my face—or at least, what I hoped looked like one—and opened my bedroom door. I nearly screamed. Dad was standing inches from my door. Ramrod straight. Completely motionless. My heart stalled, but survival instinct kicked in. Without missing a beat, I unfolded my cane, tapping it rhythmically against the floorboards, acting exactly as I had for the last three years. I walked forward, pretending I couldn’t see the man blocking my path. He didn’t speak. He just turned, his footsteps falling perfectly in time with mine, trailing me down the hall. I sat at my usual spot at the dining table. Only then did Dad pull out his own cane, tapping it lightly against the kitchen tiles, fabricating the auditory illusion that he had just walked into the room. A cold sweat broke out across my spine. He can see. He can see perfectly fine. So why is he pretending to be blind? Has he been pretending for the last three years? I ate my pancakes in suffocating silence, using my peripheral vision to watch him. He looked exactly like my father. The same laugh lines, the same tiny mole near his left eye. But the way he sat was wrong. He didn’t eat. He didn’t blink. He just sat directly across from me, his dark pupils locked onto my face with a terrifying, predator-like stillness. My breath caught in my throat for a fraction of a second. Instantly, his hand shot across the table, pressing against my forehead. “You feel cold, sweetie. Didn’t sleep well?” I forced a weak chuckle. “Probably just kicked the blankets off. I’m fine.” His voice was dripping with fatherly concern, but his facial muscles were completely slack. It was like watching an animatronic doll. I forced myself to keep eating, meticulously mimicking the clumsy, cautious movements of a blind person. Halfway through my eggs, I purposely fumbled my fork, letting it clatter to the floor. I bent down to pick it up. As I did, I peeked through the space beneath the table toward the living room. Mom was on the sofa, methodically packing her bag. Normal. Ordinary. Except her head was turned at a sharp, unnatural angle. Her unblinking eyes were fixed dead on me. She was faking it too. The air in the room felt like it was turning to glass, fragile and sharp. I couldn’t keep this up. I was going to crack. I grabbed the fork, sat up, and kept my eyes fixed firmly on the empty space ahead of me. “I’m full, Dad. Gotta head to class.” I stood up quickly. “Hold on a second.” Dad moved with terrifying speed, stepping directly into my path. I froze, my muscles locking up. He knew. He had to know. Then, he let out a soft chuckle and slipped my travel mug into the side pocket of my backpack. “You forgot your coffee, kiddo.” I kept my chin down. I couldn’t let him see my eyes. He patted my head. “Alright. Dad’s off to work.” “Bye, Dad.” I intentionally fumbled with the straps of my backpack, buying time, waiting for him to leave first. The rhythmic tap-tap of his cane faded toward the front door. The latch clicked shut. I exhaled, the tension draining from my muscles. But then, the knob turned again. Without making a single sound, the door cracked open. Dad stepped back inside on the balls of his feet. He held his cane suspended an inch above the ground. Absolute, terrifying silence. He crept back into the living room, sat down on the sofa next to Mom, and together, they stared at me. Unmoving. — 3 A violent shudder ripped through me, my clothes instantly sticking to the icy sweat on my back. He didn’t go to work. Why was he back? I bit the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper, forcing myself not to process the horror. I gripped my cane—the one I’d made sure to grab this time—and tapped my way to the front door. As I walked out, I saw them rise from the sofa. They followed me. I walked down the sidewalk, tapping my cane, staring straight ahead, while my “parents” stalked me on their tiptoes just a few feet behind. It wasn’t until I crossed the iron gates of my boarding school campus that the suffocating weight of their stares finally vanished. When I slid into my seat in the lecture hall, I immediately scanned the room for Dustin. He was a few rows ahead of me, sitting rigid. The professor was droning on at the front, his eyes glazed and vacant. All the students around me had the same hollow, unseeing gaze. Everyone was blind. But Dustin was shifting in his seat. Twitching. The second the bell rang, Dustin grabbed my arm and dragged me into the boys’ restroom, shoving me into a stall and locking the door. His breathing was ragged. “Gemma, have you noticed anything weird?” My stomach plummeted, but I kept my face utterly blank. “What do you mean?” “My parents,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Something is really wrong with them.” I raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to keep going. He checked under the stall door, paranoid. Seeing him like this made my own hands curl into fists. Satisfied we were alone, he leaned in, his lips barely brushing my ear. “I can see. It came back this morning.” A shockwave hit my chest. I opened my mouth to say Me too, to tell him everything. But then the image of my own blood pooling on the hardwood flashed in my mind. DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. I swallowed the truth like broken glass. “Wait, really?” I faked a gasp of awe. “That’s amazing! I wish mine would come back. But what does that have to do with your parents acting weird?” Dustin looked terrified. He started rambling about his parents standing over his bed, about them tracking him with dead eyes. I murmured comforting words, validating his fear, but I locked my own secret tight behind my teeth. The warning bell rang. Dustin looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. A pang of guilt hit me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we were in the exact same boat and we needed to team up. Then, without warning, Dustin’s hand shot out, his index finger jabbing directly toward my left eye. Every instinct screamed at me to flinch. But the sheer, paralyzing terror of what my father had done to me overrode the reflex. I forced my eye to stay wide open, my face completely slack. His fingernail stopped less than a millimeter from my cornea. Dustin tilted his head. The panic on his face evaporated, replaced by a chilling, clinical emptiness. He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “I guess so,” he muttered, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “We should get back to class. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.” “Yeah,” I breathed. Cold sweat trickled down my temple. He had been testing me. If I had blinked, I’d probably be dead on the bathroom floor. I made the right choice. I couldn’t trust anyone. — 4 After the incident with Dustin, I existed in a state of hyper-vigilance. Everyone was a threat. I went through the motions. Classes. Lunch. Small talk. Heading back to the dorms. I played the perfect blind girl. My plan was to lay low for a few days, gather supplies, and figure out a way to run. But during afternoon cleaning duty in the library archives, I found something. A diary. It was shoved behind a loose baseboard. The cover was worn leather, with several frantic, red warning symbols etched into it. I frowned, tracing the cover. More importantly, it wasn’t written in Braille. Since the Great Blindness hit, almost all printed text had been converted to Braille. Traditional books were incinerated or recycled as scrap. Written words simply didn’t exist anymore. Who wrote this? Was it the same person who painted my walls? The other students were busy sweeping. No one was looking. I smoothly slid the book up my sleeve. I didn’t dare pull it out until I was back in my dorm room, safely hidden beneath my heavy comforter with a flashlight. — 5 The entries were a chaotic mess. The sentences were disjointed, punctuated by grotesque, scribbled illustrations. At first, my heart sank. It read like the fever dream of a terrified child. I risked so much to steal this, and it was just nonsense? But as I flipped the pages, a cold knot formed in my gut. March 7: Toby and I got our sight back a week ago. He didn’t believe the writing on the wall. He said it out loud… He’s gone. I looked everywhere. Mom and Dad keep dragging me from town to town. I don’t know what we’re running from. I’m so scared. April 1: He’s dead. Toby didn’t run away. He’s dead. His body was shoved in the… No wonder I couldn’t find him. April 7: Dad has Toby’s watch in his pocket. They killed him. But they loved him the most, didn’t they? April 15: They asked me today if I could see. I said no. It’s the only thing keeping me alive. I stopped reading, my breath shallow in the stale air under the blanket. Was this real? If it was, why were the dates marked 2036? That was ten years from now. And if the parents were on the run, why would they murder their own kid? The logic was completely fractured. I rubbed the goosebumps on my arms, the parallels to my own life sinking in. If telling the truth meant death, did I have to fake being blind forever? What if I slipped up? Would I get to respawn again? Something deep in my bones told me no. I only had one extra life. This was it. The later entries grew shorter. The handwriting was erratic, deeply panicked. Several pages had been entirely blacked out with heavy ink, masking whatever horror the author had witnessed. May 2: There are more people running now. We passed three groups on the highway. What are they so afraid of? Is something chasing them? I looked back. I saw it—[heavily blacked out]. I pray to God I never have to look at that thing ever again. May 10: I finally found others like me! It’s not just Toby and me. There are so many whose sight came back, and they’re all hiding. They’re hiding in the… I clawed at the pages, frantic. Hiding where? Who is chasing them? Why the hell did they ink out the location?! I carefully tore out the page with the heavily blacked-out illustration and held it up to the beam of my flashlight. The light barely pierced the ink, but I could make out the faint silhouette of… something. It was vaguely humanoid, but the proportions were horribly wrong. Was that a person? I flipped to the end. The remaining pages were ripped out. There was only one entry left on the inside back cover. If you are lucky enough to read this, RUN. Run right now. Do not hesitate. I shivered. Run? My eyes drifted to the very last line, scrawled in tiny letters at the bottom corner. I wish I had stayed blind. A profound, bone-deep chill swept through me. I pulled my knees to my chest. It might have been paranoia, but the hair on my arms stood up. I felt like I was being watched. I whipped the blanket down and scanned the dark dorm room. Empty. Just me and the moonlight filtering through the blinds. A hallucination. It had to be. Knock. Knock. Knock. I jumped, nearly dropping the flashlight. “Gemma?” It was the dorm mother’s voice, muffled through the heavy wood. “Pack your bags, sweetie. Your dad is here to take you home.” My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. Boarding school students only went home on weekends. Today was Monday. He knew. He figured it out. I looked back down at the diary. Run right now. If I got in that car with my “father,” I knew with absolute certainty that I would never see the sun again. “Okay! Just a second!” I called out, forcing my voice to sound tired and compliant. I shoved my wallet, the diary, and a water bottle into my backpack. I opened my window, slipped out onto the fire escape, and dropped quietly into the bushes below. The night was pitch black, a thick, suffocating overcast hiding the moon. Normally, running in the dark would be terrifying. But I had spent three years living without light. The darkness was my element. I sprinted toward the woods bordering the campus, heading for the county road. Suddenly, from the tree line behind me, I heard it. The crunch of dead leaves. The wet, frantic sound of heavy footsteps. Something was hunting me.

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The roar of the pier market was still ringing in my ears, but my mind was already made up. Tomorrow was the start of the Memorial Day weekend—the busiest three days of the year. I had gone out of my way to ensure these local vendors could maximize their profits, rerouting my own deep-sea fleet and cold-chain logistics to provide them with priority stock at near-wholesale prices. It was supposed to be a win-win. Then I stepped into the market today. I was just browsing, pointing a finger toward a sea bass in a tank to ask the price, when the vendor grabbed a heavy wooden club. With a sickening thud, he crushed the fish’s head right in front of me. Then he looked me dead in the eye and demanded a hundred dollars. I told him I hadn’t agreed to buy it. He didn’t blink. He slammed a blood-stained gutting knife into his cutting board, the blade quivering. He told me, “Market rules, city boy. You point, you buy. The fish is dead because you spooked it. Pay up.” I wasn’t in the mood for a scene. I turned my back and started walking away without giving him a cent. I hadn’t gone ten steps before my phone buzzed. It was a notification from the “Pier District Merchants” group chat—a group I monitored but never posted in. I clicked it open. There was my face, a candid photo taken seconds ago. “Got a live one at Stall 4. Just tagged a dead grouper for a hundred bucks. Boys, get out there and block the exits. No pay, no play. Drinks are on me tonight.” The replies flooded in immediately. “On it.” “Teach the tourist some manners.” “Rule of the docks, baby.” It seemed my charity had reached its expiration date. It was time to cut the cord. 1 I shoved my phone back into my pocket, not even glancing at the dead fish. I just kept walking toward the main exit. But I only made it two steps. Two heavy industrial carts were pushed out from the neighboring stalls, one from the left and one from the right. The aisle, already narrow and slick with melted ice and fish guts, was suddenly a dead end. The two vendors behind the carts leaned against them with practiced nonchalance, their faces twisted into mocking smirks. My phone buzzed twice more in my pocket. I didn’t need to look. The “boys” had arrived. Behind me, I heard the heavy, wet slap of footsteps. Big Mike, the owner of the fish stall, rounded his counter. He was carrying the sea bass by its tail, the head a mangled mess of scales and red pulp. He strode up behind me and dropped it at my feet with a wet thud. “Where you going, pal?” Big Mike crossed his meaty arms over his stained apron, looming over me. “You bought that fish the second you pointed at it.” He leaned in, smelling of old brine and cheap cigarettes. “You don’t pay that hundred, you aren’t just staying in the market—you aren’t leaving this street.” He paused, using the toe of his boot to nudge the carcass. He let out a dry, jagged laugh. “Actually, you just dropped this dead fish on my floor. That’s a mess. Call it another fifty for the cleaning fee. One-fifty, total. Venmo or CashApp. Now.” I looked down at the blood blooming across the toe of my shoe, then back at the mutilated fish. A wave of nausea hit me, but beneath it, the heat of my anger had crystallized into something cold and sharp. “I never said I wanted it. You killed a fish to force a sale,” I said, my voice leveled, meeting the eyes of the vendors circling me. “And now you’re blocking my path. Is this a market or a mugging?” A chorus of jagged laughter erupted around me. The lanky guy leaning on the left cart shook his head. “Mugging? Calm down, Senator. This is a ‘transactional dispute.’ You spooked the livestock. In this harbor, if you break it, you bought it.” The guy on the right chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Look at him. Suit probably cost more than my truck, and he’s crying over a hundred and fifty bucks. Just pay the man and go get your latte, man. Don’t be a cheapskate.” Big Mike stepped closer, his finger almost touching my nose. “I’ll tell you how it is. In this market, my word is the law. You call the cops? Go ahead. They’ll see a civil dispute over a dead fish and tell us to work it out. By the time they leave, I’ll make sure you’re leaving in an ambulance.” They worked together like a well-oiled machine. Every word was a calculated move in a game they’d played a thousand times, wrapping their thievery in the “tradition” of the docks. To them, I was just another nameless suit, a “mark” with deep pockets and no backbone. I looked at their ugly, greedy faces. Tomorrow was the holiday rush. Every shop on this street was expecting my fleet’s refrigerated trucks to roll in. I had always felt for the “little guy,” the ones waking up at 4 AM to haul crates. I’d kept the wholesale prices at rock bottom, even let them run tabs, just so they could keep their heads above water. I had been feeding a pack of wolves, and they had mistaken my kindness for weakness. I didn’t argue. I just pulled out my phone. “Fine,” I said quietly. “If we’re playing by market rules, let’s bring in the Market Director. Let’s check the cameras and see whose ‘rules’ carry more weight.” 2 It didn’t take long for the “authorities” to arrive. A few minutes after I called the complaint line, a man in a faded windbreaker with an official-looking lanyard pushed through the crowd. He was balding, with a gut that hung over his belt and a bored expression. Big Mike grinned the moment he saw him. “Director Halloway! Glad you’re here. This guy’s causing a scene, killed my fish, and now he’s trying to skip out on the bill.” I pointed to the high-definition security camera mounted directly above the stall. “Director, please check the footage. I was two feet away. I asked a price. I never touched the tank, let alone the fish.” Halloway didn’t even look up at the camera. He didn’t even look at me. “Cameras have been down for maintenance since Tuesday,” he muttered, his voice flat. “Line issues.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. How convenient. Halloway tucked his hands into his pockets, looked at the fish on the ground, and started in with a practiced, bureaucratic drone. “Look, son. Mr. Vancini has been a staple of this pier for fifteen years. Honest guy. These deep-sea fish are delicate. You start waving your hands around, you stress ’em out. If they flip, it’s on the person who caused the stress. That’s the code of the docks.” It was a masterpiece of gaslighting. This man was likely on my payroll indirectly—Voss Maritime paid a hefty “security and management” fee to the city for this district—and here he was, acting as the muscle for a shakedown. Just then, an older man in a stained chef’s coat pushed through the onlookers. He sighed, looking at me with a face full of weary disappointment. “Listen to him, kid,” the old man said, sounding like a concerned grandfather. “I’m a chef at the bistro around the corner. Sea bass are high-strung. One bad shock and their hearts give out. These vendors work twenty-hour days for pennies. You look like you’re doing well for yourself. Don’t be that guy. Don’t ruin a man’s day over a few bucks. Pay the man, and let’s all get back to work.” The crowd murmured in agreement. “Exactly. Look at his shoes—they cost more than my rent.” “Rich guys think they can just do whatever they want.” “Just pay him, you jerk.” The theater was flawless. They had their villain, their victim, and their moral compass. I was being cast as the heartless elite. Halloway saw me go quiet and took it as a sign of surrender. He pulled a crumpled citation book from his pocket and ripped off a yellow slip, flicking it toward my chest. “Enough talk,” Halloway said, his voice hardening. “Pay the one-fifty plus the cleaning fee. If you keep obstructing the flow of trade, I’m calling the pier security to hold you in the cold storage office until you cool off. And believe me, you don’t want to see the ‘processing fee’ for that.” 3 I watched Halloway’s thumb hovering over his walkie-talkie. Suddenly, my phone vibrated several times in quick succession. I made a show of opening my banking app, but I was actually looking at the group chat. The same people who were currently looking at me with righteous indignation were having a digital party. Halloway is a pro! ‘Maintenance’—I love it! Did you see Old Man Jenkins? Give that man an Oscar! The kid looks like he’s about to cry. Dotty, you’re up! Do the ‘good cop’ routine. Drain him dry before he leaves! The cynicism of it was almost impressive. They had turned extortion into a choreographed stage play. They were rotten to the core. The crowd parted again. A middle-aged woman in a red waterproof apron rushed in, looking breathless and frantic. “Oh, now, let’s be reasonable! Everyone just take a breath!” Dotty Higgins shoved Halloway’s hand away from the radio. As she did, I saw her hand slip something—a pack of cigarettes, maybe with something tucked inside—into Halloway’s pocket. She turned to me, her eyes wide and full of “kindness.” “Sweetheart, you’re not from around here, are you? Listen to Dotty. Don’t let this escalate. Going to the security office… that’s a nightmare you don’t want. These boys have tempers, but they’re good people.” She sighed, the picture of a tragic peacemaker. “Tell you what. I’ll help you out. I’ll take that dead fish off your hands for fifty bucks—I can use it for fish cakes at my stall. You pay Mike the remaining hundred, and we all walk away friends. How does that sound?” The “passersby” immediately flipped the script. “See? There’s still some heart on this pier!” “You’re a saint, Dotty. Kid, you better thank her.” I looked at Dotty’s “honest” face. I turned off my screen. “Fine,” I said, nodding. I opened my Venmo and scanned Big Mike’s QR code. Payment Received: $150.00. I saw the flicker of greed in Mike’s eyes as the notification hit his phone. I was a “whale.” A sucker with an open wallet. Dotty’s eyes lit up. She grabbed my arm with surprising strength, pulling me toward the stall next door. “You’ve had a rough start, honey. Come on, let me get you a water. Relax a bit. Mike’s just stressed about the holiday. Tell you what, I’ve got some prime Dungeness crab today. I’ll give you a deal—wholesale price, just to make up for the trouble.” I looked at the crabs snapping in her tank. A thin, cold smile touched my lips. “Sure, Dotty. I’d love some crab.” I wanted to see how far they’d go. 4 Dotty moved with lightning speed, scooping two large crabs out of the water. “Look at these beauties! Best in the Atlantic. Usually fifty a pound, but for you? Thirty. You’re getting away with murder, honey!” She tossed them onto a digital scale. “Four pounds. That’s a hundred-twenty. I’m practically giving these away!” She reached for a black plastic bag. “Wait,” I said, reaching out to stop her. I picked one of the crabs up from the scale. It was heavy—unusually so. But I didn’t feel the weight of the meat. I felt the thick, heavy industrial rubber bands wrapped four, five times around each claw. They weren’t the standard thin bands. These were thick, water-logged strips of heavy-duty rubber. I grabbed the end of one and pulled. It uncoiled like a snake. I dropped the crab back into the tank and laid the wet, heavy pile of rubber on the scale. The red numbers flickered. “Half a pound of crab. Half a pound of rubber,” I said, looking Dotty dead in the eye. Her “kindly” face froze. “Is this the ‘wholesale’ deal, Dotty?” For one second, she looked panicked. Then, the mask shattered. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even try to explain. She sat down right on the wet floor and started screaming. “Help! Help! He’s attacking me! This big man is bullying a widow!” She started slapping her own thighs, her voice reaching a shrill, piercing pitch. “I put the bands on so he wouldn’t get bit! I was trying to protect him! He’s trying to steal from me! He’s trying to ruin my business!” It was the ultimate trump card. The damsel in distress. Predictably, the pack descended. Big Mike was back in my face instantly, and Halloway was already on his radio. “You piece of work!” Big Mike roared. “You think you can come here and harass women? You’re paying that hundred-twenty and you’re paying it now, or you’re leaving here in a box!” Halloway yelled into his mic: “Security to Stall 5! We’ve got a violent 10-34! Bring zip ties!” The other vendors joined in, their voices a cacophony of manufactured rage. “Scumbag!” “Think you’re better than us?” “Pay her!” I stood there, perfectly still, as the circle closed in. I took out my phone and dialed a number on speed dial. It picked up on the first ring. I looked at the screaming mob, my voice quiet but cutting through the noise like a blade. “This is Voss. Call the logistics lead and the warehouse managers. Now.” “Lock the trucks. Stop the offloading. Every Voss Maritime shipment scheduled for the Pier District is to be diverted to the downtown markets immediately.” “As of this second, this street is under a total supply embargo. Not a single fish moves into this market until I personally sign off on it.”

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The air in the suite was still heavy with the scent of expensive lilies and the lingering hum of the reception downstairs. It was my wedding night—the beginning of everything I had spent years dreaming of. But when I reached for my wife, she pulled away with a coldness that made my skin crawl. I thought she was just exhausted. The wedding had been a marathon of high-society expectations and forced smiles. I reached out again, trying to pull her into my arms, ready to make a joke to break the tension. “It’s actually pretty boring being with you,” she said. Her voice was flat, as if she were discussing the weather. She gestured toward the nightstand, where a box of condoms sat. My best friend, Dexter, had handed them to me earlier that day with a wink. “Before the ceremony, he and I were together all night,” Monica said, her tone light, almost conversational. “That box? It’s empty. We used them all.” The room seemed to tilt. I felt the blood drain from my face, but she wasn’t finished. “When I was late to the toasts? It wasn’t because I felt faint. We were in the dressing room for another round. That’s why my legs were shaking when I finally came out.” A small, reminiscent smile played on her lips. “To be honest, being with him is the only thing that makes me feel alive. He knows exactly how to handle a woman. He gave me a pleasure I didn’t know existed.” She looked at me then, her eyes sharp as glass. “Something you could never do.” Her words were like serrated blades carving through my chest. I stood there, frozen, my mouth opening and closing as my throat tightened, sealing off any sound. Monica sighed, a soft sound that held a hint of apology but far more relief. “Logan, I’ve said what I needed to say. Whether we keep this farce going or not… that’s up to you.” 1 I stared at her, listening to the casual cruelty of her voice. I forced every ounce of my remaining strength into three raspy words. “Why? Just… why?” Monica paused, her gaze drifting back to me with utter indifference. “Why what? Why did I sleep with him? Or why am I telling you now?” The silence that followed was suffocating. She let out a short, mocking scoff. “Logan, every time we tried, you always had an excuse. ‘Not in the mood,’ ‘Not feeling right.’ If you’re broken, is it really my fault for looking elsewhere? I wasn’t going to tell you—Dexter was worried about losing his ‘brother’—but three years is a long time to play pretend. Hiding every time we wanted to touch each other was getting exhausting.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “Three years?” Monica nodded, her expression thoughtful. Then, she let out a genuine laugh. “Yeah. Three years ago, at your parents’ funeral. After you passed out from crying so hard, we went into the room next door. It was the first time. We were so reckless I ruined my dress. You thought it was my period, remember? You spent the whole day taking care of me. You even hand-washed the silk, thinking you were being so sweet, not realizing you were scrubbing his fluids out of my skirt.” Seeing that malicious glint in her eyes, I reached my breaking point. I didn’t think; I just reacted. My hand swung out, and the crack of the slap echoed through the room. “Have you no shame, Monica? Have you no soul?” The despair felt like a black hole opening up inside me. It dragged me back to when I was eighteen. My father’s business had collapsed into a heap of debt and scandals. I watched him walk off the edge of a rooftop. I came home to find my mother being tormented by creditors—men who stripped her of her dignity until she, too, followed him into the abyss, dying right in front of me. I lost everything in a single night. The depression that followed wasn’t just sadness; it was a physical weight that crushed the life out of me. During those dark years, Monica and Dexter were my anchors. They were the ones who stayed. I worked three jobs, destroying my health to pay off the debts my father left behind. Every time I felt like I was slipping into the dark, Monica would hold me, whispering into my ear, “Don’t be afraid, Logan. You have me. I’m never leaving.” Even last night, she had called me, her voice trembling with what I thought was joy, calling me “husband” over and over. Remembering how raspy her voice had sounded on that call, the realization hit me like a physical blow. She wasn’t crying because she was happy to marry me. I was just the audience for their twisted foreplay. My stomach churned. I lurched off the bed, stumbling toward the bathroom, and began to retch violently. My strength evaporated. A shadow fell over me. Monica stood in the doorway, looking down at my trembling body. For the first time in years, she didn’t reach down to hold me. She just watched me, her face a mask of boredom. Finally, she pulled a tissue from the box and dropped it near my hand, like she was feeding a stray dog. “Clean yourself up. A grown man acting like this… it’s pathetic.” 2 The disdain in her voice acted like a trigger. I shoved the tissue away, my voice cracking. “Don’t touch me. We’re done, Monica. I want a divorce.” My vision swam with black spots. I scrambled toward the nightstand to find my medication, but my hands were shaking so violently that the bottle shattered against the floor, spilling pills everywhere. Monica chuckled, picking up a single pill and rolling it between her fingers. “Divorce?” she asked, her voice mocking. “Logan, look at yourself. You’re a wreck. Without me, without my family’s influence, you wouldn’t last a week in this city. You’d be back in the gutter where I found you.” Her eyes began to blur as my consciousness flickered. As I slipped into the dark, memories flashed like a frantic montage. The years of heavy medication just to keep my heart beating. The relatives who vanished the moment the money did. The funeral where no one showed up except for them. Monica, the spoiled rich girl who didn’t know how to boil water, had spent months learning to cook just to make sure I ate. When the medication made my hair fall out in clumps, she didn’t hesitate—she cut her own long, beautiful hair off to match me. And the last time I tried to end it all… when I stood on that window ledge… she had climbed out right next to me. “If you jump, Logan, I’m right behind you. I don’t want a world without you.” The sweetness of the past felt like poison in my veins. The image shifted—distorted. I saw them together, laughing at me. I bolted upright in a hospital bed, gasping for air. A muffled, rhythmic sound came from behind the thin curtain of the room’s partition. Groans. Whispers. I froze. I wasn’t dreaming. I forced myself out of bed, my legs like lead. I stood outside the heavy door of the private suite’s sitting area. The sounds from inside made the bile rise in my throat again. I pushed the door open and vomited right there on the polished floor. The room went silent. Dexter, fully dressed but with his shirt tucked in haphazardly, rushed over to help me. I looked up at him, my eyes bloodshot and stinging. I saw the marks on his neck, then looked past him at Monica, who was adjusting her skirt with a look of pure guilt. I swung. My fist connected with Dexter’s jaw, fueled by years of misplaced gratitude. “How could you?” I screamed. “You’re supposed to be my brother!” Before I could land another blow, I was shoved hard. I hit the floor, the world spinning. Monica was standing over Dexter, shielding him, her face contorted with rage. “What is wrong with you, Logan? Are you insane?” She frantically checked Dexter’s face for bruises. Dexter looked at me, then at her, his expression shifting to one of feigned regret. “Mo… you told him? I told you not to tell him.” He turned to me, his voice smooth and manipulative. “Logan, look, it was an accident. Just let me explain.” 3 “An accident?” I stared into Dexter’s eyes, searching for a shred of the friend I thought I knew. “Fucking my girlfriend at my parents’ funeral was an accident? Sleeping with my wife for three years was an accident? Monica said you were together all night—she was still on top of you while she was supposed to be changing for our wedding toast! Are you two really that desperate? That pathetic?” My words stung. Dexter’s face darkened. “Logan, we’ve been friends since we were kids. Don’t make this uglier than it has to be.” Monica let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Logan, watch your mouth. Don’t talk about ‘affairs.’ To be honest—” “Monica, don’t,” Dexter snapped, cutting her off. I looked at her, at the way she looked at him, and I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up. “Did I say something wrong? You two are the ones doing the dirty work, yet you want to keep your hands clean? I didn’t realize how truly disgusting you both were.” Monica snapped. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Disgusting? You want to talk about disgusting? Dexter and I might be a lot of things, but we aren’t so pathetic that we watched our own mother get ruined until she jumped off a building. You want to talk about ‘dirty’? Look in a mirror, Logan!” The world stopped. Dexter’s face went pale. He immediately grabbed her, covering her mouth. “Monica, shut up!” She realized what she’d said. She looked at me, at the way the light had completely vanished from my eyes, and a flicker of remorse crossed her face. She opened her mouth to apologize, but I didn’t give her the chance. I grabbed a heavy gift basket from the table—something Dexter had brought—and hurled it at them with every bit of strength I had. “GET OUT!” “Monica, watch out!” Dexter lunged in front of her. The wicker and glass shattered against him, slicing into his arms. “Dexter!” Monica screamed. Seeing the blood blooming through his shirt, her guilt vanished, replaced by a white-hot fury. She marched over and slapped me, hard. “You’re out of your mind! You know Dexter has a coagulation disorder! Are you trying to kill him?” Dexter held her back, playing the martyr. “Mo, it’s fine. I deserve it. He’s sick, don’t let him get to you.” His “noble” act made me look like the villain. It worked. Monica’s rage doubled. “Sick? He’s plenty strong when he’s attacking people! Why is it that everyone else gets better, but you just stay ‘sick’? You’re faking it, Logan. You just love the attention!” I stood there, paralyzed. Ever since I proposed to Monica, I thought I was cured. I thought I had finally found the light. I didn’t realize that to her, my survival was just a long, boring performance. “Ms. Thorne, Mr. Brooks is losing too much blood. He needs an immediate transfusion,” a doctor said, rushing in after hearing the commotion. “But he’s O-negative, and the hospital bank is low.” Monica didn’t hesitate. She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. “He’s the same blood type. Take it from him.” I tried to fight, but the Thorne family bodyguards were already there. They pinned me down and dragged me into a procedure room. A sedative hit my veins. My resistance died. Monica forgot one thing. Dexter had a clotting issue, yes. But after years of illness and malnutrition, I was severely anemic. By the time they were done, I was hovering on the edge of a blackout, unable to even lift my head. Monica never came back to my room. Instead, Dexter sent a flurry of “apology” texts in the middle of the night. I didn’t read them. I blocked his number. At dawn, I checked myself out. I limped to the city hall, the marriage certificate clutched in my hand. I couldn’t bear to be tied to her for another second. But when I handed the papers to the clerk, she looked at them, then at me, with a strange, pitying expression. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hunter. This certificate is a forgery.” I stared at her. “That’s impossible. We signed it three months ago. Monica Thorne. Look again.” The clerk sighed and pulled up the records on her screen. “Ms. Thorne is indeed married, sir. But her husband’s name isn’t Logan Hunter. It’s Dexter Brooks.” 4 I walked out of the government building, the useless piece of paper fluttering in my hand. I started to laugh, and the laughter turned into ragged, choking sobs. So that’s what she was going to say in the hospital. It wasn’t an affair. I wasn’t the husband being cheated on. I was the mistress. I was the side-show. I was the third wheel in my own life. I was wandering aimlessly when a black SUV screeched to a halt beside me. Two men jumped out and threw me into the back seat. Monica was there, her eyes red and swollen. “Logan! I told you to stay away from Dexter! Are you trying to destroy him?” She shoved her phone into my face. SCANDAL: Brooks Heir Caught in BDSM Affair at Funeral; Brooks Group Stock Plunges. The video on the screen was a grainy, hidden-camera shot. The background was unmistakable: it was the funeral home where my parents had been laid to rest three years ago. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Dexter’s father had a heart attack. The family had him whipped—he’s in the ICU right now! He worked for years to become the heir, and you ruined it in a second!” I stared at her, bewildered. I was so sick back then; I barely remembered the funeral. How could I have filmed anything? “You think I did this?” Monica’s fury spiked. “Who else would want to hurt him like this? You’ve pushed me too far, Logan.” She tapped her phone and sent a file. Then, she ordered the driver to the city center. “Dexter and I got married a year ago,” she said, her voice trembling with a cruel sort of triumph. “He’s my legal husband. Out of pity for you, he let you have the ‘wedding.’ He was willing to be the invisible man just so you wouldn’t break. And this is how you repay him?” “You like posting videos?” she hissed. “Fine. Let’s see how you like this one.” We pulled up to the tallest skyscraper in the city, the one with the massive LED screens. My heart stopped. On the giant screens, visible to thousands of commuters, a video began to play. It was my mother. The night of the bankruptcy. The men who had broken into our house were humiliating her, laughing as she begged for mercy. It was the deepest, most private trauma of my life. “Stop it,” I whispered. “Monica, stop it!” But she wasn’t done. The car sped toward the outskirts, toward the abandoned apartment building where my parents had jumped. Monica’s smile was demonic. “Since you love funerals so much, why don’t we visit them one last time?” Several of her family’s men were already on the roof. They were holding two ceramic urns. My parents’ ashes. “No! Stop! Please!” I tried to lunged out of the car, but the guards pinned me to the pavement. I watched, screaming, as they tilted the urns. A gray cloud of ash spilled into the wind, scattering over the trash and the dirty concrete of the alleyway. “Drag him up there,” Monica commanded. “Lock him in that building until Dexter wakes up. Let him think about what he’s done.” By the time they dragged me to the roof, the urns were empty. I fell to my knees, clawing at the dust and gravel, trying to find any trace of them, let alone a goodbye. I let out a sound that wasn’t human—a raw, broken howl of agony. In the car below, Monica’s assistant winced. “Ma’am… is this too much? He’s unstable. If he has an episode…” Monica scoffed, her eyes cold as she watched the building. “There are no ‘episodes.’ It’s just fake ash—I had the urns swapped. It’s a lesson. He needs to learn that for every action, there’s a consequence. Dexter is the victim here.” Her phone rang. It was the hospital. Dexter was awake. Without another look at the building, she ordered the driver to go. She spent the night by Dexter’s side, managing the PR crisis and ensuring the scandal was buried. Only when his vitals were stable did she finally relax. “The heat is off Dexter,” she told her assistant. “Call the guys at the apartment. Tell them to bring Logan here. He’s going to apologize to Dexter on his knees.” Just as the assistant reached for his phone, the hospital’s waiting room TV flashed an emergency bulletin. “Breaking News: A man has just jumped from the roof of the Willow Street Apartments. Witnesses say he was clutching two empty urns. The victim was pronounced dead at the scene. Viewer discretion is advised…”

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My best friend, Jackson, had been stood up by his bride-to-be, and there he was on his wedding day, tears streaming down his face, begging me for a favor I never thought I’d have to grant. My fiancée, Michelle, patted his shoulder with a confident smile, trying to soothe him. She told me they had grown up together, that their bond was thicker than blood, and that stepping in today was just a formality—a way to save face for his family. “Besides,” she’d laughed, her eyes bright and teasing, “we’re getting married next week anyway. Think of this as a dress rehearsal. We can get the jitters out of the way early.” Out of respect for our years of friendship, and despite the knot of unease tightening in my chest, I gritted my teeth and agreed. I had no idea that my fiancée, the woman who was supposed to be the maid of honor, would actually step into that white gown and become Jackson’s “bride.” At the altar, Michelle’s arm was hooked firmly through Jackson’s. The look in her eyes as she gazed at him wasn’t the look of a friend performing a favor; it was a raw, unshielded adoration I hadn’t seen in years. When the officiant asked if she would take him to be her husband, her “I do” was sharper, more certain than it had been when I’d proposed to her on a rainy night in October. I stood there, a glorified extra in my own life, telling myself it was just an act. Don’t be the jealous guy, Theo, I whispered to myself. It’s just a performance. The ceremony moved to the exchange of rings. Everything was going according to the script—until the officiant smiled and announced, “The groom may now kiss the bride.” The guests began to cheer and hoot. Jackson actually had the nerve to walk over and clap me on the shoulder first. “Don’t worry, Theo,” he whispered, a smug glint in his eye. “We’re just going to fake it. Camera angles, you know?” Like a fool, I believed him. But a second later, Michelle didn’t just lean in. she stood on her tiptoes, pulled Jackson down by his lapels, and lost herself in a deep, lingering French kiss right in front of everyone. … 1 The moment their lips met, the room erupted. It wasn’t a “stage kiss.” It wasn’t a peck on the cheek. It was a hungry, desperate entanglement of lips and tongues. I froze, the blood draining from my face until I felt as pale as the tablecloths. Beside me, one of the bridesmaids whispered, “Oh my god, are they still acting? That looks… really intense.” Intense. Yeah, that was one word for it. They looked like the only two people in the world. The applause thundered like a physical blow. Someone shouted, “One more!” Jackson finally pulled away, his face flushed as he glanced toward me. He looked like he was about to say something, but Michelle didn’t let him. She hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him back down for a second round. I looked down at my groomsman’s tuxedo, feeling the sheer absurdity of the situation. When the kiss finally ended, Jackson hurried over to me. “Theo, man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think she would—” He didn’t finish. Michelle grabbed his wrist, pulling him behind her as if she were protecting him from me. “Theo, it’s just a show,” she said, her voice ringing with a terrifyingly calm authority. “You’re the one who gave us the green light. Don’t take it out on Jackson.” She sounded so righteous, so logical, that for a split second, I felt like the one being unreasonable. Jackson chimed in, “Seriously, Theo. There’s nothing going on. Michelle loves you. You’re her world.” Her world? She knew how much this would hurt me, and yet she chose to devour another man’s mouth in a room full of our peers. I didn’t say a word. I threw the boutonniere I was holding onto the floor and turned, running out of the banquet hall into the biting afternoon air. In the past, Michelle would have chased after me. She would have apologized until she was blue in the face, begging for my forgiveness. But today, I stood in the cold for thirty minutes, smoking through two cigarettes, and she never came. Finally, I crushed the second butt under my shoe and walked back inside. As I passed the hallway leading to the bridal suite, I noticed the door was cracked open. A soft, rhythmic sound caught my ear. I stopped. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Through the gap in the door, I saw them. On the velvet sofa, Michelle and Jackson were a mess of limbs and white lace. Her gown was pushed up to her waist, her breath coming in jagged, rhythmic gasps. She let out a soft moan and playfully slapped his chest. “Jackson, are you crazy? What if Theo sees us?” Jackson didn’t flinch. He let out a low, dark chuckle. “Michelle, babe, we’ve been sneaking around for two years. If he was going to find out, he would’ve done it by now.” He gripped her hips, pinning her deeper into the cushions. “Besides, we just signed the papers. Is it a crime to sleep with my own wife?” Two years? Signed papers? I felt like I’d been plunged into a frozen lake. My lungs burned as I tried to draw air. Michelle didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I only signed those papers because of the baby, Jackson. I’m supposed to marry Theo next week, and I still haven’t figured out how to break it to him…” My fingernails bit into my palms, drawing blood. The baby. The pregnancy she’d announced three weeks ago—the one that had me crying tears of joy, the one that had me rushing to finalize our wedding plans. It wasn’t mine. Jackson leaned down, his voice dripping with a tenderness he’d never shown me. “We’ll just get a fake marriage certificate for the Theo wedding. He’s so gullible, he’ll never check the registry. Even after you marry him, you’ll still be mine…” “Careful,” Michelle whispered, her voice breathless. “Think about the baby.” “I’m being careful. I’ll be so gentle…” The sounds that followed—the wet, sickeningly intimate noises of a couple in love—made the world tilt on its axis. I stumbled back, leaning against the cold wallpaper, gasping for air. One was my best friend of ten years. The other was the woman I’d loved for five. The two people I trusted most in the world had been using the “best friend” label as a cloak for their filth. Eventually, they emerged from the room, hand in hand. When they saw me standing there, the blood drained from their faces. Jackson was the first to react. He rushed forward to grab my arm, but all I could see was the fresh, red hickey blooming on his neck. “Theo, look, I’m sorry,” Jackson stammered. “Michelle lost her head for a second, but I’ve already talked to her about it. I told her she needs to be more careful.” He glanced back at Michelle, a silent command in his eyes. “Tell him you’re sorry, Michelle.” Michelle stepped forward, putting on that sweet, pouty face she used whenever she wanted something. “Theo, honey, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to you.” I looked into her eyes. They were the same eyes that, just minutes ago, had been clouded with passion for a man who wasn’t me. I balled my fist, the rage finally overriding the shock. I swung at Jackson’s smug face, but Michelle was faster. She grabbed my wrist and shoved me back with a strength born of pure adrenaline. “Have you lost your mind?” she screamed. I didn’t fight back, terrified of hurting her—or the child I still, for some stupid reason, felt a protective instinct toward. I hit the wall hard, stars dancing in my vision. “Michelle,” I rasped, “is he just a friend? Tell me the truth.” 2 Panic flickered in Michelle’s eyes, but she smothered it instantly, replacing it with a look of offended confusion. “Are you seriously questioning me right now?” she snapped. “Jackson and I grew up together. Sometimes we get a little too comfortable, sure, but it’s not what you’re making it out to be. You’re being paranoid.” She wouldn’t admit it. Not even now. Looking back, the breadcrumbs were everywhere. I had just been too blind to follow the trail. Ever since I started dating Michelle, we were a trio. Everywhere we went, Jackson was there. She could never remember my birthday, but she always had a midnight surprise ready for his. I can’t eat spicy food—it triggers my ulcers—yet she always ordered the spiciest dishes on the menu because “Jackson loves the heat.” When Jackson felt a cold coming on, Michelle would tell him to take the day off work. When my stomach was cramping so hard I was curled on the floor, she told me to “tough it out” and reminded me not to be late for our board meeting. We had started our company together—the three of us. But after we went public, Jackson’s salary was mysteriously double mine. I’d complained. I’d been jealous. But Michelle always had the same answer: “Jackson has been in my life forever, Theo. He’s your brother. I can’t treat him like a stranger.” Brother? The way she looked at him wasn’t sisterly. It was the look of a woman who had found her home. Michelle told me to go home and “calm down,” practically shoving me into an Uber. But as soon as we reached my apartment, she didn’t get out. She kept the engine running. “Jackson’s bride leaving him really messed him up,” she said, not looking at me. “After that scene you just caused, he’s probably drinking himself into a hole. I’m going to go check on him for you.” She didn’t care about my state of mind. She didn’t care that my world had just collapsed. Her only concern was the man she’d just been tangled with on a locker room sofa. Once I was inside, I found myself pacing the living room like a caged animal. I stumbled upon a leather-bound journal tucked behind some cookbooks. Every page was a log of flights to London. Below the dates were her notes in cramped, neat handwriting. [Jackson moved to the London branch. I can’t breathe without him. I have to go.] [Three days in London. I told Theo it was a tech conference. In reality, I just needed to feel Jackson’s skin against mine.] I flipped to the entry from our three-year anniversary. My vision blurred with hot, angry tears. [I finally told him. I confessed. It turns out he’s loved me since we were kids. I can’t let him go. Jackson doesn’t want to lose Theo as a friend, though. He told me not to break up with him. I agreed. It hurts, but as long as I get to keep them both, I’ll play the part.] [We finally did it. Compared to Theo, my body just… responds to Jackson. He knows exactly how to touch me.] That night, on our anniversary, I had called her a dozen times. She’d declined every one. Finally, she’d sent a cold text: Busy. Stop bothering me. She wasn’t busy. She was busy sleeping with my best friend. I reached the last page. It was dated from three days ago. [Jackson tried to find some random girl to marry to keep up appearances. I told him no. He’s the father of my child. I won’t let him go. I’ll find a way.] Tucked into the back of the journal was a prenatal report. Under “Father’s Name,” the name Jackson Vane was printed in cold, black ink. I crumpled the paper, my fingers shaking. The day Michelle found out she was pregnant, she’d flown to London. She’d even given me time off work, telling me to “help Jackson with his wedding planning” while she “handled business.” She had orchestrated the “runaway bride” herself, just so she could have an excuse to stand at that altar with him. My phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Theo, honey! When are you and Michelle coming home? The whole family is waiting for the big day!” “Mom,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. “I’m not marrying Michelle.” Before she could protest, I added, “But don’t worry. The wedding is still happening. I’m just changing the bride.” 3 I spent the entire night reading that journal. Two years. Over a hundred flight stubs. Every single word was a testament to her devotion to Jackson. By sunrise, I was standing at Jackson’s front door. Michelle’s designer heels were in the entryway. The sound of light, melodic laughter drifted from the kitchen. Michelle, who had never cooked a meal for me in five years, was wearing an apron, stirring a pot of soup for him. Jackson wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. “You should probably go check on Theo. He’s definitely spiraling.” Michelle’s voice was cold, indifferent. “Why should I care if he’s sad? I’m the one who’s pregnant, and he hasn’t even asked how I’m feeling. He expects me to coddle him?” She sighed, leaning back into Jackson. “I don’t think I ever really loved him, Jackson. Not like this. Not in any way that matters. He’s just… less than you. In every way.” The words were a physical serration across my heart. Five years. I helped her build her company from a garage startup to a multi-million dollar IPO. And all it was worth to her was “less than.” The rage finally broke through. I didn’t think; I just moved. Before I knew it, my palm had connected with Michelle’s face. “It’s over, Michelle. I’m done. You two deserve each other.” Jackson jumped in front of her. “Theo, wait! You’re misunderstanding—” I threw the prenatal report and the journal into his face. “The baby is yours. You’re both disgusting. Why even pretend anymore?” Michelle slowly knelt to pick up the papers. When she looked up, her expression was terrifyingly calm. “So what, Theo? Our wedding is next week. If you bail now, how are you going to explain it to your parents? To the board? To the press?” Jackson looked down, his voice thick with fake guilt. “I’m sorry, Theo. I’ll take her to the clinic today. We’ll take care of it.” Michelle gripped his arm, glaring at me. “No! I’m not terminating this pregnancy.” She looked at me with pure venom. “Theo, let’s be honest. You’re the one with the ‘issues.’ It took us years and we never conceived. This baby is a miracle. You should be thanking Jackson.” She smirked. “I’ll play along for the wedding. It’s the least I can do. After all, with your reputation, who else would ever want you?” Jackson tried to cover her mouth, but the damage was done. I stood there, paralyzed. She had gone for the jugular. When I was nineteen, an ex-girlfriend of mine got pregnant. She was terrified, and the timing was all wrong. I did the “honorable” thing and went with her to the clinic. But when we got back to campus, the rumors started. People whispered that I was “unclean,” that I was a predator who got girls pregnant and then forced them into procedures. I was blacklisted, bullied, and spat on. I almost didn’t make it through those years. Jackson was the only one who stood by me. He was the one who pulled me back from the edge. And then he introduced me to Michelle. She claimed she never believed the rumors. She fought people who spoke ill of me. The day we went public with our relationship, the university was in an uproar. Why would the campus golden girl date a “tainted” loser like me? She had squeezed my hand and said, “Theo is the best man in the world. I want to give him everything.” I believed her. But now, the person who pulled me out of the abyss was the one kicking me back in. “Michelle,” I whispered, looking into her eyes. They used to be so warm. Now they were just glass. “You said you only believed in me. Was that all a lie?” She didn’t answer. Her silence was the loudest thing in the room. Jackson saw the look on my face—the look of a man who had nothing left to lose—and he panicked. “Theo, don’t listen to her, she’s just upset—” He reached out to grab my shoulder, and I shoved him away with every ounce of strength I had left. He tripped, his head slamming into the corner of the marble dining table. He collapsed, clutching his bleeding forehead, his face going ghostly white. Before I could even process what happened, a force slammed into me. Michelle shoved me against the table. A glass vase shattered under my weight. Shards of glass sliced into my palm, but I didn’t feel the pain. She rushed to Jackson, cradling his head, screaming at me. “If anything happens to him, Theo, I will destroy you! And don’t even think about the wedding. It’s off! You’re nothing without me!” She didn’t look back as she helped him out the door. I stayed there, kneeling in the mess of glass and blood. Michelle didn’t realize one thing. Even without her, the wedding was going to happen. 4 I flew back to the city that night. As soon as I landed, I sent a text to a number I hadn’t dialed in years: I’m back. Let’s get the license tomorrow. The reply came instantly: Okay. Michelle had dumped all the wedding planning on me months ago. She said she was too busy with “work,” and told me to make all the executive decisions. So, I did. I changed the name on the marriage license. The morning of the wedding, I was in my tuxedo, heading downstairs to the car. A black sedan was idling at the curb. Michelle stepped out, holding a bouquet of red roses. Her expression was softer than it had been, almost nervous. “Theo, look. About the other day… I was out of line. I’ll do whatever you want today. I’ll be the perfect bride, okay? Let’s just get through this.” Before I could speak, she added her terms. “But you have to promise me you won’t make things hard for Jackson. He’s still your best friend, even if we messed up. We can still be a family… the three of us.” She said it like she was doing me a favor. Like she was a queen granting a pardon. I just shook my head slowly. “No thanks, Michelle.” She assumed I was just being stubborn. She grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me toward the car. “Come on, Theo. Don’t be a child.” “Michelle, let go—” She didn’t listen. She signaled to her driver to help her force me into the back seat. I pounded on the window. “Michelle, what the hell are you doing? Let me out!” “Theo, it’s our wedding day! Do you really want to make a scene?” “You don’t understand, Michelle. The bride isn’t—” My words were cut off by the shrill ring of her phone. Jackson’s voice, panicked and weak, filled the car. “Michelle… I’ve been in a wreck. I don’t think I’m going to make it to the ceremony…” Michelle’s entire demeanor shifted. The color drained from her face. “I’m coming! Hang on!” She slammed the car into gear and pulled a jagged U-turn, flooring the accelerator. Rage and grief boiled in my throat. I hammered on the glass until my knuckles were raw and bloody. “Michelle, let me out! I have a wedding to get to!” She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. “Jackson might be dying and you’re worried about a party? The wedding is canceled, Theo! How can you be so cold-blooded when your best friend is hurt?” I stared at her, my voice rasping. “I don’t care if he’s dead or alive, Michelle.” She didn’t say another word. She just pushed the car faster. The speedometer hit 80, then 90. She took a sharp turn, and my head slammed against the window. Blood started to trickle down my forehead. She glanced at me, but she didn’t slow down. “I told you to sit still! Stop acting like a psycho!” The world was turning red as blood ran into my eye. The speedometer hit 110. Desperation is a powerful thing. It makes the impossible seem like the only option. “You aren’t going to let me out, are you?” I whispered. “Not until we see Jackson. And when we do, you’re going to apologize to him.” I took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. “Theo, what are you—” I didn’t give her time to finish. I threw the door open. The roar of the wind filled the cabin, whipping my suit jacket around. Michelle’s eyes went wide with pure terror. “Theo, don’t!” I jumped. For a second, I was weightless. Then, the world became a symphony of pain and screaming wind, followed by the distant, haunting sound of Michelle’s voice. “THEO!”

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It was only when the invisible hand of grief tightened around my heart that I realized the crushing weight of the ultrasound report I’d been trying so hard to ignore. My wife and daughter were famous for their icy temperaments—polished, professional, and emotionally distant. When the news of a third child arrived, I allowed myself to hope. I thought, finally, the frost in our home might thaw. During dinner, my daughter, Sophie, leaned over and whispered in my ear, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Dad, I’m going to have a little brother.” I looked at my wife, Isabelle, and her slightly rounded stomach. I suppressed the urge to grin, pretending I was hearing this “surprise” for the first time. I was ready to celebrate, ready to tell her how happy I was. But before I could speak, Isabelle’s voice cut through the air, cool and clinical. “The child isn’t yours.” She set her fork down with a delicate click. “The amniocentesis results came back yesterday. It’s a boy.” She added, with a nonchalance that made my blood run cold: “A younger man’s genes are simply superior. The child will be sharper, more resilient. It’s better for the family legacy.” The words felt like shards of ice driven into my chest. I sat there, paralyzed, my hand still hovering over my wine glass. The warm, domestic future I’d been picturing—the “happily ever after” I’d spent fifteen years building—was nothing more than a carefully constructed lie. … “Why?” I forced the word out, my voice cracking under the weight of a decade and a half of devotion. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Isabelle, the woman I had loved since we were penniless students, was casually announcing her infidelity over a steak dinner. She didn’t look away. She never did. “Six months ago, at that gala in the Hamptons. Someone spiked my drink. I ended up spending the night with a college kid.” “I took the morning-after pill, obviously,” she continued, a faint, almost predatory smile touching her lips. “But apparently, his constitution was too strong. I conceived anyway.” She looked at our daughter. “When Sophie heard it was a boy, she begged me to keep him. You have no idea how happy she was that day, Daniel.” Isabelle’s laugh was light, melodic. To me, it sounded like a funeral dirge. I turned to Sophie, expecting to see a shred of guilt or confusion on her face. Instead, she looked at me with the same detached calculation as her mother. “I’ve always wanted a brother,” Sophie said firmly. “I don’t care who the father is, as long as he’s Mom’s.” I felt a sickening vertigo. My wife, who I thought loved me more than life itself; my daughter, who I had raised with every ounce of my soul—how could they turn into strangers in a single heartbeat? Isabelle sighed, pulling a silk handkerchief from her pocket and offering it to me. “Don’t be dramatic, Dan. People in our circles… this happens. I thought you were more sophisticated than this.” “Don’t worry,” she added, as if she were discussing a business merger. “Once the baby is born, I’ll set the boy up with a trust and send him abroad. He won’t threaten your position in this house.” I shoved her hand away. Yesterday, I was the man everyone envied. The loyal husband to a titan of industry. The father to a child prodigy who was already being scouted by Ivy League recruiters. Today, the floor had dropped out from under me. “This isn’t real,” I whispered, rubbing my eyes until they burned. “This is some kind of sick joke.” Isabelle reached out, pinching my chin and forcing me to look at her as she wiped a stray tear from my cheek. “Enough, Daniel. Only a few close friends know. To the rest of the world, you’re still the father. You’ll always be my husband. I promise. Okay?” It felt like a slap. The fog in my brain suddenly cleared, replaced by a sharp, jagged reality. My gaze fell on the ultrasound photo—the tiny life that represented my utter humiliation. When Isabelle tried to pull me into a compensatory hug, I recoiled, shoving her back with a force that surprised us both. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me! You’re disgusting!” She held up her hands, stepping back with a frown. “Fine. I’ll give you space. Maybe Sophie can talk some sense into you?” Tears hit the back of my hand. I stood up so abruptly I sent my chair flying, then gripped the edge of the table and heaved. The expensive dinner, the crystal, the flowers—everything crashed to the floor. “I want a divorce,” I snarled. “I will not raise another man’s bastard. Not in a million years.” The room went deathly silent. The warmth vanished from Isabelle’s eyes, replaced by a terrifying, flinty hardness. Sophie looked at me with pure disappointment. “Dad, if you want a divorce, go ahead,” Sophie said. “But I’m staying with Mom. And if you walk out that door today, Uncle Tyler will be my new father by tomorrow.” The strength left my legs. I grabbed the edge of the sideboard to keep from collapsing. “Who? Who did you just say?” Tyler. Tyler Mathew. He was a student in my architecture seminar, a boy who had dropped out because his “girlfriend” got pregnant. I remembered the day he left; he’d been gloating, practically vibrating with excitement. I had tried to give him a fatherly lecture about finishing his degree, about responsibility. He had looked at me with such disdain. “Please, Professor,” he’d said. “My girl has more money than God. She can afford ten kids. I’m just going to let her take care of me.” I had felt sorry for him at the time. I never imagined the “girl” was my wife. My vision blurred with hot, angry tears. “Why… why did it have to be my student, Isabelle?” Isabelle rubbed her temples. “It wasn’t intentional. I went into the wrong suite that night. I didn’t realize who he was until I woke up.” She paused, her eyes roaming over my face with a cruel kind of hunger. “But I can’t say I regret it. The stamina of a twenty-year-old is… refreshing.” A roar started in my ears. I snapped. I grabbed a porcelain vase, a book, a heavy crystal decanter—anything within reach—and hurled them at her. I screamed until my throat was raw. Isabelle didn’t flinch, didn’t even move as things shattered around her. When I finally slumped against the wall, exhausted, she stepped over the wreckage. “Are we done with the tantrum now?” she asked, her voice weary. She reached out to touch my shoulder. “Get out!” I threw the last wine glass at her feet. The glass splintered, a stray shard slicing my own palm. Isabelle’s expression darkened. She grabbed my wrist, her grip like a vice, forcing me to hold still while she inspected the cut. “Since you’re so well-informed now,” she said, her tone conversational once more, “I’ve decided to move Tyler in. The doctor says the baby needs to be near his father for ‘bonding.’ While you’re taking care of me and Sophie, you can look after Tyler too.” I looked at her, horrified. “What… what did you just say?” Isabelle twisted her wedding ring, then reached up to pinch my cheek. “Be a good boy, Dan. Tyler moves in tonight. You’ll be looking after him for the next few months. I’ve already called the university and put you on a sabbatical. You won’t have to worry about work.” “You’re sick,” I spat, my voice a broken whisper. “You want me to serve your… your boy toy? Isabelle, have you lost your mind?” She chuckled, pressing a finger to my lips. “Shh. Lower your voice. You wouldn’t want your mother to hear about this, would you? She’s still in the cardiac unit. Stress is a silent killer for women her age.” The threat hit me like a physical blow. I went cold. “If you don’t play along, Daniel,” she whispered, her smile never reaching her eyes, “I can’t guarantee that someone won’t ‘accidentally’ mention my pregnancy and your impending divorce to her. Do you think her heart could handle that?” I shook with rage and helplessness. My mother. She had been the only one to support our marriage when Isabelle was a nobody with nothing but a dream. My mother had given Isabelle her first five thousand dollars to start her firm. My eyes welled up again, but Isabelle had lost her patience. She checked her Rolex and sighed. “Tyler will be here in five minutes. I’m giving you five minutes to pull yourself together and decide if you want your mother to live through the night.” My fists clenched and unclenched. Finally, defeated, I nodded. She gave me a peck on the cheek as a reward before heading to the front door to welcome him. Sophie pushed past me, her eyes bright with an excitement I hadn’t seen in years. She didn’t even look back at me. The door opened. My eyes met Tyler’s. He looked around the penthouse with the grin of a lottery winner, then looked at me, his former professor, with naked triumph. “Professor,” he smirked. “I look forward to our time together.” I didn’t say a word. Sophie walked over to him. “Dad, you need to move your things out of the master suite so Tyler can have it. You’re old; you can sleep in the guest room or the den. It doesn’t matter.” “Fine,” I said, my voice hollow. If my wife and daughter were gone, what did a room matter? Isabelle looked surprised. She expected more of a fight—the Daniel she knew never backed down. I ignored her and turned to leave. “Not so fast,” Isabelle said, her eyes narrowing. “Since you’re being so accommodating, why don’t you finish cleaning up this mess you made? Then go upstairs and pack your things properly. I want the room ready for Tyler in an hour.” Tyler stepped forward, grabbing my hand in a mock-friendly shake. “Thanks, Professor. I’m sure you’ll keep everything spotless for us.” He was treating me like a servant. And Isabelle and Sophie just stood there, watching. I wrenched my hand away. “There are cleaners for that. They’re professionals.” Isabelle’s voice dropped an octave, cold and dangerous. “Don’t test me, Daniel. You can walk out, but think about your mother. If you won’t do the work, maybe she’s healthy enough to come over and scrub the floors for me?” The air left my lungs. I turned and went into the master bedroom. I started throwing my clothes into a suitcase, but Sophie came in a moment later. She began grabbing my things—my books, my framed photos—and tossing them out into the hallway. Glass shattered. “You’re too slow, Dad,” she said. “Besides, all this stuff is old. It belongs in the trash anyway.” Isabelle walked in and tried to put a hand on my back, a hollow gesture of comfort. “Look, Dan. I’ve bought those beach properties in Malibu you liked. I’ll put them in your name. You love the ocean. You can spend your time there once the baby is born.” The hypocrisy made me want to vomit. I moved away from her touch. Once I cleared the room, I walked out, needing air. Thirty minutes later, a scream echoed from the master suite. Security guards—men I’d known for years—grabbed me and hauled me up to the second floor. Tyler was sitting on the edge of the bed, trembling. Isabelle was holding a long, wicked-looking sewing needle she’d found under the pillow. “Isabelle, I’m so scared,” Tyler whimpered. “That needle was right where I was going to lay my head. If it had hit my eye… if it had hit my heart… I might never have seen our baby.” Isabelle glared at me, her face contorted with disgust. “Daniel, how could you be so petty? So cruel?” “You’re a teacher, for God’s sake! Where is your dignity? I told you Tyler wasn’t a threat to you, and yet you try to kill him? Because I’m having his child? If you weren’t so useless in bed, I wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere to ‘seed’ the family!” The insults rained down on me, but I was too stunned to speak. I hadn’t put a needle there. Suddenly, Sophie lunged at me. Before I could react, a sharp pain exploded in my right wrist. She had grabbed the needle from Isabelle and jammed it into my arm. My hand went numb instantly. But she wasn’t done. She hit me, her small fists thumping against my chest. “Bad Daddy! Bad Daddy! You tried to hurt Tyler, so I’m hurting you back!” The physical pain was nothing compared to the sound of her voice. I had always worried Sophie was too mature, too much like her mother. I had prayed for her to show some emotion, to be a “real” child. I never imagined that the first time she’d throw a tantrum, it would be to defend a stranger against me. I looked at Isabelle, the last shred of my love for her dying in my eyes. “Do you honestly think I did this?” Isabelle didn’t answer. Tyler groaned. “Isabelle, my head… I feel dizzy. What if I’m dying? I can’t die before the baby is born.” Isabelle turned her back on me to comfort him. “This was your fault, Daniel. You deserved whatever Sophie did to you. Stop being a child.” She looked at my bleeding wrist with total indifference. “It’s a scratch. Fix it yourself.” “And don’t worry about your mother,” she added as she led Tyler toward the door. “The medical team is with her 24/7. She’s fine. Just… try to be better, Daniel.” They left. I sat on the floor, clutching my numb hand. “Sophie,” I croaked, reaching out. My daughter looked at me with pure loathing and shoved me away before running after them. I tumbled backward, my forehead cracking against the sharp corner of the coffee table. Blood began to pour down my face, stinging my eyes. “Sophie!” I screamed with the last of my strength. “Sophie, stop! If you walk out that door, you are no longer my daughter!” She paused. For a second, hope flared in my chest. “Call 911,” I whispered. “Please.” She turned, a mocking smirk on her face. “Fine. I don’t need a useless father anyway. I’ve wanted a brother forever, and you couldn’t do it. Tyler did it in one night. You’re pathetic.” She walked out. Eventually, it was the housekeeper who found me and called an ambulance. I woke up in the hospital to the sight of a sympathetic doctor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanley. You were brought in late. The wound on your forehead… it’s going to leave a significant scar. With cosmetic surgery later on, we might—” I shook my head. I didn’t care about the scar. The man I used to be was already dead. I fell back into a restless sleep, only to be awakened by a notification on my phone. An anonymous email. I opened it, and my heart stopped. Photos. Documents. The truth about Isabelle’s pregnancy. A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips. I reached for the phone to call Isabelle, to tell her exactly what kind of viper she’d invited into her bed, when the hospital’s internal line rang. “Mr. Stanley? You need to come to the ICU. Your mother… she’s crashing. This is it.” The world tilted. I ripped the IV out of my arm and sprinted toward the elevators, stumbling, my gown stained with blood. I found my mother in a hallway on a gurney. There was only one intern with her. “Where is everyone?” I grabbed the nurse’s shoulders. “Where are the doctors? Where is the surgical team?” “I don’t know!” the nurse cried. “The CEO’s husband had some kind of ’emergency’ upstairs, and she ordered the entire cardiac and trauma team to her private suite to check him.” My mind went blank. I dialed Isabelle’s number. I dialed ten times before someone picked up. It was Sophie. “What, Dad? Stop being annoying.” “Give the phone to your mother,” I gasped, my voice shaking. “Now!” “Mom’s busy,” Sophie snapped. “Tyler’s having his ultrasound and she’s holding his hand. Don’t call again.” She hung up. My mother’s breathing was becoming ragged, shallow. I called Isabelle’s assistant and screamed until he patched me through. “Daniel, what is it now?” Isabelle’s voice was full of disdain. “I’m in the middle of a procedure.” “Isabelle, please,” I sobbed into the phone. “My mother is dying. Send the doctors back down. Please. I’m begging you.” Isabelle let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Daniel, give it a rest. I’m pregnant with another man’s child, and this is how you react? Faking a medical emergency for your mother? You are truly pathetic. The team is exactly where I want them. Stop being jealous.” “Isabelle, I’m not lying! She’s dying! Please!” “Then let her die,” Isabelle said, her voice like steel. “Maybe then you’ll finally shut up.” Click. The line went dead. I watched the heart monitor flatline. I watched the nurse pull the white sheet over my mother’s face. I didn’t even have the strength to cry. Hours later, Isabelle called back. Her voice was light, almost cheerful. “How’s your mother? The medical team I sent should have her stabilized. I even had some specialists flown in from Germany.” “I’m willing to overlook your behavior today,” she continued. “It’s Sophie’s birthday dinner tonight. Come home. She wants you to bake that chocolate cake she likes.” I stared at the white sheet. “Okay,” I said. My voice was a ghost. I hung up and walked to a 24-hour print shop near the hospital. I printed every file from that email. I put them in a gift box. Then I called a courier. I handed him my black Amex. “Deliver this to Isabelle Stanley at the Pearl Room tonight. Make sure she opens it in front of everyone.” Isabelle, I hope that when you find out the truth, you can still stomach the child you’re carrying. At the gala, Tyler was preening, trying to play the part of the doting father-to-be. Sophie was looking around, impatient. “Where’s Dad? Why isn’t he here yet?” Isabelle checked her watch. “He’s probably still sulking. He’ll be here.” The courier arrived. Isabelle frowned, stepping back, but when she heard my name, she took the box. A faint, smug smile touched her lips. “He always makes such a fuss over a cake. Fine, I’ll forgive him this once—” She opened the box. Her face went ashen.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452018”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On our third wedding anniversary, he stayed at the hospital with his first love and only sent me a text message. “Serena’s depression relapsed. I won’t be coming home tonight.” No apology, no explanation. For three years, it had always been like this. For his first love, he trampled on my dignity again and again. She stole my aromatherapy formulas to launch her brand. She shattered my late professor’s legacy on the floor. When I asked him why, he frowned. “She needs this success to overcome her depression.” “Can’t you just behave and stop acting like a difficult woman?” My love for him had already died. I left the signed divorce agreement in the villa and flew to France. The sunlight in Provence was blinding. I picked up a male college student. He looked just like my deceased first love. His features, his outline, even the way he wore a white shirt was identical. I took him walking through the small town and kissed him right in front of Damian. Damian came chasing after me and knelt down, saying he’d get plastic surgery to look like Sebastian, begging me to stay. I laughed. “Damian, you’re not even qualified to be a substitute.”

Natalie’s POV On our third wedding anniversary, Damian stood me up. I sat in my aromatherapy boutique, staring at the French dinner on the table that had long gone cold, sitting motionless for a long time. My phone screen lit up. It was a brief message from Damian. “Serena’s depression relapsed. I’m at the hospital with her. I won’t be coming home tonight.” No apology, no explanation, just a matter-of-fact notification. I stared at those words for a few seconds, then pressed the lock button. I stood up and dumped the carefully prepared steak and red wine into the trash can without the slightest hesitation. A year ago, I might have called him in tears, demanding to know whose husband he really was, or even hysterically rushed to the hospital to try to win him back from Serena. But now, I couldn’t even be bothered to sigh. Because the death of a heart is a long and irreversible process. At two in the morning, the door lock of the villa clicked softly. Damian pushed the door open, bringing in a wave of cold air, and took off his coat that reeked of hospital disinfectant and some sickeningly sweet commercial perfume. I was familiar with that perfume smell. It was Serena’s favorite Sweet Bomb, cheap and pungent. As a professional aromatherapist, I was extremely sensitive to scents. In the past, I had fought with Damian countless times over this smell, only to be met with the man’s impatient rebuke. “Serena is sick. Can’t you stop being so unreasonable?” Now, when I smelled this scent, I only felt a wave of physical nausea rising in my stomach, but no longer had any desire to argue. “Why aren’t you asleep yet?” Seeing me sitting on the sofa, Damian frowned slightly, his tone carrying a hint of habitual wariness. He probably thought I was going to throw a tantrum again because he came home late. “I was waiting for you.” I stood up, walked to the table, and handed him a small bottle of sleep-aid essential oil I had just formulated. “You’ve been having serious insomnia lately. This is a new formula. Just put a few drops on your pillow.” Damian froze for a moment, clearly not expecting me to be so calm. He took the essential oil. “Serena was very emotionally unstable today. She kept holding onto my hand and wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t leave.” For once, he offered an explanation, seemingly making excuses for breaking our date. “Mm, I understand.” I responded coolly and turned toward the bedroom. “Get some rest early.” Damian stood there, gripping the bottle of oil, his frown deepening. Damian irritably tugged at his tie. Back in the bedroom, I was already lying down with my back to him. After showering, Damian lay on the other side. Between us was a distance that could fit an iceberg. He habitually applied the essential oil to his pillow. This was a scent I had custom-made exclusively for him, one of a kind in the entire world. Soothed by the fragrance, Damian quickly fell asleep. And I slowly opened my eyes in the darkness. Listening to the man’s steady breathing, I exhaled softly. I gently lifted the covers and got out of bed, walked to the study, and opened an encrypted folder at the bottom of a drawer. Inside lay a prepared Divorce Agreement. In the lower right corner, at the wife’s signature line, my name was already written neatly. There were thirty days left until I completely left. I took a deep breath and locked the drawer again. Damian, the debt I owed you for the past three years, I’ve already repaid with countless nights of companionship. From now on, we owe each other nothing.

Natalie’s POV The next morning, I prepared breakfast as usual. When Damian came downstairs, he looked more relaxed than the night before. He sat down at the dining table, picked up his coffee and took a sip, then spoke in a seemingly casual manner. “The water pipes burst in Serena’s apartment, and the landlord can’t fix them right away. She’s scared to stay in a hotel alone. It might trigger her depression. I told her she could stay in our guest room for a while.” His tone wasn’t asking. it was informing. Even as he said this, his body tensed slightly, bracing himself for my outburst. After all, no wife would accept having her husband’s “good friend” move into their home. However, I only paused in cutting the bread, looked at him for a second, then calmly nodded. “Okay, I understand. I’ll have the housekeeper prepare the guest room.” The knife and fork cutting Damian’s sausage suddenly halted, making a harsh scraping sound in the quiet dining room. He looked at me in disbelief. “You don’t mind?” Damian couldn’t help but ask, his brow furrowed tightly. I asked back: “If I minded, would you tell her not to come?” Damian choked, then said in a low voice: “Serena’s mental state is very fragile right now. As her friend, I can’t ignore her.” “So, since the result won’t change, what’s the point of me minding?” I smiled faintly. “The house has plenty of rooms. As long as she doesn’t mind.” That afternoon, Serena moved in with large and small pieces of luggage. She wore a pure white knit dress, her long hair draped softly over her shoulders, her eyes slightly red, looking pitiful and delicate. “Natalie, I’m sorry to intrude on you both.” Serena stood in the living room, nervously clutching the hem of her dress. “I promise, as soon as the apartment is fixed, I’ll move out immediately.” I watched her performance without responding. Seeing this, Damian immediately shielded Serena behind him, his tone carrying a hint of reproach. “Natalie, Serena is a guest. Show some courtesy.” How interesting. I hadn’t said anything, yet somehow my attitude was bad? “The guest room is on the second floor, first door on the left. The housekeeper has already changed the bedding.” Too lazy to deal with them, I turned to leave for my shop. “Wait!” Serena suddenly covered her nose, her brow furrowed tightly, looking very uncomfortable. “Damian, what’s that smell in this house? It’s so pungent. I’m getting dizzy and my chest feels tight…” Damian immediately supported her anxiously. “What’s wrong? Is your depression causing somatic symptoms again?” He turned to look around, his gaze landing on the diffuser operating in the corner of the living room. It was a top-grade neroli essential oil I had specially formulated to purify the air. “Natalie, get rid of all this aromatherapy nonsense!” Damian ordered sharply. “Don’t you know Serena is sensitive to scents?” I stopped in my tracks. That so-called “aromatherapy nonsense.” It came from precious raw materials I’d spent countless nights collecting from around the world. Once, Damian said he loved having this calming scent in the house. Now, because of Serena’s one word, “pungent,” it had become trash. “Fine.” I didn’t argue. I walked over and unplugged the diffuser directly. Not only that, I called the housekeeper and had all the aromatherapy equipment and essential oil bottles from the living room, hallway, and even Damian’s study packed into boxes. “What are you doing? I only said to remove the one in the living room. I didn’t tell you to take away the ones in my study too.” He said in a low voice. “Since we’re removing them, might as well do it thoroughly, so Miss Serena won’t feel dizzy from catching even a whiff.” I sealed the last box with tape. I removed the aromatherapy, and with it, the last trace of myself in this house. Damian opened his mouth to say something, but Serena timely leaned into his embrace, weakly calling out. “Damian, my head hurts so much…” Damian’s attention was instantly diverted. He immediately lifted Serena in his arms and carried her upstairs. I stood there, watching their intimate figures disappear, and couldn’t help but laugh. I took out my phone and called the real estate agent. “Mr. Wilson, my aromatherapy shop. You can put it on the market now. Yes, the sooner the better.”

Natalie’s POV A week later, the annual business gala was held at a five-star hotel in the city center. As the wife of the CEO of Harrison Group, I was supposed to accompany Damian. I wore a black evening gown with minimalist tailoring, my long hair pinned up, without any excessive embellishment. When Damian saw me, a flash of amazement crossed his eyes, but it was quickly concealed. We had just arrived at the banquet hall and hadn’t yet had a chance to greet several important business partners when a soft voice called from behind. “Damian…” I turned around to see Serena standing not far away in an extremely flamboyant pink strapless gown. Around her neck, she wore a dazzling pink diamond necklace. It was the piece Damian had purchased at auction last month for a high price. At the time, the media had widely reported that he spent so much money to give me a surprise for our anniversary. Turns out, the surprise went to Serena. “Why are you here?” Damian frowned and quickly walked over. “Didn’t I tell you to rest at home?” “Being alone at home was too stifling. I wanted to get some fresh air. A friend had an extra invitation, so I came.” Serena looked at him timidly, then glanced at me. “Natalie, you don’t mind, do you?” I didn’t spare her even a glance. “This is a public venue. What’s there for me to mind?” The gala officially began, and Damian was surrounded by a group of business tycoons offering toasts. Serena stayed close by his side the entire time, as if she were the rightful Mrs. Harrison. And Damian naturally blocked drinks for her, quietly reminding her to avoid cold beverages. Their intimate gestures drew whispers from the socialites and wealthy ladies around. “Mr. Harrison treats that Miss Serena so well. In contrast, Mrs. Harrison is left ignored.” “It’s a business marriage, after all. Where’s the real affection? She’s just a placeholder.” “I heard Mr. Harrison gave that pink diamond necklace to Miss Serena too. What a humiliating position for the wife.” These gossips floated into my ears without any attempt at discretion. In the past, I would have felt embarrassed, humiliated, even cried. But now, I simply picked up a glass of champagne and walked to the quiet terrace alone, enjoying the city’s night view. Just then, a voice with a heavy French accent spoke beside me. “Beautiful lady, you have a very special scent about you.” I turned to see a blonde, blue-eyed foreign man looking at me intently. I recognized him as the internationally renowned master perfumer, Laurent. “It’s vetiver mixed with cedar and just a touch of oud, isn’t it? This ratio is extremely bold, yet surprisingly harmonious, like a forest after a rainstorm.” Laurent didn’t hold back his praise. I smiled faintly and responded in fluent French. “You’re too kind. This is a personal fragrance I formulated myself. I call it Ashes.” “Ashes?” A flash of surprise crossed Laurent’s eyes. “A very fitting name. After everything burns away, what remains is the purest essence. Miss Natalie, your talent is astonishing. I’m currently setting up a perfume laboratory in Grasse, France. Would you be interested in joining my team?” This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the holy grail every perfumer dreamed of. Without the slightest hesitation, I smiled and extended my hand. “I’d be delighted.” Damian suddenly strode over, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me to his side, his eyes coldly sweeping over Laurent. “Sorry, my wife can’t hold her liquor. I need to take her away now.” Without regard for my struggles, he forcibly pulled me out of the banquet hall. “What are you doing? Let go!” He was gripping my wrist so hard it hurt. I snapped at him coldly. Damian shoved me against the corridor wall, hands planted on either side of me, his eyes dark. “Natalie, have you no shame? Flirting with another man on the terrace right in front of me?” I found this absurd. “We were discussing perfume, talking about work. Damian, do you think everyone is like you, with nothing but filthy thoughts in their head?” “Does talking about work require smiling so happily?” Damian said through gritted teeth. Just as we were at an impasse, a cry came from the end of the corridor. “Something’s wrong! Miss Serena has fainted!” Damian’s body stiffened. Almost reflexively, he released me and ran toward the voice. I leaned against the cold wall, watching the man’s unhesitating departure, and looked down at my reddened wrist. Damian, your possessiveness is disgustingly cheap.

Natalie’s POV Serena’s “fainting” was just a case of low blood sugar, yet Damian treated it like a crisis, not only rushing her to a private hospital overnight but also staying by her side for two whole days. I didn’t ask a single question, because I was busy handling the transfer of the aromatherapy shop. The shop had found a suitable buyer, and the price negotiations went smoothly. Today was my last time at the shop to pack my personal belongings. On the shelves were many rare essential oils and antique perfume bottles I had collected. The most precious was a small bottle of ultra-pure Bulgarian rose absolute. A legacy from my late professor. Worth a fortune. And more than that, my spiritual anchor. I carefully packed it into a shock-proof box. The wind chimes on the shop door suddenly rang. I looked up to see Serena, wearing sunglasses and a mask, walk in surrounded by a group of bodyguards. “Natalie, so you’re here.” Serena removed her sunglasses and surveyed the aromatherapy shop, a flash of undisguised jealousy in her eyes. “Can I help you?” I didn’t stop what I was doing, my tone indifferent. “Damian said he’s been having insomnia lately. I want to personally pick out a calming aromatherapy for him.” Serena walked to the shelf and casually picked up a bottle of essential oil to examine. “Natalie, you won’t mind me choosing something from your shop to give him, will you?” “Pick whatever you want. Pay at the counter when you’re done.” I didn’t even look up. Serena’s gaze scanned around the shop and finally landed on the exquisite shock-proof box beside me. “What’s this? It’s packaged so nicely, it must be something special, right?” Serena suddenly reached out and grabbed the box. “Don’t touch it!” I shouted sharply. But it was too late. Serena deliberately let it slip. “Oops,” she said, and the box crashed heavily onto the hard marble floor. The crisp sound of shattering glass was especially piercing in the quiet shop. The rich, pure scent of roses instantly permeated the air. It was my professor’s life’s work, my most treasured possession, now reduced to a sticky mess of shards on the floor. I froze in place, my mind blank for a moment. Looking at the fragments, my hands trembled uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Serena put on a panicked expression, her eyes instantly reddening. “Natalie, please don’t be angry. I’ll pay you back however much it costs…” Just then, Damian strode into the shop. As soon as he entered, he saw Serena with red-rimmed eyes standing to one side while I stared at the broken glass on the floor, the atmosphere tense. “What happened?” Damian pulled Serena into his arms, frowning. “Damian, I accidentally broke something of Natalie’s. She seems really angry…” Serena leaned into his embrace pitifully, tears falling on cue. Damian glanced at the glass shards on the floor and looked at me impatiently. “It’s just a perfume bottle. Serena didn’t do it on purpose. Do you really need to look like you want to kill someone?” I slowly raised my head, looking at this man I’d shared a bed with for three years. He didn’t even ask what she broke before rushing to take Serena’s side. “Just a perfume bottle?” I softly repeated his words. I didn’t scream hysterically, nor did I lunge at them like a shrew. I simply walked to the counter, took out an invoice, quickly wrote down a string of numbers, then walked up to Damian and slapped the invoice against his chest. “This is my professor’s rare legacy piece, with a market value of three million dollars, but to me, it’s priceless.” I said, “Since Serena says she’ll compensate, then please settle the bill for her, Mr. Harrison. Three million dollars. Not a penny less.” Damian froze. “Natalie, are you insane? How could something in this dump be worth three million? You’re extorting me!” Damian said through clenched teeth. “You can choose not to pay. I’ll call the police right now and check the security footage.” I held up my phone, unyielding. Damian looked at me, his chest heaving violently. He suddenly pulled out his checkbook, scrawled three million on it, and slammed it on the table. “Natalie, you’ve really fallen into the money pit! I was so wrong about you!” With that, he pulled Serena away and left the aromatherapy shop without looking back. I stood there, looking at the three-million-dollar check. I crouched down and picked up the glass shards soaked in essential oil with my bare hands, piece by piece. The sharp edges cut my fingers, blood mixing with the scent of roses dripping onto the floor. I didn’t cry. Because this three million was exactly enough to cover the admission fee for the Grasse laboratory. Damian, this debt between us. We’re even.

Natalie’s POV The shop transfer procedures were completed within three days. Watching the sign being taken down from the storefront, I felt little attachment. I cashed the check, transferred it to the French laboratory’s account, and booked a one-way ticket to Paris for two weeks later. Damian knew nothing about any of this. I heard he’d been busy helping Serena launch a new lifestyle brand, leaving early and returning late, rarely even coming home. Until one night, late, Damian returned to the villa. He irritably loosened his tie and pushed open the bedroom door. I was sitting at the desk, writing intently under a small lamp. Hearing the sound, I didn’t look up. Damian walked behind me, suppressing the anger in his heart, and said in a low voice. “I have a terrible headache. Go make me a bottle of that sleep-aid oil like before.” “There isn’t any.” My tone was flat, my pen never pausing. “If there isn’t any, then make some! You have all those materials in your shop. Can’t you even make one bottle of essential oil?” Damian’s tone grew heavier, carrying the commanding tone of someone in authority. I stopped writing and turned to look at him. “I’m out of materials, and the shop is closed. If Mr. Harrison is really having insomnia, you can go to the hospital for sleeping pills.” Damian froze, his brow instantly knotting into a tight frown. “The shop is closed? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?” “No need to.” I turned back and continued organizing my materials. Damian suddenly reached out and slammed my notebook shut, forcing me to look at him. “Natalie, what exactly are you throwing a tantrum about? Is it because Serena broke your thing, or because I haven’t been spending time with you? You weren’t like this before. Why have you become so unreasonable?” “Unreasonable?” I laughed lightly. “Damian, in your eyes, as long as I don’t go along with what you and Serena want, I’m being unreasonable, right?” He took a deep breath, trying to soften his tone. “Fine, I won’t argue with you. Serena’s brand is launching next week, but the signature fragrance she’s been working on isn’t quite right. You’re a professional. Tomorrow, bring out your formula book and help her adjust it. Consider it a favor to me.” I looked at him, feeling like I was watching an utterly absurd joke. He actually wanted me to hand over my life’s work to the woman who destroyed my professor’s legacy? “Impossible.” I refused flatly. “Natalie!” Damian’s patience completely ran out. “Can you stop being so selfish? Serena’s depression is just starting to improve. This brand is very important to her! You’re just sharing one formula. What’s the big deal?” “Since it’s no big deal, let her formulate it herself.” I stood up, looking directly into his angry eyes. “Damian, I’d rather destroy my work, throw it away, than let Serena use even a drop of it.” Damian laughed bitterly, his eyes cold. “Fine, very good. Natalie, don’t forget. When you opened that shabby shop, Harrison Group invested money too. If you won’t help, I’ll immediately withdraw the investment and make sure your shop can never open in this city again!” He thought this threat would be enough to make me comply. After all, that was my life’s work. I just looked at him calmly and smiled. “Do whatever you want.” After saying that, I walked past him straight into the bathroom. Damian stood frozen in place, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked. What he didn’t know was that the shop no longer belonged to me. The leverage he used to threaten me was nothing but a ridiculous empty shell.

Natalie’s POV A week later, Serena’s personal lifestyle brand “Serena’s Time” held a grand launch event at the city’s most luxurious hotel. Not only did Damian personally appear in support, but he also mobilized all of Harrison Group’s PR resources to promote it for her. The core highlight of the launch was a custom fragrance called “First Love.” When the big screen displayed the composition and the top, heart, and base notes of this fragrance, I clenched my fists. Cedar, white tea, mixed with an extremely minute amount of bitter orange leaf. This was the competition piece I had spent half a year preparing for the International Perfumery Competition. “Rebirth.” The formula ratios were precise to the milligram. Besides myself, only one other person could have accessed my formula book. I stood up, pushed through the crowd, and walked straight to the VIP lounge backstage. The moment I opened the door, Damian was bent down adjusting Serena’s dress, the two looking at each other with smiles, a painfully warm scene. Hearing the noise, Damian looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, his brow instinctively furrowing. “What are you doing here?” I ignored him, walked straight to the table, picked up the bottle of “First Love” fragrance being used as a display piece, and looked at Serena. “Where did you steal this formula from?” Serena’s face went pale. She immediately hid behind Damian, her voice trembling. “Natalie, what are you saying? I formulated this myself…” “You formulated it yourself?” I pressed forward step by step. “What’s the extraction temperature for bitter orange leaf? What’s the fusion ratio of white tea and cedar? Can you tell me?” “Enough!” Damian pushed me away and shielded the swaying Serena, shouting sharply. “Natalie, are you done with your madness!” I was pushed back two steps, my waist hitting the edge of the table, a sharp pain shooting through me. I stared straight at Damian. “You gave it to her, didn’t you? You went through my formula book.” Damian’s eyes flickered, but he quickly regained his cold, righteous composure. “So what if I did?” He admitted it, his tone even carrying a trace of condescending arrogance. “Serena’s brand urgently needs a blockbuster product to break into the market. Your formula was perfect for it. You’re so talented. You can just formulate another one for the competition. But Serena can’t. She needs this success to build confidence and overcome her depression.” A roar echoed in my ears. My world completely collapsed. The man before me was terrifyingly unfamiliar. In Damian’s eyes, my life’s work, my dreams, all those sleepless nights. They meant nothing next to Serena’s so-called “confidence.” My talent had become a cheap gift he used to please another woman. “Damian, that was my competition entry,” I said softly. “In the perfumery world, stealing someone’s formula can ruin your career.” “As long as you don’t say anything, no one will know.” Damian adjusted his cuffs dismissively. “As compensation, Harrison Group will transfer five million to your account. This matter ends here.” Five million. He bought out my life’s work, and with it, the last shred of my feelings for him. I didn’t cry or make a scene. I just quietly looked at Damian, for a long time. “Fine.” I nodded gently. I carefully placed the fragrance bottle on the table and turned toward the door. As my hand gripped the doorknob, I stopped but didn’t turn around. “Damian, the formula is yours to give. I wish you both eternal happiness.” The door closed softly. There were three days left until I left. The atmosphere in the villa became eerily quiet. I sat on the living room carpet, organizing several small cardboard boxes. “What are you packing?” Damian walked over. “Some old things I don’t need anymore. I’m planning to donate them.” I didn’t even look up, placing some old books into a box. Damian didn’t think much of it. He sat down beside me, pulled out a velvet jewelry box from his pocket, and placed it in front of me. “Open it and see.” His tone carried a hint of expectation. I stopped what I was doing and looked at the ring inside the box, sparkling with brilliant light from a pink diamond. Very beautiful, very expensive. But I only found it ironic. He shattered my life’s work, trampled on my dignity, then tried to buy me off with a stone. This was Damian’s love. “Thank you, it’s beautiful.” I didn’t refuse. I took the jewelry box and casually placed it on the table beside me without trying it on. Damian’s brow furrowed. He was getting irritated. “You don’t like it?” “I like it.” I gave a perfunctory response and continued organizing the box. Damian grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him, trying to kiss my lips. “Natalie, it’s been so long since we…” His voice was low and husky, carrying a hint of suggestion. I turned my head away, avoiding his touch. “I’m very tired today. I don’t want to.” My rejection was undisguised.Damian’s hand froze in mid-air, his expression instantly darkening. He stared at me for a long moment, then finally let out a cold laugh and stood up. “Fine, I won’t force you. Tomorrow is your birthday. I’ve reserved a table at the rooftop restaurant. Seven o’clock in the evening. Don’t be late.” With that, he turned and strode upstairs, his back radiating suppressed anger. I watched him go, my gaze returning to the cardboard box filled with “old items.” Inside wasn’t old books at all, but everything Damian had given me over the past three years. Including the wedding album that had been flipped through countless times. I tossed the pink diamond jewelry box in as well and sealed it with tape. Tomorrow was my birthday, and also the day I flew to Paris. Damian, you’re destined to wait in vain for this birthday dinner. The next day, at the international airport departure hall. I sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking at my phone screen. I calmly powered it off, removed the SIM card, and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “Attention passengers traveling to Paris, flight AF112 is now boarding…” A gentle female voice came through the speakers. I stood up and pulled my single small suitcase. Without looking back at this city I’d lived in for three years, I strode toward the boarding gate.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “407140”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I grew up with Muniz, but I’ve always maintained boundaries. Every time he got into a relationship, I’d cut off contact on my own. On his twenty-seventh birthday, he suddenly said to me, “Tucker, why don’t we just settle for each other? I’m serious.” It was the first time Muniz crossed the line and reached out his hand to me. I looked at him and thought for a few seconds. “Muniz, if we become a couple and then break up, I won’t be friends with you anymore.” He laughed carelessly. “We won’t break up. I can’t bear to lose you.” So I took his outstretched hand. This “settling” lasted three years. At the engagement party, Muniz was hiding on the balcony with a friend, smoking. “Muniz, back then you were afraid your grandfather would go after Scott, so you asked Tucker to be a cover for her. But from what I saw today, Tucker seems genuinely sincere.” “Don’t tell me you never told Tucker this was all an act?” The hazy smoke obscured Muniz’s face. His voice was cold and calm. “I was too rushed that day. I forgot.” My footsteps stopped at the corner. I was still holding the cold medicine I’d brought for Muniz. Ramon’s voice shot up in shock. He cursed Muniz, calling him a bastard, then leaned in to ask more. “So what’s the situation between you and Tucker now? Real marriage or fake marriage?” “I saw Scott post on Ins yesterday—you spent the night before your engagement at her place.” Muniz laughed. “Scott is my girlfriend, of course.” “As for Tucker, she’s just a marriage alliance partner. What’s the difference between real or fake marriage?” “I could tell ages ago that she likes me. Giving her a happy marriage and a title isn’t exactly treating her badly.” The glass in my hand burned so hot it hurt my palm. I looked down awkwardly and realized the cold medicine I’d brought for Muniz had already melted in my hand. Even hotter was my face—the humiliation of having my secret crush exposed and mocked. “You know what? Tucker is actually pretty stupid. I’ve been playing the field for years. Who holds hands with a marriage alliance partner and gets breathless and can’t make eye contact?” “She always pretends to be cool and indifferent, but she’s actually super patient and really indulgent with me.” Muniz coughed softly twice, then bragged. “Two days before the engagement, I lied and told her I had an emergency business trip. She didn’t even suspect me. She even helped me pack.” “Last night, Scott and I got a little wild by the window. When I came home at dawn with a headache, the medicine at home had expired.” “She went out in the middle of the night in her pajamas with a down jacket over them to buy medicine, then coaxed me into taking it before going to sleep.” “Every half hour or so, she’d get up to feel my forehead, afraid I’d get a fever.” “She probably doesn’t even know how much she likes me.” Ramon hissed through his teeth. “Muniz, Tucker’s been so good to you all these years. You’re telling me you’re not even a little bit moved?” I stood outside the door feeling like a joke, my eyes stinging uncontrollably. But I still didn’t leave. I wanted to hear Muniz’s answer. Muniz didn’t hesitate for a second. His tone was mocking. “What a stupid question. Of course I don’t like her.” “Tucker and I have known each other for thirty years. If we were going to be together, we would’ve gotten together ages ago. Why would I wait until I was twenty-seven?” “I like the wild but innocent type. She’s cold and hard—completely doesn’t fit my dating criteria.” “Love is about that instant spark. I don’t believe in growing feelings over time. Even if another thirty years passed, I still wouldn’t like her.” He took another deep drag, completely self-righteous. “But Tucker is my friend for life. She’ll be my family in the future. Even if I don’t love her, I definitely won’t treat her badly.” “I want both her and Scott.” My heart ached, yet I couldn’t help wanting to laugh. What did Muniz think I was—some object for him to pick up and put down at will? Take it when he wants it, toss it aside when he doesn’t. How pathetic must I be for him to think that marrying me was some kind of favor to me? On the rooftop, Ramon sighed and patted Muniz’s shoulder. “Let’s go, Muniz. The party’s about to start.” “Scott’s pretending to be my cousin tonight, right?” I turned and went downstairs first, rushing into the bathroom to dry heave. Tears fell faster than I could wipe them, ruining my carefully applied makeup. All these years of feelings were like a rancid swamp that suddenly submerged me, making me feel suffocated and disgusted. My phone kept dinging with group messages. [Engagement party! Where are our bride and groom?] [Muniz and I will be right there. My cousin is coming tonight too.] [Since when do you have a cousin? Where’s Tucker? Not a peep from her.] I found an empty room, washed my face clean, and reapplied light makeup. All these years, every time Muniz got into a relationship, I’d cut off contact. I wanted to see what Muniz’s sweetheart actually looked like. I used a cotton swab to wipe away tears that had fallen from the corner of my eye without me noticing, to keep from ruining my foundation. Muniz probably thought that when I said we wouldn’t be friends after breaking up, I was joking with him. But I, Tucker, have never lacked friends. And I don’t want to keep company with someone who doesn’t love me anymore.

“Tucker, what took you so long?” As soon as I sat down, Muniz started whining and acting cute with me. “I haven’t taken my medicine tonight yet. My cough seems even worse.” He blinked his eyes and nuzzled his face against my shoulder. Not a trace of the cold, unfeeling person from the rooftop moments ago. Friends nearby started teasing. “What are you doing! Take your PDA outside!” “These two are disgustingly clingy all day! If I didn’t think they were perfect for each other—and couldn’t beat them up—I would’ve kicked them out of the group chat ages ago!” “This is what we call true love prevailing! Childhood sweethearts, a match made in heaven!” “Muniz fooled around for twenty-some years and now he’s totally whipped by our Tucker. Makes even me believe in love.” The sticky residue from the melted pill coating still lingered on my palm. Suppressing my disgust, I smiled faintly. I leaned forward slightly to reach for the sparkling wine at the corner of the table, also avoiding Muniz. “Where’s Ramon?” Muniz was about to lean in again, but when he heard me ask about Ramon, he froze. “He went to pick up a friend! Oh, there they are now.” Ramon and a thin girl in a white dress sat down one after the other, keeping half a meter between them. “You’re one lucky guy. Your friend is so pretty—why don’t you introduce her to us?” A friend joked. Ramon glanced at Muniz awkwardly and replied. “This is my friend, Scott.” Amid the lively laughter, I looked at Scott, and she looked at Muniz with glistening eyes. The person who had been constantly sidling up to me moments ago now subtly pulled away, leaning against the sofa beside him. That dull pain surged up again. No matter how hard I tried to control it, I couldn’t suppress the sadness and anger rising in my heart. Scott hadn’t learned to restrain herself. Or maybe, as the one being loved, she had the right to be arrogant. Her gaze lingered on Muniz almost brazenly. My friend Barbara noticed I was unhappy and laughed directly. “Scott, the guy you’re staring at is off-limits. He’s about to get married.” Scott’s face immediately turned red. She looked away, laughing somewhat awkwardly. “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.” Muniz still had a smile on his face, but his tone was sharp as he defended her. “Barbara, you like to play around, but not everyone is like you.” Barbara’s temper flared. She stood up to smack Muniz. I held her back and smiled at Muniz. “You talk like you’re so faithful. Barbara has never two-timed anyone.” Muniz froze. He instinctively avoided my gaze, then forced a calm smile. “I haven’t either. Why are you getting mad at me?” Seeing my obviously unhappy face, Muniz picked up a drink and downed it. “I spoke wrong. I apologize to Barbara. Let’s move on.” Amid everyone’s laughter and conversation, I saw Scott looking at Muniz with eyes full of heartache. As if I were some terrible villain tormenting this poor little couple. “Alright, alright, let’s play a game. How about spin the bottle photo album?” Ramon stepped in to smooth things over. “If you’ve got anything you can’t show, hide it now. Don’t scare everyone.” “I’ll pick a date first.” “May 17, 2023!” Everyone pulled out their phones. Whoever the bottle pointed to had to open their photo album to the corresponding date and show everyone what they did that day. The bottle’s mouth stopped right in front of me on the first spin. My phone screen was shared to the big screen. Ocean waves, beach, candlelit dinner, and a screenshot of a delivery locker number. “That’s from your birthday that year! You two went to the beach together for vacation!” Barbara teased, pushing my shoulder and lowering her voice. “I even asked you if sleeping with a man felt amazing.” I smiled at Barbara. What was once beautiful now tasted only bitter. A sharp-eyed friend pointed at the screen and asked Muniz. “You two ordered delivery at 2 AM?” “What kind of delivery, Muniz? Don’t tell me it was condoms!” All our friends burst into laughter. Muniz, who usually played along, couldn’t laugh this time. He looked at Scott, whose face had gone pale. “No, just some cold medicine. Don’t talk nonsense.” Malice suddenly surged from my heart. “Wasn’t buying medicine that day because you hurt me?” I smiled gently, tearing open my own wound just to disgust them. “You were too rough. I don’t know what you were so excited about. That dress was expensive—I’d only worn it once.” “Muniz, you acted like you’d never slept with anyone before. Your technique was terrible.” “Did the Scotts you liked before never let you touch them?” Amid everyone’s teasing and joking, I saw Scott bow her head and wipe away tears. I saw Muniz looking displeased yet forcibly holding back his frustration. I was clearly laughing from the satisfaction, yet my chest felt so stuffy and my nose so sore. “Next one!” Ramon wiped the sweat from his forehead and spun the bottle again. The mouth pointed at Scott. She forced a fragile smile. “There’s nothing interesting in my album.” Barbara looked at me, then at her, frowning perceptively. “Scott, if you can’t handle the game, don’t join in.” Muniz frowned. Before he could speak, I grabbed his hand first. I leaned close to his face, tinged with anger. From the side, it probably looked like we were kissing. “I’m a little hungry. Can you go order some food for me?” Muniz paused for a few seconds, then stood up and went to the private room attendant to get the iPad for ordering. “I can handle it.” I knew Scott had seen my interaction with him. I heard the gritted teeth in her voice. She glared at me through tears. This was the first time tonight she made eye contact with me, with desperate determination and unconcealed hatred. Her phone was projected onto the big screen. The first image was a chat screenshot. A nosy friend read aloud. “Did you sleep with her? You said it was just a marriage alliance. You promised me you wouldn’t touch her!” “But I was thinking about you the whole time, Scott.”

“I want fries, Tucker!” A friend calling me to order ended on the same note as the last line in the chat. The atmosphere in the private room suddenly went quiet for a few seconds. I finished ordering and handed it to the attendant. I put my trembling hands under the table and smiled. “What a coincidence.” “But from what I’m hearing, Miss Scott sounds like a mistress.” “Tucker!” Muniz suddenly called out. Meeting my calm eyes, he forced an ugly smile. “Tucker, don’t talk to others so rudely.” Before I could answer, Scott suddenly raised her voice. “I’m not a mistress.” She looked at Muniz, full of defiance. “My boyfriend and I are each other’s first love. We gave each other our first kisses, our first times.” “It’s just that his family is too stubborn and won’t approve of us being together. Otherwise we wouldn’t have separated!” “He and his girlfriend are just in an open marriage alliance. His girlfriend has a one-sided crush on him. His parents forced them together.” Scott vented her emotions freely, swiping through screens. “The day before May 17, we celebrated his birthday together.” “His flight was at 11 PM, but he dragged it out until 9 before heading to the airport. He almost missed his flight.” “Before leaving, he bought me flowers. We ate cake together and made love for a long time.” “This is the birthday gift he gave me. I just looked at it once on his phone, and he took a photo and gave it to me.” It was a brilliant aquamarine ring. “He said he’d only ever buy a ring for me in this lifetime.” I was somewhat stunned. I was at that auction too. I also wanted that ring, but some stranger bid on it directly. Muniz consoled me at the time, saying he’d buy me an even more beautiful one. But now we were already engaged. I touched my bare fingers and suddenly realized Muniz had never bought me a ring. Scott scrolled back to the 17th. I saw in the sliding screenshots. Even though he was by my side, Muniz had been sweet-talking her from morning till night. Those beautiful sceneries—she had a share of them too. Beautiful travel jewelry—Muniz had them all noted in his memos, saying the packages were on the way. And there was a photo of a cake. In the shadow, I saw my own clothes and half my chin. I saw myself with hands clasped together, eyes closed, making a wish to always be with the person I loved. At that moment, he was beside me, typing to Scott. “This cake is delicious. I’ll buy it for you to try next time.”

So disgusting. I pressed down on Barbara’s leg. From the moment she saw that photo, she’d grabbed the wine bottle. “Tucker, that’s… that’s!” “Don’t rush.” I smiled at Barbara. Her eyes were flashing with tears from anger as she cursed incoherently about idiots and bitches. The atmosphere in the private room suddenly fell into suffocating silence. “Is Miss Scott finished? Then next round.” I calmly spun the bottle on the table again. “I want to choose April 2, 2025.” “Want to play together?” Muniz lost his composure for the first time tonight. He suddenly put his arm around my shoulder. “Tucker, my head hurts a bit.” “I just remembered I took antibiotics tonight. I can’t drink.” “Let’s go to the hospital, okay?” I removed his hand bit by bit and smiled. “No.” I opened my phone first. The screen showed the pale walls of a hospital room. Post-miscarriage care instructions photos. Medical advice in my notes. A chat screenshot I’d sent to my mom. [The doctor said I might never be able to have children again.] [Mom, they still haven’t found the hit-and-run driver.] [Let’s postpone the marriage registration.] April 2, 2025, was the fifth day after the accident. On the day Muniz and I were supposed to register our marriage. A woman suddenly rushed in front of our car. There was still some distance—emergency braking could have worked. Muniz had even raced cars before. But he was so nervous at that moment that he jerked the steering wheel hard. The entire passenger side crashed into the guardrail beside us. The child who had just begun to have a heartbeat was gone. I was severely injured and lay in the ICU for three days. When I woke up, I saw Muniz kneeling by the hospital bed, having lost a lot of weight. He said he could do without children, but no matter what, he had to spend this lifetime with me. “Let’s not look anymore, Tucker.” At this moment, Muniz gripped my hand, his eyes full of undisguised panic. “I really don’t feel well. Let’s go, okay?” Scott hesitantly tried to put away her phone, but Barbara snatched it first. She viciously scrolled to that day. It was a photo of Scott posing in lingerie in front of a mirror. And a video with a shaky camera pointed at a messy, filthy floor. Amid chaotic panting, I heard Scott crying. “Didn’t you say you hated me, that you never wanted to see me again for the rest of your life? Why did you come?” She was pressed down and kissed. “I really want to destroy you!” The man gritted his teeth, then comforted her in a hoarse voice. “Scott, that was my child. Do you know she might never be able to get pregnant again?” “I can give birth for you!” Scott’s voice sounded so aggrieved. “If you want to compensate her, just give her our child.” Muniz seemed to sigh. “I love you so much. How could I bear for you to lose a child?” “Just consider it… something she and I owe you.” I finished watching this farce, drank the last sip of wine, and set down my glass. As if also setting down thirty years of entanglement. “Muniz, let’s break up.”

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On our third wedding anniversary, Ethan handed me a divorce agreement, his eyes slightly red as he gripped my hand. “Samantha, I got an invitation to a top New York socialite’s banquet. She promised me the vice president position.” His voice was gentle yet cruel. “You’ll spend your whole life stuck in this run-down gallery, and our children would just be ordinary people. For our next generation’s social advancement, I have to choose someone better. You’re so kind—you can understand that, right?” I looked at his guilt-ridden, affectionate expression and signed without hesitation. After all, everyone climbs upward. Nothing wrong with that. He just didn’t know that the New York socialite he’d worked so hard to please was actually my personal assistant whom I’d hired to test him. And that banquet for elite society’s upper crust—it was a welcome party being held for me, the true heiress. “I’ve signed it, Ethan.” I pushed the divorce agreement back across to him. My crisp signature stood out starkly against the white paper. Ethan looked down at my name on the document, his brows furrowing slightly. He clearly hadn’t expected me to agree so readily. In his imagination, I should have been crying, making a scene, threatening suicide, clinging desperately to his leg and begging him not to leave. But he quickly adjusted his expression, putting back on that deeply affectionate yet helpless look—as if he were sacrificing himself for the greater good. “Don’t blame me, Samantha.” He sighed, reaching out to take my hand, his tone dripping with condescending generosity. “I know you’re upset, but this is just facing reality. We can’t spend our whole lives stuck in this shabby gallery. You’re so kind—surely you can understand my difficult position, right?” I leaned back in my chair, avoiding his touch. Ethan’s hand froze mid-air, then awkwardly retreated. He straightened the cuffs of his three-hundred-thousand-dollar custom suit. “The resources Winona can give me are things you could never access painting for a lifetime. I’m a man. I need a career. She’s already gotten an invitation to tonight’s elite New York banquet. After tonight, I’ll be vice president of John Corporation.” The Winona he mentioned was supposedly a top New York socialite, Winona Lynn. She was also my personal assistant, Nina Lynn, whom I paid fifty thousand dollars a month. Looking at this face I’d once found gentle and refined, I found it utterly ridiculous. “You’re right. People should climb upward.” I picked up the glass of cold water on the table and took a sip, looking at him calmly. “Since you’ve found a better ladder, of course I won’t stop you.” Ethan looked at my expressionless face, irritation flashing in his eyes. He probably thought my composure was an act, a ploy for his sympathy. “You don’t have to pretend to be strong in front of me.” He pulled a bank card from his briefcase and pushed it toward me, sounding more and more like a charitable benefactor. “There’s a hundred thousand dollars on this card. Consider it my compensation to you. The gallery’s rent is due next month. Take this money and go back home to find a stable job. Stop suffering here in New York.” A hundred thousand dollars. The custom suit he was wearing—I’d had it hand-made in Italy. The Patek Philippe on his wrist—I’d given it to him for his birthday last year. Worth two million dollars. And now he was offering me a hundred thousand to dismiss the wife who’d quietly served him for three years. “No need. Keep your money.” I didn’t touch the card. “After all, you’ll need to break into high society. Everything costs money there. A hundred thousand probably won’t even buy a single bottle of wine in their circles.” Ethan’s expression darkened. “Don’t be ungrateful, Samantha.” He lowered his voice, finally showing a hint of warning. “Take the money. From now on, we go our separate ways. Don’t go spreading nonsense to Winona. She’s innocent and kind—I don’t want you frightening her.” Just as he finished speaking, the gallery’s glass door was pushed open from outside. “Ethan, aren’t you done yet?” A sweet, cloying voice called out. Winona swayed in, acting like an arrogant heiress. The moment Ethan saw her, the gloom on his face vanished instantly. He rushed to greet her, his posture extremely humble. His tone was obsequious and flattering: “Winona, why did you come in person? This place is filthy—be careful not to dirty your limited edition shoes.” Winona removed her sunglasses and surveyed my gallery with disgust. “It really is a dump.” She walked up to me, looking down with undisguised contempt in her eyes. “So you’re Ethan’s ex-wife? You’re just average-looking. No wonder he chose me. These days, a pretty face isn’t enough—you need to bring value to your man.” I looked at this face I’d paid to hire, barely suppressing my laughter. Nina’s acting was definitely worth the fifty thousand a month. “Miss Lynn, is it?” I leaned back in my chair without standing. “You’ve got the man. I’ve signed the papers. The door’s that way. I won’t see you out.” Winona sneered. “Quite the attitude. Ethan, I don’t like how arrogant she’s being.” Ethan immediately turned around, frowning at me with apparent anguish. “Samantha, watch your attitude. Winona is a real heiress. Don’t take out your lower-class resentment on her. Apologize to Winona right now.” “You want me to apologize to her?” I looked at him coldly. “Ethan, this is my gallery. Tell your fiancée to shut her privileged mouth.” Ethan took a deep breath, as if trying hard to control his anger. He didn’t explode. Instead, he shook his head, looking at me like I was a hopeless idiot. “You’re such a disappointment, Samantha. I wanted to leave you with some dignity, but since you’re so ungrateful, suit yourself.” He turned around and protectively put his arm around Winona. “Winona, let’s go. Don’t let this kind of person ruin your mood before John Corporation’s banquet.” Watching their intertwined figures leave, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Mr. Kane. “How are the banquet preparations coming?” He replied instantly: “Miss, everything is ready. We’re just waiting for you.” I locked my screen and looked out the window. Ethan, you think you’ve climbed to a high branch. You don’t know it’s just a deep pit I dug for your destruction.

The gallery fell quiet again. I picked up the divorce agreement from the table and casually tossed it into the nearby trash can. Ethan thought he had me figured out. He assumed that without him, I could only slink back home in disgrace. After all, for the past three years, to play the role of a gentle, considerate ordinary wife, I’d worn cheap clothes from Amazon every day, tied on an apron in the kitchen to make him soup, and even rented this storefront to run a gallery so I wouldn’t seem too idle. I’d disguised everything perfectly. Before I could collect myself, the screech of brakes sounded outside. Ethan had returned. This time without Winona, but followed by several uniformed movers. He maintained that suited, superior elite demeanor, one hand in his pocket, his tone coldly issuing orders. “Clear out all the unnecessary stuff in here. Be careful—don’t scratch the walls.” I frowned and stood up. “What the hell are you doing, Ethan?” Ethan pulled a rental contract from his briefcase and placed it lightly on the table, his expression as detached as if handling an insignificant business matter. “Face reality, Samantha. When we rented this place, we used my ID. The contract has my name on it. Now I’m taking back this space.” I looked at the contract. Back then, I’d let him sign it because I didn’t want the hassle of exposing the John family’s assets. But I’d paid ten years of rent upfront. “I paid the rent,” I stated coldly. Ethan looked like he’d heard a joke, smirking helplessly. “You can’t sell two paintings a month. Where would you get money for rent? It was all scraped together from the household money I gave you every month, wasn’t it?” He adjusted his perfect tie. His tone was dismissive: “Winona thinks the lighting in this location is nice. She’s planning to convert it into her private walk-in closet. Samantha, stop making a scene. Leave with some dignity—it’s better for both of us.” He waved his hand, and the movers immediately came forward to carry out my easels and paintings. “Careful there.” Ethan pointed at an oil painting on the wall that had taken me two months to complete. He told the workers, “Throw this junk straight into the garbage truck. Don’t pile it by the door where it’ll offend Winona’s eyes.” The workers roughly tore the painting down. The frame hit the floor, paint scattering everywhere. Ethan didn’t even glance at it, just stepped back in disgust, afraid the dust would dirty his custom leather shoes. I didn’t try to stop them. Arguing with a shallow person blinded by vanity would only lower my own worth. “Fine.” I nodded, picking up my canvas bag from the table, my expression utterly calm. “Ethan, this space is yours. I hope you enjoy tonight’s banquet as much as you’re enjoying this right now.” Ethan smiled slightly, thinking I was just venting impotent rage and jealousy. “Of course. Tonight I’ll meet John Corporation’s chairman directly. Once I get my vice president appointment letter, our worlds will be separated by an insurmountable wall. Take care of yourself.” I didn’t acknowledge him further, walking straight out of the gallery. The sunlight outside was blinding. I glanced back. Ethan stood in the wreckage, hands clasped behind his back like a nouveau riche surveying his territory, directing workers to throw away my heart’s work like garbage. I pulled out my phone and called Mr. Kane. “Look into Ethan’s current company.” I walked forward while speaking coldly. “Tell HR that by tomorrow morning, I want to see his termination notice and a massive claim for breach of non-compete agreement.” “Yes, Miss. Also…” Mr. Kane paused. “When we went to your rental apartment to pack your clothes, we discovered your Ocean Heart sapphire necklace was missing. The drawer showed signs of being pried open. Should we report it to the police?” I stopped walking and suddenly laughed coldly. “To buy all those luxury items for Nina to maintain appearances, Ethan probably maxed out all his cards and exhausted his loans, didn’t he? With nowhere else to turn, he thought to steal my cheap knockoff and give it as a gift.” “Don’t report it.” I got into the car waiting by the curb. “Let him wear it to the banquet. Stolen goods shine brightest under the spotlight. The higher he climbs, the more thoroughly he’ll be destroyed when he falls.”

By the time I returned to my suburban villa, it was getting dark. In the living room, over a dozen of New York’s top stylists and assistants had been waiting. When they saw me enter, they bowed in unison: “Miss.” I tossed my cheap canvas bag onto the sofa and sat down before the makeup mirror. “Let’s begin.” For the next two hours, I let them strip away three years of disguise as an ordinary housewife. As layers of French haute couture draped my body, as my casually pinned hair was styled into lazy, elegant waves, the downtrodden Samantha in the mirror disappeared. In her place stood the heiress of John Corporation with all her rightful brilliance. Mr. Kane approached carrying a velvet box. Inside lay a dazzling pink diamond necklace—my mother’s legacy. “Miss, it’s almost time.” At eight o’clock, an extended Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled smoothly up to the main entrance of the Peninsula Hotel. Tonight, John Corporation had reserved the entire Peninsula Hotel. Security was extremely tight. Countless luxury cars stopped before the red carpet. Everyone who stepped out was truly powerful and influential in New York. The car door was respectfully opened by the doorman. I lifted my gown, just extending one leg, when a familiar voice came from the edge of the crowd at the security perimeter. “Samantha?! How did you follow us here like some ghost?!” I looked toward the voice. Beyond the security line, Ethan was staring at me with wide eyes. He probably assumed this Rolls-Royce belonged to some dignitary, and I was shamelessly crashing the red carpet. Winona clung to his arm in a cheap rented gown, but around her neck hung the sapphire necklace pried from my drawer. Seeing I wasn’t responding, Ethan tried to push past the security line to show off in front of Winona, lowering his voice to scold me: “I’m warning you—this isn’t a place for trash like you to make a scene! Get lost right now before you embarrass yourself!” Winona deliberately thrust out her chest, flaunting the stolen goods around her neck, covering her mouth with a coy laugh: “Ethan, your ex-wife is so pathetic. Where did she rent that knockoff gown from? Is she here to find a sugar daddy? Too bad—not even a fly can get through that door.” I looked coldly at the necklace around Winona’s neck, my gaze penetrating: “That necklace—comfortable to wear?” Winona smugly touched her neck. “Of course it’s comfortable. Ethan specially bought this for me. It cost hundreds of thousands! A poor woman like you has probably never even seen the real thing, right?” Ethan averted his eyes somewhat guiltily, his gaze shifty. He knew exactly where that necklace came from, but he could never imagine that what he thought was a knockoff was actually worth ten million dollars. “Stop making trouble here, Samantha.” Ethan tried to cover his guilt with arrogance. “Winona’s necklace has nothing to do with you! I’m about to go in and meet Chairman John. If you anger the important people inside, you won’t even know how you died!” Just then, a low engine roar tore through the night. A black Maybach drove straight up beside the Rolls-Royce and stopped. The door opened, and a man in a custom suit with an intensely oppressive presence stepped out. The surrounding crowd immediately gasped in shock. “It’s the Payne family’s eldest son! New York’s crown prince, Caspian Payne!”

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My friend Lily sent me a photo. It was a screenshot of my husband checking into a love hotel in the city. She sent me a message teasing: “You and your husband sure know how to have fun. Going to a love hotel while pregnant? Be careful!” I stared at my phone blankly for a moment, then casually opened the SnapChat message my husband had sent me half an hour ago: [I have to go to New York on a business trip for a few days. Go to tomorrow’s prenatal checkup by yourself.] So I replied to Lily seriously: “The one getting a room with him is his mistress, not me.” Lily’s call came through quickly. “Are you sure? I’ll send you the location. Come over now. I have a room card.” I said no need. She sounded anxious: “Why aren’t you reacting at all?” I thought for a moment and said, “Help me send them something. Wish them a good time.” There was silence on the other end for a few seconds, then she agreed. After hanging up, I canceled my prenatal checkup appointment and confirmed the time for the abortion procedure. After finishing these tasks, I walked into the nursery. That room had been gradually cleared out after confirming the pregnancy. There wasn’t much, but everything was new. Ethan Wade had said the child was very important to him. At the time, he said it with such certainty. I had believed him once. I grabbed scissors and trash bags and began cutting up the brand-new clothes. When I made the first cut, I knew exactly what I was doing. I wouldn’t be needing these things anymore. The clothes, books, bottles—everything was quickly dealt with. I also pushed the baby stroller to the door and knocked it over. Half an hour later, the room was empty. I made several trips carrying everything down to the building’s trash station and threw it all away without hesitation. At ten o’clock that night, the door lock clicked. Ethan Wade had come home. He said he was out of town, but he’d suddenly changed his plans and come back. He saw me sitting in the living room, lifted his hand to glance at his watch, and frowned slightly: “Why aren’t you asleep yet at this hour? Your irregular sleep schedule will directly affect the fetus’s nervous system development. I shouldn’t have to teach you this basic knowledge, should I?” As he approached, I smelled a scent that didn’t belong to this house. It was some niche salon perfume mixed with the sickly sweetness of hotel body wash. I shifted to the side: “You smell different.” His hand paused while loosening his tie, then he tossed his jacket onto the sofa without changing expression: “That’s air freshener from a client’s car. Don’t be paranoid.” While unfastening his cufflinks, he walked straight toward the nursery: “By the way, did the custom baby bed I ordered arrive? Let me check the dimensions.” A few seconds later, his footsteps stopped abruptly. Dead silence. “Claire Smith.” His voice came from the nursery, carrying a cold edge. I walked over and saw him standing in the center of the room, his face dark enough to drip water. “Where are the things?” He turned around, glaring at me with a black expression. “Where’s the stroller I ordered and all the baby clothes I bought?” “I got rid of them,” I answered calmly. He narrowed his eyes and took a step closer to me. “Who gave you permission to get rid of them?” His tone was angry. “Are you so bored staying home all day that you have to cause trouble? You know how hard I work to support this family. Can’t you just give me less grief?” “The doctor suggested I shouldn’t prepare these things too early in the first trimester.” I looked him straight in the eye without changing expression. “I’d have anxiety reactions that could easily trigger false contractions.” “Anxiety?” Ethan Wade laughed coldly. “Claire, I think you’re too idle. Your hormones are out of balance and making you irrational.” “Other people are happy when they’re pregnant. Why do you have so many pretentious problems? You get anxious seeing baby things? Are you sick? Should you get treatment?” His fingers were ice cold, pinching me painfully. But I didn’t dodge. I just looked at him woodenly: “Better safe than sorry.” He frowned, seeming suspicious that my attitude was somehow different. Probably because he saw me calm down, or perhaps because he had a guilty conscience. In the end, he just dropped a line: “I’ll have someone buy everything again tomorrow. If you dare throw it away again, go see a psychiatrist.” After speaking, he didn’t look at me again and turned into the bathroom. Soon, the sound of rushing water came from inside. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I took it out. On the screen was a confirmation text from the hospital. [Ms. Smith, your appointment for pre-abortion examination has been confirmed.] I glanced at the tightly closed bathroom door, listening to the sound of water inside, and silently deleted the message.

The next day, Ethan Wade gave me a gift. He shoved the gift into my arms, his tone gentle: “I had a bad attitude last night, but I bought you some skincare products suitable for pregnant women.” I glanced at the bag. The opening was wrinkled, and the seal sticker had one corner peeling up. When I poured it out, there were several delicate little bottles, one of which had “NOT FOR SALE” printed on the bottom. This bag was clearly just the sample gift pack the salesgirl gives when you buy the full-size products. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” Ethan Wade didn’t notice my reaction and kept talking: “I heard it works really well. Do you like it?” I lifted my head and smiled silently. “I like it.” I picked up the bottle marked “not for sale” and shook it in my hand: “I’ll use it well.” Ethan Wade breathed a sigh of relief, his face breaking into a smile again. He raised his hand to check his watch: “I have an early meeting today. Rest well at home.” He grabbed his jacket and left humming a tune. The smile on my face vanished instantly. I picked up the paper bag and threw it in the trash. After disposing of the garbage, I took a cab to the hospital. Because I had an appointment, the gynecology outpatient process went quickly. The doctor wrote me a prescription and told me to get an ultrasound to confirm the fetus’s size and position. I took the form and walked toward the ultrasound room. My phone suddenly vibrated. It was a SnapChat message from Ethan Wade. [I have a dinner meeting tonight. Won’t be home for dinner.] I had just put my phone back in my pocket when the door to the gynecology consultation room ahead opened. A familiar figure walked out—it was actually Sophia Reynolds and her best friend Morgan Clark. I deliberately turned my head away. They didn’t see me. Sophia Reynolds held a lab slip in her hand, radiating barely concealed smugness: “It’s just a routine checkup. Why are you so nervous…” Morgan Clark said enviously: “How can I not be nervous? Everyone knows Ethan Wade treasures you like the apple of his eye. Last time you just casually mentioned wanting to see the ocean, and Ethan Wade took you to the Maldives.” “When you had menstrual cramps, Ethan Wade pushed back an important meeting and spent the whole afternoon with you. That kind of treatment—even the legitimate wife probably doesn’t get it, right?” “And, and—Ethan Wade buys you luxury skincare products but gives Claire the free sample gift pack.” “He bought you that limited edition bag without a second thought.” Sophia Reynolds laughed lightly: “For some women, as long as their husband tosses them scraps from the table, they can convince themselves it’s some grand romantic gesture.” Morgan Clark laughed so hard she doubled over: “If I were her, I’d be so ashamed I’d jump off a building.” “That’s why people need self-awareness. What’s the use of holding onto a title? She’s living like more of a joke than something respectable.” I felt a chill shoot from the soles of my feet straight to the top of my head. Nausea overwhelmed anger. The lab slip in my hand was crushed into a ball, my nails digging deep into my palm. Only when the stabbing pain came did it barely pull back my nearly collapsing rationality. I took a deep breath, but couldn’t stop my trembling fingers. After watching them leave, I finally calmed down and turned toward the elevator in the opposite direction. Then I opened my phone and checked yesterday’s shipping information: [Your documents sent to the law firm have been signed for.]

The doctor prescribed pre-surgery medication and told me to rest well these days and wait for the surgery schedule. Back home, to distract myself, I went into the long-unused baking room. Before marriage, I had owned a dessert shop. After marriage, Ethan Wade hoped I could focus more energy on the family, so he had me close the shop and concentrate on preparing for pregnancy. I took out a bag of flour and began making desserts. The humming of the machine filled the space, and that familiar milky fragrance let me relax briefly. Two hours later, a half-finished frosted cake sat on the turntable. I was about to mix colors when there was suddenly movement at the entrance. Ethan Wade had returned, followed by two men in suits who looked like important business partners. While unbuttoning his suit jacket, Ethan Wade spoke in a gentle tone: “My home is quieter, suitable for discussing business.” I hadn’t had time to wash my hands yet. My apron was covered in flour, and I stood there somewhat disheveled. Our eyes met. The expression on Ethan Wade’s face instantly disappeared. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze sweeping over my flour-covered apron and the half-finished cake. His words carried barbs: “How did you end up like this?” “I didn’t know you were bringing people home,” I instinctively hid my flour-covered hands behind my back. “Don’t you have any awareness?” His brow furrowed tightly, his tone full of impatience. “When you see guests, your first reaction should be to make yourself scarce, not stand here being an eyesore.” The two guests awkwardly tried to smooth things over: “It’s fine, it’s fine. Claire is so virtuous, even making cakes.” Ethan Wade didn’t respond. He couldn’t even spare me a perfunctory smile. He looked at me with cold eyes: “Have the housekeeper clean this up, then go back to your room so you don’t irritate me.” My heart felt like something had squeezed it hard, sending waves of dense pain. I bit my lip and turned to get the trash can. “Wait.” He stopped me, pointing at the cake. “Take that too.” “I just made this…” “Take it or throw it away.” He interrupted me, his tone cold. “Don’t leave it here embarrassing me.” I took a deep breath, my nails digging deep into my palm, using the pain to suppress the stinging in my eyes. I picked up the cake that hadn’t been decorated yet, and in front of him, let go. The cake fell into the trash can along with my dignity. Seeing this, Ethan Wade’s brow relaxed a bit, seemingly finally satisfied. He turned toward his guests and put on a smile, as if the coldness just now was only my illusion: “Sorry about that. She’s bored and messes around with nothing better to do.” Then they went to the study. The door closed, cutting off the cheerful conversation inside. I stood alone in the kitchen, looking at the ruined cake in the trash can. Tears finally couldn’t be held back, falling heavily onto the floor. I remembered that year we got married. On an afternoon just like this, he had held me and said, “Your cakes are the best in the whole world.” Now he couldn’t even be bothered to look, only finding them embarrassing. I squatted down and mechanically wiped the flour from the floor. As I wiped, I suddenly laughed. Laughing at my own foolishness, laughing at seven years of one-sided affection. I scrubbed the floor three times until there wasn’t a trace left.

The medication the doctor prescribed had severe side effects. These past two days I’d been lying in bed in a daze. And Ethan Wade always had various reasons not to be home. I knew that on the days he didn’t come home, he was with Sophia Reynolds. The next time I saw him was two days later. When he pushed the door open, I was hugging the trash can and dry heaving. All the medicine I’d just taken came back up. My stomach burned like fire. He asked how I was. I wiped my mouth and replied flatly: “I ate something too rich for dinner.” “You’re so pretentious. You’re pregnant and should be getting more nutrition. How can you not eat anything?” He sounded a bit impatient. I laughed coldly inside but didn’t bother explaining. Then he handed me an exquisite outfit. “There’s a charity gala tonight. Several partners will bring their spouses. Come with me.” I leaned weakly against the sofa: “I’m not feeling well. I can’t go.” Ethan Wade’s hand paused while unfastening his cufflinks. He turned to look at me. “It wouldn’t look good to be absent from this kind of occasion. I don’t want people thinking there are problems within my family.” “Just tough it out. Make an appearance and that’s it. You don’t have to socialize.” I didn’t argue further. Once he decided something, it never changed because of my suffering. I took the clothes and walked into the bedroom. After changing, Ethan Wade drove me to the reception. At the venue, Ethan Wade appeared composed and distinguished. He didn’t deliberately show off our relationship, just had me hold his arm. His cuff was ice cold, the stiff fabric pressing painfully against my palm, but I could only force a smile and cooperate with his performance. When people came over to chat, he would introduce me appropriately: “This is my wife, Claire.” When someone offered a toast, he would naturally step aside: “She’s not in a condition to drink. I’ll have this one for her.” His movements were smooth and flowing, his gentlemanly manner perfect. The business partner across from us immediately joked with a laugh: “Ethan Wade really dotes on his wife. No wonder your career is developing so well.” Ethan Wade smiled faintly, his eyes full of satisfied control, taking a sip of wine: “Just doing my duty.” Everything looked so perfect. After being seated, while talking quietly with the person next to him, he casually picked up a piece of fish and put it on my plate. “Try this.” He did it so casually, as if this kind of consideration was a habit ingrained in his bones. I looked at that piece of fish, my stomach cramping. He had probably forgotten that since becoming pregnant, I couldn’t stand even the slightest fishy smell. Every time I smelled it, it triggered severe morning sickness. “Excuse me.” I stood up abruptly, covering my mouth and rushing toward the restroom. Behind me came a ripple of subtle commotion, but I couldn’t care about that anymore. In the stall, I dry heaved for a while until tears streamed down. Only then did that overwhelming feeling gradually subside. I rinsed my mouth and splashed cold water on my face. Looking at my pale reflection in the mirror, I took a deep breath. Walking out of the restroom, Ethan Wade was standing by a window in the corridor waiting for me. He held a cigarette in his hand, his expression cold. Seeing me come out, he looked me up and down from a few steps away. “Are you composed now?” He stubbed out his cigarette, his tone lacking concern and more filled with displeasure at having his rhythm disrupted. “It’s only been a moment and you can’t even handle this kind of occasion? I don’t want people thinking I can’t even manage my own wife’s emotions.” Finished speaking, he put on a smile again and extended his arm toward me. “Let’s go. We haven’t greeted Mr. Anderson yet.” I looked at that outstretched arm, hesitated for two seconds, then took it. The moment my fingertips touched him, my heart went completely cold. By the time the gala ended, I was utterly exhausted. My lower abdomen ached faintly, as if something was draining away. Ethan Wade had drunk quite a bit and was leaning back in the seat somewhat excited, completely oblivious to the cold sweat seeping from my forehead. “Today Mr. Anderson even mentioned to me that once our child is born, the board will be more stable.” He closed his eyes, a smile on his lips, his hand unconsciously tapping on his knee. “When it’s time, we’ll throw a big birthday party for the child, right in tonight’s hall.” I turned to look at the speeding night scenery outside the window, my hand pressing hard against my stomach.

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