Category: English

On my way to the hospital after my husband’s car crash, I scrolled past a viral thread on Twitter. [My pregnant mistress wants me to divorce my barren wife. But I want to get my hands on my wife’s million-dollar estate buyout money first. What should I do?] The original poster had replied to a highly-voted comment, thanking them: [It’s hard to touch a wife’s personal inheritance. But you can get her to spend it willingly.] [Fake a car accident. She’ll definitely pay for your medical bills out of guilt and love.] [Then, pretend to be in a vegetative state and get transferred to a private, closed-off care facility.] [She won’t be allowed to visit easily, making it easy for you to funnel her cash. You’ll even have enough to pay for your mistress’s luxury postpartum care!] My brows furrowed. I immediately reported the post for fraud. The next second, my phone rang. It was the hospital. “Is this the family of Julian Vance? Mr. Vance was in a severe car accident and is now in a vegetative state. Please come to the hospital immediately!”

By the time I rushed to the hospital, Julian had already been pushed into the ICU. After verifying my identity, the nurse led me to the attending physician, Dr. Madelyn Hayes. The name sounded incredibly familiar. I looked at her slightly bloated lower abdomen, then recalled the Twitter poster’s profile. His feed was filled with posts dedicated to someone named “Maddy.” It clicked. She was Julian’s mistress! This whole thing was a setup they had planned long ago. Suppressing my boiling rage, I spoke directly. “If that’s the case, I choose to withdraw life support.” Madelyn’s face turned instantly pale. The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself: “You can’t!” I raised my eyes and stared straight at her. “Why not, Dr. Hayes?” Realizing she had overreacted, she quickly softened her tone. “Mrs. Vance, you are emotionally unstable right now. You shouldn’t make impulsive decisions.” “Although the patient is clinically brain-dead, if we transfer him to a private care facility and keep him on life support, there might be a chance of recovery.” “As long as there’s a sliver of hope, we shouldn’t give up. Especially since you are his wife.” To any bystander, Dr. Hayes would look like a deeply caring, ethical doctor. Looking at her self-righteous face, I sneered inwardly. If I hadn’t seen that Twitter thread, I probably would have been fooled. I took the medical consent form from her. The diagnosis was written clearly. [Loss of brainstem reflexes, no spontaneous respiration, irreversible brain damage. Meets the clinical criteria for brain death.] At the very bottom was Madelyn’s signature. Her handwriting was elegant, but the ink was pressed hard into the paper. It was like a knife she had handed directly to me. I asked her, “Dr. Hayes, are you sure my husband is brain-dead?” Madelyn’s eyes flickered. “Based on the current test results, yes, that is the diagnosis.” “What do you mean ‘based on the results’?” I slapped the paper onto the desk, my voice leaving no room for argument. “A patient in a vegetative state has spontaneous breathing. A brain-dead patient does not. You know the difference better than I do, Doctor.” “Brain death means the complete and irreversible loss of all brain function. Legally and medically, it is the definition of death. There is zero chance of recovery.” Madelyn froze, biting her lip. The nurse beside her subconsciously glanced at her. Before she could respond, I continued. “If this medical record is accurate, the patient is legally dead.” “As his spouse, I am requesting to stop all meaningless, invasive life support. Is there a problem with that?” “Yet, as a doctor, you are using this diagnosis to pressure me into transferring him to an expensive private facility. What exactly are your intentions?” Madelyn’s fingers began to tremble. “Chloe, you can’t look at it that way.” “Why can’t I?” I pulled out my phone and tapped the Snapchat voice recorder. “Would you mind repeating that, Dr. Hayes?” “Is Julian Vance legally brain-dead, or is he a comatose patient who might wake up?” The air in the office froze. Madelyn remained silent. I turned to the Chief of Medicine who was standing nearby. “If the hospital stands by this brain-death diagnosis, please give me the papers to sign off on withdrawing treatment.” “If you think he is not brain-dead, then edit this medical record immediately and explain why Dr. Hayes exaggerated his condition.” The Chief’s face turned grim. He flipped through the file, then shot a warning look at Madelyn. “If the family insists, we agree to withdraw life support.” Madelyn bolted upright, about to speak. The Chief frowned. “You wrote the medical report, Madelyn. The wife is making a decision based on your written diagnosis. Procedurally, she is entirely within her rights.” The nurse quickly brought over the paperwork. I picked up the pen. Madelyn stared at my hand, her face as white as a sheet. My heart was cold. They wanted to show me a “dying” husband to force me to use my late mother’s estate buyout money to keep him alive. But they never expected that my first reaction wouldn’t be tears. It would be pulling the plug. Just as the pen touched the paper, loud, chaotic footsteps echoed from the hallway. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, screamed as she burst through the door. “Chloe Miller! Don’t you dare sign that paper!”

Eleanor rushed over and slapped the pen out of my hand. The pen rolled across the floor. She saw the withdrawal of treatment form, and her eyes turned instantly red. She pointed a finger at my nose and shrieked. “Are you insane? Julian is lying in there, and you’re in a rush to kill him?” “My poor son! How did he end up marrying such a heartless monster? If anything happens to my son, you are a murderer!” My father-in-law, Richard, stood at the door, his face dark. “Even with brain death, he’s still breathing through the machine. As long as the monitor is beeping, he is alive.” “The doctor said there’s hope. Why are you so eager to give up? Did you do something behind my son’s back?” They hurled accusations at me, even trying to slut-shame me in public. But my mind was completely calm. I bent down, picked up the pen, and looked at them. “Eleanor, Richard, look at this. This is the diagnosis issued by the hospital.” “It’s right here in black and white. Julian is brain-dead.” “Do you really want him to lie in that bed, hooked up to machines like a hollow shell? Keeping him alive like this is an insult to his dignity!” My words were logical and firm. Richard was left speechless. Eleanor’s body shook with rage. She slid down to the floor, wailing loudly. “Everyone, come look at this!” “My son got into a horrible crash, and his wife won’t spend a single dime to save him! She wants to pull the plug just to save her money!” “Her mother left her millions of dollars from the property buyout, but she clutches that money tighter than life itself! She’s letting my son die!” “She’s been barren for years and couldn’t even give us a grandchild, but we never judged her! Now, this cold-blooded woman wants to end our family line!” The hospital hallway was packed. Her dramatic wailing quickly drew a crowd of patients and visitors. People started whispering. “Her husband is dying, and she won’t save him?” “No matter how much money she inherited, human life comes first.” “No wonder they don’t have kids. She has a heart of stone.” The words stung, making my fingers twitch slightly. We had been married for six years, and I had heard these insults for six years. The Vance family blamed me for being barren. Their relatives whispered that I was a useless wife occupying a space without producing an heir. Eleanor even forced herbal concoctions down my throat until I threw up. But what they didn’t know was this: Three years ago, Julian and I had a full fertility evaluation. The results showed he had azoospermia. He was completely sterile. He could never have biological children. To save his ego, I took all the blame. And yet, he went behind my back, got a mistress pregnant, and planned to kick me to the curb. But before kicking me out, he wanted to strip away the estate my mother left me. Madelyn stood at the back of the crowd, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Chloe, I understand you’re under a lot of pressure.” “Long-term care is indeed expensive.” “But if we transfer him to a specialized facility, his vitals can be maintained. Miracles do happen.” I looked at her. “A minute ago, you said his brain damage was irreversible.” “Now you’re talking about miracles.” “Dr. Hayes, medicine seems very flexible when it comes to your convenience.” Her face stiffened. Eleanor immediately shrieked, “Stop harassing the doctor! Dr. Hayes is trying to help!” “She’s pregnant and still working hard for my son, while you, his wife, are trying to murder him!” Richard added with a grim face, “Chloe, you can’t be this cold-blooded.” “The house belonged to your mother, yes. But once you married Julian, you became a Vance.” “Your husband is in trouble. It is your duty to use that money to treat him.” I stared at this family. One did the crying. One took the moral high ground. And one wore a white coat to authorize the scam. What a perfect team. After a long silence, I handed the papers back to the nurse. “Fine. I agree to keep him on life support and transfer him to the care facility.” Eleanor’s tears stopped instantly. Richard visibly relaxed. Madelyn lowered her gaze, gently resting her hand on her belly as she let out a quiet sigh of relief. I caught every single one of their reactions and curled my lips. They thought I had surrendered. But only I knew that once Julian left this hospital, he was stepping right into a trap of his own making. That evening, Julian was transferred to a private care center on the outskirts of the city. Eleanor handed me the bill. Initial deposit: $60,000. Subsequent monthly fee: $20,000. I didn’t take the pen. “The buyout money hasn’t cleared yet.” Eleanor panicked. “Use your savings first!” I looked at her. “Doesn’t Julian have his own accounts?” Her eyes darted away. “He’s in a coma! How can we access his accounts now?” I didn’t expose her lie. When I got home that night, I opened Twitter. Sure enough, the thread was updated. [My wife tried to pull the plug, but my parents threw a scene at the hospital and scared her. She agreed to the transfer.] [She even tried to sniff around my personal bank accounts, but I saw that coming. With her tiny brain, she’s no match for me.] [Once her mother’s estate money clears, we can squeeze at least a hundred grand out of her first.] I screenshot everything and backed it up. The show has just begun. I can’t wait.

The next morning, I went back to the hospital. The nurse told me Dr. Hayes had taken a leave of absence, citing pregnancy discomfort. She was starting her maternity leave early. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. She was brave enough to fake a medical record but ran away the moment things got real. When the Chief of Medicine met us, his expression was highly defensive. “Mrs. Vance, the patient has already been transferred to the care center.” “What is your reason for requesting a formal freeze on his medical records now?” My best friend and lawyer, Naomi Brooks, placed a formal authorization and legal letter on his desk. “There are major disputes regarding the patient’s condition, the transfer process, and the financial liabilities.” “As his legal spouse, we demand a complete freeze and copy of all original medical files, emergency room logs, imaging, consultations, and the brain-death assessment records.” The Chief frowned. “We shouldn’t over-interpret the term ‘brain death’.” I pushed the consent form signed by Madelyn across the table. “I didn’t over-interpret it. Your attending physician wrote it.” “Yesterday, she informed me that Julian had irreversible brain damage and no spontaneous breathing, relying entirely on machines.” “Based on that, I requested to withdraw life support, and the hospital agreed to proceed.” “Now, the Vance family is demanding I pay exorbitant long-term care fees.” “I need this hospital to issue a formal death certificate based on this brain-death record.” The Chief’s face paled. “He is still alive at the care center. I cannot issue a death certificate.” I nodded. “Then please issue a formal, written statement.” “State clearly that Dr. Madelyn Hayes’s previous diagnosis of brain death is invalid. State that Julian Vance still has spontaneous life functions and has a chance of waking up.” “And explain why a patient who does not meet the criteria for brain death was declared brain-dead and recommended for a closed-off, long-term care facility.” The office fell dead silent. Naomi spoke in a cool, detached tone. “Chief, we aren’t trying to make things difficult for the hospital.” “But medical records are legal documents, not tools used to scare families into paying money.” “If the hospital refuses to cooperate, we will file a formal complaint with the medical board, the insurance regulators, and the police simultaneously.” The Chief’s face grew darker by the second. He made a few phone calls. Half an hour later, the records department sealed all of Julian’s files. An hour later, the hospital handed me a stamped document. It stated: Julian Vance suffered severe traumatic brain injury resulting in irreversible loss of brain function, with no spontaneous respiration, relying on mechanical ventilation and medication to maintain vitals, meeting clinical criteria for brain death. Holding that piece of paper, my heart was perfectly still. They handed me the knife. I just caught it. Our first stop was the bank. I submitted our marriage certificate, the medical certification of brain death, joint account statements, and a report for suspicious transfers. Three days before his “accident,” Julian had transferred $80,000 out of our joint account. $30,000 went to Madelyn. $20,000 went to a luxury postpartum care center. The rest went to several unfamiliar personal accounts belonging to Madelyn’s relatives. The transfer notes all read: “Loan repayment.” After reviewing the documents, the bank manager looked grim. “Mrs. Miller, we cannot close the account without a formal death certificate.” “However, based on these severe identity risks, potential fraud, and spousal disputes, we can freeze Mr. Vance’s primary accounts and suspend all payment permissions immediately.” I smiled. “That works perfectly.” “I just need to make sure he can’t spend another dime.” Our second stop was Julian’s company. He worked as a project manager at a real estate firm, and he happened to be in charge of the redevelopment files for my mother’s old neighborhood. When the HR manager heard the story, she looked sympathetic at first. But after Naomi handed over the certified medical files, her expression changed. “Since Mr. Vance is clinically brain-dead, we will suspend his salary, shut down his employee ID, and revoke his system access immediately.” “We will also hand over the buyout projects he was managing to our legal department for review.” Our third stop was the City redevelopment office. I formally revoked the authorization I had given Julian to handle my mother’s estate buyout. The clerk verified my ID and said: “Mrs. Miller, going forward, we will only accept your signature for the buyout agreement.” “The compensation funds will only be deposited into an account solely under your name.” I nodded. “Thank you.” Finally, we went to the insurance company. Two months ago, Julian had taken out a high-value accidental death and dismemberment policy. The sole beneficiary was his mother, Eleanor. I submitted the screenshots of the Twitter thread, the medical records, the transfer files, and the bank statements. “I’m not here to file a claim,” I told the agent. “I suspect someone is faking an accident and fabricating a critical medical condition to commit insurance fraud and grand larceny.” The claims specialist sat up straight. “We will launch an immediate anti-fraud investigation.” Over the next few days, Eleanor called me incessantly, demanding money for the care facility. I knew why. Julian’s salary had already been spent on Madelyn. With no cash left, they were desperate to bleed me dry. I only gave her one reply: “The buyout money hasn’t cleared. Besides, Julian has plenty of money in his personal account. Use that.” Eleanor didn’t want to expose Madelyn’s existence, so she didn’t dare push me too hard. A week flew by. One night, just as I was drifting off to sleep, an unknown number called me. Julian’s raging voice erupted from the receiver: “Chloe Miller! What the hell did you do?!”

I put the phone on speaker. “Who is this?” The line went quiet for a second. “It’s Julian!” I chuckled. “Isn’t Julian Vance brain-dead?” “Are you calling me from the afterlife, or is this a zombie?” His voice shook with fury. “Stop playing mind games with me!” “All my cards are frozen!” “My company says my employee ID is flagged, and my salary has been suspended!” “The care facility is harassing my mother for bills!” “Even the postpartum center called saying my final payment was declined!” “Chloe, by what right do you do this?” I leaned back comfortably against the sofa. “By the right of the medical diagnosis signed by Madelyn Hayes.” “By the right of the stamped medical certificate from the hospital.” “By the right of your parents publicly declaring you brain-dead to force me to pay for your life support.” He fell silent for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice lacked its previous confidence. “The doctor just wrote it to sound serious.” “I’m not dead.” “You’re not dead?” My voice was calm. “Then explain how you got a brain-death certificate.” “Explain why you had to be put in a closed-off private facility.” “Explain why you transferred money to Madelyn and the postpartum center right before your crash.” “And explain why your mother tried to force me into signing the insurance paperwork using your accidental death policy.” Julian had no answer. I knew he finally realized the corner he had painted himself into. If he kept playing dead, he would remain a “dead man” with frozen cards, no salary, and no legal rights. But if he stood up, he would have to admit this entire show was a scam from start to finish. After a long silence, he spat out, “Chloe, we’ve been married for six years. Don’t be so heartless.” I almost laughed. “Did you think about our six years of marriage when you faked a coma to steal my inheritance?” “Did you think about it when you let your mother call me a barren failure?” “Did you think about it when you and Madelyn plotted to steal my mother’s estate for your bastard child?” He suddenly shouted, “That is my child!” I paused for two seconds. “Are you sure about that?” The line went dead silent. I didn’t elaborate. Some truths are better delivered in person. I hung up and sent the Snapchat audio recording to Naomi. She texted back: [He can’t keep this act up much longer.] The next afternoon, I went to the bank to submit some follow-up documents. The moment I stepped out of the elevator, a man wearing a baseball cap rushed toward me and grabbed my wrist. “Chloe Miller!” “Unfreeze my accounts right now!” I looked at the hospital gown under his jacket and smiled. Julian. The dead had risen. The bank lobby was packed. He must have run here in a hurry. His jacket wasn’t even zipped properly, and the medical tape on the back of his hand was still hanging loose. I didn’t struggle. I just raised my other hand and tapped the Snapchat recorder. “Julian?” “Aren’t you brain-dead?” His face stiffened, and he hissed under his breath, “Let’s talk at home.” I took a step back, raising my voice. “No need to go home.” “Your medical record says you have no spontaneous breathing and are kept alive solely by machines.” “Could someone explain to me how a brain-dead patient walked out of a care facility and came to a bank to threaten me?” The tellers behind the counter gasped. The security guard immediately walked over. A few bystanders pulled out their phones to record. Panic flashed in Julian’s eyes. “My condition improved!” I nodded. “Wonderful. A medical miracle.” “Then why don’t you explain why Dr. Hayes diagnosed you as brain-dead right before your ‘miracle’?” “Why did your parents try to scam $60,000 out of me for your care?” “And why did you transfer our joint marital assets to your mistress right before your crash?” He gritted his teeth. “Chloe, don’t push me.” I ripped my wrist from his grip. “You pushed yourself into this corner.” “If you don’t wake up, you’re a dead man.” “If you wake up, you have to explain who falsified those legal documents.” I turned to the bank manager. “Please call the police.” “I suspect this man is impersonating a clinically deceased person to commit medical fraud and grand larceny.” Julian’s face went completely pale. The police arrived quickly. Faced with officers, Julian immediately changed his story. He claimed he had just woken up from a brief coma, that the hospital’s wording was simply inaccurate, and that this was all a misunderstanding between husband and wife. I handed the Twitter screenshots, the audio recordings, the medical files, and the bank statements to the officers. “It is not my job to determine if he is alive or dead.” “If he is alive, please investigate who falsified the brain-death document.” “If he is dead, please investigate who this man standing in front of us is.” As Julian was led away by the police, he glared at me with pure venom. I watched his pathetic, struggling figure, my heart entirely unmoved. He thought waking up would get his money back. But the moment he stood up, he put himself on the witness stand.

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I have a strange, terrifying ability. Whenever my younger sister, Chloe, steals something from me, I get a brief, vivid glimpse of her future in my dreams—a future she builds using the very thing she took from me. When we were kids, she stole my piano. In my dream, I saw her taking a bow on a grand stage at Carnegie Hall ten years later. In middle school, she stole my spot in the National Math Olympiad. In my dream, I saw her holding a first-place trophy, getting accepted into the elite private academy I had dreamed of attending. And last night, the eve of the SAT, she stole my admission ticket and my ID card. This time, the future I saw in my dream wasn’t hers. It was mine. There were no applause, no trophies, no flowers. I was standing on the rooftop of a hospital, clutching a crumpled, ruined medical waiver explaining my absence from the exam. Down on the street below, my parents were holding a sobbing, trembling Chloe. My older brother, Ethan, looked up at me and screamed, “Serena, are you really not satisfied until you’ve driven Chloe to suicide?” The wind was howling. I saw the future version of myself smile. And then, I jumped. 1 When I woke up, Chloe was sitting at my desk. Seeing my eyes open, she flashed me a sweet, innocent smile. “Serena, can you do me a favor and skip the exam tomorrow?” Her eyes were red and puffy. “Mom saw a spiritual reader today. She said that if you take the SAT in the same room as me tomorrow, you’ll suck away all my good energy.” I let out a cold laugh. Always the same excuse. Since we were kids, everyone in the family treated Chloe like our personal golden child. The day she was born, my dad’s failing business suddenly secured a massive, life-saving contract. My grandmother had held the crying baby Chloe and declared that she was the angel who saved the Miller family. Meanwhile, because of a complication during my birth, I barely survived. My grandmother always said I was born under a bad star, a curse brought to drain the family’s wealth. When I was six, I won first place in a state piano competition. On the way home, Ethan fell and broke his leg. My mother, holding a crying Chloe, looked at me with cold eyes and said for the first time, “Serena, stop trying to stand out so much. Every time you shine, bad things happen to this family.” Since then, whenever I did slightly better than Chloe, someone in the house would suffer an “accident.” Eventually, I stopped bringing my report cards and certificates home altogether. I held out my hand. “Give me back my SAT ticket and ID.” Chloe instantly flinched, pulling her hands back. Just then, the door pushed open. My mom walked in, holding a warm mug of milk. Seeing me awake, she handed it to me. “Drink this, Serena. Go to sleep early.” My throat tightened. But just as I took the mug, she pulled a folded sheet of paper from her apron pocket. “Your dad and I talked. Tomorrow morning, you’re not going to the first section of the exam.” I looked down at the paper. Family Agreement: 1. Serena Miller shall not approach Chloe Miller before entering the test center. 2. Serena Miller shall not ride in the same car as Chloe Miller to the exam. 3. Serena Miller shall not touch Chloe Miller’s testing supplies. 4. If Chloe Miller experiences severe anxiety, Serena Miller agrees to voluntarily delay her entry to the exam hall. My name was already printed at the bottom. All that was missing was my signature. The warm milk suddenly felt scalding in my hands. “What do you mean, voluntarily?” My mom avoided my eyes. “Serena, I know you feel wronged, but your sister is different. She gets so anxious she can barely breathe. Your grades are always stable. Skipping one section won’t kill you.” My dad walked in next, holding a pen and a manila folder. Seeing that folder, my heart sank. Inside wasn’t just my SAT ticket. It was the registration form for a local community college. My dad placed it on the desk. “We’ve already figured out a backup plan for you. You can take a gap year and try again next year.” I stared up at him. “Tomorrow is the SAT. Chloe needs her future, but I don’t?” My dad’s face hardened instantly. “Serena, you’re getting more and more selfish. Chloe has been fragile since she was a baby. Can’t you just let her win for once? Do you really want to see her collapse at the test center before you’re satisfied?” Chloe’s tears started flowing right on cue. “Dad, forget it. I won’t take the test. Serena always thinks I’m stealing things from her. I don’t want to owe her anything.” My mom looked panicked. “Don’t talk like that, sweetie!” Ethan pushed the door open, his face twisted in annoyance. “Serena, are you seriously throwing a tantrum right now? The whole house has been walking on eggshells around you all night. What more do you want?” I let out a bitter laugh. “Walking on eggshells around me?” He pointed at the agreement on the desk. “As long as you sign this and sit out the first section, nobody is going to make your life hard.” 2 I lunged forward to grab the manila folder. My dad slammed his hand down, pinning my wrist to the desk. “I’ll keep your documents safe tonight.” Before I could react, Ethan grabbed me from behind, pinning my shoulders. My dad snatched my ID and ticket. I struggled with everything I had. In the scuffle, the mug of milk tipped over, splashing across the desk. My mom’s first reaction was to pull Chloe back, shielding her. “Your sister has an exam tomorrow! Do you have to ruin this home before you’re happy?” My dad forced my thumb into the ink pad and slammed it onto the signature line of the agreement. He let go of me, looking like a man who had finally solved a tedious chore. My mom carefully folded the paper and slid it into the folder. Then, she picked up my clear plastic testing bag, peeling my name label off of it. She replaced it with a handwritten sticky note: Chloe’s Spare Supplies. I stared at those words, my hands trembling violently. Chloe took the bag and whispered, “Thank you.” I saw her fingertips resting directly on the photo of my ID card inside the folder. The next second, my vision went black. The dream came again. Serena Miller: Absent for Section

And next to it, a note from the test center coordinator: Reason: Candidate experienced a mental breakdown prior to the exam. Family requested a voluntary withdrawal. I snapped back to reality, gasping for air. Once they all left my room, whispering sweet comfort to Chloe, I turned on my old backup phone and made a call. By dinner time, the house was packed with relatives. Chloe sat in the center of the sofa. My mom had draped a bright red cardigan over her shoulders, claiming red was Chloe’s lucky color. The relatives crowded around, showering her with blessings and gifts. I was relegated to the dining table, tasked with writing “good luck cards” to hand out to the guests. My mom shoved a gold marker into my hand. “Make sure your handwriting is neat. Don’t embarrass us in front of the family.” I picked up a blank card. When I flipped it over, my fingers froze. The back of the card was a piece of my elementary school state piano championship certificate. I could still read the chopped-up text on the back: Serena Miller, First Place. I flipped through the rest of the cards. My piano certificates, my math olympiad honors, my middle school debate trophies—all of them had been cut up into palm-sized squares. These were the awards I had hidden away in my closet for years, too afraid to show my parents because they would accuse me of “stealing Chloe’s spotlight.” “Who went through my room?” my voice shook. The living room fell dead silent. My mom frowned. “They’re just old pieces of paper, Serena. Are you really going to make a scene over this?” Chloe’s eyes welled up with tears instantly. “Serena, I didn’t know they were yours. Mom just said you used to win a lot of things, and I wanted to carry a piece of your luck with me tomorrow.” Clara smiled and chimed in, “Oh, Serena, your sister is taking the SAT tomorrow. What’s wrong with giving her some of your luck?” I squeezed the shredded certificate in my fist. “This is mine.” Ethan sneered from the couch. “Yours? Every time you brought those stupid trophies home, Chloe ended up sick. You’ve held her down for years. What’s wrong with giving some of that luck back to her now?” My dad slammed his glass onto the table. “Serena, tonight is about bringing blessings to Chloe, not for you to settle old scores. If you’re going to keep acting like a victim, get the hell out of the living room. Don’t ruin your sister’s mood.” My mom snatched the shredded pieces of my certificates from my hands and stuffed them into Chloe’s purse. Chloe whispered, “Mom, will Serena be mad at me?” My mom stroked her hair. “She’ll just have to deal with it. She’s always had everything easier than you. She can handle one night of discomfort.” The relatives began writing their wishes on my ruined certificates. “Chloe will get a perfect score!” “Our golden girl will shine!” “Serena, make sure you don’t steal Chloe’s spotlight tomorrow.” The room erupted into laughter. 3 I sat at the table like a servant, handing out the cards. By the end, only one tiny scrap of paper was left. It was the piece with my name on it: Serena. As I reached for it, Chloe spoke up. “Serena, can I have that one too? I want to keep it in my pencil case.” I didn’t let go. Her tears fell immediately. “Fine, I don’t want it. Serena always thinks I’m taking things from her anyway.” My mom’s expression hardened. “Serena, do you really have to humiliate her in front of everyone?” I let out a hollow laugh. “Humiliate her? I’m the one being humiliated here.” My dad stood up abruptly, pointing a finger at me. “You think you’re the victim? Your sister has her future on the line tomorrow, and you’re throwing tantrums in front of our guests!” My mom shoved the gold marker back into my hand. “Write.” “Write what?” I asked, my voice cracking. She stared at me, her words cold and deliberate. “Write: I wish Chloe good luck.” I refused to move. Ethan walked over, grabbed my hand, and physically forced my fingers to drag the pen across the back of my ruined certificate. The gold ink dragged jaggedly across the paper. I wish Chloe a successful exam. The moment it was done, Chloe snatched it up and carefully slipped it into her pencil case. She finally smiled. “Thanks, Serena.” After the relatives left, the living room was a mess of torn red paper and trash. I went back to my room to grab my backup phone. I wanted to take photos of the shredded certificates and the forced agreement. But the moment I opened my phone, Chloe stormed in. She deliberately tripped over the desk chair, falling to the floor and sobbing hysterically. Ethan saw the phone in my hand, and his face darkened instantly. “You’re trying to take videos to post online? Serena, are you seriously trying to ruin this family’s reputation just to hurt Chloe?” Before I could speak, my dad grabbed my phone and spun the screen toward me. A video was already playing on a family group chat. In the video, I was reaching for my testing bag, and Chloe was shrinking back, falling to the ground and crying. The angle made it look like I had shoved her. Below the video was a message my mom had sent to my high school counselor, Mrs. Davis. “Mrs. Davis, Serena’s mental state is very unstable tonight.” “She has a history of extreme hostility and jealousy toward Chloe.” “If she acts out or becomes emotional at the test center tomorrow, please make sure the security staff restrains her so she doesn’t ruin Chloe’s exam.” Mrs. Davis replied: “Understood.” My ears buzzed. My dad swiped to another photo. It was the forced agreement with my thumbprint on it. “It’s written in black and white. You voluntarily signed this to delay your entry. You did this to yourself.” I lunged to grab his phone. Ethan grabbed my wrist and shoved me hard. My back slammed into the sharp corner of the wall. Pain flared through my spine, making my vision go dark. My mom saw it, but she only muttered, “Careful, Ethan. Don’t let Chloe see any blood. She has to focus tomorrow.” Chloe huddled in my mom’s arms, sobbing. “I really didn’t mean to hurt you, Serena. I was just scared nobody would believe me tomorrow.” My dad’s voice was ice. “Look at what you’ve driven her to.” He took my backup phone and used my face to unlock it. Right in front of me, he deleted every photo I had taken, and emptied the recently deleted folder. I screamed, “You have no right to delete my things!” My dad raised his hand and slapped me across the face. The room fell dead silent. He stared down at me, without a single shred of regret in his eyes. “I’m your father. I have every right. I won’t let you ruin your sister’s entire life.” My ears were ringing. My mom guided Chloe out of the room. She paused by the door, looking back at me. “Serena, I think I spoiled you too much. It made you think this family owes you everything.” They pushed me into the study room and locked the door from the outside. The room went pitch black. My phone was gone. My SAT ticket was gone. My ID was gone. I didn’t even have a piece of paper. I ransacked the dark bookshelves until I found an old dictionary. Tucked behind it was a nearly dried-up black pen. Without paper, I rolled up my sleeve and began frantically writing my student ID, my SAT registration number, and my test center details directly onto the inside of my forearm. As I wrote the final digit, I heard my mom’s voice outside, comforting Chloe. “It’s okay, baby. Serena is locked in. She won’t be able to get in your way tomorrow.” 4 On the morning of the SAT, it was pouring rain. My dad drove us to the test center. Chloe sat in the middle of the back seat, clutching two clear testing bags. One was hers. The other was mine. I sat pressed against the door, holding nothing but the dried-up pen from the night before. Ethan looked back from the passenger seat, his eyes warning me. “You better behave when we get there. If you make a scene, don’t think I won’t drag you back to the car in front of everyone.” When the car pulled up to the curb, there were only twenty-three minutes left before the gates closed. I held out my hand. “Give me my ticket and ID.” Chloe instantly clutched her chest. “Dad, I’m scared. My chest hurts.” My mom panicked. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” Chloe stared at the folder in my dad’s lap. “Can I please hold Serena’s ticket and ID? I won’t do anything to them. I just want to keep them under my desk. Knowing I have her things makes me feel safe. It calms my anxiety.” I raised my voice. “If she takes them, how am I supposed to get in?” My mom whipped around, glaring at me. “You weren’t supposed to take the first section anyway! You signed the agreement last night. Stop acting like you don’t know.” I met her gaze. “You forced my hand down to print that.” Ethan sneered. “Who saw that? You were the one acting crazy.” My dad pulled my SAT ticket and ID from the folder and slid them into Chloe’s bag. “Chloe, go inside first.” I lunged across the seat to grab them, but Ethan locked his arms around me, pinning me down. By the time Ethan finally let go, Chloe was already walking through the gates of the test center. My dad handed me the empty manila folder. “Go wait under the awning. Once the first section is over, I’ll get your ticket back from Chloe, and you can take the rest of the test.” He paused, refusing to look me in the eye. “This is for the good of the family.” My mom’s eyes were red as she added, “Serena, don’t push me. Chloe finally made it inside. Can’t you just let her finish one test in peace?” I didn’t say another word. I opened the door, stepped into the pouring rain, and ran straight toward the emergency registration desk. The test administrator listened to my story, her expression turning from confusion to alarm. “Your sister took your admission ticket and ID into the secure testing zone?” I rolled up my sleeve, revealing the ink numbers partially smudged by the rain. “My name is Serena Miller. I need a temporary identity verification.” The administrator opened her system. But the moment she pulled up my registration, her eyebrows knit together. “Wait, there’s a flag on your account.” The school counselor standing nearby leaned over to look, her face dropping. “Parental Flag: Candidate experiencing severe pre-test emotional instability. Family requests holding entry for Section 1.” Just then, Mrs. Davis, my high school counselor, ran over with an umbrella. “Serena, calm down. Your mother called me last night to explain your situation.” I looked Mrs. Davis dead in the eye. “Mrs. Davis, I am perfectly calm. My sister stole my ID and ticket, and my parents held me in the car to make sure I missed the first section.” My dad rushed over, slamming his hand onto the registration counter. “Don’t let her in! Her sister is already inside. If Serena goes in now and demands her ticket back, it will ruin the exam for both of them!” My mom followed, crying as she begged me, “Serena, please, just skip the first section. You’re smart. You can make up the score later. If Chloe collapses because of you, her life is over!” The speakers blared: “One minute until doors close. All remaining candidates please enter immediately.” The printer at the desk buzzed, spitting out a temporary admission slip. My dad slammed his hand over the paper. “Do not give it to her.” “I am her legal guardian, and I do not consent to her entering this building.” My mom grabbed my arm from behind, pulling me back with all her strength, sobbing hysterically. “Serena, I’m begging you! Just this once!” Ethan stepped in front of me, his voice a low, threatening hiss. “Serena, if you walk through those doors today, don’t ever call me your brother again.” Rainwater dripped from my eyelashes. I stared at the temporary slip of paper just inches away under my dad’s hand. I clenched my fists. Suddenly, a cold, commanding voice cut through the rain. “Let go of her!” Everyone froze. A middle-aged man in a dark trench coat walked over, flanked by two security guards. He glanced at my mom’s grip on my arm, then at my dad’s hand pinning my admission slip. “Who gave you permission to block a registered candidate from entering an exam?”

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Harris gave me the silent treatment for seven whole days just because I carpooled with a male coworker on the way home. Late at night, I was alone in the ER, cold sweat dripping from the excruciating pain in my stomach. I called his number over and over again, but all I got was the despairing, automated voice: “The line is busy.” He was an incredibly cold and aloof man, with a borderline pathological possessiveness over me. During our five years of dating, he demanded that I delete all non-essential male contacts. I even had to report our professional conversations in my WhatsApp work groups to him. He always spoke in the most deeply affectionate tone, saying: “Chloe, I have a pure soul. I can’t stand even a speck of dust in our relationship. I want what we have to be absolutely pure.” To maintain this so-called purity, I turned my life into an isolated island. It wasn’t until I connected to the hospital Wi-Fi that I happened to scroll past a new post from a popular relationship influencer on Ins. [Thank you to my exclusive listener. Thirty consecutive nights of listening to me until dawn got me through my darkest hours.] In the long screenshot attached to the post, the phone number at the top wasn’t completely blurred out. It ended in ‘0921’—my birthday, and the exact custom number he insisted on using. I carefully compared the timestamps in the screenshot. Every single call took place late at night, exactly when Harris had shut me out, claiming he “needed independent space to think.” I quietly stared at those call durations—each lasting two to three hours. Suddenly, the physical pain in my body felt completely numb. I tapped the cancel call button. This sick, twisted version of purity? I didn’t want it anymore.

I ripped the medical tape off my arm and pulled out the IV needle. Pressing down on the bleeding vein, I dragged my aching body through the discharge process and left the hospital. The wind outside the hospital was freezing. I didn’t bother calling that busy number again. I just took an Uber straight home. When I pushed the front door open, Harris, who was supposed to be out “needing independent space,” was sitting right there on the living room sofa. The main lights in the living room were off. Under the dim glow of the wall sconce, his brows were knitted tightly. There wasn’t a single trace of worry on his face. “Where have you been?” He looked me up and down. “Did you go see that male coworker again?” “Chloe, I gave you the silent treatment so you could reflect on your lack of boundaries, not so you could retaliate against me.” I stood in the entryway, my underwear already soaked with cold sweat. I pulled out my phone, pulled up that poorly blurred screenshot, walked over, and tossed it onto the coffee table. “0921. Thirty late nights. So, your ‘space to think’ was spent being Sophie’s exclusive listener?” I thought he would panic, make up excuses, or frantically try to destroy the evidence. But he didn’t even change his posture. He glanced down at the screen, sighed, and turned his head away. “Chloe, you spied on me. To look at me with such vulgar, dirty eyes… I’m so disappointed in you.” A sharp cramp in my stomach forced me to double over. I let out a cold laugh. “I’m dirty? You shut me out for seven days, spending hours on the phone with another woman every single night.” “And now you’re blaming me for not being noble enough?” Harris stood up, walked over to me, and towered over me. “Sophie has severe depression.” “As her former classmate, I am simply saving a life. It’s an act of charity.” “What we discuss is the meaning of life and the struggles of the soul. It has nothing to do with anything else.” He raised his chin slightly and spoke. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you were narrow-minded and couldn’t understand this kind of gender-transcending spiritual salvation.” “But I never expected you to stoop so low as to monitor me. You’ve stained the absolute purity between us.” With that, he snatched my phone and shoved it into his pocket. “Confiscated for three days. Stay home, rest, and reflect.” “When you’ve washed the jealousy out of your brain, then you can go out.” He turned to leave. I reached out to grab my phone back. In our struggle, he grabbed my wrist. The moment he felt my cold sweat and saw the ER discharge papers slipping out of my bag, his movements froze. He snatched the papers. When he saw the words “acute gastric spasms,” his eyes instantly turned red. Dropping the phone, he threw his arms around me, holding me so tightly my ribs ached. “You went to the hospital? Why didn’t you tell me!” “Chloe, I won’t allow you to have a single scratch on you! You can only stay within my sight, do you hear me!” His voice was trembling, his whole body shaking, as if the cold, accusing man from a second ago had never existed. Leaning against his chest, my defensive walls wavered slightly. He had always been like this during our five years of dating. He cut off all my connections with the outside world, yet showered me with intense, suffocating affection. Maybe he really was just trying to save a life. Maybe I really was being narrow-minded. I was so starved for love that I had to rely on his borderline pathological possessiveness to convince myself I was loved. Harris carried me to the bedroom, tucked me into bed, rolled up his sleeves, and went to the kitchen to cook my favorite pasta. He blew on the pasta to cool it down and brought it to my lips. “Good girl, take another bite. You’re never allowed to run off on your own again.” “If you feel sick, tell me immediately. I’m your man.” I mechanically swallowed the warm pasta. Watching his attentive movements, my tense emotions eased a little. Right then, his private phone on the coffee table lit up and buzzed twice. A short text popped up on the lock screen: [The weather is beautiful today, but I can’t see the light. Not without you.] The pasta in my throat instantly turned into a wave of nauseating disgust.

I stared at the screen until it went dark again. My hands and feet grew ice-cold. I forced the rising bile back down and remained silent. The next morning, after Harris left, I forced my aching body out of bed, got dressed, and put on some makeup. Today was an incredibly important, closed-door VC pitch event. To secure a face-to-face interview with the managing partners of a top venture capital firm, I had worked sleeplessly for three months. In this city, which was completely controlled by Harris, this was my only chance to break free. When I arrived at the venue, I found an empty seat in the back row and waited for the presentation to start. The stage lights went up, and the host introduced the guest speaker. “Next, let’s welcome the relationship influencer with millions of followers, Sophie, to share her journey of spiritual rebuilding.” My hands clenched the fabric of my skirt. On stage, Sophie was wearing a simple, elegant dress, speaking into the microphone. As she talked about how her “soulmate” had dragged her out of the abyss of depression, my grip on my portfolio tightened. Then, Harris, a man who had always despised public events, actually walked onto the stage as a surprise guest. Under the gaze of the entire audience, he sat down next to Sophie. They didn’t even need any polite introduction. With just a single glance from Harris, Sophie seamlessly picked up the deep psychological discussion. Their chemistry was flawless. The industry big shots in the audience nodded in approval. Sitting in the corner, I stared at my fiancé—the man who claimed he only wanted absolute purity with me. On that stage, he freely poured his warmth onto another woman. This kind of spiritual betrayal was far more agonizing than physical cheating. As soon as the networking session began, I forced myself to look away from the stage. I stood up to find the investors and present my business proposal. The lead investor showed great interest and spoke with me. I responded politely and professionally. Suddenly, I felt a burning gaze on my back. I turned around. Harris had stopped talking on stage and was staring dead at me. During the mid-session break, the moment I walked into the backstage corridor, someone grabbed my arm and dragged me into a utility closet. Harris pinned me against the wall, locked the door, and pinched my chin, his voice dangerously low. “I told you yesterday to stay home and rest. Did my words go in one ear and out the other?” “And you dare to smile so flirtatiously at another man right in front of my face?” “Chloe, have you completely forgotten my rules?” A wave of humiliation rushed over me. I slapped his hand away. “I was doing my job! He is the lead investor!” “Job?” Harris sneered. “Do you even need a job?” “My credit card has no limit. Do you really need to go and sell smiles to those disgusting men?” I trembled with rage, pointing at the door and yelling, “I’m not allowed to smile at investors, but what about you?” “What you and Sophie did on stage—that ‘soul connection’—what is that? Spiritual cheating?” His face went completely cold, his eyes filled with disapproval. “Chloe, that is spiritual salvation.” “Sophie needs my validation to recover.” “To twist our relationship with your low-class jealousy only makes you look completely unreasonable.” With that, he flung the door open and left. I leaned against the wall, gasping for air. A few minutes later, I walked back toward the main hall. Just as I reached the entrance, I heard him speaking to the lead investor. “Mr. Vance, there is a serious issue with Chloe’s proposal.” “She is my fiancée, and her health has been very poor. Her mental state is unstable, and I don’t want her to overwork herself. She is pulling out of this project.” Mr. Vance looked disappointed. “But Chloe’s proposal is brilliant. A sudden replacement…” “There’s no need to worry,” Harris’s tone left no room for argument. “I highly recommend Sophie to take over as the chief consultant for this project.” “Her insight into human nature is a hundred times more profound than Chloe’s.” “If you agree, Harris Group is willing to inject an additional twenty million dollars into this funding round.” Standing outside the door, I felt my chest tighten. Three months of my blood, sweat, and tears—gone. Just for his so-called purity, he had personally crushed my last piece of career hope. Inside, Mr. Vance gave a compromising laugh. “Well, since you put it that way, Mr. Harris, we will go with your recommendation, Sophie.” “As for Chloe, I’ll have my assistant send her the rejection letter.” I turned around and walked out of the building with heavy steps.

Back in the luxury villa he had built for me, I looked up. In the living room, the hallways, the study, and even the corner of the dining room—little red lights were blinking. He used to tell me that the security cameras were there because he worried about me being home alone. He said it was for my safety. But standing under those red lights now, I was entirely sober. I wasn’t a protected lover. I was just a caged pet. Sophie was the partner who could actually stand by his side. At ten o’clock that night, he came home, acting as if nothing had happened, completely ignoring our daytime fight. He walked over to the sofa and pulled out a velvet box. Inside lay a stunning sapphire necklace. He stepped behind me, draped the heavy necklace around my neck, and fastened the clasp. He hugged me from behind, burying his face in my hair. “Chloe, the outside world is too dirty. The corporate world is full of schemes.” “You can’t handle them. Just stay home safely. I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.” He was always like this—cutting off my escape routes, then wrapping his control in a layer of excuses called protection. Looking at our reflection in the dark window, I didn’t scream, and I didn’t question him. I placed my hands over his around my waist, and nodded obediently. “Okay.” He relaxed instantly and kissed my cheek. The next morning, the moment he walked out the door, I quickly hid in the camera’s blind spot—the corner of the basement walk-in closet. I opened an old laptop, connected to a burner hotspot, and logged into my backup email. [Dear Ms. Chloe, congratulations. You have successfully passed the final background check at our global headquarters.] [Your official appointment letter as the Vice President of the APAC region has been issued. Please confirm your start date.] In truth, I had already figured out that in this city, no matter how hard I struggled, I could never escape the reach of Harris Group. The three-month pitch event was just a smokescreen. My real trump card was this position at a rival global firm. I typed in a few words: [I will depart in three days.] Just as I closed the laptop, a friend request popped up on my Snapchat: [Hi Chloe, this is Sophie.] I accepted. She didn’t send any direct, petty insults. Instead, her words were dripping with false sympathy. [Chloe, Harris told me that you’ve been in a terrible mental state since losing your project. He says you’re too dependent on him, and it’s putting a lot of pressure on him.] [He asked me to talk to you when I have time. You really need to learn how to stand on your own two feet.] Then, she sent two photos. The first was a snowy mountain peak at 4 AM. Harris and Sophie were sitting side by side, watching the sunrise. The second was a dimly lit underground bar. Harris was sitting in a dark corner, his eyes fixed on Sophie dancing on stage. The timestamps on those photos were all during the dates he claimed he was away on “crucial business trips.” Staring at the bar photo, memories from two years ago flooded my mind. When I was first diagnosed with mild depression, the doctor suggested I spend more time in lively places. I had begged Harris to take me to an outdoor music festival. But he had frowned, his face full of disgust as he refused. “Chloe, I can’t stand those dirty, noisy places where the air is thick with other people’s sweat.” “Making a request like this only makes me feel like your taste is degenerating.” That night, because I had stood near the entrance of the festival venue for a few minutes, he made me scrub my skin with disinfectant soap three times until my skin was raw and bleeding. Those were his rules. He used rigidity and suppression to lock me up, yet he broke every single one of his boundaries for Sophie. The double standard was sickening. Calmly, I saved the photos and opened an encrypted folder titled “Financial Audit.” Inside were the highly suspicious offshore transactions I had signed on his behalf over the past three years as his fiancée. I packaged all the files and set an auto-send timer. That evening, Harris arrived home with a team of personal stylists. He loudly announced to the media that he was hosting a grand gala for me in three days. “Chloe, I want to declare my love for you to the entire world. A love that is absolutely pure.” He squeezed my hand, his face full of deep affection. I curled my lips into a smile. “Okay. I can’t wait.”

Three days later, the luxury yacht was anchored in deep waters. The entire deck was decorated in pure white. White roses paired with a white carpet. I was forced to wear a white gown of his choosing, led by his hand to the center of the deck under the gaze of hundreds of wealthy guests. “Mr. Harris really went all out for Ms. Chloe. This party is absolutely stunning.” “Chloe is so lucky. To be loved by a man like Harris, what more could she possibly want?” “Exactly. What more does a woman need than a man whose eyes are only on her?” The guests whispered among themselves, holding champagne flutes. I listened blankly, offering no response. He walked up to the microphone. “Five years ago, I met Chloe.” “I said back then, my world cannot tolerate a single speck of dust.” “Thank you, Chloe, for your five years of devotion, keeping our love entirely spotless.” The crowd erupted into thunderous applause. Looking at his face made me want to throw up. Harris dropped to one knee and pulled out a massive diamond ring. “Chloe, marry me.” The crowd cheered, and camera flashes blinded my eyes. Right at that moment, a vibration came from inside his suit jacket. I heard it loud and clear. His hand holding the ring froze in mid-air, his eyes flickering. In front of hundreds of people, he actually pulled back the ring and reached for his private phone. On the screen was Sophie’s latest Instagram update. It was a photo of the deep ocean, with one of her feet dangling off a bridge. The caption read: [The listener is gone. My soul is too heavy, dragging me down into the deep.] [Harris, be happy. It’s time for me to sleep forever.] The affection on his face vanished instantly, replaced by a deadly pale horror. “Sophie…” He forgot he was holding a wedding ring and bolted upright. The force of his sudden movement pushed me back, causing me to stumble. The diamond ring slipped from his fingers, rolling into a dark corner of the deck. The entire deck fell into dead silence. Everyone was utterly stunned by his sudden loss of control. Ignoring the crowd of high-society guests, he pressed his earpiece and roared toward the captain’s cabin: “Lower the speedboats! Turn the yacht around at full speed!” “Now! Send people to the harbor bridge immediately!” After screaming into the mic, he turned to sprint toward the boarding gate. As he passed me, he stopped. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with rage. He gritted his teeth and warned me: “Wait for me here.” “If anything happens to Sophie today because of your jealousy…” “Chloe, I will never forgive you for that cold, heartless look in your eyes!” Not only did he abandon me in front of the entire city’s elite, but he also pinned the blame entirely on me. He jumped onto a speedboat and sped off without looking back, leaving the yacht rocking violently in the open sea. The wind on the deck was harsh. The stares of the guests pierced through me, a mix of pity and mocking whispers filling the air. Staring at the corner where the diamond ring had rolled, I actually laughed out loud. Under everyone’s bewildered gazes, I walked over and gave the ring a sharp kick. The multi-million dollar ring splashed into the dark ocean. His fake, hypocritical love sank straight to the bottom. I opened my clutch, pulled out my global VP appointment letter, and retrieved a tablet loaded with Harris Group’s tax evasion and financial fraud files. Dragging my white train behind me, I walked steadily onto the main stage where he had just stood. I grabbed the microphone, facing the crowd, and raised the documents high.

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Chris and I used a CoupleStreak app to track our relationship. For 999 consecutive days, he sent me a “Goodnight” message every single day. He said it was our special ritual. Even when we fought, even when he went on business trips, and even when he didn’t finish his client dinners until three in the morning, he never missed a single day. Until last night, when the streak stopped at day 999. The app gave a cold notification: Your streak has been broken. Thinking something terrible had happened to him, I called him 108 times. When he finally picked up on the 108th call, his voice was raspy and exhausted. “Stop pressuring me, Chloe. I’m still at the hospital. Grace is having an episode.” Grace was his ex-girlfriend. She had gotten divorced just two weeks ago. I gripped my phone tightly, my heart sinking inch by inch. “So you forgot to say goodnight to me?” Chris paused, as if he had just realized it, and let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “We’ve been together forever, babe. Are you seriously throwing a tantrum over something so petty?” But this “petty” thing was something he had built with his own hands when he was chasing me. He once told me that “goodnight” wasn’t just a word; it was his way of making sure I was the very last thought in his mind before he went to sleep. I stared at the broken number on my screen. Suddenly, I felt like our two and a half years together weren’t that long after all. It was long enough for him to form a habit, but short enough for him to completely forget about me the moment another woman needed him.

The harsh beep of the hung-up call cut through the freezing night wind. I stood outside the iron gates of Chris’s suburban mansion, dragging my heavy suitcase. The fingerprint lock on the front door flashed red, and a cold, robotic voice spoke. “Access expired. Please contact the homeowner.” I leaned against the icy iron bars, my stomach cramping violently from the ten-hour bus ride. Peeking out from the zipper of my backpack was a pink card. “Wishing Chloe a bright future and a happy marriage.” My school principal, Mr. Hudson, had personally handed that to me yesterday afternoon. Because Chris had told me to “stop worrying about petty things,” I had resigned from my tenured teaching job. On this exact day—our 1000th anniversary—I had completely abandoned my stable, quiet life to come to this unfamiliar city alone. This was supposed to be our first day ending our long-distance relationship. I crouched in the corner of the wall to block the wind, pressing my hands hard against my aching stomach. The physical pain dragged my memories back to two years ago. Back then, I was facing severe bullying at my workplace, and my anxiety was so bad that I couldn’t keep food down. But Chris would drive hours every single weekend, without fail, just to see me. He would cook my favorite pasta, sit in my tiny, cramped apartment, and gently coax me to take one bite at a time. He had promised me. “Chloe, as long as I’m here, you will never have to face the cold winter alone.” That was my saving grace, the very foundation of my courage to risk everything today. But now, the man who once used his own body heat to warm my hands had completely forgotten about me in this freezing wind, all because another woman was in a bad mood. At 5:00 AM, a familiar black Mercedes finally pulled into the driveway. The headlights pierced through the thick darkness. My stiff body struggled as I forced myself to stand up against the wall. My frozen facial muscles twitched, trying to force a smile I hadn’t used in hours. The passenger door opened first, and Chris rushed over. He leaned down and gently lifted Grace—who was lost in a deep depressive state—out of the car. Grace was incredibly thin, wrapped tightly in a thick, oversized cashmere coat. The hem of the coat dragged on the ground. It was Chris’s favorite coat. In past winters, whenever I came to visit him, he loved to unzip that very coat, pull me into his chest, and laughingly tell me it was my personal windproof tent. Now, someone else was in that tent. Chris lowered his voice, whispering sweet, comforting words into Grace’s ear. His entire focus was on the woman in his arms. He didn’t even spare a glance toward the shadow where I stood. It wasn’t until Grace half-opened her eyes and pointed toward the gate that Chris finally turned around. When he saw me, shivering and practically frozen solid, a flash of pure shock crossed his face. After settling Grace down, he slowly walked over to me. Across the iron gate, his voice was still that beautiful, gentle tone that I used to lose myself in. “Chloe? Why did you come all this way without telling me?” “You should have called first.” “Grace had a complete mental breakdown last night and had to take sleeping pills. She can’t handle any sudden shocks right now.” “Be a good girl.” “Keep your voice down, okay? Let’s get inside first.” He reached out, trying to grab my heavy backpack. When his fingers brushed against my icy hand, he froze for a split second. I looked at the deep concern in his eyes—all of which was reserved for Grace—and realized with absolute clarity. In this movie of three people, I had become the unwanted extra who was expected to be quiet and understanding. I pulled my hand back, avoiding his touch, and picked up the two heavy bags myself. “Okay. I won’t wake her.” I stepped into the house I once thought would be my home. Chris took Grace upstairs to the master bedroom. It was a long time before he finally came downstairs and poured me a glass of warm water. “I knew I could count on you to be reasonable, Chloe.” I held the warm glass, my eyes landing on his collar. There was a smudge of foundation on his shirt. It wasn’t my shade.

The next morning, I woke up in the guest room. After freezing outside all night, my throat was raw and painful. I got up early, habitually walking to the kitchen to make Chris’s favorite pancakes. As I passed the hallway on the second floor, I noticed the master bedroom door was ajar. Chris and Grace were sitting side-by-side on the wool rug by the balcony. Grace was clutching her head, her body trembling uncontrollably. Chris had his arm wrapped around her, gently rubbing her back. I stood there, silent. I quietly went back to the guest room and pulled out a card I had written on the bus last night. Happy 1000 Days, Dr. Blair! I’m finally here to be with you. The handwriting was bursting with the excitement I felt at the time. But now, I tore it into pieces and threw it into the trash can. At breakfast, Chris brought two plates out from the kitchen. With my throat burning, I instinctively reached for the plate with the light, clear chicken noodle soup. But Chris gently pressed his hand over mine, his eyes soft but firm. “Chloe, I made that specifically for Grace.” “Her stomach is really sensitive from her antidepressant medication. She can’t handle anything greasy.” He pushed the other plate, loaded with greasy bacon, toward me. “You used to love bacon. I went out of my way to order this delivery for you.” I stared at the plate of bacon dripping with oil. Just swallowing my own saliva felt like swallowing razor blades. My voice came out raspy and broken. “My stomach hurts too. I can’t eat greasy food today.” The moment those words left my mouth, Grace’s eyes welled up with tears. The fork slipped from her hand, clattering onto the table, and she began to shake. “I’m sorry…” “It’s all my fault. I’m even fighting you for a bowl of soup.” “I’m so useless. I should just die…” She covered her face and sobbed. Chris immediately rushed to her side, pulling her into his chest to comfort her. Once Grace’s breathing finally calmed down, Chris turned to look at me, letting out a heavy sigh. “Chloe, you’ve always loved greasy food.” “She has lost everything. She’s literally fighting for her life every day.” “You have a stable, great job, and you have my undivided love.” “Why do you have to pick a fight with a sick person over a simple bowl of soup?” With the gentlest tone, he ripped open my deepest wound. He had no idea that I didn’t have a stable job anymore. By noon, I developed a low-grade fever, and my throat was so swollen I could barely speak. Chris’s private dental clinic was located in the commercial district just outside our neighborhood. I decided to walk over to get some anti-inflammatory medicine from him. When I reached the clinic, I looked through the glass storefront. Chris was lying on the recliner next to the dental chair. He was holding Grace’s hand while the nurse administered a calming therapy session for her. Two receptionists at the front desk were whispering to each other. “Dr. Blair is so sweet to her.” “He canceled all of his afternoon appointments just to stay with her during therapy.” I stood in the drizzling rain, took a two-hour bus ride, and went to the run-down North End of the city—a place filled with sketchy, cheap apartments. I walked into a dingy little pharmacy, bought the cheapest fever reducers, and swallowed them with a bottle of water while standing in the cold wind. As the medicine started to kick in, I searched through the narrow alleys for an apartment, repeatedly checking the balance in my bank account. To be with Chris, I hadn’t just quit my job; I had spent almost all of my savings paying off the school’s contract termination penalty. Finally, I stopped in front of a dim, semi-basement apartment. The walls were peeling, and the place smelled heavily of mold. I told myself that this was where I would plant my new roots in a city that didn’t belong to me. I sat on a plastic chair in the rental office and signed the lease for the semi-basement. When I looked up, I saw a job posting tacked on the bulletin board. At that exact moment, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was a voice note from Chris. “Chloe, I’m taking you out for French food tonight to celebrate our 1000 days.”

I put on my best white dress, applied some light makeup, and went to the dinner on time. It was a Michelin-starred French restaurant with an incredible view, overlooking the city’s sparkling skyline. Chris had booked half the restaurant, and a beautifully wrapped, expensive gift sat in the center of the table. He smiled, pulling out the chair for me. “I know you took your vacation days just to come see me for our 1000-day anniversary.” “I’m sorry I ignored you these past few days. Tonight is just for the two of us.” He elegantly picked up his knife and fork, cutting my steak into perfect, bite-sized pieces. His eyes were filled with so much love that even the violinist playing nearby looked at us with envy. This genuine affection was the hardest thing for me to fight against. It was a slow, blunt knife. Just as I picked up my fork, trying to accept his words as a final comfort, his phone rang. The moment he saw the caller ID, the smile vanished from his face. The panicked voice of Grace’s psychiatrist came through the speaker, so loud that even I could hear it. “Miss Grace just slit her wrists! She’s in the emergency room right now! Dr. Blair, you need to get here immediately!” The cutlery slipped from Chris’s hands, clattering loudly against the plate. His face turned deathly pale. He stood up instantly, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of the chair. He looked at me with guilt, but his eyes were filled with absolute determination. “I’m so sorry, Chloe. Her life is on the line. I have to go.” “Take an Uber back to the mansion. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” Before I could even speak, he had already stormed out of the restaurant. I sat quietly in the luxurious dining room, staring at the perfectly cut steak, and suddenly felt a wave of pure absurdity. If love only consists of “making things up to me,” how is that any different from charity? I didn’t go back to the mansion. In this city, twelve hundred miles away from my hometown, Chris only had to change the door code, and I would be homeless. The rain outside grew heavier, and not a single light in this massive city belonged to me. I tried calling Chris to tell him that my stomach was cramping so badly I couldn’t walk. He declined my call instantly, sending a cold text right after: I’m outside the ICU right now. It’s not convenient to talk. Be a good girl and go back home to teach your classes. Once I sort things out here, I’ll fly back to see you. I stared at the screen as a wave of acid surged up my throat. I crouched under the bus stop shelter, completely soaked by the pouring rain. That was the moment I finally understood. In his mind, he believed I always had a safe, cozy home to retreat to. Because of that, he assumed I would always be safe. And because of that, he felt entirely comfortable hurting me. In the middle of the night, I went back to the mansion. The house was dark and completely empty. Grace’s antidepressant bottles were still sitting right in the middle of the coffee table. I walked into the guest room and quietly packed my suitcase. I packed my clothes and the lesson plans I had left in the study. I cleaned up the room thoroughly, making sure not even a single strand of my hair was left in the bathroom. I never belonged to this house anyway. I came without a sound, and I left without a trace. Before leaving, I pushed open the master bedroom door and took one last look at the bed we used to share. I pulled a piece of paper from my bag. It was the copy of my resignation letter. I had planned to give it to him tonight, on our 1000th anniversary. I wanted to tell him: “Chris, for you, I have become a wanderer in this city.” But now, I slowly tore the paper into tiny shreds, walked to the bathroom, and flushed them down the toilet. He would never deserve to know this secret. The front door clicked shut. I dragged my suitcase out into the late autumn rain. At that moment, my phone lit up with a message from Chris: She’s out of danger. Take care of yourself at home. Don’t make me worry.

An hour before I left, there was actually a small confrontation. Just as I dragged my heavy bags to the foyer, the front door swung open. Chris had rushed back to grab some of Grace’s things, and we ran straight into each other. Seeing my bags on the floor, Chris pinched the bridge of his nose in exhaustion, though his voice remained gentle. “Chloe, didn’t we agree you would stop throwing tantrums?” “You’re a high school teacher. Can’t you be a little more mature?” “Grace is literally lying in the ICU, and you’re choosing this exact moment to play the runaway girlfriend?” Grace’s nanny, who was following behind him to grab her pajamas, gave me a contemptuous look. Chris stepped forward, placing his hand on my suitcase to stop me. “Fine. I know you still have a few days left of your vacation.” “You’re going back home, right?” “I’ll book you a first-class flight for tomorrow. Just stay at a hotel tonight, okay?” “Grace can’t handle any stress when she gets discharged, so she has to stay here for a while.” “Go back to your quiet little town, teach your classes, and once she’s fully recovered, I’ll come get you.” He took it for granted that Grace could occupy his house, and he took it for granted that he could discard me back to what he assumed was my safety zone. He was so certain that I couldn’t leave my job, so certain that I couldn’t survive in this massive city, that I would eventually crawl back to my comfort zone. I looked at the face of the man I had loved for three years, and the very last spark in my heart died out. I didn’t argue. I didn’t explain. I had no home left to go back to. In front of Chris, I pulled out my phone. I opened the CoupleStreak app that had witnessed our 1000 days. “Chris Blair,” I called him by his full name. “Thank you for taking care of me these past three years.” “But from now on, we don’t need to keep our streak anymore.” Under Chris’s shocked gaze, I decisively tapped “Delete and Terminate Relationship.” The app let out a cold chime: Relationship terminated. All records have been cleared. Chris’s face went completely pale, but he still thought this was just a high-level tantrum. “Are you crazy?” “A thousand days of memories, and you just deleted them like that?” “Do you really have to push me like this right now?” I gently pulled my hand out of his grip. There was no hatred in my eyes, only the complete indifference you’d show a stranger. “I’m not pushing you. I’m letting myself go.” “Grace needs you more. Take good care of her.” With that, I turned around, opened the door, and walked out. I slammed the heavy security door shut behind me, leaving it all in the cold autumn wind. Three hours later, at a run-down local community center in the far north of the city, I stood in my cheap sneakers with my hair tied back in a simple ponytail. I signed my employment contract with the community outreach program. My daily job would be walking through the alleys, handling trivial neighborhood issues. But the moment I wrote down my new address on the tax forms, I let out a long, deep sigh of relief. From that moment on, in this crowded metropolis of twenty million people, there was one less codependent girlfriend, and one more ordinary working woman named Chloe. And Chris was officially locked away in the grave of my past. During lunch break, I sat at the entrance of the alley, eating a warm bowl of street pasta. At the exact same time, Chris stared at the missing app on his phone, letting out a cold scoff as he muttered to himself: “Fine. Delete it. Let’s see how long she can hold out.”

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“Iris is pregnant,” Carter said, standing in the shadows of the rehearsal hall. His voice was barely a whisper. “The wedding goes on. After we’re married, I’ll spend a few days a week taking care of her. Once she’s stable, everything will go back to the way it was.” I clutched the ring box so hard my knuckles turned white. “And what about me? Where do I fit into your little schedule?” “You’re my fiancée. Tomorrow, you’ll be Mrs. Sterling.” He frowned, looking at me like I was throwing a tantrum. “Isn’t that title enough for you?” Iris, wearing an oversized coat and looking perfectly pale, chimed in softly. “Chloe, I don’t want to steal your place. I just want my baby to have a father.” I set the ring box on the table. “Then anyone else can have this damn title.” A toxic, dirty man? I don’t want him anymore. Chloe’s POV I was about to marry the man I had loved for years, Carter Sterling. I spent six months planning this wedding. I even personally picked out the color of the coffee mugs in our new penthouse. But during the rehearsal the night before the wedding, an untitled video suddenly played on the ballroom’s giant screen. On screen, Iris, Carter’s childhood best friend, was rubbing her belly and whining cutely. “Carter, the doctor said the baby is doing great. Don’t drink too much at your wedding tomorrow. You promised you would spend a few days a week with us after you are married. Don’t forget.” In the top right corner of the screen, Carter’s contact name for her was saved as: Iris & Baby. The room went dead silent. Carter, who had arrived late, didn’t even look panicked. He just frowned at me. “Don’t make a scene. Don’t make us a laughingstock.” I stood in the dim light, the ring box digging painfully into my palm. Carter’s friends reacted first, awkwardly trying to block the screen. “This is a misunderstanding! Iris is just joking around again! Don’t take it to heart, Chloe. We all grew up together. She’s just talking nonsense. We’re just friends!” The next second, Iris pushed the door open. She wore a loose coat, held a thermos, and looked perfectly, delicately pale. When she saw me, she actually smiled. “Chloe, don’t worry. Carter and I really aren’t what you think. The baby was an accident. I didn’t mean to come between you.” “An accident?” I asked. Carter walked over and lowered his voice. “Don’t start something now. There are too many people here tonight.” I stared at him. “She’s pregnant, and you’re telling me not to start something?” Carter frowned, as if I had asked an incredibly tasteless question. “I wasn’t planning on keeping it from you. Now that the baby is here, I can’t just ignore it. The wedding can still happen. After we’re married, I’ll spend a few days a week taking care of her. Once she’s stable, everything will go back to normal.” Iris chimed in softly, “Don’t worry, Chloe. I’m not trying to steal the title of Mrs. Sterling. I’m not that greedy. I just want my baby to have a father.” “And me?” I smiled coldly. “What am I in your little arrangement?” Carter snapped, annoyed. “You’re my fiancée. Tomorrow you’ll be Mrs. Sterling. Isn’t that enough? Iris has no family left. I’m just helping her out. Why do you have to play the victim?” I heard people around us whispering, telling me that a man making a mistake before marriage wasn’t a big deal, that Carter was at least being honest, and that since Iris was being so reasonable, I shouldn’t make things ugly. I set the ring box on the table. My voice wasn’t loud, but it was crystal clear. “The wedding is canceled.” Carter’s face darkened. “Chloe Vance, think carefully before you speak.” “I’ve thought it through.” I grabbed my purse and walked past him. “Have fun with the rest of your rehearsal. Enjoy the show.” As I reached the exit, my phone rang. Liam’s voice came through, filled with a rushed anxiety he couldn’t hide. “Chloe, if you really don’t want to marry him, get downstairs now. I’m parked outside.” The night wind hit my face, and my eyes stung with tears. I whispered, “Wait for me.” I walked to the end of the hallway and called the wedding coordinator. “Don’t worry about the bridal suite tomorrow. Cancel all my segments of the wedding. Send me the bill for any financial losses.” The coordinator sounded terrified. “Miss Vance, can we talk about this?” I looked at my reflection in the glass window. My makeup was perfect, but I felt completely hollowed out. “No need. The groom has someone else who needs his care more. I’m not fighting for him.” After I hung up, the wedding Snapchat group was still buzzing. People were asking what time the wedding started tomorrow, joking that Carter shouldn’t drink too much on his last night of freedom. I renamed the group to *Wedding Canceled* and left. “Find someone else who’s ‘mature’ enough to be your Mrs. Sterling.” I slammed the ring box onto the table. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. “The wedding is canceled.” Ignoring Carter’s instantly furious expression, I turned and walked away. I immediately sent a message to the wedding group: *Wedding canceled.* Then I left the group.

Chloe’s POV The moment I walked out of the hotel, Liam’s Maybach was already idling at the curb. “If you really don’t want to marry him, get in,” Liam said, looking at me. That was all he said. With red eyes, I pulled open the door. “I need to go back and get my documents.” I drove back to the penthouse I had spent six months decorating. But when I pushed the door open, the entryway was piled with baby sleeping bags and unopened prenatal vitamins. Victoria, Carter’s mother, was directing the housekeeper to clear out the guest bedroom. Seeing me return, she smiled as if nothing had happened. “Chloe, you’re back just in time. Iris is in her first trimester, and she has no one to take care of her out there. I had her move in here for a few days. You’re the real Mrs. Sterling, so you need to be understanding. That’s the only way to keep peace in the family.” I stared at her coldly. “This is my and Carter’s home.” “Our family co-signed this penthouse, and Iris is carrying a Sterling baby. Why shouldn’t she stay here?” Victoria’s face hardened. “Carter is a successful man. It’s only natural for him to have some temptations outside. Do you not even understand how high society works?” “Then go find someone who ‘understands’ and let her marry him.” I didn’t waste another breath. I walked straight into the bedroom, packing my passport and important documents into a suitcase. Hurry footsteps echoed from the hallway. Carter rushed in, looking completely disheveled. He slammed his hand against the doorframe, blocking my way. “How long are you going to keep making a scene? If you walk out that door tonight, what are we supposed to do tomorrow?” “When you let Iris move into our home, did you think about what we were supposed to do?” I shoved him away, my eyes filled with nothing but absolute coldness. “I’m not making a scene. I am leaving. Did you seriously expect me to stay, give up my room, accompany her to OB-GYN appointments, and then smile while taking care of her tomorrow?” Victoria got defensive. “Iris is pregnant! Watch your mouth!” “That’s why I’m leaving!” Carter didn’t believe I would actually walk away. I had chased him for four years. Everyone knew it. I was the one who brought him homemade soup when he pulled late nights for his startup. I was the one who remembered all his food allergies. I was the one who saved every single Sterling family member’s birthday in my calendar. Carter was used to my gentleness. He was used to me hiding my own wounds whenever he hurt me. So, he reached out to grab my suitcase. “Go to a hotel to cool off tonight. The makeup artist is still coming tomorrow morning.” I dodged his hand. “No need.” “Chloe Vance,” Carter warned, lowering his voice. “Don’t force me to say something ugly in front of my mother.” Liam walked over from the elevator lobby. He smoothly took the suitcase from my hand. “Go ahead and say it. I’d love to hear it.” Only then did Carter notice him. His face instantly changed. “What the hell are you doing here?” “Picking her up,” Liam said flatly. “She doesn’t want to stay here, so I’m taking her.” Carter let out a harsh laugh. “Since when is our business any of your concern?” Liam looked down at me. “Is he still your fiancé?” I answered instantly. “No.” Victoria stood up, furious. “Chloe! Do you even know what you’re saying? Marriage isn’t a game! If you walk out with another man tonight, what do you think people will say about you tomorrow?” “They’ll say I found out my fiancé knocked up another woman right before our wedding, and I cut my losses in time.” I paused. “Honestly, that sounds great. I’m not ashamed.” Carter stared at me, suddenly letting out a cold smirk. “Cut your losses? Chloe, you sound tough right now, but don’t come crying back to me in a few days.” I didn’t look back. Carter lunged forward to grab me. “Chloe, you are not leaving with him!” I stepped back, swatting his hand away with pure disgust. “Don’t touch me. You make me sick.” The elevator doors slowly slid shut, completely blocking out Carter’s enraged face. The moment the doors closed, my tense shoulders finally slumped. Liam stood beside me. He held back for a long time before asking softly, “Are you hurt?” “Where?” “Everywhere.” I looked up at him, tears threatening to spill over. I forced them back and whispered, “Even if it hurts, I’m never going back.” Liam shifted the suitcase to his other hand. “Then we don’t go back.” The next morning, the Sterling family tried to push through with the wedding anyway. Victoria kept calling my family’s house, screaming that I had no respect for the bigger picture. My father answered with just one sentence: “The wedding is canceled. Don’t ever contact my daughter again.” Carter tried to call me, but his number was already blocked. He used his assistant’s phone to dial. Liam answered it. “She’s resting,” Liam said. “Mr. Sterling, stop calling.” Carter roared through the receiver, “Put her on!” “Why should I?” Liam paused. “You owe her some peace and quiet.” He hung up. Robert Sterling tried to reach my father. When the call finally went through, he only got half a sentence out before my father coldly cut him off. “My daughter isn’t marrying into your family,” my father said. “If the Sterlings feel humiliated, you should ask your son what kind of trash he projected onto the screen at the rehearsal.”

Chloe’s POV News of the canceled wedding spread like wildfire through our social circle. Some said I had a terrible temper, while others said Carter had gone way too far. Most people stayed quiet, waiting to see if the Vance family and the Sterling family would completely cut ties. I didn’t make any public statements. I slept for half a day in the apartment Liam lent me. When I woke up, I texted my parents to let them know I was safe. Then, I paid off the remaining balances for all the wedding vendors. The banquet was off, but the florists, photographers, and coordinators had worked hard for months. I didn’t want to dump my personal mess onto innocent people. The florist called me, speaking very carefully. “Miss Vance, the flowers for the main stage are still fresh. Would you like to redirect them to a charity gala? Didn’t you mention the Vance Foundation has an event next week?” I held the phone, quiet for a few seconds. “Yes, do that. Change the theme. Don’t use any of the wedding colors.” When Liam walked out of the kitchen with a bowl of oatmeal, I was busy writing down a checklist. “Aren’t you going to rest?” he asked. “Someone has to tie up the loose ends.” I handed him the tablet. “I’ve handled the venue. If the Sterlings try to harass me, tell them to talk to my father’s lawyers.” Liam scrolled through the list, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You’re much tougher than I thought.” I smiled faintly. “I just used to waste all my strength being ‘understanding’ for Carter.” That afternoon, Iris posted on Instagram. In the photo, she was sitting in a hospital corridor with a warm latte in hand. Her caption was short but sharp: *Some bonds don’t need a label. Those who know, know.* A mutual friend immediately sent me the screenshot. I saw it and didn’t reply. But then, Carter called again. This time, he used an unknown number. “What do you actually want?” he demanded the second I picked up. “The wedding is canceled, the guests got stood up, and the hotel deposit is gone. Are you happy now, Chloe?” I replied flatly, “I paid the vendors in full.” Carter choked on his words, his tone getting angrier. “Do you think throwing money around makes you right? Iris almost had a miscarriage today, and you haven’t even called to check on her!” I let out a bitter laugh. “What does her baby have to do with me?” “You know damn well she has nobody else!” “She has you,” I said. “Carter, you don’t get to play daddy to her baby while expecting me to be your sweet, understanding fiancée. I’m out of the game. You’re free.” Silence fell over the line. Carter seemed to finally realize how cold my voice was. His tone softened slightly. “Chloe, I never wanted to lose you.” “But you’ve been doing things to lose me every single day.” I hung up and blocked the number. Liam stood by the kitchen door. Seeing me set the phone down, he asked, “What do you want for dinner?” No lectures. No deep analysis. No telling me to be mature or calm down. He just asked what I wanted to eat. My nose suddenly tickled, and I seriously thought about it. “I want something sweet.” Liam rolled up his sleeves. “Deal. I’m cooking tonight.” Halfway through the delicious dinner, I suddenly stopped eating. Liam looked up. “Stomach hurt?” I shook my head. “I was just thinking… was I really that easy to please back then?” As long as Carter said “don’t bother me,” I would instantly doubt myself, wondering if I was being too sensitive. As long as he bought me a makeup gift on holidays, I would completely overlook his coldness from the day before. I used to call it “compromising for love.” Looking back, I was just cleaning up his emotional mess. Liam didn’t badmouth Carter. He only said, “That wasn’t your fault. The fault lies with the person who knew you were easy to please, and chose to hurt you anyway.” I looked down, taking a sip of the soup. The spicy flavor made my eyes water. I didn’t want to cry, so I forced a laugh. “Since when did you become such a smooth talker?” Liam froze, his fork hovering in the air. “I’ve had practice.” “With whom?” “With someone I couldn’t win over,” he said, staring at me. “For many years.” While Liam cleared the table, I sat there quietly. I suddenly remembered the first time I brought Carter home. My mother had pulled me aside and asked, “Is he good to you?” Back then, I defended him fiercely, saying he just wasn’t good with words, and that successful men always had a temper. Now, those excuses felt like a pathetic cover-up for my own denial. “What are you thinking about?” Liam asked. I looked up. “I think my mom knew back then. She just couldn’t bear to break my heart.” Liam set a glass of warm water next to me. “Well, you don’t have to make excuses for anyone anymore.”

Carter’s POV I didn’t actually start panicking until the third day. When I went back to our penthouse, I found the door code had been changed. The property manager told me that Miss Vance had authorized her lawyer to liquidate her half of the property, and all her personal belongings had been moved out in the middle of the night. I stood at the door, holding a box of the tiramisu Chloe used to love. In the past, as long as I swallowed my pride and bought her some sweets, Chloe would always forgive me. She might complain a little, but she would still open the door, hang up my coat, and ask if I wanted some water. But this time, there were no lights on behind the door. No one was waiting. I called a mutual friend, who hesitated before speaking. “Carter, you really messed up this time. Chloe’s family handled all the wedding cancellations. They didn’t even ask the Sterlings for a dime. They’ve been more than decent.” I demanded coldly, “Where is she?” “I don’t know. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” The line went dead. I sat back in my car, my chest feeling incredibly tight. Iris called me again, crying that she had no appetite and wanted some crème brûlée from the bakery uptown. I didn’t answer. Iris quickly sent a barrage of texts, asking if I blamed her, saying that if it weren’t for her, Chloe wouldn’t have left, and that the baby was kicking and she was so scared. Looking at the word “baby,” my head throbbed painfully. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to take responsibility. That night at the college reunion, everyone had drunk too much. Iris had leaned on my shoulder and cried, saying she had never been loved, asking if I could just stay with her for a bit. I remembered pushing her away, but I also remembered losing consciousness. When I woke up, Iris was curled up next to me. She told me it was fine, just a one-night stand, and that we should both just forget about it. I believed her. Or rather, I wanted to believe her. Because as long as I kept Iris in the “friend” box, I didn’t have to admit how dirty I had been. But now that Chloe was gone, that excuse had lost all its magic. That evening, Robert called me back to the family estate. The Vance family lawyer was sitting in the living room. He handed over the termination of engagement documents, his tone perfectly polite. “Miss Vance’s stance is clear. There was no marriage certificate filed, so this is not a divorce. She has covered all wedding expenses. As for the gifts from the Sterling family during the engagement, she has cataloged them. They will be returned to you.” Victoria slammed her hand on the table. “What is she trying to do? Is she trying to run off with another man?” The lawyer looked up. “Mrs. Sterling, please watch your words. Miss Vance is currently single. Who she associates with is none of Mr. Sterling’s business.” I stared at the documents, my fingertips turning white. “Tell her to come talk to me herself.” The lawyer capped his pen. “She does not wish to see you.” I let out a dry laugh that didn’t reach my eyes. “Fine. She’s hiding. Let’s see how long she can play this game.” After the lawyer left, Victoria was still cursing the Vance family for being heartless. But my eyes were glued to the cataloged list. Chloe had left so cleanly. The engagement necklace. The bracelet my mother gave her. The designer bags I bought her on a whim. Even a single pair of cufflinks was itemized and returned. She didn’t keep a single thing. She didn’t want any memories. It was like she was clearing out a rental apartment she never intended to return to. “She used to love these things,” I whispered. Victoria didn’t hear me. “What?” I didn’t answer. Chloe used to take photos of every single gift I gave her. She would be overjoyed for days over a bracelet that didn’t even fit her style. It wasn’t about the price tag. She just valued the thought behind them. And now, she was returning all that care in a neatly printed list. For the first time, I felt like the girl who used to run to me with open arms was truly gone. Robert was calmer than Victoria, but he was stressed. After the Vance Group pulled their joint venture, several of our ongoing projects fell into limbo. The partners didn’t outright reject us, they just said they needed to “wait and see.” But in business, everyone knows what “wait and see” actually means. Robert glared at me. “What are your actual plans for Iris?” I couldn’t answer. Before, I thought the baby could be taken care of quietly, the wedding could go on, and Chloe would just accept it. Now, seeing those things laid out, it all felt like a joke. Robert sneered. “You always bragged about how logical you are. How did you fail to calculate the most basic consequences of your actions?”

Carter’s POV Chloe wasn’t hiding. She had simply erased me from her life. The Vance Foundation’s charity gala went on as scheduled. The flowers from our wedding had been repurposed into a stunning spring garden theme. Chloe stood at the entrance in a simple, elegant black gown, helping her mother greet the guests. She wore light makeup, her smile wasn’t overly bright, but she looked completely composed. That was the night I crashed. I didn’t have an invitation. The security guards stopped me at the door. My face burned with humiliation. “I’m Chloe Vance’s fiancé.” The guard’s voice was completely professional. “Your name is not on the list, sir.” Those words felt like a physical slap to my face. In the past, whenever I attended Vance family events, everyone treated me like the co-host. Chloe would always register my name in advance, have a driver waiting, and wave at me from across the crowd. Now, my name wasn’t even on the list. Liam walked out of the ballroom, his tuxedo jacket draped casually over his arm. His voice was flat. “Mr. Sterling, tonight is a charity event. Don’t make things difficult for the staff.” I glared at him. “What is that supposed to mean?” “I’m the co-host,” Liam said, showing his badge. “I have more right to stand here than you do.” Furious, I raised my hand to shove him. But a voice called out from behind him. “Carter.” Chloe walked over. She didn’t run, but her presence immediately made me freeze. “You’re finally willing to see me,” I said, holding back my anger. “Come home with me.” Chloe replied, “I’m not going back.” “Are you still throwing a tantrum?” My eyes were bloodshot. “Just because Iris is pregnant, you’re going to throw away all our years together?” “It’s not because she’s pregnant,” Chloe said, looking at me calmly. “It’s because you cheated, and then expected me to clean up your mess.” My breath hitched. People at the entrance were starting to look over. Victoria rushed over, sighing deeply. “Chloe, if you and Carter have a fight, do it in private. Why make a scene in front of everyone? This is very disrespectful to us elders.” Helen Vance walked out of the ballroom, her face incredibly cold. “Oh? My daughter was humiliated by your son and his mistress right before her wedding, and we haven’t even complained. Yet you’re the one who feels disrespected?” Victoria was completely silenced. Chloe handed me a jewelry box. “Your engagement necklace. It’s returned. The cancellation papers are inside too. Whether you sign them or not doesn’t change the outcome.” I didn’t take it. “I don’t agree to this.” Chloe placed the box into the hands of a nearby staff member. “Then my lawyer will handle it.” She turned and walked back inside. Liam didn’t follow her immediately. Instead, he looked at me. “She made herself clear. If you keep harassing her, you’ll only embarrass yourself.” I clenched my fists. For the first time, I felt like a massive iron door had shut between Chloe and me. Inside the hall, Chloe stood gracefully next to her mother. When some guests subtly brought up the wedding, she didn’t dodge the question. She just smiled and said, “If it’s not the right fit, it’s best to stop. Cutting losses early is better than dragging out a mistake.” When those words reached my ears, I was already being escorted out of the side door by security. Some business associates passed by. They initially wanted to say hello, but when they recognized me and Victoria, they quickly looked away. Victoria couldn’t stand the humiliation and muttered, “Look at her. She made us look so bad.” But I was only looking at Chloe through the glass. She was talking to a donor, looking elegant, her back straight. There was no crying, no emotional breakdown, no messy revenge. She wasn’t trying to humiliate me. She had just stopped covering for me.

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1 At 3:06 AM, my husband Connor Hayes called me. I had just answered when his voice pressed heavily through the receiver. “Grace, go downstairs and move the car.” I sat up, pulling the blanket around me. The line was dead quiet. Quiet like a sealed room. I didn’t say a word. He urged again, “Hurry up, the car is blocking the fire lane. The keys are on the entryway console.” I stared at the caller ID. Connor Hayes. My husband. It was definitely his voice. But in our three years of marriage, he rarely called me by my first name with such coldness. I felt a chill of suspicion. Was he drunk? “Where are you?” I asked. There was a two-second pause. “The office. Move the car first, don’t ask so many questions.” He hung up. I looked at the time. 3:08 AM. My palms were sweating, but in the next second, I dialed 911. The dispatcher’s voice was clear: “911, what is your emergency?” I swallowed hard. “I need to report a crime.” “My husband, Connor Hayes, might have murdered someone.” “The body might be hidden in the underground garage of The Pinnacle Luxury Apartments, in his black Range Rover, license plate A9Z-77.” The dispatcher clearly paused. “Ma’am, can you be more specific? Where is your husband now? Who is the victim?” I dug my nails into my palms. The pain kept me lucid. “I don’t know who the victim is.” “But he just called me at 3:00 AM, telling me to go down and move the car.” “I suspect there’s something inside it.” “Please send officers immediately.” The dispatcher didn’t waste time with pointless questions. “Please keep your phone on, stay in a safe location, and do not approach the vehicle.” I said okay. After hanging up, I stood by the entryway. The car keys were right there on the console table. Black leather strap, silver logo. I reached out to touch them, then immediately pulled my hand back. Don’t touch. The thought exploded in my brain. I threw on a coat, grabbed my phone, and deadbolted the front door. Five minutes later, the building’s HOA group chat blew up. [Why are there cop cars in the P2 garage?] [Did something happen to someone?] [Mrs. Hayes, is your husband’s car blocking the fire lane?] I didn’t reply. I stood by the elevator, listening to it tick its way up to my floor. Ding. The doors opened. Two uniformed officers and a man in a black leather jacket stepped out. The man had a sharp gaze. He asked immediately, “Grace Harper?” I nodded. “I’m Detective Marcus Quinn, Major Crimes Unit. You’re the one who called in the tip about your husband murdering someone and hiding the body?” “Yes.” Detective Quinn looked at me. “Lead the way.” We took the elevator down to P2. Connor’s car was parked in the furthest corner of Section A. The black exterior was polished to a shine. Standing by the hood was the property manager, his face as pale as a ghost. “Officers, we just checked the security footage. Mr. Hayes parked here at 11:00 PM and no one has touched it since.” Detective Quinn signaled the crime scene tech to pop the lock. I stood ten feet away. The moment the trunk popped open, my heart clenched. It was completely empty. There was only a folding umbrella, a car emergency kit, and Connor’s usual cashmere blanket. No blood. No body. Nothing suspicious whatsoever. The property manager breathed a huge sigh of relief and immediately looked at me. He looked at me like I was insane. Detective Quinn didn’t jump to conclusions. He had them open the doors, check the back seats, the crevices, the floor mats, and the spare tire well. Everything was clean. Unbelievably clean. A young officer frowned. “Detective, it smells like bleach in here.” The property manager immediately chimed in, “Mr. Hayes is a neat freak. The car gets fully detailed twice a week.” I wanted to laugh. Connor a neat freak? He’d come home, toss his jacket on the sofa, and kick his socks under the bed. I’d nagged him for three years and he never changed. Detailed twice a week? Bullshit. I was about to speak when a shrill woman’s voice echoed from the elevators. “Grace Harper!” My mother-in-law, Helen Hayes, stormed over in her sleepwear, followed by Connor’s younger brother, Blake Hayes, and Connor’s secretary, Morgan Davis. When Helen saw the cops, her face contorted. “What kind of crazy pill did you take in the middle of the night?” “Connor is a good, hardworking man, and you call the cops on him calling him a murderer?!” Blake caught her arm, his eyes dark and cold. “Grace, my brother puts up with a lot from you, but you can’t drag his name through the mud like this.” Morgan, wrapped in a white cardigan, had red-rimmed eyes. “Grace, I know Mr. Hayes has been busy lately and neglecting you.” “But dragging this to the police… it’s going to ruin him.” I looked at the three of them. What a perfect little reunion. Three in the morning. I had just hung up, the cops had just arrived, yet the mother-in-law, the brother-in-law, and the female secretary were all here without missing a beat. The string of tension in my chest pulled tighter. Detective Quinn asked, “Where is Connor Hayes?” Helen immediately answered, “He’s at the office, in a meeting.” Blake chimed in, “Yeah, Frostline Logistics has a rush order tonight. My brother is swamped.” Detective Quinn locked eyes with him. “If he’s at the office, why did he call his wife to come down and move his car?” Blake choked on his words. Morgan rushed to say, “Maybe the property manager was rushing him, and he couldn’t get away.” I laughed. “Mr. Manager, did you rush him?” The property manager broke out in a sweat. “No! I was asleep. I only got the call from security when the cruisers showed up.” The air instantly froze. Helen glared at him fiercely. “What does a building manager know? What if other residents complained?” Quinn ignored her and pulled out his phone. “Call Connor Hayes.” Blake dialed the number on the spot. It rang twice and connected. Connor’s face appeared on the screen. He was sitting in his office. White button-down, black tie, his expression cool and detached. “Mom, what’s going on?” Helen burst into tears. “Connor! Grace called the cops saying you killed someone! Hurry up and explain it to them!” The Connor on the video frowned at the camera. “Grace, what are you doing this time?” The blood drained all the way to my feet. The face. The voice. It was all exactly right. But I felt sick to my stomach. 2 Detective Quinn took the phone. “Connor Hayes?” The man in the video nodded. “Yes.” “Where are you right now?” “Frostline Logistics headquarters.” “Did you just call Grace Harper and tell her to move your car?” “Yes.” He answered too fast. Too fast, like he was reciting a script. Quinn pressed, “Your car is parked in the P2 level of your apartment building, you’re at headquarters, how did you know your car was in the way?” The Connor on screen paused for a fraction of a second. “Property management called me.” Quinn turned to look at the manager. The manager waved his hands frantically. “I didn’t call! I swear I didn’t!” Helen panicked. “Officer, don’t let Grace twist this! Married couples fight all the time, what household doesn’t have drama? She just wants to humiliate Connor!” Morgan looked at me with teary eyes. “Grace, Mr. Hayes is under a lot of pressure right now.” “If you really care about him, please stop pushing him to the edge.” I took a step forward, staring at the man on the screen. “Connor.” He looked at me. His eyes were incredibly blank. I said, “Take your phone to the window.” He frowned. “Grace, what more do you want?” “Take it to the window.” My voice was very soft. “Let me see the sky outside the office.” The video feed went dead quiet. Two seconds. Three seconds. The image suddenly froze. Immediately after, the call disconnected. Blake cursed out loud, “Are you seriously trying to make a conspiracy out of bad reception? Grace, if you’re sick in the head, go to a hospital!” Quinn looked up. “Say one more word, I dare you.” Blake shut his mouth. I looked at the black screen, my heart sinking deeper into the abyss. Frostline Logistics headquarters was on the fifteenth floor, complete with floor-to-ceiling windows and flawless cell reception. Every time Connor video-called me from the office, the connection was so clear I could see the bubbles popping in his coffee. The background in that video just now was too steady. As steady as a printed backdrop taped to the wall behind him. Detective Quinn ordered the techs to keep processing the car. K-9 units arrived. They sniffed every inch of the trunk, the back seats, and the garage drainage grates. Nothing. The techs sprayed Luminol. The lights were cut. The underground garage plunged into darkness. I held my breath. No blue glow. No blood traces. Absolutely nothing. Helen sneered. “See that?” “Officer, can you arrest her now?” “Framing her own husband for murder at 3 AM. I’m terrified to even have a woman like this in our family.” Morgan whispered, “Mrs. Hayes, maybe Grace just loves Mr. Hayes too much.” That sentence was dirtier than a rusty knife. I looked up at her. “Morgan Davis, is your relationship with my husband so close that you accompany my mother-in-law to a parking garage at 3 AM?” Her face paled. “Grace, you’re misunderstanding. I’m Mr. Hayes’s secretary. If something happens to the company, of course I have to be here.” “The company?” I caught her slip-up. “My 911 call was about The Pinnacle Apartments. Who told you something happened to the company?” Morgan’s lips trembled. Blake immediately stepped in front of her. “You’re going to bite her head off over a slip of the tongue? Your mouth is pure poison.” I didn’t bother acknowledging him. I looked at Detective Quinn. “If he’s not in the garage, we go to Frostline Logistics.” Quinn didn’t agree immediately. “Reason?” I said, “First, the background in Connor’s video was fake.” “Second, he mentioned the manager rushing him, which was a lie.” “Third, right before the video cut out, there was an alarm—three short beeps, one long beep.” Quinn’s eyes shifted. “What alarm?” I turned to look at Blake. His jaw was clenched tight. I enunciated every word clearly. “The temperature control alarm for Warehouse 7 at Frostline Logistics.” Helen screamed on the spot, “You’re lying!” Blake panicked. “Warehouse 7 is undergoing maintenance right now! A couple of beeps don’t mean anything!” “I said three short, one long.” I stared him down. “A maintenance alarm is one continuous drone. You only get three short and one long when the internal temperature drops abnormally.” “Blake, you haven’t even memorized the safety protocols of your brother’s company, and you dare lie for him?” The veins on Blake’s neck twitched. Morgan gripped the hem of her cardigan. Quinn took it all in. He turned and gave the order. “Units, roll out to Frostline Logistics HQ.” Helen lunged forward to block him. “You can’t go! Do you have a warrant?! That place is full of client inventory. If you force the doors and ruin the temperature, who’s going to pay the damages?!” I raised a hand and pointed at myself. “I will.” Helen froze. I pulled up the corporate registry and authorization documents on my phone. “I own thirty-five percent of Frostline Logistics.” “Connor granted me the highest level of emergency executive authority years ago.” “Detective, whatever damages we incur opening those doors tonight, I’ll sign for it.” The way Helen looked at me suddenly changed. It was full of hate. Full of panic. And a deep, hidden, venomous resentment. My heart felt like lead. Connor. Where are you? 3 When the police cruisers pulled up to Frostline Logistics, the guard booth was still lit. Stan, the night guard, turned ghostly pale when he saw us. “Mrs. Harper? This late…” I cut to the chase. “Is Connor inside?” Stan’s eyes darted around. “I… I think he’s in his office.” Quinn asked, “You think?” Stan stammered, “I didn’t go up to check.” I walked over to the security terminal and pulled up the backend logs. Connor’s keycard logged into HQ at 9:48 PM. There was no exit record. Blake’s keycard logged in at 10:03 PM. Morgan’s keycard logged in at 10:26 PM. Helen didn’t have a keycard. But the outer gate logs showed her car pulling into the complex at 1:47 AM. I handed the logs to Quinn. “They were all here.” Blake’s face turned grim. “Is it a crime for me to work late? Morgan is his secretary, and my mom was worried about Connor, so she came to bring him soup.” I looked at Helen. “Where’s the soup?” She choked. “I threw it away after he finished it.” I let out a cold laugh. “Connor has a bad stomach. He never drinks heavy broth at night. For his own mother, your memory is terrible.” Helen’s eyes instantly welled up. “You’ve hated me for a long time, haven’t you?” “Ever since Connor married you, he never comes home.” “When Blake was sick and needed to borrow money, you guys made every excuse not to help.” “Grace, you carry the Hayes name, but your heart is made of stone!” The moment she started crying, the night shift workers poked their heads out to look. Morgan took the opportunity to shed tears. “Grace, Mr. Hayes already agreed to sit down and talk about the divorce.” “He wanted to give you the house and a cash settlement.” “Why do you have to drag things out this far?” I turned to look at her. “Divorce?” Morgan bit her lip. “Mr. Hayes is soft-hearted. He didn’t want to humiliate you in public.” Blake immediately pulled out a document folder. “This is the draft of the divorce agreement. Grace, just take the money and walk away. It’s better for everyone.” He slapped the document down in front of me. I skimmed it. Asset division. I take $500,000. Forfeit my 35% stake in Frostline. Waive all rights to marital assets. The signature date was left blank. I picked up the agreement and slowly tore it in half. “Blake, do you know which stroke your brother is most afraid of messing up when he signs his name?” He blanked for a second. I slammed the shredded paper against his chest. “Before you forge his signature, you should know that the last stroke of his name always flicks upwards.” “The signature on this agreement is as flat as a dead man’s EKG.” Quinn immediately confiscated the shredded paper. “Bag it for evidence.” The tears on Morgan’s face froze. I kept going. “And you.” “You said Connor was discussing divorce with me.” “Last month, he listed me as the second-in-command proxy for Frostline Logistics.” “Two days ago, he had our lawyers draft an ironclad post-nuptial asset confirmation.” “Before you try to play the tragic mistress, at least check the corporate filings.” Morgan’s lips turned white. “Mr. Hayes and I are strictly professional!” “Professional enough to escort his mother and brother to intercept the cops at 3 AM?” I said coldly, “Morgan, don’t treat me like an idiot.” Quinn had already sent a tech to pull the interior surveillance footage. Soon, the tech came out, frowning. “Detective, the exterior cameras for Warehouse 7 are offline from 10:30 PM to 2:40 AM.” “Reason?” “The system logs show a scheduled maintenance.” I looked at Blake. “You just said Warehouse 7 was undergoing maintenance.” Quinn took the handoff. “Who authorized it?” The tech checked the backend. “Authorized by Morgan Davis.” Morgan’s head snapped up. “I was just following Mr. Hayes’s orders!” “Where’s the proof?” She looked at Blake in sheer panic. Blake looked awful. “My brother gave a verbal order.” Quinn scoffed. “Verbal again.” He waved his hand. “Move to Warehouse 7.” Warehouse 7 was in the rear building of the HQ lot. The whole way there, Helen kept cursing me. “A curse on our family!” “Connor’s had nothing but bad luck since he married you!” “Are you not going to be satisfied until you’ve destroyed this family?” I didn’t look back. There was only one voice in my head. Connor, hold on. If they trapped you, I’ll smash the doors down. If you’re hurt, I’ll put every last one of them behind bars. If you’re… I cut off the thought. I couldn’t go there. When we reached the doors of Warehouse 7, the alarm strobe was dead. Three brand-new padlocks hung on the outer latch. White fog seeped through the door seam. Stan whispered, “Warehouse 7 isn’t usually padlocked.” Quinn heard him. Blake immediately yelled at him, “Shut up! You’re a security guard, what do you know?!” Stan shrank back in fear. I walked up to the door. The three locks were shiny, with remnants of price tag adhesive still stuck to them. I reached out and touched the edge of the door. It was wet. And it carried the faint scent of bleach. I looked up at Detective Quinn. “Open it.” Blake rushed forward. “Grace! There’s millions of dollars of imported medical supplies in there! If the temperature shifts, are you going to pay for it with your life?!” I stared him down. “I’ll pay for it with my life.” “Step aside.” 4 Quinn didn’t hesitate anymore. “Cut the locks.” An officer brought up a pair of bolt cutters. Snap. The first lock fell. Helen rushed up crying, but a female officer held her back. “You can’t do this to our family!” “Connor is going to hate you for this when he gets back!” When I heard the words “gets back,” my throat felt like it was lined with needles. I truly wanted Connor to come back. Even if he came back and called me crazy. Even if he blamed me for ruining the company. As long as he was standing in front of me. Anything would be fine. The second lock hit the ground. The third lock snapped. The heavy insulated door was slowly pulled open. A blast of freezing air rolled out. The shelves inside Warehouse 7 were perfectly organized. On the surface, it was just rows of white cold-storage pallets. Morgan instantly let out a breath of relief. Wiping away fake tears, she said, “Grace, look, there’s nothing in here.” “Are you done throwing this tantrum?” I didn’t move. My eyes were fixed on the very last row of pallets. They were stacked way too tight. Frostline had strict protocols: cargo must be kept twelve inches from the walls for air circulation. Connor wrote that rule himself. He used to say, Inventory can spoil, but people can’t get lazy. But that last row of boxes was pushed flush against the back wall. I pointed at it. “Move those.” Blake’s face dropped. “How long are you going to keep doing this?!” Quinn gave him a look. “Do what she says.” A forklift driver was called in. His hands were shaking so badly he nearly crashed into the rack on the first try. I said, “I’ll guide you.” One pallet. Two pallets. Three pallets. Behind the rack, a section of gray waterproof tarp was exposed. Underneath the tarp was a long, bulging silhouette. Warehouse 7 fell dead silent. The blood drained from Morgan’s face completely. Helen suddenly threw herself toward the doors, screaming, “Don’t touch that! It’s client inventory!” Quinn pushed her back. “Pull the tarp.” An officer snapped on latex gloves and lifted the canvas. A heavy, black body bag was revealed. The zipper was frosted shut. Dark red, frozen runoff had seeped into the floor underneath it. My ears started ringing. Blake turned to run. I was faster than the cops. I sprinted over and kicked him hard in the back of the knees. He crashed to the ground with a thud, his nose smashing into the concrete, drawing blood. “Grace, you crazy bitch, you hit me!” I bent down, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and shoved his face toward the black bag. “Why are you running?” “Didn’t you just say it was client inventory?” “Open your eyes and look at what kind of inventory you hid in here!” Blake thrashed like a dying fish. Quinn barked, “Restrain him!” Two officers rushed up and pinned him down. Helen collapsed onto the floor, mumbling over and over, “It’s over… it’s all over…” Morgan was shaking so hard she couldn’t stand, but she was still trying to act. “I didn’t know… I swear I didn’t know there was something back here…” I walked up to her. She instinctively backed away. I raised my hand and slapped her across the face. Smack! The sound echoed sharp and clear through the freezing warehouse. Morgan clutched her cheek, tears spilling instantly. “You hit me?” I stared at her, my voice trembling but my words absolute. “You just asked me if I was done throwing a tantrum.” “Now it’s my turn to ask you.” “Stepping on a dead man’s body to get a promotion… was it worth it?” Quinn’s voice boomed. “Blake Hayes, Morgan Davis, Helen Hayes. Cuff them all!” The metallic clack of handcuffs rang out. I pointed at the black body bag in the depths of the freezer, looking at their pale faces. “Whoever wants to call me crazy again can get on their knees in front of that bag and say it.”

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Three years into our marriage, I ruined one hand for him, and Grandma sold off her jewelry for him. But in the end, for the sister of his so-called lifesaver, he gave my marital home to her for free, and for her sake, he drained Grandma’s blood right after she came out of the ICU. I finally saw him for what he was. I dissolved the marriage unilaterally and bought a one-way ticket to London. But after the divorce, he went insane trying to win me back… Sophie Reed POV In the third year of our marriage, I went to the bank to close our joint safe-deposit box. The teller looked at the holder names in the system and smiled politely. “Mrs. Foster, closing a joint safe-deposit box requires your husband Brandon Foster’s co-signature.” Calmly, I took back my ID. “No need. I’m not Mrs. Foster. My name is Sophie Reed, and I’m single now.” Just an hour ago, I had watched Brandon Foster sign an equity transfer agreement with my own eyes, transferring 10% of Foster Tech’s original sweat equity shares to Nina Young for free. Nina Young was the younger sister of his late best friend, Shawn. Seven years ago, Brandon Foster had nothing. It was my Grandma who sold her jewelry to help him buy his first piece of hardware equipment. Five years ago, when he was short on the down payment for a precision machine tool, I hid it from him and risked my life street racing through a stormy night to raise 200,000 RMB, breaking my left wrist and leaving it with permanent hidden damage. Three years ago, when Brandon Foster’s company was on the verge of bankruptcy, it was me again who risked my life driving at high speed in an overseas evacuation zone to save Old Mr. Zahn, securing hundreds of millions in investment from Zahn Group for him. But for the past five years, as long as Nina Young crooked a finger, Brandon Foster could abandon me when I was sick, cancel every date, and even transfer my marital home to her outright, all because of one sentence: “Shawn saved my life with his. I have to take care of Nina for the rest of her life.” I tolerated it for five years. Until today, when I saw that equity transfer agreement, and finally, completely gave up. I pushed open the bank doors and walked straight into the drizzle outside. But before I could reach the curb, my phone began to vibrate wildly, along with an alert from the bank system warning of an abnormal change in our joint assets. Two minutes later, a black Maybach screeched to a stop in front of me, cutting me off. The car door was shoved open roughly. Brandon Foster stepped out, carrying a chill all over him, strode toward me, and grabbed my arm. His grip was so hard it nearly crushed my bones. “Sophie Reed, are you done making a scene?!” Brandon Foster’s brows were locked tight, his eyes full of irritation and panic. “You haven’t come home for a week. You won’t answer my calls. Now you’re even running to the bank to clear out our joint assets! Do you know the security alert went straight to my phone? What the hell are you trying to do?” I lowered my eyes and looked at the hand he was gripping. It was my left hand, and numbness spread from my fingertips through the cracks between my bones. “Let go of my hand.” My tone stayed flat, unshaken. Nothing got under Brandon’s skin like my blank, unperturbed stare. It made him feel a terror he couldn’t control. He took a deep breath and used his usual tone to cover his guilt. “I know you’re angry about me buying Nina a car, but Nina is Shawn’s only sister. Shawn died saving me back then! So what if I protect her a little more? Do you really have to blow it this far out of proportion and use our seven years together as leverage?” Before he could finish speaking, the phone in his arms rang sharply. Nina Young’s name flashed across the screen. Brandon Foster answered, and Nina Young’s soft, tearful voice immediately came through. “Brandon… my car broke down on Ring Road. The people behind me keep honking at me. I’m so scared, and my stomach is starting to hurt again…” At the words stomach hurt, Brandon Foster’s expression changed instantly. He didn’t even bother questioning me anymore and spoke urgently into the phone. “Nina, don’t be scared. Lock the doors and stay in the car. I’m coming to pick you up right now!” After hanging up, Brandon Foster shoved me aside and hurried back toward the car, his tone an unquestionable order. “Sophie Reed, stop messing around. Nina is timid, and her stomach illness is acting up again. I have to go. Whatever it is, we’ll talk when I get back!” The Maybach sped away, its exhaust dispersing into the rainy mist and splashing dirty muddy water across the ground. I stood in the cold rain and slowly exhaled. I took out my phone and dialed that special encrypted number. “Ms. Reed, hello.” On the other end was the person in charge of the Foreign Ministry’s Special-Region Consular Protection Emergency Defensive Driving Unit, his voice precise and formal. “Regarding the special driving assignment application for high-risk regions that you submitted, we have passed the preliminary review. Since the area is on the brink of war and the risk level is extremely high, are you sure you want to accept the deployment?” I looked toward the corner where the Maybach had disappeared. There was not the slightest fluctuation in my voice. “I’m sure.” “All right. Given the danger of your mission, the protection driving unit has the right to provide you with family separation privilege, including enforcing a unilateral divorce for you in the backend through the national security channel. Do you need to activate this privilege?” “Yes.” I stroked the scar on my left wrist. “Within half a month before departure, help me get divorced.” “Understood. The unilateral compulsory divorce procedure has been initiated and will take effect in half a month.” After hanging up, I put my phone back into my bag and walked calmly into the curtain of rain.

Sophie Reed POV Three days later, Brandon Foster’s assistant forcibly dragged me to Foster Tech’s new product launch. “Sophie Reed, today’s launch determines whether the company can secure follow-up investment from Zahn Group. Miles Zahn is sitting in the audience today.” In the backstage corridor, Brandon Foster adjusted his suit while pressing down on my shoulders, half coaxing and half forcing me. “Sit obediently in the audience and let the media capture footage of us looking like a harmonious couple. I can’t have any negative news about relationship problems, understand?” I stood quietly in the shadows, not even bothering to nod as a pretense. But when the staff led me into the venue, I realized there was no seat for me in the most central VIP seats in the front row. In the seat representing the company family representative sat Nina Young, perfectly composed. She wore a white haute couture gown and was speaking softly and gently with the investors below the stage. As for me, the staff led me all the way to the very corner, behind the media section. “Hey, why are you sitting here?” A female employee who didn’t know who I was came over and tapped the table in front of me, her attitude arrogant. “These rows are reserved for partner media. Don’t get in the way here. If you damage the equipment behind you, can you afford to pay for it?” I looked up at her without explaining, then stood coldly and stepped back into the dim exit corridor behind me. The launch began soon after, with thunderous applause. When it came time for the ribbon-cutting ceremony, Nina Young walked gracefully onto the stage under everyone’s gaze and stood beside Brandon Foster as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The two of them held the golden scissors together, and the flashbulbs flickered like daylight. Below the stage, a familiar business partner teased suggestively, “Mr. Foster, Ms. Young’s white dress… Anyone who didn’t know better would think today wasn’t just a product launch, but your wedding ceremony too.” A burst of knowing laughter erupted through the venue. Brandon Foster’s body stiffened onstage. His gaze swept over the front row in near panic, trying to find me. But the front row was empty. I wasn’t there at all. Facing Miles Zahn, the investor below the stage, Brandon Foster gritted his teeth. In the end, he did not open his mouth to clarify. He merely curved his lips as if accepting it, revealing an ambiguous smile, allowing Nina Young to quietly lean a little closer to his side. Standing in the shadowy corridor, I calmly watched the whole scene unfold. The last flicker of feeling inside me died away for good. I lowered my head, unlocked my phone, and logged into the airline’s internal ticketing system. Because the driving unit had already submitted the compulsory divorce application for me, my household registration status had been changed in the backend to single, pending deregistration. Without hesitating for even a second, I directly clicked to confirm a one-way flight to London half a month later. At the same time the ticket confirmation chime sounded, the launch was announced over. I turned and was about to leave, but at the corner of the corridor, Brandon Foster rushed over and blocked my path. Brandon Foster’s tie was crooked, and his eyes were filled with panic and the irritability of being interrupted. He stared hard at the phone in my hand, whose screen had not yet gone dark, and interrogated me. “Who were you texting just now? Was it those thugs who drive street races? How many times have I told you that you’re not allowed to contact those people anymore?” His expression was agitated, and he reached out to snatch my phone. I calmly and unhurriedly put my phone back into my pocket, then lifted my eyes to look at him. “It has nothing to do with you.” I brushed his hand away and passed him coldly, walking toward the exit. Brandon Foster froze where he stood, an icy sense of losing control curling through his chest.

Sophie Reed POV When I left the hotel, the rain outside grew heavier again. I hailed a taxi by the roadside. I did not return to the luxury apartment Brandon Foster had bought. Instead, I went straight back to the old shop on Old Street. This was where they had started their business. Five years ago, Brandon Foster had still been a poor boy guarding this little general store, and I had been the only helper here. But now, all that remained were old parts covered in dust and one dim hanging lamp. I sat beneath the lamp, unbuttoned my cuff, and laid a warm towel over my left wrist, massaging it again and again. Just now in the corridor, Brandon Foster’s rough pulling had made the old injury begin to ache faintly again. The old shop was so quiet it was a little frightening. I looked at the empty measuring cup for medicine sitting on the corner of the table, and my eyes warmed. After Grandma developed moderate Alzheimer’s disease, she often failed to recognize people. Last month, she had just undergone major heart surgery. Now she could only stay in a nursing home on the outskirts of the city. Back then, when Brandon Foster didn’t have the money to buy his first piece of equipment, Grandma had hidden it from me, sold her jewelry, and pressed the money into Brandon Foster’s hands. At that time, Brandon Foster held the old woman’s hand, his eyes red, calling her Grandma over and over, swearing that once he had money in the future, he would treat her like his own grandmother and take care of her. But ever since Brandon Foster made his fortune, the number of times he went to the nursing home could be counted on one hand. And the Grandma in his mouth gradually became the polite, distant “Mrs. Reed.” Before the towel on my wrist could cool, the half-closed wooden door was pushed open. Brandon Foster walked in. The air of the nouveau riche around him looked painfully out of place here. “Sophie Reed, why did you leave me alone in the corridor without even saying a word?” Brandon Foster sat down on the wooden chair beside him, his tone carrying a trace of impatience he was forcing down. I turned slightly without speaking, only laying the warm towel over my wrist again. Brandon Foster tugged at the corner of his mouth, softening his tone a little. “Once Zahn Group’s investment comes through, I’ll buy you a big flat in River Bay. From now on, you won’t have to suffer in this dark, damp place anymore.” My expression remained flat, my voice cool and mild. “Are you done?” “You’re always like this. You can’t even say one nice thing.” Brandon Foster sighed, his tone tinged with helplessness. “Tomorrow I’ll have the construction crew come over and tear down this old shop. Nina’s new car is always getting scratched in the public parking spaces. She complained to me a few times, so I’m planning to rebuild this place into a private garage for her. It’s sitting empty anyway.” Tear down the old shop. Tear down the place where they had started from nothing, all to build Nina Young a private garage. I did not argue with him. I stood up, walked to the old writing desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and took out the property ownership certificate inside. I walked back and threw the certificate in front of Brandon Foster. “Here.” I looked at that property ownership certificate. “You can call someone to tear it down tomorrow.” Brandon Foster stared fixedly at the property deed, a flash of pathetic panic crossing his eyes. The instant I handed over the ownership so cleanly, he suddenly felt that something was slipping completely out of his control. To hide that inexplicable panic, Brandon Foster’s tone sank. “Sophie Reed, everything I do is for our future, but you insist on throwing a tantrum with me over this old shop. Without me, how are you supposed to survive on your own?” Building a private garage for another woman was for our future? Even that excuse was so absurd I found it laughable. I said nothing, not even half a sentence to defend myself. I no longer cared how he judged me. Suddenly, the phone in Brandon Foster’s arms rang sharply. Nina Young’s name flashed across the screen. He answered, and Nina Young’s hysterical sobbing voice instantly filled the silent shop. “Brandon… my car was maliciously smashed and scratched up at the intersection near the old shop. The windows are shattered too. I’m so scared. Hurry over…” Brandon Foster’s expression changed. He whipped his gaze toward me, his eyes sharp. He snatched the property ownership certificate off the table, stood up, and left one irritated sentence behind. “I’m going out for a bit. Whatever it is, we’ll talk later.” The door slammed heavily shut. I withdrew my gaze. Outside, the sound of the rain grew louder and louder, beating against the worn window lattice. Twenty minutes later, the tightly shut wooden door was kicked open violently from the outside with an ear-piercing crash. Brandon Foster rushed in, wrapped in damp, cold rain. Water was still dripping from his suit. His eyes were bloodshot as he stared at me, his voice trembling hard. “Sophie Reed, when did you become so despicable?!”

Sophie Reed POV “Nina Young’s car hood was completely scratched up. The surveillance footage caught Grandma Reed at the scene!” Brandon Foster roared, grabbed my collar, and shoved my whole body hard into the shelf beside us. “It’s bad enough that you’re targeting Nina. Now you’re even using an old woman who just had heart surgery? You actually incited her to run out in the pouring rain and smash a car for you?!” My back crashed against the metal rack with an ear-splitting metallic shriek. My mind went blank in an instant. Grandma’s illness had flared up… Wearing her hospital gown, she had walked all the way from the nursing home in the outskirts back to the old shop in the heavy rain. The instant I was shoved, I instinctively used my left hand to brace myself. A crisp crack came from my wrist joint, and a wave of searing, dislocated pain crashed over my whole frame Cold sweat broke out all at once. My face turned deathly pale, and my fingertips trembled violently, but I did not make a sound. Brandon Foster glanced at my slightly shaking wrist, his brows tightening, but his tone was still perfectly self-righteous. “Stop pretending in front of me. I’m sick of your little martyr act. For what happened today, you must give Nina and me an explanation!” I pressed down hard on my trembling wrist, the pain so intense even my breathing shook. It was at that very second that the phone in my palm vibrated sharply. It was an urgent text from a caregiver at the nursing home: [Ms. Reed! This is bad! A group of people just forcibly took Grandma Reed from her ward. They said the old lady is suspected of deliberately damaging someone else’s property and that they’re taking her away for confrontation!] I didn’t even have time to rub my throbbing wrist. I shoved Brandon Foster away and rushed out of the shop. Outside, rain poured down in sheets. When I arrived at the private car wash Nina Young had mentioned, I could hear the sound of a high-pressure water gun from far away, along with Nina Young’s delicate laughter. “Spray more cold water on her. Wake the old lady up a little. She scratched someone else’s car and can’t even say sorry. How disgraceful at her age.” Inside the empty, damp car wash, Grandma was wearing a thin hospital gown, pinned tightly to a cold metal chair by two bodyguards. The high-pressure cold water gun was aimed straight at the old woman, the icy water blasting against her pale, withered face. The old woman’s entire body shook violently. She could barely breathe, her lips had turned purple, and all she could make were faint moans. “Stop!” I rushed over like I had lost my mind. But before I could get close, an arm appeared out of nowhere and blocked me hard. Brandon Foster stood firmly in front of Nina Young, his face tense as he said to me helplessly, “Calm down. Nina was just too anxious. Mrs. Reed really was at the scene. It’s perfectly reasonable for Nina to want an explanation. Once this is cleared up, I’ll naturally send the old lady back.” Rain hit my face. I had no time to wipe it away. My gaze went straight past Brandon Foster and landed on the old woman shrinking back on the metal chair behind him. “Mrs. Reed?” My voice was so hoarse I could barely speak. I looked at Brandon Foster, my eyes full of grief. “Brandon Foster, back when you didn’t have the money to buy your first machine tool and cried in her arms, what did you call her? Do you still remember? And now you call her Mrs. Reed?” Brandon Foster’s expression froze, and a deep flash of shame crossed his eyes. Nina hid behind Brandon, shoulders trembling, her eyes red as she cried pitifully. “Brandon… I wasn’t trying to hurt the old lady. She was the one who scratched my car with her cane first… I just wanted to ask her what was going on.” Under everyone’s stunned gazes, I walked forward calmly, snatched the water gun from the bodyguard’s hands, and hurled it hard onto the ground. I held Grandma, who was nearly unconscious, tightly in my arms. The old woman’s body was as cold as a block of ice. I wrapped her in my coat, carried her on my back, and step by step, walked out into the pouring rain. In the late-night storm, not a single taxi passed by. The old woman’s body temperature was draining away rapidly in my arms. The dislocated bones in my left wrist ground violently against each other, the pain so sharp that every step felt like I was treading on blades. I had no idea how many times I fell. My knees were scraped bloody, but I still clung desperately to the unconscious old woman in my arms. When I finally stumbled through the doors of the public hospital emergency department, my whole body crashed heavily to its knees on the cold marble floor. With my uninjured right hand, I clutched a nurse’s coat and begged, “Doctor, please save my grandma… Please…” The stark fluorescent hospital lights blurred everything in front of my eyes while my left wrist hung limply against the floor, a horrific dark bruise was spreading all up my wrist.

The hospital room was deathly quiet. Drained of all strength, I leaned against the glass window outside the ICU, staring without blinking at the old woman whose body was covered in tubes and monitors. The doctor had told me privately just now that when the old lady had been brought in, her body temperature was dangerously low. A severe lung infection and excessive shock had triggered acute heart failure. Even though she was now in the ICU receiving conservative treatment, her life could be in danger at any moment. My swollen, trembling right hand rested lightly over my left wrist, which was completely dislocated and deformed. A sharp, piercing pain pulsed there in waves. But it was as if I couldn’t feel pain at all. “Sophie Reed, are you done making a scene? I had to ask the nursing home before I found out you were here.” At the end of the hallway, Brandon came striding over with a fruit basket and premium ginseng in hand. “Nina was just too anxious. She’s young and doesn’t know better. I’ve already scolded her. I’ve had my secretary cover the old lady’s hospital bills and follow-up recovery expenses this time. This ends here. Stop clinging to it and come home with me.” I didn’t even turn my head. I stared blankly at Grandma behind the glass, my voice as faint as a thread. “Okay.” I couldn’t even be bothered to explain another word. Because I knew that the unilateral divorce procedure the Foreign Ministry’s protection driving unit was handling for me would take full effect in ten days. All I wanted now was to wait until Grandma’s vital signs stabilized, then take her to London immediately and leave this filthy city forever. Brandon assumed I was the same as always, that as long as he gave me an out, I would obediently lower my head. He smiled in relief and reached out to touch my hair. “That’s more like it. Once I’m done with this busy stretch, we’ll bring Grandma home together.” I tilted my head slightly and avoided his hand. Then I closed my eyes and stopped looking at him. Brandon seemed a little embarrassed. After giving a few instructions, he turned and left. But I had underestimated how vicious those two could be. They had no bottom line. They could even trample every drop of blood and bone from others for their own sake. Two afternoons later, I hurried back to the ward with a newly issued lab report in hand. But the entrance to the ICU was already in chaos. Several doctors and bodyguards were forcefully pushing Grandma’s hospital bed toward the elevator. My heart tightened. I rushed over like a madwoman and blocked the bed. “What are you doing?! My grandma can’t be moved. She has severe heart failure!” The nurse’s eyes darted away. She was so anxious that her eyes had gone red. “Ms. Reed, I’m sorry… Mr. Foster gave strict orders. We have to take the old lady to the top floor. Ms. Young had an accident during an ocean party. She lost a lot of blood, and the blood bank was critically short of Rh-negative blood. In the entire hospital, only the old lady is a match…” It felt as if a thunderbolt had struck me in broad daylight. “She just came back from being rescued in the ICU! Drawing her blood is the same as killing her!” I used my body to block the bed with everything I had, my hoarse voice warping out of shape. Just then, Brandon’s hurried footsteps came from the elevator. He walked over with a dark expression and yanked me aside. “Sophie Reed, stop making trouble!” Brandon’s voice was full of irritation and urgency. “Shawn only had one sister. I can’t just watch her die! They’re only taking a little blood from the old lady. Nothing will happen. I asked the doctors. As long as they control the amount, it won’t be fatal. If there are any consequences, I’ll take responsibility!” “You’ll take responsibility? What are you going to use to take responsibility?!” I gripped his sleeve tightly, my eyes bloodshot. “Brandon Foster, touch your own conscience! How did my grandma treat you back then?!” “Sophie, now isn’t the time for this!” Brandon’s face darkened completely. He didn’t even bother to give me another explanation. He waved directly at the bodyguards and doctors behind him, his tone cold and resolute. “Take the old lady upstairs. Transfer all the doctors from the cardiology department and the emergency department to the top floor. Fully cooperate with Nina Young’s surgery!” “Brandon Foster—!!” My scream echoed through the hallway, but my swollen, deformed left hand had no strength at all. I could only watch helplessly as Grandma’s hospital bed was pushed into the elevator. And Brandon didn’t even look back once. He disappeared to the top floor with everyone else. The vast intensive care area instantly fell into dead silence. All the doctors and nurses on duty had been forcibly transferred away by Brandon. An hour later, the cardiac monitor in the ICU suddenly let out a sharp, single tone. Beep— That piercing sound was like a razor-sharp knife, instantly slicing the world inside my chest to pieces. Like a madwoman, I shoved open the doors of the ICU. There were no doctors on duty. No nurses to resuscitate her. In the empty sterile ward, only the cold machine rang out in a monotonous, ear-splitting cry. I staggered to the bedside. My knees gave way, and I crashed heavily to the floor. “Grandma…” Trembling, I reached out with my right hand and grabbed the shriveled hand resting on the bedsheet. That warm hand that had once held mine as I grew up was now rapidly losing its warmth, turning cold and stiff. The back of the old woman’s right hand was covered in massive purplish bruises left behind by a rough, excessive blood draw. At the needle mark, there was even a dark red strand of blood that had already clotted before anyone had the chance to wipe it away. “Grandma… Open your eyes and look at Sophie. We’re going to London. We won’t stay here anymore…” Without warning, tears surged out, huge drops smashing onto the old woman’s lifeless face. I pressed my face against Grandma’s cold forehead, desperately trying to warm her with my own body heat. But all I touched was a deathly chill, like stagnant water. The grief was so extreme it jammed in my throat, turning into hopeless sobs. In this world, the only family member who had loved me with all her heart died in a room without a doctor. And the person who had drained her blood was the lover I had spent seven years of my youth lifting up with my own hands. Just then, in that almost suffocating stillness, the phone in my soaked pocket suddenly lit up. Numbly, I slid open the lock screen. On the screen was a photo Brandon had sent. Brandon was sitting beside the bed in a luxurious ward on the top floor, holding Nina’s hand with the utmost tenderness. Beneath the photo was a message from Brandon: Sophie, Nina is out of danger. I already had the caregiver send the best supplements over to the old lady. Once this busy period is over, we’ll bring Grandma back to the new house together. I stared at that line of text. Tears mixed with blood slid from the corners of my eyes and fell onto the white bedsheet. “Ha… haha…” A very soft, very broken laugh slipped from my throat. Brandon Foster, the blood debt between us is settled.

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1 Growing up, my two closest friends gave me endless nicknames. Idiot. Space cadet. Socially inept loser. They swore it was affection, the teasing reserved for those closest to you. During a crucial quarterly presentation, Justin called me an “idiot” in front of my coworkers. The office erupted in laughter while the marketing director frowned. My face burned crimson as I stumbled through the rest of the slides. Afterward, Taylor patted my shoulder. “He didn’t mean it, Lucas. Admit it, you are a little slow.” At a company retreat, Justin mimicked my nervous stutter to entertain the crowd. Taylor laughed the loudest, then saved the video of his impression so Justin could post it later. Last week, I closed a million-dollar deal solo. At the client dinner, Justin raised his glass. “Our resident loser actually closed a deal?” The client’s smile faltered. The next day, they pulled me aside to reconsider the partnership. In my car, Taylor tapped the window and handed me a tissue. “Stop crying. Just make sure he doesn’t drink before clients next time.” Eight years—from high school—I had wanted us to walk this path together. I wiped my eyes, submitted my resignation, and tossed the tissue into her lap. Rolling up the window, I started the engine. Congratulations, “resident loser.” You’ve finally learned how to walk away alone. “Who approved your resignation?” Taylor’s voice came through the receiver, calm and measured, as if she were simply asking what I wanted for lunch. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear, continuing to pack my clothes into a battered suitcase. “HR did. It went through the standard channel.” “I told you not to make any rash decisions,” she said. After a brief pause, her tone softened slightly. “I can talk to the client for you. I still have a few connections with Mr. Harrison.” I zipped up the suitcase and looked at the one-way ticket lying on the desk. London. Single fare. “Don’t bother, Taylor.” “What are you playing at this time?” Her voice flared with a sudden edge of impatience. “You’ve known Justin long enough to know he talks before he thinks. Is it really worth all this drama?” Was it worth it? A million-dollar deal. Three months of endless follow-ups. Forty-seven emails. Eleven draft proposals. And she was asking if it was worth the drama. “I’m not playing games,” I said, sliding the ticket into the side pocket of my backpack. “I just need a change of scenery.” “A change of scenery? Lucas, you barely squeaked by your basic language exams. Where on earth are you going to go?” I didn’t answer. She let out a heavy sigh, that familiar, patronizing sigh she always reserved for my shortcomings. “Fine. Take a couple of days to cool off. Justin and I will take you out for dinner this weekend so we can talk things through.” “I won’t be around this weekend.” The line went dead silent for a few seconds. “What do you mean?” “My flight is the day after tomorrow.” This time, the silence stretched even longer. I could hear her rustling through her purse on the other end, probably looking for a pack of cigarettes. “Where?” “London. A friend’s firm has an opening. I’m going to give it a shot.” “You…” She sounded choked up, caught completely off guard. “Are you serious?” I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror. My eyes were still slightly puffy, my lips dry and chapped, my overall appearance dull and exhausted. “Entirely serious.” “Lucas,” she said, using my full name for once, her voice dropping into a low, intense register. “Are you just doing this to spite me?” A bitter laugh almost escaped my throat. For eight years, she had always viewed my decisions as nothing more than childish emotional tantrums. “It’s not about spite.” “Then explain it to me. Why are you suddenly packing up and leaving?” Why? Because you and Justin turned my life into a running joke, and you didn’t even realize you were tearing me apart. Because every single step I took to better myself was instantly belittled by his careless words, while you stood by his side, telling me “he didn’t mean any harm.” Because I am finally, utterly exhausted. But I didn’t say any of that. “I just want to see the world.” “By yourself? Lucas, you barely know how to navigate the city on your own.” “I have to go,” I cut her off. “I still have packing to do.” “Lucas…” I pressed the red button, ending the call. The moment my screen went dark, a text from Justin popped up. “Hey man, I heard you quit? What kind of joke is this lol. What are you even gonna do without Taylor and me? Stop throwing a fit. Let’s hang out this weekend, my treat to make it up to you, cool?” I stared at his words, “What are you even gonna do without Taylor and me?”, for a long time. I didn’t reply. I tossed my phone onto the bed and dragged my suitcase into the living room. Then, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Justin standing on the welcome mat. He was wearing an expensive cream-colored knit sweater, his hair perfectly styled, holding a bag of gourmet fruit. “You’re actually packing?” He craned his neck to peer into my apartment, his eyes widening in exaggerated shock. “My god, Lucas. You’re really leaving?” I stepped aside to let him in. He set the fruit down on the coffee table, turned to face me, and to my surprise, his eyes wellled with tears. “Is this because of what happened at the dinner? I told you, I had one too many drinks. You wouldn’t really leave over that, would you…” His voice trailed off into a whisper. He looked down, his fingers anxiously plucking at the hem of his sweater. “What am I supposed to do if you leave?” That was Justin. He always knew exactly when to look fragile. He always knew how to make everyone else believe that I was the bully, that I was the one hurting him. “It has nothing to do with you,” I said. “I wanted this.” He looked up at me, his eyes wet and pleading. “Really? You’re not mad at me?” “No.” “Then… can you stay?” He reached out and grabbed my hand, his manicured nails digging lightly into my skin. “Or at least wait until Taylor gets back? She can help you find another—” “Justin,” I said, pulling my hand away. “My flight leaves at six in the morning, the day after tomorrow.” He froze. A flicker of something dark and cold passed through his beautiful eyes. It was gone so quickly I almost missed it. Then he smiled, reaching up to gently brush a stray lock of hair from my forehead. “Then I’m definitely driving you to the airport.” “No need.” “I have to,” he insisted, looking straight into my eyes. “You’re my best friend.” My best friend. When he said those words, I remembered him calling me a loser in front of the client. I remembered the video of him mocking my stutter, shared and liked hundreds of times. I remembered the sound of Taylor’s laughter echoing in that retreat hall. My best friend. “Whatever,” I muttered. He gave my shoulder a playful punch. “Don’t go forgetting about me over there, okay?” I remained silent. As he pulled away, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was a text from Taylor. “I don’t approve.” Four words. No punctuation. I stared at the screen for two seconds, then locked the phone. 2 After Justin left, I resumed packing. In the deepest corner of my desk drawer, I unearthed a small, rusted tin box. Inside lay the accumulated debris of the last eight years. A birthday card Taylor had given me in sophomore year of high school, reading: Happy Birthday, Lucas. I hope you find your courage. A braided red string bracelet Justin had made, claiming it was our “brotherhood band” and that we’d wear it forever. And photos. Dozens of pictures of the three of us. I was always standing on the absolute edge of the frame, smiling the hardest. I tucked the tin box onto the highest shelf of my closet, right where it was hardest to reach. I didn’t take it with me, but I didn’t throw it away either. At eleven that night, Taylor called again. I ignored it. She sent six texts. I didn’t open them. The seventh was a voice note. My finger accidentally brushed against it, and her voice echoed in the quiet room. “Lucas, you’ve declined my calls six times now. Are you trying to pick a fight with me? If you have something to say, say it. Stop giving me the silent treatment.” The silent treatment. I let out a soft, humorless laugh. Me quietly packing my life away was called “the silent treatment.” But her and Justin publicly humiliating me for eight years? What was that called? A warm, nurturing friendship? I turned off my phone and slept peacefully for the first time in years. The next day was my last in the city. I went to the office to finalize my exit paperwork. My desk had already been cleared. A small post-it note from the guy at the neighboring cubicle was stuck to the bare monitor. Good luck, Lucas. Don’t look back, and I mean that in the best way possible. I peeled the note off, tucked it into my pocket, and headed to HR to sign the final papers. When I stepped out of the elevator, I ran right into Taylor. She stood in the lobby, her expression a complex knot of emotions. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “I came to pick you up.” “I don’t need a ride.” She stepped into my path, staring down at me. “Lucas, can you talk to me like a normal person for once?” “I am talking to you normally.” Her brow furrowed, and she reached out to pat my shoulder, just as she had done a thousand times over the years. I took a step back. Her hand froze in mid-air. “You really are furious,” she said, letting her arm drop. “I already told you, I’ll talk to Mr. Harrison—” “The deal is dead, Taylor,” I interrupted. “Is that really worth quitting your job over?” “Yes.” She took a deep breath, her tone shifting into something softer, gentler. “Lucas…” “Don’t call me that.” She choked on her words. In eight years, I had never cut her off like that. She had grown accustomed to my mild temper, my absolute submissiveness. She was used to me nodding along to whatever she said. “Fine,” she yielded slightly. “Lucas, let’s find a place to sit down and talk.” “There’s nothing to discuss.” “Your flight is tomorrow. You’re going to London entirely on your own. Who do you even know there? You don’t even know how to navigate the city—” “I’ll figure it out.” She wore that look again. The look of an adult observing an unruly, stubborn child who was throwing a tantrum and needed supervision. “Justin has been crying all day,” she said suddenly. “He thinks he’s the reason you’re leaving.” I paused for a second. “Good. He should be.” Taylor’s face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean? You won’t even accept his apology now?” I looked at her. She was always defending Justin. When the deal fell through, it was my fault for not limiting his drinking. When he mocked my stutter, it was because I was too thin-skinned. When I quit, I was blowing things out of proportion. And now that he was crying, her immediate reaction was to come and smooth things over for him. “Taylor,” I corrected myself, keeping my voice steady. “Have you ever asked yourself one question?” “What?” “If Justin had been the one humiliated in front of the client that night, would you have told me to ‘just make sure he doesn’t drink so much’?” She froze. Her mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. I walked past her, pushing open the heavy glass doors of the lobby. The bright afternoon sun stung my eyes. Behind me, I heard her quicken her steps. “Lucas, what time is your flight tomorrow? I’ll drive you.” “No need.” “I’m driving you,” she repeated, a stubborn, unyielding authority creeping into her voice. I didn’t turn around. “Save the ride for Justin.” When I stepped onto the street, I exhaled a long, deep breath. For the first time in eight years, the walk back home felt incredibly short. So short that I wondered why it had taken me so long to take it. Back at the apartment, a bouquet of flowers sat on the coffee table. Sunflowers. My favorite. The card was written in Justin’s distinct, loopy handwriting: Lucas, I’m coming to see you off tomorrow. No excuses. Promise me we’ll be best friends forever. I picked up the bouquet and threw it straight into the trash can. 3 It took three alarms at four in the morning for me to drag myself out of bed. After washing up, I dragged my heavy suitcase out into the dimly lit hallway. When the elevator doors slid open, Justin was already standing inside. He was wearing a casual hoodie, his hair slightly messy, dark circles prominent under his eyes. “You scared me. I thought you were going to sneak down the stairs to avoid us.” He offered a sleepy grin and reached out to take the handle of my suitcase. “Come on. Taylor is waiting downstairs in the car.” I looked at him coldly. “I told you both not to come.” “Oh, stop being like that,” he said, tugging my arm to pull me along. “Who knows when you’ll be back? Let us say goodbye.” Downstairs, Taylor’s car was idling under the streetlamp, the exhaust pluming in the cold morning air. She got out to help lift the suitcase into the trunk, her movements efficient and silent. The drive to the airport was painfully quiet. Justin sat in the passenger seat, while I took the back. Ten minutes into the drive, he suddenly spun around to look at me. “Lucas, make sure you eat properly over there. Your stomach has always been sensitive.” “Yeah.” “And don’t push yourself too hard. You get anxious so easily, and too much stress is going to ruin your sleep.” “I know.” “FaceTime me whenever you miss me. What’s the time difference again… eight hours? When you’re waking up, I’ll just be getting off work—” “Justin,” Taylor interrupted, her eyes on the road. “Let him have some quiet.” Justin stuck his tongue out playfully and turned back around. In the rearview mirror, Taylor’s eyes flicked to mine for a brief second. I looked away, staring out at the blurred streetlights flashing past the window. When we arrived at the terminal, Taylor pushed the luggage cart while Justin slung his arm familiarly over my shoulder. We walked through the airport just like we always did, the three of us side-by-side. Only this time, they had positioned me in the middle instead of the edge. Because this was the final act. At the check-in counter, I finalized my boarding pass. Justin pulled me into a tight, crushing hug. “You jerk,” he mumbled, burying his face into my shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “Who’s going to let me mess around when you’re gone?” I patted his back twice. “You have Taylor.” He let go, wiping his eyes, and glanced at Taylor as if giving her a cue. Taylor stood a few paces back, clutching something in her hand. She walked over and handed me a brown paper bag. “Some snacks for the flight, and…” She hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Text me when you land.” I took the bag and gave a brief nod. Then, I turned toward the security gate. “Lucas.” She called out behind me. I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. “If you can’t make it work over there, you can always come back.” There was a sliver of uncertainty in her voice, a tiny fracture in her composure. But only a sliver. Because deep down, she was still entirely convinced I would return. She believed I couldn’t survive without them. She had believed that for eight years. I didn’t say a word. I pulled my carry-on forward and walked into the security line. While waiting in the queue, I looked back one last time. In the distance, Justin was talking animatedly to Taylor, gesturing wildly with his hands, looking bright and cheerful. Taylor was looking down at her phone, typing away. They didn’t look particularly heartbroken. They looked the way people do when they send someone off to run a quick errand, expecting them back shortly. I turned my back on them. Gate B12. I found my seat on the plane, buckled in, and opened the paper bag Taylor had given me. Inside was a sandwich, a bottle of water, a pack of mints. And at the absolute bottom lay a post-it note. Written in Justin’s handwriting: Hey space cadet, the real world is terrifying. You won’t last a month before you start missing us. Taylor and I will be waiting at the arrivals gate when you fly home! I stared at the word “space cadet” for a long time. As the plane began to taxi down the runway, I tore the note in half, stuffed it into the seatback air-sickness bag, and closed my eyes. Twelve hours later, my boots touched down at Heathrow. I turned on my phone. Thirty-seven notifications flooded the screen, mostly meme spam and frantic voice notes from Justin. Taylor had sent only one text: Let me know when you arrive. I typed back two words: I’m here. Then, I cleared the chat. My friend, Nate, was waiting at the arrivals gate, holding up a cardboard sign with a terribly drawn stick figure of me. “Welcome to your new life, Lucas.” I dragged my suitcase toward him. The London wind was damp and biting, but as I drew it deep into my lungs, it felt entirely fresh. No one here was going to call me an idiot. 4 During my first week in London, the jet lag refused to let go. Waking up at three in the morning with no hope of falling back asleep, I sat on the bay window of my rented flat, watching the amber glow of the streetlamps below. My phone screen lit up. Justin had updated his social media feed with a nine-photo gallery. Every single picture was of him and Taylor. At a diner, at the theater, walking through a shopping mall. The caption read: Life is so boring without Lucas around. Had to drag this beauty out to keep me company. You owe me for this one, Taylor! In the comments, our old coworkers were already teasing them: “Are you two finally going public?” “The childhood friends-to-lovers arc is finally happening!” “Did Lucas leave just to clear the path for you guys? lol.” Taylor had replied to one comment: Don’t talk nonsense. Justin had replied to the same comment with a blushing emoji. I stared at the screen, my mind blank. It wasn’t jealousy. It was a cold, quiet realization that my worst fears had been confirmed. My departure hadn’t left a void in their lives. It had completed it. Without the clumsy third wheel dragging them down, they could finally slide together naturally. Nate walked in, holding two steaming mugs of hot chocolate. “What are you staring at in the middle of the night?” He glanced at my screen. “Is that your buddy and your childhood girl?” “Yeah.” Nate shoved a mug into my hands. “Put the phone down, man. Your first day of work is tomorrow.” I took a sip of the rich chocolate, the heat burning the tip of my tongue. I set both Justin and Taylor’s profiles to “Mute.” My first day at the new firm was a blur of unfamiliarity. The entirely English-speaking environment, the foreign faces, the brisk pace of the projects, it was overwhelming. During the morning briefing, I struggled to keep up, my fingers aching from taking frantic notes. But nobody called me a space cadet. Nobody mocked my nervous stutter. Nobody looked at me when I completed a task and said, “Wow, look who actually did something useful.” At lunch, a senior analyst complimented a specific data structure I had built into a proposal. It was a completely standard, professional compliment. But I had to look down to hide the sudden sting in my eyes. I worked until nine that night. On my commute home, a message from Taylor popped up. “It’s been a week. How is London? Are you adjusting to the work?” I replied: “It’s fine.” She immediately wrote back: “Justin said you muted his posts. He’s really hurt by that.” I didn’t reply. She sent another: “Lucas, what are you still angry about? He knows he made a mistake.” It was always the same script. Justin was sad, so I was expected to soften. Justin felt bad, so I was expected to forgive. But the million-dollar deal I had lost, the shred of professional dignity I had fought for, the eight years of being their punching bag? None of that mattered. Because I was just Lucas. Easygoing, slow-tempered, harmless Lucas. Lucas never stayed mad. I closed the app, pulled up my project briefs, and spent the train ride preparing for the next day’s meetings. By the second, third, and fourth week, the rhythm of London began to feel natural. My work became smoother. My turnaround time on deliverables cut down by half. Nate commented that I was smiling more. Taylor’s texts, meanwhile, began to shift. They went from weekly check-ins to twice-daily pings, and eventually to a constant stream of messages morning, noon, and night. They started as casual questions but grew increasingly invasive. “Who did you have lunch with today?” “Is that coworker of yours male or female?” “Why aren’t you answering my messages on weekends?” I kept my replies brief, or simply ignored them. In my fifth week, at four in the morning, her contact photo flashed on my screen. A FaceTime call.

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1 Graduation trip to the island. My childhood friend, Brody, and my girlfriend, Gwen, took the speedboat first, leaving me behind. They left a post-it note stuck to the cabin door: “Go three hundred yards right of the pier, catch the 2:00 PM ferry. You got this!” But three hundred yards to the right of the pier was nothing but jagged, wave-beaten cliffs. Not a single boat in sight. I called them. Brody was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “Left! Go left! It was just a little test, man. You seriously can’t navigate to save your life.” In the background, Gwen’s voice came through, soft and sweet. “Stop teasing him, Brody. He’s going to panic. We’ll buy him a snow cone when he gets here.” The two o’clock ferry had already sailed. The next one wasn’t until four-thirty. I sat alone on a wooden piling at the dock. The Atlantic wind was howling, biting cold, but it couldn’t blow away the bitter memories drifting back to me. Back in middle school, we went to a concert. They vanished into thin air at an intersection, claiming they wanted to “build my confidence” in taking the city bus alone. I boarded the wrong line twice and ended up at a police station, where an officer had to drive me home. In high school, during our summer camping trip, they left me alone on a hiking trail in the mountains to “teach me how to read cardinal directions.” I wandered around the dense woods until pitch black, only to be rescued by a forest ranger. In college, during a road trip to a neighboring state, I went to use the restroom, and they simply drove off without me. That time, they said it was a test to see if I could read a paper road map. I had to spend half my monthly budget on two long-distance cabs just to get back to campus. Every single time they abandoned me, they claimed it was for my own good. At four-twenty, a white speck appeared on the horizon. The ferry was coming. But I didn’t board. Instead, I walked into the travel agency across from the harbor. “One ticket for the next flight back to Riverton, please.” I might not know the way to find them, but I knew exactly how to go home. “Oliver, where on earth are you?” Gwen’s call came through just as I stepped out of the airport arrivals terminal. The wheels of my suitcase rolled over the asphalt with a dull, rhythmic rumble. “The dock master said the four-thirty ferry docked ages ago. We’ve been waiting here for thirty minutes.” Her voice was still so gentle. There wasn’t a hint of guilt for leaving me alone at a deserted coastal harbor. “Did you get lost again and take the wrong boat?” I stopped walking. Looking at the endless stream of cabs outside the terminal, a bitter laugh escaped my throat. “I didn’t take the ferry.” Silence fell over the line for a second. Then Brody’s loud, mocking laughter erupted in the background. “I told you, Gwen! I bet he couldn’t even find the harbor. He’s probably crying in some alley right now.” “We should have taped that note directly to his forehead instead of the door.” Gwen chided him softly. “Brody, stop.” But her tone held a lingering, indulgent smile. “Oliver, where are you now? Don’t wander off. Send me your location, and I’ll come pick you up.” She spoke with her usual commanding authority wrapped in sweet tolerance. As if the person who had been stranded by their prank was just throwing a childish tantrum. “No need,” I said, opening the door of a yellow cab that had just pulled up. “I went home.” Gwen didn’t seem to process it. “Home? Which home? The cabin or…” “Back to our apartment. In Riverton.” My voice was flat. I gave the driver my address and shut the door. The noise on the other end of the line died instantly. Brody’s laughter cut off. Gwen’s voice dropped, thick with exasperated annoyance. “Oliver, can you stop being so dramatic?” “Brody was just joking around. He wanted you to practice using your GPS.” “Do you have any idea how much effort he put into this? He even bought your favorite mango shaved ice to welcome you, and now it’s completely melted.” “You ran all the way back to Riverton without saying a word. Did you even think about how we would feel?” I watched the streetlights flash past the window. Think about how they felt? Who had ever thought about how I felt? During our freshman year of college, we went to a neighboring city for a convention. On our way back, a heavy rainstorm hit. Brody insisted there was a famous wishing well nearby and dragged Gwen along. They walked incredibly fast, weaving through the crowded streets. Because of my terrible sense of direction, I looked down at my phone for just a second, and they were gone. I stood in the pouring rain for two hours. I couldn’t tell north from south, and my phone got waterlogged and died. Finally, a kind security guard let me use his landline, and I managed to call Gwen. By the time she found me under her umbrella, I was shivering violently from head to toe. Brody stood beside her under the dry canopy, grinning without a care in the world. “Oliver, how can you be so clueless? It’s literally a straight walk down this street.” Tears streaming down my face, I asked them why they didn’t wait for me. Gwen sighed, wrapping her coat around my shoulders. “Oliver, you can’t keep depending on me for everything.” “Brody is right. A burnt child dreads the fire. Next time, you’ll pay more attention to the signs.” Back then, I genuinely believed she was doing it out of love, wanting me to become independent. So I swallowed the bitter pill, along with the high fever that kept me in bed for a week. But now I finally understood. If someone truly loves you, how could they bear to watch you freeze in a downpour just to “teach you a lesson”? “Are you going to say something, or are you just playing mute?” Brody’s voice cut in, sharp with irritation. “It was a harmless joke. You seriously flew all the way home over that? If you can’t handle a little fun, don’t hang out with us.” Gwen took the phone back. “Oliver, I know your feelings are hurt.” “But you’re twenty-five now. You can’t keep acting like a toddler who gets lost on a straight path to a dock.” “You acted too impulsively this time. I’ll give you two days to cool off.” “Once you’ve calmed down, buy a ticket and fly back here. We’ll pretend none of this happened.” She effortlessly pinned the entire blame on me, playing the perfect, long-suffering woman tolerating her childish boyfriend. I leaned back against the seat and closed my eyes. “Whatever you say.” I hung up, then slid my phone into airplane mode. Finally, the car fell into a quiet hush. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Trouble with the girlfriend, buddy?” I shook my head. “No. Just finally figured out my destination.” The cab pulled up in front of my building. I dragged my suitcase up the stairs. The electronic lock beeped, and the door swung open. The living room was exactly as we had left it before the trip. Gwen’s half-read paperback lay discarded on the couch. On the coffee table sat a half-empty cup of boba Brody had left behind when he came over to mooch a meal two days ago. They were always together, invading every corner of my life under a hundred different pretexts. And I was always the outsider, left behind, mocked, and “trained.” I walked out onto the balcony, staring into the dark night. The wind was chilly against my face, but my mind had never been clearer. Leaving the lights off, I sat in the darkness for a long time. Eventually, I toggled airplane mode off. A dozen unread messages popped up immediately, all from Gwen. The first was an accusation, asking if I knew how expensive last-minute plane tickets were. The second was a warning, telling me to stop trying to get her attention this way. The last one, sent half an hour ago, read: “Brody and I are going out for seafood. If you’re hungry, order some takeout. Don’t expect me to come home and coddle you.” I stared at the text and didn’t reply. Instead, I opened my contacts. My finger hovered over the screen before dialing a number. “Hi, is this the moving company? Do you have availability tomorrow morning?” “He’s probably just trying to bait us into chasing him. Ignore him.” The next morning, I was woken up by a barrage of social media notifications. Brody had posted a photo dump on Instagram. The first slide was a selfie of him and Gwen on the beach. Gwen was wearing an oversized white linen shirt, looking up at him with a helpless, fond smile. Brody was flashing a peace sign, grinning widely under the sun. The caption read: “Vacation is so much sweeter without a fragile crybaby dragging us down.” Mutual friends had flooded the comment section with likes. Someone asked if Oliver hadn’t gone. Brody replied: “Our little prince threw a massive fit and flew straight back to his hometown. No one could stop him.” Gwen had liked the comment. That was their dynamic. No matter what happened, I was always the one in the wrong. The party pooper, the sensitive one, the ungrateful child. I calmly swiped past the post, leaving no like, no comment. Setting my phone aside, I dragged three large moving boxes out of the storage closet and began packing. Gwen and I had been together for five years, living together for three. This apartment was cluttered with the debris of our shared life. I opened the closet. Half of it held my clothes, the other half hers. I took my shirts out one by one, folded them neatly, and stacked them into a box. From the dark corner of a shelf, a small black box tumbled out. I paused, picking it up to open it. Inside was a uniquely designed compass necklace. Gwen had given it to me for my birthday during our sophomore year of college. I remembered how she had tenderly clipped it around my neck, her voice as soft as water. “Oliver, whenever I’m not by your side, this will show you the way.” “You’ll never be lost again.” I had been deeply touched back then, believing this was what real love looked like. Until one autumn, we went hiking. Brody had stared at my necklace, his eyes gleaming, demanding to borrow it. Before I could even protest, he reached out, unclasped it, and slung it around his own neck. We hiked for hours that day. On our way down, Brody suddenly slapped his forehead, claiming he must have dropped the necklace at the rest stop near the summit. I was on the verge of tears, desperate to hike back up and look for it. But Gwen grabbed my arm, stopping me. She said it was getting dark, that the trails were dangerous. It was just a cheap trinket, she argued; she would buy me another one. Seeing my frantic distress, her brow furrowed with annoyance. “Oliver, don’t be so petty. Brody didn’t do it on purpose.” Later, she did buy another one. Only, she bought it for Brody. She claimed Brody felt incredibly guilty for losing mine, so she bought an identical one to make him feel better. As for me? She said, “You already had one anyway. Buying another would just be a waste of money.” I looked at the rusted compass in my hand, the needle frozen and useless. A self-deprecating smile touched my lips. I tossed it straight into the trash can. Some paths couldn’t be navigated with a broken compass. I went back to packing. On the coffee table sat a thick binder of travel itineraries. I had stayed up for three nights straight planning this island trip. Where the best local diners were, which beaches had the most breathtaking sunsets, I had highlighted everything. Gwen had barely glanced at it when I showed her. She scoffed, saying there was no point in planning so much when they could just follow Brody’s lead. She laughed at my poor sense of direction, mocking how I could get lost even with a map in hand. And Brody had giggled right along with her. I had felt a dull ache in my chest then, but I had quietly packed the binder anyway. Now, it was completely useless. I tore the pages to shreds, throwing them into a trash bag along with the herbal tea I had bought to suit her taste and the lavender candles she loved. My phone buzzed again. A text from Gwen: “Did you eat yet?” “I just found this amazing seafood spot. Wish you were here.” “Alright, stop acting out. Send me your location, and I’ll book you a flight back this afternoon.” Every line oozed her condescending charity. She was absolutely certain I was just throwing a tantrum, certain that I couldn’t survive without her. She thought that if she threw me a bone, I would wag my tail and crawl back. I left her on read and taped up the boxes. The movers arrived shortly after. The driver wiped his brow, gesturing to the bulky furniture left in the living room. “What about the big stuff, kid?” “Leave it,” I said, brushing the dust off my hands. “I don’t want any of it.” Anything that belonged to our shared past could rot here. The movers nodded and began hauling the boxes downstairs. I stood in the center of the echoing apartment. Gwen had signed the lease, but I paid half the rent. The photo wall was still there, a collage of our years together. I walked over and ripped the photos down, one by one, until nothing remained but a scarred, bare wall. My phone lit up. A FaceTime call from Gwen. I hesitated for a beat before swiping to answer. “Oliver, how long are you going to keep up this act?” “If you’re done crying, book your ticket and get over here. Brody is starting to feel bad.” On the screen, Gwen was lounging under a beach umbrella. The ocean breeze ruffled her hair, looking effortless and beautiful. Brody was splashing around in the surf just a few yards behind her. Seeing me pick up, Gwen’s tense expression relaxed slightly, though her tone remained patronizing. “I checked the flights. There’s a direct one at three. I sent you the money on Venmo. Go buy the ticket.” She tilted the camera to show a fresh coconut drink on the table. “Brody ordered this for you. He said he wants to make it up to you when you get here.” “See? We’re both giving you a way out. Stop being so stubborn.” I stared at her face on the screen. She looked like a total stranger. This was the woman I had loved for five years. For her, I had spent hours trying to overcome my terrible sense of direction, forcing myself to study complicated navigation apps. For her, I had endured Brody’s endless, snide remarks because she insisted he was like a brother to her. For her, I had dragged my boundaries lower and lower. And she had taken every single concession as her birthright. “Gwen,” I said softly. My voice echoed slightly in the empty room. “I’m not coming.” Gwen’s face hardened instantly. “How much longer are you going to keep this up? It’s been three days. Even tantrums have an expiration date.” “Have I spoiled you so much that you think you can manipulate me like this?” She let out a cold laugh. “Oliver, look at yourself. You can’t even navigate out of an airport without us.” “Are you waiting for me to get down on my knees and beg in front of everyone before you’re satisfied?” I looked at her, the last trace of warmth dying in my chest. “No.” I flipped the camera, aiming it at the taped boxes and the black trash bags littering the bare floor. “I’m moving out.” The screen went completely still.

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1 I managed to buy a severely wounded merman at a bargain price. The seller warned me that he was incredibly stubborn: he refused to sing, and he wouldn’t shed a single tear. Yet, as I looked at the merman currently humming a soft tune and crying at the slightest provocation, I couldn’t help but wonder if they had sent me the wrong creature. Later on, he kept plucking his own scales and presenting them to me, looking incredibly anxious, as if he couldn’t stand being near me. Once his wounds healed, I drove him to the shore and released him into the wild. But the merman burst into tears: Giving you my scales was a courtship ritual! Courtship! For heaven’s sake, you didn’t release me, you abandoned me! … He was a terribly battered creature. The shipping crate was far too small for his frame. He was curled up in a pitiful ball, his hands bound tightly behind his back with heavy leather straps. A cheap plastic muzzle was fastened over his face, and a bright yellow tag was punched through his webbed ear, stamped with his serial number: 531. His silver tail, which must have been magnificent once, had lost all its luster, the scales dull and chipped. After confirming the delivery, I signed the electronic receipt. From this day forward, he was mine. As I reached out to lift him from the crate, his eyes snapped open, and a low, warning growl rumbled from his chest. Those ice-blue eyes were filled with absolute defiance and sharp hostility. I froze for a moment, my mind drifting. The color of his eyes was identical to the merman I had met once when I was a child. That was why, when my best friend Serena sent me the discount link, I had purchased him without a second thought. I quickly cleaned his shallow cuts, and the moment I unbuckled his restraints, he scrambled out of my hands and dove straight into the indoor pool. I had already prepared the water, adjusting the salt levels to match the ocean. I pulled a fresh slab of salmon from the refrigerator, walked over to the edge of the pool, and said simply, “Eat.” He swam closer, slowly rising from the water, and reached his hand out toward me. If I had known anything about marine biology, I would have recognized that this was a classic predatory stance. Unfortunately, I only realized this when a sharp, stinging pain sliced across my forearm. My silver beaded bracelet snapped under the pressure, the beads scattering into the water. Luckily, my reflexes were quick enough that I managed to pull back, escaping with only a shallow scratch. A tiny bead of crimson welled up on my skin, dripping into the pool and blooming like a red flower in the water. The merman’s nostrils flared. He stared at the dissolving blood, completely still. Looking at his stunned expression, I wondered if he hadn’t meant to hurt me. Perhaps human skin was simply too fragile compared to what he was used to. I let out a soft sigh, went to patch up my arm, and decided it was finally time to read the digital manual the seller had emailed me. Mermen and humans do not share a language; communication requires extreme patience. Mermen can survive on land, but they require regular skin hydration and must supplement their diet with extra freshwater. This species is naturally hostile. The success of domestication varies wildly by individual. For the owner’s safety, we highly recommend keeping them in a glass enclosure during the initial stages. Direct physical contact is not advised. Some mermen possess the ability to shift their tails into human legs. The shop is not responsible if your merman escapes using this method. Should you choose to view your merman as a romantic partner, there is no reproductive isolation between our species. Please note: a merman’s physical strength and endurance far exceed those of an average human. And that was it? Frustrated, I opened the chat window to contact customer support, sending over my order number. The representative replied almost instantly. Hello, dear customer! As stated on the product page, this particular specimen is a clearance item. He refuses to sing, refuses to communicate, and refuses to produce pearls. He has a highly antisocial personality. We only recommend him as a budget-friendly companion for the bedroom. We do not accept returns or refunds if your complaint is about his lack of singing or pearl production. I typed back: I was scratched by the merman. Do I need to worry about contracting Vibrio vulnificus? The representative replied: Don’t worry, dear! All our specimens undergo thorough medical sterilization before shipping. I thought about it, then added: I tried feeding him raw salmon, but he won’t touch it. Does he have a specific diet? Support: Theoretically, they can eat anything humans eat. He might just be stressed by the new environment, or perhaps he doesn’t like it raw. Try cooking it! Cooking it? Do wild mermen carry stoves around in the ocean? Though skeptical, I asked: How well-done should it be? After a short pause, the representative replied: Tiny thinks medium-rare should do the trick! I stared at the screen. Who is Tiny? Is she a marine expert? The screen flashed: Oh, dear, Tiny is just me! (sending love) Unable to find any gourmet recipes for marine life on the internet, I simply seared the salmon in a pan until it was slightly pink in the middle. Walking back to the pool, I used a pair of chopsticks to pick up a piece, chewing it slowly in front of him. “It’s safe to eat,” I said. He floated up to the edge, the water pooling around his collarbones. He kept his head lowered, water dripping from his thick eyelashes, as his hands slowly broke the surface. Only then did I see what he was holding: the broken beads of my silver bracelet. He had recovered every single one of them from the bottom of the pool. He gently deposited the silver beads into my open palm, offering me a sweet, timid smile. He looked like an entirely different creature from the wild beast of earlier. I stared at him, thinking that Tiny was actually right: he really did prefer his salmon seared. “Thank you,” I said, offering a soft smile. He gave his silver tail a happy swish, looking quite pleased with himself. After putting the beads aside, I picked up the chopsticks again and held a piece of salmon in front of him. He looked at me, making no move to take it with his hands. Instead, he tilted his head up and parted his lips, waiting for me to feed him. I leaned closer, placing the fish in his mouth. The next second, his eyes went wide. He scrambled backward through the water, his eyes turning red instantly. He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, his throat moving as if he wanted to spit it out but was too afraid to do so. Tears welled up in his eyes, finally spilling over his cheeks. A shower of round, perfect pearls clattered into the water. I blinked. The relationship between land and sea had suddenly become incredibly tense. “What’s wrong?” I grabbed his chin, gently forcing him to look at me. “Open your mouth.” He looked at me pitifully, slowly parting his lips and sticking out the pink tip of his tongue. A merman’s mouth was structured slightly differently from a human’s, possessing a strange, exotic beauty. The tip of his tongue was slightly red. He had burned himself. I stared at him. The seller had claimed he never cried, but he seemed incredibly delicate to me. Perhaps the sensation of heat was entirely foreign to him, which was why he had reacted so dramatically. I waited for the rest of the salmon to cool completely before feeding him again. This time, he seemed to enjoy it. Once he finished, my gaze fell on the yellow tag in his ear. I had fully intended to release him back into the wild once his wounds healed, so there was no real need to give him a proper name. Still, I hated referring to him as a number. “Caspian,” I said, looking into his eyes. “From now on, your name is Caspian.” He tilted his head, likely not understanding the words, but he swam closer to the edge, resting his chin on the tiled deck and looking up at me. “Caspian?” So he could speak. I remembered the manual mentioning that mermen needed freshwater intake. I brought over a glass of water, but he turned his head away in disgust, refusing to drink. I had to message support again. Tiny explained that in the wild, mermen obtained their freshwater from the bodies of live prey. If the fish wasn’t completely fresh, they would suffer from mild dehydration. Because they only associated water with salt water, they would never willingly drink fresh water from a cup. Realizing the issue, I went to the freezer and scooped a cup of ice. I poured the ice cubes into my palm, holding them out to him. Caspian swam closer, his hands rising from the water. But instead of taking the ice, he gently wrapped his cold fingers around my wrist. Holding me in place, he leaned down, carefully picking up an ice cube with his lips. His soft lips brushed against my palm, sending a slight tickle up my arm. Crunch, crunch. The sound of him crushing the ice between his sharp teeth was incredibly crisp and clear. He seemed to love it, the cold temperature bringing him instant comfort. A single ice cube remained in my palm, slowly melting from my body heat. The cold water began to trickle down the lines of my hand. Seeing this, as if loath to let any of it go to waste, Caspian leaned down again. He extended his tongue, licking the water clean from my palm. Then, following the trail of moisture, his lips pressed a soft, cold kiss against my forearm. Because of the ice, his mouth and tongue were freezing against my warm skin. My fingers twitched. Finally, he took the last piece of ice, his eyes narrowing in pure bliss. I handed him the rest of the cup, and he finished every single cube. “Do you like it, Caspian?” I asked. He tilted his head, processing the question for a long time. Suddenly, a look of realization washed over his face, and he flipped backward, diving deep into the pool. When he emerged, he held a handful of shimmering pearls, dropping them one by one into the empty cup. “Like?” He pointed to the glittering pearls, then to his own bright, ice-blue eyes, looking at me with intense anticipation. “Like?” His silver tail swished gently beneath the water. I gently shook the cup, the pearls clinking against the glass. Did he think “like” referred to things that were bright, beautiful, and cold, like the ice, the pearls, and his own eyes? It seemed he hadn’t quite grasped the human definition of the word. Seeing the hope in his eyes, I slowly shook my head. “No, that’s not what it means.” Caspian’s face fell, and his silver tail drooped listlessly beneath the surface. Over the next few days, I began teaching him simple vocabulary. “Vi, vi, an,” Caspian practiced, pronouncing each syllable of my name with careful precision. I smiled, nodding. “Yes. I am Vivian. And you are Caspian. Cas, pi, an.” He didn’t repeat his own name. Instead, he murmured mine again. “Vi, vi, an.” A happy ripple went through his tail, and he swished it back and forth. “Vivian. Vivian.” I let out a soft sigh. His communication skills were currently below those of an average sheepdog. Since Caspian could move around on land, and he constantly tried to climb into my bed, I ended up ordering a specialized hydrogel mattress for him. The surface was cool, soft, and slick to the touch. When you pressed your hand into it, it would leave a deep impression before slowly bouncing back. I called Caspian over, lying down on the gel mattress to show him how to use it. “This is your bed.” I stood up, gesturing for him to try. He reached out a finger, touching the cool surface. The moment his finger sank into the gel, his eyes lit up. He dragged his entire body onto the mattress, burying his face in the cool material, his tail shivering with pure delight. Then, he looked up at me, shifting his tail to make a small, circular space on the mattress. He patted the empty space with his tail, urging me to join him. “No, thank you,” I declined. “I have my own bed.” The hydrogel mattress was far too soft for a human; it offered zero lumbar support, making me feel like I was sinking into a swamp. I went to my own bed, assuming I would finally get a peaceful night’s sleep. But when the lights went out, I felt a shadow looming over me. I opened my eyes to see Caspian standing by my bedside, looking down at me like a giant, obedient puppy. I tried to reason with him. “You have your own bed now. Go sleep over there.” He tilted his head, pretending not to understand a word, his silver tail swishing silently in the dark. He seemed to believe that every flat surface in the house belonged to him. Sighing, I pulled back the covers. “Fine. Get in.” Without a second’s hesitation, he slithered onto the mattress, wrapping his arms tightly around my waist. He rested his chin on the crown of my head, his long tail curling around my legs to lock me in place. He let out a deep, satisfied sigh. Did he truly not understand me? Or did he simply choose to understand only the things he wanted to hear? Still, his scales were smooth and cool against my skin, acting like a perfect, natural cooling pad. I let him stay. I don’t know how many hours passed before I was jolted awake by a sudden, intense heat. I opened my eyes to find that the cool, soothing merman had turned into a literal furnace. His cheeks were flushed red, his mouth slightly parted, his lips a dark, swollen crimson. Sensing that I was awake, he pressed his hot body even closer, his tail wrapping tightly around my thighs. “Let go, Caspian. You’re boiling,” I said, shoving at his chest without a shred of gratitude for his earlier service. He refused to budge. He cupped my face with his burning hands, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my cheek. Then, he took my hand and pressed it flat against his chest. Beneath the hot skin, his heart was hammering at a frantic, terrifying pace. He looked down at me with watery, pathetic eyes, looking as if he were about to burst into tears at any second. “Vivian…” His voice was thick and raspy. Finally, a lightbulb went off in my head. I wrapped one arm around his waist and the other under his tail, lifting him off the bed. Caspian looked momentarily stunned by the princess-carry. But he quickly accepted his new position, resting his heavy head against my collarbone and nuzzling his face into my neck. I carried him over to the indoor pool. And threw him straight in. The manual had clearly stated that mermen could survive on land, but they required regular hydration. His high body temperature and raspy voice were obvious signs of severe dehydration. In the water, Caspian stared up at me with utter betrayal in his eyes. Seeing that I remained unmoved, he began to swim in frantic circles, churning the water into a froth. See? He was clearly dehydrated. The moment he hit the water, he was so happy he was doing laps. Eventually, Caspian retreated to the furthest corner of the pool, turning his back to me as he silently began to weep pearls. I nodded in satisfaction. Ah, tears of joy. The next morning, before I was fully awake, I felt a cool hand gently playing with my fingers. Opening my eyes, I looked down toward the floor. Caspian was lying on the hardwood floor beside my bed. He was holding my hand up, twisting my fingers between his own. The floor around him was covered in a thick layer of shimmering pearls, and he was glaring up at me with a look of pure resentment. I had no idea how long he had been lying there. I sat up on the edge of the bed, feeling a headache coming on. While the pearls were incredibly valuable, there was currently no safe place to put my feet. I could already see the slipping hazard. I used my foot to clear a small patch of floor. “Clean these up, Caspian. Every single one.” His expression became even more miserable. By the time I finished my morning routine and prepared to leave for work, he was still on his hands and knees, picking them up one by one. I ended up working much later than expected. When I finally unlocked the front door, the apartment was completely dark. As I flipped the light switch, I froze. Every single container, bowl, glass, and vase in the house had been filled to the brim with shimmering, high-quality pearls. I stared at the sparkling piles. What had he done? Had he secretly sold my house while I was gone? I finally found him on his hydrogel bed. He had dragged my heavy duvet down from the bedroom, wrapping himself in it like a cocoon, leaving only the very tip of his silver tail exposed. Scattered around him were several sweaters and shirts I wore regularly. I stared at the mess. I actually needed to wear those clothes, and he was using them to build a nest. Beside the bed, a glass cup piled high with pearls began to slide. A single pearl rolled off the top, clattering onto the floor.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “519853”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel