Category: English

When we were resetting the smart lock on my condo back to its factory settings, the building manager hesitated, looking up at me. “Ms. Foster, are you sure you want to wipe everything? This user, Isla, has administrator privileges. You’re actually registered here as a temporary guest.” I gave a small, tired smile. “Wipe it. Don’t leave a single name.” The night before, my stomach had flared up so badly I was doubled over by the elevator, my hand shaking so violently I couldn’t punch in the passcode. The lock kept flashing: Access Denied. When I called Larry, he kept his voice to a tight whisper on the other end: “Stop messing with the keypad, Natalie. Isla just fell asleep. Her nerves are shot, and the alarm is going to wake her up.” Sweat was beaded on my forehead from the pain. “This is my apartment, Larry.” He paused for two seconds, his tone shifting into familiar reproof. “She’s only staying here for a few days. Besides, don’t you have the code? Don’t make things difficult for her over something this small.” Only later did I discover what “temporary” actually meant. It meant her fingerprint was registered as the primary profile. And me—the person whose name was actually on the deed—was locked out in the hallway, unable to even reach my medication. I looked at the history log on the smart lock app. [11:48 PM: Larry Evans deleted Natalie Foster’s emergency access authorization.] I didn’t call him again. Instead, I prepaid the rest of the renovation loan and contacted my agent to put the condo back on the market. This place, which I had paid for, was no longer mine. And him? I didn’t want him either. 1 The night my gastritis flared up, I had to commute back from the clinic alone. The rain was coming down in sheets, pooling deep at the entrance of our building. By the time I stepped out of the storm, my socks were completely soaked through. When the elevator let me out on the twenty-first floor, I had one hand pressed against my ribs and the other reaching for the keypad. The interface lit up. Access Denied. Thinking I had just miskeyed, I tried again. Slow, deliberate presses. Access Denied. On the third try, the security system triggered, sending a shrill, piercing alarm echoing through the empty hallway. The pain in my stomach was so sharp I had to lean against the wall, my vision blurring. Inside, I heard muffled footsteps. It wasn’t Larry. “Who is it?” Isla’s voice came through the thick door, soft and tentative, sounding startled. I gritted my teeth. “It’s me, Natalie.” The hallway went quiet. She didn’t open the door. A moment later, my phone vibrated. It was Larry. His first words weren’t to ask how I was doing. “Natalie, stop pressing the buttons,” he said, his voice hushed. “Isla just got to sleep. You terrified her.” I leaned against the wall, the cramps twisting so hard I couldn’t stand up straight. “I can’t get inside. The lock says my access is denied.” There was a brief silence on the line. “It’s probably just a system glitch,” he said. “Go sit down at the convenience store on the corner for a bit. Don’t make a scene at the door. Isla’s emotional state is really fragile right now.” I let out a quiet laugh, though my lips felt completely numb. “Larry, my stomach is turning inside out. My prescription is in the kitchen.” His tone softened slightly, but it was still heavy with a simmering impatience. “They have over-the-counter stuff at the store. Just buy a pack to hold you over. I’ve got some things to handle here. I’ll be back late.” I stared at the brass handle. This was my apartment. I had put down seventy percent of the down payment. The mortgage auto-drafted from my account every month. The renovation loan was entirely in my name. Yet another woman was sleeping inside, and I was locked out. He was telling me to buy OTC meds at a convenience store. Through the door, I heard Isla’s hushed murmur. “Larry, should I let Natalie in? She sounds really angry.” Larry’s voice was low but clear through the receiver. “Don’t worry about it. Her stomach gets bad and she loses her temper. I don’t want her scaring you.” I listened to those words, and my fingers slowly slipped off the door handle. So, me crouching in pain in the hallway was just me “losing my temper.” I didn’t knock again. I walked over to the stairwell, sat down on the cold concrete step, and pulled up the smart lock app on my phone. The log took forever to load. When the user list finally appeared, I stared at it. User 1: Isla. Access Level: Administrator. Note: [Isla – Emergency Access] User 2: Larry Evans. Access Level: Administrator. User 3: Natalie Foster. Access Level: Temporary Guest. I stared at the words Temporary Guest for a long, quiet minute. I hadn’t put in the wrong code. I had been demoted in my own home. At 1:00 AM, Larry finally returned. He was carrying a white pharmacy bag, and the faint, sweet scent of the orange-blossom diffuser Isla favored clung to his jacket. Seeing me sitting on the stairs, he frowned. “Why didn’t you go get some medicine?” I looked up at him. “Who changed the passcode?” Larry blinked, caught off guard. “Isla’s ex-husband has been stalking her. She was terrified he’d find her, so I updated the security profile. I forgot to tell you.” Forgot. Such a simple, weightless word. He forgot to tell the owner of the house, but he remembered to register Isla’s fingerprint and assign her administrator rights. He reached down to help me up. “Let’s go inside first.” I pulled away from his hand and stood up on my own. Isla peeked out from behind the door, her eyes rimmed with red. “Natalie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to take up your space. Larry told me not to open the door for anyone at night, and I… I didn’t know what to do.” Larry instinctively stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. “She’s had a rough couple of weeks. Don’t start on her.” Watching his protective stance, the urge to ask any more questions simply evaporated. Inside, I opened the shoe cabinet. My house slippers were gone. The pair on Isla’s feet was the brand-new set I had just bought for myself. She followed my gaze, looked down, and panicked, trying to kick them off. Larry caught her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. The floor is freezing.” Then he turned to me. “It’s just a pair of slippers, Natalie. Is it really worth making a fuss over?” Just a pair of slippers. Just a security setting. Eventually, I would become a “just,” too. I took the medicine he bought but didn’t open it. In the master bedroom, our framed engagement photo had been moved from the nightstand. In its place stood an aromatherapy diffuser and Isla’s lavender sleep mist. Larry had told me she was only staying for three days. But in the closet, her shoes were already lined up, sorted by season. I opened my phone and pulled up my realtor’s contact. [I want to list the condo. As soon as possible.] She replied almost instantly. [Are you sure, Ms. Foster? I thought this was going to be your home after the wedding.] From the living room, I could hear Larry’s low, gentle voice soothing Isla. [I’m sure.] This place was no longer my home. The next morning, the sound of quiet chatter in the kitchen woke me. Larry was making breakfast. Pumpkin oatmeal. Sweet, warm, slow-simmered. I had suffered from chronic gastritis for years, yet he had never managed to remember that pumpkin always triggered my acid reflux. When he walked out carrying the bowl, he handed it straight to Isla. “You didn’t sleep well. Eat some of this first.” Isla was draped in my cashmere shawl, sitting at the dining table. “Thank you both,” she whispered. “I feel like such a burden.” I stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Larry finally noticed me. “Oh, Natalie. There’s more on the stove. Help yourself.” I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. My unsweetened Greek yogurt was gone. The shelves were neatly stocked with oat milk and gluten-free bread. I remembered my endoscopy last month. The night before the procedure, Larry couldn’t even remember what time my fasting window started, but he had called to ask if I could grab him a cold brew on my way home. He wasn’t naturally careless. He just didn’t waste his care on me. I pulled open the first-aid cabinet. My stomach medication had expired six months ago. But Isla’s melatonin, anti-anxiety prescriptions, heating patches, and daily vitamins were organized in neat, labeled bins. Larry walked in behind me. Seeing me sorting through the cabinet, he offered a casual explanation. “Isla’s been struggling, and she can’t skip her meds. I wanted to make sure we had everything she might need.” “My prescription expired,” I said quietly. “Did you know?” He hesitated, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Well… you’re always so tough. You usually just push through it.” The words felt like a tiny needle—not a deep wound, but a sharp, localized sting. I clicked the cabinet shut. “Right. I push through it.” Which meant I was always the one who could wait. During breakfast, Isla looked up timidly. “Natalie, do you mind if I use the vanity in the master bedroom for a bit? I have a lot of skincare products.” Before I could speak, Larry answered for me. “Go ahead. Natalie hasn’t been wearing much makeup lately anyway.” I looked Larry dead in the eye. “That vanity is mine.” Larry’s brow furrowed. “I know it’s yours. She’s just borrowing it for a few days. Why are you being so sensitive?” Isla’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “Forget it, I don’t need it. Please, don’t fight because of me.” Larry set his spoon down with a sharp clink. “Natalie, she’s already walking on eggshells here. Can you stop making her feel like a nuisance?” I wanted to laugh. I was the one paying the mortgage. I had picked out the table we were sitting at, the plates we were eating off of. Even the chairs they were sitting on had been paid for with three months of my overtime bonuses. And yet, I was the one making her feel like a nuisance. That afternoon, after Larry left for the office and Isla went to nap, I went into the study to gather my documents. On the shelf next to the desk, there were several new pink storage bins. The labels were printed in neat, clear script. [Natalie’s Spares] I stared at the word Spares. In my own home, my things had been relegated to spare inventory. My phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Isla had posted a photo. It was a shot of the corner of the master bedroom—the linen curtains, the reading lamp, the ceramic diffuser, all of which I had spent weekends sourcing. Her caption read: [Finally, a little sanctuary where I can sleep in peace.] Larry had liked it. And he had commented: [Rest easy.] I stared at those words for a long time, then took a screenshot and saved it. I opened my laptop and started a spreadsheet. Down payment, monthly payments, renovation loans, furniture, appliances, HOA fees, utilities. I pulled every bank statement from the last three years and itemized Larry’s contributions to the cent. I used to think keeping score was petty. I thought when you were planning a marriage, who spent what didn’t matter. But now I understood: the person who doesn’t keep score is the one who ends up with nowhere to stand. My realtor called to ask if the photographer could come by that afternoon. “Yes,” I said. “That works.” “Does your fiancé know about this, Ms. Foster?” I looked at the final numbers on my screen. “He’s not on the deed.” There was a brief pause on the line. “Understood. We’ll proceed.”

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I have always been able to see the red strings. They are thin, glowing threads of fate, anchoring one soul to another. When two people share a deep, intimate bond, a line appears between them. Jack and I were high school sweethearts. For eight years, a single, vibrant crimson thread ran from my chest straight to his, steady and unbroken. For his twenty-eighth birthday, we planned a weekend trip with our closest friends to hike the rugged backcountry of the northern ridges. Jack was an avid outdoorsman, the kind of guy who lived for the trail. He had shrugged off my suggestion of hiring a guide, his voice full of easy confidence. “A guide? Come on, babe. I’ve hiked this route six times. I could lead us to the summit with my eyes closed.” But midway up the mountain, he vanished. Without him, we didn’t know the trail, and the weather turned in an instant. A sudden, violent storm triggered a massive mudslide. My best friend, Beth, went over the edge of a ravine trying to pull me to safety. I was left curled beneath the freezing roots of a pine tree, my limbs completely numb, my jacket soaked through with blood. When I finally opened my eyes, I was staring at the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. The doctor told me I was pregnant—just two months along—and that the baby was gone. Then the search-and-rescue team delivered the final, crushing blow. They had found Beth’s body. She had been pierced by a fallen branch. It was a horrific, agonizing way to die. My heart felt shattered into a million jagged pieces. I lay there, weeping hysterically, drowning in a grief so heavy I couldn’t breathe. That was when Jack finally showed up. He rushed to my bedside, throwing his arms around me, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Leah. I’m so sorry I’m late…” I froze in his arms, staring at him. Why? It had only been twenty-four hours. But the red string on his chest had split. There were now two of them. 1 “Where were you?” His hand, which had been gently wiping the tears from my cheek, faltered for a fraction of a second. He recovered quickly, offering a seamless explanation. “I got a text saying my dad had a heart attack. I panicked, Leah. All I could think about was getting to him. I forgot to tell the rest of the group before I ran down.” “In the backcountry?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Since when is there cell service up there?” A shadow crossed his face. “There was a weak signal. Did your phone not have one?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t believe a single word. I kept my eyes locked on his chest. The deep, blood-red string was mine. But the other one—the pale, rose-pink thread—who did it belong to? Did that new connection have something to do with why he abandoned us on that mountain? The door clicked open, and a police officer walked into the room. Seeing that I was conscious, he gently asked me to come down to the morgue to identify Beth. The basement of the hospital was freezing, colder even than the rainy night on the mountain. Beth’s face was pale and ruined, barely recognizable. But I knew the small, dark mole right on her collarbone. “It’s her,” I choked out. The officer nodded sympathetically. “Do you have any contact information for her next of kin?” I shook my head, my throat tight. “She… she didn’t have anyone else.” We had grown up together in the same orphanage. I was her only friend, her only family. With trembling hands, I pulled the white sheet back over her face. I reached down, took off my own shoes, and slipped them onto her bare, cold feet. She had always hated the cold. She couldn’t go to the other side without shoes. Jack patted my back, his touch light and detached, like an outsider observing someone else’s tragedy. “I know you’re angry with me,” he whispered, sounding defensive. “But I had my reasons. I’m hurting too, Leah.” Ignoring my silent resistance, he lifted me up and carried me back to my room. He wiped my face and my feet with wet wipes, throwing away one damp tissue after another. I stared at him, feeling as though I was going to cry until my eyes ran dry. “Jack,” I asked, “do you think Beth will be happy in her next life? Do you think she’ll get a mom and dad who actually love her?” “And the baby… do you think our baby will hate me for not protecting them?” “Stop overthinking things,” Jack replied, his voice distracted as he stared down at his phone. “They’re gone. Dwelling on it only makes it worse.” He typed out two quick replies, then slid his phone into his pocket and stood up. “I have some urgent stuff to handle at the office. Call me if you need anything.” I watched his retreating back. As soon as the door clicked shut, something possessed me. I swung my legs out of bed and walked out of the room barefoot. The sharp pebbles on the pavement cut into the soles of my feet, leaving faint smears of blood behind me, but I couldn’t feel the pain. I slipped into a taxi and followed Jack’s car. The surroundings grew increasingly familiar. We were heading toward the Northside university district. Jack’s car pulled up near the gates of the state college. Standing there was a familiar, slender figure. It was Sadie. The girl I had been financially sponsoring for the last six years. She took a few quick steps and threw herself directly into Jack’s arms. I dug my fingernails deep into my palms, praying this was just a horrific nightmare. How could it be her? I had funded Sadie’s education since she was a young girl in middle school. Beth and I had treated her like a younger sister. Every summer and winter break, she would come to the city to stay with us. I had paid her tuition, shown her the world outside her impoverished town, and helped her build a life here. And this was how she repaid me. She clung to my husband, the pink line on her chest glowing with a sickening intensity. Jack reached down, gently stroking her hair. “Be good, Sadie. Leah and Beth had an accident. I won’t be able to come see you for a few days.” Sadie looked down, playfully twisting his fingers. “Fine. I understand. But can you at least stay with me today?” She pouted, her eyes wide and pleading. “Alright, get in, you little troublemaker,” Jack murmured, his voice thick with affection. The car sped away. By the time my taxi driver realized what was happening and pressed on the gas, they were already gone. I paid the driver, stepped out, and sat on the curb, completely numb. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my chat history with Sadie. She had always treated me like an older sister, sharing her secrets and crushes. She had told me she was in love with someone. I had even given her advice on how to win him over. The restaurant they went to? I had helped her pick it. The amusement park tickets? I had bought them for her. The concert tickets? I had stayed up late to secure them. With my help, she had systematically crawled her way into my husband’s bed. I opened her social media profile. Her latest post was a blurry photo of two hands locked together. [He promised that if we kept our Snapstreak alive for 520 days, I’d finally say yes to being his girlfriend.] [On day 519, he was deep in the mountains with no cell service. But he actually abandoned his hiking group and ran all the way down the mountain just to get a signal and save our streak.] [Now I know he truly loves me.] So that was the truth. He had abandoned us in a storm, leading to a miscarriage and the death of my best friend, all for a Snapchat streak. A tear slipped from my cheek, hitting the screen and accidentally liking Sadie’s post. A second later, a private message popped up from her. It was a cute sticker of a puppy hugging a heart. [Leah, I heard about the accident. I’m so incredibly sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.] I didn’t reply. My phone’s battery died, and the screen went black. The cold night wind whipped around me, making my head spin. I felt like I was back on the muddy slopes of the mountain. I used the last of my strength to crawl back to the hospital. Jack never came back that night. The next morning, he walked into the ward carrying a bag of breakfast. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he tossed the bag straight into the trash can. “Sorry, babe. I totally forgot you hate celery.” I caught a whiff of the sweet, synthetic orange scent on his clothes, and a wave of nausea hit me. The red string connecting him to Sadie had deepened into a rich garnet color. Mine had faded to a pale, translucent pink. On his collar, there was a faint trace of peach lip gloss. I knew exactly what they had been doing last night. His phone buzzed repeatedly. He sat on the edge of my bed, legs crossed, ducking his head to hide his smile as he typed. Because of my angle, I could see every word of their explicit conversation. [Sadie: You jerk! I woke up and you were already gone.] [Jack: Sweetheart, Leah is still in the hospital. I have to be here.] [Sadie: I guess your wife always comes first. You made me cry last night and you didn’t even care.] [Jack: Baby, you were crying because it felt so good. You were so loud.] Jack’s fingers flew across the keyboard, his face lit up like a teenager experiencing his first love. When he finally looked up and remembered I was there, he quickly masked his joy with a solemn, serious expression. It was exhausting just watching him act. I didn’t confront him. Right now, my priority was Beth. Once Jack left the hospital, I forced myself out of bed and signed the discharge papers. I spent the day handling the death certificate and the paperwork to close her bank accounts. My chest felt hollow. Just a few days ago, Beth had been holding my arm, excitedly planning our next vacation. How could she just be gone? My phone buzzed with a text from Jack. [Babe, are you okay on your own? I’m meeting up with the guys from the hike to buy them dinner and apologize for leaving them on the mountain.] I didn’t bother to reply. I was at the funeral home, trying to select an urn through a blur of tears, when my phone rang. It was Tyler, one of Jack’s childhood friends who had been on the mountain with us. I answered, but Tyler didn’t speak right away. Instead, I heard Sadie’s giggling voice in the background. Jack had brought Sadie to the apology dinner. Except for me, everyone in his circle already knew about them. “Seriously, Jack, you’re something else,” Tyler’s voice came through, sounding strained. “You almost got us killed for a girl.” Jack let out a defensive laugh. “Come on, man, can we drop it? Do I need to get down on my knees and beg?” “We’re fine, but what about Leah?” another friend chimed in. “She lost her baby, she watched her best friend fall down a cliff. You didn’t see her, Jack. She was clawing at the dirt trying to climb down to Beth until her fingernails were torn off and bleeding. It was brutal. If you had been there, none of this would have happened.” “What do you want me to do?” Jack snapped. “It already happened. Nobody knew a mudslide was coming. It was just bad luck. You can’t pin this on me.” Sadie’s voice drifted over the receiver. “Don’t blame Jack, guys. He’s really devastated too.” “Oh, look who’s protecting him,” Tyler muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “So, when you ditched us on the mountain, did you guys go straight to a hotel? How was the first time, anyway?” Jack let out a low chuckle. “Three times. She cried because it hurt.” The call abruptly disconnected. A moment later, a text from Tyler popped up on my screen. [Leah, if you hadn’t given me your spare rain jacket that night, I would have gotten hypothermia. I owe you my life. I can’t keep lying to you about Jack and Sadie.] I saved the recording of the call. I played it over and over again, letting the words tear into me until the pain gave way to a cold, dead numbness. I took Beth’s urn back to her empty apartment. I sat on the living room floor, staring at our graduation photo on the wall. We had used our very first paychecks to get professional portraits taken. She had such a beautiful, radiant smile. “Don’t worry, Beth,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m not going to fall apart.” Beth’s memorial service was held a week later. Sadie actually had the audacity to show up. She walked up to me and offered a fragile, dramatic hug. “Leah, please stay strong. You still have me.” She was wearing a scoop-neck dress that barely concealed a pattern of dark hickeys on her collarbone. Her performance of grief was cheap—lots of loud sniffling, but not a single tear. I clenched my fists inside my pockets, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. I didn’t say a word. Right after the eulogy, I noticed both Sadie and Jack had slipped out of the chapel. I followed the quiet hallway until I reached the emergency exit stairwell. Through the narrow crack in the door, I saw them. They were pressed against the concrete wall, kissing with frantic, desperate hunger. Jack eventually pulled back, his breathing heavy, though he tried to look disapproving. “Are you out of your mind? This is Beth’s funeral!” “I don’t care,” Sadie giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Don’t tell me you don’t find this thrilling.” She looked up at him with an innocent, wide-eyed smile. “You little heartless brat,” Jack murmured, though there was no real heat in his voice. “Beth sent you money every month, you know.” “She just wanted to play the saint and feel good about herself,” Sadie sneered. “What does that have to do with me?” Jack grabbed her by the waist, pulling her flush against his body as if he wanted to bruise her. The red string connecting them was thick and vibrant, almost bleeding with intensity. Mine, by contrast, was a faint, ghostly thread. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me, and my foot slipped against the doorframe. The sound startled them, and they immediately sprang apart. Jack smoothed his jacket, his expression smoothing into a mask of casual innocence within a second. He didn’t even look flustered as he walked toward me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Hey, babe. My cravings got the best of me, so I came out for a smoke. Ran into Sadie on the way.” I didn’t call him out. I just clenched my teeth and forced my voice to remain steady. “I noticed you were gone, so I came looking for you.” He slid the cigarettes back into his pocket. “I’m done anyway. I’ll head back inside first.” As I turned to follow him, Sadie called out to me. “Leah, you saw us, didn’t you?” I stopped. “Saw what?” She blinked at me, her face a picture of youthful innocence. “Oh, stop acting. We were kissing.” “Look at my waist,” she added, lifting the edge of her cardigan to reveal a faint red mark. “He gripped me so hard it left a bruise.” My fingers dug into my palms. “What is your point, Sadie?” “I loved Jack the moment I saw him,” she said softly. “He’s handsome, mature, and gentle. He’s the best man I’ve ever met. I honestly don’t know how you got so lucky.” She let out a soft sigh. “But I really do have to thank you. Thank you for paying for my college.” “Jack told me that when you guys were trying to buy your apartment, you worked three different part-time jobs just to make sure you could still send me my monthly allowance. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in that miserable little mountain village. I never would have made it to the city, and I never would have met Jack.” “You practically handed him to me, Leah. You really are a wonderful person.” The blood in my veins ran cold. “…Are you even human?” “Think whatever you want,” she said, entirely unbothered. “Oh, by the way, I heard from the doctor that your uterus was badly damaged during the miscarriage. You probably won’t ever be able to have kids again, right?” She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic stick, holding it up for me to see. Two distinct pink lines. “Maybe your dead baby decided to come to my belly instead.” “I’m pregnant, Leah. I haven’t told Jack yet. How happy do you think he’ll be when he finds out?” With a triumphant smile, she brushed past my shoulder and walked away. That night, Jack didn’t come home. Around midnight, Tyler sent me a video. It was taken at the upscale lounge where they always hung out. Sadie was sitting in the center of the booth, surrounded by their friends, while Jack held her close, kissing her passionately. “Let’s raise a glass!” Jack shouted over the music, his face flushed with joy. “I’m going to be a dad!” He was beaming, entirely untroubled by the fact that our own baby had died just a week ago. While some lives ended, others began. I was the only one left in the wreckage. My phone buzzed with a text from him. [Babe, caught up with some work stuff at the office. Won’t make it home tonight.] [By the way, can you head over to my parents’ place tomorrow? My mom’s back has been acting up, and she could use some help around the house.] I stared at the screen for a long time before typing my reply. [Okay.] And then I added: [I think I’ll stay with them for a couple of days so I can take proper care of them.] [Awesome, thanks babe!] The next morning, I packed my things and moved into my in-laws’ house. Predictably, Jack brought Sadie back to our apartment that very night. The hidden nanny cam I had installed in our living room months ago captured everything in high-definition clarity. I sat on the guest bed at his parents’ house, quietly watching them embrace, kiss, and tear their clothes off. They didn’t even make it to the bedroom. They collapsed onto the living room rug, wrapped up in each other. The red string connecting me to Jack had faded until it was practically invisible. I felt an eerie, profound sense of peace. Beth’s funeral was over. Everything that needed to be done had been done. Now, it was time to settle the debt. The next morning, I drove to the transit station and picked up Sadie’s parents. They were simple farmers who had never left their rural county. When I called them and told them their daughter was in serious trouble, they had boarded the first bus out. “Leah, what happened to our little girl?” her mother asked, her eyes wide with worry. “You’ll see when we get there,” I replied quietly, guiding them into a waiting cab. Then I went back to my in-laws’ house and picked up Jack’s parents. But I wasn’t finished. I created a massive group chat on social media, adding every single mutual friend, family member, colleague, and acquaintance Jack had. When we finally arrived at our apartment, I unlocked the door with my key and quietly led both sets of parents up the stairs to the second floor. The master bedroom door was ajar. Jack and Sadie were lying tangled in my sheets, completely naked. The floor was littered with used wrappers and adult toys. It didn’t take a genius to figure out exactly what kind of night they had shared. After a long, suffocating silence, Sadie’s mother let out a raw, horrified shriek. “Sadie!” The show had finally begun.

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I have a secret. I was born with the ability to smell what people are feeling. When someone lies, they carry the sour, curdled scent of spoiled milk. When someone is jealous, they smell of the sharp, metallic bite of rusted iron. When someone has a guilty conscience, they carry the heavy dampness of cellar mold. But when someone is in love, they carry a sweet, golden warmth, like honeyed vanilla. I first smelled that sweetness when Garrett and I fell in love. Back then, when he looked at me, his eyes shone as if they held the stars, and he carried that soft, sugary fragrance wherever he went. Then, we got married. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but the sweetness faded. In its place came a thick, choking bitterness. I tried to ask him about it, gently, testing the waters. “Are you doing okay lately? Is something bothering you?” He would only sigh, rubbing his temples. “Just pressure. Providing for us is heavy. The mortgage, the car payments, the endless meetings at the firm – it’s suffocating, Natalie.” I believed him. And my heart ached for him. So, I tried harder to be the perfect, understanding wife. I stopped asking why he came home so late. I stopped questioning the sudden passcode change on his phone. I stopped interrupting his “client dinners.” Until our fifth wedding anniversary. He came through the front door, laughing and talking on the phone, and for the first time in years, I caught a draft of that long-lost sweetness. But the very second the call ended, a suffocating wave of bitterness surged, completely drowning out the sweet scent. … 1 My smile froze on my face. Refusing to believe my own senses, I took a few steps closer. But the bitterness didn’t dissipate. Instead, it grew heavier, crowding my nasal passages. Garrett looked exactly like his scent – heavy, exhausted, silent. Without a word, he kicked off his shoes, set his briefcase on the entryway console, and went straight to the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the apartment. When he emerged, drying his hands on a towel, he made a straight line for the study. “Garrett, today is our…” “I’m tired,” he interrupted, not even looking back. “I need some quiet time in the study.” And with that, he shut the door. Staring at the closed door, I bit my lip, a familiar, unspeakable exhaustion settling deep in my bones. Three years into our marriage, he told me work was too draining and that he needed a space of his own at home to breathe. So, we agreed the study would be his exclusive sanctuary. I wasn’t allowed in without permission. At first, he only spent an hour in there. Then it became three. Eventually, it got to the point where if he was home, he spent most of his time behind that closed door. I sighed, turning back to the dining table. I had cooked dinner myself, warming it up over and over again while waiting for him. The dishes had lost their fresh color; a thin layer of grease had settled over the soup. In the fridge sat a blueberry cake. Garrett had mentioned offhandedly a while ago that he wanted some, so I had spent the afternoon learning how to bake it from scratch. Thinking of the entire day I’d spent preparing, I picked up my phone and opened our chat. “[It’s our anniversary. Can we please just have dinner together first?]” But before hitting send, a strange impulse made me scroll up through our chat history. I let out a soft, self-mocking laugh. Over the last two years, I had sent Garrett 3,542 messages. He had replied to exactly 98. Yet, two years ago, our chat was a dense forest of words. Even seeing a funny-looking cloud was enough to keep us talking for hours. After a long hesitation, I deleted the plea, letter by letter. I sat down alone and picked up my fork. The food, reheated too many times, had lost its flavor. It tasted slightly nauseating as I chewed, but I forced myself to swallow it, bite by bite. It felt as though if I could just finish this table of food, I could swallow some of the humiliation of tonight. By the end, my throat burned with a sour ache. I set down my fork, went to the fridge, and pulled out the cake. I was about to dig in when the study door suddenly swung open. Garrett rushed out, looking like he was in a hurry to leave. But as his eyes swept over the dining table, he stopped. “Don’t eat that!” His sharp voice startled me. My spoon slipped, clattering loudly against the edge of the plate. He strode over and snatched the cake box right off the counter. “You bought this, right? I need to borrow it.” It wasn’t a request; it was an announcement. Before I could answer, he turned and bolted out the door. As the door slammed shut, the draft from the hallway rushed in. And with it, the scent he had left behind. Sweetness. But mixed with it was a sharp, searing heat – the smell of burning anxiety. It was the scent a person only carries when they are desperately worried about someone they love. During our first year of dating, I had gone back to my hometown for New Year’s and ended up breaking my leg. Garrett couldn’t book a train ticket, so he sat in a cramped, freezing overnight bus for twelve hours just to reach me. When he pushed open my hospital room door, he carried this exact smell. It had washed over me, mingled with the cheap tobacco and winter chill of the bus. Back then, it made my heart overflow with joy. But now, that same scent felt like a blunt knife slowly carving into my chest. I didn’t think. Within seconds, I threw on my coat and shoes and slipped out after him. Garrett hadn’t taken his car. I followed him on foot, keeping a careful distance. Several times, if he had just glanced back, he would have spotted me. But he walked too fast, his mind clearly consumed by something else. He had no idea he was being followed. Just past the gates of our neighborhood, he ducked into a 24-hour convenience store. He slid onto a stool right next to a woman with long hair. Her head was bowed, her shoulders trembling slightly. Garrett placed the cake in front of her, gently resting his hand on her hair. His lips moved, whispering soft, comforting words I couldn’t hear. I hadn’t seen him look at anyone like that in years. It wasn’t the look of exhaustion. Or cold indifference. Or obligation. It was the look that used to belong entirely to me – an overwhelming, aching tenderness. I pushed open the glass door of the store, pretending to browse the shelves. Just then, the woman turned her head and buried her face in Garrett’s chest. In that split second, I saw her face. I froze in the aisle, my blood turning to ice. It was Keira. The girl I had been financially sponsoring for nearly ten years. Only last month, as she was preparing to graduate from college, I had asked her where she wanted to start her career. I told her that if she came to Chicago, I might be able to help her find her footing. She had looked down then, her cheeks flushing. “I want to go to the city where the person I love is. I just want to be close to him.” I had admired her courage back then, thinking she was so much like my younger self – willing to travel thousands of miles to an unfamiliar city for the man she loved. But in less than a month, those words had returned to slap me across the face. The person she loved was my husband. The man she had chased across the country was the very same man I had chased years ago. The cold air from the store’s open coolers made my fingers numb. Meanwhile, the scent drifting from their corner invaded my nose in waves. The sweetness was growing thicker. The scent of a honeymoon phase. Suppressing the rising bile in my throat, I took a few steps closer. Finally, Keira’s tearful, aggrieved voice reached my ears. “My supervisor made me work overtime again. It wasn’t even my mistake on the proposal, but she yelled at me in front of everyone. And now she’s making me reorganize three years’ worth of client files.” Garrett cooed to her in a low, soothing voice. “Don’t cry. You won’t have to deal with this kind of unfairness ever again.” Keira looked up at him, her eyes damp and wide. “Really?” Garrett wiped her tears away with an incredibly tender touch. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll have you transferred to my department as my personal assistant. With me around, no one will dare bully you.” My grip tightened on the metal shelf, my knuckles turning white. Two months ago, my own company had worked overtime for two straight weeks to bid on a project from Garrett’s firm. I knew Garrett hated nepotism or favoritism of any kind, so I never breathed a word to him about it. Yet, when he saw my company’s name on the list, he personally disqualified us to avoid any appearance of conflict of interest. The next day, my colleagues looked at me with a mixture of disappointment and resentment. I couldn’t offer a single word of explanation. And yet here, for Keira, all it took was a few tears, and he was ready to abuse his authority to pave a golden path for her. Garrett opened the cake box and pushed it toward Keira. “I knew you were upset, so I brought you this.” The moment the lid came off, both of them froze. Scribbled in uneven icing on the top of the cake were the words: “Happy 5th Anniversary.” Beside the text was a clumsy drawing of two cartoon figures holding hands. Keira stood up abruptly, tears spilling over. “Garrett, what is this supposed to mean? Are you trying to humiliate me? To remind me that I’m just the other woman?” Panicking, Garrett slammed the box shut and threw it violently into the trash can. “Hey, hey, sweetie, of course not. I was just in such a rush to get to you that I grabbed whatever was on the counter. I didn’t even remember what day it was.” “If you don’t like it, we throw it away. I’ll buy you a fresh one tomorrow, okay?” In the trash can, the cake lay tilted against plastic wraps and empty cups. The two cartoon figures were smeared into a blue blur, their outlines ruined. Just like my five years of marriage. But the cake wasn’t what broke my heart. It was the way he held Keira, whispering sweet-nothings, comforting her over and over with boundless patience, as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain. Last month, I had mentioned wanting a specific pour-over coffee from the shop downstairs from his office. I asked for a month, he promised for a month, and he forgot for a month. Finally, he had brought home a bottle of instant coffee from this very convenience store and tossed it on the counter. When I told him that wasn’t what I wanted, his brow had furrowed in irritation. “Natalie, my job is stressful enough. Can you stop picking fights over trivial nonsense?” Back then, I had made excuses for him, convincing myself he was just exhausted. But it wasn’t that at all. The difference between loving someone and not loving them is stark. I couldn’t watch any longer. I turned and walked out into the night. The cold wind bit my face, making my eyes sting. Standing under a streetlamp, I drafted a resignation email to my boss. He was already cold toward me after we lost the contract with Garrett’s firm, and his reply came almost instantly: “[Understood. Please complete your handoff and finish up by the end of the week.]” When I got back to the apartment, I left the cold leftovers on the table. I took a shower, crawled into bed, and stared at the dark ceiling. It was nearly midnight when the front door finally clicked open. Garrett crept into the bedroom. The sweetness on him had vanished, replaced once more by that heavy, suffocating bitterness. But this time, there was a faint, sour tang underneath – the smell of guilt. I didn’t know if he felt guilty for forgetting our anniversary, or for harboring another woman in his heart. The mattress dipped as he climbed in and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Natalie, I’m so sorry. Things have been insane at work lately, and I completely lost track of the date. Let me make it up to you with a nice gift in a few days, okay?” I didn’t turn around. I just gave a quiet, hollow murmur of agreement. But I knew. “In a few days” meant never. That was always Garrett’s way. When he genuinely wanted to do something, he gave a concrete timeline. Like when he comforted Keira, he said “tomorrow.” For me, it was always the nebulous safety of “some other time.” Hearing my quiet response, the scent of guilt evaporated from him. Within minutes, he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Sure enough, by the time I finished my handoff and walked out of my office for the last time, his promised gift had never materialized. On my final day, after picking up the finalized divorce papers from my attorney’s office, I took a cab home. As we drove past Garrett’s office building, a sudden impulse took hold of me. “Actually, could you pull over here, please?” It was a whim; I hadn’t actually expected to run into him. But as I neared the glass lobby doors, I saw Garrett and Keira walking out side-by-side. The young receptionist smiled, teasing them. “Garrett, taking Keira out solo again?” Keira’s cheeks flushed, and she waved her hands. “Oh, don’t say that! It’s just a client meeting.” The receptionist gave a knowing smirk. “Right, right. We get it.” Garrett heard her, but he didn’t correct her. There wasn’t even a flicker of annoyance on his face. Standing outside the glass doors, I let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh. But as I laughed, a tear slipped down my cheek. Garrett was a man so fiercely protective of professional boundaries that he was almost draconian about them. During our first year of marriage, when we worked at the same company, he had told me, “Office romances look bad, Natalie. One of us needs to leave to keep things professional.” So, I had walked away from a career I had spent three years building – one where I was on the cusp of a promotion. I rewrote my resume, took interviews, and started all over again from the bottom. Yet here he was, parading Keira around the office, completely unbothered by the suggestive whispers of his staff. I followed them. They walked a block and entered a small, cozy bistro on the corner. It was a place Garrett and I used to frequent back when we were dating. In those days, the restaurant was tiny, with greasy wooden tables and menus that were frayed at the edges. But it was cheap, the portions were huge, and the food was incredible. Later, the place became trendy. You needed reservations; the lines stretched down the block. Garrett grew to despise it, refusing to take me there ever again. “Is there really nothing else you want to eat? Do we have to waste our evening standing in line for a craving?” Yet now, the hostess recognized him immediately and smiled. “Table for two, Garrett? Your usual spot?” Keira walked inside with practiced ease, as if she had been here dozens of times. Standing on the sidewalk, the air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. He hadn’t hated the hassle of the restaurant; he had just hated the hassle of “me.” Under the shadow of a maple tree, I watched them through the window. The food arrived quickly – a skillet of garlic shrimp, a whole roasted sea bass, and several other signature dishes I knew by heart. Garrett naturally took the wet wipes from the server. He pulled the fish apart, meticulously extracting every bone before placing a piece of fish onto Keira’s plate. Then he peeled the shrimp, dipped them in sauce, and set them in her bowl. Watching this, my mind drifted back to our early years. Those were tasks I had always done for him. Garrett was meticulous, a bit of a clean freak. He hated getting his fingers greasy, hated the chore of peeling shells. So, whenever we ate, I would peel his shrimp, debone his fish, and slide them onto his plate. Our friends used to tease me. “Natalie, if you keep spoiling him like this, you’re going to turn him into a helpless toddler.” I had only laughed. But now I had my answer. Garrett wasn’t helpless. He was perfectly capable of doing the things he disliked – provided the person he was doing them for was someone he actually loved. I pulled out my phone and opened my chat with Keira. Our last exchange was her message about moving to the city of her dreams, followed by a GIF of a winking golden retriever. No wonder it had looked familiar. I realized now it was from a sticker pack Garrett used constantly. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. After a long moment, I typed out a message: “[Keira, I saw you here in Chicago. So you decided to stay after all? Why don’t you come over to our place for dinner this weekend?]” The message sent. I didn’t wait to see their reactions. I slipped my phone into my pocket, turned on my heel, and walked away. Apparently, Keira didn’t tell Garrett about my invitation. Because when the doorbell rang on Sunday, and Garrett opened the door to find her standing there, his entire body went rigid. In the next second, a damp, moldy smell exploded into the hallway, laced with a sharp, panicked heat. Guilt and panic, coiling together. I knew exactly why Keira hadn’t told him. What woman is truly content staying hidden in the shadows forever? When given the chance to step into the light, to claim a space in his home, she was never going to pass it up. While Keira went to the restroom, Garrett grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the corner of the kitchen. His voice was a harsh whisper, laced with accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me Keira was coming over for dinner?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “You always say you hate hearing about domestic details. So I didn’t bother.” Garrett choked on his words, his brow knitting tighter. “Natalie, you – ” Before he could finish, the bathroom door clicked open. Keira stepped out, her smile sweet and entirely innocent. “Natalie, when are we eating? I’m starving.” I pulled my wrist from Garrett’s grip and reached for the serving platters. “Right now.” The three of us sat down at the table. In the past, whenever Keira visited, she would cling to my side, always insisting on sitting next to me. This time, she naturally pulled out the chair directly beside Garrett. I set the soup bowl down, pretending not to notice. With a pleasant smile, I asked her, “So, Keira, you mentioned before that you were moving to be with the person you loved. How did you end up staying in Chicago?” As the question hung in the air, I felt a strange knot of tension in my chest. I had supported Keira for a decade. I had watched her pull herself out of a mountain village without paved roads, fighting her way to a top-tier university. I didn’t want to destroy her future over a sordid affair. I was going to divorce Garrett, without question. But if she showed any remorse, any sign of realizing her mistake, I wanted to leave her with some shred of dignity. But Keira only looked down, a small smile playing on her lips. When she looked up, her gaze drifted sideways to Garrett. “Because the person I love is here in Chicago,” she said softly, but with absolute clarity. “He begged me to stay. He found me a job, rented me an apartment, even got me a car. He showed so much sincerity… how could I not stay?” As her words fell, the dining room became choked with competing scents. From Garrett, the damp, rotting stench of guilt. From Keira, the sharp, metallic bite of open provocation. And from me? There was no longer any sour ache of heartbreak. There was only the dry, empty smell of cold ash. Disappointment. I smiled faintly and let the subject drop. The rest of the meal tasted like cardboard. When we finished, I was the one who broke the silence. “Garrett, it’s getting late. Why don’t you drive Keira home?” Garrett’s face was dark, but he didn’t refuse. He grabbed his keys in silence, and he and Keira walked out of the apartment. A split second before the elevator doors closed, I saw Keira stand on her tiptoes and plant a quick, mocking kiss on his cheek. It was a declaration of ownership. A victory lap. I let the doors close, turned back into my apartment, and shut the door. I went into the bedroom, pulled out my pre-packed suitcases, and set them by the door. Then, I placed the signed divorce agreement neatly in the center of the dining table. Finally, I opened my laptop and pulled up my email. I attached the blurry photo of them embracing at the convenience store, the clear shot of him deboning her fish at the restaurant, and several photos of them walking into his office building together. Along with a concise, factual report, I sent the package directly to the email of Garrett’s regional director. With that done, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked out without looking back. The night air hit my face as I stepped out of the building, washing away the heavy, bitter scent of Garrett that had clung to me for far too long. Garrett didn’t get home until three in the morning. Keira had clung to his sleeve, refusing to let him leave. First, she said she was scared to be alone, then she claimed she heard strange noises in her apartment, then she begged for just thirty more minutes. Thirty minutes turned into hours. By the time Garrett’s patience finally wore thin, the sky was already graying. On the drive back, Garrett felt nothing but exhaustion. Managing Keira was becoming increasingly demanding; she always seemed to want more. By contrast, he thought, Natalie had never been like this. She was always reasonable, always understanding. Even if he stayed out all night, she would only send a gentle “Stay safe” text and leave the porch light on. When he turned the key in the lock, he frowned out of habit. The entryway was dark, the living room pitch-black save for the amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. “Natalie?” he called out. No response. He fumbled for the light switch. When the room flooded with light, he froze. The dining table was a mess of dirty dishes. The remnants of dinner had congealed into white grease, and a dark stain had soaked into the tablecloth. There were dried sauce drops on the hardwood floor, and a small clump of rice lay abandoned nearby. This wasn’t like Natalie. She couldn’t stand a messy house. Even when she had a fever, she would force herself to put everything in its place. The faint guilt he had felt for coming home late was instantly replaced by irritation. His job was exhausting enough; he didn’t want to come home to a disaster. With a cold face, he marched toward the bedroom to demand an explanation. The door was cracked open, the room dark. He pushed it open and flipped the switch. The bed was made perfectly. The duvet was pulled tight, without a single wrinkle to suggest anyone had lain there. “Natalie?” Still nothing. He checked the bathroom – empty. He stood in the middle of the quiet apartment, suddenly struck by how vast and foreign the space felt. The subtle scent of Natalie’s lavender fabric softener was already fading. He walked back to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, and that was when he spotted the document resting beside a plate. Frowning, he picked it up. The bold, capitalized letters at the top hit him like a physical blow: “DIVORCE AGREEMENT.” Garrett stared at it, a wave of disbelief washing over him. Natalie wanted a divorce? Over a missed anniversary dinner? Over a cake? It made no sense. He let out a harsh, dry laugh and tossed the paper back onto the table. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable…” He hung up and opened Messages. “[Natalie, what is this nonsense? Where the hell are you at this hour?]” The message failed to send. A glaring red exclamation mark appeared, followed by a small line of text: “Message not delivered. You have been blocked by this contact.” Garrett stared at the red circle, paralyzed. Then, a hot, uncontrollable anger flared in his chest. They had argued before, but Natalie was always the one to back down first. This time, she had gone too far – actually signing divorce papers. He made up his mind right then: he would wait until she came crawling back, apologizing, before he would even consider forgiving her. With that thought, the fire in his chest subsided slightly. He went to bed, tossing and turning until dawn before finally falling into a fitful sleep. The next morning, he was jolted awake by his phone. It was the assistant to the regional director, Mr. Campbell. “Garrett, Mr. Campbell wants you in his office immediately. We have a highly urgent matter to discuss.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516781”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I called off our wedding exactly one week before we were supposed to walk down the aisle. When I broke the news, Leo was hunched over his laptop, editing his junior lab partner Linda’s master’s thesis. His voice carried a mild, practiced irritation. “And what’s your reason this time?” I placed a tube of lipstick—the one I’d found wedged beside the passenger seat of his car—on the sleek wooden desk. Then, I laid down two glossy photographs right next to it. The lipstick belonged to Linda. The photos showed the two of them on a weekend getaway. I looked at him. “Are these two reasons enough?” Leo knitted his brows, tossing out a casual, defensive explanation. “The lipstick must have slipped out of her bag. And the photos? She’s been under an insane amount of pressure with her research lately. I just took her out of town for a weekend to help her clear her head.” I nodded slowly. “Right. So we’re calling off the wedding.” He stared at me for a long, quiet beat, as if trying to gauge my resolve, before turning his eyes back to his monitor. “Whatever you want, Gina.” I knew he didn’t take me seriously. He didn’t believe for a second that I would actually walk away. After all, every time he had threatened to break off our engagement during our past arguments, I was always the one who swallowed my pride, begged for forgiveness, and coaxed him back. He assumed this was just another one of those times. But he was wrong. This time, I was truly done. … 1 Leo didn’t spare me another glance. His focus was entirely consumed by Linda’s draft. “Go get some rest,” he said, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. “I’ll give her back the lipstick tomorrow.” I didn’t say a word. My gaze drifted back to the photos. In them, Linda had her arm draped casually over his shoulder, their cheeks pressed close together. She was sticking her tongue out playfully at the camera. They looked exactly like a happy young couple. The photos had been taken two weeks ago, during the weekend Leo told me he had to travel out of state for an academic conference. It turned out his “conference” was a getaway to help Linda unwind. I remembered bringing up the idea of a short trip myself just last week. He had frowned, sighing heavily. “The lab is absolutely swamped right now, Gina. I physically don’t have the hours. Let’s do it another time.” Though disappointed, I hadn’t pushed. I had quietly waited, holding onto the hope that he would eventually carve out some time for me. Only now did I realize it wasn’t a matter of time. He had plenty of it. He just didn’t want to spend it on me. After a long silence, I finally asked, “Why did you lie to me?” His fingers paused over the keyboard. He looked up, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation, as if my question were entirely absurd. I held his gaze and repeated myself, my voice barely a whisper. “You took Linda to the coast to clear her head. Why did you tell me you were traveling for work?” Leo was always too busy. He was so busy that I had to plan every single detail of our wedding by myself. From the guest list and the catering to the floral arrangements and venue design, I had handled it all. I had even gone to the jeweler to pick out our wedding bands alone. Yet, this incredibly busy man had somehow found the hours to whisk Linda away because she was feeling stressed. A bitter, suffocating ache bloomed in my chest. A shadow of annoyance crossed Leo’s face. “If I had told you the truth, you would have started a fight. Gina, we’re about to get married. Do you really not have even a shred of trust in me? Linda has been crying in the lab because of her research. She was on the verge of a breakdown. I just took her out of the city to help her decompress.” I stared at him. Linda was stressed, so he took her on a trip. Linda struggled with her thesis, so he stayed up late rewriting it for her. He gave all of his precious time to Linda, while leaving me with only one word: “busy”. I nodded, my voice dropping to a faint, hollow tone. “Okay. I understand. I’ll explain things to my parents. You should tell yours. The sooner, the better.” Leo opened his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzed on the desk. He picked it up, and I caught a glimpse of the contact name on the screen: “Linda”. I quietly turned around and walked out of the study, giving him space. Behind me, I heard him play her voice note. “Hey, Leo! How’s my draft looking? I’m so, so nervous—please tell me you don’t think it’s total garbage!” As I stepped out into the hallway, Leo’s gentle reply drifted through the open door. “Of course not. It’s actually really good, there are just a few sections we need to polish…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I closed the door behind me, and a single tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the hardwood floor. Six years of my life, gone just like that. The next morning, Leo acted as if nothing had happened. He grabbed his coat, slipping it on as he spoke. “There’s a department dinner tonight, so I’ll probably be home late. Go ahead and sleep, don’t wait up for me.” He didn’t wait for my response before heading out the door. I stared down at my cold bowl of oatmeal, barely tasting it. I sat on the couch for a long time, watching the morning light slowly shift across the living room, before finally forcing myself to go upstairs. After living together for three years, I had accumulated a lot of things. Packing them up was going to be a monumental task. I lost track of time. By the time Leo came home, the bedroom was a chaotic mess of half-filled boxes, and two large suitcases sat open on the floor. He knitted his brows, looking genuinely perplexed. “Where are you going?” My hands froze over a stack of sweaters. I felt a sudden, bitter urge to laugh. Of course. He hadn’t registered a single word of our conversation last night. He probably asked where I was going out of pure, mindless habit. Compared to his hyper-awareness of Linda’s emotions, his concern for me didn’t even amount to a fraction of a percent. I folded a blouse and placed it neatly into the suitcase. “I’m moving out,” I said evenly. Leo fell silent for a moment, as if the memories of the previous night were slowly clicking into place. Then, he let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “Gina, are you actually serious? Look, if you’re that desperate for a vacation, I’ll carve out some time for us right after the wedding, okay?” I didn’t answer. I just kept packing. His expression softened into one of weary indulgence. “Linda’s lipstick really did just fall out of her bag when I drove her home the other night. I gave it back to her today. She promised me she’d be more careful with her things from now on.” My hands didn’t falter. “Good to know,” I murmured. Seeing my indifference, Leo yanked at his tie, his patience finally snapping. “Are you really going to throw a tantrum over something this trivial?” he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. “Calling off the wedding? Gina, we are six days away from our rehearsal dinner. Do you have any idea what calling it off right now actually means? You’re an adult. Stop being so incredibly childish.” Of course I knew what it meant. It meant my parents would have to face the pitying whispers of our relatives and friends. It meant severing the six-year thread that bound my life to his. But I couldn’t live like this anymore. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life playing second fiddle to Linda in my own marriage. “It is,” I said. Leo blinked. “What?” I looked him dead in the eye and repeated it, slower this time. “It is worth it, Leo. I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’m calling off the wedding. I don’t want to marry you anymore.” Leo stared at me, a cold, scoffing laugh escaping his lips. “Gina, there’s a limit to how far you can push a drama. You’re seriously going to throw away six years of our lives over a stray lipstick and a couple of vacation photos?” To him, it was always just a drama. He had never once stopped to consider the concept of boundaries when it came to Linda. I remembered a night last year when I had too much to drink at a corporate networking dinner. When I called his number, Linda answered. She told me Leo was driving and couldn’t talk. After a heavy pause, I asked if he could come pick me up. He took the phone from her and rejected me without a second thought. “I’m driving Linda home right now. Just call an Uber.” I ended up taking that rideshare home alone, and we had a massive screaming match. But then he coldly uttered, “Maybe we shouldn’t get married after all,” and those words felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, freezing the anger right out of me. In the end, I was the one who crawled back, swallowing my pride to appease him. He was so protective of Linda that he had threatened to call off our wedding dozens of times because of her. But now, when I was the one pulling the plug, he refused to believe it. I looked away, too exhausted to argue. “Fine. Think what you want.” “Gina, can you stop with this toxic jealousy?” Leo pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a frustrated breath. “Linda is my junior colleague. She’s struggling. What is so wrong with me helping her navigate her research? It’s literally my job as her mentor.” I remained silent. I zipped up my final suitcase and pulled it off the bed. Leo threw his hands up in defeat. “Whatever. Maybe it’s good for you to get out of the house and clear your head. At least then you’ll stop overanalyzing everything.” He turned on his heel and slammed the study door behind him. I quietly stood the suitcase up in the corner of the room. Looking down at the diamond engagement ring on my left hand, I slipped it off my finger and set it on the nightstand. I expected to lie awake all night, but instead, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I didn’t wake up until mid-morning, roused by soft, giggling voices floating up from the living room. “Leo, are you sure Gina won’t be mad that you brought me over without asking her first? You guys are literally getting married next week. I’d feel terrible if you two got into a fight because of me.” I had heard that voice countless times through Leo’s speakerphone. But I never imagined he would actually bring Linda into our home. “She won’t mind,” Leo replied, his voice warm and comforting. “Gina isn’t unreasonable. Besides, you’re only here so we can finish editing your thesis drafts.” When I carried my suitcase down the stairs, I saw Linda sitting beside him on the sofa. Their heads were huddled close together over a laptop. Neither of them noticed me standing at the foot of the stairs. “Oh my gosh, Leo, you’re literally a lifesaver,” Linda squealed, gazing at him with open admiration. “If I had submitted my original draft, my advisor would have absolutely shredded me.” “Don’t worry,” Leo said softly. “I’ve got you. We’ll fix it together.” My heart gave a painful little squeeze. I had never seen him display that kind of gentleness. Just last month, I had asked him to look over a marketing proposal I was working on for a promotion. He had barely glanced at the paper before looking back down at his phone. “Gina, this isn’t my field. I don’t have time for this.” He had no patience for me. But for Linda, he was willing to explain things line by line, hour by hour. I let go of the handle, and my suitcase clicked against the floorboard. Both of them snapped their heads in my direction. Leo stood up and walked toward me, his tone defensive yet carefully even. “Linda needed help with the final edits. I figured it would be easier and faster if she just came over here to work.” “How convenient,” I murmured. Linda scampered over behind him, her eyes dropping to the suitcase at my feet. She let out a soft gasp. “Gina… are you going somewhere?” I ignored her. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pulled out a platinum credit card and handed it to Leo. “This is the card your mother gave me for the wedding expenses,” I said, my voice steady and devoid of emotion. “I haven’t spent a single penny of it. I’ll speak to my parents tonight. You should do the same with yours. Let’s not drag this out.” Leo stared at the card, a look of genuine shock crossing his face before it hardened into a bitter, mocking smirk. “Gina, what is this dramatic little performance supposed to prove?” “Nothing,” I said, pressing the card into his palm. “Since the engagement is off, it’s only right that I return what isn’t mine.” “Calling off the engagement?!” Linda gasped, her hand flying to her mouth before Leo could speak. “Gina, you’re calling off the wedding? Why?” I turned my gaze to her, looking her straight in the eye. “I think you know exactly why.” Linda froze, the color draining from her face. Leo immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from my gaze. His brow furrowed in anger. “Gina, that is enough. This is your own insecurity talking. Don’t drag Linda into your issues.” Watching the outrage burn in his eyes, I paused, and a small, sad smile touched my lips. To him, I was just insecure and petty. He completely ignored his own failure to set boundaries, choosing instead to paint me as the irrational, jealous fiancée. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “I am petty.” I wheeled my suitcase around them and walked out the front door. As I crossed the threshold, Linda’s whimpering voice drifted out from the entryway. “Leo… is she calling off the wedding because of me? I swear the lipstick was just an accident, I didn’t mean to leave it in your car… I’m so sorry…” “It has nothing to do with you,” Leo interrupted, his voice dropping into that familiar, reassuring register. “I know her. She’s just trying to scare me. She’s not going to call off the wedding.” I didn’t look back. I pulled the door shut behind me, letting the heavy click of the deadbolt swallow their voices whole. I took a taxi to my parents’ house in the suburbs. When I walked through the door dragging my heavy luggage, my mother stopped dead in her tracks. “Gina? Sweetie, what are you doing here?” Her eyes fell to the suitcases, and her face softened with immediate concern. She asked, her voice cautious, “Did you and Leo have a fight?” My hand tightened around the handle of my suitcase. I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook my head. “No. It wasn’t a fight. I called off the wedding.” My father walked out of the kitchen just in time to hear me. He stood frozen in the hallway. “Gina, what did you just say? You called off the wedding?” I sat them down in the living room and explained everything, my voice growing softer and more exhausted with every sentence. By the time I finished, my mother’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears. My father remained silent, his jaw clenched in quiet anger. “Mom, Dad… I’m so sorry,” I whispered, looking down at my hands. My mother immediately reached across the table and took my hands in hers. Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to stay strong for me. “Gina, look at me. Your father and I will support whatever you decide. If you don’t want to marry him, we aren’t going to make you. Don’t worry about the guests or the relatives. We will handle them.” A sudden wave of emotion hit me, threatening to shatter the fragile calm I’d kept all morning. I blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears, refusing to let them fall. Upstairs in my old childhood bedroom, I collapsed onto the mattress, utterly drained. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from my best friend, Becca. “Gina, is it true? Did you actually call off the wedding with Leo? Tell me you’re joking.” I stared at the ceiling and typed out a brief reply: “It’s true. His business trip last month? He took Linda on a weekend getaway.” Within three seconds, Becca was calling me. She didn’t even say hello before launching into a furious tirade. “Is he out of his mind?! You’ve been working yourself to the bone coordinating with vendors and florists, and he’s out of town playing boyfriend to his assistant?! You spent six years of your life building a future with this man. How could he do this to you? He’s an absolute prick!” By the end of her rant, her voice was shaking with anger and tears. She was crying for me, feeling the injustice of it all more loudly than I could. I forced a small, tired smile. “It’s okay, Becca. Honestly, it’s better this way. I don’t want to marry him anymore.” Before, I had been holding onto the hope that things would change. But now, my heart was entirely numb. The love had simply bled out of it. The night before our scheduled wedding, Leo called me. “Tomorrow is the big day,” he said, his voice casual, as if he were checking in on a grocery list. “What time are you coming back to the apartment tonight?” I stared out the window into the dark suburbia, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping my throat. He still believed this was a game. He still thought I was just throwing a tantrum to teach him a lesson. “I’m not coming back,” I said. There was a brief pause on the line. “Fine,” he sighed. “Your parents’ place is closer to the venue anyway. You can just head straight to the hotel tomorrow morning.” “Leo,” I interrupted, closing my eyes. “I am not going to the venue. I am not getting married tomorrow. I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I am done.” A long, heavy silence stretched over the phone. When he finally spoke, his tone was clipped, laced with disbelief. “What do you mean you’re not going? Gina, do you hear yourself right now? Is this about Linda again?” He exhaled a long, dramatic sigh, the epitome of a martyr. “Linda and I are colleagues. We work in the same lab. There is absolutely nothing going on between us. I explained the trip to you. Can you please stop making a scene?” A scene. In Leo’s eyes, every boundary I tried to set, every ounce of pain I expressed, was just me “making a scene.” When Linda called him at midnight because her apartment’s kitchen light broke, he had rushed over without a second thought. When I cried about it, he told me I was overreacting. When he chose to drive her across town instead of picking me up from a bar in the rain, he told me I was being dramatic. And now, when I was trying to save my own dignity by calling off a doomed marriage, he called it a scene. I wanted to ask him: “What do I have to do for you to actually hear me?” I took a deep breath. “Leo, I am not—” “Leo!” A feminine voice suddenly chimed in from his end of the line, cutting me off. It was Linda. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was past eleven. She was still at his apartment. Leo muffled the microphone on his phone, but his voice still leaked through as he whispered to her, “What’s wrong?” “Leo, are you sure it’s okay for me to crash on your couch tonight? I don’t want to make things weird,” Linda asked, her voice dripping with sweet innocence. I pressed the red button and hung up. A few minutes later, a text message popped up on my screen. “Linda ran into some massive errors with her dataset. We worked late into the night trying to resolve them, so I told her she could stay in the guest room. Get some sleep, Gina. I’ll see you at the altar tomorrow.” He was still entirely convinced I would show up. My thumb hovered over his contact card. With a few quick taps, I blocked his number. Since he was so absolutely certain of my compliance, I decided to let him experience his perfect wedding day all by himself.

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Ever since I was a child, I’ve had a secret. When I look at someone, I can see their exact bank balance floating right above their head. It was this little gift that saved me. Back in the orphanage, I used it to choose my adoptive parents—a couple who dressed in faded, off-brand clothes but actually had a cool hundred million sitting in their accounts. But my taste of the good life was short-lived. The biological daughter they’d lost years ago was found, and she came back to claim her throne. Tiffany hated me for occupying her space. She made it her life’s mission to torment me, leaving me bruised and broken in ways no one else cared to see. I endured it all, keeping my head down, just so they would continue paying my college tuition. The moment I finally graduated, degree in hand, I was ready to run. I was packing my life into a single duffel bag when Tiffany blocked my path, her face twisted in rage. “I thought the guy I was talking to online was some rich heir with a Ferrari,” she hissed, shoving her phone in my face. “Turns out he’s just some pathetic loser who rides a Lime bike.” “If he starts stalking me, it’s going to ruin my reputation. You’re going to go meet him instead. Tell him you’re the girl he’s been talking to. Tell him you’re Cindy.” I looked in the direction she was pointing, out the window. A loser? Above the man’s head, in glowing, undeniable numbers, was a ten-digit balance. I swallowed hard, my heart hammering against my ribs. I grabbed Tiffany’s arm, unable to mask my sudden excitement. “Tell me everything,” I said. “Every single detail you two talked about. I’m going right now.” … Tiffany let out a sharp, mocking laugh when she saw how eager I was. “Are you really that desperate, Zoe? Can’t even keep your drool in check over a lowlife like that?” She tossed her phone at my face. It hit my cheek before sliding into my hands. “Have at him. If you’re that starved for a man, he’s all yours. Take him, leave, and honestly, do me a favor and never come back.” I swallowed the bitter taste of her insults, keeping my focus entirely on the screen. I memorized every text, every shared inside joke, every detail of their digital romance. Then, drawing in a long, steadying breath, I walked out of the house and made my way toward the man Tiffany had discarded like trash. “Hi,” I said, stepping up to him. I forced my voice to be light, cheerful. “I’m Cindy. The girl you’ve been texting. But my real name is Zoe.” I offered my hand, a warm smile stretching across my face. His eyes lit up, a flicker of genuine surprise washing over his features. “Oh,” he said, his voice softer than I expected. “You look… different than your pictures. Better, actually. Much better.” “I’m Wyatt,” he replied, wrapping his hand around mine. Tiffany had only ever sent him blurry, angled photos of her back or side-profile. Since our builds were similar, Wyatt had no reason to doubt me. But as our hands met, I wasn’t listening to his voice. I was staring at the space just above his head, carefully counting the digits glowing there. One, two, three… ten digits. Over a billion dollars. What made my breath catch, though, was that the number wasn’t static. Even as we stood there, it was ticking upward, climbing steadily with every passing second. So this was what real, obscene wealth looked like. He didn’t have to lift a finger; his money was making money faster than most people could spend it. If I could play this right, if I could tie myself to him, I wouldn’t just escape the hell of my adoptive family. I’d have a future. While I was lost in my calculations, Wyatt’s expression shifted, a quiet vulnerability clouding his eyes. “I… hope you aren’t disappointed,” he murmured, gesturing self-consciously to his scuffed, cheap foam clogs and the faded, oversized t-shirt he wore. “I could only afford a city bike to get here. Do you hate me for being poor?” He looked like he’d crawled out of a clearance bin at a thrift store. But Tiffany, in her endless pursuit of trying to play the “sweet, low-maintenance girl” to hook what she thought was a rich guy, had established a very specific online persona. She had pretended to be a struggling, modest girl. So I played along seamlessly. “I’m literally wearing my sister’s discarded hand-me-downs right now,” I said, gesturing to my faded sweater. “If anything, it’s nice to meet someone who knows the value of a dollar. I guess that’s why we clicked so well.” Tiffany had assumed that playing the victim of poverty would win her a rich boyfriend who would shower her with gifts. She had no idea that Wyatt had beaten her to the punch, using the exact same strategy to test her. Wyatt scanned my thin frame, taking in my slightly hollow cheeks and the cheap fabric of my clothes. The suspicion in his eyes melted away, replaced by a soft, growing warmth. But the test wasn’t over. “We can’t just stand on the sidewalk all day,” he said, rubbing his back. “Let me buy you lunch.” He unlocked a city bike for me, deliberately positioning his cracked, ancient smartphone so I could see it. I didn’t say a word. I pulled out my own phone—the screen webbed with deep fractures—and offered to buy him a ninety-nine-cent Arizona iced tea from a convenience store. “Thanks for coming out to see me,” I told him as we biked side-by-side. “It really means a lot.” Inside, I was secretly thrilled. I wanted to see exactly how far Wyatt was willing to drag this “broke boy” act. After a thirty-minute bike ride that left my legs burning, he pulled up to a dingy, strip-mall diner with a sign that read: All-You-Can-Eat Buffet – $7.99. I paused at the entrance, and Wyatt’s shoulders slumped slightly. He gave me a look that said, I knew it. Still, he rubbed his hands together nervously, playing the part of the anxious, low-income worker. “I know it’s not fancy,” he said, his voice tight. “But money is tight. I do delivery driving, and after gas, I barely clear eighty bucks a day. Zoe, do you look down on me for bringing you here?” I blinked, my stomach choosing that exact moment to let out a loud, traitorous growl. “Are you kidding?” I said, my eyes shining with absolute sincerity. “I’m the black sheep of my family. My parents stopped giving me a dime the second I started college. I’ve been working three part-time jobs just to pay tuition. Most days, I survive on a single side of white rice from the campus dining hall mixed with free hot water and ketchup.” “To me, an all-you-can-eat buffet is practically a Michelin-star feast.” I wasn’t lying. The hunger in my belly was very real. Before he could even respond, I grabbed a plastic tray and headed straight for the food line. If this had been Tiffany, she probably would have dumped a plate of hot food over his head and walked out. But I was practically vibrating with excitement, piling my plate high with whatever looked hot and heavy. “Mac and cheese, yes please. Mashed potatoes… definitely. Fried chicken… oh, absolutely.” Wyatt followed close behind, watching me heap mounds of heavy carbs onto my plate. When we sat down and I began eating with genuine, unpretentious joy, a sudden tenderness softened his face. “You really aren’t faking this, are you?” he murmured. I was too busy inhaling a roll to answer. Compared to my ravenous appetite, Wyatt barely touched his food. It was clear he wasn’t used to such greasy, low-grade fare. He took a few polite bites and set his fork down. Naturally, I finished his leftovers, too. Once the plates were clean, I leaned back, patting my stomach with a contented sigh. “Thank you, Wyatt. That was honestly the best meal I’ve had all year.” “Don’t get used to it,” he said, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. “Once I make it big, I’ll take you to a place that’ll make this look like garbage.” When he offered to drop me off at home, I shook my head. “I’m not going back there,” I said softly. “I’m going to find a cheap hostel to crash at for a few days while I look for a job.” I remembered from Tiffany’s chat history that Wyatt had been deeply curious about her living situation. Tiffany, who had been pampered her whole life, could never quite fake the gritty details of a hard life; she had always brushed his questions off with cute, deflective emojis. But I had nothing to hide. “I’m adopted,” I told him as we walked down the street. “A few days after they took me in from foster care, their biological daughter—the sister I mentioned—was found and brought back. From that moment on, I became a ghost in my own home. My sister found endless, cruel ways to make me pay for existing, and my parents looked the other way. But they kept a roof over my head and paid for my school, so I try to be grateful.” Wyatt’s hands balled into tight fists inside his pockets. “And you just took it? You let her treat you like that?” I shrugged and rolled up my sleeves, showing him the faded, thin scars on my forearms. Some were from where Tiffany had burned me with matches, others from where she’d scratched me with rusty nails, and one deep mark from when she’d set the family dog on me because I touched her shoes. “I’ve graduated now,” I said, pulling my sleeves back down. “I can take care of myself. Once I save up enough, I’ll pay my adoptive parents back for the tuition and cut ties with them forever.” “Zoe…” Wyatt stared at me, his gaze intense, searching. “To be honest, when we first started texting, I thought you were just playing a character to get my sympathy.” He was completely convinced now. He stood there for a long moment, lost in thought, before looking up at me with dark, unreadable eyes. “If you could make one wish right now, what would it be?” I stole a quick glance at the number hovering over his head. In the span of our lunch, his balance had somehow grown by another five million dollars. He was still playing the pauper, so asking him for a direct handout was out of the question. But maybe, just maybe, he could use whatever connections a secret billionaire had to help me find a job. “I just want to find a job as soon as possible,” I said, keeping my tone practical. “Ideally, something that offers employee housing or a housing stipend, so I can save on rent.” Wyatt raised an eyebrow, a mysterious glint in his eye. “Well, you never know. Maybe the universe will surprise you.” I smiled, not wanting to get my hopes too high. After all, I still had no idea who he really was. To thank him for lunch, I spent the last of my pocket cash on a couple of cheap ice cream cones. He spent the rest of the afternoon walking with me, helping me check out various sketchy, low-cost hostels in the city. By evening, after a cheap dinner of street tacos, we parted ways on our city bikes, his eyes lingering on me with a strange, reluctant warmth. The moment he disappeared around the corner, my phone rang. It was an HR representative from a major, multi-billion-dollar corporation. “We saw your resume on a recruiting portal,” the woman said, her tone highly professional. “Your qualifications are a perfect match for our open position. Would you be open to an interview tomorrow morning?” I didn’t know the exact connection between this massive firm and Wyatt, but I knew with absolute certainty that this wasn’t a coincidence. It was him. The interview the next day was shockingly easy. The HR manager barely asked any technical questions before offering me the job on the spot, telling me I could start the very next morning. Excited, I immediately texted Wyatt: Your lips must be blessed! I got a job! It comes with a dorm and a meal stipend! You brought me this luck—I have to buy you dinner to celebrate! Wyatt agreed instantly. He showed up in the same threadbare outfit, offering a sheepish, self-deprecating shrug. “I don’t really have any nice clothes, Zoe. I hope you don’t mind walking around with someone who looks like this.” As he spoke, the number above his head flashed. It was eighty million dollars higher than it had been yesterday. I suppressed a smile. “Once I get my first paycheck, I’m buying you a brand-new outfit.” Wyatt blinked, genuinely taken aback. “You can barely afford to feed yourself, and you want to buy me clothes?” “You’re the first person who ever took the time to listen to me,” I said simply. “You treat me well. It’s only fair I do the same.” The emotion that flared in his eyes was entirely real. There was no acting in that moment. From that day on, I poured everything into my new job, desperate to build a life of my own. Wyatt and I met almost every evening, our bond growing deeper with every passing day. We ate at cheap diners and food trucks, but Wyatt seemed to grow more relaxed, his guarded, testing nature melting away entirely. On payday, I kept my promise. I took him to a retail store and bought him a decent shirt and jeans. As he changed into them, his expression grew serious, almost solemn. “Zoe,” he said softly, “your luck is just getting started. I have to go away for a few days to handle some business. But when I get back, I have a surprise for you.” I didn’t know what he meant, and I didn’t dare to dream. In fact, a part of me preferred him as the “poor delivery guy.” When he was pretending, we were equals. If he became a god among men, I wouldn’t know how to look him in the eye. For the next three days, I couldn’t reach him. He only sent occasional, brief texts telling me to be patient. But before I could see Wyatt again, the person I dreaded most found me. Tiffany somehow tracked down my workplace. “Are you still seeing that guy?” she demanded, cornering me outside the building. “Get him out here. I need to see him right now.” “I was looking at the financial news today, and his face… he looks exactly like Wyatt Harrington!” She shoved her phone in my face, displaying a high-res photo from an international economic summit. It was Wyatt. But in the photo, he was the crown prince of Manhattan’s elite. He wore a bespoke three-piece suit, a multi-million-dollar watch, and was stepping out of a black Rolls-Royce surrounded by a phalanx of security guards. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. To think that this untouchable billionaire had purposefully gone without washing his hair, putting on cheap clogs just to eat a seven-dollar buffet with me. He had really gone all out to test his online date. Knowing Tiffany would try to claw her way back to him if she found out the truth, I quickly tried to diffuse her suspicions. “You’re dreaming,” I said, shaking my head. “On our first date, he took me to a seven-dollar buffet. Every time we hang out, we eat cheap street food. He literally wears the same faded t-shirt every day, and his clogs are practically falling apart. How could he possibly be a billionaire?” Tiffany squinted at me, searching for any sign of a lie. I quickly pulled up my transaction history, showing her the cheap diner receipts and photos of our street-food dates. She scrolled through my phone, taking in my cheap clothes and worn-out shoes, before finally letting out a sigh of relief. “Right. If he were actually a Harrington, he’d be throwing money at you, not making you split cheap tacos. Besides, someone that high-class would never look at a ratty girl like you.” She sneered, tossing my phone back. “You’re built for the gutter, Zoe. You and your little trash boyfriend deserve each other. Just don’t tell anyone we’re related. My parents would die of embarrassment.” I swallowed my anger, watching her walk away. But deep down, a tiny, foolish spark of hope flared in my chest. What if… what if Wyatt chose me? What if he stood by me and showed Tiffany exactly what she had thrown away? I shook my head, clearing the fantasy from my mind. Getting this job was already a miracle. I couldn’t afford to be greedy. I spent the next three days keeping my head down, working hard. But on the fourth day, as I stepped out of the office lobby, a sleek, black Rolls-Royce pulled up directly in front of me. The rear window rolled down slowly, revealing a face that was both intensely familiar and suddenly foreign. It was Wyatt. “Zoe,” he said, his voice smooth and commanding. “Get in. We need to talk.” Whispers broke out among my coworkers as they stopped to stare. My brain went entirely numb. I couldn’t believe he was exposing his identity like this. Seeing me frozen on the pavement, Wyatt smiled, opening the door and stepping out. “What’s with the face? It’s only been three days. Did you forget me already?” As he walked toward me, his eyes filled with a gentle, protective warmth, my heart hammered against my ribs. Was the miracle actually happening? But before I could take a step toward him, a sharp, screeching voice shattered the moment. “Wyatt! She’s a liar! Zoe scammed you! She isn’t Cindy—she’s an imposter!” My breath caught in my throat. I turned slowly, my body turning to ice. Tiffany was marching toward us, her face flushed with triumph. “I am the real Cindy!” she yelled, pushing past me to stand directly in front of Wyatt. Seeing Wyatt’s expression instantly harden, a cold dread pooled in my stomach. It was over. Just as he was about to reveal himself to me, the truth had come out. If he realized our entire relationship was built on a lie… Forget about a future with him—I would probably lose my job, my dorm, and my only shot at survival. I wanted to explain, but terror choked the words in my throat. The mocking whispers of the gathering crowd seemed to press in on me from all sides, forcing my head down. “Look!” Tiffany screamed, shoving her phone in his face. “Here’s my account! Here are our chats! These are the photos I sent you! I have all the proof. Zoe is a fraud. You have to destroy her!” Wyatt took her phone, his eyes scanning the screen. A second later, his brow furrowed, and he turned his cold, piercing gaze to me…

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My dad was dead drunk again, drowning himself in cheap whiskey because he missed my mom. That was when his phone started to ring. I stared at the screen, my heart stopping at the caller ID: “Wife”. I froze. Mom had been dead for two years. Her number had been deactivated a long time ago. Hands shaking, I swiped to answer. A voice drifted through the line—familiar, yet impossibly distant. “Hello? Is this Lester, eight years in the future? Guess who!” She sounded so bright, so sweet. It was nothing like the fragile, raspy whisper the cancer had left her with before she died. I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered her name. “Helena.” My mom let out a soft gasp, sounding utterly thrilled. “Oh my gosh! Are you… are you Lester’s and my baby?” She lowered her voice to a playful whisper. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. This is your mom, twenty-four years old. You’re actually in my tummy right now! Three months along!” I looked at my dad passed out on the sofa, and then around our dark, cold apartment. I couldn’t let her go through that hell again. After a long, heavy silence, I forced the words out. “Lester is my dad.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “But you aren’t my mother. My mother is Lydia Pierce. Your best friend.” … 1 “Sweetheart, that’s not a very funny joke,” she said. There was a brief pause, her tone still incredibly gentle. “Did your Aunt Lydia teach you to say that? I swear, even eight years from now, she’s still obsessed with practical jokes.” Hearing her call me “sweetheart”—a word I hadn’t heard in two long years—I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle the sob rising in my chest. I couldn’t let her hear me cry. “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked. I took a shuddering breath. “I’m not lying to you. I can prove it. What is the date today on your end?” She gave me the date. I closed my eyes, my mind racing back through the fragmented memories and the diary entries I had memorized. “You’re getting married next month, right?” I asked. “And last week, you ordered a custom bridal jewelry set to go with your wedding dress. It’s supposed to be delivered today.” My mom gasped. “And you still claim you aren’t Lester’s and my baby? Look how well you know our story!” “You’re never going to receive that set,” I said quietly. “Because Lydia… my mother… told my dad she loved it. So he had the jeweler send it to her instead. If you call them, the jeweler will claim there was a shipping delay and offer you a replacement—one that costs half as much. You won’t like it, but Dad will tell you he thinks the cheaper one looks better on you anyway. He’ll pressure you until you accept it. The truth is, my mother wanted to prove she mattered more to him than you did.” Silence stretched over the line. I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white, my heart hammering against my ribs. Finally, she let out a nervous laugh. “You make it sound so real. Fine, I’ll call the jeweler and check. But if you’re pulling my leg, young lady, I’m calling back to give you a very stern talking-to!” Relief washed over me. “You can call again?” “I have three calls total,” she said cheerfully. Two left. I looked down at my worn-out shoes, telling myself: “That’s enough. It has to be.” “Oh, by the way, you haven’t told me your name yet.” “I’m Hazel,” I whispered. My mom laughed. “See? I knew you were mine. I spent weeks looking through baby-name books to pick out ‘Hazel’!” The lump in my throat grew heavier. I swallowed hard and warned her: “When you call back, pretend you don’t know my dad. Just ask for Hazel.” “Got it, got it,” she said playfully, clearly still thinking this was a game. “Just wait for my call!” The line went dead with a quiet click. I stood there for a long time, the phone still pressed to my ear. When I finally lowered my hand, I wiped my tears and quickly deleted the contact name “Wife” from my dad’s phone. I knew that once my mom uncovered the truth, she probably wouldn’t call back. She would be too devastated, too busy unraveling her life. But there was still a chance. Sudden, violent banging on the front door shook me out of my thoughts. I opened it to find Lydia. Her hair was a mess, her face twisted in a desperate, frantic grimace. She shoved me hard against the wall. “Move, you little parasite!” She stormed past me straight into my dad’s bedroom. “Lester! I need a hundred thousand dollars! Now! The loan sharks are going to break my hand if I don’t pay them by tonight!” My dad, barely conscious from the alcohol, let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Not my problem.” Lydia completely lost it, screaming at the top of her lungs. “You promised you’d take care of me forever! You’re still obsessed with that dead bitch, aren’t you? She’s been dead for two years, Lester! You already ruined my face for her! What more do you want from me?!” My dad sat up, his eyes bloodshot and full of venom. “I want Helena back. I want you to rot in hell for what you did to her.” Lydia burst into a wild, screeching laugh. “Oh, please! Is her death entirely my fault, Lester? Sure, I made sure she walked in on us screwing right there in her father’s hospital room. I knew it would kill the old man. But you weren’t exactly fighting me off, were you? You enjoyed every second of it. When you were on top of me, did you once stop to think about the doctors warning you that Helena’s heart couldn’t take any stress?” “Crack.” My dad lunged forward and slapped her hard across the face. “Get the hell out of my house!” Clutching her reddened cheek, Lydia stumbled out of his room, panting with rage. But when her eyes fell on me, standing frozen in the hallway, a sick, desperate light flickered in them. She lunged, grabbing me by the throat, and began dragging me toward the front door. “Fine. I’ll just hand you over to them instead. They’ll take whatever they can get.” For a second, I didn’t even want to fight back. What did it matter? But then, from the bedroom, my dad’s phone started to ring. My heart flared. I began thrashing wildly, clawing at her face, digging my nails into her arms. Lydia shrieked in pain, but her grip only tightened around my neck, cutting off my air. Thankfully, the ringing had drawn my dad out of the room. When he saw Lydia choking me, his eyes went cold. He stormed over and kicked her hard in the ribs, sending her crashing to the floor. “You never cared about this kid anyway!” Lydia spat, clutching her side as she glared up at him with pure hatred. “Let me do us both a favor and get rid of her!” My dad didn’t even look at her as he murmured, “She is the only thing Helena left behind.” I gasped for air, scrambling up from the floor, and bolted toward the bedroom where the phone was ringing. But my knees buckled, and I went crashing down onto the hardwood. In that split second of delay, the ringing stopped. I missed it. At that moment, the raw pain of my bruised neck, my scraped knees, and the crushing despair of losing my mom all over again hit me at once. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. My dad walked right past my shaking body, muttering under his breath, “What is wrong with you?” He picked up the phone and dialed the missed number back. It was just one of his business associates. I forced myself to stop crying. Shivering, I wiped my eyes and sat quietly on the floor, waiting. When my dad hung up and saw me still hovering near him, his brow furrowed. “Why are you still standing there?” He paused, his eyes lingering on my face. A shadow of remorse passed over his features. He walked over to the dresser, pulled a tube of burn ointment out of the drawer, and knelt down in front of me. Images flashed in my mind—of him grabbing me by the shoulders, shaking me violently, screaming that I was a useless piece of trash who couldn’t even keep my mother alive. I flinched, my shoulders tensing instinctively. The cold ointment was smeared onto my cheek, but his words were even colder. “I’m hiring a housekeeper. Stop trying to cook.” He gently rubbed the cream over the raw red scar on my cheek, where hot oil had splattered a few days ago. “If you ruin that face—the only face that looks like hers—I will let Lydia take you. Do you understand?” I nodded numbly. His phone buzzed again. I pretended to look away, but my eyes were locked on the screen out of the corner of my eye. My dad stared at the display, then handed the phone to me, his expression suspicious. “For you?” Since he hadn’t recognized my mom’s voice, I breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s probably my teacher from school,” I mumbled. “You’re busy, Dad. I’ll take it outside so I don’t bother you.” He shrugged and let me go. I kept my pace steady until I reached the backyard, then quickly pressed the phone to my ear. “It’s me.” “What’s wrong with your voice?” my mom asked. She sounded incredibly sad, but there was a thread of genuine worry in her tone. Tears pricked my eyes. “My dad and mom are throwing me a birthday party,” I lied, my voice cracking. “I was just screaming and laughing so much that I lost my voice.” “Oh.” She paused for a long moment before whispering, “Well… happy birthday, sweetheart.” On the other side of the screen, where she couldn’t see me, a huge, goofy smile broke across my face through my tears. When I was three, my dad had ruined my grandfather’s business, freezing all of my mom’s assets to force her to beg him and Lydia for money. To survive, Mom had to work grueling shifts with her fragile health just to support me and pay for my grandfather’s medical bills after his suicide attempt left him with severe brain damage. We were dirt poor back then, but every single year on my birthday, Mom would scrape together enough coins to buy me a tiny cupcake. She always smiled and said she didn’t like sweets, telling me to eat the whole thing. But before my grandfather jumped, he had pulled me aside and whispered that my mom actually loved sweets more than anything. So, I would pout and play coy, refusing to take a bite unless she did. We would end up sharing that tiny cupcake, taking turns until every last crumb was gone. After she died, my dad brought me back to this massive, empty house. But no one ever remembered my birthday again. “Do you believe me now?” I asked quietly. The line went silent for a moment. “That was Lester who answered earlier, wasn’t it? Put him on the phone. I need to hear it from him.” I bit my lip hard. “Why? What do you want? My mom and dad wasted so many years because of you. Are you trying to ruin their lives again?” “I ruined “their” lives?” my mom’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “One was my fiancé, the other my best friend, and they were sneaking around behind my back! Lester claimed he was just feeling sorry for Lydia. Let me guess—with my temper, I probably threw a fit, threatened to get an abortion, and called off the wedding. And then your mother, Lydia, swooped in, got pregnant with you, and forced Lester to marry her because he had no choice. Am I right?” Hearing her speak with such proud, misplaced confidence made my stomach twist. I was furious, but I didn’t know how to lie to her anymore. “So, kiddo,” she continued, her voice softening slightly, “even though it breaks my heart to say this to a child… I’m going to forgive Lester. Which means you are never going to exist.” Panic flared inside me, and my brain scrambled for a way out. “You won’t get the chance!” I blurted. “Because my mom doesn’t get pregnant with me until tomorrow.” “What?” “Tomorrow is your mother’s memorial service,” I said, the words spilling out fast. “Dad is going to lie to you. He’ll say he has a major investor meeting and can’t go with you to the cemetery. But he’s actually going to a hotel with my mom.” I quickly rattled off the name of the boutique hotel and the room number. She gasped. “How… how could a child possibly know that?” “Because my dad used to read your old diary out loud to us like it was a joke,” I muttered. In reality, he had read it to Lydia, laughing at how pathetic and naive Helena had been. The silence on the other end was heavy, broken only by her shaky breathing. “Fine,” she finally whispered, her voice trembling. “If what you say is true… I will walk away and let your little family be.” “Will you… will you call me back one last time to let me know?” I asked in a small voice. She let out a dry, exasperated breath. “Fine. Yes. I promise.” The call disconnected. I stood in the yard, staring blankly at the grass. I hadn’t lied to her. Lydia really was going to get pregnant. And three months from now, she would fake a miscarriage during a shopping trip with my mom, claiming she lost the baby while trying to “protect” her. My mom spent years carrying that crushing guilt, doing everything she could to make it up to Lydia. But Lydia secretly told my dad a different story—that my mom had intentionally shoved her down the stairs. My dad harbored that grudge for years. After he finally seized my grandfather’s company, he cornered my grandfather and told him that one of us had to pay for that unborn baby’s life. My grandfather, desperate to protect my mom and me, jumped from the top floor of his office building. Even after that, my dad used my grandfather’s mounting ICU bills to torture my mom. He forced her onto her knees in front of him and Lydia, demanding she bow her head to the floor over and over again until they were satisfied. Mom did it, her forehead bruised and bleeding onto the polished wood. But when she finished, my dad just grabbed her by the throat and sneered, “That old bastard always looked down on me. Why the hell would I spend a dime to keep him alive?” But my grandfather had funded his entire college education and his first start-up. He had always praised Lester’s talent; he had only gently warned Mom that their personalities might not be a good fit. A sharp gust of wind cut through my shirt, pulling me back to the present. I walked inside and handed the phone back to my dad. As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me cold. “What’s this teacher’s name?” he asked, studying my face. “Her voice… it sounded just like Helena’s.” Panic froze my limbs. “Mrs. Miller,” I squeaked out, my voice barely audible. “She’s married.” My dad watched my expression for a second, then let out a harsh laugh. “What are you looking like that for? Some random woman on the phone isn’t fit to breathe the same air as Helena.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Go on, get out.” As he reached for his drink, his sleeve slid up, revealing his forearm. It was covered in a horrifying lattice of thick, jagged scars. Fifty-six cuts in total. He had carved them into his own flesh after finally discovering that Lydia’s miscarriage had been a lie all along. Fifty-six cuts—because Mom had died on May sixth. I retreated to my room, crawled under the bed, and pulled out a notebook thick with layers of clear tape. After my dad and Lydia had finished mocking Mom’s diary, they had torn it into tiny shreds. I had spent nights digging through the trash, collecting every single piece, and taping them back together. Mom never knew I did this. She died wanting to forget her past, but I only wanted to hold onto whatever piece of her I could find. On her eighteenth birthday, she had written: “Lester is such an idiot! He actually worked on a construction site for two whole months just to buy me a birthday present. He’s so sunburnt and has lost so much weight, but he still smiles and tells me it’s nothing. I love him so much.” At twenty: “My boy is amazing. He’s only twenty and he’s already starting his own company! I knew I picked a winner in high school. Okay, so maybe I threw a little tantrum to get my dad to secretly fund his first round of investors… but Lester doesn’t need to know that. I don’t want him to feel pressured.” At twenty-four, when she found out she was pregnant: “I can’t believe it! I never thought I’d be a mom this early. I guess we need to speed up the wedding planning! Lester actually cried when I told him. He loves kids so much; he’s going to be the absolute best father. Thank you for choosing me to be your mommy, my sweet baby.” But just two years later, the handwriting changed. The pen had pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through the pages: “Why? Why? Why did he betray me? I can’t tell Dad. He’ll destroy himself trying to protect me, but Lester already controls the entire company now. I can’t let him ruin everything Dad built. What do I do, baby? You’re still so tiny. Please tell Mommy what to do…” A tear slipped down my cheek, blurring the faded ink. I clutched the tattered diary tightly to my chest. “Don’t be afraid, Mom,” I whispered into the quiet room. “Your baby is going to save you.” To make sure my dad didn’t leave the house and take his phone with him, I had to make a deal. “Dad,” I said, standing at his doorway. “Can you stay home with me today? If you do, I’ll give you Mom’s diary.” His irritable expression froze. “Her… diary? I threw that in the trash years ago.” I held out the taped-together notebook. He snatched it from my hands, running his fingers over the jagged edges of the pages. He fell to his knees, clutching it to his chest, laughing and crying like a madman. I left him alone. Back in my room, I squeezed the little rag doll Mom had sewn for me. She used to buy me beautiful, expensive toys, but after we were kicked out of our home, we had to leave everything behind. So, Mom bought scraps of cheap fabric and taught herself how to sew. Her hands had been so soft, but they were always covered in tiny red needle pricks and swollen cuts. I pressed my face against the doll’s rough fabric. If saving her meant this doll and I would fade away into nothingness, I wasn’t afraid. I was on the verge of drifting off when the sharp ring of his phone echoed down the hall. On tiptoe, I slipped into the study. It was her. In the master bedroom, my dad was completely unresponsive, too drunk and hysterical as he wept over the taped pages to notice me taking the phone. I ran out to the garden, my heart in my throat. “Hello? What happened?” “You were right,” my mom’s voice came through, heavy, exhausted, and thick with unshed tears. “I caught them at the hotel. Just like you said.” She took a shaky breath. “I’m at the clinic right now. I’m getting an abortion.” A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over me. “That’s wonderful! I hope you stay far away from my parents now. Oh, and tell your dad to stop giving my dad money. Because of that investment, my dad gets so busy managing your family’s company that he never has time to spend with my mom and me.” My mom gasped, her tone suddenly sharp and furious. “That miserable bastard… he took my father’s company?” She paused, her voice shaking. “What about me? Did I… did I not do anything to stop him?” I rubbed my eyes. “Well, you tried. But you weren’t as smart or as ruthless as my dad.” I smiled, hearing her let out a sharp, angry breath. “But don’t worry. You end up with a nice man named Henry Lockhart. You’ll be very happy with him.” “Henry?” my mom stammered. “How? He… he barely even talks to me.” “He’s been in love with you for a really long time,” I whispered. “He just stayed away because you were with my dad.” It was the truth. When I was five, Henry had returned from living abroad and discovered how terrible our lives had become. He did everything he could to look after us. I remember him holding my mom’s hands, his eyes filled with pain as he said, “If I had known my cowardice would cost you this much, I would have dragged you away from him years ago, no matter what people said.” When my dad found out, he flew into a rage, accusing my mom of cheating on him back in college. He refused to believe her denials and used all his power to bankrupt Henry’s business. Mom felt so guilty, but Henry didn’t care at all. He just smiled, took her hand, and happily worked alongside her at low-paying jobs. Over time, Mom fell in love with him. She had even asked for my permission first, and I had been so happy for them. But before she could tell him how she felt, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. To make sure she could save enough money for my future, she forced herself to say terrible things to Henry to push him away, then crawled back to my dad to endure his endless cruelty. “Hazel. Who the hell are you talking to?” My dad’s voice shattered the quiet of the garden. I spun around, gasping. He was standing on the patio, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “Why did I just hear you say Henry Lockhart’s name? Who is on that phone!” He took a heavy, menacing step toward me. On the other end, my mom heard him screaming. “Is Lester hurting you?” A nurse in the background was already calling her name for the procedure. I knew this was my last chance. I yelled into the receiver: “My dad hates you! He told me to never call a homewrecker like you again!” “Goodbye!” I slammed the end-call button. My dad lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me violently. “It was your mother, wasn’t it? Tell me! What did she say? Does she miss me? Tell me!” But mid-sentence, he froze. I looked down at my hands. My fingers were dissolving into tiny, shimmering specks of light, floating away into the warm afternoon breeze.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “516783”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Two years ago, my best friend Cheryl suddenly packed her bags and moved across the country, leaving a sticky note on my bathroom mirror: “Wren, eat up. Don’t be a picky eater!” I didn’t understand her words back then. But when I heard she was finally returning to Creek Cove, I was ecstatic. I went downstairs to throw out the trash, only to spot Cheryl already back in our apartment complex. Standing right in front of her was my fiancé, Brody, who had told me he was at the gym. He was holding her hand, guiding her fingers over the hard, defined lines of his abs. His voice was low, gravelly. “Still being picky?” Cheryl’s eyes swept over him, a slow, teasing smirk spreading across her face. “Wren has been eating very well, hasn’t she?” Brody let out a soft snort. “She doesn’t know how to appreciate it like you do.” They walked away together, laughing and whispering. That night, when he came home, he immediately slipped into the bathroom with his phone, just like he always did. I opened his private Instagram account—the one he thought I didn’t know about, the one he kept strictly locked down. A thousand progress pictures of his physique. Every single one of them tagged only Cheryl. The most recent post was uploaded the exact day her flight landed. The caption: “If you like it, when are you coming to get a taste?” It took me two whole years to finally understand their sick little metaphor. … The rushing shower water muffled my crying. Once the tears ran dry, I pulled out my phone and texted my mother: “Mom, I’m coming home for the Regatta Matchmaking Festival this weekend. The wedding is off.” Brody finally emerged from the bathroom after an hour. He handed me a cold bottle of water. “Why are your lips so dry? Have you been crying?” That single question almost broke me again. I thought he was going to ask me why, but then Cheryl’s voice memo popped up on his screen. “Brody, I’ve finalized the catering menu for your and Wren’s rehearsal dinner and reception.” From the very first syllable, Brody’s mouth curved into a smile that didn’t fade. “Whatever you decide is perfect,” he typed back. Then he turned the screen toward me. “Cheryl’s back. She did us a huge favor and retooled our wedding menu.” My breath caught. Cheryl hadn’t even told me she was back. And why was Brody letting an outsider dictate our wedding? “Brody, I drafted that menu twelve times. Every single dish was chosen to honor both of our families’ traditions here in Creek Cove.” “If Cheryl wants international cuisine, we can set up a separate table just for her.” The smile finally vanished from Brody’s face. “Your menu is too heavy. Cheryl’s stomach was completely wrecked while she was living away. You’re her best friend, shouldn’t you know that?” “Wren, stop being so selfish and always demanding things your way. Think about other people for once.” His “other people” only ever meant Cheryl. And my careful planning, my attempt to please everyone, was dismissed as mere selfishness. I locked my phone. He had changed his lock screen. It was a picture of a half-eaten heritage hand pie. I had baked it. But the faint lipstick smudge on the crust belonged to Cheryl. Just this morning, I had asked him to take a picture of the pies I spent all night baking. He had brushed me off. “We make these every year, Wren. Why do you need a photo to remember it?” Of course. It was never about the hand pies. It was about the person eating them. I tossed his phone back onto his lap. “If I can’t have my own wedding the way I want it, then whose wedding is it?” Brody looked at me in surprise. I rarely argued with him. But his voice softened, offering a placating smile. “Come on, can’t you just accommodate Cheryl this once?” The word No rushed to the tip of my tongue, but suddenly, all the fight drained out of me. He could spend two years working out just to please Cheryl, but he couldn’t bear to let me have the menu I wanted for our wedding. “Whatever,” I muttered. Relief washed over his face. He instantly grabbed his phone. “Cheryl’s jet-lagged and wants me to hop on a game with her. Go to sleep first.” The door shut, and my tears fell in silence. My pale lips weren’t from crying. They were from the agonizing spasm in my stomach. Three years ago, I underwent a partial gastrectomy. I’ve lived with chronic stomach pain ever since. He had remembered that pain for three years, yet tonight, he suddenly forgot. Over the weekend, Brody drove me to the wedding venue. I figured since I was the one who booked it, I should be the one to cancel it. Midway through the drive, he swerved the car to pick up Cheryl. “You’ve been standing out there forever. Weren’t you hot?” Brody’s tone was sharp, but his hand immediately reached to adjust the air conditioning vents for the back seat. I looked between the two of them. “Why is Cheryl coming?” Cheryl grabbed Brody’s iced coffee and took a massive gulp straight from the straw, nearly choking. “Wren, you don’t mind me tagging along, do you? I promise I won’t play third wheel.” Brody immediately bickered back, his tone intimate. “Cut the act. Who was the one blowing up my phone all morning begging to come scout the venue?” Cheryl lightly kicked the back of his seat. “And who was the one who couldn’t even copy-paste the address right? You sent me thirty wrong pins!” They began bickering over how many texts they had exchanged. Cheryl won; Brody had sent her eighty pointless messages just that morning. “Enough!” I blurted out. The car went dead silent. Cheryl instantly lowered her head, her thumbs flying across her phone. A moment later, Brody’s fingers were tapping away at his own screen. I put in my earbuds and turned up the music, tuning out their silent, digital flirting. At the hotel venue, I slipped away from Brody to speak with the event manager about canceling our reservation. When we finalized the paperwork, the manager said with genuine regret, “It’s such a shame. Mr. Langford was just speaking with our bridal suite coordinator about ordering three more bridesmaid dresses…” Hearing this, the last shred of hesitation I had evaporated. I walked up to the bridal suite. Through the cracked door, the sound of their stifled laughter leaked out. Brody gasped, “Cheryl, you greedy little thing!” Cheryl was poking Brody’s abs, giggling. “Two years ago, I mentioned offhand that your core wasn’t defined enough, and you immediately practically lived at the gym.” “You even FaceTimed me on New Year’s Eve to show me your progress. Did you know Wren was sitting right next to me having dinner?” My heart stopped. She was talking about this past New Year. Cheryl had been home for the holidays. My mother, seeing her eating instant ramen alone, had invited her over for dinner. I had sent Brody a dozen photos of our holiday feast. His reply was four words: At the gym. My mother had asked hopefully, “Can we call Brody to wish him a Happy New Year?” I called him five times. He declined every single one. Meanwhile, Cheryl, sitting beside us, had nervously hidden her screen. My mother teased her, asking if she was talking to a boyfriend. Cheryl had rolled her eyes. “Yeah, he’s just so clingy. I can barely stand it.” I caught a fleeting glimpse of her screen then. She hadn’t replied for a minute, and he had already frantically called her. My mother’s eyes had dimmed. She squeezed my hand. “Don’t call him anymore, Wren. Brody must be busy.” But during the first seven years of our relationship, Brody was never too busy for me. Even during the six months of my surgery and recovery, he had temporarily closed his photography studio just to be my twenty-four-hour caregiver. Now, inside the suite, Brody let out a low groan, catching Cheryl’s hand. “Stop playing… Wren is still…” Before he could finish, I pushed the door open. Brody scrambled upright. “Wren! Are all the venue details confirmed?” Cheryl hopped off the bed. “Brody was trying to show off how strong he is. Wren, you have to take my side!” I stared at the hand that had just been tracing his muscles. It was reaching out to touch my arm like a slithering snake. “Don’t touch me!” I snapped, slapping her hand away. Her pale skin immediately flushed bright red. Brody instinctively grabbed Cheryl’s hand, his eyes flashing with sudden coldness. “Wren, we were just joking around. What is wrong with you?” Cheryl gently nudged him back. “Brody, don’t blame her. It’s my fault. I pushed it too far.” She looked at me, blinking innocently. “Wren, I got too used to how casual people are abroad. I forgot you’re still a conservative, good little girl.” Brody frowned. “Good girl? More like an old-fashioned relic.” “Always sick, never wants to work out, never wants to go out, doesn’t even use social media. My grandmother is livelier than her.” My stomach clenched in a sharp, burning spasm. “Brody, do you even remember why I’m always sick?” Three years ago, he went deep into the Alaskan wilderness to shoot a wildlife documentary on caribou migration. I went with him. The schedule was brutal. He contracted high-altitude pulmonary edema and ended up hospitalized in Anchorage. I picked up his heavy camera gear to finish the shoot for him, driving hundreds of miles back and forth between the hospital and the wild plains. I skipped meals, barely slept, and the day we finally flew back, I collapsed with acute gastric bleeding. He won an award for that documentary. I lost half my stomach. “Wren, if you have an issue, just say it. You don’t need to keep bringing up the past to guilt-trip me into yielding to you and Cheryl.” Brody’s cold scoff dragged me back to the present. I stared at him, dumbfounded. He let out a heavy sigh, acting as though he was the one making a massive sacrifice. “I guess this is what I get for marrying a girl from the River Settlement.” “What is that supposed to mean?” I tore my hand away from him. He pulled up a chat screenshot Cheryl had forwarded him and showed it to me. It was a message from my mother to Cheryl, saying my wedding would feature an eight-day community feast. “An eight-day feast? That’s going to cost tens of thousands of dollars,” Cheryl had texted him. “Wren’s mom really loves her, but she’s treating you like a bottomless bank account.” Brody’s expression grew even colder. “Wren, am I marrying you, or am I marrying your family’s desperate need for social status?” “Brody, you don’t have to marry me at all. And I don’t have to marry you.” I slipped my engagement ring off, set it on the vanity table, and walked out. Cheryl chased after me. “Wren, the wedding is practically here. Can you grow up? Don’t throw a tantrum just because of me.” I spun around, staring at her with cold fury. “Cheryl, where did that half-eaten hand pie go?” She choked on her words. “Brody ate it, didn’t he?” “Sharing a hand pie, sharing a water bottle, laying on the same bed with your best friend’s fiancé—is that your idea of being grown up?” The smirk on Cheryl’s face crumbled. “Wren, you’re counting pennies with me over a man?” She unclasped the designer watch I had gifted her and threw it directly at my face. “If I wanted to be with Brody, you wouldn’t have stood a chance in the first place!” I covered my eye, feeling a sharp, burning pain where the watch had struck my temple. Brody rushed over, instantly pulling Cheryl into his arms. “Calm down. Your stomach is already acting up from the travel. Don’t let her get to you.” Then he looked at me, his eyes filled with exhaustion and boredom. “Wren, tell your mom we’ll host the eight-day feast. Are you happy now?” “Take a cab home. I need to take Cheryl to the clinic.” Brody swept Cheryl up into his arms. The hallway was narrow, and as he pushed past, his shoulder shoved hard against mine. I let go of my face. The blood from the cut on my temple mingled with my tears, wetting my cheek. The hotel manager gasped, handing me a handkerchief. “Miss Barlowe, please don’t cry. He isn’t worth your tears.” My stomach was cramping so violently I could barely stand. Leaning against the wall, I managed a pale, hollow smile. “He won’t be anymore.” That night, Brody called to say Cheryl was hospitalized because of the stress I caused her, and he had to stay overnight to watch over her. He was trying to cover his tracks, but I didn’t care enough to expose him. The next morning, my mother unexpectedly texted me, her tone bright. “Wren, I brought the traditional River Settlement bridal gown with me. Try it on so we can make any adjustments.” Bringing the gown was just an excuse; she was worried I was getting cold feet or dealing with trouble. I went to meet her, but halfway there, she sent another message: “Cheryl knew I was coming and booked a bed-and-breakfast for me. Don’t rush on the road.” A cold dread settled in my chest. I called my mother. When she picked up, the background was filled with shouting and commotion. Then, my mother’s voice pierced through, sharp and terrified: “Let go of me! I didn’t steal anything!” “Mom!” I screamed, but the line went dead. I redialed, but her phone was switched off. In a panic, I was about to call the police when Cheryl’s text arrived: “Wren, your mom is doing just fine with my girls.” “Come over to the diner and pick up your ring first.” When I arrived at the local diner, Brody and his friends were all there. Cheryl was seated in the center of the booth, and Brody was carefully blowing on a spoonful of clam chowder, feeding her. “Brody, it’s too hot!” she whined. He blew on it again. The table erupted into laughter. “Brody’s already whipped, and they aren’t even married yet.” “Honestly, only a wild card like Cheryl could tame him.” Brody shot them a warning look. “Keep spoiling her, and she’ll be walking all over me for the rest of our lives.” “Brody, you’re the one who ruined her. Don’t blame us.” They laughed, but the humor died down when someone spotted me. I marched straight to Cheryl, my rage boiling over. “Where is my mother?” Clack. Cheryl dropped her spoon against the rim of her bowl. At her reaction, Brody immediately stood up, his face darkening as he looked at me. “Can you stop being so hostile toward Cheryl?” Then he noticed the cut near my eye. His irritation softened, and he stepped out of the booth, reaching out to touch my face. “How do you manage to get yourself hurt the second I’m not around?” I slapped his hand away and kept my eyes locked on Cheryl. “Where is my mother?” Cheryl didn’t answer. Instead, she signaled the waitress. Ten heavy, savory heritage hand pies were placed on the table. She held up her pale, slightly swollen hands, her voice cracking. “Wren, I baked ten savory hand pies for you as an apology.” “In the River Settlement, we have a tradition—no matter how deep the grudge, eating the unity pies washes it all away.” “If you’re willing to forgive me, eat them.” Brody, holding my engagement ring, nudged me. “Cheryl dragged herself out of a hospital bed to bake these for you. Just eat them, apologize, and we can still go through with the wedding.” My eyes widened. “Brody, I had a partial gastrectomy.” Did he have any idea what eating ten heavy, dense pies would do to my stomach? He avoided my gaze, muttering, “I’ll go buy you some stomach medicine. If you don’t eat them, Cheryl is just going to keep crying.” I let out a bitter, silent laugh. Between Cheryl crying and me dying, he chose her. Cheryl flashed her phone screen at me. Thinking of my mother, I stepped up to the table, squared my shoulders, and began to eat the pies, bite by agonizing bite. Brody’s friends whistled. “Damn, Brody, you’ve got her well-trained. You promise her a wedding, and she’d lay down her life for you.” Seeing me eat so fast, Brody patted my back. “Slow down.” I nearly gagged. My stomach was being stuffed to the brim, the pain radiating outwards in sharp, burning spasms. Cheryl stuck her tongue out at Brody. “See? I told you Wren loves playing the victim. Look at her go. Does that look like someone with a bad stomach?” The hand on my back froze. Brody asked, his voice suddenly hollow, “Wren… when did your stomach get better?” I kept chewing the heavy, half-cooked dough, swallowing my defense along with the pain. When the last bite was gone, my stomach felt like it was filled with lead. I reached my hand out to Cheryl. “Give me the address.” Cheryl raised an eyebrow. “Sent.” I grabbed my phone to leave. “Wren, you haven’t apologized yet,” Brody called out. I turned back to look at them. I bowed my head and forced out every syllable: “I’m sorry. It’s my fault Cheryl got sick. I was being petty, and I didn’t understand your jokes.” Only then did the tension leave Brody’s shoulders. He slipped the ring back onto my finger. “Don’t take it off again. Since your mom is here, go spend time with her.” Drenched in cold sweat, I walked out of the diner. The moment I reached the street, I ripped the ring off and threw it into the storm drain. I wanted nothing that belonged to Brody. I found my mother at a local bed-and-breakfast. She was clutching the traditional River Settlement bridal gown, cornered by Cheryl’s friends. “Ma’am, this dress belongs to Cheryl,” one of them said, tugging at the fabric. “You can’t just steal it when she’s not home.” During the struggle, they pinned my mother’s arms, and one of them ripped the gown away. I shoved them aside and held my mother. Her arms were covered in scratches. I threatened to call the police. Brody and Cheryl arrived shortly after. Cheryl’s friends immediately handed the gown to her. “Cheryl, we got it back for you.” “Cheryl, have you no shame?” my mother cried, her voice trembling. “This is the heirloom gown my daughter is supposed to wear. Since when does it belong to you?” Cheryl had lost her own mother at a young age, and my mother had raised her like a second daughter, never speaking a harsh word to her. “Auntie, Wren is cutting me out over a wedding menu,” Cheryl wept, tears streaming down her face. “And now you’re screaming at me over a dress?” “I treated you like my own mother, and Wren like my sister. But over a dress, I’m suddenly an outsider.” Brody’s brow furrowed. He reached out to wipe her tears. “Wren, you have parents, you have me. Cheryl has no one.” “It’s just a wedding dress. Why can’t you just let her have it?” My mother lunged forward to grab the dress. “Brody, this gown is a sacred family heirloom. If you don’t cherish my daughter, someone else will!” Brody glared at me, as if I had orchestrated the entire conflict. “Wren, is the eight-day feast not enough? What else do you and your mother want? Just say it.” “There’s no need to make a scene over a dress!” Suddenly, Cheryl clutched the gown, turned, and ran into the backyard of the B&B. Ignoring the metallic taste of blood rising in my throat, I ran after her. In the yard, a brick fire pit was crackling. Flames licked the delicate fabric of the heirloom dress, and the twelve gold-embroidered wave patterns—sewn over generations—were turning to ash. I reached into the fire, the heat searing my skin. My mother threw her arms around me, sobbing. “Don’t, baby! Let it go! Let it go!” “But Grandma’s gold charms are on this… the gold thread I stitched back on is on this…” I gasped, refusing to let go. My mother threw herself toward the flames to pull it out, and in horror, I snapped out of my daze and pulled her back. “Mom, okay, okay! We don’t want it anymore! We don’t want any of it!” I looked back. Brody was holding Cheryl’s hands, checking them for burns. Sensing my gaze, his movements stiffened, and he sighed. “Wren, the dress is gone. Cheryl was just upset that you guys were isolating her.” Cheryl reached out to pull my sleeve. “Wren, you’ve never stayed mad at me. We’re still okay, right?” I silently pulled away from her touch. Seeing my cold, empty expression, panic finally flickered in Brody’s eyes. He softened his voice. “Wren, don’t be mad. Go home first. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to buy a brand-new designer dress.” The pain in my stomach was blinding. Leaning heavily on my mother, every step felt like a mile. But step by step, I walked out of their lives. Once we reached the main road, the adrenaline faded, and the world went black. “Wren!” During the two days I spent in the hospital recovering, Brody sent exactly three texts. First: “Cheryl’s stomach is acting up. I’m staying with her at the hospital. We’ll pick out a dress tomorrow.” Second: “Wren, are you seriously still throwing a tantrum? You haven’t even come home.” Third: “Cheryl said women from the River Settlement aren’t supposed to see the groom five days before the wedding? Why didn’t you tell me about this rule sooner?” I deleted them one by one, then helped my mother into a car heading back home. The day before the wedding, Brody walked out of Cheryl’s apartment. He opened his text history. My last message to him was from a week ago. That day at the B&B, my face had been deathly pale. Was my stomach really acting up? No, he reasoned, shaking his head. She had eaten those ten heavy hand pies without a problem. She was just playing the victim to get attention. He laughed to himself. She was just being petty, still angry at him and Cheryl. Suddenly, his group chat with his friends erupted with notifications, tagging him repeatedly. Brody opened the chat, and his mind went completely blank. Pictures of an elaborate, breathtaking waterfront celebration flooded the screen. I was wearing a magnificent, hand-embroidered crimson bridal gown, standing at the bow of a decorated wooden ship.

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I pushed the stroller into the real estate office. The agent asked, her tone a flat, routine formality: “Selling the marital home—does your husband agree to this?” In the stroller, my daughter erupted into a sudden, piercing wail. With practiced ease, I scooped her up with my left arm, steadying her against my chest, and signed the contract with my right. My signature was shaky, a jagged line. My wrist had been throbbing with tendonitis for a solid month now. “I’m widowed,” I said. The man named Devin was still very much alive. He was living just as he always had before we got together—vibrant, reckless, entirely untethered. But as a father, he had died the very day our daughter was born. My phone buzzed. It was Devin. When I picked up, it wasn’t his voice, but a young girl’s. “Oh, Devin, I honestly don’t know how you stand it,” she cooed, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’re this brilliant, celebrated artist, and your wife is so let-down. Look at this place—even a rat would need GPS to navigate this mess. Ugh, is that dirty diapers I smell? Gross…” Then came Devin’s voice, muffled, as if he were pinching his nose in disgust. “She didn’t use to be like this. Ever since the baby came, she just… got lazy.” I calmly handed the signed contract back to the agent. Before the pregnancy, before the labor, I had loved him with every fiber of my being. Now? I hated him with that exact same intensity. … 1 “Mom, I booked the flight.” “Sweetie, are you sure about this? Ten years… that’s a long time to walk away from.” “Sunk costs shouldn’t dictate major life decisions,” I replied, my voice steady. “Okay. The baby doesn’t have a birth certificate yet, right? We’ll register her back here in Boston. She’ll take your last name.” “Yeah. That’s exactly what I was thinking.” When I got into the taxi to head back to the apartment, a strange, crystalline calm washed over me. The intensity of my current hatred was the perfect, terrifying mirror of how passionately I had once loved him. We were the college sweethearts everyone envied. But poetry and grand romantic gestures crumble like ash when faced with the grinding, brutal reality of daily life. I held my daughter close, my exhausted body sinking into the worn cushions of the sofa. How did Devin and I end up here? The day I found out I was pregnant, Devin had been ecstatic. “Fiona,” he’d said, gently cupping my face, “as soon as this busy season wraps up, I’m going to give you the most beautiful wedding.” He had stroked my barely swollen belly, his eyes bright with tears. “Trust me, Fiona. I’m going to be a great dad.” We had been together for ten years, from age nineteen to twenty-nine. I believed him. I believed he’d be a great father, and I believed that a marriage certificate was just a formality we’d eventually get to. So, I stepped back from managing his art studio to focus on a healthy pregnancy. To replace me, he hired a new assistant: Melanie. After that, Devin was always busy. Busy painting. Busy mentoring his students. Busy doing press. Busy organizing galleries. I was always waiting for the “after this is done.” But while I waited alone, Melanie was always there, hovering in his shadow. He missed one prenatal appointment after another. When I called him, it was always Melanie who answered. “I’m so sorry, Fiona,” she’d say, her tone sweet but sharp. “Devin is right in the middle of an interview.” The day my water broke, I was the one who had to call 911. The hospital bag had been packed by Melanie—and it contained nothing but a single pack of diapers and two newborn onesies. She had offered a plastic, apologetic smile when she dropped it off. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. I really don’t know much about babies. Devin was just so swamped, he couldn’t leave the studio, so I had to wing it…” I nearly died on that delivery table, enduring a grueling labor that ended in an emergency C-section. When the nurse finally wheeled me and my baby girl back to the recovery room, Melanie was sitting there, peeling an apple for my mother-in-law, Martha. Martha was beaming. “Oh, Melanie, if only you were my daughter-in-law. You’re so young, so capable!” When they saw me roll in, Martha cast a dismissive glance at my wrinkled, tiny daughter in the bassinet. “Well, I guess when you have a baby at your age, your body just can’t keep up.” I ignored the bite in her words. “Where is Devin? Why isn’t he here?” Melanie smiled smoothly. “Fiona, Devin is deep in his creative zone for the new series. We couldn’t let distractions interrupt his muse, could we?” Martha chimed in, “Exactly. Every woman has babies. Why make such a drama out of it?” She then patted Melanie’s hand pointedly. “And besides, they never actually signed the papers. Don’t call her ‘Mrs. Ward’—it’s not appropriate.” I pretended not to hear, biting my lip to suppress the agonizing throbbing of my fresh incision as I dragged myself back onto the hospital bed. During the hemorrhaging scare in the OR, when the alarms were blaring, a sudden clarity had hit me. People change. The love he had for me once was real. But so was his current, chilling indifference. Devin had found someone who matched his rhythm again. And that someone was no longer me. I was the leftover piece of his past. I checked my phone. Devin had sent only one text, over twelve hours ago: “Just focus on the baby. My mom and Melanie are there with you.” A moment later, Martha and Melanie were grabbing their coats. “Well, now that the baby’s here, I can rest easy,” Martha said. “Melanie, let’s get some dinner.” Melanie’s voice was bright. “Oh, yes! I heard that new French bistro down the street is incredible. Let’s try it!” In the bassinet, my daughter began to scream, her tiny lungs straining, the sound piercing my eardrums. I lay paralyzed on the bed, my body feeling as though it had been shattered, unable to even sit up. The moment she was born, I became a mother—biologically, emotionally, completely. But Devin? He was still the boy lost in his canvases, chasing romantic illusions. As the tears and postpartum bleeding flowed unceasingly, I whispered to myself: “My baby doesn’t have a father.” The night nurse from the next bed over, seeing my struggle, came over to help change my daughter’s diaper. “When they’re this small, they’re either hungry, wet, or dirty,” she said gently. “Do you have any family coming?” I shook my head. “No. Could you recommend a private nurse? I need someone to start immediately. I’ll pay extra.” During my five days in the hospital, Devin never once showed up. When he occasionally remembered my existence, he’d send a brief text: “Fiona, thank you for giving me such a beautiful daughter. Melanie sent me the photos.” Melanie came by every afternoon, fulfilling Devin’s duties as a husband in the most superficial way possible. “Fiona,” she’d say, “Devin has a lecture today, so he can’t make it.” Or, “Fiona, Devin is speaking at his alma mater. The schedule was set months ago; he can’t cancel.” She called me Fiona. Never “Mrs. Ward” anymore. She came daily to report Devin’s schedule, but it was pure performance—a subtle, cruel flexing of power. It made me dependent on her just to know where the father of my child was and what he was doing. She snapped photos of my daughter to send to him, accompanying them with mocking texts she didn’t bother to hide from me: “Devin, she doesn’t really look like you, does she? Haha.” or “Look at her cone-head. She looks like an alien.” I texted Devin: “When are you coming?” Two hours later, his reply came: “Once this gallery rush is over. My mom and Melanie are there. They’ll take care of you.” I stopped texting. You can’t wake someone who is pretending to sleep. I was never going to get his “after this.” The day I was discharged, the wind was biting. I ordered my own taxi. My hired nurse held the baby. We had almost no luggage—just a diaper bag with formula, diapers, and my postpartum mesh underwear. The clothes I wore were stained, smelling of sweat and postpartum discharge. Those five days were the most humiliating, physically devastating days of my life. If Devin couldn’t show up then, he didn’t need to show up ever again. Rage burned in my chest, but I forced it down, reminding myself to breathe. “Don’t get angry, don’t let it consume you,” I repeated like a mantra. “It will dry up your milk. It will make you sick. That only hurts you and the baby.” I was a mother now. I had to be strong.

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“Ethan, I don’t think we’re working out anymore.” Chloe pushed the limited-edition bracelet back toward me. It was the exact one I had stood in line for three hours to buy, but right now, her eyes held nothing but pure, unbothered disdain. I gripped the velvet box, my knuckles turning white. She had no idea I worked overtime for an entire month just to afford this. To her, the only thing that mattered was that her best friend just got a one-carat diamond ring, while she was stuck with what she saw as a cheap piece of silver. “We’re just not a match,” she repeated, her voice dripping with a sense of relief. “I’ve met someone else. He’s just an ordinary guy, but he actually *gets* me. Being with you… I feel like I’m suffocating in a lukewarm bath.” I stared at her perfectly done makeup, catching the spark of excitement in her eyes as she imagined her brand-new life. I was silent for ten seconds. Then, I smiled. “Alright. I won’t hold you back.” That was the very last time I would ever indulge her. Because starting tomorrow, she was going to learn what real suffocation felt like.

My name is Ethan. I was with Chloe for three years, and I gave her my absolute everything. When she complained our apartment was too cramped, I stretched my budget to the limit to rent a spacious two-bedroom place in a nice neighborhood. When she complained about her long commute on the subway, I took the money I’d been saving for two years and bought her a white Toyota Corolla. When she said she wanted to apply for grad school, I paid five thousand dollars upfront for her GRE prep courses without a second thought. The entire time, she believed I was just a regular, run-of-the-mill software engineer, making a decent living but barely scraping by in this expensive city. She didn’t know that the food delivery app she ordered from every single day ran on code I wrote back in my junior year of college. She didn’t know that the core recommendation algorithm of the viral short-video app she scrolled through every night was designed by me. And she certainly didn’t know that the massive glass tech tower downtown—the one right next to her office—was entirely mine. I had only wanted to live a normal, quiet life, hoping to find someone who loved me for who I was, not my net worth. Clearly, I was being naive. The day after Chloe broke up with me, her new boyfriend came over to help her pack. I stood by the doorway, watching him. His name was Tyler. He was a DoorDash delivery driver. Apparently, they met when he delivered her boba tea one afternoon. He was six feet tall and admittedly looked more athletic and energetic than I did. “Sorry about this, man,” Tyler said with a smug, victorious grin. “But hey, you can’t force chemistry, right?” I smiled back. “Take good care of her.” Tyler blinked, caught off guard by how incredibly calm I was. He had no idea that the night before, I had already made a dozen phone calls. My first call was to our landlord: “I’m terminating the lease on the two-bedroom apartment immediately. Keep the deposit.” My second call was to a used car dealer: “Come pick up the white Toyota Corolla. Sell it at market value.” My third call was to the GRE prep center: “Cancel the enrollment for Chloe. The reason? She won’t be needing it anymore. Refund the money to my card.” My fourth call was to my personal assistant, Justin: “Look into a DoorDash driver named Tyler. Contact his regional dispatch manager. Starting tomorrow, assign him only the absolute furthest delivery routes. Make sure he’s paid the bare minimum per trip. And put a tracking monitor on all his active delivery zones.” On the other end of the line, Justin paused for a second. “Sir, how far do you want to push this?” I looked out the window. Chloe was busy loading her heavy suitcases onto the back of Tyler’s beat-up scooter. “Just enough so she can see with her own eyes exactly how much the man of her dreams actually makes in a month.” *Chloe, you thought my gifts were cheap?* *You thought he could give you the thrilling life you always wanted?* *Fine. Let’s see what your life looks like without me.*

Three days after she moved out, Chloe texted me on Snapchat. “Ethan, I left a few things at your place. When can I come by to grab them?” I didn’t reply. She texted again: “Don’t be like this. Can’t we just end things on good terms?” I still didn’t reply. Then her calls started coming in. One, two, three times. I blocked her number. She probably thought I would be the same old Ethan—the guy who softened up the moment she pouted. But she didn’t realize that this time was different. I wasn’t just angry. My heart had gone completely cold. For three long years, I had treated an ordinary girl like a literal princess. Whatever she wanted, I never said no. When she complained her salary was too low to buy designer bags, I quietly transferred money into her bank account every month. When she complained that I was too busy with work, I turned down three multi-million-dollar tech projects just to stay home with her. And what did I get in return? She ran off with a delivery guy just because he said a few sweet words of encouragement when dropping off her meals. Fine. I was going to let her experience what that “true love” really cost. On the fourth day, Chloe finally showed up at the lobby of my office building. I was sitting in the corner cafe on the ground floor, watching her wander around through the glass window. She didn’t know which floor I worked on, so she had to ask the front desk receptionists one by one. Justin tapped on my office door later that afternoon. “Sir, she’s downstairs. Do you want to see her?” “Not yet.” I watched her walk from the east entrance to the west entrance, and then to the north gate, wandering around for a solid forty minutes. The June sun was brutal. Her carefully applied makeup was beginning to melt, and her face was flushed red from the heat. Finally, I pulled out my phone and sent her a quick Snapchat message: “Look up. Left window on the second floor.” She snapped her head up, squinting through the glare. I stood by the glass, giving her a brief wave. Then I turned and walked downstairs. She was standing near the lobby entrance, her face slightly sweaty and her hair a bit messy. The moment she saw me walk out, she instinctively tried to smooth down her hair. “Ethan…” “Your stuff is in my car. Wait here.” I went down to the parking garage and brought up a cardboard box. Inside were a few pieces of her clothing, some books, and her half-empty skincare bottles. She reached out to take it, but I didn’t hand it over right away. “Is this everything?” she asked. “Everything.” She blinked, surprised by how cold and straightforward I was. “Also,” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a set of keys, letting them jingle. “Here are the keys to the apartment. I’ve officially terminated the lease.” The keys clinked loudly as they dropped into her palm. She stared down at them, her lips trembling slightly, but she didn’t say a word. I knew exactly what she was thinking. We had chosen that apartment together. She had fell in love with the bay window, the sunny balcony, and the cute coffee shop right downstairs. I had signed the lease immediately, paying six months of rent upfront without hesitation. And now, there were still over two months left on it. “I took back the security deposit,” I said calmly. “I calculated the rent daily. I’m refunding you for the exact days you actually stayed there.” “You don’t have to…” “Two hundred dollars,” I interrupted her, pulling the cash out of my wallet and tucking it into the side of the box. “Take it.” She didn’t reach for it. I looked at her hands—the hands I had held countless times—which were now tightly clutching the strap of her brand-new cheap purse. “Chloe,” I said, putting the box down. “Three years. Whatever I owed you, we are completely even now.” She snapped her head up, her eyes rimmed with red. “Ethan, what is your problem?” “Exactly what I said.” I turned around to walk back into the building. “Ethan!” she yelled behind me. “Why are you acting like this? You only make a few grand a month! You spent almost everything on me these past three years! Do you even have any savings left? You’re just…” I stopped in my tracks.

She kept going, her voice rising. “Do you honestly think I left you because you’re broke? No! I left because you have absolutely no ambition! It’s been three years, Ethan! Your college friends are already directors or starting their own tech firms, and what are you doing? You’re still just writing basic code, working for someone else, just…” “Just what?” I asked, turning slightly. “Just coasting through life!” she screamed. “Being with you, I could see the next thirty years laid out in a boring, predictable straight line! Do you know how suffocating that is? It’s hopeless!” I didn’t turn around completely. “Tyler is a delivery guy, sure. He makes barely enough to survive right now, but at least he has a dream! He told me he wants to open his own restaurant, to be his own boss! What about you? Do you even have the guts to try?” I listened. I listened to her call me lazy, unambitious, and a loser who didn’t even have a dream. When she finally ran out of breath, I turned and looked at her. Her face was flushed with anger, her eyes wide and wild. It looked like she had finally dumped out every single resentment she had kept bottled up for three years. She was practically shaking. “Are you done?” I asked. She bit her lip, glaring at me. “If you’re done, go back,” I said quietly. “Tyler is waiting for you.” I walked into the lobby, crossed the polished marble floor, and stepped into the private elevator. Right before the doors slid shut, I saw her standing there in the heat, clutching that cardboard box, completely frozen. Back in my office, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down. She was still standing there. After a long time, she finally turned and slowly walked away. She would walk a few steps, pause, then walk a few more. I watched her figure disappear around the street corner before returning to my desk. My phone rang. It was Justin. “Sir, I have the details on Tyler,” Justin reported. “He’s thirty-two. He’s been doing deliveries for a year and a half. Before that, he worked in construction, as a mall security guard, and in used car sales. He never kept a job for more than a few months. He has a heavy mortgage on a small house in the suburbs where he lives with his mother. Oh, and he has a five-year-old daughter with his ex-wife, who has primary custody.” “A daughter?” “Yes. They’ve been divorced for two years. Does Chloe know about any of this?” I was silent for a few seconds. “She doesn’t know a thing.” I hung up and looked out at the city skyline. *Chloe, you think you found true love?* *Do you even know what it means when a thirty-two-year-old man can’t hold down a single job?* *Do you know why he’s still just delivering food after a year and a half?* *He told you he wants to open a restaurant, but did you ever ask him where he’s going to get the capital?* *Did you ever ask why his ex-wife divorced him?* *You know absolutely nothing.* *You just thought he was better than me because he knew how to talk sweet.* *Fine.* *I’ll let you see the reality.*

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I got dumped and laid off on the exact same day. The reason was absolutely ridiculous. It was all because my boyfriend, Ethan, went to a Tarot reader, and the psychic told him: “Your current girlfriend is leeching all of your good energy. I highly suggest you break up with her.” “Luckily, today is the last day of October. Cut her off today, and your good luck will manifest next month!” Honestly, the psychic was scarily accurate. The second he dumped me, he actually got promoted. **1** The layoff notice and Ethan’s breakup text hit my inbox at the exact same time. I stood in front of my office building, holding my severance package paperwork, completely numb. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Ethan: [Amber, we need to break up.] I froze, my fingers trembling as I typed back: [Why?] [I went to a spiritual Tarot advisor. She told me you have bad vibes. Your toxic energy is blocking my path to success.] [If we end things today, my luck will reset starting next month.] Staring at the screen, I typed: [Ethan, we’ve been together for five years. Are you seriously ending our entire relationship over some stupid playing cards?] [Amber, this is cosmic energy. You have to respect the universe. My latest project was stolen, and my promotion was delayed. It’s obviously your bad energy dragging me down.] [Take care of yourself. And please, don’t try to stalk or harass me.] My phone was shaking in my grip. We had been together for five years. From college to our first jobs, I lived in a damp, leaky basement with him. I ate instant ramen for three weeks straight just to save money. To buy him that designer watch he wouldn’t stop drooling over for his birthday, I secretly worked two part-time jobs until I literally got a stomach ulcer. And now, he was telling me my “vibes” were dragging him down? I took a deep breath, forcing the hot tears back. I replied: [Fine.] One word. Clean and simple. He probably didn’t expect me to agree so easily. It took him a few seconds to type back. [Then… take care of yourself.] I immediately blocked him on Snapchat, Instagram, and his phone number. Then I crouched down by the sidewalk, and the tears finally spilled over. I wasn’t crying because I missed him. I was crying because I had wasted five years of my life on a absolute dog. No job, no boyfriend. I was officially a double-loser. I wiped my face and stood up. With no money and no job, I didn’t even have the luxury to sit around and cry. My only priority now was to make money and survive. I went back to our shared apartment. We called it shared, but I paid almost all the rent and utilities. Ethan had promised me that his salary was going straight into our joint savings account so we could save up for a down payment on a house. He said he wanted to build a future with me. What a joke. I pushed the door open. The apartment was completely empty. Ethan’s things were entirely gone. I pulled out my phone to call a moving company for my own stuff when a bank notification popped up. *Dear Customer, your joint account ending in 4098 had a withdrawal of $30,000 at 3:30 PM. Current Balance: $0.00.* My brain went completely blank. That thirty thousand dollars was my hard-earned money. I had saved every single penny by skipping meals and living like a hermit. I frantically dialed Ethan’s number. “The number you are trying to reach has been restricted…” He blocked me. Not only that, I checked my desk drawer. My two high-limit credit cards were gone. I logged into my banking app. Just this afternoon, someone had used a shady point-of-sale terminal to run fraudulent cash advances totaling twenty thousand dollars! Fifty thousand dollars. My entire life savings, wiped out in a single afternoon. As I stood there shaking with pure rage, my best friend, Harper, called. “Amber! Oh my god, open Instagram right now! That piece of garbage Ethan just posted!” I opened the screenshot she sent me. Ethan had posted a photo from a fancy celebration dinner. He was standing dead center, smiling like a total jerk. His caption read: *[Shoutout to my personal lucky star! Just cut off the toxic energy in my life, and my new project got approved instantly. Upgraded to a high-frequency life! 🚀]* Looking at his smug face made me sick. The Tarot reader was right—the second he dumped me, his career took off. But then, my eyes caught a detail in the corner of the photo. A hand resting on the table, wearing a very specific pinky ring. It was a custom-made silver snake ring. I knew that ring. In college, there was a girl named Chloe who always followed me around, acting incredibly sweet and calling me her favorite mentor. She owned that exact same ring. A sickening thought crossed my mind. I immediately searched her name on Instagram. *** **2** An account with a verified blue checkmark popped up: **@Chloe_The_Mystic**. The profile picture was Chloe’s face. Her grid was filled with aesthetic photos of Tarot cards, sage, and healing crystals. Her captions were bloated with buzzwords like “energetic alignment,” “magnetic manifestation,” and “vibe shifts.” And her latest post? It was a photo of the exact same celebration dinner, taken from a slightly different angle. *[Just helped a beloved seeker cut the energetic cord with a low-vibe karmic attachment. The universe immediately unlocked his wealth portal! ✨💸]* A wave of intense nausea hit me. I almost threw up right there. So that was it. There was no miraculous psychic. There was no cosmic alignment. It was just a cheap, calculated affair. I packed my bags that night and moved into Harper’s guest room. Harper spent the next thirty minutes pacing around the living room, screaming curses. “Those absolute scumbags! Spiritual advisor? She’s just a home-wrecking, crystal-selling fraud!” “And Ethan! Using your hard-earned money to fund his side chick and calling it a ‘vibe shift’?! I can’t!” “Amber, we are calling the cops. Fifty thousand dollars is grand larceny. We can get them locked up!” I sat on the couch, sipping hot tea. “We will call the cops, but not yet,” I said coldly. “That thirty thousand was in a joint account. The law sees it as shared funds, so the police will call it a civil dispute. And the credit card advances? He can easily lie and say I authorized them as a loan. If he holds that line, the police can’t do much.” “If you want to kill a snake, you have to crush its head. I don’t want a long, annoying court mediation. I want to ruin them completely.” Harper blinked. “So what’s the plan? We just let them enjoy your money?” I smirked, spinning my laptop screen to face her. “Of course not. I’m going to destroy the spiritual empire they are so proud of.” On the screen was an analysis of Chloe’s business model that I had spent the entire night reverse-engineering. This wasn’t just a simple psychic gig. It was a massive, highly coordinated emotional scam. First, she used basic psychological tricks—the Barnum effect—to brainwash anxious young people on social media. Next, she sold them overpriced “manifestation crystals” and “banishing rituals” to drain their bank accounts. Finally, she had set up a multi-level marketing pyramid scheme, recruiting “sub-agents” to sell her courses. She was actively crossing the line into financial fraud and illegal pyramid operations. But to take her down completely, I needed a powerful platform. My eyes locked onto a hiring post in bold letters: *[Summit Capital is looking for a Senior Risk Analyst. Candidate must have deep insights into gray-market economies and emerging social media scams.]* Summit Capital was the biggest private equity firm in the city. And Julian Vance, their youngest Investment Director, was legendary for being a ruthless, cold-blooded shark. He was my ticket in. I pulled three consecutive all-nighters. I compiled every piece of evidence on how Chloe’s Tarot business used fraud, manipulated financial flows, and scammed vulnerable people into a fifty-page short-seller report. I even tracked down her “one-of-a-kind high-vibration rose quartz” crystals. They weren’t from a sacred cave in Brazil; they were bought wholesale from a supplier on AliExpress for $1.50 apiece. She sold them for $1,200. This wasn’t spirituality. This was high-margin financial crime. On the fourth morning, I stood in front of the sleek skyscraper of Summit Capital. Just as I was about to walk through the glass doors, a high-pitched, giggling voice drifted from behind me. “Oh, Ethan, look at the energy of this building! The universe is literally begging us to take their venture capital today.” I turned around. Ethan was holding Chloe’s hand, walking toward the entrance. When Chloe saw me, she gasped dramatically, covering her mouth. “Oh my gosh, Amber? Is that you? You look so… drained. Are you okay?” Ethan’s face darkened instantly. “Amber, are you seriously stalking me now?” I rolled my eyes. “Stalking you? Please. I wouldn’t waste my energy tracking a broke loser who lives off other people’s money.” *** **3** Ethan’s ego took a massive hit, and his face turned red with anger. “Watch your mouth! We are here to pitch a multi-million dollar funding round to Summit Capital!” “And you? I heard you got laid off. You’re basically a black hole of negative energy right now.” Chloe chimed in, her eyes glinting with malice. “How did security even let someone like her into the financial district? Amber, you should really leave. Your broke aura is going to ruin our pitch.” I literally laughed out loud. I stared dead at Ethan. “Low-vibe? Ethan, you bought that designer suit you’re wearing with the credit cards I worked two jobs to pay off. Aren’t you afraid my ‘broke aura’ is going to choke you to death?” Ethan flinched, but quickly straightened his collar. “That thirty thousand was joint property! And the twenty thousand was a loan you willingly gave me!” “Amber, if you ruin this deal for me today, I swear I will make your life a living hell!” “Don’t worry,” I smiled coldly. “Your hell is just getting started.” I didn’t waste another second. I spun around and stepped into the elevator, leaving Ethan and Chloe yelling at the lobby security guards behind me. Half an hour later, I was sitting across from Julian Vance. He flipped through my fifty-page report, a faint, amused smile on his face. “Amber, this report on shorting the spiritual creator economy… it reads like a hit list. You’re out for blood.” I met his gaze directly. “Mr. Vance, when you’re dealing with parasites who drain vulnerable people’s life savings, you don’t use a flyswatter. You use a scalpel.” Julian leaned back. “True. But you can’t deny their cash flow is incredible right now. If Summit was to invest, how would you handle it?” I laughed coldly. “I wouldn’t invest. I would short them.” “The biggest weakness of this entire industry is that it’s built entirely on the founder’s personal brand. The moment her reputation crumbles, the money vanishes. On top of that, her business is knee-deep in tax evasion and pyramid schemes.” He closed the file and stood up. “What a coincidence. There are two spiritual grifters sitting in my waiting room right now, claiming they can manifest millions with the power of the universe.” Julian looked at me, his eyes sharp. “Amber, you’re hired. Now, let’s go examine your first target.” I followed Julian straight into the main conference room. Chloe was in the middle of a theatrical presentation. “As you can see, Mr. Vance, our Cosmic Alignment app has an eighty percent retention rate. With a ten-million-dollar investment from Summit, we can scale this globally within six months…” Ethan, who was sitting next to her, jumped to his feet the second he saw me enter. “Amber?! How did you get in here? Security!” Julian shot him a freezing glare. “She is my newly appointed Senior Risk Analyst. She is here to audit your project. Do you have a problem with that, Ethan?” Ethan choked on his words. Chloe quickly stepped in, trying to sound sweet. “Oh, congrats on the job, Amber! But this project is in a highly specialized spiritual niche. You might find the metrics a bit hard to understand.” I didn’t say a word. I just slammed a thick stack of financial documents onto the table. “Oh, I understand the metrics perfectly.” “I understand how you buy cheap plastic crystals on AliExpress for $1.50 and sell them as ‘soulmate magnet stones’ to insecure college students for $1,200.” “I understand how you pay bot farms to flood social media with doom-scrolling anxiety bait, telling people their families will get sick if they don’t buy your $5,000 protection charms.” I tapped the paper, pointing at the numbers. “Chloe, your studio claims to make millions in revenue, but your tax filings for the last three years show consecutive losses. Where is the money going?” “According to these offshore account statements, the cash is being funneled through shell companies straight into a bank in the Cayman Islands.” “You call this cosmic energy? The IRS calls this money laundering.” Chloe’s face turned paper-white. She screamed, “This is slander! These are confidential files! Where did you get this fake data?!” I mocked her with a sweet smile. “Oh, remember? I’m just a low-vibe broke girl who has nothing better to do than dig through trash. When you have nothing to lose, you’d be surprised what you can find.” *** **4** Ethan panicked and lunged across the table to grab the documents. “Amber, you’re doing this because of a personal grudge! You’re just jealous because I found a better business partner, and you can’t stand seeing Chloe succeed!” He turned to Julian, desperately pleading. “Mr. Vance, don’t listen to her! She’s my bitter ex-girlfriend. She’s been stalking us ever since I refused to marry her!” I stepped forward and slapped Ethan hard across the face. The sharp sound echoed in the quiet conference room. “Ethan, stop trying to make your freeloading sound romantic.” “Did you take the thirty thousand from our joint account and max out my credit cards just to bail out Chloe’s bleeding business?” I unlocked my tablet and displayed their private Snapchat chats and hotel booking receipts on the main screen. “Imagine stealing your girlfriend’s life savings just to play sugar daddy to a fake psychic.” “How pathetic do you have to be to fund your own girlfriend’s replacement?” Ethan’s face went completely bloodless. Sensing the danger, Chloe turned to Julian, tears streaming down her face. “Mr. Vance, please, you have to protect us! A prestigious firm like Summit shouldn’t allow an employee to behave so unprofessionally…” Julian let out a soft laugh. “Actually, Amber’s due diligence is spectacular.” “Summit Capital does not invest in pyramid schemes or money laundering operations.” “Furthermore, Amber has already forwarded all of your tax evasion data to the financial crimes division.” “So, both of you… your lucky streak has officially ended.” “Security, throw them out.” With that, Julian turned and walked out. A group of burly security guards marched in and dragged a screaming Ethan and Chloe out of the building. Watching them get dragged away was satisfying, but I still needed my fifty thousand dollars back. Just as I was planning my next move, my phone vibrated. It was my mother. My chest tightened. I picked it up. “Amber, you useless brat! I heard you got a fancy new job! Send me fifteen thousand dollars right now!” “Your brother Tyler has his state civil service exam next week. Chloe told me he has a massive block in his career sector. She said he needs a ten-thousand-dollar high-frequency crystal pyramid to pass!” I gripped the phone tightly. Chloe’s scam had actually reached my own family. “Did you hear me, Amber?! Send the money now!” “Ethan promised he would pay for it, but he called today saying his investments are frozen! You’re his ex-girlfriend—it’s basically your fault his business failed. You owe us this money!” The sheer absurdity of her logic made me laugh. “My fault? Am I Ethan’s mother or his keeper?” “And what the hell is a ten-thousand-dollar crystal pyramid?” My golden-child brother, Tyler, had graduated from a bottom-tier college and spent the last three years playing video games in his room, living off our parents. He claimed he was “studying for the civil service exam,” but he hadn’t even opened a textbook. And my mother honestly believed a plastic pyramid would make him pass? Did she think the examiners were brain-dead? My mother yelled through the speaker, “What do you know?! Chloe blessed that pyramid herself! She said once Tyler puts it on his desk, the universe will write the answers for him! He’s destined to be a high-ranking government official!” “I’m telling you, Amber, if Tyler fails this exam, it’s because your trashy energy cursed him!” “I don’t have any money,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “Not fifteen thousand, not fifteen cents.” “If you believe that scammer so much, why don’t you sell your house to pay her?” The phone erupted into screeching. “You ungrateful, selfish bitch! Why did I even raise you?!” “You’re ruining your own brother’s future! If you don’t send the money, I will come to your office and make a scene! I’ll tell everyone you refuse to support your aging parents!” I hung up without a second thought. Growing up, every good thing in that house went to Tyler. I got the leftovers. My college tuition and living expenses were paid entirely through my own sweat, sleepless nights of part-time jobs, and academic scholarships. And now, they wanted to bleed me dry for a fake psychic? In their dreams. That afternoon, I met with Julian to brief him on Chloe’s next moves. Since Summit had rejected her, her cash flow was completely dry. She needed quick cash, and she needed it now. “She’s hosting a ‘Cosmic Awakening Seminar’ this weekend,” I explained. “Tickets are $2,500 each, and she’s hosting a VIP auction for high-ticket ‘blessed artifacts’ at the venue.” Julian raised an eyebrow. “$2,500? That’s a very aggressive scam.” “It’s aggressive because she’s desperate.” “Chloe is backed by a predatory talent agency run by a guy named Richie Miller. He’s a shady ex-coal mogul who washed his money into social media. He’s her sugar daddy and her main investor. But Richie is incredibly paranoid. If he finds out Chloe is losing his money, he will ruin her.” Julian looked at me. “What do you need from me?” “I need your best legal team. And…” I paused. “I need you to use your connections to make sure the police show up at the venue exactly on time.” “I’m going to smash her entire business to pieces.” Julian smiled. “Amber, Summit doesn’t do favors for free. What do I get in return?” “I will deliver Richie Miller’s internal money-laundering ledger to you. Once his agency collapses, Summit can buy up their premium digital assets for pennies on the dollar.” JuJulian stared at me for a long moment. “Deal. Not only do you get the legal team, but I’ll also personally go with you to watch the show.”

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