Category: English

When my AP Calculus teacher assigned Chloe to be my lab partner, I knew the plot was officially starting. If I aced a test, she’d say: “I’m so jealous of you. You don’t even have to study to get an A. Unlike me, I only sleep five hours a night, and if I’m not careful, my grades drop…” If I went to a national academic decathlon, she’d say: “The school treats you so well, finding ways to pad your resume for college apps. Sigh…” If I got an early admission offer from an Ivy League school, she’d say: “With your family’s connections, you can get in anywhere you want. Meanwhile, I have to save every piece of scrap paper…” And just like that, my childhood best friend—our school’s star quarterback—felt sorry for her, and my roommates hated me for “bullying the weak.” In my past life, they bullied me to death. Right before I died, I heard Chloe say: “Oops, she just fell from the roof. But hey, that Ivy League spot is open now…” When I opened my eyes again, I was staring at Chloe, who was timidly moving her desk next to mine. I smiled. If I don’t play her to death in this life, my name isn’t Harper Montgomery! 1 When my homeroom teacher seated Chloe next to me, I knew immediately. The plot of my past life was repeating itself. Chloe’s grades were aggressively mediocre. She was always just a few points short. Knowing she came from a low-income family, the teacher placed her next to me, hoping I could help her out. After all, I was the Class President. Plus, as the resident genius girl, I was known for being helpful and kind. But that was in my past life. I watched with a mocking smirk as Chloe timidly dragged her desk next to mine. She sat down quietly, and plop—a single tear fell from her eye. “I’m so jealous of you, Harper. Even your pens are so pretty. They must be really expensive, right? Unlike me… I’ve never used a pen this pretty in my entire life…” Here we go. Here she goes again. I let out a cold laugh and ignored her. In my past life, when she did this, my heart softened, and I gave her my own expensive stationery without a second thought. I went out of my way to take care of her. I shared my lunch, bought her drinks, gave her everything. And in the end, I gave her my life. Seeing that I was ignoring her, a flash of embarrassment crossed Chloe’s face. But this was Chloe. Did you think a little embarrassment would stop her? A second later, she angled her body, revealing a tear-streaked, pitiful face. “Harper, you don’t hate me, do you? I guess it makes sense. You were born rich and privileged, so it’s normal that you look down on people. Unlike me, I’m used to walking on eggshells and reading the room…” I lost my patience and slammed my textbook onto my desk with a loud SMACK. It was passing period, and the classroom was noisy, but the sheer force of the slam made the entire class turn and look at us. Chloe also looked stunned. I kept a deadpan expression. She wanted attention? Fine, I’ll give her the spotlight. I sneered, “Chloe, the teacher put you here to study, but the second you sit down, you start crying. “What’s the deal? Are you unhappy sitting next to me? Then go complain to the teacher!” Chloe trembled violently, shrinking into herself. “Harper, no, you… you misunderstood me.” Her eyes dimmed dramatically. “I… I just… I’ve never seen such nice school supplies. I’m just envious. “Harper, I’m really just jealous of you. You were born into a wealthy family and never had to worry about money. You have such pretty stationery and notebooks. Unlike me…” I cut off her manipulative monologue immediately. “Why should I be like you? Like you in what way? Like you with an empty brain? Am I blind? I’m prettier than you, smarter than you, why the hell would I want to be like you? “You’re jealous of my stationery? What, are you trying to guilt-trip me into giving it to you for free? “Do I owe you something? “So what if my family has money? Do you hate the rich? Wow, that must be exhausting for you. There are a lot of wealthy kids in this class, are you going to hate all of them?” As soon as I finished speaking, the rest of the class started whispering. They pointed at Chloe, murmuring to each other. After all, our school is an elite, private prep school. The students here either come from old money or political dynasties. I don’t know about other classes, but in our homeroom, no one slacks off just because their family is rich. Everyone is fiercely competitive. We may have been born on third base, but that doesn’t mean we don’t swing the bat. In fact, we work twice as hard as regular students because the expectations placed upon us are astronomically higher. That’s exactly why the school placed the only two scholarship students from low-income neighborhoods into our homeroom. One was Chloe. The other was Mia, who was also assigned to be my roommate in the dorms. Even though their middle school grades were top-tier, keeping up with the rigorous curriculum of an elite prep school was visibly a struggle for them. 2 I stared coldly at Chloe, who was huddled in her seat. The whispers around us were loud and clear. “What is Chloe’s problem? Mr. Davis sat her next to Harper, and she’s complaining? If she doesn’t want the seat, she can move! Half the class would kill to sit next to the Class President!” “Exactly! That’s free elite tutoring! I want that seat!” “Holy crap, she actually pissed Harper off! It’s senior year, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen the Class President get mad!” “Ugh, she’s so fake. Calling the President ‘Harper’ like they’re besties or something.” “And crying about not having nice school supplies? Excuse me, did Mr. Davis and the school’s financial aid office just cease to exist? The school gives them a stipend every semester for supplies!” “Ugh. What an ungrateful brat.” I glanced casually at Mia, who was sitting a few rows behind me. One of my roommates. In my past life, she, Chloe, and my brain-dead childhood friend, Liam, constantly guilt-tripped and gaslit me until I lost my footing and fell from a ten-story roof. And after I died, Liam actively slandered me to my parents, twisting the truth completely. He convinced them that I was a high school bully who constantly tormented poor, helpless Chloe and Mia. My parents, overwhelmed with guilt and manipulated by his lies, pulled strings with the school board to transfer my Ivy League early admission spot to Chloe. They even paid full tuition for both Chloe and Mia’s four years of college! Thinking about this made my blood boil. I wanted to march over and beat Chloe and Mia to a pulp! At that moment, Mia frowned, stood up from her desk, and marched over to me. “Harper, it’s really not a big deal. Why are you trying to humiliate Chloe? “She was just making a comment.” Mia patted Chloe’s shoulder, acting like the ultimate savior of the oppressed. I laughed. Mia really thought she was something special. She had completely forgotten that her garbage GPA had only improved because I sacrificed my own free time every night to painstakingly tutor her. Now that she thought she had a shot at a state university and was going to change her life, she suddenly thought she was the savior of the masses? I let out a cold laugh and fired back: “Wow, look who it is. The superhero of the classroom. “Do you want me to move the Statue of Liberty so you can sit there instead? “Do you just have that much free time? Did you finish your AP Calculus homework? Did you memorize your SAT vocab? Did you finish your practice tests? “Are you serious, Mia? Did you already secure an acceptance letter from Harvard or Yale? Is that why you have the time to mind other people’s business?” Mia’s face flushed bright red. She opened her mouth to argue, but the bell rang. The students standing around immediately turned and scurried back to their desks. Only Chloe, still sobbing quietly, and Mia, holding her, were left standing awkwardly. I frowned. “Are you guys filming a soap opera? The bell rang! Go back to your seat!” A few students behind me chimed in. “Yeah! If you don’t sit down, you’re just going to complain later that the rich kids are bullying you!” “Ugh, Chloe is always acting so timid, like everyone owes her something.” Chloe clearly heard them. She gently pushed Mia away, her face pale, and silently lowered her head. Mia stood awkwardly between us, then lowered her head and quickly hurried back to her seat. I smirked and sat down. Just as I took my seat, the teacher walked in. “Class, take your seats!” No one mentioned the drama from passing period. It was as if it never happened. But I was the only one who saw Chloe tense up, her fists clenched tightly in her lap. She didn’t even pay attention to the lesson. I let my lips curl into a cold smile. Chloe, in this life, I’m taking the moral high ground before you even get a chance to climb it. Let’s see how you handle this. 3 As soon as the bell for lunch rang, Chloe stood up, squeezed past my desk, and ran out of the classroom. Mia walked past my desk shortly after, glaring at me with pure hatred before leaving. I chuckled lightly and ignored them. My other two roommates, Lily and Sarah, walked over and pulled up chairs around my desk. I blinked, looking at their worried faces. “What’s going on with you today?” Lily put a hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever… “Harper, did you have a personality transplant today?” Sarah nodded vigorously. “Yeah! I can’t believe you actually roasted Mia and Chloe during the break. We wanted to back you up, but we didn’t even know what was happening.” My eyes welled up slightly, and I scrunched my nose. In my past life, I was always polite and accommodating to everyone. I rarely lost my temper. No wonder they were shocked. I smiled and pinched both of their cheeks. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’m fine. “I just finally saw certain people for who they really are.” Lily and Sarah exchanged a look, then simultaneously let out a sigh of relief. Lily: “Oh my god, thank goodness you finally woke up! You have no idea, Sarah and I have been annoyed with Mia for ages.” I raised an eyebrow, asking, “What happened?” Sarah pouted and whispered to me: “You don’t know, but whenever you’re not in the dorm, Mia acts like she owns the place. “She’s always bragging about how she’s going to get into a top state school, and acts like doing dorm chores or cleaning up is beneath her.” Lily added: “And… we caught her and Chloe trash-talking you a few times. We wanted to tell you, but you were spending so much time tutoring Mia, so we thought…” Me: … I was utterly speechless at Mia and Chloe. They didn’t have the royal bloodline, but they sure had the Princess Syndrome! I gently patted their hands. “Don’t worry, I don’t blame you guys.” After all, if they had told me back then, given my pushover personality, I probably wouldn’t have believed them. As for tutoring? LMAO. That depends entirely on my mood now! 4 Lily and Sarah were about to keep gossiping when Mia stood at the classroom door and yelled: “Harper! Mr. Davis wants to see you!” I stared coldly at Mia, and then at Chloe standing next to her, whose face still had obvious tear streaks. Looks like they went crying to the homeroom teacher. Are you kidding me? Is this the best they can do? Do they still think they’re in middle school? I smiled brightly, stood up, and walked over to them. I cleared my throat and purposely raised my voice: “Oh my, look at the tear tracks on Chloe’s face. Did someone bully you? “Oh dear, it wasn’t me, was it? I didn’t even touch you.” Chloe trembled and quickly hid behind Mia. She bit her lip, and the tears started falling again. The next second, her performance began. “Harper, you really misunderstood me… I… I don’t know how to earn your forgiveness. “If my death is the only way to prove I’m not a bad person, I’ll die to apologize!” With that, she made a dramatic lunge as if she was going to bash her head against the hallway wall. Mia immediately grabbed her arm, turned to me, and started screaming: “Harper! Why are you driving Chloe to suicide?! Do you think just because you’re rich, we’re your toys?!” I twitched my mouth, thoroughly unimpressed. Were they filming a CW teen drama? Had they been watching too much trashy reality TV? I was too lazy to play along. I dropped my smile and fired back: “Who’s driving who? Aren’t you two the ones screaming about dying in the middle of the hallway? “If you’re going to do it, then do it! Hit the wall! “Mia, why are you throwing a tantrum at me again? Did I give you an inch and you decided to take a mile? Do you want me to kick you into next week?” “You!” Mia glared at me, pointing a finger in my face, but before she could say anything else, Sarah slapped her hand down from behind. Sarah: “Don’t point! Don’t you know it’s incredibly rude?!” Lily smiled softly and stood next to me. “Mia, you’re the one in the wrong here. Harper has helped you so much, and she’s never once looked down on your background.” I glanced casually at Chloe, who was staying out of the crossfire. She was staring at her shoes, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly upward. I smiled. “Chloe, why don’t we go see the teacher together?” Hearing her name, Chloe flinched and bit her lip, looking victimized. “Harper, I… I’m not like you. I can’t just go see the teacher whenever I want. “You’re dressed so nicely and expensively, of course you can go anywhere. Unlike me… I’ve never worn a dress that pretty. I try to avoid people…” I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. How thick was her skull? Was she really still trying to guilt-trip me into buying her things? And she never even answered the question! I seriously doubt how she passed the entrance exams for this school. “What, are you going to a royal ball or something? You need to be decked out in gold and diamonds just to walk into the teacher’s lounge? Or what, do you want our entire class to start a GoFundMe to buy you a designer gown just so you feel worthy enough to talk to Mr. Davis?” Chloe’s face turned chalk-white. Seeing more and more students gathering in the hallway to watch, her legs suddenly “gave out,” and she collapsed against Mia. “Chloe!” Mia anxiously held her up, turning to glare at me with venom in her eyes. “Harper! What is wrong with you today?! Look what you did, you made Chloe pass out from stress!” I rolled my eyes. “If she’s that fragile, isn’t that her own medical problem? “You’re acting like Mother Teresa today, why don’t you hurry up and carry her to the nurse’s office? “You’re so tough, why are you all talk and no action?” Mia froze. It seemed she hadn’t expected me—the girl who was always so easy to manipulate—to relentlessly target them today. I didn’t care. I bumped past their shoulders and walked straight to the teacher’s lounge. 5 As soon as I walked into the office, Mr. Davis waved me over. “Harper, come here.” I smiled warmly, pretending to be completely clueless. “Mr. Davis, did you need something?” He pushed his glasses up his nose, looking a bit concerned. “Did you and Chloe have a disagreement? She and Mia came in here crying earlier…” I acted shocked. “Mr. Davis, I have no idea! “With AP exams coming up and classes being so stressful, who has the time for petty drama?” Mr. Davis clearly trusted me more. He sighed: “Do you want me to move your seats? The administration suggested I seat you together, but I don’t want it to affect your academic performance.” I couldn’t help but laugh internally. Chloe and Mia were truly idiots. Did they really think crying to the teacher would work? Please. I’m the Class President and the valedictorian. I smiled politely. “No need, Mr. Davis. They can’t affect me. It’s just…” I paused, looking conflicted. “What is it?” I sighed heavily, putting on a serious face. “Mr. Davis, studying requires personal effort. “I want to help her, but if she doesn’t appreciate it, it’s just wasting my time.” Mr. Davis thought for a moment, then suddenly pulled a form out of his desk drawer. My eyes lit up. I was thrilled. “Actually, I was going to tell you about this in a few days. “There’s a National Academic Decathlon coming up, and the school wants you to represent us. Fill out this registration form and bring it back to me. “Just focus on preparing for the decathlon for now, Harper. I believe in you. You’ve got this!” I carefully took the form and nodded solemnly at the teacher. “Don’t worry, Mr. Davis. I will definitely make the school proud!” Are you kidding? My family owns shares in this school. Not that many people knew that. Making the school proud meant higher enrollment numbers next year. Which meant fatter dividend checks for my family! I happily carried the registration form back toward the classroom. Just as I reached the door, I saw a guy sitting at my desk, talking to Chloe. Seeing Chloe occasionally lowering her head in a shy, demure way, I smirked. Perfect. The main cast of this tragedy was finally fully assembled. 6 In my past life, it was around this exact time. My childhood best friend and the school’s star quarterback, Liam, came to my classroom looking for me, only to run into the fragile, bird-like Chloe. They hit it off immediately. And when I came back with the registration form, eager to share the good news with Liam… With a single, pathetic sentence from Chloe, Liam demanded that I give my competition spot to her. In my past life, I was too used to being a people-pleaser. Even though I was hurt, seeing Chloe’s desperate, hopeful eyes, I caved. I gave her the spot, and she was eliminated in the very first round… She single-handedly tanked the school’s reputation in the state finals. And Liam? He blamed me. “Why didn’t you tutor her better? Did you want her to make a fool of herself?! Harper, I’ve known you my whole life, and I never realized you were this manipulative! No wonder you gave up your spot so easily!” Heh. In my past life, I was a massive idiot. I compromised over and over again, and I never told my parents about what was happening at school. That’s what allowed these losers to think they could walk all over me. Liam probably forgot that the only reason his family had money was because my family threw them a bone. I stared coldly at the two of them chatting and let out a soft laugh. I walked quietly up to my desk and kicked the chair hard. Liam lost his balance and nearly fell face-first into Chloe’s lap. Furious, Liam jumped up, ready to start cursing. But when he saw it was me, he instantly deflated. Still, Liam had an ego to maintain. He puffed out his chest and demanded: “Harper, what the hell are you doing?! Did you forget your meds today?!” I ignored him. I pulled a bottle of disinfectant spray out of my desk and started spraying my desk and chair aggressively. After spraying, I grabbed a paper towel and wiped everything down vigorously. Once I was done, I finally sat down and shot Liam an icy glare. “Some disgusting trash sat on my desk. It was dirty.” Liam’s face turned beet red. He slammed his hand down on my desk in anger. Without a second thought, I sprayed the disinfectant directly onto his hand. “AH!” Liam yanked his hand back. “Harper! What is your problem?! Are you crazy?! “I don’t care how much you apologize, I am never forgiving you for this!” Ugh, childish. I slammed the registration form onto my desk and glared at him. “Liam, what are you barking at? Go back to the locker room. Stop barking at people.” “Harper! You just called me a dog!” Liam’s face flushed with rage. He looked like he wanted to grab me by the collar. I stared blankly at his hand reaching toward me. “Liam, did you forget what happened the last time your family almost went bankrupt?” Liam froze. His hand hovered awkwardly in the air. Meanwhile, Chloe stretched her neck, trying to read the form on my desk. I smirked and deliberately pushed the form closer to her. Just as I predicted, Chloe read it closely and gasped: “Oh my god, Harper, are you going to the National Academic Decathlon?!” I ignored her, so she just kept talking to herself, “The school treats you so well, finding ways to pad your resume for college apps. Sigh, unlike me. My family is poor, so of course the school would never give me a spot like this…” Ha. Here we go again.

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The day my brother died, his Ivy League acceptance letter arrived in the mail. My mother suffered a sudden heart attack, and my father got into a severe car crash rushing home. Meanwhile, Serena—the girl my brother had worshipped and ruined his life for—was sitting in a neon-lit bar, casually bragging about how two boys were fighting over her like some teen drama. I stormed into that bar with a switchblade. The exact moment I plunged it toward Serena, time rewound. I was pulled back to my junior year of high school. Back when my brother was still the untouchable, straight-A golden boy of our school. Nothing had happened yet. 1 It was only a moment’s daze before the chaotic noise of the bar shifted into the sharp ring of the school bell. My body was still holding the exact posture of gripping the knife, but the object in my hand was now a black ballpoint pen. And at this very moment, it was stabbed directly into the hoodie of another boy. It was Damon. The undisputed bad boy of the school, the son of a state senator, and one of Serena’s many obsessive suitors. In my previous life, on the day of the tragedy, he led a group of guys to corner my brother in an alley over Serena. My brother died under the frantic knife strikes of one of those street thugs. The coroner’s report stated a single blade pierced his chest. And Damon? Afterward, he simply stated, “I didn’t know the guy brought a knife,” and used his father’s political weight to wash his hands of the entire murder. He looked down at the pen jabbing into his chest, then back up at me, his face devoid of expression. He just coldly asked, “Can I help you?” My brother’s corpse, my mother’s wailing, and my father whom I never got to see one last time. The memories crashed against my temples. I glared at him, fighting with everything I had to suppress my trembling hands so I wouldn’t lunge forward and snap his neck. Damon’s brows furrowed. He was just about to say something when Mr. Harris, our history teacher, barked an order that silenced the room. “Class has started! What’s going on in the back?!” I snapped back to reality and looked around, instantly spotting the girl standing on the podium next to the teacher. “Damon, Riley, get back to your seats. “Let me introduce the new transfer student joining our class this semester, Serena.” I walked back to my desk like a zombie, watching the gazes in the room gravitate toward Serena. She was pale, petite, with incredibly delicate features. The sunlight slanting across the podium stretched her shadow, making her look picture-perfect. With a sweet smile and a cunning glint in her eyes, Serena gave a flawless introduction before the teacher pointed her to the empty seat right next to mine. It wasn’t until she followed the exact routine of my memory, walked up to me under everyone’s watchful eyes, and brightly said “Hi,” that I was completely certain. I had actually traveled back in time. I was back to the beginning of junior year, the exact time Serena transferred to our school, and the starting point of our nightmare. In the days to come, she would use her enviable beauty and soft, helpless persona to become the school’s It-girl. She would aggressively entangle herself with my brother until she lived in his heart. She went from being the unattainable crush of every boy to the fatal scar on my brother’s soul. And Evan—my brilliant brother who died in a pool of blood—became her favorite trophy. The golden boy who fell from grace, threw away his future, and died just for her. Unlike the first time we met, when I genuinely admired her beauty and was happy to be her friend, this time, I just rested my head on my hand and gave her a sideways glance. I looked up, stared dead into her eyes, and gave a fake, hollow smile. “Nice to meet you.” Since I had a second chance, I was definitely going to “treat her nice.” 2 During class, Serena held a palm-sized mirror, constantly adjusting her blonde hair. I just stared out the window, lost in thought. I was originally the type of student who buried my head in textbooks, ignoring the parties and the drama. Even though Evan’s grades were stellar, he was always ranked just behind me. Coming back to junior year, the AP material the teacher was lecturing on was stuff I only needed a quick glance to master. Because of this tunnel vision, when I found out Evan was dating in my past life, I gossiped for a minute and then brushed it off. A popular girl and a star student. It didn’t seem controversial. Even when he started smoking and drinking with Serena, and his GPA began to slip, I only mocked him in my head—thinking boys blinded by love just get what they deserve. But those thoughts became a curse. Evan died. He died on the exact day of our eighteenth birthday. Mom always said that when we were born, we were only one minute apart. That day, he made his final phone call to me. He said he had waited in line for an hour just to get the limited-edition cupcakes I loved. By the time I rushed to the scene, Evan’s body had already been taken away. In that alley, beside the crushed cupcakes, was a large bouquet of baby’s breath, trampled into the dirty asphalt. They were my favorite flowers. There are millions of love-struck teenagers in the world. Some get lost, some go crazy, but they rarely end up dead. And even if they do, that person was never going to be my brother. Fate gave me a chance to start over, and I was going to change the ending that shattered my family. I was going to pull my brother Evan out of the abyss and back into his bright, brilliant eighteenth year. The moment the bell rang, a crowd flocked around my and Serena’s desks, all of them eager to win her favor. I was sandwiched between Serena and her new fan club. Damon even leaned one hand heavily on my desk, leaning right across me to tap on Serena’s desk. With a tone he clearly thought was cool and casual, he asked: “Wanna grab lunch together later?” I cringed so hard I involuntarily rolled my eyes, cursing him as an idiot in my head. A second later, Damon’s cold gaze snapped to my face. I didn’t care what he thought about my eye roll, nor did I care if I offended him. I had something much more important to do. I stood up, aggressively shoved my way through the crowd, and headed toward the classroom next door—Evan’s AP Physics class. Standing at the door, I frantically scanned the room for him. Suddenly, someone tapped my shoulder, and a familiar, cool voice dropped into my ear: “Looking for me?” I turned around. Evan was standing there holding a hydro flask, lazily raising an eyebrow at me. I had never looked at him with such intense focus. This Evan right in front of me—he was alive. His varsity jacket hugged his growing frame, his jawline was sharp, and his shadow, cast by the sunlight, completely enveloped me. Seeing me speechless, he frowned and waved a hand in front of my face. “What’s wrong?” My nose stung. I looked down, rubbed my eyes, and when I looked back up, my face was covered in tears. “Evan…” I desperately fought the urge to throw my arms around him. I opened my mouth, but my throat was so tight I couldn’t make a sound. Evan froze in shock. He quickly wiped away my tears, his fingertips cool against my skin. He switched to a gentle, serious tone: “Tell me. What happened?” I forced a smile that looked worse than crying, choking out: “Nothing. Let’s just go home early today. I miss Mom and Dad.” Evan laughed in disbelief. “Are you in kindergarten? Why are you being such a baby?” He placed a hand on my back, pulling me into a comforting half-hug. “Alright, we’ll leave right after the last bell.” Confirming that Evan was perfectly normal lifted the massive weight off my chest. I chatted with him for another second before turning to head back to class. But the moment I turned, Serena was walking up to us with a beaming smile. “Desk-mate! I wanted to ask if you’d walk with me to the counselor’s office.” She flashed her dimples, intimately looping her arm through mine, and blinked innocently at Evan standing behind me. “Is this your boyfriend? He’s so handsome. Can I hang out with you guys later?” 3 I glanced back at Evan. He was frowning, looking at me with pure confusion. He was clearly weirded out by the “boyfriend” comment. I smiled at him, then turned my head and deadpanned to Serena: “No. “My brother doesn’t like girls who reek of cheap perfume.” The moment the words left my mouth, Serena’s face contorted as if she’d eaten a lemon. She subtly ducked her head to sniff herself. Confirming she didn’t smell bad, the corners of her mouth dropped, her expression turned cold, yet her words remained playing the victim: “…Riley, today is my first day at this school. I really hoped we could get along. “If I offended you somehow, please just tell me straight, instead of attacking me out of nowhere.” A sincere expression, polite phrasing, neither overly humble nor aggressive. She looked like a fragile white flower shivering in the cold wind but standing tall. I mirrored her posture, looking just as sincere. “Huh? How did I attack you? You really do have a strong smell…” I even turned to Evan and blinked. “Right, Evan? Didn’t you smell it?” Suddenly put on the spot, Evan gave me a helpless look and had no choice but to play along. “Yeah… I guess a little…” “Right? It smells exactly like that expired, two-faced green tea stuff sitting in the back of our pantry.” I grinned at her. Serena’s face was completely drained of color. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, and the light vanished from her gaze as she looked at Evan. With her cheeks burning red, she spun around and sprinted back into the classroom. I watched her back and let out a cold scoff, only to get a light flick on the forehead from Evan. He looked at me with a scrutinizing gaze. “Why are you picking on the new girl?” I interpreted that as Evan instinctively protecting Serena. Flashbacks from my previous life surged into my mind, and an overwhelming wave of disgust washed over me. My tone grew harsh: “What? Does your heart ache for her? Then why did you play along with me just now? Go comfort her if you care so much.” Evan’s face showed sheer bewilderment. After a moment, his expression darkened, and his voice dropped. “You’re acting really weird today. “That girl’s perfume was a bit strong, I was just telling the truth. “If someone bullied you, tell me. But if you’re just throwing a tantrum at random people, do whatever you want.” With that, Evan turned and headed back to his class. I regulated my breathing. Right before the bell rang, I called out to his back: “I just don’t like her! And if you ever fall for her, you are no longer my brother!” 4 I walked back into class, feeling hollow. Since we were kids, Evan and I rarely fought or spoke to each other so aggressively. I also knew that blindly attacking Serena in front of him was a terrible strategy. After all, I was the only one with the perspective of the future. Thinking back, I was the one who personally handed Serena over to Evan. When my beautiful, friendly new desk-mate asked, “Can I hang out with you guys later?” for the first time, I had accepted her without a second thought. From then on, she walked to school with us, ate lunch with us, day after day. The way Serena looked at my brother grew increasingly sticky. She would even intercept love letters from other girls, reading them to him in her sickly-sweet voice, watching his ears turn red before delivering a perfectly calculated, flirtatious remark. They started going out on weekends more and more, and Evan’s class rank plummeted. Meanwhile, I was locked away in my ivory tower of academics, completely oblivious—thinking, let them date. If I’m the only one getting straight A’s, Mom and Dad will just buy me a better car. How could the me from back then have known how it would end? The bell rang. Next period was P.E. The students were filtering out of the classroom. I grabbed an AP Calculus worksheet, planning to sit in the bleachers and do it. But I found someone sitting in my seat. Damon was lazily flipping through my test papers. I walked right up to him, but he didn’t even lift his head. I reached out, snatched the paper from his hand, and spat out two icy words: “Get up.” Damon finally deigned to look up at me, his eyes full of mockery. “Look at the nerd. Playing hard to get?” I ignored him and repeated: “Get up.” Damon decided to be even more stubborn. He leaned back, putting his full weight onto my backpack, and let out a hearty laugh. “I heard you’re pretty tough. Made the new girl cry. “Are you trying this hard to get my attention?” I stared at him in silence for two seconds, then smiled. “Yeah. I just love watching her cry. And I love it even more when she cries and her little lapdogs trip over themselves trying to bite people for her. “It gives me this… fascinating thrill of watching pathetic creatures perform.” Damon’s face instantly shifted, a layer of frost settling over his features. He stood up violently, grabbing my chin with a crushing grip. He glared at me, studying me with an unfamiliar gaze, before suddenly laughing—a complex, dark sound. “Riley, it seems we didn’t know each other well enough before. “I suddenly think that starting right now, we can get to know each other properly.” The very next second, he hissed in pain and released me. I had grabbed a box cutter from the desk and sliced a deep gash across his hand. I shoved him hard, making him stumble back into the chair. I looked down at him. “Sorry, I don’t deal with idiots.” I picked up my worksheet, shoved a pen into my pocket, and walked away. 5 During P.E., I experienced Damon’s “sincerity” in wanting to get to know me. Even with a bandaged hand, he was still the undisputed king of the basketball court. Ignoring the icy glares he shot my way, I focused solely on mentally mapping out the solution to the final calculus problem. However, the basketballs repeatedly flying in my direction forced me to pay attention to the court. On the final throw, I scanned the area, bent down pretending to tie my shoe, and subtly adjusted my position. The basketball in Damon’s hands flew toward me in a perfect, aggressive arc. I tilted my head, dodging it by an inch. A split second later, a loud, dull thud of a basketball hitting flesh echoed behind me, followed by a piercing scream. “Ahhh!” The scattered groups of girls rushed past me, and the boys on the court stopped running, looking our way. The source of the scream—Serena—was covering her face, sobbing quietly. Seeing this, practically the entire class swarmed her, rushing to comfort the fragile flower. Only Damon stopped a few paces away from the crowd, silently staring at me. Seeing that I was looking back, he mouthed the words: “On purpose?” The girls were already chattering, defending Serena. “What kind of psycho throws a ball like that? If you’ve got that kind of aim, go draft for the NBA!” “It was Damon! I literally saw him throw it right at her!” The boys, however, guiltily defended their “alpha,” trying to change the subject. “Stop talking, let’s just get Serena to the nurse.” “It was obviously an accident, alright?” Damon stood with his arms crossed, not saying a word, his face looking terrible. He shot me another unreadable look, finally walked forward, stopped in front of Serena, and said stiffly: “I’ll take you to the nurse.” Serena’s eyelashes were wet and red. She forced a tragic, beautiful smile, looking incredibly pitiful. “It’s okay, Damon. I believe you didn’t mean it. It doesn’t hurt that much. Everyone, please don’t be mad at him.” “What do you mean he didn’t mean it? Can’t he even say a simple ‘I’m sorry’?” “Exactly. He was just hitting on people earlier, now he thinks he’s too good to apologize?” Her “he didn’t mean it” sparked another wave of whispers. The girls chimed in one by one, stabbing right at Damon’s ego. Finally, Damon let out a furious, “Shut up!” that instantly silenced the gym. Even Serena was startled, her eyes widening in confusion as she looked at him. Damon’s face was like ice. He completely ignored Serena, bent his long arm down, scooped up the basketball, and walked straight back to the court. Most of the boys scrambled to follow him. Seeing Serena’s disappointed expression and the fleeting shadow in her eyes, I sneered internally. She prided herself on being smooth. She thought that by lowering herself, she could trigger Damon’s guilt and solidify her perfect, innocent persona. She had no idea that a guy like Damon—arrogant and full of himself—would only apologize if he wanted to. Being forced onto the moral high ground and bullied into an apology? He hated that. His initial interest in her was just the primal instinct of a teenage boy looking at a pretty girl. But making him the target of everyone’s criticism? It only triggered his rebellious disgust. He was just a trash guy with a fragile ego. Realizing she wasn’t getting Damon’s apology or concern, Serena couldn’t be bothered to act anymore. She stood up briskly, perfectly fine, and stared thoughtfully in Damon’s direction. After school, while I was packing my bag, Evan was already waiting at the door of my classroom. He leaned casually against the lockers, drawing the attention of several girls. Evan’s cold demeanor wasn’t a pose; he just genuinely didn’t care. His eyes softened as he waved in my direction, signaling me to hurry. I slung my backpack over one shoulder. Before leaving, I purposely glanced at Serena’s desk—empty. Stepping into the hall, I realized Evan wasn’t in a rush to leave. He stayed leaning against the lockers, pretending to look at me coldly. “What?” I urged. “Aren’t we leaving?” “I’m waiting for my sister. Who are you?” he said casually. I realized he was still hung up on what I said at noon. I nodded cooperatively and turned to walk away. “Then I’m going to find my brother. Bye.” Evan finally dropped the act, followed behind me, took the backpack off my shoulder, and swung it onto his own. Then he threw a long arm around my neck, dragging me into a rough headlock. His voice was still tinged with annoyance. “You get into a fight with someone and suddenly you don’t want your brother anymore, is that it? “I don’t even know that girl. You made up that whole thing about me liking her out of nowhere.” My heart sank slightly. I was terrified that the Evan of this timeline would repeat his past mistakes, but I had forgotten he naturally kept people at arm’s length. I probed hesitantly, “So when you saw her, what did you think of her?” Evan looked even more exasperated but answered honestly: “Just a very average girl.” His expression was open. He wasn’t lying. Serena was definitely not “average,” but Evan had never cared much about looks. Growing up, he had rejected countless girls, many of them gorgeous. If he said she was average, it meant Serena hadn’t left any impression on him yet. In my past life, it was only after being bombarded by her constant sugar-coated affection that he developed feelings—and it was me who let the wolf into the house to begin with. Hearing his answer, I let out a sigh of relief. My whole body relaxed. I linked my arm through his and started skipping down the stairs—just like we did when we were little. Evan dropped his annoyance and laughed, calling me a child. However, mid-skip, I accidentally bumped into someone. Damon was holding a basketball with one hand, slightly sweaty, apparently just done with practice. He stared blankly at Evan, then glanced at my hand linked through Evan’s arm. He gave a half-smile. “Playing house?” I instinctively tried to step in front of Evan, but he pulled me behind him. Evan smiled, looking completely normal, and said, “My bad, man.” He tried to pull me past him. But Damon stuck his arm out, blocking us. His tone was icy: “Aren’t you going to apologize?” On the back of his hand was a glaring, fresh cut—the one I had given him that morning. Evan frowned, just about to speak, but I laughed first and said sweetly: “I’m so sorry, Damon.” Damon froze, seemingly incapable of imagining me being so submissive. A flash of mockery crossed my eyes. I reached out, grabbed his hand, gently stroked the wound, and then dug my fingernails deep into his flesh. The slightly scabbed wound tore open instantly, bleeding again. Damon’s face twisted in pain. He tried to rip his hand away, but I gripped it tighter. Does it hurt? It was merely a fraction of what my brother felt. “Fuck!” Just as Damon dropped the basketball and raised his other hand, I let go. I lowered my eyes, matching his gaze. My eyes were venomous as I whispered: “You should watch where you’re walking, Damon. You wouldn’t want me to bump into you again.” 6 Perhaps because I made zero effort to hide my hostility, Damon’s eyes held more shock and confusion than anger. He clearly couldn’t understand why a quiet nerd who had barely spoken two words to him in two years harbored such overwhelming hatred toward him. I stopped looking at him and let Evan pull me away. The movements were subtle; Evan didn’t notice the exchange. He just turned his head and complained: “Why are you calling everyone by their first name like you’re close to them?” I hummed a tune, in a great mood, and didn’t answer. Walking out of the school gates and approaching an alley near campus, I clearly heard strange noises coming from the shadows. Crying, cursing, and the sharp crack of a slap. I frowned. Something wasn’t right. Evan exchanged a look with me, told me to stay put, and walked into the alley alone. As if I would listen. I followed right behind him. The alley was long and narrow, backing up to a set of dilapidated, abandoned apartments. The closer we got, the louder the laughter and crying became. Finally, in the courtyard of an unfinished building, I saw Serena squatting on the ground sobbing, surrounded by a group of girls. Serena’s hair was a mess, her face stained with tears. The leader, a girl with dyed streaks, poured a can of soda over her head. The liquid dripped down her hair, soaking through her modified, tight-fitting uniform shirt, highlighting her figure. The girls crouched in front of her, lightly slapping her face and laughing loudly. “What are you doing?!” Evan couldn’t just walk away. He grabbed a piece of rusty rebar from the ground and said calmly: “I already called the cops. They’re on their way.” Serena looked like she had seen her savior. She stumbled forward, throwing herself into Evan’s arms, gripping his waist tightly. She buried her face in his chest, sobbing and trembling like a frightened rabbit. The bullies’ arrogance vanished. They looked panicked, constantly checking the entrance, seemingly genuinely afraid the police would arrive. Finally, the leader pointed at Serena and barked, “You got lucky this time. Don’t let me catch you again.” With that, she and her followers hurried away. I stood behind Evan, watching this “bullying” with a blank expression. I stared quietly at the leader as she brushed past me. I flashed her a grin and whispered: “Long time no see.” The leader gave me a bewildered look, didn’t say a word, and hurried off. Of course I hadn’t forgotten her. This was Roxy. The very same girl who, in the neon bar, stood next to Serena, listening to her brag about her “player strategies,” and laughed the loudest. Evan looked stiffly at Serena in his arms. He awkwardly patted her back, saying gently, “It’s okay, don’t be scared. They’re gone.” Serena looked up. Even soaked in tears, her face was perfectly beautiful. There was no red slap mark, not even a trace of swelling. She looked at him with pitiful eyes. “Could you take me to the hospital?” Evan hesitated. He looked back at me. I gave a radiant smile. “Why go to the hospital? Let’s just go straight to our house, it’s right nearby. I’ll check you for injuries.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “434844”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend, who was working late, suddenly sent me a text: “I have a girlfriend. Please delete my number. Thanks.” I slowly typed a question mark and hit send, only to be met with the dreaded “Message Not Delivered” notification. My boyfriend has a girlfriend. Then… who am I? 1 Wyatt had been working a lot of overtime lately. I felt bad for how busy he was, and a bit sad that we were spending less time together. I had just packed up some hot soup made by my housekeeper, Mrs. Gomez, and was getting ready to head to his office when I received a text from Wyatt: “I have a girlfriend. Please delete my number. Thanks.” At first glance, I found the message almost funny. This dog of a boyfriend actually had some solid boundaries. But… why did he send it to me? I slowly typed a question mark and sent it, only to realize… Oh, I see. I’m the one who got blocked. My boyfriend is in a relationship. He has a girlfriend. And I… got blocked. As someone with a notoriously fiery temper, I didn’t even pause to think before I dialed his number. But before I could even open my mouth to demand an explanation, a sickeningly sweet female voice answered the phone: “Who is this?” So there really was a woman next to him? To be honest, I almost couldn’t believe my ears. Wyatt had always been incredibly strict about his boundaries. He never let any woman besides me get close to him. He even kept his distance from his male friends. Yet today, he let a woman answer his phone. “Where’s Wyatt? Put him on,” I said coldly, my brow furrowing. The woman on the other end let out a soft, disdainful laugh. “Looking for Wyatt? He’s busy right now. He doesn’t have time.” “Put him on the phone,” I raised my voice, practically yelling into the receiver. “Miss, I suggest you have some self-respect. Wyatt already has a girlfriend. Clinging to him like this just makes you look cheap, you know?” With that, she hung up with a giggle. If I was just annoyed a second ago, now I was absolutely furious. I grabbed my keys and drove straight to Wyatt’s company. If this dog dared to cheat on me, he’d better be ready to pay the price. It was past nine o’clock at night. The entire office building was dark, except for the lights on the top floor. There was no one downstairs except a security guard. He looked surprised to see me. “Ms. Jensen? Are you here to pick up Mr. Brooks?” I didn’t answer. I walked straight into the elevator and hit the button for the top floor. The building was dead silent, but as soon as the elevator doors opened, I could clearly hear voices. I stormed toward Wyatt’s office, the accusations burning on my tongue ready to explode. But when I pushed the door open, I saw that the room was packed with people. It looked like they were in the middle of a serious discussion. At that moment, dozens of eyes turned to stare at me in shock. Being stared at by so many people, I instinctively swallowed hard. But my eyes zeroed in perfectly on a woman sitting in the corner, looking completely out of place. She had a men’s blazer draped over her shoulders, and she was looking at me with a smirk. “Audrey, why are you here?” Surprised to see me, Wyatt immediately stood up from his chair and walked toward me. Probably sensing my foul mood, he nervously quickened his pace, but he was a second too late. The woman in the corner suddenly jumped up and intercepted me before he could reach me. She practically used her body to wedge herself between us. “Miss, we are in the middle of a meeting. I’m going to have to ask you not to interrupt.” She smiled and gestured toward the door, clearly trying to kick me out. I gave her an ice-cold look and completely ignored her. Instead, I looked past her to Wyatt. “Should I wait outside? Wyatt.” “Of course not.” Wyatt dodged the woman with extreme agility, slipping past her to reach my side. He tried to grab my hand, but I pulled away. He was clearly panicked by my dodge and asked cautiously, “Audrey, what’s wrong?” “Nothing. Finish your meeting,” I said coldly. Wyatt glanced back at the room full of executives, then gently tried to pull me further inside so I could sit next to him. As we walked past the woman, he completely ignored her existence. “Wyatt, who is this woman? We’re having a company meeting right now, isn’t it inappropriate for her to be here?” Being ignored, the woman’s face twisted slightly. She forced an awkward smile and stepped forward to block me again. Wyatt stopped and frowned at her, looking as if he had only just noticed she was in the room. “Mia? Why are you still here?” “Wyatt, I… I was keeping you company for your meeting,” Mia stammered, her expression stiffening in embarrassment. “Why would you keep me company for a meeting? Even the Executive Assistant doesn’t need to be at tonight’s strategy session. What is an assistant to the EA doing here?” Wyatt’s tone was irritated, and he clearly wasn’t faking it. So this woman had been sitting in his office the whole time, and Wyatt genuinely hadn’t noticed? The other executives in the room seemed equally surprised, staring at the girl named Mia. “Wyatt, I… I was scared to be out there all alone. This is the only office with people in it on the whole floor, so… so I waited in here for you.” Mia’s eyes fluttered, and she looked up at Wyatt with big, teary, puppy-dog eyes. From Wyatt’s tone, this woman was basically an entry-level assistant, yet she casually called him “Wyatt” and claimed she was “waiting for him.” It was obvious there was something going on here. I crossed my arms and shot Wyatt a frosty glare. Feeling my eyes on him, Wyatt instantly stood up straighter. “Audrey, I have absolutely nothing to do with her. My dad made me give her a job, that’s the only reason she’s here.” He then turned back to Mia, his voice dropping to freezing temperatures. “Mia, you told me you had nothing to do after work today, so you volunteered to cover for the Executive Assistant. That’s why you stayed behind. Since you’re here, do your job. Stop loitering in places you don’t belong.” His voice was cold, laced with impatience. He waved his hand dismissively, gesturing for her to get out. The harsh words drained all the color from Mia’s face. She turned and practically ran out of the office. “I really didn’t notice she was in here during the meeting,” Wyatt explained while pulling me to sit down next to him. I nodded, signaling him to continue the meeting. Nobody in the company showed the slightest discomfort at my presence. When the meeting finally ended and everyone filed out, I pulled out my phone and slammed the text thread onto the desk in front of Wyatt. “Explain this.” By now, I wasn’t actually that mad, but I maintained my icy tone. Wyatt looked at the screen, his pupils shrinking. He reached out and grabbed my shoulders. “Audrey, wait right here. I’m going to give you a proper explanation.” With that, he stormed out of the office. I immediately followed him and watched as he zeroed in on Mia at lightning speed. He stood in front of her and held out his hand. “Give me my phone.” 2 Mia was visibly stung by his furious expression. She swayed slightly before pulling Wyatt’s phone from her pocket, handing it over with both hands. Her eyes were pitiful, yet laced with a sickly sweet, suggestive longing. Wyatt snatched the phone from her hands with lightning speed, opened his blocked contacts list, and his face turned black as thunder. This was the first time I had ever seen him look like this. Confused, I stepped closer to take a look. Good lord. His blocklist didn’t just have me on it; there were several other female accounts. Looking closely, they were all female CEOs or project managers from partner companies. “What gave you the right to touch my phone? I left it charging on my desk.” Wyatt was furious, and he didn’t even try to control his volume. Several department heads who were packing up to leave popped their heads out to see what was going on. Mia visibly flinched at his booming voice, her expression growing even more pathetic. “Wyatt, I… I just wanted to help you.” “Help me? You’re trying to bankrupt me!” Wyatt was raging. Looking at the people on the blocklist, his hands were practically shaking with anger. I knew how hard he had worked to get to where he was, building his company from the ground up. And in one fell swoop, she had blocked several major executives and key stakeholders. Just as I was about to step forward to calm him down, my phone started buzzing. Without exception, it was from friends who had my number, asking me what was going on and why they had suddenly been blocked by Wyatt. Even though these business contacts were polite, I knew they were demanding an explanation. I shot Mia a vicious glare, and then said to Wyatt, though still a bit annoyed: “Fix this right now.” I stepped aside to start replying to messages. Thankfully, because of my father’s reputation in the industry, they didn’t take it too personally. Plus, Wyatt’s competence and the company’s solid reputation spoke for themselves. Once they heard his phone had been tampered with, they were all understanding. Especially when they heard I had been blocked too. A few people even hesitated before warning me to keep an eye on his relationship with that assistant. After smoothing things over with everyone, my expression darkened. Even though Wyatt had firmly taken my side today, this still demanded a serious explanation. I took a few deep breaths, forced down the anger bubbling in my chest, and walked back into the main lobby. To my surprise, there were two police officers standing in the middle of the lobby. Wyatt was frowning, speaking to them furiously. Meanwhile, Mia was trembling, staring at Wyatt in utter disbelief. “Wyatt, you… you called the cops on me?” Her voice shook. Seeing that Wyatt had no intention of acknowledging her, she turned to the officers. She practically lunged forward and grabbed one of the officer’s arms. “Officer, we’re friends! I was just playing a prank! We’re really close, you can’t arrest me.” The officer stepped back in alarm, giving Mia a complicated look. “Ma’am, this isn’t something that goes away just because you say it’s a prank. You used this gentleman’s phone without permission and caused substantial damage…” the officer explained patiently. “We are not friends. There is no ‘prank’ here. She is just an employee,” Wyatt snapped irritably. “Officers, please investigate this thoroughly. I suspect she came to my company specifically to sabotage it.” Hearing this, Mia’s face went as white as a sheet. She bit her lower lip, looking at Wyatt with tearful, desperate eyes. When she realized Wyatt was completely ignoring her and instead walking over to ask me about the client situation, she finally broke. “Wyatt, I… I just thought that since you’re so successful now, and you have a girlfriend, you should keep your distance from the women on your phone. I was just trying to help you!” A single, crystal-clear tear perfectly rolled down Mia’s cheek. Just one tear. It didn’t make her look messy; it just made her look incredibly vulnerable and heartbroken. Unfortunately for her, Wyatt was too furious to appreciate her theatrical performance. He exploded: “What does my contact list have to do with you?! You even blocked my girlfriend first! Are you trying to ‘help me keep my distance’ or are you trying to make me die alone?!” Still not satisfied, he pointed to a profile picture on his blocklist. “This is CEO Gallagher. She’s the exact same age as my mother! You think I need help keeping my distance from her too?!” “I am your boss. You do what I tell you to do, and you don’t touch what isn’t yours. That’s the rule. Do you lack even the most basic professional decency?” He turned to the police. “Officers, I have a lot of trade secrets on my phone. She’s a brand-new employee who stole my phone. She poses a massive threat to my company’s assets. I want a full investigation.” I stood there, absolutely stunned. I came here expecting to catch a cheating boyfriend, only to witness a delusional pick-me girl getting completely dismantled. 3 I definitely didn’t expect Wyatt to actually call the cops. But it did make me feel a lot better about their relationship. Maybe it was because I had walked back to Wyatt’s side, which triggered the woman. She broke free from the officer’s grasp, rushed right up to us, and pointed a finger at my nose, demanding: “What about her?! Why is she allowed in your office?! Why do you draw boundaries with me because you have a girlfriend, but you protect her at every turn?!” “Is your brain completely broken?” Wyatt said, exasperated. “Can’t you tell she IS my girlfriend? Don’t you recognize the word ‘Wife’ on her contact info? Stop playing your pathetic little mind games.” Mia shrank back behind the police officers, having been yelled into submission. She finally looked genuinely terrified. The officers now understood what was going on. But the fact remained that Mia’s actions had caused financial damage to Wyatt. They asked if there was a chance they could settle this privately. Wyatt adamantly refused. “Absolutely not. Sending a message like that to my girlfriend? Are you trying to make me single forever? I won’t tolerate it.” Because Wyatt refused to settle, Mia was taken away. Before leaving, she tugged pitifully at the oversized blazer draped over her shoulders and stood in front of Wyatt. “Wyatt, I’m cold. Can I borrow this jacket to wear outside?” Wyatt glanced at the jacket and said flatly, “That’s not mine.” At that moment, the CFO, who had been watching the drama from the sidelines, leaped out of his office. “Mine! It’s mine! I tossed it on the chair next to the CEO earlier and didn’t realize you took the wrong one. You should probably give it back. I’m cold too.” Mia’s face completely froze. She angrily ripped the jacket off, threw it into the CFO’s arms, and glared at me with pure hatred before leaving with the police. Watching the venomous glare she shot me as she left, I couldn’t help but find it hilarious. What was this? A manipulative mean girl tries to provoke me, and ends up getting herself arrested? Later, Wyatt explained everything. Mia was the daughter of their old neighbors. Her family had moved up north a decade ago and had only recently moved back. As soon as they returned, they visited his parents. Since the two families used to be close, they reconnected. Hearing that Mia was looking for a job, Wyatt’s dad asked him to arrange a position for her at his company. Wyatt had practically forgotten she even existed. Who knew she would pull a stunt like this on her first day? 4 I rolled my eyes and muttered, “What is this, some cheap ‘childhood sweethearts’ trope?” Hearing this, Wyatt literally gagged right in front of me. “I don’t have that kind of childhood sweetheart! Ever since we were kids, whenever she messed up, she’d act pitiful and throw the blame on me. Then she’d cry and say ‘It’s all my fault’.” Wyatt shuddered as he mimicked Mia, looking as if he was trying to shake off a layer of goosebumps. “Anyway, I never want to be associated with her in this lifetime. If it weren’t for my dad asking me for a favor, I never would have let her set foot in my company.” I heard that even though she was taken to the station, Mia wasn’t actually charged. She cried and complained to Wyatt’s father, and after getting a severe scolding from his dad, Wyatt finally agreed to settle privately. She walked out of the police station that same night. I thought that since Wyatt had been so ruthless this time, she would take the hint and back off. After all, her little stunts were embarrassingly stupid to watch. But surprisingly, a few days later, she added me on iMessage. And the friend request said she got my contact card from Wyatt. Once I accepted, she immediately sent me a photo. It was a picture of a large, lavish dining table with quite a few people seated around it. I could easily recognize Wyatt and his parents. Wyatt was sitting next to the person taking the photo, smiling and putting food on their plate. He looked gentle and attentive. “Audrey, you don’t really think Wyatt loves you, do you? The one he’s always loved is me. Today, our families are officially meeting to discuss our wedding date.” Having experienced the last incident, I didn’t believe a word this woman said. If I rushed over to confront him like last time, and Wyatt had just called the cops on her again, it would eventually cause a rift between us. So when I saw the photo, I didn’t feel the same anger as before. I simply dialed Wyatt’s number. It took him a while to answer. He probably had to find a quiet place first. “Audrey, what’s up?” His tone was cheerful. He seemed to be in a good mood. “Where are you?” Wyatt paused for a second. Because we trusted each other, I rarely interrogated him like this. “I’m at The Grand Brasserie having dinner with my parents.” “Is Mia there too?” “Yeah, both families are having dinner together today.” Wyatt’s answer was perfectly natural. He didn’t sound guilty at all. I was silent for a moment, then said, “Check your messages.” I sent him the photo Mia sent me, along with screenshots of her texts. “Is she insane? She’s not even sitting next to me. My niece is sitting next to me.” Wyatt was visibly pissed. He told me to hang on for a second, and shortly after, he sent me a screenshot. It was a screenshot from his little niece’s Snapchat story. The two photos were identical; they were both taken by his niece. “Audrey, you should come over too. We need to clear this up once and for all tonight. This Mia girl is a psycho.” I was hesitant. “Your families are having a reunion dinner. Would it be inappropriate for me to show up?” “Why would it be inappropriate? My parents love you. Besides, if we don’t clear this up face-to-face tonight, Mia is going to keep harassing us and ruining our relationship.” He was clearly panicking by the end, and he said firmly: “No, you have to come. I’m sending a driver to pick you up.” 5 Figuring that Wyatt wanted to settle things once and for all, I changed my clothes and headed out. The restaurant wasn’t far; I got there in twenty minutes. When I arrived, I saw Wyatt waiting for me at the entrance. Seeing his annoyed expression, I hurried over and patted his shoulder to comfort him. But he just looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. “Thank God you actually asked me about it. If you were like the female leads in those romance novels and just walked away in silence, what would I have done?” I rubbed my temples. This was partly my fault. When we first started dating, I was so paranoid about him not being able to spot manipulative “pick-me” girls that I made him read a bunch of BookTok romance tropes. It turns out, he still couldn’t spot a pick-me girl, but his brain was now permanently hardwired to make sure I never felt misunderstood so I wouldn’t run away. With a hug and some reassurance, Wyatt led me into their private dining room. When we walked in, everyone was laughing and chatting. Mr. and Mrs. Brooks looked genuinely happy to see me. They immediately asked the waiter to add a chair for me. “Audrey, come here, sit next to me.” Mrs. Brooks warmly had the waiter place a chair right beside her, which was also right next to Wyatt. And sitting on the other side of Wyatt was indeed a little girl, no older than ten. Sitting next to the little girl was Mia. Seeing me walk in, Mia froze, her face instantly turning sour. “Wyatt, who is this? Why did you bring an outsider to our family dinner?” The older woman sitting next to Mia, who looked like her mother, spoke up with a passive-aggressive tone the moment she saw me sit down. Hearing this, Mr. and Mrs. Brooks’ expressions shifted. Mrs. Brooks gently patted my hand to reassure me. Then she smiled and said, “She’s not an outsider. This is my daughter-in-law, Audrey Jensen.” “Oh, so it’s Wyatt’s girlfriend.” The woman let out an awkward laugh and continued, “You run a pretty tight ship, little lady. Wyatt can’t even have dinner with his parents without you chasing after him.” That one sentence painted me as a controlling, unreasonable girlfriend. Normally, as a younger generation, I should be respectful to my elders. But this elder didn’t deserve an ounce of my respect. “Mrs. Lawson. You must be mistaken. Didn’t your daughter say you were all gathered here today to discuss my boyfriend’s wedding to her? I didn’t want my boyfriend to be taken advantage of, so I came to check it out.” I smiled brilliantly, even raising an eyebrow provocatively at Mia. When I came in, Wyatt told me: If they give you attitude, fire right back. Do not let them walk all over you. Hearing my words, both Mr. and Mrs. Brooks looked at Mia in shock. “What wedding discussion?” Hearing me expose her out loud, Mia clearly panicked. She knocked over her water glass. “W-What wedding… I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even though she claimed she didn’t know, her nervous stuttering made her guilt painfully obvious. Mrs. Brooks’ face darkened. “Mia, Wyatt and Audrey will handle their own wedding. You don’t need to worry about it.” “Mrs. Brooks, I… I really don’t know what Ms. Jensen is talking about.” Mia stood up anxiously to defend herself. But her panic instantly morphed into a victimized whimper. She lowered her head, her voice trembling uncontrollably: “Mrs. Brooks, I know my good intentions caused a misunderstanding last time, and Ms. Jensen has a prejudice against me. But… but she doesn’t have to slander me like this.” She even threw in two theatrical sobs for good measure. “Exactly! Didn’t we already clear up what happened last time? It was just a misunderstanding. Our Mia was just worried that Wyatt is too clueless and wouldn’t know how to keep his distance from other women, and she didn’t want his girlfriend to get mad. That’s why she did what she did.” Mia’s mother immediately stepped in, pulling Mia into her arms, and shot me a vicious glare. “Ms. Jensen, it’s one thing that you showed up uninvited, but targeting our Mia like this? What’s your problem? Mia and Wyatt grew up together. If she really wanted to steal him from you, do you honestly think you’d stand a chance?” 6 I was speechless. I always knew Mia’s mother wasn’t exactly rational, but I didn’t expect her to say something so blatant. But the person who reacted the strongest was Wyatt. He practically leaped out of his chair, stepping directly in front of me: “Mrs. Lawson, Audrey is not uninvited. She is my girlfriend, and I asked her to come. As for Mia and me, there has never been anything between us. I have never liked her, and my relationship with my girlfriend has absolutely nothing to do with her.” He wasn’t leaving them an ounce of dignity. The faces of the entire Lawson family darkened instantly. Mia looked up from her mother’s embrace at Wyatt. That single glance was a masterclass in manipulation—hurt, enduring, and tragic. She looked exactly like a poor, helpless girl abandoned by a toxic ex. The atmosphere in the private room became even more awkward. “What is all this? Why are we arguing during a nice family dinner?” Mia’s father quickly stood up, pressing his wife and daughter back into their seats. Then he said, “Since we’re all here, let’s just have a good time. There’s no need to make things unpleasant, right?” He raised his glass to toast Mr. Brooks. Mr. Brooks hadn’t said a word, but his expression made it clear he was not happy. Still, he raised his glass and clinked it with Mr. Lawson’s. Since things had reached this point, Wyatt and I didn’t plan on saying anything more. Wyatt had already made himself perfectly clear anyway. Who knew that while we were ready to drop it, the other side had no such intention. Because of what just happened, the rest of the dinner was incredibly awkward. The only person truly enjoying their meal was Wyatt’s little niece. Unexpectedly, just as the tension was starting to ease, Mia’s mother suddenly laughed: “Time really flies, doesn’t it? Wyatt and Mia are all grown up now. I still remember how they used to play together when they were little.” Talking about the kids’ childhoods softened Mr. and Mrs. Brooks’ expressions a bit, and they couldn’t help but sigh at how fast time had passed. But then the woman dropped her next line: “I remember, back then, they even promised to marry each other. Wyatt used to say that when he grew up, he wanted to marry Mia and protect her forever.” After saying that, she acted as if she had suddenly realized she misspoke, turning to me and saying, “Ms. Jensen, please don’t mind me. I was just reminiscing about when the kids were little. We all know arranged childhood marriages aren’t a thing anymore. It won’t affect your relationship.” I couldn’t help but sneer. Saying it won’t affect us, yet intentionally bringing up an “arranged marriage” in every other sentence. Wyatt was instantly furious: “Mrs. Lawson, your memory is failing you. I never said I would marry her. You were the one who kept saying ‘boys should protect girls’ and forced me to protect her.” Wyatt sounded genuinely aggrieved as he continued: “Because of that, all the good snacks my parents bought for me when I was little ended up being given to Mia by you.” I almost laughed out loud, while the smile on Mia’s mother’s face completely froze. It took her a long time to recover. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Wyatt’s mother interjected: “Childhood promises… yes, there was talk of that.” Hearing this, Wyatt turned to his mother in disbelief, gasping, “Mom, what are you talking about?” Mrs. Brooks ignored him, continuing with a smile: “But back then, it was your family constantly saying how compatible the two kids were and suggesting a promise ring. We never agreed to it.” Wyatt nodded frantically and turned to me. “Audrey, I told you, I have absolutely nothing to do with her.” Tears streamed down Mia’s face. She looked at Mrs. Brooks: “Mrs. Brooks, do you not like me anymore? You used to say you liked me a lot, and that you’d love to have me as a daughter-in-law.” Just a minute ago, they were claiming it wouldn’t affect my relationship with Wyatt, and now she was openly talking about being their daughter-in-law. This woman really was… shameless. Mrs. Brooks kept smiling. She picked up her water glass, took a sip, then pulled my hand into hers and said: “I did say that. But that was just my wish. It doesn’t mean Wyatt agreed to it. Now, the person Wyatt recognizes is Audrey, so my daughter-in-law is Audrey.” Those words hit the Lawson family like a slap across the face. Mia’s parents looked indignant and were about to argue further, but Mr. Brooks finally spoke up: “Frank, Martha. The kids’ feelings are not something we parents should interfere with. Wyatt and Audrey are great together, and we are very fond of Audrey.” He then glanced at Mia: “We watched Mia grow up too. She’s a great girl, but she’s just not right for Wyatt. I’m sure we can introduce her to someone much better in the future.” With that, he raised his glass and downed it right in front of Mia’s father. Mia’s father had no choice but to nod in agreement and drink his glass as well. It was obvious he didn’t dare offend Wyatt’s father. Even Mia’s mother didn’t dare push the issue further, sitting obediently in her seat and forcing a smile. But Mia stared intently at Wyatt with her big, watery eyes, demanding: “Wyatt, do you really not like me? I don’t believe you.” Wyatt was flabbergasted: “I just don’t like you! What’s so hard to believe?” “If you don’t like me, why did you always help me when we were kids? When the chubby kid next door bullied me, you helped me beat him up.” “That’s because if I didn’t help you, you’d go home crying to your mom that I just watched you get bullied at school. Then your mom would complain to my mom, and my mom would lecture me. You have no idea how hard that chubby kid hit. I didn’t want to fight him at all!” Wyatt raged. Mia clearly hadn’t expected this answer. She looked at Wyatt in shock but refused to give up: “Then… then in middle school, when a boy wrote me a love letter, why did you beat him up too?” I looked at Wyatt in surprise. Wyatt quickly grabbed my hand and explained frantically: “That was because you rejected the guy by telling him you liked me! The guy came looking for a fight with me! I never wanted to fight him! He broke one of my ribs!” This… Honestly, I felt embarrassed for Mia. But Mia still wouldn’t let it go: “Then… then this time, when I came back, why did you immediately give me a job at your company without a second thought? You even made me your assistant. I heard I’m the only assistant who was ever fast-tracked into your company.” Wyatt rubbed his forehead: “That’s because you told my dad you couldn’t find a good job, and my dad asked me to do him a favor and put you in my company. And you weren’t my assistant! You were the assistant to the Executive Assistant! It was a completely made-up, idle role because I specifically didn’t want you interfering with my work! And yet, you still managed to almost lose me several major clients!” The more he spoke, the angrier he got, finally shouting: “Mia, can you please just get out of my life?!” In the end, Mia covered her face and ran out of the room crying. After the dinner, I looked at Mr. and Mrs. Brooks awkwardly and apologized: “Mr. Brooks, Mrs. Brooks, I’m so sorry. I ruined your dinner party.”

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On the day the bandages were removed from my eyes, I didn’t see him. Instead, I received a message from his childhood best friend: “You might have saved Sebastian’s life, but don’t think you can use that to guilt-trip him. He’s too busy to pick you up. Find your own way home.” I called him. The phone rang once before he hung up on me. When I finally saw him three days later, he didn’t ask how I was. He demanded to know why I was “spreading lies” to ruin his best friend’s reputation. I looked at the golden aura above his head—the literal manifestation of his luck and destiny. It was flickering and fading fast. Suddenly, accepting that I was the tragic female lead in a “heartbreak novel” didn’t seem so hard after all. 01 The day I realized I was the protagonist of a tragic romance novel, I was in a hospital bed having my bandages removed. The moment the gauze fell away, a flood of information surged into my mind like a tidal wave. I saw my future: I was a mobile blood bank and organ farm for his “Golden Girl” first love. I was the designated scapegoat for his manipulative childhood friend. My entire family was destined to die because of him. Eventually, I would take my own life, and only then would he realize he loved me, holding my ashes in a state of eternal, pathetic regret. I sat there, frozen, unable to process it for a long time. One thing kept bothering me. If I was already dead in the end, what was the point of his regret? Did he think his tears were a legal pardon? The young nurse thought I was just devastated that Sebastian Reed hadn’t shown up. She tried to cover for him, her voice small and hesitant. “Mr. Reed should be here soon. He said he was coming today. He always keeps his word.” I looked at her young, fresh face. Her concern was genuine. I forced a smile. “It’s okay. I’ll wait.” But seconds later, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Seraphina Miller: “You might have saved Sebastian’s life, but don’t think you can use that to guilt-trip him. He’s too busy to pick you up. Find your own way home.” Seraphina was the “childhood sweetheart” trope. In the original plot, half of the torment Sebastian put me through was her doing. She knew she couldn’t compete with Sebastian’s “Golden Girl,” so she stepped back. But she couldn’t stand a “nobody” like me being the one to actually date him. She spent every waking hour trying to make me miserable so I would quit. She was an expert at picking on the weak. I waited for an hour, then dialed Sebastian’s number. He declined the call instantly. The nurse looked at me with a pity she tried hard to hide. I felt bad for her. Honestly, everyone could see how badly Sebastian treated me. I was the person who had literally saved his life. He had put me in the best hospital and hired the best staff. He did everything except actually show up. That isn’t how you treat a savior. That’s how you maintain a piece of equipment. I checked myself out of the hospital. The nurse hovered around me, treating me like I was made of glass. I took an Uber back to Sebastian’s estate, packed my essentials in ten minutes, and left. By the time the sun set, I had rented a small, clean apartment across town. I needed to sit down and think. Why would a rational, educated woman like me ever allow someone to harvest her organs and ruin her life for “love”? 02 I realized it was the “Sunk Cost Fallacy.” I had invested so much time, emotion, and literal blood into Sebastian that I had let him push my boundaries back inch by inch. Leaving felt impossible because I kept waiting for a return on my investment. Originally, I couldn’t accept that he had a “Golden Girl” tucked away in his heart. I fought him. I screamed. But every time I tried to leave, something would go wrong—a family crisis, a freak accident—and Sebastian would “casually” save me. I felt obligated to stay. And Seraphina? Her provocations weren’t new. He just called her “spirited” or “immature.” He expected me to be the bigger person. He expected me to be a saint. Everyone was the same age, yet I was the only one denied the right to have feelings. His double standards had always been there; I just chose to be blind to them. Not anymore. I sent a text to Sebastian: “We’re over. Don’t contact me.” Three years of devotion, ended in six words. Then, I texted Seraphina: “There was once a fox who couldn’t reach the grapes, so he called them sour. Then someone else got the grapes, and the fox turned into a rabid dog. Well, I’ve tasted them. They are sour. I’ve thrown them in the dirt. You can have them now.” Three days later, Sebastian found me. He was outside my door, his voice cold and commanding. “Open the door, Quinn. I know you’re in there.” He was always efficient. I wasn’t surprised he found me so fast. I opened the door. He stood in the hallway, I stood in the frame. We stared at each other. Sebastian was a beautiful man. He had eyes that looked like they were made for poetry. Even standing in a dingy hallway, he looked like a masterpiece. Some people are just born with a narrative. He brushed past me, sat on my small sofa, and said coldly, “Why did you send that message to Seraphina? Go and apologize to her.” I leaned against the doorframe, watching him. I saw it clearly then. The moment those words left his mouth, a wave of tangible malice radiated from him toward me. But as it hit me, it bounced back. It slammed into him, and I watched the shimmering purple aura around him—his “Main Character Energy”—shatter and bleed away. Did his cruelty toward me actually damage his own destiny? I stayed silent for too long. Sebastian lost his patience. His eyes were dark with suppressed rage. “Quinn Avery, are you even listening to me?” I blinked. “What year is it, Sebastian?” He looked confused for a second, then sneered. “What kind of game is this now?” That word—”now.” It showed how little he trusted me. He was so certain I was just playing a trick to get attention. I lost all interest in talking to him. “It’s 2023,” I said calmly. “The 1950s are over. We are broken up. I owe you nothing, and I certainly don’t owe that girl an apology. She isn’t worth my time. Please leave.” Sebastian’s confident mask slipped. He looked at me as if seeing a stranger. “Is this because I didn’t pick you up from the hospital? Are you really throwing a tantrum over that?” I pointed at the door. I didn’t say a word. Sebastian had too much pride to beg. He stood up, his face turning into a mask of ice. “You have one hour to apologize to Seraphina. I’m giving you one last chance.” He talked tough, but his aura was leaking like a punctured tire. I slammed the door, locking him out. I thought that because I knew my “destiny,” I wouldn’t be sad. I was wrong. My heart still ached with every breath. An hour later, my phone rang. It was him. I turned the phone off and slept for fourteen hours. The next morning, I was flooded with notifications. The most urgent was an email from HR at Sebastian’s firm, where I worked as a lead designer. “Ms. Avery, your recent medical leave has caused significant delays. The company has filled your position. Please come in to sign your voluntary resignation papers.” I had saved Sebastian’s life, and this was his thanks? He was too cheap to even fire me properly; he wanted me to quit so he didn’t have to pay severance. I replied: “Is the company firing me?” HR: “The position is no longer a fit. We suggest you resign voluntarily.” Me: “My recent designs just won a national award for this firm. If you want me gone, send an official termination notice. Otherwise, I will show up for my shift. If you attempt to withhold my legal compensation, I will file a complaint with the Labor Board.” The reply was a long string of dots, followed by: “You offended the wrong person. Don’t make this hard on us. You and Mr. Reed are close—why don’t you just talk to him?” I stared at the screen. This was his plan. Force me into a corner so I’d crawl back to him. But things bought with “pity” are never as strong as things protected by the law. If the Billionaire CEO wanted to be a legal illiterate, I was happy to give him a crash course. I went to the office. The receptionist’s jaw dropped. She scrambled for the phone to report my arrival. My desk was covered in junk—random boxes and old files piled high, clearly moved there that morning. I saw a couple of interns whispering and ducking away when I looked at them. I took a photo of the desk, then began swiping the junk onto the floor, piece by piece. I was about to log into my computer when a hand stopped me. “Quinn, you don’t work here anymore. You shouldn’t be touching company property.” The voice was sugary sweet, designed to trigger an immediate temper flare. I looked up. It was Seraphina. And standing right behind her was Sebastian. He stood there with his usual cold indifference, as if the world was beneath him. I remembered the book’s description of him: “Amidst the chaos of the world, he stands alone, untouched by the dust of mortality. Nothing is worthy of his heart.” I used to find that poetic. Now, experiencing it firsthand, I realized the truth: Sebastian was just a garden-variety sociopath. He wasn’t worth my life. I ignored Seraphina and looked at Sebastian. “Mr. Reed, are you firing me?” Before he could speak, Seraphina chirped, “You’ve been let go. Can’t you take a hint?” “Ms. Miller, this company belongs to the Reed family. Until you’re wearing a wedding ring, you don’t make the calls here.” Seraphina paled and looked at Sebastian for support. Sebastian looked at me, giving me one of his “tests.” 03 I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to bow. He wanted me to apologize to Seraphina. I wouldn’t open my mouth. Sebastian’s patience snapped. “Sign the resignation, Quinn,” he said, his voice like dry ice. “Resignation? No. Fire me.” I wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “Quinn Avery, have some dignity,” Seraphina hissed. “You’re being fired.” “Firing someone is an administrative action. If I violated company policy, provide the written notice and specify which clause I broke.” “You missed days of work!” “Saving the CEO’s life counts as an on-the-job injury, doesn’t it? If it does, I expect workers’ comp. If it doesn’t, Mr. Reed should be handing me a plaque and a bonus for saving his life, not trying to frame me for absenteeism.” The office went silent. Most of the staff didn’t know I was the one who had taken a hit for Sebastian. They just knew we were “involved.” In the past, I never talked about it. My parents taught me to be humble. But humility only works with good people. With predators, humility is just an invitation to eat you. You have to peel back their skin and show the world the monster underneath. Seraphina turned bright red. She tried to speak, but Sebastian cut her off. “Quinn, the company is officially terminating you. Go to HR and finish the paperwork.” He turned and walked away, his posture rigid and arrogant. Seraphina hurried after him. “Sebastian, wait for me!” I watched them go, pushing down the last ember of grief in my chest. I used to love that arrogant strength of his. But now, watching his aura fade from gold to a dull, dusty yellow… I felt nothing. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew this would hurt me. He just wanted to see me break. He wanted to see me lose myself so he could feel in control. The book said his childhood was traumatic, leaving him with a desperate need to dominate his surroundings. So he tormented the female lead. He watched her give up everything until she died. And in the story, after she died, he lived on with the “satisfaction” of knowing she had loved him unconditionally. Tragic leads usually have a martyr complex. I didn’t. The moment those bandages came off, my “Love Brain” was discarded in the hospital trash. 04 I went to HR. The manager, a woman who lived to please Sebastian and Seraphina, pushed a “Voluntary Resignation” form toward me. Resignation means I get nothing. Termination means the company owes me severance, unused vacation days, and overtime pay. The difference was about fifty thousand dollars. I flicked the paper back at her. “I’ve changed my mind. I like working here. I think I’ll stay.” I stood up to leave. She panicked. “Quinn, what are you doing?” “Heh.” I walked back to my desk and started backing up my portfolio and gathering evidence of my awards. The manager followed me, her voice softening. “Quinn, let’s just talk this through.” I ignored her. Sebastian sent a message on the office Slack: “?” I deleted it and blocked him. A few minutes later, the manager’s phone rang. She answered with a fawning, terrified tone. “Yes, Mr. Reed. I understand. Right away.” She hung up, glared at me, and went back into her office. When she came out, she handed me three documents: an Official Termination Notice, a Final Paycheck Calculation, and a Severance Agreement. “It’s all here. Sign it.” “I just got out of the hospital. My vision is blurry. I need to take these home and review them slowly.” The manager looked like she was about to explode. Then, her phone rang again. Her face smoothed into a sugary smile. “Miss Miller! Yes, of course. I’m working on it right now. Don’t worry.” She hung up and told me I had to finish by the end of the day. I watched her walk away. We’ll see about that. I felt like making her stay late today. I ran the numbers. She had left out my accrued vacation time—sixteen days. According to labor laws, unused vacation must be paid out at three times the daily rate upon termination. That was nearly a month’s salary right there. And the severance? She calculated it based on my base pay, not my average total compensation (including bonuses). In the book, I left without a cent because I was “too heartbroken” to care about money. I ended up living in a tiny basement, got sick, and Sebastian “rescued” me. Only to find out his Golden Girl needed blood. I was a rare Rh-negative type. So was she. I was her personal tap. And because I was the “tragic lead,” my body was magically able to survive constant blood draws while being mistreated. I wasn’t going to be anyone’s tap. I was going to be Sebastian’s legal nightmare. I waited until five minutes before the end of the day. The manager had been chewed out by both Sebastian and Seraphina at least three times by then. I pointed to the forms. “These two calculations are wrong. Redo them.” “What’s wrong with them?” “I’m off the clock now. I’ll tell you tomorrow.” “Quinn! You’re doing this on purpose!” “Yes. I am.” I smiled, grabbed my purse, and walked out. I was fired—why would I work overtime? “Quinn, please! Just help me out. You don’t want to see Mr. Reed and Miss Miller again, do you?” I stopped and looked behind her. Sebastian and Seraphina were standing there. Their cold gazes swept over me and landed on the manager. She was trembling, her previous arrogance completely gone. I laughed softly. “You’re right. I really don’t want to see them. Fine, I’ll help you.” The manager looked like she wanted to cry and kiss my feet at the same time. She fixed the numbers in record time, her hands shaking. “Ms. Avery, it’s all correct now. Please sign.” I looked it over and pushed it back again. “You forgot my overtime for today. Add it in.” The manager’s face went purple. She looked like she wanted to kill me, but she had no choice. She reprinted the forms, and I finally signed. As I finished, she hissed under her breath, “I hope I never see your face again.” “The feeling is mutual. By the way, the way you slave away to save a billionaire a few pennies… you look like a ghost guarding someone else’s gold. It’s pathetic.” 05 I walked out of the building. I had secured nearly eighty thousand dollars in the settlement. With that, I could take my time finding a new job. I wouldn’t end up dying in a basement like the book predicted. “Are you satisfied now?” Sebastian was standing in the shadows of the parking garage, smoking. The light caught his jawline. He was still a beautiful man. Even knowing the truth, my heart still gave a treacherous little flutter. But that was just biology. I looked at him and hit the button for the elevator. “Company policy says this entire floor is a smoke-free zone. That’s a two-hundred-dollar fine. Remember to pay it tomorrow. Being the CEO doesn’t mean you’re above the rules.” Sebastian froze. He crushed the cigarette out and stormed off toward his car. Over the next few weeks, I followed my doctor’s orders. Every time my stomach ached from the meds or my eyes stung from the drops, I felt a wave of regret. I should have let Sebastian get hit by that car. Health is worth more than a man. I started mapping out the timeline from the book to see where I could change my fate. Sebastian’s “Golden Girl,” Natalia Vance, was a famous prima ballerina. She was the “White Moonlight”—pure, beautiful, and kind. In the book, she was innocent. She didn’t know about the suffering Sebastian caused me. But she was the primary beneficiary. Her health was built on the slow destruction of mine. So, when the news broke that Natalia had fallen during a performance and was hospitalized, I didn’t wait. I booked a flight to Thailand. I turned my phone on after landing in Bangkok and was immediately hit by a barrage of missed calls. I answered Sebastian’s call. He was hysterical. “Where the hell are you? You have thirty minutes to get to the hospital—” I cut him off. “Who is this?” “Quinn, this isn’t a game. Natalia needs a transfusion. Stop being petty. I’ll compensate you for whatever you want later, but get here now.” “Mr. Reed, the National Blood Services Act states that donation is voluntary. Furthermore, a donor must be in good health and cannot have had major surgery in the last six months. I was discharged less than a month ago after saving your life. Do you even see me as a human being? Or just a spare part for your ballerina?” The line went silent. I hung up. Facing the tropical sun, I tried to smile. It was hard. But it felt better than bleeding out in a sterile room. I stayed in Thailand for two weeks until the news confirmed Natalia was out of danger. Then, I flew home. The trip had been expensive, so I needed a job. I sent out my resume and got several interviews. I made it to the final round for three positions, only to have the companies suddenly stop responding. I called one of the recruiters I had a good rapport with. “Ms. Avery, you’re brilliant. We wanted to hire you, but a ‘higher power’ suggested we shouldn’t. I’m telling you this off the record because your portfolio is amazing. You might want to check if you’ve upset someone powerful.” I thanked her. A few minutes later, I got a text from Seraphina: “I let you run away to Thailand because I was busy. But don’t think you can just come back and work in this city. If you’re smart, you’ll know what to do.” She wanted to starve me out. But I wasn’t going to let her. I applied to Sebastian’s biggest rival, Thorne Industries. I aced the interview. Three months later, I entered a national design competition under the Thorne banner. I won. When I stood on that stage in a designer gown, lifting the trophy, the sense of achievement was better than anything Sebastian had ever given me. Validation from yourself is much more addictive than validation from a man. At the gala following the awards, I was networking with my new boss, Harrison Thorne. We walked past Sebastian. Harrison smiled, his eyes sharp. “Sebastian, thanks for letting Quinn go. She’s the best asset I’ve acquired this year. You’re very generous.” Sebastian didn’t look at Harrison. He was staring at me. “Ms. Avery, did you forget your non-compete clause? Joining a direct rival within a year is a breach of contract. I can sue you.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You should thank your HR manager. She was so focused on saving you fifty grand that she never had me sign a non-compete. Why do you think I was able to leave so easily?” Harrison burst out laughing. “Eighty grand! For eighty grand you lost a national award winner! Sebastian, your staff is incredible. Quinn, I think I’ll give you a raise tomorrow.” I raised my glass to Sebastian and walked away. Harrison spent the rest of the night telling everyone the story of how Sebastian lost me over a cheap severance package. The room was filled with muffled laughter. Sebastian’s reputation as a “genius” was taking a hit. I noticed his aura was no longer yellow. It was turning a muddy, bruised red. But that wasn’t my problem. That night, as I got out of the elevator at my apartment, I saw a figure leaning against the wall. Sebastian was there, a cigarette in his hand. He looked disheveled and tired, which somehow made him look even more attractive. “Does it have to be like this?” he asked. “It shouldn’t be anything. We’re strangers. Please leave.” “You never used to be like this.” “And you used to be a human being. I guess we both changed. Goodnight, Mr. Reed.” He didn’t move. “I made a mistake!” He practically ran to the stairs, unable to even wait for the elevator, fleeing like a ghost.

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From having a brother who was a total flop, whose agency just threw him into this top-tier survival show as “recycled trash” to fill a spot. In the second round of the show, the trainees had to perform an original song. The rich kid got a Grammy-winning producer to back him up. The nepo baby got his superstar older brother to pull strings. And my brother… got me, a “plain and ordinary” music teacher. But after that round ended, our group’s original track blew up the entire internet: “This melody is too damn good! She killed it!” “What kind of school music teacher is this?! She’s a literal genius!” My brother silently raised his hand on camera: “She’s… she’s from Berklee.” 1 When I got my brother’s call, I was in the middle of revising a track for a client in LA. The demo for his new single had been revised eight times, and he still wasn’t satisfied. I was aggressively scribbling on the sheet music with one hand, and irritably answering the phone with the other: “I told you I’m swamped right now. I can’t fly back to New York. Find someone else.” I was about to hang up, but Dylan’s desperate, panicked voice blasted through the speaker: “Avery, you’re my only sister! Just help me this once. I swear, come Thanksgiving and Christmas, I’ll block every single Auntie asking why you’re still single. I’ll take all the heat!” Women know how it is. Once you reach a certain age, relatives from miles away start aggressively interrogating you about your marital status. And my family is super traditional; I have to go back for the holidays. Thinking of Aunt Margaret’s machine-gun-speed questioning, I caved. I rubbed my temples and sighed. “Send me the time and address. I’ll arrange my schedule.” Just as I hung up and finally finished the demo, Carter Vance leaned against the piano. He had heard the whole thing. He flashed his signature, charming smile: “Anaje, you’re going back to the East Coast?” I packed up the sheet music and handed it to him. “Yeah, family emergency. Gotta fly back for a bit.” I grabbed my bag and rushed out to book a red-eye flight. I was in such a hurry that I completely missed his last sentence: “Mind if I come find you?” 2 A week later, dragging my heavy suitcases to the entrance of the boot camp, I was nearly blinded by the paparazzi’s flashbulbs. That idiot Dylan forgot to mention the show was recording from the moment mentors arrived at the camp. So, while others stepped out of sleek, tinted Escalades wearing designer couture, I was standing on the curb in a hoodie, haggling with a yellow cab driver. “We agreed on 60 bucks from JFK, not a penny more!” “Lady, look at this traffic! You see how backed up it is? This trip cost me my whole morning. You gotta add a tip!” I checked my wallet. I flew back in such a rush that I barely had any cash on me, and my Venmo app was glitching. A reporter nearby couldn’t take the secondhand embarrassment anymore and handed the driver a crisp hundred-dollar bill. Even though I promised to pay him back once I got my paycheck, he still blasted me on the front page of his blog. #DylanHayesSisterIsBroke #DidDylanHireHisSisterForFamilyIncome? #DylanGroupDoomedToFailRoundTwo What can I say? Rumors stop at the wise, but Twitter isn’t exactly known for wisdom. 3 After dealing with the cabbie, I followed the PA’s directions onto the red carpet leading into the camp. The 80 trainees for this show were split into 8 groups of 10. Dylan was in Group 3. A bunch of trainees with zero backing, zero resources, and clearly no budget for a famous mentor. No wonder he begged me to save him. The mentors introduced themselves one by one on the red carpet. First up was the “superstar brother” Dylan mentioned. He debuted a decade ago and was a massive teen heartthrob: “Hey everyone, I’m Mason Reed. I’m the mentor for Liam’s team. I specialize in rap and choreography.” The fans behind the barricades went wild. The host chimed in perfectly: “Mason is being modest! We all know besides dancing and rapping, his songwriting is top-tier.” Mason waved it off. “Speaking of songwriting, we have a platinum-selling producer right here. I wouldn’t dare call myself top-tier.” A woman in a stunning Dior gown stepped up, introducing herself. Maybe it was my imagination, but this Valerie Stone seemed to be glaring at me with open hostility. Before I could overthink it, she finished, and the mic was shoved to me. “Hi, I’m Avery Hayes. I’m the mentor for Dylan’s team. I’m a music teacher, mostly focusing on music education. I also specialize in songwriting.” The moment I finished, the crowd’s vibe instantly turned weird: [Is this Avery trying to leach off Valerie’s clout?] [A music teacher who “specializes in songwriting”? Can she even read sheet music?] [The Hayes siblings’ desperation is showing.] [Ugh, my bias is in Dylan’s group. Can he transfer?!] Hearing the whispers, the host tried to save the segment: “What a coincidence! Ms. Hayes is also a songwriter. Do you have any published works we might know?” I knew he wanted me to name-drop something to appease the fans. Worried my classical or highly technical pieces wouldn’t land, I picked a recent commercial track I wrote back in the States. “Give Me Power.” The crowd got even louder, but not in a good way: [What the hell is that? Never heard of it.] [Just searched Spotify. Nothing under that name.] [Is this chick okay? Does an unreleased demo count as a masterpiece?] The host clearly agreed. He forced a laugh, said “Ms. Hayes is so funny,” and snatched the mic away before I could embarrass him further. Later I found out, the Olympic committee had changed the track’s name for the official broadcast. So when fans later saw the credits for the Winter Olympics theme song reading “Composer: Avery Hayes,” they lost their minds. [I am the clown.] [The Olympic theme song “Strength of the Nation” was originally called “Give Me Power”?!] 4 The mentors went to claim their teams. Before I even got close, Dylan grabbed me, panicking. “Guys, this is my sister! She’s an amazing songwriter—” “How amazing? The kind of amazing that has zero published songs?” A trainee with bleached blonde hair cut him off sarcastically. “Ethan, shut your mouth. If you’re not happy, go to another group.” Dylan was fiercely protective of me. Ethan had a temper. He sneered, turned around, and walked straight toward Valerie’s group. Her group had a 12-person limit, so there was still room. Seeing Ethan leave, Dylan yelled after him: “Anyone else who wants to leave, do it now! If you wait, the other groups will be full!” He yelled, and three more guys left. From the 10 who started, we were down to 6 in less than five minutes. The livestream comments were brutal: [Down to 6? Speedrunning elimination.] [These poor trainees got dealt a bad hand.] [Broke-sister needs to quit. We’ll start a GoFundMe.] Dylan finally introduced the remaining guys. “This is Kael, an exchange student, currently ranked 77th. Wyatt, our main dancer, ranked 70th…” He rattled off the names. Not a single one in the top 50. “And me, your brother, barely scraping by at 20th.” “So this entire group doesn’t have a single debut spot?” I sighed, looking at this misfit crew. I felt like I was running a daycare for reality show rejects. “No, wait! Let me introduce my bro, Jaxon Pierce. Amazing singer and dancer, currently ranked 3rd.” I looked at the kid. Very handsome, giving off a detached, bad-boy vibe that teenage girls go crazy for. “Everyone else bailed. Why are you still here? Aren’t you worried about losing your top spot?” I asked. Jaxon tilted his chin toward Dylan. “I lost a bet to this idiot, so I promised to team up. But it doesn’t matter. I’m strong enough to carry. If you can’t write a song, I’ll just do it myself.” Damn. I’m kind of here for it. Guess I’m getting a cool brother-in-law.

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I was about five seconds away from dumping my sad, discounted Caesar salad over my co-worker’s head. Madison had been running her mouth for ten minutes, and frankly, I’d had enough. She was currently trashing the intern she’d just started dating, calling him a “total mama’s boy,” and—get this—trying to pawn him off on me. “I’m serious, Cass,” she said, picking at her manicure. “He has to ask his mother for everything. He literally FaceTimed her to ask what he should order for dinner on our first date. The internet says guys like that are a death trap. If you marry into a family like that, you’re just signing up to be a free live-in maid for some overbearing old lady.” Then came the kicker. She smirked at me, her eyes glinting with a mean sort of pity. “Actually, since you grew up in that group home, you never really had the whole ‘motherly love’ experience, right? You’d probably love catering to a demanding old woman. It’d be like a hobby for you.” I felt the blood rush to my face. My grip tightened on the plastic container. But just as I was about to let the ranch dressing fly, a line of glowing text flickered across my vision. [CASS, GIRL, DON’T DO IT! DON’T BLOW THIS! That ‘mama’s boy’ is the only son of the richest woman in the city. She’s insanely generous, fiercely protective, and worth billions!] Before I could blink, another one scrolled past: [The ‘old lady’ is only ‘demanding’ because she insists on buying her daughter-in-law penthouses and custom Porsches. She treats her son’s partners like her own flesh and blood!] And a third: [Relax, this mean girl is just a stepping stone. Once the billionaire mom finds out her son switched girls, she’s going to go all-in on Cass. We love a ‘Rich Mother-in-Law’ trope!] I froze. The salad stayed in the bowl. Slowly, I lowered it and pushed it toward Madison with a tight, serene smile. “You know what, Madison? You’re right. I’ve always wanted to be part of a family. Send me his contact info.” It wasn’t about the money. Not really. It was just that, more than anything in the world, I really, really wanted a mom. 01 To break the ice after he accepted my request, I scrolled through Adrian’s social media. His latest post was from three minutes ago. The location tag was a 24-hour emergency vet. It was a photo of a silver British Shorthair in an oxygen tank, tangled in tubes and wires. “Emergency! Snowy has had a sudden reaction and needs an immediate blood transfusion. Type A. The blood bank is empty. If anyone has a healthy cat nearby, please help. I’ll do anything.” A line of text drifted past my eyes: [The Male Lead refuses to use blood from ‘blood farms.’ He’s such a good guy. How could the other girl give him up?!] Blood farms. The thought made my stomach turn. I looked down at my big, goofy orange tabby, Marmalade, who was currently face-deep in a tin of premium tuna. I snapped a photo and sent it to Adrian. “My cat is twelve pounds and healthy as a horse. I’m ten minutes away. We’re coming.” When I arrived at the clinic, Adrian was slumped on a plastic bench, head in his hands. He looked like he was vibrating with tension. At the sound of my footsteps, he looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale. His high-end suit was rumpled, his tie loosened as if he’d been clawing at his throat. “You’re the one?” he asked, his voice a gravelly wreck. I handed him the carrier. “Save the cat first.” The next thirty minutes were a blur of needles, tests, and the rhythmic hum of the oxygen machine. I sat a few feet away from him. He kept glancing at the swinging doors of the surgery suite, his knuckles white as he gripped his knees. A nurse finally stepped out. “The cross-match is a success. Type A. We’re starting the transfusion now.” Adrian stood up so fast his knees slammed into the bench with a sickening thud. He didn’t even flinch. He strode over to me, fumbling with his phone. “Thank you. Seriously, thank you. Let me venmo you ten thousand for the trouble—more if you need it. For the ‘nutritional recovery’ of your cat.” His hands were shaking so hard he kept mistyping. I reached out and gently pushed his phone down. “No.” “This is a life-saving favor,” he insisted. “I have to pay you.” I pulled Marmalade into my lap, stroking his thick orange fur. “I’m doing this for good karma for my cat. If I take your money, it taints the kindness. Marmalade is happy to help a friend.” Adrian went still, staring at me as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The “Surgery in Progress” light flickered off. The vet walked out, pulling off his mask. “He’s out of the woods. We’ll keep him overnight for observation, but he’s going to be fine.” Adrian let out a breath that sounded like a sob. He leaned against the wall, the tension finally draining out of his shoulders. “I owe you everything,” he said, his gaze softening as it landed on me. “Wait… why did you add me on WeChat earlier today?” My phone screen lit up. It was Madison. A string of toxic messages: “Well? Did he ask his mommy where to take you for coffee yet?” “Only a weirdo like you could handle a freak like that.” I didn’t have a privacy screen. Adrian’s eyes tracked the words. I didn’t try to hide it. I’ve never seen the point in lying when the truth is right there. “Madison recommended you to me,” I said. “She told me you were a ‘mama’s boy.’ Said you couldn’t breathe without her permission and that whoever married you would just be a glorified servant.” Adrian’s face turned to stone. The air in the hallway turned cold. The glowing text flared up: [CANNON FODDER IS SO STUPID! You can’t just say that to his face! You’ve ruined it!] [RIP Cass. Her IQ is literally zero. Who tells a guy he’s a mama’s boy on the first meeting?!] My heart skipped a beat as I watched his expression harden. “Just take it as a joke,” I added quickly, trying to smooth the edges. Adrian looked down, silent. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, he let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. He pulled out his phone, found Madison’s contact, and hit Block and Delete without a second thought. “She’s half-right,” he said, looking me straight in the eye. “I do share everything with my mother. I value her opinion more than anyone’s. But my mother is not the kind of woman who wants a servant. She wants a daughter.” He took a step closer, invading my personal space in a way that felt strangely grounding. “You’re honest. And you’re kind,” he said, his voice sincere. “Can I officially ask you out? For real this time?” I stood there, my brain stalling. “I’m not doing this to spite her,” he added. “I’m doing this because I think you’re incredible.” The text in the air went haywire: [Wait, this isn’t the script! He’s supposed to walk away in a huff!] [Why is he into her?! This wasn’t in the spoilers!] I watched the chaos of the comments and then looked at Adrian. Rich, kind, loves his cat, and has a billionaire mother who supposedly wants to spoil her son’s girlfriend? I bit back a smile and looked into his hopeful eyes. “I’d like that,” I said. 02 Adrian’s way of courting me was clumsy but relentless. Every morning at 7:00 AM, a hot oat milk latte and a fresh almond croissant appeared at the office front desk for me. At noon, a thermal bag arrived at my cubicle containing a three-course meal—perfectly balanced, with fruit pre-sliced. At 6:00 PM, his car was idling at the curb, rain or shine. Madison watched this for a week, her face turning a sour shade of green. “Is he for real? All this for a mama’s boy?” I ignored her and took a sip of the slow-simmered beef stew Adrian had sent. It was still the perfect temperature. Adrian’s “mama’s boy” traits were exactly as advertised. He’d FaceTime me to ask what I wanted for lunch. He’d FaceTime me to decide which movie we should see. He even held up his phone in a bakery once so his mom could help him choose which flavor of cake I’d like best. One afternoon, while we were at a high-end mall, he pulled out his phone again. I leaned into the frame and waved. “Hi, Mrs. Norton.” The woman on the screen froze, then her face broke into a massive, radiant smile. “Oh! Is this Cassidy? Adrian hasn’t stopped talking about you! You’re even prettier than he said!” She looked to be in her early fifties, elegant but with warm crinkles around her eyes. Her smile wasn’t the polite, icy grin of a socialite—it was genuine. It reached her eyes. “Sweet girl, have you eaten? It’s getting chilly out, make sure you’re wearing enough layers, okay?” Sweet girl. My hand tightened on the phone. No one had ever called me that. Not with that tone. After the call ended, Adrian noticed my eyes were rimmed with red. “What’s wrong?” he panicked, hovering over me. “Did she say something? She can be a bit much, I know, I’ll talk to her—” “No,” I whispered, blinking hard. “It’s just… I grew up in the system. I don’t have parents. I don’t even know what they looked like.” The text in the air exploded. [An orphan and a billionaire? The mom is going to throw a check at her face and tell her to get lost.] [Old money families hate ‘nobodies.’ Just wait for the rejection.] [There’s no way a CEO mother accepts a girl with no background.] Adrian didn’t say a word. We were standing in the middle of a crowded atrium, surrounded by the noise of shoppers and mall music. He reached out and gently brushed a stray tear from my cheek. “The fact that you grew up to be who you are, all on your own… that makes you more impressive than anyone I know.” That weekend, he told me he was taking me home for dinner. As the car turned into a long, tree-lined driveway in a gated community, I knew I was in over my head. The lawn was manicured to perfection, leading up to a sprawling limestone estate with a fountain out front. “This is… your house?” “Yeah.” I looked down at the $20 fruit basket in my lap. I’d bought it at the local grocery store. It felt pathetic. My palms started to sweat. When the car stopped, I couldn’t move. Adrian came around to open my door, but I gripped the basket like a life raft. “Adrian, this gift is… it’s embarrassing. I should have gotten something else.” “My mom doesn’t care about that stuff.” Before he could finish, the massive front doors swung open. A woman in a stunning silk wrap dress and heels came flying out. I recognized the smile from the FaceTime call. She bypassed her own son entirely and pulled me into a suffocatingly warm hug. “My darling! You’re finally here!” “Mom, don’t scare her—” Adrian started. Violet Norton didn’t even look at him. “Hush, you.” She pulled back, looking me up and down with a frown. “You’re too thin. Are you eating enough?” Then, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a set of keys, and pressed them into my hand. “There’s a penthouse downtown. Three thousand square feet, fully furnished, top-of-the-line everything. It’s yours. Just a little ‘welcome to the family’ gift. Tell me if you need anything else.” I turned into a statue. “Mrs. Norton, I… I can’t. This is too much—” “Call me Mom,” she said, her expression turning stern. “’Mrs. Norton’ is for strangers. If you don’t take them, it means you don’t think I’m doing a good job as a mother.” The glowing text went silent. […] [I have nothing to say.] [Wait, so the mother-in-law is actually a saint? This isn’t a trap?] Standing at the door of a mansion, holding a cheap fruit basket and the keys to a multi-million dollar condo, my nose crinkled and the tears started falling. I looked a mess. Violet pulled me back into her arms, patting my back as if I were a wounded bird. “Oh, honey, don’t cry. You’re home now.” Twenty-three years. It took twenty-three years for someone to say that to me. I gripped the keys and managed a shaky, broken whisper. “Thanks… Mom.” I was never letting this family go. 03 Monday morning, Adrian’s car was parked in front of my office like clockwork. He hopped out to open my door and swapped my regular coffee for a thermos of herbal tea his mother had insisted on brewing for me. Madison came charging out of the building, intercepting us. “Adrian! Can we talk? I was just being immature before—” Adrian didn’t even give her a glance. He ushered me toward the entrance, leaving Madison standing on the sidewalk, her face flushing a deep, humiliated red. Suddenly, a line of gold text flashed: [DON’T GET TOO COZY! The ‘Childhood Friend’ returns today! She’s fragile, she’s sickly, and she’s here to wreck the relationship!] I stumbled slightly. A childhood friend? But the reality was nothing like the comments predicted. Her name was Gia. She’d been abroad for years receiving treatment for a chronic condition. She was soft-spoken and sweet. When we met, she grabbed my arm excitedly. “Adrian said you were special. I’ve been dying to meet the girl who finally tamed him!” Adrian stood by, looking completely relaxed. “Gia’s like a sister to me. She’s had a rough time with her health, so I hope you guys can be friends.” There was no drama. No “it should have been me” glares. Gia even started stopping by my office for lunch. We talked about skincare and gossip; she brought me snacks from Europe, and I showed her the best local hole-in-the-wall spots. The comments were quiet for a few days. But Madison wasn’t. I didn’t realize she’d seen me enter my passcode. I didn’t realize how long she’d been watching. That afternoon, I had a meeting on the 17th floor and left my phone at my desk. When I came back forty minutes later, my screen was lit up. It was open to my chat with Gia. The last message sent from my account read: “Gia, I found this amazing hidden cafe on the B3 level of the building. Come meet me!” Gia had replied with a heart emoji: “On my way!” B3. The entire building knew the B3 basement had been abandoned for two years. The lights were broken, and there was zero cell service. My heart plummeted. I reached for my phone to call her, to tell her it wasn’t me— A massive red block of text slammed into my vision: [YES! THE SCHEME IS SET! The Mean Girl dropped the fire shutters! The Childhood Friend has severe claustrophobia and asthma! She’s a goner, and Cass is the prime suspect!] The blood drained from my face. I didn’t even grab my bag. I sprinted for the stairs, skipping steps, my heart hammering against my ribs. The elevator was too slow. I flew down the concrete stairwell from the 12th floor. My legs felt like jelly, and I slammed my knee into a railing, but I didn’t stop. Gia has asthma. Closed space. No signal. Alone. She could die. When I hit B3, the lights were out. The only glow came from a flickering green emergency sign. The heavy iron fire shutters had been triggered, sealing the hallway shut. From behind the metal door, I heard it. A faint, wet wheeze. “Gia!” I screamed, pounding on the metal. “Gia, can you hear me?!” No answer. Only the sound of someone struggling for air. I lunged for the nearby fire station and smashed the glass with my bare hand. Shards sliced into my palm, blood slicking my wrist, but I didn’t feel it. I grabbed the heavy fire extinguisher and swung it like a sledgehammer at the lock of the shutter. Every strike sent a jar of pain up my arm. My grip was slipping because of the blood, so I wiped my hand on my shirt and swung again. The seventh hit, the lock groaned. The eleventh hit, it snapped. I threw the extinguisher aside and shoved the shutters up with everything I had. Gia was collapsed on the concrete, her lips tinged blue, her chest barely moving. I dropped to my knees, ignored the searing pain in my palms, and started CPR while fumbling for my phone to call 911. “B3 basement… asthma attack… she’s not breathing… hurry!” Compressions. Breaths. Compressions. I don’t know how long I did it. My arms went numb. Finally, Gia let out a ragged, whistling gasp. She was breathing. The paramedics arrived minutes later. And so did Adrian. He looked at Gia on the stretcher, his face a mask of horror. “What happened?!” I opened my mouth to explain, but a sharp voice cut through the air. “It was her!” Madison pushed through the crowd, pointing a trembling finger at me. “I saw her! I saw the messages on her phone luring Gia down here! She was jealous of how close Gia and Adrian were. She tried to kill her!” She turned to Adrian, tears streaming down her face. “Adrian, I tried to tell you. Someone from her background… she’s not as innocent as she looks!” The whispers started immediately. “She tried to kill someone for a paycheck?” “Typical orphan behavior. No morals.” Adrian took my phone. He scrolled through the messages, his hand shaking. “Did you send this?” he asked, his voice low and vibrating with hurt. “No,” I said, looking him in the eye. “Then how do you explain this?” Madison sobbed. “Look at her hands! They’re covered in blood! She probably locked the door herself and then played the hero when she realized she’d get caught!” Adrian closed his eyes. He handed the phone back to me without another word and climbed into the ambulance with Gia. As the doors slammed shut, he didn’t look back. I stood in the dim light of the basement, my hands dripping red. The comments flooded back: [The perfect frame-up! Cass is done for!] [She saved the girl but lost the guy. Talk about a backfire.] I looked down at my bleeding palms. The siren faded into the distance.

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The cold, mechanical voice echoed in my skull just as my fingers tightened around the jagged edge of broken glass. I was ready to end it all. [Tragic Narrative Arc Complete. Host preparing for extraction to the Prime Reality.] Five years. I had been trapped in this frozen hellscape—the so-endured Winter Sanctuary—for five long years. To ensure their survival, I was sold into the subterranean labor wards. I wore an iron collar around my neck. I spent my days on my knees doing the most degrading, back-breaking work imaginable. I lost two toes to the frostbite. If I displeased the overseers in the slightest, they would drag me by my hair into the freezing water tanks until my lungs burned. But now, my fiancé, Todd, casually unzipped his heavy thermal coat. “If you hadn’t messed with the climate control and given Evie pneumonia, we wouldn’t have had to leave you down here to learn your place,” he said, his voice smooth, reasonable. “You’ve finally learned your lesson, haven’t you, Caroline?” My eyes widened, hollow and unblinking. Then my brother, Declan—who had lost an arm saving me three years ago in this very simulation—walked over. Both of his arms were perfectly intact. “Evie has a kind heart,” Declan said, adjusting his pristine cuffs. “She’s already forgiven you. Just be obedient from now on.” In the corner, the figures of my parents, who had mutated into the infected undead just months ago, nonchalantly wiped the black sludge from their mouths. They looked entirely human again. “Letting you lose a leg to the cold was a necessary punishment,” my mother said softly. “You can’t go around scheming to hurt Evie anymore.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. All of this. All of this was because Evie caught a cold? Something inside me snapped. A wet cough racked my chest, and a spray of dark blood hit the icy floor. The world faded to a suffocating black. 1 When I woke, the first thing I saw was a face of flawless, porcelain skin. Evie sat at the edge of my bed, her lips curled in faint disgust. “You’ve been somewhat manageable these past few years,” she said, examining her manicured nails. “So I decided to let you come back. But if you even think about crossing me again, Mom, Dad, and Todd won’t let you off so easy.” I didn’t know when I had ever crossed her. But five years in the dark had bred a bone-deep reflex in me. I didn’t dare think. I just nodded, a jerky, submissive motion. My parents stood near the doorway, exchanging a look of profound satisfaction. “She’s finally been tamed,” my father noted. “Those five years of character building didn’t go to waste.” Character building. That was their word for the iron collar. For kneeling in the freezing slush to scrub boots. For being dragged by my scalp into the icy depths. Character building. I didn’t argue. I just lowered my chin until it touched my chest. “I’ll be good. I’ll obey.” Todd and Declan shared a fleeting smile. It was the look of artisans admiring a wild thing they had successfully broken. Todd walked toward the bed and reached out to pat my head. My body seized. A violent, uncontrollable tremor ripped through me. His hand hovered in the air, freezing for a fraction of a second before he pulled it back. “You don’t need to be afraid. No one is going to hit you anymore,” Todd said, his tone adopting a velvet softness. “The Sanctuary is in the past. You are my fiancée now. You are Caroline Smith.” I shook my head, my eyes wide with terror. “No,” I whispered. “I’m the stray.” Todd froze. The softness evaporated, replaced by a tight, offended furrow in his brow. “Are you still blaming me for this?” My legs gave out. I threw myself off the mattress, hitting the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, and pressed my forehead against the floorboards. “No, no! The stray wouldn’t dare. It’s my fault. I’m worthless.” The smug smiles on my parents’ faces cracked. Declan stepped forward, grabbing my arm to haul me up. “Alright, enough of this. You’re out now. You don’t need to use that word anymore.” He pulled me out of the bedroom and down the hall into the dining room, pressing me into a chair. “Eat something. You must be starving.” I lifted my eyes, just a fraction, to take in the table. It was groaning under the weight of roasted meats, fresh vegetables, and steaming bread. In the wards, we fought like wild dogs for moldy rations. If you were a second too slow, you gnawed on frozen roots. Sometimes, if you reached for a dropped crumb, the guards would stomp on your hand until the bones snapped. Reflexively, I yanked my hands back, burying them deep inside my sleeves. Todd picked up a piece of glazed meat with his fork and placed it on my plate. Like a gunshot, the gesture sent me sliding off the chair. I hit my knees on the rug. “The stray… Caroline doesn’t deserve meat. Please, leave it for Miss Evie.” A suffocating silence fell over the dining room. Declan let out an irritated sigh and walked over to pull me up. But the moment his bare skin brushed my hand, he went rigid. My hands looked like petrified wood. They were gnarled, covered in the purple-black webbing of healed frostbite, the knuckles thick and deformed. I saw the memory flash in his eyes. The year he caught the fever in the Sanctuary. I had knelt in front of the ward overseer, smashing my head against the concrete until my skull bled, just to trade for a single bowl of hot broth to keep him alive. Declan abruptly dropped my arm. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, his voice suddenly sharp with defensive frustration. “I told you to eat, so eat. Drop the dramatic act.” Todd stepped in, his voice taking on that soothing, patronizing cadence again. “It’s all over, Cara. You aren’t that spoiled, arrogant girl anymore. We won’t send you back.” He picked up the piece of meat and held it to my lips. I opened my mouth. I took it in. I didn’t dare chew too loudly. I just swallowed it down. Todd nodded, pleased. My mother reached out, patting my shoulder, a small smile returning to her face. “Since Caroline has finally learned how to behave, I suppose we can start planning the wedding.” 2 Five years ago, I was the girl Todd loved. He used to hold my hand in the snow, pressing it into his coat pocket, promising he would keep me warm for the rest of our lives. But those memories felt like they belonged to a ghost. A girl from another lifetime. I gave a short, mechanical nod. Evie suddenly dropped her fork. It clattered against the fine china. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Todd, her body is still so weak from her… time away. Isn’t a wedding a bit too stressful right now? Can she handle it?” “I’m fine,” I blurted out. The panic was a living thing in my chest. I was so terrified they would think I was being difficult. I was terrified they would throw me back into the dark. Evie stared at me, the fake sweetness draining from her expression. “Well. That’s good, then.” When the meal ended, I immediately stood up and began clearing the plates. My mother blinked, startled, but she didn’t stop me. Five years ago, I was the princess of the Smith household. I didn’t know how to run a dishwasher. Now, I stood at the sink, scrubbing every single plate until my knuckles throbbed. I washed them three times over before putting them in the sterilizer. In the wards, if a plate had a smudge, you took a beating. When I finally turned around, wiping my wet, deformed hands on my jeans, I saw Todd standing in the kitchen doorway. I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs. Had I done something wrong? Was he angry? He frowned, his eyes scanning my hunched posture. “You… you don’t need to do chores here.” I dropped my gaze to his shoes, my voice small, fervent with devotion. “It’s my duty. I’ll take good care of you all. I promise.” I swallowed hard. “Just please… don’t send me back.” He stood there, perfectly still. Every muscle in my body pulled taut as a wire. I waited for his verdict. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice thick. “I’m never sending you back.” It was only when he turned and walked away that I remembered how to breathe. That night, Declan knocked on my bedroom door. He walked in holding a folded garment. “Your skin is sensitive. The fabric on this one is incredibly soft. You used to love this brand.” I reached out. The cashmere brushed my ruined fingertips, and for a second, my breath caught. It was so soft. Then, like it burned me, I shoved it back into his hands. “I don’t deserve something so nice. This is fine.” I pointed to the threadbare, patched jacket sitting in the corner of the room. Declan’s hand froze mid-air. “You didn’t used to be like this.” Used to be. I dug through my fragmented memories. The old Caroline. The girl who only wore silk, who demanded fresh linens every week, who drank from crystal. “I was ungrateful,” I recited, the words flat and rehearsed. “I was spoiled and I wasted so much. I know my place now. I’m content.” Declan’s jaw clenched. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the cashmere. He opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but the words died in his throat. He let out a ragged breath. “Just get some sleep.” He turned on his heel and pulled the door shut. But I didn’t go to sleep. I went to Todd’s room. He was sitting on the edge of his bed. When I walked in, he looked startled, but a flicker of genuine warmth—maybe even desire—lit up his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked softly. I quietly clicked the door shut behind me. “You are my master now. It’s my duty to serve you tonight.” Before he could process the words, I began unbuttoning my shirt. I climbed onto the mattress, lay flat on my back, spread my legs, and stared blankly at the ceiling. I felt nothing. Seconds ticked by. He didn’t move. A cold sweat broke out on my neck. I turned my head to look at him. Panic clawed at my throat. Did I do the ritual wrong? In the labor wards, when the guards were silent like this, it meant the punishment was going to be severe. I shot up into a sitting position. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? Is my expression bad? I can fix it. Tell me how you like it.” I scrambled to appease him. But Todd looked horrified. His brows were drawn together, the warmth in his eyes completely extinguished, replaced by something dark, something I couldn’t decipher. His voice was a gravelly whisper. “In the Sanctuary… did you…” “I was stupid before!” I interrupted, my voice shrill with terror. “I was wrong. I’ll change, I swear I’ll be exactly what you want, just please don’t make me go back!” He squeezed his eyes shut. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he fought back whatever emotion was rising in him. Slowly, he reached out, grabbed the heavy duvet, and pulled it over my bare shoulders. The lamp clicked off. The room was swallowed by the dark. As I lay there, my eyes sliding shut, I heard him whisper into the silence. He was on the phone. “I need you to run a background check. Find out exactly what happened to her over the last five years.” 3 The next morning, a piercing scream shattered the quiet of the hallway. My eyes flew open. Muscle memory took over—I threw myself off the mattress and curled into a tight ball in the corner of the room. When Todd realized who was screaming, he bolted out the door. I threw my clothes on and scrambled after him. Evie was standing in the corridor, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “My necklace is gone! Mom gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. I never even wore it!” My parents were instantly at her side, cooing and soothing her. Then, a young maid spoke up, her voice trembling. “Last night… I saw Miss Caroline sneaking out of her room…” Every single pair of eyes in the hallway snapped toward me. My mother’s brow furrowed. “Caroline. Where were you last night?” I shot a panicked look at Todd. I hadn’t served him properly. I didn’t know if I was allowed to say I was there. I ducked my head, my gnarled fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. Evie shot the maid a subtle, sharp look. Taking the cue, the maid lunged at me, grabbing the collar of my shirt. “I bet she’s hiding it on her!” Instinctively, I curled inward, protecting my chest and face, but in the struggle, the back of my shirt was ripped downward. The hallway went dead silent. I felt the cool air on my back. I knew what they were staring at. A roadmap of intersecting, jagged horrors. Old scars layered over new ones. Burns, lacerations, the thick, raised keloids of repeated lashings. There wasn’t a single inch of unbroken skin left. Todd lunged forward, pulling my shirt up and wrapping his arms tightly around my shaking frame. “Stop it!” he roared at the maid. “She was in my room last night.” The air turned heavy, suffocating. A flash of pure, venomous jealousy crossed Evie’s face, but she masked it perfectly within a second. My mother slowly walked around to look at me, her voice shaking uncontrollably. “Your back… what happened to your back?” I kept my chin tucked, whispering to the floor. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Declan stepped closer, his voice dark and thick with an emotion I didn’t recognize. “Cara… you can’t blame us. Sending you to the Sanctuary… it was for your own good. To teach you. But you’re home now. We’ll make it up to you.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” My mother hurriedly wiped at her wet cheeks. “I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe, honey. We’ll get you jewelry, makeup, whatever you want. Anything you want to eat, just tell me.” Even my father cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Let’s put the past behind us. You’ve matured a great deal.” At breakfast, my mother obsessively piled food onto my plate. Declan heated up a glass of milk and placed it gently in front of me. Todd sat close by my side, meticulously peeling shrimp and dropping the meat into my bowl. Across the table, Evie just sat there, aggressively stabbing a piece of fruit with her fork. She hadn’t taken a single bite. I kept my head down, eating exactly what I was given, chewing each bite with terrified precision. After breakfast, I headed toward the stairs to return to my room. Evie suddenly appeared, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward the top of the staircase. She looked at me, her eyes stripped of all their usual sweetness. They were cold, dead. “Don’t think you’ve won,” she hissed. “I got rid of you five years ago, and I can do it again. Mom and Dad’s love belongs to me. Todd is mine. You will never beat me, Caroline.” Then, her foot suddenly slipped. She threw her weight backward. “Ahhhhh—!”

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Today marks exactly five years since Troy and I fell apart. Five years to the day. I had just stepped into the bakery to check on our inventory for the week. I never expected to run into him here. He was standing at the counter, picking up a custom order. The air in the room seemed to pull tight, vibrating with a heavy, sudden silence. He was the one who broke it. “Happy birthday, Maeve.” It caught me off guard. I offered a polite, hollow thank you and turned toward the kitchen. But just as my hand found the door handle, his voice pulled me back. “What happened back then… I was wrong.” I just smiled. I didn’t say a word in response. Those ghosts he was trying to summon? I buried them a long time ago. 1. Sophie, my shift manager, was in the middle of handing him the neatly tied pastry box when she noticed me. Her face lit up. “Oh, Maeve! You’re here. This is the regular I was telling you about, Mr. Sterling—wait, no, sorry,” she corrected herself with a laugh, “Mr. Thorne—no, wait, I’m terrible with names today. Mr. Vance—ugh, I mean, Mr. Caldwell! Troy Caldwell.” She beamed at him. “He was just telling me that he and his wife are absolutely obsessed with our cakes. He came all the way across town to pick up her birthday cake.” I gave a faint, professional nod of acknowledgment and made to walk past them. But Troy apparently didn’t care for my indifference. He closed the distance between us in two long strides and shoved the pristine white box directly into my hands. “Maeve, this birthday cake… It’s for you.” My brows pulled together. I stared at the box, utterly confused by his game. Before I could ask what the hell he was doing, his phone buzzed violently in his coat pocket. He glanced at the screen, his jaw tightening, and answered it. He was already walking backward toward the door, holding up a finger to me. “Maeve, I need to talk to you. Just wait for me, okay? Please.” I stood there and watched his tailored wool coat disappear into the Boston wind. My heart didn’t flutter. My pulse didn’t race. There was only a vast, echoing stillness inside my chest. I turned around, walked over to the heavy-duty trash can by the door, and dropped the entire box inside. Looking down at the faint smudge of buttercream that had transferred to my thumb, the realization finally washed over me. It was my birthday. The fifth one since the collapse of us. Back then, a cake had been an impossible luxury. Now, it was just garbage. When I stepped back behind the counter, Sophie came bustling out of the walk-in fridge carrying another identical white box. She looked flustered. “I am so sorry, I grabbed the wrong one! I wanted to surprise you for your birthday.” She opened the box she was holding. My heart sank. This was the cake she had meant to give Troy. A stunning pistachio gateau, the top smoothed to perfection. And piped across it in elegant, dark chocolate lettering: Happy Birthday, Wifey. Sophie leaned against the counter, her eyes gleaming with the kind of innocent, ravenous gossip only a twenty-two-year-old possesses. “I hear his marriage is like, a modern-day fairy tale,” she whispered conspiratorially. “They grew up in the same country club, total blue-blood families. Old money marrying old money. He’s gorgeous, loaded, and totally devoted to her.” She rolled her eyes, leaning in closer. “I also read on one of those local gossip blogs that some trashy homewrecker tried to ruin their marriage a few years ago. Tried everything to get her hooks into his money, but he shut it down. People have no shame, right?” She paused, suddenly realizing the tension in my shoulders. She blinked at me, her curiosity peaking. “Wait, when he said hi to you… do you guys know each other? Oh my god, do you know who the homewrecker was? You have to tell me.” I met Sophie’s bright, expectant eyes. My expression didn’t shift. My voice was as calm as a frozen lake when I finally spoke. “It was me.” I was the shameless mistress who tried to ruin his perfect marriage. 2. The shock on Sophie’s face was instantaneous. Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in a small, horrified ‘o’. I just gave her a soft, reassuring smile and told her it was okay. But she couldn’t let it go. Her questions came rapid-fire, wrapped in apologies and wide-eyed disbelief. So, leaning against the flour-dusted prep table, I told her the story of Troy Caldwell. From the very beginning. When I first met Troy, he was nobody. His mother had just passed away from a prolonged illness, his father was drowning in the bottom of a bourbon bottle, and he was a broke kid buckling under tens of thousands of dollars in inherited debt. I was a girl who had clawed her way out of a hyper-traditional, deeply misogynistic household, working dead-end shifts in a city that didn’t care if I lived or died. We were two bruised kids colliding in the cheapest, darkest corner of the city. No money. No safety nets. A birthday cake? We couldn’t even afford to keep the heat on. But back then, Troy would walk two miles in the biting December sleet just to walk me home from my night shift. On the nights I worked overtime, he would make a cheap bowl of instant ramen, give me all the noodles, and drink the broth, smiling and swearing he wasn’t hungry. We were so poor that all we had to offer each other was love. I remember the way he used to hold me in our drafty studio apartment, his arms wrapping around me like a shield against the world. “Maeve, you’re it for me,” he’d whisper into my hair. “You’re my wife. The love of my life. I am going to make something of myself, I swear to God. And when I do, you’ll never have to struggle again. It’ll just be us. Forever.” We worked side by side. We paid off his family’s debts. We scraped together a modest savings, and the suffocating weight of poverty slowly began to lift. Eventually, we got married. Or so I thought. As his career skyrocketed, he was home less and less. The overtime turned into weekend trips, and the weekend trips turned into week-long business travels. But he handed over every single paycheck to me. He begged me to quit my grueling job. He wanted to take care of me. I remember crying, telling him I was terrified I wouldn’t be good enough for the man he was becoming. Troy had looked me dead in the eye, his hands cupping my face. “When I had absolutely nothing, you were the only one who stayed in the trenches with me. From that moment, I swore on my life I would never abandon you. I don’t care how successful I get, Maeve. I’m nothing without you.” That was his gift. The ability to look you in the eyes and make you believe every single word that left his mouth. No one could escape his orbit. Not the girl who met him in the cold. Not the woman who married him. And certainly not the woman who found out he was living a double life. “Cheating?” Sophie gasped, nearly knocking over a jar of sprinkles. “You guys were through hell and back! He cheated on you? With who? That wife he buys cakes for? Wait, so she was the mistress who stole him?” She crossed her arms, fiercely indignant. “That is so sick. They flipped the script and made the media think you were the other woman!” I let out a slow breath. “Actually, they didn’t have to lie about that part.” Because the marriage certificate Troy and I signed? It was a fake. A meticulously forged piece of paper. The woman named Brooke—the old-money heiress—she was his legal, lawful wife. When I was twenty-five, I found out I was pregnant. We were over the moon. I quit my job, just like he wanted, to stay home and prepare for the baby. He threw himself into his work, claiming he needed to build an empire for our child. Sometimes I wouldn’t see him for a month. Whenever he came home, utterly exhausted, he would hand me his paycheck, and my heart would break for him. I would rub his shoulders, and he would place his hand over my small, swelling belly. “I have a family now, Maeve,” he’d murmur, his voice dripping with exhaustion and devotion. “I have to work harder. I want you to have the world. I want to build a fortress to keep you both safe.” He used to tell me he loved how soft I was. How unquestioning. How completely I trusted him to handle the outside world. In my tiny, isolated bubble of an apartment, he was God. He controlled the narrative, the finances, the reality. I didn’t understand what he meant by “keeping me safe from the world” back then. I understood it the very next day. I had found a beautiful, gently used bassinet online. I wanted to save money, so I took the train out to one of the wealthiest suburbs—Beacon Hill—to pick it up. When the door opened, I saw a glowing, perfectly manicured woman who had clearly never worked a hard day in her life. And over her shoulder, hanging on the wall of her grand foyer, was a massive, professionally lit family portrait. Staring back at me from the canvas was my husband. That was the day I witnessed the beautiful, untouchable reality of Troy’s actual family. And realized that I was nothing more than a dirty little secret. 3. That afternoon, the earth fell out from under me. I realized my husband—the man supposedly killing himself on business trips—was just spending time at his actual home. I realized the three thousand dollars a month he solemnly handed me was pocket change for a man who had recently inherited his grandfather’s massive real estate trust fund. I realized I was just a pet. A nostalgic plaything he kept tucked away in a cheap apartment to make himself feel grounded. I confronted him. I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled. But I didn’t get a tearful apology. I didn’t get an explanation. I got a cold, legally binding Non-Disclosure Agreement slid across the kitchen island. “Don’t take this to Brooke,” he said, his voice entirely stripped of the warmth I had known for years. “You and she are not the same.” My eyes stung with unshed tears. “What kind of person am I, then, Troy?” He let out a short, cynical laugh. It sounded like ice cracking. “Maeve, knowing the details won’t do you any good. Brooke and I have been matched since we were kids. Our families share boards, portfolios, legacies. You cannot compete with her on a single metric.” He reached out, trying to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen. We can go right back to how things were. You have a good life here. Don’t ruin it.” I stared at the man standing in my kitchen. He looked like my husband, but there was a stranger behind his eyes. How could the boy who once held me like I was his whole world look at me with such calculated, corporate indifference? How did I go from a beloved wife to a disposable whore overnight? I refused the NDA. I refused to compromise. I completely lost my mind. I screamed, grabbing anything within reach and hurling it at the walls. Plates, glasses, the toaster—and finally, I took a hammer to the expensive bassinet I’d dragged home. I collapsed amid the shattered glass and splintered wood, my hair stuck to my wet, flushed face, gasping for air. Troy didn’t even flinch. He just looked at the wreckage of the bassinet, adjusted his cuffs, and said, “That piece cost me ten thousand dollars.” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. I understood. Ten thousand dollars was a number I couldn’t comprehend. I shouldn’t have offended him. I shouldn’t have made him angry. But the grief, the betrayal, and the pregnancy hormones became a lethal cocktail. If he wanted quiet, I would give him a hurricane. If he wanted to protect Brooke from the truth, I would make sure the whole world knew. I posted everything online. Photos, texts, the fake marriage license. But I had underestimated the power of true wealth. With one phone call, his PR machine crushed me. The narrative spun so violently I got whiplash. My personal information was leaked. I was painted as an unhinged, predatory stalker trying to extort a beloved local philanthropist. Troy released a polished, sympathetic public statement. “This young woman has been struggling with severe delusions and has harassed my family for years. We ask the public for privacy and urge people not to direct hate toward my wife.” He publicly affirmed that Brooke was the only woman he had ever loved. He knew exactly what the internet mob would do to me. He knew I would receive death threats, that I wouldn’t be able to leave my apartment safely. He didn’t care. He just needed to appease Brooke’s family. My parents—who had only ever seen me as a piggy bank for my younger brother anyway—called to formally disown me. I became a national joke. A cautionary tale. Meanwhile, Troy played the stoic, protective husband for the cameras. He came to my apartment one last time, his tone dripping with the exhausted patience of a man negotiating with a hostage. “Do you understand now, Maeve?” he asked, stepping over a broken plate. “Your apartment, your groceries, your so-called dignity… it all comes from my bank account. Without me, you are a ghost. Like I said, just be a good girl, and we can go back to normal. Is that so hard?” Yes. It was. I couldn’t share my bed with a man who had another wife, another life, another reality. If I couldn’t fight him, I would run. Seven months pregnant, I packed a duffel bag and tried to vanish. I tried Greyhound buses. Amtrak. Cheap red-eye flights. Every single time, his private security intercepted me before I could leave the city limits. He had me brought back to a high-security penthouse downtown. He sat next to me on a velvet sofa, reached out, and pressed his cold palm against my swollen stomach. “Why won’t you just behave, Maeve?” he whispered, his eyes devoid of light. “I can give you a life most people only dream of. Why are you throwing it away?” I didn’t want penthouses or allowances. I just wanted the boy who shared a bowl of cheap noodles with me on a Tuesday night. But that boy was dead. And Troy didn’t care what I wanted. He locked the door and kept me prisoner. I told Sophie all of this in a flat, even tone. By the time I paused, tears were streaming down her face, ruining her eyeliner. She choked back a sob. “What… what happened next?” What happened next was that Brooke found out where he was keeping me. She bypassed security. She came into the penthouse. And in the chaotic, screaming blur of a physical fight, I went into premature labor. 4. The baby didn’t take a single breath. He was gone before he even entered the world. For the first time since the facade shattered, Troy looked at me with something resembling guilt. He stood at the foot of my hospital bed, staring at my paper-white face, and lowered his voice. “Maeve… Brooke crossed a line this time,” he murmured. “But you have to understand, she’s been incredibly sheltered. She’s never dealt with anything like this. It triggered a panic attack. I’ll apologize on her behalf. And I will compensate you.” His version of compensation was a check for ten thousand dollars left on my bedside table. It was less than the cost of the Cartier bracelet currently dangling from Brooke’s wrist. I didn’t even have the energy to scream. I didn’t need his security guards to lock me up anymore. I went back to a small, dark apartment and curled into a ball, hollowed out, a body completely emptied of its soul. Troy didn’t bother checking on me. He was too busy doing damage control for his real wife. Brooke had been “traumatized” by the sight of my blood on her shoes. He canceled his meetings, flew her to a resort in St. Barts, and showered her in diamonds to calm her nerves. It was as if the violent confrontation—and the tiny, lifeless body of my son—had never existed. The man who used to press his ear to my stomach and sing to my baby forgot him the moment the heart monitor flatlined. The man who promised me a safe harbor was the one who drowned me. But that wasn’t even the end of it. Somehow, rumors leaked about Brooke’s involvement in my miscarriage. The society blogs started turning on her. And just like always, Troy couldn’t stand to see a single scratch on his wife’s reputation. So, naturally, I was served up on a silver platter. Using the ashes of my son as leverage, he forced me to go on a live stream and issue a groveling, public apology. His PR team wrote the script. I had to look into the camera and confess that I used my pregnancy to extort the Caldwell family. That I had stormed their property in a manic rage, and Brooke had merely pushed me in self-defense. That I killed my own child out of greed. They even painted Brooke as a saint. The press release noted her “deep Christian charity” in offering to pay my medical bills out of pity. Troy held a press conference shortly after. Standing at a podium, looking devastatingly handsome, he outlined my supposed manipulations. He dramatically pledged his undying loyalty to Brooke, announcing to the world that to prove his devotion, he had undergone a vasectomy. Standing there in the wings of that press conference, listening to a room full of journalists applaud him while the internet tore me to shreds, calling me a murderer… something inside my brain simply snapped. The pressure was too much. The walls closed in. I bolted out the side doors, ran into the freezing November night, and threw myself off the Longfellow Bridge into the icy, black waters of the Charles River. For the very first time, a crack of genuine, unfiltered panic broke across Troy’s face. He sprinted after me, his dress shoes slipping on the wet pavement, catching my wrist right as I vaulted over the railing. “Maeve, don’t do this!” he screamed. He promised he would cut ties with me. He promised he and Brooke would never, ever come near me again. But I didn’t want his promises. I just wanted it all to stop. I wrenched my arm out of his grip and let gravity take me. It was a miracle I survived. A passing rowing team pulled me out. But the physical trauma, the hypothermia, and the damage from the premature birth ravaged my body. I was told I would never be able to conceive again. I paused the story there and offered Sophie a small, genuine smile. “Actually, not being able to have kids is a blessing in disguise. It guarantees I’ll never replace him. I’ll never forget the one I lost.” “Everyone else got to move on and forget him. But I get to keep him.” “That first year in this city… I woke up screaming almost every night. I was plagued by dreams of a baby who never opened his eyes, and of Troy’s face. My mental health was so shattered I couldn’t hold down a normal job. So, I started baking. It required precision. It forced me to stay present.” “When I couldn’t sleep at 3 a.m., I baked cakes. And slowly, the panic attacks stopped. My hands stopped shaking. Now, I have this shop. I have a quiet life.” My voice was steady, but Sophie was completely falling apart. She was sobbing, wiping her face with a kitchen towel. “Maeve, that’s… that’s a nightmare. Oh my god, he is a monster. If I ever see him again, I swear I’ll take a rolling pin to his head.” Right on cue, the little brass bell above the bakery door chimed. The door pushed open. Troy stood on the threshold. He was holding a sleek, expensive-looking gift bag. He stared at me, his eyes dark, desperate, and terrifyingly certain. 5. “Maeve. I filed for divorce.” Sophie sucked in a sharp breath, her head whipping toward me. I didn’t miss a beat. I gave him a curt, polite nod. “Then I wish you the best of luck in your next chapter.” Troy physically flinched. He was so used to women hanging on his every word, so accustomed to my total, pathetic devotion, that my deadpan reaction scrambled his brain. “Maeve, I did it for you.” He took a heavy step toward the counter. “What happened back then… I know I destroyed you. I’ve been looking for you for five years. I want to make it right. I want to compensate you.” I finally lifted my chin and looked him dead in the eyes. Five years had passed, but he hadn’t changed a bit. Still the same devastatingly earnest eyes. Still speaking in grand, sweeping declarations designed to make a woman feel like the center of the universe. But I was no longer the girl who felt like a queen just because he shared his ramen broth with me. “Mr. Caldwell, I don’t need your compensation.” “And like I said earlier, I’ve forgotten the past.” He clearly didn’t believe me. His jaw worked, and he opened his mouth to argue, but I had already turned my back, heading for the swinging doors of the kitchen. Sophie, bless her heart, immediately stepped in front of the counter, blocking his view of me. “Sir, my boss has a business to run. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” Troy stood frozen in the middle of the bakery. He stared at the swinging door, his voice dropping to a raw, ragged whisper. “Maeve… our son. I haven’t forgotten him.” My foot stopped inches from the kitchen tile. I forced myself to take the next step. I pushed through the doors. Just as the heavy wood swung shut behind me, I heard him call out into the quiet shop. “I dream about him. For five years. Every single month, I see him in my sleep.” I leaned my back heavily against the door, closing my eyes. My fingers dug into the thick canvas of my apron straps, knuckles turning white. He dreams about him once a month and thinks he knows what pain is? I dream about him every time I close my eyes. And my son never even got to look at the sky. … Troy didn’t let my coldness deter him. From that day on, he became a fixture at the bakery. Sometimes he bought a croissant. Sometimes just a black coffee. He would sit at the small table in the corner, nursing his drink, just quietly watching me work. At first, Sophie treated him like an active bomb threat. But when he didn’t make a scene, she slowly let her guard down, though she kept a steady stream of commentary going in my ear. “Maeve, what is his endgame? It’s been five years. Where was this energy when you were actually dying?” I never answered. I just kept my eyes on the turntable, carefully piping buttercream roses. The frosting formed delicate, precise ridges under my fingertips. Just like the life I had rebuilt for myself. Beautiful. Fragile. But whole. On the seventh day, Troy walked in holding a thick, leather-bound photo album. He walked straight to the counter and slid it across the glass display case. “Maeve. Just look.” I didn’t move. He opened the heavy cover. The very first page held a faded, glossy sonogram. My breath hitched. I recognized it instantly. It was the baby. My baby. Troy’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about him all these years. I kept everything. Every ultrasound printout. The empty bottle of prenatal vitamins you used to keep by the sink. And…” He swallowed hard. “Those little shoes you bought.” A violent tremor shot through my fingers. The shoes. I had bought them at a thrift store the week I found out I was pregnant. They were pale blue, with a tiny, ridiculous rabbit embroidered on the toes. I remembered Troy laughing at them, asking me what we would do if the baby was a girl. We’ll save them for the next one, I had said. There was never a next one.

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I was spiraling. My own family had gone as far as bringing in a “spiritual consultant,” convinced that I needed to be purged, perhaps even burned alive. It was a nightmare that made no sense. If they saw me use my left hand, they would erupt into a frenzy of screams and hysterics. Yet, in the next breath, they would cradle that same hand, weeping, asking if it hurt, smothering it with a terrifying kind of devotion. Even when I took a heavy iron wrench and systematically smashed my husband’s brand-new luxury SUV into a heap of twisted metal, he and my mother didn’t blink. They didn’t care about the car. They only cared about me. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I was my daughter’s biological mother. But after the way they looked at me, I ended up at a clinic, demanding a full DNA panel. I thought I was the one who had finally snapped. When I walked into the kitchen later that day, my mother didn’t greet me with a smile. She picked up a pot of boiling water and flung it toward me, her face contorted in rage. “My daughter is dead! You’re just a skin-suit! Don’t you dare try to play me!” But then, she saw it. She saw me reach out with my left hand to steady myself, my fingers grazing the biometric lock on the pantry. Her rage vanished, replaced by a haunting, hollow sob. she turned and ran, fleeing back to her own house to “report” me to my father. I was paralyzed by a cocktail of terror and confusion. “Give me my wife back, or I’ll gut you myself!” my husband, Trevor, had hissed at me earlier that morning. His face had gone deathly pale, his eyes wide with revulsion. “What kind of freak are you?” But the moment he watched me use my left hand to swipe my keycard at the community gate, his aggression evaporated into a chilling, wide-eyed silence. It felt like a glitch in the universe. I tried to bring it up to Trevor when he got home from work, hoping for a rational explanation. Instead, it triggered a domestic war. From that day on, every time I used my left hand, my own daughter would shriek at the top of her lungs, calling me a “kidnapper” and an “imposter.” She wouldn’t let me touch her. She acted as if my skin were made of acid. I told myself she was just being a temperamental toddler. But then came the weekend trip to the city. We were at the subway station, moving through the turnstiles. Out of habit, I reached out with my left hand to tap my transit card. My daughter, whose hand I was holding, suddenly yanked herself away. She looked at me with a face full of pure, unadulterated horror and screamed for the whole station to hear: “You’re not my mommy!” The commuters stopped. They began to whisper and point. I stood there, frozen, the mechanical hum of the station feeling like a death knell. … After fleeing the suffocating atmosphere of my home, I practically sprinted to the office. I needed the grind. I needed the spreadsheets and the deadlines to prove to myself that the world was still round, and that I wasn’t the one who had lost my mind. They were the crazy ones. My daughter, my husband, my mother—all of them. I poured every ounce of my soul into my work. Using my “good” right hand, I hammered away at the keyboard, crafting a PowerPoint deck that was nothing short of a masterpiece. It was a high-stakes project proposal, and under my direction, it became a surgical strike of logic and strategy. During the board meeting, I operated the laser pointer with my right hand, articulating my vision with a clarity that felt like a lifeline. When I finished, my boss was the first to clap. His eyes were gleaming with genuine respect. “Jade, this is incredible. The project is yours. Perfect execution.” My colleagues swarmed me with congratulations. “You’re a legend, Jade!” “This plan is air-tight. No one does it like you.” For a few beautiful moments, the validation washed over me, loosening the knot of anxiety that had been tightening in my chest for days. I took a deep, shaky breath. I felt human again. And then, a pen rolled off the mahogany table and clattered onto the floor. Without thinking—purely by instinct—I leaned down and picked it up with my left hand. The air in the conference room didn’t just turn cold; it vanished. I looked up, and every single person was staring at my left hand. Their expressions weren’t just surprised—they were curdled with fear, disgust, and a primal sort of rejection. “Agggh!” It was Valerie, my closest friend at the firm. She was backing away, her face a mask of ghostly pale terror, her finger trembling as she pointed at me. “You… you…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. She turned and bolted like she had seen a demon rising from the floorboards. She tripped, losing a high heel in the process, but she didn’t stop. She literally scrambled out of the room on all fours. I stood there, paralyzed. The pen slipped from my fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud. What was happening? Why? Why was the rot spreading to my professional life? By that afternoon, Valerie had submitted her resignation via email, citing “severe psychological trauma” and a need for immediate medical leave. The fear in me finally curdled into a scorching, white-hot rage. This was a conspiracy. It had to be. It was Trevor. It had to be him. He must have coordinated with the entire company to gaslight me, to break me until I admitted I was insane. I marched toward my department head’s office. I wasn’t going to take this anymore. I slammed the door open with my left hand. “Mr. Henderson, I need an explanation, and I need it now!” Henderson was hunched over some files. He jumped, startled. But the second his eyes landed on my left hand—the one still gripping the door handle—he surged out of his chair. He stumbled backward so hard he slammed into his filing cabinet. “Don’t… don’t come any closer!” He was shaking violently. His hand fumbled in his desk drawer until he pulled something out and aimed it at my face. It was pepper spray. “Get out!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. “If you don’t leave this building right now, I’m calling the police!” A wave of profound, crushing loneliness swallowed me whole. I wasn’t just being harassed. I was being erased by the world. I decided to test the boundaries of this absurdity. I needed to see how far they would go. I went home. Trevor and my mother-in-law were sitting on the sofa, watching TV, a picture-perfect scene of domestic bliss. I didn’t say a word. I walked straight to the hall closet, pulled out Trevor’s brand-new graphite golf driver, and walked out to the driveway. His million-dollar pride and joy—the limited edition Porsche—was gleaming in the sun. I gripped the club, put every bit of my trauma and fury into my shoulders, and swung. I smashed the hood with everything I had. CRUNCH. The metal crumpled. I expected a blowout. I expected him to scream, to maybe even hit me. Instead, they both came sprinting out, but they weren’t looking at the car. They lunged for the golf club, wrenching it out of my hands. Trevor grabbed my right hand, his eyes brimming with tears of genuine heartbreak and panic. “Honey, is your hand okay? Did you hurt yourself?” He began meticulously checking my fingers for even the slightest scratch. “You’ve been pampered your whole life,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “How could you do such back-breaking work? You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things.” My mother-in-law hovered behind him, clutching her chest. “Exactly! The car is just metal, we can buy ten more. But your hands… they’re precious. We can’t let anything happen to them.” It was the most grotesque, nonsensical display of affection I had ever witnessed. That night at dinner, my biological mother joined us. She had cooked a massive spread of all my favorite childhood dishes. The atmosphere was sickeningly sweet. I decided to push the button one more time. As the “warmth” reached its peak, I intentionally reached out with my left hand to grab a pair of serving tongs in the center of the table. The laughter died instantly. It was like someone had cut the power to the house. Trevor’s face went from flushed to a sickly, translucent white. SMASH. The bowl of soup in my mother’s hands hit the floor, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. My daughter let out a piercing, jagged scream. She scrambled off her chair and hid behind the sofa, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You’re not my mommy! You’re a monster! A demon!” Trevor lunged. He grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table, his face distorted by a murderous, primal rage, and hurled it directly at my left hand. “I’ll kill you, you freak!” I dived out of the way, the crystal whistling past my ear and shattering against the wall. A shard grazed my knuckle, and a bead of dark red blood welled up. Before I could even catch my breath, my mother tackled me. She pinned my shoulders to the floor with a strength I didn’t know she possessed. She held a bowl of dark, foul-smelling liquid in one hand and used the other to pinch my jaw open with bruising force. “Drink it! Drink it now! We have to drive this thing out of you!” I thrashed and gagged as the bitter, revolting “tonic” was forced down my throat. I ended up retching it all over the rug. They locked me in the master bedroom. For two days and two nights, the door remained bolted from the outside. Food and water were pushed through a small gap at the bottom of the door, like I was a high-security inmate. The first day, I screamed. I clawed at the door. I begged. The only response was a tomb-like silence from the hallway. By the second day, the exhaustion set in. And with it, a cold, hard clarity. If I wanted to survive, I had to play the part. I tore through the vanity drawers until I found a roll of heavy medical gauze. I began to wrap my left hand—from the fingertips all the way to the elbow—tighter and tighter, until it was a mummified club. Then, using my teeth and my right hand, I fashioned a sling out of a silk scarf and hung it around my neck. I stood in front of the mirror for hours. I practiced. I practiced how to move, how to balance, and how to do everything clumsily with only my right hand. When I was ready, I knocked on the door with my right fist. Softly. Vulnerably. There was a long silence. Then, the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door swung open. Trevor stood there, his eyes cold and predatory. But when his gaze dropped to the sling—to the heavily bandaged, “useless” limb hanging at my side—the killing intent vanished. It was replaced by a complex swirl of emotions: relief, pity, and a terrifying flash of triumph. “Honey…” His voice broke. He stepped forward and pulled me into a crushing embrace. “You’re finally… you’re finally back to normal.” The domestic “warmth” returned like a light switch being flipped. My mother acted as if nothing had happened, piling my plate with food, her smile brighter than a neon sign. My daughter crept out of her room, shyly approaching me with a spoon to blow on my soup. “It’s not hot anymore, Mommy. Eat up.” Everything was exactly as it had been. Or rather, a hyper-saturated, terrifying version of it. After dinner, Trevor pulled out his phone, his face glowing with excitement. “We need a photo. To celebrate our family’s rebirth!” They crowded around me, and I forced a smile for the lens. But as Trevor was about to hit the shutter, my daughter slipped. She tripped on the rug, screaming as she began to fall toward the sharp, jagged edge of the marble coffee table. My brain didn’t have time to process the “rules.” Reflex took over. I whipped my left hand out of the sling, the bandages trailing like streamers, and caught her by the collar with a vice-grip, yanking her back just inches from the stone. She was safe. Not a scratch on her. I looked up, expecting a sigh of relief. Instead, I met two pairs of eyes—Trevor’s and my mother’s—that looked like the eyes of the dead. They were staring at my left hand, still suspended in the air, gripping my daughter’s shirt. The illusion of the happy family shattered into a million pieces. SLAP. The blow was so hard it sent me spinning. I hit the floor, my ears ringing with a deafening roar. Trevor was towering over me, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated evil. “Monster! You just couldn’t keep it up, could you?” His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a violent disappointment, as if I had committed the ultimate sin. “Why did you move it? Why did you have to use it?!” He roared, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me across the floor toward the door. My mother didn’t stop him. She ran to the front door, threw it open, and began wailing for the neighbors to hear. “Look! Look at the thing that stole my daughter’s body!” “She’s not my girl! My daughter is dead! This is a demon!” Neighbors peeked out, whispering and pointing, but no one moved to help. Their eyes were identical to my coworkers’—filled with a superstitious, cult-like dread. Trevor dragged me back into the living room. It had been transformed. In the center of the room stood a makeshift altar. A man in dark, ornate robes—the “consultant”—was waiting, a heavy wooden staff in his hand. “I told you the spirit was cunning,” the man said, stroking a thin beard with a smug, self-important air. My mother and Trevor pinned me to the floor, their knees digging into my back as the “exorcist” began his ritual. He circled me, chanting in a low, rhythmic drone, before pointing his staff at my left hand—the hand that had just saved my child’s life. “The source of the rot is here!” he bellowed. “Burn it! Only fire can end this!” What happened next broke my understanding of humanity. They lashed me to a heavy wooden chair, binding my torso and legs until I couldn’t move an inch. My mother emerged from the kitchen carrying a plastic jug. The smell hit me instantly. Gasoline. Trevor stood in front of me, flicking a silver lighter. Click. Click. Click. He had a twisted, serene smile on his face. “Honey, I gave you a chance.” “Since you won’t go back to being my obedient wife, you can go to hell along with that monster’s body.” As I screamed until my throat bled, my mother tipped the jug. The cold, stinking liquid drenched my head and shoulders. Trevor thumbed the lighter. Click. A small, orange flame bloomed in his hand, reflected in my wide, terrified eyes.

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The crumpled scratch-off ticket lay in the trash can, the $100,000 prize printed on it burning my eyes. Just minutes ago, I thought it was a miracle. A wedding fund sent straight from heaven. I had rushed at my boyfriend, Timothy, waving the ticket like a lifeline. “Timothy! We can finally do it! We can get married!” My voice had trembled. The finish line of our five-year relationship was right in front of us. He wouldn’t have to stress about the ring, the down payment for a house, the crushing weight of starting our life together. But there wasn’t a single ounce of joy on his face. Instead, he let out a soft, mocking scoff. “Are you really that desperate to be a wife?” Before the ice of those words could even sink into my veins, a burst of harsh, echoing laughter erupted from the phone in his pocket. “Man, you lost the bet! She actually thinks she can use that chump change to marry you. Might as well just put a ring on it!” a guy’s voice snickered. “For real. A hundred grand? That wouldn’t even cover one of Una’s Birkins. This girl is so cheap.” Una. The trust-fund girl who used to corner me in the high school bathrooms. The one who made my teenage years a living hell. It turned out that in his eyes, I wasn’t even worth the leather on one of her handbags. Five years. Five years of love, of building a life, of sharing a bed. All of it was just a sick, twisted bet between him and his rich friends. 1. “Alright, knock it off, all of you.” Timothy’s voice was casual. “I’m not one to go back on my word. You all better get your wedding gifts ready.” Amidst the chorus of hoots and whistles from the speaker, a woman’s voice cut through—a voice that still haunted my worst nightmares. “Timothy, are you out of your damn mind?!” Una shrieked. “We agreed you were just going to mess with her! It was supposed to be a joke to help me blow off some steam. You’re actually going to marry her?” Timothy reached out, wiping a stray tear from my cheek with his thumb, answering the phone with a lazy drawl. “Yeah. If I don’t marry her, what, am I supposed to marry you?” “Una, sweetheart, did you really think I was your little lapdog? That I’d just roll over and do whatever you say?” The line went dead. The abrupt beep of the disconnected call echoed in the small kitchen. Timothy stared at his phone for a long moment before looking up at me with an easy smile. “What were you crying for just now? So happy you’re marrying a rich guy that it broke your brain?” Before I could force a syllable past the lump in my throat, he turned toward the stove. “You want fried rice? I’ll make it right now.” He tied his faded apron around his waist, cracking an egg, chopping scallions with practiced ease. He moved exactly as he had for the last five years. As if the soul-crushing humiliation that just unfolded in our kitchen had never happened. I took a shallow breath. My chest ached with a rhythmic, pulsing pain. I couldn’t stop the words from spilling out. “Aren’t you tired?” “What?” he asked over his shoulder. “Five years. Aren’t you tired of acting?” Timothy didn’t answer. The only sound left in the room was the heavy hum of the exhaust fan over the stove. It grated against my nerves, deafening and chaotic. I walked over, snapped the fan off, and grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at me. “Are you not going to explain?” “I just came clean, didn’t I? What else is there to explain?” He paused, his jaw tightening slightly. “Una and I grew up together. We’re childhood friends. Don’t read into it.” He neatly sidestepped the bet. He conveniently ignored Una’s comment about ‘blowing off steam.’ I tilted my head back, blinking hard against the raw burn in my eyes. Five years. Over eighteen hundred days and nights. I had hollowed out my chest and handed my heart to Timothy. I truly believed he was the man I would walk through the fire with. I didn’t care that we were broke. We could work for it. I didn’t care that we rented a tiny apartment or took the subway. We could save. And now he was telling me that every struggle, every tear, every quiet moment of comfort, was a meticulously crafted lie? A prank designed just to stroke Una’s ego? I couldn’t fathom it. I was a nobody. An ordinary girl trying to survive. What on earth did I possess that made me worth this kind of elaborate psychological torture? Why would a wealthy heir spend five years playing the role of a devoted, struggling boyfriend? When he used to hold me and apologize for not being able to give me a better life—did he have to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing? When he warmed my freezing feet against his chest in the winter, when he scrubbed out stains in my underwear in the sink—was he suppressing a gag? What an incredible actor. Truly, I had inconvenienced him. “So, what day are we getting married?” he asked, his tone as light as if he were asking if I wanted soy sauce on my rice. I clenched my jaw, my voice dripping with pure venom. “We’re not.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Seriously? Because of a joke? Haven’t you been dying to marry me for years?” “Yeah, I lied. But look at the outcome. It’s a win for you, isn’t it? I can give you a million dollars for the wedding. A house. A luxury car. Just point at what you want. What the hell are you so hung up on?” “This isn’t about money—” Timothy froze, then suddenly hurled the ceramic bowl against the wall. It shattered on impact. Shards of porcelain grazed my bare arms, and raw egg splattered across the linoleum. “When we were broke, you wanted money. Now that we have money, you want to talk about something else!” he yelled. “Nicole, are you sick in the head?” A thin trail of blood snaked down my forearm. My hands were completely numb. He instinctively reached out to grab me. I shoved him away. “Yeah. I am sick in the head.” My voice was a ghost of a whisper. I reached down and shoved the sleeves of my sweater all the way up, exposing the jagged, overlapping pale scars that mapped my forearms. “I am clinically depressed. I am deeply mentally ill. Are you happy now? Is this what you wanted?” The tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, staring dead into his eyes. “Timothy, I’m asking you. Are you satisfied?!” “Why the hell would I marry you?! Why would I marry the man who turned my life into a sick game for my abuser?!” His lips parted, trembling slightly. Something flashed in his eyes. For a pathetic, split second, I actually thought it was remorse. Then his phone rang again. He answered it. “Timothy! Una is wasted! She’s screaming and breaking things. She says she needs to see you!” a panicked voice shouted through the receiver. “How is that my problem?” Timothy muttered, pulling the first-aid kit from the cabinet, stepping toward me with the iodine. “She said… she said if you don’t come right now, she’s going to find some random guy at the club and sleep with him.” The iodine bottle slipped from Timothy’s hand, spilling a dark brown puddle onto the floor. He clenched his fists, shooting me a conflicted, agonizing look, before his jaw set into a hard line. “Clean yourself up. I’ll be right back.” I didn’t say a word. I just stood by the window in dead silence. I watched him sprint down the sidewalk. When he reached the apartment exit, my beat-up electric scooter was blocking his path. He kicked it violently, sending it crashing to the pavement. He had bought me that scooter during our second year together. It didn’t keep the rain or the cold out, but it meant I didn’t have to squeeze into the crowded subway anymore. When he surprised me with it, I had cried with joy, riding him around our tiny apartment complex in circles. What I thought was love. What I thought was happiness. It was just like that scooter now. Lying in the gutter, its mirrors shattered into a thousand useless pieces. 2. Blood dripped steadily from my arm. I wrapped the gauze around the cuts with robotic, numb movements. The bright red mixing with my tears was a nauseating sight. I stared at the white bandages. My mind fractured, ping-ponging violently between the echoes of Una’s voice—“just mess with her”—and the memories of Timothy holding me. In those dark days, when I would wake up screaming from nightmares, my hands desperately searching for something sharp to make the emotional pain physical, Timothy had gripped my wrists. “Nicole! If you die, it’s over for you. But what about me?!” he had wept into my hair. “What are the people who love you supposed to do?!” He had held me so tightly. He sounded so profoundly terrified of losing me. His burning tears had soaked right through my shirt, warming me all the way down to my frozen bones. And so, I had cracked my chest open for him. Between ragged sobs, I told him everything. I told him about the explicit, fabricated rumors Una spread about me. How she framed me for stealing. How she and her friends cornered me in the locker room, dumping buckets of ice water over my head until I was shaking so violently I couldn’t breathe. The stress and physical trauma had triggered severe endometriosis. The pain was so agonizing I had to drop out of high school for a year. I spent six months in and out of the hospital. For years, just hearing the name “Una” was enough to send me into a panic attack. But I gritted my teeth and survived. And Timothy had been there, staying awake until dawn, stroking my hair, whispering, “Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.” Was he ever comforting me? Or was he just collecting data? Gathering stories to share with Una so they could laugh at her masterpiece? I felt physically sick. Across the room, the laptop screen glowed. The little Discord icon was flashing frantically. Timothy had left in such a rush, he forgot to log out. With shaking fingers, I clicked it open. It was a private server. Una was the admin. I scrolled to the very top. I read every single message. Every word. I read how Timothy’s relentless pursuit of me in college wasn’t love at first sight. It was a directive. Una: She got into the same university as you? What a joke. God, I hate her so much. Timothy, can you just pretend to date her? Ruin her and then toss her out. Timothy: You refuse to be my girlfriend, but you’re pushing me onto someone else? You’re brutal, Val. I read how every time I let my guard down, the server would explode with cheers. They took bets on when he would finally sleep with me. I watched the video of him gifting me the electric scooter. I read their comments. God, she’s so pathetic. Crying over a piece of trash like it’s a Mercedes. I saw them mocking the watch I bought him—the one I ate instant noodles for six months to afford. They called it cheap, embarrassing garbage. Line after line of venomous, merciless cruelty carved into my brain. Tears hit the keyboard, pooling between the keys. I scrubbed my face raw with my sleeve and kept reading. Later in the chat, Timothy spoke less. Until recently, when they began demanding the grand finale. The ultimate humiliation to break me permanently. I slumped back in the computer chair, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The air in the room felt thick, unbreathable. I could hear my own ragged breathing, mingling with the audio from the live video call playing in the group chat. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” “Timothy, man, Una is practically throwing herself at you! Don’t leave her hanging!” I stared blankly at the screen. Through the grainy footage of the club’s VIP room, I watched Timothy scoop up a heavily intoxicated Una into his arms. He kicked open the door to a private back room. The cheers and whistles from his friends were deafening, like they were sending a newlywed couple off to their honeymoon suite. Slowly, deliberately, I placed my hands on the keyboard. You disgusting animals. Why don’t you all just rot in hell? I hit send. A second later, the server disconnected. I had been kicked out. My stomach violently rebelled. I barely made it to the bathroom before I threw up everything in my system, dry-heaving over the toilet until my throat bled. The rain from my youth had never actually stopped. Timothy just held an umbrella over my head for a little while, tricking me into believing the sky had cleared. My phone buzzed on the bathroom tile. I swiped to answer. “You saw it?” Timothy’s voice was breathless. “Yes.” “Wait for me. I’m coming home. Let me explain, I—” “Don’t bother.” I sat exhausted on the cold tile, looking out into the living room we had decorated together. “You don’t need to explain, and you don’t need to come back.” “Timothy. I don’t want to play your game anymore. Just let me go.” “I know I can’t beat you people. But I can hide.” 3. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was agonizing. I finally held the power button and shut it off entirely. I shoved the property deed back into the drawer where I had found it while packing my suitcase. I had always praised Timothy for finding such a cheap, perfect apartment so close to my office. I never would have guessed that he was the owner. The moon hung high and cold, casting a pale light over me as I walked out of the building. The sound of my suitcase wheels rolling against the concrete felt deafening in the dead of night. But it was drowned out by the screech of tires skidding to a halt right in front of me. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Timothy was out of the car in a flash, chest heaving, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “You’re a grown woman pulling a runaway act? Are you five years old? Get in the car. We’re going home.” I turned my head, refusing to look at the fresh, bruising hickey blooming on his neck. I yanked my arm with all my strength, but he wouldn’t let go. “You and I don’t have a home.” He stared at me, his eyes dark. I tried to walk around him, and he hauled me back by the shoulders. “Be rational for one second, okay?” he snapped. “Whatever issues you have with Una are ancient history. How long are you going to hold onto high school drama?” “People need to move forward. You know exactly how good I’ve been to you these past five years. If you leave me, where are you ever going to find someone who treats you like I do?” Ancient history. Of course it was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one waking up screaming. He took the trauma that shattered my mind and permanently altered my body, and brushed it off as “drama.” I stared at him, truly looking at his face. This was the face that used to make my heart skip a beat. How did he look so entirely alien to me now? I suppose the fault was mine. I never really knew him at all. My head throbbed. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. “The keys are under the mat. I didn’t take a single thing you bought me. Except this sweater. And it got torn.” My voice was dead. “Tell me how much it costs. I’ll pay you back.” “You can’t afford it.” Timothy laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Did you really think I bought your clothes off the clearance rack? That was custom-made in Italy. How are you going to pay for it? With your pathetic entry-level salary? With your worthless pride?” “If you’ve got so much backbone, then take it off right now—” He didn’t finish the sentence. Because I had already reached for the hem. One button. Two buttons. “Jesus Christ!” he roared, ripping his own jacket off and violently wrapping it around my shoulders. “Nicole, you have lost your fucking mind!” He shoved me into the passenger seat before I could react, locking the doors from the driver’s side. He drove recklessly, speeding all the way to his real home. A sprawling, gated estate in a neighborhood I had only ever seen in movies. “You’re sleeping here tonight,” he ordered, dragging me into a massive bedroom. I looked around. The walk-in closet was filled with clothes in my exact size. The en-suite bathroom was stocked with the specific, drugstore brands I used. Sitting in the center of the massive king-sized bed was the giant, outrageously expensive stuffed bear I had once looked at in a store window but refused to let him buy. What was this supposed to be? Poison coated in sugar? A temporary anesthetic before the next round of psychological torture? My stomach heaved again. I gagged, my hair sticking to my tear-streaked face. Timothy frowned, stepping toward me, his voice suddenly shifting, laced with a strange urgency. “Nicole… are you…” Are you what? I saw a flicker of absolute elation cross his face, but it was instantly shattered by the sharp, aggressive click of high heels marching down the hardwood hallway. Una threw the bedroom doors open. She glared at me with pure, unfiltered hatred before raising her hand to slap me across the face. A visceral tremor shot through me. My body betrayed me, flinching violently as I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the impact. But the sting never came. Timothy had caught her wrist in mid-air. “What the hell is this?!” Una screamed, her face contorted in rage. “I told you to break her, not marry her! Timothy, did you actually fall in love with this trash?!” “She’s been a manipulative little bitch since we were kids! Stop letting her play you!” Timothy didn’t answer whether he loved me or not. He just stared at Una, his voice dangerously low. “The second you pushed me into her bed, you lost the right to ask me a damn thing.” I sat on the plush carpet, watching them scream at each other. A toxic, deeply entangled lovers’ quarrel. My head was spinning, my skin burning up with a fever. The last thing I heard through the haze was Una sobbing, “This is my room! Why would you put her in my room? You’re just doing this to make me jealous, aren’t you?!” I couldn’t hear the rest. I just smiled a little to myself. I smiled because I really was pathetic. To think, even for a second, that Timothy had an ounce of genuine feeling for me. He was nothing but a master manipulator, playing us both. 4. When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room greeted me. Timothy was sitting by the bed. Dark, heavy bags shadowed his eyes, but a frantic, uncontainable smile stretched across his face. “You’re pregnant.” He reached out, tentatively resting his hand over my stomach. He pulled up the calendar on his phone. “I looked at some dates. What do you think of a spring wedding? We can still do the botanical garden venue you always wanted. I’ll fly a designer out for your dress. You can start looking at silhouettes.” “And as soon as the reception is over, we’re on a plane for the honeymoon. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the Amalfi Coast? We can stay for a month—” He was rambling, completely manic, aggressively painting over the wreckage with promises of a future. I didn’t say a word. I just stared at my phone screen. There was an email from HR. I had been terminated, effective immediately. Orders from the top. I didn’t even have to ask. If it wasn’t Timothy’s doing, it was Una’s family pulling strings. Five years. I had bled for that company for five years. Gone in a single keystroke because I dared to exist in their orbit. A notification popped up. A trending video on TikTok. Una’s face filled the screen. I clicked it. She had a massive following—millions of subscribers who tuned in to watch her ‘day in the life of an heiress’ vlogs. Why did she get to live such a charmed, beautiful life? Did she deserve it? The video currently breaking the internet was her, makeup flawlessly messy, sobbing into the camera about her tragically stolen childhood romance. She talked about how she and Timothy were soulmates. How he rented out entire amusement parks for her birthdays. How he had bought her rooms full of diamonds. And then, she mentioned me. The manipulative, poverty-stricken homewrecker who clawed her way into their inner circle and seduced him away. Within minutes, the comments were a warzone. Thousands of people were threatening to dox me, calling for my head. My hands shook. I glanced at Timothy, who was now on the phone, loudly demanding a wedding planner’s availability. I opened my notes app. I typed everything out. I attached the screenshots from the Discord server. The high school medical records. And I hit post. I watched the likes climb. I watched her loyal fans call my scars fake, accusing me of lying about the bullying. But then, other people—people who remembered us from high school—started chiming in, validating my proof. The tide was turning. Then, the screen refreshed. Post deleted. Una’s team had scrubbed it. Timothy walked back into the room, ending his call, his brow furrowed in disapproval. “Nicole, you need to stop being so impulsive,” he sighed. “Una is an influencer. She has to exaggerate things for views, it’s her job. I wouldn’t let her actually hurt you.” He paused, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Listen. We’re all going to be in the same social circles moving forward. You can’t make things this ugly. Just… go apologize to her. We’ll clear the air, smooth over the high school stuff, and put it behind us.” The corners of my mouth twitched into a terrifyingly empty smile. The void in my chest was so vast, it couldn’t even echo with anger anymore. I felt absolutely nothing. I nodded submissively. I let him dress me. I let him lead me by the hand into the VIP room of the city’s most exclusive restaurant. Timothy pressed a glass of cranberry juice into my hand as we walked in. Across the table sat Una, dripping in designer jewelry, looking at me with victorious, sneering eyes. She tilted her head. “Well? Apologize. Just like in high school. Get on your knees…” The room was packed with their friends. The same faces from the group chat. All of them smirking, waiting for the show. Just like they did when we were teenagers. I walked toward her, slow and deliberate. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I am so sorry, Una. Let me apologize to a worthless, psychotic bitch like you—” I slashed the glass forward, throwing the dark red juice violently into her face. She shrieked, stumbling back, the red liquid dripping down her Chanel blazer, ruining her flawless makeup. Before anyone could react, I grabbed a heavy wine bottle from the table and smashed it over her head, letting the wine pour over her hair. “I apologize for being prettier than you!” I screamed, the numbness shattering into absolute, feral rage. “I apologize for being smarter than you!” “I apologize that the boys you liked always looked at me! I apologize that you had to torture me just to feel like you were worth breathing the same air!” Hands grabbed at me. I didn’t know whose. I didn’t care. I smashed the neck of the bottle against the table and whipped around, pointing the jagged glass at the room. “Whoever touches me is getting cut! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill all of you!” Una was sobbing on the floor. I lunged, wrapping my hand into her extensions, hauling her up, and bringing my hand across her face in a vicious, echoing slap. “Apologize to you? I’d rather die, you piece of trash!”

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