Category: English

When I walked in on the betrayal of the most powerful woman in the city, we were both unsettlingly calm. Confronted by my gaze, Margot Silvester didn’t even flinch. She remained nestled in the man’s arms, her expression as cool as a corporate buyout. She asked me what I wanted—money, shares in the Silvester Group, or perhaps a high-ranking executive position. I simply shook my head. I told her I only wanted a divorce. At those words, the two people in the bed exchanged a look before erupting into sharp, jagged laughter. Margot flicked the ash from her cigarette with a lazy grace. She sneered, asking if I was planning to run back to my ex-wife. She claimed she knew Elena had come to see me a few days ago, questioning why I thought a woman like that would ever blow up her life for me. After her cold laugh died down, she traced the man’s throat, her voice dropping to a silken purr as she looked at him. She asked him—Dominick—if he knew best whether his ex-wife would actually go through with a divorce. Dominick smirked, his eyes glinting with a smug, predatory triumph as he nodded. Of course he knew. Because his current wife was the woman I had once called mine. … “Big brother, just give it up already.” Dominick pulled Margot closer, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Honey, shall we go again? For old time’s sake?” Margot stubbed out her cigarette and reached for a fresh foil packet on the nightstand. As she tore it open, she shot me a mocking smile. “Still here? Waiting for a show?” “I don’t mind, Big Bro,” Dominick added with a rakish grin, kicking the duvet aside to flaunt himself. I clenched my fists, taking a slow, steadying breath. “I’ll draft the papers. Just let me know when you have a gap in your schedule for the filing.” Margot laughed, indifferent, and began to mess around with Dominick as if I were a piece of furniture. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned toward the door. “Since you’re busy, I’ll take your silence as consent.” As I walked away, the biting winter wind made my eyes sting, turning them a raw, watery red. I thought I could handle this. I thought that having survived this exact nightmare before, I could navigate the wreckage with professional detachment. But I had underestimated the sheer, agonizing pain of an old scar being ripped open. Dominick called me “Big Brother” partly to spit in my face, but partly because it was the truth. We weren’t blood, but I was the closest thing he had. My parents died young. I dropped out of school to work three jobs just to keep a roof over my head. I found him on the street—another orphan, just like me. I put him through college. On his first birthday after graduation, I had gone to the apartment I was paying for to surprise him with a cake. Instead, the moment the clock struck midnight, I walked in to find two familiar bodies tangled together in the dark. Margot knew exactly how much it destroyed me when my ex-wife cheated on me with Dominick. She knew the sordid, public mess of that divorce. Back then, she had been my savior. She had used her considerable influence to drive Elena and Dominick out of the city, just to give me a sense of justice. She was the one who pulled me back from the ledge when I was ready to end it all. And now, she had invited the very man who broke me into her bed. What a pathetic joke. The lifeline I thought I’d grabbed turned out to be a razor wire. I hadn’t even cleared the driveway before three black Escalades swerved in, pinning my car. “Mr. Beckett, Ms. Silvester says you aren’t permitted to leave yet.” The security detail didn’t ask. They dragged me out of the car and hauled me back into the mansion. Upstairs, the sounds of their revelry echoed through the halls. I sat in the darkened living room, losing track of time until the house finally went quiet. Margot eventually descended the stairs, draped in Dominick’s arms. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with a dry chuckle. My eyes snagged on their matching silk pajamas. Seeing my gaze, Dominick adjusted his collar with feigned casualness. “Like them, Big Bro?” he asked. “Margot told me you hand-stitched these yourself. Took you over a year, didn’t it? I could never do that kind of tedious work. I don’t have the patience.” I looked away, my voice raspy. “They’re just ten-dollar clearance rack junk. Only a fool would spend a year making something so worthless.” Margot’s hand froze on her water glass. Her eyes turned to chips of ice. “If they’re so cheap, then I’ll just give them to Dominick.” I forced a smile, loosening my grip on my own hands. “Dominick is my brother, after all. And you’re the richest woman in the city, Margot. It’s a bit stingy to only give him a cheap pair of pajamas.” I grabbed Dominick by the arm and hauled him toward the walk-in closet. “Come on, little brother. Let’s see what else you like.” “Not bad,” he muttered, feeling the fabric of a bespoke suit. He turned to Margot. “Can I really have this, too?” The fury on Margot’s face softened instantly. She reached out and patted his head with sickening affection. “Of course, darling.” So, I started handing it all over. The custom-made couple’s outfits? Yours. The watches engraved with our initials? Yours. Even the tuxedo I wore to our wedding? Take it. Whatever memory those items held, I purged them. I handed them over with a hollow chest and steady hands. By the time I was done, the massive closet was nearly stripped bare. As I reached for one last watch, Margot grabbed my wrist, her teeth gritted. “Gideon Beckett, you’re certainly being generous today!” she hissed. “Fine. Why stop at the clothes? Why don’t you just pack your bags and let him move in?” She stared at me, a flash of something—was it hurt?—flickering in her eyes before it was replaced by rage. “What? Can’t let go after all?” she taunted. “I knew you weren’t this noble. Never mind…” I ripped my hand back, my expression cold. “There’s nothing to let go of. I think your suggestion is excellent.” I walked into the master bedroom. Margot followed, barking threats. “I’m giving you exactly sixty seconds to pack. Anything left behind goes in the incinerator…” She stopped mid-sentence. I hadn’t even opened a suitcase. I just grabbed a simple canvas duffel bag and headed for the door. She hurried to block my path, breathless with indignation. “That’s it? That’s all you’re taking?” “Yes,” I said flatly. “Fine. Great,” Margot snapped, her eyes scanning the room, looking for something of hers that I might be stealing. Finding nothing, she pointed toward the driveway. “Then you aren’t taking the car, either. I bought that for you.” She had forgotten. She was the one who had begged me to take that car. She told me back then that with a car like that, no one—not even my ex-wife’s hired thugs—could ever throw me out on the street again. She promised she would always be my backup. Now, the metal of the key fob felt like a piece of dry ice in my palm. I tossed the keys to Dominick. “This is yours, too.” He caught them, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “You know, ever since we were kids, you always gave me whatever I wanted. I guess some things never change. You’re so good to me, Big Bro. Thanks!” He stepped forward to clap me on the shoulder. I stepped back, avoiding his touch. “Don’t thank me. Thank Margot. If she hadn’t reminded me, I would have forgotten to give it to you.” Margot’s knuckles turned white around her glass. “Those second-hand scraps don’t mean anything,” she said, her voice trembling with forced steel. “Dominick, whatever you want, I’ll get you a brand new version. Better than anything he ever touched.” Dominick wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, nuzzling her neck. “Thanks, Margot.” The two of them were locked in their own world. I didn’t look back as I walked out of the gates. Luckily, the Uber I’d called was already waiting. I headed to another property, a small condo in the city. But when I arrived, a line of security guards blocked the entrance. “Mr. Beckett, Ms. Silvester has given orders. You are not permitted to stay here.” I froze, then remembered. The deed was in my name, but it had been a gift from her. It’s funny how easily “gifts” are reclaimed when the giver decides they don’t like you anymore. I had been naive enough to think she was different. The wind cut through my thin jacket. I sighed. Fine. A hotel. “Sir, I need to see your ID,” the hotel clerk said. I reached into my bag, only to realize with a jolt that my wallet and ID were still in the center console of the car I’d just given away. “Looking for this?” The familiar voice came from behind. Margot was standing there, twirling my ID between her fingers like a poker chip. I knew she wasn’t going to just hand it over. “Apologize,” she said, her face a mask of indifference. “For what?” Before I could finish, a man stepped into the lobby, his face bruised and his fists clenched. “Big Brother, I’m sorry. I don’t want the car anymore,” Dominick said, trying to shove the keys into my hand. “You left your ID in there just to remind me that it’s yours, didn’t you? Fine. I don’t want any of it…” He grabbed my arm, and before I could react, he slammed my own fist into his jaw and threw himself backward onto the marble floor. “Dominick!” Margot rushed to him, catching him as he fell. I, however, stumbled and hit the floor hard. A sharp, white-hot pain flared in my abdomen. The world began to blur, voices echoing as if from the bottom of a well. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Margot’s back as she carried Dominick away. … Three days later, I woke up in a VIP hospital suite. Margot was sitting by the bed, clutching a piece of paper, her face livid. Hearing me cough, she turned toward me, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. “Did you sleep with her that day?” I was weak, my head spinning. I had no idea what she was talking about. “Who? Sleep with who?” She threw the paper onto my lap. “Gideon, how long are you going to keep playing the martyr? She’s pregnant! Five weeks! Exactly five weeks!” “Count the days, Gideon. Five weeks ago was the day you went to see her. No wonder you were so calm about the divorce. You couldn’t wait to go back to her, could you? You thought a baby would make her choose you!” “But you miscalculated. She didn’t keep it!” The words hit me like a physical blow. I grabbed the paper and squinted at it. It was a medical record for a termination. My ex-wife’s name was at the top. But the math didn’t add up. It wasn’t mine. As I let out a hollow, bitter laugh, a pair of strong hands grabbed my arms. Margot was barking orders at her guards to drag me out of the room. “You’re getting a vasectomy. Today. I’m not letting you have a future with her.” I wanted to laugh in her face. If she had bothered to look at how pregnancy weeks are calculated—starting from the last period, not the date of conception—she’d realize I couldn’t possibly be the father. “Let go of me!” I found a surge of strength and kicked the guard away. “Get back!” “I’m going to say this once,” I panted, looking her in the eye. “There is nothing between us. Nothing.” She grabbed my collar, her eyes bloodshot. “You still want her that much? You want to go back to the woman who cost you your job and left you on the street? Gideon, are you really that pathetic?” Pathetic? I looked away, blinking back the moisture in my eyes. Yeah, maybe I was. My ex-wife tore my life apart, and I went and married a woman exactly like her. If that isn’t pathetic, I don’t know what is. She wanted me to have the surgery? Fine. Let’s do it. Let’s kill any possibility of a “family” once and for all. “Schedule it,” I said, my voice dead. “The sooner, the better.” Margot’s expression shifted from rage to a manic kind of joy. She threw her arms around me. “Oh, Gideon! I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses. I’ll set it up right now!” “Don’t be sad. Once you’ve completely cut ties with her, we can look into a reversal. We’ll have our own children.” I didn’t push her away. I just let her hold me. But Margot, there will be no children. And there will be no “us.” On the way back to the ward, she made three calls and settled everything. She sat by my bed, holding my hand with the same tenderness she used to show me. “Don’t be scared. I’ll be here the whole time.” I pulled my hand away and picked up my phone. I sent her a document. “Look at this. If there are no issues, I’ll have it printed.” “I’d like to get the divorce filed before the surgery—” My voice was drowned out by her phone’s custom ringtone. “Hello? Dominick? What’s wrong?” She stood up, her face tight with worry, and rushed out of the room. The woman who just promised to stay by my side was gone in an instant. I didn’t know if she read the agreement, but I had it printed anyway. I waited for her to come back so she could sign it. But the hours ticked by, and she never returned. I was wheeled into the operating room alone. While I was in recovery, I checked social media. My feed was flooded with photos of Margot and Dominick—at a bridal boutique, laughing over racks of white lace. The day I was discharged, she finally appeared. “I’m here to take you home,” she said. Dominick was standing right behind her. He rushed forward. “Big Brother, are you okay? Are you in pain?” He looked down, his face a mask of guilt. “It was all my fault. I was so clumsy that day. I’m just glad you’re alright.” I didn’t bother explaining. I stepped back, creating distance between us, and handed Margot the divorce papers. “I’ve already signed.” She scanned the document, her brow furrowing. “Why? Just because of the surgery?” She spoke as if she’d forgotten the original reason—that I caught her in bed with another man. But it didn’t matter now. Any reason was a good reason to leave. I put on my face mask to hide my pale, bloodless lips. “Think what you want. If you have no objections, let’s go to the courthouse now.” Margot didn’t speak. Her grip on the papers tightened until the edges crumpled. “By what right?” she hissed. “I’m willing to overlook your cheating, yet you’re the one demanding a divorce? Do you really love her that much?” A high-pitched ringing started in my ears. I didn’t hear a word she said. I just saw her lips moving, her eyes burning with a strange, misplaced sense of betrayal. I nodded vaguely, just wanting it to end. “Are you signing or not? Just give me an answer.” Seeing my indifference, she marched over to the nurse’s station, grabbed a pen, and scrawled her name in a jagged, violent script. “If she doesn’t take you back, don’t you dare come crawling back to me crying!” The moment the papers were back in my hand, I felt a weight lift. My steps felt lighter as I walked toward the exit. At the hospital gates, a tall, elegant woman was leaning against a black sedan. Elena. “You’re here,” she said with a soft smile. Behind me, Margot’s phone chimed with a notification. It was a message from her private investigator. [Ms. Silvester, we’ve confirmed the medical records. Mr. Beckett’s ex-wife’s pregnancy had absolutely nothing to do with him.]

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Diana dropped the bomb in our college alumni group chat: I’m divorced. In the very next message, she tagged Ternence. Will you marry me now? Reading those words, the memory of that absurd wedding three years ago rushed back, vivid and suffocating. That day, playing the role of the tragic heroine to perfection, Diana had abandoned the devoted second-choice man at the altar. She shoved her expensive bridal bouquet into my chest, told the gasping crowd that Ternence and I made a better pair, and ran out the chapel doors to chase her “true love.” I had stood there, frozen in tulle and shock, slowly turning to look at Ternence. His knuckles were white, gripping the wedding band so hard I thought it might cut into his skin. He watched the chapel doors swing shut behind her, his face a portrait of utter devastation. Then, amidst the rising whispers of the congregation, a terrifying, apathetic calm washed over him. He grabbed my hand and shoved the ring onto my finger. If Diana thinks we’re a good match, he told the crowd, his voice hollow, then I’ll listen to her. I’ll marry Jo. I had loved him in secret for ten years. In that chaotic, humiliating moment, my foolish heart actually thought my waiting had finally paid off. But it was right then that the floating text appeared. Glowing, venomous sentences began scrolling across my field of vision like a digital ticker tape only I could see. [Omg, the heroine is so brave for chasing true love! An absolute icon!] [This supporting girl is so pathetic. Does she actually think the second male lead is marrying her out of love? Just wait for the angst, she’s gonna get destroyed.] Looking back now, three years later, those spectral comments couldn’t have been more right. 1 The floating text, which had been dormant for three years, suddenly exploded across my vision, bright and jarring: [The audacity of this minor character trying to steal a man from our baby girl Diana! Does she have a death wish?] [The moment we’ve been waiting for! Diana is finally going to see how devoted Ternence is!] [The side-chick wife is so annoying. Ternence needs to divorce her right now!] [Manifesting them rekindling their romance at the reunion!!!] My chest tightened. I sat on the edge of our bed, bracing myself for Ternence to walk in and demand a divorce. Instead, a familiar, large hand reached out and pressed the lock button on my phone, turning the screen black. I looked up, meeting Ternence’s gaze. His eyes were impossibly soft. “Don’t be silly, Jo. I’m not going to that reunion tonight,” he murmured, his thumb gently smoothing the crease between my brows. “There hasn’t been an ‘us’ for a very long time.” He ruffled my hair affectionately and guided me under the covers. I rolled onto my side, and he slid in behind me, pulling my back against his chest. His warm breath ghosted over the nape of my neck. I forced my breathing to slow, mimicking the steady rhythm of sleep. Only then did he carefully, silently, slip out of bed. The bedroom door clicked shut. He was gone. I knew he would leave, yet the sharp ache in my ribs still took my breath away. I threw a trench coat over my pajamas, ordered an Uber, and followed him. Through the tinted glass of a private VIP booth at a downtown lounge, I watched Ternence snatch a rocks glass from Diana’s hand. “Diana, that’s enough!” The words were a reprimand, but the look in his eyes—the raw, bleeding tenderness—told a completely different story. “Let go of me!” she slurred, her eyes heavy with liquor as she lunged for the glass, only to stumble directly into his chest. Ternence went entirely rigid. The tips of his ears flushed a deep, betraying crimson. Diana began to hammer her fists weakly against his chest, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You’re loving this, aren’t you? Seeing me this pathetic. You think this is my karma for leaving you at the altar?” Ternence turned his face away, his jaw tight. He didn’t say a word. With a strained, agonizing restraint, he pushed her away. Diana grabbed a trash can and began dry-heaving, violently swatting away the napkin he offered her. Before she could reach for another drink, Ternence bent down and hoisted her over his shoulder with one arm. She kicked and screamed all the way out of the bar. He carried her to the sidewalk, finally setting her down by the curb. Without warning, she threw up, the mess splattering all over his designer shirt and slacks. This was a man who practically bordered on germaphobic. Yet, looking at the mess, he didn’t even flinch. Two years ago, to help him secure a massive corporate account, I had swallowed my pride and drank myself sick entertaining his clients. When he came to pick me up, I had stumbled toward him, seeking the safety of his arms. He had shoved me away with a look of pure disgust. You’re filthy, he had sneered, before throwing the jacket I had been wearing straight into a public dumpster. Now, watching Diana cry and vomit, mascara streaking her face, Ternence’s brow furrowed in deep distress. He gently rubbed circles into her back. “If he doesn’t want you,” Ternence whispered into the night air, “I do.” I froze in the shadows. It felt as though someone had reached into my chest and scooped out my heart with a rusted spoon. The glowing text flared violently before my eyes: [That is SO swoon-worthy! The devoted second lead is making his move! Get together already!] [Oh my god! Who could resist a man this hopelessly in love?] [Wait, he hasn’t divorced the wife yet. Our Diana can’t be a homewrecker! Hurry up and serve the papers, Ternence!] 2 My legs gave out. I crouched on the concrete, wrapping my arms tight around my knees. If he chose Diana… then what exactly were the last three years of my life? What were we? I don’t know how long I stayed huddled there in the cold. Eventually, I forced myself to stand, dragging my numb legs all the way back to our townhouse. The moment I walked through the door, Ternence rushed forward, pulling me into a desperate embrace like I was a precious treasure he thought he’d lost forever. “Jo, where were you? God, I was so worried.” A tiny, pathetic ember of hope tried to spark to life in the hollow of my chest. I raised my hand, ready to wrap my arms around his waist. Then I looked past his shoulder. Standing in the hallway, wearing nothing but his oversized white dress shirt and a pair of lace underwear, was Diana. “Oh, you’re back?” she purred, covering her mouth with a delicate hand to hide a smirk. She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you were out looking to catch a cheating husband?” She was waiting for it. Waiting for me to morph into the hysterical, insecure, crazy wife, screaming and demanding answers. Instead, I slowly lowered my hand. I placed my palms flat against Ternence’s chest and pushed him away. As I did, my eyes fell to his left hand. The gold wedding band was gone. In its place was a pale, distinct indentation—a ghost of the promise he had made to me. A wave of bone-deep exhaustion washed over me, heavy and suffocating. Catching the direction of my gaze, panic flashed in Ternence’s eyes. For the first time in our marriage, he scrambled to explain himself. “Diana just got back into the States. She didn’t have a place to stay, and she was drunk… It was dangerous out there, Jo. I couldn’t just leave her on the street.” He really didn’t need to explain. The moment he chose to bring her into our home without asking me, he made it clear that my feelings were entirely irrelevant. “Okay,” I said quietly. Ternence let out a ragged breath and suddenly grabbed my wrist, pulling me down the hall and into his study. I stumbled, genuinely surprised. He had never allowed me in his study. I had only ever sneaked in once, years ago, and discovered the reason why: it was a shrine to her. He backed me against the wall, his breathing fast and heavy. “Diana just went through a brutal divorce. I… I took the ring off because I didn’t want to rub my marriage in her face. I didn’t want to trigger her.” “Besides,” he added, his voice dropping to a persuasive, desperate murmur, “that ring was originally bought for her anyway. Tomorrow, let’s go to the jeweler. We’ll pick out a brand new one. Whatever you want, okay?” I didn’t answer. My eyes were fixed on the massive canvas hanging on the wall beside us. It was an oil painting. Five years ago, during a college camping trip in the Adirondacks, he had painted it for her. Diana was the ghost he had spent his whole life chasing. The golden girl. But wasn’t he the same to me? [Holy shit! What is going through this supporting character’s head? Does she seriously think he saved her back then because he liked her?] [Please, he just hated seeing the campus bullies picking on a weakling. He pitied her.] [Ternence is a saint, he would have saved a stray dog. This girl is delusional.] [If Diana hadn’t told him to marry her, and if Jo didn’t happen to have the same shaped eyes as Diana, do you think he ever would have given her a second look?] The glowing text scrolled mercilessly. My whole body turned to ice. So that was it. In Ternence’s eyes, I was never a wife. I was just a cheap understudy. A placeholder with the right shaped eyes. Ternence’s voice dragged me out of the digital crossfire. “We can…” He was rambling, making promises I couldn’t hear over the roaring in my ears. I blinked my dry, burning eyes and cut him off. “I’ll sign the divorce papers.” Ternence’s pupils contracted to pinpricks. “What?!” 3 I stared at him, bewildered by his shock. Wasn’t this what he wanted? Wasn’t this the grand confession where he told me he was leaving me for her? His face darkened. He reached over, unhooked the massive painting of Diana from the wall, and set it face-down on the floor. He took my hands in his, his voice dropping to a velvet, pleading register. “Jo, listen to me. I brought you into this room to show you that I’m done. I’ve let her go.” “I only see her as a little sister now. Please, don’t spiral over this.” I looked straight into his dark eyes. They were intense, desperate, and terrifyingly sincere. He didn’t sound like he was lying. “Then tell her to get out of my house. Right now.” Crash! The sound of shattering glass erupted from the doorway. Diana stormed in, her face twisted in fury. Before I could blink, her hand cracked across my cheek in a vicious slap. “If it weren’t for me, you never would have had a chance with him!” she screamed, her chest heaving. “You should be on your knees thanking me! Instead, you’re using the title of ‘Mrs.’ to throw your weight around and order me out?” My cheek throbbed, the skin burning hot and swelling instantly. Ternence’s face turned lethal. He grabbed Diana’s wrist, his voice a furious roar. “Apologize to her!” Diana violently wrenched her arm free, her voice hitting a hysterical pitch. “Why should I?!” “She’s been obsessed with you for years! She only pretended to be my friend to get close to you! She’s a manipulative, shameless bitch, and she deserves everything she gets!” Sobbing wildly, she turned and bolted from the study. The lethal anger in Ternence’s eyes vanished, replaced instantly by sheer, blinding panic. Without a second thought, he ran after her. [Yessss! Go off, queen! That manipulative side-chick totally orchestrated everything! Put her in her place!] [Aww, our devoted guy is chasing after her! He can’t stand to see her cry ~] [Tsk tsk. No matter how hard the understudy tries, she’ll never hold a candle to the leading lady!] I stood alone in the quiet study, my cheek burning. I didn’t understand why the voices hated me so much. Was it a crime to love someone quietly? To hope? Ternence didn’t come home that night. The promise to buy a new ring dissolved into thin air. The elaborate itinerary we had planned for our three-year anniversary today? Forgotten entirely. I lay paralyzed on the living room sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling. My phone buzzed. A notification popped up from a local lifestyle account on Instagram. The thumbnail caught my eye immediately. [He always listens to me.] The photo showed a man gripping the back of a woman’s neck, kissing her with an aggressive, consuming hunger. Their hands were locked together, fingers intertwined. Right there, on the man’s left hand, was the unmistakable pale band of missing skin. I would know that silhouette anywhere. It was Ternence. I clicked onto the poster’s profile. The pinned photo at the top of the grid hit me like a physical blow. [He wants to marry me all over again!] I looked down at the ring on my own finger. The woman in the photo was wearing a breathtaking, multi-carat pink diamond. I was wearing the plain gold band she had discarded three years ago. I scrolled further down her feed, every post sinking my heart deeper into an abyss. [After all these years, he never got the jasmine flower lasered off his chest. He’s so obsessed with me!] The air left my lungs. For three years, whenever we made love, Ternence had forbidden me from touching that specific spot on his chest. A few times, frustrated and insecure, I had asked him, “Have you ever really gotten over her?” His warmth would instantly turn to ice. Without a single word of reassurance, he would throw the blankets off, get dressed, and slam the door on his way out. It would trigger weeks of agonizing silent treatment. It always ended with me begging for forgiveness, swearing I would never bring her up again, just to get him to look at me. My head was pounding, a sickening pressure building behind my eyes. My hands shook as I gripped my phone. Against every instinct of self-preservation, I dialed his number. It rang eight times. Finally, the line clicked open. “Diana’s in the hospital. Whatever it is, it can wait until I get home.” His voice was clipped, distant, lined with a tightly coiled rage. Before I could form a syllable, he hung up. I couldn’t breathe. Following the geotag on the Instagram post, I ordered a car to Boston General. I needed to look him in the eye. I needed a final verdict on the last three years of my life. 4 I stood outside the private hospital room for a long time. A passing nurse carrying an IV bag paused and looked at me sympathetically. “Are you here for your friend? She had a terrifying night. Some drunk guy harassed her and nearly assaulted her in an alley.” The nurse sighed. “If her boyfriend hadn’t gotten there in time… God, I don’t even want to think about it.” With that, the nurse pushed the door open. The room went dead silent. The moment Diana saw me standing in the doorway, she went feral. She grabbed her pillow and hurled it at my face. “You couldn’t stand seeing him treat me well! You were so jealous you hired someone to—” She cut off with a sob. “Get her out of here! Make her leave!” Ternence immediately pulled Diana into his chest, wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders. He shot a dark, lethal glare over her head, locking eyes with me. “If I find out you had anything to do with this, Jo, I swear to God…” I stood rooted to the linoleum floor. He didn’t need proof. He didn’t need an investigation. His first instinct was that I was a monster. The nurse gave me a look of absolute disgust, swapped the IV bag, and hurried out of the room. [Holy shit! Did the side-chick actually orchestrate an assault? That is pure evil! Trying to ruin the heroine’s purity?] [She’s so dumb. There are cameras everywhere, the cops will catch her instantly!] [Lock her up and throw away the key! Keep her away from my OTP!] Through the venomous scrolling text, Diana peeked out from Ternence’s embrace. A vicious, triumphant smirk played on her lips. “Stop playing your pathetic little games, Jo,” she sneered. “Let me spell it out for you. The only woman Ternence has ever loved is me. You will never, ever be me.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Oh, and by the way? You know that miscarriage you had two years ago? It wasn’t an accident.” The room tilted. “I told him I was terrified that if you had his baby, he would stop loving me,” Diana smiled, her eyes glittering. “So he made sure you had an ‘accident.’” Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. It felt like a jagged piece of glass was being twisted into my heart. I couldn’t breathe. No wonder. When I was pregnant, Ternence had suddenly become obsessed with my daily routine, asking me exact times for everything. He was looking for the perfect window to tamper with the ropes on the porch swing I sat on every afternoon. I remembered the snap of the rope. The terrifying freefall. The crimson blood soaking through my summer dress. The baby was gone before the ambulance even arrived. But when I had first told him I was pregnant, he had wept. He had picked me up, spinning me around the living room. “You are the greatest gift the universe could ever give me, Jo. I’m the luckiest man alive.” And yet, because the woman he truly loved expressed a fleeting moment of insecurity, he had murdered our unborn child in cold blood. Tears spilled hotly down my cheeks. I lunged forward, raising my hand, and slapped Ternence across the face with every ounce of strength I possessed. He didn’t dodge. He took the hit, his head snapping to the side. I raised my trembling hand again, aiming straight for Diana’s smug face. But before I could make contact, Ternence shoved me. Hard. I flew backward, my spine colliding violently with the plaster wall. A blinding shot of pain radiated through my bones. “That’s enough!” Ternence roared, stepping between us like a shield. “I’m the one who did it! If you want to take your rage out on someone, take it out on me!” His eyes were wild, shifting, trembling—but there was not a single shred of remorse in them. I stared at him, my face the color of ash. My voice shook violently. “Ternence. In the three years we’ve been married… did you ever love me? Even for a second?” Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. I slowly pulled my gaze away from his face. A numb, broken smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I turned around and walked out. I stumbled out of the hospital doors, my vision blurred with tears, wandering aimlessly into the rain-slicked streets. Suddenly, a blinding pair of headlights cut through the darkness. CRASH. The impact threw me into the air, the world spinning in a terrifying blur before the pavement rushed up to meet me. [Oh my god! Did the side-chick just get wiped out?] [Good riddance! Now Ternence and Diana can finally be together in peace. No more dead weight!] [Hey upstairs, have some basic human decency, wtf!] Everything was spinning. I lay in a spreading pool of my own warm blood, the cold rain washing over my face. As the edges of my consciousness began to fray and fade into black, I thought I heard a voice screaming my name, raw and torn to shreds. “JO!” A faint, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. I’m done, Ternence. I’m not playing your sick little game anymore.

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I lay on the freezing asphalt, the sheer, blinding agony of a shattered spine pinning me to the earth. Blood pooled in my eyes, turning the world into a red haze, yet my vision locked onto the pristine SUV that had just plowed into me. The door swung open. My sister-in-law stepped out, her hand wrapped tightly around my daughter’s. Eight years ago, Camille came to my apartment in the middle of the night, drenched in rain and shivering violently. Damon, her golden-boy first love, had abandoned her. She had just found out she was pregnant. She fell into my arms, weeping, begging me to give her unborn baby a home. I said yes. I didn’t just marry her; I buried the secret of the child’s paternity so deep it practically ceased to exist. I loved little Ruby as my own flesh and blood. I even gave up my right to ever have biological children—quietly getting a vasectomy so there would never be a sliver of doubt or divided loyalty in our home. Now, my fingers twitched on the wet pavement. I reached out, my voice a wet, trembling rasp. “Get Ruby out of here. Please… don’t let her see this.” Bianca, my sister-in-law, stepped forward and viciously kicked my bleeding hand away. “Do you honestly still think you’re her father?” she spat, her eyes alight with a terrifying malice. “You’re nothing but Camille’s pathetic little lapdog. You will never replace Damon.” A cold dread, far worse than the physical trauma, seized my chest. I turned my head slightly, looking at the little girl I had raised for eight years. “Ruby…” I breathed. But her soft, round face was contorted with a coldness that chilled me to the bone. “Don’t call my name!” Ruby yelled, shrinking away in disgust. “You’re a liar! You stole my real daddy’s place. I want to watch you turn into a cripple, and then Mommy is going to throw you away!” 1 I collapsed back against the pavement. The light drained from the sky. As the blood seeped out of me, carrying my life with it, my heart turned entirely to ash. The darkness pulled me under. When I finally woke, the world was sterile and white. I was tethered to a hospital bed, a labyrinth of tubes running into my veins, an oxygen mask strapped over my face, and a catheter snaking beneath the sheets. The door pushed open. Camille walked in, dragging Ruby by the hand. Ruby dragged her feet, her small face scrunched up in profound annoyance. “Why do we have to be here? I don’t want to look at him! He’s a liar and I hate him!” “He just took a little tumble, he’s not even hurt,” the eight-year-old whined. “He’s just laying in bed trying to trick us again!” “Mommy, he’s faking it! He always lies!” Camille immediately turned her sharp, accusing glare on me. “What exactly did you do to her, Everett?” she demanded. “Why is she suddenly so terrified of you?” “You promised me you would raise her right. You promised you’d be a role model. And here you are, apparently lying to her face? What kind of father does that?” Ruby thrashed against her mother’s grip, her wooden doll swinging wildly and smashing directly into my fresh surgical wounds. A blinding, white-hot pain tore through my torso. “He’s not my daddy! He hits me!” Ruby wailed, burying her face into Camille’s coat, sobbing theatrically. Camille’s eyes darkened with a familiar, terrifying rage. Without a second of hesitation, she leaned over the bed and slapped me across the face. “How dare you ever lay a hand on my daughter!” The force of her palm cracked against my cheekbone, violently dislodging my oxygen mask. Anyone else in the world might have bought Ruby’s lie, but Camille? Camille knew better. I treated that little girl like she was the center of my universe. I had carried her on my shoulders through every zoo and park in the tri-state area. I held her hands when she took her first clumsy steps. I taught her the cadence of her first words. I was the one who showed Camille how to properly test the temperature of her midnight bottles. Once, during a hike in the Adirondacks, Camille lost her grip on Ruby’s hand on a steep descent. To keep the toddler from tumbling down the jagged rocks, I threw my body beneath hers, taking the brunt of the fall. I still had the faded white scar across the bridge of my nose to prove it. I didn’t have the breath to defend myself, and frankly, I no longer had the desire to. I simply turned my head, staring out the window at the bleak, gray sky. Camille huffed, crossing her arms. “Oh, so this is what we’re doing now? The silent treatment? I am speaking to you, Everett. Your daughter is crying, and you can’t even be bothered to comfort her? Are you even human?” The oxygen mask was suffocating me, preventing me from forming a single syllable, yet she stood there demanding a monologue. “When I married you,” Camille kept ranting, her voice rising, “I didn’t ask for your money. I just asked you to be a good father. How did you repay that promise? Look at how you’re acting right now!” She shoved my shoulder, hard. My chest tightened, an agonizing spasm seizing my lungs. I began to gasp, my body convulsing against the sheets as I fought for a sliver of air. Camille watched me struggle with utter indifference, stroking Ruby’s hair and whispering soothing words to the child, while continuing to throw daggers at me with her eyes. Thank God a nurse rushed in for rounds. She immediately shoved past Camille. “What the hell are you doing?” the nurse snapped, adjusting my mask and checking my monitors. “Can’t you see he just got out of major spinal surgery? Try having a conversation with a tube down your throat!” I closed my eyes. The woman I had shared a bed with for nearly a decade possessed less empathy for me than a stranger in scrubs. It was almost funny. “I heard Everett got into a little fender bender. Is he alright?” Bianca’s voice sliced through the tension as she strolled into the room. She walked right up to my bedside. Knowing I couldn’t speak, she leaned over, pretending to smooth out my blankets. Under the guise of adjusting the sheets, her manicured nails dug viciously into my bruised bicep. Her eyes locked onto mine, flashing a lethal warning. “Whoever hit him must have been driving awfully fast,” Bianca purred. “He really needs to be more careful. Thank God little Ruby wasn’t in the car.” Camille pulled her sister back. “Don’t touch him, Bianca, you’ll get your hands dirty. And you’re right. If Ruby had been in that car, I would have killed him myself.” She looked down at my paralyzed, broken body with a disgust so profound it made my stomach turn. “Look at him. A cripple. It’s karma.” I stared back at her, feeling a strange sense of vertigo. Was this really the same woman who had stood on my porch all those years ago, shivering in the rain, begging for sanctuary? And the little girl holding her hand—just days ago, she was a sweet, warm weight in my arms, kissing my cheek and calling me Daddy. Overnight, she had turned to frost. Some dogs, it seems, just bite the hand that feeds them. While the sisters gossiped over my bed, I quietly reached out and slipped my fingers around the nurse’s sleeve, squeezing tight. 2 Three days later, they finally removed the oxygen mask. I could speak. During that agonizing stretch, Bianca practically lived in my hospital room, using the excuse that she was “taking care” of family. But I had already communicated my fears to the nursing staff. Because the nurses were constantly popping in and out, Bianca never got the chance to finish what she started. By the same token, with her hawkish eyes constantly on me, I couldn’t make a phone call or reach out to the outside world. Camille and Ruby never came back. “Don’t hold your breath waiting for my sister,” Bianca sneered one afternoon, painting her nails by the window. “You’re half a man now. A vegetable. You think she’s going to spend her life pushing your wheelchair?” She paused, blowing on her fingers. “And don’t even think about going to the cops. I picked that road carefully. No traffic cams. No witnesses. You have absolutely nothing. Besides, if you try to put me behind bars, do you honestly think you’ll ever have a shot at saving your marriage?” It all clicked into place. The morning of the crash, Ruby had begged me to take a different route to school. A secluded, winding backroad. She claimed she wanted to pick a specific kind of wildflower she heard the other kids talking about. I had thought it was strange, but I never could say no to her. Bianca had orchestrated the whole thing. And she had used an eight-year-old to do it. She had taught my little girl how to lie, how to lead me into a slaughterhouse. But I was too exhausted to fight her right now. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and stared at Bianca with a dead, hollow gaze. “I don’t even know why you hate me this much,” I said, my voice raspy. When Camille and I first married, her family was broke. Bianca was still in college. I paid her out-of-state tuition. I paid her rent. I funded her lifestyle. Looking back, I hadn’t done a single damn thing to wrong them. “But it doesn’t matter anymore,” I continued, turning my head to the ceiling. “If your sister wants a divorce, tell her I’ll sign the papers.” Just as the words left my mouth, I looked up. Camille was standing in the doorway. Throughout our marriage, Camille had always weaponized the threat of divorce. Whenever she felt insecure or threw a tantrum, she’d pack a bag and threaten to leave. And every single time, I was the one who folded. I’d apologize, buy her jewelry, book a trip to Aspen or Paris, and coax her back. This was the first time in eight years I had ever agreed to let her go. She stood frozen in the doorframe, a look of absolute, unadulterated shock washing over her features. She didn’t move for a long time. “You… you want to divorce my daughter? Who the hell do you think you are?” I shifted my gaze. The Pruitts—my mother-in-law and father-in-law—pushed their way into the room. “Are you screwing around with some whore on the side?” Martha, my mother-in-law, marched up to the bed, pointing a trembling finger in my face. Then she grabbed Camille’s arm. “Tell me, sweetie. Did he do something to you?” Because I was three years older than Camille, Martha always acted like I had robbed the cradle, despite the fact that I had paid off their mountain of debt, handed over a million-dollar ring, and bought them a house and a brand-new G-Wagon. It was never enough. Later, when Camille’s brother Tyler got married, I footed the bill for his lavish country club wedding, bought the newlyweds a starter home, and manufactured a cushy job for him at my firm. Back then, Tyler used to throw his arm around me, slurring through expensive scotch, calling me his brother. “You’re blood, man. Forget Camille, whatever happens, I’m in your corner. I’d take a bullet for you, Ev.” Now, Tyler lunged forward, grabbing the collar of my hospital gown and yanking me upward, ignoring the fresh stitches in my spine. “You think you can betray my sister, Everett? You think we’re just going to roll over and die?” Tyler spat in my face. Through the chaos of their screaming and grabbing, I looked at Camille. She just stood there. She watched them suffocate me, watched them tear at a man who couldn’t even feel his own legs, and she didn’t lift a finger to stop it. She didn’t say a word. Finally, Richard, my father-in-law, played the peacemaker. “Alright, that’s enough,” he muttered, pulling Tyler back. “Everett’s in bad shape. He needs his rest. Camille, honey, why don’t you take some time off work and stay home with your husband?” Work. Years ago, Camille claimed she wanted to be an independent woman, so I created a Vice President role for her at my company and handed over fifty percent of my personal equity. It was purely ceremonial. She didn’t have to lift a finger. Her “work” consisted of long lunches, spa days, and charity galas. She barely knew where the corporate office was located. But recently, she had been out of the house constantly. She told me her best friend was going through a brutal breakup and needed a shoulder to cry on. Now I knew exactly who she had been comforting. Hearing her father’s suggestion, Camille finally spoke up, her voice tight. “Fine. I won’t go in this week. I’ll stay at the house with you. I can cook whatever you want, or we can go for drives. Whatever you need.” Martha and Tyler immediately began singing her praises. “Do you know how rare it is to find a woman her age who’s willing to play nursemaid?” Martha huffed. “You better thank your lucky stars, Everett.” Camille stepped forward and unhitched the brakes on my wheelchair. We headed down to the hospital lobby. My car was idling at the curb, but the man behind the wheel wasn’t my usual driver. 3 Noticing my hesitation, Camille offered a tight, overly rehearsed smile. “Stan had a family emergency. I hired a temp to cover for him.” Through the tinted glass of the Mercedes, I caught a glimpse of the new driver. He was looking at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were cold, mocking, and dripping with a cocky disdain—as if I were the hired help, not him. Furthermore, Stan had been on my payroll for five years. He was fiercely loyal. He would never take a leave of absence without calling me directly. I instinctively reached for my pocket. Then I remembered. My phone had been obliterated in the crash. Camille hadn’t brought me a replacement. For the past week, everyone in my life probably assumed I had dropped off the face of the earth. “Take me to the office,” I commanded the new driver once I was awkwardly hoisted into the backseat. Camille, who was leaning over to buckle my seatbelt, froze. Her fingers hovered over the clasp. “Why do you need to go to the office?” A microscopic flicker of panic crossed her face, her breathing hitching for just a second. I didn’t have the energy for her theatrics. I snatched the belt from her hand and clicked it into place myself. “I’ve been MIA for days. My phone is dead. I’m sure things are piling up. I need to make an appearance.” I raised my voice, directing it at the rearview mirror. “Let’s go. Do you need the address?” The driver didn’t blink. He didn’t acknowledge me at all. “Everett, the office will survive,” Camille said, quickly shutting my door. Instead of sliding into the back with me, she walked around and climbed into the passenger seat. “Take us home,” she told the driver softly. The moment the words left her mouth, the engine purred to life. It was immediately obvious he wasn’t a “temp.” He didn’t punch anything into the GPS. He didn’t ask for directions. He navigated the winding, affluent suburban streets with the muscle memory of a man who had driven this exact route countless times. “We’re here,” the driver grunted as we pulled up the sweeping driveway of my estate. He stepped out and opened my door. He stood there, his face set in a deep scowl, making zero effort to help me into my wheelchair. Finally, Camille walked around and snapped at him. “Give him a hand.” He shot her a look—an intimate, annoyed look—before begrudgingly extending an arm toward me. I pushed myself forward, using my upper body strength, and then abruptly stopped. During the ride, I had kept my eyes closed, fighting the nausea. But now, with the sunlight hitting the interior of the car just right, I saw them. Faint, delicate handprints pressed against the passenger side glass. And just beneath them, violent, desperate crescent-moon scratches etched deep into the leather backrest of the front seat. I certainly didn’t make those marks. So who did? “Everett?” Camille called out, sounding nervous. I was so consumed by the sight of the leather that I didn’t register the pure, venomous jealousy burning in the driver’s eyes as he stared at me. As he hauled me out of the car, his grip magically “slipped.” He let go of my arm completely. My paralyzed legs crumbled beneath me, and I slammed hard into the cobblestone driveway. With my lower body entirely dead to the world, I couldn’t brace myself. I lay sprawled on the stones, forced to crane my neck upward like a helpless animal. “My bad, boss,” the driver sneered. “Hands are a little sweaty.” He didn’t even try to hide the smirk. The blatant disrespect, the sheer humiliation of standing over a crippled man—it was intoxicating for him. I stared up at him. The rage roaring in my veins was deafening, but years of boardroom discipline kept me from screaming. “You’re fired,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Get off my property.” Before the man could even react, Camille rushed to his defense. “Are you insane, Everett? He just slipped! God, why do you always have to be so dramatic? Are you really going to fire a man over an accident when you’re not even hurt?” Not hurt? I could feel the warm blood trickling down my chin where my face had scraped the stone. She didn’t even look at me long enough to notice. “Hey, if the boss doesn’t want me, I’m not gonna beg,” the driver said, tossing the Mercedes keys carelessly onto the front seat. He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking down the driveway. “Look what you did! I swear, you are impossible to please!” Camille, who had half-heartedly extended a hand to help me up, instantly dropped her arm. She left me lying on the cobblestone and chased after him. My shoulder throbbed against the hard rock. I hissed through my teeth, the pain sharp and blinding. Camille didn’t look back once. “Damon!” I heard her cry out. The name echoed through the manicured lawns. It was the same name she had murmured in the hospital. The same name Bianca had hurled at me like a weapon. Damon. The deadbeat who had knocked her up and bolted. I lay paralyzed in my own driveway, hating myself. Hating the dead weight of my legs. Hating that my own body had betrayed me, rendering me as helpless as a dog on a chain. Suddenly, the heavy mahogany front door swung open. Ruby bolted out of the house. “Daddy!” she squealed. She ran right past me. She didn’t even glance down at the man lying bleeding on the ground. Instead, she threw herself into Damon’s waiting arms. 4 Camille had only taken a few steps down the driveway when Ruby burst out the door. Hearing her daughter shout “Daddy” and launch herself at Damon made Camille freeze. She had no idea how or when Ruby had learned the truth. Damon caught the little girl effortlessly, hoisting her onto his hip. The way they laughed and clung to each other wasn’t the awkwardness of a first meeting; it was the easy rhythm of a routine. It was a beautiful, picturesque family reunion. Except for the husband bleeding on the pavement ten feet away. Camille panicked, whipping her head around. Everett lay motionless on the ground, his eyes closed. He must have passed out from the pain. Maybe he hadn’t seen. She let out a long, shaky exhale and rushed over to Damon, grabbing his sleeve. “Stop making a scene. Take Ruby to the bakery down the street. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.” She turned back and quickly dialed the estate manager, ordering the staff outside to drag her unconscious husband indoors. “Get him to bed,” Camille instructed the housekeeper as they hauled Everett up the stairs. “Call me if he needs anything. Understood?” A gnawing sense of unease chewed at the edges of her mind, but her phone vibrated. It was Damon, letting Ruby talk. “Mommy, when are you coming? I’m almost done with my cupcake. If you don’t hurry, Daddy and I are gonna leave without you!” Hearing the pure joy in her daughter’s voice washed away any lingering guilt. “Just hold on, sweetie, Mommy’s coming right now.” She had fully accepted Damon’s place in their lives. They were playing house. The housekeeper followed her back to the foyer. “Ma’am… shouldn’t we call a doctor? Mr. Everett looks terrible.” Camille waved her off, irritated. “He literally just came from the hospital. What are they going to do? He’s just sleeping. He’s fine.” With that, she pulled the front door shut with a resounding thud. 5 The moment I heard the click of the heavy deadbolt, I opened my eyes. I waited until I was sure her car had pulled out of the gates. Then I called the housekeeper into the master bedroom. “Give me your phone,” I said quietly. “Don’t tell my wife I’m awake.” She hesitated. I held her gaze, my eyes cold and unyielding. “You do realize whose name is on the bottom of your paychecks, right?” She swallowed hard and quickly handed over the cell phone, nodding furiously. I immediately dialed Clark, my executive assistant. I told him to get over here immediately, and to stop by an AT&T store to buy me a new phone and a clean SIM card on his way. Next, I dialed my attorney. It was time to draft the divorce settlement. But my most pressing priority was the “accident.” Bianca had chosen that winding backroad because it was a dead zone for cameras. And because I had been unconscious, I had no idea who had towed the wreck, which meant I didn’t know where my dashcam footage was. “Clark,” I said when he finally arrived, handing me the sleek new iPhone. “I need you to pull up the traffic cameras on the main intersections at both ends of that backroad. Cross-reference every license plate that entered or exited that street around the time of my crash. Call the owners. See if anyone had a dashcam running.” It was a secluded area, but I vaguely remembered the blur of headlights passing by just before the impact. Someone had to have seen it. Clark scribbled furiously in his notepad, looking pale. “Mr. Everett… my god. What happened to you?” He had absolutely no idea about the crash. According to Clark, Tyler had walked into the executive boardroom last week and announced that I had fallen critically ill and had been flown to Switzerland for experimental treatment, with Camille by my side. Tyler claimed I had granted him temporary executive authority. They had even forged text messages from my phone to prove it. The board had been skeptical, but Camille had dialed into a Zoom meeting to corroborate the story. And since everyone in the city knew I had given her half my shares and worshipped the ground she walked on, they bought it. “Since you’ve been ‘gone,’ sir… Tyler and the VP have ousted half the senior leadership. They went on a hiring spree. And they’ve initiated several massive acquisitions.” Clark handed me a leather-bound folder. I flipped it open, and the blood drained from my face. The new hires were kids fresh out of college with zero corporate experience. Their only unifying qualification seemed to be that they were impossibly attractive. Tyler and Bianca had essentially turned my Fortune 500 company into a taxpayer-funded modeling agency. And the acquisitions? They were dumping millions into obscure, no-name startups. Pure money pits. “Sir, I…” Clark stammered, looking like he was about to vomit. “I did some digging off the books. A lot of those startups… they’re shell companies. Registered just weeks ago.” Embezzlement. It was so brazen it was almost insulting. Clark braced himself, expecting me to fire him on the spot. I just closed the folder and sighed, staring at the ceiling. In two weeks, they had nearly bled the quarterly profits dry. “It’s not your fault, Clark. I’m the one who gave them the keys to the kingdom.” There was no point in screaming. The damage was done. The only thing left to do was burn out the infection. I instructed Clark to hire a private security detail immediately. Ex-military. I wanted them stationed at the estate and the corporate lobby. I wanted all security codes changed, all keycards wiped. “Call an emergency board meeting for tomorrow morning,” I said, my voice hardening to steel. “Terminate Tyler and anyone with the last name Pruitt. And freeze every single corporate and personal account linked to my wife.”

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The night of the network gala, when I was twenty-six, the world I had built shattered in the palm of my hand. I was center stage, the lights blinding, the teleprompter humming. But when I flipped my cue cards to the next segment, the script was gone. In its place was a high-gloss photo of Andrea and her lover. From the first page to the twentieth, it was a curated gallery of betrayal. Every scene, every position, every indignity. The foyer of a boutique hotel, the leather backseat of her SUV, a private balcony overlooking the city… these images didn’t just hurt; they felt like needles driven directly into my retinas. I didn’t stop. Driven by pure muscle memory and a desperate, soaring shot of adrenaline, I finished the broadcast. I didn’t miss a beat. I didn’t stumble. I smiled for the cameras while my soul was being liquidated. The moment the cameras went dark, I bolted. I barely made it to the executive restroom before I collapsed, retching until my lungs burned. In that cold, marble stall, the truth finally crystallized. I was “special” to her, yes. I was the permanent fixture, the anchor. But I would never, ever be her only one. I had fallen for her when I was sixteen. She was seven years my senior, a woman who moved through the world with a terrifying, magnetic grace. I had pursued her with the clumsy, breathless devotion of a boy who didn’t know any better. I remembered the early days—how she’d sigh, peeling my jacket off her shoulders when I tried to look after her, telling me in that patronizing, “big sister” tone to go find a girl my own age. But then, the shift. The night she sat in my lap wearing nothing but one of my button-downs, pulling me into a kiss that tasted like expensive gin and ruined lives. She told me she loved the way I smelled. She said seeing the heartbreak in my eyes that first year had actually hurt her. Ten years had passed since then. In that decade, I watched a rotating door of young, hungry men cycle through her life. I stayed, foolishly believing I was the one she would eventually come home to for good. At sixteen, loving her was like being a moth addicted to the flame. I craved her gaze, her approval, her heat. At twenty-six, in the stinging silence of a bathroom stall, the fire finally went out. After a two-hour closed-door meeting with the station manager, I walked out with my ticket out of the country: a transfer to be a foreign correspondent. … Andrea hadn’t left. She was waiting outside the restroom, leaning against the wall with a practiced elegance, holding a bottle of chilled water. She didn’t apologize. She just slid a black titanium card into my breast pocket. “You were incredible tonight,” she said, her voice like velvet over gravel. “Don’t be too hard on Toby. He’s just a kid.” A few seconds of dead silence stretched between us. I just nodded. I couldn’t trust my voice. She reached up, her long, pale fingers smoothing my hair with a mother’s tenderness. It was the same gesture she used every time she wanted to keep me in line. “Be a good boy,” she whispered. By the time I gathered my dignity and returned to my office, the floor was deserted. The cleaning crew was sweeping up the wreckage of someone’s birthday party. I noticed a sticky note stuck to my monitor: “Hey Adrian! I bought cake for everyone for my birthday. The chocolates are a gift from my girlfriend—she wanted me to thank the team for taking such good care of me. Hope you like them! PS: You were a beast on stage today. A total pro. Andrea says I should learn everything I can from you.” Toby. He was the son of one of Andrea’s biggest investors. He’d slid into a production role six months ago through her influence. She’d asked me to “mentor” him. I lost count of how many fires I’d put out for that boy. And the chocolates—The Nebula Collection. It was a brand Andrea had built for me. A tribute to my late mother’s legacy. Toby wasn’t being oblivious; he was being surgical. He was feeding me my own history to see if I’d choke. When I got home, I stopped at the shoe rack. My slippers were gone. In their place sat a pair of chunky, expensive sneakers that didn’t belong to me. I walked upstairs barefoot, the cold hardwood biting at my soles. I found them in the media room. My mother’s final film was playing on the massive 4K screen. On the sofa, two figures were tangled together, clothes half-discarded, mouths locked in a messy, desperate hunger. “Get out.” My hand was white-knuckled on the door handle, shaking with a rage so cold it felt like ice. Andrea looked up, annoyed by the interruption. She didn’t look guilty; she looked inconvenienced. She reached over and gently straightened Toby’s shirt. “I’ll have the driver take you home,” she told him. Toby pouted, the picture of wounded innocence, but he stood up. “Adrian, man, don’t be mad at Andrea. It’s my fault. I begged her to let me see what a million-dollar sound system felt like.” He looked at the screen, then back at me, a nasty little glint in his eyes. “We got a bit carried away. Your mom, Serena… she was stunning. So much passion in those scenes. I heard she was actually pregnant with you when she filmed this—was it the director’s?” “Toby!” Andrea’s sharp command and my palm connecting with his face happened at the exact same time. Toby staggered back, clutching his cheek. He gave Andrea a watery, pathetic look, then bolted out of the room. Andrea’s face went stone cold. “You shouldn’t have hit him.” Then she turned and chased after him. I walked into the room and picked up the cashmere throw blanket that had been kicked to the floor. It was damp with spilled wine and… other things. After my mother died in that accident, my grandmother used to wrap me in this blanket when the night terrors got too bad. She passed away the morning after she gave it to me. It was the only piece of them I had left. I was in the laundry room trying to scrub the stains out when Andrea walked in. She knelt and slid my slippers onto my feet. “Enough, Adrian. Let the maid handle it tomorrow. Toby didn’t mean it. I’ll make him apologize to you later.” She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind, swaying her body against mine, using that soft, manipulative coo she used when she wanted to play house. “I talked to the station manager. I got you some time off. You said you wanted to go abroad? I’ll go with you.” “Christmas is coming up. The atmosphere in London or Paris will be perfect. We’ll stay as long as you want.” She was being so “sweet,” but I was shivering so hard my teeth rattled. The station manager didn’t waste any time. He knew who signed the checks. I pried her hands off me. I ran downstairs to grab my bag, looking for the divorce papers I’d prepared. They were gone. Andrea stood at the top of the stairs, sighing with the exhaustion of a parent dealing with a toddler. She came down and grabbed my arm. “Adrian, I told you from the start. I’m not wired for traditional romance. I told you that loving me would hurt. You were the one who said you didn’t care.” “I love you. You’re my husband…” She trailed off. The unspoken half of that sentence hung in the air: But I don’t love you enough to be faithful. She pressed my hand against her stomach. “Let’s have a baby on this trip. A fresh start.” It wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was a bribe. Yesterday, those words would have been everything I ever wanted. Now, they made my skin crawl. My stomach was a hollow pit, and my eyes felt like they were bleeding. Andrea’s expression shifted to pity. She rubbed my back. “I’m sorry, honey. If you hate Toby that much, I won’t let him near you again. Okay?” I didn’t say a word. I turned, went into the guest room, and locked the door. The next morning, my phone buzzed with a notification. I had been pulled from the New Year’s Eve Special. My replacement? Toby. My heart dropped into my stomach. A moment later, a string of texts came in from Toby. Apologies first. Then a “vow” to work hard and make me proud. Finally, a request for me to “mentor” him through the script so he wouldn’t let the team down. Andrea walked in with a glass of warm lemon water. I threw the phone at the wall. “Why?” I roared. I scrambled out of bed, trying to find my clothes. “Stop it. You know it’s useless,” she said, pinning me down with a firm hand. “The board already approved the change. It’s done.” All the strength left my body. I felt suddenly, violently ill. “Adrian, you’re burning up.” She pushed me back into the pillows. She made me eat some broth, made me take some pills. Ten minutes later, I threw it all up. I opened the balcony door for air and saw a car pull into the driveway. Toby stepped out, grinning, his arms wide open. Andrea walked down to him. She looked annoyed, but she stepped into his embrace anyway. He wrapped his heavy overcoat around her, pulling her close. Suddenly, he looked up. Straight at the balcony. Our eyes locked. He flashed a brilliant, predatory smile. “It’s freezing out here, Andrea,” he called out, his voice carrying in the crisp air. “You should have worn a coat.” Andrea’s hand disappeared inside his jacket, stroking his chest. “You’re warm enough.” “I’ve got warmer spots. Want to check?” Andrea swiped at him playfully. “Stop being so crude.” Toby laughed, throwing his hands up. “My bad. Punish me later?” She laughed—a genuine, light sound I hadn’t heard in weeks. “Get inside.” That sound hurt worse than the photos. Her heart had moved out years ago; I was just the only one who hadn’t realized the lease was up. I reached for my phone and pulled up a contact with no name—just a string of numbers. My finger hovered over the dial button. A knock at the door. Toby stuck his head in. “Adrian, hey. Sorry to bug you again. Last time, I promise!” “I’m just here to grab the tuxedo for the gala. We’re different sizes, so I need to get it to the tailor ASAP.” I gave him a thin, jagged smile and led him to the walk-in closet. “Wow,” he breathed, looking at the rows of bespoke suits. “These are incredible.” Crrrk— I took a pair of fabric shears and sliced through the shoulder of the tuxedo. His eyes went wide. A split second later, he let out a sharp cry. He grabbed the blade of the shears with his bare hand, a calculated, wicked grin flashing across his face for a heartbeat before he dissolved into tears. Andrea burst in. She saw the shears in my hand, the shredded silk, and Toby’s hand dripping blood onto the white carpet. The fury in her eyes was a physical weight. “Andrea, it’s okay,” Toby sobbed, playing the martyr. “I shouldn’t have come in without asking. Adrian has every right to be pissed.” I laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. I turned back to the suit and began hacking it into ribbons, the bloody shears shredding the fabric with a rhythmic, violent obsession. I didn’t know who I was hitting anymore. When I finally stopped, I sat on the blood-stained rug amidst a heap of black scrap metal and silk. I felt nothing but a cold, empty static. Andrea walked over and picked up the shears. She wiped the blood off the blade with a piece of the ruined suit, her voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet chill. “You really went too far this time.” She looked down at me, touching my feverish forehead with one hand while her eyes remained vacant. “I like a man who’s a little fragile, Adrian. Red rims around the eyes? That’s hot. but once the tears actually fall… it just looks cheap. It’s ugly.” My breath hitched. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the two tracks of salt water from staining my face. She pulled her hand away. “Stay here and cool off. Call me when you’re ready to act like an adult.” She packed a bag and left. The house became a tomb. There were guards at the door. I was in a velvet-lined cage. The last time she’d been this angry was years ago, when I’d broken my leg on a remote shoot and finished the job without telling her. By the time I got home, I couldn’t feel my foot. She’d been angry because she was scared for me. She didn’t speak to me for a week. When she finally thawed, she’d tapped my forehead and said, “Do it again, and I’ll lock you in this house forever. I’ve got enough money to keep you as a pet.” I watched the New Year’s broadcast on my phone. Toby was on screen, holding the mic. He looked like a younger, cheaper version of me. Then he turned toward the camera, and the blood drained from my face. Pinned to his lapel was the Silver Crescent. My mother’s brooch. I wore it at every major event. It was my talisman, my bit of luck. I ran to my jewelry box. It was empty. I sprinted downstairs, but the guards blocked the exit. “Sir, please. Don’t make this difficult.” I started laughing. It finally clicked. She hadn’t locked me in to keep me safe. She’d locked me in so I wouldn’t ruin Toby’s big night. I called Andrea. No answer. I sent a voice note, my voice shaking with pure, unadulterated hate: “Give it back. Give me the brooch back, Andrea!” Nothing. Toby flubbed the broadcast. He messed up the sponsors’ names, then misidentified a major pop star. By the time the show ended, the “Toby is a Disaster” hashtag was trending. Immediately, the network’s PR team started leaking photos of his “heroic” injury—his bandaged hand, the blood on the mic. They framed him as a dedicated professional working through the pain. After the show, Toby posted a photo on Instagram. He was posing with a young fan—a girl from a local charity. The Silver Crescent was pinned to her dress. His text followed seconds later: “Hope you don’t mind me paying it forward, Adrian! The kid loved it. Her eyes lit up. Andrea said she’d buy you a new one. I promise I won’t steal the next one.” The blanket was ruined. The brooch was gone. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a glacier. Two hours later, I logged onto my verified Twitter account and posted a long-form thread. It was a scorched-earth confession. Within ten minutes, it had ten thousand retweets. #TobyTheThief was number one. But within the hour, the thread vanished. My account was suspended. “Violating terms of service regarding harassment.” I called every contact I had in the media. One old friend finally whispered the truth. “Adrian, Andrea made the calls. No one is touching this.” I collapsed onto the sofa. I didn’t even have the energy to be angry. I was a ghost in my own life. The final insult came three hours later on the late-night entertainment news: “Renowned host Adrian Winston is taking an indefinite hiatus due to ongoing mental health struggles. Industry insiders urge fans to respect his privacy as he seeks treatment…” She was erasing me. Late that night, Andrea returned. She held out a box containing an antique brooch—Andrean, rare, worth fifty times what my mother’s was. “Stop sulking,” she said. “Toby was wrong to take it. I’ve dealt with him.” I took the brooch and ran the pin along my thumb until a bead of blood appeared. I kept pushing. I felt nothing. “Adrian!” Andrea grabbed my hand, her voice rising in frustration. “How long are you going to keep this up? Talk to me!” Before I could answer, Toby burst into the room. He threw himself onto his knees. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have pushed it. I won’t cross the line again, Adrian.” “I don’t care about the job. I just want to be near Andrea. Even if it’s just once a week, once a month… I just need her.” I knew Andrea’s face. She looked annoyed, but beneath that, I saw the flicker of ego-stroking pleasure. Toby was crying—the exact “cheap” look she claimed to hate, yet she was reaching out to him. I hauled off and punched Toby square in the jaw. Then, I took the antique brooch and dragged the pin across his cheek. Andrea screamed. “Adrian! You’ve lost your mind!” She slapped me. Hard. I threw the expensive piece of jewelry against the marble floor and let out a scream that had been ten years in the making. “Ten years, Andrea! I went from a boy who would have died for you to a dog in your cage! You think this scrap metal makes us even?” She stared at me, shocked. It was the first time I had ever truly defied her. She looked into my bloodshot eyes and her voice went cold. “You’re not being a good boy anymore.” I flinched. It was a reflex. She signaled the guards. They pinned me to the floor. Andrea walked over to the mahogany display rack and pulled out a golf club—a vintage iron. “Adrian, have I spoiled you so much that you’ve forgotten who owns this house?” The club whistled through the air and slammed into my back. The pain was a white-hot explosion. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper, but I didn’t give her a sound. “Are you sorry?” I hissed through gritted teeth. “What did I do wrong?” She swung again, catching my shoulder blade. “Why did you cut his face? Why did you go to the press? Your jealousy almost ruined him.” Third strike. My ribs. “Why can’t you learn? You’re twenty-six, not sixteen!” She stopped, breathing hard, waiting for me to beg. I didn’t. “Adrian?” She realized something was wrong. She touched my forehead. “Why are you so hot? Adrian, look at me. Say something!” I looked through her. The silence took me. The last time this happened was when my grandmother died. I ran to the neighbors to get help, but after I said “Grandma,” my voice simply vanished. It stayed gone for three years. In the fourth year, Andrea had a horrific car accident. She was in a coma for a week. I sat by her bed and whispered her name, and the sound finally broke through. She opened her eyes at that exact moment. “There’s my boy,” she’d said. I woke up in a private hospital wing. Andrea was there. She pressed the Silver Crescent into my hand. “I got it back, Adrian. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” “When you’re ready to go back to work, Toby will be gone. I won’t see him again.” I gripped the brooch. I closed my eyes. It didn’t matter. I had already signed my resignation letter. Her phone started ringing—a relentless, demanding buzz. She looked at me, then at the phone, and stepped out into the hall to take it. When she came back, the bed was empty. My wedding ring was sitting alone on the pillow.

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When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very first day I received that mysterious deposit. It all started when I was at my lowest—broke, hungry, and wondering if I’d be evicted by the end of the week. Then, a single dollar appeared in my bank account. I remember thinking it was a glitch or perhaps some anonymous soul throwing a penny into my wishing well. I didn’t waste time questioning it; I used that dollar to buy a pack of instant ramen just to stop the cramping in my stomach. But the next day, the balance grew to two dollars. On the third day, it was four. By the fifteenth day, the number on my screen had ballooned into a staggering $32,768. That was the moment the reality of the situation hit me like a physical blow. The money was doubling every twenty-four hours. This wasn’t a “gift” from a friend; nobody I knew had that kind of capital or that kind of sense of humor. Terrified of the legal implications, I stopped spending. I practically sprinted to the bank, my heart hammering against my ribs, demanding to know where the wire transfers were coming from. The teller looked at me like I was delusional. She told me my balance was zero. No deposits, no withdrawals, no history. “That’s impossible!” I shouted, shoving my phone in her face to show her the mobile app. She just sighed, flagged a security guard, and had me escorted out as if I were some junkie playing a prank. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The app updated every day at midnight like clockwork. I tried tracing the source, but there was no routing number, no note—just a void where the sender’s name should be. That night, exactly at midnight, I was frantically scrolling through my contacts, trying to see if any old college friend had hit the jackpot and decided to play benefactor. Suddenly, a cold, sharp pressure bloomed in my chest. My heart skipped a beat, then another, before stumbling into a rhythm that felt like death. I collapsed onto my bed, the world fading to black before I could even scream. 1. A single dollar. It was there again, staring at me from the screen of my cracked smartphone. The exact same starting point as my previous life. No sender info. No paper trail. Just the money. In that first life, I was too desperate to be suspicious. I was sick, out of work, and living in a damp basement apartment in South Philly. I didn’t have the luxury of wondering who was playing God with my bank account; I just needed to eat. I figured someone had just typed in the wrong account number. After all, what’s a dollar? Then came the two dollars. I started to romanticize it. I thought maybe it was some eccentric philanthropist who knew I was struggling and wanted to help in a way that felt like a game. By the third day, it was four dollars. It kept growing. I felt a surge of profound gratitude. This “miracle” allowed me to finally pay off my medical bills and keep my treatment going. My health improved, but it was quickly replaced by a new, suffocating kind of anxiety. I had assumed the charity would cap out at a few thousand. But by the fourteenth day, when the balance crossed the ten-thousand-dollar mark, the scale changed. I told myself I’d work hard and pay it back eventually. After a brief internal struggle, I used the money to claw my way out of that basement. I signed a lease on a sun-drenched apartment and bought a few professional outfits, ready to restart my life. Then, the fifteenth day hit. Thirty-two thousand dollars. I couldn’t breathe. My family was gone, my parents passed away years ago, and my remaining relatives treated me like a leper. I didn’t have “rich” friends. Who would do this? Why this specific pattern? The uncertainty drove me to the bank, where the horror truly began. The bank insisted my balance was zero. But the money was real—I had spent it. I had paid the hospital, the landlord, the boutiques. If the money didn’t exist, how were those transactions cleared? I went home and started calling everyone I ever knew, desperate for an answer. I never finished the list. At the stroke of midnight, my heart simply stopped. As I sat there now, reliving the memory of that phantom pain, a terrifying realization began to take shape in my mind. The reason I died… was likely because I hadn’t spent every last cent. 2. For the first fourteen days, I had emptied the account. But on the fifteenth day, when that thirty-two thousand arrived, I froze. I was too scared to touch it. And at midnight, I was punished. Was this some kind of twisted gift from a higher power? A “Brewster’s Millions” scenario where the price of the windfall was total consumption? If I didn’t spend it, did I forfeit my life? “No,” I whispered, shaking my head to clear the fog. “That’s insane.” I’m a pragmatist. I don’t believe in urban legends or digital ghosts. There had to be a logical explanation. My plan was simple: use the money to get healthy again, and then, before the numbers became astronomical, find the person behind the curtain. By the thirteenth day of this new life, the balance hit $8,192. This time, I didn’t spend it on fluff. I drove to a bank on the other side of the city—a small branch where nobody knew me. I had a nagging suspicion that the staff at my local branch in my last life had been lying to me. “Hi, I’d like to check my balance, please,” I said, keeping my voice steady. I didn’t mention the “miracle.” I wanted to see what their system showed first. The teller tapped a few keys, her expression neutral. “Ms. Lane, it looks like this account has a zero balance.” My blood ran cold. “Zero? Are you sure? Could you check for pending deposits?” “Nothing,” she said firmly. “According to our records, the last transaction on this account was back in early March when you withdrew your final twenty dollars. There hasn’t been a cent moved since.” I stood there, paralyzed. Early March. The day before the first dollar appeared. That meant every deposit and every purchase I had made over the last two weeks existed entirely outside the banking system. How was that possible? Who has the power to bypass the federal banking infrastructure? I demanded to see the manager. I caused a scene. But no matter who looked at the screen, the answer was the same: Zero. I became convinced it was a conspiracy. The bank had to be in on it. They were gaslighting me. I called the police, right there in the lobby. But after they ran their preliminary check, they treated me like a psychiatric case. They escorted me out with a warning: if I came back to “harass” the staff again, I’d be facing a disorderly conduct charge. I felt a deep, hollow sense of dread. If science and the law couldn’t explain the money, then I was playing by different rules. Rules that ended in a body bag if I failed to follow them. I didn’t gamble. I spent the eight thousand dollars as fast as I could—donations, high-end electronics, anything to hit zero. Only then did I allow myself to breathe. That night, I sat down with a calculator. If this continued, by the twentieth day, the daily deposit would be over a million dollars. I could buy a house to clear that. But what about after that? Could I buy a whole city block? By the end of the second month, the amount would exceed the national debt. It would be impossible to spend. If the rule was “spend it or die,” I was already a dead woman walking. I felt a shiver crawl up my spine. Unless the theory is wrong, I told myself. Unless there is a person—a human being—pulling these strings. I dug my nails into my palms until I broke the skin. I had to stay sharp. I went back to my list of contacts, more determined than ever. On the seventeenth day, I finally found a name that made sense. 3. Beatrice Whitmore. We had been neighbors growing up, the kind of best friends who shared every secret and a blood-oath of sisterhood. But after my parents’ business collapsed and they committed suicide, I was shuffled off to distant relatives in another state. We hadn’t spoken since middle school. I’d recently seen her name in the business section. She’d made a fortune in European tech and had started investing back in the States last year. Out of everyone I knew, she was the only one with the resources to pull this off. But why? If she wanted to help me, why the doubling game? Why did I die in my first life? Was my death the goal? If this was a conspiracy, what could she possibly want from a girl who had nothing but a pile of medical debt and a haunted past? I couldn’t find an answer, but she was my only lead. I tried her office number—blocked. I went to her corporate headquarters, but the receptionist told me Ms. Whitmore was “unavailable” to see me. That meant one of two things: either she’d forgotten I existed, or she was terrified of looking me in the eye. I played it cool. I used the doubling money—now in the hundreds of thousands—to buy a sleek, nondescript SUV and spent my days staked out across from her office. Finally, I saw her. I followed her car to a private bank—the same one I had visited in my first life. I watched through the window as the manager practically bowed to her. That was the confirmation I needed. The bank wasn’t a glitch; it was an accomplice. They were erasing the trail for her. As she walked out toward her car, I didn’t hesitate. I lunged forward, blocking her path. “Beatrice! Why are you doing this?” I screamed, grabbing her by the lapels of her designer coat. I searched her face for a flicker of guilt, for the girl I used to know. She looked startled, then annoyed. “Cassie? Cassie Lane?” She pulled back, smoothing her coat. “You’ve lost your mind. What on earth are you talking about?” “The money! The deposits! Why are you messing with my head?” I pointed at the bank manager who had rushed out to assist her. “How much did you pay them to lie to me? To tell me my balance is zero while you pump millions into my account?” The manager didn’t even let Beatrice answer. He grabbed my arm, shoving me back with enough force to make me stumble. “You’re delusional,” the manager spat. “Ms. Whitmore is here on high-level corporate business. You? You’re a girl who couldn’t even afford her own antibiotics a month ago. You think a woman like her has time to play games with a charity case like you?” Beatrice sighed, reaching into her Birkin bag. She pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills and tossed them at my feet. “Look, Cassie. I get it. You heard I was back in town and you’re desperate. You want to cash in on a friendship that ended fifteen years ago? Fine. Take the cash and get lost. That’s all our ‘history’ is worth to me.” She turned and climbed into her town car without a backward glance. I stood there, fists clenched, watching the red glow of her taillights. I was more certain now than ever. Beatrice was the one. Because the manager had said something he shouldn’t have known. “A girl who couldn’t even afford her own antibiotics a month ago.” In this life, I hadn’t been to this bank. I hadn’t told anyone about my illness here. How did he know I was sick? There was only one way. They had been watching me. 4. Once the adrenaline faded, the fear went with it. I’ve spent my whole life being afraid—of poverty, of sickness, of the end. But now that the monster had a face, I could fight back. If Beatrice wanted to play, I’d play. I would spend every cent she threw at me until she ran dry. “Dr. Lowery, I’m putting you on a ten-thousand-dollar daily retainer,” I told the physician I’d recruited from out of state. “Your only job is to test every drop of water and every scrap of food that enters this house. I want to know the second you detect a toxin.” By the twenty-first day, the deposit was over two million dollars. I bought a fortress of a house, upgraded the security to military grade, and locked myself in. I had chemical sensors and a private doctor who was forbidden from contacting the outside world. If Beatrice wanted me dead, she wasn’t going to get me with a “sudden” heart attack this time. Every day, I spent. Day twenty-two: Five million dollars. I bought art, jewelry, and offshore gold, ensuring the balance hit zero before the clock struck midnight. I was convinced Beatrice was reaching her breaking point. No matter how rich you are, liquidating tens of millions in cash every few days is a nightmare. But by day twenty-four, when the balance hit nearly twenty million, my confidence began to crumble. How could one person have this much liquidity? Even for a tech mogul, this was an impossible amount of cash to move anonymously. Was I really worth this much to her? At 2:00 AM, unable to sleep, I slipped out of the house. I drove three hours to a tiny, rural town and found a local credit union. I bribed a late-night IT contractor with fifty thousand dollars to let me look at the raw data in the federal system for my account. I typed in my ID and my account number. The screen blinked. Balance: $0.00. My heart stopped. The managers hadn’t been bought. The system wasn’t being manipulated by Beatrice. The money… it really didn’t exist in the physical world. But if the money was “magic” or “supernatural,” then why did the bank manager know about my medical history? I felt like my brain was fracturing. If the money wasn’t Beatrice’s, then my first death wasn’t a murder—it was a systemic erasure. A rule of the universe. I frantically refreshed the page. Before I could see more, the contractor pulled me away. “Someone’s coming, you gotta go!” On the drive back, I looked at the twenty-million-dollar figure on my phone. Despair washed over me. How do you spend twenty million in a day? I started buying luxury yachts online, donating to every GoFundMe I could find. But the sheer volume was too much. The “System” was flagging me. I got a call from a federal agent. I hung up. I didn’t care about jail; I cared about midnight. Bang! Bang! Bang! The sound of the front door being kicked in echoed through the house. I checked the monitors. Men in uniforms. Panic seized me. I ran to the storage room, tripping over a stack of boxes. Junk spilled everywhere. And there, glinting under the harsh fluorescent light, was a small plastic card I hadn’t seen in years. I froze. I picked it up, then looked at my phone. The pieces finally clicked, and the horror of it nearly made me vomit.

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I will never forget the spectacle of my own ruined wedding. It was supposed to be the day my wife and I finally had the grand ceremony we never got. The guests had arrived, the Hamptons estate was draped in thousands of white hydrangeas, and the champagne was already flowing. But the bride was nowhere to be found. Just as the officiant began dabbing his sweating forehead, the estate manager boxed me in with a dozen security guards. He informed me, loudly, that the bride had just canceled all the wire transfers. I was suddenly on the hook for an eight-million-dollar venue fee. But the true devastation came moments later, when the massive LED screens behind the altar flickered to life. It wasn’t a slideshow of our memories. It was a live video of my wife, cruising down a sun-drenched coastline in a convertible with her first love. Through the towering speakers, she laughed into the camera, declaring that since I had humiliated her “golden boy” at the dealership, she was going to let me taste what it felt like to be abandoned on the most important day of my life. The dealership incident had happened months ago. She had secretly drained my personal accounts to pay for her ex’s supposed “psychological therapy.” Instead, the guy had marched straight into a Porsche dealership. When I found out, I called the bank, reported the fraud, and had the luxury car repossessed right as the salesman was handing him the keys. When she came home that night, she had hugged me. She’d praised my financial prudence, whispering that we shouldn’t encourage such vanity. Now, standing at the altar, I realized every single word had been a performance. 1 “You can stop staring at the door, groom. Vicky isn’t coming.” Brad, the estate manager, stepped into my line of sight. He wore a crisp suit and a smile that dripped with professional malice. My limbs felt like lead as I stood in the dead center of the Grand Ballroom at Crestview Estate. We were surrounded by New York’s elite, standing on a carpet of imported white petals. It was supposed to be the wedding of the season. It certainly was the spectacle of the season. Just not the kind I had planned. My knuckles turned white as I gripped my darkened phone. “What exactly are you saying, Brad?” Brad snapped his fingers. A dozen security guards, hands resting menacingly on their batons, tightened the circle around me. “Mrs. Ellsworth just withdrew every cent of the advance payments. She left specific instructions. Since you were the one who insisted on this little vow renewal…” Brad pulled a folded invoice from his breast pocket and flicked it open. “The venue, the catering, the floral arrangements, the staff. It comes to eight million dollars.” He shoved the paper at my chest. “And Mrs. Ellsworth said you’re footing the bill.” A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom. The whispers began immediately, sharp and stinging as they crawled into my ears. “God, Vicky is ruthless. A runaway bride on the day of the vow renewal?” “Well, look at him. He’s a nobody. A charity case she took in. He had no business marrying into the Ellsworth family.” “Eight million? You could sell his organs and he wouldn’t have enough.” I took a slow, agonizing breath, forcing the rising panic down into the pit of my stomach. “I need to speak with Vicky.” Brad scoffed. “Speak with the CEO? You think you still have that kind of access?” He turned and pointed toward the massive screens above the stage. “She knew you’d be pathetic about this. She left you a message.” The screen flickered. A bright, high-definition image filled the room. The backdrop was the endless, glittering blue of the Mediterranean. Vicky was lounging on the deck of a yacht, wearing a silk cover-up and oversized sunglasses, a flute of vintage champagne dangling from her fingers. And tucked securely under her arm was a man. Timothy. The tragic first love. The one with the “severe anxiety.” The one who had tried to steal my money for a sports car. The ocean breeze caught Timothy’s hair as he laughed—a loud, brazen sound—draping his entire body over my wife. Vicky’s voice boomed through the ballroom’s state-of-the-art acoustics, shaking the floorboards. “Nicholas, Timothy has been suffering from severe PTSD ever since you called the cops on him at the dealership. My therapist said he needs a change of scenery to heal. I have to be here for him.” She took a sip of champagne, her lips curling into a smirk. “As for the wedding? Figure it out yourself.” 2 On the screen, Timothy leaned in, batting his eyelashes as he pressed a kiss to Vicky’s cheek. “Vic, honey, isn’t Nicholas going to be a little embarrassed standing all by himself in front of those people?” Vicky stroked his jaw, her eyes full of sickening fondness. “Oh, his skin is thick enough. He’ll survive.” The video cut to black. For a fraction of a second, the ballroom was as quiet as a tomb. Then, the dam broke. A tidal wave of mocking laughter crashed over me. I saw the flashes of a hundred smartphone cameras going off. Off to the side, I spotted a couple of lifestyle influencers speaking frantically into their live streams. “Oh my god, you guys, absolute Hamptons meltdown! The billionaire bride just ditched her stay-at-home husband for her ex! He owes eight million dollars!” Standing under the glaring spotlight in my bespoke tuxedo, I felt like a clown in a circus ring. The sheer, suffocating weight of the humiliation threatened to crush my lungs. Brad signaled the audio tech to cut the house music. He crossed his arms, staring me down. “Enjoy the show? Good. Now, how are you paying?” I clenched my jaw. “I don’t have my cards on me. Let me make a phone call—” “No money?” Brad’s smug smile vanished, replaced by a thuggish sneer. “Then what the hell are you playing at? You think someone like you belongs at Crestview?” He stepped closer, his eyes raking over me, lingering on my lapels. “Mrs. Ellsworth figured you’d try to skip out on the bill. But I see you’re wearing a custom Brioni suit. The diamond cufflinks alone must be worth a few grand.” He snapped his fingers at the guards. “Strip him. Take the suit, the watch, the shoes. Let everyone see what happens to a gold-digger when the ride is over.” The guards laughed, stepping forward, rolling their shoulders. “Back off.” I took a step back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “This is assault. I will call the police.” “The police?” Brad barked a laugh. “Out here in the estates, I am the law. Take it off him! Rip it off if you have to!” A massive guard lunged forward. His calloused hand grabbed the lapel of my jacket and the collar of my silk shirt. Riiiiip. The sickening sound of tearing fabric echoed over the chatter of the crowd. The silk gave way, exposing my chest to the cold air conditioning of the ballroom. A tremor of absolute shame ripped through my body, but I didn’t cry. Tears are the currency of the weak, and right now, I couldn’t afford to be weak. I pivoted, driving the heel of my leather shoe down onto the guard’s foot with crushing force. “Agh!” The guard howled, stumbling backward and clutching his foot. I pulled my torn jacket tight across my chest, my eyes locking onto Brad with a venom that made him flinch. “You think you can touch me, Brad? Even the owner of Crestview wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me. Who the hell do you think you are?” Brad froze for a second before bursting into theatrical laughter. “The owner? Nicholas, have you lost your mind? I answer to no one but the Ellsworths! Mrs. Ellsworth told me to ruin you today, and I’m delivering! You think you’re still the lord of the manor? Without her, you’re less than a stray dog!” Suddenly, the massive LED screen flickered again. This time, it wasn’t pre-recorded. The icon for a live FaceTime call popped up, and Vicky’s face filled the screen. The background was still the yacht, the sound of the churning ocean now a live audio feed. Timothy had changed into designer swimwear. He was curled up against Vicky’s chest, rubbing at his eyes as if he were crying. “Nicholas, I’m so sorry,” Timothy whimpered into the camera. “I just… I couldn’t breathe without Vic. It’s my fault. Don’t be mad at her.” The manipulative, saccharine act made bile rise in my throat. I stared into the camera lens, my voice dropping to a frozen whisper. “Is this really how you want to do this, Vicky? After five years? I built you up from nothing. I stood by you when you were sleeping on the floor of a studio apartment. And you throw it away because he shed a single fake tear?” Vicky scowled, her annoyance radiating through the pixels. “Nicholas, stop being so dramatic. Timothy has severe emotional fragility. As my husband, shouldn’t you be a little more accommodating? Besides, this whole vow renewal was your idea. You wanted to ‘celebrate our journey.’ Now it’s a joke. You brought this on yourself.” The guests muttered among themselves. “She’s awful, but god, he has no spine.” “Right? His wife is literally cuddling her side-piece on screen, and he’s still begging for her love.” Before I could respond, a shadow darted onto the stage. It was my mother-in-law, Margery. A woman who spent her weekends at charity galas preaching about grace, but behind closed doors was the most vicious woman I had ever met. She didn’t hesitate. She raised her hand and struck me across the face. Smack! The blow was heavy, her diamond rings cutting into my cheek. My ear rang, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. “You absolute parasite!” Margery shrieked, pointing a manicured finger at my face. “You couldn’t even keep a woman happy! You’re a disgrace to the Ellsworth name!” She turned to the crowd, playing the victim. “I told her not to marry a charity case! He brought nothing but bad luck to our family! And now look! You drove my daughter away on her special day, and you have the audacity to stand here and whine?” I touched my bleeding lip, staring at the woman I had personally cared for, cooked for, and funded for half a decade. “Margery… she is the one cheating on me.” “Shut your mouth!” Margery snapped. “So what if she is? Vicky is a CEO! She works hard! What have you done? Five years living under our roof, and you haven’t even given her a child! You’re just taking up space!” Brad chimed in, pouring gasoline on the fire. “Mrs. Ellsworth, just so you know, he still owes the estate eight million dollars. Vicky made it very clear the family isn’t paying.” At the mention of money, Margery took three quick steps backward, throwing her hands up. “His debts are his own! The Ellsworths have nothing to do with him!” Brad turned back to me, a cruel grin spreading across his face. “Hear that? You’ve got no one left. But, Vicky left one loophole.” On the screen, Timothy giggled, his eyes flashing with malice. “Vic, he’s so stubborn. A simple apology isn’t going to fix my trauma. I think… I think he needs to clean up his mess. Literally. If he gets down on his knees and licks the spilled wine off the floor, I might find it in my heart to forgive him.” Vicky didn’t miss a beat. “You heard him, Nicholas. Kneel and lick it up, or go to jail for fraud.” The crowd erupted into a sickening chorus of jeers. “Do it! It’s eight million bucks!” “Get on the floor, gold-digger!” Margery lunged forward again, grabbing the back of my neck, trying to physically force me to the floor. “Are you deaf? Kneel down! Apologize to Timothy!” 3 My knees burned with the strain as Margery shoved her weight against my shoulders, but I locked my joints. I kept my spine steel-straight. I refused to bend. The humiliation washed over me like a freezing tide, but as the icy water receded, it took something with it. It washed away the last shred of lingering delusion I had about my wife. In that suffocating silence, beneath the blinding chandeliers, the man who had unconditionally loved Vicky Ellsworth simply ceased to exist. I violently threw off Margery’s hands. The force sent the older woman stumbling backward in her heels until she nearly pitched off the edge of the stage. “You ungrateful wretch! You dare push me?” she shrieked. I ignored her. I raised a hand, wiping the blood from my chin. Whatever tears of betrayal had been threatening my eyes evaporated, replaced by a cold, hollow calm. I looked up, staring directly into Vicky’s digital eyes on the massive screen. “Vicky. Do you honestly believe an eight-million-dollar bill is enough to break me?” Vicky blinked in surprise, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Nicholas, you don’t even have a hundred dollars to your name. Stop pretending. I shut off your credit cards. The money in your personal account went to Timothy’s car. You’re completely broke. You couldn’t even afford an Uber out of here.” I smiled. It was a terrifying, dead thing. I turned to Brad. “Give me ten minutes. If I clear this eight-million-dollar tab, I am going to make you, Vicky, and Timothy pay a price you cannot fathom.” Brad looked at me like I was a psychiatric patient. “Ten minutes? Buddy, you couldn’t scrape that together if you sold both your kidneys.” But Timothy, always eager for more cruelty, leaned into the camera frame. “Oh, I love a bet! If Nicholas can pull eight million dollars out of thin air, I will personally jump off this yacht and swim back to New York!” He paused, his smile turning toxic. “But if you can’t, you strip down to nothing, and you crawl out of this estate on your hands and knees.” “And,” Vicky added smoothly, “you sign a contract to become Timothy’s personal assistant. You will do whatever he says, whenever he says it, without a single complaint.” I gave a slow, deliberate nod. My voice was eerily quiet, yet it carried across the entire room. “Deal. Everyone in this room is my witness. The millions of people watching on those live streams are my witnesses.” The ballroom went electric. This was the kind of unhinged aristocratic drama money couldn’t buy. “Is he clinically insane? Eight million!” “He’s stalling. He’s totally stalling.” “I’ve got my camera ready. He’s gonna be crawling naked in ten minutes.” I tuned out the noise. I walked over to the bewildered officiant, who was still clutching a microphone and his smartphone. “Borrowing this,” I murmured, sliding the phone from his grip. Before he could protest, my fingers flew across the keypad, dialing a number I hadn’t used in five long years. A direct, encrypted line known only to the inner circle of the Beaumont family. It rang exactly once. An older, deeply refined voice answered. The composure was there, but beneath it, I could hear the sharp inhale of shock. “Young Master? Is… is that you?” My grip on the phone tightened. I took a steadying breath to push past the sudden lump in my throat. “Winston. It’s me.” “Sir.” “I’m at the Crestview Estate in the Hamptons. I’m currently surrounded by pests.” I paused, my eyes sweeping over Brad and Margery. “Clear the room.” Even through the cellular static, the sheer, murderous intent that radiated from the old butler was palpable. “Understood, Young Master. Five minutes.” I ended the call and tossed the phone back to the officiant. Brad checked his heavy gold watch, his face twisted in an ugly sneer. “Nine minutes left. Boys, get ready to help the groom out of his clothes. We wouldn’t want him to be late for his crawl.” Margery spat on the floor near my shoes. “Playing pretend! Let’s see who you think you’re calling! When you can’t pay, I’ll skin you alive myself!” I simply crossed my arms over my ruined shirt, leaned back against a floral pillar, and closed my eyes. Let them bark. Let them laugh. Vicky, Timothy, the Ellsworth family. You worship money so blindly? Then I will show you what true, absolute wealth really looks like. 4 The minutes ticked by. Brad began to count down, his voice thick with vicious anticipation. “One minute!” “Thirty seconds!” On the screen, Vicky had already popped a fresh bottle of champagne. Timothy was practically vibrating with glee. “Take it off, Nicky! You’ve got a decent body, don’t be shy!” “Ten seconds!” Brad crumpled the invoice into a ball and threw it at my feet. “Time’s up! Boys, take him down! Strip him!” The security guards, hopped up on adrenaline and cruelty, lunged at me like a pack of starving wolves. Hands reached for my shoulders, fingers clawing at my torn collar. Just as the first hand grazed my skin— FWHUMP-FWHUMP-FWHUMP. A deafening, rhythmic roar erupted from the sky, entirely drowning out the screaming crowd. The massive crystal chandeliers above us began to sway violently. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows vibrated so hard I thought they would shatter. Guests screamed, covering their ears and ducking as they looked toward the sky. Hovering just beyond the glass, hovering over the manicured lawns of the estate, were three military-grade Black Hawk helicopters. The downdraft was tearing the pristine wedding tents to shreds. Emblazoned on the side of the matte-black fuselage of the lead chopper was a single, gleaming gold crest. A stylized letter ‘B’. Thick ropes dropped from the open bays. Dozens of men clad in tactical black gear repelled down in terrifying unison, a scene ripped straight out of a blockbuster thriller. They didn’t even bother with the doors. They breached the terrace windows, stepping through the shattered glass with batons drawn. Crack! Thud! The security guards who had just been inches from my face were suddenly airborne, tackled to the marble floor and pinned with brutal efficiency. Brad didn’t even have time to scream before a tactical boot connected with the back of his knee, sending him crashing to the ground. “Agh! My leg!” Simultaneously, the heavy oak doors of the ballroom were violently shoved open. A convoy of five midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantoms glided into the courtyard outside, their presence suffocating and regal. The license plates were low-number diplomatic and elite state plates. Untouchable. The socialites in the room were backing away in sheer terror, pressing themselves against the walls. “What… what is happening?” “That crest… That’s the Beaumont crest. The Manhattan real estate billionaires!” “Why is the Beaumont family here? Who the hell did this guy piss off?!” On the screen, Vicky had gone pale. The champagne flute slipped from her fingers, spilling across her silk wrap. “Are those… Beaumont vehicles?” But Timothy clapped his hands, giggling hysterically. “I knew it! Nicholas borrowed money from loan sharks and pissed off the Beaumonts! They’re here to execute him! Oh, babe, this is the best day ever!” The center Phantom rolled to a smooth stop. The rear door opened. An older gentleman stepped out. He was dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, exuding an aura of absolute authority. He ignored the screaming billionaires, the broken glass, and the weeping guards. He walked in a perfectly straight line toward the center of the room. Toward me. It was Winston, the Chief of Staff for Beaumont Holdings. Under the terrified gaze of five hundred guests, Winston stopped three feet away from me. He meticulously adjusted his cuffs, and then bowed—a deep, perfect ninety-degree bow. His voice was clear, echoing through the stunned silence. “Young Master Nicholas. I apologize for my delay. I trust you are unharmed?” The entire ballroom stopped breathing.

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The wedding was less than twenty-four hours away, but there I was, standing in the hallway of a luxury condo I’d found through a last-minute listing. The price had just plummeted, and in this market, I couldn’t afford not to look. The door opened to reveal a woman who was young, radiant, and glowing with a flush that hadn’t come from a bottle. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, smoothing her silk robe. She offered a small, knowing smile. “My husband insisted on a FaceTime call. We got a little… distracted.” She led me into the living room, her voice a steady stream of sweet, casual complaints about him. She told me how he’d just bought a massive penthouse uptown—insisting they needed floor-to-ceiling windows for “the right romantic atmosphere”—which made this place redundant. That was why she was selling it so cheap. I was about to offer a polite compliment about how attentive her husband sounded when my breath caught. My entire world narrowed down to a single point on the gallery wall. There, framed in heavy gold, was a wedding portrait. The man in the photo, wearing a smile I had woken up to for seven years, was Simon. The same Simon who was supposed to stand at the altar with me tomorrow. In that heartbeat, the blood in my veins turned to ice. My hands went numb, the keys in my pocket feeling like lead. 1 She noticed me staring. A prideful, shimmering laugh escaped her lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? Simon practically chased me for six months before I said yes.” Chloe—I remembered her name from the listing now—stroked the edge of the frame. “He bought me this place as a ‘thank you’ for finally agreeing to be his. The deed is entirely in my name. Cash closing.” I nodded, my brain stuttering. I remembered a stretch of time last year when Simon, a man who usually lived in wrinkled flannels, suddenly started obsessing over his skin-care routine and tailored shirts. I’d teased him about having a mid-life crisis. I didn’t realize he was playing the role of the smitten suitor for a girl ten years younger than me. I didn’t realize he’d already walked down an aisle. Chloe adjusted her robe, but not before I saw the dark, blooming bruises of love bites across her collarbone. “Don’t let the suit fool you,” she whispered, her eyes dancing with a cruel sort of intimacy. “He’s a beast in bed. Half the time, I can’t even make it out of the house the next morning.” I blinked, my eyes stinging. I looked around the room. It was filled with ghosts of a life I thought was mine. The plush velvet sofa was the exact model Simon and I had looked at, the one he said was ‘too expensive’ for our tiny rental. The espresso machine, the organic linen throws—everything in this high-end condo was a premium version of the life we shared in our 500-square-foot walk-up. It hit me then, a dull ache behind my ribs: my life was just the low-budget rehearsal for this. While I was staying up late worrying about his “business trips” and “overtime shifts,” he was here, cocooned in luxury with his secret bride. “Here,” Chloe said, handing me a folder. “You can check the title. Simon said he wanted us to have a ‘real’ marital home, but he knew I needed to feel secure, so he put his savings into this for me.” I opened the folder. The date on the purchase agreement felt like a physical blow to the stomach. Two years ago. Right after our engagement. We had saved every penny for a down payment. Then, Simon had come home looking devastated, telling me a “crypto investment” had wiped him out. I didn’t hesitate. I gave him my entire savings to help him “settle the debt.” I worked three jobs to make up the difference. I worked until I was so exhausted I miscarried our first child at eight weeks. And all that time, my money—our “future”—was paying for Chloe’s security. Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days of lies. Enough time for a child to have been born and taken its first steps. “Ma’am?” A housekeeper appeared at the kitchen island, her voice soft. “Mr. Sterling insisted you eat before he gets back. For the baby.” Chloe turned to me, a dainty, apologetic smile on her face. “Sorry. I’m three months along, and Simon is absolutely neurotic about my nutrition. He’s obsessed.” My voice came out like gravel. “You’re… pregnant?” She rubbed her belly, her expression softening into something genuinely maternal. “Thirteen weeks. He cried when I told him. He’s already picked out a nickname. Peanut.” Peanut. When I was pregnant, Simon had spun me around the kitchen, crying with joy. He’d spent nights scrolling through baby name sites. When I lost the baby, he’d held me in the hospital bed, sobbing that “we’d have another chance.” He wasn’t wrong. The chance had come. It just wasn’t for me. He’d even stolen the nickname we had picked out in the dark of our bedroom and gifted it to her. The front door clicked. “Chloe? Did Peanut let you sleep in today, or was he—” Simon stopped dead. The color drained from his face, a flicker of raw panic crossing his features before his mask slammed back into place. He walked right past me as if I were a shadow, sitting down next to Chloe and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We have company?” he asked, his voice tight. “I told you not to open the door to strangers.” Chloe giggled, looping her arm through his. “She’s here about the listing. See? I told you I could handle the sale myself.” Simon forced a laugh, his eyes never meeting mine. “My girl is the best.” A hollow, echoing void opened up in my chest. Just yesterday, I’d told him I found a great deal on a condo and asked if he wanted to see it. He’d snapped at me, telling me he was too stressed with work to deal with my “fantasies.” I turned and walked out. I didn’t say a word. The winter air hit me like a physical blade. I walked until my face felt frozen, the tears turning into a mask of ice on my cheeks. When I finally got back to our apartment, he was there. Waiting. He stood up as I entered and reached for my hands, trying to tuck them into his chest the way he always did when I was cold. “Maya, you’re freezing. Where have you—” I wrenched my hands away. Looking at the “worry” in his eyes, I started to laugh. It was a jagged, ugly sound. Tears began to splash onto the hardwood. “Maya, don’t,” he whispered, reaching out to wipe my face. He pulled a small box from behind his back—a matcha cake from the bakery I loved. “I only married her because of the baby. You’re the one I want to be with. You’ve always been the one.” I pushed his hand away, my entire body shaking. “The wedding photos are real, Simon. The deed is real. The baby in her stomach is real.” His face hardened. He tossed the cake onto the table, his gaze turning sharp and defensive. “Are you really going to hold this over me? I had to be responsible. I couldn’t let my child be a ‘mistake’ on a birth certificate.” The pain was a white-hot spike. When I was pregnant, I had begged him to just go to the courthouse. I didn’t need a party. I just wanted our baby to have a family. He’d stalled. He’d made excuses. Then the baby was gone, and the “need” for the courthouse vanished. But for Chloe, he couldn’t wait. “She’s been in your life for two years, and she got everything I spent seven years begging for,” I said. “And you’re asking me if I’m ‘holding it over you’?” He let out a frustrated breath and pulled a legal document from his bag. He slid it across the table. “If you want that condo so bad, fine. Sign this. I’m transferring the title to you. Consider it… a settlement.” I looked at the paper. For years, I had obsessively saved every cent for a home. I’d spent nights calculating interest rates, dreaming of what color to paint the nursery. It was the only thing that kept me going through twelve-hour shifts. And now he was handing it to me like a consolation prize. “What were we, Simon?” I choked out. “What were the last seven years?” He rubbed his temples, his voice dripping with an exhausting kind of patience. “Chloe is young. She’s fragile. She needed the security of that house to feel safe with me. You… you were always the strong one, Maya.” I stared at him. “So that was my mistake? Being strong?” He gave me a cold, dismissive look. “Chloe has boundaries. She has self-respect. Our first time was our wedding night. But you? You were in a cheap motel with me when you were twenty. You set the bar low for yourself.” The words felt like a physical assault. I looked at the man I had loved since I was a girl and remembered him crying in that “cheap motel,” holding me and swearing he’d spend the rest of his life making me happy. I had thought it was love. He had thought it was a transaction. He shoved the contract into my hands. “Take the house. Chloe is pregnant. You can scream at me all you want, but don’t you dare go near her again.” Even now, his priority was her peace. His phone buzzed. His expression smoothed into something tender as he glanced at the screen. He grabbed his coat, giving me one last warning look before heading for the door. But the door flew open before he reached it. Chloe stormed in, her face twisted in a mask of rage. She didn’t hesitate—she lunged forward and slapped me so hard my head snapped back. Her designer nails left a row of bleeding gashes on my cheek. “You bitch!” she screamed. “You’re trying to steal my husband?” She blew on her reddened palm, looking at me with pure disgust. “Look at you. You’re pathetic. Look at this dump you live in. You think a man like Simon wants a tired, old secretary when he has me?” I looked at Simon. He was watching her with a terrifyingly fond expression—the same look he’d used when he proposed to me years ago. Now, I was just the background noise in his new life. Chloe grabbed the contract from my hands and tore it into confetti, throwing the pieces in my face. “You’re not getting our house. You’re not getting him.” Simon stepped in then, gently catching her wrists. “Chloe, honey, stop. You’re pregnant. Let’s just go home. Don’t let the neighbors see this… spectacle.” The neighbors. The spectacle. After seven years of building a life together, I was just an “outsider” causing a scene. Chloe sobbed into his chest. “You told me you broke up with this old woman months ago! If I hadn’t followed you today, I wouldn’t have known you were still seeing her.” I looked up, stunned. She had known about me the whole time. She turned her head, looking over Simon’s shoulder to sneer at me. “I know everything, Maya. I know you live like a pauper to save pennies. I know you couldn’t even keep your own baby. A man’s heart is where his money is. Look around this room, then look at my condo. Who do you think he loves?” Simon stiffened. He put a hand over her mouth. “That’s enough.” Chloe wrenched free, her voice shrill. “Why? It’s the truth. He only comes here when he wants a break from the good life. You’re just his bargain-bin habit, Maya.” Simon’s jaw tightened. “I said, enough.” As they left, Chloe paused to flash her marriage license at me like a weapon. “If you have any dignity left, stay away from my husband. Nobody likes a home-wrecker.” The date on the license was the day I had been home on bed rest after my miscarriage. He’d told me he was going out to get groceries to make me soup. Instead, he’d gone to the courthouse to marry her. I sat in the dark until the sun came up. When I walked into the office the next morning, my belongings were scattered across the floor. My desk was plastered with printed signs: HOME-WRECKER. WHORE. My manager threw a termination notice at my feet. “We don’t need this kind of drama, Maya. We’re a family company. Pack your things.” “I didn’t do anything,” I said, my voice hollow. He laughed. “His wife sent a formal complaint. She sent photos. She sent the marriage license. Go home.” The whispers followed me out. She looked so sweet. You never really know people, do you? When I got to my apartment complex, the walls of the lobby were covered in posters with my face on them, detailing my “affair.” I began tearing them down, my fingernails bleeding. Neighbors stood in small groups, pointing and whispering. A man from the third floor stepped into my path, a leering grin on his face. “How much for a night, honey? If you’re giving it away to married guys, I’m sure we can work something out.” “Get away from me!” I screamed. He grabbed my arm, his face turning ugly. “Don’t act like a lady now. I saw the posters.” A hand clamped onto the man’s wrist. I looked up, seeing the familiar red braided bracelet on the newcomer’s arm. “Simon!” I cried, grabbing his sleeve. “Tell them! Tell them we’ve been together for seven years! Tell them I’m not the mistress!” Simon shoved me away. His eyes were burning with a cold, frantic rage. “I told you to stay away from Chloe!” he hissed. “She’s in the hospital because of the stress you caused her! She almost lost the baby today!” “I didn’t do anything to her!” “I don’t care! These posters? This is what happens when you mess with my family. Don’t think your ‘seven years’ gives you the right to harass my wife.” He turned and walked away, his words solidifying the lie for everyone watching. I was the villain. My phone rang. It was my mother, her voice hysterical. “Maya… people are here. They’re outside the house with a megaphone, calling you names… your father… he collapsed. It’s his heart, Maya. We’re in the ER…” The world tilted. I ran for the street, waving down a taxi. I had to get to the station. I had to get home. “Please,” I sobbed to the driver. “Faster. Please.” I saw the semi-truck lose control before I felt it. The roar of twisting metal filled the air. I reached for my phone, my thumb hitting the speed dial. Then, the world went black. Simon was sitting in the hospital cafeteria, picking at a salad while Chloe slept upstairs, when his phone vibrated. An unknown number. He almost ignored it, but something made him swipe right. “Hello?” “Is this… Mr. Matcha?” a voice asked, hesitant. The name hit him like a physical blow. It was the private nickname Maya had given him on their first date at a hole-in-the-wall tea shop. It was the name she used for him in her secondary phone—the one she kept for just the two of them. “Maya?” he gasped.

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Three in the morning. I was a ghost of myself, dragging my body toward my apartment after another soul-crushing shift at the office. The motion-sensor lights in the stairwell were on their last legs, flickering with a dying, stuttering rhythm. I’d barely cleared the first two steps when I heard it: the heavy, rhythmic thud-thud of footsteps behind me. My heart didn’t just beat; it lunged into my throat. I white-knuckled the strap of my laptop bag and bolted upward. The strange thing was, those heavy steps only followed for a flight or two. Then, they stopped. In their place came the sharp, elegant clack-clack-clack of high heels hitting the concrete. “Just a neighbor,” I whispered, a desperate prayer to the empty air. I forced my breathing to slow, fumbling in my bag for my keys. That’s when the world broke. Translucent lines of text began to drift across my vision, glowing like a low-latency Twitch stream. [Look! There she is! The lead in that legendary cold case!] [Don’t stop, you idiot! Run! The killer is right behind you! He’s got heels on his hands to mimic a woman’s walk!] [Women living alone have zero survival instincts. Walking home solo in the middle of the night? She’s practically asking for a target on her back.] 1 I froze. My brain stalled, trying to process the impossible subtitles hovering in the air. Was I… the victim they were talking about? Before I could wrap my head around the “how,” the clicking of those heels grew louder. Closer. Rapid. I didn’t stay to find out. I sprinted the last half-flight, dove into my apartment, and slammed the deadbolt home. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely pull the safety chain. The text was still there, scrolling across the grain of my wooden door. [He’s not just a killer; he’s a total freak. This case stayed cold for decades because he murdered her and literally bricked her into the walls of his new house. They didn’t find her remains until he died and the property was sold.] [The killer is a perfectionist. He’s been staking her out for days. He finally got his window tonight; he’s not giving up.] [So stupid. She hasn’t even called the cops. She deserves what’s coming.] [Ugh… can we not with the victim-blaming?] The “comments” snapped me out of my trance. I lunged for my phone and dialed 911. Heart hammering against my ribs, I pressed my ear to the door. Sure enough, I heard it—the surreal, sickening shuffle of leather dress shoes mixed with the sharp clack of heels, pacing right outside my entryway. I remembered my doorbell camera. With trembling fingers, I pulled up the feed on my phone. The image made my blood turn to ice. A man was there, fully masked, crouched on all fours like a predatory insect. He had dress shoes on his feet and a pair of red pumps over his hands. He was staring—unmoving, unblinking—directly at my door. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle a sob. He lingered for a few more seconds, then began to crawl up the stairs, disappearing from the camera’s view. I waited, my lungs burning from holding my breath. Just as I started to exhale, he reappeared. But this time, he was different. He had stripped off his shoes. In just his socks, he moved with the silence of a shadow, gliding back to my door. He was standing right there. Inches away. Separated only by a slab of wood. My knees gave out. I collapsed into a heap, my strength vanishing. The camera feed wasn’t real-time—it lagged by a few seconds. Driven by a primal need to know where he was right now, I forced myself up and peered through the peephole. I gasped, reeling back. A single, bloodshot eye was staring back at me through the glass, wide and brimming with pure, concentrated malice. 2 The police were still minutes away. In this silence, minutes were an eternity. I had to survive. The sheer terror transformed into a jagged spike of adrenaline. I grabbed everything—the heavy bookshelf, the kitchen table, the entryway bench—and dragged them against the door, barricading myself in. I kept the monitor open, tracking him. He paced for a while, then finally, he seemed to retreat into the shadows of the hallway. I’m safe, I thought. I slid to the floor, my back against the barricade, gasping for air. My shirt was plastered to my skin with cold sweat. The text scrolled again. [Wait, why is this different? Wasn’t she supposed to be garroted from behind before she even reached the door?] [The lead seems to know. She blocked the door. She’s changing the script.] [Blocking the door won’t matter. She’s dead anyway.] [Can you guys at least hope for a win for once?] I stared at the words. The “plot” could be changed. But according to these… viewers… I was still marked for death. But how? The windows were locked. The door was a fortress. The killer was gone. Why did they sound so certain? He’s been staking you out for days, the text had said. What did I ever do to this man? I’d been living at the office for a week finishing the Q3 reports. Tonight was the first time I’d even come home to sleep. [Oh god, he’s inside. I can’t watch!] [I’m crying. She worked so hard to block that door, and he’s still going to get her.] [It’s like filling out a whole Scantron and still failing the exam…] [Seriously, what did she do to him? To make him work this hard to kill her?] [Nobody knows. When they found her body, the killer was already dead. The secret died with him. It’s starting! It’s starting! Eyes closed!] Inside? How could he be inside? Then, the realization hit me like a physical blow. The bedroom balcony. The neighboring apartment shared a narrow ledge. It was a jump, a dangerous one, but for someone this obsessed, it was a breeze. My scalp crawled. I scrambled to push the furniture away, to get out, to run into the hallway—the very place I had just fled. But I had done too good a job. I was trapped by my own barricade. Click. The bedroom door creaked open. I didn’t escape. I felt the thin, wire-like cord bite into the skin of my throat. As the world turned black and my lungs screamed for oxygen, I heard him. He was humming a soft, upbeat little tune, savoring the rhythm of my final struggle. 3 I snapped awake. I was standing in the mouth of a narrow alleyway. At the far end sat the rusted iron gates of my apartment complex. I was alive. I clutched my throat, gasping, the phantom sensation of the wire still burning into my flesh. I realized, with a jarring clarity, that I had been reset. Reborn. This alley was a trap. It was the only way into the complex, flanked by high brick walls. If he wanted me, this was where he’d wait. Was he behind me? Was he already tucked into a corner of the courtyard? I reached for my phone to call 911, but my thumb hovered over the screen. If he was right behind me, a phone call would trigger a “nothing to lose” attack. As I hesitated, the text flickered back into existence. [Is this the cold case? The one where she was found in the wall decades later?] [The killer is literally right behind her right now. This is terrifying.] My blood ran cold. I forced myself not to look back. In the previous timeline, he waited until I was inside. He wanted the privacy of the building to handle the “disposal.” If he killed me here, in the alley, the risk of a witness was too high. The building was old. No cameras in the halls. A dying security system. It was a killer’s playground. I was “safe” for the next sixty seconds, but as soon as I crossed that threshold, the clock started again. I began to walk, my legs feeling like leaden weights. [I wish I could jump into the screen and tell her to run!] [Running doesn’t help. Single woman living alone—the deck is stacked against her. If she dodges this guy, there’s always the next one.] [Look at Mr. Cynical over here. Shut up and let us watch!] I couldn’t run. I had to be smarter. I needed a witness. A protector. If the killer saw I wasn’t alone, he’d pull back. I couldn’t call the police yet—what would I say? “A man is walking behind me”? They’d arrive, he’d vanish, and I’d be labeled a hysteric while he waited for tomorrow night. No. I needed a deterrent. It was the middle of the night. My friends all lived uptown. Then I remembered Tyler. Tyler was the son of Mrs. Henderson, the lady who lived directly below me. He was a professional MMA coach—built like a tank and twice as tough. He’d been staying with his mom for the last week, helping her pack. A few days ago, he’d stopped me in the hall to give me a ceramic vase they didn’t want to move. He’d been friendly, almost hovering, and we’d exchanged numbers. In the last timeline, I remembered hearing a door click shut downstairs right before I died. He was awake. I shot him a text, my fingers flying. Tyler, please. Someone is following me in the alley. I’m scared. Are you awake? The reply was instant. Stay calm. I’m coming down to the gate now. I’d like to see some prick try to touch you while I’m there. The flickering streetlights overhead hummed, casting long, distorted shadows. I tucked my chin into my jacket and quickened my pace. 4 When I reached the gate, Tyler was there. He looked imposing in a heavy hoodie, leaning against the brickwork. The relief was so sharp it was almost painful. I hurried to him, and as I stepped into his shadow, the floating text vanished. The “plot” had shifted. I had survived the encounter. Tyler’s eyes were locked on the darkness behind me. He didn’t even look at me; he just started walking past me, his jaw set in a hard line of fury. “Tyler, wait!” I grabbed his arm. “Are you crazy?” “Don’t stop me,” he growled. “I’m going to teach this creep a lesson he won’t forget. He’ll be calling me ‘sir’ by the time I’m done with him.” I pulled harder, dragging him toward the stairs. “No. Just get me inside. Please.” I hadn’t told him it was a serial killer. I’d just said “stalker.” If Tyler went out there and got knifed, or if he just beat the guy up, it would only escalate things. Besides, I had no proof. I changed the subject to distract him. “Is your mom back yet?” Tyler’s face soured. Mentioning Martha Henderson always hit a nerve. “Who knows? She’s probably staying at a motel to ‘make a point’ to me and my dad. It’s pathetic. She thinks if she disappears for a month, we’ll suddenly start groveling.” He rolled his eyes. “It won’t work. Neither of us cares. She’ll realize she’s wrong and crawl back in a few days.” I frowned. “Tyler, she’s been gone for a month. Have you even tried to call the hospitals? Or the police?” He waved a dismissive hand. “She’s a grown woman. What’s going to happen to her? Besides, she was never exactly ‘Mother of the Year.’ My dad raised me. If it wasn’t for him, I’d probably be in jail or dead.” In my memory, Martha was anything but distant. She was fiery, sure, but she’d always been incredibly attentive to Tyler. She didn’t seem like the “absentee” type. 5 “Maybe you’re misjudging her?” I suggested softly. Tyler let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “My mother is a tiger, Mia. And not the good kind. She has a temper that could level a building. My dad told me she almost smothered me in my crib when I was a baby. If he hadn’t walked in and stopped her, I wouldn’t be here.” A voice cut through the air from the landing above, stopping Tyler mid-sentence. “Tyler!” We both looked up. A man was standing there, bathed in the dim yellow glow of the hallway light. Tyler’s face brightened. “Speak of the devil. Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.” My heart skipped a beat. I’d been so caught up in the conversation I hadn’t realized someone had been following us up the stairs. But when I saw it was David, Tyler’s father, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I’d lived in this building for two years, but Martha had always lived here alone. This was the first time I’d actually met David in person. He was exactly as the neighbors described: distinguished, soft-spoken, and radiating a calm, gentle energy. David stepped down toward us. His voice was firm but lacked any real edge of anger. He looked at Tyler with a sort of weary, indulgent smile. “How many times have I told you not to talk about your mother like that?” He turned to me, his expression softening into one of genuine concern. “She might have had her reasons back then, Tyler. Even if she made a mistake in a moment of weakness, you owe her your understanding.” I felt a small prickle of unease. On the surface, he was defending her. But why did it feel like he was actually reinforcing the idea that she was unstable? Before I could analyze the feeling, we arrived at my door. As I reached for my keys, the translucent text flickered back to life. [Wait… why is the victim walking with the killer?] [This is sick. He’s giving her a false sense of security before the kill. Look at him smile. He loves this.] [Don’t go in there! Don’t stay near them! You’re walking into your own grave!] [No wonder she died so horribly. She literally invited the murderer into her home.] 6 A wave of nausea rolled over me. The safety I’d felt seconds ago vanished, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread. My neck felt like a rusted gear as I slowly turned to look at the two men standing behind me. The killer was one of them. Last time, the killer had gotten in through the balcony. He must have come from Martha’s apartment next door. That’s why it was so fast. I swallowed hard, forcing a brittle, plastic smile onto my face. I couldn’t let them see I knew. I’d tried so hard to escape, and I’d walked straight into the wolf’s den. Tyler, noticing my pallor, poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on my counter. “Hey, take it easy. That creep won’t bother you anymore.” David looked curious. “What creep?” I opened my mouth to stop Tyler, but it was too late. “Some pervert was following Mia. But I scared him off.” “Well, that’s a relief,” David said with a light chuckle. He looked at me, his head tilting slightly. “Did you see his face? If you did, we should really call the police.” I shook my head, my eyes darting between them, searching for a crack, a slip, a tell. Nothing. They were perfect. My mind was a chaotic mess. Why me? What could I have possibly done to earn this level of calculated cruelty? Tyler reached out toward me. “You’re shaking. You’re really spooked, aren’t you?” My skin winced before he even touched me. I jerked away, my heart hammering. I caught myself and laughed nervously. “Sorry. Just… a lot of caffeine and a long night. I’m exhausted.” Tyler pulled his hand back, scratching his head. “Right. Well, get some sleep. Moving day tomorrow is going to be a workout.” “You’re moving tomorrow?” David asked. The question felt sharp, somehow. I didn’t have time to answer before the text scrolled again. [The video is almost over. She’s going to die in a few minutes.] [Her guard is way too low. Letting strangers into her place this late? Basic survival fail.] The comments were moving too fast to read, and none of them were giving me the one thing I needed: which one? I forced myself to breathe. I had to analyze. What was the motive?

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The rescue boat rocked violently against the churning rapids. The rain was a cold, relentless sheet, blurring the world into shades of slate and charcoal. Beside me, the rescue worker was screaming, his voice nearly lost to the roar of the flood. “We can only take one more! You have to decide now!” I hesitated, my hand frozen on the edge of the boat. And then, it happened. Glowing lines of text began to drift across my vision like a digital fever dream. Look at this tragic side-character, one line read. She actually thinks they’re naked because of hypothermia. She has no idea her ‘artist’ husband was busy ravishing his little protege by the riverbank when the levee broke. I can’t wait for the next part, another comment scrolled by. After she saves him, he’s going to realize his true feelings, shove her overboard to make room, and give the girl mouth-to-mouth. Total swoon moment. Give us the drama! The hesitation vanished. My heart, which had been hammering with panic, suddenly went cold and still. I remembered a week ago, finding my husband, Killian, in the corner of his studio. He had his young apprentice, Luna, pinned against the wall. He’d whispered that she was his soul, his muse—that he’d give his very life for her. Luna had looked up with that wide-eyed, innocent gaze and asked, “How would you give it, Killian?” Well, Killian. Here was your chance to find out. I grabbed the single rescue rope and threw it toward Luna. The situation was simple, really: Killian, the prestigious professor, had taken his favorite student on a “plein air” painting trip into the mountains. A flash flood hit. Now, they were both drifting in the freezing water, stripped bare by the current—or perhaps by something else—clinging to a log and dying of exposure. 1 “Jade, please! Think about this!” Parker, one of Killian’s other students who was on the boat with me, looked at me with a horrified, stiff expression. “Luna’s already unconscious from the cold. If we pull the Professor up first, he actually has a chance of surviving!” The floating text in my eyes hissed in agreement: [Parker is such a loyal dog. He knows that if the Professor gets on the boat, he’ll definitely kick the wife off to save Luna!] [Our sweet Luna is going to be so kind later. She’ll inherit Jade’s entire estate after she drowns, and she’ll be so ‘devastated’ she won’t even let Killian touch her on Jade’s death anniversary. What an angel.] I stared at the text, a bitter taste in my mouth. Since when did being a mistress and a gold-digger count as being “kind”? “I know… I want to save him more than anything. He’s my husband,” I whispered, my voice trembling perfectly. I stared out at the dark water, looking like a woman whose heart was shattering in real-time. I let my body sway, a fragile silhouette against the storm. “But Killian always said… he said Luna’s father saved his life years ago. He told me he owed her a debt that could never be repaid.” I twisted my damp handkerchief, dabbing at my eyes. “He told me that for the sake of gratitude, he would lay down his life for her. He’s a man of honor, Parker. I have to respect his wishes. I have to be a good example for our son!” Without another word, I looped the rope into a lasso and flung it toward the floating, unconscious Luna. We hauled her in. “Jade!” Killian’s voice was a desperate, guttural howl from the water. He reached for us, but the current was too strong. A sudden surge of debris slammed him against a jagged boulder. His head snapped back, and he went limp, disappearing under the frothing brown water. I looked down into the depths, a tiny, dark smile touching my lips. Don’t die too easily, Killian, I prayed. The fun is just beginning. Just as he vanished, Parker managed to snag Killian’s shirt with a makeshift hook made from his own belt. He started trying to pull him toward the side. Knowing these people, I knew that if Killian got a finger on this boat, I was going over the side. I quickly grabbed my phone and dialed my mother-in-law, Beatrice. The second she picked up, I let out a jagged, hysterical sob. “Mom! Something terrible has happened!” “What is it?” Beatrice’s voice was already sharp with irritation. “Luna and Killian… they were caught in the flood! They’re saying Luna might not make it! It’s horrific!” “What?” Beatrice’s blood pressure clearly spiked through the phone. “Jade, you useless woman! You can’t keep an eye on your man, and you can’t even look after a young girl? Listen to me—if you don’t save Luna, I’ll make sure Killian divorces you tomorrow. You’ll be out on the street with nothing! I’m coming down there now!” “Mom, I’m trying! I’ll do exactly what you say! I’ll save her!” I hung up, a cold satisfaction settling in my chest. I had successfully misled her. She now thought Luna was the only one in the water. “But the boat is full,” I shouted to the air, making sure Parker heard. “We have to wait for the next sweep! I hope she can hold on!” The real show was about to start. Beatrice arrived twenty minutes later on a larger, overcrowded rescue vessel. She saw me straining against the rope Parker was holding—the rope that was currently tethered to a submerged, unconscious body. Because Killian was underwater, you couldn’t tell who it was. The weight was dragging our small boat down, making it tilt dangerously. Beatrice screamed from the other vessel, “Jade! You murderous bitch! I knew you’d try to hurt her!” “Mom, wait!” I stammered, acting paralyzed by “nerves.” “You’re pretending to be a hero, trying to save some ‘stranger’ while Luna is dying?” Beatrice roared, ignoring the other passengers. “Let go of that rope! Luna’s life is the only thing that matters! Let the other person drown!” Parker tried to intervene. “Ma’am, the person under the water is—” He wanted to say it was his professor. It was her son. But Beatrice didn’t give him the chance. She lunged across the gap between the boats and slapped him hard across the face. “I know all about you, Parker! Jade, you’ve always been a slut. I knew from the day you married into this family you’d try to ruin us. You’re probably trying to save your secret lover right now!” She turned to the men on her boat. “A thousand dollars to whoever ties this brat up and cuts that rope! Save my grandson!” I blinked. Grandson? So, Beatrice knew. She knew Luna was carrying Killian’s child. That’s why she was so desperate. 2 In the face of death, human nature is a fragile thing. Parker was tackled and gagged within seconds. I “struggled” to hold onto the rope, crying out, “Mom, please don’t! Killian is—” But Beatrice wasn’t listening. “Shut up! I don’t care if it’s your own father at the end of that rope. He’s in the way of my grandson’s future!” She grabbed a pair of emergency shears from the rescue kit. With a sharp snip, the tension vanished. The rope whipped back, empty. Beatrice looked triumphant. “Get us to the shore! To the hospital! We have to make sure the baby is safe!” Well, Killian, I thought as I watched the spot where he had been submerged drift away. Don’t blame me. It was your own mother who cut the cord. 3 Beatrice was so worried about Luna’s “precious cargo” that she moved her to the faster boat, leaving me behind in the rain. The boat drifted for a while in the silence of the receding storm. “Jade…?” A weak, watery voice drifted from the darkness near the bank. I froze. It was Killian. He sounded like he was coughing up his own lungs, but he was alive. “I knew I was too stubborn to die… Jade, get help! Get me out!” He was clinging to a low-hanging willow branch, his body a map of bruises and jagged cuts from the rocks. He was pale, shivering violently—shaking with the final stages of hypothermia. “Oh, Killian!” I cried out, my voice dripping with performative grief. “The boat is full! We can’t take any more! Help is coming, I promise! You have to be strong!” “Jade… pull me in…” “I can’t! But remember what you said? Luna’s life is more important than anything. I made sure Mom took her to the hospital first! I knew that’s what you’d want!” I looked around the boat and found some heavy gear—anchor weights and broken metal parts. “Here, Killian! Let me throw you something to help you stay afloat!” I tossed the heavy metal weights directly toward him. They splashed heavily, missing him by inches but creating waves that battered his weakened grip. Without the extra weight, our boat moved faster, catching the current toward the landing. Killian’s face, twisted in a mask of realization and fury, vanished behind a wall of rain as he let out a pathetic, pig-like squeal before being swept back into the dark. He looked so moved, he practically fainted. I really am the most understanding wife a man could ask for. 4 The search for Killian made the local news every night for two weeks. Beatrice didn’t care. She didn’t even realize he was missing at first; she was too busy hovering over Luna in the private wing of the hospital. The nurses were less than impressed. “She was carrying twins,” one whispered to me in the hall. “But if they hadn’t been so… active… during the storm, her uterine wall wouldn’t have been so compromised. They were caught in the act when the water hit. The bacteria from the floodwater caused a massive infection. It’s a miracle she’s alive, but the babies…” Luna was in a coma, bleeding out from complications. Then, after fifteen days, they found him. Killian had survived by eating whatever washed up in the debris—contaminated, rotting scraps. His wounds had turned gangrenous, untreated and festering in the humidity. By the time he reached the ICU, he was swollen beyond recognition. Even the people in the “bullet chats” didn’t recognize him. The “God-like Artist” now looked like a piece of waterlogged meat. Looking at him, I remembered the early days. We were childhood sweethearts. We were happy, once. But then his art took off, and I became the “boring corporate wife” who didn’t understand his soul. He found his “soul” in the wide eyes of his students. Last month, when Luna’s ex-boyfriend leaked explicit photos of her online, Killian had stepped up. He’d used his “artistic expertise” to testify that the woman in the photos wasn’t Luna. He claimed it was me. His wife. When I confronted him, he had pinned me by the throat against our bedroom door. “Jade, I gave you the dignity of being a professor’s wife. Why must you hurt her? The uploader confessed you hired him out of jealousy. I’m just letting you take the fall to balance the scales. I owe her my life. If she wanted my head on a platter, I’d give it to her.” I had slapped him then, with every ounce of strength I had. When I woke the next morning, he was gone, leaving a note saying he was going to a “remote gallery opening.” In reality, they were hopping between cheap motels and riverside campsites, playing out their tawdry fantasy under the guise of “art.” The doctor in the ICU shook his head. He was trying to find a polite way to say Killian was a wreck. His bones were shattered, protruding through the skin in places, and the infection had reached his marrow. “We can stabilize him,” the doctor said, voice low. “But he’s been out there too long. He’ll never walk again. He’ll be lucky if he retains any mobility in his arms.” I wiped a stray tear, pulled two hundred-dollar bills from my purse, and tucked them into the doctor’s pocket. “Please, just keep him alive. That’s all that matters.” “Jade…?” Killian croaked from the bed. He sounded like a ghost. I rushed to his side, clutching his bandaged hand. I made sure to squeeze just hard enough to find the broken phalanges beneath the gauze. Killian’s pupils dilated. A muffled scream tore through his throat. He shook with agony, but he was too weak to pull away. “It’s my fault,” I whispered, leaning close to his ear, my voice a silk-wrapped blade. “Don’t worry, darling. You’re in such bad shape… I’ll take care of everything. The house, the studio, the accounts. I’ll handle it all.” Fear flashed in his clouded eyes. He understood. Everything he had built—his reputation, his wealth—was slipping into my hands. “Don’t thank me. I did what you asked. I saved Luna first. Sadly, she lost the babies, and you’ll never walk again, but I know you’d make the same choice a thousand times over. After all, we’re one soul, aren’t we? I know you better than anyone.” His throat hitched. “Jade… you… monster…” He tried to curse me, to ask if I’d done it on purpose. Instead, he just choked on a mouthful of black bile. The floating text was buzzing: [The wife better watch out. Marcus—I mean Killian—is the protagonist. He’ll have a miraculous recovery once the baby is born, and then it’s over for her!] [Wait, today is Luna’s due date! Here comes the miracle!] Right on cue, the sound of a thin, wailing cry echoed from down the hall. “My Luna is a fighter!” Beatrice’s voice boomed in the corridor. She strutted past the door, throwing me a look of pure venom. “She’s given us a beautiful grandson, unlike some barren women I know—” She took the bundle from the nurse and suddenly, the bragging stopped. A heavy thud followed as Beatrice collapsed onto the linoleum. “What… what is this monster? This can’t be my grandson! You’ve swapped him!”

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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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