Category: English

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

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

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A girl suddenly collapsed onto her knees at my front door, and honestly, I was a little thrown. She was wailing, screaming about how she’d spent sixteen years searching for her mother, and apparently, that mother was my wife. I was standing there with a can of Coke in my hand, thinking to myself that this was about to be a hell of a show. I figured it was just another one of those high-society soap operas—a long-lost child coming to claim their inheritance. It’s a classic trope, right? After all, I’m currently the husband to a titan of industry. My wife adores me, we have kids, and I’m essentially living the “winner” script of a lifetime. But I didn’t expect the plot twist to hit so fast. She suddenly whipped around, pointed a trembling finger right at my nose, and started screaming. She called me a squatter. A fraud. She claimed I’d stolen her father’s rightful place, and she didn’t stop there—she called my two sons “bastards.” 1 “Mom!” The girl was practically face-down on the marble floor of the dining room entrance, sobbing at Diana’s feet. She was wearing a faded, washed-out T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She looked up at Diana, who was sitting at the head of the table, and the floodgates just opened. “Sixteen years… I finally found you!” The entire room froze. Parker stopped mid-bite into his apple. Chase’s hand paused as he reached for his coffee. Even Walter, our long-time house manager, let his eyes widen just a fraction. Diana sat there, her brow slightly furrowed, her expression a mask of calm. She didn’t say a word. And me? I just took a long, satisfying sip of my Coke. Sugar and carbonation—the greatest invention in human history. Life throws a lot of curveballs at you, but I’ve always lived by one rule: even if the sky is falling, you might as well have a drink while you watch. The girl’s name was Jade. She was seventeen. According to her, she was the result of a one-night stand Diana had seventeen years ago at a place called The Midnight Vault. Her father was a guy named Ray. Apparently, he’d been a bartender there, spent one night with a very drunk Diana, and ended up raising a daughter alone for seventeen years. Now, Ray was supposedly on his deathbed, which gave Jade the courage to come “home.” “Mom, my dad is really fading. His only wish in this world is for me to take my rightful place in this family…” Jade’s voice was raw, her body shaking with tremors. “I know I shouldn’t be here, I know I’m a disruption, but I had nowhere else to go…” She sounded devastatingly sincere. Tears and snot were a mess on her face, and I could hear some of the younger house staff whispering in the hallway. Diana glanced at me. I gave her a small, supportive nod. “Get up for now,” Diana said, her voice steady. “Walter, arrange a guest room for her. And get in touch with the lab for a DNA test.” “Thank you, Mom! Thank you!” Jade sobbed, nearly kissing the floor again before the staff helped her up. As she stood, her eyes flickered over to me. There was a flash of pure, unadulterated hatred in that look. Then her gaze shifted to Parker and Chase. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of her mouth. I saw it clearly. It was the smile of a winner. Like she’d already taken the crown. I’d first heard the rumor that Diana had a secret daughter from Walter during breakfast. Actually, it started with a text. Ping. Diana: “You up? Breakfast is on the table.” I sent back a blowing-kiss emoji and took my sweet time getting ready. My name is Gavin, and I am the husband of the Chairwoman of the Sterling Group. When I “woke up” in this life five years ago, I only remembered my name. But I quickly realized I’d hit the cosmic jackpot. My wife, Diana, was the eldest daughter of the Sterling empire and had already taken the reins as CEO. She’s five-nine, gorgeous, and looks like she stepped out of a high-end fashion editorial. She wasn’t easy at first. Word was she’d been through some trauma, and she treated me with a chilly indifference for the first few months. But I’m a romantic at heart—and a pragmatist. I wanted a life of luxury, so I set out to win over the Ice Queen. I learned her likes, her dislikes, and figured out exactly what made her feel safe. Slowly, she went from ignoring me to depending on me. Now? Now she won’t leave the house without a kiss. The first thing she says when she walks through the door is, “Honey, I’m home.” She insists on falling asleep in my arms, or she can’t sleep at all. At forty-something, Diana is the woman of my dreams. I finished my morning routine and headed downstairs. The dining room was already full. Diana was in her spot at the head of the long mahogany table, dressed in a deep navy silk robe. She smiled when she saw me. “There you are.” 2 “Morning,” I said, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek before taking my seat. Across from me sat our sons, Chase and Parker. As soon as I sat down, Chase pushed a plate of freshly sliced fruit toward me. Parker, who was working on a breakfast sandwich, grinned. “Looking sharp today, Dad.” “Of course. These skin serums don’t apply themselves, you know.” “Was that new night cream any good?” “Game changer. I’ll order a jar for you.” “Thanks, Dad!” Diana looked at us, laughing softly as she shook her head. “You three. All you do is talk about shopping.” “What’s wrong? You tired of me spending your money yet?” I teased, shooting her a playful look. “Never. I work so you can spend it. That’s the deal.” Chase set his phone down, his face deadpan. “Mom, that was pathetic. Have some dignity.” “You’ll understand when you’re older. It’s called spoiling your husband.” “Whatever. You win.” I popped a piece of melon into my mouth, enjoying the quiet hum of the house. “What’s the schedule today?” Diana asked. “Spa in the morning, then tea with the guys in the afternoon. You?” “Board meeting this morning. I should be back early afternoon.” “Dinner together, then?” “Definitely. What are you craving?” “I’ll think about it. Let’s decide when you get home.” “Deal.” That was when Walter walked in. Walter had been with the family for over thirty years. He was the definition of “unflappable,” but today, he looked genuinely rattled. “Chairwoman. Sir.” “What is it, Walter?” Diana asked. Walter hesitated. “There is a young woman outside. Seventeen, perhaps. She’s asking for you, Ma’am.” “Who is she?” “She claims…” Walter paused, clearing his throat. “She claims to be your daughter.” The room went silent for two beats. Diana’s brow pinched together. She looked at me. I kept chewing my melon, thinking, Well, here we go. The secret-love-child plot. Classic. But honestly, a daughter didn’t bother me. This family has more than enough money to go around. “And?” I asked through a mouthful of fruit. “She’s been at the gate for two hours. Security told her to leave, but she refused to budge,” Walter said. “She says she won’t leave until she sees the Chairwoman.” “Bring her in,” I said. “Let’s finish breakfast first, then we’ll deal with it.” Diana nodded in agreement. Walter bowed and left. Parker looked up at me. “Dad, aren’t you… worried?” “About what?” I asked, sliding a piece of bacon onto his plate. “What if she’s actually…” “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I said. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” Whether she was blood or not—that was a question for a lab tech. It wasn’t something I needed to lose sleep over. Jade’s first day in the house was a masterclass in performance art. She spent her time telling the staff how much she’d suffered growing up, subtly painting me as the “other man” who had dismantled her rightful family. But that was just the appetizer. The real show began when her father, Ray, showed up. The day before the DNA results were due, Jade brought him onto the estate. No warning, no permission. She just marched him right through the front door. Ray was in his late forties. When he stepped out of the car, he gawked at the house, muttering, “Jesus, look at this place. It’s a palace!” He walked into the living room, crashed onto the designer sofa, and crossed his legs. He looked at a maid and snapped, “Get me some tea. Earl Grey. High-end stuff, don’t give me the cheap tea bags.” The maid looked at me. I gave her a small nod. He took a sip of the tea, then wandered into the dining room. He ran a finger over the table. “Nice wood. Needs to be polished better, though. Can’t have scratches on a piece like this.” Then he went into the garden, pointing at the prize-winning rose bushes. “Too bright. I don’t like roses. We’ll rip these out next week and plant lilies. I’ve always been a lily man.” Our head gardener looked like he was about to have a stroke. At lunch, Ray sat himself down before anyone else, grabbing a fork and digging in. “Fish is good. Shrimp is decent. The soup is a bit salty, tell the chef to dial it back next time.” He critiqued every bite. Parker sat with his fork hovering in mid-air, unsure if he was even allowed to eat. Chase leaned back, his eyes turning cold and dangerous. Diana wasn’t home; she was still at the office. “Ray,” I said, finally speaking up. “How are you feeling? Jade mentioned you were quite ill.” Ray waved a hand dismissively, his mouth full of sea bass. “Whatever. You should probably start thinking about where you’re going to live once those DNA results come back, Gavin.” “I wouldn’t worry about my living arrangements if I were you. Do you need me to call a doctor to look at you?” Ray’s expression flickered for a second. “No, no. I know my own body.” For a man on his deathbed, he had a hell of an appetite. I saw right through him, but I didn’t say a word. That afternoon, Ray started “reorganizing” the estate. He made the staff move the crystal vases because the “vibe” was off. He told them to change the table linens because the color was “unlucky.” He walked down the gallery, demanding the paintings be re-hung. “They look cluttered.” He even wandered into the garage and pointed at my red Ferrari. “I like this one. I’ll take the keys for this starting tomorrow.” The driver looked at him awkwardly. “Sir, that’s Mr. Gavin’s car.” Ray just shrugged. “He can get a new one.” Finally, he found his way into my walk-in closet. He stood there, staring at the walls of custom suits and watches, his eyes gleaming. He reached out and touched a Patek Philippe, his fingers lingering on the gold casing. “This is nice. I could get used to this.” He turned and saw me leaning against the doorframe. He froze for a second, then gave me a greasy smile. “Just looking, Gavin. Just opening my eyes to how the other half lives.” “Look all you want,” I said softly. 3 He spent twenty minutes in there. When he finally walked out, the look in his eyes had shifted entirely. I knew that look. It was greed. Pure, unadulterated entitlement. The look of a man who believed all of this already belonged to him. That evening, Diana came home. Ray transformed instantly. He became the picture of the tragic, pining lover—soft-spoken, fragile, heartbroken. He stood in the foyer, eyes downcast, his voice trembling. “Diana… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. But I just… I missed you so much.” He started to weep. Real, cinematic tears. Jade joined in, and the two of them held each other, sobbing loudly enough to wake the neighbors. Diana watched them, her face unreadable. She said only one thing: “The results come in tomorrow. Everything will be clear then.” Ray nodded, wiping his eyes. “Thank you, Diana. I don’t want anything for myself. I just want Jade to have her name. That’s all I need before I go.” I almost laughed out loud. He didn’t want anything? This was the same man who had been cruising in my Ferrari, eyeing my Patek, and demanding the roses be dug up. He didn’t want a “name.” He wanted the keys to the kingdom. The next morning, Ray stopped pretending altogether. He was up at 5:30 AM, barking orders at the kitchen staff. “This oatmeal is too thin! Do it over!” “The eggs are overcooked! I wanted them poached, not rubber!” “This milk is cold! Heat it up!” He was sitting in Diana’s chair at the head of the table, his feet up, picking at his teeth. When I walked down, I saw him there. I didn’t make a scene. “Morning, Ray. Sleep well?” He looked at me, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Not bad. Bed’s a bit soft, though. I’ll have the staff swap it for a firm orthopedic mattress tomorrow.” “Sure. I’ll let Walter know.” He spent the morning continuing his “renovations.” He moved the sofas. He tore down the artwork in the hallway, complaining they were “too depressing” and needed “bright floral prints” instead. Then he went back to the garden and pointed at the peonies. “These are tacky. Rip ’em out. I want red roses everywhere!” Our gardener finally snapped. “Sir, those peonies are Mr. Gavin’s favorite. He’s been tending them for five years!” Ray glared at him. “Who cares what he likes? We’ll see who’s running things by dinner time!” He leaned in closer to the gardener. “Besides, my daughter is the only real heir to this fortune. Remember that.” Parker heard that while we were playing chess in the sunroom. “Dad, did you hear what he said?” “I heard.” “You aren’t angry?” “What’s the point of being angry?” I moved a knight. “Let him play. Let him make as much noise as he wants. The louder they are, the harder they fall.” Parker thought about it, then grinned. “You’re letting him dig his own grave, aren’t you?” “Smart kid.” In the afternoon, Ray took the Ferrari out. When he came back, the car was stuffed with shopping bags. He had the staff carry everything to his room and then stood in the middle of the living room to make a grand announcement. “This house is far too dated. We’re doing a full remodel. I want the living room to be Neo-Classical, the dining room French Provincial, and the master suite should be old-world dark wood. We’re putting a fountain in the driveway and a gazebo in the back. And the pool? It’s embarrassing. We’re ripping it out and starting over!” He turned his gaze toward me. “You don’t mind, do you, Gavin? I’m just trying to look out for the family. This place hasn’t had a man’s touch in seventeen years.” I smiled. “Whatever makes you happy, Ray.” 4 He blinked, clearly surprised that I wasn’t putting up a fight. When Diana finally got home that night, Ray slipped back into his “feeble” persona. He brought a cup of tea to her study door, his voice a whisper. “You look exhausted, Diana. You work too hard.” Diana took the tea and gave him a long look. “You went out today?” Ray’s face paled slightly. “Yes… I did.” “In the Ferrari?” “I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken your car—” “That isn’t my car. It’s Gavin’s,” Diana said, her tone icy and flat. “You should have asked his permission.” Ray froze. The message was loud and clear: in this house, his opinion didn’t matter. Mine did. Ray forced a smile. “Of course. My mistake. I’ll apologize to Gavin tomorrow.” As he backed out of the room, the mask slipped. His face twisted into a look of cold, poisonous resentment. Back in the guest wing, Jade was waiting for him. “Dad? How did it go?” Ray slammed the door and hissed, “Diana is still protecting that man. She wouldn’t even let me touch the damn car!” “It doesn’t matter,” Jade said, her voice hard. “Once the DNA test comes back, how do we kick them out?” “Don’t rush!” Ray snapped. “Everything here belongs to us. If it wasn’t for that guy, I’d be the one living here. I’d be the one Diana came home to. I’d be the one driving that Ferrari!” He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes glowing with a manic intensity. “Tomorrow, when the results are read, you play the victim. Make sure Diana sees how much you’ve suffered. Then we make her throw that man and his two little brats out onto the street!” “I’m ready,” Jade replied instantly. “They’ve been living my life for too long. It’s time they gave it back.” She had been raised on this story for seventeen years. In her mind, she wasn’t an intruder. She was the rightful queen returning to her throne. On the day of the reveal, Diana stayed home. She sat in the library, the sealed envelope resting on the desk in front of her. Jade and Ray sat on one sofa; Parker, Chase, and I sat on the other. “Open it,” I said quietly. Diana tore the seal, pulled out the document, and flipped to the final page.

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The quarterly all-hands meeting was in full swing. I was huddled in the third row, notebook open, trying to catch every word of the projected growth charts, when Howard’s voice sliced through the air like a dull blade. “Caitlin?” I froze. Howard, the CEO, was staring at me from the podium. His expression was a mix of calculated disdain and public theater. He looked me up and down, his lip curling into a sneer that didn’t match his expensive suit. “Is the office climate control that vital to your existence?” he asked, his voice dripping with irony. “Because, from where I’m sitting, your AC usage is significantly more impressive than your sales numbers this month.” A few people in the front row snickered. I looked up, blinking, the blood rushing to my face. “I’m sorry?” “You’re always the last one to leave,” he continued, leaning over the lectern. “The ‘dedicated employee’ act is getting a little thin, don’t you think? Or is it just that you’re too cheap to pay your own electric bill at home, so you’re squatting in my office to soak up the company’s utilities?” The air in the room suddenly felt very thin. To Howard, eight years of being the first one in and the last one out—the literal backbone of this company—amounted to nothing more than a play for free air conditioning. My face, usually a mask of professional neutrality, began to harden. Before I could even open my mouth to defend myself, Howard turned to his wife, Regina, our “Head of Finance” by way of nepotism. “Regina, get a breakdown of the utility bills for the last quarter,” Howard commanded. “Calculate the overages and dock them directly from the paycheck of whoever’s been logging the most ‘overtime’ hours. I want to see if anyone has the guts to treat this office like a public library once they’re paying for the privilege.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. After nearly a decade of building this place from the ground up, I was being branded a parasite. Just as the anger hit its boiling point, a translucent window flickered into existence right before my eyes. [Exploitative Workplace Behavior Detected. Activate the ‘Anti-Leech’ Protocol?] I stared at Howard’s smug, oily face. He really thought he could cast aside the person who had carried him for eight years. I didn’t hesitate. I thought the word Yes with every fiber of my being. Fine, Howard. If you want to talk about who’s been living off whom, let’s look at the receipts. … [Protocol Activated. Commencing audit of Employee Net Value.] The cold, synthetic voice echoed in my mind, but a sharp, high-pitched hum vibrated through the meeting room. Howard’s face went pale. He slammed his hand on the mahogany table, pointing at the empty air in front of me. “Who authorized that? Shut it down! We don’t need some glitchy software running during a board meeting!” He turned his fury back to me. “Caitlin, you’re a utility thief. You don’t get to run audits on me.” Before I could move, Brenda, the Administrative Lead and Regina’s loyal shadow, leaned in, her voice a shrill hiss. “If anyone’s doing math, it’s the company! Do you have any idea how many resources you’ve drained in eight years? You drink the most coffee, you burn through reams of paper, and you’re running the industrial AC for four extra hours every single night!” Brenda caught Howard’s eye, a frantic look passing between them. Howard caught the signal and crossed his arms, regaining his bravado. “You know what? Fine. You want to talk numbers? Let’s talk.” Howard leaned back, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “Based on commercial electricity rates and your four-hour nightly ‘squatting’ sessions, you owe us at least seventy-six thousand dollars over the last eight years. Tell you what—since you’re practically furniture here, we’ll round it up. Call it an even eighty grand, and we won’t involve the lawyers.” I let out a laugh that felt like a serrated edge. For eight years, I had been the top-performing sales lead. I had built our live-streaming department from a single ring light in a closet to a multi-million dollar operation. Every brick in this building had my sweat dried into the mortar. I lived on cold caffeine and three hours of sleep, writing scripts that turned Howard from a guy in a basement into a “disruptive entrepreneur.” And now that the coffers were full, he was worried about the price of a few kilowatts? He’d been “delaying” my commission checks for six months, and now he was trying to shake me down for eighty thousand dollars in light bulbs? I pulled my digital recorder from my pocket and slammed it onto the table with a sharp clack. “Fine,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “Let’s open the books. Let’s see if I owe you for the air I breathe, or if you owe me for the eight years of my life I’ve spent keeping this ship from sinking.” Regina, standing by the coffee station, suddenly lurched forward and threw her lukewarm latte directly at my face. “You think because you had a few good quarters you can talk to the CEO like that?” she spat, her eyes full of venom. “You’re nothing but a platform baby. You made money because the company provided the stage, not because you’re special.” I wiped the brown liquid from my cheek, feeling the sting of the heat. Regina didn’t stop. She looked at the room, her voice booming with the authority of a woman who had never worked a day in her life. “Caitlin Rossi has been found guilty of gross misuse of company resources. Her commissions for the last two quarters are hereby forfeited and will be redistributed as a performance bonus to the rest of the staff.” I actually chuckled. I was a Senior Lead, yet every time they “hired” some new associate director—usually a nephew or a friend—they started them at a higher base than mine. I hadn’t complained because I lived for the hustle, for the wins. But this? This was a mugging. Howard saw my expression and tapped his ring on the table. Clink. Clink. “Don’t look so heartbroken, Caitlin. Anyone can write a script. Anyone can pick products for a stream. You’re a glorified middleman. Honestly, you should be grateful we aren’t suing you for the full amount of the overhead you’ve wasted.” Watching him prepare to butcher the golden goose was surreal. Did he really think the millions of followers we had stayed for the “platform”? I had spent years testing products until my stomach was in knots and my skin was raw from cheap cosmetics, all to ensure our brand remained bulletproof. I’d stayed up until 3 AM crafting the “spontaneous” jokes that made our viewers feel like family. I pushed my chair back, the screech of metal on linoleum echoing through the silence. I looked Howard dead in the eye. “Stop the gaslighting, Howard. We’re settling this today. If I’m a ‘leech,’ then pay me out my back pay and my commissions, and I’ll walk.” Regina stood her ground. “We’ll settle it, alright. By the time I’m done with the audit, you’ll be lucky if you aren’t paying us for the privilege of having worked here.” I reached for the virtual “Confirm” button on the system floating in my peripheral vision. Howard’s eyes widened. He lunged across the table, trying to grab my wrist. “Caitlin, don’t play games with me! This is my house. You don’t make the rules.” He lowered his voice, his tone shifting to a fake, fatherly concern. “Look, we’ll just wash the commissions against the ‘damages.’ You keep your job, I keep the lights on. It’s a mercy, really. Don’t be ungrateful.” I pulled my hand back as if his touch were toxic. “So eight years of growth is worth a few coffee pods and some AC? Pay me my balance, Howard. Fire me or don’t, but pay me.” Howard kicked his chair over, the facade of the “visionary leader” finally cracking. “You think you’re so smart? You were a pathetic intern who couldn’t even format a PDF when I found you! I built the studio for you! I took out the loans! Without me, you’re just another girl with a degree and no future. You owe me a training fee just for the lessons I’ve taught you!” I went silent. I remembered the early days. His “dream” was a failing vintage snack shop. He had zero sales for two months. I was the one who convinced him to pivot to digital. I was the one who spent eighteen hours a day on the phone with vendors. I remembered him getting drunk the night we hit our first ten thousand orders, crying and telling me we were partners for life. It turns out “partners for life” only lasts until the bank account hits seven figures. Regina laughed, crossing her arms. “Hear that? You’re a company-made product. That million-dollar commission check you’re dreaming of? It belongs to the house. In fact, between the ‘training fees,’ the electricity, and the office supplies you’ve wasted, you’re in the red.” Howard grabbed a pen and scribbled a number on a notepad, shoving it toward me. “Market rate for training a senior lead is three hundred thousand. Plus the eighty for utilities. Plus the miscellaneous ‘misuse’ fees… let’s call it six hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Consider it a lucky number. You have three days to pay the company back, or my lawyers will make sure you never work in this town again.” He stood up and marched out, Regina and the rest of the “leadership” trailing behind him like a funeral procession. I sat in the empty conference room for a long time. My phone buzzed. Notification: Your corporate Slack and Email accounts have been deactivated. I stared at the screen. I had been naive enough to think we were a team. I had sacrificed my 20s for a family business that saw me as nothing more than an overhead expense. Fine. If they wanted to play “Family Business,” they were about to find out what happens when the person who built the house decides to take the foundation with her. I pulled out my personal phone and sent a voice note to the one person Howard feared most. “Mr. Henderson? It’s Caitlin. You mentioned a standing offer for double my current salary and a seat at the executive table? I’m interested. And I’m not coming alone. I’m bringing the entire production team.” The reply was instant. [My office. One hour. Let’s change the industry.] I walked back to my desk. I didn’t pack my photos. I didn’t take my mug. Instead, I plugged an encrypted drive into my workstation. I pulled the master vendor list—a document I had spent five years perfecting, categorized by reliability, lead times, and secret pricing. I didn’t just copy it. I deleted the primary contacts and scrambled the sorting algorithms. It wasn’t “stealing” if it was my personal intellectual property—I had never signed a non-compete. Then, I sat back and waited. Joy, our top-tier influencer and my closest work-friend, burst into the area, her face pale. “Caitlin! Regina just marched her sister into the studio. She told me to step aside because Tiffany is taking over the 3 PM livestream. She told me I had thirty minutes to ‘train’ her or I was out!” This wasn’t just a restructuring. This was an execution. I followed Joy to the studio. When we stepped inside, my heart sank. Tiffany, Regina’s younger sister, was caked in heavy club makeup and wearing a dress that was better suited for a Vegas lounge than a mid-day shopping stream. She was looking at the high-end organic snacks on the table with visible disgust. “Who picked this junk? It’s all food,” Tiffany complained, adjusted her camera angle to show more cleavage. “I’m not eating on camera. I’m a dancer. Clear this out. Get some champagne. I’m going to do a ‘wine and body’ segment for the guys in the chat. That’s how you get real tips.” “You won’t get tips,” I said, my voice cold as ice. “You’ll get a permanent ban.” Tiffany rolled her eyes at me. “Whatever. Our audience is fifty percent men, right? They don’t want to hear Joy’s ‘funny stories.’ They want to see a girl who’s actually hot.” “Our audience is sixty percent women,” I corrected, stepping into the light. “And eighty percent of the actual purchases come from them. You alienate the women, you lose the revenue. You’re not selling a lifestyle; you’re selling a cheap distraction.” Regina kicked the studio door open, pointing a finger at Joy. “I told you to train her, not go crying to your little protector. Since you clearly can’t tell who signs your checks anymore, Joy, you can pack your bags. We don’t keep people who bite the hand that feeds them.” Joy looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears. She was the best “girl-next-door” talent in the business, and they were tossing her away for a TikTok trope. I looked around the studio—the place where I’d spent more nights than my own bedroom. I looked at the crew, who were watching in stunned silence. “If the company wants to stop selling quality and start selling… whatever this is,” I said, gesturing to Tiffany, “then we’re done here. Joy, let’s go.” As we turned to leave, Howard appeared in the hallway, blocking our path. He looked frantic. “Caitlin! I knew it! You’re trying to poach my talent! You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?” I was confused for a split second—how did he know? Then I saw my personal phone in his hand. He held it up like a trophy. “I have cameras at every station, Caitlin. I saw you leave your phone unlocked when you went to the studio. I saw the messages to Henderson.” He sneered. “I’ve already messaged him back from your account, telling him to screw off. I also told him you’ve been embezzling from me for years.” My blood ran cold. He had violated the one boundary I had left. “You’re not just paying me the six hundred thousand now,” Howard barked, his face turning a dark shade of purple. “For poaching and trade secret theft, I’m adding a two-million-dollar penalty. And if you want Joy or the rest of these losers to leave? That’s another three million in ‘buyout’ fees. You owe me five point six million dollars, Caitlin. You aren’t leaving this building until I have a signed confession and a payment plan.” The years of quiet endurance, the skipped holidays, the ruined skin, the stomach ulcers—it all crystallized into a single, white-hot point of rage. I didn’t think. I just swung. My palm connected with his cheek with a crack that silenced the entire floor. Howard stumbled back, clutching his face, his eyes wide with shock. “You… you hit me? That’s a twenty-thousand-dollar assault charge, you bitch!” “I don’t care if it’s fifty thousand,” I snarled, stepping into his space. “Give me my phone. Now.” I lunged for it, but Howard shoved me back. I tripped, my lower back slamming into the sharp edge of a metal filing cabinet. The pain was blinding. I collapsed to the floor, gasping for air. Howard stood over me, laughing. “Too late. I already blocked Henderson. I told him the truth—that you’re a leech who’s finally been caught.”

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I floated suspended in the damp, heavy air, looking down at my own body crumpled in the dirt. My chest ached with a phantom tightness, but more than anything, my heart swelled with a profound, suffocating guilt toward my mother. I’ve embarrassed her again, I thought. Just like always. It all started with the eight-mile weighted ruck march. My mother was the Company Commander of our grueling advanced training regiment. To dispel any whispers of nepotism, she insisted that I—despite my documented, severe asthma—participate in the field exercise. I had a forty-pound tactical pack strapped to my shoulders. With every step I dragged forward, it felt like swallowing broken glass. I had to stop and gasp for air just to keep moving. By the halfway point, the edges of my vision were blurring into dark vignettes. I couldn’t hold on anymore. I reached into my cargo pocket for my rescue inhaler, just needing one quick burst of albuterol to open my screaming lungs. But before my fingers could even close around the plastic casing, Squad Leader Kelsey snatched it from behind me. Without breaking stride, she chucked it over the edge of the ravine. “Captain!” Kelsey yelled toward the front of the column, her voice dripping with sycophantic eagerness. “Gemma is trying to slack off again! Don’t worry, ma’am, I won’t let her drag the whole company down!” Far up the trail, my mother paused. She glanced back over her shoulder, her face a mask of rigid, exhaustion-fueled irritation. “The entire company is waiting on you, Gemma. Do you have absolutely no shame?” her voice cut through the humid air, sharp as a switchblade. “If you can’t walk, crawl. If you can’t crawl, roll. Do not humiliate me out here.” She turned back around. She didn’t look at me again. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper and kept pushing forward. My chest felt like it was caught in an industrial vice, tightening with every frantic, shallow breath. Black spots danced furiously in front of my eyes. Finally, around mile five, the invisible vice snapped shut. My knees buckled, and I slammed heavily into the unforgiving earth. I never got back up. 1 Several cadets marched past me as the column moved out. “The Captain is brutal, man. Even to her own kid.” “You kidding? Especially to her own kid. Zero special treatment.” “I thought her daughter was slated for Public Affairs? Desk duty, taking photos. She shouldn’t even be on a tactical ruck.” “You don’t get it. The Captain forced her into it to prove a point. If she went easy on her kid, she’d lose the company’s respect.” The hushed murmurs drifted into my ears. I lay face down, my cheek pressed into the jagged gravel and wet soil. The massive rucksack was still crushing my spine, pinning me to the ground. My tactical uniform blended perfectly with the underbrush. They didn’t even realize I was there. They just stepped right over me. I thought I heard the dull, sickening crunch of my own ribs giving way under a heavy combat boot. As the last person passed, their sole caught the edge of my uniform sleeve, flipping my arm. It left my hand clawing at the dirt—a frozen testament to the fact that, even in my final moments, I had been desperately trying to stand back up. Kelsey, sweeping the rear, slowed her pace as she approached. She looked down at me, her eyes narrowing. She nudged my shoulder with the steel toe of her boot. “Why are you hiding in the weeds? Trying to catch a break?” she sneered. “Get up. Now. Before I go tell your mother.” I didn’t move. She kicked me again, harder this time. My shoulder jerked. When I still didn’t respond, she grabbed me by the webbing of my tactical vest and dragged me roughly into the tall grass off the trail. Seeing me flop into the weeds like a sack of wet sand, she let out a dry, contemptuous laugh. “You’re a hell of an actress, I’ll give you that. Playing dead to get out of a hike. No wonder you wanted Public Affairs.” A few stragglers from the rear guard caught up. Seeing me sprawled in the brush, they slowed down, whispering among themselves. Kelsey’s eyes darted around. She took a step back, pitching her voice loud enough to echo off the trees. “Gemma!” she gasped in mock horror. “Are you seriously just going to lay there and wait for the Captain to come carry you?” The group of cadets broke into muted laughter, the mockery thick in the air. “Must be nice, being the Captain’s kid.” “VIP treatment. When your legs get tired, mommy comes to the rescue.” I drifted in the air above them, a silent spectator. I watched them circle my corpse like kids looking at roadkill. Kelsey turned toward the high ground up ahead and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Captain Rossi! Gemma stopped again! She’s on the ground playing dead!” Up on the ridge, my mother stopped. She turned around. I watched her begin the march down the incline, her strides long and furious. And as she approached, a small, childish thought flickered in my ghostly mind. If she realizes I’m dead… will it break her heart? She reached me, stopping exactly three paces away. “Gemma. How long do you plan on throwing this tantrum?” She stared down at me. Her voice was absolute ice. “Forty people in this company. They are all waiting on you. Are you really this selfish?” Silence. “You need to get it through your head that out here, you aren’t my daughter. You are a recruit. Because of your pathetic display, you’ve killed the regiment’s momentum. When we get back to base, you’re running a hundred laps and standing at attention outside the barracks for two hours.” Kelsey’s lips curled into a faint, triumphant smirk. “Captain, do you think she’s… actually hurt?” “Hurt?” My mother paused. “I know my daughter. She’s been pulling this exact stunt since she was a little girl. The second things don’t go her way, she drops to the ground and makes a scene.” Her words drifted up to me, frigid and dismissive. “She just wants to break me. She wants me to coddle her in front of the entire company, just to prove she’s special to me.” I hovered beside my mother, my translucent hands reaching out, desperate to explain. No, Mom. I wasn’t trying to force your hand. I died. She said she knew me. But the girl she knew was a memory from childhood. She didn’t know the woman I had become. She didn’t know how much I had learned to swallow the pain. She didn’t know that by mile three, my heart was already spasming in my chest. She didn’t know that my inhaler—my only lifeline—had been ripped away and tossed into a ravine by the very girl she was trying to impress. Mom, I didn’t want to make you soft. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I just… I couldn’t walk anymore. I’m so sorry, Mom. I embarrassed you again. 2 When I still didn’t move, my mother’s annoyance flared into genuine rage. She closed the distance in two quick strides, her eyes narrowing at the patch of flattened grass. “Gemma.” No answer. She raised her voice, a sharp, military bark. “Gemma, drag your ass out of there right now.” The wind swept through the tall grass, revealing half of my mud-caked uniform. My mother saw it. She parted the brush. I was face down, my shoulders sunken into the earth. From her angle, it looked exactly like I was deliberately burying my face in the dirt, stubbornly refusing to look at her. My mother inhaled sharply. The air around her turned venomous. “Wow. You’ve really perfected the dead weight routine, haven’t you? What, are you trying to force my hand like you did back then?” A memory hit me with sudden, blinding clarity. I was twelve. My parents had both been given orders for a dangerous overseas deployment. I had screamed, cried, and ultimately faked a severe asthma attack just to force my mother to stay behind. She stayed. But my father went. And a stray bullet in a desert thousands of miles away made sure he never came back. After that day, my mother became a different person. Whenever my chest seized up, whenever I genuinely couldn’t breathe, she looked at me with cold suspicion. She thought I was always lying. Her voice trembled with barely contained fury. “You think you can play mind games with me?” She crouched down, her hands violently twisting into the collar of my tactical shirt. She hauled my upper body out of the grass and slammed me back down against the wet earth, handling me with the rough, mechanical detachment of dealing with an enemy combatant. She pressed her hand hard against the back of my neck, shoving my face into the damp, decaying leaves and mud. “Great acting,” she hissed. Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. Lieutenant Callahan, the platoon leader, jogged up. He stopped short, his eyes widening as he saw the Captain pinning her own daughter to the dirt. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally spoke. “Captain… should I radio for the medics?” “Cancel that,” my mother snapped, cutting him off. “She has faked sickness since she was in middle school. She plays the victim to get pity. If I don’t break her of this habit today, it’s going to ruin her.” Her grip on my collar tightened. My head lolled limply against her knuckles, swaying with the movement. “I am going to ask you one last time, Gemma. Are you getting up?” She let go. My forehead hit the ground with a sickening, hollow thud. She stood up, towering over me, her chest heaving. “Fine. You want to stay down?” She raised her leg. The reinforced toe of her combat boot drove hard into my thigh. “Get up.” Another kick. This one to my ribs. “Keep faking. Go ahead.” A third kick. To my shoulder. Callahan couldn’t take it anymore. He lunged forward. “Captain, that’s enough!” My mother shoved him back. She leaned down, grabbed me by both shoulders, and hauled my limp body up. She raised her hand and slapped me across the face. Smack. The sound was sharp and terrible in the mountain wind. My head snapped violently to the side. “Are you awake now?” Another slap. “Stop faking.” A third. “Don’t you ever lie to me again.” Callahan grabbed her arm, physically pulling her away. “Captain! Stop! Something is wrong! Look at her face—” My mother wrenched her arm out of his grip, but her gaze finally locked onto my face. She stared at me for three agonizing seconds. “Unbelievable,” she whispered, her voice laced with disgust. “You actually put on corpse makeup to trick me? I knew I shouldn’t have let you anywhere near this regiment. You are a complete embarrassment.” She released me, letting me drop like a stone back into the weeds. “If she wants to lay there, let her lay there. We’ll see how long her little protest lasts.” She turned and walked away. After a few paces, she stopped and threw a look over her shoulder at the Lieutenant. “Pass the word down. Double-time the pace. Anyone who falls behind stays behind.” Callahan opened his mouth to argue, but she was already marching back to the front. He cast one last, tortured look at the brush before jogging after her. I hovered right where I fell. I looked down at my own body. The left side of my face was severely swollen. The blood trickling from the corner of my mouth had already dried into a dark crust. My uniform was painted with the muddy imprints of combat boots, and my shoulder rested at a grotesque, unnatural angle where it had been crushed. I was dead. I wasn’t supposed to feel physical pain anymore. But for some reason, my soul felt like it was being torn apart. 3 Callahan had only taken a few steps toward the column when his boot kicked something hard in the grass. He paused, looking down. It was an Albuterol inhaler. He recognized it instantly as the one I carried everywhere. A deep crease formed between his brows. He picked it up and immediately shouted for Kelsey. Kelsey, who had seamlessly blended back into the middle of the formation, jogged over at the sound of her name. “Lieutenant? What is it?” Callahan stepped into her space, holding the plastic inhaler right in front of her eyes. “This is Gemma’s inhaler. Why is it in the dirt miles from where she collapsed? I recall Gemma mentioning before we shipped out that you took her spare. Is that true?” Kelsey’s eyes flickered with panic. She took a half-step back. “Sir? I don’t know what you’re implying.” “I’m asking if you threw her asthma medication into the woods. Do you realize that kind of hazing can be fatal?” Kelsey’s voice dropped an octave, trembling. “No, sir. I didn’t. Why would I touch her meds? She’s probably just making things up to get me in trouble.” She gathered her confidence, her voice growing louder, as if volume could make the lie real. “Besides, she was faking the whole time anyway! The Captain said it herself—she’s been faking sick since she was a kid. What does this have to do with me?” Several cadets nearby slowed down, rubbernecking at the confrontation. “Looks like the Squad Leader is getting chewed out. You never see Callahan that mad.” “I heard he said she tossed Gemma’s inhaler.” “Wait, that inhaler? I think I actually saw her—” Before the cadet could finish the sentence, my mother’s voice cut through the trees like a whip. “Why is there a bottleneck here? Keep moving!” Callahan and Kelsey turned simultaneously. My mother marched toward them, her expression entirely unreadable, her eyes dead and cold. Callahan immediately stepped to her, holding out the plastic device. “Captain, please look at this. Isn’t this Gemma’s rescue inhaler?” My mother gave it a fleeting, disinterested glance. “Captain…” Kelsey’s voice wavered, immediately injecting tears into her tone. “I swear I didn’t touch it. I saw the bottle earlier and just asked her what it was…” “Enough.” My mother cut off Kelsey’s frantic defense. She glanced at the worn label on the canister. And then, just as Callahan opened his mouth to press the issue, my mother snatched the inhaler from his hand and chucked it blindly into the thick, impenetrable brush. “Move out. We’re burning daylight.” Callahan stood frozen in the mud, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful. He tried one last time. “Ma’am, I am not comfortable leaving Gemma out here. If she really is having a medical emergency—” “I said she is faking,” my mother exploded, her voice echoing violently through the woods. Whatever nerve Callahan had struck, it triggered a raw, defensive fury. “You just saw her! She’d rather play dead in the mud than keep up with this unit. This isn’t just a discipline issue anymore, Lieutenant. It’s a character defect.” She pointed a finger hard at Callahan’s chest. “The minute this exercise is over, I am filing the paperwork for her immediate discharge. I will not have a manipulative coward in my regiment. And as a Platoon Leader, your focus should be on the unit, not letting yourself get manipulated by one malingerer.” She leaned in. “Not another word. One more word and you’ll be running those hundred laps with her.” Callahan’s jaw clenched so tight the muscle leaped in his cheek. But he didn’t say another word. A cold breeze swept over the trail, rustling the dead leaves. The blood seeping from underneath my body had already soaked deep into the earth, coagulating into a dark, sticky mass. I floated in the air, watching my mother’s rigid back as she marched away. Callahan had been so close. He had almost uncovered the truth. Just one step away. But my mother chose to believe Kelsey over me. With her own hands, she had taken the very last shred of hope for me, and she had buried it. 4 It was pitch black by the time the company returned to base camp. A sudden, freezing drizzle began to fall. The few floodlights around the staging area cut through the rain, casting everything in a sickly, jaundiced yellow. My mother stood at the front of the formation with her clipboard, conducting roll call. She barked out the names, one by one. Each was met with a crisp “Here, ma’am.” Until she reached the third name from the bottom. She paused. “Gemma Rossi.” Silence. She called it again, sharper this time. “Gemma Rossi.” Only the sound of rain hitting the muddy tarmac answered her. My mother slowly raised her head, her eyes scanning the exhausted, rain-slicked faces of the cadets. “Where is she?” When no one spoke, she folded the roster, shoved it into her rain jacket, and let out a short, hollow breath. “Fine. She wants to play hide and seek.” She squared her shoulders, addressing the entire company. Her voice carried over the storm. “Listen up. As of tonight, Cadet Rossi is dismissed from this program. Anyone who shrinks from duty, who abandons their unit in the field, has no place in my command. I am filing the discharge papers tonight. Let her be a lesson to the rest of you. Dismissed.” The formation broke in utter silence. In the front row, Kelsey kept her head bowed, but the very corner of her mouth twitched. My mother turned on her heel and marched to the command tent. Callahan hesitated for a agonizing second before jogging after her. “Captain, it’s pouring out there. She’s alone in the woods—” “She knows how to hide,” my mother snapped, not even looking at him. “You really think she’s just sitting out there letting herself get rained on?” Callahan went quiet. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles stark white against the gloom. The rain was coming down in sheets now. Callahan stood in the doorway of the command tent, watching the deluge outside, then turned back to my mother. She was sitting behind a folding tactical desk, illuminated by a harsh LED lantern, furiously filling out the discharge forms. The scratch of her pen against the paper was loud and rhythmic. Callahan stepped forward. “Captain. Requesting permission to take a search detail out for her.” She didn’t look up from the paperwork. “Denied.” “Ma’am, the temperature is dropping. If she’s actually hurt—” She slammed the pen down and finally looked at him. Her eyes were hard. “Did she cast some sort of spell on you, Lieutenant?” Callahan blinked, caught off guard. “She has been doing this exact routine since she was a child,” my mother said, her voice dripping with fatigue. “The second she doesn’t get her way, she hides. She forces the whole family to panic and search for her. And when she’s finally found, she turns on the tears and plays the victim.” She leaned back in her chair, a look of profound disgust crossing her features. “I am not falling for it again.” Callahan’s voice dropped, turning dark and heavy. “Captain. What if she isn’t faking? What if she’s really—” For a fraction of a second, the color completely drained from my mother’s face. But just as quickly, the mask slammed back into place. “Are you lecturing me on how to run my command?” “I’m just saying, whether you plan to discipline her or discharge her, we need to bring her back to base first. Leaving her out there… isn’t this an overcorrection?” The word hung in the damp air of the tent. Overcorrection. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain against the canvas. My mother stared at Callahan, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “An overcorrection?” she repeated, stepping out from behind the desk. Her voice was terrifyingly low. “Do you have any idea what she did when she was twelve years old?” Callahan remained silent. Instead of explaining, my mother took a deep breath, forcing her features back into a state of chilling calm. “If she likes hiding in the woods, she can stay in the woods. Let’s see how long her stubbornness lasts in the cold.” Callahan stood his ground. His lips parted, but before he could push any further, the tent flap flew open. Kelsey ducked inside, out of breath. “Captain, someone is here to see you.” My mother’s lips curved into a bitter, knowing smile. She shot Callahan a look of pure vindication. “See? What did I tell you? She was faking. She got tired of the rain and came crawling back. I told you, she just needs to learn a lesson. The more you cater to her, the more she manipulates you.” Suddenly, the heavy canvas door was ripped open from the outside. A gust of wind drove rain deep into the tent, splattering mud across the tactical maps. Major Henderson, the base commander, stood in the doorway. He was thoroughly soaked, his face a terrifying shade of gray. He looked directly at my mother, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “Why did you abandon a recruit in the field? Search and Rescue just pulled a body out of the ravine. She’s wearing one of our uniforms.”

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I found myself tracing the silver pendant at my throat, a nervous habit I couldn’t seem to break. Adrian had fastened this chain around my neck years ago, on the day he finally cleared his name. Back then, he held me with a desperation that felt like forever, promising he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to me. Looking back, I suppose I was the only one who took those vows as gospel. The usual hum of the post-op ward suddenly died down. Every head turned toward Adrian. A patient had just made a bold joke, nudging Dr. Beckett to “reconsider” his history with Lydia—to finally mend the heartbreak of their college years. Lydia, the woman in the center of the attention, flushed a delicate pink. She stole a shy, sidelong glance at Adrian. Adrian’s gaze flickered toward me for a fraction of a second, but it was hollow. To him, I was just a ghost in a white coat, a piece of irrelevant background noise. “I’ll give it some serious thought,” he said, his voice light, effortless. The room erupted. People were practically tripping over themselves to offer congratulations, whispering that the only reason the brilliant Dr. Beckett had stayed single all these years was because he was waiting for Lydia. They called it fate. They called it a missed connection finally coming home. Lydia made a move to get out of bed, feigning modesty, but she stumbled. Adrian was there in a heartbeat. He caught her, pulling her steady against him in a protective embrace that drew a fresh round of applause from the gallery. I stood at the very edge of the crowd, the wife he’d kept hidden for three years, watching the farce unfold with a heart that had finally gone cold. 01 Satisfied with the answer, the meddling patient pushed further. “So, Dr. Beckett, what actually tore you two apart back then? It seems like such a waste of all those years.” A nurse stepped in, trying to be helpful. “Oh, you know how it is in med school. Probably some trivial argument that got blown out of proportion. People drift, they come back. If they’re meant to be, they find their way.” There was a chorus of agreement. Adrian just smiled—that enigmatic, handsome tilt of the lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Lydia, meanwhile, moved closer, clutching the sleeve of his white lab coat and burying her face against his chest. A bitter taste rose in my throat. They had been broken up for nine years. And for every single one of those nine years, I was the one by his side. I was the one who held him through the night terrors, the one who worked two jobs so he could finish his residency. But to the world, I didn’t exist. Lydia suddenly looked up, her eyes landing on me with a flicker of feigned guilt. “Dr. Whitlock, I heard you’re on the night shift tonight.” She looked back at Adrian, then back at me, her voice dropping into a sweet, pleading honey. “Adrian is worried about me staying alone. He wants me to stay one more night for observation. Would you mind… would you mind swapping shifts with him? I’d really love for him to be the one nearby.” The room went silent, all eyes pivoting to me. Another doctor, a guy from neuro, pointed a finger at me with a grin. “Come on, Nina. You’ve got to swap. Don’t be the one to break up the reunion. If you say no, the karma will hit you with twenty trauma admissions tonight.” The room filled with easy laughter. I didn’t join in. I just looked at Adrian. “Do you want me to swap?” I asked, my voice flat. He finally looked at me, his expression as professional and detached as if he were discussing a lab report with a stranger. “Let’s swap,” he said softly. I felt a sudden, sharp heat behind my eyes. I looked down quickly, adjusting my surgical mask to hide the tremble in my lips. Lydia breathed out a “thank you,” her hand slipping into the crook of Adrian’s arm. He reached out, tucked a stray hair behind her ear, and leaned in. I tried to pull my lips into a smile. I failed. By the time I made it back to the breakroom, my head was spinning. A few colleagues were already there, relishing the gossip. They’d all gone to the same medical school and knew the lore. “Did you see them? It’s like watching a movie,” one of them sighed. “They look exactly like they did in the library ten years ago.” I stood by the coffee machine, frozen. “I heard she was a lit major,” another added. “She used to drag Adrian to her poetry seminars. He’d skip his own rounds just to sit in the back of her class. He was so head-over-heels back then. Remember his social media? That pinned quote from Gone with the Wind has been there for nearly a decade.” My hand gripped the counter. Adrian’s pinned quote. I knew it by heart. ‘The fact that someone doesn’t love you the way you want them to, doesn’t mean they don’t love you with all they have.’ I had spent years convinced that quote was about his strained relationship with his parents. Every time I asked, he’d just shrug and say he liked the sentiment of the characters. I was so stupid. It wasn’t about family. It was a lighthouse for the woman who had left him. The fluorescent lights overhead felt too bright, making my eyes itch. Suddenly, one of the doctors turned to me. “Nina, you’re new to the department. We don’t even know your deal. Are you seeing anyone? Married?” The room went quiet again. The door pushed open. Adrian was walking Lydia toward the exit of the ward, but he stopped in the doorway. He looked at me, a warning flash in his eyes. He cleared his throat twice—a low, dry sound. Our signal. In the nine years I’d known him, he did that whenever he was uncomfortable or wanted me to shut down a conversation. The last time he’d done it was at my parents’ funeral, when a distant aunt asked when we were finally going to tie the knot. He hadn’t wanted to answer then, either. I took a deep breath. I didn’t look at him. I looked at my colleagues and forced a small, tight smile. “I am married,” I said. “But I’m actually getting a divorce.” 02 Adrian’s entire body went rigid. Lydia looked up at him, blinking in confusion. “Adrian? Is something wrong?” He waved her off, his hand trembling slightly as he gestured that he was fine. My colleagues shifted uncomfortably, the air in the room turning thick with embarrassment. “Oh, Nina, I’m so sorry,” the nurse from earlier whispered. “We didn’t mean to pry. Marriage is… it’s a big deal. Maybe take some time to think it over? You don’t want to regret it.” I didn’t let them finish. I kept my tone light, almost airy. “I won’t regret it.” I leaned against the doorframe, my voice steady. “We’ve been together for a long time, but I finally realized I never actually made it inside his heart. So no, there won’t be any regrets.” The room went deathly silent. No one dared to pick up that thread. Except Lydia. She leaned into Adrian, her voice carrying that sharp, polished edge of a woman who knows she’s winning. “Dr. Whitlock is so pragmatic. But isn’t that just how love works? Some people can try for years, but if it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. And then there are those of us tied by fate. No matter how many years pass, we always find our way back. Don’t you agree, Doctor?” The other doctors looked between us, sensing the tension but unable to decode it. “What do you mean?” one asked. Lydia shot me a look that was pure, cold triumph. “Nothing. Just that you can’t force a heart to want what it doesn’t.” Force. That word had been the soundtrack of my life. When I was just a plain medical student who couldn’t stop staring at the brilliant Adrian Beckett, people told me not to force it. When I stayed by his side for six years without a single public acknowledgement, they told me not to force it. And even after three years of marriage, here I was, being told the same thing. Even Adrian believed it. He convinced himself that he was only with me because I had willed it into existence, that our marriage was a debt he was paying. “Anyway, life goes on,” my friend Jordan said, trying to break the ice. “If it’s broken, it’s broken. Don’t worry, Nina. I’ve got a literal catalog of eligible guys. You want a doctor? I’ll find you a better one.” Jordan pulled out her phone to show me a photo, but the sound of Adrian’s knuckles rapping sharply against the desk cut her off. “Enough,” he said. His voice was cold, vibrating with a strange, dark energy. “She isn’t even divorced yet. This is a hospital, not a dating service. Act like professionals.” “He’s right,” someone chimed in, eager to appease the Chief. “At least wait until the papers are signed. You don’t want to give the guy any leverage in court.” “Right, right,” Jordan muttered, giving me a quick, apologetic wink. “But seriously, Nina, I’m keeping my eyes open for you.” I gave her a polite nod and sat down to chart. Beside me, Lydia leaned in and whispered something into Adrian’s ear. They both laughed. Adrian reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a leather-bound notebook, handing it to her with a look of immense softness. I recognized that notebook. In three years of marriage, he had never let me touch it. He’d told me he valued his privacy, his “intellectual boundaries.” I had respected that, thinking it was just part of his process. I realized now it wasn’t about the notebook. It was about who was doing the touching. 03 The office was soon consumed by the sound of typing and hushed medical consultations. Jordan walked me through a new admission from the night before, our heads bent over the chart. Across the room, Lydia had made herself at home in Adrian’s chair. She was “helping” him with some paperwork, their heads leaning so close they were practically touching. It was an eyesore. Watching them, you’d never guess Adrian and I even knew each other outside of these four walls. We were strangers who happened to share an employer. Even at dinner, there was nothing. Adrian had brought Lydia to the staff cafeteria, having gone home to grab her a change of clothes—a soft, cream-colored sweater. As he helped her pull the sweater over her head, the light caught something on her neck. A silver necklace. Exactly like mine. Except hers was better. The craftsmanship was finer, the metal brighter. It was clearly a new, high-end version of the one I wore every day. He led her toward a table, his hand resting naturally on the small of her back. She leaned her head against his shoulder. They looked like a couple in a jewelry commercial. I might as well have been a piece of the furniture. I sat with Jordan and the others. Jordan noticed where I was looking and waved a hand in front of my face. “Forget it, Nina. Beckett never eats with the peasants. Unless, of course, it’s her.” I forced a smile and looked down at my tray. The food tasted like ash. My colleagues were complaining about the mystery meat, asking if I liked it. I just shook my head, my eyes involuntarily drifting back to the table near the window. Seeing them huddled together took me back. Back to the year Adrian was accused of plagiarism. I had spent months traveling to different universities, digging through archives, tracking down witnesses to clear his name. Sometimes we only had enough money for one meal a day. He’d bought me my necklace then. We were waiting for a meeting, eating cold takeout on a curb, when he’d slipped into a cheap silver shop and came out with it. I’ll be like this chain, he’d told me. Always around you. Always holding you. When his name was finally cleared and he got his position at the hospital, he made a vow. “From now on, Nina, I’m going to make sure we always have a proper seat at the table.” And later, when I lost the baby—when the stress of the scandal and the two jobs finally broke my body—he had held me in the hospital bed, sobbing into my hair. “I’m so sorry, Nina. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.” Now I saw those vows for what they were: heat-of-the-moment emotions. Empty words from a man who was grateful for the help, but not the woman giving it. As I got up to head back to my shift, my phone buzzed. A text from Adrian. Nice performance today. But next time, try a less pathetic excuse than ‘divorce.’ I sighed, staring at the screen. I didn’t reply. There was nothing left to say that a lawyer couldn’t say better. 04 After my shift, I ordered Thai takeout and went home. Adrian hated takeout. He said the years of struggling and eating out of cardboard boxes had scarred him. Because I loved him, I had spent every evening—no matter how exhausted I was—cooking from scratch, making his favorites. He’d eat it with a shrug, but I kept doing it. Not tonight. Lydia was with him. I’m sure a salad from the hospital vending machine would taste like a five-course meal as long as she was the one feeding it to him. I went into the study and pulled a book off the shelf. On the night we officially started our relationship, Adrian had sat in this room until dawn. He told me he was too nervous, too overwhelmed by his feelings for me to sleep. I’d believed him. Until I found the letter. I had been cleaning months later and a page fell out of his copy of Gone with the Wind. The sycamores have turned brittle and yellow six times now, he had written. And I am still waiting for you. It was a letter to Lydia, never sent, perfectly preserved. I put the letter back. I took off my necklace and placed it in the back of a junk drawer. I opened my laptop and typed out a transfer request to another department, then hit send. That night, I didn’t sleep. My mind was a loop of Adrian’s breath against my skin as he fastened that necklace years ago, contrasted against the way he’d tucked Lydia into her sweater today. I fell asleep just as the sun began to peek through the blinds, my face damp with tears. The next day was my day off. I dressed in a tailored suit and sprayed on a gardenia perfume. It was an old bottle, probably expired. I’d bought it before Adrian and I were together. He hated scents, so I’d buried it in the back of the vanity. As I was grabbing my keys, the front door opened. Adrian walked in. He caught the scent immediately and frowned. “Lydia was scared to be alone in the hospital last night,” he said, skipping any greeting. “That’s why I asked you to swap. Don’t read into it.” I paused, my hand on the doorknob. In three years of marriage, he had never felt the need to explain himself to me. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, his eyes scanning me, landing on the source of the perfume. “Where are you going? And since when do you wear that stuff? You know I hate perfume.” I looked him in the eye, my voice perfectly level. “I never said I didn’t like it. You don’t like it. There’s a difference.” Adrian blinked, finally noticing the coldness in my expression. “Are you really still sulking because I asked you to swap a shift? I didn’t realize you were so petty, Nina.” Petty. I almost laughed. It was a sharp, jagged sound. “Is that what this is to you? Pettiness?” Adrian pressed his lips together. “Look, maybe I shouldn’t have asked in front of everyone. Lydia would have been embarrassed if I’d said no. You’re a doctor, Nina. Have some professional compassion. Stop being so dramatic.” He paused, then added, “Tell you what. I’ll take you to that concert tonight. The one Lydia mentioned—” “No.” I cut him off before he could finish. It was the first time I’d ever interrupted him. “Adrian, I’m done playing this part. I’m done pretending we—” Before I could finish, his grip on my wrist tightened. His eyes went wide, fixed on my throat. “Where is the necklace?”

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A year ago, he left me standing alone at City Hall for a girl who scaled fish at the harbor for ten dollars an hour. I can still see the shadow of a smirk in his eyes when he told me, “Erica, you don’t understand. She’s… refreshing. She’s real.” I watched him walk away, a hollow, wintry ache settling behind my ribs. It felt like my entire life had been gutted and left to dry in the sun. It only took him six months to regret it. The girl from the docks was a novelty, a splash of salt air in his curated life, but eventually, the smell of the harbor wouldn’t wash off. The gap in their worlds became a chasm he couldn’t bridge. He crawled back, begging for forgiveness, certain that I would still be there, waiting to be his wife. And I did marry him. For the first six months of our marriage, he was the picture of a perfect husband. Attentive. Gracious. Desperate to atone. But why should I be the only one to know the copper taste of betrayal? Why should I be the only one who had to swallow the glass of a broken heart? Six months into our “happily ever after,” I made sure he caught me with another man. Nathan’s eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of fractured sanity as he demanded to know why. “Are you punishing me? Erica, I’m done with that life! I’ve been home every night. I’ve given you everything. Where did I go wrong?” 1 Clothes were strewn across the hardwood floor in a frantic, tell-tale trail. I sat on the edge of the bed, draped in nothing but a silk robe that revealed far too much, watching Nathan unravel. He stood in the doorway, a dark, suffocating silhouette against the hallway light. “Get out,” he spat at the man behind me. The man didn’t move. He looked at me first, searching my face for a signal. When I kept my gaze fixed forward, cold and unblinking, he finally stood, dressed with a practiced, lethal efficiency, and left. Then, it was just me and Nathan. He was shaking with a suppressed, violent kind of grief. He grabbed a stray shirt from the floor and tried to force it onto me, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. “Erica, I can overlook this. This once. But if you ever—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath hitching as he saw the faint bruises on my collarbone. His grip tightened, his movements turning rough as he shoved my arms into the sleeves. My wrist twisted painfully. I winced, my brow furrowing. “Nathan, stop it! You’re acting like a psychopath!” I shoved him back, my voice echoing in the silent room. He lunged forward, pinning my wrists, his teeth bared. “A psychopath? I walk into my own home and find my wife in bed with a stranger, and I’m supposed to what? Stand here and applaud?” Watching the agony ripple across his face, the sharp pain in my wrist felt like nothing. It felt like a fair trade. I looked up at him, a slow, sharp smile spreading across my lips. “I just wanted to see for myself. I wanted to see if the world outside was really as ‘refreshing’ as you claimed it was.” Nathan recoiled as if I’d slapped him. “You married me… just for revenge?” “I’m done with her, Erica! I haven’t seen her in months!” “Done?” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. It started in my chest and climbed up my throat until it turned into hot, stinging tears. “You crawled into her bed over and over again. You think ‘ending it’ scrubs that clean? You think I can’t smell the salt on you every time you touch me?” Nathan’s eyes were crimson. He paced the room like a caged predator, gasping for air, before his fist collided with the wall. A streak of blood smeared down the paint. The violence of it seemed to ground him. “Erica,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, terrifyingly calm register. “We’re even now. You’ve had your pound of flesh. From now on, we move past this. We live our lives.” I laughed again, the sound brittle. “You slept with her a thousand times, Nathan. You think one night with someone else balances the scales?” “What do you want from me?” he rasped, his voice breaking. “I. Want. A. Divorce.” “A divorce?” He looked at me with a sudden, cruel flash of derision. “Erica, look at yourself. You aren’t the girl you used to be. Who’s going to take you now? Who’s going to give you this life? You think you can find someone who loves you more than I do?” He reached out, his voice softening into a patronizing silk. “Be a good girl. I’ll forgive you this time. Let’s just forget the past and start over.” In that moment, I felt a profound sense of the absurd. This man, the boy who used to bring me wildflowers and talk about our future under the oak trees—how had he turned into this monster? 2 When did the rot start? I think it was when his startup finally took off, right around the time the “Old Money” of my family’s estate began to crumble. My father’s firm collapsed, a slow-motion car crash that ended in total bankruptcy. My parents moved back to the countryside, leaving me in Nathan’s hands like a precious heirloom. My father had said, “I’m glad I had the foresight not to stand in your way when Nathan was starting out. Now that the family name is gone, you have him to lean on. I can sleep peacefully knowing you’re taken care of.” I had nodded, tears blurring my vision, grateful that I had a rock like Nathan to cling to. But after my parents left, the rock began to erode. He started coming home later and later—midnight, 2:00 AM, sometimes not at all. When I asked if work was really that demanding, he’d give me the same tired script: “We’re breaking into the global market, Erica. I have to be there. I’m the CEO; I have to set the example.” He’d done the same during the early days of the company. I had no reason to doubt him. Until the day of the fender-bender. I was stuck in traffic near the waterfront when I saw his car parked illegally by the pier. I saw Nathan—my Nathan—carrying a young woman in his arms. He looked frantic, his face etched with a desperate worry as he lifted her into the back of an ambulance. The world went ice-cold. In the middle of a sweltering July afternoon, I started to shiver. I called him. Once. Twice. Ten times. He declined every single one. In a meeting, the auto-reply text read. Those three words felt like a death sentence. I drove home in a trance, and halfway there, I got rear-ended. My head hit the steering wheel, and as I felt the warm trickle of blood down my forehead, a sick thought occurred to me: This is good. I would call him, tell him I was hurt, and he would come rushing back. He would leave that girl and hold me. But as the paramedics loaded me into the ambulance, his phone was still off. The nurse handed me an ice pack, her eyes full of a pity that made me want to scream. “Try him again later, sweetie. I’m sure he’s just tied up with something important.” I sat in the sterile silence of the ER, listening to the busy signal, a strange, eerie calm settling over me. I sent him a photo of my injury. He didn’t reply. It wasn’t until I had been sitting in our dark living room for four hours that he finally burst through the door. “Erica! My god, are you okay? Does your head hurt? Do we need to go back to the hospital?” He stumbled over the rug, rushing to gather me in his arms. The terror in his eyes looked so real. After seven years, I knew he still loved me in his own twisted way. But the smell of the hospital—the scent of her crisis—was still clinging to his jacket. It ignited something inside me. “Where were you?” “I’m so sorry, babe. Things at the office are just insane. Once this merger goes through, I promise I’ll make it up to—” I slapped his hand away before he could finish the sentence. I looked at him, my eyes burning with a cold, sharp rage. “You’re lying. Nathan, where were you this afternoon?” He tried to double down. “I told you, I was in a meeting.” I picked up my phone and showed him the photo I’d taken at the pier. There he was, disheveled and frantic, holding a girl in a stained apron. Nathan’s face drained of color. He fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist, his voice thick with a fake, desperate remorse. “I’m sorry, Erica. It was a momentary lapse. I was weak. Please, you have to forgive me.” I broke. I threw my phone, I screamed until my throat was raw, and I smashed every piece of porcelain in that room. “Why, Nathan? Why her?” He just kept apologizing, letting me hit him, letting me vent my fury. “I just felt sorry for her, Erica. She has nothing. It wasn’t… it wasn’t like us. I’ll end it. I swear. You’re the only one who matters.” And I was stupid enough to believe him. I tried to bury the memory. I tried to go back to the way we were. He proposed again—properly this time—and I threw myself into wedding planning, counting down the days until our September 9th date at City Hall. 3 I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub that day from my mind. I stood in front of the Marriage Bureau, clutching my paperwork, watching the sun climb to its zenith and then sink below the skyline. The security guard, a man who had clearly seen enough heartbreak for ten lifetimes, finally sighed and told me it was time to go. They were closing. I walked for two hours. I walked until the heel of my Louboutin snapped, until my feet were blistered and bleeding. It felt right. The physical pain was a distraction. When I finally let myself into the house, it was pitch black. Nathan wasn’t there. My phone had died hours ago. I didn’t bother turning on the lights; I just sat on the sofa and watched the shadows stretch across the room until dawn broke. He didn’t walk through the door until 8:00 AM. He looked exhausted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He saw me and asked, “Why are you up so early?” He had completely forgotten. The most important day of our lives had been erased by whatever—or whoever—had kept him out. “Nathan,” I said, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel. “Where were you yesterday?” There it was again. The question that had become the soundtrack to our relationship. Where were you? Who were you with? I had become the nagging, paranoid wife I always swore I’d never be. Nathan’s face darkened with annoyance. He yanked at his tie. “Something came up at the office. Don’t start, Erica.” I didn’t remind him what day it was. I just nodded and let it go. If he couldn’t let her go, I would do it for him. I hired a private investigator. Her name was Becca. She was a “fishmonger’s girl”—a high school dropout who worked the stalls at the local market, scaling sea bass with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She was young. She was beautiful in a raw, unrefined way. And she had a following. She was a local “blue-collar” influencer, the “Harbor Queen.” People loved her because she was “authentic,” a far cry from the polished socialites Nathan usually dealt with. That was the draw. The extreme contrast. To a man who had everything, she was a trip to the wild side. I made sure the “authenticity” of her brand was ruined. I leaked evidence of her affair with a married man to the local tabloids and her comment sections. Suddenly, the “Harbor Queen” was just another homewrecker. Her live streams were flooded with vitriol. Nathan grew more sullen by the day. Finally, the dam broke. Someone threw a bucket of fish guts at her during her shift, screaming that she was a slut. I was at home, eating lunch while watching the footage on my tablet, when Nathan slammed through the door. “Was this you? Why are you doing this to her? She’s not like you, Erica. She didn’t grow up in a mansion with a silver spoon. She’s just a girl trying to survive, and you’re destroying her!” “Stop it, Erica. Just stop.” I looked into his eyes—eyes full of disappointment and rage—and I actually felt a laugh bubble up. “Have you eaten yet?” I asked, smiling through the tears that were finally starting to fall. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. In the background of the tablet, the crowd’s jeers grew louder. Nathan’s expression hardened. He told me to end the “charade.” I looked at him defiantly. “And if I don’t?” “Then don’t expect me to be kind. Your family is gone, Erica. You have no one else. Where else are you going to go?”

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A few days ago, I was reported to the medical board again. And for the exact same absurd reason. It all started with a high-risk, incredibly delicate cardiac repair. Just hours prior, I had been standing under the blinding lights of the OR, successfully pulling a man back from the edge of death. When I walked into the waiting room, I expected his family to be tearful, maybe relieved. I expected gratitude. Instead, they were screaming, pointing a trembling, furious finger at the ID badge clipped to my chest. The one that read: Cardiothoracic Surgical Specialist. “We are paying a hundred grand for this surgery, and this hospital lets some glorified medical tech use my husband for target practice?!” “You just wait! I’m calling the medical board, the police, the news—everyone!” I opened my mouth, ready to calmly explain the chasm of difference between a Surgical Specialist and a medical technician. But before I could get a single syllable out, the Chief of Surgery shoved past me, forcing my head down, demanding I apologize to the family. I thought that would be the end of it. A bitter pill swallowed for the sake of hospital politics. “You honestly think I went to community college?” I stared at the patient’s wife, utterly blindsided by the sheer weight of her ignorance. 1. “Listen to her! Does she sound like a real doctor? They let a community college dropout take a scalpel to my husband’s heart!” Jocelyn Gallagher’s voice echoed like a siren down the pristine linoleum hallway of the cardiology wing. Before I could process her words, she lunged. She closed the distance between us in a single, heavy step and slapped me across the face with everything she had. The metallic tang of blood instantly flooded my mouth. I stumbled back, clutching my rapidly swelling left cheek, a high-pitched ringing drowning out the noise of the ward. Only a few hours ago, I had been on my feet for eight grueling hours in the surgical theater. As the only surgeon in the state board-certified to perform this specific, cutting-edge arterial reconstruction, I had literally wrestled her husband’s life out of the reaper’s grip. I thought she had come to thank me. Instead, she gave me a ringing, violent backhand. Jocelyn grabbed the lapel of my white coat, her knuckles white, her other hand aggressively tapping the laminated plastic of my hospital badge. “Everybody look!” she shrieked to the gathering crowd of nurses and patients. “This hospital is a slaughterhouse! We go into crippling debt for this surgery, and they hand my husband over to some diversity-hire tech who couldn’t even get into a real college!” “No wonder he still looks like a ghost! This quack probably botched the whole thing!” I drew in a sharp, trembling breath, forcing my clinical detachment to override my boiling rage. “Ma’am, you are fundamentally misunderstanding my title,” I said, my voice tight but level. “The ‘Specialist’ on my badge means I am an expert in a highly specific, advanced field of cardiovascular medicine. It does not mean I am a medical assistant. I graduated from—” “Save your bullshit!” Jocelyn spat. A thick glob of saliva landed squarely on the toe of my leather Dansko clog. She threw herself onto the floor, slapping her thighs, launching into a theatrical, dry-heaving sob. “My son warned me! He said all these new ‘specialists’ are just dropouts who bought their way in! You’re a fraud! You used my husband as a guinea pig! I want a refund! I want every damn penny back!” I stared down at the grown woman thrashing on the floor, feeling a profound, chilling sense of absurdity. You cannot reason with someone who is entirely insulated by their own stupidity. I reached into my pocket for my phone, ready to dial hospital security. Suddenly, a damp, heavy hand clamped over mine, forcing the phone back down. Dr. Richard Stanton, the Chief of Cardiology, pushed his way through the crowd, his forehead glistening with nervous sweat. He immediately plastered on a sickeningly sweet, accommodating smile and crouched next to Jocelyn. “Mrs. Gallagher, please, let’s take a breath. There’s no need to escalate things. Let’s not let tempers ruin the day.” Without dropping his smile, Stanton’s fingers dug into my bicep like a vice. He practically dragged me down the hall and shoved me into his private office. The second the heavy oak door clicked shut, Stanton’s obsequious smile vanished. “Vera, have you lost your mind? Are you trying to get us on the evening news?” I pointed a shaking finger at my left cheek, which was now throbbing and hot to the touch. I stared at him, my eyes hard. “Dr. Stanton, she assaulted an attending surgeon in the middle of the ward. She is publicly defaming my credentials. Are you telling me I shouldn’t call the police?” Stanton waved me off with a frantic, irritated gesture. He went to the water cooler, filled a paper cup, and shoved it into my hand. “Vera, you’re brilliant in the OR, but you are painfully naive about how the real world works. Do you have any idea how volatile doctor-patient relations are right now?” He paced behind his desk. “This department is up for the State Center of Excellence grant next month. The Board of Directors explicitly warned me: no PR disasters. No scandals. You bring the cops into this, you drag the hospital’s name through the mud.” I slammed the paper cup down on his desk. Water splashed over the rim, soaking into his blotter. “So what? I’m just supposed to take a physical beating? I’m supposed to let them tell the entire hospital I’m an uneducated fraud doing practice runs on human beings?” Stanton let out a long, patronizing sigh. He walked around the desk and patted my shoulder with heavy, paternalistic condescension. “With great talent comes a little sacrifice. The woman is stressed, Vera. She’s blue-collar, she’s scared, she doesn’t understand our jargon. Why are you, a Johns Hopkins fellow with a post-doc from Munich, picking a fight with an ignorant old woman?” He leaned in, his voice dropping. “Listen to me. Go back out there. Swallow your pride, apologize, and let it go.” I stared at him, the silence stretching tight between us. “You want me… to apologize to the woman who just assaulted me?” 2. Stanton’s eyes instantly hardened. The paternal facade melted away, leaving only a cold, bureaucratic threat. “Don’t forget who fought to bring you to this hospital, Vera.” He crossed his arms. “If you don’t bow your head right now, I will personally see to it that your name is removed from the year-end surgical excellence nominations. For the good of the department, you will take this hit.” Half an hour later, systematically worn down by Stanton’s relentless pressure and quiet threats to my career, I found myself standing back out in the hallway. Jocelyn Gallagher had picked herself up off the floor. She stood with her arms crossed, a look of smug, victorious entitlement radiating from her face. Stanton approached her, rubbing his hands together. “Mrs. Gallagher, Dr. Pierce has realized her mistake. And to show our goodwill, the hospital administration has agreed to waive twenty thousand dollars of your post-op recovery fees.” Jocelyn snatched the waiver form from Stanton’s hand, her eyes raking up and down my body with undisguised contempt. “You’re lucky I’m a forgiving woman, or I would’ve sued this place into the ground.” She sneered at me. “Well? Did the tech lose her tongue? I’m waiting for my apology.” Behind my back, Stanton pinched my waist, a sharp, silent command. I ground my molars together. The taste of copper was still heavy on my tongue. “I’m sorry.” Jocelyn let out a loud, theatrical scoff, turned on her heel, and strutted away. Stanton let out a massive exhale, turning to me with a relieved, approving smile. “See? Was that so hard? You take a step back, and the sky opens up.” I truly believed that was the end of it. I had taken the hit, swallowed my pride, and paid the toll. But I had underestimated the bottomless, terrifying depths of human malice. Three days later, during our morning department briefing, Stanton walked into the conference room holding a stiff piece of hospital letterhead. His face was the color of ash. He slammed the paper down on the mahogany table. His eyes locked onto mine, wide and panicked. “Dr. Pierce. You are to hand over all your current patients immediately.” The room went dead silent. A dozen surgeons turned their heads to stare at me. “Effective as of this minute, you are suspended pending a full investigation. You are barred from the OR and all clinical duties.” I stood up so fast my chair scraped violently against the floor. “Suspended? On what grounds?” Stanton didn’t answer. He grabbed the remote and clicked the projector on. A video illuminated the pull-down screen. It was footage from the hallway three days ago. But it had been maliciously, brilliantly edited. There was no footage of Jocelyn slapping me. No footage of her spitting on me or throwing a tantrum on the floor. It was just a tight shot of my face—red, swollen, and humiliated—muttering the words, “I’m sorry.” Superimposed over the video in massive, glaring red text was a caption that made my stomach drop: [CORRUPT HOSPITAL COVERS UP MALPRACTICE! DROPOUT ‘DOCTOR’ BOTCHES SURGERY ON ELDERLY MAN, FORCED TO CONFESS AND PAY HUSH MONEY!] Stanton pointed a trembling finger at the screen, where thousands of vile, hateful comments were scrolling by in real-time. “On what grounds? On the grounds that this family took our twenty grand and immediately filed a formal complaint with the State Medical Board!” His voice cracked. “This video is everywhere. It’s on Twitter, it’s on TikTok. The hospital switchboard has been paralyzed for six hours! The State Board has formed a joint investigative committee, and until they clear you, you are a liability. You are suspended.” I stared at the comments flashing across the screen. My hands began to shake, a cold, sickening dread pooling in my chest. “Did she sleep her way into the OR? Who let a tech hold a scalpel?” “Find out who her daddy is. Burn this hospital down!” I had a dual MD/Ph.D. from Johns Hopkins. I had completed my cardiothoracic fellowship at Munich University Hospital, one of the most rigorous programs on earth. I had turned down lucrative offers in New York and Boston to come back and elevate the cardiac care in my home state. And now, I was being crucified as a fraudulent, uneducated butcher. When my shift ended, I walked to the underground parking garage, my spine stiff under the suffocating, sideways glances of my colleagues. I turned the corner to my parking spot and stopped dead. The heavy, toxic stench of aerosol paint hit me first. My white Audi was dripping with fresh, blood-red paint. Sprawled across the windshield, in jagged, dripping black letters, were the words: DIE QUACK From behind a concrete pillar, three teenagers stepped out. They immediately raised their phones, the camera flashes strobing in the dim garage. “That’s her! The fake doctor!” “Get her face! Make her famous!” My heart hammered against my ribs. Without a word, I unlocked the car, slid into the paint-slicked driver’s seat, and drove out into the blinding daylight. 3. The moment I got to my apartment, I tore through my closet, pulling out the heavy leather portfolios containing my diplomas, my board certifications, and my medical license. The next morning, I bypassed Stanton’s secretary and pushed open his office door. “Dr. Stanton. I want the hospital to publish my full credentials on the main homepage immediately. Every degree, every certification.” I slammed the thick stack of embossed paper onto his desk. “And I am retaining counsel to sue this family for defamation and vandalism.” Stanton didn’t even glance at the diplomas. He held his hands up, shaking his head furiously. “Absolutely not. If we release those now, the internet will just say we faked them! It looks like we’re scrambling to cover our tracks!” “The mob is out for blood, Vera. The harder you fight the current, the worse you’ll drown.” I planted both hands on his desk, leaning in until he was forced to meet my eyes. “So I am just supposed to let them ruin my life? My car was vandalized. My personal cell phone is ringing at 3 AM with death threats. Is this what you meant by ‘the sky opening up’?” Stanton huffed, pushing his chair back. He walked to the window, rubbing his temples. “Vera, you are making this about you, and it’s about the hospital. The investigative committee just needs time. Give it two weeks. The internet has the memory of a goldfish. The news cycle will move on.” He turned around, his eyes cold. “Go home. Keep your mouth shut. Do not escalate this.” The hospital. It was always about the hospital. I looked at this man—a coward who would throw a brilliant surgeon to the wolves just to protect his own administrative bonus—and felt something inside me snap. The dying embers of my respect for him went completely cold. “Fine. If the hospital won’t protect me, I’ll handle it myself.” I snatched my credentials off the desk and walked out. Stanton’s voice chased me down the hall. “If you go rogue on this, Vera, you will never work in this state again!” I didn’t even flinch. I pressed the elevator button for the lobby. If the administration was going to play dead, I would go straight to the source. I drove to the address listed on Frank Gallagher’s intake file. It was a rundown house on the edge of town. I knocked. The door swung open, revealing a man in his late twenties. He had bleach-blonde hair, sleeves of cheap tattoos, and a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. This was Jocelyn’s son, Kyle Gallagher. He looked me up and down, a cruel, mocking grin spreading across his face. “Well, well. Look who it is. The dropout doctor. What, did the hospital fire you? Come to beg for a cut of the settlement?” I kept my face perfectly still. I held up a clear plastic folder containing the color copies of my degrees. “I am giving you one chance to delete that video and issue a public retraction.” I tapped the glass over my Johns Hopkins diploma. “These are my board certifications and my doctoral degrees. What you and your mother are doing is textbook defamation, and it carries severe legal consequences.” Kyle stared at the folder for a second. Then, he threw his head back and let out a barking, ugly laugh. He snatched the folder from my hand, ripped the plastic open, and without even reading the papers, began tearing them into pieces. “You think a fake piece of paper is gonna scare me? I wasn’t born yesterday, bitch.” He threw the shredded pieces of my life’s work directly into my face. “A doctor? Yeah, right. If you’re a doctor, I’m the President of the United States!” Hearing the commotion, Jocelyn materialized from the hallway. When she saw me standing on her porch, her eyes lit up with malicious glee. “You got some nerve showing your face here, you quack!” she yelled, crossing her arms. “If you were any good, my husband wouldn’t be sitting in his recliner complaining about chest pains every five minutes!” “I’m telling you right now, unless we see a million dollars, we are taking you down!” I looked at the two of them. A mother and son, bonded by a toxic mixture of boundless greed and breathtaking ignorance. My voice dropped to an icy whisper. “Frank is having chest pains because he is explicitly violating my post-op orders. I know he’s been smoking and drinking. He started before he even left the ward.” “His reconstructed arteries are fragile. If he keeps this up, his heart is going to hemorrhage.” I looked Jocelyn dead in the eyes. “And when it ruptures, no god in heaven will be able to save him.” Kyle’s face turned violently red. It was as if I had flipped a switch. “You threatening my dad?!” He lunged forward. He hit me like a linebacker, his heavy hands shoving my shoulders with brutal force. I stumbled backward, my spine colliding hard with the brick exterior of the house. “Get the hell off my property before I kill you!” Kyle roared. He stepped back inside and grabbed the heavy wooden front door, rearing back to slam it. Pure instinct took over. Without thinking, I threw my right hand forward, trying to catch the door frame to keep my balance. 4. “You have to take the video down!” I cried out. Kyle saw my hand wrap around the doorframe. For a split second, our eyes met. I saw the flash of pure, unadulterated malice in his pupils. “You want me to delete it? Let’s see you do surgery after this.” He threw his entire body weight into the heavy, solid-oak door. CRUNCH. A sickening, wet, cracking sound echoed across the porch. “AGH!” A scream ripped from my throat. Cold sweat instantly drenched my clothes. My right hand was caught perfectly between the door and the jamb. The pain wasn’t just sharp; it was explosive. It traveled up my arm like a bolt of lightning, short-circuiting my brain. Black spots danced violently at the edges of my vision. From behind the closed door, I heard Kyle laughing. “Let’s see you fake your way into an OR with that, you stupid bitch!” The latch clicked. He released the pressure, and my right arm fell dead against my side. I slid down the brick wall, my knees hitting the concrete porch. I couldn’t breathe. I was a surgeon. I knew exactly what that sound meant. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Shaking uncontrollably, I used my left hand to fish it out and accept the call. “Dr. Stanton,” I gasped, my voice completely shattered by the pain. “The patient’s son… he just attacked me. My hand is broken. I’m calling the police.” There was a two-second pause on the line. Then, Stanton’s voice hissed through the speaker, vibrating with rage. “Vera, did you not hear a damn word I said?!” “The investigative committee is releasing their findings tomorrow! If you bring the cops into this and make this a criminal matter, you will bring the entire hospital down with you!” “Stop being so dramatic about your hand! Get back to your apartment right now. If I see a single police cruiser near this hospital, your medical career is over!” The line went dead. I sat alone on the cold concrete, listening to the dial tone. Between the vicious, feral cruelty of this family, and the soulless, calculating cowardice of my boss, I had nothing left. I drove myself—steering with my knees and my left hand—to a rival hospital’s orthopedic clinic across town. The X-rays confirmed my worst nightmare: a severe, comminuted fracture of the right metacarpals and severe crush trauma to the phalanges. The attending orthopedist wrapped my hand in a heavy fiberglass cast, his eyes filled with profound pity. “It’s a bad crush injury, Dr. Pierce. You are out of the OR for at least six months. As for recovering the fine motor skills required for cardiothoracic work… we’ll have to pray physical therapy does a miracle.” I walked out of the clinic feeling entirely hollowed out. I went back to the hospital. Using only my left hand, I began throwing my personal belongings from my desk into a cardboard box. I paused when I saw Frank Gallagher’s physical chart still sitting in my tray. A dark, bitter smile touched my lips. Frank’s vascular tissue was like wet tissue paper. He needed to pray to every saint in the sky that his heart held together while I was suspended and broken. I picked up my box and walked down to the hospital lobby, ready to walk out of this toxic wasteland for good. Just as I reached the revolving doors, a violent commotion erupted from the direction of the ER. “Help! Someone help him! He’s throwing up blood!” Jocelyn Gallagher’s hysterical, piercing scream echoed off the lobby’s high ceilings.

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The day I brought a birthday gift to my fated mate, Alpha Floyd, I witnessed him kissing another woman with my own eyes. I rushed forward to confront him, only to be thrown into the rain and humiliated. Floyd’s sworn enemy, Alpha Isaac, took me away from my pain and kissed my lips, telling me he loved me. He would never hurt me, he said. But on my wedding day, I left the werewolf world behind. Four years later, when the two of them found me, I had become one of the world’s top perfumers. Isaac found me and asked me to come back to him. But I dismissed him with contempt, because I knew the love he showed me all those years ago was nothing but a lie. Caroline POV Seven days. Seven days until I was supposed to marry Isaac, the Alpha of Ironridge Pack. Everyone said I must have received the Moon Goddess’s blessing to go from being Floyd’s rejected mate to Isaac’s beloved. Two powerful pack Alphas both involved with me—many people were envious. Even I believed it myself. These past few years, Isaac had treasured me like a jewel in his palm. He was a noble Alpha, yet he would personally deliver hot soup to me on stormy nights, would cancel all his work to keep me company when I was in a bad mood. He said, “Caroline, I’m going to give you the most magnificent wedding and make everyone shut up.” I believed him. Until ten minutes ago, when I found a woman’s lipstick in his car. To find out who that lipstick belonged to—and more importantly, whether Isaac was cheating—I specifically extracted the dashcam footage. I inserted the card and began reading the data. I quickly found the video. Isaac had finished work and picked up two friends. Just as I was about to adjust the playback time, a mocking laugh came through the speakers. “Isaac, you fooled around with Bethany right there in the car. If Caroline found out, wouldn’t she be angry?” My hand froze on the mouse. I expected to hear Isaac defend me. “Angry?” Isaac’s voice was cold, accompanied by the crisp click of a lighter. “Right now all she’s thinking about is how to be the most beautiful bride. She doesn’t have time to be angry.” My smile froze on my face. The conversation in the car continued, each word cutting like a knife. “Is it really worth spending so much on this wedding just to piss off Floyd? What if Caroline really latches onto you? Are you really going to become her mate? But you haven’t Marked her in four years, so I guess that’s not your plan, right?” On the screen, Isaac exhaled a ring of smoke that blurred his handsome profile. But it didn’t blur the coldness in his eyes. “That small price to see Alpha Floyd’s shitty expression? This deal is worth it.” He chuckled lightly, as if discussing some worthless object. “On the wedding day, I’m going to announce the game is over in front of everyone. Alpha Floyd’s expression will be priceless. After all, no matter what, she was his fated mate. And he still hasn’t found a second one.” Malicious laughter erupted from the men in the car. “What about Caroline after that? So many people know she was abandoned by her fated mate, and then publicly jilted by you. Won’t her life be ruined?” Isaac flicked his cigarette ash, unconcerned. “Adult games—she’s stupid. Who else is to blame?” The video ended abruptly. The study fell into a deathly silence. I sat frozen in my chair, my blood turning to ice. So these four years of deep affection were just an elaborate, calculated lie. This was just a game to him, designed to humiliate Floyd, my former mate and Isaac’s sworn enemy, by humiliating me. My stomach churned violently. I rushed to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet, but nothing came up. Tears hit the floor. I wiped them away viciously. Caroline, don’t cry. A scumbag like this isn’t worth it. My wolf was furious, but she calmly reminded me. I splashed cold water on my face and looked at my pale reflection in the mirror. Since you want to play something exciting, I’ll help you. I returned to the computer, my hands still trembling, but my eyes had gone cold. I clipped that five-minute segment of their car conspiracy, along with the earlier footage of Isaac having sex with his mistress Bethany, and backed it all up to the cloud. Just then, my phone lit up with a message from Isaac: “Dinner tonight? Wear that red dress—you look stunning in it.” I stared at that familiar profile picture, my fingertips white with pressure. Finally, I replied: “Okay.” I put down my phone and walked into the closet. That red dress hung in the most prominent position—he’d had it flown in from Paris last week. He said only my skin tone could do justice to that shade of red. Memory flashed back instantly to that rainy night four years ago. Floyd suddenly rejected me, breaking my heart. But I loved him, so I wanted to win back his heart. But when I brought him a birthday gift, I saw him kissing a woman I didn’t recognize. I tried to confront him, but he threw the birthday gift I gave him into the trash and mocked me in front of everyone: “Caroline, can’t you understand what I’m saying? Just looking at you makes me sick.” Everyone laughed. I was as pathetic as a clown. Isaac emerged from the corner, draped his coat over my shoulders, and blocked those humiliating stares. He also soothed the pain my wolf and I endured. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll take you home.” That night, I thought he was my salvation. Now I know it was all fake.

Caroline POV Seven o’clock that evening, Isaac arrived right on time to pick me up. He’d changed into a dark gray custom suit, wearing the tie I’d knotted for him that morning. As soon as I got in the car, he leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Good evening, darling. You don’t look well.” He took my hand, frowning slightly, his eyes full of concern. “What happened?” If I hadn’t heard that recording. Right now I’d think I was the happiest woman in the world. I withdrew my hand, pretending to adjust my dress. “Probably just hungry.” Isaac didn’t suspect anything, smiling as he started the car. “Then let’s go. Can’t let my fiancée go hungry.” The restaurant was on the top floor. We could overlook the entire city’s nightscape. While cutting my steak, I spoke as if casually: “Isaac.” “Hmm?” He switched the cut meat to my plate, his movements fluid. “I ran into your friend Austin today.” I watched his eyes, not missing a single expression on his face. “He asked if I was nervous.” Isaac’s hand paused while cutting the meat. Just for a second, too fast to catch. Then he looked up, his smile flawless. “Ignore him. You just need to focus on being beautiful.” “He also said…” I gripped my knife and fork, my fingertips straining. “Floyd’s back in the country recently. He asked if you’d feel awkward.” “Caroline.” Isaac set down his knife and fork, reaching out to cover the back of my hand. His palm was warm, but his tone carried undeniable firmness. “Why bring him up? I told you, we’re getting married. Everything from the past is behind us.” He looked at me, his gaze so tender it could drown someone. “I only want you.” If that recording wasn’t still sitting in my cloud storage, I might have believed him again. “Right, it’s behind us.” I lowered my head and forked a piece of beef into my mouth. Medium rare, streaked with blood. Despite being top-quality ingredients, it tasted like sawdust in my mouth. “Oh, right.” Isaac seemed to remember something and pulled out an exquisite velvet box, pushing it toward me. “Almost forgot—this is your pre-wedding gift.” I opened it. A sapphire necklace with rich color and considerable value. “Do you like it?” He looked at me expectantly. I stared at that deep blue and suddenly remembered an Instagram story Bethany had posted last month. The caption read: [I love this deep blue so much, but Isaac said it doesn’t suit me.] So it didn’t suit her, which is why it came to me. Or maybe he bought two, and this was the leftover one? “I love it.” I closed the lid and smiled at him. “It must have been expensive.” “Any amount is worth it to spend on you.” Isaac ruffled my hair, his eyes full of affection. I excused myself to touch up my makeup in the restroom. Standing at the sink, I looked at the woman with perfect makeup in the mirror and forced out a smile uglier than crying. Since you want to play the devoted lover. Then I’ll help you along. I pulled out my phone and called Harlan, my father’s Beta. He answered quickly. “Miss Caroline, have you considered the Alpha’s proposal?” I looked at myself in the mirror, my voice terrifyingly calm. “I won’t become an Alpha. That kind of work doesn’t suit me. But I need you to do something for me.” Over the years, I’d rarely relied on my Alpha father’s influence. After all, my brother was deeply insecure about his position as heir to the Alpha title. He always thought I, his sister who had been more combative than him since childhood, would replace him. What a shame—I never had any such intention. Still, to avoid unnecessary conflicts, I tried not to do things that could be misunderstood. There was another reason: whether it was Floyd’s Frostveil Pack or Isaac’s Ironridge Pack, we couldn’t afford to provoke either. Even if I asked for help, my father couldn’t rescue me. But now, I wasn’t asking them to rescue me. “What do you need me to do?” “Tell my family they don’t need to make a special trip for my wedding. Also, book me a flight for the wedding day. I’ll go back and explain to them myself.” After hanging up, I reapplied my lipstick and stared at that crimson shade, my heart hardening bit by bit. Isaac. I’ll remember this final dinner well. When I returned to the table, Isaac was replying to messages. Seeing me, he quickly darkened his screen and stood up with a smile. “Let’s go home.” I took his arm, feeling his muscles stiffen for an instant. “Okay, home.”

Caroline POV Five days before the wedding, Bethany arrived. Under the guise of helping with preparations, she brazenly moved into Gerald Manor. She was the daughter of the previous Beta. Though she’d only inherited her mother’s Omega bloodline, she’d grown up with Isaac. She was also widely acknowledged within the pack as the woman Isaac loved most. If Isaac’s elders hadn’t strongly opposed him marrying an Omega, the Luna position would have been hers long ago. “Caroline, this evening gown is gorgeous.” Bethany stood before the fitting mirror, wearing what was supposed to be my red reception dress. The waist had been altered extremely tight, accentuating her graceful figure. She twirled around and looked at Isaac, who sat on the sofa. “Isaac, don’t I look better in red than Caroline?” Isaac held a financial magazine, not looking up. “Stop fooling around. Take it off. That’s for Caroline.” Though his tone was reproachful, there wasn’t a trace of anger in it. Bethany pouted and reluctantly headed to the changing room. “Stingy. I was just trying it on.” I sat to the side, holding my tea, watching quietly. In the past, I would have gotten angry and fought with Isaac. Then Isaac would patiently coax me, saying I was petty, that Bethany was like a little sister to him. Looking back now, I really was quite the joke. “Caroline, don’t mind her. I’ve spoiled Bethany.” Isaac set down his magazine and reached for my hand. “If you don’t like it, I’ll have her move out.” “It’s fine.” I avoided his hand and poured him tea. “The more people, the livelier it is. Besides, the house has plenty of rooms.” Isaac froze. Clearly he hadn’t expected me to be so magnanimous. In the past, whenever Bethany appeared, all my defenses would go up. “You’re not angry?” He looked at me tentatively. “Why would I be angry?” I smiled back. “She’s a friend who’ll be around often anyway. Besides, it’s just a dress. If she likes wearing it, let her.” After all, I wasn’t planning to wear that dress anyway. A flash of surprise crossed Isaac’s eyes, which then became relief. “Caroline, you’ve really changed. You’ve become more mature.” Mature? You forced me to mature. Just then, a crisp crash came from the changing room. Followed by Bethany’s cry: “Oh no!” Isaac’s expression changed. He threw down his magazine and rushed over at nearly the speed of a werewolf on the hunt. At the changing room door, Bethany sat collapsed on the floor, surrounded by shattered porcelain. It was a sculpture by a contemporary art master—Isaac had spent a fortune at auction to buy it for me. “Isaac, I didn’t mean to…” Bethany’s eyes reddened, looking pitiful. “I tripped just now and tried to steady myself on the sculpture, but…” Isaac didn’t even glance at the priceless artwork. He crouched down directly, gripping Bethany’s hand to inspect it. “Did you cut yourself? How can you be so careless?” “It hurts…” Bethany whimpered sweetly. I stood several meters away, watching this painfully glaring scene. That sculpture had once been treasured by Isaac, who said it represented our unbreakable love. Now it lay shattered on the floor, and he hadn’t even batted an eye. “Caroline!” Isaac turned around, his tone urgent. “Get the first aid kit. Bethany cut her hand.” I looked at him, unmoving. “What’s wrong?” He frowned, seemingly dissatisfied with my sluggish response. “Nothing.” I turned toward the cabinet, my voice flat. “If it’s broken, it’s broken. It was getting old anyway. Time for something new.” Isaac’s form stiffened. He seemed to hear something in my words, yet also seemed to hear nothing. He simply devoted all his attention to Bethany’s wound, which hadn’t even drawn blood. As if he’d forgotten that while Bethany was just a delicate Omega, she wasn’t that fragile. I returned with the first aid kit and set it on the table. “Take your time. I’m tired. I’ll head upstairs to rest.” As I turned to go upstairs, I heard Bethany say softly, “Isaac, is Caroline angry?” Isaac’s voice sounded irritated. “Don’t worry about her. She’s never been this cold-hearted before.” My steps didn’t falter. Reaching the second-floor landing, I pulled out my phone and sent Harlan a message: [Add one pet transport ticket. I’m taking Buddy with me.]

Caroline POV Three days before the wedding, the jewelry company delivered the rings. Isaac was in the study on a video conference call, so he had me sign for them. I signed and carried the heavy box into the study. He was listening to a subordinate’s report, his expression serious. Seeing me enter, his gaze instantly softened. He pointed to the corner of the desk, indicating I should set it down there. I placed the box on the desk. As I turned, my elbow accidentally knocked over a stack of documents. Papers scattered across the floor, revealing a design sketch that had been pressed underneath. I bent down to pick them up. My movement froze the moment I saw the sketch clearly. It was a ring design draft. The center stone was a rare pink diamond, with the word “only” engraved inside the band. The date in the corner was from half a month ago. And the wedding ring I’d just signed for had a white diamond as the center stone, with our initials engraved inside. Isaac removed his headphones and walked over. “What’s wrong?” Following my line of sight to the sketch, his expression stiffened. He casually pulled it away and tucked it into a folder. “Nothing, just a discarded draft.” His tone was natural as he put his arm around my shoulder. “Did you try the ring? Does it fit?” I looked at him and smiled. “Not yet. I’ll try it tonight.” At two in the morning, the person beside me was breathing evenly. I carefully got up and walked into the study. I opened the safe—the password was my birthday. Inside lay two identical navy blue boxes. I opened the one on the left. Pink diamond, engraved with “only.” Dazzling. I opened the one on the right. White diamond, engraved with our surnames. Conventional. Isaac once said, “Caroline, you are my only.” So this was what “only” truly meant. I took out both rings. And switched the boxes. I placed the pink diamond in the box prepared for the wedding ceremony, and put the white diamond in the box that had originally belonged to Bethany. After finishing this, I closed the safe. Returning to the bedroom, Isaac rolled over, his arm instinctively reaching to hold me. I avoided his hand and lay at the edge of the bed. Moonlight spilled across the floor, illuminating the calendar on the nightstand. The date was circled in red pen. Three more days until I could leave him.

Caroline POV Next, I began clearing out my belongings. The house was filled with gifts Isaac had given me over four years. Hermès bags, complete sets of Cartier jewelry, limited edition heels. Once, these were all proof of his love for me. I contacted luxury goods resellers. Because of the volume, they brought an authenticator directly to the house. “Mrs. Gerald, several of these bags are brand new. Are you sure you want to sell them all?” The authenticator wore gloves, his face full of regret. “Yes.” I sipped my coffee, my tone calm. “Wire transfer. The faster the better.” When Isaac came home, he happened to witness workers carrying out boxes. The house was half empty, seeming somewhat desolate. “What’s going on?” He frowned, looking at the emptied closet. “I want to redecorate.” I walked over and helped him loosen his tie. “Clear out everything from the past. After the wedding, replace it all with new things. I want our home—every corner—to be a fresh start.” Isaac froze. Then a smile appeared in his eyes. He probably thought I was so madly in love with him that I wanted to completely say goodbye to the past and wholeheartedly become his mate. “Alright.” He held my hand and kissed my fingertips, his eyes full of affection. “Whatever you say. As long as you’re happy, you can tear down the whole house.” “Oh, right.” I pointed to the dog bed in the corner. “I sent Buddy to the pet hotel for boarding. The house is chaotic these days—didn’t want to disturb him.” Buddy was the puppy we’d raised together. Isaac usually doted on him most. “Whatever you think is best.” He didn’t suspect a thing, even seeming somewhat moved. “Caroline, you’ve worked so hard for this family.” After Isaac went into the bathroom to shower, my phone vibrated. A bank notification. The number was long—enough to buy a small apartment outright. I deleted the message and opened my private cloud storage. I set that dashcam footage to send on a timer. The recipient was the wedding venue’s main control station. Send time: 10 AM on the wedding day. After finishing this, the sound of water in the bathroom stopped. Isaac emerged wrapped in a towel, water still dripping from his hair. “Darling, grab me some pajamas.” I handed them to him. As he took them, he pulled me into his embrace, his voice somewhat husky. “The wedding’s the day after tomorrow. Are you nervous?” I leaned against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat. “Not nervous,” I said. “I’m looking forward to it.” I was looking forward to how surprised he’d look when he saw the gift I prepared for him.

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I once thought Peyton was the person who loved me most in the world. Five years of marriage. He worshipped the ground I walked on. Even I believed it was real. Until a paternity test told me the truth. The child calling me “Mommy” wasn’t mine. Until I saw him holding Lily, my sponsored student. Their lips locked under fireworks. Until I learned that the baby I nearly died to bring into the world had been suffocated with a handkerchief. Lily burned my baby to ash. They took everything from me. But they didn’t know one thing. I’m the heir to the Summers family. Heartbroken and done with lies, I called my brother. “I was wrong. I’ll take the arranged marriage.” Seraphina’s POV “Is your child adopted?” When I heard the doctor’s question, I instinctively held the child in my arms tighter. “What?” This was the baby I gave birth to myself. How could he possibly be adopted?! The doctor turned the computer screen toward me, pointing at the parental information section. “The child’s blood test results came back. Type B.” “You’re Type O. Your husband Peyton is Type A.” “Type O and Type A cannot produce a Type B child.” The doctor’s words felt like a heavy boulder crashing down on my heart. The child had a slight fever today. Peyton was away on business, and our driver happened to have taken the day off. Worried the baby’s condition might worsen, I quickly hailed a taxi and rushed to the nearest hospital. I’d previously always gone to the Summers family’s private hospital far from home. At that hospital, no doctor had ever raised such doubts. The doctor looked at my pale face and softened her tone. “If you have concerns, I can arrange an expedited paternity test.” “It only takes three hours to get results.” I numbly signed the consent form. Three hours felt as long as a century. I sat on a chair in the hospital corridor, the sleeping child in my arms. The child’s breathing was even, his little face looking innocent and harmless. But looking at him, I suddenly felt like he was a stranger. Five years of marriage. Everyone said Peyton had spoiled me into the happiest wife in San Francisco. He remembered all my preferences, would cancel all social engagements to come home and keep me company, took meticulous care of me during my pregnancy. Everyone envied me. Even I believed it myself. I thought I’d married the man who loved me most. I thought our child was the best proof of our love. But now, it had all become a joke. The paternity test report was finally delivered to my hands. A thin sheet of paper, so hot it burned my fingertips. The sentence at the bottom was painfully clear. “Based on DNA analysis results, Seraphina is not the biological mother of this child.” This wasn’t my child. Then where was my child? Before I could process this information, a familiar voice suddenly reached my ears. I looked toward the sound and actually discovered my husband Peyton. Wasn’t he supposed to be on a business trip? Peyton was steadily supporting a woman. The woman was clutching her lower abdomen, her face flushed with an unnatural redness. “It’s all your fault, honey. Why did you have sex with me in the car? Now the baby in my belly is upset, and you’ve landed me in the hospital.” When I saw that face clearly, my eyes widened instantly. It was actually Lily! Lily was a poverty-stricken student I’d been quietly sponsoring since high school. I gave her the opportunity to study, gave her a job. Now she was Peyton’s chief assistant. I gave her my complete trust, never once guarded against her. But I never imagined that Lily had secretly been sleeping with Peyton! My heart racing in panic, I hid in the stairwell holding the child, then heard Peyton say indulgently. “It’s because you’re too attractive. You’ve already given birth to Harper, yet you’re still so tempting…” I couldn’t believe it, because the child in my arms was Harper! So the child I’d been raising for nearly a year was Lily’s. Lily was even pregnant with Peyton’s second child. My world instantly collapsed. I held the baby that didn’t belong to me and walked out of the hospital step by step. Returning to the empty house, I closed the door and finally couldn’t hold on anymore. I called my brother Ashton. I hadn’t talked to him in years. My voice shook, but it was oddly clear. “I lost the bet. He fell for her.” “I need you to check three things for me.” “Peyton.” “Lily.” “And the day I gave birth at Summers Hospital one year ago. Every camera. Every record. Every nurse present. I want it all.” “I have to know where my baby is.” The wind from the corridor lifted my clothes. I gazed into the distance, my eyes gradually turning cold. Peyton. You lied to me. This time, I won’t trust you again.

Seraphina’s POV Not long after, Peyton came home. “Darling, I’m back.” In the bedroom, as soon as he saw me, he quickly walked toward me, reaching out to pull me into his arms. I quietly shifted to the side, gently avoiding his touch. Peyton’s hand froze in midair. A flash of displeasure swept through his eyes, then was quickly covered by a warm smile. The scene from the hospital replayed repeatedly in my mind. Peyton holding Lily, his tone indulgent. This was the man I’d known for over a decade, with whom I’d shared five years of marriage. He was the boy whose ears would turn red when kissing me, nervous enough to sweat from his palms. How had he become like this? “Darling, what’s wrong?” Peyton softened his voice. “Are you still angry that I’ve been away on business for so long? But I’ve really been busy lately. Forgive me, okay?” He stepped forward, trying to get close again. I took half a step back, keeping my distance. The tenderness on Peyton’s face faded somewhat, a barely perceptible forcefulness suppressed in his eyes. He reached out and gripped my wrist. The force wasn’t great, but carried an inescapable sense of control. “Why are you avoiding me?” Peyton glanced at the suitcase nearby and frowned. That was something I’d packed in advance. I couldn’t stay in a home full of betrayal. I needed to find my own child. Peyton looked down at me, his tone still gentle but hiding an interrogation. “Why did you get out your suitcase? Are you trying to disappear quietly again like last time, making it impossible for me to find you?” My heart ached. I remembered that year in college when we had a fight and I hid in the library, refusing to see him. Peyton searched for me all night like a madman. The next day, he held me with reddened eyes, his voice hoarse, saying he’d never let me leave his side again. Back then, he was clean, innocent, careful. And now, all he had left for me was suffocating possession and control. As if I were one of his possessions. I suppressed the bitterness in my throat, forcing myself to lower my eyes. “I’m not avoiding you. I was just sorting through old things I don’t need anymore. I got dust on myself and was afraid of dirtying your clothes.” I couldn’t expose myself. I couldn’t let him know I already knew the truth about the child, and I couldn’t let him know I was preparing to leave. Peyton’s expression relaxed. He walked over and hugged me tightly, his tone affectionate. “It’s okay. I missed you and the baby.” Once, that sweetness would have moved me. Now it only turns my stomach. And this baby. What a joke. Before I could speak, Peyton’s phone suddenly rang. He glanced at the screen, his eyes flickering, then turned and walked to the balcony to take the call. His voice was extremely low, yet still couldn’t hide its tenderness. “Mm, I’m at home… Don’t move around, I’ll come see you now…” I stood in place, my fingertips ice cold. Peyton hung up the phone. When he turned to speak to me, he was as natural as if nothing had happened. “The company has an urgent matter. I need to go out for a bit. Take good care of the child at home. Don’t overthink things.” He left quickly. The moment the door closed, I could no longer hold on and slowly slid down to the floor. The child in the crib slept peacefully, but I was freezing all over. Not long after, an anonymous text message popped up, with an audio recording attached. My fingers trembling, I clicked play. Peyton’s voice came through, low and husky, with suppressed panting. “Lily…” Lily’s voice was full of grievance. “Who do you really love? I don’t want to keep sneaking around with you like this…” Peyton laughed lowly, his tone casual yet cruel. “Of course I love you. Seraphina is rigid and boring. She’s getting old too. I’ve been tired of her for a long time.” Lily laughed smugly. “But when I think about my son calling her mommy every day, I get so annoyed… Her child died right after being born. Why does she get to keep my child!” “Darling, don’t be angry.” Peyton coaxed her gently. “I just bought a fifty-million-dollar jewelry set. I’ll have it delivered to you tomorrow. Our child will return to your side sooner or later.” He paused, his voice deepening. “For now… let’s enjoy our beautiful time together.” … I was thunderstruck, all the blood in my body instantly freezing. I finally understood. A year ago on the day I gave birth, what I experienced wasn’t an accident, but a long-planned conspiracy. The child I nearly died giving birth to had died long ago. And Lily, whom I supported with all my effort and trusted, had slept with my husband, given birth to my “son,” and was now pregnant with a second child, waiting to take my place. Five years of marriage. Ten years of deep affection. What he gave me wasn’t a home, but an elaborately woven lie. I gripped my phone, tears silently falling onto the screen. I slowly stood up, my eyes gradually changing from shattered to desolate, then from desolate to coldly resolute. Peyton. Lily. Everything you owe me and my child, I will take it all back!

Seraphina’s POV I stood in the center of the living room, my fingertips still carrying a slight tremor. I’d cried, broken down, despaired. But now, I was terrifyingly clearheaded. What use was crying? My child had already been taken from me, murdered. I didn’t even know where my child was buried. I slowly lowered my head, looking at Harper sleeping peacefully in the crib. I loved the wrong person and raised the wrong child. I took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the surging emotions in my chest, picked up my phone, and dialed a number. “Hello.” Ashton on the other end seemed to have been waiting for me. His voice was low. “I found the information you wanted.” My fingers tightened sharply. “Tell me.” Ashton was silent for a second, his tone very low. “The day you gave birth a year ago, the surveillance at the Summers private hospital was deliberately deleted.” “But I recovered part of it.” “The child you gave birth to was alive.” This sentence struck like thunder, crashing violently into my mind. My breath caught. I could barely stand. Alive. The child I gave birth to was alive. My child wasn’t stillborn. “Then where is my child?” My voice became urgent. Ashton sighed heavily, somewhat reluctant. “What comes next, you might not be able to handle.” “Your child still died.” “The specific cause of death was hidden.” “The delivery nurses were forcibly transferred. One has already left the country, the other… died in an accident three months ago.” Ashton’s voice contained suppressed anger. “But I found that on that day, there was an extra ‘medical waste disposal record.’” “That record was personally signed and taken away by Peyton. The male infant was directly cremated afterward.” My pupils constricted sharply. My child died just like that. In their eyes, my child was just “waste.” My nails dug deeply into my palm. “What about the ashes? Where are the ashes now?” Ashton paused, slowly speaking. “The funeral home records show the ashes were sent to the basement of the Summers family’s abandoned villa…” A buzzing suddenly filled my ears. My child had been burned to ashes. He was in a dark place. He had no name and no identity. I suddenly laughed, a laugh that sent chills. “Good.” After that, I didn’t hesitate and immediately went to the Summers family’s former villa. The basement was cold and damp. I searched every corner but couldn’t find the urn. My hands began to tremble. The emotions I’d barely suppressed in my chest instantly surged up. Just then, my phone rang. I opened it to a text message: “Are you looking for your son’s ashes?” The next second, another message popped up. “I have them.” “Do you want them?” Immediately after came a photo. In the photo was a small, somewhat dirty white urn. The box was just casually placed on a vanity. Next to the urn was Lily’s hand, looking arrogant and malicious. My fingertips dug viciously into my palm. The piercing pain in my flesh couldn’t match one ten-thousandth of the pain in my heart. The phone vibrated again. “Actually, I didn’t want it to be this way.” “But who told you to cling to the position of Mrs. Summers?” “Tell me, what’s the point of keeping a dead child?” “Might as well exchange it for something valuable?” My eyes completely turned cold. I slowly typed a reply. “What do you want?” The other party’s response came almost instantly. “Very simple.” “Just divorce Peyton, and I’ll return the ashes to you.” I didn’t want that rotten man anyway. I sent Ashton a text. “I want to divorce Peyton. And the day I leave, immediately withdraw all investments in the Summers Corporation.” Peyton had always thought I was a weak woman who could only depend on him to survive. He never knew I was the heir to the New York Summers family. Back when he was starting his business and on the verge of bankruptcy, I begged my family to quietly invest, pulling him out of the mire. Now that I was divorcing him, it was time to let him lose everything again.

Seraphina’s POV Ashton’s message came quickly. “I support your divorce. After you divorce, I’ll come get you. Mom and Dad miss you too.” I looked at the screen, my heart suddenly tightening. Years ago, my parents firmly opposed my marriage to Peyton. They said he wasn’t a good man. I didn’t believe them, so I severed ties with my family and suffered alongside him, betting my entire youth to prove I hadn’t chosen wrong. I didn’t want a wedding. He and I only registered our marriage. But in just five years, I’d lost that bet. I gave up my family, my pride, my way out, and in return got a switched child, betrayal, and the pain of losing my child. It turned out I was the stupidest one all along. Early the next morning, I went directly to a private law firm and calmly drafted divorce papers. Property division, liability statements. I reviewed everything carefully. I had no lingering feelings for him. I put the agreement in a document folder and took a car to the Summers Corporation, wanting to divorce Peyton immediately. On the way, I casually opened social media. A trending post suddenly popped up on the homepage. The poster was Lily. The caption was just one sentence that stabbed my eyes: “Thank you to my love for giving me this wedding~” The wedding location was at a delicate small chapel in the suburbs. Wedding. This was the regret I’d hidden for five years. I remembered when I was twenty-two, Peyton knelt before me proposing, his eyes full of sincerity. “Seraphina, I don’t have money now. I can’t give you a grand wedding. But wait for me. When I succeed, I’ll definitely make it up to you with the best wedding.” I smiled and said it didn’t matter. Having him was enough. Later we registered our marriage. No wedding dress, no chapel. I cooked two plates of pasta in our rental apartment as our wedding ceremony. I thought we’d continue happily like this, but now he’d given another woman the ceremony I once longed for. I had the driver turn around and head to that small chapel. The chapel wasn’t large, but was decorated warmly and romantically. The wedding setting was exactly what I’d secretly fantasized about countless times. I didn’t go forward, just sat silently in the shadows of the back row. On stage, Lily wore a pure white wedding dress. Her lower abdomen was slightly rounded. She nestled happily in Peyton’s arms. The way he looked at her held a tenderness and adoration I’d never seen. When the officiant finished speaking, Peyton leaned down, cupped the back of Lily’s neck, and kissed her deeply. Applause and congratulations rose around them. Each blessing felt like a needle piercing my ears. After Peyton’s career succeeded, it wasn’t that I hadn’t asked him when we’d have our makeup wedding. But the answer I got was always “wait a bit longer.” So he didn’t refuse to have one. He just didn’t want to have one for me. An invisible hand viciously squeezed my heart. The pain made it nearly impossible to breathe. Just as the applause reached its peak, Peyton suddenly looked up. Our eyes met. His gaze froze abruptly, the tenderness and smile on his face instantly solidifying. Time seemed to stop in this moment. He saw me sitting in the corner, his pupils contracting violently. I quietly gazed back at him. Peyton called out my name in a low voice. “Seraphina…” The entire venue fell deathly silent.

Seraphina’s POV The sweetness on Lily’s face instantly froze. The malice in her eyes almost overflowed. Suddenly, she immediately put on an innocent, frightened expression, clutching her lower abdomen and hiding slightly behind Peyton. The guests’ gazes all turned toward me. Peyton’s expression changed drastically. He almost instinctively pushed Lily away and strode quickly toward me. He forcibly maintained his composure, his tone urgent yet carrying his usual deception. “Seraphina, let me explain. Lily is the girl you sponsored. I’ve always seen her as a sister. Today we’re just… just wearing a wedding dress to take some photos.” He reached out to pull me, his eyes certain yet false. “The person I love has always only been you. Only you for this entire lifetime.” I recoiled as if burned, the corners of my mouth curving into an icy smile. “Sister?” “Then whose child is in her belly?” Peyton’s expression cracked. “You got her pregnant, and you still dare tell me she’s just your sister?” My gaze fell on his lips, where Lily’s lipstick mark still remained. “Your sister wears a wedding dress and makes out with you for three minutes?” My words were all like knives, precisely cutting through all his pale excuses. Peyton’s mouth opened and closed. His Adam’s apple bobbed, but he couldn’t refute me. The entire venue erupted. Lily’s face went pale. She immediately rushed over, dropping to her knees with a “thud” in front of me, her hands desperately clutching my legs, crying pitifully. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault… I seduced him. Don’t blame Peyton. If you want to blame someone, blame me. Please forgive me…” She cried until her whole body shook, looking extremely wronged. The friends around immediately couldn’t stand it and came forward to accuse me. “Seraphina, what’s wrong with you? They’re just acting!” “So what if a man has a mistress on the side? As long as Peyton has you in his heart, that’s enough!” “Lily is so pitiful. Do you have to drive her to death to be happy?” One accusation after another, like icy rain pouring on my heart. So in these people’s eyes, betrayal could be forgiven, harm could be forgotten. And I, the victim, had become the villain instead. My heart completely died. Seeing I still had no reaction, Lily cried harder. She suddenly released her hands and staggered backward. “Since you won’t forgive me… then I’ll just die. I shouldn’t exist. I shouldn’t disturb you two!” Before her words finished, she suddenly stood up, lifting her wedding dress hem and rushed straight out of the chapel, running directly into the middle of the road. The sharp sound of brakes suddenly rang out. Bang! A muffled thud. Lily was violently thrown by the car. “Lily!” Peyton rushed over like a madman, kneeling on the ground and cradling Lily’s head. His hands were covered in blood, his voice trembling. “Ambulance! Quick, call an ambulance!” I walked to the doorway, watching the chaos before me. Peyton suddenly lifted his head. Seeing me standing on the steps, his eyes held only cold disgust and accusation. “Seraphina! When did you become so vicious?!” Vicious. This word hit me like a slap across the face. I stood on the steps, wind blowing through my hair. I looked at Lily in Peyton’s arms, at the shocked or accusing faces around me, at this world I once thought would be my home, and suddenly laughed. I laughed until tears came out. “I’m vicious?” My voice was very soft. “Peyton, you’re the one who made me this way.” You personally forced the me who once had only you in her heart into what I am today.

Seraphina’s POV At the hospital under the Summers Corporation. The red light of the emergency room glared harshly. Peyton leaned against the corridor wall, his white shirt cuffs stained with blood. Lily’s blood. His gaze emptily fixed on the emergency room door, his whole being like someone whose soul had been extracted. I stood at the end of the corridor, watching that man pace anxiously, a dense pain spreading through my chest. Once when I had a fever and was hospitalized, he guarded my bedside just like this, eyes red, saying he was afraid something would happen to me. Once when I casually mentioned feeling unwell, he could cancel all meetings and spend the entire night accompanying me through every examination. Now none of this belonged to me anymore. The emergency room’s red light went out. A doctor walked out, removed his mask, and shook his head. “Mr. Summers, Miss Lily’s injuries were too severe. The baby couldn’t be saved.” Peyton’s body swayed. His eyes instantly filled with bloodshot veins. He rushed into the hospital room. Through the glass window, I clearly heard his choked voice, full of heartache and love. “Lily, don’t be afraid. I’m here. It’s my fault for not protecting you and the baby.” “We’ll have another child in the future. I’ll stay with you for the rest of my life.” I closed my eyes. The last trace of hope completely extinguished. He made promises to the woman who killed my child. While my biological son received nothing. I didn’t want to watch anymore, didn’t want to wait anymore. I just wanted to completely escape this place full of lies and blood. I turned around. Just as I took one step, two dark figures suddenly blocked my path. They were Peyton’s personal bodyguards. “Mrs. Summers, Mr. Summers instructed you to come with us.” “I’m not going.” I forcefully pushed them away, trying to break free, my heart full of resistance. I knew Peyton’s personality too well. If I stayed now, all that awaited me was endless torment. The bodyguards’ faces were cold and hard, showing no mercy whatsoever. One of them raised his hand and struck hard at the back of my neck. A sharp, blunt pain hit me. My vision went black, and I completely lost consciousness. When I woke again, a pungent moldy smell and cold atmosphere enveloped me. Pitch darkness surrounded me. Only one dim yellow light bulb swayed and flickered. This was the basement of the Summers family’s old mansion. The place where my child’s urn had been hidden before. I struggled to sit up. My whole body was sore and weak, my wrists painfully chafed by rope. Footsteps approached from far to near. Peyton walked in, his face devoid of its usual tenderness, leaving only coldness and forcefulness. “You’re awake?” I looked up at him, my eyes desolate, without a trace of emotion. “Peyton, you actually dare treat me like this?” “You and Lily conspired to switch my child, kill him, burn him as medical waste. Doesn’t your heart hurt?” My voice wasn’t loud, but carried bone-deep hatred. I bit down hard on every word. Peyton frowned deeply, his face full of impatience. His tone was light and dismissive. “What lies are you telling? Wasn’t your child dead when he was born?” “Lily even painfully gave you her own child to raise, and you’re still not satisfied?” Ashton said the child was alive when born. How could he say my child was dead at birth? Just as I was about to question him, I heard Peyton say. “In a moment, apologize to Lily, and this matter will be over. I’ll still consider you my wife. I won’t pursue what happened before.” I turned my head away, forcefully avoiding his touch, my eyes cold. “I did nothing wrong. I absolutely will not apologize.” The ones who killed my child were them. The ones who betrayed our marriage were them. What right did they have to demand I apologize? The smile on Peyton’s face instantly vanished. His expression darkened terrifyingly as he sternly rebuked me. “Seraphina!” He turned to look at the bodyguards outside the door, coldly ordering. “Watch her. Without my orders, don’t let her step out of here!” With that, Peyton turned and left. He was clearly anxious to go care for Lily. The basement’s iron door was slammed shut, locked, completely cutting off the outside light. I curled up in the corner, freezing all over. Not long after, several thin black shadows suddenly slid through the gap in the iron door, slowly crawling toward me. Snakes! Peyton clearly knew I was most afraid of snakes. My face went deathly pale. Trembling all over in fright, I desperately shrank back, pounding on the iron door with all my might, screaming for help. “Open the door! Let me out! Is anyone there!” From outside the door came the bodyguards’ cold mocking laughter, completely devoid of warmth. “Just accept all this.” “You caused Miss Lily to lose her child and nearly cost her life. Mr. Summers is very angry and told us to punish you severely!” “No one will come save you.” My hand pounding on the door gradually weakened. Watching the snakes get closer and closer, only despair remained in my eyes. So my life was this cheap in their eyes.

Seraphina’s POV The rustling sound of snakes crawling rang in my ears. I curled up in the corner, making myself as small as possible. My nails dug deeply into my palms, trying to use pain to fight fear. I didn’t know how long I’d been locked up. A few hours, or a few days? The bodyguards’ cold mockery still seemed to echo in my ears. Before my eyes kept flashing the small urn, and Peyton’s heartless face. But I kept persisting. Apologize? Apologize to the woman who killed my child? I’d rather die. When my consciousness began to blur, I hazily heard the sound of the iron door opening. Someone picked me up. That person’s chest was very warm, their scent very familiar. It was Peyton. I wanted to push him away, but my body no longer obeyed. I completely fell into darkness. When I opened my eyes again, the pungent smell of disinfectant filled my nose. I slowly moved my eyes and found myself lying in a hospital bed. In the chair beside the bed sat Peyton. He was looking down, slowly peeling an apple. His movements appeared extremely gentle, completely different from his coldness in the basement. Noticing I’d woken up, Peyton looked up, his tone carrying some reproach yet wrapped in deliberately performed affection. “Finally awake? Why are you so unreasonable?” “It’s just asking you to apologize to Lily and the matter would be over. Why did you have to torment yourself into this condition?” He cut the peeled apple into small pieces, speared them with a small fork, and brought them to my lips. His eyes were gentle, his tone soft. “Seraphina, I love you. I always have.” “I know you suffered, but Lily lost her baby too. Why can’t you understand?” “Just accept me, and I’ll make it up to you. We’ll be like before. Okay?” Love? The love that chained me in a basement. That let snakes torment me. That murdered my baby. I couldn’t bear that kind of love. His devotion was just a show he put on for himself, so false it made me sick. Before I could speak, the hospital room door was violently pushed open. A bodyguard rushed in looking flustered, followed by a male doctor who kept his head down, looking equally panicked. The tenderness on Peyton’s face instantly vanished. He frowned deeply, his tone darkening. “What happened?” The bodyguard hurried forward, lowering his voice to report, his tone full of urgency. “Mr. Summers, something happened to Lily. Someone switched her medication with ingredients she’s allergic to. She’s having a severe allergic reaction now and is being resuscitated!” Peyton’s expression changed drastically. The fruit knife in his hand clattered onto the plate as his eyes instantly turned sinister. He immediately demanded harshly, “What’s going on? Have you found out who did it?” The bodyguard pushed the doctor forward. The doctor dropped to his knees with a thud, looked up and pointed at me on the hospital bed, his eyes evasive. “Mr. Summers, it was Miss Seraphina! She secretly gave me two hundred thousand dollars to switch Miss Lily’s medication!” I lay in bed without even the strength to refute. I just felt it was absurd. I’d been controlled by Peyton the entire time. First imprisoned in the basement, then waking up in the hospital. I’d never even been to Lily’s hospital room. How could I possibly have bribed a doctor to switch medication? But Peyton didn’t listen. The look in his eyes as he stared at me was instantly filled with fury and hatred. He abruptly stood up, grabbed my collar, and yanked me from the hospital bed. The IV needle tore from the back of my hand, bringing out a string of blood droplets. The stinging pain spread from my hand through my entire arm. He lifted me up. My toes barely touched the ground. My breathing became difficult as my collar strangled me. “Seraphina, I’m warning you. If anything happens to Lily, I’ll make you die.” He released his grip. I fell heavily back onto the bed, my head hitting the bed rail. My vision went black. Peyton turned to the doctor, his voice as cold as ice. “Give her penicillin.” My pupils constricted sharply. “No…” I desperately tried to shrink back. “Peyton, I’m allergic to penicillin! You know that!” I was indeed allergic to penicillin. This was the most basic fact from our ten years together. Every time I got sick, Peyton specifically instructed doctors to avoid penicillin-based medications. Peyton looked at my terrified face, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “I know.” “I want you to suffer the same pain as Lily.” The doctor hesitated, not daring to move. Peyton shot him a glare. “What are you waiting for? If anything happens to her, I’ll take full responsibility.” The doctor ran out, grabbed a syringe of penicillin, and rushed back to the bedside. “Don’t come near me…” I tried to pull away, but my body was too weak. I couldn’t even turn over. The cold liquid entered my veins and spread instantly through my body. Within seconds, my skin started itching, and I couldn’t breathe. My vision blurred. Peyton’s furious face faded away. Just then, I heard a familiar voice.

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