Category: English

I have always detested Madeline. Even though our mother reminded me a thousand times that she was my sister, I remained entirely indifferent. My brother, Beckett, had always insisted that I was his one and only sister. So when the floating comments first appeared in my vision, claiming that his cold exterior was a facade and that he was actually madly in love with Madeline, I did not believe a single word. Until the day we graduated. We went on a celebratory road trip and ended up in a horrific car crash. Beckett’s very first instinct was to throw his body over Madeline, shielding her from the impact. When the onlookers shattered the glass to drag us out of the wreckage, he only cared about getting her to safety first. He completely forgot that his own biological sister was still trapped in the crumpled back seat. Even as blood poured down my face and I screamed his name, he never once looked back. Right then, a line of white text floated across my vision: Oh my god, the chemistry is insane! He will always choose her first. 01 After the paramedics finally pulled me out of the crushed metal, the pain in my leg was blinding. Lying on the hard asphalt, my face covered in blood, I kept my eyes locked on the space ahead of me. I watched Beckett fussing over Madeline, so consumed by panic that he didn’t even notice the deep gash on his own arm. He kept cradling her face, asking, “Does your head hurt? Is anything broken?” “Where are the paramedics? Why aren’t they here yet?” “Don’t worry, Maddy. I’m right here.” The floating comments surged across my field of vision like a live stream chat: The male lead finally stopped hiding how much he cares about her! Look at him, he looks like he’s going out of his mind with worry. He’s terrified she might be hurt. Only then did I realize that the floating comments had been telling the truth all along. Beckett knew exactly how much I loathed Madeline. Yet, when faced with life and death, my own brother chose to save the person I despised most. A wave of intense, suffocating nausea washed over me. I dug my fingernails deep into my palms and used the last of my strength to scream his name. “Beckett!” He didn’t turn around. Before I could see if he ever would, the darkness swallowed me whole. When I finally woke up in the hospital, my head had four stitches, and my right leg was secured in a heavy plaster cast. Beckett was sitting by my bed, letting out a long sigh of relief when he saw my eyes flutter open. “Thank God you’re awake. Mom was worried sick.” “She’s over in Madeline’s room right now. I’ll go let her know you’re up.” I stared at him, keeping my mouth shut. Beckett raised an eyebrow. “What’s with the look?” My eyes drifted to the clean white bandage wrapped around his arm. “Does it hurt?” He let out a soft laugh. “Come on, Penny. You worry too much. It’s just a scratch, nothing to cry about.” The comments flashed before my eyes again: That’s his badge of honor for protecting the female lead. He finally confessed his feelings, didn’t he? Why is the annoying sister awake already? He needs to go check on Maddy. Looking at his handsome, familiar face, the nausea returned, stronger than before. He knew. He knew how much I hated her, yet he had fallen in love with her anyway. He had abandoned me in a burning car to save her. A slow, hot anger began to burn through my veins. Even though the comments had spelled out the reality for me, I still wanted to hear it from him. I wanted to hear the excuse he would make. I gripped the bedsheets tightly, my knuckles turning white. “Beckett, why did you save Madeline first?” “I screamed your name. Did you hear me?” “You always told me I was your only sister.” My voice was quiet, but every word was heavy. “So why did you leave me behind? Weren’t you afraid I would die?” Beckett stiffened, a look of mild irritation crossing his face. “Penny, seriously? Are you really being this petty over who got carried out of the car first?” “It was a chaotic accident. Nobody had time to think.” More text slid across the air: Here we go, the jealous sister trying to compete with the female lead. She always has to make it about herself. Can she please realize she’s just a sibling? He has the right to save whoever he wants. Why does she keep embarrassing herself? She can’t compete with the female lead anyway. She’s completely invisible to him now. I stared at him, my heart turning cold. Beckett sighed, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “Look, if it makes you feel better, I’m sorry. I apologize, okay?” “Just stop being angry.” “I’ll go tell Mom you’re awake.” My throat tightened, a stinging warmth rising behind my eyes. I watched him walk out of the room, his shadow stretching long and distant across the linoleum floor. I had never felt more pathetic. The comments floated by once more: Honestly, I’d be exhausted dealing with a sister like her too. But to be fair, she got absolutely wrecked. A broken leg and stitches on her head. Meanwhile, the brother only has a scratch, and the female lead was protected so well she doesn’t have a single mark. Well, she’s the female lead. Of course she’s fine. Mom and Beckett insisted on keeping her in the hospital for observation anyway, just to be safe. Otherwise, she could have been discharged yesterday. I closed my eyes, refusing to look at the text any longer. I had always known that my mother loved Madeline more than she loved me. But I had foolishly believed that to my brother, I was the one who mattered. Now I understood. A person’s split-second instinct is the truest reflection of their heart. I just didn’t understand why everyone in my life preferred Madeline over me. They were my family, weren’t they? 02 My mother had loved Madeline long before she ever set foot in our house. I remembered the day Mom sat me down, her face solemn as she spoke. “Penny, I’m bringing your cousin to live with us. You must treat her like your own sister, understand?” “She is the only piece of my sister I have left in this world.” “You must never, ever be mean to her.” As a young girl, I had nodded eagerly. “I promise, Mom.” My mother had been incredibly close to her older sister, Catherine. During the years my mother was lost, before the wealthy Caldwell family finally tracked her down, Catherine had been the only person who showed her any kindness. Even after the Caldwells brought my mother back to their estate, they continued to favor the fake daughter they had raised. Love is a strange thing; it doesn’t always care about bloodlines. People tend to cherish what they have nurtured with their own hands, the ones they have watched grow day by day. Eventually, my mother cut ties with the Caldwells. But after Aunt Catherine passed away, my mother’s first instinct was to bring Madeline into our home. To Mom, Madeline was a reflection of her younger self: orphaned, abandoned, with no one to rely on but her aunt. Once Madeline arrived, my mother’s world began to revolve entirely around her. I tried everything to get my mother to look at me. I tried getting perfect grades, scraping my knees, standing quietly in corners. But the moment Madeline shed a single tear, my mother forgot everything else. She forgot about my scraped knees, forgot about the things I couldn’t reach, forgot about me standing under the rain waiting for her. But before Madeline came, my mother hadn’t been like that. She used to see me the moment I entered a room. She used to hold me when I cried, and when I fell ill, she would stay up all night weeping quietly by my side. I used to love her hugs. But she hadn’t held me in years. Whenever I tried to wrap my arms around her, she would gently push me away, telling me she had to tend to Madeline first. Slowly, the love I had for my new sister curdled into resentment. I hated her. She had stolen my mother. And whenever we had a disagreement, my mother always took her side. “Penny, you’re the older one. You have to accommodate your sister.” “She lost her mother. Are you really going to bully her too?” Those words carved deep, silent wounds into my heart. When I was nine, Madeline and I got into a fight, and she shoved me hard against the corner of my wooden desk. The pain was sharp and sudden. Tears springing to my eyes, I lunged forward and knocked her to the ground. When our mother came into the room, she didn’t look at the dark bruise forming on my back. She only saw Madeline crying on the floor. “Mom, she pushed me first!” I cried out, my voice trembling. “My back hurts so bad…” My mother looked at me, her eyes filled with cold disappointment. “Madeline is your guest, Penny! Why can’t you be the mature one for once?” “I asked you to get along with her, and this is how you behave?” “Do you ever listen to a single thing I tell you?” In that moment, a violent chill swept through my body. I couldn’t stop shaking. “I hate her!” I screamed, the tears spilling over. “She’s not my sister! Why does she have to live in our house?” “Aren’t you my mom?” “Aren’t I your actual child?” “Why do you only care about her?” The next sound was the sharp crack of my mother’s palm against my cheek. I stood there, my hand pressed against my stinging face, utterly numb. I didn’t even notice when she picked Madeline up and left the room. 03 That night, after finding out what had happened, Beckett came into my room with a handful of candies hidden in his pocket. I clung to him, sobbing until I could barely breathe. He stroked my hair gently. “Crybaby.” “Don’t worry. You’ll always be my only sister.” Years later, when Beckett repeated those words in the kitchen, our mother overheard him. She reprimanded him severely. “Madeline is your sister too! How can you say something so heartless?” “And you, Penny. I told you to get along with her, and you go running to your brother to tattle on her?” And now, the same dismissive tone echoed in my hospital room. “Penny, can you stop being so dramatic? Just because your brother saved Madeline first, you’re going to hold a grudge?” “Are you still acting like a child?” I opened my eyes. My mother was standing at the foot of my bed. I didn’t say a word. I just looked down at my heavy plaster cast. A wave of bitter, pathetic sorrow washed over me. “Mom, it hurts so much.” Why didn’t you come to see me first? Madeline is completely unharmed. I’m the one with the broken leg. I’m the one with the stitches. Why can’t you look at my injuries? Why do you only have eyes for her? My mother gave me a brief, unsympathetic look. “If it hurts, then lie still and rest.” “You still have the energy to argue with your brother over nonsense.” “Clearly, you aren’t hurting that much.” The desire to speak vanished instantly. It was always like this. No matter the circumstances, it was always my fault. A few sympathetic comments drifted across the screen: Am I the only one who feels terrible for her? Her leg is literally broken and she has stitches. And the first thing her mother does is scold her instead of asking how she feels. That’s cold. Well, she brought it on herself. The moment she woke up, she started complaining that her brother didn’t save her first. Does she not know her place in his heart? It’s honestly embarrassing. But from her perspective, it’s completely valid. The brother who promised to protect her abandoned her in a bloody wreck. She was covered in blood, screaming his name, and he didn’t even look back. Please, he wasn’t obligated to save her. It’s his choice. When the person you love is in danger, your body moves on instinct. That’s just how it is. I get why she’s upset, but he still had the right to choose. I stared at the last comment, feeling a strange numbness settle over me. My mother opened her phone and sent a transaction to my account. “You’ll be recovering in the hospital for a while. I’ve spoken with Mrs. Gable, and she’ll bring you three meals a day.” “Madeline even suggested hiring a private nurse for you. Your brother went to look into it.” I felt a sudden shift in her tone. Sure enough, she continued, “If the doctors clear Madeline tomorrow, we’re going to Paris. Your father is already there on business.” I felt my chest tighten. “What about me? You’re going to leave me here alone?” My mother sighed, looking exasperated. “Penny, look at yourself. Can you travel like this?” “This summer is your only chance to relax before college starts. You can’t expect the entire family to sit in a hospital room just because you’re injured.” “Why can’t you be more understanding? Stop comparing yourself to Madeline.” “Madeline felt so guilty about your brother saving her first that she wanted to come and apologize to you.” “Luckily, Beckett and I managed to stop her.” I listened to her words, waiting for the familiar rise of anger, the urge to fight back. But instead, a deep, hollow silence settled within me. The fire was gone. “I understand,” I said quietly. My mother blinked, surprised by my sudden compliance. I looked at her, my voice entirely steady. “Since I can’t go to Paris with you, send me my portion of the travel budget. I’ll buy myself something nice instead.” She hesitated for a second, then pulled out her phone and transferred the money. When she finally left the room, I lay back against the pillows, closing my eyes, letting the silence wrap around me. My family’s harmony was built entirely on my silent endurance. If I didn’t back down, I was labeled difficult. None of them cared. And now, my brother didn’t even hide his devotion to Maddy anymore. I was utterly alone. 04 My private nurse was delivered to my room the following afternoon, escorted by Beckett and Madeline. When Madeline saw the white bandages around my head and the heavy cast on my leg, her eyes widened in a display of shocked pity. I hated that look. It made me feel like some pathetic, wounded animal she could look down upon. What right did she have to pity me? I wanted to tell her to wipe that fake look off her face, but I was simply too exhausted to speak. Madeline stepped forward, her face clouded with worry. “Penny, are you okay?” “I didn’t know your leg was hurt this badly. If I had known, I would have told Beckett to pull you out first.” “I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad at him.” I kept my mouth shut, letting my eyes sweep over her. Beckett had indeed protected her perfectly. There wasn’t a single scratch on her fair skin. And then there was me: stitches, a broken bone, and a heart turned to ash. Seeing my silence, Beckett’s brow furrowed. “Penny, don’t start.” “Have some manners.” I looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “You’re a dumbass.” Beckett froze, a look of sheer disbelief crossing his face before he let out a sharp, angry laugh. “Your attitude is unbelievable, Penny.” “No wonder Mom didn’t want Madeline visiting you. She knew you’d just take your frustration out on her.” I blinked slowly. “I was talking to you.” His eyes narrowed, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. “Penny, you’re really pushing it.” Comments began to stream: Wow, the sister is savage. The brother looks like he’s about to lose his mind. She’s so childish, she doesn’t even know how to speak to people. Madeline is trying to be nice, and she gets treated like trash. Wait, is it just me, or does Madeline sound incredibly passive-aggressive? ‘If I had known, I would have told him to save you first’—her leg is literally broken, that’s just rubbing salt in the wound! Exactly, it’s totally toxic. You guys are being way too sensitive. I ignored the comments, keeping my voice cool. “Have you booked your tickets to France?” Beckett seemed to remember my injury, glancing down at my leg. “You can’t even walk. Is that why you’re throwing a tantrum?” Madeline gently touched his arm, gesturing for him to stop. She turned back to me. “Penny, we can stay. We can wait until you’re discharged before we go to France. I’ll talk to Auntie.” “No way,” Beckett countered immediately. “That will take weeks.” “Don’t let her guilt-trip you, Maddy. We already planned this trip.” “Even if you stay, she won’t appreciate it.” Watching him jump to her defense once again, I felt the last of my energy drain away. I closed my eyes. “Dumbass.” They were doing this on purpose, surely. They wanted to see me break. I took a breath, keeping my voice even. “Since you’re going to France and I’m staying here, transfer me my share of the trip expenses. The money Beckett promised to cover.” If I couldn’t go, I was at least taking what was mine. Every single cent. Once the notification of his transfer popped up on my phone, I waved them away, signaling for them to get out. As they walked out, Madeline cast one last look over her shoulder. It was that same pitying, superior look. I wondered if Beckett was truly blind. How could he look at her and see nothing but innocence? It was pathetic.

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The popular girl at school got her period and stained her dress. Without a second thought, I swapped clothes with her. But when I went to buy her some pads, the cold, aloof top student who had always ignored me suddenly approached me in the aisle. “Did you find what you need? Give it to me, I’ll pay.” Even my sharp-tongued childhood friend, the one who loved mocking me more than anyone, looked incredibly gentle and soft in that moment. “You, you look really pretty today.” I froze in place. I actually believed my quiet kindness had finally been noticed by the people around me. Until I turned around to say thank you. The two handsome boys frowned, their expressions instantly hardening as they spoke in unison: “Why is it you?” 1 The first to react was my childhood friend, Ryder. He was leaning lazily against the metal shelves, but the moment he realized who I was, he shoved my shoulder with a careless hand. An arrogant smirk crawled back onto his face. “What the hell? “What kind of phase are you going through today, trying to wear a dress like everyone else?” Ryder let out a sharp scoff, letting his eyes wander over me with blatant amusement before laughing out loud. “Are you out of your mind? You look like you’re wearing a white potato sack. “What kind of trash style is this? It looks hideous. “Look, if you seriously don’t know how to pick out a dress, just throw on a black garbage bag next time. At least that way…” He leaned down slightly, lowering his face to mine. Slowly, mockingly, he whispered, “It might actually hide the ugly.” My fingers tightened around the boxes of pads and heating patches in my arms. The plastic packaging crinkled loudly in the quiet aisle. Just then, a soft chuckle floated from above. It was a quiet sound, the kind of polite laugh someone lets out when they hear a stupid joke but want to keep the conversation from dying. But to me, that soft chuckle sounded like a thunderclap. It came from Wood, the boy I had spent the last three months desperately trying to get to notice me. I lowered my eyes, biting my lip so hard it hurt. I forced myself not to scream at Ryder, terrified that if I lost my temper like I usually did, any tiny shred of respect Wood had for me would vanish forever. But my silence only made Ryder push harder. 2 “Wow, look at our resident drama queen. What is wrong with you today? You’re actually keeping your mouth shut?” He reached out, mockingly tapping his knuckles against my forehead. “Well, you don’t have a fever.” His eyes drifted downward, landing on the items clutched tightly against my chest. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Oh, I get it. You’re on your period. “I almost forgot you’re actually a girl. “Though, honestly, I always thought girls were supposed to look more like your desk-mate to count as the real deal.” I trembled with a mixture of rage and humiliation. Tears blurred my vision, turning the brightly lit store into a smear of colors. The only clear thing left was a pastel pink thermal flask suddenly thrust into my field of vision. I stared at the pale, elegant hand holding the flask. Slowly raising my head, I realized it belonged to Wood, the guy who usually treated me like I was invisible. I was too stunned to move. It took me several seconds of staring before I reached out and took the flask, my voice trembling. “Is this for me?” Wood looked down at me from his height. His eyes lingered on my red, tear-stained eyes for a fraction of a second. His throat bobbed. He looked away, his expression returning to its usual cold indifference. “Give it to Genevieve. “Her cycle is coming up, and I know she gets bad cramps. “Inside is…” “I’ll give it to her,” I interrupted, my heart sinking into my stomach. I clutched the flask and ran toward the registers like a coward trying to escape a battlefield. But as I stood in line to pay, I could still hear Ryder’s lazy voice echoing from the back of the store, talking to Wood. “Seriously, didn’t she look ridiculous in that dress? “You should have seen her when we did track together as kids. She ran like a burly lumberjack. “I never thought I’d see the day Paige actually squeezed herself into a skirt.” I didn’t turn around to see if Wood was looking at me. But I heard his quiet, dismissive reply. “Yeah.” 3 I walked back to the classroom with my head down, feeling completely hollow. When I pushed the door open, I didn’t announce my arrival with a cheerful shout like I usually did. I didn’t call out, Hey, Genevieve! I got your stuff! I just walked quietly toward my seat. As usual, Genevieve’s desk was surrounded by a crowd of popular kids. They were spilled over onto my chair, completely blocking my way. I heard one of the girls ask her, “So, Genevieve, who is it going to be? Wood, the star student, or Ryder, the varsity captain?” It was a question Genevieve got asked almost every single day. She always avoided giving a straight answer. But whenever the crowd dispersed, she would hold my hand with a sweet, reassuring smile and whisper, Don’t listen to them, Paige. Wood and I just take prep classes together. We’re just friends. If you like him, you should totally go for it! But today, for some reason, my feet glued themselves to the floor. I stayed back, wanting to hear what she really thought. Genevieve offered a bright, dimpled smile, her voice dripping with playful sweetness. “Ugh, why do you guys have to ask such hard questions? “Wood is amazing, but Ryder is so sweet too. It’s impossible to choose.” Someone laughed, nudging her shoulder. “Just pick the one who treats you best. One of those handsome boys is going to end up heartbroken anyway.” I stood frozen in the shadow of the doorway. I watched Genevieve twirl a lock of her hair around her finger, looking utterly helpless. “But they both treat me so well. “I mean, look at Ryder. He’s so incredibly rude to Paige, and they’ve literally grown up together. But he’s always so gentle and attentive with me. “And Wood? Paige has been throwing herself at him for three months, and he won’t even look her in the eye. But he treats me so differently.” She let out a heavy, dramatic sigh, as if carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. “There’s only one of me, you know? “I don’t want to make a reckless decision and hurt either of them. “So I guess I’ll just have to wait and see how they behave.” The warning bell for the next class rang right on cue. Genevieve shrugged playfully, telling everyone to get back to their seats. When her eyes finally landed on me standing in the doorway, she pouted with slight irritation. “What took you so long to buy some simple pads? “The break is almost over, and now I don’t even have time to go to the bathroom. “I was actually planning to go find…” “That’ll be twenty dollars,” I said, tossing the plastic bag onto her desk. I kept my eyes fixed forward, my voice completely flat. “Venmo me.” 4 She didn’t notice the coldness in my voice. Assuming I had simply been rejected by Wood again, she offered a few empty, rehearsed words of comfort. I ignored her. When the final bell rang at the end of the day, she tapped my shoulder with the eraser end of her pencil. “Paige, I’m going out to dinner with my parents tonight, so I won’t have time to finish the history essay. “The usual deal. You do mine, and I’ll give you a choice. Either I convince Wood to tutor you tomorrow, or I’ll give Ryder a piece of my mind so he behaves himself around you.” Genevieve smiled, sliding her notebook onto my desk. “Make sure you copy my handwriting carefully. The teacher almost noticed last time.” I didn’t reach for the notebook. Instead, I stood up, swung my backpack over my shoulder, and looked her in the eye. “No. “There’s too much homework tonight, and I need to study. I have to stay up late to finish my own work.” Genevieve snapped upright, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Ryder hasn’t been bothering you lately, so forget about him. “But this is a private tutoring session with Wood we’re talking about! “Paige, don’t tell me you don’t like him anymore?” The memory of Wood’s momentary gentleness in the store flashed through my mind, leaving a dull, aching pain in my chest. But the harsh reality of why he had been gentle woke me up. “Yeah,” I said quietly. I walked toward the classroom door, speaking loud enough for the remaining students to hear. “I don’t like Wood anymore. “And I don’t need Ryder’s fake apologies.” Just as I reached the hallway, Ryder’s sarcastic voice cut through the air. “Wow, Paige. Look at you, talking big. “Who gave you permission to act so tough? What’s next, are you going to say you’re cutting ties with me? “Come on, let’s go. My mom made your favorite dinner tonight…” “Great idea,” I interrupted, staring straight at him. Every word was sharp and deliberate. “Cutting ties sounds perfect.” Without looking at his stunned, turning-pale face, I pushed past him and walked away. I didn’t look at Wood once. Behind me, I heard Genevieve call out in an irritated tone, “Wood! I’ve called your name three times. What are you staring at?” 5 On the walk home, I realized it had been a very long time since I had experienced such silence. Usually, my afternoons were spent either trying to find excuses to linger near Wood, or dealing with Ryder walking beside me, bickering and arguing all the way to my front door. But today, the air was peaceful. It felt as though the noisy world had shrunk, leaving only me. A thought slowly bloomed in my mind: Is it possible that my value as a person doesn’t need to be validated by anyone else? The thought made my steps feel lighter. I stopped to feed a stray kitten near the alley. I helped an elderly lady pick up the oranges that had rolled out of her torn grocery bag after a passing car startled her. I even guided a visually impaired woman to the entrance of the subway station. By the time I finally reached my porch, Ryder was leaning against the railing, waiting for me. 6 Ryder looked at the dirty white dress I was still wearing. He opened his mouth, clearly wanting to make some biting remark, but he forced himself to swallow the words. He cleared his throat, holding out a brown paper bag toward me. “I got you those loaded garlic fries you love. The ones from the food truck downtown. “The line was insanely long. “Eat them before they get cold.” The rich, savory scent of garlic and melted cheese drifted into the cool air. Ryder shoved his hands into his pockets, chewing his gum nervously, watching me out of the corner of his eye. I knew this was his way of apologizing. He was offering a bridge. Usually, I would take it, and everything would go back to normal. But this time, I didn’t want to. Before I could figure out how to tell him, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a call from Genevieve. Her voice was bright and bubbling. “Paige! Did Ryder apologize to you yet?” I remained silent. She let out a dramatic, giggling sigh on the other end. “Oh my god, he’s so ridiculous. I casually mentioned in our group chat that I was craving those garlic fries, and he literally went and stood in that massive line to buy them. He even brought them to the restaurant where I was having dinner with my parents! I couldn’t exactly take them in front of my parents, so I told him to take them to you instead! “Tell me, did he look sorry? If he wasn’t nice about it, let me know. I’ll stop talking to him until he learns how to behave!” I didn’t care about her warning. Only one word stuck in my mind. “Group chat?” I asked, my voice flat. “What group chat? Do the three of you have a chat?” 7 There was a sudden, awkward silence on the other end. “Oh… oops,” Genevieve muttered, her tone turning defensive. “I wasn’t supposed to say that. “But Paige, don’t be mad. Wood was the one who—” “It’s fine,” I said quietly, and hung up the phone. Before Ryder could speak, before he could offer whatever excuse he was preparing, I snatched the bag of fries from his hands and threw them directly into the trash can next to the porch. Then, I slammed the front door shut, locking it with a heavy click.

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1 I was the true heiress to the Sinclair empire, New York’s wealthiest family. When they finally found me, my parents were consumed by guilt. They threw a massive gala, inviting the city’s entire elite class just to welcome me home. The ballroom was packed with the handsome heirs of old money, each one a perfect match on paper. “Helena, darling, you are the sole heir to the Sinclair fortune,” my mother whispered, gesturing to the crowd. “You can have any man in this room.” My gaze swept past the sea of desperate bachelors and settled on a man standing near the terrace. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and effortlessly handsome, exuding a quiet, refined elegance. My parents winced. “Richard Bennett?” my father muttered, his brow furrowing. “He was widowed not long ago. And he has a twenty-year-old son.” Eleanor shook her head. “They’re small-time, Helena. He’s beneath you.” The words tasted like ash, dragging me back twenty years. An eighteen-year-old boy had stood before me, his expression cold and unyielding. “Hannah, thank you for saving my life,” he had said, tossing a check onto the worn wooden table. “But I am the heir to the Bennett legacy, and I already have a fiancée. You’re just a girl from a backwater town, and you don’t belong in my world. Here is fifty thousand dollars. Don’t ever look for me again.” I snapped back to the present, shaking my head with a slow smile. I tilted my chin toward the young man standing next to Richard. “He’s too old. I don’t want him.” I paused, letting my smile widen. “But his son looks promising.” The boy was lean and tall, dressed in a crisp black shirt. His features were a striking seventy percent replica of Richard’s, but carved with sharper, more defiant angles. My mother gasped, her hand instantly snapping around my wrist. “Helena, that boy is only twenty. You… there is a generation gap between you two!” I tilted my head, offering her a sweet, innocent smile. “But Mom, didn’t you just say I could have anyone I wanted?” She stammered, turning to my father for backup. “She’s not wrong,” Thomas Sinclair chuckled. “A Sinclair heiress taking a younger husband is hardly a scandal. Besides, the Bennetts are struggling. They won’t dare say no to a lifeline.” I let out a silent, bitter laugh. Twenty years ago, those exact words had been hurled at my face. It felt like a physical blow, drawing no blood but leaving an ache that had throbbed for two decades. My father began walking toward Richard. Along the way, wealthy guests bowed and nodded in deference. Richard was no exception, offering a polite, almost eager nod. The arrogant, untouchable boy who once threw cruel words around so easily had finally aged. He was mature now, humbled by the world, and he had finally learned how to bow his head. My father spoke to him in hushed tones. I watched Richard’s face morph from polite pleasantry to sheer shock, then to a pale, stricken mask. “Mr. Sinclair, Jude is only twenty,” Richard stammered, his voice carrying slightly. “He hasn’t even finished college. Your daughter… she is old enough to be his mother!” The surrounding chatter died down instantly. Whispers began to ripple through the ballroom. “Wait, is the Sinclair heiress targeting Bennett’s son?” “Isn’t she nearly forty? The boy is barely out of his teens. That’s practically cradle-robbing.” I took a slow sip of my champagne, my eyes locked onto Richard. He looked lost, disbelieving, his hands trembling slightly as his face paled. He looked exactly the way I had felt twenty years ago. “Richard,” my father said, his tone smooth but unyielding. “I spent twenty years searching for my daughter. I will give her whatever she wants. If you agree to this marriage, the Sinclair Group will guarantee a highly lucrative partnership.” My father named a figure. A collective gasp echoed through the room. Richard’s pupils shrank. He was visibly shaken. Before returning to the Sinclairs, I had clawed my way up the corporate ladder on my own, and I knew all the dirty secrets of high society. When Richard inherited the Bennett Group, it was already a rotting apple, polished on the outside but hollowed out by debt. No matter how brilliant a businessman he was, he couldn’t save a sinking ship without capital. The deal my father offered was enough to resurrect his entire empire. Twenty years ago, he abandoned me to save his family business. Now, would he sacrifice his own son for that same business? “No, I won’t let my son…” Richard began. Before he could finish, Jude stepped forward. “Dad, I’ll do it. I’ll marry into the Sinclair family.” The young man’s voice was clear and steady, devoid of the panic you would expect from a college student. But his tightly clenched fists betrayed his nerves. Richard’s face went completely white. He grabbed Jude’s arm. “Are you insane, Jude? You are so young. How could you marry that old…” My father cleared his throat right on cue. The venomous word was choked back down Richard’s throat. Jude gently pried his father’s hand away. “Dad, let me help the family. A prestigious family like the Sinclairs won’t mistreat me.” My father laughed, clapping Richard on the shoulder. “You’ve raised a sensible boy, Richard. I like him.” Richard stood frozen, his knuckles white as he stared at his son with agonizing pain. Yet, he didn’t say another word of protest. “I have one condition,” Jude suddenly spoke up, his gaze cutting directly through the crowd to lock onto me. I raised an eyebrow, slightly surprised. My father hadn’t even introduced me yet, but the boy had targeted me with laser precision. “I will agree to the marriage, but I want us to spend time together first.” The tips of his ears flushed a light pink, but his expression remained dead serious. There was nervousness in his eyes, but also a faint glint of… anticipation? “I don’t want my marriage to Ms. Sinclair to be nothing but a business transaction.” Did he know me? Well, this was getting interesting. I spoke up, my voice carrying across the silent hall. “I accept your condition.” My father walked over to my side, beaming with pride. “Perfect. Everyone, let me officially introduce my daughter, Helena Sinclair!” The room erupted. “That’s the Sinclair heiress? She’s forty? She looks like she’s in her twenties! How is that even possible?” Richard stared at me, his eyes swirling with confusion, shock, and a hint of anger. He didn’t recognize me. It made sense; twenty years ago, I wore my hair in simple braids and spent my days working under the scorching sun on a dusty farm. I was tanned and plain back then. It was only natural he couldn’t connect me to the polished woman standing before him now. “Wait, is she Hannah Sinclair?” someone whispered. “As in the founder of Apex Drone Tech? The startup that got bought out by the government three years ago? That was her!” “The Bennetts just hit the absolute jackpot.” Hannah had been my name back then. Ironically, it was the fifty thousand dollars Richard threw at me that became my seed money. I had used it to build a tech empire, climbing to a height where men like him could only look up. At the mention of my old name, Richard’s face contorted. “Hannah? You’re Hannah from Oakhaven?” Twenty years, and he still remembered that tiny town? I tilted my head, feigning ignorance. “I grew up in Blue Ridge, Mr. Bennett. I’ve never heard of Oakhaven.” Ignoring his frantic expression, I shifted my gaze back to the quiet boy beside him. My voice took on a playful, teasing edge. “Would you like to go for a drive after the party, my soon-to-be fiancé?” Jude agreed without a second thought. Once it was settled, I turned on my heel, leaving the father and son behind. I spent the rest of the evening playing the dutiful daughter, greeting my parents’ high-profile business associates. Yet, throughout the night, I felt a heavy gaze burning into my back. When I finally turned, I caught Jude staring. He immediately looked away, flushing like a startled rabbit. A soft smile tugged at my lips. How could this boy be so completely different from his father? Twenty years ago, when I dragged a half-dead Richard out of a muddy ditch, it took him only a few days to recover and start tailing me like a loyal puppy. “Hannah, you saved my life, let me marry you!” “Hannah, you’re so beautiful, I want you to be my wife!” He had been so sweet back then, his eyes full of devotion, ready to hand me his entire world. Now, looking back, it felt like a lifetime ago. When did he change? It had been too long, and the memory was too faded to care. I lingered for an extra five minutes before heading down to the parking garage. Beside my black luxury SUV, the boy was waiting patiently, leaning against the concrete pillar. When he saw me approach, he nervously scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor. “Ms. Sinclair.” “I thought you’d run away,” I teased. His eyes darted away, but his voice remained steady. “I keep my promises.” I unlocked the car and gestured with my head. “Get in. I’m taking you somewhere fun.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second before climbing into the passenger seat, sitting as stiff as a board. Whether from nerves or forgetfulness, he didn’t put on his seatbelt. I leaned across the console, my body brushing close to his as I pulled the strap over him. The buckle clicked into place. He froze instantly, his muscles hardening like stone as he held his breath. “What are you so scared of? I don’t bite,” I murmured, starting the engine. His lips parted, but it took him a long moment to speak. “You knew my father before tonight, didn’t you?” It wasn’t a question. My fingers tapped against the steering wheel. I didn’t deny it. “You’re sharp.” He turned his face toward the window, watching the neon lights of the city blur past. “When he heard your name, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. I’ve never seen him like that.” “Your father owed me an apology,” I said coldly. “Tonight, I used his son to collect the debt right in front of him.” Jude’s eyelashes fluttered, but he didn’t look away. “So marrying me is just a game of revenge?” “Partially,” I admitted without hesitation. “But I gave you a chance to walk away, and you chose to stay.” His ears burned red again. He opened his mouth to ask more, but I cut him off. “Save the questions for later, kid.” I stepped on the gas, and the car roared out of the garage. We drove in silence. Jude leaned against the window, his thumbs flying across his screen. Suddenly, a loud, obnoxious male voice blasted from his phone speakers. “No way, man! Your dad is actually making you marry that old lady? She’s forty! Doesn’t she smell like a nursing home already?!” Jude gasped, dropping his phone in a panic. By the time he scrambled to retrieve it, the voice message had finished playing. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “Your friends seem very concerned about you.” This time, his entire face turned crimson. The kid blushed way too easily. “I… I’m so sorry. My friend is an idiot. I apologize for him.” I spun the wheel smoothly. “It’s fine. I don’t hold grudges against kids. But his little insult goes on your tab. You’ll have to make it up to me in a bit.” He nodded quickly. I smirked, hoping he wouldn’t regret that promise. Half an hour later, we pulled up to an airfield on the outskirts of the city. Jude stared at the helicopter waiting on the tarmac, his face losing color by the second. “We… we’re doing this?” “What? Are you scared?” I climbed into the chopper and reached out a hand. No twenty-year-old boy could resist a blow to his pride. He took my hand and hopped in. “Who said I was scared? Let’s do it!” I didn’t give him a chance to back out. Once the tandem harness was secured, I gave him a playful nudge with my knee, sending us plunging out of the open door. He let out a bloodcurdling scream as we fell through the sky. The wind roared in our ears. I leaned close to his ear, my voice calm and steady. “Don’t panic! I’ve got my license, and I’m a certified instructor. Just trust me and enjoy the ride.” When we hit the ground, Jude’s legs were shaking like jelly, but he wrapped his arms around me so tight I could barely breathe. “Helena! That was insane! I’ve never felt anything like that!” That night, I took him to an underground street race. We caught a midnight thriller at an indie theater, and finally wound up in a quiet, dim bar where I mixed him a proper Long Island Iced Tea. By 2:00 AM, he was completely wasted, slurring something about how he had wanted to meet me for a long time. Half-amused and half-indulgent, I took him back to my penthouse. When I woke up the next morning, a soft, sleepy voice mumbled from behind me. “You… you have to take responsibility for this.” I laughed softly. “We’re literally engaged. Of course I will.” He jolted awake, staring at the ceiling. “My dad is going to kill me if he finds out…” “Is he really that strict?” I asked. “Yeah. I used to have a crush on someone, and before he even knew her name, he accused her of being a gold-digger,” Jude muttered, his eyes searching my face as if looking for a reaction. “But look at him. When my mother was alive, they fought constantly because he kept saying she couldn’t compare to the woman he loved in his youth.” I looked away, maintaining my mask of indifference. “How hypocritical of him.” The woman from his youth? I had run a background check on Richard. Aside from Jude’s late mother, I was the only woman he had ever been with. It was hilarious. Twenty years ago, he threw me away because of my background to marry a wealthy socialite. Yet, once married, he spent his years pining for me and making his wife miserable. What a pathetic, twisted man. “Ms. Sinclair, there is a Mr. Bennett at the door,” my housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, called out, knocking gently on the bedroom door. Jude wanted to say more, but I used the interruption to slip into a silk robe and head out. Richard stood in the foyer, dressed in a sharp suit, his face like a thundercloud. The moment I walked in, his eyes locked onto my neck, his brow furrowing deeply. I glanced at the mirror in the hallway. A faint, dark mark sat right above my collarbone. Well, the kid certainly didn’t hold back. “Helena,” Richard growled, his voice trembling with anger. “Who is in there? Are you keeping a boy toy? A college student? A gigolo?” I crossed my arms, leaning lazily against the doorframe. “Why are you so sure it’s not your son?” His voice cracked. “Impossible! Jude is a good boy. He would never sleep with an… an older woman like you before marriage!” I recalled Jude’s breathless whispers from the night before, letting out a quiet chuckle but offering no reply. Richard took a ragged breath. “Get rid of him before the wedding. Even if Jude marries into your family, I won’t let him be with a woman who keeps playthings on the side.” I looked him up and down. “Don’t worry. Whether he’s a college kid or a gigolo, he’s from a small-time background. How could he possibly compete with your son?” Richard’s face burned with humiliation. “Watch your tongue!” My expression remained ice-cold as I stared him down until his bravado crumbled. “Are you… are you really not Hannah from Oakhaven?” he whispered. A wave of disgust washed over me. “Get out.” I slammed the door in his face. After a few seconds of silence, I heard a muffled curse, followed by his retreating footsteps. He was still the same hypocritical coward. Over the next few weeks, I kept hanging out with Jude. I picked him up from campus and met his friends, bringing them gifts they actually liked. The kids quickly warmed up to me, no longer whispering insults behind my back. Instead, they swarmed around me, calling me Helena with pure, unadulterated admiration in their eyes. When Jude mentioned his team was entering a national tech innovation competition, I didn’t hesitate to write a personal check for two hundred thousand dollars. I even pulled a few strings to hire a retired MIT professor to mentor them. One afternoon, I stood outside the campus lab, watching Jude focus intensely on his work. As I admired his profile, a young woman with a high ponytail stepped in front of me. It was Sienna, one of Jude’s teammates. “Ms. Sinclair,” she said, her voice hushed. I figured she wanted a favor, but her opening line caught me off guard. “Why are you forcing Jude to marry you?” I blinked, thoroughly amused. Force him? Anyone with eyes could see Jude was thrilled about the arrangement. If anything, I felt like he had played me into this engagement. “Let’s set the record straight,” I replied calmly. “He volunteered.” Sienna glared at me. “Impossible! You must have blackmailed him! You’re so much older than him. How could he choose you over someone young and beautiful like me?” I couldn’t help but laugh. Kids. Their world was so delightfully simple. “Listen, sweetie,” I said, tilting my head. “I can pave his path to the absolute top of the corporate world. And if I happen to die early, he inherits everything. Aside from your youth, what can you actually offer him?” Her jaw clenched, and her face flushed with anger. I patted her head gently. “At least I had the guts to claim him in public. How about you? If you’ve got so much pride, why don’t you leave Jude’s team and refuse to use my funding?” Sienna stamped her foot. “Don’t get cocky. I will take Jude back from you!” She turned and stormed off, though she conveniently forgot to mention actually leaving the team. I stroked my chin. It seemed Jude was far more popular than I realized. It was time to put the wedding on the fast track. Jude didn’t object. In fact, he was far more enthusiastic than I was. He spent hours researching venues, visiting florists, and studying the meanings behind different flowers. When I asked what theme he preferred, he didn’t even look up from his notes. “The wedding should be all about you, Helena. Whatever makes you happy.” During my gown fitting, his cheeks burned crimson, his eyes practically glued to me. “You look beautiful, Helena.” On the night before the wedding, he cooked a romantic candlelit dinner to celebrate. After a few glasses of wine, my mind grew pleasantly hazy. His eyes shone with a bright intensity as he cradled my face in his hands. “Helena, I’ve been such a good boy. Don’t I deserve a reward?” The rest of the night was a blur. When I woke up the next morning, Jude was gone. I stood in the bridal suite, staring at an anonymous text on my phone, my brow furrowing. He ran away with me, old lady. Enjoy being left at the altar! Eloped? I didn’t buy it. Jude wasn’t like Richard. He was honest, passionate, and wore his heart on his sleeve. He had even convinced his best friends to dress up as his favorite sci-fi characters to perform a surprise dance for me. A boy who cared that much wouldn’t just vanish with another woman. Did he find out something he shouldn’t have during my blackout? I didn’t have time to dwell on it. A Sinclair wedding was a massive public affair, packed with the city’s elite. A little youthful fun on stage was fine, but a canceled ceremony was out of the question. I refused to let our family become the laughingstock of New York. “Tell the coordinator to proceed as planned,” I instructed my assistant. “And pull the security footage. Find out where Jude is.” The wedding march began to play, and the coordinator signaled for the groom to take his place. The massive doors of the chapel slowly swung open. Beneath the spotlight stood a tall, striking figure in a pristine white tuxedo. I breathed a sigh of relief, lifting my gown to walk down the aisle. But as the doors opened fully, the man on stage turned around and smiled at me. He was elegant and composed, but his eyes burned with a dark, obsessive longing. “Hannah, you can’t lie to me.” My smile froze on my face. It was Richard.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “515802”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 A deafening roar tore through the cabin as the plane spiraled out of control, plunging from thirty thousand feet. Amid the chaos and absolute despair, my phone screen suddenly flashed to life. To my disbelief, the incoming video call was from myself, eight years ago. On the screen, a younger, radiant version of me smiled, her eyes sparkling with hope. “Charlie is about to propose to me!” “He promised that no matter how late it gets, he will always come to bring me home. He said he would never make me wait a single minute!” Watching my past self while surrounded by the blood-curdling screams of doomed passengers, I felt a crushing weight in my chest. The words do not marry him remained choked in my throat. For eight years, I had landed three hundred times, and not once did he show up to meet me. Yet, he had gone to the airport three hundred times just to pick up Cynthia, his precious childhood friend. On the screen, my younger self eagerly pressed, “In eight years, Charlie must have completely spoiled me like a princess, right?” I let out a bitter, hollow laugh and cut the connection. The screen reverted to the last text message from Charlie. “Just wait at the airport for another two hours. I will come get you right after I drop Cynthia off.” Staring out the window at the dark, swallowing ocean rushing toward us, I let my tears fall freely onto the glass screen. Eight years, and you finally agreed to pick me up. But Charlie, I am never landing again. The screens at the maritime search and rescue center glowed through the long night. I drifted invisibly at the front of the room, watching the familiar flight number on the monitor flicker from yellow to a lifeless gray. The operators worked in a frenzy, checking and rechecking the passenger manifest. “Hurry! Have we contacted Norah’s family yet?” The heavy sound of Charlie’s footsteps suddenly echoed from the corridor. Seeing the weeping, panicked crowd, he knit his brows in annoyance. On the screen, the flight status had officially updated from Delayed to Signal Lost. Frustrated, he dialed my number. “Norah, what kind of drama are you pulling now?” Floating in mid-air, I looked down at my translucent, spectral body. Then I looked at the milkshake in his hand, which happened to be Cynthia’s favorite flavor. I smiled sadly. He was always like this, even his half-hearted attempts to appease me carried the traces of another woman. I touched my chest, surprised that a ghost could still feel such a dull, aching throb. “Charlie, wait up.” Cynthia, wrapped snugly in Charlie’s designer jacket, jogged in to catch up with him. “I am so sorry. This is all my fault.” She bit her lower lip, her voice trembling as if she were on the verge of tears. “If you had not insisted on driving me back to the city first, Norah would not have had to wait at the airport.” “Do you think she got so angry waiting for me that she deliberately changed her flight to make a point?” Charlie stopped and instinctively pulled her closer to protect her from the bustling crowd. “It has nothing to do with you, Cynthia,” he said, his tone softening instantly. “She is just naturally jealous. I already texted her that I was on my way.” “Now she is playing hard to get by turning off her phone. She is really pushing it this time.” For eight years, it had always been like this. The moment Cynthia shed a single tear, all my genuine hurt was dismissed as childish tantrums. On the rescue center’s main display, the red flight number had turned completely gray. Around us, family members sobbed in agony. Charlie stood in the middle of the room, looking slightly unsettled. An anxious official walked over, clutching a tablet. “Excuse me, are you the family of Ms. Norah?” Charlie nodded quickly. “Yes, I am her fiancé.” He hesitated for a second, then added, “Her phone is off. Why is her flight showing as missing?” The official looked up, meeting his eyes with gravity. “Sir, the aircraft encountered severe turbulence while passing through a thunderstorm. We have confirmed that the plane crashed into the ocean.” The entire hall fell deathly quiet. The annoyance on Charlie’s face froze solid. “Crashed?” he repeated, unable to comprehend. He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Are you kidding me? Would she really go this far and fabricate a plane crash just to get me to apologize?” “I have the right to see her flight records. I am her primary emergency contact.” The official frowned, scrolling through the screen. “Sir, you are not listed as her emergency contact.” “Therefore, we cannot release any details to you without legal proof of relationship.” Charlie’s pupils dilated. “What did you say?” He took a sudden step forward, his voice rising in anger. “I have been her fiancé for eight years! I have always been her emergency contact!” Cynthia peeked out from behind him, timidly tugging at his sleeve. “Charlie, Norah must have been truly furious this time.” She looked around, making sure her voice was just loud enough for the nearby families to hear. “But even if she is mad at me, she should not play with her life like this. We do not even know if she was actually on that plane, and now she is causing all this unnecessary panic.” A mother nearby, who had just lost her daughter, whipped around with bloodshot eyes, glaring at Cynthia. “Are you trying to say she faked being on a crashed plane just to throw a tantrum?” A wave of collective fury rippled through the grieving crowd. Several people closed in, casting accusing glares at Charlie and Cynthia. Charlie instinctively stepped in front of Cynthia to shield her. “Everyone, please calm down. This is not Cynthia’s fault.” He frowned, his voice growing cold and hard. “Norah made the decision to change her flight on her own. She has to take responsibility for her own choices.” Watching him, I found it almost tragic. Before my death was even officially confirmed, he was desperate to absolve Cynthia of any guilt. He would not even offer a simple defense of my character, like mentioning how professional I had always been, or that I would never use my job to throw a tantrum. Static crackled from the radio at the front of the hall. The live feed from the search and rescue team filled the main screen. Out on the dark ocean, a massive spotlight cut through the mist. The official’s expression changed instantly, and he rushed toward the screen. He looked past the crowd, his eyes locking onto Charlie. “The maritime search team has just recovered the first batch of floating debris.” His voice was quiet, yet it carried clearly to every corner of the room. “Is this charred crew luggage tag belonging to Ms. Norah?” Everyone froze. A metal tray, damp and salt-stained from the ocean, was brought into the hall. At the center lay a burnt leather luggage tag. The name Norah was still faintly legible, resting beside a half-charred white rose brooch. Charlie stared blankly at the brooch. It was the very ornament he had pinned onto my uniform during our engagement party eight years ago. “Wait… that is impossible.” He took a step back, his voice cracked. “It cannot be her. She was not wearing that when she left the house.” The gloved officer pulled items from a sealed waterproof bag. “Sir, we retrieved this from her flight bag found floating on the water.” A waterlogged planner was opened, and a stack of small slips of paper fell out onto the table. Charlie bent down and picked one up. It was a receipt from the airport parking garage. On the back, a neat hand had written: Charlie went to pick up Cynthia first again today. I waited at Terminal 2 for three hours. The officer knelt, gathering the scattered slips of paper. There were exactly three hundred of them. On the back of every single receipt, there was a similar note. New Year’s Eve. Flight delayed. Charlie said Cynthia was terrified of the fireworks, so he went to be with her instead. My birthday. Just flew a long haul, landed with a high fever. Charlie was busy organizing a funeral for Cynthia’s pet dog. Promoted to Chief Flight Attendant. Charlie did not show. Cynthia said she cut her finger slicing fruit. Charlie clutched the receipts, his eyes rimmed with red. He stared at the mountain of records scattered on the floor, unable to believe what he was seeing. Three hundred times. Eight years of broken promises and cold abandonment, laid bare beneath his feet. Floating above, I watched the painful, quiet realization cross his face. I had wept while writing the first few notes. By the end, I had felt absolutely nothing. Cynthia’s expression shifted. She stepped forward to wrap her arm around Charlie’s, but he instinctively flinched away, completely unaware of his own movement. “Why would Norah keep track of things like this?” A flicker of panic crossed Cynthia’s eyes, quickly replaced by a pout. “Charlie, has she been harboring a grudge against me all this time?” She lowered her voice, her tone fragile. “She kept score of every single little thing just to force you to apologize later. I had no idea she was so calculating…” Charlie’s shoulders tensed. Looking at the sea of accusations at his feet, his irritation flared up again. “Yeah, she never used to be this petty,” he muttered, crumpling the receipt in his fist. “Maybe one of her colleagues picked up her flight bag by mistake. There is still no proof she was on that plane.” I watched him, a bitter smile gracing my lips. His prejudice against me was so deeply rooted that even evidence of my death could not shake it. Ignoring their bickering, the officer unzipped the innermost compartment of the flight bag and pulled out a numbered brass key. “Mr. Harrington, this is Ms. Norah’s locker key for the airport crew lounge. According to standard procedure, her personal belongings must be inventoried in the presence of her family.” Half an hour later, the airport manager escorted Charlie to the Terminal 3 crew lounge. The locker door clicked open. Charlie reached in and pulled out a small tin box. Inside was a stack of about a dozen letters. None of them had stamps, but they all bore the same title: Termination of Engagement. Charlie’s breath hitched. He slipped the top letter out of its envelope and unfolded it. The paper had yellowed with age, but the handwriting was elegant and clear. Charlie, after I complete this flight, let us call off our engagement. I am tired of waiting for a man who always puts someone else first. The date at the bottom was from eight years ago, the morning after our engagement party. Charlie’s fingers trembled, letting the letter slip to the floor. “She wanted to leave me eight years ago?” he whispered, his eyes vacant. The airport manager pushed up his glasses. “Mr. Harrington, Norah was our most outstanding Purser.” “She had a flawless, complaint-free record for eight consecutive years. She was a professional. She would never compromise her work over a personal spat.” “She only changed her flight because another flight attendant fell suddenly ill, and she volunteered to cover the shift.” Charlie clenched his fists. “She just wrote these to scare me,” he insisted, staring at the letters as if trying to force himself to believe it. “If she really wanted to leave, why did she keep these letters hidden for eight years? She would never actually leave me.” Standing by the door, Cynthia watched Charlie unravel, her fingernails digging deep into her palms. The manager reached into the very back of the locker and pulled out a small piece of cardstock. It was a faded table card from our engagement party. There was a line of writing on the back. The manager read it aloud in a quiet voice: If my eight-years-ago self can hear this, do not accept his proposal. Walk away from Charlie. The room went dead silent. Charlie snatched the card from the manager’s hand. The red ink burned his eyes. If my eight-years-ago self can hear this… He repeated the words, a sudden memory flashing in his mind. Two hours before the crash, he had indeed received a call from my number. But there had been no words, only the terrifying roar of rushing wind and distant weeping. He had been in such a rush to take Cynthia to the hospital for her supposed panic attack that he had snapped, “Stop playing games,” and hung up. He sprinted out of the lounge and back to his car parked outside. Flinging the door open, he grabbed his phone from the passenger seat. He unlocked the screen and opened his photo gallery, searching desperately for a photo of our engagement eight years ago to prove his reality. The moment the photo loaded, Charlie’s eyes widened in sheer terror. The image of me wearing the diamond ring, leaning happily against his shoulder, began to blur at the edges. The pixels were actively erasing themselves before his eyes. He rubbed them in disbelief. A few seconds later, the image snapped back into focus. I was still wearing the engagement dress. But there was no ring on my finger. I stood entirely alone at the entrance of the banquet hall, clutching a bouquet, my expression cold and distant. And Charlie was nowhere to be seen. The timestamp at the bottom of the screen flickered rapidly before locking onto the date: eight years ago, today. “What is happening…” Charlie tapped the screen furiously. “Is this a software glitch? How can a photo change?” Standing just outside the car window, I watched him with utter detachment. The rewrite of reality had finally begun. Cynthia opened the passenger door and slid in, bringing a heavy cloud of perfume with her. She glanced at his screen, her eyes flickering. “Charlie, stop doing this to yourself.” She reached over to cover the screen, her voice soft but venomous. “Norah never really loved you that much anyway.” “Did you forget? On the night of your engagement party eight years ago, the media photographed you helping me into your car.” Charlie whipped his head around to face her. “At the rescue center, you just said Norah changed her flight because she was angry at you!” “I lived with her for eight years! Now you are telling me she stopped loving me eight years ago?” Cynthia unlocked her own phone and held it in front of him. The headline screamed: Harrington Group Heir Abandons Bride at Engagement Party to Escort Childhood Friend to Hospital. Cynthia sighed, but a smug satisfaction lingered in her eyes. “If I had not had that sudden breathing fit, maybe things would not have ended like that.” “Norah always held a grudge against you for choosing me first. How could you forget?” Charlie stared at Cynthia’s self-righteous expression, his breathing turning shallow and fast. Eight years ago, he had left me standing alone in front of hundreds of guests. He had simply said, “Cynthia is having an attack. I will be right back.” I had waited for three hours, only to be greeted by that trending headline. The space around my spectral form began to warp. The timeline was closing its loops. I found myself back in the dressing room behind the banquet hall eight years ago. My younger self had just disconnected that impossible video call from the future. The flush of excitement on her cheeks vanished, replaced by a devastating chill. The heavy wooden door was pushed open. A twenty-two-year-old Charlie walked in, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Norah, I am so sorry. Cynthia is in bad shape.” He fished the velvet box from his pocket and went down on one knee. “Let us finish this. The guests are still waiting outside.” My younger self looked down at him. “If Cynthia calls right now saying she is in pain, would you leave again?” Charlie froze. He parted his lips, trying to explain, “She has panic disorder, she cannot be left alone…” He could not even manage a lie to reassure me. I stared at him for a few seconds and smiled. I unpinned the white rose corsage from my dress and tossed it into the trash can. “Then you do not need to kneel.” I turned around, pushed open the heavy double doors of the banquet hall, and walked out past the stunned stares of the guests. Reality snapped back to the car. Charlie stared at his phone. He realized that it was not just that one photo. Every single couple’s photo from our eight years together was actively disappearing from his digital albums. The tropical beach vacation photos transformed into images of him accompanying Cynthia to an aquarium. The pictures of me celebrating his birthday with him dissolved into shots of him working late alone in his office. “No… this is wrong!” Charlie roared. He shoved Cynthia aside and slammed his foot on the gas. “I am going to the hotel! I need to see the security footage from that night!” Cynthia was thrown back against the passenger seat, her face pale with shock. Half an hour later, Charlie burst into the hotel lobby. He grabbed the manager by his lapels, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “Show me the records from November twelfth, eight years ago! Find the security footage from Norah’s engagement party!” Terrified, the manager scrambled to pull up the files. A few minutes later, he handed a printed ledger to Charlie. “Mr. Harrington, are you sure you have the right date?” the manager whispered. “On that day, Ms. Norah did not accept your proposal. By the time you ran after her, she had already left alone. The engagement was never finalized.” A loud ringing filled Charlie’s ears. He snatched the paper, crumpling it into a tight ball. “Impossible! She loved me, she agreed to marry me!” He gritted his teeth. “We were engaged! We lived together for eight years! Have you all lost your minds?” He bolted out of the hotel and drove straight to our downtown apartment. The moment he pushed the door open, he froze at the entryway. The slippers that had always belonged to me were gone. He strode into the living room. The dried flowers on the coffee table had been replaced by a glass ashtray. The flight plaques hanging on the wall had vanished without a trace. He ran into the walk-in closet and flung open the left wardrobe door. It was completely empty. My uniforms, dresses, and coats had been entirely erased. Charlie slumped against the closet door, staring down at his ring finger. “It is still here… the ring is still here.” He clutched his fist so hard the metal bit into his skin. It was his last saving grace. “As long as the ring exists, I have not lost my mind.” Cynthia rushed through the front door, panting. Seeing him in such a state, a flash of possessiveness masked as worry appeared in her eyes. She stepped forward, unwrapped her scarf, and hung it on the hook that used to hold my winter coat. “Charlie, stop searching.” She wrapped her arms around him from behind, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I am the one who has been by your side for the last eight years. Have you forgotten?” “I took care of you when you were sick. I brought you meals when you worked late. Norah was never even here. Why are you tormenting yourself over a ghost?” Charlie whipped around, violently shaking off her grip. “Enough! Shut up!” He glared at Cynthia with bloodshot eyes. “Norah existed! She was my fiancée!” Just then, his phone vibrated. It was an urgent alert from the airline, requesting all immediate family members of Flight 79 passengers to gather at headquarters for a briefing. Like a man waking from a nightmare, Charlie grabbed his car keys and bolted out. The atmosphere inside the airline headquarters’ assembly hall was suffocatingly tense. An official stood at the podium holding a printed list. “After forty-eight hours of non-stop search and rescue operations, we regret to inform you that there are no survivors from Flight 79.” The room erupted into heart-wrenching screams and weeping. Charlie stood frozen, feeling the warmth completely drain from his body. He pushed through the grieving crowd and stumbled toward the check-in desk. “I am Norah’s fiancé.” He slammed his palms onto the desk, his knuckles white. “Give me her belongings. I want to take her home for the burial.” The receptionist looked up, verifying the database. A strange expression crossed her face. “I am sorry, Mr. Harrington,” the receptionist said, her tone professional but devastatingly blunt. “You are not listed as an authorized contact for Ms. Norah.” “Under company and legal policies, we cannot release any of her personal items to you.” Charlie froze. “What are you talking about? That is not what you said earlier!” He slammed his fist down. “I am her fiancé! We got engaged eight years ago!” A man wearing glasses sitting nearby turned around to inspect him. “Are you Charlie Harrington?” The man knit his brows, looking thoroughly confused. “Did the grief scramble your memory? I was Norah’s classmate in college.” “She turned you down flat at her engagement party eight years ago. She has lived alone ever since. She never dated you, let alone for eight years.” “Your name was never on her emergency contacts, not even once.” It was as if a bolt of lightning had struck him. He stood paralyzed, the wails and whispers of the hall fading into white noise. He looked down at his right hand, panic seizing him. The heavy band that had sat on his ring finger just minutes ago was gone. His finger was completely bare. “You are lying to me! She loved me! She couldn’t just vanish!”

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My sister loved playing “one of the boys.” She spent her days bossing her “bros” around, making them buy her tampons and even wash her underwear. At their engagement party, Thomas held out the ring to her. She laughed right in front of the room full of guests. “Thomas, are you seriously still doing this?” “I think of you as my bro, and you want to marry me? That is so gross.” Everyone in the hall froze, but she did not seem to care at all. After all, Thomas had been in love with her since they were kids. She assumed that this time, like the countless times before, he would swallow his pride and beg for her forgiveness. But Thomas just stayed silent for a few seconds, then snapped the velvet ring box shut. Then he turned his gaze to me, sitting quietly in the corner. “Amy Newall, will you marry me?” 1 I walked up to the stage. Cindy pulled my arm, whispering, “Amy, you are not well. Do not push yourself.” That old excuse again. But this time, I was not backing down. I let out a soft laugh, shook off her hand, and stood right in front of Thomas. “I will do it.” My dad let out a visible sigh of relief. Cindy’s face completely fell. “Amy, have you lost your mind?” I looked her in the eyes. “Didn’t you say marriage is outdated and suffocating?” “You cannot call it trash and then get mad when someone else cleans it up, can you?” Cindy’s jaw tightened, completely speechless. Thomas, however, smiled. He took the microphone and spoke clearly to the crowd. “Great. The Harrison Group formally chooses Amy Newall.” The spotlights that were supposed to shine on Cindy now fell entirely on me. Cindy stood a few feet away, crossing her arms with a cold sneer. She was not genuinely panicked yet. She thought Thomas was just trying to make her jealous. After all, for years, all she had to do was shrug and say, “Come on, bro, do not be mad,” and Thomas would always run back to her. In the car on the way home, the silence was suffocating. Cindy was the first to break it. “I had no idea, Amy.” “You play the quiet, fragile sister so well, but you sure move fast when it is time to steal something.” I looked out the window at the passing city lights. “Didn’t you say you did not want him?” She choked on her words. I continued, “You told everyone he was your brother. People do not marry their brothers.” “I am just helping you respect the sacred bond of brotherhood. Why are you so upset?” Cindy turned pale. My mother immediately jumped in to defend her. “Amy, stop taking digs at your sister. She was just speaking without thinking tonight.” “Speaking without thinking almost cost us the Harrison Group’s entire investment.” My father frowned. “Amy!” I turned to look at him. “Dad, I am just stating facts.” The car fell silent again. Cindy suddenly smiled, softening her tone. “I did not want to marry him because I refuse to be trapped in a domestic cage.” “But you are different.” “You have been sickly since you were a kid. You cannot handle the high-pressure world of the Harrison family.” “I am only looking out for you.” I was so tired of hearing that. Looking out for me. Is that why she secretly changed my college major application? Is that why she rejected career opportunities on my behalf? Is that why she stole my project proposal and put her own name on it? I pulled my tablet from my bag, unlocked it, and opened a folder. I turned the screen toward them. “Is this what you call looking out for me?” On the screen was a detailed log of every single time my life had been sabotaged since childhood. I swiped through them slowly. The only sound in the car was the heavy breathing of my parents. My mother’s expression grew incredibly tense. “Why on earth are you keeping a record of this?” I looked at her. “Because I realized that without hard evidence, my side of the story is always treated as a lie.” Cindy finally sat up straight. “Do you honestly think I stole your opportunities?” “Didn’t you?” I asked. Her eyes welled with tears. “I shielded you from those things because I was afraid the stress would make you sick!” “Did you ever bother to ask me what I wanted?” She froze. “When did I ever say I did not want to go?” I asked. “When did I ever give you permission to rewrite my life?” “Cindy, stop calling your greed ‘protection.’” My dad glared at me. “We are a family. Do not use such ugly words.” I smiled. “Dad, it is called being clear.” “And it is about time we settled the books in this family.” Cindy gritted her teeth. “So you planned this whole thing tonight.” “But Amy, you are dead wrong. Thomas only wants me.” “He only proposed to you tonight to get under my skin.” I did not bother to reply, but deep down, I was absolutely certain. This time, I was going to win. 2 The next day, the joint press release from the Harrison Group and the Newall Group went viral. In the official photo, I stood next to Thomas, holding the signed contract. The comment section went wild. Some people loved the drama of a last-minute bride swap in a high-profile merger. Others asked if Cindy had run away from her own wedding. And someone even turned her “who marries their bro” quote into a viral clip, plastered with laughing emojis. Cindy stayed locked in her room. But she was highly active on social media. “Some people really love picking up the scraps.” “Taking a joke way too seriously.” “Just because bros are having a fight does not mean an outsider gets to cut the line.” I ignored it all. That afternoon, Thomas invited me to his office to discuss the project. When I walked in, he was reviewing the risk assessment part of the proposal I had brought the night before. He flipped to the page and looked up at me. “Did you write this part?” “Yes.” “Cindy showed me a very similar version a while ago.” I paused. He added flatly, “But she could not explain any of the data when I asked.” I did not know whether to laugh or feel bitter. So, it was not that no one noticed. It was just that no one had ever called her out before. Thomas closed the folder. “Amy, there is something we need to make clear before we go any further.” I looked at him. “Go ahead.” “I used to love Cindy.” He was brutally honest. “It was not a casual crush like the rumors say. I genuinely wanted a future with her.” My fingers tightened slightly around my purse. He continued, “And I let her get away with a lot because I thought she was just afraid of commitment.” “But last night, she used my family and our business partners as props to prove how edgy and different she is.” “I am not playing her games anymore.” The office was completely quiet. “Are you telling me this because you want me to step down?” I asked. “No.” Thomas looked at me. “I’m telling you this so you know you are not walking into a clean, simple relationship.” “If that bothers you, you can walk away right now.” I was silent for a moment. “Thomas, I did not sign that contract because I am in love with you either.” “I did it because I want my name, my career, and my rightful place.” “I do not care who you loved in the past.” “But from this moment on, if I am going to be your fiancée, I expect you to maintain the boundaries of a fiancé.” A flash of surprise crossed his eyes. Then, he smiled. “Deal.” He pushed another document toward me. “Let’s put those boundaries in writing.” One clause stood out clearly: During the engagement, both parties shall maintain a united public front. Neither party shall engage in flirtatious behavior with third parties or tolerate ambiguous relationships that could damage the partnership. I signed it. Thomas signed it right after. As the pen left the paper, I found it almost funny. Other couples rely on vows. We rely on legally binding clauses. But clauses are better. At least when they are written down, nobody can pretend they forgot. That evening, Cindy crashed a gathering with Thomas’s friends. Wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket, she walked in and tried to slide into the seat right next to Thomas, just like she always did. But I had already placed my designer bag on that seat. “Cindy, the boys’ table is over there,” I said, pointing to the other side of the room. That table was packed with the guys from their social circle. One of them laughed. “Hey, Cindy! Come on over, the real bro table is here!” Cindy’s face stiffened. “Amy, do not be childish.” I kept my expression perfectly serious. “You said it yourself. You and Thomas are just bros.” “Bros sit at the bro table. What is the issue?” She looked at Thomas. Her eyes held that familiar, practiced look of wounded innocence. In the past, that look had worked every single time. But Thomas did not even look up. He simply handed me the menu. “What do you feel like eating?” Cindy stood frozen for what felt like an eternity before finally stomping over to the guys’ table. I pulled out my phone and created a group chat. Group name: Thomas’s Bro-Zone Management. I added Cindy and every guy in the room. “Since you are all bros, please post in this group if anyone gets drunk, has car trouble, or needs to vent.” “Let’s avoid calling my fiancé individually in the middle of the night.” The entire room went dead silent. Cindy stared at me across the table. “Don’t you think you are overstepping?” Thomas set his glass down. “It is not overstepping. It is called boundaries.” He looked directly at Cindy. “From now on, use the group chat if you need something.” Cindy’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Thomas, seriously? You are doing this to me?” His voice was completely flat. “Yes.” “I let things slide in the past, which gave you the wrong impression. I won’t make that mistake again.” At that moment, the proud, untouchable facade Cindy had built for herself finally cracked. But she still did not believe it. She convinced herself that Thomas was just putting on a show. She thought that if she just pushed a little harder, he would eventually come crawling back. 3 The wedding planning meeting was held at the Harrison headquarters. Cindy arrived even earlier than I did. She was sitting on Thomas’s left, her legs crossed, acting as if she still owned the place. Thomas walked into the conference room and took one look at her. “Cindy, that seat is reserved for my fiancée.” Her face flushed. I walked over and sat down. The wedding planning agency began going through the schedule. Press conference, media Q&A, project signing, engagement ceremony, family dinner. The coordinator asked for the list of bridesmaids and groomsmen. Cindy suddenly spoke up. “I am not doing the bridesmaid thing.” She leaned back in her chair, her tone lazy and dismissive. “I do not do dresses, and I do not care for girly traditions.” “Just put me in Thomas’s groomsmen lineup.” I nodded. “Sure, that works.” She blinked, caught off guard. I turned to the coordinator. “Put Cindy in the groomsmen lineup.” “Make her outfit a black tailored suit.” “She stands with the guys.” “And reserve three minutes for her speech. The topic is: Wishing My Bro a Happy Engagement.” Someone in the room muffled a laugh. Cindy glared at me. “Amy, are you intentionally trying to humiliate me?” I raised my eyes to meet hers. “Didn’t you choose the bro label yourself?” She gritted her teeth. “I am not like them.” “How so?” She could not answer. I continued, “You are a member of the bride’s family, so you could sit in the family section.” “Or you can stand with the groomsmen as his bro.” “What exact identity do you want to have next to Thomas?” The conference room fell into a dead silence. My mother quickly spoke up. “Amy, do not talk to your sister like that. She is just being her usual candid self.” Thomas flipped through the itinerary and said coolly, “Contracts and schedules do not care about being candid. They only care about designated roles.” Cindy’s face turned white. This was what she feared most. Because once her role was clearly defined, she could no longer use the bro excuse to demand romantic ambiguity, nor could she use her status as a woman to demand special treatment. After the meeting, she cornered me in the hallway. “Amy, do you actually think you have won?” I looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Have I not?” She sneered. “Do you have any idea how long Thomas has loved me?” “In high school, I mentioned a stomach ache once, and he ran through a thunderstorm to bring me medicine.” “In college, when I got into an argument with someone, he literally caught the next flight back from abroad just to stand by me.” “That motorcycle I rode for my birthday? He spent six months on a waiting list just to buy it for me.” Her voice grew more confident. “He is just angry right now.” “He is mad that I would not say yes, so he is using you to hurt me.” “Do not flatter yourself.” I did not say a word. Thinking she had finally intimidated me, she stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Believe it or not, all it takes is for me to say I regret it, and he will come running back to me in a heartbeat.” I looked at her, and suddenly, I could not help but laugh. “Cindy.” “Why do you assume people will wait around in the exact same spot forever?” Her expression darkened. “Because he loves me.” Just then, Thomas walked out of the conference room. Cindy’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Thomas, I really did not mean it that way at the party.” “I was just overwhelmed when you suddenly proposed to her.” “Stop using Amy to get back at me, please?” She offered the apology casually, with the same easy confidence she had used to pacify him a hundred times before. But Thomas did not move. “Cindy,” he said. “I am not using anyone to get back at you.” “Amy is my wife.” Cindy froze. “Your wife?” She looked at me, letting out a sharp laugh as if she had just heard the most ridiculous joke. “Your engagement ceremony has not even happened. Who are you trying to fool?” I reached into my designer bag, pulled out two official marriage certificates, and held them up in front of her. The photos showed Thomas and me sitting side-by-side, smiling. The red official seal was perfectly clear. The date of registration was this morning. “Cindy, if you truly believe he is still in love with you,” I said calmly, “why don’t you try convincing him to divorce me first?”

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1 As the youngest attending neurosurgeon at St. Jude’s Medical Center, I did something unexpected. I voluntarily stepped aside and let the newly arrived resident take the lead on a highly complex surgery. I did it because in my past life, the moment she stood at the operating table, her every move mirrored my thoughts exactly. Before my scalpel could even touch the skin, she had already made the incision. While I was still calculating the best approach, she had already executed the optimal solution. Everyone called her a once-in-a-generation medical prodigy. They whispered that I was just an empty suit, holding onto my position through pure seniority. That was until a critical surgery went sideways, and the patient died on the table. She stood before the review board and testified against me, claiming the fatal error was mine. Every blind spot in the security footage and every altered log pointed directly to me. I was stripped of my medical license and sentenced to three years in prison. The day I was released, I went to find her. By then, she was the national director of neurosurgery. Looking down at my ruined, hollow state, she let out a soft laugh. “I could see every single step inside your head, Evelyn,” she whispered. I collapsed right there at the hospital gates. When I finally opened my eyes again, I was back in the department office, on the very day she first reported for duty. This time, I did not spend my morning reviewing complex craniotomy procedures. Instead, I closed my eyes and began rehearsing a different set of steps over and over in my mind. The exact, step-by-step process of spaying a farm pig. “Dr. Reed, I am so honored to be assigned to your team.” The voice was timid, carrying the perfect blend of innocence and youthful caution. A violent shiver ran down my spine, and my pen sliced right through the patient chart I was holding. That voice. Those exact words. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. My head throbbed as if struck by a sledgehammer. In my previous life, in this exact office, she had said those exact words. Back then, seeing her looking so anxious and eager to learn, I had shared everything I knew without holding back. And what did that get me? During our first major craniotomy together, the moment I identified the bleeding point, before I could even ask for the instrument, she had already placed the hemostatic forcep with pinpoint accuracy. While I was still mapping out the clamping strategy in my mind, she had already dissected the tissue ahead of me. The entire operating room was stunned. The chief of surgery praised her on the spot as a natural-born genius, while I was cast as the slow-witted veteran who only held the lead because of my years on the clock. I genuinely believed she was gifted. Right up until that fatal surgery. The patient’s cerebral aneurysm ruptured unexpectedly, triggering massive hemorrhaging. I fought desperately to stabilize him, but at the most critical second, she made a move that was the exact opposite of what should have been done. The patient died on the table. At the subsequent malpractice hearing, she wept miserably, pointing her finger at me. “I tried so hard to warn Dr. Reed, but she was too arrogant. She simply wouldn’t listen to me.” Every security camera blind spot and every operating log miraculously aligned with her lie. I was barred from medicine and locked away for three years. I remembered the pouring rain on the day of my release. I stood outside the clinic, watching her walk toward me in her pristine white coat, holding an umbrella. She smiled at me, a look of pure, mocking triumph. “Evelyn, are you still trying to figure it out?” she whispered, leaning in close. “The truth is, I don’t actually know how to perform these surgeries. But I know you.” “Every step you plan, every calculation you make, every flawless solution you conceive, I see it all clearly. You didn’t lose to me. You lost to your own mind.” Her words slithered into my ears like venom. The sheer fury suffocated me, and I collapsed straight into the cold puddles outside the hospital. When I opened my eyes, I was back here. Back to her very first day. “Dr. Reed? Are you okay?” Abigail Carter took a step closer, her eyes wide with simulated innocence. I stared into her eyes. Cold sweat poured down my back, and my heart hammered violently against my ribs. It really was her. I forced a deep breath, swallowing the bitter taste of adrenaline. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well,” I said, my voice steady and level. “Abigail, right? Go get scrubbed. You are on the table with me in ten minutes.” Her eyes lit up instantly, and she could barely hide the smug curve of her lips. I watched her walk away, my gaze turning cold. Since you like to listen so much, Abigail. This time, I’ll make sure you get an earful. 2 Ten minutes later, we were in the operating room. The procedure was a standard epidural hematoma evacuation. It wasn’t the most difficult surgery, but for a resident on her very first day, even holding the retractor would normally be a stretch. Dr. Albright, our chief of surgery, walked in to observe, standing quietly near the monitors. I gloved up and kept my hands raised, but I did not step into the primary surgeon’s spot. “Chief,” I said, my voice conversational. “I want to let Abigail take the lead on this one.” A heavy silence fell over the operating room. The anesthesiologist stopped writing, and the first and second assists stared at each other in disbelief. Dr. Albright frowned. “Evelyn, what are you playing at? It’s her first day.” “Practical experience is what residents need most, Chief. I will be right here supervising. Nothing will go wrong.” My tone was firm, carrying the perfect weight of a supportive mentor. I turned my gaze to Abigail. She was visibly frozen, the scalpel trembling slightly in her hand. Of course she didn’t know what to do. She was a fresh graduate who had barely touched a patient in a clinical setting. She looked up, terror pooling in her eyes as she stared directly into mine. She was waiting. Waiting for the answers inside my head. I met her gaze, offering a reassuring smile, and allowed the textbook steps of a hematoma clearance to run clearly through my mind. Incise the scalp. Coagulate the bleeding vessels. Use the rongeur to expand the bone window. Tack down the dura. Evacuate the hematoma. I replayed the entire neurosurgical manual in my head, word for word, with absolute clarity. Abigail’s hand stopped shaking. She took a deep breath, her eyes suddenly brimming with immense confidence. The blade descended. “Perfect incision line, depth is spot on,” the first assist murmured, unable to hide his surprise. Abigail’s movements became swifter and more precise. She was entirely locked into the knowledge pulling from my mind, executing every step flawlessly. “Excellent! Truly remarkable!” Dr. Albright couldn’t help but clap his hands. “Evelyn, where did you find this girl? Her technique is cleaner than yours was at her stage!” When the final suture was placed, Abigail set her instruments down. She looked up, and even through her surgical mask, I could see the intoxicating joy of being worshipped. She looked at me, a flash of poorly hidden contempt in her eyes, though her voice remained sweet and submissive. “It was all thanks to Dr. Reed’s guidance. She was encouraging me in her mind the entire time.” I stood to the side, my gloves completely spotless. “You have a natural gift, Abigail,” I replied softly. Once the room cleared, I pulled out my phone and began watching instructional videos on farm animal castrations. I needed to etch every single detail of spaying a sow into my mind. Within two weeks, Abigail had become the hospital’s rising star, while I quietly entered the darkest phase of my career. At two in the morning, a post-op patient under my care suffered a sudden, massive intracranial hemorrhage and was rushed back into emergency surgery. When Dr. Albright slammed the patient’s drainage tube onto my desk, his face was pale with rage. I realized the tube, which should have been free and clear, had been folded over and clamped shut using a highly concealed technique. “Is this how a senior attending shows responsibility?!” Dr. Albright roared in the hallway, pointing a finger at my face. “The patient almost herniated! Evelyn, what on earth have you been doing lately?!” Suddenly, a frantic family member rushed forward, landing a stinging slap across my face. “You hack! You delayed my mother’s surgery just to show off your little student! Now she’s paralyzed! How are you going to pay for this?!” The force of the blow left my cheek burning and swollen. On my desk lay the preoperative consent form. There, in stark black and white, was my signature, though I knew the document had been swapped. The surrounding staff looked on, their eyes filled with a mix of pity and quiet satisfaction. “To think her skills have degraded this much, making such a rookie mistake in post-op care.” “She’s probably just green with envy because Abigail has been getting all the attention lately. She’s completely lost her focus.” “A major malpractice incident like this requires immediate suspension and license review.” 3 I stood in the center of the whispering crowd, my limbs turning to ice. The security cameras in that hallway had miraculously malfunctioned, and the logbook held only my signature. Abigail’s setup was cleaner and far more vicious than it had been in my previous life. Just as the risk management officer stepped forward with the official suspension notice, Abigail suddenly threw herself into the fray. “Chief! Please don’t suspend Dr. Reed!” Her eyes were red, and heavy tears began to spill down her cheeks as she grabbed Dr. Albright’s sleeve. “Dr. Reed has just been incredibly exhausted lately! She gave all her surgical opportunities to me, taking on so much pressure. This was just an honest oversight!” “Abigail, step back. We can’t keep a liability like her on staff,” another doctor chimed in, defending the resident. “No!” Abigail wept, looking utterly devastated. “If it weren’t for Dr. Reed, I wouldn’t be here today. Chief, I beg you, suspend her if you must, but please don’t banish her from the department! Let her stay as my assistant. She can just assist me and help with the basic prep!” A collective murmur of admiration rippled through the corridor. “Unbelievable. Abigail’s grace is out of this world.” “Look at her, and then look at Evelyn. Evelyn tried to sabotage her out of jealousy, and yet Abigail is still trying to save her job.” I looked down, staring at Abigail’s tear-stained, pitiful face, a cold laugh echoing in my chest. Of course she wanted to keep me around. Without me, she was an empty shell. If I were kicked out of the hospital, she would be out of range of her mind-reading trick. How would she perform her next surgery? She had to keep me chained to her side as her personal, walking cheat sheet. “I accept the disciplinary action,” I said, my voice raspy as I forced myself to look thoroughly defeated and broken. “Thank you, Abigail.” Abigail offered her usual sweet, innocent smile. To anyone else, she looked like an angel. Only I knew the predatory triumph hiding behind that expression. But she had no idea that the hunter often disguised itself as the prey. Your bill is coming due very soon, Abigail. Three days later, the department received an unprecedented, highly complex case. A giant cerebral aneurysm. It was located deep within the skull, pressing tightly against the optic nerve and the internal carotid artery. It was the ultimate neurosurgical ticking time bomb. The hospital administration was on high alert, and the medical director himself had come down to watch from the observation gallery. And the name written on the primary surgeon slot was none other than Abigail Carter. During the prep stage, I threw on a surgical mask and ran toward the operating theater doors, playing my part to perfection. “Let me in! This anatomy is far too treacherous! One wrong move and the patient will never leave the table!” I pressed myself against the glass doors, my eyes wide with manufactured desperation as I banged on the glass. “I know this patient’s history better than anyone! I need to be in there!” Several nurses quickly grabbed my arms, their faces twisted in disgust. “Dr. Reed, you are suspended! Are you trying to kill the patient by causing a scene?” “Seriously, you got demoted for your own incompetence, and now you’re trying to steal Abigail’s spotlight? Have some dignity.” Inside the scrub room, Abigail looked through the glass window, her eyes flashing with a brief moment of panic. She hadn’t even studied the imaging. Her mind was a total blank. If I didn’t feed her the coordinates and the surgical path, she wouldn’t even know where to make the first cut. 4 She quickly pressed the intercom button, her voice coming through the speaker soft and magnanimous. “It’s fine, charge nurse. Let Dr. Reed into the observation gallery. This is indeed a highly challenging case. Since Dr. Reed is senior, she can stay in the gallery with the audio link active. If I run into any trouble, I will need her guidance.” Up in the observation room, the Chief and the Director nodded in approval. “Remaining humble under pressure, always eager to learn. This girl has a limitless future,” the Director praised. I stopped struggling and let the nurses escort me up to the second-floor gallery. Standing behind the massive glass window, I looked down at the patient’s exposed skull on the table below. Finally, the corners of my mouth twitched into a grin I no longer had to hide. The surgery began. Abigail stood at the primary position. She took a deep breath and glanced up at the glass window. She was establishing the link. I stood there, expressionless, and began firing up my mind, laying out the standard, hyper-precise surgical steps in vivid detail. Receiving the signals, Abigail relaxed. Her hand became rock steady as she navigated the microscope with ease. Whispers of awe filled the observation gallery. Then came the most hazardous phase of the procedure. Exposing the aneurysm, preparing for clamping. The vessel walls here were as thin as paper. A slight shift in breathing could cause the aneurysm to rupture, turning the operating field into a bloodbath. Abigail held out her hand, and the scrub nurse passed her the delicate micro-clips. She looked up once more, waiting for my mental cue regarding the angle and pressure of the clamp. I stared down at her from behind the glass. Now. I flooded my brain with a memory from my childhood in the countryside: a squealing, thrashing sow pinned down in the mud, her legs tied. No anesthesia. The vet, wearing grime-covered rubber gloves, plunges a rusted blade into the flesh. I glared at Abigail, screaming the instructions in my mind with absolute, commanding authority. Now, reach in and press down hard on the uterus. Use your other hand to clamp the artery. Use raw, brute force to tear it out along with the surrounding tissue. Ignore the blood. Just rip it out! Abigail’s hand, holding the delicate micro-clip, froze in mid-air. Her entire body shuddered violently, and a look of sheer, primal horror crossed her face. Her medical training, what little she had, screamed that this was wrong. This was disastrously wrong. But she had never actually performed a surgery on her own. Every ounce of her muscle memory was built entirely on absolute, unquestioning obedience to the thoughts in my head. Under the immense pressure of the moment, her cognitive brain fractured, and her survival instinct defaulted to the mental commands she had always relied on. To the horror of everyone in the gallery, Abigail suddenly seemed to lose her mind. She violently pushed the surgical microscope aside. She threw down her fine instruments, and in front of the entire surgical team, she plunged her bare fingers directly into the patient’s open, delicate brain cavity. “What is she doing?!” the Director shrieked, jumping out of his seat. I stood behind the glass, watching her without a trace of pity. Pull it out, Abigail. Give back what you stole. Abigail’s face twisted into something monstrous. She clamped her fingers around the pulsing artery, let out a desperate, animalistic grunt, and yanked with all her might. A sickening tear echoed. Blood sprayed like a geyser, painting Abigail’s face crimson.

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1 From the moment Denis secretly gave my study abroad slot to Giselle, an invisible wall rose between us, one that could never be torn down. During the Aspen blizzard, when I went to assist the rescue team, I saw him walking past me with Giselle cradled in his arms. Just an hour before, he had texted me saying he was working late. I stared into his eyes with absolute calmness before turning back to save lives. The media reported on their reignited flame. I did not care, and I did not ask. But when I found out I was pregnant, I quietly walked into a clinic and got an abortion. When he later found the medical reports, his face lit up with the hope of a child. I looked at him and said, “Denis, I had an abortion.” He slammed on the brakes, his eyes turning instantly red. I had just learned that the hospital’s prestigious fellowship program in California had been handed to Giselle. She was a Stanford Medical graduate, so on paper, she held every advantage over me. At the Monday staff meeting, the Chief of Medicine announced the decision. Sitting across from me, Giselle locked eyes with mine, her lips curving into a faint, triumphant smile. I looked away, focus returning to my notepad. After the meeting, I gathered my files to deliver them to the chief’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear our department head asking a question. “Wasn’t the decision still pending? I really don’t think Vivian is any less qualified than Giselle.” “It is a pity,” the Chief sighed. “The residency is in California, and since Giselle is a Stanford alumnus, she has the cultural and language advantage. The host hospital preferred her.” The Chief paused, lowering his voice. “Besides, Apex Medical specifically requested her.” My heart sank. The department head stopped asking, and I understood. I turned around, clutching my files, and walked away. In the restroom, I overheard two nurses whispering. “This program is funded by Apex Medical Group. The hospital pretends we have a say, but the final word always belonged to their CEO, Denis.” “Well, Apex did just donate millions of dollars in new cardiac monitors to our department.” “Exactly. We owe that to Giselle. If it weren’t for her, we would still be using those ancient machines.” “Really? Why is that?” “Don’t you know? Dr. Giselle is Denis’s ex girlfriend. They were college sweethearts. My boyfriend was Denis’s college roommate, and he told me all about it. The board was actually leaning toward Vivian, but Apex dropped her name, so the hospital just went with the flow. It is a win win for everyone except Vivian.” The other nurse sighed. “Must be nice to have that kind of leverage. I wish I had a powerful backer. I would quit this job in a heartbeat.” I could have accepted losing to Giselle fairly. I knew she had a stellar resume. But I could not accept Denis pulling the strings behind my back. To qualify for this fellowship, I had slept less than six hours a night for six months. I had stayed up to polish research proposals, design presentations, and compile surgical logs. All of that effort was crushed by a casual word from my own husband. My chest tightened, a wave of bitter resentment washing over me. That evening, Denis’s tall figure appeared in the entryway. Driven by the raw hurt, I asked him directly before he could even take off his coat. “Denis, did you give my fellowship slot to Giselle?” He paused, his handsome face showing no emotion at all. “Yes,” he answered simply. The single word felt like a physical blow. “Can you tell me why?” I asked, my voice trembling. I thought of what the nurses had said, about her being his first love. “Is it because she is your ex?” He stared at me, his gaze deep and heavy. “She is better suited for the role.” He said it so calmly, so rationally. But my world was spinning. He had watched me pull all nighters to write those proposals. The choice had been his from the very beginning. My six months of grueling work had been nothing but a farce. In the hospital, I had never once used my status as Denis’s wife to seek favors. I did not expect him to pull strings for me. But I never imagined he would actively support his ex over me. Tears threatened to spill over. “Okay, I understand.” Denis looked down at me, his voice slow and even. “Vivian. In every professional metric, she is simply the stronger candidate.” I could not stand his cold, detached logic. “But she is your ex, and I am your wife!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “You had the power to choose, and you decided she was better from day one. You watched me ruin my health for this. Did you find it amusing? Was my effort just a joke to you?” Denis’s eyes turned icy. “Vivian. Don’t be a sore loser.” The words made me flinch. A sore loser. The tears finally spilled over, hot and bitter against my cheeks. Soon, everyone in the hospital knew who was backing Giselle. Administrators and colleagues alike began to fawn over her. Giselle remained gracefully aloof, neither accepting nor rejecting the special treatment, solidifying her image as a detached, perfect goddess. “Dr. Giselle is living a real life movie,” a nurse giggled in the breakroom. “She is gorgeous, Ivy League educated, and her ex is a billionaire. It is like a romance novel. Imagine being her child. Life would be on easy mode.” “When are she and Denis getting back together? I want to be reborn as their kid.” I forced a polite smile, swallowing the lump in my throat, and walked past them. I began to reevaluate my marriage. It was obvious that he did not love me, not the way he cared for Giselle. Once I accepted this truth, the desire to be near him vanished. One evening, I found Denis sitting at the dining table. A gold embossed invitation sat on the corner of the polished wood. He looked from the card to me. “My friend is getting married this weekend,” he said. “Spouses are invited. Do you want to go?” We had rarely mingled with each other’s social circles. This was the first time he had ever invited me to a public event as his wife. Before all this, I would have been thrilled. Now, I just felt a dull ache. “No, thank you,” I said. He looked slightly surprised, then nodded. “Okay.” I did not tell him that I also had a friend’s wedding that weekend. I saw no point in explaining. As fate would have it, we ended up at the exact same wedding, seated at the very same table. When I arrived, Giselle was already seated next to Denis. We all froze for a second. Giselle was a bridesmaid, and Denis was a groomsman. He wore a tailored black tuxedo, and she wore an elegant white silk gown. They looked perfect together. I wanted to change tables, but my friend, the bride, pushed me back into the seat. “Stay here,” Fiona whispered with a wink. “I put all the handsome guys at this table.” The guests at our table seemed to know Denis and Giselle, though not closely. They chatted easily, and soon someone joked, “Hey Denis, now that Marcus is married, when are you going to tie the knot with Giselle again?” Denis glanced at the guest, his expression neutral. “Don’t talk nonsense.” Shortly after, the groom called them away for photos. The ceremony was held in the outdoor gardens. The couple looked beautiful, and so did the bridal party. Standing side by side, Denis and Giselle looked like they belonged together. I had once dreamed of a wedding like this with Denis. But we never had one. We had simply signed the papers and had a quiet dinner with our parents. Watching them now, a hollow emptiness opened in my chest. After the ceremony, we returned to the reception hall. Seated at the table of strangers, I felt entirely out of place. Their shared memories only highlighted how little I belonged in Denis’s world. Fiona, the bride, had been a senior colleague of mine during residency. She did not know I was married to Denis. She walked over, raising her glass to me. “Vivian, I hand picked the bachelors at this table,” she whispered, loud enough for others to hear. “They are all successful, sweet guys. Let me know if any of them catch your eye.” My cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Denis looked at me, his dark eyes unreadable. He did not mention that we were married, and neither did I. Since we were bound to get a divorce eventually, there was no need to make our messy private life public. When the reception ended, I got up to leave. Fiona walked me to the exit, and Denis fell into step beside me. “Wait for me,” he murmured, leaning closer. “I’ll drive you home.” I took a step back, politely keeping my distance. Everyone here knew his history with Giselle. Some even thought they were still together. I did not want to cause a scene. “Vivian,” a gentle voice called out. A young man, looking like a recent graduate, approached us. “I’m Owen, Fiona’s cousin. Could I get your number? If that is okay with you.” I smiled back. “Of course.” We swapped contact info. Denis’s eyes darkened. Without warning, he reached out and locked his fingers with mine, his grip tight and commanding. It felt like holding a hot coal. I immediately yanked my hand back, brushing my arm to cover the gesture. “These summer bugs are awful, I must have gotten a bite.” “Vivian, do you need a ride?” Owen offered. “Fiona mentioned you had a drink. I’m sober, so I can drive.” I was about to accept, as cabs were hard to find in this district, when Denis stepped in, his cold aura instantly filling the space between us. “Vivian, are we heading home together?” he asked, his tone perfectly measured. Owen smiled, looking back and forth between us. “Oh, do you two know each other?” I answered quickly, before Denis could speak. “Yes, we work at the same hospital. Dr. Giselle is our colleague too.” Owen nodded. “Ah, that makes sense.” He turned to Denis. “By the way, Denis, I saw someone asking Giselle for her number earlier. You might want to move fast before someone else steals her away.” Denis let out a dry laugh. “An exchange of numbers doesn’t mean much.” He reached for my hand again, but I smoothly stepped behind Owen. “Owen, I would appreciate that ride.” Owen smiled. “Let’s go.” Denis’s face turned incredibly dark. When I got back to our apartment, Denis was already there. He stood in the living room, his brow arched. “Are you trying to hide our relationship?” he demanded. The bluntness of his question caught me off guard. “You are overthinking things,” I replied quietly. He stared at me, his eyes clouded with frustration. After that night, I actively kept my distance. I could no longer pretend everything was fine. Knowing he had sacrificed my hard work for Giselle’s career made me realize how foolish I had been. If our marriage was a sinking ship, I needed to make sure my own career survived. I threw myself into my work, leaving early and returning late. I spent almost all my time at the hospital, completely avoiding him. He texted me: Waiting for you in the parking garage. I replied: In surgery. Don’t wait. Though we lived under the same roof, we only saw each other three times that month. Winter arrived early in Chicago. A massive blizzard hit the neighboring town of Aspen, causing a severe mountain emergency with collapsed structures and multiple casualties. Our hospital assembled a disaster relief team, and I volunteered immediately. On our way to Aspen, the other doctors were calling their families. Denis had been texting me frequently lately, checking in. An hour before we lost signal, he sent a text: Working late tonight at the office. When we reached the valley, the rescue zone was a chaotic mess. The power was out, and searchlights swept over the snow. I was carrying my medical pack through the ruins of a resort when I saw a tall, familiar figure in the distance. He was carrying a woman wrapped in a thick wool coat. His face was pale with worry. As he got closer, our eyes met. We both froze. I stared at Denis. His breath caught, his grip on Giselle tightening. “Vivian, it is not what you think,” he rasped, his voice strained. I kept my face completely blank. “Move aside, please. I have patients to treat.” I bypassed him and ran toward the collapsed lobby. Our team worked straight through the night. By the time the last survivor was pulled from the wreckage, the sun was rising over the snowy peaks. We were exhausted, our hands raw from the cold. During our afternoon break, the staff sat around a small heater, whispering. “Dr. Giselle injured her leg. There was a lot of blood.” “Denis carried her out of the ruins himself. She was barely dressed.” The rumors were filled with suggestive comments about their late night reunion at the resort. Listening to them, I felt a strange sense of detachment. The anger and jealousy were gone, replaced by a cold, heavy finality. Seeing him carry Giselle through the snow had broken the last string holding us together. I wanted a divorce, and this time, nothing would change my mind. I walked out of the tent to get some fresh air. Denis was standing by the rescue vehicles, his tall figure silhouetted against the white snow. “Vivian,” he said, his voice raw. I nodded politely. “We can talk when we return to Chicago. I still have patients to monitor.” “Don’t misunderstand,” he repeated, his eyes pleading. I offered him a small, polite smile. “I don’t.” I knew exactly who he was, and who he cared about.

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1 The garbage I asked Eason to take out three days ago was still sitting in the kitchen. It reeked. Flies buzzed over the rotting plastic in a frantic swarm. Right then, I knew. We needed a divorce. That night, I slid the drafted divorce papers across the dining table. He looked up from his glowing laptop screen. His eyes were dark and piercing, like he was trying to dissect my thoughts. “The day before yesterday, I was helping Molly fix her data models. She is a junior analyst, and her foundation is weak. I am the only one she could turn to.” “Yesterday, she thought someone was following her on her way home. She called me crying, begging me to give her a ride just this once.” “Today, her data had a massive error just three hours before the executive deadline. She is on my team, Stella. I could not just abandon her.” He paused, letting out a heavy sigh. “I know you have always had an issue with her. I can give you my phone. I can pull the office security footage to prove we are completely innocent. As for that bag of trash, I genuinely just forgot. I have explained everything. If you still want a divorce after this, fine. I will cooperate.” I looked at him, my heart perfectly still. In these past three days, he had done so much for Molly. A man who religiously guarded his sleep schedule had stayed up late three nights in a row for her. Yet, three mornings in a row, he completely forgot to take the trash out on his way out the door. I gave a slow nod. “Let us just get the divorce.” I waited at the lawyer’s office until the staff clocked out for the day. Eason never showed up. When he finally got home, it was almost eleven at night. He saw me sitting in the dark on the living room sofa, did not say a single word, and walked straight into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. “I called you thirteen times,” I broke the silence. “You did not answer.” He paused mid sip, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and glanced at it. His face was entirely blank. “I turned it off for a board meeting today and forgot to turn it back on. Was there an emergency?” His tone was incredibly casual. Like he was commenting on the weather. I knew it. He had forgotten our appointment again. He was always forgetful. In our seven years of marriage, this had happened more times than I could count. From small things like forgetting to bring the laundry in before a storm, or tossing the garbage on his way downstairs. To massive, life altering things. Like when I was three months pregnant. The ultrasound showed severe fatal complications, and the specialist advised terminating the pregnancy to save my life. We booked an appointment for the procedure together. But when the surgery was over and I woke up shivering in the cold recovery room, he still was not there. I found out later. That day was Molly’s first time leading a project presentation, and she was a nervous wreck. He had promised to stand by her side and be her anchor. That was the first time I realized my true weight in Eason’s heart. The realization felt like a dull plastic knife dragging across my chest. It hurt, but it would not kill me. I pulled myself out of the memory and kindly offered an explanation. “We had an appointment to sign the divorce papers today. Tomorrow is the weekend and they are fully booked, so I rescheduled for Monday morning.” Eason’s eyes stayed glued to his glowing phone screen. He did not even look at me. “Alright. See you there Monday.” I nodded. Monday arrived. We signed the papers. In thirty days, the mandatory state cooling off period would end, and we would get the final decree. After signing his name, Eason kept his head down, his thumbs flying across his screen as he rapidly replied to someone. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of his chat. A cutesy pink anime profile picture had sent him a long string of crying emojis. As we stepped out of the building, Eason turned to me. “I have an emergency at the office. I cannot drop you…” I nodded and pointed to the Uber I had called in advance. “My ride is here. Go do what you need to do.” The Uber was parked right next to his sleek Audi. I pulled the door open and slid into the backseat. I never looked back at the man standing on the sidewalk. 2 I called my best friend Harper to tell her the news and asked her to help me look for a new apartment. My hometown was Seattle, thousands of miles away from Chicago. The house I grew up in had been sold years ago to pay for my dad’s medical bills. The luxury condo I lived in now was bought by Eason, strictly under his name. After the divorce, I had to move out. I had nowhere to go. Harper was fast. Within hours, she had lined up three potential rentals. Just as we were about to hop on a FaceTime call for a virtual tour, a text from Eason popped up on my screen. [Thai basil chicken bowl and a berry smoothie.] [Come early. I have a meeting at one thirty.] I stared at the two messages, then calmly swiped them away. Eason worked brutal corporate hours. He never ate on time, and his diet was absolute garbage. After he collapsed from severe gastritis and ended up in the emergency room, I took matters into my own hands. I started scouring the internet for gut healing recipes. Ever since that day, I prepared fresh warm meals and delivered them to his office every single afternoon. He ate whatever I made. He never complained. I kept this routine up for three years, and his stomach issues never flared up again. Half a year ago, he suddenly started requesting specific dishes. I thought he was just getting bored of the bland food, so I poured my energy into tweaking the recipes to make them tastier. Until that afternoon. I saw a text exchange between him and Molly on his iPad. [Eason! What delicious food is Stella making today?] [Ugh, steamed veggies again? I do not really like that stuff.] [Next time, tell Stella not to make steamed food. I want something fried!] [Stella is so domestic. I do not know how to cook at all. You are so lucky to have her!] Eason replied: [You and her are different. Do not put yourself down.] [You are conquering the corporate world, she cooks at home. There is no comparison.] [A person has to be good for something, and since she stays home, this is all she can do.] Seeing those words had broken something inside me. I confronted him about it. He was slightly surprised I had read his messages, but he was not angry. He just looked at me with this calm, unshakable entitlement. “Oh. Molly has a weak stomach, she cannot eat takeout all the time. The food you make happens to be perfect for her, and it is nutritious. Why not?” His light, breezy tone hit me like a sledgehammer, smashing my warm beating heart into bloody pieces. I spent hours sweating in the kitchen, studying culinary books in every spare moment. The meals I poured my soul into, all my dedication… It had all become nothing more than casual banter to comfort another woman. And it was not like I did not work. In my spare time, I took on heavy freelance translation gigs. The foreign language dictionaries I used every single day were sitting right there on the living room bookshelf. He just never cared enough to notice. After finalizing a lease on a new apartment, a heavy weight lifted off my shoulders. Harper declared that since I was moving back to Seattle, she was going to drain my wallet on a massive welcome back dinner. I gladly agreed. When Eason finally called, I was dozing off on the sofa. “Stella, did you not see my texts?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing myself awake. “I saw them. What is it?” The man on the other end of the line fell silent. A moment later, I heard him say, “I have not eaten yet.” “You can order something on UberEats.” “Do you not hate it when I eat takeout?” His tone was genuinely, utterly baffled. I let out a tired sigh, speaking from the absolute bottom of my heart. “Cooking for you was never an obligation. I did it because it broke my heart to see you in pain. I volunteered to do it.” “But Eason. We signed the divorce papers a week ago.” 3 After Eason hung up, I retreated to the guest bedroom and slept straight through until dusk. The moment I walked out of the room, the front door swung open. Molly was holding Eason up, helping him hobble inside. The fabric around his knee was torn. He must have taken a bad fall. Molly trailed right behind him, her eyes rimmed red, fussing over him with frantic, exaggerated worry. “Eason, slow down! Your leg is hurt!” The second she spotted me, she puffed out her cheeks, immediately playing the role of the innocent tattletale. “Stella, you need to talk some sense into him! We had a client dinner today, and the client insisted I take a tequila shot. Eason absolutely refused to let me drink it. When we were leaving, the client purposely bumped into him, and he fell down the stairs and cut his leg!” “It is just one drink, it is not like I cannot handle it. Why did he have to play the hero?” She was asking me to talk some sense into him, but the smug, triumphant curve of her lips was painfully obvious. Her fake concern was sickeningly transparent. So I did not say a single word. I gave a brief nod, turned around, and walked right back toward my room. I had lived in this house for five years. I had a lot of packing to do. Molly’s giggles drifted through the living room, punctuated by Eason’s low voice. A little while later, there was a knock on my door. I pulled it open. Eason was leaning heavily against the doorframe for balance. “Where is the first aid kit?” He pulled up his pant leg, revealing an ugly, bleeding scrape. I glanced at it, then looked back up at him, genuinely confused. “The first aid kit? Did you not give it to Molly?” Three months ago, Molly bought a Vespa, claiming it would make her commute easier. On her very first day riding it, she crashed. Eason got the hysterical phone call, abandoned me in the middle of my birthday dinner, and rushed to her side. Sometime later, I accidentally burned my hand on the stove. I could not find the medical box anywhere. I called Eason, but Molly answered his phone. “The first aid kit? Oh, Stella, I wiped out on my scooter, so Eason brought the kit over to my place! Can you bear the pain for a bit? I will have him bring it back tonight.” Now, standing in the doorway, a flicker of emotion finally cracked through Eason’s perpetually composed face. He clearly remembered. “I forgot.” I smiled, nodding in total agreement. “You really do have a terrible memory.” On that day, after Molly answered the phone, I had been furious. When Eason finally came home, I demanded to know why he was giving our household items away to another woman. He had not even looked at me. His eyes were glued to his laptop screen, his fingers typing away as he dismissed me. “It is just a first aid kit. It sits in the cabinet all year and nobody uses it. I gave it to her, so what?” But that medical box… every single month, I checked the expiration dates. I restocked the bandages, the burn ointments, the painkillers. Every single item in there was carefully curated by me, a physical manifestation of my devotion to keeping our home safe. And he handed it over to someone else without a second thought. Just like the meals I poured my heart into. With a wave of his hand, they became another woman’s lunch. I looked at his bleeding leg and offered a helpful reminder. “You can get first aid supplies delivered on DoorDash. If there is nothing else, I have packing to do.” With that, I shut the door, completely ignoring the man standing on the other side. Eason stared blankly at the closed wood. A sudden, hollow emptiness bloomed in his chest. 4 The days bled together. The boxes I packed were shipped off to Seattle, one by one. This luxury apartment gradually grew barren. The memories practically draining out of the walls. I thought the last few days would pass in quiet peace. But Eason suddenly changed. He became domestic. A workaholic who basically lived at the office, he suddenly started coming home right at five. A man who never once cared about my needs began buying me breakfast and bringing home late night snacks. Utterly baffled, I asked him what he was playing at. For the first time in his life, Eason seemed at a loss for words. It took him a long moment to reply. “My mom called. She wants to have a family dinner. Asked us to come over.” I hesitated, but eventually agreed. My own parents passed away when I was young. Marrying Eason was the first time I got to experience the warmth of parental love again. Since we were getting a divorce, it was only right to see them one last time. It was drizzling the day we went to the restaurant. His parents had already ordered, the table entirely covered in my favorite dishes. Eason’s mother used serving tongs to place a tender piece of roast duck onto my plate, chatting happily about the neighbor’s daughter having her second baby. Then, seamlessly, the topic shifted to me. “When are you two going to start thinking about having a baby? You should do it while your father and I still have the energy to help you babysit.” In the past, I would have smiled and graciously said we were not in a rush. But this time, I did not say a word. I kept my head down and ate the piece of meat sitting on top of my rice. A heavy, awkward silence descended over the table for ten agonizing seconds. His parents exchanged worried glances. Eason reached over and firmly grabbed my left hand. His voice was steady. “Soon.” His parents beamed. I quietly slipped my hand out of his grip. Eason was already staring at his phone, completely unbothered. After dinner, his mom pulled me aside to chat. Next to us, Eason’s phone rang three times in a row. He ignored it. The older woman gently kicked her son’s shin. “Turn that on silent! Stella cannot even hear me.” Eason glanced at me. “Emergency at work. I need to take this.” By the time the plates were cleared, Eason still had not come back. I called him. No answer. His parents called him. Still nothing. Looking out the window at the torrential rain pouring down outside, my mind drifted back to a day exactly like this. I had been walking past his office building when a sudden downpour hit. I could not get an Uber no matter how hard I tried. I waited until Eason clocked out and gave him a call. The second the line connected, I saw a familiar car pull up to the intersection right in front of me. Eason was behind the wheel. Molly was in the passenger seat. Over the phone, Eason asked what I needed. I told him it was pouring, and since I was not far, could he come pick me up? He replied, “Just wait a bit and call a cab. I am still at the office, pulling overtime.” The exact moment he said that, the girl in the passenger seat reached over, offering him a potato chip. He covered the phone’s mouthpiece, turned his head to decline, but eventually gave in and took a bite. He lied so flawlessly, so naturally, I actually thought I had identified the wrong car. I spent weeks torturing myself over that memory. But eventually, I figured it out. He did not love me, so he did not care. Just like he hated eating junk food, but he would never reject a chip offered by her fingers. Just like he hated eating cold food, but if my handmade noodles got soggy, he would not even touch them. The rain stopped. I hailed a cab and escorted his elderly parents back to their house. In the dead of night, I heard Eason come home. He was on the phone, his voice loud enough to echo. Through the thin drywall, I heard him let out an exasperated, affectionate sigh. “Molly.” When I woke up the next morning, I had a dozen missed calls from Molly. My notifications were flooded with her texts. [Stella, Eason and I have not crossed any boundaries! Please tell him not to transfer me to another department!] [He said you misunderstood and that you are divorcing him over it. I swear it was not on purpose! I will keep my distance from now on, just please do not make him kick me out!] I stared at the messages in utter bewilderment. I did not reply. I just placed my phone face down on the desk. I was packing the last few items of clothing left in the guest bedroom when Eason kicked the door open. He sounded frantic. “Stella, what did you say to Molly?” “She texted me saying she needed to explain everything to you, and now she is missing! I cannot reach her anywhere! What the hell did you say to her?!” His chest was heaving, his eyes burning into mine. Eason was a stoic, emotionally stunted man. He rarely ever lost his temper like this. But here he was, completely unraveled. Over another woman. I picked up my phone, opened Molly’s chat, and shoved the screen into his face. “I have no idea what kind of drama you two cooked up last night to drag me into this.” “When she sent those messages, I was asleep. And quite frankly, I do not feel obligated to reply to her anyway.” Eason opened his mouth to argue, but his phone started ringing. The moment he saw the caller ID, his furious expression melted into sheer panic, then relief. “Just come back first. We can talk about everything else later.” “The guys your parents are trying to set you up with are garbage. Come back to Chicago!” “Then stay with us!” “It is a huge apartment. It is just me and Stella.” He shot me a pointed look as he said that, then hit the speakerphone button and held it out between us. Molly’s loud, tear choked voice filled the room. “Stella, I am so sorry, I hate to be a burden.” “I already broke my lease to move back to my hometown, but Eason insists I come back. I cannot find an apartment on such short notice… can I crash with you guys for a little while?” “I swear I will move out the second I find a place. Please.” I met Eason’s deeply demanding stare. My fingertips felt ice cold, but a dark, hysterical urge to laugh bubbled up in my throat. “Sure. You are more than welcome.” Over the speaker, Molly let out a joyful cheer. Eason immediately shifted back into his gentle, protective tone. “Wait for me at the airport. I am on my way.” He hung up and looked at me. “I am going to pick Molly up. Could you clean up the guest room for her?” I gave him a look. “Eason, can Molly take an Uber? There is somewhere the two of us need to be.” He frowned deeply. “I already promised her. I am not going to back out now.” “It is only a three hour round trip. Whatever you need to do, it can wait until I get back.” “Okay.” “I am leaving.” He walked out in a hurry. Completely oblivious to the small duffel bag sitting right next to my feet. I waited for him for three hours. He never came back. I opened my phone and scrolled through my feed. A post from Molly, uploaded ten minutes ago. [I was so sad today, but Eason insisted on taking me to the amusement park! What girl can say no to a Ferris wheel? I know I cannot~] I hit the like button. I stood up. Picked up the duffel bag containing the very last of my belongings. And walked out of the house I had called home for five years. As I stepped out of City Hall, I snapped a photo of the finalized divorce decree, texted it to Eason, and hailed a cab to the airport. Seven hours later, I landed in Seattle. I slid into the passenger seat of Harper’s car. As she excitedly babbled about all the new restaurants that had opened up downtown, I powered my phone back on. Notifications flooded the screen like an avalanche.

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1 On the third day of our graduation trip, my childhood friend finally pointed her camera at me. But after just a few minutes of shooting, she frowned in frustration and let out a sharp sigh. “None of these are even usable.” A classmate standing nearby looked puzzled. “Really? When you take photos of Tristan, even your random candid shots look like magazine covers.” My throat tightened, swallowing down a wave of bitterness. Sylvia lowered her camera, her tone dismissive. “Forget it. Let’s stop. You’re just not very photogenic, Ryan. No matter the angle, it always turns out the same.” With that, she reached out and grabbed a girl passing by who was carrying a professional DSLR. “Hey, could you take a few shots of him? I’ll pay you for your time.” Without waiting for an answer, Sylvia clutched her camera and ran off toward Tristan. The moment her lens focused on him, her frown vanished, replaced by a radiant smile. “Turn around and look down slightly. Yes, just like that. Perfect…” I stared at them, watching their effortless synergy. A memory flickered in my mind, a time long ago when I had asked her, “How do you always make me look so good in your photos?” She had laughed, gently fixing my hair. “Because there’s love behind the lens. When you love what you’re looking at, every shot is beautiful.” So. She didn’t love me anymore. I pulled out my phone. Accessing the college application portal, I changed my final choice. I bypassed Northpoint, the college we had agreed to attend together, and selected Southport University instead, a campus a thousand miles away. It took less than three minutes to rewrite my future. When I looked up, I realized the freelance photographer Sylvia had practically coerced into helping was still standing there. I opened my mouth to apologize and tell her we could skip it, but she raised her camera first, her smile bright and open. “Hey, do me a favor? I’m actually a beginner, and you fit this scenery perfectly. Let me use you as a model for some portfolio practice. No charge. If I don’t get a masterpiece, I’ll pay you a hundred bucks.” I blinked, caught off guard by her humor. After a brief hesitation, I nodded. After all, I had actually dressed up today. And after all, I loved taking photos. But we were already on day three of this trip, and Sylvia’s camera was filled with rolling waves, glowing sunsets, and endless pictures of Tristan’s carefree laughter. There was nothing of me. I didn’t even have a single decent photo to post on Instagram. Once we started, the girl took her work incredibly seriously. She guided my poses and expressions with gentle patience, never once showing the kind of annoyance Sylvia had. Before long, she wrapped up the shoot and turned the camera screen around to show me. To my surprise, almost every single photo was stunning. I studied the images and said earnestly, “Let me pay you. These are incredible.” There was no way this was the work of a beginner. She just laughed and waved it off. “Honestly, I’m not a hire-by-the-hour photographer. Just call it a serendipitous meeting. Have a great trip!” After transferring the files to my phone, she turned and walked away along the shoreline. Not far off, Sylvia and Tristan were still posing. Her shutter clicked rapidly as they shared a warm, private laugh across the distance. I walked over, intending to tell the group I was heading back. But Tristan saw me first and spoke up. “We’re taking a boat to the island to shoot some more. You coming with us, Ryan?” I shook my head. “I’m a bit tired. I think I’ll head back to the hotel.” Only then did Sylvia look over, studying me for a moment. “Are you pouting? Did that amateur photographer fail to get a good shot of you? Well, it’s to be expected. You’ve always been difficult to shoot. Most people don’t have the patience I do to find your angles.” Looking at this girl whom I had doted on for as long as I could remember, a sharp ache bloomed in my chest. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t comprehend why she had become so bitter and biting since Tristan entered our lives. The Sylvia who used to lift me up and praise me felt like she had died the exact moment Tristan transferred to our school. “Actually, no,” I said, shaking my head. “I love the photos she took. They’re my favorite set of photos I’ve ever had taken.” Sylvia’s face hardened instantly, irritation flashing in her eyes. After a tense silence, she let out a dismissive scoff. “You’re just throwing a tantrum because I didn’t spend the day shooting you. Is it really necessary to say something so ridiculous just to spite me? What could a cheap street photographer possibly produce? Let’s go, Tristan.” She turned toward the dock. But Tristan caught her hand, looking back at me with a disapproving frown. “Ryan, Sylvia has taken so many beautiful photos of you over the years. Saying that is just hurtful. You should show a little gratitude.” Gratitude? For her shifting affections, or for the constant, quiet ways she degraded me? Hearing Tristan speak up for her, Sylvia’s anger softened slightly. “Don’t worry about it. Not everyone is as thoughtful and mature as you.” She took Tristan’s hand and led him away. I stood there, watching their receding figures. A stray wave crashed against the rocks, spraying salty ocean water onto my lips. It tasted bitter, sharp, and cold. That evening, I posted the photos from earlier on Instagram. Before long, a comment popped up from a classmate, one I hadn’t seen in ages. Wow, Sylvia took so many gorgeous pictures of you again! You’re so lucky, Ryan! I stared at the screen, momentarily dazed. It had been so long since anyone wrote that. In the past, even when we weren’t traveling, Sylvia would constantly capture candid moments of my daily life around our neighborhood and school. I used to post those photos every few days, and everyone knew she was the eyes behind the lens. But everything changed when Tristan transferred in during our senior year. I scrolled through my past posts. I hadn’t updated my profile in over six months. I typed out a quick reply to the classmate: They weren’t taken by Sylvia. A random passerby took them, and she’s incredibly talented. A few minutes later, Sylvia posted a grid of nine photos. Every single one was of Tristan. Our posts sat right next to each other on the feed, featuring almost the exact same ocean backdrop, as if locked in some silent competition. Her caption read: Shoutout to our resident golden boy for modeling today. Had so much fun shooting! Tristan quickly commented: It’s all thanks to your skills, Sylvia. I had a blast too! I stared at the screen for a long time, a quiet wave of nausea rising in my throat. Right before my phone went to sleep, I double-tapped to like her post. Let it be. From now on, I would no longer be a character in her frame. The next morning, I ran into Sylvia near the hotel stairs. She was looking down at her phone, but as soon as she saw me, her brow furrowed. “Do you have any idea how badly sunburned you got yesterday?” Before I could respond, she hurried past me out of the lobby. Ten minutes later, she returned carrying a small bag from the pharmacy, pulled out a tube of aloe vera gel, and shoved it into my hands. Her voice carried a mocking edge. “I thought you said that photographer was so great. Why did she keep you out under the blistering sun until your neck started peeling?” I looked into her eyes. Despite her sharp words, the underlying worry reflected in them was exactly the same as it had always been. I sighed inwardly and stayed silent, unwilling to start an argument. A second later, Tristan walked over. “Man, what happened to you? Good thing Sylvia meticulously put sunscreen all over me yesterday. I didn’t get burned at all.” My hand froze as I was squeezing the aloe vera tube. Seeing my hesitation, Sylvia quickly added, “Tristan couldn’t reach some spots on his back, so I just helped him out.” I remained silent for a few seconds. I pulled out my phone and opened Venmo. “How much was the aloe? I’ll transfer you the money.” Sylvia’s face fell. “Ryan, what is your problem?” I didn’t answer. Growing up together, we had never kept track of minor expenses; buying things for each other was second nature. But things were different now. I handed the tube back to her. “If you won’t let me pay you, I can’t accept it.” Tristan adopted a guilty look. “Ryan, look, I’m sorry. Are you mad because of what I said? I really couldn’t reach my own back, that’s why I asked Sylvia.” Sylvia looked at me, her eyes filled with disappointment. “Why have you been throwing these random fits the past couple of days? We’re adults now. Can you please keep your emotions in check?” I tossed the aloe gel onto the lobby coffee table and let out a cold laugh. “That’s easy. Let’s just stop hanging out altogether.” Sylvia’s eyes widened. “Ryan! You don’t just throw things like that around!” “And you don’t just rub sunscreen all over another guy’s back either, do you?” I shot back. Leaving her speechless, I grabbed my bag and walked out. I spent the rest of the day by myself, wandering through Marine Park. When I returned to the hotel, I noticed a notification in our class group chat. Our homeroom teacher had posted a video along with a smiley face: Here is the graduation commemorative video Sylvia made for us. I’ve been so busy lately that I forgot to upload it. Make sure to download and save it as a keepsake, everyone! After a brief hesitation, I clicked play. In the entire eight-minute video, my face appeared on screen for exactly one second during the roll call. Tristan, however, was everywhere. Tristan eating lunch, Tristan studying, Tristan running on the track… By the time the video ended, I tossed my phone aside, lay back, and closed my eyes. The professional camera stabilizer Sylvia had used to shoot those clips was a birthday gift from me. I had worked two straight summers washing cars just to afford it. We had used it to record countless tiny daily moments together. Yet, in the final product, I was reduced to a mere extra. Some classmates had already started teasing her in the chat: Sylvia, do you have a crush on Tristan or something? Why is he in literally every frame? Seriously, the rest of the class combined didn’t get as much screen time as him. Sylvia didn’t respond. But I already knew the answer. She was undoubtedly in love with him. The wounds I had tried to ignore, buried under her excuses and my own blind trust, began to throb with pain. Back during our senior year photography competition, Sylvia and I had prepared meticulously, brainstorming ideas and scouting locations together. Despite the biting early winter chill, I had stood in summer clothes for two straight days just to fit her vision, coming down with a raging fever afterward. I had stayed up late every night after school editing those photos until my eyes were bloodshot. Yet, when she finally submitted her entry, it was a photo of Tristan, the transfer student, taken without my knowledge. When I confronted her with the school newspaper showing the two of them pictured side-by-side, she had simply laughed it off. “We already participated in the competition during our freshman and sophomore years, Ryan. Tristan just transferred here, and this is his only chance. Let him have this one. Don’t be so petty.” That phrase, don’t be so petty, effectively silenced all my grievances. By the second semester, she had moved her desk right next to Tristan’s, spending every spare minute tutoring him. She had explained it to me with absolute nonchalance: “Tristan is an amazing model, and we might work together in the future. His grades aren’t high enough to get into a college near Northpoint, so I’m just helping him study. Don’t cling to me so much lately. If you have questions, ask the tutor.” There were countless other little slights, too many to list. It wasn’t just her lens drifting away from me; it was her affection. I stood up, walked over to my suitcase, and threw the confession gift I had painstakingly prepared for her straight into the trash. Then, I rebooked my flight home. I didn’t want to spend another second on this trip. The next morning, while we were having breakfast in the hotel dining room, I announced I was leaving early. Hearing this, Sylvia froze, a piece of toast still hovering halfway to Tristan’s plate. Tristan spoke up. “Ryan, are you feeling sick, or are you just not having a good time?” I offered a small smile. “I had fun, but I suddenly feel like exploring a different path. This is where our journey together ends. Also, we aren’t close, Tristan. Please don’t address me so familiarly. I don’t appreciate it.” A wave of pure embarrassment washed over Tristan’s face. Sylvia immediately came to his defense, snapping at me. “Ryan, why are you being so rude? He was just checking on you, and you snapped at him for no reason. Is this about what our classmates said in the group chat last night? It’s fine if you’re jealous, but don’t take your frustration out on Tristan just because he’s nice.” I caught the fleeting spark of smug satisfaction in her eyes when she said the word jealous. Even now, her first instinct was to shield Tristan, using my obvious pain as validation of her own power over me. I took a deep breath, meeting her gaze calmly. “This has nothing to do with those jokes. I honestly don’t care who you’re interested in; that’s between the two of you. I’m simply telling Tristan that I value boundaries. I finished eating, so I’ll head to the airport now. Have a nice trip.” Sylvia grabbed my wrist. “Stop! If you aren’t jealous, why are you suddenly running away? Fine, I’ll go clear things up in the group chat right now, alright? Just sit down.” I pulled my hand out of her grip. “I suggest you start respecting personal boundaries, too.” Behind me, Sylvia’s voice shook with suppressed fury. “Ryan, if you walk out today, you are going to regret this!” A sudden emptiness hollowed out my chest, but after a fleeting moment of sorrow, a profound sense of relief washed over me. If I left, would I miss out on something? Let it be missed, then. We had already missed countless opportunities because of Tristan anyway. When I got back home, my mom gave me a knowing look. “Well? How did it go?” I asked her what she meant. She clicked her tongue. “Sylvia’s mom told me she had been saving up for ages to plan a grand confession with fireworks for you on the trip. Are you two officially together now?” I looked down. So, the thing I missed was a confession. My fingers aimlessly unlocked my phone, and I opened my social feed. Tristan had just posted a new update: Thanks to our favorite girl for the amazing fireworks display. Feeling incredibly lucky! The attached photo showed a spectacular burst of colors illuminating the night sky, capturing the silhouettes of two figures standing close together. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. How cheap and easily transferable her love was. Missing out on it was the best stroke of luck I’d ever had. “Mom, I don’t have feelings for Sylvia anymore,” I said softly. “And I changed my college choice to Southport University. Please don’t tell her parents.” My mom stared at me in shock. “…Did you two have a fight?” I shook my head, keeping details to myself. “There’s no future for Sylvia and me. I’m going to spend the summer at Grandma’s. I’ll be back when it’s time for school.” In the past, whenever we had a cold war, I was always the one to reach out first. Now, I had finally let go. For nearly two months, we maintained absolute silence. Right before the semester started, Sylvia’s mother asked my mom if they should book us on the same flight. My mother politely declined, stating that I would handle my own travel. On move-in day, during the five-hour flight, I kept my eyes shut to rest. The moment the plane touched down in Southport, I pulled out my phone. As soon as I unlocked the screen, a flood of missed calls and unread messages filled my notifications. Every single one of them was from Sylvia.

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1 I had been back with the Smiths for six years when my parents and fiancé finally decided I had grown up. In the family group chat, Mom sent a voice message: “Diana, about the house we bought for your wedding—Samantha really loved it, so we’re giving it to her.” “When you get back, Dad and I will pick out another one for you.” Dad was quick to chime in: “Samantha is just recovering from her depression. She can’t handle any stress right now. Don’t fight her on this.” I replied instantly: “Okay, Mom and Dad. Samantha’s health is the most important thing. I can live anywhere.” Then, a notification popped up. A cash gift from Oliver. “Good girl, Diana. The day after tomorrow is your birthday. I’m picking you up from the airport, and I’m going to throw you the grandest birthday and engagement party ever!” What they didn’t know was… I had died three years ago. The obedient, understanding daughter and gentle, considerate fiancée replying to their messages… Was just an AI I had trained before I died. The day I was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer, I was less than twenty-four hours away from my eighteenth birthday. The doctor held up my X-rays, his eyes filled with a pity that made my stomach churn. “A month, at most.” I sat in the sterile exam room, staring down at my lower leg. For the past six months, the pain had grown sharper, more frequent. I thought they were just growing pains. I didn’t know my bones were dying. The doctor kept talking—transferring hospitals, chemotherapy options, forms my family needed to sign. I tuned it all out. I carefully folded the diagnosis report, slipped it into the pocket of my school uniform, and walked out of the hospital, step by step. It was a forty-minute walk from the hospital to the Smith estate. Three bus stops. I chose to walk. I needed the time. I wanted to cry out all my tears on the way and figure out exactly what to say. “Mom. Dad. I’m sick.” Just that one sentence. I spent fifteen years in the orphanage. I had never called anyone “Mom” or “Dad” before. And in the three years since I returned to the Smiths, I never learned how to act spoiled or ask for affection. But this time, I wanted to try. Maybe they would hug me. The way they hugged Samantha. My fingers curled around the crumpled paper in my pocket, and I walked faster, practically jogging the last few blocks. The moment I pushed open the front door, the rich scent of vanilla buttercream washed over me. A huge banner hung across the living room: “CONGRATULATIONS TO SAMANTHA SMITH ON WINNING GOLD AT THE NATIONAL YOUTH TECH AWARDS!” Samantha was sitting between Mom and Dad, clutching a gleaming trophy, her eyes crinkling into half-moons as she laughed. I froze in the doorway. The title of the winning project engraved on that trophy… I knew it. I knew it all too well. For the past three months, I had barely slept. From the initial concept to the final debugging—thirty thousand lines of code. I wrote every single one of them. When the pain in my leg became unbearable, I would bite down on a towel until it passed. Just get through it, I had told myself. It was the same thing I told myself back in the orphanage, when I burned with a 104-degree fever in the dead of winter and no one noticed. I used to fantasize about the day I won that award. I thought my parents would finally be proud of me. But now, the name engraved beneath my project was Samantha’s. Dad saw me first. His smile faltered for a second, and he cleared his throat. “Diana, you’re back? Come here, your sister won a huge award. We’re celebrating tonight.” I didn’t move. “That’s mine.” The living room fell dead silent. Samantha’s eyes instantly welled up with tears. She lowered the trophy, her bottom lip quivering in that perfect, pitiful way she always mastered. She didn’t have to say a word. Her tears did all the talking. Mom let out a heavy sigh, walking over to me and lowering her voice. “Diana, Samantha just found out she’s adopted. Her depression is flaring up, and she’s been crying every day.” “She feels so insecure in this house, and her grades aren’t great. She needs this college recommendation.” “You’re different. You’re so smart. You’ll get into a top school anyway.” I could hear my teeth grinding together. It wasn’t out of anger. It was the agonizing, gnawing pain in my bones flaring up again, so sharp I had to clench my jaw just to stay standing. I turned my gaze to Oliver. He was standing next to Samantha, a glass of juice in his hand. His brows pulled together in a slight frown. “Diana, you already have everything.” “You’re their biological daughter, you have your parents’ love, and you have me.” “Samantha has nothing. Just… have some pity on her.” He paused, then added: “Grow up.” 2 I stared at his face. Three years ago, in this exact same living room… He had knelt down to tie my shoelaces, looking up at me with a warm smile. “Diana, as long as I’m here, no one will ever bully you.” That was the first time in my life I had ever tasted what it felt like to be protected. I guess his definition of “no one” didn’t include himself. A metallic taste rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down. “Okay.” Mom exhaled, visibly relieved. Oliver’s frown smoothed out. Dad wiped away Samantha’s tears, cooing at her until she smiled again. The diagnosis report lay quietly in my pocket. No one asked where I had been all day. No one noticed I was limping. I stood by the door for a moment longer, then quietly went upstairs. I booted up my laptop, created a new folder, and named it: “AI_Diana_Behavior_Training_Data.” I sat there for a long time before typing the first line. “She never cries.” “She always says ‘okay,’ ‘it doesn’t matter,’ ‘whatever you decide is fine.’” “She never fights for anything. She never argues. She never makes them uncomfortable.” “She loves them. She understands them. She thinks they are always right.” Laughter drifted up from the living room. I heard Samantha thanking Mom and Dad. Her voice was soft, sweet, dripping with the confidence of someone who knows they are loved. I kept typing. The pain in my leg surged in waves. Whenever it hit, I would stop, wait for it to pass, and keep going. One month. That was enough. Enough to train the perfect daughter. The perfect fiancée. The Diana they had always wanted. My birthday was exactly the same day as Samantha’s. But to make up for taking my award, my parents promised to celebrate mine separately. I wore my first-ever princess dress. It was pale pink, the skirt shimmering with sequins like crushed stars. Mom picked it out herself. She had told me: “Diana, everything we owe you for the past eighteen years, Mom remembers.” They rented out an entire amusement park just for me. The entrance archway was suffocated with balloons, and a huge cutout of my face stood at the gate. Across the top, it read: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIANA.” I smiled. I smiled so hard I almost cried. Oliver stepped up behind me and covered my eyes with his hands. “No peeking. There’s another surprise.” His hands were so warm. Maybe they do love me, I thought. They just don’t know how to divide it. When they wheeled the cake out, my knees nearly buckled. Six tiers. Each tier represented a stage of my life. The bottom layer said “0-3 Years.” The top layer said “18.” Mom said: “Every birthday you missed in that orphanage, Mom is giving back to you today.” Eighteen candles flickered to life. The golden light danced across the smiling faces of my parents and Oliver. I clasped my hands together, closed my eyes, and made a wish. I wish this moment would never end. The very next second— A piercing scream echoed from the carousel. Samantha was sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from a scrape on her knee. She was trembling, sobbing uncontrollably. “It hurts…” The candles were still burning. But no one was looking at me anymore. Dad bolted toward her first, bumping into the cake table in his panic. The towering six-tier cake tipped over, half of it collapsing into a ruined mess of frosting. Oliver sprinted to Samantha’s side, shucking off his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. I reached out and grabbed Mom’s sleeve. She was the only one still standing near me. “Mom.” I heard my own voice trembling. “Today is my eighteenth birthday.” “It’s my last one.” “Could you… could you just stay while I blow out the candles?” Mom didn’t even hear me. Her eyes were locked on Samantha. Dad hurried back to grab the car keys. He caught the end of my sentence, and his face darkened. “Your sister is hurt, and all you care about is a birthday party?” “Do you have zero empathy?” 3 He shoved me aside. I hit the ground hard. My left leg slammed against the edge of the stone steps. It felt like someone was driving a rusted nail straight into the marrow and prying it open. God, it hurt. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. They were already carrying Samantha to the car. The amusement park was massive. With it completely rented out, I was the only person left. I dragged myself over to a giant stuffed bear, curling into its plush arms, and pulled out my phone. I booted up the AI testing program. A message popped up in the family group chat. Sent by “me.” “Mom, Dad, Oliver, take Samantha to the doctor! Don’t worry about me, I’m having so much fun at the park by myself.” Mom sent a voice memo back: “You’ve really grown up, Diana. Once Samantha is all bandaged up, we’ll come right back to celebrate with you.” Dad sent a thumbs-up emoji: “That’s my girl.” I stared at the screen, the corner of my mouth twitching in a hollow imitation of a smile. Muscle memory made me open Instagram. The newest post on my feed. From Samantha. It was a picture of her sitting in the ER, surrounded by people. Dad, Mom, Oliver. The caption read: “It feels so good to be loved.” Oliver was the first to comment: “Be more careful next time.” A sickening sweetness rose in my throat, and I violently turned my head. The blood splattered across the pink princess dress. The cake was ruined, the candles had burned down to stubs, but the speakers were still playing that cheerful music. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. The sky began to bruise purple and black. The park lights flickered on, one by one. In the distance, the Ferris wheel turned slow and steady. It was beautiful. I had never been on one. My phone buzzed again. The AI had sent another message to the group chat: “I’m on the Ferris wheel! It’s so high up! Mom, I’m so happy!” One teardrop after another fell onto the screen. Blurring out the heart emoji Mom replied with. They never came back. At eleven that night, I took a cab home alone. The living room lights were on. On the dining table, a note was scribbled in Mom’s handwriting: “Samantha fractured her leg. She’s admitted to the hospital, so your dad and I are staying with her. There’s food in the fridge, heat it up yourself.” I pulled open the fridge. It was leftovers from the night before. The massive feast they had cooked to celebrate Samantha’s gold medal, barely touched. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. In the family chat, Dad was spamming photos of Samantha’s hospital room. A private VIP suite, the windowsill overflowing with extravagant bouquets. Mom was peeling an apple for her. Oliver stood by the bed, his arms full of unopened gifts. Samantha’s cheeks were flushed pink as she tore into them, one by one. I locked my screen, leaning heavily against the wall as I dragged myself up the stairs to the second floor. The blood on the princess dress had dried into stiff, dark flakes. I folded it neatly and shoved it under my pillow. Then I lay down, squeezed my eyes shut. And pretended I had a wonderful birthday. At 2 AM, the pain ripped me awake. It felt like a million ants were burrowing into the cracks of my bones, gnawing the marrow into dust, bite by agonizing bite. I didn’t scream. In the orphanage, crying was useless. Screaming was useless. No one ever came. I rolled off the bed. Using my arms, I dragged my useless legs across the floor toward the desk. Three yards. It took me four minutes. I yanked the drawer open. Empty. The heavy-duty painkillers I had spent all my savings on were gone. There had only been ten pills left. I had been rationing them, only swallowing one when the pain pushed me to the absolute edge of sanity. Now, there were none. My phone lit up. A message from Mom, sent three hours ago. “Diana, Samantha’s fracture hurts so much she’s crying nonstop. I saw you had a bottle of painkillers in your drawer, so I gave them to her for now.” “Just go buy yourself another bottle tomorrow.” She ended it with a hug emoji. The AI had already replied. “Okay, Mom. Samantha is frail, let her have them. I’m perfectly healthy, don’t worry about me.”

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