Category: English

1 I’d been coasting at my father’s company for three years. My wife was my boss, and the new Executive VP had just fired me in front of the entire firm. The room erupted in applause. I stared down at my desk. There was a bag of imported truffle potato chips in my drawer, still sealed. I wondered if they’d let me take those with me, or if that counted as “company property” too. My name is Bennett Harrison. I’d spent three years at this firm, and most of my colleagues didn’t even know my last name. They just knew the Marketing department had a “nepo-hire”—a guy who rolled in late, disappeared for two-hour “strategy” lunches, and spent his afternoons scrolling through WallStreetBets while everyone else was drowning in spreadsheets. Tonight was the annual corporate gala. We were at a five-star hotel downtown, fifty tables under crystal chandeliers, and a stage lit up like the Oscars. I was tucked away at a table in the far corner, dissecting the menu. The braised short ribs looked promising. “Team, before we move to the awards, I have a critical personnel update to announce.” Preston Montgomery stood on stage. He was the new EVP, thirty-two, an Ivy League MBA with a suit that cost more than my first car and hair so gelled it reflected the stage lights. He’d been with us for two months. He smiled at everyone—except me. When he looked at me, he had a very specific grin. The kind a teacher gives a kid they’re about to fail. “After a comprehensive performance review, we’ve identified a member of the Marketing team who has spent three years at the bottom of every metric. His attitude is… let’s call it ‘detached.’” He paused, his eyes scanning the room until they locked onto my corner. The room went silent for a heartbeat. Then, three hundred heads turned toward me. Great. I put down my fork, still chewing a piece of rib. “Bennett Harrison,” Preston said, his lips curling into a triumphant arc. “The company has decided to terminate your contract, effective immediately.” For two seconds, there was absolute silence. Then, someone started clapping. It began as a ripple and turned into a wave. Someone even whistled. Beside me, a junior analyst named Sam started clapping, realized I was still sitting right there, and awkwardly dropped his hands. I wasn’t angry. Honestly, if I were them, I’d clap too. Who wouldn’t be happy to see the guy who plays games all day and has interns write his reports finally get the boot? But my mind was elsewhere. I had a box of those chips in my second drawer. Seventy-eight bucks a case, imported from Italy. “Bennett, do you have anything to say?” Preston’s voice boomed through the speakers, dripping with smugness. I stood up. Every eye in the room was a spotlight. I cleared my throat. “Yeah, Preston.” “Yes?” “I’ve got a box of truffle chips at my desk. Unopened. Can I take those home?” The silence returned, heavier this time. Preston’s smile faltered. He clearly hadn’t expected my priorities to be so… niche. “Also,” I added, “there are two Cokes in the breakroom fridge with my name on them. Sharpie. Don’t let them go to waste.” Someone laughed. Not a mocking laugh, but that “is this guy for real?” kind of laugh. Preston recovered quickly, waving a dismissive hand. “Your personal effects can be collected at your convenience. Please, leave the premises.” “Sure. Thanks.” I sat back down and finished my ribs. It was the last free meal I was getting from this place; I wasn’t going to let it go to waste. Beside me, Sam leaned in. “Ben, man… are you just going to take that?” I looked at him. “What am I supposed to do? Tackle him?” “No, but… your wife is the Director of Marketing. Isn’t she going to say something?” I followed his gaze to the head table. Madeline Pierce sat there, perfectly poised, her makeup flawless, her posture regal. She was leaning over, whispering to the person next to her. She didn’t look my way once. I swallowed the last bit of meat. “Don’t worry about it.” I’d seen this coming. Preston had been around for eight weeks, and he’d spent seven of them hovering around Madeline—bringing her artisan coffee, sending flowers, gifting her designer bags. Me? For Madeline’s last birthday, I bought her a high-end pressure cooker. Six hundred dollars, programmable, the works. The look on her face when she opened it… it was like I’d handed her a bag of trash. When the gala ended, Madeline caught me in the parking garage. She was standing by her white Mercedes, holding a manila envelope. “Bennett.” I stopped. “Hey.” “Sign it,” she said, thrusting the envelope at me. I took it. I didn’t even need to open it to know what it was. Divorce papers. Honestly, it wasn’t a shock. It just felt like a very busy day. Fired and divorced within two hours. A real two-for-one special. “Okay,” I said. “Got a pen?” Madeline blinked. She looked stunned by how easily I’d folded. “You… you don’t want to talk about this?” “Talk about what?” I asked, genuinely curious. Her jaw tightened. She reached into her Chanel bag, pulled out a pen, and handed it to me. I flipped to the last page. I was about to sign when I paused. “Wait.” She stiffened, her body bracing for a fight. “Who gets the PS5?” “…What?” “The white PS5 under the TV. I waited in line for two hours on Black Friday for that thing.” The expression on Madeline’s face was spectacular. The sheer “I’m divorcing you and you’re talking about a gaming console” disbelief was practically vibrating off her. “Take it,” she spat through gritted teeth. “Take whatever you want.” “I’m taking both controllers, then.” “I don’t care, Bennett! Just sign!” “Done.” I signed the papers. My hand didn’t even shake. I handed the pen back and dusted off my palms. “I’ll be out by tomorrow.” Madeline stood there, her knuckles white as she gripped the envelope. I turned to walk away. “Bennett.” I looked back. “Don’t you feel even a little bit sorry?” her voice trembled with a mix of fury and hurt. “Three years. You coasted under me for three years, doing absolutely nothing. Do you know what people say about me? They say I’m a powerhouse married to a parasite. A loser.” I looked at her. The streetlights caught the sharp angles of her face. She was beautiful. Three years ago, I’d been so blinded by that face that I’d agreed to this whole “son-in-law” charade. “I’m sorry,” I said. Then I turned and walked into the cold December wind. At the corner, I pulled out my phone. Three missed calls. All from my father. I took a breath and hit redial. He picked up on the first ring. “Bennett! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Richard Harrison’s voice roared through the receiver. I held the phone two inches from my ear. “Hey, Dad. News travels fast.” “Explain yourself! You got fired? From your own family’s company? Are you the only person in the history of this country to pull that off? Huh?” “Technically, it was just the Chicago branch, Dad.” “Don’t you dare split hairs with me!” I could picture him in his study, face turning that specific shade of mahogany, his pulse visible in his neck. “And the divorce? My son gets dumped by a third-tier marketing director?” “Dad, strictly speaking, it was a mutual—” “Shut up! Get back to HQ tomorrow morning. Your little sabbatical is over. No more coasting.” “Dad, I think we can negotiate—” Click. He hung up. I stared at the black screen and sighed. Standing in the freezing wind, I realized a fundamental problem. I didn’t have a place to stay. Madeline’s house, Madeline’s car, Madeline’s life. None of it was mine. Wait. I scrolled through my contacts to Nathan. “Hey. Sir?” “Don’t call me sir, Nathan. How many times?” “Right. Ben. What’s up?” “That… townhouse in the Gold Coast. You still have the keys?” “Your estate? Of course. I have the cleaning crew go in every Tuesday. The fridge is stocked, and I picked up that new game you mentioned last week. It’s in the library.” “…Nathan.” “Yes?” “Did you know this was going to happen today?” There was a two-second beat of silence. “Ben, with all due respect, everyone at the firm knew this was going to happen.” I sighed. “Fine. Everyone was just waiting for me to get kicked out. Understood.” 2 When I moved out of my ex-wife’s place, I took three things: The PS5, two controllers, and a box of truffle chips. Yes, I went back to the office the next morning to get the chips. The girl at the front desk looked at me with a mix of pity and “you really have the nerve to show up for snacks?” I just thanked her and walked out with my box. Joe, the security guard, held the door for me. Joe was fifty-eight and had been with the company for twenty years. Twenty years ago, he was the one who drove my father from the airport when he first opened this branch. Which meant Joe was the only person in the building who knew whose name was actually on the deed. “Benny,” Joe said, looking like he wanted to say a lot more. “Don’t, Joe. I know.” “I was going to ask if you wanted a bag. The bottom of that box looks flimsy.” “…Oh. Thanks.” Joe found me a tote bag and helped me pack the chips. Then he lowered his voice. “Your dad called me six times last night asking for details on who was giving you a hard time. I didn’t say a word, don’t worry.” I nodded. Joe leaned in closer. “That Montgomery guy was real smug when he let you go. You aren’t going to…?” I thought about it. “Joe, do I look like the kind of guy who seeks revenge?” Joe looked me up and down. Sweatpants, flip-flops, and a hoodie with a faint pizza grease stain from the night before. “…No,” Joe said honestly. “Exactly.” I hoisted the bag. “See ya around, Joe. I’ll buy you a drink soon.” “Take care of yourself, kid.” I hailed an Uber and headed to the Gold Coast. Calling it a “townhouse” was an understatement. It was a four-story brownstone with a private courtyard and a heated garage. Inside the garage sat two cars: a Maybach I hadn’t touched in three years, and a high-end go-kart Nathan had bought me because he thought I’d be bored. I went inside, kicked off my shoes, and put the chips in the pantry. Then I collapsed onto the sofa and fired up the PS5. The TV was an 85-inch OLED. As the screen flared to life, I felt my entire body relax. For three years, I’d woken up at 6:30 AM, squeezed onto the L-train, and sat in a cubicle pretending to be a loser. Now, the mask was off. I could finally just be a loser. My phone buzzed. A text from Nathan. Ben, your father wants me to remind you: 9:00 AM tomorrow, 36th-floor boardroom at HQ. Quarterly executive review. Your attendance is mandatory. I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. Can I take a sick day? Ben, you haven’t even started the job yet. How can you take a sick day? Can I start in ten years? …Ben, your father’s exact words were: ‘If he isn’t there by nine, I’m smashing every gaming console he owns with a sledgehammer.’ My hand twitched. What time was it again? Nine? Yes. Fine. I’ll be there at seven. Nathan sent a face-palm emoji and went dark. I stared at the ceiling. Most people would kill for a “phoenix rising from the ashes” moment. I just wanted to take a nap. Rising meant meetings. It meant suits. It meant talking to bald guys about Q4 projections. But my father’s threats were like gravity—inescapable. Last time he threatened my collectibles, I received a box of shards in the mail the next day with a note: Next time, it’s your kneecaps. My father, Richard Harrison. Chicago’s king of real estate. Known in the papers as “The Velvet Hammer.” To the world, he was a gentleman. To me? Let’s just say I valued my kneecaps. — The next morning, 8:55 AM. I stood in front of the Harrison Group headquarters. Forty-two stories of glass and steel reflecting the morning sun. I looked up and sighed. Three years ago, I’d run away from this building, swearing I’d never come back. Life really loves a good irony. The receptionist was new. She saw me in my hoodie and jeans and gave me a polite but guarded look. “Can I help you, sir? Do you have an appointment?” “No.” “And who are you here to see?” I thought for a second. “My dad.” Her smile froze. “And… your father is?” The elevator chimed. Nathan stepped out, looking sharp in a navy suit. When he saw me, the tension left his shoulders. “Ben! Thank god.” He hurried over, nearly sliding on the marble floor. “The Chairman is already upstairs. The meeting starts in ten minutes.” The receptionist looked at me, then at Nathan. Nathan was the Executive Assistant to the Chairman. Everyone in this building knew him. And Nathan was calling the guy in the hoodie “Ben.” The girl’s face began a slow, painful transformation. The “did I just offend royalty?” terror. “It’s fine,” I told her with a small wave. “You were just doing your job.” Nathan pulled me toward the elevator. “Ben, seriously? You couldn’t even put on a shirt with buttons?” I looked down at my white hoodie and Nikes. “What? It’s clean.” “This is an executive review…” “I’m not here to review anything. I’m here to get yelled at. He’ll yell whether I’m wearing Armani or Fruit of the Loom.” Nathan didn’t argue. He knew I was right. The elevator opened on thirty-six. Two rows of executives in bespoke suits were lined up in the hallway. The moment I stepped out, they bowed in unison. “Good morning, Mr. Harrison.” I looked at Nathan. Nathan didn’t blink. “The Chairman’s orders. He wanted everyone to recognize the face.” I took a deep breath. “Nathan.” “Sir?” “Is it too late to run?” “Too late. He’s standing right there.” I looked down the hall. At the boardroom doors stood a massive man with silver hair and a charcoal suit, hands clasped behind his back. When he saw me, his jaw set. It was the look. The “quiet before the storm” look. “In here.” Two words. Quiet, but every executive in the hall flinched. I walked over. “Hey, Dad.” The old man scanned me. His eyes lingered on the hoodie for three seconds, then the Nikes for two. He turned and pushed open the doors. “Get in here. You look like a disgrace.” I followed him in. The room was filled with about fifteen people—VPs, CFOs, GCs. People who made eight figures a year. They looked at me with curiosity, judgment, and a few forced smiles. Dad sat at the head of the table and pointed to the empty chair beside him. “Sit.” I sat. “Gentlemen,” Dad said, his voice commanding the air in the room. “This is my son, Bennett Harrison. As of today, he is the Executive Vice President of the Harrison Group.” Silence for three seconds. Then a chorus of “Congratulations” and “Welcome back, Mr. Harrison.” I sat there, stone-faced. Dad glanced at me. “Say something.” I stood up. Fifteen sets of eyes bored into me. I cleared my throat. “Hi, everyone.” I paused. “I don’t really have many strengths.” I saw Dad’s eyebrow twitch. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. Don’t change anything on my account. In fact, if you can avoid talking to me entirely, that would be great.” “…” “Specifically, any meeting before 10:00 AM? Don’t invite me. I’m not a morning person.” In the corner, a young VP couldn’t help it. He snorted. Dad’s face was now the color of a dark plum. “Sit. Down.” I sat. “Right,” Dad turned back to the room, his voice tight. “Ignore everything he just said. Let’s begin the briefing.” — The meeting lasted two hours. I spent most of it on my phone. Dad kicked me under the table three times. The first was to get me to put the phone away. The second was to stop me from yawning. The third… I think was just because he didn’t like the way I was breathing. After the meeting, he cleared the room. “Listen to me,” he said, leaning over and pinning me to the chair with his gaze. “The Chicago branch—your ex-wife and that Montgomery kid—they’re pushing through a land acquisition.” I looked up. “I know.” “You know?” Dad arched a brow. “Do you know who the actual owner of that land is?” I blinked. “…No.” “It’s me.” “…What?” “That plot they’re trying to swallow? I bought it ten years ago as part of a long-term play. Those two idiots think they’ve found a golden goose, but they’re just walking straight into my pocket.” I processed that. “So… you’re just letting them do it? Waiting for them to screw up so you can wipe them out?” Dad sat back and crossed his legs. “That was the plan. Let the deal close, then gut them. But then I heard about the gala.” He paused, his expression turning cold. “The whole company applauded when you were fired?” “Yeah.” “Yeah?” His voice went up an octave. “…Yes, sir.” “Good.” He tapped his fingers on the mahogany table. “Then we aren’t waiting. The Chamber of Commerce Gala is next week. You’re going.” “Dad, I—” “You’re going. I’m not letting the city of Chicago think Richard Harrison’s son is some ‘loser’ who got ‘fired’ by a mid-level VP.” He spat the word fired like it was a piece of rotten meat. I realized then: He wasn’t mad that I got fired. He was mad that someone had the audacity to fire a Harrison. “Fine,” I sighed. “I’ll go.” “Suit. Shoes. Hair. If you show up in a hoodie, I’m burning your townhouse down.” “Got it, got it…” “And Bennett,” Dad’s voice dropped. “Your ex-wife will be there.” I stiffened. “Every power player in the city will be in that room. The Pierce family is small-time, but they’ll be there, scratching for crumbs.” He looked at me meaningfully. “Are you ready to see her?” I was silent for a moment. “Dad, could you not use that ‘dramatic soap opera’ tone? It’s creepy.” “Get out!” 3 There were five days between my return to HQ and the Chamber Gala. In those five days, I did three things. First, I converted the office next to my father’s into a gaming lounge. Nathan tried to stop me for two hours, lecturing me on “corporate image,” “employee morale,” and “social responsibility.” I said, “Fine. We keep the desk. But the computer on it stays.” He looked relieved. I added, “And the computer runs Steam.” His face crumbled. We compromised: the main office stayed professional, but the lounge in the back got a 4K gaming monitor and a Herman Miller chair. I could live with that. Second, I had Nathan dig into Madeline and Preston. The results were… interesting. Within a week of my firing, Preston and Madeline were officially “together.” Not just dating—Instagram official dating. Captions like: A new beginning. A brighter future. Photos of two wine glasses clinking. The comments were a cesspool of “Power couple!” and “Finally!” and “About time she lost the dead weight.” Nathan showed me the screenshots, watching my face carefully. “Ben… you okay?” I looked at the photos. Honestly? I felt nothing. Madeline and I had been over for years. Since the first month of our marriage, she’d treated me like an inconvenient chore. To her, I wasn’t a husband; I was a PR problem. As for Preston—well, a man who fires his boss’s son in front of the whole company is either a genius or a complete idiot. The answer was obvious. He didn’t know. Madeline didn’t know. Outside of Joe the guard, nobody in that branch knew who actually owned the Harrison Group. The branch was registered under one of my father’s shell corporations. It would take seven layers of forensic accounting to find our name. They genuinely thought they’d just fired a nobody. I almost wanted to laugh. Third, I got a suit. I didn’t have a choice; Dad sent a tailor to my house. Three-day rush. Midnight navy, subtle pinstripes. Nathan said, “Ben, this suit costs more than a two-bedroom in the suburbs.” I felt the fabric. It was nice. Definitely better than my grease-stained hoodie. — The night of the Gala. The Grand Ballroom at the Palmer House. I hadn’t been here in three years. The last time, I was the “Prince of the Harrison Group,” being dragged around by my father to shake hands. People would smile and say, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Then I “disappeared” for three years. The rumor was I was doing an MBA in London or “finding myself” in Tokyo. Tonight, I was re-entering the world as the Executive Vice President. Nathan drove me to the entrance. I sat in the back of the Maybach, watching the gilded doors of the hotel. I took a breath. “Nervous, Ben?” “Not really. Just dreading the small talk.” “Just stay by the Chairman’s side and smile.” “I’m not great at smiling.” “Don’t be modest, sir. With that face, you’ll have half the room swooning.” I looked at him. “Nathan, have you been reading those romance novels I told you to get rid of?” “No!” His ears turned pink. “Just get out of the car. The Chairman is waiting.” I stepped out. The valets saw the plates and immediately snapped to attention. “Mr. Harrison, right this way.” I straightened my cuffs and walked in. The ballroom was massive, at least three hundred people. I hadn’t walked ten feet before I saw them. Madeline was in a stunning crimson gown, standing in the cocktail area. Preston was beside her, looking sharp in a tuxedo, his hand possessively on the small of her back. They were laughing with a group of investors. I paused. Not because it hurt to see them. But because I realized something. What are they going to look like when they see me? Just as the thought crossed my mind, Madeline turned toward the door. Our eyes locked. Her smile didn’t just fade; it calcified. First came the shock. Then the confusion. Then that “what the hell are you doing here?” glare. I got it. A “fired loser” in a five-figure suit at the most exclusive event in the city? It didn’t compute. Preston followed her gaze. He saw me too. He blinked, then a smirk touched his lips. That familiar, condescending “look at this guy” smirk. He probably thought I’d crashed the party. Or that I was here as a waiter. I didn’t go to them. I walked right past, deeper into the room. Dad was at the head table. I had to report for duty. As I moved through the crowd, I felt the whispers start. “Is that… the Harrison boy? He’s back?” “Richard’s son? Bennett? Haven’t seen him in years.” “God, he looks just like his father…” I ignored them. Dad was sitting in the center of the head table, sipping tea. When he saw me, his eyes did a slow scan from my head to my shoes. Then, he gave a nearly imperceptible nod. In his world, that was a standing ovation. “Sit.” I sat. “You remember what I told you?” “Yep. Talk less, smile more, don’t mention the PS5.” “And?” “And… don’t call you ‘Daddy’ in front of the press?” “…If you embarrass me tonight, I’m turning your gaming lounge into a filing room.” I sat up straight. “Crystal clear, sir.” When the gala officially began, the lights dimmed, and the emcee took the stage to introduce the sponsors. The Harrison Group was the diamond sponsor. Which meant Dad was going up there. And I was going to be introduced. In front of every power player in Chicago. In front of Madeline and Preston. Honestly? I was starting to enjoy this. “Please welcome our honorary host—Chairman of the Harrison Group, Mr. Richard Harrison.” The applause was thunderous. Dad stood up, buttoned his jacket, and stroded onto the stage. He took the mic and scanned the room. The air seemed to thin out just from his presence. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here tonight.” Standard opening. Then, he shifted gears. “Tonight, I have a personal announcement. After a long hiatus, my son, Bennett Harrison, has officially returned to the firm.” He looked directly at me. Three hundred pairs of eyes followed. “He is now serving as Executive Vice President, overseeing our Strategic Investment and New Ventures divisions.” The room went silent. Then, a roar of applause. But I wasn’t looking at the crowd. I was looking at the cocktail area. Madeline’s wine glass was frozen halfway to her lips, her fingers trembling.

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1 My girlfriend’s idea was as reckless as it was “extreme.” She called it a “limit-testing survival trek”—no water, no food, just our own grit against the mountain. The rest of the group jumped at the chance, their faces lit with the kind of adrenaline only the sheltered can afford. I hesitated, my gut twisting, until Tyler clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Miller. Where’s your sense of adventure? Do it for us. What do you say?” Sydney, my girlfriend, didn’t even bother to hide her annoyance. Her voice was sharp, a jagged edge in the morning air. “Grant, why are you always the one to kill the vibe?” So, I caved. I always caved back then. On the day of the hike, Sydney insisted we lock our phones in a locker at the trailhead. “To prevent anyone from cheating with Apple Pay,” she’d said, eyes gleaming with a manic sort of purity. But later, when our throats were screaming for moisture and the sun was a hammer against our skulls, they all pulled out crumpled wads of cash. Every single one of them. They bought ice-cold bottles of water and sandwiches at the mid-way supply station while I stood there, parched and confused. When I asked how they could do it, Sydney just looked at me with a sneer that made my blood run cold. “We said we wouldn’t bring supplies, Grant. We never said we couldn’t buy them. If your brain is too slow to figure that out, that’s on you.” I collapsed from dehydration a mile later. They didn’t give me a single drop. They didn’t even call for help. They just stepped over my body and kept walking. “You need to feel the pain to learn the lesson,” Sydney had whispered, her voice devoid of mercy. “We’re doing this for your own good.” By the time a park ranger found me, my skin was a map of third-degree burns. My left arm was so badly charred from lying on the sun-baked rock that the surgeons had to take it at the elbow. But then, I opened my eyes. And I was back. Back to the day they first proposed the “survival hike.” This time, I didn’t hesitate. I looked Sydney in the eye and smiled. “Sure. I’m in.” If they wanted a lesson in suffering, I was more than happy to be the teacher. After all, it was for their own good, wasn’t it? As soon as the words left my mouth, Tyler Hudson—my “best friend”—gave me a look of mock concern. “Now remember, Grant, no food, no water. Total self-reliance. We’re all responsible for our own survival out there.” I looked at him, feigning confusion. “Self-reliance? But none of us are bringing anything, right? Even if I wanted to ask for help, nobody would have anything to give.” The moment the words hit the air, Sydney, her brother Mason Blackwood, and her best friend Becca Reed all burst into laughter. They nodded frantically, exchanging looks I now understood with sickening clarity. “Exactly! See, Tyler? Grant’s way ahead of you. He doesn’t need your reminders.” Tyler gave me a smile that didn’t reach his eyes—a dark, knowing thing. “Right. My mistake.” Sydney pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket. “Since we’re all in, sign this.” It was the same liability waiver from the first time. A “Gentleman’s Agreement,” they called it. It stated that as a competent adult, I took full legal responsibility for my own safety. Back then, I’d been confused. It’s just a hike, Sydney. Why the legal drama? But they’d pressured me until I signed my life away. Now, I looked at the familiar lines of text and gently pushed the paper back toward her. Sydney’s expression soured instantly. “What? Are you backing out already?” I raised an eyebrow, my voice calm. “Not at all. But if the five of us are doing this as a group, shouldn’t everyone sign? Everyone gets a copy. Your safety is your responsibility, and mine is mine. I shouldn’t be held liable if one of you trips and falls.” Becca laughed, a shrill, mocking sound. “We’re going to be perfectly fine, Grant. You should worry about yourself.” I tilted my head, studying her. “You sound so confident. It’s almost like you have a secret way to cheat that you haven’t told me about.” The laughter died. Panic flitted across their faces like a shadow. Becca’s mouth stayed open, but no sound came out. Sydney shot her a warning glare. “Grant has a point,” Sydney said, her voice tight. “It’s a group activity. We should all sign.” Mason ran to a nearby print shop and returned with four more copies. Sydney, Mason, Tyler, and Becca all signed their names with a flourish. I tucked a signed copy into my backpack and turned to leave. “Eat up and hydrate tonight, buddy,” Tyler called out, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. “You won’t be tasting a drop of anything tomorrow.” I nodded. “Thanks. You guys do the same.” The sound of their collective snickering followed me all the way to my car. In my previous life, the day of the hike was a furnace—104 degrees in the shade. The sun didn’t just shine; it punished. My throat had felt like it was lined with sandpaper, and every swallow felt like a blade. When we hit the supply station, they had turned their backs on me to buy Gatorade and sandwiches. “I thought the rule was no food or drink?” I had gasped, my vision blurring. Tyler had just smirked. “We said we wouldn’t bring anything. We never said we wouldn’t eat.” “But our phones… we locked them up,” I’d stuttered. And then, like a choreographed magic trick, they pulled out their wallets. “Cash, Grant. Did you seriously not bring cash? Man, I guess you’ll just have to watch us.” I’d thought it was a joke. A cruel, hazing-style prank. Until Sydney walked over to me, unscrewed a cap, and held the bottle to my lips. When I reached for it, she yanked it away, her face a mask of mockery. “You didn’t actually think I’d let you cheat, did you? We made a deal. Self-reliance, remember?” The betrayal had hurt more than the thirst. When I tried to ask the shop owner for help, they literally dragged me out of the store. When the owner looked suspicious, Sydney threw her arms around me, muffling my mouth with a fake, loving embrace. Tyler had waved at the owner, his voice like honey. “He’s just being a drama queen! We’re messing with him—I bought two bottles, see?” He shoved a bottle into my hand, and the owner, satisfied, went back inside. As soon as we were around the bend, Sydney ripped the bottle from my hand and poured the water onto the dusty earth. “You said you’d do it on your own. Don’t be a cheater.” I had lunged for the bottle, but only caught the empty plastic. Their laughter rang in my ears as the heat began to melt my consciousness. I took a deep breath, forcing the memory back into the dark. I opened my laptop and went to a forum I’d bookmarked—a place where people did things for the right price. I sent an anonymous message. [Need four wallets lifted. Can you do it?] The reply was instant. [Five grand. Half now, half when it’s done. Give me the time and place.] After the arrangements were made, I checked our group chat. Sydney and the others were posting “hype” emojis about tomorrow. I smiled to myself and typed: I’m really looking forward to this. The chat exploded with laughing emojis. I silenced my phone, packed a hidden wad of cash in my sock, and went to sleep. The next morning, we met at the trailhead of Black Ridge—a brutal, isolated path that saw more vultures than hikers. At the locker, Sydney pulled out her phone and waved it like a trophy. “Phones in the locker, everyone. We don’t want anyone tempted to use Apple Pay when the going gets tough!” Tyler laughed, tossing his phone in. “I wonder who’s going to crack first. Not me.” Mason and Becca followed suit, grinning like kids in on a secret. Behind them, a man in a nondescript baseball cap moved through the small crowd near the trailhead. I stepped up to Sydney and handed over my phone. While everyone was focused on my “compliance,” the man in the cap brushed past them. His hands moved with the practiced fluidness of a shadow. Sydney didn’t feel a thing. She locked the door and smiled at me. “I thought you might put up a fight.” I shrugged. “I’m a man of my word.” We started the ascent. Tyler raised his voice, loud enough for the trees to hear. “Man, it’s getting hot already. What if someone gets thirsty?” Mason chuckled. “Don’t worry, Tyler. Some of us are prepared for anything.” I looked at them, my expression innocent. “Prepared? I thought the whole point was that we brought nothing.” Mason took a patronizing tone. “What we’re prepared with is none of your business, Grant. It’s survival of the fittest out here. Everyone for themselves.” Sydney added, her voice cold as ice, “Exactly. This is a personal test. I’m not helping you today, Grant. No matter what happens, don’t try to guilt-trip me just because I’m your girlfriend.” In my last life, she’d said those exact words. And she’d meant them. She’d walked right past my unconscious body. Stop acting, she’d said then. Your acting is terrible. I told you, no water. I’m doing this to build your character. I pulled myself back to the present and nodded seriously. “You’re right, Sydney. And I won’t help you, either. No matter what happens, don’t try to use our relationship to guilt-trip me.” Sydney threw her head back and laughed. “Me? Needing your help? Focus on surviving the next hour, Grant.” Mason and Becca joined in, their laughter echoing off the canyon walls. As we climbed, the sun moved into its zenith, a white-hot eye staring us down. My throat began to constrict, the air feeling like fire in my lungs. Sydney, leading the pack, pointed ahead. “Look! The supply station!” Tyler and Mason cheered. “Finally! My throat is killing me.” I looked at them, feigning bewilderment. “So what? I thought the challenge was to climb without food or drink?” Becca rolled her eyes. “Grant, are you deaf? We said we wouldn’t bring supplies. We never said we couldn’t buy them at the station.” My voice went even more confused. “But our phones are at the bottom. How are you going to buy anything?” Tyler smirked. “I guess some people just don’t know how to plan ahead.” They shared a look of triumph as Sydney stepped onto the porch of the small wooden shack. I followed them inside. The smell of air conditioning and cold sugar was intoxicating. They went straight for the coolers. “What are you doing?” I asked, standing in the center of the shop. “You don’t have your phones.” Sydney pulled a face. “Who needs a phone when you have cash?” Tyler grinned at me, tapping his pocket. “We all brought cash, Grant. It’s called being prepared. Man… you look like you’re dying. You didn’t bring any, did you? Sydney, can I buy him a water?” Sydney’s eyes went hard. “A rule is a rule, Tyler. Are you trying to help him cheat?” Tyler shrugged at me. “Sorry, buddy. Looks like you’re just going to have to watch us.” I turned to Sydney. “Isn’t buying things a violation? That’s why we locked the phones away, right?” They answered in unison, their voices dripping with contempt. “Who said buying is a violation? We said digital payments were the violation! This is a test of survival without technology. If you had cash, you could buy something too. Nobody’s stopping you.” Mason sighed, shaking his head. “Sydney, your boyfriend is a total moron. He has zero adaptability.” Sydney grabbed a bottle of Fuji water and waved it in front of my face. “Since you didn’t bring money, you’re just going to have to stay thirsty. Don’t look at me for help. We’re on our own.” I nodded slowly and sat down on a wooden bench. “On our own. I can live with that.” They laughed, turning their backs on me. Tyler leaned into Sydney, his voice a stage whisper. “Watch. In five minutes, he’s going to be on his knees begging us. ‘Sydney, baby, please, I’m your boyfriend…’ it’s going to be pathetic.” Sydney made a gagging sound. “Ugh, I can’t stand it when he acts weak. If he begs, I’m ignoring him.” “And me? What am I, a saint? I’m not giving him a drop,” Tyler added. I watched them walk to the counter, their faces glowing with smug satisfaction. “Separate checks, please,” Sydney told the owner. “We’re all about self-reliance today. No cheating.” They glanced back at me one last time, their hands diving into their pockets. Sydney’s hand fumbled. Her expression shifted from triumph to confusion. She patted her other pocket. Then her back pockets. Her face went pale. “My money… where is it?” She turned her pockets inside out. Nothing but a crumpled tissue. Mason rolled his eyes. “For God’s sake, Syd. You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached. Fine, I’ll cover you.” He looked at me, a cruel glint in his eye. “She’s family, so it doesn’t count as cheating.” He reached into his pocket. His hand froze. His jaw dropped. “What the…” Tyler and Becca started franticly patting themselves down. High-pitched gasps filled the small shop. “My wallet! It’s gone!” “Mine too! Everything’s gone!” I sat there, chin in my hand, watching the panic set in. In my last life, they had looked so powerful when they pulled out that cash. In this life, they looked like cornered animals. As their expressions twisted into masks of desperation, I stood up. I walked to the shelf, picked up a cold bottle of water and a protein bar, and walked to the counter. Under their stunned gazes, I reached into my sock, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and handed it to the owner. “Keep the change,” I said.

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I was the quintessential “difficult” woman—spoiled, demanding, and treating my fiancé like a personal valet I’d forgotten to tip. I made life a beautiful, high-maintenance hell for everyone around me. Until the dream. In that nightmare, I wasn’t the heroine of my own life. I was the “villainous second lead” in a twisted romance novel. My fate? To be dumped, disowned by my family, and eventually tossed aside like yesterday’s fashion, ending my days in a tragic accident on a rain-slicked New York street. I woke up in a cold sweat and decided then and there: the “Bitch of the Upper East Side” was retiring. The first test came when my fiancé failed to secure the limited-edition designer handbag I’d demanded from his London trip. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice uncharacteristically soft. “Really. Don’t worry about it.” Instead of relief, his face darkened. His jaw tightened as he loomed over me. “What do you mean, ‘it’s fine’?” he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “I just… I don’t need it,” I stammered. “You don’t want the things I buy for you anymore?” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me whole. “Or did some other man already buy it for you?” I blinked, stunned. “Wait, what?” 1 Before Hudson Blackwood left for his business trip to London, I’d been my usual demanding self. I’d sent a high-res photo of a limited-edition Dior bag to his phone, accompanied by a text that was more of a royal decree than a request: Hudson, I sent the picture. Make sure you get it. Don’t even think about coming home without it. It was a piece that hadn’t even hit the boutiques in the States yet. “Understood,” he’d replied, his voice flat, barely looking up from his tablet. His indifference sparked my usual fire. “Are you even listening to me? This is important!” “I heard you, Sloane,” Hudson sighed, a weary, resigned sound. “I’ll get the bag.” “Good boy,” I’d purred, finally satisfied. “Hurry back.” He was scheduled to be gone for two weeks, and I spent those fourteen days in a state of hyper-active anticipation. I bombarded him with messages. [Sloane]: Hudson, when are you landing?! [Sloane]: I really, really miss you coming home— [Sloane]: (And I really miss my bag. Mostly the bag. Lol.) When thirty minutes passed without a reply, I’d spam him with angry emojis. [Sloane]: Why are you taking so long to text back? [Sloane]: Did you find some British socialite to distract you? Ten minutes later, his reply came, dripping with exhaustion. [Hudson]: Sloane, it’s 4:00 AM in London. Right. Time zones. A minor detail. I pivoted instantly, moving from offense to a better offense. [Sloane]: Well, why are you awake then? [Hudson]: Your notifications woke me up. [Sloane]: That’s on you! Why isn’t your phone on silent? Put it on Do Not Disturb right now! [Sloane]: I’m going to keep texting, so you better silence it! [Hudson]: Fine. As I sat there aggressively typing, my best friend leaned over, eyeing the screen with a mix of horror and admiration. “God, Sloane. I don’t know how Hudson puts up with you.” I flipped my hair, radiating unearned confidence. “Please. There was a literal line of men waiting to marry into the Whitaker fortune. Hudson won the lottery. He should be thanking his lucky stars every morning.” I was Sloane Whitaker—heiress to a real estate empire, blessed with a face that could stop traffic and a bank account that could buy the street. My only flaw, if you asked the tabloids, was my temper. But even with my “difficult” reputation, the suitors never stopped coming. My parents used to show me profiles of eligible bachelors on an iPad like they were browsing a high-end catalog. “Look at this one, Sloane. Any interest?” my dad would ask. I’d scrolled past Harvard grads and Olympic athletes until I hit Hudson’s photo. “I like Hudson,” my mom chimed in, her eyes lighting up. “The Blackwoods are solid. Hudson is steady, reliable, and—let’s be honest—devastatingly handsome. What do you think?” He was. He was the most striking man in the deck, and also the wealthiest. But more than that, I remembered him from the galas—quiet, brooding, and always acting like I was a mild headache he was trying to ignore. Something about that annoyed me. And challenged me. “Fine,” I’d said, tapping his face on the screen. “He’ll do.” 2 If there was a victim in the merger of the Whitaker and Blackwood families, it was Hudson. He’d stepped into this engagement for the sake of his family’s legacy, which meant enduring me. I was the storm; he was the anchor. I barked orders, threw tantrums, and acted like the world revolved around my mood swings. And he just… took it. Sometimes, even I was impressed by his stoicism. It was no wonder Blackwood Industries had thrived since he took over. He had the patience of a saint and the tactical mind of a general. But a man like that always attracts hangers-on. Once, an anonymous number sent me a text: Sloane, look at yourself. How long do you really think a man like Hudson is going to tolerate your bullshit? I saw red. I stormed into Hudson’s home office, slamming his laptop shut right in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation. “Hudson!” I shoved my phone into his face. “Tell me right now. How long are you planning on ‘tolerating’ me?” Hudson looked at the text, his brow furrowing into a deep, icy line. He didn’t get angry at me. He just noted the number. “I’ll handle this.” “Handle it fast!” I barked. “Because if you’re struggling, let’s just call the whole thing off! Save us both the trouble!” His frown deepened. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.” I didn’t stay to listen. I turned on my heel and slammed the door so hard the framed art on the walls rattled. The next evening, Hudson handed me a manila folder. It was a literal dossier. “The girl is the daughter of one of my father’s old associates,” Hudson reported, his tone professional but firm. “He asked for a favor—an internship at the firm. I gave her a position. She’s been fired as of this morning, and her father has been informed that her behavior was unacceptable. He’s cutting off her allowance for three months.” He sent a video file to my phone. “She recorded an apology. Watch it if you want. If it’s not enough, I’ll make her redo it.” I looked at the thumbnail—a girl sobbing her eyes out. I didn’t even bother clicking play. I deleted it and looked at Hudson. “Why was the video sent to you? Do you have her on Snapchat or something?” “No,” Hudson said, showing me his clean chat history. “I had her father send it to me.” I nodded, satisfied. “Fine. This time.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a warning whisper. “But don’t let there be a next time. Or the engagement is over.” “It won’t happen again,” he replied instantly. Back then, I was untouchable. I didn’t care how long he could “tolerate” me. If he didn’t like it, he could leave. Until the dream changed everything. 3 It wasn’t just a dream. It was a premonition of my own extinction. In the dream, my life was a script, and I was the “Evil Fiancée.” I was the girl who ignored her perfect partner to obsess over a man who hated me—the “Male Lead.” I spent the story sabotaging a girl who had nothing but a “pure heart,” driving everyone I loved away until I was utterly alone. The dream ended with me standing on a street corner, seeing Hudson’s cold, disappointed eyes one last time before a truck barreled into me. I woke up gasping for air. The AC was humming at a cool 68 degrees, but I was drenched in sweat. I sat in the dark for hours, the feeling of the truck’s impact still vibrating in my bones. It felt too real. The crushing weight of the loneliness, the physical pain of the crash… it was a warning. My subconscious was screaming at me to wake up before the “plot” took over. I refused to go out like that. The “Male Lead”? He could go to hell. But Hudson… In the dream, right before the end, Hudson had looked at me with a gaze so frozen, so devoid of affection, that it hurt worse than the accident. “Sloane, I’m done being disappointed in you,” he’d said. My heart ached just thinking about it. I realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that I couldn’t handle him looking at me like that. I had to change. I had to be… better. I started the next day. Usually, I’d wake up and send Hudson ten texts before he’d even had his coffee—meaningless, demanding nonsense. I’d pick a fight if he didn’t answer within five minutes. Today, I put my phone face down on the nightstand. I white-knuckled my way through the afternoon. It’s fine, I told myself. He’s busy. He’s in London. He’ll be back in a few days. By sunset, I was vibrating with the need to reach out. Just five texts, I bargained. Five texts isn’t ‘difficult,’ right? Just as I was about to crack, my phone buzzed. It was Hudson. This was rare. Usually, I was the one chasing him with a digital blowtorch. [Hudson]: Is your phone broken? [Sloane]: ? [Sloane]: No. Why? He didn’t reply. I felt the old Sloane rising up, ready to demand an explanation, but I forced her back down. Breathe, Sloane. Be the cool girl. The chill girl. I ended up sending a few more messages anyway—old habits die hard—and immediately regretted it when I saw I’d filled the whole screen again. Dammit, Sloane! Control yourself! Twenty minutes later, he responded. [Hudson]: Sorry, got pulled into an emergency meeting. Didn’t mean to leave you hanging. Normally, this would be my cue to launch an inquisition into who was at the meeting. Instead, I channeled a saint. [Sloane]: Oh, no worries at all! Just reply whenever you have a free second! Silence. My “chill girl” persona evaporated instantly. What the hell, Hudson? Another emergency meeting? As soon as I’m being nice, you disappear? Then, my phone started vibrating. A FaceTime request. I smoothed my hair, tried to wipe the scowl off my face, and answered. “What?” Hudson was on the screen, looking at me with an intensity that made my breath hitch. He seemed to be scanning the room behind me. “Are you alone?” “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?” He kept watching me, his eyes searching mine as if looking for a fever or a hidden intruder. Once he satisfied himself that I was indeed alone, he spoke. “I just wanted to say… if I see a message from you, I will always reply as soon as I humanly can. Unless I’m in the middle of something life-or-death.” “Right. Very heroic,” I said, my voice dripping with the old sarcasm. “I’m tired. You’re dismissed.” I hung up before he could say another word. Then I buried my face in my pillow and groaned. Sloane, you idiot! You were supposed to be nice! Why did you snap at him? 4 Hudson and I had known each other since we were kids—social circles that small tend to overlap—but we were never “friends.” Not really. The shift happened our senior year of high school. Our school’s Winter Gala was coming up. There was this girl, Sienna, who lived to compete with me. Whatever I wore, she tried to outshine. Whoever I liked, she tried to flirt with. The Gala was our annual battlefield. I needed a date who would end the conversation before it started. I cornered Hudson after his AP Calc class. “Hudson,” I said, cutting straight to the chase. “You’re taking me to the Gala.” “Me?” He looked genuinely baffled. “Why?” “Simple logic,” I said, leaning against the lockers. “I’m the most beautiful girl in this school, and you’re the most handsome guy. It’s basically a law of nature that we go together.” Hudson stared at me for a long beat, his expression unreadable. “I don’t dance, Sloane.” I ignored the rejection. “Then you better start practicing.” He looked at me, really looked at me, and then a small, almost imperceptible shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Fine.” “Great,” I said, but then I remembered the stakes. “Also, if Sienna asks you—and she will—you have to turn her down instantly. And tell her it’s because you’ve already secured the most stunning date in the building.” “I can’t do that,” he said. “Why not?!” “Because I already turned her down yesterday. I doubt she’ll ask again.” I blinked. “She already asked you?” He nodded. “Good. Excellent taste,” I said, giving him a literal thumbs-up. I thought I had it in the bag. But our first rehearsal for the waltz was a disaster. Hudson was stiff, his movements were mechanical, and he stepped on my custom-made heels twice. “You’re a straight-A student, Hudson! How are you this bad at counting to three?” “I’m sorry. I’ll buy you new shoes,” he said quietly. “I just need more practice.” By the second rehearsal, he stopped crushing my toes, but he was still a statue. “Hudson, we’re supposed to own the room! If you don’t loosen up, I’m finding a new partner.” “I’ll get it right next time,” he promised. And he did. By the third rehearsal, he moved with a fluid, quiet grace that actually made me forget to yell at him. “Wow,” I whispered as we finished a turn. “You’re actually good.” “So are you,” he replied. I didn’t argue. “Obviously.” But three days before the Gala, I was rushing down the grand staircase at home, missed a step, and heard a sickening pop. 5 Sienna sent me a mocking text the second the news hit the grapevine. I was so furious I locked myself in my room and refused to eat. When someone knocked on the door, I assumed it was my mother. “Go away! I’m not hungry!” “Sloane, it’s Hudson.” I hobbled to the door but didn’t open it. “What do you want? I sent you the text. My ankle is the size of a grapefruit. I can’t dance. Go find someone else.” “Is that what you want?” Hudson asked through the wood. “Should I go find another date?” My heart did a painful little flip. You jerk! How could you agree so fast? “Yes!” I yelled. “Go! Take Sienna! See if I care!” “Fine. I’ll go call her.” I ripped the door open so fast I almost fell over. “Don’t you dare!” “I won’t,” he said, stepping into the room before I could change my mind. He looked at my bandaged foot. “You’re really not going? I thought you wanted to ‘own the room.’” “Look at me,” I said, pointing to my ankle. “I’ll be limping. Everyone will pity me or laugh at me. I’m not going if I can’t be perfect.” Hudson looked at me, his gaze soft but steady. “They won’t laugh.” “How do you know?” “Because of what you said,” he reminded me. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the school. I’m the most handsome guy. As long as we show up together, the rest of the room doesn’t matter.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. “You’re right,” I whispered. On the night of the Gala, he didn’t just take me; he supported me. I leaned on his arm, limping slightly, but the way he held me—like I was made of gold—made every head in the room turn. When I saw Sienna’s face turn a shade of green that matched her dress, I knew I’d won. After that, we were… something. Not quite a couple, but more than acquaintances. I’d make him drive thirty minutes to get me a specific pastry; I’d force him to spend his precious study time beating levels on my phone games that I was too frustrated to finish. He never said no. He never seemed happy about it, but he was always there. I used to watch his profile while he concentrated on my phone screen—his sharp jawline, his focused eyes—and think, Whoever marries this boring guy is going to be so bored. I never guessed it would be me. Because I knew Hudson was reliable, I tried to stay “good” while he was in London. I didn’t nag him. I didn’t mention the bag. I told myself: He’s Hudson. He’s smart. He doesn’t need a reminder. I was wrong. He came home empty-handed. 6 The day Hudson was due back, I was practically vibrating. I wanted to text him every ten minutes, but I held back. When I heard the front door open, I was upstairs. I didn’t even put on shoes. I sprinted down the stairs like a madwoman. “Hudson!” I yelled as he rolled his suitcase into the foyer. “You’re back!” “Sloane.” He looked down at my feet. “Where are your shoes?” “Forgot ’em,” I said, breathless. “I heard your voice and just ran.” He sighed, walked to the closet, and pulled out my slippers. He actually knelt down to slip them onto my feet. “The floor is cold. You’ll get sick.” “Fine, fine,” I said, then I held out my hands, palms up, with a giant, expectant grin. He’s brilliant. He had to know what I wanted. But Hudson’s expression turned… rigid. I frowned, looking at his luggage. He had a few small shopping bags—probably airport chocolates or duty-free perfumes—but nothing that could hold a Dior box. The bag had to be in the suitcase. I moved past him, reaching for the handle of his Tumi bag. “Sloane, wait,” Hudson said, his voice sounding strained. “Listen to me…” I ignored him, punched in my birthday—the code to his suitcase—and flipped it open. Nothing. Just suits, shirts, and a toiletry kit. I stared at the empty space where my prize should have been. I looked up at him, my heart sinking. “Where is it?” For the first time in my life, I saw Hudson Blackwood look guilty. He reached out to grab my arm, pulling me up from the floor. “Get up first. The floor is freezing.” He sat me down on the velvet sofa. I crossed my arms, giving him my best ‘judge and jury’ stare. “The last few days were a nightmare,” he said, half-kneeling so he was at eye level with me. “I couldn’t get away from the office. By the time I got to the boutique on my last day, they’d sold the last one that morning. I’ve already contacted the Paris flagship to have one diverted. It should be here in two days…” He bit his lip, watching me, waiting for the explosion. I was crushed. I’d built this bag up in my head as a symbol of his devotion. In the old days, this would have been a forty-eight-hour war. But then I thought of the dream. The truck. The coldness in his eyes. I took a deep breath. I felt the scream in my throat and forced myself to swallow it. Don’t be the villain, Sloane. Don’t be the villain. I forced a smile—a fake, plastic thing that probably looked terrifying. “Oh! No big deal,” I chirped, my voice an octave too high. “It’s fine! Don’t worry about it!” Hudson froze. I waved my hand dismissively. “Seriously! It’s totally fine! I don’t even want it anymore!” I was dying inside. I’d just find a personal shopper on Instagram to get it for me. I stood up to go upstairs before I burst into tears. I didn’t get two steps before Hudson’s hand clamped around my wrist. His grip was firm—almost too firm. His brow was knitted in a dark, fierce scowl. “Why don’t you want it anymore?” “I just told you—” “You don’t want the things I buy for you?” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous pitch. “Or… has some other guy already bought it for you?” I stared at him. “Excuse me?”

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1 It wasn’t until they saw the pregnant women and toddlers of the village torn open, their insides spilled across the frozen dirt, that the hunters finally believed me. The wolves hadn’t just stayed in the woods. They had come for us. As the men stood staring at the tufts of wolf fur matted with raw human flesh, these hardened survivors—men I had known my whole life—completely shattered. “Chief! You told us she was just being a jealous bitch!” one of them wailed, his voice cracking with a primal agony. “You said she made up the wolf sightings just to keep you from clearing the perimeter spikes! You said she wanted to ruin your moonlit hike with Serena! Now my wife is dead, and the wolves… they tore the baby right out of her!” Garrett Miller stood there, his entire body convulsing. He couldn’t even grip his hunting bow; it clattered onto the ice at his feet. I looked at the village entrance, now stained a deep, pulsing crimson, and I closed my eyes. In my previous life, during that brutal winter of the Great Hunt, Garrett—the man I called my husband and the leader of this ridge—had dismantled our only defense. He had pulled the iron wolf-stakes from the main trail just so his “golden girl,” his childhood sweetheart Serena, could walk to the overlook without scratching her delicate ankles. He had taken every able-bodied hunter to stand guard for her, leaving the village a buffet. In that life, I was the one who set our own house on fire. I used the blaze and my own scorched flesh to drive the pack back, saving what was left of the town. But Serena, startled by a stray rabbit during her romantic moon-gaze, tripped and fell down a ravine, scarring her beautiful face. When Garrett returned, he didn’t see a hero. He saw a monster. While I lay unconscious, my body covered in third-degree burns from saving his people, he systematically cut the tendons in my wrists and ankles. He dragged me to the edge of a wolf den in the deep woods and threw me in like trash. “You were so jealous of Serena’s beauty that you set that fire to lure the beasts and disfigure her,” he had hissed, his eyes cold as the permafrost. “If you love wolves so much, go ahead and feed them.” But the universe granted me a cruel mercy. I woke up. I was back at the beginning of that night. This time, if he wanted to tear down the walls for his mistress, I would let him. I wouldn’t be the shield anymore. The sound of a distant howl pierced through my consciousness, dragging me out of a nightmare filled with the scent of copper and wet fur. In my past life, the heavy doors of the community hall had been breached. The wolves had poured in, turning the sanctuary into a slaughterhouse. I had crawled to Garrett’s feet, begging him to help, only for him to sever my nerves and leave me for the pack. All because Serena had cried, claiming I had “lured” the wolves in to hurt her. I opened my eyes. I was back in our cabin. The hearth was still warm. I grabbed a torch from the wall and reached for my boot. Tucked inside was a short, serrated hunting knife. In my last life, I only remembered it was there as I was dying. This time, it felt like an extension of my own hand. I slipped a longer blade into my coat—one I’d hidden earlier that day. God hadn’t brought me back to be a martyr. He’d brought me back to survive. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! I hammered an old brass pot with all my might. The village dogs started barking first, a frantic, rhythmic alarm. One by one, cabin doors swung open. “What the hell is going on?” “It’s the middle of the night, Cassidy! Put that damn thing away!” “Are you losing your mind?” My mother-in-law, Evelyn Miller, stormed out of her room, her coat draped haphazardly over her shoulders, her face twisted in a sneer. “What is wrong with you? People are trying to sleep!” I ignored her, holding my torch high toward the main trailhead—the artery that led from the mountains directly into our village. The light flickered over a gap in the snow. The iron wolf-stakes, the ones meant to impale anything charging down that path, were gone. A clean, empty strip of snow remained. That path led straight to the Starlight Pavilion. It was also the fastest route for a hungry pack. Sarah, the blacksmith’s wife, clutched her toddler to her chest. Her knees buckled, and she sank into the slush. “Where are the spikes? Who pulled the perimeter?” Silence fell over the women. From the dark treeline, another howl echoed. This one was closer. Much closer. The women huddled at the edge of the clearing, their faces pale under the orange torchlight. “Where are the men? Where’s Jackson?” Sarah whimpered. “I just had the baby. He said he was on patrol tonight!” I caught a scent on the wind—a cloying, sugary sweetness. It was sickly, metallic. It wasn’t perfume. I recognized it from the moment I died at the mouth of the wolf den. Back then, I hadn’t understood it. Later, an old trapper told me about “Apex Lure”—a pheromone mix that smelled sweet to humans but acted like a dinner bell for predators when mixed with fresh blood. I looked at the gap in the defenses and let out a cold, hollow laugh. “Garrett cleared the path,” I said, my voice cutting through the wind. “Serena wanted to see the moon from the pavilion tonight, and he didn’t want her tripping on the spikes. He took the entire patrol, the crossbows, and the lamp oil to play bodyguard for her while she looks at the stars.” Sarah’s mouth hung open. She looked down at her child, her fingers trembling. “He pulled the spikes? For her?” Evelyn lunged at me, grabbing my arm. “Don’t you dare lie about my son! You’re just bitter because he’s actually showing Serena some affection for once!” I looked down at her hand, then back at her. “Believe what you want, Evelyn. The wolves will be here in a minute to settle the argument.” Her grip loosened just a fraction. She turned toward the mountain and began screaming into the dark. “That little tramp! I knew she was trouble, dragging Garrett around like a lost puppy! She’s going to get us all killed!” Maddie, Garrett’s younger sister, ran out with only one boot on. She was barely fifteen. In my last life, she died under the community hall altar, her face half-gone. “Cassidy, is it true? Did he really take everyone?” I looked at her. “Yes.” She bit her lip, her eyes wide with terror. At the edge of the woods, a dozen pairs of glowing green eyes emerged from the shadows. Someone screamed. “Wolves! Run!” “To the Town Hall! The doors are the thickest there!” I grabbed Sarah by the shoulder. “Don’t just run!” I raised my voice, commanding the panic. “Elders and children inside first! Younger women, start moving the heavy tables against the doors! Get every heater, every log, every drop of cooking oil we have! Line the back windows with fire! And for God’s sake, do not go back to your houses for supplies! If you’re alone, you’re dead!” The crowd was a mess of sobbing women and wailing children. I slammed my brass pot onto the ground with a deafening crack. “Listen to me if you want to live!” The chill in my voice finally cut through their hysteria. They moved. Pregnant women were ushered in; grandfathers were hauled over shoulders. I led a group of women to barricade the main entrance with heavy oak dressers and water barrels. We lined the back windows with basins of burning oil. When the first green eyes approached the glass, the heat pushed them back—for now. I knew this wouldn’t be enough. In my last life, they hammered at the doors for hours until the wood splintered. But this time, I was going to buy us every second I could. Once the bolt was thrown, the air in the hall became thick with the smell of fear. Women were praying, muffling their children’s cries. Evelyn gripped my arm so hard she left bruises. “You have to go out there,” she hissed. I looked at her, incredulous. “You’re the Chief’s wife! Go find him! He’ll come back for you!” I peeled her fingers off me, one by one. “Three months ago, he brought Serena back to this ridge. Since then, every time I open my mouth, he calls me a ‘jealous shrew.’ You think he’s going to listen to me now?” Evelyn stammered, then puffed out her chest. “You have to try! You married into this family! You eat our food! You’re going to let us all die while you sit here safe?” I looked at her, the irony tasting like ash. “Funny, Evelyn. Two days ago, when I brought extra grain to the hall, you called me wasteful. Yesterday, when I begged Garrett not to pull the spikes, you told the whole town I was ‘cursing the ridge.’ And now, suddenly, I’m the Chief’s wife again?” She flinched. “Stop bringing up the past! Garrett is just… enchanted by her. He still cares about you.” I adjusted the knife at my hip. “Save that speech for the wolves.” A scratching sound started at the door. Scritch. Scritch. The room went silent. Every heart stopped. I turned to Maddie. “You’re fast, and you know the side trails. Go to the overlook. But do not go into the pavilion.” Maddie froze. I pressed a tuft of bloody wolf fur into her hand—something I’d snatched from the snow earlier. “Show this to Garrett. Tell him the perimeter is breached and the pack is in the village. If he doesn’t believe you, come back immediately. Do not argue with him. Do not plead.” Maddie’s eyes welled up. “He loves me, Cassidy. He’ll come back.” I looked at her with a pity she didn’t yet understand. “Just remember: don’t kneel, don’t beg, and don’t die for a man who isn’t there.” She nodded and slipped out the high back window, her slight frame disappearing into the white void of the storm. A moment later, the scratching at the door stopped. Then came the first heavy, bone-jarring thud. 2 The first hit was so hard a portrait of the town’s founders fell off the wall and shattered. A mother pressed her infant’s face into her chest, her own shoulders heaving with silent sobs. I pointed to the women who looked the most composed. “You, watch the back windows. Keep those oil basins high. Sarah, get the kids behind the stage. Block them in with the pews. Mrs. Gable, pour the oil three feet from the door. Not all of it—wait until they get through the first layer of wood.” Someone whispered, “Cassidy, can we really hold them off?” I didn’t lie. “Not all night.” The silence that followed was suffocating. “That’s why I’m going to the neighboring settlement for help,” I said. Evelyn immediately shrieked, “You can’t leave us!” I turned on her. “I thought you wanted me to go find your son?” She shut her mouth. I grabbed a backup crossbow from the wall and tucked the long knife into my belt. “Maddie went to the overlook. I’m going to Miller’s Creek. If either of us makes it, you have a chance.” Sarah grabbed my hand, her eyes red. “Cassidy… please.” I squeezed her hand and climbed toward the window. Fifteen minutes later, there was a thud at the back window. “She’s back!” “Did she bring them?” “Help her up!” Maddie tumbled back inside, covered in slush, one boot missing. Her left cheek was swollen, a dark purple handprint clearly visible against her pale skin. The cheering died instantly. Maddie looked up, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry…” She buried her face in her hands. “He won’t come.” Evelyn staggered back. “That’s impossible.” Sarah grabbed Maddie’s shoulders. “Why? Why won’t he come? His own family is in here!” Maddie shook as she spoke. “He said… he said I was in on the ‘prank.’ He said Cassidy told me to lie to him just to ruin Serena’s night.” She opened her hand to show the bloody fur. “I showed him this. Serena laughed. She said Cassidy probably killed a dog just to get the fur to trick him. She told Garrett that I was being ‘manipulated’ by a jealous wife.” Maddie’s voice turned into a sob. “Garrett hit me. He told me to go home and tell Cassidy that she’s pathetic.” The room felt like it had lost all oxygen. “He said the overlook is ‘tactically sound,’” Maddie choked out. “He said he has sentinels on the ridge and if there were real wolves, they would have fired the red signal flares by now.” I closed my eyes. The flares. In my last life, I found out too late. Garrett had confiscated all the signal flares and took them to the pavilion because Serena “hated the smell of sulfur” and didn’t want the “noisy tubes” near the village. The door bolt splintered. A shard of oak sliced Sarah’s cheek. “The door is giving!” someone screamed. I turned to Mrs. Gable. “Light it!” She tossed a torch into the oil. A wall of fire erupted just inside the door. The snarling on the other side turned into yelps of pain as the wolves backed off. But I knew the oil wouldn’t last. I slung the crossbow over my shoulder. “I’m going to Miller’s Creek.” Sarah nodded, her jaw set. Evelyn’s lips trembled, but when I looked at her, she finally looked away. “If you try to stop me again,” I told her, “you can go find your son yourself.” I climbed out the back window. Behind the hall, an old mare was tethered in the shed. In my last life, I hadn’t taken her. I had tried to run to the overlook on foot, only for Garrett’s men to catch me and break my limbs. Not this time. I swung onto the horse and kicked her into a gallop. We charged into the black, snowy night, heading for the only people who might still have their humanity. 3 The mare’s hooves had barely hit the main fork in the road when a tripwire snapped taut beneath the snow. The horse shrieked as her legs were swept out from under her. I was launched into the air, my forehead slamming into the frozen ground. Warm blood began to trickle down my brow, stinging my eyes. A group of men stepped out from behind the pines. Leading them was Jackson, Garrett’s right-hand man. He held a hunting rifle, looking down at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. “The Chief was right,” Jackson said. “He knew you’d try to run to the neighbors to spread your lies.” I pushed myself up, dizzy. “Jackson! The pack is in the village! Your wife and your newborn son are barricaded in the Town Hall! Get back there now!” Jackson’s face flickered. The mention of his son hit a nerve. “Jackson,” a younger hunter whispered, “maybe we should check?” Jackson’s grip on the rifle tightened. “Your son is exactly one month old today,” I hissed. “He’s wearing that little cedar charm you carved for him. The one with the ‘J’ on it.” Panic finally flared in Jackson’s eyes. But then, the man behind him held up a signal flare tube. “Jackson, look. The overlook sentinels just checked in. No red smoke. The Chief said she’d use the baby to manipulate you.” I stared at the flare tube. It was pristine. The seal hadn’t been broken. “It’s a lie,” I whispered. “Look at the tube, Jackson. If they had fired a flare, there would be carbon scoring on the rim. You’ve been a hunter for fifteen years—you really can’t see that it hasn’t been fired?” The hunter holding the tube instinctively looked at the tip. Jackson, embarrassed and angry, kicked out at me. I rolled, but his heavy boot caught me in the ribs. I gasped, the air leaving my lungs. My fingers brushed the snow, searching for my knife. “I’m not lying!” I wheezed. “The fire barricade won’t hold forever! If you don’t go back, you won’t even have a body to bury!” Jackson grabbed me by the hair, hauling me up. “Shut up!” His eyes were bloodshot. He was terrified, and that terror was turning into rage. “The Chief has been hunting since he was ten. You think he wouldn’t know if a pack was down? He saved my life three times. I trust him. I don’t trust a wife who can’t handle her husband looking at another woman.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Garrett saved you, so you’re going to let him murder your son?” Jackson’s hand shook. “Jackson, come on,” the other hunter urged. “The Chief said if she makes a scene at the next settlement, it’ll ruin Serena’s reputation. We have to bring her in.” I laughed, a wet, bloody sound. “You men are fascinating. Your families are screaming for help behind a wooden door, and here you are, protecting the ‘reputation’ of a mistress.” Jackson’s face turned purple. He pressed the barrel of his rifle against my forehead. “The Chief said if you caused trouble, we should bring you to the overlook so you can watch Serena be ‘honored’ by the village.” I looked down at the snow. “Go back, Jackson. Maybe you’ll get there in time to find a piece of your son’s blanket.” “You bitch!” He raised his hand to strike me again. I reached for the long knife in my coat, but the other hunter tackled me, pinning my arms. “She’s armed, Jackson!” They stripped the long blade from me and tossed it into the woods. Jackson didn’t find the short serrated knife hidden in my boot. It stayed pressed against my ankle—my last resort. He tied my hands behind my back with rough hemp rope, pulling it until the skin broke. “Load her up,” Jackson barked. I was tossed onto the back of a horse like a carcass. “Jackson, if the village really is…” the younger hunter started. Jackson turned and backhanded him. “You doubting the Chief now?” But Jackson’s voice was an octave lower than it had been before. He climbed onto his horse and looked at me with cold spite. “You’re going to sit in the snow and watch, Cassidy. You’re going to watch Serena sit by the Chief’s side, and you’re going to realize you’ve lost.” I turned my head toward the village. Through the wind, I heard a sickening crack. The sound of a door bolt failing. Or a bone. 4 The bonfire at the overlook was roaring. By the time the smell of roasting meat reached me, the blood on my forehead had frozen into a dark crust. Garrett was sitting by the fire, draped in a white fox-fur coat that he was currently wrapping around Serena’s shoulders. Serena huddled into him, sipping warm cider. When she saw me being dragged in, her eyes went wide and tearful. She covered her mouth with a delicate hand. “Oh, Cassidy… what happened to your face?” She leaned closer into Garrett. “This is all my fault. If I hadn’t wanted to see the moon, she wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to ruin it.” Jackson shoved me onto my knees in the snow. My kneecaps hit a buried rock, and I bit my lip to keep from screaming. Garrett looked down at me, his brow furrowed in deep, performative disappointment. “Cassidy. To think you’d stoop so low as to try and provoke the neighboring settlements just for a little attention.” I spat blood onto the snow. “Garrett, the Town Hall is being breached. If you take the men back right now, you might save some of them.” Garrett stood up and walked toward me. He tilted my chin up with the toe of his boot. “Still playing the part? You’re committed, I’ll give you that.” I stared up at him. “Send one man. Just one, to look down the ridge.” Garrett hesitated for a split second. Serena immediately started coughing—a frail, racking sound that made her shoulders shake. “Garrett, please don’t fight with her because of me,” she sobbed, tears spilling over. “I know I shouldn’t have come back. I shouldn’t have asked for this. I’ll just go. If a wolf catches me on the dark trail, then at least Cassidy will be happy.” Garrett’s face hardened. He turned and delivered a stinging slap across my face. My head snapped to the side. My ears rang. “I am sick of your theatrics, Cassidy! The more you lie, the more disgusted I am by the sight of you!” I looked at him, my vision blurring. “Your mother is in that hall.” Serena grabbed his sleeve. “Garrett, your mother has the whole village with her. She’s fine. And like you said, if anything was wrong, the sentinels would have fired the red smoke.” That was all it took. Garrett’s lingering doubt vanished. “Jackson, tie her to the windward tree,” Garrett commanded. “Use the thickest rope. No one unties her tonight. Let her sit in the cold and think about how malicious she’s become.” Jackson didn’t meet my eyes. “Yes, Chief.” He dragged me to a lone pine at the edge of the cliff. The wind whipped across the ridge, biting into my skin. The rope bit into my shoulders, grinding against the bone. I looked at Garrett one last time. “You chose this spot because it’s sheltered from the wind and the sound, Garrett. The mountain blocks the screams from the valley. Do you really not know that, or do you just not want to hear them?” “Gag her,” Garrett barked. Jackson stuffed a strip of cloth into my mouth. Near the fire, two young hunters were laughing, holding their mugs. “The Chief’s wife has finally lost it. Imagine being so jealous of Serena that you’d claim there’s a wolf pack.” “Serena’s got soft feet,” another laughed. “The Chief cleared the spikes for her—so what? Nothing’s happened in this village for ten years. Cassidy’s just looking for an excuse to be the victim.” I closed my eyes and listened to the wind. They thought the disaster was miles away. They didn’t realize it was already closing its jaws around the throats of everyone they loved. In the dead of night, the wind shifted. Faint sounds began to drift up from the valley. High-pitched whistles. Screams. The sound of wood splintering. But the wind was too strong, and the bonfire was too loud. Garrett’s “Starlight Pavilion” worked exactly as intended: it was a bubble of ignorance. Only I knew that those sounds were the ends of lives. As dawn began to grey the sky, the fire died down. Serena rested her head on Garrett’s shoulder. “Garrett, I wish every day could be like this.” Garrett kissed her forehead. “It will be.” I almost laughed behind my gag. In the future. They were actually talking about a future. Jackson finally untied me when the sun broke the horizon. My wrists were blue, and my feet were numb. Garrett didn’t even look at me. “Back to the village,” he ordered. Serena leaned on his arm. “Cassidy’s been out here all night. I’m sure she’s learned her lesson, right?” I said nothing. Some lessons are only taught by corpses. The group began the hike down, laughing and sharing stories from the night before. But as we rounded the final bend into the village entrance, the laughter died. The sight waiting for them was a landscape of blackened wood, shattered furniture, and overturned basins. And the bodies. Oh, the bodies. They were everywhere—disemboweled, torn apart, and half-eaten in the snow.

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1 The night I discovered Sienna’s affair, I turned the gas on the kitchen stove to its maximum setting. I sat on the floor, my thumb trembling against the striker of a silver lighter, and looked up at her with a smile that felt like a jagged blade. “How about we just stop? Both of us. Right now.” For the first time in our five-year marriage, I saw genuine terror in her eyes. Then the front door burst open. My mother rushed in, the cold winter air trailing behind her like a shroud, and she slapped me across the face so hard my vision blurred. “Over a woman?” she screamed, her voice cracking. “You’d take your own mother’s life over a woman?” That night, she held me as I sobbed until dawn. I promised her I wouldn’t try again. I promised her I would find a way to live. But the very next morning, when I went to her house to apologize, I found her lying peacefully on her bed. A pill bottle sat on the nightstand, empty. Beside it was a single sheet of stationery with one line of elegant, cursive script: If a life is the price to save your marriage, Owen, then take mine. Not yours. Everything followed the script my mother had written with her life. Sienna became the woman I had first fallen in love with. She deleted every contact, blocked every ghost from her past, and came home at exactly 5:30 PM every day. She accounted for every minute of her time. When I woke up screaming from nightmares in the middle of the night, she would pull me into her arms, whispering, “I’m here, I’m right here. Don’t be afraid.” Everyone told me she had “found her way back.” They said she was a changed woman. But I couldn’t feel the joy they expected. Every touch of hers, every whispered “I love you,” felt like it had been bought with my mother’s blood. I began to see her—my mother—everywhere. In the reflection of store windows, in the crowd outside my office. My psychiatrist diagnosed me with severe visual hallucinations brought on by PTSD. “When you see her,” the doctor said, “close your eyes. Count to ten. Remind yourself that she’s gone.” And so I did. Every time the ghost of my mother appeared, I counted. One, two, three… and she would vanish. Until the day I saw her standing outside a bistro downtown. I closed my eyes. I counted to ten. Then twenty. I repeated the ritual a dozen times, but when I opened my eyes, she was still there. She was solid. She was real. I approached the window, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Through the glass, I heard her voice—that soft, maternal lilt I had mourned for three years. “Sienna, I know it’s hard on you. But if we didn’t do this, Owen would have found out about you and Miles. He’s unstable. He would have hurt Miles, or himself.” Sienna’s voice was low, filtered through the heavy glass. “I know, Evelyn. But you’ve sacrificed so much. To stay hidden for three years just so he’d believe you were gone…” My mother sighed, patting Sienna’s hand. “As long as you stay with him, as long as Miles is safe, I’d do it all again.” I stood there, paralyzed. She wasn’t dead. The suicide note was a script. The pill bottle was a prop. They had staged a tragedy, weaponized my grief, and buried a living woman—all to protect the man she was sleeping with. … “Sienna, honey, go settle the bill. Miles wanted those chestnut cream tarts from the bakery across town. Go grab some for him.” My mother’s gentle voice drifted through the crack in the bistro’s private dining room door. I gripped the fabric of my overcoat pocket until my knuckles turned a ghostly white. Ten minutes ago, I had been a man mourning a saint. Now, I was a man witnessing a haunting. My body felt hollow, filled only with a cold, creeping frost. “Mom, why don’t you take Miles to the car and wait for me? It’s freezing out there,” Sienna said. Her tone was saturated with the same patience and warmth she gave me every night. I didn’t push the door open. I didn’t scream. I barely even breathed. I turned and walked away, my footsteps silent on the carpeted floor. I stepped out into the winter night, the wind cutting across my face like a razor. I hailed a cab, gave my address, and slumped into the backseat. I pulled out my phone and opened the cloud-synced dashcam app for Sienna’s SUV. She had linked it to my phone months ago—a grand gesture of “transparency” to prove she was being faithful. The footage loaded. Thirty minutes ago, the car had pulled up to a gated community in the western suburbs. Miles stepped out, followed by a middle-aged woman wearing an oversized coat, a mask, and sunglasses. My mother. She was fully camouflaged, a fugitive from her own son’s life. It was almost poetic. One woman faked her death to protect a home-wrecker. The other played the role of the grieving, devoted wife to keep the lie alive. In this masterpiece of a play, I was the only clown, spending my nights in agony over a grave that was empty. When I got home, I didn’t turn on the lights. I shed my coat and sat on the cold hardwood floor of the living room. Finally, the light of the keypad flashed. The lock clicked. Sienna was home. She brought a gust of chilly air and a small, elegant white box with her. When she saw me sitting on the floor in the dark, her face dropped. She didn’t even stop to take off her heels; she rushed to me, pulling at my arms. “Owen? Baby, the floor is freezing. Where are your slippers?” Her voice was thick with concern, as if I were a piece of fine porcelain she was terrified of breaking. I let her pull me up. My eyes drifted to the white box in her hand. The logo was from an old-fashioned bakery on the south side of the city. “Where were you?” I asked. My voice sounded thin, like it belonged to someone else. Sienna didn’t blink. She set the tarts on the coffee table and reached out to straighten my collar. “I had to meet a client. I was passing the south side and remembered how much you used to love these tarts, so I waited in line to grab some.” Her eyes were so sincere. There wasn’t a flicker of a lie in them. I stared at her. “The office is in the north end. What client is staying all the way south?” Sienna’s hands stilled for a fraction of a second. A shadow passed over her eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by her usual mask of indulgence. “A supplier from out of town. He’s staying at the Marriott down there.” She slid her arm through mine, guiding me toward the sofa. “Come on, don’t overthink it. You haven’t been sleeping well. The doctor said you need to keep your stress levels down.” She was using my “illness” as a shield. Reminding me that I was the one who was broken, not her. I stared at the box. “Open them. I want to try one.” Sienna looked relieved. She untied the silk ribbon, took out a delicate tart topped with chestnut puree, and held it to my lips. “Here. Open up.” I didn’t move. I just looked at her, the silence stretching between us until it became heavy. “Sienna,” I whispered. “Did you forget I’m allergic to chestnuts?” The air in the room curdled. Sienna’s hand froze mid-air. Panic, raw and unfiltered, flashed across her face before she could suppress it. “Oh… Owen, I’m so sorry.” She quickly withdrew her hand, tossing the tart back into the box like it was poison. “I’ve just been so overwhelmed with work. I got confused.” Confused. Of course she was confused. Because I wasn’t the one who loved chestnut tarts. Miles was. This box wasn’t a gift for me; it was the leftover prop from her afternoon with her real family. I pulled the corners of my mouth into something that wasn’t a smile. “It’s okay.” I stood up and walked toward the bedroom. Sienna grabbed my wrist from behind, her voice tight with a suppressed, exhausted frustration. “Owen, I’m just tired. Really tired. Can you please stop looking at me with that look in your eyes?” I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. “Then tell me, Sienna. What look am I supposed to give you?” 2 “I’m not mad at you,” I said softly. I felt the tension drain out of her body. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder. As she breathed, I caught the faint, unmistakable scent of sandalwood incense. It was the specific brand my mother used for her evening meditations. My stomach did a violent somersault. I wrenched myself away from her and ran to the bathroom, retching into the sink. Sienna followed me, frantic. She rubbed my back with one hand while pouring a glass of water with the other. “What’s wrong? Was it something you ate?” I took the water and rinsed my mouth, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed, a man haunted by the living. “Maybe it’s just the ‘illness’ again,” I whispered, closing my eyes. Sienna went quiet. I saw a flash of hidden irritation in the mirror—a flicker of the burden I had become—but when she spoke, her voice was honey. “I’ll take you for a check-up tomorrow morning. We’ll get you sorted out.” The next morning, the space beside me in bed was cold. I found Sienna in the walk-in closet, adjusting her blazer. Seeing me awake, she came over and kissed my cheek. “Owen, honey, something came up at the branch office. An emergency. Can the driver take you to your appointment? I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” She sounded so genuinely regretful. I looked at the crisp, perfect folds of her sleeves. “Okay.” She seemed startled by my easy compliance. She paused, then smiled beautifully. “I’ll be back in time for dinner. I love you.” The door clicked shut. I sat there for a long time. Then I got up, dressed, and called a car. But I didn’t go to the clinic. I went to my mother’s old house—the small craftsman cottage in the suburbs that had been sitting empty since her “death.” Sienna had forbidden me from coming here, claiming it would “trigger” my hallucinations. I punched in the code. The lock turned. The house wasn’t dusty. It was pristine. There were fresh flowers in a vase on the entry table. And there, on the mat, was a pair of navy blue men’s loafers. They weren’t my size. They were Miles’s. I walked further in. I heard a muffled hum from the kitchen. Standing behind the frosted glass door, I saw Miles. He was wearing a simple linen apron, whistling to himself as he sliced fruit. When he heard the floorboard creak, he turned around. His eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly recovered, flashing a clean, boyish smile. “Owen! Hey. What are you doing here?” He set the knife down and wiped his hands on his apron, walking toward me with a casualness that made my skin crawl. “Sienna said you’ve been having a rough time lately. She told me to stay away so you could rest.” I looked at his face—that mask of manufactured innocence. “Why are you here, Miles?” He sighed, his expression turning mournful. “I just couldn’t let the place fall apart after Mrs. Reed passed. I come by to clean. It’s the least I could do. She was like a second mother to me.” He reached out to pat my arm. I stepped back, my eyes falling on his wrist. He was wearing a vintage Patek Philippe. It was a family heirloom—my grandfather’s watch. My mother had promised it to me for my thirtieth birthday. Miles followed my gaze. He rubbed the watch face sheepishly. “Oh, this? Sienna gave it to me a few days ago. She said it was your mother’s wish—that I should have something to remember her by.” He looked at me, his eyes wide and “honest.” “You don’t mind, do you, Owen?” I stared at the watch. My heart felt like it was being hollowed out with a rusted spoon. Sienna gave it to him. No—this house, this life, my mother’s “legacy”—they had turned everything that belonged to me into a playground for her lover. My mother and my wife had built him a sanctuary out of my grief. The front door slammed open. Sienna marched in, her face going ghost-white when she saw me standing by the kitchen. “Owen? What on earth are you doing here?” She moved quickly, stepping between Miles and me. The protective instinct in her posture was a physical blow to my chest. “I thought you were at the branch office,” I said, my voice eerily calm. Sienna swallowed hard. “I… I had to come back to grab some files.” “You keep your files at my dead mother’s house?” Miles spoke up from behind her, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Sienna, don’t be hard on him. He just misses his mom.” Sienna glanced back at him. I saw it then—a look of deep, agonizing tenderness. When she turned back to me, that tenderness was gone, replaced by a frayed, thinning patience. “Owen, stop this. Let’s go home.” She reached for my arm. I recoiled as if her touch would burn me. “That watch, Sienna. By what right did you give it to him?” 3 Sienna’s hand hung in the air. She looked at the watch on Miles’s wrist, and for a moment, the room was suffocatingly silent. Miles looked like a kicked puppy. He started fumbling with the clasp. “Owen, man, if you want it back, just take it. I just wanted something of hers to hold onto.” His voice wavered, performing the perfect act of a victim. Sienna’s brow furrowed. When she spoke, her voice was sharp with disapproval. “Owen, it’s a watch. Why do you have to be so petty? Mom loved Miles. This was her wish. Do you have to make everything so difficult for everyone?” Petty. Difficult. So that was who I was to her. A nuisance. An obstacle to their “rightful” happiness. I looked Sienna in the eye. “She loved him so much she gave him our family heirloom? Tell me, Sienna—who is her son? Me, or Miles?” Sienna took a deep breath, visibly reigning in her temper. “Owen, have you forgotten why she’s gone? Have you forgotten that she died because of you?” The words were a jagged shard of glass driven into my lungs. It was the ultimate trump card. The reminder that my mother had “sacrificed” herself to stop me from ending my own life. It was the guilt they used to keep me in a cage. You don’t get to complain, the words implied. You’re a murderer who survived. I stood there, the blood feeling like it was draining out of my extremities. My vision began to fracture. Miles’s face began to distort. In the flickering light of my own mind, he began to look like my mother. She was standing there, pointing a finger at my chest, her face twisted in rage. Owen, you ungrateful wretch. Why didn’t you just die? The auditory hallucinations surged, a roar of white noise and screaming in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut, counting frantically in my head. One. Two. Three… “Owen?” Sienna’s voice changed. She realized something was wrong. She stepped forward, gripping my shoulders. “Owen? Are you seeing things again?” I opened my eyes. My mother’s phantom was gone. There was only Miles, watching me with a look of calculated pity. Sienna hauled me toward the door, her grip firm. She tossed a quick, stressed sentence over her shoulder to Miles. “I have to get him to the hospital.” The car ride was a blur of speed. At the clinic, Sienna rushed through the paperwork for an emergency consult. But just as the nurse called my name, her phone vibrated. She looked at the screen. Her expression shifted instantly. “Owen, honey, go in without me. I have an emergency call from the office I have to take.” She patted my arm, her voice shifting back into that “nurturing” tone she used for the broken. I watched her hurry toward the stairwell. I didn’t go into the exam room. Instead, I followed her, my footsteps light. The heavy fire door hadn’t closed all the way. Sienna’s voice, muffled but clear, drifted through the gap. “Miles, baby, please don’t be upset. He’s having another episode. The doctor said he can’t handle any stress right now. Just let me settle him down, and I’ll come over tonight. We’ll go to that gallery opening you wanted to see, okay? Don’t overthink the watch. It’s yours. I love you.” I leaned against the cold, sterile wall of the hallway. She was using her most intimate voice—the one that used to belong to me—to soothe another man. And my own mental collapse, the very thing she helped cause, was nothing more than a bargaining chip to keep her lover happy. I didn’t confront her. I walked back to the waiting area and sat on a plastic chair for a long time. When Sienna finally returned, her face was a masterpiece of wifely concern. “How was it? What did the doctor say?” I looked at her. “The doctor said it’s getting worse.” A flicker of annoyance crossed her face, gone in a heartbeat. “It’s okay. We’ll get through it. Let’s go. I’ll take you to that Japanese place you love.” At the restaurant, she ordered all my old favorites with practiced ease. Halfway through the meal, she checked her watch. “Owen, I’m so sorry, but I have to go to Portland tonight. A project went sideways, and I have to handle it in person.” Portland. The gallery opening. I stared into my miso soup. “Is it absolutely necessary?” Sienna reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow, I promise. Just stay home, take your meds, and be a good boy for me.” I slowly pulled my hand away and wiped my mouth. “Okay. Go.” 4 8:00 PM. Sienna rolled her suitcase out the door. She kissed my cheek in the foyer. “Wait for me,” she whispered. The moment the door clicked shut, I grabbed my keys. I didn’t take my car. I took the beat-up sedan we kept for the housekeeper. I followed her black SUV from a distance. She didn’t head for the highway to Portland. Instead, she looped around the city and drove into an elite gated community in the western hills. I parked a block away and watched. She swiped a keycard at a modern glass-and-stone villa. Ten minutes later, I walked up to the perimeter wall. The security was lax. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the scene inside was as bright and clear as a movie. The dining room was bathed in warm, amber light. Sienna had taken off her blazer and was wearing a soft gray cashmere sweater. She was carefully placing candles on a two-tier cake. Miles sat at the table, wearing a “Birthday Boy” hat, looking up at her with worshipful eyes. The kitchen door opened. My mother walked out, carrying a steaming bowl of noodles. She smiled, setting the bowl in front of Miles, and affectionately patted his back. Sienna lit the candles. She dimmed the lights. The three of them huddled together, singing. Miles closed his eyes to make a wish. My mother and Sienna shared a look of pure, domestic bliss. They looked like a family. A real family. Outside, the first flakes of a winter storm began to fall, dusting my coat. I stood in the shadows, watching the tableau of their happiness. A sudden, white-hot spike of pain pierced my brain. The world began to tilt. Inside the window, the mother who had “died” to save me turned her head. She looked straight through the glass, straight into the darkness where I stood. Why are you still alive? If you were gone, Miles could truly be mine. Her lips moved, but the voice boomed in my ears like thunder. I clutched my head, stumbling back. “No… I didn’t…” I turned and ran, tripping over the frozen ground. The wind howled. Every tree I passed took on Miles’s face, laughing at me. Your wife is mine. Your mother is mine. You have nothing. I scrambled into the car and slammed the gas pedal down. I just had to get away. The world was a kaleidoscope of red and green lights, twisting into monsters. The sound was deafening. The world spun. An airbag exploded into my face, and then everything went black. Total, silent darkness. I don’t know how much time passed. Eventually, a voice began to pull me back. “Owen! Owen, look at me!” I opened my eyes to the harsh, sterile hum of fluorescent lights. My head throbbed. Sienna was there. Her face was a mask of terror, her eyes bloodshot. She was still wearing the gray cashmere sweater. “Doctor! He’s awake!” She grabbed my hand, her fingers shaking uncontrollably. “Owen, you terrified me. Why were you out in the west hills alone?” I looked at her. I looked at the tears tracking down her face, the desperation in her eyes. But I felt nothing. No love, no hate, no recognition. My mind was a clean whiteboard, wiped of every mark. I slowly pulled my hand out of hers and shrank back into the hospital bed. “Who are you?” I whispered. Sienna froze.

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1 It all started with those four words Cormac sent right before he vanished into the deep: “I want to go home.” For five years, Elena took over his mantle as a deep-sea salvage expert, scouring those same dark waters for any trace of him. She searched until her own luck ran out. As her husband and the executor of her estate, the lawyer sat me down after the accident. “Mrs. Rhodes revised her will fourteen times,” he said, his voice as dry as the parchment in his hands. “The final version has one specific directive.” He looked at me with a mix of pity and professional detachment. “She left her entire estate to you, Brooks. But she requested—no, she mandated—that she be buried in the same plot as Cormac Prescott.” At the funeral, the air was thick with the scent of lilies and hushed scandals. People whispered as they passed the two caskets. “What a tragedy,” a woman murmured. “They were so perfectly matched. Soulmates, really.” Elena’s parents didn’t even try to hide their resentment. Her mother’s face was a mask of grief and fury as she hissed at me, “If it weren’t for you and that ridiculous engagement, they would have been together years ago. None of this would have happened.” I stared at the twin headstones. I thought about those fourteen revisions. The only thing she never changed was the requirement to be buried with him. In the final version, she had mentioned me exactly once—a footnote at the very beginning. I realized then that no matter how hard I ran to catch up to them, I was never written into their ending. I was just the static between their frequencies. After the service, my car hydroplaned on the rain-slicked highway. As the world spun into a blur of metal and glass, I didn’t feel afraid. I felt a strange, hollow sense of relief. Then, I woke up. The air was salty, humid, and smelled of expensive sunblock. I was standing on a pier. Walking a few paces ahead of me were Elena and Cormac. I took a long, shaky breath. This was the island trip—the one right before Cormac’s “disappearance” in my previous life. Cormac noticed I’d slowed down. He turned back, waving a hand with that effortless, boyish charm that always made me feel small. “Hey, Brooks! Move it or lose it!” Elena stood beside him. She was wearing the cerulean beach dress I’d picked out for her, but standing next to Cormac in his blue-and-white linen shirt, they looked like a curated set. A matching pair. I silently zipped up my windbreaker, hiding the pale yellow shirt I wore underneath—a color that felt suddenly, jarringly out of place. “Come on,” Cormac teased, his voice full of that playful energy Elena loved. “The zoo closes at five, and I want to see the lions!” Elena gave him a fond, indulgent smile. When she looked at me, her expression shifted into a silent, impatient urge to keep up. She had completely forgotten. This trip was supposed to be our getaway—the one we’d talked about for a year. I’d spent months pulling double shifts to clear a week of vacation, booked the flights the second they went on sale, and fought for the reservation at the resort. But six hours into the trip, Cormac had “accidentally” shown up at the same hotel. Our romantic getaway had instantly become a trio. When I finally caught up to them, Elena reached out and ruffled my hair, a gesture that felt more like she was petting a golden retriever than greeting a fiancé. “You’re so lethargic today. What’s up?” “Nothing,” I said, my voice flat. “Just the sun.” She didn’t push. She immediately turned back to Cormac to discuss the itinerary. They both loved “optimized” living—every vacation was a series of tactical strikes on tourist attractions. Listening to them debate the best route to the exhibit, I suddenly spoke up. “I’m going back to the hotel.” Elena didn’t even look up from the map. “Brooks, don’t mess with the schedule. We’ve only got three hours.” She caught herself and blinked, finally looking at me. I usually followed her lead without question. I was the “easygoing” one, the one who didn’t mind if my plans were overwritten by Cormac’s “better” ideas. But the weight of a lifetime of being second-best was pressing down on my chest. I turned to walk away. Elena grabbed my wrist, her grip firm. “What is wrong with you today? We agreed yesterday that Cormac’s plan was better. It’s more efficient.” My arm felt trapped in her hold. A familiar sense of powerlessness washed over me. In Elena’s world, Cormac’s way was the gold standard. Whether it was choosing a career path, buying groceries, or planning a wedding, “Cormac suggested” was the final word. Elena’s tone sharpened as she kept prodding me for an explanation. I didn’t want to argue. I just pulled off my sun-shirt. “I have a UV allergy,” I said. “Can I go now?” My arms and neck, which I’d neglected to coat in sunblock while worrying about their luggage, were covered in angry, raised red welts. Elena’s grip loosened instantly. Cormac let out a dramatic gasp. “Man, I didn’t know it was that bad! Why didn’t you say something?” I forced a thin smile. In my last life, I hadn’t been allergic. But after two hours of chasing Cormac’s “optimized” walking tour in the midday heat, my body was literally rejecting this life. “We came all this way,” Cormac said, his voice dropping into a dejected pout. “This sucks.” Elena frowned, her eyes darting between Cormac’s disappointment and my ruined skin. Suddenly, she pulled me toward the taxi stand. “Cormac, go to the zoo. I’ll take him back to the room and get him settled.” I was stunned. “I can take a cab by myself, Elena.” She gave a soft, dismissive laugh. “Don’t be silly. I’d worry too much.” As we drove away, leaving Cormac standing on the curb, a surreal feeling settled over me. For the first time in my memory, I wasn’t the one being left behind. Back at the hotel, Elena went out to find a pharmacy. I followed her to the door, wanting to offer a genuine thank you for choosing me for once. But through the cracked door, I heard her on the phone. Her voice was that low, intimate honey-tone she usually reserved for me in our early days. “Don’t worry about him, Cor. Just keep going. You’ve been looking forward to the big cat exhibit for weeks. Don’t let this ruin your mood.” She turned and saw me. She didn’t look guilty, just slightly surprised. “Why aren’t you resting?” I looked down at my feet, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh bubbling up in my throat. Why did I think anything had changed? “Go find Cormac,” I said. “I’m fine now.” She tightened her grip on the bag of ointment she’d just bought. “Brooks, don’t start. I’m your fiancée. I’m here, aren’t I?” “I’m serious, Elena. Go.” She studied me for a long beat, searching for the usual flash of hurt or anger. Finding none, she set the medicine on the nightstand. “Okay. Make sure you use the cream.” I nodded. “I’ll bring you back some fresh coconut water,” she added, her voice lighter now that the obligation was lifted. That night, she didn’t come back to the room. I turned on the local cable channel and saw them. It was a “Couple’s Challenge” hosted by the island’s tourism board at the beach pier. They were tearing through the obstacles with terrifying synchronicity. At the final stage, the host’s voice boomed over the speakers: “And for the grand prize, our leaders just need to share a three-minute kiss!” I felt my heart contract. On the screen, Elena and Cormac shared a look. It was electric. I couldn’t tell who moved first, but in a heartbeat, they were locked together. It wasn’t a staged kiss for a prize. It was desperate, hungry, and lingering. The crowd went wild. The host was gushing, “This pair is incredible! They look like they’re enjoying the process more than the prize!” I snapped the TV off. The black screen reflected my pale, ghostly face. When they finally returned, they saw the TV was warm. Cormac looked frantic, his words tripping over each other. “Brooks, man, that show… it was so physical. We knew you weren’t up for it with the rash, so we didn’t want to make you feel bad by asking.” Elena just nodded, her face calm. “You wouldn’t have enjoyed it anyway. You don’t really get the competitive side of things.” She’d used that line on me a thousand times. You wouldn’t get it. She used it to explain why I wasn’t invited to their late-night “brainstorming” sessions, why she only went skydiving with him, why their inside jokes felt like a wall I couldn’t climb. “Whatever you say,” I replied quietly. Elena sighed and pulled a small shell bracelet from her pocket. “Stop being moody. We did the whole thing just to get you this. I know you like the local crafts.” Cormac beamed. “Yeah! We both thought it was totally your style.” The shells were beautiful, sure. But it was a participation trophy. The actual grand prize for that contest was a five-course candlelight dinner and a night in the honeymoon suite. They didn’t mention that. Elena ran her fingers through my hair, leaning in close. “I just want you to be happy, Brooks. To get everything you want.” Her voice was so sincere, so reminiscent of the woman I’d fallen in love with three years ago. Back then, she didn’t think I was “simple.” Back then, she loved my slow pace. On her twenty-fifth birthday, she’d given me a hand-polished pearl bracelet she’d made herself. She’d made a wish: To give Brooks a hundred more gifts. But then she started asking Cormac what I liked. Slowly, every gift for me came with a “thank you” gift for Cormac. Then the gifts were the same. Then, eventually, the gifts stopped coming to me at all. Until our wedding day in the last life. Cormac had promised me a “wedding gift” I’d never forget. I waited for it all morning, only to find out the gift was his “disappearance”—a deep-sea dive he took because he “couldn’t bear” to see us wed. From that day on, Elena blamed me for his death. I never received another gift from her. But every year on Cormac’s birthday, she’d bring a beautifully wrapped package to his cenotaph. Now, as she whispered in my ear, asking what else I wanted, I reached down and unclasped the shell bracelet. “I want to break up,” I said. The room went tomb-quiet. Cormac was the first to find his voice, his tone trembling. “Are you mad at me, Brooks? It was just a game. We didn’t mean anything by the kiss.” I didn’t look at him. Elena opened her mouth to speak, but Cormac suddenly burst into tears and ran out of the room. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting toward me, and then she bolted after him. I followed them at a distance, my footsteps silent on the carpeted hall. I found them on the balcony. Elena was holding him, his face buried in her neck, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing right there. “It’s my fault,” Cormac sobbed. “I shouldn’t have pushed her to enter. Brooks saw… he knows. He’ll never forgive us.” Elena stroked his back, her voice a soothing murmur. “It’s okay. He’s just sensitive. Give him a few days, I’ll talk him around.” “But what about the wedding? What if he leaves?” Elena paused. “I’m going to marry him, Cormac. But you’re the one I belong to. He’s… he’s steady. He’s simple. He’s not going anywhere. He doesn’t have the heart to leave us.” I felt my breath hitch. Suddenly, a memory from the first timeline clicked into place—a piece of a puzzle I’d been too blind to see. At our wedding rehearsal dinner in the previous life, everyone had been drinking heavily. Elena had walked Cormac to his car while the rest of the wedding party trailed behind. I’d been standing in the shadows when I heard one of her bridesmaids laugh. “I can’t believe she’s actually going through with it. Brooks is such a downgrade from Cormac. He’s so… bland.” Another friend had chimed in, “Well, you marry the boring ones for stability, right? He’s a ‘safe harbor.’ Besides, the guy is so oblivious, she could do anything and he’d just smile and say thank you.” I had stood there, frozen. I’d seen Elena turn around, her face a mask of shock, and she’d actually slapped the girl. But the damage was done. I spent the next five years trying to be less “bland.” I changed my clothes, my hobbies, my hair. I tried to mirror Cormac. The first time Elena saw the “new” me, she had frozen. She’d smiled, but it was a brittle, pained thing. “You look… different. It’s good to try new styles, I guess.” I’d ignored the itching of the expensive wool suits and the heavy watches, thinking I was winning. But after Cormac died, she’d snapped. She’d thrown a heavy glass ashtray at my head, screaming, “Do you think you can replace him? Do you have any idea how pathetic you look trying to mimic a dead man?” The scar on my hairline still throbbed in phantom pain. Everyone had hated me. Elena’s parents blamed me for their “surrogate son’s” death. My own parents thought I was the interloper who broke up a perfect pair. Elena’s friends treated me like a ghost at my own table. And yet, Cormac had chosen to dive. Elena had chosen to propose to me. I was just the tool they used to punish each other. I took a deep breath and pulled out my phone. I called my father. “Dad,” I said, “I’m calling off the wedding.” My father didn’t ask if I was okay. He barked, “Do you have any idea how that makes Cormac look? People will think he’s a homewrecker! Think about the family’s reputation!” I was stunned. “What about my happiness, Dad?” “You’ve always been the resilient one, Brooks. You’ll get over it in a week. Cormac is sensitive. He can’t handle this kind of drama.” I hung up. Everyone assumed I didn’t care because I didn’t scream. But I remembered everything. I remembered being the “easy” child who was ignored while Cormac (our neighbor and my parents’ favorite) was celebrated. I remembered the look of hollow longing on Elena’s face as we said our vows. I walked to the ferry terminal and bought a ticket off the island. On the way, I called a realtor. I wanted to sell the house—the one we’d bought together for our future. But since the deed hadn’t been finalized, I needed to file for a title search. I spent hours at the County Clerk’s office. When I finally got to the window and handed over my paperwork, the clerk frowned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rhodes. You don’t have the standing to request this.” I blinked. “I don’t understand. I paid half the down payment.” The clerk shook her head and pushed the papers back. “The property is not registered in your name, sir.” I stepped out of line, my mind a white void. I called a friend in real estate to dig deeper. While I waited, Elena’s texts started flooding in. I ignored them. Finally, the call came. “Brooks… the house. It’s not in your name. Or Elena’s.” My heart plummeted. “Then whose is it?”

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My parents just opened a luxury hot spring resort upstate, and they gave me the very first black membership card. I didn’t have time to use it, so when it went missing from my dorm room a week ago, I didn’t think much of it. I figured it had just slipped behind my desk. But tonight, my phone buzzed. It was my dad. “Sophie, sweetie,” he said, sounding confused. “Did you forget that your card only provides a discount? It isn’t a pre-paid debit card.” I frowned, leaning back against my headboard. “I know that, Dad. Why?” “Well, there’s a girl here. She says she’s your roommate. It’s her birthday, and she’s currently treating your entire class to a VIP spa night on your ‘tab.’ She thinks the card covers the balance.” I felt a cold, sharp laugh bubble up in my chest. “I didn’t forget, Dad. And since this ‘business’ just walked through your front door, you and Mom should definitely take the order. Just… make sure she signs for everything.” 1 After I hung up, the sheer audacity of it hit me. My other two roommates, Riley and Tessa, were sitting across from me, scrolling through their laptops. The fourth bed in our suite belonged to Brooke Higgins. She was the only one missing—she’d spent the last three hours preening in front of the vanity before vanishing in a cloud of expensive-smelling perfume. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who stole the card. I remembered asking them about it last week. I’d mentioned it casually, just wondering if anyone had seen the sleek black card. Riley and Tessa had barely looked up, both giving me a genuine “no.” But Brooke? Brooke had snapped. “What is that supposed to mean?” she’d demanded, her voice rising an octave. “Are you accusing us of being thieves now?” “I was just asking, Brooke. It’s a new resort—” “It’s a membership to some tacky spa, Sophie! Who couldn’t afford that? You have such a dark, suspicious mind. It’s honestly pathetic.” I had been stunned into silence by her venom. “I wasn’t saying—” “It’s your property,” she’d hissed, cutting me off. “It’s not our job to babysit your stuff. Honestly, some people just love to show off. You act like you’re some billionaire heiress, but the second you lose one little card, you have a total meltdown. Was that card the result of months of your ‘savings’ just so you could flex on us?” I hadn’t bothered to argue. Brooke had been a nightmare since move-in day. She walked in with a designer tote that was a blatant knockoff of the one I actually owned, and when she realized mine was the real deal, she’d made me her primary target. She lived for the “fake it ’til you make it” lifestyle, constantly dropping names of socialites she didn’t know and brands her parents definitely couldn’t afford. I hadn’t realized she was stupid enough to steal a card she didn’t even understand. She thought it was a limitless gift card. The irony was delicious. Riley looked up from her bed, catching the look on my face. “What was that about? I heard your dad mention a roommate. Was it Brooke?” Brooke had spent the last semester branding herself as the “Queen Bee” of our year, looking down on Riley and Tessa because they didn’t wear labels. Naturally, they loathed her. “Apparently, Brooke is throwing a birthday bash at my parents’ resort,” I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. “And she invited the whole class… except us.” The two of them exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated interest. “Is there a disaster brewing?” Tessa asked, closing her laptop. “And can we go watch it?” “Oh, it’s a category five hurricane,” I replied, grabbing my leather jacket. “You guys want to see Brooke Higgins finally get her bill?” They were on their feet before I even finished the sentence. “Absolutely.” 2 We took an Uber to the Serene Springs Resort. The place was stunning—steam rising from the outdoor pools under the moonlight, the lobby smelling of eucalyptus and cedar. As we walked in, we saw them. A crowd of about thirty students from our psychology lecture were spilling out of the private locker rooms in white plush robes, laughing and shouting. It was a scene straight out of a high-end travel magazine. Brooke was right in the center, glowing with the reflected adoration of people who thought she was footing the bill. Then, she saw me. Her entire body went rigid. For a split second, sheer panic flashed in her eyes, and she instinctively ducked her head, trying to hide behind a tall guy in her circle. Before she could vanish, her best friend Lexi stepped forward. Lexi was the kind of person who lived for Brooke’s crumbs. She glared at us, her lip curling. “What are you three doing here? Brooke didn’t invite the ‘poverty squad’ to her party.” “Lexi, give it a rest,” Riley groaned. “No, I mean it,” Lexi snapped, looking at the other students to gain support. “You guys have spent the whole semester freezing Brooke out because you’re jealous of her family’s money. It’s disgusting that you’d show up now to try and leach off her birthday.” Brooke, seeing that the crowd was on her side, regained her composure. She stepped forward, putting on a weary, “bigger person” expression. “It’s fine, Lexi,” Brooke sighed. “Some people just don’t have any dignity. Sophie, I’ve literally bought out the services for the night. You should probably leave before security makes it awkward.” A few guys in the back started booing us. “Yeah, get out of here! Stop ruining the vibe!” I ignored them and walked straight to the front desk. The receptionist, a woman named Elena who had known me since I was ten, started to smile, but I gave her a tiny, barely perceptible shake of my head. “Have they booked out the entire resort?” I asked loudly. “No,” Elena replied, following my lead perfectly. “This young lady has simply stated that she will be personally responsible for the expenses of all her guests.” I turned back to Brooke. “Since the place isn’t ‘bought out,’ we’re staying. We’d like to book three rooms for the night. I don’t have my card on me, but I can give you the number—” “I’ll book it!” Brooke shouted, her voice shrill. “I’m booking the whole thing! Now! I want the resort closed to the public for the rest of the night. No one else comes in!” She was terrified I was about to recite the membership number she had in her pocket. Elena looked at me. I nodded, almost invisibly. “Of course, Miss,” Elena said to Brooke. “To close the resort to other guests on such short notice, there is a mandatory ‘Exclusive Buyout’ fee of fifteen thousand dollars. Are you sure?” “Whatever,” Brooke waved her hand dismissively, acting like she was bored. “Just put it on the card I gave you.” She thought she was playing with house money. She thought she was winning. The crowd went wild. “Brooke, you’re a legend!” someone yelled. Lexi turned to me, her face smug. “Hear that? You’re not welcome. Go find a Motel 6.” “The spa is supposed to be amazing,” another girl whispered, purposely loud enough for me to hear. “I heard they have an open bar for the VIPs and a seafood buffet. I can’t wait.” I looked at Brooke one last time. Despite everything, a small part of me felt a flicker of pity. I decided to give her one—and only one—chance to save herself. “Brooke, are you sure about this? With thirty people, plus the buyout fee, plus the premium liquor you’re ordering… you’re looking at a bill north of fifty thousand dollars. If you can’t pay that, it’s not just a social gaffe. It’s a felony. Defrauding an innkeeper is a serious charge.” The color drained from Brooke’s face for a heartbeat, but the crowd was already cheering her name. The ego won. 3 “Fifty thousand?” Brooke laughed, though it sounded a bit thin. “Sophie, just because that sounds like a fortune to your family doesn’t mean it’s a problem for mine. My parents spend that on a weekend in Aspen. Stop projecting your broke-girl anxiety on me.” “Fine,” I said, putting my hands up. “Have a great night.” I turned and led Riley and Tessa out the front door. We didn’t go far. I led them around the side of the building to the private residence wing—the part of the resort my parents kept for family. It had its own heated pool and a private entrance. “Is she actually going to be able to pay?” Riley asked as we settled into the plush velvet sofas in the suite. “I saw her screaming at her mom on the phone last week over a two-hundred-dollar overdraft fee.” “Not a chance,” I said, sipping a sparkling water. “Her bags are fake, her ‘lifestyle’ is a lie, and tomorrow morning, the bill is coming due.” We spent the night in luxury. We soaked in the private mineral bath, ordered room service steak, and watched movies on a screen the size of a garage door. It was the most peaceful sleep I’d had all semester. The next morning, around 11:00 AM, Elena sent me a text: They’re at the front desk. It’s time. I woke the girls, and we made our way to the lobby. The “birthday party” looked significantly less glamorous in the harsh light of morning. They were all hungover, clutching their bags, looking exhausted but satisfied. Brooke was standing at the center, looking like she was ready to make a grand exit. “Oh look,” Lexi sneered as she saw us. “The strays are back. Did you sleep in the Uber?” “Actually, we slept great,” Tessa chimed in, grinning. “I bet,” Brooke said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Listen, I’m feeling generous. If you’re hungry, I can probably get the kitchen to bring out some leftovers for you. On me.” “Dream on, Brooke,” Riley said. “We’re just here to see you off.” Brooke rolled her eyes and turned to the desk. She pulled my black membership card out of her designer knockoff bag and slid it across the marble counter. “We’re done here. Charge it to the card.” 4 Elena took the card, her face a mask of professional neutrality. She began typing on her computer. “Alright,” Elena said, her voice projecting across the lobby. “We have thirty-one guests for the ‘Ultra-VIP’ overnight package at $1,200 per person. That includes the spa treatments and the buffet. That’s $37,200. Plus the $15,000 buyout fee for the resort closure. And then, we have the additional charges for the premium bar…” “Wait,” Brooke interrupted, her brow furrowing. “The alcohol was supposed to be included.” “On-site consumption of house wine and well drinks is included, yes,” Elena explained patiently. “However, your guests requested thirty-four bottles of vintage Cristal and several bottles of aged Macallan from our private cellar to take back to their rooms. As those were removed from the bar, they are charged at retail value. That adds another $28,000 to your total.” The lobby went dead silent. Several students shifted uncomfortably, clutching their backpacks a little tighter. It was obvious they had stuffed their bags with expensive liquor, thinking it was free for the taking. Brooke looked like she’d been slapped. “I… I didn’t know they took bottles.” “Well, we did!” one guy shouted from the back. “You said it was an open bar, Brooke! We wanted to keep the party going.” Brooke tried to swallow, but her throat looked dry. She looked at the expectant faces of the classmates she’d been trying to impress. She couldn’t back down now. “Whatever,” she stammered. “It’s fine. Just… just scan the card.” “The card has already been processed for the discount, Miss,” Elena said. “Your total, after the 10% elite member discount, comes to $72,180.” Brooke nodded quickly, reaching out to take the card back. “Great. We’re good then.” She turned to leave, but Elena didn’t let go of the card. “I’m sorry, Miss, but you still need to pay.” Brooke froze. “What are you talking about? I gave you the card.” “This is a Membership Status Card,” Elena said, her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “It provides a discount and grants access to certain areas, but it is not a payment method. It doesn’t hold a cash balance.”

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I was the “pretty prop” of the team—the useless ornamental piece in a high-stakes, lethal simulation. To survive, I spent every waking second desperate to please my teammates. I ate the smallest rations, did the grunt work no one else wanted, and allowed myself to be used as live bait whenever the situation turned south. But they never liked me. Their hearts were reserved for the team’s darling, Lulu. On the ninety-ninth time they abandoned me to face certain death while they rushed to protect her, something inside me finally snapped. The weight of the world felt too heavy, and I was simply… done. I stepped off the edge of the abyss, plummeting into the dark. I didn’t want a miracle; I just wanted the silence of the end. But a monster from the deep caught me. “Are you… are you the bride… the one they sent for me…?” 1 Left behind. Again. I dragged my battered body toward the edge of the ravine, my breath hitching in my chest with every staggered step. It wasn’t just a cliff; it was a jagged, bottomless scar in the earth, choked with a thick, swirling mist that echoed with the guttural cries of things that shouldn’t exist. I didn’t care about the noises anymore. I didn’t care about the shadows. I only cared about the edge. “Warning: Toxicity levels have exceeded 87%. Vitality is dropping. Estimated time of survival: Seven days.” The System’s cold, mechanical voice pulsed inside my skull. I shook my head, a dry, hollow laugh escaping my cracked lips. “I’m not making it to seven days, System,” I whispered. “I’m checking out early.” Death wasn’t a threat anymore. It was a promotion. It was the only way to finally be free of them. I lifted my foot, stepping into the void. For a heartbeat, the wind roared, lashing at my bloody face, cold and biting. And then, through the gale, I heard Jax’s voice. 2 “Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” Jax stepped through the thicket, his face twisted in a mask of pure irritation as he hacked away the brush with his machete. “I told you—if we get separated, you stay put. Why do you always have to wander off and make things difficult?” He stopped about ten feet away, his arms crossed. “Your only job is to be the lure, and you can’t even do that without causing a headache. Come on. Get up. We’re heading back.” Habit took over for a second. I almost forced a smile, almost tried to explain that if I hadn’t “wandered off,” the pack of shadow-hounds would have torn me to ribbons while they were busy shielding Lulu. But then I realized I didn’t have to explain anything. I had spent two years playing the part of the devoted servant. To them, I was just the jealous, petty shadow of Lulu, constantly “competing” for a shred of their attention. Every time the floor gave way, I was the one they let fall. Fine. I’d fall all the way this time. “I’m not going back,” I said. I didn’t smile. I didn’t plead. My voice was as flat as the horizon. “The System says I’m dying anyway. I’m resigning from the team. I’m choosing to end it here.” 3 Jax froze, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. He looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. Then, his lip curled into a familiar sneer. “God, you’re such a drama queen,” he spat, looking away in disgust. “Is this your new way of getting attention? Everyone’s dealing with the mist, Rowan. We’re all fine, but suddenly you’re ‘dying’? Do you really think we’re that stupid?” He took a step toward me, his face darkening. “Look, we forgot you for a second today. I get it. But stop throwing a tantrum. How long are you going to keep trying to compete with Lulu? It’s pathetic.” When I didn’t move, he reached out to grab my arm, his hand like a vice. I stepped back, dancing on the very lip of the precipice. “I said I’m not going back, Jax.” His expression shifted from annoyance to pure rage. “Fine! You want to die? Go ahead! Go tell the Captain. If Gideon says you can quit, then I don’t give a damn where you rot—” I didn’t wait for him to finish. I simply leaned back. Gravity took me. The world rushed upward, the sky shrinking into a narrow ribbon of grey. Jax’s sudden, panicked scream echoed through the canyon, but I didn’t listen. I closed my eyes, the roar of the wind in my ears sounding like a lullaby. Finally. Darkness. 4 I don’t know how long I was out. When I woke, I wasn’t on cold stone. I was lying on something shifting—thick, pulsing vines that moved like a bed of snakes. Cold, slick tendrils began to coil around my ankles, slowly creeping up my legs, binding me to the earth. In the gloom ahead, a massive, twisted ancient tree loomed, its bark looking like distorted faces frozen in a scream. The sheer aura of predatory power coming from it made my heart hammer against my ribs. “Bride…” A voice, raspy and young, like someone who hadn’t spoken in centuries, drifted from the shadows. It was a low, abyssal hum that made my skin crawl. “Is it… the bride? Sent from above…?” I shivered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. I hadn’t died. I had landed in the heart of a nightmare’s nest. “So beautiful…” the voice whispered. “I like it…” The vines suddenly jerked, dragging me across the mulch toward the massive trunk. The monster—whatever it was—nuzzled its tendrils against my cheek, humming with a terrifying, rhythmic excitement. “Pretty wife… so soft… so much better than the others… I want to eat you… I want to keep you…” 5 My eyes snapped wide. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, began to flood down my face. Two years in this hellish game, and I had been treated like garbage by the humans I called “family.” I had been mocked, ignored, and discarded. And now, at the very end, the only thing in this entire world that actually wanted me… was a monster. My chest heaved. I let out a broken, jagged sob, turning my head away in shame. “Thank you,” I choked out. “If you’re going to eat me… please, just make it fast. I’m so tired of hurting.” The massive tree seemed to flinch. The movement of the vines stopped. “No… no crying…” the voice rasped, sounding genuinely distressed. A delicate, purple flower sprouted from one of the vines, brushing against my cheek to wipe away a tear. “Don’t eat… won’t eat you… Wife… please, don’t cry…” The vines began to shift again, but this time they weren’t binding me. They were lifting me, carrying me with a strange, clumsy tenderness toward the light far above. “Sending you… back…” Before I could process what was happening, the vines thrust me upward through a hidden crevice. I stumbled onto the solid ground of the forest floor, gasping for air. I scrambled back to the edge, looking down into the mist, my heart aching with a weird, misplaced grief. But then, a whip cracked through the air, wrapping around my waist like a serpent and yanking me backward. It was the Frost-Bolt Whip. It was Gideon. 6 Gideon retracted the whip with a flick of his wrist. He didn’t look at me as I sprawled on the dirt; he just glanced at Jax. “So this is the ‘suicide’ you were screaming about?” Nearby, Rhett leaned against a tree, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. “Wow. Our little porcelain doll is actually playing the martyr now. How dramatic.” Jax was still panting, his face red with a mix of leftover fear and rising fury. He stared at me, his eyes burning with accusation. “You played me,” he growled, stepping over and hauling me up by my collar. “You knew there was a ledge down there. You knew it wasn’t a real drop! You staged the whole thing just to make me look like a fool, didn’t you? All that talk about ‘not having many days left’—you’re just desperate for us to pay attention to you again.” He squeezed my throat, my feet dangling off the ground. I clawed at his hand, gasping. “I… I didn’t… lie…” Jax let out a harsh, cold laugh. “Still acting?” Rhett sighed, checking his nails. “Put him down, Jax. Let Lulu check him. We don’t want him claiming we ‘abused’ him later.” As if on cue, Lulu stepped out from behind a tree, skipping slightly, her wide eyes full of forced innocence. 6 (cont.) “Rowan is perfectly fine!” Lulu chirped, her voice like sugar-coated poison. “I just used my ‘Aura Scan’ skill. His vitals are stable, and there isn’t a trace of toxin in his system. Jax, don’t be mad at him. It’s our fault for being so protective of me today. Rowan just felt left out, so he made up a story. He’s just scared.” Lulu closed her eyes, clasping her hands in prayer. A soft, white halo shimmered above her head. “Oh, may the Heavens forgive your lies, Rowan.” Looking at her—the picture of pure, unadulterated “goodness”—Jax’s anger seemed to evaporate into a weary sigh. He dropped me like a piece of trash. “You disgust me,” Jax muttered, turning his back on me. I curled into a ball on the dirt, clutching my chest where the hidden poison was already beginning to liquefy my insides. Despite the agony, I started to laugh. It was a small, broken sound. I looked up at Lulu, my eyes cold. “The one who needs to pray for forgiveness isn’t me, Lulu. It’s you.” 7 When we first entered this game, things weren’t like this. We were a team. Then, I awakened a passive skill: Allure. Because of my appearance, the game gave me a natural buff that made NPCs and creatures more likely to be well-disposed toward me. But in Lulu’s mouth, that skill became a weapon. The day our former Captain, Shaw, died, she stood before the team, sobbing. “Rowan’s skill… it’s not just for monsters. He can manipulate people into loving him. Captain Shaw didn’t die for the mission—he died because Rowan charmed him into throwing his life away.” In that moment, everything changed. They started looking at me with suspicion, then resentment, then hatred. Every time we faced a boss, I was the one pushed to the front to “charm” the beast while they stood back. I would burn through my mental energy, keeping the monster at bay while they swooped in for the kill and then walked away from me as if I were a plague-bearer. Lulu’s lies built a wall between us, stone by stone, until I was the villain in their story—the manipulative, “pretty” little snake. No matter how much I tried to help, the narrative was already written. 8 “Say whatever you want,” I said, trembling as I forced myself to stand. “I’m leaving the team. Where I go and how I die is none of your business anymore.” Lulu’s lip quivered, and she looked at Gideon with watery eyes. Gideon immediately stepped into my path. “What is your problem?” he asked, his voice like ice. He looked at my hand clutching my chest and scoffed. “A cheap trick. Only Jax was stupid enough to fall for it. Let me be clear: if you keep acting this out, you’d better actually die. Otherwise, this performance is going to have a very ugly ending.” I didn’t answer. I just tried to walk around him. Gideon’s hand twitched, reaching for me, but he stopped himself—as if he were afraid that touching my skin would somehow “infect” him with my supposed filth. Instead, he used his whip to bar my way. “Fine,” Gideon said, tossing a small injector of anti-toxin at my feet. “If you’re done with the drama, pick that up and get in line. You can leave the team after we finish this sector. Until then, you will fulfill your obligations as a member.” His eyes were dead. “Rowan, my patience is gone. Stop acting like a spoiled child.” 9 Once, I would have scrambled for that injector. I would have thanked him with tears in my eyes, desperate for even a crumb of his approval. But now, I just looked at the silver tube rolling in the dirt. I felt nothing but a vast, empty silence. According to the rules of The Weeping Woods, once the toxicity level hits 60%, standard injectors are useless. They might dull the pain for a minute, but the rot is already in the bone. “I don’t need it,” I said. I looked up at him, matching his coldness with a blank stare of my own. “Keep it for yourself.” Gideon froze. For a split second, I saw something flicker in his eyes—a tiny, sharp spark of confusion. Maybe even a hint of alarm. 10 He recovered instantly. “Suit yourself. We don’t have enough resources to waste on dead weight anyway.” He turned to the others. “Move out. Rhett, watch him.” “With pleasure,” Rhett drawled. He reached down, picked up the anti-toxin I had rejected, and tucked it into Lulu’s pocket. “This is better off with our Lulu anyway. She’s the one actually doing work.” Lulu looked at me with faux-concern. “But… shouldn’t he…?” “Forget him,” Rhett said, giving me a rough shove in the small of my back. “Move it, little actor.” I stumbled, nearly falling over my own feet. Behind me, I heard Rhett’s lazy chuckle. “Ha. Look at that. Still faking the limp.” I didn’t argue. I just stared at the path ahead, my heart throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache. Suddenly, a purple petal drifted from the canopy above, brushing softly against my cheek like a ghost’s kiss. I caught it in my palm and looked back. In the distance, hidden by the fog, a massive wall of vines was blooming with vibrant, violet flowers. 11 The hours that followed were a blur of agony. Because Rhett was “babysitting” me, I couldn’t even try to end it. Every time I lagged, he’d make a comment about my “performance” or my “pathological need for attention.” He didn’t realize that I wasn’t looking for attention. I was looking for an exit. By the third day, the toxicity hit 93%. I collapsed into the mud, my lungs burning as I gasped for air that felt like liquid lead. The others barely glanced back. “Damn it, the mist is getting thicker,” Jax complained, wiping sweat from his brow. “How much further to the Heart of the Woods?” He looked at Lulu, his voice instantly softening. “You okay, Lu? Want to take five?” Lulu nodded, pouting about how tired her legs were. The team immediately called for a break. “Here,” Jax said, tossing a dry protein bar at me before hurrying back to Lulu’s side. “Oh! We have beef jerky today! And lemon drops!” Lulu cheered. She glanced over at me, a small, triumphant glint in her eyes. I leaned against a mossy trunk, the smell of food making my stomach turn. While they were busy laughing and sharing their “premium” rations, I dragged myself into the shadows and disappeared. 12 Deep in the woods, I found a black pond. The water was as still as a mirror, dark as obsidian. I took off my boots and waded in, inch by inch. As the cold water rose to my waist, I heard a sound—a boy’s clear, bright laughter. I blinked, and the world shifted. The mist evaporated, the water turned crystal clear, and the sound of birdsong filled the air. A teenage boy sat by the water’s edge, smiling at the fish. “Hello there, little ones,” he whispered. I realized with a jolt that this was a phantom memory—a lingering echo of a world that existed before the game took over. I tried to reach out to him, but the vision shattered. The sky turned black. The pond surged, turning a sickly, visceral red. Pale, severed limbs bobbed to the surface. I scrambled back, falling into the mud. A shadow coalesced behind me, wrapping its cool, dark arms around my shoulders. I heard that same raspy voice I’d heard at the bottom of the ravine. “Don’t die in the cold water,” the shadow whispered. “Die in my arms instead… Wife.” 13 The Heart of the Woods. According to the lore our team had collected, the original guardian of this forest was a sixteen-year-old boy named Silas. Legend said he had tried to stop poachers from killing the sacred deer. In their rage, they had drowned him in this very pond and dismembered his body. His left eye and lower half were thrown into the water. His upper body was buried beneath the Great Tree. Since then, the mountain had been swallowed by mist. To appease his spirit, the local villagers used to sacrifice a “bride” every year, throwing them into the ravine. But the curse never broke. 14 “Are you… the Guardian?” I asked, my voice trembling. The shadow hummed, a shower of dead leaves falling from his form. “I… forgot. I have been here so long. So lonely. Until you fell.” He buried his face in the crook of my neck. “For the first time, I want something. I want to keep you.” He squeezed me tighter. “Stay with me. Let the vines grow over us. In the spring, I will grow the most beautiful flowers around your head. In the summer, I will shade you with my leaves. In the autumn, I will bring you the sweetest berries. And in the winter… I will wrap myself around you so tight that you will never feel the cold.” I listened to him, and for the first time in years, a strange warmth filled the hollow space in my chest. “That sounds… actually quite nice,” I whispered, a genuine smile touching my lips. We were both monsters, in a way. Both discarded. If the end meant sleeping beneath a great tree, protected from the world, it wasn’t a bad way to go. “Take me now, then,” I said. Silas didn’t answer. A sudden gust of wind blew through the clearing, carrying Jax’s distant, angry shouting. The shadow dissolved into a pile of dry leaves, vanishing before the team could find me.

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1 It happened during the third round of drinks. Travis, a guy who had been two years behind me at State, suddenly stood up. The screech of his chair against the hardwood floor cut through the chatter of the reunion dinner like a serrated blade. The entire private room at the bistro went silent. He pointed a finger directly at me, his face flushed a deep, drunken crimson. “Jason, man, I’m putting my cards on the table tonight,” he slurred, his voice loud enough to vibrate the wine glasses. “I’m in love with Elena. I think we should have a fair shot at her. May the best man win.” My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. I looked up at him. He flinched for a split second, his gaze flickering, but then he squared his shoulders and stared back with a bravado fueled by cheap bourbon. Around the table, our old college friends exchanged glances. Some started to snicker, thinking it was a bit; others looked away, sensing the sudden shift in the air. I didn’t say a word. But Elena, sitting right next to me, let out a light, airy laugh. It wasn’t a laugh of embarrassment or discomfort. It was the sound of someone deeply enjoying the spotlight. “Well, well,” she said, setting her wine glass down. Her eyes crinkled into beautiful, playful crescents. “I guess I’ve still got it. It’s nice to know I’m still a prize worth fighting for.” She stood up, deliberately walked around my chair, and stopped next to Travis. Then, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm. She looked at me, a defiant, provocative tilt to her chin. The room erupted. “Whoa, things just got interesting!” someone shouted. “Jason, you gonna let him do that? Say something, man!” “She’s just testing you, bro. Give her a show!” I watched her hand on his sleeve. She had just gotten her nails done yesterday—a soft, shimmering rose quartz. I remembered her coming home and telling me the set cost sixty dollars plus tip. I had mentioned it seemed a bit steep. You just don’t get it, she had snapped back. I laid my fork down quietly. I stood up and grabbed my charcoal overcoat from the back of the chair. The laughter in the room began to die down, one voice at a time. Elena was still clinging to Travis’s arm, looking up at me with a smirk that said, What are you going to do about it? “Why fight?” I said, my voice steady and devoid of heat. “If you want her so badly, she’s yours. I’m done.” The silence that followed was absolute, as if someone had sucked the oxygen right out of the room. Elena’s smirk didn’t just fade; it shattered. Her hand remained on Travis’s arm, but her posture went rigid, turning her into a marble statue of herself. Travis’s face drained from red to a sickly, pale white. I pulled on my coat and zipped it up. I didn’t look at either of them. I didn’t look at anyone. I walked out of the room. Behind me, there wasn’t a single sound—no footsteps, no protests, no more jokes. Just as the elevator doors were closing, I heard the crash of a chair hitting the floor from the direction of the bistro. Then came the frantic, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of heels on tile. I pressed the button for the garage. By the time I reached my SUV, my phone started vibrating in my pocket. Her name flashed across the screen over and over. I ignored it. I started the engine, shifted into reverse, and pulled out. As the gate to the garage lifted, I saw a figure in the rearview mirror. Elena had burst out of the elevator lobby, her heels in one hand, her bare feet hitting the cold concrete of the parking garage. Her mouth was moving, screaming something I couldn’t hear through the glass. I didn’t tap the brakes. I pulled out onto the street and hit the first red light. I reached into my glove box and pulled out a burner phone I’d bought a week ago. I dialed a number I knew by heart. A man picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Jason.” “Do it,” I said. I hung up. The light turned green, and I drove. My primary phone buzzed again. It was her. I turned it off. 2 It had started three months ago. I’d come home from the office late and found her curled up on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. As I went into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, I caught a glimpse of her screen over her shoulder. A notification popped up. Hey Elena, you going to that gallery opening this weekend? I can swing by and pick you up. The sender was labeled “Travis – State.” I didn’t stop. I walked into the bedroom with my water. Travis was a guy I’d never been close to in college, but he’d suddenly become a fixture in our lives after a homecoming event last year. He’d come over to our table, “bro-ing” me for twenty minutes about how much he’d always looked up to me. Elena had been sitting right there, soaking it in. After he finished flattering me, he’d poured her a fresh glass of wine. “You’re a saint, Elena. Jason’s a lucky man to have someone like you keeping him grounded.” I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Then, he started weaving himself into the fabric of our social life. He joined the group chat for college alumni spouses. He was the life of the digital party—cracking jokes, sending memes, being the first to wish everyone a happy holiday. “Your friend Travis is actually pretty charming,” Elena had said once. “He’s alright,” I’d replied. Then came the solo invites. At first, he invited me. Jason, let’s grab a beer. Jason, let’s hit the driving range. I went twice. After that, I was too busy with the merger at work, so I declined. That’s when he started inviting Elena. The excuses were always bulletproof. Elena, there’s this new boutique opening. I’m helping a friend with the PR, want to check it out? Elena, my cousin’s a pastry chef and she’s doing a tasting. I’ve got an extra pass. Elena, there’s a farmers market this Sunday. I’m heading that way if you need a ride. She always told me about it. She’d say it with a casual, almost bored shrug. “Travis asked if I wanted to see that exhibit. I think I’ll go.” “Travis said his friend’s shop is having a flash sale. Might browse.” “Sure,” I’d say. “Don’t you ever get jealous?” she’d ask, her eyes searching mine. “Should I be?” She’d roll her eyes and huff. “You’re so boring, Jason.” After I saw that text in the kitchen, I started paying attention. I didn’t dig through her phone—I’m not that kind of man. I just counted the frequency. In one week, Travis’s name came up three times. Monday: Travis recommended this restaurant. Wednesday: Travis mentioned an event this weekend. Friday: Travis sent me this hilarious video. That was more often than she mentioned her own sister. The second week: four times. The third week: five. One night, she came out of the shower, her hair still dripping, and the first thing she did was reach for her phone. She typed something, then giggled. “Who is it?” I asked. “Just Travis. He sent this meme, it’s actually hysterical.” She held the phone out to show me. I didn’t look at the meme. I looked at the length of the chat bubble history. The scroll bar was tiny. I handed the phone back. “Funny,” I said. That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a long time. I wasn’t wondering if she was sleeping with him. I was thinking about the way she mentioned him. She wasn’t hiding him. She was flaunting him. She wanted a reaction. She wanted me to fight for her, to be the jealous husband, to give her the drama her life was apparently lacking. And because I wouldn’t give it to her, she was upping the ante. I rolled over and closed my eyes. The next day, I called an old roommate from college. A guy named Mark who ran a boutique law firm downtown. “I need you to run a background check on someone for me,” I said. “Who?” “Travis Miller.” 3 I didn’t get to the hotel until 11:00 PM. I sat in the car for a while, the engine humming quietly. I turned my phone back on. The screen exploded with notifications. Twenty-three missed calls. Over forty texts. The first few were frantic. Where are you? Come back, we need to talk. What the hell was that, Jason? Then, the tone shifted to anger. You’re insane. You humiliated me in front of everyone. How am I supposed to show my face again? It was a joke! You’re overreacting like a freak. Then, the bargaining started. Baby, please don’t be mad. I know I crossed a line. I’m sorry. Where are you? I’m coming to get you. The last one was from five minutes ago. I’m home. Please just come home. I put out my cigarette, grabbed my bag, and went upstairs. When I finally walked into our apartment an hour later, the door was unlocked. She was sitting on the sofa, the living room lights blindingly bright, the TV off. Her feet were bare and dirty on the bottom—she really had run through the garage without shoes. She stood up the moment I walked in. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but she wasn’t crying yet. “Where were you?” “Driving,” I said. “Are you out of your mind? Doing that in front of our friends?” I hung my coat on the rack by the door. I swapped my dress shoes for slippers. I walked into the bedroom. She followed me, her voice rising. “Jason, talk to me!” I opened the closet and pulled out a large suitcase. She froze. “What are you doing?” I started packing. Socks, boxers, jeans, a few T-shirts. She lunged forward, slamming her hand down on the suitcase. “What are you packing for? Where do you think you’re going?” “I’m staying at a hotel for a few days.” “Why the hell should you be the one to leave?” “The lease is in your name, Elena. Your parents paid the deposit. It makes more sense.” She let go of the suitcase. We’d bought this place together after we got married, but technically her parents had provided the down payment as a wedding gift. I’d been paying the mortgage for three years. She watched me fold a shirt, her voice suddenly trembling. “Jason, have you been waiting for an excuse to leave me?” I paused. “Tonight wasn’t about an excuse.” “Then what is this?” “I need space to think.” “I’m perfectly calm,” she snapped, though her hands were shaking. “You’re the one being dramatic. Those things you said at the table… do you have any idea how people are going to look at me now?” I zipped the suitcase shut. I stood up and looked her in the eye. “Did you think about how people would look at you when you were clinging to his arm and laughing in my face?” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. I gripped the handle of the suitcase and walked toward the door. She chased after me, grabbing the handle. “Please don’t go.” “I need a few days, Elena.” “How many days?” “I don’t know.” She let go. I walked out. As I stood at the elevator, I heard the door click shut behind me. It wasn’t a slam. It was a soft, final sound. That was what bothered me most. Elena never closed doors softly. I drove to a Marriott near my office. I checked in, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled out the burner phone. There was an encrypted file Mark had sent me last week. Everything he’d found on Travis Miller. I read it line by line. Then I laid back on the bed and stared at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Its red light blinked steadily, a tiny heartbeat in the dark. I thought about the way she had laughed in that bistro. It was so bright. Brighter than she’d laughed at me in years. 4 The next morning, my phone rang at 8:00 AM. It wasn’t Elena. It was her mother, Mrs. Harrison. “Jason, where on earth are you?” “A hotel, Susan.” “Get your tail back home right now.” “I think I need to be alone for a bit.” “Alone? You’re a grown man, Jason. Sulking because of a little spat with your wife? It’s embarrassing.” I didn’t respond. She kept going. “I heard what happened. Travis had a few too many and said something stupid. Elena was just playing along to keep the mood light. You shouldn’t take it so seriously.” “Playing along,” I repeated. “Exactly. It was a joke. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” “Susan, she stood in front of twenty people, held another man’s arm, and mocked me.” Silence on the other end for two seconds. “Well, she shouldn’t have done that. But you shouldn’t have said you were ‘giving’ her away. What kind of thing is that to say about your wife?” “I treated her like a wife. She didn’t treat me like a husband.” Her voice sharpened. “Don’t be so sensitive. Marriage is about compromise. You need to be the bigger person here. Have some grace.” “Grace,” I said. “Grace isn’t a hall pass for disrespect.” I heard a muffled thud on the other end, like she’d slapped a table. “Jason, you are going home today, and you are going to apologize to my daughter.” “I’m not the one who owes an apology.” “You—” I hung up. I turned the phone off. I washed my face, went downstairs, and found a diner for some breakfast. Halfway through my eggs, the burner phone buzzed. A message from Mark. Jason, the second batch of financials just came in. You’re gonna want to see this. I opened the file. It was Travis’s credit card history and social media metadata. He was $110,000 in debt. He had three active payday loans. The BMW he drove? A rental. His Instagram was a curated lie—expensive steaks, rooftop bars, luxury resorts. But according to his bank statements, he wasn’t the one paying. I looked at the timestamps on his location tags. On four separate occasions, his location matched the coordinates of photos Elena had posted. Same day. Same place. I finished my breakfast. I wiped my mouth, went back to my room, and organized the screenshots by date. I saved them into an encrypted folder. At 2:00 PM, I turned my main phone back on. The alumni group chat was blowing up. Jason, man, don’t take it to heart. Travis was hammered. Yeah, Elena was just kidding around. Don’t be that guy. Come on, Jason. Be the bigger man. Don’t let a drunk kid ruin the vibe. I didn’t reply. I found Travis’s direct message. He’d sent me a text. Hey brother, I was totally out of line last night. Way too much bourbon. I’m so sorry if I caused any friction between you and Elena. My bad. He followed it with a “praying hands” emoji. I studied the message. It was too polished, too carefully worded for a man who was supposedly “blackout drunk.” I clicked on his Instagram profile. At 12:03 AM last night, right after I’d left, he’d posted a story. A photo of the messy table at the bistro. The caption: Good times with the old crew. Never a dull moment. In the corner of the frame, there was a glass of wine and a woman’s arm. On the wrist was a pink agate bracelet. Elena’s bracelet. I put the phone down. He could apologize all he wanted, but he left the trophy on display. I texted Mark. Set up a meeting for me. I need to talk to a divorce attorney. Divorce? Mark replied. Just a consultation for now. Got it. Tomorrow at 3:00. I leaned back against the headboard. Outside the window, the city moved on, oblivious. I remembered our first year of marriage. She used to sit in the passenger seat of my car and put her feet up on the dash. Don’t do that, it’s dangerous, I’d say. Make me, she’d laugh. It was a different laugh back then. That laugh was for me. 5 The third day. I stayed away. The tide in the group chat started to turn. One of my closer friends, Nick, messaged me privately. “Jason, Elena’s freaking out in the group. She says you’ve been gone for three days.” I opened the chat. Elena: Hey everyone, Jason hasn’t been home in three days. He isn’t answering my calls or texts. I’m really scared. If anyone knows where he is, please tell me. The comments were a chorus of sympathy for her. Elena, don’t worry. He’s probably just brooding. Men and their egos, right? Give him time. I’ll try calling him. This is getting ridiculous. Then they started on me. Jason’s being a bit much. It was one night. She apologized. What more does he want? He’s acting like a child. I muted the chat. Around noon, Nick called me. “Hey. Look, don’t get mad, but I gotta tell you something.” “Go ahead.” “Elena had dinner with a few people last night. She was a wreck. She cried the whole time.” “She cried?” “Hard. She said you’re ’emotionally ghosting’ her. Said she’s terrified to be in the apartment alone. She said what you said at the bistro was the most hurtful thing anyone’s ever said to her.” I leaned back in my chair. “She think I’m hurtful.” “Yeah.” “Did she think it was hurtful when she was mocking her husband while holding another man?” Silence. “Look, Jason, she messed up. Everyone knows that. But staying away like this… what’s the endgame?” “I’m handling it, Nick.” “Alright. Just… be careful. She’s winning the PR war right now.” I hung up. That afternoon, I met with the attorney, a woman named Claire. Mark sat in on the meeting. Claire flipped through the binder of evidence I’d compiled. “Do you have any texts between them that prove a physical affair?” “I haven’t looked at her phone. I won’t.” “Then these financial records and coincidental locations… they prove contact, but not necessarily adultery in a legal sense.” “I know.” “What are you looking for, Jason?” “A clean break. I want a settlement.” Claire nodded. “What’s the asset split look like?” “The apartment is hers—technically her parents. I’ve paid the mortgage for three years, and I have the records. The car is mine, pre-marital. We keep our savings separate.” “It’s straightforward, then. Unless you want to fight for a share of the apartment’s equity.” “I just want out.” Mark walked me to my car afterward. “You sure about this?” “I’m sure.” “What if she refuses to sign?” “Then we go to court.” Mark patted my shoulder. “Anything you need, man. I’ll keep digging into Travis.” “Focus on his debts,” I said. “You think he’s after her for money?” I didn’t answer. That night at the hotel, my phone lit up with a dozen more calls. One was from a number I didn’t recognize. I picked up. “Jason.” It was Travis. “How’d you get this number?” “Elena gave it to me. She asked me to talk some sense into you.” I gripped the phone, silent. “Look, man, I’m the one who messed up. Take it out on me. Hit me, scream at me, whatever. But don’t punish her. She’s a mess.” “I’m not punishing her.” “Then come home. She’s innocent in all this. I was the one pushing it.” “Innocent,” I echoed. I felt a cold laugh bubbling up. “Did she push your arm away when she grabbed it, Travis?” He didn’t answer. “Don’t call me again.” I blocked the number. 6 Day five. The doorbell to my hotel room rang. I thought it was room service. I opened it to find Travis standing there. He was holding a bag of fruit and a coffee carrier, a sheepish grin plastered on his face. “Hey, Jason. Took me a while to find which Marriott you were at.” I stood in the doorway, blocking his path. “Who told you I was here?” “I just called around. There aren’t that many in this zip code.” He held out the fruit. “I wanted to apologize in person. Over the phone felt… cheap.” I didn’t take the bag. “Say what you have to say.” He set the fruit on the floor of the hallway. “Look, I’m a prick. I get it. I shouldn’t have said those things, especially in front of everyone.” “Right.” “Elena’s been crying for days. She’s falling apart. You gotta go back, man.” “That’s not your concern.” His smile faltered. “I just… you guys have a great thing. Don’t throw it away over a drunken mistake.” I leaned against the doorframe. “That BMW you were driving last weekend, Travis. It was a rental, wasn’t it?” His expression shifted. It was subtle—a split-second freeze in his eyes—but I caught it. “How’d you know that?” “A guess.” “Yeah, it’s a rental. My car’s in the shop. Just a temporary thing.” “And the credit cards? How’s that debt consolidation coming along?” This time, the smile vanished completely. “What are you talking about?” “Nothing. Just curious.” He stared at me for a long beat. The “nice guy” facade began to peel away, revealing something sharp and guarded underneath. “My business is my business, Jason.” “Fine by me.” I started to close the door. “Wait,” he said. “Elena wanted me to tell you something.” I stopped. “She said if you don’t come home by tomorrow, she’s going to show up at your office and make a scene.” I looked at him. “Did she say that, or did you suggest it?” He didn’t answer. I shut the door. I stood there for a moment, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall. I went to the window and looked down. A few minutes later, Travis emerged from the hotel lobby. He didn’t walk to a car. He stood on the curb and pulled out his phone. A moment later, an Uber pulled up. He didn’t even have the rental anymore. I sat down at the desk and opened the burner phone. Mark had sent a new update. Found it. He’s defaulted on two personal loans. Collectors are starting to call people in his contact list. Also, he asked Elena for money last month. How much? I typed back. Not sure on the total, but there’s a $3,000 Zelle transfer from her account to a name that matches his burner Venmo handle. I stared at the screen. Three thousand dollars. She had sent him three thousand dollars without a word to me. I remembered her complaining about the $60 manicure. I remembered her telling me we needed to “tighten our belts” so we could save for a house of our own. I pulled a blank divorce petition from my bag. I picked up a pen and began to fill in the blanks.

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1 The company organized a charity badminton tournament with a hundred-thousand-dollar cash prize for the winner. That was exactly what I needed to close the gap on the down payment for my first house. I played like a man possessed, clawing my way into the finals. My last opponent was a new hire, a kid named Xander Reed. “Hey, Miles, you’re a powerhouse,” Xander said, flashing a boyish, disarming grin. “You wouldn’t mind if I swapped partners for the final, would you? Just to even the scales?” My mind was already at the bank, signing the mortgage papers. I shrugged and agreed without a second thought. The next second, Lauren Prescott stepped onto the court, racquet in hand. Lauren—the woman who had rejected my request to team up just an hour earlier. She was a former Division I athlete, a state-level competitor who usually played with a cold, lethal precision. But in this casual office match, she spent the entire game “feeding” Xander—perfectly lofted shots that set him up for glory. During the final set, Xander leaped for a brutal, high-velocity smash. The shuttlecock didn’t hit the floor. It hit my right eye. The world went white, then dark. I lost all sensation except for a terrifying, hollow thud in my skull. “Oh man, I’m so sorry!” Xander stammered, his voice laced with a performative tremor. “I didn’t mean to… I was just trying that smash technique Lauren taught me…” Lauren’s voice was flat, clinical. “Injuries are a part of the game, Miles.” She didn’t move toward me. “Take a minute to clean up, then make sure you’re on time for Xander’s promotion dinner. It’s a big night for the team.” Through the searing pain, I felt something warm and thick seeping through my fingers. Blood. I finally realized it then: the match was over. I had lost. I set my racquet down on the court with a trembling hand. Suddenly, that house didn’t seem so important anymore. While I was at the urgent care clinic getting my eye patched, my phone buzzed incessantly. The department group chat was blowing up. “Where are you, Miles? We’re all at the bistro waiting for the guest of honor!” Xander followed up with a voice note, his tone sounding breathless and sweet. “Is Miles mad at me? I feel terrible… I just got caught up in the heat of the moment. But Lauren says holding back is the ultimate sign of disrespect to an opponent.” Then, a private message from Lauren: “Where are you? You’re Xander’s direct supervisor. If you don’t show up, it looks like you’re bitter. Don’t make this awkward for him.” I typed three words: On my way. Ten minutes later, I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private dining room. Lauren, our Department Director, sat at the head of the table. Xander was tucked right next to her, their heads bowed in a private whisper. The room went dead silent when I walked in. Xander flinched, knocking over his glass of sparkling water. “Miles… your eye…” He looked like he was on the verge of tears. “It’s all my fault. I’m so, so sorry.” Lauren looked up. Her gaze was distant, almost annoyed. “Is it serious?” I shook my head. She tracked the movement, her brow furrowing slightly. “If it’s not serious, don’t be melodramatic. Xander is new; don’t put that kind of weight on his shoulders. He’s already been beating himself up all afternoon.” The air in the room turned brittle. A colleague tried to break the tension. “Miles is probably just worried about infection. It’s the eye, after all. Xander has been a wreck since the game.” Lauren cut him off, her eyes fixed on Xander with a softness I hadn’t seen in years. “Young talent is easily spooked in this industry. Miles, watch your tone next time. We don’t want to stifle him.” I nodded and took the only seat left—the drafty spot right by the service entrance. “Miles, seriously, are you okay?” someone whispered. I took a shaky breath. “It’s manageable.” It wasn’t. I needed surgery to repair a torn retina. It was scheduled for three days from now. Xander sniffed, then suddenly stood up. He walked all the way around the long table to stand over me. “Miles, please. Can I just see it? I need to know you’re okay so I can stop shaking.” “It’s fine, Xander. Leave it.” But he was already reaching out. Before I could pull back, he peeled the edge of the gauze away. The table gasped. My right eye was a swollen, dark mess of bruised purple and antibiotic ointment. Xander froze, then forced a shaky smile. “Oh, wow. I mean, it looks scary, but it’s just a surface bruise, right? Thank God. I thought I’d really done damage. I was so scared I’d lose my job.” He turned and ran out of the room, seemingly overwhelmed. The table erupted in low snickers and murmurs. “Talk about an overreaction,” one guy chuckled. “Miles, you really went for the full mummy wrap for a scratch? You nearly gave the kid a heart attack.” “Seriously, it looks like theatrical makeup. You’re really leaning into the victim role, aren’t you?” Lauren stood up, grabbing her coat to follow Xander. The room started gossiping the moment the door swung shut. “Did you see how protective she is? The ‘Ice Queen’ actually has a heart.” “I’ve never seen her that gentle with anyone. Especially not with Miles.” Bitterness surged in my throat, sharper than the pain in my eye. Lauren and I had been together for five years. Five years of secret late-night dinners and stolen weekends because she said we were “on the rise” and couldn’t afford a HR scandal. I had played the loyal subordinate perfectly. I wondered when, exactly, she had decided to take on a “pupil.” We waited thirty minutes for her to return. She never did. Instead, she posted a single message in the group chat: “Go ahead and eat without us. Xander is pretty shaken up. I’m driving him home.” 2 After the dinner, I went back to the hospital. The night nurse frowned as she changed my dressing. “It’s worse. Did you put pressure on this?” “It was… bumped,” I muttered. “Look, Miles,” she said, her voice dropping. “Badminton shuttlecocks are light, but at that speed? This wasn’t just an accident. This looks like someone was aiming for you. The eye is fragile.” I stayed silent. “Two days until the procedure. Do you have someone to take you home? You’ll be under heavy sedation.” I shook my head. Lauren wouldn’t be there. When I got home, the living room lights were on. Lauren was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through her iPad. She didn’t look up with concern; she looked up with a sneer of “here we go again.” “How long are you going to keep this up, Miles?” “Keep what up?” “The drama. You lost a game. If you wanted the hundred grand that badly, I would have just given it to you. You don’t need to bully a kid who’s been here for two weeks.” My eyes stung. I remembered the nurse’s warning: No crying. Pressure is the enemy. I tilted my head back and breathed through the urge. She walked over, looming over me. “Take that bandage off before you come into the office tomorrow. You look like a war casualty. People think he’s a monster because of your theatrics. He’s just started his career—how is he supposed to survive that reputation?” “Lauren, my eye needs—” “Enough,” she snapped. “It’s sports. You’ve been playing for years. Are you really going to act like a toddler until midnight?” The explanation died in my throat. “When did you start mentoring him? You never mentioned it.” “A friend of a friend,” she said dismissively, turning back to her files. I recognized the documents. It was the R&D project I’d spent the last three months pullng all-nighters for. My ticket to a VP title. “I’m giving this project to Xander,” she said. “What?” “He needs the win for his quarterly KPIs. And since your eye is ‘so bad,’ you should take it easy. Focus on your recovery.” It took a moment to find my voice. “No. I designed the architecture. I wrote every line of that proposal. You can’t just hand it over.” Lauren’s face darkened. “I’m the Director. I just did.” I turned toward the bedroom, grabbing a duffel bag and some pajamas. When I came back out, Lauren was on the balcony, her voice a low, melodic coo into her phone. “He’s fine, Xander. Don’t let it keep you up. Just get some sleep, okay? See you in the morning.” She saw me with the pillow and blanket under my arm, and her eyes turned to ice. “Miles, you’re not a kid anymore. We’re supposed to be moving to the next stage of our lives. Can you stop being so damn petty?” Last month, on her birthday, I’d cooked a five-course meal. She’d gotten a little tipsy and asked me to marry her. I had wept with relief, thinking our five-year marathon was finally reaching a beautiful finish line. “By the way,” she added, “the house you liked on the waterfront? Someone else put in a cash offer. It’s gone. We’ll find something else.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked into the guest room and locked the door. “Miles! What is wrong with you?” she yelled through the wood. The next morning at the stand-up meeting, Lauren bypassed me entirely. She announced Xander as the lead on the new project. “If you have technical questions, feel free to consult Miles,” she added. Xander smirked, his eyes darting past me to linger on Lauren. “Can I just come straight to you, Lauren? I don’t want to bother Miles while he’s… healing.” The room went still. No one spoke to Lauren Prescott like that in a formal meeting. To everyone’s shock, Lauren smiled. “Of course you can.” Xander’s face flushed a triumphant red. 3 After the meeting, Xander tagged me in the public Slack channel. “@Miles, I’m not familiar with these legacy data sets. Can you compile a summary and send them over by EOD?” “No,” I typed back. “If you’re the Lead, learn the architecture. Ask questions when you’ve done the reading.” Xander sat at his desk, biting his lip, looking like a kicked puppy. In the breakroom, the whispers were already starting. “Miles is being so cold. Xander is just a junior.” “He’s just bitter about the project. Classic gatekeeping.” “I mean, look at that bandage. It’s a scratch. He’s using it to justify being a jerk.” I walked past them, my face a mask. After lunch, Lauren returned from a meeting. Xander immediately scurried into her office with a stack of files. Moments later, Lauren marched to my desk and dropped the files in front of me. “Validate these numbers. I want them on my desk by noon tomorrow.” “Lauren, I told you, my eye—” “Minor trauma doesn’t affect your ability to read a spreadsheet,” she cut me off. “If you can’t do your job, we need to talk about your performance review.” It was a standard directive from a boss to a subordinate. On paper, she was within her rights. I had no choice. As the office emptied out that evening, Xander stopped by my cubicle. “Rough night, Miles? Make sure those numbers are perfect. My mentor doesn’t like mistakes.” By 10 PM, the office was a tomb. Only the lights above my desk remained on. My left eye was straining, and my right eye felt like it was being poked with hot needles. I don’t know how much time passed before the sharp, stabbing pain returned. I pressed my hand against the gauze. It came away hot and wet. Blood was streaming down my cheek, spotting my white dress shirt. Lauren stepped out of her office, coat in hand. She saw my face and gasped. “Miles—” “Oh my God!” Xander was standing at the door, two cups of coffee hitting the floor and splattering. “Miles, why are you bleeding again? Please, stop doing this to me! I said I was sorry!” Lauren’s step toward me faltered. She looked at Xander’s panicked face, then back at me. “It’s fine. Xander, go home,” she said. “Lauren, the hallway is so dark… can you walk me to the garage?” Xander pleaded, his voice trembling. Lauren didn’t hesitate. She took his arm and led him out. As they turned the corner, Xander tripped on the spilled coffee, and Lauren caught him, her hands steady on his waist. I turned back to my monitor, the red droplets blurring on the screen. When Lauren finally came back, I had cleaned myself up. She stood over me, watching me pack my bag. “What happened?” “The stitches popped,” I said. She stared at me for a few beats, her expression unreadable. “Fine. Just go home. We’ll finish this later.” She reached for my hand. But Xander appeared in the doorway again. “Lauren, I forgot to give you your late-night snack…” I pulled my hand away before she could touch me. I grabbed my bag and walked past her without a word. In the elevator, I caught my reflection in the stainless steel. White gauze, a swollen face, bloodstains on my collar. I looked pathetic. A ghost of the man I used to be. Looking at that tired, broken reflection, my good eye finally filled with tears. I was done. I had given up on the house. Now, I was giving up on Lauren. 4 The next morning, I woke up with a fever of 102. My eye was throbbing in time with my pulse. After filing for a medical leave of absence, I stepped out into the living room. Lauren was gone. The house felt like a tomb. I ate some stale cereal, swallowed a fever reducer with cold water, and fell back into a restless sleep. I was awoken by my phone vibrating violently. The project group chat was a war zone. 99+ messages. “Our competitor just published their new R&D roadmap on LinkedIn. It’s an exact mirror of the project Miles was working on.” “The data sets are identical. Even the trend charts—I recognize the formatting. Miles did those.” I sat up, the room spinning. “Everyone stay calm,” I typed. “Check the server logs. Someone needs to pull the raw data from the lab computers.” The chat went silent. Then, Xander tagged me. “Miles, how could you? You leaked our work to the competition just to spite me? That is pathetic. You’re sabotaging all of our hard work because you’re jealous.” My blood ran cold. “Xander, if you have proof, call HR. Otherwise, that’s defamation.” “You’re the only one with the encryption keys, Miles. And you were ‘working late’ alone last night right before this happened. How convenient.” I didn’t wait. I threw on a hoodie and drove to the office. My computer was already taped off. Lauren was in her office, her face a mask of fury behind a cloud of cigarette smoke—a habit she only indulged when she was truly livid. “Miles. What did they offer you?” She didn’t ask if I did it. She didn’t ask for my side. She just wanted to know my price. “It wasn’t me, Lauren.” She stood up, leaning over her desk. “You’ve been a manager for two years. You wanted a promotion? You could have just asked. Instead, you sold us out?” “Lauren, look at me. I was sick. I’ve been in agony. I didn’t—” “You’re suspended,” she snapped. “Pending a full investigation. By the end of the year, you’ll be lucky to have a job as a junior technician. Xander is more capable than you’ll ever be. From now on, you report to him.” I took a long, slow breath. The cord had finally snapped. I reached down, unclipped my security badge, and placed it on her desk. As I walked out, the entire office stared. Xander was standing by the water cooler, a smirk playing on his lips. “Losing with dignity is an art, Miles,” he whispered as I passed. “A man who loses his career and his character… well, he doesn’t deserve to stand next to someone like Lauren.” He didn’t knock. He just walked right into her office—a place I’d had to earn the right to enter over half a decade. I went to my desk and took only one thing: a small ceramic doll I’d kept in the corner. I had bought it for Lauren years ago, but she’d left it on my desk, saying it didn’t fit her “aesthetic.” I went home and called a moving company. By sunset, everything I owned was packed and headed to my parents’ place in another state. I turned off the light I had kept burning for her for five years, and I didn’t look back.

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