Category: English

On the evening of our third wedding anniversary, Nicholas Prescott stood before a room full of flashbulbs and federal prosecutors, publicly handing over the ledger that dismantled my family’s empire. Overnight, Robert and Marian Mercer tumbled from the heights of old-money Manhattan society into federal custody. I dropped to my knees on the polished marble floor, clutching at the hem of his tailored trousers, begging him for mercy. Nicholas looked down at my red, swollen eyes, his mouth twisting into a razor-thin sneer. “Love you? Evelyn, my entire existence has been about destroying you.” His voice was low, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd like shattered glass. “Fifteen years ago, when your parents drove mine to jump from our penthouse balcony for the sake of corporate debt, did they show any mercy? This isn’t cruelty. This is justice. The Mercer family owes me blood.” In the months that followed, he used my parents’ survival in prison as a leash, keeping me locked inside his sprawling coastal estate, subjecting me to slow, deliberate torment. When I took a blade to my wrists, he tore it from my grip. When I starved myself, he held my head back while private doctors forced nutrient lines down my throat. His face contorted with cold fury as he hissed into my ear: “I will drag you back from the edge every single time, Evelyn. I will keep you alive just to make sure you suffer for the rest of your days.” What Nicholas didn’t know was that my parents had never driven his family to their deaths. Nor did he know that “Donor E”—the anonymous benefactor whose trust fund had paid for his private schooling, his Ivy League tuition, and his rise from an orphaned boy to a Wall Street titan—had always been me. In the end, I climbed the cliffs behind the estate, seeking the only silence left to me. And that time, when I stepped off into the salt air, his outstretched fingers were just a second too late to catch the hem of my falling dress. 1 “Kneel, Evelyn. Beg them for forgiveness.” Nicholas’s voice had barely cut through the howling wind before the bodyguard behind me clamped two heavy hands onto the back of my skull, slamming my forehead down against the cold granite headstone. Crack. The impact vibrated through my teeth. Blood gushed from my split hairline, warm and thick against the freezing stone. A November squall was sweeping across the hillside cemetery, pelting us with driving rain. I had no umbrella, no coat; water and crimson rivers rushed together down the bridge of my nose, dripping onto the chiseled names of Arthur and Grace Prescott. The bodyguard didn’t pause. He grabbed my tangled, soaked hair, pulling my head back only to drive it into the stone again. And again. Not until the grey granite was slick with my blood did Nicholas finally lift two gloved fingers. “Get up,” he said, stepping forward. “Wipe it off. Don’t let your filthy blood stain my parents’ resting place.” My throat was raw, but I didn’t dare make a sound. Any sign of defiance would only be visited tenfold upon my parents in their upstate cells. For their sake, to keep the guards from looking the other way while they were beaten, I swallowed every scream. My body shuddered with violent tremors. I pressed my palms into the muddy sod, struggling three times before I managed to haul myself onto trembling knees. I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief, but Nicholas tossed a bundle of sodden, shredded fabric directly into the mud before me. My breath caught. My vision blurred. It was ivory silk and hand-sewn French lace. The bespoke wedding gown he had commissioned for me three years ago, shredded into ragged ribbons. Nicholas tilted his head, savoring the horror in my eyes. He stepped in, his leather-clad fingers pinching my jaw until bone ground against bone. “Heartbroken?” he whispered, his breath warm against my freezing skin. “Watching you walk down the aisle in this made me sick to my stomach. Every sweet word, every tender touch—it was an act, Evelyn. An agonizing performance. Using it as a rag to scrub my parents’ grave is the only real purpose it has ever served.” He leaned closer, his eyes pitch-black. “Scrub it clean. If that headstone isn’t dry, the warden won’t bother feeding those two old convicts tonight.” He released his grip, shoving me backward. I fell hard, the rough, gravelly earth tearing the skin off my palms. Satisfied by my humiliation, Nicholas turned on his heel. He slipped an arm around the slender waist of Elise Warren, pulling her under the shelter of his black umbrella. Elise shot me a smirk of triumphant pity over her shoulder as they walked down the stone path toward his idling Maybach. I had no choice. I gathered the wet shreds of silk, crawled back to the headstone, and began to wipe. Blood oozed from my forehead and the palms of my hands, mixing with the rain, smearing across the granite in ugly streaks. I had to scrub over and over, my fingers numb and stiff, fighting the downpour that refused to let the stone dry. I lost track of time. My knees went entirely numb; the rain soaked through my thin clothes until my core turned to ice. Eventually, the sky emptied itself, the rain tapering into a sullen mist. The bodyguard stepped forward, ran a calloused finger over the damp granite, and gave a reluctant nod. “That’ll do.” He reached down to haul me to my feet by my collar, but my strength was already gone. The heavy exhaustion that had been building inside me for months finally won. My eyes slipped shut, and my knees gave out completely. I tilted backward, falling into the dark. Before the light went out, a jagged edge of the neighboring plot’s stone base slashed deep across the side of my neck. A flare of sharp, brilliant pain—and then, a profound sense of lightness. I didn’t feel fear. I only felt relief. In the final fraction of a second before my consciousness shattered, through the blur of my fading vision, I caught a glimpse of Nicholas. He was running back down the gravel path, his umbrella cast aside in the mud, his face pale and contorted with sheer panic. “Evelyn! Evelyn, look at me!” His voice sounded muffled, as if coming from the bottom of an ocean. For a fleeting moment, it felt like an old dream—back when he still pretended that I was the center of his world. “Evelyn, don’t you dare close your eyes! Talk to me! Evelyn!” 2 I woke to the smell of damp plaster and industrial bleach. Opening my eyes, I stared at the peeling white ceiling of the basement utility room. I reached up, my stiff fingers brushing against the thick gauze wrapped around my neck. There was no surge of gratitude for being alive. Only a hollow, suffocating regret. I survived again. Before I could fully gather my senses, the heavy wooden door was kicked open. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper who had once bowed politely when I entered a room, stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. “Still lying there playing the invalid?” she sneered, tossing a bucket and a bundle of rags onto the concrete floor. “You think you’re still the mistress of this estate? You’re nothing more than a stray dog Nicholas keeps around to kick. Miss Warren wants the master suite cleaned from top to bottom. Get moving.” She grabbed my arm, dragging me off the narrow cot. My feet hit the floor, soft and unsteady. A deep, unnatural heat burned behind my eyes; fever had settled into my bones, making the room tilt. I picked up the bucket and climbed the stairs to the second floor. When I pushed open the double doors of the master bedroom, the breath left my lungs. Elise was straddling Nicholas’s lap in front of the mahogany desk, her slender arms looped tightly around his neck. They were kissing—deeply, messily. As I stepped over the threshold, she broke away with a soft gasp, a thin strand of saliva glistening between their parted lips before snapping. The sight struck me like an electric shock. The ache in my chest wasn’t a metaphor; it was a physical tearing, as though someone had forced a handful of broken glass down my throat. I lowered my head instantly, tightening my grip on the plastic handle of the bucket. “I apologize,” I whispered, staring at the floorboards. “Mrs. Gable told me Miss Warren requested the room cleaned.” Elise nestled further into Nicholas’s chest, her fingers playing with the lapel of his charcoal suit. Her voice was sweet, dripping with venom. “Oh, yes. Nicholas told me this used to be your bridal suite. No wonder the whole floor smells like defeat.” She looked down at me from his lap, her chin tilted high. “Take every piece of your clothing, every framed portrait, every little keepsake, and throw them in the incinerator. And don’t you dare use a mop. Get on your hands and knees with a rag. I want every single square inch scrubbed until it shines.” She turned her face toward Nicholas, pouting playfully. “Nicholas, darling, you don’t think I’m being too hard on her, do you?” Nicholas glanced at me. His gaze flicked over my fever-flushed cheeks, the dark circles under my eyes, and the white bandage at my throat, but there was no pity in his eyes—only irritation, as if my very presence were an unsightly stain on his rug. He looked away, pressing his lips softly against Elise’s temple. “Not at all. She’s a stray. Treat her however you like, as long as it makes you happy.” I pressed my lips together until I tasted copper, swallowed the shame, and sank to my knees. Keeping my head down, I dipped the rag into the cold water and began wiping the floor, inch by agonizing inch. Above me, Elise cupped Nicholas’s jaw, pulling him down into another lingering kiss. My mind betrayed me, dragging up memories of this very desk. Two years ago, right after we moved in, Nicholas had pulled me onto his lap in this exact spot, his head buried in the crook of my neck, whispering promises against my skin: Evelyn, it’s you and me against the world. I love you, Evie. More than my own life. I’ll spend every day making sure you never know a moment of sorrow. Thud. A sharp kick struck my ribs. I tumbled forward, my hands splashing into the grey water of the bucket. Nicholas looked down at me from the edge of the desk, his brow furrowed with cold impatience. “Take the trash out and finish inside the walk-in closet. Elise and I want to rest.” I used the wet rag to wipe away the stray tears that had dripped onto the hardwood, rose to my feet, and walked into the closet. Our wedding portraits had already been pulled from the walls; someone had used a box cutter to shred my face before tossing the frames onto the floor. My cashmere sweaters, my silk dresses, my jewelry boxes—everything had been stuffed carelessly into black heavy-duty trash bags. Every trace of the life we had built together had been systematically reduced to garbage. I dragged the bags out into the hallway. Through the cracked door behind me, I saw Nicholas sweep Elise up into his arms, carrying her toward the king-sized bed where I had slept for three years. She laughed, a high, melodic sound, before the heavy oak door clicked shut. Then came the muffled sounds of shifting sheets, gasps, and whispered intimacies. My feet felt like they were encased in concrete. I stood there in the corridor, unable to move, listening to the man I had loved make love to another woman in our bed. My fingernails dug into the meat of my palms until fresh blood broke through the scabs. The nausea hit me in violent waves; I braced myself against a marble pillar, dry-heaving until my ribs ached. The fever flared hot behind my temples. The world spun. I staggered toward the grand staircase. Standing at the top landing, looking down at the wide marble steps below, a profound, suffocating self-loathing rose up and swallowed me whole. I was tired. So deeply, impossibly tired. I closed my eyes, leaned forward, and let my weight drift over the edge. Just as the floor vanished beneath my feet, a calloused hand shot out from the side, gripping my wrist with crushing force and yanking me violently back onto the carpet. I opened my eyes, disoriented. Standing before me was a man in the estate’s black security uniform. His features were sharp, his jaw set, but his eyes held something I hadn’t seen in this house for months: fierce, desperate concern. He gripped my wrist tighter, leaning in so his lips barely grazed my ear, his voice a low, urgent murmur: “Miss Mercer. I’m going to get you out of here.” 3 “They spent fifty million on this engagement gala alone! Mr. Prescott treats Miss Warren like royalty.” “Well, can you blame him? I heard Miss Warren is actually ‘Donor E’—the secret benefactor who paid for his education after his parents passed away. Love combined with that kind of debt of gratitude? He’d give her the moon. But what I don’t get is why he suddenly downgraded the wedding to an engagement party.” “Oh, you didn’t hear? The benefactor’s identity isn’t fully confirmed. Mr. Prescott is still verifying the old trust records. He wanted this mysterious ‘Donor E’ to stand as their primary witness at the altar. Since he hasn’t tracked down the final paperwork, he pushed the wedding back and threw this gala instead!” The gossiping voices drifted past the service entrance. I leaned against the tile wall of the catering corridor, a faint, bitter smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. The “E” in Donor E didn’t stand for Elise. It stood for Evelyn. When I was sixteen, using the dividends from the trust fund my grandfather left me, I set up an anonymous endowment through our family attorney to cover the living and educational expenses of the orphaned son of Arthur Prescott. I chose the letter E simply because it was the first initial of my name. None of it mattered anymore. Even if Nicholas discovered the truth tomorrow, what difference would it make? We were separated by a chasm of ruined lives, prison bars, and hatred. We were enemies until the day we died. I kept my head down, picked up my mop and bucket, and walked toward the grand ballroom’s public restrooms to complete my assigned chores. As I passed through the service doors, an expensive leather shoe subtly extended from the edge of the hallway. Splash! I tripped, crashing hard onto the marble floor. The bucket tipped, dumping gallons of dirty, sudsy water all over my uniform. A ripple of cruel laughter broke out among the gathered waitstaff and high-society guests lingering nearby. Before I could push myself up, a pair of glittering silver heels clicked into my field of vision. Elise stood over me, her gown shimmering in the chandelier light, her face tight with barely suppressed rage. She looked around at the onlookers, then down at me, her eyes flashing. I lowered my head instantly, my voice hoarse. “Miss Warren, I’m sorry. I—” Crack. The slap was so hard it knocked my face sideways, my cheek slamming against the wet tile. Before I could draw breath, she struck me again. Crack. The metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth. My lips went numb. “You pathetic little cockroach,” Elise hissed under her breath, her chest heaving. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? Purposely making a scene at my engagement party to humiliate me?” She raised her hand for a third strike, her diamond rings catching the light. Mid-swing, a man’s hand caught her wrist mid-air. Elise spun around, furious words already on her tongue. “Who the hell do you think—Nicholas?” I looked up through my wet, tangled hair. Nicholas stood there, dressed in a bespoke tuxedo, looking tall and imposing. For a single, pathetic second—like the dying spark of a candle before it drowns in wax—a faint glimmer of hope rose in my chest. He had stopped her. Then Nicholas spoke, his tone smooth and cool. He took Elise’s raised hand, rubbing her reddened palm with his thumb, his voice filled with effortless tenderness. “Elise, if she offended you, tell the staff to deal with her. Why hurt your own hand? Look how red your palm is.” He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them lightly. “Does it hurt?” The breath left my lungs. The pain in my chest didn’t flare; instead, it went completely, terrifyingly hollow. It was as if my nervous system, pushed past the limit of what it could endure, simply shut down all feeling to keep me from going insane. I didn’t give Nicholas the chance to order his guards forward. I couldn’t bear the thought of another beating at the hands of strangers. I raised my own right hand. And slammed it across my left cheek. Smack. The sound echoed sharply against the marble walls. I didn’t stop. I raised my left hand and struck my right cheek. Smack. Smack. Smack. A dozen times. Over and over, with everything I had left, until my jaw felt unhinged and blood trickled from both corners of my mouth onto my soaked collar. Only then did I let my hands drop to my sides. I looked up at Elise, my eyes empty. “I apologize, Miss Warren. I was careless. There is no need for your staff to dirty their hands on my account.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “If you are still displeased, I can continue.” The hallway fell dead silent. Even Elise took a step back, her eyes wide with unease. The guests looked at me as if I were a madwoman who had lost all instinct for self-preservation. Nicholas stood frozen. His expression shifted into something strange—a fleeting, fractured look that almost resembled agony. He took two involuntary steps toward me, his lips parting as if to say my name. His Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice. Then his face hardened, his jaw tightening into a mask of cold dismissal. He waved a dismissive hand. “Get out of my sight.” I gathered my strength, picked up the overturned bucket, and walked down the corridor without looking back. Behind me, Nicholas’s voice rang out, sharp as a whip, directed at the maid who had tripped me: “Pack your things. You’re fired. Prescott House does not employ people who play petty games.” Elise hurried to his side, trying to link her arm through his. “Nicholas, darling, she was just—” He pulled his arm away, his voice ice-cold. “I told you before, Elise. Do not bring your street habits into this house. I have a headache. Go back to your suite.” Elise stood in the hallway, staring at his retreating back, her manicured nails digging deep into her palms. It was nearly midnight by the time I finished scrubbing the restrooms. Dragging my exhausted, aching body back down to the basement utility room, I found a small glass jar of burn ointment and sterile gauze sitting on the threshold. Inside my pocket, the burner phone Wesley had slipped to me buzzed faintly. I unlocked the screen: Everything is arranged, Miss Mercer. Hold on. Tomorrow, you’re free. 4 The day I ran from Nicholas Prescott, the sky broke open. The rain over the Long Island sound fell in sheets, violent and relentless, turning the sea below the cliffs into a churning cauldron of slate-grey foam. My face was still swollen and bruised despite the ointment, but I climbed the winding stone path to the ocean pavilion at the edge of the estate. The housekeeper had ordered me to clean the floor-to-ceiling windows of the clifftop guest house. Years ago, during the first summer of our marriage, Nicholas had brought me here when the waters were calm and blue. He had stood behind me, wrapping a cashmere shawl around my shoulders, whispering: You said you loved watching the ocean from high up, Evie. So I built this pavilion for you. Do you love it? Now, staring at my reflection in the dark glass, I saw a ghost covered in bruises, hollow-cheeked, with dead eyes. I didn’t dare remember anymore. Remembering was a slow suicide. The housekeeper had claimed I was the only one assigned to clean the pavilion today. But as I wiped the salt spray from the glass, the heavy oak doors behind me clicked shut with an ominous echo. I spun around. Elise stood near the entrance, wrapped in a fur coat. Behind her were four burly, rough-looking men in street clothes, their eyes roaming over me like vultures over carrion. Panic slammed into my chest like an adrenaline shot. I turned to sprint for the terrace fire exit, but the men moved faster. Two pairs of heavy hands slammed me down onto the polished oak floor, pinning my arms behind my back. Elise walked over slowly, the sharp click of her stilettos echoing off the high ceiling. She stopped beside my pinned hand, lifted her foot, and drove her metal stiletto heel straight through the delicate bones of my knuckles. I screamed, an agonizing, breathless sound. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” Elise hissed, leaning down, her face twisted with rage. “You seduced him again, didn’t you? That’s why he canceled our wedding this morning! That’s why he fired my girl! He even had high-grade burn ointment delivered to your rat hole of a room! You’re the daughter of two convicted felons! You’re worth less than a stray dog, and you dare try to steal him back from me?” She twisted her heel deeper into my flesh, then pulled back and kicked me squarely in the stomach. The breath exploded from my lungs. A wave of iron rose in my throat; I choked, spitting dark blood across the floorboards. “I don’t have time to play games with you anymore,” Elise said, smoothing her coat. She looked over at the four men with a cruel, indifferent smile. “I brought some friends to keep Miss Mercer company. Let’s see if Nicholas still looks at you with pity after every man in this room has had his turn.” She turned and walked out, the heavy doors locking behind her. The men laughed, low and greasy, stepping closer. One of them knelt, his beer-soaked breath hot against my face as his heavy fingers ripped the collar of my shirt open. “Never had a high-society princess before,” he chuckled, pinning my shoulders down. “Hold still, sweetheart. It’ll hurt less if you don’t fight.” “Look at that skin,” another sneered, unbuckling his belt. “Hey, hold her legs. Let me get a taste first—fuck!” The moment his grip loosened around my knees, I drove the steel-capped toe of my work boot directly between his legs with every ounce of strength I had left. He shrieked, doubling over in agony. I scrambled backward like a wounded animal, pushed myself to my feet, and bolted up the spiral staircase toward the pavilion’s observation deck. Behind me, the sound of heavy boots pounded against the wooden stairs—a relentless, waking nightmare closing in. In the top-floor corner office of Prescott Tower in Midtown, Nicholas felt a sudden, inexplicable tremor in his chest. A deep, cold dread settled over him. A frantic knock shattered the silence. His executive assistant rushed in, out of breath, slamming a manila folder onto the mahogany desk. “Mr. Prescott! The forensic audit on the Prescott Educational Trust just cleared. We tracked the original escrow accounts for Donor E.” The assistant’s voice trembled. “It wasn’t Miss Warren. It was… it was Evelyn Mercer.” Nicholas stared at him, motionless. For three agonizing seconds, his brain refused to process the words. Then he lunged forward, grabbing the files. The documents were clear: established fifteen years ago, authorized by the Mercer family trust. Because Evelyn had been a minor at the time, the trust required the signatures of her legal guardians. Robert and Marian Mercer. His parents’ supposed mortal enemies had signed off on the trust that fed him, clothed him, and sent him to Harvard. They had willingly funded the son of the man who died in their wake—and years later, welcomed that same boy into their home as their son-in-law. “No,” Nicholas whispered, his hands shaking so violently the paper rattled. “No, this is wrong. Get the car!” He shoved the desk back, sprinting toward the private elevator. “Drive to the estate! Now! I need to hear it from her!” His mind was a storm of terror. If the Mercers had funded his entire life, what else had he been wrong about? When the car screeched to a halt outside the estate, Nicholas burst through the front doors, rain dripping from his coat. Mrs. Gable hurried forward, bowing low. “Where is she?” Nicholas demanded, his voice ragged. “Miss Mercer was sent to clean the ocean pavilion, sir,” Mrs. Gable stammered. “To prepare it for your wedding with Miss Warren—” Nicholas’s heart plunged. “I canceled the wedding with Elise this morning,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. Before Mrs. Gable could answer, a young kitchen maid broke through the staff entrance, tears streaming down her face. “Mr. Prescott! You have to go to the pavilion! Miss Warren brought four strange men up to the cliff house, and Miss Mercer is up there all alone!” Crack. The world went white. Nicholas didn’t wait for his security team. He bolted back out into the torrential rain, leaped into the driver’s seat of his SUV, slammed his foot on the accelerator, and tore up the narrow mountain road leading to the clifftop pavilion.

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My parents ran a grade-based allowance system every month. I always thought my sister got the money. Until I ended up at Station 2 in the campus dining hall. Interviews were paying seven bucks an hour, hiring only one person, and there she was. Her voice was raspy as she uttered the most shocking words I had ever heard. “Is this a joke to you, Nora?” “Just to humiliate me, you came to steal this job even with an eight-hundred-dollar monthly allowance?” I froze. The words spilled out before I could stop them: “What eight hundred dollars? Didn’t Mom and Dad give all that money to you?” Pathy went dead silent. And right then, something clicked in my head. Unless… that money was never meant for either of us from the start. 01 My twin sister and I were raised by two of the city’s most celebrated educators. They had shelf-loads of state honors, featured constantly in local educational press. Their golden rule was simple: “Pressure drives competition, competition drives effort, and effort brings success.” So, from the moment we were born, Pathy and I were pitted against each other. For other babies, rolling over, sitting up, and crawling were natural milestones. For us, they were points on a scoreboard. Whoever learned first got the point. If you earned five points a day, you got milk. If you failed, you went hungry for twenty-four hours. For over ten years, Pathy and I lived in a relentless warzone. We treated each other like bitter rivals, fighting purely for a plate of food. Until the day our acceptance letters to a top-tier university arrived. Our parents made us a solemn promise: “Once you start college, we will give each of you eight hundred dollars a month for living expenses.” Pathy and I burst into tears right there. We thought our nightmare was finally over. Then came the night before move-in day. They placed two identical exam packets in front of us. “We custom-made these tests covering everything from high school. Finish them, hand them in, and we’ll grade them.” “Take it seriously. This determines who gets the college allowance for the first month.” I couldn’t help asking, “What do you mean, Dad?” They answered with smooth, reasonable composure: “We looked into it. College is when kids ruin themselves most easily. For your own good, we will issue a specialized exam at the end of every month.” “The highest score gets the eight-hundred-dollar monthly allowance. The lower score gets zero.” Pathy and I stared in disbelief. We protested together. “That’s crazy! You promised us! You said eight hundred each once we got into college! How can you go back on your word?” Dad’s face darkened instantly, his voice dripping with intimidation. “Who are you to question us? I am your father. You live under my roof and eat my food, so you follow my rules.” “Besides, isn’t this for your own good? If you’re going to be this ungrateful, neither of you gets a single cent.” Once again, Pathy and I backed down. A college student with zero allowance is like a fish out of water, bound to suffocate. 02 When college started, I had zero dollars. “Nora, you scored two points lower than your sister,” my parents told me. “So, no allowance for your first month.” I begged them not to be so cruel, but they didn’t care. I had to dig out the eighty dollars in birthday money I had hidden under my bed just to survive. To stretch every cent, I lived on cheap stale bagels, only allowing myself a single hard-boiled egg in the morning. Going hungry brought sharp stomach pains, and stomach pains meant needing medicine, which I couldn’t afford. Day by day, my face grew pale and hollow. My roommates quickly noticed. They asked gently, “Nora, are your parents not giving you allowance? Why are you eating so little?” “You’re going to ruin your health like this.” I managed a bitter smile and briefly explained the twisted competition rule at home. My roommates were horrified, looking at me with deep sympathy. “Did you apply for financial hardship aid?” I shook my head. “My parents won’t let me.” If people found out two award-winning educators had a daughter applying for hardship aid, they thought it would bring shame to their reputation. From that day on, my roommates constantly found excuses to feed me. “Nora, this milk expires soon and I hate it, drink it for me.” “Nora, this sandwich has eggs and I’m allergic, take it.” “Nora, these plums from my garden are way too sour, please finish them.” My chest felt warm and aching at the same time. The warmth I had never felt at home, I was receiving here. 03 Eighty dollars, no matter how carefully spent, couldn’t last a whole month. A little over two weeks in, I had ten dollars left in my wallet. I was completely out of options. In desperation, I considered applying for online loans, but legitimate platforms rejected me due to my lack of credit history. Driven into a corner, I called my mother for help. First call, unanswered. Second call, rejected. Third call, she finally picked up. Before I could say a word, her sharp, irritated voice snapped: “Are you out of your mind?” “Don’t you know your father and I are busy at work? Calling nonstop, are you trying to drive me crazy?” I kept my voice as low as possible, pleading with pathetic weakness. “Mom, I don’t have money to buy food.” “Please, just give me a little bit of allowance.” “I really can’t make it through the month.” I thought no matter how cold parents were, hearing their child starve would soften their hearts. I was wrong. Her tone was icy. “If you can’t make it, figure it out yourself. Who told you to score lower than your sister?” “If you want money, beat her at the end of the month. Otherwise, don’t even dream about it.” Click. She hung up. At that moment, all the bottled-up pain surged over me. Standing alone in the stairwell, heavy tears spilled down my cheeks. I had never felt so utterly helpless. I couldn’t understand it. Why did other parents worry about their children going hungry, while mine watched me starve without batting an eye? 04 I walked back to my dorm with red, swollen eyes. Seeing me like that, my roommates immediately gathered around. I told them everything. They instantly offered to lend me money, but I refused. Even though I was broke, I didn’t want to tarnish this pure friendship with financial debts. Helpless, my roommate offered another idea. “Why don’t you try borrowing from your sister? You’re twins, she can’t be completely heartless, right?” “Yeah, your parents gave her eight hundred dollars. Asking to borrow fifty bucks isn’t much.” I hesitated. “But… Pathy and I don’t get along.” Ten years of ruthless competition had made us treat each other like enemies. My roommate encouraged me, “Just try. Maybe she’s not as cold as you think.” I gritted my teeth and dialed my sister’s number. 05 The moment the call went through, Pathy spoke with total impatience. “Spit it out, don’t waste my time.” My roommates were right beside me, hearing every word. My face burned with shame, but I forced myself to whisper, “Pathy, could you lend me fifty dollars?” “I promise I’ll pay you back next month.” The next second, Pathy exploded. “Borrow money from me? Have you lost your mind, Nora?” “You blew through your own cash and now you come begging to me?” “Have some damn pride!” Before I could respond, she slammed the phone down. A stinging sensation filled my nose as I tried to hold back tears. My roommates blew up in rage. “What the hell! Is your sister crazy? If she doesn’t want to lend it, she doesn’t have to be so nasty!” “Unbelievable! She gets eight hundred bucks and won’t even lend fifty to her own twin!” “And calling you a big spender? Is she blind? You’ve been starving on dry crusts for days!” I stayed silent, feeling both furious and deeply hurt. To be honest, Pathy’s reaction didn’t really surprise me. She had been like this since childhood, attacking me before hearing the full story. We were used to treating each other this way. A moment later, my roommate showed me a screenshot of a part-time job. “This local diner needs weekend help. It pays daily, fifteen bucks an hour.” I grabbed onto it like a lifeline, hugging her tightly while whispering endless thanks. She smiled and patted my back. “Just help me with the group projects later.” 06 Two days of grueling work earned me a hundred and twenty dollars. With that money, I dragged myself through another two weeks. It was brutally hard, counting every single penny just to eat. During a break between classes, our advisor posted a list of work-study campus jobs in the group chat. On-campus positions! Long-term! Overjoyed, I registered immediately, grabbing contact details and sending private messages. Every single one turned me down. The higher-paying ones were taken instantly. The flexible ones clashed with my heavy class schedule. Rejection after rejection broke my spirit. Just as I was about to give up, a new posting appeared in the chat. Dining Hall Assistant. Seven dollars an hour. Includes free lunch and free dinner. The only downside: only hiring one person. Seeing the words “includes free meals,” my eyes burned red. This was my only way to survive. Without wasting a single second, I added the manager’s contact, terrified someone else would snatch it. “Hello, I’d like to apply for the Dining Hall Assistant position.” Five minutes later, the reply came: “Sorry, another student just messaged me a step ahead of you.” My throat constricted with panic. I messaged back furiously, pleading: “Please give me a chance! I work really hard and I’m not afraid of tough work. I promise I won’t slack off or cause trouble!” After a long silence, the manager finally replied: “Come to Dining Hall Station 2 tomorrow after class for an interview.” 07 The next day, I waited eagerly for class to end. Right before the final bell, our advisor dropped a message in the chat: “Don’t leave after class. We are having a mandatory class meeting. Class president, organize everyone.” I froze in shock. I wanted to run, but I didn’t dare. Our advisor was notoriously strict. Getting caught skipping meant standing in the office for a week reciting English vocabulary. Throughout the meeting, I sat on pins and needles, checking my phone constantly, my mind in chaos. My roommate kept whispering, “It’s fine, don’t panic, it’ll end soon.” In the end, it dragged on for far too long. The second it ended, I grabbed my books and sprinted toward the dining hall. Twenty minutes late. My heart sank. It was over. The job was gone. I walked up to Station 2, my voice trembling. “Excuse me, ma’am, I’m here for the work-study interview. Who should I speak to?” The cafeteria worker looked me up and down. “Take a seat over there, sweetie. The manager is interviewing someone else right now.” I sat on a chair, my palms soaked in cold sweat. Despair crept over me. A few minutes later, the manager walked out from the kitchen, followed by another student. I looked up, and my eyes widened in total shock. It was my twin sister, Pathy. 08 Our eyes met, both of us frozen in disbelief. The manager looked at me. “Are you the student who messaged me about the interview?” I nodded quickly. He led me into the back kitchen for a quick chat. Because I had rehearsed answers with my roommate, I answered every question smoothly. Finally, he asked, “The pay here is really low. Are you sure you can accept seven dollars an hour?” I nodded aggressively. “As long as meals are included.” The manager looked at me with a complicated expression, sighing softly. “What is wrong with kids these days…” “Working so hard just for a meal. Do your parents not feed you at home?” I didn’t understand what he meant, nor did I have time to ponder it. He led me back outside and spoke to both Pathy and me. “Wait here for a moment while I decide who to hire.” 09 The moment the manager stepped away, the tension exploded. Pathy suddenly shoved me hard. Losing my balance, I slammed into the ground. Furious and confused, I scrambled up. “Are you crazy, Pathy? What did you shove me for?” She stared at me, her eyes brimming with tears. My heart skipped a beat as I remembered drama tropes of girls faking injuries. I took two steps back nervously. “Hey, don’t try to play the victim! You pushed me first, I didn’t touch you!” Instead, her voice broke, raspy and choked with emotions, delivering the most shocking words of my life. “Is this a joke to you, Nora?” “Just to humiliate me, you came to steal this job even with an eight-hundred-dollar monthly allowance?” I froze completely, my mind going blank. I stared at her in utter disbelief and blurted out: “What eight hundred dollars?” “Didn’t Mom and Dad give all that money to you?” Pathy’s rage flared up instantly. “Stop acting! How can you keep lying to my face?” “I know you’re smarter than me. No matter what test Mom and Dad give us, you always score higher.” “But do you have any idea? Because of you, I’ve been starving in this school for almost a month!” “Every day, all I think about is saving money, eating cheap one-dollar bagels from the breakfast cart for every meal!” I was rendered speechless. Pathy grabbed my hands, her voice breaking into a plea. “I’m begging you, Nora. Can’t you just let this go for once, for the sake of being sisters?” “I desperately need this job. I am so, so hungry every single day.” A chill ran down my spine. “But Mom and Dad told me they gave the entire eight hundred dollars to you,” I stammered. Pathy completely lost control, screaming with bloodshot eyes: “How could they have given it all to me? If I had eight hundred dollars, why would I be living like a dog?” “Besides, if I actually had that money, even as much as I hate you, I would have lent you fifty bucks when you asked!” I tried to explain, “But I really didn’t get a cent! I’ve been starving for a month just like you, living on nothing but dry bread!” Pathy shoved my hands away, bordering on hysteria. “Are you trying to trick me again? If Mom and Dad didn’t give the money to you or me, who else could they possibly give it to…” Her voice abruptly cut off. The air turned dead silent. And right then, something clicked in my head. Unless… that money was never meant for either of us from the start.

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Shane Callahan was the single most offensive human being I had ever encountered. The first time I took an interest in him, he looked me dead in the eye and sneered, “Back the fuck off, you sick faggot. You disgust me.” Three years later, I found him bleeding to death on the concrete floor of an unsanctioned underground fight club. I bought his life. When he finally came to, he stared up at me through swollen, purple lids, voice raw and suspicious. “Why the hell did you pull me out?” I smiled, letting the silk lapels of my coat fall open. “I’m a queer, Callahan. What the fuck do you think a queer wants with a man like you?” He immediately dragged his hands down, shielding his groin, his lips peeling back in a snarl. “You filthy dog.” I reached out, caught him by the shoulder, and flipped him flat onto his stomach, pinning him into the mattress so hard the air left his lungs in a wheeze. “With a man like me,” I murmured into the shell of his ear, “what good do you think covering the front is going to do?” 1 The pit had a new problem child. The club manager practically bowed as he led me up the private iron staircase into the VIP mezzanine, his hands wringing together like dry parchment. “It’s this kid, Mr. Mercer. He refuses to take a dive.” The manager leaned close, lowering his voice against the roar of the crowd below. “He’s won six bouts in a row. The odds are completely fucked. The high-rollers on the books are starting to lose their minds.” I rested my forearms on the brass railing and looked down into the cage. Sitting on an overturned grease bucket in the corner, staring blankly at the blood-spattered canvas, was Shane Callahan. Memory hit me like an electric shock, dragging me back thirty-six months. I didn’t hand out my attention easily; in my world, men bent over backward for a fraction of my favor. But three years ago, when I had extended a silver-plated invitation his way, what had he given me in return? Back the fuck off, you sick faggot. I tapped the edge of my cigarette against the railing, watching the ash drift down through the smoke-choked air. “Put Maddox in the cage with him next round. Triple the dose on Maddox’s pre-fight cocktail.” The manager swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Right away, sir. And… how far should Maddox take it?” I didn’t turn around. My voice remained as light and indifferent as the autumn wind outside. “Beat him until he stops breathing.” 2 Down in the pit, there were no weight classes, no rounds, and no refereeing. The animals in the bleachers paid for one thing: red meat. Maddox was built like an industrial press, six-foot-four of scarred muscle and unhinged aggression, and tonight he had enough synthetic amphetamines coursing through his veins to stop an ox’s heart. He felt no pain. Shane was fast. He moved like water, ducking hooks that would have shattered brick, constantly pivoting, hunting for an angle, an exposed throat, a liver shot. But you cannot reason with a bulldozer that has no nerve endings. The roar inside the warehouse nearly blew the corrugated roof off when Shane coughed his first mouthful of dark blood onto the floor. He staggered, caught himself on one knee, and forced himself back up. That face of his—god, even split open and dripping red, there was an infuriating, untamable vitality to it. He lasted two more exchanges before Maddox caught him mid-pivot and slammed him into the concrete. The fists came down like sledgehammers. Heavy. Rhythmic. Shane’s mouth and nose sprayed crimson with every impact, his head bouncing off the deck. The crowd went feral, pounding the chain link, spitting foam. “Kill him! Break his fucking neck! Kill him!” I curled the corner of my mouth. Game over. I stood, smoothing the crease of my slacks, preparing to leave. But just as I turned my back, my gaze snagged on Shane’s eyes. Unfocused. Glazing over. Those were the eyes that had arrested me three years ago—alive with an arrogant, sunlit insolence, burning with youth. Now, the light in them was flickering, guttering out like a dying match. My shoe stopped mid-stride. A sudden, sharp hollow opened up behind my ribs. After everything, I still wanted him. “Call it,” I told the manager. “Get him out.” 3 By the time they hauled Shane into the back locker room, his pupils were blown wide, his consciousness slipping through his fingers like sand. I crouched beside the rusty gurney and waved my hand in front of his battered face. “Two choices, Callahan,” I said, voice calm and level. “You come home with me, and I keep you breathing. Or you lie right here and bleed out.” His cracked lips twitched. I leaned down, bringing my ear close to his mouth. “Go… fuck… yourself…” he rasped. A laugh slipped out of me. “Still the same feral stray. Suit yourself.” I straightened and turned toward the metal door, throwing a careless sentence over my shoulder. “You really have nothing left to live for? Not a single thing?” Every human being has an anchor. Nobody walks through hell without a reason. The room went dead silent. Just as my hand touched the brass handle of the door, a sound cracked through the damp concrete room. Hoarse. Desperate. “Save me.” I didn’t turn back. I merely lifted two fingers in the air, signaling the private medical team waiting in the corridor to go in. I walked out into the cold night air, and someone immediately draped my cashmere coat over my shoulders. I checked the Patek Philippe on my wrist. I was five minutes behind schedule. Five minutes wasted on Shane Callahan. In my precisely engineered, mechanically cold life, Shane was already proving to be an anomaly. 4 It took two months in a high-end private facility to piece his ribs, his skull, and his spleen back together. The moment the discharge papers were signed, my driver delivered him directly to my penthouse. I cut my afternoon board meeting short, driving back through the city faster than usual. When I took the private elevator straight up and entered the master suite, I heard the sound of rushing water from the bathroom. I pushed the frosted glass door open. Shane jerked around, water streaming down his lean, corded shoulders. “What the fuck!” He instantly clamped both hands over his groin, backing into the subway tile, his glare venomous. “Are you out of your mind? Can’t you see I’m taking a shower?!” I unfastened my watch, setting it on the marble vanity, and began unbuttoning my shirt. Piece by piece, right in front of his deteriorating expression, I stripped completely bare. “I see it.” “You sick faggot, you—” Before he could finish the curse, I stepped under the hot stream, grabbed his arm, spun him around, and slammed his chest flat against the wet tile. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you, Callahan?” I murmured, pressing my weight against him until his spine arched. “When you’re dealing with a queer like me, it’s the back you need to cover.” The roar of the showerhead did little to drown out the gasps, the choked groans, and the steady stream of filth Shane spat into the steam. It was the same handful of words, over and over. Pervert. Disgusting. Animal. Get the fuck off me. “Is that all you’ve got?” I chuckled against his neck. He ground his teeth together, the veins in the back of his hands bulging as his fingers clawed at the slick ceramic. “Fucking sickos like you used to get dragged behind trucks.” I hooked my fingers into his hip, shifting his angle, and a violent shudder ran through him, his knees buckling so hard he nearly hit the shower floor. I leaned over his shoulder, watching the sharp profile of his jaw. “Before you throw stones at me, Shane, maybe check your own glass house,” I whispered. “A straight guy being handled by a queer isn’t supposed to get hard.” He froze. He looked down at himself, water dripping off the tip of his nose, staring in total, uncomprehending horror at his own body’s betrayal. The sheer, childlike bewilderment on his face in that split second was so raw it was almost endearing. A sharp ache coiled deep in my lower belly. I reached around, caught his wet chin between my fingers, and turned his face to press my thumb against his bruised, crimson lips. “All right,” I breathed against his mouth. “I’m done in here. Let’s move to the bed.” 5 I possessed neither the patience nor the temperament for gentleness. He trembled beneath me, his hands clutching my forearms with white-knuckle force as his breath fractured into ragged, hitching sobs. His handsome face was crumpled in pain, damp brown hair plastered to his temples by sweat and steam. He looked ruined. Utterly, intoxicatingly wrecked. Every drop of desire in my blood caught fire. Even the curses he hissed through his teeth felt like lighter fluid poured straight onto the flame. “Filthy dog…” “Mm.” “Get off… get the fuck…” I pushed harder, burying myself deeper. “What was that?” His neck arched back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat, practically begging for teeth. I leaned down and bit the cord of his neck, hard enough to taste salt and iron, and a strangled whimper tore out of his chest, vibrating straight through my ribs. He drove me out of my mind. I wanted to crush him. I wanted to grind his bones down and swallow them whole until he lived inside my skin. For the first time in my thirty years, I finally understood why men burned down empires for an hour in bed. The wet, frantic rhythm of skin on skin filled the dark room. He had no breath left to swear at me, his defiance eroding into something thin, desperate, and pleading. “Please… don’t… no more…” I shifted, kissing the wet salt trailing down the corner of his eye. “Shane,” I murmured, my voice thick. “Whose bed is this? Who am I?” He gasped for air, his chest heaving three, four times before he could piece together the syllables. “Adrian… Mercer.” His voice was rough, low, and beautiful. It sounded infinitely better wrapped around my name. “I was going to let you sleep tonight,” I said against his mouth. “Too bad.” Shane, you are far too breathtaking when you break. 6 Shane stayed in my penthouse. The first rule I laid down was absolute: he was never stepping foot inside an underground ring again. He fought me on it with everything he had. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can do?” he snarled across the dining room table. “You come back from those bouts bruised to the bone, limping, wincing every time I lay a finger on you,” I said, slicing into my steak without looking up. “It ruins my mood.” “Do you have any idea what it means to cut off a man’s livelihood?” he shouted, slamming his palms on the dark wood. “You’re taking food off my table!” “And?” “You arrogant prick!” He lunged. He had professional reflexes, and I took his right hook square across the cheekbone. The butler dropped a silver tray; the maids in the hallway froze in terror. I had never, in my entire privileged life, been struck by another human being. Yet, oddly, I didn’t feel a flicker of rage. The scuffle dragged us both onto the Persian rug, fists turning into grips, fury bleeding into friction. We sparked like flint and steel. By morning, I had taken my fill. I dragged myself out of bed, buttoning a fresh shirt, while Shane lay tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets, glaring at me like a caged wolf. “Someone ought to cut that thing off you and feed it to the coyotes,” he spat. I paused by the door, adjusting my cufflink. “Want another round?” His gaze dropped instantly, his shoulders tensing. I smirked and reached for the doorknob, but before I could turn it, his voice drifted from the bed, quiet, muffled, and thick with defeat. “You can’t just stop me from earning money, Mercer.” There was an edge of helplessness in it. A tiny, raw tremor of despair. A ripple disturbed the smooth, icy surface of my chest. Before I could examine what that ache was, it slipped away into the shadows. 7 I had my private investigator pull Shane Callahan’s background that afternoon. The file was thin, but heavy. His parents had died in an industrial boiler explosion at a textile plant just outside the city. Shane had been fifteen. His brother, Luke, had been ten; his little sister, Maisie, just seven. “The settlement from the company was insulting,” my assistant explained quietly, standing on the other side of my mahogany desk. “Non-union shop. They barely paid burial costs. A fifteen-year-old kid carried the entire family on his back from that day forward.” He flipped a page. “The sister, Maisie… she’s in end-stage renal failure. She’s been living in a county hospital ward for the past eighteen months waiting on a kidney. The brother, Luke, just started his freshman year at state college.” My assistant’s face softened with genuine pity. He could look at those numbers and feel the suffocating weight of an impossible life. I couldn’t. I had been born into private equity and old money; poverty was an abstract concept, like zero-gravity physics. You cannot truly comprehend a cage you have never touched. I closed the manila folder. “Understood.” As autumn turned bitter and gray, Shane couldn’t go back to the cage, so he found a part-time gig at an auto body shop on the west side. One evening, on a whim I couldn’t quite justify to myself, I had the driver take a detour all the way across town to pick him up. Outside the garage, under the freezing neon light, two young men were leaning against a rusted fender, sharing soft-serve ice cream despite the bite in the air. One was Shane. The other was a kid his age, wiping motor grease from his hands with a rag. The coworker slung a heavy arm over Shane’s neck, leaning in close to whisper something right against his ear. Shane didn’t pull away. With me, he flinched or braced himself whenever I got within arm’s reach. But here, he leaned into the casual contact, threw his head back, and laughed—an open, bright, unguarded sound that cut through the cold. Had I ever seen Shane laugh like that? Not once. A sour, suffocating heat flared behind my ribs. Shane spotted the black Maybach idling by the curb. He waved goodbye to the kid, jogged over, and slid into the leather interior, smelling of motor oil and cheap vanilla. “What are you doing here?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The tightness in my chest deepened. “Had business in the district. It was on the way.” He nodded, asked no further questions, and went back to chewing the edge of his sugar cone. “Stay away from other men,” I said, my voice dropping an octave. Shane paused, frowning. “He’s a coworker.” “I don’t care. Don’t let them hang on you like that. You don’t know what kind of filth is running through their heads.” His brow furrowed deeper, a look of profound disgust washing over his face. “You think everyone in the world is as sick as you?” I turned my head, my eyes locking onto his. “What did you just say?” “Normal people aren’t like you, Mercer.” The words barely cleared his teeth before I grabbed him by the front of his jacket and slammed him down across the wide leather bench. The privacy partition whirred upward, sealing us in the dim, soundproof darkness. Shane stiffened. Outside the penthouse, in public, his resistance was always muted—he hated making a scene, suffocating his protests in the back of his throat like a trapped animal. I didn’t understand the sudden, blinding fury tearing through me, but I didn’t care to stop it. I pinned his wrists above his head, pressing down until my chest crushed his. “Not like me?” I sneered, leaning into his ear as his breathing turned shallow and jagged. He clamped his jaws shut, turning his face away into the leather, his body shivering. I reached down, dragged his calloused hand between our bodies, and forced his palm flat against the damp, warm front of my trousers. “Feel that, Shane. Whose reaction is that? Tell me again how you aren’t like me.” He jerked his hand back as if he had touched white-hot iron, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and fractured with a panic he couldn’t hide. I gave a low, bitter laugh, but the irritation inside me only sharpened. “You and I are cut from the exact same cloth, Callahan. Don’t let me catch you forgetting it again.” I was drowning in him, completely blind to how lethal that current already was. 8 When I woke the next morning, Shane was already sitting up on the edge of the mattress. His hair was a messy nest of dark strands, one stubborn cowlick sticking straight up in the back. Looking at it, a ridiculous warmth brushed against my ribs. “Don’t go to the shop today,” I said, sitting up against the headboard. “Stay home and rest.” I knew I had been too rough in the car. “I have a shift,” he muttered, not looking back. My silk tie had knotted poorly, and I yanked it loose with an irritated tug. “Can’t I afford to keep you?” He was still half-asleep, his voice dull and groggy. “What, you’re gonna keep me forever?” “What if I do?” The words slipped out of my mouth before my brain could vet them. “What if I keep you for the rest of your life?” The bedroom fell dead silent. The gentle morning draft from the balcony fluttered the loose hair at the crown of his head. I looked away, clearing my throat, terrified of digging into the terrifying truth behind what I had just said. I pivoted sharply, needing to change the subject. “About your sister,” I said, keeping my tone crisp and managerial. “My people found a compatible donor kidney through a private registry. I’ve already retained the chief of transplant surgery at St. Jude’s. You can go down there this afternoon, meet the team, and lock in the surgery date.” I stood, smoothing my cuffs. “Don’t worry about the billing. It’s handled.” Shane’s mouth parted slightly. He turned around, staring at me as if I were speaking an alien language. I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and ruffled his hair, smoothing down that ridiculous cowlick. “I have to go.” As I pulled my hand away, his fingers suddenly shot out, clamping around my wrist. His eyes were rimmed with red, his grip trembling with an intensity that bordered on pain. He looked so fragile, so utterly stripped bare, looking up at me for confirmation. “Is that… are you serious?” It was such a minor thing for me—a phone call, a transfer of funds from an auxiliary account. Back then, I didn’t understand that the things we step over without looking can be the very boulders crushing someone else to death. The nightmare that had kept him awake in the dirt, bleeding his knuckles raw in back alleys for years, had been erased by me with a stroke of a pen. “Why would I lie to you about that?” Shane lowered his head, his chest hitching in silent, ragged breaths. I looked down at his dark eyelashes, fluttering against his cheek, and a bizarre, foreign ache tightened in my chest. Much later, I finally understood what that feeling was. It was an urge entirely detached from lust. It was simply the desperate, overwhelming need to press my lips against someone’s forehead and keep them safe. In my entire life, until Shane Callahan, I had never felt it once. 9 A multi-billion-dollar acquisition entered its final closing stages that month. I lived on black coffee and adrenaline, practically sleeping in the corporate boardroom, forgetting meals until my assistant placed them directly in front of my face. I hadn’t been back to the penthouse in four days. Realizing a crucial environmental clearance document was locked in my private study at home, I buzzed my house manager. “Yes, bottom drawer of the walnut desk.” “Right away, Mr. Mercer. I’ll have the courier bring it down.” My eyes wandered to the small porcelain dish on my desk. Strange—I was a man who ignored trivial domestic details, yet I had somehow memorized the fact that Shane had a weakness for blueberry tarts. “Is Shane at the house?” “Yes, sir.” “Have him bring it.” The moment Shane walked into my corner office forty minutes later, I realized what a catastrophic mistake I had made. Winter was setting in. He was wearing a cream-colored turtleneck beneath a tailored charcoal wool coat I had bought for him. As the coat swung open, the lean, firm contour of his waist was on full display. One look, and forty-eight hours of corporate strategy evaporated from my brain. I dismissed my vice president and general counsel immediately, waving them out the door. Shane touched his cheek self-consciously. “What are you staring at?” I gestured for him to come over. He hesitated, then walked behind the desk. I reached out, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him against my chair. He looked down at me, his fingers twitching slightly. For a second, I held my breath, waiting for him to touch my hair. But his hand stalled in midair, dropping back to his side. “You lost weight,” he said quietly. “I’m exhausted,” I mumbled, burying my face against his sweater. I didn’t even realize how much I sounded like a man whining to his lover. “What have you been doing all week?” At the mention of that, a faint, genuine warmth broke across his features. “At the hospital with Maisie. The doctors say her labs are stable. They set the surgery for next Tuesday.” He paused, swallowing hard, his voice dropping into something delicate. “Thank you, Adrian.” Had Shane ever been this soft with me? My grip on his waist tightened instinctively. If buying his gratitude was this easy, I would have moved heaven and earth for him ten times over. “That’s all the thanks I get?” Shane blinked, uncertain. “What else do you…” I parted my knees, reached up, and pulled him down by the collar until he was kneeling between my legs on the plush carpet. The gesture was unmistakable. The color drained from Shane’s face, leaving him rigid and pale. To be honest, I had wanted him on his knees for months. But with his feral pride, I had always assumed he’d bite me bloody out of sheer spite. Now, though, I knew he wouldn’t. Because beneath the rough exterior, Shane was far more decent, far more innocent than I was. He believed in debts. He believed in paying them back. Just as I anticipated, he took a slow, shuddering breath, his trembling hands reaching for the zipper of my slacks. Anticipation spiked through my veins, hot and sharp. But as I watched his crimson lips part, drawing closer, I couldn’t miss what was sitting in his eyes: humiliation, endurance, and a profound, hollow helplessness. My fingers tangled in his hair—and froze. A sudden, suffocating ache clamped down on my heart. I caught him under the arms and hauled him up violently, pulling him into my lap and burying his face into my shoulder. “What now…?” he gasped, disoriented. “Forget it,” I rasped, wrapping both arms around his back, pressing his chest flat against mine. “Just let me hold you. Let me recharge.” He stiffened, whispering a soft, bewildered, “You’re out of your mind,” but he didn’t pull away. I closed my eyes and tightened my grip, trying to drown out the frantic, chaotic beating of my own heart. I was feeling mercy. For a plaything. To develop a bleeding heart for an untamed stray was a dangerous, pathetic defect. It was a terrible sign. 10 The corporate war dragged on until the final week of December. The only redeeming part of those grueling weeks was knowing that when I returned to the cold glass tower, there was a warm body waiting beneath the duvet. Shane was a heavy sleeper. One night, I found him dead to the world, a faint red crease pressed into his cheek from the pillow. I stood by the bed, looking at him, an unreasonable irritation prickling at me. I wanted to hear his voice. I slid under the covers and deliberately pressed my freezing feet against his calf. He jumped, his face contorting in a groan. “Jesus Christ! Mercer, are you trying to give me hypothermia?!” He cursed, but he didn’t kick me away. “Sorry. Accidents happen. Go back to sleep.” “How the fuck am I supposed to sleep after that?” “Good. Stay awake then.” “You… get off me… mmph.” When I woke the next morning, the gray winter light was filtering through the sheer curtains. Shane was still out cold. I slipped out of bed with utmost care, but before I walked toward the dressing room, I couldn’t stop myself from leaning down and pressing a feather-light kiss to his forehead. It didn’t carry an ounce of lust. As I pulled away, Shane’s hand twitched in his sleep, his fingers curling slightly into the sheet—the exact same way he unconsciously held onto the hem of my shirt when he drifted off beside me. When bodies stay tangled for too long, the distance between hearts begins to fray. And it happens without a sound. It was New Year’s Eve. Following tradition, I prepared holiday bonus envelopes for the domestic staff. After handing them out in the marble foyer, I called the house manager over. “Find me another envelope.” He brought back a standard white one. I frowned. “Something bigger.” He returned with a heavy stationery envelope. “Bigger.” When we ran out of options, I stuffed a thick stack of cash into the largest one we had, took it upstairs, and set it gently on Shane’s nightstand. I leaned down, brushing the stray bangs from his forehead. “Happy New Year, Shane.” There was an embarrassing amount of tenderness in my voice, so quiet I barely recognized it myself. After I pulled the door shut with a soft click, the man on the bed slowly opened his eyes. A faint, tired smile touched his lips, his voice soft against the pillow. “Happy New Year, Adrian.” 11 The Mercer family was vast, which meant the annual New Year’s gathering at the ancestral estate in the hills was an exercise in performative elegance. Children ran through the manicured courtyard with sparklers. Near the bay window, my uncle was losing an aggressive game of chess to my grandfather. My mother, Victoria, approached me holding a flute of champagne, her diamonds catching the chandelier light. “Did you stop by the Montgomery estate this morning?” “I did.” “Good. Vivian is your future wife. Show some courtesy to her family.” I nodded vaguely, my fingers unconsciously fiddling with the leather band of my watch. Beneath the strap, hidden against my pulse point, was a faint ring of teeth marks Shane had left three nights ago. Outside, fireworks erupted over the valley. Inside, crystal clinked against crystal amid hollow laughter and polished smiles. Surrounded by all this glittering noise, an unbearable loneliness hollowed out my chest. I wanted Shane. I slipped out to the terrace, pulled out my phone, and dialed. He picked up on the third ring. The background was dead quiet. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Haven’t been back to my place in months,” he replied, his voice calm. “Doing some cleaning. Fixing a leaky pipe.” A beat. “Why? You need something?” “I’m a little…” The words jammed in my throat. I miss you was a sentence that had never existed in my vocabulary. “Bored.” A soft huff of laughter came through the receiver. “You’re surrounded by fifty of the richest people in the state and you’re bored?” Suddenly, a small tug hit my trouser leg. “Uncle Adrian! Come light sparklers with me!” my niece chirped. Shane heard her. “Sounds like you’re busy,” he said evenly. “Go back inside.” He hung up. I stood there for three seconds, looking at the black screen. I patted the little girl’s head. “Uncle has to leave, sweetheart. Go play with your cousins.” I snatched my coat off the hall rack and headed straight for the front double doors. My mother set her porcelain cup down, her voice sharp as glass. “Adrian. Where are you going?” My boots didn’t break stride. “Don’t worry about it.”

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My boyfriend is the psycho final boss in a horror game. At midnight, his dark, sleek tentacles wrap around me in a needy, possessive embrace. “Stop it,” I murmur, dodging his hungry, unsated kiss. The grand boss lowers his gloomy eyes, pouting like an aggrieved child as he buries his face into the crook of my neck, sucking firmly to leave a bruised hickey. “No kiss? Then no clearing the stage.” 1 “Welcome, players, to the instance: The Shadow Courier.” “Main Objective: Successfully complete three delivery runs.” “Difficulty Rank: SS.” “The trial is about to begin. Prepare yourselves…” The cold electronic chime faded into silence. A dozen players, including me, materialized inside a dimly lit, weathered courtyard. Unlike the sheer panic I felt during my very first horror game, I was surprisingly calm now. Dusk bled into midnight. A thick, eerie fog blanketed the ground, swirling around a gnarled, ancient oak rooted in the center of the yard. Its massive branches curled like jagged talons overhead, looming over us as if ready to impale anyone who moved. My brow twitched. I reached up and touched the cool pendant resting against my collarbone. My boyfriend Gideon’s handsome, composed face immediately flashed in my mind. No matter how terrifying the monsters in this realm were, none of them held a candle to my lover. When Gideon unleashed his true form, those boundless, writhing tentacles were infinitely more suffocating than a creepy old tree. If I wasn’t afraid of the ultimate boss himself, why should I fear some overgrown plant? I squared my shoulders, my gaze hardening. “What the hell?!” a man suddenly screeched. “An SS rank instance?!” “Holy shit, I’ve only cleared one A rank map! I haven’t even unlocked S rank yet, why am I thrown into SS rank?!” “Even top tier leaderboard players can’t guarantee survival in an SS rank game! Why me?! I’m just a casual player who got carried by my team!” “What are you guys talking about? What instance? I was on the beach two seconds ago! Send me back right now!” A complete rookie? I blinked in surprise. To think someone was even unluckier than me, starting off their nightmare in an SS rank map. The other players cast sympathetic glances at the panic-stricken newcomer. If this were a low rank map, someone might have taken pity and given him a quick rundown of the rules. But in an SS rank instance, everyone was fighting for their own survival. Seeing that nobody answered him, the rookie’s confusion quickly turned into blinding rage. “Bringing me here is illegal kidnapping! You won’t answer me? Fine! I’m calling the cops!” He whipped out his phone, only to see ‘No Service’. Panic flickered in his eyes, but he put the phone to his ear anyway, pretending to make a call as he bolted toward the courtyard gates. “Don’t run outside!” someone called out in warning. The man flinched, but it only made him run faster. My pulse quickened. Something felt off. A faint rustling sound echoed in my ears, like wind sweeping dry leaves across pavement. Except there wasn’t a single breath of wind. “It… it’s moving!” someone gasped. The jagged branches overhead groaned like an old man stretching his aching joints. Creak. Crack. The branches sharpened into wooden spears, twisting and stretching toward the man nearing the exit. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, a hand snagged his collar and yanked him back. A massive wooden branch slammed violently into the doorway with a loud thump. One more step, and he would have been skewered through the chest. A suffocating silence fell over the yard. The other players and I backed away, eyeing the ancient oak with deep caution. The rookie, having narrowly escaped death, collapsed onto the pavement, shaking uncontrollably. That’s when a paper puppet ambled out from the shadows of the inner estate, wearing a painted, creepy grin. Its eyes were nothing more than two sloppy ink dots, yet when it stared at us, it felt like hollow eyeballs were rolling in their sockets. “Greetings, couriers. Midnight has arrived. Time to hit the road with your cargo.” The game had officially begun. In this instance, we were couriers tasked with delivering mysterious packages. The roads were fraught with danger, teeming with hungry ghouls waiting in the dark. Frankly, I suspected those monsters were far more interested in eating us than whatever was inside our boxes. Some players quietly grabbed their designated packages; others huddled together, negotiating pairs and groups. I, however, kept my eyes fixed on the paper puppet. It had been facing away from me, but in the next second, its paper head snapped one hundred eighty degrees with a sickening tear. Those two void-like eyes locked directly onto mine. Its face was painted into a wide, unnatural smile, but its voice was bone-chillingly cold. “Why aren’t you moving?” I tilted my head. “Who drew your eyes?” The puppet visibly froze. Clearly, no player had ever asked it such an absurd question before. It glared at me menacingly. “That is none of your business.” I stared back at its face, strangely finding it somewhat endearing. Just as I opened my mouth to ask more, a hand reached out and pulled me back. It was a young woman. She pressed a finger to her lips, shaking her head frantically to tell me to shut up. Once the paper puppet glided away into the dark, she let out a long breath of relief. “Are you crazy? Why are you provoking the NPCs? I heard this map is brutally dangerous, especially that paper guy. It holds grudges like you wouldn’t believe!” I wasn’t trying to seek death. It was just that the atrocious artwork on the puppet’s face looked eerily similar to the bizarre emojis Gideon used to draw for me. Ugly, weird, and bizarrely charming. I used to try and teach him how to draw, but no matter how hard I tried, Gideon stuck to his horrifyingly unique artistic taste. Eventually, I was almost dragged down to his level. Seeing that signature art style after so long actually gave me a weird sense of comfort. Seeing me stay quiet, the girl assumed I was terrified. She patted my shoulder gently. “Don’t be scared. I can tell you’re new here. I’ll cover your back. The name’s Lexi.” 2 My delivery cargo was a small box of face powder. Lexi’s was a pair of antique crimson satin shoes that looked like they were dripping with fresh blood. By a stroke of luck, both our packages were bound for the exact same recipient. Night fell heavily. Clutching our cargo, we crept out of the estate. This time, the massive oak tree didn’t attack us. Lexi was a chatty one. “Face powder and blood red shoes… our client must be some high maintenance beauty.” “Man, these shoes are creeping me out. Look how red they are.” “Do you think we’ll actually make it alive?” “Hey, I didn’t catch your name earlier. How many instances have you cleared? Ever done an SS rank before?” “A top player once told me this map is crawling with abominations hiding in the dark. They could pop out behind you at any second.” To prove her point, Lexi made a goofy monster face to scare me. Without missing a beat, I unsheathed the heavy courier sword at my waist and thrust it straight at her face. She shrieked, “I know I talk a lot, but you don’t have to murder me?!” The blade sliced through the crisp night air with a sharp whoosh. The steel narrowly grazed Lexi’s shoulder, impaling a withered, decaying corpse that had materialized silently right behind her. Lexi blinked, realizing what just happened. “Holy shit! Badass!” My eyebrows twitched. “Draw your weapon! There’s more!” 3 Clouds parted overhead, revealing a sickly green crescent moon hanging in the abyss. Dozens of desiccated corpses sprouted from the muddy earth like grotesque mushrooms. No matter how many we slashed, more crawled out. An hour later, the fog finally swallowed the green moon again, and we stumbled out of the woods, bruised and battered. “Damn, those dead bastards had some grip…” Lexi winced, holding her cheek where a claw had grazed her. I reached over and plucked a rotten tooth out of her tangled hair. Strangely enough, the undead swarm had focused almost all their aggression on Lexi. They barely even looked at me. My messy state was purely from jumping in to save her. Suddenly, my eyes caught something on her feet. “Do you… like vintage shoes?” I asked. “Hell no,” Lexi scoffed. “Those things are bad luck.” “Look down.” The blood red satin shoes we were supposed to deliver were now neatly fitted onto Lexi’s feet. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!” she screamed, trying to kick them off, but they were stuck like glue. Before she could process it, her feet began moving on their own, sprinting forward at full speed. “I can’t control my legs!” she wailed. I bolted after her. We ran all the way to a desolate hill, stopping near a ruined shrine where a figure in a vivid red gown sat before a bronze mirror, quietly combing her long black hair. “Finally… you’ve arrived,” the female specter murmured softly. Her silhouette was breathtakingly elegant, but when she turned, her face was a bruised purple, her neck marred by jagged lash marks. Yet, seeing us gasping for air, she let out a melodic, chilling laugh. My legs felt like jelly, but I forced my voice to stay steady. “Are you the recipient of the shoes and rouge?” “I am.” With a wave of her sleeve, the cosmetics box in my pack and the red shoes on Lexi’s feet flew straight into her delicate hands. I checked my system interface: Progress: 1/3 Complete. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. A close call, but we made it. Just as Lexi and I turned to leave, the specter finished applying her makeup, admiring her reflection. “Hmm… it still feels like something is missing,” she whispered. A spike of dread hit me. “Run!” I yelled, grabbing Lexi’s hand. Too late. In the blink of an eye, my vision warped. I was suddenly sitting on four paws, transformed into a fluffy white rabbit trapped in the ghost’s arms. And Lexi? She had been turned into a delicate jade hairpin, stuck firmly in the ghost’s intricate hair bun. The specter stroked my soft rabbit ears, preening in the mirror with a dreamy smile. “Ah, perfect. The Sovereign of the Undead will awaken soon. This look will surely captivate His Majesty.” She carried us into a grand, twisted palace deep beneath the earth. Ornate pillars, vaulted ceilings, magnificent, yet steeped in death. Chilling winds swept through dark corridors where monstrous entities dressed in aristocratic attire whispered to one another, eagerly awaiting the grand spectacle. We had stumbled into something big. Taking advantage of her distraction, I unleashed a stream of rabbit pee right onto her pristine gown. The ghost hissed in rage, but to maintain her regal appearance, she hastily set me down to clean herself. Now! I kicked off her lap and bolted. The palace was a sprawling labyrinth. Several ghastly creatures spotted a juicy live rabbit and gave chase, snapping their jaws. I squeezed through a tiny crevice in the stone wall to throw them off. With no way back, I pushed forward, wriggling deeper into the narrow tunnel. Finally, the space widened. It was pitch black, cold, and heavy with a suffocating, ancient chill. My furry little rabbit paws stepped onto something soft yet firm. I was standing on a human face. 4 The cavern was freezing and dead silent. My mind instantly pictured the rotting, maggot-infested mug of a ghoul, and a surge of nausea hit me. I frantically tried to back out of the hole, but the entrance had vanished. Trap! I padded along the stone walls, completely sealed. It was as if the tunnel I crawled through had never existed. How on earth did I get in here? The frost in the air grew thicker, biting through my thick rabbit fur. Yet, what terrified me more than freezing to death was the corpse beneath me suddenly springing to life and swallowing me whole. Finding no exit on the floor, I decided to test my rabbit hops, leaping upward toward the ceiling. Maybe the way out was above me. I hopped again and again, hopelessly bouncing around the dark room. And every time I came down, I landed right back on top of the corpse. Though he’s dead, his physique is surprisingly good, I couldn’t help thinking. Reminds me of Gideon. Landing on his chest, I could feel the distinct, rock-hard outline of eight-pack abs through the fabric of his robes. Still, the thought of a creepy, mutilated face was enough to keep me jumping. Until I was completely exhausted. Great. Looks like I’m spending the night with a corpse. Silence in a closed space is a breeding ground for terror. Especially when the corpse beside you suddenly twitched. The figure shifted, slowly turning onto his side to face me. Though the darkness obscured everything, I felt an intense, suffocating gaze locking onto my small, furry body. My blood ran cold. The corpse didn’t move again. By late night, the frost became unbearable. Defeated, I curled myself into a tight little ball and squirmed beneath his heavy outer robes. Oddly enough, it wasn’t cold anymore.

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My brother wanted me to play the innocent, wide-eyed boy—the kind who could coax his fiercest corporate rival into falling head over heels. Then I laid eyes on Wilder Fox. He had unruly crimson hair, a lean waist, and a reckless, predatory grace that belonged in a high-end bourbon ad. He was an untouchable heir to an empire who treated the world like his private playground: fickle, notoriously hard to please, and utterly ruined by indulgence. And more importantly… I stared at the glossy dossier in my hands, my stomach sinking into my shoes. “Garrett, I’m straight.” Later. Wilder was sprawled across silk sheets, a cigarette smoldering between two calloused fingers, looking down at me with heavy, hooded eyes. The pale expanse of his thighs was littered with dark, swollen bite marks. Breathing hard, he nudged my hip with his bare foot. “Still calling yourself straight, Mercer?” A wicked smirk pulled at his swollen lips. “You went straight for my throat the second the lights went down.” 1 Three days after I landed back in the States, my half-brother ordered me to seduce a man. We were sitting in the shadowy back booth of a dimly lit cocktail lounge in Midtown. The memory of Garrett’s morning briefing still hummed bitterly in my ears: Remember, Wilder likes them sweet. Fresh. Sincere. You just got back from London. You’re entirely off the radar. You’re his exact poison. “Garrett,” I had said, my hands tight on my coffee mug, “is this seriously the best corporate espionage strategy you could cook up overnight?” I didn’t even know what the man looked like. Just because my brother was desperate to snag a multimillion-dollar municipal redevelopment project, I was supposed to offer myself up as bait to distract the competition? To a man, no less. “I’m straight,” I’d repeated, my voice hollow. “You owe me, Logan,” Garrett had replied, sliding a single photograph across the polished mahogany table. “If I hadn’t covered your back in the Holloway house after our father brought you in, you wouldn’t have survived long enough to get that degree abroad.” He leaned in, cold and calculating. “A trust-fund parasite like Wilder Fox doesn’t do love. Relationships are just distractions to him. I need you to make him fall, make him lose his focus, and tear him apart when it matters.” I looked down at the photograph. Slender hips, sharp jawline, and a mess of defiant red hair. The man was laughing straight into the lens—feral, unapologetic, entirely unbothered by the world burning around him. A bad boy through and through. The kind who took what he wanted and left a trail of wreckage in his wake. “Can you do it?” Garrett had asked. I had pressed my lips into a thin line and said nothing. 2 Truth was, I wanted to tell him it was suicide. You didn’t have to hire a private investigator to unearth Wilder Fox’s reputation; a two-second Google search on Page Six gave you the entire gory picture. FOX HEIR SPOTTED WITH NEW BOY TOY AT HAMPTONS GALA. TEN-DAY FLING BURNS OUT: WILDER FOX BACK ON THE PROWL. THE BLUEPRINT: INSIDE THE BRIEF, VOLATILE ROMANCES OF NEW YORK’S WILDEST BACHELOR. Gossip rag fodder. From top to bottom. As the sole heir to Fox Enterprises, he ought to have been groomed for the boardroom, yet he treated his family’s billion-dollar conglomerate like an inconvenient joke. He drifted through penthouses and after-parties, swapping partners the way ordinary people changed coats. His only tangible achievement was Nocturne, a moody, ultra-exclusive lounge where high-society heirs went to lose their minds. Word on the street was that his father, old man Fox, had finally grown fed up and dumped a mid-tier waterfront bid on his desk to force him into adulthood. Lost in thought, my gaze drifted toward the centerpiece of the lounge. Under the warm pendant lights, a shock of brilliant red cut through the velvet gloom. He was perched lazily on a leather barstool, long legs crossed, a custom charcoal suit hugging the narrow taper of his waist and the lean line of his back. I gave my glass a slow swirl, set it down, and stood up. 3 “Usual. Negroni,” Wilder murmured, propping his chin in his hand, his tone effortless and dripping with boredom. Brushing past a stray lock of red hair, I slid onto the adjacent stool and nodded to the bartender. “Make that two, please.” “First time here? Haven’t seen your face around,” Wilder said, turning his head. A slow, speculative brow arched upward. Meeting those amber, amused eyes, a strange stillness washed over me. Garrett had been right about one thing: Wilder Fox was undeniably curious. “Just got back to the city,” I said, pitching my voice softer, letting it carry the tentative cadence of someone younger and slightly overwhelmed. “A friend mentioned this place had an atmosphere you couldn’t find anywhere else.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “An expat?” “Architecture student,” I said smoothly. “Taking a year off to handle some personal family affairs.” A half-truth was always the sturdiest shield. If everyone in this zip code traded in fabricated personas, I could play the part just as well. “Fair enough.” He extended a pale, ring-adorned hand, his smile teasing. “Wilder Fox. I own the joint. Ring any bells?” I shook my head, keeping my grip light and brief. “Logan Mercer. Should they?” “Ha. Do me a favor and don’t look me up,” he said, the dry heat of his palm lingering on my knuckles a second longer than necessary before he withdrew. “Trust your gut. Let our first impression be untainted. It’s more fun that way.” “Deal,” I murmured, watching him while my mind added: Untainted, maybe, but already etched in stone. Irresponsible. Hedonistic. Beyond saving. The bartender set down two crystal tumblers, ice clinking musically. Clink. Wilder tapped the rim of his glass against mine. “Boys like you shouldn’t linger in places like this. You’re bound to get picked apart by someone with bad intentions.” As he spoke, he loosened the top buttons of his tailored shirt. No tie. Just the clean, porcelain slope of his collarbones on display. The slight upturn at the corners of his eyes lent him an air of effortless debauchery. I had to admit—he was vastly more magnetic in the flesh than in Garrett’s grainy dossier. I offered a modest, disarming smile. “With the owner standing right beside me, I figure I’m in safe hands.” Wilder narrowed his eyes playfully. “Just call me Wilder.” I took a slow sip. “Wilder.” His fingers twitched against the crystal. Beneath his breath, I caught a soft, rough curse: “Jesus.” When he looked back up, the tips of his ears carried a faint, dusty flush, though his smirk remained intact. “Where are you crashing while you sort through your family stuff?” “An apartment down by the river,” I replied. “It’s quiet. A little too empty, to be honest.” His smile widened. “Funny. I keep a loft right around there. If the quiet gets too loud, you know where to find me.” Before I could answer, he signaled the bartender. “Mix Mr. Mercer a glass of First Sight.” Turning back to me, his eyes caught the amber light. “On the house. Low proof. A toast to meeting by chance.” The faint scent of cedarwood and dry gin drifted from his skin, dizzying and sharp. He was undeniably striking, with full lips and eyes that seemed to look at everyone as though they were a secret he already understood. He waited patiently for me to take the bait. “I think I’ll pass tonight. Thank you, though,” I said softly, rising from the stool. “I’ve had enough to make me lightheaded, and I’d hate to get reckless.” Wilder’s eyebrows shot up. His fingers darted out, hooking lightly into the cuff of my jacket. “Not even a number?” I slipped my sleeve gently from his grasp, stepping backward toward the exit. “Let’s leave the first impression right here. We’ll see if fate orders us a second drink.” Behind me came another quiet, startled laugh, followed by the sound of whiskey going down his throat. I didn’t look back. 4 Our paths crossed again four days later. Le Mirage. Corner table overlooking the fountain tier. 8:00 PM. The text from Garrett glowed on my screen: 7:57 PM. He should be arriving any minute. Garrett had tipped me off that Wilder was seen around town with someone new, and that they had reservations here tonight. My brother had hounded me all afternoon, terrified that another pretty face would monopolize the target before I sank my hooks in. It was almost pathetic how much stock Garrett placed in my supposed charm. Right on schedule, a tall, languid silhouette stepped past the velvet rope. Wilder had his arm draped casually around a slender, brown-haired boy. He was wearing a fluid black silk shirt, unbuttoned just low enough to be indecent, his long legs moving with easy arrogance. The boy clinging to his arm was pretty in an understated, cherubic way—the soft, doe-eyed aesthetic Wilder clearly favored—but he looked faded next to Wilder’s vibrant, feral heat. “I asked for this table specifically,” Wilder was saying, his tone smooth and detached. “The view gives you a clear shot of—” He cut off mid-stride. “A clear shot of what, Wilder?” the boy asked, blinking up at him. I looked up from my menu, affecting mild surprise as my eyes locked onto the crimson-haired man. Wilder dropped his arm from the boy’s shoulder. He closed the distance between our tables in three long, deliberate strides, his eyes gleaming with dark delight. “Well. Look who decided to exist outside my head.” “Dining alone?” he asked. “I was—” “Wilder, the water show starts in five minutes,” the brown-haired boy interrupted, scurrying over with a sharp glare directed squarely at me before attaching himself back to Wilder’s forearm. “Let’s sit down, please?” Wilder looked down at the boy’s hand for two silent seconds. Then, catching the boy by the wrist, he peeled him off. “Go home,” Wilder said smoothly. “What? But we just got—” “Do I look like a man who enjoys repeating himself?” Wilder’s lips curved into a smile, but his eyes were pure ice. The boy’s face drained of color. He smoothed his cuffs with trembling fingers and stormed toward the coat check in humiliated silence. Too impatient. Too transparent, I noted silently. Did he really think Wilder Fox was an idiot with an open checkbook? “Mind if I join you?” Without waiting for permission, Wilder pulled out the leather chair opposite mine and settled in. 5 “Not at all,” I said softly, keeping my eyes modest. “Small world, Mr. Fox.” He leaned back, grinning. “So you figured out who I am.” “It’s hard not to be curious about someone who introduces himself as the owner of the hottest club in Manhattan,” I replied. “I just didn’t expect you to be that Fox.” Before he could respond, our server arrived, gracefully setting down a pair of elaborate appetizers. Wilder made a mock gesture of standing. “Ah. Seems I’m interrupting a date.” “Stay,” I said quickly, offering an embarrassed, sheepish smile. “A friend had an emergency and bailed last minute. I ordered the tasting menu for two… there’s no way I can finish it alone.” Wilder looked down at me from across the table, a low chuckle rumbling in his throat. “Did you plan this?” “An unfortunate coincidence,” I lied without missing a beat. He picked up his water goblet and tapped it against my wine glass. “To fortunate misfortunes, then.” Coincidence is a magnificent liar. Wilder picked up his fork, casually asking, “So now that you know who I am—the trust-fund playboy, the tabloid regular—did your pretty little first impression come crashing down, architecture boy?” The crimson hair fell loosely over his forehead. He projected an air of absolute indifference, as though my judgment wouldn’t graze him in the slightest. I nudged the bread basket closer to him and answered honestly, “A little.” His fork paused. He stared at me. “Psychology calls it the primacy effect,” I said evenly, holding his gaze. “The initial impression anchors our perception. It makes us forgive the noise that comes afterward. You feel it too, don’t you?” The primacy effect: the cognitive bias that causes early information to carry more weight than everything that follows. A beat passed. “…Cheeky,” he murmured, a genuine, startled grin breaking across his face as he looked down. The dinner unfolded with effortless warmth. Wilder asked about my time studying in Europe, swapping stories about his own chaotic stints in Paris and Milan. Listening to him, you wouldn’t mistake him for a deadbeat heir; he possessed the sharp, cultured wit of someone who had seen the world and found it mildly amusing. He deftly carved a piece of seared foie gras, lifted his fork, and brought it directly to my lips. “Taste.” It was an overt breach of boundaries. An unmistakable test. I hesitated for half a second before leaning forward, parting my lips, and letting the fork slide free. The rich, savory fat melted instantly on my tongue. “Good?” Wilder’s eyes darkened, a predatory spark dancing in them. “You look tense.” “I am,” I admitted, my fingers brushing the back of his hand as I reached for my napkin. Snap. His hand clamped down around my wrist, his skin burning hot. He leaned across the small table, trapping me under his heavy, golden gaze. “You know what I like, Logan. And I’m entirely unattached right now.” I met his stare, my expression entirely placid, and said quietly, “Wilder. Let go.” He arched a brow. His grin widened by a millimeter, but after a second of silent standoff, his fingers uncurled. “Jesus… you handle me like I’m a dog on a leash.” I rubbed my wrist, shaking my head. “Never. I just prefer to sit across from you as an equal.” “Then tell me, Logan,” he said, the teasing edge softening into something almost earnest. “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass, the outdoor fountains erupted into towering plumes of illuminated spray, catching the neon glow of the city skyline. It was the textbook moment for surrender. All I had to do was say yes. I would become the latest ornament on his arm. In two months, he’d tire of me, Garrett would quietly secure the contract while Wilder was distracted, and I would walk away clean. Neither Garrett nor Wilder saw me as an actual person with a pulse. To both of them, I was a variable to be managed. “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I don’t date men.” For the first time, a flicker of genuine shock cracked Wilder’s unflappable exterior. His fingertips tapped a restless rhythm on the tablecloth. Then, his shoulders shook with a sudden, breathless laugh. “Give me a shot, Logan. Just one.” He leaned in, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ll make you like me.” “…” He slid his smartphone across the table, screen open to a blank contact card. “Take my number. In case you find yourself needing a little company.” By the time I stepped out of the restaurant, the autumn air had turned sharp. He offered to call a town car for me; I politely declined. I walked down the riverside promenade alone, the cold wind biting my cheeks. My phone buzzed in my pocket. An unsaved number: Thanks for dinner. Tomorrow night is on me. You free? By the way, you look devastating in that cream turtleneck. Don’t overthink it—it’s just a fact. 6 Wilder meant what he said. He launched a campaign that was as relentless as it was unsubtle. He clearly had no idea how to court someone through gentle persistence. Money had always solved every obstacle in his life, so he treated courtship like an auction: bouquets of rare orchids arriving at my lobby desk every morning, limited-edition sneakers, high-end watches worth three years of my London rent dropped off in discreet gift bags. He kept inviting me back to Le Mirage, entirely undeterred by my lack of definitive answers. The notorious playboy seemed genuinely, absurdly domesticated. Garrett was thrilled. He reveled in reports that Wilder was spending his afternoons scouring boutiques instead of reviewing RFP documents for the upcoming municipal bid. And me? …I had no idea where I stood. I couldn’t tell if the heat in my chest was the dirty thrill of playing a part, or something far more dangerous. “What’s got you so deep in your head?” The voice came from behind me, threaded with that familiar, mocking warmth. I turned around, clutching two admission passes at the steps of the modern art museum. Wilder wore a charcoal cashmere turtleneck beneath a long, tailored black wool coat. He looked like he’d stepped directly out of an editorial spread. The fiery red of his hair had faded slightly to a warm, burnt copper, falling loosely over his forehead without its usual sculpted gel. It took the edge off him. Made him look almost vulnerable. “Nothing,” I said as he reached me. “Just wondering if you were going to leave me standing here.” “For you? I’d show up an hour early just to watch you walk up the steps,” he teased. “Come on. The galleries are quiet today.” I took a few strides forward, realized he wasn’t beside me, and glanced back. Wilder had stopped, holding out an open, pale hand with a shameless, crooked grin. “Do a guy a favor. Hold my hand. Please?” 7 The gallery was cavernous and quiet, pale autumn sunlight filtering through the vaulted skylights, gilding the gilded frames in soft amber. Wilder moved through the rooms with surprising familiarity, keeping our fingers loosely laced together, occasionally leaning in so his warm breath grazed my ear as he murmured details about the painters. “You come here often?” I asked. His thumb traced absentminded circles on the back of my hand. “My mother used to bring me when I was a kid. She was an artist. Loved this place more than anywhere in the city.” He paused. In the low gallery light, I caught a sudden, brief shadow passing over his eyes. “She passed away when I was twelve. After that, this was the only place where she didn’t feel entirely gone. She gave up painting after she had me. I used to think I ruined her life.” The confession caught me entirely off guard. A ruthless operative would have seized the opening, using his dead mother as an emotional wedge to pry him open further. But as I looked at the slight downturn of his mouth, I found I wasn’t cold-blooded enough to turn his grief into an asset. “I’m sorry,” I murmured. Wilder shook his head, tugging my hand gently. “Come here. I want to show you my favorite.” His grip was hot and steady. For all his posturing, his skin was remarkably soft against mine. He led me past three interconnected galleries, stopping before a massive, moody canvas. The painting was dominated by an ocean of suffocating, ink-black tones. But dead center, a sliver of pale, incandescent light pierced the clouds, striking a tiny circle of still water below. It hummed with an ache that was impossible to name—loneliness and salvation knotted together. “Don’t worry about sounding smart,” Wilder said softly. “Do you like it?” “I do,” I answered. “Why?” “I like the dark,” I said. “It feels safe enough to disappear into. But that light… it reminds you that there’s still somewhere to run toward.” It was the story of my entire life. Wilder let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. “Funny. It’s my favorite piece here, but I despise the dark.” His voice dropped so low I had to strain to hear it. “Some things happened when I was younger. Ever since, darkness is just… an empty room. No light at all.” He squeezed my fingers. “Come on, Mercer. There are happier things to look at.” 8 For the rest of the tour, Wilder was a ghost of himself. He stopped whispering in my ear, stopped laughing at his own jokes. He simply drifted alongside me, offering mechanical nods when I pointed out a sculpture. The arrogant, untouchable heir was gone, replaced by someone small and defenseless. Remember who he is, I commanded myself. He’s still a weapon Garrett pointed you at. Outside, under the sprawling limbs of a bare oak tree, I guided him toward a circular wooden bench. “Sit down,” I murmured. “Are you alright?” Wilder looked up at me, managing a weak, sarcastic curve of his mouth. “What, worried about me?” “Yes.” He was sitting; I was standing. The power dynamic flipped, forcing him to crane his neck to meet my eyes. The mask slipped entirely. “God,” he whispered, turning his head away toward the gravel path. “Pathetic. I’m completely pathetic around you.” “Wilder—” “I envy you, Logan. Truly.” “Envy me for what?” “You’re clean,” he said, turning back, his eyes glassy and bright. “There’s a… purity to you I can’t even describe.” He swallowed hard. “I grew up in rooms where nobody ever said what they meant. Every single person who ever crawled into my bed had an invoice waiting in their back pocket. I knew what they wanted. They never said no to me, they just clung closer and closer… and the closer they got, the less they heard a single damn word I said.” He stared at me, his gaze tracing the bridge of my nose, my lips. “You’re different. You’re that light in the painting.” The evening wind caught his copper fringe, making him look young, fractured, and terribly exposed. The corners of his eyes were rimmed with pink. Clean? My chest burned with self-loathing. I’m the dirtiest thing that ever walked into your life. A suffocating panic gripped me. I took a half-step back, wanting desperately to run. Grab. His hand caught my wool sleeve. He looked up at me, hair tangled across his forehead, his fierce eyes pooling with unshed tears. “Kiss me,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Please. Just kiss me.” … I didn’t think. I reached down, fisted both hands into his lapels, buried my fingers in his hair, and crushed my mouth against his. 9 It was nothing like the gentle seduction I had mapped out in my head. It was violent, desperate, my teeth catching his bottom lip hard enough to draw copper. The taste of salt and blood flooded my mouth, swallowing every lie I hadn’t told yet. “Mmh…” Wilder let out a muffled gasp, startled by the ferocity of it. Then, his hands flew up, winding tightly around the back of my neck. He pulled me down harder, parting his lips, surrendering completely to the assault. His neck arched, his lean hips tilting upward toward mine. In a surge of blind frustration, my hand dropped to his waist, digging hard into the lean muscle above his hip bone. “Ah…!” A sharp shudder ran through him. I didn’t know who I was angry with. Him, for using his misery to disarm me? Or myself, for feeling like a monster? His eyes were glazed, dazed with tears and oxygen deprivation, when I finally tore my mouth away. “Ha…” Wilder’s chest heaved against mine, his eyes blinking rapidly in the twilight. “Be with me, Logan,” he panted, breathless. “I know my track record is garbage. But I mean it this time. Say whatever you want to me, do whatever you want. I’m in.” I stood over him, my pulse pounding in my ears, completely silent. Reading my frozen silence as rejection, Wilder’s expression shuttered. He produced a silver lighter and a cigarette with shaking hands, attempting to patch his cool facade back together. “Right. If you don’t buy it, forget I spoke. Go on home.” “I…” My throat felt like sandpaper. “It depends on how you act.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “If you’re still just a spoiled brat with nothing to show for his life, count me out.” It wasn’t the script. I was supposed to say yes, hook him, and keep him pliable. Wilder froze, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Then, a deep, resonant laugh tore through his chest, vibrating with sheer, unadulterated delight. “Logan Mercer,” he said, rising from the bench and letting his thumb brush my burning earlobe. “Watch me.” He pressed the unlit tip of the cigarette lightly against my breastbone, his eyes burning with renewed fire. “I won’t give you a single reason to say no.” 10 Three days later: the Fox Foundation Annual Charity Gala. I arrived thirty minutes before the scheduled start, but the grand ballroom of the Plaza was already swelling with Manhattan’s elite. Tiered champagne fountains, crystal chandeliers, and an endless parade of diamonds and bespoke tuxedoes. “Mr. Mercer,” an attendant whispered, guiding me through the foyer. “Mr. Fox is finalizing his remarks upstairs. Please enjoy the reception.” I nodded, stepping into the periphery. This wasn’t my world. When my mother fled my father’s family, she severed every tie to high society. To the Holloways, I had always been an embarrassment—an illegitimate son tolerated only because Garrett occasionally used me as a buffer during family disputes. If Garrett hadn’t intervened when my uncles were circling like vultures, I might not have survived my teenage years. My mother eventually reclaimed her maiden name, took me with her, and we lived quietly until she fell ill. I returned to New York only because my father’s health had collapsed, triggering a bloodbath over the estate. Garrett and my uncle Richard were at each other’s throats, and Garrett needed every chip he could play. Including me. In the center of the hall, an archival black-and-white photograph hung on an easel: an elegant woman smiling gently, holding a five-year-old boy in her lap. The boy’s grin was radiant and pure—a world away from the jaded playboy I knew. “Mr. Fox has arrived!” A collective hush swept through the room as the double doors parted. A pair of long, perfectly tailored legs stepped across the threshold. Wilder was clad in a razor-sharp, midnight-black tuxedo, the silk lapels catching the light with subtle, understated elegance. His hair was no longer crimson. He had dyed it back to a deep, natural raven black, slicked back from his forehead to reveal the sharp, aristocratic architecture of his brow and cheekbones. Gone was the decadent drifter. In his place stood an heir who commanded the room with effortless authority. “Holy shit, did Fox get an exorcism?” a young venture capitalist whispered nearby. “I thought he was boycotting tonight!” Through the murmuring crowd, Wilder’s gaze swept across the sea of faces with cool detachment. Then, he stopped. His eyes locked onto mine. A slow, private warmth crept into his amber irises. Lifting his champagne flute in my direction, his lips shaped four silent words across the cavernous room: How did I do? 11 For the remainder of the evening, Wilder operated with staggering finesse. He moved between senators, hedge fund managers, and foreign dignitaries with the grace of a seasoned diplomat. When he took the stage for the closing address, his posture was immaculate, his hands steady on the lectern. I watched him from the shadows, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. Was his playboy routine just a performance? A deliberate mask to keep the vultures at bay? And if it was… did I stand a chance of walking away from him intact? “…Tonight, thanks to your generosity, we have secured thirty-five million dollars, every cent of which will be directed toward youth educational initiatives in underprivileged districts.” Wilder offered a dignified bow, and the room erupted into thunderous applause. As the crowd began to thin toward the exits, my arm was roughly seized from behind. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I turned to find Garrett staring down at me, his eyes bloodshot and venomous. He shoved me behind a massive marble pillar, his voice an incensed hiss. “I told you to ruin him. I told you to make him useless, not turn him into the damn poster boy for civic responsibility!” “Garrett—” “A charity gala?” Garrett sneered, his fingers digging into my bicep. “What’s next? Is he going to polish up his redevelopment proposal and sweep the city council off their feet just to impress you?” I pried his fingers off my arm, my jaw clenched. “This wasn’t part of the plan, but you don’t know him—” “Are you falling for him, Logan?” Garrett spat, his face inches from mine. “I need corporate dominance, not a tragic queer romance. Are you going to deliver, or are you just as worthless as your mother thought you were?” The venom in his voice was familiar. Back in the Holloway mansion, he had protected me only so long as I remained useful. Now that the inheritance war was peaking, I was just another pawn to sacrifice. “I have it under control,” I said coldly. “If I want him to hand over the contract, I have to be the only thing he cares about. Let me work.” Garrett scoffed, adjusted his cuffs, and vanished into the crowd. I leaned back against the cold stone pillar, letting out a long, ragged exhale. “Found you.” Wilder’s voice cut through the quiet. 12 The top floor of the venue housed a private penthouse suite reserved for the Fox family. Wilder lay sprawled across a deep velvet sofa, having already discarded his jacket and untied his bowtie. The starched white collar was undone, exposing the pale hollow of his throat. “My sanctuary,” he said, crooked finger beckoning me forward. “I come up here after these stupid galas to breathe. Tonight’s the first time I didn’t come up alone.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, looking out over the glittering Manhattan skyline. “So,” he murmured, his gaze tracing my profile, “give it to me straight. Did I pass the test? I wrote that damn speech myself. Nearly bored myself to death practicing it in the mirror. Logan, do you ever get exhausted playing the saint?” Every single day, I thought. “I’m used to it,” I said aloud, offering a soft smile. “You were incredible tonight. Truly.” Wilder chuckled, taking a sip from his glass. The amber bourbon glistened on his lower lip. “Do I get a reward?” I leaned down, aiming for his mouth, but his index finger pressed against my lips, halting me. “Not yet,” he whispered, looking up at me through dark, thick lashes. “I want the real answer first. Am I your boyfriend now, Mercer?” His eyes were wide, unguarded, reflecting my own face back at me with terrifying clarity. I ran my fingers through his black hair. “Yes.” Wilder let out a breathless laugh, hauling me down by the lapels until I tumbled against his chest. He kissed me hungrily, his hands roaming my back, muttering against my mouth: “What did that Holloway asshole say to you down there…?” My heart stopped. I pushed back, staring at him. “You saw?” Wilder’s hands slid down to my waist, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles. “Look at you, all jumpy. I saw him grab your wrist by the pillar. By the time I walked over, he took off. Was he harassing you?” Relief washed over me, cold and sickening. “He… he was asking for directions, got aggressive when I blew him off.” “Fucking parasite,” Wilder cursed softly, his brow furrowing. “Putting hands on you in my building. He’s lucky I didn’t break his jaw.” I let out a shaky laugh. My brother was using me. I was deceiving Wilder. And through it all, Wilder was the only one in the room acting with something resembling honor. “You’re laughing?” Wilder pouted, tugging at the hem of my shirt. “I was about to lose my mind with jealousy.” Before I could reply, he pulled me down again, his lips gentle this time, nuzzling my jaw with clumsy affection. The heat shifted, thick and heavy. My fingers traced his ribs, and he pulled me closer, guiding my weight on top of him. I reached for his tie, murmuring against his throat, “Let me make it up to you.” He caught my wrist, his gaze dark and heavy with desire. “You know how this works?” I paused. “What?” “Innocent little virgin,” he teased softly, though his pupils were dilated. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. It might sting the first time, but I’ll be careful.” As his fingers worked my buttons, I hesitated, then whispered, “I want to be on top.” He stopped. “I’ve always hated pain, Wilder,” I murmured honestly. Growing up in the Holloway house had left me with plenty of bruises; I had zero desire to collect more. Wilder stared at me for a long, stunned second before groaning into the cushion. “Jesus Christ.” He looked up, resigned and completely wrecked, his cheeks blooming with heat. “Fine. You win. Take what you want.” “Just… go easy. It’s my first time this way, too.” I rested my hand tentatively on his thigh, suddenly uncertain. “Show me what to do.” Wilder’s face turned scarlet. He kicked my shin lightly, his eyes flashing with mortified indignation. “Are you seriously asking me for a tutorial right now?!” “…” “Shower first,” he grumbled, his bare toes hooking around my waist to haul me up. “And use your hands.” …

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “617941”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

1 I spent ten years building my top-veterinarian boyfriend into the internet’s most beloved pet doctor. When my five-year-old cat contracted a rare, life-threatening condition, I waited hours for an appointment at his clinic. But when my turn finally arrived, he refused to treat my cat, bumping me to the very end of the line under the guise of maintaining medical impartiality. Immediately afterward, he fast-tracked his childhood friend Amber so her cat could get a routine checkup. By the time my cat finally reached the operating table, she was barely breathing. When we got home, I packed my bags, my heart completely hardened. Tristan, usually the picture of cold composure, turned pale. He knelt before me with a velvet box in hand, blocking the front door. “Valerie, I thought you of all people would understand. My reputation is under constant scrutiny. You are my partner, so I have to avoid any appearance of favoritism.” He gripped my hands, his voice desperate. “Amber’s mother entrusted her to my family on her deathbed. Taking extra care of her is just basic decency.” My heart softened, and I accepted the ring. Until my wedding day. Thirty minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, I accidentally overheard Tristan speaking with the officiant outside the green room. “Amber’s cat threw up a moment ago. Find an excuse to delay the ceremony for a bit while I run over to examine it.” Amber clung tightly to his arm, looking up at him with a sweet, coy pout. “Tristan, you spoil me so much. But what if Valerie gets mad?” Tristan stroked her hair affectionately, his tone dripping with casual indulgence. “I am giving her the wedding of her dreams. Spoiling you a little is only fair.” He paused, his voice utterly relaxed and certain. “Besides, she will not make a scene. A single wedding is enough to keep her satisfied.” I stood frozen in the corridor, an icy chill sweeping through my entire body. Ten years of devotion had earned me nothing more than a arrogant assurance that she will not make a scene. Slowly, I pulled off the diamond ring that had never quite fit my finger. I pushed open the door and looked at them with a completely calm expression. “If her cat is so important, why do we not just cancel the wedding altogether?” Tristan’s smile froze. He turned to me, his brow furrowing in instant irritation. “Stop being ridiculous! It is just a short delay.” It was supposed to be the most important event of our lives, yet in his mouth, it sounded like a casual game that could be delayed whenever he pleased. My gaze drifted over his attire. He wore a crisp, bespoke suit tailored to perfection. I had pulled countless favors six months ago to secure a top Italian designer specifically for this piece. The day the suit arrived, he had spun me around in his arms, swearing he would cherish my love forever. Now, Amber was clinging tightly to his sleeve, her grip crumpling the tailored fabric. He did not care in the least. Instead, he gently patted her hand to comfort her. I pulled my eyes away, my voice barely above a whisper. “Am I really the one being ridiculous, Tristan? You are the groom ditching his bride minutes before the altar to examine a childhood friend’s pet.” A dismissive smirk touched his lips. “Do not make a mountain out of a molehill. You are just jealous of Amber. It is a minor issue that can be solved by pushing the ceremony back an hour.” A minor issue. In Tristan’s eyes, everything concerning me was a minor issue. My cat almost dying from a delayed operation was a minor issue. Missing the sacred hour of our wedding was a minor issue. Yet a single sneeze from Amber’s cat was an urgent emergency. The officiant glanced nervously between us, carefully weighing his words. “Is there any chance another veterinarian at the clinic could examine the pet? That way, neither side is delayed. Missing the scheduled hour for the ceremony is really not ideal.” Amber bit her lip, looking visibly tense. Holding the diamond ring in my palm, I felt a faint, foolish flicker of hope rise in my chest. Tristan rejected the idea without a second thought. “No! I have always managed Cleo’s health personally. Amber does not trust any other doctor.” Amber’s posture relaxed immediately, a triumphant glint flashing beneath her innocent eyes. “But Tristan… what if Valerie really cancels the wedding?” “She is just trying to intimidate me.” Tristan looked at me, letting out a soft, mocking chuckle. “You fought so hard to finally get the title of Mrs. Vance. Do you really have the guts to walk away from this wedding?” So he knew. He knew exactly how much I valued him and this marriage. My love had simply become the weapon he used to trample over my dignity. I offered a self-deprecating smile, no longer hesitating. Dragging the heavy lace train of my bridal gown, I walked forward and set the ring on the table beside him. Tristan’s hand snapped out, clamping around my wrist with enough force to crush my bones. His eyes swept over the ring, then landed on my face. The smirk vanished from his lips, his voice pressed through gritted teeth. “Are you playing for real?” “I am.” Amber looked up at Tristan, her voice soft and fragile. “Forget it, Tristan. I will just take Cleo to the clinic by myself. Do not make Valerie upset.” Her words only darkened Tristan’s temper. His grip on my wrist tightened even further. “I gave you enough face today, Valerie,” he sneered, his tone turning commandingly cold. “Put the ring back on and wait here for me to finish. Otherwise, the imported medication for Butterscotch stops today.” I yanked my hand out of his grip, a sharp, stabbing pain tearing through my chest. “You are threatening me?” Butterscotch was my five-year-old cat suffering from the rare disease. After the previous near-fatal delay, Tristan had offered to keep Butterscotch at his main hospital facility, claiming she would receive top-tier round-the-clock care. Butterscotch had kept me company through countless lonely nights. I had genuinely believed he cared for her out of love for me. I never imagined he would use my cat’s life as leverage to bend me to his will. Tristan smoothed his crumpled sleeve, looking down at me with utter arrogance. “It is not a threat. I am simply teaching you to be compliant. Furthermore, my professional reputation cannot have any stains.” He turned to the officiant, issuing cold instructions. “Announce to the guests that the ceremony is delayed because the bride’s family is running late. After all, you do not have any family coming anyway, right?” I clenched my fists, the cruelty of his words choking the breath out of my lungs. Taking my silence as obedience, he reached out, lifted my chin, and leaned down to whisper near my ear. “That is a good girl. Wait for me to get back.” Without another word, he wrapped an arm around Amber’s waist and walked out the door. The officiant offered me a look of deep pity. “Miss Jiang… should I inform the guests according to Mr. Vance’s instructions?” I nodded mindlessly, my heart entirely numb. My family. Not a single person from my family would attend today. Tristan knew better than anyone why that was, yet he chose to use my deepest wound to strike me down. The air conditioning in the green room was turned up too high, making me shiver violently. I picked up the oversized ring from the table and walked toward the vanity mirror. After I accepted his proposal, I realized the ring was entirely the wrong size. My fingers were slender, and the ring slipped off multiple times every single day. Yet I had refused to take it off, clinging to the pathetic hope that it meant our relationship would last. Looking back now, even the ring size had been bought according to Amber’s measurements. Passing a trash bin near the doorway, I paused. With a gentle flick of my wrist, the diamond ring dropped straight into the garbage. I did not look back. Inside the dressing room, I pulled out my phone and typed a quick message to the hotel’s general manager. Outside, the officiant had already announced the delay to the main hall. My makeup artist stood nervously in the corner, while my two closest friends and bridesmaids looked at me with deep concern. I ripped the heavy veil off my head, offering a bitter laugh as I gave them a brief overview of what had happened. “This is absolutely outrageous!” Zoe paced back and forth across the room, her eyes burning with fury. “What kind of precious cat requires the groom to ditch his own wedding altar?! Are you really going to swallow this disrespect, Valerie?” Phoebe’s face was flushed with anger, her fists tightly clenched. “Absolutely not!” I reached out and took Zoe’s hand. “I need you to do something crucial for me right now. Take my ID and authorization forms, head straight to Tristan’s hospital while he is away with Amber, and discharge Butterscotch immediately.” “Leave it to me!” Zoe agreed instantly. “But what about her treatment? Only his hospital has access to the imported serum!” Phoebe pulled out her phone, her eyes flashing with determination. “Get her out first! We will figure out the medication later!” Zoe turned and rushed out without even changing out of her bridesmaid gown. Phoebe knelt beside me, gently rubbing my cold back. “I still cannot believe Tristan turned into such a monster. Was it really worth sacrificing everything for him back then?” Mentioning the past sent my mind drifting back to the man Tristan used to be. The Tristan who would run across half the city in a snowstorm just to buy me warm chestnuts, holding them inside his coat so they would stay hot for me. The Tristan who was so broke he only had a hundred dollars left, yet borrowed two hundred more just to treat me to a proper hotpot dinner. The Tristan who drove eight hundred miles straight just to watch the sunrise with me, willing to grant my every wish. I had no idea when that man had vanished. I finally accepted the painful truth: the Tristan worth sacrificing everything for had died long ago in the passage of time. I took a deep, steadying breath, stood up, and walked toward the changing room. Before I could reach the door, Tristan’s mother pushed her way inside, flanked by a group of groomsmen who blocked the entrance. Seeing my intent to strip off the wedding dress, Tristan’s mother crossed her arms, offering a sneer. “Tristan merely left to treat an ill animal. He will be back shortly. Valerie, throwing a temper tantrum on your own wedding day shows a severe lack of upbringing.” The groomsmen chimed in behind her. “Come on, bro’s girl, Tristan already said you had to beg for this wedding. Do not make things awkward for everyone.” One of the groomsmen initiated a video call with Tristan. On the screen, Tristan listened quietly to their chatter, a faint smirk touching his lips. On his wrist was the limited-edition luxury watch I had spent six months of my savings to buy for him. I let out a cold, mocking laugh. My eyes swept over the groomsmen, glanced past the phone screen, and finally locked onto Tristan’s mother. “Your son abandoned his bride minutes before the altar to run off with his childhood friend. Is that your definition of proper upbringing?” The old woman’s face flushed crimson with humiliation. “You freeloading orphan! You have no right to speak to me like that!” Tristan’s icy voice echoed through the phone speaker. “Watch your mouth, Valerie! How dare you speak to my mother like that!” He sneered through the screen. “Do you still think you are the wealthy heiress of the Harrison Maritime Group?” My chest tightened painfully. Years ago, after our relationship stabilized, I had confessed my true identity to him as the eldest daughter of the Harrison Shipping Empire and brought him to meet my father. My father had taken one look at him and demanded I break up with him immediately. Valerie, that boy’s heart is not pure. To be with Tristan, I had cut ties with my father and stormed out of the family mansion, refusing all contact for years. After I helped Tristan build his personal brand into a massive veterinary influencer, he never once mentioned visiting my father again. I had assumed he wanted to achieve greater success before seeking my father’s approval. It turned out he had simply harbored a bitter grudge, using my estrangement as a weapon to degrade me. Because I had no family backing me, he believed I deserved to be humiliated on my own wedding day. A tear slipped down my cheek, cold against my skin. I wiped it away casually. Tristan’s mother added her own taunts from beside the screen. “Harrison Maritime? We haven’t heard a peep from them in years! She probably made the whole thing up!” “She is just a lonely orphan clinging to my son,” she continued arrogantly. “Only a soft-hearted man like Tristan would still take in an aging woman like her.” The groomsmen laughed and nodded in agreement. Phoebe rushed forward, shielding me with her body. “Tristan Vance, have some decency! Her social media strategies made your entire career! Valerie gave up a life of luxury to suffer alongside you!” Amber squeezed into the phone frame, offering a sweet, mocking grin. “Following Tristan is never a sacrifice, Phoebe. It is pure sweetness!” Phoebe glared at her, refusing to engage. Seeing that I was still moving toward the changing room, the groomsmen stepped forward, physically grabbing my arms. In the chaos, I was shoved heavily to the floor. A section of my lace dress was crushed under heavy dress shoes, and my knee scraped hard against the tile, leaving a painful, bleeding gash. Two groomsmen pinned Phoebe’s arms behind her back. One of them reached his hand toward the hem of her skirt. My eyes went wide with horror. Sitting on the floor, I let out a frantic, desperate scream. “No! Stop!” “Enough! I will not change my dress!” I wept, shaking violently. “I will wait for the ceremony! Just leave her alone!” Seeing my pathetic state on the floor, a flicker of restraint flashed across Tristan’s face on the screen, but his heart hardened again instantly. “See? If you had been compliant from the beginning, none of this would have happened. Wait quietly for my return.” I shook violently with rage, ignoring his voice entirely. I dragged myself over to Phoebe, helping her up as we held each other in the corner. I apologized to her repeatedly through my tears. She held me back, her hands trembling as she whispered that she was okay. Hearing her comfort only broke my heart further. For the first time in my life, I truly hated someone. He could fall out of love with me, and I would accept my loss gracefully. But how dared he allow his friends to humiliate my loved ones and threaten my pet? How dared he! Leaving two groomsmen behind to guard the room, Tristan’s mother and the rest of the group headed to the main hall. The makeup artist walked over quietly, helping us fix our ruined attire. I squeezed Phoebe’s hand, offering her a subtle look to signal that this was far from over. Ten minutes later, my phone vibrated with an incoming notification. High-definition surveillance footage from both the green room and the dressing room had been successfully delivered to my personal cloud storage. Building Tristan into the top veterinary influencer had required exceptional technical skills, and capturing behind-the-scenes footage was second nature to me. To gather high-quality video material for our wedding to boost his channel’s engagement, I had personally sponsored ultra-high-definition 4K security cameras throughout the hotel venue, securing full administrative access from the general manager. I had never imagined those cameras would become my ultimate proof to expose the truth. An hour passed, and Tristan was still nowhere to be seen. In the main banquet hall, guests were growing restless, murmuring about how disrespectful the bride’s family was for causing such a massive delay. Amber posted an update on her social media feed, tagging my account directly. It was a photo taken from a girlfriend’s perspective, showing Tristan holding her cat gently during an examination. Caption: Cleo is so lucky! The moment her dad heard she was unwell, he put off his wedding to rush to her side. Tristan had commented below: As I should. Otherwise, a certain someone would be crying her eyes out again. A row of comments from the groomsmen sat right underneath: Bro is truly devoted. Looking at the post, I felt a strange sense of detachment. The pain in my chest had evaporated entirely. I even tapped a cold, emotionless like on the post. Two hours passed, and Tristan still had not returned. Many guests began leaving in frustration. The media outlets I had invited to cover the wedding were already recording negative commentary about the event’s organization. In the past, I was the one who meticulously managed his public relations and maintained those media contacts. Now, I sat quietly in the dressing room, watching the slow collapse of his reputation. Tristan’s mother paced outside the dressing room ten times, looking anxious and hesitant, but never stepped inside. Two and a half hours after the scheduled time, Tristan finally returned. Seeing me still wearing the wedding dress and sitting quietly on the sofa, he let out an instinctive sigh of relief. He immediately launched into an accusation. “Why are you sitting here instead of going out to comfort the guests?” I rolled my eyes, offering no response. A sudden wave of panic flared in his chest, as if something was slipping completely out of his control. “Your behavior today has been appalling. As a punishment, you will no longer manage my social media accounts.” “Amber will be taking over all your previous responsibilities. If you perform well during the remainder of the ceremony, I might consider giving you another chance.” I remained entirely silent. Seeing that I was not frantically begging for his forgiveness as I usually did, Tristan narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Amber stood beside him, her face flushed with excitement. “Tristan, I will do a much better job than Valerie!” She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss against the corner of Tristan’s lips. Tristan froze, failing to pull away in time. Seeing that I still offered zero reaction, his anger flared again. My phone buzzed in my hand with an incoming text message from a contact number I knew by heart, yet had not dialed in years. Instinct told me that Phoebe had taken matters into her own hands. I stared at the screen for three seconds before opening the message: Stubborn girl! You are even more hard-headed than your old man! Would bowing your head kill you? I am arriving on my private jet right now. I will be at the venue in ten minutes. Reading the familiar words, I could almost picture my father standing in front of me, shouting at me with stern, booming affection. I bit my lip hard, forcing back the sob rising in my throat, but tears spilled over my lashes, cascading down my cheeks like broken pearls. I had not cried when I caught Tristan delaying the wedding for Amber’s cat. I had not cried when he used my cat’s life to threaten me. I had not cried when his mother and friends mocked me for being an orphan. Yet now, I could not stop my tears from falling. Tristan had assumed my father had abandoned me over the years. He never knew that the cold distance between us was the result of a ten-year bet I had made with my father to prove my love. I had agreed not to return home or use family resources until I proved Tristan was worthy. Seeing me weep, the panic in Tristan’s heart subsided. He assumed I was finally surrendering. He stepped forward, reaching out to wipe my tears, offering a condescending gesture of mercy. “It is good that you understand your mistake. When the ceremony starts, make sure to offer a proper apology to the guests.” “Tell them your family arrived late and caused the delay. If you do that, I will let you keep managing my accounts.” I let out a soft laugh, slapping his hand away. I closed my eyes, wiped my own face dry, and opened them with absolute clarity. The officiant’s voice echoed through the hallway speakers, announcing that the groom and bride were entering the main hall. I lifted the heavy skirt of my gown and walked firmly toward the main entrance. Tristan called out for me to wait, but I never turned back. Reaching the grand doors of the hall, I saw a tall, mountain-like man standing by the entrance, looking just as dependable as he had in my childhood memories. Seeing me look over, he offered a stern, reassuring nod. Tristan, who had caught up behind me, took one look at the man’s face, and his complexion turned as ghostly pale as a corpse. A wave of icy terror rushed straight up his spine.

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By the third month of keeping Rowan locked in the estate, he had barely spoken a word to me. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn shut. His phone was locked away in my safe. The passcode to the bedroom door was changed every twenty-four hours. When I walked in carrying a tray of warm oatmeal, he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring blankly down at the ring of fading bruises around his wrists. I softened my voice, trying to coax him. “Rowan, after you eat, how about I take you for a walk in the gardens?” He didn’t look up. His voice was terrifyingly hollow. “Silas, when are you finally going to let me go?” I reached out to touch his shoulder, but suddenly, a line of glowing text flickered into existence, hovering right in front of my eyes. [Stop touching him. He’s literally at his breaking point.] [Give it two weeks, and he starts hoarding pills.] [Silas crying over his cold dead body later won’t change a damn thing. He pushed him to this.] My hand froze in midair. Rowan flinched away from me on instinct, his shoulders trembling beneath his thin shirt. I looked at his eyes—so empty, stripped of all the brilliant, fierce light they used to hold. Something inside me snapped. I turned on my heel, walked over to the dresser, and pulled out everything I had confiscated: his phone, his ID, his credit cards, and the keys to his Porsche. I dropped them onto the bed. “You can go,” I said. Rowan froze. I grabbed a pen, scribbled today’s door passcode on a piece of paper, and slid it across the nightstand toward him. “I won’t come after you anymore.” Maybe it was just a trick of the dim lighting, but for a split second, the corners of his eyes looked stained with red. 1 Rowan didn’t reach for the paper. He just sat there on the edge of the bed, his wrists half-hidden inside his long sleeves. The bruises were from last night. When I had caught him trying to slip out the door, I’d pinned his wrists and dragged him back to the bed. He had struggled once, briefly, before giving up. After that, he turned his back to me and hadn’t said a single word all night. I thought he was just giving me the silent treatment. I thought he was using his silence as a weapon to force my hand, to make me yield. After all, Rowan Hayes had always been a master at that. He was ice-cold in the boardroom, and he was ice-cold at home. So cold that every time I saw that indifferent, one-foot-out-the-door look on his face, all I wanted to do was deadbolt the locks, draw the curtains, and drag him back into my arms until he remembered he was mine. But now, those glowing words were still suspended in my vision. Line after line, like a live feed of a phantom audience screaming at me. [Silas, stop being a psycho and look at his face.] [Where are all the toxic romance apologists now? Come get your boy.] [I can’t even reread this part, it’s too dark.] [God, he’s already hiding the pills right now. Somebody save him.] My eyes locked onto that last line. Hiding pills. I had personally swept every inch of this room. The medical kit was locked downstairs. The kitchen knives were secured in a biometric drawer. I had even replaced the razors in his master bath with electric trimmers. What the hell could he possibly hide? I turned slowly and walked toward the nightstand. Rowan finally lifted his head. Panic flashed across his pale face. “What are you doing?” I didn’t answer. I gripped the heavy mahogany nightstand and dragged it away from the wall. The wood screeched violently against the hardwood floor. All the color completely drained from Rowan’s face. In that fraction of a second, my heart dropped into my stomach. I pried off the false backing of the drawer. A small, unlabeled white plastic bottle rolled out from the hollow space. It hit the plush rug with a soft, barely audible thud. But the silence in the room suddenly felt like a graveyard. I bent down, picked up the bottle, and popped the childproof cap. Inside, it was half-full of heavy white sedatives. I looked at Rowan. “What is this?” He pressed his lips into a thin, bloodless line. He didn’t speak. I took a step closer. “Who gave these to you?” His eyelashes fluttered against his pale skin. When he spoke, his voice was raw, scraped hollow. “Do you really have to tear everything apart, Silas?” The phantom text exploded across my vision. [Oh my god, this is it! He actually found the bottle!] [Reading this chapter for the first time literally made my blood run cold.] [Stop interrogating him. He can’t sleep. He’s been awake for weeks.] [He was already mapping out his way out of this world.] [If Silas had found this even a day later, it would have been over.] My fingers tightened around the plastic bottle until the edges dug painfully into my palm. “How many have you taken?” I demanded. Rowan let out a sudden, breathy laugh. It was a sound as fragile as shattering ice. “Do you even care?” My throat closed up. Of course I care. I wanted to cross the room and grab him. I wanted to pry his mouth open and force him to tell me where every single missing pill had gone. I wanted to kiss him, to shake him, to tell him that I loved him so deeply it felt like a sickness. But the moment I shifted my weight, Rowan’s shoulders violently flinched. He was terrified I was going to touch him. For the first time, the reality of it cut through my obsession with absolute clarity. Rowan was afraid of me. What I had interpreted as his stubbornness, his rebellion, his calculated silent treatment designed to torture me… it had mutated into genuine terror. The text kept scrolling. [Look at the state of him. And Silas still wants to hug him?] [Wake the hell up, Silas.] I stood glued to the floor, completely paralyzed. I couldn’t take a single step toward him. After what felt like an eternity, I tossed the pill bottle into the trash can. Rowan stared at me, stunned. I turned my back to him, opened the top drawer of the dresser, and pulled out the rest of his belongings. His bank cards, his watch. I piled them onto the mattress. I walked over to the writing desk. I grabbed a pen and aggressively wrote down the estate’s master gate code, the garage pin, and the combination to his personal safe. I pressed down so hard on the last digit that the pen tore straight through the heavy cardstock. I slid the paper across the desk. “Go.” Rowan looked up at me. I forced my voice to remain completely steady. “The security detail is pulling out tonight. My driver is waiting downstairs. You can go wherever you want.” He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. It took him a long time to finally whisper, “Are you done playing your games, Silas?” I glanced at the trash can where the pills lay. “Yeah.” The edges of his eyes slowly turned red. I didn’t dare look at him any longer. “I’m not coming after you anymore.” 2 Rowan didn’t leave that night. I sat in the dark living room until the sun came up. Upstairs, the house was so quiet it felt entirely vacant. Every ten minutes, a visceral urge seized me to go upstairs and check on him. I would walk to the base of the grand staircase, grip the banister, and force myself to stop. The floating text flickered in the gloom. [Don’t go up there.] [If you show your face right now, you’re only going to terrify him more.] [Give him room to breathe, Silas. For the love of god, act like a human being.] I stood at the bottom of the stairs, my palm slick with cold sweat against the mahogany railing. When morning finally broke, I called my private physician, Dr. Aris. While the doctor examined Rowan, I stood out in the hallway. The door was cracked open. I could see him sitting on the edge of the velvet sofa, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked ghostly pale, but his expression had returned to its usual detached neutrality. Dr. Aris clicked his pen. “How has your sleep been lately, Mr. Hayes?” “Fine,” Rowan replied. “And that bottle of sedatives?” Dr. Aris pressed. “Did you take any?” Rowan paused. Standing by the door frame, my fingers dug into the drywall. He lowered his eyes, his voice barely a murmur. “No.” Dr. Aris frowned. “The bottle Silas showed me was half-empty.” Rowan meticulously buttoned his cuffs. After a long beat, he said, “I flushed them.” The doctor blinked, taken aback. “Why would you do that?” Rowan didn’t answer. I lowered my gaze to the floorboards. Maybe none of those pills had actually made it into his stomach. But he had still hidden them inside the false back of the nightstand. He had still sat alone in the dead of night, unscrewed the cap, and poured those heavy white tablets into his palm, staring at them. Thinking about how easily they could dissolve into his bloodstream and shut his body down for good. I was almost too late. After Dr. Aris left, Rowan walked out into the hallway and stopped in front of me. He was still pale, and there was no light left in his eyes. “You heard?” he asked. I looked at him. “Why did you flush them?” He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Take a guess.” The air in my lungs felt like it was going to combust. If this were a month ago, I would have grabbed him by the jaw and forced him to finish that sentence. Instead, I took a step back. Rowan’s smile slowly faded. “Silas—” “The driver is waiting outside,” I cut in. He stared at me. “You’re really letting me leave?” My throat felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. “Yes.” Rowan turned and picked up his car keys from the console table. When he reached the grand front double doors, he paused. The morning light poured in from outside, blindingly bright. He stood silhouetted in the glare, his frame looking so terribly thin, as if a strong gust of wind would shatter him. “Silas.” I looked up. He didn’t turn around. “You’re really not going to come looking for me?” I clenched my fists inside my pockets, my nails digging half-moons into my palms. “No.” The sound of the heavy door clicking shut was incredibly soft. When the rumble of his engine faded down the driveway, I remained standing in the foyer, entirely paralyzed. The floating text went dead silent for a long time. Finally, a single line drifted across my vision. [He finally made it out.] [God, I hope he survives this time.] I brought my hand up and covered my eyes. My palm was damp and freezing. It felt like my boiling blood had instantly turned to ice. It’s so cold, Rowan. Why couldn’t you just love me back? 3 Rowan moved back into his downtown penthouse. On the first day, he didn’t leave the apartment. On the second day, he returned to the Hayes Corporation headquarters. By the third day, he was chairing their executive board meeting. I was sitting at the head of the conference table at Montgomery Holdings, my phone resting face-up next to my legal pad. Halfway through my VP’s quarterly report, my screen lit up. It was a photo sent from a mutual contact. In the picture, Rowan was wearing a sharp, charcoal-grey Tom Ford suit, sitting at the head of his own boardroom table. He still looked pale, but the icy, commanding authority had returned to his eyes. His cuffs were perfectly tailored, hiding any fading bruises on his wrists. He looked infinitely better than he had locked inside my estate. The text drifted by. [See? He thrives the second he’s away from you.] [This is where he belongs. Not chained inside some dark bedroom.] I flipped my phone face-down against the mahogany table. “Keep going,” I told my VP. My executive assistant, Bennett, glanced at my expression and noticeably lowered the volume of his voice. After the meeting wrapped, I sat alone in my corner office until the city skyline outside turned pitch black. Rowan hadn’t contacted me. And I hadn’t contacted him. But I still had my security detail tailing him from a distance. Just to make sure he was alive. That was the lie I kept telling myself. A line of text mocked me in the dark: [So this is what Silas Montgomery calls ‘giving him space’? Yikes.] I stared at the words. Right. Rowan wouldn’t like this. I pulled myself together and texted the head of the detail: [Pull back. Stand down.] The reply came almost instantly: [Sir?] I typed it again: [Stand down. Now.] I tossed the phone onto my desk, but the suffocating weight in my chest didn’t lighten in the slightest. At 10:00 PM, Rowan called me for the first time. I stared at his name glowing on the screen. My finger hovered over the ‘Accept’ button, trembling, unable to press down. The ringing stopped. A second call immediately came through. The phantom comments started arguing. [Just answer it! What if it’s an emergency?] [I can’t handle these two. Picking up a phone call shouldn’t feel like diffusing a bomb.] When the third call came in, I answered it. The line was dead quiet. I could only hear the faint, shallow rhythm of Rowan’s breathing. I spoke first. “Do you need something?” It took him a moment. “The door lock is broken.” I immediately sat up straight in my leather chair. “Where are you?” “The penthouse.” “Alright. I’ll have maintenance head over right now.” There was a few seconds of silence on the other end. “You’re not coming?” I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white. “No. I don’t want to crowd you.” Rowan let out a soft, breathy laugh. “You’re being so considerate these days, Silas.” The words felt like a surgical needle slipping directly into my eardrum. He hung up. I dispatched my best security tech to his building. Half an hour later, the tech texted me. The smart lock wasn’t broken. Someone had manually popped the battery pack out from the inside. I stared at that text message for a long, long time. I didn’t call him back. The comments scrolled by slowly. [His behavior is so off.] [It’s a trauma response. He’s testing the waters to see if Silas will actually show up.] [Don’t romanticize this, oh my god.] I put the phone down. Outside, the Manhattan lights glittered endlessly. But all I could see was that suffocating, curtain-drawn bedroom back at the estate. 4 Rowan went to a club. He almost never stepped foot in places like that. The photo came from a wealthy acquaintance of ours who ran in the same circles. He had no idea we had severed ties, so his text was entirely teasing: [Hey Silas, who’s the pretty boy hanging off your guy? You gonna let that slide?] I opened the image. Rowan was sitting at a high-end mahogany bar. A young man in a black silk button-down was leaning in way too close, whispering something into Rowan’s ear. Rowan wasn’t pulling away. I stared at the screen, a vicious, ugly fire igniting in my chest and burning straight up my throat. If this were before, I would have already been in the car. I would have stormed into that club, yanked Rowan off that barstool, wrapped my trench coat around his shoulders, locked the car doors, and driven him straight back to the estate. But now, I didn’t even have the right to yell at him. The phantom text was having a field day. [Lmao, that guy is literally his cousin.] [We know that, but Silas doesn’t. This is about to be a disaster.] [Stop laughing, I’m genuinely terrified Silas is going to relapse and kidnap him again.] [Releasing a man and then immediately dragging him out of a club? Straight to jail.] I grabbed my car keys. I made it to the elevator banks before I forced my feet to stop. Eventually, I turned around and walked back into my office. Thirty minutes later, my phone rang. It was Rowan. I answered. The heavy bass of club music thumped in the background, but his voice cut through the noise, sharp and clear. “Silas.” “What is it?” “Did you get the picture?” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Rowan, stop playing games with your own safety just to spite me.” He laughed. “I thought you didn’t care anymore.” I didn’t reply. The background noise muffled slightly. It sounded like he had stepped out onto a balcony or an alley. The chill of the night wind hissed through the receiver. He asked, “Are you jealous?” My fingernails dug into the edge of my mahogany desk. “No.” “Then why are you angry?” I kept my voice dead level. “I’m not angry.” Rowan fell silent. After a long, agonizing pause, he murmured, “You wouldn’t have acted like this before.” My throat felt tight. “Before was toxic. I was hurting you.” “Whether you were hurting me or not,” he said softly, “was always up to you to decide, wasn’t it?” The words landed lightly, but they crushed my chest like an anvil. “It’s too late for this,” I said. “Go home.” “To which one?” I couldn’t answer that. He couldn’t go back to the estate, and my penthouse wasn’t an option. He had already claimed the lock to his own apartment was broken. My heart spasmed, but I couldn’t force a single word out. Rowan let out a bitter little chuckle. “Forget it,” he said. “You’re a coward now, Silas. You don’t even have the guts to order me around anymore.” The line went dead. That night, he checked into a luxury hotel a few blocks away. I drove there. But when I parked across the street, I didn’t go inside. I sat in the driver’s seat of the Aston Martin, watching the entrance from the dead of night until the dawn broke. Early the next morning, Rowan walked out of the lobby. He was alone, still wearing the suit from the night before. He stopped on the curb and, quite suddenly, looked directly across the street at my car. Through the heavy tint of the windows, there was no way he could see me. But his gaze felt like it was burning a hole straight through my skull. I didn’t move a muscle. Rowan stood there for a few seconds, then turned, got into his waiting town car, and drove away. The text drifted past. [He totally knows.] [Yeah, he definitely feels Silas watching him.] I leaned forward, resting my forehead against the cold leather of the steering wheel. I didn’t lift my head for a long time. 5 Rowan moved back into the estate. When Carson, the estate manager, texted me, I was in the middle of signing a multi-million-dollar acquisition contract. [Mr. Hayes has returned.] [He went into the master bedroom and drew all the curtains.] My Montblanc pen stalled on the heavy paper. The black ink bled out, forming an ugly, dark stain. I stared at those two lines of text, completely paralyzed. The floating comments were just as shocked. [Why the hell did he go back?!] [No, no, no. I’m actually terrified right now.] [He needs to stay as far away from that house as possible.] I didn’t go back. At 9:00 PM, Carson texted to say Rowan had refused dinner. At 10:00 PM, Carson texted to say Rowan had shattered the bedside lamp. At 10:30 PM, my phone buzzed with an image sent directly from Rowan. It was a picture of the hardwood floor covered in broken glass. And a shallow, bleeding cut across the back of his pale hand. The caption read: [You used to get so angry when I did this, Silas.] I stared at that thin line of blood, my fingers trembling slightly. I texted back: [Dr. Aris is on his way to you.] His reply was instantaneous. [You’re not coming?] I typed. Erased it. Typed again. Finally, I hit send on: [You need medical attention.] A long time passed before he sent back a single letter. [Oh.] Dr. Aris went to the estate. Carson reported back that it was just a superficial scratch, and they had bandaged it. I sat in my corporate office until two in the morning. Suddenly, my screen lit up again. This time, it was a photo of the white plastic pill bottle. The cap was off. The heavy white sedatives were scattered all across the nightstand. No caption. A high-pitched ringing exploded in my ears. I snatched my car keys and practically sprinted for the private elevator. The text was flying frantically across my vision. [Jesus, slow down! You’re going to crash!] [Call an ambulance first!] [Silas, don’t lose your damn mind, but also PLEASE GET THERE NOW!] I dialed Rowan’s number as the engine roared to life. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. Thirty minutes later, I slammed the front doors of the estate open and took the stairs two at a time. The door to the master bedroom was wide open. Rowan was sitting on the edge of the bed. The white pills were scattered all around him like snow. He looked up at me. The corners of his eyes were rimmed in angry red. “You’re here.” I crossed the room in three strides, grabbed his jaw, and forced his face up. “How many did you swallow?” He looked at me, his voice lighter than a ghost. “Take a guess.” My blood ran ice cold. I grabbed the water glass on the nightstand, sniffed it, then roughly pried his hands open to check for residue. Nothing. No smell of medication. Every single pill was accounted for. When I finished counting, my hands were violently shaking. Rowan just sat there, watching me. “Silas.” I ignored him, spinning around to grab the medical kit Dr. Aris had left behind. Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed the cuff of my shirt. His grip was weak. “This is the part where you usually scream at me,” he whispered. I froze. His voice dropped even lower. “This is the part where you pin me down on the mattress, and tell me that if I ever try to scare you like that again, you’ll lock me in a room without a single window.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “That was sick, Rowan. That was wrong.” His fingers slowly let go of my sleeve. I looked back at him. That red flush was still lingering at the edges of his eyes, but his terrifying stillness sent a shockwave of panic through my chest. “So now you’re just going to do nothing?” My throat was parched. “I can’t be the monster that terrifies you anymore.” “What if I want to terrify you?” I stared at him. He stared back. In that split second, I felt like I was standing dead-center in an invisible spiderweb. Rowan was sitting at the nucleus—pale, broken, looking like he was about to shatter into a million pieces. Yet he was the one holding all the threads. But I was too terrified to take a step forward. I was terrified of making the wrong move, of slipping back into the toxic abyss where neither of us would survive. I swept the pills into a biohazard bag to hand off to Dr. Aris for testing. Then I ordered Carson to strip the bedroom of all medications, sharp objects, and glass. Throughout the entire process, I didn’t lay a single finger on him. Rowan sat perfectly still on the edge of the bed, watching me sterilize the room. When I was finally done, he asked in a barely-there whisper, “Silas… do you even want me anymore?” My fingers locked up. The text flooded my vision. [Holy shit…] [Holy shit.] [HOLY SHIT!] I turned around, agonizingly slow. “Rowan. We need to stop.” The last bit of color drained from his face. “Once you’re stable,” I forced myself to say, “we can talk.” He let out a broken laugh. “Talk about what?” “You’re going through withdrawal right now,” I said, my voice cracking. “We are toxic for each other. We need to detox.” When those words fell from my mouth, the final spark of light in his eyes completely extinguished. 6 Before I left the estate, I made Carson remove every single sharp object from the entire second floor. Rowan sat on the edge of the mattress, his head bowed. He hadn’t said a word. He looked dreadfully pale, a pristine white bandage stark against his bruised hand, the sleeve of his shirt hanging loose over his cold, delicate wrist bone. Just as my hand touched the door handle, he finally spoke. “Silas.” I stopped. His voice was thick, almost as if he were choking back a sob. “Where are you going?” My grip on the brass handle tightened. “Back to the office.” “And then what?” I didn’t turn around. I forced my mouth into a painful imitation of a smile. “I’m going to see a doctor, too.” He let out a soft, mocking laugh. “You’re certainly playing the good boy these days.” The comment sent a spike of irritation and agony straight down my spine. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to ask him what the hell he actually wanted from me. I wanted to ask if he wouldn’t be satisfied until he watched me completely lose my mind. The primal, obsessive urge boiling in my marrow was threatening to swallow me alive. I wanted to drag him against me, to kiss the breath out of him, to scream that I loved him. I wanted to shake him and demand to know why he couldn’t just love me the way I loved him—with a terrifying, all-consuming devotion. But before I stepped through the door, my voice came out hard and clinical. “I won’t touch you again.” The room behind me fell dead silent. It was silent for so long I assumed he was done speaking. But right in the exact second the heavy door clicked shut, I heard Rowan whisper. “You’re a liar, Silas.” My hand froze on the knob. But the latch had already caught. I stood in the dark hallway for a long time, unable to move. The text began to slowly drift in. [Something feels off about that line.] [Wait, is it just me, or was Rowan not just running away out of fear back then?] [Does anyone remember earlier in the book? Every time he ‘escaped,’ he only ever made it as far as the garden.] [Shut up, both of their brains are completely deep-fried at this point.] I lowered my eyes. Yeah. My brain is deep-fried. From the second I saw that pill bottle hidden in the nightstand, I hadn’t had a single rational thought. The best thing I could do right now was stay as far away from Rowan Hayes as physically possible. My therapist had diagnosed me with severe coercive control tendencies. I was a psychopath who had driven the man I loved to the brink of suicide. I knew what I was. So when I got into my car, I dialed my assistant, Bennett. “Set something up for me… a date. A blind date.” Anything. Anything to break the cycle. Dead silence stretched over the line for five full seconds. “Mr. Montgomery?” I stared up at the second-story window of the estate. The blackout curtains were drawn tight. “Or a charity gala, a dinner party. Just find someone.” Bennett’s voice dropped. “Are you absolutely sure, sir?” “I’m sure.” The moment I hung up, the text went absolutely nuclear. [???] [Oh my god, these two psychopaths are about to level up.] [Rowan is going to absolutely lose his mind when he finds out.] I threw my phone onto the passenger seat. I didn’t start the ignition right away. I looked up at the house. The curtain in the master bedroom twitched. Just a fraction of an inch. Like someone was standing in the pitch black, watching me through a sliver of fabric. I stared intently at the window. The curtain immediately fell perfectly still. Half an hour later, I drove away. But the image of that shifting fabric haunted the back of my eyelids all night.

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1 Nathaniel was a certified genius, admitted to an Ivy League at fifteen, associate professor by twenty-three. Seven years of marriage, and every Valentine’s, Christmas, anniversary, and birthday, he buried himself in thesis papers while I stared at walls. On our seventh anniversary, I cooked a lavish dinner and bought ninety-nine red roses. He sighed. “Charlotte, I know you’re hinting for flowers, but it’s a waste of time. Surely you’re not actually excited by the severed reproductive organs of a plant? Focus on new recipes. The steak was overcooked.” I swallowed my hurt, telling myself geniuses are wired differently. That excuse held until Chloe, a researcher a year younger than him, joined his department. Nathaniel started picking up his phone constantly. The day before my birthday, mopping the floor, he looked up and asked, “What do women nowadays actually like?” Hope flickered. “Roses,” I said softly. That joy died the next morning. Ironing ties in his study, I found a massive bouquet of ninety-nine red roses on his desk. Tucked in the center was a card in his immaculate handwriting: Chloe, Happy Birthday. … The grandfather clock chimed 7:15 AM. Nathaniel sat at the dining table exactly on schedule, cutting into his breakfast while reading a research paper, precise to the very second. “Don’t wear that tie today,” I said, my voice trembling slightly as I stared blankly at the flowers on the counter. “Which one should I wear, then?” “The burgundy striped one. Chloe mentioned the dark ones make me look a bit dated.” Nathaniel was incredibly rigid about his routines. His daily wardrobe was usually planned out weeks in advance. That burgundy tie was the wedding anniversary gift I had given him years ago. He had never worn it once, tossing it into the very back of his closet. But now, simply because another woman made an offhand comment, it was suddenly seeing the light of day. I switched off the iron, pulled out my chair, and sat down to eat. “I don’t have time to look for it. Plus, I don’t even remember where I put it.” For the first time all morning, Nathaniel actually looked up from his paper. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his dark eyes. After a moment of silence, he stood up and walked into the bedroom himself. Ten minutes later, he walked back to the table, holding the burgundy tie out to me. Waiting for me to tie it for him. I kept my head down, stabbing a piece of fruit with my fork. Nathaniel pressed his lips into a thin line and clumsily tied it himself. When he sat back down, the sound of his knife scraping against the plate was a little louder than usual. “The steak is overcooked again today.” He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s been years, Charlotte. How do you still not know exactly how I like my steak? If you were one of my grad students, I would have expelled you by now.” I slammed my knife and fork down onto the table. I looked up at the crooked, hastily tied burgundy knot resting against his collar. “You can expel me right now. Let’s get a divorce.” Nathaniel’s brow furrowed in deep annoyance. “How old are you, Charlotte? You’re acting like a child. Threatening divorce just to get my attention? Do you hear how ridiculous you sound?” I couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you even know what day it is today?” Nathaniel followed my gaze to the large calendar pinned to the wall, right to the date I had circled in thick red marker. [June 20th – Charlotte’s Birthday] He walked past that calendar dozens of times a day. Nathaniel let out a small, dismissive scoff. “I haven’t celebrated a birthday or holiday since I was five years old. It’s a pointless waste of time and energy.” I didn’t say a word. I just stared intensely at the blindingly red roses sitting on the counter. Nathaniel didn’t look guilty in the slightest. “Oh, is this about the flowers? Are you throwing a tantrum over that?” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Chloe is a colleague. She gave me a gift to celebrate my new paper getting published. It’s basic professional courtesy to return the favor for her birthday.” He stood up, walked over to the massive bouquet, precision-picked a single rose that was starting to wilt, and casually tossed it into the trash. “Next time, just say what’s on your mind. My time is extremely valuable. I don’t have the patience to play these passive-aggressive guessing games with you.” He grabbed his briefcase and walked to the entryway mirror. He paused, turned his head, and finally offered me what he considered a generous compromise. “Charlotte, come here and fix my tie.” I didn’t move. I sat there like a broken machine, methodically slicing the beef on my plate into tiny, meaningless pieces. Nathaniel finally lost his temper. He ripped the tie off his neck, threw it onto the floor, and walked out. The sound of the front door slamming echoed loudly through the empty house. I finally stood up, walked over to the entryway, picked up the burgundy tie, and threw it into the trash can right next to the wilted rose. I didn’t start my usual morning routine of cleaning the house. Instead, I walked back into the bedroom, opened my laptop, and typed Nathaniel’s name into the university’s publication database. Sure enough, a new paper had just been published. I clicked it open and scrolled straight to the acknowledgments section at the bottom. A certain Miss Chloe, who prefers to remain unnamed, complained that she has never been published in this journal and demanded I include her name. While I find the behavior incredibly childish, I suppose it’s not entirely impossible to accommodate. Thank you for the pastries you brought to the lab. They were quite good. The text on the screen started to blur. I thought back to the countless times I had begged him—sometimes joking, sometimes entirely serious—just to mention me in one of his acknowledgments. Every single time, I was met with the same icy rejection. “Absolutely not. An academic paper is not a place for your childish jokes.” In that moment, staring at the screen, I didn’t feel angry. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. I closed his paper and opened a blank word document. Key by key, I typed out the title. [Divorce Agreement] After drafting a basic framework for the division of assets, I emailed the document to a lawyer friend of mine. I ordered a small cake for myself and ate the entire thing in silence. I wiped my mouth and whispered to the empty room, “Happy thirtieth birthday, Charlotte.” Packing my things was almost pathetically easy. The master closet was completely dominated by Nathaniel’s custom suits and button-downs. My clothes barely took up a single corner. I had quit my job barely a year after college to become a full-time housewife, dedicating every waking moment to taking care of a genius who couldn’t even operate a washing machine. While reaching into the very back of the closet, my hand brushed against a worn notebook. On the cover, written in Nathaniel’s sharp, commanding script, were the words: To my wife—Charlotte. Nathaniel had always been devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly brilliant, but he was famously cold-blooded. On the first day of middle school, a girl had confessed her crush to him. He looked her up and down and flatly said, “You are very ugly.” His reputation was sealed from that day on. One afternoon, he got so engrossed in a math problem that he missed the lunch period entirely. I was sitting in the classroom eating my homemade bento box. Noticing him staring at my food, I asked purely out of politeness, “Do you want some?” He didn’t hesitate. He took my box and ate every last grain of rice. That very same night, Nathaniel marched up to my house alone, knocked on the door, and calmly told my mother he was going to marry me. He nearly gave her a heart attack. His “proposal gift” was a meticulously organized binder of all his study notes. “I’m going to be a professor at the state university. If you study these notes carefully and follow the daily schedule I’ve drafted for you, you should barely be able to get accepted there.” I never could have imagined that in eleven years of knowing him and seven years of marriage, that notebook would be the only gift he ever gave me. My phone rang, shattering my trip down memory lane. My mother-in-law’s piercing shriek blasted through the speaker. “My son is in the emergency room because of you! Where the hell are you?! Get your ass over here right now!” I didn’t have time to process it. I dropped everything and rushed to the hospital. When I arrived at the ER, Nathaniel’s mother spotted me, and her fury finally found its target. “What is wrong with you?! You know my son is deathly allergic to peanuts, and you purposefully bought a cake with peanuts in it?!” She stepped into my space, practically spitting in my face. “What do you get out of poisoning him?! Did you really need to celebrate your stupid little birthday that badly?!” Her screaming drew the attention of half the waiting room. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but before I could get a word out, Chloe stepped out of the patient room and gently took the older woman’s arm. “It’s okay, Mrs. Sterling. I’m sure Charlotte didn’t mean to do it on purpose.” Nathaniel’s mother glared at me with pure hatred. “If I had known you were this incompetent, I would never have let Nathaniel marry a piece of trash like you.” Chloe smiled, her tone soothing and perfectly composed. “Mrs. Sterling, his IV bag is almost empty. Do you mind finding a nurse to swap it out?” As soon as the older woman left, Chloe smoothly grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the private room. “I am so sorry, Charlotte. I had no idea Nathaniel was allergic to peanuts. I was the one who gave him a slice of my peanut butter birthday cake.” She let out a soft sigh. “I wanted to confess to his mother, but he explicitly forbade me from telling her.” Inside the room, Nathaniel was lying in the hospital bed, looking pale. He was casually scrolling through a tablet. I looked at him. “Nathaniel, do you have anything you want to explain?” He didn’t even lift his eyes from the screen. “You know how my mother is. If she finds out, she’ll go to the university and cause a scene, and it will disrupt the entire department.” He flipped to the next page. “Chloe isn’t like you. Her time and reputation are incredibly valuable. This was the most logical solution.” A sickeningly bitter taste flooded the back of my throat. Chloe is valuable. I am worthless. I deserve to be publicly humiliated and screamed at by your mother. I forced my voice to stay quiet. “I thought you prided yourself on being perfectly objective and fair?” When I was a senior in high school, Nathaniel was already in college. I worked myself to the bone just to get accepted into his university. When I got there, he actually became one of my professors. During his lectures, he would purposefully call on me for the hardest questions. When I inevitably struggled, he would ruthlessly humiliate me in front of the entire auditorium. “You can’t even solve a basic equation like this? Has the standard for admissions dropped this low?” He never gave me private tutoring. He never gave me study guides. He never bumped my grade by a single decimal point. Because, according to him, “That would be unfair to the other students.” It took me until today to realize that the heartless, objective Nathaniel Sterling was perfectly capable of showing blatant favoritism. I just wasn’t the one he favored. Nathaniel finally looked up at me, his eyes narrowing. “Did you forget to take your medication today, Charlotte?” Sensing the tension, Chloe immediately stepped in to play the peacemaker. “Nathaniel, don’t be so harsh on her.” She turned to me with an apologetic smile. “It’s entirely my fault. Charlotte, why don’t you tell me exactly what he’s allergic to so I know for next time?” Nathaniel rejected the idea instantly. “No. Don’t waste your time memorizing that. I’ll have her type it up into a spreadsheet and email it to you later.” He turned back to me, his tone shifting into his usual commanding bark. “Go home and pack me a change of clothes. Then make some porridge and bring it back. Bring three portions, not two.” I stared at him with complete, icy calm. I looked him dead in the eye and fed him the exact same line he used to reject me for years. “You need to schedule these requests in advance. I don’t have the time.” Nathaniel’s brow furrowed so deeply it looked like it might permanently crease. Before he could snap at me, his mother walked back into the room with a doctor, aggressively shoving her shoulder into mine to push me out of the way. Chloe gave me a brief, dismissive glance before pasting a bright, sweet smile onto her face to greet the older woman. The doctor was an old family friend. As he swapped the IV bag, he made polite small talk. “Is this lovely young lady your daughter-in-law? She has such a great presence.” “Oh, no,” Nathaniel’s mother said proudly, patting Chloe’s hand. “She is my son’s colleague. Also a brilliant professor at the university.” I purposefully walked as slowly as I could out the door and down the hall. But from the moment I turned my back until the heavy hospital doors swung shut behind me… Nathaniel didn’t utter a single word of correction. Nathaniel stayed in the hospital for two days. He didn’t text or call me a single time. I spent that time finalizing my packing and browsing apartment listings online. I no longer had to mold my life around Nathaniel’s psychotic sleep schedule. I woke up naturally whenever I wanted. I no longer had to rack my brain during dinner just to find a topic he deemed “intellectual enough,” only to be met with a condescending sneer. I no longer had to watch television with the volume on mute, terrified of being called “unproductive trash.” On the evening of his discharge, he finally sent a text. It was characteristically brief. The department’s celebratory dinner for the new publication is at the VIP room in the faculty dining hall. Come. In the past, whenever I begged to visit the campus, he flat-out refused, treating me like some embarrassing plague he needed to hide. My first instinct was to decline. But then I changed my mind. I had spent years making sure his entire life ran perfectly so he could focus on his research. A fraction of the credit for that publication belonged to me. Why shouldn’t I go? When I pushed open the door to the private room, the table was loud with laughter and clinking glasses. “To Professor Sterling and his lovely wife! Cheers!” The second I walked in, the cheering died instantly. One of the grad students lowered his glass, looking utterly confused. “Wait… all the guests are already here, aren’t they?” Chloe smoothly stood up from the seat next to Nathaniel, offering a graceful smile. “Oh, let me introduce everyone. This is Nathaniel’s actual wife, Charlotte.” The students instantly shifted awkwardly in their seats, murmuring embarrassed apologies and greetings. One of them whispered entirely too loudly, “But I saw Professor Sterling and Professor Chloe shopping at the mall together last week… I thought they were…” Chloe smiled gracefully and began to step away from her chair. “Here, Charlotte, take my seat.” Nathaniel spoke up for the first time since I walked into the room. “You stay right there. There’s no need to move.” Chloe immediately sat back down, looking effortlessly obedient. A young male student sitting to Nathaniel’s left hurriedly gave up his chair so I could finally sit down. Chloe reached over and handed me a clean set of silverware. “Please don’t misunderstand, Charlotte. The students were just joking when they called me his wife. Nathaniel and I played a married couple in the faculty theater production for the New Year’s gala last year.” One of the bolder students chimed in, laughing. “Romeo and Juliet! They even had a kissing scene! We watched them rehearse it a million times!” Chloe’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink. she glanced shyly at Nathaniel. “It was just a stage kiss. It was fake.” It sounded completely like a guilty conscience trying to cover its tracks. Nathaniel chuckled—a sound I hadn’t heard in years—and offered a casual explanation. “Professor Chloe caught a massive flaw in my data set. I promised her a favor in return. That was it.” I took a slow sip of my hot tea. I remembered last New Year’s Eve perfectly. I had begged and pleaded for weeks until Nathaniel finally agreed to go on a proper date with me. I booked an impossible reservation at a Michelin-star restaurant half a month in advance. The day of, he texted me saying he was “too busy” to make it. For the next two weeks, he came home well past midnight every single night. I had assumed he was buried under the weight of his research. I was too terrified of breaking his concentration to even send a single text asking when he’d be home. It turns out he was busy rehearsing kissing scenes with Chloe. For the rest of the dinner, the table buzzed with intense conversations about laboratory data, curriculum changes, and inside jokes about the faculty. I was completely, utterly isolated. I kept my head down and quietly ate my food. It turns out the highly praised faculty dining hall tasted like absolute cardboard. Halfway through the meal, one of the female grad students suddenly spoke up, her voice ringing clear over the chatter. “Professor Chloe really is the ultimate role model for modern women. Not only is she a genius researcher, but she also acts and paints traditional watercolors.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “Not like those pathetic housewives who spend their entire lives revolving around a man without a shred of dignity. Women like that completely drag down the reputation of our gender.” Chloe shot a panicked glance in my direction. The girl immediately realized what she had said. Her face turned beet red. “Oh my god, Charlotte, I am so sorry. I totally didn’t mean it like that.” Nathaniel took a slow sip of his wine, his gaze sweeping over me with cold indifference. “Why are you apologizing? You were just stating a biological fact, weren’t you?” My fingernails dug so hard into my palms they almost broke the skin. I couldn’t endure another second of this suffocating room. I stood up and pushed my chair back. “You all enjoy yourselves. I have errands to run.” The cool night wind blew across the university track field, brushing against my hot cheeks. I had almost completely forgotten that years ago, Nathaniel—who despised physical exertion—used to sneak onto this exact track with me under the cover of night, holding my hand as we jogged together. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was my lawyer, sending over the finalized, legally binding version of the divorce agreement. A second later, Nathaniel’s name flashed across the screen with an incoming call. I declined it instantly. Deep into the night, a massive crash jolted me out of my sleep. Nathaniel stumbled through the front door, reeking of expensive liquor, his eyes completely unfocused as he collapsed onto the entryway rug. I immediately rushed over to help him up. He staggered to his feet, swaying heavily as he pointed a shaking finger at the large suitcase sitting by the door. “You knew. You knew the whole time.” I blinked, confused. “Knew what?” He fumbled around in his coat pocket and practically shoved two glossy concert tickets into my chest. They were VIP passes to see Taylor Swift. “It’s tomorrow. I took the entire day off work just to take you.” My eyes subconsciously flicked to the calendar on the wall. At the very bottom, written in tiny print, was a note: [If you absolutely can’t think of a gift, here is a hint: Chloe’s favorite artist is Taylor Swift.] Staring at the two tickets, I felt like an invisible hand had reached into my chest and crushed my lungs. It took me a long time to force three words past my lips. “It’s too late.” Drunk out of his mind, Nathaniel grabbed my wrist, staring at me with the desperate, stubborn eyes of a child. “How is it too late?! The concert is tomorrow!” I slowly shook my head. I reached out and gently took the tickets from his hand. I would treat it as his final goodbye. The next morning, Nathaniel woke up completely sober, reverting back to his usual, freezing demeanor. For once, he didn’t demand I pack his things and dragged his own bag to the door. “Let’s go. We’ll drive there.” It wasn’t until I walked out to the driveway that I realized Chloe was already sitting in the driver’s seat of his car, smiling warmly at me. “Professor Sterling drank a bit too much last night, so I offered to drive.” I wordlessly opened the back door and slid in, leaving the passenger seat entirely open for Nathaniel. Chloe expertly navigated the car onto the highway, her voice dripping with admiration. “Charlotte, you have no idea how brilliant he is. I mentioned casually that Taylor’s tickets were impossible to get.” She laughed lightly. “He spent two hours learning a new coding language, built a bot from scratch, and instantly secured three front-row VIP tickets.” Nathaniel glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “It wasn’t that complicated.” I let out a self-deprecating chuckle, closed my eyes, and pretended to fall asleep. I spent the entire three-hour drive listening to the two of them engage in endless, effortless banter. The stadium was absolutely deafening. Right before the opener started, the massive jumbotron began scanning the crowd for the Kiss Cam. By absolute pure coincidence, the camera swept right past me and locked directly onto Chloe and Nathaniel sitting next to each other. The entire section around us erupted into cheers. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Chloe looked at Nathaniel, her face flushed red with visible embarrassment. Nathaniel’s face darkened. He immediately raised his hand, signaling the camera operator to move on. The operator quickly got the hint and panned over to the next couple. The crowd roared even louder when they saw the new pair. Nathaniel tilted his head, his eyes lingering on the side of Chloe’s face for a second too long. The tips of Chloe’s ears burned bright red. She finally turned to look at me. “I am so sorry, Charlotte. We honestly didn’t plan that.” Nathaniel furrowed his brow, cutting her off. “Stop apologizing to her. She doesn’t care. Just focus on the show.” Right on cue, the stadium lights went completely black, and the opening chords blasted through the speakers. My quiet whisper—”It’s fine, it has nothing to do with me anymore anyway”—was completely swallowed by the music. The concert was breathtaking. The music dug deep into my bones. I closed my eyes, let the bass rattle my ribs, and without even realizing it, tears streamed silently down my face. When the show ended, the crowd surged toward the exits in a terrifying wave. For the very first time in public, Nathaniel reached out and grabbed my hand tightly. “Stay close to me.” But before we could take three steps, a sharp cry echoed from behind us. Chloe had been tripped by the crowd. She was sitting on the concrete, helplessly calling out Nathaniel’s name. He hesitated for barely two seconds before letting go of my hand and fighting his way backward through the massive crush of people. “Don’t move! Stay right there, I’ll be back!” I stood perfectly still, watching Nathaniel desperately grab Chloe’s hand and pull her up. But when he tried to turn back to find me, the surging crowd had already pushed us dozens of yards apart. It was the perfect metaphor for our entire marriage. It was doomed from the start. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. I had a million things I wanted to scream at him. But I was done wasting Nathaniel’s precious time. I attached the signed divorce agreement to our chat, hit send, and blocked his number. I turned around, walked away from the stadium, dragged my suitcase out of the trunk of his car, and flagged down a passing cab. “Take me to the airport.”

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A thread was trending on a popular forum: “Why do some people stay friends after a breakup?” One girl replied with unmistakable smugness: “To put it simply, they’re still in love, but both are too proud to make the first move.” “Honestly, I quite enjoy his devotion, his special treatment, his love.” “If we hadn’t ruined things so badly during our long-distance phase, his current girlfriend wouldn’t even stand a chance.” My chest tightened. I clicked on her profile. It was Jenny, David’s ex. I had been with David for three years, and for those three years, Jenny had played the role of his “best bro.” She used that title to slowly worm her way into our lives, eventually moving into the apartment right below ours and even securing a job at David’s company. The two of them behaved more like a couple than he and I did. I screenshotted the post and sent it to David. He replied casually: “Just ignore her, she loves talking nonsense.” I let out a bitter laugh and left a comment on the thread. “Because both of them know exactly what they’re doing, but they’re just playing dumb.” 1 I walked to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. David was in the study. I couldn’t even remember when we had started texting each other despite being in the same house. Whenever I tried to talk to him about it, he’d defend it, calling it a way to keep things “steady and long-lasting.” But his idea of steady was simply refusing to engage. As I set my glass down, I noticed a ticket stub slipping out of David’s briefcase. The exhibition was titled “Nowhere to Belong.” It was a project he and Jenny had spent nearly every waking hour planning together. Clutching the stub, I pushed open the study door. “She usually insists on dragging me to these events just to make me feel small, so why didn’t she invite me to the grand opening this time?” David’s fingers slammed against his keyboard, the sound sharp and irritable. “Jenny only invited you in the past because she was worried you’d be bored at home,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance. “Why do you have to be so sarcastic? Mind your own business and stop assuming the worst of people.” Two months ago, at their college reunion, Jenny had insisted I tag along. I sat there all evening while everyone huddled around them, dissecting their legendary campus romance in agonizing detail. Nobody noticed my chronic chest pain flaring up. Last month, on her birthday, she demanded David bring me along. At midnight, she was draped over him, acting completely wasted. Since I was the only one who hadn’t touched alcohol, I had to play the silent chauffeur, driving them both home. When we got back, David and I had a massive fight. I was on the verge of tears. “You two are exes. Is it really that hard to have some boundaries?” “What do you want me to do, pretend she doesn’t exist?” He looked at me, wearing that familiar mask of guilt. “We were broke back then, and she went through a lot of hardships with me. Now that I’m doing well, I just want to help her out when I can. It’s not easy for a single woman to make it in the city alone. You don’t understand that struggle. Besides, she’s like family to me now.” I wanted to laugh. Family? Since when did people date their family? David’s phone buzzed. He answered, gave a couple of brief replies, and glanced at me. “Jenny’s exhibition opens tomorrow, and she’s feeling anxious. I’m going downstairs to talk her through it. Want to come?” I walked right past him, slamming the bedroom door behind me. Ever since she moved downstairs, these calls had been constant. Sometimes, when she couldn’t reach him, she would march up and knock on our door, dragging him out of his study without a hint of shame. “You still haven’t fixed your habit of ignoring texts. I was worried sick! I’m so glad we broke up, otherwise being your girlfriend would have driven me insane.” I used to think there was some emergency. It turned out she just had too many packages and wanted David to carry them. David was usually a sharp, no-nonsense man, but he became a completely different person around her. No matter what she demanded, he listened meekly, almost desperately trying to please her. She was always his exception. Even introducing him to my parents had to take a backseat for her. The first time he planned to visit my family, Jenny sprained her ankle the day before. Without hesitation, he carried her to the hospital on his back and spent the next two months taking care of her. The second time we set a date, she called him crying, claiming her workload was too overwhelming. He spent three days and nights at her place, helping her finish her project. My parents were already deeply displeased, and I had to swallow my pride to make up excuses for him time and time again. A few days ago, he mentioned planning another visit to my family next week. But this time, I didn’t want to bring him home. 2 The next morning, David left early. Lately, he had been pouring every spare second into helping Jenny set up her exhibition. I took a cab there alone, needing to see for myself what this show was actually about. The space was styled beautifully, filled with old relics: matching couple sweaters, rings, watches, handwritten love letters, and travel tickets. It felt exactly like a Museum of Broken Relationships. My eyes stung. They had certainly gone to great lengths to publicly mourn their past. The final wall was covered in their old photos and videos, accompanied by dense, handwritten annotations. Around me, visitors were wiping away tears, while some wrote “I loved you” on a memory board. My chest tightened as a cold shiver ran down my spine. Last month, I had found an old, frayed scarf in our closet. I suggested throwing it away and buying a new one. David’s face had paled instantly as he snatched it out of my hands. The rough wool caught on my acrylic nails, pulling painfully. Only today did I realize that scarf was part of a matching set he shared with Jenny. I let out a hollow laugh and walked toward the corner of the gallery. David and Jenny were surrounded by reporters. My eyes instantly fell on the Chanel bag on Jenny’s shoulder. David had practically dragged me to the store to help pick it out, claiming it was to make up for the hardships she had suffered in the past. Standing in that boutique, I had felt incredibly out of place. Watching him meticulously compare the leather, color, and style, I felt a wave of envy and deep disappointment. He told me she had never owned one. Neither had I. Jenny stood slightly angled toward him, tilting her head and smiling up at David as she spoke. “This exhibition wouldn’t have happened without him. He was there for every little detail. Even though we tease each other constantly, he always shows up when it matters.” A reporter smiled, looking between the two of them. “You look quite similar. Are you siblings?” Jenny laughed, naturally slipping her hand around his arm. “Haha, maybe we have that married couple look. We used to date, but we realized we make much better friends.” The reporter steered the conversation toward the inspiration behind the exhibition. They bounced off each other, sharing stories of their past. Jenny looked deeply into David’s eyes. “Don’t let his calm exterior fool you. He’s incredibly soft-hearted. Right after we broke up, on my birthday, he took a two-hour train ride after work just to drop off a gift.” She kept her tone light and teasing. “He looked completely stoic when I opened the door, but later, he was sobbing his eyes out in the lobby downstairs.” David laughed sheepishly. “At that moment, I realized something. When it comes to marriage, you need to find someone suitable. We were meant to be friends.” Suitable. I let out a silent, bitter laugh, but it couldn’t numb the sharp ache in my chest. When I had once asked him why he pursued me, he had wrapped his arms around me. “You make me feel safe. You’re the kind of woman who is suitable for marriage.” I hadn’t thought much of it then. Now, the realization hit me. I had painted our relationship with a beautiful filter. The love I thought we shared meant nothing to him. I was just suitable. I stood there for a long time, staring blankly until the crowd dispersed and my vision finally cleared. David walked briskly toward me. “What are you doing here?” I forced a casual smile. “If I didn’t come, how would I know how unforgettable your love story was?” “Didn’t you two break up because of the long-distance? Well, you live in the same building now. If you can’t let each other go, why not just get back together?” His brows furrowed, suppressing his irritation. “If I really couldn’t let her go, you wouldn’t be the one standing next to me right now.” Before I could reply, a young woman peeked her head over. “How do you two know each other?” she asked, pointing between David and me. David gave me a subtle shake of his head. He was terrified I would say something to embarrass Jenny. “I’m his girlfriend,” I said clearly. The girl walked away, and her hushed gossip with her friend immediately drifted back to us. “Told you so! It’s a total love triangle, haha.” David glared at me, his voice a harsh whisper. “Today is about Jenny’s exhibition. Stop drawing unnecessary attention to our private lives. Do you have to make everything about yourself?” So that was how he saw me. Simply stating the truth was a crime. “Go cool off,” he said, walking away with Jenny. I slipped my promise ring off my finger and tossed it into a nearby trash can. When David first slid it onto my finger, he had joked, “Now that you’re caught, you can’t run away.” It was just a casual remark to him. How had I been foolish enough to believe it? 3 Before I even made it out of the exhibition hall, my phone buzzed. My boss sounded thrilled. “Have you heard about the ‘Nowhere to Belong’ show? Apparently, she curated it with her ex-boyfriend, like a Museum of Broken Relationships. This topic is guaranteed to go viral. Go check it out and write up a feature.” I gripped my phone case, biting my lip. “Sure.” As I hung up, a sharp pain shot through my chest. I leaned against a nearby pillar, struggling to breathe. I needed to go to the hospital again. That afternoon, as I stepped out of the examination room, I spotted David on the first floor. He was kneeling, gently holding Jenny’s calf with one hand while pressing her knee with the other. “Does it hurt here, or here?” Jenny looked up, her eyes locking onto mine. She immediately shifted into a protective stance. “He just happened to have free time to accompany me for a checkup. Don’t go misinterpreting things and starting another fight with him.” David stood up, offering a hurried explanation. “Jenny’s meniscus is acting up again. It started hurting during lunch.” He paused. “It’s an old injury from years ago when she worked extra shifts to help me pay off loans. Standing all day ruined her joints.” He was always like this. Once he started talking about Jenny, he couldn’t stop. Noticing my silence, he finally changed the subject. “What are you doing at the hospital anyway?” “My chest has been hurting.” Jenny cast a dismissive glance at my chest. “Just watch your sleep and diet. The more you stress over minor things, the worse you make it for yourself.” David nodded in agreement. “She’s just too delicate. Going to bed early is better than any medicine.” I had told him about my congenital heart condition before, but he didn’t remember. In the past, I would have picked a fight over this. Now, I just felt numb. I turned and walked away without a word. When I got home, I immediately began packing my suitcase. If I didn’t clear out of the apartment, I’d just be overstaying my welcome. My phone chimed. It was my boss, pressing for the article. “It’ll be best if you include their past history and their current relationship status.” Their current status was that Jenny would always be David’s top priority. He used to reassure me: “Once Jenny gets a boyfriend, I’ll step back.” But when she finally did date someone, the guy ended up taking advantage of her. The usually rational, level-headed David had stormed over, beaten the guy up, and landed himself in the police station. I was the one who had to go bail him out. The first thing he asked when he stepped out of the cell was, “Is Jenny okay?” Worrying that her old neighborhood wasn’t safe, he went ahead and leased the apartment directly below ours for her. The sound of the electronic lock broke the silence. David walked in, kicking off his shoes as he asked about my hospital visit. I stood up. “Let’s break up.” His expression shifted. “What are you on about now?” I ignored him, zipping my suitcase and dragging it into the living room. He threw his hands over the bag, pinning it down. “Is this about Jenny again? Are you mad because I helped with her show, or because I went to the hospital with her? I’ve told you a thousand times, we—” “You two are completely innocent,” I interrupted. “I just don’t want to be with you anymore. Is that clear enough?” He let out a weary sigh, throwing his hands up in frustration. “You always target her. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re the problem here?” I froze. He had never spoken to me like this before. He used to tell me how lucky he was to have found me. Suddenly, his ringtone shattered the silence. Jenny’s voice came through the speaker. “The bathroom light won’t turn on. Can you come take a look?” “I’ll be right down,” David replied. He looked at me. “Wait here. We’ll talk when I get back.” I watched the door click shut, wanting to laugh. Even when we were breaking up, he could be pulled away by her minor inconvenience. I had waited for three years. I wasn’t going to wait any longer. As the elevator descended, my heart sank with it. My pulse slowed, as if trying to make up for all the extra beats it had wasted on him. I checked into a hotel, intending to resign as soon as I turned in the article. For two days, David made no effort to contact me. Jenny, however, was highly active on social media. She posted a photo of the two of them laughing on an amusement park pirate ship. She was holding David’s hand tightly, and the promise ring on his finger was gone. David had once told me he was terrified of heights and would never ride a pirate ship in his life. Men certainly loved using the phrase “in my life.” And they were incredibly good at forgetting. Jenny’s caption was particularly striking: “How to recall an ex in three easy steps.” I left a comment: “What kind of prize is worth recalling anyway?” 4 After turning in my resignation letter, I booked an evening flight. I was walking through the hotel lobby to buy a bottle of water when I saw David marching toward me. I realized I had forgotten to turn off our location-sharing app. He looked incredibly tense, as if the world was ending. The moment he stopped in front of me, his first words were: “You need to record a clarification video right now.” “Tell everyone you and Jenny are close friends, and that she never came between us.” I stared at him, momentarily stunned. “What?” He shoved his phone in front of my face. The comments section of a viral gossip page was tearing Jenny apart. “Are we rebranding home-wrecking as high art now?” “Hilarious. In that interview, she looked like she wanted to crawl into his skin.” “Her social media got leaked. She actually shared a post on ‘how to recall an ex.’ What a joke.” David was practically hyperventilating. “That girl from the exhibition wrote about us online, calling it a love triangle, and it went viral! It’s all fabricated lies. You need to record a video and clear her name.” I looked at him for a long, quiet moment. “No.” His eyes darkened instantly. “What did you say?” I took a step back. “This has nothing to do with me. Besides, isn’t Jenny the exact reason we’re over? If you care about her so much, go post your own clarification.” His anger flared, nearly boiling over. “If a statement from me worked, do you think I’d be begging you? Jenny has been crying since this morning. How is she supposed to handle this kind of abuse? If you hadn’t blurted out that you were my girlfriend, none of this would have happened!” I didn’t want to argue anymore, so I kept quiet. “Audrey.” He rarely used my full name. “This is serious. If you don’t record this video, we are truly finished.” I let out a tired laugh. How could he threaten me with something I had already walked away from? “We were finished two days ago.” I walked past him and headed into the convenience store. When I reached for a bottle of water, my hands were shaking. I thought I was emotionally prepared for this, but the coldness of his betrayal still stung. Before heading to the airport, I realized my passport was still at David’s apartment. I had the driver make a quick detour. When the apartment door opened, Jenny was standing there. She was wearing an oversized button-down shirt that belonged to David, her damp hair draped over her shoulders. I had bought that shirt for David last year. I could hear the shower running in the bathroom. Jenny blocked the doorway, looking down at me. “You still have the nerve to show up here?” I pushed past her without looking at her. “Just grabbing my things.” As I retrieved my passport and walked out, I noticed Jenny’s luggage sitting in the hallway. They really couldn’t wait. Jenny leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head with a smug smile. “After looking around, I still think David is the best.” She chuckled. “He hasn’t lost his touch in bed, either.” My fingers clenched around my passport. “You’re blocking the door,” I said, keeping my voice entirely flat. On the surface, I was calm, but my throat felt as if a fishbone were lodged in it, making it difficult to swallow. Sitting in the back of the cab, I stared blankly at the passing streets. For the first time, I realized how incredibly foolish I had been to love him. My hand brushed against a small, hard object in my bag. It was a transparent pill organizer. Each compartment held different tablets, labeled in neat, handwritten script: allergy meds, cold medicine, motion sickness pills, and my heart arrhythmia medication. David had put it together for me three years ago before my first business trip. I had forgotten it was even in my bag. Three years. The medicine inside was probably long expired. The car moved smoothly through the intersection, heading in the opposite direction of everything we had built. I unlocked my phone, deleted David’s contact info, and blocked his number. It was finally over.

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1 For seven years, my captain and boyfriend Hector adhered to a strict rule: no private coaching sessions, no staying out overnight. He broke that rule the very night online trolls photoshopped my obituary photo and demanded my retirement from professional e-sports. Hector was known across the league for his icy self-discipline and stoic personality. He never gave outsiders the time of day, reserving all his warmth for me. Yet, the person he broke his sacred rule for was my own apprentice, Judy. While I sat alone in our dark, empty training room undergoing a mental breakdown, Hector spent the entire night at an e-sports hotel with Judy. They ran private dual-carry scrims together until the scandal on social media finally blew over. I did not throw a fit, nor did I shed a tear. I simply asked for a breakup. For the first time in seven years, Hector turned a cold face toward me. “The summer league starts next week. I am trying to stabilize our roster. Must you pick right now to throw a temper tantrum?” Judy stood beside him, lowering her head in quiet agreement. “Coach Sierra, please do not be so emotional. Making a scene right now destroys the professional future of our entire team.” I fell instantly silent, watching Hector with stinging eyes. That night, after returning home, I dialed the personal number of the captain of our rival team. “Three years ago, you asked if I would ever join your squad,” I said, my voice dead calm. “Does that offer still stand?” … Logan answered without a second of hesitation. “Name the day. My door is open whenever you are ready.” “The transfer must remain strictly confidential,” I continued. “No one can know until it is finalized.” “Understood.” Three years ago, after I led Team LV to our very first national championship, Logan pursued me through five consecutive tournament cycles to sign me. Back then, my eyes were blinded by my loyalty to Team LV and my love for Hector. The moment I hung up, my phone vibrated. A single text from Hector popped up on my screen. Two cold words: Open up. I looked through the window and spotted the sports car parked below. It was the celebratory car we had picked out together after winning our first trophy. For seven years, he and I were the most envied power couple in the e-sports world, celebrated by fans as the unmatchable Dual Carries. Reserved as he was, he had once ripped into toxic stream chatters on my behalf, unable to tolerate a single word of slander directed at me. All his tenderness and devotion belonged exclusively to me. Yet even the deepest devotion could be tossed aside for someone else. After a long struggle, I stood up and unlocked the door, a faint sliver of hope still clinging to my heart. When he walked in, my blood ran cold. Hector maintained his usual detached posture. He sat on the couch, staring intently at his phone as he reviewed the telemetry data from his overnight scrims with Judy. He reached out toward the coffee table for his wristband out of habit. I instinctively picked it up to hand it to him, only to notice a bright pink wristband already wrapped around his forearm. It was not something I had bought him. The moment our fingertips brushed, he seemed to snap out of his trance and pulled his hand back instantly. I stared at the pink wristband, my mind going numb. A moment later, as if trying to break the heavy silence, he pulled a limited-edition gaming plush charm from his coat pocket. “Stop being upset.” A man who never bowed his head to anyone was making a rare effort to appease me. I took the charm without saying a word. It was a character design I had never liked. Then, his offhand remark smashed the last remaining piece of my hope to dust. “I need you to look over Judy’s telemetry data. As long as we keep her performance consistent, we are guaranteed a spot in the finals next week. You are the master shotcaller for Team LV, analyzing this data should be child’s play for you.” The plush charm slipped from my fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a sharp click that sounded painfully loud in the silent apartment. I stared at him, finding the situation absurd. “She plays my position. What am I supposed to play?” Hector’s expression shifted into something unreadable, though his tone remained strictly business. “Your recent form has been shaky. Private scrims with Judy were a necessity. I have already reported to management that you will temporarily step down to the bench.” A necessity? My mind dragged me back through the years. Seven years ago, when I first entered the professional scene and faced harassment from male players, Hector had taken a stand before the team. From this day on, my training room only has room for Sierra. I will protect her. Now, he was shattering his own oath for Judy. “You trained her yourself,” Hector added, frowning in frustration at my silence. “Her playstyle and macro instincts align well with mine. Sierra, this is not the time to act out. You need to look at the bigger picture.” I could not bring myself to smile. “Looking at the bigger picture means kicking me out of it?” He froze, his voice stiffening. “That is not what I meant.” Before he could finish, his phone screen lit up with a barrage of notifications from Judy. obedient, eager, humble text messages. Hector sat right in front of me, replying to every single text with painstaking patience. In seven years, he had never replied to my messages line by line like that. “Sierra, you are being overly narrow-minded,” he murmured, laying his phone down after reading her latest text. A flicker of disappointment touched his eyes. A tight knot squeezed my throat. On the night I was tormented by the entire internet, flooded with photoshopped obituaries and vicious demands for my retirement, he was running private scrims with Judy. While I collapsed alone in a dark facility into the late hours of the night, receiving zero replies to my messages, he was breaking down vods for Judy. He knew everything I was going through. Yet he called it looking at the bigger picture. His bigger picture had always been built on top of my silent breakdown. Seeing my deathly pale face and utter silence, Hector’s heart softened slightly. He walked into the kitchen, warmed a glass of milk, and placed it on the table in front of me. He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. “Be a good girl. Bear with it for now. Once the summer league is over, your starting position will be waiting for you.” The warm touch sent a shudder through my frame. I almost gave in, just like the countless times in the past when a simple gesture from him would make me forgive everything. But then my mind flashed back to the endless stream of hate messages urging me to kill myself, the black-and-white graphics, and the cruel AI photos. I forced the urge to forgive back into the dark. Interpreting my silence as stubbornness, the warmth in Hector’s eyes vanished, replaced by an icy distance. “Do not let your petty grudge ruin Team LV.” I read the unspoken accusation behind his words. A few days ago, after a devastating match loss where I solo-defended our base until the final second while my team was wiped out, the internet had turned on me. Sierra needs to retire already! Stop dragging Captain Hector and Team LV down! How can someone call herself a god-tier shotcaller with plays like that? Go home and play house! Judy and Hector are the real Dual Carries! Sierra does not belong there! No one cared that the loss was caused by Judy recklessly engaging without my call, or that my teammates had ignored my retreat pings. The entire weight of the blame was dropped onto the shoulders of the mid-lane shotcaller. I let out a hollow laugh. Seven years of blood, sweat, and tears could not buy a shred of understanding from them. Why should I keep degrading myself for their sake? My heart sank into a quiet, undisturbed calm. The lingering memories of the past seven years cut through my chest with a dull, throbbing pain, but the fever had finally broken. At the team meeting the following morning, the head coach formally announced the starting lineup for the upcoming season. My starting mid-lane position was assigned to Judy. Judy stood up, looking overwhelmed with gratitude and modesty. “Thank you all for your trust. I will not let the team down, especially my mentor, Coach Sierra.” She bowed her head, playing the part of a humble, grateful pupil to perfection. Hector sat across from me, leading the applause. His eyes swept over my composed face. Seeing no outrage or resistance, he let out a quiet sigh of relief. He thought I had finally come to my senses. I thought I had accepted it, too. But when my gaze landed on the bag sitting beside Judy, my heart twisted into a sharp knot. Hanging from her zipper was a plush charm from the exact same limited-edition brand Hector had given me the night before; only hers was a customized, highly detailed main-character edition. I remembered what he had told me two years ago. Anything I give you will be one of a kind in this world. His devotion had been divided into two shares long ago. I began counting down in my head. Three more days, and I will never have to step foot in this place again. During morning practice, I completely disengaged. I spoke no words, offered no shotcalls, and led no plays. I sat in the furthest corner of the room, completely still. Behind me, my teammates offered no effort to hide their disdainful whispers. “Sierra is clearly just bitter that Judy has more natural talent than her.” “A high-maintenance princess who expects the whole team to pamper her could never compete with someone as sensible as Judy.” “Judy is way more mature.” My face remained expressionless, though a dull ache resonated in my chest. I was the one who had dragged this organization from the brink of collapse to the top of the league. Every draft strategy, every telemetry breakdown, every macro system had been built through my sleepless nights. In the end, I had become nothing more than an eyesore to them. Hector sat at the head of the table, offering not a single word in my defense. He knew better than anyone how much of my life I had poured into this team. After everyone left the room, Judy walked over to my desk, feigning concern. “Coach Sierra, it is all my fault. Please do not be mad at the guys. Once your form recovers, I will happily give the starting spot back to you.” Hector frowned, speaking up immediately. “You do not need to apologize to her, Judy. She is choosing to slack off and throw a fit. The team does not need to waste time accommodating her ego.” I said nothing. The quieter I remained, the colder his face became. Since I refused to bow my head, he was determined to push me until I broke. “Judy, pack your gear,” Hector said in an unyielding tone. “We are going to my private facility at home for specialized training.” My head snapped up, my eyes locking onto his. That private facility was where he and I had spent countless nights grinding through our lowest points. It was our sanctuary, an unwritten promise that only he and I were allowed inside. Every piece of equipment, every bit of data, and every memory of our seven-year career was stored in that room. Now, that space no longer belonged to just the two of us. A bitter wave of nausea rose in my chest. Judy could barely conceal the triumph in her eyes, though she maintained her hesitant act. “Captain Hector, is that really okay? Everyone knows your private room is strictly reserved for Coach Sierra…” Hector ignored her, offering me a cold, bitter smile. His eyes flared with suppressed anger. “Since Sierra clearly does not care about me anymore, I am sure she will not mind you using it.” I knew what he was doing. He was trying to force me to yield, just like every argument we had over the past seven years where I was always the one to apologize first. Suddenly, an overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. I looked straight into his eyes, forcing down the pain in my chest, and spoke in a flat voice. “Whatever.” Hector froze, entirely unprepared for my indifference. A flicker of panic flashed across his eyes, but it was instantly swallowed by a wave of cold resentment. “Fine,” he said, his tone dripping with retaliation. “In that case, the center spot on the promotional poster, the media interview slots, and the main feature spot for the summer league will all be handed over to Judy.” Judy’s eyes practically sparkled with joy. “Oh, is that really okay?” That center spot was something I had fought for during the playoffs, playing through a high fever to deliver a tournament-topping MVP performance. My dream had always been to stand at the very center of the team, representing our squad on the grandest stage. He remembered every single one of my dreams. And he was handing them to someone else just to hurt me. He knew exactly where to twist the knife to make me cry and beg for his mercy. My hands clenched into tight fists, my nails digging so deep into my palms that they left dark red crescents. I forced the lump in my throat down into silence. “Okay.” His face went completely pale with anger, and he turned and walked out without another word. The moment the door closed, Judy dropped her gentle mask. She leaned down to my ear, her voice dripping with malice. “Mentor, the movement patterns, macro strategy, and laning concepts you taught me are working wonderfully. I used them to steal your man’s heart and your team’s loyalty. Are you proud of me? After all, you were the one who brought me here.” A strange sense of detachment washed over me. No anger. No hatred. I felt completely drained of energy, left with nothing but an icy numbness. I had thought I was mentoring a promising talent, lifting her up to succeed me. It turned out I had spent years nurturing a snake in my own house. Judy’s smile broadened. She was not afraid of me making a scene, because she knew Hector and the team would always shield the agreeable, sensible girl over me. “Why?” I asked softly. “Do you really think I was just a random rookie you happened to discover?” She leaned in closer, a bitter glint in her eyes. “I have been waiting for this day for seven years. Back when Captain Hector flamed his stream chat to defend you, I was the main hater he publicly humiliated.” She straightened up, adjusted her modest expression, and skipped lightly out of the room. I sat alone on the edge of the desk in the empty facility, swallowed by the silence just like the night I was abandoned. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Let us move up the schedule.” Logan looked exceptionally sharp, his hair styled neatly. “The contract is finalized,” he said, checking his watch before offering a warm smile. “We have plenty of time. Let me buy you dinner before we sign.” I did not decline. I was simply too exhausted. We walked side by side down the brightly lit commercial street, cooled by a gentle evening breeze. For seven years, every day spent beside Hector had been a tightrope walk of high stress, maintaining the team and chasing our dream. I had forgotten how light it felt to simply exist. Turning a corner, two familiar figures stepped into view. Hector walked ahead with a cold expression, lost in thought. Judy followed closely behind him, keeping a respectful yet intimate distance. When our eyes met, my blood felt like it froze in my veins. The suppressed agony flooded back in an instant. Hector’s gaze darted between Logan and me, his eyes frosting over with cold contempt. Judy’s eyes immediately welled with tears as she whimpered quietly beside him. “Captain Hector, is Coach Sierra mad at me for taking her spot? Is that why she brought the captain of Team VT here to make us jealous?” She left the rest unsaid, but the implication was crystal clear. A mocking smirk touched Hector’s lips as he closed the distance between us, his eyes filled with a storm of dark emotions. “You really are something, Sierra. You get upset, so you hire another man to back you up just to get a reaction out of me?” My body went rigid. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I was too tired to explain anything to him anymore. In Hector’s eyes, my silence and resignation were taken as a full confession. “I gave you step after step to back down. I tolerated your drama again and again, only for you to run to another man?” His voice cut through the air. “Well done, Sierra. Truly well done.” Every word was a twisted narrative of self-victimization. Every phrase accused me of failing the team. I bit my lower lip hard, burying the humiliation and heart-wrenching disappointment deep inside, forcing myself to maintain an unbroken composure. Just half a day left. Tomorrow morning, I will be free of all of this. Hector let out a cold laugh, reaching out to pull Judy gently into his arms. “Fine. Have it your way. I will fulfill your wish.” He turned and walked away with Judy, his back rigid and unyielding. Watching him walk away, my feet instinctively took half a step forward before I forced myself to freeze in place. Logan gently stepped beside me, handing me a napkin from his coat. His voice carried a rare edge of suppressed fury. “Are you alright, Sierra? Is this really how they treat you every day?” It was only then that I realized tears had already breached my eyes. I took a deep breath, accepted the napkin, and wiped my eyes carefully. “I am fine. Let us go.” The last lingering warmth of our seven-year relationship burned out completely, leaving behind nothing but cold ash. On the night Hector broke his sacred rule for Judy, allowing her to become the only person besides me to share his private space, the man who once cared for me had been killed by his own hands. This seven-year chapter was officially closed. Inside Team VT’s executive office, I held the pen above the signature line, pausing for a brief second. Logan poured me a hot cup of tea, careful not to rush me. Through the reflection in the glass, I could see his hands tightly clenched, looking far more anxious than I was. I lowered the pen and signed my name. The moment I handed the contract back to Logan, my phone screen lit up with a notification from Hector: Sierra, I miss you. My grip on the paper tightened slightly. Noticing the tension, Logan looked up. “Is something wrong?” His eyes followed my gaze to the notification glowing on the glass table. His shoulders went tense, his voice laced with an unintentional trace of heartbreak. “Are you… having second thoughts?” I shook my head, releasing my grip and letting him take the document. I had never felt more certain about a decision in my life. Logan reviewed the signature once more before letting out a long, relieved sigh. It was truly over. In the secondary bedroom of the Hector estate, Judy sat on the plush sofa with a dark, calculating glint in her eyes. Her fingers moved rapidly across the screen of Hector’s phone, deleting the message she had just sent to my line. She locked the device, placed it back on the nightstand, and quietly glided back to her gaming chair. The bedroom door opened a second later. Her timing was flawless. Hector walked in carrying a plate of fresh fruit, setting it down beside her desk. “Here is the lychee you asked for. I will review this final vod with you, and then you need to head home.” Judy dropped her chin, pouting playfully. “Captain Hector! Didn’t we agree that we were going to spend the night reviewing plays in your private room? I still have so many questions for you!” Looking at her cute, energetic expression, Hector experienced a sudden wave of disorientation, briefly seeing the image of a younger me from seven years ago. Back then, I used to look at him with bright, shining eyes, promising to take him to the national championship. An intense wave of anxiety surged through his chest, but he quickly dismissed it. “No,” Hector said firmly. “Let us finish the vod.”

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