Category: English

On our fifth anniversary, I gifted my boyfriend of five years a brand-new Porsche 91 I thought my generosity would buy his loyalty. Instead, the very next day, he went on a TikTok live stream to drag my name through the mud. In front of the camera, his eyes were bloodshot, his voice dripping with bitter resentment. “What I wanted was real, pure love, not a relationship built on a pile of cash!” “She doesn’t get me at all. She loves humiliating my heart with her stupid money!” His best bros chimed in to support him, and the comment section immediately turned into a toxic wasteland, everyone calling me a soulless sugar mommy. Watching them twist the truth so effortlessly, I only felt a cold, deep irony. Fine. Since he wanted a love untainted by the smell of money so badly, I decided to grant him his wish. Not long after, Carter Miller found himself drowning in millions of dollars of debt, with breach-of-contract lawsuits piling up like mountains on his desk. He ended up on his knees in front of me, looking like a wet, dirty dog, desperately grabbing the hem of my pants, sobbing and begging: “Vivian, I was wrong! I don’t want that bullshit pure love anymore!” “Please, help me. Give me back my resources, my money… I really can’t take this anymore!” 1. The buzz of my phone felt exceptionally sharp in my empty luxury penthouse. It was 3:00 AM, and my screen was flashing with countless notifications. It wasn’t work emails on WhatsApp, but rather hundreds of wild tags and mentions on Snapchat and TikTok. I rubbed my throbbing temples and unlocked the screen. What caught my eye was a video that had already surpassed a hundred thousand likes. The creator: “Carter’s Late-Night Radio.” My boyfriend of five years, Carter Miller. The cover of the video was a close-up of his face—red-rimmed eyes, a broken expression, and a line of shocking text overlay: [On our 5th anniversary, I received the most devastating gift of my life.] I clicked on it. In the video, Carter was sitting in the driver’s seat of a pristine, shiny Porsche 911, twirling the key fob. It was the car I had taken him to pick up just yesterday, worth nearly two hundred thousand dollars. But he wasn’t smiling. He took a deep, shaky breath for the camera, his voice heavy with suppressed sorrow. “Today is the fifth anniversary of my relationship with my girlfriend.” “I thought, on such an important milestone, she would have prepared a surprise full of memories.” “Even if it was just a handwritten letter, or taking me back to the diner where we had our first date.” “But no. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He raised the key fob with the Porsche crest, his eyes filled with disgust and hurt. “She just took me to the dealership, got this new car, and said: ‘Like it? Drive it home yourself.’” “At that moment, my heart completely froze.” “A two-hundred-thousand-dollar car sounds amazing, right? But in my eyes, it’s just a heap of cold, lifeless metal!” “It has no warmth, no soul, and absolutely no love!” “I asked her if she had anything else to say to me. No gift prepared with actual thought?” “And she actually rolled her eyes and said, ‘Isn’t this car good enough? Other guys would kill for this. Stop making a scene.’” In the video, Carter gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. “I was speechless. In her eyes, what am I? A pet she can just throw money at?” “I never wanted her money!” “I wanted the little things. I wanted the effort. I wanted the romance of being chosen over everything else!” “Am I wrong? I just wanted a pure love. Why is that so hard?” “This transactional relationship is literally driving me insane…” The video cut off there. I stared at the screen. My chest didn’t ache with pity for him like it usually did. Instead, a wave of pure, unfiltered disgust washed over me. In his little monologue, he conveniently forgot to mention that this car was his “Dream Car.” He had seen someone else driving it two weeks ago and had been whining about it in my ear every single day since. He also didn’t mention how many strings I had to pull, and how much extra cash I had to pay under the table, just to get this exact model delivered in time for our anniversary. And he definitely didn’t mention the context of my line, “Stop making a scene.” We were at the dealership, and he had thrown a massive tantrum in front of everyone because the staff didn’t set up a red carpet and a giant bow for his “delivery ceremony,” making me look like an idiot. In his video, I was the heartless, newly-rich b”ch who thought money solved everything. And he was the noble, poetic prince who refused to bow to wealth. I tapped open the comments. The internet had gone completely wild, and the screen was flooded with insults directed at me. [Oh my god! Carter, don’t cry! That classless rich girl doesn’t deserve you at all!] [Two hundred thousand dollars to buy off five years of youth? What does she think love is? A business transaction? Disgusting!] [So gross! She thinks because she has money, she owns him. She doesn’t respect men at all!] [Support Carter in breaking up! My girlfriend only makes $3,000 a month, but she makes me midnight snacks and hand-knits me beanies. That’s priceless romance! Money is trash!] [Bro, run! This woman looks down on you in her bones. She thinks you’re just after her wallet. You deserve a real girl who actually cares about you!] [I looked her up! Her name is Vivian Vance, founder of a tech startup. Haha, typical. The richer they are, the colder they get.] [@VivianVance, apologize! You owe Carter his youth back!] I scrolled down expressionlessly. Among the top-liked comments, I spotted a few very familiar handles. Hudson and Logan. Carter’s two “ride-or-die” bros. Hudson commented: [As Carter’s best friend, I honestly can’t watch this anymore. Vivian, you boss him around daily, and now you humiliate him like this on your anniversary? Do you even know how many sleepless nights he spent trying to plan a surprise for you?] Logan commented: [Exactly! Carter is a man of spiritual depth. He wants a soulmate! Your dirty money only pollutes his world! Set him free already!] But the most hilarious one was the third-highest comment. It was from Carter’s mother, Evelyn Miller. She had replied to a random user: “Sigh, my Carter was protected too well by me since he was a kid. He’s too pure, too gentle, always dreaming of those idealistic romances.” “I told him long ago that Vivian is too materialistic, too cold. She can’t give him the emotional support he needs. But this stubborn boy just wouldn’t listen to his mother…” “Too pure.” “Too gentle.” I looked at the comment and burst out laughing from sheer anger. I remembered three years ago when Evelyn Miller, claiming she “felt insecure,” forced me to buy Carter a luxury apartment in downtown LA—and demanded only Carter’s name be put on the deed. And two years ago, when Carter’s younger brother wanted a new car, she heavily hinted that as Carter’s girlfriend, I should fund it. Just last month, Evelyn went on a vacation to the Maldives and maxed out the $150,000 limit on the credit card I gave her. And now, she was online calling me materialistic, saying I couldn’t support her son emotionally. I threw my phone onto the sofa and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the glittering night view of the city stretched out before me. Suddenly, these five years felt like a complete farce. I had given everything to pamper him and his family until they took it all for granted. And yet they stood on their high horses, looking down on me, claiming my money was dirty and that I wasn’t worthy of their noble souls. Fine. Since you think my money is so filthy. I will give you exactly what you asked for.

The next morning, my apartment doorbell was rung aggressively. I opened the door to find Carter standing there. He was wearing a white linen shirt, his hair styled to look messy, and his eyes were slightly pink as if he had cried all night. Behind him stood Hudson and Logan, looking like two hired goons. The moment the door opened, Hudson charged forward like a rabid dog protecting its owner. “Vivian! Do you even have a heart? Carter was in tears until dawn, and you didn’t even call him once? You didn’t even text back? Do you want him to die?!” Logan added with a cold sneer, “Vivian, don’t think you can do whatever you want just because you have some cash. Love isn’t a commodity! Your attitude at the dealership yesterday severely crushed Carter’s dignity!” Carter didn’t say a word. He just bit his lip, staring at me with a sullen, wounded expression. If this were the past, seeing him like this would have made me crumble instantly. I would have rushed over, grabbed his hands, apologized repeatedly, and promised to buy him whatever luxury watch or designer toy he wanted just to see him smile. But today, I just stood there, watching their little show. “And?” My voice was flat, without a single ripple of emotion. My calmness caught the three of them off guard. Hudson’s eyes widened, looking at me like I was some kind of alien. “And? You’re asking us ‘and’? Vivian, are you a sociopath? As his girlfriend, shouldn’t you be reflecting on your toxic behavior?” “Reflecting on what?” I looked at Carter. “Reflecting on whether I shouldn’t have bought you a Porsche?” Carter flinched, tears instantly welling up in his eyes. “Vivian! You still don’t get it, do you?!” he yelled, his voice cracking. “I don’t want a Porsche! I don’t want those tacky luxury brands! I just want effort! I want romance that comes from the heart! Why is that so hard for you to understand?!” “Yeah, Vivian,” Logan chimed in sarcastically. “Look at the girls on TikTok. They stay up all night making DIY scrapbooks and setting up fairy lights for their guys. What about you? Besides wire transfers and credit cards, what else do you know how to do? Your lazy attitude is literally a disrespect to love!” I stared at Logan. I remembered vividly that for Logan’s birthday last month, Carter had used my credit card to buy him a $10,000 limited-edition pair of sneakers. Logan had posted it all over his Instagram, calling Carter his “brother for life.” And now, here he was, preaching to me about disrespecting love. “I see,” I said, nodding slowly. “You see what?” Hudson looked at me suspiciously. “Don’t think you can just brush us off with some half-assed apology. I’m telling you, Carter is seriously heartbroken this time. If you don’t do something big to make it up to him, this is over!” “Something big?” I let out a soft laugh. “Like what?” Hudson answered immediately, as if he had rehearsed this. “Next month is Carter’s birthday. This is your last chance to redeem yourself! If you dare to insult him with another tacky sports car, we’ll make sure he dumps you for good!” “Exactly!” Logan added. “For this birthday, you are not allowed to buy your way out. You have to hand-make everything. Got it?” Carter stood behind them. Though he remained silent, his eyes were full of smug expectation. He was waiting for me to beg, to crawl, to rack my brain to create some “meaningful” DIY romance for him. Looking at their arrogant faces, I felt an unprecedented sense of relief. “Okay,” I smiled warmly. “I promise.” Carter’s eyes lit up, a flash of victory passing through them. “Vivian…” He stepped forward, gently taking my hand, his voice softening. “I didn’t mean to make things public on TikTok. I was just… I was just so desperate for you to understand me. You’re not mad at me, right?” “Of course not,” I looked into his eyes. “You want pure, cost-free, heartfelt romance, right?” “Yes!” Carter nodded eagerly, looking like an idealistic boy. “For your birthday next month, I will prepare a romance that you will never, ever forget.” I smiled and gently straightened his collar. “I promise, not a single penny of dirty money will ruin it.” Carter let out a long sigh of relief and patted my shoulder. Hudson and Logan exchanged a look, both smiling in satisfaction. In their minds, I was still the rich, gullible Vivian who would do anything to keep her man. They thought they would see me act like a clown next month, trying to please them with pathetic DIY crafts. Oh, they had no idea. The game had just begun.

After throwing them out, I went straight to my study and opened my laptop. Since we were going “pure” and “non-materialistic,” I had to commit to the role fully. First, I called Marcus, the sales manager at the Porsche dealership. “Marcus, about that 911 we picked up yesterday. I’m not satisfied with it.” Marcus panicked on the other end of the line. “Ms. Vance! Is there an issue with the car? Just say the word, we will send a team to assist you immediately!” “No, the car is fine,” I said casually. “My boyfriend thinks the car is too tacky for his sophisticated taste. Send someone over to my building to tow it back.” Marcus was stunned, silent for a few seconds. “Uh… Ms. Vance, the car is already registered. If you return it now, it can only be processed as a used-car trade-in. You’ll lose quite a bit…” “I don’t care,” I cut him off. “Deduct whatever you need to. Just make sure that car is out of my garage by tonight.” After hanging up, I opened my banking app. I found the authorized user credit card with the $150,000 monthly limit that Carter always carried. I tapped “Freeze Card.” Next, I dialed my Chief Financial Officer, Leo. “Leo, liquidate the accounts of ‘The Solitude Cafe’ immediately.” “The Solitude Cafe” was a passion project Carter had whined about wanting two years ago. I had funded the entire thing—from the prime downtown location to the high-end interior design and the premium organic coffee bean supply chain. To save his “independent artist” pride, I had registered him as the sole owner and brand founder. But in reality, because Carter only cared about hosting poetry readings and giving away free hand-brewed coffee to his hipster friends, the cafe was bleeding cash every month. My parent company had been silently covering all his losses. Leo hesitated. “Ms. Vance, that cafe has a monthly deficit of about $50,000. If we pull the plug now…” “Cut all financial support from the parent company,” I ordered coldly. “Starting today, Carter Miller is solely responsible for the rent, utilities, employee wages, and supplier bills. Also, tell our legal team to draft a formal repayment contract for all the losses our company covered over the past two years. We’re going to court.” “Understood, Ms. Vance.” Leo was a smart man and asked no further questions. Leaning back in my leather chair, I let out a long breath. For five years, I had been a bottomless piggy bank, feeding Carter and his family’s bottomless vanity. I thought that if I gave him enough, he would eventually see my devotion. But I was wrong. Some people will eat your food and complain that your plates are too heavy. Since he hated the gold, I would take it back and leave him in the mud. That afternoon, Carter sent me a message on Snapchat. “Babe, my card was declined? I’m at the mall with Hudson, and we found a limited-edition designer jacket, but the transaction didn’t go through.” I looked at the screen, a cold smirk playing on my lips. I replied: “Sweetheart, to prepare for your birthday surprise, I’ve decided to cut off all material distractions starting today. I want to show you that even without money, I can give you the most fulfilling love. Don’t buy that jacket. I will hand-make a better one for you.” The chat screen went silent. Ten minutes later, Carter replied with a single word: “Okay.” Even through the screen, I could picture his face—gritting his teeth, forced to pretend he was touched by my “thoughtfulness.” He had built the “money is trash” persona himself. Now, he had to play the part, even if it killed him.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “442026”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I spent an entire year working myself to the bone for the Paris Avant-Garde Fashion Showcase. I almost went blind. All I wanted was to bring the last piece of art my late Grandma Evelyn left me onto the global stage. But right before the flight, Carter, my boyfriend of five years, canceled my ticket. He took the couture gown I had hand-sewn with my own blood and sweat and put it on his sob-story assistant. He said: “Chloe’s depression is flaring up again. She needs this runway show to rebuild her confidence.” “You’re the talented one, Maya. You’ll have other chances. Just do this to help her out.” He thought I would swallow my pride and step back, just like I had done for the last five years. But he didn’t know. Once you give some things away, they are gone forever. And along with that dress, my love for him was completely drained. Later, that parasite of an assistant was thoroughly ruined, and Carter’s family empire went bankrupt. He knelt in a raging blizzard, begging me to look at him. But I just held the arm of Julian Vance, the sole heir of New York’s top financial empire, and didn’t even spare Carter a glance. “Get lost, Carter. Don’t get your cheap hands on my dress.”

Three days before the start of Paris Fashion Week, I dragged my temperature-controlled case filled with couture designs to JFK Airport, dripping with sweat. Carter and I had agreed to meet at Terminal 3. I had spent countless sleepless nights on this collection, working until my retinas were bloodshot, just to win this invitation to the international showcase. But when I stood in front of the self-service kiosk, it didn’t print my boarding pass. Instead, a cold notification popped up on the screen: Flight canceled. Ticket refunded. I called Carter. His phone was off. Fifteen minutes later, I saw him through the glass wall of the VIP lounge. He was wearing the black trench coat I had personally tailored for him, leaning down to tenderly adjust a scarf around Chloe’s neck. Chloe was holding my sketchbook in her hands. Around her neck hung my official entry pass. And in the temperature-controlled case next to her feet was Grandma Evelyn’s final masterpiece, which was supposed to be in my hands! Before I could even get close, Chloe’s eyes welled up with tears, and she shrank behind Carter. “Maya, please don’t be mad. I just… I just wanted to see Paris so badly.” “My anxiety has been so terrible lately.” When Carter saw me, his gentle expression instantly hardened into a scowl. “What are you doing here?” I pointed at the case by her feet, my fingers trembling. “That’s mine.” Carter took an impatient step forward, blocking Chloe from my view. “Chloe is in a bad mental state. The doctor said she needs to travel and clear her mind.” “What’s the big deal if she borrows your dress just to take some photos outside the venue and make herself feel better?” “Then what about my plane ticket?” Carter paused, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, and shoved it into my hand. “I bought you a ticket back home. You’ve been too tired lately. Go back and get some rest.” He looked down at me, his voice low, but every word stabbed like a dagger. “Paris is a shark tank. Even if you go, you’ll just be a nobody in the background.” “Chloe is different. She needs this exposure to apply to Parsons. Don’t be a party pooper.”

I looked at the ticket. A one-way, coach-class ticket back home. So, my year of sleepless nights, of almost losing my eyesight, was worth nothing more than a retreat Carter had patronizingly arranged for me. I ripped the ticket to shreds and threw them into the air. Carter’s face twisted in anger. “Maya! What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?” I glared at him, my eyes burning. “My pass, my sketchbook, and my grandmother’s masterpiece are all in her hands. Why the hell should I leave?” Chloe immediately grabbed Carter’s sleeve, tears streaming down her face. “Carter, maybe I should just give everything back to Maya. I should go back to the hospital. I don’t deserve to see the show anyway…” She said she wanted to give it back, but her hands clutched the case tighter. Carter frowned at me, his eyes filled with disgust. “Chloe is literally this sick, and you’re trying to publicly humiliate her and drive her over the edge?” While he spoke, I reached into my pocket and silently turned on my backup phone. The recording app started ticking away. The airport PA system began announcing final boarding for the flight to Paris. Chloe gently tugged at Carter’s sleeve. “Carter, we have to go, or we’ll miss the flight.” Carter didn’t look at me again. With one hand around Chloe’s waist and the other dragging my case, he turned and walked into the VIP boarding lane. I stood there, watching their retreating backs. A massive tower in my heart crumbled to dust. I turned around, walked to the ticketing counter, and bought a ticket on the next budget flight to Europe. Three layovers. Thirty-six hours of travel. No checked baggage allowance. Just a single backpack. Halfway through, Carter sent me a message on SnapChat. “Chloe gets panic attacks on planes. Don’t send any messages to trigger her.” I didn’t reply. Thirty-six hours later, with swollen legs and dark circles under my eyes, I stood at the front desk of the hotel in Paris. The receptionist checked my passport, looking apologetic. “Miss Maya, the reservation was indeed paid for with your card.” “However, Mr. Carter changed the guest name to Miss Chloe.” I gripped my passport. “Who gave him permission to do that?” “I am sorry. Mr. Carter claimed he is your fiancé and showed us a screenshot of your authorization.” Ding. The elevator doors opened. Carter walked out, wearing a plush bathrobe, his hair slightly messy. When he saw me, his first words weren’t to ask how I had survived thirty-six hours of exhausting layovers. Instead, he knitted his brows and hissed, “Are you seriously stalking us all the way to Paris?” I looked at him. “Where is my room?” “Chloe just took her meds and fell asleep. Keep your voice down.” “I asked you, where is my room?!” Carter rubbed his temples, his tone incredibly dismissive. “The hotel is fully booked.” “There’s a small storage room in the basement with a cot. You can crash there for tonight.” He tossed a rusty key onto the floor at my feet. “Don’t come upstairs and make a scene. Chloe can’t handle any stress.” I looked down at the key and suddenly let out a cold laugh. “Carter, I worked night shifts for three months drawing blueprints to save up enough money to book this suite.” “I know.” His voice grew even lower, carrying a chilling indifference. “But Chloe is weak. She’s exhausted after a ten-hour flight.” “Maya, grow up. Stop being so petty about everything.” I reached into my pocket and tapped my phone. The recording was still going. This time, I didn’t swallow my tears like I used to. When I pushed open the basement storage door, a foul smell of mold and dust hit my face. Mops, bleach, and mountains of dirty laundry filled the space. My temperature-controlled case was carelessly dumped right next to a bucket of dirty water. The lock had been brutally smashed open. My blood ran cold. I lunged forward. The inside was a total mess. My sketchbook was there, and my sewing kit was there. But the heavy-embroidered couture gown, “Ethereal,” was gone. My phone buzzed. It was a message from Carter. “Chloe took the gown to try it on. She says she wants to wear it to the showcase tomorrow.” “It’s an honor for your work to be worn by her. Don’t be ungrateful.”

The next morning, the showcase committee announced that the preliminary review would take place at 10 AM at the plaza outside the Louvre. I hadn’t slept a wink. Clutching my broken case, I rushed upstairs. As soon as the elevator doors opened, I saw Chloe standing by the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the hallway. She was wearing my “Ethereal.” It was a piece sewn stitch by stitch with ultra-fine silver threads, forming a stunning celestial map. But right now, Carter was holding a pair of scissors, cutting open the back hem of the gown without a second thought. His movements were so casual it made my heart turn to ice. That gown was the last piece of art Grandma Evelyn had taught me to embroider, stitch by stitch, when she was on her deathbed. Grandma had said: “Maya, when you go to the big stage, bring this sky with you. Let the world see our heritage.” I rushed over, my voice hoarse with pure fury. “Take it off!” Chloe gasped, her eyes instantly turning red. “Maya, I didn’t know this was yours…” “Carter told me he bought this couture piece for me.” Carter immediately shielded her behind him, pointing the scissors at me. “Maya, you want her to strip right here? This is a public hallway. Do you have any decency?” I stared at him. “That is my grandmother’s final legacy!” Carter’s face stiffened for a fraction of a second, but then he sneered. “The old woman has been dead for years. Are you really going to trigger Chloe’s panic attack over a piece of dead fabric?” Chloe hid behind him, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Carter immediately turned around, whispering sweet things to comfort her. “Don’t worry, babe. She’s just crazy. She’s jealous because you look prettier in it than she ever could.” At the preliminary review, Chloe, wearing the mutilated “Ethereal,” took center stage. She held my sketchbook, leaning into Carter’s chest, smiling coyly for the cameras of international media. Some peers from our college recognized Carter and cheered: “Wow, Carter! Your girlfriend’s dress is insane! It’s gorgeous!” Carter didn’t correct them. He just turned his head and gave me a cold, warning look. There was no guilt in his eyes. Only a high-and-mighty threat. After the review, Chloe held up the ruined hem of the dress and ran down to the steps by the Seine. “Carter, take some solo photos of me! I want to post them on Ins!” I marched over and grabbed her wrist. “Take the dress off and give it back to me.” Chloe struggled, pulling back. “Maya, I’m not done taking photos…” “Take. It. Off!” During the struggle, she suddenly shrieked. A sharp ripping sound echoed through the air. The delicate silk hem had snagged on the sharp iron railing of the stairs. The gorgeous silver embroidery tore open, leaving a huge, ugly gash. Chloe took the opportunity to fall straight into Carter’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. “I didn’t mean to! Why did Maya have to push me?” Carter shoved me away with brutal force. Unprepared, I fell heavily onto the stone steps. My palms scraped against the rough concrete, and blood instantly welled up. But he didn’t even look at me. He was too busy inspecting Chloe’s ankle. “Did you twist it? Does it hurt?” I looked down at the bright red blood on my hands, then at the completely ruined “Ethereal.” Carter looked back, his eyes as cold as ice. “Are you happy now, Maya? Do you have to ruin everything before you’re satisfied?” I opened my mouth, but the taste of copper filled my throat. Before I could speak, Chloe suddenly pulled a crumpled little fabric pouch from the inner pocket of the dress. “Ugh, what is this cheap junk? It was pressing against my skin the whole time.” My face drained of all color. That was the silver locket and lucky charm containing Grandma’s hair. I lunged to grab it, but Chloe let go of her hand, pretending to slip. The pouch fell straight into the rushing currents of the Seine, swallowed instantly by the dark waves. I knelt on the cold stone bank, reaching wildly into the water. But there was nothing. Only the freezing river water, chilling me to the bone. Carter stood behind me, his voice dripping with impatience. “It’s just a cheap pouch. I’ll buy you ten designer bags when we get back, okay?” I knelt on the ground, my fingers clutching the cracks in the stone so hard my nails cracked, bleeding onto the rock. At that exact moment, I finally woke up. Some people don’t hurt you because they don’t know your pain. They hurt you because to them, your entire life isn’t worth a single tear from their precious lover.

At noon, Carter sent me a text on WhatsApp. “Bring your original design sketches to the exhibition hall. Chloe needs them for her judge interview this afternoon.” I didn’t go. I sat in the damp basement storage room and opened my laptop. My cloud backup was empty. My entire life’s work from the past three years had been wiped out. The entire series of sketches titled “Rebirth” was gone. I had worked on them for three long years. Countless sleepless nights, hundreds of worn-down pencils. I wanted to show them to the world on the Paris stage. But now, they were gone. I called Carter. Before the call connected, I turned on the recording on my backup phone again. He took his time answering. In the background, I could hear the soft jazz of a high-end restaurant and the clinking of expensive cutlery. “What now?” “Where are my cloud sketches?” There was a two-second silence on the other end. “Chloe needed a headline collection to apply to Parsons. I copied your sketches for her.” “And I cleared the cloud so you wouldn’t do anything stupid and ruin her chances.” I shook so hard my teeth clattered. “Who gave you the right to steal my life’s work?” Carter’s voice turned icy, filled with the arrogant condescension of a wealthy heir. “Maya, can you stop being so selfish?” “You’re just an undergraduate. Those sketches are wasted in your hands anyway.” “Chloe is different. She actually needs them.” I let out a harsh laugh. “So my future is just a stepping stone for her?” “It’s just borrowing your name temporarily.” “Carter, that was three years of my life!” He fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was utterly heartless. “Maya, don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Without the Wilson family’s resources, do you honestly think you’d even be in Paris?” I hung up. Ten minutes later, the design community back home went into a frenzy. Chloe had posted a set of design sketches on Instagram and Twitter. The caption read: “East Coast Aesthetics: My Paris Debut.” The first slide was my main collection blueprint. The second slide was my embroidery breakdown. The third was a highly edited photo of her wearing my damaged gown. The comments below were filled with worship. “Chloe is a literal genius!” Our college dean even posted in the student group chat: “Chloe, this collection is outstanding. It’s enough to secure your early admission to Parsons. We are so proud of you.” I grabbed my coat and stormed towards the Michelin-starred restaurant they were at. I kicked the private dining room door open. Carter was leaning over, patiently cutting a steak for Chloe. He had never cut my food for me. Once, when I accidentally cut my hand while rushing a deadline and couldn’t even hold a fork, he had mocked me, saying I couldn’t even feed myself. But now, that perfectly cut steak was placed right in front of Chloe. The waiter served foie gras. Carter subconsciously said, “Maya can’t eat organ meats, it makes her sick.” My steps paused. The next second, he pushed the expensive white truffle pasta to Chloe. “You have a delicate stomach, eat this.” I felt a sudden wave of absurdity. He remembered everything. He just consciously chose to give his care to someone else. I marched over and held out my hand. “Give me the flash drive with my sketches.” Chloe’s eyes instantly turned red, looking like a frightened little deer. “Maya, I really just wanted to try my best to prove myself…” I stared at her coldly. “By stealing someone else’s work? Does that prove you’re a thief?” Carter slammed his fork onto the plate, making a sharp, metallic screech. “Maya, watch your mouth!” “If you’re so worried about being clean, maybe you shouldn’t have done something so filthy!” The room fell into a dead silence. Carter stood up, his tall frame towering over me, his face extremely dark. “Do you have to embarrass us abroad and ruin this dinner?” “You ruined my entire life!” Chloe sobbed, shaking her head. “Maya, Carter gave me the sketches. I thought you agreed to it.” “If I knew you didn’t want to, I would rather die than use them.” Carter wrapped his arm around her shoulders, glaring at me. “I gave them to her. If you have a problem, take it out on me.” I sneered. “Great. Then post a public statement right now telling the world who actually drew those sketches!” He instantly went quiet. Chloe wept even harder, clutching Carter’s shirt. “Maya, why do you have to push Carter like this?” “You already have so many great designs. Can’t you just let me have this one?” The next second, my phone screen lit up. It was an official email from our college board. “Maya, we have received a formal plagiarism report accusing you of stealing Chloe’s showcase designs.” “Your graduation portfolio review has been suspended, and your degree is being withheld.” Immediately after, an email from the top NYC design studio I had signed with popped up. “Dear Miss Maya, due to a severe academic and commercial plagiarism controversy, your employment offer has been rescinded.” I stood frozen, staring at the words on the screen. My blood turned to absolute ice. I found out later that the “formal report” had been sent by Chloe herself. She had recorded the confrontation in the private room earlier, edited it to make me look like a hysterical bully trying to steal her work, and sent it to the school and the studio. She didn’t just want to steal my designs. She wanted to brand me as a plagiarist forever, ensuring I could never work in this industry again. I didn’t have a powerful family like Carter. I didn’t have the luxury of crying to get whatever I wanted like Chloe. That job offer was my only ticket to a better life. And they had just destroyed it. Seeing my pale face, Carter frowned. “What’s wrong?” I threw my phone straight at his chest. He looked down at the screen, and for a fleeting moment, a flash of panic crossed his eyes. But Chloe quickly tugged his sleeve, her voice trembling. “Carter, I’m scared… did I do something wrong?” And just like that, his guilt vanished. He tossed the phone back onto the table and said in a patronizing, dismissive voice: “Maya, don’t blow this out of proportion.” “If you just post a statement saying you ‘inspired’ each other, Chloe is kind enough not to sue you.” I looked at this man I had loved for five years in sheer disbelief. “You want me, the actual creator, to publicly apologize to a thief?” He avoided my eyes, sounding irritated. “We need to quiet down the media first! You don’t have a backup. If you fight this, you will lose!” I threw my head back and laughed. I laughed so hard tears came out of my eyes. The designs were mine, she was the thief, he was the accomplice who handed her the knife. And yet, I was the one who had to kneel and apologize.

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I have a strange illness. Every morning I wake up, the previous day’s memories are completely gone. My wife, Olivia, is the only person I trust when I open my eyes. She always tells me patiently: “Your name is Ethan. You’re twenty-nine, and you’re my husband.” I believed her without a shadow of a doubt. Until today, when I found a hidden diary in the corner of the study. On the very first page, written in my own handwriting, was a chilling warning: “Never trust Olivia.” “Julian isn’t her cousin. He’s the man she’s been in love with for years.” “You don’t have amnesia. She has been drugging you.” “This is the 1001st time I’ve discovered the truth.” From this moment on, I decided to play dumb. I’ll keep acting in her little play. I opened my eyes in the morning, my mind completely blank. “Are you awake?” I turned my head and saw a woman in a silk bathrobe sitting on the edge of the bed. “Who are you?” The words slipped out of my mouth automatically. The woman smiled, gently brushing her hand over my forehead. “I’m Olivia. Your wife.” “And you are Ethan, my husband. You’ve been sick, which is why you forget everything from the day before.” She pointed to the picture frame on the nightstand. “That’s our wedding photo.” In the photo, I was wearing a tuxedo, leaning close to her. But strangely, there was a noticeable crease along the edge of the photo. She took my hand, her fingertips warm. “Ethan, I’m the only one you can trust.” I nodded, accepting this reality. Olivia helped me get out of bed, laid out my clothes, and even meticulously adjusted my collar. “What do you want to do today?” I looked at myself in the mirror. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything.” “Then just let me handle everything.” Olivia wrapped her arms around me from behind, resting her cheek against my back. “A family doctor is coming for a checkup this morning. In the afternoon, I’ll take you for a walk in the garden. And tonight…” Before she could finish, the doorbell rang. Olivia let go of me, her brow furrowing just for a split second. “That must be Dr. Julian.” I followed her downstairs. A man in a white lab coat was standing in the living room. When he turned around and saw Olivia, his eyes lit up instantly. “Olivia.” “How is Ethan doing today?” Olivia walked naturally to Julian’s side and took his medical bag. Their fingers brushed against each other as they made the handoff. Neither of them pulled away. Julian looked at me, a quick, calculating look flashing deep in his eyes. “Ethan, let’s test your memory baseline today.” For the last question of the test, he pointed at Olivia. “Who is she?” “My wife.” Julian’s pen paused on the clipboard, and the corners of his mouth curled up. “The basic cognitive function is still there. But Olivia, I still suggest we increase the dosage.” He began packing up his equipment. As he stood up, his fingers casually brushed against the back of Olivia’s hand. I sat quietly on the sofa. Through the window, I saw Julian lean close to her ear outside the front door, whispering something. When she closed the door and walked back in, her face immediately returned to that sweet, gentle expression. “Ethan, what would you like for lunch?” I stared directly into her eyes. “What did he whisper to you outside?” Olivia froze for a moment. Then, a sharp, testing look flashed in her eyes. “Why do you ask?” I looked down, my finger tapping the armrest of the sofa absentmindedly. “He comes here every day. Were we very close in the past?” “Dr. Julian is just doing his job.” Olivia wrapped her arm around my shoulder. The faint scent of cedarwood on her was exactly the same as the scent on Julian. “Ethan, you have to remember. In this world, I am the only one who truly cares about you.” “Don’t believe a word anyone else says.” I nodded silently, saying nothing more. But deep down, I knew something was terribly wrong.

In the afternoon, Olivia left for the office. I sat alone in the backyard, soaking in the sun. Maria, the maid, brought over some fresh fruit. She looked at me, hesitating to speak. “Mr. Ethan… do you really not remember anything?” I shook my head blankly. “Olivia says I’m sick.” Her lips parted slightly, but in the end, she just sighed. “Then just listen to Mrs. Olivia. She’s doing it for your own good.” As she turned to leave, I heard her mumble under her breath. “So tragic… he can’t even protect the inheritance his parents left him…” I was about to call her back and ask what she meant. Just then, the sound of a car engine echoed from the driveway. Julian came in with his medical bag, a look of apology on his face. “Sorry about this, Ethan. I forgot to give you your injection this morning. I just realized and rushed right back.” As he spoke, he pulled out a syringe. “This is a new neuro-nutritional drug. Olivia agreed to start you on it today.” I instinctively shrank back. But he grabbed my arm with surprising force, pinning me down. “Ethan, this is for your own good.” I struggled slightly, and he immediately frowned. “Stop moving.” The needle pierced my skin. Before long, a heavy, dark sleep washed over me. I had a terrifying nightmare. In the dream, I was standing on the edge of a steep cliff. Olivia and Julian were holding each other, watching me. “Ethan, just jump! You’ll finally be free if you jump!” I didn’t want to. I wanted to run away. But Olivia blocked my path, pushing me step by step to the very edge. “Ethan, once you’re dead, all the company shares will be mine!” With that, she gave me a violent push. “Ah!” I screamed and woke up, but there was no one in the room. Through the glass of the backyard conservatory, I saw the two of them talking. I shook my heavy head, walked out, and suddenly spoke up. “Olivia, are we really married?” Their conversation cut off instantly. Olivia turned around, and for a split second, her eyes looked incredibly terrifying. She walked toward me, step by step. “Why would you ask that?” I was intimidated by her cold gaze, my back tensing up. “I just think it’s weird. Why do we only have one wedding photo?” “Why isn’t there a single trace of my past in this house?” She grabbed my hand so hard I felt my bones ache. “Because you are sick, Ethan.” “When you have your episodes, you destroy things. You tear up photos, smash furniture.” “To protect you, and to protect our memories, I hid everything away. Don’t you trust me?” She looked at me, a look of deep hurt in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you.” Olivia’s face softened, and she pulled me into a hug. “It’s okay. I know you’re sick. I’ll stay by your side until you’re completely cured.” I didn’t pull away, but I didn’t hug her back either. Over her shoulder, my gaze locked onto Julian, who was still standing nearby. Maybe it was because of the drug, but I fell asleep incredibly early that night. At 2:00 AM, I woke up feeling extremely thirsty. I got out of bed and crept down to the kitchen in the dark. While pouring a glass of water, I noticed the lights in the conservatory were still on. As if possessed, I walked over. Through the glass, I saw Julian sitting on a wicker chair in a bathrobe. Olivia stood behind him, bending over to massage his shoulders. “Was the dosage today too high? He actually started questioning things,” her voice drifted out. Julian tilted his head back, resting it against her stomach. “It’s normal for him to doubt. That drug damages memory. Over time, it makes people paranoid, even delusional.” He reached up and grabbed Olivia’s wrist. “Olivia, are you getting soft-hearted?” “No.” She smiled, her expression colder and more indifferent than I had ever seen. “He deserves this. If his family hadn’t forced me into this marriage back then, we would have been together long ago!” Julian chuckled. “Just hang in there for three more months. His cognitive functions will be permanently damaged.” “By then, he really will be a vegetable. No one will ever be able to prove a thing.” Olivia let out a cold laugh. “Yes. And then, all of his parents’ wealth will belong to me!”

I stood there frozen in the darkness. Suddenly, shattered fragments of memory rushed back into my brain. Olivia crushing pills into my milk. Julian holding a syringe, smiling warmly while saying, “This is for your own good.” And the past version of me, frantically writing in a diary: “Do not trust them.” I really did write a diary! I really did discover the truth! It’s just that every morning I woke up, I forgot it all over again. Inside the conservatory, Julian stood up and wrapped his arms around Olivia’s waist. He rested his head on her shoulder. “Playing your ‘cousin’ all these years has been so exhausting.” Olivia gently patted his back. “Just bear with it a little longer. The transfer of the family trust is almost complete.” “You approached him on purpose back then just for his parents’ inheritance, didn’t you?” “Why else would I?” Olivia laughed, her voice dripping with mockery. “Who could actually love an idiot who gets fooled every single day?” I clenched my fists, wanting to run. But my foot stepped on a dry twig on the ground. “Snap.” The lights in the conservatory went out instantly. I ran back to the bedroom as fast as I could. I lay in bed, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest. The bedroom door creaked open. Olivia stood in the doorway, keeping the lights off. She walked over and put her hand on my forehead. “Ethan, where did you just go?” I forced myself to sound like I had just been woken up, my voice deep and groggy. “What? I’ve been sleeping this whole time.” She didn’t say anything. Her fingers slid from my forehead down to my neck, stopping right on a faint bruise, pressing down gently. The pain made my muscles tense up. “Did you have a nightmare? You’re sweating a lot.” I clenched my teeth, saying nothing. Olivia leaned down, whispering right into my ear. “Ethan, you have to remember. You can go anywhere in this house, except the conservatory in the backyard.” “It’s too damp there. It’s bad for your illness.” I nodded, making no sound. She smiled with satisfaction and tucked the blanket around me. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow morning, everything will be fine.” She walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. I heard her whisper to Julian in the hallway. “He might have noticed something. We need to move the plan forward!” Only when the hallway went completely silent did I dare to open my eyes. Olivia had said that the things I destroyed during my “episodes” were kept in the study. And I remembered where she hid the key. I slipped out of bed barefoot and crept into the study. Opening the door, a musty smell hit my nose. Torn photos, smashed ornaments, and half-shredded books were all piled in the corner. I looked at the very bottom shelf of the bookcase. The thickness of one particular book looked wrong. I pulled it out and opened it—the inside of the book had been completely hollowed out. Hidden inside was a leather notebook. I flipped to the first page. It was my handwriting. “March 15th. Olivia gave me a new pill today. I pretended to swallow it but spat it down the toilet. When Julian came to check on me, I lied and said my head hurt. The excitement in his eyes was sickening.” “May 20th. Our anniversary. Olivia gave me a tie clip. Tonight, I found a bank transfer record to Julian on her phone. What a joke.” I kept flipping through the pages. The diary detailed every single time, date, and location of their secret hookups. On the very last page, there was a single line written in bold red marker: “Ethan, run! They are going to kill you!” My hands began to shake violently. “Thud!” The sound of the front door opening echoed from downstairs. I frantically shoved the diary back into the hollow book. I had just made it back to bed and lay down when my bedroom door was kicked open. Olivia stood at the door. She flicked the light switch. In her hand was a syringe, the needle dripping with a clear liquid. She smiled and walked toward me. “Ethan, you went to the study just now, didn’t you?”

I clenched my jaw, the veins on my forehead bulging. “I checked the lock on the study door. There are fresh scratches on it.” Olivia sat on the edge of the bed, her hand brushing over my face. “Why can’t you just be obedient?” I desperately fought to suppress my rising panic. “Olivia, I swear I didn’t. I just went to the bathroom.” “Stop acting.” She violently whipped the blanket off me. She grabbed my arm and dragged me to the edge of the bed. “The mud on your bare feet hasn’t even been wiped off. There are footprints on the study floor.” My body went completely rigid. I couldn’t find my voice. Olivia raised the syringe. She pushed the plunger slightly, squirting a bit of liquid from the needle. “I wanted to let you live for three more months, but you just had to be difficult.” She smiled. “Let’s end this tonight.” The moment the needle touched my skin, I violently thrashed and broke free. Olivia didn’t expect me to have the strength to fight back. She lost her balance, falling backward, and the syringe flew out of her hand. I rolled off the bed and dashed toward the door. But before I could take two steps, she grabbed me by the collar from behind. “Did you really think you could escape?” She dragged me back. She threw me violently onto the bed, pinning my legs down with her knees. The pain made my vision blur, but I gritted my teeth and screamed. “Olivia! If you kill me, the police will find out!” “The police?” She looked at me with pure disdain. “You have severe amnesia. Everyone knows that.” “You forget everything every day, and you hurt yourself during your episodes.” “Tonight, you had a breakdown and accidentally injected yourself with a lethal dose of your own medication. What does that have to do with me?” She leaned down, her face inches from mine. “Julian will back up my story. He’ll tell them your condition had already deteriorated beyond control.” “Do you really think anyone will suspect me?” Olivia let go of my collar. She stood up to pick up the spare syringe from the floor. That was my one-second window. I reached under my pillow and pulled out the phone I had hidden there earlier. The screen was bright. A call was in progress. The number dialed was 911. I held up the phone, my voice trembling but loud. “Olivia, you’ve been talking for three minutes. The operator heard every single word.” She froze. Her face turned instantly pale. Suddenly, loud, frantic banging echoed from the front door. “Police! Open up!” Olivia looked at me, a cold, mocking laugh escaping her lips. “Ethan… when did you get your memory back?” I didn’t answer. I just clutched the phone and screamed toward the door. “Help! In here!” The bedroom door was kicked open. Two uniformed police officers rushed in, followed by an officer holding a body cam. Olivia stepped back. A polite, sweet smile instantly returned to her face. “Officers, this is all a misunderstanding. My husband is very sick. He’s having a manic episode right now.” The lead officer cut her off, raising his hand. “Ma’am, we have your entire confession recorded on the line.” “Put your hands behind your back.” Olivia’s smile froze. She turned to look at me, her lips curling into a venomous smirk. The officers handcuffed her and started wheeling her out. As she passed by me, she suddenly stopped. She leaned in, whispering in a voice only I could hear. “Ethan, do you really think this is over?” “Don’t forget, Julian is still out there.” I looked up sharply. At the far end of the hallway, Julian was standing in the shadows. He was holding a surgical scalpel. He smiled at me, then vanished down the stairs. The officers rushed after him. But all I heard from downstairs was the sound of hurried footsteps, and then, total silence. I gripped the edge of the bed to stand up, my chest heaving. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number appeared on the screen. It was just one line: “Ethan, we’re not done yet.”

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I proposed to my boyfriend, Marcus, twenty-six times over our seven years together. The first time, he said he wasn’t ready to settle down yet. The second time, he said he loved the sweet thrill of just dating. The fifth time, he said the proposal should be the man’s job. …… On the twenty-sixth time, he finally said yes. I was over the moon. I spent six months planning our dream wedding, but the date kept getting pushed back over and over again. Every time, Marcus would wrap his arms around me and pull me close. “Whether we have that piece of paper or not, I’m already yours, Chloe. A wedding is just a formality.” “My love for you is enough.” Thinking about how incredibly attentive and caring he had been over the last seven years, I convinced myself he just had a fear of commitment. So, I was willing to wait. Until today, when I was scrolling through Instagram and stumbled upon a trending post: Our First Chat Logs & Wedding Photos. The user bragged in the comments: “Only six months of dating, and he already couldn’t wait to marry me.” Everyone in the comments section was gushing over their fairytale romance. But I was frozen, staring at the groom in the photos. Wasn’t that my commitment-phobic boyfriend?

I put my phone down and looked toward the bathroom. Marcus was taking a shower. His phone was sitting right there on the nightstand. The lock screen was a picture of us in Bali last year. I picked it up and unlocked it. Nothing. His contacts list was clean. His Snapchat was clean. His gallery was clean. I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. There are so many look-alikes in this world. Maybe I was just seeing things. Just as I was about to put the phone back, the screen lit up. A message popped up from a contact saved as “Dr. Carter.” It was a photo. I froze. When did he even get to know a doctor? My finger moved on instinct, tapping open the photo. In the picture, my boyfriend was passionately kissing a strange woman. A woman I had never seen before in my life. “Dr. Carter” wasn’t a doctor at all. He had purposely changed her name to that because he knew even if I saw it, I wouldn’t suspect a thing. The sound of running water stopped. I quickly put the phone back exactly where it was. Marcus stepped out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. Seeing me sitting up, his eyes filled with concern. “Chloe, honey, why aren’t you asleep yet? It’s so late.” He walked over and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “Are you on your period? Cramps? Let me get you some Midol and hot tea.” The moment he turned and walked into the kitchen, I grabbed his phone again. I opened the chat with Dr. Carter. The sweet, flirty messages between him and that woman were endless. “Did you miss me today?” “Always. Every second.” “I’m taking off next week. Can you make it?” “Of course. Just tell me where.” Photo after photo popped up. Restaurants, movie theaters, hotel hallways… There were even a few pictures of him sleeping, the warm, dim lighting illuminating a bedroom I had never seen before. I didn’t have the courage to scroll any further. I heard the water pouring in the kitchen, and then the light clicked off. Marcus walked back in, holding a steaming mug. “Here, drink it while it’s hot.” I took the mug. Watching the steam slowly rise and disappear into the air, I suddenly felt like the man standing in front of me was a complete stranger. I thought seven years was enough to truly know someone. But just five minutes ago, I realized he could play a double life so perfectly that not a single seam showed. Marcus sat down beside me. Just like he did every month during this time, he gently placed his hand on my lower stomach. “Let me rub it for you. It’ll feel better soon.” I instinctively shrank back a little. “I’m just really tired. I want to sleep.” He paused for a second but didn’t say anything. He pulled the blanket up over my shoulders. “Okay, get some rest. Let me know if it hurts too much.” Marcus lay down beside me. In the darkness, his hand crept back over, resting on my waist, gently massaging me. I closed my eyes, staying completely still. Seven years. For seven years, every time I had cramps, he would hold me like this. Sometimes he would massage me until I fell asleep, and other times he wouldn’t sleep at all, just staying awake to watch over me. Over these seven years, Marcus had given me a sense of security that I completely relied on. His hands were warm. He massaged me gently for about half an hour before finally stopping. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. The streetlights peeked through the curtains, casting a clear silhouette of his face. Looking at him, I actually found myself wondering if he had a secret twin brother. Was it possible that the man on that phone wasn’t him? But I knew better. He was an only child. His mother had a difficult labor with him and could never conceive again. He had told me this more than once, with a hint of sadness in his voice, saying how lonely it was to grow up without siblings. The man sending those texts was him. The man sleeping right next to me, who had just spent thirty minutes massaging my stomach, was the exact same person. And in a place I knew nothing about, he called another woman his wife.

The next morning, Marcus was up by six. He picked up his phone, seamlessly replied to a message on the “Dr. Carter” chat, and then locked it. The entire sequence of movements was so smooth, done without a single second of hesitation. He didn’t even glance my way. He didn’t need to check if I was asleep. He knew that even if I saw him on his phone, I wouldn’t think twice about it. After that, Marcus went to the bathroom, and then to the kitchen. The sound of eggs cracking, the sizzle of the pan, the hum of the toaster, the whirring of the exhaust fan. I lay in bed, smelling the food, but my stomach was tied in tight knots. He walked in carrying a tray, placing the breakfast on my nightstand. He leaned down and patted my shoulder. “Rise and shine. I made your favorite sunny-side-up eggs.” After I got up, Marcus did what he had done for the last seven years. He folded the blankets, made the bed perfectly, fluffed the pillows, and tucked in the corners. I took two bites but had absolutely no appetite. I stood up and started organizing the closet instead. Marcus had to go to the office today. His suit was hanging on the outermost rack. I took it down, casually checking the pockets. Inside the right inner pocket, there was a small paper receipt. I opened it. It was a receipt from a boutique hotel. The date: March 17th. My birthday. That day, he told me he had an urgent meeting with a client and had to cancel our birthday dinner. He had even sent me a video to prove it. In a VIP private dining room, he had held up a glass to the camera, smiling warmly. “Happy birthday, Chloe. I’m so sorry I can’t be with you tonight. I’ll make it up to you as soon as I get back.” I had eaten dinner alone that night, watching that video over and over, telling myself that he couldn’t help it because of work. But now, holding that tiny receipt, my fingers started to tremble. I stood before the closet, clutching the paper in my fist, while the sound of Marcus sipping his coffee echoed behind me. Everything felt so normal. So normal that it felt like a perfectly crafted lie. I hung the suit back up, turned around, and forced my face into a neutral expression. “Hey, I was scrolling through Instagram last night and saw this cute boutique hotel. It looks really nice. Maybe we should go there for a weekend getaway sometime.” He looked up from his mug. “Oh, yeah, that place is super popular. A few guys at the office recommended it. They said the brunch is amazing, but parking is a nightmare.” He paused, then added, “If you like it, we should go. But we’ll have to book well in advance.” I nodded. He put his head back down, focusing on his phone. I stared at the side of his face, a cold chill running down my spine. No hesitation. No stuttering. His eyes didn’t even flicker. He told that lie faster than I could even process it. After Marcus left for work, I looked around the apartment we had so lovingly decorated together. Suddenly, the tears came crashing down. I had learned to numb myself to crying at a very young age. For as long as I could remember, my parents did nothing but scream at each other. Over money, over chores, over any little thing that could trigger a fight. I used to try and pull them apart, but I quickly realized it was pointless. Eventually, I stopped trying. I would lock myself in my bedroom, sitting on the cold floor, listening to the muffled screaming outside. When it finally went quiet, I never knew if they had fallen asleep or just walked away. No one ever opened my door to check on me. No one cared if I was crying, sleeping, or just staring into the dark. I learned early on that screaming your feelings out doesn’t work if no one is listening. It’s better to keep it all inside. Since then, I always dreamed of having my own home. A home with someone who would actually notice me. Marcus had entered my life like a savior. For seven years, he had taken care of me with absolute perfection. Like the time I got severe gastroenteritis and ran a dangerously high fever in the middle of the night. He had called an Uber at 3 AM, stayed up with me at the hospital all night, and never closed his eyes once. He checked my temperature every hour, wiped my sweat, and made a fresh batch of chicken soup before dawn, feeding me spoonful by spoonful. Lying in that hospital bed, looking at his tired face, I had thought: This is it. He’s the one. I’m going to marry this man. So, I started proposing. Once, twice, five times, ten times, twenty-six times. Every time he rejected me, I told myself it just wasn’t the right time. That he had financial worries, that he needed more time—not that he didn’t love me. In seven years, the thought of him cheating had never once crossed my mind. But now, the truth stared me in the face. He had never actually chosen me.

After I finished crying, I went into the study. His old iPad was sitting on the bottom shelf of the bookcase, covered in a thin layer of dust. He rarely used it because he said the screen was too small. Once he got a new one, this one was completely abandoned. I plugged it into the charger, waited for it to power up, and logged into his iCloud. He had given me his password years ago—it was the date of our first anniversary. Once the cloud synced, I opened the photo library. The first photo was from New Year’s Eve. Marcus was wrapping his arms around that woman, standing in a crowded square. Fireworks illuminated their faces. She was laughing, looking back at him, and he was kissing the top of her head. I remembered that New Year’s Eve. Marcus had told me he had to spend it with his parents. At midnight, he had sent me a video of the fireworks outside his parents’ house. His voice had whispered over the clip: “Happy New Year, baby. See you tomorrow.” I thought he was being a good son. I had saved that video. I had even posted it on Instagram. I kept scrolling through the photos. It was filled with pictures of their trips together. Over and over again. Beaches, mountains, cozy cabin getaways, small towns. Every single trip lined up perfectly with the dates he told me he was traveling for business. I closed the gallery. I opened his Snapchat messages. The logs with her started four years ago. Four years ago, we had already been together for three years. Four years ago, I had already proposed to him multiple times. I was trying so hard to convince him back then. I was telling him about the meaning of marriage, about how natural it was for two people who loved each other to take the next step. And back then, Marcus was just starting to text her. At first, it was just casual banter. Then came the dinner dates, then the weekend trips, and then he started calling her “sweetheart” in the chat. I cross-referenced the timelines. Marcus had known her for four years. They had been officially “together” for six months. And those six months were the exact six months I had spent planning our wedding. I sat on the floor, the cold blue light of the tablet screen reflecting on my face. During those six months, I had saved endless venue photos, made budget spreadsheets, drafted guest lists, and compared catering menus from three different hotels. Every time I showed him my plans, he would casually flip through them and say: “Let’s wait a bit. There’s no rush.” Or: “Work is so stressful right now, babe. Give me some breathing room.” I thought he was genuinely stressed. But now, looking at their chat logs, they were choosing wedding venues together. They were picking out wedding dresses and rings together. I sat in the quiet house all day. At 5 PM, the front door clicked open. Marcus walked in, carrying a paper bag from a bakery. “I got that cake you said you wanted to try. I passed by the shop today and remembered.” He kicked off his shoes, set the bag in the kitchen, and came over to sit on the couch. He turned to look at me. “Hey, what’s wrong? You look pale.” I stared at him. Seven years. I thought I knew every line on this face. “Marcus, have you ever genuinely wanted to marry someone?” He froze for a fraction of a second. Then he laughed, completely natural. “Of course I do, Chloe. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have kept you on the hook for seven years.” He used the word kept you on the hook. Like these seven years were just something he was casually wasting, and he was dragging me down with him. I didn’t cry. I thought I would, but my eyes were completely dry. He was still looking at me, a hint of confusion in his eyes. “Why are you asking that all of a sudden? What’s going on in that head of yours?” I shook my head. “Nothing. Just a random thought.” Marcus reached out and patted my hand. “Don’t overthink it, babe. You know I love you the most. Are you hungry? I’ll make dinner.” He stood up and headed into the kitchen. Soon, the clinking of pots and pans started. I sat on the couch, lit up my phone screen, and stared at that photo of them under the New Year’s Eve fireworks. The one where he was kissing the top of her head. He had never kissed me like that. He was gentle with me, he was attentive, and he fulfilled every duty of a boyfriend flawlessly. But that raw, instinctual affection? He had never given it to me. From the kitchen, he started humming. A light, upbeat tune. I recognized the song—it was what he hummed whenever he was in a great mood. I locked my phone and slid it into my pocket. His voice drifted out of the kitchen. “Chloe, do you want something heavy and spicy tonight, or something light and comforting?” I paused. “Light, please.” “You got it.” I leaned back against the couch, staring toward the kitchen. I didn’t know what I was going to do next. But one thing was crystal clear. He said he had kept me on the hook for seven years. Well, it was time for me to get off the hook.

Three days later, our scheduled wedding date arrived. The date we had locked in, only for him to postpone it yet again. That evening, he sat down next to me, let out a heavy sigh, and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Chloe, we need to push the wedding back again. The project at work is in its final crunch, and none of my coworkers can make it.” “Just wait a little longer. Once things settle down at work, I promise I’ll give you the perfect home.” “Marriage is just a piece of paper, anyway. You know you’re the only one in my heart.” I leaned against his shoulder, not moving an inch. The last time, his excuse was that his parents needed a medical check-up. Once he finished speaking, I asked softly, “Do you really want to marry me, Marcus? Or… is there something else going on?” He went quiet for two seconds. Then he chuckled, tightening his grip around me, speaking to me like I was a stubborn child. “What else could be going on? I’m just a little terrified of commitment, and work has been insane. Let’s just get through this month.” “Think about it. We’ve lived together for years. How is this any different from being married? Does that piece of paper really matter that much?” I stayed silent. He continued, “Even without that paper, I’ll treat you right for the rest of my life.” “Come on, don’t worry so much. I have a business trip tomorrow. Just for one day. I’ll be back the day after.” I had looked at that girl’s wedding post at least ten times. Their wedding was tomorrow. That night, just like every other time he “traveled for work,” Marcus prepared a whole day’s worth of meals for me, carefully sticking post-it notes on each container. “Chloe, heat this up for lunch tomorrow. Two minutes in the microwave.” “Chloe, heat the soup up before you drink it. Don’t drink it cold.” “Chloe, eat breakfast. Don’t just drink coffee on an empty stomach. Your acid reflux will flare up.” He stacked the containers neatly in the fridge, closed the door, and turned to look at me. “You got all that, Chloe?” Suddenly, my eyes welled with hot tears, and a tear rolled down my cheek. He startled, immediately walking over. He knelt down in front of me, reaching up to wipe my tears. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Are you hurting somewhere?” I shook my head. “No… I just realized we haven’t been apart in a while. I’m going to miss you.” He smiled, pulling me into his chest. “It’s only one day, babe. I’ll be back tomorrow night. There’s nothing to be sad about.” I buried my face in his chest, closing my eyes. His heartbeat was incredibly steady. I wondered, what was he feeling right now? Guilt? Relief? Or absolutely nothing, just running through a routine? Keep things calm on this side today, go to the wedding tomorrow, and come back the day after to keep up the lie. I didn’t know. And I didn’t want to know anymore. The next morning, Marcus kissed my forehead and left. I counted to thirty, sat up, and began packing my bags. Once everything was packed, I drove straight to Marcus’s wedding venue. I found the AV technician in charge of the main projector screen. I handed him a USB flash drive, along with a thick envelope of cash. “Could you do me a favor? Just before the vows, play the video in this folder on the main screen.” He took the drive, glanced at the envelope, and then looked at me with a hesitant expression. “Uh… what kind of video is this?” “Just a surprise vlog from the groom’s side,” I said with a sweet smile. He opened the envelope, counted the bills, and after a few seconds of silence, he gave me a quick nod. “No problem.” “Also, when it plays, please stream the live feed to this link,” I added. Without staying a second longer, I turned and walked out. When I reached the hotel entrance, I hailed a cab and headed straight to the airport. Traffic was heavy. I leaned against the window, watching the blur of trees rush past. I remembered the scene I used to play over and over in my head when I was younger. A long, white veil trailing on the ground. Someone holding my hand. The sunlight hitting us from the side, casting our long, overlapping shadows on the floor. It was a very simple, ordinary picture. So ordinary that I couldn’t even tell if I had seen it in a movie or just conjured it up in my own mind. During the worst years of my parents’ fighting. I would sit on the cold floor of my locked bedroom, waiting for the screaming to end, and just run that scene in my head. Over and over again, changing the details, changing the lighting, but one thing never changed. The person holding my hand was genuine. That was the only thing I wanted back then. I didn’t care about a lavish wedding, a massive guest list, or a huge diamond ring. I just wanted the person standing next to me to mean it. I wanted their “I do” to come straight from the heart. Just that one thing. Twenty-six proposals. I thought I was so close to getting it. And instead, I got a double life. At 10:20 AM, while waiting at the airport gate, my phone buzzed. It was a text from the AV tech: “About to play the USB drive now.”

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To deceive a rival syndicate, my mafia husband didn’t hesitate to put on an intimate show with his female subordinate right on their turf. When he returned, holding the nearly naked woman in his arms, he knelt before me. “Serena, it was just a cover to keep our identities safe. I had no other choice!” Despite the searing pain in my heart, I chose to believe him. But six months later, he came to beg me again. “Serena, Scarlett is pregnant with my baby! The child is innocent. Once the baby is born, I’ll let you raise it as your own, okay?” My heart twisted as if stabbed by a thousand knives. I forced back the tears welling in my eyes. Behind my back, I crumpled the pregnancy test report in my hand into a tight ball. I was pregnant with his child, too. But he would never know. I remained silent for a long time, my eyes locked onto the two of them. Dominic immediately pulled Scarlett closer into his embrace, frowning at me. “Serena, Scarlett has already agreed. She will hand the baby over to you right after giving birth. You don’t need to threaten her. She has no intention of ruining our marriage.” I spoke, my voice deathly calm. “Dominic, let’s get a divorce.” Panic flashed across Dominic’s face. He reached out to grab my hand, pleading once more. “Serena, can you please stop making a scene? Scarlett and I only did what we had to do to survive. The baby is innocent. You can’t be this heartless to an unborn child!” His tone sounded humble, but every word was an excuse. Seeing my pale face, the others in the room couldn’t sit still. Dominic’s loyal brothers from the syndicate also began to press me. “Yeah, Serena, Scarlett is already pregnant. Honestly, even if Dominic marries her, she deserves it!” “Serena, you’re just a housewife now. You have no idea how dangerous it was out there. At the critical moment, Scarlett sacrificed her own body and honor to save Dominic. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” “If you ask me, Dominic should just take Scarlett as his second wife!” “Shut up!” Dominic roared, cutting them off. “Serena will always be my only wife! As for Scarlett, I will compensate her.” He looked down at the pregnant woman in his arms, a flash of genuine heartache crossing his face. A bitter taste rose in my throat. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The others might not have known, but Dominic knew. I used to fight right alongside him. Back then, to settle a turf war, I was ordered to infiltrate an underground syndicate but accidentally blew my cover. At the final, deadliest moment, Dominic risked his life to pull me out. Later, he swore he would protect me for the rest of my life. And now, he was kneeling before me again—only this time, it was to protect another woman. I turned around in silence and walked away. Dominic quickly caught up with me. He gently draped his heavy coat over my shoulders and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s cold outside. Don’t catch a chill.” His warm, familiar scent instantly wrapped around me. I was so close to telling him that I was pregnant too. But his next words stopped me dead in my tracks. “Serena, Scarlett is very sensitive to the cold. I need you to let her have this villa for now. You can temporarily move out and stay somewhere else.” The words in my throat were forced back down, suffocating me. This villa was our home after we got married. I had decorated every single corner of it myself. And he knew better than anyone that I had no other home to go to. Ever since I decided to retire from military intelligence to marry him, my father had completely disowned me. Once, Dominic couldn’t bear to see me suffer even a tiny bit of discomfort. Now, he wanted me to hand over everything to Scarlett. His heart was no longer with me. I lowered my eyes and gave a faint nod. “Okay.” Overjoyed, Dominic pressed a soft kiss onto my forehead. “Serena, I knew you were the most understanding woman.”

I lay alone on the cold operating table. The doctor held my hand, offering a sympathetic look. “Mrs. Thorne, due to your old physical injuries, I am so sorry… but we couldn’t save the baby.” The pain was unbearable. I gripped the bedsheets tightly as tears slid down my temples in silence. Suddenly, my phone rang. The nurse swiped the screen and held it to my ear. Dominic’s furious roar exploded through the speaker: “Serena! You have completely disappointed me! How could you do this to Scarlett?!” Confused and exhausted, I whispered in a raspy voice: “What… what are you talking about?” “Scarlett has been kidnapped! And the kidnappers sent me a location—it’s the beach villa under your name!” Dominic screamed hysterically. That villa was a private asset my father had gifted me when I retired. But after I chose to marry Dominic and broke ties with my family, I had never stepped foot in that place again. “Who else could it be but you?!” Dominic raged. I was in too much pain to speak. I could only shake my head frantically. But Dominic couldn’t see me. Hearing no response, he snapped viciously: “If anything happens to Scarlett or the baby, I will make you pay a thousand times over!” The line went dead, leaving only the mechanical beep. The nurse gave me an awkward, pitying look and put the phone away. I closed my eyes in utter exhaustion. My heart was completely numb. When the surgery was over, the nurse wheeled me out of the operating room. Before I could even open my eyes, Dominic suddenly appeared. Ignoring the doctor’s protests, he ripped the blanket off me and grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip. “Get up. You’re coming with me.” The doctor rushed over in a panic. “She just had surgery! She can’t leave the bed yet, you can’t—” “Get out of my way.” Dominic shoved the doctor aside and violently dragged me off the bed. A sharp, tearing pain shot through my lower abdomen. I nearly collapsed right there. “Dominic, I can’t…” Before I could finish, I was shoved brutally into the back of his SUV. The sheer pain caused me to black out almost instantly. I don’t know how much time passed before a bucket of ice-cold water shocked me awake. I gasped, my eyes flying open in confusion. Dominic threw the empty metal bucket onto the concrete floor with a loud clang. He stepped forward and grabbed me by the throat. “Serena, have I been too soft on you over the years? Is that why you’ve become so cruel and spoiled that you can’t even spare an unborn child?!” My body shook uncontrollably. I trembled, barely able to form words through my blue lips. “I… I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me…” But Dominic didn’t believe a single word. With bloodshot eyes, he dragged me out of the car and threw me into the beach villa. Scarlett was tied to a concrete pillar in the living room, her pregnant belly prominent. She was crying hysterically. “Dominic! Thank God you’re here! Save our baby!” Seeing me, her tears flowed even faster. “Serena, if you hate me that much, I can leave! Why did you have to hurt my baby?!” I shook my head weakly. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything!” “Boss, the perimeter is clear. The kidnappers must have fled,” Hunter, Dominic’s right-hand man, reported as he ran in. “The security cameras were wiped. They knew what they were doing.” Once they confirmed there was no danger, they quickly untied Scarlett. Dominic immediately pulled her into his arms, murmuring comforting words.

Dominic’s men spat on the ground near my feet, their faces filled with disgust. “Bitch! I never knew you could be this wicked!” “Exactly! You don’t even deserve to breathe the same air as Scarlett!” “Enough,” Dominic cut them off coldly, then looked down at me. “Serena, you went too far this time. You’re going to stay here and reflect on what you did.” Before leaving, he ordered his men to drag me out to the beach and chain me to a wooden pier. He carried Scarlett away without looking back. I collapsed onto the freezing sand, completely helpless. In the distance, I saw Scarlett turn her head. She flashed me a triumphant, mocking smirk. Three days later, the harsh sea wind had completely numbed my body. My lips were cracked and bleeding, and my eyes were dry from crying. Just when I thought I was going to die on this beach, a blurry silhouette slowly approached me. “Help… please…” I squeezed out the last bit of my strength, but it was barely a whisper. Before I lost consciousness, I heard a soft, heavy sigh. “Oh, Serena… what am I going to do with you?” When I woke up, I was lying on the cold concrete floor of the villa’s basement. As soon as I opened my eyes, I met Dominic’s cold, complicated gaze. “You’re awake?” He brought a glass of warm water to my lips, but I instinctively turned my head away. He slammed the glass onto the table. “Are you done throwing a tantrum?” The look in his eyes was pure disgust. “I decided not to press charges against you for Scarlett’s kidnapping, and you’re still acting like this? Can you stop being so bitter?” I let out a weak, mocking laugh. He didn’t even bother to investigate before pointing the finger at me. If I really wanted to destroy Scarlett, I could have done it six months ago. Why would I wait until now? “Dominic…” Scarlett’s weak voice echoed from the stairs. She held her belly, slowly walking down into the basement. “What are you doing down here?” Dominic immediately rushed over and gently held her. “I was worried about Serena, so I came to check on her. Is she okay?” Scarlett asked timidly. “Don’t worry about her. She won’t die that easily,” Dominic said, casting a loathing glance at me. “You’re going to stay in this basement for the next few months, until Scarlett safely delivers the baby.” With that, they left, and the heavy basement door slammed shut, plunging me into darkness. I forced myself to crawl over to the table and gulped down the water. With trembling hands, I reached into a dusty crate in the corner of the basement. I pulled out an encrypted satellite phone and dialed a familiar number. “Come pick me up. Now.” “Serena?! Is that really you? Oh my god… where are you?!” the voice on the other end gasped in pure excitement. “I still have a few things to settle. Wait for me.” “Okay. I’ll be there.” After hanging up, I looked down at myself. My body hadn’t recovered from the abortion at all. A sharp cramp seized my abdomen, and I could feel a warm flow trickling down my legs. I bit my lip so hard it bled. If I stayed here any longer, I would literally die. I dragged myself to the door and began to bang on it with my fists. “Help… someone help me…” After what felt like an eternity, the door lock clicked, and an annoyed voice sounded. “What do you want now?” It was Hunter. I looked up at him through the cracked door. “I’m bleeding. A lot. If you don’t let me out, I’m going to die here.” The floor beneath me was stained with fresh, crimson blood. “Fuck,” Hunter cursed under his breath. “Boss told us to keep you locked up, not to let you bleed to death.” He quickly pulled out the keys and unlocked the heavy door. As he knelt down to inspect my condition— I swiftly whipped the heavy iron chain around his neck. Hunter’s face turned purple instantly. “You—” I pulled the chain with everything I had, channeling my old military training, and slammed his head hard against the concrete wall. Thud! His eyes rolled back, and he slumped onto the floor, unconscious. I gasped for air, my muscles trembling violently. In the past, taking down an opponent like him would have taken me three seconds. But now, it had taken every single ounce of my remaining strength. Avoiding the security cameras, I made my way upstairs. But just as I reached the main foyer, the front door burst open. Dominic strode in, followed by a team of private doctors. Seeing me standing there, his face contorted with rage. He marched over in three long strides. Slap! A brutal blow struck my face.

My head snapped to the side, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. “Serena! Who gave you permission to do this?!” I had no idea what he was talking about. Dominic was out of his mind with rage. He kicked me squarely in the chest. His men immediately rushed forward, pinning my arms behind my back. I screamed in agonizing pain. Dominic pulled out a clear plastic bag and threw it in my face. Inside was an empty prescription bottle. “How do you explain this?! The doctor said these pills are uterine stimulants! They almost caused Scarlett to have a miscarriage!” I stared at the empty bottle, completely lost. Dominic sneered. “We found this in your private beach house. I was just about to come down and deal with you, but you managed to break out. I almost forgot how capable you are, Agent Serena.” The bleeding between my legs got worse. I could feel the warmth leaving my body, second by second. Noticing the pool of blood pooling around my feet, Dominic froze for a second, but then his eyebrows knitted in disgust. “Are you playing the pity card now? How pathetic.” Forced to my knees, I looked up at him and let out a bloody, tragic smile. “Dominic, since you hate me this much… let’s get a divorce.” Fury flared in Dominic’s eyes. He stepped closer and raised his hand to strike me again, but stopped mid-air. He clenched his fists, his voice dripping with venom. “Divorce? In your dreams. You will be my woman until the day you die!” I laughed bitterly. Years of marriage, and this is where we ended up. I was such a fool. From upstairs, Scarlett’s painful groans echoed through the house. Dominic’s expression changed instantly. With a wave of his hand, he led the medical team and rushed upstairs. A long time later, he came back down. Seeing me lying half-dead on the floor, a flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by cold indifference. “Throw her out. Let her fend for herself.” Having received the order, Dominic’s men dragged me out and threw me into the back of an SUV. They drove down the desolate coastal highway. Once we reached a barren, rocky stretch, they kicked me out of the car, letting me roll onto the dirt. The sky quickly darkened. Dragging my bruised and battered body, I forced myself to crawl forward. The cold ocean wind made me shiver violently. Eventually, my legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the dirt. Just then, a few drunk scavengers wandered over from the direction of an abandoned pier. The leading man looked me up and down, a disgusting grin spreading across his face. “Well, well. Look what the tide washed in tonight.” “She’s a pretty one.” I tried to stand up and run, but my legs were like jelly. I fell right back down. They closed in on me. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll take good care of you.” A dirty hand reached out toward my face. The next second, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the night. “Ahhh!” I weakly opened my eyes. The thugs were already on the ground, groaning in agony. A pair of strong, warm arms lifted me up. I looked up and met a pair of deeply worried eyes. “I’ve got you, Serena.”

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I had worked for U.S. Customs and Border Protection (CBP) for five years. Because my extraordinary sense of smell was a classified asset, Julian always believed I was just a boring, low-level desk clerk. On our third wedding anniversary, I saw my husband at the airport arrivals gate—the same husband who had texted me saying he had to work late. He was gently tucking a strand of hair behind his ex-girlfriend Bianca’s ear, smiling with a tenderness he hadn’t shown me in years. When he noticed me, he dropped his hand as if nothing had happened, instinctively shielding Bianca behind his back. “Elena, are you tracking me? It’s just an anniversary. Would it kill you to spend one night alone?” “Just say it. What do you want this time to shut up? A designer bag? Shoes? Or is it jewelry?” The surrounding travelers threw disdainful glances at me. It felt like a public slap to my face. I pushed the ultrasound report back into my coat pocket and clenched my trembling fists. “I didn’t track you!” “Julian,” Bianca spoke up, her voice sweet and dripping with pity. “Thanks for picking me up, but your wife is more important. Go home and keep her company. And don’t be so harsh on her. Apologize.” Julian gave me a dry, forced shrug. “Sorry.” I stared at him, my heart sinking. When had the arrogant Julian Cole ever been this obedient to anyone? Bianca patted his shoulder, took her suitcase, and headed toward the customs gate. Suddenly, a strange, toxic odor wafted into my nose. I stepped forward and blocked her path. “Excuse me. Please open your suitcase. CBP inspection.”

Bianca froze, looking utterly bewildered. Before she could speak, Julian sneered. “Elena, you’re taking this drama way too far! Who do you think you are to stop Bianca?” “Julian, your wife seems really mad this time,” Bianca smiled bitterly, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the handle of her suitcase. Julian stormed over, grabbed my wrist violently, and dragged me back. “Elena, you’re a basic office clerk. Where do you get the nerve to pretend to be a CBP officer?” Bianca lowered her eyes, acting helpless. “Julian, forget it. She’s probably just too insecure…” “Insecure?” Julian scoffed. “She’s just petty and jealous.” He glared at me, his veins popping as he suppressed his rage. “Do you even know where Bianca came from? She just flew back from an active epidemic zone!” “She was out there saving lives in a war-torn country, and what about you? All you care about is discounted purses and spying on me! You are mediocre and selfish. You don’t even compare to a single hair on her head!” Every word he spat was laced with poison, stabbing straight into my chest. But the concentration of the toxic odor was rising. If this suitcase passed the exit and entered the public area—the consequences would be catastrophic. Seeing that I wouldn’t budge, Bianca bit her lower lip. She suddenly gasped and collapsed softly into Julian’s arms. “Julian… my hand hurts so much. I think the old injury from the hot zone is acting up…” Julian immediately let go of my wrist to hold her tight. His face was filled with sheer panic and worry. “Bianca! Are you okay? Do we need to go to the ER?” He turned to me, his eyes filled with murderous rage. “Elena, if anything happens to her, I will make you pay.” “Ms. Sterling,” I said, ignoring his anger. “Please cooperate and open the suitcase.” “Why the hell should she cooperate with you?” Julian stood up, blocking Bianca, looking down at me with pure disgust. “You’re in plain clothes, you have no badge, and no warrant. What right do you have?” He was right. Today was my day off. I wasn’t in uniform, and my ID was locked in the office safe. Seeing my silence, Julian sneered. “Elena, you always do this. You make a scene, and when things get out of hand, you play the victim.” The crowd of onlookers grew larger, their whispers echoing like a tide. “Is that woman crazy? What does another person’s suitcase have to do with her?” “She probably lost her mind because her husband’s ex-girlfriend came back.” Bianca stood up, gently patting Julian’s arm. “Don’t be mad. Elena is just acting out of jealousy. How about I just open it for her?” Her tone was so graceful and reasonable, making me look like a hysterical shrew. Julian’s eyes softened even more. “You don’t have to tolerate her.” Bianca shook her head with a smile, her fingers reaching for the suitcase’s combination lock. But I noticed that while she was spinning the dial, her thumb quickly pressed a small hidden button on the side of the lid. She was releasing something inside. My pupils dilated. I lunged forward and slammed my hand over hers. “Don’t touch it!” Julian completely snapped. He shoved me hard. I stumbled backward and crashed violently against the metal barricade. A sharp, stabbing pain exploded in my lower abdomen. I doubled over, clutching my stomach as cold sweat instantly drenched my back. Julian didn’t even look at me. He put his arm around Bianca’s shoulder, picked up the suitcase, and walked toward the exit. “Julian. Stop right there.” He paused, looking back with an impatient, cold sneer. “Elena, what else do you want? Do you want me to say it in front of everyone? Fine—I regret marrying you. Is that enough?” “I’ve regretted it for three years.” He said those words in a calm, flat voice in front of the entire terminal. I took a step back, unable to believe this was the same man who, three years ago, had stood up against his own father just to protect me. On our wedding night, he had handed me his cards and vowed in front of my late mother’s photo. He had promised to love and protect me forever. Now, everything had changed.

Bianca held Julian’s arm, her eyes cast down, but a faint, triumphant smile played on her lips. I had seen that exact smile in the old photos Julian kept hidden in his desk. “Sir,” an airport security guard ran over, breathing heavily. “We received a complaint that someone is causing a scene and blocking passengers?” Julian immediately pointed at me. “My wife. She’s mentally unstable. She saw me talking to a friend and lost her mind.” “Ma’am, please do not obstruct other passengers,” the guard said, turning to me. I forced myself to stand straight despite the agonizing pain, my palms soaked in cold sweat. “I have probable cause to believe that suitcase contains bio-hazardous contraband. Please assist me in detaining her.” The guard frowned. “Do you have credentials?” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Julian mocked from the side, “She’s a basic desk clerk earning minimum wage. What credentials could she possibly have?” Bianca spoke up at the perfect moment, her voice sweet and harmless. “I’m a member of Doctors Without Borders. I just returned from West Africa. The suitcase only contains my personal belongings and medical journals. This lady… must have misunderstood.” She pulled out an ID card from her purse and handed it to the guard. The guard took a look, and his expression instantly relaxed. “Since you have official credentials… Ma’am, please step aside…” “The ID is fake,” I said. The terminal fell dead silent for a second, followed by even louder laughter from the crowd. “Oh, now she claims it’s fake! Why don’t you show us a real one then?” “Is this woman so jealous she’s losing her mind?” “Her husband literally said she’s crazy. Poor guy, marrying a psychopath.” Julian’s face turned completely black. He strode over to me, lowering his voice to an threatening whisper. “Bianca and I are clean. Stop your disgusting accusations. Elena, leave with me right now, and I might give you one last chance.” I didn’t budge. “You’re not leaving?” He grabbed my arm, trying to drag me away. “Julian, don’t touch me! I’m pregnant!” “Playing this card again?” His voice was filled with sheer disgust. “Last time we had a fight over my student, you faked a migraine to go to the hospital. Now you’re pregnant? If you were really pregnant, you’d be resting at home instead of throwing a tantrum at the airport!” Bianca stood nearby, one hand on the suitcase handle, her other hand searching for something inside her purse. The suitcase was about to pass the security gate. I ignored Julian, pushed past him, and rushed toward the wall three meters away. There was a red button under a protective plastic cover, with a label that read: *Level 1 Biohazard Alert.* I flipped the cover open and slammed my palm down. An ear-splitting alarm instantly blared through the entire terminal. Red warning lights flashed frantically. The noisy crowd silenced for a few seconds before erupting into a massive panic. Bianca froze. Her hand stopped inside her purse, her fingers trembling. Julian, seeing that I had actually triggered the alarm, rushed over in a fury. He raised his hand high, the wind from his palm brushing my face. He looked ready to slap me. But his hand stopped in mid-air. Not because he spared me, but because everyone was watching. As a self-righteous university professor, his reputation couldn’t afford the scandal of hitting a woman in public. Instead, he poked my forehead hard, pushing my head back. “Do you know what the penalty for a false alarm is? Jail! Fines! You don’t care about your reputation, but I care about mine!” “You’re just a clerk. What right do you have to press that button? Do you even know what it means?” He really didn’t know. He had never cared about my job, nor had he ever asked what I actually did. Every time I worked overtime, he would only say, “What’s so busy about a trash job?” For three years, in his eyes, I was just a useless, dependent ornament he had to support. “Make way! Clear the area!” A HAZMAT team in full protective gear rushed out from the side corridor, pushing a sealed containment cart. The security captain ran at the front, his radio buzzing. “Level 1 triggered in Zone A3. No visible leak. Requesting immediate backup!” Bianca stood stiffly by the gate, her suitcase locked behind the emergency barrier. Her panic lasted less than a second before she regained her composure. She even offered a warm, polite smile to the hazmat team. “Officer, I am a registered physician with the International Red Cross.” “This woman is having a domestic dispute with her husband. She falsely triggered the alarm just to harass me.” The supervisor looked at her documents, then at me—pale, in plain clothes, and looking exhausted. He was clearly swayed by her credentials. He turned to me with a stern face. “Ma’am, this is a federal customs area, not a place for you to settle your marriage problems.”

Julian turned to the HAZMAT captain, put on his elegant professor persona, and apologized. “Officer, I am so sorry. My wife has been emotionally unstable lately. She probably did this because we had a fight…” “We are incredibly sorry for the trouble. This is all just a big misunderstanding!” “This woman is out of her mind! She literally claimed someone was carrying a bioweapon. Now we’re all stuck here.” “I feel so bad for the doctor. She went abroad to save lives, only to come back and deal with this psycho.” “If I were him, I would have divorced her a long time ago. She deserves a good beating.” Listening to their words, my nails dug deep into my palms. The hazmat team was following protocol, but they needed my federal ID number to bypass standard procedures and initiate a forced search. But my phone had been smashed when Julian pushed me earlier. Without my phone, I couldn’t reach my supervisor. Without my ID, the hazmat team wouldn’t authorize the search. Julian stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “If you kneel down right now, apologize to Bianca, and admit you did this just to get my attention…” “I might consider using my status as a professor to bail you out of the police station.” Kneel down. Apologize to Bianca. I looked at the face of the man I had loved for three years, and for the first time, he felt like an utter stranger. “Julian,” my voice was quiet but steady. “I gave you your last chance to walk away from her.” “Are you threatening me?” He scoffed, his eyes filled with contempt. “It’s not a threat.” I looked straight into his eyes. “From this moment on, you will bear the full legal consequences of your choices.” Hearing this, Bianca’s eyes flashed with impatience. With a click, she spun the dial, unlocked the suitcase, and flung it open in front of everyone. “Since you want to see it so badly, look!” “Everyone, please be my witness. If they don’t find any contraband, I will make sure she rots in jail.” Bianca’s suitcase lay open on the clean tiled floor. Inside, there were only a few ordinary clothes. In the corner, there were a few designer makeup cases and a thick stack of handwritten medical notes in English. The crowd burst into laughter. “That’s it? A biohazard? She really is insane!” “What a drama queen. It’s just normal luggage, and she tried to frame her.” “How vicious. This crazy woman should be locked up.” Julian, eager to end this and leave with Bianca, turned to the airport security. “Don’t waste your time. Just take her away.” “My wife is sick. She has a hereditary mental illness.” He pointed at his head, his face filled with disgust. Those words were like a rusted dagger plunging straight into my heart. Years ago, when my father cheated on my mother, he had publicly accused her of being mentally ill. He drove my mother to despair, leading her to jump from the eighteenth floor of our apartment building. That was the deepest, bleeding wound in my heart. Julian knew everything. Yet, to protect his ex-girlfriend, he didn’t hesitate to stab me right where it hurt the most. “Look at you, hysterical and pathetic. How are you any different from your mother who jumped off that building?” “Equally crazy, equally unreasonable.” The whispers around us changed. The mockery turned into fear. Several bystanders stepped back, as if afraid I would suddenly lose my mind and attack them. A mother pulled her child behind her. “Where are the guards? Get her out of here before she hurts someone!” The security guards exchanged glances and began to surround me. “I am not crazy. And my mother wasn’t either,” I whispered, my voice trembling, but I forced every word out clearly. But no one listened. Someone shoved me roughly, trying to drag me away. “Get her out of here! Stop her from ruining the airport!” In the chaos, I was pushed to the cold floor. A warm, thick liquid began to trickle down my inner thighs. I grabbed Julian’s pant leg, my voice shaking with terror. “Julian… I’m really pregnant. Please…” Julian didn’t bend down to help me. Instead, he kicked my hand away with disgust. “Elena, even if you are pregnant,” he paused, his lips curling into a cruel sneer, “I wouldn’t want this child anyway. Who knows what ticking time bomb is buried in your family’s genes? I don’t want to raise a kid who’s destined to jump off a building.”

“Let’s go, Bianca. You just got back. Let me take you out for a nice dinner. Where do you want to go?” People were laughing. Some were filming with their phones. I lay on the freezing floor, feeling my life slowly draining away. “Get up, ma’am. Stop making a scene.” The guards pulled me up. My knees were weak, and my vision began to turn black. Bianca picked up her suitcase and took two steps toward the exit— *BANG!* The heavy glass doors were kicked open. Black tactical shields rushed into the terminal, followed by a squad of fully armed CBP Special Agents. Their rifles immediately locked onto every moving target near the exit. Everyone froze. Bianca’s hand went stiff on the suitcase handle. Julian’s face turned from arrogant contempt to shock, then to absolute terror. Aiden Brooks, wearing black tactical gear, rushed over to me. When he saw my pale face and the blood on my legs, his pupils shrunk. I pointed weakly at Bianca’s suitcase. “The suitcase… the makeup powder cases… the hidden compartment…” “Elena, you’re bleeding! It’s a miscarriage!” Aiden wrapped his tactical jacket around me and lifted me into his arms, his voice deep and urgent. “Call an ambulance! Now!” His men immediately responded on their radios. As Aiden carried me toward the exit, his eyes swept over Bianca and the suitcase. He threw out two words: “Search it. Thoroughly.” Julian finally snapped out of his shock and tried to block him. “On what authority—” “She is our Senior Customs Consultant, executing federal duties when she triggered the alarm. That is our authority,” Aiden said, his voice cold as ice. “Obstruct us again, and you’ll be arrested for federal obstruction of justice.” Julian froze, unable to move a muscle as he watched Aiden carry me out of the terminal. In the ambulance, the paramedic tried to stop the bleeding. I clutched Aiden’s wrist, my voice barely a whisper. “The powder cases… the hidden layer… it smells like blood.” “I know. We received the intel. Stop talking, save your strength.” Aiden pressed his hand over mine, his warm palm transferring heat to my cold skin. “The ambulance is almost at the hospital. Hang in there.” I looked at the swaying IV drip above me, my vision blurring. “Julian… does he…” “We will find out if he was involved,” Aiden’s voice was incredibly steady. “Don’t think about him right now. Just focus on yourself.” Before I lost consciousness, my last thought was: *Thank god I pressed that alarm. Thank god she didn’t get that suitcase out.* Back in the terminal, Bianca was whispering in disbelief. “No… how could she smell it…” her voice was hoarse and broken. She took a step back, then another, until she hit the tactical shield of an agent. Two agents immediately grabbed her arms, pinning her to the floor. She screamed in panic, “You made a mistake! Those are just cosmetic research samples! I have transport permits!” “Take her in for interrogation!” When I woke up in the hospital, the sharp smell of disinfectant filled my nose. I moved my fingers, and Aiden immediately sat up from the chair beside my bed. “You’re awake? How do you feel? I’ll call the doctor.” I pulled on his sleeve, my throat burning. He quickly turned around, poured a cup of warm water, and helped me sit up to drink it. The warmth spread down my throat. Only then did I ask in a hoarse voice, “The baby?” Aiden’s hand paused. His eyes softened with deep regret. “I’m sorry, Elena. You lost too much blood. The doctor said the fetus was… already too weak.” I had already guessed the outcome, but hearing it still felt like a physical blow to my chest. I turned my face away, wiping my tears, and asked, “What about Bianca?” “She confessed. She was paid $500,000 by a hostile foreign organization to smuggle a deadly pathogen. She was planning to release it in a highly populated area.” Aiden paused. “Julian knew nothing about the pathogen. He was just a fool who went to pick her up.” “He’s been waiting outside the room. He says he wants to see you.” “Get me a lawyer,” I said coldly. “I want a divorce.”

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At my own wedding, Chloe, the charity student Ethan had been sponsoring, “accidentally” pushed me. The fall put me into a vegetative state. The doctors announced that I might never wake up. But I was actually conscious. I could hear everything, and I could see pictures in my mind. Ethan absolutely hated Chloe. On my first day in the hospital, Ethan forced her to her knees right in front of my bed to beg for forgiveness. Forced to kneel, she suddenly pulled out a knife, pressed it against her own neck, and confessed her love to him: “I’m sorry. I only did it because I love you so much.” “Since you don’t love me back, I might as well just die.” Ethan panicked. He knocked the knife out of her hand, and from that moment on, he couldn’t bring himself to say another harsh word to her. On my seventh day in the hospital, she kissed Ethan. He clenched his fists and closed his eyes, but he didn’t push her away. … By the first month of my hospitalization, Ethan moved my limp body to the very edge of our luxurious, oversized hospital bed. Right in front of me, he pressed Chloe down on the other side of the bed. The bed shook violently. The wild movements shook me right off the edge, and I crashed onto the cold floor. Yet, the two of them didn’t stop. Nobody noticed me lying motionless on the floor, a single, silent tear slipping from the corner of my eye. It wasn’t until six years later that I finally woke up.

Just the night before I fully regained consciousness. Ethan and Chloe were still messing around on my hospital bed. Chloe lay completely naked beneath him. Ethan’s shirt was hung wide open, his suit pants low on his hips. With his broad shoulders and narrow waist, his thrusts were deep and relentless. Her moans were sweet and clingy, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist. … Maybe their heavy panting was just too disgusting, because the next day, I actually woke up. My hands and feet could move. I could sit up. My attending physician called my husband, Ethan, five times before he finally showed up. He kicked the ward door open, but then froze at the entrance, hesitating to take a step forward. My face was pale as I propped myself up slightly and smiled at him. “Long time no see, Ethan.” Ethan stumbled back, his eyes instantly turning red. He rushed forward, grabbed my hand, and began to tremble uncontrollably. “Olivia… the doctor said you were awake, but I couldn’t believe it. It’s really you… You’re really…” I looked up at his familiar face. The nurse on duty had just told me that I had been in a coma for six whole years. Six years hadn’t left many marks on Ethan’s face. He had just changed his hairstyle. His once-passionate eyes were now hidden behind gold-rimmed glasses, and the casual grey hoodies he used to love had been replaced by a sharp, tailored suit. He looked as polished as a male lead in a drama. To me, he just felt a little like a stranger. Before I could speak, another figure darted into the room, throwing herself to the floor right at my feet, weeping hysterically. “Olivia, you’re really awake! This is amazing! What happened back then… I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry…” I froze. But Ethan had already frowned, stepped forward, and pulled her up without hesitation. “The floor is freezing. Why are you kneeling? Stand up and talk.” He glanced at me. “Olivia is kind-hearted; she won’t hold it against you. Chloe, don’t do stupid things like this ever again.” Chloe looked up at him with tearful eyes, and Ethan awkwardly averted his gaze. I opened my mouth, but swallowed the words back down. Ethan seemed to have forgotten to ask me if I actually chose to forgive her. He poured me a glass of warm water and shot Chloe a look. “Go handle Olivia’s discharge paperwork. Hurry up.” As she turned to leave, he frowned again and called her back. He took off his suit jacket and tossed it over her head. “Look at the weather today. Why are you wearing such a short skirt? Chloe, do you even have a brain?” Once the room was quiet again and it was just the two of us, Ethan sat silently beside me. I looked out the window. The empty lot in my memory was now filled with towering skyscrapers. Just like Ethan, who used to share everything with me, but had now given all his emotions—his anger, his pity, his resentment—to someone else. Leaving only endless silence between us. After finishing the discharge process, I followed Ethan quietly. I listened to him complain with a frown about how many mistakes Chloe made at work and how careless she was. He stopped in front of a completely unfamiliar car and unlocked it. Chloe naturally opened the passenger door and slid inside. It wasn’t until both of them had buckled their seatbelts that Ethan seemed to snap back to reality. Panic flashed across his face as he opened the back door for me. “Our old car was ready for the scrap yard. I found a good deal, so I replaced it.” A pink dreamcatcher hung from the rearview mirror. The car air freshener was no longer my favorite freesia. Even though the scent was faint, I recognized it instantly. It was Chloe’s perfume. The car drove quietly through the streets. The cabin was filled with suffocating silence. I stared at the unfamiliar street views until he pulled up to my apartment building. He turned to me with an apologetic expression. “Olivia, you just got discharged. Go home and rest first. I have to run and meet a client. This case is extremely important, and I really can’t delay it. I’m sorry.” I stood on the pavement, watching him drive off with Chloe. Looking up at the tall building in front of me, my eyes finally burned. This was the penthouse we had renovated together right before the wedding. I had fantasized countless times about walking hand-in-hand with him through this neighborhood, carrying groceries back to cook a nice dinner. If only that accident hadn’t happened. I unlocked the door. Everything inside was arranged exactly as it had been six years ago. Even the calendar on the table was still turned to that exact date six years ago. It was as if nothing had changed. Except the fridge was unplugged, and the master closet was completely empty. At 2 a.m., I woke up from a nightmare. I reached out, but the space beside me was ice-cold. The living room was pitch black. I pulled out my old phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. “Ethan, where are you?” On the other end of the line, his voice was muffled and groggy, as if he had just been woken up. “What? I’m at home.” My tears finally spilled over. “Which home?”

Half an hour later, Ethan rushed through the door, panting. He knelt by my feet, his eyes filled with apology and pain. After a long silence, he spoke in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Olivia. I…” “After your accident, I was in too much pain. I couldn’t live in this apartment. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you standing next to me, talking about the renovation.” He gently took my hand and pulled me into his arms. It sounded like a promise, but also like he was trying to convince himself. “Olivia, tomorrow I’ll take you to our law firm. I’ll stay with you, and together, we’ll get back those six years you lost.” I caught the scent of Chloe’s perfume on his collar. Suddenly, I realized this was the first hug we had shared since I woke up. The next day, Ethan drove his new car, catching me up on how the firm had grown over the last six years. His phone kept ringing throughout the drive. He had long lost his youthful innocence and now talked and laughed with clients like a seasoned professional. Ethan and I used to be the top two students at Columbia Law School. After graduation, we founded Vanguard Law Firm with a few friends. Back then, we huddled in a shabby, rented office. The nameplate on the door was handwritten by me. Ethan’s eyes had been so bright back then. He had hung that paper nameplate up with absolute care, holding my hand and whispering, “Olivia, we are going to make it big.” But now, standing in this luxurious high-rise, looking at the gleaming metal plaque and a sea of completely unfamiliar faces, I finally realized that everyone had moved on. Only I was trapped in the past. Ethan ruffled my hair. “I kept an office reserved just for you when we moved here. I knew destiny wouldn’t be so cruel to me. Finally, you’re back.” Before he could finish, he noticed the wide-open office door and the people busy moving boxes inside. He frowned. “What are you guys doing?” Chloe froze with a stack of case files in her arms. But it was the round-faced girl next to her who spoke up. “You promised this office to Chloe last week, Ethan. Don’t tell me you forgot.” Chloe’s face went pale as she looked at him with a miserable expression. Ethan looked away and said coldly, “Olivia is back. This office belongs to her.” Chloe’s voice shook, almost crying. “Why? You promised…” Ethan cut her off coldly. “No whys, Chloe. You’re the one who begged to stay at Vanguard. If you don’t like it, you can leave anytime.” Chloe covered her face and ran out crying. The round-faced girl stomped her foot in anger and couldn’t help but snap, “Ethan, everyone saw how much Chloe did for you over these years. You’re being way too harsh. You’re breaking her heart!” She glared at me fiercely, then chased after Chloe. I saw Ethan’s feet instinctively twitch as if to follow her, but he forced himself to stop. He stood there, his right hand clenching into a tight fist. The remaining strangers in the office shot me looks of obvious disapproval. They didn’t say anything, but their eyes said everything. I could barely hold back the urge to scream. I’m just taking back what was originally mine. Why does it feel like I’m the villain here? I looked at Ethan’s tense face and asked softly, “Where are Harper and Julian?” The room went dead silent. Ethan kept a heavy expression for a long time before speaking. “Harper and Julian left Vanguard a while ago to start their own firm.” “I told them you woke up. We’re having dinner together tonight.” He looked down at me. “Olivia, rest here for a bit. I have to take care of something.” With that, he walked out with long strides. I stood in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling window and let out a bitter laugh. No wonder Chloe wanted this office so badly. It was spacious, bright, and had an incredible view. It was so clear that, even from up here, I could see the man and woman embracing in the rain downstairs. They looked so familiar.

We met up at our old favorite spot. The moment I pushed the door open, my best friend, Harper, threw herself at me, crying and laughing at the same time. “Olivia! You’re awake! You’re really awake! He didn’t lie to me!” She punched my shoulder playfully but hard. “Olivia Vance, how could you? Six years! How dare you make me wait that long!” When she saw Ethan walking in behind me, her expression instantly soured. She wiped her tears. “Julian is in Europe handling a case, but he already knows. He’s wrapping things up and will fly back immediately.” She held my hand tightly, as if I would vanish if she let go. My eyes welled up. This was what a reunion was supposed to feel like. The door opened again, and Chloe stood there timidly, holding a gift bag. Harper’s face dropped instantly. “Ethan, what the hell is this? Why did you bring her here? Are you trying to disgust us?” Ethan frowned. “Chloe wanted to apologize to Olivia face-to-face for what happened. She made a mistake, but she’s spent these years trying to make up for it.” Harper let out a cold laugh. “Make up for it? The person she put in a coma for six years is Olivia! If she wanted to make up for it, she should have been kneeling by Olivia’s hospital bed day and night! Instead, she begged to crawl into Vanguard, using ‘atonement’ as an excuse to hover around you every day, playing your little assistant and taking care of your daily life. Ethan, you keep saying you hate her and want to make her life miserable. Did you say those lies so many times that you actually started believing them?” The reunion dinner ended in a disaster. I gave Harper an apologetic hug before leaving. On the way home, Ethan was completely distracted while driving and almost rear-ended the car in front of us. His phone kept buzzing. He picked it up and put it down several times, and finally, “accidentally” unlocked it. Chloe’s sobbing voice filled the car through the speaker. “I know she’s back. I should leave. But I just can’t accept it, Ethan. I only did it because I love you. Why does it have to hurt this much?” “If I was the one who got hurt six years ago, would you have remembered me?” “Maybe everything was a mistake. I wish I had died in that accident instead.” Ethan slammed on the brakes. The screeching of the tires made my heart skip a beat. His face was terrifyingly dark. He turned to me, hesitating. “She was really treated unfairly in the office today. I’m worried she might do something stupid…” My face was pale, but I forced a smile. “Go ahead. A life is on the line, after all.” Ethan looked relieved. He pulled over, let me out, and sped off into the night. I called a cab and went to Green-Wood Cemetery. My dad’s and Ethan’s mother’s photos smiled back at me from their headstones. Ethan and I had been neighbors since we were kids, growing up in the same Brooklyn neighborhood. Ten years ago, a devastating building collapsed in Manhattan. My dad and Ethan’s mother used their last breaths to shield us under the rubble, staying buried forever. Ethan had refused to cry back then. He held me tightly, repeating over and over: “Olivia, from now on, we are each other’s only family. We will never be apart.” I sat quietly in front of the headstone, talking to them in a soft voice. “It’s been a while since I visited. Don’t be mad at me. I had a good excuse, so don’t be petty.” The night wind blew past, and I felt a sudden chill on my face. I reached up and realized my face was covered in tears. The wind carried my quiet whisper. “What should I do, Dad? I don’t think I have a home anymore.”

On my first official day back at Vanguard, Ethan handed me the firm’s most important case. But staring at the endless files on the screen, I felt completely lost. Six years had passed. Laws had changed, new precedents had been set, and even the filing software had been upgraded three times. I held a red pen, proofreading every single word, terrified of making a mistake. The round-faced girl walked past my desk carrying some folders. She glanced at my screen and rolled her eyes. “Olivia, what year are we in? Just upload it to ChatGPT. Why waste your time like this?” My hand froze. I looked up, confused. “What is… ChatGPT?” She gasped, then burst into laughter as if she had heard the funniest joke in the world, walking away with a smirk. My hand started to tremble as I held my phone. Feeling like an absolute clown, I typed that name into the search bar. Six years ago, Ethan and I huddled in that drafty office with two secondhand laptops. When the power went out, we lit candles, using the dim light to find loopholes in contracts line by line. He would ruffle my hair and say, “Don’t worry, Olivia. We have all the time in the world.” But now, time had marched on and left me behind. I looked up to find Ethan, only to see him standing side-by-side with Chloe. With just a single glance from him, she knew exactly what to do. After a phone call, Ethan smiled gently and patted her head encouragingly, just like he used to do to me. “We won the case for Horizon Tech. Chloe did an amazing job. Sushi is on me tonight!” The entire office erupted into cheers. Chloe blushed, looking shyly at Ethan. Everyone gathered around to discuss where to eat. Only I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen, letting out a bitter laugh. Chloe broke away from the crowd and walked into my office, holding a cup of coffee with a sweet smile. “Olivia, have some coffee and take a break.” I reached out to take it, but her hand suddenly slipped. The boiling hot coffee spilled all over the case files I had just proofread. “I’m so sorry, Olivia! It was an accident…” Right then, Ethan pushed the door open. His face darkened instantly as he snapped, “Chloe, I praise you once and you get sloppy. Can you do anything right? Get out.” But when he looked at me, he only gave a brief nod, saying nothing more. After that, “accidents” like this happened constantly. My files would mysteriously disappear, evidence would go missing, and clients would complain that I never replied to their emails. Every single time, Chloe would stand in front of Ethan with red eyes, admitting her mistakes. And every single time, Ethan would scold her with a cold face, but ultimately let her off easy, leaving me with no ground to stand on. Until she made another “accident.” I couldn’t help but look at her coldly. She suddenly broke down, covering her face and running toward the door. “I know you all blame me! I’m just a nuisance anyway! I’ll leave…” This time, Ethan didn’t even look at me. He ran after her instantly. I stood by the window and watched them screaming and arguing in the pouring rain. Then, as if he couldn’t hold back anymore, Ethan pulled her into his arms, bending down to kiss her passionately. They looked like star-crossed lovers in a drama who had finally overcome everything to be together. And I, the “ghost from the past” who was supposed to have died six years ago, touched my eyes. There were no tears left to cry. I silently packed my few belongings and walked out of this place that was once so familiar, yet now so foreign. Whether Ethan hated Chloe or loved her, I didn’t care anymore. I would let them have their twisted love story. It was raining lightly outside. As I hesitated to step into the rain, an umbrella appeared over my head, and a deep voice sounded from behind. “I’m sorry I came back so late.”

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I think I was born with a target on my back. Some people inherit blue eyes or a soft jaw; I inherited a severe, unrelenting paranoia. No historical despot had anything on my suspicions. When I was an infant, I refused to drink from any bottle unless it was warmed and tasted by my mother, terrified that anyone else would scald me. In elementary school, I spent entire semesters staring at the humming ceiling fan, certain the rusty bolt would give way and decapitate me. I ended up sitting on the floor beneath my desk, taking notes in the shadows. By middle school, the front door became my obsession. I was so convinced we’d be robbed that I would walk back from the bus stop six times every morning to check the deadbolt, arriving late to homeroom every single day. When the college application season finally ended, my parents sat me down in our sun-drenched living room. “The scores are in, the submissions are finalized,” my father said, letting out a sigh that sounded more like a plea. “Can you finally breathe now, Nicole?” But my chest was still tight. “The housekeeper’s daughter is the same age as me,” I told them, my voice flat. “Her scores are three hundred points lower. She’s going to hack my portal and change my choices.” For eighteen years, my parents had been patient. But that afternoon, the masks of gentle tolerance slipped. Martha, our housekeeper of a decade, burst into thick, ragged tears. “If Miss Nicole doesn’t trust us, we’ll pack our things and go,” she sobbed, clutching her apron. “I thought ten years of devotion meant we were family. I guess a servant is always just a servant. We might be poor, Robert, but we aren’t criminals!” My parents spent an hour soothing Martha, begging her to stay. I watched them, utterly cold. I was not moved. … Exactly sixty seconds before the application portal closed, I logged in. And there it was. My first-choice application to Princeton had been changed to Pinecrest Online—a non-accredited digital degree mill. With my heart hammering a steady, familiar rhythm, I spent the final thirty seconds changing it back to Princeton, saving the confirmation, and shutting the screen. For eighteen years, I had rehearsed my own demise. Walking down the street, I calculated the falling velocity of billboards and mapped out exits in every restaurant. When someone handed me a drink, my mind automatically cataloged the tasteless toxins that could fit in a dropper. Before bed, I checked the deadbolts, the window latches, and the stove’s gas valves. Under my nightstand sat a heavy emergency hammer and a roll of heavy-duty medical tape. They called it a sickness. I called it emergency preparedness. And today, the protocol had saved me. In the living room, my parents were laughing with Martha. They were watching a sitcom, the blue light of the television washing over them. Martha’s daughter, Charlotte, sat on the edge of the sofa, staring down at her phone. There was a faint, smug curve to her lips that she couldn’t quite hide. “Mom. Dad,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a cold draft. The laughter died. My father turned, his face still holding the remnants of a smile. “What is it, Nicole? Still anxious about the acceptance letters?” I walked over and stood directly in front of the television, blocking their view. My eyes locked onto Charlotte. “My application was altered.” The air in the room instantly curdled. My father’s smile froze. “What… what do you mean?” “I mean exactly what I said. And the person responsible knows exactly who they are.” I let the words hang, my gaze scraping across Charlotte’s face. Charlotte’s head snapped up. Her cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and performative shock. “Nicole, what is your problem?” she cried, her voice cracking. “Your application got messed up and you’re looking at me? Are you seriously accusing me?” “Who else would it be?” I snapped back. “You!” Charlotte stood up, her eyes immediately welling with tears. “I know you’ve hated me since the day I got here. You made me sleep in the basement room because you said my presence was bad luck for your exams. I did it. I didn’t complain because I knew you were stressed. But your college future? How could you think I’d do something so horrible?” She bit her lip, lowering her head. “Just because my scores aren’t as good as yours doesn’t mean I’m a monster. You have no idea how much I’ve admired you, Nicole. You have this beautiful house, parents who adore you, a perfect future…” It was a masterclass in pity. And right on cue, my mother’s face softened. She stepped forward, taking Charlotte’s hands in hers. “Charlotte, sweetie, don’t cry. Nicole… she just gets these ideas in her head. Don’t take it to heart.” My father’s face went from pale to a deep, furious crimson. He slammed his hand down on the coffee table, rattling the porcelain teacups. “Nicole Max! Have you lost your mind? Is this your paranoia talking again?” “I am completely sane.” “Sane?!” His voice shook with rage as he pointed a finger at me. “Martha has been with this family since you were in diapers! She practically raised you—she’s been more of a mother to you than anyone! And Charlotte has been nothing but polite and sweet since she came to stay with us. Why would she hurt you? What is wrong with your head?!” Martha hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with quiet, miserable sobs. “Mr. Max, Mrs. Max, it’s my fault,” she whimpered. “I shouldn’t have brought Charlotte here. I didn’t realize how much Nicole disliked us. We should just go.” She wiped her eyes, pulling Charlotte by the arm. “Come on, Charlotte. We’re leaving. We can’t stay here and cause any more trouble for this family…” My mother sighed, turning to me with a look of profound exhaustion and disappointment. “Nicole, Martha has been a part of this household for ten years. They are not those kinds of people. Please, just stop this.” Ten years. A decade is a heavy weight. Martha had transformed from a quiet maid into an indispensable fixture of our lives. She was diligent, warm, and loyal. So when she asked a month ago if Charlotte could stay with us to study for her finals, my parents hadn’t hesitated. I was the only one who fought it. I didn’t want a stranger under our roof. It violated my security. On the day Charlotte arrived, I blocked the doorway and told her she wasn’t welcome. It wasn’t until Martha called my father in tears, and he roared at me over the phone, that I let her in. I demanded she be moved to the basement guest room on her very first night, claiming her energy would disrupt my exam focus. My mother called me cruel. I simply stayed silent. Now, looking at the three of them acting like a unified family unit while I stood on the outside, I felt a grim amusement. “Why should I apologize?” I asked. “I wouldn’t sabotage myself. My parents wouldn’t sabotage me. That leaves only one variable.” “Enough!” my father erupted. “You are locked in your room starting now. No phone, no computer. You will stay in there until you’ve cleared your head and learned how to apologize!” He grabbed my arm, shoved me into my bedroom, and slammed the door. The sound of the deadbolt clicking shut echoed through the hallway. Behind the wood, I could hear his muffled shouts, my mother’s soft sighs, and the fading whimpers of Martha and Charlotte. I leaned against the door. The room was dim, illuminated only by a single overhead light. Did they really think this would break me? Did they think taking my primary phone and laptop left me defenseless? How naive. A true paranoid never relies on a single line of defense. We don’t trust hearts, and we certainly don’t trust blood. I looked up. The lens of a micro-camera stared down from the top of my bookshelf, aimed perfectly at the door. Inside the hollow base of my desk lamp, a tiny digital recorder was capturing every vibration from the living room. Behind the grill of the air vent, another lens kept watch. Martha and her daughter thought they had played a flawless hand. They had no idea that I had wired this entire house years ago. There was an eye in every corner, watching them sleep, watching them scheme. I walked to my desk, pulled out the bottom drawer, and tapped the hidden panel at the back. It popped open to reveal a backup burner phone and a set of locksmith tools. I powered the phone on. Full signal. I didn’t call the police. Not yet. Right now, everyone thought I was the madwoman. I needed to wait for the perfect moment to rip away their masks. The days of my confinement were quiet. The calm before the storm. My parents truly kept me isolated. At mealtimes, my mother would bring a tray to my door, watching me closely to ensure I ate, likely fearing a hunger strike. I was completely cooperative. I ate everything she brought, as long as I saw her open the packaging or scoop it directly from the pot. But one afternoon, Martha appeared at the door holding a bowl of slow-simmered, expensive imported bird’s nest supplement, a sweet, maternal smile plastered on her face. “Nicole, sweetheart, don’t be angry with your parents,” she cooed. “I made this broth especially for you. Drink some, okay?” The smell of the broth made my stomach churn. “Take it away,” I said. Martha’s smile faltered. “Nicole, what’s wrong? Are you still upset with me?” “Take. It. Away,” I repeated, my voice devoid of warmth. “I don’t know what you put in it.” Martha’s face turned a violent, blotchy red. Her hands trembled so hard the broth spilled over the rim. My mother walked in just in time to see this. Her lips trembled with rage. “Nicole! You are absolutely impossible!” She snatched the bowl from Martha’s hand and slammed it onto the floor. “Fine! We’re all trying to poison you! Are you happy now?” She dragged a weeping Martha away. I watched the puddle of broth seep into the hardwood without a shred of guilt. In my world, there was no such thing as overreacting. There was only survival. To them, my behavior was proof that my illness had worsened. Their pity for Martha and Charlotte grew, and with it, a desperate need to make amends. That guilt found its outlet soon enough. Charlotte received her acceptance letter from a local state college. To make up for the “abuse” she had suffered under our roof, my parents decided to throw her a lavish graduation party on our lawn. On the day of the party, my mother dragged me out of my room and forced me into a brand-new white silk dress. “We have guests coming,” she warned, her grip tight on my wrist. “You will not embarrass this family. Do you understand?” I looked at my blank reflection in the mirror and nodded. Of course I wouldn’t embarrass them. The real show was about to start. The lawn was packed with local socialites, family friends, and distant relatives. Everyone gathered around Charlotte, who was wearing a designer gown my mother had bought her—the exact dress I had asked for on my last birthday. She floated through the crowd like a peacock, drinking in the compliments. “The housekeeper’s girl seems so much more grounded than Nicole,” I heard a neighbor whisper. “I know. I heard Nicole is completely unhinged now. Thinks everyone is out to get her.” “Shh, her parents are right there. Though honestly, they seem to prefer Charlotte anyway.” I sat in the shadow of the veranda, sipping ice water and watching the spectacle. Before long, Charlotte detached herself from a group of guests and walked toward me, holding two glasses of Cabernet. “Nicole,” she said, stopping in front of my chair. Her smile was sharp, victorious. “Thank you for coming to my party. I know this must be hard for you, but sometimes we just have to move on, right?” She offered me one of the glasses, holding herself like a queen showing mercy to a peasant. “A toast? To show there’s no hard feelings.” I didn’t reach for the glass. Her smile tightened as the surrounding guests began to quiet down, sensing the tension. “What’s the matter, Nicole? Can’t even raise a glass for me?” she asked, her voice dropping into a fragile, wounded register.

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The night before our wedding, we hosted a dinner for Burke’s colleagues to distribute the invitations. It was supposed to be a celebration. But my gaze kept snagging on the opposite end of the long mahogany table. Burke was sitting there, his eyes fixed on a girl named Summer Lane. Through their shared audio app, he was playing a song—only audible to the two of them. I knew the track. It was “Almost Lover” by A Fine Frenzy. On his screen, the single-loop interface showed only two connected listeners. Just them. Yet they sat at opposite ends of the table, pretending to be strangers who barely knew each other’s names. I watched Burke as he poured my sparkling water with one hand, his left earbud still snugly in place. A sudden, cold wave of absurdity washed over me. 1 I remembered Summer. When she interviewed at Harrington MedTech, she had been so nervous she could barely string a sentence together. It was me who had pulled the HR director aside and asked them to give her another chance to present her portfolio. That second chance was her ticket into Burke’s company. Back then, she wore faded, off-brand clothes and cheap flats. Now, only a few years into her tenure, she was draped in Chanel and Cartier. As I lost myself in thought, one of the senior directors raised his glass. “No excuses tonight, everyone. Let’s fill our glasses and toast to Burke and Lorraine! To a lifetime of happiness.” Burke, who hadn’t said more than three words all evening, suddenly spoke up. His voice was cool, authoritative. “Let’s skip the alcohol. I’ve never cared for toxic drinking culture in the office.” The table fell instantly silent. The director, trying to save face, offered a playful nudge. “Ah, of course. Lorraine probably can’t drink, and our boss is just playing the protective fiancé.” I set my glass down, a tight, practiced smile on my face. “Actually, I can hold my liquor just fine.” That was when Summer timidly raised her hand. “It’s actually me. I can’t drink tonight. Please, don’t mind me, everyone else should go ahead.” She looked around, shrinking into her seat. “Could the server bring me some mil—” Before she could finish, a pitcher of warm milk was placed directly in front of Burke. “Your milk, sir,” the waiter said. Burke adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his expression carefully neutral. “Put it across from me,” he murmured. Summer glanced at me, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips as she took the pitcher. As she sipped the milk, her eyes kept drifting back to Burke. Their gazes met, lingered, and pulled away—thick with a silent, heavy tension. The rest of the table, feeling the mood stall, started clamoring for Burke and me to do a traditional couples’ toast. Burke had barely lifted his glass when Summer suddenly pouted, dropped her silverware onto her plate with a sharp “clack”, and stood up. “It’s suffocating in here,” she muttered. “I need some air.” She hurried out of the private dining room. The anxiety on Burke’s face was instantaneous and entirely unguarded. He slammed his glass back onto the table. “Is everyone here really that bored?” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. “If you have time for these childish games, maybe you’d prefer to go back to the office and log some overtime.” The room froze. Nobody dared to make another sound. Within seconds, Burke stood up and followed her out. I offered a few polite, rehearsed apologies to the table to quiet the room, then made a quiet excuse of my own to slip out. The service stairwell was narrow and heavy with gray smoke. Burke, who detested the smell of tobacco and was notoriously obsessive about keeping his clothes pristine, was crouching on the concrete floor. He didn’t seem to care about the smoke at all. Instead, he was carefully examining Summer’s leg, tending to a tiny scrape she’d gotten when she pushed her chair back. This was Burke Harrington—the cold, untouchable, high-society heir. And yet, from his breast pocket, he pulled out a cartoon Band-Aid. A colorful, childish strip he kept ready for her. Summer’s soft, wet whimpers echoed in the quiet stairwell. Burke stood up, gently plucking the cigarette from her fingers. “Stop smoking. It’s bad for you.” “Why do you care, Burke?” she whispered, her eyes flashing with stubborn defiance. “In what capacity are you even speaking to me?” Burke leaned down, his lips brushing away her tears. His voice held a tenderness I had never, in all our years together, heard him use. “Summer, please. Don’t cry. Every tear you shed tears me apart.” “You know how I feel. I don’t love her. This wedding… it’s just a family arrangement. A merger of assets.” “Do you honestly think I enjoy playing the doting fiancé to someone I don’t care about? Do you think I’m not suffocating?” “Someone I don’t care about.” The words vibrated in my chest. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. Instead, hot, silent tears began to spill down my cheeks, soaking into the collar of my coat. I had never realized that being with me was a cage for him. A source of agony. Yes, our families had arranged it. But long before our parents ever shook hands on the deal, I had loved Burke Harrington. I had loved him in secret, with a desperation born of survival. My childhood had been a living hell. After my mother died young—broken by my father’s endless affairs—my stepmother, Theresa, moved in. She made sure I knew my place. Her own children wore designer labels; I wore the stained hand-me-downs the housekeepers didn’t want. They ate fresh meals; I was left with the scraps. At school, I was the weird, quiet girl who smelled like old closets. I was isolated, mocked. When I begged my father to help, he only told me to keep my head down. “For the sake of family peace”, he said. The lowest point came when I was sixteen. I was standing in a drugstore aisle, staring at a box of pads I couldn’t afford, tears of sheer humiliation stinging my eyes. Burke had walked in with his friends. He saw me hovering there, pale and terrified. Without a word, he grabbed every single box of pads on the shelf and dumped them on the counter. His friends laughed, teasing him. “What, Burke? Are you having a medical emergency?” “Yeah,” he had replied, utterly indifferent. “So what?” When they walked out, he dragged me into the empty alley behind the store, shoved the heavy plastic bag into my hands, and ran off to his basketball game before I could even whisper a thank you. Later, at a high-society charity gala, Burke’s grandmother, Margaret, had openly pressured my father. She made it clear that if the Thorntons didn’t start treating me like a daughter, the Harringtons would sever every joint venture. After that night, my life improved. My father finally gave me an allowance, a room of my own. And I fell head over heels for Burke. I spent the next decade chasing his shadow. When he declared his dream was AI-driven medical research, I threw myself into medicine. I forced myself to study until my eyes bled, transforming from a failing student into the top graduate of my class. All so I could be his most valuable researcher. I thought we were building a life. But to him, it was just a transaction. In the stairwell, Summer wasn’t easily appeased. She pushed his chest away. “But she’s still the one standing at the altar with you.” Burke reached up, unbuttoning the top of his shirt to reveal his collarbone. “Have you forgotten? We tattooed each other’s kiss marks right here, over our hearts.” “When I stand there tomorrow, I’ll be wearing your mark. In my mind, I’m marrying you.” Looking at his chest, my knees turned to water. A sickening wave of grief rushed up my throat. I remembered the first time I had seen that tattoo on him. I had thought it was a beautiful, spontaneous piece of art. Out of a foolish, romantic whim, I had pressed my own lips to paper, taken the print to a parlor, and had it tattooed in the exact same spot on my chest. When Burke saw it, his face had contorted into pure disgust. “Get it removed,” he had cold-facedly demanded. “It doesn’t suit you.” He had personally driven me to the clinic and watched as the laser burned the ink out of my skin. At the time, I believed him. I thought I had just been tacky. Now I knew the truth. It wasn’t the tattoo that didn’t suit him. It was me. I didn’t have the strength to listen anymore. I slipped back to the dining room. A few minutes later, Summer returned, claiming she felt unwell, and gathered her things. Burke stood up immediately. “I’ll drive you.” Summer made a half-hearted attempt to refuse, but Burke grabbed her wrist, his grip firm and unyielding. “Let’s go.” Even his colleagues, as oblivious as they tried to pretend to be, could see what was happening. They kept shooting me side-long glances of deep, agonizing pity. With the groom gone, the dinner collapsed into awkward small talk. I thanked everyone, settled the bill, and walked out to the garage. My car was gone. Burke had taken it to drive Summer home, leaving me stranded at a restaurant on the absolute edge of the city. I ended up hitching a ride with one of his junior engineers. It was past midnight when I finally walked through the front door. The house was dead silent. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, measuring the empty space. My eyes drifted toward the door of Burke’s home office. Before I realized what I was doing, I was sitting in front of his computer. There were no texts between them on his phone, and they barely interacted in the company-wide Slack channels. But as I dug deeper, the pattern emerged in the public logs. Whenever Summer posted a simple, “So tired,” Burke would instantly order gourmet espresso catering for the entire office and send out a memo delaying start times by an hour. When Summer shared photos of a snowy resort in Finland, the HR department miraculously announced a fully funded winter retreat to Lapland a week later. Burke, who famously loathed video games and viewed them as a waste of productive time, had a desktop shortcut for a cozy sandbox life-simulator. My hand shook as I clicked it. The screen opened to a beautifully rendered virtual cottage, decorated with meticulous, romantic detail. The chat logs inside were a diary of their domestic life. “Don’t forget to come home early tonight, B.” “Can you make that pasta dish I like?” They had a real home somewhere. A real life. And Burke answered every single one of her messages with endless patience. My own texts with him were a desert of green bubbles—me sending paragraphs, him sending single-word acknowledgments. I had never even tasted his cooking. He had always told me he didn’t know how to boil water. But it was the logs from July of last year that shattered whatever remained of my heart. “Summer: “Are you sure that sterile ice queen won’t be furious when she finds out you gave me her kidney?” “Burke: “Let her be mad. She’s so obsessed with me, all I have to do is whisper a few sweet words and she’ll convince herself it’s fine.” My breath caught. It felt as though a massive, jagged stone had been shoved down my throat. Last July, Burke had supposedly suffered sudden renal failure. I was the only match. I hadn’t hesitated for a single second. I signed the donor consent forms with a heart full of desperate gratitude, thinking I was giving him back his life. I had walked around for a year feeling proud that a piece of me was keeping him alive. It was all a lie. He had staged the medical emergency to steal my kidney for Summer. The log continued. “Summer: “But I heard losing a kidney can affect fertility. Don’t you want her to have your babies?” “Burke: “No. I only want children with you. If she gets pregnant, I’ll pay for the kid, but I’ll never love it. It’ll be just like her.” Every word was a scalpel, peeling back my delusions until my love for him was completely, irrevocably dead. I scrolled further and found design blueprints. Burke was planning a massive, secret ceremony for Summer in Europe, scheduled just weeks after our official wedding. He had hand-drawn the venue layout, incorporating every single detail she loved. He had spent six months collaborating with an elite designer on her custom gown. Meanwhile, our own wedding prep had been a chore he outsourced entirely. Whenever I dragged him to see florists or caterers, he sat in the corner on his phone, telling me to just pick whatever and send him the invoice. I remembered seeing a sketch of that custom gown on his phone months ago. I had been breathless, pointing at it and saying how much I loved the silhouette. He had snatched the phone away, his eyes turning ice-cold. “Is it yours to want?” he had snapped. Seeing my shock, he had quickly softened his tone. “A friend designed it for his fiancée. If you like it, I’ll get someone to make you something else.” I had never heard of any friend getting married. Now I knew why. My vision blurred with tears. I don’t know how I stood up from that chair. My legs felt like lead, every step heavy and hollow. I picked up my phone and dialed the chief of medicine at the university hospital. “Dr. Fletcher,” I whispered. “I’m calling to accept the volunteer position. I’ll go to the humanitarian mission in the Middle East.” There was a pause on the line. “Lorraine? But aren’t you getting married tomorrow?” “The wedding is off,” I said, my voice steadying. “My life is too short to waste. My training belongs where it actually matters.” Dr. Fletcher let out a breath, a mix of shock and profound relief. “We need doctors like you out there, Lorraine. Welcome to the team.” As soon as I hung up, a text popped up from the junior engineer who had driven me home. “Lorraine, I’m sorry to overstep… but if you have a chance, you should go look at the townhouse on Mercer Street. The one registered under Burke’s name.” A cold dread settled in my stomach. I took a deep breath, grabbed my coat, and called a cab. Before I left this life behind, I needed to close the ledger. The townhouse was our designated “matrimonial home,” a property my father had gifted us. I hadn’t been back since the interior designers finished their work. When I pressed my thumb to the scanner, the lock beeped red. “Access Denied.” My fingerprint had been deleted. I rang the bell. The door opened, and Summer stood there. She was wearing Burke’s white button-down, the hem barely reaching her mid-thigh, her hair damp from the shower. She didn’t look startled to see me. If anything, a spark of triumphant excitement lit up her eyes. She leaned against the doorframe, smirk in place. “What are you doing here, Lorraine? Burke is sleeping. If you have something to say, say it to me. Let’s not wake him.” A bitter laugh escaped me. “This is my house. The deed is in my family’s name. You don’t tell me where to stand. Get out of my way.” Summer excelled at smugness, stepping aside with an inviting wave of her hand. “Go ahead. See for yourself.” The moment I crossed the threshold, the last of my composure shattered. Hanging on the main living room wall was a massive, hand-painted portrait of Burke and Summer in wedding attire. The entire adjacent wall was a collage of polaroids—their travels across Europe, laughing in Paris, kissing in Rome. On the dining table sat matching cartoon mugs—the kind of childish home decor Burke had always sneered at when I suggested it. Summer leaned against the wall, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. “Shocked? I told you not to come in. But you just couldn’t help yourself.” “Let me guess. He’s never spent a Valentine’s Day with you, has he? Or an anniversary? You actually believed he was working late at the lab. And while you were lying in that hospital bed, recovering from ‘saving his life,’ do you know where he was?” She stepped closer, her eyes flashing. “He was right here. With me. Letting me take care of him… in every way possible.” I stood frozen, completely numb. “Want to guess why I can’t drink tonight?” Summer whispered, her smile widening. “Because we just lost a baby. Burke was a little too… enthusiastic last week. But don’t worry, we’ll make another one soon.” “So tell me, Lorraine. Who do you think is his real wife?” Something inside my brain snapped. I lunged forward, grabbing her shoulders, my voice cracking into a scream. “Shut up! You’re living in my house, spending the money I helped build, sleeping in my bed! You’re nothing but a pathetic, desperate thief!” “Oh, please,” Summer sneered, pushing me back. “Look around. Does this place look like it belongs to you? In a relationship, the one who isn’t loved is the real intruder.” The remaining fragments of my sanity dissolved. I went wild. I grabbed the cartoon mugs and threw them against the wall, watching them shatter. I tore down the polaroids, smashed the glass frames, and grabbed Summer by the arm, dragging her toward the door. The noise finally woke Burke. As soon as he stepped into the hallway, Summer’s defiance melted into trembling terror. She wrenched herself from my grip and threw herself into his arms. “Burke! She just burst in and started breaking everything! She called me terrible names, she hit me… I’m so scared!” “Am I really a bad person, Burke?” Burke, always so obsessed with his public image, immediately wrapped his arms around her, shielding her face from the open doorway where neighbors were beginning to gather. Then, he turned his ice-cold eyes to me. “Who are you? Why have you broken into my home to harass my wife?” The words felt like physical blows. I stared at him, my mouth opening and closing, but no sound came out. Seven years. Seven years of my life, and I was a nameless intruder. My silence only fueled the whispers of the neighbors gathered in the hallway. I could feel their eyes on me—curious, disgusted, judging. Burke wasn’t done. He tightened his grip on Summer. “Look, lady. I don’t care how obsessed you are with me, or what kind of sick fantasy you have. But you do not touch my wife. She is my red line. Do you understand?” I stood there, feeling as though a bucket of freezing water had been poured over my head. My chest ached with a physical, crushing weight. “Burke,” I finally managed to whisper. “Say that again. Tell them who I am.” Perhaps it was the sheer, hollow despair in my voice, but for a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt crossed his face. But then Summer whimpered, burying her face in his chest, and his expression hardened. “Get out of our house before I call security and have you arrested for trespassing.” I looked at him. Really looked at him. And for the first time, I saw him clearly. I nodded slowly. “Fine, Burke. If this is what you want, I accept it.” My sudden calm seemed to unnerve him. Usually, when we fought, my eyes were filled with tears and a desperate plea for him to love me. Now, there was nothing. Just empty space. But Summer wasn’t satisfied with a quiet exit. “Wait, Burke. She can’t just wreck our place and walk away. She has to apologize to me.” Burke looked down at her, his voice softening into that sickeningly sweet tone. “Of course, sweetheart. No one gets to hurt our princess.” He stepped forward and grabbed my wrist. “Apologize to Summer.” I cold-facedly wrenched my arm back. “I have nothing to apologize for.” Burke’s face darkened. “You still don’t think you’re in the wrong? Fine. I know how to make you understand.” Ten minutes later, a familiar, hurried figure pushed through the crowd of neighbors. Before I could even blink, a palm cracked sharply across my face. “Lorraine! How dare you embarrass me like this!” Theresa, my stepmother, stood there, her face contorted in manufactured outrage. “To think you would stalk Mr. Harrington and harass his poor wife! You are an absolute disgrace to this family!” I held my burning cheek, staring at her through a wave of dizziness. “What are you looking at? Kneel down and beg Mrs. Harrington’s forgiveness right now!” she shrieked, her voice scraping against my nerves. The shrill, abusive tone triggered a physical reaction, dragging me instantly back to the dark terrors of my childhood. Back then, the teenage Burke would have stepped between us. He would have told her, “Don’t touch her. I’ve got her back. The Harringtons will take care of her.” But now, he stood behind my tormentor, watching coldly, using the woman who had abused me to force me to my knees. Seeing my hesitation, Theresa leaned in, her voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “You know your mother’s urn is still in our family mausoleum, Lorraine. One word from me to your father, and she’ll be thrown into a public ditch.” The threat was clear. I was entirely out of options. Slowly, my knees hit the hardwood floor. “I’m sorry, Summer,” I said, staring at the floorboards. “I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have coveted your husband. I beg for your forgiveness.” “Is that enough?” Summer let out a pleased, delicate sigh, pulling Burke back into the apartment. The door slammed shut in my face. Through the thin wood, I could hear the faint, happy murmur of their voices. I slowly got to my feet, walked down the stairs, and went back to my apartment to pack. When I was almost finished, my phone buzzed with a message from Burke. “Summer likes that townhouse. Let her keep it. I’ll buy you a better place in the suburbs.” “Be a good girl, Lorraine. Stop throwing tantrums, and your place as my legal wife won’t change.” I stared at the screen and let out a soft laugh. Even now, he was entirely convinced that my love for him was an incurable disease. That I would accept any crumb he threw my way. I didn’t reply. I blocked his number, deleted his contact, and wiped every trace of him from my phone. Right before I boarded my flight, I made one final move. Using a scheduled broadcast email, I sent a mass notification to every member of the Harrington and Thornton families, informing them of a “venue change” for our wedding. The coordinates I sent were for the lavish, secret European ceremony Burke had planned for Summer. I hoped he would enjoy my wedding gift. Then, I boarded the plane to the Middle East.

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My first day out of prison. I received a call from my husband. Or rather, the eighteen-year-old version of him. “Mae, are we married now? Did I cry like a baby at our wedding?” The boy’s voice was bright, bubbling with anticipation, answering his own question before I could even find my voice: “I love you so much, I bet I was a total mess.” “Oh, and our brilliant Mae—you must be a world-class surgeon by now, right? And me? Am I a captain yet? Flying those massive commercial jets?” I looked down at my right hand, a landscape of jagged, angry red scars. Then I looked through the glass window of the hospital room, watching the man he had actually become gently feeding another woman soup. I smiled, though it felt like tearing open a fresh wound. “You sent me to prison,” I whispered into the receiver. “I can’t even hold a scalpel anymore. And you? You became a lying, cheating coward. Someone who makes me sick.” Before he could reply, I hung up. I remembered what he had told me when we were eighteen. Mae, no matter what happens, you have to keep moving forward. … My phone rang and vibrated relentlessly, buzzing in my palm like a dying insect. I shut it off entirely. Then, I knocked on the heavy wooden door of the private hospital room. The moment Chase saw me, his body went rigid. His first instinct was to step forward, shielding the woman in the bed. “Maeve,” he said, his voice tight. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you done enough?” Behind him, the woman shrank back into the pillows, her pale face a picture of fragile innocence. Serena. His co-pilot. His constant shadow. “Maeve… I’m so sorry,” Serena whimpered. “It’s my fault. If I had just listened to you, you wouldn’t have gone to jail. I’m so, so sorry…” Hearing her say the word jail sent a sharp, phantom ache shooting through my right wrist. Every scar beneath my sleeve throbbed, reminding me of the horror of the past seven days. But it was over. Finally. “Have you signed the papers?” I asked. My voice was steadier than I expected. His expression shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He clearly hadn’t expected me to come here looking for a divorce. “Maeve, you’re the one who crossed the line. Why are you making a scene—” “Have you signed them?” I cut him off. Serena reached out, her fingers catching the hem of Chase’s sweater. “Chase, please don’t fight with her because of me.” Irritation flashed in Chase’s eyes. “Maeve, Serena and I are not what you think.” “I’m not signing those papers.” “Go home. Once I’m done here, I’ll come find you and we’ll talk.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. Not what I think. Then what was it? A week ago, Serena had been scheduled for emergency abdominal surgery. I was her attending surgeon. I had given strict, explicit orders: no food, no liquids. NPO. Yet during the procedure, the moment the anesthesia began to take effect, she aspirated. She had secretly drank milk the night before. She choked, suffocated, and coded on the table. We brought her back, but she ended up in the ICU. When Chase found out she was in critical condition, he didn’t ask for an explanation. He didn’t care about medical records. He marched straight into my department, in front of all my colleagues, and slapped me across the face. The rumors about him and Serena had been swirling since the day she joined the airline. I had ignored them. We had been together since we were eighteen. High school sweethearts. I was utterly convinced he would never betray me. But reality was a cruel teacher. The very next day, a photo of them kissing in the back of a taxi went viral online. Chase had knelt before me, weeping, slapping his own face over and over, begging for forgiveness, swearing he was drunk. I believed him. I forgave him. But that slap in the hospital corridor? That was different. That was a physical declaration of where his loyalty lay. In that moment, years of repressed betrayal and humiliation erupted. I screamed at him like a wild animal. I stormed into Serena’s room and yanked her oxygen line right out of the wall. I wanted him to see what actual cruelty looked like. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated rage. And the consequences were immediate. Chase filed charges. Attempted murder. He used his connections to put his own wife in jail. Those seven days in that concrete hell became the defining nightmare of my life. And when I got out? A termination letter from the hospital was waiting for me. My career was dead. My right wrist was ruined, the nerves severed. And worst of all… A secret I never got to tell him. The child I lost, beaten out of me on the cold prison floor. My wrist flared with pain again. My face grew pale, and I looked at him with cold disgust. “If it’s not what I think, then what is it, Chase? Tell me. Explain it to me.” Chase opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Serena let out a soft, delicate cough. Instantly, Chase forgot about me. He spun around, leaning over her bed, his voice so tender it made my skin crawl. “Where does it hurt? Should I call the nurse?” His back was turned to me. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight, draped in the light grey cashmere sweater I had handpicked for his birthday. In that second, a memory of eighteen-year-old Chase washed over me. He was wearing his faded high school varsity jacket, standing on the rooftop of the science building, looking at me with fierce devotion: “Mae, I swear to God, I will never let anyone hurt you. Not even myself.” I had teased him: “And what if you do?” His face had gone dead serious. “If I ever hurt you, Mae, you hit me. You scream at me. You get your revenge. And then you run. You run as far away from me as you can, and you never look back. But,” he hesitated, leaning in to press a quick, breathless kiss to my cheek, his ears turning bright red, “I’ll never give you a reason to run.” I had laughed, pushing him away. “If you ever do, Chase, I’ll make sure you can never find me again.” A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. I snapped back to the sterile light of the hospital room. There he was. Facing away from me, comforting another woman. The corners of my mouth curled into a faint smile. I reached into my bag, pulled out a fresh, signed copy of the divorce agreement, and placed it on the bedside table. “I printed another copy. Sign it and mail it to this address.” I placed a lawyer’s business card on top of the documents. “The division of assets is attached. If you have a problem with it, have your lawyer call mine.” Chase’s shoulders stiffened. He slowly turned around, his eyes dark and turbulent. “Maeve,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Are you seriously doing this? We’re going to end a ten-year marriage over a petty misunderstanding?” A petty misunderstanding. Seven days in a jail cell. A shattered wrist. A dead baby. And he called it a petty misunderstanding. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and forced a polite smile. “In all the years we’ve been together, Chase, when have I ever joked about something like this?” “Just sign it. It’s better for you. For me,” I glanced at Serena, who was watching us like a hawk, “and for her.” Chase’s expression hardened into ice. He grabbed the papers off the table and tore them into shreds. “Get that out of your head,” he spat, throwing the paper scraps onto the floor. “I’m not divorcing you.” “Your mental state is completely shot right now. Go home. We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.” Having delivered his ultimatum, he dismissed me entirely, turning back to Serena to adjust her blankets. I stood there for a long moment, staring at the shredded paper on the linoleum. My eyes burned, but I didn’t let the tears fall. “Fine. I’ll see you in court.” I turned and walked out. The damp autumn air hit me as I stepped out of the lobby. I pulled out my phone and powered it on. Instantly, hundreds of missed calls and text messages flooded the screen. I scrolled through them numbly. They were all from an unknown number, but the words belonged to a boy I used to know. “Mae, you’re lying to me, right? There’s no way I’d ever betray you. I’d never put you in jail. I love you too much.” “Mae, please answer me. Don’t ignore me, I’m begging you.” The tone shifted from frantic disbelief to absolute devastation. “Mae, do you remember what I told you?” “If I ever hurt you, you have to get your revenge.” “And then, keep running. Don’t ever look back.” “Mae, I’m going to break up with eighteen-year-old you. I won’t let anyone hurt you—not even my future self. I promise.” A cold rain began to fall, blurring my vision. I couldn’t tell if it was the rain or my own tears. But the last message on the screen remained piercingly clear: “Mae. Keep running. Don’t look back.” Three days before our scheduled court date, the process server delivered the papers to Chase. That night, my phone rang. It was him. “Maeve, I’m not admitting to any affair,” he said, his voice cold and defensive. “Nothing happened between Serena and me, except for that one accidental kiss when I was drunk.” “Besides, Serena has a boyfriend. He’s one of my closest friends. Do you really think I’d sleep with my buddy’s girl?” “I’m not accepting these papers, and I’m sure as hell not showing up in court. Stop this childish drama.” “Captain, we’re cleared for pre-flight check,” a soft, familiar voice called out in the background. Chase’s tone softened instantly as he answered her, before returning to his cold, dismissive drawl with me. “I’m going to be busy flying for the next few days. I’ll come over and explain everything when I get back.” Before I could say a word, he hung up. I stared at the black screen and typed out a single message: “I’m not dropping the suit, Chase. I expect to see you there.” As expected, it went unanswered. Over the next three days, there was nothing but silence from his end. Instead, I saw Serena’s public social media updates. The first post: A selfie of her and Chase in the cockpit, cruising at thirty thousand feet. The caption read: “Always feel so safe sleeping when my Captain is at the controls.” The second post: A grid of gourmet food photos. The caption: “Just landed in Seattle. Big thanks to my Captain for the late-night room service delivery!” The third post: A close-up of a hand with scraped, bruised knuckles. I recognized those hands instantly—they belonged to Chase. Serena’s caption: “Some creep tried to hassle me at the terminal, and my Captain literally knocked three of his teeth out. My hero’s hand is hurt now. So much love for him!” And there was more. Chase, who despised shopping more than anything, had spent an entire day accompanying her through luxury boutiques in Seattle. Chase, who never touched sweet drinks, had stood in a trendy boba line for three hours just to share a cup with her. If this wasn’t betrayal, what was? I laughed aloud, the sound dissolving into quiet tears. I didn’t sleep at all that night. When morning came, I washed my face, tried to soothe my swollen eyes, and headed to the courthouse. By ten o’clock, there was still no sign of Chase. My lawyer, Mr. Kelly, sighed, tapping his pen against his briefcase. “Mrs. Callahan, do you want to postpone, or should we proceed?” My ears buzzed with a dull, ringing sound. I barely heard him. My eyes were locked onto a fresh notification on my phone. Serena had just posted again. It was a photo of an ultrasound sheet. Six weeks pregnant. The caption read: “An unexpected little miracle with my Captain. He says he loves babies and wants me to keep it a secret for now.” Below it, a small, gray text added: “Only visible to Maeve.” My face went entirely bloodless. My fingers shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. Why? Why did her baby get to grow safely inside her, while mine had been violently torn from me on a cold concrete floor? I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floorboards, and I stormed out of the courthouse. I drove straight to the hospital. By some cruel stroke of fate, I ran into Chase and Serena just as they were walking out of the lobby. I didn’t think. I lunged forward, putting every ounce of my strength into a slap that caught Chase squarely across the face. “Chase! Why couldn’t it have been you who died?” I screamed. The force of the blow turned his head to the side, his cheek blooming into a sharp red welt. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, and he took a step toward me. “Maeve, wait, let me explain. It’s not what you think. Serena and I—” “I don’t want to hear another word!” I shrieked, tears blinding me. “What lies are you going to tell me this time, Chase? Another accident? Do you even hear yourself? Aren’t you disgusted by your own voice? If you’re man enough to do it, why can’t you just admit it—” “Fine! I did it!” Chase roared, his patience snapping. “It’s exactly what you think, Maeve! Serena and I have done everything. We’ve held hands, we’ve kissed, we’ve slept together! More times than I can count!” The world seemed to tilt. The breath was knocked clean out of my lungs. Chase let out a cold, venomous laugh. “Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now? I don’t love you anymore, Maeve. I haven’t in a long time.” “Look at you. You’ve aged. You’re miserable. You’re exhausting. Standing next to you makes me feel sick to my stomach. I dread coming home to look at you. The only thing keeping me with you was obligation, and you just blew that to pieces.” “Are you satisfied? Do you have any more questions?” My lips parted, but my throat was too dry to produce a single syllable. Chase stepped closer, his voice dripping with condescension. “Seriously, Maeve. You’ve been with me since you were eighteen. You married me at twenty-two. You’re twenty-eight now. We’ve been together for ten years. Do you actually think you can survive without me? What are you going to do?” “Go back to being a surgeon? Look at your hand. And after you ripped out Serena’s oxygen line, what hospital in this country would ever hire a mentally unstable doctor like you?” “Why couldn’t you just look the other way? Why did you have to dig until you ruined everything for both of us?” “Chase, please, don’t talk to her like that,” Serena sobbed, stepping forward with tear-filled eyes. She looked at me, her expression a mask of performative guilt. “Maeve, I’m so sorry. Please don’t be angry at him. This is all my fault. I’m the shameless one…” “Serena, stay out of this,” Chase snapped, though his hand instinctively went to her waist. “No, it is my fault,” Serena cried, reaching out to grab my arm. “Maeve, please, I—ah!” I instinctively shook her off. It wasn’t a hard shove. But Serena stumbled backward, losing her footing and striking her side hard against the edge of a concrete planter. Within seconds, dark red blood began to seep through her light-colored trousers. “Serena!” Chase’s face drained of color. He whipped around, and before I could even register the movement, his hand collided violently with my cheek. The force of the slap sent me stumbling back. “Maeve! You’re a fucking lunatic!” I felt something warm trickling down the corner of my mouth. I stood frozen, my mind completely blank. Chase lunged forward, grabbing my right wrist in a vice grip, ready to scream at me again. But as his fingers dug into my flesh, he froze. Beneath his palm, he felt the thick, uneven ridges of scar tissue. He let go, staring at my wrist, his voice suddenly faltering. “Your hand… what happened to your hand?” Without a word, I reached into my bag, pulled out the crumpled divorce agreement, and threw it in his face. “I hope I never see your face again as long as I live,” I whispered. Chase’s expression darkened, his jaw clenching. “You really want this?” “Yes.” He stared at me for what felt like an eternity, his eyes burning with a mixture of rage and wounded pride. “Fine!” he spat. “You want a divorce? You got it. Let’s see how long you last on your own. Just don’t you dare come crawling back to me.” As we parted ways, two ghosts from a decade ago—eighteen-year-old Chase and eighteen-year-old Maeve—stood in the shadow of the corridor, watching the wreckage of their future.

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