Category: English

My wife attended a client appreciation dinner, where my business partner, Richard Dalton, dragged her into a private dining room and assaulted her. I was right next door. I heard her screaming my name, her voice tearing at the seams, but I never pushed that door open. Afterward, she broke down and called the cops. On the day of the trial, I took the witness stand and testified that it was consensual. I told the court that she was the one who undressed and climbed onto his lap. The judge ruled right then and there: insufficient evidence. Richard was acquitted. My wife smashed her stainless-steel Yeti tumbler directly into my forehead. “Jack Colins, I want a divorce. You’re a monster.” Everyone said I was an animal. A coward. A piece of trash. But nobody knew that I had been waiting for this exact day for three agonizing months. … “Jack! Get out here right now!” Isabelle’s voice chased me down the courthouse corridor. I didn’t turn around. Blood was pooling at my eyebrow, tracing a hot, wet line down my cheek. She had swung that tumbler with everything she had, splitting the skin clean open. “Stop right there!” She lunged forward, grabbing my arm and jerking my entire body around to face her. Her face was a mess of running mascara and tears, her eyes swollen into thin slits. “How could you perjure yourself for him?” I looked down at her. I didn’t say a word. “I am your wife! I was violated! You were right outside that door! You heard me! Why didn’t you come in?!” Her fists hammered against my chest. One after another. There wasn’t much physical force behind them, but the rhythm grew frantic, desperate. “Tell me why!” I raised my hand, catching her wrists and peeling her fingers away from my collar. “Stop making a scene.” Four words. It was as if those four words drained the last drop of life from her. Isabelle stumbled a half-step backward. “Stop making a scene?” She laughed. A hollow, broken sound that shook loose more tears. “You’re telling me to stop making a scene?” “I was pinned against a table by your partner. My dress was ripped open. You were standing right outside. I screamed your name seventeen times, Jack. Seventeen times. And you didn’t make a sound.” “And now you’re telling me to stop making a scene?” I shifted my gaze past her shoulder. At the end of the hallway, a group of people was marching toward us. Her father, Robert. Her mother, Martha. Along with her cousin, Jessica, and Jessica’s husband, Todd. I wiped the blood from my jaw with the back of my hand and turned to walk away. Isabelle threw herself at my back, wrapping her arms in a death grip around my waist. “You are not walking away until you give me the truth.” “I already gave you the truth.” My voice was dead flat. “Every single word I said on that stand was a fact.” Her arms went slack. As if she no longer had the strength to hold onto anything in this world. “Jack.” Her tone shifted. It was no longer a question. It was pure, concentrated hatred. “The biggest regret of my life is marrying you.” “I’m divorcing you.” “Okay.” I dropped the word like a stone and stepped toward the exit. Robert’s slap landed faster than I anticipated. “Crack.” My head snapped violently to the side. “You son of a bitch!” Robert was shaking from head to toe, his chest heaving. “I gave you my daughter’s hand, and this is how you protect her?” I steadied my footing. I kept my hands at my sides. “Robert—” “Don’t you dare call me by my name!” He swung again, the back of his hand catching my jaw. “You don’t have the right!” Martha shoved her way to the front and spat directly into my face. “You’re not a man.” “A grown man, listening to his own wife get ripped apart, standing outside a door like a statue. Are you just useless, or are you an accomplice?” I wiped my face with my sleeve. “Martha, are you done?” “Done? I want to kill you with my bare hands!” Todd, the cousin’s husband, surged forward and grabbed me by the lapels of my suit. “How do you have the nerve to even stand upright, Jack? You should be on your knees begging Isabelle for forgiveness.” I met his eyes. “Let go.” “Are you threatening me, you piece of shit?” “There are court bailiffs right inside those doors,” I said, my tone completely devoid of emotion. “You throw a punch, I press charges. Assault is a felony, Todd. You’re a smart guy. Do the math.” Todd’s fist froze in mid-air. Robert stepped up, pulling his son-in-law back, before turning his furious glare back to me. “Jack, for the sake of the man I thought you were, I’m going to ask you one last time.” “Why did you cover for Richard Dalton?” “How much did he pay you?” I looked past them, toward the glass doors of the courthouse. A black SUV was idling by the curb, the tinted window rolled halfway down. “There’s nothing to explain.” “You—!” Martha lunged at me again, throwing wild slaps and kicks. The rest of the extended family swarmed in, a chorus of screaming, spitting venom. Someone tossed a cup of muddy coffee from God knows where. It splashed across my hair and face. I stood exactly where I was, letting them shove me back and forth. The blood from my forehead mixed with the cold coffee, staining the entire front of my white dress shirt a dark, rust-colored brown. The phone in my pocket buzzed. I didn’t take it out. It wasn’t time yet. The crowd was still screaming when a shrill voice pierced through the chaos. “Excuse me! Make way! Press!” A woman in jeans holding a phone mounted on a gimbal shoved her way to the front, pointing the lens directly at my face. “Hi, Kelly here from Metro True Crime. Sir, there are allegations online that you just committed perjury to protect your wife’s rapist. Is that true?” On her screen, the live chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur. Jessica, the cousin, immediately pushed her face into the frame. “It’s true! He’s the monster husband! His wife was assaulted, he did nothing to save her, and then he testified for the predator!” The vlogger pivoted the camera to Jessica, who fed off the attention, her voice growing hysterical. “My cousin has done nothing but suffer since she married him! She takes care of the house, raised their kid, works a full-time job. And what does he do? He sells her out!” The comment section exploded. “Die, trash.” “Dox him.” “Waste of oxygen.” The vlogger turned the camera back to me. “Sir, do you have a statement?” I gave her a long, hard look. I didn’t answer. I turned to walk down the steps. “He’s running! Look at him run! Guilty!” Jessica shrieked behind me. Robert grabbed my shoulder in a vice grip. “You aren’t going anywhere.” I stopped. My phone buzzed again. I looked down and tapped the screen. One new message. “Still tracking the ping. Give me two more hours.” I locked the screen and slid the phone back into my pocket. When I looked up, my face was a mask of stone. “Fine. We’ll do this here.” “What exactly do you all want to hear?” Martha pointed a trembling finger at my nose. “I want you to tell the world the truth! How much blood money did Richard give you?” “I answered that on the stand,” I said, my voice steady enough to cut glass. “I didn’t take a dime from anyone.” “I told the absolute truth.” “That night, Isabelle wanted it. She initiated it.” The second the words left my mouth, the entire crowd surged toward me. But then, the heavy courthouse doors swung open. Richard Dalton walked out. Immaculate custom suit, perfectly dimpled tie, wearing the relaxed, arrogant smirk of a man who just bought his way to an acquittal. He paused when he saw the mob on the steps. Robert was the first to break from the crowd, sprinting toward him. “Dalton! You animal! Look me in the eye!” I moved. Two quick steps, and I inserted myself directly between Robert and Richard. “Robert, we are on federal property. What are you doing?” “Get out of my way!” “I can’t do that.” “Jack!” Robert’s voice broke, vibrating with a profound, sickening disbelief. “You’re still protecting him?” “The court ruled.” I spoke as casually as if I were reading a weather report. “He’s an innocent man. You put hands on an innocent man, that’s aggravated assault.” Martha charged forward like a woman possessed. “I don’t care what the corrupt court says! He destroyed my daughter! You destroyed my daughter! I hope you both burn in hell!” I extended my arms, keeping her a safe distance away. Richard stood behind me. He didn’t flinch. He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, sparked a cigarette, and took a slow drag. “Go to the car, Rich,” I said, not looking back. “It’s on the left.” Richard clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Jack. You’re a real one.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Dinner’s on me next week.” He stepped around the screaming family, making his way down the steps to the idling black SUV. Just before he pulled the door handle, he looked back at me. The smile was gone. It was replaced by a look of profound, aristocratic pity. “You’re a good guy, Jack. It’s a damn shame you married a slut and had to clean up her mess.” He climbed in, and the heavy door slammed shut. The tires squealed, and the car vanished into traffic. In a split second, the entirety of the crowd’s wrath refocused onto me. “Jack! You just let him walk away?!” Isabelle’s voice cut through the noise. She was leaning heavily on Jessica, looking as though her bones had turned to glass. “Are you even human?” I turned around and faced her. Her face was stained with tears, her eyes bloodshot, radiating an agonizing hatred. “Isabelle, I told you. This ends today.” “Ends today?” Her voice cracked into a shriek. “He destroyed my body, he destroyed my reputation, he destroyed my life, and you say it ends today?” “The judge made the ruling.” “He ruled that way because you lied under oath!” She stumbled forward, only to be yanked back by her cousin. “Why did you say those things? Why did you say I wanted it? You heard me! You were right there!” I didn’t answer. Suddenly, someone in the crowd yelled. “He’s here! Her brother’s here!” A pickup truck slammed on its brakes at the curb. Mark leaped out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t even bother shutting the door before he was sprinting up the steps. He hit the concrete like he wanted to shatter the earth beneath him. “Jack!” Before my brain could register the movement, his boot connected squarely with my stomach. I folded in half, my knees crashing onto the hard pavement. He grabbed handfuls of my ruined shirt and hauled me upward. “How the fuck do you dare show your face?” He was so close I could smell the adrenaline on him. His eyes were wild, fully bloodshot. “What did I tell you the day I gave my baby sister away to you?” “I told you if you ever hurt her, I would break your legs.” He slammed me back down onto the concrete. Then he bent over and hauled me up by the collar again. “Three years. Three years. My sister gave you three years of her life. Do you have any idea what she’s sacrificed for you?” I stayed down on the ground. Not because I couldn’t get up. Because I didn’t want to. The phone in my pocket vibrated against my thigh. I lay on the pavement and subtly angled my head to glance at the glowing lock screen. “Location locked. En route. ETA 1 hour 40 minutes.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I have to survive another hour and a half.” “Do you people even know what else he did?” Isabelle’s voice suddenly shifted pitch. The hysterical, piercing anger was gone, replaced by a hollow, bottomless despair. The entire crowd fell dead silent, turning to look at her. She stood in the center of the ring, her body trembling violently, her lips quivering. “Our daughter… Sophie.” “We lost Sophie in March.” Martha gasped, a horrible, choking sound. “What? Sophie? What happened to my grandbaby?” Isabelle buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. “You told us Jack’s mother took Sophie to stay with her!” Martha rushed forward, grabbing her daughter’s shoulders. “Tell me! What happened to her?” Isabelle slowly lifted her head, her tear-soaked face locking onto mine. “It’s because of him.” “He was gambling. He owed sixty grand to loan sharks. They came to the house. It was just me and Sophie.” “They demanded the money. I told them we didn’t have it, and they…” Her voice shattered into pieces. “They shoved Sophie. Her head hit the corner of the coffee table…” “By the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone.” Martha’s legs gave out. She collapsed onto the hard concrete. “My grandbaby… my sweet Sophie…” Robert’s face turned the color of wet ash. “Why didn’t you call us? Why didn’t you tell me?” Isabelle shook her head frantically. “I couldn’t bear to break your hearts. And I was terrified they’d come after you. The men told me if I went to the cops, they’d kill my whole family.” “So I swallowed it.” “I carried it all alone.” “And him?” She pointed a shaking finger at me. “He’s still gambling. Still racking up debt. Wasn’t my daughter’s life enough?” The bystanders were circling tighter now. Phones were out, red recording lights blinking everywhere. Whispers hissed through the crowd: “This guy got his own kid killed, and then covered for a rapist?” I remained on my knees, listening to every word. I didn’t defend myself. Not once. Robert walked slowly over to me. His voice sounded like grinding stones. “Jack. Is this true?” I looked up at him. “Trust your daughter.” That was all I said. I lowered my head and checked my watch. “You’re checking the time?!” Mark stomped his boot down onto my wrist, pinning it to the ground. “Got an appointment at the casino? Or a brothel?” White-hot pain shot up my arm, but I swallowed the groan. “I’m going to count to three,” Mark sneered, leaning over me. “And you’re going to tell the truth about the debt. Did you get Sophie killed?” I stayed silent. “One.” Silence. “Two.” He pressed his heel down harder. I felt the bone grinding. I clenched my jaw and forced my head up. “None of your damn business.” “Three.” He reared back and kicked me squarely in the ribs. I rolled onto my side, curling into a tight ball as the air left my lungs. Slowly, agonizingly, I forced myself into a sitting position. Isabelle was screaming from the sidelines, crying, “Mark, stop! Stop hitting him!” “You’re defending him?” Mark snapped, turning to look at her. “Izzy, open your eyes! He got Sophie killed, he sold you to Richard Dalton, and you’re begging for his life?” Isabelle shook her head, tears flying. “I’m not begging for him, I’m trying to protect you! If you put him in the hospital, you’ll go to prison!” “Then I’ll go to prison!” Mark spun back around, hauling me up by the front of my shirt again. “For my sister and my niece, I’ll do the time gladly.” The crowd was practically a mob now. People were yelling, “Give him what he deserves!” The true-crime vlogger’s livestream had crossed ten thousand viewers. The chat was a unified chorus demanding my death. Mark slammed me against the stone wall of the courthouse. “Last chance. Did you kill Sophie?” I let the silence hang for three seconds. Then I opened my mouth. “Yes.” One word. Martha fainted dead away. As Robert caught his wife, hot tears streamed down his weathered face. “My baby… my little girl…” I leaned against the cold stone, watching the destruction. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I swallowed it down. “Monster.” “Psychopath.” “Burn in hell.” The curses rained down from every direction. The bystanders weren’t just watching anymore. A middle-aged man in a track jacket stepped forward and shoved my shoulder hard. “I have a three-year-old at home. You don’t deserve to breathe.” I stumbled, the small of my back slamming into the sharp edge of a concrete planter. A sickening jolt of pain shot up my spine. But I pushed myself upright. Mark lunged at me again, fists raised. Isabelle threw her arms around him, pulling with all her might. “Mark! Enough!” “Why is it enough?!” Mark roared, trying to shake her off. “He killed Sophie, he let you get raped, he deserves to be gutted!” I raised a hand and slowly wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. I looked at all of them. Every single one. And then, I smiled. “Are you all done talking?” The smile caught everyone completely off guard. The yelling faltered. “Because if you’re done, it’s my turn.” I pushed myself off the planter, standing at my full height. “Does anyone here know what Isabelle was wearing that night?”

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The Mojave Rally was swallowed by a sudden, blinding wall of desert dust, cutting visibility to absolute zero for every driver on the track. I pressed my headset tighter against my ear. Through the static, the voice of my fiancé, Garrett, came through—steady, warm, and reassuring. “Don’t panic, Ellie. You’ve got five hundred yards before Dead Man’s Curve. You can floor it here, push past the car next to you to shave off 0.7 seconds. Then it’s a hard right-three into a left-two.” Blindly trusting Garrett’s pace notes, I slammed my foot on the gas, the sand battering my windshield. He was my co-driver, my navigator, and the only man I trusted with my life. But three seconds later, a soft, mocking chuckle crackled through my earpiece. “Ellie, babe? Honestly, Dead Man’s Curve is actually a right-two into a left-three. But if Chelsea doesn’t win the championship this year, she’s going to throw another tantrum.” “You’re already a three-time champion. Giving her this one won’t kill you.” “I’ve already got an ambulance waiting at the bottom of the ridge, and I had them lay down some crash mats. I’d never let anything seriously happen to you. Just close your eyes, sweetheart. It won’t hurt as bad if you don’t look.” With a soft click, Garrett cut the feed. He wanted to spare his ears the sound of my car tearing through the guardrails and plummeting off the cliffside. But he forgot one thing. I had run this track for five years. Even with my eyes closed, I knew every single inch of this dirt. … “Garrett!” I screamed his name, my knuckles turning white against the steering wheel. But the headset remained dead. Silence, heavy and suffocating, filled the cabin. Sweat soaked through my racing gloves. My foot was glued to the floor, the engine roaring as we pushed past 120 miles per hour. At this speed, lifting off wouldn’t save me in time. The dust storm completely covered the windshield, and the tires screamed as they spun over loose gravel. Dead Man’s Curve—the most brutal stretch of the Mojave—was right ahead, and I was flying blind. My brain scrambled to process Garrett’s words. “Did he really just feed me fatal pace notes just to hand Chelsea the trophy?” Dead Man’s Curve was named that for a reason. Countless racers had been broken by this mountain. The road was narrow, the turns sharp, and the drop-off was a sheer cliff. A single miscalculation meant free-falling into a ravine. Best-case scenario: a dozen broken bones and a shattered career. Worst-case: a body bag. Yet Garrett spoke of crash mats like he was tucking me into bed. Was he insane? He had been in the car with me the last time we flipped. Five years ago, during our very first trial run here, Garrett had been so terrified of me getting hurt that he secretly paid the track crew to line the ravines with high-density rescue pads. But my nerves got the better of me. I panicked, slammed the pedal to the floor, and missed the turn entirely. Garrett was in the passenger seat next to me. As the car rolled over, his immediate instinct was to throw his body over mine, shielding my head. Even with the safety pads, the impact sent us spinning into the rock face. I lay there shivering in his arms, and despite the agonizing pain of his fractured wrist, he stroked my hair and whispered, “It’s okay, baby. You’re the best driver out there. You’re safe.” I spent the next two years driving myself to the bone, running lap after lap under the scorching sun, just to win the championship. Because under rally rules, the champion’s co-driver had the option to stay in the air-conditioned command center, away from the dust and the danger. I won the title for him. I took the microphone in front of thousands of fans, and when they asked if I wanted prize money or endorsements, I shook my head. “I just want my co-driver to never have to risk his life in the passenger seat again.” I did it to protect him. And this was my reward. “Right-three into left-two.” The moment he said it, I knew it was wrong. But I was already committed, flying blind in a storm of dust. Suddenly, Garrett’s voice patched through the main rescue channel. “Search and rescue! Car number seven, Ellie Ross, has gone over at Dead Man’s Curve! Dispatch immediately! We need to save her!” My heart turned to ice. He was so sure I was going to crash. Already, the clueless media would be drafting headlines: “Three-time Mojave Queen Falls from Grace.” He was clearing the path for Chelsea. I couldn’t let them have it. “Just close your eyes, sweetheart. It won’t hurt as bad.” Garrett’s hollow words echoed in my mind. I closed my eyes. But not to surrender. I closed them to remember. Eighteen seconds had passed since his last correct note. At my current speed, that meant… I had it. I knew exactly where I was. Even with the sand blotting out the world, the map in my head was clear. I feather-touched the brakes, dropped the gears, and prepped the wheel. Then, a roaring engine behind me. Someone was catching up. Not just one car—two. Three yards. Two yards. Now! I yanked the wheel to the inside, hugging the cliffside blindly. It was a suicidal gamble, but my only choice. “CRASH!” A deafening impact rattled my teeth. Chelsea’s car clipped my rear quarter panel, the sheer force of her momentum spinning my car through the apex. I slammed hard against the canyon wall, the car tilting sideways and wedging into the rocks. But I made the turn. Behind me, a sickening crunch and a scream of metal echoed down the ravine as the third car missed the turn entirely. My heart beat so hard it felt like it would break through my ribs. As I sat there shivering in the tilted cabin, I noticed my collar was torn. The silver St. Christopher medal—the one Garrett had given me for my twenty-first birthday—had shattered against the steering wheel. Only the frayed red cord remained around my neck. “It’s not tacky,” he’d insisted back then, kissing my forehead. “It’s a protector. As long as you wear it, it’s like I’m right there with you, Ellie. You’re going to be the first queen of the Mojave.” I ripped the remaining cord from my neck, leaving a thin, burning welt. I stared at the broken silver pieces and threw them to the floorboards. It had kept me safe, I suppose. But some things stay broken forever. Suddenly, static hissed in my helmet. Because of the impact, my receiver had glitched and crossed onto Chelsea’s private radio channel. “Garrett, babe… if you’re this good to me, aren’t you worried Ellie will be furious?” Chelsea’s voice was a soft, calculated purr. “Worried? She’s hogged your spotlight for three years. It’s your turn to be queen. Besides, she’s probably unconscious in a ravine right now. By the time she wakes up, she won’t remember a thing.” The sheer cruelty in his voice made me shake. Along with his words, a wave of physical pain finally hit me. The car was tilted at a ninety-degree angle, trapping me inside. Every breath sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my left shoulder. Within minutes, the rescue crew arrived, hauling the car back onto four wheels. “Ellie Ross! Can you hear us?” “Get the stretcher! The driver has a suspected collarbone fracture and head trauma!” The paramedics removed my helmet, but the audio feed in my earpiece kept playing. “I tapped her car on the way past,” Chelsea giggled. “That loud crash down the cliff… that had to be her.” “You’re brilliant, sweetheart,” Garrett replied. “I’m taking you out for oysters tonight. Your favorite.” Oysters. I had spent years suffering through high-end seafood bars with Garrett, popping allergy pills and hiding my hives, just because I thought “he” loved it. I realized now he was taking Chelsea’s favorite meals and feeding them to me. The realization burned away the pain. I pushed past the paramedics, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut. “Ellie! Stop! You’re injured! You need to get to a hospital!” I ignored them, threw the car into gear with my right arm, and roared back onto the track. Chelsea, Garrett… you want to take my crown? Not in this lifetime. By now, I was far behind the pack. The live broadcast commentators were already eulogizing my career. “We’ve just received word from the track. Three-time champion Ellie Ross has suffered a major crash near Dead Man’s Curve. It’s a devastating turn of events for the crowd favorite.” “It really is. Fans were hoping to see Ellie and her fiancé, star navigator Garrett, make history today. But the crown is up for grabs now, and Chelsea, who has played bridesmaid for three years, is currently leading the pack.” My left arm hung uselessly at my side. I grabbed a spare harness strap and bound my arm tightly to my chest to keep it from jarring. Everything relied on my right hand. As the dust storm cleared, the track ahead became visible. I didn’t need pace notes anymore. I knew every turn. “Chelsea is entering the final stretch!” the commentator screamed. “She’s almost at the finish line!” At the finish line, Garrett was already standing near the barrier, holding a massive bouquet of red roses next to a giant banner that read: “TO MY QUEEN, CHELSEA.” Reporters swarmed him. “Garrett! The race isn’t over, and Ellie is reportedly injured. What is this?” He smiled smoothly for the cameras. “My queen has worked hard for this. I wanted to make sure she had a proper celebration.” “But Ellie—” “Only a true queen of the Mojave deserves my heart. I’ve waited five years for this moment.” Suddenly, the crowd gasped. “Wait! Look at the track! An orange car has just blasted into the final straightaway! It’s number seven! Ellie Ross is still in the race!” I squeezed the wheel with my right hand, gritting my teeth through the pain, and drove straight at Chelsea’s blue car. I didn’t lift. I rammed her—a metal-on-metal screech that sent both our cars crossing the finish line in a cloud of burning rubber. “I see it! It’s number seven, Ellie Ross! She’s done the impossible!”

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My childhood friend, Wesley, had a shoe closet he loved to brag about. “She gets a spark of inspiration, and suddenly I’ve got another pair,” he’d say, gesturing casually to the rows of custom boxes. “I have more than I could ever wear. But if I try to sell them, she gets jealous. Why don’t you take a pair, Logan?” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he let out a self-deprecating sigh. “Right, I forgot. Gwen is a luxury designer. Why would you want her throwaways?” I instinctively tucked my feet under the bench, hiding my cheap, worn-out sneakers from the discount rack. Gwen, a renowned name in haute couture footwear, had never designed a single pair of shoes for me. Not even her flawed samples were allowed near my feet. “I have artistic standards,” she’d tell me whenever I asked. “If a piece isn’t absolutely perfect, I won’t let it touch the market. It’s about integrity.” But during our playful wrestling over the box, the lid slipped, and a shoe tumbled out onto the rug. I froze. The shoe on the floor was the exact design I had begged Gwen to make for me months ago. … After eight years together, I knew Gwen’s design signature better than anyone. “Logan? You okay?” Wesley waved a hand in front of my face. My throat felt incredibly tight. “Yeah. It just… looks familiar.” Wesley stiffened. He quickly snatched the shoe back, slipping it into the box with practiced ease. “Familiar? Come on, all sneakers look the same these days. Don’t overthink it.” “Is that so?” A cold dread began to pool in my chest. After leaving Wesley’s apartment, I walked down to the street before realizing I’d left my keys on his counter. I turned back, but as I reached the lobby, I saw Gwen’s car pull up to the curb. She got out, moving with a quiet, practiced familiarity straight into the building. My heart constricted. I followed her up, stopping just outside Wesley’s apartment door. Through the thin wood, Wesley’s anxious voice carried clearly into the hallway. “Gwen, Logan seemed to recognize those shoes. What if he suspects something?” “He won’t,” Gwen replied, her voice cool and entirely composed. “Logan rarely goes into my home office anyway. Even if he’s seen the drafts, he wouldn’t remember.” “Wes, stop worrying.” “Wes.” The casual intimacy of the nickname hit me like a physical blow. A dark, suffocating wave of realization washed over me, and I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. Wesley hesitated. “Are we… is this really okay? Logan is my best friend. He took care of me when I was broke, brought me to Boston, and helped me get on my feet. I feel like a monster doing this to him…” “Wes, just give me a little more time. I’ll handle it.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My chest felt violently torn open, leaving me hollowed out and breathless. I didn’t even have the strength to push the door open and confront them. Numb and disoriented, I made my way back to the apartment I shared with Gwen. Passing her home office, her words echoed in my mind. I pushed the door open. Her desk was cluttered with sketchbooks, and her laptop was awake. I sat down and began to scroll. Deep in her local files, I found an encrypted folder labeled simply “W.” I paused, then typed in Wesley’s birthday. It opened instantly. A cascade of design files flooded the screen, each one piercing my chest. Every single sketch was carefully dated. The first was from October 11, 2023. It was titled “The First Encounter”. I remembered that date. It was the day I brought Wesley to Boston, the day Gwen met him for the first time. Once, I had asked Gwen to design a pair of shoes to commemorate our first anniversary. She had brushed it off. “Design needs to flow naturally, Logan. I don’t like forcing things.” Despite my disappointment, I had tried to understand. I thought it was just her artistic integrity. The second sketch was dated February 14, 2024. Our anniversary. A day she insisted on skipping because “performative holidays are for insecure couples.” I had swallowed the disappointment, telling myself she was just too pure for commercialized romance. But she wasn’t incapable of romance; she just didn’t want to waste it on me. She had designed a pair of shoes with wave motifs for Wesley, celebrating their first holiday together. And that night, she had told me a client needed an emergency redesign and didn’t come home. Then there was their first weekend getaway, their first New Year’s countdown… Over three years, she had designed hundreds of shoes for him. Even the pair I had begged her for—the one she refused—was designed solely to make Wesley happy. My vision blurred. My hand shook so hard I could barely control the mouse. But I kept scrolling to the very bottom. I froze. It was an unfinished sketch of a wedding shoe. The entire design incorporated the letters of Wesley’s name into the delicate embroidery. Gwen always told me she couldn’t design our wedding shoes because she hadn’t found the “right inspiration for happiness” yet. But her happiness simply never included me. My throat tightened, tasting the bitter salt of my own tears. After a long time, I wiped my face and called my boss, Frank. “Hey, Frank. That relocation offer to the Zurich branch? I’ll take it.” An eight-year relationship built on a lie. I was done holding on. “Really?” Frank sounded surprised, then hesitated. “Zurich is a long-term placement, Logan. At least two years. Will Gwen be okay with that?” Before, I would have hesitated. I would have worried about her being lonely, about the strain of long-distance. But that required her to actually love me. “I’ll be fine, Frank,” I said quietly. Frank sensed the heavy shift in my voice but didn’t press. “Alright. I’ll book your ticket. You fly out in two days.” After hanging up, I searched for Wesley’s Instagram account. Since moving to Boston, he had become a lifestyle influencer, documenting his daily life. His most frequent posts featured shoes gifted by his “secret girlfriend.” Because of the unique designs and the romantic stories he attached to them, he had built a decent following. The comments were full of people praising his “thoughtful girlfriend” and expressing envy. I used to think he just had a talented partner, which explained why they were always too busy to meet me. I never imagined that partner was Gwen. Every single pair in his posts matched Gwen’s sketches perfectly. What a joke. I had even congratulated him on finding such a catch. His latest post was a photo of half-eaten palmiers from a local artisan bakery. The caption read: “Sweet on its own, but sweet and blissful when shared with you.” When Gwen came home that night, she carried a pastry box from that exact bakery. “I remembered you like palmiers, so I grabbed some on the way back.” But she forgot one thing: I hate sweet food. Swallowing the bitterness, I looked at her and said, “Gwen, let’s get married.” She froze. “Let’s wait a bit. My inspiration has been dry lately, and I want to design the perfect wedding shoes first.” The same old excuse. I thought back to her early days in the industry. She couldn’t get any commissions and had to set up at local flea markets to sell her samples. To get her the best spot, I would wake up at 4:00 AM in the freezing winter to camp out. Once, I got a severe fever but refused to go to the doctor, saving every penny to pay her vendor fees. Back then, she had cried and held my face. “Logan, one day I’m going to design a one-of-a-kind wedding shoe for you. I’ll let the whole world know how happy you make me.” I believed her. I waited from age twenty to twenty-eight. “I don’t want to wait anymore, Gwen.” Startled by my bluntness, her expression darkened. “Logan, can you not pressure me like this? Is a piece of paper really that important to you?” She turned and walked into the bedroom. I closed my eyes. The next day, I went to the boutique hotel I managed to handle my transition paperwork. As I was about to leave, a colleague asked me to cover his evening shift. That night, the banquet manager mentioned a private room was booked for a design studio’s celebration. “The owner is a rising star in the shoe industry, Gwen Song. She just won a major award and plans to propose to her boyfriend tonight. She asked us to prep our best private suite.” My heart skipped a beat. I knew I shouldn’t hope, but I couldn’t help it. Until she walked in. And Wesley was right beside her. Both were dressed in formal attire, looking like a perfect couple. Since Gwen’s studio took off, she had told me she didn’t want employees gossiping about her private life, so she banned me from visiting her work. I thought she just kept a strict line between personal and professional. But seeing how familiar her employees were with Wesley, I realized she just didn’t want “me” there. “The red carpet is ready! The wedding shoes are waiting!” “We all know Gwen designed these for Wesley. It’s time to make it official!” The room erupted in cheers. Wesley smiled warmly, while Gwen blushed, presenting a beautifully crafted pair of shoes for Wesley to put on. The tenderness in her eyes was something I had never seen. A sharp ache rose in my chest. Even though no one here knew me, I felt the humiliating sting of my own foolishness. Then, Gwen’s eyes met mine. The air went still. I took a slow breath, turned around, and walked away. Not to run, but to preserve whatever dignity remains of these eight years. Gwen ran out after me. “Logan, don’t get the wrong idea.” Her beautiful face carried a flicker of annoyance, masked by a placating tone. “The staff were just joking around. It’s just office banter.” I looked down at her, silent. She continued, “The award-winning design only came together because Wes—I mean, Wesley—gave me the creative spark. This dinner is just my way of thanking him.” Then she added, “Besides, you’re the one who told me to look out for him. I thought I was doing this for you.” Right. When Wesley first moved here, I was worried he’d be lonely and asked her to help him adjust. Back then, Gwen told me I was overthinking it and that Wesley wasn’t a child. Now, she used my own kindness as her shield. “And giving him a pair of wedding shoes is also ‘doing it for me’?” The bitterness in my throat was overwhelming. Wesley walked out, looking incredibly anxious. “Logan, please don’t misunderstand. We were just playing around. These shoes… Gwen actually designed them for you.” He frantically tried to pull them off. But he forgot that we didn’t wear the same size. The shoes were visibly loose on him, yet they would never fit my larger feet. Wesley’s face drained of color. “Maybe… a design error…” I looked at his pale face, remembering when we were kids and he was getting beaten up, and I stood in front of him. When his stepfather cut off his allowance, I made a scene in the neighborhood until the man backed down. When he had a wage dispute with a corrupt boss, I stayed up for nights preparing his labor arbitration files to get his compensation. I never begrudged him any of it. He was my best friend. And now, he was the one holding the knife in my back. Wesley shifted uncomfortably under my gaze. “Maybe I should just leave. Logan, please don’t be mad.” “No, stay,” Gwen said, her voice thick with worry for him. “Your stomach is acting up. You need to eat. Go back inside.” She turned to me, her eyes turning cold. “Can you stop being so petty? Wesley is your best friend. Why do you have to make things difficult for him?” “Petty.” The word landed like a physical blow, shattering the last remaining piece of my heart. Gwen seemed to have forgotten that when we first started out, she couldn’t make a dime. I worked three jobs to support her. I skipped meals, pulled double shifts, and ruined my own stomach. The chronic ulcers were so bad I would spend entire nights curled on the bathroom floor, unable to sleep. But in eight years, she never remembered my stomach issues. She didn’t care about my pain. The massive divide between her care for Wesley and her neglect of me left my heart completely hollow. I had nothing left to say. Wesley looked at me, stepping away from Gwen. “I’m fine. I don’t want you and Logan fighting because of me.” He turned to leave, but in his haste, he bumped into a heavily intoxicated female customer. “Watch where you’re going!” the woman snapped. Already frustrated, Wesley shoves her back. “You’re the one stumbling drunk. Keep your eyes open.” The confrontation escalated instantly. The woman grabbed a wine glass from a nearby cart and hurled it. “Say that again!” The glass shattered. A flying shard grazed my cheek, leaving a sharp sting. In my peripheral vision, I see Gwen lunging to pull Wesley out of the way without a second thought. “Wes! Are you hurt?” In that moment, I had to admit defeat. Complete, absolute defeat. Gwen noticed my bleeding cheek, and a flash of panic crossed her eyes. She took a step toward me. But Wesley let out a sharp cry. “My ankle…” He winced, gripping his leg. Gwen’s attention snapped right back to him. She held him tight. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you to the ER.” She looked back at me. “Wesley can’t handle pain. I have to get him to a doctor. Get that cut on your face cleaned up, okay? I’ll come back for you.” And then she was gone. I stood in the hallway, the cut on my cheek turning numb. The drunk woman, seeing her targets gone, turned her fury on me. Knowing I was the manager, she screamed, “I’m a VIP member! Is this how you treat your guests?” She made a massive scene, drawing crowds from other rooms. Since I was only covering this shift, a formal complaint would ruin my colleague’s record. I had to swallow my pride and apologize. Her friends demanded penance. They lined up three glasses of high-proof whiskey. “Drink these, or this doesn’t end.” The alcohol hit my empty, damaged stomach like liquid fire. A violent, searing spasm radiated through my entire body. When I finally stumbled out of the hotel, the pain was so intense I can barely stand. I leaned heavily against the cold brick wall, my hand shaking as I dialed Gwen’s number. “Gwen… my stomach hurts so bad… can you please come…” “Hold on, Logan, I can’t leave right now.” In the background, I heard Wesley’s voice whimpering in pain. Gwen hung up. The world went black, and the pain swallowed me whole. When I woke up, I was in a sterile hospital room. The doctor was looking at me with deep frustration. “How could you be this reckless? You have severe, advanced gastric ulcers—practically on the verge of stomach cancer—and you’re drinking hard liquor?” I froze. Though they pumped my stomach in time, the doctor warned me the damage was severe and would leave lasting issues. I touched my stomach. The very last thread of hope in my heart snapped. The next day, I discharged myself and returned to the apartment. Gwen wasn’t there. I open my phone and see a text she sent last night: “Wesley was in so much pain, he couldn’t be left alone. Logan, try to be the bigger person here.” I didn’t reply. Instead, my phone notifications chimed with a public post from her studio. It was a collection of romantic photos from the banquet last night. She was proposing to Wesley in front of the crowd. The internet quickly found Wesley’s account. Matching it with his previous posts, the comment section was flooded with congratulations. “No wonder those shoes were so beautiful! She’s a genius!” “Congratulations!” “A match made in heaven.” I stared at the screen. It was absurd, sickening, and cold. I decided I was done protecting her. I uploaded a thread containing my eight years of relationship history with Gwen, the dates of her sketches, and my hospital admission slip from last night, posting it directly under her studio’s announcement. “Now you two can be together without any burden. My best friend and my partner of eight years.” I turned off my phone, packed my single suitcase, and headed to the airport. As the plane prepared to taxi, my screen lit up with a call. “Gwen.”

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Just before the green flag dropped at the Pacific Crest Rally, my fiancé, Wade, stepped in front of my machine. “Keira, we’re putting Daisy in the primary seat today. You’re going to run block for her.” The world went completely silent around me. I stared at him, my hands frozen on the handlebars. Wade knew. He knew better than anyone that this was my retirement race. It was my final ride before we were supposed to get married. It was also my shot at a historic sixth consecutive world title—the one that would cement my legacy as the greatest female rider in the sport’s history. Six years ago, Wade’s family garage, Caldwell Racing, was on the verge of bankruptcy. I was the one who dragged them out of the red. I took the titles, secured the sponsors, and turned an obscure, struggling crew into a global powerhouse. And now, they wanted me to step aside for a rookie who had barely survived her qualifying runs. I didn’t blink. “This is my race, Wade. I’m not stepping aside.” His brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Daisy needs this win. You already have five titles under your belt, Keira. A sixth won’t change your life.” His voice hardened, dropping into that clinical, managerial tone I’d grown to hate. “It’s a board decision. If you don’t fall in line, you know what happens.” A dry laugh escaped my throat. “What, you’re going to fire me?” Wade didn’t look away. He didn’t deny it either. Behind him, the mechanics and crew members—men who had celebrated five world championships by my side—suddenly found the dirt on their boots incredibly interesting. None of them looked at me. In that quiet, devastating flash of clarity, I realized it wasn’t about Daisy needing the trophy. It was that they believed they didn’t need me anymore. Slowly, I unclipped the team badge from my chest. Then, I pulled the diamond engagement ring off my left ring finger. I slid them both across the metal tool bench, leaving them right in front of him. “If that’s how it is,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “Then you can keep the team. And you can keep the ring.” … I turned on my heel and walked toward the pit lane, my boots heavy against the asphalt. But when I reached my bike, Daisy was already sitting on it, wearing a pristine, custom-tailored leather suit. She looked up as I approached, offering a timid, wide-eyed gaze as if she’d just realized she was trespassing. “Oh, Keira… I’m so sorry. But Wade told me this machine is mine to ride today.” A high, ringing noise filled my ears. I spun around, grabbing the lapels of Wade’s jacket, yanking him toward me. “What is this?” My voice cracked, the raw panic leaking through. “You gave her my bike? On what authority? That is “my” machine! You have no right!” My eyes burned as I stared at him. “I built that machine’s legacy over six years of blood and sweat,” I hissed. “Three hundred races. Broken collarbones, concussions, endless nights working side-by-side with the engineers to shave off milliseconds. That data belongs to “me”.” “It took me to five world titles. And it was…!” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, swallowing the threat of tears. It was also the very first bike Wade had ever built from scratch. It was his promise to me. I still remembered the humid summer evening he pushed it out of the workshop, his cheeks flushed with nerves, asking if I’d partner with him to conquer the racing world. “Keira,” he had whispered then, “racing is a lonely, dangerous thing. Out on those tracks, you’re entirely on your own against the clock and the terrain. But I want this machine to be my hands, keeping you safe when I can’t be out there.” And now, he was handing that sacred piece of our history to a stranger. Wade calmly reached down, peeling my fingers off his jacket. His voice was entirely devoid of heat. “The bike is registered under Caldwell Racing,” he said. “Every custom modification was paid for through the team accounts.” He looked at me, his eyes cold. “Didn’t you just say you were done with the team? Done with me?” “Since you’re resigning, you no longer have access to team assets. Why shouldn’t I give it to our lead rider?” His words felt like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. I stared at him, feeling a profound, bone-chilling cold settle deep into my chest. Six years ago, when this team couldn’t even afford the track rental fees, I was the one who poured every single cent of my prize money back into the garage. I ran back-to-back races, slept in airport terminals, and begged sponsors just to keep the lights on. But because those millions went through the team’s accounts, it was no longer mine. I didn’t even have the right to ride the machine I bought with my own bones. Daisy gently reached out, tugging at Wade’s sleeve. “Wade… maybe we should just forget it. Keira is a veteran of this team. If she’s this upset because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.” She turned her soft, pitying eyes toward me. “Keira, please don’t be angry with him. A rally of this intensity is grueling. You’re thirty now. He’s only thinking of your health.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. But Wade was already turning away from me, his attention fully captured by her. “Let’s check your safety harness.” He dropped to one knee, lifting her boot onto his thigh, carefully tightening the straps. Daisy’s cheeks flushed pink, her eyes darting to me with a carefully crafted look of innocence. “Wade, people are watching… is this okay?” He let out a low chuckle. “Of course it is. You’re the future of this team. Today, nobody matters more than you.” It felt like a slap to the face. The surrounding crew members crowded around them, letting out easy, good-natured laughs. They started running through the wind-shear reports, the track conditions, and the rival telemetry with her. I stood alone in the center of the pit. Nobody looked at me. Nobody even handed me a radio headset. All that was left for me was a dusty, outdated backup bike in the corner of the garage—a model we’d decommissioned a year ago. They were freezing me out. They wanted me to beg, to realize that without a support crew, I couldn’t survive a single lap. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until they nearly drew blood. Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Adrian Ward, the manager of Aether Motorsports, our biggest rivals. Attached was a highly detailed, real-time track and wind analysis. “I heard the shouting in the garage,” the text read. “Keira, my doors are always open to you. Let me know.” “Still throwing a tantrum?” I hadn’t heard Wade walk up. I locked my phone and looked up at him. He acted as though nothing had happened, holding out an iPad with the latest course telemetry. “The wind shifted. There’s a heavy crosswind coming off the ridge after checkpoint three. I had the engineers highlight the safe lines. Take a look.” I didn’t reach for the screen. Wade’s brow twitched. He let out a soft sigh, crouching down to perform a cursory check on my old backup bike. “By the way,” he said, his voice light and conversational. “Weren’t you asking me to visit your parents? I know I’ve had to cancel every time because of team emergencies. Once this race is over, I’ll clear my schedule. We’ll go together.” A heavy, suffocating knot tightened in my throat. I didn’t know when the Wade who used to worship the ground I walked on had turned into this calculating stranger. Whenever he needed me to sacrifice something for his benefit, he would freeze me out until I broke. And if I didn’t break, he’d offer a tiny, effortless olive branch, expecting me to fall back into line and pretend the hurt never happened. I looked down at the concrete. “We’ll see,” I whispered. Wade’s hand paused on the bike frame, clearly caught off guard by my lack of enthusiasm. But my mind was already drifting back to all the times I had begged him to come home with me. Every time, my parents would spend days preparing. My mother would wake up before dawn to bake his favorite pies; my father would spend hours manicuring the lawn. They would set a beautiful table, warming up dinner hour after hour, only to receive a text saying Wade had a “pressing engagement.” They tried so hard to hide their disappointment, offering me tight, reassuring smiles. “It’s fine, sweetheart. A young man has to build his business. We can always do it next time.” But “next time” never came. Suddenly, my phone vibrated with a social media notification. It was a post from Daisy’s public account. I had never followed her, but in that moment, a sick curiosity took hold. I tapped the screen. My hand began to tremble. None of the “emergencies” that kept Wade from my family were real. The night he claimed he was meeting with a crucial title sponsor, he was photographed carrying shopping bags for Daisy in Beverly Hills. The day he said he had a critical board meeting, he was pictured at Disneyland, holding Daisy’s cotton candy. And the weekend he claimed the wind-tunnel data was corrupted and required his overnight presence in the lab, there was a photo of him sitting at Daisy’s parents’ dining table, smiling over a home-cooked roast. In the comments, Daisy’s relatives joked about “the future son-in-law” and asked when the wedding was. Wade had liked every single comment. My chest grew so tight I could barely breathe. I scrolled to her latest post. It was a close-up of a racing bike. My bike. The caption read: “He said he wanted to give me a lucky charm for my golden year. From today on, Caldwell’s legendary ‘Vow’ is officially rechristened ‘Little Bell’.” I stared at the image. The hand-carved letters of my name, “Keira”, which Wade had painstakingly engraved into the alloy frame years ago, had been ground away. In its place was a shiny, laser-etched silver bell. The realization hit me like cold water. The swap wasn’t a last-minute tactical decision. My demotion wasn’t temporary. He had planned this weeks ago. I raised my head, holding the phone up to his face. My voice was dangerously thin. “How do you explain this?” Wade glanced at the screen, his expression unchanged. “It’s just a PR stunt to build her brand, Keira. You can be mad at me, but don’t start spreading cheap rumors about a young girl.” “And the bike?” I pressed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Why did you grind my name off?” Wade finally stopped working and stood up to face me. There wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face—only a calm, infuriating rationality. “Keira, you’re thirty. Any other elite garage would have forced you out two years ago. I’m the only reason you’re still holding a primary seat.” I froze, the cruelty of his words leaving me numb. “You’re getting married next year,” Wade continued, as if he were explaining a simple business transaction. “You’re going to settle down and start a family soon anyway. The machine needs to be passed to the next generation, and this race is the perfect stage to launch Daisy’s career. What’s the issue here?” He reached out, his voice softening into a patronizing pat. “Be reasonable, Keira. Don’t make a scene.” A strange, absolute calm washed over me. I looked at him, nodding slowly. “I understand.” I turned and began pushing the heavy backup bike toward the starting grid. Wade let out a visible sigh of relief, clearly assuming I had surrendered. But he didn’t know that just seconds earlier, I had replied to Adrian’s message with a single word: “Yes.” When I lined up on the starting grid with a dusty, outdated machine, the grandstands erupted. Spectators stood up, pointing and shouting. “What the hell is going on? Why isn’t Keira on the primary?” “Is that her championship bike? Why is a rookie riding it?” “Putting a five-time champion on a scrap heap and giving the custom build to a novice? Has Caldwell Racing lost their minds?” Angry voices boomed from the front rows, directing their fury toward our pit. “Give Keira her machine back!” But their cries were ignored. The starter pistol cracked, and twenty high-performance engines screamed to life, tearing down the tarmac. The old backup bike was a beast. It lacked the smooth handling of my custom build; the engine ran incredibly hot, the heat radiating through the frame and scorching my inner thighs. But I didn’t care about the pain. My mind narrowed to a single, burning focus. Ride. Faster. I threw the bike into the corners, skimming centimeters from the rocky cliffs, leaning so low my knee sliders scraped the asphalt. Through the track speakers, the announcer’s voice grew increasingly frantic. “Keira is making a move! On a decommissioned machine!” “Oh my god, she’s slicing through the pack! She’s in the top five!” “Second place! Keira has taken second!” Meanwhile, on my championship bike, Daisy was collapsing under the pressure. She had started near the front, but as the technical mountain passes stretched on, she began to slip. Fifth. Seventh. Soon, she was swallowed by the mid-pack. The official track broadcast picked up the audio from her team radio. “Daisy is in tears! She’s crying in her helmet! The pressure is clearly too much for the rookie!” I tuned it all out. My eyes were locked entirely on the tail of the lead bike. Just one final climb, one sharp chicane, and I would take the lead. Suddenly, my comms channel crackled to life. Wade’s voice cut through, tight with suppressed rage. “Keira, that is enough. Slow down.” “Drop out of the lead pack.” “Fall back immediately and pull Daisy through the crosswinds.” I gripped the throttle, leaning into the wind. “No,” I said. The radio went silent for a beat. When Wade spoke again, his voice was deathly quiet. “Keira.” “Do not forget who owns your contract. If you disobey a direct team order, I will terminate you. You’ll be blacklisted from the sport, and I will sue you for every penny of the liquidated damages.” He paused, his voice dropping to a low threat. “And our wedding—if you keep acting like a child, I will seriously have to reconsider our future.” I watched the gap between me and the leader shrink. “I told you,” I said, my voice perfectly steady over the roar of the engine. “I don’t want the team. And I don’t want you.” “Wade.” “You have nothing left to threaten me with.” “My legacy is mine to keep.” The comms went silent. Wade didn’t yell. When he spoke, he sounded chillingly calm. “You’re going to regret this, Keira.” My stomach lurched. A fraction of a second later, the front forks began to shake violently. The steering dampener gave out completely. The handlebars whipped left and right, threatening to throw me off. Panic seized me as I realized what had happened. The bike had been sabotaged. I gripped the bars with everything I had, fighting the death wobble, forcing the machine toward the finish line. Even if I crashed, I was going to cross that line. But the speed was too high, the machine too broken. The front wheel caught a rut, and the bike high-sided, launching me into the air. The sound of metal slamming against rock echoed through the canyon. I hit the ground hard, rolling repeatedly until my body slammed into a boulder. Warm blood flowed down my forehead, blurring my vision. As my consciousness began to slip away, a faint whisper came through my helmet earpiece. “Keira,” Wade sighed, his voice laced with a strange, pitying sadness. “Why couldn’t you just listen?” Then, the world went completely black. I woke up late that evening in a sterile hospital room. The only person beside my bed was a young intern from the garage, a girl named Fiona. Fiona’s eyes were red, and the moment she saw me stir, she burst into tears and ran to call the doctor. The diagnosis was grim. My right femur was shattered in multiple places, and the skin on my right thigh had suffered severe third-degree burns from the overheating engine block. Even with the best surgeries, I would likely walk with a permanent limp. As for racing… My career was over. I stared blankly at the ceiling tiles, a suffocating weight crushing my chest. I couldn’t even find the voice to cry. Fiona buried her face in the edge of my mattress, sobbing. She was a young mechanic who had joined the garage simply because she idolized me. She never expected our first real interaction to be her watching me get wheeled out of an operating room. “It’s not fair,” she wept, her voice shaking with anger. “You were broken on the track, and Wade wouldn’t even ride in the ambulance with you. He stayed at the VIP tent to help Daisy handle the reporters.” “She finished fifth, and he’s throwing her a massive afterparty at the hotel. He hasn’t called once to check on you.” My throat was dry, my voice barely a whisper. “Did I… did I cross the line?” Fiona’s tears flowed faster. She hesitated for a long time before whispering, “No.” “You went down ten yards short. You didn’t get a time.” I closed my eyes, letting the tears slip quietly into my hair. The door clicked open, and Wade’s personal assistant walked in with two security guards. He told me Wade had ordered them to bring me to the press conference. Fiona jumped up, furious. “The doctor said she needs absolute rest! She’s severely injured, where do you think you’re taking her?” The assistant didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled out his phone and dialed Wade on speaker. Wade’s voice filled the room. “Keira. The press is already spinning a narrative that Daisy stole your seat and that the team forced you out. It’s damaging her brand.” “I need you to show up and clear the air. Tell them you decided to retire due to old injuries, and that you fully support Daisy as the future of Caldwell Racing.” Fiona was trembling with rage. I looked down at my heavily bandaged, immobilized leg. After a long silence, I spoke. “I’ll do it.” “But I want a full release. An immediate, mutual termination of my contract with no financial penalties.” Wade’s tone instantly dropped. “Are you still trying to negotiate with me, Keira?” “My leg is shattered, Wade,” I said, my voice dead. “I will likely never ride a bike again. I’m useless to your team. Letting me go is the easiest way to clear your books. I just want to ensure you don’t use those liquidated damages to hold me hostage.” The line went silent for a long moment. Finally, he uttered a single word. “Deal.” Thirty minutes later, I was lifted onto a wheelchair and wheeled into the hotel ballroom. Daisy was standing in the center of the room, wearing a stunning cocktail dress that matched the deep navy of Wade’s suit. She was laughing, sipping champagne with a group of major investors while Wade introduced her to the sport’s power brokers. When he saw me enter, he gave me a brief, unreadable glance before gesturing for the security team to wheel me onto the stage. In front of the blinding flashbulbs, Wade announced my official retirement due to health concerns, naming Daisy as the primary rider for the upcoming season. A reporter in the front row stood up. “Miss Mercer, what caused the crash today? There are rumors online that the backup bike’s telemetry was altered to ensure the rookie’s victory. Is there any truth to that?” The room went dead silent. All eyes turned to Daisy, whose lower lip began to tremble. Wade gently placed a hand on her shoulder, stepping up to the microphone. “There was no foul play,” he said smoothly. “Keira suffered a rider error due to the physical limitations of her age. The incident had nothing to do with the machinery or the team.” I sat in my wheelchair, my fingers curling tightly around the armrests, and kept my head bowed. Before the press conference even concluded, the online smear campaign had already begun. Articles flooded the web, claiming I was a washed-up veteran who refused to hand over the reins to younger talent. They painted me as a bitter loser trying to blame my own mistakes on the garage. Meanwhile, Daisy was hailed as a rising star who had shown immense promise by finishing fifth in her debut. Some blogs even posted photos of Wade and Daisy from her social media, calling them the ultimate power couple, noting how much better they looked together than Wade and a “weathered” racer like me. At the end of the night, Daisy, slightly tipsy, clung to Wade’s arm, whispering that she was too tired to drive home. Wade looked down at her with a soft, indulgent smile I hadn’t seen in years. “Alright. I’ll drive you.” Then, as if suddenly remembering I was there, he glanced at me in my wheelchair. “You can make your own way back to the hospital, right?” I looked at him and nodded quietly. Without another word, he walked out, guiding Daisy through the lobby doors. I sat alone in the empty, littered ballroom. “Let’s go,” I whispered to Fiona. But as we reached the lobby, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Adrian Ward, the manager of Aether Motorsports, stepped out. He walked up to my wheelchair, offering me his hand. “Keira,” he said softly. “Let’s go. I’m going to help you take back everything they stole.”

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My best friend has an entire jewelry box overflowing with custom-made rings, a fact she never misses an opportunity to complain about. “Every time he gets a tiny spark of inspiration, he designs another one for me,” she said, letting out a performative sigh as she sifted through them. “I can’t possibly wear them all. But if I try to sell them, he gets incredibly jealous. Why don’t you take a few? Just to help me clear some space.” Then, as if a sudden thought had struck her, a flush crept up her cheeks. “Oh, wait. I completely forgot. Adrian is a chief designer now. You probably wouldn’t even look at these.” I felt a sudden, sharp heat radiate from the simple platinum band resting on my own ring finger. It felt less like a piece of jewelry and more like a brand. Despite his reputation as a brilliant, rising designer, Adrian had never designed a single ring for me. Not even his flawed prototypes or cast-off drafts were allowed on my fingers. “I have standards for my art,” he had told me once, his voice cool and absolute whenever I asked. “If it’s not perfect, I won’t let it out of my studio.” As we nudged the jewelry box back and forth across the table, one of the rings slipped out and rolled onto the polished wood. I froze. The delicate, intertwined band was a design I knew intimately. It was the exact ring I had practically begged Adrian to make for me. … After eight years of living together, of watching him work late into the night, I knew Adrian’s creative brushstrokes better than my own reflection. “Isabel? What’s wrong?” Linda waved her hand in front of my face, her bright pink nails catching the light. My throat felt dry, lined with sand. “Nothing. It just… looks incredibly familiar.” Linda’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She quickly snatched the ring off the table, her movements slightly too frantic. “Well, contemporary jewelry is all starting to look the same these days,” she said, her voice carrying a forced lightness. “Don’t overthink it.” “Don’t overthink it.” But the uneasy weight in my chest refused to shift. It wasn’t until I had left Linda’s apartment and walked down to the street that I realized I had left my keys on her counter. I turned back, only to halt near the entrance of the building. Adrian’s black sedan was parked by the curb. I watched as he stepped out of the driver’s seat, walking with a familiar, easy stride straight into the lobby. He didn’t page her dial; he had a key fob. My heart contracted, a tight, cold spasm. I followed him up, my steps silent on the carpeted corridor. Standing outside Linda’s door, her muffled voice drifted through the thin wood, trembling with anxiety. “Adrian, Isabel seemed to recognize that ring today. What if she starts asking questions?” “She won’t,” Adrian’s voice came through, steady and utterly dismissive. “Isabel barely steps foot in my home studio. Even if she saw the drafts, she wouldn’t remember.” “Linda, stop worrying.” “Linda.” The casual tenderness in his voice when he said her name felt like a physical blow. A dark, suffocating wave of dread washed over me. I had to lean against the corridor wall to keep my knees from buckling. “I just feel so awful about this,” Linda sniffled, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Isabel is my best friend. She’s taken care of me since we were kids. When I lost my job, she brought me to Seattle and helped me get back on my feet. And now I’m doing this to her… I’m a horrible person…” “Linda, give me a little more time. I’ll handle it.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out the rest of their conversation. My chest felt hollowed out, as if something vital had been brutally torn from me. I didn’t have the strength to push the door open and demand answers. Numb and hollow, I walked back down to the street and returned to the apartment I shared with Adrian. Passing his locked studio, his dismissive words echoed in my head: “Isabel barely steps foot in my home studio.” I pushed the door open. The desk was cluttered with sketches, and his desktop computer was still humming. I sat down and began clicking through his digital design folders. Buried deep within the directories, I found an encrypted folder labeled simply “L”. I hesitated for a second, then typed in Linda’s birthday. The folder clicked open. Rows upon rows of detailed design files filled the screen, each one labeled with a specific date. The first sketch was dated October 11, 2023. It was titled “First Sight”. That was the exact day I had brought Linda to Seattle to live with us. It was the first time Adrian had ever laid eyes on her. I remembered asking Adrian once if he could design a small piece to commemorate the anniversary of our first date. He had scoffed, tapping his pencil against his sketchpad. “Design should be organic, Isabel. I don’t want to force it for the sake of a calendar date.” I had accepted his explanation, swallowed my disappointment, and tried to respect his creative freedom. The second design was dated Valentine’s Day, 2024. That date was our actual anniversary, a day we never celebrated because Adrian insisted that commercial holidays were beneath him. “The most important thing is our daily companionship, Isabel, not some capitalist ritual.” I had believed him. Only now did I realize he didn’t lack a romantic bone in his body; he just didn’t want to waste his romance on me. He had designed a delicate, vintage-inspired lace band for Linda to celebrate their first joint holiday. On that very night, he had told me an urgent client required him to stay at the studio overnight. There were hundreds of designs, spanning the last three years. Every milestone they shared—their first trip together, their first New Year’s Eve countdown—had its own ring. Even the ring I had begged him for, the one he claimed was a flawed prototype, had been specifically designed to comfort Linda when she was bedridden with severe cramps. My vision blurred, and my hand shook so violently I could barely control the mouse. Yet, I forced myself to scroll to the very bottom of the directory. My entire body went rigid. It was an unfinished draft of a wedding ring. The intricate metalwork was meticulously shaped to spell out Linda’s name in elegant, hidden cursive. Adrian had always told me he couldn’t design our wedding rings because he hadn’t found the “creative spark of pure happiness” yet. Now I knew the truth. His definition of happiness simply didn’t include me. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, but the tears still spilled over, hot and silent. After a long time, I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and dialed my supervisor’s number. “Ruth, about the transfer to the Geneva office… I’ll take it.” An eight-year relationship built on a foundation of polite neglect. I was done begging for scraps. “Really?” Ruth sounded genuinely surprised, though her tone quickly turned cautious. “The Geneva branch is a major commitment, Isabel. It’s a minimum of two years. Will your partner be okay with that?” If she had asked me yesterday, I would have hesitated. I would have worried about Adrian’s meals, his laundry, and how the long distance might strain our relationship. But those worries required a foundation of mutual care. He didn’t love me. Why would he care where I was? “I can handle it, Ruth,” I said, my voice steady. Sensing the finality in my tone, Ruth didn’t press further. “Alright. I’ll book your ticket. You leave in two days.” After hanging up, I looked up Linda’s public social media accounts. Since moving to Seattle, she had built a modest following as a lifestyle influencer. Her feed was dominated by photos of her hand, showcasing various exquisite rings. She wrote elaborate, poetic stories for each one, and her comment section was filled with envious followers praising her “thoughtful, wealthy boyfriend.” I had always assumed she was dating some reclusive tech entrepreneur, which was why she never introduced him. How incredibly naive I had been. Every single ring on her feed matched a file in Adrian’s hidden directory. I had even left supportive comments on those posts, wishing her endless happiness. Her most recent post was a photo of a half-eaten palmier pastry from a boutique bakery downtown. Her caption read: “Eating alone is sweet, but sharing it with you is pure happiness.” When Adrian came home that evening, he set a small, ribbon-tied box of palmiers on the kitchen island. “I remembered you liked these,” he said, offering a tired smile. “I stopped by that bakery on my way home.” It was the exact same bakery. But he had forgotten one fundamental thing: I had always detested sweets. Swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, I looked at him and said, “Adrian, let’s get married.” Adrian stiffened, his hand pausing over his briefcase. “Let’s wait a little longer, Isabel. I’ve been in a creative rut lately, and I want to design the perfect wedding ring for us first.” Always the same excuse. My mind drifted back to his early days in the industry, when he couldn’t get a single commission and resorted to selling wire-wrapped jewelry at street markets. To secure him a prime spot, I would wake up at five in the morning to stand in the freezing rain. I had caught a fever that winter but refused to see a doctor, saving every penny to pay his booth fees. Back then, Adrian would hold my chapped hands and cry. “Isabel, I swear I’m going to design the most beautiful wedding ring in the world for you. I want everyone to see how happy you are.” I had believed him. I had waited from age twenty to twenty-eight. “I don’t want to wait anymore, Adrian.” Startled by my bluntness, Adrian’s expression darkened. “Isabel, can you stop suffocating me? Is a piece of paper really that important to you?” He turned and slammed the bedroom door behind him. I closed my eyes, letting the silence of the apartment wash over me. The next morning, I went to the boutique hotel where I worked to finalize my transfer paperwork. As I was leaving, a colleague asked if I could cover the evening shift for her. By nightfall, the banquet manager informed me we were hosting a private VIP celebration for a design studio. “The owner is a rising star in the jewelry scene, Adrian,” the manager whispered. “He won a major regional award tonight and is planning to propose to his muse. We cleared out the premier private dining room for them.” My heart skipped a beat. Despite everything, a foolish, desperate part of me wondered… but the hope was dead before it could even form. When the elevator doors opened, Adrian walked out, and right beside him was Linda. They were dressed in matching, formal evening wear, looking like a perfect couple from a high-society magazine. When Adrian’s studio had started making a profit, he had told me he didn’t want me visiting the office because “professional boundaries are important.” I had respected his wishes. But seeing how easily his employees interacted with Linda, I realized his boundaries were reserved only for me. “The room looks amazing, Adrian! Don’t keep her waiting!” “Yeah, the ring is right there in your pocket!” “You designed it specifically for Linda, boss. It’s time to make it official!” The staff’s playful teasing echoed down the hallway. Linda blushed, looking down at her shoes. Adrian smiled, a look of pure warmth on his face as he pulled a small velvet box from his coat. He slipped the intricate ring onto Linda’s finger with a gentleness I had never seen him display. My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. Even though no one in that hallway knew who I was, I felt stripped bare, exposed in my own quiet humiliation. Suddenly, Adrian’s eyes drifted toward the reception desk. Our gaze met. The smile died on his face, and the hallway fell silent. I squeezed my hands into tight fists, turned on my heel, and walked away. I wasn’t running; I simply refused to give the last eight years of my life an undignified ending. But Adrian followed me out to the lobby. “Isabel, don’t make a scene,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance and a patronizing attempt to soothe me. “The employees were just joking around. It was all for show.” I stared at him, saying nothing. Adrian kept going, his words tumbling out faster. “Linda… she provided the core conceptual inspiration for this award-winning collection. I only brought her along tonight to show my professional appreciation.” He paused, adding, “Besides, you were the one who asked me to look after her when she moved here. I thought I was doing this for you.” “For me.” When Linda first arrived in Seattle, alone and overwhelmed, I had asked him to show her some kindness. I remembered how Adrian had scoffed back then, complaining that Linda wasn’t a child. Yet now, he was using my past kindness as a shield. “Was putting a ring on her finger for me too?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Linda appeared at the end of the corridor, looking small and fragile. “Isabel, please don’t be mad,” she stammered, tears welling in her eyes. “It was just a silly game. This ring… Adrian actually designed it for you.” She hurriedly slid the ring off her finger and tried to force it onto mine. But our hands were different sizes. The sharp, unpolished edge of the setting scraped hard against my knuckle, drawing a thin line of blood. Linda gasped, pulling her hands back. “Oh my god, Isabel, I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to…” I looked at her tear-streaked face, and memories of our childhood flashed before my eyes. When her stepmother refused to give her lunch money, I had shared my meals. When she faced an abusive boss in her first job, I spent three sleepless nights drafting her legal complaints to secure her severance. I had never complained. I had loved her like a sister. And now, she was holding the knife that was tearing my life apart. Sensing my cold gaze, Linda shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe… maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to cause trouble between you two.” “No,” Adrian said, stepping forward to catch her arm. His voice was thick with protective anger. “You have a sensitive stomach and you haven’t eaten all evening. Go back inside.” He turned back to me, his eyes turning cold. “Isabel, must you always be so incredibly petty? Linda is your best friend. Why do you have to humiliate her like this?” “Petty.” The word felt like a physical slap. It shattered the very last piece of devotion I held for him. Adrian had seemingly forgotten that during his leanest years, I had worked three separate jobs to keep us afloat. I had skipped meals, survived on instant coffee, and worked through the night, eventually developing a chronic stomach ulcer. I still remembered lying awake in the dark, curled in pain, trying not to wake him. After eight years, he couldn’t remember my dietary restrictions, but he knew exactly how sensitive Linda’s stomach was. The vast chasm between his care for her and his neglect of me left me entirely hollow. Linda looked between us, stepping back. “I’m fine, really. I don’t want you and Isabel fighting because of me.” She turned to leave, but in her haste, she collided with an intoxicated male patron coming out of the adjacent lounge. “Watch where you’re going!” the man barked, slurring his words. Linda’s eyes welled with fresh tears. “You’re the one who ran into me.” The confrontation escalated in an instant. The man, red-faced and furious, snatched a heavy cocktail glass from a nearby tray and slammed it down onto the marble counter. “What did you say to me?” The glass shattered. A stray shard flew through the air, slicing across my cheek. I felt the sharp sting before the blood began to trickle down my jaw. But Adrian didn’t look at me. In that split second, his body had moved on pure instinct, pulling Linda tightly against his chest, shielding her from the flying debris. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” he asked her, his voice trembling with panic. At that moment, I knew I had lost. Completely and irrevocably. When Adrian finally looked up and saw the blood on my face, a flash of guilt crossed his eyes, and he made a move toward me. But Linda let out a soft wail. “My ankle… I think I twisted it…” Adrian’s attention snapped back to her instantly. Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms. “Don’t worry, I’m taking you to the emergency room.” He cast a fleeting, apologetic glance back at me. “Linda has a very low pain tolerance. I have to get her to a doctor. Get someone at the desk to help you with that scratch, and I’ll come back to pick you up later.” Then, he hurried down the hall, leaving me behind. The physical sting on my cheek was nothing compared to the cold numbness spreading through my chest. The drunk patron, seeing his target leave, turned his anger on me. Discovering I was a manager, he pointed a finger at my face. “I am a premier rewards member here! Is this how your staff treats guests?” His shouting drew a crowd. If he filed a formal complaint, it would ruin my colleague’s performance record for the quarter. I had no choice but to swallow my pride and apologize. “If you’re really sorry,” the man sneered, pouring three double shots of high-proof whiskey onto the bar, “drink these. Then we’ll call it even.” The alcohol hit my empty, ulcer-damaged stomach like liquid fire. A violent wave of nausea and sharp, stabbing pain radiated through my abdomen. By the time I staggered out of the hotel lobby, I could barely stand. I leaned against the cold brick wall, my hand shaking as I dialed Adrian’s number. “Adrian… my stomach hurts so bad… please, can you come get me…” “Just hold on, Isabel. I can’t leave right now—” Before he could finish, Linda’s voice echoed in the background, crying out in pain. Adrian hung up immediately. My vision went black, and the pain dragged me down into unconsciousness. When I opened my eyes, the sterile smell of disinfectant filled my nose. A doctor stood over my bed, looking at me with a mixture of pity and frustration. “You need to be much more careful,” the doctor said softly. “How could you drink high-proof alcohol while pregnant?” My heart stopped. “The… pregnancy?” I whispered, my hand instinctively drifting to my flat, empty stomach. “I’m sorry,” the doctor replied gently. “We couldn’t save the pregnancy.” A dull, heavy ache settled deep in my bones. The loss of that tiny, unborn life took the very last of my lingering hope with it. The following afternoon, I discharged myself and returned to the quiet apartment. Adrian wasn’t there. I turned on my phone and saw a text he had sent the previous night: “Linda took a nasty fall and there’s no one else to watch her. Isabel, please be the bigger person for once.” I didn’t reply. As I closed the messaging app, a notification from his studio’s official account popped up on my feed. It was a professionally shot photo from the previous night’s dinner. Adrian was on one knee, sliding a ring onto Linda’s finger under a canopy of fairy lights. The caption was filled with romance and promises of forever. Linda’s personal account had already been tagged by his followers. The comment section was a flood of congratulations. “No wonder that ring is so beautiful! Adrian outdid himself.” “You two are absolute couple goals!” “A match made in heaven.” I stared at the screen, a cold, dry laugh escaping my throat. I was done keeping secrets. I compiled a digital folder of my eight years with Adrian—the rent receipts I paid, the hospital bills from my overworked years, the dates of his designs matching Linda’s timeline, and finally, my miscarriage discharge papers from last night. I posted them all directly under his studio’s announcement. “Now you two can love each other without any secrets. Congratulations to my best friend and my partner of eight years.” I turned off my phone, grabbed my pre-packed suitcases, and walked out the door toward the airport. As I boarded the plane to Geneva, my phone, which I had briefly turned back on to check my boarding pass, began to ring frantically. The screen flashed with a single name: “Adrian”.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “512288”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Dating Jack for seven years meant living by his rules. Everything was split 50/50. Dinner, utilities, rent—even Valentine’s Day gifts had to be balanced down to the penny against the receipt. If he bought me a forty-dollar lipstick, I had to find a tie that cost exactly forty dollars to give him in return. If there was a two-dollar difference, he’d Venmo me the balance with the memo: “Adjustment.” My friends used to joke that my boyfriend was a walking spreadsheet. For seven years, I defended him: “That’s just who he is. He’s fair to everyone.” Until Prime Day, when I saw his childhood friend’s Instagram post. A nine-photo grid. Screenshots of her cleared-out shopping cart, totaling $4,200. Her caption: “Thank you, Jack. Clearing my cart every Prime Day for five years straight. You’re the best!” And underneath, a like from Jack, with his comment: “Told you, don’t worry about it.” I scrolled back through her profile. Last Prime Day. The year before. The year before that. Every single year. A nine-photo grid. Cleared-out cart. Thanking Jack. I stared at my phone, remembering my trip to urgent care last month when my stomach ulcers flared up. He had slid the bill across the counter to me at the discharge window: “Pay it first, and you can Venmo me half when we get home.” Seventy-three dollars and twenty-five cents. He wouldn’t even let the copay slide. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I didn’t demand an explanation. I simply opened my work email and signed the contract for the corporate transfer to Singapore. 1 “Why hasn’t your signed relocation agreement come through yet?” “I just signed it. It should be in your inbox now.” I hung up with HR and slowly turned over the framed photo of Jack and me on my desk, facing it down. The front door clicked open. Jack walked in, carrying a cheap plastic bag from the corner bodega containing two pre-packaged tuna sandwiches close to their expiration date. “Dinner,” he said, tossing the bag onto the coffee table. “BOGO deal. Six bucks total. Send me three.” Without saying a word, I pulled out my phone, scanned his QR code, and Venmoed him three dollars. Jack stared at his screen for a second, his brow furrowing slightly. “No memo today? Don’t you usually write ‘Dinner 50/50’?” “Forgot,” I said quietly. “Try to remember next time. It messes up my end-of-month reconciliation.” He pulled out his chair at the dining table and opened his laptop, with practiced ease pulling up the spreadsheet titled Relationship Fund. It was his masterpiece—the thing he was proudest of. Over our seven years together, every single expense had been tracked in this spreadsheet, calculated down to the decimal. “For your urgent care visit last month, I covered seventy-three twenty-five.” His long, slender fingers tapped rhythmic patterns on the keyboard. “Plus the three dollars from tonight, you owe me forty-eight dollars and seventy-five cents.” “Sure. I’ll send it now.” I kept my head down, navigating the app, clearing my debt to him dollar by dollar. Right then, his screen lit up. Phoebe sent a voice memo. It played automatically, her voice loud, bright, and sweet in the quiet room. “Jack! I saw that new Dyson Airwrap online, but it’s so expensive… You said you’d get me something big for my birthday this year. Does that still stand?” A soft, genuine smile spread across Jack’s face. It was an expression I rarely saw anymore—one he never used when staring at his spreadsheets. He picked up his phone, holding down the microphone button. “Of course. Send me the link.” Within thirty seconds, Phoebe sent a screenshot. Five hundred and forty-nine dollars. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jack authorized the payment, his thumb tapping the confirmation screen with practiced speed. He didn’t search for a coupon code. He didn’t ask if there was a sale. I watched his fluid, effortless movements, and then looked down at the dry, cheap tuna sandwiches on our table. A five-hundred-dollar hair styler, paid in full, without a second thought. Meanwhile, my urgent care copay of seventy-three dollars had to be sliced down the middle, exacted to the penny. “Is it Phoebe’s birthday?” I asked, my voice flat. “Yeah, next week.” He didn’t look up. “You’re spending that much on her. Do you expect her to pay half?” Jack’s fingers froze over the keyboard. He looked up, his eyes flashing with a familiar, weary irritation. “Iris, are you trying to pick a fight again?” “I’m just curious about how you define fairness.” “Phoebe is practically my little sister. What’s wrong with buying her a birthday gift?” His brow pinched, his tone sharp with the annoyance of being interrupted. “Why do you have to compete with her? You and I split things because we are equal, independent adults. I respect your independence.” I respect your independence. He had used that phrase like a shield for seven years. In the beginning, I believed him. I thought he was progressive, modern, treating me as an equal partner rather than a dependent. Now, it just made me feel hollow. “Right. I’m not competing,” I said, putting my phone away. “Then why the attitude?” “My stomach is still acting up. I’m going to bed.” I didn’t wait for his reply. I turned and walked into the bedroom. Closing the door behind me, I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed and opened the closet. My wardrobe was sparse. Any purchase that went beyond bare-minimum necessities would be flagged in red on Jack’s spreadsheet at the end of the month, followed by a lecture on “lifestyle inflation.” But I knew for a fact that the designer bags and expensive perfumes he bought Phoebe had never touched a single cell of those spreadsheets. From the living room, Jack’s voice drifted through the door. “Hey babe, tomorrow’s the weekend. We should go put down the deposit on the wedding venue. It’s two thousand dollars. Make sure you have your thousand ready.” I folded my last winter coat, pressing down the creases. “I’m busy tomorrow. Go ahead without me.” “You need to be there to sign. Otherwise, you’ll complain about the layout.” “Whatever you choose is fine.” “What is wrong with you today?” 2 When Jack pushed the bedroom door open, I had just slid the suitcase back under the bed. He leaned against the frame, his eyes scanning the half-empty closet. “Why are you packing up your clothes?” “Donating stuff I don’t wear anymore,” I lied easily. He didn’t question it. In his mind, I was a permanent fixture in his life. I would never leave. “We’re doing the venue walkthrough tomorrow. Phoebe’s coming too.” He walked over to the dresser, rummaging for his pajamas. “Why is she coming?” “She offered to help us coordinate. Plus, she wants to pick out her maid of honor dress while we’re there.” He said it so casually. I watched him from behind. “And who’s paying for her dress?” He paused, turning around to face me. “It’s a couple hundred bucks. I’ll just cover it. Do we really need to split hairs over this, Iris?” “I thought you believed in clean accounts.” “Are you seriously going to be this petty about everything?” His patience was gone. “Phoebe is trying to help us. Can you please just be the bigger person?” “I am being the bigger person,” I said, taking a step back. “Which is why you two should go ahead without me tomorrow.” The next morning, I went to the leasing office alone. I cancelled the application for the townhouse we had spent the last month touring—the one we were supposed to sign the lease on next week. The leasing agent looked at me in disbelief. “Ms. Campbell, you and Mr. Davis have been looking at this place for weeks. I thought you were putting down the deposit today?” “We changed our minds.” “Is it the security deposit? We might be able to work out a payment plan…” “No, thank you. The wedding is off.” I signed the cancellation form and walked out into the crisp morning air. The sun was blinding. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a photo from Phoebe. She was standing in front of a mirror at a high-end boutique, wearing an incredibly intricate, beaded champagne gown. In the background, Jack sat on a velvet sofa, staring down at his phone. Her text read: Do you like this one, Iris? Jack says it makes my skin tone pop, but it’s a little pricey… I zoomed in on the photo. The price tag was hanging off the sleeve, partially visible. $1,800. A maid of honor dress that cost more than the budget we’d allocated for my entire bridal look. I didn’t reply. I muted her notifications. Thirty minutes later, Jack called. I answered. “Where the hell are you? Phoebe and I have been waiting for an hour.” His voice was tight with frustration. “I’m running some errands.” “What errand is more important than our wedding venue? Phoebe has a Pilates class at two.” “If she’s that busy, you two should just make the decision.” “Iris, if you’re going to throw a tantrum, at least choose a better time.” Jack took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “Fine. If you’re not coming, I’ll handle it. Phoebe found a dress she loves. It’s eighteen hundred. I think it’s a bit much, but she really has her heart set on it.” There was a brief pause on the line, as if he was waiting for me to object. I said nothing. “Here’s what we’ll do: we’ll put it under the general wedding budget.” He laid out his solution. “So, we’ll just split it. Nine hundred each.” I laughed. A sharp, physical laugh that made my stomach ache. “She likes it, you’re buying it, and I’m supposed to pay half?” “She’s our maid of honor! It’s a wedding expense!” He sounded entirely justified. “I don’t need a maid of honor, and I don’t need an eighteen-hundred-dollar dress.” “You are being completely unreasonable.” Jack let out a cold, bitter laugh. “I’m not going to argue with you on the phone. I already paid for it. Just Venmo me the nine hundred when you get home.” “I’m not paying you, Jack.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what I said.” 3 Jack didn’t come home for dinner that night. He texted saying he was going out with some colleagues from work. I sat on the living room floor, sorting through the clutter in the drawers. At the bottom of one, I found an old smartwatch. I had saved up for weeks to buy it for his birthday during our third year together. He wore it for three days before taking it off. His excuse was that the band wasn’t breathable and irritated his skin when he worked out. A month later, Phoebe bought him a vintage watch. He had worn it every day for the last four years. I tossed the smartwatch into the trash bag and kept digging until my fingers brushed against a cold, metal ring. It was Biscuit’s collar. Biscuit was a stray Golden Retriever we had found shivering behind our apartment complex two years ago. When we first brought him in, he had parvo and was on the verge of death. I stayed up for three nights straight at the 24-hour animal hospital, spending over two thousand dollars of my own savings to keep him alive. Jack had told me then: “You’re the one who wanted to save him. The vet bills are on you.” And I accepted it. Biscuit was the sweetest dog. He seemed to know he was rescued, never barking, always gentle. Every time Jack came home from work, Biscuit would be waiting at the door with his slippers in his mouth. Eventually, even Jack warmed up to him, patting his head and buying him cheap treats. Until six months ago, when Phoebe came over. The moment she saw Biscuit, she screamed and jumped onto the kitchen counter. “Jack, I can’t do big dogs! What if he bites me?” Jack had quickly locked Biscuit out on the balcony. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless.” “But his fur… I can’t breathe when there’s pet dander in the air. I think I’m having an allergic reaction.” She clutched her chest, wheezing dramatically. That very night, after she left, Jack gave me an ultimatum. “Get rid of the dog.” “Why? Biscuit is perfectly trained.” “Phoebe is allergic. How is she supposed to visit us if we have dog hair everywhere?” I stared at him, stunned by his casual disregard. “This is my home too. Biscuit is part of our family.” “Are you seriously choosing a dog over me?” His brow furrowed. “I already talked to a guy who has a farm upstate. He’s coming to pick him up tomorrow.” “Don’t you dare.” It was the first time in seven years I had screamed at him, my eyes burning with tears. But he didn’t care. When I got home from work the next day, the balcony was empty. Only a solitary water bowl remained. I spent a week searching, even driving up to the acquaintance’s place upstate. The man told me the dog had slipped out of his truck at a gas station along the highway. He didn’t know where he went. I sat on the gravel driveway that night and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. When Jack called, his voice held nothing but mild confusion. “It’s just a stray dog, Iris. Why are you acting like you lost your mind? If you want a pet that badly, we can get a hypoallergenic cat later.” Just a dog. To him, nothing I loved was ever worth keeping. I gripped the cold metal of the collar, my fingers tightening until they hurt. The front door swung open. Jack walked in, smelling of whiskey and stale smoke. Seeing me on the floor with the collar in my hand, his face darkened instantly. “Are you seriously still holding onto that old junk?” He kicked off his shoes and stepped closer. “It’s late. Go wash up and go to sleep.” I looked up at him. “Jack, when Biscuit went missing, did you actually look for him at all?” He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. “Why are you dragging up ancient history again?” “I just want to know.” “Yes, I looked. I drove around the block once, didn’t see him, and came back.” He pulled off his tie with an irritated yank. “It’s been six months. Can you stop obsessing over this?” I stood up, slipping the collar into my pocket. “You’re right,” I said softly. “It’s time to let go.” He let out a sigh of relief, assuming I was yielding, just as I always did. “There’s a group dinner tomorrow night. Phoebe’s coming too.” He spoke over his shoulder as he walked toward the bathroom. “Tyler and the guys said they haven’t seen you in ages. Get ready early, and wear something nice.” “I’m not going.” “Iris, seriously, what is your problem?” He stopped, turning back to face me. “You’ve been walking around with this miserable face for days. I’ve had just about enough.” 4 It was my last day before the move. My flight to Singapore was scheduled for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I finished checking out at the office, handed in my credentials, and returned to the empty apartment. Over the last week, I had slowly, quietly packed away my life. Piece by piece, like an army of ants, I cleared out my existence from the space. Even my toothbrush was gone from the bathroom sink. I pulled my single suitcase to the entryway, leaving it by the door. Then, I sat down at the dining table and opened Jack’s spreadsheet on my phone. Seven years. Two thousand five hundred and fifty-five days. I went through every single expense he had ever logged. After deducting the money he owed me, I owed him exactly four hundred and sixty-eight dollars and twenty-three cents. I opened my banking app and transferred the exact amount to his account. In the payment description, I wrote: Paid in full. Moments after the transfer went through, my phone rang. “Why did you just send me money?” Jack’s voice was nearly drowned out by the thumping bass of a bar in the background. “I thought we liked keeping clean accounts.” “Look, stop being dramatic,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “We’re at the lounge. Grab an Uber and get over here. Everyone’s asking for you.” “I’m not coming. I’m tired.” “Iris, Phoebe wore her new dress tonight. Everyone’s talking about how great she looks.” His voice dropped, suggesting he had stepped away from the crowd. “Just come out for my sake. Put in an appearance, and we can forget about you splitting the cost of the dress. How about that?” A bribe of nine hundred dollars to swallow my dignity while Phoebe flaunted her dress in front of our friends. Seven years of this cycle: a slap in the face followed by a cheap peace offering. “Jack,” I said quietly. “Yeah?” “I hope you and Phoebe get exactly what you deserve.” There was a long pause on the line. “What the hell is wrong with you?” his voice turned freezing cold. “Phoebe and I are friends. You’re seriously going to make a scene in front of everyone because of your jealousy?” “Believe whatever you want.” “Fine. Don’t come. Stay home and think about how you’re acting.” He cut the line. I stared at the black screen, feeling absolutely nothing. Thirty minutes later, my rideshare arrived downstairs. I took one final look at the apartment where I had lived for five years. He had chosen the dark gray couch cushions; I had hated them. Phoebe had suggested the sage green curtains; they had always given me a headache. There was nothing of me left here. I pulled the door shut behind me, leaving it unlocked. I slid the key under the doormat. The highway to the airport was empty under the night sky. Sitting in the backseat, watching the streetlights bleed past the window, I opened my phone. I blocked Jack’s number. I left every group chat we shared. And then, I popped out the SIM card I had used for seven years and dropped it into the rideshare’s small trash bin. I slid in the new international SIM card my company had issued me. — At eleven that night, Jack stumbled into the apartment, smelling of alcohol. “Iris, have you finally gotten over yourself?” He called out to the bedroom, expecting the usual silence of a cold shoulder. Nothing. As he kicked off his shoes, he glanced at the entryway rack. My everyday flats were missing. He frowned, walking straight to the bathroom. The cup on the vanity was empty. My toothbrush was gone. His brows knit tighter as he marched into the bedroom and yanked the closet doors open. My side was completely bare. Not even a wire hanger remained. The alcohol flushed out of his system instantly. He grabbed his phone, searched my name, and typed a message. Where did you move your stuff to? He hit send. A red exclamation mark popped up immediately. Message could not be delivered. You are no longer connected with this contact.

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Early Saturday morning, my roommate Cassie walked over to my bed. “Becca, can I borrow your Costco card? I just need to run in and grab some things.” I was too sleep-deprived to think it through. Since a Costco card is just a membership pass and not an actual payment method, I didn’t see the harm in it. I mumbled an agreement and drifted back to sleep. By the time my eyes cracked open again, the afternoon sun was cutting a sharp, dusty line across my dorm room. It was 2:00 PM. I reached for my phone, and the screen was already drowning in notifications from our sophomore class group chat. Cassie: Hey guys, since the new Costco just opened up down the road, I figured some of you might not have had a chance to check it out. I’m going tomorrow. My treat—grab whatever you want. The replies were a cascade of sudden, sycophantic praise. “Cassie, since when are you a secret heiress?” “Wow, big spender! Thanks, boss!” I stared at the screen, my brain struggling to connect the girl in those texts with the roommate I actually knew. Cassie’s family was struggling—deeply so. She was on the university’s maximum financial aid package, and her daily life was a masterclass in aggressive survival. She worked long hours washing dishes at the campus dining hall, mostly because it paid a small stipend and, more importantly, came with free meals. Where on earth was she getting the money to host a wholesale shopping spree? Then, a cold realization bloomed in the pit of my stomach. My card. Did she think the membership card was a pre-loaded gift card? Did she think my annual fee meant there was actual cash sitting on that little piece of plastic? 1. The new Costco had opened near campus a few weeks ago, and it was all anyone could talk about. I’d gone out and bought an Executive Membership the very day it opened. Not for any logical reason, really—I just had a massive craving for their bulk snacks. I’d always loved their giant tubs of peanut butter pretzels and the massive bakery muffins, but since there hadn’t been a location near my hometown, my parents used to ship them to me in oversized cardboard boxes. Using my parents’ shared account always felt slightly stifling, though. They could track every single transaction, every late-night run for chocolate-covered almonds. So, I sucked it up, paid the annual fee myself, and walked out feeling a strange, adult sense of sweet independence. When I got back to the dorm, my roommates were sitting around the cramped common area, debating whether it was worth the money to sign up. I threw my hands up in a grand, generous gesture. “Don’t bother spending the cash. You guys can just use mine whenever you want.” Everyone was there, including Cassie. The offer had hovered in the air, a casual piece of college camaraderie. And then came this morning. The sun wasn’t even up when she shook my shoulder. “Cassie, what the hell?” I groaned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I’ve never been a morning person, and being jolted awake at dawn is a surefire way to ruin my mood. But she didn’t seem to notice—or care about—my irritation. She stood over me, her hands clasped together. “Becca, can I borrow your Costco card?” My brain was still fogged with sleep. It took me a few seconds to even register what she was asking for. Seeing me hesitate, her face tightened, and her voice took on a sharp, whiny edge. “You literally said we could all use it. I’ve never even been to one. Come on, Becca. Just do me a favor and let me borrow it.” I shrugged it off. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a laminated pass to get through the sliding glass doors. And looking at her tense, expectant posture, I knew that if I said no, she’d probably stand there arguing until my Saturday morning was completely ruined. “Fine, it’s on my desk. Just let me sleep.” I let the heavy warmth of sleep pull me back under, completely missing the warning signs. When I finally woke up and saw the 99+ unread messages, my heart did a little flutter. I thought there had been some kind of campus emergency. I scrolled back to 9:30 AM. Cassie had posted in the group chat, inviting everyone on a trip to Costco. Some of the wealthier, more cynical kids had immediately started poking fun at her. “Why would we go with you? To stare at the ceiling? Do you even know how expensive bulk shopping is?” “Honestly, I doubt you can even afford the parking.” Cassie didn’t back down. Instead, she dropped the bomb: “My treat. Grab whatever you want.” That shut them up. The teasing turned to immediate, desperate flattery. But I knew Cassie. I lived with her. Her monthly allowance from her parents was barely enough to cover laundry, let alone groceries. She survived on campus jobs, taking the worst shifts at the dining hall because it guaranteed her a hot meal she didn’t have to pay for. Even if she somehow had a sudden windfall of cash, Cassie was not the type to share it. She was deeply, painfully frugal—except when it came to her own image. She had once taken out a high-interest point-of-sale loan just to buy a designer winter coat she couldn’t afford, just so she could wear it to lectures. When she ran out of money, she would casually “borrow” our food to survive. A splash of my oat milk here, a scoop of Leah’s peanut butter there. Once or twice was fine, but over months, it became an exhausting tax on our patience. We’d tried gently bringing it up, but she’d just nod and then, when she thought we weren’t looking, rifle through our drawers anyway. She was fiercely protective of her own resources, yet entirely comfortable consuming ours. So why this sudden, reckless generosity? Then, the puzzle pieces clicked. She had heard me complaining about how expensive the membership fee was a few days ago. She must have thought the Costco card was a loaded debit card. She thought my annual fee was actual store credit. 2. The idea was so absurd that if it were anyone else, I would have laughed it off. But Cassie had grown up in an incredibly isolated, impoverished rural town. Our academic advisor had once subtly mentioned her background to us, asking us to be patient with her transition to college life. She truly might not understand how these wholesale clubs worked. Feeling a sudden knot of anxiety, I decided to call her. The first two calls rang out. On the third, just as I was about to hang up, she finally answered. The moment the line connected, a wave of hesitation hit me. How was I supposed to ask her this? “Hey, do you realize you’re broke?” What if she actually did have the money? What if she’d saved up from her dining hall shifts to do something nice for her classmates? If I brought it up, I’d look like the elitist roommate making cruel assumptions based on her background. I didn’t want to humiliate her. It’s not that I looked down on her, but her methods of saving money were legendary in our dorm. Once, we’d gone out for a group dinner. Cassie refused to order anything, sitting there with an empty plate, watching us eat. Every time I reached for another slice of garlic bread, she would let out a loud, pointed cough. I didn’t realize what she was doing until after we paid and left. She pretended she’d left her umbrella at the table, went back inside, and packed up all our leftovers. The next day, she reheated the food, packaged it into small containers, and sold it to the girls down the hall as “homemade stir-fry.” We were horrified when we found out. But she just beamed, completely immune to our lectures on hygiene and basic ethics, thrilled by her profit margin. That was just the tip of the iceberg. During her period, she would spend hours sitting in the communal bathroom stalls to avoid buying tampons. When we finally felt bad and gave her some of ours, she’d turn around and sell them to underclassmen for a dollar a piece. She used AI-generated photos of damaged goods to get refunds on Amazon. She practically cleared out the dining hall’s supply of napkins and toilet paper every single week. I lived in constant fear that one day, someone was going to lose their temper and physically confront her. Yet, despite this desperate penny-pinching, her vanity was boundless. She would starve herself for a week just to buy a knockoff handbag, all while maintaining an online persona of a wealthy girl simply “experiencing the rustic charm of campus life.” Because we never publicly called her out, most of our classmates still bought into the act. “Hello? Becca? What do you want? International minutes are expensive,” she snapped over the line. “This call is on your dime, by the way.” I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. “Never mind. I was just wondering when you’d be back.” “Late. Don’t wait up.” She hung up. She did come back late—just minutes before the dorm’s midnight curfew. Before she arrived, Leah was sitting on her bed, venting her frustration. “I thought college was supposed to be the best four years of my life,” Leah muttered, throwing her hands in the air. “Instead, I’m living with a literal psychopath.” “She doesn’t listen to a word anyone says.” “I’ve told her a thousand times: do not cook raw garlic and fish in the bedroom. My clean laundry smells like a cheap takeout place. How am I supposed to wear this to my internship interview?” “And she never washes her dishes. There are actual fruit flies hovering over her desk.” Leah was practically vibrating with rage, trying to get all her anger out before Cassie walked through the door. Fiona and I nodded in silent solidarity. Our dorm didn’t have a balcony, so the only place to dry our clothes was on a rack near the window—which happened to be right next to Cassie’s bed. To save money on dining hall meals, Cassie had bought a cheap hotplate and cooked heavy, pungent meals right in the middle of our small room. The grease and smoke clung to everything we owned. We’d tried to negotiate shifting our beds around, but Cassie had shut it down immediately. “No way. I like the sunlight here. It saves me money on vitamin D supplements,” she’d said, without a hint of irony. “But if you guys want to swap so badly, you can just pay for my meal plan. And buy my vitamins.” “Since we’re roommates, I’ll give you a discount. Three hundred bucks a month.” Three hundred bucks? It was absolute extortion. We had been left speechless, entirely powerless against her thick-skinned audacity. When the door clicked open and Cassie stepped in, we immediately fell silent. As she brushed past me, I remembered her planned excursion for the next day. I felt a sudden, annoying pang of conscience. I had to say something. “Hey, Cassie,” I said, keeping my voice as gentle and non-confrontational as possible. “Just so you know, my Costco card is only to get you through the door. You can’t use it to actually pay for the groceries at the register.” If she already knew, it was just a harmless reminder. If she didn’t, I was saving her from a massive public embarrassment. Instead, her face twisted in instant fury. She marched over, cornering me by my desk, and pointed a finger directly at my face. “What is that supposed to mean? Do you think I’m trying to steal your money?” she shrieked. “You’re making up lies just to keep me from using it!” I raised my hands, retreating slightly. “No, Cassie, you’re misunderstanding. There’s literally no money on that card. It’s just an ID.” Leah and Fiona jumped in to defend me, but Cassie was completely deaf to reason. “You guys are just looking down on me!” she yelled, her eyes flashing with a deep-seated, toxic insecurity. “If I had the kind of family money you guys have, I’d be doing way better than any of you.” “You called me earlier just to grill me about this, didn’t you? It’s a stupid plastic card, Becca. I can’t believe you’re being this petty. Get a life.” I rolled my eyes, the last drops of my empathy evaporating. If I hadn’t given her the secondary card on my account this morning, I wouldn’t even be in this mess. Fine. Let her do whatever she wanted. I was done trying to protect her. Even if she did have some secret stash of money to pay for everyone, it wasn’t my business. And if she didn’t, well, my Costco account didn’t have a line of credit attached to it anyway. She couldn’t ruin my finances. I had tried to be a decent roommate. If she wanted to run headfirst into a brick wall of her own making, I wasn’t going to stop her. 3. The next morning, I woke up to the sound of rustling. Cassie was sitting at my vanity, her back to me. I didn’t say anything, quietly slipping out of bed to see what she was doing. She was digging her fingers into my expensive moisturizers, smearing them haphazardly over her face. My vanity, usually neatly organized, was a disaster zone of open caps and spilled powders. With one clumsy scoop, she had scooped out nearly half of my expensive face cream. The sheer disrespect snapped my patience. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yelled. “Who gave you permission to touch my stuff?” Cassie spun around. But it wasn’t her garishly painted, ghostly pale face that stopped me cold—it was her phone, propped up against my mirror, showing a live FaceTime call. I didn’t have my contacts in, but I could clearly make out the outline of a guy on the screen. I let out a sharp gasp, suddenly hyper-aware of my thin summer pajamas. I was practically exposed on a live video feed to some random stranger. Leah and Fiona bolted upright, fully awakened by the shouting. “What is your problem?” Cassie sneered, completely unfazed. “It’s just a little lotion. You don’t have to scream like a maniac first thing in the morning.” “Cassie, we literally agreed on this,” Leah said, her voice shaking with anger. “No FaceTime calls without warning between 10 PM and 8 AM. We sleep in here. Some of us actually care about our privacy.” “If you want to talk to your boyfriend, draw your bed curtains or go out into the hallway.” Cassie rolled her eyes, packing up her bag. “Oh, please. With your flat chest, nobody’s looking at you anyway.” “I pay rent here. This is my room too, and I’ll do whatever I want. You don’t own me.” She finished her makeup, entirely ignoring our boiling rage, and shoved past me to get to the door. “Move. I’m going to be late.” I stood there, trembling, looking at my ruined makeup and the expensive jar of cream that was now mostly smeared on her collarbones. It wasn’t just me, either. Leah’s closet doors were wide open, and Fiona’s desk drawers had been rummaged through. Cassie had clearly gone on a shopping spree in our own room before heading out. “I can’t do this anymore,” Fiona whispered, staring at her messy drawer. “I am going to lose my mind.” Buzz. My phone lit up. It was a message in the sophomore group chat: “We’re meeting by the campus gates in ten. Don’t be late!” A string of enthusiastic thumbs-up emojis followed. Our major was relatively small. Excluding the three of us and a few others who saw right through Cassie’s act, there were only about four or five classmates going with her. If they only bought a few small things, maybe she could actually cover it. But remembering her defensive, arrogant outburst from last night, I had a sinking feeling this wasn’t going to end quietly. She was too proud to back down, and too ignorant of how the system worked to realize she was walking into a trap. When I voiced my suspicion, Leah and Fiona’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god,” Leah gasped, clapping her hands. “She really thinks she can just swipe your membership card at the checkout.” “What is she going to do when it gets declined?” “She probably thinks that if she gets a massive haul and it somehow goes through, she can play the wealthy benefactor. And if you find out later, she’ll just use the ‘we’re roommates, don’t make a big deal out of it’ card.” “But she doesn’t realize…” Fiona started laughing, a bright, wicked sound. “Oh, this is going to be a disaster. Sweet, cosmic justice.” I rubbed my temples. “Come on, guys. We don’t know for sure.” Leah grabbed my arm, already pulling me toward the door. “Are you kidding? We are absolutely going to Costco right now to watch this show.” We didn’t even have to look hard to track them. Half the sophomore class was posting on their Instagram Stories. “Costco Sunday with the crew. Big things coming.” “Seeing how the other half lives. Thank you, Cassie!” The photos featured shopping carts stacked high with expensive electronics, prime cuts of beef, and imported chocolates. It was easily hundreds of dollars per cart. By the time we arrived at the warehouse, we spotted them near the bakery section. Cassie was leading the pack, tossing items into three separate carts like she was on a game show. The carts were piled so high they blocked her line of sight. We kept our distance, ducking behind a massive pyramid of toilet paper rolls to avoid being seen. She was completely intoxicated by the attention, basking in the compliments of the classmates trailing behind her. She didn’t notice us at all. I watched her add a massive Bluetooth party speaker to the pile. In my head, I was doing the math. Three carts. High-end groceries. Electronics. This wasn’t a bill a college student could just casually shrug off. This was thousands of dollars. Finally, the group headed toward the checkout lines. Since the register area was wide open, we lingered by the seasonal items nearby, pretending to examine patio furniture while keeping our eyes glued to the scene. The cashier began scanning the mountain of items. Cassie stood there, looking exhausted but smug, her arms crossed. “Alright, your total is $1,482.50,” the cashier said, her voice flat. “How will you be paying today?” Cassie reached into her pocket, pulled out my Costco membership card, and slid it across the counter. “Just charge it to this.” The cashier looked at the card, then up at Cassie, her brow furrowing. “Ma’am, this is just a membership card. Do you have a Visa or cash?”

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Taking my three-year-old daughter to the office. I thought the biggest disaster would be her smashing a coworker’s coffee mug. Instead, a coworker snapped a photo of her next to our billionaire CEO and dropped it in the company group chat. Three hundred employees. Three seconds of dead silence. And then, absolute chaos. To make matters worse, my daughter threw herself into the CEO’s arms and cheerfully yelled, “Daddy!” Meanwhile, my actual husband was at home scrolling through his phone. You want to guess what he reached for first? The carving knife, or the rolling pin? 1 My name is Laura, and for the last three years, I’ve been a marketing coordinator at Apex Group. Just your average corporate drone: a modest paycheck, one husband, one daughter, and a mortgage that keeps us on a tight budget. Life was modest, but it was ours, and it was peaceful. Until today. Out of nowhere, the daycare sent an emergency alert. A water main had burst, and they were shutting down for at least three days. My husband, David, was working an on-call shift he absolutely couldn’t get out of. My parents live halfway across the country, and his parents were out of state. I turned the options over in my head until I ran out of them. There was no backup plan. Gritting my teeth, I realized I had only one choice: I had to bring our three-year-old daughter, Zoe, to the office with me. Before we left the house, I knelt down, looking Zoe straight in her big, trusting eyes. “Zoe, listen to Mommy. We’re going to Mommy’s office today. You have to be a good girl. No running. No screaming. No touching things that aren’t yours. Can you do that for me?” Zoe stared back, her eyes wide, and nodded with immense enthusiasm. “Yes!” I believed her. God, I was so naive. We arrived at the office at 9:10 AM. When the receptionist, Amber, saw me walking in with a tiny toddler in tow, her face lit up. “Oh my gosh, Laura! Is this your daughter? She is absolutely precious!” “Yeah, daycare had a plumbing disaster. No choice,” I smiled, giving Zoe’s curly hair a gentle pat. Zoe actually behaved, offering a sweet, “Hi, pretty lady!” Amber beamed, immediately reaching into her desk drawer to hand her a cherry lollipop. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. So far, so good. We took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor. The moment I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the marketing department, the entire floor erupted. “No way, Laura brought her kid?” “Oh my god, let me see!” “She’s so tiny! I want to squeeze her!” My coworkers swarmed us like bees to honey. Zoe, startled by the sudden crowd, hid behind my leg, clutching my slacks. But she adapted quickly, peeked out, and flashed them a heart-melting grin. Tiffany was the first to squat down, offering a high-five. “Hey there, little one. What’s your name?” “I’m Zoe! I’m three!” Zoe proudly held up three fingers. Tiffany laughed. “You are absolutely gorgeous. Look at those big eyes, and those dimples—” Her voice trailed off. Her smile froze mid-expression. “Wait,” Tiffany murmured, tilting her head to study Zoe. Then she tilted her head to look toward the end of the open-plan office, where a large framed photograph hung on the wall. It was the official company portrait from last year’s gala. Standing dead center, radiating power, was our billionaire CEO, Richard Harrington. Tiffany looked at Zoe, then at the photo. Then back to Zoe, then back to the photo. She slowly stood up, her face twisting into an expression that was hard to read. “Laura…” “Yeah?” “Your daughter…” “What about her?” “Doesn’t she look… a little…” Tyler wandered over, following Tiffany’s gaze to the wall, then down to Zoe. His jaw dropped. “Holy crap,” he muttered under his breath. And then, the entire marketing department fell dead silent. It was a bizarre, suffocating kind of quiet. No one said a word. Dozens of eyes just bounced back and forth—from Zoe’s face to the portrait on the wall, and back again. I was still blissfully out of the loop. “What are you guys staring at?” Tiffany swallowed hard, pulled out her phone, and opened the company directory. She pulled up the official corporate headshot of CEO Richard Harrington—high-definition, professional lighting. She slid the phone right next to Zoe’s face. An adult man’s face. A three-year-old child’s face. The exact same almond-shaped eyes. The exact same slight upturn at the bridge of the nose. The exact same deep dimple on the right cheek. Even the slight arch at the tail of their eyebrows looked like a copy-paste job. The entire marketing department let out a collective, sharp intake of breath. Tiffany slowly turned her head to look at me. I will never forget that look. It wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t mockery. It was pure, unadulterated awe. “Laura…” “Don’t you dare say a word,” I said, my head suddenly spinning. “I haven’t even said anything!” “Your eyes just wrote a ten-thousand-word fanfiction!” I snatched the phone from her hand. The moment I saw the side-by-side comparison, a cold shiver ran straight down my spine. It was uncanny. It wasn’t just a passing resemblance; it was the kind of match where if they walked down the street together, a stranger would assume Richard was her biological father without a second thought. My mind raced. My husband, David, is soft-featured, has floppy hair, wears glasses, and is handsome in a completely average, boy-next-door way. Richard Harrington? Sharp-jawed, immaculately tailored, with an aura of untouchable power. They looked absolutely nothing alike. Yet my daughter looked like Richard’s miniature clone. How on earth was I supposed to explain this? I couldn’t. I opened my mouth, but the air in the room felt too thin to breathe. And then came the sound that made my blood pressure instantly skyrocket. Ping! It was Tiffany’s phone. A group chat notification. I looked down. It was the company-wide Slack channel—all three hundred employees. Tiffany—that absolute menace—had already uploaded the side-by-side photo. Her caption read: “Attention all departments, we have a major development. Marketing’s own Laura has brought in her daughter, who apparently shares a face with our CEO, Mr. Harrington. Visual evidence attached. Any geneticists in the house want to weigh in?” My entire body went numb. 2 The notifications didn’t stop. They kept rolling in, one after another, a relentless barrage of pings. ‘???’ ‘Are you kidding me? They’re identical!’ ‘Wait, is this Photoshopped?’ ‘Tiffany, you have a death wish, lmao.’ ‘I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I rubbed them three times.’ ‘Is there a chance… she’s actually Mr. Harrington’s?’ ‘Laura! You’ve been hiding a massive secret!’ My fingers flew across my keyboard as I desperately tried to damage-control. “Everyone, please stop spreading rumors! This is purely a coincidence! Doppelgängers exist!” I hit send. There was a brief two-second pause. Then Tyler replied with a passive-aggressive smiling emoji. Tiffany reacted with a thumbs-up. Deborah from Marketing chimed in: “Coincidence? Oh, sweet summer child.” My eye twitched. Then came the killing blow. Kevin from Admin dug up last month’s keycard logs and dropped a screenshot into the chat. “May 12th: Laura from Marketing worked until 11:00 PM. CEO’s office light stayed on until 11:00 PM.” “May 19th: Laura worked until 10:30 PM. CEO’s light stayed on until 10:30 PM.” His caption: “Interesting.” My brain short-circuited. We were finalizing the quarterly campaign last month! Staying late was a necessity for me, and Mr. Harrington was notorious for being a workaholic who practically lived in his office. We were the last ones in the building because my proposals had to go directly to him for final approval! But trying to explain that now felt like trying to put out a forest fire with a water gun. Panic setting in, I typed frantically: “That was for the quarterly launch! The entire marketing team knows this!” There were six people on my immediate team. Not a single one of them typed a word to defend me. Tiffany was literally eating a bag of chips at her desk, her face lit up like she was watching an Oscar-winning drama. Tyler pretended to be deeply engrossed in a spreadsheet, though his smirk was so wide it almost touched his ears. I whipped around to face them. “Seriously? None of you are going to back me up?” Tyler gave me a lazy shrug. “Look, Laura, we want to help. But we also like having jobs. If Mr. Harrington actually turns out to be our secret brother-in-law, we’d rather stay on his good side.” “Shut up, Tyler.” Right then, my desk phone rang. I picked it up with a trembling hand. A smooth, deep voice drifted through the receiver. It was calm, measured, and entirely terrifying. “Laura.” “Mr… Mr. Harrington!” “Come up to my office.” “Sir, I can explain—” “I said, come up.” Click. The line went dead. The entire office was so quiet you could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. Every eye was locked on me. Tiffany whispered, “If you have any last words, Laura, now’s the time.” I ignored her. Clutching my hands into fists, I looked down at Zoe. She was sitting happily on the carpet, folding my project files into paper airplanes, completely oblivious to the fact that her mother was standing on the precipice of total social ruin. “Zoe, honey, let’s go upstairs.” “Where are we going?” “To… to meet someone.” “Yay!” She jumped up and grabbed my hand. The walk to the elevator felt like a march to the gallows. Behind me, the collective gaze of the marketing department pinned me like a butterfly on display. I could hear their hushed whispers fading as the distance grew: “Do you think he’ll admit it?” “Shh, keep it down!” The moment the elevator doors slid shut, I took three deep, ragged breaths. This was it. I was done for. The eighteenth floor. The executive suite. I pushed the door open. Justin, the CEO’s executive assistant, was sitting behind his desk in the lobby. He looked up, his expression a mix of absolute curiosity, intense scrutiny, and a distinct look of I knew it. “Mr. Harrington is waiting for you. Go on in.” Then his eyes drifted down to Zoe. He froze. He stared at her face for a full five seconds. Then he quickly lowered his head, pressing his lips into a tight line, his shoulders visibly shaking. He was trying, and failing, not to burst out laughing. Ignoring him, I scooped Zoe into my arms and pushed open the heavy oak door to the inner office. Richard Harrington sat behind his massive mahogany desk. Dark suit, pristine white shirt, every hair perfectly in place. In front of him, his monitor was turned slightly toward the room. Displayed on the screen was the Slack post—the side-by-side comparison of his face and my daughter’s. My knees felt weak, but I forced my posture straight. “Mr. Harrington, this is a massive misunderstanding, I—” “Sit,” he said, his voice level. I sat. Zoe wriggled out of my lap and began to wander around the spacious office, her eyes wide. Richard didn’t say a word. He slowly stood up, bypassed the desk, and walked over to where Zoe had paused by a leather armchair. The steady click of his leather dress shoes felt like a countdown in my chest. He knelt down. He leveled his gaze with Zoe’s. Zoe tilted her head to the left. Richard tilted his head to the left, too. Same angle. Same expression. Honestly, in that split second, even my own conviction wavered. It was uncanny. It was terrifying. “What is your name?” Richard asked, his usually cold tone softening just a fraction. “I’m Zoe!” “And how old are you, Zoe?” “Three!” She held up three chubby fingers. Richard stared at her, his eyes losing focus for a brief moment. I opened my mouth to say something—anything—to break the stifling silence. But Zoe beat me to it. She reached out with her small, chubby hand and gently patted Richard’s cheek. Then, in the clear, incredibly loud voice of a three-year-old, she squealed: “Daddy! You have nice new clothes! So handsome!” The air in the office instantly froze. Richard froze. I froze. Outside the door, a sudden shatter echoed as Justin dropped his ceramic mug, splashing coffee all over the entryway floor. Seeing no response, Zoe yelled even louder: “Daddy! Hug!” She threw her arms wide and launched herself directly into Richard Harrington’s chest. Richard’s arms moved mechanically, catching her out of sheer instinct. He slowly lifted his head, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. Looking back, there is only one way to describe that look: a total reckoning. “Laura.” “Mr. Harrington, I swear on my life—” “Does she call every man she meets “Daddy”?” “Well… no, of course not. But she’s young, and when she sees handsome younger men—” “Handsome younger men?” Richard’s voice was completely flat, but I could feel the cold edge of a guillotine hovering over my neck. “So what you’re saying is, your daughter regularly encounters “handsome younger men” and addresses them as her father?” “No! Mr. Harrington, that’s not what I meant at all!” “Then what exactly do you mean?” I had absolutely no answer. Behind us, the sound of Justin wiping up the coffee stopped. He was listening. Hanging on every single syllable. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his other hand slipped into his pocket, his thumb frantically moving. He was texting. It was over. By now, the entire company would know. Laura’s daughter just called the CEO “Daddy” to his face. 3 Everyone experiences embarrassment at some point in their lives, but I never expected mine to be broadcasted live to a corporate audience of three hundred. Justin’s updates were lightning fast. Before I could even step foot out of the executive suite, my phone was practically vibrating itself off my lap. The main Slack channel was in absolute meltdown: ‘Did I hear correctly? Laura’s kid called Mr. Harrington “Daddy” to his face???’ ‘Confirmed! Justin saw the whole thing!’ ‘The kid has instincts. Recognized her own flesh and blood instantly.’ ‘Laura has been keeping this quiet for three years. Respect.’ ‘No wonder all her marketing proposals get approved. She has a direct line to the top.’ I wanted to hurl my phone out the window. But Zoe was the one who truly pushed me over the edge. She refused to let go of Richard. Her small arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder with absolute contentment. Richard looked like he was holding a live grenade. His arm was frozen beneath her lower back, his other hand hovering awkwardly in the air, completely unsure of where to place it. “Laura. Remove your daughter.” “Zoe, come to Mommy.” “No!” Zoe clung tighter. “Daddy smells good! Just like home!” My soul left my body for approximately three seconds. Just like home? What did that even mean? Richard’s brow arched. “The same smell?” He looked at me, his gaze narrowing. “What kind of shampoo does your husband use?” “What… excuse me?” “I asked you what brand of shampoo your husband uses.” “I… I don’t know, whatever’s on sale at the grocery store—” “So you don’t even know what shampoo your husband uses, yet your daughter claims I smell exactly like him. Laura, does that strike you as normal?” I didn’t know if it was normal, but I knew I was about to have a psychotic break. Steeling myself, I reached out and physically pried Zoe out of Richard’s arms. Zoe immediately puckered her lower lip, her eyes pooling with tears. “No! I want Daddy!” “He is not your daddy!” I snapped, my voice rising a little too loud. Richard raised an eyebrow. Zoe went from crying to delivering a direct physical blow to my sanity. She pointed a chubby finger at a framed photo on Richard’s desk—a profile shot of him from a major business magazine feature last month. “Mommy, you’re a liar! Daddy’s picture is right there! This is Daddy’s office!” Richard glanced at his own portrait, then back at Zoe, and finally at me. A faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile. It was the face of a man desperately biting back a sarcastic comment. I felt my entire life crumbling to dust in real-time. “Mr. Harrington,” I gasped, making one final, desperate bid for my survival. “I swear to you, we have never even had a proper conversation before today. I have a husband. His name is David. He works a regular job. We’ve been married for four years, and our daughter is three. This is just a crazy, bizarre coincidence. Truly.” Richard stared at me for ten seconds. Those ten seconds stretched out like a decade. Finally, he exhaled. “Fine. Go back to work.” Feeling like a pardoned death-row inmate, I scooped Zoe up and practically bolted. Just as my hand touched the brass doorknob, his voice stopped me. “Laura.” “Yes, sir!” “Control your daughter. Control your coworkers’ mouths. And clean up that Slack channel.” “Understood!” I scrambled out of the executive suite. The second the elevator doors closed behind me, I leaned against the wall and let out a long, sheltering breath. I looked down at Zoe. The little monster was happily licking a gourmet lollipop she had somehow swiped off Richard’s desk. “Zoe.” “Hmm?” “He is not Daddy.” “He is Daddy! He looks just like him!” “No, he isn’t. He’s Mommy’s boss. Do you know what a boss is?” “What’s a boss?” “The person who can make Mommy lose her job.” Zoe tilted her head, considering this. “Then Daddy is a boss too.” I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. There was no flaw in her toddler logic. Back on the sixteenth floor, I wished I could tape a ‘Do Not Ask’ sign directly to my forehead. But it wouldn’t have kept the sharks away. Tiffany was waiting for me, practically vibrating with excitement. “Laura! What did he say? Did he admit it?” “Admit what?” “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. Honestly, the whole office has your back.” “My back for what?” “Well, the marketing team has a pool going that you’re his secret mistress. Three-to-one odds. HR is betting you’re his high school sweetheart—five-to-one odds. Finance went wild and is betting Zoe is an IVF baby. Ten-to-one odds.” “You guys are… betting on my personal life?” “Don’t worry, I put twenty bucks on the mistress angle for you. If we win, I’ll split the payout.” I clenched my fists, taking slow, deep breaths to restrain myself from committing a felony. Not because I possessed incredible poise, but because at that exact moment, my phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down. A text from my husband, David. Just two words: “Laura Callahan.” My heart rate spiked. Then came a second text: an image. It was the side-by-side photo. And then a third: “Care to explain?” My fingers shook as I typed a furious response: “Honey, listen to me, it’s a complete fluke! A total coincidence! There are people who look alike all over—” Before I could hit send, a fourth text popped up: “Don’t bother.” And then a fifth: “I’m coming down to see for myself.” My mind went completely blank. I knew David. When he said “don’t bother,” it didn’t mean he was letting it go. It meant the trial was over, the verdict was guilty, and he was heading out to carry out the sentence. I frantically hit call. Ring… ring… ring… Nothing. I tried again. ‘The subscriber you are trying to reach is currently busy…’ He had blocked me. I stared at the screen, my mind spinning. From our apartment to the office was a twenty-minute drive. If he took the highway, fifteen. If he was driving in a blind rage— A sudden draft swept through the office as Gregory walked in. A balding, forty-something man who lived to make my life miserable, he immediately targeted me with a smug, oily grin. “Well, well, Laura. Quite a lively day we’re having.” My stomach plummeted. Gregory had never liked me. I wrote the marketing copy, he took the credit. I pulled the all-nighters, he accepted the bonuses. Now that I was in the middle of a massive scandal, there was no way he wasn’t going to stick the boot in. Sure enough, he cleared his throat and addressed the room. “Everyone, let’s remember this is a place of business, not a rumor mill. However, if certain personal indiscretions start affecting the company’s professional reputation, I will have no choice but to report it to HR.” He turned his eyes on me, dripping with false concern. “And Laura, you need to get that kid out of here. It’s a distraction.” “Gregory, the daycare had—” “That’s a personal issue. The office is not a daycare.” He spun on his heel and walked away. Tiffany leaned over, lowering her voice. “Laura, Greg is totally trying to get you fired.” I knew that. But Gregory was the least of my worries right now. My mind was completely occupied by a singular, terrifying image: David standing in our kitchen, holding our heavy-duty German kitchen knife. The one he insisted on buying for over a hundred bucks because “good steel makes a better chef.” It was sharp. Extremely sharp. I stared out the window at the bright blue sky, thinking to myself: It’s a beautiful day to die. 4 I called seventeen times. Every single one was forwarded straight to voicemail. I sent twenty-three texts. All of them met with a red exclamation point. David had blocked my number and my social media. In our four years of marriage, this was a Level-One Emergency. The last time he did this was when I accidentally spilled coffee on his custom-built gaming PC. He hadn’t spoken to me for three days. This time? I looked down at the comparison photo. Three days felt highly optimistic. Thirty years was more like it. I sat at my desk, staring blankly at my screen, unable to process a single word of copy. I had set Zoe up in an empty chair next to me with some scratch paper and crayons. She was coloring diligently, her little hand gripping a green crayon as she concentrated. I leaned over to look at what she was drawing. I nearly had a stroke. She had drawn three figures. One in a dress, labeled ‘Mommy.’ One tall figure, labeled ‘Daddy.’ And another equally tall figure, carefully labeled in messy toddler handwriting—’Handsome Daddy.’ The three of them were holding hands, and she had drawn a massive red heart right between them. Tiffany peeked over my shoulder. ‘Pfft—’ She immediately whipped around, pulling her collar up over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently as she convulsed with silent laughter. “Give me that,” I hissed, snatching the paper away. “No!” Zoe immediately started to wail. “That’s my family!” “We do not have a “Handsome Daddy,” Zoe! You only have one daddy!” “But Handsome Daddy is upstairs! He is my daddy too!” The marketing department went dead silent once again. Everyone pretended to be typing furiously, but I knew twelve ears were pinned in our direction. I stuffed the drawing deep into my desk drawer, taking three deep breaths. Just then, the receptionist’s voice crackled through the office intercom: “Laura, there’s someone here to see you on sixteen.” My heart stopped. “Who is it?” “A gentleman. He didn’t give a name.” A pause. “He… well, he’s carrying something. Security tried to stop him, but he claimed it was a specialty food item from home. Honestly, it doesn’t look like food.” “What shape is it?” “Long, flat. Wrapped in newspaper.” My blood pressure hit an all-time high. The entire team exchanged terrified glances. The smile finally vanished from Tiffany’s face. She swallowed hard. “Laura… is that…?” Tyler’s voice shook. “Should we call 911?” “Why would we call the police? That’s my husband!” “Is there a difference between a husband with a knife and a stranger with a knife?!” I stood up, my legs feeling like jelly. “Everyone, relax. He just has a short fuse. I’ll handle it.” Before I could take a step— BAM!

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Five years ago, my wife spent an afternoon volunteering at a local children’s shelter. She came home and cried in my arms all night. She told me about a three-year-old boy whose eyes reminded her so much of her late brother. She wanted to adopt him. I loved her too much to say no. I signed every piece of paperwork they put in front of us. For five years, that boy called me Daddy. I paid for the best private academy, threw him birthday parties that were grander than anything I’d have planned for a child of my own blood. Until last month, when Teddy was diagnosed with acute leukemia. He needed a bone marrow transplant. On the day of the donor match results, the oncologist pulled me into a private office. His expression was troubled. “Mr. Michell, you and the boy… you aren’t biologically related, are you?” I nodded. “No, we adopted him.” “And your wife?” I frowned, confused. “She’s his adoptive mother. There’s no biological connection there either.” The doctor fell silent for a long moment before sliding a folder across the desk. “According to these lab results, Mr. Michell… your wife is his biological mother.” I drove home with the report burning a hole in my passenger seat. When I walked in, Hannah was sitting on the living room floor, peeling an apple for Teddy. She looked up, caught the look in my eyes, and the paring knife slipped from her hand, clattering against the hardwood. That very evening, the doorbell rang. Standing on the porch was her college boyfriend, Chase. He was holding a bunch of white roses. “Hannah,” he said, his voice thick with relief. “My marrow is a match. Our boy is going to make it.” … “Our boy.” Those two words felt like ice picks driving straight into my chest. I slowly turned my head to look at Hannah. She was deathly pale, her lips trembling. The sharp, metallic clang of the knife hitting the floor still seemed to vibrate in the silence as she collapsed onto the sofa, looking entirely hollowed out. “Sean… I can explain…” I didn’t say a word. I pulled the front door wide open. The man outside froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to open the door. This was Chase Woodward, Hannah’s college ex. I’d seen photos of him before. At Hannah’s college reunion five years ago, she had posted a group picture. When I asked about it, she smiled and said he was just an old classmate, nothing serious. “Nothing serious.” Right. “Sean,” Chase said, quickly recovering his composure and tucking the roses behind his back. “I’m sorry. I came to—” “To claim your son?” I cut him off. His face fell. I threw the lab results right in his face. “Biological mother, biological father. A happy little family. How convenient.” The sheets of paper drifted onto the welcome mat. Hannah threw herself off the sofa, dropping to her knees at my feet and clawing at my jeans. “Sean, please, listen to me. I didn’t mean to keep this from you. I didn’t even know myself until recently—” “Recently?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Five years ago, when you sobbed in my arms all night, was that ‘recently’? When you told me his eyes looked just like your brother’s? Your brother? Hannah, you’re an only child. You never had a brother.” She had no answer. I crouched down, forcing her to look at me. “When is Teddy’s birthday?” “September twelfth,” she whispered. “And when did you and Chase break up?” Her eyes dilated with panic. “February.” I laughed, but my eyes burned. “Nine months from February is November, Hannah. But Teddy was born in September. You were already pregnant with another man’s child the day we signed our marriage license, weren’t you?” She broke down, sobbing hysterically. Chase, still standing on the porch, had the nerve to chime in. “Sean, look, what’s done is done. The boy’s life is what matters right now—” “Get the hell out,” I said, my voice dead. “Listen—” “I said, get out.” I had never looked at another human being with so much hatred. Chase pressed his lips together, bent down to pick up the fallen roses, and walked away. I slammed the door and leaned my back against it, slowly sliding down to the floor. Hannah crawled over, wrapping her arms around my leg. “Sean, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… Teddy is still in the pediatric ICU. He needs the transplant. I beg you, just let him get through this, and then you can do whatever you want with me…” I looked down at her. This woman I had adored, protected, and loved with everything I had for eight years. “Hannah.” “Yes?” “We’re getting a divorce.” She froze, staring up at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “What did you say?” “Divorce,” I repeated. “I’m calling my lawyer first thing in the morning.” She shook her head violently, tears streaking her face. “No! Sean, you can’t do this! Teddy is in the ICU. He needs his family. He needs us to be whole!” I laughed again, a sound raw and ugly. “Whole?” “Hannah, this family was a lie from day one. The piece we were missing was just standing on our porch holding white roses.” “No!” she screamed. “Chase and I ended things years ago! I haven’t contacted him once since I married you!” “Then how do you explain Teddy?” She choked on her words. I stood up, stepping out of her grasp, and walked into the study. I opened the safe and pulled out the adoption papers from five years ago. A thick stack of documents, my signature on every single page. I remembered the social worker smiling at me back then. “Mr. Michell, you’re a good man, being so supportive of your wife’s wishes.” A good man. The phrase made me want to throw up. I threw the papers onto the coffee table. “Hannah, tell me. Five years ago, did you actually volunteer at that shelter?” She stayed quiet. “The little boy who ‘looked like your brother’—was any of that real?” Silence. “The night you cried and begged me to adopt him—was any of it real?!” I roared, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Hannah curled into a ball on the rug, gasping for air between her sobs. “I… I had no choice… My parents wouldn’t let me bring a baby home. Chase had gone out of state, he had no money… I couldn’t support him on my own. I had to put him in foster care temporarily… until I got married… and found a way…” A cold chill washed over me. “So I was your ‘way’?” “I was the perfect, unsuspecting idiot you handpicked to clean up your mess?” “You dated a guy for four years, got pregnant, turned around and married me, and then orchestrated a heartbreaking adoption story to get your kid back. Hannah, that is a masterpiece. They should write a screenplay about you.” She couldn’t speak through her tears. I took out my phone and dialed my attorney. “Patrick? I need you to draft a divorce agreement. As fast as possible. We split the assets fifty-fifty. The boy… isn’t mine. He goes with her.” I hung up and looked at her. “I’m sleeping in the study tonight. Tomorrow morning, we file.” Hannah lunged forward, grabbing my ankles. “Sean! If not for me, think about Teddy! He’s called you ‘Daddy’ for five years! How can you just watch him die?!” I looked down at her. “His real father was just here. He’s a match. He’s more useful than I am.” I pulled my leg free, walked into the study, and locked the door. Behind me, Hannah’s weeping was loud and desperate. I sank against the door, burying my face in my knees. Eight years. Eight years of my life, gone. The next morning, I woke up at five. I packed my basic toiletries into a duffel bag. As I passed Teddy’s bedroom, I paused. The door was slightly open. The small bed was covered in dinosaur sheets—he had picked them out himself three months ago. He had dragged me through the department store all afternoon, tugging my hand and piping up, “Daddy, I want the T-rex ones!” I had smiled and swiped my card. Back then, I was thinking about whether we should try for a second child once he got a bit older. How pathetic. I averted my eyes and went downstairs. Hannah hadn’t slept. She sat on the sofa, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. When she saw me, she stood up. “Sean…” “Let’s go,” I said. For a second, her face softened, thinking I’d changed my mind. But then I added, “We’re going to the courthouse.” The color drained from her face again. The drive was dead silent. At the county clerk’s office, there was a line. Some couples were laughing; others, like us, looked like walking corpses. When it came time to sign the initial paperwork, Hannah’s hand shook so violently she could barely hold the pen. “Sean, is there really no hope for us?” I didn’t look at her. “None.” “What about Teddy?” “Chase will take care of him.” She snapped her head up. “How do you know that?” I let out a cold laugh. “Hannah, how do you think he knew to show up last night? If he didn’t know Teddy was his, why would he get tested? Why would he show up at our house with flowers?” “How long have you two been talking behind my back?” Her lips trembled, but she couldn’t summon a single word. When the papers were finalized and filed, a strange sense of relief washed over me. Stepping out of the courthouse, the morning sun was blinding. My phone buzzed. It was the hospital. “Mr. Michell? Teddy’s… he’s having a rough morning. Can you come in?” I stood frozen on the sidewalk. Hannah, standing beside me, heard the tension. “Is that the hospital? What’s wrong with Teddy?!” I glanced at her. “If you want to know about your son, ask his father.” I turned and walked away. But after a few steps, I stopped. Five years. For five years, he called me Daddy. Just last week, he was clutching my sleeve from his hospital bed, whispering, “Daddy, I’m scared.” I took a deep, agonizing breath, turned around, and got into my car to drive to the hospital. When I got to the room, Chase was already there. He was wearing a patient gown, looking pale after the preliminary marrow collection procedures. Hannah had arrived before me and was holding Teddy’s hand, crying softly. Teddy was wearing an oxygen mask. When he saw me walk in, his eyes brightened, and he reached out a tiny, frail hand. “Da… Daddy…” My throat tightened. Chase stood up. “Sean, thank you for looking after Teddy these past five years. I’ll take it from here.” I ignored him. I walked to the bedside, crouched down, and took Teddy’s hand. “Hey, buddy. Chase is a match. You’re going to get better real soon.” He blinked, confused behind the plastic mask. “Chase?” My chest felt like it was in a vice. “He’s… he’s going to be your dad now.” Teddy shook his head, tears spilling over the edges of his mask. “No… I want my Daddy. I want you.” I looked away, not wanting him to see my tears. Just then, the door swung open. Someone I absolutely did not expect walked into the room. My mother. Leaning heavily on her cane, breathless, she stood in the doorway. She scanned the room, her gaze sweeping past Chase and stopping dead on Hannah. “Well, Hannah,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it silenced the room instantly. “My son treated you like a queen for eight years. And this is how you repay him?” Hannah’s face turned white. “Mrs. Michell…” “Don’t you dare call me that,” my mother said, slamming her cane onto the tile. “You are no daughter-in-law of mine.” I rushed over to support her. “Mom, what are you doing here? The doctor said your blood pressure is too high for you to travel.” “How could I stay home?” she snapped, looking at me. “You called me last night saying you were filing for divorce. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I took the first train down here.” “Sean, I told you from the start something was off about this woman. When she insisted on adopting that baby, I knew it didn’t make sense. What newlyweds choose to adopt before even trying to have their own? Turns out she just wanted her own kid back on your dime!” Hannah kept her head down, her shoulders shaking. Chase opened his mouth to speak, but my mother cut him off with a blistering glare. “And who the hell are you?” Chase shut his mouth, looking thoroughly chastened. My mother reached into her bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope, tossing it onto the bedside table. “Sean, I know you. You have too soft of a heart, and I didn’t want you second-guessing yourself. I had your uncle do some digging. See for yourself.” I opened the envelope. Inside were several photographs and a private investigator’s report. The first photo showed Hannah and Chase sitting in a quiet café. The timestamp was from three months ago. The next photo showed them walking out of the private clinic where Teddy was first diagnosed with leukemia. In the next, they were inside a car, Chase holding Hannah’s hand. According to the report, Chase had moved back to the area three years ago. During that time, he and Hannah had communicated at least forty-seven times, with eleven documented face-to-face meetings. My hands began to shake. “Three years,” I whispered, looking up at Hannah. “You’ve been seeing him behind my back for three years?” She trembled, her voice barely a squeak. “It’s not what you think… I only contacted him after Teddy got sick, to get him tested—” “Bullshit!” my mother barked. “Teddy wasn’t sick three years ago!” Hannah fell completely silent. I stared at the three-year-old photo in the café, my mind buzzing. Three years ago. That was the year I got promoted to VP, the year I bought her that beautiful colonial house with the big backyard. Three years ago, on her birthday, she had held me tight and whispered, “Sean, marrying you is the best thing that ever happened to me.” I let out a laugh. It started small, then grew, until tears were streaming down my face. Chase lost his patience. “Mr. Michell, you’ve signed the papers. There’s no need to drag this out—” “Drag this out?” I snapped my head toward him. “Chase, who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” “You let me play the fool for eight years, let me raise your kid for five, and now you’re telling me not to drag this out?” Everyone in the room went rigid. Right then, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was a text from Patrick. Sean, I just got the results back on that background check you asked for. Teddy’s adoption paperwork is highly irregular. There’s no record of him ever being admitted to that shelter’s foster system. The entire placement was fabricated. More importantly, I found the private facilitator who handled the transfer. He’s willing to testify. We can sue for full restitution of every dollar you spent on Teddy over the last five years, plus substantial emotional damages. There’s one more thing… you might want to sit down for this. I took a slow breath and scrolled down to the next message. In an instant, my entire body went numb. The phone slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the floor.

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Melody’s mother stole my father, and in doing so, she killed my mother. Years later, history decided to repeat itself. The boy I grew up with, the one who had been by my side for eighteen years, lied to my face. Behind my back, he spent his evenings helping Melody with her college applications, even gifting her the limited-edition vintage vinyl I had begged him to find for me. And when Melody hacked into my college portal and withdrew my Ivy League acceptance, replacing it with a local community college, he actually defended her. “Melody didn’t mean any harm, Caroline,” he pleaded. “She was just playing a practical joke on you.” But there was nothing funny about it. 01 Just days before the final college decision deadline, I experienced a violent, inexplicable tear in time. I was hurled ten years into the future. I saw myself. I saw a girl who had scored a 1550 on her SATs now limping on a shattered right leg, her hair unwashed and tied back with a fraying rubber band, busing tables at a greasy diner. Meanwhile, my stepsister Melody had graduated from an elite university, married my childhood sweetheart, Connor, and given birth to a picture-perfect pair of twins. I remember the blood draining from my face. “How did this happen?” My twenty-eight-year-old self offered a hollow, broken laugh. “Melody changed my college portal. By the time I found out, the deadline had passed. It was too late.” “Dad and Connor both took her side. They said she didn’t do it maliciously, that it was just a prank, that I needed to take a joke.” “But I couldn’t swallow the injustice. I confronted her. We fought at the top of the stairs, and she threw herself backward, framing me. Dad… Dad wanted to teach me a lesson. He hired the best prosecutors to press aggravated assault charges and let me rot in a juvenile detention center for six months.” “Connor promised he’d wait for me. But the day I got out, I found them tangled up in his bed.” “I snapped. I grabbed a kitchen knife. I hurt them both.” “That time, Connor hired the most ruthless defense attorney in the state to ensure I got the maximum sentence. Five years.” Her words were like lightning striking the base of my skull. My whole body went rigid. I heard my own voice trembling as I fought back: “No. That’s impossible. Connor and I grew up together. He loves me. He promised he’d protect me for the rest of my life.” “He knows how much I despise Melody and her mother. He would never help them destroy me.” The older version of me stared back, her eyes rimmed with red. She looked down at her ruined, asymmetrical leg. “Why wouldn’t he? People change, Caroline.” “Even this leg… Connor paid off one of the guards in lockup to look the other way while an inmate took a metal pipe to my knee.” She jerked her head up, her gaze fierce and desperate. “Caroline, listen to me. If you don’t want to lose your future, if you don’t want to become a convicted felon scrubbing grease off diner tables, wake the hell up! Stop letting Connor play you for a fool!” The sheer magnitude of the information hit my brain like a physical blow. The world tipped on its axis. The next second, I collapsed onto the hardwood floor. When I opened my eyes, the sterile, chemical scent of hospital bleach flooded my lungs. “Caroline, thank God, you’re awake!” Connor was sitting by the edge of my hospital bed. Both of his hands were wrapped tightly around my left hand, his dark eyes wide with unfeigned panic and concern. “You passed out in your room last night. You scared the life out of me!” 02 I lay there, perfectly still, just looking at him. Unbidden, a memory surfaced. Eighth-grade field trip to the state park. I had wandered off the trail and gotten hopelessly lost. It was Connor who spent three hours searching for me in the dying light. His shins were sliced up by thorny brambles, but he still insisted on carrying me on his back the whole way down the mountain because I was too paralyzed by fear to walk. I thought of my fourteenth birthday. My father had thrown a massive, catered backyard gala for Melody—who happened to share my exact birthdate—and completely forgot about me. I had hidden in the darkness of my closet, clutching a framed photograph of my mother to my chest, crying until I couldn’t breathe. It was Connor who opened the closet door. He was holding a lopsided, home-baked cupcake with a single lit candle, looking at me like a knight who had finally found his charge. “Happy birthday, Caro.” “Don’t be scared. You’re not alone. I’ll be here for every birthday, for the rest of your life.” I thought of all the times Melody had tried to insert herself into his orbit. In the dead of winter, she had spent weeks knitting him a gray scarf. Connor hadn’t even given it a second glance before tossing it into the cafeteria trash can. Melody’s eyes had welled up with those trademark tears, but Connor’s voice was like ice: “Don’t waste your time. I will always stand with Caroline.” “You and your mother destroyed her family. That makes you my enemy, too.” Then, another memory. Melody’s mother, Valerie, ‘accidentally’ knocking my mother’s vintage Cartier watch off my dresser, shattering the delicate glass face. Blinded by grief and rage, I had thrown a glass of ice water right in Valerie’s face. Valerie was a master of the victim act. She instantly collapsed into my father’s arms, weeping. “I was just trying to help Caroline tidy her room. I didn’t mean to bump the dresser. She misunderstood… she thinks I did it on purpose.” “Richard, please, don’t be mad at her.” Her calculated retreat only made my father more protective of her. He turned to me, his eyes devoid of any paternal warmth. “Caroline Ellis, who taught you to act like such a savage? Apologize to your mother, right now!” I tipped my chin up, my throat tight. “I only have one mother. Valerie is just a cheap homewrecker.” The slap echoed through the hallway. My father struck me so hard my ears rang. “I have spoiled you for too long. You have zero respect!” As punishment, he forced me to stand in the freezing mudroom for twelve hours. No dinner. No water. No sitting down. My legs shook. I was lightheaded from hunger. It was Connor who shimmied up the trellis and crawled through the mudroom window, pulling a bag of warm, sugar-dusted apple cider donuts from his jacket. I ate them through my tears, and he wiped my cheeks with his thumbs, his own face twisted in sympathetic agony. “Don’t cry. Once we graduate, we’re going to college in Boston. We’ll get as far away from them as possible.” “I’ll be your family from now on. I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you.” It never surprised me that my father chose Melody over me. But Connor? Connor, who looked at me like I hung the moon? How could he ever betray me for her? I didn’t want to believe it. Maybe the vision of my twenty-eight-year-old self was just a stress-induced nightmare. I tried to self-soothe. But reality was waiting to deliver its own slap to the face. 03 Before we checked out of the hospital, Connor ran down to the pharmacy on the first floor. I watched him walk back into the room, holding a small paper bag. “Are you getting a cold?” I asked, confused. He froze. A heavy silence stretched between us before he hesitated, shifting his weight. “It’s not for me. It’s for Melody.” “She texted a few minutes ago saying she was running a fever, so she asked me to pick up some meds.” My heart plummeted into my stomach. The terror of my nightmare flooded my veins, making my skin prickle. I couldn’t stop the barrage of questions. “Why are you buying medicine for Melody? Since when do you two text? Since when are you close?” “Do you have feelings for her? When did this start?” Seeing my escalating panic, Connor quickly set the bag down and reached for my shoulders. “Caro, stop overthinking. How could I ever like Melody?” “You’re the only one I care about. But Melody… Melody saved my life. I’m just repaying a debt.” I recoiled. “She saved your life? When? Why don’t I know about this?” Connor finally confessed the secret he had been keeping for months: “Two months ago, I was walking back from a party. I was crossing the street, and a drunk driver blew a red light. I didn’t see it coming.” “If Melody hadn’t shoved me out of the way, I would have been the one with a shattered femur.” I knew Melody had been injured. Of course I did. But I had no idea she had broken her leg saving Connor. Suddenly, everything clicked. It made sense why, despite missing the final two months of senior year and being confined to a hospital bed, Melody had seemed completely unfazed. She was constantly posting bubbly updates on her Instagram stories. Her favorite captions were always: “My favorite private tutor is here again! I’m so spoiled! <3" "Look at the limited-edition vinyl my tutor hunted down for me! Best day ever!" I had never visited her in the hospital, so I had never seen this "tutor." I assumed my dad had hired some grad student to keep her grades up. But looking back, during that exact same period, Connor had stopped walking me home from school. "Caro, my grandma isn't feeling well. I have to go to the estate and check on her. I can't walk you home today." I knew how much Connor loved his grandmother. I never questioned it. I even bought her expensive teas and sent them with him. Was it all a lie? Hot tears welled in my eyes. I looked at the boy I thought I knew better than anyone. "So... the 'tutor' was you. And the person who gave her that vinyl record was you. Wasn't it?" I had wanted that record for a year. It was nearly impossible to find. I had begged Connor to help me track it down. He had tapped his chest confidently and said, "Leave it to me. Have I ever let you down?" Two weeks later, he handed me a generic, newly pressed album. "I'm sorry, Caro. The vintage one is completely sold out. I called every collector I know." But he had found it. He just gave it to Melody instead. 04 Seeing my tears, panic flared in Connor’s eyes. He scrambled to explain himself. "Caro, please don't cry. I swear to you, I'm only nice to her because I owe her my life." "I know how much you hate her. I was terrified that if you found out, it would mess with your head right before finals. That's why I asked everyone to keep it a secret." I fought to keep my voice from shaking. "If you were going to lie to me, why couldn't you just keep lying?" He looked miserable, rubbing the back of his neck. "Melody... she wants to apply to the same colleges in Boston as us." "She’s timid. She’s terrified of being in a new city where she doesn't know anyone and getting bullied. She thinks if I’m there, she’ll have someone to look out for her." "She literally took a car for me, Caro. I couldn't say no..." "Just... do it for me, okay? Can you just try to co-exist peacefully with her from now on?" He couldn't say no to Melody, so his solution was to demand that I compromise. The audacity was suffocating. "Valerie drove my mother to an early grave. And you want me to play nice with the daughter of my mother's replacement? Do you hear how insane you sound?" I was thirteen when my mother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Valerie couldn't even wait for the body to get cold. She showed up at our front door, dragging Melody behind her. The sickest part? Melody was born on the exact same day, in the exact same year, as me. That was how my dying mother found out my father had been living a double life since the day I was born. The betrayal broke what little spirit she had left. She coughed up blood and passed away less than a month later. Three months after the funeral, my father moved Valerie into the master bedroom. Connor knew all of this. He held my hand through the funeral. And yet, here he was, twisting himself into knots to defend Melody. "You can't choose how you're born, Caroline. The sins of the parents aren't Melody's fault." "She's not like her mother. She's sweet. She's kind." "She has never once tried to hurt you. She’s always bending over backward, trying to get you to like her." "You need to learn to let things go. You can't live in this toxic bubble of hatred forever." As I watched Connor advocate for Melody, the warmth in my chest died out, inch by agonizing inch. The image of my twenty-eight-year-old self—limping, wiping down a greasy table, dead-eyed and broken—flashed behind my eyelids with terrifying clarity. Suddenly, the boy standing in front of me felt like a stranger. A dangerous stranger. I instinctively took a step back. "I need to be alone. Do not follow me." I needed space to think. Of course, Connor didn't listen. He followed me out of the hospital, but perhaps sensing my absolute disgust, he maintained a strict fifteen-foot distance all the way back to my house. 05 I walked through the front door of my house and pushed open the door to my bedroom. There was Melody, sitting in my desk chair, typing away on my laptop. The words from my future self—Melody changed my college portal—screamed in my head. My pulse spiked. I lunged forward and shoved her away from the desk. "Who gave you permission to touch my computer?" Melody stumbled and fell gracefully to the carpet, immediately playing dumb. "Sister, you're misunderstanding. I would never mess with your applications!" "My laptop crashed, and I just needed to look up some research material." She lowered her eyelashes, a perfectly timed tear slipping down her cheek. "I'm sorry. I forgot how much you despise me. I promise I'll never touch your things again." I didn't have the energy for her Oscar-worthy performance. I slid into the chair, pulled up the Common App portal, and checked my submissions. Thankfully, I had walked in just in time. She hadn't managed to alter anything yet. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. But when I looked up, Connor was standing in the doorway, helping Melody up from the floor. He was glaring at me with open disapproval. "Her leg is barely healed, Caroline. How could you be so aggressive?" "You're out of line. You owe her an apology." I stared at him, incredulous. "She was sneaking onto my laptop without asking. If she falls, she deserves it." Connor’s brow furrowed deeply. "Why are you being so bitter? It's like I don't even know who you are anymore." His reflexive instinct to protect her over me was the final nail in the coffin. It confirmed everything. Last night wasn't a hallucination. It was a premonition. In the not-so-distant future, Connor would absolutely destroy me for Melody’s sake. But I wasn't going to stick around and play the naive victim. I swallowed the sharp, acidic ache rising in my throat and met his gaze. "I am bitter. If you don't like it, then let's break up." His face drained of color. He looked at me like I had lost my mind. "Are you seriously throwing a tantrum and threatening to break up just because I called you out?" Melody clung to his arm, pretending to be the peacemaker, though she was clearly pouring gasoline on the fire. "Sister, please. Connor loves you so much. He does everything for you." "Every time you two fight, he's always the one who swallows his pride to apologize." "If you shed a single tear, he beats himself up for days." "You might be throwing a tantrum, but you shouldn't use your relationship as a weapon. Aren't you afraid of breaking his heart?" Connor looked at me, a profound disappointment settling over his features. "You're acting like a spoiled brat, Caro." "Just because I usually let you get away with murder doesn't mean I don't have my limits." "Let's just take some space. Don't call me until you've calmed down and realized how ridiculous you're being." With that, he wrapped his arm around Melody’s waist and helped her out of my room. Watching his retreating back, a profound wave of sorrow washed over me. My future self was right. People change. No matter how much Connor used to cherish me, Melody was now the priority. From this day forward, we were on different paths. I blinked back the stinging in my eyes, turned to my computer, and made a calculated, cold decision. I logged in and changed my binding enrollment from Boston to UC Berkeley in California. If he wanted to play house with Melody in Boston, he could have her. I was officially opting out. To ensure she couldn't try anything again, I changed my portal password. I had always used Connor’s birthday—it was entirely possible Melody had guessed it. Finally, I pulled a suitcase from my closet and began packing. I booked a room at a boutique hotel downtown. I refused to spend another night under the same roof as Melody. Who knew what kind of sociopathic stunt she’d pull next? This time, I wasn't going to prison. I was escaping the Ellis family. I was starting over. 06 Carrying my suitcase downstairs, I had to walk past Melody’s bedroom. The door was left ajar. Inside, she was sitting on the edge of her mattress, her skirt hiked up to her knees. Connor was kneeling on the floor in front of her, gently massaging her calf muscles. "Is that feeling any better?" he asked softly. Melody’s ears flushed pink. She nodded shyly. "The pain is fading. Thank you." Connor smiled, a soft, indulgent expression I used to think belonged only to me. "You don't have to thank me. You took that hit for me. It's the least I can do." Melody looked down, her expression steeped in manufactured guilt. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault you and my sister fought." "Maybe I should just go to a state school here. I don't want to be the reason your relationship falls apart." "If I get bullied in college, well... that's just my fate. I'll endure it." Connor squeezed her knee comfortingly. "You're not changing your plans. I promised I'd look out for you, and I keep my promises." "None of this is your fault. Caroline is just being irrational." "I guess I spoiled her too much. She thinks the world revolves around her." "Maybe Wyatt was right. I need to leave her out in the cold for a while so she learns how to behave." Wyatt. Connor’s arrogant, old-money best friend. Wyatt had always hated me. If Connor helped me with a project, Wyatt called me lazy. If we went to a diner and I meticulously picked the green onions out of my soup because I loathed the taste, Wyatt called me high-maintenance. If Connor lost track of time playing video games and missed my call, and we argued about it, Wyatt called me a controlling bitch. He was constantly in Connor’s ear, telling him he could do better, urging him to dump me. But back then, Connor would always shove him and shoot back: "Shut the hell up. Caro isn't high-maintenance, she knows what she likes. It's cute." "If she's mad at me, it's because I messed up. It's not her fault." "You're just a miserable single guy who’s jealous of what we have. Stay out of it." That Connor—the fiercely loyal, deeply devoted boy who would fight anyone who spoke ill of me—was dead and gone. The Connor sitting on the floor was Melody’s knight in shining armor. It was impossible not to grieve. We had shared eighteen years of life. Eighteen years of inside jokes, shared trauma, and quiet promises. Detoxing from him was going to hurt like hell. My nose burned. I forced myself to look away, gripped the handle of my suitcase, and walked out the front door without looking back. 07 I lived in the downtown hotel for two weeks. I didn't hear a word from Connor. But I saw plenty of him on Melody’s Instagram. He took her to the summer carnival, riding the vintage carousel—my favorite ride. He went shopping with her to pick out a dress for graduation. He stood in line for two hours outside Rosenberg's to buy her a fresh, warm box of pastries. He even took her to our spot. The stargazing hill overlooking the valley. Whenever the grief over my mother became too much, Connor would drive me up there, roll out a blanket, and we’d watch old movies on his iPad under the stars. In the photo Melody posted, a romantic comedy was playing on a tablet. Connor was leaning back against the hood of his car, looking relaxed. Melody was leaning into his space, pressing a kiss to his cheek. So this was his version of "repaying a debt." I stared at the photos. I scrolled through them obsessively, almost masochistically, etching the reality of their intimacy into my brain. It was a form of exposure therapy. And it worked. The agonizing, breathless pain in my chest slowly dulled, hardening into a cold, flat indifference. ... Once I felt like I could breathe again, I texted a friend and agreed to meet up at a lounge downtown. I was walking down the dimly lit hallway toward the restrooms when someone bumped roughly into my shoulder. I stumbled, my heels catching on the carpet, and nearly went down. A hand shot out and caught my elbow, steadying me. "Thanks," I muttered, looking up. I froze. Connor was standing there, looking down at me with an amused, patronizing smirk. "See? You still need me to catch you." His tone was incredibly casual, as if the last two weeks of silence and betrayal had never happened. "Admit it, Caro. You can't survive without me." My face remained entirely impassive. I pulled my arm out of his grip. "Don't flatter yourself. I'd be perfectly fine without you." Connor raised an eyebrow. "You're seriously still holding a grudge? Two weeks later?" "Caro, why are you so stubborn? Would it physically kill you to just back down once?" He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily like a weary parent offering a truce. "Fine. You win. I surrender." "Let's just say I was wrong, okay? Let's make up. Stop giving me the silent treatment." "We've never gone more than a week without seeing each other since we were kids. I actually missed you." He reached out to pinch my cheek, a fond, easy smile spreading across his face. "I don't know why you're fighting this. You look like you've lost weight since I stopped coming around." "When you're done here, I'll drive you to that late-night diner. We'll get pancakes." It was painfully obvious. He hadn't taken my breakup seriously at all. He genuinely believed this was just an extended pout. I slapped his hand away. My voice was glacial. "Do not touch me. We are broken up." "I lost weight because it's ninety degrees outside and I haven't had much of an appetite. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Stop being so narcissistic." Seeing that his charm offensive was failing, Connor’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold edge. "Caroline, enough is enough." "I'm handing you an olive branch. How much longer are you going to drag this out?"

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