Category: English

My secret relationship with Nicole lasted three full years—basically our entire college experience. On the final night of our graduation trip, the class president, Laura, suddenly suggested we draw lots for room assignments. “This is the ultimate test of fate!” Laura announced, her voice buzzing with an annoying level of excitement. “Boys, girls, doesn’t matter. If you draw the same number, you’re roommates for the weekend. Let’s see where the universe wants you.” But before the game even started, I’d overheard Laura whispering to Nicole in the hallway: “Look for the ball with the small circular bump on it. I saved it specifically for you and Jackson.” I reached into the cardboard box, my fingers brushing against various textures, and pulled out a sphere. I waited in silence. When it was Nicole’s turn, she pulled out number seven. Laura didn’t miss a beat, her voice booming through the common room. “And the other guest for Room Seven is—Jackson!” Jackson. The guy Nicole had spent her freshman year chasing with a desperate, public fervor. He blushed instantly, a bashful smile playing on his lips. The room erupted. Everyone started hooting and hollering about “divine intervention” and “meant-to-be.” I stood there, frozen, the air leaving my lungs. I watched Nicole. She didn’t look away; she didn’t protest. Instead, she walked over to Jackson with a soft, practiced smile and reached out to take his coat for him. I found myself smiling, too—a sharp, bitter thing. Three years. Three years of being her “secret,” of waiting in the shadows for a public acknowledgment that was never going to come. In that moment, looking at them, I made a choice. I was going to be the one to walk away first. 1 The room assignments were still being called out, but the energy in the room had already peaked. Laura was handing out colored wristbands, shouting over the noise, “Listen up! Rules are simple: same numbers are a pair. For these three days, you’re tethered. No solo missions, okay? It’s about the ‘experience’!” Whistles rang out. One of the girls nudged Nicole’s shoulder playfully. Jackson, still flushed, kept stealing glances at her while he fumbled with his wristband. Nicole’s lips curled into a smile. She stepped slightly in front of him, a protective gesture. “Stop it, guys. He’s shy.” “Oh, look at that! Already getting protective!” someone yelled. “Better watch out, if we upset Jackson, Nicole’s going to come for us!” The teasing became a roar. I stood on the periphery of the crowd, the number three ball clutched in my left hand, my right hand gripping the handle of a heavy suitcase. Before we’d left, Nicole had shoved all her things into my bag. “We’ll be together anyway,” she’d said. “Carrying two suitcases is just a hassle.” Then she’d pointed to my new overcoat. “I’ll be the one responsible for your coat this trip.” In three years, she had never once been affectionate in front of our peers, let alone offered to carry my things. I’d been so stupidly happy, thinking this trip was her way of finally stepping into the light with me. But on day one, she took Jackson’s coat instead. My suitcase felt impossibly heavy, the weight dragging at my shoulder, a dull ache spreading from my fingertips to my neck. I set it down and cleared my throat, forcing the raspiness out of my voice. I raised my hand. “Hey…” The room turned. Laura, still riding her high, grinned at me. “What’s up, Wyatt? Jackson’s your roommate back at the dorms—you got some ‘best man’ advice for Nicole?” Jackson stiffened, his smile turning awkward. Nicole’s eyes snapped to mine. I saw it then—a flash of tension, a warning look that said don’t you dare. She was worried about the wrong thing. I just held up my ball. “Who’s number three?” Laura scanned the room until a hand went up on the far side. “Me.” It was Tatum, a girl who had always stayed on the fringes of our social circle, quiet and observant. Laura laughed. “Tatum! Okay, I know you’re single. Wyatt, what about you? If you’re single, you stay. If you’ve got a girlfriend back home, I’ll swap you for one of the guys…” I interrupted her, my voice quiet but clear. “I’m single.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nicole’s brows knit together. She started to turn toward Tatum, but Laura was already pulling out an orange wristband. “Perfect! Two singles! Maybe the universe is working overtime tonight!” I took the wristband and gave a polite nod. “Thanks.” As I hoisted my suitcase again, I could feel Nicole’s gaze burning into my back. I didn’t look back to see her expression. I imagined it was probably a look of relief. Once the rooms were settled, everyone lined up to check in. Jackson went to call his parents, and Nicole lingered, moving like lead, until I was the only one left at the counter. She slid her ID toward the clerk without looking at me. “Go talk to Laura,” she whispered, her voice low and sharp, her eyes fixed on the lobby wall. “Tell her you aren’t comfortable staying with a girl. Pay for a private room if you have to. I’ll cover the difference.” I was busy texting my parents to let them know I’d arrived. I didn’t look up. “Why?” “What do you mean ‘why’? You aren’t single, Wyatt. You can’t just share a room with another woman.” “And you?” I asked, finally meeting her eyes. “Are you single?” Nicole’s fingers froze on the counter. Her voice took on that familiar edge of irritation. “These are the rules of the game we all agreed to. I’m just respecting the draw.” “Right,” I said softly. “I’m respecting the draw, too.” Her jaw set, but before she could snap back, I grabbed my key card and walked away. I hadn’t gone five steps before Laura announced, “Everyone in the media room in thirty minutes! I’ve got it booked. We’re doing a throwback—watching the documentary from our freshman year sports fest!” I didn’t stop. I just tightened my grip on my coat. The freshman year documentary. The one that chronicled Nicole’s grand, public pursuit of Jackson. 2 The media room was overflowing with snacks. As soon as Nicole sat down, she moved a plate of strawberries directly in front of Jackson. A girl next to them giggled. “Nicole, you’re so biased. You know Jackson loves strawberries, so you’re hoarding the whole plate for him.” The room joined in. Jackson pushed the plate back toward the center, looking sheepish. “Everyone should have some. Nicole actually bought me a bunch earlier.” He glanced at her. “If these aren’t enough, she can just go grab the rest from the room.” Nicole pulled the plate back toward him, her smile indulgent. “I’ll go get them. You just eat.” As she slipped out, the room erupted again. “One word from Jackson and she’s on it! He’s got her wrapped around his finger!” Jackson popped a strawberry into his mouth and looked over at me. “Wyatt, make sure you have some when she gets back. I remember you like strawberries too.” The door swung open, and Nicole returned with two more bowls, placing them both in front of Jackson. She knew. Over the last three years, I’d bought strawberries countless times. And every time, she’d frown and tell me, “Don’t eat too many. They’re so sweet, you’ll just break out.” I picked up a tangerine instead. Laura called out to me, “Wyatt, where’s Tatum?” “She had some things to take care of,” I said, peeling the fruit without looking up. Laura looked disappointed. “Well, looks like that match is a bust. But hey, at least our ‘star couple’ is going strong!” Nicole’s eyes flickered to me for a split second before darting away. “The movie’s starting,” she said, her voice a bit breathy as she handed Jackson a napkin. The documentary lasted two hours. Everyone was hooked, cheering and laughing every time Nicole and Jackson appeared on screen. “Look! Nicole’s wiping his sweat again! It was a fifty-meter dash, girl, you were closer to him than the cameraman!” “Water, fans, even sunscreen—she had the whole kit ready!” “Jackson, seriously, she chased you so hard the whole school knew. How did you hold out for four years? Poor girl stayed single the whole time just waiting for you!” Jackson looked at Nicole, his eyes softening, looking almost misty. “I just thought college relationships weren’t stable. I wanted to wait until graduation to be sure.” He paused. “I didn’t realize she’d wait this long.” A girl leaned forward. “Nicole, was it hard? Waiting for four years?” Nicole looked into his eyes and gave a small, slow nod. “It was… okay.” Two words. Two words that supposedly contained four years of pining and loyalty. The room sighed in collective sympathy. I almost laughed out loud. Hard? She had chased Jackson for six months with no luck, then pivoted to tennis. I was the captain of the varsity team. She asked me to coach her for six months, and by the start of sophomore year, she was the one who asked me out. She was more than “okay.” Our relationship might have been a secret, but we were happy. We were deeply, intimately involved. Or maybe… maybe it was just me who was happy. I took a bite of the tangerine. A girl next to me pointed at the screen. “Wait, Wyatt, is that the class secretary holding a parasol for you? Did she have a crush on you?” The spotlight shifted to me. “No,” I shook my head. “She was just heading the same way.” “Too bad she didn’t come on the trip,” the girl said. “She definitely liked you. You should think about it. You guys would be a cute power couple.” On the other side of the room, Nicole was pouring water for Jackson. Her movements were fluid, unbothered, as if she hadn’t heard a word. I smiled faintly. “No thanks. Actually, I have a girlfriend.” Nicole’s entire body went rigid. Her hand clenched into a fist around the water pitcher. I knew that look. She was terrified I was about to blow her cover. The girl grabbed my arm, her eyes wide. “Who?! Is she in our class?” Dozens of eyes locked onto me. I kept my expression pleasant and nodded. “Yeah. She is.” 3 The room went electric. Everyone was shouting, trying to guess who it was. Nicole’s face grew darker by the second. She stared down at her phone, her thumbs flying. I felt my phone vibrate twice in my pocket, but I didn’t reach for it. “She’s busy,” I said calmly. “She couldn’t make it to the screening.” There were seven or eight girls who hadn’t shown up to the media room. Laura looked ready to interrogate me, but suddenly Jackson let out a small “Oh!” His glass had tipped, water soaking into his jeans. Nicole was instantly there with napkins, dabbing at his leg. He looked up, blushing. “Sorry, I’m such a klutz.” “It’s fine,” she said softly. “Let’s go back to the room and change. I don’t want you catching a cold.” She led him out of the room. With the main attraction gone, the documentary lost its charm, and the group began to drift apart. When I got back to my room, my suitcase was open. Nicole’s things were gone. I sat on the edge of the bed and finally looked at my phone. Two unread messages from her: Don’t you dare say a word. Don’t ruin the atmosphere. The “atmosphere.” Right. I was the boyfriend who wasn’t allowed to ruin the romantic tension between her and another man. It was a pattern. Like the charity auction junior year—I’d raised the most money, but she’d asked me to let Jackson take the credit so he wouldn’t lose his “Golden Boy” status. Or the tennis tournament where I’d dropped out because Jackson said he “wanted to try competing” and she didn’t want me to crush his confidence. For three years, Nicole had been “good” to me. She shielded me from the sun in the summer and the wind in the winter. She did everything a girlfriend should do—except acknowledge I existed. But when it came to Jackson, I was always the one expected to step back. Morning came, and my phone remained silent. I watched the sun rise over the skyline, feeling a strange, hollow peace settling in my chest. The day’s itinerary was sightseeing. Nicole and Jackson, sporting their matching red wristbands, were inseparable. She used the expensive camera I’d bought her to take photos of him at every “Instagrammable” spot, then took selfies with him. While we were resting by a bridge, someone brought up post-grad plans. “Wyatt, you staying in the city or heading back to Chicago?” “Back to Chicago,” I said casually. Nicole was unscrewing a water bottle for Jackson. Her eyes flicked toward me, sharp and questioning. Laura nudged her. “Jackson’s a local here. Nicole, you’re definitely staying in New York, right?” Nicole didn’t hesitate. “Of course.” Jackson’s eyes lit up, and he shifted closer until their shoulders were pressed together. One of the guys looked confused. “Wait, Wyatt, didn’t you already land that analyst job at the firm in Manhattan? Why are you leaving?” I smiled. “I turned it down. I want to be closer to my parents.” “No way. Is it for your parents, or for this mystery girlfriend?” The group crowded in, sensing gossip. My smile deepened. “Both. My parents miss me, and she… well, she’s decided to settle down in Chicago too.” The cheering started up again, everyone demanding a name, but I just shook my head and kept my mouth shut. At the next stop, Nicole cornered me outside the restrooms. “Did you really turn down the job?” She was breathless with anger. We had applied together. The firm wanted me for my stats, and I’d made it a condition of my contract that they hire my girlfriend as well. If I pulled out, her spot was in jeopardy. I nodded. “Yeah. My parents found a great position for us in Chicago. We’re getting engaged once things settle.” “Wyatt!” Nicole’s voice was a low, furious hiss. She looked around to make sure no one was listening, her face pale with rage. “Who gave you the right to plan my future for me?” 4 She stormed off, leading the pack with Jackson in tow. I stayed at the back, chatting idly with a few classmates. That night at the buffet dinner, Jackson announced loudly, “The Perseid meteor shower! Didn’t you guys know? Nicole said there’s a viewing point nearby. We could see a hundred meteors an hour.” The group was instantly intrigued. Laura, however, gave a knowing smirk. “Guys, have some common sense. You can see the stars from the hotel balcony. Don’t go out there and be third wheels.” The realization hit the room. “Oh, right. The ‘perfect’ viewing spot should be reserved for the people who really need it.” Nicole was serving Jackson more food. She didn’t say anything, but the smug curve of her lips said enough. Jackson blushed. “You guys can come too…” The buffet food didn’t sit right with me. The flavors were too heavy, too cloying. I tried a piece of seafood, but it felt like it was sticking in my throat. I spit it into a napkin and stood up to find something plain. Laura followed me, whispering, “Hey, Wyatt, I saw you posted about wanting to see the meteor shower a few days ago. Maybe skip the viewing point tonight? Don’t crash Nicole and Jackson’s moment.” I nodded. “I know.” “Top of the class for a reason,” she patted my arm. “Oh, one thing you don’t know—I actually rigged the draw. I made sure they got the same number.” I nodded again. “I heard you telling her before the game started.” Laura froze, surprised. Before she could say anything, someone called her name, and she scurried back. I was opening the lid to the congee when Nicole appeared to grab some pumpkin soup for Jackson. She spoke as if nothing had happened. “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” I didn’t answer. “I get it,” she continued, her voice light. “You’re acting out because I’m staying with Jackson. But honestly, Wyatt, last night I took the bed and he slept on the floor. We just talked. It’s just the rules of the game. Nothing is actually happening.” I filled my bowl. “Okay.” She still didn’t look at me. “Talk to your parents. New York is better for our careers than Chicago. We should stay here. Once we’re settled, we can find our own place.” I didn’t respond. As I turned to leave, she hesitated. “Wyatt… Jackson is really excited about the meteors tonight. I promised I’d go with him.” She paused, then added, “The Perseids happen every year. Next year, I’ll take you. I promise.” I stood with my back to her, the bowl hot against my palms, though I felt nothing but cold. “Okay,” I said quietly. I heard her sigh in relief. As she brushed past me, she didn’t forget to grab another plate of strawberries for Jackson. After dinner, I went back to the room and packed. The outfit I’d bought specifically for tonight—the one I’d imagined wearing while we watched the stars together—went straight into the trash along with the sightseeing brochures. I zipped the suitcase. It felt lighter now. I’d bought a ticket on my phone an hour ago. The flight was tonight. Ten minutes before takeoff, the Perseids began to streak across the sky. I saw people through the terminal windows pointing and taking photos. My phone buzzed. One unread message. It wasn’t from Nicole. Everything is ready. Your parents are heading to bed, and I’m waiting for you at the airport in Chicago. As the plane began its ascent, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Nicole, there is no “next year” for us.

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I woke up gasping, the remnants of a nightmare clinging to my skin like cold sweat. My eyes were still stinging with tears, but my fingers were already white-knuckled around a stack of legal documents. “I’ll sign!” I nearly screamed the words into the sterile air of the study. “From today on, I want nothing to do with the Stanford family!” In the dream—no, in that other life—I was twenty, and I had become the “disposable heir.” When the Stanfords threw me out, I had nothing but the clothes on my back. The real biological son had stepped in and effortlessly reclaimed the life I thought was mine, basking in the spotlight while I became the punchline of every high-society joke. I was a failure, a mistake to be erased. In my desperation, I had spiraled. I became the kept man of a predatory, wealthy socialite who treated me like a decorative pet. She didn’t just bruise my body; she pushed me into the beds of her business associates to close deals. Then came the sickness—a slow, wasting rot. She wouldn’t even pay for the treatment. I died in an alley of my own agony, watching from the gutters as the “true” heir married Diana Vincent—the untouchable queen of the tech world, the woman I had spent my entire life worshiping from afar. My life had ended like a bad tabloid story. It was pathetic. … “I’ll sign.” As the words left my lips, I felt a phantom weight lift from my chest. It was as if a set of invisible shackles had finally snapped. “Adrian, I am so disappointed in you. This tantrum is only making me more—” Lydia’s cold, melodic voice cut off abruptly. She looked at me, stunned. I stared back at the woman who had once tucked me in and called me her world. I swallowed the bitterness, the decades of “Mom” that wanted to claw their way out. I didn’t repeat myself. I simply picked up the pen and flipped through the thick stack of “Severance and Transfer of Assets” agreements until I found the signature line. I wrote my name, Adrian Stanford, for the very last time. “There,” I said, sliding the papers back across the mahogany desk. Lydia’s expression shifted from icy disdain to genuine bewilderment. She had clearly expected a fight. She probably had security standing by in the hallway to drag me out. “Do you even realize what you’re giving up?” she asked. “I assume it’s the usual,” I said softly. “The trust fund, the shares, the properties… and any claim to the Stanford name.” Lydia’s mouth opened slightly. “Since you aren’t biologically ours, it’s only right to correct the mistake. I hope you can understand that we need things to return to their proper track.” I looked past her at the shadow of the bodyguard in the doorway. My face went pale, but my voice remained steady. “I understand perfectly.” It didn’t matter if I understood or not. If I hadn’t signed, they would have forced my hand anyway. I used to think it was just a bad dream. But on my twelfth birthday, a boy who looked exactly like a younger version of Lydia showed up at our gates. Logan. He was the real son, lost to a hospital error, raised in the rougher parts of the city. The rest followed the script of my nightmare. Compared to Logan, I was a pampered porcelain doll—pretty to look at, but hollow. Logan was brilliant, rugged, and fueled by a survivor’s instinct. He was everything the Stanford empire actually needed. When Logan pointed at me with eyes full of twenty years of resentment and said, “I want him gone. Seeing him reminds me of the life he stole from me,” it was over. Lydia and my father, Charles, were so consumed by guilt for their “real” son that they didn’t hesitate. Even Daisy, the younger sister I had practically raised, stood by Logan’s side. “Don’t cry,” she had told him. “You’re the only brother I care about.” They looked at me like I was a thief who had been caught red-handed. “Adrian, it’s time for you to leave.” In the dream, I couldn’t accept it. I had wailed and begged, making a scene that only hardened their hearts. I had tried to make myself sick to stay, tried to starve myself for pity. None of it worked. Logan had eventually kicked open my bedroom door, his jealousy flashing for a brief second before he surveyed my designer clothes and expensive watches with a smirk. “You’ve had twenty years of luxury you didn’t earn, Adrian. Now my parents are taking it all back. It’s time you learned what it’s like to live at the bottom.” “No, they wouldn’t do this to me,” I’d sobbed. I was terrified. I was a socialite; I didn’t know how to be poor. I thought if I could just prove my worth—maybe through a strategic marriage? I had been chasing Diana Vincent for years. If I could get her… “Stop being pathetic,” Logan had sneered. “You’ve chased Diana for years and she won’t even look at you. Meanwhile, she’s already invited me to dinner.” In the dream, I had slapped him. He had grabbed my hair, and we had tumbled down the grand staircase together. When I woke up this time, I knew. It wasn’t a dream. It was a warning. Lydia took the papers, her hand trembling slightly. 2 “Mrs. Stanford, am I free to go?” Her head snapped up. “What did you just call me?” I lowered my gaze, avoiding the familiar blue of her eyes, and gave her a shallow, polite bow. “Thank you for taking care of me all these years, Mrs. Stanford.” Lydia’s voice shook, a mix of anger and something else—maybe regret? “Logan was right. Blood is everything. You really are an ungrateful brat, aren’t you?” I wanted to scream, Aren’t you the ones throwing me away? But I saw a flicker of something different this time. In the nightmare, she had looked at me with pure loathing. Now, because I was making it easy for her, she looked almost… conflicted. I didn’t let it touch me. As long as Logan was in that house, there was no room for me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. Lydia stood up, smoothing her silk skirt as her composure returned. “Fine. Go. Take your personal things. Whatever you usually use.” That was another change. In the dream, I was kicked out with nothing. I wasn’t going to be “noble” this time. “Thank you.” I packed light but smart. A few high-quality coats, my favorite boots, some daily essentials. One suitcase. As I dragged the suitcase toward the stairs, Logan was waiting. He insisted on checking the bag, convinced I was smuggling the family silver. He looked at me like I was a cockroach. When he saw the bag only held clothes and toiletries, Lydia finally snapped. “Enough, Logan!” It was the first time she’d raised her voice at him since he arrived. He turned to her, eyes welling up instantly. “The Stanfords have already been too kind to him,” he whimpered. Lydia sighed, the pull of biological guilt winning out. She turned back to me, her voice hardening. “Adrian, since the papers are signed, we are strangers now. Do not use the Stanford name for anything. Ever.” Even knowing it was coming, it felt like a serrated blade to the chest. “Understood.” I didn’t take the jewelry. It would have been too easy for them to claim I stole it. Once I was a few blocks away from the estate, the adrenaline evaporated. I slumped against my suitcase, my body trembling. The fall down the stairs with Logan hadn’t been a dream—I actually had a cracked rib. Every breath felt like a hot needle. I knew if I showed pain back there, they’d just call it another “performance” to stay. I wouldn’t be the pathetic clown from my nightmares. This time, I’d leave with my dignity. But as the sun began to set, the reality hit. I was homeless. I reached for my phone to call my friends. Then I froze. I remembered the dream. After I was kicked out, I had begged my “brothers” for a place to crash. Every single one of them blocked me. When I finally found someone who would see me, they lured me to a VIP lounge just to humiliate me. “Hey Adrian, don’t you love making people bark like dogs? Why don’t you get down on all fours and bark for us three times? Maybe then we’ll buy you a drink.” “Drink this whole case first, then we’ll see.” Even the low-level hangers-on, people whose names I barely remembered, looked at me with predatory hunger. “The little prince is on the street. How sad. Tell you what, come home with me. I’ll give you three grand a month to be my boy. Deal?” I covered my ears, shaking my head to drown out the memory of those voices. That night in the dream, I had been forced to drink until I threw up. Someone had “accidentally” kicked my side, turning the cracked rib into an internal hemorrhage. The pain… God, the pain of breathing had been unbearable. I wouldn’t let that happen. Not again. Was I destined for that ending? I hadn’t asked to be swapped at birth. Why was I the one who had to pay for the universe’s mistake? Logan was smart and capable; clearly, my biological mother hadn’t mistreated him. So why did he hate me so much? He got his throne back. I got an empty bank account, a dead mother I never knew, and a father who didn’t exist. I sat on the sidewalk until the last sliver of gold vanished from the horizon. I needed a plan. I checked my phone. I had a few hundred dollars in a digital wallet from various apps. All my Stanford-issued credit cards were already frozen. My brain, which I had barely used for anything besides choosing outfits for twenty years, started whirring. There was a wholesale market on the south side. They threw out “ugly” produce every morning. I could eat for free if I wasn’t proud. Rice was cheap. I just needed a roof. My face fell. That was the hard part. I couldn’t call anyone from my old life. Then, a name surfaced. Jane. Because I couldn’t have Diana Vincent, I had “sponsored” a girl from the local university who shared her sharp, icy features. A classic “substitute” trope. I’d paid her two hundred thousand for a one-year “exclusive arrangement.” There were six months left on the contract. 3 My breath hitched as I scrolled to her name and hit dial. It rang three times. “What do you want?” Jane’s voice was like a bucket of ice water. I shivered. Looking back, I had been a monster to her. To force her into the arrangement, I’d used my family’s influence to pull the funding from her research lab. I’d treated her like a punching bag for my ego every time Diana rejected me. I was terrified she’d hang up if she knew I was broke. “Don’t hang up,” I said quickly. “I’m coming over tonight.” I waited, heart hammering against my ribs. Jane was defiant. She usually said no. If this were yesterday, I would have used threats to force her. God, I was a piece of work. I hated myself. But she was the only life raft I had left. There was a long silence. Just when I thought she’d disconnected, she spoke. “Fine,” she said. I took a taxi to the university district. It cost me sixty dollars. It hurt to pay it. I had rented a high-end apartment near the campus a year ago just to keep her close. I realized now it was the only “home” I had left. I hoped she wasn’t there; I just wanted to crawl into a corner and hide until the lease ran out. But as I stood at the door, I realized I didn’t have the keys. I’d left them in the Stanford mansion. I had to wait for the girl I had spent a year tormenting. 4 I don’t know how long I sat on my suitcase, leaning my head against the doorframe to dull the throbbing in my side. “Why aren’t you inside?” The voice was cold, wrapped in frost. I opened my eyes to see Jane. She was leaning against the opposite wall, looking down at me like I was a strange specimen. I almost cried with relief. “You’re here,” I whispered, too tired to even stand up properly. Jane frowned, her eyes darting to my suitcase. “What is this?” “Can we just go in?” I asked. “I’m freezing.” She unlocked the door. I stumbled toward the sofa and collapsed, gasping for air. Safe. I was safe for a second. Then, my stomach betrayed me with a loud, hollow growl. I looked at her, embarrassed. “Jane… I’m hungry.” Her expression darkened. “What game are you playing now, Adrian?” I corrected her softly. “Just Adrian. Call me Adrian from now on.” She went rigid. I realized I sounded too soft, almost like I was flirting or begging. I wasn’t; it just hurt too much to use my diaphragm for a “tough” voice. After a beat, she said, “I have ramen. You want some?” “Yes, please.” Twenty minutes later, I was draining the last of the broth. I was trying to figure out how to tell her the “arrangement” was over and ask for a refund. A hundred thousand dollars was pocket change to me yesterday. Today, it was my entire future. I watched her through the steam. She was dressed in all black—a silk button-down that looked expensive and sharp. Her hair was a dark curtain. She looked like a girl who was finally coming into her own power. She was definitely worth the two hundred thousand. How was I supposed to ask for the money back? I felt like a leech. Jane caught me staring. A look of disgust flashed across her face. “Fine,” she said, standing up. “Let’s get this over with. How do you want to play it tonight?” “What?” I blinked. “Make it quick.” She walked toward me, unbuttoning her collar. As she got closer, the scent of lemons hit me. She knelt at my feet, her head bowed, her profile a perfect, haunting echo of Diana Vincent. It was a routine she knew too well. It made my stomach turn. “Master, punish me…” she murmured, her voice flat. I jumped back. “No! Stop! Get away!” Jane sneered. “Not that one tonight? Fine.” She stood up and reached for her belt. The click of the buckle was like a trigger. The memories of the nightmare—the older woman, the leather belt, the sound of it snapping against my skin while I was pinned down—came rushing back. I scrambled into the corner of the sofa, my heart hammering. I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking uncontrollably. “Don’t come near me! Please, just don’t touch me!” In my mind, I was back in that dark room, unable to run, unable to hide. “Leave me alone… please…” I whimpered. “Adrian.” “Adrian!” She called my name twice. I didn’t hear her at first, lost in the fog of trauma. “Adrian.” The lemon scent cleared the air. I looked up to find her icy blue eyes staring at me, filled with confusion rather than malice. “Don’t… don’t touch me,” I breathed, my chest heaving. Each breath spiked the pain in my ribs. Jane sat on the coffee table across from me, watching me in silence for a long time.

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I died in the quietest way possible. After finishing a batch of the caramel puddings Daniel loved so much, I lay down on the recliner in the living room to catch my breath. I closed my eyes, and they simply never opened again. There were so many things I still wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t hate him anymore. I wanted to tell him I’d finally forgiven him for the blurred lines and whispered secrets he shared with his assistant, Tiffany. But those words, like my breath, vanished into the ether. They say everything ends when you die, but my soul felt glued to the floorboards of this house. I watched as Daniel walked through the door, carrying a bag of warm sweet potato chips, with Tiffany trailing right behind him like a shadow. “Daniel, honey,” she chirped, her voice dripping with calculated sweetness. “Your wife just sent me another text calling me a homewrecker. She told me to go kill myself… maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to be the reason your marriage falls apart.” Daniel looked at my closed eyes, and the flicker of concern in his gaze vanished, replaced by a cold, hard crust of disgust. “Claire, for God’s sake, when is this performance going to end? Tiffany is just here to pick up some files. Can’t you be an adult for once?” From the moment my body began to grow cold, he did nothing but scold me. He had no idea that later, he would sit beside my corpse, sobbing, begging me to open my eyes—begging for just one word. It reminded me of being a little girl. My mother had packed a suitcase and walked out after a petty argument, leaving me an orphan in all the ways that mattered. I realized then, as I watched him now, that no matter how much I grew up, I never learned the secret of how to make someone stay when they already have one foot out the door. 1 Daniel stood over me, venting his frustrations for several minutes. When I didn’t snap back or offer a sarcastic remark, he finally let out a long, jagged sigh. The sharp edge of his anger softened into something resembling pity. He knelt down and gently tucked the bag of sweet potato chips—still warm from his coat pocket—into my hand. “Stop being stubborn,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive tone he used when he wanted to fix things. “I waited in line forever for these. They’re still hot. You’ve been craving them from that place downtown for weeks, haven’t you? Get up and eat them before they get cold.” The paper bag was warm, but my palm was a frozen wasteland. I couldn’t feel a thing. Daniel noticed how cold my hand was, and his brow furrowed. He stood up, went into the bedroom, and returned with a heavy wool throw. He draped it over me, tucking the edges around my shoulders with a practiced tenderness that broke my ghostly heart. He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of running water filling the silence. “I’m pouring you some warm water,” he called out. “Drink it. It’ll help that cough.” I heard the clink of a glass. His voice took on a rhythmic, domestic quality, as if he were planning a future that still existed. “After the New Year, I’m clearing my schedule. I’m taking you down to the coast for a few weeks. The air is cleaner there, warmer. This cough of yours isn’t getting better, and the sea breeze will do your lungs some good. We’ll just watch the waves. Whatever you want.” I hovered in the air, watching the silhouette of the man I loved moving in the kitchen. My eyes burned with the ghost of tears I could no longer shed. It’s too late, Daniel. Tiffany stood by the sofa, her eyes burning with a manic jealousy. She hadn’t expected this. She thought my “silent treatment” would infuriate him, but instead, it had brought out a side of Daniel she couldn’t control—the side that still belonged to me. While Daniel’s back was turned, Tiffany crept toward my recliner. She reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my phone. It didn’t take her long to guess the passcode—it was Daniel’s birthday. Her fingers flew across the screen, tapping out a message and setting a timer. Then, she slipped my phone into her own designer handbag. A second later, a blood-curdling scream ripped through the living room. “Ah!” Tiffany grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and slammed it against her own forehead. Blood erupted instantly, dark and viscous, trailing down her pale face. “What happened?!” Daniel rushed out of the kitchen, water splashing from the glass in his hand. He found Tiffany collapsed on the floor, clutching her head, weeping hysterically. “Daniel… oh my god…” she sobbed, pointing a trembling finger at my motionless form. “She just… she snapped! She hit me with the ashtray! She called me a whore and told me she’d kill me if I didn’t leave right now!” Daniel’s face went white, then a terrifying shade of red. He lunged toward me, his hand reaching out to grab my shoulder. “Claire! Have you lost your mind? She’s just a kid! How could you do this?” Just as his fingers were about to bruise my dead skin, a ding echoed from his pocket. Tiffany shrieked, “Look! Look at your phone! I bet she’s texting more threats! She was just holding her phone a second ago—she’s faking it, Daniel! She’s faking the whole thing!” Daniel froze. He pulled out his phone. A message sat on the screen from “Wife.” [If that bitch doesn’t get out of my house, I’ll kill myself and make sure everyone knows it was your fault.] The veins in Daniel’s hand popped; his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He looked up at me, the last shred of warmth in his eyes evaporating into a towering, murderous rage. “Fine,” he whispered, a terrifying, jagged laugh escaping his throat. “Fine, Claire. You want to use death as a threat just to get your way? You think you can hold me hostage with your drama?” He raised his hand. Splash. The warm water he had poured for my throat hit me full in the face. Droplets rolled down my graying cheeks, soaking my eyelashes and the wool blanket he had so carefully tucked around me moments ago. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. “Still acting?” Daniel’s fury reached a breaking point. He snatched the bag of chips from my hand and hurled them into the trash can. “Fine. You want to play dead? Then stay here and play your little game until you’re bored. I’m done.” He turned, hoisting Tiffany up from the floor. He didn’t look back at me once. His voice was thick with loathing. “Come on, Tiffany. Let’s get you to the ER. We’re spending the rest of the holiday at the office. Let her rot in her own madness.” The front door slammed with such force the chandelier rattled. I drifted in the empty air, looking at my wet face and the discarded chips in the trash. Daniel, I wasn’t playing. I’m really gone. 2 By the next day, the change began. Faint, purplish bruises—the marks of the end—began to bloom across my pale skin. The heat in the house was turned up high, accelerating the inevitable. My soul, bound by some invisible tether to Daniel, was forced to follow him. I sat in the back of his car as he drove, his jaw set in a hard, angry line. Tiffany sat in the passenger seat, a white bandage wrapped around her head, surreptitiously playing with my phone. She glanced at Daniel’s profile, her thumb dancing across the screen as she typed out a status update for my Facebook page. She tagged him, hit send, and then tucked the phone back into her bag with a satisfied smirk. She looked at him, her eyes wide and innocent. “Daniel… she seems really angry this time. Maybe we should check on her?” Daniel scoffed, pulling his own phone out at a red light. When he saw the notification—the update from “Claire”—his face darkened. [If you leave, I’ll die in this house, and you’ll have to live with the guilt for the rest of your life!] Thud! Daniel slammed his fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring and startling a pedestrian. “She’s a lunatic!” he hissed, the pulse in his temple throbbing. He had spent the night cooling off, feeling a twinge of guilt. He knew I wasn’t well. He’d even thought about stopping at the pharmacy on the way home to pick up my prescription. But that post—that calculated, public cry for attention—snapped the final string of his patience. “If she wants to die so badly, then she can do it without me,” he growled. He wrenched the steering wheel, pulling a sharp U-turn. The route home was abandoned; he drove toward Tiffany’s apartment instead. “Daniel, are you sure?” Tiffany asked timidly, though her eyes danced with triumph. “I can handle being alone. Maybe you should go back.” “No,” Daniel snapped. “She’s pulled this stunt a thousand times. The more you indulge her, the worse she gets. She needs to learn that her threats don’t work on me anymore.” At Tiffany’s place, she played the role of the perfect caregiver. She tied on an apron and began fussing in the kitchen. Suddenly, she let out a small “Ow!” Daniel, who had been brooding on the sofa, rushed into the kitchen. Tiffany had “accidentally” splashed hot soup on her hand. “Careful, honey,” Daniel murmured, his voice softening as he took her hand and ran it under cold water. He looked at her with such genuine concern it made my chest ache. I remembered when I’d sliced my finger open in our kitchen a year ago. I’d asked him for a bandage, and he hadn’t even looked up from his laptop. “It’s just a scratch, Claire. Deal with it yourself. I’m busy.” It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to care for someone. He just didn’t want to care for me. His phone rang. It was Dr. Benjamin, my specialist. Daniel saw the name and let out a cynical laugh before answering. “What is it, Benjamin?” The voice on the other end was frantic. “Daniel? Where is Claire? I’ve been calling her for hours! Her lab results came back—it’s a crisis. Her lungs are failing. She needs to be hospitalized immediately. Put her on the phone!” Daniel interrupted him, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Is that the new plan, Doctor? Claire got you to call me with a fake medical emergency? You guys really put a lot of effort into the script this time.” “What are you talking about?” Benjamin stammered. “Daniel, I’m not joking! Her pulmonary fibrosis has reached—” “Enough!” Daniel barked. “Tell Claire that if she wants to fake her own death, she’d better make it convincing, because I’m the one who’s going to have to sign the papers. I’m not falling for this ‘team-up’ with her doctor. Don’t call me again.” He hung up and blocked the number. I floated beside him, screaming into the void, trying to explain, trying to tell him that the air was gone, that I was gone. But my voice was nothing but a draft in the room. To spite me, Daniel leaned in as Tiffany took a selfie of them. In the photo, Tiffany held a glass of wine, smiling sweetly. Daniel sat across from her, and though his expression was cold, the background was a warm, candlelit dinner. Tiffany posted it instantly. [Thank you for being here. Best holiday ever. Here’s to many more.] She adjusted the privacy settings so that I was the only person who could see it. Late that night, fireworks exploded outside the window, painting the sky in brilliant colors. Daniel stood by the glass, watching the fading light. He absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over his phone and, on a whim, sent me a text. [Have you had enough yet? If you’re done being a brat, go heat up those dumplings. Don’t starve yourself to death in my house. It’s bad luck.] The message was sent. No reply came. No “typing…” bubbles appeared. Daniel stared at the screen for a minute, then tossed the phone onto the bed in a huff. He thought I was playing a game of chicken. He thought we were in a cold war. He had no idea that my body was currently rotting on the chair he’d bought me for our third anniversary. 3 The day after the holiday. Daniel woke up in Tiffany’s bed, a hangover pounding behind his eyes. His first instinct was to reach for his phone. Nothing. Not a single notification. Usually, no matter how angry I was, I never went a full night without checking on him. I’d send a text asking if his stomach hurt from the wine, or I’d tell him there was aspirin on the nightstand. The silence was beginning to feel heavy. “She’s really committed this time,” he muttered, throwing his phone aside. Anger flared in his chest. “Fine. You want to see who breaks first? Let’s see how long you can hold out.” Tiffany brought him breakfast, watching his face like a hawk. “Daniel, it’s a beautiful day. Why don’t we drive out to the coast? You need a break.” Daniel wanted to say no, but the thought of me sitting at home, waiting for him to crawl back, made him nod. “Let’s go.” As they were packing, Daniel’s phone buzzed. It was the building manager. “Mr. Sterling? I’m sorry to bother you, but your downstairs neighbor is complaining. They’re saying there’s a… strange odor coming from your unit. Like something spoiled. Could you head over and take a look?” Daniel’s jaw tightened. He remembered the bag of chips he’d kicked over, and how I looked “playing dead” on the recliner. He assumed I was being vindictive—leaving trash out or letting food rot just to spite him. “It’s just my wife being difficult,” Daniel said into the phone, his voice cold. “She’s leaving trash out to get my attention. Ignore it. She’ll clean it up when she realizes I’m not coming home to do it for her.” He hung up, the disgust in his heart curdling. They drove to the shore. The winter wind was brutal, whipping against his face. Daniel stood on the rocks, watching the gray Atlantic churn. The peace he was looking for didn’t come. Instead, a memory hit him like a physical blow. Our anniversary. I’d pulled on his sleeve, my eyes bright with hope. “Daniel, let’s go to the beach. When I feel a little stronger, let’s just go and collect shells. Please?” He had looked at his watch. “I’m busy, Claire. Maybe next year.” Daniel looked down at a small, perfect shell by his boot. His heart suddenly felt soft, bruised. He walked over to a small boardwalk gift shop and bought a delicate shell bracelet. “Fine, I’ll go back and fix it,” he muttered to himself. “She’s fragile. If she gets herself worked up into a real sickness, it’ll just be more work for me.” He went into a convenience store to grab a bottle of water, thinking he might pick up a carton of milk for me, too. As he stood at the counter, Tiffany watched him from the car, her eyes narrowed. She pulled my phone out of her bag. She quickly navigated to a search engine, downloaded a gruesome photo of a slit wrist from a dark forum, and sent it to herself. She shoved the phone back into her bag, plastered a look of pure horror on her face, and ran into the store toward Daniel. “Daniel! Daniel, oh my god!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “She just sent me a picture… she did it! She cut her wrists! Look!” Daniel took his change from the clerk, and the coins clattered to the floor. He snatched the phone from Tiffany’s hand. The sight of the blood, the raw red of the wound, sent a shock of pure, unadulterated fury through him. It was another threat. Another play for pity. Yesterday it was a “medical crisis,” today it was suicide. What would it be tomorrow? “Lunatic!” Daniel roared. He raised his hand and flung the shell bracelet he’d just bought. It arched through the air and vanished into the dark, churning surf. “I am done with this!” his chest heaved, his eyes bloodshot. “She wants to die? Fine! Let her bleed! Let’s see how much she likes the sight of her own blood!” I drifted in the salt spray, watching the bracelet sink to the bottom of the ocean. It was the first gift he’d bought me in years. And he’d thrown it away with his own hands. Daniel, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Truly. 4 The second day after the holiday. Daniel drove home, his rage having condensed into a cold, hard diamond of resolve. He’d made his decision. He didn’t care if I cried, if I begged, or if I knelt at his feet. He was filing for divorce. He couldn’t live like this for another second. Tiffany sat next to him, a small, predatory smile playing on her lips. The title of Mrs. Sterling was finally within reach. The elevator climbed to our floor. Ding. The doors slid open, and Daniel froze. The hallway, usually silent and sterile, was teeming with people. There was a bright, jagged line of yellow police tape stretched across our front door. Officers were moving in and out, and a forensic investigator was carrying a heavy black kit, his face grim. Our neighbors were huddled together, whispering. They were all holding their noses, their expressions a mix of disgust and horror. “God, the smell… it’s unbearable.” “I heard she’d been there for days. How awful.” Daniel’s brain went numb. Everything went white. Tiffany stepped out behind him. Seeing the scene, she gasped and covered her mouth. “Oh my god! Did she… did she set the place on fire just to get us back here?” That sentence was the match that lit the powder keg in Daniel’s soul. Another stunt. She’d called the cops just to force him home. “Claire!” Daniel screamed, shoving through the crowd. He reached the door, his voice a jagged blade. “Get out here! Right now! Are you happy? You’ve got the whole building watching! Is this enough attention for you?!” He reached out to rip down the police tape. “Sir! Step back!” A young officer blocked his path, his voice stern. “This is a restricted scene. You can’t go in there.” Daniel shoved the officer’s hand away, the veins in his neck bulging. “I live here! That’s my wife! Tell that crazy woman to stop acting and get in the car. We’re going to the hospital, and then we’re going to a lawyer!” The hallway went dead silent. The neighbors looked at Daniel with expressions that made my skin crawl. A medical examiner, an older man with graying hair and a mask over his face, stepped out of the bedroom. He pulled off his gloves and looked at the black body bag being zipped up on the floor. “Stop shouting,” the examiner said, his voice cold as a tombstone. “The deceased is Claire Sterling. Cause of death appears to be respiratory failure brought on by advanced pulmonary fibrosis, complicated by severe malnutrition.” “Based on the state of the body, she has been dead for at least forty-eight hours.” Daniel staggered. “Dead? No… that’s impossible.” He laughed—a short, sharp sound. He looked at the cop, then at the black bag. “You’re wrong! She sent a photo yesterday! She sent texts! She’s playing you! She’s faking it!” Tiffany scrambled forward, holding out her phone. “Officer! Look! She sent this to me yesterday! She’s not dead, she’s just trying to scare us!” The medical examiner frowned. He took the phone, glanced at the photo, and then looked at Tiffany with a profound, chilling intensity. He turned back to Daniel. “Sir, the vital signs of the deceased ceased on the afternoon of the holiday. Pray tell, how does a woman who has been dead for two days send a photo of her slit wrists to this lady?”

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When I opened my eyes again, I realized with a jarring jolt of adrenaline that I was back. Back to the very first day that the most loathsome man I’d ever met joined the firm. Dustin was the kind of guy who used “honesty” as a weapon and “innocence” as a shield. He had a mouth that never stopped, always leaking poison disguised as casual observation. In my first life, he started his campaign on day one. He’d announced to the entire open-plan office that he’d seen some “old guy in a Porsche” dropping me off, trailing off with a wink that implied it certainly wasn’t my father. Later, when I landed a seven-figure account, he spent his lunch breaks in the breakroom whispering that I hadn’t used my brain to close the deal, but my “other assets.” When I finally went to my manager, Frank, to report the harassment, Frank just sighed behind his mahogany desk. He told me Dustin was just a “green kid with no filter,” that I was being “too sensitive,” and that as a senior lead, I needed to “be the bigger person.” It all culminated at the annual company gala. Dustin took the mic on stage and “accidentally” let it slip that he’d seen me leaving a hotel with the CEO. He’d covered his mouth in fake horror, pretending he’d made a slip of the tongue. The rumor reached the CEO’s wife within minutes. Regina was a woman defined by her ferocity and a hair-trigger temper. That night, fueled by a blind, vengeful rage, she had me followed. I never made it home. A heavy-duty truck, “out of control,” plowed into my sedan, crushing the life out of me before I could even scream. But this time? This time, I wasn’t going to argue. I wasn’t going to defend myself. I was going to let that loose cannon of a mouth fire until it finally blew up in his own face. … 1 “Jane! Hey, Jane! I saw you downstairs this morning. That older guy in the Porsche… the one with the receding hairline…” The familiar, nasally voice cut through the morning hum of the office. I blinked, the ghost of the car crash still cold in my bones, and saw Dustin. He was leaning against a cubicle wall, smirking and gesturing toward the rest of the team. “Oh, guys, don’t get the wrong idea! I’m sure the guy in the fancy car was just a… relative. Right, Jane?” He paused, eyes glinting with malice. “I mean, the way he was leaning over to kiss—I mean, talk to you… totally normal family stuff. I swear I didn’t see anything! Everyone, stop guessing! My lips are sealed!” A ripple of low laughter spread through the room. Several women exchanged looks—that sharp, judgmental squint that happens when gossip is served fresh at 9:00 AM. It was exactly as it had happened before. Every word. Every smirk. I was really back. “Dustin,” I said, my voice steady and cold as a winter morning. I stood up and looked him dead in the eye. “You swear you didn’t see anything?” Dustin flinched slightly, taken aback by the lack of flustered defense he’d expected. But he recovered quickly, throwing his hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. “Whoa, Jane! Why the heat?” He pouted, looking around for sympathy. “I’m literally telling people not to gossip! You’re making it so awkward. Gosh, you’re so sensitive. Can’t you take a joke?” “She’s right, Jane,” Frank, our department head, said as he strolled over with his travel mug, frowning at me. “Dustin’s just out of college. He’s a good kid, just doesn’t have a filter yet. He didn’t mean anything by it.” Frank gave me that disappointed-father look he used to gaslight me for years. “You’re a senior here. Be the bigger person. Don’t ruin the vibe on a Monday.” In my last life, I’d lost my temper. I’d screamed, I’d tried to prove my innocence, and I’d ended up looking like a hysterical woman with something to hide. I wasn’t going to be that woman today. “You’re right, Frank,” I said, a small, sharp smile playing on my lips. Dustin’s eyes sparked with triumph. He thought I’d folded. “See? I knew you’d understand, Jane. I’m just a ‘tell it like it is’ kind of guy—” “Actually, Dustin, I’m impressed by your eyesight,” I interrupted, tossing a thick blue folder onto my desk with a satisfying thud. “The ‘old guy’ you saw? That’s Mr. Whitaker.” I leaned back, watching the color drain slightly from Frank’s face. “He’s the founder of Whitaker Capital—our biggest target for the Q4 portfolio. The CEO spent three hours in a lobby last month just trying to get a five-minute meeting and failed.” I tapped the folder. “Since you’re so observant and clearly so interested in Mr. Whitaker’s movements, I’ve decided to hand his account over to you. He’s coming in for a site visit next week. You can handle the lead on the presentation.” Dustin’s eyes practically turned into dollar signs. An account like Whitaker Capital meant a six-figure commission and a fast track to a VP title. Frank’s face twisted. “Jane, wait. That’s a ten-million-dollar deal. Dustin is a rookie—” “So? You said yourself he’s got potential,” I countered, locking eyes with Dustin. “Right, Dustin? Or are you only good for making ‘jokes’ in the breakroom? Maybe you can’t handle real work?” The bait was set. For a guy as arrogant and hungry as Dustin, there was no way he wouldn’t bite. He lunged for the folder, clutching it to his chest like a prize. “I can handle it! Totally!” he shouted, his face flushed with greed. “Don’t worry, Jane. I’ll make sure Mr. Whitaker is… well-taken care of. I won’t let the firm down!” “Good,” I nodded. Within minutes, Dustin had posted a selfie with the folder to his Instagram. The caption read: No handouts, just hustle. 22 and already closing eight-figure deals. #TopTier #Grind. I watched him preen, a cold satisfaction settling in my chest. I truly hoped he’d keep that same energy when the walls started closing in. 2 By Tuesday morning’s briefing, Dustin was acting like he owned the building. He stood by the whiteboard, pointing at a timeline. “Just an update for the team—I’ve already made contact with Whitaker’s office.” He paused, throwing a condescending glance my way. “His executive assistant was very impressed with my approach. We’ve locked in the site visit for Wednesday afternoon.” A murmur of impressed whispers broke out. “Wow, Dustin, that’s fast,” someone said. “That’s what the new generation brings to the table, Frank,” Dustin bragged, his voice rising in volume. “I don’t wait for things to fall into my lap. I don’t believe in… shaking hands behind closed doors to get ahead. I rely on pure merit.” I ignored the jab and walked out to get more coffee. At 3:00 PM, HR rolled in the snack cart to celebrate a win. “Congratulations to Jane for closing the Hyatt group contract!” My coworkers crowded around. “Jane, that’s huge! That CEO is notoriously cheap. How did you do it?” Before I could answer, Dustin wedged himself into the center of the group, coffee cup in hand. “Seriously, Jane, it’s impressive!” he drawled, his voice dripping with insinuation. “I mean, spending all that time at the hotel with him last night… you must have put in some serious overtime.” He suddenly slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with mock horror. “Oops! Forget I said that! We all know Jane is a ‘hard worker.’ Say no more! Wink-wink!” The breakroom went silent. The air curdled. I saw two of the younger associates exchange a look that said, So that’s how she does it. Frank stood nearby, blowing on his tea, staring at the floor as if he were suddenly fascinated by the linoleum. I set my cupcake down and walked straight up to Dustin. “Say no more about what?” Dustin scrambled back an inch, his hands up in his “innocent boy” defense. “Jane, chill! You’re getting that scary look again.” “Finish the sentence, Dustin,” I said, my voice a flat line. “What happened at the hotel?” He rolled his eyes, turning to the crowd. “I was just saying you must be exhausted from ‘working’ in the hotel lounge all night! Gosh, Jane, your mind is in the gutter. Why are you attacking me? I was trying to be nice!” He raised his voice so the whole floor could hear. “You’re so defensive. It’s almost like you’re projecting. If you didn’t do anything wrong, why are you so pressed?” The peanut gallery chimed in. “Yeah, Jane, he didn’t even say anything.” “If the shoe fits…” one girl whispered. Frank finally looked up, his voice weary. “Alright, Jane, that’s enough. We’re supposed to be celebrating. Don’t be so sensitive. He’s just a kid making a joke. Be the bigger person and stop creating a hostile environment.” In my last life, this was the moment I would have snapped. I would have screamed about the double standards, and I would have been labeled “difficult” by the end of the day. “You’re right. I’m being sensitive,” I said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. I walked back to my desk and pulled a blue-bound contract from my drawer. “As an apology, Dustin… here.” I handed him the master service agreement for the Hyatt project. “This is the final pricing and vendor list. The hotel’s board needs a final walkthrough of the numbers. Since I’m so ‘tired,’ why don’t you take the lead on this too? It’s a great way to build your profile before the Whitaker meeting.” Dustin froze. Frank dropped his spoon. “Jane! Are you insane? That’s the Hyatt core file! It has all our internal margins and trade secrets. You can’t just give that to a junior!” I turned to Frank, my expression innocent. “But Frank, you said I was being too hard on him. This is a high-level responsibility. Isn’t that what ‘mentoring’ is about?” Dustin didn’t wait for Frank to protest. He snatched the file, his eyes gleaming with the thought of stealing my commission. “You all heard her!” Dustin shouted to the room. “Jane gave this to me! I’m the lead on Hyatt now!” Frank looked like he was having a stroke, but he couldn’t argue with my “generosity” after he’d spent all day telling me to be nicer. Ten minutes later, I headed to the restroom. As I passed the stairwell, I heard Dustin’s muffled, frantic laughter. “I’m telling you, man, I’ve got the whole deck,” Dustin whispered into his phone. “The woman is a total idiot. She’s hit menopause or something—completely lost her edge. I poked her a few times and she just handed me the keys to the kingdom.” He let out a sharp, triumphant breath. “Yeah, I’ll have the pricing sheet scanned and sent to you by tonight. Your firm’s bid will blow ours out of the water, and I’ll look like the hero who caught the ‘error.’ We’re gonna be rich.” 3 Wednesday afternoon was supposed to be Dustin’s big moment—the site visit with Mr. Whitaker. Instead, Dustin slammed back into the office an hour early, his face a sickly shade of gray. He marched over to my desk and screamed, “Jane! What the hell did you do to piss off Whitaker?” The entire office went dead silent. I didn’t even look up from my monitor. “What do you mean?” Dustin’s voice cracked. “I barely mentioned your name as the person who prepared the preliminary brief, and the guy went nuclear! He kicked me out of his office! He said he ‘can’t stand people who play games with their private lives’ and called you ‘toxic’!” He turned to the room, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “Jane, whatever gross stuff you’re doing in your free time, don’t drag the company’s reputation down with you!” A wave of murmurs broke out. Mr. Whitaker was legendary for being a “moralist.” He was old-school, hated scandal, and loathed office politics. Dustin, in his desperate attempt to look like the hero, had obviously tried to tell Mr. Whitaker a “secret” about how I was “unstable” or “promiscuous” to make himself look like the only sane one left on the account. He had tried to use a “yellow rumor” to seal the deal. But he’d miscalculated. He’d played the game with a man who hated the board. “So,” I said, finally looking up. “The deal is dead?” “Of course it’s dead!” Dustin shrieked. “He said he won’t work with a firm that allows ‘that kind of woman’ in its senior ranks! I practically begged him on my knees, but he wouldn’t even look at me. This is all your fault!” Frank stormed out of his office, his face purple. “Jane! What have you done?” He pointed a shaking finger at me. “If we lose the Whitaker account, the entire department’s bonus is gone. The CEO is going to have my head!” Dustin stepped right up next to Frank, nodding like a bobblehead. “It’s worse than that, Frank. I heard rumors… and now I see they’re true. She’s not just messy outside the office. She’s been messing around here.” Frank’s eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?” Dustin covered his mouth, looking “terrified” that he’d said too much. “Oh, no… I shouldn’t have. I didn’t say I saw her in the parking garage with the CEO last night… I definitely didn’t say that! Please don’t ask me!” The office exploded. “The CEO? Is she insane?” “Regina is going to skin her alive.” “No wonder she got that VP track so fast. She’s sleeping her way to the top.” Frank looked at me with pure disgust. “Jane, you’re done. Hand over your keycard. Effective immediately, you’re on administrative leave.” “Tonight is the annual gala,” Frank added, his voice low and threatening. “Regina is going to be there. If a single word of this reaches her, I will personally make sure you never work in this city again.” He slammed his hand on my desk. “Hand over all your client files to Dustin. He’s the only one I trust to fix this mess.” I pulled open my drawer and tossed a stack of folders onto the desk. Dustin grabbed them like a vulture. Just before the end of the day, I went to the restroom. When I returned, my desk was covered in cold coffee dregs. My keyboard was ruined. And someone had used a red Sharpie to write one word across my chair: WHORE. A group of women nearby giggled into their hands. Dustin walked up to me, offering a single tissue with a fake, pitying sigh. “Jane, don’t take it too hard.” “Rumors die down eventually,” he whispered, a cruel glint in his eyes. “I mean, everyone knows it’s true, but I’ll try to keep them quiet. Just… maybe stay in the shadows at the gala tonight. Don’t go near the CEO. For your own sake.” I didn’t take the tissue. Instead, I smiled. “Dustin, you should eat a lot at the gala tonight.” He blinked, confused. “What?” “Because after tonight, you might not be eating ‘outside’ for a very long time.” 4 The gala started at 7:00 PM in the grand ballroom of the Peninsula. Frank and Dustin were at the head table, clinking glasses with the board members. I was tucked away at the very back, at the “overflow” table. The people sitting with me literally moved their chairs away, treating me like I had the plague. Then came the “New Talent” speech. Dustin, dressed in a tuxedo that probably cost two months’ rent, swaggered onto the stage. He took the mic, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto me. “I want to thank my mentor, Jane,” he began, his voice amplified throughout the hall. Every head in the room turned toward me. “It’s just…” He paused, letting the silence hang. He looked “confused,” staring at the CEO’s empty chair at the head table. “Jane, why aren’t you sitting with Lawrence? I saw you two heading into the Hilton together yesterday… I thought for sure you’d be his plus-one.” He suddenly gasped, banging the mic against his forehead. “Oh! My big mouth! I’m so sorry! I didn’t see anything! Forget I said it! Everything’s fine!” The ballroom went deathly silent. CRASH. At the head table, a wine glass shattered. Regina, the CEO’s wife, stood up. Her face was a mask of cold, vibrating fury. Behind her, four massive security guards stood like statues. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as she marched toward me. “Well, well,” Regina hissed, her voice trembling with rage. She pointed a finger inches from my nose. “I thought you were a professional. Turns out you’re just another cheap little social climber trying to screw her way into a paycheck.” “Hold her,” she commanded. Two of the guards stepped forward. Just like in my first life, they grabbed my arms, twisting them behind my back and forcing me down onto my knees on the hard floor. “Regina, please! Don’t be rash!” Dustin shouted, running down from the stage, his phone already out and recording. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to seduce Lawrence! Maybe she was just… ‘reporting’ in his hotel room!” “Don’t record this, guys! Jane needs her face for ‘business’!” he yelled, while making sure his own camera was perfectly framed on my humiliation. Regina looked down at me, her heel inches from my hand. “Business? Is that what you call it?” “I’m going to make sure the only business you do from now on is on a street corner,” she spat. Around us, my “colleagues” were all filming. Not a single person moved to help. Frank stood in the back, shouting, “Regina, the department does not condone this! She’s fired! I’m firing her right now!” The memory of the truck hitting my car flashed through my mind. The pain, the darkness, the injustice. But this time, I didn’t cry. I didn’t beg. I looked up at Regina and started to laugh. “You might want to take a look at the screen behind you, Regina,” I said, my voice calm. “And tell me… who exactly is Lawrence ‘reporting’ to?” Regina’s brow furrowed. She instinctively turned around. When she saw what was playing on the giant projector screens, the entire room gasped.

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Richard and I were married for thirty years. Everyone envied us. We were the gold standard of devotion. For the last decade, I was his full-time caregiver after an accident left him paralyzed. That was, until the estate lawyer calmly informed me that Richard had left something behind for me. He had just finished reading the primary distribution of Richard’s trust: fifteen million dollars in assets, all left to his ex-girlfriend. This included the three-million-dollar estate, three million in liquid cash, and a thirty-percent stake in his company, valued at roughly nine million. When it was my turn, the lawyer paused for a long, heavy moment. He slid a thick, manila folder across the mahogany table. Inside was a certified court document. A final decree of divorce. I froze, my eyes scanning the page until they hit the filing date: March 10, 2014. Ten years ago. I hadn’t been his wife for ten years. 1 The air conditioning in the lawyer’s office was running too high. The legal decree in my hand felt like ice. The gold foil seal of the county clerk glared back at me, blindingly official. “This is impossible.” I heard my own voice. It sounded thin, trembling. The lawyer pushed his half-moon glasses up the bridge of his nose. His expression was a mask of practiced, professional detachment. “Mr. Whitman’s legal team provided the comprehensive filings. This decree was signed by a judge and filed with the county. It is legally binding.” He slid another stack of papers across the table. Copies of the court docket. The marital settlement agreement. My signature. On every single page. I stared at the loops and slants of the ink for a long time. It looked like my handwriting. But I had zero memory of ever holding the pen. “I never signed this.” “Mrs. Whitman—apologies, I should say, Ms. Jessie.” The lawyer corrected himself. That tiny, semantic shift slipped between my ribs like a switchblade. “You are within your rights to request a handwriting analysis, but according to the standing legal framework, your marriage to Mr. Whitman was dissolved on March 10, 2014.” There were other people sitting in the conference room. Richard’s ex-girlfriend, Jocelyn, sat perfectly composed in a black Chanel tweed suit, her makeup flawless. Richard’s corporate legal team—five men in expensive suits. And Richard’s parents. My in-laws. No, my former in-laws. They were all looking at me with a strange, collective expression. The way you look at a stranger who has overstayed their welcome. I kept my finger pressed against the date on the paper. March 10, 2014. What happened that day? My memory started to spool backward. That was the day before Richard’s car crash. I remembered the hospital. He had been in a coma for three days. When he woke up, he was paralyzed from the waist down. The doctors said he would be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. For the ten years that followed that day, I was his nurse, his maid, his wife. I rolled him over in bed to prevent sores. I massaged his atrophied legs. I measured out his medications. I am fifty years old, but I look sixty. My hair is entirely gray. My skin is lined. My posture is permanently stooped from lifting him. Everyone always told me I was a saint of a wife. They said my loyalty was beautiful. It turns out, those words were the punchline to a joke I wasn’t in on. I had long ceased to be his wife. “Ms. Jessie, there is one final document that requires your signature.” The lawyer pushed a single sheet of paper toward me. “The monthly living stipend Mr. Whitman provided you during his lifetime, totaling roughly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, has been legally classified as a non-taxable gift. We need you to acknowledge receipt of these funds and waive any further claims against the estate.” One hundred and fifty thousand. Ten years. Roughly twelve hundred dollars a month. That was my salary. For keeping him alive. My throat tightened so hard I couldn’t breathe. That was when Jocelyn finally spoke. Her voice was soft, dripping with the benevolent pity of a woman who had already won. “Jess, honey,” she said. “Richard said before he passed that this money should be enough to get you set up somewhere quiet. He asked me to pass on his gratitude. Thank you for taking such good care of him.” She called me Jess. Not Jessie. Not the grieving widow. Just Jess. The way a homeowner speaks to the hired help. I stood up. My legs felt like water. The heavy oak door of the conference room took all my remaining strength to push open. The hallway outside was painfully long. My shadow stretched out thin and warped against the marble floor. Like a ghost that had been evicted from its own haunting. 2 I didn’t go straight home. My feet carried me, entirely on autopilot, into a corner coffee shop. I sat in a booth by the window and ordered a black Americano. It was bitter. But it tasted like water compared to what was sitting in my chest. My phone buzzed. It was the building manager at the penthouse. “Ms. Jessie? There’s a moving company in the lobby. They said a Ms. Jocelyn sent them to pack up Mr. Whitman’s belongings. We need your authorization to let them up.” Ms. Jocelyn. She was already taking inventory. “You don’t need my authorization,” I heard my own voice say, hollow and distant. “It’s not my house.” I hung up and stared at the glowing screen of my phone. Our text thread was still there. Richard’s last message to me, sent five days ago. Want pot roast for dinner tonight. I had replied: Okay. I’ll go to the butcher. Five days ago, I still thought I was his wife. I scrolled up. The entire thread was a wasteland of clinical logistics. Did you take the blue pills? What time is the physical therapist coming? Sun’s out today. Want me to push you to the park? Thirty years of marriage. Ten years of intimate, grueling care. Boiled down to a sterile checklist. I opened my photo album. The most recent picture was from three months ago. Richard sitting in his customized wheelchair, me standing behind him. He was smiling, looking vibrant despite the chair. I was smiling, looking bone-tired. It was his sixtieth birthday. His parents had come over, bringing expensive vitamins and a card stuffed with cash. Jocelyn had come too. She said she was just dropping by to visit an “old friend.” She gifted him a stunning, vintage chess set. I had spent twelve hours on my feet in the kitchen, preparing a massive dinner spread. During the meal, Richard and Jocelyn talked endlessly. They talked about their youth. They talked about inside jokes and memories I had never been a part of. I sat at the end of the table, an extra at my own dinner party. That night, as my in-laws were leaving, my mother-in-law had squeezed my hand. “Jocelyn is such a wonderful woman,” she had whispered. “Richard is so blessed to have a friend like her.” I hadn’t understood the weight of that sentence then. I understood it now. She knew. She knew back then. She knew Jocelyn was the real daughter-in-law. I was just the live-in nurse. My phone rang again. An unknown number. “Jessie? This is Dr. Aris. Richard’s oncologist.” I remembered him. For the last few years, Dr. Aris had managed Richard’s pain. “There’s something I feel ethically obligated to tell you. A week before Richard passed, he came in for a full workup.” My heart stopped. “Did you know he had stage-four pancreatic cancer?” No. I didn’t know anything. “He explicitly instructed me not to tell you. He said he didn’t want to burden you. But as his next of kin, I felt you had a right to know the timeline.” Next of kin. The phrase felt like a cruel joke now. “He also signed a directive ensuring all his medical records were forwarded directly to a Ms. Jocelyn. He said he was afraid you wouldn’t be able to handle the emotional toll.” My hand shook around the phone. Afraid I couldn’t handle it. So he left his entire fortune to Jocelyn. So he left me a ten-year-old divorce decree. So he made sure I was the absolute last to know that my entire life was a lie. “Thank you, Dr. Aris.” I ended the call. The coffee had gone cold. Outside, the sky cracked open and it began to rain. The droplets raced each other down the glass pane, heavy and erratic, like tears. But I didn’t cry. My eyes felt like they were full of sand. I didn’t have a single tear left to give him. 3 The rain was coming down in sheets. I didn’t have an umbrella. I walked the six blocks from the cafe to our building, letting the water soak me to the bone. The doorman blinked in shock when I walked in. “Ms. Jessie? Are you alright?” I just shook my head. In the mirrored walls of the elevator, I looked like a drowning victim. My gray hair was plastered to my skull. My clothes were heavy with water. My eyes were swollen. When had I started crying? I couldn’t remember. Floor thirteen. The doors chimed open. The hallway was already cluttered with cardboard boxes. The moving crew was working with brutal efficiency. The front door of my home was propped wide open. A man with a clipboard was directing traffic in my living room. “Take all this to the truck. Ms. Jocelyn said it goes straight to donation.” I walked in. The living room was half-empty. Richard’s wheelchair was already gone. The books on the built-in shelves were being dumped into bins. The framed photos had been stripped from the walls. Some of those photos had me in them. Now they were piled in a plastic trash bag in the corner. “What are you doing?” My voice scraped out of my throat like sandpaper. The man with the clipboard turned, eyeing my dripping clothes. “And you are?” “I live here.” “Ah, Jessie, right? Ms. Jocelyn left strict instructions. You’re permitted to pack your personal effects. Everything else comes with us.” Personal effects. I looked around. I had lived in this space for thirty years. What actually belonged to me? The clothes in the closet? Most were a decade old, faded from constant washing. The skincare on the vanity? A few drugstore moisturizers that cost maybe forty bucks combined. The books? All Richard’s. The pots and pans in the kitchen? I had used them every day for ten years, but my name wasn’t on the deed to the house. “I don’t have anything to pack,” I said, turning toward the hallway. I walked toward the master bedroom. The door wouldn’t budge. I pulled my key from my wet pocket, but it wouldn’t fit. The lock had been changed. “Sorry about that, Jessie,” the foreman called out. “Ms. Jocelyn said the master suite has sensitive documents. She asked us to keep it secured from third parties.” Third parties. The words hit me like an open-handed slap. I took a jagged breath, pivoted, and walked to the guest room. That was where I had slept for the last ten years. It was tiny. Barely a hundred square feet. A twin bed. A single dresser. A window that faced a brick alleyway, forever starved of sunlight. I opened the bottom drawer. Beneath a pile of old sweaters was a heavy cedar box. My mother’s keepsake box. She gave it to me right before she died. Inside were a few pieces of vintage gold jewelry, a pearl necklace, and a jade bangle. I pulled the heavy box against my chest. This was it. The sum total of my existence in this house. Suddenly, the door to the master suite clicked open. A young woman stepped out. She looked incredibly familiar. “My mom said you’d be leaving today. I came to make sure you got out okay.” My mom. She called Jocelyn “mom.” I stared at her. Really looked at her. The shape of her jaw. The bridge of her nose. The dark, deep-set eyes. She looked exactly like him. Like Richard. “Who are you?” I breathed. “I’m Bella,” she said, her voice dripping with bored privilege. “Jocelyn’s daughter.” She paused, letting the silence stretch out before twisting the knife. “And Richard’s daughter.” The blood stopped moving in my veins. The sound of my own heartbeat vanished from my ears. Richard’s daughter. She looked to be in her early twenties. Twenty years ago. When Richard and I had been married for ten years. “How old are you?” I asked. “Twenty-three.” Twenty-three years ago, we had been married for seven years. That was the year I was desperately going through IVF. The doctors kept telling me my tests were normal, but I just couldn’t get pregnant. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get pregnant. It was that he never wanted me to. “Are you okay, Jess? You look a little pale.” Her concern was purely performative. I leaned against the doorframe, forcing my legs to hold my weight. “I’m fine.” Clutching the cedar box, I walked out. As I passed through the living room, I noticed a silver-framed photo resting on the coffee table, waiting to be boxed. It was Richard, Jocelyn, and Bella. They were glowing. Laughing into the camera. A real, complete family. I had lived in this house for thirty years. And I had never, not once, smiled like that. 4 I didn’t know where to go. My phone buzzed. It was Naomi, my best friend. “I heard,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m at our spot. Get here now.” Our spot was a quiet wine bar we’d frequented for two decades. The owner knew my order by heart. Naomi was already tucked into a back corner booth. The second she saw me, her eyes flooded with tears. “Jess, my god. Look at you.” I looked down at myself. Soaking wet, hair a tangled mess, clutching a wooden box like a lunatic. “I’m okay.” “You are not okay,” Naomi snapped, pulling me into the booth and shoving a cup of hot chamomile tea into my freezing hands. “I’ve wanted to tell you for years. I just… I didn’t know how to detonate that bomb.” I gripped the ceramic mug. It burned my palms, but it felt good to feel something. “You knew?” “Knew what?” “About Richard and Jocelyn.” Naomi stared at the table for a long time. She nodded slowly. “But I didn’t know they had kids. And I swear to god, Jess, I didn’t know he actually divorced you.” She took a ragged breath. “You’ve been drowning for years. Everyone else saw the devoted wife playing Florence Nightingale. But I saw how he ground you down to dust.” “I thought if I just endured it, it would mean something,” my voice floated out of me, detached and weightless. “I thought, he’s broken now. He needs me. I thought my loyalty would eclipse whatever he was looking for.” “He was playing you from day one.” Naomi reached across the table, grabbing my wrists. “Jess, you need to brace yourself. There’s more.” I nodded slowly. What could possibly be worse than the bottom of the ocean? “Ten years ago. The day of his crash. He wasn’t alone in the car.” My chest seized. “Jocelyn was in the passenger seat.” The ambient noise of the bar faded to static. “They had just checked out of the Plaza. They were heading to JFK. That day… it was their anniversary.” Anniversary. My brain short-circuited. “But… that day was my anniversary with Richard.” Naomi offered a broken, bitter smile. “You see it now? He picked the exact same day.” No. That wasn’t right. I married Richard on March 9, 1984. Thirty years ago. Wait. “You said they were going to the airport?” “Yeah. Flying to Vegas. You can get a marriage license same-day there.” The timeline snapped together with sickening clarity. March 9, 2014. The date on the divorce decree. But I had no memory of a courtroom or a judge. March 10, 2014. He and Jocelyn were driving to the airport to get married. He crashes. He wakes up paralyzed. Jocelyn, wanting the money but not the burden, vanishes into the background. I thought he was a broken man who needed his wife. I stepped up. But I wasn’t his wife. I spent the last ten years acting as a hospice nurse for my ex-husband. “Naomi. The lawyer said I signed an agreement.” “I know. I dug around through a contact at his firm.” “But I don’t remember signing anything. Nothing.” Naomi frowned, her brow creasing deeply. “Think back. You were in the hospital right before the crash. You had some kind of accident. Head trauma. You were admitted for two days.” Head trauma. Missing time. The missing puzzle piece clicked into place. “Who took me to the hospital?” “His mother.” My mother-in-law. She knew everything. She orchestrated it. “Jess… didn’t you ever suspect? Even a little?” Suspect what? That Richard didn’t love me? I knew that. That he was cheating? After the crash, he was paralyzed. I assumed that part of his life was over. Suspect Jocelyn? Whenever she visited, she was polite, measured, keeping her distance. I actually thought she was kind to still visit him. I was the biggest fool on earth. “There’s one more thing.” Naomi looked physically ill. “You spent years trying to get pregnant. You saw all those specialists, right?” “Yes.” “And who recommended those doctors?” Ice flooded my veins. “Richard’s family.” “Jess… I had a friend pull your old medical files.” Naomi’s voice broke. “There was nothing wrong with your fertility. The medication those ‘specialists’ prescribed you for all those years? They weren’t fertility drugs. It was heavy, synthetic birth control.” All the air was sucked out of the room. I couldn’t draw breath. Ten years. I swallowed ten years of birth control, praying to God every night that it would help me hold a baby. “I wanted to be a mother so badly.” I barely recognized the guttural sound coming out of me. “I begged him to let us keep trying. He told me to be patient. To wait until his business settled. I thought he was protecting me from the stress.” “He was protecting his real family. Because he and Jocelyn were already having kids.” Naomi’s eyes were fierce now, burning with anger. “Bella is their youngest. They have a son too. Chris. He’s twenty-five.” Two kids. They had two children. And I was left completely hollow. “Are you going to let them bury you, Jess?” Naomi’s tone shifted from pity to a sharp, commanding edge. “They built a cage for you. They needed a free, round-the-clock nurse who was too blindly loyal to ask questions.” “And I played the part beautifully.” I stared down at my tea. A single tear finally fell, breaking the surface of the golden liquid, sending ripples to the edges of the mug. “What do I do?” It was the first time in thirty years I had asked that question. Because for thirty years, I always knew my script. Be the good wife. Be the obedient daughter-in-law. Swallow your pride, sacrifice your time, erase your needs. But now, the script was ash. Naomi reached across the table and gripped my hand hard enough to bruise. “We burn them to the ground.” 5 Naomi took me back to her place in the suburbs. She ran a hot shower for me, gave me a clean pair of sweatpants, and forced me to eat a bowl of soup. I sat on her plush living room sofa, staring blankly at the wall like a rusted animatronic. “Get some sleep,” she said softly. “Tomorrow, we find a shark of a lawyer.” “It won’t work.” My voice was flat. “The paperwork is bulletproof. The decree, the settlement, the signatures. It was all me. I signed it.” “But you don’t remember doing it.” “A judge doesn’t care about memory. They care about ink.” Naomi went quiet. She knew I was right. “So that’s it? You walk away? Thirty years of your youth, ten years of breaking your back to lift him out of the bathtub, and you just walk away with nothing?” I didn’t answer. I closed my eyes and forced my brain into the dark waters of March 9, 2014. That morning. Richard had told me we needed to run an errand downtown. To a law office. He asked if I felt up to it. I said yes. And then? Then, black static. The next memory was fluorescent lights. The rhythmic beep of a monitor. I was in a hospital bed. His mother was sitting in the vinyl chair beside me. She told me I had slipped on a wet floor and hit my head on the marble coffee table. The doctor told me I had a mild concussion. Prescribed me rest. Those forty-eight hours were a complete, terrifying blank. On the third day, Richard crashed his Porsche. I ran from my discharge room straight to the ICU. When I finally saw him, he was hooked up to a ventilator. The surgeon told me it was a miracle he was breathing. I sat by his bed for three days and three nights. When he finally opened his eyes, the first word out of his mouth was my name. “Jessie.” I sobbed. I buried my face in his hospital gown. I thought it meant he still loved me. I thought brushing against death had made him realize I was his true north. From that second on, I became his martyr. Feeding him purees. Bathing him with sponges. Managing his catheters. I barely slept. His parents paraded me around to their country club friends as the ultimate tragic heroine. Our neighbors looked at me with awe. But only I knew the truth of that bedroom. He never actually looked at me. His gaze always slid right past my shoulder, staring at the wall, at the window, at anywhere I wasn’t. The only time the deadness left his eyes was when Jocelyn visited. Then, he would light up. He would laugh. I had convinced myself it was just the joy of seeing an old friend who didn’t pity him. God, I was blind. It was the desperate longing of a man trapped away from his true love. “Jess? Where did you go?” Naomi’s voice pulled me out of the undertow. “I was just trying to pinpoint the exact moment my life became a joke.” “You are not a joke.” “I am.” I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling. “I thought I was this noble sacrifice. Moving mountains out of pure devotion. And all I was, was a conveniently programmed Roomba.” Naomi didn’t try to offer a platitude. Because it was the truth. “Tomorrow,” she said firmly. “We go to the county courthouse. We pull the public records.” I nodded. I didn’t sleep that night. My brain was a projector, playing the reels on an endless loop. Jocelyn’s perfume lingering in the living room. My mother-in-law’s condescending pats on my arm. Richard’s cold, lifeless stares. Every tiny inconsistency, every weird comment, all weaving together into a meticulously crafted snare. And I had walked right into it, smiling. 6 First thing the next morning, Naomi drove us downtown to the county courthouse. I walked up to the records window, sliding my copy of the decree under the glass. The clerk typed furiously into her terminal. “Yes, it’s in the system. March 9, 2014. Dissolution of marriage, mutual consent. Whitman v. Whitman.”

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In the corporate world, effort is a footnote; results are the only language that matters. For five years, I was the “perennial runner-up”—the one who did the grinding, the late nights, and the heavy lifting, only to watch someone else take the final step onto the podium. It’s a humiliating space to occupy, being just good enough to be indispensable, but not “special” enough to lead. After five promotion cycles of playing the bridesmaid, I’d finally checked out. I was “quiet quitting” before the term had a name. I did my job, I kept my head down, and I stopped caring about the ladder. That was until the CEO summoned me and the office’s resident “golden boy” into his mahogany-swathed corner office. “The board has decided,” Howard, the CEO, announced, leaning back in his leather chair. “The head of the new European division will be chosen from one of you two.” I didn’t even blink. I knew the score. This wasn’t a competition; it was a performance. They brought me in to check a box for HR, a way to make the inevitable crowning of Trevor Blackwell look like a meritocracy. Despite the bitterness pooling in my stomach, I opened my laptop. I had five years of hard-won market data, localized strategies, and growth projections ready to go. I owed it to my own work to show it one last time. Suddenly, Trevor reached over and snapped my laptop shut with a sharp clack. He didn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on Howard, his expression cold and impossibly arrogant. “I’ll take the European lead. On one condition.” He paused for dramatic effect, the kind of move he’d practiced in a mirror. “I want the new intern, Lexi, to take over her position immediately.” I actually let out a short, sharp laugh. It was so absurd I couldn’t help it. It felt like I’d walked into the middle of a cheap soap opera where the villain decides to use my career as a bargaining chip for his latest obsession. 1 Howard blinked, clearly thrown off his script. “Trevor… Lexi hasn’t even finished her probation. And Morgan is a senior lead. That’s a massive jump.” Trevor let out a dismissive snort. “In my eyes, Morgan’s been coasting for years. Lexi has ‘spark.’ She’s my protégée. Under my mentorship, she’ll run circles around Morgan in a month.” Lexi, standing by the door, put on her best wide-eyed, innocent look. “Oh, Trevor, no… that’s not fair. Morgan will be so upset.” She turned to me, and as if on cue, her eyes welled up with perfect, shimmering tears. “Morgan, please don’t be mad. I never wanted to take your spot. It’s just… Trevor believes in my potential so much.” The sheer performance of it—the “pick-me” energy, the manipulative softness—made me want to gag. Howard didn’t hesitate. He reached across his desk and grabbed the promotion confirmation sheet that already had my name printed on it as the secondary candidate. He took a heavy black marker and, right in front of me, scratched my name out with a violent, screeching stroke. In the margin, he scrawled LEXI. “Morgan, think of the bigger picture,” Howard said, his voice taking on that condescending ‘boss’ tone. “Senior employees like you need to have the grace to step aside for fresh blood. It’s about mentorship.” He slammed the paper back onto the desk. “And if I refuse?” I asked. My voice was eerily calm, even to my own ears. Howard slammed his hand on the desk, rattling the pens in their holder. “Refuse? You think this is a democracy? You’ve been comfortable for too long, Morgan. You’ve forgotten who signs your checks.” Trevor stepped closer, sliding an arm around Lexi’s waist, looking down at me like I was a stain on the rug. “As of today, Morgan, you’re Lexi’s assistant. You have three months to train her and hand over every single one of your accounts. Full transition.” Lexi reached out, tugging at my sleeve with her manicured fingers. “Morgan, just give me the client lists. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” Howard added the final blow: “Unconditional transition. Or you can forget about every cent of the bonuses you’ve accrued over the last five years.” The sheer, staggering unfairness of it reached a boiling point, then suddenly went cold. I felt a strange sense of clarity. I smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. “Fine. I’ll transition.” Howard nodded, satisfied. “That’s more like it. Pragmatism is a virtue.” Trevor smirked. “I thought you had more backbone than that. I guess everyone’s afraid of being unemployed. Lexi, don’t bother learning too much from her. Just have her print out the files.” I didn’t say a word. I sat down at my desk, my fingers flying across the keys. I hit three specific shortcut commands. It was a root-level formatting script I’d written months ago during a particularly dark night of the soul. Five years of proprietary research, negotiation tactics, and—more importantly—the hidden patches for the vulnerabilities in the software Trevor had been “selling” as his own? Gone. Vaporized. Trevor frowned, sensing the shift in the room. “What are you doing?” I reached into my bag and pulled out the resignation letter I’d been carrying for weeks. I flicked it across the desk, and it hit Trevor square in the chest. “I’m done.” I slung my bag over my shoulder. Before I walked out, I reached for the side of my laptop and pulled out a sleek, black hardware key—a private encrypted drive. It was the only way to access the core authentication servers for our European infrastructure. Without that key, the client list Trevor wanted was just a series of dead links and encrypted gibberish. “Morgan! Are you insane?” Howard bellowed. I stepped out into the hallway, my heels clicking sharply against the marble. I didn’t look back. Trevor was shouting something about me crawling back for a job within a week. I walked through the bullpen, past my stunned coworkers, and tossed my ID badge into the trash can by the elevator. I wasn’t staying another second in this graveyard. 2 For the first forty-eight hours after I quit, my phone was a tomb. I blocked Howard, Trevor, and Lexi immediately. I left every Slack channel and project group. I sat on my balcony, sipping a pour-over coffee, watching the city move without me. It was the first time I’d breathed in half a decade. On the third morning, a masked number called. “Morgan! You bitch! Get your ass back to this office right now!” I took a slow sip of my coffee. “Howard. I resigned. I don’t work for you, and I certainly don’t have to listen to you.” “You sabotaged Lexi! You maliciously altered the contracts! The client just sent a formal notice of default. Two million dollars in liquidated damages, Morgan. Do you have any idea what we’ll do to you?” I let out a cold laugh. I didn’t need a crystal ball to know that Lexi, the “spark,” had crashed and burned the moment she touched a real file. I hung up. Before I could even put the cup down, a text came through. Howard was threatening to sue me for destruction of corporate property and commercial sabotage if I wasn’t in the office by noon. I wanted to see the wreckage. I put on a sharp, charcoal-grey power suit and drove back to the place I’d hoped never to see again. The conference room felt like a pressure cooker. “Ms. Cross, so glad you could join us.” Howard threw a stack of documents at me. Trevor took over, his face flushed with rage. “You intentionally moved the decimal point on the exchange rates for the ten-million-dollar Euro-buy, Morgan. You set Lexi up to fail when she entered it into the system!” Lexi looked up, her eyes puffy from crying. “Morgan… I know you hated that I got the job, but this is the company’s future. How could you be so cruel?” Howard was vibrating with anger. “I trusted you!” He turned to the client representative, a man named Marcus Christopher who looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Mr. Christopher, I assure you, this was the act of a disgruntled ex-employee. Our firm is innocent.” Christopher shrugged. “I don’t care about your internal drama. The contract was breached. Two million. Not a penny less.” Trevor stood up, stalking toward me. “The legal team is already drafting the complaint, Morgan. If we testify that you maliciously tampered with the data, your career is over. You’ll never work in this town again.” He leaned in close, his voice a lethal whisper. “Get on your knees. Apologize to Lexi. Maybe I’ll be merciful and let you pay back the damages in installments over the next thirty years.” Outside the glass walls, the entire office was watching. The people I’d mentored, the people who had stayed silent when I was passed over, were all whispering. “I knew she was bitter, but this is next level.” “She’s done for. You don’t mess with Trevor.” The last shred of pity I had for this place evaporated. I pulled out my phone and synced it to the massive 4K projector in the room. The screen flickered to life. It was a video from the day after I left. Lexi was sitting at my desk, a smug grin on her face as she FaceTimed Trevor. “Trevor, babe, Morgan is such an idiot,” Lexi’s voice rang out through the speakers. “She left all this data, but it’s so boring. I don’t even understand it.” Trevor’s voice responded from the phone: “Then change it. Make it look better. Adjust the exchange rate margins higher—if the client doesn’t catch it, the commission is all ours.” Lexi giggled. “What if something goes wrong?” Trevor’s dismissive sneer was audible. “Who cares? We’ll blame Morgan. We’ll say she left a ‘logic bomb’ in the files. Howard will believe us over her any day.” On screen, Lexi clearly moved the decimal point on the exchange rate. She even blew a kiss to the camera. The room went deathly silent. Lexi’s sobbing stopped instantly. Howard’s mouth hung open, his face turning a sickly shade of grey. Marcus Christopher, the client, let out a dry, hacking laugh and stood up. “Well, that’s enlightening. It seems your ‘geniuses’ are quite the little fraudsters, Howard.” I shut off the video and looked Howard in the eye. “You mentioned suing me?” I pulled up my dialer and hit a three-digit number, putting it on speaker. “Yes, I’d like to report a crime. Attempted extortion and corporate fraud involving a two-million-dollar contract.” “Morgan! Hang up!” Howard lunged for the phone. I stepped back. “I’m not just calling the police, Howard. I’m sending that video to every single one of our vendors. Do you think anyone will ever sign a contract with a firm that ‘prioritizes the bigger picture’ like this?” 3 The police arrived quickly, but in the chaotic minutes before they walked through the door, Trevor’s survival instinct kicked into high gear. He was a tech prodigy, after all. Using his access to the IT back-end, he managed to remotely lock down Lexi’s computer. By the time the officers were taking statements, the local logs had been wiped clean. Worse, Howard and the head of Legal managed to scramble together a set of forged “digital breadcrumbs” within minutes. “Officer, we have reason to believe Ms. Cross used a remote backdoor after her resignation to frame these two,” Howard said, his voice now steady and authoritative. Trevor presented a fake technical report, swearing there were “intrusion traces” coming from my private IP address. Lexi went back into character. “I’m just an intern… I don’t even know how to code. Morgan taught me everything… I thought she was my friend…” The momentum shifted in a heartbeat. Because of the sheer dollar amount and the “technical complexity,” the police informed me that, per protocol, I’d have to be taken in for questioning while they sorted through the conflicting evidence. As I was led to the cruiser, I saw Trevor standing by the office window. He caught my eye and flashed a slow, predatory smirk. He moved fast. Within twenty-four hours, he used every contact he had. He knew my professional network was largely international, so he issued a “blackball” notice under the firm’s banner. He spread rumors that I hadn’t just sabotaged the company, but that I had “severe stability issues.” Headhunters stopped calling. My bank accounts were frozen under a “pending investigation” flag. My phone blew up with messages from strangers—internet vigilantes who had seen a leaked (and heavily edited) version of the story. “Snake.” “Corporate bitch, hope you rot.” I looked at the screen, my face a mask of iron, and turned the phone off. In the interrogation room, Trevor walked in with a high-priced lawyer. He slammed a “Settlement and Confession” document onto the table. “You didn’t think this through, did you, Morgan?” Trevor leaned over the table. “In this industry, the truth is whatever the guy with the most money says it is.” He tapped the paper. “Sign this. Admit it was your ‘operator error’ and that you tried to frame Lexi out of spite. I’ll make sure you get a job cleaning toilets at some third-rate firm in the Midwest. Otherwise? You’re looking at a thirty-million-dollar civil suit and ten years in a cage.” I looked at the document, and then at him. “You really think you’ve won, Trevor?” Trevor laughed. “Look around you. We have the evidence. We have the narrative. What do you have? A blacked-out laptop?” An officer walked in with a grim expression. “Ms. Cross, based on the forensic evidence provided by the firm, and the fact that the original video you showed was ‘corrupted’ during the transfer… we have to move you to holding. We’re looking at a seven-day investigative detention.” Trevor was shaking with silent laughter. Lexi was leaning against the doorframe, blowing me a mocking little kiss. “Stay warm in there, Morgan.” Fine. If they wanted to play God, it was time for them to meet the Devil. Just as the officer reached for his handcuffs, a thunderous crash echoed from the hallway. BANG! The heavy oak doors of the precinct’s common room were kicked open with such force they bounced off the walls.

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We’ve been married—at least in the eyes of our friends and family—for five years, but tonight marked the ninety-ninth time Lydia had unilaterally canceled our appointment to finally sign the legal papers. While the client across from me was sliding his hand up my thigh, Lydia was busy leaning into her male assistant, Toby, sharing a glass of wine with an intimacy that made the rest of the room vanish. To keep the peace and avoid ruining the “big night” for her, I didn’t push the client away. Instead, I drowned my discomfort in glass after glass of whiskey until my vision blurred and my chest felt like it was being crushed by a vice. Lydia didn’t even blink. She was too occupied meticulously picking the shallots out of Toby’s bowl, murmuring soft, coaxing words to get him to eat. When the dinner finally wrapped up, Toby mentioned he was feeling a bit “restless.” Without a second thought, Lydia looked at me and told me to get out of the car. She was taking him elsewhere to keep the night going. “The kid’s been working so hard lately, Beck. I need to take him out to unwind,” she said, her voice dismissive. “You don’t really get the kind of things younger people enjoy anyway. Don’t be a buzzkill.” “Oh, and tonight’s going to go late. Let’s push the courthouse appointment again. We’ll do it some other time.” I just nodded. If she was always this busy, then perhaps those papers weren’t meant to be signed at all. … Toby rolled down the passenger side window halfway, sticking his tongue out in a mock-apologetic pout. “Sorry, Beck! Lydia just spoils me too much. I’ll make sure she brings you some takeout when she finally gets home!” Before I could even find my voice, Lydia reached over and affectionately ruffled his hair. “Ignore him, Toby. He’s just a little drama queen. If he eats late, he’ll just start complaining about ‘food poisoning’ or ‘allergic reactions’ again. I don’t have the energy for his attention-seeking stunts tonight.” The air left my lungs. She had seen me struggling at dinner. She hadn’t missed the cold sweat or the way I was gasping for air. She just thought I was faking it to spite her. In the past, this would have been the moment I broke down. I would have screamed, cried, and begged her to see me. But tonight, I felt a strange, hollow calm. “Sure,” I said, stepping back from the car. “Have a great time.” Lydia froze for a second, a flicker of confusion crossing her face before her usual mask of mockery returned. “Good. It’s about time you stopped making a scene.” The car roared to life and sped away. Just before they turned the corner, Lydia lowered all the windows so Toby wouldn’t feel “stuffy.” I’m prone to severe motion sickness—especially in her car—but she had never once lowered a window for me. The dust will ruin the leather, she’d say. Stop being so high-maintenance. I looked down at the gold band on my finger. I twisted it off and threw it into the dark, churning waters of the river nearby. The next morning, I went to the conservatory early to begin the handover. I’ve been Lydia’s manager since she debuted as a piano prodigy a decade ago. I’ve been the engine behind her grace. “You’re resigning? Does Lydia know?” my boss, Marcus, asked, his jaw dropping. “She’ll find out when the new manager arrives.” I walked out of his office and toward the main concert hall. I ran into Lydia near the stage. She was wearing a new silk slip dress, smelling of expensive soap and a hotel’s bottled shampoo. She ran a hand through her hair, looking down at me with guarded eyes. “I drank too much to drive last night. I grabbed a room nearby to sleep it off. That’s why I didn’t come home.” In ten years, this was the first time Lydia had ever offered me an explanation for her absence. I simply nodded. I had nothing to say. “Do you have a project this morning?” she asked, her brow furrowing. I looked at her, remembering how, after every one of her late-night galas, I’d be up by 5:00 AM to prepare a specialized detox soup and her stomach medication. Since she was eighteen, that had been our ritual. I suppose she was confused that there had been nothing waiting for her on the kitchen island this morning. “Something like that,” I replied. I turned to walk away, but Lydia’s face darkened. She grabbed my wrist, her grip tight and punishing. “Beck, that’s enough. It was just one missed appointment. We’ll reschedule. Stop being so damn difficult. It’s getting pathetic.” I wasn’t being difficult. I was done. I opened my mouth to tell her exactly that, but a high-pitched, whiny voice cut through the air. “Lydia! It’s all your fault!” Toby was stomping toward us, looking like a pouting child. “The underwear you bought me this morning is the wrong size! These briefs are way too tight. You’re such a typical ‘clueless older sister’ type, Lydia!” The moment Lydia saw him, she practically shoved me aside to get to him. Her voice, once cold and sharp with me, was suddenly thick with maternal worry. “You have a fever and a stomach bug, and you’re running around barefoot on a cold floor? Do you want to end up in the hospital?” A memory flickered in my mind. Last month, I had a flu so bad my fever hit 104. I was curled in a ball, shivering, begging her to drive me to the urgent care. She had just rolled her eyes. What good are you if you’re always sick? It’s just a fever, Beck. Grow up. I watched her lead Toby away, her arm wrapped firmly around his waist. I suppressed the ache in my chest and pulled out my phone. I messaged the headhunter who had been trying to poach me for an international touring circuit for years. After I booked my one-way flight, a notification popped up on Instagram. Toby had tagged me in a Live Photo. It was a shot of a slender, elegant hand—Lydia’s hand—massaging his stomach. The audio captured his soft moan: “Lydia, your hands are so warm…” The caption read: [Big sis feels bad that my tummy hurts. She said she’ll rub the pain away! It feels so good to be cherished like this~] I hit ‘like’ on the post. Then, I went to my own profile and deleted our wedding photo—the one that had been my cover image for five years. … The hall was packed today with visiting musicians for an exchange program. Since I was in the middle of a handover, I still had to play host. I led a group of performers into the lounge for a break. We walked in to find Lydia sitting at a small table, hand-feeding Toby a bowl of porridge. “Wow,” one of the visiting violinists whispered. “I heard Lydia was devoted to her husband, Beck, but look at them! And a pianist’s hands are so precious… she’s using them to pick through his food. That’s true love.” Yes, her hands were her life. For ten years, I had handled every chore, every heavy bag, every sharp object, terrified she might even get a scratch. And now, she was using those hands to serve another man. The chatter finally caught their attention. Toby saw me and immediately put on a theatrical pout. “Beck, talk to Lydia! She’s forcing me to eat this healthy porridge. I’m so sick of it!” Lydia didn’t even look at me. She gently wiped a drop of broth from the corner of Toby’s mouth. “Be good. Finish this, then take your fever reducers.” The room went silent as the visiting musicians realized the man Lydia was doting on wasn’t me. I felt their awkward glances. I kept a professional smile on my face and showed them to their seats. Once everyone was settled, I pulled out my phone to finish my online visa application. “A visa? Who are you getting a visa for?” Lydia had appeared behind me, her voice sharp and suspicious. Before I could answer, she lunged forward and grabbed my hand. Her eyes widened in genuine shock. “Beck, where is your ring?” She sounded breathless. “Don’t tell me you forgot it at home.” I knew why she was panicking. In eight years of being together, that ring had never left my finger. Hers, however, had never seen the light of day outside our bedroom. Anxiety flashed in her eyes. She squeezed my hand until it hurt. “Answer me!” I was about to tell her the truth when Toby let out a piercing shriek. “Ow! It hurts! Lydia, help!” Everyone turned. Toby was on the floor by the grand piano, cradling a hand that was dripping blood. Lydia shoved me back, nearly sending me into a table, and ran to him. “What happened?” Toby’s face was a mask of tears as he buried himself in Lydia’s chest. He cast a fearful, accusing look in my direction. “I don’t know… Beck was supposed to check the piano last night… I didn’t see the broken glass on the lid… it hurts so much…” Lydia looked at the piano lid. A jagged shard of glass, stained red, sat right where a performer would rest their hand. Her face twisted into a mask of pure rage. She spun on me, her voice a whip-crack that echoed through the hall. “Beck! Are you so desperate and twisted that you’d actually try to maim someone?” “Get over here and apologize. Now!” I felt the weight of a dozen judgmental stares. I walked calmly toward them. “I didn’t do it.” “Who else could it be? Everyone knows how controlling you are. You’re the only one who touches my equipment!” Lydia didn’t wait for another word. She grabbed a ceramic figurine from the side table—a small, custom piece she’d commissioned for our third anniversary—and smashed it onto the floor. Then, she grabbed my hands and slammed them down into the sea of sharp porcelain shards. Pain exploded through my palms. I felt the grit and the sharp edges slicing deep into my flesh. “Consider this a lesson,” she hissed. “And nobody help him clean this up! I want you to sit there and reflect on what you’ve done. Don’t come to me until you’re ready to beg for forgiveness.” She scooped Toby up in her arms and walked out without a single backward glance. My eyes blurred. My tears hit the broken ceramic, mixing with the blood pooling on the floor. It hurt—physically, it was agonizing—but the feeling in my chest was worse. It was the feeling of a vacuum, the last bit of air being sucked out of a room. The ceramic figurine was now in pieces. A small silk prayer pouch fell out from the hollow center. Lydia had gone to a temple to have this made when she proposed to me. Back then, she had looked at me with such intensity, such devotion. Beck, I promised the universe that we’d be together forever. Nothing will ever break us. And here she was, the one holding the hammer. I gathered the shards, one by one, and threw them—along with every lingering memory—into the trash. As I walked through the main lobby, I heard a roar of applause. Lydia’s performance had ended. She was on stage, radiant and triumphant, holding Toby’s hand as they bowed together. I had seen her in this spotlight a thousand times. A few months ago, I overheard Marcus ask her, “Beck has given his life to your career. You’re partners in every sense. Why don’t you ever bring him on stage to share the credit?” Lydia’s voice had been cold. “I got here because of my talent. He’s just a coat-tail rider. Besides, he’s getting older… he doesn’t exactly fit the ‘image’ I want to project.” On stage now, Toby was beaming. Under the stage lights, they looked like the perfect pair. My phone buzzed. Visa Approved. I was halfway through packing my bags at the house when Lydia returned. She tossed a brown glass bottle onto the bed next to me. “I brought you something for your hands.” I picked up the bottle. It was Betadine—the same bottle I’d seen in Toby’s Instagram story earlier. Lydia had used it to treat his scratch. The problem was, I’m deathly allergic to Betadine. When Lydia first started her career at eighteen, a jealous rival had hired a thug to jump her and “ruin” her hands. I had thrown myself in front of her, taking the brunt of the attack. My injuries were minor, but a medic had used Betadine on my scrapes. I went into anaphylactic shock. I spent twenty-four hours in the ICU, hovering between life and death. Lydia had spent those twenty-four hours sobbing outside my door. When I was discharged, she went on a rampage, throwing out every antiseptic in the house and making it a legal clause in her riders that Betadine was never to be allowed near her. And now, she was the one handing it to me. I dropped the bottle into the wastebasket. Lydia sneered. “Fine. Suit yourself. Bleed out for all I care.” Her phone chimed. Her expression softened instantly. She recorded a voice memo, her tone honey-sweet: “Hey kid, remember not to let that scratch get wet. Stick to the diet I gave you. When you’re better, I’ll take you out for that steak dinner I promised.” She lingered by the door, seemingly unsettled by my silence. Finally, she spoke again. “What I did today… I had to make an example out of you. You know how much politics there is in the orchestra. I had to show them I don’t play favorites.” “And the way I’m taking care of Toby? It’s for your own good. It keeps people from gossiping about your ‘jealousy’.” I nodded. No arguments. No explanations. “I understand,” I said. Lydia blinked, a strange, flickering look of unease crossing her face. She looked like she wanted to say something else, but I turned away and went into the bathroom to pack my toiletries. There, sitting prominently on the counter, was a pair of black-and-white patterned boxers. They weren’t mine. Lydia’s phone buzzed with another voice memo: “Lydia! I forgot my undies in your bathroom this morning… can you bring them to me? Also, I love the way your shower gel smells. Can you bring me a bottle of that too?” Everything clicked. The silk dress she wore this morning—a color she usually hated but Toby loved. The scent of the hotel soap. She followed his every whim. Lydia hurried into the bathroom to grab the boxers, stopping short when she saw me standing there next to them.

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My roommate hurled her old smartphone onto my bed with an exaggerated huff. She announced that her thirty-five-year-old online fling was getting on her last nerve. Not only did he demand daily vocabulary quizzes and reading summaries from her, but he also had the audacity to lecture her about going to clubs on the weekends. To her, it was just a casual online game. But his controlling nature, she complained, was suffocatingly paternal. Still, for the sake of the five hundred dollars he wired her for living expenses every month, she decided to generously “gift” the account to me, the designated charity case of the dorm. I was staring down at my textbook, too exhausted to engage, when a string of bizarre, glowing text suddenly began scrolling across my field of vision. [Keeley has no idea she’s playing games with a billionaire venture capitalist. That “controlling” vibe? He’s literally grooming her to the standards of a corporate titan’s wife.] [Just wait until the billionaire flies back to the States and realizes there’s been a bait-and-switch. He’s going to absolutely decimate the doomed stand-in, Maeve, before launching into an epic, agonizing grovel to win Keeley back.] I picked up the discarded phone, looked up at Keeley, and gave her a flat smile. “Sure. I’ll take this ‘burden’ off your hands.” A doomed stand-in? An epic groveling arc? None of that mattered to me. Right now, all I wanted to know was if this corporate titan could give me a shortcut to a top-tier Ivy League business school. 1 Right in front of Keeley, I changed the phone number linked to the messaging app and handed her actual device back to her. She took it, shooting me a sideways, pitying glance. “This stingy old man might drop a few dimes, but his demands are psychotic. He acts like a high school principal. Have fun with that.” It made sense. The trust-fund frat boys at the business school bought her designer bags worth thousands on a whim; a five-hundred-dollar allowance was chump change to her. Once Keeley fluttered out the door for her date, the cramped dorm room fell silent. I opened the chat thread with the user who had no profile picture. The last messages were from last night. [Read the front page of this week’s Wall Street Journal. Write a brief on it and send it to me.] [Why aren’t you replying?] [You need to fix your attitude and take this seriously. I don’t have time to indulge your tantrums.] My eyelid twitched. I scrolled back through six months of their chat history. They had met on a professional networking forum. Keeley had been fishing for a young, elite tech bro, playing the role of the eager, impoverished straight-A student. This man, under the username G, had answered a few of her industry questions, and one thing led to another until they exchanged numbers. Their conversations contained zero flirting. It barely qualified as an online romance. It was strictly: What book did you read today? How many vocabulary words did you memorize? Have you looked at the latest inflation data? It was painfully obvious that he genuinely wanted to help her. Keeley’s English was good, and at first, she actually played along. But as time wore on, she started faking illnesses, whining, or just copy-pasting AI-generated garbage to brush him off. Initially, he had patiently corrected her mistakes. Lately, sensing her apathy, his tone had grown frigid. Yet, like clockwork, he still sent that five hundred dollars on the first of every month. To Keeley, five hundred dollars wasn’t enough for a decent dinner downtown. But to me—a broke student juggling four part-time jobs just to afford dining hall meals and used textbooks—it was a windfall. The phantom text began scrolling across my vision again: [G is Gideon Wright, the absolute legend of the Wall Street elite. A single crumb of insider info from him could feed a normal person for lifetimes, and Keeley just tossed him away?] [Does Maeve, the sacrificial lamb, actually think she hit the jackpot? Gideon despises being lied to. When he finds out she’s a fake, he will ruin her.] I ignored the malicious glowing words, my eyes locking onto the message demanding a reading summary. I was an ordinary finance major at a middle-tier university. Because my family was buried in debt, I couldn’t even afford the basic prep courses for grad school. I had known since I was a child that education wasn’t a privilege; it was a lifeboat. It was the only way out. For five grueling hours, I hunched over my desk. I devoured the previous week’s financial journals, cross-referenced a mountain of historical market data, and typed up a comprehensive brief. After running a rigorous grammar check, I hit send. [I’m so sorry. I just had a tonsillectomy a couple of days ago, hence the delayed reply.] Fifteen minutes later, he responded: [Did you write this report yourself?] My heart seized in my chest. [Yes.] …Another agonizing stretch of silence. Then, a notification popped up on the screen. A wire transfer. $8,000. [Your angle is incredibly refreshing. It’s leagues ahead of the hollow, buzzword-filled nonsense you’ve been sending me lately. Consider this a bonus.] [If you’re recovering from surgery, prioritize your rest. Goodnight.] Keeley’s “stingy old man” had just casually dropped eight grand? I stared at the zeros, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. The floating comments immediately turned sour: [What the hell? The side character’s luck is insane! Eight grand for one crappy essay?] [Gideon only gave it to her because he values Keeley’s underlying potential. Maeve is just leeching off the female lead’s aura!] [Take it, go ahead. The more she takes now, the worse her destruction will be later. Gold diggers never get a happy ending.] I gritted my teeth, tapped the screen, and refunded the money. G sent back a single question mark: [Not enough?] [No, it’s not that. It’s just that, more than money, I want an opportunity.] [I want to apply to a top-tier business school. I don’t have a mentor to guide me, and I don’t have access to premium industry data.] […Is it too greedy of me to ask if I could borrow a Bloomberg Terminal login from you?] I sent the message. It sank like a stone in the ocean. Half an hour passed. Nothing. I stared at the screen, a cold sweat breaking out across my palms. The comments ramped up their mockery: [Overplayed her hand! Tried to play hard to get, and now she’s out eight grand!] [Who does she think Gideon is? A titan like him sees right through this cheap manipulation.] [Exactly. A nobody student trying to get into an Ivy League? Does she think Gideon runs a charity?] Just as I was thoroughly convinced I had pushed too hard and severed my only lifeline, the phone buzzed. [Send me your full academic portfolio.] I immediately attached the dossier I kept constantly updated. I scrubbed it of my name and personal details, leaving only my GPA, my coursework, and my track record in national mock-trading competitions. The next morning, I received a call from an unknown number. “Good morning. I am Mr. Wright’s executive assistant, Mr. Davis.” The voice on the other end was brutally corporate. “My employer has instructed me to meet with you to evaluate your current standing. Are you available this afternoon?” I swallowed the spike of adrenaline in my throat and forced a cool, professional tone. “Yes. Name the time and place.” 2 That afternoon, I changed into my only crisp, clean blazer and arrived exactly on time at Mr. Davis’s Manhattan office. He gave me a swift, sweeping glance, a flicker of surprise passing through his stoic eyes. The comments arrived right on cue to tear me down: [This country mouse is so out of her depth. She showed up to meet Davis looking like she sells discount life insurance.] [He’s Gideon’s right-hand man. He’s going to see right through this imposter in a heartbeat.] My palms grew clammy. I braced myself for the interrogation, for the mask to slip. But surprisingly, he only flipped through my academic files. He didn’t dig into my identity at all. “My employer believes you have a decent foundation, but you are miles away from the standards required by top-tier institutions.” I nodded, maintaining eye contact. “It’s because of that gap that I need mentorship. Give me the resources, and I will close the distance.” “My employer does not hand out resources lightly.” Mr. Davis snapped the folder shut. “He is willing to provide you with the terminal access, and he will even assemble a team of Ivy-caliber private tutors for you. “The condition is: you must submit entirely to the curriculum. You must hit every single performance metric we set.” “I accept,” I answered, without a second of hesitation. He nodded once. “Then, starting today, your schedule and your entire academic life are under our management.” 3 Three days later, I moved out of the cramped dorm room and into a sprawling penthouse suite in the heart of the city. The space was stripped of distractions. It had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a state-of-the-art laptop, and three elite private tutors on standby. Every morning at six sharp, I woke up to listen to global financial news. At eight, the grueling, boot-camp-style lectures began. The afternoons were dedicated to high-pressure mock interviews and ruthless dissections of corporate case studies. And every night, without fail, I reported my daily progress to G. His replies were always surgical. Sometimes it was a simple Read, and other times it was a long, cutting paragraph that dismantled the flaws in my logic. He really was like a strict headmaster, using immense pressure to completely rewire the way my brain worked. But the cold, clinical text on the screen never made me feel belittled. Instead, a thrilling rush of adrenaline coursed through me. So, this was how the apex predators operated. No sugar-coating. Only competence mattered. One morning, G sent me a rare message. [You’ve made significant strides recently. Take half the day off.] A compliment. I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from lifting. I decided to swing by the campus to grab a few reference books I had left behind. The moment I pushed open the dorm room door, I collided head-on with Keeley. She was dripping in designer labels, a luxury bag hooked over her forearm, practically radiating smugness. She eyed my plain white T-shirt and let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Well, if it isn’t the valedictorian. What happened? Did your creepy old sugar daddy finally dump you?” “No, he’s actually been tutoring me,” I replied honestly. “Tutoring you? Oh my god, hilarious.” She threw her head back, laughing like I had just told the joke of the century. “Maeve, is your brain rotting? A broke loser you met on the internet who can’t even afford to buy you a decent gift—what could he possibly teach you? “How to survive on five hundred bucks a month?” She poked the spine of my textbook with her freshly manicured acrylic nail. “Trent is stepping up as Vice President at his dad’s firm next month. He promised to set me up with a cushy, no-show job. “I’d advise you to wake up to reality. Working hard is for ugly girls; marrying well is the real career. What’s the point of burying your nose in these stupid books? You’re still going to end up a corporate slave, eating dirt like everyone else.” I sidestepped her hand, my voice perfectly level. “Everyone has their own path. Five hundred dollars is fine. Working is fine.” If this is what ‘eating dirt’ feels like, I want to eat it for the rest of my life. Right on cue, the ‘female lead’s’ presence agitated the scrolling comments: [If Keeley knew she just threw away a billionaire titan, she would literally throw up!] [Wait, is she actually the female lead? Why is she acting like such a cartoonish villain? She acts way more like a gold digger than the side character! I can’t wait to see her face when the male lead comes back and puts her in her place.] [Shut up, traitor! The male lead belongs to the female lead, that’s the law of the genre!] [Just watch. When the time comes, the male lead is going to strip Maeve of all these resources and leave her in the gutter!] I completely ignored the text, grabbed my books, and walked out. Strip me of my resources? Was he going to physically extract the knowledge from my brain? Over the next two months, my progress was exponential. And G’s attitude toward me shifted in subtle ways. It was no longer just one-way directives. Occasionally, in the dead of night, he would send a candid photo from an international site visit—a foggy London skyline or a blurry shot of a tarmac. 4 But late tonight, after reviewing my latest case brief, he suddenly sent a chilling message. [Keeley, your writing style has changed recently. You are much more analytical and emotionally detached than you used to be.] My heart slammed against my ribs. The comments immediately threw a parade. [He’s suspicious! Oh my god, the reveal is finally happening!] [Brace yourself, side-character. The hurricane is coming…] I steadied my breathing, my fingers flying across the keyboard: [I’ll take that as a compliment. People have to grow up eventually. Right now, I’m entirely focused on moving upward.] A long time passed after I sent the text. Then, G sent an audio message. “Good. Keep that ambition. Keep that hunger.” It was the first time I had ever heard his voice. It was deep, textured, vibrating with an undeniable magnetism—and carrying a faint, unmistakable trace of amusement. “I am flying back to the States the middle of next month. I’m hosting a private, closed-door gala. You will attend as my plus-one. It is time for a practical exam.” My fingers curled tight around the phone. The day of reckoning was finally here. [MAJOR SCENE INCOMING! The collision course is set!] [Keeley is definitely going to be at that gala. The fake girlfriend and the real one in the same room? The drama is going to be delicious.] [According to the plot, Gideon is going to publicly humiliate Maeve, throw her out, and then immediately grovel to Keeley.] Staring at those venomous words, I quietly clenched my jaw. I hadn’t spent the last few months bleeding over spreadsheets and market analyses just to be someone’s stepping stone. 5 The day before the event, Mr. Davis had a courier deliver an evening gown. Along with it came a fifty-page dossier on the attendees. “The core assets and immediate investment pipelines of tonight’s VIPs are all in here,” Davis told me over the phone. “My employer does not bring arm candy to events. You are required to memorize the profiles of the top ten key players. “And I mean all of it.” I didn’t dare slack off. I stayed up the entire night until I could recite the details backward. But I didn’t stop there. Using my terminal access, I dug deep into the recent, buried financial reports of the companies owned by those ten men, memorizing the skeletons in their corporate closets. No matter what happened when my identity was revealed, I was going to prove that I was worth every cent he had invested in me. That evening, the towncar pulled up to a sprawling estate in the Hamptons. The air was thick with the scent of expensive champagne and fine cigars. Guests conversed in low, hushed tones. What sounded like casual banter was actually the invisible maneuvering of hundreds of millions of dollars. I picked up a glass of sparkling water and retreated to a quiet corner. I systematically matched the faces in the room with the dossiers I had burned into my brain the night before. Suddenly, a grating, familiar voice shattered my focus. “Maeve? What the hell are you doing here?” I turned my head. Unsurprisingly, Keeley was standing there. She was clinging to the arm of a slick, overly-gelled young man, staring at me in sheer shock. This, presumably, was Trent, the trust-fund boyfriend. “This is an ultra-exclusive networking event. How did a broke nobody like you sneak in?” She stepped closer, dropping her voice, her eyes swimming with malicious intent. “Did you sleep with one of the caterers? Snuck in through the kitchen?” The phantom text floated perfectly on cue: [Keeley isn’t wrong. Maeve literally scammed her way in by lying to Gideon!] [Waiting for the titan to walk in and rip the mask off this vain imposter!] [Rubbing my hands together gleefully…] I gave Keeley a sidelong glance, entirely ignoring her, and shifted my gaze to the man beside her. “Trent Haverford, I presume. Your father’s manufacturing plants failed their EPA inspections last quarter, and your primary lenders are currently threatening to call in their loans, correct?” Trent, who had been raking his eyes over me with a sleazy smirk, instantly went rigid. The color drained from his face. I offered him a serene smile. “Instead of helping your family navigate a massive liquidity crisis, you have the leisure time to parade a date around here to show off. Your lack of situational awareness is honestly inspiring.” “Who… who the hell are you? How do you know about that?!” His voice shook. That information was highly classified. If word got out in a room like this, his family’s company would be slaughtered. “If I were you, I would immediately go buy Mr. Carmichael a drink. He has a massive surplus of unallocated capital right now. He might be your only lifeline. That would be a better use of your time than asking me pointless questions.” Trent followed my gaze to where Carmichael was standing. His face turned a sickly shade of gray. Finally, he whipped around and glared violently at Keeley. “I thought you said she was a brain-dead bookworm! Why does she know more about my sector than I do?!” He ripped his arm away from her and practically sprinted toward Carmichael. “Trent! Where are you going?!” Keeley stomped her stilettos, her face flushing with humiliation. She whipped back to me, teeth bared. “What kind of sick game are you playing? You read a few Wall Street Journal articles and think you can play pretend among the elite?” I didn’t bother responding to her tantrum. A sudden shift in the room’s energy caught my attention. The heavy mahogany doors at the front of the hall were pushed open. The entire ballroom fell into a hushed silence. A tall, imposing man stepped inside. His features were striking, carved in sharp, unforgiving lines. He barely offered a slight nod to the people greeting him, yet his mere presence fundamentally altered the atmospheric pressure of the room. Gideon Wright was here. 6 [AHHH! The male lead has entered the chat! He’s so gorgeous I’m suffocating!] [Maeve is dead meat. He’s going to instantly realize she’s not the girl from the video calls!] [Once Keeley tells him the truth, Gideon is going to explode and destroy Maeve.] Keeley recognized him, too. Even though she didn’t realize he was her “stingy old man,” his face was a staple on the covers of Forbes and Fortune. Everyone knew who he was. She frantically smoothed her hair and straightened her spine. “Maeve, you think scaring off Trent makes you special? That man right there is a true titan. You’d better keep your mouth shut and stay out of the way!” The problem was, staying out of the way wasn’t an option. I took a slow breath, bracing myself for the judgment. I’d be lying if I said my heart wasn’t hammering against my ribs. After exchanging brief pleasantries with a few senior executives, Gideon’s gaze swept over the crowd, searching. His eyes locked onto my corner. He bypassed the eager crowds, his long strides carrying him straight toward me. The sea of guests instinctively parted for him. Keeley’s face flushed a deep crimson. She pasted on a coy, breathless smile and took a half-step forward to intercept him. “Mr. Wri—” She didn’t even get the chance to finish. Gideon didn’t spare her a single fraction of a glance. He brushed past her entirely and stopped squarely in front of me. His sharp, dark eyes swept over me, taking me in. “Maeve Gallagher?” His voice was that same low, magnetic baritone from the audio message.

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Standing in that kitchen again, I could smell the over-roasted coffee and the metallic tang of my own blood. In my previous life, this was the moment I shattered. Looking into my sister’s wide, innocent eyes, my heart had softened. I took on her predatory payday loans, tethering myself to a debt that wasn’t mine. From that day on, my mother branded me with the labels “vain” and “wasteful,” broadcasted my supposed failures to anyone who would listen. Later, when a coveted position opened up at the local State Bureau, my mother moved heaven and earth to pave the way for my sister. But the “Golden Child” was rejected; her credit score was a graveyard of defaults and red flags. My mother snapped. In her descent into madness, she pushed me from the thirtieth floor. I remember the wind screaming in my ears before the world went black. Not this time. This time, the debt stays exactly where it belongs. 1 Smack. The phone hit the bridge of my nose with a sickening thud. The screen was a spiderweb of cracks. Warm blood immediately began to leak into my mouth, tasting of salt and iron. “Nancy! Look at what you’ve done!” My mother, Beatrice, shrieked. The sound was a jagged blade against my eardrums, leaving my head ringing. I cupped my aching nose, my gaze falling to the phone on the linoleum floor. The screen was flooded with threatening texts. MELANIE, your account ending in 8888 is 15 days past due. Balance: $35,600. Pay by 6 PM or we contact your emergency references! My younger sister, Melanie, cowered behind Beatrice, clutching the hem of her cardigan. Her eyes were rimmed with red, tears spilling down her cheeks like perfectly timed props. “Mom, she told me she just wanted a designer bag,” Melanie sobbed. “She said she was afraid you’d be mad, so she used my ID to take out the loans. I didn’t know she kept borrowing. Now these people call me every hour, screaming at me. I’m too scared to go to work.” It was a carbon copy of the past. The same trembling lip, the same practiced helplessness. In my last life, I had looked at that face and felt a misguided sense of sisterly duty. I thought family meant carrying each other’s crosses. I was wrong. I became the scapegoat, the pariah of the neighborhood, while Melanie wore her designer dresses and expensive makeup, funded by the very debt I was killing myself to pay. It wasn’t until her background check for the government job came back “denied” that Beatrice’s facade of love turned into homicidal rage. The ghost of that thirty-story fall still whistled in my ears. I wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand and looked at them—really looked at them. “Get on your knees!” Beatrice barked, her finger trembling as she pointed at the floor. “Your sister won’t even buy a Starbucks latte to save money, and you’re out here stealing her identity for some overpriced leather? You will apologize to her right now, or so help me—” I let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Why should I get on my knees?” The room went silent. Beatrice blinked, stunned. I was usually the quiet one, the one who took the hits to keep the peace. “Does this debt have even a cent to do with me?” I asked, my voice cold as a winter morning. Melanie’s face twisted. Her crying spiked an octave. “Nancy! How can you say that? Do you think I did this? I don’t even know what those apps are called! You stole my social security card last month! You said it was for a gym membership!” She buried her face in Beatrice’s shoulder, playing the victim with Oscar-winning precision. Beatrice’s face turned a violent shade of purple. She swung her hand, a wide, frantic arc aimed at my cheek. “You ungrateful little bitch!” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even blink. I caught her wrist mid-air with a grip that surprised even me. “What are you doing?” Beatrice gasped. “You’re going to hit your mother now?” I shoved her hand away and reached for my own phone. I dialed 911 without a second of hesitation. “Yes, I’d like to report a crime,” I said clearly into the receiver. “Identity theft and large-scale financial fraud. Someone has taken out tens of thousands in predatory loans using a stolen ID.” Melanie went pale. She hadn’t expected me to actually call the authorities. Usually, the mere threat of a scene was enough to make me fold. She scrambled toward me, trying to snatch the phone. Beatrice stood frozen. “Nancy, have you lost your mind? You don’t bring the police into family business! Think of the scandal!” I turned to her, a predatory smile touching my lips. “If the money isn’t mine, then we have nothing to fear from an investigation. Let the detectives track the digital trail. Let’s see exactly whose bank account that thirty thousand dollars landed in. Let’s see who spent it.” Melanie began to shake. She slumped against the sofa, her eyes darting around the room, the tears forgotten in the face of sheer, cold terror. 2 Beatrice was vibrating with rage. She stabbed a finger toward my face. “You’re a monster, Nancy! A cold-blooded animal! You want to ruin your sister’s life? Is that it? You’re just jealous of her!” I didn’t answer. I just watched her spiral. In her world, Melanie’s reputation was a holy relic, and my integrity was something to be stepped on. Beatrice lunged for the utility closet and pulled out a heavy length of nylon rope she used for gardening. Before I could process the insanity of it, she and Melanie tackled me. It wasn’t a fair fight—two against one. They shoved me into the windowless pantry, the air thick with the smell of stale flour and dust. “You won’t apologize?” Beatrice hissed through the door. “Fine. You stay in there and reflect. You don’t get a drop of water or a bite of food until you agree to fix this.” The heavy click of a padlock echoed in the small space. I leaned back against a stack of storage bins, listening to the muffled sounds of the house. Around midnight, I heard the lock rattle. Melanie slipped inside, holding a spare key and a single sheet of paper. Without Beatrice watching, she dropped the “sweet girl” act. Her face was a mask of pure malice. “Listen to me, you pathetic loser,” she whispered, her voice a venomous crawl. “I know where you hide your emergency cash. That little tin box under your bed? The money you’ve been slaving away for at the tutoring center? If you don’t take the fall for this, I’ll burn every cent of it tomorrow. Then I’ll tell Mom you’ve been ‘working’ as an escort.” My fists clenched. That money represented two years of double shifts and skipped meals. It was my ticket out of this house. I stared at her until she shifted uncomfortably. “What are you looking at? Sign the confession.” “Fine,” I whispered, letting my head hang, forcing a sob to break my voice. “I’ll sign. Just… don’t touch my money. It’s all I have.” Melanie smirked, the triumph radiant on her face. “See? Was that so hard? You always were the weak one.” She slapped a handwritten note onto my lap. I, Nancy, admit to using Melanie’s identity for all recent loans and accept full responsibility for the debt. I took the pen. Using my left hand—the hand I never use for writing—I scrawled “Nancy” in a shaky, distorted script. Melanie didn’t notice the detail. She snatched the paper, blew on the ink, and reached into my coat pocket to steal my ID for good measure. “Smart move. Now, when you get your paycheck next month, make sure it goes straight to me. I have bills to pay.” The door locked again. The footsteps faded. I wiped my face dry, the “tears” vanishing instantly. 3 Three days later, the front door nearly came off its hinges. THUD. THUD. THUD. The whole house shuddered. Five men, built like brick walls and covered in ink, forced their way into the living room. The leader, a man with a jagged scar across his eyebrow, swung a baseball bat into the hallway mirror. Glass rained down like diamonds. “MELANIE! Get out here!” he roared. “Thirty grand by tonight, or I start taking fingers!” Beatrice came sprinting out of her bedroom, losing a slipper in the process. “Gentlemen, please! We can talk about this!” She saw the bat and immediately bolted for the pantry. She fumbled with the key, ripped the door open, and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me into the living room as a human shield. “It’s her! She’s the one who took the money!” Beatrice screamed, her face a contorted mask of fear. “My eldest daughter! She did it all! We have nothing to do with this!” Just like before. She didn’t hesitate to throw me to the wolves. The leader grabbed me by the hair, a sharp pain blooming in my scalp. He pulled my head back, glaring into my eyes. “You Melanie?” I looked back at him, my expression dead. “My name is Nancy. Melanie is the one hiding behind the sofa.” I ignored the tugging on my hair and spoke calmly. “If you’re here for a debt, you should probably verify the identity. You don’t want to waste your time on someone who doesn’t have the money. Check the phone number on the file. Check the facial recognition.” The man narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m playing games?” He pulled out a rugged tablet, swiping through a portal. “Real-ID verification: Melanie. Registered phone number ends in 8888.” Beatrice froze. That phone number—the “lucky” number she’d spent a thousand dollars to get for Melanie’s graduation—was unmistakable. The monthly bill alone was a fortune. Melanie finally peeked out from behind the couch, her voice a shrill, desperate whine. “It was my sister! She stole my phone! She did it while I was sleeping!” I looked at the enforcer. “Sir, those apps require ‘liveness’ checks for withdrawals. You have to blink, smile, and turn your head for the camera. How did I manage to do that with her face while she was sleeping?” The man had been in this business a long time. He knew a lie when he heard one. He let go of my hair and stepped toward Melanie. “You think I’m an idiot?” CRACK. He delivered a backhand that sent Melanie spinning. She hit the floor hard, her face swelling instantly. Blood and snot smeared across her porcelain skin. “Mom! Help me!” she shrieked. Beatrice went feral. She lunged at the man, trying to claw at his eyes. “You leave my daughter alone! I’ll kill you!” The man didn’t even flinch. He planted a boot in Beatrice’s stomach, sending her skidding across the floor until she slammed into the coffee table. The living room was filled with the discordant music of their wailing. 4 The man put his boot on Beatrice’s back, tapping his bat against the floor. “Enough with the soap opera,” he growled. “Thirty thousand, principal and interest. Or I pack you both into a van and ship you to a basement in Tijuana to work off the balance.” Melanie was hyperventilating in the corner. Suddenly, she remembered the paper. She fumbled in her pocket and held it up like a holy shield. “Wait! Look at this! It’s a signed confession! My sister admitted it! It’s all hers!” The man took the paper, squinted at it, and then looked at me. Beatrice, pinned to the floor, found her second wind. “Nancy! You monster! Give them the money! Do you want us all to die?” I actually laughed. “That’s a forgery.” I pointed to the signature. “Look at the strokes. That was written with a left hand by a right-handed person. It’s a mirror-image signature. Legally, it’s a ‘distressed signature,’ usually used to indicate a document signed under duress. It’s worthless in any court—and it’s worthless here.” Melanie’s eyes went wide. She let out a guttural scream and tried to lung at me, her fingers hooked like claws. The man caught her with a kick to the ribs before she could get close. “I’m bored,” he said, pulling a different tablet from his vest. He opened the lender’s internal file. “I don’t need a piece of paper. The platform requires a high-res photo of the borrower holding their ID. Let’s see who’s in the picture.” He tapped the screen. The blue light illuminated the dim room. Beatrice struggled up, hopeful, thinking this would finally prove her favorite daughter’s innocence. “Yes! Look at the photo! It’ll be Nancy!” But as her eyes fell on the screen, the air left her lungs.

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The live-stream chat was a toxic wasteland, a million trolls salivating at the chance to watch me—the newest “trophy wife” of the elite—crash and burn. They were practically counting down the seconds until the industry’s most spoiled, hot-tempered “Prince of Pop” flipped the table in my face. But the scene playing out on their screens was anything but expected. The invincible, arrogant young star was currently hunched in a corner, eyes rimmed with red, his knuckles white as he clutched a sheet of A4 paper filled with the most lopsided “Terms of Service” ever written. Beside him, the nation’s favorite “sweetheart” was weeping big, fat crocodile tears, pointing a trembling finger at me while she struggled to find her voice. As for me? I was busy. I sliced into a medium-rare Wagyu steak with surgical precision, the silver clinking against the fine porcelain in the heavy silence. I didn’t even look up. I just swept the room with the kind of look you give a malfunctioning toaster. “Keep crying,” I said, my voice smooth and dangerous. “If the volume hits sixty decibels, it’s a noise violation. I’ve already got my lawyer’s cease-and-desist on the printer.” The chat froze for three solid seconds. Then, it absolutely exploded. This wasn’t the “scorned housewife” they’d been promised. This was something else entirely. I wasn’t here to play nice; I was here to burn the circus down with the clowns still inside. The director’s carefully laid traps had been dismantled before the first commercial break. Even the cameraman’s hands were shaking. 1 At six in the morning, the gated community was so quiet that even the birds sounded like an intrusion. The production crew for the fifth season of Family Ties had spent the last hour sneaking toward the gates of a mansion worth more than most small countries. The assistant director leaned toward the lens with a malicious smirk, clutching a spare key card. The live chat was already a blur of vitriol: “Can’t wait to see Judy’s morning face,” “Bet she looks like a literal gargoyle without the filters,” “Ten bucks says she’s passed out in a pile of designer trash.” Beep. The electronic lock disengaged, a sharp crack in the morning stillness. The crew surged into the foyer with their high-def lenses aimed like weapons, ready to catch the chaos—the panicked screams, the disheveled hair, the messy reality of a woman out of her depth. But there was no chaos. The floor-to-ceiling curtains in the living room were already drawn wide, bathing the Italian leather sofas in gold. The air didn’t smell like sleep; it smelled like freshly ground Blue Mountain coffee and expensive perfume. I was sitting there, draped in a silk robe that cost more than the director’s car. My hair was swept up into a perfect, effortless knot—not a single strand out of place. I held a bone china cup, legs crossed, watching the intruders with the calm, detached gaze of a CEO about to announce mass layoffs. The lead cameraman stumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet. The assistant director’s smirk died a painful death. I set the cup down. The ceramic hit the table with a sharp, final ping. “Under the state’s penal code for residential burglary and unauthorized entry, the penalty is up to three years,” I said. My voice was low, devoid of emotion, but it sent a visible shiver through the room. The assistant director wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, thrusting a mission card forward in a desperate bid to regain control. “Ms. Moretti, this is the ‘Surprise Reveal’ segment. It’s in the contract. We have the right to conduct a surprise shoot.” “The contract, page seven, line three, specifies ‘unannounced filming during working hours.’” I lifted my wrist, the diamonds on my watch catching the light as I tapped the face. “It is currently 5:58 AM. Work hours begin, per our agreement, at six. You are two minutes early.” I stood up, the silk sliding against my skin in a cold, elegant rustle. “Out.” Two words. Simple. Absolute. The chat went silent for a heartbeat before the floodgates opened. [Holy hell? Why is she so cold?] [I wanted to hate her for being a diva, but the way she cited the penal code just gave me high school principal trauma. My knees are weak.] [It’s a script. Has to be. Who wakes up at 6 AM in full glam to drink coffee?] The assistant director was so suffocated by the sheer weight of my presence that he actually backed out the door, ushering the crew with him. I sat back down and picked up my iPad, never glancing at the lens. I waited. At exactly 6:00 AM, the alarm on my phone chimed. Only then did I look toward the door, crooking a finger at the group of trembling professionals huddled on the porch. “You can come in now. Shoes off. The rug is eighty thousand dollars; if you stain it, it’s coming out of your appearance fees.” The cameraman looked at his muddy sneakers, then at the pristine white wool, and quietly stepped out of his shoes, scurrying inside in his socks like a servant entering a throne room. This wasn’t a family reality show anymore. It was an audience with the Queen. 2 A massive thud echoed from upstairs, followed by the sound of a door being kicked open with enough force to rattle the chandeliers. Jack Moretti appeared at the top of the stairs, a bird’s nest of messy dark hair and a black oversized tee with a skull on it. As the reigning king of the charts and the only heir to the Moretti empire, he was used to being the most dangerous thing in any room. His fans in the chat were screaming, heart eyes for the “rebel prince,” while cursing the show—and me—for waking him up. Jack saw me sitting there and his eyes narrowed with pure, unadulterated loathing. He didn’t use the stairs; he vaulted over the railing, landing with a practiced, cinematic grace that drew gasps from the crew. He sauntered over and kicked the leather ottoman next to my chair. “Hey, lady.” Jack shoved his hands into his pockets, his chin tilted at a defiant angle. “I’m not doing it. I’ll pay the kill fee myself. Go play the puppet for the cameras on your own.” The air in the room dropped to sub-zero. The assistant director’s hands were shaking with excitement. This was the gold they had come for: the stepson from hell versus the trophy wife. I slowly set my iPad down and looked up. I studied his handsome, rebellious face for two beats. No anger. No flattery. No emotion at all. I reached into my bag and pulled out a portable POS terminal. “The breach-of-contract fee is five million dollars,” I said calmly. “Card or wire transfer?” Jack blinked, then let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Are you insane? I have my dad’s black card. Whose money do you think you’re spending?” I nodded slowly. Then, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number on speakerphone. “Hello,” I said when the line connected. “This is Judy Moretti, acting agent for Gideon Moretti. Please freeze all secondary credit cards under the name Jack Moretti. Effective immediately.” “Of course, Mrs. Moretti. Identity verified. The accounts are locked.” I hung up. The silence was deafening. Jack scrambled for his phone, his thumbs flying as he tried to initiate a transfer. A bright red ‘Transaction Failed’ notification lit up his face. “You have no right!” he snarled, looking like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on. I stood up. I was shorter than him, but the sheer force of my personality made him look small. “I have a signed power of attorney from your father. I am your legal guardian while he’s in London. And as of this second, you are penniless. You can’t even afford the breakfast on that table.” I pointed to a plate of artisanal sandwiches. “That sandwich cost fifteen dollars. Want a bite? Call me Mom.” Jack’s face turned a violent shade of crimson, the veins in his neck bulging. “In your dreams! I’d rather starve to death!” “Ambitious. I like it.” I turned to the crew with a sharp nod. “Let’s move out. He’s not hungry.” I grabbed my limited-edition Birkin and walked toward the door without looking back. Jack stood there, his stomach letting out a treacherous, echoing growl that the boom mic caught perfectly. The fans in the chat, who had been dragging me for the last hour, suddenly went quiet. [I feel bad for him, but… damn, she’s a boss.] [Freezing the cards on live TV? This is like a billionaire romance novel coming to life.] [She’s not here to be a stepmom. She’s here to break him.] 3 The production bus felt like a powder keg. The other three sets of guests were already seated. The most prominent was the reigning “Girl Next Door,” Lexi Lane. She was dressed in a dainty white sundress, her long hair flowing, looking every bit the angel. She was traveling with her nephew, and the moment she boarded, she started handing out homemade cookies, her eyes wide and soft, playing the “sweetheart” role to perfection. When she saw me, her eyes lit up with a predatory sort of “kindness.” “Judy! You’re finally here! I heard you usually don’t even leave the house until noon—this must be so exhausting for you.” Subtext: You’re a lazy, spoiled brat who lives off her husband. I took a window seat, slid off my sunglasses, and looked at her with ice in my veins. “It’s not exhausting. I just got tired of counting my money and thought I’d come out for some fresh air.” Lexi’s smile twitched and died. Conversation over. As the bus started to move, the driver hit the brakes suddenly. Lexi was standing right next to my seat. She let out a dainty gasp, her body falling forward with exaggerated force. Her box of cookies hit the floor, shattering into a million crumbs. She crumpled to the floor, clutching her ankle, her eyes instantly brimming with tears as she looked up at me. “Judy… I know you don’t like me… but you didn’t have to trip me… I made those for everyone…” The bus erupted in whispers. The other guests gave me judgmental looks. Jack, sitting in the back row with his headphones on, let out a cold laugh, clearly enjoying the show. The chat was a war zone: [Judy is a monster! Kill her!] I looked down at Lexi, who was putting on the performance of a lifetime. I slowly pulled a silk wipe from my bag and brushed a cookie crumb off my trouser leg. “Ms. Lane,” I said, my voice like a gavel. “That fall was physically impossible.” I leaned in, my eyes pinning her to the floor. “When a vehicle brakes, inertia carries the body forward. You fell sideways and backward, perfectly avoiding the hard edges of the seats to ensure a soft landing on your… well-cushioned ego. That requires incredible core strength.” I lowered my voice, watching her eyes widen with panic. “Also, this is the latest Mercedes luxury coach. There are 360-degree high-def security cameras right above your head. Should I ask the driver to pull the footage now? I’d love to give the national audience a lecture on Newtonian physics.” Lexi’s face went paper-white. She had forgotten that this was a high-end charter, not the cheap buses she was used to. “I… no, that’s okay… I must have just lost my balance…” she stuttered, scrambling to her feet with a speed that defied her “injured” ankle. “I thought so.” I leaned back and slid my glasses back on. “Next time, hire a better writer. This script is boring. It’s making me sleepy.” In the back row, Jack pulled one earbud out. He looked at my back with a strange, complicated expression. The woman he’d heard stories about didn’t match the woman sitting ten feet in front of him. 4 The filming location was a remote, rustic town tucked into the Hudson Valley. The director stood in the center of the square with a megaphone. “To build ‘authentic family bonds,’ all guests must hand over their wallets, phones, and snacks. You will each receive fifty dollars in seed money. That’s all you have for the next forty-eight hours.” A chorus of groans went up. Jack ruffled his hair in frustration, pulling out his empty pockets. “I’m already broke. She froze me out this morning.” The director looked at me, waiting for the panic to set in. Surely the Queen of the Hamptons couldn’t survive on fifty bucks. I didn’t blink. I handed over my Birkin to the staff, held out my hand, and said, “Fifty. Give it to me.” As soon as the bill touched my palm, I grabbed Jack by the collar and started walking. “Hey! Where are we going?” Jack yelled, his stomach cramping with hunger. “To make money.” “With fifty bucks? What are you going to do, buy a lottery ticket?” I led him into a high-end tea house that looked like it belonged in a museum. Jack stared at the menu and balked. “You’ve lost it. A cup of water here is probably twenty bucks!” I ignored him and walked straight to the counter. I slapped the fifty-dollar bill down and pointed to a massive piece of framed calligraphy on the wall. “Sir,” I said to the rotund owner behind the counter. “Your art is upside down.” The owner looked up, his face full of disdain. “What do you know? This is a masterpiece! A reproduction of a legendary Tang Dynasty scroll!” “It’s a copy of Huaisu’s Autobiography. The second character in the third line is ‘Madness.’ You have it hanging as ‘Chaos.’ While the sentiments are similar, the orientation is inverted. In terms of feng shui, this is called ‘Reversed Fortune.’ No wonder you have more flies in here than customers.” I spoke with the flat, clinical tone of an expert. The owner froze. He scurried out from behind the counter to look, his face turning pale as he realized I was right. Ten minutes later. Jack and I were sitting in the best private booth in the house. The table was covered in steamed dumplings, Peking duck, and a pot of Longjing tea that probably cost more than my watch. The owner was bowing at the side of the table. “Master, is the new placement correct? This meal is on the house! And please, accept this two-hundred-dollar ‘consultation fee’ as a token of my gratitude!” I calmly tucked the cash into my pocket and picked up a crystal shrimp dumpling, chewing elegantly. Then, I looked at Jack, who was staring at me like I’d just turned water into wine. “Eat up,” I said. “This is what we call ‘the intellectual dividend.’” Jack swallowed hard. For the first time, he looked at the woman he was supposed to hate and realized she… actually had something going on behind those cold eyes. In the live-stream, jaws were hitting the floor. [Wait, I thought she was just a pretty face? Since when does she know ancient calligraphy?] [Everyone else is struggling to find a ham sandwich, and she’s out here getting paid to eat duck?] [I’m starting to see a glimmer of brilliance in the ‘evil stepmother’…] The room assignments were decided by a random draw. Lexi drew the worst lot—a drafty shack on the edge of the woods. She forced a brave smile for the camera. “It’s okay! It’s closer to nature. My nephew loves the outdoors, don’t you, sweetie?” The kid was crying so hard he was blowing snot bubbles. He clearly did not love the outdoors. I drew ‘House One’—a crumbling courtyard with a door that didn’t even lock. Jack looked at the dilapidated shack and finally snapped. “I’m not staying here! This is for animals! There are probably rats in the walls!” He kicked a loose fence post and turned to walk away. I grabbed the back of his hoodie, hauling him back like a disobedient puppy. “You’re right. This isn’t fit for humans,” I agreed. Jack’s eyes lit up. He thought I was finally going to lose it and demand a hotel. Instead, I pulled out my phone—the crew had returned it briefly for a “social media interaction” segment. I opened a real estate app. “This town was developed as a boutique tourism project by a subsidiary of the Moretti Group,” I said. I zoomed in on a digital map, pointing to a luxurious villa perched on the highest hill in the valley. “I checked the deed. This property is currently registered in my name. Your father gave it to me for my birthday last month. I’d forgotten about it.” Jack: “…” The production crew: “…” “So,” I said, flashing a small, razor-sharp smile at the stunned director. “I’m not breaking the rules. I’m just going home. That’s allowed, isn’t it?” Ten minutes later. While the other guests were fighting mosquitoes in their shacks and Lexi was sobbing into her “rustic” pillow, I was sitting on the terrace of a mountaintop villa. The lights of the town twinkled below us, and a butler was serving us warm milk. Jack held his glass, his mind spinning like a rollercoaster. He stole a glance at me. I was looking at the stars, my profile quiet and beautiful. “Hey,” Jack muttered awkwardly. “About today… thanks.” I turned my head, a mysterious smile playing on my lips. “Don’t thank me yet. The utilities, the property taxes, and that milk you’re drinking? I’m billing your personal account. Interest is triple the market rate.” Jack’s hand shook, spilling milk all over his shirt. “Judy! You’re a literal monster!” The boy’s frustrated scream echoed across the valley, punctuated by my low, amused laughter. The live-stream was a wall of [LMAO] and [Why do I ship this family dynamic so much?] The “Rich Kid Rehab” had only just begun. 5 The morning mist still clung to the valley when the roosters started crowing. The production crew, having learned their lesson about trying to outsmart me, had designed a task that money couldn’t solve: digging for lotus roots in a muddy pond. The rule was simple: you eat what you dig. If you dig nothing, you starve. To prevent another “I’m going home” move, the director had confiscated all vehicles and set the task five miles away from the villa in a swampy marsh with nothing around for miles. Jack looked at the black, foul-smelling sludge and his face turned darker than the mud. He looked at his limited-edition sneakers, then at Lexi, who was already in a waterproof suit, smiling bravely for the cameras. “I’m not going in,” Jack said, crossing his arms. “It’s disgusting. Let someone else do it.” Lexi was standing by the edge of the pond, her leggings rolled up to show off her pale, slim calves. She gave the camera a “strong” smile. “Jack, it’s not that bad. Farmers work so hard every day. We should experience their struggle to appreciate our food. Judy, why don’t you talk to him?” There it went again. The “Green Tea” special. That kind of moral posturing always worked on the fans. The chat was already calling us “spoiled brats” while praising Lexi’s “earthy soul.” I was wearing a white high-fashion leisure suit and five-inch heels, looking entirely out of place in a field. I didn’t acknowledge Lexi. Instead, I turned to an old farmer smoking a pipe by the edge of the marsh. “Sir,” I said, tilting my head. “Your yield is down this year, isn’t it?” The old man blinked, puffing a cloud of smoke. “How’d you know? Rain’s been heavy. Rot set in. It’s a mess.” I took off my sunglasses. “Yellowing edges on the leaves, black spots on the stems. It’s classic Fusarium wilt. Just digging them out won’t help; the crop will be dead by next year.” The farmer froze, his pipe halfway to his mouth. “You… you know about this?” “A bit.” I pulled a designer pen from my pocket and grabbed a decorative ribbon from Jack’s hoodie—he started to protest, but I shut him down with a single look. I scribbled a chemical formula and a ratio for a soil treatment on the fabric. “Take this to the agricultural supply store in town. Mix it with water and spray it. You’ll see results in three days. If it doesn’t work, come to the Moretti Group headquarters. I’ll personally pay you ten times the value of the harvest.” The old man clutched the ribbon like it was made of gold. “Miss… I don’t know what to say! You’ve saved us!” I smiled thinly and pointed to the lotus roots buried deep in the mud. “I want to eat lotus, but I don’t want to get dirty. Is that a fair trade?” “Fair? It’s more than fair!” The farmer let out a loud whistle, calling over several strong men working in a nearby field. “Over here! Dig for this lady! Only the biggest, freshest ones! Wash them, slice them, and deliver them to her house!” Five minutes later. Lexi was struggling in the knee-deep mud, her face splashed with filth, looking like a drowned rat. The other guests were sweating and panting, pulling up roots the size of toothpicks. Meanwhile, I was sitting on a bamboo chair the farmer had brought out, shaded by an umbrella he held for me. I held a crisp, clean slice of lotus root and took an elegant bite. Jack sat next to me, mud-free, a piece of lotus in his hand, looking completely bewildered. The production team was having a collective meltdown in the control room. This wasn’t a “rehab” show. It was a “Science Expert Saves the Rural Economy” special. The chat had shifted entirely: [I’m dead… she’s a botanical pathologist too?] [Judy: I don’t dig roots. I provide technological solutions.] [Watching Lexi struggle while Judy eats like a queen is oddly satisfying.] 6 Lunch was served under a massive banyan tree at the village entrance. Lexi was seething. She’d lost the “Lotus War” and her makeup had melted in the sun. Seeing me sitting there, radiant and flawless, sent a jolt of jealousy through her. She picked up a bowl of hot soup and pretended to walk past me. She “tripped,” sending the scalding liquid flying toward my hand. It was an old trick. If I moved or pushed her, she’d fall, and I’d be labeled the “bully” who attacked a girl trying to be nice. But I didn’t move. At a precise, impossible angle, I lifted my stainless steel lunch tray, catching the soup mid-air. Clang. Not a drop touched me. It all landed in the tray. Lexi, having put too much force into her “accident,” lost her balance for real. I remained seated, steady as a rock, but I extended one high-heeled foot just enough to catch her knee. Lexi went down with a heavy thud, landing perfectly on her knees in front of me. It looked like she was kneeling in prayer. The entire square went silent. Jack nearly choked on his water, clutching his mouth as his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Lexi froze for two seconds. Then, the waterworks started. She clutched her (perfectly fine) knee and sobbed. “Judy… I just wanted to bring you soup… why did you trip me? I know I’m not as smart as you, but you don’t have to humiliate me like this…” The villagers and crew gathered around, whispering. Lexi thought she had me. With this many witnesses, it was my word against hers. I slowly set the tray down and wiped a single stray drop of oil from the edge with a tissue. “Ms. Lane, are you aware that human micro-expressions cannot fully mask subconscious intent?” I leaned forward, my cold eyes locking onto her tear-filled ones. The pressure in the air seemed to double. “0.5 seconds before you ‘slipped,’ your eyes darted to the lower left to confirm your landing zone. The moment the soup left the bowl, the zygomatic muscles near your mouth twitched—that’s the ‘pleasure of success,’ not ‘panic.’” I reached out and lightly tapped the corner of her eye. “Also, real tears of pain are accompanied by pupil constriction and rapid breathing. Your pupils are dilated, and your breath is steady. This tells me your tears are 30% saline and 70% bad acting.” Lexi stared at me, her mouth hanging open. She’d forgotten to keep crying. “Since you’re already on your knees,” I said, reaching into my bag and tossing a small red envelope into her lap. “It’s a bit early for New Year’s, but I’m a traditionalist. I don’t let people kneel for nothing.” “Take it. Buy some better eye drops. Try to be more convincing next time.” I stood up, stepped over her, and walked away. Jack scrambled to follow. As he passed her, he couldn’t help but add the finishing blow: “There’s probably only five bucks in there. Her cash flow is tight. Spend it wisely.” In the live-stream, the audience was losing their minds. [Is Judy a human polygraph?] [Micro-expression analysis! I’m a believer!] [Jack’s comment was the real kill shot LMAO!]

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