Category: English

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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As my fingertips brushed against the frigid surface of the German-made milling machine, a single thought echoed in my mind: Never again. In my first life, being “the one left behind” was a curse etched into my very marrow. It started the day I was born. My father had spent the morning cradling my twin sister, Nicole, unable to stop smiling. But when the nurse handed him me—small, scrawny, and pale—his smile vanished. “Are you sure this one’s mine?” he’d asked, his voice laced with a cold kind of bewilderment. By the time we were sixteen, the world was changing. My parents decided to move south to Florida to chase the real estate boom. My mother stroked my hair with a feigned tenderness that didn’t reach her eyes. “You’ve always been the sensible one, Cassie,” she told me. “Stay here. Take over your father’s spot at the mill.” Nicole had stood beside her, a smug, girlish giggle escaping her lips. “Besides, Cassie’s built for it. She’s tough. She belongs in a factory.” In that life, I became the youngest female machinist at Ironwood Steel. Every cent I earned was sent south to fund their “start-up.” They built a multi-million dollar empire on my sweat and blood, while I was discarded during the Great Recession of the late nineties, stripped of even my meager severance. I died alone that winter, huddled in the rusted shell of a town that the world had forgotten. But this time, I refuse to be their sacrificial lamb. I won’t be the “battery” that powers their dreams while I wither away. This time, I’m going to be the one who dictates the future. 1 When I opened my eyes, the acrid, metallic tang of iron filings stung my nose. The rhythmic, industrial roar of the shop floor thundered in my ears. I stared at the milling machine in front of me. On the left guard, there was a stubborn grease stain—a dark, permanent blotch that had survived a decade of half-hearted cleaning. In my past life, the floor manager, Mr. Henderson, had just waved it off. “Doesn’t affect the output,” he’d say. “Just leave it.” Eventually, everyone stopped seeing it. Years later, when the factory was shuttered and the machines were sold for scrap, that stain went with it to the junkyard. Just like me. An overlooked blemish on a dying industry. But now, under the warm yellow hum of the overhead lights, the grease shimmered with a strange, iridescent sheen. I rubbed it with my thumb, the slick, cold texture sending a jolt through my system. I was really back. My father’s hand clamped down on my shoulder. He gave a jovial laugh, looking toward the manager. “See that, Mr. Henderson? The girl’s got a natural feel for the iron. She’s a perfect fit!” He squeezed my shoulder—not with affection, but with the pressure of a man closing a deal. “You won’t regret taking her on in my place.” Mr. Henderson adjusted his glasses, peering at me over the rims. “Usually, the elder child takes the legacy spot. Why are you pushing the younger one?” My father’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Nicole… well, she’s got a bright future ahead of her elsewhere. Cassie here, she’s not much for books. The mill is her best shot at a life.” Mr. Henderson didn’t argue. In that moment, my fate was sealed. My father practically shoved me toward the machine. “This is your home now. Work hard. I’ve got a train to catch, so we’re heading out.” Without a backward glance, he turned and took Nicole’s hand. As they walked toward the exit, Nicole looked over her shoulder and mouthed a single word: Loser. I didn’t care. My mind was racing, anchored by the date on the wall calendar: September 15, 1990. While my parents were running off to find their fortune, the rest of the country was bracing for a new decade. In seven years, the tide would turn. Globalization and corporate restructuring would tear the heart out of towns like Ironwood. Half the people in this room would lose everything. Some, like the version of me I remembered, wouldn’t survive the frost. I looked up at the faded banner hanging from the rafters: WORKERS ARE THE BACKBONE OF AMERICA. Seven years. For what I had planned, seven years was more than enough. 2 The next morning, I showed up in my dark blue Dickies coveralls before the first whistle. Gus, the master machinist, looked me up and down with a skeptical grunt. “A slip of a girl like you? You think you can handle the precision work?” I didn’t try to argue. I just gave him a sharp nod. Gus huffed, tossing a block of raw steel and a blueprint onto my workbench. “Follow the specs. If it passes inspection, I’ll keep you. If not, don’t come back tomorrow.” The blueprint was for a complex valve component. In my last life, it had taken me weeks of trial and error to earn his respect. This time, my hands moved with a ghostly muscle memory. Less than ten minutes later, I handed the finished piece to Gus. He froze, eyes widening. He pulled out his calipers, measuring every angle, every curve. When he realized the tolerances were perfect—down to the micron—he grabbed my hand with a sudden, fierce excitement. “I’ve been training apprentices for thirty years,” he breathed, “and I think I just found a goddamn prodigy. You stick with me, kid. I’ll teach you everything I know.” I offered him a small, sad smile. I knew he meant it. Gus was a legend in the valley. He’d trained dozens of machinists, treating every one of them like family. Even after the layoffs, he’d been the one to give his last bag of coal to a former student to keep their kids warm, while he himself caught pneumonia in the drafty house he couldn’t afford to heat. I looked at the old man—still vibrant, still full of pride—and blinked back the sting in my eyes. Not this time, Gus. This time, you’re going to have a very warm winter. 3 As soon as my parents settled in Florida, the letters started arriving. They were filled with complaints and “hardships.” Apparently, the sunny south wasn’t handing out fortunes for free. They claimed they’d been scammed on a rental; they claimed Nicole’s prep school fees were higher than expected. Every letter ended with a thinly veiled demand for money. I kept every single one of them. I didn’t reply, but I filed them away in the back of my locker, stacked neatly like evidence. Soon, the factory gossip mill began to churn. “Hear about the Sullivan girl? Cold as ice, she is.” “Her parents are struggling down south, and she won’t send a dime. How can someone be so heartless to their own flesh and blood?” “No wonder they left her behind.” I just smiled to myself. My parents were predictable. Since I wasn’t responding to their private guilt trips, they were trying to use the small-town grapevine to shame me into submission. In my first life, the grueling work had left me malnourished and exhausted. I’d once asked to keep just twenty dollars of my paycheck to buy vitamins and better food. My mother had screamed at me over the phone, calling me an ungrateful brat who wanted to watch her family starve. I’d folded. I’d lived on cabbage and crackers while they ate steak. I’d fainted on the assembly line more than once. Even at the end, when I was dying, I’d sent letters begging for help. They never came. I found out later they were on a cruise at the time. Nicole had laughed and told a friend it was just “some crazy stalker” writing to them. I ignored the whispers. But Peggy, the woman who ran the canteen, didn’t. She came marching out of the kitchen one afternoon, waving a heavy ladle at a group of gossiping men. “Get out! All of you!” she barked. “This girl works harder than any three of you combined. You ought to be ashamed, picking on a kid whose parents dumped her here like yesterday’s trash.” Once the crowd dispersed, she slid a heavy brown paper bag into my hands. “Take it,” she muttered, her voice softening. “A girl’s got to look out for herself. If they start talking again, you tell ’em to come see me.” Inside the bag was a jar of expensive malt supplement and a tin of high-quality beef jerky. I felt a lump form in my throat. I stood up and gave her a deep, respectful nod. Peggy waved me off, looking embarrassed. But as I sat there, drinking the sweet, fortified milk, I realized something. In two lifetimes, I’d heard a thousand people tell me to sacrifice. This was the first time anyone had told me to keep something for myself. 4 Two years passed. Under Gus’s tutelage, my skills surpassed even my previous life’s peak. I wasn’t just fast; I was an artist. My name started appearing on the “Employee of the Month” board in the main lobby, written in bold, proud strokes. People would stop to stare at my workpieces—parts so perfect they looked like they’d been polished by silk rather than cut by steel. Gus was beaming when he spoke to Mr. Henderson. “Cassie’s the future of this plant. Give her another few years, and she’ll be a Master Machinist. The youngest in the state.” Even the stoic Mr. Henderson nodded in agreement. But I looked him straight in the eye and said, “Sir, I want to apply for the CNC certification program in the city.” The shop floor went silent. You could hear the distant hum of the heavy presses, but for a moment, time seemed to freeze. “Is she crazy?” someone whispered. Gus grabbed my arm, his face etched with worry. “Kid, what are you talking about? Those ‘Numerical Control’ machines? That’s just buttons and screens. That’s not real machining.” He was voicing the fear of an entire generation. It was 1992. The Pandora’s box of automation was beginning to creak open. Most of these men were clinging to the dream of the American Industrial Age, telling themselves that “hand-crafted” would always be king. The corporate office had been pushing for “modernization” and “transitioning,” but the workers treated it like a joke. Why trust a computer code when you had thirty years of feel in your fingertips? They couldn’t wrap their heads around the lines of logic—it looked like an alien language to them. In my first life, I’d been just as stubborn. I’d watched the empire fall because we refused to adapt. But I knew better now. I knew that when the storm hit, only the plants that had integrated with technology would survive. I wanted to bring that technology back here. I wanted to save Ironwood. Gus shook his head. “You’ve got a real career here, Cassie. Don’t throw it away for some fad.” I had my speech ready. “Gus, the world is moving faster than we are. If we don’t learn the new ways, we’re going to get left in the dust. I’m going so I can bring it back here. For us.” He sighed, a long, weary sound. “You realize if this ‘CNC’ thing doesn’t pan out, you’ll just be a glorified clerk? You’ll lose your seniority.” “I have to try,” I said firmly. “Someone has to see what’s coming.” Gus looked at me for a long time, then a prideful spark returned to his eyes. “Good girl. That’s my apprentice. Go on then. Show those city boys what a Sullivan can do.” When the approval papers came back with the red corporate seal, I felt, for the first time, that I was the one holding the wheel. I wasn’t being left behind. I was moving forward. 5 For the first time in my life, I boarded a Greyhound bus alone, heading for the state capital. The next three years were a blur of intense study. During the day, I was a ghost in the labs, devouring code and learning the intricacies of computerized manufacturing. At night, I sat by a dim lamp, teaching myself German so I could read the advanced manuals for the high-end hardware. My classmates called me “The Farmer”—because I worked like a woman trying to beat the harvest before a storm. I didn’t correct them. In my last life, I’d wasted seven years in self-pity. This time, I was reclaiming every second with interest. On the day the program ended, the lead instructor pulled me aside. “Cassidy, you’re the most gifted machinist I’ve ever seen. We have a spot for you at the Research Institute here. If you stay…” I didn’t let him finish. I gave him a respectful bow. “Thank you, sir. But I have to go back to my mill. There are people waiting for me.” He smiled, not pushing. “Fair enough. But know this—the door is always open for you.” I walked out of that office feeling a strange sense of vertigo. Growing up, whenever there was something good in the house, Nicole got half. When I reached for the other half, my parents would swat my hand away. “Save that for your sister,” they’d say. This was the first time anyone had ever told me they were saving something for me. I wasn’t being asked to stay behind. I was being invited to belong. I returned to Ironwood in the sweltering heat of 1995, carrying the future of the steel industry in my notebook. The reception was cold. The older workers didn’t just doubt the technology; they were hostile. They saw the new machines as the enemy—monsters that would eat their jobs. They wanted me out. That changed a month later when a massive order came in. The industrial boom was starting to wobble. Government contracts were drying up, and the mill had been hemorrhaging money. We desperately needed this private sector contract to stay afloat. But the materials required and the precision of the specs were a nightmare. Even the Master Machinists were stumped. At the current pace, we’d never meet the deadline. The whispers started. “Doesn’t Cassie keep saying that computer crap is faster? Why don’t we let her fail and get it over with?” I stood in the center of the shop floor, my voice level. “I’ll take half the order. If I mess it up, I’ll take the full hit. My job on the line.” I lived in the plant for seven days. I wrote an entire suite of precision code from scratch. While the manual workers were sweating over their lathes, finishing maybe twenty parts a day, they’d walk past me and sneer. “Where’s the output, Sullivan? A week in and you haven’t produced a single piece. Guess your fancy computer is broken.” I didn’t look up from the monitor. “Your keyway cut is off by three degrees,” I noted, glancing at the part in the man’s hand. “It’s within tolerance!” he barked. Just then, the foreman came running in, face white as a sheet. “Stop! The first batch we sent for QC was rejected! The client says if the next batch isn’t perfect, they’re pulling the contract and suing for materials!” A tomb-like silence fell over the floor. If this contract failed, the mill was done. I didn’t say a word. I hit the ‘Execute’ button. Someone tried to grab my arm. “Cassie, stop playing around! We need to fix this—” The CNC machine roared to life. Under the eyes of the entire shift, the robotic arm began to move with a terrifying, fluid grace. In seconds, the part took shape. It changed its own tools, adjusted its own angles. Five minutes later, a finished, gleaming valve component sat in the tray. The room gasped. A master like Gus would have taken forty minutes to do that. The skeptic grabbed it, checking it with his calipers. He checked it once. Twice. He looked at me, his hands trembling. It was perfect. Beyond perfect. I pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Keep the line clear,” I said. “We’re going to finish this order on time.”

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Six years ago, the wedding that was supposed to be the social event of the season became the biggest punchline in the city. The man who was meant to meet me at the end of the aisle, Tyler Harrington, vanished into thin air minutes before the processional began. He left me with nothing but a crying infant in a bassinet and a letter sharp enough to shatter my soul. In those pages, he claimed he loved me, but confessed he had been hopelessly in love with another woman named Cora for years. He couldn’t give her a “legitimate” title, so he decided to make it up to her with a world tour. The most absurd part? He “granted” me the privilege of raising his and Cora’s child. The audacity. I remember my hands shaking so hard the paper rattled. Why should I? Without a ring, without a name, why the hell was I supposed to play nanny to their mistake? Fast forward to today. I’m at the airport, holding my son’s hand as we wave goodbye to my husband, who’s leaving on a short business trip. As I turn to leave, a familiar, haunting silhouette enters my line of sight. It’s Tyler. He’s pushing a designer suitcase, and when he sees the boy in my arms, his eyes light up with a disturbing intensity. “Margot! Is this him? Is this mine and Cora’s boy? God, look how big he’s gotten!” He sighed, completely absorbed in his own delusion. “You’ve raised him so well. Look, Cora and I got married while we were abroad, so I can’t make things right by marrying you now. But don’t worry. In my heart, you’ll always be my first wife.” He said it with such nauseating sincerity I felt my skin crawl. I looked at his face—a face that shared a haunting similarity with my son’s—and I couldn’t help but let out a sharp, cold laugh. I gently patted my son’s back and looked Tyler dead in the eye. “Don’t go claiming kin where you don’t have any, Tyler. This isn’t your son. This is your uncle’s.” 1. The joy on Tyler’s face froze instantly. Then, his brow furrowed in annoyance. “Margot, stop playing games. I know you’re hurt. We didn’t have the ceremony, but you accepted my family’s settlement. You were practically a Harrington the moment that check cleared. Don’t be tactless.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a warning hiss. “And watch what you say about my uncle. Stanley is a bachelor, and he’s… let’s just say he doesn’t have a sense of humor. If he heard you spreading rumors that you’re his wife, he’d be furious.” Watching his self-righteous display, I felt a wave of pure exhaustion. My engagement to Tyler had been a cold, calculated arrangement between our families. I had always played the part of the dutiful fiancée. When he fled, the Harringtons needed someone else to fulfill the contract with the Vance family. And his uncle, Stanley Harrington, didn’t just step up. He doubled the settlement. In the years since, he hasn’t just been a husband; he has cherished me in a way Tyler never could. Today, I am the wife of the Harrington patriarch. I am the rightful Mrs. Harrington. I am Tyler’s aunt. Even Tyler’s parents treat me with whispered reverence. But Tyler? He was still the same spoiled boy I’d almost made the mistake of marrying. Noah pulled at the hem of my coat, looking up at the stranger with wide, nervous eyes. “Mommy? Who is this man? I don’t like him.” I ruffled Noah’s hair, ignoring Tyler entirely, and turned toward the parking garage. “You aren’t going anywhere!” Tyler reached out to grab my arm. Behind him, Cora stepped forward, her hands tipped with long, aggressive acrylic nails, reaching out to pinch Noah’s cheek. “Oh, look at you, sweetie! I’m your mommy. Come to Mommy, okay? Daddy and I are going to take you to get something delicious.” “Don’t touch him!” I yanked my son back, shielding him with my body as I retreated two steps. Noah’s cheek was already blooming red from her pinch. He buried his face in my coat. “Mommy, I’m scared…” Cora’s eyes welled with performative tears. “Baby, I’m your mother. Tyler… is Margot teaching our son to hate me? Is she doing this on purpose because she’s bitter?” Tyler’s face darkened. He reached out, trying to physically pry Noah from my grip. “Margot, don’t be ungrateful! Cora is his flesh and blood. What’s wrong with her wanting to touch her own son? Stop acting like a lunatic!” He looked at me with a patronizing, “benevolent” gaze. “Give him to Cora. Look, if you’re that desperate for a kid, maybe we can figure something out later. We could have another one.” The sheer filth of his suggestion made me want to vomit. “Tyler, if your eyes are failing you, get a prescription. Noah is my son. He has absolutely nothing to do with you or Cora.” I leaned in, my voice a cold, sharp blade. “That baby you left behind? The one without a name or a future? Your parents sent him to the foster system years ago. He’s gone.” 2. “Enough!” Tyler’s voice boomed, drawing stares from other travelers. “Margot, I get it. You’re pissed that Cora and I left the baby with you while we traveled. But Cora is his mother. Give. Him. Back!” Before I could react, he shoved me aside. It wasn’t a gentle push; I stumbled, and he used the opening to rip Noah out of my arms. Noah began to scream, his little face turning a frantic shade of crimson. “Bad man! Let me go!” Tyler acted as if he couldn’t even hear the child’s terror. He spun around and shoved Noah into Cora’s arms. Cora’s long nails dug into Noah’s soft arms, leaving angry red welts. She didn’t even blink. She just held him tighter as he struggled. “Baby, I’m your Mommy. See? We’re a family now.” My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vice. I tried to rush them, but Tyler blocked my path, his body a solid wall. He leaned down, his tone light and sickeningly familiar. “Come on, Margot. All these years… haven’t you missed me?” Missed him? I wanted him erased from the earth. “Get out of my way, Tyler, or I’m calling the police!” At that moment, Noah lunged down and bit Cora’s wrist with everything he had. She shrieked in pain and let go. Noah bolted back to me like a little cannonball, throwing his arms out to stand between me and Tyler. “Don’t you hurt my mommy!” Cora clutched her wrist, sobbing instantly. “Tyler, I know she’s angry at me. I know she hates that we’re together. But the child is innocent! She’s brainwashed him. Why else would he act like this?” That was the spark Tyler needed. He stepped forward, grabbed Noah by the back of his shirt, and lifted him off the ground. “You little brat! You dare put your hands on your mother? I’m going to teach you some respect right now!” Noah dangled in the air, his face pale, his limbs flailing as he let out a terrified wail. My heart stopped. Noah was wearing a custom silk shirt—delicate, like him. He couldn’t handle this kind of rough handling. “Tyler! Put him down! We can talk about this!” A crowd was forming, the air thick with whispers. But I couldn’t hear any of it. All I could see was the tension in Noah’s collar, the way his breath was hitching. Suddenly, Cora dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around my legs, pinning me in place. “Margot, if you’re mad at me, hit me! Scream at me! But how could you ruin this boy? How could you teach him to hate his own father? Tyler has thought about you and the baby every single day…” Tyler looked at me, his eyes cold and filled with a misplaced sense of betrayal. “Margot, I trusted you with my son. I thought you were better than this. But you’re malicious. You’re poisoned.” “Now that Cora and I are back, he’s coming with us. You’re done. You aren’t touching this kid ever again!” The irony was a bitter pill. Years ago, he had abandoned a child with a congenital heart defect—a child he didn’t even bother to name—to run away with a mistress. Neither of them wanted to be parents when it was hard. What made him think I’d spent a single second raising his mistake? But Noah was in his hands. I had to play the long game. I had to keep him calm. “Fine,” I whispered, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Just put him down. Let’s… let’s talk about this properly.” 3. Tyler took my submission as a victory. He forced me into his car, using Noah as leverage. As he drove, he talked as if we were just old friends catching up. “I get it, Margot. You’ve had him for five years. It’s hard to let go. But the kid is spoiled. He’s been raised wrong. Don’t worry, though. Cora and I can just have another one, and I’ll make sure that one is raised with proper Harrington values.” I didn’t hear a word. I just watched Noah, who was huddled in the backseat, his face white with shock. Beside me, Cora’s expression shifted. At the mention of “having another one,” a flash of pure, venomous resentment crossed her eyes. When we reached Tyler’s penthouse, I reached for Noah immediately, but Cora was faster. She snatched him up and hurried inside. I tried to follow, but Tyler caught me at the door. “Margot, listen to me. I’m back to take over the Harrington Group.” He smiled, a smug, delusional curve of the lips. “If you behave for the next few days—and stop telling everyone that insane lie about being my uncle’s wife—I’ll throw you a real wedding. I’ll give you the title of Mrs. Harrington. How does that sound?” I felt a wave of nausea. “The Harrington Group belongs to Stanley. What makes you think you have any claim to it?” Tyler chuckled. “My uncle doesn’t have an heir. I’m the only nephew. It’s mine by birthright. Besides, he’s out of the country on business. With my parents and a few key board members on my side, it’s a done deal.” I remembered Stanley telling me he had to handle a “minor internal nuisance” before he left. I hadn’t understood then. Now, looking at this arrogant, dim-witted boy, it all clicked. Suddenly, a piercing scream erupted from inside the apartment. My heart plummeted. I shoved past Tyler and ran into the dining room. Cora was sitting at the table, forcing a spoonful of steaming oatmeal into Noah’s mouth. When he resisted, she pinched his arm. Hard. Looking closer, I saw his arms were already covered in red welts and scratches from her nails. “Stop it!” I lunged forward, grabbing Noah and pulling him into my lap. The moment my skin touched his, I felt the heat radiating off him. He was burning up. I pulled back his collar. His chest and back were already breaking out in a violent, angry rash. “Who told you to give him oatmeal?” I screamed. “He has a severe oat allergy! Are you trying to kill him?” Noah sobbed, burying his face in my neck. “Mommy… it hurts…” I tried to stand, but Cora blocked the exit, her arms crossed. “Where do you think you’re going with my child?” “Neither Tyler nor I have allergies,” she sneered. “Our son wouldn’t have them either. You probably fed him something toxic today just to frame me.” Noah was starting to wheeze, his small body beginning to twitch. My voice shook with a terror I couldn’t hide. “Move. He needs a hospital now!” 4. Cora didn’t budge. She put on her “victim” face, her eyes turning red on cue. “Margot, I called you ‘sister’ and I’ve been patient because you watched him for five years. But I won’t let you kidnap him. You’ve spent years turning him against us, and now you’re faking a medical crisis?” Tyler walked in, having heard every word. His face was like stone. “Margot, didn’t I tell you to stop the drama?” “This takeover of the company is the most important thing in my life right now. I don’t have time for your jealousy.” In my arms, Noah began to cough violently, his body racking with tremors. I couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed at them. “The man you call ‘Uncle Stanley’ is my husband! He is Noah’s father! If you don’t let me take him to the ER, I swear to God, he will end you both!” Cora let out a soft, mocking titter. “Margot, honey, keep those delusions in the family. If the real Stanley Harrington heard you were using his name for your little scams… he might take it out on Tyler. We can’t have that.” Tyler stepped toward me, his shadow looming over us. “Margot, I’ve been too indulgent. You need to learn your place.” He reached down and violently ripped Noah out of my arms, shoving him toward Cora. “Take the kid to the other room.” There was a sickening thud. Tyler had shoved him too hard. Noah’s head hit the sharp corner of the marble coffee table. He slumped to the floor, motionless. “NOAH!” I screamed, a sound that tore through my throat, and lunged for him. But Cora got there first. She picked him up, shielding his face from me. She leaned in, whispering so only I could hear. “Margot… I’ve known from the second I saw him. He’s not my son.” She looked up at Tyler, her eyes wide and innocent. “Tyler, why don’t you talk to Margot? I’ll take care of the boy.” I felt a coldness spread through my veins. She knew. She had known the whole time, and that’s why she didn’t care. She was hurting him because she knew he wasn’t hers. Noah’s face was turning a faint shade of blue. Even in his semi-conscious state, he looked at me, his voice a thready whisper. “Bad man… let go of… my mommy…” Tyler snapped. He kicked Noah while he was down. “You little bastard! I’m not a bad man! I’m your father!” Noah rolled across the floor. He coughed once, a spray of blood hitting the white rug, and then he went completely still. Tyler raised his foot again, his face twisted with rage. I threw myself over Noah, clutching Tyler’s leg. “Stop! Please, I’m begging you, don’t hit him again!” Tyler kicked me away like I was nothing. “Move! I’m going to teach this brat who he belongs to!” Just as his foot began to descend, the front door didn’t just open—it was kicked off its hinges. A voice, cold as the grave and sharp as a guillotine, echoed through the room. “His father is right here.”

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Just before my vision tunneled into black and I lost consciousness, my mind was entirely consumed by the glowing, scrolling text materializing in thin air before my eyes. “Please, Paige. Just this once. I just need to know if his feelings for me are bulletproof.” That was how my best friend had begged me. She wanted me to put on a humiliatingly sheer set of lingerie and wait for her boyfriend in a hotel room. [Hold up, don’t curse her out yet! There’s a plot twist!] [How is she the protagonist? She’s completely brain-dead for love, using her best friend as a pawn!] [Is the bar for main characters really this low nowadays?] [Actually, the real main character is the best friend. They swap souls later…] 01 Charlotte Harrington was using me as a pawn in her twisted romantic games. Again. She backed me against the marble counter of the restroom, her voice dripping with that weaponized, sugary sweetness she used whenever she wanted her way. “Paige, just do this one last favor for me. Just this once, I swear on my life.” “I read this thread online,” she continued, her perfectly manicured fingers tracing the edge of my jacket. “It said you absolutely cannot date a guy who acts like a universal people-pleaser. Guys with zero boundaries with other women are a massive cheating risk. Just help me out, okay? Test Todd to see if he’s that kind of guy. My anxiety has been so bad lately I can barely keep food down.” “Just text him. Say you were shopping nearby, the rain caught you, your Uber app is glitching, and your phone is dying. Ask if he can swing by and give you a ride. Let’s just see what he says.” As she spoke, there was a frantic, concealed excitement dancing in her eyes. It was as if she were already visualizing the scene: Todd righteously rejecting my plea, then turning back to her to profess his undying loyalty. “Charlotte,” I said, leaning my weight against the cold sink, looking dead into her eyes. “Have you ever stopped to think that if you actually trust someone, you don’t need to put them through a loyalty test every other month?” Her smile faltered. Just a microscopic twitch. Then, she stepped closer, looping her arm through mine and resting her chin on my shoulder. Her voice went soft, like spun sugar. “I know you’re the absolute best, Paige. I just have no sense of security, you know that. Todd is just so… perfect. I don’t even understand how a guy like him could love me so much. It makes me want to dig around, to find the catch. Plus, the more we test him, the better he’ll get at spotting the tricks those manipulative pick-me girls try to pull.” “But every single time we do this, he rejects me. Isn’t that enough?” “That’s exactly why we have to keep testing him,” she said, straightening up, her tone shifting to righteous justification. “What if one day he finally caves to the temptation?” I didn’t say a word. To Todd Hawthorne, these so-called “tests” weren’t cute social experiments. They were targeted harassment. Coming from me. The way he looked at me had evolved over the years. It started as cold indifference, curdled into active disgust, and had recently settled into complete, invisible erasure. And every time he rejected my forced advances, Charlotte would miraculously appear right on cue. She’d feign absolute innocence, her eyes wide. “What’s going on? Oh, Paige, you’re here too? What a coincidence!” Then she would watch Todd’s jaw clench as he muttered, “Paige is sending those kinds of messages again.” She would watch him hand over his phone so she could see the undeniable proof of me “seducing” him. She would frown, scanning the screen, and then, playing the role of the endlessly empathetic girlfriend, she would delete my messages and block my number for him. She’d turn back to me and say, “Paige, I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I smoothed it over with him. It’s okay.” Like I was a disobedient rescue dog that had soiled the rug. I made the mess; she benevolently cleaned it up. And every single time, I gritted my teeth and swallowed the humiliation. Because she was my best friend. At least, that was the lie I had been telling myself. “Come on, Paige,” Charlotte said, her fingers tightening like a vice around my wrist as she pulled me toward the door. “Todd is already waiting in the parking garage. Just do exactly what I said, okay?” I took a slow, jagged breath and firmly pulled my arm out of her grip. “Charlotte. Not today.” She blinked, startled. “Today is the anniversary of my mother’s death,” I said quietly. “I told you this. I’m going to the cemetery this afternoon.” For two full seconds, her face was completely blank. Then, with terrifying speed, it was flooded with guilt and heartbreak. The sorrow in her eyes was so profound I almost believed it was real. I could practically feel the warmth radiating from her empathy. “Oh my god, Paige, I am so sorry. I completely forgot,” she whispered, reaching out to touch my arm. “Let me have Todd drive you to the cemetery—” “No need.” I grabbed my purse and walked out, not looking back. Behind me, the frantic clicking of her designer heels echoed against the tile as she chased after me, calling my name. I didn’t turn around. I stood on the concrete steps outside the mall, the harsh afternoon sun making me lightheaded. And then I saw Todd’s car idling by the curb. A black Range Rover. The driver’s side window was rolled halfway down. He had one arm draped casually over the steering wheel. His profile was carved from stone, his jawline tight, looking like a man whose patience was perpetually being tested. He saw me. His gaze swept over my face with the same emotional engagement one gives a lamppost. Then, his eyes shifted to Charlotte rushing out the doors behind me. Instantly, the rigid lines of his face softened. The transformation was visceral. He pushed the door open, his long legs carrying him around the hood of the car. He naturally took Charlotte’s bags from her hands, his other arm sliding effortlessly around her waist. “Why are you running? You’re out of breath,” he murmured. His voice was low, laced with a proprietary tenderness reserved entirely for her. Charlotte, panting, shot a complicated, hesitant look in my direction. I had already turned away, walking in the opposite direction. Behind me, I heard the heavy thud of the car doors shutting. The deep purr of the engine turning over. The black Range Rover glided past me, the dark tinted windows reflecting a solitary, pathetic silhouette: mine. 02 I was seventeen the year my mother died. Charlotte was there that day. She stood behind me in the pouring rain, holding an umbrella over my head for four solid hours. She didn’t say a single word. She just anchored me. It wasn’t until weeks later that I found out she was supposed to be on a flight to Paris with her family for a luxury vacation that afternoon. The tickets were booked. The bags were packed. She canceled her flight to stand in the mud with me, and her mother grounded her and screamed at her for a week straight. Because of that day, I fundamentally believed she was a good person. I believed she truly loved me. All her little tantrums, her manipulative streaks, her petty calculations—I chalked them up to the inevitable collateral damage of growing up as a spoiled heiress. At her core, she isn’t bad, I would tell myself in the quiet, lonely moments. I laid the flowers at the base of the headstone and crouched down, using the sleeve of my sweater to wipe a thin layer of dust from the porcelain photo. “Hey, Mom. I’m here.” The woman in the photo smiled back at me. Her eyes were gentle, holding seventy percent of my own reflection. “I’m doing really well, Mom. You don’t need to worry about me.” I was lying to a ghost. I wasn’t doing well at all. Work was a suffocating dead end. Because of my proximity to Todd—he was a major stakeholder in the firm I worked for—I had been thoroughly marginalized at the office. Everyone in the corporate food chain knew Mr. Hawthorne despised me. Therefore, no one wanted to mentor me. No one wanted me on their accounts. I was a weed growing in the deep shade of a massive oak tree; no matter how desperately I stretched, I could never catch a single ray of sunlight. And my friendships? That was an entirely different kind of rot. Charlotte was crossing lines she couldn’t uncross. It started freshman year of college. She liked using me as a litmus test for Todd’s fidelity. Back then, I thought it was childish insecurity. A twisted game of pretend. But as we graduated and entered the real world, her obsession metastasized. She created burner accounts using my photos to flirt with him online. She ordered takeout to his office under my name. Once, she even mailed him a box of artisanal chocolates with a handwritten card tucked inside. The card had my phone number on it. Todd threw the chocolates into the trash. Right in front of her. When she came back to the apartment to tell me about it, she was laughing so hard she had tears streaming down her face. “You should have seen his face, Paige! He looked like he’d just swallowed a live roach! I’m dead, it was so funny.” I laughed too. But as the laughter faded, the back of my throat burned, and my eyes stung. It wasn’t because of Todd’s rejection. It was the sickening, sudden realization that to her, I wasn’t a person. I was a prop. A tool used solely to measure the depth of her boyfriend’s devotion. But I couldn’t speak up. I couldn’t set a boundary. Because I owed her my life. During my sophomore year of college, I almost had to drop out. After my mom passed, the medical bills drained everything. We had nothing. I applied for federal grants and university financial aid twice. Both times, they were abruptly denied. The administration claimed they had received an “anonymous tip” accusing me of falsifying my financial records. I never found out who reported me. When I was backed into a corner, staring down the barrel of an empty future, Charlotte reached out her hand. She convinced her father to set up a private corporate scholarship through his company, covering my tuition and living expenses for the next three years. Because of her, I got my degree. After graduation, I worked like a dog. I lived on ramen and tap water, and within two years, I paid back every single cent of that corporate money. But the debt of gratitude? You can’t write a check for that. So, I endured it. Time and time again. On the bus ride back from the cemetery, the sky broke open. I hadn’t brought an umbrella. I stood under the meager awning of the bus stop, watching the sheets of rain turn the city into a blur, my mind completely hollow. My phone buzzed. Charlotte. “Paige, are you still at the cemetery? Do you want me to come pick you up?” “No, I’m fine. I’m waiting for the bus.” “Well, you have to come over for dinner tonight. I had Maria make your favorite—that ridiculously tart Key Lime pie from the recipe you love.” “Okay.” I wanted to say no. The word was right there, heavy on my tongue, but I swallowed it down. Because when she mentioned the pie, I was transported back to college. Whenever I was spiraling, overwhelmed by grief or stress, she would drag me to this rundown diner near campus and order us a massive slice of Key Lime pie. She used to say the extreme tartness was a shock to the system, a distraction so sharp it made you forget you were sad. So, my heart went soft again. Look at me. This is exactly who I am. Simultaneously hyper-aware that I am being used, yet pathologically incapable of resisting the breadcrumbs of warmth she occasionally tossed my way. When I arrived at her penthouse, she opened the door herself. She was in expensive cashmere loungewear, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, completely makeup-free. She looked like a sweet, innocent kid. “Come in, come in! You’re soaked! I had Maria make hot tea.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me inside. The warmth of her palm caused a momentary lapse in my reality. It felt like nothing had changed. Like we were still those broke college kids, huddled on a futon, splitting a cheap pizza, watching terrible horror movies until our ribs ached from laughing. But the truth was, everything had changed. During dinner, she kept piling food onto my plate. “Eat more, you’ve lost weight,” she murmured, resting her chin on her hand, looking at me with eyes so gentle you’d think I was made of spun glass. I kept my head down, pushing the food around my plate in silence. Halfway through the meal, she set her fork down. She took a deep, trembling breath, like a woman steeling herself for a massive confession. “Paige, I know I crossed a line this afternoon. I was out of control, and I am so, so sorry.” Her expression was a masterclass in sincerity. So sincere, in fact, that I felt a sharp pang of guilt for thinking she was a monster. “But I genuinely don’t know what else to do. I looked at Todd’s phone recently, and there’s a new female executive at his firm. They text all the time. I know it’s just work stuff, but my mind just spirals…” She bit her lower lip. Her eyes pooled with fresh tears. “Am I just annoying? Am I being psychotic? I literally can’t control it. I lie awake staring at the ceiling every single night, obsessing over whether he’s going to fall for someone else, whether he’s realizing I’m not enough for him…” As she spoke, the tears spilled over. They fell, one by one, hitting the pristine mahogany table. Beautiful, tragic, fragile tears. I put my fork down and watched her cry. Historically, this was my cue. This was where I would hand her a tissue, rub circles into her back, and soothe her. He loves you. You’re overthinking it. It’s going to be okay. But tonight, I sat perfectly still. Because I could no longer tell if the tears were genuine agony, or just a really good performance. “Paige,” she looked up, her wet eyes locking onto mine. “Just help me this one last time. Please? I swear to God, this is it. If he can turn down an offer like this, I will never test him again. I’ll finally have peace. I’ll finally believe he truly loves me.” She reached down, picked up a sleek shopping bag from the floor, and pushed it across the table toward me. “Just put this on. Go to the room at the Four Seasons, wait for him, and let’s see if he shows up.” I looked at the bag. A hollow, bitter laugh bubbled up in my chest. So this was the play. All the preamble—the apologies, the pie, the heartbroken tears, the vulnerability—it was all just stage dressing. The objective remained the same. Put on the lingerie. Go to the hotel. Offer myself up to her boyfriend like a lamb on an altar. 03 When I didn’t move to take the bag, she added quickly, “I already booked the room. It’s under an alias, totally discreet. You literally just sit on the bed and wait. If he opens that door, it proves he’s garbage. If he doesn’t, my anxiety is cured.” As she spoke, that concealed, manic excitement crept back into her eyes. She looked like a child tearing into wrapping paper, desperate to see the shiny toy inside. Except the toy she was destroying was me. My dignity. My self-worth. The last shred of humanity I had left in the eyes of the man she loved. “Charlotte.” I looked up, meeting her gaze directly. “Yeah?” “Have you actually thought about what happens if Todd does walk through that door?” She froze. “If he shows up,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Are you actually going to break up with him? Or are you going to blame me for seducing him?” Her face went slack. “And if he doesn’t show up,” I pushed on. “Are you really going to stop? Or is this just going to escalate into a new, more degrading test next month? Pushing me further and further into the dirt?” “No, I wouldn’t—” she started, her voice defensive. “How many times have you said ‘I wouldn’t’?” I cut her off. “Do you even remember?” She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “The first time, you made me send him a late-night text. You said, ‘It’s just a joke.’ The second time, you made me buy him cologne. You said, ‘This is the last time.’ The third time, you made me pretend I was black-out drunk at a bar so he’d have to pick me up. You said ‘Last time’ then, too.” I stood up. The legs of my chair shrieked against the hardwood floor. “Charlotte, your ‘last times’ have stacked up so high I can’t even see the sky anymore.” The tears fell faster now, a frantic, desperate cascade. “Paige, are you mad at me?” “I’m not mad.” I picked up my purse. “I’m just done being your prop.” “You’re not a prop!” She shot up from her chair, her voice pitching into a shrill wail. “How can you even say that? You’re my best friend in the entire world!” “Does a best friend tie you to a post and use you as target practice for her boyfriend?” That shut her up. Her lips trembled. The color slowly drained from her face, leaving her pale and drawn. “Charlotte,” I stared at her. “Look me in the eye and tell me the truth. If I put on that lingerie, and I sat in that bed, and Todd Hawthorne walked through that door… how would you look at me tomorrow?” She didn’t answer. But her eyes gave her away. There was panic. There was fear. And, buried beneath it, a fleeting flash of pure, venomous hatred. She knew the answer. She would despise me. The truth was, whether Todd showed up or not, she would hate me. If he came, she would convince herself I was a whore who lured him in. If he didn’t come, she would resent me for not being enticing enough to truly test his limits. It was a rigged game, and I was the only casualty. “I’m leaving.” I turned toward the entryway. “Paige!” She lunged forward, grabbing my elbow. “Don’t walk out on me, please, just listen—” I stopped dead in my tracks. “Charlotte, do you remember sophomore year? Do you remember why my financial aid was abruptly canceled?” The fingers gripping my elbow went rigid. “Wh… what?” Her voice had a terrifyingly thin tremor to it. “The financial aid office said they received an anonymous tip. Claiming I forged my mother’s medical debt.” I turned around slowly, locking my eyes onto her face. “I tried to track down who sent that tip for years. I never could.” In that split second, her entire countenance shattered. First came absolute blankness. Then, sheer panic. And finally—abject terror. The unmistakable terror of someone whose darkest secret has just been dragged into the light. “Paige, what are you saying?” Her voice was shaking so violently the words barely formed. “You… you don’t think I did that, do you?” I didn’t say a word. I just watched her. Her eyes darted away, unable to hold my gaze for a fraction of a second. “How could I possibly do something so evil?!” She raised her voice, the volume an attempt to mask the lie. “My dad paid for your tuition! I’m the one who saved you! Why would I report you?!” “Exactly,” I whispered. “You saved me. You paid for my life. Which meant I belonged to you. I owed you a blood debt, which meant I had to do whatever you wanted. I was perfectly primed to be your obedient little tool.” “That’s not what happened—” “Then what did happen?” She opened her mouth, but her throat just clicked. No sound came out. I looked at her face, and for the first time in six years, I saw a total stranger. We had shared hundreds of meals. We had cried on each other’s shoulders. We had survived our twenties together. I thought I knew her soul. I thought she was just a little broken, a little vain, but ultimately good. Suddenly, right between us, glowing text materialized in the air. [Did the best friend finally figure it out?! YES! Your financial aid was sabotaged by the main character!]

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Five years after we broke up, my ex-girlfriend did the unthinkable: she dragged me, along with a dozen other guys, into a single group chat. The first thing she posted wasn’t a greeting. It was a Venmo QR code. Then, she tagged every single one of us. “Everyone in here is an ex of mine,” she announced, her tone as casual as if she were ordering a latte. “I’m getting married. My fiancé is a billionaire’s son. Now, I know adults usually just part ways and move on, but I spent my best years on you guys. I slept with you, I supported you, and I deserve a ‘severance package.’ Five thousand dollars each. Consider it a tax for wasting my youth.” The chat erupted. A dozen men who hadn’t spoken in years suddenly found common ground in their collective outrage. The insults started flying immediately. I rolled my eyes, my thumb hovering over the “Leave Group” button. But before I could click it, she singled me out. “@Benjamin,” she typed. “You were my first. A woman’s first time is a sacred thing. I heard your company is about to go public, so I’m waiving the five thousand for you. Instead, you’re going to cover my wedding reception. It’s about seven hundred thousand dollars. Prove you’re a man of character.” She wasn’t finished. “Don’t even think about saying no. If you don’t pay up, I’ll show up at your headquarters. I’ll make sure every investor knows exactly how you treat the women you discard.” I stared at the screen, a cold laugh bubbling up in my chest. I didn’t leave the group. Instead, I tapped the “Add Member” icon and invited her fiancé into the chat. 1 The confusion in the group turned into pure, unadulterated vitriol within seconds. One by one, the guys started tearing into Teresa Page. “Teresa, are you high? You cheated on me with a bartender, and now you want a check?” “Did you hit your head on a trust fund? Your brain is literal mush.” “Should I send a trophy too? ‘Most Consistent Participation in the League’?” Teresa replied instantly, her digital voice sharp. “Watch your mouth.” “Brad, you were too broke to keep me. That’s on you.” “If we slept together, you’re responsible for the aftermath. You can pay the five grand, or I can print our old chat logs and mail them to your new girlfriend. Your choice.” Brad, the guy she’d targeted, sent a string of ellipses. “…” “You’re a psycho.” Ding. A notification popped up: Brad has sent $5,000. Once the first domino fell, the others followed. Some people just don’t want the drama; some would rather pay for silence than deal with a hurricane. Four or five more transfers came through, followed by the notification that they had left the group. Teresa posted a “Money Bag” emoji. Then, she tagged me again. “Specifically you, Benjamin. You took my innocence. That’s a debt you can’t pay in installments.” “I know your IPO is coming up. Seven hundred thousand is pocket change for you. Don’t make me hunt you down. Just transfer the money and be done with it.” My thumb stopped. I typed back: “Did you get some kind of expensive surgical restoration in Thailand? Because last I checked, you told me your ‘first’ was your middle school gym teacher.” Teresa was quick. “Benjamin, don’t you dare start rumors.” “I only told you that back then so you wouldn’t feel pressured. The truth is, it was you. Don’t play games with me. You wouldn’t want me showing up at your board meeting telling everyone you’re a predator who abandons women, would you?” “I’ll call the tabloids. ‘Tech CEO abandons pregnant ex.’ Think about what that does to your stock price. Do the math.” Threats. Extortion. Typical Teresa. But I’ve never been good at following scripts. I clicked her profile, blocked her, deleted the chat, and left the group in one fluid motion. At 3:00 PM, my desk phone buzzed. It was my assistant, Sarah. Her voice was trembling. “Mr. Cross… there’s a woman downstairs. A… well, a bride.” “She has a megaphone. And some older people with protest signs. She’s claiming she’s your ex, that she’s pregnant, and that you’ve cast her aside.” “There’s a crowd forming. Influencers are already filming it. It’s going viral.” Teresa. She actually did it. She showed up in a full wedding gown to sell the performance. I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window of my corner office and looked down. In the plaza below, a sea of people had gathered around a white blotch that could only be a bridal train. A bright red banner was stretched between two poles. In bold, black letters, it read: BENJAMIN CROSS: UNFAITHFUL, ABUSIVE, AND ABANDONING HIS UNBORN CHILD! She was going for the jugular. “Abusing” and “unborn child”—the kind of words that make people stop listening to logic and start reaching for pitchforks. To the digital mob, she was the victim, and I was the corporate villain. My cell phone rang. It was my Head of PR. “Ben, this is bad. It’s all over TikTok. Three major streamers are live-casting from your front door. The headline is ‘Benjamin Cross abandons pregnant fiancée.’ The stock just dipped two points. We need a statement. Now.” I tightened my jaw. “No statement.” “Ben, we can’t—” “Tell security to keep the peace. Don’t touch her. Did we call the police?” “They’re five minutes out.” “Good. Have Legal prepare the defamation and extortion filings. I’m going down there.” “You can’t!” my PR lead shouted. “They’ll tear you apart! These influencers don’t care about the truth; they care about the clip!” I straightened my tie in the reflection of the glass. “If I stay up here, the lie becomes the truth. She wants a show? I’ll give her a finale.” I wanted to see it for myself. This woman who had once traded me in for a better model the moment things got tough. I wanted to see how far she could stretch a lie before it snapped. When the elevator doors opened, the lobby was a fortress of security guards holding back the glass doors. Outside, the noise was deafening. Teresa’s voice, amplified by the megaphone, was a shrill, screeching blade. “Benjamin! Come out here and face me!” “You called me your soulmate when you were in my bed! Now that I’m carrying your child, you act like I’m a stranger!” “I have your baby inside me! And you’re trying to force me into an abortion so you can marry some heiress! Are you even human?” An older woman—likely a paid actor or a distant, desperate aunt—sat on the pavement, wailing. “My poor girl! This monster ruined her! Two lives destroyed!” Flashes went off. Phone lenses pressed against the glass. I pushed past the security guards. I opened the door. I stepped out. The roar of the crowd died down by half. Every eye, every camera, locked onto me. When Teresa saw me, her eyes lit up. It wasn’t the look of a woman in love or a woman in pain. It was the look of a predator seeing the kill. She held her belly—which showed absolutely no sign of a bump—and tried to lung at my collar. Security intercepted her instantly. She took the opportunity to collapse onto the ground. “He’s hitting me! Benjamin Cross is ordering his thugs to beat a pregnant woman!” The crowd surged. Someone threw a plastic water bottle; it bounced off the pavement near my shoes. “Scumbag!” someone yelled. “Give her the money!” I reached down and picked up the megaphone Teresa had dropped in her staged fall. I flipped the switch. The piercing feedback squeal made everyone wince and cover their ears. Total silence followed. I looked down at Teresa. My face was a mask of indifference. “Teresa. You’re claiming the child is mine?” She scrambled up, her face a mess of smeared mascara and forced tears. “Whose else would it be? Three months ago, at the Grand Hotel! You were drunk, you knew I was engaged, and you forced yourself on me! I have the receipts!” She pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her bodice and waved it at the cameras. The influencers swarmed in for the close-up. “Five million dollars, Benjamin. For the trauma. Or I die right here on your doorstep!” The price had gone from seven hundred thousand to five million in a matter of hours. I looked at the paper. I actually smiled. “Three months ago? The Grand Hotel?” “Everyone,” I said, my voice projecting through the speakers. “Please, make sure you get a clear shot of this.” I pulled out my phone and tapped a command. The massive LED advertising screen above the lobby entrance, which usually cycled through corporate branding, flickered and changed. It wasn’t a commercial. It was a medical document from six months ago. The name was clear: Benjamin Cross. The diagnosis: Severe varicocele. Azoospermia (Zero sperm count). The recommendation: Immediate surgery and permanent vasectomy. The crowd gasped. Someone in the back actually laughed. Teresa’s face went from flushed red to a ghostly, sickly white. Her mouth hung open like a fish out of water. I raised the megaphone again. “I had a vasectomy six months ago, Teresa. Unless you’re claiming this is a virgin birth, I think we have a biological impossibility on our hands.” The atmosphere shifted instantly. One second, it was a moral crusade against a wealthy jerk. The next, it was a public biology lesson. The live-stream comments must have been exploding. “Holy crap! He brought the receipts!” “The ultimate ‘This You?’” “He leaked his own medical secrets just to end her. That’s cold.” “So whose baby is it?” Teresa stared at the screen, her body beginning to shake. She pointed a trembling finger at me. “You… you’re lying! That’s a fake! You’re so rich you can buy any doctor!” She turned to the nearest influencer, grabbing his sleeve. “Believe me! He’s a monster! I’m really pregnant!” The guy awkwardly backed away, pulling his arm back, but he kept his camera pointed directly at her face. The drama was too good to stop filming. I looked at her, my voice dropping to a calm, lethal chill. “Why are you so sure it’s mine, Teresa? Why not your fiancé’s? Or is it because you know he hasn’t touched you in months?” She stiffened. “It was you! The hotel records don’t lie!” I didn’t argue. I just tapped my phone again. The screen changed once more. This time, it was a spreadsheet. Some names were redacted for privacy, but the columns were clear. Date. Location. Person. Duration. Amount. “Teresa, on the night you claimed you were with me at the Grand, you were indeed there. But you weren’t in my room.” “You were in Room 412 with your personal trainer, Mike. You Venmoed him two thousand dollars for a ‘private session’ that night.” “And at noon that same day, you were at the Hilton with your ex-boyfriend, Brad, in a day-use room. He bought you a Gucci bag afterward. I have the credit card trail.” “At this point, you’d probably need to roll a d20 to figure out who the father is.” With every sentence, Teresa seemed to shrink. The old woman—her mother—stopped wailing. She scrambled up and tried to cover the LED screen with her hands, as if that would stop the world from seeing. “Stop it! Stop it! You’re bullying us! Rich people picking on the poor! This is a privacy violation!” Teresa caught onto that like a lifeline. “Yes! You spied on me! I’m suing you! You’re a stalker, Benjamin!” I tucked my phone into my pocket. The screen went black. “I didn’t stalk you, Teresa. One of the men you cheated on—one of the guys in that group chat—hired a private investigator. He was happy to share the file once he realized you were trying to extort me too.” “By the way, my lawyers already filed the paperwork with the DA. We’re charging you with felony extortion and fraud.” Teresa didn’t even try to respond. She turned and ran, tripping over her own white train as she scrambled toward a waiting car. I thought that would be the end of it. But Teresa Page didn’t know when to quit. A few days later, a new friend request popped up on my phone from a burner account. She’d started another group chat. This one was for the “holdouts”—the guys who hadn’t paid her the “youth tax.” She was even more aggressive this time. “Listen to me, Benjamin,” she messaged. “My fiancé is Wyatt Caldwell. His family could crush your company like an ant. To the rest of you: pay up by midnight or you’ll regret it.” Nobody responded. The chat was a ghost town of read receipts. I scrolled through my contacts until I found a name from a gala a few months back: Wyatt Caldwell. I hit dial. Music and the sound of laughter filtered through the line. “Hello? Benjamin? To what do I owe the pleasure? Calling about the Southside project?” I leaned back in my leather chair. “Wyatt. I’m calling to say congratulations.” Wyatt chuckled. “Word travels fast. The wedding is next week. I haven’t even sent the formal invites yet.” “I hear she’s quite a catch.” “She’s an angel,” Wyatt said, his voice thick with pride. “Teresa is… she’s different. Simple. Barely even dated before me. My mother loves her.” “Simple. Right.” “Wyatt, she’s so simple that she started a group chat with a dozen of her exes to crowd-fund your wedding. She’s so simple that she stood outside my office in a wedding dress yesterday, live-streaming a fake pregnancy to get five million dollars out of me.” The music in the background stopped. Wyatt’s voice went cold. “That’s not funny, Benjamin.” I put the call on speaker and held my desk phone up to my cell. I played the latest voice note from the group chat. “Benjamin! Stop playing dead!” Teresa’s voice screamed. “I’m carrying a Caldwell heir! Wyatt does whatever I say! If you don’t pay, I’ll tell him you raped me! One million dollars. That’s the price of your reputation. It’s a bargain!” Silence stretched over the line for a long time. When Wyatt finally spoke, his voice was shaking. “How many people are in that group, Benjamin?” “Aside from the ones who already left? Twelve. Oh, and a guy named Brad paid her five thousand for ‘wear and tear.’ She accepted the payment.” The line went dead. I checked the group chat. Teresa was still typing. “Ten minutes, Benjamin. Or your face is going on every tabloid cover with the headline: ‘CEO Benjamin Cross: Predator and Thief.’” Suddenly, a system notification appeared in the chat. Wyatt Caldwell has joined the group. Wyatt Caldwell has added ‘Caldwell Group Legal: Mr. Smith’ to the group. Teresa sent a string of question marks. “Wyatt? Honey? Why are you here? Did Benjamin pull you into this?” “Baby, I can explain. He’s obsessed with me. He’s been hounding me for weeks.” Wyatt didn’t say a word. Mr. Smith, the lawyer, posted a PDF. “Ms. Page, on behalf of Mr. Wyatt Caldwell, you are hereby notified that the engagement is terminated. You have seventy-two hours to return the 3.8 million dollar dowry payment and the 1.2 million dollar engagement ring.” “Furthermore, regarding your extortion of Mr. Cross and others, Mr. Caldwell will be cooperating fully as a witness for the prosecution.” The chat exploded.

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The day I took my parents and my older brother to pick out his new car, I naturally pulled open the passenger door and slid into the front seat. From the back, my parents didn’t say a word. But my brother, sitting behind the wheel, suddenly darkened. “Can’t you sit in the back?” he snapped, his voice thick with impatience. I paused, hand hovering over the seatbelt. “This seat is exclusively for your future sister-in-law,” he explained, his brow furrowing into a tight knot. “You doing this is going to cause a fight between us.” Not wanting to put him in a difficult position, I pulled out my phone and dialed his fiancée, genuinely intending to explain the situation and smooth things over. But the moment she answered, she exploded. “Do you not have your own man? Is that why you have to steal someone else’s husband’s passenger seat?” Her voice was a jagged edge slicing through the phone’s speaker. “If you’re that desperate for male attention, go find it on the street. Stop clinging to your brother all day. It’s honestly sickening.” I froze. The phone felt like a block of ice against my ear. Beside me, my brother let out a heavy sigh. “You know Brittany is an only child. She’s a little spoiled. You’re the younger sister, Jocelyn. Just be the bigger person and let it go.” From the backseat, my mother chimed in, her tone entirely too reasonable. “It really was thoughtless of you, Jocelyn. The whole backseat is empty, and you just had to sit up front. No wonder Brittany is upset.” Listening to them—the overlapping chorus of their justifications—a sudden, sharp laugh clawed its way out of my throat. “You know what? You’re entirely right,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “People really should have a sense of boundaries.” I unbuckled my seatbelt. “You guys can buy this car yourselves.” I shoved the door open and stepped out onto the asphalt. 1 I slammed the door shut and started walking. Behind me, the car doors opened. My parents and my brother, Derek, scrambled out, chasing after me. My mother grabbed my elbow. “Today is a happy day! We’re buying your brother a car. Why are you throwing another one of your tantrums?” Derek looked at me, his face a mask of aggrieved exhaustion. “Jocelyn, didn’t we agree on this? You front the cash for the car, and later, once Brittany and I are married and settled, I’ll pay you back.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I know I’m not as successful as you. But I finally found a wife. Mom and Dad are finally going to hold a grandchild. Can’t you just think of the family for once? Stop being so petty with your sister-in-law.” He looked at me with what he probably thought was earnest pleading. “Look, if it really comes down to it, I’ll write you an IOU.” He actually turned back toward the dealership, as if to find a pen and paper. Derek was thirty-five. Brittany was seven years younger than him. I lived in the real world; I understood the modern, performative territoriality of relationships. I knew the passenger seat was the sacred ground where some women chose to defend their romantic territory. Sitting there, in her eyes, was tantamount to staking a claim on her man. But Derek and I were siblings. We shared DNA. I opened my mouth to argue, but my mother’s grip tightened on my arm. “My sweet girl,” she coaxed. “Pregnant women have wild hormones. She can’t help her temper. Just let it slide, please?” I grew up in a household with a son and a daughter, but my parents had never been the stereotypical, aggressively patriarchal monsters you read about on the internet. I had my own room. I went to college. They loved me. Or, at least, I had always believed they did. Because my mother was practically begging me, the fight drained out of my lungs. But the bitter taste of humiliation remained. “I don’t want to buy the car today,” I said flatly. I hadn’t forgotten that this seventy-thousand-dollar Mercedes was supposed to be my money, spent entirely to appease Brittany. My parents exchanged a panicked glance with Derek. My mother, ever the peacekeeper, quickly pivoted. “Fine, fine. We won’t go today. The astrologer Brittany hired said the optimal manifestation window for a large purchase has passed anyway. Let’s just go home. We can pick up the car tomorrow.” She steered me toward the backseat. This time, I didn’t try to sit up front. I squeezed into the back with my parents. When we pulled into the driveway, Brittany was already standing on the front porch, arms crossed, her eyes darting around the empty space behind our vehicle. “Where’s the car?” she demanded. Before my feet even hit the pavement, Derek was already rushing over to coddle her. “We hit a little snag and missed the astrologer’s lucky hour,” he cooed. “We’ll go back tomorrow.” Brittany let out a loud, theatrical scoff. “What kind of snag? Don’t tell me some desperate, homewrecking groupie threw herself into the street to seduce you?” As she said it, her eyes locked onto mine, narrowing into malicious slits. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew exactly who the “homewrecker” was supposed to be. I was a corporate executive earning a high six-figure salary. I managed teams, negotiated millions, and commanded respect. When had I ever been spoken to like this? I stepped forward, the heat rising in my chest, ready to tear her down to the studs. But my mother instantly threw her body between us. “Oh, no homewreckers, sweetie!” my mother chirped nervously. “We just had to get gas, and you know how traffic is. We missed the window.” She grabbed Brittany’s hands. “Brittany, I promise you, tomorrow we are bringing that car home. We promised you a Mercedes, and a Mercedes you shall have.” My mother nudged me hard in the ribs. “Right, Jocelyn?” 2 The only reason I had ever agreed to buy Derek a car was because I believed we were a good family. Derek had never amounted to much. He was a perpetual bachelor who bounced between mediocre jobs, and he had finally found someone willing to marry him. I didn’t want my parents draining their meager retirement accounts to fund his wedding, so I stepped up. I offered to buy the car. But looking at Brittany now—looking at the smug, entitled tilt of her chin—I felt my checkbook physically locking itself away in my mind. When I didn’t immediately agree, my mother pinched my arm. I offered a noncommittal, flat “Mhm” just to end the standoff. Brittany seemed satisfied. “Fine,” she said, her tone dripping with unearned grace. She stroked her perfectly flat stomach. “But I’m going to be completely upfront with you all. Don’t think for a second that just because I’m young and pregnant, you can pull a fast one on me. Every single thing I was promised better be delivered.” Her voice dropped, hardening into a threat. “Otherwise, there won’t be a wedding. And I will march straight to a clinic and get rid of this baby.” The word rid hung in the air like a live grenade. My mother instantly went into a tailspin of panic. “No, no, Brittany, honey, please! You don’t have to worry. You are the absolute queen of this house now. If anyone—anyone—dares to mistreat you, they’ll have to answer to me.” Derek nodded vigorously, looking like a desperate puppy. “My entire paycheck goes straight to you from now on. Everything we own is yours.” Brittany shot me a triumphant look. Her eyes were bright with the thrill of absolute power. I just felt nauseous. If it weren’t for me keeping this family afloat, the few pennies Derek scraped together wouldn’t have afforded her a fraction of the lifestyle she was currently enjoying. She was wielding a fetus like a loaded gun, and she had entirely forgotten who actually paid the bills. If I wasn’t so worried about my parents’ blood pressure, I would have put her in her place right then and there. Seeing that I wasn’t going to engage, Brittany turned and led the procession into the house. Normally, by this time of evening, Maria, our housekeeper, would be bustling around the kitchen, the smell of roasting garlic and herbs filling the air. Today, the kitchen was dead silent. “Where’s Maria?” I asked, frowning. Brittany flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I let her go.” My jaw tightened. “Honestly, Jocelyn, you need to be smarter when you hire the help,” Brittany lectured, walking toward the fridge. “You can’t just let shady people into the house. If I hadn’t been paying attention today, she would have robbed us blind.” I stood there, stunned into silence. I had personally hired Maria five years ago to make sure my aging parents had three nutritious meals a day. She was a phenomenal cook, a warm soul, and fiercely loyal. The idea of her stealing was utterly laughable. I knew exactly what this was. Brittany was establishing dominance. She was punishing me for the passenger seat. She was systematically erasing my influence in the house. Breathe, I told myself. She’s pregnant. Don’t engage with crazy. “Fine,” I said, pulling out my phone. “What does everyone want to eat? I’ll have the steakhouse downtown send something over.” Brittany slammed the fridge door shut. “Why are we ordering delivery?” she snapped. “Do you think money just grows on trees in this house?” She crossed her arms and stared me down. “There are groceries right there. You can just whip something up. Oh, and I don’t eat cilantro. My baby needs high-quality nutrients. I want fish, I want shrimp, and I want a proper bone broth.” She smiled, a thin, venomous stretching of her lips. “You can just throw that together, right?” I lowered my phone, staring at her as if she had grown a second head. “I hope you’re not mad, Jocelyn,” she continued, her voice taking on a sickeningly sweet, patronizing lilt. “I’m really doing this for your own good. You’re getting older. You need to learn how to keep a home. If you finally manage to trick a man into marrying you, you don’t want to embarrass your parents by not knowing how to serve your husband.” A laugh, sharp and incredulous, slipped past my lips. I put my phone back in my pocket. “I don’t cook,” I said simply. “What kind of woman doesn’t cook?” Brittany’s voice instantly shot up an octave. “Well, you’re making dinner tonight!” She looked me up and down, her eyes lingering on my tailored blazer and designer heels with raw disdain. “Honestly, look at you. Strutting around all dolled up every day. Anyone can tell you aren’t the marrying type. Aren’t you embarrassed about what people whisper about you behind your back?” She planted her hands on her hips, fully adopting the role of the matriarch. “Now that Derek and I are getting married, I’m the woman of this house. Your parents might have coddled you, but I won’t. From now on, you need to stop going to that corporate job of yours. Hand your position over to your brother. You can stay home, do the laundry, cook the meals, take care of your parents, and learn how to be a proper, submissive woman.” I actually laughed out loud. The sheer, unadulterated delusion of it was intoxicating. So this was the endgame. Putting aside the fact that Derek only had a community college degree and couldn’t even compose a coherent email, let alone manage international client portfolios—even if I wanted to hand him my six-figure job, the CEO of my company wasn’t running a charity for incompetent brothers! When I didn’t respond, Brittany took a step closer. “I am talking to you! Did you hear me?” I ignored her completely and shifted my gaze to my parents, who had been standing in the periphery, silent as ghosts. “And you?” I asked quietly. “Is this what you think, too?” I couldn’t care less what delusions were rattling around inside Brittany’s head. The only thing that mattered to me was my parents’ reaction. My mother flinched. She looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. “She’s young, Jocelyn,” my mother muttered to the floor. “Don’t take it to heart.” “She’s young?” I echoed, the disbelief cracking my composure. “She’s twenty-eight. For God’s sake, she’s practically my age!” The moment the words left my mouth, Derek puffed out his chest. “That is enough!” he barked. “Brittany is your sister-in-law. Is that how you speak to family?” My parents’ faces hardened. They looked at me not like a daughter, but like a disruption. Like an intruder. Seeing that the entire family was backing her, Brittany practically glowed with self-righteousness. She pointed a manicured finger directly at my face. “I knew you were a piece of work! You’re just bullying me because we haven’t signed the marriage papers yet!” she shrieked. “Go look in the mirror, Jocelyn! You’re nearly thirty, still leaching off your parents, refusing to move out! I’ve been nice enough to tolerate you this long!” I stared at her, the blood roaring in my ears. “What exactly do you mean by that?” She pointed toward the front door. “This is my house. And I want you to get the hell out. Now.” 3 I froze. The air in the room seemed to vanish. This house… I bought this house. Every single month, the mortgage payment came out of my bank account. How, in God’s name, had it become her house? She wasn’t even married to him yet, and she was already evicting me? I turned my head slowly, looking at my parents. I expected them to intervene, to shut this down, to tell Brittany she had crossed a line. Instead, I saw them shrink back, their eyes shifting nervously, thoroughly bathed in guilt. A cold, heavy weight dropped into the pit of my stomach. Derek cleared his throat. “Look, you have that apartment downtown anyway,” he mumbled, refusing to look me in the eye. “Brittany is pregnant. Her emotions are fragile right now. Maybe it’s best if you just… move out for a while.” I looked at my brother. My lips parted, but no sound came out. Had he completely erased the memory of the day we closed on this house? Had he forgotten standing in the kitchen, swearing to me: “You bought this house for the family, Jocelyn. I will never forget what you’ve done. No matter what happens, you will always have a place here.” I turned back to my parents. My last lifeline. “And you?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Do you want me to leave, too?” “She is pregnant, Jocelyn,” my mother said softly. It was hilarious. It was a cosmic, suffocating joke. This was the family I had bled for. The family I had shielded and supported with every ounce of my energy. And for a woman who hadn’t even walked down the aisle yet, they were linking arms to throw me to the wolves. “Fine.” The word tasted like ash. “I’ll go.” I grabbed my purse from the counter and turned toward the door. If they didn’t want me as their family, then I wouldn’t be their family. I walked out the front door, the cool evening air hitting my burning cheeks. Despite my rage, hot, pathetic tears spilled over my eyelashes. “Jocelyn!” My mother’s voice called out from the porch. I stopped at the edge of the driveway. I wiped my face roughly with the back of my hand and turned around. My heart did a stupid, desperate little flutter. I knew it, I thought. She loves me. She can’t stand to watch her daughter walk away like this. My mother jogged down the steps, stopping a few feet away from me. “Tomorrow at 2:00 PM,” she said, her chest heaving slightly. “Don’t forget we need to go to the dealership to pick up your brother’s car. The astrologer said that’s the absolute best window for good fortune.” I stared at her. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. “Mom,” I breathed out. “Did you chase after me… just to tell me that?” She nodded briskly. “If there’s nothing else, you should head out. I need to get back inside and figure out dinner for Brittany. She’s carrying my grandchild; she can’t be hungry.” She turned her back to me and walked up the driveway. She never looked back. In that exact moment, something inside my chest quietly, permanently snapped. The frantic beating of my heart slowed to a dull, hollow thud. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I no longer had a home. I swallowed the lump in my throat. I pulled out my phone, opened the family group chat, and hit Leave Group. Then, I opened my banking app. I navigated to the auto-pay settings for the house mortgage. Cancel. If they had a new family now, their new family could figure out how to pay for the roof over their heads.

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The notification from the company-wide Slack channel, five hundred people strong, popped up on my phone like a slap in the face. It was Meredith, my husband’s executive assistant. She hadn’t just messaged me; she’d @-mentioned me in the general channel for everyone to see. “@Joyce, you used Brandon’s shared business account for a four-dollar latte yesterday. Please reimburse the petty cash fund by 5:00 PM today. Accounting needs to reconcile the books.” I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’d used the “Family Share” card Brandon had given me years ago. It was a coffee. A four-dollar latte. Before I could even type a response, Brandon—my husband of five years—replied in the thread. “Rules are rules,” he wrote. “We don’t use company funds for personal matters. Joyce, please clear this up with Meredith. Don’t make her job harder than it already is.” The channel went dead silent for a heartbeat before a wave of “Acknowledged” and various “thumbs up” emojis began to flood the screen. People were watching. They were savoring it. Meredith replied with a blowing-kiss emoji. “Thanks for the support, Boss! @Joyce, Venmo or Zelle?” I looked at my reflection in the darkened phone screen and let out a sharp, dry laugh. Brandon seemed to have developed a very convenient case of amnesia. He forgot that the seed money for this company came from my inheritance. He forgot that the corner office he was sitting in right now? The deed to that building was in my name, and my name alone. I opened Venmo, sent the money, and typed a single sentence in the group chat: “Done. It won’t happen again.” Thirty minutes later, I called my attorney. I didn’t just ask for a consultation; I gave an order. I revoked every personal guarantee I had signed for the Logan Group. And then, I called a commercial real estate broker. “List the Madison Avenue building,” I told him. “Market value. I want it gone yesterday.” I wanted to see how long his “rules” would hold up once the “Bank of Joyce” closed its doors for good. … The Slack channel was a ghost town of awkward silence, even as the “Read” receipts ticked up. Everyone was grabbing popcorn. Meredith accepted the Venmo payment instantly and posted a screenshot of the receipt: “Payment received! Thanks for being a team player, Joyce.” Team player? Go to hell, I thought. I didn’t reply. I simply logged out and deleted the app from my phone. Brandon’s name flashed across my screen seconds later. I let it ring. He tried again. Then came the text. Joyce, don’t overreact about the chat. We’re in the middle of a Series B funding round. Everything has to be by the book. Meredith is just doing her job. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a blue checkmark. Another text followed: My mom wants us over for dinner tonight. She says it’s important. His mom. Not mine. My mother had passed away three years ago. Before she went, she’d signed over every asset—the properties, the trust, and the office building Brandon used as his headquarters—to me. Back then, I’d been the naive girl in love. I’d hugged Brandon and told him, “Honey, we don’t have to worry about the lease anymore. We’re set.” He’d kissed me, whispering, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret this.” Three years. For three years, I’d played the role of “Mrs. Logan.” I went from Joyce the Investor to Brandon’s Wife. From the woman with the capital to the “plus-one.” Yesterday, I’d left my personal wallet at home and used the shared card for one damn coffee. Four dollars. And today, Meredith was sent to collect the debt in front of five hundred people. Brandon himself had stepped on my neck to prove a point about “compliance.” I laughed, a cold sound in my empty living room. I’d been too good. Too quiet. Too supportive. I decided to go to the dinner. Not for Brandon, but to see what new brand of audacity his mother, Beatrice, was planning to serve. When I arrived, the house was packed. Brandon’s parents, his brother and his brother’s wife, his sister—they were all there, drinking expensive wine and gossiping in the foyer. Brandon hurried over. “Joyce, you’re here. Good. Come sit.” I ignored his hand and found a seat in the corner. Beatrice glanced at me, then turned back to her daughter-in-law. “…and the bag! Brandon had Meredith source it from Paris. It’s a limited edition. He told me, ‘Mom, you’ve worked so hard for us, you deserve the best.’” His brother’s wife sighed. “You’re so lucky, Bea. Such a devoted son.” I scrolled through my phone, acting like I was deaf. Brandon leaned in close, his voice a low murmur. “Joyce, look, Mom wants to talk about the equity structure tonight.” I looked up. “Equity?” “Yeah,” he whispered, his eyes darting around. “The investors for the Series B want a clean cap table. Mom’s thinking it would be better if your shares were… held in the company’s name for a while. Just a formality. We’ll transfer them back after the round closes.” I looked at him, and for the first time, I saw a stranger. Five years ago, this man had waited outside my office every day with wildflowers because he knew I liked the ones that grew by the tracks. My mother had warned me. She said he was a “climber,” that he wasn’t in my league. I’d pulled on her sleeve and begged. “Mom, he loves me. That’s all that matters.” She’d sighed and given in. I’d poured my savings into his dream. She’d given us the building as a wedding gift. Now, he was the “CEO,” and I was the housewife who needed to be told how to spend four dollars. “A formality?” I asked. “Exactly. Just a signature. The lawyers have the paperwork ready.” I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I just asked, “Did you know about the Slack message? Before she sent it?” He hesitated. “What message?” “Meredith. The petty cash thing.” His expression shifted—a flicker of guilt, quickly replaced by an annoyed frown. “Joyce, I already explained that. The audit—” “I asked if you knew she was going to do it.” Silence. It lasted only two seconds, but that was all the answer I needed. I stood up, my face a mask of calm. “I’ll think about the shares.” Beatrice overheard. She chimed in immediately. “Think about what? We’re family, Joyce. Brandon would never steer you wrong. Honestly, you’re being a bit sensitive. That business in the group chat today? That was your own fault for not following protocol. Meredith was right. A dollar is a dollar. Business is business.” I looked at her and smiled. “You’re right, Bea. A dollar is a dollar.” She didn’t catch the edge in my voice. She just kept rambling. “Exactly! Brandon is a big deal now. He has a reputation to maintain. As his wife, you should be his biggest supporter, not a liability…” Brandon tugged at her arm. “Mom, that’s enough.” I grabbed my coat. Brandon followed me to the door, his voice tight with suppressed rage. “Joyce! Where are you going?” I didn’t look back. The next morning, my lawyer called. “Joyce, I finished the deep dive you asked for.” “Go ahead.” “The Logan Group has taken out sixty million in loans over the last three years. The collateral? The Madison Avenue building—your building. Also, there’s a residential property in Greenwich. Brandon bought it in cash last year. It’s registered solely in his mother’s name, Beatrice Logan.” I stood by my window, looking out at the city skyline. Sixty million. A cash villa for his mother. He was mortgaging my mother’s legacy to buy his mother a palace. And he was publicly shaming me over four dollars. It was almost poetic. “Is the building listed yet?” “Yes. We already have an interested buyer at a hundred and twenty million.” “Sell it. Now.” “Joyce, the building is currently tied up as collateral for the bank loans…” “I’ll cover the bridge loan to clear the title. Sell the building, pay off the debt, and wire the remaining balance to my private account.” “Understood.” I hung up and dialed another number. “Mr. Henderson? It’s Joyce. From the Logan accounts.” “Joyce! Good to hear from you. What can I do for you?” “I have several personal guarantees on file for the Logan Group’s credit lines. I’m calling to formally revoke them. Effective immediately.” There was a long pause. “Joyce… you realize Brandon is your husband? This will trigger an immediate review of their liquidity.” “I’m aware. Do it.” “…Alright. I’ll start the paperwork.” I opened my phone. The family group chat had 99+ messages. Brandon’s sister was posting photos of her kids. No one mentioned yesterday. No one asked how I was. I muted the chat and booked a one-way flight to Key West. When Brandon and I got married, he promised me a honeymoon. Then the company launched, and he was “too busy.” He promised me the Maldives for our third anniversary. Instead, he took a client to Pebble Beach. I’d stopped asking. It wasn’t the travel I’d been waiting for. It was the feeling that I mattered. I didn’t. I never had. When my plane touched down, I turned on my phone. Twenty missed calls. Eighteen texts. The last one read: Joyce, where the hell are you? Mom says you’re not at the house. Did you go to your mother’s place? There’s no one even there anymore. I sent back one word: Florida. Then, I blocked him. In the family chat, his sister posted: Wait, Joyce’s in Key West? Alone? Brandon didn’t reply. I posted a photo of the sunset over the Gulf. Caption: Solo trip. Exactly what I needed. The chat exploded. Joyce, what is going on? Did Brandon know about this? Why would you go so far away by yourself? Finally, Brandon appeared: Joyce, what the hell is this? I replied: A vacation. You said you were too busy to go, so I’m going for myself. He replied instantly: You’re acting— He didn’t finish the thought. I knew what he wanted to say. You’re acting crazy. I wasn’t crazy. I was finally awake. The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the ocean. The humidity was like a warm hug. I sat on my balcony with a coffee—a very expensive one—and just breathed. My phone rang. It was Gillian, Brandon’s sister. “Hey,” I answered. “Joyce, where are you staying? Brandon is losing his mind. He told me to tell you…” “Tell me what?” “He said… he said if you’re done throwing your tantrum, you need to come home. There’s paperwork for the company that needs your signature by Friday.” “The equity transfer?” “Yeah. The lawyers said it has to be you.” I watched a sailboat on the horizon. “Tell him to keep waiting.” I hung up and texted my lawyer: Stall the equity. I’m not signing a thing. He replied: Understood. Also, the bank just confirmed. Since you pulled your guarantees, Logan Group’s loans are under ‘special mention.’ They’re likely going to call the debt. “Call the debt.” Such a beautiful, clinical phrase. “Let them,” I whispered to the sea. That afternoon, the family chat was buzzing again. Gillian had posted: Mom, is that bag real? My friend said that model is waitlist-only in the States. How did Meredith get it? Beatrice replied: Of course it’s real. Brandon wouldn’t lie to me. Someone @-ed me: Joyce, when are you back? What are the plans for New Year’s? I replied: Not sure. Depends on my mood. Silence for three beats. Brandon: Joyce, enough. We’re family. Stop acting out. I laughed out loud. Acting out. Like I was a child. I replied: I’m not acting out. I’m just busy. That night, I was halfway through a lobster dinner when my phone rang. An unknown number. “Joyce? It’s Meredith.” Her voice was sweet, professional, none of that “petty cash” bite from the Slack channel. “Yes?” “Joyce, Brandon asked me to reach out. There’s an emergency at the office, and we really need you to fly back. Also, I wanted to apologize for the other day. I was just following the new audit protocols, I didn’t mean for it to be personal.” I took a slow sip of my wine. “Apologize? No need, Meredith. You were right. A dollar is a dollar. Business is business.” She faltered. “Joyce, please don’t be like that…” “I’m being exactly what you asked me to be,” I said. “By the way, Meredith, how long have you been with Brandon?” “Three years.” “Three years. Then you know how the company started, right? If you don’t, go ask the CFO to show you the original wire transfer for the startup capital. Check which account it came from.” “Joyce—” “Enjoy the bag, Meredith. I’m hanging up now.” The next day, my lawyer sent a one-sentence email: It’s happening. What is? I asked. The bank notified them. Without your guarantee, they’re re-evaluating the risk. They’re demanding full repayment of the sixty million by the end of the month. Sixty million. Brandon didn’t have sixty million. He had a fancy office, a fleet of leased cars, and a mother with a Greenwich villa she couldn’t afford to heat. Keep me posted, I wrote. A few minutes later, another text: The Madison Avenue buyer is firm at a hundred and thirty million. They want to close in ten days. Done. Sell it. I texted Gillian: Hey, that villa Brandon bought for your mom last year… it’s in her name, right? Gillian replied almost instantly: Yeah, why? Just curious. Is she happy there? She loves it. Why are you asking all these questions? No reason. Just thinking about the future. By evening, the family chat was a bonfire. Brandon’s brother, Ben, posted: Brandon, what the hell? The bank just called. They’re saying the business line is frozen? Brandon didn’t respond. Beatrice: Frozen? What does that mean? Brandon, honey, call me! I posted a selfie from the beach. The sun was a perfect orange orb. Today’s sunset was breathtaking. The chat went dead. Then Gillian sent a private DM: Joyce, what did you do? Mom is hysterical. I replied: I’m on vacation, Gillian. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I spent the next three days in paradise. Spa treatments, boutique shopping, long walks on the sand. Every time I checked the family chat, it was pure chaos. “Loan recalls,” “Liquidity crisis,” “Bankruptcy.” Brandon started blowing up my phone with @-mentions in the group. [Joyce, answer your phone.] [Joyce, when are you coming back?] [Joyce, we’re family. We can talk about this. Don’t be cruel!] [Joyce! You’re going to destroy everything!] [Joyce! I know what you’re doing! You think I can’t stop you?]

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