Category: English

1 My gated community, Havenwood Creek, was kind of out in the middle of nowhere, a dead zone for ride-shares and taxis. To solve the daily commuting nightmare, I bought a used shuttle bus and started the “Neighborhood Express.” The rules were simple: one, it ran on a fixed schedule during the morning and evening rush hours, taking everyone straight downtown. Two, it was completely free. I even covered the gas myself. My neighbors were touched. They pitched in for a little “Community Hero” plaque for me, their gratitude overflowing. But all that changed when Kevin moved in. Kevin was a professional muckraker who ran a ‘gotcha’ livestream, and on his very first day on the bus, he hit me with a barrage of questions. “Does this bus have a commercial operating license? If there’s an accident, will your insurance even pay out? Are you prepared to be responsible for 33 lives?” I tried to explain that I wasn’t charging a dime, that this was just me trying to help out. He just pushed his glasses up his nose. “Help? One accident and you’re talking about ruined lives, families shattered. Can you really bear that weight?” Just one week later, all thirty-three of my neighbors filed a joint complaint with the Department of Transportation, reporting me for “illegal commercial transport.” … It was the peak of the morning rush, and I was just about to pull away from the curb. “Stop! Don’t move the bus!” Kevin stood in front of the shuttle, his eyes locked on mine. In the back, my neighbors blinked sleepily, peering out the windows. “What’s the hold-up, Kev? We’re gonna be late!” someone, Ricky I think, yelled from the back. Kevin ignored him, aiming his phone’s camera right at me. “Folks, I’m doing this for your own safety. I just checked the tire treads, and they’re worn down to the legal limit. But more importantly,” he turned to me, “Mr. Peter, do you have a commercial operating license for this vehicle?” My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Kevin, this is my personal vehicle. I’m helping people get to work, not running a business. There’s no fee, so there’s no need for a commercial license.” “And that’s the problem,” Kevin said, his speech quickening for the camera. “For all my followers watching, a vehicle without the proper commercial license is an illegal shuttle. It doesn’t matter if he’s charging money or not. If there’s a crash, the insurance company can legally refuse to pay out a single cent!” He whipped his head back to me, his eyes wide with feigned horror. “Thirty-three lives, plus your own. Can you carry that burden? Are you willing to be the man who destroys thirty-three families?” The bus went silent. Laura, a young woman who was several months pregnant, hugged her belly and leaned back in her seat. She took my shuttle for her prenatal checkups downtown, saving over a hundred bucks each time. Now, her brow was furrowed, her gaze darting between me and Kevin. “Peter… is he telling the truth? The insurance won’t pay?” “I have a full commercial policy,” I said, patting the dashboard. “A ten-million-dollar liability coverage.” I held up my wallet to show my license. “And a Class-A CDL. You all know I’m a good driver.” “Ignorance of the law is terrifying,” Kevin sneered. “There’s a standard exclusion clause in every commercial policy: no payout for illegal operations. Your so-called ‘free rides’ don’t negate the commercial risk. You’re using your neighbors as guinea pigs!” A murmur rippled through the passengers. “He’s got a point. What if we get hurt and can’t get compensation?” “Free is nice, but is it worth the risk…?” I glanced at the clock. 7:40 AM. Any later and they’d all be late for work. “If you want to ride, stay seated. If you don’t, get off,” I said, turning the key in the ignition. “I’m not forcing anyone.” Usually, someone would have spoken up for me. Today, there was only silence. Finally, Ricky shouted, “Let’s just go! My perfect attendance bonus is on the line!” Kevin hopped on the bus and took the passenger seat next to me, adjusting his posture for his livestream. “To prevent any unfortunate incidents, I will be supervising this entire trip.” No one else spoke. The usual morning chatter and sharing of breakfast was replaced by the drone of Kevin’s voice. “You’re taking that turn too fast, the centrifugal force is excessive! The emergency hammer is stuck in its bracket; you’d never get it out in a fire! A fatal design flaw!” I gritted my teeth and drove them downtown. As they got off, they kept their heads down, scurrying away without a single “thank you.” At noon, a friend sent me a link. It was the number three trending topic in the city: Using Neighbors as Guinea Pigs? The Deadly Risks Behind the ‘Good Samaritan’ Shuttle. The video showed Kevin dramatically measuring my tire treads, set to grim, ominous music. He’d edited in my “I’m not forcing anyone” line, making me sound callous and dismissive. The comment section was a cesspool. “People like this are the worst. If something goes wrong, it’s ‘I was just trying to help!’ If nothing happens, it’s ‘Look how great I am!’” “Illegal transport is illegal transport. You can’t whitewash that.” My fingers trembled as I tried to type a response. My phone buzzed. A private message from Kevin. “I’m doing you a favor, Peter. Public pressure forces you to get your act together and avoid legal trouble. You should thank me. I’m a professional.” I took a deep breath and didn’t reply. Instead, I messaged my lawyer. “How long would it take to rezone a piece of land?” That evening, I drove the bus back to the community. I always parked it in a vacant lot where I’d painted my own lines. The HOA never cared. Tonight, a fresh yellow line was painted on the ground. Kevin stood just outside it, pointing. “Peter, this is now a designated fire lane. Obstructing a fire lane is illegal. Your bus is too wide to park here.” “This lot has been empty for three years!” I yelled. “And I left a ten-foot gap!” “Rules are rules,” Kevin said, pointing towards the paid parking lot. “They have oversized spots over there. Eight hundred a month, but it’s legal. You can’t always be looking for loopholes.” I shifted the bus into reverse and drove toward the paid lot. Fine. You want to play by the rules? Let’s play by the rules. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing the next morning. Kevin had started a new group chat: “The Havenwood Creek Community Shuttle Safety Committee.” He was the admin, with a few of the more zealous older women as moderators. I, the owner of the bus, had been kicked out. Luckily, I had a burner account in the group. The pinned announcement was a “Proposal for the Rectification and Regulation of the Community Shuttle.” It listed more than a dozen demands: The driver must publicly post his blood pressure, heart rate, and results from a breathalyzer test daily. The vehicle must be equipped with a real-time GPS tracker, with the data shared with all residents. Each seat must be equipped with motion sickness pills and emergency heart medication. It was also suggested that passengers purchase supplemental accident insurance, with the driver covering the cost. I stared at the screen and let out a cold laugh. I was giving them a free ride, not running an ambulance service. When I got down to the bus, everyone was just standing around, no one getting on. Kevin stood at the door, holding a printed-out checklist. “Mr. Peter, for the sake of safety, the community has unanimously agreed that you must fill out this daily pre-trip inspection form.” I stared him in the eyes. “And if I don’t?” Kevin shrugged. “Then I don’t think anyone will feel safe enough to ride. It’s their lives, after all.” Mrs. Gable, an older woman who used to call me a living saint, now eyed me with suspicion. “Oh, just fill it out, dearie,” she coaxed. “Mr. Kevin is just looking out for us. A little professionalism can’t hurt.” Ricky chimed in, “Yeah, Peter, it’s no big deal.” I took the pen and filled out their ridiculous form, curious to see what other nonsense they could dream up. As the bus started, the atmosphere was even heavier than the day before. The AC was taking a minute to kick in. Kevin pulled out a handheld air quality monitor and pointed it at the vent, filming. “As you can see, the filter hasn’t been cleaned in a long time. The PM2.5 levels are rising.” He announced gravely, “In an enclosed space like this, a malfunctioning AC unit could easily lead to oxygen deprivation or even carbon monoxide poisoning.” From the back, an older man clutched his head. “Oh my, no wonder I’m feeling a bit dizzy! Are we running out of air?” Someone else yelled, “Peter, can you open a window? It does smell a bit off in here.” “It’s true, it’s dangerous with so many people packed in.” The bus filled with a chorus of complaints. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The dizzy old man was the same one who, just last week, had told me this bus was more comfortable than the subway. The woman complaining about the smell used to eat onion bagels on her morning ride. One word from Kevin, and I was now the villain trying to poison them all. When we reached their stop, Kevin remained in his seat. “Since the hardware clearly can’t be improved, Mr. Peter should consider offering a heat-hazard stipend or a risk-assumption fee.” “After all,” he added with a smirk, “everyone here is risking their lives just to be your practice dummies.” “He’s right!” someone piped up. “Fifty bucks a day per person seems fair, don’t you think?” I said nothing, my knuckles white as I gripped the steering wheel. I had a fleeting, insane urge to weld the doors shut and drive straight into the river. But I held it in. Returning to the community that afternoon, the security guard at the main gate stopped me. “Mr. Peter, your vehicle can’t enter.” He frowned and gestured toward the security booth, where Kevin was waiting. Kevin emerged, holding a document. “Mr. Peter, according to the Havenwood Creek Roads & Grounds bylaws, large vehicles can cause damage to the underground pipes and pavement. Our calculations show that the axle weight of your bus exceeds the load-bearing capacity of our community’s roads.” He pointed down the road. “For the safety of all homeowners’ property, please park your vehicle on the undeveloped land two miles away. Do not bring it into the community.” I burst out laughing. “I’ve been driving this bus in here for three years without a problem! How is it suddenly overweight today?” Kevin’s face was a stony mask. “That was before anyone was properly supervising the situation. Now that I have identified the hazard, I cannot, in good conscience, allow it to continue.” I put the bus in reverse and drove the two miles to the barren plot of land. I pulled out the work order I’d gotten for the AC repair and tore it into tiny pieces. That night, I posted a message in the group chat: “The bus is going in for AC maintenance tomorrow. Service will be suspended for the day.” The chat immediately erupted. “What? Suspended? How am I supposed to get to work?” “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Mr. Kevin makes one suggestion and you shut it all down. Who are you trying to get back at?” “I don’t care! If I lose my perfect attendance bonus tomorrow, you’ll have to compensate me for my losses!” Kevin himself weighed in: “One shouldn’t be so selfish. If you’re going to start a service like this, you have a responsibility to see it through. This is malicious cessation of service!” I looked at my phone and laughed until tears streamed down my face. This was human nature. You give them a free lunch, and they complain it’s not salted enough. You take the plate away, and they scream at you for not spoon-feeding them. I turned off my phone and pulled out the development plans for the area around our community. There was a single, direct shortcut connecting our community to the tech campus. It was a private road that had not yet been handed over to the city. I circled it in red on the map and called my assistant. “Pull the deed for that access road. I need it.” At six the next morning, someone was pounding on my door. I opened it to find a crowd of seven or eight neighbors. Mrs. Gable was at the front, with the very pregnant Laura beside her. Kevin stood at the back, phone held high, livestreaming. “Peter, dear, how could you just stop the service like that?” Mrs. Gable slapped her thigh for emphasis. “Do you have any idea how far the subway station is? You’ll be the death of these old bones!” “Peter…” Laura’s eyes were red, one hand on her lower back. “I have my specialist appointment today. I have to be there. What if someone bumps into me on a crowded subway? Please, just this one last time, for me?” “Indeed, Mr. Peter,” Kevin said, pushing up his glasses. “While your vehicle does present certain safety hazards, in an emergency situation such as this, basic human decency dictates that you shouldn’t refuse to help. Or would you rather see a pregnant woman have an accident on public transport? Could you handle the public outcry from that?” It was pure emotional blackmail. If I refused, Laura would become the face of my cruelty online. I stared at Laura’s swollen belly for a long moment, then grabbed my car keys. I would give myself one last chance to see these people for who they truly were. “Fine. I’ll drive you. This is the last time.” My neighbors high-fived each other. Kevin made a V-for-victory sign at his camera. “You see that, followers? This is a victory for the power of the people! Justice may be delayed, but it is never denied!” On the way, no one mentioned the previous day’s drama. It was all “Peter, man” this and “Thanks, Peter” that. The charade continued right up until I slammed on the brakes. A stray dog had darted into the road. I stomped on the brake pedal. We were going less than fifteen miles per hour. The bus lurched slightly. The water bottle on my dashboard didn’t even tip over. “Aargh!” A cry came from the passenger seat. Kevin had launched himself out of his seat and onto the floor, clutching his neck and grimacing. “My neck… my neck!” he screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “The illegal shuttle driver is trying to kill us! This is what happens when you operate an unsafe vehicle! Someone call 911! Call an ambulance!”

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For three years, Sharon was my world. And for three years, she thought my job as a valet driver was a dead end. That night, she told me she was going to a friend’s party and would grab a cab home. I didn’t need to pick her up. At 10:30 PM, a ride request popped up on my phone. I accepted it, just like any other. I arrived at the location, opened the car door, and slid into the driver’s seat. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw them—a man and a woman tangled together in the backseat. The woman was completely wasted, draped over him. The man’s head was down, his hand already inching its way up the hem of her skirt. She tilted her face up, inviting his kiss, her cheeks flushed with a drunken, alluring red. She didn’t recognize me. Her movements caused a silver necklace to slide against her collarbone. The same one I’d fastened around her neck on our third anniversary. She once told me it was the best gift she had ever received. 1 I pulled out my phone and deliberately called her. A ringtone echoed from the backseat. She flinched, glanced at the screen, and immediately flipped the phone face down on the seat. She buried her face back into the man’s neck without even looking up. The phone rang six times, then went to voicemail. I called again. Voicemail again. The third time, she reached out and declined the call. Clean. Decisive. Like swatting away a telemarketer. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turned white. The man in the back finally looked up and barked at me, “Hey, driver! The hell are you looking at? Eyes on the road! We’ve been driving for twenty minutes and we’ve only gone two miles. You trying to rip us off by taking the long way?” I said nothing. Sharon giggled, patting his chest. “Honestly, Rick,” she purred, “I don’t know how the app assigns these guys. This one drives like a snail.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice. “And he keeps staring at my chest. So gross.” She said it with a laugh, in a tone I’d heard for three years—the same dismissive, airy tone she used when complaining about delivery boys or incompetent waiters. As if she were talking about a stray dog in her way. “The AC,” Mr. Wallace barked again. “Set it to 78. You deaf? And what’s with the shaking? Did you bribe someone for your license?” I adjusted the temperature to 78 degrees. Still silent. “I’m talking to you! You mute or something? Where’s the customer service?” Sharon chimed in from the back, her voice lazy. “What do you expect from a valet driver? Don’t lower yourself to his level, Rick. These bottom-feeders, they have no class. Just let him drive. Don’t expect him to understand a thing about decency.” Bottom-feeders. The word slipped from her lips, as casual as if she were talking about the weather. Mr. Wallace grinned, satisfied. His arm tightened around her waist, his thumb tracing slow circles on her hip through the fabric of her dress. She didn’t flinch, just leaned into him. I kept my eyes glued to the road ahead, not saying a word, and brought the car to a smooth stop in front of the hotel. Mr. Wallace got out first. He stood there, pulled a few crumpled bills and some coins from his pocket, and flicked them at my face. The bills fluttered off my forehead. The coins clattered against the dashboard, one of them rolling into the crevice of the seat. “Buy yourself a pack of smokes,” he said, dusting off his hands as if he’d touched something filthy. “And think about your life. With skills like yours, you should be delivering pizza. Calling you a professional driver is an insult to the profession.” Sharon stepped out of the car in her high heels. She paused by my window, leaned down, and spat. The saliva landed on my sleeve, blooming into a small, dark stain. Then she took Mr. Wallace’s arm, and together they pushed through the hotel’s glass doors and disappeared inside. I sat there, motionless. Then I leaned down, picking up the crumpled bills from the floor mat, one by one. I dug the last coin out from between the seats and clenched it in my fist. I opened the dashcam app and replayed the footage from the interior camera. The quality wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. Her face. His hands. And that necklace, glinting in the dim light, swinging back and forth. All of it, crystal clear. I saved the video to my phone. Then, I sent a text to my company’s head of legal: Pull every financial record for a Mr. Rick Wallace from the last two years. I want the most detailed report you can find. Three years. From the first time she complained my job had no future, to tonight, when she called me a bottom-feeder in my own rearview mirror. All this time, I had been waiting for her to say something different. I never got it. 2 The legal team got back to me the next day. The tone of the message was cautious. Mr. Wallace had an expense report disbursement flagged for a significant amount, signed off and transferred to a private account. I stared at the name of the account holder for a long time. Sharon. I set the phone down on the table and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was cold, but I couldn’t feel it going down. I sat back down and pulled up her calendar for the past three years, looking at every entry marked “Working Late,” “Company Party,” or “Sleepover at a friend’s.” I cross-referenced them with Mr. Wallace’s travel records. The first one was a match. The second, a match. The third, fourth, fifth—almost every single one lined up, with a time difference of no more than fifteen minutes. It was like clockwork. She used to send me “group photos” from these events. I’d never looked closely at them before. Now, zooming in, I saw one was taken in a hotel hallway. Reflected in a mirror behind her was the partial figure of a man—the tie, the cufflinks, the same suit Mr. Wallace had posted on his social media that day. Three years. I saved all the screenshots into a new folder. My father had been hounding me for days. Our chain of luxury car dealerships was expanding to a third city, and the West Coast division needed someone to take charge. He’d called and launched right in, “How much longer are you going to play around driving cars for other people? Do you have any idea how much work is piling up here waiting for you?” “Just give me a little more time,” I said. He paused. “Is this still about that woman?” I didn’t answer. He sighed, his voice softening. “Your mother told you from the start that girl had shallow eyes. We tried to stop you, but you insisted on learning the hard way. I guess you’ve finally had enough.” “Dad, I’ll head back as soon as I wrap things up here. For now, send Alex over.” He was quiet for another moment before agreeing. “Fine. I’ll have Alex there tomorrow.” After hanging up, I got a text from Sharon. She was “working late” at the office again tonight. She asked if I’d eaten and told me not to wait up, that she’d be very late. She ended it with, “Be good and wait for me at home,” followed by a kissy-face emoji. I texted back, “Okay.” Then I put on my jacket, went outside, and hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of her “office.” When I got there, the entire building was dark. Not a single light on. I found a spot on the curb across the street and sat down. Ten minutes later, Mr. Wallace’s car turned the corner and pulled over. Sharon walked up from the other direction, her steps quick, and slipped into the passenger seat. The windows rolled up. The car just sat there. It didn’t drive away. I turned on my phone’s video camera and aimed it at the car. Ten minutes. Thirty minutes. An entire hour. The car remained parked under the streetlight, the engine running, the vehicle shaking. Not violently, but with a steady, unmistakable rhythm. I saved the recording, stood up, dusted myself off, and took a cab home. She got back at one in the morning, sighing about how “exhausting” her work was. She tossed her purse on the couch, changed into her slippers, and went to shower. When she came out, hair still damp, she propped herself up in bed and started scrolling through her phone, a look of deep relaxation on her face. It wasn’t the look of someone tired from work. It was the look of someone utterly satisfied. She looked up and saw I was still awake. “Why are you still up? Don’t you have to work tomorrow?” “Couldn’t sleep,” I said. She just hummed in response, said nothing more, and turned off the light. Within three minutes, her breathing was even and slow. I wondered, how many of her “late nights” over the past three years had been spent in that car? I sent a text to Alex: Get here tomorrow. We need to talk. When Alex arrived the next day, his first words were, “Sir, have you finally come to your senses?” I pushed my phone across the table to him. The screenshots of the financial records from legal. The hour-long video. The dashcam footage. I showed him everything, one piece at a time. He watched it all in silence, then pushed the phone back to me. “What’s your plan?” “The company gala,” I said. “It all ends there.” 3 The week before the gala, Sharon’s behavior toward me changed completely. She was suddenly the perfect, doting girlfriend. I’d wake up to hot coffee and a pastry from my favorite bakery already on the nightstand. I’d come home from work to find the apartment spotless, my clothes folded neatly on the bed, my slippers placed perfectly by the door. At night, she’d lean against my shoulder while we watched TV, tracing circles on my chest with her finger, looking up at me with a soft smile. It was exactly like when we first started dating. I knew what she was doing. She planned to bring me to the gala, and she needed me to play my part. She needed me to be stable, obedient, and to not cause any trouble. She needed me to be the same fool I’d been for the last three years. And so, I played along. I smiled as I took the water she offered, asking, “What’s gotten into you? You’ve been so nice to me lately.” She wrapped her arms around my neck, her face close to mine. “Because I love you, silly.” The necklace hung around her neck, sparkling under the lights. That weekend, she dragged me to the mall and picked out a shirt for me at a department store. It was on sale, but still cost a few hundred bucks. As she paid, she remarked to the cashier, “He just doesn’t care about these things. If I don’t stay on top of him, he’ll wear the same old t-shirts everywhere.” The cashier gave a polite, noncommittal smile, her eyes flicking over to me. I knew that look. It was the look that said she thought I wasn’t worth the money Sharon was spending. On the drive home, she gave me a list of instructions for the gala. Don’t talk too much. Don’t mention my job. If anyone asks, just say I’m “exploring a career change.” Don’t engage with anyone at Mr. Wallace’s table because “they’re on a different level, you won’t keep up.” Don’t offer any toasts, don’t stare around the room, just sit there and be quiet. She delivered these commands matter-of-factly. It wasn’t a discussion; it was a briefing. Like a patient but condescending parent teaching a dim-witted child how to behave in public. I sat in the passenger seat, nodding. “Got it.” Pleased, she patted my hand with a smile, then looked down to reply to a text. She angled the screen away, but I saw the contact name in the reflection of the car window: “Rick,” followed by a red heart emoji. The night before the gala, she went out, claiming she had to help set up the venue. I didn’t follow her this time. I had all the evidence I needed. I called Alex and had him double-check the file he’d prepared: the dashcam video, the hour-long recording of the car, the detailed financial audit from legal, and the transfer agreement signed with Sharon’s name. Everything was compressed into a single presentation file, ready for the big screen. “Sir, are you sure you want to do this at the gala?” Alex asked. “I’m sure.” He was silent for a beat. “Understood. Leave it to me.” Sharon came home after midnight, sighing her usual “I’m so exhausted.” She showered, slipped into bed, and turned to me before falling asleep. “Tomorrow, wear a tie,” she instructed. “No sneakers. And stick close to me. I’ve already given Mr. Wallace a heads-up, so just keep your mouth shut and you’ll be fine.” “Okay,” I said. She turned off the light. Her breathing steadied almost immediately. The morning of the gala, she woke up early. She put on makeup, wore a new dress, and stood by the door waiting for me. As I walked over, she picked up my tie. She stood on her toes, her focus absolute as she looped it around my neck, pulled it tight, then adjusted the knot. “There,” she said, patting my chest with a smile. “Don’t embarrass me.” I looked down at her. I wanted to say, “I won’t.” But in the end, I just nodded. Because the one being embarrassed tonight wasn’t going to be me. 4 As we entered the ballroom, Sharon’s grip on my arm was tight. She walked quickly, as if trying to hide me from view. A female colleague walked toward us, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “So, this is your boyfriend?” she asked Sharon, loud enough for everyone to hear. “The valet driver?” She wrinkled her nose, not bothering to hide her disgust. “He kind of reeks of cheap.” Before Sharon could answer, someone else chimed in with a laugh. “Come on, Sharon. Mr. Wallace thinks so highly of you. Why would you bring a valet driver to an event like this? You’re just embarrassing yourself.” A few people around them chuckled. Sharon just pulled me forward, her pace quickening, her fingers digging into my arm. She wasn’t protecting me; she was afraid I’d say the wrong thing. After his opening speech, Mr. Wallace made his way through the crowd. His eyes landed on me, and he stopped. In front of everyone, he boomed, “Well, well. This must be Sharon’s boyfriend. The driver, is it?” He looked me up and down, shook his head, and turned to his sales director with a condescending smile. “See this? Sharon has terrible taste in men. A top sales champion dating a valet driver. She’s cheapening her own brand. And here I thought she was a smart woman.” The director forced a laugh and mumbled his agreement. Mr. Wallace turned back to me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t a friendly pat; it was a power move. “Listen, kid. What kind of future can you have as a driver? Life’s short. Don’t hold Sharon back. She’ll have a miserable life with you.” I remained silent. Sharon kept her head down, saying nothing. Her brother, Brandon, pushed through the crowd with a drink in his hand. “Hey, future brother-in-law!” he shouted. “Oh, wait. Not sure if that’s gonna happen!” He looked around, making sure he had an audience, and raised his glass. “My sister is this company’s sales champion, right? And she’s with a valet driver. Is she out of her mind or what?” The crowd roared with laughter. Someone muttered, “She could do better,” while others just shook their heads, enjoying the show. Brandon turned to me, his smile gone, replaced by pure contempt. “Look, dude, I’ll be blunt. You don’t deserve her. What do you possibly have to offer? Money? Connections? All you’ve got is a driver’s license. You’re a bottom-feeder, trash from the lowest rung of society, and you’ll never climb out. Don’t you get it?” Another wave of laughter. This time, Sharon spoke. “That’s enough, Brandon.” But her voice was flat, as if commenting on the weather. She then turned away to clink glasses with a colleague. She didn’t even glance at me. I sat there, my hands on my knees, my drink untouched. I thought about every time she’d said, “Can’t you be more ambitious?” I thought about her in the backseat, sneering, “Bottom-feeders do what bottom-feeders do.” I thought about Mr. Wallace throwing loose change at my face. I thought about his car, parked on the street for an hour, engine running. I thought about the screenshot from legal, with the recipient’s name: Sharon. Sharon’s mother stood up then, her voice shrill enough to cut through the chatter. “What can a worthless driver like you give my daughter? A big house? A luxury car? Your entire monthly salary is less than the commission she makes on a single sale!” Her finger was practically in my face. The people around us were laughing openly now. Just then, Alex walked in through a side door. He ignored everyone, calmly walked to the corner of the stage, and plugged a cable into the port for the main projector screen. The screen lit up. The first image: the business license for a chain of luxury car dealerships. In the box for “Owner,” was my name. The second image: the corporate hierarchy chart. Mr. Rick Wallace’s name was listed under “General Manager.” My name was above his. The room fell silent. Rick Wallace’s face, in that one second, went bone-white.

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“Flight 407 to Phuket boarding now.” Ron’s voice, light and dismissive, drifted over the airport din, sounding like he was debating the day’s weather. The thrill of excitement I’d carried all morning dissolved, replaced by a cold dread. I turned to him, bewildered. “What do you mean?” He shrugged, a casual gesture that twisted my gut. “The whole family’s off on a seven-day vacation. To keep an eye on the house, we just… didn’t get you a ticket.” He even managed a chuckle, adding, “They’ve all worked so hard this year, a trip to Phuket is a reward. You, on the other hand, just stay home all day, chilling. No need to make a fuss about it.” His parents, his younger brother Liam, Ron, and even our son, Alex – all six of them simultaneously buried their faces in their phones, a silent, unified front. No one met my gaze. Staring at Ron’s self-righteous expression, a chilling realization dawned: seven years of tireless, round-the-clock homemaking, and in his eyes, it amounted to absolutely nothing. I simply nodded, agreeing to stay and watch the house. Ron actually flinched, clearly surprised by my easy acquiescence. Before they headed through security, I fixed my gaze on each of them, needing one last confirmation. Was this truly how they intended to do this? 1 I picked up the suitcase I’d packed with such hopeful anticipation last night and turned away. The boarding agent’s gentle “Enjoy your trip” became a knife twisting in my heart with every passing traveler. Ron hurried after me, grabbing my arm, his voice a low plea. “Honey, let me explain. This family trip is already costing a fortune. I just had to cut some… unnecessary expenses.” I froze. “Unnecessary?” He squared his shoulders, a hint of defiance in his tone. “Yeah, we talked about this, right? This family vacation is for everyone who’s worked hard all year, a chance to really relax in Phuket for the holidays. You don’t work, you’re home all day. Aren’t you rested enough?” I stared at him, incredulous. “What exactly do you mean by ‘rested’?” “Sleeping in until noon is rest. Waking up at five AM to make breakfast for your entire family is not rest!” “Lounging on the couch, doing nothing but scrolling on your phone, is rest. Washing dishes, scrubbing floors, driving our son to school, and even cleaning your brother-in-law’s sneakers is not rest!” “Ron, I’ve been married to you for seven years. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, tell me, when have I ever truly rested?” I yanked my arm from his grasp. “You all go enjoy your trip. Don’t worry about me.” Ron’s lips parted, as if to speak. His mom, Martha, started to fuss. “Ron, what are you waiting for? Come on, they’re boarding.” Liam, his passport in hand, chimed in. “Bro, just leave her. You know how moody she gets. Just bring her back a souvenir or something when we get back.” Our six-year-old, Alex, ran over, tugging on Ron’s shirt. “Daddy, let’s go! We don’t need Mommy; I want to see the ocean!” My knuckles, gripping the handle of my suitcase, turned white. I looked at Ron and forced a brittle smile. “Didn’t you hear him? Go on.” Ron’s eyes flickered, but he swallowed whatever he was about to say. “Take good care of the house. I’ll bring you back something from the trip.” He let go of my hand, turned his back, and strode towards the family he considered to have “worked hard all year.” I stood there, watching their backs disappear into the security line, a bitter laugh escaping me. I knew then: I still hadn’t woken the man who preferred to pretend he was asleep. But it was fine. By the time he returned, our divorce papers would be ready. 2 Settling into the taxi, I pulled out my phone and saw the family group chat was buzzing. Martha, Ron’s mom, had posted a selfie with one of those silly beauty filters, bragging to the group. [Look at my amazing son, Ron! Taking the whole family on an international vacation for the holidays! And just look at this plane, first class, no less!] Immediately, a flood of replies from aunts and uncles filled the chat. [Martha, you’re so lucky! Both your sons are so good to you.] [Is that Liam next to you? Did he graduate this year? Wow, he’s so tall now!] Liam, wearing the top-of-the-line headphones I’d gifted him last birthday, flashed a peace sign at the camera. [Aunt Carol, my brother gave me fifteen hundred for spending money! I’ll bring you back a present!] Fifteen hundred? I pulled up a flight app on my phone. A one-way economy ticket from Atlanta to Phuket? It was only $89. Eighty-nine dollars. I’d actually thought it would be some astronomical sum. The memory of Ron’s repeated “huge expenses” and “unnecessary costs” at the airport washed over me, and a wave of unprecedented despair made me laugh out loud. Ron and I had been married for seven years. I’d given up a promising career because he’d said, “My parents need someone to look after them.” For seven years, I’d ensured that our six-person household always woke up to a hot breakfast. Clothes tossed on the floor would magically reappear, clean and folded, in the wardrobe the next day. The trash cans were always empty, and the bed linens were changed weekly. When his parents got sick, when Alex had a fever, when Liam was home for summer break – Ron never had to lift a finger. He just woke up naturally, greeted his parents and son, and went to work. And the day was done. I looked at the thick calluses on my palms, a testament to years of relentless housework, and my heart grew colder with each passing moment. Finally, I couldn’t resist. I screenshotted the flight ticket price and posted it in the family chat. [A warning to anyone thinking about getting married: never be a stay-at-home spouse. Otherwise, your worth might not even be $89.] The message landed, and the previously lively family chat went silent, almost visibly freezing. After a long pause, Aunt Carol tentatively tagged Ron. [What’s going on? You all went on vacation without Hailey?] 3 Martha’s voice messages quickly flooded the chat. “This is just awful! It’s not that we didn’t want Hailey to come; it’s just that Ron thought we’d all worked so hard this year, he wanted to treat us. Hailey stays home every day, she gets plenty of rest, so we didn’t buy her a ticket.” Martha’s voice even cracked with what sounded like tears by the end. “If I’d known Hailey cared so much about that ticket, his dad and I wouldn’t have gone. Now our daughter-in-law is twisting the knife…” Liam snatched the phone, indignant. “Exactly! If Hailey wanted to come, she could’ve just bought a ticket herself. It’s not like my brother wouldn’t give her the money.” “Making a scene and upsetting Mom like this, what kind of behavior is that?” The “money” he referred to… was it the five hundred dollars Ron gave me each month for household expenses? All six of us were squeezed into the two-bedroom apartment Ron and I bought when we got married. The monthly mortgage was $300, utilities $20, and all the food, even Liam’s college living expenses, came out of that $500 Ron gave me. The money was never enough, but Ron always pretended not to notice. Every time I brought up being short on cash, he’d just scroll on his phone and casually scold me: “Not enough again? You don’t work, you don’t know how hard it is to make money these days. You’re home, so just try to save where you can. Stop being so wasteful.” But my clothes hadn’t been updated in three years. My pajamas were threadbare, and I couldn’t justify buying new ones. Skincare? Never touched it. Even my shoes were hand-me-downs from my mom, who, feeling sorry for me, would buy a size up for herself and then pass them on. And Ron’s family? His dad, George, went out with old college buddies every few days. Martha’s dance team outfits cost three to four hundred dollars each. Liam, in college, never missed a concert or a music festival. Ron wouldn’t spend $89 on a flight ticket to Phuket for me, but he willingly gave his brother $1,500 in spending money for the trip. I leaned back against the taxi seat, mentally calculating the figures, one by one. Ron, on the other end, seemed to feel a pang of guilt. [Enough already.] He finally made an appearance, only to shut down the conversation. [Hailey is clearly being unreasonable. It’s the holidays; let’s not make a spectacle of ourselves.] Seeing those words, twisting the truth so blatantly, I felt even a cold laugh would be giving them too much credit. Yet, the relatives in the chat were swayed, jumping in to “speak their minds.” [I knew it! Ron would never do something so heartless, leaving his wife at home while the whole family goes on vacation. Hailey, you really need to look at yourself.] Uncle Frank condescendingly patted my imaginary shoulder. [Exactly! Last month, when your mother-in-law was in the hospital, I saw you taking care of her, cleaning up after her, and I thought you were so devoted. But I guess I was wrong.] Aunt Judy sent a rolling-eyes emoji. Just last month, Martha had twisted her ankle doing Zumba and was hospitalized for nearly two weeks. George needed to walk his dog, Ron had work, and Liam just sat around playing video games. So, I spent my days cleaning the house, preparing meals for everyone, and then my nights at the hospital. I’d rush back before dawn to make breakfast again. When I was truly exhausted, I’d suggest to Ron, “Maybe we should hire a nurse for your mom?” Ron had looked at me, surprised, and flat-out refused. “No way! A nurse wouldn’t take care of her as well as you do, and it costs money.” All those past conversations, ones I hadn’t dwelled on then, now surged through me, threatening to suffocate me. With the last of my strength, I booked a divorce consultation at the best law firm in town. I couldn’t endure this life for another day! 4 The next few days, I was completely consumed by the divorce preparations. Moving, checking bank statements, job hunting – I was a whirlwind of activity. Ron, however, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Martha, his mom, was sharing her Phuket adventures in the family group chat eight times a day. “My son booked us a luxury suite,” her voice practically oozed with pride through the screen. “And a private beach! We can go anytime we want.” Liam, sprawled on the beach playing video games, was wearing the designer headphones I’d given him for his birthday last year. “International travel is awesome! Too bad some people just don’t have the good fortune to experience it.” Liam’s words were laced with venom; he was still nursing a grudge from our earlier argument in the chat. “You, child, what are you talking about?” Martha shot him a glance, but it sounded more like encouragement than a reprimand. Liam sat up and pulled Alex, who was playing in the sand, closer. “Alex, tell me, do you want your mom to come?” Alex, clutching his small shovel, shouted, “No, I don’t want Mommy to come! Daddy said she doesn’t work, and she’d just waste money!” The video abruptly cut off there, but the family chat remained eerily silent. No one replied. It was Ron’s cousin, Chloe, who privately messaged me later. “Hailey, don’t be upset. My parents saw the video in the group chat. We all think Aunt Martha and them are being completely out of line. I’ll talk to them when they get back.” My heart warmed for a moment, then sank deeper into a larger sense of loss. See? Even outsiders recognized how unfair this was. Yet Ron still pretended not to notice. That evening, I was editing the first draft of the divorce agreement the lawyer had sent me. Ron texted. [Honey, Phuket is actually just okay. Nothing special.] [I bought you a present. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Come pick me up at the airport.] The day after tomorrow? I clicked on the lawyer’s chat window. [Can the divorce agreement be finalized by tomorrow night?] The reply was a thumbs-up emoji. I smiled as I typed. [Yes.] The day after tomorrow. Soon. Only two days left until Ron and I were divorced. 5 The days that followed felt like they were on fast-forward. Martha continued to post endless glamorous vacation photos from Phuket in the group chat. Occasionally, a family photo would appear, everyone smiling, looking perfectly harmonious. But the family group chat grew increasingly quiet. Even when Martha tagged someone, people pretended not to see it. Meanwhile, I packed all my belongings from the past seven years. My wedding dress? Gone. Family photos? Torn up. All the small furniture items we’d accumulated over the years? I sold what I could, leaving nothing for Ron’s family. Finally, the day of their return arrived. Ron had messaged me the day before, reminding me to be on time to pick them up, saying they’d bought so many things, and his parents were too old to carry them all. He insisted I come help. Every word implied he still saw me as the same dutiful, long-suffering stay-at-home wife. I didn’t bother arguing, simply texted back a bland “Okay,” then turned off my phone and slept soundly. The next day, their plane landed. Ron’s family emerged from the airport, laden with bags. “Bro, where’s Hailey? Did she oversleep?” Liam complained, kicking a suitcase irritably. Martha tutted. “Hailey’s not that careless. Maybe… maybe she’s still mad at us?” She sighed. “Ron, you really need to talk to her when we get home. A woman with such a temper, didn’t her mother teach her how to be a good wife?” “Mommy bad!” Alex, nestled in Martha’s arms, clapped his hands and declared. Ron’s face darkened. He pulled out his phone and dialed, his voice accusatory from the start. “Where are you? Didn’t I tell you to pick us up?” “I’m right here.” At my voice, Ron’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the crowd frantically. Finally, he spotted me standing not far away. Unlike my usual bare-faced appearance, today I’d made an effort, wearing a simple, elegant dress and subtle makeup. I looked polished and refined. Ron’s eyes lit up. He dragged his suitcase towards me. “Hailey, you look beautiful today. You even put on makeup?” He pulled a small, palm-sized box from his pocket. Inside was a seashell necklace he’d brought back from Phuket. It was cheap, probably less than twenty dollars. “Honey, this is what I specially brought for you from Phuket. It cost me so much money.” He smiled. “Put it on. Aren’t you happy?” I glanced at the cheap, sand-speckled box, then at the latest model gaming console in Liam’s hand, the brand-new watch on George’s wrist, and the unmistakably flashy gold necklace adorning Martha’s chest. I smiled. “Perfect. I have a gift for you too.” Ron’s eyes widened with surprise. “What is it? Oh, Hailey, you’re so thoughtful. I left you alone at home, and you’re still so good to me. Marrying you was the best decision…” I pulled the prepared document from my bag and opened it. “This gift is – my divorce papers.”

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When I was five years old, holding my mother’s hand, I stepped through the wrought-iron gates of the Brown estate. I, a girl born with a severe stutter, was the newest member of a high-society dynasty. Outsiders whispered that my mother had used dirty tricks to marry into the family. They were all just waiting for the day we got tossed out onto the streets. The wedding day was a massive spectacle. The grand hall was overflowing with elite guests. I, however, found myself backed into a corner of a small sitting room by a group of girls who had come just to watch the drama unfold. They grabbed the collar of my dress, laughing and calling me a mute little burden. At the time, no one thought my new stepfather would care about a kid who wasn’t his blood. But the very next morning, my stepfather stood before the entire household and visiting relatives. His voice left no room for argument. “Lily Brown is my youngest daughter. She is not mute, and from this day forward, she is a rightful heir to the Brown legacy.” 1 “Are you a mute?” Rowan asked. I wasn’t mute. I just had a stutter. When other toddlers were stringing together full sentences, I could barely force out a single syllable. My mother realized something was wrong and took me to countless specialists. The doctors chalked it up to genetics and the fact that I was born premature. Most kids outgrow a stutter with proper speech therapy. I didn’t. It only got worse. By the time I turned five, the anxiety of speaking was so crushing that I refused to make a sound at all. I hated opening my mouth. I hated the pitying, impatient looks people gave me when I stumbled over my words. I wasn’t trying to be rude by not greeting my new stepbrother. I knew I was supposed to say hello, but my throat locked up entirely. The harder I tried, the more panicked I became, until fat tears began rolling down my cheeks. My mother panicked. She pulled me into her arms, pressing soft kisses to my forehead. “Don’t cry, sweetie. Rowan is just joking. Our Lily isn’t mute. She just gets a little anxious, that’s all.” My stepfather, Paul, shot Rowan a freezing glare. “Is that how you speak to your sister? Apologize.” Rowan hadn’t expected a single question to make me cry like this. He froze, his handsome, aristocratic face looking uncharacteristically foolish. His biological sister, Abby, shot him a look of pure schadenfreude. He opened his mouth, his voice barely a mumble. “Sorry. My bad.” Paul wasn’t satisfied. “Louder.” My mother didn’t want to cause a massive rift on her very first day in the house. She gently touched Paul’s arm. “It’s fine, really. Lily heard her brother. Right, sweetheart?” I rubbed my watery eyes and nodded vigorously. That evening, my parents had to entertain a flock of business partners and VIPs, so Paul asked Abby to watch over me. She was older than me by about eight years. Dressed in a pale yellow designer gown with a small pearl tiara resting in her hair, she looked like royalty. I had never seen anyone so pretty. She pulled out a box of imported toys and gently showed me how they worked. Knowing my struggle with words, she didn’t force me into conversation. A little while later, her phone buzzed. She walked over to the farthest window to answer it. Ever since I was a baby, I had incredibly sharp hearing. I could pick up the faint rustle of leaves down the street. It was a secret only my mother knew. Abby clearly didn’t know, otherwise she never would have taken the call in the same room. It was her aunt on the line. Abby and Rowan’s biological mother had passed away from cancer years ago, and they had always remained incredibly close to their maternal aunt, Victoria. “Abby, darling, how is that woman treating you? Is she giving you attitude? She has the face of a home-wrecker. I knew she was bad news the moment I saw her. She completely bewitched your father. Marrying him after only knowing him for a few months.” Victoria scoffed through the speaker. “A divorced woman dragging her brat into a billionaire’s home. She’s playing a dangerous game. I am so worried about you and Rowan.” “She is a snake, and that daughter of hers is no better. Don’t let them butter you up.” Abby had her back to me. I couldn’t see her expression. I only heard her hum in agreement before changing the subject, asking how Victoria’s business trip abroad was going and when she would return. “If I wasn’t buried in paperwork in London, I would have been there today to back you two up. Did anything happen?” Abby hesitated for a second before recounting the crying incident from that morning. Victoria let out a cold, sharp laugh. “They are establishing dominance, Abby. Day one, and they already forced the Brown heir to bow his head and apologize. Just wait until she gives your father a son. You two will be entirely pushed out.” “A new wife means a new father. It’s a tale as old as time. Keep your guard up, and warn your brother.” “Rowan and I will be careful,” Abby replied quietly. 2 My mother would never have another baby. I muttered the words silently in my head. It was an agreement she made with Paul before the wedding. I had heard them talking about it late at night. Abby hung up and walked back to me. The warmth in her eyes had cooled significantly. With a soft sigh, she looked at me. “Lily, play here for a bit. I need to go change my dress.” I nodded, knowing she was actually going to find Rowan. Less than five minutes after she left, the heavy oak door swung open. Three girls, all roughly Abby’s age and dressed in obnoxious, glittering party dresses, strolled into the room. “Where is Abby? I thought they said she was hiding in here.” The girl leading the pack scanned the room and locked eyes on me sitting on the rug. “Who is this kid? Hey, where did Abby go? Do you know?” I sat perfectly still as the three of them surrounded me, looking down at me like I was a stray dog. I pressed my lips together, shook my head, and pointed toward the door Abby had just walked through. “Why aren’t you answering? Whose kid are you?” one of them demanded, her eyes wide with intrusive curiosity. “This is the private family wing. What’s your connection to Abby?” Another girl gasped. “Look at her dress. It’s the same designer collection Abby is wearing.” “Wait, I heard Abby’s new stepmom brought a kid with her. Is that you?” The realization hit them, and all three covered their mouths, giggling as if my existence was the punchline to a hilarious joke. Their laughter made my skin crawl. I dropped my wooden block, hopped off the rug, and headed for the door to find my mother. “Hey, don’t run away, little baggage.” They grabbed the back of my collar, yanking me backward. They didn’t realize their own strength. The stiff lace of my collar tightened like a noose around my windpipe. My eyes rolled back, and an uncontrollable, strangled gasp tore from my throat. Right at that moment, Abby walked back in. Seeing me choking and dangling by my dress, the color drained from her face. She rushed forward, violently shoving the girls away and pulling me into her arms. “Lily! Are you okay?” The three girls panicked, immediately backing up. “We didn’t mean to.” I coughed hard, my chest burning. I patted Abby’s hand to let her know I was breathing. Seeing the physical tears of pain welling in my eyes, Abby’s face twisted in pure rage. “You come into my home as guests, and you attack my little sister? What exactly are you trying to do?” “We just said it was an accident. Stop screaming at us,” the lead girl retorted, crossing her arms. “Is she actually your sister? Why doesn’t she make a sound? Is she a retard?” It was obvious these girls were not Abby’s friends. They were rivals. Abby glared at them. “That is none of your business. You have zero manners. Get out of my room.” Normally, a kid being choked would scream or cry. The fact that I remained completely silent made the girls exchange malicious, knowing looks. They snickered. “Wow, Abby. Sucks to be you. Your dad gets a new wife and forces a disabled freak of a sister onto you. It’s embarrassing.” “Nobody in our circle has a defective sibling.” “You always act so high and mighty at school. Let’s see you try to act superior now.” Abby held me tighter, taking a deep, shaky breath. “Is this the elite upbringing your parents paid for? Let me be clear. Whether my sister has a disability or not, who gave you the right to look down on her?” “There are security cameras in this room. I’m going to have the estate manager pull the footage and send it directly to your parents.” “You better prepare yourselves to come back here and beg my sister for forgiveness.” 3 The very next day, three terrified families dragged their daughters into the Brown foyer to apologize. Paul sat me down on the plush velvet sofa right beside him. His face was a mask of terrifying authority. He looked at the sweating parents and cleared his throat. “Lily Brown is my youngest daughter. Whether she chooses to speak or not is irrelevant. When the time comes, she will receive an equal share of the Brown empire.” A collective gasp echoed through the room. My mother, sitting beside Paul, grabbed his hand in shock. Looking into her wide eyes, I realized he hadn’t discussed this with her at all. “Paul…” she whispered. He just patted her hand, giving her a reassuring nod. Children are terrible at hiding their emotions. The three bullies stared at me in pure horror, then shot desperate, questioning looks at Rowan and Abby, who were standing behind us. I peeked over my shoulder at my new siblings. Their faces were an unreadable mix of shock and conflict. I quickly turned my head back around, pretending I hadn’t seen a thing. Paul offered Rowan and Abby a brief, unbothered glance before turning back to the guests. “I suggest you teach your children basic human decency. I refuse to let the future heirs of the Brown family associate with people of such low character.” The parents practically tripped over themselves, apologizing profusely and forcing their daughters to bow to me. I knew these apologies were entirely fake, born out of fear of Paul’s wealth, not genuine remorse. I also didn’t want to push Rowan and Abby’s buttons any further. I looked up at Paul, patted my stomach, and forced out two words. “Hungry. Eat.” The guests and my siblings looked stunned. They really had thought I was entirely mute. Paul gave a final, dismissive wave. “Lily will be attending Edenbridge Academy alongside her brother and sister. I expect her school life to remain peaceful and pleasant.” “See yourselves out.” Edenbridge Academy was the most prestigious prep school on the East Coast. It was an incubator for future CEOs, politicians, and socialites. Because of how ruthlessly I was bullied in my old kindergarten, the thought of going to school terrified me. I sat in the back of the Maybach, completely miserable. But Paul used his billionaire leverage to bypass kindergarten entirely, dropping me straight into the first grade. Standing outside my new classroom, my mother kissed my cheek. “Go on, sweetie. Don’t be scared. Your father and I are right behind you, always.” When the homeroom teacher introduced me, she made a point to mention that I was a “quiet soul who preferred listening.” She seated me next to the class president. The class president was a girl with a sharp bob and massive, calculating eyes. She eagerly stuck her hand out. “Hi, I’m Dania.” I shook her hand and offered a polite, quiet smile. All the teachers had been briefed on my condition. They never called on me to read aloud. During recess, because I was the new kid who didn’t talk, no one really approached me. I survived my first week in total, peaceful silence. My secret was safe. “She is so quiet. She literally hasn’t said a word all week.” “Have you ever even heard her voice?” “I haven’t. But I think Dania talked to her.” The only word I had spoken to Dania was a soft “thanks” when she handed me a pencil. Because the elementary and high school divisions had different schedules, I rarely rode home with Rowan and Abby. But on Friday, they unexpectedly showed up at the elementary wing to pick me up. I had no idea they were basically royalty at Edenbridge until I saw the way my classmates reacted. “Oh my god, Rowan and Abby Brown are your siblings? Lily, why didn’t you tell us?!” “They say Rowan is going to be valedictorian again. And Abby is flying to Vienna next month for an international violin competition.” “They are literally the king and queen of the school. No wonder Lily is so pretty.” I looked exactly like my mother. It was the one thing I was fiercely proud of.

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1 It had been exactly six years since I died a miserable death in a cold prison cell, taking the fall for my older brother’s adopted sister. Today, my brother Grant actually came looking for me again. He wanted me to confess to a crime committed by Roselyn’s younger brother, a kid they had sent away years ago. He claimed the boy was too young and couldn’t handle the harshness of being locked up. Grant said it so casually. He told me I already had experience behind bars, so going back in wouldn’t feel foreign to me. But he waited and waited, and I never walked out of those prison gates. Assuming I had been released early for good behavior and was just hiding from him out of spite, Grant stormed back to our family estate to demand answers. Instead of finding me, he walked right into my best friend Jenny. She was standing in the middle of the old living room, setting up a memorial for the sixth anniversary of my death. Faced with Grant’s relentless interrogations, Jenny stared at the flickering vigil candle on the altar. Her eyes were rimmed with a furious, bloodshot red. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. She screamed at him. She has been dead for years! She was beaten to death in her second year serving time for your precious little Roselyn! Grant scoffed, crossing his arms. “Wow, you really put on a good show.” His eyes were dripping with mockery. “How long did you two spend planning this little theatrical performance?” “It’s just seven years in a cell. Roselyn bribed half the guards in there. Hazel had the best food, the best supplies. What is she playing the victim for now?” Jenny glared at him, her chest heaving. “Every time I visited Hazel, her face and body were covered in fresh cuts and bruises. Why don’t you go ask your sweet Roselyn exactly who she was paying off!” Hearing that, Grant’s face instantly frosted over. “At the end of the day, she’s just jealous of Roselyn. That’s why she’s hiding.” The moment the words left his mouth, he lifted his expensive leather shoe. Smash. The vigil candle that had been burning for six years was crushed under his foot. The wick let out a pathetic little hiss, and the flame died instantly. “What the hell are you doing!” Jenny’s face drained of color. She threw herself onto the hardwood floor. My heart clenched. I instinctively rushed forward to grab her, but my hands phased right through her trembling shoulders. I could only watch helplessly as she ignored the searing heat, desperately trying to scoop up the spilled hot wax with her bare hands. “Don’t touch that, Jenny! You’re burning your skin, please, none of this matters!” I hovered around her in an absolute panic, crying out. But Jenny’s desperation only seemed to piss Grant off even more. “How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act? I don’t have time for your bullshit!” Like a madman letting off steam, he swept his arm across the altar. Offerings, the incense burner, my few remaining belongings. He smashed them all to pieces. “Hazel is just hiding to watch Roselyn suffer, isn’t she? She is absolutely vicious!” As he ranted, Grant’s gaze suddenly caught the wooden casket sitting behind the ruined altar. For a fraction of a second, his eyes faltered. It was a flicker of nervousness, something he would never admit to feeling. “Let’s see if it’s actually Hazel in this box.” “Don’t you dare touch her!” Jenny shrieked, lunging at him, but Grant shoved her hard to the ground. He flipped the casket lid open. His pupils shrank. No body. No ashes. Just my favorite white dress folded neatly inside. “Tch. I knew it. All a lie.” “That’s because you didn’t even leave her a body! I had to make a cenotaph just to give her a place to rest!” Jenny sobbed, her voice tearing at the seams. “Pure nonsense,” Grant sneered, his eyes as cold as a blade. “Oh, by the way. Your husband should be getting his termination email right about now.” Jenny’s head snapped up. “With your family’s income cut off, I imagine your mother in the ICU won’t last long before the hospital kicks her out. Are you absolutely sure you want to keep lying to me?” No. Grant couldn’t do this. I screamed into his ear with everything I had. “Did you forget that after Mom and Dad died, it was Jenny’s mother who fed us? She knitted your winter sweaters by hand! Have you lost your mind!” Grant’s face was twisted with hostility. “I really don’t get it. You are both pregnant. How can you sit there and watch Roselyn stress out, running around with a baby bump just because Hazel refuses to show her face?” “Hand Hazel over right now. Otherwise, dead or alive, I will dig her up and make sure she never finds peace.” Jenny was shaking from head to toe with pure rage. “You are an animal! She’s dead and you still won’t let her go.” “If you don’t believe me, go to the damn prison and check the records yourself. Do you think I have the power to make the whole world lie to you!” 2 I wanted to stay by Jenny’s side to comfort her, but my ghostly form was pulled against my will, tethered to Grant as he drove to the prison. “Hazel? Oh, her. She died six years ago.” Grant’s face darkened dangerously. “Look at you. Bribing state officials now.” “No wonder Jenny dared me to come here and ask. You guys had this perfectly rehearsed!” Looking at Grant’s furious expression, I actually found it laughable. If I had that kind of power, how would he have forced me into prison in the first place? Seven years ago, on the night of my birthday, Grant stormed into the house. He used Jenny’s sick mother as leverage to force me to take the fall for a hit-and-run Roselyn committed. He promised Roselyn had only made a mistake and swore he would get me the minimum sentence. But standing in court as my defense attorney, Grant completely waived the right to argue my case. I desperately tried to hire another lawyer to appeal, but Grant froze every single cent in my bank accounts. When I confronted him, screaming until my lungs gave out, he just looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “If a lawyer actually defends you, the prosecutors will dig deeper. They’ll find out you weren’t the one behind the wheel.” “You’re going to prison anyway. What does a few extra years matter? I’ve handled everything. Inside, you’ll live just as comfortably as you do on the outside.” But from my very first day as an inmate, I was at the absolute bottom of the food chain. Anyone could use me as a punching bag. Scars, both visible and hidden, mapped my entire body. I begged the guards over and over to call my brother. The only answer I ever got was, “Your brother says he’s too busy. Stop bothering him.” Back in the present, the guard on duty took a deep breath, trying to handle Grant’s arrogant attitude. “Look buddy, the system logs are crystal clear. Six years ago, Hazel died from a fatal puncture wound to the throat with a sharp object.” Grant paused for a second, then actually laughed. “This fake database page you guys coded is pretty impressive. But if you’re going to lie, at least make it believable. Where would someone get a sharp weapon inside a maximum security facility?” “Besides, Roselyn comes here every year to drop off money and gifts for Hazel. If she’s dead, why haven’t we ever received a single notice?” The guard finally lost his temper. “I don’t know any Roselyn. Hazel is dead! Deceased! Do you speak English?” Grant’s face turned ugly. “You really won’t drop the act until it ruins you. The warden and I go way back. Keep lying for her, and I’ll have him fire you before lunch.” The guard crossed his arms, stepping up to the glass. “Wow, you are a piece of work. If you’re so sure, go ahead. Call the warden. Have him run the search himself.” “If he finds anything different, I’ll hand over my badge and walk out myself!” Seeing the guard’s unwavering confidence, a flicker of doubt finally crossed Grant’s eyes. Right then, his phone buzzed. [Grant, come home quickly. Roselyn is having bad cramps.] Forgetting the guard completely, Grant spun around and practically sprinted to his car. The moment we walked through the front door of his penthouse, I saw my fiancé, Tristan. The man I hadn’t seen in seven years. 3 This was the man who once promised to love me until the end of time. Now, he was gently rubbing Roselyn’s swollen pregnant belly, treating her like she was made of fragile glass. “Grant, did Hazel agree to take the charge?” Looking at Roselyn’s pale, tear-stained face, Grant swallowed hard, overcome with guilt. He couldn’t speak. Roselyn’s eyes immediately welled up. “Why wouldn’t she agree? That is my baby brother! He had such a hard life growing up in foster care. He’s only nineteen. His life is just starting!” In that moment, I felt a bitter sting of envy. As a sister, she was far more devoted to her brother than my own flesh and blood ever was to me. “Don’t cry, Roselyn. I swear to you, I will find Hazel.” My phone buzzed in my memory. [Hazel, you need to confess for Roselyn’s brother right now. If the stress hurts Roselyn or the baby, I will never forgive you.] For seven years, I dreamed of Tristan coming to find me. I never imagined the first message he’d send me would be that. Roselyn suddenly bit her lip, leaning heavily on the couch to stand up. “Forget it. If Hazel really hates us that much, I’ll just go to prison for Toby.” She cradled her bump with one hand. “I’m pregnant. It’s not like they can give me the death penalty.” Tristan panicked, pulling her securely into his arms. “Hazel is so sick and twisted. You are carrying a child. How could she possibly let you go to a place like that.” I looked at them, a hollow, tragic smile forming on my lips. When I took the fall for Roselyn all those years ago, I was pregnant too. Did anyone ever care about my pain? “Relax. I’ve already sent my best investigator to track down her rat hole. Even if I have to tear this city apart brick by brick, I will drag her out.” Grant turned to look at Tristan. “Roselyn’s due date is coming up. Do you have everything ready?” At the mention of the baby, Tristan’s entire demeanor softened. “Absolutely. The trust fund my parents left behind, and that beachfront villa down the coast. Everything is secured for the baby.” My chest tightened. [Hazel, this trust fund and the beach house… even if you two don’t make it, my parents wanted you to have them.] Those things were supposed to be for our child. Watching Tristan give them away felt like a rusted knife carving out my soul. “With an uncle like you looking out for us, we don’t have to worry about a thing,” Roselyn cooed, leaning into Grant. Grant stayed silent for a moment. “Once we find Hazel and sort out your brother’s case, I’m going to step back. I won’t visit you as much anymore. Tristan will take good care of you.” Roselyn froze. “I owe Hazel too much for these past years. Moving forward, I want to properly compensate her. I want to finally be a real brother to her.” How rare. Grant was actually willing to distance himself from his precious adopted sister. Back then, when Roselyn offended one of his highest-paying corporate clients, Grant didn’t scold her once. Instead, he ordered me to go apologize, forcing me to drink with the client until my stomach bled to save his contract. It was a shame his guilt came far too late. I couldn’t accept his compensation from the grave. “What is there to compensate? She brought this all on herself. Hazel actually committed a hit-and-run and fled the scene. To this day, I can’t believe I was blind enough to think she was the kindest girl in the world.” Hearing Tristan’s words, Roselyn’s eyes darted away shiftily. Grant cleared his throat, staring at the floor. “Back then, she actually had the nerve to run to my place, crying that you guys were trying to frame her. Thank God I didn’t fall for her lies. I called you secretly so you could drag her away. If she had escaped, she would have forced Roselyn to take the blame.” I snapped my head toward Tristan, my phantom heart ripping into shreds. That night, Jenny told me she was close to finding security footage proving I wasn’t at the scene of the crash. She told me to hide. The only person I trusted to keep me safe was Tristan. All these years, I thought I just had bad luck when Grant found me. I never knew it was the love of my life who personally handed me over to hell. Grant’s phone rang. [Boss, I can’t find a single credit card transaction or digital footprint for Hazel. It’s like she vanished off the face of the earth. I’m starting to think… maybe something really did happen to her?] “Grant, Hazel is hiding so well. She must be really angry and refusing to help us.” The tiny shred of worry that had just sprouted in Grant’s eyes vanished the second he saw Roselyn’s tears. “Prison taught her a few tricks. She knows how to commit to a bit. But a living, breathing person has to eat and drink.” Grant’s eyes turned venomous. “I know exactly where to find her. There is only one person in this world who would go to these lengths for her.” When Jenny opened her front door, she thought it was Ryan coming home from work. The moment she saw Grant, her face twisted with pure disgust. “What the hell do you want? Here to repent to Hazel? Let me tell you, you are way too late.” She tried to slam the heavy oak door in his face, but Grant forced his way in with a cold shove. Locking the deadbolt behind him, he started kicking open bedroom doors. “Come out! Stop hiding, Hazel! Get your ass out here right now!” Finding nothing, Grant turned into a rabid beast. “Jenny, where the fuck are you keeping her.” Jenny’s knuckles turned white. “You really want to know? If you’re so desperate to see her, go to hell!” Grant spun around, his cold gaze locking onto Jenny’s massive, nine-month pregnant belly. “I heard you begged the heavens for this baby. Walked up ten thousand temple steps on your knees just to get pregnant, right?”

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The system’s voice echoed in my ear just as I was settling into my third year of modern life. It said my parents regretted what they’d done. They’d even hired a shaman to summon my soul back. To maintain the world’s order, I had no choice but to return to the home that had once cast me out. This time, I decided to play the part of the perfect daughter: obedient, gentle, and magnanimous. When my mother said the “fake” daughter, Clarice, needed quiet to recover, I immediately moved into a cramped, dark storage room. I didn’t make a sound, even when a rat scurried across my face in the dead of night. When my father said he needed my heart’s blood to save Clarice, I took a knife to my own chest, filled a bowl to the brim, and asked if it was enough. Even when Clarice, in a fit of rage, tore up my only family photograph, I just calmly swept the pieces into the dustpan. I told myself, just three more days. Then everything will go back to normal. I remembered the night they threw me out. Clarice had handed me a bottle of herbicide. “When are you planning to die?” she’d asked. “Mom and Dad are waiting for your heart. For me.” I’d stared at the closed doors of the grand house in the distance, a hollow ache in my chest. Then, with a faint, bitter laugh, I ended my life under a bridge. … I counted the pieces. Sixty-four. Clarice had torn the photo into sixty-four tiny shreds. I discreetly pocketed the one piece with my own face on it and calmly began to clean up the mess. When I turned around, I met my mother’s startled gaze. “Nova,” she said, “you’ve changed.” I smiled at her but said nothing. I knew what she meant. When they first found me and brought me back to the Harrington estate, I had played on their guilt, acting out, demanding everything. Whatever Clarice, the imposter they’d raised, had, I had to have double. They gave me everything I asked for. Until Clarice was diagnosed with a heart condition. After she nearly died, everything changed. My parents began to openly favor her, calling me ungrateful and selfish. The hope, the attention I had so desperately craved, was once again lavished on Clarice. Blood ties became a useless, painful tether, doing nothing but twisting the knife deeper. I shook my head, pulling myself from the memory. “Clarice is sick,” I said. “I should be more understanding.” “Aren’t you happy I’m like this now, Mom?” After all, she was the one who had pointed to the door and screamed, “If you can’t accept Clarice, then get out of my house! I wish I’d never found you! Then Clarice wouldn’t have gotten sick from all your tantrums!” I had stood there, frozen, humiliation washing over me. Later that night, I’d swallowed the herbicide Clarice gave me and left that world behind. My mother stared at my placid face, at a loss for words. “Nova, Clarice explained… She said the herbicide was expired. She was just trying to scare you.” “And you were in the hospital for pneumonia,” she continued, “from being out in the rain for so long. You can’t blame her for that.” “She’s sick, so I have to be the bigger person,” we said in unison, a mantra they had repeated to me hundreds of times since Clarice’s diagnosis. Suddenly, a surge of rebellion coursed through me. “Does Clarice look like she has a heart condition to you?” I gestured to her rosy cheeks, my voice dripping with scorn. “She can cry for three hours straight without taking a breath just to frame me. Is that something a person with a weak heart can do?” My mother faltered, but before she could respond, Clarice burst into tears. “Mom, I know she still blames me,” she sobbed. “She hates me for stealing her life. It should have been me who died that day!” From out of nowhere, she produced another bottle of herbicide and made a show of trying to drink it. “Clarice!” my mother shrieked, shoving me aside to get to her. I stumbled, my hip crashing painfully against the corner of a table. I stared at the plastic bottle on the floor, the clear water spilling out. A wave of profound weariness washed over me. Didn’t the system say my parents had sought out a shaman, willing to sacrifice half their own lives just to bring me back? Why, then, did they still fall for Clarice’s pathetic act so easily? Why didn’t they even bother to question it? My mother cradled Clarice, a mixture of sobs and relieved laughter escaping her lips, as if she were holding a priceless, recovered treasure. I watched them for a few moments, then turned and walked back to the suffocating darkness of the storage room. Even after being reborn, I couldn’t shake my fear of the dark. Clarice’s biological father—my foster father—had been a cruel man. He was a violent alcoholic who had driven my foster mother away and then turned his lecherous gaze on me. When I fought back, he locked me in a closet for three days to “reflect.” When my real mother heard about this, she was consumed with rage. My father had the man beaten severely. It was because of this that they’d abandoned the idea of sending Clarice back to him. “Nova,” they had promised, “we can easily afford to raise you both. We swear we’ll give you a better life. Let Clarice stay. She can be your sister.” I had thrown plates, flipped tables, and smashed everything I could get my hands on, refusing to let her stay. I remember it clearly. It was the first time my parents had ever looked at me with disappointment. “You’re so selfish, Nova.” “This is our decision. We don’t need your approval.” I closed my eyes, curling up in the corner, trying to push the memories away. The very first day I returned, I had voluntarily moved into this dark, damp cellar. My mother had looked at me with a complex expression, but Clarice’s whining had quickly stolen her attention. The scuttling of rats began around me. I could almost feel their tiny feet on my skin. These creatures that would make Clarice scream and run to our father were old friends to me. Locked away and ignored, I used to talk to the rats. Their squeaks were a symphony in my silent world. I counted on my fingers. Two and a half days left until the system’s deadline. In two and a half days, I could escape this miserable world and go back to my real home. Before I could savor the thought, the cellar door was kicked open. My father, his face a thundercloud, grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to Clarice’s room. It was a princess’s dream, filled with dolls and stuffed animals. She had once boasted that our father had brought them back for her from his business trips all over the world—all limited editions. After I came to live with them, my father had asked me what I wanted. Compared to Clarice’s easy, confident requests, I couldn’t think of a single thing. The world outside my miserable upbringing was so vast and new. Later, I overheard him sighing to my mother. “That girl, Nova… she’s a lost cause. She has none of Clarice’s charm. We’ll just have to make sure she’s fed. If we give her any real responsibility, she’ll run the company into the ground.” I stood there, stunned. I grew up in squalor. No one had ever taught me these things. Was that my fault, too? Their blatant favoritism, piece by piece, had crushed me. When Clarice handed me that bottle of herbicide, all I had felt was relief. A sharp sting on my cheek brought me back to the present. Clarice had thrown her favorite doll at me. “It’s all her fault!” she shrieked. “I was getting better, but the moment she showed up, my heart started hurting again! Daddy, am I going to die?” My father gathered her into his arms, his voice a soft murmur. He looked at me, his eyes full of a complicated emotion. “Nova, your mother and I brought you back because you are our daughter. You have our love, and you will inherit our fortune. Must you also covet what is Clarice’s?” I wanted to scream, what have I ever coveted from her? But I remembered the system’s instructions and held my tongue. I pulled a small knife from my pocket, pulled up my shirt, and sliced open the barely healed wound on my chest. Drops of blood fell to the floor, quickly forming a dark pool. My face grew pale, and I could feel the life draining from me. “Host, are you insane?” the system shrieked in my mind. “If you die now, you can’t go back!” My mind was a chaotic mess. Why, after I had finally found happiness, after I had finally been set free, did they have to bring me back with their so-called love? Just so they could play the part of the perfect, caring parents? I looked up and met my father’s panicked gaze. A small smile touched my lips. “Is this enough blood?” I asked. “If not, you can have it all. Anything to save Clarice. After all, she’s the only daughter you’ve ever really wanted, isn’t she?” My vision blurred. The system’s alarms blared in my head, trying to keep me conscious. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes was my father running toward me. … Is it over?

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1 I brought up divorce the day my wife returned from her ninth annual trip back home, where she’d gone with her ex-boyfriend, posing as a married couple. She frowned, her tone dripping with impatience. She demanded to know if the power I had at the company, the name on the marriage certificate, the luxury car I drove daily, and the mansion we lived in weren’t enough. She claimed that everyone back in her hometown looked down on me, a vocational school graduate from the mountains, and if it weren’t for Nathan defending me to her family for nine years, I would have been kicked out long ago. Watching her self-righteous attitude, my heart felt frozen. She probably forgot that nine years ago, when the Prescott family was on the verge of bankruptcy, it was Nathan who fled the country overnight, cutting all ties. It was she, Audrey Prescott, who came crying, begging me for help. But for these nine years, she challenged my boundaries again and again. She probably thought I would always indulge her unconditionally, yet she didn’t understand that even someone willing to give everything needs a taste of sweetness to persevere. And all she ever gave me was bitterness. … Seeing my perpetually cold expression, Audrey, uncharacteristically, showed a flicker of panic. “Honey, you’re not serious, are you?” She reached out to block my path, her eyes filled with a testing gaze. “Let me tell you, I, Audrey Prescott, never go back on my word. If you really divorce me, you’ll never get close to me again in this life.” “Enough already. You’re not the ‘true’ heir who just came back home nine years ago. Nathan has controlled all of the Campbell Group’s assets for years. Without me, you’re nothing but a worthless bum.” “When you first returned, the Campbell parents did feel guilty and wanted to compensate you, but now, apart from a surname, what connection do you have to the Campbell family?” “Some people may have a destiny for wealth but not the luck. It was just bad luck that you were swapped and had your life changed back then. Good thing I don’t despise you for it.” She proudly tilted her chin, her face full of haughty self-satisfaction. Audrey’s eyes and brows still held that haughty beauty, but I no longer found her captivating; instead, I felt a profound weariness. For nine years, she had always leveraged my love to speak without thinking. She knew how much I resented the painful past of being swapped at birth, suffering immensely, abandoned by my family, and scorned by the world. Yet, she always delighted in bringing it up. Nathan, seeing my grim expression, stepped forward with a sneer, advising, “Ethan Campbell, they say a man finds his footing at thirty. You’re in your mid-thirties now, barely maintaining a respectable job thanks to Audrey. If you really divorce, you’ll have nothing left.” Audrey suddenly smiled, linking her arm through mine. “Honey, Nathan’s right. Please don’t lose everything over a moment of pique. We’ve been married for nine years; you know how I feel about you.” “From major to minor company affairs, I’ve entrusted everything to you. Any document with your signature, the finance department disburses funds directly. And whenever new products are publicly launched, you’re the only one who speaks on my behalf.” “Don’t you understand how I feel about you?” She softened her tone, gently shaking my arm. “Right now, it’s just asking Ethan to pretend to be my husband to go home for the holidays. If you’re really that upset, then how about I take you home next year? I’ll tell everyone that I never married the well-matched Nathan nine years ago, but instead married Ethan, the country bumpkin from the boonies.” “Even if a million people mock me and my parents break my legs, I will never give up on you.” She made a swearing gesture, her expression exceptionally sincere. If I hadn’t heard this speech for nine years, I would almost believe it now. Unlike the previous nine years, I didn’t feel sorry for Audrey, afraid she’d be hurt. Instead, I smiled and nodded: “Alright.” Audrey froze. “What?” 2 She looked utterly shocked. “Are you really coming home with me? You don’t care that my parents might break my legs?” I gave her a fake smile. “Of course I care, but a quick end is better than prolonged suffering. We can’t stay in the shadows our whole lives, can we?” “Besides, I remember your grandfather’s eightieth birthday is the day after tomorrow. No time like the present. We’ll prepare a generous gift, say a few kind words, and I’m sure the old man won’t strike a smiling face on his big day.” At my words, Audrey’s face became incredibly ugly, and she didn’t speak for a long while. Instead, Nathan, in his role as the unofficial man of the house, reproached me. “You know the Prescotts look down on you. Are you going to ruin Little Audrey’s grandfather’s eightieth birthday just for your momentary satisfaction?” Hearing Nathan’s accusation, Audrey immediately straightened her back. “Ethan, it’s not that I don’t want to take you back, it’s just really bad timing. Grandpa has always been in poor health, and this eightieth birthday is meant to bring him good cheer. If I take you back and upset Grandpa, causing him any harm, it would be a deadly sin.” A thousand words, all just excuses to reject me. I nodded and stepped back. “Fine.” Silently turning to leave, Audrey reached out to stop me but Nathan grabbed her. “Forget it, let Ethan cool down first, lest he throws another fit.” My steps faltered as I recalled the scene from nine years ago when I first returned home. I was barely eighteen then, about to face my college entrance exams. The Campbell family suddenly appeared, holding Nathan’s hand, claiming he was my twin brother and that I had been presumed dead at birth, leading to my adoption. But I unintentionally overheard Nathan, looking incredibly guilty, kneeling before Mom and Dad: “Perhaps I should leave. Ethan is your true child. If my birth parents hadn’t deliberately swapped us, Ethan wouldn’t have a crippled left leg and be half-blind in his right eye.” I looked down at my limping leg, a cold sneer on my face as I pushed open the door: “So, you knew Nathan’s parents hurt me so badly that I became half-human, half-ghost, yet you lied to me, making me believe they were kind people who picked me up and raised me?” From childhood, I suffered endless humiliation and beatings. I couldn’t understand why my own parents could be so cruel. Not until the Campbell parents stood before me. Only then did I vaguely grasp it. Turns out I wasn’t their child, just adopted. No wonder they often treated me with disdain. If that was the case, at least they fed me, and I should be grateful to them. But just as I was coming to terms with it, the most unbearable truth was laid bare. I punched Nathan in the face, tearing through his facade of false kindness: “Why didn’t you say you’d leave when you put nails in my bed? What’s with the act now!” The Campbell parents tried desperately to stop me but it was useless. I broke Nathan’s leg, but that was far from enough to atone for the harm his parents had inflicted on me! From then on, the entire high society knew that the heir the Campbell family had found was a lunatic, a fratricidal, bloodthirsty maniac. I was sent abroad, my bones re-set, and given a new cornea. The Campbell parents said: “From now on, Nathan owes you nothing.” Memories flooded back. Audrey’s cool voice echoed from behind: “If you’re going to throw a tantrum, at least know your place. Besides, you owe Ethan nothing. If he dares to do anything to you, I’ll be the first to object!” Her words, so similar in sentiment, made me chuckle: “Owe me nothing?” 3 I turned to Audrey. “Are you saying Nathan owes me nothing, or are you saying you owe me nothing?” “Do you really want me to spell it out?” Neither Nathan, who had repeatedly usurped my place and framed me, nor Audrey, who had grown rapidly by feeding on my flesh and blood over the years, had any right to say such things. Audrey’s calm facade vanished, replaced by anger. “Ethan Campbell, did you swallow a bullet? What’s there to spell out? You’re my husband! Don’t think helping me with a few documents at work is some great accomplishment.” “Some husbands would even give their lives for their wives. All I asked was for you to do a little more work, and not bring you home for the holidays with me. Is that really something to hold onto?” Audrey’s brow was deeply furrowed, as if I were someone making trouble for no reason. I didn’t become hysterical as in the past; instead, I calmly issued a final ultimatum: “Audrey Prescott, ask yourself, do you truly see me as your husband?” “In your eyes, haven’t I always been just an employee you can summon at will?” Audrey was an only child, but she lacked business acumen from a young age. Nine years ago, a misjudgment nearly led to the Prescott family’s bankruptcy. At the time, her parents considered marrying her off for a project and adopting a nephew. Audrey came to me in tears, hugging me and saying I was the only one she wanted to marry, begging me to help her. Remembering that when I first returned to the Campbell family, only she hadn’t scorned or ridiculed me, the flicker of romance in my heart inevitably began to stir. I nodded in agreement, thus beginning over three thousand days of living a life like a year. Except for our wedding night or when the company faced problems, Audrey never shared a room with me. She claimed to be naturally frigid and told me not to think so vulgarly about “down there.” So, I respected Audrey, silently restraining myself and never overstepping. Yet, on many late nights, I watched Nathan drop Audrey off downstairs. The two held hands and embraced intimately, neither realizing I was her husband. These years of feigning deafness and blindness hadn’t earned me Audrey’s true heart; instead, it made her even more brazen. Audrey’s expression was incredibly ugly: “Ethan Campbell, wasn’t that all your choice? Did I force you? Didn’t you say you loved me? If you love me, why nitpick?” Nathan shook his head at me: “Ethan Campbell, true love expects nothing in return, no calculation. You’re calculating so precisely; you don’t deserve to say you love her!” With a few words, they painted me as a calculating, despicable person. Hearing Nathan’s words, Audrey sneered: “Ethan Campbell, nine years ago you were just a discard, about to be thrown out of the house. If I hadn’t taken you in, you’d probably still be scavenging for food somewhere. Weren’t you just betting that I could rise again? Now that you’ve succeeded, what more do you have to be dissatisfied with?” My heart was completely chilled. My mind flashed back to the scene nine years ago when I had just been found by the Campbell family. At that time, Nathan, to humiliate me, paid for photos of me from my village days, where I was forced to eat garbage and slapped around, and publicly displayed them at my parents’ business conference. Those embarrassing images burned into everyone’s eyes. I wanted to run in shame, but Audrey took my hand: “They’re the ones who should be ashamed for bullying you, not you!” She saved the photos, called the police, and had everyone who had bullied me sent to the station. She also publicly chastised Nathan for being too jealous, saying he was nothing like a true Campbell. From then on, Audrey was deeply etched in my heart. But now, she was using my most painful past as a sharp blade to pierce me. 4 I said no more, simply taking off the ring I had never removed: “Let’s part ways amicably.” Audrey’s expression froze completely. She reacted, realizing she had said the wrong thing: “Ethan Campbell!” “If you hadn’t angered me, I wouldn’t have spoken so carelessly.” She forcefully took the ring and tried to put it back on my finger: “You swore you’d never take it off. I’ll forgive you this time. If it happens again, I’ll never speak to you.” The threat, which had always worked perfectly, was now useless. I pushed Audrey away, and in front of her, took off the ring again and threw it on the ground. Audrey stood there stunned, her shock undeniable. “Ethan Campbell! You’re insane!” I scoffed, “Yes, I’m insane. I’ve been insane for nine whole years, and that’s enough.” With that, I turned and walked away. Audrey tried to follow, but Nathan grabbed her. “Audrey! He just knows how you feel about him and is deliberately playing hard to get. If you really chase after him, you’ll fall right into his trap!” Audrey suddenly seemed to realize something, nodded, and said, “Right, Ethan loves me so much he’d throw away his self-respect. How could he just leave? He hasn’t given me any divorce papers, nor has he mentioned dividing assets. He’s definitely bluffing!” Ignoring Audrey’s murmuring, I strode forward. I didn’t want the meager assets Audrey held. Divorce papers were superfluous, because I knew Audrey wouldn’t easily let go of such a convenient tool, so I had already contacted a lawyer to file for divorce. Walking onto the quiet street, I smiled with a sense of relief. I once thought leaving Audrey would be agonizing. Only now did I realize that leaving her was the most liberating moment in years. I no longer had to consider her preferences, nor sit alone at home all night waiting for her return. And I certainly didn’t have to nervously ask if she had gone out with Nathan again. Three days passed, and I suddenly received a message from Audrey: “Don’t you want your grandma’s memorial tablet anymore?” After being abducted to the countryside for eighteen years, only my grandmother truly cared for me, never scolding me, and secretly feeding me behind the backs of that cruel couple. After Grandma died, I knew that cruel couple wouldn’t honor her memorial tablet. So, at Audrey’s suggestion, I placed Grandma’s tablet in the Prescott family ancestral hall to receive incense. My heart tightened, and I immediately drove to the ancestral hall. As I reached the entrance, two bodyguards stopped me: “Hello, you’re not allowed in without an invitation.” Audrey stood by the door, arm linked with Nathan, who was wearing a custom-tailored suit. This suit was a gift from Audrey to me when we married nine years ago. Nathan’s lips curled in triumph: “Ethan Campbell, didn’t you want to cut ties with Audrey? Why are you here, looking so eager?” Audrey, as if expecting this, glanced at me with disdain: “That’s enough. I know you’re here to win me back. We can talk later. Today is my grandfather’s eightieth birthday, and Nathan and I are the loving couple in everyone’s eyes.” Nathan’s smile remained cold as he told Audrey, “You go in first and give Grandpa your gift, don’t miss the auspicious time. I’ll talk to Ethan.” Audrey looked at him with concern: “If Ethan dares to lay a hand on you, tell me, and I’ll take care of it!” With that, Audrey gave me a warning glance. I urgently stepped forward: “Audrey, I need to get something.” With so many guests coming and going, I couldn’t explicitly say I was there for Grandma’s memorial tablet. Otherwise, it would be bad luck for the Prescott patriarch, especially on his eightieth birthday. But Audrey didn’t even spare me a glance, turning directly and walking away. Nathan immediately had the bodyguards take me to the backyard, pulling out the memorial tablet. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” I roared, my eyes red, “Give it back!” Nathan chuckled, “What’s the rush for a rotten piece of wood?” I was pinned to the ground, unable to move, forced to watch Nathan throw Grandma’s memorial tablet onto the ground. He tossed a machete in front of me: “You care so much about an old woman you’re not even related to by blood, but what about your uncle?” “Your grandma’s youngest son, whom she doted on most, is lying in the hospital with kidney failure, unable to move, waiting for medical funds to save his life.” My eyes widened in fury, “What do you want to do?!” “Cut this memorial tablet, and I’ll send money to save your uncle.” “He’s the only one left in the world who’s good to you. Think carefully.” I struggled frantically: “Nathan! You beast, this is your biological grandmother’s memorial tablet! And that’s your uncle!” Nathan kicked me in the stomach: “My parents are Campbells, the heads of the Campbell Group. They have nothing to do with those peasants from the boonies!” “I’ll count to three. If you don’t cut it, he dies.” “Three—” “Two—” “I’ll cut it!” I raised the machete, my whole body trembling uncontrollably. Nathan’s lips curved into a triumphant sneer, his face filled with glee. Audrey’s voice rang out from behind: “Ethan Campbell! What are you doing?!”

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On the icy delivery bed, I lay like a discarded ragdoll, my breath long gone. The nightmare began simply because my husband—the star of Memorial Hospital’s OB department—decided I was bullying his sweet nurse, Windy. “Windy isn’t your maid. What gives you the right to order her around? Being pregnant doesn’t mean you can act like a spoiled child!” His words pierced me like ice. I was trapped in endless contractions, screaming until my throat bled, even snapping the bed’s guardrail. A ten-pound baby was stuck in my pelvis. Drained, I begged the brilliant surgeon I called my husband: “This is your child! Please, just cut me open. Any longer and neither of us will survive.” His reply was pure sarcasm. “Give it up! As a doctor, I refuse unnecessary procedures. And as your husband, I won’t sign the consent. If you can scream, you can push.” Then he had his nurse gag me with a towel. My cries faded. Through the pain, I faintly heard intimate sounds from the adjoining bathroom. The child I carried for nine months had become a weapon, tearing me apart until only crimson remained. At sunrise, after a night of passion, he finally showed a sliver of mercy. “Audrey should’ve learned her lesson. Windy, call another attending for her C-section. We’re clocking out.” He brushed it off casually. But by then, my eyes had closed forever. 1 “God, she’s so loud! Every woman goes through labor, but Audrey has to make the biggest scene!” “If you ask me, she’s spending all her pushing energy on torturing the staff and putting on a theatrical performance.” Drew pulled his white coat back on, popping the collar to hide the fresh hickey on his neck. “Dr. Drew, an eight-pound baby is already grounds for a C-section. Your wife is carrying a ten-pounder. If we’re not careful, this will end in severe dystocia…” Sam, the young male intern, swallowed hard, his face pale with anxiety. “Who gave you the right to speak? I’ve delivered thousands of babies. My clinical judgment has never been wrong!” Crack! A loud snap echoed from the delivery room. It was the sound of me breaking the bed’s handrail. Hearing my blood-curdling scream, the intern flinched but tried again. “She’s been in active labor for twenty-four hours straight. I’m worried the baby will go into fetal distress…” “Has it been that long? I completely lost track of time.” Drew glanced down the hallway at his framed “Doctor of the Year” awards. A fleeting look of concern finally crossed his face. Just as he gripped the door handle to check on me, Windy appeared. She thoughtfully handed him a cup of warm coffee. “Drew, honey. Audrey is working so hard. She must be parched from all that yelling. Let me go in with you to bring her something to drink.” Drew’s face instantly darkened. “Is she ordering you around again? She wants you to wait on her hand and foot? She doesn’t deserve you.” Tears welled up in the corners of Windy’s eyes. She bit her lip, looking utterly wronged. “No, it’s not like that. I genuinely want to help.” “Don’t make excuses for her. Since she wants to play games, let her wait a few more hours.” His expression turned thoroughly disgusted. He slammed the delivery room door shut and strode down the hall. Windy jogged to keep up, trailing closely behind him. Inside that room, my last thread of hope snapped. To distract myself from the blinding agony in my abdomen, I had bent my fingers back so hard they dislocated. My twisted hands looked grotesque. Below my waist, a river of red continued to spread, masking a fractured pelvis and a ruptured uterus. Thankfully, I didn’t have to endure it much longer. The screams they just heard were my final, desperate struggles. My soul detached, floating upward. I looked down at the ruined woman on the bed and laughed out of pure, bitter rage. I wondered if Drew would feel even an ounce of regret or heartbreak. Sadly, Drew’s eyes were full of heartbreak… for another woman. He was in the breakroom, gently popping a small blister on Windy’s pristine hand and applying ointment with tender care. “Windy, Audrey takes advantage of your sweet nature. She knows you got hurt trying to help her, yet she keeps treating you like garbage!” “Ten-pound baby? That’s just a pathetic lie. Faking an ultrasound report is child’s play! Don’t forget, even getting pregnant was her manipulative scheme to trap me!” My spirit shuddered violently. The phantom pain was almost worse than childbirth. Because of a drunken mistake on his part, I, a woman who always wanted to remain childfree, became an older mother. I softened and decided to keep the baby. I even listened to my mother-in-law’s nagging and quit my high-paying corporate job to rest. Drew was a seasoned obstetrician, yet he allowed his mother to feed me greasy, calorie-dense bone broths every single day, bloating the baby into macrosomia. Right before labor, Windy saw my cracked lips and offered to pour me hot water. She conveniently spilled it, burning her own hand. Drew immediately branded me a monster who abused medical staff. He canceled my scheduled C-section and mandated a natural birth. But the baby’s hardened, oversized skull just kept crushing my internal organs. Knowing something was horribly wrong, I mashed the call button. Drew ignored it. A passing doctor from another unit agreed to scrub in for me. Drew found out, threw a massive fit, and accused me of seducing other men out of spite. “Give it up, Audrey! As a doctor, I can deny this surgery. As your husband, I am withholding consent! If you can scream, you can push!” He trapped me inside, tore my consent forms to shreds, and announced to the floor: No wasting hospital resources! No surgery! No epidural! Natural birth only! The massive hemorrhage was inevitable. I watched helplessly as my own lifeblood poured out like a broken dam, dripping onto the tiles, seeping into the grout. Baby, Mommy really tried. I stroked my still-swollen belly and closed my eyes to the world. 2 “I still think Audrey wouldn’t lie about the baby…” In the staff room, Windy’s sugary voice broke through Drew’s angry rant. “Oh, please. I know my own wife. She’s pulled countless dirty tricks. You’re the only one innocent enough to fall for her acts, baby.” Getting the answer she wanted, Windy flashed a sly smile and buried herself in his embrace. His words made me both furious and curious. What dirty tricks? Before I could listen closer, Sam, the intern, burst into the room in a blind panic. “Dr. Drew! We have a patient coding from a massive uterine hemorrhage! We need you in the OR now!” A surge of wild joy hit me. Was there still time? Could I be saved? “That’s impossible. Out of the five patients tonight, four delivered smoothly. The only one left is…” Even the famously calm Drew lost his composure. He crumpled the chart in his hand. “Oh my god, is it Audrey?!” Windy shrieked, sprinting toward the OR ahead of him. But when she saw the stranger’s face on the operating table, she pouted in disappointment. Sam panted, trying to catch his breath. “Dr. Drew, this is a high-risk transfer from the ER. You’re the only surgeon skilled enough to handle this.” I gave a bitter, ghostly laugh, mocking my own delusional hope. Drew instantly regained his cool, snapping on his gloves and grabbing the hemostatic forceps. He was Memorial Hospital’s absolute best. Solid foundation, impeccable technique. He had pulled countless mothers back from the brink of death. Wall-to-wall plaques and awards decorated his office. What an absolute joke. I was his wife, yet I died a gruesome death on a lonely bed because of his ego and blind prejudice. Following the loud cry of a newborn and the announcement of “mother and daughter stable,” the surgery was a success. Perhaps the adrenaline sparked a tiny bit of conscience in him. He stared blankly down the hall toward my room. If he had taken just a few more steps, he would have seen the dark red pool seeping out from under my door. Blood loss of that magnitude was an instant death sentence. Drew started walking slowly toward my room. Behind him, Windy gave a seductive little smirk. She hooked her arm through his and yanked him into an empty, private staff restroom. He frowned, making a half-hearted gesture to push her away. But the look in his eyes betrayed a sickening amount of adoration. “Windy, I’m a doctor. No matter how awful Audrey acts, I still have to make sure she delivers safely.” “As for the divorce, just give me a little more time.” Windy stayed stubbornly silent, burying her face against his chest. Then, she reached up and bit down hard on his neck, leaving a deep red mark, staking her claim. Drew looked down, his gaze catching the side of Windy’s face. A bright red handprint was stamped across her delicate cheek. It looked glaringly obvious. “Who hit you? You were perfectly fine a minute ago!” His demeanor flipped instantly. He grabbed her hand, ready to storm out. “It doesn’t hurt. If hitting me makes Audrey feel better, I’ll take it!” Her cryptic words painted a very specific picture. But Windy had been attached to his hip the entire time they were in the OR. She hadn’t even been near my room. That “slap mark” was clearly drawn on with a lipstick bullet when he wasn’t looking. It was the dumbest trick in the book, yet Drew bought it without a second thought. He was ready to come scream at me, but Windy stopped him with a barrage of breathless kisses. Soft curves pressed against him, and Drew completely lost his mind, responding with animalistic hunger. We were separated by a single wall. On the left side, I lay dead, having felt every agonizing second of my organs failing. On the right side, my husband was having a steamy hookup with his mistress. My soul felt like it was being ripped to shreds, phasing back and forth through the drywall. I hated myself. I hated how stupid, how blindly trusting I had been, throwing my life away for a man like this! As if sensing my grief, two streams of clear tears slid down the cheeks of my lifeless corpse. 3 Just a second before crossing the absolute point of no return, Drew gently but firmly pushed Windy away. He rushed to the sink, splashing freezing water on his face, pinching the inside of his arm to force himself to snap out of it. “Drew, why not… Do you think I’m dirty?” Windy cried beautifully, wrapping her arms around his narrow waist from behind. “Never!” He spun around, panting heavily in frustration. “I have too much baggage right now. Windy, just wait for me. I swear I won’t let you carry the title of a homewrecker!” He smoothed her bangs and kissed her lips over and over again. Over his shoulder, Windy flashed a victorious, wicked smile straight in my direction. It was utterly absurd! To Drew, I was just “baggage,” while Windy was a precious gem who couldn’t be allowed to suffer a single grievance. Too bad Windy had shown her true colors a long time ago. Ever since she found out I was Drew’s wife, she made a point to cross my path at every prenatal checkup. She would parade around wearing his oversized doctor’s coat, using his engraved pen, calling him “honey” loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear. Once, when I needed an ultrasound, Windy pretended to be the tech. She used the probe without any gel, digging it into my skin so violently it left me bruised, caused a minor infection, and nearly triggered a miscarriage. Furious, I filed a formal complaint with hospital administration. But with no hard evidence, it was written off as a hysterical pregnant woman throwing a tantrum. Since Drew was my husband, he took some heat for it from the board. From then on, I was nothing but a drama-seeking, jealous shrew in his eyes. I was deep in my third trimester by then. Between the suffocating fights with his mother and my heavily swollen joints, I didn’t have the energy to fight for a husband who already had one foot out the door. When I checked in for labor yesterday and saw Windy assigned as my charge nurse, a cold dread washed over me. Sure enough, while setting up my IV, she “couldn’t find the vein.” She dug the needle around under my skin, intentionally hitting a nerve. The back of my hand blew up like a balloon, leaving my fingers numb and throbbing. When Drew came in to check my chart, I finally snapped and complained. His face turned to thunder. He grabbed my hospital bag and slammed it down directly onto my swollen, bruised hand. “Playing the victim now, are we?! You hold a petty grudge, so you threw boiling water on a nurse who was just trying to help you. And she hasn’t said a single bad word about you!” “She made a tiny mistake with a needle, and you’re acting like she stabbed you!” “Don’t think being pregnant means you own the world, and don’t think being my wife gives you a VIP pass! You can deliver this kid by yourself!” “Does it hurt? Good. Pain builds character.” Under his orders, Sam was forced to restrain my limbs, and Windy shoved the rag into my mouth. I had looked at him with sheer terror. “Drew, I’m not afraid of the pain! I’m afraid the baby and I will die! How can I deliver a ten-pound baby naturally? This is your child!” Drew just sneered. “Ten pounds? You think I’m an idiot?” “Drop the act. Once you push the kid out quietly and give Windy a formal, bowing apology, I might consider forgiving you.” With that, he left me to die, carrying a perfectly fine Windy away to put a band-aid on her. Now, having barely pumped the brakes on their bathroom tryst, Drew hugged a flushed Windy and finally felt a tiny drop of pity. “Audrey should have learned her lesson by now. Windy, page another attending to do her C-section. We’re clocking out.” Right then, Sam the intern came sprinting down the hall, his face devoid of color. “Dr. Drew! Something’s wrong! Your wife… I think something terrible happened!”

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When the “Century Club” scandal broke, all of Port Sterling expected me, Avery Collins, to be humiliated. Scarlett, the impostor raised by Tristan’s family, rushed to declare herself the hundredth conquest, urging me to divorce him. Whispers of schadenfreude were everywhere. Just a day earlier, I’d been managing Tristan’s PR, and now I was the joke—no, the punchline. Tristan had the nerve to taunt me, smirking, “My sister is far better in bed than you, Avery. You’re like a corpse.” I didn’t react. Instead, I pulled out my phone, showed a QR code, and stated calmly, “Our deal: $100,000 per person. One hundred people. That’s ten million dollars.” Five years of marriage taught me: love fades, money doesn’t. Tristan laughed dismissively, “You love me, Avery. Just fix this.” I almost laughed. Ridiculous? I had the full list. Scarlett’s confession was one thing, but the other ninety-nine? They included wives of the city’s most powerful men. Releasing even a few names would destroy him. This time, he was finished. … Seeing my unwavering silence, Tristan’s smirk faltered, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Are you serious?” I just smiled and pushed my phone a little closer to him. The message was clear. His face darkened. “I gave you five million three months ago,” he bit out, “two million last month, and another three hundred thousand just two days ago.” He paused, his eyes locking onto my calm face, his voice tight with frustration. “Avery, when did you become such a gold digger? Sometimes I wonder if you ever loved me, or if it was always just my money.” I let out a soft sigh, a flicker of contempt in my eyes. How dare a serial cheater even speak the word ‘love’ to me? This was the man who hadn’t even come home on our wedding night, leaving me to face our empty bridal suite alone, the talk of the town. I endured it, believing he would change. But he only got worse, sleeping with the one person I despised most in the world: my so-called sister. That was the day I broke. I’d stormed in with a kitchen knife, ready to end them both. But security had me pinned to the ground in seconds. The only blood spilled was my own, from where the blade had sliced my hand. A pool of crimson spread across the pristine floor. Tristan showed no concern. He just threw money at the problem. A hundred thousand. A million. Ten million. Each payment wasn’t just hush money; it was ironclad proof of every agonizing night I’d spent in this sham of a marriage. So I learned my lesson. I stopped demanding his loyalty. As long as the money kept coming, it was enough. I even turned his philandering into a business. It was, in its own twisted way, exhilarating. Before I could respond to his accusation, the door burst open. Scarlett rushed in, her eyes red, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Sister, how can you be so petty at a time like this? Blackwood Industries’ stock is plummeting! Can’t you think about Tristan for once?” Her voice was thick with righteous fury, as if I were the one who had committed some unforgivable crime. The irony was suffocating. She was the one who’d drunkenly blabbed about his ‘Century Club’ to the press, and now she was here, moralizing, demanding I clean up her mess. A wave of moved emotion washed over Tristan’s face. He looked at me, his gaze hardening. “That’s enough, Avery. Stop this nonsense. This is your duty as Mrs. Blackwood.” My tongue went numb. Duty. The word landed on me like a mountain, crushing the air from my lungs. Years ago, when my family’s company was on the brink of collapse, my parents married me off to him. They called it a strategic alliance. In reality, they sold me into servitude. I was so naive back then. The first time I had to do PR for one of his affairs, I was carrying his child. Swollen with shame and fury, I screamed that I would rather die. Tristan had just laughed, his voice cold as ice. “My family invested five hundred million into your father’s company. What right do you have to refuse me? This is your duty as Mrs. Blackwood.” Terrified of angering him, my parents dragged me to the car. I fought them, thrashing wildly, until a brutal jolt to my belly sent me crumpling to the ground. I lost the baby. Tristan used my miscarriage as a PR tool, feeding a story to the ravenous media. “Mrs. Blackwood, in her desperate rush to defend her husband, tragically suffered a miscarriage. The couple’s deep bond is undeniable, putting all vicious rumors to rest.” His crisis was averted. The price was my child. 2 A humorless smile touched my lips, but my eyes were cold. “Without the ten million, I’m not going on that stage. Whoever made the mess can clean it up.” The room fell into a dead silence. Tristan’s head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with disbelief. His friends, who had been lounging around, stared, dumbfounded. “She really grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, didn’t she?” one of them sneered, not bothering to lower his voice. “No class. Her husband’s getting crucified out there, and she’s trying to cut a deal.” “Her parents never should have taken her back,” another added. “She’s practically inhuman.” Tristan had never demanded respect for me, so his friends felt free to say whatever they wanted. Their words were like a blade scraping against bone, carving away at me piece by piece. They all knew how much that old wound still bled. I could have been brought home so much earlier. When I was twelve, my real parents finally showed up at my foster home. But Scarlett, the girl they’d raised, grabbed a knife and pressed it to her own skin, screaming that if they took me, she would die right there. They saw Scarlett’s knife. They heard her empty threats. They saw the superficial scratch that barely broke the skin. What they didn’t see was me, thin as a reed, covered in bruises, tears streaming down my face. They just shoved a wad of cash at my foster parents and offered me a hollow promise. “Just one more year, sweetheart. We’ll come for you.” The moment their car was gone, my foster father kicked me to the ground, snatched the money, and told me to go slop the pigs. So I gritted my teeth and waited a year. Scarlett pulled the same stunt again. And again, I was left behind, discarded like an old toy. It went on like that, year after year, until I was eighteen. Only then did they finally pull me from that hell. Scarlett had made her point. I was nothing. Tristan knew all of this. He once held me and promised, “I’m here now. No one will ever hurt you again.” His heart pounded like a war drum against my ear, and for a moment, I let myself believe him. I’d bet on the wrong man. “Sister, you just hate me, don’t you?” Scarlett sobbed, her tears flowing freely. “I’ll get on my knees, I’ll do anything. Just help Tristan clear his name. You can kill me afterwards, I don’t care.” She produced a small penknife, theatrically pressing the tip to her throat. “Scarlett!” Tristan lunged, snatching the knife from her hand. He turned to me, his eyes blazing with fury. He took a deep, steadying breath, abandoning any hope of me attending the press conference. He put a protective arm around Scarlett and led her to the car. His friends jeered. “Ooh, someone’s in for it now. Tristan is terrifying when he’s angry. You’re gonna get what’s coming to you.” A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. I immediately pulled up the live stream on my phone. A few moments later, Tristan appeared on screen. 3 He was impeccable in a tailored suit, the picture of calm composure, as if the scandal hadn’t touched him at all. His expression was one of weary resignation. “I apologize for taking up public resources,” he began, his voice smooth and steady. “The ‘Century Club’ story is a complete fabrication. My wife and I had a disagreement, and in a moment of anger, she created this… lie. Ultimately, the fault is mine. I hope you can all understand.” He was poised, his smile flawless. In a few short sentences, he had thrown me to the wolves. Gasps rippled through the press corps. They couldn’t believe I was the unhinged one. My friend Jessica, a reporter in the crowd, wasn’t buying it. “A fabrication?” she challenged, her voice ringing out. “But Miss Scarlett Collins, your supposed hundredth conquest, has already publicly admitted to it. Are you calling her a liar now?” Her question was a lightning bolt, electrifying the room. “Yes, Mr. Blackwood, your mistress confessed!” “What is your relationship with Miss Collins? Are you really divorcing your wife for her?” Tristan’s gaze found Jessica, but his smile didn’t waver. “Scarlett is my wife’s younger sister. She’s a gentle, timid girl who has always been afraid of her sister. She was bullied into lying. It was nothing more than a childish prank between them.” Jessica opened her mouth to argue, but Tristan cut her off, his eyes like steel. “I know you and my wife are close, Miss. But this is not the time to let personal feelings cloud your judgment.” Before Jessica could retort, her phone rang. After a brief, hushed conversation, the color drained from her face. She shot a look of pure hatred at the stage before rushing out of the room. Just like that, the tide had turned. With his masterful manipulation, Tristan hadn’t just cleared his name. He’d painted me as a liar and a cruel, abusive sister. That night, he bought an army of bots to scrub his image clean online and bury me in filth. Tristan’s legion of devotees swarmed my social media accounts. “You backstabbing bitch, you should kill yourself!” “No wonder your parents didn’t want you. If I were them, I’d have gotten rid of a monster like you too.” “Ugly and useless. Married for years and still just a barren hen.” “No, no, she had a kid. But she lost it… It was karma.” The world went dark. A wave of pain so intense it buckled my knees washed over me. When I came to, my fingers were wet with tears. All these years as his wife… and I meant less to him than a one-night stand. He had taken my deepest trauma and twisted it into a weapon to use against me. Tristan Blackwood… you have finally frozen my heart solid. I blinked my eyes open as the bedroom door creaked. The soft sound of footsteps approached, and then Tristan’s hand was on my shoulder. His lips brushed against my ear. “Still want to play games with me?” he murmured, his voice thick with triumph. When I didn’t answer, my face pale and drawn, he grunted, his gaze turning cold. But his tone softened slightly. “This was just a small lesson. I don’t want to hear any more threats from you. Just be a good little Mrs. Blackwood. I know you can do it. You used to be so good at it, weren’t you?” His hot breath tickled my ear as his large hand slid under my clothes. A jolt of revulsion shot through me. I sprang up and slapped him, hard. The sharp crack echoed in the silent room. Tristan’s expression turned murderous. His face, now bearing the red imprint of my hand, twisted into a snarl. “Fine,” he hissed, “Fine. Fine.” The slam of the front door rattled the walls. I raised my head, my eyes swollen and red, and walked numbly to the bedroom to pack a bag. But then my phone rang. It was Jessica. Her voice was trembling, a mixture of panic and sorrow. “Avery… I was fired.” “What?” A roaring sound filled my ears. I stumbled, grabbing the bedpost for support.

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When my eyes opened again, I found myself back in elementary school. It all started when Mom was diagnosed with lung cancer. To scrape together money for her treatment, I was forced to “sell” myself for three hundred thousand dollars. But just as I was about to complete the hospital admission paperwork, I discovered the money in my card had vanished. Panicked, I was on the verge of a breakdown. I pulled out my phone to call the police, but Dad suddenly rushed over and snatched it away. “Bella,” Dad said, his voice laced with a coldness I’d never heard, “I confiscated the money. No matter how short we are, you can’t demean yourself like this.” He continued, “If you ever run into trouble inheriting the family business, won’t the entire Prescott family be sold off by you?” “I’m so disappointed in you. You really couldn’t stand the test.” Finally, he spat, “From this day on, I, Arthur Prescott, disown you!” and sped away in his luxury car. The shock made me cough up blood. My body was already riddled with damage from the experimental drugs I’d taken to earn money. In that moment, I could only lie on the ground, waiting to die in despair. 1 When I opened my eyes again, Mom was calling Dad to dinner. The table was laden with delicious food, but Dad frowned, finding it hard to eat. Mom didn’t know that, at the time, Dad was already worth a few million dollars, accustomed to gourmet meals. Yet, at home, he claimed to be a mere janitor, supplementing his income by shining shoes. His monthly salary barely covered his own expenses, and because Grandma’s illness was severe, he was supposedly tens of thousands in debt each month. Growing up, I never really spent much of his money. Whether it was diapers and formula when I was little, or stationery and clothes as I got older. Ask, and he had no money. Ask, and he’d play the pauper. Mom sympathized with him, never asked him for a dime, and often worked three jobs a day just to help ease his burden. She even told me to listen to Dad. “Your father works so hard. Even if he doesn’t earn much, it’s commendable that he’s willing to work. Many people would have given up in his situation, let alone provide for his mother.” Oh, my love-struck mom. I didn’t argue, just nodded silently. Then I wrote about Dad in my essay, titled “My Janitor Dad.” I wrote that being a janitor was a noble profession. Though many might see it as insignificant, it genuinely transformed our environment, making it clean and comfortable. My dad was also a great father. Though many might see his salary as insignificant, this job truly allowed him to fulfill his self-worth and was a part of society’s backbone. My teacher was astonished, praising my writing as superior to ninety-nine percent of elementary school students. She then submitted my work to the city competition. It won first place without a doubt and was selected for publication in a magazine. My teacher was overjoyed, stating that she would definitely interview my dad at the upcoming parent-teacher conference. I asked her if my dad would be happy. She smiled and patted my head, “Of course, he’ll be so proud to have a daughter like you.” Hearing that, I smiled contentedly. Dad loves pretending to be a janitor, right? Then I’ll broadcast it far and wide, letting everyone know he’s a janitor. 2 Elementary school was a breeze for me. My only concern was when I could finally eat the lunch Mom packed. I rested my head on my desk, doodling circles in my textbook, waiting for the last bell to ring. Sarah, my deskmate, was also hungry. I watched as she dipped her head, swiftly pulling a chocolate bar from under her desk and popping it into her mouth. I could almost smell the distinct sweet scent of chocolate, my gaze involuntarily drawn to it. Sensing my attention, Sarah smirked, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. “Never had one, have you? My dad bought it for me, and we have tons more at home!” “Want a piece? Kneel and lick my shoes, and I’ll give you some.” I shook my head, “That stuff is disgusting.” I’d once begged Dad for chocolate, only to be scolded. Later, when Mom fell ill, I couldn’t bear to buy any myself. Not until I got the money from the drug trial. Even with my stomach already incredibly fragile, I couldn’t resist buying one bar. I planned to savor it, but once I started, I devoured it greedily. The silky, rich taste made me feel like I was going to swallow my own tongue. Yet, less than three seconds later, I was violently sick, my stomach cramping so badly I rolled on the floor. Now, the thought of chocolate immediately brought a sharp, twisting pain to my abdomen. Sarah rolled her eyes and snorted, “Such a drama queen!” That expression, it was so similar to that woman’s. And that woman, like Sarah, lived a pampered life, carrying expensive handbags, with crimson nails and lipstick, her skin glowing with a smooth radiance. When I died on the cold hospital floor, my soul floated in the air. I saw Dad pull up in his luxury car at the beauty salon. Sarah and her mother emerged, all smiles, and slipped into the back seat of the lavish vehicle. Only then did I realize that Sarah’s mother was the woman Dad had on the side. While Mom and I ate watery porridge and instant noodles to save money, Sarah and her mom were tired of Japanese, French, and Korean fine dining. While Mom and I avoided the hospital for minor injuries to save money, Sarah’s dog had a five-hundred-dollar grooming session. While I was scrambling for living expenses and medical bills, Sarah was planning a round-the-world trip. There was too much… more than I could even recount. Finally, the dismissal bell rang. I clutched my lunchbox and went to the garden outside to savor the taste of my mother’s love. After school that afternoon. Mom was bustling around the kitchen alone, the floor covered with all sorts of ingredients. Turns out Dad’s investors were coming for dinner. They specifically asked for home-cooked food. Dad, not wanting to waste money, simply bought the ingredients and had Mom cook at home. 3 “These are big shots. If they’re happy, even a small investment from them could make me rich.” Dad kept emphasizing. Then he sent me back to my room to do homework, telling me not to bother them. I nodded innocently and quietly worked on my assignments. Half an hour later, the aroma of food wafted from the kitchen. My stomach rumbled; my lunch had long since digested, and it was time for dinner. But I waited for hours until Mom came in, clutching two large steamed buns. “You must be starving. Here, have one.” I frowned, glancing outside. Dad and the investors were happily eating. “Mom, I want to eat too.” Mom sighed, “Be good. Your dad is doing something important. Maybe if they’re pleased and invest in him, he won’t have to work so hard as a janitor anymore.” I swear, my mom was such a naive airhead. She didn’t know, or chose not to believe, that even if my dad really did strike it rich, the first thing he’d think of wouldn’t be giving us a good life. Because at that point, Dad already had a fair bit of money. After this partnership succeeded, he’d truly skyrocket, transforming from an unknown small business owner into a CEO worth hundreds of millions. Yet, he would persistently pretend to be poor in front of Mom and me, constantly using the excuse of “testing” us to exploit us both. In the end, Mom and I wouldn’t get a single dime from him! I took a bite of the bun. The usually sweet bread now tasted bland and dry compared to the rich aroma of all the meat dishes. I put down the bun, and ignoring Mom’s protests, rushed straight to the dining table. “Dad, I want to eat too!” I raised my voice, yelling loudly. Everyone froze and looked at me. Dad frowned, raising a hand to send me back to my room, “Stop messing around, you’ll get food later.” I refused to go, instead putting on a drooling expression. Wiping my mouth with my hand, I then used a child’s exaggerated, booming voice: “I can put on a show for you! I can recite ancient poems!” With that, I swayed my head back and forth. “The river tide connects with the sea’s expanse, the moon on the ocean rises with the tide. Its shimmering waves travel a thousand miles, where can the spring river be without moonlight…” I recited it all in one breath, then smiled ingratiatingly, pointing at the ribs in front of me. “Can I eat now?” The investors seemed amused. “Of course, little greedy cat.” Dad chuckled, “Why don’t you thank Mr. Li?” I picked up a small bowl, scooped a few pieces, and then burst into tears. “Thank you, Mr. Li, thank you, Mr. Li!” “If you hadn’t come, Mom and I wouldn’t get to eat such delicious meat.” 4 Everyone’s expressions varied, the atmosphere becoming horribly awkward. Mr. Li’s expression instantly grew serious. “You mean you usually can’t afford meat?” Dad snapped out of his shock, frantically yelling at me to go back inside, “What nonsense are you spouting? Get back to your room!” But I refused. I clutched my small bowl, sobbing uncontrollably. “That’s right, Mr. Li, my family is super, super poor.” “Dad is a janitor, and sometimes he even shines shoes for others. Even with all that, the money he earns is never enough for himself. Mom has to work three jobs a day to help him pay off debts, and I have to save every penny.” As I spoke, I looked down. Following my gaze, my socks had two holes, perfectly revealing my big toes. Everyone’s expressions were complex, especially Mr. Li’s. After a moment, he finally understood. “Arthur Prescott, are you trying to con us?” “Didn’t you make money last time? Did you gamble it away or lose it?” At his words, the other two also looked alert. Dad panicked, quickly putting on a smile and explaining. “No, no, the kid’s just making things up!” “Making things up, you say?” Mr. Li pointed at my socks. “Those socks haven’t been torn for just a day or two, have they?” “You talk a good game about your projects, but I think we should put this collaboration on hold. Let’s talk another time.” As they spoke, they started to stand up. Dad desperately tried to dissuade them. “Kids go through socks fast!” Me: “Yes, sir, I go through a pair of socks every year!” “Kids just love to lie!” I quickly added: “Sir, my essay about Dad even won an award, and last time I got perfect scores in English, Math, and Science!” The others packed their things with increasing speed, slamming the door shut after just a few moments. Dad chased after them, almost getting his nose squashed by the door. Ignoring the pain, he stumbled after them, trying to explain. But it was no use. Mr. Li was convinced Dad was truly destitute and was desperately trying to trick them into being his financial saviors, so he naturally gave him no quarter. Dad’s hard work for half a year was ruined. He came home with a face as dark as thunderclouds. Immediately, he unleashed his fury on Mom: “Look at your well-raised daughter! How dare she publicly call me a janitor?” Mom looked bewildered. “But you are one, aren’t you?” Dad choked, as if only then realizing that being a janitor was a role he’d assigned himself. He himself was already disgusted by it. 5 Mom turned to look at me; I was already seated at the table, digging in heartily. Mom’s cooking really was exceptionally good! My stomach was healthy now, my body strong, and my appetite excellent. Seeing me eat so ravenously, Mom, who was about to scold me, suddenly got a little misty-eyed. “I think… Bella has a point too.” Dad furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?” Mom took a deep breath. “I think Bella isn’t wrong. Bella is only 11, she’s a child. What’s wrong with her wanting to eat something nice?” “Ever since I married you, I’ve always felt such dread, such scarcity. Every day I’ve been rushing around to make ends meet, but Arthur, how can you feast and indulge yourself without a single thought for your daughter?” Dad froze, his expression somewhat awkward. “Me, what are you saying? I invited them to dinner, wasn’t it for the future?” “If I make it big, won’t I be able to eat whatever I want? Why would I act like a starving ghost and eat now?” “Now look! It’s all because of her, offending my investors. After this meal, you can starve!” Mom’s brows furrowed, she seemed conflicted. As if she was wavering. Dad turned, his face menacing, and scolded me. “Because of your greed, I missed a chance to get rich!” I put down the big chicken leg. Pouting, on the verge of tears: “I’m, I’m sorry, Dad.” I couldn’t help but let out a burp. “I was too hungry. This is my fault, I couldn’t control my stomach.” “But Dad, I have good news for you. I got first place in my entire grade! Can you come to my parent-teacher conference tomorrow? Our teacher specifically asked, and she’ll praise you in front of everyone!” Dad looked displeased, waving his hand to refuse immediately. “You made me lose so much face. I’m not going.” He turned and sat on the sofa, playing on his phone. A moment later, he saw something and called my name. “Bella, what time does that parent-teacher conference start?”

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