Category: English

The video call on New Year’s Eve came without warning. On the screen was my eight-years-younger self, excitedly sharing the news of Amelia Vance’s confession. His eyes shone, and he spoke effusively about a beautiful future, saying Amelia would plant all his favorite flowers, spend every New Year’s Eve with him, and forever pamper him like a prince. I listened quietly, a faint smile playing on my lips, not interrupting his dreams. Suddenly, he stopped, his gaze sweeping over the empty room behind me, and he asked curiously, “Where’s Amelia? We must be incredibly happy eight years from now, right?” I didn’t answer, simply slowly rotated the phone camera, aiming it at the other end of the living room. There, Amelia Vance was pressed tightly against the floor-to-ceiling window by a stranger, kissing him passionately. Amelia’s body was pushed slightly forward, one hand leaving a damp print on the fogged glass. She gasped softly, even naughtily pinching the man’s butt. The man seemed somewhat uncomfortable, lifting his head. Only then did he see me through the glass, clearly startled. Immediately after, he clung to Amelia again, as if boneless, rubbing against her playfully. “Amelia, is there someone else in your house?” Amelia was unconcerned, even deepening the kiss, matching the man’s posture. In the midst of the kiss, she opened her eyes and looked at me, her gaze filled with coldness and amusement. “Don’t mind him,” she said casually. “He won’t care, will he?” 1 Care? I’d grown tired of saying that years ago. From hysterical crying to numb acceptance, and finally, no longer even having the will to speak. However, the eight-years-younger me on the screen had turned ashen, his hand trembling as he ended the call first. But the performance by the window was escalating. I simply lowered my head and sent a New Year’s greeting to my sister, who had long since vanished, to distract myself. The man now laughed excitedly, his hands bolder as they roamed over Amelia. “Where did you find a husband so… understanding?” Then, they intertwined, coats, ties, shirts… scattered all the way up the stairs. Facing such a scene had become a regular feature, a colorful movie playing in this cold villa. I couldn’t even bothered to lift an eyelid. As the awkward holiday comedy on TV grew drowsy, and I was on the verge of falling asleep on the sofa, the housemaid woke me. He spoke with difficulty. “Ms. Vance asked you to go buy a box of… lubricant…” On New Year’s Eve, the streets were deserted, with only a few novelty shops open. I walked against the cold wind for over half an hour. When I returned, I vaguely heard two maids inside discussing me. “Mr. Thompson is truly pitiful. These past eight years, he’s lived worse than a servant.” “Well, whose fault is it that he married Ms. Vance through such underhanded means? For Ms. Vance to even give him a title is already being more than generous.” Memories violently pulled me back to the past. Amelia had gone traveling to a rural village, and we met, fell in love. Our love was pure and fervent, like the mountain wind. I followed her, risking everything, to the city where she lived. But her father vehemently opposed it, despising me as a country bumpkin. Yet, Amelia had tightly clasped my hand and said, “Don’t be afraid. I’ll make my dad agree to us.” Later, my sister, who lived in that rural village and had never gambled, suddenly incurred a massive gambling debt. Desperate, she listened to someone’s suggestion. If she could just get me into Amelia’s bed, making it a fait accompli, the Vance family, to save face, would surely let Amelia marry me, and the debt could be repaid. My sister drugged both Amelia and me. After a chaotic night, Amelia’s gaze at me, once full of tender affection, turned cold and disgusted. She married me, and she also threw a check at me. “Remember, this money, you owe me.” Marriage, from what should have been a mutually loving dream, had turned into what she perceived as a conspiracy engineered by my sister and me to trap her. It wasn’t that I hadn’t brought up divorce later. Each time I did, she would sneer, “You want a divorce? Fine. Pay back that fifty million, principal and interest. Otherwise, I’ll find your sister and make sure she rots in jail.” My sister was long gone, whereabouts unknown. This debt was cemented onto me. Amelia opened the bedroom door, her upper body covered in bright red marks, glaringly obvious. “What took you so long?” She snatched the box from my hand. Its plastic edge brushed my cheek, a stinging sensation. “He’s just too big; he couldn’t wait.” My peripheral vision caught the naked figure on the large bed in the room. My stomach churned. I turned to flee. But she asked me from behind, with amusement, “Why don’t you stay and join us?” I finally couldn’t stand it anymore. I stumbled to the toilet and vomited violently. I video-called my eight-years-younger self again. I asked, “Do you think she still loves me?” He cried, still disbelieving. “How could she become like this? She clearly said she only loved me!” I knew that without having personally experienced these years of despair, words alone couldn’t convey the depth of it. Perhaps, he would still, like I once did, make excuses for her, believing it was just a temporary misunderstanding. I didn’t blame him, but invited him to keep watching. On New Year’s Day, when I woke up, the man from last night was already gone. But he had left a pair of underwear on the sofa. Amelia followed my gaze, then suddenly wrapped her arms around my waist, pulling me closer. “What, are you jealous?” She looked up, intending to kiss me, but I instinctively recoiled. This made the rare hint of tenderness in her eyes quickly turn to mockery. “Always this miserable, half-dead look.” “You only ever sound like a human being the night you drugged me and climbed into my bed.” Her words stabbed at my heart, a wave of shame spreading through me. But she just pushed me away coldly. “Alright, it’s New Year’s Day. We have to go back to the family estate to greet my dad.” Amelia’s father was the person I least wanted to face. All these years, his gaze at me had always been like I was some kind of filth. But to my surprise, this time, he didn’t even glance at me. He was on the sofa, chatting happily with the same man who had been embracing Amelia last night. It turned out he was Leo Thorne, Amelia’s original arranged fiancé. Mr. Vance patted Leo’s hand, his eyes full of satisfaction. “Good boy. If it hadn’t been for that wretched boy, you would be our son-in-law by now.” Amelia also walked over, smiling playfully. “Dad, I’m already married. Why bring all this up? If you like him, just have him come over more often to keep you company.” “Then what capacity would I come in? Should I call you ‘sister’?” Leo chuckled. But the term “sister” had tormented me all last night as they had indulged themselves, punctuated by its repeated use. At this moment, they exchanged smiles, looking like a true family. And I stood awkwardly at the periphery, like an abrupt outsider. At dinner, simply because Leo said, “I’d like some beef,” Mr. Vance had the kitchen prepare an entire table of beef dishes. Our ethnic group had a tradition of not eating beef; we couldn’t even touch it. Seeing me hesitate to pick up my chopsticks, Mr. Vance finally turned his gaze to me, his face full of annoyance. “What are you standing around for? Eat! Don’t be so delicate!” “In the Vance family, you should do as the locals do, understand?!” I looked at Amelia helplessly, placing my last hope in her. At least she used to understand me. Then, she picked up something that looked like a mushroom and placed it on my plate. “Dad, don’t scare him.” The thoughtfulness in her tone made me momentarily see the Amelia of the past. “This isn’t beef, Adrian. Try it, it tastes good.” I ate it without suspicion, but the moment my teeth closed around it, Leo’s laughter broke the silence. He pointed at me, his voice innocent yet cruel. “Look! He ate the beef!” “I told you, there’s no such thing as beliefs or taboos. It’s all just an excuse, putting on airs!” Amelia had lied to me. I stumbled to the restroom, sticking my fingers down my throat. I wanted to vomit out that piece of meat, along with all the humiliations and betrayals I had swallowed these past years. Physiological tears blurred my vision. I video-called my eight-years-younger self again. This time, he was silent for a very, very long time. Then, he began to recall, by the clear stream in our village. She looked at me, her eyes bright like stars: “Adrian, I did my research beforehand. Your people don’t eat beef, right?” “When we’re together, I’ll be with you, and I’ll never touch it either.” But now? The me on the other end of the video was even more despairing than I was. “This isn’t… not what I wanted…” He cried, his voice raw, repeating over and over: “It hurts too much.” Does it hurt? But I had grown used to it, unable to shed another tear. Amelia disappeared for several days again. As I spent my days staring blankly at my phone, I unexpectedly received a message from my sister, asking to meet. The message was like a ray of light in the darkness, making me believe she had come to pull me out of this mire. But in reality, my sister grasped my hand, trembling. “Adrian, I’m so sorry… I think I’ve been set up…” “They’re demanding thirty million from me now, or they’ll take my life…” Hope shattered in an instant, replaced by a deeper helplessness. The previous fifty million had already nailed me to the pillar of shame, forcing me to sell myself for money, tormented day and night. How could I now ask Amelia for more? As I stood bewildered, the positive result on my pregnancy test seemed like a cruel joke—Amelia was pregnant with my child. I finally waited for Amelia to come home. “Thirty million for this child, is it a fair trade?” My voice was so calm, it felt unfamiliar even to myself. Her pupils constricted. The next second, she grabbed my throat, shoving me violently against the wall. A suffocating sensation instantly overwhelmed me. Her eyes surged with fury and undisguised hatred. “How did I not realize before that you were such a schemer? You can even put a price tag on the child in my womb!” “Do you even have a heart, damn it? Aside from money, is there no genuine feeling between us?” Genuine feeling? All my genuine feelings had long ago, through countless nights of humiliation over these eight years, been ground into dust by her own hands. A gust of wind, and nothing was left. I ignored her malice, stubbornly asking her, “A trade?” She was finally completely enraged by my attitude, threw me onto the bed, and recklessly tore at my clothes. “Amelia Vance! You’re pregnant with my child! Not now!” As I struggled desperately, she pulled out a card and threw it at my face. “Fine! I’ll buy this child’s life!” She leaned close, her breath hot on my ear, every word a stab to my heart. “If it’s gone, that’s on me too.” That night was a living hell. I took her to the hospital to confirm. The child was still there. I touched her still-flat belly, feeling a bond for the first time. A few days later, Amelia returned home. “I’ll stay with you until he’s born, to be worth your thirty million.” She paused, lost in thought as she looked at her slightly swollen abdomen. Then, she violently slammed the ash tray next to her onto the floor. A jarring crash. “You win!” She didn’t even glance at my feet, cut by the shards, but turned and slammed the door shut again. That night, I once again video-called my eight-years-younger self. “I don’t want my future days to be like this…” He shook his head, his voice broken. “I don’t want my baby to be born into a home filled only with humiliation… I don’t…” Listening to his repeated whispers, I suddenly felt that perhaps everything could still change. A few days after the thirty million was transferred, my sister asked to meet me again. This time, she cried, repeatedly hitting herself. “Little brother, I’m not human! I owe another ten million… I swear, this is the last time!” I stared at her blankly, unable to think of any other reason to beg Amelia. I could only wait for her to come home again, then kneel before her. “Give me another ten million. I’ll do anything you want!” Amelia kicked me away, then suddenly laughed. “What part of you is still worth ten million?” Watching her retreating figure as she slammed the door again, I knew she had probably shown me all the leniency she had. But my sister then sent me a video of her being beaten on the ground by several people. I had no choice but to call Amelia over and over, pleading: “Please, I’ll even die for you!” Then, I listened all night to her and Leo’s activities, without receiving a single reply. At dawn, when I found my sister again, she was already lying on the ground, covered in blood. She used her last strength to grasp me: “Little brother… I’m so sorry for what I did to you, for not stopping you from being with her…” I froze, hearing. “Yesterday I found out, it was the Vance family who tricked me into gambling… a setup…” “Every time… it was… even the forced marriage was their idea…” Every word, I understood, but combined they were so cruel. The Vance family? Then what was all I endured these eight years? Was I foolish, or did I deserve it? I didn’t even have time to digest the crushing truth. The doctor informed me that my sister had multiple organ failure and was in critical condition. Deeper than despair was another despair. Just as I was crying, begging the doctor to save my sister, Amelia appeared at the hospital, embracing Leo, who had twisted his back in bed last night. “Amelia Vance!” The hatred, accumulated for too long, exploded. I rushed forward like a madman, grabbing her collar, becoming hysterical. “It was you! It was your family who set up my sister! Wasn’t it?!” Amelia froze, then frowned. “What nonsense are you talking about! I wouldn’t stoop to such underhanded tactics!” I pointed at my sister, teetering between life and death on the hospital bed, my fingertips trembling. “Amelia Vance, stop pretending! What is it you can’t do?!” “You played us, my sister and me, like puppets. Are you satisfied now?!” Amelia’s face darkened, her eyes turning completely cold. “Adrian, remember, this is all your own doing!” She gestured to the doctor beside her. “Get all the doctors in the hospital over here, treat Mr. Thorne’s back.” “As for certain half-dead people, no need to waste medical resources.” One by one, the doctors, ignoring my screams and pleas, removed all the tubes and equipment from my sister. Soon, my sister’s body convulsed one last time, then fell silent. I collapsed to the ground, crying, watching Amelia leave, embraced by Leo. “Amelia Vance, if I could do it all over again, I would never repeat the same mistakes.” A sharp pain suddenly shot through her lower abdomen. Warm liquid gushed out, spreading down her pants. Before losing consciousness, I made one last call to my eight-years-younger self. “Leave her.” I spoke with a dying despair. “We can live again.” He bit his lip hard, and finally nodded. “Okay.” Perhaps out of a last shred of conscience, or perhaps remembering Adrian had lost both his sister and his child, Amelia uncharacteristically returned home early. Pushing open the door, a strange emptiness washed over her. She hadn’t yet pinpointed what was missing. Just then, the maid brought her a cup of coffee. She took a sip, then spat it out, frowning deeply. “The taste is off. Have Adrian make it again.” The maid looked bewildered. “Adrian? Sir, which Adrian?” Amelia’s heart inexplicably tightened. Impatiently, she said, “My husband, Adrian!” The maid looked even more confused. “Ms. Vance, when did you get married? We haven’t heard you have a husband.”

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The first thing I remember after the car crash is a memory from three years ago. Back then, Ember and I hadn’t broken up yet. My voice was thick with tears as I dialed his number, telling him my head hurt so much. There was a long silence on the other end. Then, Ember’s voice, cold as ice, asked if I thought this was some kind of sick joke. He hung up on me. I was completely lost. About five minutes later, he called back. He told me to give him the address, and that this had better not be some stupid dare. 1 I gave him the address of the hospital. Half an hour later, Ember appeared at my bedside. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, looking like he’d traveled a long way. My nose stung with the urge to cry, and I threw myself into his arms. He smelled faintly of tobacco, a scent that felt foreign to me. The Ember I knew didn’t smoke. His body went rigid. He gripped my wrist and pulled me away. “Chad, what the hell are you doing?” I stumbled back onto the bed, my eyes instantly welling up. “Ember, you don’t love me anymore! We’re done!” “Done?” Ember let out a short, harsh laugh, as if my words were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “We broke up three years ago.” His words hit me like a thunderclap. A wave of pain crashed over me. I clutched my head, my brow furrowing tightly as the room spun around me. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was Ember slamming the call button by the bed, his voice sharp with panic. “Doctor!” When I woke up again, the sky outside was dark. The hospital room was silent. My heart sank. Ember was gone. The doctor told me the amnesia was caused by a blood clot in my brain. He couldn’t say for sure when my memories would return. I lay in bed, my mind replaying scene after scene of Ember and me, sweet moments that felt like they’d happened only yesterday. He had always doted on me, spoiled me. He would never lie to me, and he would never, ever say the word “breakup.” The more I thought about it, the more miserable I became, and the tears started to fall again. Just then, the door opened, and Ember walked in, carrying a takeout container. He was still in the same suit, his tall, lean frame getting closer and closer. I couldn’t hold it back anymore and started sobbing. “I thought… I thought you left…” A tissue was held out in front of me. I took it, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. Ember pulled a chair up to the bedside. He opened the container, and the rich aroma of food filled the small room. It was a steaming oxtail soup, and it looked incredible. Grumble. My stomach protested loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Ember glanced at me, then slowly ladled a bowl of soup and held it out. I didn’t take it. The words slipped out before I could stop them. “Babe, you feed me.” His hand froze in mid-air. The way he looked at me, it was like he was looking at a complete stranger. Reality came crashing back. We broke up, he’d said. A heavy weight settled in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I fought to keep my emotions in check, my voice muffled. “It’s just… a habit. I’ll get used to it.” “Is that what you call Nathan, too?” Ember’s lips curled into a sarcastic smile. “You’re hurt. How come I don’t see him here?” Nathan? He was a senior from our university. Ember, being the jealous guy he was, had never wanted me to be too friendly with him after he’d asked me out once. I was completely confused. “What does he have to do with anything?” Ember’s gaze clouded over, but he didn’t push the subject. Trying to remember things just made my head ache, so I let it go. My eyes were fixed on the chunks of meat in the bowl. “So, are you going to feed me or not?” He glanced at the IV in my hand and finally relented. “It’s hot!” “I want the broth.” “Come closer.” I couldn’t help it. I fell back into our old rhythm, whining and being playful with him. Ember paused for a second, then obediently scooted his chair closer. His face hadn’t changed much from my memories. But looking closer, I could see the differences. The boyish cockiness was gone, replaced by a quiet, steady confidence that showed in his every move. A wave of sadness washed over me. “Ember,” I whispered, “why did we break up?” He never answered my question. He took a work call and left. Later, I found a train ticket in my purse. The departure city was Northwood, over six hundred miles away. Vague, blurry fragments flashed in my mind, but I couldn’t piece them together. The next day, two police officers came to my room. That’s when I learned that the driver who hit me had been caught. The reason he’d done it? He was in a bad mood. As for compensation, that was something I’d have to handle myself. That evening, the doctor came by on his rounds and reminded me to settle the hospital bill. I nodded, agreeing readily. But when I took my bank card to the payment window, the clerk informed me I had insufficient funds. Flustered, I fumbled for another card. Still insufficient. The clerk was getting impatient. “Which card is it? If you don’t have the money, let the next person go.” My face burned with humiliation. “This one.” A hand with long, elegant fingers slid a credit card through the window. Ember paid the bill for me. The clerk’s attitude changed in a heartbeat, her voice suddenly sweet. “Here’s your card back, sir.” Ember took it, his face like stone. “Apologize to her. Unless you’d prefer to receive a formal complaint.” The smile on the clerk’s face froze. After a moment, she grudgingly muttered an apology to me. Back in the room, Ember set down the takeout and turned to leave. I panicked. I ran and wrapped my arms tight around his waist, instinctively nuzzling my face against his chest. His breathing hitched. His body was ramrod straight, and his voice came out low and rough. “Chad, let go.” I refused, pressing my full weight against him and looking up with pleading eyes. “Ember, don’t push me away.” “I feel dizzy…” The room fell silent. Then, Ember suddenly swept me into his arms. I instinctively hooked my arms around his neck, my gaze fixed on the sharp line of his jaw. My voice trembled. “Ember, what… what are you doing?” The words were barely out of my mouth before he unceremoniously dropped me onto the bed. The romantic bubble in the air popped with a sad little poof. A week later, I was discharged. Ember came to pick me up. I stared at the luxury car for a few seconds, then said nothing and got in. Over the past few days, he would bring me food and then stay in the room for an hour or two. But he was always on a conference call or on his phone. I’d secretly looked him up online. What I found was shocking, but also, not entirely unexpected. Back in his junior year, Ember had already been planning to start his own business. He was Southport’s valedictorian, accepted into Southport University with the top scores in his program. He loved game design and had even won a gold medal with his roommates at the National Game Design Awards. He’d racked up countless awards during his time in school. His dream was always to start his own game development company. And in just three years, he’d done it. He was even more successful than I could have imagined. He had glowing reviews online, and a legion of female fans who called him their “internet husband.” He’d always been popular at school, but everyone knew how crazy he was about me, so I never paid those other girls any mind. But now… “Where do you live?” Ember’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. I opened a hotel booking app on my phone and gave him the address. The day after the accident, the doctor had told me to contact my family. I’d opened my mom’s chat history and scrolled through our messages. My heart had plunged into a pit of ice. She had remarried and moved out of Southport. No wonder I was staying in a hotel. I didn’t have a home here anymore. Ember was quiet for a moment, his grip on the steering wheel tightening slightly. I pulled myself together, and a question popped into my head. “Ember, do you have a girlfriend?” The light ahead turned red, and the car slowed to a stop. Ember turned to look at me, his eyes dark and unreadable, swirling with an emotion I couldn’t name. “No.” A smile spread across my face. “Then can I stay at your place?” After picking up my luggage, Ember took me back to his apartment. It was in the most expensive part of the city. The place was huge, immaculate. I wandered around under the pretense of “taking a tour” and found no signs of a woman living there. Ember wheeled my suitcase into the guest room, said, “Make yourself at home,” and disappeared into his office for a meeting. The meeting lasted for over an hour. I watched TV, bored, until my stomach started to grumble. The fridge was stocked with fresh ingredients, so I rolled up my sleeves, ready to cook. And promptly sliced my finger. “Ah—” I cried out, my brow knitting in pain. I heard a string of worried footsteps, and Ember’s voice, tight with tension. “What happened?” I turned to see him standing there, his eyes locked on the bead of blood welling up on my fingertip. Before I could say anything, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the living room. He sat me on the sofa, opened a first-aid kit, and knelt in front of me. His head was bowed as he carefully disinfected the cut and applied a bandage. The bandage had little cartoon characters on it, my favorite. Watching the focused, gentle way he tended to me, I felt a lump form in my throat. My voice was dry. “I’m sorry. I was just hungry and wanted to make something.” Ember looked up, his dark eyes reflecting a blurry image of me. A small smile touched his lips. “Chad, this isn’t like you.” He stood up and ruffled my hair. “Don’t cook. I’ll take you out.” The nights in Southport were as lively as ever. Ember took me to the food street near the university, to the ramen place that used to be our favorite. In my memory, we had been here just a short while ago. But the shop’s decor was completely different. After we sat down, I asked him, “Do you come here often?” [Chad is about to learn the painful truth behind their breakup. Unlock the next chapter to discover the secrets that tore them apart.] Ember poured me a cup of tea. “Rarely.” I tried to sound casual. “Have you brought other girls here?” He just looked at me, his gaze deep and unreadable, and didn’t answer. Time had changed him. He’d learned to hide his feelings. He was no longer the boy who had shared everything with me. My heart ached, but I couldn’t stop myself from probing. “Well, have you or haven’t you?” What I really wanted to ask was if he’d dated anyone in the years since we’d been apart. “Two bowls of ramen!” The owner’s voice cut through our conversation. Steam rose from the bowls, blurring Ember’s face. With food in front of me, I forgot my question and took a sip of the broth. It still tasted exactly the same. Suddenly, a few extra slices of braised pork appeared in my bowl. I looked up, surprised. Ember’s jaw tightened slightly. He tried to look nonchalant. “Just a habit.” I blinked. “Oh.” Was that his answer? That night, after my shower, I was curled up on the sofa watching TV. Ember had been in his office ever since we got back. After thinking for a long time, I padded over in my slippers and knocked on the office door. “Ember, can I borrow your computer?” He opened the door and leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “What for?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. “I want to work on my resume.” Now that I was back in Southport, I didn’t plan on leaving again. I wanted to build a life here. Ember nodded and stepped aside to let me in. The computer was locked. I turned to him. “What’s the password?” He paused, then walked over, leaned down, and typed in four numbers. He was so close I was practically enveloped by him, his warm breath fanning against my cheek. My heart hammered in my chest. The temperature in the room seemed to rise. On impulse, I tilted my head up and kissed his cheek. “You still haven’t answered my question from the ramen shop.” Ember froze, a faint blush creeping up his neck. His voice was low and husky. “What about you? Are you back in Southport for Nathan? Or… for me?” Nathan again? Did we break up because I cheated on him? Think, you idiot, think! I tapped my head, but he caught my wrist. “Forget it.” Ember straightened up, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. “What’s the point of arguing with someone who can’t even remember?” He turned and walked away, his lean back looking strangely lonely. A fragmented memory flashed through my mind. On the day we broke up, I think I watched him walk away just like that, disappearing into the thick darkness of the night. Ember got incredibly busy, leaving early in the morning and coming home late at night. He had his lawyer help me with the accident compensation. He also hired a cook to prepare my meals. And just like that, I settled into his home. That weekend, I went back to the hospital, desperate to get my memory back. After a simple check-up, the doctor told me, “There’s a condition known as psychogenic amnesia. It’s possible the memories are so painful that your brain has chosen to forget them as a protective measure. If you truly want to remember, you could try hypnosis, or revisiting old places, meeting old friends…” I left the hospital, the doctor’s words echoing in my head, twisting my heart into a knot. I sat on a roadside bench for a long time, until a pair of black leather shoes entered my vision. “Chad.” A familiar voice came from above me. When I didn’t respond, Ember knelt down to meet my gaze. “Why are you crying?” he asked, frowning as he gently wiped a tear from my cheek. “I’m not crying. Something got in my eye,” I said stubbornly. “Want me to blow it out for you?” “…” And then he actually did, leaning in and blowing gently at my eyes. I held my breath, my cheeks turning red. Ember had come straight from his office. On the way to the parking garage, he took a call about a dinner meeting. I stopped by the car door. “I can just take a cab back.” Ember opened the door for me. “The cook is off today. There’s no food at home.” Home. The word dropped like a pebble into a still lake, sending ripples through my heart. “It’s just Marco and the guys. Want to come with me?” he added. Marco was his college roommate. I was still hesitant. “Would that be weird for me to go?” Ember didn’t push. “Then you pick a place to eat.” I thought for a few seconds. “Where are they eating?” “Near the university.” The doctor’s words came back to me—revisit old places, meet old friends. “Okay,” I nodded. “I’ll go.” The traffic was terrible. By the time we got to the restaurant, the private room was already full. The moment I walked in, the lively chatter died down. The atmosphere turned tense. Ember scanned the room, his gaze lingering for a moment in one direction. I followed his line of sight and froze. It was Nathan. He smiled at me. Out of politeness, I smiled back. When I turned my head, I met Ember’s dark eyes. He didn’t look happy. His lips were pressed into a thin line. Marco stood up, glass in hand. “Ember, my man! You’re late! You know the rules, you gotta chug one.” He poured a generous amount of liquor into Ember’s glass. Then, as if he’d only just noticed me, he feigned surprise. “Well, well, Ember. And who did you bring with you?” Ember frowned, downed the drink in one go, and shot Marco a warning look. “Get another chair.” Marco ignored him, his eyes fixed on me. “Isn’t this Chad Shaw? Couldn’t hack it in Northwood, so you came crawling back to Ember?” Ember’s face darkened. “Marco, shut up,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “What? Did I say something wrong? Who was it that dumped you and ran off when you needed her most? Wasn’t it Chad?!” “Marco!” A dead silence fell over the room. Everyone else just watched, a vaguely hostile curiosity in their eyes. Nathan opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. I stood there, mortified, digging my nails into my palms. “Whatever, my bad,” Marco said, waving a hand dismissively and calling a waiter to bring another chair. A warm hand closed over mine. Ember was pulling me toward the door. Suddenly, a sharp female voice cut through the silence from behind us. “Ember, Chad’s father is a murderer! You’d better stay away from her!”

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I waited for three long years. In that time, I mailed seven whistleblower letters. His people intercepted the first six. For the seventh, I changed my strategy. I sent it directly to the state. He was on vacation in Miami that day. He had just posted a photo of the ocean view on his social media, captioned, “Hard work pays off. You deserve to enjoy life.” A string of likes quickly appeared below it. What he didn’t know was that thirty-seven agents from the State Department of Revenue were already walking through the doors of his company. I stared at the photo on my screen, then quietly set my phone down. 1. It all started three years ago, one night when I found the money. The day had been completely ordinary. I was lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, about to transfer some money into a savings account. I opened my banking app and glanced at the transaction history out of habit. An automatic debit. On the 15th of every month, a fixed transfer of $5,000. The memo read: Mortgage. I froze. We had paid off our mortgage in 2019. I scrolled up. Last month, $5,000. The month before that, $5,000. I kept scrolling back. It was there. Every single month. I counted. Fourteen consecutive months. Seventy thousand dollars. I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling. In the living room, Mark was watching a football game, the commentator’s voice drifting down the hall. I picked my phone back up and took a screenshot. Then I looked up the recipient’s account information. The account holder: Amber. I knew that name. She was the receptionist I had personally hired for his company three years ago. I remember her interview. She wore a white dress and had two dimples when she smiled. I’d told Mark, “This girl seems bright. Let’s hire her.” “Whatever you think is best,” he’d said. He hadn’t even given her a second glance then. Or so I thought. I didn’t confront him right then and there. I didn’t cry, or scream, or throw my phone. I saved the screenshot of the bank statement to a password-protected folder. Then I turned off the light and pretended to be asleep. Mark came to bed at eleven, snoring the moment his head hit the pillow. I lay there with my eyes open, thinking all night in the darkness. The next morning, he left for work. I called in sick. I opened my laptop and looked up the bank card tied to that transfer. Mark was using a personal card linked to the company account. I knew which bank it was from because I had gone with him to open it years ago. I dug deeper into the transaction details. There was an auto-pay setup, and in the payee’s information, there was one extra piece of data: An address. Lakeside Terraces, Building 7, Apartment 1402. We lived on the east side of town. Lakeside Terraces was on the west side. I changed my clothes and left the house. Forty minutes later, I was standing in front of Building 7 of Lakeside Terraces. It was a nice complex. Manicured lawns, underground parking. I took the elevator to the 14th floor. I stood in front of apartment 1402. There was a cartoon sticker on the door, a smiling cat. I didn’t knock. I just stood there for five minutes, then turned and left. Because on the shoe rack by the door, I saw a pair of men’s slippers. Brown, size 10. Identical to the pair in our closet at home. I sat in a coffee shop across the street for two hours. At two in the afternoon, a woman walked out of Building 7. Ponytail, floral dress, perfectly applied makeup. Amber. She walked to the curb, made a phone call, and said something with a smile. I couldn’t hear the words. But I saw her gently touch her stomach. My hands began to tremble. Not from sadness. From rage. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. My parents had given me one hundred and twenty thousand, and I had saved sixty thousand myself. Five years ago, when Mark told me he wanted to start his own business, I gave him every penny. I even quit my job at a major accounting firm to be his CFO. I built his books from scratch, one entry at a time. For five years, I worked until 11 p.m. every night. His company grew from a tiny startup into a business with a three-million-dollar annual revenue. And he took the money I helped him earn and used it to keep a woman. To buy her a condo in Lakeside Terraces. Five thousand a month, like clockwork. Seventy thousand so far, and still counting. I left the coffee shop and stood on the sidewalk for a moment. The late autumn wind was cold. I didn’t cry. I took out my phone and snapped a picture of Lakeside Terraces. I saved it to the encrypted folder. Then, I went home and started making dinner. Mark got home at seven. He ate the ribs I’d made and told me they were delicious. I looked at him and smiled. I didn’t say a word. He had no idea. I had already begun. 2. The next day, I went to the state’s business registry. I looked up our company’s equity transfer records. When we first registered the company, I held 30%, and Mark held 70%. I wrote the charter myself. I remembered it clearly. But the record in the system now showed: Katherine, 0%. Amber, 30%. The date of transfer was a year and a half ago. Attached was an equity transfer agreement. Transferor: Katherine. Transferee: Amber. Transfer price: One dollar. I saw the signature on the agreement. It was my name. But I didn’t sign it. When I sign my name, the final stroke of the ‘e’ in Katherine always has a small curve. This one didn’t. He had forged it. I stood there in the lobby of the registry, staring at the screen for a long time. The final stroke of the ‘e’ was straight, with no curve. Just like him. He stabbed me with a straight blade, not even bothering to conceal it properly. In that moment, I finally understood something. In Mark’s eyes, what was I? I was the money, the bookkeeper, the one who propped up his company, and then, like a piece of scrap paper, I was thrown away with a forged signature. A fake name. One dollar. I was worth one dollar. I took a picture. After leaving the registry, I did a second thing. I went back to the office. I was still the company’s CFO. Mark hadn’t touched my position. He had only touched the equity, because he was sure I would never check. I walked into the finance department, opened the company’s internal system, and started pulling Amber’s employment records. Date of hire: March 2020. I hired her. Then I checked her pay stubs. 2020: $4,000 a month. 2021: $8,000 a month. 2022: $15,000 a month, plus a thirty-thousand-dollar “annual bonus.” I checked her promotion history. 2020: Receptionist. 2021: Assistant to the General Manager. 2022: “Executive Vice President of Administration.” A receptionist, promoted to VP in two years. Her salary had nearly quadrupled. Plus the five-thousand-dollar monthly “mortgage.” Plus the thirty-thousand-dollar “bonus.” I did the math. In two and a half years, the money Mark had spent on Amber: Salary difference: Approximately $50,000. Monthly transfers: $70,000 (and counting). Condo at Lakeside Terraces: Down payment of around $80,000. Bonus: $30,000. Miscellaneous expenses: Unknown. A conservative estimate: Over $230,000. The startup capital I had given him was $180,000. He had spent more on her than my entire initial investment. I closed the laptop. I sat in my chair for ten minutes. Then I did a third thing. I looked for photos. There was a “Team Events” folder on the company’s shared drive. I started from the beginning. May 2020, the company’s first team-building event. In the group photo, Amber stood on the far right, prim and proper. December 2020, the annual holiday party. In the group photo, Amber stood next to Mark, her body angled slightly toward him. Mark’s hand rested on the back of her chair. I zoomed in. He was smiling. I knew that smile. It was the same smile he used when he was courting me. December 2020. The eighth month after the company was founded. So, the affair hadn’t been going on for a year. Or two years. It started almost as soon as the company was on its feet. Every single day I was propping up his company, he was behind my back with another woman. Four years. More than fourteen hundred days. I worked until 11 p.m. every night. He came home every night from Lakeside Terraces. I thought he was out entertaining clients. He was in apartment 1402. Behind the door with the smiling cat. I took screenshots of all the photos in chronological order and saved them to my encrypted folder. The evidence was mounting. So was my rage. But I kept quiet. Because I knew Mark was not a man to be trifled with. He had money, connections, and lawyers. If I showed my hand now, he had a hundred ways to make sure I walked away with nothing. I had to win. Not just have a fight, a good cry, and then get divorced with nothing to my name. I had to make him pay. A real price. 3. For the next week, I went through all five years of the company’s books. I had done these books. I knew better than anyone what was inside. On the surface, Mark’s company was a construction supplier with an annual revenue of three million. But in reality, starting in the second year, he had been keeping two sets of books. One for the IRS, and one for himself. I didn’t know at first. When I found out, he told me, “Every company does it. It’s no big deal.” I believed him. Because I was his wife. Looking back now, he probably had me cook the books from the beginning with a clear plan: if we ever split, these fraudulent records would be the rope around my neck. You did the books. You’re complicit. Clever. So clever. The things I compiled in that week: Underreported income: A cumulative total of around $800,000. Falsified invoices: At least a dozen. Fraudulent payroll records: Used to siphon company funds. Personal expenses billed to the company: The $80,000 down payment for the Lakeside Terraces condo was disguised as a “project fee.” I had the original drafts for all of it. Five years of drafts. I had kept them all. Not because I was prescient, but because it was my professional habit as an accountant. For every transaction, I had a scanned copy of the original receipt. Mark didn’t know. He thought I was just his obedient little bookkeeper. With all this, I wrote my first whistleblower letter. I signed my name to it. I attached evidence of the three most blatant instances of tax evasion. I mailed it to the city’s IRS office. Two weeks later, two agents came to the office. They walked around, looked at a few ledgers, and chatted with Mark for half an hour. Then they left. The conclusion: Upon review, no significant violations were found. I waited a month. Nothing. One evening, Mark came home and sat on the sofa, looking at me. “Katherine.” “Yes?” “Did you report me?” I didn’t answer. He laughed. “Let me tell you something. Frank, at the IRS? I’ve known him for ten years.” He crossed his legs. “You can report me a hundred times. It won’t work.” I just looked at him. “It’s just a formality every time, you understand?” He stood up and walked over to me. “If you feel so wronged, we can get a divorce.” He looked down at me. “You can have the house, and I’ll give you fifty thousand. Don’t even think about anything else.” Fifty thousand. I had put in one hundred and eighty thousand. I had worked as his CFO for five years for free. He was offering me fifty thousand. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asked. I looked at him. “I need to think about it.” He let out a short, sharp laugh and went back to the bedroom. He didn’t go to Lakeside Terraces that night. He probably thought he should stay to “pacify” me. I lay next to him, listening to him snore. Staring at the ceiling. Fine. You say a hundred times won’t work. Then I’ll try a hundred and one times. 4. I didn’t mail the second letter right away. First, I went to see someone. Brenda. Brenda was forty-eight, a former colleague of mine from the accounting firm. A year after I quit to join Mark’s company, he said he needed to hire a cashier and asked for a recommendation. I recommended Brenda. She had been with the company ever since. She was the kind of person who faded into the background. Dressed simply, spoke little, came and went on time, and never attended company parties. Mark never gave her a second look. But Brenda had one particular trait: in her twenty years as a cashier, she remembered every single dollar that passed through her hands. It wasn’t loyalty. It was a professional habit. Just like me. I took Brenda out for lunch. At a simple noodle shop. “Brenda, I’m divorcing Mark.” She put down her chopsticks. “Why?” “He’s cheating. You knew, didn’t you?” She was silent for a few seconds. “Everyone in the office knows.” “Everyone?” “He takes that Amber girl to business dinners. He doesn’t even try to hide it.” I laughed. The whole company knew. Except me. Because no one dared to tell the boss’s wife. “Brenda, I need you to do something for me.” I looked her in the eye. “How much of the company’s real cash flow from the past few years do you have records of?” Brenda looked at me for a long time. Then she said something. “Kate, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that for two years.” She told me that two years ago, Mark had a new finance manager handle the accounts, sidelining her. But she didn’t quit. Because she knew this day would come. “I have a record of every dollar he’s taken from the company account each month.” She took a USB drive from her purse. “Cashier’s copy. It’s a habit of mine.” I took the drive. “Thank you, Brenda.” “Don’t thank me,” she said. “At the holiday party, he made me serve drinks. Said the cashier wasn’t a real employee.” She picked up a noodle with her chopsticks. “I’ve been waiting for this day too.” From that day on, Brenda became my eyes inside the company. Every suspicious transfer, every fake invoice, every personal expense disguised as a business one, she sent me a copy. Encrypted files, with the password changed weekly. Mark had no idea. He thought Brenda was just an old cashier who clocked in and out. He didn’t know that this old cashier was meticulously documenting his crimes. At the same time, I mailed my second whistleblower letter. This time, I intentionally only reported a minor issue, a transfer of about ten thousand dollars from a corporate to a personal account. The evidence was solid, but the amount was small. Why? Because I wasn’t trying to win this round. I wanted Mark to think this was all I had. As expected. Two weeks later, the IRS agents came again. They looked into it. Mark had to pay back eight thousand in taxes. He paid the fine, made a call to his “guy Frank,” and the matter was settled. He came home and said to me, “You reported me again?” I didn’t deny it. “Is this really worth it?” He shook his head. “Eight grand. That doesn’t even cover my lawyer’s fees.” He laughed. “Is that all you’ve got?” I looked at him. “Yes. That’s all I’ve got.” He smiled, satisfied, and left for Lakeside Terraces. I waited until he was gone, then took out my phone and sent a message to Brenda: “Keep going.” 5. The third month after I mailed the third letter. I found something new. The kickbacks Mark was paying to “Frank” at the IRS. Not just dinners and gifts. Direct wire transfers. Three times a year, ten thousand dollars each time. The money came from one of Amber’s personal accounts and was sent to a man named Frank Benson, the very agent in charge of auditing him. Brenda gave me this information. While organizing some old files, she had found a notebook locked in Mark’s desk drawer. It detailed every “PR expense.” Mark probably thought an old cashier would never go through her boss’s drawers. He was wrong. Brenda not only went through them, she took pictures. Every page, front and back, in high definition. Looking at those photos, I finally understood. It wasn’t that my letters were useless. It was that there was no such thing as a fair investigation. Every IRS audit was just a show Mark had paid for. The auditor was on his payroll. How could he possibly find anything wrong? I put my phone down. I took a deep breath. Fine. So it wasn’t a lack of evidence. It was that I was sending it to the wrong place. From that day on, I changed my strategy. No more letters to the city office. I started researching the whistleblower process for the State Department of Revenue. The state had its own independent whistleblower office, a separate system from the city. Mark’s “guy Frank” had no pull at the state level. But I wasn’t in a hurry. I needed more time. Because the amount of Mark’s tax evasion was still growing. He was getting bolder. Every report against him had been quashed. He no longer saw me as a threat. Two hundred thousand in evasion the year before, three hundred fifty thousand last year, and this year’s numbers were still climbing. He thought he was untouchable. With Frank in his pocket, no one could touch him. This was exactly what I wanted. The more arrogant he got, the bigger the hole he dug. And the bigger the hole, the harder it is to climb out. I mailed the fourth, fifth, and sixth letters. All to the city office. All squashed by Frank. Every time Mark got the news, he would just laugh. “You again?” He wasn’t even angry anymore. He found it funny. He thought his ex-wife (we were in the process of divorcing) was a pathetic, incompetent woman who could do nothing but write useless letters. What he didn’t know was this: In letters four through six, I had intentionally included only small pieces of evidence. Like baiting a hook. Every time he got away with it, he relaxed a little more. And every time he relaxed, he would commit another crime. And Brenda was recording every single one. By the end of the third year, Mark’s cumulative tax evasion had exceeded eight hundred thousand dollars. Add to that bribery, forging my signature to transfer equity, and creating fake invoices. Each crime was enough to bring him a world of hurt. Winter of 2024. I was ready. All the evidence, my five years of original drafts, Brenda’s three years of records, the photos of Mark’s bribery notebook, the forged signature on the equity transfer, was compiled into a single file. I printed three copies. One for the State Department of Revenue. One for the State Ethics Commission. And one for myself. The seventh letter. This time, no city office. No Frank. Straight to the state. The day I mailed it, it was very cold. The clerk at the post office asked me, “Registered or standard?” “Registered.” “You got it.” She gave me a receipt. I tucked it away safely. On the way home, I bought a bouquet of flowers. I put them in a vase in the living room. Then I sat down. And I waited.

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Midnight had long come and gone when Evelyn finally dragged her exhausted body home. I sat alone on the living room sofa, my spirits at rock bottom. Seeing my state, she said nothing, simply thrust her phone into my hand. “You can check,” she said, her voice calm. “The password is still your birthday.” With that, she turned and walked into the bathroom, the sound of rushing water filling the silence. I stared at the phone, a bitter smile playing on my lips. What good would checking do? She only ever let me see what she wanted me to see – a perfectly clean interface. Soon, she emerged from the shower, wrapping her arms around me tightly from behind, still damp from the steam. “See? I told you there was nothing,” she murmured, a hint of playful cajolery in her voice. “You have to trust me.” I slowly raised my head, my gaze inadvertently falling on the back of her neck – there was a clear, thin scratch. An unspeakable wave of irony surged through me, yet I didn’t react with the same hysteria as before. I simply pushed her away gently, my voice calm in a way that even I found unfamiliar. “Evelyn, let’s get a divorce.” I truly couldn’t endure another day of this mutual torment. 1 Silence hung in the air for a few moments. Then, a sharp, shattering sound broke it. Evelyn had accidentally knocked over a vase nearby. That vase was the very first decorative item we’d bought together, during our first year of marriage, on a trip to IKEA. From our cozy two-bedroom apartment to a spacious loft, and now to this luxurious villa, it had been our good luck charm, witnessing all our stumbling steps along the way. Now, the vase was utterly shattered. Just like my seven-year marriage to Evelyn, beyond repair, never to return to what it once was. I pulled my gaze from the shards scattered across the floor and looked back at Evelyn. “I’ve had a lawyer draft the divorce papers. Please sign them…” Before I could finish, Evelyn cut me off. “My hand was cut by the vase, Adrian.” I paused, looking down. Only then did I notice a cut on her hand, bleeding crimson onto the floor. “Adrian, help me with this,” Evelyn’s voice was hoarse. She rarely showed vulnerability. But I knew this was her usual tactic to make amends. If I followed her lead, and gently applied medicine to her wound, we would once again be “back to normal.” But this time, I merely shifted my gaze, my voice detached. “It’s just a minor cut. A little antiseptic will do.” I paused, returning to my original topic. “After you’ve taken care of it, remember to sign the divorce papers.” Evelyn’s eyes instantly dimmed. “Adrian, I’m hurt! How long are you going to keep this up?!” Evelyn’s tone was bewildered. In her eyes, it was as if cheating wasn’t wrong. Especially since, after my hysterical outbursts, she had already routinely deleted those ambiguous chat logs, and even changed all her passwords to my birthday. So, she didn’t understand why I was still “throwing a tantrum.” I subconsciously rubbed the mottled scar on my hand, saying nothing further. Just then, her phone rang. It was that familiar ringtone, one that had often sounded in the dead of night for nearly a year. Evelyn had once explained it was an urgent company line; I hadn’t doubted her. Until her birthday, when I was at the grocery store, picking out her favorite fish, debating whether to make her braised fish or spicy fish soup, I looked up and saw her, wrapped in another man’s arms, choosing snacks. It was then that I finally, belatedly, understood. Evelyn had cheated a long time ago. And that man was her childhood friend she had mentioned once, Justin Thorne. Perhaps because the accusations and confessions were already out in the open, Evelyn didn’t bother with excuses this time. She answered the phone right in front of me: “I’ll be right there, wait for me.” After hanging up, she disregarded the injury on her hand, quickly grabbed her car keys, and left. As she reached the front door, she suddenly cast a deep look at me. Her voice was filled with disappointment: “You used to not be like this, Adrian.” What was I like before? Offering her a burning heart, only to have it wounded beyond repair? Because I cared too much, couldn’t bear to lose this ten-year relationship. Moreover, at that time, she was pregnant. So I endured the pain, chose to forgive her. She promised to keep her distance. But what was the result? The scar on my hand, wasn’t it proof of my foolishness? I rubbed the scar, and the festering wound seemed to ooze again, a pain so sharp I couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, a loud bang interrupted my thoughts. Evelyn had slammed the door shut and left. I knew she was going to Justin again. I stared at the closed door, a faint curl of my lip. “Evelyn, goodbye.” 2 Half an hour later, Justin posted a status update visible only to me. “She says only I truly understand her. She asked me never to leave her.” The accompanying photo showed the back of Evelyn’s head, buried in his embrace, and their fingers tightly intertwined. Just minutes earlier, Evelyn had told me I could trust her. But her idea of trust probably referred to the pure “friendship” between her and Justin. Trusting that her repeated absences from my follow-up appointments, all for some minor issue of his, were merely out of “loyalty” to a good friend. Trusting that spending an entire night together, naked in the same bed, was simply a platonic “reunion.” Soon after, Justin, just like many times before, deleted the status update, wiping it clean. As if what I had just seen was merely a figment of my “suspicious mind.” Then, he sent me another message. “Brother-in-law, Evelyn was in a bad mood tonight and came to drink with me. Please don’t overthink it.” “It’s not worth it, letting an outsider like me affect your relationship.” Don’t overthink it? I looked at those words, a cold laugh escaping me. I remembered back then, when I, burning with fever, confronted Evelyn with a screenshot of Justin’s post, her explanation had been much the same. “Justin and I grew up together. After high school, he went abroad to study and stayed there. Now that he’s finally back, can’t I spend some extra time with my old friend?” “Adrian, you’re just bored from being home sick, that’s why you’re always overthinking things.” Seeing my feverish, increasingly pale face, Evelyn seemed to realize her slip of the tongue. She quickly pulled me into her arms, pressing her forehead against mine. “Adrian, even for the sake of our child, you should trust me, okay? Don’t overthink it.” She gently wiped away my tears, her voice helpless. “Don’t cry, Adrian. Alright, I promise you, I’ll keep my distance from him.” Seeing my tears flow even harder, Evelyn then deleted Justin’s contact information right in front of me. She even changed all her passwords to my birthday. Ten years of a relationship, seven years of marriage, and our child was about to be born. At that time, I truly couldn’t bear to let go. So I gritted my teeth, forgave her, and chose to trust her one more time. But what happened later? Less than a month later. Just when she went into premature labor, and we learned the baby had died in utero, when she most needed to rest and recover in the hospital. She left the hospital without a second thought, merely because Justin said he had a “stomachache.” I instantly broke down, frantically grabbing a fruit knife beside me, my voice hoarse as I asked her: “Evelyn, are you sure you want to choose him? If you take that step, we’re completely over!” Evelyn’s face instantly twisted in disgust, her eyes looking at me like I was a madman. “Adrian, stop making a scene. I have a family doctor there, and besides, the doctor already said he’s fine.” “Justin just returned recently. He’s alone, and his health has always been delicate. I have to go; don’t make this difficult for me.” With that, she never looked back, leaving me with only a resolute back. The moment the hospital room door closed, the knife in my hand slipped, uncontrolled, cutting my wrist and leaving that hideous scar. The vibration of my phone pulled me back from distant thoughts. It was a voice message from Evelyn, sounding as if she’d been drinking. “Adrian, please don’t be angry with me anymore. Can we have another child?” A child? I subconsciously rubbed the scar on my hand, though it was already numb with pain. Yet, hearing her mention a child again, my heart still ached in waves, threatening to drown me. After a long while, I finally composed myself, wiping away the last tear. I quietly blocked both Evelyn and Justin’s contact information. Then, I dialed a long-distance number. “Dad, three days from now, I’ll meet you at the airport.” 3 For the next few days, Evelyn didn’t come home. I stopped asking her when she’d return, and instead began packing my bags. But seven years of marriage had left too deep an imprint; many items carried Evelyn’s shadow. The white scarf Evelyn gave me on our first date. I wore it for years, unable to part with it, because she had spent months knitting it by hand. And many other “firsts” she’d given me, things Evelyn had put thought into, staying up late to make by hand. I had carefully treasured them all in a safe, unable to throw them away. Later, Evelyn’s career became more and more successful, and her gifts grew increasingly expensive. I still accepted them with joy, because they were all proof that Evelyn had once deeply loved me. But then, in our second year of living in the grand villa, Justin appeared. My vanity table slowly filled with various luxury brand watches and bracelets. My wardrobe gradually hung with the latest seasonal haute couture. These were worth hundreds of thousands, some even millions, but they were no longer given out of love. They had simply become Evelyn’s “apologies” and “compensations” for the countless nights I spent waiting alone while she was with someone else. I looked at these items, coldly bypassing them. Then I packed only those things that truly belonged solely to me. The day everything was packed, Evelyn happened to come home. Seeing the suitcase in my hand, she frowned. “Where are you going this time?” She still thought I was just throwing a tantrum. After all, in the past, I had more than once threatened to leave. I didn’t deny it, simply lowering my gaze. “To clear my head.” Evelyn didn’t notice anything amiss. Instead, she pulled me into a tight embrace. “Adrian, I’ve been waiting for your call these past few days.” Waiting for my call? But I distinctly remembered sending her messages in the past, asking her to come home. What I received in return was her dismissive impatience. She cupped my face in her hands, staring intently at me. “If you had just said something, I would’ve come back immediately. But you didn’t.” Evelyn’s tone was accusatory. As if in those past few days, the person who had been with another man wasn’t her, Evelyn. I didn’t expose her, but a faint smile touched my lips. Evelyn mistakenly thought I had calmed down and stood on tiptoe to lightly kiss my mouth. “Evelyn, I knew it. You’re not like my dad.” Not like my dad? Evelyn’s words, spoken without warning, pierced my heart, a pain so intense I could barely breathe. She knew perfectly well the immense pain my mother’s affair and domestic abuse had inflicted on my father and me. If my father hadn’t been resilient enough, brave enough, he would have been buried in a grave! He wouldn’t have fled abroad to live the life he wanted. And now, she casually dismissed everything my own father had struggled to achieve. And this knife, it was handed to her by the me who once loved Evelyn with all his heart. Meeting my swollen eyes, Evelyn awkwardly explained: “I’m sorry, Adrian. I meant that you don’t have to struggle like your dad. Just staying by my side is enough.” “Is that so?” I suddenly smiled, looking directly into her eyes. Evelyn met my gaze, a strange tightness in her chest, but she didn’t dwell on it, still thinking I meant to reconcile. She nodded repeatedly, her voice assured. “Of course, Adrian. You have to trust me, just like before.” I scoffed inwardly, but showed no outward sign. Just then, my phone rang. I looked at her, and calmly said, “My car’s here, Evelyn. You go back to work.” “Okay.” Evelyn still didn’t notice anything amiss, even kindly walking me to the door. Before getting into the car, I called her name. “Hm?” “Goodbye, Evelyn.” I said. Consider it a final farewell to Evelyn, a farewell to my past. She ruffled my hair, smiling, “Alright, go clear your head. I’ll be home working hard, earning more money to take care of you.” I still said nothing, just looked at her one last time, and gently waved my hand. As the car neared the airport, my phone vibrated frantically. It was an unknown number. I assumed it was a scam call and immediately blocked it. But as I exited the call screen, I saw an anonymous text message. “Adrian, your child isn’t dead. Evelyn lied to you.”

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Michelle said something came up at work and left in the middle of our dinner again. I didn’t try to stop her. I just quietly finished my meal alone. Later that night, scrolling through Instagram, I saw a new post from her childhood friend. It was a picture of her hands, sleeves rolled up, serving a plate of food. The caption read: “Stomach bug from hell. Huge thanks to Soph for being my hero and cooking for me. You’re my rock, always showing up when I need you.” This time, I didn’t call and start a fight like I used to. From that day on, whenever she ditched me to take care of him, I’d just smile and tell her it was okay, acting like the most understanding boyfriend in the world. Until the day he sent me a picture of them playing a game, sharing a single Pocky stick between their lips. I saw the photo and felt nothing at all. That’s when she finally panicked. Her eyes turned red, a mix of desperation and hurt welling up as she asked me, “Why aren’t you angry?” 1 Michelle had barely touched her steak when her phone rang. “Something came up at work,” she said, already grabbing her purse. “I’ve gotta head back.” “Okay. Go on.” I cut off a piece of my own steak and chewed slowly. It was tender, juicy. Perfect. Michelle seemed thrown off by my calmness. She frowned. “I’ll bring you back a gift.” Then she rushed out. I calmly finished the rest of my meal. A small part of me was disappointed. Our last anniversary dinner, and we couldn’t even get through it together. When I got home, I saw the Instagram post from her childhood friend, Alex. The photo showed Michelle’s hands, sleeves rolled up, placing a dish on a table. The caption: Stomach bug from hell. Huge thanks to Soph for being my hero and cooking for me. You’re my rock, always showing up when I need you. I shut off my phone, got into bed, and went to sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, I heard the soft beeping of the keypad lock. I registered that it was Michelle, then drifted back into a haze. Just before I fell completely asleep, I felt a presence beside the bed, someone watching me in the dark. The next morning, I showered, made myself a simple breakfast, and was sitting at the table when Michelle came into the dining room. She glanced at the sandwich and glass of orange juice on the table and fell silent for a moment. “You didn’t make me anything?” She hated simple, cold breakfasts. I usually didn’t have the energy to make two different meals, so I’d always made her favorite, a proper hot breakfast for us both. “Yeah, I forgot. You can just order something or grab a bite on your way out.” I finished my food in a few bites, ready to leave for work. When I looked up, I saw her face had darkened. “I know you’re mad that I lied to you yesterday, but you used to get so dramatic, I was afraid to tell you the truth…” “I’m not mad.” “Alex’s stomach flu was acting up again, and he lives alone. I was worried, so I…” “…I’m really not mad.” “Can you please stop this? I told you, I only see Alex as a brother. Why can’t you just understand that?” “I’m really, truly not mad, okay?!” My voice rose without me meaning for it to. Seeing the shock on her face, I took a breath and softened my tone. “I get it, I do. But I have to get to work now. We can talk when I get back.” Without waiting to see her reaction, I walked out the door. 2 At work, my boss, Ms. Davis, called me into her office to talk about the overseas assignment again. “Larry, this is a fantastic opportunity. The location is great, it’s safe, and the career path is exactly what you’ve been looking for. Please, think it over again.” She had tried to convince me for weeks, laying out everything from the salary bump to the long-term benefits. But I’d always hesitated, held back by my relationship with Michelle. But now… I looked up at Ms. Davis, at the hint of ‘I-can’t-believe-you’re-passing-this-up’ in her expression. “I’ve made my decision, Ms. Davis. I’ll take it.” A wide smile spread across her face, and the relief I felt in not letting her down was like a heavy weight lifting from my own shoulders. After work, I grabbed dinner by myself before heading home. To my surprise, Michelle was already there. Now that was a rare sight. “You’re home late,” she said, her expression unreadable. She handed me a small box. “Anniversary gift.” “Oh,” I said, taking it. I felt a flicker of something, but it was closer to embarrassment than guilt. “Thanks. I, uh, I forgot to get you something. I’ll make it up to you, okay?” Her face seemed to darken another shade. “Larry, can you please just calm down and listen to me?” “I’ve told you before, Alex and I grew up together. It’s not easy for him, moving to this city all by himself. I promised his parents I’d look out for him.” I could feel the anger rolling off her, but I honestly didn’t understand why. “Don’t get worked up. I know. I understand.” “Just say what’s on your mind! Stop being like this!” she snapped, her voice rising. “How many times do I have to tell you it’s platonic? He’s like a brother! What will it take for you to believe me? And think about it, if I really wanted to be with him, why would I be with you?” I tried to soothe her. “Calm down. I’m not mad. I truly believe you’re just friends.” “You…” She took a few deep, frustrated breaths, her chest rising and falling. “I’m hungry.” “Sorry, I already ate on my way home. Why don’t you order some takeout? Or there’s stuff in the fridge if you want to cook.” The only answer I got was the sound of her bedroom door slamming shut. 3 I was almost asleep when Michelle came into the room. She walked in and just stared at me. “It’s raining outside.” “Huh? Oh. You should probably dry your hair, or maybe just take a hot shower.” She was soaked, but I didn’t get what she was trying to say. Her voice was thick with disbelief. “I didn’t have an umbrella. I was gone for five hours! It’s pouring! Aren’t you worried about me at all?” “You used to be different,” she went on, her voice cracking. “Whenever we fought and I stormed out, you’d call me, or you’d call my friends to see if I was okay.” “At the very least, you’d leave a light on in the living room and wait for me to come back.” “But tonight, I was gone for five hours, and you didn’t even send a single text!” I kept my voice gentle. “I didn’t contact you because you’re a grown woman. I figured you could handle yourself. Besides, I didn’t want to embarrass you by calling around to all your friends, asking where you were.” Michelle’s face froze. She must have remembered what she’d screamed at me a long time ago. “Are you ever going to stop?! I’m an adult! I know what I’m doing! Do you have to blow up my phone like a lunatic? And why are you harassing my friends? Do you have any idea how much they make fun of me because of you?!” That time, I had spent hours frantically calling everyone I could think of to find her. The moment I finally heard she was safe, the relief that washed over me was immediately shattered not by her gratitude, but by her rage. But I wasn’t interested in digging up the past. The hand-off for my new assignment was starting, and I was just… tired. “Look, just go take a shower so you don’t catch a cold.” I turned and went into the master bedroom. It took a while to fall asleep, my mind churning with work that needed to be done. In that blurry space between waking and sleeping, I thought I felt a hand gently stroke my face, followed by a soft sigh. Then, the mattress dipped beside me. 4 It seemed Michelle was genuinely angry now. She started leaving early and coming home late, avoiding me completely. No texts, no calls. I was more than happy for the peace and quiet. I certainly wasn’t going to go looking for trouble. But after five days of the silent treatment, she actually texted me. [I’m making dinner tonight. Come home and eat.] Honestly, I was shocked. For our entire relationship, I had been the one who cooked. I remember once, I’d playfully complained that I was tired and asked if she would cook for a change. She had just hugged me and said, “My cooking skills are so bad, I’d probably put you in the hospital. Besides, I love eating my husband’s home-cooked meals every single night.” Blinded by love, I never questioned the glaring contradiction in her words. I’d spent countless hours after work teaching myself to cook, following recipes to get the flavors just right for her, collecting a nice set of burns and knife-cuts along the way. I was still living in that sweet fantasy, proud that my girlfriend got to eat my food every day, right up until Alex casually mentioned how great a cook Michelle was. That led to a massive fight. Michelle’s reaction was, as always, coldly dismissive. “Alex can’t cook, and he’s a really picky eater. We can’t have him ordering takeout all the time, can we?” “He’s not like you, you’ll eat anything. I’m just taking care of my big brother.” “You’re a grown man. Stop expecting people to cook for you all the time.” “If you think cooking for me is such a chore, then just stop. It’s not like I’m forcing you to.” And after that? I think I let her half-hearted apology smooth things over, and I forgave her. What’s that saying? Love really does make you a special kind of stupid. But still, I texted back: [Okay.] We were on the verge of breaking up anyway. If possible, I wanted it to be clean. The moment I opened the front door, I heard Michelle’s cheerful voice from the kitchen. “Larry! You’re home! Go wash up and relax for a minute, dinner’s almost ready.” I sat down at the dining table, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside me. I never thought I’d see the day Michelle willingly stepped into the kitchen. If this had happened on any other day, at any other point in our relationship, I would have been overjoyed. Michelle soon brought out a spread of four dishes and a soup. Though they were all fairly simple, one bite was all it took to confirm that she was, indeed, an excellent cook. “Larry,” she began, her voice tinged with a surprising vulnerability, “why have you been ignoring me for so many days?” “Whenever we had a fight before, you’d always come around by the next day at the latest. But this time… it’s been five days and you haven’t reached out once.” “Uh…” I swallowed the food in my mouth. “I was just trying to give you some space.” An awkward silence fell between us. After a moment, she spoke again, her tone cautious. “That night… I ended up getting to Alex’s so late because of his stomach thing that I hadn’t eaten. That’s the only reason I cooked for him. I’m going to teach him how to cook, so I won’t have to go over there so much anymore.” “Oh. Okay, good.” I mumbled a reply, afraid she’d blow up again and accuse me of not understanding, then went back to eating in silence. “Hey,” she said, her voice softer still. “How about you come with me to this month’s get-together?” I was so surprised I looked up. Her eyes were shining with hope. 5 It wasn’t that Michelle had never taken me to hang out with her friends before, but we both knew what she meant: the special monthly gathering for her inner circle. It wasn’t special because of what they did, but who was there. It was a closed group. No partners allowed. I’d asked her to take me before, but she’d always brushed me off. When she saw I wasn’t buying her excuses, she lost her temper. “Larry, can you stop being so damn needy? It’s suffocating! I already told you, this is our one night a month where it’s just us, a time to unwind. Why do you have to interfere with every little bit of personal space I have?!” I’d flipped a table that day, screaming at her. “Then what about Alex? You took him, didn’t you?” Her reply had been ice-cold. “Alex grew up with me. He’s met them all before. He’s not an outsider.” “Besides, he doesn’t have any other friends in this city. I only brought him because I didn’t want him to be lonely.” “Stop being so paranoid. You sound like a psycho.” I never thought she’d be the one to invite me. But the hand-off for the overseas post was genuinely hectic. Thinking of my workload, I had to refuse. Besides, I was never really close with her friends anyway. At this point, there was no reason to try and force it. “I’ve got a lot on my plate at work right now. Maybe some other time.” Michelle slammed her chopsticks down on the table. A deep weariness was etched on her face. “Larry, I know you’re unhappy about Alex. That’s why I’ve been bending over backwards for you these past few days. But I get tired too. I’ve humbled myself enough. What more do you want from me?” “You’re twenty-eight years old,” she said, her voice tight. “Stop throwing tantrums like a child.” “You’ve got it wrong,” I said calmly. “Work really is just busy right now.” “Whatever,” she said, her voice hard as stone. We finished the rest of the meal in total silence.

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Payday. I stared at the direct deposit notification on my phone, my mind going completely blank. My salary was supposed to be nine thousand dollars a month. The text said fifty-five hundred. What really sent my blood pressure into the stratosphere was the news that Alex, the culinary school intern who’d only been here a year, got a raise. From seven grand a month to ten-five. What the hell was this? I was the executive chef who had dragged this place up from a greasy-spoon dive to a three-star Michelin restaurant. I hadn’t seen a raise in five years. I’d spent every holiday season practically living in the kitchen, working overtime, training apprentices who were now running their own kitchens at our other locations. And this was my reward? A pay cut, while a kid who wasn’t even a full-time employee got a bonus? The fury built until I couldn’t see straight. I grabbed the resignation letter I’d kept in my locker for a day like this and stormed into the owner’s office. I remember him calling me and Alex in after the New Year. “The restaurant’s gone up another Michelin star,” he’d said, beaming. “Time for a raise for everyone.” I’d actually let myself get excited, thinking, finally, it’s my turn. What a joke. The owner, Mr. Ross, looked up from his desk, a surprised expression on his face when he saw the letter. “Susan, what’s this all about?” A cold laugh escaped my lips as I unleashed all the bitterness I’d been swallowing for years. “I can’t even support my family on this. I’m done.” 1 Mr. Ross slid the resignation letter back across his polished desk, his expression a mask of concerned difficulty. “Susan, I know you might be upset, but we’re adjusting to market trends, making strategic pivots. You’ve been here five years, you’ve seen us through thick and thin. Is this little thing really worth quitting over? Be a team player. Be reasonable.” I laughed again, a harsh, grating sound. “Mr. Ross, it’s precisely because I’ve been here for five years.” “Year one, I slept on the kitchen floor on New Year’s Eve just so I could be up at 5 a.m. to prep for the dinner service.” “Year two, I had a 104-degree fever in the middle of winter. You said a private party had booked the whole place and couldn’t be canceled. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold a knife, but I finished all twelve courses.” “Year three, business was booming. I was working around the clock, so exhausted I could barely stand. I was filleting a sea bass and nearly sliced my finger off. I just wrapped it in plastic wrap and got back to the stove. I didn’t get stitches until after we closed. The doctor said another half hour and I would’ve lost the finger.” “Year four, I was cooking all day and training apprentices all night. I worked endless overtime and never saw a single cent for it.” “Year five, I’ve poured my life into this place, and today, you cut my pay.” I leaned forward, my hands flat on his desk. “All I’m asking for is to be treated fairly. Is that really so hard?” The smile on Mr. Ross’s face finally vanished. He slammed his hand on the table. “Susan! What’s your point? Are you trying to list your accomplishments for me?” “Let me tell you something. The reason you’re standing here today, the reason you get to call yourself a Michelin-star chef, is because of what? Because of this restaurant! Because of the top-tier ingredients I spend a fortune on! Because of the platform I built for you! Without all that, what are you?” My fingers curled into tight fists, my jaw clenched. Five years ago, Savor was nothing more than a hole-in-the-wall diner. When he hired me, he promised me a percentage of the profits if I could turn the place around. I believed him. To perfect my craft, I traveled everywhere, studying under different masters. I used my own savings. I paid for my own travel and lodging. I even bought my own ingredients to practice my knife skills and cooking techniques after my shifts. The second year, I wanted to revamp the signature dish. He refused, said it was too risky. I stood in this very office and swore to him that if we lost a single dollar on it, he could deduct it from my salary. That revamped dish became a sensation. It’s what put this restaurant on the map. “Mr. Ross, let me ask you something. In five years, this restaurant’s profits have increased a hundredfold. Where is the profit-sharing you promised me when I started?” His eyes darted away. “Susan, it’s not that I don’t want to give it to you. We just don’t have it.” He cleared his throat and spread his hands. “Do you have any idea how much it cost to get that third Michelin star? The dinners for the critics, the networking, the kitchen upgrades… that set of imported French copper pots alone cost over twenty thousand dollars. Every penny the restaurant made went right back into it.” I stared at him. “No money?” “Then tell me this. Alex isn’t even a full-time employee. What are you paying him a bonus for?” Mr. Ross was silent for a beat. “Now, Susan, that’s not a fair comparison.” “Alex is a graduate of the Cordon Bleu in Paris. He’s formally trained. Do you know what the hottest trend in the culinary world is right now? International, high-end cuisine. If we want to compete on a global scale, we need a strong foundation in that world.” “And you? You cook traditional food. It’s good, but let’s be honest, it’s outdated. The market is moving on. If this restaurant doesn’t evolve, it dies. You represent the past, Susan. Alex represents the future.” The future of the restaurant who, as far as I knew, still couldn’t properly sear a steak. I looked down, a bitter smile on my face, and walked out of the office. Let’s see how many days Savor can keep its three Michelin stars without me. 2 I went to the staff restroom and splashed cold water on my face. Walking past Mr. Ross’s office again, I saw the door was slightly ajar. I heard Alex’s voice and stopped in my tracks. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Ross. I’ve got all her signature recipes down. The exact cooking temperatures, the sauce ratios, I’ve memorized everything.” Alex’s voice was slick with pride. Mr. Ross chuckled. “Alex, my boy, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” “What’s the real asset of this restaurant? The recipes. As long as we have those, it doesn’t matter who’s cooking. You add your fancy Western plating, your molecular gastronomy tricks… when we take that to the international market, it’ll be a slaughter.” Alex paused, then lowered his voice. “But, Mr. Ross, her attitude in here just now… I think she’s serious about leaving. What about that big banquet next week? Thirty-eight courses. If she really walks out…” Mr. Ross scoffed. “Walk out? She wouldn’t dare.” “Her husband has a bad back, he’s on medication constantly. That’s two grand a month right there. Then there’s the mortgage, I heard her on the phone once, that’s another forty-five hundred. And her son does some kind of martial arts, the training camps are eight grand a quarter.” “You do the math. How much does she need every month? She dares to quit? What’s she going to use to pay her mortgage? To buy her husband’s medicine?” Mr. Ross laughed again. “She’s just throwing a tantrum. In a couple of days, she’ll cool off and come crawling back. I’ll just dangle another carrot, promise her a bonus at the end of the year, and she’ll be back in the kitchen, working like a good little girl.” “I’ve seen her type a million times. With family responsibilities weighing her down, she has no other choice.” The laughter seeping through the crack in the door hit my ears like physical blows. I looked down at the pale scar on my right index finger and shoved my hand deep into my pocket. My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. A connection request on LinkedIn. The message read: Sarah Connolly, Talent Acquisition, Apex Hospitality Group. I accepted. A message popped up immediately. “Chef Susan, my name is Sarah Connolly, and I’m a recruiter with Apex Hospitality Group. We are currently building our flagship restaurant and would be honored to have you as our Executive Head Chef. We’re offering a salary of one million dollars a year, your own dedicated R&D team, and the full backing of the group to innovate within traditional cuisine. If you’re available, I would love to discuss this further.” One million dollars a year. I stared at the number on the screen for a long, long time. From the office, Mr. Ross’s voice drifted out again, clear as day. “She won’t dare leave.” I woke my phone screen and tapped out a reply. “Very interested. I look forward to our conversation.” I put my phone back in my pocket, straightened my back, and walked away without a second glance at that door. 3 That afternoon, I was in the kitchen, preparing for the final handover. I was pointing out a few things to the apprentices, which dishes they still needed to master, which daily details to watch out for. Suddenly, a server from the front-of-house burst in, her face pale. “Susan, we have a problem.” “There’s a food blogger out there, she has like, three million followers. She ordered our signature Matsutake Mushroom Consommé and the Pan-Seared Redfish.” “She took one bite and put her utensils down. Says it tastes wrong. She’s filming a video about it right now in the dining room!” Everyone in the kitchen turned to look at me, the same way they had for the past five years, expecting me to clean up whatever mess they’d made. I glanced over. “Alex made the signature dishes this afternoon. Have him deal with it.” Alex froze. He was standing at his station, his apron splattered with grease, sweat dripping from his forehead. The kitchen door swung open. It was Mr. Ross. He zeroed in on me the second he walked in. “Susan!” “Are you doing this on purpose?” “Did you or did you not teach him the core recipes for your signature dishes? Are you holding back, keeping secrets for yourself?” “That blogger has three million followers! Do you know what will happen if she posts a negative review?!” He pointed a finger at me, his voice full of command. “Susan, you go out there and apologize to her right now. Then you remake the dishes, serve them yourself, and smooth things over.” I gestured to the recipes taped to the wall, the paper yellowed and stained from years of kitchen smoke. “The recipes have been on that wall for years.” “But if your knife skills are sloppy, if you can’t control the heat, if your fundamentals are weak, there’s nothing I can do.” “If I made the mistake, I could fix it. But I can’t fix someone else’s lack of skill.” Mr. Ross’s face flushed red, then went pale. “Susan, are you slacking off on purpose because you’re mad about the pay adjustment?” “When there’s a problem in the restaurant, you, as the head chef, are just going to hide back here? What are you trying to do? Do you want to see this restaurant fail?” I found it hilarious. “The person whose cooking is making the restaurant fail doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Why should a chef who isn’t skilled enough to earn a high salary be worried?” Mr. Ross took a deep breath, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Susan, the pay cut… I didn’t think it through.” “Our food costs were too high last year, the budget was tight, so I had to make some adjustments. It wasn’t personal.” “How about this: I’ll restore your salary to nine thousand, same as before. We’ll put this behind us, okay?” Back to nine thousand? Were five years of my life and sacrifice only worth nine thousand a month? I said calmly, “My salary is lower than Alex’s, so I must not be as skilled. In that case, someone of my level certainly can’t give him any pointers or solve this problem.” Mr. Ross’s face tightened. He glanced anxiously towards the dining room, then back at me. After a long moment, he spoke. “Fine.” He squeezed the word out through gritted teeth. “I’ll add another thousand. Ten thousand.” “Susan, ten thousand a month is not a low salary in this industry. Don’t be ungrateful.” “Now go fix this.” “And next month, we have three big private bookings. High-end clients, the cheapest table starts at eighty thousand. You have to personally oversee all three. There can’t be any issues with the food.” “You pull these off, and then we’ll talk about your bonus.” It was always then we’ll talk. And every year, there was a new excuse. “Fine,” I said. Mr. Ross visibly relaxed. He probably thought he’d won again. I turned to go deal with the situation in the dining room. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from Sarah Connolly, the recruiter from Apex Hospitality. “Chef Susan, the contract details have been sent to your email. You can sign whenever you’re ready. Just let us know your preferred start date, and we’ll accommodate you.” I glanced at the calendar. The earliest of those three private bookings was on the 12th of next month. The latest start date Apex had offered me was the 10th. I put my phone away, returned to my station, and got back to work. Mr. Ross thought Alex could handle it. So let him.

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1 For five years of marriage, I’d grown accustomed to visiting my mother’s and child’s graves alone each year. Once again, Mark Wallace produced two plane tickets before the spring remembrance festival. One for him. The other, not for me. “Chelsea needs to go back for the ancestral rites. Same old routine,” he said, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather. “I’ll book your ticket for October. Hotel’s already taken care of.” I couldn’t help but ask if this year could be an exception. In the frozen silence, the answer was already etched on his face. Christmas was spent with Chelsea and her family. Memorial Day was their son’s birthday. And my own child’s grave? He hadn’t visited it once in five years. Out of 365 days, October was the only time I’d briefly see him. Staring at the ticket that had nothing to do with me, the weariness of five years suddenly pressed down, stealing my breath. “If you walk out that door today, we’re filing for divorce,” I heard myself say, my voice eerily calm. … “When you go back this time, remember to buy the toy Arthur wanted last time…” Mark’s instructions stopped abruptly when I uttered the word “divorce.” He furrowed his brow, his voice stiff. “Divorce? What divorce?” “You’re talking about divorce over something so trivial?” Mark frowned, perplexed, as if I were being utterly unreasonable. “I’ve spent enough money on your sister, haven’t I? Her life is entirely dependent on me now.” “We agreed initially that I’d be staying in Portside for a long time. You consented to that. So what are you trying to do, bringing this up now?” My hands, hanging limply, trembled slightly. I felt a little lost for words. He used to say Arthur was too young, that I should be understanding. He promised that once Arthur was older and more sensible, he’d leave Chelsea. For my sister’s illness, I endured again and again. We got our marriage certificate five years ago, but there was never a wedding. No one even knew we’d been married for five years. We saw each other once a year, separated by two thousand miles. Even during video calls, Chelsea and Arthur were always by his side. I was always the outsider. “Mark, you and Chelsea are already divorced. Arthur is five years old now.” “So what are we? A transaction?” All the resentment and hurt of these years spilled out. But Mark was clearly getting impatient. He waved his hand dismissively. “Isn’t it?” My breath hitched. Mark seemed to realize his mistake a beat too late. A flicker of annoyance crossed his eyes. The atmosphere grew silent. He abruptly changed the subject. “Fine. I’ll double her medical fees this month.” “Go find a new place to live. How can anyone live in such a cramped space?” He looked at the peeling paint on the walls, the moldy ceiling, with undisguised distaste. He casually pulled a card from his wallet and thrust it into my hand. The cold touch spread from my palm to my heart, a bitter taste rising in my mouth. This house was my sister’s and mine. Our home. After my sister’s accident, I’d stayed here, guarding it. The money he gave me, my own salary, my bonuses—every single penny went into a bank account. Once it was full, I wouldn’t owe him anything. The old iron gate creaked open. A child of four or five ran straight into Mark’s arms. “Daddy! I missed you so much!” The house was small. Chelsea and her son came in, struggling to find a place to stand. “Jamie, you live here?” Chelsea said, feigning surprise. “It’s all Mark’s fault. I told him from the beginning, once you two were married, he should come home.” “But he refused. He can’t leave Arthur and me.” Her face was full of false apology, but her words dripped with sarcasm. “Why don’t you move to Portside with us? The house isn’t huge, but we can clear out a spare room for you.” Mark didn’t seem to have any objection to this absurd suggestion. “Chelsea’s right, it’s unfair that we only see each other once a year.” “Your sister’s condition is just… well, why don’t you just…” Seeing them as a family of three, a sense of powerlessness washed over me. “No, I don’t need to…” Before I could finish, a loud crash made me snap my head up. Arthur’s hands were empty. At his feet lay a shattered crystal ball. My pupils trembled. I lunged forward, pushing Arthur out of the way. The child landed on his bottom and burst into tears. “Who told you to touch that?!” Mark rushed forward, scooped up Arthur, and carefully checked him for injuries. He immediately started accusing me without bothering to understand what happened. “It’s just a broken trinket! Why would you push the child?!” Chelsea’s eyes were also filled with concern for Arthur. “Jamie, Arthur is just a child. How could you do that to him?” I couldn’t bring myself to listen to their accusations. I just crouched down, trying to piece the broken crystal ball back together. It was a gift from my sister on my birthday. That day, she’d been on her way to buy a cake for me, to surprise me, when the car accident happened. She’d been in a coma ever since. Clinging to life in a hospital bed. This was her only, her last, gift to me. I looked up, my eyes bloodshot, glaring at the family. “How are you going to pay for this?” 2 Mark’s face darkened. He pulled a few bills from his wallet and tossed them onto the floor. “Is that enough? Apologize. If you don’t, you won’t see me this year, or next.” “And your sister’s medical bills? Forget about them.” I slammed the door shut. The living room was so quiet I could only hear my own heartbeat. The floor was a mess. As I bent down to pick up the shards, I tried to put the crystal ball back together. But what’s broken is broken. Just like Mark and me. Five years ago, it was the second year after my sister’s accident. Mark Wallace had forced his way into my life. He took on all of my sister’s medical expenses. He was there for me during my darkest time. I accepted his proposal. But after we signed the marriage certificate, he confessed. “Jamie, I’ve been divorced before.” The marriage certificate was still warm in my hand. I looked up, stunned. “What?” “I have a son with her. He just turned one month old. He needs me.” “So we agreed to divorce but still live together. She’s in Portside. I have to leave tomorrow.” Mark’s calm words made my heart sink. He handed me a card. “Your sister’s medical expenses for this month. I’ll deposit money into this card from now on.” He asked me to understand him, to be considerate. For my sister, and because I clung to the hope of this relationship, I chose to forgive. But it was this forgiveness that allowed Mark to abandon me again and again. When I first found out I was pregnant, my mother was gravely ill, and no one was there to take care of me. I called him, told him the news. At first, he promised he would come home to be with me. But soon after, he called back. “Jamie, Arthur started crying non-stop when he heard I was coming home. I’ll send you some money. You can hire a nurse to look after you.” After that, I went to all my prenatal appointments alone. My belly grew larger day by day, and the neighbors looked at me strangely. “Jamie, your belly is so big now, but I never see your husband.” I forced a smile and brushed them off. “He’s busy with work.” But rumors spread like wildfire that I was some man’s kept woman, an illegitimate mistress. During my pregnancy, emotions overwhelmed me. Every time I called Mark, the call would be rejected before it even connected. It wasn’t until my due date that Mark finally returned from Portside. On the way to the hospital, he drove frantically, talking all the while. “When you go in to give birth, try to push hard and get it over with quickly. Arthur’s birthday is in two days, and I have to rush back.” My water had already broken. I was too weak to speak. When I was rushed into the operating room, I developed amniotic fluid embolism due to fetal malposition. Bag after bag of blood was sent into the operating room. Countless critical condition notices were issued. In the end, I survived, but the baby didn’t. When I opened my eyes, the nurse looked at me with pity. “Ms. Jensen, your husband already left. He paid your medical bills.” “You’ll have other children.” I covered my face, tears streaming down. But I wasn’t given a chance to recover. My mother, who had been ill for years, passed away three days after I lost my child. When he heard the news, he only sent me a text message. Arthur’s sick. You’ll have other kids. I’m just glad you’re okay. Your mom’s passing is a release for her. Don’t be too sad. I’ll be back to handle the funeral arrangements. By the time he returned, it was already after the seventh day of mourning for both my mother and my child. I had a huge fight with him. But he said to me, “Arthur’s illness this time is very serious. Can you understand what’s more important, the living or the dead?” “I know you’ve suffered, but didn’t I give you money?” “I made sure you had the best hospital room, the best nutritionist to recover, and I never missed a payment for your sister’s care. What more do you want from me?” He rubbed his temples, telling me over and over to be reasonable. “Mark, how many times have you said those things? Why are you still living with them?” “Is it because of the child again? Then why did you divorce her? Why did you marry me?!” I screamed, ignoring all decorum. But Mark never once thought he was in the wrong. He remained impassive, bringing up my sister without hesitation. “Jamie, you need to be grateful. Without me, how could your comatose sister be in such a good hospital?” “Before you make a scene next time, know your place.” After I suggested divorce, he cut off my sister’s medical resources. I had lost my child, lost my mother. I couldn’t lose my sister too. In the years that followed, I repeatedly gave in. When Mark was in a good mood, he would try to console me. “We’re married. Do you really think I’d run off?” I wiped away my tears, tidied up the house, and my gaze fell back on the plane ticket on the table. I reached out, tore it to shreds, and threw it in the trash. My phone suddenly rang. It was the hospital. My heart quickened. My sister’s condition had been stable for the past two years. For the hospital to call now… I didn’t dare to think, and quickly answered the phone. “Ms. Jensen, your sister just had a sudden cardiac arrest. She’s in critical condition right now. Please come to the hospital.” 3 My head buzzed. I grabbed my coat and ran out. When I arrived at the hospital, I was handed a critical condition notice by the doctor. That thin piece of paper almost slipped from my grasp. After signing it with trembling hands, the nurse told me to go pay the fees first. I handed over the card Mark had given me. But I was told there was no money in it. “Insufficient funds.” I froze for a moment. This card was given to me by Mark before he left. It contained double the medical fees. How could there be insufficient funds? “Is the machine broken? Try swiping it again.” The person at the payment counter was impatient. “No money means no money. It won’t change no matter how many times you swipe.” People behind me were urging me on. My sister’s life hung over me like a sword. I walked to the corner of the hallway and called Mark. The call took a long time to connect. I heard Mark’s nonchalant voice. “Had a change of heart? Do you know how to apologize?” “Arthur still hasn’t recovered, you—” I cut off his reprimand. “Why is there no money on the card?” He paused, as if recalling something. After a long silence, he spoke calmly. “I forgot. I gave that card to Chelsea before.” “She had a bad investment and needed money to cover the losses.” I tightened my grip on the phone, my knuckles white, my voice tinged with pleading. “My sister is in emergency surgery right now. She had a sudden cardiac arrest…” “What’s that got to do with me?” His voice on the other end of the line grew even more impatient. “Jamie, weren’t you acting so tough earlier?” “Figure out the money yourself. This is your punishment.” I felt my breathing constrict. I looked up at the red light above the operating room. My heart pounded. “Mark, when we got married, you promised me.” “I know, but I want you to remember who’s been bailing you out all these years.” Before I could say anything else, a child’s voice piped up. “Daddy, I’m hungry. I want to eat the food you made for me.” Then came the sounds of Chelsea and Mark laughing. “Mommy’s food isn’t as good? Your daddy was too tired yesterday, let him rest…” The call ended. The busy signal extinguished the last flicker of hope in my heart. Payment notifications kept coming in. I clenched my jaw, swallowed my pride, and asked my company for a three-month advance on my salary. I also borrowed money from everyone I knew. Finally, I scraped together enough for the surgery. The operating room light just switched off. I clenched my fists, staring intently at the doctor who emerged. I saw my pale-faced sister being wheeled out of the operating room.

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1 The system demanded I win over the quiet, penniless scholarship student, but from day one, all I wanted was to – fail. In my old life, I was as ordinary as could be. My looks were average, my family background nothing special. I lived in a cramped studio, agonizing over buying even a simple latte. An orphan, I had no family, no friends, and my days were a monotonous, solitary drone. But now, everything was different. I was in the back of a luxury car, heir to a formidable fortune, with striking, captivating looks. My parents doted on me like a princess, and my bank accounts held more zeroes than I could ever spend in several lifetimes. The cold, grating mechanical voice in my head had vanished. I needed to confirm the system was truly gone, unlinked and out of my life for good. I quickly reined in my exploding joy, furrowed my brows, reddened my eyes, and began my performance. In my mind, I called out to the system, my voice trembling, my fingertips subtly shaking, playing the pitiful host who feared being stranded after failing a mission. “System… are you still there? Don’t leave me… I failed the mission. Can I go back… I don’t want to stay here…” It wasn’t until my mind was completely devoid of any mechanical sound, truly confirming it was gone and would never return, that I could hold back no longer. I clapped a hand over my mouth, laughter bubbling uncontrollably through my fingers, from quiet muffled giggles to bending over double, tears streaming down my face, my whole body shaking. Go back? Who in their right mind would want to go back there? … “Mr. Smith, first, to my usual high-end salon.” I watched the bustling cityscape outside the window, a smile uncontrollably spreading across my face. At the salon, the artistic director himself greeted me. “Miss Evelyn, what can we do for you today?” My fingertip lightly tapped the table as I gazed at my reflection, still bearing traces of a rebellious, ‘scene-kid’ look. “Dye my hair back to natural black, make it sleek and smooth, to collarbone length. For makeup, a clean, ‘no-makeup’ look, naturally shaped brows. Get rid of all the exaggerated stuff.” This outlandish appearance – rebellious, edgy – was something I’d deliberately cultivated to sabotage the mission. Who understood the feeling of going to school every day with yellow streaked hair, heavy smoky eyes, ripped crop tops, and platform combat boots, under the constant scrutiny of judgmental stares? “Understood.” The car had barely pulled up to the mall entrance when the boutique staff immediately rushed forward, bowing respectfully. “Miss Evelyn, welcome!” I offered a faint smile, my eyes sweeping over an entire wall of new arrivals. “All the latest collections that just came in – clothes, dresses, bags, shoes – anything in my size, wrap them all up.” The sales associate paused, then excitedly responded, “Yes, Miss! Preparing them for you right away!” I stepped into the VIP fitting room, trying on one outfit after another. A couture dress hugged my slender waist, exquisite leather shoes graced my feet, a new designer bag casually draped over my arm. The girl in the mirror had innocent eyes, fair skin, and the designer labels made her look dazzling and captivating. I twirled gently in front of the mirror, unable to hold back a soft laugh. I laughed until my eyes curved into crescents, until my heart swelled with pure delight. The sales assistant respectfully called out the tally beside me: “Miss, sixty-eight items in total. They’ve all been loaded into your car.” I picked up my credit card, handed it over without even glancing at the price. “Just swipe it.” Beep— The sound of a successful transaction was sweeter than any music in the world. No more faking anger, faking malice, faking being utterly detestable. But before the smile completely faded, a prickle of caution instantly shot through me. No, I couldn’t be careless. Back then, to cooperate with the system’s mission, I’d specifically transferred to the public high school the male lead attended, acting out and looking hideous right under his nose. All I wanted was for him to thoroughly detest me, to plummet his affection rating into the negative, ensuring the mission crashed and burned. The system was gone now, but what if… what if it suddenly detected an anomaly someday and came back? What if the male lead inexplicably became blind and suddenly didn’t hate my ‘bad girl’ persona anymore, and the affection rating miraculously bounced back? What if the system then forcibly dragged me back to complete the mission, or even worse, threw me back into my old, poor, ordinary world… I couldn’t even bear the thought. I absolutely could not take any risks. The male lead, he had to completely vanish from my life. The further, the better. Ideally, I’d never see him again. I immediately picked up my phone, my fingers rapidly dialing the number of my family’s private education consultant. My voice was sweet and calm, without a trace of hesitation. “Mr. Thompson, please handle my transfer paperwork. Immediately.” “Yes, transfer me out of this public high school. No reason needed, I just don’t want to be there anymore.” “You can arrange any school, as long as it’s as far away from this one as possible. A private boarding school, an international program, even a secluded academy – anything.” “Please make sure it’s done by tomorrow. I don’t want to stay there another day.” The voice on the other end readily agreed, not daring to question my decision. Here, I was a wealthy heiress who could mobilize all resources with a single word, not the ordinary person who had to pinch pennies for tuition. Hanging up the phone, I leaned back into the plush leather seat, letting out a long sigh of relief. The corners of my mouth curved upwards uncontrollably once more. Mission accomplished. Once I transferred, I could completely distance myself from that penniless male lead, severing all ties to the mission. The car smoothly entered the villa district. The ornate iron gates slowly opened, and the fountain splashed with fragmented light in the setting sun. But the moment the car pulled to a stop, the smile on my face abruptly froze. Under the streetlamp by the villa’s front door stood a slender young man in a faded school uniform. It was Harry Miller. The male lead I had meticulously, desperately tried to make detest me, the one I needed to completely fail the mission with. My mind buzzed, and I suddenly remembered something I’d almost forgotten in my wild joy— To trick the system into thinking I was diligently pursuing the mission, I had once forcibly kept him by my side under the guise of private tutoring. It was supposed to be tutoring, but in reality, I spent the entire time deliberately bothering him, deliberately trying to annoy him. I intentionally knocked over water glasses when he was explaining problems, intentionally asked incredibly stupid questions, intentionally threw temper tantrums in front of him like a spoiled brat, intentionally said cutting and mean things, intentionally made all sorts of repulsive gestures… all to make him feel a physiological discomfort just seeing me, to send his affection rating plummeting until the mission utterly failed. The system had only just left. I absolutely couldn’t afford any mistakes. If his attitude towards me softened even slightly right now, if the system suddenly came back from the dead, if his affection rating mysteriously rebounded… all my efforts, all my chances of staying in this world, would go down the drain. I couldn’t take a single risk. The chauffeur was already getting out to open my door. I immediately lowered my voice, my tone colder than my usual innocent facade. “Don’t open the door.” I sat in the shadows, coldly watching the young man outside the window. His brows were slightly furrowed, his gaze distant, clearly still radiating intense dislike for me. Good. I took a deep breath, quickly suppressing the surge of joy and caution in my eyes. I slipped back into my arrogant, annoying ‘bad girl’ persona – even though I’d just removed my smoky eye makeup and changed out of my edgy clothes, I could play the part perfectly in a second. I pushed open the car door, crossed my arms, my voice cutting and impatient. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough for him to hear clearly. “Who told you to come here? Couldn’t teach, and now you want more money?” In fairness, Harry was an excellent tutor, I just never paid attention. Now, it was a perfect excuse. “Don’t bother coming back. Just seeing you irritates me.” “Get lost, quickly. Don’t stand around my house making a nuisance of yourself.” “Or do you want to stick around like a stray dog?” Every word was sharp and unpleasant, perfectly hitting all his sensitive spots. Harry looked up, his voice faint, with a barely perceptible stiffness. “The money paid in advance, I haven’t completed those hours.” I crossed my arms, my chin slightly raised, my eyes full of disgust and impatience, my voice cold and stinging. “The hours aren’t finished, but they won’t be. The money? I don’t even care about that little bit. Consider it a tip.” “I told you, don’t bother me again. Just seeing you brings bad luck.” Harry froze, clearly unprepared for such ruthlessness, such an absolute rejection. Standing under the streetlamp, his fingertips tightened slightly, his voice softer, with a hesitation he didn’t even seem to notice. “…Was my teaching not good enough?” My chest tightened instantly. My face immediately adopted that arrogant and biting ‘bad girl’ expression from before, my eyebrow arched, my tone cold and sharp, leaving no room for politeness. “What else could it be?” Harry stood under the streetlamp, his posture ramrod straight. Though my words had clearly made him pale, he still stubbornly looked up at me, his voice carrying a nearly obstinate seriousness. “Your grades are still very weak. Only I can help you.” A cold, scornful disgust settled on my face. I stared at him as if he were an eyesore, my voice rising a few octaves, sharp and stinging. “Harry Miller, do you really think too highly of yourself?” “Who do you think you are?” I took a step forward, looking down at him, my disdain undisguised. “So what if my grades are weak? Even if I get a zero, even if I never study a day in my life, I can still easily inherit the family business, live a life of luxury, and have more money than I can spend.” “I don’t need your help, and I certainly don’t need your fake kindness.” “Stop bothering me, and stop being so presumptuous. Just seeing you annoys me.” He didn’t say another word, just gave me a deep, lingering look. The next second, he turned and quickly disappeared into the night. The next morning, I walked slowly to school, wearing new leather flats and an outfit of clean, gentle white – a stark contrast to the obnoxious, edgy ‘bad girl’ from yesterday. My hair was sleek, black, collarbone-length. My makeup was light and fresh. I wore a French-style dress I’d bought yesterday. I was here today to handle the transfer paperwork and completely sever all ties with the male lead. But as I reached the corner of the academic building, a burst of laughter and shoving suddenly pierced my ears. My steps faltered. I looked up, and my heart instantly jumped into my throat. A few of the guys who usually hung around me were cornering a small girl against the wall. Books were scattered everywhere, their voices arrogant and cruel. “Did you hear us?! Our boss said, you poor trash, stay away from her!” “Look at who you are! Do you even deserve to talk to our boss?” “Quickly, pick up your stuff and get out! Don’t stand there making a nuisance!” The girl trapped in the middle kept her head down, trembling, tears welling in her eyes. My mind buzzed, and I instantly understood everything. Before, to max out Harry’s dislike for me, I’d deliberately staged a “bullying scene” in a corner where he could see – pretending to pick on this girl, pretending to mock her cruelly. All I wanted was for him to see my worst, most detestable side, to send his affection rating plummeting through the earth. And now, someone was actually using my name to corner and bully someone. I stood not far away, my face instantly turning cold. The female lead, Sarah Green, was an orphan, relying on Harry for everything. She was quite pitiable. “What are you doing?” The guys saw me and immediately grinned, crowding around. “Boss! We’re helping you teach her a lesson! You said you hated her the most—” “Shut up.” I cut them off, my eyes chilling. “When did I ever tell you to lay a hand on her?” “Since when do you get to interfere in my business?” “Get out, now. Don’t cause trouble for me here.” The guys froze, probably never having seen me so serious. They muttered an assent and quickly scattered. Only I and the bullied girl remained. I didn’t look at her, nor did I offer comfort, simply stating blandly, “No one will bother you again.” “Thank you,” the girl mumbled. But then, a glance from the corner of my eye – Under the sycamore tree not far away, Harry stood silently, having seen the entire scene unfold. My heart tightened violently. Damn it. What was he doing here? What if he thought me stopping those guys was a sign of softness, a change, a sudden conscience? If his impression of me warmed even a tiny bit, and the system somehow revived, I’d be completely finished. I absolutely could not let him entertain the slightest thought of “she’s not so bad after all.” Almost instantly, I pulled my cafeteria card from my pocket, turned, and walked up to the girl who was still picking up her books. I deliberately kept my chin high, my eyes contemptuous and impatient, and shoved the card hard into her arms. My voice was just loud enough for Harry to hear clearly from a distance. “Take it.” “I’m transferring anyway; this card is useless to me. Here, you pauper can have it.” The girl froze, looking up at me. I didn’t wait for her to speak, adding another remark, cutting and hurtful. “Don’t misunderstand. I just think it’s a waste to throw it away. I’m not pitying you.” With that, I turned and walked away, not sparing her a glance, nor looking at Harry. My steps were light as I walked towards the principal’s office. The teachers’ voices, however, drifted softly into my ears. “That student, Harry Miller… it’s really a shame. His grandmother suddenly had an emergency and needs a large sum for surgery.” “Yes, his family is already struggling. The school plans to organize a fundraiser to help in any way we can…” My steps halted abruptly. Harry. Grandmother’s emergency. Needs money. A strange pang in my chest. A very faint prickle of guilt, like a fine hair, brushed across my heart. I wasn’t a good person. From beginning to end, I had used him, deliberately disgusted him, desperately tried to make him hate me, all to fail the mission, all to stay in this world of luxury. But hearing news of his desperate situation, I couldn’t remain completely unmoved. Guilt aside, I didn’t want to owe him anything. After all, he had “helped” me accomplish the most important thing in this life – staying in this world. I turned, walked around to the side door of the principal’s office, and found the teacher responsible for the fundraiser. My face was expressionless, my voice calm and even. “I want to make an anonymous donation.” The teacher paused. “Student, you…” “No need to record my name, and don’t ask who donated.” I pulled out my black card without hesitation. “Transfer two hundred thousand.” The teacher was utterly stunned, speechless for a long moment. I didn’t wait for his reaction. When signing, I simply wrote “Current Student.” After swiping the card, I turned and left, swift and clean, leaving no trace.

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My heart completely shattered the moment Patrick pushed me aside for another woman. This was the man who had spent ten years relentlessly pursuing me, swearing I was the only woman he would ever love. Yet, on the night before our wedding, he admitted to his friends that I was nothing more than a placeholder. He casually mentioned that if his secret little girlfriend could just behave herself, he’d keep her around. He was absolutely certain that I, his official, broad-minded wife, would eventually forgive him. But on the day of the wedding, his little girlfriend caused a massive scene. She held a jagged piece of shattered glass to her own throat, screaming hysterically, demanding Patrick choose between us. When she violently shoved me off the wedding dais, Patrick didn’t even glance in my direction. He threw himself forward to shield the woman threatening him. As I lay on the floor with a fractured leg, Patrick roared at me to “get the hell away.” He was desperate to rush her to the hospital, screaming that if I delayed her treatment, he would make me pay with my life. That very night, I bought the earliest ticket out of the country. I left, and I never looked back. … “Ana, are you incapable of signing your own damn consent forms? Is that why you’ve called me twenty times?” “Just because Kate got hurt, you have to throw a tantrum and fake a broken leg? I am emotionally exhausted! Stop causing trouble for me!” Patrick’s voice dripped with irritation and barely contained rage through the phone. Ever since Kate crashed the wedding, he had vanished with her for a solid twelve hours. This was the twentieth time I had called him. The previous nineteen had been sent straight to voicemail. His freezing tone made me pause. I pleaded, “Kate pushed me.” “The surgeon says a family member has to sign the consent form. Since you’re already at the hospital, can’t you just walk over for two minutes and sign it?” Patrick’s response was to violently hang up the phone. Expecting exactly this, I sighed heavily. “Nurse, just bring me the consent forms. I’ll sign them myself.” The attending surgeon looked hesitant. “Ma’am, maybe you should try calling Mr. Kensington again? Perhaps he just misunderstood?” “Yesterday, he had the entire surgical team on standby. He told us that if Kate tried to crash the wedding and you got so much as a scratch, we were to treat you immediately.” “In the past, you couldn’t even catch a cold without Mr. Kensington calling for a board consultation and sitting by your bed for three days straight.” “If he finds out you actually fractured your leg, and that Kate caused it, he’ll lose his mind. You’re clearly the most important person to him.” I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. I used to think I was the most important person to him, too. Clearly, that wasn’t the case anymore. At my insistence, the surgeon finally handed over the clipboard, allowing me to sign my own surgical release. Right up until the anesthesia hit, I gave Patrick one last chance. I waited for him to just come check on me. All I got was an Instagram update from Kate. It was a boomerang of Patrick blowing on a steaming bowl of oatmeal, carefully feeding it to her, then gently tucking the blankets around her shoulders. The caption read: “Three years by your side was the greatest luck of my life. Now, you’re using the rest of your life to prove your love to me.” Kate’s smile in the video was sickeningly sweet. It was hard to believe that just a few days ago, she was getting blackout drunk because Patrick had abruptly dumped her. She had shown up at my apartment, reeking of alcohol, pointing her finger in my face and sobbing hysterically. “I was Patrick’s shadow for three years! I gave him everything! But he never touched me. He always said you, Ana, were the only woman he would ever marry. What makes you so special?!” “I tried cooking his favorite meals just like you do. And you know what he did? He slapped me! He told me I was nothing compared to you. He said I wasn’t as pretty as you, I wasn’t as gentle as you, and told me to stop embarrassing myself by trying to be a cheap imitation.” She had screamed, her voice cracking, “He told me I was just a distraction to kill time until you moved back to the States! He said the second you landed, I was out! Why did you have to come back, Ana? Why couldn’t you just die over there?!” Patrick had walked in, furious that she had insulted me. He slapped her across the face and dragged her out the door without a second thought. His eyes were cold and full of absolute disgust as he glared at her. “We are done. Stop stalking me. Did you just curse Ana? Are you insane? If you want to die, go do it somewhere else.” “Ana is my one and only. I will never look at anyone else.” Yet, today, at our own wedding, he ran straight to Kate without a second thought. He held her like she was the most precious thing in the world, panicked and desperate as he rushed her into the ER. My surgery was brief. I woke up as the nerve block wore off. Suddenly, the door to my private room burst open. Patrick stormed in. I thought his conscience had finally kicked in. I thought he was coming to apologize. Instead, the very first thing he did was grab my arm—the one with the IV line—yanking it out from under the blankets and aggressively inspecting my hand. When he didn’t see what he was looking for, he glared at me. “Ana, where is your engagement ring?” “Give it to me right now!” His violent pull yanked the IV needle deep into my vein, sending a sharp spike of pain up my arm. I didn’t answer his question. I just looked at him. “Why do you want my ring?” I had designed that ring myself. I spent months working with a master jeweler to hand-cut the stones. It was the physical proof of our promise. “Kate likes it. She said she wants us to wear matching rings.” “Just give it to her to play with. It’s just a piece of metal. It’s not even a big diamond, it’s basically worthless!” While talking, he spotted the ring sitting on the corner of the nightstand. He snatched it up without hesitation and turned to leave. I lunged forward to grab it, forgetting my leg was in a cast. I barely caught the edge of the ring, refusing to let go. “Give it back!” Patrick looked down at me, his eyes full of profound disappointment. “Ana, I thought you were a mature, forgiving woman. When did you become so petty? You’re going to fight over a cheap piece of jewelry?” I stared at him. “If you take that ring, we are done.” Patrick froze. He dropped to his knees, staring at me in absolute disbelief. “What did you just say?” His voice trembled. “Ten years. Ten years of history, and you’re just going to throw it away over nothing?” “Don’t you know I can’t survive without you?” “I forbid you from leaving me!” I looked at him with dead eyes. “But Patrick, you threw me away first. For Kate.” Patrick buried his face in my chest, hugging me desperately. “No, no, you don’t understand. I just pity Kate! She was having a mental breakdown, she was going to kill herself! I had no choice but to calm her down.” “Once she’s stable, we will re-do the wedding. I promise you! Just trust me!” Looking at his frantic, panicked face, I slowly nodded. “Okay.” He let out a massive sigh of relief and stood up. But he didn’t give the ring back. He walked out the door with it in his pocket. I rubbed my bare ring finger, then picked up my phone and dialed a number in London. “Hey, it’s Ana. Could you ask Professor Sterling if there’s still an opening at the lab? I want to come back and finish my research.” My former colleague sounded thrilled. “Are you serious? Professor Sterling was devastated when you left! He’ll be ecstatic. I’ll go talk to him right now.” “Wait, didn’t you just get married? Won’t the long-distance thing be hard on your husband?” Instinctively, I almost made an excuse for Patrick. Then I realized how pathetic that was. “He passed away,” I said flatly. “He won’t be interfering with my career anymore.” After hanging up, I booked a red-eye flight to London. I checked myself out of the hospital and went home to pack. Over the next few days, Kate was incredibly active on social media. I watched Patrick buy her haute couture gowns and bid on million-dollar necklaces at auctions. I saw photos of their hands intertwined, Kate proudly wearing the diamond ring Patrick had ripped from my hospital room. I saw the professional engagement photos they took. Kate’s caption read: “Three years in the shadows. Finally stepping into the light to claim my love.” Patrick even shared the post on his own page, though he deleted it two minutes later, terrified I would see it. Instead, he tried to cover his tracks by forwarding me an invitation to his mother’s 60th birthday gala. Before the wedding fell apart, Patrick had stressed how important this gala was. He made me promise to attend as his wife to wish his mother well. His mother, Martha, had even held my hand and personally invited me. Even though the wedding never happened, I bought an expensive gift and took a cab to the Kensington estate. When I pushed the mahogany doors open, I froze. The banquet had already started. The entire extended family was seated. Patrick and his mother were sitting together at the head table. Sitting directly between them was Kate. Martha placed a piece of lobster on Kate’s plate. “Kate, dear, you’ve lost weight. You need to eat more.” Patrick gave his mother a playful look. “Mom, she’s so high maintenance. She refuses to crack her own lobster. I have to peel it for her.” Despite his complaint, Patrick cracked the shell, pulled the meat out, and fed it to Kate by hand. I stood alone in the grand entranceway, leaning on a crutch, feeling completely exposed and humiliated. Suddenly, one of his aunts noticed me and gasped. “Ana?” Patrick’s head snapped up. His face immediately turned dark. “What are you doing here? My mother didn’t invite you today.” Before I could say a word, he marched over, grabbed my arm, and started dragging me back out the door. With my broken leg and crutch, I almost lost my balance. I violently yanked my arm free. “Don’t touch me. I can walk.” Patrick’s tone was ice-cold. “Ana, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but nobody invited you to my mother’s birthday.” “If you came here to mark your territory and try to steal Kate’s spotlight, you can leave. You are not welcome here!” I stared at him, genuinely shocked. “What are you talking about? You specifically texted me to come.” Patrick opened his mouth, a flash of pure guilt crossing his eyes. “I don’t remember that. You’re probably just lying.” Martha hurried out into the foyer. “Ana, Kate has been very depressed lately. I told Patrick to bring her so she could get out of the house. Could you please just leave? I don’t want her getting triggered by seeing you.” It seemed everyone had conveniently suffered amnesia regarding all the promises they made to me. Fine. If I wasn’t welcome, I had no reason to stay. I nodded and turned to leave. Just then, Kate walked out of the dining room. She put on a sickeningly sweet display of pity. “Mom, Patrick, don’t be so mean. I’m not that petty.” “Ana is injured. It must have been so hard for her to limp all the way over here. Let her stay! We can all eat together!” I ignored the triumphant smirk in her eyes. “No thanks. I’m leaving.” But Patrick stepped in front of me, blocking the door. “You are staying.” “Kate was gracious enough to overlook your trespassing and offer you a seat at the table. Are you really going to disrespect her like that?” “If you walk out that door, the wedding is permanently canceled. Don’t forget, you threw away your entire career in London for me. If you lose me too, you’ll have absolutely nothing!” I froze. Patrick had spent ten years chasing me. I never intended to date him. But one day, a truck ran a red light. Patrick didn’t hesitate; he tackled me out of the way, taking the brunt of the impact. As they loaded him into the ambulance, bleeding from his head, he gripped my hand. “If it means saving you, I would gladly die. I just hope that in the next life, you’ll finally give me a chance.” That was the moment my walls broke. I dropped my prestigious research position in London and flew back to marry him. And now, he was using the very sacrifice I made out of love as a weapon to control me. I took a deep breath. “Do whatever you want. Cancel it.” I walked out the door without a backward glance. I didn’t see the brief look of total panic that flashed across Patrick’s face. That night, I packed my final two suitcases. My flight was at 6 AM. I didn’t expect Patrick to actually come back to the apartment in the middle of the night. He walked in and stared at the empty living room, stunned. “Where is our photo wall? Where did all our vacation pictures go?” “They fell and the glass shattered,” I lied smoothly. “I threw them in the trash.” Patrick walked up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Why won’t you even look at me? Are you mad?” He sighed deeply. “You’re so stubborn. Why can’t you just compromise? All my relatives were there today. I had already introduced Kate to them. When you showed up, it made everyone uncomfortable.” “If you had just dropped the gift off and left quietly, none of this would have happened.” I suddenly felt his fingers grabbing my left hand, slipping a ring onto my finger. It was a generic diamond ring. It wasn’t mine.

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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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