Category: English

I was at the bank to report a lost debit card when the teller casually asked: “Sir, you have a recurring royalty deposit under your name. Would you like me to link it to your new card?” I froze. On the screen in front of her, under my name, was an account receiving $320,000 in patent licensing fees every single quarter. For three whole seconds, my mind went entirely blank. I flashed back to five years ago, to the evening my wife brought home a thick stack of incorporation papers for me to sign. She told me it was just standard procedure to get the company registered. She had smiled, telling me I “only knew technology, not business,” before quietly sidelining me into a nominal advisory role. I took a slow, deep breath and looked at the teller. “Link it to the new card,” I said. “And route every future deposit directly into my personal account.” That night, my wife, who was supposedly on an urgent business trip halfway across the world, booked the earliest flight home. At 2:00 AM, she was pounding on my bedroom door so hard it rattled the frame. … At 2:00 PM that afternoon, I was standing in front of the teller’s window, trying to replace a lost debit card. I’d misplaced it the week before and simply hadn’t found the time to deal with it until now. The teller took my ID, typed my details into her system, and suddenly paused. “Sir, you have a recurring royalty deposit under your name. Would you like me to link it to your new card?” I blinked, confused. “What royalty deposit?” She turned the monitor slightly so I could see. I stared at the glowing pixels for a long, quiet moment, and then the reality of it hit me like a physical blow. There it was, in black and white: a recurring quarterly deposit of $320,000. The receiving account was a secondary card under my name—one I had never seen, held, or authorized. The ledger went back five years. Five years. Twenty quarters. $6.4 million. My fingers began to tremble against the cold marble counter. I remembered five years ago when I was spending eighteen-hour days in the lab, surviving on cold coffee and adrenaline. My wife, Lauren, had brought a stack of legal documents to my desk. She said they were the standard filings to register the startup, and that she needed her “technical partner” to sign off. I had been too exhausted to read the fine print. I just took the pen and signed where she pointed. She had laughed, leaning over to kiss my forehead. “Sweetheart, you just focus on the tech. Let me handle the commercial side. You’re brilliant in the lab, but you don’t know the first thing about running a business.” From that day on, I was pushed into a corner as a “special consultant.” She never spoke to me about the company’s financials. Whenever I asked how things were going, she would give me a dismissive pat on the shoulder and say, “Don’t worry about it. We’re barely scraping by anyway.” And yet, here was this card, quietly absorbing $320,000 every three months. So this was what she meant by “barely scraping by.” I took a slow, deliberate breath. The trembling in my hands stopped. My mind had never felt so painfully clear. “Link it to my new card,” I said. My voice was so quiet and steady it surprised me. “And make sure every deposit from now on goes straight into my personal checking account.” The teller gave me a curious look but didn’t pry. She began tapping away at her keyboard. Five minutes later, it was done. At 7:00 PM, I walked into an empty house. Lauren was still abroad. Her schedule had grown increasingly hectic over the last two years—she was traveling internationally at least once a month, always citing “investor relations” or “global client pitches.” I had believed her. I had trusted her implicitly. But standing in our quiet hallway, I had to ask myself: what had she really been doing? I walked into her home office and opened her laptop. It took me three attempts to guess her password. It was her birthday. Once inside her email client, I began scrolling through her correspondence. With every thread I opened, a cold dread settled deeper into my chest. Over the past five years, Vesper Technologies had signed seven major patent licensing agreements. Every single one of them was built entirely on my proprietary hardware designs. But on the signature line of every contract, the only name written was Lauren Evans. My patents. My blood, sweat, and sleepless nights. She had sold them to the highest bidders, while doling out a meager $1,200 monthly “allowance” to me, claiming the company was bleeding cash and we needed to tighten our belts. $1,200. I kept scrolling. Eventually, I found an email thread with a contact saved only as “Kevin.” The messages went back two years. The tone had started as strictly professional—negotiations over licensing fees—but gradually devolved into something intimate. “Thinking of you.” “Counting down the days until you’re back.” There were attachments, too. Photos. Lauren leaning into the chest of a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit, her laugh radiant against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. It was dated during her trip to Paris last autumn, the one she had claimed was an grueling industry summit. I stared at the screen until my knuckles turned white against the edge of the desk. Five years. She had built a life on my back, and then she had built a lie on top of it. I closed the laptop, leaned back in her leather chair, and watched the night swallow the room. At 2:00 AM, the peace was shattered. The doorbell rang in a frantic, unbroken rhythm, followed by heavy, desperate pounding on the front door. I got up from the sofa, walked down the hallway without rushing, and opened the door. Lauren stood under the porch light. Her hair was a wild, windblown mess, her mascara smudged, her eyes bloodshot. She was panting, clutching the handle of her carry-on suitcase. She had clearly come straight from the airport. “Larry… are you out of your mind?!” She pushed past me into the foyer, dropping her suitcase and grabbing me by the collar. “Why did you touch that account? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” I looked down at her hands gripping my shirt, and a faint, cold smile touched my lips. “Lauren, I was actually about to ask you the same thing. What exactly is that money?” She froze, her eyes darting away for a split second. “It’s… it’s Vesper’s operating capital,” she stammered, trying to regain her footing. “You can’t just freeze those funds! If you mess with that account, you’re going to destroy the company!” “Operating capital?” My voice remained entirely level. “A quarterly licensing deposit of $320,000 is operating capital?” The color drained from her face. “How… how did you find out?” “I also know that you and Kevin have been very busy helping me ‘manage’ those assets. Isn’t that right?” She took a step back, panic flickering across her features. But Lauren was nothing if not resilient. Within seconds, she pulled herself together, walked over to the living room sofa, and sat down. She pulled a slim silver case from her purse and lit a cigarette. In five years of marriage, I had never seen her smoke. “You went through my laptop,” she said, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke. “Yes.” She laughed softly, leaning her head back against the cushions. It wasn’t a nervous laugh; it was the sound of someone shedding a weight they were tired of carrying. “Fine,” she said, looking up at me with an icy, calm detachment. There was no guilt in her eyes, only a strange, clinical honesty. “What do you want to know, Larry?” “I’ll save you the trouble of asking. Kevin isn’t just a client. We’ve been together for two years.” She tapped her ash into a decorative dish on the coffee table, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the evening forecast. “Honestly, you didn’t know anything for five years, and you lived a perfectly comfortable life, didn’t you? Why blow it up now?” My hands balled into fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. She looked at me, stubbing out the cigarette. “So stop playing these games. It doesn’t matter if you linked the card to your personal account. The licensing agreements were executed under the company’s corporate seal, not your personal name. If you think you can just take that money and walk away, you’re dreaming.” She stood up, smoothing down her designer skirt. “You’re an engineer, Larry. You understand code, not corporate law. You’re out of your depth.” She grabbed her suitcase, walked into the master bedroom, and shut the door behind her. I stood in the dark living room, cold to the bone. She didn’t even respect me enough to lie anymore. The next morning, I left for my office. As I approached the gate of our community, a black Porsche Cayenne pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, and a man wearing polarized aviators looked out at me with a smirk. “You must be Larry.” I stopped. “Who are you?” He took off his glasses, revealing sharp, narrow eyes and a perfectly groomed jawline. “Kevin. Kevin West.” The blood roared in my ears. He leaned against the leather interior, studying me with a patronizing amusement. “Lauren told me about the scene you made last night. I figured I’d swing by, clear the air, and have a little chat.” “We have nothing to talk about.” I turned to walk away, but his voice drifted after me, smooth and unbothered. “Larry, don’t take this the wrong way. I actually admire your work. The engineering is top-tier.” “But you and I both know that brilliant tech is useless in a vacuum. Without Lauren’s business acumen and my connections, those patents aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.” I stopped and turned back to face him. “Is that so?” “I’m here to offer you an out.” He opened his glove compartment and pulled out a checkbook, quickly scribbling a figure. He tore the slip of paper off and held it out to me. “One hundred thousand dollars.” “You unlink that account, sign a waiver, and stop digging into Vesper’s operations.” I stared at the check. My annual salary at my day job was barely $60,000. To the old me, $100,000 would have felt like a fortune. But my patents had generated $6.4 million in five years. He was trying to buy me off with pocket change. “No.” Kevin raised an eyebrow, his smile fading. “Don’t be stupid, Larry.” He slid the check back into his pocket and tapped the steering wheel. “Think about it. This is a one-time offer. Once I walk away, the price goes down to zero.” He shifted into drive, revved the engine, and sped away, leaving a plume of exhaust in the crisp morning air. I stood on the sidewalk, my teeth clenched, watching his taillights disappear. Instead of going to work, I drove downtown to the county records and the state patent directory. I spent three hours digging through databases until I found exactly what I was looking for. The seven licensing agreements were indeed signed under “Vesper Technologies, Inc.” But the original patent filings themselves? The registered inventor and sole owner was listed clearly as: Larry Evans. Lauren’s clever little contract from five years ago had only granted Vesper an exclusive license to use and sublicense the technology. She had never actually transferred the ownership of the intellectual property to the corporation. And deep within the boilerplate of that original licensing agreement, there was a standard clause: The licensor reserves the right to terminate the license upon sixty days’ written notice in the event of material dispute or restructuring. I had signed it without reading it back then. But now, that single clause was a loaded gun in my hands. If I pulled the trigger and terminated the license, Vesper Tech’s entire product line would become legally unauthorized overnight. They would lose their entire market. A nine-million-dollar annual operation, reduced to nothing. That afternoon, I went to a boutique firm specializing in intellectual property. I had an appointment with a senior partner named Cynthia Mitchell. “Ms. Mitchell,” I said, laying out the paperwork. “If I want to terminate this licensing agreement, what does the process look like?” Cynthia reviewed the contract, her red pen tracing the lines of Section 11. She nodded slowly. “According to this, you have the absolute right as the patent holder to terminate the relationship with sixty days’ written notice. There is no cure period and no veto power built in for Vesper.” “So, if I send this notice, sixty days from now they can no longer legally manufacture or sell anything using my technology?” “Exactly. Any continued use would constitute willful patent infringement.” “Perfect.” We drafted the cease-and-desist and termination letters right there, but I told her not to mail them yet. I wasn’t going to strike until every single piece on the board was positioned. On my way home, I stopped by an electronics store and bought a professional-grade voice recorder—thin, voice-activated, with a seventy-two-hour battery life. I slipped it into my breast pocket. From this moment on, every word that came out of Lauren’s or Kevin’s mouths would be recorded. The more arrogant they were, the better it would look in front of a judge. I didn’t argue with Lauren when I got home. I went back to my routine. I went to work, came home, and didn’t mention the bank account again. I let her think I had been properly intimidated. By the fifth day, she decided to test the waters. “Honey,” she said over dinner, her voice soft, returning to her sweet, domestic persona. “Did you think things through about that account?” I kept my eyes on the television, barely looking up. “Yeah. You were right. I don’t know anything about running a business. I shouldn’t have overreacted.” I saw her shoulders visibly relax. She smiled and moved closer to me on the couch. “I knew you’d understand. You just keep doing what you do best in the lab, and let me carry the heavy stuff.” I offered a quiet, compliant nod. A few minutes later, she picked up her phone and walked out onto the balcony to make a call. I slid closer to the glass door, straining to hear over the hum of the traffic below. “Yeah… don’t worry, he’s quieted down… Right, he’s just an academic. A few sharp words and he went right back into his shell…” Her laugh was light, carried away by the evening breeze. “When do you get back from your trip? I miss you…” My fingers tightened around the TV remote until my joints ached. But my face remained completely blank. In my pocket, the recorder silently spun. On the eighth day, my mother-in-law, Helen, paid us a visit. She didn’t even bother to take off her coat before she sat down at the dining table, her expression heavy with irritation. “Larry, Lauren told me about the little stunt you pulled last week.” She crossed her arms, looking down her nose at me. “I don’t understand what you’re complaining about. She feeds you, she keeps a roof over your head, and she handles all the stress of the business. You’re a lab rat. Why on earth are you trying to claw your way into things you don’t understand?” I paused, my fork hovering over my plate. “Helen, I was just asking about the company’s revenue. I didn’t mean anything by it.” “Asking?” Helen let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You signed those papers years ago. You get your share. Don’t start getting greedy now.” Lauren sat beside her, playing the peacemaker with a gentle smile. “Mom, let it go. He knows now.” Helen gave me one last warning look. “Good.” She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a shiny new debit card, and slapped it onto the table. “This is your new allowance card. Lauren bumped it up to $1,500 a month. That’s an extra three hundred dollars. More than fair, wouldn’t you say?” $1,500. My work brought Vesper millions of dollars a year, and they wanted me to thank them for a three-hundred-dollar raise. I picked up the card and forced a smile. “Thanks, Helen.” Helen nodded, satisfied. “There we go. A man should be content with a stable home and food on his plate. Why make waves?” After dinner, Lauren walked her mother down to her car. I sat alone at the empty table, flipping the plastic card over and over in my hand. On the tenth day, I received an encrypted PDF from Cynthia. Larry, I ran a comprehensive search on Vesper Tech’s corporate filings from the last three years. We found something highly irregular. What is it? I typed back. Three months ago, Vesper registered a new shareholder: Kevin West. He was issued a 25% equity stake. His contribution was registered as an ‘intellectual property/technical asset contribution.’ I stared at the screen, a cold laugh escaping my throat. Technical contribution? Kevin didn’t know the first thing about hardware engineering. He had used my proprietary designs to buy his way into my wife’s company. There’s more, Cynthia’s message continued. I reviewed the shareholder operating agreement. There’s an automatic forfeiture clause: ‘In the event that the core patent licensing agreements are terminated, Kevin West’s equity stake immediately forfeits and reverts to the company treasury.’ Meaning, if you terminate the license, Vesper’s product line stops, and Kevin’s 25% stake becomes instantly worthless. I put my phone down and leaned back, letting out a long breath. They had locked me out of my own creation, stolen my life’s work, and then used my own patents to gift my wife’s lover a quarter of the company. It was a beautifully orchestrated betrayal. By the fifteenth day, everything seemed normal on the surface. Lauren came home on time, cooked dinner, cleaned up, and occasionally played the doting wife. The better she performed, the more nauseous I felt. But I held my tongue. I needed the final piece to fall into place. That afternoon, Cynthia called. “Larry, the package is complete. Come to the office. It’s time for the final review.” I took a half-day off from work and drove to the firm. Cynthia had spread out four thick manila folders across her desk. “Let’s go over the battle plan,” she said, pointing to the first folder. “First: The formal Patent Termination Notice. Once served, the sixty-day clock begins. Vesper will have to cease all manufacturing of products utilizing your patents, or face massive statutory damages.” She tapped the second folder. “Second: The IP Infringement and Fraud complaint to the regulatory authorities. Kevin West claimed a 25% stake based on ‘technical contribution,’ but the tech he submitted is identical to your registered patents. That’s corporate fraud and illegal share issuance.” She moved to the third. “Third: A minority shareholder oppression lawsuit. As a 15% shareholder of Vesper, you have been systematically denied financial disclosures, skipped over for distributions, and excluded from corporate governance. This is a direct violation of corporate law.” Finally, she opened the fourth folder. “Fourth: The divorce petition. Complete with ironclad evidence of adultery, dissipation of marital assets, and forensic accounting showing Lauren transferred over $1.8 million from Vesper’s accounts directly into Kevin’s personal accounts over the last two years.” I looked at the mountain of paper, feeling the weight of the last five years finally shifting. “And then there’s this,” I said, placing the small voice recorder on the table. “Seventy hours of audio from the last fifteen days. Lauren admitting her affair, admitting she hid the patent revenues from me, and Kevin’s attempts to bribe and threaten me.” Cynthia played a few key clips, her eyebrows rising higher with every passing second. “Larry, this is gold. A judge will have zero sympathy for either of them.” She closed the folders and looked at me, her expression serious. “Are you absolutely sure you want to pull all four triggers at once? No half-measures?” I smiled. “Cynthia, they stole millions from me, treated me like a simpleton, and slept in my bed while telling me I should be grateful for a thousand-dollar allowance.” “They still think I’m just a quiet nerd who doesn’t have the stomach for a fight.” I stood up, adjusting my jacket. “Let’s show them what happens when the nerd fights back.”

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A woman in a couture gown collapsed at the threshold of my holistic apothecary. I spent the entire night performing targeted acupuncture, brewing custom herbal decoctions, and pulling her back from the brink of death. When her fiancé finally arrived, his only reaction was a cold, accusatory sneer: “You drugged her, didn’t you?” It was only then that I realized she was Wendy Sheffield, the crown jewel of Manhattan’s elite. Once she regained consciousness, she looked at me with patronizing charity. “Close your little shop,” she said. “I have an estate in the Hudson Valley. You’ll live there from now on, and I’ll visit you once a week.” When I refused, her fiancé lunged forward and slapped me across the face. “Still not satisfied? Did a backwoods peasant like you actually think you could occupy the seat of Wendy Sheffield’s lawful husband?!” I threw them both out. Within twenty-four hours, the State Medical Board and the police raided my shop. The apothecary was boarded up, my landlord evicted me, and the neighbors gathered around, whispering and calling me a “backmarket criminal.” I tracked Wendy down, demanding answers in hysterics. She merely swirled her red wine, giving me a weary, patronizing smile. “The principled, self-reliant boy routine is tired, Isaac. And your acting is terrible. Stop pretending.” “You purposely saved me just to get my attention, didn’t you?” She locked me away in her Hudson Valley estate, promising she would break me in slowly. Then, a late-night fire claimed my life. Now, I open my eyes. Outside the apothecary, there is a heavy, muffled thud against the oak door. I look down, take a slow sip of my chamomile tea, and pretend I didn’t hear a thing. 1 In my past life, Wendy Sheffield locked me away in that secluded estate in the Hudson Valley. She said my pride was too stubborn; it needed to be broken. She said since I had chosen to be her kept man, I needed to learn how to serve my master. After she left, Pierce broke in with his thugs. His designer leather shoe ground into my face, his laugh cold and poisonous. “A backwoods herbalist dreaming of marrying into the Sheffield dynasty? Wendy just wanted a taste of something organic. One bite, and once she’s sick of it, she throws it in the trash.” Gasoline poured over my face, burning my eyes, choking my throat. He turned and walked away. The heavy iron doors of the estate were padlocked from the outside. The entire forest went up in flames with me. Until the moment I died, I didn’t know what I had done wrong. I had only tried to save a life. Now, I open my eyes. I’m back in my familiar apothecary, surrounded by the comforting scents of dried lavender, ginseng, and cedarwood. Outside, there is a heavy, muffled thud against the oak door. I look down, take another sip of my tea, and pretend I didn’t hear it. It goes quiet for a moment. Then, desperate pounding starts. I don’t budge. It’s two in the morning. I’m going to bed. If the morning commuters find a body on my steps, it has nothing to do with me. The pounding grows faster, frantic with panic at my silence. Suddenly— “CRACK.” The old wooden frame gives way as the door is violently kicked open. I bolt upright, rushing down the stairs from my loft. The brass lock lies shattered on the floorboard. Wendy Sheffield stumbles in, one hand clutching her chest. Her face is paper-white, her lips a sickly shade of bluish-purple. A wave of fury hits me. If she had the strength to break down a solid oak door, why couldn’t she drive herself to the ER? Wendy’s eyes cut through the dark, locking onto me with absolute, demanding authority. “Come here,” she gasps. “The needles… the herbal tea. Now.” I take three steps back. I pull out my phone and dial 911. I state my address clearly, calmly, and hang up. Then, I open my camera and hit record. I point the lens directly at her. “It is 2:15 AM. This woman just broke into my property. I have called an ambulance. This video is proof that I have not touched her.” Wendy’s pupils dilate. A raspy, disbelieving hiss slips through her teeth. “What… what are you doing?” “Securing evidence,” I say, my voice flat. “If anything happens to you, I am not liable.” Her chest heaves. She has clearly never been treated this way in her life. The great Wendy Sheffield, the woman whose nod can sway the city’s real estate market. “You—” She doesn’t finish. Her knees buckle, and she collapses onto the floor, unconscious. The ambulance arrives within minutes. I follow them to the hospital, mostly to ensure my name is cleared. In the sterile, fluorescent corridor of the ER, the sharp click of leather shoes echoes off the linoleum. Pierce storms toward me, his hand already swinging to strike my face. “You drugged Wendy, didn’t you? I know your type!” I catch his arm, shoving it back. “Get your facts straight. Your fiancée broke down my door in the middle of the night. If I hadn’t called 911, she’d be a corpse right now.” Wendy’s mother, Catherine Sheffield, follows closely behind. Her sharp eyes sweep over me like she’s inspecting a cheap knock-off at a flea market. “You saved my daughter, so of course you will be compensated,” she says. “But you need to understand your place. Know what you are entitled to, and more importantly, what you are not.” She sighs. “Wendy is too naive. She doesn’t understand how predatory men from your background can be. She fell right into your little trap.” Pierce suddenly grabs me by the collar, twisting the fabric so tightly it cuts off my breath. His voice escalates to a shrill, accusatory pitch. “What is this? Did she kiss you here? How many times did you have her? You shameless, parasitic leach!” I look down. He’s pointing at a red mark on my collarbone—a mosquito bite from yesterday afternoon. “That’s not—” Before I can finish, Pierce’s face contorts with sudden alarm. “Have you had a vasectomy?!” At those words, Catherine Sheffield’s expression shifts from disgust to sharp hostility. “You have no right to father a Sheffield child,” she says coldly, her voice cutting like glass. “Don’t think you can anchor yourself to our family with a pregnancy. Even if Wendy bore a hundred of your children, a man like you will never walk through our front door.” She immediately turns to her bodyguards, ordering them to drag me to the clinic downstairs for a vasectomy. Pierce lunges at me, trying to tear my shirt open. I shove him away with all my strength. “Why are you resisting?” Pierce sneers, his eyes burning with jealous rage. “I knew it. You calculated this entire thing just to trap her with a kid, didn’t you? In your dreams!” He kicks me hard in the stomach. The air leaves my lungs. I double over, my back slamming against the cold corridor wall. Just then, a booming voice echoes from the far end of the hall. “Stop right there!” Two police officers march toward us. “Who called?” “I did,” I choke out, leaning against the wall for support. Pierce snarls, “You actually had the nerve to call the cops, you piece of garbage?” I ignore him, unlocking my phone and pulling up the video. “This woman broke into my private property at two in the morning. I called 911 and saved her life. Her fiancé and mother arrived at the hospital, assaulted me, and are attempting to force a medical procedure on me against my will.” The video plays, showing everything from Wendy breaking my door to her fainting. Pierce and Catherine’s faces go pale. Pierce tries to save face, letting out a bitter laugh. “Even if that’s true, you should have left after saving her. Why are you still lingering here? You’re just trying to milk this for a payday!” The ER doors slide open. “The patient is awake.” Pierce and Catherine immediately turn to push past, but the doctor stops them. “She asked to see Isaac Prescott.” When I walk into the room, Wendy is propped up against the pillows. She is pale, but her eyes have already regained that cold, condescending sheen. “You play a very clever game, Isaac,” she says, her voice still rough from the attack. “Opening your apothecary right on my daily commute… I assume you dug up my medical records to find out about my heart condition.” “Then refusing to open the door, playing hard to get to make me think you’re special… Congratulations. It worked.” She sighs, looking at me with a weary sort of amusement. “Now that you’ve got what you wanted, you can close that little shop. I have an estate in the Hudson Valley. You’ll move in there, and I’ll visit you once a week. But first, you’ll go get a vasectomy. You are not fit to father my children.” “I don’t like my men flaunting themselves in public. You won’t leave the estate without my permission. My staff will take care of your daily needs.” The room falls into a dead silence. When I don’t show the breathless gratitude she expects, Wendy arches an eyebrow. “What? Surely you didn’t think you’d actually become Mr. Sheffield?” She speaks as if she’s doing me a favor. “Be sensible, Isaac. The Sheffield family is out of your league.” I look at her, completely disgusted, then turn to the door and call out, “Officers.” Wendy’s face freezes. She sits up straight. “Isaac, what are you—” Before she can finish, the police officer steps in and recites the details of the break-in. “Ma’am, we’ve reviewed the footage. Your medical episode has nothing to do with Mr. Prescott. Furthermore, you destroyed his property. You are liable for the damages.” Wendy’s smug expression crumbles into something dark and confused. She stares at me, unable to comprehend that a man offered her patronizing “benevolence” would choose to call the cops instead of bowing down. “Forget the damages,” I say, looking at her with pure aversion. “I only hope Miss Sheffield never shows her face near me again.” “She’s a curse.” Wendy lets out a soft, bitter chuckle. “You’re just emotional right now. Saying things you don’t mean.” She leans back against the pillows, her voice dripping with unshakeable confidence. “It’s natural. A windfall like this would overwhelm any man from your background. I’ll give you time to calm down.” I laugh out of sheer exasperation. Without a word, I turn on my heel and walk out. The next morning, State Medical Board vehicles pull up outside my apothecary. A bright red warning seal is plastered across my door. The neighbors gather in a tight circle, whispering. The inspector speaks loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Suspicion of using unregulated, hazardous substances, allegations of sexual harassment against a client, and practicing medicine without proper local authorization.” The crowd gasps. “I knew there was something off about him…” “Disgusting. To think I bought herbal tea here. Do you think he has cameras in there?” I don’t bother defending myself. In my past life, I screamed until my throat was raw, begging them to investigate the truth. All it got me was louder mockery and a broken lease slammed into my face by my landlord. Instead, I carefully take down the hand-carved wooden sign that had belonged to my grandfather—a legacy spanning three generations. I wrap it in an old canvas sheet and lock the door behind me. Back at my apartment, I pull out a business card from the very bottom of my desk drawer and dial the number. “The Integrative Medicine Summit tomorrow. I’ll be there.” That is all I say. On the other end of the line, there is a sharp, ecstatic gasp. After I hang up, a text from an unknown number comes through with a location pin. Followed by two words: “Come here.” There is no context, but I know exactly who it is. I stare at the screen, let out a cold laugh, and block the number without hesitation. An hour later, there is a heavy pounding on my door. Several large men in black suits stand on my threshold. “Mr. Prescott. Miss Sheffield wants to see you.” I give them a two-word answer: “Go away.” The lead man shoves past me, forcing his way into my living room. His eyes land on a delicate celadon urn sitting on my side table. With a casual flick of his wrist, he knocks it to the floor. The porcelain shatters, scattering fine, pale grey ash across the dark wood. “Oh, my bad,” he grins, showing his teeth. “We’re just blue-collar guys, we don’t know our own strength. If Mr. Prescott doesn’t cooperate, I’m afraid more things might start breaking.” My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe. My mother’s ashes. I had carried them with me for ten years. I swallow the lump in my throat, my hands shaking. “I’ll go with you.” When I am escorted into the private VIP lounge, before I can even process the room, a glass of red wine is splashed directly into my face. Pierce stands there holding the empty glass, turning to the wealthy crowd gathered around the mahogany table. “See? I told you. Once he knew Wendy was here, he’d come crawling!” The table erupts into laughter, their eyes scanning me like I’m a cheap dish on a menu. “This is him? A bit plain, isn’t he?” “These charity cases are only fun for a week or two. You get sick of them fast.” Pierce grabs me by my collar. “Everyone gets one punch. Anyone who doesn’t hit him is insulting me.” Wendy sits in the center of the plush leather sofa, letting out a soft sigh. “Pierce is hurt, Isaac. Just take it.” “After all, he is my fiancé. You will have to get used to things like this.” I take a deep, shuddering breath. “Did you ever ask if I wanted any of this?” I lock eyes with Wendy, speaking slowly and deliberately. “I told you. I want nothing to do with you. And I sure as hell don’t want to be your kept pet.” Wendy shakes her head with patronizing pity. “The hard-to-get act works once or twice, Isaac. Keep it up, and it just becomes tedious.” Her tone shifts to one of cold instruction. “Right now, you should be learning how to please me.” With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I violently shove Pierce away. He shrieks in surprise as I grab a heavy wine bottle from the table and smash it against the edge of the hearth. The room falls dead silent. A woman in the corner gasps, “Well, he’s got spirit.” I throw the broken neck of the bottle down, push open the heavy double doors, and walk out without looking back. The next day. The International Integrative Medicine Summit, hosted by the world-renowned Prescott Global organization, is packed to the brim at the city’s grand convention center. I am seated in the very front row. As I look down at the program, a pair of designer stilettoes stops in front of my boots. Wendy’s voice drops from above. “Didn’t I tell you that I don’t like my men seeking attention in public?” I look up, meeting her visibly irritated gaze. “Not only did you sneak out, but you came to an event of this scale.” A woman in a red cocktail dress next to her leans over. “Wendy, is there a problem?” Wendy says dismissively, “Nothing. Just a boy who needs to be taught his place.” The woman follows Wendy’s gaze to me. Her expression freezes. Her entire posture changes, straightening into a stance of absolute reverence. “Dr. Prescott! You actually came! We invited you so many times, but you always declined… Having you here today is an absolute honor…” She doesn’t even finish her sentence. Wendy’s face turns completely pale. Her eyes have finally traveled down to the nameplate on my seat. “HONORED GUEST — ISAAC PRESCOTT.” She is silent for a few seconds, then lets out a soft, mocking laugh. “I have to hand it to you,” she whispers, leaning down close to my ear. “You really have a lot of tricks up your sleeve. The independent boy act wasn’t enough, so you set up this little display of competence just to make me think you’re special, right?” Her smile widens, but her eyes remain freezing cold. “But unfortunately for you…” She straightens up. “You don’t realize that this entire summit is organized by Prescott Global. And my family has deep, personal ties with their executive board.” She raises a hand, beckoning the event coordinator over. Pointing a finger at me, she says, “This man. Remove him. Blacklist him from the industry.” The coordinator doesn’t move. I don’t move either. Wendy’s brow furrows. “What are you waiting for?” Then she notices something. The crowd that usually flocks around her is backing away. A ten-foot empty circle has formed around her. I smile. “Do you know why this international organization is called Prescott Global?” I finally speak, meeting her trembling, uncertain gaze. “Because my grandfather founded it. His name was Alistair Prescott.” The side doors of the auditorium fly open. An elegant, white-haired man rushes in, the gold President’s medallion of the Prescott Foundation pinned to his lapel. Following right behind him, looking utterly disheveled and grey-faced, is Catherine Sheffield. “Dr. Prescott!” The white-haired president rushes to my side, bowing his head respectfully. “Thank you for waiting, sir.” And behind him, Catherine Sheffield bends her waist in a deep, ninety-degree bow.

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My billionaire father-in-law was hanging by a thread after a horrific car crash. On his deathbed, to prevent a post-mortem bloodbath for control of his empire, he drafted a final mandate in front of the city’s top attorneys and press: whichever daughter reached his bedside first would inherit the entire multi-billion-dollar Prescott legacy. My sister-in-law, Isabel, was supposedly stuck on another continent. Vera, my wife and the eldest, was a mere ten-minute drive from the hospital. It should have been an effortless victory. A multi-billion-dollar empire handed to her on a silver platter. But I called her until my fingers went numb, and she just turned her phone off. All because Christian—her “one that got away”—was having a bad day, and she had promised to ride the Ferris wheel with him to watch a private fireworks display from the highest cabin. In my past life, I had lost my mind with panic. I’d stormed the amusement park with bodyguards, physically dragging her to her father’s deathbed. She dropped to her knees just as her father drew his last breath, successfully securing her position as the head of the empire. But Christian caught a mild fever from being left alone in the chilly autumn air. He threw a tantrum, accused her of abandoning him, and threatened to cut her out of his life forever. Vera was devastated. Once she secured total control of the company, she had me bound, weighted with heavy stones, and thrown into the freezing depths of the Atlantic. “If it weren’t for a money-grubbing parasite like you ruining everything, Christian would never have gotten sick. The inheritance was always going to be mine. You just had to meddle.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the hospital corridor, the family attorney frantically urging me to call my wife. I looked down at my phone. On her private Instagram story, she’d just posted a photo of the fireworks: “Even if the sky fell, I’d still watch the stars with my prince.” I double-tapped to leave a like. Then, with a calm heart, I opened my chat with Isabel: “Isabel, let’s make a deal.” … “Logan, what are you doing? Call Vera!” Beside me, Mr. Albright, the family’s lead counsel, was practically vibrating with anxiety. “The Chairman has made it clear. Whoever walks through that door first inherits Prescott Enterprises. It’s a ten-minute drive. If she leaves now, she wins.” I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of memory, forcing down the phantom sensation of cold ocean water filling my lungs. In front of the room packed with lawyers and doctors, I dialed Vera’s number. It rang and rang. The hollow tone stretched on until Albright’s forehead was slick with sweat. Finally, she picked up. The deafening, rhythmic boom-boom of fireworks exploded through the receiver. “Logan, I told you to stop calling,” Vera snapped, her voice dripping with venomous impatience. “Christian is having a panic attack today. I am not leaving him.” I kept my voice flat, empty of the desperation that used to define me. “Your father had a catastrophic accident. He’s in the ICU.” Before I could even mention the will, a soft, pathetic cough echoed in the background. “Vera… are you going to leave me again?” Christian’s fragile voice drifted over the line. “Logan, I’m really not feeling well today. Vera is just keeping me company. Is it necessary to invent such a sick lie? Do I need to beg you on my knees to let her stay?” Vera’s voice shifted instantly, turning into a cooing, maternal murmur. “Don’t worry, Christian. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.” Then, turning back to the phone, her voice hardened into ice. “Do you hear him? He’s already fragile, and you’re deliberately trying to trigger him. Are you trying to kill him, Logan? Is that what you want?” Albright’s veins were bulging in his neck. He snatched the phone from my hand. “Mrs. Campbell, this is Albright. Your husband isn’t lying. Charles had a severe head injury in a pileup. He is at Metro Central right now. You have thirty minutes. He has structured his will so that—” “Oh, please, Mr. Albright,” a mocking, high-pitched chuckle interrupted him. It was Amber Fletcher, Vera’s personal assistant and Christian’s sister. “Logan, you really outdid yourself today,” Amber sneered. “Hiring a voice actor to play the family lawyer? Too bad you made one critical mistake. My best friend is on duty in the ER at Metro Central tonight. She says it’s completely quiet. You’re just jealous of my brother, so you’re putting on this pathetic little drama to drag Vera away.” Vera took the phone back, her disgust palpable. “Logan, using my dying father as a prop for your pathetic jealousy is a new low. You make me sick.” The line went dead. Albright stared at the phone, completely stunned. “How… how can she be this blind?” Before he could finish, the heavy ICU doors burst open. “You useless piece of trash!” Lydia, my mother-in-law, stormed in, her eyes red-rimmed and feral. She raised her hand to slap me across the face. Having anticipated this, I took a step back. Lydia’s momentum carried her forward; her hand cut through empty air, and she stumbled over a waiting chair, letting out a sharp cry as she hit the floor. Ignoring the pain, she scrambled up, pointing a trembling finger at my nose. “Where is Vera? Where is she!” “I knew you were a useless husband, but this? If Vera doesn’t get here, if that multi-billion-dollar estate goes to her, I will skin you alive!” Behind her was a small army of her sycophantic relatives—people who had spent years riding her coattails, feeding off the Prescott scraps. They swarmed the small corridor, their breath hot and angry. “You’re a disgrace,” one of her uncles spat. “Can’t even control your own wife. If she loses this inheritance, we’ll make sure you pay for it.” I watched them panic, entirely unmoved. I knew exactly why they were terrified. Lydia wasn’t the legitimate dowager. She had started as Charles’s mistress, getting pregnant with Vera while Charles’s first wife was still alive. To force her way into the family, Lydia had shown up at the estate when the first wife was in her third trimester, flaunting her infant daughter and spewing venomous threats. The shock had sent the first wife into premature labor. She bled out on the operating table. Isabel, the second daughter, had been born motherless. Naturally, Lydia and Vera had spent the next two decades treating Isabel like an unwanted weed. They abused her, humiliated her, and eventually shipped her off to Europe under the guise of “education” to keep her far away from the family business. Though Charles let Lydia live in his mansion, he never officially married her. He knew she lacked class. If Charles died today without Vera securing the inheritance, Lydia would be cast out with absolutely nothing. “Are you deaf?” Lydia shrieked, grabbing my arm. “Call her assistant! Tell them to get Vera here right now!” I didn’t argue. I dialed Amber’s number again, putting it on speaker. It picked up instantly, the sound of laughing and booming fireworks filling the sterile hallway. “Logan, are you seriously still calling?” Amber sighed, her tone dripping with condescension. “Can’t you give a woman some space? Do you have to cling to Vera like a wet band-aid? Let me tell you something—if you were my husband, I would have thrown you out years ago. A man’s job is to stay in the background and support his woman. Stop trying to control her.” Her sheer audacity made the relatives gasp. But I remained calm, slowing my words down for maximum clarity. “Amber, believe what you want, but Charles is on life support. He just drafted a mandate. Whoever gets to his bedside first—Vera or Isabel—inherits everything.” The line went silent. Lydia lunged at the phone, crying out in desperate hope, “It’s true! It’s true, Amber! Please, tell Vera to come back! I am begging you, there are billions at stake!” A slow, mocking laugh erupted from the speaker. Amber sounded like she’d just heard the funniest joke of the century. “Oh my god… Logan, you really don’t know when to quit, do you? I already told you I exposed your little scam. Did you seriously pay these extra actors to cry on cue?” She let out a smug hum. “Let me make this clear: Vera said that even if the President himself showed up tonight, nobody is allowed to ruin her date with my brother. Your little guilt trip is pathetic. If you have any dignity left, pack your bags. Vera is filing for divorce tomorrow. She’s only ever loved my brother, and I’m going to be the sister-in-law of Prescott Enterprises. You? Get ready to beg on the streets, you loser.” She hung up. Lydia’s face drained of color, turning a horrifying, chalky white. I let my eyes well up with fake, helpless tears, playing the part of the wounded husband to perfection, while inside, my heart was a block of solid ice. I had been married to Vera for three years. To protect her position in the company, I had worked eighty-hour weeks, fixing her disastrous business decisions and quietly covering up her astronomical blunders. And how did she thank me? She raided the company treasury to buy Christian private islands and superyachts. When I confronted her, she had the nerve to say: “Logan, you have the title of my husband. Christian has nothing. Why shouldn’t I spend a little money to make him happy?” Even Lydia had shrugged it off: “All rich women have their fun. As long as she comes home to you, why do you care who she keeps on the side?” They truly believed their love was sacred, untouchable. Fine. If love was all she needed, she didn’t need the money. A flurry of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Several key board members who had backed Vera rushed into the room, breathless and panicked. “Where is Vera? Why isn’t she here?!” the lead shareholder demanded, his collar soaked in sweat. Lydia pointed a trembling finger at me. “It’s him! Logan is useless! He couldn’t even get his own wife to come back!” The shareholder lost his temper, grabbing a thick folder of medical documents and slamming it against my chest. “Logan, what the hell is wrong with you? We risked our entire careers backing Vera! If she misses this mandate, everything we built goes down the drain because of your utter incompetence!” Before I could answer, the heart monitor began to beep frantically. The attending physician sighed, looking at his watch. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Chairman has twenty minutes left at most. If you have a way to get her here, do it now.” Twenty minutes. If Vera just checked her social media, she would see the chaos. The amusement park was only ten minutes away. She could still make it. Lydia’s hands shook as she dialed again. “Vera, please… answer your mother…” At the amusement park, the sky was ablaze with gold and crimson light. The Ferris wheel slowly rotated toward its peak. In the narrow cabin, Christian clung to Vera, pointing out the glass window. “The ringing is giving me a headache, Vera,” he whispered, looking up at her with big, watery eyes. “Turn your phone off. Or better yet, throw it into the lake.” He leaned against her shoulder, projecting an aura of fragile vulnerability. “For these next thirteen minutes, I want to be the only thing in your universe. Can you do that for me?” Vera hesitated for a fraction of a second. Logan’s warning flashed through her mind. But as she looked at Christian’s wind-flushed cheeks and his desperate, adoring gaze, her doubts evaporated. It’s just another one of Logan’s desperate ploys for my attention, she thought. My father is perfectly healthy. He isn’t going to just die. “Anything for my prince,” she murmured, a soft, doting smile spreading across her face. Without another thought, she tossed both of their phones out the cabin window, watching them plunge into the deep artificial lake below. “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable…” Lydia had called twenty times, and each time, she was met with the cold, automated voicemail. Her sister-in-law tried to comfort her. “Lydia, don’t panic. Even if Vera doesn’t make it, Isabel is still in London. A flight from Heathrow takes at least eight hours. There’s no physical way she can get here in twenty minutes.” Lydia let out a shaky breath, letting herself relax slightly. Just then, a breathless manager burst into the room. “Mrs. Prescott! Board members! Someone just spotted the second daughter, Isabel. She’s in a town car heading this way. She’ll be here in fifteen minutes.” The news hit the room like a physical blow. “No!” Lydia’s face went entirely bloodless. “She’s supposed to be in Europe! How is she here?!” In the midst of the screaming and shouting, I stood quietly in the corner, a slow, cold satisfaction blooming in my chest. Isabel had actually returned to the country weeks ago for a research seminar in a neighboring city. In my past life, Lydia had deliberately intercepted the news of Charles’s accident to keep Isabel in the dark until it was too late. But this morning, the second I opened my eyes in this timeline, I had texted Isabel directly. “The park! We have to go to the park!” Lydia lost her mind. She lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of my hair. “You useless parasite, you’re coming with me! We are dragging Vera back here!” A sharp, burning pain flared across my scalp, but I didn’t resist. I let her drag me out to the car. Lydia and her relatives piled out of the car at the amusement park entrance, charging toward the gates like feral animals. But their path was blocked by a dozen burly security guards in black suits. Standing at the front of the line, looking incredibly smug, was Amber. “Are you blind?” Amber sneered, crossing her arms. “Vera booked the entire park tonight. Not even a fly gets in.” Lydia, entirely unhinged, grabbed Amber by the collar. “I am Vera’s mother! Let me in! Tell her that little snake Isabel is about to steal her inheritance!” Amber shoved Lydia back with force. Lydia, wobbling on her stilettos, lost her footing and fell hard onto the concrete, letting out a sharp cry of pain. “Look, lady, you’re committed to the bit, I’ll give you that,” Amber said, looking down at her with pure disgust. “First Logan plays the lawyer, now you show up pretending to cry? You two will really do anything to ruin Vera’s date, won’t you?” “Vera’s orders were clear: even if her biological mother shows up, she waits outside.” Lydia screamed, ordering her relatives to force their way in. They charged the guards, but within seconds, they were beaten back, bruised and bloodied, howling in pain. Desperate, Lydia’s pride shattered entirely. She crawled forward on her hands and knees, throwing herself at Amber’s feet, begging and sobbing. “I beg you! Please let me call her! If we’re too late, everything is gone!” I leaned against the hood of the car, watching the pathetic circus unfold. For the first time in years, a genuine smile touched my lips. At Metro Central, the hallway was swarming with reporters. Live cameras were pointed directly at the ICU doors, broadcasting the drama to millions online. The green line on the heart monitor grew flatter and flatter. Suddenly, a heavy silence fell over the corridor. A slender, sharp figure stepped through the hospital doors, her stride long and confident. The moment her foot crossed the threshold of the ICU, the monitor behind the glass gave a single, continuous, high-pitched flatline. Mr. Albright took a deep breath. Facing the cameras, his voice rang out with absolute solemnity: “In accordance with the late Charles Prescott’s final mandate, Isabel Prescott was the first to arrive. Effective immediately, Isabel Prescott is designated as the sole heir to the Prescott estate.” Outside the amusement park gates, the broadcast on my phone echoed through the damp night air. Hearing the announcement, Lydia’s eyes rolled back, and she collapsed in a dead faint onto the cold concrete. At that exact moment, I looked up. The Ferris wheel had finally completed its final rotation. Under the fading embers of the fireworks, Vera walked out of the cabin, hand-in-hand with Christian, their faces glowing with a serene, untouchable happiness.

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Every time my wife brought home a new boy toy, she made sure to bring back a college girl for me. “I need some excitement, and you need company,” she’d say, her voice dripping with casual indifference. “We both get what we need. No hard feelings, right?” But this time, she flew too close to the sun. Stroking her slightly rounded three-month-old belly, she spoke to me with a veneer of sweet, reasonable negotiation: “We slipped up, and I got pregnant. Troy wants me to give him some status before he agrees to let me carry this baby to term. So, we need a temporary divorce.” “Until we get back together, you can play around with her. I won’t stand in your way.” I looked at the seemingly innocent home-wrecker standing beside her, and then at the college girl on the other side, whose ears were burning a bright, embarrassed red. I looked up and smiled. “Sure. Whatever you want.” The cigarette dangling from her lips froze. 1 Every time Marina brought a young boy home, she made sure to have a college girl in tow for me. For three years, she had never missed a beat. In the past, I would face them with a cold expression and hand over a check. Five thousand, ten thousand, sometimes thirty thousand dollars. I’d tell them to take the money and get the hell out of my house. Marina’s circle of friends used to mock me behind my back. They said I had a ridiculous moral purity complex—that if I so much as touched another woman, my skin would crawl off. Marina believed them. That was why she was so utterly fearless. She brought woman after woman into my home, parading them before me just to test my limits and trample on my remaining dignity. But this last time, she brought Troy. He was a young college student with clear, clean eyes and a low, soothing voice. And alongside him, she brought Ivy. Ivy was different. She was five-foot-eight, a top pre-law student, a mock trial champion, and on a full academic scholarship. Marina had spent real money this time. This wasn’t some random girl she had picked up from a nightclub. “We slipped up,” Marina said, her hand resting on her stomach as she spoke in a tone so light she might have been commenting on the weather. “Troy wants a ring before he lets me carry this baby to term. We need a quick, temporary divorce.” “Until we get back together, you can do whatever you want with her. I won’t care.” Later, in the hallway, I overheard her friend Lauren asking her in a hushed whisper, “Marina, seriously? This is the man you climbed ninety-nine wet stone steps at St. Jude’s Cathedral on your bare knees to pray for. Are you really this generous?” “Yeah,” Rachel chimed in. “You didn’t even give that college girl any ground rules. What if she actually touches Dylan?” Marina took a slow, elegant drag of her cigarette. “I don’t have a cuckold kink. You all know Dylan’s obsessive need for absolute fidelity. He won’t touch her.” “Ah, Marina, you’re brilliant. You bring the girl to his doorstep, but if he doesn’t use what’s offered, that’s his problem. It’s the perfect crime.” I stood at the top of the stairs, hearing every word clear as day. In the past, I would have stormed down. I would have smashed a glass, screamed at her, and demanded to know how she could treat me this way. And then she would have looked at me with cold amusement and asked, “Are you done throwing a tantrum yet?” Then would come the weeks of agonizing silence, followed eventually by the arrival of the next girl. But today, I didn’t storm down. I walked down the stairs calmly. Every eye in the living room turned to me. Marina looked up, a smug, victorious grin hovering at the corner of her lips. She expected the usual—the thrown check, the demands for them to leave, the tearful fight. Instead, I looked up and smiled. “Sure. Whatever you want.” The living room fell into a sudden, heavy silence. Lauren was the first to react. “Wait, Dylan, what did you just say?” I set my phone down, my gaze sliding past Marina to land directly on Ivy. “I said sure.” I looked her up and down. “She is actually quite beautiful.” Someone in the back gasped. “Dylan actually agreed?!” “No way. He’s not kicking her out this time?” “Marina, did you hear that?” Marina’s expression didn’t change. That faint, confident smirk remained on her face, but the fingers holding her cigarette tightened slightly. Troy, looking a bit nervous, clung tighter to Marina’s arm. “Marina, he’s finally seeing reason. You should be happy.” Marina didn’t reply. She stubbed her cigarette out in the glass ashtray, walked over to Ivy, and patted her on the shoulder. “Take good care of him.” With that, she wrapped her arm around Troy and headed upstairs. I withdrew my gaze and looked at Ivy, who was still standing in the same spot, her ears burning red. “Are you staying here, or do you need to go back to campus?” She swallowed hard, her voice quiet and thin. “Either… either is fine.” “Then stay here.” I turned and walked down the hallway. Behind me, the whispers started up again, sharp and quiet. “Is he serious this time?” “Usually he throws a fit that ruins the whole night!” “Oh, relax, Marina knows him. He’s just trying to get a rise out of her. Remember the last one? He had security throw her out on the lawn.” “He’s probably just doing this to spite her because Troy got her pregnant.” I kept walking, the words pricking at my back like tiny needles. They didn’t cause a sharp pain, but they left a dull, aching throb. They were right. I had been foolishly proud. I had been too convinced that my refusal to touch anyone else would somehow protect my marriage. But what did my emotional cleanliness actually protect? A signed divorce agreement. An empty bed. The laughingstock of her social circle. At the door of the guest bedroom, I pushed it open. “Here you go.” I leaned against the doorframe, watching Ivy stand nervously in the room, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt. “Are you doing this for the money?” I asked. She nodded. No hesitation. No excuses. The old Dylan would have scoffed, thrown a check, and told her to get out. I would have stood on my moral high ground, treating every girl Marina brought home as if they were dirt. And what did that get me? The girls left, but Marina never stayed. In truth, none of those girls were dirtier than she was. “Let the housekeeper know if you need anything,” I said, walking into the room. She followed me inside. “I’m Ivy,” she murmured. “I know,” I said without looking back. “Marina told me.” I walked out onto the balcony. I didn’t ask her to follow, and she didn’t try to. Below, the guests were finally leaving. I had lost count of how many times they had gathered here to watch my life fall apart. Returning to the bedroom, I glanced at the divorce papers sitting on the nightstand. For three years, I had closed my eyes to her behavior because of what had happened back then. We both had our debts to pay. At first, I told her: “just don’t bring them home.” Then I said: “just make sure you use protection.” I had retreated step by step, and she had pushed further and further. Now, since we were both thoroughly exhausted by this marriage, there was no point in hesitating. I picked up the pen and signed my name. Ivy had just finished her shower and walked out of the bathroom, her hair half-damp. The moment she saw me, her ears flushed red again. “I’m… I’m done washing up.” I stood up. Marina had really chosen someone who blushed easily this time. The previous girls usually had a look of resentment in their eyes when I paid them to leave. One had even screamed at me: “Are you two crazy? One pushes us in, the other kicks us out. What do you think we are?” I had only looked at her coldly and said, “Take the money and shut up.” Now, I realized she was right. We were both sick. One had a craving for betrayal, and the other had a pathological need for purity. My phone buzzed. A text from Marina: “Go to sleep early.” I stared at the words, finding them laughably absurd. She had never sent me texts like this before. She only sent it now because I had kept Ivy. Because she realized that the husband who “never touches anyone” might actually do it this time. I didn’t reply. The lights outside went out, and the entire house fell silent. Troy had moved in, and Ivy had moved in. This place finally felt like a landfill—a dump where anyone could be thrown. Including me. I switched off the light, a faint, mocking smile on my face in the dark. She thought I was still the same Dylan. She thought I didn’t dare. She thought I would always keep myself clean for her. She was wrong. 2 The next morning, when I went downstairs, Ivy was in the kitchen helping the housekeeper. When she saw me, she almost dropped the spatula. I smiled. Where had the brave girl from last night gone? Just as I sat down at the dining table, Marina came downstairs. “Up so early?” She sat across from me, a cryptic smile on her face. “How was last night?” Before I could answer, the front door was pushed open. Lauren rushed in first. “Marina, Marina, who won the bet? I put down twenty grand that he wouldn’t last until noon!” “I bet he’d kick her out last night. Three-to-one odds!” The excitement died instantly when they saw me sitting there. “Dylan… morning!” Marina picked up her coffee and took a sip, her expression relaxed, as if her friends weren’t treating her marriage like a casino game. “Sit down,” I said. “Breakfast is ready.” I turned to Ivy. “You should get ready for class.” Ivy blinked, took off her apron, and slipped out the door. Once the front door closed, Lauren lowered her voice. “See? He sent her away anyway.” Rachel laughed. “Of course. Marina knows him inside out. That’s how you train a husband—one who stays home and never strays.” Marina sat there, finishing her egg, the corner of her mouth curving up in satisfaction. I took a breath and walked out of the dining room. Marina and I spoke almost at the exact same moment— “Come back to the family estate for dinner tonight…” “Meet me at the courthouse at two this afternoon…” The room went quiet. I laid the signed divorce papers on the table. “Let’s get this done first.” Marina froze, her eyes locking onto my signature. She expected me to tear the paper to pieces, weeping and asking her why she was doing this. She expected a fight. She looked up, her tone lazy. “What’s the rush? I told you we’d wait until the pregnancy stabilizes.” “I can’t wait,” I said. “Two o’clock. Will you be there?” Her eyelids twitched. “Dylan, are you out of your mind?” “You wouldn’t want me to change my mind and tear up the papers when I wake up, would you?” Troy came down the stairs then, his voice soft and trembling. “Dylan, please don’t be angry. I just don’t want the baby to be born with any stigma… We can wait until Marina’s pregnancy is safe. Otherwise, her health might suffer…” He looked so fragile, his eyes red as he clutched his shirt. He looked more devastated by the divorce than I was. Marina looked at Troy. His delicate, submissive act, combined with his gentle pleading, seemed to poke at her pride. Since when did she need anyone to push her into a decision? “Dylan, you think I don’t dare sign?” She laughed, grabbed the pen, and signed her name with a flourish. She threw the pen back onto the table. “I keep my word. Everyone here is a witness.” “Once Troy’s baby is born, we’ll get remarried.” She stood up and leaned in close to my ear, her voice dripping with possessive affection. “You’re the man I dragged back from the edge of death. No one out there can compare to you. This child… only you have the right to raise it, understand?” I let out a soft laugh. So this was her version of love. I didn’t say another word. I grabbed my pre-packed suitcase and walked out the door. Behind me, Troy’s voice drifted out. “Marina… is he really not coming back?” Marina held an unlit cigarette in her mouth, silent. In her original plan, we would divorce but still live under the same roof. My sudden departure was entirely unexpected. But she didn’t let it show. “You,” she said, glancing at Troy. “With Dylan gone, you must be thrilled deep down.” “No, of course not!” Troy hung his head. “How could you say that? My upbringing wouldn’t let me destroy a marriage… It’s all for the baby.” He looked so vulnerable, like a child terrified of being abandoned. It instantly disarmed her anger. “Alright, I’m just teasing.” Troy was much smarter than the others. He didn’t send me smug texts or call me to gloat. He played the innocent victim, making sure Marina always felt the need to protect him. At 1:50 PM, I sat on the bench at the courthouse. I dialed Marina’s number for the ninth time. She finally picked up. “Where are you?” I asked. “I’m at the hospital with Troy for his appointment. I can’t leave right now. Just wait for me, I’ll head over when we’re done.” “I told you, our appointment is at two.” “The courthouse isn’t going to run away,” she said, as if placating a difficult child. “Wait until we’re finished.” Wait. Always waiting. I watched the couples passing through the lobby—some crying, some entirely numb. I had cried like that once. And her temporary softness had always been my “reward.” But today, that wasn’t the reward I wanted. The clerk called the next number. I pulled out my phone and texted my lawyer. “Mr. Lawson, let’s file for a contested divorce. I’ll send you the materials this afternoon.” 3 That evening, after several urgent calls from Grandpa Richard, I went back to the family estate. The entire drive over, I wondered how to explain things to him. Should I tell him his granddaughter was pregnant by a boy toy? That she was forcing me into a divorce? Or that I was already moving forward with a lawsuit? Family debts are always more tangled than legal ones. When I walked in, I was alone. Grandpa paused. “Where’s Marina?” “She’s busy,” I said. “Busy?” He slammed his silverware onto the table. “What could be more important than her husband?” I remained silent. Grandpa Richard and my father had been brothers-in-arms, surviving combat together in their youth. He had championed our marriage from the start, though Marina’s mother, Catherine, had been fiercely opposed. She looked down on my family background and thought my childhood illnesses made me a liability. But Marina had refused to let go. She had gone to St. Jude’s Cathedral, kneeling on the cold stone steps in a freezing rain, dragging herself up all ninety-nine steps until her knees were bloody. She had prayed: “I don’t even have to end up with him, just let him live.” When I found out, I had wept. From then on, I stopped hiding. I told her if she was brave enough to marry me, I was brave enough to stand beside her. And indeed, my health recovered. I married into her family, and Grandpa Richard transferred a third of his private stock options to my name to ensure I would be respected within the family. I used to think her mother was our only obstacle. Now I knew better. The front door opened, and Marina walked in, her arm looped through Troy’s. She froze when she saw me. Grandpa’s face darkened instantly. “What kind of trash are you bringing into my house?” Marina sat down next to Troy, her tone casual. “Grandpa, it’s just dinner. Don’t make a scene.” Then she shot me a look. “Dylan, you should leave first. I didn’t think you’d come tonight. This is Troy’s night, okay?” I let out a soft laugh. Troy’s night. She was so eager to establish his place that she brought him to meet her family before our divorce was even finalized. Catherine came downstairs, her gaze sweeping over me before landing on Troy. “So this is the new one? Our family certainly has a habit of attracting low-class grifters.” One sentence, insulting both of us. In the past, Marina would have stood in front of me and declared, “Dylan is the man I chose.” But today, she frowned and shielded Troy. “Mom, don’t talk about my partner that way.” Her voice was fiercer than it had ever been for me. Troy leaned against her, his eyes red, playing the victim. I stood up quietly. “I’m leaving.” Grandpa tried to keep me, but I didn’t stay. Marina didn’t even look up. Walking out of the estate, those ninety-nine steps crossed my mind again. “Just let him live,” she had prayed. Well, she got her wish. I was alive, and we were done. The divorce proceedings went surprisingly fast. Marina likely assumed that once the baby was born, we would simply remarry and return to normal. On the day we signed the mediation agreement, she arrived forty minutes late, but she signed without hesitation. Afterward, she leaned in, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Didn’t you always want a beach wedding?” “When we remarry, I’ll plan it myself. The island, the white dress, everything you wanted.” I looked at her. “Marina, don’t bother.” She smiled. “I know you think we don’t need to put on a show, but I owe you a real wedding. I want to make it up to you.” I shook my head. “In a week…” Before I could finish, her phone rang. She answered, then stood up abruptly. “What do you mean he’s not feeling well? I’m on my way!” She took two steps, then paused to look back at me. “I know the divorce is officially finalized in a week, but that’s just a legal formality. The papers belong to the court, but you belong to me. Those are two different things.” She patted my shoulder and hurried out. Standing outside the mediation room, I quietly finished my sentence: “…In a week, you won’t just receive the divorce decree.” 4 The day the official divorce decree was delivered to the estate, Grandpa Richard called Marina back in a fury. “I don’t care what you have to do, call Dylan back here right now. I have things to say to him.” “Once I’m done, if you still want to go through with this ridiculous divorce, I won’t stop you.” Marina frowned. Though she didn’t know what Grandpa wanted, she knew deep down how chaotic this divorce had been. Her phone had been silent for a week. No texts, no calls from me. She claimed she didn’t care, but the emptiness was settling in. She had never gone a whole week without speaking to me. She needed an excuse to reach out, and Grandpa had just handed her one. “Fine, fine,” she sighed, pulling out her phone. “So annoying. I’ll call him.” Despite her words, her fingers flew across the screen faster than usual. She pressed call. She cleared her throat, rehearsing her opening line. Should she say, “Dylan, Grandpa wants you to come to the estate,” or “Stop acting like a child, we aren’t actually separated, are you really not coming home?” The call connected. A voice on the other end spoke first: “Hello, the groom is currently busy with the toasts. Are you a guest of the groom?”

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Three years after my parents’ divorce, I ran into my sister while I was street performing. She stepped out of a city patrol car, stopping dead in her tracks when she realized the guy desperately spitting fire for spare change on the corner was me. She walked over, her steps stiff, unnatural. “You’re a public nuisance,” she said, her voice tight. “Pack it up. You’re coming with me.” By the time they finished taking my statement at the precinct, my mother had arrived. She paid my fine and slid a sleek black credit card across the cold table. “Stop humiliating us,” she said. “Take this, find a decent school, and try to do something with your life.” I didn’t move a finger. When I spoke, my voice was a ruined, gravelly rasp. “Where were you? When Dad and I needed you most… where the hell were you?” My sharp tone made my sister’s brow furrow. “Things were complicated back then, Drew,” Diana said, her voice dripping with that familiar, exhausting fatigue. “You don’t need to dump all your bitterness on Mom.” My mother’s face hardened. She took on that lecturing tone she always used when she wanted to play the authority figure. “You’re just as stubborn as your father,” she said, her voice cold. “If you had just come with me, you wouldn’t be begging on the streets. Go back and tell him: the second he admits he was wrong, I’ll take you back as my son.” I stared at them, the words clawing at the back of my throat, tasting like ash. Did they really not know? Did they really not know that my father died three years ago? 1 My mother let her eyes drift over me, taking in my singed hair and the jagged, red scars climbing up my jawline. A flicker of something resembling pity crossed her face, but it was too fleeting to be real. “If I had known it would turn out like this, I never would have let your father take you,” she murmured. “Your suffering… it’s all his fault.” My expression iced over. “Ma’am, you have no right to comment on a stranger’s life. If you have so much money to throw around, go donate it to a shelter.” She opened her mouth, about to snap, but the words died on her lips, leaving only a heavy, useless sigh. A moment later, her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with “My Little Prince”. Instantly, her eyes softened into a warmth she had never once shown me. She turned on her heel and walked away, never looking back. Diana watched her retreating figure, then turned to me, her voice dropping to a low, frustrated whisper. “Stop doing this dangerous crap, Drew.” I ignored her, bending down to pick up my props one by one. She stood by the door, watching me for a few silent beats, before she turned and walked out too. The other people who had been swept up in the street sweep were slowly being released. One of them nudged me, curious. “Do you know that cop?” “Are you kidding?” someone else chimed in quickly. “That’s Sergeant Diana. She’s decorated—got the three stripes on her shoulder and everything. She’s the oldest daughter of Cynthia, the real estate billionaire, and her first husband.” “I remember reading an interview with her,” another added. “She said the only reason she joined the force was so she could grow up to protect her father and brother.” “Yeah, and Cynthia? When she wanted her husband and son to have her name, she walked away from her family’s corporate empire just to start from scratch. She told the media her biggest regret was leaving them behind.” I let out a cold, hollow laugh, cutting them off. “If she regretted it so much, why did she sign the divorce papers?” They looked at me, eager to defend the fairy tale they’d bought into. “If she didn’t love them, why does Cynthia tear up every time she talks about them? Why is her profile picture still her son’s old painting?” “Exactly. And Sergeant Diana wears a lucky charm her brother made for her every time she goes on a raid. Everyone knows they’re haunted by the past.” I raised my eyes, my voice flat, deadened by the truth. “They’re haunted by a lie,” I said. “She married her high school sweetheart on a sham certificate, refusing to legally register her biological son so he wouldn’t interfere with her new trust fund. Her real son was left undocumented, unable to even register for his college exams. While her ex-husband worked five jobs and her son collected aluminum cans just to buy bread, she was throwing million-dollar birthday bashes for her lover’s kid in a mansion.” “And the sister? She was brought back to the family estate, raised in silk and silver. But when her real dad came to the gates, desperate, she called him an embarrassment and had the guards throw him out, breaking his leg in the process. She watched her brother get tormented by her stepbrother at school every single day, did nothing, and even handed her brother’s hard-earned scholarship over to the bully.” The room went entirely, suffocatingly quiet. Someone gasped. “Are you…” I swallowed the raw, metallic taste of old grief. “I’m Cynthia’s son. Diana’s brother.” Nobody said another word. I pulled up my mask, hiding the jagged scars on my face, and walked out into the cold rain. I used every cent I made that day to buy a bundle of white lilies and the cheapest, smallest chocolate cake from the grocery store. I walked to the barren, wind-swept hillside on the edge of the county line. I set up the crooked wooden marker that had been knocked over by the storm, wiping the damp soil off his name. “Happy birthday, Dad.” I sliced the cake in half. The frosting, usually so sweet, tasted incredibly bitter. “I saw Diana and Mom today,” I whispered to the empty air. “They still think you’re alive.” The next day, I went back to the corner to perform. While I was spitting fire, a sudden gust of wind caught the kerosene mist. The flame leaped sideways, singeing the bangs of a boy passing by. Before I could even apologize, a man lunged out of the crowd, slamming his heavy leather briefcase directly into my temple. “You filthy street rat! You burned my son!” The metal clasp of the bag sliced my brow. Blood started warm and thick down my cheek. But I didn’t feel it. I was staring at Lawrence. He recognized me, too. His face contorted into pure disgust. Hearing the commotion, Diana pushed her way through the crowd. Her face softened into instant, frantic concern as she checked Wesley’s hair. “Does it hurt, sweetie?” she asked, her voice entirely different from the one she used on me. My mother stepped out from behind them, her eyes glaring at me with nothing but irritation. “Apologize to them,” she commanded. “Now. Before I lose my temper.” I wiped the blood from my eyes, a mocking laugh tearing from my throat. “Does it matter if I apologize? You’ll just do what you did three years ago—threaten my dad’s life until I crawl on my knees to beg their forgiveness.” Her face shifted. A fleeting, ugly shadow of guilt crossed her features. She remembered. She remembered exactly what she had done to us. Back then, when she first broke away from her family’s empire to start her own business, she took out massive loans from predatory lenders. But her family blocked her at every turn. Her startup collapsed, and the interest on the debt spiraled out of control. She stopped coming home. My father, hearing my high school counselor say I had a shot at a full Ivy League scholarship, worked himself to the bone. He took five jobs so I could focus entirely on studying. On the day I finished my final SAT prep exams, Dad bought a tiny cake to celebrate. But when a knock came at the door, it wasn’t Mom. It was a squad of debt collectors. They dragged my father away. When he finally crawled back days later, he was nothing but skin and bone, his forearms covered in bruises and track marks from forced clinical trials they’d used to squeeze out her debts. He never complained. He just smiled at me, his eyes hollow but warm. The next time we saw Mom, it was on a viral video on someone else’s phone. She was standing on a stage, publicly declaring Lawrence’s son, Wesley, as her own. My chest burned. “Dad… did Mom replace me?” My father grabbed the phone, his hands shaking violently as he stared at the screen. He took my hand, and we ran to the grand estate where the adoption party was being held. When we pushed through the double doors, the ballroom fell dead silent. My father’s voice was cracked, raw. “You said you were never going back to your family, Cynthia. You said you were done with him.” “You adopted his kid? What about us? What about your real son?” I looked at Diana, my voice cracking. “Diana… I’m your brother.” Lawrence and Wesley’s eyes welled with tears. Lawrence turned to leave, but Cynthia caught his arm, desperate. “Cynthia, is this true?” Lawrence whimpered. Cynthia held him close, her voice a soothing murmur. “No, darling. They’re just stalkers. They’ve been harassing me.” Diana sneered at us. “You heard her. Get out before I have the guards throw you into the street.” The room erupted into whispers and cruel laughter. “Look at those scammers trying to leech off her.” “Everyone knows how much Cynthia loves Lawrence. She waited years for him, and now these grifters are trying to ruin their family.” After we were kicked out, Cynthia came to our apartment once, crying, begging my father to understand. She claimed returning to her family was her only choice to clear the debts. She claimed adopting Wesley was to repay a life-saving favor. “Once I secure my inheritance, I’ll bring you both home,” she wept. “We’ll be together forever.” My father, skeletal and weak, pushed her away with everything he had left. “You knew,” he sobbed. “You knew what those collectors did to me to pay off your loans. You knew what you were doing to our boy.” “I hate you, Cynthia. I want to rip you apart. I want you to feel even a fraction of the agony we lived through.” She didn’t know how terrified I was of Wesley. Even when he tortured me at school, I kept quiet, too afraid to cause trouble. Cynthia wiped her tears, her face filled with brief remorse. But before she could speak, Lawrence’s voice cut through the room from the doorway. He stood there, pale, pointing at my father. “Cynthia… who is this man to you?” Cynthia panicked. She shoved me and my father away, rushing to soothe Lawrence. “Lawrence, let me explain. I just felt sorry for them. He thinks I look like his late wife—he won’t leave me alone!” She turned back to us, her eyes cold, warning. “Stay away from my family. If I see you near us again, I’ll make sure you regret it.” “This is your only warning.” She ordered her bodyguards to force my father and me to our knees. Wesley watched from the hallway, a cruel grin on his face. After Cynthia left, he dragged us into the back alley. He struck my father with his belt, his voice a vicious snarl. “Remember this. You try to take what’s mine, and I’ll put you in the dirt.” 2 Three years have passed, and they haven’t changed a bit. The tears finally broke, burning my cheeks. “Neither of you deserves to say his name!” I screamed, my voice a ruined rasp. Diana tried to reach for my arm, but I shoved her off. Her expression hardened. “Is this how he raised you? To scream at your mother?” she snapped. “He was bitter and miserable, and you’re turning out exactly like him.” A harsh, broken laugh tore from my chest. “Miserable? We spent three years hiding from you, doing everything we could to stay out of your pristine sight. How is that still offending you?” My mother frowned, her voice dripping with condescension. “You don’t understand how the world works, Drew.” “Oh, I think I do,” I spat. “You understand it perfectly—how to kick us to the curb the second we become inconvenient.” Her eyes went icy. “Did your father ever think about your future when he dragged you away?” she demanded. “He did it just to hurt me. Did he ever take responsibility as a parent?” I stared at her, completely numb. “How do those words even come out of your mouth?” “You were the one who told us to stay away.” She went quiet for a second, then shifted the blame back to me. “If you had focused on your exams instead of crashing that party, none of this would have happened,” she said. “I wanted you to have a future.” My heart went entirely cold. Even now, she thought it was my fault. The night after that party, my father had a raging fever, his body shaking under the thin blankets. But the next morning was the day the SAT scores were released. He forced himself out of bed, made me a bowl of oatmeal, and kept telling me not to worry, to go check my scores. But as I was putting on my shoes, Wesley showed up. He brought a basket of fruit, pretending to be a concerned classmate. My father tried to shut the door, but Wesley suddenly dropped to his knees, crying loudly, screaming that he just wanted a family. The noise drew the neighbors. Within minutes, Cynthia and Diana arrived. They didn’t come to help. They came to accuse us of bullying Wesley. My father, shaking with fever, stood in front of me like a shield. “Get out! Leave my son alone!” In the chaos, Wesley backed toward the kitchen. A second later, he knocked the grease pan onto the open stove. Fire erupted instantly, tearing through the cheap wallpaper. My father’s first instinct wasn’t to save himself. He threw his weight against me, shoving me out the front door. As I stumbled onto the landing, I turned back. The orange glare of the flames lit up his face. Wesley grinned, slipping past him into the hallway. Cynthia and Diana grabbed Wesley, shielding him as they ran down the stairs. Only my father was left inside. I screamed for him, throwing myself against the heat. I screamed until my throat bled, until the smoke choked the sound into a permanent whisper. It took two neighbors and a firefighter to pin me to the ground. I watched the roof collapse. My face was severely burned, my vocal cords scorched. A few days later, while I was standing in the hospital lobby, my school called. I had scored a perfect 1600. I was accepted into Columbia University on a full ride. My father had survived the initial blaze, though he was heavily bandaged, weeping as he held my hand. We cried together, thinking we had finally made it out. But the day before registration, the nightmare returned. My scholarship and admission had been revoked and handed to Wesley. I called my mother dozens of times. None of them went through. When I finally told my father, his face fell. He reached down, took off his silver wedding band—the only thing he had left—and pressed it into my palm. “Go find her. Show her this.” I went to her office. But Cynthia looked at the ring with nothing but disgust. “With a father like yours, you could never get into an Ivy League school,” she sneered. “Stop lying. You’re just jealous of Wesley.” “Go enroll in a community college. Maybe I’ll hire you as a receptionist one day.” I couldn’t speak. My phone was vibrating with a text from the ICU. My father’s lungs were failing from smoke inhalation. He was suffocating. I squeezed my fists until my knuckles turned white. I bowed my head. “I won’t go to school,” I whispered. “Just give me the money. Please.” I traded my Ivy League future for his hospital bills. But Lawrence cornered me at the billing desk. He snatched the emergency credit card out of my hand, his eyes wild with malice. “For my son’s sake, you will stay in the dirt where you belong,” he whispered. “Everything you have belongs to Wesley now. Your future, your life.” “I’ll let you live this time. But if you ever try to tell Cynthia, I’ll have you and your useless father shipped off to a forced labor camp across the border.” I snapped. I lunged forward, shoving him to the floor. But Cynthia walked in at that exact moment. Before I could explain, a bodyguard kicked me from behind, sending me crashing into the tile. My wrist snapped with a sickening pop. I screamed, rolling on the floor in agony. They didn’t even look at me. They only coddled Lawrence. I crawled toward the card on the floor, trying to reach it with my good hand. My mother stepped on my fingers, kicking the card away. “Lawrence lost his balance, crashing into Cynthia. She fell hard against the counter, clutching her stomach. ‘My baby… the baby!’” “If you’re going to be this greedy, you get nothing.” “I’ll leave a bare minimum for your living expenses, just so you remember this lesson. But even if you end up begging on the street, I won’t give you another dime.” I dragged myself up, sobbing. “Mom, please… Dad needs surgery. Without the money, he’ll die.” The noise drew my father out of his room. He was pale, clinging to the IV stand, begging her. “I don’t need the surgery,” he rasped. “Just let our boy go to school… please.” Cynthia looked at him with nothing but disgust. “Look at what you’ve turned him into,” she said. “Until you both learn to apologize to Lawrence, don’t ever call me.” She walked away with Lawrence. She never looked back. Later, a kind stranger helped me buy a cheap, secondhand phone. I started streaming my street performances online, trying to raise money. With the help of some online donations, Dad’s condition began to stabilize. Until… The memory cut deep. I looked at Cynthia, my eyes burning. “What do we have to do for you to finally leave us alone?” The hallway fell dead silent. My mother’s expression crumbled, shifting through a dozen different emotions before she finally managed to speak, her voice tight. “Tell your father to come out. He needs to take responsibility for you.” I let out a loud, hysterical laugh, tears spilling over my scars. “Don’t you get it? He’s dead!” “He’s been dead for three years! His bones are dust!” “Snap.” Her palm slammed across my face, the sting sharp and hot. “Stop lying!” she shrieked. “Do you think making up a story will keep me from finding him? When I do, I’ll make sure neither of you ever has a peaceful day again!” I held my bruised cheek, staring at her with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Go ahead,” I whispered. “Find him. Do whatever you want to us.” She glared at me for a few tense seconds. “Just you wait,” she spat, turning on her heel. Diana looked at me, her mouth opening as if she wanted to say something, but she ultimately turned and followed our mother out. The second they left, the adrenaline drained from my body, leaving me hollow. Saying those words out loud hadn’t brought the relief I thought it would. Only exhaustion. I was too tired to even hate them anymore. When I got back to my cramped, dark rental that night, the city was already pitch black. I walked over to the small table and gently wiped the dust off the keepsake urn with a tissue, just like I did every night. But as I wiped, the tears began to fall, soaking the paper. “Dad…” “If I had just grown up a little faster…” “Would you still be here?” I slid down to the cold floor, pulling the heavy ceramic urn into my chest, resting my forehead against the cool surface. Eventually, I drifted off. In my dreams, I was back in that dark place. The day the internet trolls flooded my livestream. Someone had leaked our address, claiming my father was a gold-digging homewrecker who had ruined Cynthia’s life. It went viral. To the world, my father and I were parasites clawing at a billionaire’s coat-tails. In every photo, she was trying to shake us off. A mob showed up at the hospital, dragging my father and me out onto the street. In the middle of the screaming crowd, someone stepped hard on my hand. I heard the tiny bones in my fingers snap. I looked up through the tears. Lawrence was standing there, looking down at me with a cold, triumphant smirk. I lunged forward, sinking my teeth deep into his leg. He lost his balance, crashing into Cynthia. She fell hard against the counter, clutching her stomach. “My baby… the baby!” Diana, who was on patrol nearby, rushed through the crowd, frantic. “Dad! Are you okay?” My father looked at her, his heart breaking as he watched his own daughter scream for another man. After the ambulance left, my father and I were locked in a holding cell under suspicion of assault and harassment. Though the charges were eventually dropped, no hospital would take my father back. On the long walk home, my father stared at the gray sky, silent tears tracing his worn face. “Drew,” he whispered after a long time. “Let’s go somewhere they can’t find us.” I nodded, my throat tight. “Okay.” But the moment we unlocked our front door, the debt collectors were waiting. They claimed Cynthia’s old debts weren’t fully settled. They threatened to sell me to an offshore human trafficking ring if we didn’t pay. My father threw himself in front of me like a wild animal. They broke his arm, but he never let go of me. Eventually, a neighbor called the police, and the men fled. But my father was barely breathing. I dragged him to the nearest clinic, but they turned us away because I couldn’t pay the deposit. I had no choice. Even knowing it was useless, I went to find Cynthia. Afraid she wouldn’t see me, I knelt right in the center of her corporate lobby. When she came down, her voice was like ice. “Stop putting on a show! Who would dare collect my debts?” “Do you have any idea how much danger you put your sister in? How do you have the nerve to ask for money?” “I told you, even if you starve to death, I won’t help you. Get out.” I pictured my father, fading away in that alley. The last spark of hope inside me died. “I’ll apologize,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carlisle. I’m sorry, Mr. Lawrence. It was all my fault.” Wesley stood by, mocking me. “An apology doesn’t mean anything without proof.” I bit my lip, pressing my forehead hard against the cold marble floor. “Thud. Thud. Thud.” “I’m a parasite. I forced myself on Mrs. Carlisle.” “I’m a monster. I hurt Mr. Lawrence.” “I’m sorry. Please. I promise I’ll disappear forever.” Blood smeared across the white marble. My cracked voice echoed through the vast, empty lobby. Wesley laughed, a sound of pure, twisted satisfaction. “See, Aunt Cynthia? He’s not your son. He doesn’t have a single bone of dignity in his body.” Cynthia’s face remained entirely expressionless. She flicked a card into the blood on the floor. “Take the money and run. I don’t ever want to see you again.” I clutched the bloody card and ran back to the clinic. But when the receptionist ran it, she looked at me with pity. The card was empty. I stood at the window, the world turning to static in my ears. I went back to his room, squeezing his cold, trembling hand. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m going to save you.” I went back to the collectors. I told them I would go to the offshore ring. They made me take off my shirt, taking photos with my ID as collateral. But by the time I got back to the clinic with the cash, my phone rang. It was the doctor. My father had climbed out of the window. The last thing he left me was a voicemail. “Drew, I’m sorry. You have to live. You have to keep going.” I ran to the alley beneath the window, falling to my knees beside his broken body, screaming into the empty air. My father was gone. I held the urn in my lap, crying until my chest felt like it would crack. “Dad, let’s go home,” I whispered. I packed my few belongings and opened the door. Cynthia was standing on the landing. Her eyes drifted past me, freezing on the black-and-white photo on the urn. Her face drained of all color.

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On the night of our seventh anniversary, Chelsea ladled a bowl of savory chicken broth for me, then slid a contract across the polished marble kitchen island. “I know you’ve always wanted your own gallery,” she said, her voice smooth, almost casual. “It opens next month.” I stared at her, my heart leaping with a sudden, breathless hope. She offered me a faint, amused smile. “Actually, Jesse, there’s something I haven’t been entirely honest about. That million-dollar debt from years ago? It was never real. I’m the sole heiress to the Whitmore estate. The struggle, the tight budgets—it was a test my family insisted on. And you passed beautifully.” But in the very next breath, she dropped a bomb so casually I almost missed it. “But there’s a catch. The role of the Whitmore son-in-law has to go to Oliver.” “The night you were locked away in your studio finishing those commission drafts… we had a few too many drinks. Things got out of hand. I’m pregnant with his child.” “I know you two are like brothers. When the baby is born, we want you to be the godfather.” “Everything else stays the same. He gets the Whitmore name on paper, but my heart belongs to you, Jesse. It always will.” A sudden, violent chill swept through me. My fingers slipped into the pocket of my heavy wool coat, which I hadn’t even had the chance to take off. Inside was a folded piece of paper—the neurologist’s diagnosis. The permanent, irreversible nerve damage in my right hand. “I know this is a lot to take in,” Chelsea continued, her tone as even as if she were discussing tomorrow’s weather forecast. “But we can’t delay this.” “Oliver’s heart condition is fragile. The news of the pregnancy put so much stress on him; he’s been having severe palpitations and blacking out. He can’t be left alone right now. You’ve always been the sensible one, Jesse. Go focus on setting up the gallery for a few weeks. Once his health stabilizes, I’ll make it up to you.” I looked down at the steaming broth. Suddenly, the last seven years of my life felt like a cruel, elaborate punchline. Ever since I helped Chelsea launch her startup, sleepless nights had become my default state. In those early days, we survived on low-budget, fast-turnaround freelance gigs that came with endless demands. … 1 I couldn’t count how many nights I had worked until dawn, my fingers cramping so badly I couldn’t grip the stylus, crying silently on the cold hardwood floor of my cramped studio surrounded by rejected drafts. After drying my face, I’d dial the clients to apologize and beg for another chance. Even when the repetitive strain turned into chronic tendinitis, I never uttered a single word of complaint. Back then, Chelsea would wrap my throbbing wrist in a warm compress, looking at me with soft, tear-filled eyes, whispering that things would get better. I looked at her now, my voice sounding like gravel. “If that million-dollar debt was a lie… what did you feel during those seven years? Watching me sketch for fourteen hours a day? Watching me refuse to buy a single new winter coat? Watching me drink myself to a bleeding ulcer just to secure a small investment for your company? What did you feel, Chelsea?” Chelsea went quiet for a moment, then reached across the table to cover my hand with hers. “Sweetheart, I know you feel cheated. But your background… my family would never have accepted it without a fight. I’ve been fighting for us.” “What happened with Oliver was a mistake. He’s sick, he was vulnerable, and he came on to me. We’d both been drinking. But I don’t love him, Jesse. You are the only man I love.” “As for Oliver… once the baby is born, I’ll arrange a trust fund and send him abroad to get the best cardiac care. We’ll raise the baby together. We’ll tell everyone it’s ours, and you will always be my real husband.” She spoke with such absolute earnestness that I realized she actually believed her own lies. But the ache in my right hand was intensifying now, a sharp, throbbing line of pain that seemed to find its way directly to my chest. “Do your parents know?” I asked, shifting the subject. I didn’t miss the sudden flicker of guilt in her eyes. “They… they insisted that the first grandchild of the Whitmore line cannot be born out of wedlock. They want me and Oliver to go back to the estate together. To make things official.” I wanted to laugh. It was almost funny. For seven years, I wasn’t even allowed to know where her family home was. I wasn’t worthy of their threshold. Now, thanks to Oliver, I finally had an invitation. Chelsea noticed my expression hardening, and her voice softened even further, taking on a coaxing, maternal tone. “Sweetheart, I know it hurts. But it’s already done. Think about it—Oliver is your best friend. His child is practically your child. What difference does it make?” She opened her mouth to say more, but her phone buzzed loudly on the counter. “Your chest is hurting again? Oliver, don’t take any pills yet. I’m on my way.” She grabbed her car keys from the hook, murmuring frantic reassurances into the receiver. Slipping into her flats by the door, she looked back at me. “I need to check on him, Jesse. We’ll talk when I get back. Drink the broth, okay? Don’t let yourself get hungry.” My fingers tightened around the diagnosis sheet in my pocket. I took a slow, trembling breath. “Chelsea. What if I told you my hand is ruined? That I can never paint again?” She paused, her hand hovering over the phone’s microphone. “Jesse, you’re not the type to make jokes like that. Stop acting out.” The door clicked shut behind her. I pulled the neurologist’s report out of my pocket, unfolding the crisp paper and flattening it on the dining table. It lay right beside the gallery transfer deed. I sat there in the silence of the empty house, watching the steam slowly rise from the bowl of broth until it grew cold and still. Outside, the pale, gray dawn of a Boston morning began to bleed through the window, illuminating the dust motes in the air. I picked up the bowl, took a single sip, and forced myself to swallow. Chelsea had always been an excellent cook. During those brutal, all-night drawing sessions, she would always bring me a hot bowl of soup. But this time, the taste made my stomach turn. A sudden wave of intense nausea hit me. I pushed the bowl away, rushed to the bathroom, and emptied my stomach until there was nothing left. I didn’t see Chelsea for the rest of the night. The next morning, her personal assistant knocked on the door, handing me a sleek black American Express card and a brass key. “Mr. Dalton,” the assistant said politely, “Ms. Whitmore asked me to deliver this. It’s a black card with no spending limit. Also, the penthouse on the East Side has been fully prepared. She wants you to rest there for the time being.” I stared at the plastic card, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my throat. Back in college, I had worked myself to the bone, taking on every miserable freelance gig just to fund Chelsea’s startup. I had tolerated every demanding, toxic client imaginable, sacrificing my physical and mental health just to keep her business afloat. And yet, with a single reveal of her true identity, she could produce a black card and a multi-million-dollar penthouse without blinking. In a sick way, I supposed I had Oliver to thank. Without his betrayal, I might never have witnessed the sheer scale of the Whitmore fortune. But the humor died quickly. I tossed the card and the key onto the table, pulled out my phone, and called Oliver. “Send me the address,” I said. Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds before he softly, hesitantly gave me the address to his luxury high-rise in Back Bay. A cold smirk touched my lips. I hung up and called an Uber. Chelsea was the one who opened the door. She was wearing a cozy knit lounge set, holding a warm mug of honey water. She froze when she saw me. “Jesse? What are you doing here?” “I came to see Oliver.” The penthouse was massive, bathed in natural light. The living room was centered around a plush, off-white sectional—Oliver’s favorite style—and a vase of fresh lilies sat on the glass coffee table. Oliver was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a heavy cashmere throw. His face was pale, his lips nearly bloodless. When his eyes met mine, he instinctively shrank back, looking toward Chelsea for protection. “Jesse,” he whispered. I walked right past Chelsea and sat on the armchair opposite him. Chelsea followed, setting the warm mug in front of Oliver before sitting down closely beside him. She casually draped her arm along the back of the sofa behind his shoulders—a deeply practiced, protective gesture. I looked at Oliver. “Where does it hurt?” He stared down at his interlaced fingers, his voice barely audible. “My heart was racing last night. Chelsea insisted I stay here and rest.” He looked up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He looked exactly like he used to back in college when he got caught copying my art history assignments. “I only came here for one thing, Oliver. I want the truth. Do you love her?” Chelsea tried to interject. “Jesse, let’s discuss this back at our place.” “I’m asking him,” I said, not breaking eye contact with Oliver. “Could you stay out of it?” Chelsea’s face tightened at my sharp tone. She opened her mouth to argue, but Oliver gently tugged at her sleeve. “Chelsea, please. Let me talk to Jesse alone.” Chelsea hesitated, looking between the two of us, before finally sighing and stepping out onto the balcony. Oliver’s eyes brimmed with red. “Jesse, I know I’ve ruined everything. I know what I did to you is unforgivable. But the day the doctor told me my heart was failing… Chelsea was the only one there. She pulled strings to get me in to see the best specialist. She told me, ‘Jesse has a deadline today and couldn’t make it, so I’m here instead.’ She paid my deposit. She looked at me with so much pity. Jesse, in that moment, I realized that even if I only have one day left on this earth, I want to spend it with her.” I looked at him, feeling a dull, aching laceration in my chest. This was a brother I had shared ten years of my life with. I knew him well enough to recognize that his vulnerability, his desperation, was entirely real. But what about me? To raise the money for his heart transplant, I had pulled endless double shifts taking on extra freelance illustrations. For Chelsea, I had turned down a prestigious, fully-funded residency in Paris. Every spare ounce of my energy, my time, and my health had been poured into the two of them. Even the day of Oliver’s surgery, I had slipped down a flight of concrete stairs in a torrential downpour while running to grab a lucky charm he’d asked for, nearly shattering my right wrist. And yet, my best friend had climbed into bed with my fiancée. “Loving someone isn’t a crime, Oliver,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “But using your illness to trap my fiancée, knowing exactly what she meant to me, is. Playing the victim while you two secretly carried on behind my back is.” His lips trembled. “Jesse, you love her too, but you don’t understand the terror of knowing your own heart could stop at any second. I was drowning. I just wanted a lifeline. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about dying alone. I just wanted someone to lean on…” “So because you needed a lifeline, I’m supposed to just hand over my fiancée?” My throat was parched, the words tasting like ash. He looked up, his tears still wet on his cheeks, but his gaze had shifted. The guilt was still there, but beneath it lay a simmering resentment, a bitter sense of entitlement. “Jesse, do you have any idea what Chelsea told me about you? She said you were too intense. She said you were so consumed by your work and your drive that she felt like she was suffocating around you. She said she only felt truly needed when she was with me.” He wiped his eyes, his breathing growing ragged as he leaned forward and grabbed my shoulder. “Do you know what it felt like for me? To be her dirty little secret? A shadow hidden in the dark, thrown a scrap of pity whenever she felt like it, while you got to be her fiancé in the light?” I sat there, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain firing down my right arm, and simply stared at him. So that was it. In his mind, he was the victim. He truly believed we had wronged him. There was nothing left to say. Looking at him, I realized with a chilling certainty that the boy I had grown up with was gone. I stood up to leave, but he lunged forward, grabbing my sleeve and sobbing hysterically. “Jesse! You neglected her for years for your art! You never gave her the warmth she needed—why couldn’t you let me do it? The Whitmores have more money than they know what to do with, and she’s carrying my child. I can finally get the medical care I need without worrying about dying in debt! I just want to live! You’ve always been better than me at everything, Jesse. You’ve always let me win. Can’t you just let me have this one thing?” I reached down and pried his fingers off my arm, one by one. “You’re out of your mind, Oliver.” Panic flared in his eyes. He scrambled to his feet to block my path, but his balance gave way. He stumbled, crashing heavily into the glass coffee table. The glass shattered with a deafening crack. He collapsed among the shards, clutching his chest, gasping in agony. The balcony door flew open. Chelsea charged into the room like a tempest, violently shoving me aside as I stood there in shock. She knelt beside Oliver, cradling him with a frantic, desperate tenderness, then looked up at me, her eyes burning with pure disgust. “Jesse, how could you? You’re a monster!” Oliver’s eyes fluttered, looking at me with a weak, pleading gaze. “Jesse… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have…” “Oliver, stop,” Chelsea snapped, her voice breaking with worry as she helped him up. “You don’t owe him an apology. He’s the one who should be begging for forgiveness.” She escorted him toward the exit, pausing at the threshold to look back at me. Her expression was cold, hard, and utterly devoid of the warmth we had shared for seven years. “Jesse Dalton, pack your things and go back to that dead-end town you came from. If I ever catch you near Oliver again, I will personally ensure you never get another art commission in this industry. I’ll ruin you.” My father stood in the center of the room, looking frantically between me and the hallway. Finally, he gave me a look of deep disappointment. “Stop being selfish, Jesse,” he whispered, before turning on his heel to chase after them. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, along with Oliver’s ragged, shallow breathing, leaving nothing but the hum of the hospital monitors. A dry laugh escaped my throat. I reached over, ripped the IV out of my left arm, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My right hand throbbed with a sickening, white-hot intensity, but I pressed my shoulder against the wall and slowly dragged myself down to the reception desk. I paid my bill using my own meager savings, leaving me with almost nothing. Then, I placed the black Amex card on the counter. “Return this to Chelsea Whitmore,” I told the receptionist. I walked out of the hospital doors and bought a one-way ticket on the first Greyhound bus out of Boston. I didn’t pack. I didn’t look back.

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Being married to a woman who couldn’t speak was, surprisingly, the most harmonious relationship of my life. But after five years of trying, and failing, to have a baby, the silence between us had grown suffocating. I finally snapped. “For God’s sake, Cecilia, give me something to work with here. Are you even trying?” That was the exact moment the Ticker appeared. Lately, in moments of high emotional stress, my mind had started projecting a bizarre, magical-realism phenomenon—a translucent, scrolling feed of text in my field of vision, like a live comment section ruthlessly judging my life. [Does the placeholder husband really have the nerve to blame her? Bro, you have low sperm motility. It’s a miracle if she ever gets pregnant.] [Hasn’t the female lead cooperated enough for five years? If she were with a guy who actually had functioning swimmers, she’d be pregnant on the first try.] [Don’t worry. The real male lead, Felix, just got back. They reunited at the Davis gala yesterday.] [The divorce papers she drafted are already sitting in her study drawer. Time for the side-character husband to step down.] Before I could even process the scrolling text, Cecilia lifted her hands. Her fingers moved in the elegant, fluid sign language we had perfected over the years: “Do you want to try again?” My chest hollowed out. I bypassed our bed, walked straight down the hall into her study, and yanked open the top drawer of her mahogany desk. The pristine stack of legal documents stared back at me. I returned to the bedroom, the papers heavy in my hand. “You want to divorce me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. … 1 “…” Cecilia looked at the divorce agreement, her expression unreadable. She picked up her phone, her manicured thumbs flying across the screen, and held it up to me. “Wesley, do you love me?” I stared at the glowing pixels, completely thrown. Cecilia Davis and I were set up by her grandfather. We had zero emotional foundation going into this. Whether we loved each other had never seemed to matter. And yet, for five years, we had worked. Five years ago, a severe trauma left her with psychosomatic mutism. The doctors said her vocal cords were fine, but her mind had locked the door to her voice. We learned to communicate in the quiet spaces—a brush of shoulders, a shared glance, the silent cadence of sign language. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping romance, but our souls seemed to click into place. “Does it matter?” I deflected, my voice hardening. “You know as well as I do that our marriage was a transaction. We both got what we needed.” The light in Cecilia’s eyes instantly died. The heat that had been building between us just moments ago evaporated, leaving a chilling void. She turned without a sound and walked into the master bathroom, the click of the lock echoing in the large room. The Ticker rolled past my vision: [Of course it matters.] [What Cecilia wants is a partner who actually loves her.] [He doesn’t love her, but he’s perfectly happy to monopolize her time and her body.] [Unlike Felix. Felix’s love for her has always been open, proud, and unapologetic.] [Felix Harrington comes from real money. He’s her equal. If Cecilia hadn’t lost her voice five years ago, and if Felix hadn’t gone to Milan to study fashion, a regular guy like Wes Callahan would never have married into the Davis empire.] [Now that Felix is back, she’s naturally going to find an excuse to divorce Wes.] [LMAO, Wes still actually thinks he can get her pregnant.] [Isn’t he just after the Davis trust fund and her flawless genetics?] [Too bad he’s been shooting blanks for five years. Not a single successful pregnancy.] [All that effort for nothing.] Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. For the past five years, to optimize our chances of conceiving, I had lived like a monk. Strict sleep schedules, grueling workouts, militant diets. Yes, Cecilia came from a dynastic East Coast family. Yes, she was breathtakingly beautiful. But my desire for a child had absolutely nothing to do with Davis money. I was a marine biologist specializing in deep-water extremophiles. By nature, I was a cave diver—one of the most lethal extreme sports on the planet. Five years ago, I suffered severe nitrogen narcosis—the “martini effect”—during a deep-cave expedition. I nearly died. After that, I transitioned to a desk-heavy research role, drastically cutting down my dives. But the call of the water never left me. The dark, flooded veins of the earth still pulled at me like a magnet. When we got married, I desperately wanted a child. I wanted an anchor. I knew that if I had a son or a daughter tying me to the surface, I would finally have the strength to let go of my dangerous obsession with the deep. Just as the Ticker said. Five years of militant effort, and nothing. I had spent half a decade quietly assuming the issue lay with Cecilia’s stress levels. I never imagined that I was the broken one. The prolonged exposure to immense deep-water pressure over my career must have compromised me. Five years ago, Richard Davis, the patriarch of the family, orchestrated our meeting. I always assumed Cecilia only picked me because she had lost her voice and was settling for someone safe, someone who wouldn’t demand a spotlight. Now, her “one who got away” was back. There was no reason for me to drag this out. Taking a pen from the nightstand, I flipped to the last page and signed my name on the thick, textured paper. When Cecilia finally emerged from the bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of steam, I handed the documents back to her. “It’s signed,” I said, my tone aggressively neutral. “I’ll pack my things and move out tomorrow.” Cecilia stared at my jagged signature. Her eyes, usually a cool, crystalline blue, flushed red at the rims. She typed on her phone: “Have you thought this through?” I nodded. “Yeah. I have.” The reason I was cutting the cord so cleanly wasn’t born of spite. It was born of self-preservation. Because lately, I had realized something terrifying: I was starting to fall in love with my wife. But Cecilia was emotionally impenetrable. Cool, composed, and impossibly guarded. If she was holding onto the ghost of a first love, the most dignified thing I could do was exit the stage before my heart was entirely collateral damage. The Ticker mocked me: [Oh, please. Your little crush is nothing compared to what Felix feels.] [And so what if you’re catching feelings? Cecilia doesn’t like you.] [She and Felix have been waiting for each other all these years.] [Stepping aside is the only smart thing you’ve done.] Cecilia’s fingers tightened around the thick paper, her knuckles turning white. She walked back into the study and shoved the papers back into the drawer, slamming it shut. I went to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of rye I had been aging for years, and poured a heavy measure. I downed it in one burning swallow. The alcohol seared my throat, but it didn’t burn away the memories of the last five years. Before we got the marriage license, I had laid all my cards on the table. I told her about my ex-girlfriend, Nicole Foster. Nicole was a fellow cave diver, my partner in the water and in life for four years. During the dive where I got narced and nearly died, Nicole’s air supply was running critical. Instead of trying to haul my delirious body out, she cut the line. She left me in the dark and swam for the surface alone. I was saved by a nameless, faceless stranger—another diver who dragged me to an underwater decompression habitat. I spent two weeks in a hospital bed. The day I was discharged, I broke up with Nicole. It took me two years to even consider dating again, which led to the blind date with Cecilia. I could talk about Nicole with the clinical detachment of a scientist discussing an old specimen. It meant I was over her. But Cecilia? She had never once mentioned her romantic history. The things we bury deepest, the names we refuse to speak—those are the ones we can never truly forget. Felix Harrington. I knew the name. He was a rising star in bespoke menswear. When Cecilia and I got married, he was working in Milan for a legacy Italian fashion house. The suit I wore to marry Cecilia was from that exact brand. Just a few days ago, I had seen a feature on him in “GQ”. He had returned to New York to launch his own eponymous label. The interviewer had asked, “Felix, why leave the prestige of Milan to start from scratch in the States?” He had offered a devastatingly handsome, melancholic smile. “My first love is here.” “I came back to build my brand, yes. But more importantly, I want to wear a suit of my own design when I marry the woman I’ve always loved.” “So, we can expect wedding bells soon?” the interviewer teased. “That’s up to her,” Felix replied smoothly. “But I’m ready.” “Any plans for a family?” “We both love kids. I think we’ll aim for three.” The Ticker had said Felix wouldn’t have my “issues.” One try, and she’d be pregnant. A sharp, acidic ache bloomed in the center of my chest. Later that night, I pretended to be asleep when Cecilia finally came to bed. In the liminal space between waking and dreaming, I felt her slip under the covers and press her body against my back, just as she always did. I felt the soft, hesitant press of her lips against my shoulder blade, then the nape of my neck. She found the small mole resting just above my collarbone and kissed it with a desperate, lingering reverence. Her touch was scorching. A complete betrayal of the ice queen she played during the day.

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My brother’s new girlfriend was supposed to be so sweet to me. When my parents had to go out of town on business, she volunteered to stay and take care of me. But the moment they left, she saw me crawling on the carpet with my pacifier, playing with my blocks, and she walked over and kicked my tower over. “You’re twenty-two years old,” she sneered. “What are you doing play-acting like a toddler?” “You’re just some charity case, some childhood tagalong they adopted because they felt sorry for you. You think you can just cling to the Bradford family forever?” She grabbed my hair, pulling me down, and shoved my face into the freezing water. I thrashed wildly, desperate for air. “Still acting? Jack is working late tonight, and there’s no one else in this house. Today, I’m going to cure you of this ‘baby act’ once and for all!” I looked up at her, utterly lost, water dripping down my chin. What baby act? When we were children, a heavy cabinet fell on us. I pushed Jack out of the way, and my head was crushed. My brain stopped growing. My mind stayed forever locked at three years old. I really am a baby. … 1 “Amber, Michelle isn’t pretending.” My face was dripping wet as Amber held me pinned against the edge of the bathroom sink. The freezing water crept down my collar, making me shiver violently. “Don’t call me Amber,” she sneered, pinching my cheek. “Do you know what bugs me most about you, Michelle? You’re a grown woman. You’re twenty-two, and you play-act like you don’t understand a single word of English.” “Jack falls for this pathetic act. I don’t.” My face hurt. I whimpered, “But Jack says… Jack says Michelle is his baby.” “Shut up!” “Slap.” My ear rang, a sharp, white-hot sting radiating across my cheek. I covered my face, squeezing my eyes shut to keep from crying out loud. Mom always said to be a good girl when we had guests. But Amber was scary. Scarier than thunder. She picked up my pacifier from the floor. “You actually put this disgusting thing in your mouth?” Panic flared in my chest. “Don’t throw it away! Jack bought it for me.” “Jack bought it?” Her face twisted, darkening with a sudden, ugly rage. “He doesn’t even pay that much attention to me.” Right in front of my eyes, she tossed the strawberry-flavored pacifier into the toilet and flushed. The water roared, swallowing it down. It was gone. I fell to my knees, sobbing at the edge of the toilet. “My pacifier! My strawberry pacifier!” I clutched my wet plush bunny, Barnaby, shaking with heavy, ragged breaths. “It’s okay, Barnaby. You’re still here. You’ll stay with Michelle.” Amber’s shadow loomed over me. I flinched, hiding Barnaby behind my back. “No.” She smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “The more you love something, the more I want to break it. I’m going to make sure you realize exactly who runs this house now.” She pulled a pair of silver shears out of the drawer. I shook my head, terror paralyzing my legs. “Please, no. Amber, don’t cut Barnaby.” She crouched down, her voice suddenly dropping into a sweet, coaxing purr. “Then admit it. Admit you’re faking. Say you’re staying with Jack on purpose.” The words were too big. I didn’t understand. I could only shake my head, tears blurring my vision. “Michelle isn’t faking. Jack is my brother.” The sweetness vanished instantly. “You really are a little actress, aren’t you?” “Snip.” Barnaby’s long, floppy ear fell to the floor. I screamed, throwing myself forward. “Barnaby hurts! Barnaby hurts!” “Snip.” His little head tumbled off, and white stuffing exploded across the bathroom tiles like snow. I fell to my hands and knees, desperately trying to scoop the loose cotton back into my arms. “Mom will fix it. Mom can sew him back together…” Amber’s boot came down hard, crushing Barnaby’s hollow body into the wet tile. “Your mother hates you too.” I froze, a piece of white fluff clutched in my fist. “Do you really think their business trip was a coincidence? They wanted to get away from you. They’re sick of you.” “Your brother is busy with work, and your parents have their own lives. Who would want to spend every single day babysitting a useless, brain-dead retard?” I knew that word. “Retard.” The kids at the park used to whisper it when they thought I wasn’t listening. Jack would always pick me up back then, glaring at them, whispering in my ear that they were wrong. He’d say Michelle wasn’t dumb; she was just a little baby who was taking her time to grow up. I bit my lip, my voice trembling. “Liar.” Amber unlocked her phone and waved it in front of my face. The screen showed a photo of her standing next to Jack. She looked beautiful, smiling wide. “See this? I’m his girlfriend. I’m going to marry him and move in here. What are you?” “I’m his sister,” I whispered. “An adopted sister with zero blood relation. It’s disgusting.” She dragged me out of the bathroom by my arm. My knee slammed against the wooden doorframe, a sharp, throbbing ache radiating through my leg. I curled inward, trying to shield myself. In the living room, the castle of blocks I had spent all morning building was scattered everywhere. She kicked a blue wooden block out of the way and aimed her phone camera at me. “Come on, let’s show everyone. Let’s see how well the great, wealthy Bradford family’s little parasite can act.” I hated cameras. Jack told me never to let strangers take pictures of me. I threw my hands over my face. “No! Don’t take pictures!” She grabbed my wrists, forcing my hands down, shoving the lens inches from my face. “What’s there to be scared of? Aren’t you a cute little baby? Babies love photos. Smile!” I broke down, sobbing hysterically. “Jack! I want Jack!” At the mention of his name, her face darkened into pure malice. “You think he’s coming? Let me tell you something, Michelle. Jack isn’t coming home tonight. Your parents aren’t coming home either.” “There’s nobody here but me.” I shook my head, gasping for air. “Mr. Walter is here.” Mr. Walter made me warm milk every afternoon. He always helped me find my little yellow duck hairpins when they slipped behind the cushions of the couch. Amber’s laugh was sharp and triumphant. “I sent that old man to the warehouse across town to pick up some old boxes. He won’t be back for hours.” She grabbed the collar of my pink onesie, her voice dropping to a cold, venomous whisper. “Today, I’m going to strip this stupid baby act right off you. Piece by piece.” She shoved me back into my bedroom. My room was my safe place. It had my strawberry nightlight, my soft pillows, and the glowing plastic stars Jack had taped to the ceiling so I wouldn’t be scared. But the second Amber stepped inside, she flipped the light switch, plunging the room into darkness. “No!” I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around her leg. “Don’t! Michelle is scared of the dark. Turn on the light, please, turn it on!” She looked down at me, her eyes freezing cold. “A twenty-two-year-old afraid of the dark. Who’d believe that?” She reached for my pink plastic cup on the nightstand—the one Mom had filled with warm water before she left. I reached out, my fingers stretching. “My cup…” “Thirsty?” She turned it upside down, pouring the water directly onto the carpet. “Lick it up. You love crawling around on the floor anyway, don’t you? Just like a dog.” I didn’t understand why she was being so mean. I only crawled because my legs were weak. The doctor in the white coat had explained to my parents that after my head got hurt, my muscles didn’t always listen to my brain. Jack didn’t want me to fall and hurt myself, so he bought thick, soft carpets and told me it was okay to crawl. Amber crouched down, her face inches from mine. “Is this how you get him to feel sorry for you? ‘Oh, poor little Michelle, she’s so helpless, she can’t survive without me.’ Every time he says that, it makes me want to vomit.” “Jack loves Michelle,” I whispered, tears spilling over my cheeks. “He does it out of pity. Guilt,” she spat. “But don’t worry. I’m going to free him from you.” She reached for the small, hand-knitted blanket on my bed. I crawled forward, desperate, shielding it with my body. “No, please! Mom worked on that for so long!” Amber didn’t grab the blanket. Instead, she picked up my pink toy smart-watch from the nightstand and thrust it toward me. “Fine. Call your mother.” “You say they love you? Let’s see if they’ll come back to save you.” My eyes lit up. I scrambled to tap the screen, pressing the button with Mom’s smiling picture. “Ring… Ring…” No answer. I tried Dad’s picture. It rang and rang, but the screen just went black. Amber stood over me, her arms crossed, a mocking sneer on her lips. “See? They don’t want you. They’re ignoring you.” “No!” I sobbed, shaking my head. “They’re on an airplane. Mom said they can’t talk on the phone when they’re in the sky.” She snatched the watch from my hand. “They lied to you because they wanted to run away! They’re never coming back!” “Give it back!” I cried, reaching for it. “Jack said I can always call!” With a cruel flick of her wrist, she tossed the watch into my fish tank. There was a soft “plop”, a brief bubble of light, and then the screen died in the water. “You’re bad,” I whimpered. “You’re a bad girl.” Her face contorted. “What did you just say?” I shrank back, terrified. “Bad…” She grabbed me by my wrists and dragged me toward the closet. The heavy wooden doors stood open, revealing a pitch-black cavern. The sight of it broke something inside me. I screamed, thrashing wildly. “No! Not in there! Michelle is scared!” I clawed at the wooden doorframe, my fingernails scraping against the paint until they bent back, white-hot pain shooting up my fingers. But I wouldn’t let go. She pried my fingers off one by one, her grip like iron, and shoved me into the dark closet. “Good. Maybe a little darkness will teach you to stay away from Jack.” “Slam.” The door shut, swallowing me whole. I collapsed into the pile of clothes, crying and pounding my little fists against the wood. “Amber! Please! Open the door! Michelle will be good… Michelle is sorry…” Her muffled, irritated voice filtered through the wood. “You can come out when you admit you’re a liar.” I buried my face in the soft sweaters, choking on the stuffy, warm air. After what felt like forever, the distant, sweet sound of the doorbell chimed. “Ding-dong.” It had to be Mr. Walter! I gathered all the strength in my small body and banged on the door. “Mr. Walter! Help me! Michelle is in here!” Heavy footsteps approached my room. I heard the door open, and then Mr. Walter’s voice, thick with worry. “Miss Amber? I felt uneasy on the drive over. Jack explicitly told me not to leave Michelle alone for too long. Where is she?” I screamed as loud as I could. “Mr. Walter! I’m here! In the closet!” But the closet was deep, and the heavy oak doors muffled my voice into nothing but a faint rustle. “She’s sleeping,” Amber said, her voice smooth and airy. “She wore herself out playing.” “I would like to check on her,” Mr. Walter insisted, his tone firm. Silence stretched for a long, agonizing moment. I held my breath, a tiny spark of hope fluttering in my chest. Then, Amber’s voice turned icy. “Walter, I am Jack’s girlfriend. He trusted me to look after Michelle. If you’re insisting on inspecting the room, are you implying I’m going to hurt her?” “Of course not, miss,” Mr. Walter hesitated, his voice wavering. “Then go back to your duties,” she said sharply. “The old toys in the suburban storage locker are still waiting. Michelle wanted them. If she wakes up and they aren’t here, she’ll have a tantrum. Are you going to take responsibility for that?” Mr. Walter sighed quietly. “I… I will go back and finish loading them.” His footsteps faded away. I pressed my forehead against the cold wood of the door, tears soaking into my collar. Amber opened the closet door. The sudden light burned my eyes. She stood there, looking down at me with a cruel smirk. “Did you hear that? Nobody is coming to save you.” When she finally let me out, my legs were so weak they couldn’t support my weight. I collapsed onto the carpet. She crouched down, tapping my cheek with two fingers. “Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been extremely patient. If it weren’t for Jack, I would have thrown you out on the street hours ago.” I curled into a ball, shivering. “I want Jack…” “Is that the only word you know?” She rolled her eyes, her phone buzzing in her hand. She turned around and walked out of the room to answer it. I remembered the little red emergency phone in my nightstand drawer. Jack had given it to me. He said if I ever needed him, all I had to do was press the heart button. My knees were scraped, and my legs felt like they were being pricked by a thousand hot needles, but I didn’t care. I dragged myself across the carpet toward the bed. Jack would save me. I pulled open the drawer, my trembling hand finding the plastic phone. I squeezed the heart button. “Ring… Ring…” It picked up on the second ring. “Michelle? Is everything okay?” Jack’s voice was breathless, panicked. My eyes flooded with fresh tears. “Jack…” Suddenly, the phone was ripped from my hand. Amber stood over me, her face twisted in a dark, terrifying scowl. “You little rat. You’re trying to get me in trouble?” I lunged forward, grabbing her ankle. “Give it back! I want Jack!” Over the speaker, Jack’s voice went dead cold. “Amber? Why is Michelle crying?” Amber hit the speakerphone button, her voice instantly transforming into a sweet, melodic purr. “Jack, honey! She just had a bad dream. I’m putting her back to sleep right now.” “Let me talk to her.” I reached out, sobbing. “Jack!” Amber kicked her leg back, knocking me to the floor. The impact sent a sharp pain through my chest, and I gasped for air. She talked to the phone, her voice smooth. “You know what the therapist said, Jack. The more you baby her when she has these tantrums, the more dependent she becomes. You’re enabling her.” Jack’s voice crackled, dark and dangerous. “The doctor never said to let her cry like that! Give the phone to Michelle. Now!” Amber’s jaw clenched. She stared down at me, then abruptly swiped her finger across the screen, cutting him off. She threw the phone onto the floor, picked up a heavy ceramic vase from the dresser, and smashed it down on the plastic device again and again until it was nothing but crushed plastic and wires. I crawled over the shards of ceramic, trying to save the pieces, my fingertips stinging as they cut open against the sharp edges. “No… Jack won’t be able to find me…” Amber grabbed my wrists, pulling me up, her eyes wide with a manic, boiling hatred. “I hope he never finds you! Do you want to know what I hate most about you?” “You don’t have to do anything. All you have to do is squeeze out a single tear, and Jack drops everything to run to you!” “I’m his girlfriend! I’m the one who’s supposed to be his future!” I shook my head, sobbing. “Jack loves Michelle. Jack loves Amber too…” “Stop pretending!” She threw me back down. “You use this brain-dead act so nobody can ever hold you accountable. The Bradfords adopting you was the worst mistake they ever made.” “They are sick of you. They hate you. They begged me to teach you how to behave.” “No!” I choked, struggling to breathe. “Mom and Dad love me! You’re lying…” She reached down, her fingernails pinching the tender skin of my inner arm, twisting it hard. I screamed from the blinding pain. “Michelle isn’t lying! I’m not!” “Tell me you’ll stay away from Jack.” “Jack is my brother!” Amber’s hand flew to my ear, pulling it back until I shrieked. “Let me tell you a secret, Michelle. Jack loves me now. He’s sick and tired of carrying around a brainless anchor.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a long, silver sewing needle. “I’m going to make sure you remember this. I’m going to teach you that calling his name won’t save you anymore.” She drove the needle deep into my forearm. “Ah!” My entire body spasmed. “Don’t you ever call him your brother again! You manipulative little bitch, using a fake baby routine to get pity. Just die!” She kept screaming, her face unrecognizable, plunging the needle into my arms over and over. “Michelle isn’t… it hurts… Jack, it hurts…” I rolled on the floor, thrashing, desperate to crawl away, but my limbs wouldn’t obey. She grabbed my collar and dragged me down the hallway. I saw the door at the very end, and my whole body froze. Years ago, behind that door, it had been so dark. Something heavy had fallen. There was screaming, and crying, and blood. I grabbed the metal banister with both hands, locking my fingers. “No! Not there! Michelle won’t go!” Amber pried at my fingers. “Perfect. A little dark basement is exactly where bad girls learn to be quiet!” She kicked the basement door open. The darkness inside felt like a monster opening its mouth to swallow me. “Get in!” I pulled back, weeping. “No! Amber, please! Michelle will be good! I won’t look for Jack anymore!” Amber paused, a cruel, mocking smile spreading across her lips. “Then say it. Say Jack isn’t your brother.” I stared at her, tears dripping from my chin. “But… Jack is my brother.” “Then rot.” The smile vanished. She raised her foot and stomped hard on my fingers. My grip broke. My body tumbled down the wooden stairs, hitting one step, then another, rolling down into the dark. My forehead slammed against the concrete floor at the bottom. Something warm and thick began to trickle down my face, sticking my eyelashes together. Above me, the heavy wooden door slammed shut. The basement fell into absolute, suffocating darkness. I curled into a tight ball in the corner, my voice a tiny, broken whisper. “Jack…” No one answered. “Mom…” Only the cold silence of the concrete. My head throbbed, my arm burned, and my stomach twisted with hunger. My throat felt like it was on fire. After a long time, I heard light footsteps above the ceiling. I dragged myself to the bottom of the stairs, tapping weakly on the bottom step. “Amber… Michelle is hungry…” A faint, mocking laugh came through the floorboards. “I just finished the strawberry cake Jack ordered for me.” Every time Jack worked late, he brought me a slice of strawberry cake. I swallowed hard, my mouth watering. “Can Michelle have a bite? Just a tiny bite?” “No. Do you want to know what Jack told me before he left?” I pressed my ear against the gap under the door. “What did Jack say?” “He said you’re too much of a burden. He said he wants to get married and have a real family, and he can’t spend his whole life playing nursemaid to a vegetable.” I banged my head against the door, crying out. “Jack wouldn’t say that! Jack promised Mom he would always take care of Michelle!” “You don’t believe me?” A recording of Jack’s voice crackled from her phone outside the door. “…Is she crying? Amber, just keep her quiet, I’m stuck here…” The words didn’t make sense, but I heard “keep her quiet.” Amber’s voice cut back in. “Hear that? He told me to keep you quiet. He’s not coming for you.” My heart felt like it had been dropped into a bucket of ice. “Jack is busy…” “Stop making excuses, Michelle,” she sneered, her voice dripping with triumph. “You’re not a baby. You’re just a nuisance nobody wants.” I stopped talking. Nuisances didn’t get strawberry cake. Nuisances weren’t allowed to call for their brothers. The basement was freezing. I wrapped my arms around my knees, softly humming the lullaby Mom used to sing to me. Halfway through, loud, frantic banging echoed from the top of the stairs. “Miss Michelle? Are you in there?” It was Mr. Walter! His voice sounded terrified. I scrambled up the steps, throwing my weight against the door. “Mr. Walter! Michelle is here!” The sound of keys jingling echoed from the other side. “Don’t worry, Miss Michelle. Walter is here. I’m opening the door right now.” The key slid into the brass lock. “Click.” The latch moved. But a split second later, Amber’s voice shrieked through the hall. “Walter! What do you think you’re doing?” Mr. Walter’s voice trembled with rage. “Miss Amber, why did you lock Miss Michelle in the basement?” “She ran down there herself!” Amber yelled back. “If you open that door now and she runs out in a manic state, are you going to be responsible for whatever she breaks?” Mr. Walter kept turning the key. “I don’t care! Miss Michelle cannot be kept in the dark!” Amber let out a sharp, ugly laugh. “Walter, your son works in the logistics department at Bradford Enterprises, doesn’t he?” “If you interfere with my business today, I will make sure he is blacklisted from every firm in the city by tomorrow morning.” “I’m going to count to three. Walk away, and pretend you saw nothing.” The sound of the keys stopped. The silence outside was heavy and terrifying. Panic seized me. I pounded on the door with both hands, slamming my forehead against the wood. “Mr. Walter, don’t go! Please let Michelle out!” Outside, Mr. Walter’s voice was barely a whisper. “Hold on, Miss Michelle… just a little longer. Someone will come.” His slow, heavy footsteps drifted away. Mr. Walter was gone. Nobody was coming. My arms lost their strength. I couldn’t bang on the door anymore, and I didn’t have the breath to sing. It was so dark, and the shadows were turning into monsters. I don’t know how much time passed. Suddenly, the screech of tires echoed from the driveway, followed by the sound of heavy, desperate running. Amber’s voice rose in a high, panicked squeal. “Jack? What are you doing here?” An instant later— “CRASH!” The basement door was kicked open, splintering against the wall. A blinding, beautiful flood of light poured down the stairs, making my eyes sting. In the center of the light, a familiar silhouette came crashing down the steps. He was running so fast, stumbling, as if he believed that if he didn’t reach me in that exact second, I would disappear forever. His voice was cracked, raw, and completely broken. “Michelle!”

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On the first Saturday of June, during the annual children’s festival in town, I received a phone call from my future daughter. I smiled into the receiver and asked her, “Sweetheart, are Mommy and Daddy still happy together?” “Of course!” the little voice chirped proudly. “Daddy and Mommy have the best relationship. They never, ever fight. Daddy says Mommy is the absolute love of his life!” I felt a warm blush creep up my neck. I couldn’t believe Toby had said those things in front of a child. Basking in the warmth of her words, I pressed on. “And do you have Mommy’s last name, Winslow, or Daddy’s last name, Garrison?” The girl fell silent for a beat, sounding genuinely confused. “I have Daddy’s last name, Garrison. But my mommy’s last name is Hastings. Her name is Summer Hastings.” I froze. Summer Hastings. My best friend of fifteen years. The very same Summer who, just yesterday, had gotten into a screaming match with Toby over how he treated me—a fight so explosive they had physically locked horns and ended up in the emergency room. 1 My throat tightened, and my hand began to tremble so violently I could barely hold the phone. How was this possible? Summer and I had been inseparable since we were childhood neighbors. She was loud, fiercely protective, and entirely transparent. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand, it was Toby. She called him a pretentious snob who took my devotion for granted. Every time they were in the same room, sparks flew. They clashed so bitterly that Toby and I had nearly broken up multiple times over his relentless complaints about her. The sweet little voice on the line pulled me back from the ledge. “Ma’am? You still haven’t told me when Daddy is coming home to take me to the carnival.” I swallowed the sharp ache in my throat, forcing my voice to remain gentle. “Sweetheart, how old are you?” “I’m six!” Six… If this phone call was real, and the timeline lined up, then right now, Summer was already carrying her. “Clatter.” The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. A cold shiver rippled across my skin. Yesterday, when we went shopping, I noticed Summer’s dress size had jumped from a medium to a large. I had playfully teased her about gaining weight, completely missing the sudden, panicked flash in her eyes. No. It couldn’t be. “Sweetheart—” I scrambled to pick up the phone, desperate to ask more, when a man’s voice drifted through the receiver in the background. “Joy, who are you talking to?” It was a voice I knew intimately. The voice of the man who had slept beside me for the last four years. “Joy.” It was the name I had chosen only two days ago. That night, I had caught Toby flipping through a baby name book. I had teased him, asking why he was looking at names when we weren’t even married yet. He had only looked down, smiled quietly, and said there was no rush. No rush. Because the baby was never meant to be mine. “Ma’am, I sent you a friend request on social media. Let’s talk more later!” the little girl said. “I have to go to the festival now!” The line went dead. I immediately hailed a cab and rode to the hospital in a daze. Passing the nurse’s station, I spotted Toby’s assistant, who had told me Toby had flown to Seattle the night before on urgent business. Yet, there Toby was, standing outside a private room in the maternity ward. I crept quietly down the hall, stopping just outside the cracked door. Inside, Toby was gently pulling Summer into his arms, his face etched with tenderness. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this, Summer. Having to fake these fights just to protect your pregnancy and keep Serena off our scent.” “Once I secure the new contract from Winslow Enterprises, I’ll finally break things off with her,” Toby murmured, kissing her forehead. “I will cherish you and our baby for the rest of my life.” My fingernails dug into my palms, drawing blood as I fought back the tears threatening to spill over. Summer sighed, leaning into his chest. “I hate doing this to her. Serena is my best friend, and the last thing I want is to break her heart. But we have to think about our future. Once you get on track with those new investors you met, introduce a few of them to Serena. It’ll be our way of making it up to her.” My throat felt like it was coated in crushed glass. I couldn’t even manage a sob. The investors Toby had been socializing with lately were all wealthy, cynical men in their late fifties, several of them multiple divorcees. They wanted to set me up with them as “compensation.” I walked slowly into the stairwell, wiped the tears from my face, and dialed my father. “Dad,” I said, my voice tight. “The contracts Winslow Enterprises was planning to hand over to Garrison Holdings—cancel them. All of them.” “And about the overseas branch in Los Angeles? I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take the position. I want to leave next week.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then, my father sighed heavily. “Serena, did you and Toby have another fight?” “I never wanted to give him those projects in the first place. You knelt outside my study for three days and nights, begging me to help his company. Serena, you can’t keep throwing tantrums and using our family business as a bargaining chip in your relationship.” I sat down on the cold concrete step, my fingers brushing against the faint, faded bruises on my knees from that three-day vigil. When I pressed down, it still throbbed with a dull, aching pain. “Dad, I’m serious this time,” I whispered. “I’m boarding the flight next week. I’m done being foolish.” Even my father knew how much I treasured Toby. How could Summer, who had stood by me through everything, not know? That evening, shortly after I returned to the apartment, my phone buzzed. It was the same number. A text notification popped up, displaying a friend request from an account with a bright, bubbly profile picture. An ugly mix of resentment and curiosity coiled in my chest. I wanted to know where it had all gone wrong. I accepted the request. The little girl, Joy, was incredibly talkative, immediately sending a barrage of cute emojis. I stared at the screen, my heart pounding as I typed out a message. “Joy, do you know how your mommy and daddy fell in love?” A long voice note arrived almost instantly, her voice dripping with pride. “Of course! I know their whole love story. Daddy tells me how they fell in love every single night when he tucks me in.” I looked up blankly at the framed photo sitting on the coffee table. It was the very first photo Toby and I had ever taken together. I had chased Toby for three years, from high school through college. At our high school graduation, Summer had playfully shoved me next to him, winking as she urged me to get close for a photo. Toby had initially recoiled, quietly brushing off his sleeve where my shoulder had brushed his. Summer, annoyed by his attitude, had dragged him back and insisted we take a photo together. When she sent me the final image, she had cropped herself out. I was so ecstatic that I stayed awake all night, setting it as my wallpaper—a wallpaper I hadn’t changed in four years. “Joy, I’d love to hear the story. Will you tell me?” “Okay!” came the cheerful reply. “Daddy says he fell in love with Mommy the very moment he saw her at their high school graduation. He says it was love at first sight. They still have their graduation picture framed right next to their bed!” A second later, a photo message popped up. I tapped to expand the image. It was our graduation photo. But the girl standing in the middle—me—had been completely photoshopped out. Beside that frame sat their wedding portrait. It was a moody, gothic-inspired theme. Just two days ago, I had shown Toby a similar concept, telling him how much I loved the dramatic, classic look. He hadn’t even looked up from his tablet, merely shaking his head. “Too dark,” he had said dismissively. “It looks like a funeral. Pick something else.” Over the past year, I had proposed over a hundred wedding concepts. Every single one had been shot down. It turned out the style was never the issue. The person was. Joy continued to babble happily, describing how hard Toby had pursued Summer from graduation through college. In her telling, it was a flawless, fairy-tale romance. And I, the woman who had spent seven years of her life loving him, was nothing more than an invisible intruder. A wave of nausea hit me, so violent that I dropped the phone onto the carpet. As I scrambled to pick it up, my finger accidentally brushed the screen, answering an incoming video call from her. Joy froze when my face appeared on her screen. She looked startled, shrinking back slightly. I held the phone up, keeping my voice as gentle as possible. “Joy? What’s wrong, sweetie?” She let out a small breath, her shoulders relaxing. “Oh, it’s you, Ma’am.” She paused, then added innocently, “You’re actually so pretty when you aren’t being crazy.” A wire snapped in my brain. “What did you say?” Joy scratched her head, looking genuinely puzzled. “Every time I saw you before, you were always screaming and crying. It was really scary. You used to grab Daddy and tell him you were going to kill him to make him pay for your father’s life.” “Mommy told me to stay far away from you because you were dangerous.” A bone-chilling cold swept through me. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper. What did Toby do to my father in that future? Suppressing the tremor in my voice, I forced a smile. “Oh, sweetheart, that was just a game Daddy and I were playing.” I was desperate to ask more, to unravel the horror of what lay ahead, when Toby’s voice suddenly echoed from the hallway. “Serena? Who are you talking to?” Panicked, I immediately disconnected the call. I didn’t answer him. Toby, assuming I was still giving him the silent treatment over our fight from the day before, walked into the living room and set a small jar of organic lavender honey on the table beside me. “I drove all the way to that specialty market in Seattle to get this for you. Stop being mad,” he said, shedding his jacket. “I heard it’s great for your skin.” I stared at the jar, a bitter taste rising in my mouth. Earlier at the hospital, I had seen Summer holding ten jars of the exact same honey, her face glowing with delight. ““Oh, Toby, I only mentioned it once. I can’t believe you actually flew to Seattle just to get these for me!”” The jar he brought me was a tiny, pathetic sample size. We had been together for four years. He remembered a passing whim of Summer’s, but he couldn’t remember that I had a severe honey allergy. My eyes burned. I picked up the jar and tossed it directly into the trash can. “Toby, let’s break up.” Toby’s hands froze on his jacket zipper. A familiar look of irritation clouded his face. “Serena, can you please stop making a scene over nothing?” he snapped. “I have enough stress at the office. I don’t have the time or energy to play mind games and guess why you’re throwing a tantrum every single day.” “Why can’t you be more like Summer? She’s mature, easygoing, and reasonable.” When people are frustrated, the truth slips out. He caught himself, momentarily startled by his own words, before letting out a sharp sigh. It was the first time he had ever praised Summer to my face. For years, they had supposedly despised each other, which was precisely why I had never questioned the tiny, nagging discrepancies in his behavior. Regaining his composure, Toby knelt in front of me, reaching out to pat my head in that familiar, patronizing way. “Alright, Serena. I’m sorry. I apologize, okay?” he coaxed. “Just hang in there. Once we secure the Winslow contract next week, I’ll take you on a nice, long vacation to clear your head.” He wasn’t sorry. He was just terrified of losing the contract. I didn’t argue. That night, I quietly moved my things into the guest room and packed my suitcases, preparing for my departure the following week. In the middle of the night, a sharp, familiar pain flared in my stomach. I groaned, holding my abdomen as I stumbled out to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and my prescription pain relievers. The stomach ulcers were an old souvenir from Toby’s early startup days. Back then, he had to drink heavily to secure clients. I had accompanied him to every dinner, drinking in his place to protect his health. Over time, my own stomach paid the price. I remembered one night, a year ago, when the pain was so excruciating I couldn’t even stand up to reach the nightstand. I had begged Toby to get my medication. He hadn’t even opened his eyes. “Just bear with it,” he had mumbled into his pillow. “I have a pitch presentation tomorrow. I need my sleep.” I had curled into a ball, sweating and shaking, enduring the agonizing pain alone until morning. By the time I was rushed to the ER the next day, I was semi-conscious. The apartment was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlights outside. Near the entryway, Toby’s shoes were kicked aside haphazardly, as if he had left in a rush. With sleep out of reach, I brought up my phone and opened social media. There, at the top of my feed, was a post from Summer. ““Craving midnight snacks, and a sweet soul delivered. Lucky me~”” The attached photo showed a lavish spread of food from various diners across the city—some from the far north, others from the south. I buried my face in my knees, letting out a hollow laugh. If a man cares, he doesn’t need to be taught. If he doesn’t, no amount of teaching will ever be enough. By Tuesday afternoon, all my luggage had been shipped out. I sat on the empty sofa, staring at the bare walls, feeling completely drained. I had sent several messages to Joy, but none of them went through. Finally, around three in the afternoon, a video call request flashed on my screen. I answered immediately. But as the camera connected, the background behind her made my breath catch. It was a spacious, high-ceilinged office decorated with mahogany and leather. It was my father’s office. My mother had passed away when I was very young, and my father had raised me alone. Fearing I would be lonely at home, he had spent my childhood keeping me by his side in this very room. “Joy, why are you at Winslow Enterprises?” Joy tilted the camera, panning around the room. “What do you mean, Ma’am? This is my daddy’s office.” “And the company isn’t called Winslow anymore. Winslow Enterprises went under a long time ago.” My chest tightened, a cold dread seizing my heart. “Joy… you’re a smart girl. Can you tell me what happened to the old owner? The man who used to sit in that chair?” Eager to show off, she leaned close to the screen. “Oh, Daddy told me about him! The grandpa who owned the company gave all his projects to Daddy.” “But then the grandpa made a big mistake and broke the law. The police locked him up, and he died in prison shortly after.” My blood ran cold. My father was a man of absolute integrity. He would never bend his moral compass for profit, let alone commit a crime. “And then?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Then the company became Daddy’s!” Joy smiled. “Don’t you remember, Ma’am? You used to come down to the lobby all the time, screaming at Daddy to give your father’s life back.” A hot tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the glass screen. My father had never liked Toby. He had warned me repeatedly that Toby was too calculating, too ambitious. He had even resorted to locking me in my room to keep us apart. But in my blind devotion, I had climbed out of a third-story window, shattering my leg in the fall. Seeing my broken body, my father had finally yielded, heartbroken. I had never imagined that my foolish love would eventually cost my father his life. I took a cab straight to my father’s house. When I walked into the dining room, he was sitting alone at the long table, a few quiet dishes laid out before him. The sight of his solitary figure made my throat ache. I walked closer and realized every single dish on the table was one of my favorites—all of them sweet, rich comfort foods. My father looked up, his face instantly lighting up with warmth when he saw me. “Serena! You’re home!” “Sarah,” he called out to the housekeeper, his voice brimming with excitement, “make a few more of the dishes Serena likes!” I sat down, a profound sense of guilt washing over me. “Dad, why didn’t you have them make something you like? You hate sweet food.” My father rubbed his hands together, offering a gentle, almost apologetic smile. “Well, I always hope you’ll walk through the door, but I never know when you’ll have time for your old dad. So, I have them prepare your favorites every day. That way, no matter what day you decide to visit, your favorite meal is waiting for you.” I buried my face in my bowl, tears streaming into my food, salty and bitter. He had waited like this. Day after day, week after week. “Dad,” I choked out, “from now on, I’m going to listen to you. I won’t be foolish anymore.” My father looked at me softly, piling food onto my plate until it was overflowing. Before I left, I warned him repeatedly to be extremely cautious around Toby and to keep a close eye on the company’s internal audits. I returned to the apartment one last time to retrieve my passport and travel documents. As I reached the front door, I found a moving truck parked outside, and workers were hauling boxes inside. The moment Summer saw me, she rushed forward, wrapping her arms around me. “Serena! Oh my god, I’ve missed you so much!” Behind her, Toby kept a protective hand hovering near her waist, his eyes wide with anxiety. Meeting my gaze, he quickly drew his hand back, clearing his throat. “I was just… making sure she didn’t knock you over. You know how clumsy she is.” Summer laughed, punching his shoulder playfully. Then she turned to me, hooking her arm through mine. “Great news, Serena! I’m moving in with you guys! That way, if Toby ever tries to treat you badly, I’ll be right here to kick his butt!” Toby rolled his eyes with fond amusement. “We’ll see who kicks whose butt. Someone’s going to end up back in the hospital if they aren’t careful.” They began their usual banter. But this time, I didn’t step in to play peacemaker. Watching them laugh together, the last remaining embers of my affection for them died out. I gently slipped my arm out of Summer’s grasp, walked past them to collect my documents from the desk, and returned to the doorway. My voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. “No need. You two can have the apartment.” I turned to leave. Summer grabbed my sleeve, her face falling. “No, Serena, wait! Don’t be mad. If you don’t want me here, I won’t move in. Please don’t be like this.” As I pulled away, Toby stepped forward and abruptly shoved me back. He pulled Summer behind him, glaring at me with utter annoyance. “Let her go, Summer. She’s a grown woman and she’s still throwing these pathetic tantrums. If you want to leave so badly, Serena, then don’t bother coming back.” With that, he slammed the door in my face. I stared at the heavy wood door, the last trace of warmth in my chest evaporating into the cool hallway air. I certainly wouldn’t be back. Tomorrow, I would be on a flight to Los Angeles. It was only a pity that I wouldn’t be in the room to witness his face when the bidding fell through.

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After a drunken night with my best friend’s older brother, I became his secret girlfriend. By our eighth year of keeping things in the dark, my parents finally laid down the law and arranged a blind date for me. “Logan,” I whispered, tracing the collar of his shirt. “My parents gave me an ultimatum. I have to get married this year.” He paused, his fingers freezing on my waist for a fraction of a second before he pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. It was the same old refrain: “Just wait a little longer.” But then I opened Instagram and saw a post from our new intern, Brianna. It was a photo of her and Logan holding up a marriage certificate at city hall. Her caption read: “CEO secured.” The piece of paper I had spent eight years begging for, she had secured in three months. Swallowing the bitter lump in my throat, I double-tapped the screen. I left a comment: “Congratulations. Wishing you two a long and happy life together.” Then, I picked up the phone and told my mother I would agree to the wedding date she had set. 1 My phone vibrated almost instantly. For the first time in eight years, Logan’s voice sounded panicked. “Chelsea, don’t overthink this. It was just a stupid game of truth or dare at a bar. I only signed those papers with Brianna because I lost a bet…” I cut him off. “Logan, I’m getting married.” The line went quiet for a beat. When he spoke again, his panic had dissolved into his usual patronizing irritation, accompanied by a girl’s giggling in the background. “Here we go again,” he sighed. “Is that all you think about? The company’s cash flow is on the brink of collapse, Chelsea. Can you please not do this right now?” I stood on my balcony, the cool evening wind stinging my cheeks. My voice was entirely flat. “I’m not doing anything. I’m actually getting married.” He let out a dry, dismissive laugh, as if I’d just told a terrible joke. “Right. With who? You don’t even have a guy in your contacts who isn’t a client. Who are you marrying? The air?” I opened my mouth to say Henry’s name, but he was already rushing off. “Look, I have to take another call. The marriage certificate was just a joke. Don’t be dramatic.” The call clicked shut, replaced by the empty drone of the dial tone. I stared at the dark screen, my fingertips numb. Eight years, and his only response to my grief was always “don’t be dramatic”. The next morning, I walked into the office carrying two boxes of expensive European wedding chocolates. The bullpen was buzzing. Brianna was at the center of a crowded circle, her cheeks flushed a bright, performative pink. “Brianna, seriously, you’re a genius! Logan is usually so cold, how did you lock him down in three months?” one of the junior coordinators squealed. “We have to call you the boss’s wife now. Don’t forget about us when you’re running the place!” Brianna covered her face, her giggles pitched perfectly to carry across the entire floor. “Oh stop, it’s not what you think! It really was just a silly bet we lost. Please don’t spread it around.” I wanted to laugh. She had posted it to a public Instagram account with hundreds of followers, and now she was playing the modest victim. She caught sight of me standing by the door with the boxes of chocolates. She clicked toward me in her brand-new designer heels. “Chelsea! Did Logan ask you to pick up the wedding favors for us? Thank you so much! You’re the best mentor ever.” Before I could speak, she snatched the boxes out of my hands, ripped open the gold foil packaging, and began handing them out to the staff. “Everyone, try some! Logan had these imported especially for us!” The bullpen erupted into appreciative murmurs, praising how romantic and thoughtful the boss was. Right on cue, the elevator doors slid open and Logan stepped out. The crowd immediately started chanting, “Thanks for the chocolates, Boss!” Brianna looked up at him, her eyes wide and adoring. Logan froze for a second, looking confused, but then his lips curved into an easy smile. “Of course. Glad you guys like them.” “The chocolates are mine,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. The bullpen fell into a sudden, suffocating silence. Dozens of eyes locked onto me. Logan’s expression darkened instantly, a flash of panic darting through his eyes. “Chelsea, this is a professional environment. Don’t start making a scene.” “I’m not making a scene,” I said, holding his gaze. “I brought those in to share. I’m getting married next Saturday.” His face turned thunderous. He took three large strides toward me, grabbing my wrist and lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Are you really going to push me like this?” From the corner of the room, one of Brianna’s friends snickered. “Chelsea, we’ve never even seen you on a date. Who are you marrying? Are you just losing your mind because Brianna got Logan and you didn’t?” Brianna’s eyes welled with tears on cue. She bit her lip and whispered, “Chelsea… I know you used to have feelings for Logan, but he never saw you that way. He told all of us months ago that the rumors about you two were just gossip. He said you were just a dedicated employee.” The atmosphere shifted. Suddenly, the looks directed at me weren’t just curious—they were disgusted. I was the pathetic, desperate older woman trying to steal her intern’s husband. I looked at Logan. He looked away, staring out the window, refusing to say a single word to defend me. Eight years. Eight years of drinking client after client under the table to secure his contracts, eight years of pulling his company back from the edge of bankruptcy, eight years of letting him keep me a secret. And now, he wouldn’t even offer me the basic dignity of the truth. “Honestly, Chelsea, Logan and Brianna are married now,” someone else chimed in, emboldened by Logan’s silence. “Continuing to harass him makes you the other woman. That’s going to ruin our reputation with clients?” “Yeah. Trying to steal your own intern’s husband? That’s low.” I looked at the faces of these junior associates—people I had personally trained, whose careers I had built. A wave of confusion and hurt washed over me. I had planned on giving them invitations. I realized now how foolish that was. My fingers tightened around my phone. I raised my chin and looked at the crowd. “Since we’re on the subject, let me introduce you to my fiancé.” I reached to open my photo gallery to show them the picture of Henry and me. Suddenly, a cold hand clamped around my wrist. Logan snatched the phone out of my hand, his face white with fury. “Everyone back to work! Now!” he roared. He dragged me by the arm toward his office. Behind us, I could hear the hushed, comforting whispers surrounding Brianna, and the heavy weight of their judgmental glares burning into my back. The moment we stepped inside his office, he slammed the door shut and ran a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. “I told you, the certificate was a joke! Why do you have to drag everyone into this and make us look ridiculous?” “If it’s just a joke,” I said, my voice dead and cold, “then why didn’t you correct them? Why did you stand there and let them call me a homewrecker?” He faltered for a second, but his defensiveness quickly returned. “Brianna is sensitive, Chelsea. I couldn’t just humiliate her in front of the entire office.” “But you can humiliate me,” I thought. “You can let them trample all over my life.” I reached out and snatched my phone back from his grip, turning toward the door. As my hand touched the brass handle, I paused. I didn’t look back. “You and Brianna are welcome to come to the wedding next Saturday.” As soon as I stepped into the dim, cool air of the parking garage, my phone rang. It was the executive headhunter who had been calling me for months. “Chelsea, regarding the Marketing Director position at the public firm we discussed—they’re willing to bump the starting offer by another twenty percent. Will you please reconsider?” The number she named was at the absolute ceiling of the industry standard. “I accept,” I said, my voice steady. “And I’ll be bringing a ten-million-dollar account with me. I expect the commission structure to reflect that.” On the other end, the headhunter gasped, her excitement vibrating through the speaker. “Oh, absolutely! Leave it to me. I will have the contract drafted immediately!” I hung up and sat in my car, staring at the steering wheel. I opened my messages and scrolled to Henry’s name. “Hold off on signing the contract with Logan’s firm,” I texted him. “Wait for my word.” Logan had said the company was struggling, that I was just “adding to his problems.” But for eight years, I was the one who kept the lights on. This contract with Henry’s firm, Miles Group, was something I had practically begged Henry for. I had taken him to dinner three times, swallowing my pride, to secure the deal that would save Logan’s company from ruin. I started the engine and pulled out of the garage. As the city skyline blurred past my window, it felt like a metaphor for the last eight years of my life—passing by in a flash, leaving nothing but dust behind. I still remembered the first time I saw Logan. He was standing under the oak trees outside my sophomore dorm, waiting to help his sister, Georgia—my best friend—move out for summer break. He was wearing a sharp linen suit, and when he smiled, a tiny freckle near his temple crinkled. I had fallen for him in a single heartbeat. After our college graduation party, after too many drinks, we crossed a line. It felt like destiny. I immediately joined his startup, starting at the very bottom as a low-paid associate. In the beginning, he said we couldn’t go public because he didn’t want people thinking I got my job through nepotism. So, I waited. Once I earned the title of top account executive purely on merit, he said he was worried it would complicate my friendship with Georgia. So, I waited again. I always believed that eventually, he would give me a place in the light. Until I saw that marriage certificate on Brianna’s feed. That was my wake-up call. It wasn’t that Logan didn’t want to get married. He just didn’t want to marry me. I drove back to the apartment we had shared for the last five years. It would take a few days to finalize my resignation, but I couldn’t spend another night in that space. I dragged my suitcases out of the closet. His designer suits and crisp shirts occupied more than half of the wardrobe. I used to tease him about how rigid his style was, suggesting he wear casual hoodies on weekends. He had always dismissed me, saying a CEO needed to look serious. But now, hanging in the most prominent spot of the closet, were three brand-new streetwear hoodies. He wasn’t incapable of change. He just hadn’t wanted to change for me. I began folding my sweaters into the suitcase. Behind me, the front door clicked open. Logan walked in, his brow furrowing as he took in the open luggage on the bed. “Chelsea, there is literally nothing going on between Brianna and me. Can you please stop this childish behavior?” He walked over, reaching for my hand. “The marriage license was a mistake. I’m going down to city hall this afternoon to file for an annulment. Once we sign the Miles Group contract and things stabilize, we can go public. I promise. Okay?” I opened my mouth to say “we’re done”, but he cut me off, scanning the room. “By the way, where did you put the keys to the Maplewood townhouse?” “In the bottom drawer of the nightstand,” I said, a cold chill settling over me. “Are you selling it to cover the cash flow gap?” He blinked, then laughed off the question. “Why would I sell it? It’s just sitting empty anyway. Brianna’s lease is up, so I told her she could stay there for a bit.” A physical ache bloomed in my chest. He had bought that Maplewood townhouse for my birthday last year, whispering that it would be our future home when we finally got married. And now, he was handing the keys to another woman. Oblivious to the way the color had drained from my face, he continued, “Also, once you finalize the Miles contract, transfer the account to Brianna. Her probationary period is almost up, and this deal will secure her permanent position. Don’t worry, I’ll still credit you for the commission.” Before I could speak, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his posture softened instantly. “Hey… yeah, I’ll text you the address. Just have the movers head straight there…” He walked out of the room while speaking, never once looking back at me. The front door clicked shut. I stood in the middle of our silent apartment and let out a soft, bitter laugh. Eight years of my life, my youth, my absolute devotion—and to him, it was worth less than a girl who had been at the company for twelve weeks. I walked out of the apartment with my suitcase, never looking back. I drove straight to my parents’ house. Ever since I had agreed to marry Henry, my mother hadn’t stopped smiling. She opened the door before I could even ring the bell, immediately taking my bag. “I always knew Henry was the one,” she beamed. “We watched that boy grow up. He’s family, Chelsea. Your father and I can finally rest easy knowing you’re with him.” Henry and I had known each other since we were in diapers. Our mothers were best friends, always joking when we were kids that we’d end up married. If I hadn’t met Logan in college, Henry and I probably would have walked down the aisle years ago. I had always known, deep down, how he felt about me. When Logan’s firm began to drown in debt, I was the one who went to Henry, begging him to throw Logan a lifeline with a massive corporate partnership. Henry had stayed silent for a long time, looking at me with a sadness I didn’t understand then, before finally nodding and agreeing. Remembering that now made me feel incredibly foolish. After dinner, I locked myself in my dad’s study to organize my handover files. My phone buzzed on the mahogany desk. It was a text from Logan: “I’ll be home late. Don’t wait up.” I stared at the screen, then deleted his contact and cleared the chat history. By the time I finished, it was past ten. I lay in my old bed, mindlessly scrolling through my Instagram feed. The very first post was from Brianna, uploaded thirty minutes prior. The background was unmistakable: the living room of the Maplewood townhouse. Logan was there, his arms slung around his friends as they played drinking games. Empty bottles littered the kitchen island. Her caption: “He kept calling me his “sweet little sister” in front of his friends tonight. Does he think I’m too young for him?” The comments were flooded with heart emojis and teasing remarks about how much Logan clearly adored her. I stared at the photo for a long, quiet moment, then closed the app. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even feel angry. The eight years of love I had harbored for him had already burned to ash the moment he let his employees call me a mistress. A text popped up from Henry: “Are you free tomorrow? The bridal boutique called. Your dress is ready for the final fitting. Want to go together?” I typed back: “I’d love to.” The next morning, Henry arrived early. My mother practically pushed me out the door, pressing a box of homemade lemon tarts into his hands. Once we were on the highway, I felt a pang of guilt. “Henry, about the contract with Miles Group… I need you to hold off on signing it with Logan’s firm. I’m moving to a new company, and I want to bring that account with me as my signing leverage.” He glanced at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You could always just come work for me.” “I think it’s best we keep church and state separate,” I teased. When we arrived at the boutique, the consultant welcomed us with a warm smile, holding a breathtaking silk gown. “Mr. Miles insisted we adjust the tailoring three times to make sure the fit was absolutely perfect. You’re going to look stunning, Chelsea.” I stood in front of the three-way mirror in the heavy satin gown, completely breathless. Years ago, whenever Logan and I passed a bridal shop and I lingered at the window, he would pull me away, promising that one day he would hire a world-class designer to make me a one-of-a-kind gown. “Don’t rush me,” he’d say. I waited eight years for that promise, only to end up wearing a masterpiece that Henry had quietly commissioned for me. “Should we take a photo for your family?” Henry asked, stepping up behind me. His voice was soft, his eyes shining in the mirror’s reflection. I nodded and handed my phone to the consultant. “Could you take one of us, please?” Henry’s breath hitched, but then his smile spread wide. He stepped closer, wrapping his arms gently around my waist. The photo was beautiful—the lighting caught the silk of the dress perfectly. I uploaded it to Instagram and Facebook, writing: “Next Saturday at The Crestmont Hotel. We’d love for you to celebrate our wedding with us.” Within seconds, my phone began to vibrate wildly. “Oh my god, is that Henry Miles? Chelsea, since when?!” one former colleague commented. “And some people actually had the nerve to say she was desperate for Logan? Henry is ten times the man Logan will ever be!” As I scrolled through the notifications, Logan’s name flashed across the screen.

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