Category: English

Five years into my marriage with Benson Crawford, my life felt like something suspended in amber—warm, golden, and perfectly preserved. But there was a catch. The invisible Affection Metric, the cosmic progress bar hovering in my mind’s eye, remained stubbornly frozen at 99%. It refused to tip over into absolute completion. With the five-year deadline bearing down on me, I was spiraling. Desperate, I took to an anonymous fiction-writing subreddit. I framed my reality as a plot block, pretending I was an author asking the internet for advice on how to push my protagonists across the finish line. Not long after I hit post, a comment shot to the top of the thread. It read: Why even bother with the ‘mission’? Just write it so the male lead figures out he’s nothing but a target for her survival game, and he stops loving her. The guy funding my life told me his wife is literally one of those ‘system travelers’. He’s known the truth for ages. He’s just playing her for a fool right now. Reading those words felt like someone had cracked a sheet of ice over my spine. The cold seeped directly into my marrow. Below her comment, other users were tearing her apart, calling her unhinged. They accused her of sleeping with a married man and inventing a psychotic, sci-fi justification to sleep at night. She replied, completely unfazed: Believe whatever you want. At the end of the day, his wife only sees him as a means to an end. So what if he plays a little game with her in return? She wasn’t done. I’m his actual soulmate, she wrote. He even hired me as his assistant just so he could look at me all day. This evening, he insisted on cooking dinner for me and accidentally burned his hand. It gave him a nasty blister. I practically cried seeing it. Attached to the reply was a photo. It was a man’s hand, wrapped in white gauze, secured with a very specific, painstakingly neat butterfly knot. The air in my lungs vanished. When Benson had walked through our front door earlier that evening, his hand was wrapped in gauze. And the knot was tied in that exact, identical butterfly. 1. A phantom ache bloomed in my chest, as if a vital organ was being slowly, methodically extracted with tweezers. Beside me, Benson’s breathing was an even, rhythmic hum. I turned my head slightly, letting the pale moonlight map the quiet, peaceful lines of his sleeping face. This was the Benson who would well up with genuine tears if I so much as scraped my knee. The Benson who, after I casually mentioned liking a specific truffle risotto at a charity gala, spent an obscene amount of money to buy the recipe from the chef. Had the last half-decade been nothing but community theater? I rested a trembling hand over my still-flat stomach. My doctor had confirmed the pregnancy just that morning. Our fifth wedding anniversary was five days away. I had wanted a quiet evening, just the two of us, but he had insisted on throwing a lavish gala. “I want to marry you all over again, every five years, for the rest of our lives,” he had whispered into my hair. I had planned to tell him at the gala. It was supposed to be the ultimate surprise. The child we had been praying for, the manifestation of our love, was finally here. But it was all a set-up. The velvet ropes were fake; the stage was hollow. Drawing a shaky breath, I slid out from under the duvet and carefully retrieved his phone from the nightstand. A pathetic, desperate part of me still wanted to be wrong. Maybe, I thought. Maybe it’s just a bizarre, astronomical coincidence. His passcode was my birthday. The screen unlocked with a soft click. I scoured his texts, his emails, his social media. Nothing. The digital landscape of his life was pristine. I was just letting out a ragged sigh of relief when a hidden, encrypted messaging app suddenly pushed a notification to the screen. [I can’t sleep without you. Please don’t play house with that fake wife of yours tomorrow. Come be with me?] I slammed the phone face-down onto the mattress. The world tilted on its axis, dissolving into white noise. Minutes bled into hours before my hands stopped shaking enough to place the phone back on the nightstand. The slight movement stirred Benson. With a sleepy groan, he reached out, hauling my rigid body against his chest. It was the same familiar, enveloping warmth I had craved for years. But tonight, it felt like a crypt. The truth was, my original “mission” was supposed to end the moment we said our vows five years ago. In my previous life, I was an orphan who died in a horrific pile-up on the interstate. I was reborn into this universe as an infant. I had lived over two decades here. My friends, my entire concept of home, and the man I loved—they were all here. When the time came, I couldn’t bear to leave. I begged the cosmic entity that governed my existence—the System—to let me stay. The entity had agreed, striking a chilling bargain: [You may remain in this reality, Host. But you must secure his absolute, unquestioning devotion—a 100% Affection Metric—within five years. Failure to do so will result in your immediate erasure.] I remembered laughing back then, overflowing with naive confidence. “I trust Benson,” I had declared to the void. Sitting in the dark, I opened the Reddit thread on my own phone again. The girl from the comments was still active. [OP, seriously, drop the whole ‘mission’ plotline, she wrote. Write a story where the side chick gets the ring. It’s way hotter. I have a whole blog chronicling my romance with my guy. You can use it for inspiration! I’ll totally buy your book.] Hot, angry tears finally broke over my lashes. With a vibrating finger, I clicked onto her profile. Her most recent post was from today. [My guy cooked for me and burned his hand. My heart hurts for him.] The photo showed the broad, familiar shoulders of a man standing at a stove. He was wearing the bespoke charcoal suit I had picked out for him that morning. A violent wave of nausea hit me. I slapped a hand over my mouth, bolted to the master bathroom, and dropped to my knees, dry-heaving into the porcelain until my throat tasted like copper. It took me a long time to gather the strength to scroll further down her page. [Our six-month anniversary! He dropped three million at an auction for this sapphire. He calls it the Heart of the Ocean.] The picture showcased a breathtaking, deep-blue diamond pendant. Benson had told me that sapphire symbolized eternal devotion. He had promised he was saving it for the right moment to give to me. Instead, it had been resting against another woman’s collarbone. Eternal devotion. God, it was almost funny. [I’m going to be a mom! read a post from last month. He is beside himself. It’s his birthday today, and he said it’s the best present he’s ever gotten.] I sat on the cold bathroom tiles, my blood turning to slush. His birthday was early last month. I had spent six hours baking his favorite cake from scratch and preparing a five-course meal. I had warmed the food, watched it go cold, and warmed it again. He never came home. When I finally called him near midnight, his voice had sounded strained. “Baby, I am so sorry. A crisis blew up at the Seattle office and I had to jump on the jet. Go to sleep without me.” I had felt so bad for him. I had texted him to make sure he drank water and got some rest. He hadn’t been in Seattle. He had been celebrating his new family. I scrolled past dozens of posts, each one a meticulous documentation of their love, each one a surgical strike to my chest. I read until I was completely, blissfully numb. I stopped at her very first post. [My wealthy guy says he’s going to take care of me forever! He told me his wife is just a sociopath using him for some cosmic arrangement, and that I’m his true love!] The date stamp was exactly five years ago. The day of our wedding. My phone slipped from my sweaty palm. It hit the tile with a sharp crack, the screen spider-webbing into a hundred jagged pieces. At that exact moment, the cold, synthesized voice of the System echoed in the hollow of my skull. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 80%. If the metric reaches zero, erasure protocols will commence.] 2. Footsteps thumped frantically against the bedroom floorboards. “Nina! What’s wrong? Nina!” Benson’s voice was tight with panic as he hammered his fists against the bathroom door. Hearing the wood splinter, I reached up and unlocked it. “I’m fine. I just dropped my phone,” I said, my voice eerily flat. Benson’s eyes were bloodshot. He grabbed my wrists, his gaze darting frantically over my body. “Are you hurt? Did the glass cut you?” I slowly pulled my hands out of his grip. “No. It’s late. Let’s go back to sleep.” He bent down, carefully sweeping up the shattered remains of my phone, and popped the SIM card out, holding it between his fingers. “It’s fine. I’ll order you the newest model, it’ll be here by breakfast. We’ll just throw this piece of junk away.” My eyes drifted to the stark white gauze wrapped around his hand. I forced the corners of my mouth to tilt upward. “And what about people, Benson? When people are broken, should we just throw them away too?” His breathing hitched. It was a microscopic pause, but I caught it. Then, seamlessly, his expression melted back into his trademark, doting warmth. He pulled me into his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. “What did the poor phone do to deserve this philosophical anger?” he chuckled softly. “Did you read some depressing article online again? You can’t take it out on me, sweetheart. I’m innocent.” I didn’t argue. I let him guide me back to bed. I laid perfectly still as he tucked the duvet around my shoulders, pressing a tender kiss to my temple. I didn’t close my eyes once. I watched the shadows stretch and fade until the sun broke over the horizon. The next morning, we were sitting in the kitchen, nursing our coffee, when the doorbell chimed. Benson stood up. “That should be the new phone. I’ll grab it.” He opened the heavy oak door. From the kitchen island, I heard a bright, teasing female voice. “Special delivery for Mr. Crawford! Sign here, please.” Benson froze. A quiet hum of adrenaline settled in my veins. I pushed my stool back and walked purposefully down the hallway. Just as I rounded the corner, Benson snatched a brown cardboard box from the girl and slammed the door shut in her face. He moved fast, but not fast enough. I caught a glimpse of her face. It was the girl from the photos. “Were you waiting long?” Benson asked, his voice a pitch higher than usual. He hastily ripped the cardboard packaging apart and kicked it under the console table. “The box is filthy. Go sit down, baby, I’ll set it up for you.” He pulled a phone out of his pocket and snapped a fluffy, obnoxious pink case onto it, presenting it to me like a hard-won trophy. “Look at this! I picked the case out myself.” He pulled his own phone from his slacks. “It’s a matching set. Yours is pink, mine is—” A barrage of notification pings erupted from his pocket, cutting him off. He glanced at the screen, and a sudden, tense energy hijacked his posture. “Nina, finish your breakfast. A fire just started at the firm, I have to go deal with it right now.” As he turned, I reached out and caught the fabric of his suit jacket. “Benson. It’s Saturday.” He blinked, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his eyes. “I know, I know. But it’s the new tech merger. Something broke in the code, I need to be on-site.” His phone buzzed incessantly. He gently but firmly pried my fingers off his jacket. “Look how panicked they are. I really have to go, Nina.” Before I could say another word, he was out the door. The latch clicked shut, echoing in the empty foyer. A sharp, radiating pain spiked through my chest. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 70%.] 3. Ignoring the metallic voice in my head, I walked back to the kitchen and picked up the new phone. I ran my thumb over the fluffy pink case. It was incredibly soft. Almost immediately, an angry red rash flared across the back of my hand. Rabbit fur. I was intensely allergic to rabbit fur. In the past, Benson checked the tags on everything he bought, terrified of triggering my allergies. Furthermore, he hated phone cases. He liked the sleek feel of naked glass and titanium. It didn’t take a genius to figure out whose aesthetic this pink fluff belonged to. I peeled the disgusting thing off the phone and dropped it into the trash can. I logged into my accounts and found her page. It had just been updated. [Matching phone cases with my man. Hehe.] The picture showed a woman’s hand holding a pink rabbit-fur case. The exact same one. I walked into Benson’s home office and pulled up the feeds from our private subterranean garage. It took less than a minute to find them. On the grainy black-and-white monitor, Benson was gently guiding the girl toward his Aston Martin. He placed a protective hand over her slightly rounded stomach. The audio feed picked up his voice, heavy with adoration. “You’re only three months along, Dana. You need to be on bed rest. Who told you it was a good idea to run over here?” Dana swung his arm playfully, pouting. “But the baby and I missed you! Plus, I snagged the delivery guy outside and pretended to be him. Your fake wife didn’t suspect a thing. Aren’t I brilliant?” Benson laughed, a rich, genuine sound I hadn’t heard in months, and ruffled her hair. “You’re brilliant, baby. But never do that again. She can’t find out about us, do you understand?” Dana stomped her foot, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes. “Why not?! She’s just some user on a mission! Why don’t you just divorce her? Aren’t you exhausted from acting all the time?” She narrowed her eyes. “Unless… you actually have feelings for her?” Benson went rigid. He didn’t answer. Dana ripped her arm out of his grasp, sobbing theatrically. “What about me? What about our baby? I thought I was your true love! Was that a lie?” Benson panicked, wrapping his arms securely around her waist. “Don’t get worked up, it’s bad for the baby! Of course I love you. You are my entire world.” “Then promise you’ll stay with me for the next few days. You are not allowed to go back to her!” Benson cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away her tears. His voice was devastatingly soft. “I promise.” I stared dead-eyed at the monitor. The marrow in my bones felt like it had turned to lead. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 50%.] My stomach violently rebelled. I barely made it to the powder room before throwing up my morning coffee. When I finally lifted my head to look in the mirror, my eyes were bloodshot and hollow. I looked pathetic. I looked like a joke. I took a breath, splashed freezing water on my face, and picked up my new phone. I dialed a number and scheduled a surgical abortion for two o’clock that afternoon. Just as they were wheeling me toward the operating room, my phone buzzed. A text from Benson. [The merger is a total disaster. I’m going to have to stay at the hotel for the next few days to sort this out. I’ll see you at the anniversary gala, sweetheart.] I opened my camera roll, selected the screenshot I had taken of the garage security footage—the one of him caressing Dana’s stomach—and sent it to him. [Is the disaster the merger? Or your mistress?] I handed my phone to the nurse, closed my eyes, and let the anesthesia pull me under. 4. The drugs were a mercy. The suffocating tension that had gripped my chest since last night finally dissolved. I slept deeply and dreamlessly on the cold operating table. When I woke up in the recovery room, my hand instinctually drifted to my stomach. There was only a dull, hollow ache. The life inside was gone. The pillow beneath my head was damp. I touched my face; I was crying silently. I asked the nurse for my phone. My text to Benson remained marked as “Read,” but there was no reply. I dialed his number. It rang for an agonizingly long time before the line clicked open. I heard him clear his throat. When he spoke, his voice was thick, like he had just woken up. “Hey, Nina. What’s wrong?” [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 30%.] I swallowed the sharp glass in my throat. “Did you not see the message I sent you?” He sounded genuinely perplexed. “Message? No, my phone’s been quiet. What did you send?” I pulled the phone away from my ear, switching over to Dana’s blog on Safari. [Caught my man’s wife trying to cause drama. She sent him a text while he was in the shower, so I deleted it.] [She’s just a fraud on a mission. Who does she think she is, stressing him out like that?] I exhaled a long, shaky breath and brought the phone back to my ear. “It’s nothing. I must have forgotten to hit send. I just wanted to remind you to come home early.” I could practically hear the tension leave his shoulders. He let out a light laugh. “You scared me. I know I’ve been absent lately, baby, and I am so sorry. I promise I will make it up to you at the gala.” “Okay,” I whispered, and hung up. Lying alone in the sterile, fluorescent-lit room, my mind drifted back to the day he proposed. We were on a rooftop overlooking the bay. His hands had been shaking so violently he could barely get the ring out of the velvet box. Our friends had laughed at him, and he had shouted back, completely unashamed, “You idiots don’t understand, you don’t have a woman like this!” Then he had dropped to one knee, looking up at me with a gaze so fiercely sincere it burned. “Nina Gallagher, I swear to God, I will spend the rest of my life proving I am worthy of you.” He meant it. Back then, the vow was real. But people change. Vows rot. If I hadn’t posted on that forum… I would have walked into that gala blind. I would have kept loving him, kept trusting him, ready to lay my life down for a ghost. But there are no “what ifs” in this world. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 20%.] I closed my eyes. I called my lawyer, instructed her to draft the divorce papers, and forwarded her a zip file containing every piece of evidence of Benson’s infidelity. Five days later. The Anniversary Gala. The ballroom was a sea of silk, champagne, and flashing cameras. Benson held my hand in a vice grip, beaming at the crowd as they showered us with congratulations. His smile grew more radiant with every passing minute. As we navigated the room, my eyes locked onto a familiar face. Dana. She was wearing a stunning emerald gown, weaving through the elite crowd with practiced ease. She caught my eye, gave me a triumphant smirk, and sauntered directly over to us. Benson’s grip on my fingers tightened painfully. The smile froze on his face. Dana plucked a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and winked playfully at Benson. “Here’s to the happy couple. May you have… everything you deserve.” Benson snatched the crystal glass from her hand, his voice a frantic hiss. “You’re pregnant, you can’t drink.” Dana pouted, her voice dripping with venomous innocence. “Well, the baby’s father won’t even claim him in public. If I lose it, I guess nobody would care anyway.” Without waiting for Benson to formulate a response, she turned on her heel and sashayed toward the back terrace. Benson shot me a panicked, apologetic look. “She’s one of the new junior assistants. Doesn’t know how to act in these settings. Excuse me.” I gave him a placid nod. He was sweating. He waited a few agonizing seconds before dropping my hand and muttering something about a catering issue. I stood perfectly still and watched my husband sprint across the ballroom, chasing after his pregnant mistress. The sudden spectacle caught the attention of the surrounding guests. Whispers rippled through the crowd. I smiled calmly, walked up to the podium, and tapped the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” my voice rang out, clear and steady, cutting through the jazz band. “I know these events can get a bit tedious. So, I thought I’d provide some evening entertainment.” I gave a subtle nod to the AV technician at the back of the room. The massive digital projector behind me flared to life. It bypassed the slideshow of our wedding photos and tapped directly into the live feed of the terrace security cameras. The ballroom went dead silent. On the twenty-foot screen, Benson was clutching Dana to his chest, stroking her hair desperately. “Dana, please, stop crying. It’s bad for the baby.” Her shrill, tearful voice echoed through the high-end surround sound speakers. “You keep talking about the baby! What does it matter if he’s yours? You’re still married to Nina! My son is going to be a bastard!” Benson’s face on the screen twisted in agony. “What do you want me to do?” Dana wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her body against his. “When he’s born… we’ll tell Nina he’s adopted. We’ll make her raise him. That way, we can still have our time together, just the two of us. Okay?” Benson hesitated for three agonizing seconds. Then, he nodded. A collective, horrified gasp ripped through the ballroom. Glasses shattered against the marble floor. [Warning. Affection Metric has dropped to 10%.] I stepped away from the podium. I signaled the technician to transition the screen from the live feed to the meticulously organized slides of Benson’s bank transfers, hotel receipts, and the ultrasound photos. I walked over to Ellis, Benson’s fiercely loyal executive assistant, who was staring at the screen with his mouth open. I pressed a thick manila envelope into his chest. It contained the signed divorce papers and the medical records of my abortion. Ignoring the cacophony of shouting reporters and scandalized socialites, I walked out the front doors, hailed a black car, and gave the driver the address to a scenic cemetery overlooking the bay. I had purchased the plot three days ago. I found the smooth granite bench near my designated plot and lay down. The late afternoon sun was surprisingly warm, bathing my face in golden light. Inside my mind, the System’s alarms were blaring, a deafening, frantic siren. [Affection Metric at 5%. 4%. 3%. 2%. 1%.] [Zero.]

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My mother-in-law, Beatrice, burst into my room without knocking, her voice shrill with anxiety. She wanted to know why David wasn’t back yet. We were supposed to leave for the airport in two hours. I silently tapped the power button on my phone, the screen going black as my heart turned to stone. She didn’t know. David was never coming back for us. In fact, he didn’t even intend for us to make it out of this city alive. It started as a family vacation—a luxury getaway that turned into a nightmare when the civil unrest flared into a full-scale coup. We were trapped. I had spent days on the phone, pulling every string I had and paying four times the standard rate to secure two tickets back to the States. The night before we were supposed to fly, David sent me a text saying he was heading to the U.S. Consulate to “check on the evacuation protocols.” He told me and his mother to stay in the hotel and not to move. Three hours later, the city was placed under total martial law. The airport was shuttered. I called him frantically, but every call went straight to a dead-air disconnect. It wasn’t until I managed to bypass the hotel’s throttled Wi-Fi and log into the airline’s booking system that the floor fell out from under me. David hadn’t disappeared. He had rebooked his flight. He had left on an emergency charter hours ago. But the part that felt like a jagged blade in my gut? The person sitting in the seat next to him wasn’t me. It was Jennifer, our “local guide” for the trip—the woman who had been hovering around him since the day we landed. [1] I had sent David over a dozen messages. Every single one of them sat on “Delivered” with no “Read” receipt. It had been four hours since he last made contact. In our room, the half-packed suitcases lay open like wounds. Clothes were scattered everywhere. He had left in such a rush that he hadn’t even taken his spare shirts or slacks. The only thing missing was that cheap, linen travel jacket Jennifer had picked out for him at the bazaar during our first week. And his passport. He had reached into the hidden compartment of my carry-on and taken his, leaving mine and his mother’s behind. I forced my hands to stop shaking and called the airline’s international desk. After a grueling ten minutes on hold, a woman with a clipped, professional accent answered. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Clifford,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “But the reservations for yourself and Mrs. Beatrice Clifford were canceled yesterday afternoon at the request of the primary account holder.” Yesterday. He had planned this before the city even fell. Outside, the first sounds of artillery thundered in the distance. My husband of five years had chosen to save his mistress and leave me to rot in a war zone. “Andrea!” Beatrice’s sharp voice cut through my thoughts. “What is taking you so long? David is out there risking his life at the Consulate while you’re sitting here in the AC acting like a princess!” I didn’t explain. I just reached down and zipped the suitcases shut. A notification popped up on my phone—an emergency alert from the State Department: [URGENT: Total lockdown in effect. All transport hubs closed. U.S. citizens are advised to shelter in place. Evacuation efforts are suspended until further notice.] Beatrice glanced at the screen, scoffing as she swiped the notification away. “They always overreact. It’s just a little protest. Can they actually focus on getting us home instead of sending annoying texts?” She took a sip of bottled water and looked at me expectantly. “Any word from David?” “Don’t wait up,” I said, my voice eerily calm as I started searching for private security contacts. “He’s not going to text.” “What on earth are you talking about?” She paused, then waved a dismissive hand. “He’s probably just busy with the diplomats. High-level negotiations take time.” I walked to the window and pulled the heavy curtain back just an inch. Concrete barricades had been erected at the end of the block. An armored vehicle rumbled past, its treads grinding over debris with a sickening, metallic crunch. A man trying to flee with a suitcase was intercepted by soldiers in mismatched fatigues; they shoved him back toward the alleyways at gunpoint. The wind carried the scent of cordite and burning rubber, stinging my eyes. David was likely at thirty thousand feet by now, sipping bourbon in a pressurized cabin. Jennifer would be leaning her head on his shoulder. I looked at Beatrice—arrogant, demanding, and utterly clueless—and said nothing. I waited until 2:00 AM. That’s when the text finally arrived from David: [Just got a lead at the Consulate. Looks like I’ll be tied up in negotiations for a while. You and Mom get some sleep. Don’t wait for me.] I did the math. Nine hours had passed since he left. He had landed. He was safe on American soil, probably walking through a quiet, suburban airport. I thought for a moment, then typed back: [Understood.] Then, I screenshotted the exchange and forwarded it to my attorney back in Seattle. [2] By the second day, the hotel’s room service had ceased to exist. Beatrice scoured the kitchenette and slammed two stale packs of crackers onto the table. “This is it? Why didn’t you stock up on food, Andrea? You’re so useless!” If David hadn’t canceled our tickets, we would have been eating a home-cooked meal in our own kitchen by now. We wouldn’t have needed to “stock up.” “You don’t have a brain in your head,” she hissed. “The minute David isn’t here to hold your hand, you just sit around waiting to starve. I don’t know why my son married such a pathetic woman.” I ignored her. I was on a localized messaging app for expats. Someone posted a location for a grocery store on the west side that was still open, but it required crossing three checkpoints. You needed a pass. I contacted a few local fixers. Most were dark. One offered a car for three thousand dollars, with no guarantee we’d make it past the first block. Beatrice leaned over my shoulder. “Three thousand? That’s highway robbery! Don’t you dare spend David’s hard-earned money on that.” “Then I guess we wait for David’s ‘updates’ from the Consulate,” I replied. “Wait?” Beatrice shrieked. “Are you trying to starve me to death?” She grabbed her phone and dialed David. The second he picked up, she launched into a litany of complaints. “Caleb—I mean, David, honey! Your wife won’t even find me a decent meal. I’m an old woman, I shouldn’t be suffering like this! When are you coming to get me?” Through the speaker, I heard a muffled, chaotic background noise before David’s voice came through, low and guarded. “Mom, the city is locked down. I can’t get back to the hotel right now. Just stay put. Don’t go outside.” “But where are you? Is there a bed for me at the Consulate?” There was a long silence on the other end. Finally, David stammered, “Don’t worry about me. They’ve got us in a… temporary holding area. It’s fine. I’m safe.” Beatrice hung up and glared at me. “You hear that? David is out there in the trenches, probably sleeping on a cot, and you’re complaining about hotel food. You’re a disgrace.” I didn’t argue. He was in a house in the suburbs, yet he was telling his mother he was in a refugee camp. It was a lie so flimsy a child could see through it. Did she really not hear the lack of sirens in his background? The lack of gunfire? For dinner, we each had a pack of crackers softened with lukewarm water from the kettle. Beatrice took one bite and spat it out. “Disgusting! It’s like eating cardboard. My bridge is going to break!” She stormed into her bedroom, cursing under her breath. I picked up the discarded crackers and finished them. In a situation like this, pride is a luxury that gets you killed. Calories are the only thing that matters. It wasn’t until midnight that I heard movement in Beatrice’s room. I thought she was hungry and was about to check on her when I heard her voice, hushed but ecstatic. “I’m so glad you made it back safely.” A pause. “How is Jennifer? Is she okay? She needs to be careful, being pregnant and all. She shouldn’t be overexerting herself.” The name. The pregnancy. The truth hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. He had a child on the way. He had been living a double life for months, maybe years. My blood turned to ice. My fingertips went numb against the doorframe. Beatrice’s voice drifted through the wood again, colder this time. “Don’t worry about Andrea. I’m keeping an eye on her. She hasn’t suspected a thing.” “About the insurance… don’t be in such a rush. With the way things are out there, I just need to find a reason to get her to leave the room. There are bombs everywhere, David. If she gets caught in the crossfire, the payout is automatic. We won’t even have to get our hands dirty.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. But the sting in my palms was nothing compared to the hole in my chest. Five years of marriage, incinerated in a single conversation. If they wanted me dead for a paycheck, fine. But they were about to learn that I wasn’t the victim they thought I was. [3] By using the last of my liquid cash to buy supplies from the expat group, I managed to keep us alive for three days. But when I tried to make another transfer, the screen flashed: Insufficient Funds. I thought it was a network error. I opened my banking app, my heart hammering. Every cent was gone. The joint savings, the emergency fund—all of it had been transferred to an account labeled WY Holdings. The transfer date? The night before David left. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. When we got married, David insisted I quit my job in international logistics. He wanted me to be a “traditional” wife, to take care of his mother and focus on starting a family. I had no salary, but I had my rental income from a condo I’d bought before the wedding. I’d used that money to pay our mortgage and tucked the rest into our joint account. Now, I couldn’t even afford a loaf of bread. The sun filtered through the curtains, but I felt no warmth. My phone buzzed. David. I hit the record button before answering. “David? How are things? Are you and Mom okay?” I didn’t bother with the pleasantries. “Where is the money, David?” The line went silent for a beat. “What money?” “The eighty thousand dollars. Transferred to Jennifer’s holding account.” The air in the room seemed to vanish. He hadn’t expected me to find out so soon. When he spoke again, his voice was forcedly soft. “Annie, listen. Things are crazy right now. I had Jennifer move that to offshore accounts so we could convert it to cash. The banks here are crashing. I did it to make sure you and Mom have a way out!” I wasn’t in the mood for his scripts. “Where is she?” “She’s home! She got back days ago,” he said quickly. “Her family has connections. She got a priority seat.” “Is she standing next to you right now?” The line went dead. I didn’t call back. I saved the recording and sent it to my lawyer. Beatrice emerged from the bathroom, clutching her chest. Her face was pasty. “Andrea… my chest feels tight.” She had a heart condition. Between the stress and the lack of decent food, her health was cratering. I searched the luggage. Her nitroglycerin was down to two pills. “Andrea… give them to me…” I handed her the bottle. “This is it. There are only two left.” Her hands shook as she popped them into her mouth. She collapsed onto the sofa, eyes closed. After a few minutes, she opened them and snapped, “You need to go out and find a pharmacy. What if I have another attack tonight?” I looked at her. Really looked at her. “The city is under a strict curfew, Beatrice.” “So?” she barked. “I’m your mother-in-law! Are you just going to sit there and watch me die?” I knew what she was doing. She wanted me to step outside into the line of fire. “If I go out there and get hit by a stray bullet,” I said evenly, “you’ll be stuck in this room alone. And you will die.” That shut her up. Her lips trembled, but she couldn’t find a comeback. Around 3:00 PM, she demanded water. I poured her half a glass of lukewarm bottled water. She took a sip and spat it onto the carpet. “It’s cold! Why isn’t the kettle on?” “The power is out. The heater is dead.” “Then fix it! Call the front desk!” She slammed the glass onto the table, her face contorting. “I know what you’re doing, Andrea. I see you on that phone all day, flirting with those men in your ‘help groups.’ You want me dead so you can run off with some stranger and leave my son!” I said nothing. “David should have never married a low-class girl like you! You have no shame!” She worked herself into a frenzy, standing up to point a finger at me, her face turning a deep, dangerous purple. “I’m telling him the second we get back. He’s divorcing you. You won’t get a single penny of his money!” Mid-sentence, she gasped. She clutched her sternum and crumpled to the floor. I rushed to her, but her lips were already turning blue. She couldn’t speak. The pill bottle was empty. She gripped my sleeve, her eyes shifting from malice to sheer, primal terror. I lowered her gently to the floor. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “Your son wants you dead. I don’t.” Hating her was one thing. Letting her blood be on my hands was another. [4] It took ten minutes of focused CPR before her breathing stabilized. After that, she went quiet. She stopped badgering me to go outside. She rarely even picked up the phone to call David. And finally, I had my opening. I logged into an encrypted email account I hadn’t touched in five years. I sent a single message with my GPS coordinates. Three minutes later, my phone rang. A voice I hadn’t heard in years spoke: “Ms. Clifford? We have your location.” I gave him the hotel details. The response was immediate. “You’ve been moved to the highest priority extraction list. Assets are being diverted now. We’re bringing you home.” I hung up and stood by the window, watching the gray smoke settle over the skyline. David knew me as a former “corporate admin.” He had never bothered to ask what I actually did before I met him. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Before I left, I had one last move to make. At dawn, I knocked on Beatrice’s door. “Mom, I’m going out to find a pharmacy. Stay here and rest.” She looked at me, startled. She started to say something, then stopped. I saw the guilt flicker in her eyes for a split second—the thought of that insurance payout vs. the woman who had just saved her life. She didn’t stop me. I walked out the door. Artillery fire lit up the horizon like a gruesome sunrise. I didn’t return that night. Late into the evening, the lock on the hotel room clicked. Beatrice sat up, expecting me. Instead, three men in tactical gear entered the room. The leader flashed a badge. “Mrs. Beatrice Clifford? We’re with the U.S. Consulate. We’re here to evacuate you.” Beatrice was stunned. It took her a moment to find her voice. “When are we leaving?” “Now. We have a secure transport to the airfield. A private charter is waiting.” Tears flooded her eyes. she scrambled out of bed, but then she paused. “Wait… my daughter-in-law. She went out to get me medicine. We can’t leave without Andrea.” The man went silent for a moment, then shook his head solemnly. “Ma’am, the streets are a war zone. If she’s been out there all day… there’s no way she survived.” He checked his watch. “The window is closing. We have to go. If we hear anything about her, we’ll coordinate a search, but you need to move now.” Beatrice hesitated for maybe three seconds. Then, she grabbed her purse and followed them. Twenty-four hours later, the plane touched down in Seattle. David was waiting at the arrivals gate. He was wearing a brand-new cashmere overcoat, looking refreshed and successful. Jennifer was clinging to his arm, her hand resting on a barely-there baby bump. She wore oversized sunglasses, but she couldn’t hide the smug curve of her lips. “Mom!” David rushed forward, his eyes darting behind Beatrice. “You’re… you’re alone?” Beatrice nodded, her eyes red-rimmed. David froze. Then, a slow, electric excitement transformed his face. His voice dropped to a trembling whisper. “Where’s Andrea? Did she… did she not make it?” Beatrice didn’t answer. David’s eyes lit up. He looked back at Jennifer, and they exchanged a look of pure, predatory triumph. “Mom,” David whispered, leaning in. “I’m the sole beneficiary on her policy. If she died over there, that’s three million dollars. We’re set for life.” Jennifer patted her stomach and giggled. That’s when a voice drifted from behind them. “I’m not dead, David. Are you disappointed?”

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Fifteen years of bleeding and clawing my way through the underground emerald trade of the Muzo Valley had turned the business into marrow in my bones. Tonight was like any other. I was heading to an exclusive, invite-only underground auction to cherry-pick the finest rough stones. The rules in this lawless stretch of the Colombian jungle were unique: emeralds were the front, but in the shadows, “special commodities” occasionally found their way onto the auction block. Just as I turned the corner toward the holding pens, a girl curled in the grime of the corner suddenly lifted her head. She was a canvas of bruises and lacerations. Her eyes, hollowed out by a profound, agonizing despair, locked onto mine. It was a silent scream for help. I was about to look away when, without a shred of warning, lines of bizarre, glowing text began scrolling across my field of vision like a phantom ticker tape. [That’s the Davenport family’s discarded adopted daughter, Dawn!] [The biological heiress framed her, and her own brother personally threw her into this hellhole to be tortured.] [Word is, electrocution and whippings are just her daily routine. Next up, she’s going to be stripped naked and auctioned off to the highest bidder.] [The sickest part? The biological sister and the brother are in the VIP lounge right now, waiting to watch her hit rock bottom.] In the valley, curiosity kills you faster than a bullet. I forced down the strange twist in my gut, turning on my heel to leave this mess behind. But then, the phantom text refreshed. The new line made my blood run cold and froze my boots to the concrete. [Look! This emerald boss is actually Dawn’s real biological mother!] 1. My heart seized in my chest. The words hovering in the damp air struck me like physical blows. I did have a missing daughter. I had been tearing the world apart looking for her for fifteen long years. But this was the Muzo underground. Scams and traps were woven into the very air we breathed. I pulled my gaze away, my face an impenetrable mask as I weighed a raw emerald in my palm. I looked over at Hector, the syndicate lieutenant running tonight’s floor. “Color’s decent. Hector, you got any fresh inventory in the back?” Yet, from the corner of my eye, my gaze swept over the shivering girl again. The way her body was curled in upon itself, the specific, brutal distribution of her wounds… you couldn’t fake that. Hector offered a greasy, knowing smile. “Sure do. Just got a new batch in. If Ashley wants a look, be my guest.” The glowing text scrolled past my eyes again: [The boss lady is hesitating! Is she thinking about her own kid?] Feigning casual interest in the merchandise, I walked slowly over to the girl and crouched down. She was vibrating with terror, her eyes wide with the hyper-vigilance of a cornered animal. I noticed the red, swollen joints of her fingers, the dark grime packed beneath her torn fingernails. Those were the desperate, clawing marks of someone who had spent days struggling against heavy bindings. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “What’s your name? Where are you from?” Her lips were cracked and bleeding. Her voice was barely the hum of a dying moth. “Dawn… from New York…” “Who sent you here?” Tears spilled over her filthy cheeks, cutting pale tracks through the dirt. “Declan… my brother… no. Declan Davenport.” The text flickered: [The real daughter, Bianca, pushed herself down the stairs and framed Dawn, then claimed Dawn hired men to assault her.] [Declan bought it entirely. Sent her down to the cartel to “learn a lesson.” Said he’d only bring her back when she was broken and obedient…] Her trembling violently intensified, her mind clearly flashing back to the horrors she’d endured. I didn’t press her for more. I just stood up. That was enough. The details she gave matched the bizarre, ghostly text perfectly. It was enough to solidify one terrifying, undeniable truth in my mind. This wasn’t a setup. This broken girl was, in all likelihood, the child I had bled for fifteen years to find. I walked back to Hector, my spine steel. “That girl. I’m taking her.” Hector’s greasy smile vanished, replaced by a grimace. “Ashley, come on. You know I can’t do that.” “The Davenport heir paid top dollar. Gave explicit instructions to roll out the red carpet of misery for her. Told us to keep her breathing, but just barely.” I reached into my pocket and slammed an unpolished emerald onto a nearby crate. “This stone is enough to buy her ten times over.” Hector’s eyes locked onto the gem. I saw his Adam’s apple bob, the greed flashing hot and bright, but he ultimately shook his head. “Ashley, this ain’t about the cash.” “The Davenports have massive pull back in the States. If I let her walk, Declan Davenport comes down on my head, and I can’t afford that kind of heat.” I stared him down, the temperature in my eyes dropping to zero. “Hector, I’ve been running the Muzo Valley for fifteen years. When have I ever shortchanged you?” He offered a bitter, tight-lipped smile. “Don’t put me in this position, Val. The auction is starting in twenty minutes, and the Davenports are waiting in the skybox.” “Declan was clear. She goes on the block. He wants to watch her break.” I clenched my fists so hard my manicured nails broke the skin of my palms. Hector turned to leave. I shot my hand out, gripping his forearm like a vice. “And if I take her anyway?” His expression darkened into something lethal. “You know the rules down here, Val.” “You take her by force, you declare war on us.” 2. I released his arm, smoothing my expression into terrifying calm. “Here’s how this works. You hand her over to me, and I’ll handle Declan Davenport. He comes looking for blood, he comes to my door. I’ll carry the weight.” Hector hesitated. “Ashley, can you? The Davenport empire back in New York is—” I let out a low, dark laugh. The sound scraped against the concrete walls. “I’ve been in the jungle for fifteen years. I have blood on my hands and I’ve pulled people from the edge of the machete. I don’t care how big the Davenports are. Do you really think their manicured hands can reach all the way down into my valley?” He still shook his head, stubborn and afraid. “No. You don’t get it. Declan’s orders are absolute. Please, Ashley, just walk away.” I didn’t waste another breath. I turned my back on him and walked straight toward the holding cell. The text was scrolling frantically now: [Dawn has been locked up for seven days. Electrocuted three times. Whipped every single day.] [She’s nothing but open wounds. She’s going to die if this keeps up.] [Declan has no idea what the Colombian underworld actually is. He thought it was just a time-out in a dirty room.] I pulled out my satellite phone and hit speed dial. Minutes later, five of my personal enforcers stepped out of the shadows. I walked straight into the cell. Dawn shrank into the corner, staring at me with hollow, uncomprehending eyes. I knelt down and gently examined the damage. Up close, it was a nightmare. Her back was a crosshatch of whip marks, some of the deeper lacerations turning necrotic. Her slender arms were dotted with the unmistakable, perfectly circular burns of a cattle prod, new burns layered over blistering old ones. “Can you walk?” I asked softly. She nodded, fighting to push herself up. Her legs buckled instantly. I caught her waist, hauling her up against me. I looked at Dane, my lead enforcer. “We’re taking her.” The moment we stepped out of the holding area, the corridor was flooded with a sea of armed men. Hector stood at the front, his face like thunder. “Ashley, what the hell is this? You’re hijacking my merchandise on my turf?” I stepped in front of Dawn, shielding her broken body with my own. “Hector, I told you. This girl is mine. You’ll get every cent you’re owed.” Hector laughed, a dry, dead sound. “Money? The Davenports aren’t paying me a one-off fee, Val. They offered us a permanent, sanitized smuggling pipeline into the States. You’re one woman. How are you going to outbid a dynasty?” Dane drew his Glock. The metallic shhhk echoed loudly. Instantly, Hector’s men raised their assault rifles. A Mexican standoff in a humid, blood-stained hallway. Hector casually lit a cigarette, the flare illuminating his cold eyes. “Ashley, out of respect for our shared history, I’m giving you one last out. Put the girl down and walk away.” “The auction starts in five minutes. The Davenports are watching. If you walk out with her, I’m a dead man, which means I have to kill you first.” I held his gaze, unblinking. “And if I say she leaves with me, no matter what?” His smile vanished. “Then don’t blame me for what happens next.” Beside me, Dane murmured, his voice tight. “Boss, we’re outnumbered six to one.” The glowing text in my vision began to panic: [Oh my god! Ashley only has five guys, Hector has at least thirty!] [Declan and Bianca realized Dawn hasn’t been brought out yet—they’re coming down! They’re already at the door!!!] As if cued by the text, the heavy sound of footsteps echoed behind us. The sharp, measured click of expensive leather oxfords against concrete. A group rounded the corner of the corridor. Leading the pack was a young man. Impeccably tailored Tom Ford suit, cold, aristocratic features, and eyes that surveyed the grime around him with an air of absolute, god-like disdain. Clinging to his arm was a girl in a pristine white designer dress. Her makeup was flawless, but the way her eyes darted toward Dawn was laced with a raw, unfiltered malice. The text flashed: [Here they come! Declan and Bianca!] [Bianca plays the innocent angel so well. Anyone else would think she came here to rescue her dear sister.] Declan’s icy gaze swept over the standoff, lingering on me for a second before his brow furrowed in annoyance. He turned to Hector, his tone laced with impatient authority. “Hector. Why is our ‘cargo’ still down here? The auction is supposed to be underway.” 3. Hector immediately stepped forward, his aggressive posture melting into a sycophantic hustle. “Mr. Davenport, sir. Didn’t expect you down here. Just a minor misunderstanding, I’ll have it cleared up in a second.” Declan’s eyes slid back to me, then drifted to the trembling girl pressed behind my back. He looked at her the way one might look at a defective piece of machinery. “Who is this?” he asked Hector, gesturing to me. “Ashley. She runs a large cut of the emerald trade down here,” Hector rushed to explain. “Ashley, this is Declan Davenport, heir to the Davenport dynasty in New York.” Declan finally looked me in the eye. He looked me up and down, a faint sneer playing on his lips. “An emerald dealer? Running things in the jungle?” I didn’t take the bait. Instead, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the rough stone, and held it flat on my palm. Under the flickering fluorescent lights, the stone was a miracle. Translucent, a flawless, hypnotic green. An Imperial Muzo Drop—the kind of stone that started wars. “Mr. Davenport. Word is you came down here looking for premium supply.” I held the emerald a fraction closer. “This is an Imperial Green. Market value is a clean eight million.” “I am trading it for the girl.” Declan’s eyes locked onto the stone for a fraction of a second. I saw the tremor of absolute avarice in his pupils. Anyone with a brain knew a stone like this was a once-in-a-lifetime find. But he quickly masked it, his voice returning to its flat, arrogant drawl. “Generous offer, Ashley. But the Davenport empire isn’t exactly hurting for cash.” I pocketed the stone, keeping my chin level. “Then what are you hurting for, Declan? New veins? Shipping routes?” “Or maybe the right friends in the valley?” “You might play God in Manhattan, but down here, there are doors money simply cannot open.” Declan narrowed his eyes, reassessing me. From behind him, Bianca poked her head out, her voice shrill and grating. “Declan, don’t listen to her! She’s probably working with Dawn!” I ignored the girl entirely, keeping my eyes locked on the brother. “You threw her into a cartel meat grinder to teach her a lesson. Fine.” “But now you have a buyer offering premium value to take the problem off your hands. You keep your pride, you keep your hands clean. Why refuse?” Declan fell silent, the gears turning behind his cold eyes. But Hector interjected, his face tight. “Ashley, it’s not about disrespecting you.” “Mr. Davenport isn’t offering cash. He’s offering a permanent, frictionless shipping route.” “If I break his deal, who in this valley will ever trust my word again?” I turned my head, my voice eerily calm. “Hector. Fifteen years I’ve run in this jungle. Have I ever let you drown?” “That sweet little border route you use to move weight into the US? Who do you think paved that for you?” Hector’s color drained. I took a step forward. “Think very carefully about your next move. The Davenports are offering you money. If you lose money, you can make more.” “But if the ledgers I hold on you ever see the light of day, you won’t live long enough to spend a dime of it.” His eyes darted away, terrified to meet my gaze. Declan’s brow furrowed, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you threatening my associate, Ashley?” I turned back to him, perfectly composed. “You’re mistaken, Mr. Davenport. I’m negotiating.” “You can blot out the sun in New York, but this is my valley.” “One phone call from me, and your precious new cargo routes will be frozen at the border for a decade. Do you want to test me?” Declan’s face darkened into a mask of pure fury. He stared at me, his eyes like broken glass. “You are threatening me.” “It’s not a threat,” I said, leaning in. “It’s a promise.” “You want to treat her like a piece of meat to be humiliated, then I’m treating this like a business transaction.” “You don’t sell, I take. You call your private armies from the States, I make sure you don’t survive the trip back to the tarmac.” “A dragon from the city doesn’t mess with the snake in the grass. And frankly, Declan, you’re not much of a dragon.” The corridor fell into a breathless, heavy silence. Bianca couldn’t take it anymore. She practically shrieked, her perfect facade cracking. “Who the hell do you think you are?! How dare you speak to my brother like that!” She pointed a manicured, trembling finger at me. “Declan! Look at her! She’s obviously in on it with Dawn! Have these men arrest her!” Declan raised a hand, silencing her instantly. He looked at me, a mirthless smile touching his lips. “You’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that.” “But,” he continued, his tone shifting into something cruel, “all this grandstanding is just to protect the girl.” “Do you even know her? Do you have any idea what she’s capable of?” I stared at him, biting off every single word. “Do you?” Declan blinked, thrown off balance. I took a slow, deliberate breath. “You say she hurt Bianca. Where’s the police report? Where’s the footage?” “You say she stole. Where’s the fenced merchandise? You say she plotted a hit. Where’s the motive?” “Bianca cries wolf, and you instantly load the gun.” “Did you hire an investigator? Did you sit Dawn down and ask her? Did you give her a single, solitary second to defend herself?” Declan’s face went rigid. “Davenport family matters are none of your concern, you underground thug.” I laughed, a sharp, biting sound that echoed off the walls. “For a ruthless Manhattan CEO, you’re embarrassingly naive.” “You run a billion-dollar empire based on hearsay and the tears of a teenager?” “I’m not concerning myself with your family. I’m pointing out that you are a fool.” 4. Bianca shrieked, “Are you suicidal?! You dare call my brother a fool?!” I snapped my head toward her, my eyes blazing. “Shut your mouth.” Bianca gasped, her eyes going wide, entirely unaccustomed to being spoken to like a dog. I ignored her, locking back onto Declan. “You call her the ‘fake’ daughter. You say she’s adopted. So you think she deserves to be tortured.” “You say she hurt Bianca, so she deserves to be thrown into a cartel dungeon. You say she’s a criminal, so she deserves to be stripped naked and sold.” “Let me ask you something, Declan. If it were Bianca strapped to that wall right now, covered in burn marks, would you still be standing here negotiating?” Declan’s pupils contracted violently. Bianca started screaming again. “What are you talking about! I’m the true Davenport heiress!” “She’s a stray! A parasite from nowhere!” “She deserves this! She deserves to be sold to the filthiest corner of the earth!” “Bianca!” Declan barked, his voice cracking like a whip. The scrolling text exploded: [Bianca is losing it! The mask is slipping!] [Declan’s face is completely white. Is he finally putting two and two together?] Declan stared at me, a profound, chaotic storm brewing in his eyes. He was silent for a long time. So long that the damp air in the corridor felt like it was solidifying. When he finally spoke, his voice was a raspy whisper. “What exactly is it that you want?” I didn’t answer with words. I reached behind me, grabbed the collar of Dawn’s ruined, blood-soaked shirt, and ripped it open. Dawn let out a small, terrified gasp, but she didn’t pull away. The hideous, rotting canvas of her flesh was bathed in the harsh fluorescent light. Lacerations overlapping like a twisted grid. Deep purple bruising. But worst of all were the burns—the charred, blistered craters from the cattle prods dug deep into the delicate skin just below her collarbone. I turned her slightly, forcing Declan to look at exactly what he had authorized. “Mr. Davenport. Is this what you call ‘learning a lesson’?” Declan flinched, a visceral, physical recoil. Raw shock bled through his aristocratic mask. Bianca’s face drained of color, but she rallied instantly. “Declan, these jungle thugs just don’t understand restraint, they just went a little too far—” “Shut up.” Declan’s voice was lethal, hollowed out. “Bianca, what is this?” Bianca’s lips trembled. “Declan… I…” I didn’t give her an inch to breathe. I drove the knife in. “Declan Davenport. You sit in your penthouse on Fifth Avenue. Do you have any idea what it feels like when a leather whip splits open human skin?” “Do you know the smell of a girl’s flesh cooking around the prongs of a stun baton?” “This isn’t discipline. It’s attempted murder.” Declan stopped breathing. He stared at the charred craters on Dawn’s chest. He stared for a very, very long time. Then he slowly looked up at me. “Ashley. This is internal Davenport family business.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Family business? You butcher a girl and call it an HR issue?” Declan took a shuddering breath, visibly fighting to contain a rising tide of panic and rage. “I do not want to waste any more time on this. Name your price. How much money will it take for you to walk away right now?” I looked at him, and I felt nothing but profound, devastating pity. Even now, even staring at the mutilated body of a girl he raised, he thought he could buy his way out of the guilt. “I don’t want your money. I want her.” Declan’s fragile patience snapped. He turned to Hector, his voice cold and flat. “Take her down. I assume full responsibility for the fallout.” Hector raised his hand. The safeties on thirty assault rifles clicked off. Dane and my four men raised their Glocks, forming a tight perimeter around me. The tension was a wire pulled to the breaking point. Bianca cowered behind Declan, her voice dripping with venomous glee. “Do it! Just shoot her and drag Dawn out of here!” Two of Hector’s heavies lunged forward, their thick hands reaching for Dawn. I spun around, shoving Dawn behind me, shielding her completely. My eyes were two black pits of rage as I leveled a glare at Declan and Bianca that could have stopped a heart. “Touch her and you die.” “Your family took her in for twenty years, and you think that gives you the right to treat her like a stray dog? To break her, sell her, and slaughter her?” “Listen to me, Declan Davenport. What you did wasn’t discipline. It’s a felony. It’s a butchery.” “And I swear to God, not a single one of you has the right to lay another finger on her!” I took a deep breath, my chest heaving, my voice trembling with the weight of fifteen agonizing years. “Because she is my daughter.” “She is the child I have been hunting the earth for, for fifteen years!”

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The day before I woke up in my eighteen-year-old body, I found a weathered journal hidden in the back of my husband’s safe. My husband, Silas, was a man the media called an “iceberg”—brilliant, devastatingly handsome, and perpetually cold. Our marriage had been a clean, efficient business arrangement. Or so I thought until I read a single line in that diary: “If I had only been more assertive back then, would things have turned out differently?” I closed the book, my heart aching. I assumed he was mourning the “one who got away,” the girl he truly loved before he was shackled to me. I told myself then: Fine. If he’s still dreaming about his ‘white moonlight,’ I’ll go find my first love. We’ll call it even and find our own peace. But then, the universe shifted. I woke up ten years in the past. On my second day back in high school, Silas—the teenage version, sharper and even more intimidating—cornered me against a brick wall in the equipment hallway and kissed me with a desperation that left me breathless and shattered. Stunned, I went back and re-read the memories of that journal in my mind, searching for what I’d missed. That’s when I realized there was a second line written directly beneath the first, scrawled in frantic, heavy ink: “If I had only been more assertive back then, her ex wouldn’t have stood a chance. Our kids would be running around the garden by now.” 1 I had always lived with the ghost of Silas’s unrequited love. He knew my reasons for marrying him, too. Beyond the merger of our families’ real estate empires, there was a jagged piece of me that wanted to spite my ex-boyfriend. We were two people occupying the same house, living parallel lives. I just didn’t realize Silas’s obsession ran so much deeper than mine. The day before the “glitch” happened, I found the journal. The entries spanned seven years, the most recent being only three days old. I’d traced the worn edges of the paper until I hit that line about his regrets. I couldn’t bear to read further. The pain of being a second choice was a weight I’d carried for years. So, when I opened my eyes and found myself standing on the high school track field, staring at an eighteen-year-old Silas, I did the only logical thing. I turned around and ran. In my first life, my best friend had goaded me into asking for his number. That was the spark that eventually led to our transactional engagement years later. This time, I was going to set the tracks straight. I wasn’t going to be the consolation prize. My best friend, Jessie, grabbed my arm, yanking me back to the present. “Maya, what are you doing? It’s just a phone number. Why are you running like you saw a ghost?” I forced my eyes away from Silas, who was standing near the bleachers, looking like a dark prince in a varsity jacket. “He’s not my type, Jessie. You know that. My heart is already set on someone else.” Jessie sighed, her disappointment palpable. “You mean Jason? He’s sweet, I guess, and he’s… safe. But he’s a puddle compared to Silas. You guys don’t even vibe.” I started walking away, pulling her with me, when she suddenly squeezed my arm so hard it bruised. “Oh my god! He’s coming over!” My stomach dropped. “Who?” “Hi. I’m Silas.” The voice was lower than I remembered, vibrating through my spine. I took several steadying breaths before I dared to turn around. He was there. Eighteen-year-old Silas was leaner, his expression more guarded, but his eyes had that same piercing intensity that used to make me forget my own name. 2 Silas held out his phone, the screen already open to a new contact page. “I’d like to get to know you. If that’s okay.” I froze. This wasn’t how it happened before. In the original timeline, I was the one who chased him. This felt… wrong. Jessie was vibrating with excitement beside me. She didn’t wait for my permission; she snatched my phone out of my hand, swiped it open—god, I cursed myself for telling her my passcode—and exchanged numbers with him before I could blink. I ground my teeth. Note to self: Jessie is officially fired from being my future maid of honor. After the exchange, Silas didn’t say a word. He just stood there, his gaze lingering on my face as if he were memorizing a map he thought he’d lost. I felt exposed under his stare. I grabbed Jessie’s hand to flee, but a cheerful voice stopped us. “Maya! Hey! I brought you those fish tacos you like!” Jason ran toward us, balancing a few greasy bags. He looked exactly how I remembered—kind, a bit messy, and utterly boyish. I smiled, reaching out for the food, but Silas stepped between us. “She’s allergic to shellfish.” The world seemed to go silent. Jason blinked. Jessie stared. I stood there, paralyzed. I am allergic to shellfish. But Jason didn’t find that out until our sophomore year of college when I ended up in the ER after a date. And back then, Silas and I barely spoke. He was always working, always busy with the “merger.” The only time I’d had a major reaction during our marriage was at a corporate gala. I’d passed out after a stray appetizer, and when I woke up in the hospital, the room was empty. I’d assumed Silas was too busy with his clients to stay. But in the hazy moments of waking, I could have sworn I saw his face hovering over mine. “Wait, how did you know that?” Jason asked, looking confused. Silas didn’t answer him. Instead, he took the bag from Jason’s hand and began sorting through it with clinical precision. “She doesn’t eat onions in her wraps. She hates honey mustard. This chicken is too greasy, and this dessert has way too much artificial syrup…” He finally pulled out a plain fruit cup. “This is the only thing here that won’t make her sick.” Fear pricked at my skin. Something was very different about this Silas. I didn’t wait for an explanation; I grabbed Jessie and bolted toward the gym. “Do you know him?” Jessie panted as we ran. “Have you two been secret pen pals or something?” “No,” I lied, my heart hammering. “I’ve never spoken to him in my life.” “Then he’s either a stalker or a psychic, Maya. He knows your coffee order better than your own boyfriend does!” 3 Back in the classroom, Jason was sulking. “That guy… are you sure you don’t know him?” I shook my head, staring at my textbook. “Forget him, Jason. He’s just some arrogant jerk from the honors track.” I glanced toward the door. A shadow passed by the frosted glass. It was Silas. He was pacing the hallway, his shadow flickering every few seconds as he glanced into our room. Jason finally relaxed after I spent ten minutes ego-stroking him. “Maya, I wanted to tell you something.” My heart sank. Here it was. The moment that defined my first life. “I’m applying for the exchange program in London for next year.” I already knew the script. This was the beginning of the end for us. “I have to go,” he continued, holding my hand tightly. “My grades aren’t like yours. If I stay here, I won’t get into a top-tier school. But don’t worry. Once you graduate, we’ll be together. I’ll finish my three years abroad, and then we’ll get married. It’s just three years…” Just three years. He said it so easily. In my previous life, those three years were the loneliest of my existence. I stayed loyal, turning down every invitation, waiting for a man who eventually told me he needed another two years for a Master’s degree because he “needed to be worthy of me.” That was why, when my mother told me about the arrangement with Silas’s family, I had said yes. It wasn’t just spite. It was exhaustion. I was tired of waiting for a ghost. “Maya? Are you okay? You look pale.” I forced a smile and nodded. “Go for it, Jason. I support you.” Jason looked shocked that I didn’t put up a fight. He pressed my hand to his cheek. “I knew you’d understand. You’re the best. I’ll give you the wedding of your dreams one day, I promise.” Outside in the hall, a loud crash echoed, followed by a curse. “Watch where the hell you’re going!” It was Silas. He’d “accidentally” bumped into a janitor’s cart right outside our door. I pulled my hand away from Jason’s. “It’s too early to talk about weddings,” I whispered. 4 By the end of the day, my head was spinning. I tried to leave through the side exit, only to find Silas leaning against the brickwork, waiting. Does he have a tracker on me? He’s supposed to be chasing his mysterious first love, not me. “Maya. Let’s grab dinner.” I kept my head down. “I can’t. Jason is waiting for me.” Silas’s eyes flashed with a dark, sharp light. “Then let him wait. Or better yet, tell him I intercepted you.” I let out a sharp, frustrated laugh. “I didn’t realize you were such a prick, Silas.” “If you want to have this out, let’s do it,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Fine,” I snapped. “Look, I know how this works. Our families want a merger. It’s business. There are no feelings involved, and there never will be. Since we have a chance to do things over, let’s just stay out of each other’s way. You go your way, I’ll go mine.” Silas didn’t move. “I am going my way. You’re just standing in the middle of it.” I tried to push past him, but he followed me like a shadow. He was relentless. Jason was waiting by the cafeteria entrance, his face darkening when he saw Silas trailing behind me. “What is he doing here?” Before I could explain, Silas cut in. “It’s a public school, isn’t it? Or do you own the cafeteria now?” I wondered if Silas had hit his head during the time-jump. The man I knew was a man of few words, a statue of decorum. This version was a nightmare. He sat at our table, ignoring Jason entirely. When my tray arrived, Silas swapped it for a premium-looking bento box he’d pulled from his bag. It was the exact same brand and model of lunchbox he used to carry to the office. I opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was exactly what I used to eat for lunch every day during our marriage: grilled shrimp (cleaned perfectly), steamed broccoli, and a soft-boiled egg cut into a heart. But our housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, always made my lunches. Or so I thought. I took a bite. The flavor was identical. “Did you make this?” He nodded. “Every single one. Even the ones from before.” Jason slammed his fork down. “Maya, you told me you didn’t know this guy!” I was trapped. I pulled out my phone under the table and shot Silas a text. Stop it. Don’t you have a ‘white moonlight’ to go chase? Go find the girl you actually love and leave me alone! I looked up, and the look in Silas’s eyes stopped my heart. It was the same look he gave me on our wedding night—intense, hungry, and devastatingly sad. He checked his phone, read the text, and said nothing. He simply reached across the table and wiped a stray drop of sauce from my lip with his thumb. My anxiety spiked. Where was his unrequited love? What about the regret in his diary? Then, a memory of a middle page of that journal surfaced: “I’ve wanted to make her lunch since we were kids. I didn’t think I’d have to wait until we were married to do it. At least that loser Jason is a thousand miles away now…” 5 “Hey!” Jason shouted, standing up. “I don’t know what your problem is, but she’s my girlfriend. We’re going to be together forever. Stay away from her!” Silas let out a cold, soft chuckle. “You won’t get married. Not in the last life, not in this one, and definitely not in the next.” Jason, thinking Silas was just being a jerk, grabbed my arm to pull me away, knocking the lunchbox onto the floor in the process. I looked back at Silas. He was sitting there, staring at the ruined food on the floor, looking smaller than I’d ever seen him. If he really had been the one making my meals all those years… I owed him more than this. Once Jason dragged me outside, I finally snapped. “Jason, that was uncalled for. You didn’t have to ruin the food. It’s wasteful.” Jason grabbed my shoulders, his hands shaking. “I don’t know what it is, Maya, but every time I see him, I feel like he’s about to steal you. I’m just… I’m scared of losing you.” I sighed, patting his back. “It’s fine. I’m here.” That night, I had cafeteria duty. By the time I finished cleaning the classrooms, it was 9:30 PM. Jason had promised to wait for me, but his car was nowhere to be found. I’ve always been terrified of the dark. Our school was deep in the suburbs, and the walk to the gate was a fifteen-minute trek through poorly lit paths. I started to jog, my breath hitching in my throat. I heard footsteps behind me. I spun around, but the path was empty. A few yards later, a hand tapped my shoulder. I screamed, spinning to find a guy with greasy hair and a face full of acne shoving a phone in my face. “Hey, beautiful. Give me your number?” I backed away, my hands up. “I… I’m not interested.” He stepped closer, his smile predatory. “Come on, don’t be like that. Just one look.” Suddenly, a heavy arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against a warm, solid chest. The scent of sandalwood and expensive soap—my favorite scent, the one I’d bought for him—filled my lungs. “You walk too slow,” Silas’s deep voice vibrated against my ear. “I’ve been waiting for you at the gate for twenty minutes.” He turned his cold gaze to the stranger. “Is there a problem?” The guy scoffed. “Just trying to get a number, man. You know how it is.” He actually had the nerve to wink at Silas. “Get out,” Silas growled. His fist clenched so hard his knuckles popped. I think the guy realized that Silas was about five seconds away from a felony charge. He scrambled away into the shadows. 6 The walk to the gate felt much shorter with Silas beside me. My driver’s car was waiting with its lights flashing. “Thanks for today,” I whispered, turning to him. Silas leaned down, his lips inches from mine. “Your boyfriend threw away the lunch I made for you. How are you going to make it up to me?” I couldn’t move. If I breathed too deeply, our lips would touch. “I’ll… I’ll make you lunch tomorrow.” “Good. And you’ll eat it with me.” “Okay.” As soon as I got into the car, I put my head in my hands. How was I going to explain this to Jason?

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April suddenly cornered me, her eyes red and rimmed with exhausted tears, demanding to know why I was constantly protecting Gemma. She reminded me, her voice cracking, that she was my wife. In that exact moment, a bitter clarity washed over me. I finally understood why she had been so relentless about bringing Oliver—her chronically ill childhood sweetheart—into our home. The untouchable first love. The ghost of what could have been. The damage they can inflict is legendary for a reason. Just a few hours prior, Gemma had stood on my porch, soaked to the bone, missing the sight in one eye. I hadn’t seen her in years. She looked brittle, her eyes clouded with a dark, heavy melancholy. The slightest touch made her flinch violently. My heart ached so fiercely I bypassed all logic, ushering her directly into our house. These past few days, I’ve poured every ounce of myself into caring for her. Coaxing her, sitting with her in the quiet, making sure she felt safe. I was so consumed by it, I realized I no longer even had the energy to fight with April. 1 It was raining in sheets the second time I saw Gemma. I was leaning against the porch pillars of our house, staring up at the pitch-black sky, a hollow kind of despair echoing in my chest. Oliver had mentioned, offhandedly, that he’d never seen the ocean. So, April simply forgot our wedding anniversary. She dropped every single one of her work commitments and flew him out to Santorini. It wasn’t the first time. Ever since Oliver moved back to the States, everything about him took precedence over me. At dinners, we ate whatever his fragile stomach could handle. On weekends, we went wherever his restless mind desired. I kept forcing myself to swallow the resentment. I told myself Oliver had a severe heart condition. That he was pitiable. That I needed to be the bigger person and make space for him. That was the narrative I clung to. Right up until April’s birthday. I had dressed up for her, slipping into that tailored uniform she always loved, and straddled her lap. Her breath hitched instantly. Her hands gripped my hips, pulling me down with a fierce, hungry intensity. And then, the phone rang. Not just any ringtone. The custom chime she had set exclusively for him. God, I wanted her to ignore it. I wanted her to be so consumed by me, by us, that the rest of the world ceased to exist. But reality is a cruel director. The chime rang for exactly three seconds before the desire completely bled out of her eyes. She answered it, muttered two frantic sentences, grabbed her coat, and rushed out the door. Leaving me alone. Tangled in the sheets, breathless, and utterly discarded. Even then, I tried to rationalize it. What if he was actually having a medical emergency? He really was sick, after all. I spent hours pacing the dark house, coaxing my bruised ego back into something resembling peace. Then I opened my phone. The first thing on my feed was Oliver’s latest post. It was a picture of a misshapen, homemade cake. The frosting letters were shaky, the piping was a disaster. But my eyes immediately locked onto the corner of the frame. A sliver of a woman’s hand rested on the table. On her ring finger was the exact match to my wedding band. April. My brain desperately scrambled for an excuse, an alibi, anything. Then I read his caption, and the world just stopped spinning. “The Princess never breaks her oath. She will always protect her Knight. But this time, the Knight isn’t hurt. He made a little surprise instead! Baked with my own two hands. Happy Birthday to my most loyal Princess~” He wasn’t in the hospital. He wasn’t dying. My heart felt like it had been fileted open. The pain was so sharp, so blinding, that my eyes burned. I curled into a tight ball on the edge of the sofa, unable to stop the violent tremors wracking my body. The next afternoon, April came home. We had the most explosive, shattering fight of our marriage. And the result? She moved Oliver directly into our house. I fought it with everything I had. I screamed until my throat was raw, demanding she throw him out. Right on cue, Oliver clutched his chest, gasped for air, and was rushed away in an ambulance. Since then, my life had devolved into a sick, twisted purgatory. It always started with a screaming match with April, and ended with Oliver in a hospital bed. A perfect, inescapable loop. Now, all I felt was bone-deep exhaustion. I could turn on every light in this massive house, and it wouldn’t chase away the chill. I was so incredibly lonely. Right then, a strange prickle on the back of my neck made me look up. Through the driving rain, I locked onto a pair of eyes—so familiar, yet entirely foreign. 2 It was Gemma. She was standing beneath the amber glow of a streetlamp just beyond our driveway. She looked so entirely different. She was gaunt. That fierce, radiant arrogance she used to carry was entirely gone, replaced by overgrown bangs that hung limply over half her face. She didn’t have an umbrella. The rain had plastered her thin white dress to her fragile frame. She looked like a stray dog, beaten down by the world. Suddenly, her shoulders flinched. She realized I was looking at her. Panic seized her, and she pivoted, trying to flee into the dark. But something was terribly wrong with her coordination. She barely took two steps before her legs gave out, sending her crashing onto the wet asphalt. All my quiet, suffocating grief vanished. I bolted off the porch, sprinting into the downpour, and pulled her up by her arms. “Gemma? My god, are you alright?” In the weak, flickering light of the streetlamp, I pushed the wet hair from her face. My breath caught in my throat. “What happened to your eye?” One of her eyes was a milky, clouded gray. There was no life in it, no reflection of the light. Just a dead, foggy abyss. She turned her head away sharply, like a terrified stray cat, burying her face in the shadows. “I can’t… I can’t see out of this one,” she whispered, her voice violently shaking. My heart shattered for her. She had been the brilliant, untouchable girl I chased through my adolescence. Seeing her reduced to this broke something inside me. I guided her gently into the house, grabbing a thick, plush towel from the hall closet and wrapping it around her shivering shoulders. “Go take a hot shower. Please. Before you freeze to death.” Gemma nodded mutely. She kept her eyes cast down, her pale, trembling fingers struggling to grasp the wet buttons of her dress. I quickly turned around, giving her privacy. “Go ahead. I’ll run up and grab you some dry clothes.” I jogged up to the master closet, pulling out a set of April’s silk pajamas. But when I came back down, Gemma was still standing outside the bathroom, frozen, her fingers clumsily wrestling with the same button. She felt my gaze and dropped her chin to her chest, her cheeks burning with deep humiliation. “I… ever since I lost my sight, my motor skills are misfiring. The doctors called it sensory processing disorder…” A violent shudder ran through her, the last bit of color draining from her lips. Every rational thought in my head evaporated. I dropped the clothes and rushed over. “It’s okay. Let me help.” She went completely still, incredibly docile, just watching me as my fingers worked the soaked buttons loose, one by one. At one point, my knuckle accidentally brushed against the icy skin of her collarbone. She let out a sharp, involuntary gasp, and the tips of her ears flushed crimson. Suddenly, her hand shot out, gripping my wrist tight. “I-I can do it…” she stammered. The sudden intimacy hit me like a delayed shockwave. I felt a rush of heat to my own face and was just about to pull away when a furious voice ripped through the silence. “Colin! What the hell are you doing?!” I snapped my head around. April was standing in the foyer, her coat dripping water onto the hardwood. My brow furrowed instantly. “What are you doing here?” “If I hadn’t come home, were you just going to fuck her in my hallway?!” Her face was twisted in absolute rage, but honestly, all I felt was a rising, suffocating irritation. “April, watch your mouth. Gemma is an old friend. There is nothing going on between us!” “Nothing going on? I just walked in on you undressing her! You call that nothing?!” “Are you incapable of listening? I just told you—” Before I could fully launch into the fight, Gemma’s cold hand tightened around mine. “Colin, please. This is all my fault. Don’t fight with your wife because of me.” She stepped away from me, turned to April, and offered a deep, trembling bow. “April, please don’t misunderstand him. I’ve been very sick. He was only trying to help me because my hands won’t work. I just wanted to see him one last time… and I have. I’ll leave right now. I’m so sorry for intruding.” Her voice was so fragile it threatened to break on every syllable. A fierce wave of protectiveness surged through me. I pulled her back by her arm. “Don’t listen to her, Gemma. You’re staying here. I’m going to take care of you.” “Are you out of your damn mind, Colin?!” April screamed. “Who the hell moves another woman into their house to ‘take care’ of her?!” Just as the words left her mouth, a soft, weak voice drifted out from the hallway behind her. “April… are you fighting with Colin over me again?” 3 April froze, the anger draining from her face, leaving a stunned silence in its wake. Seeing she wasn’t going to answer, Oliver stepped out of the shadows. When his eyes landed on Gemma, a brief flicker of surprise crossed his face. But it was gone in a second. His eyes instantly welled up with tears, and he looked at me with this sickeningly pathetic, pleading expression. “This is all my fault, Colin. I never should have mentioned I wanted to see the ocean. Then April wouldn’t have left you to take me to Santorini.” He turned his tragic gaze back to her. “Thank God the storm grounded our flight. You should stay here with him tonight, April. I’ll go pack my things.” April’s face instantly crumpled into pure devotion. “Oliver, no. You are not leaving. This is your home. You stay exactly as long as you need to!” Normally, this is where I would snap. Where I would demand to know how she could unilaterally give away half the house that I paid for. But tonight? I just nodded, letting a cold smile touch my lips. “You’re absolutely right. Which means the exact same rules apply to Gemma. This is your home now, Gemma. Stay as long as you want. Don’t worry about what anyone else says.” April stared at me like I had lost my mind. “‘Anyone else’? Colin, I am your wife!” Before I could even formulate a response, Oliver gasped, his hand clutching the fabric over his heart. “April… it hurts.” It was like a switch flipped. April forgot I even existed. She wrapped her arms around him and half-carried him toward his bedroom. I let out a long, heavy exhale, practically pushing Gemma into the bathroom to finally get warm. While she showered, I went to the hall closet and pulled out April’s most expensive silk sheets, the ones she saved for special occasions, and meticulously made the bed in the guest room. When I finished, I stood guard outside the bathroom door. With her sensory issues, I was terrified she might slip and crack her head open. While I was waiting, April came marching down the hall, holding a glass of water for Oliver’s medication. She paused, looking at me with a cold, mocking sneer. “You don’t need to play the pathetic simp for some stray just to get back at me, Colin.” I opened my mouth to tell her exactly where she could shove her arrogance, but the bathroom door clicked open. April’s eyes practically bugged out of her head. Her voice hit a shrill, hysterical pitch. “Colin! Did you seriously put that bitch in my pajamas?!” Gemma, still flushed from the steam, instantly panicked. Her hands hovered nervously over the silk fabric, her lip trembling. “Colin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know these were hers. I’ll take them off right now—” I caught her wrists. “You are not taking off anything. Your clothes are ruined. You’re wearing these.” I turned my glare entirely on April. “Can you be any more petty? It’s a piece of fabric. Get over it.” April’s chest heaved, her face red with pure fury. “It’s not about the clothes, Colin! Do you even remember who the woman of this house is?!” Just then, Oliver’s bedroom door swung open. “April? Is everything okay? You’ve been gone a long time…” He was wearing the monogrammed robe April had bought for us as a couple’s set. On his wrist was the silver watch she had given me for my last birthday. April went completely, dead silent. She shoved the glass of water into Oliver’s hands. When he tried to pull her back into his room, she stepped away. “Get some rest. I need to take care of something.” She grabbed my arm with a vice grip and hauled me down the hall, dragging me into our master bedroom. She obviously wanted to have it out. To scream. To justify herself. But I didn’t want to hear a single word. I yanked my arm free, turned on my heel, and walked right back out. I made sure Gemma was completely settled into the guest room, brought her a glass of warm milk, and only then did I return to my own bedroom. April had been waiting for a long time. She was sitting by the large bay window, enveloped in a cloud of thick gray smoke. The ashtray beside her was already choked with cigarette butts. I pinched the bridge of my nose, walked over, and shoved the window open. “Is this all you know how to do when things get hard? Chain-smoke? You could learn a thing or two from Gemma. She treats her body with respect.” April actually choked on her inhale. She coughed violently, her eyes watering, before she glared at me, her voice dripping with venom. “Is there literally anything else you can talk about besides Gemma?” “I don’t know,” I said, my voice deadpan. “Is there anything else you can talk about besides Oliver?” Hearing his name, her face contorted into that familiar, defensive annoyance. She opened her mouth, ready to call me insecure and jealous again, but as she turned, her eyes landed on the small table by the door. Sitting there, perfectly untouched, was the anniversary cake I had ordered. Lonely. Forgotten. The realization hit her like a physical blow. She remembered what today was. Our fifth wedding anniversary. Instantly, the venom drained from her posture. Her voice went incredibly soft. “Colin… I am so sorry. I completely forgot what today was. I promise, I’ll make it up to you.” She stepped closer, her eyes entirely fixed on mine. “I’ve already booked Oliver’s heart surgery. As soon as his rehab is done, I’ll send him away. I promise. Okay?” When April turns on that deep, consuming tenderness, it’s like staring into a dark pool—you just want to let yourself drown in it. For a split second, I almost gave in. I almost said okay. Then, a soft knock echoed through the room. 4 “Colin? Are you asleep?” I completely ignored the way April’s face darkened into thunder. I bypassed her and opened the door. “I’m awake. What’s wrong?” Gemma was standing there, her eyes downcast, her fingers twisting the hem of the silk shirt with agonizing anxiety. “Colin, I… ever since I lost my sight, my anxiety at night is unbearable. I keep having panic attacks. I can’t sleep…” How could the universe be so cruel to someone so fragile? My chest physically ached for her. I reached out, gently wrapping my hand over her trembling fingers, dropping my voice to a soft murmur. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here. I’ll sit with you until you fall asleep, I promise.” I started guiding her back down the hall, but April snapped. She threw herself between us, her eyes wild. “Colin! You are going to go sleep in another woman’s room?! I am your wife!” Gemma didn’t argue. She didn’t shout back. Her eyes just filled with quiet, defeated tears. And just like that, whatever fractured loyalty I had left for April evaporated. I pulled Gemma behind me, shielding her, and leveled a glare at April that could cut glass. “Do you have zero empathy, April? She’s terrified and she’s disabled. Can you not put your ego aside for five minutes to let someone else breathe?!” Our voices had risen enough to carry. Down the hall, Oliver’s door crept open. He stood in the doorframe, clutching a plush rabbit, looking at April with wide, panicked eyes. “April? I just had a really awful nightmare. My chest is feeling tight again. Can you come sit with me? Just for a little while?” April froze again. Ever since Oliver moved in, she had spent almost every single night sitting by his bed. The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating. Finally, April swallowed hard and looked at him. “Oliver, we aren’t kids anymore. It isn’t appropriate for me to sit in your room all night. If you’re scared, just leave the lamp on.” Oliver’s face went paper white. Tears pooled in his eyes instantly, and he gave a pathetic, trembling nod before stepping back into his room. But I knew the game he was playing. He wasn’t going to take that hit lying down. Sure enough, three minutes later, a loud, violent crash echoed from his room. April didn’t even hesitate. She kicked his door open and found him slumped weakly against the nightstand. She forgot about me. She forgot about Gemma. She scooped him up in a blind panic and rushed him straight out the door to the hospital. I honestly didn’t care. I led Gemma back to the guest room and pulled up a chair. She wasn’t lying about her anxiety. It was brutal. She kept waking up with sudden, sharp gasps, her hand flying out into the dark until it found mine. Only when she felt my pulse would she settle back into a fitful sleep. I stayed by her side the entire night. Just as April stayed by Oliver’s. When April finally dragged herself back into the house the next morning, exhausted and smelling of hospital antiseptic, she found the house entirely empty. Gemma had mentioned offhandedly that she missed looking at the stars without the city lights. So, I took my accrued PTO, booked two first-class tickets, and flew her to Hawaii. When we got back, the dynamic shifted entirely. We were living parallel lives. April was consumed with her work and rushing to the hospital to coddle Oliver. I was managing my projects and spending every free second ensuring Gemma was comfortable. We existed in the same house, but we didn’t cross paths for weeks. After coming home to an empty bedroom for the thirty-seventh time, April finally hit her breaking point. She hired a private investigator to pull every single public and private record on Gemma. When she opened the dossier, the first thing she did was drop a string of violent curses. “Bullshit. She’s three years older than me, and she’s out here calling me ‘April dear’ like she’s some innocent little fawn?” She paced the office, fuming, before forcing herself to read the rest of the file. The further down she read, the paler she got. Halfway through the document, she slammed it shut, canceled all her afternoon meetings, and drove straight home. I was at the office. Oliver was at his latest ‘specialist’ appointment. Gemma was home alone. April didn’t make a sound. She slipped off her heels, crept down the hall, and pushed open the guest room door. And then, she froze, her jaw practically hitting the floor.

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I was grinding myself down to dust, living like a rat on a corporate treadmill. One night, fueled by cheap wine and sheer exhaustion, I was scrolling through a forum dedicated to bashing the toxic, unhinged male leads in dark romance novels. Without thinking, I typed out a reply: People can judge all they want online, but in the real world, who wouldn’t want to scream ‘kidnap me, please!’ The daily grind of a nine-to-five is the real torture chamber. When I woke up the next morning, my reality had fractured. The first thing I felt was the bite of cold, heavy metal around my wrist. The second was the sight of a stranger standing over the bed, his face flushed a violent shade of red all the way to the tips of his ears. “Who the hell are you?” I blurted out, my voice thick with sleep. “Are you out of your mind?” The red on his cheeks deepened to crimson. He opened his mouth, stammering, “I… I’m s-sorry…” Right at that moment, a line of glowing, translucent text drifted through the air above his head, like a live comment feed on a reading app. [This male lead has everything, but he’s such a coward. He stutters just talking to her. He only has the guts to lock up a stand-in for practice. If he’s so tough, he should go after the real girl!] Before my brain could even process the hallucination, another floating comment scrolled by. [I mean, you gotta feel for him, but who builds an entire luxury estate just to lock up a lookalike?] Ah, I thought, the pieces clicking into place. So he’s got the money, but not the nerve. My expression shifted instantly. In one fluid motion, I grabbed his wrist, used my leverage to pull him down, and pinned him flat against the mattress. I leaned over him, flashing an impossibly sweet smile. “Baby, I didn’t mean what I just said. Let’s try that again.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I love you.” 1 The sheer suddenness of my words left him paralyzed. A second later, the flush on his face exploded, the heat practically radiating off his skin. His eyes darted wildly, refusing to meet mine. “You… you… you need to get up,” he breathed, his voice shrinking until it was barely a whisper. I glanced up at the glowing text hovering in the air. The comments had paused. I decided to double down. “I’m not moving,” I said, tracing a finger down his chest. “Not until you say you love me, too.” The moment the words left my lips, the invisible chat exploded. [Hold up, this stand-in is built different. I am taking notes frame by frame!!!] [??? What is this plot twist? I’m lost but I’m here for it.] [The lookalike seizing the throne? Oh, I am seated!] [I am trash for this. Give me more!] Before the shock could fully register, a bold, highlighted comment floated slowly across my vision. [Friendly reminder: The actual female lead saved his soul when they were kids. A single piece of candy sealed his heart. This fake needs to learn her place and back off.] I stared at that comment, a cold laugh bubbling up in my chest. A piece of candy? That’s what passes for salvation? I’m sorry, but I’ve read enough of these tragic, childhood-angel redemption arcs to know exactly how the game is played. This guy had the immense fortune of running into me. Forget the other girl, I thought. Lock me up. Throw away the key. Please, whatever you do, just don’t make me go back to the office. I shifted my weight, pressing him a little deeper into the mattress, and leaned in until my lips were brushing the burning shell of his ear. “Baby, you let yourself get bought for one piece of candy? If I give you a whole jar, does that make you mine?” A violent shiver racked his body. “You can’t… do this…” His mouth was saying no, but his fingers had unconsciously reached up, twisting tightly into the fabric of my shirt. The comments went absolutely feral. [??? Stand-in, get a grip!] [Damn it, why is the chemistry kind of insane?] [Male lead, fight back! What are your hands doing?!] I caught the blur of the comments out of the corner of my eye and couldn’t suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. I lowered my head and pressed a feather-light kiss right to the center of his forehead. “Good boys get rewards,” I purred. 2 He looked as though I had electrocuted him. Blushing furiously, he gently but frantically shoved me off and scrambled to his feet. I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. I reached out, snatching his hand, and tilted my head up to look at him. “Baby, what’s your name?” He froze, his entire frame rigid, but the ingrained obedience kicked in. “D-Donovan… Donovan.” I tightened my grip on his hand. With my index finger, I slowly traced a circle into his palm, smiling until my eyes curved into crescents. “Such a good boy. My name is Gia. Don’t forget it.” I paused, pressing the side of my face against his open palm. I looked up at him, my gaze piercing his, and enunciated every single word. “Because that is the name that’s going to be on your marriage certificate.” Donovan’s pupils blew wide. He stared at me, utterly shell-shocked, his lips parting but failing to produce a single sound. His Adam’s apple bobbed sharply. In those beautiful, panicked eyes, I saw absolute bewilderment. The floating text cascaded down like a waterfall: [AHHHHHHHHH I AM LOSING MY MIND!!!] [The sheer rizz!! The marriage certificate!! She brought up the marriage certificate!!!] [Wait, who the hell is this girl? I’ve never seen a trope play out like this??] [Taking notes! Someone get me a pen! ‘That’s the name on your marriage certificate’ is going straight into my DNA!!!] [I officially petition to rename ‘Stand-in Literature’ to ‘Gia Literature.’] [Donovan, say something! Your eyes are practically glued to her, you idiot!] [I feel so dangerously powerful right now. If I learn these moves, will I finally get a man???] [Wake up, babe. You don’t have Gia’s face and you don’t have Gia’s nerve. You’d just text ‘u up?’] [I’ll say it—I’m a freak. I want her to keep pushing until he entirely shatters!!!] Watching the comments fly by, my smile only deepened. Donovan was still frozen in place. The hand I was holding trembled faintly, but his fingers began to curl inward, subconsciously holding onto me. I blinked up at him, leaning a fraction closer. “Donovan, your ears are so red.” He jerked his head away, his voice coming out in a wrecked, gravelly rasp. “N-no, they aren’t.” The comments: [Hahahahaha look in a mirror, my guy!! Your whole face is a tomato and you’re still in denial!] [Gia, spare him!! You’re gonna make the man combust!!!] [This isn’t a kidnapping thriller, this is a masterclass in seduction. I am watching on my knees.] [Publish a book, queen! I’m begging you! Write the manual!] 3 I lifted my wrist, shaking it slightly. The heavy iron links clinked together, a sharp, metallic sound in the quiet room. I tilted my head, looking up at him through my lashes. “Donovan, could you unlock this? I promise I won’t run away.” I stood up, closing the distance until the heat of his body washed over me, and dropped my voice to a low, intimate register. “I’m yours. Only yours.” Donovan’s eyes snapped wide. Beneath the panic, there was a raw, unfiltered flicker of longing he couldn’t hide. “Mine?” he asked, the word scraping out of his throat, so quiet it was barely a breath. “Only mine?” I pushed up onto my tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his eyelid. “Forever.” [AHHHHHHH I AM DEAD!!!] [‘I’m yours. Only yours. Forever.’ I could listen to this on loop!!!] [Kissing the eyelid!! She kissed his eye!!! What tier of flirting is this?!] [Donovan, snap out of it! Your soul has already left your body!] [I feel like Gia is taming a stray dog, but I’m too scared to say it out loud.] [You see the vision! You are entirely correct!!!] [FOREVER!!! She said forever!!! My heart can’t take this!!!] [I am taking this masterclass and absorbing every word. I just need a billionaire captor to practice on!] [If Gia starts a cult, I’m the first to sign up!!!] Donovan stared at me for a long, heavy moment. It stretched out so far I almost thought he was going to refuse. Then, he took a shaky breath. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a small iron key. His hands were trembling so badly he missed the keyhole twice. Click. The cuff fell away. I massaged my reddened wrist, opening my mouth to speak. Before I could get a word out, he stumbled backward, putting a massive gap between us as if terrified he might change his mind. He spun on his heel. “I’ll… I’ll go make you something to eat!” he blurted out, practically sprinting out of the room like his life depended on it. Slam. The door clicked shut. I sat back down on the edge of the mattress, rubbing the circulation back into my hand. Staring at the heavy oak door, a genuine laugh slipped out of me. Perfect. I had made my decision. I was going to rot in this luxurious estate. I wasn’t taking a single step outside these gates. Let the rest of the world suffer through their morning commutes and corporate emails. I was officially retired. A final comment drifted lazily through the air. [Why are you running away, you fool!!! Get back in there!!!] 4 It didn’t take long for the door to creak open just a fraction. Donovan slipped in, balancing a silver tray in his hands. His footsteps were agonizingly careful. He set the tray down on the small table in front of me. It was a rustic bowl of homemade chicken noodle soup. It wasn’t Michelin-star plating, but the broth was golden and steaming, the parsley minced perfectly, and the aroma was incredible. He kept his eyes glued to the floor, his voice incredibly soft. “It’s done… try it.” I looked at the soup, then up at him, intentionally feigning surprise. “Did you make this yourself?” He flinched, then nodded nervously. “Y-yes. I made it. It might not be very good. If you don’t like it, I can have the chef make something else…” “You are so good to me.” I cut him off, locking my eyes onto his. I made sure my voice carried nothing but unwavering sincerity. “You are amazing. The first time you cook for me, and it looks this incredible? You’re so good.” Donovan entirely short-circuited. He looked like he wanted to speak, but his brain had lost the ability to form words. He just stood there, helpless. I softened my tone even more, letting it coat the room like honey. “How did I get so lucky? To have someone this wonderful, all to myself… I really hit the jackpot.” His head snapped up. His eyes were wide, round, and stunned, as if he had just been told the sky was green. His lips trembled, the words slipping out as pure air. “R… really?” “Really.” I reached out, took his hand, and gently tugged until he sat down beside me on the edge of the bed. I cupped his face, forcing him to look directly into my eyes. “Donovan. This soup looks delicious. You put so much care into it. The vegetables are cut perfectly, the broth smells amazing. You put your heart into this.” The edges of his eyes began to turn pink. “And,” I murmured, brushing my thumb over his knuckles, “the simple fact that you wanted to cook for me… that’s everything. Because it came from you.” He dropped his gaze, his long lashes fluttering rapidly against his cheeks. It took him a long time to give a tiny nod. The silence stretched between us, thick and fragile. Then, he spoke, his voice barely a murmur. “What else do you like to eat? I… I can learn.” Looking at him—this massive, powerful man shrinking himself down to be so gentle and earnest—my chest actually ached. God, who engineered a man this perfect? I couldn’t help it. I reached up and ran my fingers through his thick, dark hair. I smiled. “As long as you made it, I’ll love it.” The corners of Donovan’s mouth finally twitched upward. It was a minuscule, fragile smile, but it was there. The invisible chat room absolutely lost its mind. [I am violently sobbing!!!] [‘As long as you made it, I’ll love it’—Gia, you are the wife of the century!!!] [Seeing him so incredibly fragile and cautious is breaking my heart…] [When he asked ‘really?’, I actually teared up. He genuinely cannot believe someone could just… like him.] [Gia, keep praising him, please! Validate this man until the end of time!!!] [This isn’t a kidnapping thriller anymore, it’s a healing romance and I am crying.] [For the new readers: The lore is that his stepmom practically raised him. To pave the way for her own son, she psychologically abused Donovan for years. Told him he was useless, incompetent, unworthy of the family empire, and unworthy of love. She even convinced him it was his fault his biological mother died in childbirth.] The comments went dead silent for a second. [No wonder he’s so terrified. No wonder he didn’t even have the courage to kidnap the real girl… He truly believes he doesn’t deserve her.] [I’m actually crying now…] [He isn’t a coward. He’s just been broken for so long that being loved feels like a delusion.] [Gia, you better treat him right. Praise him every single day!!! I am begging you!!!] I read the text floating above us, then looked at the man sitting beside me. His head was bowed, but the tiny smile was still ghosting his lips. He was still muttering to himself. “Then… tomorrow I’ll learn how to make stew. What kind of stew do you like?” Acting purely on instinct, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into my chest. I rested my chin on his broad shoulder, my voice a soft murmur. “Whatever you want to make. I’ll eat it. As long as it’s you.” He didn’t speak. But I felt his muscles seize for a fraction of a second before the tension bled out of him entirely. He melted against me, letting his weight rest against mine. I closed my eyes. Don’t worry, I thought. Fixing a broken man? Consider it my new full-time job. 5 Under my relentless barrage of sweet-talking and physical affection, Donovan’s defenses crumbled to dust. First, I was allowed out of the bedroom. Then, I was permitted to wander the sweeping hallways. Soon, I was taking strolls in the manicured gardens. My territory expanded at lightning speed. Until one crisp morning, he looked at the floor and mumbled, “You… you can walk anywhere you want in the estate. I won’t stop you.” I stood on the front steps, staring out at the grounds, taking a massive breath of fresh air. This property was absurdly large. The gardens were a chaotic burst of color, yet pruned with mathematical precision. In the distance, I could see marble fountains, a towering glass conservatory, and what looked like a private, glimmering lake. Thank you, universe. I had my life back. No more alarm clocks. No more cramped subway cars. No more groveling to middle management. I, Gia, was going to retire on this estate and do absolutely nothing for the rest of my days. I threw my arms out, embracing the morning breeze, practically biting my tongue to keep from screaming in triumph. Of course, I wasn’t a total monster. I figured I should repay his hospitality. I tied an apron around my waist and headed into the massive gourmet kitchen, intent on showing off a little. I hadn’t even heated the pan before Donovan came sprinting into the kitchen. Looking panicked, he pried the spatula out of my fingers. “I’ll do it,” he said, his tone unusually stubborn, though his ears were bright pink. “You… you just stay there.” “I know how to cook!” I protested. “No.” He reached behind me, untying the apron, and looped it over his own neck. His voice dropped to a shy murmur. “I… I like cooking for you.” When he said the word like, his eyelashes fluttered erratically. I leaned against the marble island, watching him move around the kitchen, and surrendered. Fine. If acts of service are your love language, have at it. Mrs. Higgins, the head housekeeper, walked past the kitchen doorway carrying a silver tea service. She paused, taking in the sight of Donovan bustling around the stove in an apron while I leisurely sipped coffee by the counter. She blinked in surprise, then a profoundly warm, maternal smile spread across her face. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “The young master hasn’t been this happy in a very, very long time.” I reached out and patted her arm reassuringly. “Don’t worry. He’s going to be even happier from now on.” Mrs. Higgins’s eyes instantly welled up with tears. She ducked her head, quickly dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand, nodding fervently. “Yes, yes. That’s wonderful.” And so, the days slipped by in a haze of domestic bliss. Every single morning, without fail, I would ask Donovan the exact same question. “Who does Gia belong to?” He paused, the carton of milk hovering over my glass. The tips of his ears turned red. He opened and closed his mouth three times before finally pushing the words out in a quiet stutter. “M… mine…” I beamed at him. “Good boy. And… who does Donovan belong to?” This time, there was no hesitation. His voice was still soft, but the stutter was gone, replaced by a fierce, quiet certainty. “Gia’s.” It was enough to make my heart physically ache. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a piece of butterscotch candy, unwrapped it, and pressed it against his lips. He blinked, surprised, before parting his lips and taking the candy. His dark eyes shone as he looked at me. I took the opportunity to lean in, invading his space, and dropped my voice to a serious, commanding whisper. “You are not allowed to take candy from any other woman outside this house. Do you understand me? They’re all trying to trick you.” He nodded earnestly, the candy tucked into his cheek. “Mm… I won’t,” he mumbled. “Only from you.” The comments: [Hahahahaha Gia what are you doing?! Are you brainwashing the man?!] [The way he nods with the candy in his cheek… he is literally a golden retriever puppy!!!] [Daily interrogation: Who does Gia belong to? Please keep asking this! I thrive on this content!] [The character development! From ‘M-mine’ to firmly saying ‘Gia’s’. The possessive boyfriend arc is real!] [When Mrs. Higgins started crying, I lost it… He finally has someone in his corner.] [I am so single it physically hurts.] 6 One afternoon, Donovan announced he was taking me shopping. Before I could even process the request, I was being led into the cavernous underground garage. A sleek, black Rolls-Royce Cullinan sat idling under the fluorescent lights. A uniformed driver was already holding the rear door open. I raised an eyebrow, sliding into the buttery leather seat. Alright. I can get used to the billionaire lifestyle. Donovan sat rigidly beside me, his hands placed perfectly flat on his knees like a schoolboy waiting for the principal. I shifted my weight, turning toward him. I reached out, hooking a finger under his chin, and gently forced his face toward mine until our eyes met. “Donovan, you have beautiful eyes,” I said softly, holding his trembling gaze. “So stop looking at the floor. Look at me.” His throat worked convulsively. It took him three tries to get a single word out. “…Okay.” Satisfied, I dropped my hand, leaned back into the plush leather, and smiled. The moment we stepped into the high-end boutique, I was like a bird let out of a cage. I dragged him through the aisles, pulling silk and chiffon off the racks. Every time I stepped out of the fitting room, I’d march right up to him, spin in a slow circle, and lean over, practically pressing myself into his space. “Do you like it?” I’d ask, grinning. Donovan’s face was permanently flushed. He sat stiffly on the velvet sofa, his spine ramrod straight. “It’s… it’s beautiful.” “How about this one?” I emerged in a different dress, the fabric swirling around my legs. “Beautiful.” “And this one?” I held a slip dress against my body. “It’s… very beautiful.” I laughed out loud. I bent at the waist, leaning in so close that the tip of my nose almost brushed his. “Then tell me, which one is the most beautiful?” His eyes darted frantically away from my face, then immediately snapped back. His lips parted, but his brain had completely short-circuited. Before I could tease him any further, a woman’s voice rang out from behind me. “Donovan?” I straightened up and turned around. Standing a few feet away was a girl with flawless, understated makeup. Her eyes were bright, locked onto Donovan, her face radiating unfiltered joy. She closed the distance quickly, her tone intimately familiar. “It is you! It’s been forever. What are you doing here?” Every muscle in Donovan’s body went instantly rigid. He didn’t look at the girl. His eyes immediately, instinctively, shot to me. The glowing text flared to life in the air. [OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD!!! It’s her!!! Katherine!!!] [The ultimate showdown is here AHHHHHH!!!] [Look at his eyes! He checked Gia’s reaction first! He’s panicking hahahaha!] [The stand-in vs the original! Put it in my veins!!!] [I know Katherine is supposed to be the actual female lead, but I swear Gia is exactly what this man needs!!!] [Why am I sweating right now? Gia, mark your territory!!!] Katherine stepped closer. Her gaze flicked over me for a microsecond before settling back on Donovan. She offered a perfectly polite, polished smile. “Donovan, there’s something I need to talk to you about. Is this a good time? Can we… step outside for a minute?” Donovan didn’t answer her. He turned his head toward me. His eyes were wide, swimming with questions and a deep, pulsing anxiety. I offered him a lazy, easy smile. “Go ahead.” He opened his mouth, looking like he desperately wanted to say something, but ultimately just gave a stiff nod. He stood up and followed Katherine toward the front of the boutique. I leaned against the frame of the fitting room door, crossing my arms over my chest, watching them walk away. When Donovan finally stopped in front of Katherine, I noticed something. He wasn’t looking at the floor. He was looking her dead in the eye. I dropped my head, a slow, dark smile spreading across my face. “Donovan,” I whispered to the empty air, my voice entirely void of warmth. “You’re not being a good boy. Didn’t you say you belonged only to me?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “428894”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I have always been a crier. And, I’ll admit it, I’m relentlessly clingy. My husband—a man I acquired through a corporate marriage of convenience—was currently meticulously peeling the skin off a bowl of green grapes for me. It was the thousandth time he’d performed some tedious task just to appease me. Suddenly, strings of floating text began scrolling across my vision, glowing in the air like a live comment thread on a streaming site. [Can the side-character wife get a grip? The male lead works himself to the bone all day, and he has to come home to serve this brainless brat?] [All she does is cry. She’s crying away whatever good luck she has left!] [When is he finally going to divorce her? I can’t stand the way she bosses him around. So what if her family bailed him out when he was down? Big deal.] [Just wait. It won’t be long now. This spoiled princess is going to be utterly destroyed by the female lead, who is actually competent and brilliant.] [Spoiler alert: Her company goes bankrupt, her family falls apart, and she dies in the streets. Just watch!] My breath hitched. My hand shot out, snatching the bowl of peeled grapes right out of his hands, and I dumped the entire thing into the trash can. Thomas’s hands froze in mid-air. He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “How have I offended you this time?” 1 I met his dark, ink-black eyes. To me, they looked entirely filled with impatience. A pulse hammered at my temple. I opened my mouth, the words stumbling out clumsily. “I… I can’t stand the green ones anymore.” The moment the words left my lips, I wanted to slap myself. Idiot. I couldn’t even come up with a decent lie. Thomas let out a soft click of his tongue, his thin lips parting slightly. My heart did a frantic leap against my ribs. I thought for sure he was finally furious. When we first got married, I had weaponized my status as the wealthy heiress who saved him. I ordered him around, criticized everything, and the second he didn’t give me exactly what I wanted, I cried. And when I cried, it was an endless, exhausting downpour. Perhaps out of some lingering sense of gratitude, he had endured it all. And because he endured it, I pushed further. I convinced myself that making him jump through hoops, making him cater to my every whim, was simply what he owed me. Honestly, every time I saw him swallowing his irritation to do something for me, I felt a twisted sense of absolute triumph. But now? Now, the glowing comments predicting my miserable, destitute death flashed in my mind, sending a violent shiver down my spine. I didn’t dare push him anymore. “If you don’t want them, you don’t have to eat them.” Thomas pulled a wet wipe from the dispenser and began slowly, methodically cleaning the sticky grape juice from his long fingers. He tossed the wipe into the trash, stood up, and headed toward the kitchen. “We don’t have any of the red globes left,” he said, his back to me. “Do you want something else?” “No, no, it’s fine! I’m just going to go to sleep. I’ve lost my appetite anyway.” I waved my hands frantically and practically bolted toward the master bathroom. Thomas’s footsteps stopped. He glanced back over his shoulder at me, then turned and closed the distance between us with long, purposeful strides. Realizing what he was about to do, I lunged forward, grabbing my toothbrush and aggressively squeezing paste onto it before he could reach it. I gave him a stiff, overly-eager smile. “I’ve got it! I can do it myself!” Thomas stopped a foot away. Those pitch-black eyes roamed my face, searching for something. Then, his voice softened. “It’s my fault today. Things were chaotic at the firm, and by the time I got to the artisanal market, the red grapes were completely picked over. The few they had left looked bruised, so I bought the green ones instead.” He paused. “I’ll make sure to leave the office earlier tomorrow.” The truth was, we had a full-time housekeeper whose literal job was to buy groceries. But a year ago, purely to mess with him, I had fired her from grocery duty and demanded Thomas do it. Every evening after work, he had to go buy my specific fruits, wash them, and sometimes literally feed them to me. He peeled the skins, pitted the cherries, and held out his hand for me to spit the seeds into. “You don’t need to do that,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “You don’t need to do any of it anymore. I can do it myself from now on.” I didn’t dare look at him. I just stared at the sink, brushing my teeth with aggressive concentration. In my periphery, I saw Thomas’s expression darken. He stared at my back for a long, heavy moment. “Suit yourself,” he finally said, his tone perfectly flat. It wasn’t until he had completely left the room that the rigid tension bled out of my shoulders, and I slumped against the marble counter. 2 Only one dim, amber-glowing lamp illuminated the bedroom. Thomas was propped up against the headboard, reading off his tablet. The cool blue light washed over his face, highlighting his sharp, aristocratic jawline and the perpetual cool indifference in his eyes. Hearing me enter, he looked up. I immediately averted my gaze. I scurried to the far side of the massive California King bed, lifted the duvet, and slid in, pressing myself so close to the edge I was practically hovering over the floor. You could have fit two more of me in the space between us. Normally, I slept plastered to his side. I would wrap my arms and legs around him like a suffocating vine. When he got too hot and tried to gently push me away, I would immediately start crying. I’d cry until he gave up, sighed, and let me use him as a human body pillow. Tonight, I didn’t dare. Thomas had already prepped for my usual assault. The duvet on his side was pulled back invitingly, and he had even switched off his financial reports, pulling up an audiobook app on his tablet, just waiting for me to latch onto him. In the past, I would force him to read me bedtime stories. If he refused, I cried. If he read them but I felt he wasn’t putting enough “emotion” into it, I cried. I would force him to do voices and act out the dialogue until I fell asleep. I saw him waiting. But I pretended I didn’t. It’s true, I had overactive tear ducts, and I was raised in an old-money bubble that completely insulated me from the word “no.” My marriage to Thomas started with pure, unadulterated infatuation. We went to the same elite prep school, and even back then, he was the untouchable golden boy. A brilliant, brooding prince of a dynasty. I’ve always had a fatal flaw: the more unattainable something was, the more obsessively I wanted it. I thought about him day and night, but by the time graduation rolled around, he hadn’t looked at me twice. We went to different Ivy League colleges, and I thought my window was closed forever. Then, during our junior year, the scandal hit. His father was indicted by the SEC. Stocks plummeted, assets were frozen, and overnight, the untouchable golden boy was dragged through the mud. The moment I heard, I took a massive chunk of my trust fund and marched to his door, offering the bailout his family desperately needed. The condition? He had to marry me. He agreed. I figured, once I had him, love would naturally follow. I clung to him, threw tantrums, demanded the world. Partly, it was just to force him to look at me. Partly, it was the naive belief that since he married me, he was obligated to spoil me, adore me, and have eyes only for me—just like my parents’ perfect marriage. But he was always so aloof. It was like nothing I did could spark a real fire in him. The less he gave, the more bitter I became. I demanded he be on call twenty-four hours a day, catering to my most unreasonable demands. The glowing text from earlier flashed through my mind again. Bankrupt. Dead in the streets. I shuddered beneath the silk sheets. I absolutely could not accept that ending. The comments said he found me repulsive. Fine. From now on, I would stay completely out of his way. I would be independent. I wouldn’t bother him. That should… that should fix the plot, right? 3 The mattress shifted behind me. He had laid down. I scooted another inch toward the edge. Suddenly, a pair of strong, warm hands clamped around my waist and hauled me backward. I crashed against a solid, heat-radiating chest. Even through the thin fabric of our pajamas, I could feel the steady, heavy thud of his heartbeat. His warm breath brushed against the shell of my ear. “You were about to fall off,” he murmured, his voice laced with a strange, low resignation. Right on cue, the glowing text materialized in the dark room: [Oh, look at her playing hard to get. I actually thought she’d changed, but she was just waiting for the male lead to pull her in.] [The male lead has it so bad. Shackled to this toxic woman. He can’t even tell her off because she’ll just throw a crying fit. He must be so sick of her.] My entire body went rigid. Operating on pure panic, I shoved him away and scrambled back to the icy edge of the mattress. I kept my back to him, my voice tight. “I’m just a little hot.” “Go to sleep. I’m tired.” Behind me, in the heavy silence, I heard the distinct sound of him grinding his back teeth. Then, a low, almost bitter scoff. “Fine.” A sour ache bloomed in my chest. Was he really that happy that I wasn’t touching him? The glowing comments continued to scroll past, mocking me. I squeezed my eyes shut and chose to play blind. 4 I woke up in the middle of the night needing to use the bathroom. As consciousness returned, I realized I was wrapped around Thomas like a desperate octopus. I knew I was an active sleeper, but I didn’t realize it was this bad. Filled with intense self-loathing, I slid out of bed, used the restroom, and quietly walked down the hall to the guest bedroom. Imagine my utter shock when I woke up the next morning back in the master bedroom. The first thing I saw was a very familiar expanse of bare chest. My favorite chest. An arm was clamped over my waist like an iron band. I was completely immobilized. Panic flared. Did I sleepwalk? It wouldn’t be the first time. Sometimes Thomas’s libido was too much, and I’d get mad and banish him to the guest room. But the next morning, we’d always wake up in the same bed. I used to accuse him of sneaking back in, but he’d calmly pull up the security footage from the hallway to show me that I had sleepwalked straight into his bed. Damn it, I thought. I’m buying a deadbolt today. I carefully pinched the fabric of his sleeve, trying to lift his heavy arm and slide out. I moved barely an inch before the arm tightened like a vice. “Where are you going?” Thomas’s morning voice was a gravelly, sleep-rough rumble that sent an involuntary shiver straight down my spine. I froze in his arms, too scared to even breathe. The floating comments were right on time: [Look at her pretending to pull away. She’s probably thrilled inside.] [The male lead sounds so annoyed. She’s still just lying there like an idiot. Zero self-awareness.] Spurred by the words, I immediately started thrashing against his grip. “I—I need to pee!” Thomas didn’t let go. Instead, he smoothly rolled me over so I was forced to look at him. There were faint, bruised shadows under his eyes. He clearly hadn’t slept well. “You ran off to the guest room last night, and then wandered back in at 3 AM just to burrow into my chest.” He stared down at me, his face utterly unreadable. “What game are we playing?” Guilt flared hot in my cheeks. I looked away. Could I exactly tell him I saw floating text predicting he would ruin my life? “N-No game.” “I just realized… I’ve been really annoying lately. I’ve decided I’m not going to annoy you anymore.” The air in the room went deathly still. Thomas’s eyes narrowed into dark, dangerous slits. His fingers gently caught my chin, forcing my gaze back to his. “Who said something to you?” “Nobody! Absolutely nobody!” I denied it frantically, but my stupid, traitorous eyes immediately welled up with tears. The comments surged: [Crying again. Is that literally her only skill?] [The male lead hates it when she cries. Just wait, he’s going to drop her so fast.] Panicking, I shoved him off, practically vaulted out of bed, and sprinted into the master bathroom. I could feel his gaze burning into my back the entire way, heavy and unyielding. 5 For the next few weeks, I made dodging Thomas my full-time job. While he was downstairs making my artisanal breakfast, I would sneak out the side door, order an Uber, and text him from a café that I was eating out. I didn’t have a corporate job, but my trust fund was massive. Recently, I had fallen down a rabbit hole of collecting rare, vintage vinyl records and indie band merch. Since I was suddenly trying to give Thomas space, I decided to open an upscale boutique record shop. It gave me something to do other than obsess over him. My phone vibrated on the table. I tapped the screen. It was a string of update texts from Thomas. Early in our marriage, I had given him a strict, psychotic mandate: he had to report his location, his company, and the duration of every single meeting, down to the minute. I even made him write a daily log for me to review. Usually, I’d text back something brief and send him a flirty Venmo with a heart emoji as a “reward.” But now… I sniffled, swallowing the lump in my throat. I shoved the phone into my designer coat pocket and looked up at the man sitting across from me, who was currently grinning like a shark. Solomon. A top-tier partner at a cutthroat law firm, specializing in high-net-worth divorces. He also happened to be an upperclassman from my university days. If Thomas was destined to divorce me and leave me destitute, I was going to strike first. I needed to control the narrative. By the time we finished going over the preliminary paperwork, it was almost noon. I walked Solomon out to the sidewalk. And that’s when I saw him. Thomas was standing perfectly still by the entrance. He wore a sharp, midnight-blue overcoat. In one hand, he gripped a sleek, insulated lunch tote. The air around him was so cold and oppressive it felt like a physical weight. 6 “What are you doing here?” I didn’t know why, but I felt incredibly guilty, like a wife caught in an affair. I stumbled backward a step, my shoulder bumping into Solomon. Thomas’s eyes darkened to pitch. The knuckles of the hand gripping the lunch tote turned bone-white, the pale blue veins standing out sharply against his skin.

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It has been exactly seven days since I moved into the new bedroom. Mom pushed the door open, froze the second she saw me up and moving around, and blurted out the words before she could stop herself: “How are you still fine?” This room—the “Princess Suite,” as she called it—had cost her a fortune to renovate. When she first pitched the idea to me, she claimed the contractors were using cutting-edge, antibacterial materials that would work wonders for my chronic asthma. But I clearly remembered standing in the hallway weeks ago, overhearing her tell the head contractor that this specific batch of materials had formaldehyde levels hundreds of times over the legal limit. A healthy person sleeping in here for a single night would develop acute pulmonary edema. She had even installed a heavy-duty lock on the outside of my door. Her excuse? “I don’t want your brother going in there and messing up your clean air.” For the past week, she had come to my door every single day, asking if my throat felt scratchy. Asking if I was having trouble breathing. 1 Her question hung in the air like a shard of ice, instantly piercing through my carefully crafted veneer of calm. The blood drained from my mother’s face, leaving her pale and ghostly. She stared at me, a frantic, desperate panic swimming in her eyes—a look I had never seen before. “I… I just meant, I meant why hasn’t your asthma cleared up completely yet?” It was a pathetic lie. So painfully clumsy that I didn’t even have the energy to call her out on it. Just then, a smooth, gentle voice drifted in from behind me. “Mom, you really need to stop worrying so much. Paige’s condition is going to take time to heal.” It was my older brother, Wesley. He was wearing a crisp white button-down, looking every inch the flawless golden boy. His effortless perfection only made my mother’s anxious cowering feel all the more grotesque. She rubbed her hands together nervously, looking for all the world like a reprimanded child. She didn’t dare meet my eyes again. “I’ll go start dinner,” she muttered, practically fleeing the doorway as if she couldn’t get away from my room fast enough. “Paige, don’t mind her,” Wesley said softly, his voice a soothing balm. “Mom is just under a lot of pressure right now. She loves you so much.” Loves me? A bitter laugh echoed in my head. If she loves me, why is she waiting for me to die? Later that night, my mother voluntarily knocked on my door for the first time. She came in carrying a plate of sliced fruit, forcing a stiff, ingratiating smile. “Paige, honey… why don’t you switch rooms with your brother for a bit? With all this new furniture in here, I really think the room needs a few more days to air out.” I stared at her, alarm bells shrieking in my mind. Was this it? Was she trying to lure me out so she could tamper with the room again, ensuring I wouldn’t have a single chance of surviving my next night in here? “No thanks,” I said, my voice dripping with ice. “I think it’s perfect in here. It smells great.” I deliberately emphasized the word great. I saw her hand violently jerk. A slice of apple tumbled off the plate and hit the hardwood floor. I thought my refusal would make her back off. But I was wrong. Around eleven o’clock that night, just as I was drifting off, I heard the faint click of the door latch. Bathed in the weak moonlight filtering through the window, I watched my door slowly creep open. A dark silhouette slipped into my room. It was Mom. She was clutching a heavy-duty spray bottle. Moving methodically, she began misting my headboard, my closet, my desk. The liquid settled into the air, bringing with it a sharp, corrosive chemical stench that burned the back of my nose. My heart hammered against my ribs. My palms were slick with cold sweat. After she finished spraying, she didn’t leave immediately. She just stood there in the center of the room. Even in the pitch black, I could feel the suffocating weight of her gaze locked onto my body in the bed. Every hair on the back of my neck stood up. Silent as a ghost, she finally backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her. The second she was gone, I clamped my hands over my nose and mouth. A heavy, terrifying realization crushed the breath out of my lungs. My mother really wants to kill me. 2 The first thing I did when I opened my eyes the next morning was frantically scan my body, terrified that whatever she had sprayed had already begun rotting me from the inside out. Miraculously, I felt fine. No tightness in my chest, no coughing. Mom knocked on my door to call me for breakfast, wearing the same stiff, plastered-on smile, acting as if she hadn’t been creeping around my room in the dead of night like a grim reaper. I looked at her across the dining table, a sickening cocktail of disgust and terror churning in my gut, but I was too afraid to confront her directly. When I walked into the kitchen, Wesley looked up and offered a warm smile. “Sleep okay?” Mom sat opposite us, her head bowed over her oatmeal, refusing to say a word. “I slept fine,” I lied, flashing a tight smile. I didn’t dare mention last night. For the next few days, it became a twisted nightly ritual. Deep in the night, I would hear the door creak open, followed by the hissing of the spray bottle and that increasingly noxious chemical odor. I played dead every single time. I didn’t dare move a muscle. I didn’t dare breathe too loudly. All I could do was lie there in paralyzing fear, watching my own mother repeatedly douse my room in whatever poison she had concocted. And every time, she would stand at the foot of my bed, staring at me for what felt like hours. Waiting. On the fourth night, things took an even more bizarre turn. I was tossing and turning, unable to sleep, when a sudden sound ripped through the silence. Thud. Thud. Thud. It was a rhythmic, deliberate knocking. It sounded like someone taking a heavy, blunt object and striking it directly against my drywall. One. Two. Three… Every hollow impact struck directly against my chest. I curled into a tight ball beneath my duvet, too terrified to breathe. The knocking dragged on for five agonizing minutes before abruptly stopping. The next morning, I gathered my courage and asked Wesley, “Did you hear someone banging on the walls last night?” He blinked, looking genuinely confused. “No? Maybe the neighbors are doing renovations?” “Maybe,” I muttered, dropping the subject. But I knew the truth. Who the hell does demolition work at two in the morning? I endured the psychological torture for two more nights. Finally, when the rhythmic banging started again, my frayed nerves snapped. I threw off my covers and sprinted to the door, yanking it open. The hallway was empty. But my mother’s bedroom door was cracked open, a flickering, sickly orange light bleeding out into the corridor. Drawn by a morbid curiosity, I crept over and peered through the crack. What I saw made my blood run cold. My mother was kneeling on the hardwood floor in front of a brass incense burner. A photograph of me sat propped up against it. She was muttering frantically under her breath, holding a crude little effigy made of paper over the candle flame, watching the edges curl and blacken. My legs gave out. I stumbled backward, my shoulder slamming against the doorframe with a loud thud. Mom whipped her head around. Cast in the twisting shadows of the candlelight, her face contorted into something utterly inhuman. I scrambled back to my room on my hands and knees, slammed the door, and threw the deadbolt. I didn’t close my eyes for the rest of the night. 3 After that night, the atmosphere in the house grew unbearably suffocating. The way my mother looked at me began to shift. It was a deeply unsettling gaze—a toxic blend of anxiety, terror, and some dark, unreadable emotion I couldn’t decipher. And her desperate attempts to force me out of the room escalated. It was another late night when the muffled sounds of a vicious argument in the living room jolted me awake. It was Mom and Wesley. I slipped out of bed barefoot, creeping to the door and pressing my ear against the cool wood. “That bed has to go! I’m calling someone to tear it out tomorrow!” Mom’s voice was shrill, borderline hysterical. “The wood is tainted!” The wood is tainted? My heart skipped a beat. Had her conscience finally caught up to her? Was she trying to undo her own trap? But Wesley’s calm response crushed my fleeting hope. “Mom! Can you please stop being so utterly unreasonable?” He sounded completely exhausted. “You took out loans to pay for this renovation, and now you want to rip it apart? I already checked the manufacturer for Paige. It’s the highest-grade eco-friendly timber on the market!” “You don’t understand anything!” Mom screamed. “You’re right, I don’t! I just know that you’ve been losing your mind lately!” The argument died in a tense, heavy silence. I leaned against my door, my insides turning to ice. She isn’t having a change of heart, I realized. She’s trying to destroy the evidence. Early the next morning, Wesley hauled a massive box into my room. It was the latest, most expensive medical-grade air purifier on the market. “Wes, this is way too much,” I whispered. “Don’t worry about it. As long as you’re healthy, I don’t care what it costs.” He reached out and ruffled my hair, his eyes soft. “Just ignore Mom’s crazy talk. I’ve got your back, okay?” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. In this cold, twisted house, my brother was the only one who genuinely cared if I lived or died. Mom backed off for two days after that. I foolishly thought the storm had passed. But I underestimated her madness. While I was at my afternoon classes, she secretly hired contractors to dismantle my bed. I got a frantic text from a neighbor and rushed home, bursting through the front door just as two men in work boots were preparing to haul the headboard out of my room. I charged at them like a wild animal, throwing myself in front of the bed frame. “Don’t you dare touch my stuff!” Mom darted out of the kitchen. Seeing me, the color drained from her face. “Paige, honey, just listen to me—” “Listen to what?! To whatever psychotic new way you’ve found to torture me?” I was trembling from head to toe, the words tearing out of my throat. “Let me make this perfectly clear. As long as I am breathing, neither of you is touching a single thing in this room!” That was the breaking point. The fragile truce between me and my mother shattered completely. From that day on, I existed in that house as a ghost, speaking only to Wesley. He would just sigh, stroking my hair with a heartbroken expression. “Paige, Mom is just buckling under the pressure. Try not to hate her. You still have me.” 4 Aunt Valerie came over for the weekend. The second she walked through the door, she grabbed my mother’s hands and began gushing over my new room. “Evelyn, you are spoiling this girl! This room looks better than a five-star hotel! God, if I had a mother like you, I’d wake up laughing every day!” Mom didn’t smile. She just offered a weak, mechanical twitch of her lips. It didn’t take long for Aunt Valerie to pick up on the toxic energy radiating between us. She cornered me in the hallway, crossing her arms to deliver a stern, maternal lecture. “Listen to me, Paige. Look at your brother. He’s smart, responsible, and never gives your mother an ounce of grief. But you? You’ve been sickly your whole life. Your mother has turned gray trying to pay your medical bills, and this is how you repay her? By throwing tantrums and giving her the silent treatment?” Every word was a physical blow, driving the breath from my lungs. They didn’t know. None of them knew! They only saw the money she threw around; they didn’t see the woman sneaking into my room at midnight, praying for my lungs to give out! My face flushed crimson with rage. I couldn’t even form a coherent sentence. I violently ripped my arm out of Aunt Valerie’s grip, bolted into my room, and slammed the door with a deafening crash. Through the drywall, I could hear my aunt and my mother sighing heavily. I buried my face in my pillow and sobbed until my throat was raw. Why was I the villain? Why did everyone look at me like I was the monster? I cried for hours until pure exhaustion dragged me into a fitful sleep. I don’t know how much time passed before a strange, sloshing sound woke me up. I groggily lifted my head. Through the dim light, I saw a puddle creeping across my floorboards. My mother was crouching on the other side of the door, quietly pouring a basin of water right under the crack. The water seeped into the carpet. Before I could even process what she was doing, she suddenly began screaming at the top of her lungs. “Oh my god! The upstairs neighbor has a leak! Paige, get out of there, the room is flooding!” Her acting was atrocious—forced, theatrical, yet laced with an undeniable, desperate panic she couldn’t hide. I stared at the pathetic little puddle ruining my rug, then listened to the fake hysteria beyond the door. Honestly, I felt nothing but contempt. She looked like a clown who had finally run out of tricks. 5 Wesley worked long hours, and when he wasn’t home, the isolation was deafening. Desperate for any kind of companionship, I bought myself a little Syrian hamster. When Wesley saw it, his eyes lit up. He went out of his way to buy the most expensive gourmet nut mixes for it. Mom, however, looked at the cage like it was a live bomb. She absolutely forbade me from keeping it in my room. “Animals carry bacteria,” she snapped. “It’s going to trigger your asthma.” I stared her down, a cold, mocking smile spreading across my face. “I thought you said the new building materials were antibacterial?” The words hit her like a physical blow. She choked on her response, her face turning an ashen gray, and ultimately, she didn’t have the leverage to stop me. I set the cage proudly on my nightstand, finding immense comfort in the tiny creature’s presence. I fell asleep to the sound of it running on its wheel. But when I woke up the next morning, the wheel was silent. I leaned over. The little hamster was lying on its side, stiff as a board. A rim of dried, foamy white saliva crusted its mouth. It was dead. “Ahhhh!” A visceral scream tore from my throat. I scrambled backward, falling out of bed just to get away from the nightstand. My door violently banged open. Wesley rushed in, dropping to his knees and pulling me into a fierce embrace. “Paige! What is it? What happened?” His eyes darted to the nightstand. When he saw the cage, his entire body went rigid. His arms tightened around me protectively as he glared over his shoulder at our mother, who had just appeared in the doorway. Mom stared at the dead animal. All the blood rushed from her face, leaving her completely white. Her lips were trembling so violently I thought she might collapse. “I didn’t… I didn’t…” she mumbled incoherently. “Enough!” Wesley’s voice boomed through the room, sharp and furious. “Mom, how long are you going to keep playing this twisted game?” He took a deep, steadying breath, pulling out his phone with a dark, resolute expression. “I am calling a professional environmental testing agency right now. I’m having them tear this room apart. Don’t worry, Paige. Today, we are going to show everyone exactly who has been trying to hurt you.” 6 The day the inspectors arrived, our house was packed. Every relative in a ten-mile radius showed up, including Aunt Valerie. They gathered in the living room, hovering like a jury waiting to deliver a verdict. My mother sat curled up in the corner of the sofa, looking entirely hollowed out. She didn’t even have the strength to lift her head. I stood tall beside Wesley, feeling like a soldier on the brink of vindication. Two men in official uniforms, armed with an arsenal of intimidating meters and sensors, spent an entire hour sweeping my bedroom. They checked the paint, the baseboards, the wood veneer, and the air quality. I kept my eyes fixed on my mother, eagerly waiting for the machines to start shrieking. Waiting for the moment her lies would unravel and she would drop to her knees in shame. Finally, the lead inspector stepped out of the room, clutching a clipboard. The living room fell dead silent. Every eye locked onto him. My heart hammered in my throat. “The results are conclusive,” the inspector said, pushing his glasses up his nose in a detached, clinical manner. “We’ve tested for everything—formaldehyde, VOCs, benzene, you name it. Not only is this room well within legal limits, it actually surpasses the highest tier of green building standards. To be entirely honest, this is one of the cleanest, safest indoor environments we’ve ever tested.” Crash. My mind flatlined. It felt like a bolt of lightning had struck me squarely in the chest.

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I broke up with a man whose net worth had more zeros than I could count. On the other end of the line, Benson was silent for a full ten seconds before he finally spoke. He said he’d respect my decision, but he asked for one last dinner. I didn’t say a word; I just listened to the hum of the static. His easy clinical acceptance of the end was the final piece of evidence I needed. It confirmed every insecurity I’d nursed over the past year—that I was a temporary fixture in a permanent world. “Eight o’clock tonight,” he said. “The Ivy. I’ll see you then.” 1. At eight sharp, I stepped into the dim, amber-lit warmth of The Ivy. Benson was already there, and for the first time in his life, he was wearing the charcoal-grey suit I’d bought him. In his hands was a massive, sprawling bouquet of deep red roses. A hollow ache bloomed in my chest as I took them. “Thank you.” Once we were seated, I couldn’t stop looking at him. He was devastatingly handsome—the kind of man who moved through a room as if he owned the air everyone else was breathing. Even now, with my heart halfway out the door, I had to admit I was still under his spell. Benson watched me with that polished, gentlemanly gaze. He smiled, a soft, practiced thing. “So? How do I look? It’s the suit you got me.” “You look incredible,” I said. But I knew the truth. He’d hated this suit. I’d given it to him six months ago, and it had sat in the back of his walk-in closet, untouched. To Benson, it was “budget.” I’d agonized over that purchase, spending four thousand dollars—the absolute limit of my savings—trying to find something worthy of him. To me, it was a sacrifice. To him, it was a cheap polyester blend that didn’t sit quite right on his shoulders. I couldn’t blame him, really. I remembered the last time we’d gone shopping. He’d bought me a thirty-thousand-dollar handbag without so much as glancing at the price tag. We lived in different economies of the heart. We ate our steaks in a silence heavy with things unsaid. Eventually, Benson set his fork down and looked at me with a sudden, jarring intensity. “Noelle, thank you. Truly.” I looked down at my plate, terrified that if I met his eyes, I’d start crying. “I’m so grateful you were part of my life,” he continued. “You’re wonderful, Noelle. You’re brilliant, and I… I really do care for you.” I kept cutting my steak, though it tasted like ash. “If you’ve changed your mind,” Benson said, his voice dropping an octave, “we can act like this call never happened. We can go back to how things were.” He repeated it, as if trying to convince himself. “I really do love having you by my side.” I gathered my courage and looked up. “Benson, the gap between us is too wide. If it wasn’t today, it would be tomorrow, or next month. We were always going to hit a wall.” He reached across the table, covering my hand with his. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that we try. Even if it doesn’t end the way we want, at least we can say we didn’t give up.” “You say you care for me,” I whispered. “But do you love me?” He looked at me, and for a fleeting second, he gave me exactly what I wanted to hear. “I love you.” “Then marry me,” I said. “Tomorrow. Let’s just go to the courthouse and do it.” Silence. The air seemed to leave the room. Slowly, he withdrew his hand. I let out a jagged, bitter laugh and raised my wine glass. “To us, Benson. To one year.” Under the soft restaurant lights, he looked like the perfect leading man—elegant, tragic, and untouchable. I forced a smile through the sting in my throat. I knew that after tonight, he was going to be someone else’s leading man. Benson smiled back, a little sadly, and clinked his glass against mine. The perfect period at the end of a very short sentence. 2. The next day, I called out of work for three days. By the second day of my self-imposed mourning, Belen was pounding on my front door. When I finally let her in, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. She took one look at the empty beer cans littering my small apartment and gasped. “Oh my god, Noelle. What is this? You’re the one who dumped him, and now you’re acting like the victim? Get it together.” I shrugged, unable to find the energy to argue. She started cleaning my living room, muttering under her breath. I retreated to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. I couldn’t stay like this forever. “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours,” Belen called out. “Giving up a guy like Benson? He was the gold standard. Good luck finding another one like that in this city.” I let her nag. She didn’t get it. Being with Benson was like living in a dream. I never had to plan anything; he curated my life. Switzerland, Norway, the Maldives… I sat through auctions watching him spend a quarter-million on art pieces that didn’t even resonate with him. He’d even bought a luxury penthouse near my office just to make my commute easier. The night we moved in, I felt like Cinderella. I thought I’d finally found my prince. The night we broke up, he’d tried to give me the penthouse. I refused. He’d given me so much, though to him, it was probably pocket change. Thanks to Benson, I’d touched a world I didn’t belong to. But that world had made me lose my footing. I opened my closet to find something to wear, and my eyes landed on that thirty-thousand-dollar bag hanging on the door. Belen thought I was crazy for letting go of a man who could give me security, especially since I was an orphan with no family to fall back on. But what Belen didn’t know was that Benson was just like that bag. I could carry it, I could look glamorous with it on my arm, but I knew—deep in my bones—that I never truly owned it. For a year, that feeling of unworthiness had been a slow-acting poison. After we cleaned the place, Belen took me out for a cheap burger. “You know everyone says he’s the one who dumped you, right?” she said, mid-fry. I kept my head down. “That was fast. I thought it would take at least a week for the rumor mill to start.” “Did you hear about Hudson’s party last night at the Heights?” I shook my head. Hudson was the heir to a massive tech fortune, Benson’s best friend since prep school. Belen gave me a look of pure pity. “It was all over Instagram. Hudson threw a ‘Back on the Market’ party for Benson. It was basically a gala of every eligible socialite in the state.” The burger felt like lead in my stomach, but I kept my face neutral. “Makes sense. They have the money; they can celebrate whatever they want.” Belen tapped her chopsticks against my hand. “Noelle, doesn’t it kill you? That’s Benson Montgomery. Every woman in this city would kill to be in your shoes.” I looked at her. “Do you honestly think I had the ‘luck’ to actually become a Montgomery? Do you think his family would ever let me be the one?” Belen’s eyes dimmed. She knew. She was just like everyone else—she wanted to see the fairytale work so she could believe in it too. She wanted me to claw and climb and get my piece of the pie. But she didn’t understand that when the class divide is that steep, it’s not a relationship. It’s a residency. I never called him first. I knew he was busy, that his time was worth thousands of dollars an hour. When I was with his friends, their eyes slid over me like I was a piece of furniture—pretty, well-placed, but ultimately replaceable. They never asked what I did for a living. I was just ‘The Girlfriend.’ Benson was perfect, in his way. He never insulted me. But even when he made a suggestion, I found myself obeying. I was so afraid of losing the control he held over the relationship that I became a shadow. As we left the diner, Belen squeezed my shoulder. “Honestly? I admire you. You’re so clear-headed it’s almost scary.” “Thanks,” I said softly. 3. I buried myself in work. I needed to build a world where I was the main character. During that time, I moved again. From a decent apartment to a smaller, more affordable one closer to my new firm. On move-in day, Belen and her boyfriend, Dave, came over. I cooked a big dinner, and we stayed up late talking. After they left, I leaned against the window, watching the neon lights of the city below. My mind drifted to Benson. He hadn’t contacted me once in six months. Neither had I. I looked around my small, cramped living room and felt a wave of exhaustion. I thought about the penthouse. I thought about the way he looked when he kissed me—eyes closed, seemingly sincere. I thought about a sunny morning when he’d stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, shirtless, and said, “You know, Noelle, life is better with you in it.” I couldn’t tell anyone that I still wasn’t over him. But I also knew I couldn’t be his accessory. “Cinderella,” I whispered to the empty room. “This is your world. Wake up.” It was a painful detox, but I couldn’t go back. I wanted equality. I wanted to be looked at, not looked down upon. I wanted respect that wasn’t tied to a gift. 4. I jumped ship to Vantage Media. Three years later, I had finally made a name for myself. I heard snippets of his life through the grapevine. Benson had a girlfriend. Then they broke up. Then word got around that he was moving to London to handle the European branch of the family business. The night before he left, my phone buzzed. It was a photo from him. It was a picture of me from three years ago. I zoomed in on my face. I looked so soft then, so sweet. I almost didn’t recognize her. In the photo, Benson’s hand was resting on my head—the only part of him in the frame. I racked my brain trying to remember when it was taken, but I couldn’t. Just as I started to type a reply, my boss, Sylvia, called. It was a crisis. I had to pull together three pitches by morning. By the time I finished, it was 3:00 AM. I was at my desk by 7:00 AM. Sylvia was thrilled with the work and gave us the afternoon off. Only then did I check my messages. Last night: Noelle, my flight is at 11:30 AM tomorrow. Could you come to the airport? Just to say goodbye? This morning: I’m leaving now. Take care of yourself. I looked at the clock. 10:50 AM. I froze for a full minute. Then, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I grabbed my bag and ran. But I was too late. The terminal was a sea of strangers, and his plane was already a speck in the sky. When I told Belen about it later, she asked, “If you’d made it, what would you have done?” I smiled sadly. “I just wanted to see him off. That’s all.” “Maybe it’s better you didn’t,” Belen said. “The more time passes, the more I think you were right to leave. He hasn’t exactly been lonely these past two years. There’s been a revolving door of models.” I didn’t say anything. I just changed the subject. “I have the afternoon off. Want to go shopping?” 5. Sylvia walked into the office and tossed a file onto Monica’s desk. “Monica, good news. I’ve got a big one for you.” In our world, “a big one” usually meant a nightmare client. Monica opened the file, and Hudson’s face stared back at us. Sylvia leaned against the desk. “Hudson Sterling. Forget the family money for a second—the man is a walking headline. He’s the golden boy of tech right now.” Monica was my equal at the firm, sharp and ambitious. She gave a confident thumbs-up. “I’m on it.” But Hudson was a brat. A week later, Monica came back in tears. She’d botched the interview, and Hudson had called Sylvia personally to complain. “Your firm’s lack of professionalism is stunning,” he’d said. “I’m reconsidering our contract.” Sylvia looked at Monica’s miserable face, then looked at me. “Noelle. You’re up.” The next day, I went to Hudson’s office. When my team and I walked in, he was swiveling in his leather chair, looking out at the skyline while on a call. “The States are so much better than London, man,” he was saying. “Just get back here. I’ve got a bottle of ’90 Romanée-Conti waiting for you.” The chair spun around. Hudson’s smirk died the moment he saw me. He blinked, then spoke back into the phone. “Hey, man… you’ll never guess who just walked into my office.” There was a pause. Hudson grinned. “Your dream girl. My favorite ex-sister-in-law.” My heart did a violent somal-sault. I knew exactly who was on the other end of that line. “Talk later,” Hudson said, hanging up. He leaned back and looked at us. “Who are you people?” “We’re from Vantage,” my colleague said. “This is our Creative Director, Noelle.” Hudson let out a cold laugh. “Well, don’t waste my time. Let’s get started. How do you want me to play this?”

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The night I finished my six-week postpartum recovery, Benedict brought up the one thing I had spent five years trying to bury. We were in our bedroom in Greenwich, the air thick with the scent of expensive lilies and nursery formula, when he shattered my world with a casual sentence. He told me that the man who had abducted me, the man who had kept me in that dark room five years ago, was Brody. Brody—his foster sister Judy’s husband. The news hit me like a physical blow, a sudden pressure behind my eyes that made my vision blur. I stared at him, my voice barely a whisper. “What are you talking about, Benedict?” Benedict didn’t look remorseful. He looked relieved, as if he were finally setting down a heavy suitcase. He continued, his tone light, almost conversational. He explained that five years ago, Judy had discovered she was infertile. Her mother-in-law was already looking for reasons to oust her from the family. To secure Judy’s position as a socialite wife, Benedict had agreed to Judy’s desperate plea: I would be her surrogate. But not through a clinic. Brody had always had a fixation on me, Benedict said. So, the three of them made a pact. They orchestrated my disappearance, locked me away, and let Brody have his way with me until I was pregnant. I sat there, my stomach churning with a cold, oily nausea. My lips trembled so violently I had to bite down on them to stay silent. “Why tell me this now?” Benedict took a long, deep breath. “I’ve kept it inside for five years, Cora. It’s exhausting. Besides, I’ve given you back the child I owed you. People say a woman’s heart softens once she becomes a mother, and I see it now. You’re not as volatile as you used to be. You’ve finally learned how to be… compliant.” I forced the corners of my mouth to twitch upward in a hollow imitation of a smile. He didn’t know. I hadn’t become compliant. It was just that I had a secret of my own—one I had never told him. 1 The truth was a jagged blade, but even through the shock, I caught the dissonance in his words. “The child you owed me… what does that mean?” Benedict hesitated, his eyes shifting. He realized he’d said too much, but then he shrugged, deciding to let the rest of the rot spill out. “Before that whole thing happened… you were pregnant, remember?” My heart stopped. “The stairs,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I put a little bit of floor wax right at the top of the landing.” I felt as if lightning had struck the room. My fingers shook uncontrollably. That first pregnancy—the one I had cherished, the one that had ended in a horrific ‘accident’—had been a cold-blooded execution. He was seven months along. A fully formed baby boy. Two more months and he would have seen the sun. Instead, his own father had snuffed him out. A phantom hand seemed to squeeze my heart, cutting off my oxygen. I gasped, my mouth hanging open as I struggled to pull air into my lungs. Seeing my distress, Benedict reached out, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles with a sickening tenderness. “I know it hurts, Cora. But we have Beau now. It’s the same thing.” I looked at the sleeping infant in the bassinet, tears hot and silent tracking down my face. “It’s not the same…” Benedict’s brow furrowed. He dropped my hand, his voice dropping an octave into a warning growl. “How is it different? They’re both our blood. Just think of Beau as that first baby being reborn into your womb. It’s a second chance.” He stepped closer, his shadow looming over me. “And don’t forget, after the miscarriage, I dropped everything. I stayed by your side every second. I cooked every meal myself to make sure you recovered. Cora, I don’t owe you anything!” A new baby. A few weeks of nursing me back to health. He truly believed that could erase the agony of a child being ripped from my body? It was impossible. I would never accept it. Our raised voices woke Beau. He began to wail, a sharp, piercing sound. Benedict immediately scooped him up, his voice instantly shifting back to a gentle coo. When we first found out I was pregnant with Beau, Benedict’s joy had been performative but immense. He had spent months designing the nursery, buying enough clothes to fill three closets. He would press his ear to my stomach, telling the baby stories, feeling for kicks. This child was receiving all the fatherly love the first one had been denied. He really did love Beau. But now, the more he loved him, the more my soul burned. Benedict held Beau out to me, gesturing for me to take him. I stared at the child through bloodshot eyes, my arms remaining frozen at my sides. A flash of disgust crossed Benedict’s face. “And here I thought you’d grown up. I see that temper is still there.” He pulled the baby back. “If you’re going to be like this, then forget the baptism party tomorrow. We’ll just head straight to the courthouse and sign the divorce papers.” I stared at him, wanting to peel back his skin to see if there was anything human underneath. Five years ago, he had used the same threat. It was right after I’d found him in bed with Judy. My world, which I had just begun to glue back together after the kidnapping, shattered again. I had gone feral, screaming, clawing at Judy, recording a video to send to her mother-in-law. Benedict had slapped me hard enough to make my ears ring. “I was just in a bad mood,” he had said then. “I drank too much. If you can’t handle it, then leave. Divorce me.” A bad mood. Back then, my greatest fear was his unhappiness. I thought he was unhappy because my body was “soiled” from the kidnapping. I thought he was unhappy because of the “bastard” I was carrying. I had dropped to my knees, begging him not to leave. I had even hit my own stomach, tragically believing that Benedict’s infidelity was my fault, or the fault of the child inside me. Benedict had pulled me into his arms then, feigning compassion. “Cora, stop! You’ve already had one miscarriage. If you lose this one, you might never conceive again.” That was the reason he gave for keeping the baby. Now, the truth tasted like ash. He wasn’t worried about my body. He was worried that his foster sister’s dream of being the lady of a grand house would die if she didn’t have a child to present to her husband’s family. Seeing my face go pale, Benedict assumed I had been cowed by the threat of divorce once again. “Cora,” he said softly, “if you’re good, we can be a real family. You’re tired. Rest. I’ll take care of the baby tonight.” That night, Beau cried three or four times in the nursery next door. Benedict stayed with him. He didn’t come to me. And I didn’t go to him. The next day was the baptism party. I sat in my room, listening to the muffled laughter of guests downstairs praising the “beautiful baby.” I felt nothing. A hollow shell. The door clicked open. A soft, melodic voice drifted in. “Cora? Why are you hiding up here, sweetie?” Judy walked in, leading five-year-old Parker by the hand. The moment Parker saw me, he broke free and sprinted across the room, throwing his arms around my waist. “Auntie Cora! I missed you so much!” He had Brody’s face—those sharp, predatory features—but he had my eyes. The questions that had haunted me for years were finally answered in the shape of his pupils. The realization made my stomach turn over. I shoved the boy away as if he were a monster, a piercing shriek tearing from my throat. “Get off me! Don’t touch me!” Parker landed hard on his bottom, his face twisting in shock. Judy, however, smirked. Usually, whenever she saw Parker getting close to me, she’d be full of passive-aggressive remarks. Last Mother’s Day, Parker had made me a card. Judy had flown into a rage and, in front of everyone, walked over and kissed Benedict deeply on the mouth. “If you steal my son’s affection, I’ll steal your husband,” she had whispered loud enough for me to hear. When I tried to lung at her, Benedict held me back. “He’s just a kid, Cora. He gave you a gift. So what if Judy kissed me? It doesn’t mean anything.” I had smashed everything in the room that day. But Judy had discovered a new game. Whenever Parker was kind to me, she’d get intimate with Benedict. Then, shielded by Benedict’s protection, she would watch me spiral into madness. Now, Judy didn’t even pick up her crying son. She just looked at me. “What’s wrong, Cora? Parker loves you. He just wanted to be near you. While you were in recovery, he asked to see you every single day.” Just then, Benedict walked in carrying Beau. He frowned at Judy. “I told you not to bring him in here.” Judy walked over to Benedict, tucking her hair behind her ear and leaning into his arm. “I just thought Cora might want to hold her son.” She knew. Benedict had told her he’d confessed. She brought Parker here specifically to twist the knife. The rage peaked. I grabbed a glass vase from the vanity and hurled it at them. Benedict yanked Judy out of the way, his eyes wide with fury. “Cora! Have you lost your mind?” “I am out of my mind!” I lunged at Judy, my fingers reaching for her throat. A second later, I felt a heavy boot slam into my abdomen. Benedict had kicked me back. It might have been an accident in the scuffle, or it might have been intentional, but the blow landed right on my healing womb. It felt as if my internal stitches were being shredded. I collapsed, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. “Cora…” Benedict’s eyes softened with a momentary flicker of regret. He started to step toward me. Suddenly, a shout came from the hallway. Smoke began to curl under the door, thick and grey. “Fire! The kitchen is on fire!” Without a second thought, Benedict turned. He grabbed Judy with one hand and held Beau with the other, sprinting for the exit. I lay on the floor, the wind knocked out of me, my body refusing to move. I watched them disappear. I was trapped. Just as the smoke began to choke me, a figure burst through the haze. “Cora! Where are you?” I looked up, squinting through the stinging heat. When I saw the man’s face, my entire body locked up. Five years of suppressed agony came roaring back like a tide of venomous snakes. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” I screamed, thrashing wildly. But Brody pinned my arms down, his grip like iron. It was exactly like the dark room. “Shut up! Do you want to die?” Being touched by him was a fate worse than death. I fought, I screamed, and then I simply went limp, retching onto the floor. When we reached the safety of the lawn, Brody, his face scratched from my struggle, shoved me onto the grass with a curse. I hit the ground hard. Everything went black. I woke up in a hospital bed. Benedict wasn’t there. He only called once. “I’m sorry, Cora. Judy was right next to me, and I had the baby… I couldn’t reach you. But the second I got out, I told Brody to go back for you.” My voice was a ragged sob. “Benedict, do you hear yourself? You sent him? You know what he did—” Benedict’s voice turned sharp and impatient. “Stop being so dramatic. That was years ago. It’s over. I’m busy with Beau, and I have to deal with the insurance for the house. Brody will stay there and look after you while you’re admitted.” “Benedict, wait—” In the background, I heard Judy’s voice. “Benny, my ankle hurts. Come carry me to the bathroom!” The line went dead. He didn’t just have to care for Beau; he had to care for Judy’s sprained ankle. He chose to save her. He chose to comfort her. And he threw me back to my rapist. He handed me over to the man who had been a knife in my side for five years, then told me to stop being “dramatic” when the blade went deeper. I screamed into the empty room until my throat felt like it was bleeding. Brody walked in a moment later, looking smug. He poured a glass of water and set it on the bedside table. I swiped it onto the floor. He didn’t get angry. He just looked at the wet sleeve of his shirt. “Don’t be so hostile, Cora. After all, we’ve shared so many nights together. If you count them up, we’re practically an old married couple.” I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, my hands clutching the bedsheets so hard my knuckles turned white. Brody’s eyes dropped to my mouth. “Still biting your lip when you’re scared? Some things never change.” He reached out a hand. Like a panicked bird, I grabbed a shard from the broken water glass and slashed it across his forearm. “Get out! Get the hell out!” The shard sliced my palm too, blood blooming across my skin. I didn’t feel the pain. I felt nothing but a cold, crystalline hatred. Startled by the look in my eyes, Brody finally backed away and left the room. The day I was discharged, Benedict finally showed up. He was carrying a bouquet of camellias—my favorite. He took me to the bistro where we had our first date and ordered the spicy tofu dish I had craved all through my recovery. On the drive home, he talked incessantly about Beau. He couldn’t stop smiling. To him, even the baby peeing on him was a miracle of fatherhood. I sat in the passenger seat, a ghost in a designer dress. As we passed the municipal building, I spoke my first words of the day. “I want a divorce.” Benedict slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt. “What did you say?” He looked at me with genuine disbelief. The Cora who had been too broken to leave, even when he cheated, was finally saying the words. Just then, his phone buzzed. A text from Brody. Are you busy? Cora’s getting out today. Want me to pick her up? In an instant, Benedict’s eyes turned murderous. “Is this about him? Is that why you want to leave?” “No—” “You’ve been in that hospital for three days! Did you two hook up again? Is that it? Now that you know he’s the father of your kid, you can’t wait to get back into his bed? You like it, don’t you? You’re just a cheap—” The insults felt like physical slaps. I shook with rage. “I didn’t—” Benedict unbuckled his seatbelt and lunged across the center console, pinning me against the door. “You like being taken, right? Is that what you want?” He began tearing at the buttons of my blouse, his teeth sinking into the skin of my neck. “Benedict, stop! Get off me!” I summoned every ounce of strength I had and slapped him with a resounding crack. I glared at him, my voice trembling. “Go. Go find your foster sister. Leave me alone.” Benedict’s face was a mask of primal fury. He reached over, opened the passenger door, and shoved me out of the car. I tumbled onto the pavement, my clothes disheveled, my dignity stripped bare in front of the staring pedestrians. He didn’t look back as he sped away. I wrapped my arms around myself, enduring the judgmental whispers of strangers, and began the long walk home. The house that had partially burned was the one Benedict had bought specifically for my postpartum period. Back then, I thought he was being a devoted father and husband. I remember him helping the night nurse, his hands gentle as he held the baby. Now, that house was a charred ruin, and the “perfect life” we had lived there had vanished in the smoke. When I entered our temporary rental, I walked straight into Benedict and Judy on the sofa. They didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. I didn’t look at them. I walked past them as if they were furniture. I was in the bedroom packing when Judy walked in. She was wearing a sheer lace nightgown, her skin marked with fresh bruises of intimacy. “Cora, look at it this way,” she said, leaning against the doorframe. “My husband spent plenty of nights with you. I’ve only had Benedict twice this week. I’m still the one losing out.” I ignored her, folding a sweater. Her smirk vanished. She walked over and snatched a tiny, hand-knitted baby sweater out of my suitcase—the one I had made for my first child. She threw it on the floor and ground her heel into it. “He’s dead, Cora. Why keep this trash?” She leaned in close, her eyes glittering with malice. “You were so happy while Benedict was playing house with you, weren’t you? Well, here’s a secret. I told Benedict I was having nightmares. I told him your dead baby was coming back to haunt me. Do you know what he did?” My heart stuttered. “He took that little box of ashes,” she whispered, “found a back-alley occultist to put a sealing hex on it, and buried it right next to the municipal landfill. He wanted to make sure your ‘brat’ never bothered me again.” My brain went white. I lunged at her, a scream of pure, unadulterated grief tearing from my lungs. I tackled her to the floor, scratching, biting, a vengeful spirit in human form. Benedict burst in and ripped me off her. He backhanded me so hard my vision swam and my ears rang with a high-pitched whine. He threw a set of papers onto the bed. His signature was already there. “Sign them and get out, Cora. But think carefully. Do you really think Brody is going to marry you once I’m gone?” I let out a dry, jagged laugh. Without a word, I signed my name. Benedict’s expression shifted, turning ugly and dark. Just then, Beau woke up in the next room. He was hungry. Benedict looked at me, his eyes cold. “I’m keeping Beau. And since you’re leaving, you’re going to give him one last feeding.” I stared at him. “I don’t nurse him, Benedict. He’s on formula. You know that.” I remembered the night nurse once whispering that I was “heartless” for pumping and dumping my milk instead of feeding the baby. Benedict had fired her on the spot. He had told me, “It’s okay, Cora. I know you’re in pain. Formula is just as good.” Now, he grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “You’re going to feed him. Now.” “No!” I tried to grab my suitcase, but he jerked me back. “You’re going to do it!” He threw me onto the bed and pinned my wrists behind my back. Rip. The silk of my blouse tore open. I struggled, I screamed, I begged. “Benedict! You bastard! Let me go!” Brody and Judy appeared in the doorway, watching the spectacle. Benedict didn’t care. He forced the crying infant toward me. The moment the child latched on, the last shred of my pride was pulverized into dust. “Why… why are you doing this to me?” I whispered, my voice breaking. Benedict leaned down, his breath hot against my ear. “See, Cora? Look how happy he is. Are you really ready to never see your son again?” The pain was physical. It was spiritual. I closed my eyes, tears leaking through the lashes. After what felt like an eternity, Benedict finally let go. “Think about it, Cora. Are you really willing to lose us both?” He walked out with the satisfied baby. Judy and Brody followed, their laughter echoing down the hall. I lay on the bed like a discarded rag doll. My tears had run dry. He asked if I was willing to lose them? How could I not be? I didn’t want him. And I didn’t want this child. I changed into a fresh shirt. I picked up a medical report I had hidden in my bag and placed it on the bed next to the divorce papers. Then, I picked up my suitcase and walked out of that house, leaving the winter of my life behind. … Benedict returned to the bedroom an hour later. He expected to find a broken Cora waiting to apologize. But the room was empty. The suitcase was gone. She was really gone. She had actually signed the papers. He began to smash things in a blind rage—the lamps, the mirrors, the vanity. Then, his eyes caught the report lying on the bed. His face went deathly pale. His hands shook as he picked up the thin piece of paper. A Paternity Test.

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