Category: English

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

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

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

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I stayed by Carter’s side during his hardest five years, only to finally get his proposal. The night before our engagement party, I made him a plate of handmade spaghetti. It was his birthday. I took half a day off work, simmered the sauce for four hours, and hand-wrote every single wedding invitation. But when he came home, there was a woman in a white dress standing behind him. It was Seraphina, the first love he had pined over for years. Sera saw the food on the table and smiled softly. “Carter has a very sensitive stomach now, Chloe. He probably isn’t used to this kind of home-cooked stuff anymore, right?” Carter took off his coat and draped it naturally over her shoulders. “She spent a long time making it. Just have a few bites.” It sounded like a favor. Like charity. Sera sat in my usual seat and twirled a single strand of pasta. “It’s a bit salty.” Carter looked at me. “Put less salt next time.” I quietly said okay. But the next second, he slid a black card in front of me. “Sera just returned to the country and has nowhere to stay. She’ll be staying in our new house for now.” “You should go stay at Helen’s place for a while. There’s plenty of cash on the card. Don’t make things hard for yourself.” I looked at the spaghetti clumping together, then at the invitations with our names on them. The handwriting was so neat, yet so ridiculous.

When Carter slid the card in front of me, Sera was still sitting in my seat, slowly playing with the cold pasta. The spaghetti was completely soggy. Yet she acted like she didn’t notice, looking up with a sweet smile. “Chloe, please don’t misunderstand. I’m really just staying here for a few days.” Carter draped his coat over the chair, his voice flat. “Chloe, go stay with Helen for now. I’ll have someone pick you up before the wedding.” I stared at him. “That is our house.” “The deed is under my name.” He paused, as if realizing he sounded too harsh, and softened his tone. “Don’t throw a tantrum. Sera just got back. She doesn’t know her way around, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving her in a hotel.” Sera lowered her head. “Carter, maybe I should just leave. Chloe seems to really mind.” Carter frowned. “No need.” Suddenly, my throat felt incredibly tight. We chose that house together. I remembered telling him how the south-facing balcony would be perfect for growing mint and jasmine. He had replied that the kitchen needed to be huge so I would have plenty of room to cook. I believed him. So on the day we got the keys, I stood in the kitchen holding our new plates, feeling happy for hours. It turned out that all that excitement was mine alone. I picked up the invitations from the table. “What about the wedding?” Carter looked at me. “It goes on as planned.” “Where does my mom sit?” He looked like he had just remembered my mother existed. “Sera’s health isn’t good, so she needs to be at the VIP table where I can look after her. Helen can sit at the second table. It’s the same thing.” I let out a dry laugh. “My mom has bad legs.” “I’ll have the staff arrange a wheelchair.” He thought of everything. Sera put her fork down and sighed softly. “Chloe, Carter is already being so good to you. The wedding, the house, the ring—he hasn’t skimped on anything.” “You shouldn’t be too greedy.” I looked at Carter. He didn’t contradict her. The tiny spark of hope left in my heart was completely snuffed out by his silence. I put the invitations back on the table. “I’m not leaving tonight.” Carter’s brows furrowed. “Chloe, don’t make this difficult for me.” “I won’t.” I took the plate of spaghetti, walked into the kitchen, and dumped it into the trash can. Carter followed me inside, grabbing my wrist. “It’s just a plate of pasta. Is this really necessary?” “You’re right.” I looked down at the empty plate. “It’s just a plate of pasta.” He was quiet for a moment, then reached for the plate. “I’ll have the housekeeper make you something else.” I stepped back, avoiding his touch. Sera stood at the kitchen doorway, her voice sounding as soft as cotton. “Carter, let it go. I don’t think Chloe wants to see me right now.” Carter let go of my wrist and turned to her. “Go get some rest first.” Standing in the kitchen, I watched him open the door to the master bedroom for her. In that room, I chose the bedsheets. I installed the bedside lamp. Even the closet still held the silk pajamas I had bought for our wedding night. Before Sera stepped inside, she glanced back at me. She smiled. The door clicked shut. And in my hand, a hairline crack suddenly split across the empty ceramic plate.

The next morning, I woke up on the couch. I was covered with Carter’s suit jacket. I stared at it for a few seconds. Just as I was about to sit up, I heard Sera’s voice coming from the kitchen. “Carter, does Chloe hate me? She slept on the couch last night. Was she trying to make me feel guilty?” Carter’s voice was low. “She’s just stubborn. She’ll get over it in a couple of days.” “Are you going to blame me?” “No.” “But you used to say you didn’t want a noisy home after marriage.” Carter paused. “Chloe is very sensible.” I pulled the jacket off, folded it neatly, and placed it on the armrest. Sensible. Always “sensible.” I walked into the kitchen. Sera was holding a cup of warm milk, wearing my pajamas. She gasped when she saw me, looking startled. “Chloe, I’m so sorry. I didn’t bring any clothes last night, and Carter said I could wear yours.” Carter looked at me. “It’s just a set of pajamas.” I looked back at him. “Do you know that my mom bought those for me?” He froze. My mom didn’t know how to shop online. She spent hours in a department store picking those out, saying a girl should wear something comfortable and beautiful after getting married. I had been saving them. Sera bit her lip. “Should I take them off and give them back to you now?” Carter frowned. “Sera.” Then he turned to me. “Chloe, don’t be so petty.” I nodded. “Right. I’m the petty one.” Carter clearly didn’t like my tone. He reached out to pull my arm. “Go wash up. We’re going to try on wedding dresses today.” Sera’s eyes lit up, but she quickly looked down. “A wedding dress… that sounds wonderful.” Carter noticed. He always noticed Sera’s emotions instantly. Half an hour later at the bridal boutique, the stylist rolled out the wedding dress I had custom-ordered. Before I could even touch it, Sera whispered, “It’s so beautiful.” Carter looked at her. “Want to try it on?” My fingers went stiff. Sera waved her hands quickly. “That’s not right. It’s Chloe’s.” But Carter was already speaking to the stylist. “Bring another one in a size S.” I looked at him. “Carter.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sera just wants to see how it looks. Don’t overthink everything.” Sera went into the fitting room. When she came out, even the boutique staff gasped. She was very thin. Wearing my dress, the waistline hung loose. Carter stood in front of her, gently adjusting her veil. His movements were so natural, as if he had done it a thousand times. The stylist smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Carter look so perfect together.” The air went dead silent. Carter didn’t correct her. Sera blushed. “Don’t say that. The real bride is over there.” Everyone turned to look at me. I was sitting in the corner, still clutching the fitting receipt with my name on it. Carter finally looked back. “Chloe, go ahead and try yours.” I stood up. But before I could walk over, Sera suddenly tripped on the long train of the dress and fell forward. Carter caught her instantly, his voice tightening. “Are you hurt?” Sera leaned into his chest. “I think I sprained my ankle.” He picked her up in his arms immediately, turning to me. “Try it on yourself. Send me the pictures.” I watched them walk out. The stylist asked in a low, awkward voice, “Miss Helen… do you still want to try it on?” I looked down at the dress another woman had just worn. Suddenly, I felt completely drained. My phone buzzed. It was a message from my mom. *“Chloe, does the dress look beautiful? Mom is waiting for pictures.”* I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I turned it off.

Carter didn’t return until evening. He walked in holding a box of cake. “I bought this for you. Don’t be mad anymore.” I looked at the logo on the box. It was from Sera’s favorite bakery. He had waited in line with me there once. I found it too sweet and didn’t finish it. Back then, he said he would remember that. It turned out he didn’t remember my taste. He remembered hers. I asked, “How is Sera’s ankle?” “She’s fine. The doctor said she just needs to rest for a few days.” “What about the wedding dress?” Carter set the cake down. “We’ll order a new one.” “Is there enough time?” “We’ll just pay extra for rush delivery.” He was always like this. As if money could erase any insult. I took out my phone. “My mom wants to see the wedding photos.” Carter hesitated. “Don’t send them to her yet.” “Why?” “The boutique staff posted a video of Sera in the dress on TikTok. People in our circle saw it. I don’t want Helen to misunderstand.” I smiled. “Misunderstand what?” He looked at me, annoyed. “Chloe, do you have to talk like that?” Sera came out of the master bedroom, her ankle wrapped in a bandage, leaning against the doorframe. “Carter, don’t blame Chloe. It’s my fault.” I ignored her and looked straight at Carter. “Make her move out.” Carter’s expression darkened. “She can’t even walk right now.” “She can stay at a hotel with a nurse.” “She isn’t comfortable with strangers.” “And I’m not comfortable with another woman living in my future home.” He fell silent. Sera’s tears began to fall. “Chloe, if you really can’t stand me, I’ll leave right now.” She started hobbling toward the door. Carter immediately caught her, his tone dropping. “Stop nonsense.” Then, he turned to me. “Chloe, apologize.” I thought I heard him wrong. “What did you say?” “Sera didn’t mean any harm. Your words hurt her.” I clenched my fists. “And what about me?” Carter frowned. “You are my fiancée. You shouldn’t be so petty with her.” Fiancée. The word sounded so cheap coming from his mouth. I remembered the year his stomach ulcers got so bad that he called me at three in the morning. I rushed across the city to make him soup and stayed by his hospital bed all night. He had leaned back and told me, *“Chloe, I promise our home will always have a light left on for you.”* The light was still on. But it was shining on someone else. I didn’t apologize. Carter didn’t force me either. He just pulled out his iPad. “I had the digital invitations updated.” My chest tightened. “Updated to what?” “Sera is going to attend as a guest of honor. We added her name to the bridal party speeches.” I took the iPad and saw the digital invitation. Sera’s name was prominently displayed in the family speech section. My mother’s name had been pushed to the very bottom. I pointed at the screen. “Put my mom’s name back where it was.” Carter said, “The schedule is set. Don’t make a scene.” Sera whispered, “Chloe, I’m sure Helen doesn’t care about these minor details, right?” I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw the iPad onto the couch. Carter’s face went completely cold. “Chloe, you’re becoming unrecognizable lately.” I asked, “Then what should I be like?” He stared at me, speaking very slowly. “At least, you shouldn’t make me feel so exhausted.” Something blocked my throat. Sera spoke up at the perfect moment. “Carter, let’s drop it. Don’t we have to meet your mother tomorrow to sign the prenup? Don’t let me ruin your important day.” The prenup. I looked at Carter. He avoided my gaze. “It’s just a formality.” But at that moment, a horrible feeling washed over me.

When the prenuptial agreement was placed in front of my mom, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Carter sat across from her, his voice smooth and polite. “Helen, this is just to protect both sides. Chloe won’t be treated unfairly after we marry.” My mom didn’t understand legal jargon, but she understood one specific clause. *If the marriage is called off due to the bride’s actions, the bride must return the engagement ring and reimburse all wedding expenses.* She asked carefully, “What counts as ‘the bride’s actions’?” Sera, sitting beside Carter, explained gently, “For example, if Chloe’s emotional instability damages the family reputation.” My mom’s face went completely pale. I slammed the agreement shut. “We’re not signing this.” Carter looked at me. “Don’t be reckless.” “I said, I’m not signing it.” His voice remained calm. “Chloe, the invitations are already out. If you make a scene now, what will the relatives think of Helen?” That single sentence hit my weakest spot. My mom had been excited about this wedding for months. Whenever the neighbors asked, she would proudly tell them that Carter was a good man and that I was lucky. I couldn’t bear to imagine her face if she found out the truth. Sera slid the pen toward me. “Chloe, just sign it. Carter would never hurt you.” I stared at the pen. There was a scratch on the cap. It was a graduation gift I bought for Carter years ago. He had told me he used that exact pen to sign his first big business contract. Now, it was being used to force me into a corner. Suddenly, my mom clutched her chest, gasping for air. I jumped up in terror. “Mom!” Carter stood up too. “Get her to the hospital.” On the way, Carter drove incredibly fast. For a second, I thought he actually cared. Until Sera’s call came through the car speakers. Her voice was panicked. “Carter, my ankle hurts so bad. I’m all alone at home.” Carter gripped the steering wheel, silent for two seconds. I stared at him. “My mom is in the back seat.” “I know,” he said. But the car still pulled over at the next intersection. He called his assistant and told him to meet us, then turned to me. “He’ll go with you to the hospital. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Carter!” He didn’t look at me. “Sera is terrified of pain.” My mom leaned against me, weakly patting my hand. “Chloe, it’s fine. Let him go.” Even now, she was trying to save face for him. I suddenly realized how pathetic my persistence had been. At the hospital, the doctor said my mom had suffered an acute panic attack and needed to be admitted for observation. When I went to pay, my card was declined. The receptionist said, “This card has been frozen.” It was the secondary card Carter had given me for wedding emergencies. I called him. When it picked up, Sera’s voice came through. “Chloe, Carter is wrapping my ankle. He’s busy right now.” I said, “Put him on.” Carter took the phone. “What’s wrong?” “The card is frozen.” “I had my accountant freeze it.” His voice was cold. “You’re too emotional today. Take some time to calm down. My assistant will handle the hospital bills.” I gripped the phone tight. “My mom is waiting to be admitted!” There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. Then I heard Sera whisper in the background, “Carter, is Chloe still blaming me?” Carter sighed. “Chloe, stop using Helen to guilt-trip me.” I couldn’t say a single word. My mother lying in a hospital bed had become nothing but a bargaining chip to him. I had to text every contact in my phone to borrow enough money for the deposit. At 2:00 AM, I went back to the house to pack some clothes for my mom. The master bedroom door was ajar. Carter was standing by the bed, tucking Sera in. Sera asked, “What if Chloe refuses to sign the prenup tomorrow?” Carter replied, “She will.” “Are you that sure?” “She can’t live without me.” Standing outside the door, my fingers went completely numb. Sera asked again, “Do you love her?” Carter was silent for a very long time. So long that I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then I heard him say, “She’s suitable for marriage.”

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The sensation of falling into a bottomless abyss suddenly stopped. I opened my eyes, gasping for air. In my arms was a warm, fluffy ball of fur. Nugget, my Golden Retriever, was shivering, burying his wet nose into my palm. I was alive. I really came back. The bone-shattering pain of being pushed off the rooftop in my past life still felt incredibly real. “Chloe Miller! Are you deaf?!” My roommate, Ashley Vance, pinched her nose, taking a dramatic step back. Her perfectly manicured red nails pointed at Nugget as she stomped her feet in sheer disgust. “That smelly mutt is shedding everywhere! It’s literally ruining my Clean Girl Aesthetic!” “Throw him out right now! Don’t you dare contaminate my luxury minimalist space!” She screamed about high-end luxury and minimalism, yet the “designer” slippers on her feet were already peeling at the edges. In my past life, to keep the peace, I cried and sent Nugget to the countryside that very night. Nugget ended up eating poisoned rat bait and died a painful death. And my compliance only made her abuse worse. In the end, just to monopolize the cheap rental lease of this downtown apartment, she pushed me off the rooftop. New hatred and old grudges clashed in my chest, and my anger exploded. Minimalist? Dust-free? Afraid of dirt, huh? I held Nugget on my lap and pinched a large handful of loose golden fur from his back. Ashley froze, not realizing what I was doing. In one swift motion, I lunged forward and stuffed the massive clump of dog hair right onto her perfectly made-up face. “Ahhhh!” Ashley’s makeup was instantly ruined by the wet dog hair. She doubled over, gagging on the spot. “Chloe, are you insane?! How dare you throw that toxic trash at me!” She grabbed a bottle of expensive, imported disinfectant spray. Instead of backing down, I grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard. Ashley cried out in pain and dropped the bottle. It landed right in my hand. I held down the nozzle and sprayed it directly into her face and mouth. “You spend every weekend drinking cheap booze with random guys at clubs. Your mouth is crawling with bacteria.” “Every time you open it, you contaminate my air!” “Today, I’m giving you a deep disinfection!” Ashley covered her face, screaming, “You bitch! Tomorrow I’m throwing all your shit onto the curb!” Throw my things out? I sneered. I turned around and kicked open her bedroom door—the one she never allowed anyone to enter. Inside, the floor was littered with dirty underwear. The trash can was overflowing with moldy takeout boxes. *This* was the “minimalist luxury oasis” she bragged about on Snapchat? I didn’t waste any words. I walked straight to her bed. I grabbed her silk duvet—the one she took photos of every day to flex on Instagram—and yanked it off. “My duvet! Don’t touch my custom silk!” Ashley crawled in, trying to stop me. I dragged the duvet into the bathroom and stuffed it into the washing machine. Then, I opened the cabinet and grabbed a full, undiluted bottle of Clorox bleach. Right in front of her, I unscrewed the cap and poured the entire bottle onto her precious silk duvet. I slammed the lid and started the heavy-duty spin cycle. “No! My silk duvet is ruined!” I didn’t stop. “Don’t you love deep disinfection? Pure bleach is the best way to kill bacteria.” She collapsed onto the floor, crying her eyes out. I walked over, grabbed her by the collar of her silk pajamas, and hauled her up. I stared into her eyes, speaking slowly and clearly. “Try me again, and I’ll treat you like toxic waste and throw you in the dumpster. Got it?” Ashley looked into my eyes, shivered in pure terror, and nodded frantically.

The next day, my company had a massive project launch, and I had to work late into the night. The moment I stepped out of the elevator, I knew something was wrong. There was a brand-new digital keypad lock installed on the bathroom door. Taped to the door was a giant piece of paper with bold letters: 【CHLOE’S EXCLUSION BAN】 【Chloe is strictly banned from showering after 10 PM!】 【Your low-class, working-class odor will contaminate my high-end skincare products.】 【Violators will be fined $500!】 Looking at the sign, I laughed out of pure anger. It was exactly like my past life. Ashley always found new ways to torture me. Back then, I swallowed my pride, too afraid to fight back. I had to use a bucket to fetch cold water from the kitchen sink to wash myself in the dead of winter. I caught a fever of 104 degrees the next day. Yet, she complained that my coughing ruined her beauty sleep and forced me to sleep in my car. This life, I wouldn’t let her walk over me for even a second. She’s a double-standard clean freak? Fine. I’ll beat her at her own game. I opened Amazon for same-day delivery. I spent a fortune ordering a giant jug of industrial-strength Clorox bleach. I also bought a high-pressure power washer, a professional respirator, and an industrial UV sanitizing light. Once the orders were placed, I sat on the couch and waited. At 3 AM, the delivery driver dropped the packages at my door. I hooked the power washer hose to the kitchen sink. I poured the bleach straight into the soap tank. Everything was ready. At 7 AM the next morning, the sound of slippers echoed from Ashley’s room. Every day at this time, she would spend two hours in the bathroom for her so-called “it-girl morning routine.” The doorknob turned. Ashley walked out, yawning, wearing the silk pajamas that I had bleached to a faded grey. The second she took a step out of her room, I pulled the trigger on the power washer. The high-pressure blast of bleached water slammed directly into her chest. Before she could even react, the force knocked her flat on her back. “Ah! What the hell are you doing?!” Through my respirator, my voice sounded cold and robotic. “Your body is crawling with toxic parasites.” “If you want to step into my living room, you must go through a full-body de-contamination blast first.” Ashley shook with rage. “You psychopath! I’m calling the police!” Without lowering the power washer, I reached into a bag next to me and grabbed a handful of dirty, used wet wipes. I scattered them across the floor like confetti, completely blocking her path to the bathroom. Ashley tried to step forward, but shrank back when she saw the oily, dirty wipes. “Ew! Get them away! Get this trash away from me!” She was used to using moral high grounds and her fake rich persona to bully me. Faced with my absolute madness, she was completely lost. “If you don’t want to step on this trash, then cooperate,” I said, aiming the nozzle at her face. “What’s the bathroom passcode?” Ashley cowered, gritting her teeth to hold out. “I’m not telling you! You’re not ruining my bathroom!” I didn’t waste another second and pulled the trigger again. The high-pressure stream shot straight into her mouth. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! It’s 0721!” she choked and coughed, finally screaming the code in humiliation. I turned off the power washer and took off my mask. Holding Nugget’s leash, I strolled past her. “If you change the code, I’ll flood your room with the power washer.” Right in front of her, I punched in the code and walked into the bathroom.

On Sunday morning, a loud burst of laughter came from the living room. Ashley had brought over her rich boyfriend, Tyler Reynolds. Tyler was wearing hyped streetwear, but his sneakers were covered in thick, black mud. He walked right in, leaving muddy footprints all over Ashley’s prized white wool rug. Ashley, who usually demanded I disinfect the toilet three times after using it, acted like a spineless puppy. She completely ignored the mud. Instead, she giggled, poured him drinks, and practically glued herself to his side. “Babe, you have to help me. My psycho roommate is bullying me every single day.” Tyler blew a puff of vape smoke, looking contemptuously at my closed bedroom door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.” Half an hour later, the landlord banged on my door, furious. Tyler immediately whipped out a thick stack of cash, throwing down double the security deposit to buy off the greedy landlord. The landlord’s face changed instantly. He told me I had three days to pack my bags and get out. But they weren’t done. On Monday morning, the moment I arrived at the office, my manager called me into his office and screamed at me. He claimed my performance was terrible and that clients were complaining. Then, he stripped me of the core project I had been working on for six months and handed it to someone else. Specifically, to the new hire who had just been fast-tracked into the company today—Ashley Vance. Ashley, dressed in a designer pantsuit and high heels, strutted out. She was already trying to establish her “minimalist, clean-girl influencer” persona in the office. On her first day, she demanded that everyone keep a three-foot distance from her. During lunch, she walked over to my desk. She pinched her nose, using a folder to fan the air away from me. “Chloe, your low-class germs are literally drifting onto my custom blazer.” She picked up my stainless-steel mug with two fingers, looking disgusted. “Your mug is contaminating my files. I’ll buy you a new one out of my own pocket, okay?” The entire office fell silent. Everyone looked at me with pity. I stood up calmly. I opened my drawer and pulled out a portable digital microscope. I walked right up to her and pressed the lens against her precious custom blazer. The microscope was connected to my phone screen. I turned the brightness to the maximum. “Oh my god!” I suddenly gasped, raising my voice so the entire office could hear. “Ashley, why is your blazer covered in dead skin cells and… pubic lice?!” The entire office gasped. Ashley’s face drained of color. “What lies! This was just dry-cleaned!” I put on a pair of medical rubber gloves. Taking a pair of tweezers, I reached into her lapel with precision. I pulled out a coarse, curly, yellowish hair that definitely wasn’t hers. I held the hair high for everyone to see. “Clean girl? Dry-cleaned custom blazer?” “Which guy’s hair is this? You didn’t even shake it off before wearing it to work?” Before she could speak, I pulled a giant bottle of disinfectant spray from my bag. “Everyone back up! She’s a walking biohazard!” My coworkers scrambled away from her like she had the plague. When I got home after work, it was pouring rain. The moment I got to the building, I saw all my bags thrown into the muddy driveway. The landlord had already changed the locks. And my golden retriever, Nugget, was chained to a wet bush by the security guard, shivering and whimpering in the freezing rain. Job stolen, apartment gone, dog abused. A triple threat of misery slammed down on me. Tyler stood under the awning, his arm around Ashley’s waist, looking down at me in the rain. “Keep fighting us, loser. You’re just a broke bitch at the end of the day.” I didn’t say a word. I picked up Nugget and took him straight to the best 24-hour pet hospital to board him. Then, dragging my soaked luggage, I checked into a cheap motel. In Tyler and Ashley’s eyes, I had completely lost. But this was just a strategic retreat. The trap was set.

On Friday night, the company held its grand annual gala at a five-star hotel. Since the company was in the middle of a major IPO audit, everyone was there, along with several high-profile venture capitalists. Ashley wore a plunging designer gown, arm-in-arm with Tyler as they made their grand entrance. “The air here is so stuffy. It’s nothing like the crisp air in the Swiss Alps,” she complained loudly. Tyler sat at the VIP table, laughing and drinking with the CEO. Halfway through the night, Tyler put down his glass. He announced loudly that he would invest $5 million into the company on one condition: The CEO had to fire a “unprofessional, toxic” employee immediately—me. To secure the investment, the CEO immediately called security to throw me out. “Chloe Miller, pack your things and get out! Our company doesn’t need people like you!” Ashley sat next to Tyler, smiling victoriously. Just as the security guards stepped up to grab me, I kicked over the massive champagne tower next to me. At the same time, I plugged an encrypted USB drive into the control room computer. With one click, the massive high-definition LED screen in the ballroom lit up. The first gift was for Tyler. The screen displayed clear bank statements and contract screenshots. It showed the rental agreement for the luxury car Tyler drove tonight. It showed his forged asset documents used to get high-interest loans from loan sharks. It even showed text messages of him hiring actors to play his wealthy parents. The crowd gasped. The CEO’s smile froze. “Turn it off! Turn it off now! This is fake!” Tyler screamed. I ignored him and opened the second file—a special gift for Ashley. It was a compilation video of Ashley’s “clean, minimalist” life, filmed by a private investigator. The background was a disgusting, cheap room in a rundown trailer park. In the video, the glamorous Ashley was squatting on the floor. She was using a dirty plastic bucket—the same one she used to wash her underwear—to cook cheap instant ramen. Then, the scene cut to her walking down the street. She reached into a public trash can, pulled out a discarded, broken lipstick, wiped it with a tissue, and applied it to her lips. This video was the result of a month-long surveillance I paid for. Looking at the filthy reality on the screen, and then thinking of her usual “clean freak” behavior, the executives and coworkers were horrified. Several female coworkers actually gagged and ran to the bathroom. I picked up the microphone, my voice echoing through the speakers. “Your entire ‘minimalist luxury’ lifestyle comes from trash cans.” “You are a walking petri dish of bacteria.” Ashley covered her head, screaming as she tried to smash the screen. “It’s fake! All of it! Chloe is just jealous of me!” The CEO was furious. The $5 million investment was a scam, and now his company’s reputation was ruined. He slammed the table. “Security! Call the police! Investigate these two frauds!” Tyler and Ashley were pinned to the red carpet by security guards like wet dogs. I watched them struggle, thinking my revenge was complete. I turned to leave. But suddenly, Ashley broke free from a guard. She pulled out a document stamped with a official hospital seal, waving it in the air. “Officer! Help!” she shrieked at the arriving police. “This is her psychiatric evaluation! She is a diagnosed psychopath!” “She has homicidal delusions! She poisoned the drinks tonight to kill us all!”

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Ethan was always sharp-tongued. From the very first day he moved into my house, he never spared me. He complained that I dispensed herbs too slowly, and mocked me for being too stupid to identify species. He scoffed at how I, a single girl, spent my days chatting and laughing with the patients who came to our family clinic, calling it utterly improper. He even said my amateur medical skills were going to end up killing someone. I never really cared about his harsh words. Every time he mocked me, I just laughed it off. But as the neighbors heard it more and more, they began to shake their heads. “The Jiang family raised their daughter to be a useless free-rider. How is she ever going to get married?” I heard all those whispers, but I didn’t care. Because Ethan had promised me that once he matched into the residency program at the city’s top medical center and became a licensed attending physician, he would come back to marry me. He had promised me himself. On the day my father was on his deathbed, he gripped Ethan’s hand tightly and said, “Ethan, I’m leaving Ivy to you.” With bloodshot eyes, Ethan nodded heavily. I was crying so hard I could barely stand, on the verge of fainting. He stood behind me for a very long time before speaking in that stiff, awkward tone of his. “Don’t be afraid.” Just those four words. I held onto them for five years. His parents had passed away early in a car crash. My father took pity on him, and seeing his natural talent for medicine, knew he was a rare gem. So my father brought him into our home, paid for his food, housing, and tuition, and even showed him the Jiang family’s private medical logs—secrets we never shared with outsiders. Some people said my father was a fool, raising an outsider who might just turn out to be an ungrateful wolf. But my dad wouldn’t listen. He only said a healer must have a benevolent heart, and a good talent shouldn’t be wasted. Later, my father passed away too. He left Jiang’s Apothecary to me, and he left Ethan to me. The day Ethan went to the city to report for his residency, I took a faded, yellowed notebook from my purse and stuffed it into his hands. It was the Jiang family’s ancestral medical log, containing exclusive treatments for dozens of rare and complex illnesses. “Take it,” I said. “The city’s major hospitals are full of hidden talents. This notebook will help you secure your footing.” Ethan frowned, a complex emotion flickering in his eyes—partly disdain, partly greed. “This is too valuable. I won’t let you down. I’ll bring it back when I come to marry you.” After saying that, he opened the car door and drove off without looking back. That night, I thoroughly washed the small clay pot I used to brew his daily herbal teas and put it away in the cabinet. Life went on. I waited for his messages, but I didn’t receive a single one. Until one day, Mrs. Gable, a neighbor, came to the apothecary to pick up her prescription. While waiting, she chatted with me. “Ivy, that Dr. Vance of yours is really making us proud. My son came back from the city and said everyone in the healthcare system is talking about him. The youngest attending physician appointed at the City Central Hospital this year is from our town. I knew it had to be your Ethan!” The scale in my hand paused. My heart pounded furiously, like a drum. He was coming back. But a few days later, Mrs. Gable returned, this time with an awkward look on her face. “Ivy… my son brought back some other news. Your Dr. Vance is married. He married Chloe Hearst, the daughter of the chairman of the Hearst Group in the city.” The wrapping paper in my hand slipped, and the dried herbs scattered all over the floor. A bitter scent filled the air. “Who did you hear that from?” “It’s all over the city. They say Miss Hearst had a bizarre illness that the top hospitals couldn’t cure. Dr. Vance cured her with a single custom formula. Chairman Hearst was so thrilled that he gave his daughter’s hand in marriage to him.” I didn’t believe it. I sent him a text message with just one line: “Ethan, is the news about the Hearst family true?” No reply. I waited for a month, checking my phone every single day. A month later, I finally got an answer. It wasn’t a text. It was him, in the flesh.

When Ethan stepped through the doors of Jiang’s Apothecary, I was behind the counter checking the books. He wore a custom-tailored dark grey suit and a luxury Swiss watch on his wrist that I couldn’t even name. He was no longer the intern who wore a dusty lab coat and smelled of herbal smoke. Beside him stood a slender woman wearing designer sunglasses. She drifted in with the faint, expensive scent of Chanel No. 5, which clashed horribly with the bitter smell of herbs in the shop. “Ethan…” I stood up, my voice trembling slightly. He didn’t look at me. His cold gaze swept across the apothecary where he had lived for ten years. As if he were looking at a dusty old warehouse that had nothing to do with him. “Miss Jiang,” he spoke, his tone as distant as if he were addressing a stranger. Miss Jiang. Not Ivy. My chest tightened, as if pierced by an invisible needle. “Bring out the centuries-old wild ginseng of the Jiang family,” he said in a stiff, commanding tone. “Chloe’s body is weak. She needs it to restore her vitality.” I froze. That centuries-old wild ginseng was the treasure of the Jiang family. More importantly, it was what my father had desperately commanded me to keep to save Ethan’s life. Ethan was born prematurely, carrying a congenital weakness in his system. Every time the seasons changed, his joints would ache terribly. My father said that by the time Ethan turned twenty-five, the illness would attack his heart and lungs. Only this specific ginseng, combined with our family’s unique acupuncture technique, could root it out. I had guarded this ginseng as if I were guarding his life. “Do you know who this ginseng was kept for?” I stared into his eyes, trying to find a trace of the past. Ethan let out a cold laugh, pulled a sleek black card from his wallet, and slammed it onto the counter. “Besides Chloe, who else deserves such a rare treasure? Ivy, I know you’re greedy. The money on this card is enough to buy ten of your little apothecaries. Don’t be ungrateful.” The black credit card gleamed sharply in the dim light of the shop. The woman behind the sunglasses coughed twice, her voice delicate and soft. “Ethan, if Miss Jiang is unwilling to part with it, then forget it. My health doesn’t matter.” “Chloe, don’t worry about it. There is no medicine in this world that I, Ethan Vance, cannot get.” When he turned to look at Chloe, his tone was so gentle it could melt. That kind of gentleness was something he had never given to me. For ten years, all he gave me was sarcasm and impatience. Looking at him, I suddenly found it incredibly hilarious. I burst out laughing, laughing so hard that tears almost came to my eyes. “Fine. I’ll sell it.” I turned around, went into the back room, and retrieved the redwood box containing the ginseng from the safe. The box was carved with intricate patterns. I had wiped it clean every day to keep it shining. I walked back out, pushed the box in front of him, and then slid his black card back. “Dr. Vance, I only take cash or wire transfer. Once the payment clears, we are done. From now on, the Jiang family has nothing to do with you.” Ethan’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he hadn’t expected me to agree so easily. He opened his mouth, seeming to want to say something, but in the end, he just let out a cold snort, picked up the box, and supported Chloe as they turned to leave. As he reached the door, he stopped. Without turning around, he said, “Ivy, you’re still as gold-digging as ever. You only care about money.” I watched their figures disappear at the end of the street. Ten years. He ate my family’s food, used my family’s money, and learned my family’s medicine. My father supported him to help him succeed, and I waited for him to come back and marry me. And before leaving, all he had for me was the word “gold-digger.” That night, I set up a fire pit in the backyard and threw the half-made wedding dress I had been sewing into the flames. The fire flared up high. The white silk curled, turned black, and dissolved into ashes. Leo, the young apprentice, peeked from the doorway and whispered, “Ivy, what are you…” “I don’t need it anymore.” The words squeezed out of my throat, dry and hollow, like I had swallowed a handful of sand. I didn’t cry. Not a single tear fell. But my throat felt like it was being squeezed tightly, making it hard to breathe. I stood up, my legs a bit weak. I held onto the edge of the table for a moment, then walked behind the counter and started tapping on the iPad register. *Tap, tap, tap.* As the numbers flashed, my hands stopped shaking. That was the method my dad taught me. He said when your mind is messy, just do the math. Once the numbers are clear, your mind will be at peace. I calculated the apothecary’s accounts from beginning to end. Once wasn’t enough, so I did it again. By the third time, my fingers stopped cooperating. I pressed the wrong button, then another. I stopped and pushed the iPad aside. I went back to my room, lay down, and reached under my pillow out of habit. It was empty. The medical log notebook had already been taken by him. I had been reaching for it for over six months, and every time I found nothing, my heart felt a little emptier. I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head. Forget it. The man was gone, the book was gone, and the ginseng was sold. What was the point of thinking about it? He didn’t even care about his own life anymore, so why should I worry for him?

After Ethan left, business at Jiang’s Apothecary got worse by the day. Rumors spread that “the Jiang girl failed to cling to the genius doctor and was dumped.” Our old clients all drifted to the chain pharmacy down the street. Chloe’s personal assistant came by once. Dressed in a sharp business suit, she walked into the apothecary, covering her nose with a silk handkerchief in disgust as she circled the counter. “Oh, so this is the famous Jiang clinic? Smells like mold.” She let out a cold laugh. “Miss Jiang, our Dr. Vance is a merciful man. Out of pity for your family taking him in back then, he sent me to offer you a way out. You can’t keep this place running on your own anyway. Why not sell it to the Hearst Group’s health management branch? Dr. Vance can even arrange a receptionist job for you here. You still need to eat, right?” I looked up at her, my hands never stopping as I crushed herbs with the copper pestle. “Are you here to buy medicine, ma’am? If not, please leave. Jiang’s Apothecary is not for sale.” Her face twisted, and she spat, “Ungrateful brat! Dr. Vance said it himself—a placebo healer like you who can’t even tell herbs apart will kill someone sooner or later! Just you wait!” She clacked away in her high heels. I didn’t have time to deal with her. The counter was piled with last month’s bills and several herbs that desperately needed processing. That afternoon, a light drizzle started to fall outside. A man wearing a dark blue trench coat walked into the shop. “Excuse me, can you treat patients here?” I looked up and saw a face as warm and smooth as jade. His eyes were beautiful, like a clear lake in autumn. They carried a reassuring calm. In his arms, he held a young man whose face was turning purple, his breathing extremely weak. “Lay him flat, loosen his collar.” I quickly set down my work, walked over, and checked his carotid artery. His pulse was thin and weak, barely there. “Your friend is lucky he ran into me.” I turned to the cabinets, swiftly grabbing herbs, mixing them, preparing an injection, and applying acupuncture. Forty minutes later, the young man let out a long breath. His color slowly returned to a normal pale state, and his breathing stabilized. The man in the trench coat let out a sigh of relief and pulled out his phone to pay. “I’ll transfer you ten thousand.” “Ten thousand?” I was stunned. “The cost of the medicine is less than fifty. With the treatment fee, just give me fifty dollars.” He lowered his phone and smiled. His smile was like a warm spring breeze. “You have incredible skills, Dr. Jiang. I asked three major hospitals in the city about this toxin, and they all said it was untreatable. You cured it in under an hour.” I blinked, counting his change. “Do you know me? Are you from the city?” “Julian Cole, from Cole Pharmaceuticals.” He bowed slightly, pulling a card from his cardholder and handing it to me. “My father was an old friend of your father’s. I came here when I was a kid.” He looked at me, his gaze gentle, without a hint of arrogance. “Back then, you were sitting behind the counter cutting licorice root. You cut your finger and cried so hard, your eyes getting all red like a startled rabbit.” My face flushed instantly. “Mr. Cole, the fee is fifty. Here is your change.” I pushed the cash forward. “Keep it.” “We are strangers. I can’t take extra money from you.” He paused, then accepted the change. “Then I won’t overpay,” he said. “But can I come by and sit here sometimes?” “Sit in an apothecary?” “Yes. Have some tea, chat. And maybe learn a thing or two about natural medicine.” I looked at him, unsure of what he was planning. But his eyes were clean. There was no scrutiny like Ethan’s, nor any mockery like that assistant’s. He just stood there quietly, waiting for my answer. “Suit yourself. Just don’t disrupt my business.” He smiled. Not a polite, formal smile, but a genuinely happy one. His eyes curved, and the calm lake in his gaze rippled with warmth. “See you tomorrow then.” He turned and walked out. His dark blue figure stepped into the rainy alley, opening a long-handled black umbrella before disappearing. I lowered my head and continued crushing the herbs. *Thud, thud, thud.* As the pestle struck the mortar, my heart rate finally began to slow down.

Julian began to visit Jiang’s Apothecary regularly. Not for treatment, just to hang out. He brought premium green tea, sweet pastries from the city’s best bakery, and interesting news from the outside world. He sat in his corner, and I worked in mine. We each minded our own business, occasionally exchanging a word or two. Once, he picked up a prescription sheet I had written and flipped through it. “Your handwriting has gotten really beautiful, and this herbal formula is incredibly elegant.” “Practice makes perfect. I used to be told my work was absolute garbage,” I said flatly. “You’ve always been amazing.” He looked at me, his tone earnest. “Your father told my father years ago that his daughter’s talent for identifying medicine was a once-in-a-century gift. He said you were a natural-born healer.” My eyes stung, turning red. This was the first time anyone had told me that my father had praised me. Under Ethan’s long shadow, I had always believed I was just a useless fool. “The day I came here with my father when we were kids, he pointed at you while you were drying herbs in the yard. He said, ‘That little girl’s medical skills will definitely surpass yours in the future.’” I lowered my head, pounding the herbs in my mortar with extra force. The loud noise masked the tears that were about to fall. Julian didn’t say anything, quietly sipping his tea. After a few sips, he suddenly asked, “Do you still receive a rare herb every autumn?” My hands stopped. “How do you know about that?” “One year, I passed by your clinic and saw a package at the door containing a rare snow lotus. You were crouching there, opening it and looking around in confusion.” “That did happen. It’s been going on for years. Every year is different—sometimes wild ginseng, sometimes rare mushrooms. I never figured out who sent them.” “You never checked the tracking number?” “I did. The sender was always anonymous.” “Did they keep coming?” “Yes, every year.” “Who do you think it is?” I shook my head. He was asking too many detailed questions. A thought suddenly crossed my mind. I looked up at him. He still looked perfectly calm, head lowered as he drank his tea, his long eyelashes casting shadows that hid his expression. Could it be him? But as soon as the thought appeared, I crushed it. No way. How old was he back then? Besides, as the heir to a massive pharmaceutical empire, why would he send such expensive herbs to me year after year for no reason? I was overthinking. “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Probably some patient my father saved in the past.” Julian didn’t push further. He set his teacup down and looked out at the drizzling rain. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” he said. “Just wondering.” He stood up and walked to the door. “See you tomorrow.” The door clicked shut, and he was gone. I sat behind the counter, holding the pestle, feeling as though a feather had gently brushed against my heart. But it was just a fleeting sensation. Who knew. I lowered my head and got back to work.

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Three years of being Chloe Sinclair’s ghostwriter and secret boyfriend. Three years, only to watch her hand my three-month labor of love to her newly returned Ivy League ex, Julian Thorne. I stood in the hallway, watching through the crack of the door. Chloe was leaning against the wall, laughing with her secretary. “Ethan is just a tool I pay to get things done,” she said, her voice dripping with casual dismissal. “Once Julian gets the hang of the business, I’ll fire him. He’s an eyesore anyway.” She probably thought I’d crawl back to her, wagging my tail like a loyal dog, begging her to let me stay. Hilarious. I never became her secret lover because I cared about her fake affection. I did it for the industry-leading resources she controlled—the kind of elite, high-profile projects a regular guy like me could never touch otherwise. Now, my portfolio is so stacked that any top-tier agency in the city would tear each other apart to hire me. Chloe, you useless stepping stone. I’m officially done using you.

“Ms. Sinclair, this Starfire campaign is an absolute masterpiece!” “Especially the reverse-marketing strategy at its core. Incredible!” “Which creative genius in your agency came up with this?” Inside the sleek, glass-walled boardroom of our penthouse office, our biggest client, Mr. Davis, was practically vibrating with excitement. He slammed his hand on the mahogany table in pure admiration. I stood in the dimmest corner of the room, my fingers gripping the presentation clicker so hard my knuckles turned white. My palms were slick with cold sweat. But I kept my face blank. My eyes instinctively drifted to the woman sitting at the head of the table—Chloe Sinclair. She was my boss, and for the last three years, my secret girlfriend. That 120-page pitch deck was the result of seven straight all-nighters. I had analyzed thousands of competitor strategies and drank energy drinks until my stomach literally bled just to perfect it. Every word, every graph, was bought with my blood and sweat. I had foolishly believed that this time, Chloe would keep her promise. That she would finally let me put my name on the deck and introduce me to the client. Instead, Chloe just smiled. A look of smug triumph washed over her gorgeous, cold face. With a casual wave of her manicured hand, she pointed to the man sitting right next to her. A man wearing a custom-tailored designer suit, sporting a perfectly styled, handsome face—Julian Thorne. “You have a great eye, Mr. Davis,” Chloe purred. “This is our newly appointed Creative Director, Julian Thorne.” “He’s an Ivy League graduate. This entire campaign was his brainchild.” *Boom.* My brain went completely numb. A sharp ringing in my ears drowned out the murmurs of the room. Julian? He had joined the company less than three days ago! He didn’t even understand our basic business model yet. Aside from sipping espresso and flipping through magazines in his office, the guy didn’t even know how to format a PowerPoint slide! How dare he steal my life’s work? I stared at Chloe, waiting for a flicker of guilt, a fleeting glance of apology, or even a subtle signal. Nothing. She didn’t even spare me a passing glance. Julian gave a modest, polished nod, adjusting his expensive cufflinks with practiced grace. His voice was smooth and deep. “You flatter me, Mr. Davis. It was just a sudden spark of inspiration. Honestly, it’s all thanks to Chloe’s brilliant leadership.” “Haha! A match made in heaven! Powerhouse duo!” Mr. Davis laughed, before shifting the topic. “But Julian, I do have a quick question about the execution phase. How exactly did you calculate the conversion rate model for the emotional resonance phase?” The boardroom suddenly fell dead silent. The slick smile on Julian’s face froze. He turned to Chloe, his eyes wide with a look of pure, unadulterated panic. How could he possibly explain the model? He didn’t even know what the words meant! Chloe’s brow furrowed slightly. Under the table, her high heel sharply kicked my shoe. She turned her head slightly, shooting me a furious, impatient glare. “Ethan,” she hissed under her breath, her voice barely a whisper meant only for Julian and me. “What are you standing there for? Feed him the explanation, now!” At that exact moment, my heart went completely cold. Three years. I had lived like a ghost in her shadow, writing every single viral campaign that built her career. I helped her climb from a low-level manager all the way to Vice President of this branch. She used to hold me in bed late at night, tracing my brow with her fingers. *“Ethan, your mind is a work of art,”* she would whisper. *“Everyone else only sees my spotlight, but I know you are my soul. Once my position is secure, I’ll bring you out of the shadows. We’ll stand together.”* And I had believed her. Like an idiot, I endured the mockery of our coworkers, content to play the role of her low-paid, coffee-running “assistant” just for that empty promise. But now that her golden boy ex was back, I didn’t even deserve to be a shadow anymore. I was just a human teleprompter to be used and discarded. I took a deep breath, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. I stepped up behind Julian, leaned down slightly, and spoke in a clear, professional tone. I recited the complex mathematical model word for word. Julian parroted my words like a well-trained monkey, stumbling slightly but getting the message across. Mr. Davis looked a bit puzzled by the awkward delivery, but he ultimately nodded in satisfaction. He signed the ten-million-dollar contract right then and there. Once the meeting wrapped up and the room cleared out, Chloe leaned back in her leather chair. She tossed a thin white envelope at my feet. “Good job today. You didn’t screw up. Here’s your bonus.” I looked down at the envelope. There was maybe five hundred dollars in there. Meanwhile, the commission on this ten-million-dollar deal was easily worth fifty grand. I bent down, picked up the envelope, and let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Thank you, Ms. Sinclair.” Chloe stood up, looking down her nose at me with patronizing pity. “Ethan, I know you feel cheated.” “But Julian just returned to the country. He needs a big win to establish himself here.” “Besides, you only have an associate degree from a community college. Even if we put your name on the pitch, the clients wouldn’t respect it.” “Be smart about this. Play your cards right, and I’ll take care of you later.” “I understand,” I replied, my voice so calm it surprised even me. “Good.” Chloe tapped my cheek affectionately. “Now go book a Michelin-star restaurant. I’m taking Julian out to celebrate tonight.” I turned and walked out of the boardroom. The second the heavy doors clicked shut behind me, I pulled out my phone and opened my bank app. Looking at the newly updated balance, my lips curled into a smile. That was the last of the money I had saved over the years from freelancing and stock trading. With this extra five hundred dollars, I finally had enough to pay off my younger brother’s final surgery bill and fully clear my family’s old debts. The chains that had bound me for three years finally shattered into dust. Chloe, did you really think I loved you enough to destroy myself for you? You thought wrong. I only put up with your toxic garbage because of your elite connections—the high-profile portfolio builders that allowed me to fast-track my career. Now, my personal portfolio is strong enough to open doors at any global agency in the world. I don’t owe you a single thing anymore. Just wait and see.

The next morning, I walked into Chloe’s office carrying her usual hot black coffee. She was leaning back in her chair, laughing with Julian. The moment Julian saw me, his smile vanished, replaced by the arrogant sneer of a high-and-mighty director. “Just put the coffee down, Ethan,” Julian said, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, by the way, I heard you have a personal master folder on your computer? The one with all your old ideas and unused creative drafts?” “Copy it onto a flash drive and bring it to my desk. I’m looking for some inspiration.” I felt a cold laugh rising in my chest. That master folder held three years of my blood, sweat, and tears. It was my core competitive edge. And he thought he could just take it with a snap of his fingers? “Mr. Thorne, those are just rough, useless scraps. I wouldn’t want to waste your time with such garbage,” I said smoothly, keeping my eyes lowered. “Stop making excuses,” Chloe interrupted, tapping her fingers impatiently on her desk. “If Julian wants the drive, you give him the drive.” “Those unpolished drafts of yours are useless anyway. If they can give Julian a spark of inspiration, you should be honored.” “Go do it. Now.” “Understood, Ms. Sinclair.” I turned and walked back to my desk. I opened the folder titled “Master Brainstorm.” I selected every single valuable, high-impact strategy, and moved them over to my encrypted personal cloud storage. Then, I went online, downloaded about three hundred generic, outdated, free templates and buzzword-heavy copy, threw them into a folder, named it “Core Creative Assets,” and sent it over to Julian. You want to plagiarize me? Good luck with that trash. That afternoon, while making a run to the breakroom, I called a premier executive recruiter. “Hey, Marcus. It’s Ethan Vance.” “Yeah. Did you get a chance to look over my portfolio?” “…Awesome. Apex Media? Perfect. I can do an interview whenever they’re ready.” Apex Media. The undisputed giant of the advertising world. And Chloe’s biggest, most ruthless competitor. Hanging up the phone, I felt like I could finally breathe again. That night was the company’s celebration gala. The VIP lounge was filled with flashing lights, clinking champagne glasses, and loud laughter. Chloe led Julian around the room, introducing him to major investors and clients, positioning him as the next big thing. Meanwhile, as the “executive assistant,” I was relegated to the furthest table in the corner, squeezed in with the fresh interns. “Look at Ethan. What a loser.” “He followed Chloe around for three years and couldn’t even get a real promotion. Now that her actual boyfriend is back, he’s totally discarded.” “What did he expect? He’s just a community college kid. Did he really think he could climb into high society?” “Honestly, he’s just eye candy. A pretty boy toy Chloe kept around.” My coworkers’ whispers cut through the air, but I just kept eating my steak, my face completely expressionless. Their petty insults meant nothing to me. Compared to what I was about to do, this was just a light appetizer. A few drinks later, a heavily jeweled, tipsy woman staggered over to our table. It was Victoria Gable, a major distribution partner notorious for harassing young male employees. “Well, well, if it isn’t little Ethan,” Victoria slurred, sliding into the seat next to me. She slid her hand onto my forearm, her fingers tracing slow, suggestive circles. “Why are you sitting all alone in the corner? Come drink with me.” My body went completely rigid. A wave of intense nausea hit my stomach. I stood up abruptly, stepping back to create distance, and said coldly, “Ms. Gable, you’ve had too much to drink. Please respect my boundaries.” “Oh, please! Stop acting so innocent!” Embarrassed in front of the interns, Victoria’s face twisted in anger. “Everyone knows you’re Chloe Sinclair’s little pet.” “If Chloe can play with you, why can’t I? Spend the night with me, and I’ll guarantee your team a massive contract next quarter.” The commotion caught the attention of the entire room. The music seemed to quiet down as everyone turned to watch the drama unfold. I looked over at Chloe. She was standing not far away, holding a champagne flute, watching me with absolute indifference—like I was a complete stranger. Not only did she make no move to help me, but a mocking smirk also played on her lips. In that single second, the last trace of respect I had for her evaporated. This was the woman I had protected for three years. To her, I was just a piece of meat to be traded away to please a client. Just then, Julian strolled over, drink in hand. He stepped smoothly between Victoria and me, flashing a charming smile. “Now, now, Ms. Gable. Why waste your energy on a useless little assistant?” “Let me buy you a drink instead. Consider it an apology on his behalf.” Victoria’s attention immediately shifted to Julian, her eyes scanning him up and down. “Now that’s what I call professional. Fine, I’ll let it slide for Chloe’s sake.” Julian turned back to me, wearing the smug grin of a victor. “Ethan, aren’t you going to thank Ms. Gable for being so generous?” He condescended. “In this industry, you need to keep your eyes open. Don’t go around causing trouble.” I looked at the two of them. It was almost comical. Without saying a word, I reached down, grabbed a glass of rich red wine from the table, and—before anyone could react—slammed the liquid right into Victoria Gable’s heavily made-up face. “Ah! You absolute bastard!” Victoria shrieked, clutching her eyes. The entire venue fell dead silent. Chloe’s face turned white with rage as she stormed over, raising her hand to slap me. “Ethan! Have you lost your mind?!” I caught her wrist mid-air, meeting her furious gaze with a cold, piercing stare. “I don’t like dirty things,” I whispered. I let go of her wrist and walked out of the venue without looking back, leaving their prestigious gala in absolute ruins.

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Seven men walk out of my mother’s chamber that night, tightening their belts as they go. My father stands at the end of the hall with his new whore draped on his arm, watching Mother fall apart and enjoying every second of it. “You used to walk around like a true Wynne lady,” he says. “Too pure to share a roof with my Sera.” “Now half the town’s hands have been on you. Surely you can let me take Sera as my second wife.” Mother doesn’t scream. She doesn’t weep. She just walks to the hearth and drops his betrothal locket into the fire. The next morning, Father throws a wedding bigger than the one he gave Mother. Banners. Trumpets. Every lord and lady in the town is packed into our great hall. Seraphina glides down the aisle in white silk, smiling like she’s already won. I sit beside Mother, holding her cold hand under the table. Then it happens. A bundle of parchment comes raining down from the gallery above. Drawings. Dozens of them. My mother. Naked. On her knees. Strangers’ hands all over her. I lunge for them. I tear what I can reach. I throw my body over the ones I can’t. “Don’t look at her! Stop looking at her!” I scream until my throat tears. But everyone has already seen. The laughter starts low, then spreads like fire in dry hay. Father stands up. His face is purple. “If you love showing yourself off so much — then by God, I’ll let you show yourself off.” “Guards! Put her on the Wooden Horse!” I scream. I claw at the old nurse’s hands as she drags me from the hall. The Wooden Horse. I’ve heard the old nurse whisper about it before, “The cruelest thing they can do to a woman, my lady. That’s all you need to know.” Now, I see it: it’s a wooden beast, they make a woman ride, torn open between her legs — bleeding, ruined, no good for any man or any child, ever again. Their laughter follows me down the corridor. “A woman who’s ridden the Wooden Horse pisses herself the rest of her life. Might as well be dead.” “Generous of the Earl, sharing his own wife with us.” “Sweeter than any tavern girl, I’ll swear.” I go cold all over. The old nurse drags me back to my chamber. I’m not in my body anymore. I sit by the window all night. Mother doesn’t come. She doesn’t come at dawn either. It’s nearly noon when I’m finally allowed into her room. The smell hits me first. Blood and worse. She’s lying on the bed, eyes open, staring at nothing. Her nightgown is white, but under it she is every color a body shouldn’t be. Black. Purple. Yellow at the edges. “Mama —” My hand shakes too hard to touch her. I turn for the door, ready to scream for a physician — The curtain whips open. Father walks in with Seraphina painted up on his arm. He smells the room and recoils, pressing his sleeve over his nose. He looks down at Mother like she’s a stain on the floor. “Elinor. Stop performing.” “I told every man not to actually touch you. Must you put on this dying act?” I open my mouth to fight him. To tell him she’s broken in pieces. Mother grabs my wrist first. From under her pillow she pulls out a folded parchment. “Cedric.” Her voice is paper. “I want an annulment. I’ll take it to the bishop myself.” “I want nothing of this Keep. No gold. No land. No title.” “Only Pearl.” Father’s brow knots. Then he laughs, short and ugly. “Don’t be stupid, Elinor. Your father is dead. Your brother is dead. Your mother’s been dead since you were a girl. Where would you even go?” I freeze. So he remembers. He remembers that my uncle drew the heathen arrows off his back and died with a thousand of them in his chest, his body still lying somewhere in the wastelands without so much as a stone. He remembers my grandfather striking his own head against the throne room steps until the King granted him the seal that saved Father’s army. He remembers kneeling before the Wynne crest, sword in both hands, swearing on the blade: I, Cedric Thorne, will keep Elinor Wynne safe all my days. One wife. One love. No other. But “all my days” turned out to be three years. Three years before he came back from the northern wars with a woman on his saddle. Because she was an orphan, he said, Mother should be kind. Give Seraphina the best chambers. Because Seraphina sneezed at white roses, Mother’s garden — five years of her own hands in the soil — was ripped out by morning. And when Mother carried my baby brother, and Seraphina whispered the child’s stars would cross hers and shorten her life — Father held Mother down himself and forced a full cup of pennyroyal down her throat. She bled all night. I heard her scream through three walls. Father was in the great hall. Music. Wine. Seraphina on his lap. The drums drowned everything. That was the night the father who used to lift me onto his shoulders to watch the festival fires — died.

As if afraid Mother will say the word annulment again, Cedric snatches the parchment and throws it into the hearth. The flames eat it in a breath. He sighs, soft. Reaches out to stroke her hair the way he used to. Mother turns her face away. His hand stops in midair. He pulls back like she’s burned him, and his face goes black. “Tonight I’m taking Sera to the Queen’s feast. Give her your bridal circlet. The gold one. With the sapphires.” “No!” I’m on my feet before Mother can speak. “That belonged to my grandmother. It’s the only piece of she has left. No one touches it.” Seraphina’s eyes flood on cue. “My lord. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m not worthy of Lady Elinor’s heirlooms.” “I have no mother to leave me jewels. Let them laugh at me at court. I deserve it.” Father’s face drops to ice. “Elinor. This is how you raise my daughter? Sharp-tongued. No respect. Maybe she should be handed over to Sera from now on. Let Sera teach her what obedience looks like.” Mother goes white. She drags herself off the bed and puts her body between us. “Take the circlet. Take all of it. Don’t touch my girl.” Seraphina smiles, just for a flicker. Then, sweetly, “My lord. I’m afraid I’ll embarrass myself at the Queen’s table. Why not let Lady Elinor come along as my handmaid? She can guide me. Keep me from shaming you.” A highborn wife. Serving the whore as her maid. That isn’t guidance. That’s the knife twisting. “Done.” he doesn’t even pause. By dusk, they throw a servant’s dress through the door. Mother stands up. Every step makes her flinch. She pulls the rough cloth over her bruises body slow. I can’t stop crying. She wipes my face with her thumb. Then she presses something cool into my palm. A white bone hairpin, carved like a feather. “Pearl. Listen. I may not have much time left with you.” “When I’m gone, take this north. Find Lord Rowan Ashford. The Border Marquess. He was your grandfather’s sworn ward. He will protect you with his life.” I clutch the hairpin so hard it cuts my palm. I know what she is. A candle burned down to nothing. She fought. God knows she fought. When Seraphina first arrived, Mother set her up in a small house just outside the town — quietly, so she wouldn’t ruin my fame living with us. The next morning, Father called Mother jealous, and made her crawl on her knees down the road, all ten miles, to beg Seraphina back. Six months ago, when Mother woke up from the pennyroyal, she took a knife and went straight for Seraphina’s room. Cedric caught her at the door. He dragged her back by her hair and told her if she ever crossed Seraphina’s threshold again, he’d dig up Grandmother’s bones from the family crypt and scatter them to the dogs. Three days ago, filthy drawings of Seraphina from her whoring days started showing up all over Thornhold Keep. Father decided Mother had done it. That same night, he drugged Mother and locked her in a room with seven beggars. That was when the last light went out of her eyes. I curl into her thin chest and feel every rib. “Mama —”

Seraphina isn’t finished with us. At the Queen’s feast, she makes a show of it. “Wynne, pour the wine.” “Wynne, on your knees with the cup.” “Wynne, hold my hem.” Every lady at court sees it. Elinor Wynne. Lord Cedric Thorne’s own wife. On her knees. Serving a whore. When she’s drunk on it, she leads us out to the gardens, to a quiet lake under the willows. She pulls a gold earring from her ear and flicks it into the water. “Pick it up.” Mother doesn’t move. “You’re my maid now, Wynne! You do what I say!” Mother’s voice is ice. “Dress a whore in silk. She’s still a whore.” Seraphina’s hand snaps back to strike. I throw myself in front of Mother. “Don’t you touch her!” “You little bitch —” She swings for me instead. Mother pulls me in fast and Seraphina’s nails rake down her throat. Four red lines. For one second, my mother looks like a Wynne again. Back straight. Chin up. Seraphina actually steps back. Then she laughs. “A cat with no teeth. All hiss, no bite.” “Fine. Don’t pick it up. But your daughter will pay for every minute you make me wait.” “You wouldn’t dare.” Mother’s eyes blaze. “Pearl is the heir of Thorne family. Touch her and I’ll come back from the grave for you.” “Oh, I know.” Seraphina smiles. “Half the families in the capital want a marriage contract with her. Should I tell Cedric to give her to Lord Coren’s son? Or the Chancellor’s boy?” Both of them are known monsters. One has buried three chambermaids. The other likes to share his women with his hunting hounds. Mother shakes. Then she nods, jaw locked. “I’ll pick it up.” The lake is autumn-cold. Mother wades in step by step. Her lips turn blue inside a minute. Her face goes grey. “Mama, come out! Please come out —” Seraphina backhands me across the mouth. Then again. “Shut up, you little bitch. One more sound and I’ll cut your tongue out.” I taste blood and I do not look away from her. Then a voice cuts through the willows. “What in God’s name is going on?” Cedric. Seraphina moves like a snake. She grabs my hand, presses it flat against her chest — and throws herself backwards over the railing. The splash sends water up the bank. Cedric doesn’t even look at the lake. He dives straight for her. He drags her up against his chest, white with terror, and doesn’t see — doesn’t see — Mother going under in the middle of the lake. It’s one of the Queen’s guards who runs for Mother. Pulls her out half-drowned. Seraphina is shaking in Cedric’s arms, soaked and beautiful. She sees me and screams. “No — please — my lady, I’m sorry — don’t strike me again —” “I never touched you!” I point at the marks on my own face. “She made my mother go into the lake! She hit me! She called me a bitch and shout at my mother —” Cedric finally looks at Mother. She is barely breathing. Something passes through his face. Something almost guilty. Seraphina sobs into his chest. “Lady Elinor hates me, I know. But to make her own child lie for her — to teach the girl such cruelty —” “Yes, I hit the child. She called me a thousand-man whore. She spat on my dead mother’s name —” “I’m low-born, but I have my pride. I’d rather die than bear this —” She lurches toward the lake again. Cedric catches her, of course. “Enough.” Cedric’s eyes go black. “Guards. Take Pearl to the chapel. Twenty lashes.” Mother throws herself in front of me. “I raised her. If anyone is to be whipped, whip me.” Father’s mouth twists. “Forty.” … The family chapel is cold as a tomb. Mother kneels on the flagstones. She is already swaying. The whip is leather, soaked in salt water. The first stroke opens her like wet parchment. Blood runs along the cracks between the stones and pools dark at her knees. I throw myself at Cedric’s feet. I claw at his boots. I press my face into the stone and beg until my voice gives out. “Please — please — I’ll do anything —” My tears run down my cheek. No one stops it. At forty, she coughs up a mouthful of blood and folds sideways onto the stone. I carry her back myself to her chambers. I send for the physician. I sit by her bed until my eyes won’t stay open. I slump against the edge of the bed and sleep takes me whether I want it or not. Sometime before dawn, someone comes in. Cedric. He kneels by her bed. His fingers shake as he lifts the cloth from her back. When he sees what’s under it, his whole body folds. A tear lands on her ruined skin. He starts dressing the wounds himself. His voice is wrecked. “Elinor. Why must you be so stubborn.” “Sera came from filth, yes, but her soul is good. She saved my life in the north. I’d be a corpse in the wastelands without her.” “Fine. If you truly hate her so much — I’ll send her away once she’s given me a child.” “And it’ll be the three of us again. The way it was.” I keep my eyes shut. There is no the three of us anymore.

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Claire Whitman posted the first photo at 8:17 p.m. I knew because I had been sitting alone at our table for fifty-two minutes, watching the candle between the bread basket and untouched wine burn lower and lower while Ethan ignored my calls. The photo showed an oceanfront cabana at Four Seasons Maui. White curtains. A silver ice bucket. Two glasses of champagne. A sunset too expensive to look real. Her caption read: Finally healing in paradise. Some people always know how to take care of me. I stared at the screen until the letters blurred. The waiter came by for the third time, his smile now softened with pity. “Still waiting for someone, ma’am?” I looked at the empty chair across from me. Three years ago, Ethan Hayes had brought me to this same restaurant after his promotion to international captain. He had worn a navy suit, ordered a bottle of wine without looking at the price, and told me I made Manhattan feel like home. Back then, I believed him. Back then, I thought love meant waiting. Waiting for late flights. Waiting for delayed texts. Waiting for him to remember my birthday, my school art show, my mother’s medicine, the dinner reservation I had made three weeks in advance. Tonight was supposed to be different. Tonight, I was going to break up with him. Instead, I was waiting again. My phone buzzed. Not Ethan. Claire had posted another story. This time, the camera was tilted toward the champagne. At the edge of the frame, a man’s hand reached for the glass. A silver pilot’s watch caught the Maui sunset. My stomach turned cold. I knew that watch. I had saved for two months to buy it for Ethan when he made captain. He had kissed my forehead that night and said he would never take it off because it reminded him of me. Now it was shining beside Claire Whitman’s champagne glass in Hawaii. I laughed once. The sound came out wrong. The waiter looked even more concerned. “Ma’am?” I placed my napkin on the table. “Can I get the check?” He hesitated. “Your guest hasn’t arrived yet.” “He’s not coming.” Outside, Manhattan was wet with rain. Yellow cabs slid past the curb, headlights smeared across the pavement like paint. I had just stepped under the awning when a black Porsche Cayenne pulled into the no-parking lane. For half a second, my stupid heart moved. Then the passenger window rolled down. Claire leaned out, her blond hair loose around her shoulders, her skin glowing with a tan no New York spring could have given her. Around her neck was a delicate gold necklace I had never seen before. Maui still clung to her like perfume. “Hi, Maya,” she said, smiling as if she had not just posted my boyfriend’s hand on her vacation story. “Sorry we’re late. Ethan had to pick me up from the airport.” We. Ethan stepped out of the driver’s seat, still wearing the navy sweater I had packed for him before his so-called layover. “Maya,” he said quickly. “I can explain.” I looked at him. At the man who told me my Native mother could take a fifteen-hour train because holiday flights were “too complicated.” At the man who booked Claire’s family lie-flat business-class seats to Hawaii. At the man who said my mother would not be comfortable in his Tribeca condo, then paid for Claire to sleep in an ocean-view suite at Four Seasons Maui. At the man who watched my mother eat from a paper plate in his kitchen while Claire had an entire drawer of porcelain cups he called “hers.” For once, I did not ask why. I did not raise my voice. I did not cry. I simply opened the door of the Uber that had pulled up beside me. Ethan reached for my wrist. “Maya, wait.” I stepped back before he could touch me. “No,” I said. It was the same word he had given me when I asked for one plane ticket for my mother. Only mine sounded final. I got into the car and closed the door. Through the rain-streaked window, I saw Ethan standing under the awning, Claire still watching from the passenger seat. My phone buzzed again. Claire had posted a close-up of the gold necklace. Best trip ever. I blocked her first. Then I blocked Ethan. Then I leaned back, watched Manhattan blur into lights, and finally let myself breathe. My mother had been right. Some people showed you exactly who they were. You just had to stop translating cruelty into love.

Two days earlier, I had still been stupid enough to hope. Ethan was in the kitchen of his Tribeca condo, still in his pilot uniform, one hand wrapped around an espresso cup, the other scrolling through his phone. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittered like it belonged to him. Maybe it did. He owned the condo. He drove the Porsche. He wore a watch that cost more than my yearly salary. He had an AmEx Platinum, a wine fridge full of bottles I was afraid to touch, and a doorman who called him Captain Hayes. I lived there too, technically. But I paid for my own groceries. My own subway pass. My mother’s medicine. My brother’s certification classes. And every month, I still transferred Ethan money for utilities because I never wanted his parents, his friends, or Claire Whitman to say I was living off him. That morning, my mother called from home. “Maya,” she said softly, “are you sure I won’t be trouble?” I smiled even though she could not see me. “Mom, you’re my mother. You’re not trouble.” “I checked the route again. It says fifteen hours if I take the bus, then the train. I’ll bring snacks. I’ll be fine.” The thought of her sitting alone through the night with her canvas bag in her lap made my chest hurt. Aiyana Tallis had never left our Native community. Not because she lacked courage. Because life had kept her busy surviving. She raised two children. She took care of my grandmother until the end. She made beadwork at the kitchen table until her fingers cramped, selling pieces at community fairs and school fundraisers so I could afford art supplies. She deserved one comfortable flight. Just one. So I turned to Ethan. “Your airline gives you family travel benefits, right?” He did not look up. “Yeah.” “Could you use one for my mom? Just one seat. I can pay you back if there are fees. She’s never flown before, and the train ride is really long.” His thumb kept moving across the screen. “No.” The word came too fast. I blinked. “No?” “It’s complicated, Maya.” He sighed like I had asked him to hand me the plane keys. “Holiday travel is a mess. Standby rules. Blackout dates. Paperwork. You wouldn’t understand.” On the phone, my mother went quiet. A moment earlier, she had been asking whether she should bring Ethan blue corn bread or dried berry tea. She wanted to know if Manhattan people liked handmade gifts. She had even asked, shyly, whether wearing her ribbon skirt would be too much. Now there was only silence. Then she laughed a little. The kind of laugh she used when she wanted to make herself smaller for someone else’s comfort. “It’s okay, baby,” she said. “The train is good. I can watch the country go by.” I opened my mouth, but Ethan’s phone lit up on the marble counter. A notification flashed across the screen. American Express Travel: Four Seasons Resort Maui at Wailea confirmed. Ocean-View Suite. Three nights. Under it came another confirmation. JFK to Honolulu. Four passengers. Lie-flat business class. Confirmed. Claire Whitman. Richard Whitman. Margaret Whitman. Lily Whitman. Claire’s whole family. Hawaii. Ethan picked up the phone too quickly, but not quickly enough. “I need to take this,” he said. He walked into the study and closed the door. Through the wall, I heard his voice soften. “No, Mrs. Whitman, please. Don’t thank me. After everything Claire’s been through, you all deserve Maui.” I stood in the kitchen with my mother still breathing quietly in my ear. Beside Ethan’s leather flight bag sat the small beaded pouch she had mailed for him. Blue, black, and silver. A butterfly pattern. “For safe travel,” she had said. I looked at that pouch. Then at the closed study door. Then at the window, where Manhattan shone cold and untouchable. My mother whispered, “Baby, you don’t have to fight with him over me.” That hurt more than anything. Because even from fifteen hours away, even without seeing the Four Seasons confirmation glowing on his phone, she already understood what I had spent three years trying not to see. Ethan Hayes was not unable to help. He simply did not believe my mother was worth helping.

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I was hemorrhaging on the delivery table, yet the blood bank had only one unit of O-negative left. My husband, Thomas Sterling, gripped the pen, poised to sign. “Stop! That blood can’t go to her!” The dorr opened. Julian, my brother, pushed Claire in—my adopted sister, breathing fast, bandaged knee. “Evelyn,” Julian knelt. “You’re stronger. But Claire’s in shock from the crash—she needs the blood more than you.” My mother leaned in, tears spilling onto my face. “Ev, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But without the blood, Claire would faint. She’d fall apart. Please, Ev. Please.” But my baby’s heartbeat was fading. And I was still hemorrhaging. I looked to Thomas for help. But he was already standing beside Claire. “Evelyn,” he said. “You’d do this for Claire, right? We can always have another baby.” I opened my mouth to refuse—but Thomas had already torn the consent form to pieces. “Evelyn, be strong. You’ll get through it.” He took the last bag of blood and wheeled Claire out. Mother and Julian followed behind. The surgery resumed. The scalpel parted my skin. he surgeon reached in and pulled out my baby. No sound. “The baby is dead, And the mother’s crashing. Move now!” the surgeon screamed. Blood slipped out of me, bit by bit. I watched the ceiling lights until they blurred into white circles. After the surgery, Thomas handed me the divorce papers. “If you hadn’t been reclaimed by the Vance family,” he said, “my wife should have been Claire.” “Let’s end this.” I didn’t even have the strength to cry. Twenty years passed. I became the most authoritative expert in obstetrics in the country. My assistant slid a patient’s file across the desk. Malpresentation. Placental abnormality. High-risk pregnancy. The face in the photo—identical to Claire from twenty years ago. Her daughter. My hand trembled, almost imperceptibly. I slid the file back. “This surgery,” I said. “I can’t do it.” … Ben paused. He adjusted his glasses. “Dr. Vance, this one’s critical, If she hemorrhages on the table, she’s gone.” “Look at her, she’s just nineteen. And You’re the only one in the state who can map this surgery.” He pushed the file back. The photo in the upper left corner—the same narrow nose as Claire. The same pout. The name on the chart read: Sophie Sterling. “I’m not taking the case, I insist.” I said. I slid the folder back across the desk. My hands stayed flat on the desk. “You’ve never been like this before. Is it a scheduling issue?” Ben asked. “It’s a clinical decision,” I said. “Her family’s promised a substantial fee.”Ben continued. “That’s not what this is about.” A beat of silence. Ben’s eyes searched mine. “But she’s a Sterling, Evelyn,” He said softly. “Her father is Thomas Sterling. Her mother’s family runs the Foundation. If we turn this down, the Board will want a memo.” “Let them write it,” I said. I picked up a fountain pen and began signing the discharge papers for a different patient. Then— Knock. Knock. It wasn’t the polite tap of a nurse but the knock of someone who owned the hallway. The door opened. A girl in a wheelchair rolled in, pushed by a young man with bleached hair. Sophie Sterling. She looked at me, her eyes tracking the “Chief of Surgery” plaque on my desk. “You’re the Vance woman?” Sophie asked. Her voice was thin but sharp. “I am Dr. Vance,” I said. “They say you’re the best.” She leaned in, clutching the wheelchair, her silk dress tight over her sharp mound of belly. “Why say no? You save people.” I set the pen down. “There are other qualified surgeons, Miss Sterling,” I said. “Not for this,” she snapped. “I know the stats. If you don’t do this surgery, I might die. My baby might die.” “You should go, Miss Sterling. I’ve already made my decision,” I said. “I’m not leaving. Not until you take my case!” Fine. I walked around her wheelchair and headed for the door. Behind me, her voice came—sharp, venomous: “You Vance! You’d rather let me die than save me! You don’t deserve to be a doctor!” The door closed. Her shouts faded. Ben followed me out, his face uncertain. “Evelyn… do you… know her?” “No.” “Then why—” I didn’t answer. Twenty years. I thought I’d grown cold enough. But today—when that face appeared before me—my hand still trembled. Was she innocent? Perhaps. But I couldn’t operate on her with a clear mind. And so—I couldn’t guarantee success.

The next morning, Director Miller leaned against my office doorframe. “The parents are here, Evelyn. They want a word.” I didn’t look up from the chart. “I gave my answer yesterday.” “Just five minutes. They’re clogging up the VIP lounge, and the Board is breathing down my neck.” Crack. The door pushed open before he finished. A man and a woman walked in. The man wore a dark overcoat, his temples touched with gray, his stride steady. The woman had her arm linked through his—perfect makeup, the same air of pampered arrogance in her eyes. Twenty years, and nothing had changed. “Dr. Vance. I’m Thomas Sterling. This is my wife, Claire.” He extended a hand across my desk. They didn’t know who I was. I kept my hands on the desk. Thomas drew his hand away, unembarrassed. “Dr. Vance. We’re here about Sophie,” he said. “We know the risks. We also know your reputation. Whatever the fee is, triple it.” Claire stepped forward, her arms crossed. “New surgical suite. Research funding. Your name on the building,” she said. “All yours. Just say yes.” How generous. When they sent me away with nothing twenty years ago, they didn’t even let me take a spare shirt. I capped my fountain pen. “Mr. and Mrs. Sterling are most generous,” I said. Thomas smiled. “If you’ll save Sophie, these are nothing.” I held his gaze. “Mr. Sterling seems quite practiced. Do you often accept improper benefits?” His smile froze. Director Miller’s face shifted. “Evelyn! Is that how you speak to a patient’s family?” “Evelyn?” Thomas froze a second. His eyes narrowed. He looked at my nameplate again, then at the way I held my shoulders. Then his posture shifted. The blood left his lips. Claire took a half-step back, her hand fluttering to the pearls at her neck. Same nervous gesture. Twenty years later. “No…no, it’s impossible!” “How could it be? You… you were supposed to be in another city. You were supposed to be…” “Gone?” I finished. The room went quiet. The only sound was the hum of the ventilation. “Evelyn, look,” Thomas spoke again, his voice dropping an octave. “The past is a different country. We were young. Decisions were made in the heat of the moment—” I cut him off. “A unit of O-negative. That’s what you took from me. And today was the price of your decision back then.” Bang! Claire’s face turned a mottled red. She slammed her clutch onto my desk. “So this is revenge? Letting a nineteen-year-old die for a twenty-year-old grudge?” “I am a surgeon,” I said. “I don’t operate unless my hand is steady. Clinically, I’m not the right surgeon for this case.” “You’re a liar!” Claire shouted. “You’re a cold-blooded bitch who wants to see me suffer through my daughter!” Thomas grabbed her elbow. “Claire, stop.” “No! Look at her! She’s enjoying this!” Claire pointed a shaking finger at me. “I’ll go to the Medical Board! I’ll have your license! I’ll tell the press you’re refusing a dying girl!” “Claire!” Thomas roared, then he turned to me. “Evelyn, she speaks impulsively. Don’t take it to heart.” How gentle. It was the first time I’d ever heard Thomas speak to me in that tone. He didn’t move for a moment. He looked at me, searching for something in my face. Then he spoke. “Let’s come to an understanding. About Sophie. Name your price. I’ll pay it.” “No.” I answered. He let out a sigh. “Evelyn, We used to be married, Evelyn. Doesn’t that count for anything to you?” Used to be? A cold smirk touched my lips. That—that was the one decision I’d undo in a heartbeat—if I could. “It counted for one unit of blood,” I looked at him. “And you gave it away.” “The divorce papers. And the part where you said she was supposed to be your wife. Did that count?”

I stood up. “Thomas. You bring up old times now. Don’t you find that a little disgusting?” His face went pale. His lips parted once, twice—nothing came out. Claire grabbed his arm. “Let’s go. Why are you still talking to her? She’s hell-bent on ruining us. She’s just bitter—she can’t stand to see us happy.” Claire led him out. The door clicked shut. I stood there. Silence. Then I changed. Walked into the OR. This patient was the same as Sophie. Malpresentation. Placental abnormality. High-risk. Under the surgical light, I took the hemostat. My hand didn’t shake. Four hours later, the last stitch. Sats came up. Mother and child—stable. I stepped out. The family was waiting. “Dr. Vance, thank you,” A middle-aged woman took my hand, eyes red. “You saved them both. We’re in your debt.” “It’s the job,” I smiled. “Check with the nurse for the recovery schedule, please.” More thanks. Then they were gone. I pulled my mask down. Started walking. Two people at the end of the hall. Martha, who used to be my mother, and Julian. Martha walked over. No hug. Her eyes ran over my white coat—up, down, and back up again. “You’ve done well for yourself, Evelyn,” she said. I didn’t answer her. Just keep walking. She came after me. Her hand closed around my wrist. “You’re really going to watch her die? Sophie is nineteen.” Julian stepped into my path. He smelled of expensive cigars. “Look, Ev,” Julian said. “We know we wronged you back then. And We’ve lived with the guilt those year. But Sophie is innocent. She knows nothing.” “She’s your family too—can’t you at least—” “I have no family,” I said. “They died in a delivery room twenty years ago.” Martha’s mouth tightened. Her grip tightened. Her fingers were cold. “But I’m your mother,” she whispered. “I’m asking you to save my granddaughter. I’ll do anything. I’ll give you whatever you want.” I looked at her hand on my wrist. I didn’t move. “Twenty years ago, I wanted to live,” I said. “I wanted my baby to live. I begged you all on the delivery table, but you still gave the last blood to Claire.” “So you’re not my mother. Not anymore.” Julian’s face went dark. “Mom, stop begging her. Look at her—does she look like she’d soften?” He pulled his mother’s arm. His voice went hard. Cold. “Evelyn Vance. You think I don’t have a way to make you?” “Don’t think your reputation will save you. I can destroy you with one finger.” The mask of warmth—gone. Underneath, the same face I’d seen twenty years ago. “Go ahead,” I said. “Call the press. Tell them the whole story. Start with the unit of O-negative and the signature on the consent form.” I pulled my arm away from Martha. Twenty years. It was time.

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