Category: English

1 The year I turned five, my Aunt Sarah called a repairman to fix the air conditioning. While he worked, I was supposed to be napping. When I woke up, the living room was crawling with police. Sarah was huddled on the sofa, wrapped in a coarse wool blanket, her skin a map of violet bruises and her eyes two empty craters. She never smiled again. Instead, she traced thin, red lines into her forearms with a razor, one after another, a silent tally of her pain. Her husband, Mark, quit his job to sit by her side, holding her through the night, whispering it wasn’t your fault until his voice broke. It didn’t matter. A year later, the depression finally pulled her under, and she jumped from our sixteenth-floor balcony. Mark handled the funeral with a terrifying, hollow calm. That night, he swallowed a bottle of pills to join her. For the rest of my childhood, my mother took me to the cemetery every anniversary. She’d lay flowers on the side-by-side graves and sob, “If only I hadn’t told her to call that repairman. If only I’d been there.” Then, I blinked. The sweltering heat of a Georgia July hit me like a physical blow. I was back in that apartment. I was five years old. Sarah stepped out of the kitchen, fanning herself with a magazine. “Toby, honey, the HVAC guy is on his way. Why don’t you be a good boy and take a nap in the cool room?” The doorbell rang. “Maintenance,” a man’s voice called out from the hallway. I lunged forward, throwing my small arms around Sarah’s knees with a grip like iron. “Aunt Sarah,” I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Don’t let him in.” Sarah stumbled, startled by my sudden weight. Her phone was still glowing in her hand—the service app showed a status update: Technician arrived. She looked down at me, her expression shifting from confusion to concern. She knelt, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead. “Toby? What’s wrong, sweetie? You were just complaining about how hot it was.” I was shaking, but not from a chill. I knew exactly who was standing on the other side of that door. Ray Slater. A monster disguised in a blue work shirt. In my first life, I only saw him once: through the window as the police shoved him into the back of a cruiser. He was a nondescript man with grease on his collar. I remembered his tool kit spilling onto the pavement, a roll of heavy-duty duct tape tumbling out. I couldn’t explain the concept of reincarnation to her. A five-year-old doesn’t have the vocabulary for a second chance at life. I only had my tears. “I had a bad dream,” I sobbed, clutching her sundress. Sarah’s face softened. “A bad dream? About what?” “A bad man coming inside,” I choked out, the words tumbling over each other. “I dreamed about police in the living room. I dreamed you were hurt, and Mommy was crying, and Uncle Mark went away. I kept calling you, but you wouldn’t wake up.” It sounded like the frantic ramblings of a child spooked by a nightmare. The doorbell rang again. More insistent this time. Sarah’s eyes drifted toward the door. I let out a sharp, jagged scream. “Don’t open it! Please, Sarah, don’t open the door!” Terrified by my reaction, she pulled me into her arms, shushing me. “Okay, okay. I won’t. I won’t open it yet.” Outside, there was a brief silence. Then, a polite knock. “Mrs. Miller? It’s Ray from Home-Shield Maintenance. You called about the central air?” Sarah held me tight, staying far from the entryway. “I’m sorry, Ray,” she called out, her voice slightly strained. “Something’s come up. The kid is sick. We’ll have to reschedule.” There was a pause. Then, the man chuckled. It was a low, neighborly sound—the kind of laugh that was supposed to put you at ease. “It’s a record-breaker out here today, Mrs. Miller. You sure you want the little guy suffering in this heat? It’ll only take me twenty minutes.” Sarah’s body went rigid. She hadn’t mentioned she had a child in the service request. She’d only checked the box for “AC not cooling.” I looked up at her, my face wet with tears. “Did you hear him? How does he know about me?” The color drained from Sarah’s cheeks. She dimmed her phone screen and began backing away from the door, her hand rhythmically patting my back to soothe me. “Don’t worry, Toby. I’ve got you. I’m not letting him in.” “Mrs. Miller,” the voice came again, closer to the wood of the door. “I’m already here. The company is going to charge you a hundred-dollar service fee regardless. It’s better if I just take a look.” Sarah took a shaky breath. “I’ll pay the fee. Just leave. Please.” Silence fell over the hallway. After a minute, the muffled sound of footsteps faded away down the carpeted corridor. Sarah kissed the top of my head. “See? He’s gone.” But I didn’t let go. I knew his type. He was a predator, and he’d been scouting this “job” for weeks. He knew my parents were out of town at a conference. He knew Mark wouldn’t be home from the office until six. He knew this old building had blind spots. “Don’t open the door for anyone today,” I whispered, my voice sounding hollow and old. Sarah’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I won’t, Toby. I promise.” We sat in the stifling quiet of the living room for maybe ten minutes. Then, click. The ceiling fan slowed to a halt. The low hum of the refrigerator died. The lights flickered once and plunged the apartment into shadows. Sarah looked up at the darkened fixture. “A blown fuse?” She reached for her phone again. “Maybe the AC unit shorted out the whole circuit. I should call that technician back and ask if—” I lunged for the phone, nearly knocking it out of her hand. “Don’t call him! It’s him! He’s doing it!” Sarah stared at me, her eyes wide. “Toby?” “He didn’t leave,” I insisted, my hands trembling as I pressed them over her phone. “He’s at the breaker box in the hall. He’s trying to get you to open the door.” Sarah wanted to believe it was just the aging electrical system of an old apartment complex. These buildings were notorious for tripped breakers. But then, the doorbell rang. The sound was deafening in the dead silence of the unpowered home. Sarah’s face went white. “Mrs. Miller?” Ray Slater’s voice drifted through the door. “Did your power just go out? I was halfway to the elevator when I heard the transformer pop. I can take a look at your panel while I’m here.” Sarah froze, her phone halfway to her ear. She hadn’t even dialed yet. The realization finally hit her: he was answering a call she hadn’t made. “These old systems can be fire hazards,” he continued, his tone still helpful, still professional. “Especially with the kid there. Heatstroke is no joke for a little guy.” He was testing the lock. I could hear the faint, metallic scrape of a tool against the cylinder. I reached up and covered Sarah’s mouth with my small hand. She understood. She picked me up and retreated into the kitchen, our breathing the only sound in the dark. The scratching at the lock continued. Scrape. Click. Scrape. Sarah set me down behind the kitchen island and bolted to the front door. She slammed the deadbolt home, hooked the security chain, and shoved the heavy entryway bench against the frame. The scratching stopped. Ray Slater knew he’d been made. He let out a soft, chilling laugh through the door. “No need to be like that, Sarah. I’m a professional. How am I supposed to do my job if you won’t let me in?” “I’m calling the police!” Sarah shouted, her voice cracking. “Get away from my door!” “You’re wasting my time,” he sighed, the “nice guy” facade slipping. “I drove all the way out here. Gas isn’t cheap. If you report me, I lose my license. You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?” Sarah didn’t answer. She grabbed her phone and dialed 911, but as the call connected, a memory flashed through my mind like a lightning strike. In the police reports I’d read as an adult, they said Slater hadn’t come through the front door. He’d used the maintenance ledge. These old mid-rises had narrow concrete paths outside the windows for HVAC access. They were supposed to be gated, but the locks were usually rusted or broken. Most people on the sixteenth floor felt safe. Nobody expected a man to walk along a six-inch ledge. But Slater was a technician. He knew the ledge. “The window!” I screamed, pointing toward the kitchen. “Sarah, the window!” The kitchen was dim, the midday sun blocked by the neighboring building. I saw the latch move. Just a fraction of an inch. A hand in a grey work glove gripped the frame. Sarah grabbed me and shoved me behind her as the window slid upward with a screech. Ray Slater’s face appeared in the opening. He was drenched in sweat, his skin flushed a deep, angry red. “Why are you running?” he asked, his voice low and jagged. “I just came to fix the air.” Sarah didn’t wait. She scooped me up and ran for the master bedroom. Behind us, I heard the heavy thud of work boots hitting the linoleum. He was inside. Sarah slammed the bedroom door and turned the lock, dragging the heavy nightstand in front of it. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely hold her phone. “I have an intruder!” she screamed into the line. “He’s in the house! He came through the window! Please, God, my nephew is here… 402 Oak Creek Drive, Apartment 1602. Hurry!” The dispatcher told her to stay on the line and hide. We heard his footsteps. He wasn’t rushing. He was walking through the apartment, taking his time. I heard drawers being pulled open. A glass breaking. The heavy thud of his tool bag hitting the coffee table. Then, the footsteps stopped right outside our door. “Sarah,” he said, his voice returning to that sickeningly sweet lilt. “You’ve got it all wrong. I saw the power go out and tried to check the external unit from the ledge. You’re overreacting.” Sarah didn’t say a word. She covered my mouth and held her breath. He kicked the door. The frame groaned. I jumped, my heart nearly stopping. Sarah pulled me into the walk-in closet and shoved me behind a row of her winter coats. “Toby, stay here,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears but fierce with a sudden, desperate strength. “No matter what you hear, do not come out. Do you hear me?” I shook my head, terrified. I had “stayed hidden” in my last life. I had slept through the screams. I wasn’t going to let her face this alone again. “Toby, please,” she whispered, kissing my forehead before closing the closet door. Through the slats of the closet, I saw her pick up a small paring knife from the fruit plate she’d prepared for my snack earlier. She stood by the side of the door, her shoulders trembling, the knife gripped in a white-knuckled fist. The door shuddered under another kick. The wood around the lock began to splinter. “Sarah Miller,” Slater shouted. My heart sank. He knew her full name. This wasn’t a random service call. He’d been watching her. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I know Mark is at the office. I know your sister is in Chicago. It’s just you and the kid.” Another kick. The nightstand slid back a few inches. Sarah spoke into the phone, her voice a ghostly whisper. “He’s breaking in. He’s going to kill us.” “Officers are in the lobby,” the dispatcher said. “Just a few more minutes, Sarah. Stay hidden.” A few minutes was an eternity. Slater kicked the door one last time, and the wood gave way. The door swung open, shoving the nightstand aside. He squeezed through the gap, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on Sarah. He saw the knife and laughed. “You think you can use that? You don’t have the guts.” “Get out!” Sarah screamed. He stepped toward her. “I’ve been watching you for a month, Sarah. I know you’re soft. Just put the knife down and maybe I’ll let the kid sleep through this.” He lunged for her. Sarah swung the knife, catching his sleeve, but he was twice her size. He backhanded her across the face, sending her crashing against the bedpost. The knife clattered to the floor. He pinned her down, his hands reaching for her throat. Something in my brain snapped. The memory of the funeral, the cemetery, the years of silence—it all surged forward. I pushed the closet door open and ran. I grabbed a heavy glass water carafe from the nightstand and, with every ounce of my five-year-old strength, I swung it at the back of his head. “Leave her alone!” The glass shattered. Water and shards sprayed everywhere. Slater roared, more in surprise than pain. He let go of Sarah and turned toward me, a trickle of blood running down his neck. His eyes were pure, concentrated malice. “You little brat!” He grabbed my arm and flung me across the room. My head hit the corner of the bed frame, and the world turned into a swirl of grey and red. I slumped to the floor, my ears ringing, warm blood beginning to obscure my vision. “Toby!” Sarah shrieked, trying to crawl toward me, but Slater kicked her back. I couldn’t move. My body felt heavy, broken. But I kept my eyes open. I saw him looming over her, his face a mask of rage. “The kid shouldn’t have done that,” he growled, reaching for his belt. Suddenly, the front door of the apartment exploded inward. “Police! Drop the weapon!” And then, a voice that made me want to sob with relief. “Sarah! Toby!” Mark was here. He was actually here.

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1 The salt air on the yacht was thick with the scent of expensive gin and the lingering heat of a summer night in the Hamptons. We were playing a high-stakes version of Liar’s Dice. In this circle, if your bluff was called and you were caught, the penalty was a shot of something bottom-shelf and a humiliating truth. When it was my turn, I looked at Grant Miller—the man I’d shared my life, my bed, and my secrets with for the last eight years. I smiled, feeling a rare flutter of hope. “I’m getting married this year,” I said. The table went silent. Before Grant could even react, my “best friend,” Sienna Hayes, raised her hand, her eyes sparkling with a cruel sort of playfulness. “I call bullshit,” she chirped. “There is no way you’re getting married this year, Elena.” The eyes of our entire social circle shifted to Grant. He didn’t look at me. Instead, he reached for a glass of cheap whiskey, his movements casual, and pushed it across the polished teak table toward me. “You lost,” he said, his voice flat. “Drink up.” I didn’t hesitate. I downed the liquid in one go. It burned my throat, but the fire in my chest—the sudden, sharp realization of betrayal—hurt infinitely more. Then it was Sienna’s turn. She leaned back, a Cheshire cat grin on her face. “I’m getting married this year, too.” I slammed my glass down. “Bullshit.” “She pulled out a crisp sheet of paper from her Dior clutch. It wasn’t a joke or a prop. It was the official Clark County filing, signed, dated, and embossed with the golden seal of a legal union. The bride: Sienna Hayes. The groom: Grant Miller.” The table erupted in muffled giggles and whispers. “Poor Elena,” someone joked. “You lost again. That’s a double shot for you.” Grant let out a weary, performative sigh. “It was a total fluke. We lost a bet during that wild weekend in Vegas last month. The group dared us to actually go through with the paperwork. It’s just a formality, Elena. Don’t be dramatic.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. It wasn’t just that they had played the game; it was that they had played me. But they forgot one thing about me: I am a woman of my word. I will be getting married this year. It just won’t be to him. … Grant pushed a second glass toward me. “Come on, stop sulking. I told you, it was a dare. It’s a one-year deal. Once the year is up, we’ll get a quiet annulment. It doesn’t change anything between us.” He said it so easily, with the terrifying confidence of a man who assumed I’d wait forever. Sienna’s eyes welled with performative tears. “Everyone was cheering, Elena. I didn’t think it would blow up like this. Please don’t be mad. We’ve been friends for too long to let a stupid prank come between us.” Others chimed in, their voices a chorus of gaslighting. “It was just a joke, Elena. That’s why we didn’t tell you. We knew you’d take it too seriously.” I listened to them, and my heart didn’t just break—it hardened. They all knew. They all laughed behind my back while I was planning a future with a man who was already legally bound to my best friend. I stood up. Grant’s brow furrowed. “Where are you going?” “I need air.” He lowered his voice, his tone sharp with impatience. “That’s enough. Don’t make a scene. Just sit down and finish the game.” I looked at him and felt a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. I was already a ghost in this circle. I walked out to the edge of the deck, where the wind was whipping off the Atlantic. The sea was a void, black and bottomless. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in months. My mother picked up on the second ring, her voice laced with surprise. “Elena? It’s late. Is everything okay?” I gripped the railing, my knuckles white. “That merger… the one you and Dad talked about. The alliance with the Caldwell family. I’ll do it. I’m ready.” The line went quiet for a beat. Then, my father’s voice took over. “Are you serious, Elena?” “Yes.” “Have you thought this through?” “I have.” I watched the distant, flickering lights of the shoreline. My voice was calmer than I expected. “I’m done waiting for Grant. I’m done being the girl who waits.” My mother’s voice softened, frantic. “Did he do something? Where are you? We’ll send a car.” “No,” I said. “I’ll come to you. I just need to get off this boat.” I grew up as an outsider. I was a late addition to the Brooks family—adopted back into my biological family’s life in my teens after a childhood of being raised by the wrong people. I had always felt like I didn’t quite belong, like I had to prove my worth. I thought Grant was my home. I thought as long as I had him, the Brooks’ legacy didn’t matter. I had valued myself too little. And I had valued him far too much. “Do you want to meet him first?” my mother asked gently. “Sebastian Caldwell is… he’s a lot, Elena.” “No,” I said. “Just set it up. I don’t care about the details.” I hung up and stood there for a long time. Behind me, the music was still thumping. The laughter hadn’t stopped. My humiliation was just the evening’s entertainment for them. A text buzzed from Grant: [Stop being a brat. Get back in here.] I looked at the screen and remembered a winter years ago. His first startup had failed. He was broke, shivering on a curb, sobbing. I had held him and told him, It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ll be your safety net. It turns out I hadn’t been a safety net. I’d been a floor he walked on. I deleted the message and powered off the phone. That was the night I decided to leave him behind. The next morning, the sun was blinding. I hadn’t slept a wink. The deck was already buzzing with the “morning-after” energy—mimosas and forced cheer. Grant walked over with a plate of breakfast, placing it beside me with a patronizing smile. “Eat something.” I didn’t touch it. His face darkened. “Still throwing a tantrum?” I looked up at him. “Is that what you call this? A tantrum?” “I explained it last night,” he snapped. “The license was a fluke. A legal glitch. Why are you being so literal?” I let out a cold laugh and pushed the plate back toward him. “Grant, I’m just realizing for the first time exactly who you are.” His expression shifted into something ugly. “Elena Brooks.” “Don’t use my full name like you’re my father. You were pretty clear-headed when you were handing me those shots last night. You seemed to enjoy the ‘joke’ then.” The crowd around us went quiet. People were starting to stare. Grant grabbed my arm, his voice a low hiss. “Are you really going to lose your mind in front of everyone?” I shoved him off. “Am I the one who lost my mind? Or was it the man who married someone else on a dare?” Sienna drifted over then, stepping into his orbit like she belonged there. She looked at me with faux-pity. “Elena, everyone is watching. Think about Grant’s reputation. Don’t make this ugly.” “My reputation?” I scoffed. “Where was your concern for my reputation when you pulled that license out of your bag?” Her face went pale, her eyes instantly brimming with tears. “I’m sorry… I just wanted to win the game.” I felt a chill of pure clarity. Our friendship had been a lie—a long-term project of hers to ensure she was always the one on top. “Don’t bother explaining, Sienna.” Grant, embarrassed and furious, grabbed Sienna’s hand. “Fine. If she wants to be ungrateful, let her. Let’s go fishing. She can stay here and rot.” They iced me out for the rest of the morning. They held a fishing competition on the aft deck, laughing and taking photos. Eventually, Sienna lost a round. The penalty was to jump into the ocean. She stood at the railing, looking performatively frail. The group cheered for her to jump. But Grant stepped in. “She’s on her period,” he announced. “She can’t go in.” A dull thud echoed in my chest. He knew her cycle. He knew her better than a ‘prank’ would suggest. But then he turned to me, his eyes cold. “Elena, you do it. Do it as an apology to Sienna for being such a bitch this morning.” I stared at him, unable to breathe. “You want me to jump for her?” “Grant, you know I’m terrified of deep water.” He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shrugged. “There are life preservers. It’s fine.” I turned to walk away, but Sienna caught my arm. “Elena, please. I’m really not feeling well. Just do this one thing for me.” I wrenched my arm away. “It’s your penalty. Jump yourself.” The crowd started to groan. “God, Elena, it’s just water. Don’t be a buzzkill.” I was cornered. I looked at Grant, desperate for him to be the man I thought he was. But he walked over and roughly shoved a life ring over my head. I struggled against him. “Let go of me! Grant, stop!” His hands paused. For a second, I saw a flash of the old Grant. Then it vanished. “It’ll be fine,” he whispered. And then, he pushed me. The world tilted. I hit the water, and the cold was a physical blow. I went under, my lungs screaming, my limbs flailing in a blind, primal panic. When I was a child, I had nearly drowned in a riptide; the ocean wasn’t a playground to me. It was a grave. I surfaced, gasping and coughing up salt water. The yacht didn’t stop. It kept moving, the wake churning around me. I clung to the life ring, waiting for the engines to cut, for the laughter to stop and the rescue to begin. But the boat grew smaller. The sun began to dip toward the horizon. They really had forgotten me. Or worse, they didn’t care. As the sky turned a bruised purple, I felt my body start to shut down. My fingers were numb. I thought about Grant telling me he’d be rich one day so he could take care of me. I thought about Sienna promising to be my maid of honor. I thought about every time I had shrunk myself so they could feel big. By the time the darkness swallowed the sea, I didn’t even have the energy to hate them anymore. I was just… done. When the rescue boat finally found me, I was drifting on the edge of consciousness. A man knelt over me, his voice steady and commanding. He checked my pulse, his hand warm against my freezing skin. “Can you hear me?” I opened my eyes and saw a man in a dark dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up. He looked like power personified. He saved me. I managed to whisper my parents’ address. When we reached the docks, my parents were already there. My mother let out a strangled cry and threw her coat around me, her hands shaking. “Elena! What happened? Who did this to you?” My throat was too raw to speak. My father looked at my rescuer, his expression shifting to one of profound respect. He stepped forward. “Mr. Caldwell. Thank you for bringing her back.” I looked up. This was him. Sebastian Caldwell. My “strategic alliance.” Back at the Brooks estate, the world felt surreal. A doctor cleared me; my mother dried my hair, whispering that I was safe now. For the first time since I was a teenager, I felt like I truly belonged in this house. I finally accepted them, because they were the only ones who showed up when I was sinking. Once the house settled, Sebastian sat in our living room. He had been waiting. “I assume you were here to discuss the merger, Sebastian,” my father said. Sebastian nodded. “I was. But I’d like to prioritize something else first.” He looked at me. His gaze wasn’t “shy”—it was observant, intense. “I’ve seen enough of Elena tonight to know she’s a woman of incredible resilience. I’d like to move forward with the marriage. Immediately. If she’ll have me.” The room went still. My parents looked at me, waiting. I looked at Sebastian. I didn’t know if he loved me—we were strangers—but he had pulled me out of the Atlantic while my “lover” had pushed me in. I looked at the steaming cup of tea in my hands. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s do it tomorrow.” Sebastian’s eyebrows shot up, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips. The next day, we stood in the courthouse. When the clerk handed me the marriage certificate, I felt a strange, hollow peace. It was a contract, yes. But it was a contract with a man who saw me. Outside, Sebastian took a call. Business, clearly. When he hung up, he turned to me. “I have to be in London for a few days. When I get back, we’ll plan a wedding that this city will never forget. Wait for me, Elena.” He kissed my forehead—a soft, respectful gesture—and left. I went straight to my old office to resign. I didn’t want anything left of my old life. But as I approached the conference room, I saw Grant and Sienna sitting inside. They were there for a pitch meeting. Grant froze when he saw me. He stood up abruptly. “Where the hell were you last night? Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I looked at him and felt nothing but a sharp, acidic disdain. “You’re asking me where I was? You should be asking how I managed to survive the night in the middle of the ocean.” His face went ashen. “I… I didn’t mean for the boat to go that far. We got distracted. We came back for you, but we couldn’t find you.” Sienna leaned back in her chair, sipping her latte. “I knew you’d be fine, Elena. You always were a strong swimmer. Stop being so dramatic.” Any lingering doubt I had vanished. I walked to the table, took off my ID badge, and dropped it in front of them. “I quit,” I said. Grant stood up, his face reddening. “Wait, we have a deal to discuss. Don’t let your ‘personal feelings’ ruin this contract.” “What contract, Grant? I don’t work for you, and I certainly don’t owe you anything.” I turned to leave, but that night, the real nightmare started. Private photos of me—intimate photos I had only ever sent to Grant—were leaked online. My world shattered. Those photos were meant for his eyes only. The only person who could have leaked them was him. By the next morning, the police were at my door. Someone had made an anonymous tip, accusing me of using those photos for “escort services” and “extortion.” It was a calculated, brutal character assassination. I sat in the back of the police car, my mind a static hum of shock. Because the photos were real, I was detained pending a bail hearing. The humiliation was total. Every officer, every clerk, looked at me like I was something found in the gutter. I had one phone call. I didn’t call my parents. I called Sebastian. “I’m at the precinct,” I whispered, my voice breaking. There was a second of silence. “Stay put,” he said. “I’m coming.” While I waited, I saw the social media fallout. My old college groups, the yacht crew—they were all tearing me apart. They called me a homewrecker, a gold-digger. Then I saw a post from Sienna: [This has all gone too far. When Elena gets out, we all need to show her grace and apologize!] Grace. Apologize. As if she wasn’t the one holding the matches while my life burned. When the visitation hour arrived, I expected my parents or Sebastian. Instead, Grant and Sienna walked in, followed by a few of “our” friends. They sat behind the glass, looking at me with a mix of pity and triumph. Grant leaned into the microphone. “Elena. This is a mess. But I can make it go away.” I stared at him, speechless. “If you agree to drop the ‘dispute’ over the marriage and stop harassing Sienna, I’ll post your bail. I’ll even put out a statement saying the photos were hacked from my phone. We can go back to how things were.” He was holding my freedom hostage for my silence. Sienna put a hand on her stomach, her voice a soft coo. “Elena, nobody wanted this. We were all just drinking too much. Let’s just be friends again.” The others nodded. “Come on, Elena. Don’t be stubborn. Just take the deal.” I looked at them—these people I had called family—and I finally understood. They didn’t want me to be okay. They wanted me to be small. “You leaked the photos,” I said, my voice echoing in the small room. “You called the police. And you think I’m going to thank you for it?” Grant’s face hardened. “Don’t be ungrateful. I’m the only one who can save you.” I smiled. It was the scariest smile I’d ever felt. “Save yourself, Grant.” I looked past him. Sebastian was walking down the hallway. He wasn’t alone. He had a team of lawyers and a stern-faced assistant carrying a mountain of folders. Sebastian didn’t even look at Grant. He spoke to the captain, his voice carrying the weight of a man who owned the city. My lawyers laid out the evidence: the IP addresses where the photos were uploaded, the group chat logs I had forwarded to Sebastian earlier, and the proof of Grant’s company accounts paying off the “anonymous” leaker. Grant’s face turned a sickly shade of grey. He hadn’t expected a man like Sebastian Caldwell to be standing in my corner. Once the paperwork was signed, I walked out of that cell. My legs were shaking, but Sebastian caught me. He held me steady, his hand firm on my waist. “Can you walk?” “Yes.” He led me toward the exit. He never looked back at Grant. He didn’t need to. As we reached the car, I took out my phone. I posted one thing to every social media platform I had. It was a photo of my hand and Sebastian’s, our wedding bands catching the light. The caption was four words: [Married. Do not disturb.] Behind us, I heard Grant shout my name. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t even flinch. I just got in the car and let Sebastian take me home.

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1 Daisy, a freshman with a reputation for being “the sweet, innocent one,” had just lost a round of Truth or Dare. Her dare? Kiss any guy in this room for a full three minutes. Without a second of hesitation, her eyes locked onto Hudson, my boyfriend. The music in the lounge seemed to fade into a dull hum as everyone’s attention shifted to him. Hudson didn’t look up; he was absentmindedly tracing patterns on the palm of my hand with his thumb, acting as if he didn’t feel the weight of her gaze. Daisy bit her lip, looking at me with wide, faux-bashful eyes. “Sadie, do you think I could borrow Hudson for three minutes? Just for the game?” The air in the booth grew thick. It felt like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the “good girl” to make a scene or step aside. I didn’t get it. “There are a dozen single guys here, Daisy,” I said, my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest. “Why ask for mine?” She went silent, her face flushing a deep, performative red. She looked down at her lap, the picture of a wounded bird. Eventually, she stood up and shuffled to the other side of the booth to ask other guys. Two of them turned her down flat. The third, a guy who’d clearly had too many tequila shots, grinned toothily. “I’m down,” he slurred. “We doing tongue, or what?” Daisy looked like she was about to burst into tears. “No, no, I didn’t mean—” The drunk guy didn’t care. He grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward him with clumsy aggression. That was when Hudson finally stopped playing the quiet observer. He let go of my hand, stood up, and wrenched Daisy back toward our side of the table. “Does making a girl uncomfortable make you feel like a man?” Hudson’s voice was like ice. Daisy clung to his arm, looking up at him like he was her personal savior. At the same time, I reached out and caught the edge of his sleeve. Hudson looked down at me. I didn’t want to embarrass him, so I forced a small, calm smile. “I have a pounding headache, Hudson. Can we just go home? Please?” Leave with me, Hudson. Right now. Prove to me that she’s just some girl from your department and that I’m the only one who matters. Our eyes met. For a second, I thought he would say yes. Then, he gently pulled his arm away. “You know I can’t do that, Sadie,” he murmured. “I started this. I have to see it through.” He saw my eyes welling up and sighed, kneeling in front of me. His voice took on that low, soothing tone he used whenever he thought I was being difficult. “Daisy is in my program, and I’m her mentor. I can’t just let her get harassed. Be a good girl for me, okay?” He reached up, brushing a stray tear from the corner of my eye. “If it bothers you, just look away. It’ll be over in a few minutes.” I gripped his cuff so hard the white fabric wrinkled. “Hudson, if you kiss her, I’m breaking up with you. I mean it.” My eyes were burning, but the tears stopped falling. I stared straight into him. “I will actually leave you.” Hudson’s patience finally snapped. He pried my fingers off his sleeve, one by one. He stood up and looked down at me, and for the first time, I saw the look he usually reserved for people he considered beneath him—like the time his mother’s housekeeper tried to set him up with her daughter. It was a look of polite, refined disdain. “Don’t be so small-minded, Sadie. It’s embarrassing.” 2 One of Hudson’s fraternity brothers, seeing the tension, tried to play peacemaker. “Come on, Sadie, don’t take it so seriously. It’s just a game.” His girlfriend chimed in with a loud whisper, “God, she’s such a buzzkill. Why even come to a bar if you’re going to act like a nun?” Before I could snap back, a low, melodic laugh came from the shadows in the corner of the booth. The focus shifted instantly to Miles Callahan. Miles was the star of the Finance department—the kind of guy who was usually too cool, or perhaps too intelligent, to participate in these mindless drinking games. He was leaning back, his head propped on his hand, watching the girl who had just called me a buzzkill. “You’re so ‘adventurous,’ huh?” Miles asked, his voice smooth but edged with a blade. “Why don’t you go around the room and kiss every guy here then? Show us how it’s done.” He paused, then added with a slow, dangerous tilt of his head, “Except me. I don’t play that way.” He knew exactly how to humiliate someone without raising his voice. The girl turned beet red, stammering, unable to find a comeback. Miles pulled out a cigarette, lit it with a silver lighter, and tossed the lighter onto the marble table with a sharp clack. “Boring,” he muttered, echoing her own insult back at her. I stared at him, stunned. Miles was Hudson’s friend—or at least in the same circle. I hadn’t expected him to breathe a word in my defense. I was so caught off guard that I barely even processed the fact that Hudson and Daisy were currently locked in a three-minute embrace. By the time I looked back, it was over. The hurt hadn’t even arrived yet; it was surpassed by a cold, clear realization. 3 By the time Hudson sat back down next to me, looking oddly satisfied, I had already opened my phone. I deleted his contact and unfollowed him on everything in three seconds flat. The smug look on his face vanished. “What are you doing?” “I told you. We’re done.” I went to block his number, but he grabbed my wrist. “Are we really doing this? Again?” He let out a dry, frustrated laugh. “It was a dare, Sadie. How many times do I have to say it? You’re being incredibly dramatic. If the roles were reversed and you had to kiss someone for a game, I wouldn’t care at all.” He said it because he knew me. He knew I was the “good girl,” the one who followed the rules, the one who would never dream of doing something “improper.” He felt safe in his disrespect. Just as the words left his mouth, the crowd at the other end of the table erupted. Miles had just pulled the most notorious dare in the deck: Take any girl in this room and spend the night with her at a hotel. Someone laughed, shouting, “And we mean a real hotel, Miles! Receipts required!” Miles didn’t move at first. Someone tried to bail him out. “Come on, everyone knows Miles is a saint. He hasn’t touched a girl on campus in three years. Just take the penalty shot and move on.” Everyone assumed he’d pass. Usually, people just laughed off the ‘spend the night’ dares. “Wait,” Miles said. He looked up, and his dark eyes landed directly on me. The room went silent. He stood up slowly, walked over to where I was sitting, and held out his hand. He gave me a look that felt like it could melt the floor beneath us. “Want to try it with me tonight, Sadie?” Hudson narrowed his eyes, a tight smirk on his face. “Miles, you’re drunk. I’ll call you an Uber. Sadie is my girlfriend.” The air between them crackled like a live wire. Miles gave him a dismissive, sideways glance. “So? It’s just a game, Hudson. Don’t be such a buzzkill.” Hudson shrugged, seemingly unbothered. “Whatever. Sadie’s too conservative anyway. She’d never say yes. I’m just turning you down on her behalf to save you the embarrassment.” I looked at Hudson’s confident, arrogant face. Then I looked at Miles’s extended hand. I thought about every time I’d been called “good” or “pure” as if it were a synonym for “boring.” I placed my hand in Miles’s. “Okay.” Hudson’s smirk froze. I felt the alcohol fueling a sudden, rebellious fire in my veins. Miles’s fingers closed around mine, firm and warm. He pulled me up and started leading me toward the exit. Behind us, the room exploded. “Holy shit! Was that Miles? Am I hallucinating?” Hudson’s voice cut through the noise. “Stop.” He stayed seated, looking at me like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “I was just going to say—” he chuckled, though it sounded strained. “Tell me which hotel. I’ll send over a pack of condoms. You’re going to need them if you’re planning on staying in character.” I beat Miles to the punch, flashing Hudson a brilliant, sharp smile. “Don’t worry about it, Hudson. Worrying about your ex’s sex life is a bit pathetic, don’t you think? You’re starting to look like a desperate fan.” I gave him a look of pure pity. “And honestly? I’m just not into desperate guys.” Before he could explode, I pulled Miles through the door and into the cool night air. 4 It wasn’t until I was buckled into the passenger seat of Miles’s Audi that I finally let out a long, shaky breath. The suffocating weight of the night was gone, replaced by a strange, buzzing adrenaline. “Thanks for the assist back there, Miles,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You can just drop me off at the next subway station.” I assumed he was just playing along to help me save face. Miles kept his eyes on the road, one hand on the steering wheel. “You know what happens if we’re caught lying about a dare, right?” I shook my head, not really caring. Usually, those “curses” were just stupid things like you’ll be single forever. I pulled out my phone to check the group chat rules. Admin: Tonight’s stakes are high. If you lie about a dare, you’ll be broke for life. Debt, bad luck, and zero career success. The universe is watching! My heart did a somersault. I’m an accountant’s daughter. I don’t mess with financial curses. I stared at the screen in horror. Miles pulled over near a subway entrance. He tilted his head toward the door, a faint, mocking smile on his lips. “Go ahead, Sadie. It’s just a lifetime of poverty. No big deal.” “No,” I said, gripping the door handle. “I can’t risk it. I really believe in that stuff.” Miles seemed to misinterpret my hesitation. “Can’t get the door open?” He leaned over, his arm brushing mine as he reached for the handle. Suddenly, his body was hovering over mine, pinning me into the small space of the passenger seat. He looked down at me, his dark eyes searching mine. “What are we doing, Sadie?” My brain was a mess of tequila and spite. I blinked, and the words just tumbled out: “I want to sleep with you.” Miles’s expression didn’t change. He simply pulled back, returning to his seat. He let out a short, hollow laugh. “Well, I don’t.” The silence that followed was so awkward I thought I might actually spontaneously combust. My face felt like it was on fire. I nodded slowly, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “Right. Sorry. I think I’ve had too much to drink. That was way out of line.” I looked down at my shoes. “I’ll just go.” Miles clicked the door locks. He started the car again without a word. I looked at his profile; he looked colder, more rigid than before. I figured he was disgusted by my “act.” I tried to apologize again, sounding like a rambling schoolgirl. “Seriously, Miles, I didn’t mean it. I don’t actually have designs on you. You’re… you’re very handsome, obviously, but you’re not my type at all. You’re safe. I swear.” Zero response. The speedometer climbed. Why did he look even angrier now? 5 After ten minutes of agonizing silence, Miles pulled up in front of a quiet, upscale lounge—the kind with dim lighting and leather booths. He sensed my confusion. “Don’t forget,” he said, tapping the steering wheel. “The dare says we have to stay together all night. It didn’t say we had to do it in a bed.” I felt a wave of relief. Miles was a gentleman after all. A brilliant, clean-living guy who just wanted to help me win the game. I followed him inside. He seemed to know the owner; he got me settled into a private booth and then disappeared for a moment. My phone buzzed. It was a call from an unknown number. I answered, only to hear Hudson’s voice on the other end, talking to Daisy. They didn’t know I could hear them. “Hudson, aren’t you going to call her?” Daisy was cooing. “Aren’t you worried she’s actually going to do something with him?” Hudson’s voice was full of arrogant certainty. “You don’t know Sadie. She’s too repressed. This is just a pathetic attempt to make me jealous. She’s probably back in her dorm room, crying into a pillow right now.” Daisy giggled. “You seem so calm. It’s almost like you don’t even like her that much.” There was a pause. “I don’t,” Hudson said. I hung up, the rage boiling over. He was right about one thing: I was planning on going back to my dorm to sleep it off. But hearing him say it—hearing the absolute lack of respect—made something inside me snap. A waiter arrived with a cocktail. I grabbed it and downed half of it in one gulp, hoping to drown the humiliation. The waiter stared at me, then his eyes went wide. “Miss! That’s the wrong drink! That was the owner’s private reserve!” He looked like he’d seen a ghost and ran off toward the back where Miles had gone. 6 It took about five minutes for me to realize why the waiter was so panicked. That drink wasn’t just alcohol. It was… enhanced. By the time Miles reappeared, my grip on reality was slipping. “Sadie? You okay?” He leaned down, his cool hand pressing against my flushed cheek. “You feel so good,” I whispered, leaning into his touch. “So cold.” Even with my brain melting, I remembered he didn’t want me. I pushed his hand away, stumbling toward the exit. “Where are you going?” Miles caught my arm, his brow furrowed. I looked at him, my instincts taking over. “Miles, I think I need a man. Like, right now.” Before he could say anything, I added, “But it won’t be you. Don’t worry.” I didn’t want to be “immoral” and force myself on a guy who’d already rejected me. I leaned in, enunciating every word. “I promise. I’ll find someone else. You’re safe.” Miles’s face went dark—darker than I’d ever seen it. He let go of my arm and stared at me. “Is that so? Well, Sadie, I hope you’re a woman of your word.” 7 The next thing I knew, I was being carried into a hotel suite. My self-control had officially left the building. I felt like I was trapped in a humid, sweltering swamp. Miles was in the room, but he had changed. He had his shirt off, revealing a lean, muscular torso. He was wearing nothing but a pair of grey lounge pants, leaning back against the sofa, watching me with an unreadable expression. “Come here,” he said. My eyes wandered over his abs—six perfectly defined muscles—and I couldn’t look away. I shuffled over to him like a moth to a flame. He was holding a small bottle of what looked like medicinal oil. “Since I helped you out tonight,” he said, his voice a low, honeyed caress, “how about you help me with this? My muscles are killing me.” I nodded, feeling like a melting ice cream cone. “Where does it hurt, Miles?” He took my burning hand and placed it on his stomach. “Right here.” I blinked rapidly, trying to stay focused, but my face was the color of a ripe peach. He didn’t say a word, just moved my hand to another muscle. “Here too, Sadie.” He was back to being the teasing, dangerous Miles. As I “rubbed in the oil,” I somehow ended up straddling his lap. He reached up, his fingertips grazing my lips. “Does it hurt here, too?” I whispered, staring at his mouth. “Kiss it,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “Find out.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, all logic gone. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his. It was supposed to be a light kiss, but Miles caught the back of my head, his tongue sliding past my teeth with a sudden, possessive hunger.

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1 It took a failed suicide attempt and a bottle of Xanax for me to realize I was nothing more than a supporting character in a romance novel. The man I’d just tried to die for was my husband, Grant Weston. He was my first love, my high school crush, the boy I had defied my wealthy parents to marry back when he was just a brilliant, penniless coder with a dream. Now, he was the golden boy of the tech world, a billionaire mogul who had once promised me a display of fireworks for my birthday that would light up the entire New York skyline. I waited for those fireworks. I waited until the sparklers went out and the champagne turned flat. But the sky stayed dark. The only thing that arrived that night wasn’t a celebration—it was the news that his “one who got away” had finally come home. “Do you really think a few pills are going to stop this divorce?” Grant stood at the foot of my hospital bed, his silhouette sharp and cold against the sterile white walls. His voice held no pity, only a weary, jagged edge of resentment. “Grant? What are you talking about?” My head felt like it had been stuffed with wet wool. I tried to reach up to rub my temples, but the tug of an IV line in my wrist jerked me back to reality. Two hours ago, he had walked into our penthouse and told me he wanted out. I had spiraled, lost in a blur of grief, and emptied a prescription bottle before the world went black. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I caught the sleeve of his designer suit. It was an instinctual, pathetic plea. “Please, don’t joke like that. The fireworks… you said we were going to watch the fireworks tonight.” His eyes flickered—a brief, microscopic shadow of something like guilt—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a wall of ice. “Don’t you get it, Audrey? Seraphina is back. She’s always been the only one. It was always her.” My heart did a sickening drop. My pulse thudded in my ears, a frantic, rhythmic panic. “Seraphina? She’s been in London for years. Why now? Why does it matter?” Grant looked at me, his expression flat. “She didn’t leave because she didn’t love me. She left because my mother paid her off—a hundred thousand dollars to cover her family’s medical debts. It was a misunderstanding, Audrey. A cruel, decades-long mistake.” The room seemed to tilt. “And what about us? Why did you propose to me? Why did you spend three years building a life with me if—” “I was young. I was confused,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady drone. “I thought marriage was a partnership, a sensible arrangement. But Seraphina… she’s the soul. Thank you for helping me realize that I can’t settle for anything less than her.” It felt like a physical blow to the chest. As I lay there, fragments of a strange, haunting memory began to stitch themselves together in my mind—not memories of my life, but plot points. I saw the narrative arc laid out like a blueprint. Grant Weston, the misunderstood hero. Seraphina Rossi, the tragic, beautiful first love. And me? I was Audrey Hale, the “placeholder wife.” The woman the readers were supposed to dislike for standing in the way of true love. The “filler” character used to build the hero’s wealth before he discarded her. Every word Grant had just spoken was a line from a script I hadn’t known I was following. In the “book,” I was supposed to scream. I was supposed to call our parents, throw a tantrum, and refuse to sign the papers. I was supposed to spend the next three years clinging to the wreckage of our marriage until Grant eventually dismantled my father’s company, stripped me of my dignity, and threw me out into the street as a laughingstock of the Upper East Side. Am I really just a footnote in her story? “Just tell me,” Grant said, stepping closer, leaning over the bed until his shadow eclipsed me. “What is it going to take for you to sign? Money? Property? Just name the price so we can end this.” I shrank back, my voice a thin, shaky thread. “And if… if I say no?” He frowned, his jaw tightening, but before he could answer, his phone chimed. He checked the screen, and his entire demeanor shifted. The ice melted instantly into a terrifyingly soft warmth. “Seraphina? What’s wrong?” I could hear her voice through the receiver—a soft, melodic trill, laced with practiced vulnerability. “Grant? The gallery opening is starting soon. I’m getting nervous. Where are you?” “I’m on my way,” he said, his eyes darting to me with a flash of impatience. “There was a minor complication. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He hung up and looked at me one last time, his voice stripped of all emotion. “You have three days, Audrey. Give me an answer that doesn’t waste any more of my time.” He turned and walked out without looking back. I stared at the empty doorway, a cold, hollow ache spreading through my ribs. Only a month ago, we were celebrating his company’s IPO. He had held my hand, looked me in the eye, and told me he’d never seen anything as beautiful as me. He’d seemed so sincere. How does a man go from that to looking at you like you’re a stain on his carpet? It wasn’t possible. He loved me. He had to. This had to be some terrible, temporary fever dream. With trembling hands, I ripped the IV from my arm. I ignored the sting of blood and the dizziness in my head. I had to see them. I had to know if the “script” was real. 2 The art gallery was a hive of New York’s elite, smelling of expensive perfume and pretension. I found them in a quiet corner, tucked away behind a large abstract canvas. Grant’s arm was draped protectively around a woman whose frame was so delicate she looked as if she might shatter under a heavy gaze. Seraphina Rossi. Ten years ago, I was the naive girl who believed love was something you could earn through sheer endurance. When Grant mentioned he admired women with an “artistic soul,” I dropped my business major and enrolled in Fine Arts. I spent years perfecting a version of myself that I thought he wanted. I remembered the first time he asked for my help back in college for a charity gala. I had stayed up all night organizing it, bringing along my younger classmates to staff the event. That was the night he met Seraphina. I thought their breakup years ago was the end. I didn’t realize she was a ghost that had been haunting my hallways for three years. Grant noticed me first. His face darkened. He shifted, subtly shielding Seraphina with his body. “What the hell are you doing here, Audrey?” I fought back the hot prickle of tears, forcing my chin up. “My husband is here. Why wouldn’t I be?” Seraphina blinked, her wide, doe-like eyes darting between us. “Grant? You… you said the divorce was settled. You told me the papers were signed.” She lowered her head, the picture of a wounded angel. “It’s being handled,” Grant murmured, squeezing her shoulder. He turned back to me, his voice a low hiss. “Audrey, stop this. You’re making a scene. You’re embarrassing yourself.” Seraphina stepped forward, her voice a soft, sugary whisper. “Audrey, I’m so sorry. Truly. But you can’t force a heart to stay where it doesn’t belong. Please… for everyone’s sake, just let him go.” Let him go? In the original plot, this was where I was supposed to break. This was where I would spend three years begging for scraps of his affection, only to end up on my knees on a snowy Christmas Eve, pleading with him not to bankrupt my family’s firm while he stayed inside a warm penthouse with her. The memory of that unwritten future sent a shiver of pure, cold terror through my spine. Maybe it was time to stop fighting the inevitable. “Fine. If that’s what you want… then let’s divorce.” The words were right there, on the tip of my tongue. But as I opened my mouth, my throat seized. It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my windpipe. “Grant…” I heard my own voice, but it wasn’t saying what I wanted. It was high, desperate, and clingy. “Grant, please. Are we really just… over? Can’t we go back to how it was?” I froze. My own mind was screaming No! Stop! but my body was reciting the script. I was a puppet, and the strings were being pulled by a narrative I couldn’t control. Grant rolled his eyes, the last of his patience snapping. “Is this a joke to you? You won’t sign the papers, you show up here to harass us—do you have any dignity left at all?” His voice carried. People were starting to turn, their whispers cutting through the air like glass. “No, that’s not it—” I shook my head, trying to fight the invisible force in my throat. “I’m not trying to cause a scene, I just—” “You just can’t let go,” he interrupted, his lip curling in a sneer of pure disgust. “Grant, wait!” I reached out, grabbing his forearm, my mind screaming for me to tell him that we were in a story, that none of this was right. He didn’t wait. He snarled and wrenched his arm away with such force that I lost my balance. I stumbled back, my heels skidding on the polished floor. My shoulder slammed into a display wall, and I collapsed onto the ground in a heap of silk and shame. The gallery went silent for a heartbeat. Then, the murmurs began. “Is that the wife? How pathetic.” “She looks like a mess. No wonder he’s leaving her.” “Some women just don’t know when they’ve been replaced.” Seraphina tugged at Grant’s sleeve, her voice trembling. “Grant, let’s just go. Please. I can’t be here for this.” Grant gave me one final, loathing look. “Don’t follow us, Audrey. I’m done being patient.” I sat on the floor, watching the man I had loved for a decade walk away with another woman. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. There was only a vast, echoing numbness. Pain, when it goes deep enough, eventually turns into a kind of hollow silence. 3 I don’t remember leaving the gallery. For the next three days, I tried to fight the script. I went to my mother, intending to tell her I was leaving Grant, but when I opened my mouth, the words came out as: “Mom, I can’t lose him. You have to help me keep him…” I called my best friend, Gia, wanting to tell her I was done, but instead, I sobbed into the phone: “I still love him. I can’t let her win.” I was a prisoner in my own skin, watching myself play the part of the hysterical, jilted wife. I was terrified. Was I doomed to follow this path until I hit rock bottom? On the third day, I drove to Grant’s office at Weston Tech. My chest felt like it was being squeezed by a vice. I had to end this. I had to find a way to say the words. As I approached his private suite, I heard a sound that made my blood run cold. It was a low, muffled moan—a sound of stifled, breathless passion. I froze at the door. Every instinct told me to turn around, but the script pushed me forward. My hand reached out. My thumb pressed against the biometric scanner. The door hissed open. The sight inside shattered whatever was left of my heart. Grant was in his executive chair, and Seraphina was draped across his lap, her silk dress pushed up high. His hands were buried in her hair, his mouth pressed feverishly against the hollow of her throat. In three years of marriage, I had never seen him lose control like this. With me, he was always composed, always “sensible.” With her, he was a man possessed. This wasn’t in the book. The book said they were “soulmates,” but it never described this blatant, daylight infidelity in the middle of a corporate office. Seraphina saw me first. She let out a small, performative gasp and buried her face in Grant’s chest, pulling her bodice up as if she were a startled rabbit. Grant looked up. When he saw me, his expression shifted from shock to a blinding, incandescent rage. “Have you lost your mind?” He stood up, shielding Seraphina behind him. “This is a place of business! Bursting in here like a lunatic—who do you think you are?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Who do I think I am? I’m your wife! You’re having sex with her in your office, and I’m the lunatic?” Seraphina touched his arm, her voice a fragile whisper. “Grant, don’t be angry with her. She’s just… she’s hurting. I should go.” She adjusted her clothes, making sure I saw the fresh, dark bruises of his affection on her skin. Something inside me snapped. It wasn’t the script. It wasn’t the “supporting character.” It was me. The real Audrey Hale. I didn’t think. I lunged forward and swung my hand with every ounce of strength I had left. The sound echoed like a gunshot. The air in the room turned to lead. The next second, Grant’s face twisted into something demonic. In a blur of motion, he grabbed a heavy glass carafe from his desk and hurled it at me. The glass exploded against my forehead. The force sent me reeling backward until I hit the floor. A hot, thick liquid began to crawl down my face. I reached up, my fingers coming away drenched in crimson. My head throbbed with a rhythmic, sickening heat. He had actually hit me. Grant didn’t even look at the wound. He was already leaning down, cradling Seraphina. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” His voice was cooing, desperate, as if she were the one bleeding on the carpet. She sobbed into his chest, shaking her head. “Audrey Hale!” Grant barked, turning his head to glare at me, his eyes bloodshot. “I told you I wanted a divorce! You’re the one clinging like a parasite, and now you’re getting violent? You are unstable!” I stared at him, my vision blurring. Unstable? Parasite? Was that what ten years of devotion got me? I looked at him—really looked at him—and the pedestal I had built for him for a decade finally crumbled into dust. The humiliation and the physical pain merged into a singular, sharp point of clarity. The “script” in my head shivered. The gears of fate groaned and shifted. I gritted my teeth, the taste of copper filling my mouth. I pushed myself up from the floor, bone by painful bone, until I was standing. I looked him dead in the eye, and for the first time in three days, my voice belonged entirely to me. “Grant Weston,” I said, my voice as cold as a grave. “Let’s divorce. Now.” His entire body went rigid. His expression went blank, the rage replaced by a sudden, jarring silence.

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1 Noah was silent. By a twist of fate and a decade of shared history, I was the only one who truly knew how to read his hands. When Noah said he wanted peace and preferred to sit alone, I was the one who told the teachers, “He says he can’t handle the back of the room; he needs to be right next to me.” When Noah wanted his bedroom painted black with the curtains drawn tight, I told his mom, “He wants a floor-to-ceiling window with sheer pink curtains. He says he’s tired of living in the dark.” And when Noah told me—with a sharp, jagged flick of his wrists—that he hated me? I chose to believe he was just being stubborn. I’d shove a piece of cake into his mouth and laugh. “I don’t believe you. If you don’t like me, who do you like? The new transfer girl?” He would look at me, his gaze flickering away, and sign with lightning speed: “Of course not. She’s not my type.” I’d breathe a sigh of relief and go back to being Noah’s shadow, his protector, his voice. Until the day I stayed late for hall duty and found a crumpled note tucked into the back of a locker. It was addressed to Serena, the new girl. “I only said that because I was afraid she’d sabotage the translation. Please don’t be mad.” “I like you more than anyone. Let’s try to get into the same university, okay?” That was when I realized that leaving a boy who doesn’t speak is the easiest thing in the world. All I had to do was close my eyes. Or simply stop listening. The broom slipped from my hand, clattering against the linoleum. I smoothed out the paper, my heart hammering a rhythm of pure, cold dread. Noah’s handwriting was unmistakable—clean, architectural, and deliberate. I could almost see the small, triumphant smile he wore when he wrote. But realizing these words were for Serena felt like a physical blow to the stomach. Only an hour ago, I had cornered him in the empty classroom. “Why is the new girl following you around like a lost puppy?” I’d asked, trying to sound casual. “It’s like she has a crush on you or something.” Noah hadn’t looked at me. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on something over my shoulder. I turned to see Serena struggling to reach the top of the whiteboard. Without a word, Noah stood up, walked over, and took the eraser from her hand, his movements fluid and gentle as he finished the job for her. When he sat back down, I fumbled with an X-Acto knife, pretending to be focused on my art project. “Do you like her?” Noah’s lashes were thick and dark, the kind of fringe girls would kill for. There was a flicker of what looked like weary frustration in his clear eyes. “I don’t like her,” he signed. “She isn’t my type at all.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my grip on the knife loosening. The blade slipped, slicing clean through my index finger. I hissed in pain as blood began to well up. Noah’s face transformed instantly. His brows knitted together in genuine worry as he grabbed my hand, his touch light and familiar as he blotted the blood. The heat of his skin, the scent of his laundry detergent—it always had a way of grounding me. I watched him and told myself: See? Noah loves me. And now, the note in my pocket screamed otherwise. “I’m afraid she’ll start trouble again. I’m afraid she’ll target you.” “Don’t listen to her. I only want to be with you.” 2 I squeezed the crumpled note in my pocket until the edges bit into my palm. I’ve never been the type to suffer in silence. I found Noah by the bleachers after school, my throat tight with a dozen questions. What does the note mean? Why are you lying to me? But when he saw me, he just raised his hand, signing something simple and soft while looking at the Band-Aid on my finger. “Does it still hurt?” I shoved his hand away, the bitterness finally boiling over. “If you’re sick of me, Noah, you can just say it. You don’t have to play these double games.” His eyes shifted, landing on the corner of the note sticking out of my pocket. He didn’t look panicked. Instead, a look of profound exhaustion washed over his face—the look of someone who had expected me to make a scene over “something small.” “It’s not what you think,” he signed. “But Sadie… don’t you think we’re a little too close?” He hesitated, his fingers hovering as if the next thought was too heavy to carry. “Just say it,” a bright voice interrupted. “If you don’t tell her, she’ll never change. People need to know when they’re overstepping.” Serena appeared out of nowhere, her hand resting lightly on Noah’s shoulder in a gesture that looked intentionally protective. I felt a surge of nausea. I’ve always been stubborn. When I first met Noah, he had lost his voice after a traumatic accident. He was the quiet, broken boy everyone bullied. I was the girl who grew three inches over the summer and fought the kids who tripped him in the hallway. When the counselor asked where Noah wanted to sit, he just pointed to a chair. I stepped in. “He said he wants to sit with me. He said he can’t imagine being anywhere else.” In calculus, when the teacher asked who could solve the bonus problem, I saw Noah’s notebook filled with perfect equations, yet he sat there like a statue. I raised my hand. “Noah has three different ways to solve it, Mr. Harrison.” Eventually, Noah wasn’t the boy hiding in the shadows anymore. People started talking to him. He got into the Honors program. On the day he received his acceptance letter, he looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and handed me a slip of paper: “I’ll tutor you. Let’s go to the same college, okay?” That was the first time my heart skipped for him. I thought we were a “we.” Until Serena arrived. A few weeks ago, I had begged Noah to go see a revival screening of Interstellar. He’d smiled that weary smile and signed that he wanted to go to the library to organize his notes. I did what I always did. “Oh, so we’re on the same page? You want to see the sci-fi flick too!” It was our routine. I never thought twice about it. But Serena had been standing there, her brow furrowed. “Can’t you just respect him for once?” she asked, her voice dripping with “sincere” concern. “He clearly signed that he wanted to go to the library. Why do you constantly choose to ignore what he actually wants?” The air went still. Me? Hurting Noah? The worst part was Noah’s reaction. He looked like a man waking up from a trance. He nodded at Serena and signed a slow, deliberate “Thank you.” The unspoken bond, the shared jokes, the years of “protecting” him—it all shattered in a second. Serena became the heroine of his story, the one teaching him “boundaries.” And now, standing by the bleachers under her watchful eye, Noah found his courage. He signed, one slow movement at a time: “I think… I need some personal space.” 3 That night, I stayed awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if I was the villain in someone else’s movie. Maybe Noah really did love the dark, and I had forced him into the sun. Maybe he truly preferred being alone, and I was just an intruder he didn’t know how to evict. But Noah was brilliant. He would have been fine without me. I was just bossy, selfish, and loud. I was a nuisance he had been too polite to get rid of. I lay there until the sky turned a bruised purple and the rain started to knock against my window. The chill finally snapped me back to reality. I realized with a jolt that today was Noah’s appointment at the Speech Rehabilitation Center. His mutism wasn’t permanent. It was a “psychological block,” the doctors said. A “heart sickness.” He hadn’t spoken a word since the accident, but his vocal cords were fine. I was the one who had dragged him to every session. “Go,” I used to plead. “I’ll go to those boring math competitions with you if you just go. I really want to hear your voice, Noah. You’re too handsome to be silent.” Once, when I had a high fever and was stuck in the school infirmary, Noah stayed by my side. He held the IV tube to keep the fluid from being too cold against my skin. “Why aren’t you at rehab?” I whispered. He didn’t sign. He took my hand and traced three letters into my palm: Y-O-U. Then he signed: “I want you to be the first person to hear me speak.” Thinking about that made me bolt upright. My heart ached with a mix of desperation and hope. He’s waiting for me, I thought. He must be. I grabbed my umbrella and ran. The asphalt was slick and black, reflecting the streetlights. I stood outside the rehab center, the wind biting at my neck, scanning the entrance. Then I saw them. Serena was standing close to him, her fingers gently tracing the line of Noah’s throat. 4 Noah hated being touched. It wasn’t because he was antisocial; it was a reflex from the trauma. When we were kids, before the “incident,” he was the most vibrant boy in the neighborhood. I was the chubby kid nobody wanted to play with. Noah was the only one who let me play the Knight in our make-believe games. “Knights have to be strong,” he’d say. “That way you can protect the Princess.” “Are you the Princess then?” I’d asked. He’d blush furiously. “I guess… but you have to keep me safe.” Then, Noah disappeared. The adults said he’d been taken. Kidnapped. I was there the day the police brought him back. He was covered in dirt, his eyes vacant and hollow. I had been so happy to see him that I reached out to grab his hand. Noah screamed. He pushed me away with a strength that terrified me. His mother, her face white as a sheet, whispered a tearful apology to me. “He’s having nightmares, Sadie. He’s not himself.” They moved away shortly after. When we met again in middle school, he was silent. He let kids push him around like he didn’t even exist. Seeing him like that—knowing how bright he used to be—felt like a physical pain in my chest. I decided to pick up my “Knight” persona again. I watched him get better, watched him lean on me, and I felt a secret, dark pride in it. I wanted him to need only me. Under the moonlight, Serena’s hand stayed on his neck. Her lips were moving—she was probably coaching him, telling him how to feel the vibrations, how to find his voice. I wiped a stray tear, but Noah caught my eye. For the first time, I saw a flicker of guilt in his expression. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” I asked, my voice trembling with the last of my hope. Noah started to sign a response, but Serena stepped in front of him like a shield. “Why does it bother you so much when anyone else gets close to him?” she asked. Her voice was soft, but her eyes were venomous. “You don’t actually want him to have friends, do you?” “That’s not—” “You think you’re so noble,” she cut me off. “But if it wasn’t for you, Noah would have had a normal life years ago. You’ve kept him small so you could feel big. You just want to control him.” I looked at Noah, my eyes stinging. Please. Tell her she’s wrong. You know it’s not like that. Noah didn’t move. He didn’t defend me. His fingers moved, and Serena smiled a satisfied, triumphant smile. “Sadie,” he signed. “I think I want to try living a life without you in it.” The rain felt like needles against my skin. I didn’t say another word. I turned and ran into the darkness. In my peripheral vision, I saw Noah instinctively reach out to stop me, but Serena caught the edge of his jacket. He hesitated. And for the last time, he didn’t choose me. Fine, I thought, my heart going numb. I’m done being the Knight.

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1 My brain was a scorched wasteland. After three consecutive sixteen-hour shifts at the Chronicle, my IQ had plummeted into the negatives. I was a ghost in a trench coat, haunted by deadlines and caffeine jitters. When I reached my floor, I didn’t even look at the door number. I just punched the code into the keypad—my own birthday, a habit I’d never changed. The lock clicked. The door swung open. But as I stepped inside, the air felt wrong. My apartment usually smelled like overpriced lavender candles and neglected laundry; this place smelled of cedarwood, expensive scotch, and the sterile hum of high-end electronics. I reached for the light switch, but my hand hit nothing but smooth, cold wallpaper. A jolt of adrenaline finally pierced my exhaustion. I froze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I backed away, intending to bolt, but I slammed right into a solid, warm chest. “Is the upgrade finished so soon?” A voice vibrated against my back—low, resonant, and achingly familiar. Silas Blackwood. My neighbor. The man I’d been hopelessly, pathetically in love with for a year. Before I could process his words, his hand settled on my waist. Even through my thin silk blouse, the heat of his palm felt like a brand. My mind went blank. I caught a glimpse of a glossy booklet on the coffee table: The Synthetics User Guide: Model V Companion. Synthetic? As in… an android? Before I could gasp, Silas swept me off my feet. He carried me into the bedroom with an effortless, predatory grace. The room was bathed in the pale, blue glow of the city skyline. He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t say another word. He just kissed me. It wasn’t the polite, distant greeting of a neighbor. It was a shattering, soul-deep claim. His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as he tasted me with a hunger that made my knees weak. My brain, already fragile, completely short-circuited. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t tell him I was human. I just gripped his collar and let myself drown in the scent of him. “The haptic response is incredible,” he murmured against my lips, his breath hitching. “More realistic than the last version.” He thought I was a machine. The realization should have stung, but in the heat of his embrace, it felt like a shield. During the day, when we shared an elevator, Silas was the ice king of the tech world—a man who gave me nothing but a stiff nod and a “Mind the gap, Ms. Reed” even when I purposefully brushed against him. Who would have thought that the stoic, repressed Silas Blackwood spent his nights pouring his soul—and his body—into a robot that looked exactly like me? “Is the voice module still calibrating?” he whispered, his thumb tracing my lower lip. He looked troubled, his brow furrowing in the dark. I panicked. I forced my voice into a flat, rhythmic monotone. “Voice… pack… installing…” Silas let out a soft, breathy laugh that made my skin tingle. He pulled a set of silk pajamas from the nightstand. Then, with agonizing slowness and a gaze that felt like a physical touch, he began to undress me. 2 Aside from the kisses and the quiet, intimate ritual of changing my clothes, Silas didn’t cross the final line. He just held me. When the first grey light of dawn filtered through the blinds, I waited for him to leave for his workout before I scrambled out of his bed and fled to my own apartment. I collapsed against my front door, my heart still racing. Did he really have a synthetic that looked exactly like me? The thought was terrifying. And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me when he thought I couldn’t feel it. I forced myself through a cold shower and headed to the office, arriving late and looking like I’d been dragged through a hedge. I expected a lecture from my editor, Sarah, but instead, she pulled me into her glass-walled office with a manic grin. “Maren, the universe has smiled upon you,” she said, sliding a folder across the desk. “The Blackwood interview is finally a go. Two hours tomorrow, two hours the day after. Exclusive.” I nearly dropped the file. I had been chasing this profile for six months as a cover for my obsession, but now? Now it felt like a death sentence. I spent the day in a fever dream, drafting questions while my mind looped back to the cedarwood scent of his skin. Should I stop? Should I stay away from his apartment? But I was addicted. I was a journalist; I was supposed to seek the truth, but I found myself craving the lie. That night, I walked back into his apartment. I knew the code was my birthday. I knew where the pajamas were kept. I sat on his sofa and waited. When Silas arrived, he looked different. There was a faint, fresh scratch along his jawline. “Come here,” he said softly, heading into the bedroom. I followed him, my heart in my throat. He had already changed into his robe. He gestured to the bed, his expression unreadable. “Get in. It’s been a long day, and I have lab trials tomorrow. We’re just sleeping.” The disappointment was a sharp, physical pang in my chest. I climbed under the duvet, and he pulled me against him. He kissed my forehead—a gesture so tender it made my eyes sting—and fell asleep almost instantly. 3 The next morning, I stood outside the Blackwood Industries conference room, taking deep, shaky breaths. I was Maren Reed, professional journalist. I was not a synthetic. I was not a secret. “We can begin now,” a cold, clipped voice said from behind me. I turned and froze. Silas stood there in a charcoal suit, his eyes like flint. He looked nothing like the man who had held me hours ago. And more importantly—the scratch on his jaw was gone. “Of course,” I stammered, stepping back so quickly I nearly tripped over my own feet. My hands shook as I reached for my recorder. Silas adjusted his glasses, his gaze lingering on my trembling fingers. “Are you unwell, Ms. Reed? You look… pale.” “I’m fine,” I lied, staring at the floor. The memories of the night were screaming in my head, clashing violently with the sterile reality of the man in front of me. The interview was a nightmare of efficiency. He answered every technical question with surgical precision. But when I reached the final question—one I hadn’t cleared with Sarah—the air in the room curdled. “Mr. Blackwood, rumors suggest your firm is working on high-fidelity social synthetics. Why would a creator choose to model a prototype after someone in their personal life?” Silas went rigid. He stood up, smoothing his tie with a slow, deliberate motion. “That question was not on the approved list, Ms. Reed. This interview is over.” I couldn’t take it. The coldness, the hot-and-cold whiplash—it was breaking me. I watched him walk toward the elevator and I snapped. I chased after him, sliding into the car just as the doors began to close. “Silas, stop it!” I yelled. “What the hell is this? I’ve spent a year trying to get close to you, and you treat me like a stranger. But then I see what’s in your apartment. You have a machine that looks like me. You hold it. You kiss it. Is this just some sick research project? Am I just a blueprint to you?” Silas looked at me, his expression flat, his eyes devoid of the warmth I’d felt in the dark. “Ms. Reed,” he said, his voice like a gavel. “You are overstepping. Whatever you think you saw in my home is none of your concern.” The elevator doors opened. He walked away without looking back. I collapsed against the mirrored wall of the elevator, feeling smaller than I ever had in my life. I had bared my soul, and he hadn’t even blinked. The doors opened again on the lobby level. A woman was waiting there—tall, blonde, and wearing a coat that cost more than my car. 4 She stepped into the elevator and looked me up and down with a pitying smile. She toyed with a sapphire pendant at her throat—a perfect match for the cufflinks Silas had been wearing. “Honey, you need to learn your place,” she said, her voice like honeyed poison. “Silas and I might not be a ‘love match,’ as the tabloids put it, but we are an alliance. Our wedding is in three months. I don’t mind a little distraction, but I won’t tolerate a nuisance.” The doors opened. I walked out into a sudden New York downpour. I stood on the sidewalk, letting the rain soak through my clothes, feeling like a discarded toy. The last forty-eight hours had been a fever dream born of my own desperation. I huddled under a bus stop awning, my makeup running, my clothes clinging to my skin. I felt pathetic. Then, a sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. It was Silas. But there, on his jaw, was the scratch. “Maren,” he said, his voice urgent. “Get in.” I didn’t move. I stared at the scratch. Then I stared at him. “You knew,” I whispered. “You knew I wasn’t the machine from the beginning.” He didn’t answer. He got out of the car, shielding me with a large umbrella, his eyes searching mine. “Synthetics shouldn’t be out in the rain,” he said softly. “They’ll short-circuit.” Something inside me snapped. I shoved the umbrella away, stepping back into the deluge. “Stop it! Stop the games! You’re Silas, but you’re not… him. The Silas in that office doesn’t have a scratch on his face. He doesn’t have a soul. And he has a fiancée.” The man in front of me flinched. The umbrella tilted, forgotten. The rain washed over the scratch on his jaw, making it stand out vividly. “Who are you?” I screamed over the thunder. “Why are you doing this to me?” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m Silas. The only Silas that matters to you.” “Liar,” I breathed. I could feel the truth now. It wasn’t just the scratch. It was the way he looked at me—with a desperate, terrifying vulnerability that the man in the office was incapable of. “I’m done. I don’t care who you are or what kind of twisted twin-swap you’re running. I’m out. Don’t come near me again.” I turned and ran into the rain. He didn’t follow. 5 The fever hit me like a freight train that night. I spent the next day drifting in and out of consciousness, my body shivering despite the piles of blankets. My phone buzzed incessantly—Sarah, demanding to know why I wasn’t at the second half of the Blackwood interview. With a Herculean effort, I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a dress, and called an Uber. I couldn’t lose my job over a broken heart. When I arrived at the Blackwood building, my vision was swimming. My colleague, a junior photographer, met me in the lobby. “Maren, you look like death,” he whispered. “I’m fine,” I said, though the floor felt like it was tilting. Suddenly, a hand gripped my wrist. It was cool against my burning skin. I leaned toward the sensation, my eyes fluttering shut. I looked up and saw Silas. “Maren, you’re burning up.” “Let go of me, Mr. Blackwood,” I hissed, my voice cracking. I tried to pull away, but I stumbled. He caught me, his arms locking around me like iron. He turned to my colleague and the gathered staff. “I have an emergency. The interview is canceled. Reschedule for next week.” “You can’t do that!” I protested, but he ignored me. He picked me up—that same effortless, bridal carry—and marched me toward the private garage. He tucked me into the passenger seat of his car, cranking the heat. I looked at his face in the light of the dashboard. The scratch was there. It was him. The ‘Night Silas.’ “Tell me,” I whispered. “Who are you?” He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. After a long, heavy silence, he spoke. “Sawyer,” he said. “I’m Sawyer Blackwood. Silas’s twin brother. The one they keep in the basement because I’m not ‘corporate’ enough.”

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1 To save my brother from a stampede of crazed, mutated beasts, I took the brunt of the infection. It twisted my body, turning me into a massive white tiger with a pair of useless, heavy wings growing from my spine. But I’ve always been a coward. Instead of being a majestic predator, I spent the last two weeks hiding in a damp, abandoned fallout shelter, purring pathetically as I bossed around smaller mutated strays to scavenge cans of food for me. Half a month later, my brother, Logan Miller, finally found me. I was so ecstatic I almost flipped over to show him my belly for a rub, but then I saw the girl standing behind him. A beast-tamer. The girl’s eyes lit up as she pointed at my little pack of scavengers. “Logan, look! The biocores from these things are exactly what I need to level up my companion.” A stream of text flickered across my neural-link HUD—the “Global Stream” was watching. [Wow! Logan is so whipped. He’s already farming high-level materials for his new girl.] [To make up for his sister’s death, Logan is going to wipe out this entire pack. So badass!] [He has no idea that fat tiger is actually the little sister he lost. LMAO.] My fur stood on end. My tail puffed up like a bottle brush. Logan stared at the pack, his hand tightening on the hilt of his heavy blade. He didn’t recognize me. Not even a little. I stomped my paws in frustration, but all that came out was a pathetic, muffled whimper. “Meow?” Logan’s draw was clean and lethal. The blade caught the setting sun, casting a cold, metallic glint that stung my eyes. I lost all strength in my legs and collapsed into a heap of white fur, my tail twitching in pure terror. Serena, the girl, let out a soft “oh” and ducked behind Logan, clutching his tactical vest with both hands. “Logan! Is it going to attack? It looks so aggressive!” Her voice was a practiced tremor. Logan shifted his weight, shielding her completely. His grip on the sword turned his knuckles white. “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.” I froze. Those four words. When we were kids and I was terrified of thunder, Logan used to tuck me under his oversized hoodie. “Don’t be afraid, Riley. Big brother’s got you.” The exact same tone. But now, it was for someone else. The Feed scrolled by: [Logan is such a man! Protecting Serena like that!] [That white tiger’s core must be worth a fortune! Those wings are a rare mutation!] [LOL look at that fat tiger cowering. Is that really an apex predator? It’s so pathetic.] Logan took a step toward me. Terrified, I tried to scramble back, but my claws slipped on the loose gravel. I ended up flat on my back, legs in the air, wings tangled awkwardly beneath me. Humiliating. Absolute, bottom-tier humiliation. By the time I scrambled upright, Logan’s blade was at my throat. It was ice-cold. I could feel the hum of the energy edge through my fur. I stayed pinned to the ground, my tail-tip the only part of me brave enough to shiver. Logan. It’s me. It’s Riley. I opened my mouth to scream his name, but the only sound that escaped was a low, guttural chuff. Logan’s eyes were dead. To him, I was just another monster to be cleared. Serena peered from behind his shoulder, pointing at the smaller beasts behind me. “Logan, the cores from those little ones alone will jump my pet two tiers!” “Copy that,” Logan nodded. “Once I deal with this one, the rest will be easy.” Deal with this one. He meant me. My brain went numb. I scrambled onto all four paws and bolted. My wings flared instinctively, sending me careening into the air in a jagged, clumsy trajectory. I slammed into a dead oak tree, tumbled, and somehow managed to stay airborne. Behind me, Serena’s voice echoed: “It’s getting away! Logan, those wings are worth a premium!” “It’s getting dark. It’s too dangerous to pursue,” Logan interrupted her. “We’ll track it tomorrow.” The roar of their engine faded into the distance. I dove into the ventilation shaft of my shelter and curled into the darkest corner. I wrapped my wings around myself until I was nothing but a giant, shivering ball of white fluff. The memories of two weeks ago flooded back. The breach, the swarm, Logan trapped in the truck. I had jumped in, barehanded, dragging a mutated wolf off the roof. It was the bravest thing I’d ever done. The price was seven or eight jagged bites. The infection moved too fast. I barely made it to the end of the alley before my legs gave out. When I woke up, I was this. A winged tiger. Sounds cool on paper, right? But I was still Riley Miller—the girl who screamed at cockroaches. Only now, my scream could shatter windows for three blocks. I thought when my brother found me, he’d ruffle the back of my head like he used to. “Riley, you’ve got some nerve,” he’d say. Then he’d scold me while secretly checking for scratches. Instead, he’d put a sword to my throat. He hadn’t even looked me in the eye. I buried my face in my paws and let out a soft, broken moan. The world outside went silent. The engine was gone. I lay there for a long time. Then, I stood up, shook the dust from my wings, and began to follow the scent of the exhaust. I was a terrible flyer. Two weeks as a mutant and I still couldn’t steer. A ten-minute flight for a bird took me over an hour; I hit two power lines and got stuck in a tree for twenty minutes. When I finally caught the glow of their taillights, I perched on the roof of a gutted apartment building. I didn’t dare get close. But I couldn’t leave. The Feed: [What’s the point of following him? He’ll just kill her next time.] [Stalker Tiger confirmed, haha.] [She just wants to be near him… even if he doesn’t know. That’s actually kind of sad.] I rested my chin on my paws, my tail flicking rhythmically. In the camp below, Logan stepped out of the truck. Serena ran up to him and naturally slid her arm through his. Logan didn’t pull away. My tail stopped moving. 2 The next evening, I watched from the rooftop across the street. Serena emerged from the tent carrying a small tin. “Logan! Look what I salvaged from the ruins! Beef stew—your favorite!” She skipped over to him, her eyes crinkling with a rehearsed sweetness. Logan took the tin, the corner of his mouth twitching into a ghost of a smile. “Thanks.” Beef stew. Every year for his birthday, I’d save my allowance to buy him the good stuff. I’d hide a sticky note under the pull-tab: “Happy Birthday, Logan. You get the meat, I get the gravy. No trades!” He’d always laugh and flick my forehead. “Just take the whole damn thing, kid.” Now, someone else was handing it to him. And he was taking it. The Feed: [Serena is so thoughtful! She remembered he likes beef stew!] [Some tigers just hide in caves; some people actually take care of you. The choice is obvious.] I used a claw to peel a long strip of weatherproofing off the roof. I wasn’t angry. I was a rational tiger. He didn’t know it was me. It was fine. While the team rested, Serena pulled out a wet wipe and stood on her tiptoes to clean the dust from the hilt of Logan’s sword. Her movements were fluid, as if she’d done it a hundred times. “Hold still, Logan. There’s a bit of mud right here.” Logan looked down at her, silent and unmoving. Another teammate, a guy named Marcus, looked over. “Serena, do you have to do that every five minutes?” Serena’s smile vanished. Her eyes welled up instantly. “I’m sorry… I just… I hate seeing his gear messy. I know how much his sister used to take care of it.” She took a trembling step back. “I know I’m not Riley. I don’t have the right…” Logan shot Marcus a cold look. “Enough. She’s just trying to help.” Serena lowered her head, her shoulders shaking. But from my vantage point, I saw the flicker of triumph in her eyes before she hid it. The Feed was heartbroken: [Poor Serena! She was just being sweet!] [Marcus needs to mind his own business.] [The way Logan protects her is so dreamy.] I lay flat on the concrete, my claws crushing a piece of loose rebar. Logan had always been like that. If a girl cried in front of him, he turned into a marshmallow. I used to pout just to get him to give me his dessert. Now, that softness belonged to someone else. Night fell. Serena leaned her head on Logan’s shoulder and closed her eyes, curling into his side. Logan looked down at her and draped his tactical jacket over her shoulders. He used to do that to me, too. He’d meet me at the bus stop, and if the wind picked up, he’d shove his jacket over my head. “Riley, are you an idiot? It’s forty degrees out. Put this on.” The same gesture. Now on her shoulders. I watched until the moon was high. Then I stood up and shook my wings. He was cared for. He wasn’t alone. He didn’t need a fat, unrecognizable tiger watching him from the shadows. I turned to fly away. But I didn’t get fifty yards before I stopped. I flew back. Near the entrance of their camp, I quietly dropped something on the pavement. A tin of tuna. It was the last of the “tribute” my little minions had brought me. My last stash. I used a claw to etch two words into the metal lid. The letters were jagged and ugly, like a child’s scrawl. Big Brother. Then, I flapped my wings and disappeared into the night. 3 I told myself I wouldn’t go back. But as soon as the sun went down the next day, I found myself hovering over the camp again. Just one look. Just to see. From my rooftop perch, I scanned the camp entrance. My tuna tin was still there, but it was face down in the dirt. Serena stepped out of the tent, looking refreshed. She spotted the tin. “Ugh, who’s leaving trash everywhere?” She kicked it with the toe of her boot, wrinkling her nose. “Marcus, get rid of this.” Marcus walked over to pick it up just as Logan stepped out of the truck. “What is it?” Logan asked. “Just some dirty old tin,” Serena smiled. “Gross.” Logan glanced at it. “Throw it away.” Marcus tossed the tin into the rubble heap nearby. It rolled a few times, landing face up. The words Big Brother stared up at the empty sky, jagged and desperate. No one saw them. I buried my face in my paws. That tuna had cost my little scavenger a fight with a stray dog. Whatever. It was fine. He couldn’t see the words anyway. Late that night, the camp grew lively. Serena emerged from a tent holding a small velvet box. She ran to Logan. “Logan! Look what I found in the old lockers!” She opened it. It was a ring—delicate, silver, engraved with a tiger-stripe pattern. “I found a sketch of this in Riley’s old journal,” Serena said, her voice dripping with sympathy. “She’d written ‘Logan’s Birthday’ next to it. She never got to give it to you. I thought… maybe I could give it to you in her place.” Logan took it. He was silent for a long time. His thumb traced the engraving, his knuckles pale. “…Thank you.” Serena took the opportunity to lace her arm through his. “I’ll make sure you get a gift every year, for her.” Logan didn’t pull away. The Feed went wild: [Logan must miss his sister so much! Serena is an angel!] [She’s officially taking Riley’s place. It’s for the best.] [A living companion is always better than a dead memory or a stray tiger, haha.] I scratched at the concrete, my heart feeling like it was being shredded. She had gone through my journals. She took the design I’d spent six months picking out. She said the words I never got to say. She spoke with pity, but her eyes were bright with greed. He threw away my tuna. He kept her gift. My gift. I didn’t even have time to be sad. Movement caught my eye at the edge of the camp. Five or six shadows emerged from the sewer grates—silently, like ghosts. They carried modified rifles with suppressors. An ambush. My brain short-circuited. My body moved before I could think. I folded my wings and dropped from the roof like a white comet. I slammed into the ground right between the attackers and the camp gate. “ROAR—!!” The sound wave exploded. Glass shattered for blocks. The shockwave knocked the first two attackers flat. The others panicked, opening fire. Bullets tore through my wings. White fur and blood sprayed the pavement. I shivered with the pain, but I dug my claws into the asphalt and didn’t move an inch. The camp alarm blared. Logan was the first one out. The scene he saw was a massive white tiger standing at his gate, facing the gunmen, her back to his camp. He froze for a split second. The attackers were already scrambling, terrified by the sheer volume of the roar. I turned around. My wings were bleeding, heavy drops splashing onto the street. I looked at Logan. I took one step toward him. “Logan, watch out!!” Serena screamed, grabbing Logan’s arm. “It’s charging! Kill it—!” Logan’s reflex took over. Energy flared in his palm, a blinding white light coiling around his fist. Before he could even process what he was seeing, the blast was unleashed. BOOM—! I was sent flying. I crashed through a brick wall, the impact embedding me in the rubble. My back was a mess of scorched flesh. My white fur was blackened, the smell of burnt hair filling the air. I lay in the hole in the wall. It hurt. He hit me. My brother actually hit me. I tried to tell myself it was logical. He didn’t know it was me. From his perspective, an apex predator was lunging at them. Anyone would have fired. It made sense. But the logic didn’t stop the suffocating weight in my chest. The Feed: [Nice shot! Keep those high-level mutants away!] [Why didn’t he finish it? Those wing-cores are top tier.] [Wait… did anyone else feel like the tiger was… protecting them?] In the distance, Logan hurried Serena into the truck. She clung to his arm, looking up at him and whispering something that made her smile. Logan reached out and patted her head. That gesture. That was mine. Every time I was scared, he’d pat my head to tell me everything was okay. Now, that hand belonged to someone else. I pulled myself out of the wall, dragging my scorched wings. I flew in the opposite direction. I couldn’t keep a straight line. I crashed into a trash heap and didn’t crawl out for a long time. 4 I didn’t show up for the next two days. I hid in an abandoned clock tower, licking my wounds. The burn on my back was weeping, and the charred feathers on my wings crumbled whenever I moved. I looked like a wet, burnt rug. My little scavenger minions found me. They took turns bringing me water and tins of food. I sat on a high wooden beam, five cans of tuna lined up beside me. I tried to eat my feelings. I polished off three cans in one go. My belly was so round I almost rolled off the beam. I let out a loud burp. It didn’t make me feel any better. The Feed flickered: [Serena is giving Logan more of Riley’s things. She’s literally been through every page of that journal.] [Serena said she wants to be the most ‘irreplaceable’ person in Logan’s life. Girl is a climber!] [Logan takes her everywhere now.] I wrapped my wings tighter around myself. Irreplaceable. I used to think I was that, too. Fine. I was moving. I’d go so far away he’d never have to see this “fat tiger” again. On the other side of town, Logan was standing in the alley where the stampede had happened weeks ago. He was shining a flashlight over the dried blood on the pavement. Serena stood behind him, sighing with practiced impatience. “Logan, how many times are we going to come back here? Riley isn’t here. It’s been weeks.” Logan ignored her. He knelt, his light sweeping every inch of the alley. The beam stopped on something in the corner. A small pile of empty tins. Tuna tins. Stacked neatly, padded with a few large dry leaves—a makeshift nest. Logan went rigid. Riley loved tuna. Since she was a kid, our pantry was never without it. He picked up an empty tin, his thumb tracing the jagged claw marks on the side. His brow furrowed. Serena peered over his shoulder and laughed. “Probably just a stray cat. Don’t read into everything, Logan.” “The tin in the ruins,” Logan said suddenly. Serena’s smile faltered. “What?” “The one we threw away the other night.” He stood up, his voice low and dangerous. “Was it a tuna tin?” Serena’s face paled. “I… I didn’t notice…” Logan didn’t say another word. He vaulted over the alley wall and sprinted for the truck. Serena ran after him, her voice hitting a shrill note. “Logan, calm down! Even if it was, it doesn’t prove—” Logan had already started the engine. Serena stood in the dust, her mask of sweetness cracking down the middle. Her nails dug into her palms as she stared at his retreating taillights. Back at the tower, I was getting ready to leave. I picked up my last two tins of tuna in my mouth and unfurled my wings. Suddenly, the door to the clock tower was kicked open. BANG. A flashlight beam hit me square in the face. I froze on the beam. My wings were half-spread, one side missing half its feathers. I had a tin of tuna dangling from my mouth. I looked ridiculous. Logan stood in the doorway, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his forehead. His gaze moved from my face to the tuna in my mouth. Then to the massive, jagged burn on my back. The burn he gave me. It was huge, spanning nearly my entire spine. The white fur was gone, leaving only scarred, blackened skin. Logan’s throat hitched. His hands began to shake. His lips moved, but his voice sounded like it was being torn out of him. “…Riley?”

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It was the seventh day of my hospital stay for a leg fracture. I was in the middle of a heated hand of Gin Rummy with a few other patients when my phone buzzed. It was Arthur. “Where are you?” he asked, his voice clipped and efficient. “On a business trip. I told you three times already,” I said, my eyes fixed on my cards, heart barely fluttering at the sound of his voice for the first time in years. There was a beat of silence. Then, “Hazel. Look up.” I froze. I slowly raised my gaze toward the door of the ward. Arthur Rhodes stood there, his face like a thundercloud, dressed in his charcoal-gray surgical scrubs. He walked toward my bed, his presence instantly draining the air from the room. Arthur was the city’s top orthopedic surgeon—brilliant, precise, and emotionally as cold as a scalpel. “A fracture,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he used when a resident messed up a procedure. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you come to my hospital? And why the hell did you lie about a business trip?” I looked at him, the man I had loved for two years, and felt a weary smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “Dr. Rhodes is a busy man,” I said lightly. After all, he had reminded me of that fact constantly. Don’t call me for every little thing, Hazel. I’m busy. Don’t be so clingy. “I figured I could handle a minor thing like this myself,” I added. “I didn’t want to be a nuisance.” 1 The other patients sensed the tension and scrambled away. A stray card fluttered to the linoleum floor. Arthur picked it up, his face an unreadable mask of clinical detachment, and placed it on my bedside table. “Hazel, you’re still sulking,” he said, the familiar edge of impatience creeping into his brow. “I didn’t miss our anniversary on purpose. How long are you going to keep punishing me for one night?” Seven days ago. Our second anniversary. I had booked the table at Alinea weeks in advance. We had just sat down; the menus hadn’t even been opened. Then his phone rang. He was up and gone before the water was poured. “Patient emergency,” was all he said. I had sat there under the pitying gaze of the sommelier for twenty minutes before leaving. I told them to keep the deposit. An hour later, I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw a post from a gala downtown. Phoebe was in the shot, looking radiant. In the corner of the frame was a man’s arm in a tailored suit sleeve, the cuff linked with the very watch I had bought Arthur that morning. I was staring at that photo, my eyes blurred with tears, when I missed a step on the pedestrian bridge. I went down hard. The ambulance, the surgery, the admission—it was all done by 11:00 PM. That’s when he finally called. “I’m home. Where are you?” I was staring at a chipped piece of black paint on the hospital bed rail, my leg elevated and throbbing. “Were you with Phoebe today?” He hesitated. “Phoebe tweaked her back at the event. An old injury flared up. I had to go, Hazel. I’m her doctor.” It was always Phoebe. Last month, she saw a spider and “twisted her hip” out of fear; he left mid-surgery recovery to check on her. Two months ago, the movie had just started when she texted saying her back ached from standing too long at a photoshoot. “I’ll make it up to you,” he’d say. It was always an “emergency.” It was always “necessary.” I closed my eyes and took a jagged breath. When I didn’t speak, he sighed—a sound of profound exhaustion. “Fine. Stop the drama. I’ll take some time off and stay with you later this week, okay? Now, where are you? I’ll come get you.” I could see him in my mind: pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes narrowed in irritation. I laughed, a dry, hollow sound. “I begged you for two weeks to take one night off for our anniversary. How long would I have to beg for the ‘later this week’?” “Hazel…” His voice turned cold. “Something came up. I’m out of town on business,” I lied, my voice steady. “I don’t need you to take time off. Goodbye, Arthur.” For the first time in our relationship, I hung up on him. 2 Back in the present, Arthur stared at me in the hospital bed. “If a former med school classmate hadn’t spotted your name on the surgery schedule, were you ever going to tell me?” he demanded. “Hazel, grow up. Stop making things so difficult for me.” I went rigid. Difficult. That was his favorite word for me. When I had night terrors and asked him to stay up with me, I was difficult. When I wanted him to bake a cake with me for my birthday, I was being unreasonable and difficult. When I had a fever and wanted him home, he told me he was an orthopedic surgeon, not an internist, and that his presence wouldn’t clinically change my temperature—so why was I being so difficult? I had learned to take melatonin for the nightmares. I ordered my own birthday cakes. I drove myself to the clinic. And now, I had even managed my own surgery and hospitalization without a word to him. And yet, I was still “making things difficult.” Three months ago, Phoebe called him at midnight claiming her stomach ached. He didn’t even hesitate. He was dressed and at the door in three minutes. I had blocked his way. “You’re a bone surgeon, Arthur. What are you going to do for her stomach ache that a Tylenol and a heating pad can’t?” He had looked at me with genuine confusion. “She’s not like you, Hazel. She’s fragile. She can’t handle things on her own. I have to take her to the ER.” “Why is it that when I need you, it’s a ‘nuisance,’ but when she calls, it’s a ‘responsibility’?” Arthur’s expression had shifted to something bordering on contempt. “Phoebe was an only child, born late to her parents. She was sheltered. She doesn’t have your… resilience. Do we really have to debate this now?” I was stunned into silence. Then his phone rang again. Phoebe’s voice, honey-thick and trembling, came through the speaker: “Arthur, where are you? It hurts so much.” “Almost there,” he said, and he pushed past me without another look. I had stumbled against the shoe rack, the sharp corner digging into my ankle. The pain was so sharp I doubled over, but he was already gone. Remembering that, I let out a long, slow breath. I looked up at him. “You’re in luck, Dr. Rhodes. I’m being discharged today. I don’t suppose borrowing your car for the ride home would be too much of a ‘difficulty’?” His jaw tightened. He wanted to snap back, but he swallowed his words. In the passenger seat of his Tesla, I felt something hard beneath my hip. I reached down and pulled out a tube of high-end lip gloss. Arthur glanced at it and immediately said, “I gave Phoebe a lift to an interview the other day…” “Give it back to her next time you see her,” I interrupted, tossing it onto the console. He went quiet, glancing at me for two long seconds. I stared out the window at the Chicago skyline, refusing to give him a single word more. When we got into the apartment, he finally spoke. “Come to my clinic in two days for the follow-up. I want to check the hardware they put in your leg myself.” I hopped toward the bedroom on my crutches. “No thanks. The team at the other hospital was great.” He grabbed my arm, his brow furrowed. After a moment, he said, “I’ll take the day off. We’ll spend it together. Happy?” I looked at him, genuinely puzzled. “Why?” He looked frustrated now, a simmering, impatient heat. “Isn’t this what you wanted? You’ve been silent the whole ride home, waiting for me to apologize, waiting for me to ‘make it up’ to you. Fine. I’m taking the day off. I’m compensating you. Is that enough?” The suffocating weight in my chest suddenly doubled. I wrenched my arm out of his grip. “Arthur, maybe we should just—” Break up. The words were on the tip of my tongue when his phone shrieked. He checked it and turned back to me. “Emergency consult. A multi-car pileup. We’ll talk when I get back.” 3 To my surprise, Arthur actually followed through. The next morning, he was in the kitchen making breakfast. The morning light caught the back of his neck as he carefully plated an omelet. For a fleeting second, my heart ached with the ghost of the love I once felt. Then the doorbell rang. Arthur dropped the spatula and went to the door. Phoebe walked in, sliding into the spare pair of guest slippers as if she lived there. “I heard Hazel got hurt,” she said, her voice airy. “I came to check on her.” Before I could say a word, she sniffed the air. “Oh, Arthur, that smells amazing. I haven’t had your cooking in forever. Is there enough for me?” Arthur didn’t even look at me. He just grabbed a third plate. “Have a seat,” he told her. I hobbled to the table on my crutches. I looked down at my plate and saw a thick garnish of cilantro mixed into the eggs. I felt a wave of nausea. Arthur knew I hated cilantro—it tasted like soap to me. He had known that for two years. Phoebe beamed. “Arthur, you remembered! I love extra cilantro.” I stopped pulling out my chair. I looked at the green flecks on the eggs and felt like I was looking at the epitaph of our relationship. “I’m not hungry,” I said, turning back toward the hallway. “You two enjoy.” Arthur looked up briefly, said nothing, and handed Phoebe the hot sauce. I shut the bathroom door behind me, my eyes stinging. As I turned, my crutch caught on the edge of the shelving unit. The whole thing tipped, and I went down in a clatter of glass jars and plastic bottles. Arthur burst in. He lifted me up, his eyes landing on my scraped, reddened knee. He went strangely still. “Hazel,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “If you didn’t want Phoebe to stay for breakfast, you could have just said so. You don’t have to hurt yourself for attention.” I stared at him, my breath hitching. I remembered a rainy night months ago. My stomach had been cramping so badly I went to his hospital to find him. I had just sat down in his office when Phoebe’s assistant burst in. “Dr. Rhodes, Phoebe’s back is spasming. She needs you now.” Arthur had stood up immediately. I grabbed his hand. “Arthur, did you hear me? My stomach is killing me.” He had looked at me for a long time, then whispered, “Are you faking it?” “What?” “Are you actually in pain, or do you just want to stop me from seeing her? Even if you hate her, she’s still my patient. Don’t be petty, Hazel.” The door had clicked shut behind him. I had sat there, clutching my abdomen, unable to breathe. Later that night, I drove myself to a different ER. It was acute appendicitis. Lying on that cold operating table, I felt a bone-deep exhaustion—the kind that makes you want to let go of everything. That feeling was back now. “Arthur,” I whispered. “I think we’re don—” Another knock at the front door interrupted me. It was Jules, a friend I’d made in the hospital. She held up a Steam Deck and a bag of takeout. “We had a date, remember? Gaming and actual food.” I took a breath, letting my shoulders drop. I smiled at her. “Yeah. Let’s go to my room.” 4 The next afternoon, Arthur insisted on taking me for my follow-up. I just nodded, too tired to fight. The tension in the car was thick, a low-pressure system of unspoken resentment. When he pulled into the parking lot of his hospital, I frowned. “You’re at the wrong place.” “No, I’m not.” He got out, grabbed my crutches, and helped me out of the car. “I want a new set of X-rays. I need to see it myself.” I followed him through the sterile halls—the paperwork, the imaging, the radiation room. When I came out, Arthur was nowhere to be found. The nurse looked sympathetic. “Dr. Rhodes got a call and had to run. He said he’d be back to pick you up in a bit.” The sky outside turned a bruised purple, and within minutes, a torrential downpour began. I waited for twenty minutes, then texted him: It’s pouring. Don’t worry about coming back. I’ll just call an Uber. He didn’t reply. I took a cab back to the apartment. I let myself in, my clothes damp from the dash to the door. The lock clicked. I stopped dead. Phoebe was standing in the living room wearing one of Arthur’s white button-down shirts. A towel was draped over her head, her cheeks flushed pink from a hot shower. Arthur was handing her a hair dryer. They both turned to look at me. I gripped my crutches until my knuckles turned white. My mind went blank, a white noise of shock. Arthur’s face paled. He took a step toward me, panic flickering in his eyes. I instinctively stumbled back, nearly losing my balance. He froze. “Hazel, wait. Phoebe was being followed by some stalker… her place was surrounded. She had nowhere else to go. She got soaked in the rain… nothing happened. I swear.” Phoebe stepped out from behind the sofa, her long legs bare beneath the hem of his shirt. “Arthur was just worried about me, Hazel. Please, don’t make a scene.” I could feel myself shaking. Not with anger, but with a cold, absolute clarity. I turned to leave. Arthur ran out and caught my arm. “Hazel! We really—” “Arthur! Enough!” I shouted, my voice trembling. “It’s over.”

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1 The night of our high school graduation party, the air in the rented Hamptons beach house was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and cheap tequila. We were playing “Never Have I Ever,” that classic game of social exposure. Bridget, my supposed best friend, sat in the center of the circle, her smile as innocent as a Sunday school teacher’s. She raised her glass, her eyes glinting with a cruelty I was too blind to see. “Okay, let’s do a physical one,” she chirped. “Put a finger down if you can’t speak. If you can, keep them up.” The room went deathly silent. A heartbeat passed. Then, like a coordinated strike, every pair of eyes in the room swiveled toward me. Some people looked away, stifling smirks; others didn’t bother to hide their curiosity, staring at me like I was a broken exhibit at a museum. “Oh, right… I almost forgot,” someone whispered. “She actually can’t talk. Like, at all.” I felt the heat rising in my neck, the familiar, suffocating shame. But Bridget was my best friend. I told myself she was just tipsy, that she’d run out of prompts and grabbed the first thing she saw. So, I did it. I slowly folded one finger down. Next was Nate. Nate was my childhood neighbor, my “boy next door,” the person I had loved in the quiet, aching way you only love someone who has seen you at your worst. I saw Bridget catch his eye, a subtle, sharp nod. Nate didn’t even blink. His voice was casual, almost bored. “Put a finger down if you don’t have a mother. If yours is still alive, keep them up.” The air in the room didn’t just freeze; it solidified. Then, the laughter broke. It started as a titter in the corner and swelled into a roar. Everyone knew. They knew my mother had died in a horrific accident years ago. And they knew because Bridget had made sure the entire graduating class heard the “tragic” story within a week of freshman year. The laughter hit me like a tidal wave, drowning me. I kept my head down, my vision blurring as tears stung my eyes. But my humiliation wasn’t enough for them. It was fuel. Nate finally seemed to notice I was trembling. He reached over and grabbed a napkin, sliding it toward me. Then, he reached out and ruffled my hair, a gesture he’d done a thousand times since we were five. For a split second, my heart skipped. I thought he was coming back to me. The room quieted, sensing his change in mood. I looked up, a pathetic, hopeful spark igniting in my chest. But then, Nate’s hand moved. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he grabbed my wrist, his grip firm and cold, and manually forced another one of my fingers down. He tilted his head, a crooked, handsome smirk playing on his lips. “Fair is fair, Sera. You lost the round. Drink up.” The first tear escaped. Nate and I had grown up with only a fence between our houses. When I first lost my voice after the trauma of my mother’s death, I was a ghost. I communicated in clumsy, frantic gestures that frustrated everyone. Everyone except Nate. He used to tell me, “If I learn the signs, I can be your voice.” He actually did it. He spent an entire summer huddled over a thick ASL manual until he could translate my every thought before I even finished the motion. When the night terrors came, he’d climb over the garden wall and sit by my bed, whispering, “I’m here, Sera. Don’t be scared.” He was the boy who punched a bully in the seventh grade for calling me a “freak.” He told me, “Nobody gets to mess with you.” And now, the man who was supposed to be my shield was the one holding the knife, twisting it into the oldest scars I had, laughing with the rest of the pack. According to the rules, it was my turn to set the prompt. I wiped my eyes, my hands shaking as I signed: “I’ve been the Valedictorian every year. If you haven’t, put a finger down.” Bridget and Nate were the only ones in the room who truly understood ASL. I expected them to at least give me the dignity of a fair translation. Bridget watched my hands finish, then her face morphed into a mask of exaggerated shock. She looked at me as if I’d just confessed to a crime. She turned to the group, her voice trembling with mock pity. “Sera… why would you say that? Why are you being so self-destructive?” I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. Bridget sighed, looking at the crowd. “She said… ‘Put a finger down if you’re just the maid’s daughter.’” The room exploded. “Are you serious? She’s the housekeeper’s kid?” “I guess she knows she’s losing, so she’s just trashing herself now.” “I’ve never seen a maid’s daughter act so entitled. Bridget is a saint for sponsoring a mute girl all through prep school.” “Bridget used to tell us to be nice to save Sera’s dignity. I can’t believe she just outed herself like that.” The insults felt like needles. I shook my head frantically, trying to explain, but the words were trapped behind my useless vocal cords. I looked at Bridget, my brain a white noise of betrayal. I was the daughter of Arthur Holloway, the CEO of Aetheris Tech. Bridget was the one whose mother lived in our carriage house and cleaned our floors. When my dad started expanding the company into the European market, he was never home. He was terrified I’d be lonely or bullied at school. So, he paid for Bridget to attend the same elite private academy, gave her an allowance equal to mine, and bought her the same designer bags. He just wanted me to have a sister, a protector. That was how she met Nate. I turned to Nate, my last lifeline. I signed to him, my movements frantic, pleading: Nate, tell them. You know the truth. Tell them who I am. Nate just narrowed his eyes at me. “That was your prompt, Sera. Are you trying to back out now?” His voice turned ice-cold. “Being born into a low-income family isn’t a crime. But having a trash personality? That’s on you.” The world tilted. I was pinned to the spot by his gaze. I kept shaking my head, the tears pouring down my face, but Nate just looked away. A second later, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of the lounge, through the hallway, and into the cramped downstairs bathroom. He slammed the door and leaned against it, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Look, Bridget’s mom is the help. Everyone knows that. And yeah, maybe Bridget told a few lies at school saying you were the help’s daughter.” He paused, and the next words were like a bucket of liquid nitrogen over my soul. “But she only did it because she’s insecure, Sera. Think about it. You’ve had everything since the day you were born.” “The trust funds, the name, the doting father, the pedigree. You have everything everyone else wants.” “Why can’t you just let her have this one thing? Why can’t you let her have the spotlight for once?” I stared at him, my mouth agape. My life—everything I had—was being used as the justification for why I deserved to be destroyed. “She grew up in that tiny apartment over your garage,” Nate continued, his voice rising. “She worked so hard to build her confidence just to stand in our circle. Can’t you have some empathy? She’s had it so much harder than you.” I signed to him, my hands trembling: But now they all hate me. They think I’m a liar. They think I’m the one who doesn’t belong. He remained silent for a long time. Finally, he sighed and pulled me into a hug. It was a cold, mechanical embrace. “After tonight, you won’t even see these people again. Who cares what they think? But Bridget… she’s different.” “She needs these connections for her career. She’s better at navigating this world than you are anyway.” He patted my back, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Just take the hit for her, okay? Be the bigger person.” Then he added, “I know you’ve always had a crush on me. If you just get through this, maybe we can finally be together. How does that sound?” I used every ounce of my strength to shove him away. I looked him dead in the eye and signed: Who the hell would want to be with you? Nate’s face instantly transformed. The “protective” warmth vanished, replaced by a sneer. “Fine. Suit yourself. Just don’t come crawling back to me crying when you realize you’re all alone.” He turned and walked out. I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen as I messaged my father: [Dad, remember when you talked about me going to school in London? I’m in. Let’s do it.] I walked back into the party, intending only to grab my bag and leave. But the vultures weren’t done. Bridget saw me and immediately rushed over, linking her arm through mine as if nothing had happened. “Sera! Where did you go? Look, you lost that last round, and we’ve decided on a penalty. You have to do a full shot of tequila.” She tilted her head, sticking her tongue out playfully. This time, I didn’t wait for a translator. I pulled out my phone, typed a sentence, and hit the text-to-speech button. The robotic voice filled the room: “I am severely allergic to alcohol.” Bridget and Nate both knew this. When we were ten, I’d accidentally taken a sip of Nate’s dad’s spiked cider and ended up in the ICU with anaphylactic shock. Nate had stayed by my hospital bed for two days, crying, promising he’d never let anything hurt me again. I’d told Bridget the story myself last year. But Bridget just looked concerned. “Oh… Nate came back a few minutes ago and said you were probably going to use the ‘allergy’ excuse to get out of the dare.” She bit her lip. “Sera… why are you being such a buzzkill? It’s just one drink.” She didn’t have to say anything else. The room took the bait. “Coward. Just take the shot.” “Typical. The help’s daughter can’t even handle a game.” I looked at Nate. He was standing by the bar, a smirk playing on his lips. He picked up a shot glass, filled it to the brim with amber liquid, and walked toward me. I backed away until I hit the wall. “Nate…” I tried to make a sound, a rasp, anything. He grabbed my chin, his fingers bruising my skin, and forced the glass against my lips. I struggled, my hands clawing at his arms, but he was too strong. He tilted the glass. The burning liquid slid down my throat. My stomach surged with instant, violent nausea. My vision began to fray at the edges, turning gray and fuzzy. The last thing I heard was the sound of their laughter—loud, bright, and utterly heartless. Then, I hit the floor. I woke up to the rhythmic hum of a heart monitor. The hospital room was sterile and white. When I opened my eyes, I saw Nate slumped in a chair by the bed. He noticed I was awake and sat up, trying to look sheepish. “Sera, thank God. You’re fine. I stayed here all night. I even gave those guys a piece of my mind for laughing at you.” I stared at him, then reached for my phone on the nightstand. I typed: [Gave who a piece of your mind?] Nate blinked. I kept typing: [The people laughing? Or the person who poured the poison down my throat?] His face hardened. “Sera, I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was just…” He trailed off. “I was trying to make you realize how things work. You can’t always hide behind your ‘condition.’” I typed: [Realize what? That I’m not Bridget, so my life is expendable?] Nate groaned. “Why are you so obsessed with that? Bridget just wanted to fit in. She grew up with nothing.” “How can you be so selfish? Her mother spent eighteen years taking care of you while she barely saw her own daughter.” The electronic voice echoed through the room: “Bridget’s mother took care of me because my father paid her three times the market rate.” “Every piece of clothing, every pair of shoes, every school fee Bridget ever had was paid for by my father to match my own.” “She went to the best schools and used the best resources. All because of my family.” “Nate, tell me—where exactly did we fail her? Why is it that I’m the one who owes her?” Nate couldn’t look me in the eye. He knew it was the truth, but he couldn’t admit it. He checked his phone, avoiding the conversation. “It’s lunchtime. I’m going to go grab something to eat.” I waved him away, a dismissive flick of my wrist. I saw a message from my dad that had come in while I was out. Dad: Finally! I’m so glad you’re coming to London. I’m flying back to New York tomorrow to help you with the paperwork. I thought for a moment, then took a photo of my hospital wristband and the IV in my arm. I sent it to him with the hospital address. Then, I sent him a voice recording I’d secretly made on my phone after I stepped out of the bathroom at the party—the one where Nate admitted everything. I knew my father would know exactly what to do. Feeling restless, I scrolled through Instagram. The first post was from Bridget, posted ten minutes ago. Thanks, Nate, for the amazing lunch at The Ivy! Finally made it to the place I’ve been dreaming of. The photo showed a high-end restaurant near the hospital. Nate’s hand was in the frame, his signature Rolex unmistakable. The comments were full of “99” and “Ship it!” Further down was a post from 2 AM: Had a little scare tonight, but Nate was a total hero. BBQ and late-night vibes to calm my nerves. He’s the best. The photo was a heart made of skewers. About an hour later, Nate returned. At the same time, I got a text from my dad: Ten minutes away. Nate walked in holding a takeout bag, a smug, “I’m-the-good-guy” smile on his face. “Sera, I got this from that famous bistro down the street. I waited in line forever for you.” I looked at the container. The food inside was a mess—leavings, cold and tossed together. It looked like the leftovers from a shared plate. Before I could type anything, the door swung open. Bridget walked in carrying a gift bag of fruit, looking radiant. “Sera! I was so worried about you!” She glanced at Nate, a spark of triumph in her eyes before she pivoted back to her “innocent” face. Nate’s expression softened instantly. “Hey, Bridget.” “I just couldn’t stop thinking about her,” Bridget said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “We’re best friends, after all.” She looked at me with fake concern. “Sera, are you okay? Last night was so scary. For a second, I thought you were just faking it to get attention.” I stared at her, my eyes cold. Bridget didn’t care. “But really, you should have just been honest. If you can’t drink, say so. Don’t make up allergies. It makes me look so bad when people think my best friend is a liar.” She sighed. “It puts me in such a tough spot. What are people going to think of me now?” Nate chimed in. “She’s right, Sera. You really hurt Bridget’s reputation. Everyone was cool enough to believe her, so you should probably just apologize to her so we can move on.” I raised my hand, signing for her to Get out. In an instant, Bridget grabbed my wrist. She didn’t just hold it—she shoved herself backward, falling off the bed with a theatrical cry. “Ah!” “Sera!” Nate roared. He lunged forward and slapped me across the face. Hard. My head snapped to the side. The taste of copper filled my mouth. Bridget was on the floor, her eyes brimming with tears. “Sera, I was just trying to help… why would you hit me?” Nate’s face was livid. “That’s it, Sera! You’ve gone too far!” He knelt down to help Bridget up. “Are you okay? Did she hurt you?” “I’m fine…” Bridget whimpered. “I probably just said something to upset her. She’s sick, she’s not in her right mind.” “Being sick doesn’t give her the right to assault you!” Nate shouted at me. “I’m giving you one last chance. Apologize. To. Bridget. Right. Now.” I glared at them, my eyes burning. Every time. Every single time I stood up for myself, they gaslighted me into being the villain. They banked on the fact that I couldn’t fight back because I couldn’t speak. I was done. I tried to push myself out of bed to shove them both out of the room. Nate thought I was going for Bridget again. He shoved me back with such force that I fell off the other side of the bed, hitting the floor with a sickening thud. He stood over me, looking down with cold disappointment. “Are you done with the tantrum yet?” Suddenly, a voice like a crack of thunder echoed from the doorway. “Who the hell do you think you’re touching?”

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1 I met Adrian Beaumont when I was thirteen. I confessed my love to him when I was twenty-one. But he only sighed, his hands firm yet gentle as he pushed me away. “Sienna, I’m eight years older than you,” he had whispered. “I can’t do that to you.” But later, through the heavy oak of a bedroom door, I heard him. I heard him pressed against my stepsister, their breaths tangled, the sound of a desperate, trembling kiss. Skylar’s voice was thick with a sweet, shy triumph. “What kind of ‘big brother’ kisses his sister like that on her eighteenth birthday?” It wasn’t that I was too young. It wasn’t that the eight-year gap was a bridge he couldn’t cross. It was simply that he didn’t love me. And when there is no love, there is only an excuse. The first time I saw Adrian, I was barely a teenager. My mother had passed away when I was five, leaving my father to raise me alone. Or so I thought. By the time I was thirteen, the narrative changed. A woman named Evelyn Reed entered the picture, bringing along her daughter, Skylar. Our house in the suburbs was small, and suddenly, there were too many people. “Sienna, you’re a big girl now. You need to help out the family,” Evelyn said, smiling as she straightened my collar. Her tone was honey-thick, but her eyes were cold. Behind her stood my father. He looked apologetic, yet utterly powerless, clutching my suitcase—a small, battered thing that held the entirety of my first thirteen years. The Beaumonts were a family of old money and immense prestige. Two decades prior, my father had pulled the only son of the Beaumont estate, Adrian, from a wreckage after a horrific car accident. For that, the Beaumonts gave him a blank check of a promise: ask for anything, anytime. Twenty years later, my father cashed it in. His request? For the Beaumonts to take me in, to raise me in the city, and to put me through the best schools. The Beaumonts spent millions on charities every year; what was one more girl? They were “gracious” enough to agree. They even sent a black Town Car to pick me up. As I left, my father shoved two hundred dollars into my hand, glancing nervously toward the house. “Don’t let Evelyn see this,” he sniffed, his nose turning a bright, pathetic red. “Take care of yourself, Sienna.” But Dad, why can’t you take care of me? I wanted to scream. Mom left plenty of money for me. Why are you throwing me away? I didn’t say a word. I took my suitcase and got into the car. As we pulled away, I watched them in the rearview mirror. They were laughing. Evelyn had her arm linked through my father’s, and my father was holding Skylar’s hand. A perfect, happy family of three. I had been the surplus. The early days at the Beaumont estate were suffocating. I was a ghost in a museum of modern art and velvet. The senior Beaumonts lived abroad most of the year, leaving me alone in the massive house with the staff. I moved through my days in silence—school, homework, dinner—trying to be as invisible as the air. Then, I found him: a scruffy, golden-furred stray puppy near the school gates. He was a mutt, but he had a peculiar, adorable tuft of white fur right on top of his head, like a poorly dyed mohawk. I didn’t dare bring him back to the estate, so I used my allowance to board him at a local vet clinic. Every day after school, I’d spend thirty minutes with him. He was my only friend, my only family. “Hey, little guy,” I whispered one afternoon, stroking his ears as he whimpered into my palm. “I’m going to call you Sunny. Because you have to be happy every single day, okay?” I squeezed my eyes shut. “You have to be happier than me.” “Ugh, what a tragic name for a tragic-looking dog.” A mocking voice cut through the air. I looked up to see Roman Knight, the boy from the neighboring estate. He was a year older than me and had made it his personal mission to make my life miserable since the day I arrived. I ignored him, handed Sunny back to the vet tech, and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “Hey, Mouse! I’m talking to you!” Roman blocked my path, his chest puffed out with adolescent arrogance. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. But I was a guest in this neighborhood—a charity case. If I caused trouble, it would get back to the Beaumonts, and then to my father. So, I kept my head down and tried to push past him. “So rude,” he sneered, grabbing the strap of my backpack. I stumbled, the momentum throwing me off balance. I closed my eyes, bracing for the hard sting of the pavement, but instead, I hit something warm and solid. A pair of steady hands caught my shoulders. “Roman, is this how we treat guests?” A voice, smooth as aged bourbon and twice as intoxicating, vibrated above me. I looked up. It was Adrian. That was the first time I truly saw him, and the first time he saved me. 2 I learned later that Adrian had been away on business for months. At twenty-one, he was already the “Golden Boy” of the corporate world, managing his family’s private equity firm with a ruthlessness that belied his gentle smile. When he returned and found out his parents had essentially “adopted” a teenager and left her to rot in a silent mansion, he was furious. He had driven over immediately to check on me, arriving just in time to see Roman’s bullying. “Next time that happens,” Adrian said as he drove me back to the estate, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel, “don’t hesitate. Hit back.” I opened my mouth to explain why I couldn’t, but the words died in my throat. I just looked down at my lap. Suddenly, I felt a warmth on my head. Adrian was ruffling my hair, his touch light and comforting. “Don’t be afraid, Sienna,” he said softly. “Whatever happens, I’m behind you. I’ve got your back.” Those words hit me like a physical force. They lodged themselves deep in my chest, right next to my heart. I looked up and saw him smiling—not the polite, cold smile he gave the press, but something genuine. Something that made me feel safe for the first time since my mother died. “Okay,” I whispered. From that day on, Adrian became my guardian in every sense of the word. He showed up for my parent-teacher conferences. He hired tutors when I struggled with Calculus. He took me shopping for winter coats and made sure the house was stocked with the things I liked. When I got my first period and was too terrified to tell the housekeeper, it was Adrian who walked into my room with a box of supplies and a heating pad, his face slightly flushed but his voice steady as he explained what to do. He was there for every milestone. He was the sun my world orbited around. So, falling in love with him wasn’t a choice; it was an inevitability. The summer after my junior year of college, I turned twenty-one. The party was held at the estate, a lavish affair Adrian had spent weeks planning. The night was humid and sweet, the moon a perfect ivory sliver reflecting in the turquoise water of the pool. Confetti and discarded champagne flutes littered the deck after the guests had drifted away. I was buzzing with a mix of adrenaline and expensive gin. I looked at Adrian, who was leaning against the pool railing, looking effortlessly handsome in a loosened silk tie. “Adrian,” I whispered, stepping into his space. He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. I reached up, my heart hammering against my ribs, and kissed his cheek. He stiffened, his eyes flying open in shock. “Adrian… I love you. I’ve loved you for so long.” My confession was clumsy, a mess of girlish hope and terrifying vulnerability. But Adrian didn’t pull me closer. He reached up and slowly, firmly, unhooked my hands from his neck. “Sienna,” he sighed, and the sound felt like a death knell. “I’m eight years older than you. You’re just starting your life. I can’t do that to you. I shouldn’t.” My heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. I tried to swallow the sob rising in my throat, tried to keep some shred of dignity, but the tears came anyway. “Do you… do you even like me? At all?” Adrian turned his face away, unable to meet my gaze. His voice was strained, hollow. “Sienna, I’ve always seen you as family. As a sister. I care about you, but not like that.” The message was loud and clear. The next morning, I packed my bags and moved into a cramped dorm on campus. “I’m grateful for everything the Beaumonts have done for me,” I told him, standing by the front door with my suitcase. I didn’t look at his face. “When I graduate, I’ll find a way to pay it back.” I walked out without waiting for a reply. I cried the entire way to campus. But as I was hauling my boxes into my room, my phone rang. It was Adrian. His voice was broken. He was crying. “Sienna, I’m sorry. Please… don’t leave me. I love you too. I’m a coward, but I love you. Let’s try. Let’s just try.” In that moment, the sun broke through the clouds of my miserable little world. I thought I had won. 3 Our relationship was a secret. He was the heir to the Beaumont empire, still under his father’s thumb, and I was just the girl they’d taken in out of pity. A public scandal would have been disastrous for the firm’s upcoming merger. But I didn’t care. Being with him, even in the shadows, was enough. I stayed late at his penthouse while he worked, brought him soup when he was stressed, and loved him in the quiet spaces between his board meetings. We never talked about marriage or the future. I told myself we were just waiting—waiting for him to take full control, waiting for the right moment to tell the world. I didn’t expect the first person to find out would be Skylar. I hadn’t seen my father in nine years. When I walked into the Beaumont living room during a weekend visit, I barely recognized the man on the sofa. His hair was gray, his face lined with the stress of a life spent treading water. “Dad?” He stood up, his eyes welling with tears. “Sienna. Look at you. You’re a beautiful woman.” Then, he pulled a girl forward. She was tall, radiant, and possessed the kind of effortless beauty that only comes from being deeply loved. “This is your sister, Skylar,” he said, beaming. “She’s going to be living here for a while. You’ll look after her, won’t you?” “Hi, Sienna,” Skylar said, her smile bright and perfectly friendly. I stood there, paralyzed. My father, who hadn’t called me in years, was suddenly here to drop off his other daughter? “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice cold. My father rubbed his neck. “Well, Skylar’s a senior now. The schools back home… they aren’t like the ones here in the city. We wanted her to have the best shot at a top-tier college. Since you’ve been here so long, we thought… well, we asked the Beaumonts if she could stay for her final year.” I looked at him, feeling a familiar, icy numbness. “And the Beaumonts just said yes?” Skylar was the one who answered. “Adrian said yes. He was so sweet about it. He said the house was too big for just two people anyway.” My father patted her shoulder. “Everyone loves Skylar. She’s special.” And so, Skylar moved in. She took a room on the first floor, while Adrian and I were on the second. She was a whirlwind of energy—studying late, asking for help with her essays, always hovering around Adrian. I was busy with my final year of Veterinary Medicine, spending most of my time at the university clinic. When I finally came home for winter break, the atmosphere had shifted. The air in the house felt different—charged with something I didn’t want to name. 4 “If you don’t understand this theorem by now, Skylar, I’m worried about your SAT scores,” Adrian said, though his voice was thick with amusement. He was leaning over Skylar’s shoulder in the study, looking at her workbook. “Not everyone is a Stanford boy-wonder, Adrian,” Skylar teased, her voice dropping into a playful, melodic lilt. “You’re just too smart for us mere mortals.” Adrian laughed—a real, belly-deep laugh I hadn’t heard in weeks. He reached out and playfully nudged her shoulder. They were sitting so close their shadows merged into one on the mahogany desk. I knocked on the open door. “The fruit plate is on the table, Maria,” Skylar said without turning around, assuming I was the housekeeper. “It’s me,” I said. Adrian stiffened. It took him a full two seconds to turn around and face me. “Sienna. You’re back from the dorms.” Skylar turned, her smile as dazzling as ever. “Sienna! Long time no see.” I looked at Adrian. His expression was a mess of guilt and something else—irritation? “I texted you that I was coming home today,” I said. “You didn’t reply.” He checked his phone, looking chagrined. “Sorry. It’s been a crazy week at the firm. I must have missed it.” “Don’t be mad at him, Sienna,” Skylar chirped. “He’s just getting old. His memory is the first thing to go.” “I’m twenty-eight, Skylar. I’m hardly geriatric,” Adrian countered, and they both fell into a fit of giggles. “Whatever you say, Grandpa. Tell her about the time you went to my school and the principal thought you were my dad!” Adrian swatted at her head, and she ducked, laughing. He had gone to her school. He had been a presence in her life while I was tucked away in a lab. The insecurity I had been suppressing roared to life. I wanted to scream that he was mine. I wanted to mark my territory. Later that night, I begged him to go public. “Adrian, please. I don’t want to hide anymore. Let’s just tell people.” He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Sienna, not now. Give me a few more years to solidify my position at the firm. Then, no one can tell us what to do.” “Is anyone actually telling us what to do now?” I asked. The staff knew. His parents probably suspected. But he just shook his head. “You’re being sensitive. Skylar is just a guest. She’s like a sister to me.” Just like I was, I thought. The words tasted like ash.

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