It was the fifth year of my marriage to a beautiful, ruthlessly guarded heiress when the news crossed the Pacific: the rigid, untouchable woman who had raised me was dead.
When my executive assistant’s overseas call finally came through, it was five in the morning in Los Angeles.
“Sir, Virginia is gone. The Carlisle family is in total chaos. You’re the only one who can come back and take control…”
Virginia Carlisle. It had been a long time since I allowed myself to hear that name. I froze, the phone pressed hard against my ear.
Back when I was just the foster son of a dynasty, navigating the turbulent waters of my youth, I only ever did two things that crossed the line.
The first was the night Virginia drank too much, and I used the blur of the alcohol to cross a boundary that should have remained sacred, spending one reckless, absurd night tangled in her sheets.
The second was boarding a plane to marry another woman before she ever woke up, keeping my departure a total secret.
From that day forward, I severed an eighteen-year bond with the woman who had been my entire world since the orphanage. A clean, brutal cut.
I never imagined that my return to my homeland five years later would be to collect the body of the woman who had haunted my every waking thought.
Yet, on the day of the funeral, a little girl in a black velvet dress broke free from the grip of the surrounding relatives and threw herself directly into my legs.
Instinct took over. I bent down and scooped her up into my arms.
She scrubbed at her tear-stained, slightly scraped face, her small chest heaving with violent sobs.
“Daddy, you finally came home!”
“They’re all bad people. They just want Mommy’s money, and they won’t stop picking on me!”
Looking down at this little girl—whose face was a near-perfect mirror of Virginia’s—I was instantly violently pulled back to the very first time I met her mother.
…
1
For as long as I could remember, I had no one. No mother, no father.
I kept myself alive by running petty grifts and picking the pockets of oblivious tourists down by the pier.
That was my life until I was seven. I slipped my fingers around the cold metal of a Rolex on a wealthy woman’s wrist, only to be caught dead to rights.
The woman, draped in a custom-tailored designer dress, didn’t strike me. She didn’t scream for the police.
Instead, she crouched down to my eye level and, like a magician, produced a piece of candy, pressing it into my dirty palm. Her smile was devastatingly gentle.
“Rowan, I’m so sorry. I’m late.”
“My name is Virginia Carlisle. I was an old friend of your parents.”
“From now on, I’m going to be your legal guardian. You can call me Aunt Virginia. I’m going to take care of you for the rest of your life.”
And she kept her word.
She went to my parent-teacher conferences. She shielded me from drunken brawlers in the streets. She taught me which fork to use at a gala, and how to hold my posture at a grand piano.
She took a feral, street-corner stray covered in thorns and painstakingly molded him into a refined, respectable man.
But I was too greedy.
Being her ward, her “nephew” in name, wasn’t enough. I wanted to monopolize her. I wanted every ounce of Virginia Carlisle’s goodness to belong solely to me.
My original plan had been to wait until her birthday to confess the truth about that absurd, boundary-shattering night we shared when she was drunk.
I had it all mapped out.
If she rejected me, I was prepared to act like that wild seven-year-old again—throwing a massive, destructive tantrum until she finally caved and nodded yes.
But before I could utter a single word, she stood up at the family’s annual banquet and publicly announced her engagement to Donovan Croft, the golden boy of a rival tech empire.
The entire table went dead silent. Every member of the Carlisle family stared at me, terrified I was going to flip the dining table and tear the room apart.
But this time, I simply reached into my pocket and slid a velvet box across the linen.
The box snapped open to reveal a pair of flawless, natural blue diamonds, catching the chandelier light in a dazzling, icy display.
My foster mother, Helena—the woman who had officially signed my adoption papers on Virginia’s behalf—froze, hesitating.
“Rowan, these diamonds are worth millions. Weren’t you planning to have these set into a wedding ring…?”
I kept the smile on my face broad, immaculate, and entirely polite.
“I originally bought them for Aunt Virginia anyway. They make a perfect engagement gift for my new uncle.”
The moment the words left my mouth, a flicker of uneasy dissonance crossed Virginia’s eyes. Her tone dropped into something that was half-warning, half-reprimand.
“Rowan. When you were younger, you threw your fits and I indulged you.”
“But if you cause trouble now, I will not let it slide.”
Beneath the table, my fingernails dug into my palms until they nearly broke the skin. I tipped my chin up, keeping the smile locked in place.
“You’re absolutely right. I promise I won’t let your kindness go to waste.”
Virginia frowned. She could sense something was off, but before she could press, her phone lit up.
It was Donovan. He was waiting outside to take her to see a fireworks display.
She grabbed her coat, but paused at the doorway, looking back at me with a strange hesitation.
“Rowan, do you want to come with us…?”
I blinked, then shook my head, forcing a light, breezy tone.
“You go ahead. Have a great time with Donovan.”
Virginia stared at me for two heavy seconds. Then, she walked out without another word.
The second the heavy oak door clicked shut, the smile fell off my face like dead weight.
Helena looked at me, her eyes softening with a sudden, sharp pity.
“Rowan, it’s okay to cry if it hurts.”
Instead of crying, I suddenly dropped to my knees on the hardwood floor, bowing my head respectfully to the woman who had mothered me.
Helena gasped, rushing forward to pull me up.
“What on earth are you doing, child?”
My expression was dead serious.
“The Carlisles have housed me, fed me, and raised me for twenty years. I know what I owe this family, and I have no right to ask for more.”
“I know the board has been desperate to secure a partnership with the Laurent family overseas, but you haven’t had an in. I’m willing to marry their eldest daughter.”
Helena went pale. She gripped my forearms tight.
“Rowan, you want to marry Daphne Laurent?!”
“Do you have any idea who she is?”
“The rumors say she’s a ruthless, paranoid eccentric. You’d be throwing yourself directly into the fire!”
I didn’t pull away. I just softened my voice to calm her.
“Mom, those are just rumors. And honestly, don’t people think I’m a bit unhinged too?”
“Unhinged enough to ignore morality, act like a tyrant, and try to chase away any man who comes near Virginia.”
“The Laurents keep a notoriously low profile. A marriage alliance is the only way we get a seat at their table.”
“You and Dad have indulged me my whole life. Let me do something for the family for once.”
I laid out the strategic benefits of the marriage, my voice growing steadier, my eyes harder with every word.
Helena’s eyes rimmed with red. She looked at me for a long, agonizing moment before finally reaching out to smooth my hair.
“Alright. If your mind is truly made up. The Laurent family will send someone to collect you. The wedding will take place in Los Angeles in two weeks.”
Hearing the timeline, a bitter, hollow laugh echoed in my chest. What a coincidence.
My wedding day was scheduled for the exact same day as Virginia’s engagement party.
Helena suddenly seemed to remember something, her tone turning frantic.
“But I haven’t even prepared a dowry for you… I need to have your father transfer some of his company shares to your name immediately—”
I cut her off.
“Mom, I don’t need anything.”
“And please, keep this marriage a secret from Virginia for now.”
“I don’t want her to think I’m doing this to force her hand, or to ruin her engagement to Donovan.”
Helena couldn’t change my mind. She just let out a shattered sigh and pulled me tightly into her arms.
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Five years in the suffocating depths of the Blackwood forests, where I was sold like cattle by the girl who stole my life.
I ran ninety-nine times.
And ninety-nine times, they dragged me back, treating my body like a canvas for their cruelty. Bones that shattered and mended crookedly. A belly that swelled with forced pregnancies and then hollowed out. A tongue snipped away, piece by agonizing piece, until only a mutilated stump remained.
Before my hundredth attempt, I decided to end it all. I was going to poison every last one of them. But then, crouching in the shadows of the old barn, I overheard Hank, the local foreman, talking to one of his men.
“The ultra-wealthy really know how to amuse themselves,” Hank chuckled, spitting tobacco onto the dirt. “Setting up a whole mock-up facility out here in the middle of nowhere just to treat the fake daughter like a rabid dog.”
“The poor bitch is too stupid to realize this entire setup was just an elaborate lie to keep her out of the way while Miss Christine carried her pregnancy to term in peace,” the other man laughed.
“She can try to escape a thousand times. A fake is just a sewer rat in the end, nothing more than a stepping stone for Christine.”
Despair, cold and absolute, swallowed me whole. I didn’t hesitate. I uncapped the bottle of agricultural herbicide and drank it down, letting the burning chemical slide down my throat. My lungs caught fire, my stomach melting. I rolled in the dirt, clawing at my chest, but through the agony, a ragged, breathless laugh tore from my throat.
Free. I was finally going to be free.
…
When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed.
I curled into myself, every breath feeling like I was inhaling crushed glass.
A few minutes ago, Hank had shuffled into the room, looking pale and rubbing his hands together nervously. “Mr. Cross… I think we went too far this time. Miss Isla… she might not make it.”
Jackie Cross walked to my bedside. He looked down at me, those cold, beautiful eyes I had once loved now completely vacant.
“Isla, you left me no choice.”
“You stole Christine’s life for eighteen years. You lived in her luxury, slept in her bed. This is your penance. This is what you owe her.” He bent down, his icy fingers wiping away the dried blood at the corner of my mouth. “Now that Christine has safely delivered her baby and taken her rightful place as the heir to the Whitmore estate, your punishment is over. I’m bringing you home. You’ll work as a maid in my house, and you can still be close to me.”
He tossed a glossy shopping bag onto the bed.
“I brought you new clothes. Change, and let’s go.”
But the poison was already liquefying my lungs. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even lift a finger.
Seeing me lie there motionless, Jackie’s patience thinned.
“Get up. I’ve explained everything to you. What are you throwing a tantrum for?”
“Did eighteen years as a spoiled princess make you forget who you actually are?”
A bitter wave washed over me. A tantrum? Who was I to throw a tantrum? Who would even care? My parents—the people who looked at me with pure hatred the moment the truth came out? Or him, the man who couldn’t wait to discard me? My life had been an endless nightmare, and now, I wasn’t even allowed to die in peace.
My silence infuriates Jackie. His expression darkened, and he turned to Hank, his voice sharp.
“Is this how you’ve been managing her? She’s completely forgotten how to behave.”
Hank paled, bowing and scraping. He grabbed my hair and dragged me off the bed, slamming my head against the concrete wall.
Thud.
A sickening crack. Warm blood instantly flooded my vision, blinding me. He did it again. And again. The pain was a blinding white light, my consciousness splintering.
Suddenly, a slender figure burst into the room, throwing herself between us.
It was Christine. Tears streamed down her flawless face as she fell to her knees, clutching Jackie’s legs.
“Jackie, please! Don’t do this to her!” she sobbed, looking like a tragic angel. “Being taken by those awful people… maybe it was just my destiny. I never blamed her! She’s a victim too. Please, just let her go!”
Jackie’s expression softened instantly, his chest heaving with protective tenderness. He pulled her gently to her feet.
“This isn’t your fault, Christine. You’re too sweet. She’s just ungrateful.”
He glared at me.
“Do you hear her? You stole her life, and she still has the grace to forgive you. What more do you want?”
“Get up! Stop playing dead to get attention. If you behave, I will still let you be a maid at my estate.”
I opened my mouth, but only a wet, raspy wheeze came out. My lungs felt like lead weights. I knew my time was short. Soon, I would be free.
Hank mutters, “Mr. Cross, that herbicide… it’s deadly. Even livestock don’t survive three days after drinking it. Miss Isla… she’s really dying.”
“Shut up!” Jackie snapped.
“She’s a fraud. She spent eighteen years manipulating the Whitmores with her tears. Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to fall for it now?”
Christine clung to Jackie, whimpering, tugging his sleeve. “Jackie, don’t be so hard on Isla… even when she poisoned my baby, I forgave her…”
Jackie kissed her temple. “You’re too good for this world. If she wants to play the martyr, let’s see how long she can keep up the act.”
He gestured to his bodyguards. They grabbed me by the wrists and dragged me out like a dead animal, down the sterile hospital hallway, and tied my wrists to the trailer hitch of his SUV.
The engine roars. The car surged forward.
The rough asphalt tore through my skin, leaving a thick smear of crimson on the road. I screamed—a guttural, voiceless shriek of pure survival instinct. But the driver only accelerated.
Jackie watched from a distance, a cold smirk on his face.
“Look at that. I knew she was faking.”
As my bones cracked against the pavement and my throat closed up, my life flashed before my eyes. The girl I used to be. The parents who loved me. The boy who once bought me a star and named it after me, who filled the night sky with fireworks on my eighteenth birthday, whispering, “Isla, I will protect you forever.”
But that fairytale shattered. A single DNA test stripped me of my name, my family, my humanity. I became the parasite.
I gave up my room, my inheritance, my dignity. But I couldn’t give up Jackie. I thought he loved me, not my last name.
Until the night I caught him and Christine outside a hotel. When I demanded answers, he only frowned.
“Isla, the woman I marry must be the Whitmore heiress. Are you?”
The SUV speeds up. The physical agony was secondary to the numbness in my chest.
Then, I hallucinated. I saw the twenty-three-year-old Jackie, wearing a tailored suit, kneeling before me.
With my last ounce of strength, I murmured, “Jackie… let me go… let me die…”
The illusion shattered. The real Jackie stood over me, his face twisted in disgust.
“Stop looking at me with those filthy eyes!”
“If you hadn’t pushed Christine down the stairs and caused her miscarriage, you wouldn’t be here today! You poisoned her because you couldn’t stand that she took your place, your parents, and me.”
“Whatever you’re suffering now is not even a fraction of what she went through!”
It was always my fault. Because I was the “fake.”
When Christine threw herself down the stairs, I was the one who pushed her. When she shattered the family heirlooms, I was the culprit. She even poisoned herself to miscarry her own child, just to rid herself of me forever. A single tear from her, a soft whimper of, “I don’t think sister likes me,” was enough to seal my fate.
I closed my eyes. I didn’t even have the strength to bitter-smile.
Just as I began to drift into unconsciousness, a hand yanked me up by the collar. The pressure on my chest eased slightly, and I gasped for air.
Jackie sneered. “Kowtow to Christine three times. Promise you will serve her as her dog for the rest of your life, and I might let you live.”
A hollow laugh echoed in my mind. My legs… they put metal plates in my knees three years ago after my fiftieth escape attempt. I couldn’t even stand, let alone bend them to kneel.
“Still playing the proud princess?” Jackie growls, kicking me hard in the ribs.
Christine quickly steps in, grabbing his arm. “Jackie, don’t force her. She was raised as a Whitmore. How could she ever humble herself to bow to me? Let it go.”
Her “kindness” was the perfect fuel.
Jackie threw her hand off and laughed coldly. “Won’t bow? Then I’ll make sure she can never stand again.”
He nodded to the bodyguard. The SUV shifted into reverse, the engine revving.
Panic, cold and sharp, shot through me. Hank pinned my shoulders to the ground.
Crack.
The heavy tire rolled over my legs. The pain was absolute, white-hot, dividing my body in two.
Jackie watched me writhe in the dirt. “Ready to bow now?”
As the reverse lights flared again, I trembled. I knew what would happen if I didn’t. Using my elbows, I dragged my broken body forward, pressing my forehead into the gravel. Once. Twice. Three times. Every movement tore my lungs apart. When I finished, my arms collapsed, and I fell face-first into the blood-soaked dirt.
Suddenly, Christine rushed over and kneels, wrapping her arms around me in a mock embrace. She leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper in my ear.
“Since you’re dying anyway, I’ll tell you a secret.”
“You actually are the real Whitmore heiress. I paid a fortune to fake that DNA test.”
My eyes widened. The blood in my veins turned to ice.
She smiled, a sickeningly sweet expression. “I was always smarter, prettier than you. Why did you get to have the perfect life while I rotted in the dark? I wanted to see the great Isla Whitmore crawl in the dirt. Look at you now. You look like a sewer rat. It’s beautiful.”
Before I could process the horror, she shoved me away, cupping her hands over her face, crying hysterically as she ran to Jackie.
“Jackie! She tried to bite me! She’s insane!”
Before I could make a sound, Jackie’s heavy boot crashed into my jaw. My teeth shattered, blood pooling in my mouth.
“You crazy, ungrateful bitch!” Jackie screamed. “Even now, you try to hurt her!”
I tried to scream the truth. But my severed tongue could only produce wet, gargling noises. No… I’m the daughter… I’m the real one…
Jackie frowned. “What? Are you still trying to claim Christine is the fake? Still trying to play the victim?”
I nodded desperately.
He backhands me across the face. “I can’t believe I ever loved you. To lie like this, even at death’s door!”
The tears that slipped down my cheeks were mixed with blood. What a farce. I was the victim, yet I was begging my torturer to believe me.
Jackie turned to the guards. “If she’s only going to use that mouth to spit poison and lies, she doesn’t need it. Tear out whatever is left of her tongue and throw her in the pool to wake her up. She needs to learn her place.”
Hands pinned me down. I watched the metal shears slide into my mouth. Then, a rush of copper, a blinding wave of agony, and absolute silence.
They dragged me to the edge of the estate’s swimming pool and threw me in.
The freezing water rushed into my nose and throat. I thrashed wildly, but a hand clamped onto the back of my neck, pushing me deeper. Over and over, until my limbs grew heavy, and the light above the water began to fade.
Through the water, I heard Jackie’s muffled, tender voice. “Don’t worry, Christine. I’ve handled her. Once she’s a maid in our house, she’ll never hurt you again.”
A bodyguard whispered, “Mr. Cross… she’s stopped moving. She’s not coming up.”
Jackie sighed impatiently. “Leave her. She’s just acting. When she’s swallowed enough water, she’ll beg for mercy.”
Acting.
They stole my parents. My love. My life. What did I have left to act with?
The dark water filled my chest. The pain faded into a quiet, cold weight.
Finally. It was over.
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I was touching up my lipstick in the bridal suite of our engagement party when Austin brought his charity-case underclassman inside.
“Sophie had a little accident with her dress,” he said, his voice casual, as if he were asking to borrow a pen. “Can she wear your dress for a bit?”
I froze, the lipstick hovering a millimeter from my lips. Before I could process the words, he added, “Everyone knows you’re the star of the night anyway, Char. It doesn’t matter what you wear.”
A young girl stood hovering by the doorframe. Her white canvas sneakers had been scrubbed so hard the fabric looked frayed at the seams. “Hi, Charlotte,” she whispered, her voice tiny and trembling.
Sam stepped right in front of me, shielding me from them. “Are you out of your mind, Austin? This is Charlotte’s engagement party. She went to thirty different boutiques before she finally found this dress!”
Austin looked at me. It was that look. For five years, every time he looked at me with that soft, pleading desperation, I gave in.
I gently patted Sam’s arm, silently asking her to step back, and clicked my lipstick shut.
“She can wear it,” I said.
Austin smiled, a look of immense relief washing over his face. He reached out to stroke my hair. “I knew you’d understand. You’re always so good to people, Char. On our actual wedding day, I’ll buy you the most beautiful gown in the world.”
Sophie changed into my silk gown. Austin knelt on the floor, carefully smoothing out the delicate train so it wouldn’t drag on the dusty tiles.
“You look beautiful, Sophie,” he murmured softly.
I watched them, a cold ache spreading in my chest. I had seen that exact gesture before. During our engagement photoshoot, the photographer had asked him to do the same thing for me. Austin had scoffed, calling it cheesy and dramatic.
I reached down and slipped my engagement ring off my finger.
Just like that.
I was done being the understanding one.
…
“Who is that lovely girl? She looks absolutely stunning in that dress.”
Austin’s aunt stood by the buffet table, holding Sophie’s hand and looking her up and down with an approving smile.
Sophie lowered her gaze, her lips curving into a shy, delicate smile. Before she could speak, Austin chimed in from behind her.
“She’s a junior from my old college department. Her family’s had a really tough time lately. Her own dress got ruined tonight, and Charlotte felt so bad for her that she insisted on lending her this one.”
His aunt nodded, her eyes shifting to me as I stood nearby in my plain knit sweater and jeans. “But why is Charlotte dressed like that? It’s her engagement party, and she looks so… plain.”
“She doesn’t care about stuff like that,” Austin answered for me, his arm wrapping around my shoulder. “Our Charlotte is the most generous girl in the world.”
As his weight pressed against me, I took a half-step to the side. His hand slipped off, falling into the empty air.
He frowned slightly. “What’s wrong?”
I kept my eyes on the floor. “Nothing.”
Sam grabbed my arm from behind and dragged me into the quiet hallway near the restrooms.
“Are you seriously just going to let this happen?” she demanded, her voice shaking.
“What else am I supposed to do, Sam?”
“Go out there and tell everyone that the dress is yours! Tell them that she isn’t his fiancé—you are!”
I looked at her eyes, which were turning red with frustrated tears. “Sam, you’re more upset than I am.”
“How can I not be?” Sam’s voice cracked. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying at his friends’ table?”
She pulled out her phone and tapped on a video clip uploaded to Instagram by one of Austin’s college buddies.
In the video, Sophie was standing to Austin’s right, wearing my silk gown. Austin’s hand was resting casually behind her waist.
Someone off-camera yelled, “The bride is gorgeous, man!”
Sophie looked down, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. She didn’t correct them.
Austin didn’t either. He just laughed and waved his hand dismissively.
Underneath the post, there was a comment: Austin’s fiancé is so pure and lovely. It had over thirty likes, and not a single soul had replied to correct it.
I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth, closed the video, and handed the phone back to Sam.
Laughter erupted from the banquet hall again. Sophie was being led around to toast the tables. She handled herself beautifully, tilting her glass just slightly as she leaned in.
I had taught her that.
Only last month, she had told me she was terrified of attending her first formal networking event. She asked me how to hold a glass and carry herself, and I had spent an entire afternoon practicing with her in my living room.
“Can you call me an Uber, Sam?”
“You’re not going back in?”
“There’s nothing left to go back to.”
I walked over to the reception desk in the lobby, pulled the ring out of my pocket, and set it down next to the guestbook. A thin layer of dust coated the dark wood; the ring settled with a quiet, hollow clink.
My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a notification from Austin’s Instagram.
“So grateful to everyone who came out tonight.”
He had attached three photos. One of the crowded banquet hall, one of him raising a glass with his college friends, and the last one… Sophie, wearing my silk dress, smiling warmly at the camera.
He had tagged Sophie’s account.
His caption read: Huge thanks to Sophie for helping me host tonight. You worked so hard.
There was no mention of me. Not a single photo. Not even my name.
I turned off the screen.
When I crossed the street to wait for my ride, the lights of the hotel lobby were still blazing. Even from across the asphalt, I could hear the faint, muffled hum of music and laughter.
Before getting into the car, I looked back one last time.
Austin was standing on the steps of the hotel entrance, looking down at his phone. Sophie walked out from behind him, gently draping his coat over his shoulders.
He pulled the lapels together to bundle up.
The movement was so natural, so perfectly practiced.
“Charlotte, you left your ring on the guest table.”
At two in the morning, Austin’s call came through. His voice was calm, completely unhurried.
“I know.”
“Well, I kept it safe for you. I’ll put it back on your finger tomorrow.” He paused, his tone softening into that familiar, soothing register. “I know tonight was hard on you. Sophie’s dress was a real emergency, but you letting her borrow yours… everyone saw how sweet and understanding you were.”
“Austin, let’s break up.”
The line went dead silent for three seconds. Then, he let out a low chuckle.
“Charlotte, I know you’re hurt about tonight. But breaking up? Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?”
“I’m serious.”
“You say we’re breaking up every time you get upset,” he said, his voice dropping into the patient, slightly patronizing tone he used to defuse my moods. “Fine. Once you’ve slept on it and calmed down, call me. I’ll come pick you up.”
“Austin—”
“Char, be good. Tomorrow I’ll take you to that new sushi spot downtown—the one you’ve been begging to go to.”
I didn’t say anything.
After a few seconds of silence, his voice hardened.
“Charlotte, it’s been five years. When have you ever actually had the heart to leave me?”
The question was quiet, but it left me breathless. He didn’t believe me. He genuinely believed I was incapable of walking away.
I hung up.
Sam walked out of the kitchen holding a glass of water and sat down across from me on the sofa.
“What did he say?”
“He said he’s coming to pick me up tomorrow.”
“Are you going?”
“No.”
She wanted to say something, but she looked at my face and swallowed her words.
I stared at my phone screen. The top of my call log showed his contact name—a name I had saved five years ago: Austin followed by a little sun emoji.
We had just started dating back then. He had waited for me outside my dormitory in the freezing November wind, holding a paper bag of warm, cinnamon-dusted roasted almonds.
“My roommate told me you walk the long way home every day just to smell these,” he had said, his breath fogging in the cold air.
“They’re so expensive, though,” I had murmured. “Eight dollars a bag.”
He had laughed, pressing the warm paper bag into my hands. “From now on, you tell me whenever you want something. Whether it’s eight dollars or eight hundred.”
His eyes had been so bright and clear back then. They made me feel completely safe.
Sam suddenly spoke up, breaking the silence. “Do you remember when he actually started to change?”
I thought about it for a long, quiet moment.
“I don’t know.”
Maybe it was the day Sophie first showed up, crying that she couldn’t afford her tuition. Maybe it was the first time Austin looked at me and said, “Just let her have this one, Char.”
The change had been so slow, so imperceptible. A fraction of a millimeter every day, until one day I looked back and realized there was nothing left.
Sam tucked a throw blanket around my shoulders. “Don’t go back there. Just stay here with me.”
“Okay.”
At three in the morning, his name lit up my screen again.
It rang for three seconds, then went silent. He didn’t call back.
He knew my patterns. In his mind, I just needed one night to cry it out. When the sun came up, I would go home on my own.
Just like I always did.
I swiped to decline the call.
It was the first time in five years I had ever ignored him.
“Sam, let me in.”
The following evening, Austin was standing on Sam’s porch, holding a white paper pastry bag. Sam blocked the doorway, her arms crossed.
“She doesn’t want to see you.”
“I know she’s angry,” he said with a tight, apologetic smile. “Just let me talk to her for a second. I’ll leave right after。”
“Talk to her about what? How you couldn’t even manage to put her name in your post last night?”
Austin’s smile vanished. “Sam, this is between Charlotte and me.”
“Don’t call her Charlotte. You don’t get to use her name anymore.”
I walked over to the door and gently laid a hand on Sam’s arm. “It’s okay, Sam. Let him in. I’ll talk to him.”
Sam stepped aside, her eyes cold as she watched him walk past.
Austin kicked off his shoes and set the white bag on the coffee table. “I brought that chestnut crepe cake you love. I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.”
I didn’t touch the bag.
He sat down on the sofa opposite me. “Char, what do you want me to do?”
“I told you. I want a breakup.”
His brow furrowed. “You’re throwing away five years over a dress?”
“It was never about the dress.”
“Then what is it?” He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back. It was his classic posture—the patient, long-suffering partner waiting for me to finish my tantrum so we could get back to normal.
“On your birthday last year, I booked that reservation at the French bistro two months in advance. As we were walking out the door, Sophie called saying she had a stomach ache. You drove straight to her apartment.”
“She was completely alone in the city, Char. What if it had been appendicitis?”
“You got there and realized she had just eaten too much takeout. And then you stayed and watched television with her all night while I sat alone at that restaurant until closing.”
He rubbed his temples. “I apologized for that, didn’t I? I bought you that designer necklace to make up for it.”
“And then you bought her the exact same one, didn’t you?”
“She was going through a really hard time—”
“She’s always going through a hard time, Austin,” I said, my voice low and steady. “When is she ever actually happy?”
Austin fell silent.
“Last month, when I had that business trip, you told me to take an Uber to the airport because you had to help Sophie move into her new dorm.”
He opened his mouth to protest. “She had so many heavy boxes—”
“And you gave her my handmade cotton quilt. The one my mother quilted by hand and sent to me from home.”
“That quilt was getting old and frayed, Char. I told you I’d buy you a luxury down comforter to replace it.”
“It was mine! My mother sat with her reading glasses on for a week, stitching those patterns. She wrapped it in three layers of plastic just so the stitches wouldn’t get ruined in the mail!”
The living room went dead silent. Sam stood by the kitchen door, her knuckles white as she gripped the frame.
I didn’t cry.
I used to cry. I used to scream and demand to know why he was doing this to me, and then I would forgive him the second he murmured an apology.
But today, I just felt hollowed out. Tired.
“Charlotte,” Austin said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet disappointment. “I always thought you were different from the other girls.”
“The other girls?”
“The petty ones. The ones who keep score of every little thing.” He looked at me, his eyes entirely sincere. “I thought you understood. Sophie has absolutely no one else in this city to rely on. You have me, you have a good job… you don’t lack for anything. What’s so wrong with me looking out for her a little?”
He spoke with such earnest conviction. He believed every single word.
“You have everything, Char. Can’t you just let her have this when she has nothing?”
I looked at him. Really looked at him.
He was actually waiting for me to nod. He expected me to say “You’re right, I’m sorry.”
But among all the things he claimed I had, there was one thing called Austin. And he had been slowly packing up that piece of my life and giving it to someone else, all while asking me why I felt empty.
“You’re right, Austin. I have everything.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly, a faint sigh of relief escaping his lips.
“So,” I continued, “I don’t need you anymore either.”
The relief vanished from his face.
“Charlotte.”
“You never used to be like this.”
I didn’t answer him.
He stood up, his face dark, and walked out the front door.
My gaze fell on the white pastry bag on the table.
Chestnut crepe cake.
He didn’t even remember. I had stopped liking chestnut cake a year ago.
The white silk of the wedding dress felt cool and heavy against my skin.
My mother stood behind me, gently smoothing down the delicate tulle of the veil. The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she smiled at my reflection.
“When is Austin getting here? I feel like I haven’t seen him in six months.”
I looked down at my phone screen. Ten minutes ago, Austin had sent a text.
“Sophie’s graduation thesis data got corrupted and she’s crying in her advisor’s office. I have to go help her sort it out. Go ahead and try on the dress first. Explain to your mom—she’s always been so sweet to me, she’ll understand. I booked her favorite Italian restaurant tonight to make it up to her.”
My mother had undergone minor heart surgery just last month. I hadn’t told her a single thing about what was happening between Austin and me.
I pressed the power button, darkening the screen, and turned to face her with a smile.
“His office had an emergency meeting, Mom. He won’t be able to make it.”
My mother blinked, surprised, but quickly patted my hand reassuringly. “Work comes first. It’s good that he’s dedicated to his career. You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart. Let me take some photos of you.”
Click.
In the photos, I stood in a gown of pure white, smiling perfectly.
But my eyes were completely dead.
After watching my mother board the train back to her small town, I went straight back to Sam’s apartment.
Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I dialed the wedding coordinator’s number.
“Hi, this is Charlotte. I have a reservation for the Lakeside Chapel for next spring. I need to cancel it.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
“Ma’am, that chapel has an eight-month waiting list. The twelve-thousand-dollar deposit is entirely non-refundable. Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“But you came in so many times, Charlotte. You were so meticulous about every detail. Our designer said she’d never seen a bride so invested…”
“Just cancel it, please. Thank you.”
I hung up before she could say anything else.
Sam sat on the opposite end of the sofa, watching me quietly. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Char?”
“Yes.”
That chapel was located forty miles outside the city. There was no direct subway line; you had to take two different buses and walk twenty minutes down a dirt road.
I had chosen it because it sat right on the edge of a quiet, pristine lake.
Five years ago, on our very first weekend trip, Austin had taken me to that exact lake. He had spent the entire afternoon taking photos of me against the water. He told me it was our secret sanctuary.
I had designed every single detail of that wedding myself, arguing back and forth with the designer over dozens of drafts.
I chose white magnolias for the tables because Austin’s mother loved simple, clean flowers.
The processional music was the acoustic track that had been playing in the background during our very first date at that tiny coffee shop.
I had hand-drawn the seating chart with colored markers—blue for his guests, pink for mine. His college roommate was terrified of heights, so I had carefully placed him at a table near the ground-floor exit.
Austin had never asked about any of it. He had just nodded and let me do all the work.
“Charlotte, if you need to cry, just cry,” Sam said softly.
I shook my head.
I tried, but the tears wouldn’t come. I didn’t think I had any left.
Sam was in the middle of editing a marketing deck at her office when her phone rang. It was Austin.
“Charlotte’s phone is completely turned off. Can you give her a message for me?”
Sam set her pen down. “What is it?”
“Sophie is taking her graduation photos next month and wants to do something really unique.” His tone was light, as if he were asking to borrow a stapler. “I remembered that chapel Charlotte booked by the lake. The scenery is gorgeous. Can you ask Charlotte to call the venue and let Sophie use the space for a day?”
Sam gripped her phone, her knuckles turning bone-white under the office fluorescent lights.
“Austin,” she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper.
“Yeah?”
“That venue has already been canceled.”
🌟 Continue the story here
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My adoptive brother, Connor, accused me of pushing him down the grand staircase.
So, I took a step back and threw myself down right in front of them—a brutal, bone-cracking slide all the way to the bottom.
My birth mother accused me of stealing Connor’s favorite cufflinks.
So, I grabbed the heavy silver shears from the entryway table, hacked off my own right pinky, and flung the severed digit right onto the polished mahogany floor at his feet.
“Is this the finger that stole from you?” I spat, the blood already pooling. “Go ahead. Keep it.”
1
I had only meant to toss it at his feet, but my aim was off. With a sickening slap, my severed pinky hit Connor square in the face, leaving a thick smear of dark red blood across his cheek.
There were no screams. Just a dead, suffocating silence.
Everyone stared. My biological mother gasped, clutching her mouth, her eyes bulging with terror.
Connor clawed frantically at his cheek, trying to wipe the blood away, but his jaw was locked, the screams trapped in his throat.
I stood there, watching them as the adrenaline began to fade. I looked down. The blood was dripping steadily, splattering against the immaculate living room rug in dark, heavy drops.
Then, the delayed screams shattered the room.
Connor pointed a trembling finger at me. “You… you… we were just talking! How could you do that to yourself?”
“I didn’t ask you to cut your finger off! All you had to do was explain!” His voice cracked, the carefully constructed facade of the golden boy completely shattered. He was on the verge of a total psychological breakdown.
I just stood in the center of the room, entirely unbothered. “Didn’t you say I took your things? Well, now you have the finger that did it.”
Normally, if I so much as breathed in Connor’s direction, my biological sister, Fiona, would throw herself in front of him like a human shield. But now? Fiona, who had spent the last two months looking at me like I was dirt beneath her shoes, was trembling so hard she could barely punch 911 into her phone.
My father—the man who usually wore a permanent mask of cold disappointment whenever he looked at me—had shaking hands. He barked orders at a housekeeper to find a Ziploc bag and ice to pack the finger.
My mother fluttered around me like a panicked bird, trying to open the first-aid kit. But the moment she saw the sheer volume of blood gushing from my hand, her face went white, and her knees gave out. She collapsed onto the floor.
She sat there, hyperventilating, her words coming out in jagged gasps. “How can you be so extreme? We just asked you a question! How could you mutilate yourself like this? Your body… your flesh and blood… it belongs to the parents who brought you into this world! How could you just cut it off?”
I looked down at her, completely numb. “Oh,” I said.
I was twenty-four, scraping by on minimum wage at a diner, when they found me. They told me I was the long-lost heir to a massive real estate fortune, switched at birth due to some bizarre administrative error at the hospital.
To be honest, the whole “switched at birth” narrative felt incredibly suspect to me. How does a working-class kid get accidentally swapped with the heir of a multi-million-dollar dynasty?
But no one would give me a straight answer. Whenever I brought it up, they looked at me like I was some ungrateful conspiracy theorist.
Fiona had dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “It was a tragic mistake, Drew. None of us wanted this to happen. Don’t overthink it.”
But how could I not? No one in this family wanted to dig into the truth because doing so might hurt their precious darling, Connor—the boy they had raised for twenty-four years.
Initially, I hadn’t planned on reacting so violently to Connor’s petty provocations. But every single move I made was treated as a personal assault on their golden boy.
If it were anyone else, they might have shrunk into themselves, drowned in insecurity, or spiraled into depression. Or maybe they would have gone completely mad, screaming at the walls.
But I don’t go mad. I don’t beg.
When Connor framed me for pushing him down the stairs, I didn’t argue. I just launched myself down the steps instead.
When they accused me of stealing, I chopped off my own finger.
In a world like this, if you aren’t ruthlessly cruel to yourself, society will swallow you whole and spit out the bones.
2
My dramatic self-mutilation was written off as a desperate cry for attention, a toxic stunt fueled by petty jealousy. Amidst my father’s roaring lectures, my mother’s hysterical weeping, and the distant, wailing sirens of the ambulance, I was strapped onto a gurney and rushed to the hospital.
The surgeon was highly skilled. They managed to sew my pinky back on, aligning the nerves and skin with meticulous precision.
A dull, throbbing ache settled into my hand, constant and heavy, like a persistent autumn drizzle. It seeped slowly into my chest.
Once the doctor confirmed my hand was stable, the sheer gravity of what had happened finally caught up with Connor. Standing in the corner of the room, his face pale as paper, he suddenly clutched his chest, gasping for air.
The next second, he collapsed.
“Thud.”
It wasn’t a soft, dramatic swoon into someone’s arms. He hit the linoleum floor hard. A genuine faint.
Fiona, who had been hovering nearby, scowled. She opened her mouth to snap at me, but the moment her eyes met mine, the words died in her throat. She looked like she had swallowed a stone.
I didn’t say a word. I just stared back at her.
Normally, if I upset Connor, Fiona would unleash a torrent of verbal abuse, sometimes physically dragging me away. But today, she just stood there, her gaze heavy and conflicted.
“Why do you have to take things so far?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Even if we haven’t been perfect to you, it’s your own body. Can’t you have some self-respect? Can’t you love yourself a little?”
“There are security cameras all over the house,” she continued, looking thoroughly baffled. “If you didn’t steal it, all you had to do was say so. We would have checked the footage. We could have called the police. Why do you have to be so psychotic?”
I looked up at my biological sister, a bitter amusement rising in my chest. “This isn’t the first time, Fiona. Remember when I asked you to call the police last time? What did you do?”
Initially, I hadn’t wanted to turn our home into a horror movie. The first time Connor accused me of stealing, I had begged them to check the cameras. I had screamed for them to call the police.
But my father had only roared at me to shut up, and Fiona had sneered.
“”The fact that you’re so eager to call the police just proves you prepared for this,”” she had said back then, her voice dripping with venom. “”If you didn’t steal it, then who did? Things only started vanishing after you moved in. You’re nothing but a common thief.””
They had forced me to my knees, making me bow and apologize to Connor.
That was my loving family.
A flicker of shame crossed Fiona’s face as the memory hit her. She looked away, her voice dropping. “That… that had nothing to do with him. I was the one who hid those cufflinks. I just wanted to teach you a lesson since you were new to this world. I wanted you to see how cruel people can be. Why are you being so petty? If you didn’t like it, you could have just explained—”
“Slap!”
Before the words could fully leave her mouth, a hand cracked across her face.
It was my mother. Having just settled Connor into a room, she had walked in just in time to hear Fiona’s confession. Her face was flushed with fury.
“Drew is your brother! How could you call that a joke?” she screamed at Fiona. “Playing games with your own flesh and blood… do you even have a conscience?”
It sounded like a defense, but I knew better. It was just a distraction to keep the peace. I closed my eyes, shutting them out.
I wanted to see exactly how much longer Connor and my dear sister could keep up this charade.
Every single person who had slandered me, gaslit me, and actively tried to destroy me—I was going to watch them burn.
Two months later, I was finally discharged from the hospital. As fate would have it, my release coincided with the lavish engagement party for Connor and his high-society fiancée.
The moment I stepped into the grand ballroom, the lively chatter died instantly. A suffocating silence draped over the crowd.
Connor, spotting me, turned deathly pale, shrinking back as if he were the victim.
Beside him stood Charlotte, his fiancée. She had never once deigned to look me in the eye. Now, her gaze swept over me, thick with disgust.
“How could someone so uncultured be a real heir of this family?” she muttered loudly enough for those around us to hear. “They must have botched the DNA test. Don’t worry, sweetie. Once we’re married, you’ll always be the son of my family. No one can ever dispute your place.”
The truth about the switched heirs had already rippled through high society, becoming the gossip of the season. Charlotte had immediately stepped up as Connor’s fierce protector, while I was paraded around in one of Connor’s old, ill-fitting hand-me-down suits.
Everyone thought I was an easy target.
And tonight, they thought the same.
3
The whispers started immediately, buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps.
“I heard when the real son came back, he threw a massive tantrum and even pushed himself down the stairs.”
“Completely unrefined. I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep him around. They’ll probably write him a small check and kick him out.”
“Worse than that. I heard he’s a kleptomaniac. Always coveting what isn’t his. Just because you share the blood doesn’t mean you belong.”
“And he’s unstable! Did you hear he mutilated his own hand just to spite his parents? Absolutely feral.”
I stood in the midst of the hushed mockery, my face blank.
Connor stepped forward, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. “Ah, Drew. You’re finally out of the hospital. I’m so glad you could make it to our special day. Please, promise me you won’t hurt yourself again to threaten Mom and Dad. It breaks their hearts.”
Then, he pulled something from his pocket.
My heart seized, blood rushing to my ears.
It was a jade pendant. A simple, worn piece of jade on a faded red string.
It had hung around my neck for as long as I could remember. Even when I was starving, with only a few dollars to my name, I had never once considered selling it. It was the only thing of value I owned, my only connection to a past before the nightmare of this family.
Connor dangled it between his fingers, letting it catch the light, before clutching it tightly in his palm and leaning back into Charlotte’s arms.
“This is our engagement heirloom, Charlotte,” he murmured. “Drew, I hope we have your blessing.”
Seeing my entire body begin to tremble with rage, Connor shot a subtle look to the side.
Instantly, Fiona grabbed my right arm, pinning it down, while my mother stepped in on my left.
“It’s just a cheap piece of jade, Drew,” my mother whispered frantically in my ear. “Don’t make a scene. I’ll buy you a hundred pendants. Better ones. Just let it go.”
Her placating words washed over me like static.
Fiona hissed in my ear, her grip tightening. “This is a high-profile event. Don’t you dare try your self-harm tricks today. If this gets out, people will think our family has no class. It’s just a trinket. Let your brother borrow it.”
I stared at them, my jaw clenched.
What they didn’t know was that the moment I walked into the ballroom, I had secretly turned on a livestream on my phone, tucked securely into my breast pocket.
The lens was clear, the audio crisp. I was recording everything. Every whisper, every smirk, every threat. I wanted irrefutable evidence.
But I had never anticipated they would sink low enough to break into my bedroom and steal my only treasure.
I had survived on the streets as a child, starving and freezing, but I had kept that pendant safe. Everyone thought it was cheap glass, but to me, it was my anchor.
“That’s mine,” I choked out, my voice rising. “Give it back. Don’t touch it. It’s the only thing I have!”
My desperate cry was cut short by a sharp, brutal crack.
Connor had dropped it.
Right before my eyes, the jade hit the marble floor, shattering into two jagged pieces.
A flash of pure, sadistic triumph flickered in Connor’s eyes. He quickly masked it, clutching his hands to his chest, his eyes welling with crocodile tears.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry! My hand slipped,” he whimpered. “Drew, you’re not mad, are you?”
A raw, feral roar built in my throat. I thrashed violently, trying to break free from my mother and sister’s grip.
I wanted to tear him apart. It was the last piece of myself I had left. Even a beggar is allowed to have one thing they love.
As I opened my mouth to scream, a hand slammed over my face, muffling me.
Fiona glared at me, her brow furrowed in deep annoyance. “It’s just a piece of stone! Why are you always so dramatic? Do you really want to end up in the hospital again? Is a stupid pendant worth your life?”
Seeing me gradually go limp, Fiona slowly released her grip, her voice softening into a hollow, patronizing tone. “Look, it’s done. I’ll buy you a brand-new one tomorrow. Just calm down.”
I looked up at her, a slow, terrifying smile spreading across my lips.
Then, I bit down.
Hard.
With a sickening crunch, I severed my own tongue and let the bloody mass fall onto the white tablecloth.
4
A bloodcurdling shriek pierced the air.
“Oh my god! His… his tongue! He bit his tongue off!”
An icy wave of horror instantly paralyzed the ballroom.
Guests scrambled backward, overturning chairs in their panic, as a torrent of dark crimson blood erupted from my mouth.
The wealthy socialites who had just been laughing at me moments ago were now screaming, clutching their silk dresses.
My biological family stared at me, their faces completely drained of color.
Charlotte, the proud fiancée, was hyperventilating, stumbling backward into the catering tables.
Connor, however, didn’t look afraid. A flicker of cold rage crossed his face as he glared at me.
“I knew you’d do this!” he spat. “You did this on purpose!”
He turned to our parents, his voice rising in hysterical accusation. “Mom, Dad, look at him! It was just an accident! I didn’t mean to break his stupid pendant, and he mutilates himself at my engagement party! He’s a psychopath! He’s a monster!”
Even as I choked on my own blood, Connor showed no remorse. Instead, he grabbed Charlotte’s hand, his expression instantly shifting into one of fragile, victimized innocence.
“He did this just to ruin my wedding,” Connor sobbed, playing to the crowd. “Someone call 911! Even if he wants to destroy my life, he’s still my brother. Please, save him!”
He stepped closer to me, his voice dripping with faux concern. “Why would you do this over a stupid piece of jade? Are you insane? Do you have a mental illness? How could you do this to us?”
Under the watchful eyes of the horrified guests, Connor nudged the severed piece of my tongue off the table.
He stepped on it.
Under the guise of his hysterical pacing, his expensive leather dress shoe ground the bloody flesh into the floor, twisting his heel with deliberate, vicious force.
I knew what I was doing when I bit down.
Without a tongue, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t defend myself.
And the moment the family realized I was mute, they began to weave their narrative. As they half-heartedly tried to stem the bleeding, the murmurs of the crowd turned toxic.
“He’s clearly deranged. You can’t keep someone like that in polite society.”
“Exactly. He needs to be locked away in an asylum. If he can do this to himself, who knows what he’ll do to the family?”
The venomous remarks echoed from every corner of the room.
Even my mother, who had been holding a napkin to my mouth, began to weep, her words laced with resentment.
“How could you be so unstable, Drew? Your brother made a mistake, but to mutilate yourself like this… how could you do this to me?”
“What am I supposed to do with you now? You can’t even speak!”
Though she claimed to be helping, her hands were shaking so violently that the blood continued to spill unchecked, flooding my airway and sending me into violent, silent coughing fits.
Fiona stood by, her face pale but her voice hardening with blame. “How could you do this to Mom and Dad? Do you have any idea how much pain you’re causing them? You’re incredibly selfish!”
“I can’t defend you anymore. Once the doctors patch you up, you’re going straight to a psychiatric facility. You need professional help to fix whatever is broken inside you.”
They spoke of “help,” but their hands dragged me brutally toward the exit.
The paramedics, who had mysteriously appeared far too quickly, rushed into the hall. It was a coordinated trap. No one was here to protect me; they were here to dispose of me.
From the crowd, a few snide remarks drifted over.
“Did the gutter rat really think a little self-harm would make them love him?”
“Hilarious. All he did was guarantee himself a one-way ticket to a psych ward. Not a penny of the inheritance for him.”
“The family has been far too patient. If he were my son, I would have had him committed months ago.”
Connor leaned down close to my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Look at you. You bit your own tongue off. Every time you hurt yourself, Mom and Dad just hate you a little more. Pain won’t get you what you want.”
He shed a single, perfect crocodile tear, his eyes mocking me.
“By the way… I heard that stray cat you kept in the alley? The one you cared so much about?”
“It got run over by a car a few days ago.”
A cold dread seized me.
Connor smirked, his lips practically brushing my ear. “You couldn’t even protect yourself, did you really think you could protect a worthless cat? I had my driver run it over. Twice.”
“A piece of trash like you deserves to rot in silence, just like that cat. And as for your tongue? Don’t worry. They won’t be sewing it back on this time.”
Connor stood up, turning back to the crowd with a look of pure sorrow. “I know Drew has been struggling to adjust since he came home, but I never imagined he would go this far—”
Suddenly, his voice cut off. His eyes widened in sheer terror.
“What… what is that on your jacket?” he gasped.
I looked down at my lapel. Nestled inside the fabric of the cheap suit, a tiny pinhole camera gleamed with a faint, blinking blue light.
With my left hand, I pulled out my phone and held the screen up for everyone to see.
Four words flashed in bold, black letters on the screen: [LIVESTREAMING IN PROGRESS.]
Rich families often used signal scramblers at private events to prevent leaks, but they had forgotten to turn them on today. It was a fatal mistake.
I opened my mouth, blood pouring over my chin, and smiled.
My thumb swiped the screen, showing the chat feed. The comments were flying by so fast they were a blur of white light, sending a shiver through every person in the room.
“User202: Holy shit, is this real? Rich people are literally evil.”
“Watcher99: They broke his pendant and then pinned him down while he choked?!”
“CatLover: Did that psychopath just admit to killing a cat? Call the cops!”
“Anon: This is sick. He bit his tongue off because they wouldn’t let him speak.”
🌟 Continue the story here
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It was past midnight when my phone buzzed on the cluttered desk. I was in the middle of a grueling overtime shift, the harsh fluorescent lights of the office humming a low, irritating tune.
The text was from Jerry, my boyfriend of five years.
I ended the lease on our apartment. Sent you the new address.
I stared at the screen, a familiar, cold weight settling in my chest. I didn’t need to look up the zip code to know what this meant.
Is this about Melanie again? I typed back, my fingers trembling slightly.
Melanie. The fragile, self-made, fiercely independent girl Jerry couldn’t stop talking about.
This would be our third move in six months.
We had started in a gorgeous, high-rise loft in the Gold Coast, close to everything. Then we downgraded to a noisy mid-rise, and now, according to the map, we were heading to a cramped, sketchy neighborhood on the outskirts of the city.
All to be closer to Melanie.
Predictably, my text struck a nerve. His reply came back almost instantly, sharp and defensive.
Don’t start with the jealousy, Regina. Someone followed her home from work last night. She was terrified.
You’re both women. Where is your empathy?
I looked out the window. The Chicago skyline was dark, swallowed by the freezing winter night. A sudden, deep exhaustion washed over me.
I couldn’t even count how many times Jerry and I had fought over Melanie. It was an exhausting loop: first came my anger and hurt, then his accusations, and finally, this hollow silence.
I don’t have time for this, his next text read. I’m going to pick her up from her shift.
Before I could type a response, he hung up—metaphorically speaking, cutting off the conversation with the finality of a locked screen.
Not once during this entire process had Jerry asked if I wanted to move.
Not once did he ask if I wanted him to pick me up, even though it was freezing and past 1 a.m.
So, I didn’t ask for his opinion either.
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the corporate relocation agreement that had been sitting there for a week.
With a steady hand, I signed my name at the bottom: Regina Davies.
01
Before packing up, I knocked on my manager’s door. Sandra was still at her desk. I handed her the signed contract for the London transfer.
She looked up, startled. “Regina? I thought you said you wanted to stay in Chicago because of your boyfriend. You didn’t want the long-distance.”
Most of the senior team had families tying them down, so Sandra had practically begged me to take the post. It was a massive promotion—a career-defining opportunity. But back then, the thought of leaving Jerry had made me reject it without a second thought.
I offered her a tight, polite smile. “I wasn’t thinking clearly back then. I used to believe love could fix everything.”
Sandra looked at me, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She didn’t press. She just took the paperwork and patted my shoulder gently. “We’re lucky to have you, Regina.”
Getting a cab at 1:30 a.m. in the freezing cold was a nightmare. I stood on the curb, the biting winter wind cutting right through my coat.
I watched my coworkers get picked up one by one. Greg, who lived in my old neighborhood, noticed me shivering.
“Hey, Regina! No ride tonight? Is Jerry out of town? Come on, hop in, I’ll drop you off. Just tell him he owes me a beer!”
I forced a smile and shook my head. “Thanks, Greg, but I actually moved. I’m not on your route anymore.”
He thought I was just being polite, but when I told him the new neighborhood, his eyes widened slightly.
“Oh. That’s… a bit of a trek.”
“Yeah. My ride is almost here anyway. Don’t worry about me.”
I waited in the freezing wind for another forty minutes before a rideshare finally pulled up.
Our old high-rise apartment had been a ten-minute walk from my office, in a highly secure building. Back then, Jerry used to worry if I stayed late. He would wait downstairs in his car, heater blasting, just to make sure I walked the short distance safely.
Now, we were living in a place that was a ninety-minute drive in traffic. And Jerry hadn’t even asked how I was getting home.
By the time I unlocked my phone in the back of the cab, it was 2:30 a.m. My fingers were stiff and numb. There were several texts from coworkers making sure I got home safe.
I replied to each of them. But Jerry’s chat, pinned at the very top of my messages, was a blank slate.
A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I opened Instagram.
The very first post on my feed was from Melanie.
Thanks to my favorite guy for picking me up. Best boyfriend in the world.
It was a photo of Jerry’s profile as he drove, his jawline sharp in the dim dashboard light.
She was sitting in the passenger seat. My seat. The one Jerry had always insisted was exclusively mine.
The comments were flooded with heart emojis and “Are you guys finally official?” comments.
Melanie had replied to almost all of them: Omg guys, it was a typo! Don’t make it weird! We’re just really close friends!
And there, right at the top of the likes, was Jerry’s profile picture.
I tapped the heart icon, adding my own like to the post. Then I closed the app, opened my messages, and unpinned Jerry’s contact.
02
When the Uber finally pulled up to the brick building, it was past three in the morning.
I dragged my suitcase up the dimly lit stairs of the pre-war apartment building. I reached the door and stared at the keypad lock. I instinctively punched in my birthday.
Error.
I tried our anniversary.
Error.
Before I could try a third time, the door swung open.
Melanie stood there, wearing a pastel pink apron, holding a spatula, a warm, bright smile plastered on her face.
“Regina! You’re finally home! Jerry and I are making late-night snacks.”
She noticed me staring at the keypad and flushed with mock embarrassment. “Oh, sorry! The code is my birthday. I’m so forgetful, and Jerry was worried I’d lock myself out while helping you guys unpack.”
I looked past her into the kitchen. Jerry—a man who absolutely detested cooking and had never once made me dinner in five years—was standing over the stove wearing a matching apron.
Hearing our voices, he looked up and smiled warmly at Melanie. But when his gaze landed on me, the warmth vanished, replaced by a cool, defensive shield.
“You’re late,” he said, turning back to the stove. “Go wash your hands. Melanie went out of her way to make a welcome-home dinner for us. She’s been unpacking all day, and she still insisted on cooking for you.”
Melanie played the modest angel. “Oh, stop it, Jerry. We’re family now. Your family is my family. Regina, don’t listen to him, I was happy to do it.”
The apartment was heated, yet I felt a chill deep in my bones.
I didn’t say a word. I kicked off my boots and looked around the cramped entryway for my slippers. They weren’t there.
Melanie tapped her temple. “Oh! Silly me. I saw those old, ratty wool slippers of yours and assumed you were throwing them out, so I tossed them. I haven’t had a chance to buy you new ones yet.”
I stared at the cheap, plastic slide-ons she had set out for me. Something inside me snapped. I kicked them aside.
“Who gave you permission to touch my things?”
Melanie froze. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her eyes welled up with tears. “Regina… I’m so sorry. I was just trying to help…”
Jerry immediately abandoned the stove, rushing over to shove himself between us, shielding Melanie.
“Regina, what the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled. “It’s a pair of cheap slippers! Do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?”
Melanie tugged gently at his sleeve, her voice soft and trembling. “Jerry, please, don’t. It’s my fault. Don’t fight with Regina because of me…”
Jerry’s chest heaved with anger. “She spent the whole day helping us move, Regina! She cooked for you! Is this how you show your appreciation? By screaming at her?”
I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. The physical pain was the only thing keeping me from breaking down right in front of them.
“Those weren’t ‘cheap slippers,’” I whispered, my voice shaking. “My mother hand-knit them for me while she was dying in the hospital. They were the last thing she ever made. Melanie, what right did you have to throw them away?”
Jerry froze. The anger died in his eyes, replaced by a flicker of guilt. He rubbed his temples, his tone softening slightly. “Look… you still shouldn’t have yelled at Melanie. She didn’t know. It was an accident. I forgot to tell her, okay? It’s on me.”
I looked at Jerry, utterly hollowed out.
I used to get terribly cold feet in the winter. My mother, weak and bedridden with terminal cancer, had spent her final weeks knitting those slippers for me. On her deathbed, she had placed my hand in Jerry’s, begging him in her softest, weakest voice to cherish me.
And Jerry had promised. He had held me through the worst nights of my life.
And now, he had simply “forgotten.”
“Just eat,” Jerry said, his voice flat. “After we eat, I’ll go down to the dumpster with you and help you look for them. Just stop making a scene, alright?”
I didn’t answer. I turned around and walked out the door, down the dark, narrow hallway.
The old building had no working lights in the stairwell. I was walking fast, my eyes blurred with tears.
My foot caught on the edge of a broken step.
I fell.
It was a brutal, tumbling fall down the concrete stairs. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in my abdomen, so intense it stole the breath from my lungs.
I couldn’t stand up. When I reached down, my hands came away wet and warm with blood.
“Jerry!” I cried out, my voice echoing in the empty, freezing stairwell. “Jerry, please!”
I called his name over and over. But no one came.
The metallic scent of blood filled the cold air. In the semi-darkness, my mind began to slip. I thought I saw him—not the cold, distant twenty-seven-year-old Jerry standing in the apartment upstairs, but the twenty-two-year-old boy who used to love me more than life itself.
03
Jerry and I had met in college.
He was the campus golden boy; I was the popular, slightly spoiled girl everyone wanted to be friends with. People tried to set us up, but we initially couldn’t stand each other. I thought he was arrogant and performative; he thought I was entitled.
But everything changed during a student council hiking trip. I got a severe cramp from my period and fell behind, eventually getting separated from the group.
I ended up lost, alone, and terrified in a dense, signal-less forest as night fell. I huddled under a tree, listening to the rustling of wild animals, waiting in absolute despair.
And then, Jerry appeared like a miracle.
He had noticed I was missing and came back for me. He carried me on his back, whispering words of comfort, all the way down the mountain.
After that night, our pride crumbled. We started talking, really talking, and our hearts gravitated toward each other. By graduation, we were the couple everyone envied.
Those were the happiest days of my life. But the happiness didn’t last.
Shortly after graduation, my mother was diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer. My father had passed away when I was a child; she was my entire world.
That year was a descent into darkness.
Jerry would work his entry-level job all day and spend every night at the hospital, sitting by my mother’s bed, holding my hand while I cried. He survived on hospital cafeteria coffee and vending machine snacks for six months, pulling me back from the brink of collapse.
When she finally passed, I shut down. I became silent, hollow, refusing to speak for days.
But Jerry never gave up. He ignored my coldness, pushed past my walls, and patiently coaxed me back to the land of the living. He slept lightly every night, terrified that if he closed his eyes, I would find a way to follow my mother.
I had lost my mother, but he was the one who lost weight faster than I did.
It was his devotion that saved me.
I used to think I was the luckiest woman in the world to have him. Under his gentle guidance, I slowly put my life back together, went to interviews, and got my career back on track.
Until a year ago.
Until Melanie.
She was just a girl working at a local florist. Jerry had bought a bouquet from her once to congratulate me on a promotion.
At first, her name only came up in passing. Jerry told me she had lost her mother too, and her father was a raging alcoholic. She had dropped out of high school to support herself. I felt deeply sorry for her.
But gradually, Jerry became obsessed.
Melanie’s kitchen light broke; he took a midnight Uber to fix it. Melanie had cramps; he took a sick day to brew her soup and deliver it to her apartment.
He always claimed she was just a poor, helpless girl who had no one else.
On our anniversary—which happened to fall on her birthday—he canceled our dinner reservation because she “couldn’t bear to be alone on her birthday.”
He even agreed to relocate to this rundown, inconvenient neighborhood just because Melanie mentioned she hated the noise of the city center.
We fought about it constantly. I asked him, point-blank, if he was in love with her.
And every time, he would defensively claim they were just friends, that he had never crossed any physical boundaries.
But emotional betrayal is a slow, agonizing poison. His body was there, but his soul had checked out long ago.
Eventually, we stopped communicating. A simple conversation became a minefield. Jerry turned me into a paranoid, screaming version of myself, and then had the audacity to ask why I was acting so crazy.
We fought, we went cold, we broke up, we got back together. I hated myself for being so weak, for not being able to walk away.
But every time I resolved to leave, I would remember the boy who sat by my mother’s hospital bed for six months.
We survived the absolute worst year of my life. How could we fall apart over something like this?
I had no answer.
So, I became quiet. I stopped fighting. I grew used to him missing our milestones, used to him giving Melanie the devotion that belonged to me. I grew used to the crowded space in our relationship.
04
When I woke up, the sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant filled my nose.
Jerry was sitting by my bedside. Seeing my eyes open, he immediately pressed the call button for the nurse.
The doctor arrived quickly, performing a brief examination before turning to Jerry with a solemn expression.
“The patient has suffered a miscarriage due to the fall. She’s lost a lot of blood and her body is extremely weak. Make sure she gets plenty of rest and iron-rich foods.”
I stared at the ceiling, my hand trembling as I placed it over my empty stomach.
The ghost of that sharp, tearing pain was still there.
I had been pregnant. And now, the baby was gone.
Once the doctor left, Jerry stepped closer. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with red. He reached out to tuck the blanket around me, his voice raw.
“Regina… I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let you walk out alone. But we’re young. We can try again.”
He reached to stroke my hair, but I flinched, pulling away from his touch.
I forced myself to sit up, but the pain in my abdomen flared instantly. Jerry tried to push me back down.
“What are you doing? The doctor said you need to stay overnight for observation.”
“Get away from me!” I screamed, struggling against his grip. “Let me go! I need to find my mother’s slippers!”
I had lost my baby. I couldn’t lose the last piece of my mother.
Jerry knelt by the bed, forcing my shoes onto my feet and wrapping his coat around my shoulders.
“Stop screaming, Regina. I had Melanie go look for them. She called me earlier—she found them. They’re at the apartment. You’ll see them when we get back.”
He discharged me against medical advice because I refused to stay. I was in too much pain to walk, biting my lip until it bled to keep from crying out. I refused to let him see an ounce of my weakness.
Seeing my stubbornness, Jerry sighed and scooped me into his arms, ignoring my weak attempts to push him away.
His chest used to be my safe haven. But now, as I breathed in the heavy, cloying scent of sweet vanilla hair oil—the exact brand Melanie always wore—I felt violently ill.
Thirty minutes later, we reached the apartment.
I watched Jerry punch a sequence of numbers into the keypad. It was my birthday.
Error.
He paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.
“The code is Melanie’s birthday,” I said, my voice dead and flat.
The door opened, and Melanie was standing in the hall holding a thermos.
“Jerry! You’re back! I was just about to bring this to the hospital.” She looked at me, her eyes wide with fear and performative guilt. “Regina… please don’t be mad at Jerry. It’s all my fault. I am so, so sorry.”
She took a step closer, unscrewing the thermos. “I heard about the… the baby. I made this chicken soup for you to help you heal.”
She pushed the greasy, steaming liquid toward my face, pretending she wanted to feed me.
I raised my hand to push the container away. I didn’t even touch her.
But Melanie stumbled backward, losing her balance.
The scalding soup spilled all over her chest and arms. She let out a piercing, dramatic shriek.
Jerry instantly let go of me.
I crashed heavily onto the hard hardwood floor. The impact sent a jolt of pure agony through my abdomen, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in my throat. I began to cough violently, curling into a ball.
But Jerry didn’t look at me. Not once.
He was on his knees, cradling Melanie in his arms, his face contorted with panic and tenderness.
“Melanie! Oh my god, are you okay? I’m calling an ambulance!”
Melanie clutched his shirt, tears streaming down her face. “Jerry, I’m okay… don’t be mad at Regina… she didn’t mean to…”
Jerry turned to look at me, his eyes filled with a cold, burning disgust.
“Regina, when did you become such a monster? I can’t believe I ever loved you.”
A weak, bitter laugh escaped my lips.
There it was. The ugly truth, finally laid bare.
I can’t believe I ever loved you.
Past tense.
His love for me was a relic of the past; his love for Melanie was his present.
Jerry stared at me, genuinely bewildered by my laughter. Melanie’s whimpers cut off whatever he was about to say. He shook his head, his voice dripping with utter disdain.
“You are beyond saving, Regina. Honestly? Maybe it’s a blessing that baby died. I’d hate to see what kind of twisted, malicious mother you would have been.”
He scooped Melanie up and rushed out the door, leaving me alone on the floor.
A fresh wave of blood escaped my lips as I coughed.
But in a strange, agonizing way, I agreed with him. I was glad my baby wouldn’t have to grow up in the wreckage of our lives.
As the front door slammed shut, the memory of the sweet, protective boy from college faded forever. In his place was a stranger who had just handed me my execution sentence.
Goodbye, Jerry.
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Three years in prison for a ring my boyfriend stole. The day I got out, I went straight to an exclusive private club to meet my new boss.
Instead, I found my supposedly broke, food-delivery-driver boyfriend draped in designer labels, surrounded by bottles of Macallan 25, laughing like he owned the world.
“Hey, Austin, isn’t today the day your little jailbird girlfriend gets released? Aren’t you going to pick her up?”
A chorus of snickers.
“A disgraced ex-con accountant?” Austin sneered. “She doesn’t deserve my time.”
I walked right up to their table. “Care to explain?”
When Austin saw me, there wasn’t a flicker of guilt on his face. He just smirked, kicking his designer loafers up onto the mahogany table.
“Well, you see how it is. No point in hiding it anymore.”
“It started as a dare. Play the broke guy, see if I could land the smart girl.”
“But you just had to be difficult. Refused to be my side piece.”
“Now that you’ve rotted in a cell for three years, do you still have that high-and-mighty attitude?”
The table erupted into laughter.
I felt a cold smile touch my lips. Austin had a pretty face, but his head was filled with absolute mush. The ring he stole was worth barely fifteen hundred dollars. There was no universe in which that carried a three-year sentence.
The place they sent me was Otisville.
Taking the fall for his petty theft was just a convenient cover for what I actually needed to hide.
…………
Austin looked me up and down, scanning my face and body like he was appraising a piece of cheap merchandise. He nodded slowly.
“Three years in federal lockup, and you haven’t even lost your edge.”
He pulled a thick stack of bills from his leather wallet and slammed twenty thousand dollars onto the table with a sharp slap. “Too bad. An ex-con woman’s time is only worth about this much a year.”
His cronies sneered in unison.
“What’s a felon doing acting so high and mighty?”
“She won’t even be able to get a job at a diner. She should be thanking God for twenty grand.”
I stared at them, my expression flat. Inside, I was laughing.
Before my arrest, my annual salary was a cool million. And today, my new boss was offering me a starting package of three million. Austin actually thought twenty thousand was something to brag about.
I reached out, picked up the stack of bills, and weighed it in my palm.
Austin’s smirk widened, entirely self-satisfied. “See?” he drawled. “Why make things hard on yourself? If you’d just played nice and kept your mouth shut as my mistress, I would’ve given you a hundred thousand a year.”
Before he could finish his sentence, I hurled the stack of cash directly into his face.
“That pathetic pocket change wouldn’t cover my monthly coffee budget. You actually thought you were doing something here?”
The table flared with anger.
“You ungrateful bitch!”
“Just wait until you’re desperate enough to beg some old creep to pay your rent!”
“No class. Typical jailbird.”
Austin’s face twisted into a dark scowl, laughing mockingly. “Gwen, do you ever stop lying to yourself?”
“Before you went inside, you were a nobody accountant. You lived in a damp basement, eating instant ramen every night, making five thousand a month at best.”
“Where the hell do you think you’re getting big money?”
A sharp needle of memory pricked my chest.
The month I spent with him had been the absolute nadir of my life. I was under federal investigation, all my bank accounts had been frozen, and I was hiding out in a dingy basement, surviving on dry noodles. But it was also during that desperate, agonizing period that I resolved to clean up my act once and for all.
“A low-level accountant should be kissing my feet for even looking her way,” Austin sneered.
“I dropped hints about keeping you on the side, and you threatened to castrate me if I ever cheated on you.”
“So I staged the whole proposal. I stole that diamond ring, proposed, and then called the cops on you myself.”
“And you were stupid enough to take the fall and go to prison for me.”
The pieces finally clicked. So that was his grand design.
When he had proposed to me, I had been blinded by emotion. I was already facing a prison sentence for my own actions, and I didn’t want to drag him down with me. When the police showed up, he wept, begging me to confess, claiming he’d only stolen the ring out of sheer desperation. He said a felony charge would ruin his life forever. My heart had softened. I figured I was already facing three years in Otisville anyway; taking on one minor grand theft charge wouldn’t make a difference. So I took the heat.
I had no idea the entire sequence of events was a script he wrote.
Seeing my silence, Austin assumed I was intimidated. He reached out to touch my cheek, his fingers greasy, his voice dripping with condescension.
“Now that you have a record, I’m the only option you’ve got left.”
“Keep me happy, and maybe I’ll bump your allowance up to fifty grand a year.”
The men around him chuckled dirtily. “Seriously, Austin, she is a stunner. Don’t forget about your boys when you’re done with her.” “We can even start a pool to lease her, as long as you’re sharing.”
My eyes turned to ice. I grabbed his wrist in a vice grip and flung his hand away.
“I’ll settle my accounts with you later,” I said, my voice dead calm.
“Right now, I have an appointment in Suite One.”
The table fell dead silent for a beat. Then, it exploded into a deafening roar of laughter, as if I had just delivered the punchline of the century.
Austin laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach. “Gwen, did they teach you how to tell fairy tales in prison?”
The others chimed in.
“The Summit Club is exclusive as hell. Even Austin only has access to the main lounge.”
“Suite One is reserved for VIPs. Only people like Mr. Burke Pierce can book that room.”
“They wouldn’t even hire you as a maid with your criminal record.”
“Stop dreaming, honey. Just crawl back to Austin.”
I swept a freezing gaze over them. “The person I’m meeting is Burke Pierce, CEO of Apex Enterprises.”
The laughter stopped instantly. Doubts and confusion flickered across their faces.
Then, a sharp, haughty female voice cut through the air. “Oh? That’s funny. As Mr. Pierce’s personal secretary, how is it that I had no idea he was hosting a private meeting in Suite One?”
I turned. A young woman dressed in a tailored designer dress was walking toward us, her eyes brimming with patronizing disdain.
The moment Austin saw her, he rushed over to wrap an arm around her waist, his posture instantly shifting into a sycophantic, eager-to-please pose.
Vicky Mercer gave a cold sniff. “Mr. Pierce is in New York today on business. There is zero chance he’s in this club. If you’re going to lie, at least do some research first.”
I raised an eyebrow. Burke had hired me to be the Chief Financial Officer of Apex Enterprises, yet he hadn’t even told his personal secretary. This was getting interesting.
Emboldened by Vicky’s presence, Austin pointed at me, eager to explain. “Vicky, babe, this is that little accountant I told you about—the one I chased on a dare. She’s just throwing a tantrum because she’s not happy with the allowance I offered her.”
Vicky sneered. “An ex-con pretending she’s on Mr. Pierce’s calendar? Delusional.”
I tilted my head, genuinely curious. “Austin just offered to keep me as his plaything right in front of you. You aren’t even a little jealous?”
Vicky let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “In our social circle, marriage is an alliance of assets. What he does on the side is irrelevant, as long as he doesn’t embarrass the Mercer family name.”
Austin nodded eagerly. “Vicky is practical. I am the Vice President of Apex Education Group, after all. Only a woman of Vicky’s pedigree is fit to stand by my side. You, Gwen, are just a distraction. Though, if you play your cards right, I might let you carry a surrogate child for us. Pregnancy would ruin Vicky’s figure, after all.”
I didn’t lose my temper. Instead, I drifted into quiet thought. My inmate friend back in prison, Frank, had been framed and sent away precisely because of financial discrepancies within Apex Education Group. Before my release, he had begged me to find Burke Pierce and untangle the company’s books. Looking at the smug couple in front of me, it seemed the rats had walked right into my path.
I checked my watch. I had exactly five minutes before my scheduled meeting with Burke. I had no desire to waste another second arguing with fools, so I turned toward the hallway.
“Hold on!” Austin barked.
I sighed, turning back with sheer irritation. With a violent swipe of his arm, he crashed the wine glasses, plates, and leftovers off the table. They shattered across the marble floor in a messy pool.
“Clean it up,” he commanded, looking down his nose at me.
I stared at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
Austin smirked. “An ex-con like you getting into The Summit Club? You must have snuck in to work the cleaning shift. The floor is dirty, jailbird. Get on your knees and lick it clean.”
The table roared with laughter again, their predatory eyes locking onto me. “Go on, lick it!” “Don’t ruin our night, sweetheart. Do your job!”
From the moment I walked in, they had done nothing but degrade me. At first, I found it pathetic. But now, a cold, sharp anger was beginning to burn through my veins.
I looked at them, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Are you absolutely sure you want to waste my time? I have five minutes before my meeting with Mr. Pierce. You know his reputation. If he’s kept waiting, none of you will survive the fallout.”
“Still playing the part, are we?” Vicky scoffed. “I bet there isn’t any executive in Suite One. Just some bald, wrinkly sugar daddy who paid for your cheap thrill.”
Austin’s face darkened, his eyes filling with sudden disgust. “Gwen, I really underestimated how low you’d sink. Selling yourself to old creeps for a quick buck?” He seemed to make a decision. “Fine. I’ll increase my offer. Sixty thousand a year. Being with me is a hell of a lot better than letting some old bastard use you.”
A dry laugh escaped my throat. Sixty thousand? Did he truly believe I was desperate enough for his pitiful crumbs?
“You don’t believe me?” I pointed down the corridor toward Suite One. “Then walk with me. Let’s find out together who is waiting in that room.”
“Excuse me, but is one of you the guest of Mr. Pierce?” a respectful voice called out. The general manager of the club, Mr. Higgins, was walking briskly toward us.
I took a step forward. “I am.”
The room fell dead silent. The smirks on their faces froze. Vicky’s expression faltered. “Mr. Pierce is actually here?”
Mr. Higgins looked at me, his eyes scanning my faded, cheap clothes. He hesitated. I couldn’t blame him—I had just walked out of a federal penitentiary wearing a thirty-dollar target outfit. It was natural for him to doubt me.
Without a word, I reached into my bag, pulled out the gold-embossed invitation card Burke had sent me, and handed it over.
Mr. Higgins took the card. The moment his eyes registered the watermark and the personal seal, his posture instantly softened into deep deference.
“My sincere apologies, Ms. Gwen,” he said, bowing slightly. “Mr. Pierce has been waiting for you. Please, allow me to escort you.” He extended an arm, gesturing toward the private corridor.
“Wait!” Austin yelled, stepping forward to block our path.
I knit my brows. “What now?”
Mr. Higgins frowned. “Mr. Austin, this is Mr. Pierce’s personal guest. Do you really wish to delay her?”
Austin paled slightly, raising his hands. “Mr. Higgins, I mean no disrespect to the CEO. But I have to warn you—this woman is no guest.” He pointed a trembling, angry finger at me. “She’s an ex-con who probably swiped that invitation card to sneak in and throw herself at Mr. Pierce. Don’t let her fool you.”
“An ex-con?” Mr. Higgins blinked.
Seeing the manager hesitate, Austin pressed on, his voice filled with triumph. “You have no idea. She was just released today after serving three years for grand theft. She’s desperate for a rich benefactor. A man of Mr. Pierce’s stature would never meet privately with a common felon. It’s absurd!”
The crowd quickly joined the chorus. “A thief trying to climb the social ladder!” “Throw her out before she offends Mr. Pierce!” “Mr. Higgins, remember that gold-digger who stole a pass last year? The club’s reputation took a huge hit. Don’t make the same mistake.”
Mr. Higgins’s expression grew increasingly grim. “Ms. Gwen… is it true? Have you served prison time?”
I looked at the sea of mocking faces, finding the entire scene incredibly absurd. They knew I had a record, but they didn’t have the slightest understanding of what kind of prison I had been in.
“I was at Otisville,” I said quietly. But Mr. Higgins’s face remained blank. Like the rest of them, he didn’t comprehend the weight of that name.
“Otisville, Danbury, who cares?” one of Austin’s friends sneered. “A jailbird is a jailbird!”
They didn’t understand. Yes, Otisville housed criminals. But it was reserved for the brilliant, the high-profile, and those whose crimes required a certain level of genius to pull off. It was a facility for elite white-collar offenders, not petty thieves.
Seeing my silence, Austin took it as a sign of defeat. “See? She’s got nothing to say. She stole it! A parasite like her deserves to lick the floor clean and be thrown out into the street. Let’s teach her a lesson about showing her face around here!” “Yeah, clean it up!” “Get out of here, felon!”
Before I could react, someone kicked the back of my knees. A sharp pain shot up my legs, and I fell hard onto the cold marble. Austin grabbed a handful of my hair, forcing my face down toward the broken plates and spilled food. “You arrogant bitch, act proud now!”
Vicky stood by, her eyes sparkling with malicious amusement. I struggled, but I was outnumbered. Leftover sauce smeared onto my face and clothes. The sharp edge of a shattered porcelain plate sliced across my forearm, leaving a stinging trail of blood.
The crowd roared with laughter, and a couple of the men began to roughly pull at my jacket. Mr. Higgins retreated to the side, his face twisted in disgust, preparing to leave the room to look for Burke’s “actual” guest.
Suddenly, a cold, thunderous voice echoed through the lounge. “Stop this instantly!”
“Who gave you the authority to lay a hand on my guest?”
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We were in the middle of packing our bags for Vienna when Mona suddenly snapped her suitcase shut.
I looked up, confused. She held her phone out to me.
“I canceled my study abroad application,” she said. “I’m staying here to go to college with Tom.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. My voice trembled as I asked, “What about me?”
She reached out, her fingers brushing my cheek with the same comforting warmth she’d always shown me. “My Jude is so strong. You won’t be scared going abroad alone, right?”
“Tom is different. He’s fragile. I need to be here for him, or I’ll never have peace of mind.”
A cold chill ran down my spine. My fingers clenched around the handle of my suitcase.
Mona’s voice sounded distant, as if drifting through a thick fog.
“You and Tom are like brothers. You wouldn’t want him to be alone here either, right?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could make a sound, glowing lines of text began to float across my vision.
[Here it is. The turning point of their lives.]
[If the male lead forces her to go abroad with him, Tom will get bullied at school and eventually jump off a building.]
[But if he agrees, Mona will slowly fall for Tom over time. She’ll even sleep with him on her wedding day with Jude!]
The words choked the breath right out of my throat.
Mona nudged my shoulder. “Jude? If you’re not saying anything, I’ll take that as a yes.”
1
Mona probably never intended to give me a choice anyway.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small red velvet box.
When she opened it, my heart sank. Inside was the exact ring I had texted her about weeks ago, telling her how much I loved it.
She had promised back then to save it in her notes.
“I bought the ring you wanted,” she said, her voice soft. “Wear it, and everyone will know you’re taken.”
“That way, no one else can eye my Jude. When you come back from Europe, we’ll get married, okay?”
She leaned down to look me in the eye.
Her gaze was tender, full of the same devotion I had known for years.
Usually, when she looked at me like that, my heart would race. But this time, it gave one erratic thud and went completely quiet.
As Mona reached to slip the ring onto my finger, the phantom comments flickered back to life across my eyes.
[She shouldn’t have gone into pre-med. She should have gone into acting.]
[Who would believe she was wrapping Tom in a warm, tearful embrace just an hour ago, and now she’s standing here playing the devoted girlfriend?]
An hour ago.
I had waited outside Mona’s house for three hours. She told me she was stuck in traffic.
Turns out, she was with Tom.
My fingers involuntarily curled inward, slipping away from the ring she held.
A frown creased her beautiful forehead. She opened her mouth to speak, but her ringtone cut her off.
The custom ringtone I had recorded for her had been replaced by a different tune—one she had set for Tom.
The cheerful beat pounded against my eardrums like a hammer, making it hard to breathe.
Mona tapped the screen and answered.
It was him.
She listened for barely a second before leaping to her feet, panic written all over her face.
“Don’t panic! Stay exactly where you are, I’m coming!”
She hung up and didn’t look at me again.
Tossing the ring carelessly into my lap, she spoke in a breathless rush. “Tom got scraped by a car. I have to go check on him.”
She ran out of the room, her hurried footsteps fading down the hall.
I watched her go.
The ring had bounced off my lap and rolled onto the floor, disappearing somewhere in the shadows.
[Isn’t he going to look for it? He used to treasure that ring so much.]
I slowly tried to stand, but my legs had gone completely numb from kneeling. I stumbled, collapsing back onto the floor.
My knee slammed against the sharp edge of the desk. The pain was the final catalyst; the tears I had been holding back finally spilled over.
I don’t know how long I sat there crying, until the room was completely silent and my throat was raw.
I pulled out my phone and called my dad.
“Dad, I don’t want to go to Europe anymore.”
My dad sounded confused. “I thought you and Mona had it all planned out. Why the sudden change?”
The comments flared up again.
[Wait, is the male lead staying too?]
[Actually, that might be for the best. If he stays, Tom won’t get hurt, and Mona won’t stray.]
I let my eyes scan the words. My eyes were red and swollen, but my face felt entirely blank.
“I’m not staying, Dad. I want to come to Iceland. Didn’t you want me to move out there and live with you?”
There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by my dad’s ecstatic cheer.
The floating texts seemed as stunned by my choice as he was. They went entirely silent, like someone had hit pause.
I didn’t look for the ring.
The empty velvet box sat lonely on the desk, weighing down the European travel itinerary Mona had spent six months putting together.
Her notebook was packed with detailed schedules and handwritten notes.
On my way out, I grabbed it.
Mona wouldn’t be needing it anymore anyway.
When I reached the street, I threw the notebook and the empty box into a roadside trash can.
As I turned around, my eyes met Mona’s.
Her gaze lingered on the trash can for a split second before she marched up to me and grabbed my hand.
I tried to pull away, but her grip was tight. I frowned. “I thought you were with Tom. Why are you back?”
Her frown was deeper than mine. “He’s fine.”
“But he heard we were both leaving and got so upset he went to a bar to drink himself into a stupor.”
“I told him I was staying, but he wouldn’t believe me. You need to come tell him. He always listens to you.”
She dragged me forward, but I dug my heels in and forced her to stop.
“Where is he?”
“At the bar—”
Mona turned around impatiently, but her voice died in her throat.
A sudden wave of guilt and pity washed over her face.
“I’m sorry, Jude. I forgot.”
“Wait for me at the convenience store across the street, okay? I’ll bring him out to you.”
Once we reached the storefront, Mona shoved a warm cup of milk tea into my hands and rushed across the street.
The rising steam from the cup blurred her silhouette through the glass window.
After our high school graduation, Tom had insisted on going to a bar.
Halfway through the night, he went to the restroom and never came back.
Mona, worried sick, left me alone at our table to go search for him.
She was gone for two hours.
I tried calling both of them, but neither answered. When I finally decided to leave, a group of drunk guys blocked my path.
Fortunately, I ran into some classmates from school who got me out.
When I finally stumbled out of the bar, shaking, I saw Mona carrying Tom on her back, walking slowly down the street.
When she saw me, she didn’t ask if I was okay. She just put her index finger to her lips.
Shh. Don’t wake Tom.
I should have found it strange back then.
Mona had always complained about Tom following me around like a lost puppy.
And Tom always acted like Mona wasn’t good enough for me.
They supposedly couldn’t stand each other.
I had no idea when their relationship had shifted.
But seeing her carry him that night—with a gentleness usually reserved for fragile porcelain—told me everything.
By the time the two familiar figures approached the convenience store, my milk tea had gone cold.
The chime of the entrance door rang out.
Tom draped an arm over my shoulder, acting as clingy and affectionate as ever.
“Jude, please don’t abandon me.”
Before I could speak, Mona tapped his forehead with her finger.
“Oh, please. I’m staying here with you. Isn’t that enough to make you happy?”
Tom immediately lunged at her, laughing and play-fighting.
Their laughter filled the small convenience store.
I sat there, looking like an intruder who had stumbled into their private world. Completely out of place.
[What do they mean ‘developed feelings over time’? I bet she already has feelings for Tom right now.]
[But when Jude went abroad in the original timeline, she flew to Europe every two weeks. If she didn’t love him, how could she do that?]
[She loves them both!]
Those words felt like a stone dropped into a quiet pond, sending ripples of unease through my chest.
I rubbed my tired, stinging eyes.
They immediately noticed and crowded around me with concerned faces.
Tom glanced at the cold cup in my hand.
“It’s freezing. Let me get you a hot one.”
“But Jude, since when do you drink this flavor?”
Beside him, Mona froze.
She realized it too. That was Tom’s favorite flavor, not mine.
When Tom returned and pressed a fresh, hot cup into my hands, I forced a smile.
“We’re about to go our separate ways. I guess I’m just distracted and sad.”
Tom pouted.
“I’m the one who should be sad. Both of you are leaving me behind.”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Mona shoot me a look.
There was a trace of irritation in her voice as she said, “Didn’t I say…”
I cut her off.
“Didn’t Mona say she’s staying here to keep you company?”
On the walk back, Mona kept a deliberate distance, trailing a few paces behind me.
Only when we reached the fork in the road did she hesitate and speak.
“Are you mad at me for staying with Tom?”
She had been acting off since we left the store.
Now I knew why.
Seeing that I didn’t seem to care whether she went abroad or not had made her anxious.
I nodded, answering honestly. “I was angry at first.”
“But you’re right. I’m strong. Tom needs someone more than I do.”
In truth, I wasn’t brave at all.
I was terrified of the dark. When I was bullied as a child, I never fought back.
It was always Mona who stood in front of me.
She used to call me a coward, but she’d smile and promise she’d protect me forever.
She hadn’t changed. She just chose someone else to protect.
I ignored the swirling emotions in her eyes and turned to leave.
But she grabbed my wrist in a vice grip.
“Where is the ring I gave you?”
Just as I was about to tell her the truth, her phone rang again.
I assumed it was Tom, but when she answered, her expression shifted into something strange as she stared at me.
I frowned. She hung up and stepped closer.
“You’re not going to Europe?”
I froze.
Mona crossed her arms, a mocking smile playing on her lips.
“No wonder you weren’t angry. You’re staying in the country too, aren’t you?”
“Jude, wasn’t that European music academy your dream school?”
“Throwing away your ambition just for me?”
My bewildered expression slowly faded.
My chest felt hollow. Not painful, just cold.
She had forgotten. My dream school wasn’t in Europe; it was in Iceland.
I had only applied to the European school for her.
But none of that mattered now.
Before I could clarify, she cut me off again.
“You didn’t even bring the ring. Don’t tell me you’re jealous because you think there’s something going on between me and Tom?”
“You were the one who told me to look out for him, Jude. Since when did you get so petty?”
The sudden accusation left me stunned.
I clenched my fists and looked her dead in the eye.
“Petty?”
“Mona, can you honestly tell me you don’t have feelings for Tom?”
A sudden clatter sounded behind us.
Tom stood there, wide-eyed and trembling, holding a dropped bag.
His eyes welled with tears, and his first instinct was to look at me.
“Jude…”
“Don’t act like you didn’t know,” I said, cutting him off.
Tom opened his mouth repeatedly, but no sound came out.
An overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. I just wanted to go home.
But Tom grabbed my sleeve.
“Jude, nothing happened between Mona and me, I swear. Please believe me…”
His eyes were red. He looked just as helpless and pitiful as the day I first met him.
The floating comments buzzed.
[The side character actually cares about the main character, he’s just blindly in love with the girl.]
[Please, he’s just a manipulative snake. If he really cared about Jude, would he keep playing the victim in front of Mona over and over?]
I sighed.
Before I could speak, Mona stepped between us.
Her face was dark. “Enough, Jude. Stop cornering him.”
“If this is all because you want me to go to Europe with you, fine! I’ll go! Is that what you want?”
I wanted to tell her no.
I really didn’t want that.
But suddenly, a pair of headlights blinded us as an out-of-control car swerved off the road, hurtling toward the sidewalk.
My instinct was to grab Tom and pull him out of the way, but a violent force shoved me aside, separating us.
I was thrown hard against the asphalt.
The last image I saw before blacking out was Mona, desperately throwing her arms around Tom to shield him.
I woke up to the sound of hushed, tense arguing.
Tom’s voice sounded fragile, laced with tears.
“We can’t do this. I can’t betray Jude like this.”
Mona’s voice was raw and strained.
“Tom, isn’t it a bit late for that?”
“If you felt so guilty toward Jude, why did you kiss me the night I ran out to find you?”
My breath hitched in my throat.
The cracks in my heart shattered completely, crumbling into dust.
Through the thin hospital curtain, I saw their silhouettes shift.
Their shadows merged in an intimate, unmistakable embrace.
I dug my fingernails into my palms, numb to the physical pain.
Tom’s weak resistance faded into silence.
It only ended when a nurse pushed the door open.
“Oh, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
The two shadows behind the curtain instantly sprang apart.
When Mona stepped out, her shirt was noticeably wrinkled.
I rasped out a quiet, “I’m okay.”
The nurse assured me I was lucky—only a fractured leg.
Once she left, Mona’s gaze drifted to my cast.
“Does it hurt?”
The guilt and pain on her face looked entirely genuine.
But a wave of intense nausea surged from my stomach, forcing tears to the corners of my eyes.
Mona reached out to wipe them away, but I flinched, pulling my face back.
Her hand froze in midair, and her expression cooled.
“Jude, in a moment like that, I didn’t have time to think.”
“If you want to blame someone, blame me. Don’t take it out on Tom.”
She glanced back toward the curtain, her eyes softening.
“He looks up to you more than anyone. No matter what happens between us, don’t hate him.”
“I’ll still go to Europe with you, and I’ll keep my promise to marry you. But I will also take care of Tom for the rest of his life.”
[Ugh, she wants her cake and eat it too.]
[Is she trying to build a harem? Keep dreaming, sister!]
I couldn’t help but laugh. I laughed until tears streamed down my face.
Hearing my laughter, Tom stepped out from behind the curtain, looking utterly lost.
Mona frowned.
“That’s enough, Jude. It’s settled.”
“I’m going to take Tom home first. I’ve arranged a private nurse to come help you.”
I closed my eyes and turned my face to the wall. I heard the door click shut.
The next day, Tom showed up with a thermos of chicken soup.
He kept his head down, refusing to meet my eyes.
“When did you fall in love with Mona?” I asked quietly.
Tom’s hand trembled as he poured the soup. It took him a long moment to answer.
“Freshman year? Sophomore year? I don’t remember.”
“So you used to talk trash about her just to keep me away from her?”
He shook his head quickly.
“No. I genuinely believed she wasn’t good enough for you.”
I let out a dry, humorless laugh.
“Should I thank you then? For helping me see her true colors.”
His eyes reddened, and his hands clenched into tight fists.
“She has her flaws. But to me, she’s the best option I’ll ever have.”
“I’m sorry, Jude.”
Before I could process what he meant, he tilted the thermos and poured the steaming hot soup directly over his own arm.
The hospital room door was kicked open.
Mona burst in, throwing a bouquet of roses straight at my face.
The sharp thorns scratched my cheek, and a drop of blood dripped onto the white bedsheets.
She shielded Tom behind her, her eyes blazing with fury.
“Jude! If you have a problem, take it out on me!”
“Tom is your best friend. How could you burn him like this?”
Maybe the sting on my cheek was just too sharp, but the tears finally spilled over.
I swept the remaining soup containers off the bedside table, scattering red rose petals all over the floor.
“Get out!” I screamed. “Both of you, get the hell out!”
For the next month, until my leg healed and I was discharged, neither of them showed up.
Tom sent me daily text messages checking in on me.
Mona, on the other hand, frequently updated her social media.
She was taking Tom on a trip across the country.
I glanced at the photos of them smiling together, then calmly blocked both of their numbers.
Because of that, I never saw the text Mona sent me a month later.
She wrote: I’ll pick you up on departure day so we can head to the airport together.
But she had no idea.
By the time she sent that text, I was already on a flight to Iceland.
When the message failed to deliver, Mona stared at the little red exclamation mark on her screen in disbelief.
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There were only ten minutes left in the trial, and victory was finally within reach.
My attorney—who also happened to be my husband, Dylan—suddenly took a phone call.
When he hung up, his face was completely bloodless. He began frantically packing his files into his briefcase.
“Your Honor,” he said, his voice echoing in the courtroom, “the plaintiff wishes to dismiss the charges.”
The room erupted. I stared at him, my mind spinning into a complete blur.
“Dylan, what are you doing?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Melanie ran me over. She broke both my legs. She ruined my life!”
“You promised me,” I pleaded, tears burning my eyes. “You promised you’d put her behind bars!”
But Dylan only looked at me with a tortured expression, his voice a harsh, low hiss.
“Melanie is on the roof of her building, Charlotte. If I don’t go, she’s going to jump!”
“Your legs are already gone, but she stands to lose her entire reputation! Her whole life!”
“I promise you, I will buy you the best wheelchair money can buy.”
Without a single glance back, he bolted out of the courtroom, leaving me with nothing but the fading echo of his hurried footsteps.
…
The air conditioning in the courtroom felt like ice against the empty space where my legs used to be.
I sat there, my mouth dry, unable to make a sound. The soft whispers from the gallery swirled around me like a physical weight.
The judge rapped her gavel three times, her voice ringing out to ask if I consented to the dismissal.
I stared at the heavy wooden doors where Dylan had just vanished. My fingers gripped the armrests of my wheelchair so hard my knuckles turned white.
“I consent,” I whispered.
The words felt like ash in my mouth.
Across the aisle, Melanie’s defense attorney offered me a tight, smug smile.
From the gallery, a woman’s quiet voice floated over: “Showing up to court like that… she’s desperate.”
“I heard she was the one who instigated it,” another whispered back. “They say Miss Foster was the real victim here.”
“Then why is her own husband representing her?”
“Who knows? Probably trying to keep her quiet so she doesn’t embarrass him.”
When the court adjourned, Melanie walked past me, her designer heels clicking against the polished floor. She deliberately let the toe of her shoe brush against the wheel of my chair.
“Oh, Charlotte,” she murmured, leaning down so only I could hear. “Look at that. Dylan still chose me.”
I looked away, staring down at my useless lap.
Three months ago, Dylan and I had just signed our marriage license. We were on our way to tour wedding venues when Melanie called. She claimed she was drunk at a bar, surrounded by aggressive men, begging Dylan to come rescue her.
I begged him not to go. But Dylan simply bypassed me, grabbed his keys, and drove off.
Furious and hurt, I got into my own car and followed him.
The moment I pulled up outside the bar, Melanie’s Mercedes-AMG surged forward. She drove straight into me.
When I woke up in the ICU, both of my legs were gone from the knee down.
In the hospital, Dylan held my hand and wept. He promised me a thousand times that he would make her pay. He said he would be my legs, that he would cherish and take care of me for the rest of my life.
And I believed him.
I believed him so deeply that I signed over half of the inheritance my late father had left me—as my dowry—straight into his name.
How pathetic.
I rolled myself out of the courthouse. Outside, Seattle was in the middle of a torrential downpour. The concrete ramp was slick, and my hands kept slipping on the wet metal rims.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Dylan’s number.
On the third try, he finally picked up. I could hear the howling wind in the background, punctuated by Melanie’s hysterical, breathless sobbing.
“Charlotte, stop calling,” he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. “Melanie is highly unstable right now. Whatever it is, it can wait until I get home.”
Before I could say a word, the line went dead.
The rain poured down over my face, mixing with my tears.
Grit-faced, I gripped the cold handrail of the ramp, trying to guide myself down. But the wet wheels lost traction. The wheelchair tipped, throwing me violently onto the asphalt.
My surgical wounds hadn’t fully healed yet. The impact tore them open, and I felt a sharp, sickening burst of pain. Within seconds, warm blood began soaking through my heavy bandages, running into the cold puddles around me.
I lay there in the freezing rain, staring up at the gray sky, too exhausted to even scream.
I lost track of time. Then, a shadow blocked the rain, and someone knelt down beside me.
“Charlotte? It’s Elvis. Elvis Mercer. I used to work with your father.”
He was holding a large black umbrella, the cuffs of his expensive trousers already soaked.
He didn’t ask questions. He simply lifted me up with surprising gentleness, carried me to the backseat of his car, and wrapped a thick, warm towel around my shivering frame.
The car heater blasted warm air, but my teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. My hands shook so violently I couldn’t even hold the cup of hot cocoa he handed me.
“Thank you,” I rasped, my throat raw.
Elvis didn’t say much. He used a dry towel to gently dry my hair while instructing his driver to head straight to the hospital.
Once we arrived, he handled all the admission paperwork. Only when I was settled in a warm bed did my mind start to clear.
“Elvis… let me pay you back. How much was it?”
He waved his hand dismissively, tucking the receipts into the bedside drawer.
“Don’t worry about it right now. Focus on healing.”
His phone rang a moment later. He answered it, then turned back to me with a polite smile, explaining he had an urgent matter at his firm but to call him if I needed anything.
Not long after Elvis left, Dylan walked in.
Seeing me in the hospital bed, his first reaction wasn’t sympathy—it was a subtle, irritated knit of his brows.
“How did you manage to do this to yourself?”
“I called you,” I said, a suffocating tightness squeezing my chest. “I called you so many times. Why didn’t you answer?”
Dylan’s eyes flickered, looking away as he sat on the edge of my bed. He reached out to stroke my cheek, but I flinched away.
“Charlotte, look, I know you’re angry,” he said, his voice carrying a defensive weight. “But Melanie was truly on the edge. You don’t get it—people online are calling her a homewrecker, a murderer. If she had actually jumped, I would have had to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.”
He spoke with such self-righteous certainty, as if I were the one lacking compassion.
My voice trembled. “So Melanie’s reputation is worth more than my legs?”
Dylan suddenly grabbed my hand, his grip tight and unyielding.
“Your legs are already gone, Charlotte! No amount of fighting in court is going to grow them back! But Melanie is young. If she gets a criminal record, her entire future is ruined.”
“I promise you,” he pleaded, softening his tone, “once this blows over, I’ll take you to Europe. We’ll get you the absolute best prosthetics available. We can go back to how things were. Please?”
He looked at me with that familiar, tender gaze—the one that used to dissolve my anger instantly, the one that always made me yield.
Now, it only made my stomach turn.
I wrenched my hand free, pulled myself into my wheelchair, and rolled toward the door.
Dylan stepped in front of me, his expression darkening.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.”
I couldn’t stand being in the same room as him for another second. The air felt thick, unbreathable.
Dylan didn’t stop me, but he followed me out of the hospital.
When we arrived back at our house, the front door opened to reveal Melanie sitting on our living room sofa. She was wearing one of Dylan’s button-down shirts.
The moment she saw me, her eyes welled with tears. She scrambled off the couch and dropped to her knees in front of my chair.
“Charlotte, I am so, so sorry,” she wept, her voice trembling. “It’s all my fault. Please don’t blame Dylan. You can hate me, you can hit me, just please don’t hate him.”
Dylan rushed forward, hoisting her up and shielding her behind his back.
He turned to me, his tone laced with a warning.
“Charlotte, Melanie is extremely fragile right now. Don’t push her.”
I stared at the two of them, and a hollow laugh escaped my chest.
“This is my house. You’re the ones who need to leave.”
Dylan’s face instantly darkened.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte. Melanie has nowhere else to go. She’s staying here for a few days until the press cools down, and then I’ll find her a place.”
Behind his shoulder, Melanie peeked out at me, her tear-stained face masking a smug, victorious glimmer in her eyes.
Without another word, I wheeled myself into the bedroom and locked the door behind me.
Leaning my back against the wood, the tears finally spilled over.
Dylan and I had been together for seven years. When he was courting me in college, he had stood outside my dorm room in the freezing cold all night just to apologize after our first fight. The snow had been inches deep, his lips blue as he swore he would never love anyone else.
My father had hated him. He saw right through Dylan. I had fought my father for weeks—screaming, crying, even going on a hunger strike.
Eventually, my father relented. He bought us a beautiful townhouse and set up a trust fund worth millions as my wedding gift.
Now, just three months into our marriage, every promise we made was a sick joke.
In the dead of night, I heard hushed giggles and low whispers from the living room.
My phone had died from the rain and refused to turn on. I sat propped up against the headboard, staring into the dark until dawn.
The next morning, I unlocked the door and rolled out to find Dylan in the kitchen making breakfast. Melanie was standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist.
When she saw me, she quickly pulled away, looking flustered.
Dylan glanced back, slid a fried egg onto a plate, and handed it to her.
“Oh, you’re up,” he said casually, as if yesterday’s betrayal in court had never happened. “There’s coffee and oatmeal on the counter. Help yourself.”
I ignored him, heading straight for the entryway to grab my purse.
Dylan stepped in my way. “Where are you going?”
“To find a new attorney. I’m refiling the charges,” I said, my voice dead calm.
Dylan’s face flushed an angry crimson. He snatched my bag right out of my hands and slammed it onto the console table.
“Charlotte! When is this temper tantrum going to end? I told you, this is over!”
“Are you really not going to stop until you’ve driven Melanie to suicide?”
Looking at his contorted face, the last shred of my hope withered away.
“Dylan, you either get out of my way right now, or we get a divorce.”
He froze, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh.
“Divorce? Look at yourself, Charlotte. Who is going to want you like this? Who is going to take care of you?”
“Let me make this clear: you are not refiling, and you are not getting a divorce. Forget it.”
He picked up my purse and marched over to the study, locking it inside his personal safe.
Melanie stood by the kitchen island, biting her lip, looking on the verge of tears.
“Dylan, please don’t fight with her because of me. It’s my fault. I should just leave.”
She made a theatrical move toward the door, but Dylan immediately caught her by the wrist.
“Don’t talk like that. This has nothing to do with you. As long as I’m here, no one is kicking you out.”
I wheeled myself back into my bedroom. I dug through my vanity drawer until I found an old backup phone, plugged it in, and waited for it to boot up.
The second it connected to the Wi-Fi, a barrage of urgent messages from my late father’s executive assistant flooded the screen.
Dylan has drained the company’s entire operating account.
My head spun so violently I nearly blacked out.
My father had passed away from a sudden stroke last year, and the management of his logistics firm had fallen to Dylan while I was recovering from the amputation. I had been in too much physical and emotional pain to pay attention to the business.
I never imagined he could be so brazenly corrupt.
Suppressed rage gave me sudden energy. I pushed my way back into the living room.
Dylan looked up from his tablet, his expression weary. “What now, Charlotte?”
“Did you drain the firm’s accounts?” I demanded, my hands shaking.
He remained silent for a few seconds, then shrugged with complete indifference.
“Yeah. Melanie’s mother is in the hospital and needs medical treatment. I borrowed some capital. I’ll pay it back when things settle.”
“That money was for our payroll! How are we supposed to pay our employees?” I screamed.
Dylan scoffed. “They can wait a couple of days. Don’t be so heartless, Charlotte. If Melanie’s mother doesn’t get this surgery, she could die.”
“Are your employees’ paychecks more important than a human life?”
I shook so violently I couldn’t form words.
Before I could find my voice, his phone rang. It was Melanie, weeping that her mother had just woken up and needed him.
Dylan muttered a quick affirmation, grabbed his jacket, and walked out.
I slumped back into my wheelchair, completely numb.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Dylan had never loved me. He had married me for my father’s legacy, for my family’s wealth.
And Melanie running me over… maybe that hadn’t been an accident at all.
I sat alone in the dark living room until midnight, my thoughts racing in a chaotic loop.
Then, a memory surfaced. My father had a trusted corporate attorney he had worked with for decades.
I opened my old contacts and found the number. But just as I pressed call, the front door swung open.
Dylan stood in the entryway, his eyes immediately locking onto the glowing screen in my hand.
“Who are you calling?”
I quickly tapped the screen to end the call, slipping the phone behind my back.
“No one. Just calling the clinic about my physical therapy.”
Dylan strode over, extending a cold hand. “Give me the phone.”
I leaned back, trying to shield it, but his face hardened. He lunged forward and wrenched it from my grip.
He unlocked the screen and scrolled through the recent calls. When he saw the attorney’s name, his expression grew incredibly dark.
“Charlotte, you really don’t know when to quit, do you?”
He threw the phone hard against the hardwood floor. The screen shattered into a web of broken glass.
“Let me make this clear: don’t bother looking for a lawyer. All the evidence from the crash is locked away in my office. You couldn’t build a case against Melanie even if you tried.”
He knelt down in front of me, grabbing my chin with a bruising grip.
“Be a good wife, Charlotte. Keep quiet, and I’ll make sure you live comfortably. But if you try to cross me again, you won’t like what happens next.”
He pushed my wheelchair into the bedroom, slammed the door, and I heard the sharp click of the deadbolt locking from the outside.
Sitting in the dark, staring at the ruined phone on the floor, the tears finally flowed silently.
I was locked in. The windows had security bars installed after my accident. I was completely trapped.
For the next three days, Dylan only opened the door to slide a tray of food inside. He never spoke to me.
Through the thick wood, I could hear Melanie’s soft giggles and Dylan’s low, murmuring voice—the same gentle tone he used to reserve only for me.
I starved myself, refusing to touch a single drop of water.
On the fourth morning, Dylan unlocked the door to bring breakfast. Seeing my pale, sunken face resting against the headboard, he sighed in irritation.
“What is this? A hunger strike?”
He placed a bowl of soup on the nightstand. “Do you honestly think this is going to make me feel sorry for you?”
I looked up at him, my throat burning.
“I won’t file the charges,” I rasped.
Dylan paused, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly. “See? Was that so hard? We could have avoided all this unpleasantness.”
He picked up the spoon, blowing on the broth, and held it to my lips.
I turned my head away, keeping my eyes locked onto his.
“But I want a divorce.”
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I was covering a business dinner for my husband when I ran into my ex-husband of three years.
He was there celebrating his upcoming wedding with his new fiancée, and when his eyes met mine, he looked away, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. But the peace didn’t last. Someone in his group recognized me, sauntering over with a smirk plastered across his face.
“Well, look who it is. Zoe. This is a college reunion, you know? What is a dropout doing here?”
A few others drifted over, their drinks sloshing in their glasses, their laughter sharp and unkind.
“She probably heard Dave was going to be here and wanted to crash,” one whispered loudly.
“Seriously, some women have zero self-respect.”
“We all saw those pictures of you back in the day, Zoe. You completely humiliated him.”
“Dave’s finally moving on with someone actually classy. We didn’t invite you because we wanted to spare you the embarrassment, but here you are, desperate as ever.”
Dave sat right at the center of the private dining table. His handsome face was cold, carved from marble, his lips pressed into a tight line. He didn’t say a single word to defend me. I opened my mouth to shoot back, but the heavy double doors of the room swung open. A woman walked in, and her eyes locked onto mine.
I had to admit, she was stunning.
If only she hadn’t built that beauty on the ruins of my life.
……
1
The moment Dave saw me, he instinctively started to stand up, but Amber’s hand came down hard on his shoulder, pinning him to his seat.
“Oh, look, the famous model,” she purred, her eyes dripping with a sweet, venomous contempt. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation. I mean, we went strictly by the graduation photo, and well… you aren’t exactly in it, are you?”
Before she even finished, a wave of snickers rippled through the crowd.
“Who says our resident cover girl isn’t in the photos?” one of the guys called out, raising his glass. “We’ve all seen the high-res version of your portfolio!”
My fists clenched, the leather of my clutch cutting into my palm, before I forced my fingers to loosen. I turned on my heel, ready to walk away from the toxicity, when the voice I used to love cut through the noise.
“Zoe.”
Dave finally spoke. “Since you’re already here, stop acting like you’re too good for us.”
He walked toward me, holding two glasses of white wine.
“Long time no see.”
I stared at him, my heart doing a slow, painful roll in my chest. I hesitated, then reached out to take one of the glasses.
Just as my fingers were about to brush his, Dave opened his hand.
The glasses plummeted, shattering against the hardwood floor. The pale liquid splashed across the hem of my skirt.
It felt like the last shred of our shared dignity, smashed and rotting at our feet.
“Did you seriously think I’d drink with you?” he sneered, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I told you, Zoe, I don’t do reruns. What is this? You heard Amber and I are finally getting married, so you came to play the victim?”
In the tense silence of the room, the quiet, mocking snickers of our old classmates felt like physical blows.
I took a deep breath, looked down at my watch, and sighed. “I think you’re flattering yourself, Dave. I have actual business to attend to. Enjoy your night.”
I walked past him, my heels clicking sharply against the floor, and headed straight to my own private dining room. My husband’s clients had just arrived.
Two hours later, the wine was flowing and the conversation with our clients was warm and lively. Suddenly, the door was slammed open.
Amber stood in the doorway, smelling strongly of tequila, leaning heavily against the frame. Her glazed eyes swept over the middle-aged executives sitting at my table.
“Oh, look,” she sneered, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “A leopard really doesn’t change its spots. Still hunting for rich older men, I see.”
My face burned with humiliation. I stood up immediately, offering a quick, tight apology to our clients before stepping toward her. My voice was a low, dangerous hiss. “Amber, leave. Right now. Or I’ll have security remove you.”
That only seemed to fuel her fire. “Oh, really? You’re going to call security on me?” she shrieked, gesturing wildly. “Why don’t you just call the vice squad instead? Get all of you locked up for solicitation!”
One of our clients cleared his throat uncomfortably. My patience evaporated. I pressed the call button on the wall and told the hostess to send up security.
By the time two guards arrived, Dave was right behind them. He immediately wrapped his arms around Amber, who collapsed into him, sobbing crocodile tears. He glared at me, his eyes dark with fury.
“Amber just came over to clear the air with you, Zoe. Why do you always have to make a scene?” he spat. “It’s been years, and you’re still the exact same toxic person. Apologize to her!”
I looked at him, and for a second, the sheer absurdity of it made a cold, dry laugh escape my throat. Then, before he could say another word, I stepped forward and slapped him across the face. Hard.
The sound cracked through the quiet hallway.
“Dave,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a decade of unshed tears. “Did you forget? You’re the one who owes me an apology.”
When I first met Dave, he was the golden boy. Bright, passionate, almost blindingly perfect.
My parents had just gone through a messy divorce, and my mother dragged me to a new city to start over. I was the quiet, awkward transfer student—the perfect target for the school’s cruel cliques. I was bullied relentlessly.
But Dave was the one who intercepted the rocks thrown at my head. He was the one who grabbed the eraser and wiped the cruel slurs off the chalkboard before I could see them. He stood at the front of the classroom, pointing a finger at my tormentors, telling them to leave me alone. I spent years memorizing the broad, protective lines of his back.
“Don’t be scared,” he had told me, his smile warm and reassuring. “I’ve got you. Walk with me after school from now on.”
We went to the same college, and falling into a relationship was as natural as breathing.
During our senior year, Dave decided to launch a startup with a classmate. Money was tight, and he was drowning in stress. Everyone knew how desperate I was to help ease his burden. That was when Amber approached me.
“Hey, Zoe, have you ever thought about modeling?” she had asked, her voice dripping with mock-concern. “My agency is looking for girls for a quick gig. It pays really well. It’s exhausting, but if you’re interested, I can get you in.”
Trusting her, I thought I was signing up for a standard commercial shoot.
Instead, it was a trap. They locked the doors of a seedy motel room, three men and a woman blockading the exit, forcing me to strip for nude photography. By the time Dave tracked me down and burst through the door, I was curled on the bed, naked and weeping.
That day, Dave fought like a rabid dog, leaving everyone in that room bloodied and bruised. Finally, he wrapped his heavy, metallic-smelling jacket around my shivering body and carried me out of that hellhole.
“Don’t cry, baby. You’re safe now,” he whispered against my hair.
His words were a temporary balm, but they couldn’t stop the impending storm.
By the next afternoon, printed copies of those photos were stuffed into locker grates and passed around the campus like flyers. Almost every single student saw them. At the same time, a hefty “compensation fee” was wired directly into my bank account—part of the trap to make it look like a transaction.
The rumor was solidified: Zoe was selling her body. I was called into the dean’s office by the end of the week and handed an official expulsion notice.
I quietly took that wired money, every single cent of it, and transferred it to Dave. It became the seed money for his startup.
After being expelled, I didn’t curl up and die. I worked night and day, eventually signing with a legitimate agency as a fashion model. I used the money to pay for night school, determined to finish my degree on my own terms.
When he graduated, he proposed to me on a rooftop, surrounded by cheap fairy lights and tears. His promises felt so real then.
“Zoe, I wouldn’t be standing here without you,” he cried, holding my hands. “You’re my wings. If I ever fly, it’s because of you.”
He was fiercely devoted. He defied his conservative parents, dragging me to the courthouse to get registered. There was no grand wedding, no reception. Just a cramped studio apartment with a shared bathroom down the hall.
I was happy with that little life. But he constantly apologized, carrying the guilt like a heavy coat.
“You suffered so much for me, Zoe. I promise I’m going to give you the life you deserve,” he would whisper in the dark. “Please stop modeling, okay? Let me take care of you.”
I believed his sincerity back then. But sincerity has a remarkably short shelf life.
By our second year of marriage, his company was thriving, and we bought a small townhouse. While I was happily picking out paint swatches for our bedroom, he came home one evening and tossed a roll of blueprints onto the kitchen counter. They were designed by Amber.
“Amber’s trying to build her interior design portfolio,” he said casually, not looking me in the eye. “We’re old classmates. It’s better to give the business to someone we know.”
Since the day of the photoshoot, her name had been a forbidden ghost in our home. I had assumed Dave had cut her off years ago. I never imagined they were still in touch—or how close they had remained.
We had a screaming match that night. I ripped the blueprints into shreds, my chest heaving, throwing the pieces at his face. I swore I would never let that woman step foot in our home.
Dave drove to the empty, unfinished townhouse and sat on the dusty subfloor. When I followed him there, he was smoking a cigarette. The moonlight cut across his face from the bare window, casting half his features in shadow. He looked like a stranger.
“Zoe, I’ve been holding this in for a long time,” he said, his voice flat. “Amber came to me a few months ago. She was crying, apologizing. She swore she thought she was setting you up with a high-end promotional gig. She had no idea the coordinators would turn out to be predators.”
He took a slow drag, the orange cherry of the cigarette glowing hot. “I don’t think she did anything wrong.”
He looked up at me, his eyes cold. “But you… are you just addicted to the attention? I told you I’d support you, but you refuse to quit modeling. Why?”
Dave ignored my protests and hired her anyway.
“Amber wants to buy us dinner to clear the air,” he said one evening, fussing with his collar in front of the mirror. He had tried on three different shirts, trying to look effortlessly handsome. “Come with us. Let’s just put the past behind us.”
I ignored him and went out with my own friends.
But late that night, at the very bar we were drinking at, I ran into Dave—the same man who had texted me hours ago saying he was in bed. He was guiding Amber out the door, his arm securely around her waist. When he caught sight of me, his posture stiffened.
“She… she had too much to drink,” he stammered, his arm tightening around her defensively. “I only lied because I didn’t want you overreacting.”
Amber looked up from his shoulder, her eyes pooling with tears. “Zoe, please don’t be mad at Dave!” she cried, her voice trembling. “He’s just so sweet… he knew my design firm was struggling and wanted to help me…”
She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “It’s okay, Dave… don’t let me come between you two. I’ll apologize to her! Just promise you won’t fight!”
Before anyone could stop her, she snatched a stray shot glass from the bar and choked it down, coughing dramatically.
Dave immediately grabbed her by the shoulders, his face twisted with worry. “That’s enough!”
He whirled on me, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Zoe, look at her! She’s practically begging for your forgiveness. Do you always have to be so incredibly heartless?”
I stood there, watching the theatrical display. A cold, hollow laugh escaped me. “Did I say a single word, Dave?”
Because I refused to budge, Dave didn’t drive her home that night; we called her an Uber instead. But he was anxious the entire drive back to our townhouse, constantly checking his phone. Only when the screen lit up with her “home safe” text did the tension leave his shoulders.
We didn’t speak a word until we reached our front door. As I unlocked it, he muttered, cold and sharp: “They really are right about models. Pure vanity, no heart.”
After that, the silence between us stretched into weeks, then months. He stopped telling me where he was going. He’d crawl into bed past midnight, keeping to his side of the mattress, a silent brick wall between us.
Until the night I smelled it. A sweet, heavy floral perfume. Not mine.
Something inside me snapped. I grabbed a pillow and began pelting him with it, screaming at the top of my lungs. “Who is she? Who is she, Dave? You absolute bastard!”
He didn’t even try to block the hits. When I finally collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air, he stared down at me with flat, dead eyes.
“Are you done acting like a psychopath? Can I sleep now?”
After that night, he stopped coming home altogether. He disabled his location sharing. I became the pathetic, desperate wife I always swore I’d never be, checking my phone every five minutes, sending frantic texts.
Where are you?
Who are you with?
Why are you ignoring me? Where are you?
I couldn’t focus on shoots. My agent called me twice to warn me about my performance. But my mind was entirely consumed by him.
The day the townhouse construction was officially completed, I knew he would go see it. I spent hours on my hair and makeup, putting on his favorite dress, determined to swallow my pride and beg for a fresh start.
I sat on the empty floor of our new living room from noon until dusk. The door finally opened at nine. But he wasn’t alone.
Dave and Amber stumbled through the entryway, their mouths locked together, hands clawing at each other’s clothes. Even when they saw me sitting there in the dark, they didn’t pull apart immediately.
The last thread of my sanity snapped. I grabbed the bottle of champagne I’d brought to celebrate and threw it at them.
Dave didn’t hesitate. He spun, throwing his body over Amber to shield her from the flying glass. Just like he used to shield me from the bullies.
The dark red liquid exploded against the pristine white walls, staining the plaster like blood. Amber whimpered in his arms, and he looked back at me, his eyes dead.
“You’re hysterical. You scared her. Get out of our house.”
I waited downstairs in the lobby all night. The townhouse lights stayed on; they never came out.
The next morning, Dave walked out of the lobby, holding Amber’s hand. I got out of my car, my eyes swollen and bloodshot, and blocked their path.
“Just tell me why,” I choked out, grabbing his arm. “Why, Dave? Why her?”
Amber shrank behind his shoulder. He sighed, trying to brush past me, but I gripped his sleeve with everything I had. Losing his patience, he shoved me away.
“Zoe, you’re making a pathetic fool of yourself.”
The push was hard. I lost my footing on the slick pavement and fell backward onto the concrete. A sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my abdomen. Within seconds, a warm, terrifying wetness seeped through my jeans.
“Blood! There’s blood!” Amber shrieked, pointing at the ground.
Dave’s face drained of color. He scrambled down, scooping me up into his arms, and started running toward his car. In that terrifying moment, his chest was still so warm. It felt exactly like the day he had carried me out of that motel room.
We lost our first baby that day.
Dave sat by my hospital bed, weeping, slapping his own face until his cheeks were bruised and raw. He pulled out his phone in front of me, deleting Amber’s number and blocking her on every platform.
“I’m a monster,” he sobbed, burying his face in my lap. “I’m so sorry, Zoe. We’ll fix this. We’ll start over, I promise. I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
A miscarriage was the price I paid for a brief window of happiness.
For the next few months, Dave cancelled his meetings and took me on a road trip along the coast. We went to a quiet chapel in the mountains, lighting candles and praying for a miracle to put our broken pieces back together.
The universe was kind. It gave us a second chance. But my body was weak from the trauma, and I had to be hospitalized for bed rest to save the pregnancy.
Dave came to the hospital every single day, bringing homemade soup and holding my hand. Except for one night. He didn’t show up until past midnight. He smelled of scotch, but underneath the alcohol was that familiar, sickly-sweet floral scent.
“Where were you tonight?” I whispered, my heart dropping.
“Client dinner,” he said smoothly, offering a warm smile. He pulled a box from his coat pocket and slipped it onto my bedside table. “I bought you a gift on the way. Do you like it?”
It was a bottle of the exact same perfume.
I stayed awake all night, staring at the glass bottle.
A week later, when he called to say he had another late-night business dinner, I checked myself out of the hospital against medical advice and drove home.
The townhouse was dark. I let myself in, praying I was just paranoid. But as I walked up the stairs, the muffled, unmistakable sounds of ecstasy drifted from our bedroom.
Every ounce of my sanity vanished. I grabbed a bottle of champagne from the kitchen counter, stormed into the room, and poured the cold liquid directly over the two writhing bodies on our bed.
“Dave! You are disgusting!” I screamed.
He immediately threw himself over Amber, wrapping the sheets tightly around her, before turning to look at me. His expression wasn’t guilty. It was utterly indifferent.
“Oh, and you’re clean?” he sneered, wiping the champagne from his face. “I’ve been eating leftovers for years, Zoe. You should be grateful I stayed this long.”
I don’t remember how I got back to the hospital. I only remember that by morning, our second baby was gone. This time, Dave never showed up.
He didn’t appear until the morning of my discharge, when the hospital insisted a family member sign the paperwork. He brought Amber with him.
The moment she saw me, she fell to her knees at the foot of my bed.
“Zoe, please, I beg you,” she wept, pressing her forehead against the linoleum floor. “Let him go. Please just let us be together!”
She banged her head against the floor over and over until her skin bruised and bled, but I sat there, completely numb, staring blankly at the wall.
Dave tossed a folder containing the divorce papers onto my bedside table, took Amber’s hand, and walked out.
But I couldn’t let go. The grief and humiliation turned into a toxic obsession. I spent weeks crashing his office lobby, screaming his name until security threw me out. When they banned me, I went to Amber’s design firm. I bought a megaphone, standing on the sidewalk and telling everyone who walked past exactly how she had ruined my marriage. I watched her cower in the corner like a frightened rabbit, only for Dave to swoop in and carry her away, playing the hero.
Soon after, they posted photos of their ring shopping and engagement shoots. Everything Dave had promised me but never delivered, he gave to her.
The last time I went back to the townhouse to gather my things, I couldn’t even bring myself to step inside. Through the open door, I saw giant canvases of their engagement photos lining the walls.
Dave dragged my suitcases out onto the porch and kicked them toward me, his face twisted with disgust.
“This is everything,” he said coldly. “Don’t come back. Amber doesn’t want to see you. And neither do I.”
I stood on the porch, feeling like a hollow piece of driftwood swept out to sea. I reached for the handle of my suitcase, but my hands were shaking too hard to lift it. I just stared at him.
“Dave. Did you forget to say something to me?”
The memory dissolved, and the cold air of the restaurant hallway rushed back in. I looked at Dave, who was once again shielding Amber behind him, the print of my slap reddening on his cheek. The anger that had lived in my chest for three years suddenly felt incredibly heavy—and incredibly useless.
“Dave,” I said softly. I looked at his handsome, stunned face. “It’s been three years. Did you finally figure out what you were supposed to say to me?”
He couldn’t answer.
The restaurant manager hurried down the hall, bowing apologetically, promising complimentary bottles of champagne and entrees to smooth things over.
“Mrs. Palmer,” he said, turning to me with a nervous smile. “Your husband is one of our most valued clients. I am so incredibly sorry for this disturbance…”
I offered a polite, practiced smile and turned to leave, but a hand suddenly gripped my wrist, tight enough to bruise.
“What did he just call you?” Dave asked, his voice shaking. “Zoe… are you married?”
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When I found out my fiancé, Elliot, had let his female student move into his campus apartment, I didn’t scream. I didn’t demand answers, nor did I throw a glass vase against the wall like I would have months ago.
Instead, I quietly deleted his number, blocked him on every app, and accepted my company’s transfer to their Zurich office.
We met again five years later at an industry symposium. I was there as a venture capital partner representing one of the leading research labs.
People I hadn’t seen in years flocked to my table the moment they recognized me.
“Daphne! My god, Elliot has been looking for you everywhere. He’s been like a ghost these past five years, completely lost without you.”
I frowned slightly, looking up just in time to see Elliot walk through the double doors, flanked by a small crowd of colleagues.
Five years had elevated his academic standing, but it had carved deep lines between his brows. He looked hollowed out, the sharp, vibrant edge he once carried replaced by a dull, grey exhaustion.
Everyone in our circle knew about our history—and the legendary depth of his regret. Intending to be helpful, they orchestrated the seating chart so we were placed right next to each other at the banquet.
I treated him like a stranger, but the look in his eyes was a storm of raw, unshed grief.
After what felt like an eternity, he whispered my name.
“Daphne… how have you been?”
“Good,” I replied, my voice level. “I’ve been really good.”
1
I kept my tone clipped and polite, the way you speak to a stranger you bump into on the subway. But beneath the surface, my chest was tight.
Elliot and I had been childhood sweethearts. We grew up on the same tree-lined street, went to the same schools, and slid into a relationship as naturally as breathing. An engagement soon followed. But after the ring was on my finger, our careers pulled us apart. He was climbing the tenure track; I was putting in eighty-hour weeks at my firm. I thought the distance was just a temporary tax we paid for our future.
Until he started talking about Summer.
Elliot had always been fiercely private. He insisted we keep our relationship out of his professional life—no visits to his office, no public displays of affection. Yet, he let Summer loop her arm through his on campus. He let her tease him in front of his colleagues.
At first, I brushed it off. He was her advisor; she was a brilliant, struggling student. But then came our five-year anniversary. He left me sitting alone at a candlelit table to rush to campus because Summer was having an emotional crisis.
I lost my mind. I told him we were done. But Elliot—proud, stoic Elliot—dropped to his knees on our living room rug, tears streaming down his face as he begged me not to leave.
“Daphne, please. There is nothing between us. She’s an orphan. She has no family, no one to look out for her. I’m just trying to keep her afloat. Please believe me. Don’t end this.”
I looked at him, and all I could see was the boy who used to share his lunch with me on the school bus. I softened. I forgave him.
And then, I forgave him again, and again, accepting his excuses every time he bailed on me because Summer “needed” him.
Until the day I came home early from a business trip. I wanted to surprise him at his university apartment. I didn’t even go back to our place first; I dragged my suitcase straight to campus, exhausted but excited. I unlocked the door, and the air left my lungs.
The apartment, which had always been a sterile expanse of gray and black, was filled with warmth. Fairy lights, plush pillows, cozy throws. And Elliot—who used to snap if I even rearranged his bookshelves—was holding a stuffed animal, asking Summer with a soft, teasing smile where she wanted him to put it.
I stood frozen. When my brain finally forced my legs to move, I stepped back out into the hallway.
“Why is your student living in your apartment, Elliot?”
He shrugged, completely blind to the boundary he had crossed. “Summer’s tuition is high, and her part-time job barely covers groceries. I rarely sleep here anyway. What’s the big deal?”
A big deal? We were the ones paying her tuition. Ever since Elliot took her on, we had been quietly sponsoring her expenses out of our joint account.
And as for him “rarely sleeping there”—that was only true when I was in town. Whenever I traveled, that apartment was where he stayed.
A male professor and his young female student, sharing an apartment. I wanted to scream, to ask him if he had lost his mind, but when I opened my mouth, the only words that came out were:
“…Never mind.”
2
What was the point of arguing?
The truth was written in the cozy pastel decor of that apartment. From the moment Summer entered his life, I had been demoted. The man who had sworn under the summer stars to love me forever, to never let me feel second-best, had given all his tenderness to someone else.
My birthdays, our anniversaries—none of it mattered. One frantic phone call from Summer, and he would vanish. I had fought, I had cried, but every single time, Elliot would offer an apology so sincere, so desperate, that I would fold. He loved “me”, he’d say. She was just a student. He just felt sorry for her.
But standing there, watching her live in the space I was kept out of, watching her rearrange the things I wasn’t allowed to touch, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.
I forced a polite smile, turned on my heel, and practically ran.
At the campus gate, the security guard stopped me to sign the visitor log. As I took the pen, a dull ache bloomed in my chest. We had been engaged for three years, and yet, to visit my fiancé’s office, I still had to sign in as a stranger.
How had I been so blind?
I went back to my office with a cold weight in my chest. On my computer screen, the draft of my email declining the overseas transfer was still open. I had spent hours writing a detailed explanation about family obligations and my upcoming wedding.
With a bitter laugh, I hit select-all, deleted it, and typed a single sentence: “I accept the transfer.”
But while the decision took seconds, untangling a life takes time. While the firm handled my visa, I had to personally close out my life in the city. The hardest part was our shared bank account. I took a morning off to go to the bank, planning to withdraw my half of our savings and close the account.
But the teller’s voice shattered my quiet resolve.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Chapman,” she said, looking up from her monitor. “There’s no balance in this account.”
I stared at her. We had opened that account when we got engaged, agreeing to deposit a set amount every month for our future house. After three years, it should have been at least eighty thousand dollars.
“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Could you check where the funds went?”
The teller’s expression softened into pity. “The bulk of the funds was transferred last month into a new joint account under Mr. Elliot’s name and a co-owner.”
She couldn’t legally give me the co-owner’s name, but I didn’t need her to.
I walked out into the chilly autumn air and called a friend who worked in credit services. Ten minutes later, a PDF file landed in my inbox.
Elliot had opened a joint account with Summer two years ago. And last month, he had emptied our nest egg to fund it.
I stood on the bustling sidewalk, the city noise fading into a ringing silence.
3
I floated back to our apartment like a ghost. But as I slid my key into the lock, a voice from inside stopped me cold.
“Elliot, are you sure Daphne won’t be angry? Me staying here, I mean…”
It was Summer.
Elliot’s voice was gentle, a tone he used to reserve only for me. “She won’t mind. Daphne is understanding. She’ll take good care of you while I’m away.”
My hand shook as I turned the key. I walked in to find them sitting close on our beige sofa. Elliot looked up, his expression entirely casual.
“Hey. I have to go out of town for a conference this week. The locks on Summer’s place are acting up, and I don’t feel safe leaving her there alone. I brought her here to stay for a bit.”
He stood up, smoothing his jacket. “While I’m gone, do you mind letting her have the master bedroom? It has the private bath. Thanks, honey.”
He said it so easily, as if he were asking me to water a plant.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, my voice dangerously quiet. “Elliot. Do you even remember whose home this is?”
He didn’t even look at me, a sigh of annoyance escaping his lips. “Daphne, please don’t start.”
Summer shrank back, her eyes wide and watery. “Elliot, I think I’m making Daphne uncomfortable. I should just go…”
Finally, Elliot looked at me. But there was no warmth in his eyes, only frustration. “Daphne, you’re an adult. You’re older than her. Why are you picking a fight with a kid?”
“A kid?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “She’s twenty-two, Elliot. Since when is a college senior a kid?”
Elliot’s face hardened. He stepped in front of Summer, shielding her. “What is your problem lately?”
“My problem?” I stepped closer. “Do you think the rest of the faculty is blind, Elliot? Do you think people aren’t talking about the two of you?”
Summer’s gaze flickered. Behind his shoulder, her lips twitched into a tiny, victorious smirk.
Elliot scowled. “Those are just rumors. Summer is my student, nothing more.”
The dam broke. Five years of swallowed pride and quiet, lonely nights rushed to the surface. “A normal student-teacher relationship? Tell me, Elliot, what kind of professor lets his student move into his campus apartment? What kind of man leaves his fiancé on her birthday because his student called with a minor inconvenience?!”
Elliot’s face went white, then a dark, angry red. “Daphne, enough! I have explained this a thousand times. Do you have to act like a hysterical child over nothing?”
Summer whimpered behind him, playing the peacemaker. “Please don’t fight because of me. Daphne hates having me here. I’ll just go back to the campus apartment. I’ll manage.”
She didn’t move an inch. She just stared at Elliot with puppy-dog eyes.
I had reached my limit. I walked over, grabbed Summer’s wrist, and pulled her toward the door. “Great. Let’s go. I’ll drive you back myself.”
Summer stumbled, feigning resistance, and then with a sharp twist, she threw her weight sideways. We both crashed hard onto the hardwood floor.
“Summer!” Elliot panicked, rushing past me as if I weren’t even there. He gathered her into his arms, his voice laced with terror. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your hand?”
Summer leaned into his chest, shaking her head. “I’m okay… check on Daphne. She fell harder.”
Elliot looked up at me, his eyes blazing with a fury I had never seen before. Before I could process the look on his face, his hand swung out.
“Slap.”
The sound echoed in the quiet living room. My cheek stung, hot and throbbing.
“How could you be so vicious?” he snarled. “Jealousy is one thing, Daphne, but physically attacking a girl? If she injured her wrist, do you have any idea what that would do to her lab work? Her career?”
I sat on the floor, hand pressed to my burning cheek, staring at the man I had loved for half my life. He didn’t even ask if I was hurt. He didn’t see the tears in my eyes. He only saw his precious student.
The pain in my chest was so immense it surpassed the sting on my face.
“Elliot,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I used the wall to pull myself up. “We’re done. Get out.”
He flinched, a flicker of regret passing through his eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by pride. “Daphne, grow up. Stop using threats every time you don’t get your way.”
He picked up Summer’s bags, then helped her to her feet. “Fine. If you’re going to be like this, I’ll take her with me to the conference. You need to cool down. We’ll deal with this when I get back.”
“Deal with this when I get back.”
I kept my head down, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face.
There would be nothing to deal with, Elliot. Because by the time you get back, I will be gone.
“””
Five days later, Elliot returned.
He was still irritated, rehearsing the speech he would give me about boundaries and maturity. But despite his lingering anger, he had stopped at the airport duty-free to buy me a perfume I liked.
He took a deep breath at the front door, unlocked it, and set the gift bag on the entryway table.
“Daphne,” he called out, his voice echoing in the hallway. “Look, I’m sorry about how things went before I left. But you have to stop acting so irrationally over nothing.”
Silence greeted him.
He walked into the living room. It was completely empty. A cold, quiet dread began to settle in his stomach.
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