Category: English

I possess a very specific, very devastating kind of magic: I can see the exact day a person’s life will end. The numbers hover above their heads, an invisible, ticking clock. And if I am willing to pay the price, I can intervene. I can rewrite their fate. Declan Forbes was the man I loved for five years. For half a decade, I stood between him and the grave, repeatedly pulling him back from the brink of a death that the universe had prescribed for him. I still remember the day we met. The digits suspended in the air above his dark hair read a mere ten days. I was the reason he was still breathing today. But cheating death requires a toll, and the universe always collects its debts from my flesh. To keep his heart beating, I swallowed the karmic backlash time and time again. I took on his sudden illnesses; I bore the agony of broken bones meant for him; I willingly traded away fragments of my own lifespan. I endured it all in the shadows. Declan never knew the truth. He only knew that I was mysteriously, chronically fragile. Yet, he would sit by my bedside through my worst episodes, tending to me with a gentleness that broke my heart. His eyes would go red-rimmed, his voice thick with tears, as he whispered that he wished he could take my pain away. For a long time, I genuinely believed we were building a forever kind of happiness. Until the afternoon I stood outside the obstetrician’s office, my fingers trembling with joy as they traced the ink on my sonogram. I couldn’t wait to tell him. But before I could dial his number, his voice drifted down the sterile hospital corridor. I froze. Just around the corner, Declan was standing with Gemma Beaumont, the golden-haired girl he’d grown up with—the ghost of his first love. His arm was wrapped securely around her waist, his hand resting intimately over her flat stomach. “If my grandfather hadn’t forced my hand with Carol, I would have married you,” Declan murmured, the rough edge of his voice softened in a way he usually reserved for me. “Don’t worry. I am going to take care of you and this baby. I promise.” The air in my lungs turned to glass. I turned my head, agonizingly slow, and forced myself to look at the blinding cruelty of the scene. “I’ll find the right moment to divorce Carol as soon as we get back,” Declan continued. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. How convenient, I thought. I was just thinking the exact same thing. Once the ink was dry on the divorce papers, I would never have to play God for him again. I would never have to be his shield. The universe could finally take him, and I would finally be free of the pain. … “I don’t buy it. Three years ago, she purposely swallowed those allergy pills on the morning of your wedding just to frame me. She almost died just to cancel the ceremony, but she still couldn’t stop you from marrying her, could she?” Gemma’s venomous words snapped me out of my trance. I stepped out from around the corner, my eyes locked on them. Three years ago. Our wedding day at the Hamptons estate. That morning, I had looked at Declan and watched the numbers above his head plummet from a comfortable 236 days down to a terrifying three hours. Panic had seized my throat. I immediately called Richard Forbes, the family patriarch, and demanded the wedding be postponed. Then, I locked myself in our suite with Declan, refusing to let him out of my sight. I was a coiled spring, ready for whatever the universe threw at us. When he suddenly broke out in hives, clawing at his chest as his airway began to close, I had the paramedics on the line before he even hit the floor. Everyone in the bridal party thought I was being hysterical. They told me it was just wedding jitters. I ignored them, riding in the back of the ambulance, gripping his clammy hand. Only when the ER doctor pushed the epinephrine into his IV, and I saw the numbers above his head stabilize and rise, did I finally exhale. But the karmic backlash was instantaneous and merciless. For three straight days, my skin burned with unexplainable, agonizing hives. I scratched my arms until they bled. I woke up gasping, phantom hands wrapped around my throat, suffocating me. Because there was no medical reason for my symptoms—I was simply paying Declan’s physiological debt—no medication could touch the pain. I just had to endure the agony, wide awake, while he recovered. It was only today, standing in this sterile hallway, that the puzzle pieces violently clicked into place. It wasn’t an accident. It was a setup. Declan had orchestrated his own allergic reaction to get out of marrying me, guided by Gemma. Declan frowned, his brow furrowing as he bought into Gemma’s narrative. “Grandpa has always been obsessed with cosmic alignments and omens. With Carol constantly getting sick or injured these past few years, he thinks she carries a dark cloud. If that bad luck starts affecting me—or the Forbes empire—he won’t protect her anymore.” He had no idea. The “dark cloud” he resented was nothing but the heavy, bleeding shield I had carried to rewrite his fate. He was the walking curse. And it was his grandfather who had secretly begged me to intervene five years ago. Richard Forbes wouldn’t let him cast me aside so easily. But looking at Declan now, I had to admit the bitter truth: I had been so blindingly stupid. I had mistaken dependency for destiny. I had fallen in love with a mirage. The sheer weight of his ingratitude hit my stomach like a physical blow, and I doubled over, dry-heaving onto the polished linoleum. The sound drew their disgusted stares. I straightened up, wiping my mouth with the back of my trembling hand, and met their eyes. Declan’s face went rigid with shock. Then, a mask of careful neutrality slipped into place. His jaw worked, but no words came out. I swallowed hard, forcing the nausea down into a tight, hard knot in my chest. I took two steps forward, raised my hand, and slapped him across the face. The sound cracked like a gunshot in the quiet corridor. “Declan, if you didn’t love me, you could have just been a man and said it. You didn’t have to play the devoted husband for five damn years,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “And get this straight in your head: I am divorcing you. You are not discarding me.” I didn’t wait for his response. I gave them both one last, hollow look and turned to leave. Suddenly, two hands slammed into my back. I stumbled forward, my heels skidding on the floor, barely catching myself on the wall before I fell. Gemma’s shrill voice echoed behind me. “How dare you hit him! I’ll kill you!” “He put up with you for three years! You lived off his money, you leeched off his life, and you have the nerve to act like the victim?” She shrieked, her voice pitching up into a theatrical, trembling sob, playing the role of the fiercely protective, heartbroken lover perfectly. I looked at Declan. He stood frozen, a conflicted shadow crossing his face. But he didn’t move. He didn’t intervene. A cruel, triumphant gleam flashed in Gemma’s eyes. She lunged at me, her fingers twisting violently into my hair. With a guttural cry, she slammed my head against the drywall. Pain exploded behind my eyes. A high-pitched ringing drowned out the sounds of the clinic. The edges of my vision bled into black. Once. Twice. I don’t know how many times the impact came. My knees buckled, and the last of my strength evaporated. I collapsed onto the cold tiles. Through the blur of my fading consciousness, I saw Gemma draw her leg back. Her pointed designer heel aimed directly at my stomach. Adrenaline, sharp and cold as ice, flooded my veins. I scrambled backward, but my limbs felt like lead. Driven by pure, primal terror for the life inside me, I swung my heavy leather handbag directly at her legs. The heavy metal studs on the bag were sharp enough to bruise bone. A spoiled, country-club girl like Gemma wouldn’t be able to handle the hit; it would buy me a second. But before the leather could make contact, Declan closed the distance. He snatched the bag mid-air, ripping it from my grasp with bruising force. He glanced around at the gathering crowd of nurses and patients, his jaw tight. Then he looked down at me, his expression infuriatingly composed. “Carol, I know you have a temper. I’ve tolerated you lashing out at me for years,” he said smoothly, projecting his voice just enough for the audience. “But you don’t take your toxic emotions out on innocent people.” “Gemma is carrying two lives right now. I’m begging you, just leave her alone.” A chorus of hushed, damning whispers rippled through the onlookers. “Look at her, she’s completely unhinged.” “I heard she brought nothing but bad luck to the Forbes family. No wonder he’s at his wit’s end.” I lay there, watching the strangers judge me, taking Declan’s practiced martyrdom as gospel. My vision swam with tears as I watched him drop to one knee, gently examining Gemma’s shin to make sure she was unharmed. It was a suffocatingly familiar sight. There was a time when he was that frantic over me. He used to silence anyone who dared speak a word against me. When old-money socialites whispered that I was too common, too unpolished to be on his arm, he would drag his chronically exhausted body out of bed to take me to Paris, to Rome, just to see me smile. He hired the best tutors to teach me the unspoken rules of his world. He used to pull me onto stages at galas, holding my hand so tightly my knuckles ached. “Carol is my partner. I expect every single one of you to show her the exact same respect you show me.” He would corner the men who gossiped about me in boardrooms, forcing them to swallow their words. He built a fortress around me. He would sit on the edge of the bathtub and massage my sprained ankle for an hour. Once, when I accidentally nicked my finger with a paring knife, his face had gone completely gray with panic. But the boy who loved me was dead. Declan tossed my bag onto the floor. The contents spilled across the tiles. My ultrasound and the official obstetrics report slid perfectly to a stop right at the toe of his oxford shoe. He narrowed his eyes. The bold black letters at the top of the page read: Pregnancy Confirmed – 8 Weeks. His head snapped up, his eyes widening to the size of saucers. “You’re pregnant?” Before I could form a word, Gemma snatched the paper from the floor. “That’s impossible! Declan, you told me you haven’t touched her in almost a year!” Her voice went shrill, desperation cracking her veneer. “She must have forged this! Or she’s whoring around with someone else!” Declan’s gaze hardened into dark, sharp flint. He stared down at me, demanding, “Carol. Look at me. I want the truth.” “Why are you at this hospital?” It had been twenty minutes of sheer humiliation and violence. Only now, staring at physical proof, did he bother to ask. And it wasn’t out of concern. It was an interrogation. I took a slow, jagged breath, forcing the hot tears back until my throat burned. “You’ve already decided to believe her. Why does it matter what I say?” Two months ago, Declan had come home blackout drunk. I had checked the numbers above his head—he had exactly three days left. Terrified, I dragged his dead weight into our bedroom, checking every inch of him for injuries. Instead of passing out, he had pinned me to the mattress. He had kissed me with a desperate, bruising hunger, murmuring into my neck, “Don’t leave me… please stay.” I had been so confused. He had been so cold for months. But I let him. I loved him. Now, the sickening truth settled in my bones. That night, in his drunken haze, he hadn’t been making love to his wife. He had been fucking Gemma in the dark. It was her name he had been crying out in his heart. The hospital security finally pushed through the crowd. I ignored the guards, ignored Gemma’s venom, ignored Declan’s piercing stare. I methodically gathered my things, shoving the crumpled ultrasound back into my bag. I used the wall to haul my bruised body up. I walked straight to the elevator, rode it down to the ground floor, and walked up to the reception desk. I booked an appointment for a surgical abortion for that exact afternoon. Behind me, I heard Declan shout my name. His footsteps echoed on the tiles, heavy and urgent. But they stopped. Gemma had stepped in front of him, her arms wrapping around his chest to hold him back. I didn’t look back. Even if Declan discovered the truth right now, even if guilt drove him to drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness, we would only end up right back here. A man who can justify straying once will do it a thousand times. A baby wouldn’t anchor him to me. It would only chain me to a ghost. I couldn’t bring this child into a warzone. By the time I left the recovery room, the afternoon sun was heavy and orange. I took a black car back to the Forbes estate. The house was quiet. I packed exactly what I had brought with me five years ago, leaving the designer clothes and jewels behind. As I dragged my suitcase toward the grand staircase, the heavy oak door of the master study creaked open. Richard Forbes stepped out, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped cane, his hands shaking. “Carol, my dear. Where are you going?” Grandpa Richard had always been good to me. In his quiet, stern way, he reminded me of my own grandfather, the only person who had ever truly loved me before I met Declan. Over the last two years, Richard’s health had visibly deteriorated. I had watched the numbers above his head steadily dwindle, an agonizing countdown I was utterly powerless to stop. You cannot cure old age. My heart physically ached every time I looked at him. But he was a perceptive man. He knew his time was ending. “My clock is running out, Carol. Even if your gift could save me, I wouldn’t allow you to bear the cost,” he had told me once in the greenhouse. “I know the physical hell you’ve endured for my grandson. I dragged you into this family’s mess…” He had sighed deeply, the guilt heavy on his shoulders. He was a good man. Leaving him was the only thing that made my chest tight. I softened my face and offered him a merciful lie. “Grandpa, I’m just taking a little trip. I need some fresh air. I’ll be back in a few days.” He shuffled forward and gently wrapped his frail hand around my wrist. “Wait just a moment.” He turned back into his study. When he emerged minutes later, he held out a black velvet box containing a heavy envelope and a black card. A trust fund. I shook my head, trying to push it back, but he was resolute. “You are a good girl, Carol. You earned every penny of this,” he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “When the Beaumont girl came back to town last year, I saw the shift. His heart left this house. You’ve suffered enough indignity.” I clutched the envelope to my chest, my vision blurring. If even a man in his eighties, completely removed from our daily lives, could see that my husband’s love was gone… how had I been so blind? I had been desperately lying to myself just to survive. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the sharp pain grounded me. I looked up at his face. The numbers hovering there made my blood run cold. “Grandpa,” I whispered, my voice urgent. “Please be incredibly careful the next few days. Your timeline… it just dropped. You only have two days left. Something unnatural is coming.” He nodded slowly. I kissed his weathered cheek and walked out the door. Three hours later, I was standing in the boarding line at JFK, my passport in hand, when two uniformed NYPD officers stepped in front of me. “Carol Forbes? We received a call regarding an aggravated assault. We need you to come with us.” They took me to the precinct. I barely made it halfway down the fluorescent-lit hallway before I ran dead into Declan and Gemma. Gemma’s eyes were wild and red. The second she saw me, she lunged, her hand raised to strike. Declan caught her wrist mid-air, pulling her back. But his eyes—when he looked at me, they were black with pure, unadulterated rage. “Carol, you had better give me a goddamn perfect explanation for what happened to my grandfather!” he roared, the veins straining in his neck. “He treated you like his own flesh and blood! Why would you try to kill him?” Gemma pointed a manicured finger at me, tears streaming down her face. “Officers, it was her! I caught her cheating, and Declan told her he was filing for divorce. She went completely psychotic. She took it out on the old man!” From their shouting, I pieced the nightmare together. Not long after I took my suitcase and left, Declan had brought Gemma to the house. They intended to force Richard to bless their union. But as Declan was pulling his Porsche into the driveway, he heard Gemma screaming for help from inside. He found his grandfather crumpled at the bottom of the grand staircase, his head pooled in dark blood, unconscious. “He is in the ICU fighting for his life, and you were the last person in that house! What do you have to say for yourself?” Declan demanded. I didn’t answer him. I just stared at the space directly above his hairline. His numbers had crashed. Seven days. He had exactly one week left to live. After my interrogation, the detectives told me I was a person of interest. I was not allowed to leave the state. I forfeited my flight, hailed a cab, and checked into an anonymous boutique hotel downtown. At 6:00 PM, my phone buzzed. A text from Declan. Meet me at The Oak Room. We are signing the divorce papers tonight. It was exactly what I wanted. I didn’t hesitate. I texted back a single word: Fine. But the moment I pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the private dining room, the air in the room shifted. My stomach plummeted. This wasn’t a private meeting. Sitting around the dimly lit table with Declan and Gemma were four older men. Sweaty, flush-faced executives with expensive watches, cheap cologne, and predatory grins. I recognized one of them—a mid-level vendor Declan’s firm had been dodging for months. Gemma stood up, holding a crystal glass of bourbon. She smiled sweetly at the men. “Gentlemen, as a token of my family’s goodwill,” she purred, gesturing toward me. “Declan brought her here tonight to strip her of the Forbes name. If you sign the contracts with us tonight, you won’t just have the Forbes accounts. The Beaumont family will ensure you’re rich for the rest of your lives.” Declan shot Gemma a startled, uncomfortable look. This clearly wasn’t the plan he had agreed to. The executives exchanged filthy, knowing glances. One of them, a man with a heavy gut and a loose tie, pushed his chair back and lumbered toward me. His eyes roamed up and down my body. I spun on my heel, grabbing the brass door handle, but Gemma was faster. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin, pinning me in place. The executive leaned in, his breath hot and sour with whiskey and cigars, invading my space. He reached a thick, sweaty hand out to grip my shoulder, his lips parting. Declan suddenly stood up, his chair scraping violently against the wood floor. “Hey, back off—” Gemma slammed her hand onto Declan’s shoulder, forcing him back down. She leaned down to his ear, her voice dripping with poison. “She put your grandfather in a coma, Declan. Are you really going to defend her? He might never wake up. Let them teach her a lesson.” Declan’s jaw clenched tight. He looked away, staring at the wall, and slowly sat back down. I screamed for help, but the heavy soundproofing of the restaurant swallowed the sound whole. Gemma laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that sent ice down my spine. “Save your breath, sweetie. I paid the maître d’ a thousand dollars to make sure absolutely no one comes through that door, no matter what they hear.” The other men began to stand up, moving in, boxing me into the corner. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. These weren’t even major players in the corporate world; they were bottom-feeders. The fact that Declan would throw me to the wolves just to appease Gemma’s twisted sense of revenge made me physically sick. I closed my eyes. I braced myself for the assault. CRASH. The heavy mahogany doors flew open, rebounding off the wall. “NYPD! Nobody move! Step back from the woman, hands where I can see them!” Flashlights cut through the dim room. Three uniformed officers stormed in, hands on their holsters. Gemma immediately dropped my arm, her face draining of color. “Officers! It’s a misunderstanding! We’re just having a few drinks, things got a little rowdy—” I smoothed down my blouse, my hands shaking violently, and stepped toward the cops. I relayed exactly what had been said and done, point by point. The officers didn’t hesitate. They cuffed the executives and dragged them out of the restaurant for attempted assault and public intoxication. As for Declan and Gemma? The executives, desperate to keep the powerful families off their backs, swore up and down that the couple had nothing to do with it. Without hard evidence of a conspiracy, the police couldn’t hold them. An hour later, I walked out of the precinct into the cool night air. Declan was standing by his car, looking hollowed out. I pulled the divorce agreement I had prepared from my bag—ironclad, stripping him of any right to my assets, designed specifically to counter his corporate lawyers—and slapped it against his chest. “Sign it,” I demanded, my voice cold as absolute zero. He didn’t argue. He pulled a pen from his breast pocket and scrawled his name on the dotted line. As the ink dried, I looked at the space above his head. The number Seven violently glitched, reshaping itself. Three. Three days left. The universe was closing in. I took my copy of the papers, turned my back on him, and walked away. Later, I would learn exactly how his night ended. Completely drained, emotionally bankrupt, Declan drove back to the empty Forbes estate. He walked into our master bedroom, shedding his jacket, the silence of the house pressing down on him. Then, he saw it. Sitting perfectly centered on his nightstand was my leather-bound journal. He picked it up, intending to throw it in the trash. But the book fell open to the first page. He recognized my neat handwriting. His eyes casually swept over the first line. Then, he froze, as if a lightning bolt had struck him dead in his tracks.

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In the deafening, alcohol-soaked roar of our ten-year college reunion, someone suddenly tossed out a question about the ones that got away. When the question landed on my husband, Steven, the noise in the room seemed to dial back. His gaze floated right past me, weightless, before finally anchoring on the woman sitting beside him: Judy. “It was Judy.” He didn’t shout it. His voice was quiet, but it dropped like a heavy stone into a perfectly still lake. The ripples hit everyone in the room. Judy clearly hadn’t anticipated this. Her manicured hand flew to her mouth, her eyes widening in genuine, breathless shock. “Then… the letter I slipped into your backpack sophomore year,” she asked, her voice trembling with a perfectly calibrated dose of grievance. “Why didn’t you ever respond?” Steven froze, his brows knitting together in confusion. “Weren’t you dating Braden back then?” And just like that, over the rim of half-empty cocktail glasses, an eight-year-old misunderstanding unspooled. It turned out, Judy had slipped her love letter into the wrong black backpack. That one careless mistake was the only thing that had kept them apart. The moment the truth settled over them, Judy’s eyes brimmed with cinematic tears. Steven stared at her, his typically guarded face stripped bare, completely awash in shock and profound, tragic regret. Just then, a voice cut through the heavy air from across the table, dripping with sarcasm. “Come on, nobody is thatunlucky. Makes you wonder if someone noticed that letter and swapped it on purpose, right?” The air in the private dining room evaporated. Every single pair of eyes snapped away from the star-crossed lovers and aimed directly at me. Most of the people in this room had no idea that Steven and I had been married for five years. To them, I was just the clueless, delusional ugly duckling who had spent all of college chasing after the campus golden boy. I turned my head to look at Steven. I was clinging to the very last, fraying thread of hope, praying he would say something. Anything. Just one sentence to clear my name. Just tell them that he was the one who had relentlessly pursued me. But he didn’t say a word. He just sat there, looking at me with the same complicated, scrutinizing gaze as everyone else. In that quiet, agonizing space between my heartbeat and my next breath, I reached beneath the table and silently twisted the wedding band I had worn for five years. I told myself what I had been avoiding for half a decade: This circus is finally over. 1 The drinks kept flowing. Judy, crying a delicate, beautiful kind of tears, had scooted her chair flush against Steven’s. They were entirely locked in their own world. “I can’t believe it was all a stupid mix-up,” she whispered. “If I had just written your name on the envelope, you wouldn’t have thought… you wouldn’t have thought I belonged to someone else.” Steven’s eyes were heavy, dark with a sorrow I hadn’t seen in him since his father died. “Nobody could have known.” “That it would end up like this.” Judy was getting emotional, aided by the four martinis she’d downed. Steven—my husband—stayed right by her side. His hand rubbed soothing, gentle circles on her back. He even flagged down a waiter to bring her a glass of iced lemon water to sober her up. Not once did he look my way. Around us, our former classmates buzzed like a hive of excited bees. “God, you can’t write this stuff. The ultimate missed connection, finally finding each other almost a decade later.” “So our valedictorian really was in love with the homecoming queen all along.” “Think about it—if they had gotten together back then, they’d probably have kids in grade school by now.” Then, that same venomous voice from earlier chimed in again. “Yeah, well, if a certain someone hadn’t been so shamelessly throwing herself at Steven, maybe they wouldn’t have lost all these years.” Their eyes darted toward me, not even trying to hide their disdain. Under the table, my nails bit so hard into my palms that they broke skin. I pressed my lips into a thin line, refusing to give them a reaction. After a flurry of whispering, a guy who used to be in our study group slid into the empty chair beside me. He leaned in, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey. “Come on, Gemma. It was you, wasn’t it?” he muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. “Just admit it. You switched the letter so they’d miss their shot.” Ice flooded my veins. I opened my mouth to defend myself, to tell him he was out of his mind, but the crowd didn’t wait for my truth. “I mean, it adds up.” “Everyone knew Steven and Judy were the golden couple waiting to happen. The sexual tension was insane.” “And then there was Gemma. Always lurking. Looking at Steven like a starving dog.” “We all saw it. Every time a late-night lecture ended, she was right there, begging him to walk the track with her. Who knows what kind of dirty tricks she pulled behind the scenes?” “Swapping a letter is child’s play for someone that desperate. Case closed.” They didn’t know. They didn’t know that Steven and I had been together for eight years, and married for five. They only remembered that we were always together on campus. And in their narrative, it was because I was pathetic. A toad lusting after a swan. But they didn’t know the reality. From day one, it was Steven who chased me. But Steven was intensely private. He hated public displays. He never posted me on his Instagram, never paraded me around. Behind closed doors, he was the one pushing for the relationship, initiating every milestone. But to the outside world, his passive silence made him look like the innocent victim of my obsession. He was the brilliant, untouchable business major, radiating potential wherever he went. And I was the girl everyone agreed was punching above her weight. But that didn’t give them the right to humiliate me. I turned my head and looked dead into the eyes of the guy sitting next to me. My face was a mask of cold stone. “If you’re tired of having a tongue in your mouth,” I said, my voice dangerously soft, “I can help you cut it out.” 2 The table went dead quiet. A guy across from me slammed his fist against the mahogany wood, rattling the silverware. He pointed a finger at me. “Who the hell do you think you are, Gemma?” he snapped. “If you were actually capable of anything, you wouldn’t have spent eight years chasing a guy who still won’t give you the time of day.” “Do you have any idea how much of a joke you are to everyone here? You really thought the ugly duckling was going to bag the prince.” A cruel ripple of muffled laughter washed over the table. My eyes burned. A hot, humiliating flush crept up my neck. I looked at Steven. He glanced at me for a fraction of a second, then deliberately shifted his gaze to the wall. In that moment, the platinum band on my left ring finger felt like it was burning through my flesh, constricting until my chest actually ached. Aside from Beckett—Steven’s business partner and oldest friend—not a single soul in this room knew the truth. I was Steven’s wife. And today wasn’t just a reunion. It was our fifth wedding anniversary. I hated crowds, hated these forced nostalgic gatherings. I had only agreed to come because Steven had begged me for weeks. “Gemma, it’s been years. If we don’t show up, people will think we’re hiding,” he had pleaded. “It’s just some old faces. We should make an appearance.” I had stayed silent then. Steven wasn’t exactly the life of the party either. His sudden, burning desire to attend a tacky alumni dinner made no sense. Until I found out Judy was on the guest list. When I had hesitated, he had pulled me into his arms, using that soft, coaxing tone he knew always broke my defenses. “Gem, you’re always complaining that I don’t claim you publicly. I promise you, at this reunion, I’m going to stand up and tell everyone that you’re my wife.” That was why I said yes. Yet here I was, surrounded by a pack of wolves tearing me apart for “failing” to get the man I had slept next to for half a decade, and Steven was completely silent. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. I calmly set my fork and knife down on my plate. A hollow, freezing laugh escaped my lips. “Who says I never got him?” Everyone froze. A few people literally leaned forward, practically vibrating with gossip. “Wait, what? Are they… together?” Beckett, sitting at the far end of the table, was the only one who knew the weight of my words. He had never liked me. He thought I was too sharp, too demanding, and somehow believed I had manipulated Steven into marriage. Hearing the whispers, Beckett let out a sharp scoff and downed the rest of his bourbon. “Some people just don’t know their place,” he muttered loud enough for the room to hear. “Zero self-respect.” I ignored him. My eyes were locked onto Steven like a sniper. The moment the words had left my mouth, Steven’s body had gone completely rigid. He froze, his glass hovering halfway to his lips. He shot me a glare—a cold, terrifying warning. Don’t do it. Two seconds later, my phone vibrated on the table. It was a text from him. Don’t mention the marriage. Now is not the right time. I stared at the screen, a hysterical, bitter amusement bubbling up in my throat. Not the right time? No. It was just that he had finally realized his golden girl had wanted him back then. He thought there was a chance for them to rewrite history. And I was supposed to quietly step aside and let them have their romance? I placed my hands on the table and slowly stood up. “Steven,” I said, my voice echoing in the quiet room. “Weren’t you going to tell everyone the truth?” 3 Steven stood up so fast his chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor. He was wound as tight as a coiled spring. He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, his jaw locked, he turned to the crowd. “Yes.” “Gemma and I… we dated for a while.” “But that was in the past. We broke up.” My head snapped back as if he had physically struck me. I stared at him, my fingernails digging so deeply into my palms I felt wetness. Beside him, Judy looked up, her face blooming into an expression of pure, unadulterated joy. “Really? You’re… you’re single right now?” The room erupted. The tension broke into a chaotic cheer. “Oh my god, I am so here for this!” “This is literally a movie! The right people always find their way back to each other.” “I am dying. This is so romantic. I would sell my soul to see you two finally get together!” Amidst the screaming and clapping, even Beckett—who usually looked at me with thinly veiled contempt—shot me a look of genuine pity. As he walked past my chair to hit the bar, he shook his head and whispered, “You brought this on yourself.” My legs gave out. I sank heavily back into my chair, entirely drained. Never in my darkest nightmares did I imagine Steven would stand in a room full of our peers and publicly erase our marriage, effectively throwing me to the wolves. The sarcastic jabs from the women across the table grew louder. “Wow, I thought she was going to drop a bomb. Turns out she’s just the bitter ex.” “Did you see the way she stood up? I literally thought she was going to claim she was his wife.” “Please. Look at her. Does she look like someone who could hold down a guy like Steven?” I looked down at the diamond on my left hand. I felt utterly, irredeemably pathetic. Seeing the blood drain from my face, Judy’s eyes flashed with triumphant cruelty. She picked up her champagne flute, walked around the table, and stopped right in front of me. “Gemma, I know it hurts to lose,” she said, her voice dripping with fake empathy. “But love is just like that. When it’s real, nothing can stand in its way.” “Steven admitted you guys had a fling. But clearly, you weren’t the right fit. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have broken up, right?” She tapped her glass against my untouched water goblet, the crystal making a sharp clink. “Cheers to moving on.” She tipped her head back and drank the whole thing. I remained frozen in my chair, a ghost in my own body. Later in the night, as Steven made his rounds with a bottle of tequila, he eventually reached my side of the table. Under the guise of clinking my glass, he leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “Gem, be an adult,” he whispered fiercely. “Don’t embarrass Judy.” I looked up at him, my eyes dead. Steven couldn’t hold my gaze. He immediately stepped away, migrating right back to Judy’s side. They were laughing. Whispering. I hadn’t seen his eyes crinkle at the corners like that in years. Soon enough, the crowd, drunk and loud, started chanting. “Do a sweetheart shot! Come on, hook your arms! You owe us!” The people who didn’t know he had a wife waiting at home were relentless. “Do it! It’s a decade overdue!” “You’re both single! What are you afraid of?” “Get him drunk enough and he’ll have to take you back to your hotel, Judy! We’re all adults here!” The comments were devolving into raunchy, humiliating dares. I closed my eyes, a physical nausea washing over me. Suddenly, Beckett, swaying slightly from the liquor, was standing next to me. “Hey, Gemma, don’t let it get to you. It’s just alumni nostalgia,” he slurred, though his eyes looked anxious. “He’s just caught up in the ‘what-ifs.’ You’re his wife. Taking a shot isn’t gonna end your marriage.” But even as Beckett said it, his brow was furrowed, his eyes darting nervously toward Steven. Anyone with eyes could see it. Steven wasn’t just playing along. He was drowning in it. I started pouring vodka into my water glass, throwing it back straight. Again and again. Even when I stumbled to the bathroom to throw up, holding my own hair over the toilet, Steven didn’t come looking for me. When I finally wiped my mouth and pushed back into the private dining room, the first thing I saw was Steven. He had Judy pinned against the edge of the table. Their bodies were completely flush. They were kissing. “Oh shit, Gemma’s back!” someone yelled. Steven and Judy ripped apart. But it was too late. Steven’s lips were visibly smeared with cherry-red lipstick. He panicked, taking a step back from her, raising his hands in a defensive gesture. “Gemma, we were just playing a drinking game—” “A game, right?” A cold, broken laugh ripped out of my throat. I grabbed the heavy crystal highball glass off the nearest table and raised it above my head. Beckett lunged forward. “Gemma, stop, don’t be crazy!” He was too late. I hurled the glass straight at the floor between Steven’s feet. It exploded like a grenade. Shards of thick crystal flew in every direction. “Ah! Steven, it hurts!” One of the larger shards had sliced deep into Judy’s calf, right above her designer heel. Blood immediately bloomed through her sheer tights. Steven’s face morphed into absolute fury. “Are you out of your fucking mind, Gemma?!” 4 I stared at him, the ice in my chest solidifying into something permanent. “Yeah. I guess I am.” I was out of my mind for ever believing in him. Suddenly, a girl near the front of the room gasped, pointing at my left hand. “Wait… Gemma, is that a wedding ring? Are you married to someone else? And you’re here losing your mind over an ex?” “Oh my god, she’s actually married! Does anyone know her husband? Call him! Tell him his wife is out here acting like a psycho over Steven!” She stepped toward me, aggressively reaching out to shove my shoulder. I let out a low laugh and caught her wrist mid-air, my grip like a vice. “My husband is dead,” I said, staring unblinkingly into her eyes. “Would you like to meet him? Because I’ll happily send you six feet under right now.” The girl’s face lost all its color. She yanked her hand back, stumbling away from me in sheer terror. “They’re right. You’re a complete psycho.” I let go of her, slowly twisting the platinum band off my ring finger. I looked at Steven, my lips curving into a sneer. Before we walked into this restaurant tonight, he had been wearing the exact same band. Sometime between the coat check and the appetizers, he had slipped it into his pocket. “Are you going to keep playing deaf and dumb?” I asked him, my voice devoid of any emotion. “I don’t have time for your unhinged bullshit right now!” Steven barked, his eyes glued to the blood trickling down Judy’s leg. He scooped her up effortlessly into his arms. “Hang on, Judy, I’m taking you to the ER.” “I’ll drive!” someone yelled. “We’re coming too!” Within seconds, the chaotic room emptied out, leaving behind nothing but half-eaten food, spilled wine, and shattered glass. Beckett was the last to leave. He lingered by the door, watching me with a deeply conflicted expression. “Gemma… you drank way too much tonight. Let me call you an Uber. Or I can drive you.” I brushed past him, knocking his hand away. “Don’t bother.” I walked out to the street, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address of the private hospital Steven’s company always used. When I walked onto the pristine VIP floor, I found him immediately. He was sitting by Judy’s bed. He had stayed by her side, tending to her like she was made of spun glass, until he had literally fallen asleep in the chair next to her, his head resting near her hip. I watched as Judy reached out, brushing his hair back, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. Then she looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. She froze. A minute later, she limped out into the stark, fluorescent-lit hallway, closing the door behind her. She immediately put on her pitiful, wounded-bird act. “Gemma, I know you had feelings for him back in the day. But you heard him tonight. He doesn’t love you anymore.” “You’ve clung to him for so long. If you were really the love of his life, he would have married you by now. But he didn’t. That says everything.” “Please. Just for the sake of the good old days… have some dignity. Stop stalking him. Okay?” If a stranger walked by, they would have thought I was the deranged mistress harassing the devoted girlfriend. I looked at her. Really looked at her. Judy. The campus untouchable. The girl with the perfect hair, the perfect grades, the fragile smile that made men want to bleed for her. Even tonight, all she had to do was utter one sentence about a letter in a wrong backpack, and an entire room of adults swallowed it without chewing. A cold smile spread across my face. “Judy, drop the act. There’s no audience here. Who are you performing for?” Her pale face tightened. “What are you talking about?” “You think I don’t know? You think nobody saw you?” I stepped closer, invading her space. “I was there. I watched you put that letter into Braden’s bag. It wasn’t a mistake. You addressed it to Braden.” Panic flashed in her eyes, sharp and fast. She took a step back. “You’re lying.” “Braden was a 250-pound frat bro who barely passed intro to econ. Why on earth would I like him?” My smile turned wicked. “Because his dad owned half the real estate in the city.” I remembered it perfectly. I remembered watching Braden’s blacked-out Range Rover drop her off three blocks away from campus so nobody would see. I remembered catching them at an upscale outdoor mall on a Sunday, her arm looped through his, watching them walk straight into the lobby of the Four Seasons. And I remembered Steven back then. He was breathtakingly handsome, but he was broke. He wore the same three threadbare flannels, carried a cracked phone, and spent every hour outside of class working double shifts at a diner or handing out flyers in the freezing rain. I had been sitting in the stalls of the women’s restroom when I heard Judy talking to her sorority sisters at the sinks. “Steven is gorgeous, yeah, but he’s destitute. Who cares if he has a 4.0? Once he graduates, he’s just another guy drowning in debt.” “I’d be signing up for a life of struggling to pay rent. I’m not an idiot.” “Let the pathetic girls like Gemma have him. They deserve each other.” So, I knew exactly why Judy was suddenly so heartbroken over a “switched letter.” Steven wasn’t the broke kid in the flannel anymore. He had built an empire. He was wealthy, powerful, and polished. I also knew through the grapevine that Judy had recently been dumped by her married sugar daddy. The guy’s wife had literally dragged her to a clinic to force an abortion. She was desperate. She needed a new host to latch onto. And my husband was her golden ticket. Judy glared at me, her fragile facade dropping into something feral. “Go ahead. Run in there and tell him all that. Let’s see who he believes. The girl he’s been dreaming of for ten years, or the stalker he denied in front of fifty people tonight.” I threw my head back and laughed. “Why would I tell him?” “I came here tonight to tell you that you can have him. Steven is all yours. A gift.” Judy looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. I looked down at the ring in my palm. Steven had bought this during the second year of his startup. It was the hardest year of our lives. He had drained his entirely depleted savings to buy it. After he swiped his debit card at the jeweler, he showed me his banking app. He had exactly fifty-two dollars left to his name. Not enough for a week’s worth of groceries. But he had slipped it onto my finger, his eyes blazing with a fierce, desperate love. “I’m going to give you the world, Gem. When we make it, I’ll buy you anything you want.” I had thrown my arms around his neck, crying, feeling like the richest girl on earth. “I don’t care about the money, Steven! As long as you love me, as long as I’m with you, I already have everything.” The echo of those words in my head made me want to vomit. We had no future left. I took a deep breath, handed the ring to Judy, and dropped it into her palm. “Here. Consider it a bonus.” She stared at the massive diamond, her eyes lighting up with unfiltered, greedy hunger, before her suspicion kicked back in. “Why are you doing this?” “There’s a catch, obviously.” I unzipped my clutch and pulled out a manila envelope, retrieving the document inside. I had signed it three days ago. “Tell Steven to sign the bottom. We’re getting a divorce.” Judy stood frozen in the corridor, her brain short-circuiting. Suddenly, the heavy wooden door to the hospital room swung open. “Judy? Who are you talking to?”

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Kelly had a favorite mantra: “Release the savior complex, and honor the path of others.” It was a line she practiced most religiously on me. That day, I’d just stepped through the door after a grueling graveyard shift when my neighbor began pounding on the door like a maniac. She screamed that my son, Toby, had been dangling from the balcony railing for nearly an hour. He’d cried himself hoarse, she said, and she’d been banging on the door for twenty minutes with no answer. I lunged into the living room and saw my world ending. Toby was hanging over the edge, his small fingers white-knuckled on the iron bars, his face a terrifying shade of purple. He couldn’t even scream anymore; he was just gasping, a silent, rhythmic wheeze of pure terror. And Kelly? She was stretched out on a lounge chair on the balcony, soaking up the sun with her eyes closed. Blood roared in my ears. I hauled my son back over the railing, my voice cracking into a jagged shriek as I demanded to know if she was blind—if she hadn’t realized Toby was seconds away from a six-story plummet. She didn’t even flinch. She just turned her head, gave a languid, innocent shrug, and said that if Toby fell, it was simply the universe’s design. She was a mere mortal, she claimed; who was she to interfere with his “spiritual contract”? This wasn’t her first brush with this brand of sociopathic “zen.” The year I applied for college, I was on track for Columbia. Someone broke into my portal and changed my choice to a predatory, bottom-tier community college. Kelly found out who did it and didn’t say a word. When the acceptance letter arrived from a school I hadn’t even chosen, I nearly threw myself off a roof. When I confronted her later, she just smiled that serene, empty smile. She told me that “interfering in someone else’s karma” would bring a heavy energetic debt onto her own soul. She wasn’t willing to gamble her peace for my future. I spiraled into a deep clinical depression. I couldn’t retake the year. I floated through that subpar college like a ghost. Then came my fiancé. Weeks before the wedding, Kelly saw him in a car, mid-makeout with another woman. She kept it to herself. A year after Toby was born, the man’s “real” wife showed up at my office. She screamed that I was a home-wrecker, attacking me until my face was a mask of blood. I was fired for “moral turpitude.” The man vanished. Toby and I were evicted. When I asked Kelly if she’d known, she just pursed her lips and said it was my “emotional debt” to pay. She couldn’t get in the way of my growth. Eventually, I found a dead-end job stocking shelves at a grocery store, working double shifts just to keep us fed. 1 My neighbor and I finally pulled a limp, shuddering Toby into the house. He collapsed into my arms, shaking like a leaf, and finally let out a soul-shattering wail. The neighbor was ghostly pale. “June, I was out on my balcony taking down the laundry, and I saw him slip through the gap! If his shirt hadn’t snagged on that wire, he’d be… God, it’s the sixth floor!” She wiped her forehead. “I pounded on your door for twenty minutes! Thank God you’re home.” I knew the truth. Kelly had been home the whole time. The rage broke over me like a tidal wave. I spun around and slapped Kelly across the face with everything I had left. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” I hissed. “Toby is your nephew! You sat there and watched him die!” Kelly gasped, clutching her reddening cheek. Then, she shoved me back, her voice rising to a shrill, piercing pitch. “So what if he’s my nephew? You don’t interfere with karma, June! If you do, you take on their debt! Don’t you get it?” She glared at me. “If I had pulled him up and shifted his destiny, who pays the price? Not me. I’m not dying for anyone else’s mistakes.” I let out a harsh, jagged laugh. When we were kids—Kelly was seven—she’d fallen into the creek during a flash flood. She’d screamed for me to save her. I hadn’t hesitated. I’d jumped into waist-deep, churning water and hauled her to the bank, nearly drowning myself in the process. Where was the “karma” then? The year she got into university, our parents couldn’t afford the tuition. She’d knelt at my feet, sobbing, begging me to help. So I took classes by day and worked three jobs by night, even pulling shifts at a freezing warehouse during winter break to scrape together four years of her tuition. Where was the “debt” then? I looked at my sister, and the last flicker of love I had for her went cold. The front door swung open. My mother and my brother-in-law, Dave, walked in carrying bags of groceries. Mom took one look at the tension in the room and froze. “What on earth is happening?” The neighbor didn’t hold back. “Your younger daughter watched her nephew hang off the balcony and didn’t lift a finger. Stone-cold heart, that one.” My mother’s face shifted, looking uncomfortable. She glanced at me, then looked away, stammering. “June… honey, I think… Kelly might have a point.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “A point?” “I saw a video on Facebook the other day,” Mom said, avoiding my gaze. “A man stepped in to stop a fight, and the aggressors followed him home and killed his whole family. Sometimes, getting involved is just asking for trouble…” “Mom!” I cut her off. “This isn’t a stranger! This is Toby! Her sister’s son! You’re calling that ‘getting involved’?” Mom rubbed her nose and scurried into the kitchen. Dave, standing by the door, let out a dry, mocking chuckle. “Look, June,” he said, drawling the words. “Is it possible Kelly just couldn’t handle two kids at once? Our Mia is only two. She needs constant eyes on her.” I was trembling so hard I could barely stand. “What are you trying to say?” Dave shrugged. “This place is cramped as it is. We were doing you a favor letting you and Toby crash here. If you’re going to be this dramatic, maybe Toby should just go back to his father. Right?” Kelly let out a small, cruel giggle. “Exactly. I don’t really want Mia growing up around a fatherless brat anyway.” The blood rushed to my head. Toby clutched my leg, sobbing harder. “Mommy, I’m not a brat! I’m not!” I held him tight, my heart breaking, feeling utterly powerless in the house of people who wished we didn’t exist. Then, my eyes drifted to the window, looking down at the courtyard below. Near the playground slide, an elderly woman was stooping down, smiling at a toddler. The little girl had two messy pigtails and was wearing a bright pink sundress. It was Mia. Kelly’s daughter. The old woman pulled a piece of candy from her pocket and popped it into Mia’s mouth. While the child was distracted, the woman scooped her up, turned, and began walking briskly toward the gate. A scream surged up my throat—but I swallowed it. I watched as the pink dress bobbed further and further away under the woman’s arm. After all, I wouldn’t want to interfere with anyone’s destiny, would I? 2 A moment later, Dave’s voice cracked through the apartment. “Where’s Mia?” Kelly blinked, startled. “She’s in the bedroom, napping.” “The hell she is!” Dave yelled, storming out of the back room, his face white. “The bed is cold! Where is she?” They stood there for a beat, paralyzed, before they exploded into motion. They tore through the bedrooms, the bathroom, the kitchen, checking closets and looking under beds. She was gone. Kelly ran back into the living room, her face drained of color. She lunged at Toby, grabbing him by the collar and shaking him. “Did you see her? Did you see your sister?” Toby whimpered, his lips trembling, unable to squeeze out a single word. I shoved Kelly’s hands off him. “Why are you asking him? He was dangling off a railing all afternoon. How the hell would he have seen her?” Dave was already grabbing his keys. “Downstairs! Now! She learned how to work the deadbolt last week—she must have slipped out!” Kelly bolted after him, but stopped at the door, screaming back at me, “June! Get down there and help us!” I stayed put, pulling Toby close as I walked toward our small corner of the room. “I think I’ll pass,” I said coldly. “I’ve decided to start respecting the path of others.” The words had barely left my mouth when a stinging blow landed across my face. My mother stood over me, her finger jabbed into my nose, her eyes wild with fury. “We are a family! There is no ‘them’ and ‘us’!” she shrieked. “Mia is your niece! You watched her being born! Do you have a single shred of a soul left?” I cupped my burning cheek. Minutes ago, she’d nodded along while Kelly explained why my son’s life didn’t matter. She’d called it “asking for trouble.” Now that it was Mia, she’d rediscovered the concept of family. Kelly spat at me, “If you don’t help find her, take your brat and get the hell out of my house. Today.” I bit my lip. My reputation in the accounting world was trashed thanks to my ex. I was making peanuts at the grocery store. After paying my mom “rent” and Toby’s daycare, I had nothing. I couldn’t afford a deposit on a closet, let alone an apartment. I grabbed Toby’s hand and followed them out. The complex was crawling with people. Kelly was manic, lunging at strangers, grabbing their arms. “Have you seen a little girl? Two years old? Pink dress?” People recoiled. Some shook her off without a word; others rolled their eyes and snapped, “Do I know you?” I watched them and felt a grim sense of irony. Over the years, Kelly had made an enemy of every neighbor. When the woman upstairs was struggling with heavy groceries, Kelly watched her stumble and cited “honoring her struggle.” When the elderly lady downstairs fell, Kelly refused to call 911 because “interfering with an injury brings bad luck.” When the neighbor across the hall forgot her keys, Kelly wouldn’t let her use the phone, telling her to “own her own consequences.” I almost wanted to laugh. Kelly collapsed onto the sidewalk, wailing into her hands. That’s when Toby tugged on my hand. “Mommy,” he whispered loudly. “The baby is over there.” 3 We looked where he was pointing. The old woman from earlier was crouched on the grass near the edge of the parking lot, frantically patting Mia’s back. Mia was thrashing in her arms, her face a terrifying shade of bruised red, her little legs kicking at the air. I froze. Was she not a kidnapper? Just a bystander? Kelly had already spotted them. “Mia! Mommy’s here!” The old woman jumped, clutching her chest in feigned or real shock. “Oh, thank God! You parents are so reckless! This poor thing was running toward the street all alone!” She shoved the struggling child into Kelly’s arms and turned to leave. But she was jerked back. Mia’s tiny hand was clamped around the woman’s thick gold necklace, refusing to let go. The woman didn’t hesitate. She unhooked the clasp, shoved the heavy gold chain into Kelly’s hand, and hissed, “Keep it. A gift for the girl. I’m in a hurry!” Then she turned and bolted toward the street. Kelly stood there, stunned, looking at the glittering gold in her palm. Her grief vanished instantly, replaced by a greedy, hysterical glow. Dave and my mother huddled around her, their eyes wide. “Oh my god,” Kelly breathed, her voice filled with a sickening triumph. “I knew it. Mia is a child of destiny! She wanders off and brings home gold!” She shot a nasty look at me. “Better than some little ‘unlucky’ brats. Some kids are just anchors dragging everyone down. They’d be better off gone.” I didn’t answer. I was watching the old woman disappear around the corner. She was practically sprinting. And Mia… Mia wasn’t crying. She was turning blue. She was gasping for air, her eyes bulging. A memory flashed in my mind. A poster at the grocery store. “Wait!” I yelled. Kelly, busy kissing the gold chain, snapped at me. “What now?” I started running toward the street, toward the woman. “Something is wrong! That woman—” Kelly grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “You just want the gold for yourself, don’t you? You want your little brat to have it! Well, he doesn’t have the luck!” My mother stepped in too, grabbing a handful of my hair. “Shut up! You’ll make her come back for the chain!” I shook them off. “Are you blind? Who gives away a gold chain to a stranger? She’s running!” I broke into a sprint toward the gate. I didn’t get five feet before Kelly kicked me square in the back. I slammed into the pavement. Pain exploded in my face as my nose hit the concrete. Before I could crawl away, Dave’s fist came down on the back of my head. “Bitch! Mind your own business! Stop ruining our luck!” Toby was screaming, “Don’t hurt my mommy!” Kelly didn’t even blink. She swung a foot into Toby’s ribs. “Shut up, you little mistake! One more word and you’re next!” I stayed on the ground, blood pouring from my nose, and fumbled for my phone. I dialed 911. I remembered the poster now. The face on the “Most Wanted” flyer at the store. That woman was a notorious child trafficker. And then, my mother’s scream ripped through the air. “Mia! Mia, what’s wrong? MIA!” My heart stopped. I looked up. Mia was in my mother’s arms. Her face was dark purple. Her eyes were fixed, staring at nothing. Her little hand relaxed, and a handful of hard, round candies spilled out onto the grass. The “gift” hadn’t been gold. It had been a distraction. Mia had choked on the candy, and the “kind lady” had fled the moment the child started dying in her arms.

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The night I was discharged from the hospital, Cherry shattered what was left of my soul. With a chilling casualness, she told me the name of the person who had kept me prisoner five years ago—the person who had delighted in my systematic destruction. It was Bianca. Bianca. My younger brother Jace’s wife. The news felt like a physical explosion inside my skull. My voice shook as I begged her to tell me she was joking, but Cherry just continued, her face a mask of terrifying serenity. She told me that five years ago, Jace had discovered he was sterile. His mother-in-law already despised him, looking for any excuse to throw him out of the prestigious family he’d married into. To protect Jace’s position as a pampered son-in-law, Cherry had struck a deal with him. She agreed to let me—his own brother—be used as his surrogate. But Bianca had always nursed a sick, twisted grudge against me. So, the three of them conspired. They locked me away, subjecting me to day after day of unimaginable torment, until they finally broke me—until they destroyed the very thing that made me a man. I fought back the bile rising in my throat, my lips trembling uncontrollably. I asked her why she was telling me this now. Cherry let out a long, theatrical sigh, as if she were finally dropping a heavy burden she’d been forced to carry. She said she was tired of the secrets. She told me the child she’d given me—Noah—was her way of paying back the debt. She even laughed, a small, dainty sound. “They say men soften up once they become fathers. I guess it’s true. You’re so much more… compliant lately. You’ve finally learned how to be good.” I forced the corners of my mouth to twitch into something resembling a smile. I didn’t say a word. She didn’t know. I wasn’t becoming “good.” I was becoming a ghost. And I had a secret of my own that I had never confessed to her. … The truth was a tidal wave, but even as I drowned, I caught the dissonance in her words. “The child you ‘owed’ me… what does that mean?” Cherry hesitated, a flicker of guilt crossing her features. She rubbed her neck, then decided to go for broke. “Before all of that happened… when I was pregnant with your first? I didn’t want it. I wasn’t ready to be tied down to you like that. So… I put some oil on the top of the stairs.” The world tilted. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. That baby—the one I had spent every night talking to through her skin, the one I had built a nursery for in my heart—wasn’t lost to a tragic accident. She had murdered him. He was seven months along. He was a person. Two more months and he would have seen the light of day. Instead, his own mother snuffed him out for her own convenience. My heart felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand. I gasped for air, my lungs refusing to expand. Seeing my distress, Cherry grabbed my hand, pressing her lips to my knuckles with a sickening tenderness. “I know it hurts, Calvin. But we have Noah now. It’s the same thing.” I looked at the infant sleeping in the bassinet, tears blurring my vision. “It’s not the same.” Cherry’s brow furrowed. She dropped my hand, her voice turning sharp and cold. “How is it different? A child is a child. Just look at Noah as if that other baby came back to you. Problem solved.” “Besides,” she continued, her tone rising with indignation, “after the miscarriage, I saw how depressed you were. I dropped everything to nurse you back to health. I cooked every meal. I stayed by your side every second just to see you smile again… Calvin, I don’t owe you anything anymore!” A new child and a few home-cooked meals. That was her price for the soul-shredding agony of losing a son. I couldn’t accept it. I wouldn’t. Cherry’s raised voice woke Noah. He began to wail. She immediately scooped him up, cooing to him with a softness I once found beautiful. When she’d first told me she was pregnant with Noah, she seemed even more thrilled than I was. She’d prepped the room months in advance; the closets were bursting with tiny clothes. She used to let me feel her belly, listening as I read stories to the bump. This child was bathed in a maternal love the first one never knew. She really did love Noah. But now, the more she loved him, the more my heart screamed. Because Noah wasn’t Cherry’s. He was Bianca’s—the woman who had kept me in the dark and broken my body. They had been lying to me from the very start. Cherry brought Noah over to me, gesturing for me to hold him. I looked at the child with bloodshot eyes, my arms remaining frozen at my sides. A flash of disgust crossed Cherry’s face. “And here I thought you’d finally learned your place. I see you’ve still got that temper.” “If you’re going to be like this, then forget the baptism party tomorrow. We can just head down to the courthouse and sign the divorce papers right now!” I stared at her, wanting to rip her chest open to see if there was a heart in there or just a block of ice. Five years ago, she’d threatened divorce too. It was right after I’d caught her in bed with Jace, our “adopted” brother. My world, which I had painstakingly tried to tape back together, shattered all over again. I had lost my mind. I’d attacked Jace, filming the aftermath, screaming that I’d send it to his mother-in-law. Cherry had ended my hysteria with a single, stinging slap. “I was just in a bad mood,” she’d said. “I drank too much. If you can’t handle it, then leave.” A bad mood. Back then, my greatest fear was her being unhappy. I was ashamed of my “unclean” body, ashamed of what had happened to me. I had knelt at her feet, sobbing, begging her not to leave. I had even started hitting myself, convinced that her cheating was my fault—that I wasn’t man enough to keep her satisfied. Cherry had pulled my spiraling body into her arms then. “Cal, stop! You’ve already lost one child. If you keep this up, you’re going to break yourself.” That was the reason she gave me to keep living. Now I realized she wasn’t worried about me. She just didn’t want her brother’s dream of being a “father” to die with me. Seeing my face go pale, Cherry assumed she had won again. The “divorce” threat always worked. “Cal,” she whispered. “Just be good, and we can be a happy family of three. You’re tired. Go to sleep. I’ll take care of the baby tonight.” That night, Noah cried four times in the next room. Cherry handled him alone. She didn’t come to me. I didn’t go to her. The next day was the party. I sat in my room, listening to the muffled voices of guests praising the “beautiful baby boy.” I felt nothing. The door clicked open. A soft, feminine voice drifted in. “Brother-in-law? Why are you hiding in here?” Jace walked in, leading five-year-old Benny by the hand. Benny was Bianca’s son. The moment he saw me, he sprinted over and threw his arms around my legs. “Uncle Cal! I missed you so much!” That face was a miniature of Bianca’s, but his eyes… his eyes were mine. The questions that had haunted me for years were suddenly answered in the curve of a child’s eyelid. My stomach turned. I shoved Benny away with a force that sent him sprawling. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” Benny hit the floor hard, looking up in shock. Jace, however, just smirked. In the past, whenever Jace saw Benny getting close to me, he’d turn passive-aggressive. Last Father’s Day, Benny had made me a card. Jace had flown into a rage, and to punish me, he’d kissed Cherry right in front of my face. “You try to steal my son, I’ll take your wife,” he’d hissed. I’d tried to tear him apart, but Cherry had held me back. “He’s just jealous because the kid likes you. It was just a kiss, Cal. Don’t be so dramatic.” I had responded by smashing every vase in the house. Jace found it hilarious. He realized that the more affection Benny showed me, the more “intimate” Cherry would get with him to “balance things out.” He loved watching me go insane. Jace didn’t even pick Benny up. He just looked at me. “What’s wrong, Cal? Benny loves you. He’s been begging to see you since you went to the hospital.” Just then, Cherry walked in holding Noah. She frowned at Jace. “I told you not to bring the boy in here.” Jace draped an arm around Cherry’s shoulder, his voice dripping with false innocence. “I just thought Cal might want to hold his son.” My blood ran cold. He knew. He knew Cherry had confessed everything. He brought Benny here specifically to twist the knife. I grabbed a glass vase from the nightstand and hurled it at them. Cherry pulled Jace out of the way, her eyes wide with fury. “Calvin! Have you lost your mind?” “Yes! I’m f***ing insane!” I lunged for Jace, my hands aiming for his throat. A second later, Cherry’s boot connected with my abdomen. It wasn’t a shove; it was a deliberate, powerful kick. She hit me right where my surgical wounds were still healing. The pain was blinding. I collapsed, cold sweat pouring down my face. “Cal…” Cherry’s expression flickered with a brief moment of regret. She started toward me. Suddenly, a shout came from the hallway. “Fire! There’s a fire in the kitchen!” Thick, oily smoke began billowing under the door. Cherry didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Jace with one hand and Noah with the other, and she ran. She didn’t look back. I lay on the floor, paralyzed by the pain in my gut, gasping for air that was rapidly turning to ash. Just as I felt my consciousness slipping, a figure burst through the smoke. “Calvin! Where are you?” I blinked, trying to focus. When the woman’s face came into view, my entire body locked up. Five years of suppressed agony came screaming back. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” I shrieked, thrashing wildly. But Bianca pinned my limbs down with a strength I remembered all too well. She held me just like she had in that basement. “Shut up! Do you want to die?” Being touched by her was worse than death. I fought, I screamed, and then I simply went limp, vomiting onto the floor. Once we were outside in the fresh air, Bianca—covered in scratches from my struggle—dumped me onto the grass with a snarl. The world went black. I woke up in a hospital bed. Cherry wasn’t there. She sent a text instead. I’m so sorry. Jace was right next to me and I had Noah… I couldn’t reach you. But as soon as I got out, I told Bianca to go back for you. I’m too busy with Noah and the insurance adjusters for the fire. Bianca will stay and look after you while you recover. “Cherry, are you serious?” I whispered into the phone when I finally got her to pick up. My voice was a broken rasp. “You know what she did to me…” Cherry’s voice was clipped, impatient. “Stop being so dramatic, Calvin. That was years ago. Get over it.” In the background, I heard Jace’s voice. “Cherry, honey, I think I twisted my ankle during the fire. Come help me to the bathroom?” The call disconnected. She wasn’t just taking care of the baby; she was nursing Jace. She had chosen to save him, chosen to care for him, and handed me over to my rapist. It was a knife that had been lodged in my back for five years, and she had just hammered it in to the hilt. I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. Bianca sat by my bed, looking smug. She poured a glass of water and held it out. I knocked it out of her hand. She didn’t even get angry as the water soaked her sleeve. “Don’t be like that, Cal. After all, we were ‘married’ for quite a while in that basement. Think of how many nights we shared.” I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood. My hands gripped the bedsheets so hard my knuckles turned white. Bianca’s eyes dropped to my mouth. “Still biting your lip when you’re scared? Some things never change.” She reached out to touch my face. I reacted like a wounded animal, grabbing a piece of the shattered water glass from the floor and slashing it across her forearm. “Get out!” I screamed. The glass sliced my own palm open, blood blooming across my hand, but I felt no pain. Bianca, startled, finally backed away and left the room. The day I was discharged, Cherry finally showed up. She brought a bouquet of camellias—my favorite. She took me to the bistro where we had our first date. She ordered the spicy tofu I’d craved during my “recovery” at home. On the drive back, she talked incessantly about Noah—how he’d smiled, how he’d even peed on her face and she thought it was the cutest thing in the world. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the blurred city. As we passed the courthouse, I spoke for the first time that day. “I want a divorce.” Cherry slammed on the brakes. “What?” She looked at me with genuine disbelief. The man who had been too broken to even consider leaving, even after the cheating, was finally saying the words. Her phone buzzed. A message from Bianca. Busy? Calvin gets out today. Want me to go pick him up? In an instant, Cherry’s eyes turned murderous. “Is that why? You’re leaving me for her?” “What?” “You spent a few days with her and now you’re hooked again? Is that it? Now that you know there’s a kid between you, you can’t wait to crawl back into her bed and relive the ‘glory days’ of being her toy? You pathetic slut.” The words hit me like a physical assault. I couldn’t believe this was how she saw me. “I didn’t—” Cherry unbuckled her seatbelt and lunged across the center console, pinning me against the door. “You like being forced, don’t you? Is that what you need?” She began ripping the buttons off my shirt, her teeth sinking into the skin of my neck. “Cherry, stop! Get off me!” I summoned every ounce of strength I had left and slapped her across the face. “Go back to your brother! Leave me alone!” Cherry’s eyes went red. She reached over, opened the passenger door, and shoved me out of the car. I tumbled onto the pavement. She sped off, leaving me disheveled and exposed, as pedestrians stopped to stare and whisper. I wrapped my arms around myself, shielding my torn clothes, and began the long walk home. The villa Cherry had bought for my “recovery” was gone, a charred skeleton of a house. That peaceful time we’d spent there—the illusion of a happy family—had gone up in smoke. When I entered our temporary apartment, I walked straight into Cherry and Jace wrapped around each other on the sofa. They didn’t even look embarrassed. I walked past them without a word. I was packing my bags when Jace strolled into the bedroom. He was wearing a silk robe that left nothing to the imagination, his skin covered in fresh marks. “You know, Calvin, my wife let you sleep in her bed for years. It’s only fair I get a turn with Cherry. I’m still the one getting the short end of the stick here.” I ignored him and kept folding my shirts. My silence irritated him. He stepped forward and grabbed a tiny, hand-knitted sweater from my suitcase—something I’d made for my first son. He dropped it on the floor and ground his heel into it. “The kid’s dead, Cal. What’s the point of keeping this trash?” I froze. Jace leaned in, a sadistic glint in his eyes. “You know, while Cherry was playing nursemaid to you, I told her I was having nightmares. I told her the ghost of that ‘accident’ baby was coming for me. Do you know what she did?” My heart stopped. “She took the box of ashes you kept on the mantel. She found a local occultist, someone who specializes in ‘binding’ spirits. And then she buried your brat in the dirt right next to the municipal landfill… to keep him from ‘haunting’ me.” Something inside me snapped. I lunged at Jace like a demon, clawing and tearing at him, my fingers locking around his throat. Cherry rushed in and ripped me off him, delivering a backhand that made my ears ring. She threw a set of papers onto the bed. Her signature was already there. “Sign them, Calvin. But think hard. Do you really think Bianca is going to marry you once I’m gone?” I let out a harsh, jagged laugh. I didn’t even look at her as I signed my name. Cherry’s face contorted into something ugly. Just then, Noah started crying in the other room. She looked at me coldly. “I’m keeping custody. Since you’re leaving, you can give him his last feeding.” I stared at her. I had never “fed” Noah. Cherry had always insisted on the nanny doing it, or she did it herself. She used to tell me it was okay, that she knew I had “barriers” and we could take it slow. Now, she was using the baby as a weapon. “I’m not doing it.” I grabbed my suitcase, but she snatched my wrist. Her voice was ice. “You’re going to do it.” She shoved me onto the bed and, before I could react, she produced a pair of zip-ties, wrenching my hands behind my back and securing them. My shirt was torn open in the struggle. She picked up a bowl of mashed baby food. I thrashed, screaming. “Cherry! You monster! Let me go!” Bianca and Jace appeared in the doorway, watching the show. Cherry didn’t care. She pinched my jaw open and forced a spoonful of the cold, sticky mush into my mouth. She held my mouth shut, forcing me to chew. I couldn’t swallow; I couldn’t spit it out. I just felt the humiliation of the saliva-soaked mass in my mouth. Then, she pressed her fingers into my jaw, forcing me to lean over the crying infant. She tilted my head, forcing me to pass the food from my mouth into Noah’s. In that moment, the last shred of my dignity was ground into the dirt. “Why…” I sobbed, my eyes squeezed shut. “Why are you doing this to me?” Cherry leaned into my ear. “See, Cal? Noah stopped crying. He ate. Are you really going to walk away and never see him again?” Revolting. She was absolutely revolting. Eventually, she cut the ties. “Think about it. Can you really give up your son? Can you give up me?” She picked up the satisfied baby and walked out. Jace and Bianca followed, wearing matching grins. I lay on the bed like a broken doll. My tears had run dry. She asked if I could give them up. How could I not? I didn’t want her. I didn’t want the child. I changed my clothes, wiped my face, and left a document on the bedside table next to the divorce papers. Then I walked out of that house and didn’t look back. Cherry returned to the room an hour later, expecting to find a broken man ready to apologize. Instead, she found an empty room and a missing suitcase. He was actually gone. She began smashing things in a frenzy until she saw the paper I’d left behind. Her face went deathly pale. Her hands shook as she picked up the DNA test.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427405”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

One year of marriage, and my husband hadn’t so much as brushed his skin against mine. I was at my breaking point, standing on the jagged edge of doing something reckless, when the air in front of me suddenly fractured. Strange, glowing lines of text began to drift across my vision—scrolling like a live comment feed on a viral video. The text claimed my husband wasn’t paralyzed at all. It described him as a six-foot-three specimen of pure muscle with a washboard stomach. The comments were graphic, debating the “wild life” the female lead would eventually have with him, filled with details that made my face flush a deep crimson. I stared at Brooks, lying there in his hospital bed at home. Was this “crippled” husband of mine actually a wolf in sheep’s clothing? I didn’t have time to process the madness. Fueled by a mix of fury and curiosity, I ripped the cashmere throw off his legs and straddled him right there on the bed. 1 Three hundred and sixty-four days into my marriage with Brooks Barret, I finally made a decision: Today, I was going to find a distraction. A “side piece,” if you will. Don’t judge me. It wasn’t about being scandalous; it was about survival. I was twenty-two, in the prime of my life, and I’d spent a full year married to a man who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—even hold my hand. By day, I was his glorified nurse, feeding him and making sure he was hydrated. By night, I retreated to the small guest room next door to count sheep. By the time I hit ten thousand, I’d find myself staring at the ceiling, whispering, “Tatum, what the hell are you doing?” Was it for the money? The Barrets were old-money wealthy, sure, but Brooks’s mother treated me like a common thief. Every cent of my monthly allowance was scrutinized. Buying a new lipstick felt like an interrogation at the border. Was it for him? What could I possibly want from a man who couldn’t move from the waist down? Outside, the late spring sun was gorgeous, dancing over the climbing roses in the courtyard. I stood at the door of Brooks’s study, watching his profile as he sat in his wheelchair, immersed in a book. I had to admit, the man was devastatingly handsome. Deep-set eyes, a high bridge to his nose, and a jawline so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. Even sitting down, you could tell he was built—broad shoulders, long limbs. There was something tragic about a man that powerful being confined to a chair, like a lion in a glass box. A waste. Truly. I pulled my gaze away, giving myself a silent pep talk. Tatum, today is the day. That trainer who just moved into the penthouse downstairs? He’s smiled at you three times this week. That’s a green light if I ever saw one. I slipped into my most form-fitting dress, swiped on a layer of cherry-red gloss, grabbed my bag, and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” The voice was low, vibrating through the hallway. I turned. Brooks had wheeled himself into the corridor, his dark eyes fixed on me. They were like twin inkwells, so deep they made my skin crawl with an inexplicable nervousness. “Just… out. For a walk,” I said, my voice betraying me by dropping an octave. He studied me for a long beat, then lowered his gaze. “Don’t stay out too late.” I murmured a quick agreement and practically bolted out of the house. By the time I reached the community garden, my guilt had turned to irritation. Why was I the one feeling twitchy? I was allowed to go shopping. I was allowed to exist. I wasn’t his property. The trainer from the penthouse was out walking his golden retriever. He spotted me from a distance and waved, a bright grin on his face. “Looking beautiful today, Tatum!” My heart lifted. I was just about to walk over and strike up a conversation when— The world exploded in neon text. [LOL, the side-character wife is actually going out to cheat!] [Girls, get in here! The livestream is getting juicy!] [Tatum is such a moron. She really thinks the male lead is paralyzed? She’s literally ignoring a six-foot-three god with an eight-pack for a basic gym bro?] I froze, blinking rapidly. The words floated in the air like digital graffiti, drifting past my eyes. What the hell? I looked around. The trainer was still playing with his dog; neighbors were power-walking by. No one else reacted to the glowing sentences hanging in the air. Was I the only one seeing this? [LMAO, the actual heroine doesn’t even show up for another three chapters. The wife is already losing her mind.] [Relax, babes! The real show starts when the heroine arrives. Brooks has that lethal athleticism, if you know what I mean. Total alpha energy.] [SPOILER ALERT: He sneaks into his private gym every night. Five hundred pushups, minimum.] [If the wife actually touches him, I’ll scream. Our sweet heroine needs him to stay pure!] [I’m literally drooling thinking about the heroine’s ‘long nights’ with him once he ‘recovers.’ Power-bottom energy.] I stood there, feeling like I’d been struck by lightning. Brooks isn’t paralyzed? Eight-pack? Lethal athleticism? Were they talking about… Brooks? My Brooks? The man I had to help use the bathroom? I pinched my arm hard. It hurt. This wasn’t a dream. The text kept scrolling: [HIGH ENERGY ALERT! Does the wife see us?] [Impossible. The system has her blocked. She’s just an NPC.] [I don’t know, the last world we watched had a glitch. She looks spooked.] I took a deep, shuddering breath. I forced my face into a mask of indifference and turned back toward the house. “Tatum? Leaving already?” the trainer called out. I didn’t even look back. 2 Back inside, Brooks was still in the study, in the exact same position. I stood in the doorway, watching him for a long time. He was turning a page, the sunlight casting a halo of gold over his features. His lashes were thick, casting soft shadows on his cheekbones. He looked exactly the same. But my eyes drifted, uncontrollable now, toward his legs. The cashmere blanket covered everything. For a year, I’d never seen those legs move. I’d bathed him, and his muscles always felt soft, useless. But the comments said… “Is there something on my face?” Brooks looked up, catching my stare. My heart skipped a beat. “You’re just… handsome,” I blurted out, a total lie. He blinked, seemingly caught off guard. I caught a faint, fleeting trace of a flush on the tips of his ears. I stared at that hint of red, my mind racing. Faking it for a year? Why? The Barrets were rich, sure, but his parents were gone. The company was run by a board. A paralyzed man wasn’t a threat to anyone. His uncle was a shark, but Brooks-in-a-wheelchair was out of the way. Unless… he wasn’t just hiding. He was waiting. The comments said the “heroine” would arrive in three chapters. Was I in a book? A “supporting character” destined to be discarded? And what was this “long nights” nonsense? I’ll admit it: I was pissed. That evening, I brought in his nightly basin of warm water to soak his feet. Usually, I’d just set it down, pull off his socks, dunk his feet, and give them a perfunctory scrub. Tonight was different. I set the basin down and knelt before him, but I didn’t reach for his shoes immediately. “Everything okay?” he asked, looking down at me. I looked up, flashing a bright, manic smile. “I just realized I haven’t been taking very good care of you, honey. Let me really look after you tonight.” His expression stiffened for a fraction of a second. I ignored it. I slid his feet out of his slippers and eased them into the water. The temperature was perfect. I wrapped my hands around his ankles and slowly, deliberately, began to slide my palms upward. His calf muscle twitched. It was microscopic, a mere flicker of life, but because I was hyper-focused, I felt it. My stomach did a somersault. A paralyzed man doesn’t have reactive muscle fibers. I didn’t look up. I kept moving my hands higher, massaging with intent. “You have such long legs, Brooks. It’s such a shame. If you could stand, you’d be the most striking man in any room.” He didn’t say a word. When I reached his knees, I felt the quadriceps beneath his slacks turn as hard as granite. But as soon as I squeezed, the muscle went slack again. He was fighting it. He was exercising immense self-control. Interesting. When I finished, I dried his feet and stood up with the basin. “Get some rest.” “Yeah.” I reached the door and glanced back. He was sitting with his back to me, his shoulders set in a rigid, tense line. I smiled to myself. Back in my room, I lay on the bed, eyes wide. The comments said he practiced boxing and did five hundred pushups a night. The room next to the study was the home gym—it was always locked. They told me it was for his safety, so he wouldn’t try to go in there alone and hurt himself. Now I realized: the lock wasn’t to keep him out. It was to keep me out. I waited until 1:00 AM. The house was as silent as a tomb. I crept out of bed, barefoot, and slipped into the hallway. Brooks’s bedroom door was closed, but a sliver of light escaped from the bottom. Still awake? I hugged the wall, inching toward the door. I peeked through the crack. Empty. The wheelchair was empty. The bed was empty. My heart hammered against my ribs. I turned toward the end of the hall. The gym door was slightly ajar, and the dull, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a heavy bag echoed through the air. I moved like a ghost, peering through the gap. And then, I stopped breathing. In the center of the gym, a massive man, shirtless and glistening with sweat, was laying into a punching bag. The overhead lights caught the rippling muscles of his back. His shoulder blades moved like gears, his physique lean and lethal, like a predator. Every punch landed with a force that made the heavy bag groan. He was easily six-foot-three. Broad shoulders, a tapering waist, and abs so defined they looked carved from marble. The line of his hips disappeared into his low-slung gym shorts— I swallowed hard. This was my “paralyzed” husband? The comments hadn’t lied. He trained for another twenty minutes, his final blow sending the bag flying back at a violent angle. He stopped, chest heaving, sweat dripping down the carved valleys of his stomach. I prepared to retreat— But he turned his head suddenly, his gaze piercing the darkness toward the door. My heart nearly leaped out of my throat. I dropped into a crouch. Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached. I covered my mouth, holding my breath until it burned. The footsteps stopped at the door for two agonizing seconds, then slowly faded away. I slumped against the floor, my legs shaking. 3 The next morning, I was sporting dark circles under my eyes as I served him breakfast. He sat in his chair, taking the bowl of oatmeal, and gave me a long look. “Didn’t sleep well?” “Oh? No, no. I slept great,” I lied, waving a hand dismissively. He didn’t press it. He just went back to his meal. I watched his hand—the way his fingers gripped the spoon. Strong, capable, steady. These were the hands that had been brutalizing a heavy bag just hours ago. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. He’d let me wait on him hand and foot for a year. He’d played the part so perfectly, even letting me help him in the bathroom! Was he laughing at me the whole time? And then there was this “heroine” coming in three chapters. What was I? A placeholder? A footstool? The text started scrolling again: [The wife is acting weird today. She’s staring at Brooks like she wants to eat him.] [Did she find out? No way.] [Nah, Brooks has been playing this role for a year. He’s basically an Oscar winner at this point.] [Poor Tatum. Once the heroine arrives, she’s getting written out.] Written out? My grip tightened on my spoon. Did that mean death? Divorce? Exile? Whatever it was, I wasn’t going quietly. I set my spoon down and looked Brooks in the eye. He was the picture of harmlessness. “Brooks,” I said. He looked up. I gave him my most radiant, fake smile. “It’s beautiful out. Let me take you for a walk in the gardens.” He paused, then nodded. “Fine.” I wheeled him to the sunniest spot in the courtyard. Then, I knelt before him, looking up into his face. The sun was behind him, casting his features in shadow, making his dark eyes seem even deeper. “Brooks,” I whispered. “Yes?” “This past year… has it been hard for you?” His eyes flickered. “What do you mean?” I didn’t answer. I stood up and moved behind him, pushing the chair slowly. There was a path made of uneven cobblestones. I steered him right over them, letting the chair jolt and vibrate violently. His body shook with the impact, but he didn’t move to steady himself. He didn’t stand. I looked at his legs. The blanket hid everything. But I noticed his hands—they were gripping the armrests so hard his knuckles were white. It wasn’t fear. It was control. He was forcing himself to stay seated. I suppressed a cold laugh. “Wait here, Brooks. I’ll go get you some water.” “Alright.” I turned toward the house. Halfway there, I glanced back. He was looking down at his legs. I couldn’t see his face, but I saw his fingers tap a rhythmic beat against the cashmere throw. It looked like a code. I walked inside as if I hadn’t seen a thing. 4 That night, I made a choice. If the comments said I was going to be “written out,” I was going to get mine first. Six-foot-three, washboard abs, and that lethal build? Why should the “heroine” get all the fun? When I brought his foot-soaking water that night, I wore my thinnest silk nightgown. No bra. When I bent over to set the basin down, the neckline dipped dangerously low. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his gaze snag on me for a heartbeat before he jerked his head away. “Brooks, let me give you a real massage tonight,” I said, kneeling and pulling his hand onto my lap. “You’ve been so patient this year. It must be miserable, being trapped in this body.” His fingers twitched. He tried to pull away. I held on tight. “Don’t be shy. A wife is supposed to take care of her husband.” He stopped resisting, but his entire body went taut. I pulled his feet from the water, dried them, and rested them against my thighs. Then, I began to knead his calves, moving slowly upward. His muscles were like stones, vibrating slightly under my touch. “Does that feel good?” I asked, looking up. He was staring down at me, his eyes dark with something terrifying. “Tatum.” “Mmm?” “What exactly are you doing?” I blinked, playing the innocent. “Taking care of my husband. What else?” He stared at me for a long time, then reached out and gripped my chin. It wasn’t painful, but it was authoritative. “You’ve been different today,” he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Ever since this morning.” My heart was thumping like a drum, but I kept smiling. “You’re imagining things. I just realized I haven’t been a very good wife this year, and I want to make it up to you.” He searched my eyes for an eternity, as if trying to read my soul. Finally, he let go and leaned back. “That’s enough. Go to bed.” I didn’t move. “I said, go to bed.” I stood up, took the basin, and walked to the door. I looked back one last time. He was looking down, his legs under the blanket perfectly straight and rigid. I smiled. No rush. We had all night. 5 But my plans met a sudden roadblock. Before I could make my next move, the “Heroine” arrived. The next day, Brooks’s mother showed up unannounced. And she wasn’t alone. “This is Maisie,” my mother-in-law said, beaming as she held the young woman’s hand. “I’ve hired her to help look after Brooks. You’ve had a long year, Tatum. You deserve a break. Maisie will take over from here.” I looked at Maisie. Heart-shaped face, soft brows, and eyes that always looked like they were on the verge of happy tears. She was slender—the kind of girl a man could wrap a single hand around her waist. She spoke in a voice like spun sugar. The text exploded: [AHHHH! The heroine is finally here! My sweet Maisie!] [I’ve waited three chapters for this! Totally worth it.] [Brooks, look at her! That’s your soulmate!] [Tatum can pack her bags now. Bye-bye, side character.] I gripped my glass of water so hard I thought it might shatter. So this was the “Heroine.” The comments claimed she was the “Chosen One”—kind, gentle, the only one who could “save” the broken hero. Maisie walked over to Brooks, leaning down with a soft, saccharine voice. “Mr. Barret, it’s such an honor. I’m Maisie. I’ll be taking very good care of you.” Brooks looked at her, gave a curt nod, and remained expressionless. But the fans were losing it: [That look! He’s totally into her!] [The stoic hero and the healing angel. I’m literally sobbing.] [Just wait, in a few chapters he’ll stand up just for her.] [Tatum, get out of the shot. You’re ruining the aesthetic.] I stood there, watching Maisie flutter around him. She brought him water; she adjusted his blanket with “tender” hands; she charmed his mother with every word. His mother was glowing. “See? What a lovely girl.” I stood in the corner, feeling like a ghost in my own home. 6 Maisie cooked dinner. Four courses, perfectly plated. My mother-in-law was full of praise. “Maisie, this is delicious! Brooks, try some.” Brooks took a bite. I noticed a slight furrow in his brow. Maisie watched him, her eyes shining. “Do you like it, Mr. Barret?” “It’s fine,” he murmured. Maisie blushed. [He said it’s fine! He’s usually so silent!] [She’s so cute when she blushes.] [They’re perfect for each other. I’m dead.] I ate my dinner in silence. My stomach hurt. That night, I tossed and turned. The “Fated Heroine” was here. He was supposed to fall for her, stand up for her, and have those “long nights” with her. And me? I was just the girl who’d be kicked to the curb. I stared at the ceiling, fuming. Suddenly, I heard a faint noise. I sat up. There it was again. Coming from the gym. I crept to the door and peeked out. The gym door was ajar, light spilling into the hall. But tonight was different. Someone was standing at the door. Maisie. She was wearing a white, lacy nightgown, peering into the gym. My heart hammered. Then, the massive shadow inside stopped moving. Brooks walked to the door, looking down at Maisie. The light was behind him, turning him into a dark, imposing silhouette. “It’s late. Why aren’t you in bed?” his voice was a low rumble. Maisie looked up, her eyes watery. “I… I couldn’t sleep. I heard a noise and… Mr. Barret, your legs…” Brooks was silent for a beat. “You saw.” “I won’t tell anyone!” she gasped, waving her hands. “I promise! Your secret is safe with me!” Brooks looked at her for a long time, then a faint smirk played on his lips. It was a look I’d never seen him give me. “Come in,” he said. Maisie blinked, then followed him into the gym. The door clicked shut. I sat on the floor of the hallway, frozen. [OMG! She’s already in the inner circle!] [Late night gym session? We know where this is going…] [Is he finally going to open up to her?] [Tatum is literally sleeping next door while her husband is with the real lead. Brutal.] I clenched my fists. Fine. Great. Perfect. 7 The next morning, I went downstairs with heavy eyes. Maisie was already in the kitchen, humming a song as she fried eggs. She wore a cute floral apron. “Morning, Tatum! Breakfast is almost ready.” “Morning,” I muttered, sitting at the table. Brooks was already there in his chair, a cup of black coffee in front of him. He glanced at me, lingering on my tired face. “Rough night?” “No. I slept like a baby,” I snapped. Maisie brought a plate of eggs to Brooks. “Here you go, Mr. Barret. Over-easy, just the way you like them.” Brooks took a bite. Maisie watched him expectantly. “How is it?” “Good.” She beamed. Then she set a plate in front of me. The eggs were rubbery, the edges burnt to a crisp. [Maisie is so thoughtful! She knows exactly how he likes his eggs.] [LMAO, did she burn Tatum’s on purpose?] [Heroine vibes: I only cook well for the male lead. The side character gets the scraps.] I ate the burnt eggs without a word. After breakfast, the mother-in-law returned. She held Maisie’s hands. “Maisie, I’m trusting you with him. Let me know if you need anything at all.” “You’re too kind, Mrs. Barret. It’s my pleasure,” Maisie chirped. The mother-in-law glanced at me, her tone cooling. “Tatum, since Maisie is here to help, you can finally take a back seat.” Translation: Get lost. “Of course,” I said with a tight smile. Once his mother left, Maisie was everywhere. Water for Brooks. Meds for Brooks. Reading the paper to Brooks. I sat on the sofa like a piece of furniture. In the afternoon, Brooks wanted some sun. Maisie jumped up. “I’ll take you!” Before I could even stand, she was already wheeling him out. I stood by the window, watching them in the garden. The sun was bright. Maisie was kneeling by his chair, looking up at him, laughing. Brooks was looking down at her, saying something I couldn’t hear. [This is so aesthetic. Screenshotting for my wallpaper.] [The way he looks at her is so tender. I’m melting.] [Tatum is watching from the window like a creep.] [Write her out already! She’s in the way.] I turned away from the window. Back in my room, I sat on the bed. The comments said in a few chapters, he’d stand up for her. They’d fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after. And I’d be gone. Is that it? Is that the end of my story? I don’t think so. 8 That night, I couldn’t sleep. At 1:00 AM, the gym noises started again. I crept to the door. Again, Maisie was there in her nightgown. Brooks came out, they whispered, and he reached out— My heart stopped as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His movement was so gentle, as if she were made of porcelain. Maisie looked up at him with stars in her eyes. The door shut behind them. I went back to bed, but I didn’t sleep a wink. By dawn, I had made a decision. If the “Heroine” wanted a fight, she was going to get one. Why should she get the six-foot-three god with the lethal build? That night, after my shower, I put on my most provocative silk slip. No underwear. I walked to Brooks’s bedroom and knocked. “Enter.” I pushed the door open. He was leaning against the headboard, reading a book. He wore charcoal pajamas, the top two buttons undone. When he saw me, his breath hitched. “Tatum?” I walked over and sat on the edge of his bed. His throat moved as he swallowed. “Brooks,” I whispered. He didn’t speak. I reached out and placed my hand on his chest. Through the thin fabric, I could feel the hard, rhythmic thumping of his heart and the terrifyingly solid lines of his muscle. “This past year must have been so exhausting for you,” I said softly. “Pretending to be paralyzed… it must be such a burden.”

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The Whitmans finally “reclaimed” me from the middle-of-nowhere three months ago. Since then, Tiffany has treated me like her personal recycling bin. This was the tenth time she’d shoved one of her rejected online dating prospects onto me. She literally tossed her phone into my lap, her face twisted in a look of pure elitist disgust. She called me a “hillbilly” and described the guy as some kind of “prehistoric bore.” “I’m not giving you my leftovers to be mean,” she said, her voice dripping with that fake, sisterly concern that actually felt like a slap. “It’s just… you’re so plain and clumsy. You’ll never survive a real social event. Consider this practice so you don’t embarrass Mom and Dad later.” I was about to beg her to stop, to tell her I was already drowning in the chores the house staff “forgot” to do, when the air in front of me suddenly shimmered. Floating text—scrolling comments, like a live stream feed—erupted in my vision. [God, the sister is such an idiot. That’s not a ‘prehistoric bore.’ That’s Old Money.] [Exactly. He was raised by the old guard. He’s formal, sure, but he’s got the looks, the heart, and a bank account that could buy the Whitmans ten times over.] [Wait until they realize that once he commits, he doesn’t just buy dinner. He buys zip codes. His family connections are the kind the New York elite would kill for.] [Forget being a ‘True Heiress.’ With him, she’d be the Queen.] I swallowed my refusal. I looked down at the phone, then back at my sister, and nodded obediently. “Thank you, Tiffany. I’ll… I’ll practice hard.” Fine. I didn’t want to be the “long-lost Whitman daughter” anymore. I wanted to be the one who owned the building they lived in. … When Tiffany dropped the phone into my arms, the screen was still glowing. It was the latest folding model, a piece of tech so sleek it made my old hand-me-down—which took three minutes just to load a text—look like a literal brick. In the past, every time she dumped a guy on me, I’d have to memorize her passwords, log into my own glitchy device, and wait for the messages to sync. By the time I could reply, the conversation was usually dead. On the screen, a wall of unread messages hung in the chat box. The man’s profile picture was a simple, unpretentious shot of a mountain landscape. His tone was just as plain, almost awkwardly so. [If you come to the estate, what kind of car would you prefer to be picked up in?] [I usually ride my horses, and if I go into the city, I prefer the subway or my bike to avoid the noise. I’m not entirely sure what’s in the garage right now. I’ll ask the staff and get back to you.] Tiffany had clearly ghosted him after that. After hours of silence, he had sent a cautious follow-up: [Are you perhaps hesitant about meeting me?] I didn’t reply immediately. Instead, I scrolled up through their history. Tiffany had mentioned wanting “luxury pastries” once. The next day, he’d sent a box of homemade buttermilk biscuits. He wrote: [These are a family tradition. My grandmother’s recipe. They aren’t always available, but they’re my favorite. If you like them, I’ll just buy the bakery’s contract so you can have them whenever you want.] Further down, Tiffany said she wanted a birthday party on a yacht in the Hamptons. His response was grave: [Yacht parties are chaotic. Too much noise, too little security—especially with the crowds this time of year.] [If you’re open to it, we could have a quiet dinner at my family’s manor. I’d like to introduce you to my elders.] That must have been the dealbreaker for Tiffany. To her, this guy wasn’t just “basic”—he was cheap and pretentious. She probably thought “family manor” was code for a dilapidated farmhouse filled with senile relatives. She found him so repulsive she couldn’t even be bothered to block him. I took a deep breath and began to type. [I’m not hesitant. I was just overthinking what I should wear for my birthday.] He was silent for a moment. Then: [You’re spending it alone? You sound… unhappy. Is it because of the yacht party?] He seemed to sigh through the text, already compromising. [Fine. We can do the yacht. But you have to stay with me the whole time. Don’t drink anything that leaves your sight. Don’t take anything from strangers. And we leave by 11:00 PM…] I cut him off. [I don’t want a yacht party anymore.] I paused, then added: [And I don’t think I’m ready to meet your family yet.] Silence again. Two minutes passed. [Are you angry with me?] The live feed sparked in my eyes again. [OMG, what is she doing? He’s giving her an opening!] [She’s being too picky. He’s patient, but he’s not going to put up with a brat forever.] [His family raised him on dignity and respect. If she pushes too hard, he’ll just move on to the next arrangement!] My palms were sweating. I rephrased the thought in my head three times before hitting send. [What I mean is… I’ve decided against the yacht. I just want to see you. I want to spend my birthday with you.] [But about your family… I feel like it’s too soon. I’m just a girl living under her parents’ roof. I haven’t accomplished anything yet. I’m not sure I’m someone your elders would be proud of.] I bit my lip and kept typing. [Can it just be the two of us first? If… if you end up liking me, could you help me? Help me become someone who deserves to stand beside you? Someone your family would approve of?] [I promise I’ll put in two hundred percent of the effort.] I flipped the phone face-down on the desk, my heart hammering against my ribs. To be honest, I was terrified. These words were the polar opposite of Tiffany’s shallow “socialite” persona. If the people in his life were as sharp as the comments suggested, they’d see through a fake in seconds. I needed to build my own foundation before I could face them. The phone buzzed. I flipped it over. A long block of text had appeared. It wasn’t a text message; it was a letter. Formal, sincere, and deeply moving. At the end, he wrote: [It brings me great joy to see you thinking of our future with such maturity. You have my word: I will do everything in my power to support your growth.] Below the message was a notification for a wire transfer: $50,000. The memo read: Birthday compensation. That evening, a new contact added me on Signal. He introduced himself as the Chief of Staff for a Mr. Winthrop. He was blunt and efficient, asking if I wanted a direct introduction to any Fortune 500 board or if I’d prefer a turn-key business registered in my name. I stared at the screen. The options were dazzling. They were “instant win” buttons. I typed back carefully: [Could I… could I just get an internship at his company?] The three dots of a reply appeared, then vanished. [An internship?] the assistant finally asked. The comments flared up. [Lol, she’s totally going for the ‘office romance’ trope. Trying to get close to the boss.] [I bet she just wants to show up in Louboutins and act like she owns the place. Typical.] [Giving her a shell company is easy. Putting her in the actual corporate structure as an intern? That’s a massive drain on resources.] [Exactly. Winthrop’s firm is all Ivy League PhDs. She’s going to be a disaster.] But I wasn’t. I had worked three jobs in college to pay for my Master’s degree. I wasn’t from a “Legacy” school, but I had clawed my way through every exam and every midnight shift. I was on the verge of a senior role at a top firm when the Whitmans “found” me and dragged me into their world of gilded cages. I was about to type out a long, professional justification when the assistant replied. [Understood.] [I will arrange a position for you to learn the fundamentals. Once you complete the basic rotation, you will move into a specialized leadership track. This includes executive coaching, linguistics, and high-level networking—the same curriculum Mr. Winthrop himself underwent.] I nearly fell off my chair. The same curriculum as the CEO? I finally learned his full name: Darian Winthrop. The name didn’t ring any bells locally. I Googled him and found… nothing. Not on Instagram, not in the tabloids. Finally, after digging through academic journals and international trade filings, I found him. He lived mostly abroad. He was the silent power behind Aether Group. He had no “reputation” in our local circles because quite frankly, no one here was important enough to be in his orbit. When I realized the sheer scale of Darian Winthrop’s net worth, I felt a wave of vertigo. The “family manor” was a historic estate in the English countryside with a private stable where a single horse cost more than the Whitman family business. If I could survive this internship, I wouldn’t need a dowry. I’d have a career that could sustain me for a lifetime. [She’s so calculated,] the comments hissed. [Searching his name like that? She’s a professional gold digger.] [Unlike Tiffany. Tiffany is real. She just follows her heart. If she doesn’t like a guy, she moves on. That’s class.] [Just wait. When he finds out she’s a fraud, he’s going to hunt for Tiffany and crush this little social climber.] I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. They were right. I was deceiving him. Eventually, the truth would come out, and when it did, the fallout would be catastrophic. The only thing I could do was make myself indispensable. If I made him happy enough—or became valuable enough—maybe there would be room for an explanation. I messaged Darian. [Did your assistant tell you? I’m so excited. I really want to work hard so I can stand by your side one day.] [Please don’t give me any special treatment. I want to start from the bottom.] [Thank you. You’re the best. I think I like you more than anyone else in the world.] I cringed the moment I hit send. That was the tone I’d used for the eighth guy Tiffany had passed me—a playboy who lived for flattery. Darian was the kind of man who wrote letters. Would he find me shallow? My heart raced as the reply came in: [Do whatever makes you happy.] [I like you best, too.] The contract arrived the next morning. Darian wanted me to start at the local branch to learn the ropes. He’d even bought a small apartment near the office so I wouldn’t have to commute. Tiffany walked by my room as I was packing. “Pearl? What are you doing?” I didn’t have time to hide the papers. She snatched them up. “The new guy got me a job. I’m looking at the contract.” Tiffany’s face darkened. “I told him I wanted to ‘visit’ his office once, and he said it would distract the staff. Now he’s giving you a job?” She scanned the pages, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “An internship?” “Three thousand a month? You’re actually going to slave away as a corporate mule for pocket change?” I looked down, saying nothing. But her hand stopped on a page bearing the Aether Group watermark. “How did he get you into Aether?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Do you know who they are? They’re old-world wealth. Untouchable.” My heart skipped. I quickly flipped the page back to the local address. “Their headquarters are in London or something. I’m just working at a satellite office. I don’t really understand the fine print… maybe they just outsource their filing to his company.” Tiffany looked at the contract again, then tossed it back onto the bed, satisfied. “Well, since I basically found you a job, I assume you won’t be needing an allowance from Mom and Dad anymore?” The first month I was back, they’d given me the same allowance as her. She’d been livid. Since the second month, I hadn’t seen a cent anyway. I nodded. “That’s fair. Thank you, Tiffany. I’d hate to just be a burden on the family.” She huffed a smug laugh and headed upstairs to tell our parents to cut me off financially. I closed the door, sat on my narrow bed, and texted Darian. [I start tomorrow. I’m so nervous. Can I ask you for advice? Is there anything I should watch out for?] I knew his personality—he loved to mentor, to provide structure. Thirty minutes later, an attachment appeared. Title: 1,000 Essential Protocols for Interns. Sub-title: (Pearl’s Private Edition). The next morning, I carried my suitcase downstairs. My parents were at the breakfast table. “Pearl? Where are you going?” my mother asked, barely looking up from her tablet. “The internship is far. I’m moving into the company housing.” My father’s brow furrowed. “You’re a Whitman. Working as a low-level clerk is beneath your station. It’s embarrassing.” I stood tall, keeping my voice neutral. “Tiffany’s suitors are from good families. If I just reject them, it looks bad on us. If I work for them, it keeps the relationship amicable. It’s better for the family name.” Tiffany swiped a piece of toast as she walked by. “She wasn’t raised with us, Dad. She doesn’t have our standards. If she wants to throw herself at a man I didn’t even want, let her. Let her see how hard the real world is. She’ll come crawling back once she realizes how good she has it here.” My parents went silent. They didn’t stop me. They just told me not to tell anyone I was a Whitman. The “apartment” Darian bought was actually a luxury penthouse. A housekeeper came daily to cook and clean. I was left entirely alone to focus. I was the first in the office and the last to leave. I studied every manual, practiced every protocol, and applied everything Darian taught me in real-time. I was running. Running because I was terrified that one day he’d realize I wasn’t the girl he started talking to. Terrified my parents would drag me back to marry some business associate. Terrified it would all vanish. Tiffany started a family group chat, “to check in on me.” I played along. Every day, I posted photos: a desk piled with files, the empty office at midnight, a plastic tray from the cafeteria. Tiffany would send voice notes of her laughing. “Truly, some people were just born to be beasts of burden.” “No matter how much money you throw at a peasant, they still want to work in the dirt.” The comments in my head were a roar. [She’s playing them! She never shows the penthouse or the private chef!] [What a manipulative snake. She’s letting them think she’s suffering while she lives like a princess.] I smiled, locked my phone, and went back to memorizing the quarterly projections. Whenever I struggled, I asked Darian. He loved it. He’d send pages of explanations, blending theory with decades of family wisdom. In return, I showered him with the kind of affection and praise he’d clearly never received in his stiff, formal life. A month later, I was promoted to a full-time associate. That afternoon, his assistant handed me my passport. “Mr. Winthrop has made the arrangements. You fly to the London headquarters tomorrow. The next phase of your training begins now.” My hands shook as I held the passport. I was finally going to see the world he lived in. But as I went back to the penthouse to pack, the comments went haywire. [Holy sh*t—Darian is back in the country!] [He spent all night comparing the data between Pearl and Tiffany! He knows!] [Finally! She’s dead meat.] [He’s going to find the real Tiffany and make sure this fraud never works in this industry again!] I froze. My knees went weak. I didn’t think. I just grabbed my bag, shoved my passport inside, and ran for the door. I’d pay him back. Every cent of the tuition, the rent, the food—I’d work my whole life to return it. But I couldn’t let him lock me in a room or hand me over to my parents. I threw open the door— And Darian was standing right there. He was much taller than his photos. He wore a dark wool overcoat, his collar buttoned to the top with obsessive precision. His features were sharp—a high brow, a straight nose, and lips pressed into a thin, stern line. He looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. My legs gave out. I stumbled back into the foyer, my voice a trembling wreck. “Mr… Mr. Winthrop.”

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My wife had been a ghost in our own home lately. Distant, vibrating with a nervous energy she couldn’t quite hide, her eyes always drifting to her phone as if waiting for a lifeline. I didn’t understand why—not until the morning the heavy hitters showed up at our front door. Three men with dead eyes and expensive suits that couldn’t hide the violence underneath. That was when I found out the truth: her “one who got away,” the high school sweetheart she’d never quite scrubbed from her heart, had racked up fifty million dollars in offshore gambling debt. But the real kicker? The bastard had forged my name as the guarantor. As the collectors slammed their fists on my mahogany dining table, demanding payment, Brooke didn’t stand by me. She didn’t even look at me. She fled into the bedroom, locking the door and shaking behind the wood. It took every connection I had and a very tense hour to get them to back off temporarily. I’d just caught my breath, the adrenaline still sour in my throat, when the bedroom door clicked open. Brooke didn’t come out to comfort me. She marched out with a stack of papers and a pen. “We need to divorce,” she said, her voice like dry ice. “I’m not letting a man drowning in debt pull me under with him.” I stared at her, stunned. I tried to pull the forged guarantee from my pocket to explain—to show her that this was her precious Beau’s doing, a trap set by the man she still dreamed about. She didn’t give me the chance. She snatched the paper, ripped it into confetti, and looked at me with a disgust so visceral it felt like a physical blow. “You’re a gaming influencer, Cade. You spend your life behind a screen, selling a fantasy to teenagers. Who knows how you really got into this mess? For all I know, you’ve been living a double life. Maybe you’re the one who blew the money on high-end escorts and sugar babies.” She smiled then—a sharp, triumphant thing. She bragged about how she’d already moved her entire savings into an account for Beau. “We’ve already picked out the wedding rings. Just sign the damn papers and get out.” Looking at her—the woman I’d loved for seven years, now a complete stranger—I felt a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. Fifty million dollars? To most, it was an impossible mountain. To me, it was a rounding error. I’d been prepared to settle the debt for her, out of some lingering sense of marital duty. But if she wanted to protect her “true love” this badly, then fine. Let her face those fifty million dollars on her own. 1 I looked at the shredded remains of the guarantee on the floor. The last thread of my affection for her snapped, silent and final. Brooke slapped the pen onto the coffee table, pointing at the divorce decree. “Sign it. Now. I have a life to start with Beau, and you’re in the way.” I picked up the pen. There was no hesitation. No tremor in my hand. I scrawled Cade Montgomery in the husband’s column. Brooke blinked. She hadn’t expected me to be this easy. In her mind, I was a man buried under a fifty-million-dollar tombstone; I should have been on my knees, begging her for a way out. “Smart move,” she spat, snatching the papers back. I looked at her, my gaze chilling into something she didn’t recognize. “The house and the cars were bought with my family’s money before we married. Pack your things. Get out. Now.” Brooke laughed as if I’d just told a joke. “Are you delusional, Cade? Did the debt collectors scramble your brain?” “The down payment was yours, sure,” she continued, “but I paid the mortgage for three months last year. That makes it marital property. Besides, you took out those loans behind my back. That’s a shared debt. I’m doing you a favor by not suing you for fraud!” She was getting louder, more emboldened by her own lies. Then, the front door clicked open. A man stepped in, wearing a limited-edition Armani suit that probably cost more than Brooke’s car. Beau. He moved with a practiced, arrogant swagger, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. He smirked, feigning shock. “Oh, Cade. You’re still here?” He turned to Brooke, his voice dropping into a honeyed tone. “Brooke, babe, I thought you said you were clearing out the trash today?” Brooke’s face transformed instantly. The hardness vanished, replaced by a simpering, adoring smile. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Don’t worry, honey. He signed. He’s leaving.” Beau leaned into her, tossing me a look of pure malice over her shoulder. “Sorry about all this, Cade. Truly. But Brooke says you’re… well, compromised. She was worried you might have picked something up from those ‘extracurriculars’ of yours. She insisted we go buy the engagement ring early to celebrate.” He held up his hand. On his ring finger, a diamond caught the light, refracting into a thousand tiny daggers. I recognized that stone. I’d seen it at an auction at Sotheby’s last week. Brooke had told me she wanted to buy me a “surprise” with her year-end bonus. I guess the surprise was for Beau. “That ring must have cost at least ten million,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “And every penny was worth it,” Beau bragged. “Brooke gave me everything in her accounts. She said it was a ‘down payment’ on our future.” Brooke nodded fervently. “Beau is a man worth investing in. Not like you—vaping and streaming while the world passes you by. You’re lucky I’m not throwing you to the wolves myself.” I looked at them—the parasite and the fool. Brooke had no idea that Beau had borrowed that fifty million behind her back. She’d not only been blinded by her “golden boy,” she’d handed him the shovel to dig her own grave. “I wish you both exactly what you deserve,” I said. I walked into the bedroom, threw a few changes of clothes into a duffel bag, and walked back out. Beau was already on the sofa, looking around with a critical eye. “Brooke, this sofa is hideous. Let’s get a custom Hermes piece in here tomorrow.” “Whatever you want, babe,” she whispered. I paused at the door, glancing back one last time. “Brooke. Just to be clear—every cent in your accounts is gone? You gave it all to him?” “Every bit! And you won’t see a dime of it, you loser!” “Fine,” I said, a small, dark smile touching my lips. “Remember you said that.” I stepped out into the night. The cool air hit my face, and for the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. Brooke didn’t realize she hadn’t just thrown away a husband. She’d thrown away the only person who could have kept her from the abyss. 2 I checked into the Penthouse at the Pierre. I’d barely stepped out of the shower when my phone began to vibrate violently. I opened Instagram. Brooke had gone nuclear. She’d posted a long-winded carousel. The cover photo was her and Beau, fingers interlaced, the diamond ring front and center. The caption was a masterclass in performative grief. [Seven years, and it was all a lie. I never thought the man I shared a bed with would be living a double life—racking up $50 million in gambling debt while chasing a lifestyle he couldn’t afford. Thank God for Beau, who stepped in during my darkest hour. For the rest of my life, I’m choosing real love over a fraud.] The comments were already a bloodbath. @LivingLuxe: No way! Cade always seemed so down to earth. $50M? He’s a total addict. @BrookeFan: She’s so brave. Imagine being tied to that kind of debt. Run, girl! @GamerGuy99: I knew his stats were too good to be true. Probably gambling on his own matches. I tossed the phone onto the silk sheets. Brooke was playing the victim perfectly. Then, my mother’s name flashed on the screen. I answered. “Cade? What is this nonsense on Brooke’s page? Are you really in debt?” Her voice was sharp, laced with that old-money steel. “Mom, ignore it,” I said, drying my hair with a towel. “The debt belongs to her boyfriend, Beau. He forged my signature. She’s just too delusional to see she’s being played.” “What?” My mother’s voice went an octave higher. “That little social climber is slandering a Montgomery? I’ll have my lawyers strip her of everything. I’ll make sure she’s blacklisted from every country club from here to the Hamptons!” “Mom, wait,” I said. “Let’s not be hasty. Breaking her legs or her reputation is too easy. I want her to watch her own world burn down first. I want her to realize exactly what she gave up.” After I hung up, I called Landry, my family’s head of operations. “Landry, two things.” “Yes, Mr. Montgomery?” “First, get the original guarantee. I need a forensic handwriting analysis. I want proof that Beau forged my signature. Second, pull the plug on Brooke’s firm. Cut every ‘silent’ resource, every offshore lead, and every luxury vendor my family provides for her company.” “Of course, sir. And if she calls asking why the bridge is gone?” “Tell her the parent company is doing a global audit. Total termination of all external contracts.” Over the last few years, Brooke’s media agency had become a massive success. She thought it was her “innate talent” and “magnetic personality.” She had no idea that 90% of her clients were subsidiaries of Montgomery Holdings, sent her way by me to make her feel accomplished. It was time for a reality check. The next morning, my phone rang. It was Brooke. I hadn’t even bothered to block her yet. “Cade! What the hell is wrong with you?” she screamed the moment I picked up. I held the phone away from my ear. “Good morning to you too, Brooke.” “Don’t ‘good morning’ me! You changed the codes on the house? I’m standing outside with the locksmith and he won’t touch it because the deed is in your name!” “Correct,” I said. “It’s my house. Why would I give the code to a stranger?” “A stranger? I’m your wife! This is my home, and Beau needs to move his things in!” “You were my wife,” I corrected. “And you should probably check your legal standing. The house was purchased via a trust before our marriage. Your ‘three months of mortgage’ wouldn’t even cover the landscaping fees. If you or your little boyfriend touch that door, I’ll have you arrested for trespassing.” I hung up before she could respond and blocked her number. She wanted the “golden boy”? She could go live in his debt-ridden reality. 3 The honeymoon phase of Brooke’s new life lasted exactly seventy-two hours. On Wednesday afternoon, Landry sent me an update. [Mr. Montgomery, all contracts associated with Brooke’s agency have been severed. Once word got out about the ‘audit,’ her other major clients panicked and pulled their accounts. Her cash flow has bottomed out. She won’t be able to make payroll next month.] I sipped my espresso, feeling the first stirrings of true satisfaction. But the real show was about to begin. The debt collectors—the ones Beau had tried to pin on me—weren’t going away. I’d sent Roxie, the head of the collection agency, the forensic evidence of the forgery along with Beau’s current location. Roxie wasn’t a woman you wanted to owe money to. She didn’t care about “true love” or Armani suits. She cared about her fifty million. That evening, I was enjoying a dry aged ribeye at the hotel restaurant when a call came from an unknown number. “Cade! You bastard! Was this you?” Brooke’s voice was hysterical. She must have borrowed a phone. “Was what me?” “My clients! They’re all canceling! And today, a group of… of thugs showed up at my office looking for Beau! They said he owes them fifty million! You’re so petty, Cade. You couldn’t handle your own debt, so you tried to frame him?” I set my fork down. “Brooke, use your brain. If the debt was mine, why would they be looking for him? Did it ever occur to you that the ‘golden boy’ might have a gambling problem? That he’s been using you for your credit line?” She laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “You’re just jealous. Beau is pure. He wouldn’t even know how to find an underground casino. He’s careful with money—he spends hours researching the best deals on watches. Not like you, throwing money at ‘gaming setups’ like a child!” Researching the best deals on watches? I almost choked. The man was probably scouting which ones had the best resale value for his next trip to Vegas. “Fine,” I said. “If he’s so innocent, then you shouldn’t have a problem paying his bills. You have that ‘investment fund’ you were so proud of, right?” Brooke went silent. I knew why. She’d already blown her liquid cash on that ten-million-dollar ring and a deposit on a Ferrari for him. With her company failing, she was hemorrhaging money she didn’t have. “Don’t you worry about us, Cade,” she hissed. “I just secured a new investor. And next Friday, Beau and I are throwing an engagement gala at The Grand Sterling. I’m going to stand on that stage and tell everyone exactly what kind of coward you are. Show up if you have the balls.” She slammed the phone down. The Grand Sterling? I smiled. I owned the Grand Sterling. I immediately called the hotel’s general manager. “I have a booking for a Brooke and a Beau next Friday. Give them the royal treatment. The best champagne, the most extravagant floral arrangements. Platinum level.” “Of course, Mr. Montgomery. Shall I process the deposit?” “No,” I said, my voice dropping into a cold, hard register. “Don’t take a single dime in advance. Let them run up the bill. And when the party is over, hand her the invoice in front of everyone.” 4 The week flew by. Brooke was frantic, selling off her designer bags and jewelry to keep up appearances for the gala. Beau, meanwhile, was all over social media, posting photos of tuxedo fittings and caviar tastings, each post a veiled dig at me. [Real men provide. Real love is an upgrade. See you at the Sterling.] Friday night arrived. I dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit, no tie, looking every bit the “disgraced” ex-husband they wanted me to be. When I arrived at the Grand Sterling, Brooke was at the door, draped in a gown that must have cost fifty thousand dollars. Beau was at her side, looking smug in a white velvet dinner jacket. “Cade,” Brooke said, her lip curling. “I’m surprised you showed up in that bargain-bin suit. Here for the free appetizers?” A few of Beau’s friends—the kind of trust-fund hangers-on who smelled blood in the water—crowded around, snickering. “Look, it’s the $50 Million Man,” one mocked. “Heard you’re living in a motel now, Cade. Tough break.” I ignored the flies and walked toward the ballroom. “Brooke, you invited me here for a reason. Get to it.” She smirked and signaled the band to stop. She climbed the small stage, taking the microphone. “Thank you all for coming,” she began, her voice projecting with practiced confidence. “Tonight is about more than just my engagement to Beau. It’s about truth. It’s about exposing the rot that can hide behind a marriage.” She pointed directly at me. “Cade Montgomery, my ex-husband, is a fraud. While I was building a business, he was racking up fifty million dollars in illegal gambling debt. He tried to ruin me to save himself. He is a disgrace to this city and to anyone who values integrity.” The room erupted into whispers. People looked at me with disgust, pulling their skirts and jackets away as if I were contagious. Beau stepped up beside her, looking solemn. “Cade, it didn’t have to be this way. If you’d just admitted you had a problem, we could have helped. But now? You need to turn yourself in. Stop dragging Brooke down.” I started to clap. Slowly. Methodically. “Bravo,” I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs. “Quite a performance. But tell me, Brooke… if you’re so sure about the ‘truth,’ aren’t you worried about the consequences?” “Consequences?” Brooke laughed. “I’m the victim here! You’re the one who—” The massive double doors of the ballroom were kicked open. A dozen men and women in dark windbreakers marched in. These weren’t hotel security. Leading them was Roxie. She had a jagged scar along her jawline and carried a heavy tablet like a weapon. Beau’s face went from smug to translucent in three seconds. He actually stumbled back, his knees hitting the stage steps. Roxie walked right past me, straight to the stage. She didn’t look at Brooke. She looked at Beau. “Beau,” she said, her voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve throwing a party while you owe me fifty large.” The room went deathly silent. Brooke stepped forward, her face pale. “Wait… you have the wrong person. Cade is the one who owes you. Cade Montgomery!” Roxie turned to Brooke, gave her a long, pitying look, and then looked at me. She gave a slight, respectful nod. Then she turned back and backhanded Brooke across the face.

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When that forged DNA report was slid across the mahogany desk toward me, the world as I knew it didn’t just crack—it vaporized. In the high-society circles of Manhattan, I had always been the girl at the center of the solar system, bathed in the warmth of every spotlight. Overnight, I became a ghost in my own home, a “charity case” living under the roof of the powerful Mercer family. To avoid being cast out into the cold, I learned the art of the grovel. When my sister, Rebecca, eyed my designer vintage dresses, I handed them over with a practiced, hollow smile. When she turned my twenty-first birthday gala into a showcase for her own “miraculous return,” I swallowed the bile in my throat and told her it was fine. The most absurd moment came when she confessed, blushing like a debutante, that she had feelings for Xander—the man who was supposed to be mine. I simply nodded, numb to the marrow. But the very next day, Xander—the man who had personally overseen the fabrication of that blood report—pinned me against the wall in a darkened hallway. His eyes were a frantic, bloodshot mess as he gripped my shoulders, asking if I’d lost my mind. He hissed at me, asking if blood was really that important—if I was truly willing to hand him over to someone else just because of a piece of paper. I looked at his crumbling composure and felt a sudden, sharp burst of irony. He was such a gifted actor that he’d managed to con even himself. … When the news broke that I wasn’t the biological daughter of the Mercers, my first instinct was to pack. I wanted to disappear before the pity could set in. But my parents—the people I’d called Mom and Dad for two decades—clutched my hands, their eyes shimmering with tears. “The Mercer family can handle two daughters, Claire,” Dad said. “Blood might be a lie,” Mom whispered, “but twenty years of memories are real.” Then came Rebecca. She stood in my bedroom doorway, clutching a tattered suitcase, her shoulders trembling with the delicacy of a wounded bird. “Mom, Dad… I don’t really need the master suite,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “It’s just… I spent so many years in that damp basement with my foster family. The doctors said I need more sunlight for my lungs.” She cast a fleeting, “innocent” look at me. “If Claire doesn’t move out of this room, I’ll just stay in the guest wing. I wouldn’t want people saying the Mercers are mistreating their long-lost daughter in favor of a foster child.” My parents’ hearts broke instantly. “Rebecca, sweetheart, you’re so thoughtful,” Mom cooed, already reaching for her phone to call the movers. “Don’t worry. We’ll make sure you have the brightest room in the house. You’ll never have to see a shadow again.” I stood there, head bowed, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt so hard my knuckles turned white. I didn’t need to look up to feel the shift in the air. My parents weren’t looking at me with love anymore. They were looking at me like a squatter—a greedy tenant who refused to vacate a property that didn’t belong to her. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, thinly veiled disappointment. Rebecca’s voice, now sharp with a performative sob, jerked me back to the present. “You’ve had ten years of luxury that belonged to me,” she cried, pointing at the floor. “And now you’ve destroyed our only family portrait? You’re truly malicious, Claire.” I looked down at the shattered glass of the framed photo on the rug. I didn’t even try to defend myself. In the photo, Rebecca was wearing the silk gown Xander had bought for me. She was smiling, flanked by my brothers and parents, all of them leaning into her. It was a picture-perfect image of a family that had finally found its missing piece. My brother Logan leaned against the doorframe, a sneer curling his lip. “I told you guys. Even if she’s just the ‘help’ now, we should have invited her for the photo. Her ego is too small to handle Rebecca being the star. Look at this mess. She’s pathetic.” Mom and Dad frowned, the exhaustion clear on their faces. “Forget it,” Dad sighed. “It’s just a photo. We’ll take another one. Claire probably didn’t mean it. Let’s not make a scene and give the neighbors something to gossip about.” Hearing them casually pin the blame on me without a single question, I felt a strange, icy calm settle over me. “Since I’m just the charity case now,” I said, my voice steady, “and since I’m clearly so ‘malicious,’ I think it’s best if I move out. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” My oldest brother, Tyler, stepped in front of the door. “Claire, don’t be dramatic. You know that’s not what we meant.” Logan barked a laugh, crossing his arms. “Without the Mercer name, you’re a nobody. Where are you going to go? The streets? Don’t come crawling back here crying when you realize how cold the world is.” The old Claire would have slammed the door and hidden in the attic, waiting for Logan to feel guilty enough to call me and beg for forgiveness. Instead, I walked back into my room and started putting my things into a single duffel bag. Rebecca leaned against the wall, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Don’t pretend you’re leaving while secretly tucking Mercer diamonds into your socks, you little parasite.” I stopped. I looked around the room—the room that was no longer mine. I took off my watch, my earrings, and the gold necklace with my initials. I laid them all on the desk. Then, I walked out. “Apologize now,” Logan called out, his voice tinged with genuine annoyance, “and I might let you stay in the maid’s quarters. Don’t be ungrateful.” I didn’t look back. I used the little cash I’d earned from my campus job to buy a plain sweatshirt from the housekeeper. Holding nothing but my ID and my pride, I walked out of the Mercer estate. Outside, the sky opened up. A classic East Coast downpour. I had no home. The butler stood at the gate with an umbrella, his expression pained. “It’s going to get worse, Miss Claire. Please, take the umbrella. Don’t get sick.” I didn’t take it. I pulled my hood up and ran into the rain. Behind me, I heard the sound of heavy objects hitting the pavement. I turned back one last time. The moving crew was throwing my things—my books, my old trophies, my childhood stuffed animals—directly into the industrial trash bin out front. Rebecca was standing on the porch, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips as she watched the rain soak my life. “I hate second-hand things,” she shouted over the wind. “Clear out the trash!” She hated second-hand things, yet she stole my clothes, stole my parents’ affection, and was currently busy dismantling the life of the man I loved. I used my last few hundred dollars to rent a cramped, drafty studio in a crumbling building in Queens. That night, as I lay on a thin mattress, I finally drifted off, only to be pulled into a memory. I saw Xander, my parents, and my brothers sitting in the library. “How long are we going to keep the truth from her?” Tyler’s voice was low, troubled. Xander frowned, swirling a glass of scotch. “Claire is too spoiled, too entitled. Let’s wait until she’s properly humbled—until she’s ‘obedient.’ Then we can tell her the report was a fake.” Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, and I jolted awake. Rain was leaking through the window frame. Thunder shook the floorboards. In the past, I was terrified of storms. I used to run into my mother’s room and crawl into her bed. Now, I had no mother. Strangely, the thunder didn’t seem so loud anymore. Without the Mercer trust fund, I couldn’t afford the tuition at my elite private academy. The Monday after I left, I went straight to the principal’s office to withdraw. The principal, a kind woman who had known me since I was a child, shook her head. “Claire, with your GPA, you’re a lock for a full academic scholarship. There are stipends for living expenses too. Don’t throw your future away over a family spat.” Before I could answer, Rebecca’s voice rang out from the doorway. “Her ‘GPA’ was bought and paid for by Mercer donations,” she sneered, walking in with a flock of girls who used to be my best friends. They kept their heads down, refusing to meet my eyes. “She says she doesn’t want our money,” Rebecca continued, “yet here she is, trying to stay in a school our father built. How shameless can a foster girl be?” I looked at Rebecca, then at the girls behind her. I felt nothing but a dull pity. “I got into this school on my own merits, Rebecca. And I never needed a tutor to beat your scores.” Xander stepped into the room then, his brow furrowed in that patronizing way he had. “Claire, stop this. Finals are weeks away. Don’t be reckless.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The Hamiltons—my family—will sponsor you. We’ll pay for your senior year and your Ivy League tuition. Just stop acting like a child.” I looked at Xander and realized I was looking at a stranger. I took a breath and shook my head. “The transfer is final.” “You promised we’d go to Columbia together,” Xander hissed, grabbing my wrist. His face was pale, desperate. “You’re breaking our pact.” I looked down at his hand on my skin until he let go. “The girl who made that pact was the Mercer heiress,” I said quietly. “She doesn’t exist anymore.” Xander froze, the color draining from his face. I didn’t understand him. When Rebecca wanted the dress he’d bought for my birthday, I had held onto the fabric, begging him to take my side. He had looked at me with cold indifference and said, “I bought that for the daughter of the Mercer family. Give it to Rebecca.” And yet here he was, acting like the heartbroken lover. For years, I had played the part of the perfect, high-achieving daughter to give them status. I had earned my keep ten times over. I gripped my transfer papers and walked out of the school. I owed them nothing. As I passed Rebecca, I saw the raw hatred in her eyes. I truly didn’t get it. My parents had told me since I was a kid that I had an older sister who went missing. I spent my childhood obsessed with her. I looked through old police files, I asked the neighbors, I prayed for her return. When she finally came home, I was the one who stayed by her side. Her foster parents had been monsters, and I wanted to be her shield. I shared everything with her. When boys mocked her for her “low-class” accent, I was the one who got suspended for fighting them. I introduced her to my world. And yet, Rebecca could accept everyone—the parents who lost her, the brothers who forgot her—but she couldn’t accept me. She eventually found new friends and started avoiding me. One night, she didn’t come home. I went looking for her and found her in an alley, surrounded by three drunks. She was shaking. I stepped in front of her, telling her to run while I held them off. She didn’t look back. She didn’t call for help. She just ran. If it hadn’t been for a passing patrol car, I wouldn’t have made it home. When I finally got back, my parents were waiting. Not with hugs, but with accusations. “How could you be so cruel?” Mom screamed. “You lured Rebecca into that neighborhood just to scare her? You can’t stand that she’s the real daughter, can you?” From that night on, we were enemies. On my walk home to the studio, I felt a familiar prickle on the back of my neck. Footsteps. I spun around. The streetlamp cast long, flickering shadows, but the sidewalk was empty. I sprinted the rest of the way and locked my door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’d left my phone at the estate, but even if I had it, there was no one left to call. Every night, the knocking started. A heavy, rhythmic thudding on my door. I would huddle in the corner with a box cutter, staring at the wood until the sun came up and the knocking stopped. I fell into a grueling routine: study at the public library at 6 AM, work a double shift at a diner, and walk home through the shadows, every nerve ending on fire. Finally, I used my tips to buy a burner phone. I was ready to record the stalker, to get proof for the police. But when I turned the corner of my building, I ran straight into a chest. Xander. He didn’t even look embarrassed. “Claire, I’m just worried about you. I’ve been watching over you.” A wave of exhaustion crashed over me. I started to laugh. I didn’t have the energy to fight. I just wanted to sleep. Xander grabbed my hand, his voice trembling. “How can you be so heartless? You haven’t called me once. You’re my fiancée. You know you don’t have to live in this shithole. Just ask me for help.” I looked at him—at the expensive watch I’d given him, at his perfectly tailored coat. “I’m living like this, terrified every night, because of the ‘lesson’ you and my family decided to teach me,” I said. “And you think you’re the hero?” Xander’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “My birthday party is after finals. Claire… please. You have to come.” I didn’t answer. I had already been scouted by a prestigious biotech research fellowship in California. The moment finals were over, I was leaving New York. I opened my mouth to tell him to go to hell, but his phone buzzed. Rebecca’s voice came through, frantic and shrill. “Xander? I was in a car accident. Please, I’m scared. Come get me.” Xander gave me one last, lingering look and ran for his car. The knocking stopped that night. I slept for twelve hours straight. Xander didn’t show up again. Time blurred into a haze of textbooks and coffee. Finals ended. My scores were perfect—higher than I’d ever achieved under the pressure of the Mercer name. I packed my one bag, took my burner phone, and boarded a Greyhound bus. As the skyline of Manhattan faded into the distance, I felt a strange lightness. My clothes were cheap, my pockets were nearly empty, but for the first time in my life, everything I carried belonged to me. Back in the city, Xander was obsessing over the decorations for his birthday gala. He kept touching a small velvet box in his pocket, his eyes darting toward the entrance of the ballroom. He had practiced his speech a thousand times. Today, he was going to tell Claire the truth. He was going to bring her home, restore her status as the Mercer heiress, and then he was going to get down on one knee. He imagined her face—the way she would light up when she realized it was all over. The room was full of the city’s elite. But the one person he was looking for never appeared. A friend clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. She’s probably just making an entrance. You know Claire—she loves the drama.” The Mercer family arrived. Xander scanned the group, but Claire wasn’t there. Rebecca approached him, and Xander’s hand tightened around the ring box. “Where’s your sister?” he demanded. Rebecca’s face soured. “That charity case? She’s not my sister. Stop trying to make her happen, Xander.” Xander’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent. Rebecca leaned in, her voice dripping with venom. “She’s not coming. Since she left the house, she’s been ‘working’ to pay for her new lifestyle. I heard men are knocking on her door at all hours of the night. She’s busy, Xander. Probably busy with a client.” My parents froze. My brothers exchanged a look of pure horror. “All she had to do was apologize,” Tyler whispered, his voice cracking. “We would have given her everything back.” “When she crawls back,” Logan spat, “I’m going to make sure she never leaves the house again.” Xander felt a sick sensation in his gut. His assistant stepped forward, handing him a tablet. “Sir, you asked for the security footage from the Queens address.” Xander watched the screen. He saw a line of men—local thugs, hired loiterers—knocking on my door night after night. He saw me huddled in the window, clutching a knife. He felt a surge of cold fury. He was about to leave when the Mercer family butler burst into the hall. “Sir! Ma’am!” the old man gasped, holding a yellowed envelope. “I found this in the trash while they were clearing out Miss Claire’s room. It’s an original lab report from twenty years ago.” He handed it to my father. According to the DNA analysis, Claire Mercer was a 99.9% biological match to Thomas and Diane Mercer.

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The greatest mistake of my life wasn’t a single choice, but a man: Gideon Blackwood. I took three bullets for him. That was the price of my devotion. At eight months pregnant, the trauma triggered a forced labor that nearly turned into a death sentence. As the surgeons fought to stop the hemorrhaging, I slipped into a fever dream of white lights and muffled voices. In that hazy purgatory between life and death, I heard him. Gideon was just outside the recovery room, his voice a low, jagged rasp. His right-hand man, a fixer named Elias, sounded hesitant. “Boss, isn’t this too much? The shooters we hired… they’ve been ‘liquidated.’ But the girl…” “There was no other way,” Gideon’s voice was like a winter frost, devoid of the warmth he usually reserved for me. “Sylvia went into premature labor yesterday. Her baby survived, but she’s too fragile. The doctors say another pregnancy would kill her. I promised her that her child would be the Blackwood heir. The only way to secure that legacy was to swap them.” “But Elena…” Elias whispered, referring to me. “The trauma, the blood loss… the doctors say she might never conceive again.” A long, suffocating silence followed. I felt a phantom ache in my empty womb. “Elena is intuitive,” Gideon finally sighed, a sound of weary pity. “She only lets her guard down for me. I owe her everything for taking those hits. I’ll make it up to her. I’ll give her a life of luxury she never dreamed of.” I felt a single tear track through the dried blood on my temple, disappearing into my hair. When I finally opened my eyes, the world was cold. Beside my bed sat an incubator holding a tiny, stillborn shadow. But I am Elena Dennis, and I do not accept “compensation” for a stolen life. 1 The salt from my tears hadn’t even dried when the door swung open. Gideon stumbled in, looking every bit the grieving, frantic husband. He collapsed by my bedside, gripping my hand as if it were a lifeline. “Elena! Thank God, you’re awake.” I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. I simply turned my head, my gaze landing on the incubator. Gideon’s eyes followed mine. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped, showing a flicker of something dark and ancient before his voice broke. “Someone! Get… get the child out of here. Arrange the arrangements.” Elias stepped in, lifting the small, shrouded bundle. He moved quickly, as if afraid the silence would scream at him. I watched that bundle until the door clicked shut. That wasn’t my son. Where is my son? I bit the tip of my tongue, the sharp tang of copper keeping the questions from bursting out. Gideon brought my freezing hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a reverence that used to make my heart skip. I knew this move. In the second month of our marriage, when he stayed out until dawn and broke our first real promise, he did this. He’d lean in, whispering sweet, honeyed lies into my ear until I melted. “Forgive me, baby. I messed up.” He’d done it after every late-night “meeting,” every unexplained bruise, every time he made me feel small. His thumb traced the line behind my ear, his touch precise and agonizingly tender. I fought the urge to vomit. I didn’t pull away. “Elena… the doctors said the damage was severe. You won’t be able to carry again.” He paused, his voice thick with a performance of guilt. “This is all my fault.” I lay there, a statue of a woman. I felt the wet heat of his tears hitting the hollow of my neck. “Listen to me,” he whispered, his eyes bloodshot and intense. “You are my wife. My only legal wife. Always. Even without a biological heir, we’ll adopt from the extended family. I will ensure you live in splendor. No one will ever touch you. I’ll protect you for the rest of your life.” I looked into his face—the sharp jaw, the eyes I had memorized during a thousand high-stakes nights. I used to think he was the most beautiful thing in this cruel world. But the words from the hallway were nailed into my brain. The gunshot wounds in my abdomen were burning, a rhythmic, pulsing fire. Yet, the physical pain was nothing compared to the cold realization of his betrayal. I turned my hand over, threading my fingers through his. “Gideon…” I buried my face in his palm, my entire body shaking with a simulated fragility. “I have no one left but you.” Gideon stiffened for a second, then let out a long, shuddering breath of relief. He pulled me into his arms, his hold firm but careful to avoid my stitches. “I swear to you, Elena. If I ever fail you, if I ever turn my back on you, let the world tear me apart. Let me die a dog’s death, alone and forgotten.” I nodded against his chest, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. Gideon, honey… you’d better remember that vow. 2 Gideon didn’t leave my side for two weeks. He canceled board meetings, ignored urgent wires from the overseas branches, and stayed in that sterile room. He personally blew on my soup to cool it; he washed my skin with warm water. If I hadn’t heard the truth, I would have believed I was the most loved woman in the world. One afternoon, after he finished tucking the blankets around me, he hesitated. “Elena.” His gaze shifted to the window. “Sylvia…” The name felt like a shard of glass in my ear. Two years ago, Gideon tried to bring Sylvia into our main estate. I’d smashed a crystal vase and locked the gates. We’d stood on opposite sides of the door all night. The next morning, he was on his knees, begging: “She’s fragile, Elena. The doctors say she only has a few years left. She’s the widow of my best friend—it was his dying wish that I look after her. My heart belongs to you, I swear it.” I believed him. I let her stay. But soon, the South Wing villa became the most expensive, most guarded part of the estate. She didn’t die; she thrived. She became the “Golden Girl” of the Blackwood empire, the secret treasure Gideon kept just out of my reach. I had ignored her existence to preserve my sanity, but I knew I’d lost half of my husband long ago. And now, she had stolen the other half—my child. “She had a boy a few days ago,” Gideon said, his voice laced with a strange, hopeful lilt. “We named him Leo.” He finally looked at me, searching for a reaction. “I want to hold a gala. Give her a formal position within the household staff to explain her presence. But more importantly… I want to put Leo in your name. Make him the Blackwood heir. Your son, on paper. You can raise him as your own. It would be… a way to heal.” My son. The boy I carried for eight months. He told me he was dead, handed him to his mistress, and now he was offering him back to me as an act of “charity.” A consolation prize for the grief he caused. Slowly, I pulled my hand out of his. “And if I say no?” The warmth vanished from his face instantly. “Sylvia has had a hard time,” he said, his voice hardening, his brow furrowed. “She’s naturally weak. This birth nearly killed her.” He tried to grab my hand again, but I moved it. “You’re healing, Elena. You made it through. Our child is gone… think of this as a way to honor that loss. Be the bigger person. Accept the boy.” This man… he was a stranger. I remembered the Gideon who once burned down a rival’s warehouse because they insulted my family’s humble background. The Gideon who drove three hundred miles through a blizzard to get me medicine when I had the flu. The Gideon who cried when I pricked my finger on a rose thorn… where did he go? “I don’t agree,” I said firmly. Gideon’s face darkened, settling into a cold, corporate mask. “Perhaps I’ve spoiled you too much. You’re becoming small-minded, Elena. Selfish.” 3 He didn’t wait for my answer. The door opened, and Sylvia walked in. She was dressed in a flowy white silk dress, her face pale, her steps dainty and performative. Beside her, a nurse carried a bundle wrapped in blue. I gripped the bedsheets until my knuckles turned white. Sylvia dropped to her knees by my bed. “Elena… please. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have brought him here while you’re hurting. But the baby is innocent… please, have mercy on us!” She leaned forward, her forehead striking the tile floor with a sickening thud. A small cut opened on her brow. Gideon lunged across the room, pulling her up and shielding her behind him. “Elena, look at her! She’s debasing herself for you. What more do you want?” He hissed, his eyes flashing with genuine anger. “The whole household is watching. Do you want everyone to think the Mistress of Blackwood is a cruel, heartless woman?” I stared at the blue bundle behind his back. I swallowed the bitterness in my throat. “You’re right, Gideon,” I whispered. “I agree.” Sooner or later, I will take what is mine. Three days later, the Blackwood estate was ablaze with lights. Gideon didn’t give me time to recover. The moment I “consented,” the invitations were out. The lawyers, the caterers, the dressmakers—everything was finalized in seventy-two hours. I wasn’t even out of my post-op recovery period when two female guards hoisted me out of bed and squeezed me into a blood-red evening gown. The medical binder was cinched tight over my incision, the pain so sharp I felt sweat soaking my silk slip. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the “Legacy Toast.” It was an old-school tradition in his circle—the passing of the torch. Sylvia entered the grand hall on Gideon’s arm. When my eyes landed on her, the air left my lungs. Around Sylvia’s neck hung a necklace—a heavy, teardrop ruby that looked like a drop of congealed blood. The Blackwood Heirloom. For a hundred years, that piece had been worn only by the matriarch of the family. Gideon had fought the board of elders for months to let me, a woman with no pedigree, wear it. He’d taken thirty lashes in the private family court and knelt all night in the rain to prove my worth to them. The day he placed it on my neck, his back was still bleeding. He had told me: “One life, one love, Elena.” Now, the necklace had been polished and shortened to fit Sylvia. It turns out, “forever” can be resized. Gideon placed a hand on Sylvia’s waist. She knelt on the red carpet before my chair, offering a porcelain tea set. “Sister, please… accept this offering.” I suppressed the urge to scream. I reached out slowly. My fingers were inches from the cup when Sylvia’s hand suddenly spasmed. “Ah!” The scalding tea splashed over her hand. Her skin turned angry red instantly. “If you didn’t want it, you could have just said so… why would you burn me?” She sobbed, her eyes welling with tears as she looked up at Gideon. Gideon’s face turned livid. He stepped forward and backhanded the tea set off the table. The hot liquid splashed my own hand, stinging like a hive of hornets, but he didn’t notice. He was already pulling Sylvia into his arms. “Elena! She just gave birth! She’s weak, and you’re still trying to break her?” His voice boomed, drowning out the music. He seemed to forget that I, too, was fresh from the operating table. “You’re the wife! You have the title! She’s just looking for a place to survive—she’s no threat to you. Why are you so damn malicious?” Gideon’s shouting woke the baby in the nurse’s arms. The infant’s cry pierced the room. My body acted before my brain. I slid off the sofa, my hand reaching for the child. “My baby…” Crack. A hand slammed into my wrist, sending me spinning to the floor. The impact tore my incision open. I felt the warm, wet rush of blood spreading across my white silk trousers. Gideon stood over me, his eyes momentarily flickering with panic as he saw the red stain, but Sylvia chose that moment to whimper. “Gideon… it hurts… will it scar?” The hand he had started to reach toward me curled into a fist and pulled back. “You went too far today, Elena. You’re clearly not in your right mind. You’ll stay at the North Lodge until you learn some goddamn humility.” He turned his back on me. He lifted Sylvia into his arms and walked out. The heavy oak doors slammed shut. The pain in my abdomen was a roar, but the pain in my heart was a silent, killing frost. My assistant, Jade, found me an hour later, shivering in a pool of my own blood. When we reached the isolated North Lodge, I pulled a burner phone from my bag and dialed a number I had memorized years ago. 4 After the call, I was left in the derelict North Lodge. The house was a relic—damp, drafty, and neglected. The food they brought was cold. My antibiotics were “forgotten.” No one came to change my dressings. I was being erased. Until Sylvia showed up. She dismissed the guards and walked in alone, carrying the baby. There were no tears now, no “sisterly” affection. “A bit rustic, isn’t it?” she sneered, looking around the peeling wallpaper. “If you stay quiet, I’ll make sure Gideon keeps you fed. You won’t starve.” I watched her, my eyes cold. She shifted the baby, dangling him in front of me like a taunt I couldn’t touch. “Everyone says he looks just like me,” she lied, her voice dripping with venom. “Gideon agrees. He’s mine now. He eats from my breast; he calls me Mama. In a few months, no one will remember whose belly he actually came from.” She leaned in close, her face twisting into a mask of pure spite. “Look at him, Elena. You almost died for him, and yet, he’s mine. What are you going to do about it?” My resolve snapped. I lunged for the child. “Give him to me!” She stepped back, but her heel caught on the rug. She pitched forward. The baby’s bundle hit the edge of the bed with a dull thud, and his screams filled the room. “Elena! How could you!” Sylvia’s eyes turned red instantly. She clutched the baby, sobbing hysterically as the door burst open. Gideon stormed in. He took one look at Sylvia crying and me trembling on the bed. “Elena Dennis! Are you out of your mind?!” He roared. “I thought you were reflecting, but you’re so possessed by hate you’d hurt an innocent child?” “I didn’t… she tripped…” I tried to gasp. He didn’t listen. He swung his hand, the slap echoing like a gunshot in the empty room. My head snapped to the side, blood blooming in the corner of my mouth. “I didn’t do it…” Gideon saw the moisture in my eyes, and for a split second, he wavered. But Sylvia’s sobs grew louder. His lingering affection was incinerated by rage. He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. “Stop playing the victim! If you hadn’t attacked her, she wouldn’t have fallen!” My incision screamed as he jolted me. I felt the world spinning. “Gideon… please… it hurts…” His eyes remained icy. “You brought this on yourself. Don’t play these games with me anymore. Stay here and rot until you learn your place.” He slammed the door so hard the walls shook. For the next two days, no food or water arrived. No one changed my bandages. I lay in the dark, the fever rising, waiting for the end. Then, a flash of white light blinded me as the front door was kicked in. Later, after Gideon had calmed Sylvia down, my face kept flashing in his mind. The silence from the North Lodge was too heavy. He felt a sudden, inexplicable gnaw of anxiety. When he arrived at the lodge, the stillness chilled him. He quickened his pace. When he burst into the bedroom and saw the sheer amount of blood soaked into the mattress, he froze. “ELENA!!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “427408”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

As I drifted into the freezing air, hovering in the liminal space between life and whatever comes next, I finally saw it: Benedict’s back. He was walking away, resolute and cold, leaving me behind in the snow. The bet had been a mistake from the very beginning. I couldn’t believe he had actually used my life—my fragile, failing heart—as the stakes for a wager on whether I could summit Mount Rainier. The altitude sickness had hit me like a physical blow. My head felt like it was being split by an axe, and my stomach turned over and over until I was retching nothing but bile. With trembling fingers, I tried to pull out my phone to send my location to my mom. I just wanted to go home. But Mallory reached out, her hand pinning mine down before snatching the device away. “There’s no signal up here, Grace. And look at you—you’re shaking so hard you’ll drop it. I’ll keep it safe for you,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Then, she turned to Benedict, her tone shifting to a playful pout. “Ben, maybe you should just admit defeat. I’ll buy everyone dinner tonight, and we can just pretend this climb never happened.” The flicker of hesitation in Benedict’s eyes vanished instantly. Instead, he shot me a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. “She’s fine. She’s just being dramatic because she can’t hack the climb. She’s nothing but a lead weight dragging us down.” I reached out to him, my hands covered in scrapes from the frozen shale, sobbing, begging him to take me back down. He just waved me off with an irritated flick of his wrist. “If you don’t make the summit today, don’t bother coming home,” he snapped. Then he whistled to the rest of the group. “Ignore her. She’ll crawl back to her feet and follow us once she realizes we aren’t coming back to fetch her.” I watched their silhouettes grow smaller and smaller against the blinding white of the peak. I collapsed into the snow, and this time, I didn’t get back up. Benedict, I’m sorry. I really can’t keep up with you this time. 1 Floating in the half-light, I looked down at the girl in the sleeping bag. Her face was buried deep in the down lining, only the tips of her fingers peeking out. Her fingernails were already a haunting shade of slate blue. “Grace!” The tent zipper hissed open, and a gust of biting wind rushed in. Benedict ducked inside, crouching beside me. He reached out and gave my shoulder a rough shove. “Get up. We’re moving out.” He stared at me for a few seconds, his jaw tightening as his expression darkened. “Grace Miller, are you seriously doing this right now? You’re going to play the silent treatment card here?” From outside, someone shouted for him. “Ben! Come on, we need to move!” Mallory’s voice drifted in. “Is Grace still in bed? The rangers said there might be a whiteout by noon. If we don’t leave now, we’re going to get stuck.” Benedict’s face twisted with further resentment at her words. When I still didn’t move, his voice turned into a low, cold hiss. “Stop being so goddamn selfish. This isn’t your house. No one is going to coddle you up here. Get. Up.” Mallory poked her head into the tent, leaning close to Benedict’s ear. Her voice was a conspiratorial whisper. “Ben, do you think she’s doing this on purpose? You know, so you’ll have to carry her the rest of the way? But everyone is waiting…” She let the sentence hang there, unfinished but toxic. Benedict’s eyes turned cold as stone. He grit his teeth and stood up abruptly. “Carry her? In her dreams.” He reached down, grabbed my heavy pack from beside the sleeping bag, and tossed it toward Mallory. “If she doesn’t want to get up, she doesn’t need this. It’s yours.” Mallory caught the bag, looking momentarily stunned. “But Ben…” Inside that bag was my entire life support—my thermal gear, my rations, and my emergency heart medication. “She wants to lie there? Let her lie there. Don’t waste the supplies on someone who won’t use them.” Mallory clutched the bag to her chest, casting a quick, sideways glance at my body in the sleeping bag. “What… what about Grace?” “If she wants to follow, she’ll follow. If not, to hell with it.” Mallory took a step forward, standing right over me. She purposefully brought the heavy lug of her hiking boot down on my exposed hand. She ground the sole into my blueish fingers, a slow, deliberate twist. “Oh! Oops, sorry, Grace! I didn’t mean to step on you. I was just trying to wake you up.” She lifted her foot, looking up at Benedict with wide, pathetic eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ben. I didn’t mean to. But she’s still not waking up? Her temper is just… wow.” At that moment, the other guys finished packing the gear and peeled back the tent flap. “Ben, where’s your little shadow?” Benedict let out a sharp, impatient snort. “She’s on strike. Playing dead because she wants attention.” He looked down at me one last time, a mocking sneer on his lips. He delivered a sharp kick to my shin. “Get up. The act is over.” I didn’t flinch. I didn’t move. Benedict’s fury peaked. His brow furrowed into that deep, jagged line—the one I had spent my whole life trying to smooth away. I had been terrified of that expression since we were children. Because of my heart condition, my parents used to leave me at the Sterling house when they had to work late. When Benedict was a young, restless boy, I was the anchor dragging him down. He couldn’t go out and play soccer with the other boys; he couldn’t spend all day running through the woods because he had to stay inside and watch over me. Every time his parents told him he couldn’t go out because of me, he would wear that exact expression. Back then, I was too young to understand his resentment. I would reach out with my small hands and try to rub the frown lines from his forehead. But I couldn’t reach him now. Benedict stood there, staring at my back, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for me to laugh or cry or scream. But I remained still. Losing the last shred of his patience, he kicked me again, harder this time. In the silence of the tent, I heard something snap. A clean, sharp sound, like a dry branch breaking in winter. “Fine, Grace. If you’re so committed to the performance, stay here. There’s a storm coming, and nobody here owes it to you to stay behind and play along with your tantrums.” When Benedict stormed out, Mallory lingered for one last look before ducking out after him. The sound of their footsteps faded into the distance. The wind began to howl, whipping through the gap in the tent zipper they hadn’t bothered to close. It blew across my face. My eyes were half-open, pupils dilated and fixed, a thick layer of frost already beginning to coat my lashes. From the ceiling of the tent, I watched Benedict’s back as he walked away without a single backward glance. Maybe he had wanted to do this for years. Outside, their voices grew faint, swallowed by the mountain. “Ben, how long do you think it’ll take her to catch up?” “Who cares.” “What if she doesn’t?” “Then she doesn’t.” “But what if something actually happens to her?” Benedict’s pace faltered for a fraction of a second, then he surged forward again, his strides lengthening. “Our parents have been worried that ‘something’ would happen to her for eighteen years. She’s still here, isn’t she? She’s tougher than she looks. It’s all a game.” His cold voice drifted away, buried by the roar of the wind. I knew then. He wasn’t coming back. 2 Just when I thought Benedict was gone for good, I saw him stop. He turned around and began striding back toward the tent. Watching him get closer, a flicker of genuine hope sparked in my hollow chest. He’s going to see. He’s going to realize I wasn’t lying this time. The wind whipped his Gore-Tex jacket, making it snap like a flag. My heart—or what was left of it—rhythmed with the sound. I remembered being kids. Every time I got tired and sat on the curb, refusing to move, he would walk a few paces ahead, turn around, and scowl. He’d threaten to leave me there in the middle of the street. I would burst into tears, terrified. But every single time, before he hit the ten-step mark, he would turn back. He would crouch down in front of me, his back turned, and tell me to get on. I’d wrap my arms around his neck, and he’d carry me all the way home, muttering about how I was “heavy as a rock” and how he’d “never do it again.” But he always did. It had been eight years since Benedict last carried me. He was almost at the tent now. Ten yards. Five. Three. He stopped just outside the flap. I waited for the realization. I waited for the grief. But he just stood there, looking down at the hand peeking out from the sleeping bag—the hand Mallory had stepped on. Suddenly, he let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Grace Miller, I knew it. You’re such a liar. Your hand wasn’t in that position five minutes ago!” I froze, looking at that frozen, bloodless hand. I wanted to scream at him. Benedict, no! I didn’t move! It was the wind! Mallory didn’t zip the tent, and the wind moved the bag! But no matter how hard I screamed, he couldn’t hear me. Benedict’s anger seemed to double. He reached down, about to grab my wrist to yank me out. “Ben?” The voice came from behind him. Mallory was jogging back, panting slightly as she stopped beside him. “Why did you come back?” Benedict pulled his hand back, turning to look at her. “I was just…” He trailed off, his ego getting the better of him. “I thought I left my gloves. But you’re right. Grace has been playing this game with me since we were in diapers. If I cave now, she wins. Maybe we should just call off the bet? I can go tell the guys I’m a coward who can’t handle his girlfriend’s moods.” The rest of the team started trekking back toward them. “No way, Ben,” one of the guys, Wade, called out. “If you back out now, you have to do the forfeit. You really want to walk through the middle of campus in a tutu shouting ‘I’m a pathetic loser’?” Another teammate chimed in, laughing. “Since when does Benedict Sterling let a woman push him around? Every time we tried to get you out to the bars, you used your ‘childhood sweetheart’ as an excuse. We finally get you out here, and you’re going to let her ruin the trip? That’s weak, man.” Under the weight of their mockery, Benedict’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. “Who said I’m calling it off? We’re short on tents as it is. If she wants to stay here and rot in this one, fine. But are you two planning on sleeping in the snow tonight?” He pointed at Wade and the other guy. The two men immediately shut up, rubbing their necks awkwardly. “Then get over here and tear this tent down. What are you waiting for?” They didn’t argue further. They knelt down and started pulling the stakes. Wade muttered under his breath, “Man, your girl is stubborn. She’s still not moving?” The other guy gave my sleeping bag a shove. Feeling the unnatural stiffness of my body, he chuckled. “Look at this. She’s actually tensing her whole body to stay still. That’s commitment. She should have gone to Juilliard.” “She probably thinks if she stays perfectly still, we’ll eventually give in,” Wade added. Benedict leaned down, ripping the final ground peg from the frozen earth. “Just drag the bag out,” Benedict said, not even looking at me. “If she doesn’t move, throw the bag and her with it.” “She’s been like this her whole life,” Benedict continued, his voice loud so I would ‘hear’ it. “The second things don’t go her way, she flops over. Her parents spoiled her, but I’m done with it.” Seeing Benedict’s resolve, the two men didn’t hesitate. They each grabbed an end of the sleeping bag. My body sagged in the middle as they lifted me. The guy at my head laughed. “Ben, she’s even tucking her head in so we can’t see her face. She’s terrified of breaking character.” He looked down at the bag. “Listen, Grace, you’re making Ben look bad. He bet he could get you to the top. Stop being a brat and think about him for once. Maybe if you act like a human being, he’ll actually carry you the last mile.” Benedict turned his back on me. “Stop talking to her. Just dump her out. Let’s see how long she lasts in the open air.” They hauled me over to a ridge, less than ten yards from a sheer drop-off, and dumped me. The wind whipped the fabric of the sleeping bag. Floating above, I looked down at myself. My face was half-buried in a snowdrift. If he had just touched my wrist for one second—just one second—he would have felt the silence of my pulse. He was so close. But he was miles away. 3 The wind shifted, and the blizzard descended with a sudden, violent fury. A wall of grey-white snow roared over the ridge. Panic erupted. The group scrambled to set up the remaining tents, six people cramming into a space meant for four, everyone shivering and coated in ice. Suddenly, Wade let out a yelp. “My pack! It’s gone!” In the chaos of the wind, the gust had swept several bags right off the ledge. Four of them were gone. They peeked out of the tent flap, squinting into the white nothingness. “Grace is gone too!” someone shouted. After confirming the sleeping bag was nowhere to be seen, the tent erupted in frantic accusations. Garrison, an older guy on the trip, slammed his gear onto the floor. “Goddammit! Did she take our supplies?” He glared at Benedict. Benedict stared at the tent wall, silent. Garrison shoved Benedict’s shoulder. “Your little girlfriend is a piece of work, Ben. She plays dead all morning, and the second we turn our backs, she loots the camp and bails?” Garrison’s voice rose to a scream. “Our rations are in those bags! We’re going to starve or freeze up here because of her!” Everyone turned to Benedict. “Ben, say something! Are you going to play the ‘silent and brooding’ routine now too?” Benedict kept his head down. His voice was barely a whisper. “She has a heart condition. She couldn’t have carried all those bags…” Garrison stood up, pointing a finger in his face. “Who are you kidding? If she has a heart condition, why did you bet her life on a mountain climb? This was a setup. You two planned this. She stole the gear, you brought her here. What’s the move, Sterling?” As the tension hit a breaking point, Mallory stood up, stepping between them. “Stop it!” She looked from Garrison to Benedict. “Even if Grace did take the bags, she’s a small girl. She couldn’t have gone far in this. We’ll find her when the snow lets up.” She turned around and opened the pack Benedict had given her earlier. She pulled out protein bars, energy gels, and a thermal space blanket. My things. My eyes felt heavy with a grief that had no tears. Mallory began distributing the items with practiced generosity. “The blizzard is bad. We need to keep our strength up. You can have mine.” The teammates softened. “Mallory… thank you.” “It’s fine,” she said with a sweet smile. “We’re a team.” Garrison took a bar, shooting Benedict a nasty look. “Mallory has ten times the heart that brat ever had.” No one disagreed. Suddenly, a small plastic bottle rolled out of the bag. My emergency pills. The bottle skittered across the floor and hit Benedict’s boot. He picked it up, his expression flickering with a brief, sharp pang of worry. “These are her meds. She never goes anywhere without them.” Mallory leaned over to look, letting out a small, mocking giggle. She took the bottle from him and twisted it open. She poured the contents into her palm. A dozen colorful, round candies spilled out. Skittles. “Ben, look. This isn’t medicine.” Mallory picked one up and shoved it into his mouth. “Taste it.” Benedict chewed slowly. His face went ashen, then turned a deep, bruised purple. Garrison barked a laugh. “So the whole ‘sick girl’ act was a total sham. She was carrying around a bottle of candy the whole time.” Another guy joined in. “I watched her huffing and puffing the whole way up, face turning pale, lips turning blue… she’s a hell of an actress. Ben, she’s been playing you for a fool for years.” Benedict’s hand crushed the plastic bottle. He hurled it against the tent pole. “You’re a moron, Benedict,” Garrison sneered. “A bottle of Skittles kept you wrapped around her finger for a decade. She played you, and now she’s out there with our food while we’re stuck in a hole.” “Because of her, we almost died today,” the other guy added, stoking the fire. “You owe us, Ben. You need to handle her.” I shook my head violently, screaming at him from the shadows of the tent. No! Benedict, no! Those were the pills! My mom put them in there so I wouldn’t be scared to take them! Benedict, I never lied to you! The wind outside began to die down. Benedict sat in the silence for a long time before he spoke. “Don’t worry. When the snow clears, we’ll find her.” He stared at the crushed bottle on the floor. “If she took your gear, I’ll make her pay for every bit of it.” The tent went cold. “I’ll be the one to hand her over to the police myself.” No one spoke. Mallory looked at him, the corner of her mouth twitching into the ghost of a smirk. I felt a strange, hollow peace wash over me. I drifted out of the tent, over to the ledge. The snow had buried everything. 4 Inside the tent, the six of them were still debating Benedict’s plan. Mallory shook her head gently. “I don’t know, Ben. Your families are so close. If you actually press charges, it’ll ruin everything between your parents. Maybe we just… teach her a lesson?” Garrison snorted. “A lesson? You think a lecture is going to change a girl like that?” Someone else suggested, “We just need to scare her. Give her a fright she’ll never forget so she never tries this crap again.” They all nodded, a silent, ugly consensus forming. Garrison spoke up again. “I say we each give her a slap. Ten across the face from everyone here. Let her feel exactly how much she screwed us over. It’s better than jail, but she’ll remember it.” He looked at Benedict. “She’s your girl, and she stole from us. You think ten slaps is too much?” Benedict looked up. His eyes were dead. “No. It’s not too much.” Garrison rubbed his hands together. “Good. I want to be first. I’ve been waiting all day.” A few nervous chuckles rippled through the tent. Two hours later, the storm broke. The group packed their gear and stepped out into the blinding sun. There was a commotion a few hundred yards away. A group of about a dozen hikers had gathered in a circle. Someone was handing out supplies. Benedict’s face hardened. He marched toward them. He shoved through the crowd, his voice a roar. “Grace Miller! You have some nerve! You steal our gear and then you have the gall to act like a—” His voice died in his throat. The person handing out the supplies was a young man in his early twenties. Behind him stood a group of college-aged kids. “Who the hell are you?” the young man asked, startled. “What’s your problem?” Benedict was panting, his eyes darting to the gear on the ground. “Where… where did you get this?” The boy frowned. “We found it. Over by the ridge. A bunch of packs were scattered in the snow, abandoned. We were passing through and figured we’d distribute the extras to people who lost their stuff in the storm. Is there a problem?” Benedict stared at him, his brain refusing to process the information. “Did a girl give these to you? Grace Miller? Where is she?” Garrison pushed forward, gesturing to my height. “A girl, nineteen, purple jacket. Did she give you these?” The boy rolled his eyes. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. We found the bags. They were just sitting there. We’re just trying to be good Samaritans, man.” Wade chimed in, desperate. “Did anyone come looking for them? Did you see anyone near the ridge?” “For the tenth time, NO!” the boy snapped. “The bags were just there. You guys are acting crazy. We’re done here.” Benedict didn’t say anything. Mallory reached out and tugged on his sleeve. Suddenly, a scream ripped through the thin mountain air. “OH MY GOD!” Everyone spun around. A hiker was scrambling away from a mound of snow a few hundred yards away, his face paper-white. “There’s… there’s a body!”

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