Category: English

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

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

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

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

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1 My boyfriend’s younger sister, Maisie, was born with a cognitive disability that left her perpetualy trapped in the mind of a child. To most people, she was cold and distant, a silent shadow in the corner of the room. But for some reason, she clung to me. I was the only one she would talk to, the only one she’d share her secret stash of fruit drops with. Every night before bed, we had a ritual: a FaceTime call where I’d read her a story until she drifted off. Even when she was sick, she’d refuse her medication unless I was the one holding the spoon. The night before our wedding, the unthinkable happened. Maisie spiked a dangerously high fever in the middle of the night and had to be rushed to the ER. I didn’t hesitate. I dropped everything and flew to the hospital to look after her. Oliver, my fiancé, told me through tears that we had no choice but to postpone the wedding. I agreed instantly. How could we celebrate when his sister was suffering? When Maisie finally woke up the next morning, she looked up at me with those wide, innocent eyes and tilted her head. “Oliver is getting married today,” she whispered. “Mom and Dad are there. Why aren’t you?” I thought she was confused, a lingering effect of the fever. I leaned over and smoothed her hair, trying to keep my voice light. “Because you’re sick, sweetie. I had to stay here and take care of you.” She didn’t seem to understand. She looked at me with a sudden, sharp pity that made my heart stutter. “It’s okay, Nora,” she said. “Oliver said even if I couldn’t go, I could watch it on the computer.” She reached for her iPad and opened a window. It was a livestream link shared in a WhatsApp group labeled The Montgomerys. The screen flickered to life. There was Oliver. He was standing at the altar in the charcoal suit I had spent three months helping him pick out. The venue was the exact botanical garden I had spent a year decorating. But the woman standing beside him, her hand trembling in his, wasn’t me. 2 The smile froze on my face. A cold, numbing sensation crawled up my spine. I pulled out my own phone and checked the family group chat I was in. Silence. Nothing but a desert of old messages. The last one was from Oliver last night, telling me Maisie was refusing her IV and I needed to get to the hospital immediately. For a split second, I tried to convince myself I was hallucinating. I’d been up all night; my eyes were playing tricks on me. That man just looked like Oliver. But then Maisie leaned in, pointing her small finger at the screen, identifying them one by one. “That’s Oliver. Those are my parents.” Then she pointed at me, then back at the screen. “That’s you, and that’s Maisie.” I snatched the iPad from her hands, my breath coming in jagged hitches. There was no mistake. Oliver, who told me this morning he had to run into the office to tie up loose ends for our “postponed” date, was currently reciting vows. His mother—the woman who had clutched my hand last night in the ER, weeping about what a blessing I was to their family—was now beaming on screen. She took the bride’s hand and tucked it into Oliver’s. “If this brat ever gives you trouble, Sloane, you tell me,” she chirped into the microphone. “I’ll make sure he treats you right.” The camera panned to the side, capturing the bridal party. My heart hit the floor. There, in a champagne-colored bridesmaid dress, was Becca. My best friend since college. Becca had moved to the Pacific Northwest after graduation. She’d complained for years about how miserable and isolated she felt there. When she got my wedding invitation, she’d called me crying, swearing that nothing—not a five-thousand-mile flight, not even an ocean—would stop her from being there for me. And yet, there she was, meticulously adjusting the veil of another woman. My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the tablet. I dialed Becca’s number immediately. “The wedding is off,” I said the moment she picked up, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. “Did your flight get canceled?” Becca didn’t even pause. “Oliver texted last night saying it was postponed. I moved my flight to next week.” I sat in the heavy silence of the hospital room, the beeping of the monitors feeling like a countdown. I didn’t hang up. I just waited. Finally, the guilt must have cracked her. Her voice turned sharp, defensive. “Nora… you know, don’t you?” I couldn’t speak. “Look,” she sighed, the sound of her bridesmaid dress rustling through the line. “Oliver and Sloane… they’ve been through a lot. They’ve been together for five years. Today is their big day. Don’t ruin this. Don’t be that person.” Don’t be that person? I had been with Oliver for seven years. I had spent my weekends changing his sister’s bedsheets and my evenings listening to his parents complain about their gout. When Oliver told me his boss was a bully who refused to promote him, I swallowed my pride and went back to my father—a man I hadn’t spoken to in years—to beg him for a favor to get Oliver a better position. When Becca complained about her life in the Northwest, I reached out to my mother, a high-ranking official I rarely contacted, to pull strings for a transfer back home. And this was the thanks I got. “They’re married now, Nora. Just let it go,” Becca continued, her voice dripping with a nauseating brand of pity. “If you show up now, you’re just the ‘other woman.’ You’ll only embarrass yourself.” I hung up. 3 I exited the livestream and realized that the group chat Maisie was showing me was the real Montgomery family group. A group I had never been invited to. Because Maisie struggled with reading, they communicated mostly through voice notes. They hadn’t even bothered to hide their tracks, assuming Maisie wouldn’t understand and I would never see it. I scrolled back to 7:00 PM last night. A voice note from Oliver’s mother played: “I’m going to give Maisie a cold bath tonight. Once she’s sick, Nora will definitely stay at the hospital to watch her. The wedding will go on as planned, we’ll just swap Nora for Sloane.” Last Saturday: Oliver had a date with Sloane. They’d instructed Maisie to text me, begging me to take her to the carnival so they wouldn’t be interrupted. Every night: The reason Maisie insisted on me telling her a bedtime story was so Oliver and Sloane could have their “goodnight calls” without me hearing his phone line busy. And for every “task” Maisie completed, she was rewarded with a fruit drop. I looked at the two large glass jars under her pillow, packed to the brim with colorful candies. Every time I visited their house, she would sneak a few into my purse, a silent, tragic thank-you for the woman who was unknowingly subsidizing her brother’s betrayal. Maisie must have sensed the shift in the air. She grabbed the iPad back, her face pale. “I forgot! Oliver said I wasn’t supposed to show you!” She reached into her pocket and pressed a crumpled candy into my palm. “I’ll give you my candy! Please, Nora, don’t tell Oliver. Please don’t be mad at me.” I looked at her—this innocent pawn in a game of monsters—and forced a smile. I stroked her hair. “Maisie, do you want to go see your Mom and Dad?” Her eyes lit up. “Yes! And I want to see the bride!” Then her face fell. “But Mom said I have to stay here with you. She said if I stay all day, she’ll take me to the park tomorrow.” My voice went cold, though my expression remained soft. “I’ll take you to the park. And I’ll take you to see the bride right now.” I wanted to see it for myself. I wanted to see exactly how they had transformed the wedding I paid for. 4 It had been less than twenty-four hours since I’d last been at the venue. In that time, the “Nora & Oliver” banners had been stripped. Our portraits had been replaced with photos of him and Sloane. This wasn’t a last-minute swap. This had been choreographed for months. As I walked toward the ballroom, hand-in-hand with Maisie, a woman at the reception desk blocked our path. “Which side of the family are you with? You can’t go in without signing the guest book and leaving an envelope.” Maisie pointed at the large canvas of Oliver by the door. “That’s my brother!” I reached into my bag and pulled out the legal marriage license Oliver and I had signed in front of a notary weeks ago—the one he was supposed to file but clearly hadn’t. “Is this ‘envelope’ enough for you?” I asked. The woman took it, assuming it was a fancy card. As she opened it, a professional engagement photo of me and Oliver slid out and hit the floor. “Oh, wait,” I said loudly as a few guests turned around. “I forgot to take my engagement photos out of the folder. It’s so confusing, since the groom in those pictures is currently standing at the altar in there.” A guest leaned down to pick it up. Her eyes went wide as she looked from the photo in her hand to the poster of Oliver and Sloane at the entrance. “Wait… this… this is the same man.” The commotion drew people out from the hall. Becca was the first to emerge. When she saw me, her face went ghostly. She lunged forward, grabbing my arm to yank me toward the exit. “Nora! What are you doing here? I told you not to—” “Who’s out there?” A voice rang out. Sloane appeared, followed closely by Oliver. The moment his eyes landed on me, a flash of pure, unadulterated panic crossed his face. He instinctively stepped in front of Sloane, shielding her. The more nervous he looked, the more curious Sloane became. “Oliver, who is she? If she’s a guest, let her in. We don’t turn people away.” “I don’t know her,” Oliver blurted out. His voice was thin. “She probably has the wrong ballroom. There’s another wedding next door.” Maisie poked her head out from behind me. “Oliver! How can you say you don’t know us?” She saw Sloane’s white dress and clapped her hands. “Wow! A bride!” Then she turned to me. “Nora, when are you going to marry Oliver? I want to see you be a bride, too.” Oliver’s mother appeared out of nowhere, her face twisted in rage. She clamped a hand over Maisie’s mouth. “Be quiet, you stupid girl! Stop talking nonsense!” The guest who had picked up my photo stepped forward, shoving it toward Sloane. “He says he doesn’t know her, but they’ve got professional wedding portraits. You might want to check who you just married, honey.” Before Oliver could speak, Becca stepped in, her voice loud and authoritative. “She’s my friend. Well, my ex-friend. She’s been obsessed with Oliver since they broke up years ago. She stalks him. His sister is the only one who still likes her, and she uses the poor girl to get close to him. I’m so sorry, Sloane. I should have made sure she didn’t show up to ruin your day.” I felt my heart turn to a jagged piece of ice in my chest. I didn’t argue with Becca. Her words didn’t matter anymore. I looked only at Oliver. Sloane took the photo, her eyes scanning it. She looked at Oliver, her expression unreadable. “Is what Becca saying true?” “Yes,” Oliver said. He took the photo from her hand and tore it into pieces. “It’s ancient history, Sloane. She’s just a bitter ex who can’t let go. It means nothing.” Sloane smiled, a triumphant, ugly thing. “Well, if Oliver says so, I believe him. We already have our marriage certificate. I’m not going to let some stranger ruin my wedding day.” I stood there, watching the man I’d loved for seven years shred our life together. It was over. Truly, finally over. 5 Becca dragged me out to the foyer. “I told you! You just humiliated yourself. For what? Oliver didn’t even blink. You’re lucky they didn’t call security and have you thrown out as a stalker.” I didn’t look at her. I was staring at my phone. Oliver had just sent a text: Don’t make a scene. I’ll come over tonight and explain everything. I typed back: No need. I don’t know you. Then I looked up at Becca. “What did she give you?” Becca blinked. “What?” “I’ve known you longer than I’ve known him. We promised to be each other’s maids of honor. We were supposed to be family. Why did you do it, Becca? What was I worth to you?” “She’s my friend, Nora. And Oliver loves her.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Then from this moment on, we are strangers.” I walked away from her, but I didn’t leave the hotel. I went straight to the manager’s office. “The deposit for this wedding was paid from my account,” I said, sliding the contract across the desk. “The contract is in my name. I called last night to postpone, yet the event is happening. Why?” The manager looked flustered. “Well… your fiancé said you were occupied with a family emergency and that he would handle the final details. He said the changes were approved by you.” “I am the client. I am the one who signs the checks. You allowed him to use my venue, my flowers, and my catering for a wedding to another woman without a single confirmation from me?” “I… I assumed…” “You assumed wrong. I’m not paying the balance. The deposit is gone—consider it a gift to the trash. But for the remaining sixty percent? Whoever signed the final paperwork today can pay it. And if you try to charge my card, my lawyers will have this hotel shuttered by Monday for breach of contract.” I left him stammering and went to the restroom to splash cold water on my face. When I came out of the stall, Sloane was there, touching up her lipstick. She’d changed into a sleek silk reception dress. “I know they were lying back there,” she said to the mirror, her voice cool. “I’ve known about you the whole time. But I don’t care. I’m the one with the ring. I’m the one who wins.” Before I could even process her words, she did something insane. She slapped herself across the face, hard. Then, as she tried to lung at me, she slipped on a patch of wet tile near the sinks. I instinctively reached out to catch her, but at that exact moment, the door burst open. Oliver charged in. From his perspective, it looked like I had just shoved her. Sloane hit the edge of the marble vanity with her forehead. Blood immediately began to pour down her face.

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1 Bennett was a workaholic. Or at least, that was the narrative I’d lived by for seven years. In the economy of our relationship, his career was the gold standard, and I was the currency he only spent when he had a surplus. Ten minutes before the opening credits of the movie, my phone buzzed. “The project hit a snag, Sienna. Something with the zoning permits,” Bennett’s voice was smooth, polished, and weary in that way that usually made me feel guilty for wanting his time. “I already called Vicky. She’s on her way to meet you.” Before I could get a word in, he added that low, soothing hum to his voice—the one he used to close deals. “Be a good girl. Once this launch is over, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” I looked down at the two tickets in my hand, the paper already warm from my palms. I told him to focus on work and hung up, the silence of the theater lobby swallowing my sigh. It became a pattern. Bennett’s “work” grew more demanding, and a revolving door of stand-ins took his place in my life. My best friend, Vicky, took me to the dinners he missed. My brother, Caden, rode the roller coasters Bennett was too busy to visit. His mother sat beside me at the concerts he’d forgotten he promised to attend. Everyone told me the same thing: Be patient. He’s building a future for you. Men like him are providers. Until tonight. I’d realized halfway to the theater that I’d left the tickets on the kitchen island. When I walked back into the house, I heard laughter spilling from the kitchen. “Let’s draw straws,” Vicky’s voice was playful, light. “Who has to go play ‘Sienna-sitting’ next time Bennett needs to dodge her?” My brother’s voice followed, casual and dismissive. “I don’t care who goes. Lily is sick, and Bennett needs to be there to help her check off her ‘Couple’s Bucket List’ before she leaves. We just have to keep Sienna in the dark for a few more weeks.” Then, Bennett’s mother, her voice a soft, conspiratorial rasp. “Exactly. Once Lily moves abroad, Bennett will settle down. We just can’t let the cat out of the bag yet.” I stood frozen in the hallway, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp, jagged rush. A single tear hit the hardwood floor with a silent thud. Bennett hadn’t been trapped by a project. He hadn’t been drowning in zoning permits. He was simply giving the life he promised me to Lily instead. And I was the only one in the world who didn’t know I was the understudy in my own life. I wiped my face and stepped back, easing the front door shut so quietly the latch didn’t even click. No one knew I had been there. A second later, Bennett called. I stood by the elevator, watching the numbers crawl up. “Sienna, I can’t make the movie. Something came up at the site. Vicky is almost there. Watch it with her, and I’ll bring you some takeout when I’m done.” He was meticulous. He had a plan for everything. I looked at my blurred reflection in the brushed metal of the elevator doors. My voice was a hollow whisper. “Don’t bother calling Vicky. I’m not watching the movie. Just… do what you need to do.” There was a beat of silence. His tone sharpened, growing heavy with perceived burden. “The tickets are already paid for, Sienna.” “It’s not about the money, Bennett.” “You know that’s not what I meant.” He sighed, the sound of a man martyring himself for a difficult woman. “Don’t start a fight right now, okay? When this stretch is over, I’ll take you out and we’ll finish that list of yours.” I hung up. I gripped the tickets until the edges cut into my skin. When I reached the street, I dropped them into a trash can and hailed a cab. “Vintage Vinyl on 4th,” I told the driver. It was the place Bennett had promised to take me next week. Item number seventeen on my list: Spend a rainy afternoon listening to old records together. I realized suddenly that I didn’t need him to be there to hear the music. The cab pulled up to the curb. I reached for the door handle, but my hand froze. Through the large plate-glass window, I saw him. Bennett was sitting at a listening station, leaning in close to Lily, carefully adjusting the headphones over her ears. Lily’s head was tilted, her fingers brushing the edge of the leather cups. Bennett was so close his breath must have been on her cheek. He was wearing an expression of such agonizing patience—a look I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. I stayed paralyzed on the sidewalk. Lily reached for a notebook on the table. Bennett opened it for her. The cover was deep navy blue, adorned with silver star stickers and a poorly drawn bunny in the corner. My stomach did a slow, sickening somersault. I had spent three nights making that book. I’d researched every location, scoured reviews, and handwritten every wish Bennett had ever offhandedly mentioned in our seven years together. Every page had a space for a photo and a date. He had held me once and told me we’d keep that book until our hair turned white. Now, it was resting on Lily’s lap. She turned to a page, her finger hovering over number seventeen. “This record shop… wasn’t this Sienna’s idea? I feel like I’m stealing her wish.” Bennett’s hand moved to cover the page, preventing her from turning it back. “If it’s what you want to do, do it. She won’t mind.” The air in my chest turned to lead. He didn’t just give her his time; he gave her my heart, pre-packaged and edited for her convenience. He had decided for me that I wouldn’t mind being betrayed. Lily picked up a pen and drew a neat little checkmark next to seventeen. Bennett watched her, his hand steadying the book as she wrote. I pushed the door open. The chime of the bell shattered the quiet of the shop. Bennett looked up. Our eyes locked, and the easy, protective smile on his face turned to stone. He instinctively stepped in front of Lily, shielding her. It was the same gesture he used to do for me back in college—protecting me from the crowds at street fairs, bracing his arm against the subway doors so I wouldn’t be bumped. Now, that wall of a man was built to keep me away from her. I walked to the table and held out my hand. “Give it back.” Lily clutched the notebook to her chest, her face draining of color. Bennett grabbed my wrist—not hard, but firm enough to be an obstacle. “Lily’s vision is failing, Sienna. She’s leaving the country soon and just wanted to see these places once. Don’t make this difficult for her.” I looked down at his hand on my wrist. A wave of nausea rolled over me, followed by a searing, white-hot clarity. I used my other hand to peel his fingers back, one by one. “Bennett. Make her give it to me.” He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw genuine annoyance in his eyes. “It’s just a notebook. If you want one so bad, I’ll buy you ten. I’ll write whatever you want in them.” I let out a short, jagged laugh, but the tears came first. “Can the new ones hold seven years of my life?” He went silent. Lily looked down, her voice a fragile reed. “Sienna, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this was so important to you. I’m just… I’m scared of the dark. I wanted to have some memories to hold onto before everything goes blurry.” She sounded repentant, but her grip on my book never loosened. The door chimed again. Caden and Vicky burst in, breathless. My brother saw Lily’s red eyes and immediately rounded on me. “Sienna, what the hell? You’re really going to bully her now? She’s literally going blind and you’re picking a fight over a scrapbook?” Vicky stood by Bennett, her voice a low, condescending hum. “We kept it from you because we knew you’d overreact. Bennett was being a good friend. Lily only has a few weeks left. Do you have to make a scene?” In a room full of the people I loved most, I was the only villain. They hadn’t been asking me to “understand Bennett’s hard work.” They had been grooming me to be the casualty. Bennett didn’t say a word. He didn’t even tell my brother to back off. Lily tentatively held the book out. “Sienna, I’ll just tear out today’s page, okay? Please don’t be angry.” I snatched the book from her. As I did, a photo fluttered out from between the pages. It was Bennett and Lily. He was holding her, laughing as they opened a “couple’s blind box” toy. The date on the back was from last month. The night I had a 103-degree fever and spent six hours in the ER alone. He’d told me he was out of town on a business trip. Vicky had dropped off some lukewarm soup. Caden had called to tell me not to be “high maintenance.” He wasn’t out of town. He was finishing item number three on my list. I closed the book, smoothing the frayed edges of the cover. Bennett saw the change in my expression and softened his voice. “Sienna, give me the book. Let’s go home and talk. Don’t let people see us like this.” I walked past him, straight to the industrial-sized trash can outside the shop. Caden yelled, “Sienna, what are you doing?” I held the notebook over the bin. Bennett finally looked panicked. He lunged forward. “Don’t.” I looked him in the eye. “It’s just a notebook, right?” His jaw tightened. “Sienna, stop being dramatic.” “I’m not being dramatic,” I said. My hand opened. The book hit the bottom of the bin with a dull thud. A silver star sticker caught on the rim and tore in half. It was the thing I cherished most in the world, and letting go of it felt like the first breath of oxygen I’d had in a decade. I turned back to Bennett. “The wedding is canceled.” He stood there, hand still half-reached for a trash can, frozen. I walked away. I didn’t look back to see if he followed. By the time I got home, my hands had stopped shaking. I called the wedding coordinator. “Confirming the cancellation for the Rhodes-Holloway ceremony next month,” I said, my voice steady. The woman on the line went through the protocol, asking if I was sure. I looked at the guest list on the counter. Caden. Vicky. Bennett’s colleagues. And there, near the bottom, written in Vicky’s handwriting: Lily (VIP Table). “I’m sure.” She warned me about the non-refundable deposits. I listened to the numbers, and for the first time, the loss of money felt like a bargain. It was the price of my freedom. I went to the bedroom and began packing. I moved methodically, folding my life into two large suitcases. At the very bottom of the closet, I found the cashmere scarf Bennett had bought me with his first big bonus. He’d told me he picked it because I was always cold, and he wanted me to feel his warmth even when he wasn’t there. He knew how to love me. He had just decided that my love was a line of credit he could draw on forever without ever paying it back. I left the scarf on the bed. The front door opened. Bennett walked in, carrying a box from my favorite bakery. He saw the suitcases and stopped. “You’re really doing the ‘moving out’ thing?” He set the cake on the table and pushed it toward me. “Look, I waited forty minutes in line for this. Eat something, and let’s talk like adults.” The cake was perfect. Strawberries on top, pristine white frosting. Years ago, when I got my first architectural lead, he’d waited two hours in the rain for a cake like this. He’d shown up soaked, grinning, telling me that as long as I built the skyscrapers, he’d build the home. That cake was a celebration. This one was a bribe. I didn’t touch it. I zipped the last suitcase. “Lily leaves next week,” Bennett said, his voice rising with frustration. “I’ve just been helping her out. Once she’s gone, I’m all yours. Why do you have to blow everything up right now?” I looked up. The grief I’d been suppressing surged. “I’ve pushed back my life, my promotions, and my sanity for you. I spent a year making sure every flower at that wedding was perfect. And all that time, I was second place.” “My parents know about the cancellation,” I added. His face paled. “Sienna—” “The deposits are gone. I’ll send you the invoice for your half of the remaining bills.” Bennett’s face darkened. “Sienna, are you really being this vindictive?” “You started it,” I said, my voice tight. His mother stepped out of the guest room. She’d been there the whole time. She walked over and put a hand on my suitcase. “Sienna, honey, he bought you a cake. Men make mistakes. Lily is sick; he was just being a gentleman. Give him a chance to fix it.” I moved her hand away. “Where was he the night you took me to that concert, Barbara?” She didn’t answer. I smiled, a cold, bitter thing. “He was at the pier with Lily. Item number eight. Don’t lie to me anymore.” Bennett tried to touch my shoulder. “I know you’re hurt, but don’t use the wedding as a threat.” I stepped back. “It’s not a threat. It’s a fact.” I headed for the door, but he blocked the way. “Where are you going?” His phone rang. Lily. Bennett looked at the screen, and I saw the conflict in his eyes for a split second before his “protector” instinct took over. He answered. Caden’s voice was hysterical on the other end. “Bennett! Lily collapsed. She can’t see anything. She’s locked herself in the bathroom saying she doesn’t want to live if she’s a burden. The doctors need you!” Bennett gripped the phone, his eyes darting to my suitcases. He didn’t move. “Sienna, stay here. Don’t go.” He took a step toward me, but a loud crash came through the phone. Lily was screaming. Bennett’s shoulders bunched. He grabbed his keys. “I have to handle this. Wait for me. I’ll explain everything when I get back.” “Bennett,” I called out. He stopped at the door. I held up my phone, showing him the digital confirmation from the wedding venue. “Sign the mutual release. Now.” “You’re doing this now?” “The contract requires both parties to sign for the final release of liability. Sign it, and you can go be her hero.” He stared at the screen, his brow furrowed in anger. His phone rang again. It was Lily this time. He snatched my phone, scrawled a digital signature with his thumb, and threw it onto the sofa. “Fine. We’ll fix this later.” He ran out. I picked up my phone and hit ‘Submit.’ Then, I opened my banking app and authorized the payment for the remaining penalties. My savings account plummeted. That was the money for my independent studio. I didn’t care. I dragged my boxes to the living room. I took out the third-anniversary gift, the polaroids from the fair, the bracelet I’d never had an occasion to wear. I put them all in a box on the coffee table. I took off my engagement ring and placed it on top of his spare key. The phone rang one last time as I reached the door. I didn’t answer. I walked out and let the door lock behind me. I checked my email at the airport. Offer Acceptance Confirmed: Senior Architect, Nordic Restoration Project. The flight was at noon tomorrow. Two-year contract. Copenhagen. I deleted Bennett’s contact info, turned off my GPS sharing, and snapped my SIM card in half. Hours later, Bennett returned to a silent apartment. My shoes were gone. My toothbrush was gone. The only things left were the ghosts of seven years, boxed up on a coffee table. He picked up the spare key. On the back, I had taped a small piece of paper. Wedding canceled. Contract closed. Don’t look for me. He dialed my number. The number you have reached has been disconnected…

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1 The last trip before we were supposed to sign our marriage license ended in the tall grass behind a rest stop, with a hand clamped over my mouth and the world turning into a blurred nightmare of violence. When Brooks and my sister, Lauren, finally found me, I was shivering, curled into a ball of pain. But as Brooks lifted me into his arms, I heard him murmur something in French to Lauren—a language they assumed I didn’t speak. “Did you get enough footage for the segment?” his voice was cool, professional. “Yeah,” Lauren replied, her tone equally detached. “I’ve got what I need.” “Is this… is this fair to Jo, though?” there was a flicker of hesitation in her voice, but it was thin. Brooks’s voice hardened, sounding more like a CEO than a fiancé. “The guy was an actor, Lauren. He didn’t actually go through with it; we just needed the optics of a struggle. As long as I don’t care about her being ‘tainted,’ why should it matter? This story is your ticket. You win a Peabody or a Pulitzer for this, and that’s what counts.” I lay in his arms, a different kind of cold seeping into my marrow. The bruises on my ribs throbbed, but they were nothing compared to the sudden hollow in my chest. “What… what are you saying?” I whispered, my voice cracking. Brooks didn’t miss a beat. He wiped a tear from my eye with a thumb that felt like sandpaper. His voice returned to that practiced, honeyed warmth. “We’re talking about your case, honey. We’re going to let Lauren break the story. It’s the only way to make sure the monster who did this really pays.” He thought I was still trapped behind a language barrier. He went right back to whispering to her in French, discussing “exposure” and “narrative arcs.” What he didn’t know was that I had spent the last year secretly taking French classes. I wanted to surprise them—to finally feel like I belonged in their sophisticated, high-achieving world. Instead, the first conversation I understood was the sound of them selling my soul. I forced myself to stand, stumbling after them as we arrived at the news station where Lauren worked. I felt like a ghost haunting my own life. Lauren was already in her element. Dressed in a sharp, somber blazer, she stood before the cameras, her eyes glistening with rehearsed tears. “My sister’s trauma is a tragedy,” she told the reporters. “But as a journalist, I have a duty. I will report this story with every ounce of integrity I possess to ensure justice is served.” She covered her face, a perfect picture of the grieving sister. Brooks stood beside her, looking into the lens with a face of grim determination. “My fiancée is a survivor,” he said. “I ask the public to respect her privacy as she heals. And I ask you to support the incredible work Lauren is doing to bring these issues to light.” The room erupted in applause. I leaned against the wall in the hallway, my stomach turning. They were offering up my dignity on an altar of ambition. My “assault” was a prop. I couldn’t take it. I pushed through the double doors, my eyes red and my breath shallow. Every head in the room turned toward me. Brooks looked shocked. “Jo? What are you doing here? You should be in the hospital. Your wounds—” He reached for me, but I shoved his hand away with every bit of strength I had left. “Stop it! Stop the lying! I heard you! I heard everything!” The room went silent. Brooks froze, his mask slipping for a fraction of a second. “How… how could you possibly understand French?” I had spent months as the “clueless” one, the sweet, quiet sister who just smiled while they spoke over my head. Every time I had asked what they were talking about, they’d dismissed me with a “nothing important, sweetie.” I had worked so hard to be part of their “we.” And all I found was a “them” that didn’t include me. Lauren rushed down from the podium, trying to grab my shoulders. “Jo, honey, don’t misunderstand. We’re doing this for you. We’re trying to help…” We had grown up together in the foster system. She was the one who fought for me. She became a journalist so she could find the parents who abandoned us. “I can handle being alone,” she used to say, “but I won’t let you grow up without a family.” The sister I worshipped was a lie. I pushed her back, hard. She stumbled, and Brooks caught her instantly, his protective instinct flaring—for her. “What is wrong with you?” he barked at me. “After everything your sister has done for you? She raised you! She’s sacrificed everything! So what if she gets a career boost out of this? We’re staying by you, aren’t we? We aren’t calling you ‘damaged goods’!” “But I’m calling you both ‘trash’!” I screamed, my voice failing me. The day he proposed, Brooks had cried, promising I’d never shed another tear. Now, he was the one holding the knife. Seeing them stand there together, their bodies inclined toward one another, made the world tilt. I didn’t have anything left. My vision darkened, and as I collapsed, my last thought was simple: I’m done with both of you. When I woke up, the hospital room was a sea of flashbulbs. Lauren was sitting by my bed, microphone in hand. The strobing lights burned my retinas. Brooks leaned over me, his voice a soft, coercive purr. “The press is here, Jo. Just answer a few questions. It’ll be over soon, and then we can go home.” I looked down. There were thirty-four stitches holding my skin together. My internal organs felt like they’d been put through a meat grinder. And they wanted me to perform for a camera. I grabbed a glass pitcher from the bedside table and hurled it at the door. It shattered, glass spraying the reporters. “Get out! Get the hell out! I’m not saying a word!” Lauren waved the crew back, then sat on the edge of my bed. “We’re doing this for the greater good, Jo. Trust me. The report will make sure everyone knows what that man did…” I couldn’t believe it. My sister, the person who was supposed to be my shield, was asking me to reopen my wounds for the public to dissect. I ripped the IV out of my arm, blood blossoming on the sheets, and shoved her away. She tumbled back into a medical cart, her white silk blouse staining red as glass vials shattered around her. “Lauren!” Brooks screamed. He didn’t even look at me. He lunged for her. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He checked her for cuts, then turned to me with a look of pure loathing. “This is enough! She’s trying to help you, and you’re acting like a goddamn animal! You should be grateful she’s even giving you the time of day!” Years ago, when I’d nicked my finger with a kitchen knife, Brooks had turned pale and spent an hour bandaging it. Now, I was covered in stitches and bruises, and he only had eyes for Lauren’s scratched arm. He lifted her into his arms and carried her out to find a doctor. I was left alone on the floor, a broken doll in a room full of cameras. The segment aired. It was a sensation. But the sympathy I expected never came. The internet comments were a cesspool: “Look at what she was wearing. Who goes into the woods like that?” “She looked like she was enjoying the attention during the interview. Suspicious.” “If you put yourself in that situation, you get what you get.” The harassment was constant. My phone buzzed with death threats and vile insults. I felt like I was holding a live wire. Meanwhile, Lauren and Brooks were at a televised gala, accepting an award for “Courageous Journalism.” “Lauren Reed is a credit to the profession,” the presenter said. “And Brooks Harrison’s sponsorship of this investigation shows true leadership.” They were bathed in golden light. I was curled in a ball in a darkened room, afraid to move. Then the “shipping” started. “Brooks has been anonymously funding Lauren’s investigative work for five years. That’s so romantic!” “Is she the secret bride he’s been talking about? The girl in the engagement photos looks just like her!” Five years. The “anonymous donor” Lauren used to gush about—the one who helped her find our “roots”—was Brooks. They hadn’t just used my trauma. They had used my entire life as a stepping stone. I checked myself out of the hospital and went to Lauren’s old apartment to get the few things I’d left there. When I opened the door, a three-year-old girl with blonde curls ran into my legs. “Mommy!” she squealed. I froze. A nanny hurried over, looking embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry! You look just like her mother. I’m sorry, sweetie, this isn’t Mommy.” I looked up. On the mantel was a framed portrait: Brooks, Lauren, and this little girl. A perfect family. The blood drained from my face. Lauren walked out of the bedroom in a silk robe, picking up the child. “Hailey, what did I tell you about—” She saw me. The color left her face, too. “What is this?” my voice was a ghost of a sound. Brooks walked out behind her, drying his hair with a towel. He stopped dead. “Jo, look. Let me explain,” he started, his voice frantic. “The kid… she was an accident. Three years ago, I… I thought she was you. It was a mistake. We’ve kept her tucked away so it wouldn’t hurt our relationship.” We had lost a baby once. Brooks had spent hours with his head on my stomach, naming him, talking to him. “Our baby is going to be as beautiful as you,” he’d said. Now, he was holding a child he’d had with my sister, looking at her with that same adoration. This apartment was a replica of our house. Same sofa. Same art. Only the family in the photos was different. “When?” I asked. Brooks looked away. “Three years ago. When Lauren went to Europe for that ‘story.’” The trip where she supposedly found our parents. I had waited by the phone for weeks, hoping for a family to come home to. Instead, she was in a hotel room with my husband-to-be, conceiving a child while I stayed home and prayed for her success. The rage finally broke through the numbness. I swung my hand and slapped her across the face. “Ow!” Lauren cried out, clutching her cheek. Brooks grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “Joanna, enough! Ever since the incident, you’ve been a freaking lunatic! You’re being unreasonable!” I stared at him, unable to breathe. He had orchestrated the event that broke me, and now he was calling me crazy for being broken. My stitches felt like they were ripping. Lauren’s daughter, seeing her mother cry, stepped forward and shoved me. “Go away, mean lady!” I instinctively put my hand out to steady myself, and the child began to wail. Brooks’s eyes turned murderous. “You’re attacking a child now? A helpless little girl? If you have a problem, take it out on me!” He shoved me. Hard. I fell back, my heels catching on the rug, and I tumbled down the three steps into the sunken living room. I hit the floor with a wet thud. I didn’t cry. I just watched him pull Lauren and Hailey into his arms, a protective wall of a man guarding his “real” family. The last thread of my heart snapped. “Brooks,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We’re done.” He scoffed, though his eyes showed a flicker of fear. “You won’t leave. I’m the only man you’ve ever loved. Lauren is the only family you have. You’re not going anywhere. And I don’t respond well to threats, Jo.” He was so certain. He thought he’d built a cage I couldn’t escape. “I mean it—” “Brooks! The baby!” Lauren screamed. “She’s burning up! I think she’s having a seizure!” Brooks panicked. He ran right past me, nearly stepping on my hand, as he scooped up the child and ran for the door. I tried to stand, but a sudden, hot gush of fluid ran down my legs. “It’s a shame,” the doctor said, looking at the ultrasound. “The fetus survived the initial trauma of the assault, but the secondary fall was too much. The placental abruption was total.” I lay in a cold clinic bed, staring at the ceiling. I hadn’t even known I was pregnant. I had lost a life I didn’t know I had, and the man who killed it was the father. My phone vibrated. “You’re a monster. Lauren is trying to help you and you tried to kill her kid?” “I bet she’s just jealous. Trying to play the victim so she can steal her sister’s life. Disgusting.” The world was screaming at me. My phone was a weapon. Then, a call from Brooks. I answered it, my voice hollow. “Brooks…” “Where the hell are you, Joanna?” he screamed. “Hailey’s fever won’t break! She’s terrified because of what you did!” “I’m in the hospital,” I whispered. “I just had a mis—” “Don’t lie to me to get out of trouble! The doctors at the main hospital said you were fine! We’re at the hospital, Jo. You aren’t here.” I looked around the small, dingy clinic where a stranger had dropped me off. I didn’t bother to explain. “You need to accept Lauren and the baby,” Brooks said, his voice dropping into that cold, commanding tone. “Go home and think about what you’ve done. I expect you to be ‘adult’ about this when I see you next.” He hung up. I stared at the wall until midnight. Then, a shadow fell across the door of my room. A man walked in. He was holding a flashlight. I recognized him instantly. It was the “actor” from the woods. He was shaking, his eyes wild. “They told me this wouldn’t go public! Now my face is everywhere! The cops are looking for me because of that bitch sister of yours!” He raised a heavy brick. I scrambled back, but I was too weak. The first blow caught me on the back of the neck. Everything went white. Blood poured into my eyes. I fumbled for my phone, desperately hitting the speed dial for Brooks, then Lauren. The person you are calling is unavailable… My thumb accidentally swiped the home security app. The camera in our bedroom was live. On the screen, Brooks and Lauren were in our bed. Brooks’s bare back was to the camera. “The fever was nothing,” Lauren whispered, her voice breathless. “She’s fine.” “If Jo can’t accept her,” Brooks said, his voice muffled against her neck, “then I’ll just give the marriage license to you. We’ll give Hailey a real home. Jo… she always does what I say. She’ll never leave me.” He leaned down and kissed her, deep and slow. In the clinic, the “actor” roared in frustration. “You ruined my life! You lying bitch!” The brick came down again. And the world finally went black. Brooks Harrison buttoned his white shirt, stepping out of the bedroom. He glanced at his phone and saw a string of missed calls from Joanna. His heart skipped a beat, a sudden, inexplicable dread washing over him. He was about to call her back when his phone rang. It was an unknown number. “Is this Mr. Harrison? This is the county morgue… sorry, I mean, the emergency surgical unit. We have a Joanna Reed here. She’s been brutally assaulted. You need to get here now.”

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1 I was born with a soul that wanted to crawl into a hole and pull the grass over it. To me, a crowded room feels like a firing squad, and eye contact is a physical wound. But then, the Blackwood family—the billionaire dynasty I had been stolen from at birth—found me. And that was when Seraphina, the “fake” daughter who had been living my life, decided to turn my existence into a psychological thriller. “Does Iris hate me?” she’d sob into her silk handkerchief. “I just went to say good morning, and she called me a ‘filthy little parasite’!” My older brother, Hudson, would slam his fist on the mahogany table. “That foul-mouthed brat! How dare she bring that gutter language into this house? Come on, Seraphina. We’re going to have a word with her right now.” That’s when the butler, Arthur, would cough politely. “Sir, Miss Iris said the daylight is ‘too loud’ and refused to leave the car until midnight. She hasn’t even stepped inside the gates yet. We’re picking her up in three hours.” Three days later, Seraphina tried again. “Hudson, she… she hired some local thugs to jump me after school.” I shrank into the corner of the velvet sofa, my voice barely a whisper. “I… I haven’t actually enrolled in classes yet. I haven’t left this room.” Later, she came running in, hysterical, claiming I’d tried to run her over with my car. Before she could even get to the climax of her lie, the housekeeper burst in. “Ma’am! Hudson! Miss Iris hasn’t opened her bedroom door in an entire week. Should we call the paramedics?” The air in the living room froze. Seraphina stood there, mouth agape, her rehearsed script dying in her throat. Eventually, Hudson—convinced that the only way to save me was to force me into the world—found me a “good man.” I cracked my door open just an inch, trembling as I peered at them. “I’ll do the arranged marriage,” I stammered. “But… is it okay if I don’t show up to the wedding? Like, can I just Zoom in with my camera off?” The moment I stepped through the front doors of the Blackwood estate, Seraphina looked like she had seen a ghost. Her jaw dropped, her body turning to stone. Terrified by the sudden spotlight of her attention, I ducked behind my father, Richard. He looked at her, confused. “Seraphina? What’s with that face? You look like you’ve been struck by lightning.” As if a switch had been flipped, the shock melted into a waterfall of tears. “Dad… Iris hates me already, doesn’t she? Why else would she wait until the middle of the night to come home? She clearly didn’t want to see my face!” She turned toward the grand staircase, her voice thick with fake martyrdom. “I’ll go pack my bags. I won’t stay where I’m an eyesore to your real daughter!” My mother, Eleanor, rushed to her side, pulling her into a protective embrace. “What are you saying? You’re my daughter, too! In this house, no one is kicking you out. Not on my watch!” Then, Eleanor turned her gaze on me. It was cold, sharp, and heavy with warning. I wanted to explain. I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t being malicious; I was just terrified of the sun and the people who lived under it. I opened my mouth several times, but my throat felt like it was filled with sawdust. “Okay,” I finally managed. Eleanor’s face contorted. “Okay? That’s it? Are you dismissing me? Who taught you such insolence? Where are your manners?” Richard stepped in, his voice weary. “Eleanor, honey, it’s not that. Our daughter has severe social anxiety. It’s not that she won’t talk; it’s a clinical condition. It’s a sickness.” The fire in Eleanor’s eyes flickered toward guilt for a split second, but Seraphina was faster. She wiped her eyes, muttering just loud enough for everyone to hear, “Social anxiety? Is that even a real thing? People just make up words for ‘being a jerk’ these days. If she wanted to play the ‘fragile’ card to get me kicked out, she should have at least googled ‘insomnia’ or ‘depression.’ It’s more believable.” Eleanor’s guilt vanished, replaced by a hardened sneer. “I told you, no one is taking Seraphina away from me. Not even my biological daughter.” I lowered my head, staring at the polished marble floor. I couldn’t look at her. “Since you’re so ‘terrified’ of people,” Eleanor continued, “we’ll just cancel the debutante ball we planned for you. Consider it done.” Seraphina’s eyes lit up with a predatory triumph. She looked at me, expecting to see me crushed, but instead, she caught the spark of pure, unadulterated joy in my eyes. Thank God. I didn’t have to be paraded around like a prize pony in front of hundreds of strangers. A gala sounded like a medieval torture chamber to me. Seraphina’s eyebrows knitted together. She looked genuinely baffled. 2 The next morning, I was jolted awake by a violent pounding on my door. When I opened it, a small mob was waiting for me. Seraphina was there, scratching at her arms frantically, her face blotchy and tear-stained. “Iris brought me breakfast this morning,” Seraphina sobbed. “I thought… I thought she was finally accepting me. But the moment I ate it, I started breaking out. The housekeeper found cheap, processed shrimp in the omelet. She knows I’m deathly allergic!” Eleanor’s hand swung through the air, aimed right for my face. Because I was already half-hidden behind the door, my instinct took over. I slammed the door shut. A blood-curdling scream echoed through the hallway. “AHHH! My hand! My hand!” Eleanor clutched her bruised fingers, her face purple with rage. “You heartless little bitch! First you try to kill Seraphina, and now you assault your own mother? You are a monster!” My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “I didn’t… I didn’t give her breakfast,” I stammered through the wood. “I just woke up. I haven’t even left my room. I didn’t even know she had an allergy…” Eleanor glared at the door as if she could burn a hole through it. “If it wasn’t you, then who? Who else in this house has a reason to be jealous of her? Iris, allergies can be fatal. You tried to commit murder!” My brain was spinning, trying to find an exit strategy, a way to survive this logic-free zone. That’s when Hudson, my brother, spoke up. “Actually, Mom… I don’t think it was Iris.” He looked at the door, then back at Seraphina. “Think about it. Iris has social anxiety. Buying breakfast requires talking to people. Buying specific, ‘cheap’ shrimp requires even more interaction. She doesn’t know Seraphina. A person with her condition wouldn’t suddenly become a ‘social butterfly’ just to play a prank.” Panic flashed across Seraphina’s face. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. “Hudson… are you saying you don’t believe me? Mom said no one else hates me. If it wasn’t her, are you saying I did this to myself? I knew it… now that your real sister is here, I’m just garbage to you…” Hudson immediately folded, pulling her into a hug. “Seraphina, don’t say that! You’re my favorite sister. No one can ever replace you, okay?” Seraphina pouted, leaning into his chest. “I guess…” Her eyes darted around, landing on the door again. “But is ‘social anxiety’ even a real medical thing? Or is it just a TikTok trend? Is it that easy? You just act scared and suddenly you’re immune to consequences?” Hudson turned back toward my door, his expression hardening. “Is that it? Are you faking this whole ‘scared girl’ act just to get attention? That is pathetic, Iris. Truly twisted. I can only imagine how your foster parents raised you. They must have been bottom-feeders to produce someone so manipulative. You’re a disgrace to the Blackwood name.” Usually, I could tune out insults directed at me. I was used to being the weird kid. But when he brought my foster parents into it—the people who had actually loved me, who had kept me safe—I felt a spark of something hotter than fear. I peeked through the crack of the door, my eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare talk about my parents like that, you arrogant prick.” “Who are you calling your parents?” Hudson’s voice rose to a roar. “Your parents are standing right here! Not only are you malicious, you’re ungrateful! No wonder they were so quick to ship you back to us. They probably sent you here to grift us for every cent of the inheritance!” My face went hot. My heart rate spiked into the red zone. I saw Seraphina hiding behind him, mocking me with a silent, toothy grin. I wanted to scream, to fight back, but my tongue felt like lead. The sheer weight of the emotion trapped in my chest was too much. The world tilted. The hallway blurred. Then, the lights went out. I collapsed onto the floor with a heavy thud. Hudson froze. “Mom… Mom, oh god. I think I just killed my sister.” 3 Hudson stood by the bed, looking like a kicked puppy as the doctor finished his exam. “I just yelled at her a little bit. How does someone just drop dead from words? Is she faking? Is this a trap to make me look like a villain?” The family doctor sighed, packing his stethoscope. “It’s a severe psychosomatic response. Her nervous system was overloaded by the stress. The fainting was a literal ‘system crash’ to protect her brain. You cannot trigger her like that.” The doctor looked Hudson dead in the eye. “No shouting. No insults. If you keep pushing her toward a mental breakdown, her heart might not handle the next ‘crash.’” Hudson’s face turned a muddy shade of grey. When I finally blinked my eyes open, I saw him recoil, his mouth opening to bark another order—then he remembered the doctor’s warning. He looked like he was swallowing a lemon. “Look,” he muttered, his voice strained and unnaturally polite. “Regardless of why you passed out, Seraphina is the one suffering from an allergy. Could you please… would you mind… apologizing to her? As a favor to me?” From that day on, Hudson treated me like I was made of spun glass. But his newfound caution only fueled Seraphina’s rage. A few days later, she came sprinting into the villa, drenched and shivering, throwing herself into Eleanor’s arms. “What happened?” Eleanor cried, grabbing a towel. Seraphina sobbed hysterically, shaking her head. “Don’t ask, Mom. Please. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have been near the water.” After ten minutes of “forced” questioning, Seraphina finally broke. “Iris… she pushed me into the pool! Mom, you know I can’t swim! I almost drowned! I thought I was never going to see you again!” Eleanor’s face contorted into a mask of fury. She pointed a finger at me. “You little piece of—!” Before the slur could leave her lips, Hudson lunged forward and clamped his hand over her mouth. “Shh! Mom, keep it down!” he hissed. “Do you want her to drop dead right here? You heard the doctor! No ‘triggering’ language!” Eleanor was turning purple, her chest heaving, but she didn’t dare make a sound. Hudson looked at me, his eyes twitching. “Iris, honey… could you please refrain from attempted homicide? If it’s not too much trouble?” Seraphina was sweating now, realize her drama was being muffled by medical fear. She bit her lip and whispered, “The doctor said no verbal triggers. He didn’t say we couldn’t use… other punishments.” She quickly covered her mouth. “Oh! I shouldn’t have said that! I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me!” Eleanor’s eyes snapped toward me, gleaming with a cruel epiphany. “You’re right. I have plenty of ways to handle this.” She leaned in, her voice a cold, sharp whisper. “Iris. Starting today, your things are being moved to the attic. I’m locking the door. No one is to give you food, and you are not to leave that room. If you want to play ‘deadly’ games with Seraphina, let’s see how you feel when you’re facing the brink of starvation. Maybe a little hunger will clear your head.” Seraphina’s face lit up. “I’ll show her the way! I want to help her reflect on her actions.” She dragged me up to the dusty, cramped attic. “I hope you like it here, ‘sis.’ It’s a bit of a step down from your suite, isn’t it? But Mom’s only doing this for your own good. Adversity builds character, right?” I looked around the attic. My pulse, for the first time in weeks, slowed down to a peaceful rhythm. It was isolated. The windows were small and high. No one would knock. No one would stare at me. There was a massive, old-fashioned wardrobe in the corner that looked like the perfect place to build a nest. It was dark, quiet, and blissfully lonely. Seraphina was waiting for a breakdown. When she saw the look of genuine relief on my face, her insults died in her throat. The heavy iron bolt slid into place outside the door. I turned and flopped onto the small cot. Was this supposed to be suffering? Compared to the trailer I’d lived in with my foster mom during the lean years, this “attic” was a boutique hotel. I waited until the footsteps faded, then I reached into the hidden pockets of my oversized coat. I pulled out a stash of granola bars, beef jerky, and dried mango. Socially anxious people are, by nature, doomsday preppers. We always assume the worst is about to happen, so we pack accordingly. To me, a hoard of snacks is better than a bank account. As long as I have calories and oxygen, I can survive anything. I pulled out a fully charged power bank, grabbed my snacks, and crawled into the giant wardrobe. The darkness felt like a warm hug. The only downside was the lack of a toothbrush, but I could live with that for a few days. Three days later, Hudson couldn’t take it anymore. “Mom, enough. She’s sick. You can’t starve a person with a mental illness. She’s your daughter, for God’s sake.” Eleanor sipped her tea, her expression bored. “Relax. I did my research. A person can survive three days without food. She’s fine.” She gestured to the butler. “Arthur, has the girl learned her lesson?” Arthur took a deep breath, his face pale. “Ma’am… I think the Young Mistress has turned into a feral animal.”

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1 I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw glasses or demand an explanation when I found out about Summer. I simply handed Bennett the divorce papers. He sat there, head bowed, the weight of the silence stretching between us until he finally reached out and tore the documents into jagged halves. “Ten days,” he whispered, his voice thick with a struggle I no longer cared to decipher. “Give me ten days. After that, I’ll send Summer away. She’ll be gone, Sienna. Out of our lives for good.” He didn’t wait for my answer. He just stood up and walked out of the house we had built together, leaving the scent of his expensive cologne and a sense of profound rot in the air. And so, the ten days began. Bennett took her everywhere. He took her white-water rafting and hiking up the snow-capped peaks of the Cascades; he took her bungee jumping and skydiving, chasing every adrenaline rush the Pacific Northwest could offer. He also took her to see the sunrise on a secluded beach in the San Juans and to a quiet sanctuary in the Redwoods to make a wish—all the romantic clichés I once thought belonged only to us. Then came the ninth night. I was in our bedroom, zipping up the last of my suitcases, when my phone vibrated. It was a video call from a number I hadn’t seen in a decade. More accurately, it was a call from me—ten years ago. “You really are me from the future!” The girl on the screen was radiant, her face unlined by the bitterness of the years. She looked so damn happy. “So, did Bennett and I get married? Do we have kids yet?” A sharp, jagged pain sliced through my chest. I didn’t answer. Instead, I walked out onto the balcony and turned the camera downward. Below us, in the driveway, Bennett was wrapped around Summer. They were clinging to each other as if the world were ending, a tableau of desperate, agonizing longing. “That,” I said, my voice as cold as the night air, “is the result.” Her eyes widened. The light in them died instantly, replaced by a shock so profound it looked like she’d been struck. “That’s impossible… that can’t be him.” “Sienna,” I said, the exhaustion finally pulling me under, “please. I’m begging you. Don’t marry him.” She started to sob. Great, racking heaves of breath that I could feel through the speaker. “How did it happen? How did we get here?” I didn’t have an answer. I wasn’t sure if I ever would. “You won’t be happy,” I told her, my voice cracking. “Promise me, Sienna. Don’t do it.” She wiped her eyes, her face flushed a deep, bruised red. “But he’s not even here right now. He’s in the Montana wilderness. He went to find that reclusive specialist, the one people say can perform miracles. He went there to save me.” I froze. I had almost forgotten. Ten years ago, a stage accident had crushed my legs. The doctors said I might never walk again. Bennett had been more devastated than I was. He had stayed up every single night, massaging my muscles, changing my dressings, whispering promises into my hair. When we heard about the “Miracle Worker” in the mountains, he didn’t hesitate. He drove through a blizzard and spent three days camped outside the man’s cabin, refusing to eat or leave until the doctor agreed to treat me. I looked down at my legs. They were fine now. But we were broken beyond repair. The irony was a physical weight in my throat. “Do you know who that girl is? The one downstairs?” She shook her head, her eyes wide and wet like a frightened animal’s. “She’s the doctor’s granddaughter,” I said, the words tasting like ash. She stopped breathing for a second, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a wail. “So… Bennett… he fell in love with someone else while he was trying to save me?” “I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe it wasn’t love then. They didn’t reconnect until two years ago—five years from where you are now.” We fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Suddenly, the front door clicked. The electronic lock chirped its greeting. I instinctively hid the phone behind my back. Bennett walked in. He looked at me, his eyes rimmed with red, his entire posture slumped in defeat. He saw my defensive movement but didn’t ask. He just looked hollow. “Are you satisfied now?” he asked, a bitter, jagged smile twisting his lips. “I sent her away. She’s gone.” I stared at him, expressionless. Behind my back, I was digging my nails into my palms so hard I thought I might draw blood. “Satisfied?” I echoed. “Bennett, is this marriage a solo project? Am I the only one who was supposed to be trying?” He didn’t answer. He just yanked off his tie, threw it onto the sofa, and muttered, “Don’t start with the drama again.” He brushed past me, slamming the bathroom door hard enough to rattle the frames on the wall. I stood there, paralyzed. After a long moment, I brought the phone back out. On the screen, my younger self was a mess of tears. “That’s not the Bennett I know. It’s not.” I wanted to cry with her, but I couldn’t. My eyes felt like they were full of sand. “People change, Sienna. That’s the only truth there is.” I reached for my suitcase, ready to leave, when a crack of thunder shook the house. Rain began to lash against the windows in a violent torrent. Simultaneously, a notification popped up on my phone: Flight Canceled. I sighed, the sound catching in my chest. I wasn’t going anywhere tonight. I dragged my luggage into the guest room and shut the door. “You… you sleep in different rooms?” she asked softly from the phone. I hesitated, then nodded. “For almost a year now.” She sobbed again. “But Bennett… right now, he can’t even fall asleep unless he’s holding me.” My heart gave a painful twitch. It had been so long, I’d almost let that memory slip away. Bennett used to have chronic insomnia. I was the only thing that could quiet his mind. We used to be inseparable. “He found someone else to help him sleep,” I said quietly. “Summer has her grandfather’s gift. She knows exactly how to heal him.” A long time passed. Finally, the girl on the screen looked at me with bloodshot eyes. “Three days,” she said firmly. “Bennett comes back in three days. I’ll use that time to let go. To make sure this future never happens.” I nodded. “Good.” 2 The next morning, when I walked into the kitchen, Bennett was already there making breakfast. He acted as if the night before hadn’t happened. “You’re up,” he said, not looking at me. “Eat. I made eggs.” I looked at the plate and felt a wave of profound exhaustion. “I’m allergic to eggs, Bennett.” His hand, currently dolloping hollandaise sauce, froze. He stared at the plate for a beat, then scraped the entire thing into the trash can. “I forgot. Go grab something out, then.” “Okay,” I said, turning to leave. “Don’t you think this is getting a little ridiculous?” he called out behind me. “We’re living like total strangers, Sienna.” I turned back to meet his gaze. There was a faint, lingering confusion in his eyes. I laughed, though there was no humor in it. “No, Bennett. Strangers are at least polite. We’re worse than strangers. But whose fault is that? Mine?” The air in the kitchen turned frigid. We stood there in a deadlock, neither willing to blink, neither willing to lose. His phone rang, shattering the tension. “Fine, Grandpa,” he said into the receiver, his face smoothing into a mask. “Sienna and I will be there on time.” He hung up and rubbed his temples, looking at me with a complicated expression. “Let’s just move past it,” he said. “Tomorrow is Grandpa’s eightieth birthday gala. We’re going together. Don’t let him see the cracks. For one night, just play the part.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Fine.” I walked down to the local diner for breakfast, the video call still active in my pocket. Once I sat down, I broke the silence. “What are you thinking about?” She sounded lost. “I just never imagined we could get to a point where we have nothing to say to each other. No shared jokes, no ‘I love yous.’ Just… blame.” I didn’t answer. Outside, the autumn leaves were being whipped around the pavement by a cold wind. It reminded me of the days he used to carry me on his back when my legs hurt, the sound of his boots crunching on the dry earth. The diner owner walked over. “The usual, Sienna? Smoked salmon bagel, no eggs, right?” I smiled weakly. “Exactly. Thanks, Lou.” Even the guy at the diner remembered my allergy. Bennett had deleted it. The next day, Bennett drove us to the Whitaker estate. I sat in the passenger seat, staring out at the blurred Seattle skyline. “You know Summer saved Grandpa’s life once, right?” Bennett said suddenly. I turned to him. “Where are you going with this?” He gripped the steering wheel tighter. “She’s at the gala. I didn’t invite her; Grandpa did. He feels he owes her.” I didn’t even flinch. I wasn’t surprised. I forced down the suffocating sensation in my chest and said, “Fine. I don’t care.” It didn’t matter anyway. In three days, the other Sienna would rewrite the script. This “us” wouldn’t exist to suffer through another gala. He seemed stunned by my indifference. He tightened his grip on the wheel until his knuckles turned white. “Good,” he muttered. “As long as you’re okay with it.” In my earbud, I could hear her crying. I was used to this coldness, but for her, it was like being cast out of paradise and into a frozen hell. “How can he be so cruel to you?” she whispered. I had no words to comfort her. When we arrived at the Whitaker mansion, we barely stepped out of the car before a petite, graceful figure rushed toward us. “Bennett…” Summer stood there, looking like a tragic heroine. “I thought I’d never see you again.” She started to cry, and Bennett was right there to catch her. He didn’t care who was watching. He reached out and gently wiped her tears away. “Don’t cry,” he said softly. “Now that you’re here, I’m not letting anyone send you away again.” I watched them, feeling a strange, detached sense of irony. “Go ahead. I’m not stopping you. Don’t make me out to be the villain in your little star-crossed romance.” Summer’s lip trembled, a flash of something that looked suspiciously like triumph darting through her eyes. Bennett’s brow furrowed. He looked at me as if I were a puzzle he couldn’t solve—he couldn’t understand why I was being so “generous.” I looked away. It wasn’t generosity. I was just done. 3 The guests were watching us, their eyes darting between me and Summer. Some looked sympathetic; others looked like they were enjoying the show. I ignored them all and walked straight into the main hall to find Arthur, Bennett’s grandfather. “Happy Birthday, Arthur,” I said, handing him a gift. “I hope you have a wonderful year.” He smiled at me warmly. “Thank you, dear. I’m glad you’re here.” Bennett followed a few paces behind, with Summer trailing at his side. They looked more like the hosts than we did. Arthur’s smile faltered slightly. He looked at Bennett, then at me, and grabbed both our hands, forcing them together. “So, when am I getting a great-grandchild? That would be the best gift of all.” We both stiffened. I was the first to pull my hand away. Bennett looked startled. “Arthur, about Bennett and me—” I started. “Sienna,” Bennett interrupted, his voice sharp. He turned to his grandfather. “Don’t worry, Grandpa. We’re working on it.” Arthur let out a booming laugh. Bennett immediately grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the rose garden. His expression was dark, simmering with a strange kind of agitation. “What were you going to say?” he hissed. “The truth,” I said. “That we’re getting a divorce. That there won’t be any children.” He gritted his teeth. “Why do you keep bringing up the divorce? I thought we agreed to move past this. Sienna, stop being so difficult.” I looked at him, genuinely confused. “If we hate each other this much, why don’t you just marry Summer and be done with it?” His breath hitched. “Hate? I never said I—” “Bennett!” Summer appeared, breaking the tension. She looked at me, biting her lip, her eyes brimming with faux-innocence. “Sienna, please don’t use Arthur to threaten me.” I narrowed my eyes. “What are you talking about?” “You’re going to tell him I’m the reason you and Bennett are fighting, aren’t you?” Summer sniffled. “You know his heart is weak. You’re trying to force me to leave him by holding his health over our heads. That’s your plan, isn’t it?” I stared at her, stunned by the sheer absurdity of it. I let out a dry, mocking laugh. “You’ve been watching too many soap operas, Summer.” It was a pathetic attempt at manipulation. Surely, no one would fall for it. “Sienna.” Bennett’s voice was low and heavy. “Is that true? Are you threatening me again?” My mouth went dry. He believed her. I started to defend myself, but seeing the accusation in his eyes, the words died in my throat. What was the point? “Think whatever you want, Bennett,” I said. I turned and walked away, not looking back to see the look on his face. In my ear, the younger Sienna was whispering, “Don’t be sad.” My eyes stung. “I’m not. But listen to me—on your end, once the surgery is over and he proposes, say no. Do you hear me?” This time, she didn’t hesitate. “I will. I promise.” I felt a weight lift. Later, at dinner, Arthur went upstairs to rest. With the patriarch gone, the vultures at the table began to circle. “Look at some people,” one of Bennett’s cousins sneered, loud enough for me to hear. “Their husband brings his mistress into the family home and they just sit there like a scared little bird.” “Oh, come on,” another replied. “You know Summer is Bennett’s ‘one who got away.’ She’s the real queen of this house.” I gripped my fork until my knuckles were white, then I let go. I looked up and smiled coldly at the first woman. “Since you’re so brave, tell me—is your husband’s secret son still living in that apartment in the city, or did you finally let him move into the guest house?” Her face went pale, then a blotchy purple. “You! How dare you! That’s family business!” “Then stay out of mine,” I retorted. The table went silent. “Sienna, that’s enough,” Bennett said, his voice stern. I turned to him and realized for the first time that his tie perfectly matched the color of Summer’s dress. It was a subtle, public declaration. The realization hit me like a physical blow. They were mocking me because he allowed them to. I put down my fork. “Bennett,” I whispered, “you are the very last person on this earth who has the right to judge me.” He flinched. I stood up and walked out of the room. The moment I cleared the front doors, the emotions I’d been holding back flooded over. Tears streamed down my face, and I couldn’t stop them. The Whitaker estate was miles from the city. I started walking down the long, winding driveway, the night air chilling me to the bone. Even though the moon was bright, I felt like I was walking into a void. Then, the voice in my earbud spoke, trembling with emotion. “Sienna… Bennett just got back. He brought the doctor.” 4 “Sienna! I’m back. Don’t worry, I’m here now. Everything is going to be okay.” Hearing that voice—the young, tender version of Bennett—felt like a message from a ghost. It had been a lifetime since he had called me “Sienna” with that much love. On the other end, the younger me replied with a cool, detached, “Thank you.” The teenage Bennett sounded hurt. “Thank you? Why so formal, babe?” She didn’t answer. She just told him to get the surgery scheduled. A moment later, she whispered into the phone, “The second the surgery is done, I’m leaving. I won’t be there for the proposal.” I closed my eyes. “Thank you.” When I finally made it back to our house, Bennett arrived shortly after, with a sobbing Summer in tow. He grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “Did you tell Grandpa about us?” he demanded. I winced. I had a permanent weakness in that wrist from the accident—the accident I’d had while saving him—but he had clearly forgotten. I shoved him away. “I wouldn’t waste my breath on your sordid little affair,” I said. “You might not have any shame, but I still have my dignity.” He flinched, then narrowed his eyes. “Dignity? You’re so high and mighty, aren’t you? If you tell Grandpa, he’ll send her away. Why play the martyr?” Summer was wailing now. There was a faint red mark on her cheek—likely from a confrontation with one of the other relatives, but she was playing it for all it was worth. “Sienna, please!” she cried, throwing herself onto her knees in front of me. “I just want to be with him. I don’t care about a title! I don’t care about anything else!” Before I could even react, Bennett hauled her up, looking at her with heartbreaking tenderness. Then he turned to me. “Why do you have to be so cruel to her?” he spat. “She’s never asked for anything. She’s content just to be near me. She’s quiet, she’s kind…” He shook his head, looking at me with pure disappointment. “I don’t even recognize you. You’ve become so bitter. You’re nothing like the girl I married.” A sharp, stabbing pain flared in my chest. I laughed, a jagged, broken sound. “I’ve changed? What about you, Bennett? Who changed first?” In my ear, the young Bennett’s voice was echoing: “The surgery is set, Sienna. You’re going in now. Don’t be scared, I’m right here. When you wake up, we’re getting married. I don’t care if you ever walk again. If you can’t, I’ll be your crutch for the rest of our lives.” His words were so sweet, and they hurt a thousand times more than the modern Bennett’s insults. My eyes blurred with tears. Modern Bennett seemed taken aback for a second. His voice softened, though it was still tinged with arrogance. “Look, just apologize to Summer, and we’ll forget this happened.” I closed my eyes. “Apologize?” I whispered. “To her? Get out, Bennett. Just get out.” “Sienna!” his voice thundered. “If I walk out that door, I’m not coming back!” I didn’t even look at him. “Fine,” he snapped. “Come on, Summer. Let’s go.” The house fell silent. I sat on the floor and began to pack the rest of my things. I headed for the airport. Ten hours later, as I sat in the terminal, the voice in my earbud broke into a sob. “Sienna… it’s over. I sent him away. We’re done.” I felt a sudden, strange lightness. A sense of peace began to wash over me, and curiously, my memories of Bennett began to flicker and fade, like an old film being erased. Meanwhile, back at his office, Bennett was signing papers when a sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit him. He collapsed to the floor. When he woke up, he was in a hospital bed. Arthur and Summer were sitting by his side. “Grandpa? What happened?” He looked around, a frown deepening on his face. “Where’s Sienna? I’m in the hospital and she didn’t even come?” Arthur stared at him, then slapped him hard across the arm. “Your wife Summer is right here! Why on earth are you asking about a girl you haven’t seen in ten years?”

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1 On my wedding day, the limousine didn’t pull up to the grand lobby of the St. Regis. Instead, it dumped me at the service entrance, right next to the industrial trash compactors. Harrison Miller opened the door for me, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless tone of command. “Take the back way in. I’m taking Mia through the front so the partners don’t get the wrong idea. We can’t have rumors flying on a day like this.” Before I could even find my breath, he slammed the door and the car roared away. Mia Reynolds’s profile was visible through the tinted glass as she leaned toward him. I was left standing alone, clutching the silk train of my Vera Wang, my heels sinking into a puddle of grey, brackish water. This was the ninety-ninth time Harrison had discarded me in the name of “discretion.” During our eight-year secret relationship, he had meticulously maintained the facade that we were nothing more than colleagues. He told me that a high-profile office romance would “tarnish my professional reputation,” using that lie to turn his “work-bestie,” Mia, into a human shield for every social occasion. When we went on company retreats, Mia sat in his passenger seat while I was relegated to a ten-hour bus ride with the junior associates. When our major projects succeeded, he promoted Mia—my subordinate—over me, claiming it would look like “favoritism” if he gave the position to me. Even the wedding invitations had been a masterpiece of ambiguity, somehow making people believe the celebration was for him and Mia, while I remained the invisible ghost of a long-distance marathon, nameless and unacknowledged. I had spent eight years convincing myself he was protecting me. But when I finally stumbled through that filthy service corridor and reached the ballroom five minutes before the ceremony was set to begin, the truth hit me with the force of a physical blow. Harrison was already at the altar. And he was holding Mia’s hand. A synchronized “I do” echoed through the hall, followed by a roar of cheers from our colleagues. “Finally! I knew they were endgame!” someone shouted. In that heartbeat, the scales fell from my eyes. The “discretion” he had practiced for eight years wasn’t a shield for us. It was a wall to keep me out. I watched him lean in toward her, and I decided right then: I was done playing my part in this theater of cruelty. The music swelled again as the officiant announced the exchange of rings. Harrison caught sight of me in the periphery. His posture stiffened for a fraction of a second, and he reached out a hand toward me under the guise of adjusting his cuff, a silent command for me to hand him the rings I was supposed to be holding as his “assistant.” I didn’t move. I simply smiled, a cold, hollow thing. “Don’t bother hiding it anymore, Harrison,” I said, my voice cutting through the celebratory hum. “Go ahead. Marry her. You clearly already have.” … The room went deathly silent. Harrison’s voice remained smooth, but he didn’t look at me. He turned his focus entirely on Mia. “Mia, are your feet hurting? Here, let me carry you.” He withdrew his hand from the space between us and swept Mia into his arms, bridal style. He acted as if I hadn’t spoken. As if I didn’t exist. That familiar, suffocating sense of powerlessness washed over me. He was gaslighting me in front of a hundred people. Harrison had always insisted on “professional distance.” Outside of strictly work-related talk, he ignored everything I said, invariably twisting my needs into a reason to dote on Mia. When I was running late and asked him to hold the elevator, he would close the doors, later claiming Mia looked “chilled by the draft” and needed to get upstairs immediately. When I was doubled over with period cramps and asked for a tea, he’d turn down the AC because Mia “looked like she was breaking a sweat.” Eventually, even the rest of the office followed his lead. I had become a ghost in my own life. But seeing them now, so brazenly intimate, the ache in my chest was unbearable. Love and indifference are both loud; you just have to choose which one to hear. A snicker broke the silence, followed by a wave of muffled laughter from the tables nearby. “Look at her, trying to steal the spotlight in a wedding dress. Is she actually pretending she’s the bride?” “Didn’t you see Harrison’s face? He’s exhausted by her. He probably tried to start the ceremony early just to avoid this scene. She’s been thirsty for him for eight years; some people just don’t know when to quit.” “To say something like that at Mia’s wedding… she’s literally trying to play the ‘other woman’ card when she’s just the help.” As the whispers turned into open mockery, Mia waved a hand dismissively, playing the saint. “Don’t be mean to Cassidy, guys. She’s just trying to lighten the mood. She didn’t mean anything by it.” Her “defense” felt like a nail in my coffin, validating their insults. Harrison finally frowned, casting a warning glance at the crowd. “Watch your mouths,” he said, his voice dropping into that protective register I used to crave. “You’re upsetting Mia.” Then, he went back to adjusting Mia’s lace train, never once sparing a glance for the woman who had spent nearly a decade building his life with him. The “I ship it!” comments erupted again. I felt a wave of nausea. He hadn’t defended me when they laughed. He hadn’t clarified when they misunderstood. But for Mia, he would silence a room. The stench of the trash chute still clung to my dress, a physical reminder of my humiliation. I reached up, ripped the veil from my hair, and walked out of that ballroom without looking back. But as I reached the lobby, a massive digital display stopped me in my tracks. It was the tribute I had planned for him. I had spent a fortune—ten thousand dollars for a twenty-four-hour takeover of the hotel’s premium screens—looping two thousand photos of our life together. At the time, he had called me “ostentatious” and “wasteful.” Now, the screen was live. But the photos weren’t of us. They were of him and Mia. That was why he didn’t want me coming through the front door. It wasn’t about discretion. It was about a debut. For Mia, he didn’t want to hide; he wanted to brag. I wiped my eyes, walked out to the curb, and called a car to the airport. The moment I sat in the backseat, my phone buzzed. It was Harrison. “It was just part of the act. Don’t be dramatic.” “You were too emotional today. You almost ruined eight years of hard work.” “Send a Venmo to the office group chat for a round of drinks as an apology. Don’t make this awkward for everyone.” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. I typed back, my fingers trembling. “Who is the one being dramatic, Harrison? You gave my wedding to Mia. Did you stop to think how awkward that was for me?” “I was insulted and mocked, and you stood there and watched. Whose side are you on?” A few seconds passed. Then: “I’m on the side of the bigger picture. It was all for the sake of appearances.” I smiled bitterly. “And if I want to go public? Right now?” Immediately, a sixty-second voice memo arrived. His tone was tight, bordering on panicked. “Cassidy, don’t do anything stupid. Everyone thinks Mia is the bride now. If you come out with some ‘truth’ now, you’ll humiliate her. Think about her reputation…” I stopped listening. He sacrificed my soul for “the bigger picture,” but the bigger picture had to bend over backward to save Mia’s “face.” I wasn’t a partner; I was a casualty. I didn’t listen to the rest of the memos. I just began to type: “I won’t be apologizing to people who bully me. If you want discretion, you’ve got it. I’m out. We’re over—” Before I could hit send, a notification from my banking app flashed across the top of the screen. [Joint Savings: $100,000 withdrawn by Harrison Miller] A message from him followed instantly: “I know you’re too stubborn to apologize on your own, so I took care of it. Don’t expect me to do it again.” He had sent dozens of Venmo bonuses through the company Slack, each one captioned: “A gift from Cassidy to clear the air.” It was the first time in eight years he hadn’t been “discreet” about my name, and he used it to buy my submission with my own money. I typed back, my vision blurring. “Harrison, do you even remember what that money was for?” He didn’t reply. I called him. It rang until I thought it would time out. Then, a woman’s voice answered. “I won!” Mia’s voice was bright, triumphant. “See? I told you Cassidy wouldn’t just roll over and apologize!” I heard Harrison’s fond chuckle in the background. “Fine, you win. The ‘apology’ money was the bet. Consider it your budget for that Cartier necklace you’ve been wanting.” Mia hummed. “Won’t she be mad when she finds out? I mean, that was the down payment for your house, wasn’t it?” There was a two-second pause. “No,” Harrison said, his voice flat with certainty. “We’ve been through this for eight years. She isn’t going anywhere. She can’t live without me.” His arrogance hit me like a physical weight. I hung up. Eight years of loyalty hadn’t bought me love; it had turned me into the punchline of a bet. That money was for the house he had promised me. He had walked me through every room of the blueprint, eyes full of “our” future. This would be the nursery. This would be the open kitchen so he could see me while he cooked. “You’ve suffered so much for me,” he had whispered. “I’m going to give you the most beautiful home.” Now, the wedding belonged to Mia. The home belonged to Mia. And the money was around Mia’s neck. I didn’t have enough left in that account for a future with Harrison, but I had more than enough for a one-way ticket out of Chicago. I logged into the HR portal and submitted my resignation. Then, I called the firm in my hometown that had been trying to headhunt me for years. His future was officially missing a protagonist. I went back to our apartment—the place he insisted we keep “neutral” for the sake of his image—and threw my stained wedding dress into the trash. He had insisted on separate bedrooms, claiming that if a colleague dropped by, we couldn’t risk them seeing a shared closet. My “bedroom” was a converted walk-in closet. My clothes were all greys and blacks, muted and invisible, just like he wanted me. I remembered the one time I wore a red silk dress for our anniversary. He had screamed at me for “jeopardizing everything” and walked out. We never had another anniversary. I cleared the hangers, dumping the drab, joyless clothes into a bin. Eight years of my life fit into a single carry-on suitcase. As I reached the door, it swung open. Harrison walked in, Mia trailing behind him. He saw the suitcase and froze. Then, a look of smug approval crossed his face. “Finally, you’re being sensible,” he said. I stared at him. “Sensible?” Mia stepped out from behind him, grinning. “The guys from the office are coming over for an after-party. They insisted on a ‘housewarming’ for the newlyweds. Don’t worry, Cass, Harrison and I are just ‘bros.’ We’re just crashing here for the night to keep up appearances. You’re a lifesaver for making yourself scarce.” I looked at Harrison. He looked back with that same “don’t-make-a-scene” expression. He expected me to move out for the night so he could play house with his “best friend” in the home I helped pay for. I let out a soft, jagged laugh. “Sure. I’ll go.” Harrison seemed surprised by how easily I folded. He stepped forward, his hand reaching out to touch my cheek with a sudden, sickening tenderness. “Good girl. It’s just for one night. Once the partners leave, you can come back. We can even have a small, private ceremony, just us…” I stepped back, avoiding his touch. “You misunderstood,” I said. “I’m leaving. For good.” “Harrison, I’m done. We’re over.” His brow furrowed, his mouth opening to argue, but the sound of laughter from the hallway drowned him out. Our colleagues were arriving. “Over?” a voice mocked from the doorway. “Is she still trying to pretend she’s his girlfriend?” “Hilarious. Does she not realize Mia and Harrison already signed the papers?” I felt the blood drain from my face. I looked at Harrison. His eyes flickered with guilt, but he didn’t deny it. They hadn’t just stood at an altar. They had actually gone to the courthouse. “You signed a marriage license?” I whispered. “That was your ‘discretion’?” The room went quiet. Someone whispered, “Wait, is she serious? Is Mia actually the other woman?” Harrison’s jaw tightened. He looked at Mia, who had gone pale, then turned his fury on me. “Stop with the delusions, Cassidy. Mia is my legal wife. If you keep harassing us with these lies, I’ll have you sued for defamation. I’ll overlook the fact that you’re trespassing in my home right now, but you need to get out. Now.” His words were a scalpel, cutting the last thread of my heart. I wiped a stray tear, reached into my pocket, and threw my engagement ring—the one I had to wear on a chain under my shirt for three years—at his chest. “Fine,” I said. “I’m going.” I walked past the stunned crowd, cancelled my train ticket, and booked the first flight to Seattle. I couldn’t spend another second in this city. My phone blew up the entire way to the airport. The office Slack was a nightmare of wedding photos. Only then did I notice how well Mia had been “taken care of.” The necklace she was wearing was the limited edition one I’d mentioned months ago. The jade bracelet on her wrist was Harrison’s family heirloom—the one his mother said was for his bride. Everything that was supposed to be mine had been redirected to her with surgical precision. I opened Harrison’s messages. No apology. Just more “management.” “The partners were hovering. They wanted to see the certificate. The license was just a formality to secure the merger. It’s a strategy.” “I booked a private room for tomorrow night. It’ll be just us. Be ready.” “I’m ignoring the ‘breakup’ talk. Don’t treat our commitment like a game.” I felt a surge of bile. Who was the one playing games? I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to ask why our wedding required a “shield,” but his “best friend” got a legal document. But as I sat at the gate, I deleted the draft. When you’re truly finished, even an explanation feels like a waste of breath. My phone buzzed again. A question mark from Harrison. “Did you contact HR?” I didn’t answer. He called. I let it ring for a long time before finally picking up. I didn’t even get a word out before he started sighing. “Cassidy, I know you feel slighted, but you can’t use your seniority to sabotage the firm. I saw your request. But with your current title, trying to block Mia’s promotion to Manager looks like petty jealousy. It’ll start rumors.” “I’ve already told HR to push Mia’s promotion through. I’m transferring you to the North Falls office for a year to ‘broaden your horizons.’ When you come back, I’ll give you the VP title. Okay?” His voice was dripping with that condescending “generosity.” He hadn’t even looked at the HR notification. He just assumed I was trying to fight Mia for a title. He was literally exiling me to a satellite office three states away to clear the path for his “wife.” The pain was so sharp it went numb. I leaned back against the terminal seat and let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Okay,” I said. Harrison paused, seemingly shocked by my compliance. “Good,” he muttered. “Have a safe trip.” I hung up. A second later, a notification from the HR director popped up: Resignation Confirmed. Waiver Signed. Harrison had signed the “transfer” papers without reading them. He had actually signed off on my exit. The overhead speaker announced the final boarding call for Seattle. I picked up my suitcase and walked toward the gate. The road ahead was empty, and for the first time in eight years, that was exactly what I wanted. The next morning, Harrison woke up late, nursing a hangover and a vague sense of unease. He drove to the private ballroom he’d booked, expecting me to be there, waiting to be “compensated” with a secret dinner. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. An hour. He called HR. “Where is Cassidy? Her transfer shouldn’t have been processed this quickly.” There was a long silence on the other end. “What transfer, Harrison? Cassidy resigned last night. You electronically signed her exit package at 11:45 PM.”

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