Category: English

The bulldozer crushed the sign above the boxing gym before I had even finished unwrapping the white hand wraps from my fists. Dust filled the air, burning my eyes as the last thing my father had left me was reduced to rubble. Julian Vance stood beneath a black umbrella beside his Maybach, his tailored suit immaculate. “Keep tearing it down,” he said. “Sienna wants to build a ballet studio here. This dump of a boxing gym doesn’t suit her.” I rushed toward him, only to be stopped by his bodyguards. “You promised me before we got married—” “It was nothing more than a business marriage,” he cut in, his voice as cold as ice. “Did you really think you were my wife?” I collapsed onto the muddy ground. In my previous life, he had died in the cage trying to save me. Blood had poured from his mouth as he begged with his dying breath, “Valerie… if there’s another life, please look back at me.” But in this life, he forced me to serve as his mistress’s bodyguard. He made me kneel in the rain, picking up the championship boxing gloves she had tossed onto the ground. “Julian Vance…” I stared at his retreating figure, my voice trembling. “Were you… reborn too?” He turned around, looking at me as though I had lost my mind. “Reborn? What the hell are you talking about? Did boxing scramble your brain?” I slowly closed my eyes. Blood seeped from where my fingernails had dug into my palms. He hadn’t been reborn. He simply… didn’t love me anymore.

Valerie POV The deafening roar of the bulldozers shook the ground. Dust billowed into the air, blotting out half the sky and making my throat burn with every breath. My hands were still wrapped in white boxing tape. I stared, heartbroken, at the shattered sign lying in the dirt. Titan Muay Thai Gym. This place was my father’s final legacy. It was where I grew up. Every wooden plank, every heavy sandbag, was soaked with my sweat and tears from countless days and nights. And now, it was being ruthlessly torn to pieces. Julian Vance stood by his black Maybach, holding a long-handled black umbrella. He looked tall, sharp, and cold in his bespoke black suit. It was as if the building collapsing before him wasn’t his wife’s entire life, but just a pile of worthless garbage. “Keep digging,” Julian’s voice was completely devoid of warmth, cutting through the mechanical roar straight into my ears. “I want this lot completely cleared before sunset.” “Julian!” I screamed, lunging forward with bloodshot eyes. Two burly security guards in black suits instantly blocked me, pinning me down. “Are you insane?! This is my father’s gym! You promised me before we married that you would protect it forever!” Julian tilted his head slightly. His deep, cold eyes swept over my trembling, tear-streaked face. A mocking sneer touched his lips. “Sienna likes this location. She wants to build a private ballet studio here. A sweaty, violent gym is an eyesore. It doesn’t suit her elegance.” The words hit me like a physical blow. The blood drained from my face, and my hands went completely numb. Sienna Pierce. The mistress he kept hidden away. The woman who pretended to be too weak to open a water bottle, yet could effortlessly steal everything I owned. “Just for her?” My voice cracked, shaking violently. I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms, drawing blood. “Julian, we are married! You’re destroying my father’s legacy for some girl on the side?” “This is just a marriage of convenience,” Julian interrupted, his tone dripping with impatience. “Did you actually start believing you’re my real wife? Why would I let your father’s junk get in the way of making the woman I love happy?” I collapsed onto the muddy ground. I stared at the man who used to hold me whenever I frowned. Now, my tears finally fell. “Julian, you used to love me so much. Why? Why did you stop?” Julian paused for a fraction of a second. He didn’t turn around, only letting out a cold laugh. “When did I ever love you?” Never loved me? How is that possible? In my past life, I was blind. I ignored Julian’s deep love and fell for Luke Sterling, a guy I grew up with. I resisted my marriage to Julian, treated him with cold silence, and even threw fights on purpose just to humiliate him. In the end, I fell for Luke’s lies and ran away with him. But Luke never loved me. He used me to destroy Julian. He dragged me to Mexico, throwing me into a underground death-match cage, using my life to force Julian to show up. That day, Julian, a man so proud he couldn’t stand a single wrinkle on his suit, walked into that bloody cage just to save my life. He didn’t even fight back. He let those ruthless killers break his bones and tear him apart. Before he died, with a mouth full of blood, he kissed my hand through the iron mesh. His eyes were filled with desperate love. “Valerie… in the next life… will you please look at me?” Then, I woke up. I had reborn. I came back to the first year of our marriage. I was ecstatic. I blocked Luke on everything, quit the dangerous underground fight circuits, and tried my best to be a good housewife. My entire world revolved around Julian. I swore to give him all the love I owed him. But he had changed. He stopped coming home. He was cold, cruel, and openly paraded Sienna around town. Now, he was tearing down my gym for her. Staring at the ruins of my gym, a wild, terrifying thought suddenly crossed my mind. “Julian,” I stared intensely at his back, my voice trembling. “Did you regress too?” Julian’s shoulders stiffened for a split second. He turned around, looking at me like I was a lunatic. “Regress? Valerie, did you take too many hits to the head in the ring?” His mask was perfect. Not a single eyelash flickered. I let out a bitter laugh and closed my eyes. Right. If he had kept the memories of his past life, how could he ever treat me like this? The truth was simple. He just didn’t love me anymore. Fine. If he wanted to let go, so would I.

Valerie POV I don’t even remember how I walked back to the penthouse. When I pushed the door open, the massive living room was empty and freezing cold. I didn’t bother changing my muddy clothes. I went straight up to the master bedroom on the second floor, pulled my suitcase out of the closet, and started packing. Honestly, there wasn’t much to take. Over the past year, I had bought expensive dresses and jewelry just to please him. I left all of them behind. I only packed a few of my usual athletic sets and my training gear. Once I finished, I sat at the desk, pulled out a blank sheet of paper, and slowly wrote out a divorce agreement. I wanted nothing. I would walk away with zero assets. I only wanted my freedom. The scratch of the pen on the paper sounded incredibly loud in the silent room, echoing the sound of my heart ripping apart. Suddenly, a high-pitched, giggling voice came from the hallway. Julian walked in, his arm wrapped around Sienna. She was wearing a pristine white dress, looking like a fragile doll. The moment she saw me standing by the stairs, she flinched like a scared rabbit, burying herself in Julian’s chest. “Julian, Valerie’s hands are covered in scars, and she’s glaring at me. Is she going to hit me? I’m so scared.” Sienna whimpered, clutching his sleeve. Julian immediately shielded her behind him, glaring up at me with a deep frown. “What are you doing up here? Starting today, you move to the maid’s quarters on the first floor. Stay out of Sienna’s sight. You’re scaring her.” My knuckles turned white as I gripped the banister. The actual Mrs. Vance, kicked out of her own room and sent to live in the maid’s quarters. How pathetic. I didn’t scream or fight like I used to. I simply walked downstairs and handed him the paper. “Sign it.” Julian glanced at the title, Divorce Agreement. A flash of dark anger crossed his eyes, but he quickly covered it with a sneer. “Playing hard to get? Valerie, do you think this pathetic stunt will get my attention? Fine. You want it, you got it.” Without even reading the terms, he grabbed the pen and violently scribbled his signature. Sienna stared at the paper, a look of pure triumph flashing in her eyes. She scanned the living room, and her gaze landed on the glass display case by the wall. Inside was my national championship belt and my red boxing gloves from when I won the tournament at eighteen. “Julian, those gloves look so old and dirty,” Sienna complained, holding her nose with a look of disgust. “They probably smell like sweat. It completely ruins the vibe of this beautiful room.” Julian didn’t even blink. He casually looked at the maid. “Throw them out.” “Julian!” I gasped, staring at him in disbelief. “Those are my championship gloves! They were an eighteen birthday gift from my dad!” “Throw them out,” he repeated, his voice cold and cutting. The maid didn’t dare argue. She quickly opened the case, grabbed the gloves that held all my youth and glory, and threw them out the front door into the pouring rain. “No!” I lost my mind. I sprinted out into the storm, desperate, clawing through the mud on the lawn. The freezing rain drenched me to the bone. In our past life, I had tossed these gloves into a dusty corner. But Julian had picked them up, custom-ordered a temperature-controlled glass case for them, and wiped them down himself every single day. He had told me, “My Valerie is a queen. I will guard your glory forever.” But now, he was the one throwing my glory into the trash. I finally found the mud-soaked gloves, hugging them tightly against my chest as I sobbed on my knees in the rain. Inside the warm house, through the massive glass windows, Julian was gently drying Sienna’s hair with a towel. He didn’t give me a single glance.

Valerie POV After standing in the rain all night, I woke up with a fever of a hundred and four degrees. The next morning, dragging my heavy body, I went to the hospital alone. As I sat on the plastic chairs in the hallway waiting for my name to be called, I saw Julian coming from the other end, gently carrying Sienna in his arms. Sienna clung to him with tears in her eyes, looking incredibly pitiful. All because she had a tiny blister on her heel from wearing new heels. Julian looked up and caught sight of me. When he saw my deathly pale face, his brows knitted into a tight knot. “Are you stalking us now? Valerie, can you get any more pathetic?” My head was spinning from the fever, and I didn’t even have the energy to argue. I just gave him a dead, cold look and walked into the doctor’s office. The doctor looked at my MRI scan and sighed heavily. “Valerie, the old injury in your left shoulder has worsened severely due to the cold and stress. If you don’t rest immediately, you won’t just lose the ability to fight. You will struggle to even lift groceries. Your career in the ring is over.” I nodded numbly. I didn’t care anymore. I had already lost my ring. The moment I stepped out of the office, Julian blocked my path. He glanced at the prescription in my hand, his eyes flickering for a second, but his face quickly turned cold again. “Since you have so much free time to follow me to the hospital, do something useful,” he commanded. “Sienna is attending a high-end jewelry gala tonight. You’re going to be her personal bodyguard.” I let out a dry, raspy laugh. “Julian, I am legally your wife, and you want me to be a bodyguard for your mistress? What do you take me for?” “You want to say no?” Julian took a step forward, his tall frame towering over me with immense pressure. His voice was laced with ice. “Your old coach is on life support in the ICU. It costs three thousand dollars a day. What do you think happens if I stop paying his medical bills today? Will he survive the night?” My heart stopped. I stared at him, horrified. My coach had ended up in a vegetative state after a car accident while trying to save me. In our past life, Julian had treated my coach like his own father, flying in the best neurosurgeons from around the world to treat him. “You’re using my coach’s life to black-mail me?” My voice shook violently. “Are you doing the job or not?” Julian’s eyes were completely emotionless. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. Finally, I closed my eyes and forced out a single word. “Yes.” The gala was incredibly lavish. I wore a cheap black suit, standing behind Sienna like an invisible shadow, my face expressionless. The whispers from the crowd cut through the air like knives: “Isn’t that Julian Vance’s wife? Why is she acting like a bodyguard for his mistress?” “I heard Julian doesn’t care about her at all. She’s just a classless street fighter anyway. She doesn’t have Sienna’s elegance.” Julian bid ten million dollars without even blinking to win a pink diamond necklace called “The Heart of the Ocean” for Sienna. Sienna wore it like a proud peacock, parading through the crowd to show off. Suddenly, chaos erupted! A crazed hater surged from the crowd, holding a bottle of clear liquid, his face twisted in rage as he lunged straight at Sienna! “Go to hell, you homewrecker!” “Ahhh!” Sienna screamed, her face pale with terror. My fighter instincts kicked in faster than my brain. I bolted forward, executing a flawless, powerful front kick that sent the man flying back. The bottle smashed onto the marble floor, hissing and bubbling. It was highly concentrated acid! The danger was averted, and the room gasped in shock. But as Sienna fell backward, she purposely tripped herself, landing on a piece of broken glass. A tiny cut appeared on her palm. “It hurts. Julian, it hurts so much.” she sobbed hysterically. Julian pushed through the crowd like a madman, shoving me out of the way so hard I hit the wall. He gathered Sienna in his arms. Once he saw she only had a scratch, he whipped his head around to glare at me, his eyes filled with pure rage. “Did you do that on purpose?!” I froze, staring at him in shock. “I just saved her life.” “You could have stopped him sooner! You were jealous of her, so you hesitated on purpose to let her get hurt!” Julian hissed, pointing at the shattered glass on the floor. His voice was cold as death. “Apologize to Sienna. Now.” The entire room went dead silent. Everyone watched us, waiting for the drama. Forcing a proud national champion to publicly apologize to a mistress? This was worse than killing me. I stood tall, my eyes red, stubbornly staring back at him. “I did nothing wrong.” “No apology?” Julian sneered, pulling out his phone. “Fine. I’ll call the hospital to pull the plug on your coach right now.” “No!” I broke. Under the mocking, disgusted stares of New York’s elite, I slowly bent my spine, the spine that had never bent for anyone in the ring. I bowed deeply to Sienna. “I’m sorry.” In that moment, I felt my dignity shatter into dust, never to be pieced back together.

Valerie POV Back at the penthouse, Sienna was still crying in Julian’s arms. “Julian, every time I close my eyes, I see that psycho with the acid… I’m so scared. I won’t be able to sleep tonight,” she whimpered, clutching his shirt. But over his shoulder, I saw the wicked, triumphant smirk on her face. Julian kissed her forehead gently, his voice incredibly soft. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you.” Sienna peeked at me as I stood soaking wet by the door. “But… I still feel unsafe. Can Valerie guard my door tonight? She’s a champion. If she’s standing guard outside, I’ll feel safe enough to sleep.” Without a second thought, Julian turned to me, his eyes icy. “You heard her. Go stand guard outside her door.” My left shoulder felt like it was being pierced by a thousand needles. The fever made my vision blur, and cold sweat drenched my suit jacket. “Julian, I have a high fever, and my shoulder injury is flaring up. The doctor said I can’t stand for long…” I pleaded, clinging to one last shred of hope. “Stop acting,” Julian snapped, disgust written all over his face. “Standing for one night won’t kill you. If Sienna doesn’t sleep well tonight, you will pay for it.” The door slammed shut in my face, locking me out in the cold hallway. I slid down against the freezing wall. Listening to Julian’s soft, comforting voice inside the room, my tears fell silently. In our past life, I had sprained my ankle during a match. Julian’s eyes had gone red with worry. He had canceled a billion-dollar merger meeting, stayed awake for three days and nights, and read medical books just to learn how to massage my ankle. He had told me, “Valerie, when you hurt, my heart bleeds. You are never allowed to get hurt again, okay?” But now, he made me stand outside like a dog, guarding his mistress with a broken shoulder. I stood there the entire night. My legs went completely numb, and the agony in my shoulder almost made me pass out several times, but I bit my lip and forced myself to endure. At dawn, the door finally opened. Julian walked out. Seeing me collapsed on the floor, pale as a ghost and barely breathing, he spoke with absolute indifference. “Get up and stop acting pathetic. Go make breakfast.” He stepped right over my body and walked downstairs without looking back. A video of me apologizing to Sienna had been maliciously edited and leaked onto Instagram and TikTok, instantly trending. I only found out later that my gym friend, Felix, had seen the video. His temper flared, and he drove straight to the Vance Group’s underground parking garage, cornering Julian as he got out of his car. “Julian, you absolute piece of garbage! Valerie is a champion! How dare you humiliate her like that!” Felix threw a brutal punch, cracking Julian right across the jaw and drawing blood. But Felix was outnumbered. Within seconds, a dozen trained security guards pinned him to the concrete floor. Julian wiped the blood from his mouth, a dark, murderous look in his eyes. “Call the police. Press charges for assault. I want him to rot in prison. He will never fight in a ring again.” When I got the news, I didn’t even put on shoes. I ran like crazy to the Vance Group headquarters and burst into Julian’s office. Staring at the powerful man sitting on his leather sofa, I bowed my head. My voice was filled with desperate pleading. “Julian, it was all my fault. Felix is only twenty. He has a shot at the world championships. Please, drop the charges.” Julian spun his wedding ring around his finger, looking at me with a cruel smirk. “Drop them? Sure. But Sienna was terrified by his violence. You need to show some sincerity to make it up to her.” “What do you want?” “Do a live stream and announce your permanent retirement from fighting,” Julian said, his eyes locking onto mine with absolute malice. “And then, in front of everyone on camera, cut your championship belt into pieces.” I whipped my head up, staring at him in sheer disbelief. The championship belt was the honor I had fought for with my life. It was my father’s proudest achievement before he died! He wanted to completely crush my soul! “Julian, just kill me instead…” I shook violently, tears streaming down my face. “Don’t want to? Fine. Then go visit Felix in prison.” Ten minutes later, I started the live stream. In front of hundreds of thousands of shocked fans, my face completely blank with despair, I picked up the heavy shears. Snip. Snip. The golden belt fell apart in pieces, and along with it, the last spark of life inside me died.

Valerie POV The divorce was set to be finalized in three days. I had already booked one-way tickets to Costa Rica. I was going to take my coach and Felix with me, leaving this toxic city forever. Before leaving, Julian’s grandfather, Arthur Vance, who had always loved me, called. He asked me to come to the family estate to say goodbye. Arthur was the only Vance who had ever been kind to me, so I couldn’t say no. But I didn’t expect Sienna to secretly follow me there. While I was in the kitchen brewing tea for Arthur, a sudden shriek echoed from the grand staircase. “Ahhh!” I ran out, only to see Arthur tumbling down the stairs, his head bleeding as he fell unconscious on the marble floor. Sienna was sitting on the steps above, crying hysterically and shaking like a leaf. Julian rushed into the foyer. Seeing his grandfather bleeding on the floor, he screamed, “Grandpa!” Sienna immediately threw herself into his arms, pointing at me while sobbing. “Julian! Valerie was angry because Grandpa praised me. She used her Muay Thai roundhouse kick to shove him down the stairs! I tried to stop her, but I couldn’t…” “I didn’t do it!” I gasped, shocked. “She pushed him! I didn’t even touch him!” “Shut up!” Julian’s eyes were bloodshot. He slammed his fist against the wall next to me, his knuckles split and bleeding. “Valerie, you can hate me all you want, but Grandpa was always good to you! How could you do this to an old man? You are a monster!” He grabbed my collar like I was a dead dog and dragged me down to the basement of the estate. My father’s ashes were temporarily stored there in a wooden urn. “A toxic woman like you deserves to be punished!” Julian grabbed a heavy metal hammer from a toolbox in the corner and marched toward my father’s urn. My pupils dilated. I threw myself at his feet, wrapping my arms around his legs. “Julian! No! Hit me, sue me, do whatever you want to me, but please don’t touch my dad’s urn! I beg you!” “Get off me!” Julian kicked me away, raised the hammer high, and brought it down hard! Smash! Wood splinters flew everywhere. The urn shattered, and the grey ashes spilled across the concrete floor. “Dad!” I let out a blood-curdling scream. The sheer shock and grief caused a wave of nausea, and I spat out a mouthful of blood before collapsing onto the shattered remains of my father’s urn, passing out completely. Because of a blind spot in the security cameras by the staircase, the police couldn’t find definitive proof that I had pushed Arthur. They had to release me after forty-eight hours. Arthur was now in a coma, kept alive only by machines. Julian was waiting outside the police station. Seeing my pale, exhausted state, a flicker of complicated emotion crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by cold hostility. He threw three plane tickets in my face. The destination was a dangerous, war-torn country in the Middle East. “Take your vegetable coach and your little friend Felix and get out of the country,” Julian said coldly, looking at me like I was already dead. “Don’t come back until you’ve learned how to be human.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I silently knelt down, picked up the tickets one by one, and wiped the dirt off them. “Okay,” I whispered, my voice as light as a breeze. Seeing how compliant I was, Julian turned and walked away. At the airport. Without a second thought, I tossed Julian’s three tickets into the trash can. I pulled out the tickets to Costa Rica that I had bought days ago. I handed the signed divorce papers to Felix and touched his head. “Let’s go. Let’s go home.” As the plane took off and soared into the sky, I looked at the thick clouds outside the window and closed my eyes. Julian, in this life, I have paid back everything I owed you. Goodbye forever.

Julian POV In the VIP room of St. Jude’s Hospital in New York. I was sitting by Sienna’s bedside, peeling an apple for her, when the TV on the wall suddenly broke into a breaking news broadcast: “We have breaking news. Flight MU789, bound for the Middle East from JFK, crashed into the Atlantic Ocean forty minutes after takeoff due to extreme weather. All 150 passengers and crew members on board are confirmed dead…” Drop. The apple slipped from my hand. The sharp knife sliced across my finger, and blood began to pour, but I didn’t feel a thing. Flight MU789… That was the exact flight I had booked for Valerie! “All confirmed dead…” I stared blankly at the cold numbers on the screen. My brain exploded, and the blood in my veins completely froze. Drip, drip… Blood dripped from my finger onto the white floor tiles, but I felt absolutely no pain. “All confirmed dead…” The words replayed in my mind like a rusty saw cutting through my skull. I stood up abruptly, but my legs gave out, and I fell hard to my knees. “No, it’s not possible!” I scrambled back to my feet like a lunatic. Ignoring my coat, I stumbled out of the room. Sienna gasped in shock, grabbing my sleeve. “Julian, where are you going? My hand is still hurting…” “Get off me!” I yelled with bloodshot eyes, shoving her away so hard she tumbled onto the floor. I didn’t even look back as I bolted toward the parking garage. I pushed my Maybach to its absolute limit on the highway, running dozens of red lights. The tires screeched violently as I slammed on the brakes in front of the airline’s headquarters. I stormed into the lobby, grabbing the manager by his collar. My voice was raspy, like sandpaper. “Give me the passenger manifest for Flight MU789! Now!” The manager trembled violently, pulling up the system. “M-Mr. Vance… Valerie Miller, her coach, and Felix… they are all on the list. They all boarded the plane…” Boom. The last string of sanity in my mind snapped. My hands lost all strength, and I stumbled back, my tall frame shaking violently. It was me. I was the one who bought those tickets. I was the one who threw them in her face. I was the one who forced her onto that death flight! “Julian, in this life, I have paid back everything I owed you.” Valerie’s calm, dead eyes before she left flashed in my mind. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t fought back. Because she had already decided to die! “Valerie…” I clutched my chest. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, making it impossible to breathe. I bent over, letting out a desperate, guttural scream. “Ahhh!” That night, I deployed all of the Vance family’s private jets and rescue teams to search the crash site. For two solid weeks. I searched the debris-filled ocean like a madman, refusing to sleep. I watched as bloated, unrecognizable bodies were pulled from the water. Every time they pulled back a white sheet, my soul died a little more. But Valerie was never found. The rescue captain sighed, walking up to me. My eyes were sunken, and my face was covered in rough stubble. “Mr. Vance, let it go. With an explosion of that magnitude, most of them were… vaporized. There wouldn’t even be ashes left.” Vaporized. Not even ashes left. My body went rigid, and I collapsed onto the deck.

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Scrolling through Instagram before bed, I saw a viral post on my feed: “How did you get revenge on that toxic female boss at your office?” The top anonymous answer was incredibly arrogant: [I stole her fiancé! Who told her to be such a bitter, micromanaging bitch at work every day?] [I just pretended to pass out from low blood sugar right in front of his car when he came to pick her up from work. He completely fell for me right then and there.] [Later, I resigned, telling everyone I was moving back to my hometown in the Midwest to get married. In reality, I’m currently living in the luxury penthouse he bought me in New York, trying for a baby.] [She’s still sending out digital invitations in our group chat for their wedding next month. Lmao, she has no idea that I have his primary bank card.] [Love doesn’t care who got there first. The one who isn’t loved is the real interloper.] At the bottom of the post was a photo of a man’s back as he cooked in a kitchen. But the tiny, mended sunflower embroidery on the hem of his jacket caught my eye instantly. That was Carter, my fiancé of seven years. The man I was supposed to sign our marriage papers with next month.

I stared blankly at the slightly crooked sunflower embroidery on the screen. In that single second, it felt like all the blood in my body was rushing backward. My fingertips went completely numb. I embroidered that sunflower myself. It was an anniversary gift I bought him last year. Somehow, he got a small tear in it. I told him I’d just buy him a new one, but he insisted this one was too sentimental. He begged me to mend it for him. Back then, looking at the flower I sewed on, his eyes were full of happiness. He hugged me tightly and said, “Now the whole world knows I have the most caring wife.” But now, wearing that very jacket—the one he claimed meant the world to him—he was standing in another woman’s kitchen. Cooking for her. I forced myself to look away from that burning sunflower and re-read the anonymous post. [Pretended to pass out in front of his car.] [Resigned to go back to her hometown to get married.] [Still sending out digital invitations in the group chat.] These shattered pieces of information quickly formed a face in my mind—Amber. I clicked on the anonymous poster’s profile. Although her main page was set to private, I could still see her recently liked posts. They were all baby strollers, maternity clothes, and reviews of a luxury high-rise building in downtown Manhattan. Amber. Carter. Wow. You two are truly something else. The next morning, sitting in my private office, I pulled up Amber’s HR file from before she resigned. Looking at the girl smiling so innocently in her ID photo, the corner of my mouth twitched. When Amber interviewed, she seemed extremely sharp. The CEO was thrilled and specifically asked me, the top sales director, to mentor her personally. But after she joined, while she was great at sweet-talking clients, her actual deliverables were an absolute joke. She used AI to generate her proposals, forcing the entire team to pull all-nighters to fix her mess. Once, she almost cost the company a million-dollar deal because she didn’t bother to double-check the contract clauses. Yet, because she was incredibly skilled at playing the victim and kissing up to the executives, she never got punished. Instead, my entire sales team had to take the fall for her mistakes. I used to think she had potential, just lacked discipline. So, I was very strict with her. I wanted to curb her vanity and greed, hoping she would ground herself and eventually build a real career in this cutthroat industry. I even shared my years of compiled client resources, pitch decks, and industry secrets with her without holding anything back. I wanted her to take fewer detours and stand on her own two feet. As it turned out, she hadn’t changed at all. She just channeled all her resentment into a twisted plot against me. When a person’s mind is rotten, you can’t straighten it. Everything I invested in her was a complete waste of time. To her, Carter wasn’t just a tool to get back at me; he was her shortcut to an easy life. I closed my eyes, and a rainy day from six months ago flashed in my mind. That day, Carter drove to the office to pick me up. Amber happened to be walking down the stairs right behind me. Just as Carter’s car pulled up to the curb, Amber’s body suddenly went limp, and she collapsed right in front of his hood. Carter was terrified. He jumped out of the car immediately to check on her. Amber leaned weakly against Carter’s arm, her pale little face looking up. “I’m so sorry, Stella… I stayed up all night to finish that report you wanted. I skipped lunch and my blood sugar crashed…” My mind was completely on work back then. Seeing her looking so pitiful, I told Carter to drive her to the ER while I took an Uber home. Now that I think about it, that wasn’t low blood sugar. That was a meticulously calculated trap! And from that day on, Carter began asking about Amber constantly, saying things like, “It’s not easy for a young girl to make it in the city alone.” I thought he was just being compassionate. As it turns out, a man’s compassion is just a free pass for him to cheat.

I let out a cold laugh, opened my laptop, and logged into my joint account with Carter. This was the account we set up to save for our future house. I put in $2,000 every month, and Carter was supposed to put in $1,500. The balance was completely intact. But in her post, Amber clearly wrote: [I have his primary bank card.] Then it hit me. Besides his base salary, Carter received a massive quarterly bonus and commission check. Six months ago, he came home looking miserable, telling me his company was struggling and all bonuses were delayed or canceled. To ease his financial stress, I paid for almost all our dates, the new furniture, and the wedding venue deposits over the past six months. I picked up my phone and texted a contact who worked in finance at Carter’s company. Ten minutes later, she replied: [Stella, Carter’s department has been absolutely crushing it these past two quarters. Not only were their bonuses not cut, but his payout doubled last month. It was deposited directly into his personal account ending in 8892.] Reading the text, I laughed out of pure anger. Using my money to pay for our wedding, while using his own bonuses to buy a luxury penthouse for his pregnant mistress? Carter, you really are a piece of work. In the afternoon, I requested a half-day off from the boss. Based on the luxury building reviews Amber liked and the corner of the river view she occasionally showed off on her private Instagram, it took me less than two hours to pinpoint her exact location—Waterfront Place, one of the most expensive luxury complexes in the city. I parked my car in a shaded spot across the street, put on my sunglasses, and quietly watched the building’s driveway. I didn’t call Carter to confront him, nor did I start a screaming match on Snapchat. Before securing the evidence that could destroy them completely, throwing a tantrum is just a rookie mistake that tips them off. At 4:30 PM. A familiar black Audi slowly rolled out of the parking garage. It was Carter’s car. I knew the license plate by heart. I immediately started my engine and trailed him from a safe distance. The Audi made a few turns and finally pulled into the underground garage of a high-end private maternity hospital downtown. I sat in my car, watching Carter step out of the driver’s seat. He was wearing a high-quality designer blazer today, his hair styled to perfection. He walked briskly to the passenger side, gently pulled the door open, and even placed his hand over the roof to shield her head. Then, a foot in a flat designer shoe stepped out. Amber. She was wearing a loose maternity dress under a knit cardigan. Her once-slender waist now had a very prominent bump. Looking at the size, she was at least four months pregnant. Carter immediately wrapped his arm around her waist. Amber leaned naturally into his chest, looking up at him with a sweet, sugary smile. Carter bent down and planted an incredibly tender kiss on her forehead. Watching this scene, I felt my heart tighten as if gripped by an invisible fist. Every breath I took tasted like iron. Four months. Four months ago, Carter was down on one knee proposing to me, exchanging engagement rings in front of all our family and friends. During the day, he knelt before me and promised, “Stella, I will protect you with my life.” At night, he climbed into Amber’s bed, planting the seeds of their so-called “true love.” I raised my phone, adjusted the zoom, and perfectly recorded the footage of them hugging, kissing, and her very visible baby bump. Memories of our past conversations flooded my mind. I was highly career-oriented and in a crucial period for a promotion. I had clearly stated that I wouldn’t consider having kids for at least five years. Carter had held my hand back then, his eyes full of understanding: “Stella, I love you for who you are, not to turn you into a baby machine. Go chase your career. I’ll be your strongest supporter.” It wasn’t understanding. It was just that the traditional, submissive wife-and-child fantasy he actually wanted was already being fulfilled by Amber. He wanted me, the glamorous, high-earning sales director fiancée, to boost his social status and split his financial burdens. At the same time, he wanted Amber—a girl who worshipped him, depended on him, and was willing to get pregnant—to feed his fragile male ego. I watched them walk cold-faced into the elevator lobby. I pushed my car door open and followed them.

The VIP waiting area of the private hospital was quiet and luxurious. Wearing a face mask and a designer bucket hat, I sat on a sofa a few yards behind them, using a luxury parenting magazine as cover. “Carter, the baby kicked me again today.” Amber leaned against Carter’s shoulder, pulling his hand onto her belly. Her voice was pure honey. “Do you think it’s a boy or a girl?” Carter’s eyes were filled with the soft glow of a doting father. “I’ll love whatever it is. As long as you’re the one giving birth, it’s my treasure.” “But… what about Stella?” Amber suddenly sighed, her tone dripping with mock guilt and sadness. “Your wedding is next month. The invitations are already out in the office group chat. It hurts so much to see it. Carter, maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to be the home-wrecking mistress…” As she spoke, her eyes welled up with tears on cue. “Don’t talk like that!” Carter immediately pulled her into a tight, protective hug. He lowered his voice, but a hint of irritation slipped through: “Stella and I have been together for seven years. The spark died a long time ago. All she cares about are KPIs and promotions. She’s as aggressive as a man. Being with her suffocates me every single day.” “Amber, only when I’m with you do I feel like a real man who is needed.” Carter stroked Amber’s hair, making a grand promise: “Don’t worry. You’re carrying my family’s first grandchild. My mother has been complaining about Stella refusing to have kids for years anyway. I’ll find a time to break up with her in the next few days. The wedding is off. That penthouse is my gift to you, and all my paychecks will go to you from now on.” “Really? Carter, you’re the best!” Amber smiled through her tears and planted a loud kiss on Carter’s cheek. Sitting behind them, listening to this jaw-dropping confession of “true love,” I almost laughed out loud. Years ago, when his startup failed and he was $500,000 in debt, I was the one who ate expired bread with him for a year. I was the one who drank with clients day and night until I got a stomach ulcer just to help him clear his debt. Why didn’t he complain that I was “too aggressive” back then? Now that he’s successful, he looks down on me for being “too masculine”? I set the magazine down, stood up, and walked toward them. The sharp click of my designer heels echoed loudly in the quiet waiting area. Carter was busy peeling an orange for Amber. Hearing the footsteps, he subconsciously looked up. The moment he realized who was standing in front of him, the orange in his hand slipped, hitting the floor and rolling far away. “St… Stella?”

Amber followed his gaze. The second her eyes met mine, she flinched in terror, wrapping both hands tightly around her stomach as if she had just seen a ghost. I looked down at the pathetic couple. I didn’t scream like a hysterical housewife, nor did I throw a tantrum. I simply pulled off my face mask slowly, letting a cold, mocking smile spread across my face. “What a coincidence, Carter.” My eyes swept over Amber’s swollen stomach, my voice deadly calm. “Taking my former intern for her prenatal checkup? Tell me, should we reserve the VIP table for her baby at our wedding next month?” The waiting area fell into a tomb-like silence. Carter bolted upright so fast he knocked his chair backward. He instinctively reached out to grab my hand, but froze mid-air when he saw the icy glare in my eyes. “Stella… let me explain. It’s not what you think…” Carter’s voice was dry, as if he had swallowed a handful of sand. His handsome, usually confident face was now pale with sheer panic. “Not what I think? Then what is it?” I chuckled softly, my gaze slowly drifting over his old jacket with the sunflower embroidery. “Is it her passing out in front of your car and magically landing in your bed? Or is it you wearing the jacket I mended while cooking her organic meals in your luxury penthouse?” Hearing this, Carter’s face turned completely white. He stared at me in disbelief. He clearly didn’t expect me to know about the penthouse. Seeing this, Amber’s eyes watered instantly. She stood up, holding her lower back. She looked at me with a fragile, weeping expression. “Stella, please don’t blame Carter. It’s all my fault. I couldn’t help falling in love with him. I know I don’t deserve him. I’ll leave right now. I promise I won’t get in the way of your wedding…” As she spoke, she took a delicate step forward, feigning dizziness, and fell perfectly into Carter’s arms. “Amber! Watch the baby!” Carter caught her instinctively, then looked up at me with a flash of anger. “Stella! If you have a problem, take it out on me! Amber is pregnant, stop attacking her with your passive-aggressive remarks!” Looking at the tragic star-crossed lovers before me, I felt nothing but pure disgust. “Take it out on you? You think you’re worth my time?” I took a step back, as if avoiding some filthy disease, and looked coldly at Amber. “Your anonymous Reddit post was beautifully written. ‘The one who isn’t loved is the real interloper,’ right?” Amber’s face instantly froze. She forgot to fake-cry, her eyes widening in pure horror. “Since you’re so brave in chasing your true love, I’ll happily make it happen for you.” I pulled a piece of paper from my Chanel bag—a printout of our joint bank account statements I had printed in the car—and slapped it directly across Carter’s face. The sharp edge of the paper grazed his cheek before fluttering to the floor. “Carter, consider these seven years a very expensive lesson for me. It’s like I threw my money to a stray dog.” I stared at him, pronouncing every word with deadly precision. “The wedding is off. My lawyer will contact you tomorrow morning at nine. Every single dollar that belongs to me, you will return. And the debt you owe me, you will pay back with interest. I will strip you clean.” Without waiting for Carter’s desperate cries behind me, or looking at Amber’s horrified, pale face, I turned around. With my spine perfectly straight, I walked out of the hospital on my high heels, never looking back.

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My former best friend, Scarlett Vance, whom I hadn’t spoken to in ten years, suddenly sent me a friend request on Snapchat. [I was wrong back then. I shouldn’t have stolen Logan from you, and I shouldn’t have hidden your Harvard acceptance letter.] [I was out of my mind. I was just so jealous of you. You had everything, and even the guy I secretly liked was in love with you.] [I don’t know how you’re doing now, but I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.] At the same exact time, a FaceTime call request from my husband, Ethan Carter, popped up. “Scarlett has leukemia, Nora. She needs a bone marrow transplant, and you’re a match. For the sake of our five years of marriage, please help her.” Ethan pleaded with me when he got home. “I ran the tests. Only your marrow matches hers.” “Scarlett is an orphan, Nora. She doesn’t have a family like you do. You’re not just going to watch her die, are you?” I suppressed the storm of emotions swirling inside me and stared at him. “Why you? Why are you doing this too…” He gave a faint, gentle smile and casually stroked my hair. “Because Scarlett is the one I love.” “My sweet, naive girl. I’ve been cheating on you with her for three years. Did you really not notice?”

I didn’t even have time to process his words. Ethan looked at me with that familiar, doting gaze and tapped my phone screen, accepting Scarlett’s friend request on my behalf. I stared at him in disbelief. I couldn’t believe this was the man I had been married to for five years. “Do you even know what Scarlett did to me in the past?” I demanded, my voice trembling. He looked down at his phone. On his screen, a chat bubble from Scarlett lit up. A subconscious smile played on his lips. “Of course I know.” “But don’t worry, you’re still my wife.” “You’re not losing anything, Nora. Except for my love, you still have everything else.” The glass in my hand shattered on the floor. Ethan walked over, scooped me up effortlessly, and placed me on the sofa. My vision blurred as tears fell uncontrollably. “So both of you… both of my husbands… are doing this to me for her?” He knelt beside the sofa, looking up at me. He gently wiped the tears from my cheeks with his thumb. “Don’t cry. Don’t make a big deal out of a little bone marrow. You’ll recover after a few months of rest.” I slapped his hand away. He paused, then stood up, his face darkening with annoyance. “I’ll just be direct with you. Scarlett is pregnant with my baby.” “You know how desperately I’ve wanted a child.” “Scarlett’s condition is critical right now. I need you to save her.” Pregnant? My hand instinctively went to my lower stomach. Just this morning, I had sat in the bathroom for an hour, staring at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test. I had imagined a million ways to tell him. Would he be happy? Would he pick me up and spin me around? I had even booked a reservation at his favorite steakhouse for tonight. But in the end… Scarlett was pregnant with his child. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Scarlett sent another message: [I’m sorry, Nora. I know nothing I say can make up for it.] [But I really can’t wait anymore. Please, save my baby.] The glare of the phone screen pierced my eyes. Her message sat there silently. Ten years. I thought this name had completely vanished from my life. I shouldn’t have stolen Logan from you, and I shouldn’t have hidden your Harvard acceptance letter. I stared at those words, my fingertips shaking. That summer, with my perfect SAT score, I had only applied to Harvard. But as the summer ended, my acceptance letter never arrived. By then, only a local state college would take me. I cried for weeks, thinking I just wasn’t good enough, and ended up going to that mediocre college. My boyfriend at the time, Logan Bennett, went to the same college to comfort me. We eventually got married. But seven years later, Scarlett got pregnant with his child. I had a breakdown, got a divorce, and cut Scarlett out of my life completely. And now, history was repeating itself. Ethan continued, his voice cold. “She’s never been loved since she was a kid. I’m just doing the right thing. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” “Nora, you’ll help her, right?” For a second, I wanted to tell him that I was pregnant too. I wanted to see his reaction. But his phone screen was still lit up, displaying a lock screen photo of him and Scarlett laughing together. I finally nodded. “Okay.” He was stunned for a moment, then smiled and patted my head. “I knew you’d agree. You’ve always been so sensible.”

Yes, I had always been sensible. So sensible that I had let Scarlett take Logan, and now, I was letting her take Ethan too. I thought I would never cross paths with them again. But fate loved to play sick jokes. When I went to the clinic to get an abortion. I ran into Logan and Ethan, both of them accompanying Scarlett for her prenatal checkup. My brain went completely numb. I instinctively took a step back. The three of them looked up at the same time and saw me. Instinctively, both men stepped in front of Scarlett, shielding her behind their backs. Seeing this, a bitter pang of grief shot through my chest. Ultimately, it was Scarlett who broke the silence. “Nora? Long time no see.” She stood up, and Logan immediately reached out to support her waist. “What are you doing here? Are you feeling sick?” she asked. I didn’t say a word. She smiled, her eyes drifting from my face down to the medical consent form crumpled in my hand. “Nora, I’ve wanted to apologize to you in person for all these years.” Her eyes welled with tears, her voice trembling. “What happened back then was all my fault. I was too young, too jealous of you. You had a good family, perfect grades—you were always the chosen one.” She paused, looking down, her eyelashes fluttering. “Do you know how it feels to watch someone else’s happiness from the gutters? I envied you so much. So when you actively tried to be my friend, I didn’t know what to feel.” She looked up, her eyes red. “I felt resentful. Why did you have everything and still get to play the savior to me? So, I wanted to take everything from you.” Ethan frowned, throwing a brief glance at the surgical form in my hand. He took off his coat and draped it over Scarlett’s shoulders. “Don’t talk about the past. Your health comes first.” She gently pushed Ethan away and stepped closer, whispering in my ear. “But things are different now.” “Nora Miller, no matter how perfect you are, you always end up abandoned.” “I’m so sorry, but I’ve stolen your husband again.” Then she stepped back, her voice laced with tears. “Nora, I’m so sorry. Please don’t blame Ethan. It’s all my fault.” I couldn’t stand her pathetic act anymore. Before I realized what I was doing, my hand pushed her shoulder. Scarlett’s body toppled backward. She clutched her stomach. “It hurts!” Logan and Ethan immediately shoved me to the floor, rushing toward Scarlett without a backward glance. I hit the hard floor, a sharp pain shooting through my wrist. “Scarlett!” “Call a doctor! Logan, go get a doctor!” Nurses rushed over with a gurney. They lifted Scarlett onto it. Ethan held her hand tightly, running alongside the gurney. Then, his leather shoes stopped right in front of me. “I warned you.” “Her body can’t handle any accidents.” He knelt down and grabbed my wrist. His grip was so tight my bones ached. “If anything happens to my baby, you’ll pay for it.” I looked up into his eyes. They were filled with absolute hatred. I couldn’t see a single trace of the man who used to love me.

Scarlett miscarried. Ethan stood against the hospital wall, his hands buried in his hair. Logan sat on the other side, his eyes bloodshot. Both of their hearts belonged to Scarlett. But I didn’t need their love anymore. My wrist was still throbbing, and my palm was scraped raw from the fall. Neither of them asked if I was okay. They just stared at me. “Are you happy now?” Ethan hissed. “She was the one who—” Before I could finish, a sharp slap stung my face. My ears rang. My head whipped to the side, the taste of blood filling my mouth. I stared at him in utter disbelief. Ethan’s hand froze in mid-air. It took him a long moment to realize what he had done. He suddenly lunged forward and hugged me tight. “Nora, I’m sorry.” Just then, Scarlett’s door opened, and she stood there watching us. Ethan pulled away, adjusting his collar as if nothing had happened. “Nora, go home and wait for me.” “I’ll explain everything once I handle things here.” He turned and walked away. Logan glared at me before following him into the room. Why did they treat me like this? Ethan, you used to love me the most. On the day I divorced Logan, a crowd of people had gathered to watch the drama. Scarlett had clung to Logan’s arm, her belly slightly showing. “Look at yourself, Nora. Do you really think you’re worthy of me?” Logan had sneered. People were filming us on their phones. I stood there, wanting to scream that they were wrong. They were the ones who cheated. But my throat locked up, and my whole body shook. Then, a hand grabbed my wrist and pulled me out of the crowd. Ethan stood in front of me, shielding me from Logan and Scarlett. He wiped my tears, his brow furrowed with pure anger toward them. “They aren’t worth your tears.” “Never cry for them again.” He hated Logan, he hated Scarlett, and he hated anyone who made me cry. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It was big enough to wrap around my entire body. “Come on. I’m taking you home.” I had just miscarried back then too. It was Logan’s baby. On the day I found out he was cheating, I fell down the stairs. The baby was gone. While Logan and Scarlett were making out in front of the hospital, I was signing the surgery consent form alone in my hospital bed. No one came to pick me up when I was discharged. I sat on the hospital steps alone, scrolling through my contacts, not knowing who to call. Finally, I dialed Ethan. He was my senior in college, but we rarely spoke after graduation. The phone rang for a long time before he picked up. “Ethan.” “Can you… can you come pick me up?” He didn’t hesitate. “Where are you?” Twenty minutes later, his car pulled up. When I got in, he looked at me and said, “From now on, if anything happens, call me first.” After that, he pursued me for a year. He drove me to work every day. He took me to different restaurants every weekend. When I worked late, he would park his car downstairs and wait. “As soon as you walk out, you’ll see my headlights,” he said. “You’ll never feel alone.” “I will be your most loyal partner. I will never let you suffer.” During that time, he was there every single second. He would call me to soothe my insomnia. When Logan and Scarlett posted photos of their happily-ever-after on Instagram, Ethan took my phone and blocked them both. “Don’t look at garbage. It hurts your eyes.” So when he knelt on one knee and slid the ring onto my finger, I didn’t hesitate. I thought, maybe God didn’t entirely abandon me. Only now did I realize that our five-year marriage was a complete joke.

On the day Scarlett was discharged, Ethan came home. He sat across from me, silent for a long time before finally speaking. “Why did you push her?” “Did you do it on purpose?” He stood up, walked over, and looked down at me. “Nora, you owe me a child. You have to pay me back.” I looked at him, a dull ache spreading through my chest. “Is this the explanation you promised me?” “Fine. How do you want me to pay you back?” He reached out, gently stroking my hair. “You still have your bone marrow.” “Save Scarlett first. Once you recover…” “You can have my baby.” Whenever I was sad, he would stroke my hair like this. Now, as he did the exact same gesture, a wave of intense nausea washed over me. “Ethan, Scarlett ruined my life!” He cut me off. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I love her.” He paused, a faint smile actually appearing on his lips. “Do you think it was a coincidence that I showed up to rescue you five years ago?” I froze. “It wasn’t a coincidence.” “I’ve always loved Scarlett. Since college.” “But she only had eyes for Logan.” He knelt down, leveling his gaze with mine. “Do you know how long I waited?” “I waited until she was with Logan. I waited until they wrecked your marriage. I waited until she finally came to me.” “Every single day of our five years together, I was thinking of her.” He paused, as if reminiscing about something beautiful. “You thought I was saving you.” “I was just biding my time.” I bit my lip so hard it bled, but my tears kept falling. He stood up. “I’ve already arranged the bone marrow transplant with the hospital.” He walked to the door to change his shoes. “By the way.” “Don’t think about running. And don’t think about suing me.” “You know what I’m capable of.” Sitting in the darkness, I finally dialed a number. “Robert.” “Draft a divorce agreement for me.” The next day, Ethan took me to the hospital. He made me check in early for pre-op testing. He packed my hospital bag with practiced ease. But he said he wouldn’t stay with me because he had to look after Scarlett. “She’s terrified of pain. She needs someone by her side before her procedure.” My phone buzzed. A message from Scarlett. [Nora, thank you for donating your marrow to me.] [I’ll take good care of Ethan for you.] [Consider it my way of paying you back.] [To be honest, I don’t really envy you anymore. After all, everything you ever owned now belongs to me.] [Oh, I saw your surgical slip the other day. You’re pregnant, aren’t you? What a pity. You won’t be able to keep this baby.] I deleted the message. The next day, right after the bone marrow donation, I went straight to the operating room for my abortion. By the time the nurses found me, I was hemorrhaging. Emergency resuscitation. Blood transfusions. The rapid, frantic beeping of the heart monitor filled the room. Ethan was waiting outside Scarlett’s transplant room when his phone rang. It was a nurse. She told him his wife was in critical condition from a massive hemorrhage. But he just hung up, assuming it was nothing serious. When Scarlett was wheeled out of the operating room, Ethan held her hand. She was pale, her lips dry. He leaned down to kiss the back of her hand. “It’s over.” “We can finally be together.” Scarlett offered a weak smile. “Where’s Nora?” Ethan glanced at his phone. Suddenly, he stood up. “I need to make a call.” He walked to the end of the hallway and dialed the hospital’s internal line. “My wife…” “Mr. Carter,” the nurse’s voice was frantic. “Your wife is in the ICU. She’s not out of danger yet.” “She went straight to get an abortion right after donating her marrow! She is in extreme danger right now!”

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Eight boyfriends. Eight sudden, panicked exits. Every single time a relationship crept toward something real, my cousin Courtney would quietly slip them a single text: “Just a heads-up about my cousin—she has a history of severe mental instability. Be careful.” I was completely in the dark. Until the ninth guy didn’t run. He sat me down and told me himself. I still had all eight of my exes on my contact list. After calling each one to confirm the devastating truth, I demanded they send me screenshots of the message Courtney had sent them. Now, at Courtney’s engagement party, she was gliding through the room, her arm looped tightly through Dustin’s—my eighth ex. Our relatives were practically swooning over him. My aunt Sharon patted Courtney’s hand, then turned her sharp eyes on me. “Quanna, you really need to start taking notes. Look at your cousin. She actually knows how to choose a man.” I forced a tight, empty smile. “You’re right, Aunt Sharon. I should definitely learn a thing or two.” I stood up, picked up my champagne glass, and walked straight toward Courtney. “Hey, Courtney,” I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. “There’s something I’ve been dying to ask. When you sent them that text, what exactly was going through your head?” 1 “Quanna, what on earth are you talking about?” Courtney’s perfect smile faltered, her eyes darting to my hands. I turned my phone screen toward the crowd, displaying the screenshots. “You really have a gift, Courtney,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the roar in my ears. “Sifting through my boyfriends to find the best of the bunch. Dustin is a great guy. Congratulations.” Whispers erupted around the table. Courtney squinted at the screen, her expression instantly shifting from surprise to deep, solemn concern. “Quanna, we tolerated your outbursts when we were kids, but this is my engagement party. How could you try to ruin this for us?” She turned to the rest of the family, her voice dripping with pity. “Honestly, AI deepfakes are getting so realistic these days. If you don’t look closely, you’d actually think this was real.” Aunt Sharon’s face darkened instantly. She turned a glare toward my mother. “Helen, look at what you’ve raised. Is this a joke? How could she pull a stunt like this on today of all days?” The room turned on me in a heartbeat. “She’s just bitter because Dustin chose Courtney over her.” “So petty.” “It’s not just petty. It’s a character flaw.” I ignored them and looked directly at Dustin, my chest tightening. “Dustin. Tell them. Is that screenshot fake?” Before Dustin could open his mouth, Courtney leaned in close to him, her voice a stage whisper. “Dustin, just say whatever keeps her calm. We don’t want her to relapse.” Dustin looked at me, then took a distinct step backward, closer to Courtney. “Quanna… look, if you say it’s real, then it’s real. Just… please don’t get upset.” A cold rage washed over me. “Dustin, what is that supposed to mean? Tell them the truth!” “Quanna,” Courtney interrupted, stepping in front of him. “Dustin just realized the two of you weren’t a match. He didn’t want to force it. Why are you doing this?” She turned back to the family, sighs of exasperation rippling through the room. “You all know how she is. Ever since we were little, if she couldn’t win, she’d find a way to tear everything down. It’s happening again.” She looked back at me, her tone gently patronizing. “You can’t keep acting out like this, Quanna. I’m only letting this go because you’re my sister. Anyone else would have thrown you out by now.” The relatives shook their heads, murmuring in agreement. “So immature.” “Thank goodness Courtney is the bigger person.” “I don’t know how Helen puts up with her.” My mother’s face was pale, her hands trembling. Seeing her like that made my head spin with anger. Without another word, I pulled up the other seven screenshots and forwarded them directly to the family group chat. “It wasn’t just Dustin!” I cried, my voice cracking. “Courtney sent the exact same message to every single one of them!” Courtney’s eyes widened slightly as her phone buzzed. But as she scrolled through the images, a slow, mocking smile crept onto her lips. “Quanna, if you’re going to forge evidence, at least try to make it believable. Look at this. Every single message is identical. Not a single word changed, not even a punctuation mark.” My heart sank. She was incredibly calculating. She must have anticipated a day like this and used a standardized template for every single one of them, knowing the identical texts would make them look like a repetitive, poorly made copy. She let out a soft laugh, her eyes glinting with malice. “Honestly, Quanna… eight men, and you couldn’t keep a single one of them. Maybe it’s time to stop blaming me and look at yourself.” She patted my arm. “Don’t lose hope, though. Work on your personality, and I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually.” I had never been good with quick comebacks, and under the weight of her systematic gaslighting, the words choked in my throat. I stood there, mute and shaking. Within minutes, several older uncles escorted me out of the private dining room. Behind the heavy double doors, the sounds of laughter and warm toasts started up again. Outside, in the dimly lit hallway of the restaurant, I stood alone, shivering. My mother walked out a moment later, her eyes red. “Quanna,” she whispered, pulling me into a hug. “You’re my daughter. I know you’d never do something like that. Your cousin has always had a hundred different schemes running at once. Just stay away from her.” “Mom, I can’t just let this go,” I said, tears finally spilling over. “If I let her walk all over me, she wins. And you and Dad will never be able to hold your heads up around the family again.” “But what can you do?” “I’ll find a way.” The next morning, I began reaching out to my exes one by one. If I could get just one of them to stand up and tell the truth, Courtney’s entire facade would crumble. But to my horror, my messages wouldn’t go through. One by one, they had blocked me. The last ex, right before he blocked me, sent a single image. It was a photo of me at the engagement party, standing wildly on top of one of the banquet tables, my arms flailing, looking like a literal madwoman. My blood ran cold. Courtney had beaten me to it. She was a master of manipulation; in the photo, the surrounding relatives had expressions of sheer horror and alarm painted on their faces. To anyone looking at it, the narrative was clear: the unstable cousin had finally snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my keys, intending to drive straight to my aunt’s house to confront Courtney, but my mother caught me at the door. “I know my sister, Quanna,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “And Courtney is just like her. You can’t beat her at this game.” “She’s destroying my life, Mom! I can’t just sit here!” A dark shadow fell over my mother’s face. “Do you know what Courtney whispered to me right before we left the restaurant yesterday? She said she and Dustin are meant to be, and she won’t let anyone ruin her happiness. The look in her eyes… it terrified me. I’m scared of what she’ll do next.” I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “I’m the one who should be doing something to her! What else can she possibly do?” The answer came much faster than I expected. When I walked into the office the next morning, my department manager called me into his room. “Quanna, we’re going to have to let you go.” I stared at him, stunned. “What? Why?” “Your role is client-facing, Quanna,” he said, his tone entirely devoid of empathy. “We can’t risk you frightening our accounts. You shouldn’t have hidden your medical history from us.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve already found a replacement.” Before I could even process the words, the door opened. Courtney stepped into the room, wearing a sleek, professional blazer. “Don’t worry, Quanna. I’ll take good care of your accounts.” The room spun. My hands clenched into fists, and for a split second, I wanted nothing more than to lung across the desk and tear her apart. But I forced myself to freeze. If I lost control now, a new photo would emerge. One far worse than the table incident. She wanted me to go crazy. She was baiting me. I turned on my heel and walked out, feeling like a bomb ticking down to zero. When I got back to my apartment building, the nightmare followed me. My neighbors—people I had exchanged pleasantries with for years—guiltily avoided my gaze, stepping back into their apartments when they saw me coming. Then I saw the local community forum online. The photo of me on the table had been uploaded, alongside a thread that was rapidly gaining traction. Look at this girl. Dumped so many times she finally lost her mind at her cousin’s engagement party. Her name is Quanna Lin. Apparently, every guy she dates runs for the hills. Why? Word is she has a history of severe psychiatric issues. Well, that explains it. Who’d want to deal with that? I immediately went to the local precinct. “Officer, my cousin Courtney is defaming me online. I want to press charges.” But Courtney had covered her tracks perfectly. After a brief, superficial investigation, the police informed me that there was no digital paper trail linking the upload to her. They closed the case due to lack of evidence. Just as the walls felt like they were completely closing in, Courtney came to find me. She stood on my doorstep with a mysterious, satisfied smirk. “Quanna, I’m giving Dustin back to you. He’s all yours now.” I stared at her, immediately on guard. “What kind of game are you playing now?” “Honestly, I only got close to Dustin to test him for you,” she said, her voice smooth and dripping with mock sisterly love. “You’ve always been so naive about men. Now that the test is over, I’m returning him. You don’t have to thank me. That’s just what family does.” I was speechless. I looked at the woman standing in front of me, wondering how someone could be so utterly devoid of a soul. “Dustin will call you soon. Don’t let him slip away this time.” With that, Courtney turned and walked down the hall. As I watched her retreating back, trying to figure out what her real angle was, my phone buzzed. It was Jared. My ninth boyfriend. “Quanna,” he said, walking up the apartment stairs toward me, his phone in hand. “Look at what your cousin just sent me.” I took the phone. On the screen was a fresh message from Courtney: [You’re incredibly brave. I already told you my cousin is unstable, and yet you’re still seeing her?]

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Eight years in the shadows, and Freda went Instagram official with someone else. In the video, she was wrapping her arms around her handsome new designer, her smile warm and completely open. It was a look she had never given me. The entire internet seemed to be shedding tears over their beautiful love story. Even a simple photo of them watching the sunset together had already gone viral, turning the location into the ultimate “relationship goals” travel spot. Every top comment under the post felt like a eulogy for the eight years I had quietly given her: “I still remember when Damien lifted her up with one hand to let her make that shot on the court. I’ve been dreaming of a love like that for years.” “She loves him so much. Even when things were tough for her, she still made sure to set up a charity toy drive in his name.” A few friends who actually knew about us sent cautious texts, telling me to hang in there. I could only reply with a smiling emoji, just like I always did. For an entire week, she ignored my messages. As the sun was finally dipping below the horizon, she sent a single character back: ‘K’. The delivery guy arrived with my dinner. My throat tightened, and I choked out over the phone to the restaurant, “You… you forgot the marinara sauce.” The guy on the line panicked. “Hey, man, don’t cry. It’s okay. I’ll drive a new one over to you right now, okay?” In that moment, I realized a total stranger was terrified of my tears. Yet she had watched me suffer in the dark for eight years without a single shred of pity. Eight years, and I still hadn’t earned the right to stand beside her. So, I decided to stop trying. … Freda walked into the apartment carrying the crisp, sharp chill of early winter. Seeing me packing my things, she didn’t react. She simply held out a bundle of roses. “Last ones at the florist,” she said. “I remembered you liked roses, so I grabbed them.” The outer petals were already brown and curling at the edges. The thorns hadn’t even been stripped, and they were wrapped carelessly in a few sheets of old newspaper. I stared at the flowers for a long moment. My mind drifted to the Instagram photos I had seen yesterday, posted by a mutual friend. Freda had been in Paris, accompanying Damien to a fashion show. At the auction, she had bid on every painting he wanted. At a Michelin-starred sushi bar, she had lovingly peeled his sweet shrimp for him. That same day, I was at home fixing a burst pipe under our sink. I ended up spending six hours alone in the ER, hooked up to an IV. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t texted. Without a word, I tossed the roses into the trash can. Freda’s expression stiffened for a second, but she kept her voice gentle. “I really was busy this week, Jude. I didn’t mean to make you wait.” “And those trending articles… you know how the tabloids love to twist things. It’s not the first time. Don’t be mad at me, okay?” I looked at her face and suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Fine. Let’s go public tonight. Post it on your feed right now.” She sighed, stepping forward to wrap her arms around me. “Jude, don’t do this. I told you, it’s just not the right time.” I had heard that phrase for eight years. When her company needed a plus-one for their gala, she chose someone else—because it wasn’t the right time. When she was asked about her relationship status at the annual company party, she claimed she was single—because it wasn’t the right time. Now, she was hard-launching another man with a radiant, shameless smile, and it still wasn’t the right time for me. When would it be the right time? An overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. “Give me your phone.” She hesitated, but handed it over anyway. The lock screen was clean. On her messaging app, the only pinned chats were work groups and a few business partners. I opened her contacts. My finger froze. His contact name was My Boy. My contact name was Jude. Before I could even ask, she quickly explained, “We were playing a game at the afterparty. I lost a dare and had to change it.” I didn’t say a word. I opened her cloud storage drive. There was a password-protected folder. I tried my birthday. Access denied. I tried hers. Access denied. My mind went blank for a second. I typed in his birthday, and the folder opened. Over ten thousand photos. All of him. His profile as he bent over his sketchpad. A close-up of his fingers wrapping around a coffee mug. The way he squinted in the bright sunlight. Every single shot was taken with immense care, like a secret confession of devotion. I looked up at her. “Is this for work, too?” She stood frozen, completely silent. Then, she snatched the phone back and deleted the entire folder right in front of my face. She stared at me, her expression hardening. “Are you happy now? Is that enough? What else do you want me to do?” Her voice trembled at the end. I knew she was angry. Before I could say anything, she turned and marched into the bathroom. When she came out, she was holding a spare duvet, heading straight for the guest bedroom. “I’m sleeping in here tonight,” she said coldly. “Your snoring is too loud. I can’t get any rest.” Right before she closed the door, her phone rang. Even through the heavy wood, I could hear her voice—soft, sweet, cooing as she comforted whoever was on the other end. I used to actually believe I snored. I used to feel so guilty about it. For an entire month, I recorded my sleep every night, desperate to find the cause so I could see a doctor. There was no snoring on those tapes. Only the occasional rustle of me turning over in bed. And her, murmuring in her sleep: “I miss you so much, Damien.” What was the exact moment things had started to change? Maybe it was when she began coming home later and later, staring at her phone with a lingering smile. Or when she stopped drinking the herbal tea I brewed for her, switching instead to a sweet, cloying perfume I didn’t recognize. Maybe it was when she stopped sharing her day with me, reducing our conversations to cold, one-word replies. Or perhaps it was that one night when she stared at me for a long, quiet moment, and said, “Why don’t you have any ambition? You’re so ordinary. You’re nothing like…” She never finished that sentence. To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie. But as I packed, I realized how little of myself actually existed in this apartment. Everything I owned barely filled a single suitcase. As I stood in the entryway, she walked out of the study to grab a glass of water. She glanced at me. “Going somewhere?” “Yeah.” She nodded slowly, then turned and went back to her office. In the back of the Uber, I opened our chat history. I scrolled up. It was a graveyard of one-sided effort: “It’s getting cold today. Wrap up warm.” “What do you want for dinner?” “When will you be home?” Her replies never exceeded three words. I typed out a final text: It’s over. I hope you get everything you ever wanted. The moment I got out of the car, my best friend, Zack, threw his arms around me. I couldn’t speak. My eyes burned with a fierce, hot pressure. Once we settled into his apartment, we sat across from each other. He started counting on his fingers, his anger boiling over. “I haven’t forgotten how toxic she is,” Zack said. “How many fires did you put out for her? And what did you get? She literally stood in front of a crowd of people and pretended she didn’t even know you.” “Or what about that time you spent an entire month pulling all-nighters for that design proposal? She handed it over to someone else because she claimed your degree ‘wasn’t prestigious enough.’” “And the most ridiculous part? You brewed custom remedies for her insomnia every single day, and she had the nerve to complain that you were ‘lazy’ and ‘had too much free time’ just because you took care of the house.” He grew red-faced, finally looking at me with a heavy sigh. “For years, every time you brought up marriage, she dodged. Jude, she was never your person.” “It’s over, and that’s a good thing. Cut your losses. I just… I genuinely don’t get what you ever saw in her.” I forced a small, tired smile. The truth was, I had fallen first. Back then, I saw her kneeling on a rainy sidewalk to feed a stray dog, always willing to give her last dollar to help a friend. When I finally confessed my feelings, she stayed up all night thinking about it. “I want to try,” she had told me. “Give me a chance, and I’ll build a better life for us.” I knew there was someone else in her heart, but neither of us ever spoke his name. Maybe she wasn’t a good partner, but there was a time when her love felt real. Zack pulled out his phone, scrolling through Damien’s social media. Damien’s posts were mundane: what he ate, a sketch he drew, a cute florist shop he passed. And under every single post, Freda’s handle sat at the very top of the likes. “He’s a master manipulator,” Zack muttered. “Who can compete with that kind of calculated innocence?” Seeing the look on my face, he softened. “You know what? Forget it. Let’s get out of here. I’m taking you out.” The bar was dark, the bass vibrating deep in my chest. I looked up, and my heart seized. Freda was walking in from the VIP entrance, guiding Damien through the crowd with her hand resting lightly on the small of his back, shielding him from the drunken patrons. As they reached their booth, their circle of friends erupted: “Look at that! Freda finally grew up!” “I knew you two would end up together. Congrats, guys!” Freda, unusually, remained quiet. But Damien offered a shy, modest smile. “Stop teasing us. She just saw I was bored and brought me out to clear my head.” I watched them, feeling an odd, hollow calm. All night, Freda sat close to him. When he lost a drinking game, she immediately reached over and downed his shot without a second thought. When people joked about them, she didn’t get defensive; she just laughed along. I remembered a night when I had worked late, past eleven. I had texted her, keeping my tone as polite and small as possible: Do you think you could pick me up? I waited an hour in the cold before she showed up. Her face was tight with irritation. “Can’t you just call an Uber next time? I’m incredibly busy, Jude. I don’t have time to be your personal chauffeur.” Just then, my coworker walked out of the office lobby, spotting her and asking with a warm smile if this was my girlfriend. I had looked at her, hoping. She had offered a polite, distant smile. “No, just a friend.” When the night ended, Zack’s girlfriend came to pick him up. I sat alone on a bench, waiting for my ride. A few minutes later, Freda walked out, supporting a tipsy Damien. She didn’t notice me at first. She leaned down to button his overcoat, her movements so tender she might have been handling glass. Then, as if remembering something, she pulled out her phone to call someone. She turned, and our eyes met. Her brow instantly furrowed. “Going out to bars to find a replacement the very night we split? Is that why you wanted to break up, Jude?” So that was how she saw me. I didn’t answer. I just sat there. My Uber pulled up. Freda carefully tucked Damien into the backseat of her car, then marched over and grabbed my arm. “Get in. We’ll drop you off.” I pulled my arm back. “No thanks. My ride is here. Go ahead.” Her impatience flared. “Just get in, Jude. I’m not leaving you out here.” The Uber driver honked, and to avoid a scene, I finally got into her passenger seat. The ride was agonizing. She asked the driver to adjust the AC, then reached into the back to drape a soft throw blanket over Damien. Damien stirred, blinking sleepily. “Freda… do you remember that Italian place near campus? You saved up for six months just to take me there.” Freda murmured softly in response. They talked about their shared past the entire ride. I watched the neon lights of the city blur against the window, hearing nothing. When we reached my complex, I got out. Freda followed me onto the sidewalk. Under the dim yellow streetlamp, she looked slightly uncomfortable. “I know I’ve been distant lately. But Damien and I… it’s not what you think.” “Throw a tantrum if you need to. But when you’re done acting out, you can come home. I won’t pressure you.” I let out a soft laugh. “There’s no need. Do whatever makes you happy, Freda. Goodbye.” As I turned away, her voice cut through the cold air. “Don’t regret this, Jude. Because when you come crawling back crying for me to take you back, I won’t.” I didn’t look back. Inside my new apartment, I pulled out my phone and found my dad’s contact. I hesitated for three seconds. I typed: That blind date you mentioned… I’ll go. Two weeks later, I met Ella Crawford. My father had described her as stiff and overly analytical, but she was the exact opposite. She was incredibly warm and attentive. She arrived twenty minutes early, and throughout dinner, she never asked a single invasive or awkward question. Every topic she brought up was tailored to my interests. As we were talking, I caught a movement at the edge of my vision. Freda and Damien were walking toward our table. Freda froze, her gaze darting between me and Ella. Before she could speak, Damien smiled and gently pulled her arm. “Oh, is this your little brother? Looks like he’s finally moving on.” Little brother. So that was the story she told the world. I expected them to leave, but Freda kept her eyes locked on me. “Mind if we join you?” I looked at Ella. She gave me a reassuring nod, so I agreed. The moment they sat down, Freda flagged the waiter down, rattling off a list of demands: “No onions, no garlic, no spicy elements in any of his dishes. And please make sure his water is room temperature. He has a sensitive stomach.” The waiter blinked, taking down the notes. The rest of the meal passed in excruciating silence. Freda kept piling food onto Damien’s plate. “Eat up. You’ve been working late on those designs, you’re practically skin and bones. Your health comes first.” Damien chuckled, patting her hand. “Alright, alright, I get it. We have company, Freda.” Freda seemed to suddenly remember I was there. Her smile faltered. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up a piece of shrimp with her chopsticks and placed it on my plate. “You should eat more, too. You look thin.” Before I could say a word, a hand reached across the table and pulled my plate away. Ella spoke, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Jude can’t eat shellfish. It’s a shame that after living with your ‘little brother’ for so long, you didn’t even know he has a severe allergy. I suppose you must have been terribly busy, Ms. Heather.” Freda’s face turned white. Just as she opened her mouth to argue, Damien’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways, sliding out of his chair. “Damien!” Freda practically threw herself onto the floor to catch him, lifting him in her arms and rushing out of the restaurant without casting a single glance back at me. I stared at the empty plate where the shrimp had been, then looked up to meet Ella’s worried eyes. “You look pale. Do you need me to take you to the hospital?” I shook my head. After dinner, I declined Ella’s sweet offer to drive me home. I took a cab to the local clinic myself—my stomach had been acting up from stress. As I walked through the lobby, I overheard a couple of nurses gossiping, their voices thick with envy. “I’m serious! It was just a minor blood sugar drop, but his girlfriend was practically screaming at the attending doctor. She was so frantic!” “God, they look like a movie couple. I need a girlfriend who cares about me like that.” I followed their gaze down the corridor. At the end of the hall, Freda was standing by Damien’s hospital bed. She was a woman of few words, but right now, she was talking animatedly, her face flushed with concern. Damien suddenly reached up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She let out a helpless, affectionate laugh, running her fingers through his hair. I looked down, letting the scene fade. The nurse at the desk asked, “Are you here alone? What seems to be the problem?” “Nothing. I was just… checking on a friend.” For years, I had held onto the foolish hope that maybe Freda would turn around, that she would finally claim me in front of the world. But seeing her like that, the last embers of hope died. It was okay. I still had time to save myself. The next morning, I packed my resignation letter into my briefcase and went into the office. The elevator doors opened to a burst of laughter from the creative department. “Damien, man! Hard work pays off! I knew that design award had your name on it!” “You’re on a roll lately, man. Career, love… you’ve got it all.” “Are those flowers from Freda? Oh, look at that ring! Congratulations!” I walked straight past them and into Freda’s office, laying the letter on her desk. She pushed it back toward me. “You’re doing fine here. Even if you’re just an administrative assistant, it beats grinding it out in the cold.” I slid the letter back to her side. She let out a dry, mocking laugh. “What? Found a new sugar mama? You can’t wait to throw me away now?” “Freda, be reasonable. You’re the one who crossed the line. We broke up. What I do is none of your business.” She sneered. “Who am I to say anything? Before, you’d start a fight over going public, throw a tantrum and threaten to leave whenever you were unhappy. And now you don’t even have the decency to ask before you quit?” The office door suddenly burst open. Damien stood there, his eyes rimmed with red. “Jude, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you and Freda used to be together… Please don’t fight because of me.” In that split second, the blood rushed to my head. Before I could stop myself, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. Freda’s reflexes were instantaneous. She shoved herself in front of him, shielding him with her body. She stared at me, cold and mechanical, as she threw my resignation letter back at my chest. “Get out. You’re fired. And before you leave, you will apologize to him.” I looked at her one last time, turned, and walked away. I stood outside the building I had worked in for five years, unable to believe this was how it ended. I walked aimlessly down the street, my mind spinning. Suddenly, a car swerved around the corner, heading straight for me. I tried to jump back, but the bumper clipped my leg. A sharp, white-hot agony flared up my right shin. I collapsed onto the cold pavement, my body shaking violently. With trembling fingers, I dialed Freda’s number. No answer. Just as I was about to give up, the call connected. Her voice was ice-cold. “Are you ready to admit you were wrong? Apologize to Damien, and you can have your job back.” The world turned black, and I passed out. When I opened my eyes, the doctor was standing over me, explaining the situation. “A fractured right tibia. You’ll need to rest and undergo physical therapy. Don’t take your youth for granted, young man.” I barely heard him. My eyes drifted through the half-open door of my hospital room. Freda was standing in the corridor, cradling Damien in her arms. Between them, Damien was holding a golden retriever puppy—a breed she had always refused to let me have. I had asked her a hundred times if we could get a dog. Every time, she told me they were too much work, too messy, that we didn’t have the time. Yet there she was, holding the puppy as if it were the most precious thing in the world. I stared at the display and let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Just then, a crowd of reporters flooded the hallway, their cameras flashing. “Mr. Enoch, is it true that you tried to insert yourself into Ms. Heather’s relationship?” “Freda Heather’s partner is Damien Ward. Were you aware of that?” “We heard you’ve been trying to sabotage their engagement. Is this a pattern of behavior for you?” I forced myself up, clutching the side of the bed, and limped toward the exit. As I brushed past Freda, her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something. But in the end, she turned to the cameras and said, “He and I have absolutely no connection.” After that, Freda never saw Jude again. She convinced herself he was just throwing a tantrum. He had done this before, she reasoned. He’d always come back in a few days. She called her housekeeper. “Make some of that restorative soup for Jude. He’s been looking pale lately.” The housekeeper paused on the other end. “Ms. Heather… Jude packed up everything and threw away the rest two days ago. He’s not coming back.” Freda’s fingers went cold. At that moment, a notification popped up on her phone. Jude had posted on social media. It was a single photo of us from the early days, when we were happy, his smile bright and unburdened. The caption read: [Eight years in the dark. In the end, her heart belonged to someone else, and I was nothing but a ghost in her story.]

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My cheating husband got his brain scrambled in a car accident. Now, the only words he can utter are “yes” and “no.” Nothing else. Not a single other word. And the kicker? He can only tell the absolute truth. Talk about poetic justice. I asked him, “Is the woman you’re sleeping with my best friend?” His face went paper-white, but his lips moved against his will: “Yes.” “Did you transfer our marital assets?” “Yes.” “Is your bank passcode your high school sweetheart’s birthday?” “Yes.” Armed with this bizarre condition of his, I easily sent his mistress to prison and clawed back every single dime of his fortune. He couldn’t even manage to yell at me for it. Until today. A cute delivery guy flirted with me at the door. I turned back to look at my husband, sitting there with his usual blank, vacant stare. “Are you really my husband? You don’t even care?” I teased. But the words slipped right out of him: “No.” I froze. I stared straight into his eyes. It took me a long, agonizing moment to find my voice. “Then is my husband, Dylan… is he dead?” “Yes and no.” … 1 A cold shiver ran down my spine. I stared deeply into his eyes and asked him again, slower this time. “Are you really Dylan?” The man sitting before me looked entirely calm. “No.” My lips trembled. “Then… who are you?” He couldn’t answer that. He was bound by the rules of his condition—only straight yes-or-no questions would work. Well, that and the strange “yes and no” he had just uttered for the first time. I studied the face in front of me. It was Dylan’s face, line for line. The faint scar near his temple was from three years ago, when someone dropped a heavy glass bottle from a high-rise balcony. He had shoved me out of the way, taking the blow himself. It took seven stitches to close. The scar was real. It was Dylan’s. I fell silent, my mind spinning into a dark, chaotic spiral. Up until now, this man had been a hundred percent accurate. It didn’t even matter if the questions had nothing to do with his life; he could predict World Cup scores with terrifying precision, or tell me which celebrity rumors were true. I had made a small fortune relying on his answers. I trusted his word implicitly. If I asked him if an earthquake was going to hit in five minutes and he said “yes,” I would have packed my bags and run without a second thought. But now, he was telling me he wasn’t Dylan. And when I asked if Dylan was dead, he said, yes and no. An icy dread settled deep in my bones. If he wasn’t Dylan, then who had I been living with for the past three months? And where was my actual husband? Is it really possible for a person to be both dead and alive? As I was debating whether to tie him to a chair and drag the truth out of him question by question, a sudden, heavy knock rattled the front door. I went over and pulled it open. Two police officers stood on the porch, their expressions grim. “Are you Flora? We’re with the city police department. We have some news, and we need you to try to remain calm.” “At approximately 9:30 this morning, we recovered a severely decomposed body from the riverbank. We found an ID card in the victim’s pocket belonging to your husband, Dylan. We’re here to ask if you have any knowledge of this.” I nearly collapsed. “That’s impossible!” The two officers exchanged a quick, guarded look. “Why is it impossible?” I dug my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself to stay grounded. “Dylan can’t be dead. He’s right here.” I pointed toward the living room, where Dylan sat on the sofa, his head bowed, completely silent. The officers blinked, then walked past me into the living room. One of them pulled out the ID card and compared the photo to the man on the couch. Seeing the identical features, they fell into a tense silence. I scrambled to explain. “My husband is incredibly clumsy. He loses things constantly. Someone must have found his lost ID and then met with an accident. It’s just a bizarre coincidence…” The older officer cut me off, turning directly to the couch. “Sir, are you Dylan?” The man answered in a quiet, flat tone. “No.” The room went dead silent. The way the officers looked at me changed instantly. I quickly reached into my bag and pulled out the medical files. “Please, let me explain. My husband was in a severe car accident three months ago. His hippocampus was badly damaged. Aside from losing a large portion of his memory, his language center was compromised. He can only say ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ Here, I’ll show you.” I stepped closer to the couch. “Dylan, do you like eating garbage?” “No.” “Dylan, are these two police officers bad people?” “No.” “Dylan, are you Dylan?” “No.” I let out a weak, desperate laugh. “You see? His mental capacity is currently comparable to a seven-year-old. You can’t take his words literally.” The officers exchanged another look. They carefully inspected the official medical reports I handed them and made a quick call to the hospital to verify the details. Once they confirmed I was telling the truth, the tension in their shoulders eased slightly. “It looks like this might just be a strange misunderstanding. But we’ll still need you to come down to the station with us to make a formal statement.” I asked if we should bring Dylan along. The older officer thought about it. “Bring him. You wouldn’t feel easy leaving him home alone, would you?” So, I took Dylan and followed them to the station. Earlier, I’d been clever. I deliberately asked him three questions in a row where the answer could only be “no.” The second question confirmed the officers weren’t bad people, which meant they probably wouldn’t make things too hard for me. But just as we finished the statement and were getting ready to leave… A female officer suddenly pushed the door open, her face grim. “Wait. I have some questions.” She caught the eye of the younger officer, giving him a brief nod, and sat down directly across from me. “I think you’re lying.” My fingernails dug hard into my palms. “Excuse me?” She stared deeply at me, reaching over to click off the recording device. Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “Flora, don’t you recognize me? It’s Lisa.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. At first, I honestly hadn’t recognized her. Lisa, my old high school classmate. A girl who once harbored a massive crush on Dylan. We had never gotten along, and she spent years chasing him. After Dylan rejected her, she vanished from my life. I had no idea she’d joined the force. “The DNA results for the body aren’t back yet, so we can’t confirm if it’s Dylan. For all we know, you hired an actor to take his place.” She glanced sideways at Dylan, her tone softening just a fraction. “Dylan, do you remember me?” Dylan flicked his eyes up to her, then quickly looked back down at the floor. I didn’t know if it was just my imagination, but a fleeting flash of pain seemed to ripple through Lisa’s eyes. I spoke up immediately. “His brain is damaged. He literally cannot answer anything that isn’t a straight yes-or-no question.” Lisa tapped her ballpoint pen against the desk, looking lost in thought. “Flora, let me ask you. Why did Dylan get into that accident in the first place?” My body went rigid as the memories flooded back. When I first found out Dylan was cheating on me, I had completely spiraled. He had started lying to me about a year ago, getting incredibly good at it. It began with a stray lipstick left on the passenger seat, then a long, unfamiliar strand of hair tangled in his coat buttons, followed by endless nights “working late” at the office. Every sign pointed to an affair. But he had ripped out the dashcam, wiped his phone clean, and left me with zero hard evidence. My hysterical confrontations were met with nothing but his impatient, defensive screams. “Enough! Do you have any idea how crazy you look right now? Like a hysterical nag!” “You want to go through my phone? Go ahead! Search it! And when you find absolutely nothing, you’re getting on your knees to apologize to me!” I had finally given up, fully prepared to file for divorce, when the crash happened. He’d been driving fatigued, wrapping his car around a semi-truck halfway up a mountain road. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Should I say there’s a God after all? He crashed on his way to meet his mistress and ended up a vegetable. You can look it up; the accident report is on file right here at your station.” Lisa nodded, tapping out a quick message on her phone. A moment later, a reply chimed. As she read it, her expression grew increasingly heavy. “What you’re saying is true. But it still doesn’t prove that this man sitting next to you is actually Dylan.” My patience snapped. “Are you insane? Can you not see his face? He is Dylan!” “Back in high school when you were learning how to sketch, didn’t you secretly draw hundreds of portraits of him…” Lisa cut me off. “Flora, I suspect you murdered Dylan.” I laughed out loud, utterly bewildered. “Lisa, if you keep making accusations like that, I will file a formal complaint.” “A severely decomposed corpse. Tell me, how on earth did you decide that was Dylan? Based on a single ID card?” “Not just the ID. The height and weight of the corpse perfectly match Dylan’s medical records.” Lisa’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “And then there’s the tattoo.” “The face was ruined by the water, yes. But the tattoo on his wrist is entirely unique. It was…” She hesitated, closing her eyes for a brief second. “…it was something I tattooed on him with my own hands.” The interrogation room fell into a dead silence. Beside me, Dylan remained completely motionless, not saying a word. But at the mention of the tattoo, his hand twitched. In the next second, I grabbed Dylan’s arm and yanked his sleeve up. On the inside of his wrist, a poorly drawn, ugly little dog tattoo came into view. Lisa’s face went entirely pale. “Don’t tell me you gave the same tattoo to two different guys!” I scoffed. “I always wondered why he had such a bizarre, ugly tattoo. Now I know it was your doing.” “Lisa, does your face burn yet? Still suspecting me? You think I killed Dylan? What would even be my motive?” She furrowed her brow, fighting back. “Tattoos can be copied…” I cut her off. “Copied? So you’re telling me I found someone who looks exactly like him, matches every single physical feature, just to pull off a duplicate? Why would I even bother?” “Dylan cheated on me and ended up half-braindead. He only recognizes me. As long as I play the loyal, doting wife, his parents are practically weeping with gratitude. I have free rein over all his money. Why would I want him dead?” “If he actually died, his parents would swoop in to claim their share of the estate. What do I stand to gain?” The older officer let out a sharp, warning cough. “Watch your language. Keep your speculation to yourself.” I shut my mouth, shaking my head with a cold smirk. Truth was, I wasn’t worried at all. Because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I hadn’t killed anyone.

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My best friend asked me to help her plan the perfect confession to the love of her life. I spent weeks drafting her texts, picking out her outfits, and curating the perfect playlists. It was only on the night of the confession that I realized the man she loved was Chase—my childhood best friend, the boy I’d secretly loved for ten years. They kissed right in front of me, under the amber glow of the streetlights. When they got married, I wore the champagne-colored bridesmaid dress, smiling until my cheeks ached. When she was caught in a high-end escort raid, she claimed she was taking the fall for me. When she stole and sold his family’s priceless antique heirloom, she swore it was to pay off my non-existent gambling debts. And finally, when she framed me for embezzling two million dollars from his family’s firm, I was sentenced to fifteen years. I died a cold, lonely death in a prison cell. But then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the exact day her affair was exposed. … Whenever Tori sneaked out to hook up with her assistant, Zack, she’d tell Chase she was with me, helping me handle some crisis. This time, as Chase’s name flashed across my vibrating phone, I hesitated for a long second before sliding the screen to answer. I didn’t sound like my usual submissive, eager-to-please self. My voice was flat, hollowed out of any warmth. “What is it?” “Isabel, are you seriously doing this again?” Chase’s voice boomed through the receiver, sharp and dripping with irritation. “What is it this time? Did you get dumped, or did your dad get into another car accident? What’s your excuse for keeping Tori out late tonight?” He sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “You make an absolute mess of your own life, so you just have to drag everyone else down with you, don’t you?” “Do you even remember last month? When the police raided that wellness spa and you almost got arrested for soliciting? Tori literally took the fall for you to save your reputation! Do you have any idea how much drama that caused for us as a married couple?” “Isabel, you’re Tori’s best friend, which is the only reason I’ve turned a blind eye to your trashy habits and your gambling debts. But if you don’t show some goddamn gratitude and keep harassing my wife, don’t expect me to remember our childhood. I will ruin you. Now tell Tori to get her ass home right now!” If it weren’t for this phone call, I wouldn’t have known just how wretched my reputation was in his mind. Among close friends, covering for each other is common. But the moment I died in that prison cell, knowing Tori had put me there, our friendship died too. In this life, I was only living for myself. I had absolutely no intention of warning her. Instead, I kept my voice cool and detached. “You’ve got it wrong. I have no idea where Tori is. Why don’t you ask Zack? He’s her assistant. He practically lives in her pocket. He’d know her schedule better than anyone.” I hung up before he could respond. Tori was a gold-digger, pure and simple. For a prominent family like Chase’s, a wife cheating with her subordinate was a cardinal, unforgivable sin. The thought of her perfect world shattering brought a rare smile to my face. I walked to the kitchen and popped open a cold can of beer, taking a long, satisfying sip. But Chase’s hatred for me ran deeper than I had calculated. Barely ten minutes later, my front door shook. Chase didn’t just show up—he brought the company’s security guards with him. They burst into my apartment, grabbing my arms and pinning me like a common criminal. One of the guards kicked my bedroom door open, but the room was empty. “Isabel! Where the hell is Tori?” Chase stared at me, his eyes burning with pure disgust. Once, we had been inseparable. We had shared whispered secrets in treehouses and stayed up late talking about our futures. Now, in his eyes, I was a cheap delinquent, a gambler, a parasite on society. Meanwhile, Tori had carefully painted herself as the long-suffering, saintly best friend who carried my crosses. There’s a word for that, isn’t there? Contrast. It was time Chase saw the real contrast. “I told you,” I said, wincing as the guard tightened his grip on my wrist. “If you want Tori, ask Zack. They’re always together.” He sneered, stepping closer. “You think playing these petty mind games is going to make me angry, Isabel? I know my wife. I know her heart. I wouldn’t believe a single lie that comes out of your mouth.” “Honestly, I feel sick just thinking about how much she protects you. How did she ever end up with a piece of trash like you?” “I’m giving you one last chance. Where is Tori? Why isn’t she picking up her phone?” In Chase’s mind, Tori was flawless. Because she spoke in sweet, soft tones and carried herself with grace, her narrative was the only one that mattered. He truly believed I was trying to poison his marriage. With a curt nod, he gestured to the guards. “Make her talk.” The punches came fast. I was thrown to the floor, boots and fists raining down on me until my vision blurred and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. My face throbbed, swelling instantly. But beneath the blinding pain, a cold, dark spark of satisfaction flared. Let them hit me. The anger was a physical weight, burning away the lingering weakness of my past life. It fed the desire to see Tori burn. “You’re nothing but a gutter rat, Isabel,” Chase spat, looking down at me as I lay curled on the hardwood floor. “And the gutter is exactly where you belong.” “I told Tori a thousand times to cut you off. But she insisted you were her sister. She kept giving you jobs, paying off your debts, lying to your parents to keep your squeaky-clean image alive!” “And this is how you repay her? Stabbing her in the back? You think if you keep your mouth shut, I can’t touch you?” Chase pulled out his phone, his face twisting into a cruel grin. “You’ve always been such a dutiful little daughter, haven’t you? Let’s see how your parents feel when they find out what a degenerate you really are.” My parents had worked for Chase’s father for decades at the family firm. They had practically raised Chase alongside me, and they still looked at him like the golden boy who would one day inherit everything. Of course he had my mother’s number. He pressed dial and put it on speaker. My mother’s fragile, aging voice echoed in the quiet room. “Chase? Sweetheart, is everything okay? Why are you calling this late?” “Mrs. Peterson,” Chase said, his tone instantly shifting to a polite, albeit stern, register. “I’m calling because we need to talk about your daughter.” “Oh? What about Isabel? Is she having trouble at work?” Chase let out a cold, sharp laugh. “I wish it was just work. Mrs. Peterson, did you know your daughter was arrested at a sketchy massage parlor last week for soliciting sex?” “What? No… no, that can’t be right. Not my Isabel. She would never do something like that!” My mother’s voice trembled, breaking into a sob. An electric jolt of rage went through me. I lunged forward, trying to grab the phone, but the guard slammed me back down, pinning his knee into my back and crushing his heavy hand over my mouth. I could only make muffled, desperate noises. “Tori saw it with her own eyes, Mrs. Peterson,” Chase continued, mercilessly. “Tori went there to find her, and the police raided the place. Isabel ran, leaving Tori to take the fall and protect her name. Do you really think Tori would lie about something like that?” I glared at Chase, my eyes burning with a silent, venomous promise. You blind fool. She’s going to ruin you, and you’re going to deserve every second of it. “And it’s not just that. She’s got a massive gambling problem. She owes millions to loan sharks. Tori even had to pawn one of our family heirlooms just to keep those thugs from breaking Isabel’s legs! Drugs, gambling, prostitution—she’s practically running the gamut. I’m telling you this because you need to rein her in before she drags my wife down to hell with her.” He ended the call. Seeing my bloodshot, furious eyes, his chest swelled with triumph. “Look at you. Your poor parents have no idea. They still think you’re the straight-A student they sent off to college.” “I honestly don’t get why Tori tolerates you. What do you even bring to her life besides filth?” “She even bought you a townhome, Isabel. You are the definition of an ungrateful leech.” I froze, the blood in my ears suddenly roaring. I managed to spit out the hand covering my mouth. “What did you just say? Tori bought me a townhome?” “Oh, cut the act.” Chase scoffed. “Tori bought you that place near the harbor as a thank-you for setting us up back in college. She didn’t want me to tell anyone to spare your pathetic pride. But looking at you now, it’s clear you don’t have any.” A manic, dark humor bubbled up in my chest. Tori hadn’t bought that townhome for me. She had bought it for Zack. And right now, they were probably in it. I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor and looked up at him. “I didn’t receive any townhome, Chase. I swear, your brain is so rotted by love that you’d believe her if she told you the sky was pink.” “I know the address, Isabel. Don’t play dumb.” I nodded, a slow, dangerous smile stretching across my swollen lips. “Fine. If you’re so sure, take me there. Or are you just like Tori—all bark and no bite?” “You really want to play this out?” Chase’s eyes darkened. “You do realize she bought that place with my family’s money, right? Since you’re going to keep lying, I might as well reclaim what’s mine.” He pointed at the guards. “Throw her in the car. Keep her locked down. Tonight, she loses everything she never deserved.”

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When I prepared to deactivate our TikTok account—the one with over a million followers—the comments section was a frenzy of pleas. “Please don’t go! We’re still waiting for your travel documentary series!” I stared at the screen, gave a quiet, humorless laugh, and tapped confirm. My boyfriend was the editor. We’d made a pact to document every city we visited together on the platform. For three years, my lens was trained entirely on him. But in the final cuts he exported, I was nowhere to be found. Until last week, when I was helping him clean up his external drive. Tucked away in the deepest subfolder was a directory named Elena. I clicked it. It was another girl. She was standing on a backlit beach, the setting sun painting her hair a warm, spun-gold. The footage was in slow motion, edited to the exact indie ballad we called “our song.” Every single frame had been meticulously color-graded and retouched. Meanwhile, in the hundreds of videos we’d published, I had only ever appeared once. I was a blurry, out-of-focus shape in the background. In the overlay comments, he’d actually typed: “Who let this random extra into the shot?” It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to edit me. It was that I was never worthy of being in his frame. As I was packing my things, my phone buzzed with an urgent text from him, demanding to know why the account was gone. I didn’t reply. Since he never wanted me in his frame, I would simply walk out of his shot entirely. 1 I opened my airline app and booked a one-way ticket back home to Maine for three nights from now. When the confirmation popped up, my thumb hovered over the screen. It felt like finally waking up from a three-year-long dream. It was just past one in the morning when the front door unlocked. The bedroom lights flickered on, harsh and blinding. I winced, shielding my eyes. Tim stood by the edge of the bed, his voice tight with impatience. “What the hell happened to the account?” “Do you have any idea how important tomorrow is? Elena has a brand sponsor reviewing our metrics. You deleting the account just killed her deal.” “Regina, do you ever think before you act?” I opened my eyes but said nothing. He waited a beat, his temper flaring hotter. “A million followers, just gone? Three years of my editing work, down the drain?” “What kind of crazy episode are you having right now?” I propped myself up against the headboard, keeping my voice quiet. “Tim, I want to break up.” He stiffened, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “This again?” “Aren’t you tired of threatening to leave every time you’re unhappy? I was just putting together a portfolio for Elena so she could sign a contract.” “You’re a grown woman, Regina. Is it not exhausting to be this jealous over nothing?” I didn’t take the bait. He sighed, his posture slumping slightly as his tone softened. “Look, I get it. You’ve been in a bad mood lately. But did you really have to blow things up like this? Now I have to spend tomorrow explaining this to the sponsors. Do you think I don’t have enough on my plate?” I watched him pour a glass of water, drink it down, and explain his rationalizations. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. In his entire tirade, there was room for Elena’s brand deals, the value of the account, and his three years of wasted labor. There was just no room for me. I pulled the duvet back over my shoulders and turned my back to him. Tim lingered for a moment, his voice dropping an octave. “Just sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” Soon, the rush of the shower filled the apartment. I kept my eyes wide, staring at the blank wall. In the quiet of the dark, my mind drifted back to three years ago. The night we hit a hundred thousand followers. We’d been sitting on the hardwood floor of our cramped studio apartment, eating cheap instant ramen. Tim had held up his phone, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the screen with absolute wonder. “Regina,” he had said, “from now on, you capture the most beautiful frames. And I’ll edit you into the most beautiful story. I promise.” The hum of the water continued in the bathroom. My eyes stung with a sudden, sharp ache. When I woke up the next morning, he was already gone. I made myself a quick bowl of oatmeal, the rising steam blurring my vision. I pulled out my phone and texted my mother. “Mom, I’m coming home in a couple of days to stay for a bit.” It took a long time for her to reply. “Really? You aren’t too busy?” followed by, “Your dad had his checkup last month. The doctor says his recovery is on track, but he keeps asking when you’ll visit.” I stared at her words—You aren’t too busy?—and felt a lump rise in my throat. During our first year, over the holidays, Tim had insisted we stay to finish a holiday campaign. “If you leave, who’s going to assist me?” During our second year, when my dad underwent coronary bypass surgery, Tim had told me, “Going back won’t help him heal. It’s better to finish the sponsor shoot so we can send them money. That’s more practical.” By the third year, when Elena returned from living abroad, he didn’t even bother making up a good excuse. He just shrugged and said, “We can’t walk away right now.” I typed out a long, rambling paragraph. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her how much I had missed them, how utterly exhausted I was. But in the end, I deleted it character by character. I simply wrote: “I’ll call you when I land. Don’t worry Dad about it.” Around four in the afternoon, Tim returned. A few minutes later, the clatter of pots and pans drifted from the kitchen. I froze. Tim was cooking. In our three years together, I could count the number of times he’d cooked on one hand—and it was always just scrambled eggs or instant noodles. Today, there were three different dishes and a pot of soup simmering on the stove. He was looking at a recipe video on his phone, awkwardly tossing vegetables in the pan. I stood in the doorway. “Who is all this for?” He didn’t look up from his phone. “Elena’s coming over for dinner. She’s on a strict diet, and takeout is too greasy. It’s healthier to cook at home.” I mumbled a quiet “Oh” and went back to the bedroom. I remembered the weeks I’d worked late nights, stumbling through the front door at midnight, asking if he could at least boil some pasta for me. His response had always been the same: “Are your hands broken? Do I have to wait on you hand and foot?” Now, he was cutting fruit, simmering bone broth, and remembering that Elena didn’t eat spicy food and preferred room-temperature water. Meanwhile, I had told him a thousand times that I couldn’t stand cilantro, yet a thick layer of it floated on top of the soup he was brewing. The savory scent of the kitchen drifted into the bedroom, and my stomach betrayingly growled. I opened a food delivery app and ordered a simple bowl of soup. Just as I finished eating, the doorbell rang. Elena had arrived. She brought a bottle of red wine, her laughter ringing out as she stepped inside. “Tim! Since when do you know how to cook? This is amazing.” Tim sounded almost bashful. “Just picked it up last week. It’s nothing special.” At the dining table, Elena offered me a fork with a bright smile. “Regina, you should try some of this.” I shook my head. “I already ate.” Tim frowned, setting down his glass. “When did you eat?” “I ordered delivery.” His face darkened immediately. “I cooked a whole table of food and you went and ordered takeout? What is your problem, Regina? Do you have to act so childish in front of Elena?” I looked at him, the sting of humiliation rising in my throat. But I refused to let him see me cry. I turned and walked back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. “Enjoy your dinner.” Through the thin wall, I could hear Elena’s bright, melodic laughter and Tim’s murmuring responses. His voice was low, laced with a gentle patience I hadn’t heard directed at me in three years. The next morning, Tim came into the kitchen and immediately asked, “Did you make breakfast?” “I forgot,” I said quietly. He took a deep, irritated breath. “I literally asked you last night. How do you forget that? Regina, what is wrong with you lately? You used to never be like this.” “You can make it yourself,” I replied. “Since you’re such a good cook now.” He stared at me for a long beat, letting out a cold scoff. “Fine. Keep playing these games. Let’s see who breaks first.” I said nothing. He slumped onto the sofa and opened his laptop to edit. After a while, he spoke up without looking at me. “Oh, by the way, the Iceland sponsorship is locked.” My thumb froze over my phone screen. Tim’s voice was casual. “The brand wants an aurora-themed travel shoot. We fly out early next month. Seven days.” I remained silent. He seemed to recall something, adding, “I know I promised we’d go together. But the brand specifically requested someone with a chic, editorial look. Elena fits that aesthetic better.” He paused, then tossed out a careless reassurance. “I’ll take you some other time. It’s not like Iceland is going anywhere.” Iceland wasn’t going anywhere. But I had been waiting for three years. The night we hit a million followers, eating cheap ramen in our tiny apartment, Tim had promised: “Once things settle down, I’m taking you to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. I know it’s your dream.” I had brought it up so many times after that. Each time, he claimed we didn’t have the budget, or our schedule was too packed, or that we should focus on domestic trips first. Now the budget was there. The schedule was open. He was finally going to Iceland. But he was taking Elena. I gave him a quiet murmur of agreement. He visibly relaxed, likely assuming I was finally falling back into my usual submissive role. I stood up and went to take a shower. Once the water started running, I slid down the tiled wall and sat on the floor, letting the hot spray wash over me. My tears mingled with the water, completely indistinguishable. When I came out, Tim was browsing a camera retailer on his laptop. The screen showed a high-end camera body—worth over five thousand dollars. He didn’t look up. “Elena’s birthday is next month. I want to get her this. Her phone’s video quality is terrible. You’re the gear expert, take a look for me.” I stared at the screen. My birthday had been last month. He had completely forgotten it. I hadn’t reminded him. I had just ordered a lonely bowl of takeout at the studio. Three days later, he’d sent a brief text: “Forgot your birthday. I’ll make it up to you.” He never did. “Whatever,” I muttered. Tim scowled. “What do you mean, ‘whatever’? I’m trying to have a normal conversation with you. Can you at least act like a human being?” I looked at him. Three years. Over sixty cities. A career I’d abandoned. A family I’d neglected. A birthday spent eating cold takeout alone. And now, I was the one who wasn’t “acting like a human being.” The words choked me, pooling in my throat until only a flat response remained. “Do whatever makes you happy.” I walked into the bedroom. Before the door clicked shut, I heard him mutter, “Unbelievable,” followed by the sound of heavy keystrokes. He bought the camera. He paid for it using our joint business account. Half of that money was mine. He left again in the afternoon. I pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. A few sweaters, my documents, my old storyboarding notebooks, a pair of gold earrings. That was it. I stared at the small pile, stunned by how little there was. Three years of my life, shrunk down to fit into half a suitcase. My phone rang. It was Tim. “Elena’s shoot is short-handed this afternoon. We need someone to hold the reflector. Can you come over?” “I’m busy.” He scoffed. “You’re just sitting at home. What’s the big deal?” “No.” The line went quiet for a beat. Then, Elena’s sweet, melodic voice chimed in near the receiver. “Regina! Hey, it’s Elena. Please don’t worry about it, I can easily find a friend to help. Tim, don’t badger Regina, let her rest at home.” She giggled. “Oh, by the way, Regina, Tim was just telling me how thin you’ve gotten lately. Make sure you eat a good dinner, okay?” I gripped the phone tightly. It turned out even his minor displays of concern had to be filtered through Elena before they reached me. “Got it,” I said, and hung up. I went back to folding my sweaters, my chest aching with a dull, throbbing weight. The package arrived that evening. It was the camera. Tim unboxed it with extreme care, handling it like a fragile treasure. “The sensor is gorgeous,” he murmured. “Elena’s going to love this.” His mother’s name lit up his phone screen. He swiped to answer and put it on speaker. “How are things, sweetie? Is that lovely girl, Elena, still filming with you?” Tim smiled. “Yeah, Mom. It’s going great.” “I saw the video you posted. She is just stunning, and she has such class.” Tim chuckled. “Stop, Mom, you’re going to give her a big head.” His mother continued, “Make sure you bring Elena over for Christmas dinner. Your dad really wants to meet her.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, my hands and feet turning ice-cold. There was a brief pause on the line before his mother seemed to remember my existence. “Oh… and how is Regina? I feel like I haven’t heard her name in a while. Are you two doing okay?” Tim glanced at me. “We’re fine, Mom. Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask if I wanted to say hello. For three years, I had bought his parents Christmas gifts, called them on their birthdays, and sent weekly check-in texts. Yet to his mother, I had become an afterthought—a name that had faded from conversation. He ended the call and placed the camera into a decorative gift box. I stood up. “Where are you going?” he asked. “To bed.” My final day arrived. Before leaving that morning, Tim called out, “I have a full day of shooting. I’ll probably be back late.” “Okay,” I replied. Once the front door clicked shut, a heavy silence settled over the apartment. This was my last day in this space. I pulled my suitcase out from behind the wardrobe. Documents, the gold earrings, my notebooks, a few outfits, my chargers. Everything fit into a single carry-on bag. I looked around. Almost everything in this apartment had been bought by me. I left all of it behind. In the kitchen, the spice jars still bore the neat labels I’d printed. A sticky note remained on the refrigerator door in my handwriting: Need eggs. Almost out of olive oil. Before I moved in, Tim’s fridge was always empty. I was the one who had turned this cold apartment into a home. In the living room, I had picked out the sofa, ordered the curtains, and replaced the throw pillow covers three times. The packing foam from his new camera was still piled on the coffee table, waiting for someone to clean it up. In the study, the high-end editing monitor and PC had been purchased with my savings—nearly twenty thousand dollars. At the time, Tim had told me, “Once the channel takes off, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” It had been three years. He had never paid me back, nor had he ever brought it up. On the corner of the monitor screen, a cute little panda sticker that belonged to Elena was pasted, a silent reminder that the space already belonged to someone else. I rolled my suitcase to the entryway and took one last look. Inside the elevator, I dialed my mother. “Mom, I’m landing today.” Her voice instantly brightened, pitching higher. “Really? Should we come pick you up at the airport? Your dad went to the market early this morning—what do you want to eat?” Listening to her voice, a sudden wave of warmth flooded my chest, and my eyes swelled. “Anything is fine, Mom.” During the cab ride to the airport, I scrolled through my social feed and saw Tim’s latest post. A nine-image grid. Every single photo was of Elena. Elena holding her new camera, Elena laughing into the lens, Elena leaning in close to Tim to look at the monitor. The caption read: New journeys, new partnerships. Stay tuned. I scrolled back through his profile. In three years, there wasn’t a single mention of me. No couple photos, no birthday wishes, no trips. The only time I had ever appeared was in a sponsored post from two years ago. He had written: Thanks to the team. I was the entire team. Scrolling further down, I saw his mother had shared the post, commenting: My son found the perfect partner. Bigger and better things ahead! I closed the app. I opened my phone’s photo library, selected the remaining fourteen photos of Tim and me, and hit delete. I arrived at the airport, checked in, and went through security. The terminal was buzzing with travelers. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a voice message from Tim—the first time in three days he had actually reached out with his own voice. I tapped play. His voice was slightly low. “Regina, are you still mad at me? You’ve been so quiet these past few days. I’ve been thinking, and maybe… maybe there were some things I overlooked.” I held the phone, a small, involuntary ache flaring in my chest. Another message popped up immediately. “But you have to understand me, too. It’s been insanely busy. Elena’s just starting out, and she relies on me for almost everything. Once she’s established, I promise I’ll make time for you. You’ve worked in media; you know how this goes.” “About the account… think about it again. Losing a million followers is a massive waste. I can help you rebuild your own brand if you want. It’s hard to start from scratch, but we can make it work.” Finally, a text message followed: Don’t be mad. It’s really not that big of a deal. Not that big of a deal. I stared at those words. Three years of quiet humiliation, the deleted frames, being labeled a random extra, the broken promises of Iceland. To him, it was just a minor inconvenience. I began typing a long response. I wanted to tell him how long I had waited, how deeply it had hurt. I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t incapable of love—he was just incapable of loving me. But midway through, I deleted the entire block of text. I scrolled back through three years of chat history to the very first message he had ever sent me: From now on, you capture the most beautiful frames, and I’ll edit you into the most beautiful story. I stared at it for a few seconds. Then, I replied with just five words: This is where we end.

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I was adjusting my bow tie in the dressing room of our engagement party when Ruth brought that impoverished junior from her college inside. “Troy got his suit dirty,” she said, her voice breezy, as if she were asking to borrow a pen. “Let him wear yours for a bit.” I froze, my fingers still tangled in the silk. She offered a small, dismissive shrug. “Everyone knows you’re the groom today anyway, Christopher. It doesn’t matter what you wear.” Troy stood hovering near the doorway. His canvas sneakers were scrubbed raw, practically fraying at the seams, and he looked down at his feet, offering a quiet, nervous, “Hey, Christopher.” Wayne stepped in front of me, his chest rising. “This is Christopher’s engagement party, Ruth. He went to thirty different shops to find this bespoke Italian suit. He’s been waiting months for it!” Ruth didn’t look at Wayne. She looked at me. It was a look I knew too well. For five years, whenever her eyes softened into that silent, pleading pressure, I was the one who stepped back. I was always the one who surrendered. I placed a hand on Wayne’s arm, gently pushing him down, and slowly unfastened my silver cufflinks. “Let him have it,” I said. Ruth smiled, a small, satisfied curve of her lips, and patted my cheek. “I knew you’d understand. I promise we’ll get you the absolute best custom suit for the wedding.” When Troy changed into my suit, Ruth leaned in, her fingers smoothing the lapels and adjusting the shoulders. “You look so handsome, Troy,” she murmured softly. I watched her, a cold knot tightening in my chest. I remembered that exact gesture. During our wedding photoshoot, the photographer had asked her to do the same for me, but she had brushed it off, calling it too cheesy for public display. I reached down and slid the engagement ring off my finger. This time, I was done being understanding. … “Who is this young man? He looks so sharp.” Ruth’s aunt was standing by the neighboring table, holding Troy’s hand and looking him up and down with an approving smile. Troy kept his head low, a faint, self-conscious smile touching his lips. Before he could speak, Ruth slid into the conversation. “He’s my junior from school,” she said smoothly. “His family has had a rough time lately. His clothes got ruined in an accident, and Christopher felt bad for him, so he insisted Troy wear his suit.” Her aunt nodded, her gaze drifting over to where I stood in my plain, off-the-rack gray blazer. “But why is Christopher dressed like that? For an engagement party, it’s… a bit casual, isn’t it?” “Christopher doesn’t care about things like that,” Ruth replied quickly, her hand reaching out to find my arm. “He’s the most generous man I know.” As her fingers brushed my sleeve, I took a half-step sideways. Her hand fell through the empty air. She blinked, startled. “What’s wrong?” I kept my eyes on the floor. “Nothing.” Wayne grabbed my elbow from behind and pulled me into the quiet shadow of the hallway corner. “Are you seriously just going to let this slide?” he hissed. “What do you want me to do, Wayne?” “Go out there! Tell everyone that’s your suit, that he’s a nobody, and that you’re the one she’s marrying!” I looked at his flushed face, the raw frustration in his eyes. “You’re more upset than I am, man.” “Of course I am!” Wayne’s voice cracked. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying at her table?” He pulled out his phone, tapping frantically before turning the screen toward me. It was an Instagram story posted by one of Ruth’s college friends. In the frame, Troy stood in my bespoke suit on Ruth’s right, her hand resting comfortably on his shoulder. In the background, someone was teasing, “The groom looks so handsome!” Troy merely blushed, keeping his eyes down, offering no correction. Ruth didn’t deny it either; she just laughed and waved a hand at the camera. Underneath the post, a comment read: Ruth’s fiancé is so sweet and innocent. It already had thirty likes. No one had corrected them. I swallowed the dry bitterness in my throat, handed the phone back to Wayne, and turned off the screen. From the banquet hall, another wave of laughter drifted out. Troy was being pulled into a toast. He handled the crowd gracefully, tilting his glass slightly as he leaned in to speak. I had taught him that. Just last month, he had confessed how terrified he was of formal business dinners. I had spent an entire afternoon showing him how to hold a glass, how to stand, how to navigate a room. “Call me an Uber, Wayne.” “You’re not going back in?” “There’s nothing left for me in there.” I walked over to the guest registry table. The silver engagement band felt heavy in my palm as I set it down next to the guestbook. The wood was slightly dusty, and the ring settled with a tiny, sharp clink. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an Instagram notification. Ruth had posted. “Thank you to everyone who made tonight so special.” There were three photos. The first was a wide shot of the glittering hall; the second was her laughing with her bridesmaids; and the third… Troy, smiling brilliantly in my suit. She had tagged him. The caption read: Huge thanks to Troy for keeping things running tonight. Couldn’t have done it without you. My name wasn’t in the post. I wasn’t in any of the photos. I turned the screen off and pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. When I crossed the street, the warm, golden light of the banquet hall was still burning. Even from the far curb, the music and the muffled laughter reached me through the damp night air. Before opening the cab door, I looked back one last time. Ruth was standing on the hotel steps, her head bent over her phone. Troy stepped out from behind her, gently draping his dark coat over her bare shoulders. She pulled the collar tight around her neck. It was a natural, fluid gesture. It looked like a habit. “Christopher, you left your ring on the registry table.” It was two in the morning when Ruth’s call came through. Her voice was steady, free of any real alarm. “I know.” “Well, I went ahead and kept it for you. I’ll put it back on your finger tomorrow.” She paused, her tone softening into that gentle, placating register she used when she wanted to smooth things over. “I know today was hard on you. Troy’s suit really was an emergency, but everyone saw how mature and understanding you were.” “Ruth, let’s break up.” The line went dead silent for three long seconds. Then, a soft, breathy laugh came through the speaker. “Christopher, come on. I know you’re hurt about the suit, but a breakup? Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” “I’m serious.” “You always throw the word ‘breakup’ around when you’re sulking,” she said, her patience returning like a mother dealing with a stubborn child. “Fine. When you’re done being angry, call me. I’ll come over.” “Ruth—” “Be good, Christopher. Tomorrow I’ll take you to that sushi place uptown. The one you’ve been begging to go to.” I didn’t answer. After a quiet moment, her voice dropped, turning cool and sharp. “Christopher, it’s been five years. When have you ever actually had the courage to leave me?” The question hung in the quiet room. I didn’t have an answer for her. She truly believed I would never go. I ended the call. Wayne walked out of his kitchen, carrying a mug of warm water, and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “What did she say?” “She said she’s coming to find me.” “Are you going to see her?” “No.” He opened his mouth to speak, took one look at my face, and quietly closed it. I stared down at the dark screen of my phone. Her contact name was still saved as Ruth with a tiny sun emoji beside it, a detail I’d put there five years ago. We had just started dating then. She had waited for me outside my dorm in the middle of a brutal November freeze, clutching a small, cheap plastic hand warmer to her chest to keep it warm. Her cheeks had been bright pink from the wind. Your roommate told me your hands get so stiff from drawing in the cold, she had said, her voice shaking slightly from the chill. I had told her she didn’t need to worry, that I was fine, that guys didn’t need things like hand warmers. But she had laughed, forcing the warm plastic into my palms and wrapping her small, frozen fingers around mine. With me, you don’t have to pretend to be tough. If you’re cold or tired, you tell me. Back then, her eyes had been so bright, so full of a fierce, protective warmth that made me feel entirely safe. Wayne broke the silence. “Do you remember when she actually started to change?” I thought about it for a long long time, tracing the memories back through the years. “I don’t,” I whispered. Maybe it was the afternoon Troy first showed up at her office, red-eyed and trembling because he couldn’t afford his tuition. Or maybe it was the first time she looked at me and said, “Just let him have this, Christopher. You have so much more than he does.” The shift had been glacial. A fraction of an inch every day, so small it was impossible to measure, until one day I woke up and realized there was nothing left of the woman I loved. Wayne stood up and tossed a thick blanket over my lap. “Don’t go back to your place tonight. Just crash here.” “Thanks.” At three in the morning, the phone lit up again. It rang three times before going dark. She didn’t call back. She believed one night of silence would be enough to cure my anger. She believed that when the sun came up, I would pack my bags and come home, just like I always did. I flipped the phone face down. For the first time in five years, I let the silence stay. “Wayne, let me in.” The next evening, Ruth was standing on Wayne’s porch, a small white bakery box dangling from her finger. Wayne stood firmly in the doorway, his arm blocking the frame. “He doesn’t want to see you, Ruth.” “I know he’s upset,” she said, giving him a tight, polite smile. “Just let me talk to him for five minutes. I’ll leave right after.” “Talk about what? About how you couldn’t even manage to type his name in your post yesterday?” Ruth’s smile faltered, her jaw tightening. “Wayne, this is between Christopher and me. Don’t interfere.” “Don’t call him Christopher. You don’t get to use that name anymore.” I walked over to the door and gently tapped Wayne’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Wayne. Let her in. I want to say this to her face.” Wayne slowly stepped aside, his eyes cold as he watched her brush past him. She kicked off her heels and set the bakery box on the coffee table. “I brought that tiramisu you love. I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.” I didn’t touch the box. She sat down on the armchair opposite me, smoothing her skirt. “Christopher, what exactly do you want me to do?” “I already told you. I want to break up.” Her brow furrowed, a trace of genuine irritation slipping into her voice. “You want to throw away five years over a suit?” “It was never about the suit, Ruth.” “Then what is it?” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands—the exact pose she assumed whenever we had a disagreement, her eyes wide with that patient, patronizing look that said she was ready to let me vent until I got over myself. “Last year on your birthday,” I said, my voice quiet, “I spent two months trying to get a reservation at that French place downtown. Right before we were supposed to leave, Troy called to say his stomach was cramping. You took the car keys and drove straight to his apartment.” “He was completely alone in the city, Christopher. What if his appendix had burst?” “He had eaten too much takeout, Ruth. That was it. And instead of coming back, you stayed there and watched TV with him until midnight while I sat at that table alone until the kitchen closed.” She hesitated, her eyes flickering. “I apologized for that. I bought you that designer watch to make up for it.” “And then you bought Troy the exact same one two weeks later.” “He was going through a rough patch—” “He’s always going through a rough patch,” I said, the words falling flat and heavy between us. “Tell me, Ruth, when is he ever actually fine?” She remained silent. “Last month, when I had that flight to Seattle, you told me to take an Uber because you had to help Troy move his things into his new apartment.” “He had so many heavy boxes—” “You gave him the wool blanket my mother knit for us. The one she sent from home.” “It was getting old and frayed,” Ruth said, her voice rising slightly. “I was planning to buy you a cashmere one to replace it.” “It was mine!” My voice didn’t rise, but the sheer weight of it made her flinch. “My mother sat in her armchair with her reading glasses on for an entire week to make that. She wrapped it in three layers of paper so the stitching wouldn’t get crushed in the mail. It wasn’t yours to give away.” The room fell into a suffocating quiet. Wayne stood near the kitchen doorway, his knuckles white against the frame. In the past, I would have kept pushing. I would have screamed, demanded to know why I wasn’t enough, and then I would have wept and forgiven her the moment she muttered a soft apology. But looking at her now, I felt nothing but a profound, exhausting emptiness. “Christopher,” Ruth said, her voice dropping into a cold, disappointed register. “I always thought you were different from the rest.” “The rest?” “People who keep score,” she said, looking at me with a genuine, baffling sincerity. “I thought you understood. Troy has absolutely no one in this city. You have me, you have a great family, you have a career… you don’t lack anything. Is it really so terrible that I give him a little extra support?” She spoke with such absolute conviction, as if her logic were entirely flawless. “You have everything,” she whispered. “Why can’t you just yield to someone who has nothing?” I looked at her. Really looked at her. There was a faint flicker of expectation in her eyes, a belief that if she just explained it one more time, I would nod, apologize for being selfish, and let it go. But among all those things she claimed I had, there was one thing named Ruth. And she had been slowly, quietly giving herself away to someone else, piece by piece, while wondering why I felt so empty. “You’re right, Ruth,” I said softly. “I have everything.” She let out a tiny, relieved breath. “So,” I continued, “I don’t need you anymore.” The relief vanished from her face. “Christopher.” “You used to be so soft,” she whispered. I didn’t answer. She stood up, grabbed her coat, and walked out, the front door clicking shut behind her. My eyes fell on the bakery box on the table. Tiramisu. She didn’t even remember. I had stopped liking tiramisu a year ago. The tuxedo fit me perfectly in the mirror. My mother stood behind me, her gentle hands smoothing the collar of my shirt, the fine lines around her eyes deepening into a warm smile. “When is Ruth getting here? I feel like I haven’t seen her in six months.” I looked down at my phone. Ten minutes ago, a text had arrived from Ruth. Troy’s graduation thesis data got corrupted. He’s in his advisor’s office crying his eyes out. I have to go help him sort it. Try on the suit without me, and explain things to your mom—she’s always so sweet, she’ll understand. I’ll book that Italian place she loves tonight to make it up to her. My mother had undergone minor heart surgery just last month. I hadn’t told her a single thing about the cracks forming between Ruth and me. I clicked the screen off and turned to her with a smile. “She had an emergency meeting at the office, Mom. She won’t be able to make it.” My mother’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly patted my hand. “Work is important, sweetheart. It’s wonderful that she’s so dedicated to her career. You look so handsome. Come on, let me take a few pictures of you.” Click. In the photo, I stood tall in my tailored suit, a perfect smile plastered on my face, but my eyes were entirely hollow. After watching my mother board her train back home, I drove straight to Wayne’s apartment. Sitting on his worn leather sofa, I dialed the wedding coordinator’s number. “Hi, this is Christopher. I need to cancel the reservation for Clearwater Chapel.” There was a long pause on the other end. “Mr. Hayden, that venue has an eight-month waiting list, and your ten-thousand-dollar deposit is completely non-refundable. Are you absolutely sure?” “I’m sure.” “But you came out here so many times,” the coordinator said, her voice filled with genuine confusion. “Our designer said you were incredibly meticulous about every single detail…” “Just cancel it. Thank you.” I hung up. Wayne sat on the opposite end of the couch, watching me. “Are you really sure about this, Christopher?” “Yeah.” That chapel was forty miles out of the city. There was no direct train; you had to take two buses and walk another twenty minutes through a gravel path. I had chosen it because of the lake. Five years ago, on our very first weekend trip, we had found that lake. I had spent the entire afternoon taking photos of her against the water. She had laughed, wrapping her arms around my neck, and told me it was our secret place. I had built the entire wedding design with the coordinator, draft after draft. I chose white magnolias for the tables because her mother loved simple, classic flowers. The processional music was the exact acoustic track that had been playing in the background of the coffee shop on our very first date. I had drawn the seating chart myself, color-coding it with colored pencils—pink for her family, blue for mine. I had placed her college roommate, who suffered from severe vertigo, on the ground floor near the French doors so she wouldn’t feel trapped. Ruth had never asked about any of it. “Christopher,” Wayne said softly. “If you need to break down, just do it. I’m not going to judge you.” I shook my head. I didn’t have any tears left to cry. Wayne was in the middle of a design review at his office when his phone rang. It was Ruth. “Christopher’s phone is off,” she said, her tone light and casual, as if she were asking to borrow a lawnmower. “Can you tell him something for me?” Wayne set his stylus down. “What is it, Ruth?” “Troy’s shooting his graduation photos next month and wants somewhere unique. I remembered that lakeside chapel Christopher booked. The view is gorgeous. Can you ask Christopher to call the venue and let Troy borrow it for the afternoon?” Wayne’s fingers tightened around his phone, his knuckles turning white. “Ruth,” he said, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet register. “That venue has been cancelled.”

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On our eighth anniversary, I didn’t prepare a single thing. Instead, I sat at the kitchen table and drafted a divorce agreement with my own hands. When I walked into the house, Elliott had his little mistress pinned against our headboard, taking her with a desperate, frantic hunger on our wedding bed. The girl turned her face toward the door, her lips curving into a smug little smile when she saw me. “Hazel… you’re home?” she gasped, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Should I… should I get up?” Elliott didn’t even pause. He patted her hip, his tone warm and teasing, the way someone might comfort a pet. “Why get up?” he said. “She doesn’t exactly inspire passion.” He finally looked up, cutting his eyes toward me before gesturing toward the hallway with his chin. “Be a good wife, close the door,” he added casually. “She’s shy.” He expected me to do what I always did—to turn around in silence, walk out, and give them whatever space they needed to ruin my life. Instead, I walked into the bedroom, set the divorce papers on the nightstand, and said quietly, “Elliott, let’s get a divorce.” … His movements faltered. He looked down at the girl beneath him, then slowly pulled away. “Hazel, do you really think I have the time for your little tantrums right now?” Amber tilted her head, her eyes flashing with a mix of surprise and irritation at being interrupted. “Hazel, a man has needs,” she purred, adjusting her hair. “If you’re too old and faded to satisfy Elliott, you have to let me do it, right?” I ignored her and pushed the papers closer to him. “Sign it, and I’ll leave right now.” Elliott grabbed a cigarette from the nightstand, lighting it with one hand while keeping the other casually draped over her waist. “Are we really doing this?” he asked, exhaling. “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Not throwing a tantrum?” He let out a slow plume of smoke, the gray haze blurring the sharp lines of his face. “Every single time you pull this stunt, you end up tearing up the papers yourself. Stop playing hard to get, Hazel. It doesn’t work on me.” Amber shifted, letting out a soft, delicate sigh. “Elliott, baby… don’t be so mean to her. She did give you a child, after all. Even if… well, even if she had to trick you into it.” Elliott blew out another breath of smoke, his lips twisting into a mocking sneer. “Hazel, you drugged my drink and crawled into my bed eight years ago just to get this ring on your finger, didn’t you? As long as you stay in your lane, the title of Mrs. Mercer is yours. Don’t push your luck.” He truly believed I would keep playing the obedient, understanding wife, guarding the empty shell of our marriage while I waited for him to look at me. But he didn’t know that my heart had already rotted from crying. I didn’t even have the strength left to pretend it didn’t hurt. I was done. I couldn’t do it anymore. “Elliott, I mean it,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “I’m sick of playing the perfect wife. I’m exhausted. I don’t want it anymore.” He let out a dry laugh. Reaching out, he pinched Amber’s chin, forcing her to look up. “Amber, tell her. How long have you been with me?” Amber’s voice was soft, breathless. “Almost… almost three years…” “She isn’t complaining about being tired,” Elliott said, letting go of her chin to look back at me. “And yet you’re the one crying about it? What right do you have to be tired?” He picked up the divorce papers and shoved them back into my hands. “Take your papers and close the door. Or what? Are you lonely? Want to join us?” He was always like this. Treating my sincerity like a comedy, my exhaustion like a petty bid for attention. He truly believed everything I did was a desperate plea for him to look at me. I felt so tired. Too tired to even argue. I turned and walked out, the sounds of their passion picking up again behind the closed door. I sat on the living room sofa. A draft from the window fluttered the edge of the papers resting on my knees. I buried my face in my hands, sitting there in the quiet for a long time, but my palms remained completely dry. When you cry too much, you eventually run out of tears. My daughter’s photo sat in a silver frame on the coffee table. She was wearing a little white sundress, her eyes crinkled into perfect, happy crescents. I closed my eyes, and the memories—the ones that had already decayed into my bones—flooded back. Elliott and I had been together for eight years. The first three years were genuinely beautiful. So beautiful that I thought he was my forever. Then came the night he was drugged at a party, and I ended up pregnant. I remember spinning around in his arms, crying, “Let’s get married, Elliott!” But his first words to me were: “Hazel, you really are calculating, aren’t you?” From that day on, the women in his life never stopped. The day our daughter was born, he was out shopping with some swimsuit model. I suffered a massive hemorrhage during labor and had to sign my own consent forms. The day our daughter turned a month old, he drank until dawn in a VIP lounge. The day she first called him “Daddy,” I recorded a video and sent it to him; he replied a day later with a single word: ‘Annoying.’ But for our daughter’s sake, I endured it. Three years ago, when she was diagnosed with congenital heart disease, Elliott pulled strings and hired the best medical team in the country. For a brief second, I thought we might finally find happiness. But the surgery failed. During those agonizing eleven hours in the waiting room, every call and text I sent him vanished into a black hole. I knelt on the cold hospital floor, throwing up from sheer panic. And where was the man who had vanished? He was all over Amber’s latest Instagram post. The caption read: ‘The best kind of company.’ He was at a music festival with Amber, kissing her passionately under a shower of confetti in a roaring crowd. Before my daughter passed away, her last words were: “I hope Mommy and Daddy don’t fight anymore.” I had foolishly believed that day would come. If only I was quiet enough, patient enough, obedient enough. But I never saw that day. And now, I truly couldn’t do it anymore. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Elliott: ‘Pick up a box of ultra-thin condoms on your way back. And get some macarons from that bakery down on 4th. Amber wants some.’ I stared at the screen, motionless. I had done things like this too many times. When they slept in my bed, I slept on the living room sofa. When she wanted desserts from the other side of town, I drove two hours in traffic to buy them. When she wanted to wear my clothes, I cleared out my closet. I didn’t feel anything anymore. The phone buzzed again. ‘If you aren’t back in twenty minutes, consider yourself off the Chelsea project.’ The project was my life’s blood, the product of countless sleepless nights. I looked at the pouring rain outside, took a deep breath, put on my coat, and walked out. I returned drenched to the bone. Opening the front door, I saw Amber sitting on the living room sofa wearing my silk pajamas. Her bare feet were propped on the coffee table, and she was turning something over in her hands. It was my daughter’s picture. The frame I kept on my nightstand, the one showing her happiest smile. Amber tapped her manicured nails against the glass. “Cute kid,” she murmured. “Too bad.” My voice squeezed out of my throat, raw and unrecognizable. “Amber. Put it down.” She looked up, a smirk playing on her lips, and loosened her fingers. The frame slipped. It hit the hardwood floor, and the glass shattered, sending shards flying everywhere. I stared at the cracks, a violent buzzing filling my ears. Amber carelessly kicked a piece of glass away with her toe. “Oops. Hand slipped. Hazel, you’re not going to get angry over a dead person, are you? After all, how can the dead compete with the living?” I was shaking so hard my bones ached. I raised my hand and slapped her across the face, hard. Amber’s head jerked to the side. She froze for a second, then began to shriek. “Hazel, don’t you think you’re taking this too far?” Elliott walked into the room, grabbing my arm in a vice grip. His voice was flat, but the fury beneath it was unmistakable. He pulled so hard I stumbled, my knees crashing onto the floor. Shards of glass sliced into my skin, and the sharp pain made me gasp. “Elliott, do you even dare to look down?” I choked out. “That is your own flesh and blood.” He glanced down, the anger in his eyes flickering slightly. “I’ll have someone restore the photo.” Amber buried herself in his chest, whimpering, “Elliott, it was an accident… I didn’t mean to…” He let go of her and leaned down toward me. “But as for hitting her, that’s where the line is crossed.” He reached out and yanked the necklace from around my neck. It was the promise necklace he gave me years ago. When we were eighteen, he told me it belonged to his late mother and was meant for his future wife. The chain snapped. The pearls scattered across the floor. Elliott clutched the pendant in his hand, looking down at me. “From now on, you don’t deserve to wear this.” He tossed the pendant carelessly into the trash can. Then he picked Amber up in his arms and walked toward the door. Amber clung to his neck, looking back at me over his shoulder. Her lips moved silently. I read her lips perfectly: ‘Serves you right.’ The door slammed shut. Left behind were the scattered pearls, the broken glass, and my daughter’s smiling face, sliced into jagged pieces on the floor. She seemed to be asking me: ‘Mommy, does it hurt?’ I collapsed onto the glass, my tears falling one by one, blurring her ruined smile. I fell into a dream. I dreamt of our senior year of high school, when I was hospitalized with acute appendicitis. Back then, I had no parents, no family. I had to sign my own surgery forms. Elliott skipped three days of classes just to sit by my bedside. When the pain kept me awake, he held my hand and told me terrible jokes, over and over. They weren’t funny at all, but he told them with such earnestness. The day I was discharged, he knelt down to tie my sneakers. The sunlight caught the back of his head, highlighting his hair in gold. He looked up at me, his eyes crinkled with warmth. “Hazel, from now on, I’m tying your shoes. For the rest of our lives. I promise.” I smiled in my sleep. Then I woke up, my pillow soaked. My phone screen lit up. It was a video from Amber. In a VIP hospital suite, Amber leaned against the pillows, a shy, radiant smile on her face. Elliott sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting gently over her slightly rounded belly. “Who do you think the baby will look like?” he asked, looking up into her eyes. “I’ll give both of you the absolute best of everything. I promise.” Amber giggled and snuggled into his chest. The text beneath read: ‘It’s been so long since you’ve been a mother, Hazel. I guess you probably can’t comprehend how happy I am right now.’ The screen went black. I stared at the dark glass for a long time. My chest felt squeezed by an invisible hand, numb with pain. In three years, he had never once asked who our daughter looked like. “I’ll give both of you the absolute best of everything.” He had never said those words to me or to Lucy. My phone buzzed again. A location pin from Elliott. ‘Thought you wanted to talk about the divorce? Get over here.’ I changed my clothes, took the divorce agreement, and walked out. The door to the third-floor VIP lounge was cracked open. The moment I pushed it open, a dozen pairs of eyes whipped around to face me. The long leather sofas were packed with people, their expressions shifting from surprise to amusement. “Look at that, the wife actually showed up!” “And she made it in under thirty minutes! Damn, I just lost three grand!” Elliott sat right in the center, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Mrs. Mercer is always punctual.” Amber walked up to me, snatched the papers from my hand, and read aloud: “Voluntary dissolution of marriage…” The room erupted into laughter. Some clapped, others doubled over. “Hazel, are you seriously divorcing him? Where are you going to find a guy as good as Elliott?” “Yeah, even if he plays around, he still gave you the title, didn’t he?” Amber picked up a small red booklet from the coffee table and held it up to my face. A marriage certificate. She opened it, pointing to the names and photos. ‘Elliott Mercer. Amber Ward.’ “Hazel, look closely,” she laughed, her smile widening. “Your marriage certificate is a fake!” “The venue was rented, the officiant was a hired actor, and the entire wedding was a sham populated by paid extras.” She snapped the booklet shut and tapped it against her hand. “This one is real.” The laughter swelled around me. “Jesus, Elliott, that is brutal!” “I went to that wedding! She was sobbing her eyes out, completely clueless! Haha!” “The officiant could barely read his lines, and she just thought he was nervous!” The laughter poured into my ears and leaked out of my eyes. I stood frozen. I had thought that, at the very least, I had that wedding. I had that boy in the white shirt. I had his promise to tie my shoes forever. It turned out even that was a lie. Elliott sat there, watching me through the haze of smoke and mockery. “The day we were supposed to register, Amber clung to me and begged so sweetly I couldn’t say no. But publicly, you were still Mrs. Mercer, weren’t you?” It seemed there was no need to sign the divorce papers after all. I turned and walked out of the lounge. Behind me, the laughter continued. “Elliott, she was crying like that at the wedding. Now that she knows it was all a joke, do you think she’ll want to kill herself?” His voice was soft, indifferent: “Who cares.” I leaned against the hallway wall, slowly sliding down until I was crouching on the floor. I had grown up an orphan, and at eighteen, I was severely bullied at school. I fell into deep depression and stood on the edge of the school rooftop, ready to jump. It was Elliott who had appeared behind me. “Hazel, I’ll protect you.” He had pulled me back from that ledge. Everything I learned afterward—how to smile, how to stand tall, how to walk with my head held high in a crowd—I learned because of him. But the person who had pushed me right back to the edge of the roof was also him. I got home after midnight and began to pack. There wasn’t much in my closet. Most of the clothes had been worn by Amber anyway, and I didn’t want them. I packed only a few of my own things and the photo album. I flipped to the last page of the album. Lucy was completely bald, terribly thin, but she was still smiling. She said, “Don’t cry, Mommy. Lulu doesn’t hurt.” I clutched the album to my chest, crouching on the floor. My phone buzzed several times. Amber. ‘Hazel, there’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you.’ ‘You didn’t actually think your daughter’s surgery failed because of bad luck, did you?’ My hands began to shake violently. ‘The day of her surgery, Elliott knew I had a high fever, so he pulled her entire surgical team to treat me instead.’ ‘The schedule got messed up, and they had to swap in a backup surgeon who wasn’t up to the task.’ ‘Oops, I didn’t think there would be an accident~’ ‘But honestly, she was just a kid. She couldn’t possibly be more important than me, right?’ I could barely hold the phone. Back then, when Elliott secured the country’s top medical team, it had kept me from completely losing my mind. I thought he cared about us. I had stayed in that empty marriage, lying to myself, hoping he would change his mind and make our family whole again. But he hadn’t even cared about his own daughter’s life. Another video arrived. In the video, Elliott leaned back on the couch while Amber snuggled in his lap, her voice babyish: “Elliott, do you regret pulling the medical team away for me back then?” His voice was calm. “You had a hundred-and-four-degree fever. I wasn’t thinking about anything else.” Amber pouted. “But do you regret it?” Elliott paused for a second. “No. There’s only one of you.” The video ended. I stared at the black screen. My voice was trapped in my throat, but the tears wouldn’t stop. I bent over, my forehead pressed against the cold floor, my entire body shaking with dry, silent sobs. By the end, my tears had run dry, leaving only a hollow, radiating ache in my chest that made it hard to breathe. My daughter’s smiling face was pressed against my chest, icy cold. I packed the album into my suitcase, zipped it shut, and booked the earliest flight out. On my way to the airport, I watched the sky gradually brighten outside—from black to gray, and finally to white. My heart was entirely still, devoid of even a single ripple. I took out my phone and sent Elliott one final message. After printing my boarding pass and passing through security, my phone lit up before I could turn it off. Texts from Elliott. One after another, the phone vibrating relentlessly. I turned it off. As the plane lifted into the air, the string inside my heart—the one that had been stretched taut for so many years—finally snapped.

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