Category: English

As we passed our old high school, Wright suddenly spoke. “Georgia, let’s call off the wedding. It’s in three days, I know, but…” My expression remained flat. “For a trainwreck who can’t keep herself out of trouble?” Wright’s eyes flared with warning. “No matter how much of a mess she is, I’ll always be there to clean up after her. As long as her feelings for me are real.” I stared at this man I had loved for nine years. Finally, I smiled and nodded. “Fine. Then I hope you get exactly what you want—a trainwreck’s pure, unadulterated heart.” Nine years of devotion. The love had died a slow death long ago. It was time to go home, inherit the family empire, and marry the childhood ward my grandfather had groomed to be my husband. …….. Wright’s cool, detached eyes flickered in surprise. He hadn’t expected someone as notoriously rigid and proper as me to speak with such biting sarcasm. Then his lips curved downward into a frown. “Georgia, I admit I’ve wasted nine years of your life. But I hope you won’t let jealousy drive you to do something that hurts her.” He didn’t bother to examine the shift in my demeanor. He simply chalked it up to bitter, ugly envy. I looked at this man. The man I had chased for nearly a decade, whose love I could never quite grasp. Suddenly, the whole thing felt incredibly hollow. He used to say we both needed to work hard for our future together. But in reality, he had just stood by, coldly watching me sink deeper and deeper into a relationship I couldn’t escape. He didn’t love me. He didn’t care about my soul, my hopes, or my quiet suffering. To him, I was just a walking stereotype—the rigid, disciplined heiress bound by duty and etiquette. I was boring. Not even half as exciting as his precious scarlet letter. I used to think that even if he strayed, he would eventually find his way back to the right path. That we would face the world together as partners. Now I saw the truth. Some people are just destined to remain in the gutter. “Wright, I knew you wouldn’t forget our nine-year promise.” A tall woman in a striking scarlet dress stepped out from behind him. Jet-black hair, blood-red lips—she was breathtakingly, aggressively beautiful. She carried herself with an easy, untamed confidence, sliding her hand effortlessly around Wright’s arm. “I heard you finally gave up on me and were getting married. Why didn’t I get an invitation? And if you’re really tying the knot, why did you come to meet me today?” Scarlett’s barrage of questions made the usually taciturn Wright flush a deep crimson. He answered in a panicked rush: “Who said I was getting married? It’s completely untrue.” As the words left his mouth, he cast a tense, guilty glance at me, terrified I would expose his lie. I lowered my head, hiding the bitter smirk playing on my lips. “He’s right. It’s entirely untrue.” No wonder Wright—who was supposed to go wedding dress shopping with me today—had suddenly taken a detour to our old school. Scarlett tossed her long hair back with a carefree laugh. “Georgia, honestly, you’re hopeless. I gave you nine years, and you still couldn’t lock him down? If I were you, I would’ve just pounced on him the way I did back in the day.” If I hadn’t known Scarlett’s true colors, I might have actually believed she was just a bright, free-spirited beauty. She smiled, reminiscing about the past. Wright reached out to hold her hand, his tone firm: “I’m not the kind of guy who settles for just anyone.” I didn’t believe a word of what Wright usually said, but that statement? I agreed with it completely. Even when Scarlett had cheated on him a dozen times with wealthy patrons to secure her modeling career—getting caught red-handed in hotel rooms more times than I could count—Wright had remained fiercely, pathetically loyal, begging her not to leave him. You have to understand, Wright came from old money. He was notoriously proud, cold, and untouchable; most people couldn’t even get him to spare them a glance. Yet Scarlett could pull his heartstrings with a single look, making him lose his absolute mind. Scarlett smiled seductively, leaning into him. “Didn’t you say you wanted to show me what it feels like to ride in a Maserati again? Let’s see if you’re still as good as you used to be.” Wright’s eyes darkened with raw desire. He didn’t even try to reject the invitation. I watched them walk away hand in hand. I didn’t say a word to stop them. When I was seventeen, my grandfather bypassed my greedy, vulture-like uncles and handed me my first major project as a test for the family inheritance. But my first campaign was publicly exposed for plagiarism. Wright, representing our partner firm, mobilized his own resources to prove someone had deliberately copied and leaked my pitch. A classic damsel-in-distress rescue. Cliche, but incredibly effective. I fell head over heels for this quiet, serious, meticulous man. We both carried the crushing expectations of our families. In the eyes of high society, we were the perfect golden couple. When Wright’s mother was driven to suicide by his father’s mistress trying to force her way into the estate, I used my family’s PR machine to block the mistress from taking her place. When his illegitimate half-brother tried to steal his shares, I helped him land a massive international client, securing his position. When he was diagnosed with a rare, aggressive form of cancer and admitted to the ICU, I wrote him letters by hand every single day, pulling strings to get them delivered to his sterile room. I was naturally quiet and reserved, but I spent hours scouring the internet for jokes, reading them over and over until I laughed out loud, just so I could write them down and coax a smile from him. Over three years of cancer treatments, I wrote a thousand letters. I stood outside that ICU window, watching him in secret, a thousand times. The day his cancer went into complete remission, Wright wrote back to me for the very first time: My life was as flat and colorless as water, but meeting you made it burn. We had walked through the valley of death together. It was indeed a burning, passionate survival story. I thought our silent bond didn’t need to be spoken. I thought we were partners, chosen for life. But then Scarlett burst into our lives like a force of nature. On the day he was discharged, Scarlett, carrying a bundle of fiery red roses, collided straight into his chest. She laughed and said, “Hey handsome, you broke my flowers. You have to pay me back. These were meant for my sweetheart, but since they’re in your hands now, I guess you’re my sweetheart!” He had frowned, but he hadn’t pushed her away. At the time, I didn’t realize that single collision had knocked her straight into Wright’s heart. If I had known, I would have thrown myself between them without hesitation. After that, Scarlett pursued Wright relentlessly. She held up massive signs in public, filled his driveway with elaborate flower arrangements. Wright went from frowning and avoiding her to smiling the moment she entered the room. Finally, in front of the entire student body, Scarlett presented him with a giant cardboard box. Wright had rubbed his temples, a helpless, indulgent smile on his face. “Fine, I give in. Just stop making a scene.” But Scarlett opened the box. “Give in to what? I’m just delivering your lunch. Pay up.” Wright’s face flushed. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply. “Stop playing with me.” Three months. In three months, Scarlett did what I couldn’t do in three years. Since then, Scarlett loved to flaunt her hold over him in front of me. “I heard you two have known each other forever. You don’t still think of him as your cold, older-brother figure, do you? Let me tell you a secret. That untouchable prince of yours? To me, he’s just a toy.” Wright didn’t feel insulted. He would just affectionately ruffle her hair and say, “You’d better play with me for the rest of your life.” Scarlett would slap his cheek playfully, her eyes dripping with triumph. “Do they know that the great, dignified Wright Geller is just a begging dog when he’s with me?” Wright would stare at the love bites on her neck, his smile wild and reckless. “Then you’d better tell them I’m a dog that bites.” Scarlett would hit him in mock annoyance, and they would kiss passionately, completely ignoring my presence. Then she’d look at me. “And what about your dear ‘sister’ here? I hear you two have been partners in crime for years. Everyone in town thinks you’re a couple.” Wright’s brow would furrow with undisguised disgust. “Being with someone as stiff and boring as her doesn’t compare to being ruined by a beautiful mess like you.” It felt like a physical blow to my chest, stealing my breath. He proved it with his actions. Even after Scarlett humiliated and betrayed him countless times, he never looked at me. He was willing to throw his dignity away, punching her new boyfriends, getting into ruinous fights with her wealthy sponsors, dragging his own reputation through the mud. He refused to let go. But his burning obsession couldn’t keep her. “I just wanted to see what it felt like to tame the untouchable bachelor,” she told him one day. “I’m bored now. Bye.” That night, she posted a picture on a luxury yacht, wrapped in the arms of an international media mogul, captioned: [Next goal: Becoming his muse.] Scarlett repeated her tricks, chasing after the billionaire, turning herself into a joke across two continents. Wright didn’t say a word. He simply brought me a business proposal: “Didn’t you say we were partners? Help me regain my position in the company. When this is over, there will only be you by my side.” … Women always have this savior complex. For nine long years, I thought I was dragging Wright out of the quicksand. I helped him secure sole control of the Geller empire. But to him, that success was just leverage to win Scarlett back. I used to feel so bitter. How could I lose to someone so shallow? Now, I just felt thoroughly disgusted. If he wanted to chain himself to a toxic wreck, then I wished them a lifetime of misery together. May they never set each other free. The news of Wright canceling our wedding swept through our social circles. Many mocked me behind my back for being a pathetic, desperate hanger-on who got dumped at the finish line. My grandfather called me. “Are we still going ahead with the wedding?” I gave a quiet hum of agreement. Grandfather sighed softly. “If you don’t want to, sweetheart, we can call it off. I won’t force you.” My voice was light, untroubled. “A stray dog can never compare to a loyal, well-trained hound at home, Grandpa. Besides, if I don’t get married, my uncles will keep circling the estate like vultures. I’ve played this game long enough. It’s time to settle down. The wedding goes on. There’s no reason to waste a multi-million-dollar ceremony just because the groom ran away. We’ll just swap him out. It’s no big deal.” In our world, true love is a luxury few can afford. I had accepted that reality long ago. I went to my final bridal fitting alone. The moment I walked in, I noticed the sales associates looking at me with absolute dread and embarrassment. Sensing something was wrong, I stepped deeper into the boutique. The wedding dress—the one my mother had custom-ordered for me the year I was born—was currently draped over Scarlett. I turned to the manager, my voice cold. “Who gave permission to let someone try on a gown stored under the Lawson family name?” A sales girl rolled her eyes at me. “The Lawson family? This is Mr. Geller’s future wife’s dress. Everyone knows your engagement is off, so what does this dress have to do with you? Can’t even keep her own man, yet she’s trying to claim a priceless designer gown.” The girl stepped in front of me, physically blocking me from touching the fabric. I let out a dry, cold laugh, looking past her to Wright. “I wasn’t aware this dress had a new owner.” Wright, dressed in a matching tailored tuxedo, didn’t look even remotely guilty. He spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Scarlett is the wife I’ve chosen.” He slid a black Amex card onto the counter. “There’s five million on here. Consider it payment for the gown. Don’t make a scene.” Scarlett giggled, covering her mouth. “Oh, Wright, even if this thing were dripping in real diamonds, it wouldn’t be worth five million. You really do spoil me.” Having no interest in their cheap theater, I walked past Wright, my face expressionless. “Take it off.” Wright stepped in front of me, a warning in his eyes. “Georgia, don’t force me to play dirty with you.” I smiled. The moment Wright decided to cancel our wedding and humiliate my family, we were already past the point of civility. “I won’t repeat myself. Take. It. Off. Or I’ll gladly strip your sweetheart naked right here in front of everyone, so they can get a good look at her famous figure.” Scarlett knew I wasn’t bluffing. She pouted, suddenly playing the victim. “Fine, Wright. Since Georgia wants it so badly, I’ll just let her have it.” I refused to play into her hands. “Who knows if you’ve already ruined it. I want to watch you take it off.” I didn’t trust Scarlett as far as I could throw her. Wright glared at me, his eyes burning with hatred, as if I had subjected his precious angel to some unspeakable torture. “Georgia!” Scarlett let out a triumphant smirk and pulled me into the fitting room. “Sure, then. Come watch.” I kept quiet, watching her slide the zipper down. She exposed her flawless skin and suddenly spoke: “Do you want to know why Wright would rather be my dog than look at you? Because to him, I’m the one who wrote him those thousand letters when he was dying of cancer. I’m his entire survival story.” I froze, staring at her in utter disbelief. Her grin widened. “You stayed by his side for all those years. You blocked his dad’s mistress after his mother died. You saved his inheritance. So why couldn’t you stay with him when he needed you most? Why did you give up on writing those letters?” She looked at me with the smug satisfaction of a victor. “Did you really think Wright kept you around for nine years out of affection? No, Georgia. He kept you around because he hated you. He hated you for leaving him halfway. He hated that your love wasn’t strong enough to stay.” A cold numbness spread from my chest to my fingertips. Everything in the last nine years had been a massive, tragic misunderstanding. Scarlett stepped closer, smiling. “It’s maddening, isn’t it? You were the one who wrote the letters. You were the one who pulled strings to get him the best oncologists when his family gave up on him. But he thinks it was me.” I stared at her, my hands shaking. She tilted her head innocently. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t steal your credit. Wright assumed it all on his own from the moment I ran into him. He said you were too stiff and boring to ever write such beautiful, funny letters. He said only someone as wild and vibrant as me could have saved his soul.” At that moment, I felt a wave of profound, pathetic irony. No verification. No questions. Wright had simply decided that Scarlett was his savior because she fit the fantasy. Suddenly, Scarlett raised her hands and violently slapped her own cheeks. She dragged her nails down her collarbone, leaving angry red welts, and began to shriek: “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have touched your dress! I’m so dirty, I’m just a terrible person!” Wright burst through the door. Seeing Scarlett disheveled, crying, and covered in scratches, his face contorted in rage. He raised his hand and slapped me across the face. My head spun from the force of the blow, and I stumbled against the wall. “Georgia! I’m the one who called off the wedding! If you have a problem, take it out on me!” Remembering what Scarlett had just told me, I opened my mouth to speak. I wanted to ask him if he would feel a single shred of remorse if he knew the truth. But before I could speak, he cut me off: “You insisted on coming in here just because there are no cameras. You wanted to hurt her! Well, you got what you wanted. Are you happy now?” He pulled out his phone right in front of me and dialed a number. “Announce it to the press immediately. I am marrying Scarlett Young. From this day forward, if anyone so much as touches a hair on her head, they answer to me!” He glared at me. “If you ever go near my wife again, I will destroy the Lawson family if it’s the last thing I do!” He took off his tuxedo jacket, wrapped it around Scarlett, and ushered her out. The store owner, who had rushed over after being alerted by the staff, began apologizing profusely: “I am so sorry, Miss Lawson. I was out of the boutique today and didn’t brief the staff properly. I will personally resolve this misunderstanding with your fiancé.” She looked pale, terrified that this disaster would get her blacklisted from the entire luxury industry. “Don’t bother. He is not my fiancé.” I wasn’t going to take my anger out on an employee. I merely said, “Clean the gown. I’ll need it in three days.” The manager blinked. “But… isn’t the wedding off?” “The wedding is on schedule,” I replied coldly. “But you’ll need to size up the groom’s tuxedo. My new fiancé is three inches taller.”

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My cousin Tyler got married on a crisp October afternoon, but my wife, Tracy, refused to stand by my side at the ceremony. I’d seen it coming. It was the same script she ran every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, finding some eleventh-hour excuse to avoid visiting my family in our quiet Ohio hometown. Yet, even with my expectations managed, standing in the reception hall under the warm string lights, dodging well-meaning questions from aunts and childhood friends, a familiar, bitter ache settled in my chest. I knew what people whispered when my back was turned. ‘Can’t even bring his own wife home. What kind of man is he?’ Some had already quietly assumed we were divorced. I sat at the corner table, nursing a glass of bourbon in silence, the noise of the celebration fading into a dull hum. Right then, a strange, cold clarity washed over me. I made my decision. There was no need for them to whisper anymore. I pulled out my phone and dialed Tracy’s number. It rang. Declined. I called again. Declined. A third time. Declined. A text popped up a second later: ‘Are you seriously doing this right now? I’m busy.’ Staring at her words, the last lingering thread of my patience snapped. I calmly typed three letters back: ‘I want a divorce.’ I locked my phone, set it face down on the table, and took a slow sip of my drink. 1 ‘You are completely insane,’ her text read the next morning. ‘You want to throw away our marriage just because I didn’t drag myself to your cousin’s wedding?’ Another text followed immediately: ‘My sister Courtney came up to the city for the weekend. God forbid I actually spend time with my own family.’ In the past, I would have replied with a essay. I would have tried to appeal to her sense of fairness, explaining how it felt to always be the one compromising. I would have reminded her of the double standards—how she claimed to loathe “obligatory family gatherings” yet expected me to show up, smiling and helpful, at every backyard barbecue, birthday, and baby shower her family threw. But I had run out of words. The silence in my chest felt too vast to fill with arguments. ‘I’m serious, Tracy,’ I typed back. ‘Start thinking about what you want to keep. I’ll do the same.’ ‘We split everything fifty-fifty. If you agree, we can sign the papers and keep this quiet.’ A beat of silence, then her final reply: ‘Get help.’ I put my phone away. I had no intention of replying. For the rest of the holiday weekend, the silence between us stretched across the state lines. She didn’t call, and I didn’t reach out. On Sunday evening, the heavy front door of our apartment clicked open. Tracy walked in, carrying a reusable grocery bag stuffed with fresh produce and farm eggs from her parents’ place upstate. She took one look at my cold, set expression, rolled her eyes, and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frames in the hallway. A few minutes later, the door swung open again. She stormed into the living room, her face flushed with rage, clutching the draft of the separation agreement I had left on the kitchen island. “What is this?” she demanded, flinging the papers at my chest. They fluttered to the hardwood floor. “A divorce,” I said, my voice flat, matching the gray light filtering through the window. “I want a real reason, Jeremy.” “I’m tired,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “I don’t want to do this with you anymore.” “You’re discarding me over a wedding?” Her voice cracked, and her eyes welled with tears. In the early years, those tears would have undone me. I would have reached for her, apologized, swallowed my own hurt just to make her stop crying. Now, I watched her face with the detached curiosity of a stranger. “We’re adults, Tracy. Can we at least do this with some dignity?” “Dignity? You call tearing our lives apart dignified?” She grabbed the papers from the floor and ripped them in half, then in quarters, scattering the white scraps like confetti. “I’m not divorcing you. I’m not going to be the town gossip because you had a temper tantrum.” I stood up, walked into the guest room, and rolled out the suitcase I’d packed earlier that afternoon. “I’ll give you three days to think it over. If you don’t agree to a dissolution, I’ll file contested.” “Step away from that door! Jeremy, you don’t get to just walk out on me! What did I ever do to deserve this?” She followed me into the entryway, her voice rising to a shriek. “Is there someone else? Who is she?” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. I pulled the door shut behind me, the lock clicking into place with a definitive, satisfying snap. I just wanted it to be over, even if it meant leaving money on the table. But the peace didn’t last. Less than two hours later, my phone lit up with a call from my father-in-law, Richard. He didn’t yell; he just told me to come over to their house so we could “talk like men.” Hoping for a clean break without a prolonged legal circus, I turned my car around and drove to their suburban home. When I walked into the living room, the atmosphere was suffocating. Richard, his wife Pam, and Tracy’s sister Courtney were all lined up on the sectional sofa, their faces grim. It felt less like a conversation and more like a tribunal. Pam was the first to strike. “Jeremy, Tracy told us everything. Don’t you think you’re being incredibly cruel? Threatening divorce just because she missed one family event?” She leaned forward, her silver bracelets clinking. “Marriage isn’t a game. You don’t just throw a tantrum and walk away when things don’t go your way.” I sat on the armchair opposite them, keeping my hands folded in my lap, refusing to engage in the familiar, exhausting dance of defending myself. Over five years, we had fought about everything. We fought about our non-existent sex face because she rejected me so often I’d stopped trying. We fought about money—even as my salary climbed into the mid-six figures, she’d always find some friend’s husband who made more, using their success as a club to beat down my confidence. And then there was the control. If I was home, I wasn’t allowed to just ‘be’. If I watched a game or read a book, I was “lazy,” “lacking ambition,” “wasting my life.” For five years, she claimed we couldn’t have children because we weren’t financially stable enough, yet she had quit her demanding corporate job for a low-stress, twenty-hour-a-week receptionist gig that paid pocket change, spending her afternoons streaming shows and her weekends at the spa. I was drowning in her double standards. “Tracy has sacrificed so much to build a life with you,” Pam continued, her voice dripping with maternal indignation. “She’s never known a day of real comfort since she married you. What right do you have to call it quits?” My eyes drifted to the thick gold band glistening on Pam’s wrist. I bought that. I thought about Richard and Pam’s farmhouse upstate. When they fell behind on their property taxes and their private insurance premiums skyrocketed, I was the one who wrote the checks. I was the one who set up a monthly three-thousand-dollar transfer to keep them afloat. And Tracy? Every anniversary, birthday, Valentine’s Day, and random Tuesday of self-care was funded by my account. The only “bitterness” she had ever tasted was the artisanal coffee she complained was never hot enough. Pam’s mouth kept moving, recounting all the wealthy sons-in-law her friends had, comparing my efforts to theirs. I looked directly at her. “I came here to talk to Tracy. Could you please keep your mouth shut?” Pam gasped, surging up from the sofa. “Do you hear him? The charity case we let into our family is telling me to shut up! Tracy, look at the monster you married!” She pointed a manicured finger at me. “If you treat us this way in our own home, God only knows what you do to my daughter behind closed doors.” “If this is the level of conversation we’re going to have, I’ll let my lawyer handle it,” I said, standing up. “Sit down, Jeremy,” Richard barked, his voice thick with authority. “Do you think your parents raised you to treat your elders with such disrespect?” “Let’s wait for his parents,” Courtney piped up from the corner, checking her watch. “They should be here any minute.” My heart sank slightly. I knew Tracy had called them, hoping to weaponize my mother’s traditional views on marriage against me. But if we had to lay all the cards on the table, we might as well do it now. A few minutes later, the front door opened, and my parents walked into the tense room. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” Pam lamented, immediately rising to greet them. “Your son has completely lost his mind. He’s threatening to ruin this family, and when I tried to offer some gentle guidance, he insulted me in my own home.” My father didn’t look at Pam. He walked over to me, placed a heavy, reassuring hand on my shoulder, and looked down at me. “Have you made up your mind, son?” “Yes, Dad. I have.” “Then we support you,” my father said simply. Pam’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. “Are you serious? We called you here to help fix this, not to encourage his foolishness!” “Fix what?” my father asked, his voice steady and quiet. “Since the day they got married, Tracy has treated us like we don’t exist. She hasn’t spent a single holiday with us. She’s never once called us Mom or Dad. Where was your ‘guidance’ then?” “They aren’t my parents!” Tracy snapped, her tears drying up as her anger flared. “I have my own parents. Why should I have to pretend?” “Then you don’t have to pretend to be his wife anymore either,” my father said. “Let’s go, Jeremy.”

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The Grand Prophet once foretold that a monstrous serpent would rise and bring ruin to our world. In response, the mortal King decreed a total purge. Every serpent shifter was to be hunted down and slaughtered, leaving none alive. With our clan facing complete annihilation, Grandfather, our Chief, decided to send our deadliest warriors to assassinate the tyrant. I rolled up my sleeves, practically vibrating with excitement as I volunteered for the job. But Grandfather simply patted my shoulder and sighed. “It is not your turn to play the hero, Maisie. Stay in the safety of our mountains and hold down the fort.” I had no choice but to swallow my grand dreams of battlefield glory. But tragedy struck, wave after wave. Garrick, our fiercest Black Mamba shifter; Talia, our deadliest Banded Krait; and even Toby, our master of stealth and camouflage—all of them met their ends at the hands of the tyrant King. Watching Grandfather lose his scales from sheer grief and stress, I couldn’t take it anymore. I scribbled a hasty farewell note and slipped down the mountain in the dead of night. The moment I crossed the ridge, Grandfather’s voice echoed through the canyon in a raw, hysterical screech: “You absolute idiot! You’re a corn snake! You don’t even have your adult fangs yet! What do you think you’re going to do, tickle him to death?!” Years later, I kicked that broody, cold-hearted tyrant clean off the royal mattress. Who says corn snakes are useless little pests? “Go on,” I’d tell him, pointing a finger. “Peel my corn.” … Grandfather’s voice was shredded by the howling mountain wind. I paused, blinking back at the dark peaks. “Was someone calling me?” I spun around twice, heard nothing but the whistling pines, and happily resumed my trek down the slopes. I pumped my fist in the air, a surge of righteous loyalty warming my chest. “Don’t worry, Grandfather! I won’t fail our people. The tyrant’s head is as good as mine!” But when I finally marched into the bustling capital, my heroic confidence evaporated. I stood frozen in the middle of the crowded cobblestone streets, completely lost. Damn it. I had spent so much time asking the elders for assassination techniques that I’d forgotten to ask the most basic question: How do you actually get inside the palace? Was I supposed to shift back into my snake form and slither past the armed guards on the drawbridge? As I crouched in a dusty alleyway, agonizing over my options, a pale, clean-shaven man in a stiff linen coat emerged from around the corner. He was wringing his hands, his voice pitched in a desperate, high-pitched whine. “Ruined! We’re absolutely ruined! One of the new kitchen maids caught the fever and died on the road. If our numbers aren’t complete, the Chief Steward will have my hide!” My eyes snapped wide. A palace recruiter. Just like the stories the elders told. I lunged out of the alley and blocked his path. “Excuse me, sir! Are you looking for staff? What about me? I can do anything—scrub floors, wash dishes, whatever you need! Just get me inside the palace. I need to see the King.” The steward eyed me up and down. A sleazy, split-second grin broke across his pale face, and he patted his chest importantly. “Well, aren’t you an eager little thing? I happen to be a very influential man in His Majesty’s household. Keep me happy, and I won’t just get you a meeting with the King—I’ll get you a ticket straight to his bedchamber!” I was practically vibrating with excitement. I nodded eagerly, trailing behind him like a loyal pup, dreaming of my impending glory. Ten minutes later, I was standing in the scullery of the royal latrines. “This is your new home,” the steward said, his smile entirely gone. He gestured coldly toward rows of wooden chamber pots lined up in the corner, radiating a stench so foul it made my eyes water. “From today on, you’re on chamber-pot duty. Thirty pots a day. No food until they’re spotless.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “But… you said you’d take me to the King?” He didn’t even bother to look back as he swept out of the room. The other kitchen maids in the room burst into cruel, mocking laughter. “Look, girls, another gullible idiot fallen for old Higgins’s lies! A pot-scrubber wanting to see the King? Keep dreaming, honey!” I squeezed the rough scrubbing rag in my hand, my knuckles turning white. For the Clan. For the mission. I can endure this. I scrubbed. I scrubbed from the first light of dawn until the stars claimed the sky. By the time the last wooden pot gleamed in the dim candlelight, I sniffed my fingers and nearly gagged on the spot. Curse that rotten tyrant. Tonight, he pays for this indignity with his life. I stretched my aching neck, took a deep breath, and let the magic take over. My bones softened, my skin tightened, and my clothes fell away as I shifted into my true form—a small, vibrant corn snake, patterned in brilliant shades of red and orange. During my endless shifts, I had kept my ears open, piecing together a map of the estate from the maids’ idle gossip. I slithered along the cold stone baseboards, a silent, colorful shadow slipping undetected into the King’s private wing. I squeezed through a crack in the heavy oak window and slipped into the room. Sitting by the hearth, bathed in the warm glow of a desk lamp, was a man reviewing royal ledgers. He was stunning. Dark, sharp eyebrows, a nose carved like marble, and a jawline that could cut glass. I froze on the carpet, subconsciously swallowing a sudden pool of saliva. Get a grip, Maisie. I mentally pinched myself. This gorgeous creature is a cold-blooded monster who slaughters your people for sport. Kill him. I coiled my small body, aiming directly for the exposed, pale skin of his throat. With a silent prayer to our ancestors, I launched myself through the air. A split second later, two cool, incredibly strong fingers clamped around my neck, pinning my head in place. Wait. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I went completely rigid. Garrick, who was a master of the coil, had spent hours training me back home. He would pat my head and say, “Listen to me, little Maisie. Once our kind wraps around a beast’s throat, there is no escaping. You squeeze until their ribs crack and their lungs collapse. They die before they even realize what’s happening.” But theory and reality were violently clashing. I thrashed wildly, my tail whipping against his forearm in a desperate attempt to gain leverage. The two fingers holding me didn’t even twitch. Gideon raised his other hand, idly flicking the tip of my tail with his index finger. His voice was a low, amused drawl. “Where did you crawl out from, you foolish little thing?” Every single scale on my body flared in sheer indignation. Suddenly, the King’s brow furrowed. He brought me closer to his face, sniffing slightly, and his expression dissolved into pure disgust. “Why do you smell so foul? Did you fall into a cesspool?” Without another word, he wound my body into a tight, neat spiral—like a ball of yarn—and dropped me unceremoniously into a silver basin filled with fresh water. “Clean yourself up before you try to kill me again.” I thrashed in the water, cursing his entire royal bloodline to the heavens. But my small size made the simple task of untangling myself an absolute nightmare. I spent the entire night twisting, turning, and wrestling with my own knotted tail. By the time the horizon began to bleed gold, I finally managed to straighten my spine. Gasping for air, I propped my chin on the edge of the silver basin, only to find myself staring directly at the sleeping face of the King. Leaving an assassin loose in his chambers while he sleeps? He is as arrogant as he is foolish. I glided silently over the rim, climbing up the velvet bedpost and creeping onto the silk pillows beside his head. Talia’s voice echoed in my mind: “Our fangs carry the ultimate kiss of death, Maisie. One prick, and their heart stops before they can even scream.” I lunged forward, opening my mouth as wide as it would go, and bit down on his bottom lip with all the force my tiny body could muster. The King’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even flinch. He simply reached up, plucked me off his face, and used his thumb to pry my jaw open. “You don’t even have your adult fangs yet, little pest,” he murmured, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across his lips. I glared at him, hissed, and tried to look as menacing as possible. Gideon tilted his head, bringing his face so close I could see my own bright, chubby reflection in his dark eyes. “Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll have the kitchens turn you into snake soup.” I froze. My eyes snapped shut, my tail tucked tightly against my belly, and I went limp, playing dead with absolute, shameless commitment. A soft, low chuckle vibrated above me. I peeked through a tiny slit in my eyelids, catching the thoughtful glint in Gideon’s eyes. He suddenly turned toward the door and called out, “Guards!” My stomach plummeted. A young servant rushed into the room, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty?” Gideon lifted me by the tail, dangling me like a piece of colorful rope. “Take this thing out and dispose of it.” Dispose of me? Soup? Skinning? Cold dread washed over me. I immediately flipped onto my back, let my tongue loll out of my mouth, and tried to look like a shriveled piece of jerky. “Oh dear, is it already dead?” the young servant gasped, recoiling slightly. Gideon glanced at my pathetic performance. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “If it’s dead, throw it in a jar of spirits. It’ll make a fine medicinal wine.” The servant gingerly scooped me up and turned to leave. The moment we crossed the threshold into the cool hallway, I launched myself out of his hands, landing on the stone floor with a soft splat before vanishing into the shadows of the corridor. “Ah! It’s escaped!” the servant shrieked behind me. I fled through the maze of hallways, not slowing down until I scrambled back into the safety of my smelly latrine scullery. Only then did my racing heart begin to settle. Gideon was terrifyingly sharp. No wonder our first three assassins had failed so miserably. I curled up in the corner of the room, resting my chin on my knees, deeply analyzing my tactical errors. Direct force and venom were clearly out of the question for a harmless corn snake shifter. I needed to adapt. I needed to study Toby’s method of stealth and infiltration. But as I looked down at my reflection in a bucket of water, my heart sank. Bright orange and red scales, decorated with bold, festive yellow saddles. I looked like a walking holiday lantern. If I tried to hide in the grass, I’d be visible from a mile away. My snake form was useless for stealth. I bit my lip and made a decision: I would have to use my human form. For the next week, I pushed my body to its absolute limits. By day, I scrubbed my thirty chamber pots; by night, I slipped out to shadow the King, studying his schedule. Eventually, I noticed a pattern. When he worked in his private study late at night, he dismissed all his guards and advisors. A perfect, moonless night. The ultimate time for a strike. I slipped into a makeshift suit of black clothes I’d sewn from discarded rags. Crawling beneath the shadows, I reached the exterior wall of his study just as the sentries rounded the far corner. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the stone windowsill and hoisted myself up to climb through. I shoved the glass panes open with a sharp clatter. But I had vastly overestimated my physical agility. I ended up hopelessly wedged in the window frame, my legs dangling outside while my upper body spilled into the bright, warm study. The room was ablaze with candlelight. Gideon sat behind his grand desk, surrounded by several high-ranking ministers in formal robes. They were clearly in the middle of an incredibly important council meeting. Every single eye in the room snapped to me. The silence that followed was suffocating. “Uh, hi,” I offered, letting out a nervous, high-pitched chuckle. “Busy night, huh? Keep up the good work!” I frantically tried to wiggle backward out of the frame. I had just managed to get one leg back over when Gideon’s smooth, dry voice cut through the air: “Arrest her.” The guards lunged. Panic seized me. I thrashed wildly, but the cheap fabric of my makeshift black suit caught on a heavy iron latch, pinning me in place. Seeing the guards closing in, I tore myself free with a desperate wrench of my body. I fell backward, landing hard on the muddy grass outside. Before the guards could burst through the palace doors, I willed my body to shift back into my colorful snake form. But just as I made a mad dash for the shrubbery, a long, elegant hand descended from above, pinning me expertly by the neck. “You again?” I looked up into Gideon’s handsome, mocking face. He held me up to his eyes, examining my bright scales as if I were a particularly amusing clockwork toy. The guards came rushing around the corner, only to find a pile of torn black rags on the ground. “Forgive us, Your Majesty. The assassin has vanished.” Gideon waved them off with an indifferent shrug. “Let it go. Any assassin who gets stuck in a window frame is hardly a threat to the crown. Besides,” he added, glancing down at my plump midsection, “judging by her proportions, I suspect she was merely trying to raid the royal pantry.” I snapped, sinking my tiny, toothless mouth onto his index finger. Threaten my life all you want, but do not insult my figure! Unfortunately, no matter how hard I clamped down, I couldn’t even break his skin. Gideon ran his thumb down my spine, tracing the vibrant orange patterns of my scales. “I’ve been needing a new belt,” he mused, a dangerous spark in his eyes. “Since you’re so fond of sneaking into my quarters, I think I’ll keep you.” Before I could react, he wrapped my long, supple body around his waist and tied me in a loose, secure knot. The sheer humiliation of it. A proud warrior of the serpent clan, reduced to a tyrant’s belt accessory. I wanted more than anything to bite him, but every time I squirmed, the knot tightened, squeezing the breath right out of me. After a few futile struggles, I gave up, letting my tail dangle limply against his thigh, swaying with the rhythm of his steps as he walked back inside. My life went completely off the rails after that night. Whether Gideon found me genuinely amusing or simply wanted to torture me, he refused to go anywhere without his new “accessory.” During morning court, I was wrapped around his wrist, masquerading as an exotic orange bracelet. During meals, I was coiled neatly beside his plate, presented with a silver saucer of small, harmless crickets (which I flatly refused to touch). At night, he left me on the silk pillow right beside his head, completely unbothered by the fact that I was technically his sworn enemy. One morning, as I was dozing off around his wrist, a cold, grating voice echoed through the Great Hall, snapping me awake. “Your Majesty, the serpent plague remains a threat to our realm. I have read the stars, and the dark magic of the serpent clan still lingers. If we do not tear them out by the roots, they will bring ruin to your throne.” My eyes snapped open. Standing in the center of the hall was an old man in flowing black robes, holding a silver staff. It was Grand Prophet Lucius, the architect of our clan’s misery. “I implore you, Your Majesty, double our forces. Every serpent, from the grandest python to the smallest hatchling, must be put to the sword.” Rage surged through me, hot and suffocating. This was the man who had ordered the slaughter of my family. I squeezed Gideon’s wrist in a tight, furious grip. Sensing my sudden agitation, Gideon calmly laid his other hand over me, his thumb gently stroking the top of my head to soothe me. “I hear your concerns, Prophet. We shall discuss this at a later date.” Lucius frowned, stepping forward. “But Your Majesty, this is a matter of urgent—” “Court is dismissed,” Gideon interrupted, rising from his throne without another word. I peeked out from the edge of his sleeve, flicking my tongue toward Lucius as we swept past him. That afternoon, Lucius left the palace for his private manor. Waiting until Gideon was deeply engrossed in his paperwork, I slipped down his sleeve, sliding along the baseboards and out into the gardens. Lucius was a cunning old fox; physical force or brute strength would never work on him. But during my time spent clinging to the King, I had observed the royal physicians and managed to swipe a pouch of powerful sleeping powder used to treat Gideon’s occasional insomnia. I had stolen a massive dose. I would knock the old bastard out cold, and then I’d find a way to finish him. Keeping to my snake form to avoid detection, I carried the pouch in my mouth, trailing Lucius through the winding, quiet streets of the capital. When he finally turned down a deserted alley, I coiled my tail and launched myself through the air, flinging the pouch directly at his face. But Lucius didn’t flinch. A sickening, cruel grin stretched across his wrinkled face. He whipped out a heavy silk fan and gave it a sharp, powerful flick. The entire cloud of sleeping powder was blown straight back into my face. The world began to spin. My vision blurred, my muscles went limp, and I collapsed onto the cold stone path with a soft plop. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in my tail. Lucius ground his heavy boot down on my lower body, twisting his heel with slow, deliberate cruelty. He looked down at me, his voice dripping with malice. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you tailing me, you pathetic little worm?” I thrashed in agony, but the pressure only intensified, crushing my delicate scales. “A mere corn snake trying to take my life?” he hissed, raising his boot to hover directly over my head. “I could crush you like a common garden slug.” He smiled, his boot slowly descending. My vision began to go dark, my lungs screaming for air. Just as the sole of his boot was about to crush my skull, a calm, commanding voice echoed down the alleyway: “That is my pet you’re stepping on, Prophet. And I get incredibly displeased when people break my toys.”

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Pregnancy had turned me into a creature of suffocating anxiety. Every single day, I would text Donald to ask if he loved me. For the first ninety-nine times, he replied with a measured, manufactured gentleness. Until the hundredth time. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with three rapid-fire texts, dripping with a venom I’d never seen from him before. [Camille, do you seriously have nothing better to do?] [The morning sickness stopped, the baby isn’t torturing you anymore, so now you’ve decided to torture me?] [If you have this much free time, why don’t you look in the mirror? Your face is starting to look like a bloated piece of cheap meat.] I sat there, paralyzed. A second later, the messages vanished from the screen—unsent. A voice note popped up in their place. “I’m sorry,” Donald’s voice came through, smooth and composed. “My junior assistant accidentally sent those from my phone. Please don’t take it to heart.” Accident or not, the logistics didn’t matter anymore. All I knew, with a sudden and crystalline clarity, was that our marriage was completely, irreversibly dead. … I got up and went straight to the clinic. When I walked out of the sterile, brightly lit recovery room, my womb was empty. The four-month-old pregnancy was gone. By the time I finally returned to our penthouse, the city skyline was cloaked in absolute darkness. The living room was bathed in the warm glow of the designer lamps. Donald was sitting on the Italian leather sofa. Hearing the door, he looked up, his brow furrowing instantly. “Where have you been? It’s late. Do you not know how to return a text or a call?” I didn’t say a word. I slipped out of my heels, stepped into my slippers, and walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. He watched me, his gaze lingering on my face for a few seconds before he finally let out a long sigh. “I explained what happened this afternoon. My assistant grabbed the wrong phone. She’s already apologized to me, and I reprimanded her. It won’t happen again.” ‘A junior assistant grabbed her boss’s private phone by mistake?’ A faint, hollow laugh escaped my lips. I set the glass down and actually looked at him. Donald was breathtakingly handsome. It was the first thing I had known about him, the very first time I saw him. Now, at thirty-three, he had aged like fine bourbon—far better than most men his age. Just sitting there in his cashmere loungewear, he looked like an editorial spread in GQ. I used to love looking at him. I used to think I could spend a lifetime memorizing the planes of his face and never grow tired of it. But tonight, looking at him, I realized his beauty had nothing to do with me anymore. He was like a couture gown in a heavily guarded window display. You can stand on the sidewalk staring at it for years, convincing yourself it belongs to you, but you never actually get to take it home. “Donald,” I started, my voice ringing out much calmer than I had anticipated. “What was that little assistant’s name again?” He paused, a micro-shift in his posture. “Marissa. Why?” “How long has she been working for you?” “Six months, give or take.” He frowned, quickly adding, “Why are you interrogating me about this? I told you it was a misunderstanding. Do you really have to cling to this? Can’t you just pretend you didn’t see it?” Four defensive questions in a row. I didn’t take the bait. I just let the silence stretch for a moment before I continued. “I remember when she first started. You mentioned her in passing. You said the new hire was clumsy, practically incompetent, completely lacking the ruthless efficiency you usually demand from your staff. You never brought her up again. I naturally assumed you’d fired her.” I tilted my head. “But it turns out, not only did you not fire her, but right around the time she showed up, your ‘overtime’ hours mysteriously doubled. Your sudden out-of-state business trips became incredibly frequent.” The crease between Donald’s brows deepened. “Camille, what exactly are you implying?” I offered a small, empty smile. “I’m just stating the facts.” His irritation finally broke through his polished veneer. “Look, I know pregnancy is hard. Your hormones are all over the place, your emotions are volatile. I get that. But you can’t just spiral into paranoia over a few misfired texts. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the baby.” ‘The baby.’ The words were a microscopic needle slipping precisely between my ribs, piercing directly into my heart. How long had we been married? Four years. I was twenty-two when I sneaked back to the States after living in Europe, just wanting to rebel, to play. At a society party, I laid eyes on Donald and fell with a catastrophic, gravity-defying kind of love. I went after him with everything I had. At first, he thought I was too young, too naive. But I was relentless. I ripped my heart out of my chest and offered it to him on a silver platter. I bought him expensive watches, sent him rare vintages, and eventually, I was the one who proposed. People in our circle whispered. They laughed at me behind their manicured hands, saying a girl from my background shouldn’t be so desperate, so lacking in grace. But I hadn’t cared. I thought that was what love was supposed to be—brave, unashamed, loud. Eventually, he wore down. We dated for a year, then married. For the four years of our marriage, every single day was a tightrope walk of me pouring out my affection, desperate for scraps. If he gave me the slightest hint of warmth, it was like the sun rising in my universe. When I got pregnant, something shifted. He seemed genuinely pleased. He gave me more attention than he ever had. But the quiet terror had already set in. The foundation was rotting. I couldn’t shake the anxiety, constantly clinging to him, begging him to validate me. Even though he rarely used the word ‘love,’ his soft, ”I’ll be home early tonight,” felt like a lifeline. Until today. When the private phone—the one he never even let me touch—was casually handled by another woman to hurl insults at me. That was when the fog cleared. He had never, not from day one, held me in his heart. But it was okay. It was finally over. I had simply run out of love to give. Seeing me stand there in silence, he must have assumed I had yielded. He walked over, his anger softening into a patronizing patience, and reached out to pull me into his arms. “Alright, enough. Stop overthinking. I had the housekeeper make your favorite soup. Have a bowl and go to sleep. It’s the weekend tomorrow, I’ll take you shopping—” “I had an abortion.” The words slipped from my mouth, light as a feather. But Donald froze completely. His arms were still raised in the ghost of an embrace, suspended mid-air. The penthouse went so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock in the hallway. ‘One. Two. Three.’ Slowly, he straightened his posture. He looked down at me as if the English language had suddenly become a foreign tongue. “What did you just say?” I looked up, meeting his eyes dead on. I enunciated every syllable. “I said, the baby is gone. After you sent me those messages, I went to the clinic. I terminated the pregnancy.” I watched the color drain from his face, inch by agonizing inch. In the five years I had known Donald, I had almost never seen him lose his composure. To the world, he was utterly untouchable, a man whose emotions were regulated like a flawless piece of Swiss engineering. But right now, the gears were grinding to a halt. I found a morbid sense of fascination in it. I just kept watching him. “You didn’t consult me… and you just got rid of the baby?” My lips curved upward. “Yes.” “Camille.” My name tore from his throat, trembling. “That was my child, too.” I gave a nonchalant shrug. “I know.” “You know?” His voice suddenly shattered the quiet room, his eyes turning a violent, bloodshot red. “You know, and yet you went to the clinic by yourself and killed our child without even saying a damn word to me?!” “Camille! Do I even exist to you as your husband?!” He had never yelled at me like this. Whenever we fought in the past, his weapon of choice was icy silence. He would simply freeze me out until the lack of oxygen forced me to apologize first. But in this moment, a genuine laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Donald, so you actually ‘can’ get angry? Your eyes ‘can’ get red? You’re capable of losing your mind like a normal human being? I thought your only setting was emotional abuse.” Donald flinched, but the shock quickly morphed into absolute fury. His hand shot out, his fingers digging painfully into my jaw. “What the hell is wrong with you?! I told you I didn’t send those texts! Why won’t you just believe me?!” he roared, his breath hot against my face. “And that wasn’t just your baby! It was mine! What gave you the right to play God and rip it out of you?” “Since you’re so capable of murdering my child all by yourself, then you are going to give me another one!” Before I could process the words, he yanked me forward and crushed his mouth against mine. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an assault. The sharp, metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth instantly. I winced against the pain. Five years together, and he had never initiated a kiss. Even in our most intimate moments, I was always the one reaching for him, pulling him down. There were times I would lie awake, dreaming of him just wanting me like this. Now, all it invoked was a rising bile in my throat. I bit down, hard. He groaned in pain and shoved me backward. I stumbled, catching myself, my eyes burning with unshed tears as I glared at him. “You want a baby? Go find another woman. Your little assistant seems pretty damn eager to breed for you.” Donald froze, wiping the blood from his lip. “What did you say?” “I said,” I screamed, my voice tearing at the seams, “Go have a baby with Marissa! Keep your pathetic, hypocritical hands off me!” “Donald, right now, looking at you makes me want to vomit!” He stared at me, his gaze so intense it felt like he was trying to nail me to the floorboards. Three agonizing seconds passed. Then, he laughed. A cold, hollow sound. “Fine. Since you’re being so incredibly generous, I’ll give you exactly what you want.” He grabbed his keys from the console. “Don’t regret this. And don’t come crawling back to me crying.” The front door slammed shut with bone-rattling force. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. I stared at the heavy oak door. The tears, which I hadn’t realized were falling, suddenly became a torrential flood. I collapsed to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. It was as if I was purging five years of quiet humiliation, of begging for scraps, of making myself small. ‘Donald, I promise you, I won’t regret this.’ ‘And I will never, ever beg you again.’ I wiped my face with the back of my trembling hand, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I rarely used. “Hey, it’s me,” I whispered when my brother picked up. “The shadow capital we injected into Donald’s firm. Pull it all. Every last cent.” Donald didn’t come home that night. First thing Saturday morning, I went straight to my lawyer’s office and had the divorce papers drawn up. Since it was the weekend, he wouldn’t be at the office. I had no idea where to find him to serve him. Just as I stepped out onto the bustling Manhattan street, my phone buzzed with a video file. A second later, a voice note from my best friend, Jocelyn, exploded through my speaker. “Cam! Is this your untouchable, golden-boy husband?!” “I’m at Fifth Avenue shopping, and I just saw him with some girl! He literally got down on one knee on the sidewalk to tie her shoe for her!” “You were four months pregnant, and he’s out here scavenging for scraps? The absolute audacity of this bastard! I swear to God, I am going to murder them both!” My thumb hovered over the screen. I tapped play. The footage was slightly shaky, shot from a distance. But there he was. The man who always stood above the rest of the world, crouching on the pavement with an indulgent, helpless smile, tying the laces of the young girl beside him because she was pouting. She was laughing, filming him with her phone. A sharp, phantom pain sliced through my chest. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted that kind of indulgence from him. I had. But whenever I asked, he would just look down at me with that cool, detached expression. He never outright refused, but he never moved a muscle, either. He would just let the silence stretch until I was so humiliated I had to laugh it off and change the subject. I swallowed the lump in my throat, typed a quick reply to Jocelyn. [I’m divorcing him.] The moment the text sent, an unknown number called me. “Is this Camille St. Claire?” a stern voice asked. “Your husband and your friend were involved in an altercation. We need you to come down to the 19th Precinct immediately.” Jocelyn had a temper, but I hadn’t expected her to go scorched-earth this fast. I hailed a cab and rushed downtown. The moment I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the precinct, the shouting hit me like a physical wave. “Donald, you piece of shit!” Jocelyn was screaming, restrained by an exhausted-looking officer. “How could you do this to Camille?! She was carrying your child! And you’re out here flaunting your mistress in broad daylight, tying her damn shoes?! Why don’t you just drop dead?!” “Camille gave you everything! She loved you so much—” “Did I ask her to?” Donald’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a guillotine. I froze in the doorway. Donald wasn’t finished. “Did I ever beg her to treat me well? Did I beg her to love me? Was I the one who threw away my pride to chase a man who didn’t want me? Was I the one who crawled into her bed, practically begging to be married the second I snapped my fingers? So what if she was good to me? I didn’t love her. Why the hell should I owe her anything just because she decided to martyr herself? And what, just because she was pregnant, I’m supposed to chain myself to her side?” Jocelyn looked ready to combust. If the cop hadn’t been holding her back, she would have torn his throat out. “You soulless bastard! If it weren’t for Camille, you would’ve been bankrupt and rotting in—” “Jocelyn, stop,” I interrupted, stepping fully into the room. I walked straight past Donald and looked at the desk sergeant. “I’m here to take her home.” Before the officer could speak, Donald’s dark, commanding voice echoed through the bleak room. “She assaulted someone. You think she gets to just walk away?” I slowly turned to look at the woman clinging to his arm. Marissa. Her eyes were red, her cheek bearing the faint, pink outline of Jocelyn’s hand. Finally, I looked at him. “What do you want, then?” Donald’s eyes were glacial. “Your friend slapped my assistant. Now, I want her to pay it back.” Jocelyn let out a bark of incredulous laughter. “Let that little bitch try to hit me, I’ll break her—” “I didn’t say she would hit you,” Donald interrupted, his gaze sliding off Jocelyn and locking onto me with a terrifying intensity. “Camille. Your friend made a mistake on your behalf. Therefore, you foot the bill.” “You motherf—” Jocelyn trembled with rage, lunging forward. But before she could move, I spoke. “Fine.” Jocelyn’s head whipped toward me. “Camille, are you out of your mind?! He’s the one cheating! He’s the one who ruined everything!” I ignored her. I walked the few steps until I was standing directly in front of Donald and Marissa. “Do it.” Marissa shrank back slightly, tears welling perfectly in her eyes. “Mr. Hobart, please, don’t make it hard for your wife, I—” ‘SMACK.’ Before she could finish her performance, Donald grabbed Marissa’s wrist and drove her hand forcefully across my cheek. A sharp, burning pain exploded across the left side of my face. The room went dead silent. I turned to walk away. “Did I say we were done?” Donald’s voice was absolute ice. “She slapped Marissa once. I want it paid back tenfold.” He practically dragged Marissa forward. Before my brain could even register the threat, the blows rained down. ‘Smack. Smack. Smack.’ Nine hits. Each one heavier, more degrading, more violent than the last. With every strike, a tiny piece of the pathetic, desperate love I had hoarded in my chest withered away and died. By the time the final blow landed, I felt absolutely nothing. A profound, hollow numbness had settled into my bones. Something warm trickled down the corner of my mouth. I tasted iron. None of the officers stepped in. Donald Hobart owned half the real estate in this city; no one was going to cross him over a domestic spat where he technically didn’t throw the punch himself. When it was over, Donald gently massaged Marissa’s wrist, not looking at me. He delivered his final warning to Jocelyn. “Keep your dog on a leash. Next time she barks at people who belong to me, it won’t end like this.” He turned, placing a protective hand on Marissa’s lower back to guide her out. “Donald.” I called out to his retreating back. Reaching into my designer tote, I pulled out the manila envelope. “Let’s divorce.” He stopped, turning back with a look of pure disdain. “You want to divorce me?” I nodded once. “Yes.” He stared at me for a long, suffocating moment, and then a cruel smirk touched his lips. “Camille, I haven’t even settled the score with you for killing my child behind my back. Now you’re pulling this ‘divorce’ stunt to get my attention? Playing hard to get?” I gave a dry, broken smile. “You flatter yourself.” His expression darkened instantly. He snatched the papers from my hand, pulled a Montblanc pen from his breast pocket, and aggressively slashed his signature across the bottom line. He threw the papers directly into my chest. “Just a friendly reminder, Camille,” he sneered, leaning in close. “Without me, you are absolutely nothing. When you inevitably come crying back, begging me to let you in, I won’t even look your way.”

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In the final split-second of the grouping game, Daphne didn’t hesitate. She shoved me away. For the tenth time that night, she singled Jesse out of the crowd and pulled him into her arms. Jesse—my half-brother, the son of the woman who tore my parents’ marriage apart. She had turned a simple party game into a private chase between the two of them. Her excuse was always the same: “Losers have to take the penalty, Logan. He and his mother treated you like garbage, so I’m just giving him a taste of his own medicine.” But when Jesse, dripping wet and shivering under the giant suspended water bucket, finally broke down and sobbed, her face changed. She lunged forward, throwing her body over his to shield him. The lounge fell dead silent. The look on everyone’s faces made me feel like the ultimate punchline. “Look at how the campus queen looks at his little brother! Are Logan and Daphne even actually together? I swear those relationship photos he posts are AI-generated. Why else has Daphne never once acknowledged them?” “For real, Logan’s Instagram feed is just a collection of a desperate simp’s delusions. It’s wild!” I looked at Daphne, waiting for her to say something, but her eyes were locked entirely on Jesse. Her voice carried a manufactured sharpness: “What are you crying for? Logan didn’t even cry when your mother kicked him and his mom out.” But I saw it. I saw the raw, aching tenderness in her eyes. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat, pulled out my phone, and wiped my feed. “You’re right,” I whispered to no one in particular. “Daphne and I were never actually together.” Maybe it was time to listen to my mother, leave the country, and accept the family match she’d arranged for me. … Daphne used to despise home-wreckers. When she first learned that my mother and I had been cast out of our own home because of Jesse and his mother, her protective rage was terrifying. She had literally grabbed a chair, marched over to my father’s office, and cracked his head open. Since then, she’d never given Jesse a single break. She targeted him at every turn, fighting my battles for me. But now, amidst the snickers of our classmates, she was gently, helplessly wiping the tears from my bastard brother’s face. Once Jesse’s sobbing quieted to a whimper, Daphne finally let out a sigh of relief. She slid back over and sat down beside me. “What were you guys talking about?” she asked. Before I could utter a word, our classmates chimed in, their voices dripping with mockery. “We were just saying how you and Logan are basically strangers.” “Yeah, Daphne, did you know? Logan’s been posting couple goals on his feed every other day. Talk about living in a fantasy world. It’s hilarious!” Daphne’s face was half-shadowed by the dim neon lighting of the lounge. Her expression was unreadable, her tone utterly detached. “Really?” she said, swirling her drink. “Then he should probably delete them.” The lounge erupted into a chorus of laughter. “See! I told you! Why would a girl like Daphne ever date a clinger like him?” “Honestly, she and Jesse make way more sense. Enemies to lovers, right?” In the middle of the mockery, my eyes stung with hot, rising tears. Over the last two years, Daphne had never explicitly forbidden me from posting about us. But whenever I begged her to post something in return, she’d always offer the same rehearsed line: “My social media is strictly professional, Logan. It’s for my professors and internship coordinators. It’s not appropriate to post relationship stuff. Your posts are enough for both of us.” So I would settle for the bare minimum, asking her to at least like my photos. She never did. And when I called her out on it, she would pull me close, whispering, “You know I hate scrolling through social media. As long as the people who matter know we’re together, who cares?” And so, for two years, I performed a solo play to an empty theater. Sensing the sudden shift in my mood, Daphne reached under the table, her fingers slipping into mine, squeezing reassuringly. “I was just joking,” she murmured, her voice soft and coaxing. “They’re just being assholes. Don’t take it to heart.” “I just took on a major research project under my adviser. If the department heads think I’m distracted by a public relationship, it’ll hurt my standing.” “Be good, Logan. Just wait until the semester ends, and I’ll explain everything to them.” But this time, the words didn’t soothe me. They felt like hollow, well-worn scripts. My nails bit deep into my palms. Forcing down the sob catching in my chest, I whispered, “Don’t bother.” Right there, in front of her, I opened my profile and deleted every single post, every photo, every mention of her name. I stood up to leave, my hands trembling as I shot a text to my mother across the Atlantic: Mom, I’ll take the flight. I’m ready to move and meet the person you chose for me. The moment I stepped out of the lounge, the cool night air hit me, and the tears I’d been holding back finally broke. Before I could make it to the curb, a firm hand gripped my wrist. It was Daphne, panting slightly. “Logan, where are you going? We agreed I was driving you home!” I wrenched my arm back with everything I had. “Don’t touch me!” Daphne froze, finally seeing the tear tracks shining on my face. Her breath hitched. “Are you seriously crying over a deleted post?” “Daphne, you’re in love with Jesse, aren’t you?” “Are you insane?” she snapped instantly. “He’s the bastard who ruined your family. I despise him!” She stopped, her posture softening as she stepped closer to wrap her arms around me. Her tone turned into that familiar, soothing caress. “Look, I’m sorry. Stop being difficult, let’s just go back inside.” “I’ll go back in there and tell them we’re together, okay? Right now.” Looking into her eyes, I saw the ghost of the girl who had always put me first. I remembered freshman year of high school, when I had slapped Jesse’s mother during an argument and my father locked me in my room for three days without food. It was Daphne who climbed the trellis to my window, sneaking in meals and eventually calling the police to force my father to let us go. Sophomore year, when Jesse played the victim, turning the entire grade against me. Daphne didn’t say a word; she walked right into the classroom, smashed his desk, threw his backpack in the dumpster, and told him, That’s what actual bullying looks like. Junior year, when Jesse lured me up into the mountain trails on a false pretext and abandoned me. Daphne drove all night—ignoring the fact that she had her SATs the next morning—and carried me down the mountain path on her back, step by painful step. Those memories were etched into my bones. My heart wavered, aching with the desperate hope that the girl who carried me through the dark wouldn’t do this to me. “Come on,” she whispered, tugging gently. “Everyone’s waiting. Once this is over, we’ll go home together.” I clenched my fists and let her lead me back into the private room. The second the door swung open, a massive slab of cake slammed directly into my face. Thick icing clogged my nose and mouth, suffocating me. The sugary grease stung my eyes, and the sticky weight of it dragged down my clothes. I stood there, utterly humiliated. As I blindly tried to scrape the frosting from my eyes, the room exploded into vicious laughter. “Oh my god, look at him! That is priceless! He’s actually trying to eat it off his face, that’s disgusting!” “Classic Daphne! One little sweet talk and he comes running back like a puppy. Otherwise, we wouldn’t even have gotten this show!” The shame burned through my chest. Then I saw Daphne. She was leaning against the bar, her shoulders shaking with laughter. My voice shook, thick with tears. “Why?” Before Daphne could answer, Jesse’s smug, lighthearted voice cut through. “Come on, Logan. Everyone took their punishment tonight except you. You ran away. That’s not fair, is it?” “So I asked Daphne to bring you back.” My mind went entirely blank. I stared at Daphne, desperately searching her face, but her warmth had vanished, replaced by a cold, detached look. “Logan,” she said flatly, “if you play the game, you have to follow the rules.” Something inside me shattered, a clean, silent break. She hadn’t brought me back to clear the air. She hadn’t brought me back to declare her love. She brought me back because Jesse said it wasn’t fair. I was brought back to be their entertainment. A soft sigh sounded beside me as a heavy jacket was thrown over my head. Daphne’s voice was neutral, her expression carefully blank. “Clean yourself up. Stop making a scene.” But as the jacket slid down, my eyes caught her exposed collarbone. Written there, in bold, black Sharpie, were the words: Jesse’s property. Daphne noticed where I was looking. She let out a soft, amused scoff. “You missed it. I lost a drinking game to Jesse while you were gone. This was my dare. Kid’s got a weird mind, honestly. I don’t know what goes on in his head.” But Daphne’s tolerance for alcohol was legendary. She was a vault. I remembered a fraternity fundraiser where she systematically drank an entire table of recruiters under the table without her cheeks even flushing. And Jesse? If I remembered correctly, he was severely allergic to alcohol. If Daphne hadn’t wanted to lose, Jesse could never have outdrunk her. When we played games in private, she wouldn’t even let me draw a tiny flower on her wrist. Yet here she was, letting Jesse write something so degrading on her bare skin. The pain in my chest was dull and heavy, like my lungs had been stuffed with cotton. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. But Jesse wasn’t done playing. “Hey, you deserved it for throwing me under the bus earlier! That mark stays on for at least a month, Daphne! I’m getting back at you for everything. If I don’t make you cry by the end of this semester, my name isn’t Jesse!” Daphne smirked. “Oh yeah? Who was the one crying like a lost puppy five minutes ago?” He let out an embarrassed shriek and lunged at her, swatting at her arm. In the scuffle, his shoulder shoved hard against me. I stumbled backward, the sharp edge of the mahogany table cutting violently into my lower back. The pain was so sharp it drew cold sweat on my forehead. Through my blurred vision, I watched them. Daphne was laughing, batting him away, completely oblivious to the fact that I was hurting. The last embers of my hope died. She kept saying she hated him. But her body, her laughter, her focus—they all belonged to him now. The background chatter of the room drifted back in: “Daphne’s basically throwing herself at him. Unlike some people who beg for scraps and still get ignored. If I were Logan, I’d take the hint and leave. It’s embarrassing.” “Wait, if Daphne likes Jesse, why was she always so brutal to him before?” “Dude, you don’t get girls. When you like someone, you pick on them. That way, they’re forced to look at you.” In the past, I would have laughed that off. You don’t hurt the people you love. But now, the truth was staring me in the face. People change. Hearts rot. A notification vibrated in my pocket. It was a flight confirmation from my mother. Logan, the ticket is booked. Tomorrow morning. I looked up at Daphne, who had already forgotten I was in the room, deeply engrossed in a new round of some party game with Jesse. I looked down and typed back: Okay. If her heart had moved on, I didn’t want the leftover pieces anyway. By the time I got back to our shared apartment, the rain was pouring, soaking me to the bone. Daphne’s text thread remained completely silent. She hadn’t even realized I was gone. I briefly thought about sending her a formal breakup text, but decided against it. In the eyes of the world, we had never been together anyway. Then, a special notification popped up. Daphne had posted on her Instagram. It was a photo of two hands, fingers tightly locked. No caption. Immediately beneath it, her roommate had posted a video. In the clip, Daphne and Jesse were holding their breath, their fingers still intertwined. Daphne leaned in, tickling his side, making him squirm and laugh. “You’re cheating! You know I’m ticklish there!” he gasped. The roommate’s caption read: The tension in this room is insane. I am literally screaming! I stared at the screen until my fingers turned white from gripping the phone. So, she was capable of posting her life online. She just didn’t want to post me. I don’t know how long I sat there on the cold hardwood floor. Until the front door was kicked open with a violent bang. Daphne stormed in, her eyes wild with rage. She grabbed my collar, dragging me to my feet, and shoved her phone in my face. “Did you do this? Did you leak the story about Jesse being a bastard? You actually wrote that he’s trying to steal your girlfriend! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? He’s so hysterical he’s threatening to jump!” I looked blankly at the screen. It was an old account of mine that I hadn’t used in years. “I didn’t write that,” I said quietly. “It’s your account! Who else could have done it!” Daphne’s face was flushed, her jaw tight with disgust. “I’ve helped you get back at him so many times, Logan. Isn’t that enough? This is someone’s life! How could you be this petty?” “Delete the post right now, and post a public apology clarifying everything!” My nails dug into my palms. “Clarify? Clarify what, Daphne?” “Even if I did write it, is any of it a lie? Is he not a bastard? Did his mother not destroy my family?” Daphne looked at me like I was a monster. “He was just a kid! He didn’t choose his mother! He shouldn’t have to pay for her sins. If he had a choice, do you think he’d choose to be born illegitimate?” Seeing my silence, her expression went completely cold. “Fine. If you won’t clear his name, I’ll do it myself.” She snatched my phone out of my hand. I lunged to grab it back, but she held it high, pinning me against the wall with her body weight. Right in front of my face, she typed out a statement on my account: Everything I said about Jesse was a lie born out of jealousy. His mother never ruined my family. He is my brother, and Daphne and I were never together. I projected a fantasy of us being in a relationship. My accusations of him being a homewrecker are completely baseless. She pressed send. Then she mass-forwarded it to our entire school group chat. I lost it. I screamed, I thrashed, I pushed her with everything I had. My mother, being overseas, might not see the gossip sites, but she kept an eye on my social feed. If she saw this… the sheer humiliation she would feel on my behalf was too much to bear. I fought wildly to get the phone back, but Daphne caught my wrists and locked them behind my back, trapping me against her chest. “Shh, calm down,” she whispered, her voice suddenly switching back to that tender, suffocating warmth. “Once this blows over, it’ll be fine. Let Jesse’s head clear, and I’ll explain things to everyone. Then we’ll get married, okay? Just you and me.” With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box. Inside was a ring. The ring I had dreamed of for two long years. Tears streamed down my face. I had imagined her proposing a thousand times, but never like this. No romance, no flowers, just a rushed gesture in a cold room, the ring clearly the wrong size. Even when she spoke of marriage, her mind was entirely on saving another man. My phone started ringing, breaking the silence. “Daphne! Jesse’s on the ledge of the dorm window! He won’t come down unless you come right now!” Daphne’s face went pale. She shoved the velvet box into my hand, gave me a hurried, desperate look, and ran out the door without another word. I stood in the empty apartment, the heavy silence settling around me. I looked at the ring, then let out a hollow laugh that quickly turned into a sob. “No, Daphne,” I whispered to the empty hallway. “I’m not marrying you.” I threw the ring directly into the trash can. I slid down to the floor, picked up my phone, and began deleting the post she had forced onto my feed. But the damage was done. The notifications were already pouring in—insults, threats, mockery. With shaking hands, I blocked the incoming messages. Then, I dug through my cloud storage. I found the voice memo from the night Daphne agreed to be my girlfriend. I had been so ecstatic, so afraid she’d take it back, that I made her repeat her confession so I could record it. I never thought I’d use it as a weapon. I uploaded the audio file, alongside the video of Daphne and Jesse tickling each other, to my feed. Underneath, I wrote: You can decide who the real liar is. Daphne and I were together for two years. But as of today, we are done. The internet erupted. Within seconds, Daphne’s name flashed on my screen. I blocked her number immediately, grabbed my suitcase, and walked out to the waiting Uber. As we drove down the highway, I saw her blue sports car speeding in the opposite direction, hurtling toward the apartment. For a brief second, our cars aligned, and I caught a glimpse of her panicked face. Goodbye, Daphne, I thought, looking away. We are finally over.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499035”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years after my heart stopped beating, Douglas stood on the grand stage of the Lincoln Center, basking in the applause as he accepted the international trophy for the Metropolitan Dance Company. When a reporter asked about me—the fallen prodigy who had once been the company’s star—Douglas’s face hardened into a mask of righteous disgust. “I have no room in my heart for students of such low moral character,” he declared, his voice echoing through the microphones. “He was a boy who used his pretty face to seduce a daughter of our city’s political elite, all while carrying on a sordid affair with the daughter of a cheap construction tycoon.” He paused, letting the dramatic weight of his words settle over the audience. “I have no tolerance for corruption. I personally pinned an open letter of denunciation to the theater doors, stripped him of his residency, and cast him out. It was the only way to protect the young lady’s future and set an example for the rest of the company. That same young lady went on to build an empire in the real estate boom. Today, she is the wealthiest woman in the state. History has proven that my judgment was entirely correct.” The host sighed with theatrical sympathy, pressing for details about my current whereabouts. Douglas offered the camera a cold, dismissive sneer. “He’s been dead for years. He was one of the vagrants who froze to death in the great blizzard three winters ago. If you ask me, it was simply the natural conclusion to a life of utter ruin.” The interview aired that evening, quickly spreading across every social column in the city. But the woman at the center of the story knew nothing of it. At that very moment, Diana Maxwell was sitting in a private gallery penthouse, elegantly raising her paddle to bid on a limited-edition antique watch her fiancé had fallen in love with. … My soul drifted in the quiet space of the luxury sedan, watching Diana slide the watch onto Elliot’s wrist. In the passenger seat, Elliot smiled warmly, deliberately tuning the car’s radio to the broadcast of the interview. “Diana, look,” Elliot said, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “It’s another interview with my uncle Douglas. Honestly, that Jude Fletcher was terrible. He nearly ruined my uncle’s career back then, and he’s the reason your family threw you out of the estate…” He turned to look at her, his eyes searching her face. “Diana, do you ever think about—” A shadow of intense distaste crossed Diana’s brow, and she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “Don’t speak of him.” Her hand drifted down to rest on her swollen belly. “You’re going to be a father soon, Elliot. Don’t let such worthless things occupy your mind.” She smoothly changed the subject. “The celebration dinner for Douglas is set at the Plaza. I’ve already had my assistant handle the reservations.” I hovered above her in the dim light of the car, unable to shed a single tear. I knew Diana hated me. Years ago, she had severed ties with her family for my sake, squeezing into a drafty, single-room rental in the poorest district of the city. On stormy nights when the roof leaked, she would pull me tightly against her chest, using her own warmth to thaw my frozen hands and feet. “Don’t be afraid, Jude,” she had whispered into my hair. “As long as we have each other, I will never let you go.” That was before she walked into a basement studio and found me in bed with another woman. Only then did she realize how foolish she had been to ignore Douglas’s warnings. She closed the door on my memory because remembering me was a stain on her perfect life. It made sense. After all, I was the darkest mistake she had ever made. The Plaza was a sea of crystal chandeliers and expensive silk. Douglas had returned to the city draped in glory, and half the high-society registry had gathered to pay their respects. Former students who hadn’t spoken to him in a decade crowded around, offering expensive gifts and hollow praise. When Diana and Elliot entered the ballroom, Douglas’s eyes lit up. “Diana, Elliot! You finally made it. Come over here.” Diana smiled, but her eyes instinctively swept the perimeter of the room, searching the crowd. Douglas, catching her glance, smiled knowingly. “Don’t bother looking, Diana. He isn’t coming.” The comment drew the attention of the surrounding guests. Diana quickly pulled her gaze back, her lips curling into a cool, detached smile. “You misunderstand, Douglas. I was only thinking that with our wedding next month, I should probably send Jude an invitation for the sake of old times. I just didn’t expect him to lack the courage to even show his face in public.” A sudden, suffocating silence fell over the circle. The air grew heavy. Finally, a young man from the old neighborhood spoke up, his voice hesitant. “Diana… didn’t Jude die three years ago?” The entire ballroom seemed to lose its sound. Diana froze, but her immediate reaction was a cold, mocking laugh. “I didn’t realize his acting skills had improved so much over the years. He actually has you all playing along with his little drama.” The guests exchanged uneasy looks, quickly raising their glasses to smooth over the tension. “Right, right. Diana has been busy running her empire; it’s natural she wouldn’t keep up with old rumors. Let’s not let the past ruin tonight. Cheers! This is a rare vintage of Cristal.” I watched the hollow spectacle from above, my chest aching with a phantom coldness. These were the same people who had thrown stones at me when we were teenagers. My father had been a covert intelligence officer whose records were destroyed during a bureaucratic purge, leaving our family branded as traitors. They had called me the son of a rat, a stain on the neighborhood. Only Diana had been different. She had stood between me and their cruelty, shielding me with her own body. “Don’t just stand there and let them hurt you,” she had told me, wiping a smudge of dirt from my cheek. “You have me now.” To help me gain her family’s acceptance, she had knelt in her grandfather’s study for three days and three nights, begging the retired General to use his influence to secure me an audition at the Metropolitan Dance Company. I had danced until my feet bled, spending fourteen hours a day in the studio until I became the youngest principal dancer in the company’s history. I thought that if I climbed high enough, I could finally stand by her side without shame. But Douglas’s arrival shattered everything. Douglas had never married; he poured all his ambition into his nephew, Elliot. From the moment he took over the company, his eyes were on the Maxwell family fortune. He was determined to see Elliot marry Diana. And I was the only obstacle in his way. Douglas’s cruelty always came disguised as mentorship. To “build my character,” he forced me to clean the entire theater alone after hours. To “strengthen my discipline,” he made me rehearse through lunch breaks while the others rested. To “teach me humility,” he took a pair of scissors to the performance costume my mother had spent nights sewing by hand. “Some people put more effort into cheap theatrics than actual technique,” Douglas had sneered in front of the entire company. “Who are you trying to seduce with these rags?” My peers slowly drifted away, whispering behind my back. Confused and hurt, I tried to confide in Diana. But she was drowning under her family’s immense pressure, and she could only offer tired, empty comforts. “Douglas is from the elite circles of Boston, Jude. His standards are high. He’s only pushing you because he knows what you’re capable of.” She had sighed, massaging her temples. “The international competition in Paris is next month. If you win the gold, my grandfather will finally have to accept you. Just bear with it a little longer.” I believed her. But the abuse only grew worse. During a public dress rehearsal, Douglas stood in front of the patrons and spat his venom directly at me: “You think you’re an artist? You’re nothing but a cheap hustler. Your father sold out his country, and you’re selling yourself. Is that a family tradition?” My mother had walked into the theater lobby at that exact moment, carrying a warm lunchbox she had prepared for me. Before I could even process his words, she collapsed onto the marble floor, her face pale. Terrified, I pushed Douglas out of my way to reach her. But by the time we reached the hospital, a notice of my suspension had already been delivered. I sat by my mother’s bedside, staring at her unconscious form, my world collapsing around me. Late that night, Diana walked into the hospital room. Her eyes were dull with exhaustion and profound disappointment. “Jude, I heard you got into a physical altercation with Douglas. You pushed him?” “No, Diana, you don’t understand,” I pleaded, grabbing her sleeve, the tears spilling over. “He insulted my father. He said horrible things in front of my mother—that’s why she collapsed! He’s been tormenting me for months, Diana, you know how much I cherish my father’s memory!” I held onto her like a drowning man, terrified that my only light was about to go out. Diana was silent for a long, agonizing moment. The hope in my chest withered with every passing second. “I know Douglas is strict,” she said softly, pulling her arm away. “But he is a respected mentor. I cannot believe he would say such vulgar things.” She looked at me, her eyes hollow. “My mother has already cut me off because of us. My grandfather is bedridden with stress. All I need from you is to go to Paris, win that gold, and prove to them we belong together. Jude, please. Stop causing trouble. Just apologize to Douglas so we can put this behind us.” Her words were a slow, deliberate twist of a knife. I had never cried when the company mocked me. I had never complained when my joints burned from exhaustion. But I could not bear the weight of her disbelief. I slowly let my hand fall to my side. The taste of iron rose in my throat. “You don’t believe me either.” Diana looked away. “It’s not about belief, Jude. We simply have no ground left to lose.” My hands shook. “I have nothing to apologize for. I am innocent, and I will prove it.” I ran out of the hospital, heading straight back to the theater. I only wanted to confront Douglas, to force him to admit his lies. But when I reached his office, his harsh demeanor was gone. He smiled warmly and asked me to join him in the private basement studio so we could talk things out. I followed him, desperate for a resolution. The studio smelled of a strange, cloying sweetness. Douglas handed me a glass of water, and without thinking, I drank it. Within minutes, my vision blurred. My limbs turned to lead, and the world went dark. When I woke, it was to the agonizing sensation of my clothes being torn. I was lying on the cold, dirty floor of the prop room. Bridget Callahan, the spoiled daughter of the local developer, was hovering over me, her hands ripping at my shirt. I tried to push her off, but my arms wouldn’t obey my command. Suddenly, the heavy door was kicked open. Diana stood in the doorway. She took in the scene—my disheveled clothing, Bridget draped over me—and her entire body went rigid. I choked out the words through the haze of the drug. “Diana… it’s not… Douglas did this…” But my voice was a slurred whisper, and Bridget immediately began to cry, pretending she had been the one assaulted. Diana’s eyes burned with a cold, murderous rage. “Jude Fletcher. I destroyed my relationship with my mother for you. I broke my grandfather’s heart. I even carried your child when we had nothing, believing we had a future.” She took a slow, deep breath, her voice cracking with betrayal. “And this is your answer to me.” She didn’t look back as she walked out. With the last of my strength, I flung Bridget off me and tried to drag myself toward the door. But Bridget, humiliated and furious, grabbed a heavy iron staging pipe from the corner and brought it down hard on my right leg. The sound of my bone snapping echoed in the empty room. Jude Fletcher, the prodigy of the Metropolitan, became a cripple that night. That was the price of my innocence. Soon, the rumors flooded the city. They said I had abandoned Diana the moment she was cut off from her family, choosing instead to climb into the bed of a wealthy heiress. I knew Douglas was the architect of those lies, but lying in my hospital bed, I was powerless to stop them. What I didn’t know was that Diana had gone to Bridget’s home in a blind fury, leaving the girl bloodied and earning herself a severe police record. When her grandfather heard of the disgrace, his heart gave out. He died before the ambulance could reach the estate. While I was still mourning the General’s death, a doctor from the county clinic came to my room. He handed me a forged document. Our daughter—the fragile, premature baby girl we had kept in an incubator at the clinic—was dead. Before I could even process the grief, the door flew open. Diana stood there in her mourning black, her eyes red and sunken. “Jude Fletcher. My grandfather is dead.” Her voice was dead, devoid of any warmth. “He died believing I ruined our family name for a common thief.” The tears blinded me as I tried to press the paper into her hand. “Diana… our baby… she’s gone…” “Stop it!” she shrieked, slapping the paper from my hand. “Douglas told me everything. You sold our daughter to Bridget’s family for fifty thousand dollars. You sold her to fund your new life.” She turned on her heel. “We are done.” The door slammed shut, dividing our lives forever. Overnight, my name became synonymous with ruin. Diana left the country the following morning without another word. It was raining heavily that day. My mother, barely recovered from her collapse, walked out of the hospital and saw the public denunciation pinned to the community board. She had lived her life with quiet dignity, a retired schoolteacher who had never raised her voice. But that afternoon, she tore at the paper with her bare hands, screaming herself hoarse. “My son is not a monster! Don’t believe them! Please, look at me, he didn’t do this!” A crowd gathered, throwing insults and garbage at her. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Your husband was a traitor, and your son is a parasite.” Dazed and heartbroken, my mother wandered toward the riverbank. Her foot slipped on the wet grass, and she fell into the freezing currents. They didn’t find her body until three days later. My last anchor to this world was gone. Eventually, after months of searching through the dark corners of the state, I found my daughter. Douglas had hidden her in a neglected foster home in a remote Appalachian coal town. I took my little girl, Maisie, and we lived in a small cabin on the edge of the mountains, scraping by on whatever odd jobs a crippled dancer could find. Back at the Plaza, the celebration dinner was winding down. Douglas, thoroughly drunk on vintage champagne, leaned over the table. “Jude Fletcher didn’t have the stomach for a hard life,” he muttered, a cruel chuckle escaping his lips. “And that little bastard of his was no better. Died of leukemia at three years old. That’s what you call divine intervention.” Diana’s hand trembled, spilling hot tea over her silk cuff. My soul stood beside her, watching her face. The night Maisie was diagnosed with acute leukemia, the mountains were hit by the worst blizzard in fifty years. The local doctor told me her only hope was a bone marrow transplant from a direct relative. I walked seven miles through knee-deep snow, my crippled leg screaming in agony, to reach the only payphone in the valley. When the call finally connected, I sobbed into the receiver. “Diana, please! I’m begging you, save Maisie! She’s your daughter! Your marrow is the only match!” But a man’s soft, mocking laugh answered instead. Elliot’s voice came through first, followed by Diana’s cold, level tone. “Jude, your performances are getting pathetic. I will never allow myself to be manipulated by a liar like you. Stop using these disgusting tricks to crawl back into my life.” The line went dead. That night, I held my daughter close as her body grew colder and stiffer in my arms, my own blood staining the wooden floor as I coughed up the last of my life. The next morning, the local mail carrier delivered a money order for a thousand dollars. In the memo line, there were only six words: Buy a coffin. We are even. I held Maisie’s worn photograph and that piece of paper, and I sat by her small grave in the woods until the snow covered us both. I didn’t feel the cold. I was only glad that I would finally see my little girl again. In the warm light of the Plaza, Douglas let out a heavy sigh. “Well, what’s done is done. It’s a pity, really. That little girl had her mother’s eyes. She would have made a beautiful dancer.” With that, he collapsed onto the table, unconscious from the alcohol. Diana stood up so fast her chair screeched against the marble floor. The guests stared at her in shock. Her face was bloodless, her voice tight. “There’s an emergency at the office. Excuse me.” She drove like a madwoman, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, leaving Elliot calling after her in confusion. “Diana! Where are we going?” She didn’t answer. Her gaze was locked on the dark road ahead. The car tore through the winding mountain passes, finally screeching to a halt at the base of the Appalachian valley. The old town mayor recognized her immediately. His face contorted with hatred. “Diana Maxwell. You have some nerve showing your face here.” Diana blinked, confused. “You… you know who I am? Is Jude Fletcher here?” The old man’s eyes filled with tears, and he pointed a trembling finger toward the ridge. “That little girl looked exactly like you. She died without ever seeing her mother’s face. They’ve been dead for three years, Diana. Did you come all this way just to gloat?” Diana looked up toward the ridge. Nestled among the wild pines were two mounds of earth, one large and one very small, sitting close together under the gray sky. Her breath caught. her pupils dilated with a sudden, violent terror. Elliot stepped out of the passenger side, his eyes wide with manufactured grief. “Diana, don’t listen to them. I heard Bridget’s family went bankrupt last month. This is obviously a scam to extort money from you using a fake grave…” Diana took a slow, shuddering breath, her professional composure sliding back into place like armor. She stared at the dirt mound and spoke four cold words: “Dig it up.” The gathered townsfolk gasped, clutching their shovels and tools. Diana’s voice was flat, carrying the absolute authority of her wealth. “If he is dead, there should be bones. I will not allow a liar to use my family’s name to play his games.” Her security guards stepped forward, pushing past the angry locals. In the chaos, Elliot saw his chance and shoved Diana from behind. She fell onto the cold dirt. As she turned to see who had pushed her, Elliot grabbed the old mayor by his collar, shouting, “How dare you lay a hand on her! Did Jude pay you to hurt her baby?” That accusation snapped the last thread of Diana’s sanity. Her eyes turning a violent, bloodshot red, she snatched a rusted shovel from a guard’s hand. “Get away from me!” she screamed. Ignoring the sharp pain in her abdomen, she swung the shovel down into the larger grave with all her might. Clang. The first strike. The dark earth flew, landing on my spectral form like lead weights. Clang. The second strike. The wooden grave marker snapped in two, my name splintering into the dirt. The old mayor collapsed, clutching his chest in distress. I wept, trying to grab her hands, begging her to stop. But she was possessed, throwing herself into the earth, digging deeper and deeper. Suddenly, the metal blade struck something solid with a dull, hollow thud. Diana froze. Her face drained of what little color remained.

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At the celebration banquet, Ethan stood on the stage, held the microphone, and said his only wish was to get a new wife. I froze in place. Beneath the stage, a young intern giggled loudly. “See, Mr. Miller? I told you. An old woman like her would be scared out of her mind the second she hears you don’t want her anymore.” “A bet’s a bet, Mr. Miller! You placed the highest bet, so Venmo me that $5,200 right now!” The crowd burst into laughter. Ethan didn’t even look at me. He walked straight down the stage. After transferring the money on his phone, he gently ruffled the young girl’s hair with pure fondness in his eyes. Only after doing all of this did he finally turn to look at me, his tone completely casual. “Rachel, it was just to liven up the atmosphere. She’s just a kid who likes to play around. Don’t take it personally.” He was absolutely sure that, just like in the past, I would swallow my pride, choke down the humiliation, and let it go. But this time, I picked up the microphone and spoke calmly: “What a coincidence, Ethan.” “How did you know that my wish is exactly the same as yours?”

The laughter in the room stopped instantly. Ethan’s face turned incredibly pale. He was the first to speak, his voice sharp: “Everyone was just joking. Why are you making a scene?” Before I could even reply, he waved his hand dismissively, his tone bordering on cruel: “Our Managing Director, Rachel, has been emotionally unstable lately. I apologize on her behalf.” Chloe tilted her head, looking at me with a sweet, mocking smile: “Could she be going through menopause? Mr. Miller, do you smell that retirement home scent on her when you sleep at night?” After saying that, she quickly covered her mouth, pretending to look innocent. Ethan gave her a fake, gentle scold: “Chloe, don’t talk like that.” But looking at the warmth and indulgence in his eyes, there wasn’t a single shred of real anger in his voice. It was pure, unfiltered favoritism. Chloe easily picked up on Ethan’s protection, which only made her act more spoiled and arrogant. People around us started whispering and snickering, throwing mocking glances at me. A sharp pain pierced my chest, spreading through my entire body. Ten years. I had stayed by his side, watching him go from having absolutely nothing to building a multi-million-dollar company. And yet, all I got in return was him protecting another young girl in public, while dragging my dignity through the mud. I pushed down the bitterness in my throat, took a deep breath, and spoke coldly: “Chloe, for public gambling, defamation, and slander—you should know that I can not only fire you right now, but I can also have my lawyers destroy you.” Chloe’s face turned instantly white. She instinctively hid behind Ethan. The sight of their intimacy burned my eyes. In the next second, Ethan stepped forward. Just like the way he used to protect me, he shielded Chloe completely behind his broad shoulders. “Rachel, cut the boss act. Ten years ago, when you got fired over a stupid two-hundred-dollar mistake and cried your eyes out, weren’t you the one begging?” Looking at him now, I felt nothing but a hollow sense of mockery. Yes. If Ethan hadn’t beaten someone up back then, I wouldn’t have been fired, and I wouldn’t have almost starved to death because I couldn’t afford the rent. Back then, he had cupped my tear-stained face in his hands, his eyes fierce and dead serious as he promised: “If anyone ever dares to disrespect you again, I’ll risk my life to make them pay.” But now, the very man who swore to protect me for the rest of my life was holding up the umbrella for the person stabbing me. How ironic. Ethan didn’t want to argue with me in public anymore. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the private VIP lounge next door. He threw me onto the leather sofa. My high heels scraped against my ankle, drawing blood. I gasped in pain. Ethan paused for a second, but his voice remained cold and hard: “You can’t even walk in heels, yet you insist on wearing them. You love making things hard for yourself, no wonder you’re always targeting a young girl.” “If you’re done throwing a tantrum, go home. I have things to take care of.” Without another glance, he turned on his heel and walked out. I sat frozen on the sofa for a long time before finally pulling out my phone. My Snapchat was filled with updates from the company employees. Chloe’s post was right at the top. It had two photos. One was a screenshot of the $5,200 Venmo transfer, captioned: [From the man I admire the most~] The other was a selfie of her and Ethan, standing extremely close. Chloe’s cheeks were flushed, and Ethan was looking down at her with a gentle smile. The comment section was filled with her friends dropping passive-aggressive hints about how I had a horrible temper and lacked any charm. I looked down at the beautiful but painfully tight high heels on my feet, and the truth finally sank in. Some people are meant to share your struggles, but they can never share your success. The warmth we once shared and the vows he made were real. But his current coldness and his betrayal were just as real. I opened my phone. The reservation for the luxury cruise tickets for two was still sitting in my app. I had tried countless times to piece back together this broken, ten-year relationship. But now, with a simple tap of my finger, I canceled Ethan’s ticket. Then, I messaged my divorce lawyer. For the rest of this journey, I would never wait for anyone again.

It was past midnight when I got home. That night, I dreamed of the heavy blizzard from ten years ago. In our tiny, cramped apartment, Ethan and I huddled together for warmth. We had no parents to help us, no wealthy backgrounds, nothing but our own two hands to fight for a future. Back then, I was always insecure because I was five years older than him. But one day, he came home, mysteriously pulled open his shirt, and showed me his chest. It was still bleeding, but my name, Rachel, was freshly tattooed over his heart. His eyes were incredibly bright as he wrapped his arms around me and whispered: “Don’t be scared anymore. If I ever stop loving you, Ethan Miller, my life won’t have any meaning left.” Those days of struggling in the mud and keeping each other warm flashed through my dreams over and over again. When I opened my eyes, I was brought back to the shattered reality of ten years later. Ethan was sitting by the edge of the bed, his voice completely devoid of emotion: “If I don’t come home, you just hide under the blanket and cry? Rachel, would it kill you to just back down for once?” I turned my back to him, refusing to say a word. He let out a heavy sigh, leaned back against the sofa, and said casually: “Rachel, you can’t even get pregnant. Honestly, I’ve already done more than enough for you over the years.” “Besides, I came back to tell you that Chloe is pregnant. Don’t go looking for trouble with her.” His tone was so casual, yet his words stabbed directly into my deepest wound. I bolted up, grabbed the bedside lamp, and hurled it straight at him. My voice shook violently: “Ethan! If I hadn’t walked through a raging blizzard for two hours to secure that contract for your business, my child would be here calling me ‘Mom’ right now!” “How can you even say that to me? Are you even human?!” Perhaps the raw agony on my face was too obvious. Looking at my bloodshot eyes, his expression finally softened slightly. “I can’t spend my entire life tied to a woman who brings nothing to the table anymore. You know how it is. Even the most loyal man gets tired.” Wiping away the tears from the corners of my eyes, I let out a mocking laugh: “What? Do you want me to get down on my knees and thank you?” The annoyance in his eyes flared up again. “Are you done yet? Losing that baby was your own fault for not being careful. You brought that on yourself!” “Chloe is so much younger than you, yet she’s gentle and understanding. Look at yourself now! You’re completely unreasonable!” He slammed the door and left. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next morning, the moment I walked into the office, Chloe was already waiting for me. Holding a cup of hot coffee, she gave me a smug, malicious smile: “Rachel, Ethan told me last night to focus on prenatal care for the baby. I guess he’s really sick of women like you~” Without even looking up, I snapped back: “Prenatal care? Teaching the kid how to be a homewrecker just like you?” Chloe’s expression turned nasty. Just as she was about to snap back, she heard Ethan’s footsteps approaching from behind. With a sudden gasp, she threw herself forward, spilling the scalding coffee all over my arm. My skin turned instantly red and began to blister. She grabbed my wrists, her fingernails digging deep into my flesh: “Rachel, I truly came here to apologize. Even if you hate me, please, for the sake of the baby, just let me go!” Ethan kicked my office door open and roared at me: “Rachel! Don’t push your luck! Do you really think you own this place?!” “I’m telling you, if anything happens to Chloe or the baby, I will make you pay!” With that, he scooped Chloe into his arms and walked out in front of everyone. Employees gathered in the hallway, whispering and watching the drama. My arm throbbed with intense pain. A wave of overwhelming despair washed over me, followed by a sudden, sharp pain in my lower abdomen. My vision went black, and I collapsed onto the floor. When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed. As I struggled to sit up, a nurse rushed over and gently pushed me back down. She said: “You’re pregnant. You need to rest. Stop working yourself to death.” I froze, staring at her in complete disbelief. Right at that moment, Ethan’s voice echoed from outside the ward.

Ethan pushed the door open, his eyes completely cold. “Rachel, you really love playing the victim, don’t you? The moment Chloe gets hospitalized, you put yourself in a hospital bed too. Are you that desperate for attention?” I looked up at him. For a split second, I wanted to tell him that I was pregnant. But his baseless accusations made me shut my mouth. I had nothing left to say to him. Whatever love and warmth I once had for him had already decayed in my throat after his countless acts of betrayal. Seeing my silence, his expression grew even colder. He turned to leave. “Whatever. Play your little games all you want. I’m not playing along.” The room fell into a dead silence. I slowly placed my hand over my still-flat stomach. The moment I get discharged, I’m taking my baby and leaving. Leaving Ethan, and leaving this place of heartbreak. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up again, it was pitch black outside. Standing right beside my bed, holding my pregnancy test results, was Chloe. Sensing that I was awake, she whipped her head toward me, her eyes filled with venom and jealousy. “Rachel, why do you have to ruin everything for me right now?!” I tried to sit up, but my body felt completely drained of energy. Seeing my movement, Chloe assumed I was going to find Ethan. She stepped forward, blocking me, her voice distorted with rage: “You shameless bitch! You refuse to sign the divorce papers, and now you want to use this brat to keep your position?!” I didn’t want to waste my breath on her. I reached out to press the call button on the headboard. But Chloe shrieked and threw herself at me. “Since you won’t listen, you and your little brat can go to hell!” The sudden force of her impact knocked me off balance. I fell off the bed, my lower abdomen slamming violently against the sharp corner of the bedside table. An excruciating pain exploded from my abdomen, radiating through my entire body. As the room spun, I felt a warm gush of fluid between my legs. The ward door was suddenly pushed open, and Ethan rushed in. I saw him frown, stepping toward me. “Ethan… save my baby…” Before I could finish, Chloe grabbed Ethan’s arm tightly. Clutching her own stomach, she sobbed pitifully: “Ethan, don’t blame Rachel… Loving you was my fault to begin with. If punishing me makes her happy, I don’t mind.” “But Ethan, my stomach hurts so bad… Is our baby going to be okay…?” Her tears streamed down her face as she whimpered. Ethan’s face turned incredibly pale. The slight worry in his eyes when he looked at me instantly turned into disgust. “Rachel, just because you lost your baby years ago doesn’t mean everyone has to suffer for your bitterness! You’ve gone too far this time!” “I couldn’t save our first child, but I will not lose this one!” He carefully picked Chloe up in his arms and rushed out of the room. The door slammed shut, leaving me entirely alone. The sticky, warm blood soaked through my clothes. I slowly closed my eyes. I knew this baby was gone too. When I was finally woken up by my phone, it was a voice message from Ethan. There was no apology, no worry. Just a casual, dismissive tone: “Chloe wanted to go to the beach, so I’m taking her trip. No one is watching your little performance anymore, so stop acting.” I slowly put my phone down and placed my hand over my empty stomach. My heart didn’t hurt anymore. There was only a vast, endless numbness. I opened my contacts, found my best friend, Lily, who lived abroad, and transferred all my business shares and assets to her. I had originally wanted to keep some dignity and get a peaceful divorce. But now, there was no need for that.

In the days that followed, besides recovering, I focused entirely on drafting the divorce agreement and finalizing the asset transfer. Once everything was settled, I went back to the apartment to pack my things. The place was a mess, filled with traces of the two of them. I ignored it all and packed quietly. There was no nostalgia, no regret. Halfway through packing, Ethan called. “Chloe is pregnant and it’s not convenient for her to move around. Pack your things and get out. She’s moving in.” I picked up our framed wedding photo from the wall, tossed it into the trash can, and said calmly: “Okay.” Silence fell on the other end of the line. He clearly didn’t expect me to agree so easily. After all, during our ten years together, whenever something like this happened, I would fight him tooth and nail. Ethan’s voice carried a hint of surprise: “This is our wedding house. Have you forgotten?” My hand paused for a second. A bone-chilling coldness swept through me. So he did remember what this home meant to me. Yet, he still chose to trample over my boundaries in the most humiliating way possible. I took a deep breath and said softly: “It’s fine. Do whatever you want.” My compliance seemed to anger him even more. “Fine! Great! Since you don’t care about anything anymore, then hand over your Managing Director position to Chloe too!” I didn’t say another word. I hung up, labeled my boxes, and called the moving company. My cruise was leaving in five hours. Just as I was about to walk out the door, a group of workers pushed their way in and started smashing the place up. I blocked them, frowning: “Who gave you permission to break into my apartment?” One of the workers replied without looking up: “Mr. Miller’s orders. We’re tearing this place down to remodel it exactly how Ms. Chloe wants it.” Right then, Chloe appeared at the doorway with a smug smile on her face: “Rachel, no matter how hard you try, Ethan still chose me in the end. Just give up.” Looking at her arrogant face, I found it hilarious. I didn’t bother arguing with her and walked toward the elevator. But as soon as the doors opened, I ran straight into Ethan. “Where are you going?” he demanded. “Business trip.” Hearing my reply, he relaxed his grip on my arm and said arrogantly: “Don’t think you can skip Chloe’s promotion ceremony by using a business trip as an excuse. You have to be there!” I didn’t even spare him a glance as I stepped into the elevator. After all, how could he know that I would be boarding a luxury cruise this afternoon? And once the cruise trip ended, I would fly straight to the country where Lily lived. I was never coming back. Ethan stared at my retreating figure, his voice filled with threats and spite: “Rachel, you better not regret this! Even if you come back crying and begging me on your knees, I won’t take you back!” The elevator doors closed, heading down. I completely shut out the place that held all my youth and agony. Ethan thought I was just throwing another tantrum and decided to play a game of chicken with me. By the time Chloe’s promotion meeting started, all the company executives had arrived. Chloe clutched her stomach, looking weakly at Ethan: “Ethan, is Rachel not coming because of me? It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have accepted this promotion…” Ethan’s brows furrowed deeply, his face dark with anger. “She’s crossed the line this time, bringing her personal tantrums into a board meeting. When she gets back, I’ll make sure she apologizes to you.” He spoke with absolute certainty, as if I would walk through that door in the next second, crying and admitting my mistakes. Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. The receptionist walked in holding a package. “Mr. Miller, a courier just delivered this. They said it’s a special gift for you and must be signed by you personally.” Ethan’s eyes lit up slightly, and a smirk played on his lips. He was sure this was my way of begging for forgiveness. Once again, he thought he had won. With a hint of anticipation in his voice, he said: “Open it.” The assistant opened the package, but in the next second, her expression froze. Inside, there were no flowers, no apology note. Just two documents. A signed divorce agreement, and a share transfer document.

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When I cancelled the fifteen-thousand-dollar wedding photography package, the boutique coordinator stared at me in absolute silence. “Miss Evans, the deposit is completely non-refundable,” she said, her voice dropping into a hushed, cautious tone. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until Drew gets back from his business trip to talk this over?” I slid the receipt back across the polished glass counter. My voice was quiet, but steady. “No need to wait. He’s too busy watching the Northern Lights in Iceland with his childhood sweetheart.” Drew and I had been together for eight years. Over nearly a decade, I had begged him countless times to take me to Iceland. I wanted us to stand under the green glow of the aurora for our wedding photos. It was my only real dream for our wedding. Every single time I brought it up, his brow would furrow with irritation. “It’s too far, Tina. Too expensive. Why do you always need these elaborate, useless things? We can just shoot in a local studio and have them Photoshop the lights in. It looks exactly the same.” I had believed him. I had forced myself to be the practical, low-maintenance partner he always praised. Until last night. I was looking for an old tax document on his backup laptop when I found a social media account still logged in. It was an Instagram page with over a million followers, a joint couple’s blog called Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce. For eight years, hundreds of posts had documented a secret life. And the star of every single photo, every beautifully edited reel, was his childhood sweetheart, Joyce. Every single September, while I stayed behind in our cramped San Francisco apartment, Drew had flown to Iceland to capture a commemorative photo with Joyce under the green ribbon of the aurora. It turned out Drew wasn’t incapable of romance. He just didn’t want to waste it on me. When the partial refund was finalized, I walked past the window and stared at the lace gown I had tried on three times. My chest ached so deeply I could barely breathe, and tears began to blur my vision. The boutique manager gently handed me a tissue. “Since the deposit is forfeited anyway… we could transfer the credit to a solo portrait session for you?” I wiped my eyes and shook my head. “No, thank you.” I had already booked a one-way ticket to Southern Italy, leaving in three days. If the moon wasn’t going to shine on me, I would go chase the sun myself. … The moment I stepped out of the boutique, my phone vibrated in my purse. It was Mom. “Tina, sweetie,” she began, her voice warm but tinged with that familiar maternal worry. “Your father and I were talking. We’re thinking of selling the old house in Eugene. With that and our savings, we should have enough to help you and Drew with a down payment on a place in the Bay Area.” She paused, taking a soft breath. “A woman needs her own name on a deed, Tina. If you marry into that family without a safety net of your own, you won’t have a way out if things get hard.” Hearing her voice, my throat tightened. The tears I thought I had finished crying threatened to spill over. “Mom, don’t,” I choked out, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You don’t need to do that. I’m not marrying Drew.” There was a sudden, heavy silence on the other end. Then, the sound of the phone being snatched away. My dad’s gravelly voice filled the receiver. “Did he do something to you? Does his family think we’re just small-town nobodies?” My parents had always carried a quiet guilt about how hard I struggled to survive in San Francisco. If I hadn’t been so relentlessly, stubbornly in love with Drew, they would have never agreed to this marriage. “No, Dad,” I lied, looking up at the gray city sky to keep the tears from falling. “I actually just landed a massive historic restoration project in Southern Italy. It’s a three-year contract, and the pay is incredible. When I get back, I’m going to buy a beautiful house with a massive garden right there in Eugene. I don’t want to struggle in the city anymore.” It took a long time to soothe them, but they finally believed me. The second I hung up, a notification flashed at the top of my screen. The couple’s account had just posted a new photo. In the image, their fingers were tightly intertwined. Behind them, the sky was ablaze with the breathtaking, emerald ribbons of the aurora borealis. The caption read: Year Eight. Guided by the Northern Lights, we are still each other’s only. I stared at the word only, my fingers trembling against the glass screen. Eight years. Drew had never posted a single picture of me on any of his social media accounts. Whenever I had asked about it, he’d dismiss me with a patronizing sigh. “Tina, I’m thirty years old. I don’t feel the need to broadcast my private life to the world. It’s childish.” I realized then: he didn’t hate showing off his life. He just didn’t want to show me off. When I walked into our apartment, a plush teddy bear sat on the entryway console, pinning down a small, elegant note. Drew’s homemade ginger tea is literal magic! Here’s a little thank-you gift—my favorite plushie! I stood in the quiet hallway, a cold numbness spreading through my chest. Just last month, my cramps had been so severe I couldn’t get out of bed. I had begged him to make me some hot ginger tea. He had been on the phone with Joyce, his face twisted in annoyance as he snapped at me: “Tina, stop being so high-maintenance. I’m a guy, I don’t even know how to make that stuff. Just order something on Postmates.” Looking at Joyce’s delicate handwriting, I realized he not only knew how to make it, but he also made sure the temperature was perfect for her. I crumpled the note into a tight ball and threw it, along with the plush toy, directly into the trash can. In the study, the monitor of his desktop was still glowing. He had forgotten to log out of his personal email and social accounts. I sat down and began clicking through the archives, page by page. Aside from their annual September trips to Iceland, all those weekends he claimed he was “pulling overtime at the office” were actually spent taking Joyce to every trendy boutique hotel and scenic spot along the Pacific Coast Highway. Two years ago, my favorite singer was in town. I had saved up to buy two tickets and practically begged him to come with me. He had scoffed. “Those arenas are loud and crowded. I’d rather spend my weekend catching up on work.” Yet, the digital trail showed that the very next day, he had accompanied Joyce to an outdoor music festival. In the vlogs, he carried her designer tote bag, blocked the chilly wind with his own jacket, and knelt down in the dirt to tie her sneakers. In contrast, every photo of Drew and me from the past three years had been taken by me. In every single one, he looked utterly miserable. “My angles are terrible,” he’d always complain, rushing me. “I’m a straight guy, I don’t know how to take aesthetic photos. Just take a quick one and let’s go.” Suddenly, my phone rang. It was a FaceTime call from Drew. On screen, the cozy, wood-paneled interior of a luxury Icelandic cabin flickered. He noticed my red, swollen eyes and frowned. “Have you been crying?” My throat felt like it was coated in sand. I shook my head. “No. Just windy outside. Got some dust in my eye.” He seemed to accept the excuse, his tone immediately turning dismissive. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. We can do the wedding shoot then.” I opened my mouth to tell him the shoot was cancelled, but before I could speak, Joyce’s smiling face popped into the frame. She naturally wrapped her arm around his. “Tina! I was vacationing in Iceland and literally ran into Drew during his business trip! You don’t mind, do you?” Before I could answer, Drew chuckled, looking down at her. “Why would she mind? Go on, show her what we got.” Joyce proudly held up a cheap, generic Northern Lights keychain. “I picked this out just for you, Tina!” I stared at the plastic trinket. In the drawer of our entryway table, there were already eight identical keychains. It was her signature, passive-aggressive way of reminding me she was always there. I didn’t acknowledge her comment. I just stared at the screen and said softly, “Safe travels. When you get back, I have a big gift waiting for both of you.” The next afternoon, Drew arrived home. His suitcase was packed with expensive organic supplements, luxury skincare sets, and rare teas. He rummaged through the clutter for a long time before pulling a cheap keychain out of a side pocket and tossing it onto the kitchen island. “Here. Yours.” I caught it, the sharp plastic edges digging into my palm. I looked at the beautifully wrapped gift boxes still sitting in his suitcase. “What about all those?” “For Joyce’s parents. They have delicate health, they need the supplements,” he said casually, not even looking up. “And the ceramic tea set is for her mother. Joyce mentioned her old set was chipped.” My parents sent homemade jam and local Oregon honey every single month; Drew had never once acknowledged their gestures, let alone bought them a gift. I took a slow breath, my grip tightening on the cheap plastic in my hand. “I still want to go to Iceland for our wedding shoot, Drew. Can we please make it happen?” His movements stiffened, and his brow furrowed immediately. “We already booked the indoor studio here. Why do you have to be so difficult, Tina? We aren’t children anymore. Can you please start being practical about our life together?” Practical. Sensible. Reasonable. Those were always the rules for me. But for Joyce, his boundaries didn’t exist. Before I could reply, the front door clicked open. My future mother-in-law, Diane, walked in, laughing gaily with Joyce at her side. Diane took one look around our living room and scoffed. “Tina, I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’re supposed to be a designer. Why is this place so dreary? It feels incredibly small-minded and cheap.” She looked at me, her eyes sweeping over my simple clothes with open disapproval. “If Drew hadn’t introduced you to his clients, how would you even survive in San Francisco? You have no leverage in this city without him.” In the past, I would have swallowed the insult, keeping the peace. Drew would always stand by, whispering, She’s just old-fashioned. Be the bigger person. But this time, I didn’t back down. “If you think it’s so awful, Diane, why don’t I tear everything down and let you redecorate it entirely to your taste?” Diane froze, her expression shifting from surprise to deep disdain. “A lot of attitude for someone with so little to show for it. Look at how Joyce styled the family estate. Cozy, refined. You should take notes instead of embarrassing the Mercer name.” Joyce chimed in, putting on her sweet, peace-making act. “Diane, Tina is from a small town in Oregon. It’s only natural she has a different aesthetic. Oh, Drew, I’m starving! I’m going to cook tonight so Tina can try my recipes. Will you help me prep?” Drew looked down at her, his expression softening into an indulgent smile. “Always putting me to work. What are we making?” “Your special marinated sea bass!” Without a second thought, the two of them walked into the kitchen. Drew grabbed the linen apron hanging on the wall and carefully tied it around her waist, his movements so natural, so practiced, they looked like a married couple. Diane sat down on the sofa, smoothing her skirt. “Honestly, Drew was always meant to marry Joyce. They share the same background, the same pedigree. Tina, since your family has neither wealth nor influence, you should learn to be agreeable. Marrying into our family is the luckiest thing that will ever happen to you.” I stood in the shadow of the hallway, watching the kitchen, and smiled quietly. “It’s fine,” I whispered. “I won’t argue anymore.” At the dinner table, I sat like a ghost. The three of them laughed over childhood vacations and family gossip, speaking in a shorthand I could never hope to understand. As I reached for a serving dish, my eyes fell on Joyce’s left hand. Resting on her ring finger was a brilliant, custom-cut diamond band. And on Drew’s left hand—the hand that usually wore nothing—was an identical, matching silver band. My chest felt as though it had been struck by a heavy hammer. That night, as Drew stood by the closet unbuttoning his shirt, I stared at his hand. “Is that a matching couple’s ring, Drew? What is the meaning of this?” He didn’t even turn around. “Oh, this? Joyce’s birthday is coming up. She wanted to know what it felt like to wear a diamond engagement ring, so she begged me to wear the matching band for a few days to indulge her. It’s just a piece of jewelry, Tina. Do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” A physical ache bloomed in my chest. “An accessory? I am your fiancée, Drew. You are wearing a couple’s ring with another woman while we are planning our wedding. What do you think I am?” Drew slammed his tie onto the mattress, his face darkening. “Tina, are you seriously doing this? I put your name on the deed of the condo without you contributing a single cent so you could have a future in this city. Most outsiders would kill for that opportunity. What more do you want from me?” He sneered, his voice laced with venom. “Joyce and I have a lifetime of history. What is the harm in wearing a silly ring to make her happy on her birthday? Why must you be so small-minded?” He grabbed his jacket, slammed the bedroom door, and left. I stood frozen in the quiet room. A few minutes later, my phone lit up. Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce had updated. The photo showed their hands overlapping, the matching bands gleaming under the soft light. The caption read: Fulfilling my little princess’s birthday wish. I looked at the screen and let out a soft, dry laugh. “You’re right, Drew,” I whispered to the empty room. “I should be satisfied.” Over the weekend, it was Joyce’s birthday dinner. I had tried to stay behind, but Drew had blocked the doorway, his face set in a hard scowl. “If you don’t show, Joyce will think you’re holding a grudge. She bought you gifts, she helped with the photography contacts. Don’t be ungrateful, Tina.” How thoughtful of her. She had spent a week in Iceland with my fiancé, worn a matching ring, and paraded it online. But I went anyway. Not because I was submitting, but because I wanted to see exactly how hollow the man I had loved for eight years had become. The private dining room at the restaurant was loud and lively. Joyce sat at the head of the table, her makeup flawless, the diamond ring catching every reflection of the chandelier. “Tina’s here!” one of Drew’s close friends called out. “Drew, man, when is the big day? Have you set the date?” Drew, sitting close to Joyce, took a sip of his wine. “The date isn’t locked in yet, but we’re doing the photoshoot tomorrow.” A chorus of congratulations rose around the table. The conversation quickly shifted to local real estate and the new country club. I sat quietly in the corner, a familiar outsider. In the past, I had tried so hard to blend in, but Drew would always steer me away, whispering, These business discussions are dry, Tina. You wouldn’t find them interesting. Now I realized he didn’t want to save me from boredom; he just didn’t want me in his world. Suddenly, someone across the table noticed the jewelry. “Joyce, your ring… wait, matches Drew’s? Is that the custom piece from that Italian designer?” A few people turned to look at me, their eyes filled with awkward, lingering curiosity. Drew leaned back in his chair, his tone entirely casual. “It was her birthday wish. She wanted me to wear it with her to ward off unwanted attention tonight. Just a birthday gift to keep her happy.” “Does Tina mind?” someone joked. Drew’s gaze slid over to me, cold and warning, assessing my reaction. I picked up my water glass, took a small sip, and met his eyes. “I don’t mind.” He frowned, his brow twitching slightly at my complete lack of emotion. Before he could speak, the waitstaff wheeled in a massive tiered cake. As Drew stepped forward to help Joyce cut it, his eyes landed on the fruit garnishes. His face hardened and he snapped at the waiter, “Who ordered this? You know Joyce is severely allergic to mangoes!” He carefully sliced a piece from the untouched side, placed it on a plate, and handed it to me. “Here, don’t let it go to waste.” I didn’t reach for the plate. Drew’s frown deepened. “I thought you said you didn’t mind. Eat it. Don’t waste good food.” I looked at him, my voice flat. “I’m allergic to mangoes too, Drew.” Drew’s hand froze mid-air. The entire table fell into a sudden, uncomfortable silence. One of his friends tried to laugh it off. “Man, Drew, how do you forget that? Don’t tell us you forgot her birthday too.” Drew, defensive, snapped back instantly. “Of course not. September third.” The table erupted into easy laughter again, but I couldn’t join them. September third was the date printed on my driver’s license—a clerical error from when I was a teenager. My actual birthday was two months later. I had corrected him dozens of times over the years, but he had never bothered to remember. Joyce cut another slice, placing it in front of me with a soft, sympathetic smile. “Don’t be mad at him, Tina. Drew remembers my allergies because we grew up together. That kind of instinct… you can’t just unlearn it.” It was an apology wrapped in absolute triumph. I pushed my chair back and stood up. “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” Inside the quiet bathroom, I washed my hands. The door opened, and Joyce walked in, letting the heavy door click shut behind her. Without an audience, her sweet demeanor vanished. “You have quite the tolerance, Tina,” she said, leaning against the counter. She turned her phone toward me, the screen open to the Instagram page. “See this? Every time he held me, took care of me, memorized my favorite things, made my dreams come true—it’s all here. You’ve spent eight years with him. What do you actually have?” I looked at the photos of them laughing in the snow, but I said nothing. She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You can play the fiancée all you want, but he doesn’t love you. If I were you, I’d have packed my bags and left to save whatever dignity I had left.” She stared at me, waiting for me to break, waiting for the tears. But I only looked at her calmly. “So what? No matter what you did, the person marrying Drew is me.” The color drained from her face. I walked past her, opening the door without another word. Outside, Drew was already waiting in his car. He didn’t ask about the dinner; he drove in silence, the tension thick between us. When he took a sharp right turn, I looked out the window. “This isn’t the way to the condo.” Drew kept his eyes on the road. “Joyce drank too much tonight. She’s going to be miserable tomorrow. I’m going to drop off some honey water and her favorite bakery cake.” I leaned my head back against the leather seat. “You treat her so much better than you treat me.” The tires screeched as Drew slammed on the brakes, pulling over to the curb. He turned to me, his voice raw with frustration. “I’ve told you a thousand times, she’s like a sister to me. It’s a habit. I’m marrying you, Tina. Isn’t that enough?” I closed my eyes, too tired to argue. “It’s enough.” When we finally parked outside our building, he kept the engine running, clearly eager to leave again. As I unbuckled my seatbelt, I looked at him one last time. “Drew, if one day I left you, what would you do?” He let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Are you serious right now? Joyce’s parents are out of town. She’s completely alone. It’s only right I look after her.” He paused, a smug, dismissive smirk pulling at his lips. “You’ve been with me since you were nineteen, Tina. Everything you have, I gave you. If you leave me, do you really think you’ll find anyone better?” I looked at him, feeling the final, lingering pieces of my love for him turn to ash. He was entirely convinced that I would never leave, because he believed I had nowhere else to go. I didn’t answer. I got out of the car, and the moment the door clicked shut, he hit the gas and drove away. Inside the quiet apartment, my phone buzzed. It was an email from United Airlines: Flight confirmation to Rome, Italy tomorrow morning at 10:30 AM… I stared at the text, then walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase from the top shelf. When I actually began packing, I realized how little of myself was in this space. My clothes, my laptop, a few skincare bottles. It barely filled a single suitcase. Yet, Drew’s closet was packed with high-end, custom-tailored suits I had bought him with my savings. Diane’s vanity in the guest room was lined with expensive organic supplements I had worked late-night freelance shifts to afford. At 2:00 AM, my phone buzzed with a new post from Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce. The photo showed Drew sitting at the edge of a bed, gently wiping a damp cloth over Joyce’s forehead. The caption: No matter how late, he’s always there when I need him. I locked the screen and set the phone down. There were no tears, no anger. Just a profound, hollow silence. The next morning, I made breakfast out of habit—toasted sourdough, soft-scrambled eggs, and warm milk. Drew let himself in around 7:00 AM, the cold morning air clinging to his coat. He kicked off his shoes, offering a quick, tired explanation. “Joyce was really sick last night. I couldn’t leave her alone.” I set the plates on the table. “Okay.” My lack of emotion seemed to make him uneasy. His tone softened slightly. “After the photoshoot this afternoon, we’ll lock down the wedding date and call your parents. Happy?” I looked at his face—the face of the boy I had loved for eight years. “Drew, in these eight years, did you ever actually love me?” Drew froze, his expression hardening instantly. “If I didn’t love you, would I be marrying you?” Eight years ago, when he was chasing me, he would stand outside my dorm in the freezing rain just to bring me coffee. He used to celebrate monthly anniversaries, finding tiny, beautiful ways to surprise me. Now, there was only this transactional indifference. Suddenly, his phone began to vibrate violently on the counter. It was a call from Joyce. He answered, and her weak, trembling voice filled the quiet kitchen. “Drew… I’m so cold… I think my fever is coming back…” Drew’s face went pale. He snatched his car keys off the counter. I reached out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Joyce has a full-time housekeeper, Drew. She doesn’t need you there. Today is our wedding photoshoot. Can you just stay? Just this once?” He looked down at my hand, his expression wavering for a fraction of a second, before hardening into irritation. “Tina, be reasonable. She’s sick. I’ll have the driver take you to the studio. Go ahead and start your makeup, I’ll catch up as soon as her fever breaks.” He pulled his arm from my grip and walked out the door. I looked at my empty hands, and a single, quiet tear slid down my cheek. I took a deep breath, walked to the table, and laid a handwritten note next to his keys. Drew, I cancelled the photoshoot. The wedding is off. These eight years end here. Then, I opened my laptop. I compiled every screenshot, every folder of chat logs, every photo from the hidden couple’s account, and uploaded them to a public post. My caption was simple: We ran a marathon for eight years, and you documented it for eight years. Since you love each other so much, I’m stepping aside. I hope you get exactly what you deserve. I zipped my suitcase, walked out of the apartment, and headed to the airport. On the other side of the city, Drew was sitting by Joyce’s bed, carefully peeling an apple, when his phone began to ring off the hook. He answered with a scowl. His friend’s panicked voice came screaming through the line: “Drew! That secret Instagram account with Joyce—Tina found out! She just put the whole thing online! It’s going viral!”

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My best friend was about to propose to the girl of his dreams, and he wanted my help to plan it. It was only on the day of the proposal that I realized his dream girl was Vicky—the girl I had spent ten years loving in silence. I stood there and watched them kiss. When they got married, I was the best man. When he got busted in a vice raid, he told everyone he was taking the fall for me. When he stole and sold her family’s priceless heirlooms, he claimed it was to pay off my mounting gambling debts. And finally, when he embezzled millions from the company, he framed me so perfectly that I was sentenced to fifteen years. I died a cold, miserable death in a prison cell. But then I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the exact day his affair was about to be exposed. … Every time Brandon snuck out to meet his secretary, Tiffany, he would tell Vicky that he was helping me out with some personal crisis. This time, as my phone buzzed incessantly with Vicky’s incoming calls, I hesitated before finally sliding the screen to answer. I didn’t take my usual apologetic, deferential tone. I kept my voice flat, entirely detached. “What is it?” “Wayne, are you seriously doing this again?” Vicky’s voice cut through the receiver, sharp and dripping with exhaustion. “Is it another fake breakup, or did your dad crash his car this time? What’s your excuse for dragging Brandon away tonight?” I listened to the static on the line, feeling the phantom ache of my prison years settling into my joints. “You’ve made a complete wreck of your own life, so you just have to drag everyone else down into the mud with you, don’t you?” she snapped. “When you got caught in that sting last year, Brandon literally took the fall to protect your reputation! Do you have any idea how much strain that put on our marriage?” She paused, waiting for an apology that wasn’t coming. “Wayne, you’re Brandon’s best friend. That’s the only reason I’ve turned a blind eye to the hookers and the gambling. But if you don’t start showing some gratitude, if you keep harassing my husband, don’t expect me to keep playing nice. I will run you out of this city. Tell Brandon to get his ass home. Now.” If it hadn’t been for this phone call, I wouldn’t have fully understood how thoroughly Brandon had dismantled my character over the years. Among close friends, covering for a late night is one thing. But from the moment I learned Brandon had set me up for a fifteen-year prison sentence, we ceased to be brothers. This time, I was only playing for myself. I had no intention of warning him. “You’ve got it wrong, Vicky,” I said, my tone bordering on bored. “I have no idea where Brandon is. If you’re looking for him, why don’t you call Tiffany? She’s his secretary. She usually keeps a tight grip on his schedule.” I hung up before she could reply. Brandon was a parasite, surviving entirely off the wealth of Vicky’s family. For an old-money dynasty like theirs, a keeping-up-appearances husband sleeping with his secretary was the one transgression that could never be swept under the rug. Thinking about the storm heading his way, I walked into the kitchen and cracked open a cold beer, enjoying the quiet. But Vicky’s contempt for me ran deeper than I anticipated. Ten minutes later, she showed up at my apartment. She didn’t come alone; she had brought three security guards from her father’s company. They burst through my door, pinning my arms behind my back as if I were a violent fugitive. They kicked open my bedroom door, only to find the room empty. Brandon was nowhere to be seen. “Wayne, where the hell is he?!” Vicky looked down at me, her eyes filled with disgust. There was a time when we were childhood confidants, sharing secrets under the summer stars. Now, in her eyes, I was a degenerate, a gambler, a blight on society. Meanwhile, Brandon had spent years painting himself as the loyal, self-sacrificing saint who kept pulling his worthless friend out of the gutter. It was a masterclass in manipulation. I decided it was time to let her see the man she had actually married. “I told you,” I muttered, wincing as a guard tightened his grip on my wrist. “You should ask Tiffany. They’re practically joined at the hip.” She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Do you honestly think these pathetic lies make me angry? I know my husband’s character, Wayne. I would never believe a single word out of your mouth. I just feel incredibly sorry for him. I don’t understand how he could have remained loyal to a piece of garbage like you.” She stepped closer, her designer heels clicking against my cheap linoleum floor. “I’m giving you one last chance. Where is Brandon? Why isn’t he answering my calls?” Because Brandon’s saintly image was so deeply ingrained in her mind, she genuinely believed I was trying to destroy her marriage out of spite. With a flick of her hand, she signaled the guards. They threw me to the floor. A heavy boot found my ribs, and a fist caught the side of my jaw. My head hit the floor, and my vision blurred. But through the throbbing pain, a strange, cold clarity washed over me. The physical pain was nothing compared to the fifteen years of slow death I had suffered in my previous life. If anything, the sting of the blows only fed the fire of my anger. I wanted to watch them burn. “You’re just a cockroach in the sewer, Wayne,” Vicky spat, looking down at me as I spit blood onto the floor. “And the sewer is exactly where you belong.” “I told Brandon to cut you out of his life years ago. But he kept defending you. He gave you a job at the firm, he paid off your loan sharks, he lied to your parents to preserve your image as a good son! And this is how you repay him? By whispering venom behind his back? If you won’t talk, I have other ways to make you behave.” She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. “You’ve always cared so much about your parents. What do you think will happen to your mother’s weak heart when she finds out her golden boy is a degenerate?” My parents were lifelong employees of Vicky’s father. They had worked at his estate for decades, and they had always treated Vicky like their own future daughter-in-law. They kept in touch. Vicky dialed, and she put it on speaker. A moment later, my mother’s voice came through, sounding old and tired. “Hello? Vicky, sweetheart? Is everything okay? Why are you calling so late?” Vicky didn’t hesitate. “Helen, I’m calling because we need to talk about your son.” “Oh? What’s wrong with Wayne? Is there trouble at the office?” Vicky let out a cold laugh. “It’s not his job, Helen. It’s his character. Last week, Wayne was arrested in a vice raid at a massage parlor. I assume he didn’t tell you?” “What? No… my Wayne? That’s impossible, Vicky. He’s not that kind of boy!” My mother’s voice began to tremble. Rage surged through me, and I tried to lung toward the phone, but the guards slammed me back down, a heavy hand crushing my mouth shut. “Helen, Brandon saw it with his own eyes,” Vicky continued smoothly. “Brandon went to the parlor to drag him out, and the police raided the place. Wayne ran like a coward, leaving Brandon to take the fall and protect his name. Surely you don’t doubt Brandon’s integrity?” I stared up at Vicky, my eyes wild with hatred. You foolish, arrogant girl, I thought. You have no idea that the man you are protecting is the one who will eventually ruin your entire family. “It’s not just the hookers, Helen. Wayne is a compulsive gambler. He owes millions to loan sharks. Brandon actually had to sell some of our family’s heirlooms just to keep those criminals from breaking your son’s legs. He’s a mess. Honestly, looking at him tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on drugs too. I’m telling you this because you need to rein him in. He is going to drag my husband down with him.” She ended the call, leaving my mother’s soft, weeping voice cut off in the dark. Seeing the blood in my eyes, Vicky smiled, a look of vindication on her face. “It turns out your parents really had no idea what a monster you’ve become. They still think you’re the straight-A student from college.” “I honestly don’t know why Brandon stays associated with you. What do you even bring to his life besides trouble? He even bought you a house, Wayne. You’re nothing but a parasite.” I blinked, the pain momentarily forgotten. “What did you just say? Brandon bought me a house?” “Oh, keep playing dumb,” Vicky sneered. “He told me he bought a townhouse in your name to thank you for helping us get together years ago. He only made me promise to keep it a secret so we wouldn’t hurt your fragile pride. But looking at you now, it’s clear you don’t have any pride left.” A puzzle piece fell into place. I knew for a fact Brandon hadn’t bought me a house. But I knew he had recently purchased a townhouse in the suburbs using corporate funds. He had told Vicky it was for me, but in reality, it was the love nest he had bought for Tiffany. And right now, they were almost certainly inside it. I spit another mouthful of blood onto the floor and looked up at her. “I don’t know anything about a house, Vicky. But your gullibility is truly impressive. Do you actually believe every single lie that comes out of his mouth?” “I know the address, Wayne. Stop trying to squirm out of this.” I nodded slowly. “Fine. If you’re so sure, take me there right now. Unless you’re too scared to find out what’s actually behind that door.” “You really want to play this out?” Vicky’s eyes flashed with anger. “You think I don’t know he bought that place with my family’s money? If you want to be stubborn, I’ll go there right now and evict you myself.” She pointed at the guards. “Put him in the car. We’re going to clear out his things tonight. I want him to lose every single thing he took from us.” An hour later, the black SUV pulled up to a quiet, tree-lined street in an upscale suburban development. But the real trouble was waiting on the sidewalk. As I stepped out of the car, I saw my mother standing under a streetlamp, shivering in her thin coat. Vicky had known exactly how to hurt me. She had called my mother to meet us here, wanting to humiliate me in front of the only person whose opinion still mattered to me. She wanted to break me completely so I would never dare speak to her husband again. Seeing my bruised face and the blood on my shirt, my mother burst into tears. She rushed over, throwing her arms around me before turning to Vicky. “Vicky, please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “I know Wayne has done terrible things. He’s made mistakes, but please, for my sake, don’t do this to him. Let us go home.” “Helen, I wanted to handle this quietly,” Vicky said, her tone dripping with condescending pity. “But Wayne is still lying to my face. He refuses to tell me where Brandon is, and he’s even denying that Brandon bought him this house. I had to bring you here because you’re the only one who can make him see sense.” My mother turned to me, her face pale with shock and disappointment. She struck my arm, her hands trembling. “Wayne! What has happened to you? How could you become like this? I raised you to be honest! How could you take a house from Brandon? If the neighbors find out, how am I supposed to show my face?” “Helen, your parenting wasn’t the problem,” Vicky intervened. “But Wayne has completely lost his way. The gambling, the vice… if he continues to behave like this, I will have no choice but to involve the police.” My family had never had any dealings with the law, and the threat terrified my mother. She grabbed Vicky’s hand, pleading desperately. “Please, Vicky, my husband and I worked for your family for thirty years! Give him one more chance. Wayne… he’s just lost. He still loves you, you know. He still keeps your photo on his nightstand!” “Mom! Stop!” I shouted, the humiliation burning hotter than the physical pain. Vicky looked at me, her expression turning from anger to deep disgust. It was the primal reaction of a wealthy woman realizing she was being coveted by someone she considered a servant. I forced myself to look her dead in the eye. “Vicky, are you sure you want to make a scene here?” “Are you threatening me? You brought this on yourself.” “No,” I said, a cold smile touching my lips. “I just don’t think this is a big enough audience. Why don’t you call our old college classmates? Call the executives from the firm. Let’s make it a real show.” Vicky’s jaw clenched. “You think I won’t?” “I know you won’t.” Driven by her own arrogance and the need to prove her dominance, Vicky pulled out her phone. In college, she had been the wealthy, untouchable campus queen, and she still held sway over our old social circle. With a few quick messages, she summoned anyone who lived within a twenty-minute drive, promising a reckoning. Within half an hour, a small crowd of former classmates and colleagues had gathered on the sidewalk. They looked at my bruised face with complete indifference, quickly gathering behind Vicky to listen to her recount my “crimes.” “Wayne always seemed so quiet in school. I guess you never really know someone.” “He’s just a parasite. I don’t understand why Brandon kept him around for so long.” “If it weren’t for Brandon, he would have been fired months ago. He has no shame.” “Wayne, you’re an embarrassment. Stop leeching off people who actually work for a living.” Their whispers grew louder, and Vicky’s posture grew more triumphant with every insult. My mother was weeping openly now, pulling me behind her small frame, trying to shield me just as she had when I was a child. “Please, stop saying those things,” she sobbed. “My son isn’t a bad person. He was a good student, he cares about us… he’s not what you think…” “Helen, of course you’d say that,” a former classmate interrupted coldly. “But people change. Wayne is just bitter. He couldn’t stand seeing Brandon succeed, and he couldn’t stand seeing Brandon marry Vicky. This is pure jealousy.” “They’re a perfect couple, Wayne. Without them, you’re nothing. You’re just a loser standing on a sidewalk.” “Like mother, like son,” another whispered. “No wonder he turned out this way.” The crowd continued their verbal assault, and Vicky looked at me like a queen looking down at a peasant. “Well, Wayne? Are you satisfied with the turnout?” In my past life, this level of public humiliation would have destroyed me. But tonight, I was almost giddy. The larger the crowd, the more spectacular the fall would be. I looked at Vicky. “Not quite. Since we’re all here, why don’t we go up to my ‘new house’ and take a look? Unless, of course, Brandon didn’t actually buy it for me. What if he spent your family’s money on something else and used my name as a cover?” “Wayne, you ungrateful bastard!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Brandon threw you a lifeline, and you’re trying to drown him!” “I’m streaming this live,” another colleague muttered, holding up a phone. “The local business community needs to see what kind of snake Wayne really is.” Vicky let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You think I don’t know the unit number, Wayne? I know exactly which door it is. I only stayed away because the very thought of you makes me sick. But since you want to play the victim, let’s go up. Let’s see how long you can keep this act up.” I had to admire Brandon’s cleverness. He had used Vicky’s hatred of me to create the perfect blind spot, conducting his affair in a place Vicky knew about but would never visit. We piled into the building’s elevator in shifts. When we finally stood in front of the door to Unit 4B, Vicky turned to me, her eyes cold. “Alright, Wayne. Stop the show. Hand over the keys.” “I don’t have the keys,” I said simply. But as I spoke, I pointed to the small shoe rack next to the door. On it sat a pair of expensive men’s leather loafers and a pair of delicate women’s heels. Vicky’s eyes followed my finger. She froze. She recognized those loafers; she had bought them for Brandon herself last Christmas. “Wayne…” her voice trembled slightly, her confidence wavering for the first time. “Is Brandon inside your apartment?” I let out a soft, pitying chuckle. “Why don’t you knock and find out? Or are you suddenly afraid of what’s on the other side?” “Afraid? Of what?” Her temper flared, and she pounded heavily on the wooden door. Almost immediately, a woman’s annoyed voice drifted from inside. “Who is it? Can’t you use the doorbell? Stop pounding!” The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Standing in the entryway was a young, beautiful woman in a silk robe, her hair tousled and her makeup slightly smudged. The crowd behind us gasped in unison. They recognized her immediately. It was Tiffany, Brandon’s personal secretary. “V-Vicky…” Tiffany stuttered, her face turning pale as she tried to pull her robe tighter around her body. Before anyone could speak, a man’s voice called out from the bedroom. “Babe, who is it?” And then, under the gaze of a dozen colleagues and a live phone camera, my best friend Brandon walked into the hallway. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of boxers, his skin glistening with sweat. When his eyes met Vicky’s, the color drained completely from his face. I leaned against the wall and smiled. The show had finally begun.

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We were halfway through a private spa party when my fiancée went missing. I headed toward the VIP wing to find her. As I walked, lines of glowing text—a bizarre, floating stream of internet comments—glitched across my field of vision: [Why is this charity-case fiancé suddenly heading to the sauna? The heroine is in there getting cozy with the golden-boy imposter right now!] [I love that he paid for the private booking, only for it to become their secret love nest. Delicious irony!] [Serves him right for standing in the way of true love. Die mad about it!] My fiancée’s assistant, Luke, stepped out of the shadows to block my path. “Mr. Carpenter, Miss Harrington said she went to fetch some fresh linens for you. She asked you to wait in the private lounge.” [Luke’s such a bro, always covering for them.] [Our sweet, edgy Christian belongs with Isla. If I were there, I’d lie to this country bumpkin too.] [Isla was too reckless, though. She slammed the door so hard she jammed the emergency lock from the inside. You can’t open it from within now.] I looked at the heavy door. Faint waves of heat radiated from the seams, shimmering in the cool corridor air. Then I looked at the red “Out of Order” sign hanging from the brass handle. I pulled out my phone and dialed the locksmith down the mountain. “Hi, the lock on the sauna door is jammed. Take your time riding your scooter up the mountain. No rush, an hour should do. I’ll wait right here.” [Wait, no! If they wait an hour, they’ll be steamed alive!] 1 “Wayne, what are you doing standing out here?” Isla’s trust-fund friends approached me. Leading the pack were Chad and Ashley. They belonged to Isla and Christian’s elite circle, and they had despised me ever since the Carpenters brought me back a year ago—the biological son who had been lost for twenty years. Chad rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with condescension. “Didn’t Isla tell you to wait in the lounge?” “Did you get lost, Wayne? I guess a luxury alpine resort is a bit much for a guy raised in the sticks.” Ashley chimed in, crossing her arms. “Honestly, Wayne, just because you have the title of fiancé doesn’t mean you have to cling to her like wet paint. Isla has been working herself ragged with PR lately. She finally gets a second to unwind, and you’re smothering her. Aren’t you embarrassed?” [Seriously, this guy is so clingy. Go away already!] [Don’t interrupt our couple’s private time!] [It’s getting incredibly hot in there. Go away, Wayne! Luke, figure out a way to get them out!] I didn’t bother replying to their barbs. Instead, I turned to the spa attendant standing nearby. “Bring me a chaise lounge,” I said. “And set up two of those heavy-duty industrial fans, pointed right at me.” “Oh, and bring over a platter of iced watermelon, chilled grapes, and the most expensive gelato you have.” The attendant blinked, startled, but scurried off to comply. Chad frowned, his brow furrowing. “Wayne, what the hell is wrong with you? This is the VIP corridor. You’re turning it into a campsite?” I ignored him, sinking into the plush leather of the lounge chair the attendant had brought and scooping up a spoonful of blood-orange gelato. “I paid to book out this entire floor. I’ll sit where I want, eat what I want. If you don’t like it, the elevator is right there. Walk.” “You—” Chad’s face turned a dark, mottled purple. Luke was sweating now. His eyes darted repeatedly to the heavy, sealed door of the sauna. The heat escaping from the seams was already warming the hallway. “Mr. Carpenter, it’s really humid out here. It’s not good for your health. How about I escort you to the hydrotherapy pool?” I took my time swallowing. “No need. I just noticed the lock on this sauna seems to be broken. What if someone’s trapped inside? I have a soft heart, Luke. I think I’ll stay right here and wait for the locksmith.” Luke’s face drained of all color. He knew exactly who was in there: his boss, and the adoptive brother she actually loved. [Oh my god, he’s doing this on purpose!] [Does he know? No way, how could a brainless charity case figure it out?] [This is bad. Christian has a weak heart. It must be over 120 degrees in there by now. They’re going to dehydrate!] Chad stepped up, pointing a finger at my chest. “Wayne, don’t push your luck. There’s a maintenance sign on the door. Why would anyone be in there? You’re just throwing a tantrum to get Isla’s attention, aren’t you? Let me tell you something—no matter what pathetic stunts you pull, she will never look at you.” Ashley sneered in agreement. “Exactly. You’re a crude, classless bore. You don’t possess a fraction of Christian’s grace. The Carpenters only brought you back out of pity. Don’t act like you actually belong here.” I looked at them, my gaze cold. I was the biological Carpenter heir, stolen at birth and raised in poverty for twenty years. A year ago, they found me. But my birth parents and my older sister had already poured two decades of love into Christian, the boy they adopted to replace me. They hated my bluntness, my refusal to play their high-society games. Even Isla, the girl I had been betrothed to since childhood, only had eyes for Christian. For a year, I tried to fit in. I begged for their affection. In return, I received nothing but cold shoulders and quiet mockery. Well. I was done playing nice. 2 I dropped the empty rind back onto the silver platter with a loud, deliberate clatter. Chad and Ashley flinched, their irritation spiking. “Who do you think you’re throwing a tantrum at, Wayne?” Chad crossed his arms, looking down his nose. “You think having the Carpenter name makes you special? In this town, people only respect Christian. You’re just a stray dog who wandered into a mansion.” I laughed. “A stray dog? Chad, did you fail basic English, or do you just struggle with metaphors? Christian lived my life, spent my parents’ money, and wore my name for twenty years. How exactly am I the stray here?” [He’s just bitter. Blood means nothing; history is what counts!] [Christian is so sweet. If he weren’t trying to protect Wayne’s feelings, he and Isla would have gone public ages ago.] [Someone open the door! It’s hitting 140 degrees in there!] [Isla is losing consciousness, and Christian is fading. They’re going to die of heatstroke!] Luke was practically vibrating with anxiety, clutching his walkie-talkie but too terrified to call for help publicly. “Mr. Carpenter, please, I’m begging you. Go back to your suite. Let me handle this. If Miss Harrington sees you acting like this, she’ll be furious.” I leaned back into the chaise lounge, completely unbothered. “Let her be furious. What do I care? Nobody touches that door without my permission.” Ashley’s patience snapped. “Wayne, you’ve always been a ghost in our social circle. If you don’t leave right now, I will personally make sure you are blacklisted from every country club and gala in the state!” “Yeah! We’ll freeze you out completely!” Chad barks. I looked at them, finding it almost tragic how much I used to care about their approval. I used to swallow their insults and pay their bar tabs, just to spend five more minutes near Isla. Now? I couldn’t care less. “Sounds great,” I said softly. Chad and Ashley exchanged a stunned look. They hadn’t expected me to fold so easily—or rather, not care at all. “What did you say?” Chad blinked. “I said, sounds great. Frankly, I’m sick of paying for a bunch of trust-fund freeloaders anyway. I already closed the tab for today. From now on, if you want to drink, buy your own. Oh, and Chad? Venmo me for the gelato and the fan rental. Let’s split it fifty-fifty.” [Is he insane? He’s actually burning bridges with her friends?] [He used to beg to be included!] [Forget about that! Christian just collapsed in Isla’s arms! Save them!] [Isla tried to throw herself against the glass, but she’s too weak. It’s blast-resistant glass, she can’t break it!] Luke could not take it anymore. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward. “Mr. Carpenter, forgive me.” He reached out to grab the arm of my chaise lounge, intending to drag me away. I looked up at him, my eyes like ice. “Touch me, Luke, and see what happens. You’re Isla’s assistant, not my keeper. Remember your place.” Luke froze. Just then, a sharp, irritated voice cut through the humid air of the corridor. “Wayne! What on earth are you doing now?” I looked up. It’s my biological older sister, Vicky. And she brought security with her. Chad immediately ran to her like a kicked puppy. “Vicky, thank God you’re here! Wayne is throwing a fit. He’s blockading the hallway, insulting us, and threatening Luke!” Vicky’s brow furrowed, her eyes blazing as she marched over to me. “Where is Christian?” “We’ve been looking for him everywhere, and here you are, lounging like a king and stuffing your face?” Looking at her familiar, biased face, I felt a dull ache in my chest, but I swallowed it down. “He’s a grown man. Why would I know where he is?” Vicky pointed a manicured finger at my face. “Don’t you dare use that tone with me! Christian has a heart condition. If anything happens to him because of your negligence, you’ll answer to me. Get up right now and go find him!” I took another sip of my chilled drink. “No. I’m waiting for the locksmith.” 3 “What locksmith? Have you completely lost your mind?” Vicky swats the glass out of my hand. It shatters against the marble floor, sticky liquid splashing across my designer trousers. She doesn’t apologize. She just looks at me with pure disgust. “Wayne, when is it going to be enough?” “Every time we go out, you ruin the mood. Do you have any idea how pathetic and small-minded you look right now?” [Yes! Tell him, Vicky!] [He needs to be thrown out of the family!] [Vicky, move him! It’s nearly 160 degrees in there! Christian is slipping away!] [Isla’s skin is completely flush! Break the door!] “Vicky,” I said, my voice deadly quiet as I stood up and brushed the glass shards off my knees. “That is the last time you will ever lay a hand on me.” “If you don’t want to wait for the locksmith, be my guest. Smash the door open yourself. If you have the guts, go ahead.” Vicky let out a bitter laugh. “You are utterly deranged. Security, remove him. Get him out of my sight before he embarrasses this family any further.” The two guards she brought stepped forward, grabbing me by the shoulders. [Yes! Toss him out!] [Once he’s gone, they can break the lock!] [Christian, hold on, help is coming!] [Isla is convulsing. Oh my god, this is awful!] “Get off me!” I twisted violently, anchoring my hands around a heavy marble pillar in the corridor. Vicky snapped: “Pry his hands off!” The guard applied pressure to my knuckles, a sharp, white-hot pain shooting up my arm. In a flash of adrenaline, I leaned down and bit his wrist, hard. “Ah!” The guard gasped, releasing his grip instantly. Dark red blood began to drip onto the pristine white marble. [Oh my god! He bit him?!] [Feral trash! He has no class whatsoever!] [Vicky, call the cops! Don’t let him delay the rescue!] Vicky screamed, “Wayne! You animal!” “I will teach you some respect if it’s the last thing I do!” Chad yelled, “Call the resort police! Get him arrested for assault!” Within minutes, two local deputies who patrolled the resort area arrived. Vicky pointed at me, her voice shaking with calculated fury. “Officers, my brother is mentally unstable. He’s been causing a public disturbance and just brutally assaulted my security guard. Please take him into custody immediately.” Chad and Ashley eagerly backed her up. “Yes! We saw it! He’s extremely violent!” The deputies looked at the guard’s bloody wrist, their expressions hardening. “Sir, you’re under arrest for aggravated assault. Please step away from the pillar.” The cold metal of the handcuffs clicked around my wrists. I offered a thin, razor-sharp smile. “I’ll go quietly, deputies. But I suggest you stick around. There’s about to be a massive scandal in this hallway.” “Shut your mouth!” Vicky snarls. Just then, the elevator chimes. “Vicky! Have you found Christian yet?” A portly, middle-aged man in a tailored suit rushed out, followed by several wealthy business associates he’d been entertaining. 4 My father, Richard Carpenter, looked frantic. But when he saw me in handcuffs, his worry curdled into instant rage. “Wayne! You worthless embarrassment! What have you done now?” “Your brother is missing, and you’re here starting fights and getting arrested? I should have left you in whatever gutter we found you in! You are a stain on the Carpenter name!” [Preach, Mr. Carpenter! He doesn’t deserve the name!] [Only Christian is a true Carpenter!] [Drag him away! The lock is melting!] The deputy explained, “Sir, your son assaulted a guard. We have to take him in.” Richard waved his hand dismissively. “Take him! Keep him locked up for a few days to teach him a lesson! Just get him out of my sight so I can find Christian!” I looked at the man who shared my DNA, feeling nothing but a cold, liberating emptiness. “Dad,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “You want to find your precious Christian?” “Look right there.” I nodded toward the sauna door with the “Out of Order” sign. Richard’s face faltered. Vicky immediately scoffs. “Don’t lie. Why would Christian be in a closed sauna?” “If you don’t believe me, ask Luke,” I said, tilting my head. “He’s been guarding this door like a loyal dog since the start.” Every eye in the corridor turned to Luke. Luke stammered, his collar soaked in sweat. “No… no, sir… Miss Harrington and Christian… they aren’t in there…” I let out a soft laugh. “Really? Then who turned the temperature dial up to maximum? And who slammed the door so hard the lock jammed?” “Your golden child, Dad. He’s inside right now, having a lovely little rendezvous with my fiancée.” Slap. The force of Richard’s hand spun my head to the side. My cheek burned instantly, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in my mouth. “You filthy-minded degenerate!” Richard was shaking, his face bright red. “You dare slander your own brother and Isla? Christian is a boy of impeccable character! He would never do something so vile! You’re just jealous because he’s better than you, more loved than you, so you throw dirt on his name!” The wealthy associates behind him shook their heads. “Wayne, that’s incredibly low. You don’t accuse your own brother of that.” “Yes, Isla is a lovely girl. Quite respectable. This is absurd.” I touched my burning cheek, my eyes narrowing to slits. Slap. An even louder, sharper crack echoed through the corridor. I watched as Richard stumbled back, clutching his own face. The hallway goes dead silent. Vicky gasped, her eyes wide with horror. “Wayne! You hit Dad!” Richard looked like he wanted to tear me apart. “You ungrateful bastard! I brought you into this world, and you dare strike me?!” The deputies quickly stepped between us. “Sir, step back! Calm down!” I stood behind the deputies, looking down at my father. “You gave me life, but you never gave me a father. If you think I’m lying, open the door. Let’s see who is telling the truth.” Driven mad by the humiliation, Richard lunged toward the sauna. “I will! And when it’s empty, I’m personally throwing you out of the family!” He grabbed the metal handle of the sauna door. “Ah!” He shrieked, pulling his hand back. The metal was scalding. Just then, the locksmith ran out of the elevator, clutching his tool bag. “Make way! Emergency!” The man worked fast. Within thirty seconds, his drill ate through the jammed lock mechanism. With a heavy click, the blast-resistant glass door swung open.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499023”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel