Category: English

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

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

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1 My brother’s memory shattered in the twisted metal of a car wreck three years ago. At least, that’s what I believed. When he woke up, he didn’t recognize me. Instead, he reached out for Jodie Hart—the scholarship student our family had been sponsoring—and called her his little sister. He showered her with the protective, obsessive love that used to be mine. And me? He treated me like a ghost, a parasite, an enemy to be broken. Every time the torment became unbearable, every time I was on the verge of screaming the truth into his face, I choked it back. I didn’t want to trigger another neurological relapse. I chose his health over my life. Until today. Xander had forced me to hike up the mountain trail in the blistering, triple-digit heat of a Georgia summer. My task was to deliver emergency oxygen tanks to the luxury villa at the summit, where Jodie was supposedly having a “breathing spell” during their vacation. I reached the heavy oak doors of the villa, my lungs screaming, my vision swimming in the heat. But as I reached for the handle, I heard laughter from the patio. They were playing a game. “I’m telling you, the amnesia was a masterpiece,” Xander’s voice rang out, clear and chillingly sober. “The memory loss was a front. Mistaking Jodie for my sister? A calculated move. But the way I cherish Jodie? That’s the only part that’s real.” A chorus of gasps and drunken chuckles followed from his inner circle of friends. “Damn, Xander,” one of them laughed. “So treating Sloane like a dog, torturing her for three years—that was all intentional? You’ve got a cold heart, man.” Xander’s voice was devoid of remorse. “It was the only way to break her. Sloane was a spoiled, entitled brat. She needed to be rebuilt from the ground up. This ‘ordeal’ was her refinement process. Besides, I’m planning to ‘recover’ my memory tomorrow. By dinner time, she’ll be my beloved sister again, and she’ll be a hell of a lot more obedient for it.” The hiking pole in my hand shook so violently it rattled against the stone. A wave of nauseating absurdity crashed into my chest, so heavy I thought it would snap my ribs. I started to laugh, a dry, bitter sound that died in my parched throat. What Xander didn’t know was that the System—the inexplicable consciousness that had governed my life since I turned twenty—was finally pulling me out of this world. I wouldn’t be around to be his “beloved sister” tomorrow. A sharp, digital ping echoed in my skull. [Warning! Host has three hours remaining until world-exit. Please prepare for departure.] Usually, I’d be crying, begging the System for more time, desperate to see my brother smile at me just once more. This time, I simply whispered, “Copy that.” Inside the villa, the discussion surged again. “You’re right though,” another friend chimed in. “Sloane needed to be put in her place. Remember how many times she made Jodie cry back in the day? Seeing her stripped of her status… honestly, Xander, some of those moves were brilliant. She’s definitely not arrogant anymore.” “And today’s stunt?” someone else asked. “The news said it’s a record-breaking 105 degrees. You made her hike three thousand feet with heavy tanks? She’s lucky if she makes it up here with half her soul intact.” I pushed the door open. The silence that followed was deafening. The air-conditioned chill hit my sweat-soaked skin like a slap. Everyone stared. Xander’s face flickered with a momentary spasm of panic before he smoothed it into a mask of cold indifference. I dragged my trembling legs across the polished marble, my head bowed, and set the oxygen tanks on the mahogany table. As I tried to straighten my back, my strength vanished. I collapsed onto the floor, my knees hitting the wood with a dull thud. One of Xander’s friends looked between us, his expression shifting to one of sheer awkwardness. He stepped forward to help me, muttering, “Sloane, hey, be careful—” “Sloane Miller!” Xander’s voice thundered, stopping the man in his tracks. “Now that you’ve heard the truth, you think you can just play the victim? You’re falling on the floor to guilt-trip me?” He walked toward me, his shadow looming large. “I see three years of discipline haven’t cured your theatrics. You’re still as manipulative as ever.” My heart gave a dull, painful flutter. My throat was too scorched to form words. Too light? He thought the discipline was too light? He had unleashed the full force of his cruelty on me. A ‘staged’ car accident that left my bones shattered, landing me in the ICU for three months. Multiple ‘accidental’ falls into the river that left me with chronic respiratory issues. He had turned me into Jodie’s personal maid, stripping me of my dignity until I was lower than a stray in the eyes of our social circle. I had endured it all because I thought I was saving him. Because I thought his ‘recovery’ was the light at the end of the tunnel. But he had been the one holding the match the whole time. The injustice boiled up, hot and stinging. I forced my head up, my eyes bloodshot, and stared directly into his. Xander flinched, a small cough escaping him as if he were about to soften his tone. Then, Jodie screamed. “Oh my god! There’s a razor blade taped to the oxygen tank! It cut me! It hurts so much!” She gripped her hand, sobbing hysterically. “Sloane, if you’re mad at Xander, take it out on him. Please don’t hurt me anymore. He only did this because he loves you!” In a heartbeat, the flicker of guilt in Xander’s eyes died. It was replaced by a familiar, searing disappointment. “You never change, Sloane. And here I was, actually feeling sorry for you. I was going to ‘remember’ who you were tomorrow.” He leaned down, his voice a low hiss. “Tonight is your final lesson. If you can’t fix your soul by morning, don’t blame me for being truly heartless.” He turned his back on me, scooping Jodie into his arms to tend to her ‘wound.’ He barked an order to the security guards. “Take her outside. Let her stay in the sun until she learns the meaning of accountability.” I was dragged out and dumped on the burning patio. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass, I watched Xander tenderly hovering over Jodie, feeding her water like she was made of glass. My heart felt like it was turning to ash. Did he even know why he did this? Was it really to “refine” me, or was the amnesia just a convenient excuse to love Jodie openly? I don’t think even he knew anymore. The world began to go quiet. Only the mechanical voice in my head remained. [Thirty minutes until world-exit.] The sun was a physical weight. Dehydration was setting in, my skin turning a terrifying shade of mottled red. Every muscle in my body spasmed. A few yards away, there was a garden hose. I began to crawl, an instinctive, pathetic movement toward survival. I reached it. My fingers brushed the plastic. But before I could turn the nozzle, a designer shoe stepped firmly on the hose. Xander. “Jodie is inside crying, and here you are, still playing your little games,” he snapped. “How can I ever trust you with the family name again?” My lips were cracked and bleeding. I could only wheeze out one word. “Water… please…” Xander frowned, unable or unwilling to hear me. One of his friends stood by the glass door, looking uneasy. “Xander, man, look at her. It’s lethal out there. Just let her have a drink.” Xander didn’t blink. “Absolutely not. Discipline requires hardship. She’s built like an ox—I’ve made sure of that over the last three years. She’s faking the extremity to get my attention.” The friend opened his mouth to argue, but Xander’s expression shifted. He threw out a subtle threat about a pending business merger, and the friend went silent, retreating inside. Xander turned to the gardener who was working nearby. “Make sure the jasmine garden is watered every hour. Jodie worked hard on those flowers. Don’t let them wither in this heat.” The words felt like a scalpel to the heart. My life was worth less than Jodie’s flowers. Xander started to walk away, then paused. He didn’t look back, but his voice held a strange mix of frustration and buried hope. “Stay out here until tomorrow. If you don’t cause any more trouble, I’ll announce my recovery in the morning. You’ll be my sister again. The girl I used to spoil.” I shook my head, a ghostly, tragic smile on my face. He used to love me more than his own life. He used to say he’d bring me the stars if I asked. Somewhere along the line, after Jodie arrived, that love had curdled into something unrecognizable. And besides, I wouldn’t make it to tomorrow. The dehydration was absolute. My vision was tunneling into darkness. [System Alert: Final countdown. Ten… nine…] The ticking was a hammer against my skull. With my last ounce of strength, I looked toward the villa. “Goodbye, Xander.” He froze at the door, his hand on the handle. He let out a sharp, angry laugh. “Sloane, I told you—it’s tomorrow or never. Your threats don’t work on me anymore.” He slammed the door. As the sound echoed, the final second ticked away. A violent, yet strangely gentle force yanked me upward. I was floating, looking down at the mangled, pathetic heap of my own body. My legs were covered in raw scrapes from the hike. My clothes were stiff with salt and sweat. I looked like a discarded rag. I drifted through the glass into the villa. Even without a body, the sudden drop in temperature felt like a shock. Xander had spent a fortune to have industrial-grade AC installed up here, just so Jodie wouldn’t be uncomfortable in the summer. Jodie said she was hungry. Xander immediately stopped the game and ushered everyone into the kitchen. He, a man who had never even boiled an egg, put on an apron to make soup. His friends were floored. “Xander, you’ve always made us order in or had the chef do it. You wouldn’t even make toast for Sloane when she got out of surgery because you said you ‘hated the smell of the kitchen.’” Xander focused on chopping vegetables, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Jodie’s hand is hurt. She’s upset. I want to do something to make her feel better.” A phantom pain tightened in my chest. I remembered that surgery. I had begged him for a bowl of his porridge. He had ignored me, hiring a Michelin-star chef to make a dozen versions until I shut up. I thought he just had a boundary with cooking. I was wrong. He just didn’t want to cook for me. “Do you think Sloane actually left?” someone asked. “She seemed… different today. Maybe she’s actually done.” Xander didn’t look up. “She won’t leave. She’s spent three years dreaming of the day I ‘remember’ her. She won’t miss her chance tomorrow. Besides, if I don’t do this, how will she ever learn? She was a bully, school-wide. She almost drove Jodie to suicide.” They all nodded, convinced by his logic. I looked down at them, my voice a whisper they couldn’t hear. That’s not true. If you had just looked an inch deeper, you’d have seen the truth. Suddenly, the domestic peace was shattered by a wail. “Xander! There’s so much blood! It won’t stop!” Xander bolted from the kitchen. Jodie was staring at her hand, sobbing. “I don’t know what Sloane put on that blade, but the cut won’t close. It’s okay… I probably deserve this.” Xander’s face went scarlet. “Sloane Miller! You sadistic little…” He gritted his teeth so hard I heard the bone click. “Even now, she’s sabotaging you!” I waved my ghostly hands in desperation. It wasn’t me! I didn’t put a blade there! Why do you believe her every time? Xander called for the villa’s private doctor. Then, he barked an order: “Go outside and draw Sloane’s blood. If Jodie needs a transfusion or a specialized plasma match, Sloane is going to provide it. Every drop if necessary.” “But Xander,” a friend whispered, “she’s been in the sun for hours after a mountain hike. Is that safe?” “She caused this!” Xander roared. “She needs to take responsibility! She thinks I’ll always be there to clean up her mess? Not anymore.” No one dared move. Xander hovered over the doctor, asking a thousand questions about Jodie’s safety. When the doctor assured him she would be fine with a few stitches, Xander finally exhaled. But then, the doctor returned from the patio, his face ashen. “Mr. Miller… something is wrong. I need you to authorize the medical override for Miss Sloane.” Xander scoffed. “Is she refusing to give blood? Tell her if she doesn’t cooperate, tomorrow is canceled. She stays a pariah forever.” The doctor was shaking, wiping sweat from his forehead. He couldn’t even speak before the guards pushed him back toward the door. Xander stood by the window, staring out at the spot where my body lay. He pulled out his phone and initiated a video call with the doctor who was now standing over me. “Sloane Miller! Stop this nonsense! Do you think playing dead on the grass is going to get you out of this? I’m giving you one minute to get up and cooperate, or you are dead to this family!” The doctor didn’t answer. Instead, he turned the camera toward my face. “Mr. Miller…” the doctor’s voice was a ragged whisper. “Her face is… it’s purple-grey. Her skin isn’t rebounding. I think…” Xander’s eyes finally focused on the screen. The color drained from his face. He stumbled toward the door, but Jodie grabbed his arm. “Xander, don’t let her trick you again,” she whined. “I’ll be fine. Don’t let her use her ‘health’ to manipulate you into feeling guilty.” She tried to lead him away, but as she moved, her “wound” supposedly burst, spilling blood onto the carpet. Xander’s protective instinct flared into a blind rage. “Sloane! Jodie is bleeding out while you lie there pretending! I almost fell for it!” He turned to the guards. “Drag her in! I don’t care if she’s conscious or not, get that blood!” He carried Jodie to the bedroom, staying with her until she calmed down. Finally, he decided to give me one last “chance.” He walked toward the infirmary room, expecting to see me sulking on a gurney. Instead, he met the doctor in the hallway. The man was holding a glass vial, his hands trembling. “Mr. Miller… Miss Sloane…” “Where is she?” Xander snapped. “Did she finally stop the act?” The doctor looked down at the vial. “I couldn’t draw any more. The blood… it’s already clotted. Miss Sloane is dead.”

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My roommate was a professional “sugar-hunter.” In the digital underbelly of exclusive forums, she’d cultivated an entire roster of boyfriends—all of them heirs to some tech fortune or real estate empire. She categorized them like stock options: A-List, B-List, and C-List. The A-Listers were the whales; they’d wire her five-figure sums just for being “sweet.” The C-Listers were the stingy ones, and by the end of every month, she’d conduct a brutal pruning. It was purge night. I sat at my desk, paralyzed by the mere thought of a social interaction, while she groaned from her bed. “Ugh, I’m exhausted,” she complained, her thumb flying across her screen as she blocked one contact after another. “If you’re broke, don’t pretend to be a trust-fund baby. I don’t have time to waste on losers who can’t even cover a shopping spree.” I bit my lip, my heart hammering against my ribs. I raised a trembling hand, my voice barely a whisper. “Sienna… those guys you’re blocking. Are you just… throwing them away?” She glanced up, squinting. “Yeah. Why?” “Could you… could you give one to me?” 1 I have social anxiety. Not the “I’m a bit shy at parties” kind, but the “I have a panic attack if the barista looks me in the eye” kind. It had reached a breaking point. My therapist told me that if I didn’t make progress, I’d have to take a medical leave from the university. But I didn’t have the money for the intensive, high-end cognitive behavioral programs. “Start small,” the doctor had suggested. “Talk to people online. Maybe even try a low-stakes digital romance. It’s a safe space to practice being yourself.” But I was too terrified to even send a “hi” to a stranger on a dating app. That was why I’d gathered every ounce of courage to speak to Sienna Reed. She looked at me like I’d just grown a second head. “Wait… you actually have a voice? I thought you were a literal mute, Daisy.” The embarrassment burned my throat. I stared at my shoes. “What, you want to try your hand at the game?” Sienna smirked, her eyes glinting with a predatory sort of amusement. “I guess I could spare one.” She swiped through her secondary phone, then stopped. “Here. This guy. He’s on an encrypted messaging app I don’t use much anymore. I’ll give you the login. It’s all yours.” A surge of hope flared in my chest. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. “Thank… thank you.” I reached for the phone, but she pulled it back, her expression hardening. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. It’s not a gift. I spent weeks ‘farming’ this contact. It’s a premium lead. Five hundred bucks, and the account is yours for good.” 2 “Five hundred?” I stammered, my hand dropping. “Nothing in this world is free, Daisy. Especially not a billionaire’s son.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word on the street is this guy is the heir to the Montgomery estate—old money, private jets, the works. If you play your cards right, you’ll make that five hundred back in a single ‘good morning’ text. You want him or not?” The truth was, Sienna didn’t actually know if he was a Montgomery. The guy had never replied to her messages, never posted on his private feed, and certainly never sent her a cent. She figured she’d been scammed by whatever broker sold her the contact info. I didn’t care about the money, though. I wasn’t looking for a payday; I was looking for a ghost to talk to. I hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.” Sienna’s eyes lit up. She flipped her phone around to show her Venmo QR code. “Smart girl, Daisy Miller. You won’t regret it.” After the transfer went through, I logged into the account and changed the recovery info. As I did, I caught Sienna watching me. She looked… surprised. “I never noticed before,” she muttered as I climbed into my bunk bed and pulled the curtains shut. “You’re actually kind of a knockout when you aren’t hiding behind that hair.” 3 Behind the safety of my bed curtains, the world felt manageable. I stared at the new profile. The avatar was a minimalist, cold shot of a mountain peak. The name was just “M.” How do you even start? For someone like me, a digital “hello” felt like a leap off a cliff. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and typed: Hi. Are you awake? I hit send and immediately tossed the phone to the foot of the bed, my heart racing. I waited. And waited. By the time I fell asleep, there was no reply. Honestly? It was a relief. Talking to a living, breathing person was terrifying. Talking to a silent void? That, I could do. He became my digital diary—a “tree hole” where I could bury my thoughts. Daisies: [Good morning. They put onions in the breakfast burritos at the dining hall today. Gross.] Daisies: [I saw two squirrels fighting over a crust of bread today. The smaller one won. It felt like a win for the little guy.] Three months passed. I sent him snippets of my day, photos of the sunset, and my secret fears. I never expected a reply, so I grew bold. I practiced the flirtatious lines I’d read in novels, testing them out on the silence. Daisies: [Do you know what my favorite kind of star is?] Daisies: [It’s the one I see when I think of you. Cheesy, right? I’ll stop.] The turning point came when I dropped my phone in the library. The screen shattered, and it took three days to get it repaired. When I finally logged back in, my breath hitched. There were two messages. M: [?] (Sent the first night I was gone, at midnight.) M: [Losing patience already?] (Sent the second night.) My stomach did a somersault. He was… alive. He was a real person. And he had noticed I was gone. Before I could figure out a reply, the phone began to vibrate in my hand. He was calling. 4 I panicked and hit ‘decline’ so fast I almost dropped the phone again. Across the room, Sienna narrowed her eyes. “Daisy? Was that your phone? I haven’t heard that thing ring since the semester started.” Nobody ever called me. I looked away, my face flushing. “It was… just an alarm.” The phone vibrated again. Sienna stood up, reaching for it. “Let me see. You’ve been acting weird lately.” “No!” I pulled back, but she was faster, lunging for the device. In the scuffle, she knocked over her bowl of spicy ramen. The red broth splashed everywhere, soaking into the fabric of her cream-colored designer dress. “No!” she shrieked, looking at the stain in horror. “This was two thousand dollars! Daisy, you clumsy bitch! You’re paying for this!” I’m not just socially anxious; I’m a “frustration crier.” My throat tightened, and my voice cracked with tears. “You… you tried to grab it. It’s not my fault.” “The hell it isn’t! If you’d just given me the phone, this wouldn’t have happened!” Our other roommate, Mia, finally snapped. “Sienna, shut up. You were harassing her. Why would she show you her private messages?” Lexi chimed in from her desk. “Exactly. We saw it. You lunged at her. Don’t try to bully her into paying for your vanity.” Sienna fumed, realizing she was outnumbered. She grabbed her robe and stomped toward the bathroom. “Fine! You’re all just jealous. I’m telling the RA about this!” Once she was gone, I looked at Mia and Lexi, my eyes wet. “Thank you.” “Don’t sweat it, Daisy. She’s been a nightmare lately,” Mia said. I climbed back into my bed, trembling. I looked at my phone and realized my worst nightmare had come true. In the struggle, I hadn’t declined the second call. I had accidentally hit ‘accept.’ “Done fighting yet?” a voice asked. 5 It was a deep, cool baritone that sounded like expensive bourbon and late nights. I hung up immediately. M: [What? Did you lose the fight? Are you crying now?] I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Daisies: [No. I’m just… you scared me.] M: [My bad. I shouldn’t have called out of the blue.] M: [Busy the last three days?] He actually cared. Daisies: [No, my phone broke. I just got it back today.] M: [Why didn’t you just buy a new one?] Must be nice to be that rich. Daisies: [The old one still works.] There was a five-minute silence while he apparently processed the concept of “repairing” things. Then: M: [Transfer: $10,000. Go get a new phone.] The amount of zeros made me dizzy. My hands shook. Daisies: [No, no! I can’t take this. Truly, I’m fine.] M: [Don’t overthink it. Your daily updates are… entertaining. I got used to them. I don’t like it when my routine is interrupted.] M: [Buy the phone. Keep the updates coming.] I was stunned. Daisies: [Oh. Okay.] M: [Transfer: $10,000. For the dress. Buy a twenty-thousand-dollar one. Tell your roommate to stay in her lane.] This was insane. Was I being groomed? Was this some elaborate scam? But I had nothing to steal. Daisies: [Why are you doing this?] M: [You have a nice voice. I heard a bit of it before you hung up. I have chronic insomnia. If you’re willing to read me a story every night until I fall asleep, I’ll put you on a $15,000 monthly retainer. Think of it as a job.] My heart thudded. This wasn’t just a way to pay for school; it was a way to practice speaking. To a stranger who couldn’t see me. Daisies: [Okay. Deal.]

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1 The day I caught Nathan Miller in bed with another woman, she didn’t scream or try to hide. Instead, she took a jagged shard from a broken bedside lamp and sliced it deep across her own cheek. Nathan didn’t even look at me. He just lunged for her, pinning her hands down, shielding her mangled face with his own body as if she were a precious, wounded animal. “Nathan, let me see her!” I screamed, my voice a raw, hysterical mess. “Let me see who she is!” He turned his head just enough for me to see his eyes. They were bloodshot, rimmed with a desperate, suffocating guilt. “It’s my fault,” he choked out. “Everything is my fault. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Please, Ginger… just don’t look. Don’t force her into this.” After that night, Nathan became a ghost, haunting the edges of our life with a terrifying, subservient devotion. He surrendered his phone every night. He installed cameras in his own car. Even when a female patient sent him a professional text, he’d bring it to me, begging for a cross-examination. He did everything I asked—and everything I didn’t—just to be allowed back into my grace. I thought I was finally healing. Until three days before our wedding. I went to the bridal boutique to pick up my dress. The clerk looked at me, her expression a mask of confusion. “Ms. Hall? You already picked up your gown this morning. I actually just saw the video of your ceremony on Instagram.” She tapped her phone and turned the screen toward me. In the video, Derek and the rest of Nathan’s inner circle—men who had spent the last year calling me “big sister”—were laughing as they handed over the rings. Our mutual friends were all there, cheering. Nathan stood at the altar, his face glowing with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. He leaned down, whispering to the bride, his voice a honeyed caress. “Cassidy,” he murmured. The name hit me like a physical blow. But it was the bride’s face—a face identical to my own—that turned my blood to ice. My ears began to ring with a deafening, high-pitched whine. My vision blurred as I stared at the bride’s shoulder. There, peeking out from the lace of the dress I was supposed to be wearing, was a tattoo of a wild hibiscus. I knew that tattoo. My best friend, Cassidy Beckett, had gotten it years ago after a devastating breakup. I had begged her not to do it, but she had been inconsolable. She never told me who the man was—the one who made her feel so small. “I just need to hold onto something,” she had sobbed back then. “Ginger, you have everything. You don’t know what it’s like to love someone you can never have.” Now, I knew. The man she couldn’t have was my fiancé. My knees gave out, and I hit the floor of the boutique. For the last three years, whenever I had a mental breakdown, Cassidy had been there via text, replying within seconds. But she never saw me in person. She always claimed her job kept her traveling, kept her too busy to visit. I never imagined she was the woman from three years ago. The woman who would rather mutilate her own face than let me see who she was. Ignoring the worried calls of the shop girls, I scrambled out of the store and drove like a madwoman to the venue. When I arrived, the reception was in full swing at a secluded estate. I stepped out of the car and immediately heard Derek’s voice coming from a side terrace. “Are you really not worried about Ginger finding out?” There was a long silence. Then, Nathan’s voice, low and heavy. “Ginger took everything from Cassidy. Her face was ruined because of Ginger’s reaction that night. This wedding… it’s the only way I can pay her back. It’s what she deserves.” “Just keep her in the dark a little longer,” Nathan added. Derek patted his shoulder. “Of course, man. I mean, if Ginger hadn’t been so hysterical back then, Cassidy wouldn’t have felt pushed to do that to herself. Ginger really went over the edge.” Riley, a med student I had personally mentored and sponsored, chimed in without a hint of hesitation. “Don’t worry, Dr. Miller. We’ve got your back. You just enjoy the honeymoon with the real Mrs. Miller. I’ll handle Ginger.” As she spoke, my phone vibrated. A text from Riley: [Hey Ginger! Dr. Miller is going to be stuck at the hospital for clinical training for the next few days. I’ll keep an eye on him for you!] Tears splashed onto the screen. I scrolled up. Five hundred messages. Five hundred reports on Nathan’s movements over the years. Every single one was a lie. They had spent three years treating me like a fool to be managed. On the terrace, Derek suddenly tensed. “Wait, what if Ginger sees a video on social media? I should go deal with that.” He started to get up, but Cassidy—wearing my face and my dress—stopped him. “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “Ginger has seen ‘glimpses’ of us before. But every time she checked the security footage, she only saw this face. She looks in the mirror and sees me. After a while, she started to think she was just losing her mind.” The world tilted. I remembered the nights I spent questioning my own sanity. Nathan would just look at me with those tired, patient eyes. He would let me strip him down to check for marks. He would swear he was alone, that I was just imagining things. He made me believe I was sick. He used my own face as a shield for his mistress. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I doubled over, vomiting into the grass. Riley’s voice drifted over again. She was hugging Cassidy. “You’ve sacrificed so much for him. Why can’t he just tell Ginger the truth and leave her?” Nathan sighed. I could almost picture the pained, noble look on his face. “Ginger… she saved my life once. Taking care of her is my responsibility for the rest of my life.” Responsibility. I thought back to the boy I had found years ago. Nathan had been a stray. His parents had remarried and abandoned him; he was just a teenager shivering under my porch during a brutal winter. I brought him a bowl of soup, and he asked me what I wanted in return. I didn’t want a debt. I wanted a friend. From age eight to eighteen, he was my shadow. But Cassidy used to pretend to hate him. She said he wasn’t good enough for me. They fought constantly. I tried to mediate, thinking they both just loved me too much to share me. Then came the night Cassidy got cornered by a group of thugs in an alley. Nathan, usually so calm, had bolted out the door the second he heard. By the time I caught up, he was fighting like a demon, blood on his face, eyes wild with a protective rage I’d never seen. I had rushed in to pull him away. In the chaos, I was pushed into the street. A car hit me. I spent months in a wheelchair; I nearly lost my legs. Nathan had knelt before my parents, swearing that if he ever betrayed me, God could strike him dead. Cassidy had cried until her eyes were swollen shut, promising she’d stay by my side until I could walk again. When I finally put on my prosthetics, they both wept. I thought they were crying for my pain. Now I realized they were crying for their love—the love that had to be buried in the dark because of me. Cassidy’s voice pulled me back. “Nathan, do you think we’re being too cruel to Ginger?” The group surrounded her, offering comfort. “It’s not your fault. Ginger is the one dragging you both down. If she wasn’t so fragile, we wouldn’t have to hide like this.” Nathan didn’t answer. He just pulled her into his arms. My heart felt like it was being crushed. My breath came in ragged gasps. With trembling hands, I pulled out my phone and sent a message to a number I hadn’t touched in years. [You once said that if the future version of you ever betrayed me, you’d give me a final gift. Does that still stand?] The reply came instantly. [Yes.] I wiped my eyes, stood up, and walked out into the reception. “Then tell me,” I said, my voice a hollow rasp. “Whose fault is it, exactly?” Nathan froze. His face went ghostly pale. He took a reflexive step toward me, his lips moving, but no sound came out. I turned my gaze to Cassidy. “Or maybe you think it’s my fault?” Cassidy’s hand flew to the skirt of the wedding dress—my dress. She looked like she wanted to disappear. “Ginger, I’m so sorry, I just…” “You just what?” I snapped. “You just couldn’t help being a pathetic backstabber? You just had to have my life?” The bitterness boiled over. Before I knew it, my hand connected with her face. The slap echoed across the terrace. Nathan lunged forward, putting himself between us. “Ginger! Stop it! You don’t know what you’re saying!” Cassidy pushed him back, her voice trembling. “Don’t be mean to her! Ginger, it’s my fault. Hit me again if it makes you feel better.” When her fingers brushed my arm, the revulsion was electric. I swung again, harder this time. “Don’t you touch me!” The force of the movement sent Cassidy stumbling back. She tripped on the hem of the dress and fell hard onto the stone floor. She clutched her stomach, a look of genuine agony crossing her face. Before I could react, Nathan shoved me aside with a violence that sent me sprawling. “Ginger, are you insane?! Just because you can’t have a child doesn’t mean you can kill hers! She ruined her face to protect your feelings, and you still treat her like trash?” He didn’t look at me with guilt anymore. It was pure, unadulterated loathing. He scooped Cassidy up and walked away without looking back. Derek glared at me. “Do you have any idea? Cassidy is pregnant. If anything happens to that baby, Nathan will never forgive you.” Riley looked at me with deep disappointment. “You went too far, Ginger.” I sat on the cold stone, watching them chase after him. I felt hollow. They seemed to have forgotten. Five years ago, Nathan and I had a child. To help Cassidy’s firm get off the ground, I had worked myself to the bone, drinking cold gin at every business dinner to close deals for her. I lost the baby before I even knew I was pregnant. Nathan had been hysterical with grief back then. He had pinned Cassidy against a wall, screaming at her. I was the one who pulled him off. I was the one who begged him not to blame her. Now, as I watched his retreating back, I felt a chill that settled into my very marrow. I collapsed, the world going black. I woke up in a hospital bed. Nathan was sitting there. When he saw my eyes open, he hesitated. “The doctor says you need rest.” He handed me a cup of water and some pills. I stared at him, then flicked my wrist. The scalding water splashed over his hand. He winced but didn’t move. He only grabbed my wrist when I tried to get out of bed. “Ginger, you can scream at me later. But right now, you aren’t leaving.” His grip was frantic, as if he were terrified I’d find something out. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the hallway downstairs, followed by a familiar, angry roar. My heart plummeted. I broke free and ran to the stairs. The scene in the living room made my blood run cold. Cassidy was there, wearing a silk robe, standing amidst shattered porcelain. And standing across from her were my parents. Nathan rushed past me, grabbing Cassidy. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” My parents stared at them, their faces contorted. They hadn’t even had time to process why this woman looked like me before they saw Nathan’s hands all over her. “Nathan,” my father said, his voice shaking. “What is the meaning of this?” Nathan tightened his grip on Cassidy’s hand. “It’s exactly what it looks like.” My father’s chest heaved. “You’re insane. After everything Ginger did for you? After everything we did for you?” My mother held onto him, her eyes burning with rage. Cassidy suddenly dropped to her knees. “Mr. and Mrs. Hall, it’s my fault… I’m so sorry. But please, let us be together.” Nathan pulled her up, his voice cold. “I know I owe Ginger. I’ll come to your house and apologize properly another day. But Cassidy is in her first trimester and needs peace. Please. Leave my house.” He had knelt before these people once. He had promised to cherish me. My father has a weak heart; I had never told him about Nathan’s past infidelities because I was afraid the shock would kill him. Now, he was finding out that the boy he raised like a son was sleeping with a woman who had surgically altered herself to look like his daughter. “How… how could you do this to her?” my father gasped. His eyes rolled back, and he hit the floor with a sickening thud. “Dad!” I screamed, pushing past Cassidy. “Get away from him!” Nathan’s face was like stone. He shielded Cassidy. “Ginger! Stop being so bitter!” I didn’t care what he said. I got my father to the hospital, but the ER was slammed. I remembered that as a doctor’s spouse, I could request the use of a reserved surgical suite. I ran to the nurse’s station. The nurse looked at me with pure disdain. “Dr. Miller’s wife is in the VIP wing right now with a pregnancy complication. Who are you? If you want a room, wait in line like everyone else.” I froze. My father’s breathing was getting shallower. My mother was a wreck, sobbing. I sprinted to the VIP wing and burst into the room where Nathan was sitting. Before I could even speak, Cassidy started crying. “Ginger, I know you hate me, but my baby is in danger. Isn’t that enough of a punishment?” Nathan’s hesitation vanished. He gripped her hand. “Go back to the ER, Ginger. When Cassidy is stable, I’ll go check on your dad.” I looked at him as if he were a stranger. He flinched under my gaze. “Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped. “If you hadn’t provoked her at the house, she wouldn’t be in this position.” The world went quiet. I dropped to my knees. My forehead hit the linoleum floor. “Is this enough?” I whispered. “Is this enough for you to go save him?” I slammed my head against the floor again. And again. I felt the warm blood start to trickle down my face, stinging my eyes. My phone buzzed. A text from the nurse downstairs: [Your father didn’t make it. Your mother… she couldn’t take it. She jumped from the waiting room window. I’m so sorry.] The string in my brain snapped. I didn’t feel the blood on my face. I ran downstairs, stumbling, until I saw her. My mother’s body. Broken. “Mom… wake up,” I whispered, shaking her cold hand. I stood up, my soul torn into jagged pieces. I started walking, swaying like a drunkard. “Dad, Mom… let’s go home.” When Nathan finally got the news and rushed out of the hospital, he saw me walking straight into the path of a speeding truck. “GINGER!” he screamed.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “553688”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night my daughter’s hand was severe burned, my husband didn’t answer my calls. Instead, I received a one-thousand-dollar Venmo transfer from his ex-wife. The memo read: “Renting your husband for a day.” Followed by a text: “Someone set me up on a blind date, but Derek was too worried to let me go alone. He insisted on chaperoning.” I dialed Derek’s number again. Through the receiver, an automated female voice chimed in with cheerful precision: “Daughter burned? That sounds terrible. Don’t panic, I’m here to give you a straightforward solution—” “He isn’t Superman. He can’t be everywhere at once. Try being more independent.” Ever since Derek delegated his personal texts to an AI assistant—claiming he needed to dedicate every ounce of his energy to his ER shifts—the bot had been answering his messages. Every text got an instant response, yet not a single problem was ever solved. In her sleep, Mag whimpered, shivering from the pain. Clutched in her small, trembling hand was a crumpled school worksheet titled “My Dad Is a Superhero”. At the top was a glaring red zero. Below it, in her shaky kindergarten handwriting, she had written: “My dad isn’t a superhero, but he knows how to turn invisible. Mommy and I can never find him.” “My classmate says people who disappear get turned to ashes in a fire. I checked our stove, but he wasn’t there either. Turns out, Dad is just the world champion of hide-and-seek!” Looking at Mag’s pale, sweat-streaked face, a hollow exhaustion settled deep in my chest. “Mag,” I whispered softly, stroking her damp hair. “How about we be the ones to hide this time?” … Mag knew nothing of the weight behind my words. She just nodded eagerly, her tiny, clumsy fingers reaching up to brush a tear from the corner of my eye. “Hide-and-seek…” she murmured through her sleepiness. “It doesn’t hurt…” A second later, my phone vibrated. It was Derek. “Mara,” he snapped the second I picked up, his tone clipped. “Delete that reply you just sent to Valerie.” I froze, instinctively glancing down at my screen. Earlier, when Mag shifted in her pain, her elbow had accidentally tapped the screen, prompting the AI assistant to auto-reply to Valerie’s message. “No problem! An ex-husband is family—and a superhero. Always on call.” Pressing down the bitter surge in my throat, I kept my voice low. “It wasn’t me. It was the AI. But was it wrong?” There was a brief pause on the line. When Derek spoke again, he adopted that soft, patronizing tone he always used when he wanted me to back down. “Mara, look. I know Mag got hurt, and I’m worried too. But you’re at home with her. You can handle it.” “Valerie moved across the country to this city for me back then,” he continued seamlessly. “She has no family here. I spoiled her when we were married, made her soft and dependent. Finding her a reliable guy to settle down with is my responsibility. You understand that, right?” “Responsibility.” Always that word. A ragged laugh escaped my lips, the movement pulling painfully at the tight muscles in my face. When Mag had her school open house, he was absent because he was fixing a light fixture at Valerie’s apartment. On Mag’s fourth birthday, he abandoned us at the dinner table to pick up a package for Valerie. And tonight, with his daughter in the urgent care clinic with third-degree burns, he hadn’t shown his face once. Where was his responsibility as a father? Through the speaker, Mag caught the faint sound of his voice. Her eyelashes fluttered, her tiny lips parting in a drowsy murmur. “Dad… hide-and-seek…” Derek heard her, and his tone instantly hardened. “Mag, let me ask you something. Valerie said you got a zero on your essay, on top of playing with fire tonight. Do you have any idea what you did wrong?” Mag’s mouth snapped shut. The slight smile vanished, and her eyes welled with tears. A violent tight pain gripped my chest, making my whole body shake. “Did you even read what she wrote? What did she do wrong? Her only crime in your eyes is that she isn’t Valerie’s child!” Silence fell over the line for a beat. “Don’t drag Valerie into this,” Derek said, his voice dropping several degrees. “She hates kids—that’s the whole reason we got divorced in the first place.” He exhaled a cold, exasperated breath. “I don’t know how you’ve raised Mag to be so needy. Thank God I gave you those abortion pills for the first three pregnancies—” A deafening crack seemed to echo in my brain. The words struck like a physical force, splitting me open from the top of my head down to my chest. Three years into our marriage, after my third miscarriage, I had stood on the edge of our apartment rooftop, ready to jump. Derek had wrapped his arms around me, sobbing into my neck, his voice trembling: “Please, Mara, don’t leave me. Stay for me. The next baby will be safe. I promise we’ll build a real family.” It was all a lie. My voice was so raspy it barely sounded like my own. “Why?” He coughed slightly, his tone suddenly shifting back to a defensive softness. “Valerie made me promise when we signed the divorce papers. She wanted a guarantee that I wouldn’t have children for three years, and that I’d be available whenever she needed me. It was just the last bit of security she needed to let go.” The tears I had been fighting back finally spilled over, scalding my cheeks. It took everything in me to find my voice again. “Those were three living souls. Your own children! I hope karma catches up to both of you.” Derek let out a cold, bitter laugh. “Karma?” he mocked. “Your own parents threw you in an orphanage, and your daughter is crippled in her right leg because of you. If anyone’s paying for karma, Mara, what on earth did you do to deserve yours?” The blood in my veins turned to ice. In the small clinic room, Mag quietly shuffled toward the window. Thick gauze ran from her small fingertips all the way up her forearm. Watching her limp, every step awkward and uneven, my heart was crushed into fine dust. The day of her accident, I had been five minutes late picking her up from preschool because of an unexpected shift at work. Mag had seen me across the street, smiled, and waved, stepping onto the crosswalk. A driver running a red light hit her, leaving her right leg permanently impaired. In countless midnight nightmares, I blamed myself relentlessly. Driven by that crippling guilt, I had willingly resigned from my corporate job to stay home and manage the household. I swallowed every boundary Derek crossed with his ex-wife, enduring every humiliation, all because I had grown up without a family and wanted more than anything to give Mag a complete home. But looking at the quiet, crushed look in my four-year-old’s eyes tonight, I finally saw the truth. A negligent father hurt far more than having no father at all. My phone buzzed again. Another Venmo notification from Valerie. Two thousand dollars. “Derek just told me Mag is sick,” her text read. “Consider this a little help from me. Ever since our divorce, Derek sends me a thousand a month as my future wedding fund anyway. You guys are like my family, and I love Mag like my own. Don’t be shy!” After settling the initial emergency room fee, my bank account balance stood at $28.32. When we first got married, Derek had taken my hand and said: “Mara, you’ve never been married before, but I have. Let me manage our finances. We’ll pool our savings together and buy a big house with a yard for Mag.” A child raised in an orphanage craves a home more than anything. I had handed over control without a second thought. I never realized that in his heart, that home was only ever built for Valerie. Taking a slow, shuddering breath, I pulled out a contact I hadn’t messaged in years. “Draft a divorce agreement for me,” I typed. “I’m leaving.” After bringing Mag home and putting her to sleep, I began packing our bags. The front door clicked open. Derek walked in, holding his coat over his arm. When he realized I wasn’t waiting by the entryway to take his jacket like usual, he raised an eyebrow. A gentle, coaxing smile spread across his face as he walked into the bedroom. “Where’s Mag?” he asked smoothly. “I brought her a toy.” He held up a plastic bag, but my eyes locked onto his wrist. Woven around his watch was a delicate bracelet made of fresh white gardenia petals. Derek followed my gaze down. His smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he let out an easy, dismissive laugh. “Valerie’s blind date brought her a bouquet of gardenias. She hated them. The dinner was a total bore, so she wove this little strap and shoved it onto my wrist while we were waiting for her cab.” He didn’t remember. The day of Mag’s accident, she had been holding a small bunch of gardenias she picked from the school garden to give to me. They had ended up crushed on the asphalt, soaked in bright red. I reached out with trembling fingers and unclipped the flower strap from his wrist, letting it drop into the trash bin beside the nightstand. Derek clearly misinterpreted the gesture. He stepped closer, wrapping a warm, affectionate arm around my shoulders, his tone thick with gentle condescension. “Still jealous? Come on, Mara.” “Look, I know I misjudged you earlier,” he added, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “I checked the app. I know it was the AI that replied to Valerie’s text, not you.” I looked at him silently. He tapped his phone screen with a small chuckle. “When I saw that message about getting a divorce, I knew right away. How could my sensible wife ever say something like that?” I pulled away from his touch, stepping back until there was a cold expanse of air between us. “Every part of that exchange was the AI,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Except that sentence. I typed that myself.” Derek’s forehead instantly creased. The warmth melted from his features, replaced by a dark, dangerous frost. “Haven’t you thrown enough of a tantrum tonight?” he snapped. “I work eighteen-hour rotations in emergency medicine. I am exhausted.” He was busy, alright. Busy running trauma codes, and busy rescuing his ex-wife from awkward blind dates. He was busy for everyone in the world except for me and his daughter. Seeing my red, swollen eyes, he let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh. Before I could move, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me back toward the bed, tossing me gently onto the mattress. “Just rest,” he said, his voice dropping into that fake, soothing tone again. “I’ll go check on Mag.” I didn’t argue. I simply handed him Mag’s discharge paper from the urgent care clinic. While he stepped down the hall, I went back to folding clothes into the suitcase. A few minutes later, a sharp, terrified scream echoed from the kitchen. It was Mag. I dropped the sweater in my hand and bolted down the hallway. In the kitchen, a ceramic mug lay shattered on the hardwood floor, water pooling around the shards. Mag was cowering by the counter, clutching her bandaged arm against her chest, her face pale with terror. “I’m sorry, Mommy,” she sobbed, her small body shaking violently. “I just… I just wanted a drink of water…” I rushed over and lifted her into my arms. Derek finally looked up from the kitchen table, a sudden flash of panic crossing his face as he reached out to take her from me. As he moved, the stack of papers he had been working on slid off the table, scattering across the floor. I looked down. They were printed profile sheets. Dozens of them, filled with dense, meticulously typed notes. “Candidate #12: Good family background (3/5), Appearance (5/5). Rejected: Too passive.” “Candidate #19: Overbearing parents, germaphobe. Rejected.” “Candidate #24: Decent income, severe halitosis. Disqualified.” There were thirty-seven profiles in total. Every single one was annotated with times, locations, compatibility scores, and personal remarks. And beneath that massive stack of matchmaking notes, buried at the very bottom of his medical clipboard, lay Mag’s emergency room chart. The seal hadn’t even been broken. He hadn’t turned a single page. A cold, hollow numbness washed over me, draining every ounce of strength from my limbs. Without thinking, my hand flew across the air, landing with a sharp, echoing “crack” across his face. Derek’s head snapped to the side. He didn’t explode. He simply wiped the corner of his lip, pulled the evaluation sheets out of my hand, and opened his mouth to speak— His phone blared violently on the counter. He glanced at the caller ID, and his entire posture stiffened. “Valerie’s blind date followed her home. She’s terrified. I have to go to the police station.” The front door slammed shut behind him before I could even process his words. Mag reached out from behind me, her small hand tugging gently at the hem of my shirt. She tilted her head up, her tear-stained face filled with quiet confusion. “Is Dad playing hide-and-seek with us again?” she asked softly. She stood on her tiptoes, her clumsy, bandaged fingers brushing against my cheek, trying to wipe away the tear that had slipped down. My phone vibrated in my pocket. A notification flashed on the screen: “Flight Confirmation: Two tickets to Seattle.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked into my daughter’s soft, innocent eyes. “We’re changing the rules, baby,” I whispered, lifting her into my arms. “This time, you and Mommy are going to hide. Okay?” I grabbed our bags, wrapped Mag in a thick coat, and headed for the door. But as soon as I pulled it open, Derek was standing on the porch. He looked at the suitcase in my hand, raised an eyebrow, and let out a light, amused laugh as he reached over to take the handle from me. Behind him, a head popped out from the shadow of the porch light. It was Valerie. “I knew it!” Valerie giggled, clapping her hands together. “I told you she was trying to run away! I win the bet!” She stepped into the entryway, patting my shoulder with breezy familiarity. “You’re still so young, Mara. Being married for the first time makes you so dramatic. I used the whole ‘packing my bags’ trick years ago.” Derek’s eyes were locked onto her, his voice low and stern, though there was an undeniable edge of warmth underneath. “I’m your emergency contact! If the police hadn’t called me, were you planning on keeping me in the dark?” Valerie slipped off her designer coat and kicked off her heels, curling herself naturally into the corner of our living room sofa. “I was just worried Mara would get upset. I didn’t want to disrupt your family life.” I kept my hand firmly on the brass door handle, my knuckles white. Derek turned back to me, his voice dropping into a heavy, disappointed register. “Valerie was just stalked. It’s not safe for her to stay at her place alone tonight. She’s going to stay in the guest room for a few days.” Valerie bit her lip, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Maybe I should just go to a hotel. I don’t want Mara to feel uncomfortable.” “Nonsense,” Derek interrupted softly, his tone softening instantly. “Mag hasn’t eaten dinner yet, right? I’ll cook tonight. We can all eat together.” Valerie walked over to the kitchen with practiced ease, opening our refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of sparkling water. “I want that seafood rice porridge you make! Mara, have you ever tried it? He makes the absolute best cream porridge.” A bitter, metallic taste filled my mouth. Through all my miscarriages, Derek had only ever ordered bland, pre-packaged post-partum meal kits from a delivery service. He had never once cooked a meal for me. “He puts silken tofu in it,” Valerie added with a bright smile. “It’s his signature dish.” I stood frozen. Whenever Derek suffered from stomach ulcers, I was the one who cooked that exact silken tofu porridge for him, teaching him the recipe step by step. He had taken my care, refined it, and turned around to serve it to another woman. Mag stayed silent, her little hand tightening around my fingers. I saw the quiet hunger and longing in her eyes. I slowly released my grip, letting her walk over and sit obediently at the dining table. I pulled out my phone, snapped a photo of Mag’s emergency room medical record, and sent it to my legal contact. “Something came up,” I wrote. “I’ll be there as soon as I handle this.” The reply came back instantly: “Understood.” When I looked back toward the dining table, my heart stopped. Mag’s skin was breaking out in angry, blotchy red hives. “Mag!” I rushed over. Her body was burning hot against my touch, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. Her small, swollen fingers feebly clawed at my hands. The porridge bowl in front of her contained crushed, minced shrimp. Mag had a severe, life-threatening shellfish allergy. “She just suffered severe burns!” I screamed, grabbing Derek by the lapels of his shirt, my eyes bloodshot with fury. “You’re a medical doctor! How could you feed her shellfish?!” My hands shook violently as I pulled out my phone to dial 911. Derek froze, a fleeting shadow of panic crossing his features. “I… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—” Before he could finish, Valerie stepped between us, shoving me back with all her weight. “Don’t yell at Derek! It’s my fault! Ever since our divorce, no one has peeled shrimp for me, so I begged him to put some in the porridge. If you want to blame someone, blame me!” In the scuffle, several drops of hot porridge splashed onto the back of Valerie’s hand. Derek’s expression transformed instantly into pure rage. He lunged forward and shoved me violently out of the way, catching Valerie’s wrist and dragging her toward the sink to run cold water over her skin. I wasn’t prepared for the force of his push. I crashed hard onto the hardwood floor, my knees slamming directly against the sharp wooden edge of the coffee table. Blood immediately seeped through my jeans, hot and sticky. Derek didn’t offer a single glance in my direction. At the table, the bandages covering Mag’s hand were beginning to bleed through with yellow fluid from her ruptured blisters. She forced her small eyes open, looking at her father’s back as he coddled Valerie at the sink. “It’s okay, Dad…” Mag whimpered in a tiny, breaking voice. “The burn doesn’t hurt… just blow on it…” Derek spun around, his chest heaving with fury. “Mara, is this how you teach your daughter? To be as cold-blooded and manipulative as you are?!” Valerie’s eyes welled with dramatic tears. “Derek, please don’t fight because of me. Mara just doesn’t want me here. You two are the real family. I’ll just leave.” Derek grabbed her arm, holding her firmly. “Wait for me. I’ll get the car keys and drive you to the urgent care clinic myself.” I stood outside the house in the freezing night air, cradling Mag in my arms as we waited for the ambulance. Suddenly, Derek’s sedan pulled up to the curb, screeching to a halt beside us. A tiny flicker of hope flared in my chest—until the door opened, and Derek grabbed me roughly by the collar. “Mara, look what you’ve done!” he roared, his voice shaking with anger. “Valerie left because of your hostility! To prove a point to you, she’s on her way right now to sign marriage papers with that blind date from tonight!” He shoved me backward, his final words cutting through the cold exhaust smoke of his car: “I only married you because you were an orphan—I thought you’d be grateful and understanding of Valerie! You’d better pray nothing goes wrong with her tonight!” Mag was burning up in my arms, her small body trembling against mine. I stared at the red taillights fading into the distance, but not a single tear would fall. I didn’t even remember how we got into the ambulance. By the time we arrived at the children’s hospital, Mag was curling into a tight ball, the yellow fluid oozing through her bandages, her skin scalding to the touch. The attending physician took one look at her arm and his face darkened. “Secondary infection from a severe burn, complicated by an acute allergic reaction. We need to perform emergency debridement and skin graft evaluation right now.” He handed me a slip. “Go settle the deposit at the billing counter first.” I ran to the window and pressed my debit card against the glass. The clerk swiped it twice, then looked up with a frown. “Ma’am, this card has been declined. Zero balance.” My brain went completely blank. This was Derek’s primary salary account. Even if he transferred money to Valerie regularly, it shouldn’t be completely empty. With trembling hands, I called his cell. “Where’s the money in the account?” I cried out, clutching the phone against my ear. “Mag needs emergency surgery!” Derek’s voice came through the speaker, laced with deep irritation. “Stop exaggerating, Mara. It was a bowl of porridge, for God’s sake. How bad could it be?” My knuckles turned white. I wanted to scream at him that it wasn’t just a spoonful—Mag had eaten the entire bowl because it was the first thing her father had ever cooked for her! He let out an impatient sigh over the line. “I transferred the balance to Valerie as a travel fund for her upcoming trip to Australia. You’re the one who drove her away tonight. Using our joint savings to pay for her emotional distress is the least we can do. Is there a problem with that?” Before I could answer, the line went dead. I sank onto the cold tile floor of the hospital corridor, my knees pulled tightly against my chest. A second later, my phone chimed. A Venmo deposit of $5,000 appeared on the screen, followed by a text from Derek: “There. Take Mag to a theme park this weekend and stop taking your issues out on Valerie.” I scrambled up from the floor and ran back to the billing window. “Please, schedule her room! I want to request the private recovery suite using physician family privileges!” The clerk typed on her keyboard, then looked at me with an awkward expression. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Dr. Derek’s family quota for the private suite was used up today. It was booked this morning.” I leaned over the glass to look at the monitor. My fingertips turned icy cold. I turned around and ran down the hallway toward the VIP wing, slamming open the door to Room 402. “Valerie!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “What right do you have to use his family medical quota?!” Valerie was sitting on the plush bed, sipping tea, looking perfectly relaxed. She offered me a sweet smile. “I’m going to Australia soon, and Derek insisted I get a full physical and diving clearance exam before I leave. He said he didn’t trust any other clinic.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Derek, demanding he transfer the reservation to his daughter. “Give it a rest, Mara,” Derek’s voice cut in coolly through the speaker. “Even if Mag actually needs to stay overnight, isn’t a standard ward good enough? Her leg is already impaired—putting her in a giant private suite is just going to exhaust her walking back and forth.” Before I could speak, a nurse came running down the hall toward me, her face pale. “Ma’am! The patient’s immune system is overwhelmed—she’s going into pediatric septic shock! We need to transfer her to the ICU immediately!” My knees gave out completely. I had to grab the doorframe to keep from collapsing onto the floor. Valerie sighed dramatically, looking at me with a sad, pitying expression. “Oh, poor little girl. Her real father didn’t care about her leg back then, and now… well, maybe passing away quietly is a mercy for her.” I snapped my head toward her. “What did you just say?” Valerie smirked, stepping closer and lowering her voice so only I could hear. “You already know the answer, don’t you? Derek felt like you and Mag were taking up too much of his precious time.” “So,” she whispered gleefully, “he helped arrange that little car accident three years ago.” “He knew that if Mag was permanently injured, all your energy would be trapped taking care of her. And then he’d finally be free to focus on helping me.” The final thread holding my sanity together snapped into pieces. Darkness flooded the edges of my vision. The blood roared in my ears like a deafening wave. I swung my arm with everything I had, landing a slap squarely across Valerie’s face so hard my own hand went numb. A second later, a heavy blow struck my chest. I was sent flying backward, slamming hard against the metal doorframe before crashing onto the floor. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my spine. Derek stood above me, his chest heaving, the veins bulging on his forehead. “I was fool enough to believe you!” he roared, his eyes bloodshot. “I actually went down to the pediatric wing to check on Mag! She wasn’t even in the emergency room!” “The second my back is turned, you come up here to assault Valerie?!” I pushed myself up against the doorframe, tasting blood in my mouth. I laughed hysterically, dragging myself up to go after him again. Before I could reach him, three security guards rushed into the hallway, grabbing my arms and pinning me forcefully against the wall. “What is wrong with people these days? Attacking doctors and patients!” “Dr. Derek gives up so much for this hospital—what’s wrong with giving his family a little priority benefit? You entitled people ruin everything!” Derek stood in the center of the corridor, adjusting his coat. His brow furrowed slightly, his lips moving as if he wanted to say something, but he stopped. “My flight to Sydney leaves in two hours,” he said, his voice returning to a smooth, detached chill as he looked down at me. “Take Mag home and behave yourself.” He stepped past me, pausing for a fraction of a second. “Stop making a scene. Australia has incredible scar-reduction ointments. I’ll bring a box back for Mag.” He walked away without looking back once, leaving me pinned against the wall by the crowd. Suddenly, a pair of warm, strong hands pushed through the angry bystanders, shielding my head and lifting me gently off the cold floor… In the back of the sleek black sedan, Mag lay curled in my lap, her breath small and ragged. I bent down, pressing my lips softly against her feverish forehead, then turned to look at the man sitting in the driver’s seat. “I changed my mind,” I said, my voice quiet, cold, and sharper than steel. “I don’t want a quiet, uncontested divorce.” “I want to sue him.” “For medical negligence, abuse of authority, and intentional harm.” “I want full custody of Mag. And I want his parental rights permanently stripped.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “552803”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My younger sister was in love. The moment the news broke, the entire household went into a frenzy. My older brother, Trevor, cracked his knuckles with a series of loud, sharp pops. “Who is he? What kind of bastard thinks he can date my baby sister?” Mom shook her head, her face lined with immediate disapproval. “Brianna, sweetheart, you’re still young. You don’t know how cruel the world is. Break it off—there are plenty of better men out there.” Dad slammed his palm onto the coffee table with a thud that rattled the porcelain. “End it. Immediately!” The moment they noticed the tears welling up in Brianna’s eyes, however, their sharp edges melted away in an instant. “Oh, don’t cry, honey. Tell you what—bring him over for Thanksgiving dinner. Let us meet him first, okay?” Then their eyes drifted to me, and their tone turned flat, an afterthought slapped together with lazy indifference. “Piper, you’re not as pretty as your sister, and you’ve always been too blunt for your own good. You should consider yourself lucky anyone wants you at all.” “Don’t be so picky. Just lock the marriage down and be done with it.” Trevor chimed in with a casual, dismissive chuckle. “She’s right. You two have been together for five years. The guy hasn’t dumped you yet and actually wants to marry you—that alone means he’s got decent character.” They didn’t ask if my boyfriend treated me well. They didn’t ask if his parents were good people. They didn’t even suggest meeting him. They just gave their blessing, swift and careless. Not because my boyfriend was a catch. Simply because, in their eyes, I was worth nothing at all. I took a slow, deep breath and drank the lukewarm tea in my cup down to the dregs. If they didn’t love me, I would choose a family that did. From this day forward, you have your life, and I have mine. … “You really don’t want to meet him?” After a long pause, I finally spoke up, unable to swallow that last bitter drop of resentment. Mom set her teacup down, avoiding my gaze with a vague, dismissive wave of her hand. “There’s no need. With you, we don’t have to worry.” Was it trust? Or was it just complete apathy? I looked down at the solitaire ring sitting on my left ring finger. The quiet joy of my recent engagement felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped straight over my head. The chill penetrated all the way to my bones. Honestly, I should have been used to it by now. Used to being invisible in my own home. Used to their complete lack of concern. Used to the undeniable truth that they simply did not love me. And yet, a small part of me still wanted to tell them. I wanted to tell them that my fiancé’s name was Logan Mercer. That he loved me deeply. That his parents ran a successful business and treated me like their own daughter. I had memorized every possible question my parents might ask, rehearsing the answers late into the night. But they didn’t care to ask. Because I wasn’t Brianna. Just look at her now. I raised my eyes to see Brianna sitting with her arms crossed, her chin tilted up in a familiar posture of spoiled arrogance. “Ugh, why are you all asking so many questions?” she pouted. “I’m telling you right now, you better be nice to my boyfriend. This is my very first real relationship! If you scare him off, I’ll never forgive you!” Trevor raised an eyebrow, his tone protective and fiercely sharp. “He wouldn’t dare run. If he steps out of line, I’ll knock his teeth down his throat.” Mom softened her voice into a gentle, motherly instruction. “Brianna, a woman should always hold herself high. Don’t go chasing after a man.” “You don’t need to cling desperately to one person like your sister does. If it doesn’t work out, your father and I will take care of you forever.” “Besides, didn’t you always want a walk-in closet? Once your sister moves out after her wedding, we’ll convert her bedroom into a walk-in closet for you, okay?” Dad was a man of few words, but he nodded emphatically, endorsing Mom’s idea without a second thought. Right in front of my face, they were already reallocating my personal space. Not a single thought was spared for how I might feel. Because as long as Brianna was in the room, I was invisible. I was plain, quiet, and reserved. I lacked Brianna’s bright, effervescent charm. I lacked her effortless knack for saying precisely what people wanted to hear. Brianna only had to exist, and without lifting a finger, she commanded the devotion of everyone around her. Including the love of our parents. When I was little, I tried fighting for it. I fought so hard. When Brianna brought home a report card with top marks, I stayed up night after night, pushing myself to the absolute limit, determined to outdo her. And when I finally brought home my own first-place certificate, holding it out like a sacred peace offering, I whispered, “Mom, Dad… can you love me a little more now?” Trevor was the first to laugh. He told me I was living in a fantasy world. Then he turned around and bribed Brianna with a giant box of imported chocolates to cheer her up because she felt upstaged. Mom merely patted my head absentmindedly, reminding me that Brianna was my little sister, before rushing into the kitchen to cook a feast of Brianna’s favorite dishes. Dad’s eyes didn’t linger on my certificate for even a second. A forty-year-old man, he spent the rest of the evening crawling around on the rug, playing horsey so Brianna could ride on his back. Nobody cared about my achievement. Nobody noticed the quiet girl standing alone in the corner, swallowing her tears in the shadows. Years passed, and Brianna grew up and fell in love. My family extended their unconditional warmth to her boyfriend by default. When it came to me, there was still nothing. Fortunately, I was no longer that helpless child starving for affection. I looked at Dad and couldn’t help asking, “Dad, you always said you’d never want your daughters to move far away. Logan’s family lives in Chicago. Does that bother you?” Dad blinked, his face immediately darkening into a stern frown. He turned directly to Brianna. “Where is your boyfriend from? If he lives outside the state—hell, if he lives outside this city—I won’t give my consent.” I froze in my seat. After a long moment, I let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. So the word “daughter” in his rulebook had never applied to me. I stood up and walked back to my room without another word. Opening the text chain with Logan, I typed out the words one by one. “I want to marry you.” “Take me away from here, please.” A second later, his reply illuminated my screen. “I’m on my way.” The next morning, Mom and Dad formally summoned everyone into the living room. Mom reached out and pushed two thick greeting cards across the coffee table—one to me, one to Brianna. Brianna opened hers first. A polished brass key slid out into her palm. She blinked, looking at Mom in confusion. Mom exchanged a warm glance with Dad before handing Brianna a crisp leather binder. Brianna opened it. Inside was the deed to a brand-new, twelve-hundred-square-foot condominium. Fully registered in her name. Mom patted the back of Brianna’s hand affectionately. “We weren’t planning on giving this to you so soon, but before we knew it, you’re already old enough to bring a boyfriend home.” “Consider this a gift from your father and me. It’s your security blanket, no matter what happens.” Brianna threw her arms around them, sobbing tears of overwhelmed joy. “Mom! Dad! How can you be so good to me?!” Mom pinched her cheek affectionately. “Because you’re our baby girl.” Brianna wiped the corner of her eyes and glanced over at me. “Piper, what did Mom and Dad get you?” I slid my card open. Inside was a small stack of fresh hundred-dollar bills. I counted them. Six hundred dollars in total. I raised my eyes to look at Mom. She seemed to anticipate my question, her tone flattening into something cool and distant. “You’re an adult now, and you’re getting married soon. Your father and I don’t have much left to spare, but this is a small gesture from us.” My breath hitched. I couldn’t help but glance at the property deed gripped tightly in Brianna’s hand. Noticing my gaze, Brianna pulled the deed close to her chest, her voice laced with smug satisfaction. “Mom and Dad bought this for me. You don’t get one. Na-na-na-na-na!” Dad looked at me, his voice quiet, but laced with a clear warning. “Don’t go eyeing your sister’s things. That belongs to Brianna.” “You’re moving away to marry out of state anyway. Even if we bought you a condo here, you wouldn’t be living in it.” “There’s no point in us throwing money down the drain.” Because I was moving away, six hundred dollars was all I was worth. For the longest time, I had wanted to ask them if I was truly their biological child. I had even asked my late grandmother once, and later, secretly ordered a DNA test. The results came back undeniable: I was their biological daughter. Yet in that moment, I found myself wishing I had been adopted from an orphanage instead. At least then, the coldness wouldn’t cut quite so deep. Trevor spoke up next. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black bank card, sliding it across the glass table toward Brianna. His voice was dripping with fondness. “I can’t afford to be as generous as Mom and Dad, but I’m giving you everything I’ve saved.” “It’s not a fortune, but it’s more than enough to cover the interior design and renovations for your new place.” Mom smiled proudly from the side, adding, “Your brother saved up nearly forty thousand dollars since he started working, and he’s giving every cent of it to you.” “Don’t you go turning your nose up at it.” Brianna’s tears spilled over once again. “Trevor, you’re the best brother in the world!” Trevor ruffled her hair, his eyes filled with fierce, protective devotion. “I just want you to know that no matter who your boyfriend is, if he ever treats you poorly, you come straight back home.” “We’ll always be here for you.” I stood on the fringe of the room like a ghost, an intruder crashing a private family moment. I felt entirely, utterly superfluous. When I turned to leave, Trevor’s voice called out from behind me. “Piper.” I stopped in my tracks and turned around. Trevor stepped forward. “Don’t you want your gift?” “I get one too?” “You’re my sister, aren’t you?” That single line brought a tiny flicker of warmth back to my frozen heart. Trevor opened his hand. A delicate gold chain lay resting in his palm, featuring a pendant carved in the shape of a rose. I recognized it instantly. It was the birthday gift Trevor had bought for Brianna two years ago—the one Brianna had tossed aside because she thought the design was tacky. And now, her discarded trash was being offered to me as a generous gesture. A sharp, familiar pain throbbed behind my ribs. I forced a faint smile, looking straight into my brother’s eyes, pronouncing every word with quiet clarity. “Thank you. This is the most expensive thing I’ve received today.” The warm, lively atmosphere in the room instantly froze into dead silence. Brianna’s sharp voice broke the quiet like shattering glass. “Piper! How can you talk like that?!” “A gift is about the thought behind it, not the price tag! It’s from your family!” Thoughtfulness was reserved for her. Indifference was reserved for me. In this house, we were nothing more than familiar strangers living under the same roof. I looked at them, said nothing further, and walked straight into my bedroom. Behind me, I could hear Trevor comforting Brianna in a low voice. “Ah, ignore her. You know how bitter and competitive she’s been ever since we were kids.” “We’re used to it by now.” As the bedroom door clicked shut, tears finally spilled over my lashes, hot and heavy. Competitive? I was competing for their love. Did they truly not know that? … At three in the afternoon, there was a knock on my door. It was Mom, with Brianna hovering close behind her. Mom thrust a bucket, a string mop, and a stack of rags directly into my hands. “Brianna’s boyfriend is coming over tomorrow for the holiday. Deep clean the entire house. Don’t make your sister look bad.” I raised my eyes to look at them. Both of them were dressed in elegant tailored dresses, their hair styled, their makeup flawless. My hands tightened around the aluminum handle of the mop. I pointed a finger at Brianna. “What about her? What is she doing?” Mom frowned, her expression instantly twisting into irritation. “I’m taking Brianna to the mall to pick out a new outfit. She’s the star of the show tomorrow; she needs to look her best.” “Stop comparing yourself to your sister all the time. She’s not like you.” Without waiting for a response, Mom grabbed Brianna’s hand and turned toward the front door, leaving no room for argument. She seemed to have completely forgotten that I was the one getting married soon. Compared to Brianna, I was the one who actually needed to prepare. But did Mom actually care? By the time I finished scrubbing every corner of the house, it was five in the afternoon. Trevor arrived home from work. Without a second thought, his heavy dress shoes stepped right onto the hardwood floor I had just spent two hours mopping. He was carrying two bouquets of red roses. One was a massive, extravagant bunch of ninety-nine long-stemmed roses; the other was a modest bundle of nine. He quickly hid the large bouquet behind his back, leaving a trail of dusty footprints across the living room floor toward Brianna’s room before walking back toward me. He extended the smaller bundle of nine roses toward my face. “Here. These are for you. I’m surprising Brianna with the big ones later, so keep it quiet.” I held the small bundle of roses. Within seconds, my nose began to itch, and a familiar pressure built behind my eyes. My chest constricted tightly. When Brianna was born, Trevor and I had been in the exact same position. Left in the quiet corner of a hospital waiting room, forgotten by the rest of the world. Back then, it was Trevor who had taken my hand. He had understood my confusion and fear, protecting my fragile young heart from feeling completely abandoned. I used to believe that no matter how cold my parents were, I would always have my brother. But as Brianna grew older, the moment she uttered her very first “Big Brother,” my remaining crumb of comfort was swept away. Trevor had rationalized it to me then: “She’s my sister too, Piper. It’s not fair to leave her out.” Yet as time went on, the only person subjected to unfairness was me. His heart had tilted completely toward her. Seeing my eyes turn red and watery, Trevor let out an amused laugh. “It’s just a few flowers. Is it really that big of a deal to be this emotional?” “Did your boyfriend buy you over with cheap tricks like this?” I set the bouquet down on the counter and wiped the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. “He’s never bought me roses,” I said softly. “Because he knows I’m severely allergic to pollen.” The arrogant smirk on Trevor’s face instantly collapsed. After a long pause, he offered a flat apology, though his expression carried no genuine remorse. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know. I was just trying to make Brianna happy.” “The florist said if I bought the ninety-nine stems, they’d throw in a bundle of nine for free. I had no idea you were allergic.” So even the flowers that triggered my allergies were merely an unwanted freebie attached to Brianna’s happiness. My lips parted. I wanted to remind him that he “did” know. On the day of my high school graduation, he had brought me flowers, and he had watched me break out in hives and end up in the urgent care clinic. In the end, only three words escaped my lips. “It doesn’t matter.” It really didn’t matter anymore. Once I got married and left, we would merely be distant relatives, not family. … The following day, the house was packed with extended family. Aunts and uncles had flooded the living room the moment they heard Brianna was bringing a boyfriend home, eager to offer advice and inspect the new suitor. Trevor sat on the sofa, keeping them entertained with drinks and conversation. I was the only one in the kitchen. Despite the air conditioner humming at seventy degrees, I was drenched in sweat from standing over four burning stove burners. When the twelfth and final dish was placed on the dining table, I stood beside the chair, unmoving. Mom glanced over at me, her brow furrowing into a tight line. “Sit down and eat. What are you standing there like a statue for?” I surveyed the table, my face devoid of expression. “Eat what?” “There’s plenty of rice left in the cooker, isn’t there? Just pour some of the dish juices over your rice and mix it together.” Dad picked up his chopsticks, plucked the very last jumbo shrimp from the serving platter, and placed it neatly into Brianna’s bowl. He offered a casual critique without looking up at me. “Your sister gets low blood sugar easily. Next time, get the food on the table faster.” My hands tightened around the strings of my apron until my knuckles turned white. One hour. Ten people. Twelve labor-intensive dishes. Was that still not fast enough? And what had they left for me? Scraps, empty shells, and cold grease on stained platters. Why? Why was I never a thought in anyone’s mind? I untied the apron strings and pulled it off over my head, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not eating.” Brianna’s voice rang out from the head of the table. “Piper, I want some cold watermelon.” Mom echoed immediately, “Since you’re done eating, go slice up the watermelon in the fridge.” With that, Mom turned back to the aunt sitting next to her, launching into a loud discussion about the formal protocol for receiving Brianna’s boyfriend. Not a single soul looked at me. Not a single soul cared whether I was starving. I turned around, walked into the kitchen, and pulled open the heavy refrigerator door. The blast of cool air hit my face, and tears instantly blurred my vision. I sliced the watermelon in half, grabbed a large spoon, and scooped out the cold, sweet center of the melon. It was crisp, sugary, and icy cold. Mom’s voice drifted in from the living room once more. “Piper! Clear the dining table when you’re done, and don’t forget your sister’s watermelon!” I swallowed the final bite of the watermelon core. I washed my hands, wiped the corners of my mouth, and walked slowly into the living room. Looking straight at Mom, I said clearly, “There is no watermelon left.” Trevor looked up, a hint of confusion crossing his face. “How could there be none? I specifically bought a large one for Brianna yesterday.” My voice remained level. “I ate it.” The living room fell into an absolute dead silence. Everyone turned to stare at me in sheer disbelief. Brianna’s voice suddenly cracked with exaggerated distress. “After a heavy meal, that’s the only thing I was looking forward to! Piper, why couldn’t you save even one piece for me?!” I met her eyes with a blank stare. “And what about me? Did any of you leave a single bite of food for me?” An awkward, tense air settled over the room. Within seconds, the relatives began making hasty excuses to leave. “Oh, Robert, look at the time! I forgot I left something on the stove at home. We should head out.” “Yes, yes, we have errands to run too.” “We’ll take our leave now!” The crowd scattered in a matter of seconds. Mom’s face flushed a deep, furious crimson. “Piper!” “You think you’re all grown up now, don’t you? Your wings are fully fledged! We ask you to cook a simple meal for the family, and you act like you’re being tortured?!” “What about me?! I’ve been buying groceries and cooking for this family for over thirty years! Did I ever complain about being mistreated?!” It was always like this. Every single time I expressed an ounce of dissatisfaction or made Mom unhappy, she immediately retreated behind the impenetrable wall of maternal sacrifice to lecture me. And I was always expected to bow my head and take it. But I refused to play my part any longer. “Yes, I do feel mistreated,” I said, my voice ringing loud and clear through the quiet house. “Mom, did you cook for thirty years just for me? Did Dad not eat? Did Trevor and Brianna not eat?” “I learned how to cook not because I enjoyed it, but because I wanted to help you, to lighten your load so you wouldn’t be so tired!” “So why is it that after I spend hours sweating over a stove, I don’t even deserve a piece of watermelon?!” I shook my head, taking a step backward. “I wish I was never born into this family.” Trevor surged up from the sofa, his voice booming with rage. “Piper! Do you even hear the garbage coming out of your mouth?!” “So you missed one damn meal—what’s the big deal?! She is our mother!” Dad slammed his fist onto the dining table with terrifying force. “Enough! Over a stupid piece of fruit, you make a scene and make us the laughingstock of the entire neighborhood!” “Your mother gave birth to you and raised you for twenty-seven years, only to raise an ungrateful leech!” “Besides, that watermelon was bought by Trevor specifically for Brianna. Eating it without her permission is stealing!” I threw my head back and laughed. I laughed until my stomach ached and tears streamed down my face. After a long moment, I straightened my spine and looked around the room. The automated massage chair in the corner—I bought it because Dad complained about his bad back. The solid gold jewelry resting against Mom’s neck—I bought it because she loved showing off in front of her friends. The custom high-end gaming PC in Trevor’s room—I bought it because he loved playing video games. The entire wall of rare collectible figurines in Brianna’s room—I bought them because she was my little sister. And today, because I ate a piece of watermelon, I was labeled a thief in my own home. I pressed my wrists together and thrust them toward them, my voice dripping with icy sarcasm. “Why don’t you call the police and have me arrested then?” Mom stared at me, her eyes filled with cold hatred, looking at me not as a daughter, but as a sworn enemy. After a long pause, she spoke, her tone terrifyingly cold. “Either you throw that watermelon back up, or you pay us back for everything.” Brianna tugged gently at Mom’s sleeve, pretending to be the peacemaker. “Mom, don’t fight over this. I won’t eat watermelon anymore, okay?” She turned to me. “Piper, just apologize. She’s our mother, after all.” Brianna had never been an outright villain. She was spoiled, but not inherently cruel. Yet she was the eternal, unquestioned beneficiary of every slice of injustice in this house. And for that, I hated her. “Fine. I’ll pay you back,” I said. I pulled out the greeting card containing the six hundred dollars Mom and Dad had given me earlier and slapped it onto the table. “Is this enough?” “Enough?!” Mom sneered. “We raised you for twenty-seven years! We poured endless time, money, and energy into you! Do you think your upbringing is only worth six hundred dollars?!” She looked down at me as if looking at a pathetic bug beneath her shoe. “Three hundred thousand dollars. You pay us three hundred thousand dollars, and you can go do whatever the hell you want! We won’t give a damn about you ever again!” The blood in my veins turned to ice. My throat felt as though it had been filled with lead. I couldn’t squeeze out a single word. Mom took a step forward, towering over me. “Don’t have it, do you?” I stared at her numbly, silent. Mom let out a cold, triumphant laugh. “If you don’t have it, then shut your mouth!” “This house isn’t run by you.” She turned and strode away, throwing a final command over her shoulder. “Clean up the mess on the table and wash the dishes.” Dad, Trevor, and Brianna followed behind her, slipping back into their respective rooms. The heavy thud of closing doors echoed through the hallway. My knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the floor, tears overflowing and washing over my cheeks. Was I wrong? Was I wrong to eat that piece of watermelon? Or was I wrong to finally stand up for myself? I didn’t know. All I knew was that my parents’ love had a precise price tag on it. Three hundred thousand dollars. Suddenly, I felt so ridiculously expensive. So expensive that I could never afford their conditional, nonexistent love. … Over the next few days, as if by silent agreement, the entire family united to punish me on Mom’s behalf. The lock on the front door was changed without my knowledge. When meals were served, there was no place set for me at the table. Even the Wi-Fi password was changed to exclude my devices. Fortunately, my wedding day was only a few days away. On the day Logan arrived in town, it was the day before Thanksgiving. I put on a simple white dress he had bought for me and applied a light coat of makeup. When I walked out the door, no one asked where I was going, and no one asked what I was doing. And I offered no explanations. I simply walked out, took Logan’s hand firmly into mine, and walked straight into City Hall. Check-in, taking a number, waiting in line, signing the documents, and taking the oath. I went through every single step with absolute devotion. The moment the clerk handed us our marriage certificate, I broke down and cried. Logan pulled me gently into his arms, resting his chin on my head, whispering soft words of comfort into my ear. In that quiet moment, I knew I had finally found my real family. … When I returned to the house to pack the last of my essential documents, it was already Thanksgiving Day. The dining table was piled high with holiday treats, roasted meats, and fresh fruit. I walked into the kitchen. “Mom.” She turned around, her voice icy. “Know your place now?” I shook my head. “I’m leaving…” Before I could finish my sentence, Brianna barged into the kitchen, cutting me off with an excited squeal. “Mom! My boyfriend is here!” Without listening to another word from me, Mom brushed past my shoulder and hurried out. I watched through the doorway as Mom and Dad sat side by side on the sofa, assuming the proud, dignified posture of prospective in-laws preparing to inspect a daughter’s suitor. That kind of enthusiastic attention was a luxury I would never receive in this house. I smiled faintly. I took nothing with me—no clothes, no childhood mementos. I walked downstairs and climbed into the passenger seat of Logan’s car. The engine roared to life, and the car sped away, leaving the house far behind us. From this day forward, if we ever met again, we would merely be distant relatives.

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I had spent my entire life coloring inside the lines, but during my freshman year of college, I fell for a guy who was obsessed with his own freedom. Dates were always on his terms, dictated down to the minute. On April Fools’ Day, just as dawn broke, he pounded on my dorm door, waking up all my roommates, insisting I go to the track for a sunrise walk. On Valentine’s Day, he texted me at one in the morning to meet him downstairs. I was two minutes late, and he lost his temper. When I apologized, he rejected it with cold detachment. “Even if you’re my girlfriend, you don’t have the right to strip me of my free time.” I swallowed my pride and endured it all because I loved him. Until the night I was doubled over with severe stomach cramps and dragged myself to the campus clinic, only to find him sitting beside a girl I’d never seen before, chafing her hand between his to keep her warm while her IV dripped. There wasn’t a flicker of panic or guilt on his face when he saw me. Instead, he looked at me with smooth composure. “It’s my time. How I choose to spend it is none of your business, isn’t it?” he said. “Besides, she sprained her ankle, so I brought her in to get some medication. Are you really going to be jealous over this?” For the first time since we met, I thought he was right. So I turned around and called a senior from the performing arts department. “Hey,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ll be your dance partner.” … During the freshman orientation showcase, Greg’s hand rested lightly on my waist. Even through the thin fabric of my dress, I could feel the heat radiating from his palm. Aside from Trevor, he was the first man to touch me like that. But I felt nothing—no spark, no flutter. My eyes swept over the crowded auditorium, searching for Trevor. He wasn’t there. A sharp, familiar ache bloomed in my chest, and I looked down, unable to hide my disappointment. “Dancing a duet with me,” Greg murmured, leaning down slightly, “won’t your boyfriend get jealous?” Instinctively, I took a step back, my heel catching on the edge of my dress. I stumbled, but Greg caught me cleanly by the waist, pulling me against his chest to steady me. “He won’t,” I whispered, keeping my voice low. Greg held my gaze, his expression unreadable. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like your boyfriend was too busy taking care of a freshman to notice you. How about dancing another piece with me at the university anniversary gala next month?” He wasn’t wrong. By the time the gala rolled around, Trevor would likely still be catering to Amber, unable to carve out ten minutes for a real date with me. “Okay,” I agreed softly. We had already danced this one. What difference did one more dance make? When the performance ended and we walked offstage into the backstage hallway, my roommate, Sadie, ran up to us, holding her phone. “Greg! Josie! The clip of your duet just exploded on the campus forum!” Greg turned to me, his dark eyes searching my face. “Josie, everyone on campus thinks we’re a couple now. Is Trevor going to be angry when he sees this?” I parted my lips to speak, but before I could utter a word, my phone vibrated in my hand. Trevor’s custom ringtone chimed. I instinctively answered it and ducked into an empty, quiet classroom down the hall. The line remained silent. Trevor didn’t speak. I stood by the window, waiting, my eyes absently wandering down to the main courtyard outside the building. Suddenly, my breath caught in my throat. There, near the campus gates, stood Trevor. He had his arm slung casually around Amber’s shoulder, pulling her close in a way that erased every boundary a taken man should hold. Amber held a half-eaten apple up to his mouth, tilting her head with a sweet smile. Trevor laughed, leaned down, and took a bite. The sharp, crisp crunch of the apple resonated clearly through the speaker pressed against my ear. “Why are you eating someone else’s apple?” I asked softly into the phone. A long beat of silence followed before Trevor’s impatient voice came through. “Amber couldn’t finish it. I was just helping her out. Are you really getting jealous over an apple?” My hand trembled, nearly dropping the phone. “Josie,” Trevor continued, his voice laced with irritation, “am I spoiling you too much lately?” In the background, Amber’s sugary, delicate voice drifted in. “Trevor, your girlfriend is so lucky to have you.” “She doesn’t realize it,” Trevor replied to her, a rare, softer note in his voice that sounded almost embarrassed. He used to sound like that when we first started dating. I stayed silent, but my body shook uncontrollably. “Look, Josie, let me cancel our date for tonight,” Trevor said, lying without hesitation. “Amber sprained her ankle, and it’s pretty bad. I need to stick around and look after her for a while.” I had expected it, but the sudden, sharp twist in my chest still took my breath away. Trevor hadn’t even noticed that we hadn’t had a proper date in over two weeks. I swallowed, wanting to tell him “fine”, but the word caught like glass in my throat. On the other end of the line, Amber chimed in again, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “Trevor, you’re being so sweet to me. Won’t Josie be mad? Should I call her and explain? I mean, I only took a little bite of your mouth by accident earlier when I was eating that jelly—it wasn’t a big deal at all! Besides, Trevor, you love your freedom so much. Do you really need her permission for everything you do?” My hand clamped into a fist, my fingernails biting deep into my palm. The physical sting anchored me, keeping the panic at bay. “No,” Trevor answered her smoothly. “It’s my time. I schedule it however I want.” He tossed a quick goodbye into the receiver, telling me he had to get back to taking care of Amber, and hung up. For the next three days, Trevor was everywhere with Amber. They looked like a couple in the sweet, intoxicated honeymoon phase of a romance, clinging to each other as they strolled lazily through the campus fruit shops. On the track, Amber would delicately wipe the sweat from Trevor’s brow with a handkerchief. In the cafeteria, she would pout playfully, coaxing him to feed her bites of food. I didn’t want to see any of it, but no matter where I walked, they materialized in my line of sight. After finishing my lunch, I picked up my tray and walked toward the tray return station. A figure stepped out, blocking my path. Amber stood there, tapping her foot impatient on the tile—showing zero signs of the severe ankle sprain Trevor had claimed she suffered. She got straight to the point. “Josie, you should break up with Trevor.” She crossed her arms, looking down her nose at me. “He craves freedom. Trapping him like this won’t make either of you happy. I’m the only one who can actually give him what he needs.” I stepped sideways to go around her, but she shifted instantly, cutting me off again. “You guys always go on those weird dates late at night or at midnight, right?” she sneered, leaning in slightly. “But do you know what? Ever since he started taking care of me, he never makes me meet him in the middle of the night. He adjusts to “my” schedule. Whatever I want, he does. When I wanted breakfast from that bakery outside campus yesterday morning, he went and got it without a single complaint. When I wanted to take an afternoon walk, he showed up immediately.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper right beside my ear. “Josie, you might be his girlfriend on paper, but he treats me ten times better than he treats you. Haven’t you seen enough these past few days?” It hit me then. I hadn’t been casually bumping into them by accident. Amber had been orchestrating every single encounter. I forced myself to breathe, clutching the edges of my plastic tray. Suddenly, Amber reached out and grabbed my wrist. Before I could react, she yanked my arm downward. The bowl on my tray tilted, spilling lukewarm soup and leftover broth all over the front of her white sweater. Amber let out a high-pitched, agonizing scream. “Ow! It burns! Trevor, help me! It hurts so much!” Footsteps pounded across the cafeteria floor, and Trevor materialized like a storm, his face contorted with anger. “She did that on purpose—” I began, my voice tight. Trevor didn’t listen. He grabbed my wrist and shoved me backward with a force that sent me staggering off balance. My spine slammed hard against the sharp metal corner of the stainless-steel serving counter behind me. A fiery, blinding agony exploded across my shoulder blades. I trembled, leaning against the counter for support, and reached behind my back to touch the wet warmth soaking through my shirt. When I brought my hand back around, my fingertips were smeared with bright, wet blood. I froze, the air leaving my lungs. Trevor didn’t notice a thing. He unzipped his jacket, wrapping it tenderly around Amber’s trembling shoulders. She burrowed into his chest, tears streaming down her face like a tragic heroine. Trevor looked down at her, his eyes red with concern. Amber whimpered, lifting her face. Her lips brushed intentionally against his jaw as she wept. “Trevor, don’t be mad at Josie… it was my fault. I just saw her following us every day, and I wanted to ask if she was mad at me for taking up your time… I didn’t mean to cling to you…” When Trevor turned his head back to look at me, his expression was colder than ice. “Josie, aren’t you exhausted, tracking my every move like a stalker?” He gestured wildly toward Amber. “Yesterday, Amber was kind enough to make excuses for you, saying you just happened to be walking by. But now? You’re not even pretending anymore. You’re physically attacking her in broad daylight?” “I wasn’t tracking you,” I said, my voice hollow, stripped of all emotion. “And I didn’t attack her. She grabbed my hand and pulled the bowl onto herself.” The veins on Trevor’s forehead bulged. There wasn’t a single shred of trust in his eyes. Not a drop. Amber reached out, her pale hand coming to rest softly on Trevor’s forearm. “It’s okay, Trevor… don’t be mad at her. It was all my fault, really…” Trevor didn’t hesitate. He scooped Amber up into his arms, carrying her bridal-style. As he passed me, his voice cut through the air like a blade. “Josie, I never realized how cruel you actually are.” He stopped, glaring at me over his shoulder. “We need to take a six-month break. We’re done spending time together until you fix your attitude.” I stared at him, the disappointment settling deep into my bones. “Trevor, we’ve been together for almost a year,” I said softly. “You really don’t believe me at all?” He chose to believe a girl he had known for less than a month over me. Trevor’s jaw set into a hard line. “I believe Amber.” Amber rested her head on his shoulder, casting a triumphant, mocking smile at me over his back as he carried her away. I clung to the edge of the serving counter, my hand shaking uncontrollably. The warm, thick stickiness on my back was spreading, soaking through my shirt. My knees buckled, and my legs gave out. Just as I was about to hit the hard floor, a pair of strong, steady arms caught me around the waist, lifting me off my feet. Gasps echoed through the cafeteria.

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My parents used to run a one-dollar cancer kitchen right behind the back gate of Memorial Oncology. It cost a single dollar to use a stove burner for an hour. Rice, flour, cooking oil, and salt were free for anyone who needed them. They paid the rent, electricity, and gas out of their own pockets, bleeding my mother’s monthly pension dry to keep the burners lit. I tried to reason with them. I begged them to stop. My mom would just look at me and say, “Lauren, by the time people end up at this hospital, they’ve already lost everything else. If we can save them the price of a warm meal, we do it.” Then the daughter of one of their regular patients filed a formal report against them. The report was brutal. Detailed. Merciless. “Unsanitary conditions.” “Unlicensed commercial food preparation.” “Unregulated collection of charitable donations.” “Suspected embezzlement.” The health department shut the kitchen down on the spot. The city seized their ledgers, and my parents were hit with a twelve-hundred-dollar fine. When the informant came by to explain herself, her words were wrapped in polished, reasonable concern: “Miranda, please don’t take this personally. I just wanted to make sure the charity work was transparent.” My mom looked at her for a long time. She asked only one question: “The year your mother had two-thirds of her stomach removed, when she couldn’t even keep down water, who spent every morning standing over a stove straining rice broth for her?” The girl dropped her gaze, but her voice stayed firm. “Kindness is one thing. The rules are another.” My mom nodded slowly. “Alright,” she said. “From now on, your mother eats by the rules, too.” 1. When I reached the narrow alley behind the cancer center, a crowd had gathered outside the door. The weathered wooden sign my father had carved eight years ago was still hanging above the entrance: “The Dollar Hearth”. The lettering was darkened by years of cooking grease, the edges frayed and splintered. A stark white notice was pasted across the door, sealed with a bright red official stamp. “ORDER TO CEASE AND DESIST.” “PENDING INVESTIGATION.” “FOOD PREPARATION PROHIBITED.” My mother, Miranda, stood by the shut-off stainless steel stovetop, holding a gray rag. She wiped down the cool surface over and over, her arm moving in rigid, rhythmic strokes. She acted as if the crowd outside didn’t exist. As if she couldn’t hear the murmurs drifting through the doorway. “No soup today?” “My husband just finished his radiation round—he can only handle soft food…” “Who could have reported this place? It’s been here for eight years!” “Word is someone filed a complaint about sanitation. Said no one knows where the donation box money goes.” “Embezzlement? Thomas and Miranda? They barely have the heart to ask for the single dollar!” My father, Thomas, was sitting on a low plastic stool in the corner. He was holding a sheet of paper, his calloused thumb pressing hard into the margin. I walked over and gently pulled the paper from his hand. It was an official code enforcement citation. “Operation of an unpermitted food establishment; provision of commercial cooking equipment, raw ingredients, and meal processing services; improper storage of raw goods; lack of required sanitation and sample-retention protocols; elevated food safety risk.” “Note: Allegations regarding unauthorized public donation collection have been referred to the Department of Charitable Oversight.” “Penalty Assessment: $1,200.” My chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe. “Donation money?” I whispered. My dad raised his head. His lips were pressed into a tight, pale line. In all my life, I had never seen him raise his voice or pick a fight with anyone. Right now, his eyes were bloodshot. My mom’s hand paused on the stove. Then she started wiping again. “Who wrote the report?” I asked. Nobody answered. Out in the alley, a woman wearing a hospital aide’s uniform lowered her voice to a whisper. “Wasn’t it Kayla?” My heart plummeted. Kayla. Her mother, Patricia, had been fighting stomach cancer at Memorial for over two years. Kayla was one of the very first people to use the kitchen when my parents opened it, and she was the person my mother had looked after most fiercely. Before I could process it, Director Palmer from the district charity oversight office walked up the alley steps, accompanied by two health inspectors carrying heavy plastic evidence bags. Inside the bags were my parents’ hand-stitched ledgers, cash receipts, and the small metal key to the donation box. Director Palmer looked uncomfortable when he saw me. “Lauren,” he said softly. “I didn’t expect you here.” I stared at him. “Who filed the report?” He adjusted his glasses. “You know we can’t disclose the identity of an informant.” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “You can’t disclose it? Then why did the report contain private video footage of my mom making specialized rice broth for Patricia? Why did it include screenshots from our private volunteer group chat? Why were there photos of our monthly expense sheets?” I stepped closer to him. “Who else had access to those records besides Kayla?” Director Palmer’s jaw tightened. He didn’t say a word. My dad stood up very slowly from his stool. “It was really her?” Silence filled the alley. It was heavier than any confession. My mother finally stopped wiping the stove. She folded her rag, laid it carefully beside the sink, and turned to face the doorway. Several people in the crowd averted their eyes. They knew the truth, but none of them wanted to be the one to say it out loud. My mom didn’t cry. She walked over to the wall, reached up, and unhooked the wooden sign. Behind where “The Dollar Hearth” had hung for eight years, the paint was pale and clean. Eight years of grease and smoke had blackened every inch of that alley wall, except for that one tiny square. She cradled the wooden sign against her chest. “That’s it,” she said softly. “The burners are off.” A man near the front panicked. “Miranda, you can’t! My wife starts her radiation tomorrow—she can’t digest restaurant food!” “Thomas, please, couldn’t you just keep one burner running on the sly?” another woman pleaded. “We won’t tell anyone. Nobody has to know.” My mother looked up at them. Her eyes were hollow with a bone-deep exhaustion. “Someone already knows,” she said. “Too much, in fact.” She took a slow breath. “If you need food from now on, go to the hospital cafeteria. Order the clinical meal plans. Don’t come back here.” 2. My parents started the Dollar Hearth eight years ago. Back then, the block behind Memorial Oncology was a line of dilapidated brick storefronts. Patient families lived crammed into tiny, hundred-square-foot rental rooms nearby, the hallways constantly choked with the smell of boiling herbal medicine, cheap electric cookers, and rubbing alcohol. Cancer patients after chemotherapy couldn’t eat takeout. It was too oily, too salty, too tough to chew. Some patients only had the stomach for a clear, gentle soup. Others had lost all sense of taste except for a craving for a simple bowl of homemade porridge. My mother had originally gone to the hospital just to help out a neighbor. While leaving, she saw an elderly woman sitting on the curb, trying to cook thin noodles for her bedridden husband using a tiny plug-in hotpot. A sudden gust of wind knocked the hotpot over. The boiling broth spilled all over the asphalt. The woman sat on the curb and sobbed, saying her husband hadn’t been able to keep a single bite down all day. When my parents came home that night, they sat at the kitchen table and talked until dawn. The very next day, they rented a abandoned shoe repair stall in the back alley. They installed three gas burners, hooked up a sink, bought secondhand pots and pans, and taped a piece of paper to the door: “Burner: $1.” “Oil, salt, and spices: Free.” “Please clean up after yourself.” They never intended to start a movement. They just wanted to give desperate families a place to cook a hot meal. At first, only a few people came. Then the alley filled up. Families who had traveled from out of state, people who had just received a fatal diagnosis, people who had sold their homes just to afford another round of chemo. My dad kept the books and hauled the heavy propane tanks. My mom spent her days teaching panicked relatives how to cook gentle, easily digestible meals. If a patient couldn’t chew solid food after surgery, she taught them how to simmer rice until the nutrient-dense layer of velvety broth rose to the top. If a patient had severe mouth sores, she showed them how to steam eggs into a delicate custard. If their white blood cell counts plummeted, she reminded them to consult their doctors instead of buying expensive, unproven supplements. When a family ran out of groceries, my mom pulled rice from our own pantry. If someone couldn’t spare the single dollar, my dad would draw a little pencil mark in his ledger, marking it as paid. I argued with them back then, too. “Mom, Dad, you’re not running a non-profit. You’re losing money every single day.” My dad would just smile. “So we lose a little money. Look at what those people are going through.” My mom was always stiffer on the outside. “I’m retired. What else am I going to do with my time?” But I knew how hard she worked. She woke up at five every morning to catch the clearance sales at the wholesale market. She spent her days boiling water, scrubbing counters, and sanitizing pots. At ten at night, she was still down in the alley, taking out the trash and double-checking the gas valves. Over eight years, the joints in her fingers had swollen and twisted with arthritis. That was when Kayla had walked into their lives. Her mother, Patricia, had undergone a subtotal gastrectomy for stomach cancer. Early on, Patricia couldn’t tolerate anything. She threw up the hospital-grade clinical nutrition shakes, and the cafeteria porridge triggered her acid reflux immediately. Kayla had knelt in the alley outside the kitchen, crying until her eyes were swollen shut. My mom had found her there and asked softly, “Can your mother handle clear rice broth?” Kayla shook her head, her voice breaking. “I don’t know how to make it.” My mom didn’t say another word. She stood over a tiny gas ring for two hours, simmering rice on low heat, skimming off the solid grains, and saving only the silky, nutrient-rich broth on top. Then she steamed half a cup of egg custard and handed it to Kayla, showing her how to feed her mother one tiny spoon at a time. Patricia managed to keep almost half of it down that day. Kayla had burst into tears right there in the alley and bowed deeply to my mother. “Miranda, if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know how to survive this.” From that day on, Kayla was there almost every day. When she had to work, she would drop off ingredients at the door: “Miranda, my mom wants vegetable broth today. Could you keep an eye on the burner for me?” When she had to run back home for insurance paperwork, she would ask my dad: “Thomas, would you mind walking this soup container up to the fourth-floor oncology ward for me?” My parents never once refused her. When Patricia went through her second round of chemo and suffered terrible reactions, Kayla broke down, talking about giving up treatment altogether. My mom sat with her on a curb in the alley until past midnight. My dad emptied the small community donation box—a few thousand dollars—added two hundred from his own wallet, put it in a plain white envelope, and handed it to her. Kayla had cried, holding my parents’ hands. “Thomas, Miranda… you are the guardian angels of my mother’s life.” My mom held onto those words for a long time. Until they turned into a knife. 3. Four days after the health department locked the doors, Kayla showed up at our house. She wore a crisp tailored coat and light makeup. In her hand, she held a high-end box of dietary supplements. She didn’t look like someone coming to apologize. She looked like an executive making a house call. My mom was in the living room, packing up the spatulas and ladle sets she had brought back from the alley. My dad opened the front door. When he saw Kayla standing on the porch, he didn’t step aside. “What do you want?” Kayla’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “Thomas, please… I just want to speak to Miranda.” I walked out from the kitchen. “Speak to her? To see how miserable she is after you turned her in?” Kayla’s face turned pale. “Lauren, you’re looking at this the wrong way. I didn’t do it out of malice. I was just raising legitimate concerns.” I couldn’t help laughing out loud. “Legitimate concerns? Unsanitary conditions? Embezzling charity money? That’s what you call raising concerns?” Kayla bit her lip. “The kitchen “didn’t” have a commercial permit, Lauren. Unsealed spices, shared cookware, dozens of strangers coming and going—it was a massive liability. And what about the donation box? People put money in every week. There needed to be an official, audited record.” I stepped right up to her, inches from her face. “The expense ledgers were taped to the alley wall every single month. Were you blind? Where do you think that emergency cash for your mom’s medical bills came from? Did you forget?” A flash of shame crossed her face, but she straightened her spine almost immediately. “It’s precisely because everyone trusted Thomas and Miranda that things needed to be done right,” she insisted. “Charity can’t be run on personal favors. Kindness isn’t a substitute for compliance.” My mom walked out from the back room. In her hand, she was still holding an old wooden ladle—the exact one she used to skim the rice broth for Patricia. She looked at Kayla. No yelling. No anger. She just asked softly, “The day your mother had her surgery, where was the stove that cooked her first meal?” Kayla’s rimmed eyes overflowed. “Miranda, I’ve always been grateful—” “When your mother had mouth sores from chemo and cried every time she tried to drink water, who stood there testing the temperature of her soup degree by degree?” my mom interrupted quietly. “When you caught a fever in the middle of the night and had no one to cover your shift at her bedside, who sat in the ward chair until morning so you could sleep?” “When you told us you couldn’t afford her next cycle of treatment, who emptied that donation box and added their own savings to give it to you?” Kayla’s hand began to tremble. The handle of the supplement box cut into her white knuckles. “I know you helped me,” Kayla whispered. “I know. But helping me doesn’t mean the kitchen wasn’t operating illegally. Miranda, you don’t understand—people online are extremely suspicious of charity work now. I was terrified that if something went wrong down the line, you’d end up in legal trouble.” My mom nodded slowly. “I see,” she said. “Well, I’m in trouble now anyway.” The living room fell completely silent. My dad stood beside her, his face dark and stony. “Take your box and get out,” my dad said. Kayla panicked. “Thomas, I didn’t come here to start an argument!” “Then why did you come?” my dad stared down at her. “To tell us that stabbing us in the back was the right thing to do?” Kayla opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “I… I just wanted things to be better.” My mom took the supplement box from Kayla’s trembling hands and set it firmly back against Kayla’s chest. “Kayla,” my mom said. “You said kindness isn’t enough. You said we need rules. You said charity needs to be transparent, and kitchens need to be fully certified.” My mom paused. “I heard you.” “So from now on, when your mother needs to eat, don’t rely on my uncertified, non-transparent kindness anymore.” Kayla gasped. “Miranda, that’s not what I meant!” My mom looked at her, her voice smooth and devoid of heat. “It’s what I mean.” “Whatever your mother needs to eat from now on, go ask the hospital’s clinical nutritionists. Buy from a licensed provider.” “Don’t ever come back to me.” Kayla stood frozen on the porch as tears streamed down her face. If this had happened a month ago, my mother’s heart would have softened instantly. But this time, my mom simply turned around and walked back into the house, pulling the door closed behind her. 4. After the Dollar Hearth closed, total chaos broke out behind Memorial Oncology. In the past, no matter how hard life got for patient families, they could at least carry a bowl of freshly cooked, home-style food back to the oncology wards. Now, that safety net was gone. The hospital tightened its regulations drastically. Electric hotpots and slow cookers were strictly banned in the patient rooms. Notices were posted beneath every hallway security camera: “UNAUTHORIZED WIRING AND OPEN FLAMES STRICTLY PROHIBITED.” “VIOLATORS WILL HAVE THEIR CAREGIVER PASSES REVOKED.” The hospital cafeteria offered clinical patient meals for twenty-five dollars a plate. Low-sodium, low-oil options had to be ordered twenty-four hours in advance. Post-surgery liquid diets were billed separately. Specialized medical nutrition plans were even more exorbitant: forty-eight dollars for a single fortified shake, sixty-eight dollars for a soft-food meal box, plus a ward delivery fee. The online caregiver group chat was flooded with desperate complaints every day. “My husband finished his radiation today and couldn’t touch a single bite of the cafeteria food.” “The clinical nutrition shakes are so sickly sweet! How is a diabetic cancer patient supposed to drink that?” “We traveled three hundred miles to get treatment here. Between room rent and hospital food, we’re going broke.” “It was so much easier when Thomas and Miranda were open…” Naturally, a few people started posting bitter comments, too. “Well, it should have been standardized from the start.” “You can’t rely on two senior citizens’ personal morals when it comes to what sick patients consume.” “If they had just gotten a proper commercial license years ago, everyone wouldn’t be stranded right now.” My hands shook with rage as I read the messages. “Do these people have any shred of empathy left?” My mom sat on the sofa, three thick, leather-bound ledgers spread open on the coffee table in front of her. She turned the pages one by one. Every entry was written in my father’s neat handwriting. “Date: Total $1 stove fees collected.” “Rice purchased: $12.” “Cooking oil purchased: $18.” “Emergency subsidy provided to Patient Room 402.” “Donation source and usage details.” And scattered across almost every page, written in red ink: “Personal out-of-pocket coverage by Thomas & Miranda.” As my mother read through the entries, her eyes filled with tears. “They don’t lack empathy, Lauren,” she said softly. “They were just handed a warm meal for so long that they forgot who had to stand over the fire to make it.” My dad took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Let the city audit us. Once the books are open, at least nobody can say we stole anything.” The worst part of Kayla’s report wasn’t the lack of a commercial license. It was the allegation of embezzlement. Those words were like toxic waste dumped straight onto my parents’ names. They had lived their entire lives with complete integrity. When my dad worked at the grain distribution depot decades ago, he had never taken so much as a torn bag of rice home. When my mom ran a small breakfast stand, if a customer overpaid by fifty cents, she would run two blocks down the street to give it back. Now, after spending eight years running a dollar kitchen out of their own pockets, someone had slapped them with the label of corrupt grifters. Director Palmer called to inform us that a third-party accounting firm had been appointed to perform a full audit. They needed every ledger, receipt, donation log, and grocery invoice my parents possessed. My mom didn’t hesitate. “Audit us. Go back to year one. The deeper you look, the better.” Over the next three days, I took time off work to help them assemble the records. Box after box was packed and stacked in our living room. Gas bills. Rent receipts. Utility statements. Invoices for bulk rice and flour. And hundreds of tiny, handwritten receipts for small cash expenses, neatly stapled to notebook pages by my father. I flipped through to the section from two years ago, stopping at Patricia’s name. When Kayla’s mother was struggling to cover her treatment costs, the dollar kitchen group chat had raised $6,800. My parents had quietly added $3,200 of their own money to round it up to an even $10,000. Glued to the page was a receipt signed by Kayla herself in neat, precise script. I held the piece of paper, a cold, bitter feeling blooming in my chest. How could she? How could she look at my parents after everything they had given her and accuse them of stealing charity money? Before the audit was even complete, Kayla started advertising commercial nutrition meal subscriptions in the patient support groups. She dropped polished flyers into the chat: “Fully Licensed. Designed by Certified Clinical Nutritionists. Safe, Transparent, Compliant.” “Warm-Heart Caregiver Meal Services—Solving Your Hospital Dining Needs.” “7-Day Post-Op Recovery Package: $498.” I felt a surge of blinding fury. Her report had never been about “charity transparency.” My parents’ one-dollar stove was standing in the way of her profits. If she wanted to sell sixty-eight-dollar meal boxes, she had to destroy the place that fed people for a dollar first. My mom read the advertisement on my phone screen. She didn’t curse. She didn’t scream. She simply turned the screen off and handed the phone back to me. “Let them audit,” she whispered. “When the books are cleared, everyone can see for themselves who is clean and who is dirty.” On the day the official audit results were released, a massive crowd gathered in front of the hospital’s main bulletin board.

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I was born with a jinxed tongue. Whatever dark thing spilled from my lips always came to pass. When I was six, the human trafficker who snatched me snapped my left wrist in a fit of rage. I locked my eyes onto his and hissed through grit teeth: “You break my bone, I take your head.” Before the echo of my voice faded, the wind ripped a heavy steel signboard from the rooftop overhead. Its rusted, razor-sharp edge sheared clean through his throat. His head rolled into the gutter before his body even hit the pavement. When I was ten, the old caretaker at the state orphanage stole the meager cash I’d earned hauling scrap metal. I stared at him with ice in my veins. “You take my bread, I buy your bed. You won’t see sunrise; the earth is your casket.” That very night, he passed out drunk in the facility sauna. A short circuit locked the door and dialed the thermostat up past two hundred degrees. By morning, he was cooked into a shriveled, blackened husk, curled on the tiles like a piece of charcoal. Then came the Charless. The billionaire industrialist Charles Charles and his wife traced their long-lost biological daughter back to me. Knowing the monster living inside my mouth, I sealed my lips tight the moment I crossed the threshold of their estate. I swore I would never utter another word. For a month, it worked. Until the night of my brother’s twenty-first birthday gala. My adoptive sister, Delilah, cornered me near the balcony. Without a word of warning, she grabbed my hand and hurled herself backward into the floor-to-ceiling glass window. The glass shattered in a deafening spray. By the time my mother came running, Delilah’s arms were slick with crimson. My mother didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t look at the shattered frame. She swung her hand and slapped me across the face so hard my vision swam. “Delilah has a severe blood clotting disorder!” my mother screamed, her voice shrill with hysteria. “No matter how much you resent her, you don’t gamble with her life!” My father rushed over a second later, his eyes bloodshot, finger trembling as he thrust it at my nose. “Do you have any idea what it took to bring you back to this family? And this is how you repay us? Get out to the courtyard and kneel! You don’t stand up until you understand what you’ve done wrong!” I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. I didn’t say a single word. Fine. You want me to speak? I’ll speak. I fixed my gaze on Delilah’s tear-stained face, every syllable laced with poison… … I knelt on the cold blue flagstones of the courtyard. My stomach twisted in violent spasms; I hadn’t tasted a scrap of food since yesterday afternoon. Rain poured off the eaves, soaking through my clothes until my skin felt marble-cold. My vision flickered black, and I collapsed sideways, my face splashing into a muddy puddle. Suddenly, a black umbrella blocked the torrent overhead. My older brother, Beckett, stood over me, his hand wrapped around Delilah’s waist. He looked down at me as if I were something scraped off the bottom of his shoe. He lifted the toe of his polished Italian leather boot and kicked my shoulder. “Why are you so damn stubborn?” he spat. “All you have to do is swallow your pride, apologize, and Mom and Dad will let you inside. Do you really have to ruin this family before you’re satisfied?” My fingers dug into the wet gravel beneath the silt, my nails scraping against stone. I kept my jaw clamped shut. When I first arrived at the Charles mansion, my mother had worried I wouldn’t sleep in an unfamiliar bed. She’d sat beside me every night, gently stroking my hair until I drifted off. My father had canceled a month’s worth of corporate dinners just to eat at home with me. And Beckett—Beckett had thrown a wealthy heir into a country club fountain just because the guy made a snide remark about my rough accent. To protect that fleeting, fragile warmth, I had bound my own tongue in chains. Even when framed. Even when forced to my knees in the freezing rain. I held my silence. Delilah leaned heavily into Beckett’s chest, clutching his lapel with trembling fingers. “Beckett, please… let it go,” she whimpered, her voice frail as spun glass. “Rory suffered so much before coming home. She’s probably just terrified I’ll steal your love away.” Beckett’s jaw tightened on the handle of the umbrella, his eyes blazing with protective fury. “Suffering in the past doesn’t give her a license to hurt people! If we don’t break this cruel streak out of her now, she’s going to bring down this entire house.” Seeing that I remained motionless, Delilah slowly crouched beside me. She leaned in close to my ear, her voice dropping into a low, honeyed venom meant for me alone. “So what if you share their blood? To them, you aren’t worth a single strand of my hair.” She pulled back abruptly, her eyes widening in theatrical terror, and clutched her chest with both hands. “Beckett… my chest… I can’t breathe…” Beckett’s face drained of color. He tossed the umbrella aside, scooped Delilah into his arms, and turned toward the driveway. “Delilah! Your heart can’t take this kind of stress! I’m taking you to the ER right now!” He spun on his heel and glared at me, his teeth gritted in pure hatred. “If anything happens to her because of this stunt, I swear to God I’m done with you!” The sports car’s engine roared to life, tires screeching against the wet asphalt as it sped into the dark. I lay in the mud as the cold rain lashed down, heavy and relentless. I knelt there all night. By dawn, the storm had finally passed. The heavy front doors swung open. My parents walked out, their eyes swollen and bloodshot. Beckett followed behind them, carefully supporting Delilah. My mother sprinted down the marble steps and slammed a thick medical report directly into the puddle in front of me, her voice shaking with rage. “The doctor said Delilah went into sudden cardiac arrest! Her heart stopped! If we’d arrived two minutes later, she’d be dead! And you still won’t offer a single word of remorse!” My father leaned heavily on his mahogany cane, his face thunderous. “We spent millions searching the country for you, Rory. Is this your gratitude?” I kept my head down, staring at the white paper dissolving in the murky water. Delilah leaned weakness against Beckett’s shoulder. “Mom, Dad, please… don’t be mad at Rory. She grew up on the streets. She just doesn’t know how to belong in a real family…” She stepped forward slowly, crouching in front of me again, reaching out a delicate hand as if to help me up. Out of our parents’ line of sight, she leaned close and whispered, “I paid eighty-eight thousand dollars to have that report forged, sister. I don’t have a heart condition. But as long as I fake a gasp, they’ll destroy you for me.” Then, she let out a sharp cry, threw herself backward onto the damp stone, and clutched her sternum, coughing violently. “It hurts… Rory, please don’t push me!” Beckett lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar and yanking me out of the mud. “Are you out of your mind?! She’s frail enough as it is, and you’re still putting your hands on her?!” In the struggle, the jade pendant tucked beneath my shirt slipped out. It was a protective amulet my mother had traveled to a remote sanctuary to seek for me when I first returned home. Beckett caught sight of the green stone and ripped the silk cord clean off my neck. “Something Mom prayed over for protection? A viper like you doesn’t deserve to wear it!” He turned and pressed the jade into Delilah’s hand. “Here, Delilah. This will keep you safe.” Delilah clutched the stone to her chest, throwing me a triumphant, mocking smile that only I could see. I slowly pried Beckett’s fingers off my collar, my breath coming out as a cold, deliberate hiss. “Faking chest pain every single day…” I murmured. My mother screamed, “Shut your mouth!” I locked eyes with Delilah. “Keep faking it long enough, little sister, and see if your heart doesn’t actually give out.” Delilah let out a sharp laugh. “Are you insane—” The words froze in her throat. The laugh died instantly, pinned to her face like a grotesque mask. Her hands slammed against her left ribcage, her mouth opening in a silent gasp before a blood-curdling shriek tore from her chest. “AAAAHHH!” This time, the agony was entirely real. She collapsed into the dirt, writhing violently as spasms racked her frame. My mother shrieked in horror, dropping to her knees to grab her. Beckett scooped Delilah’s convulsing body into his arms and bolted toward the garage like a madman. My father pointed his cane at my face, his hands trembling with rage. “You heartless, evil creature! Trying to scare your sister to death! Lock her in the basement!” Eight heavy security guards swarmed me, dragging me across the stone driveway like a stray dog. The basement was pitch-black and damp. I lost track of how many days passed in that dark cellar. Until one night, the door was kicked off its hinges. Beckett stormed in, grabbed me by the shirt, and dragged me up the stairs and into the blinding light of the main hall. It was the Charles family’s quarterly gathering. The grand living room was filled with relatives, uncles, and prominent shareholders. Delilah sat in a wheelchair near the hearth, her face chalk-white, resting her head on my mother’s shoulder. Beckett slammed me onto the Persian rug. “All our relatives are here today! You are going to get on your knees and apologize to Delilah right now!” “The doctors said she suffered an acute myocardial infarction! Minutes away from brain death! You knew how delicate her condition was, and you deliberately provoked her. That’s attempted murder!” My mother pointed at me, her hands shaking so hard her gold bangles clinked. “We opened our hearts to you, and you tried to kill your sister just to secure your place in this house! If you don’t bow your head today, you are no daughter of mine!” Mutterings broke out among the relatives. “Raised in the slums, what do you expect?” “To attack her own sister… how vile.” Delilah clutched my mother’s hand, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mom, don’t blame Rory… She suffered so much growing up. It’s natural she holds bitterness…” Looking at her hypocritical performance, a wave of nausea washed over me. “I’ve been locked in a basement for days,” I said, my voice hoarse from disuse. “And not one of you bothered to check into the eighty-eight thousand dollars she spent buying fake medical records?” Beckett kicked my shoulder with full force. I tumbled sideways, my forehead slamming hard against the sharp edge of a marble side table. Blood immediately trickled down my temple. “Shut your lying mouth!” he roared. “Young Master, wait! Miss Rory is telling the truth!” The room fell dead silent. Agnes, the elderly housekeeper who had served the Charless for twenty years, shuffled out from the kitchen and threw herself onto her knees. Trembling violently, she pointed a gnarled finger at Delilah. “Five days ago, while I was cleaning the second-floor study, I heard Miss Delilah on the phone arranging for forged hospital documents! I saw her dump her heart prescription pills straight down the toilet!” Delilah’s face drained of all color. She buried her face in her hands and burst into loud, frantic tears. “Agnes! How could you say that?! How much money did Rory pay you to frame me?!” Beckett snapped. He grabbed a porcelain teapot of boiling water off the side table and slammed it directly over Agnes’s head. The porcelain shattered into jagged shards. Scalding tea and thick red blood poured down the old woman’s face. “Ungrateful old bat!” Beckett snarled. “Beat her mouth until her teeth break, then throw her out on the street!” I threw my body over Agnes before the guards could reach her. Heavy leather boots rained down on my back, kick after kick, hard enough to shatter ribs. I curled around Agnes, taking the brunt of the blows. The blunt impacts echoed through my spine, my internal organs searing with excruciating pain. I lifted my head and looked at my family. My father stood by, his face cold, unblinking as his guards stomped on his biological child. My mother pressed her hands over Delilah’s eyes, whispering sweet comfort so her delicate daughter wouldn’t be frightened by the violence. Whatever fragile bond of blood had existed between us was pulverized into dust beneath their boots. I had chosen silence to protect their lives. Yet they were beating an innocent old woman to death just to protect a fraud. “Stop hitting Miss Rory… please… I confess, I made it up…” Agnes wept beneath me, her voice ragged. Beckett let out a cold, venomous chuckle. He grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back. “You see that, Rory? The help you brought in has even softer bones than you.” Delilah sat in her wheelchair, tears brimming in her eyes as she pulled gently on Beckett’s sleeve. “Beckett, please, stop.” She turned toward my father, weeping openly. “Dad, if Rory really can’t stand the sight of me, I’ll pack my bags and leave tomorrow. She can have everything in my name. Just please, stop the fighting…” My mother wrapped her arms around Delilah, sobbing hysterically. My father slammed his cane against the floor. “Rory Charles! We brought you home for a family reunion, not to watch you tear this house apart! Starting tomorrow, you will be confined to the guest cottage out back. You won’t step foot outside until you learn how to treat your sister with respect!” Beckett threw me back to the floor and stood protectively in front of Delilah. “We gave you everything, and you turned out to be nothing but a venomous snake. When is this sick jealousy going to end?!” I looked at the three of them wrapped around Delilah, a wall of united defense against the monster they believed I was. I swallowed the warm, metallic taste of blood pooling in my throat. A slow, terrifying smile cracked across my lips. I was done holding back. I locked my eyes directly onto Delilah’s trembling pupils. My voice was quiet, yet it carried to every corner of the vast, silent hall. “Since you’re all so convinced she’s on the verge of death…” “Fine. Let’s make sure she actually dies a little.” A collective gasp rippled through the room. Beckett’s mouth opened to unleash another torrent of abuse. I didn’t break eye contact with Delilah. Word by word, I delivered my decree…

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