Category: English

1 Running the campus confession page for three years taught me much about human nature. Tonight was the deadline for college applications. I planned to moderate the page one last time before shutting it down for good. At 11:50 PM, an anonymous user messaged my inbox. He said he had hacked his childhood best friend’s portal and altered her entire application list. “It has been three years. I know she has a massive crush on me, but she always acts superior when she tutors me and the girl I actually like. Now, she applied to the exact same universities as me, while the girl I love bombed her SATs and got rejected everywhere. I deleted her safety schools so she gets rejected too. She can take a gap year and keep the girl I love company at community college. That is not too much to ask, right?” I stared at the glowing screen. My heart hammered against my ribs, and my fingertips turned ice cold. The typing bubble appeared again. “But we have been neighbors for eight years. I still care about her. Whisper, post this to the main page for me. If she happens to see this in the next ten minutes, she still has time to log in and change her schools back to the West Coast. If she misses it… then it is just fate.” I took a deep, shaky breath, fully intending to hit the block button. Then he sent a custom meme. It was a poorly drawn cartoon cat throwing a punch. I had drawn it myself on my iPad. I had only ever sent it to two people in the entire world. My best friend, and my childhood neighbor. … The anonymous user was Noah. My stomach violently dropped, replaced by a dense, suffocating pain spreading through my chest. I scrambled to open a new tab, loading the Common App portal with trembling hands. My customized list of West Coast safety and target schools, UCLA, UC Berkeley, and the University of Washington, had been entirely wiped out. In their place sat three new names. Harvard. MIT. Princeton. They were all Ivy League or elite East Coast universities. I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice. “Whisper, are you still there? Are you going to post it?” The anonymous chat box pinged again. I gripped my phone, my knuckles turning white. The digital clock in the corner of my screen ticked forward. 11:51 PM. Nine minutes until the national submission portal locked permanently. I did not reply to him. My fingers flew across the keyboard, switching back to the admissions portal. The three seconds it took to load felt like three agonizing years. I stared at the pristine, updated list. My guaranteed acceptance to UW was gone. My target spot at UC Berkeley was gone. The three elite East Coast giants sat there, mocking me. Noah had completely severed my safety net. He knew my academic stats inside and out. I ranked sixth in our graduating class. My GPA was high enough to secure a spot at Berkeley, maybe even push for Stanford if I got lucky. But Harvard and MIT? He was deliberately throwing me to the wolves. He wanted me to get rejected across the board so I would be forced into a gap year. Another message popped up. “Whisper?” “I figured you of all people would understand. You have run this page for three years, you have seen how toxic people can be. Some girls are just too arrogant, thinking high grades entitle them to everything.” I stared at the text, feeling a thick knot of cotton forming in my throat. The childhood best friend who “acted so superior” when tutoring him. That was me. The girl who harbored a secret crush on him for three years. That was me. The girl who supposedly needed to step aside and sacrifice a year of her life for the girl he actually loved. That was me, too. And he had absolutely no idea he was confessing his crime directly to the victim. 11:52 PM. I took a desperate breath and clicked the edit button. I highlighted Harvard and hit delete. A security prompt popped up on the screen. Please enter the 6-digit verification code sent to your registered mobile device. I clicked send. I waited ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty seconds. No text arrived. I clicked resend. A red error message flashed across the screen. This phone number has reached the maximum number of verification requests for the next 24 hours. When Noah logged into my account to change my schools, he intentionally spammed the verification button to max out the security limit. 11:53 PM. I scrambled to the manual appeal page. The system prompt read: Manual security overrides require a photo of a valid government ID and a live selfie. Processing time is 24 to 48 hours. Twenty four hours. I only had seven minutes left. The anonymous messages kept rolling in. “Whatever, Whisper. You do not have to post it.” “It does not really matter if she sees it or not. I just wanted to give her a fighting chance.” “Eight years is a long time, after all. I am not completely heartless.” A wave of pure, unfiltered nausea washed over me. It was not physical sickness. It was a freezing chill seeping out from the very marrow of my bones. Noah actually thought he was being merciful. He destroyed my future, set me up to fail, and then tossed a vague hint into a campus rumor page. If I miraculously saw it and fixed it in the final ten minutes, he could wash his hands of the guilt. If I missed it, it was just the universe deciding my fate. 11:55 PM. I tried a third option, dialing the national admissions support hotline. An automated busy signal buzzed against my ear. Nobody was staffing the lines at midnight. I dropped my phone on the desk and stared blankly at the ceiling. My mind was entirely chaotic, yet terrifyingly clear. When Noah intentionally burned through my verification codes, he knew his plan was foolproof. He knew me too well. He knew I wouldn’t run out to an internet cafe in the middle of the night. He knew I wouldn’t wake my parents up to borrow a phone. He knew I would be completely paralyzed in those final ten minutes. His only wild card was the confession page. He gambled on the tiny chance I might be scrolling through it. But he never could have guessed that I was the one pulling the strings behind the curtain. A final message lit up the chat box. “Whisper, one last question.” “Do you think a girl who secretly pines after a guy for three years, never confessing, just hovering around him under the guise of tutoring him…” “Do you think she is a little pathetic?” 11:57 PM. I did not type a single word in response. I aggressively searched for the manual override codes for the West Coast universities. Only spam links and dead ends loaded on Google. I clicked the appeal portal one last time, refusing to give up. 11:59 PM. 12:00 AM. The screen auto-refreshed. A grey banner locked the page. The application submission window is now permanently closed. I covered my face with both hands and finally let the tears fall in the silent, dark room. 2 At exactly one in the morning, a text from Noah popped up on my phone. “Isabel, you asleep yet?” I stared at my name on the screen. He always called me just Isabel, never using a nickname, never adding my last name. It was a familiar marker, a habit he assumed would simply never change. I did not reply. Another text followed right behind it. “Did you finalize your portal? You said you wanted to stay near the ocean, so UCLA is pretty much a lock for you.” His tone was incredibly casual, even capping it off with a smiley face emoji. It was as if nothing had happened. As if he had not just spent the last hour hiding behind an anonymous avatar, confessing his sabotage to my alter ego. As if he had not personally condemned me to three elite universities I supposedly had no chance of entering. I stared at that smiley face for a very long time. Three years ago, Noah transferred to our high school in Seattle and moved into the house right next to mine. On his very first day, he figured out my wifi password, memorized my birthday, and learned my cat’s name. By his second week, he was treating my house like his own. He played games on my iPad, watched shows on my Netflix account, and printed his essays on my printer. By the end of his first month, the entire junior class treated us like an inseparable pair. I did like him. From the day he moved in, all the way until tonight. But he would never know that. Because starting from his very first year, he had his eyes entirely on Sarah. Sarah sat directly behind him in calculus. Her voice was breathy and soft. She took forever to solve a simple equation, and she looked like a fragile porcelain doll. Noah’s excuse for asking me to tutor was simple. “Isabel, can you break this formula down for her? She never understands it when I explain it.” So I taught Sarah math. After a year of tutoring, her grades crawled from the brink of failure to slightly above average. Noah was thrilled. He bought me a matcha latte as a reward. During our junior year, Sarah’s English grades tanked. Noah came to me again. “You have the highest AP English score in the district. Help her out, will you? She wants to take advanced literature with me next semester.” I helped her. Then came our senior year, the final brutal stretch of college prep. Noah leaned against my locker. “It is the last semester. Can you run through the AP Physics curriculum with Sarah? Her foundation is terrible. I am terrified she will not even get into a state college.” I tutored her for six exhausting months. Three times a week, two hours a session. Sarah never once said thank you. Instead, at the end of every session, she would turn to Noah with wide, teary eyes and say, “Noah, Isabel was acting so mean to me again.” And Noah would invariably tap on my bedroom window later that night. “Isabel, can you try to be a little gentler? It is not her fault she struggles with the basics.” I was never mean to her. The closest I came to being harsh was telling her “We went over this exact formula yesterday” when she made the exact same mistake for the fourth time in a row. But the truth did not matter. In Noah’s eyes, Sarah was a delicate flower requiring constant protection. And me? I was just the smart, self-sufficient girl who didn’t need anyone looking out for her. My phone vibrated against the desk. It was not Noah this time. It was my best friend, Brooke. I answered the call, my throat tight. “Why are you still awake?” Brooke’s voice buzzed through the speaker. “Isabel, did your portal lock in? I just submitted mine and I am way too wired to sleep.” “It locked.” “UCLA, right? I committed to USC. We can totally take road trips down the coast together!” I sat in silence for a moment. “Brooke.” “Yeah?” “If someone secretly hacked into another person’s college portal and altered their applications, what kind of legal consequences would they face?” The line went dead silent for two full seconds. “What are you talking about? Whose portal got hacked?” I opened my mouth, desperate to tell her it was mine. But I forced the words back down. I had absolutely no proof. Noah used an anonymous account. The core architecture of Westwood Whispers guaranteed total privacy. The backend did not log IP addresses, nor did it publicly bind to a real identity. I had coded those privacy rules myself three years ago to protect vulnerable students. Now, those same rules were a rope binding my own hands. “Nothing,” I whispered. “I was just reading a thriller novel. Made me curious.” I hung up the phone. I lay in bed, staring blankly upward with wide eyes. The amber glow of the streetlamp painted shadows across my ceiling. Noah lived exactly one wall away from me. Right now, he was probably sleeping soundly. Dreaming his perfect dream, where I happily sacrificed a year of my life for the girl he loved, staying behind to keep him in my orbit. 3 Early the next morning, the doorbell rang. I opened the door in my oversized sleep shirt. Noah stood on the porch, holding a brown paper bag from my favorite bakery. “Morning. Got you a blueberry scone.” He brushed past me, walking inside with the practiced ease of someone entering his own kitchen. He dropped the bag on the dining table, pulled out a chair, and casually picked up my iPad, scrolling through my open tabs. Everything was perfectly, sickeningly normal. I stood by the front door, staring at the back of his head. “Noah.” “Yeah?” “What time did you go to sleep last night?” He didn’t even look up. “Around eleven thirty. Passed out right after I submitted my portal. You?” “About the same.” He turned his head and offered a bright, easy smile. “You locked in UCLA, right? I checked the data. With your GPA, you are a guaranteed admit. Stop stressing.” I did not say a word. He went back to swiping on the iPad. “Oh, by the way, Sarah’s application got messed up.” My heart skipped a painful beat. “She only put down one safety school, and left the rest blank. Her mom does not understand the system, and Sarah is just so clumsy with paperwork. I am really worried she won’t get matched anywhere.” He said the words “won’t get matched” with the casual tone of someone discussing the morning weather. I forced my voice to stay even. “And what does that have to do with me?” Noah looked up, a trace of practiced helplessness in his smile. “I never said it had anything to do with you. Just venting, that’s all. You know her family does not have a lot of money. If she really slips through the cracks, her parents can’t afford private tutoring for a gap year.” He spoke with total calm, his tone warm and reasonable. As if he were discussing a perfectly natural tragedy. Suddenly, his anonymous message from last night echoed violently in my head. “She can take a gap year and keep the girl I love company. That is not too much to ask, right?” He genuinely believed it wasn’t too much to ask. He truly felt justified. “Isabel, why aren’t you eating your scone?” “Not hungry.” “Let me heat it up for you. It tastes like cardboard when it’s cold.” He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. As he passed me, he casually reached out and patted the top of my head. “Stop looking so miserable. College applications are over. Time to relax.” The exact second his hand rested on my hair, my entire body went rigid. It wasn’t a flutter of teenage romance. It was a profound, nauseating sense of absurdity. These exact same fingers had typed away in the dark last night, systematically deleting my entire future. And now, they were patting my head, soothing me like a well-trained, obedient pet. The microwave buzzed to life. Noah leaned against the kitchen doorframe, scrolling through his phone. He casually glanced up. “By the way, wasn’t your anonymous confession page shutting down yesterday?” My pulse spiked dangerously. “Yeah.” “Can I take a look at the backend database? Just curious to see all the insane gossip you collected over three years.” He smiled naturally, posing it as an innocent question. But my eyes caught the slight hesitation in his thumb hovering over his phone screen. “No,” I replied smoothly. “The rule is strict anonymity. Even I don’t read the archived logs.” “Fair enough,” Noah said, looking away. “You always were a stickler for the rules.” The microwave beeped loudly. He pulled the warm scone out, set it on a plate in front of me, and even placed a napkin neatly to the side. “Eat up. I’m meeting Sarah at the school later to pick up our senior yearbooks. Do you want to tag along?” “No.” “Suit yourself.” He grabbed his keys and phone, heading for the front door. He paused in the entryway, looking back at me with genuine concern. “Isabel, did you sleep terribly last night? You have massive dark circles under your eyes.” I forced the corners of my mouth up. “Binge-watched a show until three.” “Get some rest.” The door clicked shut. I sat alone at the dining table, staring blindly at the steaming blueberry scone. He remembered my favorite pastry. But he conveniently forgot that my absolute dream was to stay on the West Coast. Or perhaps he did remember. He just decided my dreams were not important. I picked up my phone and reloaded the Common App portal. The banner remained aggressively grey. This application cycle is officially closed. Black text on a white background. Like a signed death warrant. 4 By late afternoon, the senior class group chat was exploding. Mr. Davis, our homeroom counselor, posted an announcement. Mandatory graduation assembly and final transcript confirmation tomorrow morning at 9 AM. All seniors must attend with their student IDs. A flood of messages immediately followed. People were sending screenshots of their college lists and panicking about acceptance rates. Sarah sent a voice memo, her tone breathy and laced with anxiety. “Does anyone know if we can still edit our portals? I think I forgot to list my backup state schools.” Noah replied instantly. “Don’t panic. We can ask Mr. Davis tomorrow. If worst comes to worst, we can appeal to the community college board.” The rest of the class immediately jumped in to comfort her. “Don’t worry Sarah, your GPA is fine!” “Yeah, with Noah looking out for you, you’re totally safe.” Not a single person asked about me. And not a single person knew that the only student whose portal was actually sabotaged was quietly reading every single message. I exited the chat and opened an incognito browser. How to report a maliciously altered college application. The legal advice forums all gave the exact same answer. Call the police. But filing a police report required hard evidence. What did I actually have? A screenshot of an anonymous chat box. The sender had no name, and the server didn’t track IP addresses. A screenshot of an ugly cat meme. I had sent it to Noah and Brooke, but anyone could have easily saved it to their camera roll if they glanced at Noah’s phone. A phone number permanently locked out by spamming verification codes. The server logs only showed that the limit was reached, not who pushed the button. Logically, I knew it was Noah. Legally, I could not prove a damn thing. Unless he confessed to it in person. I reopened the Westwood Whispers admin dashboard. The anonymous chat log from last night was still sitting there. The final timestamp was 12:01 AM. “Never mind, Whisper. Time is up. Let it be. The universe has made its choice for her. Goodnight.” I took a screenshot and saved it to an encrypted folder. Then I opened the user directory source code. When I coded the page, I tied every anonymous account to the last four digits of a student ID to prevent bot spam. However, I applied a heavy cryptographic hash to those digits to ensure absolute privacy. Even as the admin, I only saw a string of randomized characters. Unless I intentionally cracked my own encryption algorithm. I stared at the scrambled code for five long minutes before closing the laptop. Not yet. Brooke barged into my house right before dinner. She threw her backpack onto the couch the second she walked in. “Isabel, I need to show you something, but promise you won’t get mad.” “Show me what.” “Sarah was running her mouth in a side chat this afternoon.” She pulled out her phone and shoved it into my hands. It was a private group chat I wasn’t invited to, obnoxiously titled “Senior Trip Vibes.” Sarah’s message read: “Noah said Isabel applied to the same West Coast schools as us! We can totally still hang out on weekends in college!” A guy in the chat replied: “If Isabel tags along, it’s just going to turn into a mandatory study hall lmao.” Noah’s response: “That is just how she is, you guys are used to it by now. Just don’t say it to her face, she’s super sensitive about it.” Brooke locked her phone screen, looking at me carefully. “You did lock in UCLA, right? Nothing changed?” I stayed completely silent. “Isabel?” “It changed.” “What do you mean? Changed to what?” “Harvard. MIT. Princeton.” Brooke’s jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind? Your GPA is amazing, but nobody gets into those without insane extracurriculars!” “I know.” “Then you are basically guaranteed to get rejected everywhere! Who the hell changed your portal?!” “I don’t know.” Brooke watched the dark expression on my face, and the horrific realization slowly dawned on her. “Wait. Was it… Noah?” 5 I didn’t nod, and I didn’t shake my head. Brooke sat in stunned silence for a very long time before finally whispering, “What are you going to do?” “I’ll figure it out at school tomorrow.” “But what if there is nothing the counselor can do? Isabel, with your grades, even if you do late admission, you can easily get into a decent local college.” “Late admissions for the West Coast quota are already full.” I cut her off. The UC system didn’t take late appeals for our district. I had already checked the statistics. If my portal couldn’t be rolled back, I only had two paths left. Beg a random, lower-tier college in the Midwest to accept me on probation. Or, take a gap year. Exactly what Noah wanted. Brooke sat beside me and squeezed my hand hard. “I am coming with you to Mr. Davis’s office tomorrow.” “Okay.” By the time she left, it was past nine. I sat alone at my desk, the glow of the monitor illuminating the dark room. I pulled up the cryptographic source code. I didn’t care if it took me all night, or an entire week. I was going to brute-force crack the encryption on that anonymous user ID. It was the only tangible proof I had. At four thirty in the morning, the decryption script finally finished executing. I stared at the four digits flashing in bright green text on the terminal. It was the exact ending of Noah’s student ID. I took a screenshot, saved it to the secure folder, and leaned back in my chair, exhaling a long, shuddering breath. My phone screen suddenly lit up in the dark. A text from Mr. Davis. “Isabel, please stay behind after the graduation assembly tomorrow. We need to have a private meeting regarding your admissions status.” Admissions status. The portals literally just closed. No college releases decisions in twelve hours. What status? Before I could type a reply, another notification slid down the screen. It was Noah. At 4:37 AM, he sent a text. “Isabel, dress nicely for the assembly tomorrow. I hired a photographer to take grad photos for us.” A second text quickly followed. “Oh, by the way, Sarah asked if you could tutor her over the summer for the community college placement exams. Think you can help out?” The graduation assembly was held in the main school auditorium. When I walked in, the first three rows were already packed. Noah waved at me from the second row. “Isabel, saved you a seat.” Sarah was sitting right next to him. I ignored him completely, walking straight to the back corner of the auditorium and taking an empty seat in the last row. Noah froze, his hand dropping awkwardly. He forced a smile but didn’t follow me. Sarah turned around, glanced at me, and whispered something into Noah’s ear. They both laughed. The ceremony dragged on forever. The principal gave a speech, the dean of students gave a speech, the valedictorian gave a speech. I didn’t hear a single word. I was just waiting. Waiting for the assembly to end so I could march into the counselor’s office. That text from Mr. Davis last night felt like a splinter buried deep in my brain. Admissions status. What the hell did that mean? Finally, the principal leaned into the microphone. “Congratulations, seniors. You are dismissed.” The crowd erupted into cheers. Students spilled into the aisles. Noah navigated through the folding chairs, heading straight for me. “Isabel, want to grab lunch? I booked a table at—” “No. Mr. Davis needs to see me.” I bypassed him entirely, walking briskly toward the administrative wing. Noah’s footsteps hurried behind me. “What for? Do you want me to come with you?” “No.” The door to Mr. Davis’s office was wide open. There were three people sitting inside. Mr. Davis, the school principal, and a middle-aged man wearing a sharp suit I had never seen before. “Isabel, come in. Have a seat.” Mr. Davis pointed to the leather chair across the desk. I sat down. The stranger in the suit slid a crisp, silver-embossed business card across the table. Arthur Vance. Director of Elite Admissions, Massachusetts Institute of Technology. “Isabel,” Mr. Vance started, lacing his fingers together on the desk. “Let’s confirm a few details first. Your final unweighted GPA is a 4.0, correct?” “Yes.” “And you won the gold medal at the National Physics Olympiad last year?” “Yes.” “State champion in the Chemistry Decathlon?” “Yes.” “And you are the lead author on two peer-reviewed papers published in the Journal of Applied Physics?” I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Yes.” Mr. Vance opened the thick manila folder resting in front of him. “Isabel, based on MIT’s Elite Scholar Direct Admit program, evaluating your Olympiad medals, your published research, and your perfect academic record, you rank in the top three candidates nationwide.” He paused, looking directly into my eyes. “We just need verbal confirmation from you. Your absolute top choice on the portal is MIT, correct?”

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I wrapped up my corporate project in London early and flew straight back to the States. I didn’t tell a soul. I originally planned to swing by my little sister’s private high school to pick her up and give her a massive surprise. But the second I walked up to the back doors of the school auditorium, I overheard a group of girls laughing viciously. “Ann is completely shameless. Her mom is literally just a maid sponsored by the Frost family, and she walks around acting like she is some elite heiress.” “I know, right? Chloe Frost is way too nice. Her family literally feeds and houses Ann, and she doesn’t even have the decency to be grateful.” “I heard Ann even tried to steal Chloe’s spot for the state academic decathlon. Poor kids are always so manipulative.” My blood ran cold. Ann is my biological sister. Chloe is the daughter of our family’s live in housekeeper. But somehow, the entire prep school was under the absolute delusion that Chloe was the Frost family’s second daughter, and that my actual sister was a charity case. I pulled out my phone and dialed my lead corporate attorney in New York. “I need you to launch a full background investigation.” “I want to know exactly who stole my little sister’s identity while I was out of the country, and how long they have been getting away with it.” 1 I stared down at the text message my sister had sent me two hours ago. “Hey Molly, my school is hosting a charity symposium today. I’m going to be speaking on stage as a student volunteer!” I tapped the privacy glass dividing the luxury SUV. “Change of plans. Take me to St. Jude’s Preparatory Academy.” St. Jude’s was the most exclusive, astronomically expensive private high school in the state. When our parents originally enrolled Ann there, they specifically requested a strict privacy protocol. Only the Headmaster and the Board of Directors had access to her actual family background. My dad always said, “Children shouldn’t be defined by their family’s net worth.” My mom agreed. “It is better to keep a low profile. It is safer that way.” The symposium had just wrapped up, and students were filtering out of the auditorium in small groups. A few girls were gossiping near the exit. “Did you see the way Ann stood on stage today? I swear, she actually thinks she is a Frost.” “How could she possibly be a Frost? Chloe already told us. Ann’s mom used to be a maid for the Frost family. The Frosts just felt bad for her, so they sponsored her tuition.” “Chloe is honestly an angel. If a parasite like that lived in my house, my parents would have kicked her to the curb years ago.” Another girl let out a mocking scoff. “And did you see her outfit? So plain and boring. Who is she trying to impress with that ‘innocent poor girl’ aesthetic? If it wasn’t for the Frost family’s charity, she would never even step foot in St. Jude’s.” Just then, a girl wearing a pristine white designer blazer walked out of the auditorium doors. Someone immediately handed her a customized iced latte. “Chloe, your speech was absolutely amazing today!” Chloe offered a soft, demure smile. “Oh, stop. I didn’t do anything special. I was just speaking on behalf of my family’s foundation.” “You are way too humble! The Frost family is famous for their philanthropy. No wonder you are so classy.” Chloe lowered her eyelashes, her voice dripping with manufactured sweetness. “Please don’t say things like that. If Ann hears you, she will just get upset again.” The expressions on the surrounding girls’ faces instantly turned hostile. “Why the hell would she be upset? Your family basically pays for her entire life.” “Seriously. She always gives you such a nasty attitude.” “Chloe, you are way too soft. You let people walk all over you.” Chloe. The daughter of our housekeeper, Martha. When Chloe was little, she lived with Martha in the staff quarters attached to the Frost estate. My sister, Ann, always had a heart of gold. Whenever she got something new, she would immediately share half of it with Chloe. I distinctly remembered the day Chloe first arrived at the estate. She hid timidly behind Martha’s apron, looking up at me with wide eyes, softly calling me “Molly.” I finally spotted Ann. She was walking out of a side exit, her head completely lowered, looking incredibly small. I didn’t immediately walk over to her. If Ann saw me right now, she would panic. Her biggest fear in the world was causing trouble for our family. I turned on my heel, walked to the end of the corridor, and stopped a guy who was walking by himself. “Excuse me, do you have a second? I’m visiting from another school. I overheard some people talking about the Frost Foundation. Is that Chloe Frost’s family?” The guy gave me a quick once over. Seeing that I didn’t look like a strict teacher or an angry parent, he relaxed his shoulders. “Yeah, exactly. She’s the youngest daughter of the Frost family.” I offered a polite smile. “Are you absolutely sure about that?” “Duh. It’s not exactly a secret.” He pointed out the window toward the VIP pickup lane. “A massive Frost family SUV drops her off every morning. Her Instagram is flooded with pictures inside the Frost mega mansion. Catered galas, private chauffeurs, estate managers… she has it all.” He paused, lowering his voice like he was sharing an inside secret. “But honestly, she is super low key about it. She never explicitly brags. Whenever people call her the Frost heiress, she just blushes and tells us to stop making a big deal out of it.” “What about Ann?” I asked smoothly. The guy’s expression instantly soured. “Oh, her? Word is Chloe’s family sponsors her tuition. Chloe is a saint; she practically babysits her. But Ann is incredibly toxic. She always walks around with a massive chip on her shoulder, acting like everyone owes her something.” When I got back into the luxury SUV, I immediately dialed my executive assistant in New York. “I need a complete digital forensics sweep on a girl named Chloe. I want the last three years of her social media archives, every IP address linked to anonymous posts on the St. Jude’s student forum, the GPS logs for the family vehicles, and the security access logs for her mother, our housekeeper Martha.” My assistant hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Ms. Frost, has something happened?” I stared out the tinted window of the SUV. Heavy raindrops began sliding down the glass. Near the auditorium doors, Ann was standing entirely alone, holding a cheap umbrella. Meanwhile, Chloe was surrounded by a massive entourage of admiring students as she climbed into the back of a pristine Frost family SUV. That specific SUV was originally dispatched today to pick up my sister. My voice dropped to absolute zero. “No, nothing happened.” “Someone just decided they don’t want to live anymore.” 2 Chloe was incredibly manipulative. She never made absolute, verifiable statements. She took our family SUV to school. When classmates asked, “Is that your family’s car?” She would smile warmly and say, “The driver just happened to be heading this way today.” Everyone immediately assumed that meant the driver worked for her family. She wore a vintage cashmere coat that Ann had given her out of pity. She would casually adjust the designer cuffs in front of her friends. “My mom is always complaining about how messy my walk in closet is. She keeps threatening to donate my clothes if I don’t wear them.” She posted a selfie inside the massive Frost estate greenhouse. The caption read: “Mom is yelling at me to come inside for dinner.” In the corner of the photo, she deliberately captured a sliver of the dining room’s antique crystal chandelier. That specific chandelier was a one of a kind piece my mother won at an exclusive auction in Milan. She attended the annual Frost Corporate Charity Gala. In reality, she was only allowed in the building because she followed Martha and the catering staff through the service entrance. Yet, she managed to sneak into the main ballroom and snap a photo. In the background of the shot, you could clearly see the back of my father’s head as he spoke with the Board of Directors. The caption read: “Forced to listen to boring adult business talk again.” The next morning, my assistant emailed me a massive encrypted dossier. Sitting in the study of my luxury hotel suite, I scrolled through the pages, my blood pressure spiking with every click. On the St. Jude’s anonymous student forum, there was a burner account that had been posting consistently since freshman year. “Is it just me, or does a certain ‘sponsored’ charity case act incredibly entitled?” “Imagine living in the guest quarters of your benefactor’s estate and actually thinking you own the place.” “Let’s expose the girl who uses someone else’s money to get into St. Jude’s, and then treats her actual sponsor like trash.” The posts never explicitly named Ann. But they always included subtle, cropped photos of Ann’s silhouette, her backpack, or her assigned desk. In the comments, people constantly asked if the posts were about Ann. The original poster would reply: “I never named names. If the shoe fits, wear it.” The IP address and the recovery phone number linked to that burner account matched Chloe’s personal cell phone perfectly. Then came the screenshots from the class group chats. A student had texted: “Chloe, why does your family even sponsor Ann? She acts like she completely despises you.” Chloe had replied with a sad, teary eyed emoji. “Please don’t say that guys. Ann isn’t a bad person, she is just a little insecure.” “She grew up around us, so she probably just really wants to fit in and feel like she belongs.” “My mom always tells me I need to be the bigger person and let her have her way.” I scrolled to the very end of the dossier and found the academic decathlon records. Last year, during the National Bio Modeling Competition, Ann had spent three grueling months compiling an incredibly detailed binder of study notes. Out of the goodness of her heart, she let Chloe photocopy them. A week later, Chloe stood at the front of the classroom, using those exact notes to explain complex bio models to the rest of the class. The students praised her for being a genius. She just laughed softly. “It’s nothing, really. Ann struggles with the foundational stuff, so I tutor her all the time. I just threw these notes together to help her out.” That year, Ann scored the absolute highest in the school’s preliminary rounds. But the school’s sole recommendation slot for the state finals was given to Chloe. The official reasoning on the school’s document was: “Demonstrates superior peer leadership and serves as a better holistic representative of the Academy.” I stared at that specific line of text until my eyes burned. Then, I picked up my phone and dialed the head of the science department. “Who is speaking?” “Hello, I am Ann’s older sister. I’m calling to get a better understanding of her academic standing and overall situation at the school.” The teacher paused for a long moment. “Ah, Ann. Well, her grades are certainly impressive, but her personality is quite… difficult. She is incredibly withdrawn. We have been trying to counsel her, to teach her the value of gratitude. She really needs to stop aggressively competing with Chloe.” I let out a dark, humorless laugh. “Competing?” “Exactly,” the teacher sighed heavily. “Chloe’s family has provided Ann with so many unbelievable opportunities, but Ann completely lacks self awareness. Whether it comes to academic decathlons or extracurricular resources, Ann always acts like she is entitled to the absolute best.” “And why exactly shouldn’t she be?” The teacher was visibly stunned by my tone. “That is not what I meant. It is just that given her… specific socioeconomic background, the administration prefers she maintains a lower, more stable profile. Chloe, on the other hand, is…” She caught herself and stopped talking. I finished the sentence for her. “She fits your stereotype of a Frost heiress much better, doesn’t she?” Dead silence on the other end of the line. I hung up the phone. Half an hour later, I drove to Ann’s off campus apartment. To spare her the exhaustion of commuting from the main estate, my parents had purchased a luxury condo near the school. On paper, it was registered under the Frost Foundation’s real estate portfolio. It was another layer of privacy protection. But according to the vicious rumors spreading through the school, it was “the charity housing the Frost family provided for the maid’s daughter.” The second the door unlocked, Ann froze in the entryway. “Molly?” Her eyes instantly welled up with tears. But almost immediately, sheer panic washed over her face. She frantically looked past my shoulder into the hallway. “Why are you back? Do Mom and Dad know? Did you go to the school? Did anyone see you?” My heart completely shattered. I stepped forward and pulled her into a tight hug. “Ann, look at me. Tell me exactly what you are so terrified of.” Her entire body went rigid. It took her a long time to whisper, “I’m not terrified.” I pulled back slightly, locking my eyes onto hers. “Then look me in the eye and explain why Chloe is taking our family’s SUV to school.” The color violently drained from her face. “Molly…” “Explain why she stole your spot in the academic decathlon.” “Explain why the entire school thinks you are the maid’s daughter.” Her lips trembled violently, and the tears finally spilled over. “I tried to explain,” she choked out. “But nobody believed me.” 3 Ann’s explanation was a chaotic, heartbroken mess. When they both enrolled as freshmen, Ann and Chloe actually commuted to school together. At that point, Martha had been working as a housekeeper for the Frost family for over a decade. My mother, appreciating Martha’s loyalty and feeling sympathetic that she was raising a daughter as a single mom, arranged for Chloe to attend St. Jude’s under a Frost Foundation scholarship. The Frost family covered her tuition, uniforms, textbooks, and all associated fees. In the beginning, Ann was genuinely thrilled. She thought having someone she knew at the intimidating prep school would mean she wouldn’t have to face it alone. Eventually, classmates started asking how they knew each other. Before Ann could even open her mouth, Chloe jumped in with a bright smile. “We grew up together! We are practically family.” Technically, the statement wasn’t a lie. But it allowed the listeners’ imaginations to fill in the blanks. The very first time a classmate referred to Chloe as “the Frost heiress,” Chloe didn’t correct them. She just acted incredibly bashful and whispered, “Please don’t call me that out loud, it will make Ann feel super awkward.” From that moment on, Ann became the awkward burden. Whenever Ann tried to clarify the situation, Chloe would grab her hand in front of everyone, her eyes immediately welling up with tears. “Ann, are you mad that I got into St. Jude’s with you? I know you hate it when people compare us.” The surrounding classmates would instantly rush to defend Chloe. “Ann, you are being completely psycho right now.” “Chloe literally didn’t even say anything bad about you.” “She goes out of her way to take care of you, and this is how you treat her?” Ann tried to fight back a few times. But every single time, Chloe weaponized her tears. Over time, the entire student body became absolutely convinced that Ann was a jealous, bitter, manipulative parasite who couldn’t stand seeing her benefactor succeed. When Ann finished the story, I only asked her one question. “Why didn’t you call me?” Ann stared at the floor. “You were overseas managing the Foundation’s international expansion, and Mom and Dad were drowning in a massive corporate merger. I honestly thought it was just a stupid high school misunderstanding that would eventually blow over.” “And then what happened?” Her fingers twisted into her shirt fabric. “Then… Martha came to talk to me.” Martha had specifically come to the condo to drop off some homemade soup. She sat on the expensive leather sofa, letting out a heavy, dramatic sigh. “Ann, sweetheart, I know you feel wronged. But please try to understand how hard this is for Chloe. She grew up without a father. She has always felt so inferior. Now that everyone mistakenly thinks she is part of the Frost family, it is the very first time in her entire life she feels respected.” Ann had replied, “But they are actively bullying me.” Martha grabbed Ann’s hands, her eyes pleading. “You have always been the sweetest, most understanding girl. You have a father, a mother, and an older sister who worship the ground you walk on. What does Chloe have? Absolutely nothing. She is just borrowing a tiny sliver of your light. It’s not like she is actually stealing anything from you.” Ann went silent. Martha pushed harder. “Besides, your parents specifically told you to keep a low profile. If you blow this out of proportion and cause a massive scandal, aren’t you just creating a huge headache for Mr. and Mrs. Frost?” Ann’s ultimate weakness was her desperate fear of being a burden to our family. So, she swallowed the humiliation and stayed silent. Listening to this, a suffocating rage built in my chest. Ann’s voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Molly, am I just completely pathetic?” I reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “The only pathetic person in this room is me.” If I had just bothered to ask her how things were going. If I hadn’t blindly believed that forced anonymity was the ultimate form of protection. My sister wouldn’t have been drowning in this toxic nightmare all by herself for three years. That night, I drove straight back to the main Frost estate. Martha wasn’t in the main house. She had been demoted last year to manage the storage logistics for the outer estate properties, but her security clearance hadn’t been fully revoked yet. I ordered the estate manager to pull the comprehensive security and vehicle logs from the last three years. The manager’s face turned completely ashen as he scrolled through the data. “Ms. Frost, this is entirely my negligence.” I didn’t yell at him. He wasn’t the only one who had been negligent. The Frost family had grown too comfortable treating Martha like a trusted, loyal retainer. And sometimes, treating someone like family is the exact mistake that invites a parasite into your home. At 1:00 AM, my assistant forwarded me a fresh batch of intel. Chloe had just posted a new update on her social media. It was a selfie of her sitting perfectly in the front row of the St. Jude’s auditorium. The caption read: “True kindness should always be cherished. See you all at the symposium.” Someone commented below: “Chloe, are you going to be speaking on stage for the Foundation’s open house day?!” She replied: “I am just doing what is expected of me.” I stared at the screen, a dark, freezing smile forming on my lips. She had absolutely no idea. When the Foundation’s open house day arrived, I was going to hand her the ultimate gift. 4 The next morning, I personally called the Headmaster of St. Jude’s. “Headmaster Davis, this is Molly Frost.” There was a noticeable pause on the other end before his voice shifted into a tone of exaggerated warmth. “Ms. Frost! It is an absolute honor. Have you returned from London?” “Just got back.” I cut straight to the chase. “I am aware that St. Jude’s is hosting its annual Foundation Open House next week. I would like to integrate the Frost Global Education Foundation’s core presentation into your main event. I require the attendance of the entire student body and faculty. My keynote will focus on educational equity and the ethical boundaries of corporate sponsorships.” The Headmaster agreed instantly. I casually added one final detail. “I will be announcing a new tier of scholarship recipients, as well as conducting a comprehensive public review of our past sponsorship case studies.” Headmaster Davis laughed heartily. “Excellent! That will be a phenomenal educational experience for our student body.” After hanging up, I instructed my corporate legal team to contact the school’s administration to authorize a partial release of classified records. Ann’s identity was to be declassified solely regarding her immediate family lineage. Her specific security details remained strictly classified. Chloe’s scholarship records, however, were fully declassified for public review. When Chloe initially enrolled, she signed a legally binding Frost Foundation scholarship contract. Buried in the fine print was a specific clause: “The Recipient is strictly prohibited from fraudulently assuming the identity of the Benefactor for personal gain, and shall not propagate defamatory or fabricated information detrimental to the Benefactor or their affiliates.” At the time, it was just standard legal boilerplate. Now, it was the exact weapon I needed. That afternoon, Martha showed up at my hotel suite. She stood nervously in the entryway, clutching an insulated thermos, wearing her trademark submissive, motherly smile. “Miss Molly, why didn’t you tell anyone you were coming back? I rushed over to bring you your favorite homemade soup.” I remained seated on the velvet sofa, entirely unmoving. “Martha, your intel network is surprisingly efficient.” Her smile faltered slightly. “Everyone at the estate is just so thrilled you are home.” I locked eyes with her. “How is Chloe doing at St. Jude’s?” Her eyes darted nervously to the side. “Oh, she is doing wonderfully. It is all thanks to the Frost family’s incredible generosity. Without you, we would be nothing.” “Is that right?” I tossed my phone onto the glass coffee table. The screen was locked on the screenshot of Chloe’s latest social media post. Seeing the photo, the color drained slightly from Martha’s face. I asked, “Were you aware that the entire student body believes Chloe is the youngest daughter of the Frost family?” Martha immediately deployed a heavy sigh. “Miss Molly, I swear I have scolded her about this. But you know how teenagers are… she just wanted to feel a little special. Besides, she never explicitly claimed to be a Frost. It was just a silly misunderstanding by her classmates.” “And the fact that Ann is being violently bullied and labeled as a maid’s daughter? Is that also just a silly misunderstanding?” She went completely silent. After a long pause, she murmured, “Ann has always been so soft spoken. She doesn’t like conflict. In a few years, when they all graduate, everyone will forget this ever happened anyway.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “So your brilliant solution was to force my sister to endure psychological torture until graduation?” Martha’s eyes instantly filled with crocodile tears. “Miss Molly, I have broken my back working for the Frost family for over a decade. I have bled for this family. Chloe doesn’t have a father. She just desperately wanted a tiny shred of respect. Your family literally has the world in the palm of your hands. Would it really kill you to share just a tiny bit of your status with her?” I stood up slowly. “Respect isn’t something you can borrow.” “And if you steal it, you’re just a thief.” Her face turned ashen white. I closed the distance between us, standing inches from her face. “Martha, I am giving you exactly one opportunity. Before 9:00 AM tomorrow, you will ensure that Chloe issues a public retraction and a formal apology to Ann. She will return every single item she stole. She will delete every single defamatory post she manufactured.” Martha bit her lip hard. “Miss Molly, is this really necessary? She is just a child…” “She is three months older than Ann.” Martha choked on her words. I continued, my voice lethal. “And don’t bother trying to cover for her. I have the IP logs for her burner accounts, the GPS routing for the vehicles, and the security footage of you abusing your storage clearance.” The thermos in her hands shook violently, spilling hot soup onto the expensive carpet. “Miss Molly…” “9:00 AM tomorrow.” I turned my back to her. “Not a second later.” Martha didn’t agree. Thirty minutes after she left my suite, Chloe uploaded a brand new post. “Some people are born with the entire world handed to them, yet they will ruthlessly destroy anyone who dares to step into the light.” The photo attached was a pitch black square. The comments flooded in, filled with aggressive sympathy. “Chloe, don’t let them break you!” “Is that psychopath trying to ruin your life again?” “She is absolutely repulsive. Your family gives her everything, and she treats you like garbage.” I took high resolution screenshots of everything and forwarded them straight to my legal team. “Add this to the litigation packet.” The lead attorney replied instantly: “Confirmed.” Some people will never learn until the absolute final second, genuinely believing their pathetic tears are an impenetrable shield. Then I was going to shatter that delusion. When faced with ironclad evidence, tears don’t make you look like a victim. They make you look like a clown.

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Every month, I secretly paid Mary’s health insurance. My husband teased me for having too much money and a bleeding heart. I never explained. Mary was a chatterbox but incredibly observant. I knew she had a bad hip and struggled with bills, so I covered her premiums. What he didn’t realize was that Mary had access to every office, boardroom, and hallway. She saw people, heard whispers, and knew secrets better than HR. Over eight years, she’d come to see me as family. Last week, she slipped into my office, shut the door, and whispered, “Victoria, please don’t be mad. It’s about the new intern, Lexi. She and Mr. Foster sneak off to the breakroom. Yesterday, her blouse was unbuttoned and he had red lipstick on his collar.” Seeing her hesitate, I poured her water and told her to continue. She pulled out shredded paper taped together. “I fished this from Mr. Foster’s private trash.” It was a drafted Equity Transfer Agreement. 1 The name on the receiving end: Lexi. She was the underprivileged student I had personally sponsored three years ago. Lexi grew up in a dirt-poor rural town. Her father was paralyzed, and her mother was chronically ill. During her junior year of college, she couldn’t afford tuition and was on the verge of dropping out. The university sent a list of students needing financial aid to my charitable foundation, and her tragic essay caught my eye. I paid her tuition. I covered her living expenses. When she graduated, she called me, crying tears of gratitude, saying she wanted to stay in Seattle to work hard and repay my kindness. My heart softened, and I pulled some strings to get her an internship at my husband’s company. I still remember Richard wrapping his arms around my waist that night, kissing my cheek. “My wife has the biggest heart in the world. You don’t see young kids with that kind of loyalty and gratitude anymore.” I actually believed him. Looking at it now, I had invited a viper straight into my own home. Seeing all the color drain from my face, Mary reached into her pocket again and pulled out her phone. She tapped the screen and slid it across my desk. It was a video taken from the corner of the hallway, right outside the breakroom. Lexi and Richard walked out, one after the other. Lexi was fixing her messy hair. Richard casually reached out and squeezed her backside. The way they looked at each other, the practiced ease of their touches, it wasn’t a one-time mistake. That fifteen-second clip took my twelve-year marriage, along with my self-righteous charity, and smashed it into pieces. I locked the phone screen and slid it back to her. “Mary, this dies with us. Do not say a word to anyone.” Mary wiped a tear from her wrinkled cheek. “You’ve been an angel to me, Victoria. I couldn’t just stand by and watch them do you dirty like this.” When I got home that evening, the smell of roasted chicken filled the kitchen. Richard plated dinner and handed me a glass of wine, playing the perfect, attentive husband. “You look exhausted, honey. Long meetings today?” I stared at his face. Years ago, when his first startup went up in flames and left him drowning in debt, I drained my entire savings to bail him out. My father provided his first round of seed money to start this current company. During our toughest year, when the company was barely staying afloat, I was four months pregnant. I flew cross-country with him in the dead of winter to court investors. I sat at dinners, matching arrogant executives drink for drink just to secure the contracts we desperately needed. On the cab ride back to the hotel, the bleeding started. I lost the baby. The doctors told me the tissue scarring was severe, and my chances of conceiving again were practically zero. After years of agonizing IVF treatments, we finally got our miracle baby, our daughter Lily. Richard had dropped to his knees right there in the hospital room, crying like a child, swearing on his life that he would spend every breathing moment treating us like queens. A man’s oath is truly the cheapest thing on earth. I took a sip of my wine. “How is Lexi doing at the office?” His hand paused halfway to his mouth. Not a muscle in his face twitched. “She’s doing great. You know how rookies are. Give them a little room to run, and they surprise you.” Right as the words left his mouth, his phone lit up on the kitchen island. A text notification popped up on the lock screen. It was a selfie of a woman wrapped in a towel, shoulders bare. [Rich, just got out of the shower. Thinking of you.] He snatched the phone so fast he nearly knocked over his water glass, slamming it face-down on the marble counter. He let out a nervous chuckle. “Stupid group chat spam.” I forced the corners of my mouth into a smile. “Right.” The guiltier the dog, the louder it barks. 2 First thing the next morning, Mary slipped into my office under the guise of emptying the trash. She locked the door behind her. Her eyes were red and swollen. Seeing my pale face, her expression twisted with pure pity. “Victoria, I stayed late last night,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she leaned over my desk. “I heard Mr. Foster pacing in the stairwell on his phone.” She took a shaky breath. “He said he’s going to use the shareholder meeting next Wednesday to pin the entire thirty-million-dollar deficit from the Southside project on you. He’s planning to force you to resign in front of the whole board.” Tears spilled over her lashes, and her rough, calloused hands reached out to grab mine. “You look so tired, sweetheart. Please don’t let this ruin your health. I look at you, and I see my own daughter. You have a heart of gold. How did you end up with a monster like him?” A lump formed in my throat. I squeezed her hands back firmly. “Don’t worry, Mary. I am not going to sit back and let them slaughter me.” Next Wednesday. I had a few days. It was more than enough time for me to silently transfer the company’s actual core assets and intellectual property. Once you rip the bandage off a rotting wound, the infection underneath can’t stay hidden for long. On Saturday morning, Richard claimed he had an emergency site visit at our regional branch and rushed out the door before breakfast. Mary called me an hour later. “Lexi didn’t show up to work today,” she reported. “I was cleaning the pantry and heard some of the girls gossiping. They said Lexi is pregnant.” I told Mary to keep her ears open and hung up. Before I could even process the news, my front door clicked open. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, had let herself in with her spare key. She walked into the living room, her face immediately scrunching up in disgust. My sweet Lily was sitting on the plush rug, building a massive spaceship out of Legos. Eleanor didn’t even offer her a polite hello. “What is a little girl doing playing with boy’s toys? You’re raising her with zero manners,” Eleanor sneered. Lily flinched, dropping a plastic brick, and scrambled to hide behind my legs. I swallowed the fire burning in my chest and shielded my daughter. “Eleanor, what a surprise. Richard isn’t home.” “I’m not here for him. I’m here for you.” Eleanor marched over and claimed the center of the designer sofa. She crossed her arms, her chin tilted up in absolute arrogance. “Lexi called me yesterday.” My hand froze on the pitcher of water I was holding. Lexi? First-name basis already. How cozy. Eleanor’s eyes gleamed with a sickening, triumphant joy. “She is eight weeks along. I had a private specialist look at the ultrasounds. It is a boy. A confirmed male heir. Richard is a very successful man now, Victoria. You can’t honestly expect him to die without a son to carry on the family legacy, can you?” The living room fell into a deathly, suffocating silence. Lily looked up at me, her big brown eyes welling with tears. “Mommy, does Daddy not want us anymore?” My heart felt like it was being run through a meat grinder. “Go to your room, sweetie. Mommy needs to have a grown-up talk with Grandma.” I watched the nanny hurry Lily down the hall. The second the door clicked shut, the polite, accommodating daughter-in-law mask melted right off my face. I stared dead-eyed at the pompous old woman on my couch. “Eleanor, your son is committing adultery, and you came to my house to brag about it?” “So what if he is? Men have needs, and successful men have options!” Eleanor slammed her hand on the coffee table, entirely unapologetic. “You can’t give him a son. Are you going to block someone else from doing it? If you have half a brain, you’ll let Lexi have this baby and step aside gracefully. Do that, and you get to keep living like a rich housewife. Fight us, and I’ll make sure my son throws you out on the street with absolutely nothing!” I looked at her, truly amazed by her delusion. It was like watching a clown perform at a circus. “Eleanor, is the dementia kicking in early? Have you completely forgotten who the majority shareholder of this company actually is?” Eleanor laughed, a harsh, grating sound, looking at me like I was the punchline of a joke. “Victoria, you really think you’re untouchable, don’t you? The entire company answers to Richard now. Without him, you are a nobody!” “Alright,” I nodded, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. “Tell him to try me.” 3 Monday morning. The moment I stepped off the elevator, Mary was buffing the floor in the corridor. She saw me and immediately power-walked over, keeping her voice to a harsh whisper. “Victoria, watch your back. Mr. Foster called the senior board members into his office first thing this morning. Lexi was in there too. They just wrapped up, whispering and looking real smug. They’re setting a trap.” I gave her a reassuring nod. “Let them dig the hole. The deeper they dig, the harder they fall.” I walked into my private executive office and buzzed my secretary, telling her to send Lexi in immediately. Lexi walked through the door wearing a custom-tailored Chanel suit, a limited-edition Birkin bag draped over her forearm. If you didn’t know her background, you’d think she was a trust-fund heiress, not a girl who was eating ramen for dinner three years ago. “You wanted to see me, Victoria?” Lexi stood there, trying to look timid, but her eyes were darting around the room, assessing her future territory. I didn’t invite her to sit. I picked up a file folder and tossed a stack of printed real estate records onto the desk. It was the deed to a ten-million-dollar luxury penthouse in Bellevue. Lexi glanced down. All the color instantly drained from her face. “A fresh graduate, entirely debt-free, paying cash for a ten-million-dollar penthouse. Lexi, your earning potential is truly inspiring,” I said, leaning back in my leather chair, a cold smile playing on my lips. Her knees buckled. She knew I had found out everything. She dropped to her knees right there on the expensive carpet, the tears flowing like a broken faucet. “Victoria! Please, you have to understand, I didn’t mean for this to happen!” She sobbed, playing the sickeningly sweet victim act to perfection. “I was just so grateful to Mr. Foster for mentoring me. I couldn’t control my feelings! I never wanted to ruin your family. I just wanted to look up to him from the shadows.” Listening to this textbook manipulative garbage made my stomach churn. “Lexi, drop the pathetic act.” I stood up, walked around the desk, and used the tip of my stiletto to force her chin up. “You want to sleep with a married man? Fine, that just makes you trash. But your fatal mistake was coming after my money. I paid for the degree you hold. The clothes on your back, the bag on your arm, and even that little bargaining chip growing in your stomach, it was all bought with my money.” She froze, her eyes wide with sheer terror. She clearly hadn’t expected me to know about the pregnancy. Just then, my office door violently swung open. Richard stormed in, his face red with fury. He rushed over and pulled Lexi off the floor, shielding her behind his back. “Victoria! Have you lost your mind? Throwing your weight around to bully a junior employee?!” I looked at the tragic star-crossed lovers and felt a hysterical urge to laugh. “This is the garbage you’re falling on your sword for, Richard?” Richard took a deep breath. The mask was fully off now. He helped Lexi over to the sofa, then pulled a thick red folder from his briefcase and slapped it hard onto my desk. “Since we’re laying all our cards on the table, I’ll keep it brief. We are prepping for an IPO, and I’ve restructured the equity distribution.” He looked at me with cold, uncompromising entitlement. “Lexi is carrying my child. She is giving my family a future. I am taking fifteen percent of the shares under your name and transferring them to her. Consider it a trust fund for the kid.” I actually let out a laugh. Taking my equity to fund his illegitimate child. He really thought I was a spineless pushover. “And if I refuse to sign?” Richard smirked, his voice dripping with venom. “You’ve been out of the daily operations for years. The clients, the supply chains, the board, they all belong to me. If you don’t sign, I have a hundred ways to bleed this company dry and turn your shares into worthless toilet paper. Be smart about this, Victoria. Let’s keep it civil.” I stared into his eyes for a long, heavy moment. Slowly, the corners of my mouth curled up. “Alright,” I said, closing the red folder. “Since this is for the good of the company, let’s do it right. We’ll sign the transfer officially this Wednesday at the all-hands shareholder meeting, right in front of the entire executive board.” Richard blinked, stunned by my easy surrender. Then, a sickening, victorious grin spread across his face.

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1 It happened when my online girlfriend asked for a photo again. Before I could even react, Hunter Preston, the “Golden Boy” of our dorm, snatched the phone right out of my hand. “You’re a two-hundred-and-sixty-pound human tank, Oliver,” he sneered, his voice loud enough for the entire common room to hear. “The second she sees what you actually look like, she’s going to block you faster than you can finish a bag of chips.” He turned the screen toward himself, flashing that polished, predatory smile of his. “I’ll send her a photo of me instead. That way, you don’t give the poor girl a heart attack.” The guys around us erupted into mocking laughter. “Seriously, Oliver,” one of them chimed in, leaning back in his chair. “Dating online when you’re literally oozing grease? That’s not a relationship; it’s a federal crime of fraud.” I sat there, my fingers digging into the soft rolls of my stomach. I felt the heat rising in my neck, the familiar sting of shame that had become my constant companion. I hesitated, my mind a fog of self-loathing. Maybe Hunter was right. Maybe I should let him be the face of ‘me’ just to keep the dream alive a little longer. But then, the air in front of my eyes flickered. A translucent stream of text—shimmering like a live-stream chat—rippled across my vision. [This ‘human tank’ has no idea. His ‘online girlfriend’ is actually Seraphina Montgomery, the billionaire heiress of the Montgomery shipping empire. She’s famous for being a ‘gold-giver’ who loves spoiling her boyfriends.] [Hunter, our ‘Golden Boy’ protagonist-wannabe, already knows this. He’s been lurking on the same forums. This is his move. He wants to hijack Oliver’s life.] [Once he sends his photo, he’ll replace Oliver at the first meeting. Seraphina is a hopeless romantic; she’ll fall for his face, shower him with millions, and Oliver will be left with nothing but his crumbs.] I froze for exactly one second. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn’t know where these visions came from, but the detail—the name Montgomery—felt too heavy to be a hallucination. I lunged forward, snatching my phone back with a speed that surprised even Hunter. I scrolled past my recent selfies and found a file buried deep in my cloud storage—a photo from three years ago. “No thanks,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Because when I get back to my fighting weight, I’ll be ten times the man you are.” The room went quiet for a beat before exploding into a fresh wave of derision. “Oliver Bennett, look in a mirror, man! That face is more ham than human!” “You could walk into a slaughterhouse and they’d try to brand you,” Hunter laughed, his eyes glinting with malice. He caught a glimpse of the photo I’d pulled up and his laugh turned into a sharp bark. “Are you high on your own grease? You think some Photoshop from three years ago is going to save you? When she meets the ‘real’ you, she’s going to be more than disappointed—she’s going to be disgusted.” My classmates crowded around, squinting at the screen. In the photo, a sharp-jawed, athletic version of me stood on a track field, eyes bright with a future that hadn’t yet been stolen. “Total fake,” someone muttered. “The features don’t even match. Oliver, get some self-awareness. If you send that, she’ll have you arrested for catfishing when you show up.” They didn’t understand. They didn’t know that three years ago, I was that guy. But then my parents died. A car accident, a rainy Tuesday, a world that suddenly made no sense. Food became my only comfort, my only way to numb the howling silence in our house. Between the grief and the crushing pressure of my Ivy League applications, I had simply let myself go. I ate until I was numb. I became a “happy fat guy” because it was easier than being a “broken orphan.” But I was done being broken. I had made it to university. I had survived. It was time to find the man I used to be. I ignored their jeers, my head down, trying to pick the perfect shot to send to Seraphina. Suddenly, Hunter’s hand blurred. Before I could lock the screen, he wrenched the phone away again. With a few practiced taps, he took a high-res selfie of his own “perfect” face and hit send. “Look, I’m doing you a favor,” Hunter said, tossing the phone back onto my lap. “You’re too ugly to handle this. If you keep hiding, she’ll get bored. Now she thinks she’s dating a stud. You’re welcome.” The shimmering text in the air went wild: [Hunter’s plan is working! Seraphina is going to fall for him the moment she sees that jawline.] [She’s not just rich—she’s a five-foot-nine bombshell with a heart of gold. Giving her to this pig Oliver would be a waste of a goddess.] [Go Hunter! A top-tier heiress deserves a top-tier guy, not a basement dweller.] My stomach sank. I scrambled to unblock the screen, my fingers trembling as I tried to unsend the message. Too late. Seraphina had already replied. Seraphina: “Baby… you’re so handsome. I’m literally staring at my screen. I must have been a saint in a past life to end up with a guy like you!” Hunter didn’t even try to hide his smirk. “Since she likes the photo, just roll with it. If you’re worried about the ending, I can always take your place when it’s time to meet her in person.” “Hunter is such a saint,” someone whispered. “Oliver, don’t be a dick. He’s literally saving your relationship.” I was shaking, not with fear, but with a cold, sharpening rage. I looked at the screen, then at Hunter, then back at the chat. I started typing, my thumbs flying. Me: “Actually, that was a prank. That’s my roommate, Hunter. I sent it by mistake. I just wanted you to see what I’m up against—because honestly? I think I’m way better looking than the campus heartthrob.” I didn’t hesitate. I uploaded the entire gallery of my best “Before” photos—the ones from my athlete days. This time, Seraphina didn’t reply instantly. The silence stretched. My heart was a drum in my ears. Beside me, Hunter was reading over my shoulder, his face twisted in a sneer. “You just killed it, Oliver. You just admitted you’re a liar and sent a bunch of AI-generated fakes. Nice job.” Then, my phone vibrated. An incoming call. Seraphina. I stepped away from the crowd, my heart in my throat, and answered. “Baby…” her voice was a breathy, melodic whisper. “You’re so lean… so elegant. You have this look in your eyes… I can’t even breathe. You are way more handsome than that other guy. I want to see you. Now.” My face flushed a deep crimson. “Wait,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “Give me until the first day of the fall semester. Three months. Let me get my life in order so I can be the version of myself you deserve.” “Three months?” she squealed on the other end. “Fine! But I’m going to spend that time getting everything ready for you. I’m going to spoil you so hard, Oliver Bennett.” The call ended, and almost instantly, a notification popped up on my banking app. Wire Transfer Received: $50,000.00. Message: For my handsome boy. Buy yourself some new suits and bags. If you run out, just tell me. I stared at the numbers, a dizzying mix of sweetness and terror washing over me. The “Chat Feed” wasn’t lying. She really was a billionaire with a savior complex. Hunter saw the screen. His eyes turned a dark, ugly shade of green. He let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “You think fifty grand and a few old photos make you a prince? When she sees you in person—this sweaty, blubbery reality—you’re going to wish you’d never met her.” The floating text agreed: [Whatever. Once she realizes Oliver is a fraud, Hunter can still swoop in.] [The ‘Human Tank’ is just a foil to make the ‘Golden Boy’ look like an angel. Let him enjoy the money for now; the fall will be even funnier.] Their contempt was the fuel I needed. I took that fifty thousand dollars and didn’t spend a dime on clothes. I went to the most elite, high-intensity performance center in the city. I hired a former Olympic trainer and a nutritionist who looked like she chewed nails for breakfast. “I have one goal,” I told the trainer, looking at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. “In ninety days, I want the man in the photos back. No—I want him better.” The trainer, a man named Marcus, didn’t smile. “From today, I own your plate. I own your sleep. I own your pain. Three hours a day, every day. Can you handle that, or should I go find a real athlete?” I nodded so hard it hurt. I wasn’t just doing this for Seraphina. I was doing it for the boy who lost his parents and hid under a layer of fat for three years. I was doing it for the version of me that deserved to stand in the sun. The first day, I threw up twice. I cried in the shower of the locker room, my muscles screaming in a way I didn’t know was possible. When I dragged my broken body back to the dorm, the school’s Discord group was blowing up. Hunter had posted a photo of me—red-faced, sweaty, and weeping—leaving the gym. Hunter: “Breaking news! The Tank is trying to become a Ferrari. Place your bets: will the treadmill break first, or his heart?” The comments were brutal. “I felt a tremor in the library today. Now I know why—Oliver was jumping rope.” Someone turned my crying face into a “When the buffet closes” meme. I wiped the tears from my eyes and looked in the mirror. My hormones were a mess, my skin was breaking out from the sudden shift in diet, and my stretch marks looked like angry lightning bolts. But Marcus had promised: Trust the process. My life became a montage of discipline. 4:00 AM runs in the crisp morning air before the rest of the campus woke up. Replacing my triple-bacon burgers with grilled salmon and kale. Instead of collapsing on the couch, I spent my weekends helping my grandparents with their garden, walking with them in the park, reclaiming my mobility. Seraphina sensed I was distant. She sent more money, more gifts. Seraphina: “Are you ignoring me, baby? Did I do something wrong?” Me: “Never. I’m just working on a surprise for you. When we meet, I want to be perfect.” A week later, a courier delivered a Cartier Love bracelet. White gold. My initials and hers engraved on the inside. It cost more than my first car. I tried to put it on, but it wouldn’t close around my wrist. I tucked it into its velvet box. Soon, I promised myself. Soon it’ll fit. By mid-summer, the water weight had vanished. I had dropped forty pounds. I felt lighter, my mind sharper. I checked in with a doctor, ensuring my rapid progress wasn’t damaging my heart. Because I wore oversized hoodies to hide my progress, the campus still saw “The Tank.” On the last day of the spring term, Hunter cornered me. “Still hitting the gym, Oliver? Funny, you still look like a sack of potatoes to me. You really going to show up to the meeting like that?” “I bet a thousand bucks he chickens out,” someone yelled. I looked Hunter dead in the eye. The fear was gone. There was only a cold, quiet focus. “Make sure you have the cash ready, Hunter. I’d hate for you to be broke and humiliated at the same time.” The summer was a blur of the “Plateau.” My weight stopped dropping. My body was fighting back, trying to keep the fat. But I had Marcus. I had my grandparents’ encouragement. I had the memory of my parents’ smiles. When I hit the sixty-pound mark, the bracelet finally clicked shut. My jawline emerged from the shadows. My skin cleared. I started taking photos again—blurry, atmospheric shots of my silhouette to tease Seraphina. Marcus looked at me on the final week. I was 185 pounds of lean, functional muscle. I was 6’0″, tanned, and vibrant. “Oliver,” Marcus said, his voice actually sounding human for once. “Most people quit at week three. You’re a goddamn machine.” I bought a charcoal-grey suit that fit like a second skin. I got a haircut—short on the sides, textured on top. The day of the meeting arrived. I was late because of traffic, my heart hammering against my ribs. As I stepped out of the Uber, I saw a cherry-red Porsche parked by the campus gates. And then, I saw him. Hunter Preston was standing there, dressed in a designer suit, holding a bouquet of peonies. He was leaning against the Porsche, talking to a woman whose back was turned to me. “Seraphina? Hi. I’m Hunter. But… you’ve seen my photos. You know who I am.” He was using my name. He was trying to steal my life in broad daylight. I froze. The “Chat Feed” flickered back to life: [Look at Hunter! He’s so bold. The heiress is speechless. She’s falling for him already!] [But wait… where is the fat guy? Is he even coming?] [Doesn’t matter. The loser lost. Hunter is the new lead now.] Hunter pulled out a printed copy of my “Tank” photo—the one where I was 260 pounds and covered in sweat. “This is the guy you were talking to,” Hunter said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Oliver is a liar. He’s a pathetic, lonely guy who used my photos because he’s a coward. I couldn’t let him do this to you.” I saw the woman—Seraphina—take the photo. Her shoulders slumped. I felt a surge of old panic. I wanted to turn and run. But then I caught my reflection in a store window. I saw the man I had become. I saw the Cartier bracelet gleaming on my wrist. I took a deep breath, adjusted my jacket, and walked toward them. I didn’t approach from the front. I circled around, coming up directly behind Seraphina. I wanted to see Hunter’s face when the ghost came back to life.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “587972”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Seven months pregnant, I threw myself down the second-floor staircase. I didn’t want to die. I just needed to trigger a premature birth and deliver a useless, ruined source of medicine. In my past life, Harrison carved a full-term baby from my womb and extracted her bone marrow right on the operating table, all to extend the life of his precious childhood sweetheart. My baby died. I died, too. In this life, I won’t give him a single drop of my child’s blood. He wants to save Angela? She can wait for death. 01 As I stepped off the top stair, a single thought consumed my mind. Fast. Faster. My spine slammed against the sharp edges of the steps, and my head cracked against the hard marble, turning my vision black for a terrifying second. Pain. An agonizing, white-hot tear ripped from my tailbone all the way to the crown of my head. I didn’t stop. My body tumbled down the flight, and the baby inside my belly kicked violently. I’m sorry, baby. I know it hurts, but you cannot be born full-term. If you reach full term, they will drain every last drop of your marrow. Before I could roll down the final three steps, two harsh hands clamped onto my arms. “Ma’am!” The bodyguard’s voice panicked. Two men lunged forward, pinning me down on the middle landing. My back pressed against the freezing stone steps as a fierce contraction clawed through my abdomen. It was too late to stop it. I had swallowed labor-inducing drugs right before throwing myself down. Warm amniotic fluid was already leaking down my thighs. “Get her to the operating room, now!” the lead guard roared into his walkie-talkie. From the far end of the hallway, Dr. Keller came sprinting over, his white coat fluttering wildly. The moment he caught sight of the blood between my legs, his face turned deathly pale. “Stop! Her water broke! Moving her right now could kill both mother and child!” He reached out to examine my belly. A bodyguard kicked him square in the chest. Dr. Keller flew backward, crashing into the porcelain flowerpots in the corner. Shards shattered everywhere. “Mr. Harrison gave strict orders. The child must survive.” The bodyguard bent down, supporting the back of my neck with one hand and hooking his other arm under my knees, scooping me up from the cold floor. Blood dripped down my legs, dragging a sickening red smear across the pristine white marble. I bit my lower lip hard, refusing to let out a sound. The pain drove my fingernails deep into my palms, but I couldn’t scream. If I screamed, they would inject me with a sedative. That was what happened in my past life. I had screamed in agony, so they plunged a needle into my arm. I passed out, and when I woke up, my child was already gone. In this life, I would stay conscious. I wanted to watch everything with my own eyes. The guards carried me into the third-floor operating suite. The overhead lights snapped on, blinding me with a harsh, sterile glare. Under the shadowless lamp sat a delivery bed. It wasn’t a delivery bed. It was a surgical table. Equipped with heavy leather restraint straps. When they laid me down, I didn’t struggle. Because I caught sight of the man standing in the shadows. Harrison. Dressed in a tailored suit, his tie perfectly straight without a single crease. He stood six feet away from the operating table, watching the guards lift me up, watching my blood soak into the white sheets. His eyes were completely void of emotion. No heartbreak. No panic. Not even disgust. He was merely verifying one thing: whether the child was still alive. “Seven months,” Dr. Keller gasped as he was dragged into the room, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “Mr. Harrison, it’s only seven months! The marrow isn’t fully developed! Extracting it now—” “Is it usable?” Harrison cut him off. Three cold words. Not a shred of hesitation. Dr. Keller swallowed hard. “Theoretically… if the match is compatible, we can extract a tiny amount, but—” “Then that’s enough.” Harrison turned around and looked down at me on the table. I lay flat on my back, sweat-soaked hair sticking to my forehead, staring blankly up at the surgical lights. He took a step closer. His polished leather shoes stepped onto the fresh blood dripping from the table, making a faint, sickening squelch. “Stella.” He called my name. His tone was completely flat, as if calling out an inventory serial number. “If you cooperate, I’ll give you a sum of money afterward. Enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life.” I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes fixed on the ceiling as a slow, bitter smile spread across my face. In my past life, he had spoken those exact same words. And then what? He handed me a death certificate. “Harrison,” my voice was horribly raspy. “Do you really think a seven-month-old preemie’s marrow can match Angela?” His brow furrowed slightly. I continued softly, “I took iron-blockers every single day for three months.” His frown deepened into a harsh glare. “What does that mean?” I turned my head and finally met his gaze. As blood poured from my body and pain wracked me with violent shivers, I laughed. “It means this child’s blood is completely ruined.” Harrison’s pupils contracted sharply. For the first time since my rebirth, I saw a crack in his icy mask. “What did you say?” His voice dropped into a dangerous murmur, like the suffocating air right before a storm. Dr. Keller froze before lunging wildly toward the diagnostic equipment, pulling a lab report. “Quick! Draw her blood and run a test!” I closed my eyes. Run all the tests you want. I had spent three months crushing those pills into powder and mixing them into my meals. I threw up every single day. I used the crudest, most agonizing method to turn my own blood into toxic waste. Angela wanted my child’s bone marrow? Take it. Not a single drop of it would ever save her life. The baby was born forty minutes later. She was tiny. Her skin was a faint purplish-blue, her cries as weak and fragile as a newborn kitten. When the nurse placed her onto the scale, I gathered the very last thread of my strength to turn my head. Three pounds, four ounces. So impossibly small. But she was alive. As long as she was breathing, that was enough. Harrison didn’t offer the baby a single glance. He stared at the lab report in Dr. Keller’s trembling hands, his knuckles turning white as he crumpled the paper in his grip. “Hemoglobin abnormal… iron levels extremely low… marrow activity evaluation… fails to meet transplant standards.” Dr. Keller’s voice grew smaller and smaller until he pulled his neck back, terrified to speak another word. The operating room fell dead silent for three agonizing seconds. Then Harrison slammed the report onto the floor. The paper fluttered to the edge of my bed, soaking up my blood. “Stella.” He turned toward me, his eyes burning with a rage I had never seen before. Yet, it was merely rage. Not a shred of heartbreak. He was furious simply because his precious white lotus was out of options. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He strode over, his fingers clamping down on my jaw with enough force to crush my cheekbones. I was forced to tilt my head up and face his eyes. In those dark eyes, I couldn’t find a single trace of emotion belonging to a husband. I let out a weak laugh. “I’m… saving my child’s life.” His grip tightened violently. “Angela only has two months left!” “Then let her die.” The moment I uttered those words, Harrison’s hand suddenly loosened. Not out of mercy. He was completely stunned by my coldness. He took a step back, staring at me as if looking at a complete stranger. Yes. I was a stranger now. The weak Stella who had begged on her knees for her baby’s life in my past life was already dead. She died right on that very same operating table. 02 They carried the baby away. I knew they would. I wasn’t afraid, because her blood was useless to them right now. Once they realized no usable marrow could be harvested, they would bring her back to me. In my past life, I hadn’t understood any of this. I had been foolishly naive, eating every strict nutritional meal they provided from day one of my pregnancy. Every single dish had been precisely calculated, not for my health, but to ensure the fetus’s bone marrow reached prime condition for harvesting. I was fattened up for nine months. Like livestock raised for slaughter. On the day of the forced C-section, before the anesthesia had even fully taken effect, I heard my baby cry once. Just once. She never made another sound. Later, when I went into severe hemorrhaging, Harrison stood outside the operating suite and signed the DNR without a second thought. Dr. Keller later confessed to me in secret, back when I was already a ghost, that Harrison’s hand hadn’t trembled for a fraction of a second when he signed my death warrant. Angela had sat in her wheelchair nearby, wrapped in a cozy blanket, smiling sweetly. She had said, “Harrison, maybe it’s better that Stella passed away. She was always so unhappy. Staying alive was just suffering for her.” Harrison had simply nodded. “Yes. I’ll arrange a dignified funeral for her.” Dignified. He had summed up my entire agonizing life with that single word. When I heard those words in the depths of hell, I didn’t even have the energy to hate him anymore. I only thought, If there is a next life, I will never marry this man again. God must have thought I was pathetic enough to grant me a second chance. When I opened my eyes, I was back at four months pregnant. The baby was still safe in my belly. Angela’s condition hadn’t rapidly deteriorated yet. Harrison hadn’t made his move against me. That day, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for an entire hour. Then I turned over, opened my phone, and searched: Iron-blockers side effects pregnant women. Now, it was three days after the birth. I was locked inside the third-floor bedroom. The windows were nailed shut, and two guards stood outside the door. In name, I was “recuperating.” In reality, Harrison was waiting for a new medical plan. He was waiting for Dr. Keller to tell him whether there was a way to fix my baby’s blood. Dr. Keller came to check on me once today. His hands shook as he changed my dressings. “Mrs. Harrison… how many of those pills did you take?” “Three months’ worth.” His hands trembled harder, nearly spilling the iodine across my wound. “Her hematological system will take at least six months to naturally recover!” “I know.” “Six months… Miss Angela can’t survive six months!” “I know.” Dr. Keller looked up at me. I stared back at him with a completely emotionless expression. He suddenly set the iodine bottle down, lowering his voice into a whisper. “Mrs. Harrison, you did this on purpose.” “What do you think?” He opened his mouth, but no words came out. As a family doctor who had served the family for a decade, he had witnessed far too many dark secrets. He knew exactly why I had done it, but he didn’t dare say it out loud. Because speaking the truth meant taking a side. And taking my side against Harrison was equivalent to seeking a death sentence. “Dr. Keller,” I called out to him as he turned away. He paused. “When will they give my child back to me?” He avoided my gaze. “That… depends on Mr. Harrison.” A cold smile touched my lips. As expected. Even though he knew the child’s bone marrow was currently useless, he wouldn’t let her go. Because he needed a backup plan. What if another medical trick worked? What if they could artificially rush her recovery? In Harrison’s world, my baby and I had never been human beings. We were medicine. We were disposable resources meant to extend Angela’s life. In my past life, I hadn’t understood this truth, begging him from pregnancy until my death. In this life, I wouldn’t waste another second pleading with him. On the fourth night, Harrison finally arrived. I heard the heavy turn of the door lock and sat up in bed. When he pushed the door open, he brought a draft of cold air with him, carrying the faint scent of hospital disinfectant. He had come straight from the hospital. From Angela’s bedside. “Stella.” He stood at the threshold, keeping his hands jammed in his trousers pockets, staring at me. Only the small lamp beside my bed was turned on, its warm yellow glow splitting his face in two. One side lit up, the other buried in darkness. I sat on the bed and waited for him to speak. “What do you want?” he asked. Four simple words, straight to the point. No accusations about me ruining the baby’s blood. No interrogation about why I threw myself down the stairs. He simply asked what I wanted. Because in his eyes, everything I had done was merely a desperate tactic to negotiate terms. In my past life, I would have broken down crying. I would have thrown myself at his feet, hugging his legs, begging him not to take my baby away. In this life, I leaned calmly against the headboard, resting my hands neatly over my lap. “A divorce.” He remained silent. “I’ll walk away with nothing. I don’t want a single penny. Just let me take my baby and leave.” He still didn’t say a word. Three seconds later, a faint smile touched his lips. It wasn’t a smile of mockery. It was the kind of patronizing smile that said, I knew you were going to say that. “And then what? You take a premature infant, with no money, no job, and nowhere to live. How long do you think you’ll survive?” “That’s my business.” “Stella,” he walked over slowly, crouching beside my bed so his eyes were level with mine. “Don’t you think you’re making a foolish decision?” His tone was remarkably gentle. Like an adult patiently reasoning with a stubborn child. Looking into his deep, dark eyes, a chill ran straight down my spine. Because I saw patience in them. He was being patient enough to negotiate with me. Patience meant he had an underlying motive. An underlying motive meant he still hadn’t given up on using my child. “Harrison,” I leaned back an inch, my spine pressing against the cold wooden headboard. “If you don’t agree to a divorce, I will expose your plan to harvest a baby’s bone marrow to the public.” His composure finally cracked. It was a tiny, subtle shift, a slight twitch between his brows as the gentle facade vanished, revealing the ice beneath. “Are you threatening me?” “What do you think?” He stood up, looking down at me. It was the third day after my forced delivery. My face was as pale as paper, my lips devoid of color, and tubes were still attached to my body. I must have looked utterly pathetic. Yet, I didn’t flinch from his glare. In my past life, he had always used this exact patronizing stance to force me to bow my head and apologize. Silence stretched between us for a long time. Then he spoke. “Stella, I can agree to a divorce.” My chest tightened. Too fast. He agreed far too quickly. “But not right now,” he added calmly. “Angela’s treatment still needs time. Once she stabilizes, I will sign the papers.” “You’re stalling.” “I’m offering you a dignified exit.” Dignified again. He truly loved that word. “And what if I refuse?” He didn’t answer my question. He turned around, walked to the door, and pulled it open. The bodyguard standing outside stepped aside to make way. “The child is in the newborn room downstairs,” he said without turning back. “You can visit her if you want. But you cannot take her.” The door shut behind him. The heavy lock clicked back into place. I sat on the bed, my fingers gripping the bedsheet tightly. He had agreed so easily because he was absolute certain that I couldn’t escape. I had no money, no identification documents, and even my phone had been confiscated. Outside the newborn room downstairs stood nurses, bodyguards, and security cameras. He was keeping my baby and me trapped inside the exact same building. Close enough to see, but impossible to touch. This was far more twisted than his cruelty in my past life. What he didn’t know was that during those three months I spent taking those pills, I wasn’t just destroying my child’s blood. I had set another plan in motion. During one of my prenatal checkups, I had quietly stolen a business card from Dr. Keller’s coat pocket. It belonged to his former classmate, Dr. Bennett, the head of hematology at the State University Hospital. That man had no ties to Harrison. Three months ago, Dr. Bennett had publicly raised ethical concerns regarding the harvesting of bone marrow from infant donors during a medical conference. I needed an outside ally. Someone Harrison couldn’t buy off. Now, all I needed was an opportunity to get the message out. 03 The opportunity came sooner than I expected. On the afternoon of the fifth day, the bodyguards made a minor slip-up during their shift change. A guard had been on duty for eight hours straight, leaving his post only once for a quick restroom break. The guard supposed to replace him at 3:00 PM was ten minutes late, rumor had it he had been called downstairs by Harrison to move some heavy equipment. Ten minutes was all I had. Peering through the crack in the bedroom door, I saw the hallway was completely empty. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t sprint out. Instead, I pushed the door open, slipped into the storage room at the end of the hall, and picked up the extension landline phone. The landlines in this mansion operated on an internal network. It could make outside calls, but every single call log was automatically recorded and synced to the master server in Harrison’s study. I was fully aware of this. Which meant I only had one single chance. The moment I dialed out, whether the call connected or not, a record would be created. I was gambling on Harrison not returning home today. Because this afternoon, Angela had a crucial medical consultation with a specialist team. Dr. Keller had let it slip during morning rounds, mentioning that Harrison would be attending Angela’s expert panel meeting all afternoon. Squatting inside the storage room, my fingers dialed the phone number I had memorized over the past three months. Ring… ring… ring… After three rings, a voice answered. “Hello, who is this?” A middle-aged male voice with a slight regional accent. My throat went so dry I could barely squeeze out a sound. “…Hello, is this Dr. Bennett?” “Speaking. Who’s calling?” “I’m… a friend of Dr. Keller’s.” Dr. Keller’s real name was Arthur Keller. I used his name as my golden ticket. “Oh? Arthur’s friend? What can I do for you?” “Dr. Bennett, I need to consult you on a matter,” I kept my voice down to a whisper, my eyes darting frantically toward the hallway outside. “If a newborn under a week old is being forcibly subjected to bone marrow extraction for an adult transplant… what authority should I report this to?” Silence stretched over the line for two long seconds. “What did you say?” “A seven-month premature infant. Under a week old. Someone is trying to harvest her bone marrow.” “…Is this an active situation?” “Yes.” “Where is this happening? Which hospital?” “It’s not a hospital. It’s a private residence. Please tell me—” Heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway. My blood turned ice-cold. “Dr. Bennett, I’m out of time. I’ll find a way to contact you again. Can you please check if non-consensual marrow extraction from a newborn constitutes a criminal offense?” “Listen to me, you need to—” I slammed the receiver back onto the base. My hands were drenched in cold sweat. The footsteps grew closer. I darted out of the storage room, hurried back into my bedroom, pulled the door shut, sat back on the bed, and picked up a pregnancy care book I had read a hundred times. The door was pushed open. It was the new bodyguard on the shift. He swept his eyes across the room. I kept my head down, flipping through the pages with an utterly calm expression. He stared at me for a few seconds before stepping back and shutting the door. Only then did I realize that I was holding the book upside down. Where my fingers gripped the spine, the paper was soaked through with sweat. Yet, I didn’t regret it for a second. That call had lasted less than forty seconds. It was enough. Dr. Bennett was famous in the medical community for being a uncompromising crusader. I had researched his character thoroughly. In my past life, after Angela’s transplant made academic news, he had publicly questioned the ethics approval process online, only to be silenced by Harrison’s political pull. In this life, I would light the fire before Harrison had the chance to smother it. That evening, Harrison didn’t return home. When Dr. Keller came to change my dressings, he looked visibly distracted, his movements rushed and clumsy. As he removed the gauze, he accidentally tugged on my wound. I let out a sharp gasp. He snapped out of his daze. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” “How did the specialist consultation go today?” I asked quietly. His hand froze. “…Not well. Miss Angela’s rejection markers are spiking, and the banked cord blood is running out.” “So they’re still targeting my baby’s marrow.” Dr. Keller didn’t answer, but his silence said everything. I stayed quiet for a moment before speaking again. “Dr. Keller, your former classmate, Dr. Bennett…” The hand holding the medical tape stopped dead in its tracks. He looked up at me as if he had just seen a ghost. “How do you know…” “A business card fell out of your pocket last week.” His face drained of color. “Mrs. Harrison, did you—” “I called him this afternoon.” Dr. Keller went completely numb. Then he grabbed my wrist, his grip so tight it hurt. “Are you insane?! Do you have any idea that every call from this mansion—” “I know.” “Then why—” “Which is why I need you to do something for me.” I locked eyes with him. His face was ghostly white, his lips trembling. I knew he was terrified. He had worked for Harrison for a decade and knew exactly how Harrison destroyed anyone who betrayed him. I also knew that Dr. Keller had a six-year-old daughter. In my past life, three months after my death, he had abruptly resigned. Rumor had it he suffered a severe mental breakdown, tormented by insomnia, living on heavy sleep medication for half a year. He wasn’t a monster. He was just a coward trapped inside a gilded cage. “Dr. Keller,” I gently pried his fingers off my wrist and whispered, “I only need you to do one thing. Tomorrow when you change my dressings, ‘forget’ your phone under my pillow. Come back for it thirty minutes later.” He stared at me, swallowing hard. “Mrs. Harrison… Mr. Harrison will kill me.” “He won’t find out.” “He finds out about everything!” “Then consider this an act of redemption for your conscience.” I lowered my head and looked down at my heavily bandaged abdomen. The incision was still seeping blood. In my past life, he had stood by and watched as they harvested marrow from my living child. He had done nothing to stop it. I didn’t hate him. I just needed him to act like a human being for once in his life. Dr. Keller sat in his chair, falling into a long, suffocating silence. It dragged on so long that I thought he was going to walk away. Then he finally spoke. “…Thirty minutes.” His voice was barely audible, squeezed through his teeth. “Not a single second more.” I nodded. “That’s plenty.”

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1 Valerie had just stepped into the bathroom when her iPad screen lit up on the nightstand. An iMessage preview popped up. Devin: What cheesy line did he send you today? Forward it over quickly, I need a good laugh. I reached out and unlocked the screen. The pinned conversation at the top was not mine. It was Devin. At the top of the chat box sat a screenshot of a text I had sent Valerie earlier that afternoon. Me: A student in class today told me my smile felt really warm. My first reaction was actually wanting to tell you right away. Directly below it was Valerie’s caption to Devin. Valerie: Look at this. Typical desperate puppy behavior. Every single day, reporting every useless little thing to me. Devin: Lmao, crying over tiny nonsense. A grown man with zero ambition! Valerie: Seriously. He has no real talent anyway, I only married him for peace of mind. My heart stopped for a fraction of a second. The love I thought we shared was nothing more than material for her to mock alongside another man. Valerie, my love will never flow toward you again. … I sat on the edge of the bed, my thumb trembling as I kept scrolling through the screen. There was a selfie I had sent Valerie. I was wearing a grey apron with flour smudged across my cheek, taken while I was baking her a birthday cake from scratch. I remembered telling her that day: Wife, this cake is as sweet as you. Valerie had forwarded that exact photo to Devin. Valerie: God save me, this is a total aesthetic disaster. Devin: How do you even manage to put your mouth on him? Valerie: It is all the same once the lights are off anyway. At worst, I just go gag in the bathroom afterward. My fingers went completely numb. The sound of running water in the bathroom ceased. I immediately locked the iPad and placed it back in its exact spot on the nightstand. The door swung open. Valerie walked out, drying her hair with a towel, wearing a lace nightgown. She sauntered over, wrapping her arms around me from behind, resting her cheek against my back. “Babe, I am ovulating today.” Her hands slid around my waist, unbuttoning my shirt. Instinctively, I pulled away. Valerie paused, her brow knotting. “What is wrong?” I leaned over, picked up her robe from the bed, and handed it to her before stepping around her to sit at the desk. “I am exhausted. We had a long school event today.” Valerie stared at me for two long seconds before dropping the subject. She climbed into bed, flicking off the bedside lamp on her side. Turning her back to me, she began typing on her phone. I climbed onto my side of the bed, listening to her breathing grow heavy and slow. When the clock struck one in the morning, I quietly slipped out of bed. I slid the iPad from under her pillow and crept out to the living room. Sitting on the sofa, I opened that chat window, scrolling all the way back to the beginning. The timeline started a year and a half ago. Back then, we were not married yet. She had just transferred to her current corporate firm, suffocating under heavy pressure and constant overtime. I cooked meals for her every day, waiting downstairs to drive her home and keeping her company through late night projects. She had taken a screenshot of a text I sent back then, which read: Do not push yourself too hard, I brewed some warm soup for you. She had forwarded it straight to Devin. Valerie: A twenty-four-seven house husband type. Pity he is as bland as a wooden board with zero romance. He cannot say anything beyond basic domestic fluff. Devin: Sounds like great husband material though, zero drama. Valerie: Yeah, safe. But my heart craves excitement. I am genuinely getting suffocated by him. So she had married me for stability. Not love. I kept scrolling. The first time I tried on my wedding tuxedo, I sent her a photo asking if I looked alright. She had replied to me: So handsome, my husband is the most handsome man in the world. Then she immediately forwarded the photo to Devin. Valerie: The studio photographer went insane with Photoshop. Devin: Even with heavy edits, your husband looks pretty average. How did you settle on him? Valerie: I was in a low spot back then, he stuck around, so I just settled. Staring at the word “settled,” my stomach twisted into a painful knot. I opened the media attachments in the chat. Inside were private, intimate photos I had sent her. Photos that were never meant for anyone else’s eyes. I had shared them with my wife out of complete, unconditional trust. She had forwarded every single one to Devin. Devin: Damn, he actually has an eight-pack. You must be enjoying yourself. Valerie: Please, compared to you, he falls way short. I took screenshots of every single conversation, emailing them to my personal inbox one by one. My hands shook uncontrollably, but my fingers never stopped tapping the screen. By four in the morning, I returned to the bedroom and placed the iPad back where it belonged. Valerie rolled over in her sleep, mumbling softly, “Babe, why are you still awake?” I offered no answer, standing in the dark, looking down at her with cold indifference. She did not wake up. I laid back down, staring at the ceiling until dawn broke. 2 The next morning, Valerie sat at the dining table eating breakfast as usual. I had fried eggs and toasted bread, setting the plate down in front of her. She lifted her head to look at me. “What is up with you today? You seem to be in a terrible mood.” My hand holding the milk carton paused for a fraction of a second. In the past, every single morning, I would smile and say: Good morning, I hope my wife has a wonderful day. She would rarely offer much back, usually just a quiet nod, yet that alone used to make my whole day bright. I pushed the glass of milk toward her. “Nothing.” Valerie took a bite of her toast. “First thing in the morning, what wire crossed in your brain? What are you throwing an attitude for?” I sat across from her, taking a slow sip of milk. “I am not throwing an attitude. I am feeling just fine.” She set her glass down with a sharp thud. “Jonah, you have been acting off since last night. Out with it, how exactly did I offend you?” I lifted my eyes to meet hers. “You are the one acting strange, actually noticing my mood for once.” Valerie frowned tightly. “Stop being sarcastic. If something is on your mind, say it.” I placed my phone flat on the table, displaying the very first screenshot I had taken the night before. The text I sent her: A student in class today said my smile was really warm. My first reaction was actually wanting to tell you right away. Directly beneath it was her message to Devin: Every single day, reporting every useless little thing to me. Valerie’s expression froze instantly, before darkening into sheer anger. “You dared snoop through my private phone?” I replied quietly, “Should you not explain this first?” “I am asking you, what gives you the right to illegally pry into my private chats?” I let out a soft, cold laugh. “I looked at your iPad. It had no password, so I viewed it in plain sight.” Valerie threw her toast back onto the plate. “Jonah, do you have any concept of privacy, boundaries, or personal space?” I did not even bother wasting an expression on her. “I should be asking you that question. My private messages and my intimate photos were forwarded to another man for review. What do you call that behavior?” Valerie stood up, her chair scraping harshly against the floor. “Do not twist the topic! It is your own fault for being nosy. If you had not snooped, you would never have known, and we would not be having this conversation!” She reached out, attempting to snatch my phone off the table. I took a step back, slipping the phone into my bag. “Do not touch it.” Valerie’s hand hovered in midair. “Jonah, you look genuinely disgusting right now.” I looked her dead in the eyes. “As disgusting as I look, it does not hold a candle to what you did.” She pulled at her sleeves, her voice rising. “I was just venting casually to a friend! Do you need to blow this out of proportion? Just because you have no friends does not mean I am forbidden from having them!” “Venting with my private photos?” Valerie went silent for a brief second. Then, she spoke with icy detachment. “If you insist on bringing this up to start a fight, the only person left humiliated will be you.” I said nothing more. Because in that moment, I realized she was not unaware of the pain she caused. She simply believed I did not even possess the right to be angry. A cold war lasted for three full days. I stopped sharing any part of my daily life with her. On the third evening, Valerie returned from work holding a designer shopping bag. I was sitting on the sofa preparing lesson plans. She tossed the bag directly onto the cushion beside me. “I bought this for you.” I opened it up. Inside was a scarf from a clearance rack, the price tag still attached. Nineteen dollars. Once, I had liked a cashmere scarf that cost eighty dollars, but she had dismissed it instantly, saying, “Why does an elementary school teacher need something so expensive? Kids will just ruin it with sticky hands.” Yet, in her chat logs with Devin, I had seen her purchase a five-hundred-dollar designer cologne for him. Devin had asked: Won’t your husband get mad if he finds out? Valerie had replied: He is a clueless idiot, he knows nothing about luxury. I placed the scarf back into the paper bag. “Return it.” Valerie paused her movement of unbuckling her watch. “Jonah, do not push this too far. I bought you a gift, so drop the attitude. Adults need to know when to stop.” I closed my notebook. “And what exactly counts as stopping?” She sat across from me, her face laced with deep impatience. “You are usually way too clingy. What is wrong with me venting a little to a friend?” I stared at her. “How about I take photos of you before you put on makeup, videos of you crying over missed promotions, or clips of you kneeling by the toilet throwing up drunk, and send them to my female colleagues to enjoy? How would you feel about that?” Valerie’s face darkened completely. “You would not dare.” I said, “So you understand that it is wrong.” She picked up a glass of water, taking a quick sip. “Jonah, whether you can get over this or not, it already happened. Saying all this now is completely useless. Are we going to live our lives or not?” My tone remained entirely serene. “No, we are not.” Valerie let out a cold scoff, turning around and walking into the bedroom. Before she slammed the door shut, a sharp sentence echoed from inside. “You are completely unhinged and impossible to talk to.” 3 The next afternoon, just as I finished grading student assignments, my phone vibrated in my pocket. A friend request notification popped up. Verification note: Hey man, it’s Devin. I wanted to talk to you. I hesitated for a few seconds before hitting accept. He sent his first message almost instantly. Devin: Hey man, don’t misunderstand Valerie and me. We are just casual chat buddies. I did not reply. He kept typing. Devin: I don’t really know why she forwarded your texts to me, maybe she just views me as one of the guys. Devin: Women, you know how they are. Most of them just like to talk big. Devin: Valerie told me she really likes how innocent you are, even if you are a bit boring and lack romance. Devin: Honestly, I kind of envy you. Your overall background is pretty average, yet you managed to marry such an accomplished woman. I stood by the back door of the classroom. The children were quietly solving math problems while the air conditioner hummed softly. I typed my response. Me: Did you add me just to say this? Devin replied within seconds. Devin: Not at all, I just wanted to clear things up. Please don’t fight with her because of me. Her current work project is at a critical stage, her mood cannot be disrupted. Me: In what capacity are you trying to manage my wife’s emotions? Me: Also, if an average guy like me could marry an accomplished woman, why couldn’t you? Is it because you fall even shorter than I do? The chat went completely silent for half a minute. The typing indicator flickered continuously, but no new messages came through. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, resuming my walk around the classroom to check on my students. At six in the evening, I arrived home. As the front door opened, Valerie was sitting on the living room sofa, staring down at her phone. Her very first words upon seeing me were, “Did you curse out Devin?” I set my bag down on the entryway console. “He reached out to me first.” Valerie stood up sharply. “He was just trying to be helpful and explain things so our relationship wouldn’t suffer! You took your anger out on him instead? How can you be so ungrateful?” I changed my shoes, closing the cabinet door softly. “He came to provoke me.” Valerie walked up to me. “Jonah, can you stop viewing every single man as an enemy? Devin is not the person you think he is.” I lifted my head to look at her. “How do you know what kind of person he is? Have you slept with him to know him so well?” She choked on her words for a moment, her face flushing with immediate rage. “Go look in a mirror and see how bitter you look right now. You are being utterly malicious.” A faint smile touched the corner of my lips. “Good. After all, I have no friends, I lack worldly experience, I am an aesthetic disaster, and I am simple-minded. Most importantly, I am just the guy you settled for during a low point in your life.” Valerie’s expression shifted drastically. “How much of those chats did you actually read?” “Enough to make me sick for the rest of my life.” She took a step forward. “Did you take screenshots of everything? Delete them right now.” I stepped back, my spine hitting the front door panel. “What are you afraid of?” Valerie lowered her voice. “I do not want this turning into a massive spectacle.” “You were not afraid of a spectacle when you forwarded my life to him?” “I told you, that was just casual banter between friends!” Even now, her excuse remained entirely unchanged. I no longer possessed any desire to argue with her. Opening my bag, I pulled out the printed divorce agreement I had prepared during lunch and handed it to her. “Sign it.” Valerie glanced down at the paper. “Divorce papers?” “Yes.” She let out a dry laugh. “Jonah, are you serious?” “I am in no mood to play games.” Valerie took the papers, flipped through two pages, and tossed them carelessly onto the shoe console. The pages scattered, one fluttering onto the floor. “Divorcing over a few screenshots? Are you five years old? Can you grow up for once?” I bent down, picking up the fallen page. “It is not about a few screenshots. It is about you turning me into a public laughingstock.” “You ARE overly sensitive! More dramatic than a teenager! Every single day whining about nothing, sending useless nonsense! You can send it, but I am forbidden from feeling annoyed by it?” Her words echoed through the room, leaving a dead silence in their wake. I clutched the paper, lifting my eyes to meet hers. “Valerie, say that one more time.” She glared at me. “Every day sending ‘I miss you’, updating me on student drama, what you ate for lunch, flowers blooming on the sidewalk, reporting every single useless detail of your day to me. Jonah, I am busy. I am not a student in your classroom, I do not need you reporting your mundane existence to me all day long.” I said quietly, “You could have chosen not to reply.” “I DID stop replying! Yet you kept sending them anyway!” “So you took screenshots and sent them to others for entertainment?” “I am under immense stress! Am I forbidden from venting?” I neatly reorganized the divorce papers, placing them back into my bag. “You can vent. You did a fantastic job of it.” I turned toward the bedroom. Valerie followed close behind. “What are you doing?” I opened the closet, pulling out my suitcase. Valerie stood at the doorframe, blocking half the exit. “Jonah, can you stop making a scene? I am genuinely exhausted.” “Move aside.” “Where are you going?” “To a friend’s house.” She let out a dismissive scoff. “You actually have a friend willing to take you in?” I rolled my suitcase forward, its wheel bumping against her leg. “At least he will not forward my private words to others for entertainment.” Valerie remained silent for several seconds. Then, she spoke with cold finality. “If you walk out of this door today, we are truly over. I have apologized, I have done everything I should, and my conscience is entirely clear.” She stopped blocking the door. I dragged my suitcase through the hallway, reaching the front entrance. Opening the door, her voice drifted from behind me one last time. “Jonah, the adult world involves plenty of messy realities. You have simply been spoiled by me for too long, completely unaware of how harsh the world really is. Sooner or later, you will regret this!” I turned my head slightly. “My only regret was marrying you.” 4 I moved into the guest room at my best friend Marcus’s apartment. On the morning of the third day, a call came through from an unknown local number. I answered it. A man’s low voice sounded over the line. “Is this Jonah?” “Speaking.” “My name is Brandon. My girlfriend is a close friend of Valerie’s, named Brooke. We have never met, but there is something I need to tell you.” I paused my hand on the mouse, midway through organizing my screenshots. “What is it?” He took a deep breath. “I am not calling to mediate or defend anyone.” “Yesterday, I stumbled upon a group chat on Brooke’s phone titled ‘Valerie’s Post-Marriage Observation Diary’.” I sat up straight instantly. My computer monitor was still displaying the screenshot of Devin’s chat. Brandon continued, “The group consists of Valerie and a few of her close female friends. A huge portion of the texts, photos, and voice notes you sent Valerie were shared inside that chat.” I remained silent. The sound of pages turning came from his end. “I took a few screenshots of the group. I do not know if you are mentally prepared for this.” I gripped my phone tightly. “Please send them to me.” “There are private photos involved.” “Send them.” Brandon paused for a moment. “Jonah, if you ask me, you should file a police report.” After the call ended, a friend request popped up on my messaging app. I accepted it. He immediately sent over a dozen screenshots. The very first image was the group chat homepage. Seven members in total. Valerie had posted a bedtime selfie I sent her once. I had taken it right after a shower, facing the foggy bathroom mirror. My original text to her had read: Wife, I washed up and smell nice, can you come home early today? Valerie’s commentary in the group read: He acts as if he has never seen a woman in his life, like a starved wolf that can never be satisfied. He is draining me completely dry. Brooke’s reply: Your husband is pretty clingy, huh? You can’t tell from the outside, he actually has a great physique. Another member: Valerie sure is lucky. Valerie: Stop it, he is completely average. You can pick up guys like him by the dozen anywhere. The second screenshot showed a voice message I had sent. I remembered that day distinctly. Valerie had not come home for three consecutive nights. I sent her a voice note, my voice raspy with emotion, saying: “Wife, please come home. I miss you so much. I am not asking you to spend every second with me, I just want to know if you still remember that you have a home.” Valerie had forwarded the audio file directly into the group. A group member replied: His crying voice sounds more delicate than a woman’s. Total helpless house husband. Someone dropped a mocking meme. Valerie replied: Not a helpless husband, an absolute idiot. It drives me crazy. I work hard all day, and I still have to go home and nurse an adult baby. The third image was a message of apology I had sent her. I had gotten upset because she forgot our wedding anniversary, only for her to turn it around until I ended up apologizing to her instead. My text read: I am sorry, wife, I was being too dramatic. I know how busy your work is, I will be more sensible from now on. Valerie had posted it into the group. Valerie: Standard procedure for training a dog. Ignore him for two days and he softens right up. A group member replied: Brilliant, taking notes. Staring at the phrase “taking notes,” my fingers froze, unable to tap the next image. Marcus walked out of the kitchen holding a glass of water. “Jonah, what happened?” I handed him the phone. He glanced at just two of the screenshots before slamming his glass down onto the floor. The glass shattered, water spilling everywhere. He cursed loudly, pulling out his own phone. “I am going with you to the police station right now.” A cold numbness crept over my entire body, cold sweat breaking across my forehead. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the phone steady. I could not bring myself to view the remaining images. I had Marcus save every single record onto a flash drive. In my phone gallery, Valerie’s face, Devin’s profile picture, and the mocking comments from that group of women sat lined up together across the screen. I had assumed my only spectator was Devin. I was wrong. My entire marriage had been treated as a live reality show. Every private detail exposed completely, left open for random strangers to critique and ridicule. Once I regained my composure, I sent a voice note to Brandon. “Thank you, man.” Brandon replied: “No problem, man. I broke up with Brooke today too. Being with a trashy person like that completely disgusted me.” I said, “We both need to keep our eyes open from now on.” Marcus cleaned up the broken glass from the floor, grabbing my coat from the rack. “Let’s go. To the police station.” As I stood up, my phone rang once more. It was Valerie. I stared at her name flashing across the screen for ten seconds before answering. Valerie’s voice sounded laced with impatience. “Jonah, do you really think the world revolves around you? How much longer are you going to drag out this cold war?” I spoke quietly. “Valerie.” “What?” “Those group chats with your friends, have you deleted them clean?” The line went completely dead silent. In the background, I heard someone call out to her, “Valerie, the meeting is starting.” Valerie lowered her voice to a whisper. “Who told you about that?” I said, “So it really wasn’t just Devin.” “Jonah, where are you right now?” I offered no answer. Valerie panicked, her tone dropping into an urgent pitch over the receiver. “Do not do anything reckless! Let’s meet up and talk!” “There is no need. I have already retained an attorney and filed a police report.” I hung up the phone.

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My father-in-law drove a city bus his entire adult life. Years ago, to save a destitute college girl having a violent seizure in the back of his bus, he blew through three red lights to get her to the emergency room. He saved her life. In return, she filed a formal complaint against him using her real name. He had only wanted to save a life, but the transit authority fired him for a severe traffic violation, stripping away his pension in the process. The girl who reported him was named Harper. Thanks to that very report, she was awarded the “Civic Compliance Scholarship” by her university. When I took his termination papers to demand an explanation from her, she just stared at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Rules are rules. A driver running red lights is gambling with the passengers’ lives. Even if it’s to save someone, it’s strictly forbidden.” Years later, she fought her way through rounds of brutal interviews, and her final onboarding contract for our tech conglomerate landed right on my desk. I was the VP of Human Resources. Right in front of her face, I fed that contract into the shredder. “Rules are rules. Your background check revealed a severe lack of moral integrity, and your immediate family has a history of defaulted debt. I cannot sign this.” 1 “Mr. Cross, you didn’t just shred my contract. You shredded your own career.” Harper didn’t even flinch or try to fish the paper scraps out of the bin. She calmly reached up to her collar, unclipped a button-shaped hidden camera, and placed it on my desk. The recording light was still blinking red. The glass doors to the conference room weren’t fully closed. Outside, the hallway was packed with candidates waiting for their final interviews. Every word I just said had echoed out into the corridor. Harper turned her phone around to face me. On the screen, the live stream counter had already crossed eighty thousand viewers. The stream title was a single, glaring sentence. “Corporate HR VP Abuses Power to Blacklist Whistleblower Over Family Grudge.” The comments were scrolling by in a blur, but a few jumped out at me. “Just because she reported his father-in-law?” “Since when does an HR VP have executioner powers?” “This isn’t a job interview. This is a corporate lynching.” Harper placed her hand flat over her printed background check report. “Mr. Cross, the defaulted debt under my father’s name was exactly two thousand seven hundred dollars, and the court has already issued a clearance certificate proving it was paid.” “According to your company’s own hiring guidelines, a resolved civil debt does not constitute grounds for rejection.” “As for my supposed lack of moral integrity, I’d love to know what criteria you are using.” I stared at her. “You filed a formal complaint against the man who saved your life. Does that count?” “Reporting an illegal act counts as a lack of moral integrity?” Her eyes slowly grew red, but her voice didn’t waver a single decibel. “By that logic, shouldn’t this company cancel its annual Compliance Awareness Month?” “Shouldn’t the whistleblower email hotline be shut down?” “If an employee discovers financial fraud tomorrow, should they first check to see if the fraudster ever did them a favor before reporting it?” Outside the door, people started raising their phones to record. Harper turned her face slightly toward the camera lens, exposing a pale scar behind her ear. “This is from the craniotomy I had to undergo back then.” “I lost consciousness on that bus. I had no idea where the driver was taking me, and I had no ability to consent.” “When I woke up, I found out an entire bus full of passengers had been forced to run three red lights with him.” “I didn’t report him for saving my life.” “I reported him for gambling with forty other lives to save mine without their consent.” She spoke with terrifying stability. It was the stability of a script rehearsed hundreds of times. Vern, our Legal Manager, burst into the conference room. “Declan, shut the stream down.” Harper took a step back. “Mr. Vern. Your company policy strictly dictates that a candidate’s personal devices cannot be forcibly confiscated during the interview process.” Vern went pale. “How do you know my name?” “It’s on the executive roster on your website.” She pulled a stack of papers from her folder. “Section Seventeen of your Recruitment Management Regulations states that once a candidate passes the final interview and approvals are completed, the offer cannot be rescinded due to an interviewer’s personal reasons unless there is a severe material omission.” “My final approvals cleared last night.” “Your job today, Mr. Cross, was merely to sign on the dotted line.” Vern whipped his head toward me. “Her approvals cleared?” I picked up the routing slip from my desk. The VP of Operations, the Finance Director, and the Compliance Department had all signed off. My signature block was at the very bottom. The onboarding window expired exactly at noon today. We had twenty-seven minutes left. Harper stared at the clock on the wall. “Mr. Cross, you have twenty-seven minutes.” “If you don’t sign by noon, the company will be guilty of rescinding an offer without just cause.” “Based on the competing offer I declined to be here, the compensation penalty will not be less than sixty thousand dollars.” “Of course, I’d much prefer it if your company gave the public a formal explanation instead.” Vern lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Just turn off the stream. We can reprint the contract.” “Why should I turn it off?” Harper looked directly into the lens. “If Mr. Cross has the guts to do this, why shouldn’t I let people watch?” Whispers erupted in the hallway outside. Someone had already dug up my father-in-law’s old case. “I found it. The driver from the Route 9 bus.” “The transit authority’s public notice back then said he was emotionally unstable and refused to follow dispatch orders.” “So his son-in-law is using his corporate position to take revenge on the whistleblower?” The corner of Harper’s mouth twitched upward for a fraction of a second before she suppressed it. It was the exact same micro-expression she had years ago. When she won that scholarship, a reporter asked if she felt bad that the driver lost his job. She had pursed her lips the exact same way. Then she said, “Adults need to take responsibility for breaking the law.” Vern grabbed my arm. “Declan, sign it.” I didn’t move. “Her background check still has red flags.” “What red flags?” “During her four years in college, she filed seventeen formal complaints under her real name. People were disciplined or fired at all three of her previous internships because of her.” Harper smiled. “Is it a crime to speak up when I see a violation?” “You reported the cafeteria worker for giving an extra scoop of meat to a broke student.” “The cafeteria operates on strict quota accounting. Extra portions are a violation of policy.” “You reported the dorm RA for opening the doors after hours for a student with a fever.” “The security protocol mandates the doors lock at midnight.” “You reported your internship supervisor for using his personal account to cover a refund for a client.” “The company strictly prohibits private financial transactions with clients.” With every answer she gave, the army of compliance defenders in her live stream grew stronger. For the first time, I realized she wasn’t just deaf to human decency. She actively translated human decency into policy violations she could weaponize. Harper pushed a pen across the desk toward me. “Mr. Cross, nineteen minutes left.” “You have every right to dislike me.” “But your personal grudges are not written in the company handbook.” I picked up the pen. Suddenly, someone in the hall shouted, “The CEO is here.” The crowd parted. Richard Bancroft, our CEO, walked briskly into the room with the PR Director and two cameramen trailing behind him. He didn’t ask for context. He just snatched the background check report from my hands. “Declan, you are suspended from duty effective immediately.” “Richard, her background check carries massive risks.” “Right now, you are the biggest risk to this company.” Richard placed a fresh copy of the contract in front of Vern. “Initiate the proxy signature protocol.” Vern took the pen, his hand hovering over the paper. Harper finally let her smile show. “You see, Mr. Cross? Rules don’t suddenly stop working just because you have a fancy title.” I stared at the blinking red light on her chest. Over a hundred thousand people were watching me get stripped of my badge. Before the clock struck twelve, she was going to step right over my father-in-law’s termination papers and walk into the HR department I built. Richard’s voice was heavy with impatience. “Sign it, Vern.” 2 “You can’t sign that contract. She concealed the fact that she was live-streaming.” I slammed my hand down on the signature page. Vern instantly pulled his hand back. But Harper just turned the camera to face herself. “I am under no obligation to inform my abuser of how I choose to collect evidence.” “The company visitor policy clearly states that unauthorized recording is prohibited in the office areas.” “I am in the candidate interview zone.” She pulled out her phone and opened the visitor confirmation text. “There is no recording ban attached to this notification.” “The front desk didn’t ask me to check my devices either.” “Your management loopholes do not constitute concealment on my part.” Richard glanced at the rapidly climbing viewer count on her stream. “Declan, let go of the paper.” I kept my hand pinned to the desk. “She manufactured this PR crisis on purpose. Her motives for joining are compromised.” Harper took a step forward. “My motive is to get a job.” “From the written exams to the final round, I scored first place across the board.” “You are the one who dragged a personal vendetta into the office and ruined a standard hiring process.” She reached out and yanked the contract. The thick paper pulled taut between us, and the sharp edge sliced clean through my fingertip. A drop of blood fell onto the offer letter. The chat instantly exploded with people accusing me of flying into a violent rage. Richard pried my hand off the desk. “Security.” Two guards stepped in and shoved me to the side. Harper took the contract back and gently smoothed out the wrinkles. “Mr. Cross, was your father-in-law like this too?” “Knowing full well the steering wheel wasn’t his to control alone, but refusing to let go anyway?” That sentence twisted the knife in my gut so hard I couldn’t even feel the cut on my hand anymore. Years ago, when I rushed to the transit depot, George was standing in the lobby clutching his folded uniform. Thirty-seven years of service, shoved into a single cardboard box. The management demanded he sign the disciplinary notice. He refused. The investigator told him that if he just admitted to driving recklessly out of impulse, they would downgrade the termination to a forced resignation and let him keep part of his benefits. George sat in that chair for an entire afternoon. Before he left, he only asked one question. “Next time someone is dying on a bus, are we supposed to just watch them die?” Nobody answered him. Harper was still in the hospital at the time. I went to her room to beg her to withdraw the complaint, but she was in the middle of a media interview. The reporter was handing her the Civic Compliance Scholarship certificate. She looked at the cameras and said her family was poor, her father was in debt, and the rules were the only thing she could trust to protect her. I asked her if the rules were what saved her life. She looked at me, clutching her framed certificate. “Your father-in-law could have pulled over and called an ambulance.” “He had no right to risk the lives of everyone else on board.” “Just because he didn’t crash this time doesn’t make his choice right.” Later, George had to sell the small house he bought for his retirement. The transit company sued him for the operational losses caused by the suspended route and formally severed his employment for gross negligence. My wife, Sarah, spent two years running around trying to appeal his case. The last time she walked out of the transportation authority building, she sat on the concrete steps and looked at me. “Let it go. He can’t take this anymore.” George developed severe insomnia. Whenever he heard an ambulance siren, his hands would instinctively reach for a steering wheel that was no longer there. Last winter, his kidneys started failing. The doctors said he needed regular dialysis and absolutely could not handle any more emotional shock. Harper didn’t know any of this. Or maybe she did, but figured it fell outside the scope of her beloved policy clauses. Richard finished signing the proxy approval and handed the contract to her right in front of the live stream. “Ms. Harper, this company does not tolerate management abusing their authority.” “Your employment is officially active.” Applause broke out in the hallway. I stood shoved into the crowd, my confiscated ID badge sitting abandoned on the corner of the desk. Harper took the contract with both hands. “Thank you, Richard.” “I trust that a company with such respect for the rules will deal with Mr. Cross’s behavior impartially.” Richard’s smile froze slightly. She had no intention of stopping. The PR Director stepped in. “Ms. Harper, since the misunderstanding has been resolved, would you mind ending the stream?” “This isn’t a misunderstanding.” Harper turned the lens directly onto me. “Mr. Cross explicitly admitted that he rejected me because I reported his father-in-law.” “If I hadn’t been streaming today, I would have lost my job.” “The absolute minimum he owes me is a public apology.” Vern muttered under his breath, “You already got the contract.” “I got the contract through my own merit. It wasn’t a trade.” “The apology is the penalty he has to pay for abusing his power.” The crowd around us swelled. Employees on their lunch break clogged the corridor, a sea of glowing phone screens raised in the air. Harper walked up to me and handed me a freshly printed apology statement. “It’s not long.” “You just need to admit that you interfered with the hiring process due to a personal grudge, and apologize to me and the company.” I skimmed the paper. The very last line made my blood run cold. I further acknowledge that my father-in-law’s reckless driving lacked any commendable life-saving merit, and bears no moral conflict with Ms. Harper’s lawful decision to report him. She didn’t just want me to bow my head. She wanted me to convict George with my own mouth. Richard crossed his arms. “Read it.” “I won’t.” “If you refuse to cooperate during your suspension investigation, the company has the right to terminate your contract.” Harper raised the paper higher. “Mr. Cross. Rules are rules.” I smacked the paper out of her hand. She instantly threw her weight backward, slamming her shoulder into the glass door. The camera slipped from her hand and hit the floor. The crowd gasped. Harper clutched her shoulder, tears springing to her eyes on command. “Everyone saw that.” “He put his hands on me.” Richard pointed a trembling finger at me. “Get him out of here.” The security guards grabbed my arms. In the chaos, Harper crouched down to pick up the camera. I saw her thumb deliberately press down hard on the edge of the lens housing. The plastic casing cracked. She looked up, her voice pitched perfectly to reach every phone in the room. “Mr. Cross. Destroying evidence gathering equipment means you’ll be paying damages too.” 3 “Dad, give him the oxygen tube back!” When Sarah sprinted into the hospital lounge, Harper was standing behind George’s wheelchair, gripping his portable oxygen tank. Flanking her were two internet influencers holding gimbals. Their lenses were shoved practically into George’s face. Harper yanked the oxygen tank closer to her chest. “I just want Mr. Mitchell to answer a few simple questions.” George was gasping for air. “I have nothing… to say to you.” “Your son-in-law attacked me at work to get revenge for what happened. Don’t you owe the public an explanation?” “I’m the one who ran the lights. It had nothing to do with him.” “So you admit you broke the law?” George forced his head up. “I admit I ran the red lights.” “But I will never admit I was wrong to save your life.” Harper looked straight into the camera. “You hear that, everyone?” “To this day, he still refuses to acknowledge the catastrophic consequences his reckless driving could have caused.” Sarah lunged for the oxygen tank. “Give that back to my father.” Harper pivoted smoothly, dodging her grasp. “Ma’am, your father is in the middle of an interview.” “Who gave you permission to interview him?” “We are in a public space. Recording is perfectly legal.” “That oxygen tank belongs to him!” “It struck my equipment earlier. I need to hold onto it to verify if the damage was intentional.” She then held the tank up, making sure the hospital asset tag was clearly visible in the shot. “This is evidence.” George’s lips were starting to turn a bruised, terrifying shade of purple. Sarah’s voice cracked with raw panic. “Harper, he needs oxygen!” “The ER is right down the hall. The medical staff can intervene at any moment.” “Give it to him!” “Please stop trying to tamper with evidence.” I arrived just as an influencer shoved Sarah back. George was slumped over the armrest of his wheelchair, his chest heaving like a broken bellows. I tore through the crowd and ripped the oxygen tank out of Harper’s hands. She clung to the strap, refusing to let go. “Mr. Cross, are you resorting to violence again?” “Let go.” “Not unless you promise not to destroy the evidence.” I violently threw her hands off. The momentum sent her stumbling forward, her manicured nails dragging across my neck. A sharp burn flared across my skin. I didn’t stop. I jammed the tube onto George’s face and twisted the valve open. George took three ragged, desperate breaths before the terrifying purple hue slowly began to fade from his face. Harper held up her wrist. The skin was slightly red. “Make sure you get this on camera.” “Mr. Cross has assaulted me for the second time.” Sarah spun around and slapped her across the face. The sound was sharp as a gunshot. Every single camera in the room jolted. Harper’s head whipped to the side. She stood frozen for a long time. Sarah’s hands were shaking uncontrollably. “That slap was for pulling an oxygen tank away from a dying man.” Harper slowly turned her head back around. Five distinct red welts were already blooming on her cheek. She didn’t retaliate. Instead, she held the cracked button camera up to the influencers’ lenses. “Now everyone knows why I have to record everything.” “When this family encounters someone who refuses to bow to them, they resort to physical violence.” Sarah lunged at her again. I grabbed Sarah and pulled her back against my chest. “Stop. Don’t hit her.” “She was going to kill my father!” “I did no such thing.” Harper dabbed a drop of blood from the corner of her mouth. “The tank was out of Mr. Mitchell’s possession for less than two minutes.” “We are standing fifty feet from the Emergency Room.” “Basic medical science dictates that a two-minute delay is insufficient to cause death.” Hearing that, George gripped the armrests and tried to push himself up. “Is that… how you calculated it back then too?” “Calculating exactly how many minutes I had left before you died? Calculating how many people on the bus would vote against saving you?” Harper looked down at him. “I was unconscious. I couldn’t make any decisions.” “So the moment you woke up, you reported him?” Sarah was crying now. “My dad paid your emergency room deposit out of his own pocket.” “You walked out of that hospital without so much as a thank you.” “When you deposited that scholarship money, did you know he had to borrow cash from relatives to cover your hospital bill?” Harper was silent for two seconds. “Medical expenses are classified as a civil debt.” “If he kept the receipts, he has every right to file a legal claim against me for reimbursement.” George suddenly laughed. He laughed until he bent over, coughing violently. “I don’t want it.” “Dad.” “Sarah, I don’t want a dime from her.” George pulled the oxygen mask down and stared at Harper. “I used to lie awake wondering if maybe you were just young and terrified.” “I was actually worried that you were living with the guilt of what you did to me.” “Seeing you today, I feel so much better.” For the first time, Harper’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?” “It means you’ll never feel guilty.” Hospital security finally showed up and ordered everyone to stop filming. Harper didn’t put up a fight. She packed up her gear, then pulled a crisp legal document from her bag. “Mr. Cross, this is the official injury assessment notice from your earlier attack.” “And as for your wife’s slap, I will be filing a police report for battery.” Sarah stepped in front of George’s wheelchair. “Come at me then.” “I only follow procedural law.” Harper turned to me. “Also, the company has officially initiated your termination process.” “There is an all-hands compliance assembly tomorrow morning at 10 AM. You are required to stand on stage and explain your actions.” I stared at her. “Who told you that?” “I am an official employee now.” She held up the contract, the ink still fresh. “Richard just promoted me to the Corporate Compliance Evangelist.” In three short hours, she went from a candidate I rejected to the investigator holding my execution orders. Harper walked to the door, then paused. “Mr. Mitchell, tomorrow’s assembly will be live-streamed company-wide.” “If you’d like to attend, I can give you five minutes on stage.” George gripped his oxygen mask. “What would I do with five minutes?” Harper flashed that sickeningly familiar smile. “You can apologize to the passengers whose lives you put at risk.” 4 “If you don’t apologize, I’ll cut off his dialysis funding.” Right before the all-hands assembly, Richard slid a legal agreement across the table to me. The corporate charity fund had been covering half of George’s dialysis costs for the past year. Buried in the fine print was a clause: Family members of the beneficiary are strictly prohibited from engaging in acts that damage the company’s reputation. Richard tapped his manicured finger against that exact line. “You publicly shredded a candidate’s contract on a live stream. That is a breach of contract.” “His medical funding is an employee assistance program. It’s not hush money.” “The rules say what they say.” “Did Harper teach you that line?” Richard’s face darkened. “Drop the attitude.” “Sign this apology by 9:50 AM, and the fund keeps dispensing.” “If you don’t, Finance freezes his account at 10:00.” I had ten minutes. George just had his blood work done last night. The hospital required the next phase of treatment to be paid in full within three days, or his bed would be given to someone else. Sarah grabbed my hand, her fingers trembling. “Sign it.” “You know what that statement says, Sarah.” “I know.” Her voice was raw. “But I can’t gamble with my dad’s life.” Outside the conference room, Harper was giving another interview. The red marks from the slap had already faded. Yet she had deliberately taped a square of white gauze over the spot. A reporter asked if she was willing to accept my apology. “I am always willing to give people a chance to correct their mistakes.” “But he shouldn’t just be apologizing to me.” “Mr. Cross needs to explain to every hardworking employee why an HR VP feels entitled to hijack corporate fairness to settle a family vendetta.” Someone brought up George. Harper looked at the camera with perfectly rehearsed empathy. “I completely understand an old man’s desire to save a life.” “But good intentions cannot be used as a free pass to break the law.” Applause bled through the walls. Sarah picked up the pen and pressed it into my palm. “Declan, save Dad first.” Richard checked his watch. “Seven minutes.” I signed my name. The pen felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. The moment the ink dried, Richard snatched the paper away. “Get on stage. Read it exactly as written. Do not improvise.” “And after I read it?” “Suspended for six months, demoted to Recruiting Manager.” “I reject the demotion.” “Then we terminate your employment immediately.” “My investigation hasn’t even concluded.” Richard straightened his cuffs. “The stream peaked at over two million viewers yesterday.” “The company’s stock dropped four percent this morning.” “That is the conclusion.” At exactly 10 AM, I was escorted onto the stage. Nearly a thousand employees sat in the auditorium. The back rows were lined with media cameras, and the live stream numbers were climbing rapidly. Harper sat dead center in the front row, wearing her shiny new badge. Compliance Evangelist. After Richard’s opening speech, he handed me the microphone. “Declan, you will now issue a formal apology to Ms. Harper and the entire staff.” My signed statement flashed onto the massive LED screen behind me. I read through the second paragraph, my voice hollow. Suddenly, the side doors to the auditorium swung open. George wheeled himself into the room. Sarah’s face drained of color. “Dad, what are you doing here?” “Ms. Harper sent a car for me.” George stared up at the stage. “She told me Declan was apologizing on my behalf, and I needed to hear it.” Harper stood up smoothly. “Mr. Mitchell, you have a right to know the truth.” I squeezed the microphone until the plastic creaked. “Who gave you the right to drag a sick man out of the hospital?” “Mr. Mitchell is of sound mind and attended voluntarily.” But George shook his head. “She told me if I didn’t show up, Declan’s apology wouldn’t be considered sincere, and they’d cut my funding.” A heavy silence swept through the auditorium. The collective gaze of a thousand people bore down on Harper. Harper just smiled. “I merely explained the consequences of the situation to you.” “You call that voluntary?” “Mr. Cross, please continue reading.” The text on the massive screen flipped to the final page. I also formally acknowledge that George Mitchell’s reckless driving lacked any commendable life-saving merit. George read those words. His frail body swayed in the wheelchair. “Don’t read it.” I lowered the microphone. Richard bolted up from his seat. “Declan!” George pushed himself up, gripping the armrests. “I ran those lights. I admit it.” “The company fired me. I took the punishment.” “But you don’t get to stand there and say saving her life meant nothing.” Harper turned around to face him. “Mr. Mitchell, you are avoiding the core issue again.” “If you had run over a pedestrian that day, who would have taken responsibility?” “I would have.” “With what? You don’t have the money or the power to bring someone back to life.” George opened his mouth, but no words came out. Harper pulled a thick document from her pristine folder. “This is a joint petition signed by twenty-seven passengers who were on your bus that day.” “They unanimously agreed that your actions put their lives in severe danger against their will.” “Twelve of them are sitting in this room right now.” The cameras aggressively swung to the right side of the hall. A row of people stood up on cue. One woman said, “He wouldn’t listen to reason at all.” “He was driving like a maniac.” “My kid had nightmares for six months after that.” “If you want to save someone, call an ambulance! Why did you drag us to the hospital with you?” George’s hands slid off the armrests. He slumped back into the chair. I jumped off the stage and sprinted toward him. Before I made it three steps, security guards blocked my path. Richard cut off my microphone from the control booth. “Declan, finish the apology, or you will be terminated for insubordination.” George stared blankly at the passengers. “That day… that’s not what you said.” No one answered. Harper thrust the signed petition right in front of his face. “It’s right here in black and white. Are you still going to deny it?” George stared at the final page. Suddenly, he reached out. “They didn’t sign this.” Harper yanked the paper back defensively. “Please do not damage the evidence.” “The third signature. Gary Thorne.” George’s voice trembled violently. “Gary got in the ambulance with the paramedics that day. He died of a heart attack three days later.” “How could he sign this petition a month after the incident?” The auditorium went dead silent. The triumphant smile on Harper’s face vanished for a fraction of a second. Richard grabbed his microphone. “Irrelevant details do not change the fact that Declan violated company policy.” Suddenly, the massive LED screen went pitch black. A second later, a gritty, static-laced audio recording echoed through the speakers, flooding the entire auditorium. It was a young girl crying hysterically. “Driver, please don’t pull over for the ambulance!” “I have a brain tumor. I’m going to die!” “Please, just run the lights! I beg you!” “If anything happens, I’ll take all the responsibility! Please!” It was Harper’s voice. Every single camera whipped back to her. Harper shot up from her chair, her eyes wide with genuine panic. “Turn that off!” On the recording, George’s voice echoed back. “You’re awake?” The girl sobbed uncontrollably. “I’ve been awake the whole time!”

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1 After gaining eighty pounds from severe hormone treatments, I became consumed by a suffocating insecurity. Yet my husband, Harry, a star cardiac surgeon, claimed he never cared. Every time he finished a major operation, he brought home a bottle of niche designer perfume for me. An entire wall glistening with fragile glass bottles became the single ray of light in my dull, dark existence. Until the day I dropped off lunch for him at the hospital and overheard him whispering to the new intern in the stairwell. His tone was impossibly gentle. “Being with you brings me a sense of peace and pleasure that nothing else can match.” “My mood was so good today that I bought a bottle of perfume downstairs just to toss it to her. Consider it a cover-up scent for the fat girl.” “Otherwise, going home to a bloated woman who reeks of bitter herbal medicine makes me dread even stepping through the front door.” It turned out that the entire wall of exquisite fragrances was nothing more than a disguise for his shame. That afternoon, I dropped the lunch box, dried my tears, and quietly purchased a single one-way ticket to a city thousands of miles away. … The heavy fire door to the stairwell stood slightly ajar. I crouched in the cold shadow behind it, clamping both hands firmly over my mouth. Because of years spent on high-dose hormone therapy, the backs of my hands were swollen, lined with deep purple stretch marks. On the other side of the door stood the man I had loved for eight years, Harry, chief surgical resident at City First Hospital, alongside the new intern, Serena. They stood dangerously close. Harry’s familiar, soothing voice carried through the gap. “How can I help it when you are so captivating?” Serena let out a coquettish giggle. “Stop it. If you keep acting like this, how are you going to face Virginia when you go home? She still cooks and delivers lunch for you every single day.” My knuckles turned stark white as I gripped the thermal soup container. “Why bring her up and ruin the mood?” Harry let out a soft sigh. “I just buy a bottle of perfume to keep her happy before I head home. That way, she stays devoted enough to take care of my paralyzed mother for free. It saves me hundreds a day in professional nursing costs. It is an incredible deal.” A sudden wave of nausea hit my stomach, forcing me to double over. I waited until the sound of their retreating footsteps faded down the hallway before I dared to breathe normally again. Tears splashed against the purple marks on my swollen skin. I could not speak a single word. Once, I was a skilled surgeon holding a scalpel alongside him. Severe endocrine failure brought on by aggressive fertility treatments caused my weight to skyrocket by eighty pounds. Back then, Harry had taken my hands softly, promising, “Virginia, this counts as an occupational injury. I will take care of you forever. You just stay home, rest, and look after my mother.” Every time he completed a complex procedure, he brought me an expensive bottle of perfume. He used to say, “Virginia, just because you are sick does not mean you should stop being elegant. These scents suit you best.” Deeply moved, I cherished those bottles like sacred treasures, arranging them meticulously across an entire display wall. They became the sole beacon of hope in my quiet, lonely life as a full-time homemaker. In reality, every single bottle was merely a marker of his infidelity, a pathetic veil over his betrayal. Numbly, I knelt down, picking up the shattered pieces of the thermal container from the floor, using my sleeve to wipe away the spilled chicken soup. Then, dragging my heavy, aching body, I shuffled down the stairs step by step. At eight that evening, Harry unlocked the front door. A faint scent of hospital disinfectant clung to him, mixed with a barely noticeable trace of sweet, fruity perfume. Smiling, he walked up to me and, as he always did, pulled an elegant gift box from behind his back. “Virginia, you worked hard today. This is the new limited-edition tuberose. Want to try it?” His eyes beamed with apparent affection. He reached out, gently pinching the soft flesh of my arm. “You seem to have gained a little weight recently. That is fine, extra weight brings good fortune, and it feels nice to touch.” Looking at his handsome face, a surge of revulsion twisted my gut. I avoided his gaze, looking past him toward the perfume display wall in the living room, feeling my throat constrict tightly. “I need to turn my mother-in-law over first,” I murmured, keeping my head low as I bypassed the perfume box and walked straight into his mother’s bedroom. After changing the soiled sheets for my paralyzed, incontinent mother-in-law and washing her clean, I returned to my small study. No screaming. No confrontation. I opened my laptop and clicked on an email that had been sitting untouched in my inbox for a month. It was an acceptance letter from a top international medical research institute for a specialized critical care rehabilitation program. Taking a deep breath, I clicked the button to confirm my enrollment. Late at night, Harry was fast asleep. I sat in front of the computer screen, entering a complex password to open an encrypted file folder. Inside lay the extensive pathology data and manuscript drafts for a major cardiovascular research paper that I had been secretly organizing and writing for Harry over the past six months. My body might have been broken, and my hands might no longer hold a scalpel, but my mind was completely intact. Whenever Harry encountered an academic bottleneck, he would wrap his arms around me, softly begging me, his former top-ranking classmate, to lend him a hand. Believing we were a team, I endured endless sleepless nights, polishing this groundbreaking manuscript until it was flawless, enough to secure him an associate professorship. The next morning, when I emerged from the kitchen carrying breakfast, Harry was sitting at the dining table in high spirits, flicking through the latest issue of the National Medical Journal. “Virginia, the new issue arrived. Take a look.” He smiled, sliding the magazine across the table toward me and thoughtfully pulling out a chair. Wiping the moisture from my hands, I opened the table of contents with quiet anticipation. However, the moment my eyes landed on the primary author credit, the blood in my veins ran ice cold. The name printed there was not Harry, nor was it mine. It read three agonizing words: Serena Lin. Harry walked up behind me, gently wrapping his arms around my waist, his voice dripping with smooth affection. “You saw it?” My voice sounded dry and hollow. “Why is she listed as the primary author? This paper belonged to…” “Virginia,” he interrupted smoothly. “Serena is a very hardworking intern. She is preparing for her board certification and desperately needs a high-impact publication under her name. I am already an attending surgeon. Giving her this credit is just my way of mentoring a junior colleague.” He dropped a light kiss onto my cheek. “Besides, you have been out of the field for so long. What use do you have for a meaningless title anyway? Why draw such sharp lines between husband and wife?” He used my blood, sweat, and tears to pave a golden path for his mistress, dressing it up as professional generosity. I lowered my eyes, gazing at the printed name, feeling as though a dull blade were slowly carving through my chest. Then, he pulled a small box from his pocket and opened it. Inside lay a thick, heavy, incredibly tacky solid gold bangle. Grabbing my hand, he forcibly crammed the bangle over my hand. The cold metal dug brutally into the soft flesh of my swollen wrist, leaving a deep red mark. “I saw this at the jeweler and knew it was perfect. The heavy gold weight matches your prosperous figure.” He studied it with a warm smile. “Do not let a silly academic title make you jealous. You are the real Mrs. Harry. Everything I earn belongs to you anyway.” What was this supposed to be? A gold chain to keep a loyal dog tethered? Staring at the ridiculous gold band on my wrist, I calmly used my other hand to slide it off, placing it directly over the open magazine. “It is too heavy. It gets in the way of housework,” I said softly. The smile on Harry’s face stiffened. His brows knit together slightly. “You simply do not know how to enjoy the finer things. Whatever. Drink the herbal medicine I bought yesterday, fix your body, and let us focus on having a baby soon.” He picked up the bowl of dark, foul-smelling liquid and pushed it toward my lips. The scent was pungent and stomach-churning. I had swallowed this bitter brew for three agonizing years, destroying my metabolism and stripping away every shred of my dignity. I lifted my head, looking straight into his deceptive eyes. Then, right in front of him, I took the bowl and poured every drop of the black liquid straight down the kitchen sink. The dark whirlpool swallowed the herbal dregs, swirling out of sight down the drain. Harry froze, completely stunned. Before he could unleash his anger, my phone vibrated in my apron pocket. It was an email from the overseas institute: “Dr. Virginia, congratulations on passing the secondary review. Please confirm your start date as soon as possible.” Turning around, I set the empty bowl on the counter, my voice devoid of any emotion. “I am done drinking it. It is too bitter.” I walked back into my study, locked the door, and booked a one-way flight to the other side of the ocean, set for two weeks later. Those two weeks passed in a blur of numbness. The hospital’s annual gala was held at a five-star hotel downtown. As Harry’s wife, my attendance was mandatory. I searched through my closet, failing to find a single formal dress that could fit my swollen frame. In the end, I settled for a loose, plain black dress, attempting to use the dark fabric to hide the heavy layers of weight. As I stepped toward the banquet hall entrance, the head nurse greeting guests failed to recognize me. She offered a warm, polite smile. “Dr. Harry, did you bring your mother’s caretaker along for dinner? The staff table is right over there by the side.” A quiet hush fell over the surrounding crowd. Several passing doctors struggled to hide their snickers. Without missing a beat, Harry casually rested his hand near my shoulder. “Sister Zhang, you are mistaken. This is my wife, Virginia.” “Oh, goodness! My apologies! Mrs. Harry keeps such a low profile, my eyesight must be failing me,” the nurse offered a nervous, embarrassed chuckle. Harry smiled gently, saying it was no trouble at all. Yet, the hand resting on my shoulder pulled back almost instantly. This move, framed as a polite rescue while subtly solidifying my image as an unpresentable housewife, was far more humiliating than an outright insult. Shortly after we sat at the head table, the heavy entrance doors swung open again. Serena glided into the hall wearing a shimmering mermaid gown that hugged her curves, stepping gracefully in sky-high heels. Every gaze in the room was instantly captured by her slender silhouette. She sauntered over to our table, her voice dripping with sweetness. “Dr. Harry.” Harry stood up naturally, pulling out the chair right beside mine for her, displaying a clear favor meant only for her. I sat squeezed in the middle, looking like a drab, grey wall. When the dinner began, servers brought out the signature steamed crab. Just as I picked up my fork, I watched Harry expertly pick out the sweetest crab meat and roe, arranging it neatly on a small plate before sliding it past me, placing it directly in front of Serena. “Serena spent the last few days pulling back-to-back shifts in the operating room. Her stomach has been sensitive. Eat some high-protein food to recover,” he said with a bright, charming smile. Serena blushed, pretending to decline. “How could I? Dr. Harry, you should eat it yourself.” “You are far too thin. Be good and eat,” he urged, his affectionate tone stinging my eyes like acid. Right at that moment, the hospital director stepped onto the stage, speaking into the microphone. “Tonight, we have a special recognition for Dr. Serena Lin from the cardiology department! Her published paper as primary author has generated incredible praise across the medical community! Let us congratulate this rising star!” A spotlight immediately illuminated our table. Serena covered her mouth in dramatic excitement, standing up to bow to the room before turning to offer a deep, graceful bow directly toward Harry. “Thank you for your guidance, Dr. Harry. This paper would never exist without you.” Cheering applause erupted across the room. The two of them exchanged glances under the bright lights, looking like the ultimate power couple of the medical world. Meanwhile, I, the actual author of that research, remained buried in the shadows, nothing more than a pathetic, invisible background piece. When Harry sat back down, he pulled his admiring gaze away from her. Perhaps realizing the atmosphere was too obvious, he finally remembered my presence beside him. Using the serving chopsticks, he rummaged through a platter of braised pork, picked out a massive, glistening piece of pure fat, and dropped it into my bowl. “Virginia, you love this. Eat more,” he said smoothly. The surrounding female doctors exchanged glances filled with pity and undisguised disgust. That heavy piece of fat was the ultimate mockery of my body, a pathetic crumb of affection tossed to me after his grand celebration. Staring down at the greasy lump sitting in my bowl, acid surged violently up my throat. I set my fork down. “It is a bit stuffy in here. I am going to the restroom.” Ignoring Harry’s surprised look, I pushed my chair back and walked briskly out of the banquet hall. Inside a locked restroom stall, I pulled out my phone and messaged my attorney. “Attorney Ross, you can send over the asset notarization and the draft of the divorce agreement now.” Three days after the banquet, while I was cleaning my mother-in-law, her face suddenly turned blue. She gasped frantically for air, her hands clutching the bedsheets in a violent panic. Acute heart failure! I dialed an ambulance like a woman possessed. Without even changing out of my soiled apron, I boarded the emergency vehicle and rushed straight to the hospital. Registration, payments, pushing her heavy wheelchair through various diagnostic labs. The workload meant for two family members fell entirely on my shoulders alone. When I reached the final blood draw station, days of intense exhaustion combined with low blood sugar triggered by my hormonal imbalance caused my vision to fade to black. My heart hammered violently against my ribs, and my limbs went completely numb. I reached out to grab a nearby support pillar, but my body gave out, crashing heavily onto the hard tile floor as violent spasms gripped my muscles. Through a ringing in my ears, I forced my eyes open, looking past the crowded hallway toward the nursing station in the distance. Harry was standing there in his spotless white lab coat. He was not looking in my direction. Instead, he was holding Serena’s hand with gentle, agonizing care. Serena had lightly scraped her finger on a metal chart holder. Harry’s brows were tightly knit as he carefully applied a small bandage to her paper-thin scratch. “Someone collapsed! Help! Call a doctor!” a patient’s relative nearby shouted in alarm. Hearing the commotion, Harry turned around from the nursing station, his expression shifting to utter shock. He saw me lying helpless on the floor. In that fraction of a second, the tenderness on his face vanished, replaced by sheer embarrassment and a disgust he could barely hide. He walked over quickly, yet he did not perform any basic medical checks on my vital signs. The very first thing he did was rapidly strip off his black suit jacket, tossing it heavily over my sweat-drenched, swollen face. The scent of cheap perfume clinging to his jacket mixed with his sweat, completely cutting off my remaining air. In that exact moment, my heart stopped fighting. My final tolerance snapped completely. After being revived by the emergency nurses, I did not attempt to contact Harry. I quietly pushed his mother, now out of danger, back home. The next morning, under the excuse of attending a high-profile medical conference out of state, Harry boarded a flight with Serena, full of energy and pride. Meanwhile, in the quiet house, I performed one final, thorough cleaning. I signed the divorce papers sent by Attorney Ross, placing them neatly underneath the most expensive, limited-edition perfume bottle on the display wall. Then, I wrote down every single detail regarding my mother-in-law’s medication schedule, turning frequency, and dietary restrictions on sticky notes, plastering them neatly across the wall above her headboard. With everything complete, I gripped the handle of my pre-packed suitcase and closed the front door behind me without a single backward glance. At the airport terminal, the final boarding call for my international flight echoed over the speakers. Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently in my palm. It was Harry. At a moment when he was riding high on a romantic getaway with his mistress, he actually found the time to call me. I pressed answer. Harry’s voice sounded impossibly sweet over the receiver. “Virginia, I am coming back the day after tomorrow. These meetings have been exhausting. Could you simmer that wild ginseng soup I love so we can have it ready when I land?” His tone held a practiced tenderness. “I bought you a silk scarf while I was out, a large size. It will look lovely on you.” Listening to his familiar script, I let out a soft laugh. No screaming. No explosive accusations. I watched the planes taking off past the glass windows, listening to the final call at my gate, and spoke with absolute calm. “Do not bother coming back, and do not bother bringing anything.” “Harry, I am gone.” Before he could offer any response, I ended the call. I popped out the SIM card that had bound me to him for eight long years, snapped it clean in half, and tossed it into the nearest trash bin. Then, gripping my suitcase, I walked straight into the boarding jetway without looking back once.

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After a car crash, I faked amnesia to tease my notoriously stiff husband, asking him who he was. Mark froze for a second before offering a tender smile. “I’m your brother.” I reached out playfully, running my hand over his rock-hard abs. “Like… a naughty lover kind of brother?” Mark dodged my touch, his tone laced with restrained distance. “Stop messing around. I mean your biological brother.” That got me even more excited. “Wild taboo romance! Gotta love it!” Later, when I was diagnosed with a pregnancy, Mark was beside himself with joy. Yet I stubbornly insisted on getting an abortion. He nearly went out of his mind, gripping my shoulders and begging to know why. I looked at him calmly and replied: “Forbidden sibling tropes are fun to joke about online, but in real life, who actually dates their own brother?” 01 I have always been someone who cared way too much about saving face. When other kids tripped and fell, they would cry and pick themselves up. When I fell, I would lie flat on the pavement and pretend I had simply decided it was time for a nap. Naturally, getting courted and married by Mark was the proudest achievement of my life. As the youngest associate professor at the university, Mark was ridiculously attractive in a cool, distant way. Whenever he stood behind the lecture podium, the quiet clicking of student phone cameras sounded like a flock of cicadas. After we got married, Mark treated me like a precious glass doll, taking care of my every need. Everyone who saw us couldn’t help but gush about how lucky I was to score an older, refined man. When it came to romance, however, Mark was painfully vanilla. Even if I took the initiative and begged for a kiss, he would only peck my cheek or forehead before giving my head an affectionate little pat. So when he called himself my brother after my accident, I felt a surge of relief. My stiff, uptight husband is finally learning how to roleplay. To be fair, the car crash was minor. I only ended up with a few bruises and a mild concussion. But when I woke up from my stupor and saw Mark sitting by my bed, the dark circles under his eyes heavy with exhaustion, my heart melted. I wanted to play a little prank to lighten the mood. Who knew Mark wouldn’t follow the script and would go straight for a forbidden blood-relation drama? Since he wanted to act, I couldn’t let the ball drop. Where would my dignity go if I broke character first? And so, I kept up the act for a full week. Every single day, I had to exert all my willpower to keep my hands off Mark’s broad chest, which looked like it was actively threatening his shirt buttons. Finally, Mark seemed convinced that I had genuinely lost my memory. He reached out and gently ruffled my hair. “Sweetheart, there’s something I need to tell you.” “My wife, your brother’s wife, is actually staying in this same hospital.” “Since you have amnesia, you probably don’t remember her. If you’re feeling up to it, I can take you to see her.” I giggled silently in my head. I was already picturing the scene where Mark would lead me to a full-length mirror, point at my reflection, and say, Look, this is my wife. Instead, Mark walked me down the long hospital corridor and stopped in front of a private room. He pushed the door open. Lying on the crisp white hospital bed was a complete stranger. “Is that you, Sienna?” The woman looked up, her voice gentle and soft. “Mark told me you were in a car accident and lost your memory. I was so worried about you. Come here and let me look at you. Thank goodness your pretty face didn’t get scratched.” Mark gave me a soft nudge from behind. “Sweetheart, this is my wife, Giselle.” My mind went instantly blank. Who? For a split second, I actually questioned if I really had amnesia. But I knew down to the exact drawer where our red marriage certificates were stored at home. Seeing me frozen in place, Giselle looked at me with tender concern. “Sienna, I know your head is foggy right now. It’s completely normal that you don’t remember me.” She offered a timid, embarrassed smile. “Mark and I have known each other since we were kids. We were childhood sweethearts. When he came over to my house back then, my dad told me to call him big brother, but I refused. I didn’t understand it then, but when I grew up, I realized it was love. So getting married later just felt like the natural step.” What was she talking about? If she was married to my husband, then what was I? “Where’s your marriage license?” I heard my own voice come out hard and sharp. “You say you two are married. Where’s the license?” Giselle blinked, startled, then let out a soft laugh. “We have it, of course. But it’s at home. Once I get discharged…” “I don’t want to wait until you get discharged,” I cut her off. “I want to see it right now.” Giselle instinctively glanced past me toward Mark, her eyes filled with a helpless plea. “Well… maybe Mark can run home and grab it?” “No, I need to see proof right now!” My voice hit a high, jagged note. “If you two are really married, you must have photos on your phone, right? Wedding pictures, album posts, social media updates! Show me right now. If you can’t, you’re a liar!” Giselle’s already pale face drained of all color. “Stop it, Sienna.” Mark frowned, his tone heavy and stern, just like an older brother scolding a bratty younger sister. “Giselle isn’t like you. Her health is fragile. Don’t push her like this.” As if on cue to prove his point, Giselle suddenly clutched her chest and began coughing violently, gasping for air. “Giselle!” Mark rushed to the bedside, wrapping one arm around her shoulder while using his other hand to gently pat her back in a practiced, fluid motion. I stood all alone by the doorway, a band-aid stuck to my forehead, my eyes stinging as tears welled up uncontrollably. 02 I turned around and walked away. Roleplay or not, I didn’t want to play this sick game anymore. All I wanted was to go home, open our bedroom door, and look at the framed wedding photo hanging above our bed. In that photo, I was wearing a white veil, my eyes crinkling with joy, while Mark stood beside me in his tailored suit, his gentle eyes looking only at me. Then, I would grab my documents from the nightstand and figure out how to get a clean, dignified divorce. When I got back to my hospital room and grabbed my coat, I looked up to find Mark standing at the door. “Where are you going?” “Home.” “Do you even remember where home is?” I choked on my words. “Sweetheart…” Mark stepped closer, staring at me intently. “Did you remember something? Or… did you never lose your memory at all?” I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted to yell that I never lost my memory, that I was his wife, not his sister. I wanted to ask him if he realized what he was doing. If I hadn’t been pretending, was he really planning to let another woman claim to be his wife right in front of my face for the rest of my life? I wanted to ask him if we had really been married for three years, or if I had been living with a complete stranger. But the words gathered in my throat and dissolved into a bitter lump. Why should I tell him the truth? If I admitted to faking my amnesia now, I would be admitting that I lied to him first. He would turn it back on me, blaming my little trick for his grand deception. When I first started this joke, all I wanted was to see his flustered reaction. The moment he panicked, I was going to throw my arms around his neck and laugh, Fooled you! How could I ever forget a husband as handsome as you? Then I would watch him smile that helpless, indulgent smile of his, the kind where the corners of his eyes crinkled softly, making me feel utterly safe. It was supposed to be a sweet, silly moment between husband and wife. I never imagined it would open the door for another woman to step into my life. And why was Mark teaming up with her to deceive me? Fine. If he wanted to act, I would play the part until the very end. When the lie finally unraveled, I would see his real answer. “…I wish I had never forgotten,” I murmured, lowering my head to hide the wetness in my eyes. “I don’t remember you, and I definitely don’t remember having a sister-in-law like her. Neither of you can even produce a single wedding photo. How do I know you aren’t human traffickers trying to kidnap me?” Mark stared at me for a long time. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. He walked over, pulled his phone from his suit pocket, unlocked it, and opened his photo album. The first picture was of me, grinning foolishly at the camera while making bunny ears behind Mark’s head. He swiped right. It was a photo of Mark standing in front of his alma mater alongside a handsome young man with bleached blonde hair. Mark swiped past it quickly. The next photo showed only his hand holding a cozy blanket, covering me while I was fast asleep on the couch, drooling slightly. “See? This is you, and this is me,” Mark said, his voice softening as he looked at the screen. “We are family.” He looked down at me, pausing for a moment. “As for Giselle… she’s sick. Stage four lung cancer.” My head snapped up, meeting his gaze. “Giselle’s father was my benefactor,” Mark explained softly. “My grandmother and I used to live in a crumbling mud hut in the mountains. She washed clothes for extra cash just to raise me. When she was diagnosed with kidney failure, the dialysis bills were astronomical.” “It was Giselle’s father who paid for everything. After my grandmother passed away, he brought me into his home, put me through school, and taught me how to be a proper man. He told me, Mark, study hard and get out of these mountains. You don’t belong in the dirt.” “Without him, I would have starved to death in that hut. I wouldn’t be the man I am today.” Mark’s eyes filled with exhaustion and deep guilt. “But good people don’t always get good endings. He fell ill suddenly. On his deathbed, he held my hand and said the only thing he worried about was his daughter. He asked me to take care of her.” Mark had promised him. “I owe her father my life,” Mark whispered. “I can’t just abandon her. She doesn’t have much time left. I just want to stay by her side through this final stretch. It’s the only way I can repay my debt to her father.” Listening to him, everything finally clicked into place. We had dated for two years and been married for three. Mark was a popular professor, and bold female students often asked for his contact information. He always handled those situations gracefully and reported them to me right away, completely transparent. Yet, in all those years, he had never once mentioned the name Giselle. He had kept her hidden so very well. Then I thought about the car crash. After we married, Mark insisted that I didn’t need to work, promising to provide for me so I could live comfortably. But sitting around at home for too long made me feel useless, so I recently started sending out resumes. On the afternoon of my crash, I had just finished an interview. Mark was supposed to pick me up, but he called at the last minute, claiming a male graduate student of his was having a mental health crisis and he had to rush to the hospital. Mark had mentioned that student multiple times before. He said the guy couldn’t get over his ex-girlfriend, constantly sending her desperate texts and calls. Later, he fell into severe depression and stood on the roof several times. Mark was always the one called in to pull him back. I used to think Mark was just an exceptionally responsible professor, listening to his stories like dramatic campus gossip. That day was no exception. “What happened to him this time?” I had asked over the phone. “He swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills. They’re pumping his stomach right now,” Mark had sounded utterly drained. “Sweetheart, can you take a cab home by yourself? I’ll make your favorite pork rib and yam soup when I get back tonight.” So, I happily booked a taxi. And then my taxi got rear-ended. Looking back now, that troubled male student never existed. The person Mark rushed to see that afternoon was Giselle. And those dramatic stories were just gender-swapped versions of reality. Giselle was his ex. After they broke up, she couldn’t let go. Even after Mark married me, she kept clinging to him, using her failing health and mental state to keep him tethered. How long had Mark been living this double life behind my back? Perhaps even back when we were dating, he was already playing both sides. Benefactor’s daughter on one side, girlfriend turned wife on the other. Trying to care for both, weighed down by guilt for both, maintaining a fragile, suffocating balance. So when I woke up and randomly pretended to have amnesia… what did Mark feel in that exact moment? I knew the answer now. It was relief. He had finally found a loophole, a perfect solution handed to him on a silver platter. He could stay by Giselle’s side openly, fulfilling her final wishes without technically committing adultery. Because his wife didn’t even know she was his wife anymore. How brilliant of you, Professor Mark. You pushed me away with your own hands, thinking I would just stay right where you left me. I raised my head, my eyes dry and burning, but not a single tear fell. “That’s so moving,” I said, forcing a bright smile. “I believe you guys are real husband and wife now. You’re so good to your wife, big brother! When I look for a boyfriend, I definitely want someone just like you!” I even let out a small laugh, reaching out to swipe through his phone screen. I swiped back to the photo of the young man with bleached blonde hair and bedroom eyes. “By the way, brother, who’s this friend of yours? What’s his name? He looks super handsome. Why don’t you introduce us?” Mark’s breathing hitched. 03 Mark’s face went rigid, his tone turning cold and clinical. “His name is Rowan. He was the last student Giselle’s father funded. I heard he recently started a successful tech company.” Mark kept his eyes fixed on my face as he spoke. The moment I nodded, he abruptly changed his tune. “But his private life is a complete mess. He’s been wild and unmanageable since he was a kid. The first time Giselle’s father went to visit him with gifts, Rowan thought he was a kidnapper and shoved him straight into a muddy ditch, standing on the bank laughing his head off.” Mark locked his phone screen and slid it back into his pocket, his voice turning into a low, persuasive coo. “Trust me, sweetheart. A guy like him isn’t right for you.” Mark glanced out the window. It was the rainy season, and heavy gray clouds hung thick over the city skyline. “You’re not in good shape right now, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving you home alone. I talked to Hank and Lily. You can stay at their place while I’m away, okay?” Hank was an old colleague of Mark’s, and Lily was his wife. The two of them were constantly bickering, so they always envied Mark and me, talking about how in three years of marriage, they had never seen us raise our voices. Mark was always patient and gentle, and I cared too much about keeping up appearances to throw a tantrum. We simply never had a reason to fight. I got into Mark’s car. We barely made it past the second intersection before his phone rang, automatically routing through the car’s Bluetooth speakers. “Hubby?” Giselle’s sweet, affectionate voice echoed clearly through the car. Mark pressed his lips into a tight line, but he still let out a quiet, “Yeah?” My nails dug deep into the flesh of my palms. Giselle called out to him a second time. “Hubby, did you catch up to Sienna? Why did she leave so suddenly?” “Did I say something that upset her? It’s all my fault. Hubby, you should really spend more time with Sienna.” “I might have to do the lung biopsy later today. I looked it up, they insert a long needle through the chest wall under CT guidance. It’s local anesthesia, so I’ll be awake the whole time.” “But it’s fine. I can handle it alone.” Her voice was soft, fragile, and selfless. “Hubby, you don’t need to rush back to be with me. I’m okay. Anyway, I won’t disturb you two anymore.” The call disconnected. The car happened to reach a busy crossroads. Turning left led to Hank’s house, at least an hour’s drive away. Turning right meant circling back to the hospital. I turned my head to look at Mark. His face was completely devoid of emotion. I opened my mouth, intending to tell him to just turn back to the hospital since medical care was more important and I wasn’t that petty. Before I could speak, Mark flipped his right turn signal on and merged into the right lane. The first heavy raindrop slammed against the windshield. Within seconds, downpour sheets of rain battered the glass. I slowly closed my mouth and stared out the passenger window. Mark finally spoke. “Sweetheart, I’ll drop you off somewhere nearby first. I bought a place near the hospital. I’ll come pick you up as soon as I’m done staying with Giselle.” I turned back to him. “What kind of place?” Mark hesitated for a moment, his eyes fixed on the rain-drenched road ahead, looking thoroughly exhausted. “Giselle used to… spend a lot of time in the hospital. To make it easier to take care of her, I bought a small apartment nearby.” I didn’t even know how to describe the feeling rising in my chest. My husband had bought a private sanctuary near the hospital for another woman, spending countless nights caring for her there. And I only found out because I was pretending to have amnesia. The rain outside grew heavier, pounding against the window like a frantic heartbeat. My mind, curiously, went entirely quiet. When we pulled up to the apartment complex, he unlocked the door and led me inside. The place was dripping with signs of daily life. In the shoe rack at the entryway, there were only two pairs of slippers, a matching couple’s set in pale pink and sky blue. There were no spare guest slippers. Mark bent down, pulled out the pink pair, and handed them to me. “Wear these for now. I’ll buy a new pair on my way back.” Before leaving, Mark ruffled my hair again, offering careful instructions. “It’s slick out there, so don’t wander around. I’ll be right back after I check on Giselle. Be a good girl, okay?” The second Mark walked out the door, I began tearing the apartment apart. After digging up four hundred-dollar bills from a drawer, I grabbed an umbrella from the hallway and headed straight out into the storm. Mark had taken my phone after the accident, and he had likely left it back at our real home. I needed to get my phone back, along with my official documents. The storm had turned ferocious. The moment I popped the umbrella open, the wind nearly blew it inside out, soaking my shoes and socks instantly. I caught a cab back to our house and used the keypad to unlock the front door. Sure enough, my phone was sitting on the console table in the foyer, its battery drained down to a single percent. I plugged it into a charger right away and hurried into the bedroom to retrieve my documents. My gaze brushed past the large wedding portrait hanging above the bed, a wave of sour irony washing over me. Just as I pulled my suitcase out from the closet, my phone chimed. I picked it up. It was the HR manager from the company I had interviewed with the previous week. “Hi, Sienna! Our team lead really loved your presentation from the first round. We tried reaching out earlier and were worried when we couldn’t get through. We have a final interview scheduled for two-thirty this afternoon. Are you available? If it goes well, you can start onboarding today!” I gripped the phone, stunned, feeling the suffocating pressure in my chest finally ease up just a fraction. “Yes! Yes, absolutely! I can be there right away!” I agreed eagerly. I checked the time. It was already 1:15 PM. I opened a rideshare app, booked a car, grabbed my purse, and dashed back out into the rain. The driver was a middle-aged guy who started cursing about traffic the moment I got in. I stayed silent, staring blankly out the window. Up ahead, I noticed a huge puddle on the side of the road, right next to a pedestrian walking with an umbrella. I narrowed my eyes. Just as the person started looking strangely familiar, the driver suddenly slammed on the gas. “Excuse me, there’s a huge puddle over there, watch out for—” Before I could finish my warning, the car sped right past, splashing a wall of muddy water straight over the pedestrian. I instinctively turned around to look through the rear window. The man was standing there soaked, slowly lowering his umbrella. His bleached blonde hair shone shockingly bright against the gray, dreary sky. He raised a hand, looking like he was trying to hail a cab. I turned back around. At the next intersection, there was another puddle with several pedestrians waiting for a ride. The driver pulled the exact same trick, swerving toward the curb and stomping on the accelerator. Except this time, as soon as the car got close, one of the pedestrians pulled a concrete brick from behind his back. A loud, violent THUD echoed from the back of the car. The driver slammed on the brakes, pulled over, and jumped out cursing up a storm to confront the pedestrian. Anxiety surged through me. I checked my phone inside the car. It was 2:13 PM, and my battery was down to 5%. I quickly sent a text to the HR manager: [I am so sorry, I ran into an emergency on the way. I might be a little late.] The HR manager took a moment to reply: [We have other candidates lined up today. The latest we can stretch it for you is 3:00 PM. Please hurry.] I texted back a quick thank-you. Without even bother opening my umbrella, I opened the door and stepped out, desperate to hail another cab. The moment I raised my hand, the bald driver grabbed my arm with a vice-like grip. “Hey! Where do you think you’re going? You’re my passenger! You have to testify for me! I didn’t see that puddle! Make him pay for the damage!” He pulled with so much force on the slick, rain-soaked pavement that my feet slipped right out from under me. I crashed heavily onto the ground, landing hard in a deep puddle of muddy water. Both arguing men went dead silent. At that exact moment, thunder rumbled overhead, and the rain poured down harder. I sat there, completely dazed. My thighs and palms throbbed with a sharp, burning pain from hitting the asphalt. Wet strands of hair stuck to my face as muddy water dripped down my chin. In that moment, I wanted Mark to be by my side so badly. I wanted to break down and sob. But he wasn’t there. He was at the hospital, holding Giselle’s hand like a loving husband. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t cry right now. If I cried, I would lose the last shred of dignity I had left. Just then, the sound of screeching tires cut through the rain. A bright yellow taxi pulled up to the curb, and Rowan pushed the back door open and stepped out. He was covered in mud spots too, his designer shirt soaked through, looking like a drowned cat. Yet, he had a grin on his face as he walked straight up to the bald driver. Rowan delivered a brutal, solid punch right to the driver’s gut. The driver let out a pathetic groan, doubling over as his knees gave out, his face falling straight into the muddy puddle. Rowan shook out his fist, his grin widening. “Revenge is a dish best served instantly.” He turned around and caught sight of me sitting on the ground. “What’s going on here? Bullying a woman? Guess one punch wasn’t enough.” He bent down slightly and extended a hand toward me. “Can you stand up?” I didn’t look at him. I pushed myself up off the wet ground, grabbed my soaked purse, and sprinted straight for the taxi he had just stepped out of. Rowan yelled from behind me, “Hey! That’s my cab!” I pulled the door open, slid inside, and handed two hundred-dollar bills to the driver. “I’m paying for his ride too! Double! Please take me to this address as fast as you can!” The driver slammed his foot on the gas. At 2:27 PM, I finally stumbled into the office building for my interview. The HR manager took one look at my drenched, muddy appearance and froze, an awkward expression washing over her face. “Um… Sienna, I am so sorry…” “We actually just selected a candidate a few minutes ago. It was the director’s call, our hands are tied…” I took a deep, shaky breath and closed my eyes. It was fine. If this job didn’t work out, I would find another one. I was never a woman with only one path forward. I had simply spent too long inside the cozy shelter Mark built for me. I was just out of practice when it came to facing the cold, hard world alone. Sitting in the freezing, air-conditioned waiting room, my legs felt completely numb. I opened my purse to check my things. My documents were soaked into a clump of paper pulp, and my phone screen was shattered, completely unresponsive no matter how many times I pressed the power button. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. By the time I made it back to the apartment near the hospital, night had fallen, and the rain was still coming down. When I unlocked the door, a wave of cozy, warm yellow light greeted me. The rich aroma of home-cooked food filled the air. A white ceramic pot sat on the counter, filled with steaming pork rib and yam soup. Mark walked out of the kitchen, wearing an apron printed with little teddy bears, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. It looked almost ridiculously cute on him. The moment his eyes landed on me standing by the entrance, his pupils contracted sharply. “Sweetheart?!” Mark rushed over, wrapping a soft throw blanket from the couch around my shoulders, his hand immediately checking the temperature of my forehead. “Where did you go? Did you try to find your way home by yourself? Why are you covered in mud? You’re freezing… Wait here, I’ll go run a hot bath for you right now.” He turned to leave, but I reached out and snagged the strap of his apron. My heart, which had been frozen solid all afternoon, completely melted under a wave of overwhelming grief and betrayal. “Mark…” My vision blurred, and tears began falling uncontrollably. I buried my face directly into his chest and sobbed out loud. Mark froze for a split second before pulling me tightly into his arms, his voice laced with suffocating pain and self-reproach. “It’s okay, it’s okay now. I’m right here. Your brother is right here.” You’re not my brother. You’re my husband. You’re the man who stood beside me at the altar and swore to love and cherish me in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, until death do us part. Why do I have to share you with someone else? In that moment, regardless of what he had done, I was ready to forgive him. I lifted my head, looking up at him through a haze of tears. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to say that I had never lost my memory, and that I had missed him so much today. “Mark, I actually—” “Oh, Sienna? What happened to you? Why are you covered in mud?” A voice cut through the air. I turned toward the hallway and saw Giselle stepping out of the master bedroom. She was wearing a pair of plush bear pajamas, her long hair draped casually over her shoulders. She stood in the warm light, looking relaxed, settled, and completely at home. She looked far more like the mistress of this house than I did. “Giselle,” Mark frowned instinctively, loosening his arms around me just a fraction. “Dinner isn’t ready yet. You should rest a bit longer.” Giselle playfully stuck her tongue out. “You always tell me to sleep. If I sleep any longer, I’ll turn into a mummy.” She turned to me with an apologetic smile. “I was supposed to get that lung biopsy done this afternoon, but I was just too terrified… So Mark comforted me and said we could push it to tomorrow. He told me to come stay here tonight so I could relax.” She offered a soft smile. “So Mark came back to cook for me. Sienna, why don’t you join us? There’s plenty of soup.” I stood there, frozen solid, feeling the cold seep right back into my bones. Noticing me shivering, Mark looked down at me, his eyes filled with worry and unease. “Sweetheart, what were you trying to say just now? What did you mean by ‘actually’?” “…Nothing.” I stepped backward, pulling myself entirely out of his warm embrace. “I already ate outside. I’ll go take a shower. You two go ahead.”

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1 I earned a six figure salary working as an undercover handler for an elite heiress. My sole job was using love to tame her rebellious younger sister. For three years, my performance record remained flawless. Until tonight, when she shoved me aside at the canyon raceway for a boy in a crisp white shirt. My stomach dropped. Not from heartbreak, but from the agonizing thought of losing my double paycheck. Without hesitation, I turned around and submitted my resignation directly to her older sister. Three minutes later, the elder heiress personally locked down the entire raceway. The night wind sweeping through the canyon pass was freezing, making my eyes water. I took advantage of the momentum, squeezing out two tears while clutching tightly onto the sleeve of Stacey’s racing suit. “Stacey, don’t go.” I squeezed my throat, making my voice tremble with delicate perfection. “This mountain road is too dangerous, and I am genuinely terrified.” I knew this routine by heart. For three years, whenever my eyes turned red, that stubborn mule Stacey would instantly soften up. She would curse under her breath, toss her car keys away, shove me into the passenger seat, and take me home for a cup of warm milk. Except tonight was different. Stacey did not wrap her arms around me like she used to. Instead, her brow furrowed. Her gaze drifted right past my shoulder, landing on the far corner of the bleachers. I glanced over my shoulder, following her eyes, and cursed under my breath. Standing in the shadow of the bleachers was a young man. He wore a faded white cotton shirt, completely unadorned. Amidst the crowd of slicked-back hair and designer suits, he looked like a innocent sapling swaying in the wind. The worst part was his expression. It was thirty percent stubborn, thirty percent unyielding, and forty percent ready to die for a cause. We were doomed. Alarm bells blared in my head. He had activated the heiress’s true love trope. “Felix, be good.” Stacey peeled my fingers off her suit. Her grip was not painful, but it was absolute. She carelessly placed a cigarette between her lips, leaning close to me with a wicked, predatory smirk. “Relax, your girl can handle a car. I have to win tonight’s prize.” I looked toward the direction her finger pointed. The so-called prize was that boy in the white shirt. Word on the street was that his sister owed loan sharks a massive debt, and he had been dragged to the raceway as a human bargaining chip. Whoever won the race could take him home. What a cliché storyline. What a dramatic, trashy trope. Under normal circumstances, I would grab a bag of popcorn and watch the drama unfold from the curb. But right now, I could not bring myself to smile. Because this meant my personal cash cow was running away. Stacey put on her helmet and climbed into her flashy red sports car without looking back once. The engine let out a deafening roar. Surrounding rich kids erupted into wild cheers. “Stacey is insane!” “Raging through the track for a pretty boy!” “Felix, you are her official boyfriend, but you really can’t keep a leash on your woman, can you?” A few upper-class trust-fund boys who always disliked me sauntered over, spouting cold mockery. I kept my head low, my shoulders shivering uncontrollably. To them, I looked like a heartbroken mess crying his eyes out. In reality, I was desperately holding back a laugh while rapidly running numbers in my head. My name is Felix. I am a professional boy toy. Or more accurately, a wild animal trainer hired at a premium rate by Eileen Sinclair, the eldest daughter of the Sinclair empire. Stacey was the wild animal I was assigned to manage. Three years ago, Stacey was an uncontrollable terror who got into street fights, drag races, and bar brawls every single day. Her grandfather nearly had a heart attack from stress. When Eileen took over the family conglomerate, her very first move was to clean up the household. But running a multi-billion dollar enterprise left her with zero time to baby her rebellious teenage sister. So, she sought me out. “I will pay you fifty thousand a month.” Eileen had sat behind her leather executive desk, sliding a contract across the polished wood with icy composure. “Your mission is to make her fall in love with you. Then, use that romantic devotion to keep her in line. No drag racing, no brawls, no landing in the tabloids. Once she graduates university and enters the firm smoothly, you get a five million dollar final bonus in one lump sum.” I stared at the row of zeros and signed my name on the spot. Are you kidding me? Fifty thousand a month base pay! That did not even include the watches, shoes, and pocket money Stacey showered on me. Taking two salaries at once was the absolute peak of corporate employment. For three years, I worked tirelessly. I played the role of a gentle, attentive, hopelessly fragile college student, driving Stacey completely crazy for me. For my sake, she quit smoking and drinking. She even dyed her neon hair back to natural black. She picked me up from class on time every day and spent weekends sitting quietly beside me in the library. The entire social elite rumored that the wild second daughter of the Sinclairs had been tamed by a commoner boy. Eileen was extremely satisfied with my performance, even handing out year-end bonuses twice. Stacey was only six months away from graduation. That five million dollar bonus was practically waving at me from the finish line. And then tonight, for some ungodly reason, she insisted on hitting the canyon pass with her degenerate friends, stumbling straight into Vincent, the innocent white-shirt boy. The red sports car launched forward like an arrow, its taillights cutting a red streak through the darkness. I let out a soft sigh, dropping the tearful act instantly. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out my backup phone, opened an encrypted chat, and located the plain black avatar. “Boss, we have an emergency,” I typed rapidly. “Target Two has encountered an uncontrollable emotional variable. In layman’s terms, she fell for someone else. My tears no longer work. To avoid an embarrassing dismissal, I am applying for immediate termination of contract. Resignation has been sent to your email. How will this month’s salary and severance be calculated?” After sending the text, I exhaled deeply. A professional must know when to hold on and when to let go. Losing the five million bonus stung, but I had saved plenty over the last three years. It was more than enough to buy a villa in my hometown and retire comfortably. The phone vibrated. Eileen replied within seconds. Her message contained only one word. “Location.” I blinked in surprise, quickly dropping a pin of the raceway. No further response came. I leaned against the bleacher railing, staring bored into the freezing canyon air, pondering how to wrap things up. Stacey winning the race was a foregone conclusion. She was a former semi-professional track champion. When she returned triumphantly with her new boy, what posture should I adopt? Should I hysterically demand why she betrayed me? Or should I play the strong, heartbroken martyr who wishes her well before slipping away quietly? Which act would yield a higher break-up payout from her? While I was calculating the odds, a roaring engine echoed from the end of the canyon pass. The red sports car crossed the finish line first, pulling off a slick drift before stopping right in the middle of the crowd. Stacey pushed the door open and stepped out. She pulled off her helmet, running a hand through her sweat-dampened hair. That arrogant, wild demeanor was admittedly attractive to younger boys. The crowd burst into loud cheers. The organizers who set up the wager walked forward with sour expressions. “You won,” the leader gritted out. Stacey smirked coldly. She walked straight to the corner of the bleachers, grabbing Vincent by the wrist. “He is coming with me. His sister’s debt is cleared.” Vincent struggled against her grip, failing to break free. He raised his head, glaring at Stacey with reddened eyes. “I don’t need your pity! I will pay off my sister’s debt myself!” What a line. Absolutely classic. Stacey clearly ate it right up. The grin on her face deepened. “Pay it yourself? With what? From today on, you belong to me. Be good, and don’t make me angry.” I watched from the sidelines with immense satisfaction, almost wanting to play background music for them. Until Stacey dragged Vincent along, striding straight toward me. The air around us instantly dropped to dead silence. Everyone focused on me with eager eyes, waiting for a pathetic show. I quickly pinched my own thigh hard, forcing a fresh pair of tears to weld in my eyes. “Stacey…” I lowered my head slightly, my voice trembling, eyes filled with shattered emotion. “Who is he?” Stacey looked at me, a brief flash of guilt flickering across her eyes before cold indifference replaced it. “Felix, let’s break up.” Her tone was as casual as discussing the weather. “I treated you well over the past three years. I bought you everything you wanted. You should be satisfied. I realized tonight that what I felt for you wasn’t love. I just liked how obedient you were.” She tightened her grip on Vincent’s hand. “Until I met him, I didn’t know what real sparks felt like.” I barely suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. Lady, you met him for the first time tonight! What on earth do you mean by real sparks? You were captivated by his looks, plain and simple. Stop dressing it up as grand romance. Still, I had to finish my scene. I stumbled back two steps, my face pale, looking as if I might collapse at any second. “I don’t believe you…” I bit my lip tightly, letting fat tears roll down my cheeks. “You said you would marry me! You promised we would get married right after graduation!” Stacey frowned, showing her impatience. “Felix, stop making a scene. Let’s part on good terms. Tomorrow, I will have my assistant transfer two million to your account. The downtown apartment is yours as well. Don’t come looking for me again.” Two million dollars plus a downtown luxury apartment! My heart sang with pure joy. This was a massive win! The severance pay from the boss combined with the breakup payoff from the sister meant instant financial freedom! Just as I was preparing to take the exit ramp, crying hysterically while running off into the night, a massive roar descended from above. Violent wind swept across the ground, blowing sand and gravel into everyone’s eyes. Everyone looked up in sheer horror. Three black helicopters hovered directly above the raceway. Heavy spotlights cut through the darkness like blinding blades, illuminating the entire venue bright as day. Immediately after, a dozen black Maybachs roared up from both ends of the canyon road. The screeching of tires echoed together, completely blocking every exit from the raceway. Panic broke out through the crowd. “What is going on?” “Is it a police raid?” “Look at those license plates!” Stacey’s face drained of color. She instinctively pulled Vincent behind her back, staring fixedly at the central Maybach. The car doors opened. Dozens of bodyguards in black suits and earpieces filed out, quickly forming two disciplined lines. A woman in a tailored black trench coat stepped out of the vehicle. She was tall, with sharp, striking features. Her eyes radiated an overwhelming authority that instantly brought the surrounding temperature down to freezing. Eileen Sinclair. My cold, ruthless capitalist employer. She actually showed up in person? I froze in place, entirely forgetting to fake my tears. Eileen stepped forward, her high heels making heavy, deliberate sounds against the asphalt. She did not even glance at the trembling rich kids around her, walking straight in our direction. Stacey swallowed hard, her voice tight. “Sister…” “Why are you here?” She assumed Eileen came to drag her home. After all, the family rules were strict. Drag racing and taking home a random boy at midnight would result in severe punishment if their grandfather found out. Stacey set her jaw, standing tall. “Sister, I take full responsibility for this. I started it tonight. It has nothing to do with Vincent. Take it out on me, but leave him alone!” Her dramatic, protective stance almost gave her a heroic aura. Vincent hid behind her, staring at Eileen with deep suspicion and hostility, as if looking at a villain tearing lovers apart.

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