Category: English

After an accidental one-night stand, I was dragging my suitcase toward the door, ready to skip town. Just as my hand touched the brass knob, a glowing stream of bullet comments drifted across my vision. [Why is he running? If he runs, he’s a dead man!] [Jeff is such a brainless side character. The female lead is literally carrying his baby, and he’s trying to hide.] [After her car crash, she was told she could never have kids. The baby in her womb is the heir the Moreau family has been desperately praying for.] [If he runs, the male lead will swoop in and take credit. He’ll become the savior of the Moreau family, marry in, and use the kid to secure his fortune forever.] My foot froze mid-step. Half a minute later, I kicked my suitcase back into the walk-in closet, ran out of the building, and headed straight for the penthouse of the Moreau Group headquarters. Michelle Moreau was in the middle of a board meeting. I threw the conference room doors wide open, marched inside, and stared right into her eyes. “Michelle, you’re pregnant.” “And it’s mine.” … You could have heard a pin drop in that massive boardroom. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned to me in perfect unison. Michelle sat at the head of the long mahogany table, her crisp white shirt buttoned all the way to the top. Her features were cold, aristocratic, like a marble statue carved from arctic ice. But everyone in the New York elite knew that behind that porcelain face lay a woman who was ruthless, cutthroat, and completely unyielding. Three years ago, a horrific car crash had nearly claimed her life. She survived, but the Moreau family’s private physicians delivered a devastating diagnosis: Michelle was virtually sterile. For a family whose dynasty was riding entirely on her shoulders—Michelle being the sole heir—this was a catastrophe. Her grandmother, Lady Enid, had desperately summoned every specialist in the hemisphere and even tried setting Michelle up on blind dates, only for Michelle to throw them out with a glacial glare. So, when I dropped my bombshell, the executives’ faces went through a spectrum of shock far more entertaining than my reaction to the floating chat comments. Michelle picked up the document she was reading, studied it for two seconds, and then looked up. “Mr. Beckett, please leave.” I choked on my breath. “You don’t believe me?” She raised her eyes, entirely devoid of warmth. “What is it you want?” The question stung worse than a slap. I, Jeff Beckett, was the spoiled youngest son of the Beckett family. I’d spent my life doing exactly what I wanted, earning a reputation as a reckless playboy. I had spent ten years desperately chasing Fiona MacAllister. And last night, in a stupid, drug-addled attempt to make Fiona jealous after being slipped a spiked drink at a party, I had stumbled into Michelle’s arms instead. When I woke up this morning, my first instinct had been to run. If my parents found out I had compromised the terrifying Michelle Moreau, they would tear me to pieces. But the floating comments said that if I ran, I’d die. And Alan would steal my child. Alan was the supposed “hero” of this story—hardworking, gentle, the perfect, soft-spoken contrast to Michelle’s cold exterior. In the original timeline, he was destined to become the love of her life, while I was just the disposable side character whose only purpose was to pave their way. The chat stream flashed again. [Jeff, play the victim! Cry a little—Michelle is weak for soft boys!] [Don’t back down. You’re the only man who could ever give her a child.] [Alan is already buttering up the grandmother. If you’re a second too late, your wife and kid are gone!] I dug my nails into my palms, forcing my eyes to brim with tears. “Michelle… you don’t believe it was me that night?” Someone in the room let out a sharp gasp. Michelle’s eyelids flickered, a subtle crack in her icy composure. I walked around the massive table, stopped right beside her chair, and gently pressed my hand flat against her lower stomach. “You don’t have to believe me yet… but you have to keep me close.” Michelle froze, her fingers stiffening over her documents. I stared down at her, my heart hammering so hard it physically hurt. She looked up at me, her gaze lingering on my face for what felt like an eternity. “Meeting adjourned,” she said quietly. The board members scrambled out of the room, their heads low. The heavy doors clicked shut. She pulled her hand back and picked up the office phone to dial her personal line. “Have the chief of obstetrics come up to my office immediately.” I finally let out a breath. But before I could relax, the door swung open again. A man in a crisp white linen shirt stood in the doorway, holding a high-end insulated lunchbox. “Michelle? Did I catch you at a bad time?” The chat stream erupted instantly. [Alan is here!] Alan had that clean-cut, boy-next-door look. Dark hair, soft eyes, a gentle smile. Standing next to someone as cold as Michelle, he looked like a ray of pure sunshine. When his eyes fell on me standing so close to Michelle, his eyelashes fluttered with a brief flash of distress. “Michelle, are you feeling unwell?” I glared at him, letting my irritation show. “What’s it to you?” Alan’s face paled slightly. “I’m only worried about Michelle.” Michelle’s voice was flat. “Who gave you permission to come up here?” “Your grandmother asked me to bring you some broth,” Alan said softly, his tone incredibly patient. “The doctor mentioned your stomach has been acting up lately.” Michelle’s expression grew even colder. “Leave it on the table. And get out.” “Michelle, your grandmother also mentioned she wants you to come over to the estate tonight.” The stream went into overdrive. [Here it comes! Lady Enid wants to play matchmaker for Alan and Michelle.] [Alan saved the grandmother’s life once. She absolutely adores him.] [Jeff, throw a tantrum! If you annoy Michelle, she’ll kick you out!] I immediately leaned closer to Michelle, practically brushing shoulders with her. “You can’t go tonight.” Michelle looked down at me, her brow arching. “Are you trying to control me?” I tilted my chin up, meeting her gaze defiantly. “You’re carrying my baby. Of course I am.” The remaining color drained from Alan’s face. Michelle stared at me, her eyes calm and analytical, as if she were reviewing a contract filled with loopholes. “Jeff, you had better be very clear about the consequences of lying to me.” I was terrified of her. But I was more terrified of dying. I squared my shoulders, doing my best to look completely vindicated. “Then test me. Right now.” Ten minutes later, the chief of obstetrics arrived at Michelle’s private office suite, accompanied by a nurse and a portable ultrasound machine. Blood tests, urine samples, an ultrasound. Michelle lay on the medical daybed, her dark skirt draped over her lap. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, keeping my back rigidly straight to hide the fact that my palms were slick with sweat. Alan hadn’t left; he was lingering in the hallway, peering in through the partially open door. When the initial quick-screen tests were complete, the doctor held the charts, his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Ms. Moreau… you are indeed pregnant.” Michelle froze, staring blankly ahead. “According to the gestational age,” the doctor continued, “the timeline aligns perfectly.” I turned around immediately, a smug grin plastered on my face. “See? What did I tell you?” But Michelle was still staring at the doctor. “Can we confirm the paternity?” The doctor swallowed hard under her intense gaze. “An invasive prenatal paternity test is not recommended at this early stage. However, we can schedule a non-invasive prenatal paternity test in a few weeks.” My smile faltered. “Michelle, you still don’t believe me?” She remained silent. Alan stepped into the room, his voice dripping with gentle reason. “Please don’t be upset, Jeff. Michelle’s situation is unique. It’s only natural for her to be cautious.” I grabbed a decorative throw pillow from the sofa and hurled it directly at his face. “Who the hell asked you?” The pillow hit Alan, forcing him back a step. His eyes instantly pooled with hurt tears. Michelle frowned. A wave of bitter frustration washed over me, and I marched toward the door. “Fine. I’m leaving.” But as I turned to storm out, a wave of dizziness hit me, and the world spun into darkness. I stumbled, my knees giving way. Before I could hit the floor, Michelle was there, catching me in her arms. “Doctor!” her voice cracked with sudden panic. I grabbed her wrist, my own eyes burning with tears. “Let go of me.” Michelle went entirely rigid. An instant later, the sharp, rhythmic click of a cane echoed down the hall. Grandmother Enid had arrived. She marched into the suite, her sharp eyes locking instantly onto Michelle’s stomach. “Whose child is carrying the Moreau name?” Lady Enid was in her late seventies, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her posture immaculate. But as soon as her eyes shifted to me, she stared at me as if I were a solid gold statue. I tried to pull away from Michelle’s grip, but her hold only tightened. “Don’t move,” she whispered near my ear. The old matriarch hurried over to the bed. “How far along?” “About six weeks,” the doctor answered quickly. The string of pearls in Enid’s hand trembled. “She’s truly pregnant?” The doctor nodded. Tears welled up in the old lady’s eyes. Alan quickly stepped forward to support her, murmuring softly, “Enid, please don’t get too worked up. We still need to verify the paternity.” The joy on the grandmother’s face flickered. She looked at Michelle. Michelle guided me gently to a plush armchair, pulling a soft cashmere throw over my legs. “We are not doing any risky procedures during the first trimester.” Her grandmother frowned. “Michelle, this concerns the future of our family bloodline.” Michelle’s voice was cold and heavy. “And this baby concerns my life.” Silence blanketed the room. The chat comments drifted lazily across my vision. [Michelle believes him? Alan is panicking now.] [In the original story, Lady Enid was grooming Alan to be her grandson-in-law. Now Jeff has completely hijacked the plot.] [Jeff, don’t get cocky. The greedy extended Moreau family is already on their way to fight for the inheritance.] Lady Enid sat down on the edge of the seat next to me, taking my hand in her warm, papery ones. “Jeff, dear. What would you like to eat? Where would you like to stay? You looked so pale just now.” I opened my mouth to say it didn’t matter. But Alan beat me to it. “The family estate is quiet and perfect for rest. I could stay there and keep Jeff company.” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You? Keep me company?” Alan nodded smoothly. “I only worry you might feel out of place on your own.” I turned my eyes to Michelle. “I’m not going to the estate.” Lady Enid’s expression soured. “And why is that, Jeff?” I forced my eyes to water again, my voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. “I’m scared.” “Scared of what, darling?” I pointed a trembling finger at Alan. “Of him.” Alan froze. Even the grandmother looked taken aback. I looked down at Michelle’s belly with tear-filled eyes. “The second he walked in, he was obsessed with testing the baby, and now he wants me hidden away at the estate. What if something happens to the baby while I’m away from Michelle?” “Jeff, you’re completely misinterpreting my intentions,” Alan pleaded, panic leaking into his voice. I wrapped my arms around Michelle’s waist, burying my face against her. “Look at him. He’s glaring at me again.” Alan: “…” Michelle looked down at me, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of amusement dancing in her eyes before she quickly masked it. Lady Enid turned to Alan, her expression noticeably cooler. “Alan. Go home for now.” Alan’s lips parted, pale and dry. “Enid, I—” “I said, go home.” Alan picked up his untouched insulated box and left. The moment the door clicked shut, the grandmother’s stern facade dissolved. She clasped my hand warmly. “Jeff, sweetheart, you can stay wherever makes you feel safest.” I looked up at Michelle. “I want to stay at her place.” Michelle’s brow furrowed slightly. But her grandmother didn’t hesitate. “Done. You’ll stay with her.” “I didn’t agree to that,” Michelle said, her voice dropping an octave. Lady Enid slammed her cane against the hardwood floor. “Hush up.” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. The chat stream drifted by: [Step one of using the baby to secure the bag: Complete.] [Too bad the Beckett family hasn’t made their move yet.] Right on cue, my phone began to vibrate. My mother’s name flashed on the screen. I stared at it, frozen. Michelle glanced down at the screen. “Scared of your parents?” “Who’s scared?” I lied. The call timed out, but two seconds later, it started ringing again. This time it was my father. If I didn’t answer, the Becketts would storm the Moreau building themselves. Taking a deep breath, I swiped to accept the call. My mother’s voice was shrill enough to shatter glass. “Jeff! Where on earth are you?” I stole a glance at Michelle. “Just… shopping.” “Shopping on the penthouse floor of the Moreau Group?” A cold chill ran down my spine. Had Fiona ratted me out? Sure enough, my mother’s next words confirmed my fears. “Fiona told me you went to see Michelle Moreau.” I held the phone a few inches away from my ear. “Is she pregnant?” she shrieked. Lady Enid’s ears must have been fine-tuned for drama; she instantly leaned closer to the receiver. I closed my eyes. “Yeah.” The line went completely dead for three agonizing seconds. Then, my mother burst into tears. “Have you lost your mind? What is going on between you and Michelle?” Before I could answer, Michelle reached out and took the phone from my hand. “Mrs. Beckett, I am on the line as well.” My mother choked back her sobs, silenced by the sheer authority in Michelle’s voice. A moment later, my father’s deep voice boomed through the speaker. “Michelle, send Jeff home. Immediately.” Michelle looked down at me. I shook my head frantically. She spoke back into the phone, “That is not possible right now.” My father let out a harsh laugh. “You have no right to hold my son hostage.” Michelle’s expression remained utterly blank. “If he wishes to leave, I won’t stop him.” I grabbed her sleeve, tight. “I’m not leaving.” The sound of glass shattering echoed from the other end. My mother’s voice trembled with absolute fury. “Jeff Beckett, you wait right there.” The line went dead. I buried my face in my hands. I was screwed. Lady Enid patted my shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, dear. The Moreaus will protect you.” I looked at her dryly. “You were just trying to banish me to the estate a minute ago.” The old matriarch coughed, suddenly finding the wallpaper very interesting. Michelle cleared her throat. “Let’s head to my place first.” I knew she was incredibly wealthy, but when the town car pulled into the ultra-exclusive gated community where every square foot cost more than my entire trust fund, I couldn’t help but let out a quiet “Wow.” My mood instantly brightened. “Michelle, I have to admit, your place is perfect for recovery.” She set her designer bag on the console table. “You can take the master bedroom.” I plopped onto the plush sofa, hugging a velvet accent pillow. “Where are you sleeping?” “The guest room.” I frowned. “That’s too far. What if you get hungry in the middle of the night?” Michelle stopped and looked at me, her dark eyes unreadable. “Where exactly do you want me to sleep?” I pointed a finger toward the massive king-sized bed in the master suite. “The bed is huge.” Her gaze darkened, a subtle, dangerous warmth flickering in her eyes. “Jeff. Don’t push me.” I shut my mouth instantly. Later that night, my stomach woke me up. I crept downstairs barefoot to raid the kitchen. The fridge was packed with high-end, organic ingredients, none of which I knew how to cook. I finally found a container of fresh strawberries. I was just taking a bite of one when Michelle’s quiet voice sounded from behind me. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” I jumped, dropping the strawberry onto the cold hardwood floor. She walked over, kneeling down without a word, and used a clean kitchen towel to wipe my feet. Her movements were incredibly gentle. Looking down at her dark lashes and softened features, my heart skipped a sudden, erratic beat. Suddenly, the chat comments flared up in bright red text. [Friendly warning: Fiona is downstairs.] [She brought the Beckett family with her.] The doorbell rang. Michelle slid a pair of warm slippers onto my feet and stood up. “Go back to the bedroom.” “No way,” I muttered. “I want to watch the drama.” She sighed, taking her soft cashmere coat from the chair and draping it over my shoulders. She opened the front door. My parents stood on the porch, flanked by Fiona. Fiona was wearing a classic camel coat, her soft features looking tired and worn. When she saw me, her eyes softened. “Jeff.” Once, just hearing her say my name would make my entire week. Now, my only instinct was to shrink behind Michelle. When my mother saw Michelle’s coat wrapped around me, her eyes flooded with tears. “Jeff, get over here.” I shook my head. My father’s face was set in granite. “Michelle, the Becketts and the MacAllisters are already in the middle of arranging a marriage. By keeping him here, are you trying to start a war with both of our families?” Michelle stood firm, her tone completely level. “Jeff hasn’t agreed to any marriage.” Fiona looked at me, her eyes searching mine. “Jeff, you told me you wanted to marry me.” My throat tightened. It was true. I had written her countless love letters, bought her expensive gifts, and made an absolute fool of myself fighting with Alan over her attention. But the floating comments had already warned me of the original plot: I would chase her until I lost my family, my fortune, and my life, and she would only show up at my funeral to drop a single white rose on my casket. Looking at Fiona now, a wave of cold reality washed over me, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. “My eyesight wasn’t great back then.” Fiona’s face froze. My mother stepped forward, frantic. “Jeff, stop talking nonsense.” I stepped out from behind Michelle and wrapped my arms around her waist. “She’s pregnant with my baby.” My father’s hand flew up, swinging a heavy slap aimed directly at me. But Michelle moved instantly, throwing herself in front of me and taking the full force of the blow. The sharp crack echoed through the foyer. Even my father stared at his hand, stunned by what he had done. Michelle’s head was turned to the side, a small bead of blood forming where her lip had split. A sharp pain pierced my chest. “Dad!” Michelle grabbed my wrist, her grip steady. “Don’t.” My eyes burned. “Are you out of your mind? Why did you do that?” The chat stream flashed across my vision: [Oh no, Jeff is softening up.] [Fiona’s face is literally green with jealousy.] [Alan tipped off the Moreau family’s greedy relatives. Round two of the drama has arrived.] The private elevator at the end of the hall chimed open. Several men in sharp, tailored suits stepped out. The middle-aged man leading them cast a cold, calculating look at Michelle’s abdomen. “Michelle, dear. A miracle like this, and you didn’t think to inform your Uncle Alistair?” Michelle’s eyes went utterly black. “You have no right to speak to me.” Uncle Alistair’s expression darkened. “The Moreau bloodline cannot be compromised by some low-rent scandal. This boy needs to be locked down at the estate.” My parents’ faces grew even more hostile at the suggestion. Fiona stepped forward, her voice tight. “We don’t even have proof that this child belongs to a Beckett.” Alistair sneered. “Then we run a DNA test.” Every single person in the room stared at Michelle’s stomach as if it were a prize trophy—or a piece of meat. Suddenly, Michelle threw the front door wide open. “If you want to negotiate, we do it in the living room.” She squeezed my hand, her voice dropping to a low murmur that only I could hear. “Don’t be afraid.” But the moment we sat down, a maid brought over a tray with a glass of warm milk. In my vision, the glass was suddenly highlighted in a flashing, warning red by the chat comments. [Don’t drink it.] [There’s something in it.]

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In the celestial waiting room, standing in the queue for reincarnation, I saw a baby crib encrusted with real diamonds, destined for the country’s wealthiest family. Without a second thought, I elbowed my way to the front and jumped right into their golden lineage. But wealth, I soon learned, comes with a brutal price tag. By the time I was almost a year old, my parents were dangling solid gold bars in front of my face, testing me. “Sweetheart,” they’d coo, “when you finally speak, are you going to say ‘Dada’ or ‘Mama’ first?” In my first life, I said “Mama” first. My father’s face darkened instantly. “I spent millions on your trust fund and the best doctors in Manhattan,” he snarled, “you should have said Dada!” In his petty fury, he kicked my hand-carved Italian crib. It tipped over, and the fall ended my first shot at luxury before it even began. In my second life, I learned my lesson. I looked right at him and squeaked “Dada.” He cheered, but my mother’s eyes turned to ice. She called me a cold, ungrateful little leech. Within weeks, she checked into a fertility clinic to prepare for a “do-over baby.” Discarded and forgotten in the nursery, I caught a severe fever that no one bothered to treat, and died in shivering neglect. In my third life, I tried to play the long game. The real power in the Bradford dynasty lay with Grandmother Emily, the formidable matriarch who controlled the family fortune. I’ll say ‘Nana’ first, I thought. Surely that’s safe. But when I did, Emily stared at me through her designer spectacles and shook her head. “A child who doesn’t bond with her own parents is cold-hearted. She’s calculated. Send her away to boarding school in Switzerland; she’ll never be one of us.” The sheer terror of being exiled squeezed my tiny lungs. I panicked, stopped breathing, and literally suffocated on my own fear. Now, this is my fourth attempt. Here we are again. The entire family is gathered around my crib, holding their breath, waiting for me to speak. I keep my lips pressed tight, terrified to let out even a squeak. Who on earth do I call out to first… just to survive in this billionaire circus? 1 Seeing me remain stubbornly silent, my mother, Victoria, gently pinched my cheek. “I went through thirty-six hours of grueling labor, darling, and I haven’t slept a full night since you were born. You’re going to say ‘Mama’ first, aren’t you?” Her smile was soft, radiating the kind of manicured maternal warmth that belongs on a magazine cover. But looking into her eyes, terror rippled through my tiny chest. I remembered my first life all too clearly. Back then, I’d looked at her tired eyes, felt that primal infant pull toward the woman who carried me, and chirped “Mama” without a second thought. Who could have guessed that a single word would trigger my father’s insatiable, competitive ego? To him, my choice was a public humiliation, a sign that he had lost. The memory of his face, veins bulging as he kicked my crib, made me instinctively pull my head back into my shoulders. No. I had fought too hard to get back into this tax bracket. I couldn’t afford to offend my billionaire father. But my father, Thomas, was also waiting, leaning over the railing with an expectant grin. Seeing the sheer hesitation on my face, he chuckled. “Look at that clever little expression. She’s actually weighing her options. She’s thinking, Dada bought me a custom yacht and a brownstone in the West Village before I could even crawl. I’d better play my cards right. She’s definitely going to say ‘Dada’ first.” I forced a toothless, awkward grin, screaming internally. Oh, if only he knew. In my second life, I had figured he was my ultimate meal ticket. If I wanted to inherit the Bradford billions, I had to stroke his ego. So I ignored my mother and happily cooed “Dada.” He was ecstatic. He literally called his broker to buy me a yacht on the spot. But my mother’s heart shattered. That very night, she dragged him into their dressing room, declaring they needed to “try again” for a baby who would actually love her. I thought she was just being dramatic. But from that day on, I became a ghost in my own home. She poured all her energy into IVF treatments, completely freezing me out. She didn’t even notice when my temperature spiked to a lethal hundred and four. Those two brutal demises taught me a cold, hard truth: choosing either parent was a death sentence. Seeing my expression wobble between a smile and a grimace, Grandmother Emily let out a dry, patrician laugh. “Who says Charlotte will choose either of you? What if her very first word is ‘Nana’?” She lifted me from the crib, cradling me with an air of absolute authority. “Listen to me, little one. You say ‘Nana’ first, and I’ll rewrite the family trust tomorrow. You will be the sole heir to the Bradford empire.” The temptation was astronomical. And a cold sweat broke out across my back. 2 In my third life, I had fallen for that exact trap. I had assumed her fondness was genuine, that securing the matriarch’s favor was the ultimate shield. But when I squeaked out “Nana,” my parents didn’t even have time to react before Emily’s face hardened. “A child should love her parents above all else,” she had declared coldly to the room. “To ignore them and fawning over an old woman… it’s unnatural. She is far too calculating, too opportunistic. That kind of greed can’t be nurtured. We should quietly send her away before she becomes a liability.” In the Bradford family, when Grandmother Emily suggested “sending someone away,” it was as good as done. The sheer injustice of it, mixed with the terror of losing everything, had literally suffocated me right there. Recalling those three miserable, absurd deaths, I made a firm decision: I was going to play dumb. I would play the mute. Keep my mouth shut, offend absolutely no one, and buy myself some time. Once this immediate crisis passed, I could figure out a long-term strategy. So, I let out a loud, bubbly baby giggle and reached my hands high into the air. My parents leaned in close, their eyes wide. “What is she doing?” I timed it perfectly. The moment my tiny hands reached their peak, I grabbed. Left hand wrapped around my father’s thumb; right hand clamped onto my mother’s index finger. Both of them instantly lit up, their rivalries melting into sheer delight. “Oh, look at our clever girl! She’s barely a year old and she already knows how to keep the peace!” But I wasn’t done. To make sure my bases were fully covered, I tilted my head back and sweetly nudged my forehead against Grandmother Emily’s chin. The three of them erupted into laughter, passing me around like a prized trophy. For the moment, the dreaded question of “Dada” or “Mama” was successfully shelved. I had survived the fatal trap of my past lives. I thought I could finally catch my breath. But that very night, the peace shattered. My bedroom door creaked open, and my father slipped quietly to the side of my crib. “Hey there, Charlotte,” he whispered, holding up his phone with an eager, recording grin. “Just give Dada one little word. Just a quick ‘Dada’ so I can show the guys at the club, okay?” He leaned over, shining the screen light in my eyes. “All my partners’ kids said ‘Mama’ first. If you say ‘Dada’ first, I’ll have bragging rights for the next ten years. Besides, I already told the board you’re a daddy’s girl. Don’t make me look like a fool, sweetheart.” I stared at him, my eyelids twitching. So that was why he had lost his mind in my first life. It wasn’t about love; it was about his fragile, billionaire ego at the country club. I let out a silent, weary sigh. The man had a net worth of fifty billion dollars, and he was losing sleep over a toddler’s vocabulary. But then I shook myself. If solving this petty insecurity was the key to spending the rest of my life lounging on a private island, I had to pull myself together. I stared up at him, my brain working at warp speed. Think, think, think. How do I make him happy without making Mom want to replace me? “I set up a fifty-million-dollar trust for you the day you were born, Charlotte. I bought you a penthouse, a fleet of strollers, and I’m transferring shares to your name for your first birthday. I do all of this, and you won’t even say ‘Dada’ for me?” Seeing the dangerous shade of disappointment creeping onto his face, my survival instincts kicked in. I scrambled around my crib, grabbed the heavy gold Cartier bracelet my mother had left on my dresser, and shoved it into his hand. Before he could process that, I piled my favorite stuffed bear, my teething rings, and my custom rattle into his arms, babbling frantically in baby talk. My father stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, staring at the pile in his hands. Finally, a slow, ecstatic realization washed over him. “Are you… are you giving me your favorite things, Charlotte?” My cheeks flushed red as I nodded vigorously. He looked like he had just won the lottery. “You’re barely a year old, and you’re already showing gratitude? You’re giving your own father gifts?” He scooped me up, kissing my cheeks repeatedly, before frantically snapping selfies. “Look at this! My daughter is giving me presents! Take that, you guys!” He spent the next hour bragging in his group chats, ordering ten more designer toys for me on his phone before finally slipping out of the room. I collapsed back onto my mattress, exhaling a sigh of relief. But the door clicked open again. My mother walked in, her face clouded with quiet resentment. “Charlotte… how could you do that to me?” 3 My breath hitched in my throat. That look of deep, stinging disappointment on her face was identical to the one from my second life. “Your father might have the money, but I gave you life,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she sat on the edge of the crib. “I went through body-altering physical changes for you. I tore, I bled, I lost sleep to nurse you, and you give him gifts while I get nothing?” She pulled me into her arms, pouring out her grievances. But I wasn’t really listening to the words anymore; I was analyzing the situation. Her tone wasn’t as icy as it had been in my second life. She wasn’t planning to replace me yet; she was just deeply hurt, reacting like a child who had been left out of a game. There was still room to fix this. I wiggled out of her embrace and crawled as fast as my chubby limbs could carry me toward the nightstand. I knew that in the bottom drawer, my parents kept the deed to my custom-built nursery mansion in the Hamptons and the spare keys to the family’s armored Rolls-Royce. I tugged at the drawer with all my might, grunting with exertion. Seeing me struggle, my mother wiped a stray tear and opened it for me. “Charlotte, what are you looking for? Mommy can help—” Before she could finish, I grabbed the heavy leather-bound deed and dropped it right onto her lap. While she stared at it in shock, I reached back in, grabbed the heavy silver Rolls-Royce keys, and plonked them into her palm. Just like with my father, I didn’t say a single word. I simply looked up at her with the most innocent, adoring baby-eyed smile I could muster, babbling happily. My mother looked from the keys to the deed, her eyes suddenly welling with tears. “Oh my god… Charlotte, are you giving me your mansion and the Rolls? You’re giving away your most expensive assets without a second thought… You really are Mommy’s little angel, aren’t you?” She practically floated out of the room, shouting down the hallway: “Thomas! You bragged too early! Charlotte loves me way more! She gave you plastic toys, but she just gave me a mansion and a Rolls-Royce!” I collapsed back onto my pillow. So that was it. My father’s loud-mouthed bragging had triggered her insecurity. Now, both of them were thrilled, reverting to a childish debate over who was truly the favorite. “She gave me her favorite bear first, Victoria! That means I’m number one!” “She gave me real estate, Thomas! Real estate!” Even so, the fundamental problem remained: they were still waiting for that first spoken word. I had no solution, so I kept playing the mute, dragging it out day by day. But a few days later, my stalling tactics caught up with me. My parents marched me into a private clinic, sitting me down in front of a team of world-renowned pediatric neuroscientists. “Is there something wrong with our daughter?” my mother asked anxiously. “We did prenatal classical music, high-end sensory training, and early development classes. She’s clearly highly intelligent, so why hasn’t she spoken a single word to us?” After a battery of tests, the lead specialist turned to them. “Physically, she is in perfect health. Her neural pathways are fully developed, and her cognitive recognition is off the charts. The delay isn’t physical. It might be psychological.” I froze. Should I just speak now to prove I wasn’t broken? But the memory of my three sudden deaths flashed before my eyes, and I kept my jaw locked shut. After visiting three more specialists, my parents came to a terrifying conclusion: their daughter might have a developmental disorder. Grandmother Emily’s reaction was swift and merciless. “A Bradford heir cannot have a cognitive defect,” she declared coldly over Sunday brunch. My parents paced the floor of the drawing room in a panic. “Exactly. Most kids are babbling ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada’ by ten months. What is wrong with our Charlotte?” “Next week is her first birthday gala,” my father groaned, rubbing his temples. “We invited the elite of New York. We were planning to show her off, to prove we’ve bred the perfect successor. If she’s… quiet, what do we tell them?” “Is she really defective? Do we just keep waiting?” Their anxiety was palpable, and my heart hammered against my ribs. I had completely forgotten about the first-birthday gala. My father had invited every billionaire, politician, and socialite in the city. He wanted to use me as his ultimate trophy. Grandmother Emily set down her porcelain teacup with a sharp clink, delivering her final ultimatum. “The gala is her final test. If Charlotte does not speak by then, we will assume she is unfit for the succession. A family of our stature requires a healthy, capable heir. If she is compromised, we will quietly make arrangements to place her in a specialized facility upstate, and you two can start focusing on a second child.” 4 The cold familiarity of her words sent a violent shiver down my spine. A lump formed in my throat, and I had to fight back the urge to cry. The gala was going to be a massive, high-pressure event, and my father’s pride was entirely on the line. If I remained mute, his embarrassment would turn to resentment. But if I spoke and called out to a stranger or a nanny to avoid choosing between them, Grandmother Emily would label me “unattached” and exile me anyway. I was cornered. Seeing my tiny face crumple with distress, my parents exchanged a softened look. Even in their shallow vanity, they still cared for me in their own way. They tried to throw me a lifeline. “Maybe the excitement of the gala will spark something,” my mother murmured, pulling me into her arms. “With everyone there, if we coax her gently, she might just open up.” “Yes, exactly,” my father agreed quickly, looking at Emily. “Mother, let’s not rush to conclusions. Let’s see how she handles the crowd at the gala.” Seeing them defend me, a tiny warmth bloomed in my chest. At least this time, they were standing by me. Their vanity and competitive natures were frustrating, but I could work with that. It was a language I understood. Once we were back in the nursery, I listened to the muffled sound of their worried voices through the heavy mahogany door, and I began to plan. If I absolutely couldn’t say “Mama” or “Dada”… But I could perform some other, mind-blowing cognitive feat… would that satisfy them? If I could do something so extraordinary that it made them swell with pride, proving beyond a doubt that I was a genius, they wouldn’t dare discard me. A high-risk, high-reward idea slowly took shape in my toddler brain. Starting that very night, the moment the house grew quiet and the nanny drifted off to sleep, I slipped out of my crib. I crawled over to my interactive learning tablet, tapping away at the early-literacy programs. My parents saw the activity on the baby monitor, but they assumed I was just a restless toddler playing with a screen, thinking nothing of it. After a grueling week of midnight training, the day of the first-birthday gala arrived. The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was packed with the city’s elite, all carrying boxes wrapped in silk and velvet. I was dressed from head to toe in custom Chanel, cradled in my parents’ arms as we made the rounds, collecting trust-fund checks and diamond rattles. Naturally, the only question on anyone’s lips was: “Has she spoken yet? Is she a daddy’s girl or a mommy’s girl?” Every time, my parents laughed nervously, brushing the questions off with vague excuses. Finally, before the main course was served, my parents carried me up to the stage microphone. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a butter knife. “Alright, everyone,” my father said into the mic, trying to sound jovial despite his stiff posture. “We know there’s been a lot of speculation about our little Charlotte’s first word.” One of my father’s business rivals yelled from the front table, “She looks just like you, Thomas! Ten grand says she says ‘Dada’!” My mother’s high-society friends chimed in instantly. “Double that! She’s a mommy’s girl through and through. It’s going to be ‘Mama’!” “I’ll bet my new Porsche it’s ‘Dada’! The girl knows who signs the checks!” The room erupted into laughter and playful bidding. Sensing the rising stakes, my father leaned down, his whisper desperate in my ear. “Charlotte, please. Just say ‘Dada.’ Don’t let me down in front of these people.” My mother squeezed my hand, her eyes pleading. “Charlotte, I carried you for nine months. Don’t be ungrateful. Say ‘Mama’ first…” Their suffocating expectations pressed in on me from both sides. And at the VIP table, Grandmother Emily sat like an ice queen, her sharp eyes dissecting my every micro-expression. The memories of my three past lives flashed before my eyes in vivid, terrifying detail. I had fought so hard to secure this life of luxury. I refused to let it end in a cold, sterile institution or a forgotten boarding school. I didn’t know if my gamble would pay off. But as the silence stretched and a thousand eyes locked onto me, I had no choice but to leap. Taking a deep, trembling breath, I opened my mouth…

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The building’s WhatsApp group chat was usually a boring feed of package-delivery complaints and noise warnings. But that night, a message popped up that made me stop scrolling. It was from Derrick, the guy who lived directly across the hall from me on the eighth floor. He tagged the entire building. “Looking for someone to keep my wife company. Duties include chatting and cooking dinner every night. I’ll pay $3,000 a month cash, plus a brand-new bottle of Hermès Terre d’Hermès cologne.” The chat went dead silent. No emojis, no thumbs-up. Just absolute, stunned silence. Then came the second notification. This time, he tagged me directly. “@Lewis, I think you’d be perfect for this. You’re single, and I see you heading to the gym all the time. I’ve already left the cologne outside your door. Just come on over tonight.” I walked over to my front door and opened it. Sure enough, sitting on my welcome mat was a perfectly wrapped orange Hermès gift box. A dry, disbelief-fueled laugh escaped my throat. I picked up the box, walked it straight to the trash chute down the hall, and tossed it in. Then I opened the app and replied to the group thread: “You’re out of your mind.” I thought it was just a bizarre, isolated stunt. A joke in poor taste. I was wrong. It was the first quiet creak of a door opening into a nightmare. … The next morning at seven, I grabbed my briefcase and opened my door, ready to head to the office. “Lewis. You took the cologne. Why didn’t you show up to keep my wife company last night?” Derrick was already standing there, blocking the hallway. He was wearing a silk pajama set, his hands planted firmly on his hips, glaring at me like a disappointed boss. I frowned, taking a step back. “Are you seriously out of your mind?” Derrick’s eyes went wide. “Why are you being so hostile? I went out of my way to buy you an expensive designer cologne, and you take it but don’t do the job? Where’s your integrity?” I pointed toward the trash chute at the end of the hall. “The box is in the garbage. Go dig it out yourself if you want it back. And get out of my way.” I tried to squeeze past him toward the elevator, but he took a sharp step forward, grabbing the strap of my messenger bag. “Hold on! Is it the money? You think three grand isn’t enough?” Derrick held on tight, his fingers sinking into the canvas strap. “Let me tell you, three thousand dollars is a lot of cash! How much do you even make at your little design firm anyway? Just cook some dinner for my wife, talk to her for a few hours. It’s not going to kill you!” My face went cold. I knocked his hand off my bag. “Derrick, I’m going to say this exactly once. I have zero interest in your wife, and I don’t want your money. If you touch me or harass me again, I’m calling the police.” “Go ahead! Call them!” Instead of backing down, he pressed closer, his breath smelling faintly of stale coffee. “My wife is pregnant! What are the cops going to do to me? You touch me, even a finger, and I’ll sue you for everything you have!” Our voices had been echoing down the concrete hallway, and the racket finally drew attention. The door to the apartment below us clicked open, and Jerry, an elderly neighbor who lived on the seventh floor, poked his head out, clutching a reusable grocery bag. “Oh, Lewis, what’s going on up there? Quite a loud morning, isn’t it?” Derrick immediately pointed a finger at me and shouted down the stairs. “Jerry! You be the judge here! This guy took my gift, agreed to keep my wife company, and now he’s backing out of the deal!” My hands began to tremble with pure rage. How could someone distort reality so seamlessly? I pulled out my phone and swiped open the building’s group chat, showing the screen to Jerry as he walked up the stairs. “Jerry, look at this. He posted this crazy proposal in the group chat last night. I didn’t even let him in. I threw his box straight into the trash chute.” Jerry squinted at my screen, then shifted his gaze to Derrick. His expression warped into deep embarrassment. “Derrick… come on, man. This is… it’s a bit much. Who looks for a ‘companion’ for their own wife like this?” “How is it a bit much?” Derrick’s voice grew even more shrill. “My wife is pregnant! She’s hormonal, she’s stressed, and she can’t stand the sight of me right now. Why shouldn’t I find someone to keep her happy? That’s what a good husband does!” He sneered at me, looking me up and down. “Look at him. A single guy, always showing off his muscles at the gym. He’s practically begging for female attention. I’m giving him an opportunity, and he’s acting like he’s too pure for it!” I took a slow, deep breath, dialing the building’s property management office. “Yes, this is Lewis Matthew in Unit 802. There’s a resident harassing me outside my door. Send security up right now. If they aren’t here in three minutes, I’m calling 911.” Hearing the word security made Derrick’s expression flicker. “Call them! You think I’m scared? My wife’s family has real money, Lewis. They could crush you like a bug!” Five minutes later, two security guards rushed out of the elevator, panting. I pointed at Derrick. “Get him away from my door. I have to go to work. If he blocks my path again, I will file a formal complaint against management for failing to maintain a safe environment.” The guards looked uncomfortable, offering placating smiles. “Uh… Mr. Collins, let’s calm down. Why don’t we head back inside your apartment?” Derrick shoved one of the guard’s hands away, pointing his finger right at my nose. “You think this is over, Lewis? It’s not. You reject me, you humiliate me, I will make sure you can’t show your face in this building again!” I kept my expression entirely blank, walked past him, and stepped into the elevator. I truly believed that if I just ignored him, he’d get tired of the drama and stop. But I had severely underestimated how low he was willing to go. I got back from the office around eight that night after pulling a long shift. The moment I stepped out of the elevator, a sharp, chemical stench hit my nose. It smelled like fresh paint, heavy and toxic. I walked down the corridor to my door and stopped dead. My door was covered in thick, dripping crimson paint. Scrawled across the center in jagged, mocking letters were the words: DIE, BOY TOY. And hanging from the doorknob by a bright red string was a dead, blood-smeared rat. I stood there, the air leaving my lungs. My stomach violently churned. Before I could even process the horror, my phone vibrated in my palm. I swiped to answer. Derrick’s voice, smug and dripping with satisfaction, filled my ear. “Hey, Lewis. Do you like my little housewarming gift?” My voice was a frozen whisper. “Did you do this? Are you admitting you vandalized my door?” On the other end, he let out a sharp, arrogant laugh. “What door? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just happened to walk past your place and saw a mess. Thought I’d call and check in on my neighbor.” He paused, his tone shifting into something darker. “But honestly, plenty of people in this building are sick of looking at your smug face. Maybe some good Samaritan decided to do something about it.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “Derrick, do you honestly think because there isn’t a working camera in this hallway, you’re going to get away with this?” “Go ahead and try to prove it! Management hasn’t fixed those hallway cameras in months,” he sneered. “Listen to me, Lewis. You wash up, clean yourself up, and go knock on my wife’s door tonight. We can let bygones be bygones.” “And if I don’t?” “Then tomorrow, it won’t just be paint on your door.” I hung up on him, instantly blocking his number, and dialed 911. Ten minutes later, two police officers arrived at the scene. I laid out everything—the screenshots from the building’s WhatsApp group, the context of our morning confrontation, and the audio recording of the phone call I had just received. The two young officers stared at the dripping red door, their brows furrowing deeply. “I’ve got to admit, this is a first,” one of them said, before walking over and knocking on Derrick’s door. The door swung open. Derrick stood there in his silk pajamas again, holding a bowl of freshly washed green grapes. Seeing the police, his face instantly morphed into a picture of innocent concern. “Officers? Oh my goodness, what happened?” The officer pointed at my door. “Did you do this?” Derrick gasped, covering his mouth. “Oh, that’s horrible! Who would do such a thing? Lewis, have you been getting involved with the wrong crowd? Is someone after you?” I stared at him. “That’s not what you said on the phone five minutes ago.” The officer pulled out my phone and played the call recording right in front of him. When the audio finished, Derrick squeezed his eyes shut, looking like a victim of a grave injustice. “Officers, listen to that. Did I confess to anything? Not at all.” He wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I was just frustrated because this guy is always trying to hit on my wife. I was throwing some shade. Is it a crime to talk trash to a guy who’s eyeing your pregnant wife? I’m a respected tenant here. I wouldn’t touch paint.” The officers exchanged a look of frustration. Without direct eyewitnesses or functional hallway cameras, and with Derrick’s clever wording in the recording, their hands were legally tied. “Mr. Collins, your behavior and statements are bordering on criminal harassment,” the officer warned, his voice stern. “Watch your step. If we receive another call regarding your conduct, you will be brought down to the station.” Derrick nodded quickly, his head bobbing like a toy. “Of course, officer. Absolutely. I understand.” Once the police left, the hallway fell silent again. Derrick’s fake remorse evaporated instantly. He leaned against his doorframe, a nasty, victorious smirk spreading across his face. “See that, Lewis? Even the cops can’t touch me.” He stepped closer, dropping his voice to a low, venomous whisper. “My wife is carrying the sole heir to the entire inheritance of her family. You want this to stop? You do what you’re told. Go keep her happy.” I looked at him, and to my own surprise, a quiet laugh slipped out. “Is that so? We’ll see about that.” I didn’t waste another word on him. I called a locksmith to change my locks, and hired an emergency cleaning crew to power-wash the crimson paint off my door. The next morning, the moment I stepped into the lobby of my design firm, the young receptionist, Toby, rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Lewis, man, you need to check the company-wide Slack channel right now.” My stomach dropped. I pulled out my phone. An anonymous user had posted a long, detailed thread in the main channel. The headline read: The Secret Life of a Star Designer: The Self-Righteous Lewis Matthew is a Home-Wrecker Preying on Pregnant Women. The post included my headshot from our company website, alongside a cropped screenshot of the message Derrick had sent in the building’s chat. The text underneath was pure venom: “This man will do anything for money—even target a pregnant woman. He accepted expensive designer gifts from her husband, but when he realized the cash wasn’t enough, he backed out of the deal and tried to frame the husband by calling the police. This is the kind of predator we work with.” The office was already a hornets’ nest. When I walked past the open cubicles, the whispering started. People turned away, pointing, murmuring behind their hands. I gripped my phone and walked straight into the creative director’s office. My boss, Richard, was a no-nonsense man in his late forties. He looked up as I entered, then closed his laptop. I handed him my phone, showing him the full, uncropped chat logs and the police report from the night before. His expression grew incredibly grim. “Lewis, I’ve known you for five years. I know your character,” Richard said, his voice measured but serious. “But this post has already circulated. We’ve got clients calling, asking what’s going on with their lead designer.” “I know,” I said, taking a steadying breath. “I’ll handle this. Completely and legally. If I can’t resolve it within the week, I’ll resign.” Richard gave a slow nod. “Go handle it. I’ll have IT scrub the post and block the IP.” Leaving his office, I immediately called an attorney friend of mine. Defamation. Stalking. Sexual harassment. I packed a bag and checked into a boutique hotel near the office, refusing to go back to my apartment. For a few weeks, Derrick went quiet. No more messages, no more online posts. The silence was a relief. I started to think they had finally realized they had crossed a line. I thought they were scared. But I was incredibly naive. A month later, on a chilly Friday afternoon, I stepped out of the office building. Before I could even reach my car, a figure stepped out from the shadow of the parking garage, blocking my path. It was a woman in a designer maternity dress, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. She was visibly pregnant. She looked at me, a tight, apologetic smile plastered across her face. “Mr. Matthew. Hello. I’m Aurora, Derrick’s wife.” I stopped, my guard immediately going up. “What do you want?” Aurora sighed, reaching into her Chanel bag to pull out a beautifully wrapped package, holding it out to me with both hands. “I came here to apologize to you in person,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “My husband… since we found out about the pregnancy, his mental state has been incredibly fragile. He does erratic things. I’ve been staying at my parents’ estate upstate to rest, and I had no idea he was causing you so much trouble. I am truly, deeply sorry.” I didn’t move to take the box. “Save your apology. I’ve already hired a lawyer. We’ll settle this in court.” At the word lawyer, a sharp flash of calculation crossed Aurora’s eyes. She slowly retracted the gift box, took a step closer, and lowered her voice. “Lewis, a lawsuit is so tedious, don’t you think? It takes forever, and honestly, a public court battle won’t do much for a handsome, single young man’s reputation.” She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up her nose, her eyes scanning my chest and shoulders with a slow, predatory appraisal. “Besides… Derrick’s idea might have been poorly phrased, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad opportunity for you.” I froze, wondering if I was actually losing my mind. “What did you just say?” Aurora smiled, a cold, empty expression. “Come on, Lewis. You’re a talented guy, but working this hard to pay rent must be exhausting. Derrick… well, his physique isn’t exactly thrilling, and he certainly can’t satisfy me.” She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from my jawline. “If you agree, we can forget about the three thousand. I’ll pay you thirty thousand dollars a month. All you have to do is come over and spend a few nights a week with me.” She gave a soft laugh. “Derrick is a bit simple-minded. He actually believes this is his duty as a husband to keep me happy. You see? My entire household is welcoming you with open arms. Why be difficult?” A cold shiver raced up my spine. This couple was a nightmare of epic proportions. One was a self-righteous pimp; the other was a casual solicitor. The sheer disgust boiled over. I violently slapped her hand away. Slap! My hand caught the side of her face. Aurora’s head snapped to the side. She stumbled back, clutching her cheek, her polite facade crumbling instantly. Her eyes turned black with venom. “Lewis Matthew, don’t play hard to get. I offered you a golden ticket.” She spat on the pavement next to my shoe. “Believe me, I have a hundred different ways to make you crawl to my bed on your knees.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a threat. I met her gaze, a cold smile touching my lips. “Then I suggest you try them. Let’s see who breaks first.” I turned on my heel and walked away. The moment I got back to my hotel room, I called my lawyer to document the encounter. But the storm hit sooner than I expected. At two in the morning, I was dead asleep when a deafening racket shattered the quiet of my hotel room. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Lewis! Open the door, you pathetic piece of trash!” It was Derrick. I sat straight up in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. How did they find out which hotel I was staying at? “Open the door! You try to steal my wife? You lay your hands on her? Get out here!” The pounding on the door grew more violent, shaking the frame. Derrick’s slurred, hysterical insults echoed through the hallway. I grabbed my phone, immediately dialed 911, and then patched through to the front desk. “This is room 802. There is a man trying to kick my door down. Send security up right now!” Outside, the shouting escalated. I heard Aurora’s voice join in. “Lewis, open up! You think you’re so high and mighty? You had the guts to hit me, but you don’t have the guts to face us?” Her voice sounded thick, slurred with alcohol. I pressed my back against the locked door, my hand trembling as I gripped the can of pepper spray I kept in my bag. Five minutes felt like five hours. Finally, the muffled voices of security guards echoed in the hall, followed by the heavy, authoritative footsteps of police officers. I let out a long, shaky breath and turned the lock, stepping out. The hallway was a scene of pure chaos. Derrick was thrashing wildly, trying to tear himself away from two police officers who were attempting to cuff him. Aurora stood to the side, trying to smooth things over with a third officer. “Officer, please, this is all just a misunderstanding. My husband is just incredibly protective. He thought his wife’s lover was in there, that’s all.” I stepped forward, pointing at them. “Officers, this isn’t a misunderstanding. This is criminal harassment. They’ve been stalking and harassing me for over a month.” The officer dealing with Aurora looked at Derrick, recognition dawning on his face. “Wait. Are you the guy from the paint vandalism call last month? And now you’re bringing the drama to a hotel?” Derrick’s face flushed a deep, violent purple. He lunged toward me, spit flying from his mouth. “You home-wrecking coward! You hit my wife! I’ll kill you!” The officers slammed him against the wall. “Stop resisting! Calm down!” But then, Derrick suddenly went limp. He stared down at Aurora. My eyes followed his gaze. A dark, crimson pool of blood was rapidly spreading down the fabric of Aurora’s maternity dress, staining her shoes and the carpet. “Oh my god…” Derrick whispered, his voice cracking. “My baby… Aurora…” The entire hallway froze. Aurora’s face drained of color. She collapsed against the wall, clutching her stomach. “My baby… it hurts… oh god, it hurts…” The officers immediately radioed for an ambulance. The hallway dissolved into a frenzy of shouting and medical jargon. As the paramedics arrived and loaded Aurora onto a gurney, Derrick turned back to me. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a primal, terrifying hatred. “Lewis Matthew,” he hissed, his voice trembling with a terrifying promise. “If my baby dies, I will take your life.”

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Three years ago, I wanted to call the police. Instead, my husband blindfolded me and dragged me down into a subterranean concrete room. One thousand days and nights. Completely cut off from the sun. Every time a session of torment ended, that cold, familiar voice would echo in the dark: “Have you signed yet?” I didn’t sign. For three years, I didn’t put pen to paper. Not a single letter. But tonight, a historic storm blew the main transformer. The electronic lock failed. 1 Black. An endless, suffocating black. I had lost track of how long I’d been trapped in this darkness. There were no windows, no light, and even the heavy air carried the scent of rust and damp earth. My back was pressed flat against the freezing concrete wall. The shackles on my wrists had worn thick, raw calluses over old scars, which themselves covered older scars. Water dripped from somewhere in the ceiling, splashing onto the floor. Drip. Drip. Drip. That was how I counted the days. Every seven hundred drips, the heavy iron door would creak. A sound meant someone was coming. And someone coming meant another round of torment. Tonight was the third time. Footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor, the slow, deliberate scuff of leather shoes on concrete. I closed my eyes. Even though there was no difference between open and closed in this absolute void, it was the only small act of rebellion I had left. The iron door groaned on its hinges. A gust of freezing air rushed in, making my skin prickle. “Delia.” The voice sounded. It was as cold as ice dropping into an empty glass, stripped of any warmth. Three years ago, that same voice had whispered, Happy birthday, sweetheart. On the phone, he used to tease, If you don’t come home right now, I’m throwing out all your dresses. Now, his voice only knew one question. “Have you signed yet?” I didn’t move. Splash. A bucket of freezing water drenched me from head to toe. It was November in the basement; the temperature couldn’t have been more than forty degrees. The icy water soaked my thin, tattered shirt, biting into every raw cut on my body. My muscles seized; my teeth chattered violently. But I didn’t make a sound. In three years, I had learned the art of silence. “Stubborn,” Richard murmured from above. I could only smell his cologne. It used to be the warm pine scent I had bought for him. Now, he wore something sharp and aggressive—a cold cedar. “Do you know what day it is, Delia?” I didn’t answer. “Our anniversary. The sixth one. For the first three, I bought you cake, made dinner, wore that shirt you loved. And the last three…” He paused. “You’ve spent down here.” I swallowed hard. “I brought the papers,” he said. The rustle of paper echoed in the small space. “A power of attorney for your assets, the transfer of the Shaw Trust, and the divorce papers. Three documents. Sign them, and you walk out of here.” He forced a pen into my hand. I gripped it, feeling the lingering warmth of his fingers on the plastic. Then, I threw it. It clattered against the iron door and rolled away into the dark. Three seconds of silence. “You’ll regret this,” Richard said, his voice flat. His footsteps receded. The iron door slammed shut. The latch clicked like a heavy sigh. I leaned my head back against the rough concrete. I didn’t regret it. One thousand and ninety-five days. Every day, I made the same choice. No. Not for the money, or the trust. I was waiting. Waiting for an opening. Thunder rumbled overhead, shaking the earth. I tilted my head up. Though blindfolded, I could feel it—tonight’s storm was different. The ground vibrated. The sound above wasn’t just dripping; it was a torrential, violent downpour, like a fire hose blasting the ceiling. A historic storm. My heart skipped a beat. I started counting. The first clap of thunder, distant. The second, closer. The third— BOOM. The entire basement shuddered as if kicked by a giant. Something blew overhead with a muffled pop, followed by the sharp crackle of short-circuiting electricity. The smell of singed wires filled the air. Then— Click. The electronic lock, the barrier that had kept me caged for three years, gave a soft, mechanical sigh. My pupils contracted behind the blindfold. I knew that sound intimately. For years, I’d heard it click open and closed. The bolt had retracted. The power was out. I didn’t hesitate. I threw my entire weight against the left chain—the one I had spent three years scraping against the concrete. The thinnest link was barely a third of its original width. With a desperate heave, it snapped. The sound of tearing metal exploded in the darkness. Pain shot up my arm as the metal tore away a layer of skin, warm blood dripping from my fingers. I didn’t care. I stood up. For the first time in three years, I stood on my own two feet. My knees popped in protest; my legs buckled under my weight. Clinging to the wall, I dragged myself to the door. My hand found the handle. I hesitated. What if it was a trap? What if someone was waiting? What if… I pushed the door. The hallway was dark, but a different kind of dark. At the far end, a sliver of light filtered through a crack. Light. Tears welled in my eyes. Not from emotion, but because my pupils, accustomed to absolute blackness, screamed at even this faint glimmer. Shielding my eyes with my forearm, I groped along the wall. Stairs. Going up. One step, two steps, three… Each step felt like a small bomb exploding in my joints. My muscles had severely atrophied; I was shaking, on the verge of collapsing. But I didn’t stop. The eighteenth step. I pushed open the final door. Wind. Rain. Slapping my face, soaking my skin. I shook violently from the cold. But I stood there, head tilted back, letting the storm wash away the blood and grime of three years. I was looking at the sky. A dark, angry, lightning-torn sky, but it was the sky. I didn’t laugh; I didn’t cry. I looked around. I was in the backyard of a secluded estate. The walls were high, lined with manicured hedges. I recognized it—Greenbriar Estates, out in the northern suburbs. Three years ago, Richard had mentioned wanting to buy a house here. I’d told him it was too isolated. He bought it anyway. With my money. Then he locked me underneath it. My eyes swept the yard and landed on the garage. A white Porsche was parked there. The license plate was unfamiliar. I didn’t try the car. I climbed the wall. My muscles cramped so badly as I scaled the bricks that I fell hard into the mud on the other side. Rainwater filled my mouth; dirt covered my face. I dragged myself up and stumbled toward the main road. Behind me, the house flashed under a bolt of lightning, standing silent in the deluge. I didn’t look back. 2 I spent the entire night huddled under an abandoned bus shelter by the highway. The storm raged for six hours before finally tapering off. As the sky bled into a hazy, bruised gray, I saw my hands clearly for the first time. Skeletal. Prominent joints, pale skin mapped with a web of scars and bruises. The gash on my wrist from the chain was still sluggishly oozing, turning the rainwater on my hands a pale pink. I looked down at my body. A thin gray shirt, stiff with dirt, hung loosely over ribs that looked like slats on a cage. I was a walking skeleton. Next to the shelter was a shattered billboard, its broken glass reflecting my face. I froze. I barely recognized the woman staring back. My hair fell tangled past my shoulders; my face was hollow, my skin so dry and weathered I looked twenty years older. My cheekbones protruded sharply, my eyes sunken. The only familiar thing was the color of my eyes. Dark and heavy. Like they were three years ago, yet entirely different. Back then, there was warmth. Now, there was nothing. A garbage truck rumbled down the highway. The driver honked twice, leaning out to peer at me. Assuming I was just another homeless person, he cursed under his breath and drove on. I stood up and began walking toward the city. I needed to establish some facts. After forty minutes of walking, I reached a twenty-four-hour convenience store. The automatic doors slid open, and a wave of artificial heat hit me. My body convulsed with a violent shiver—I hadn’t felt heating in three years. The cashier, a kid in his early twenties, looked up. Terror flashed across his face, and his hand hovered instinctively beneath the counter. “Don’t worry,” I croaked. My voice was a dry, rasping whisper, as if my throat were lined with sandpaper. “I…” I pointed to the newspaper rack near the door. “What is today’s date?” He swallowed hard. “November seventeenth.” “What year?” His expression shifted from fear to profound confusion. “2027.” I gripped the shelf to steady myself. 2027. I had been taken in September 2024. Three years and two months. I took a deep breath. “Can I borrow your phone? I’ve… been in an accident.” He hesitated, but eventually pulled his phone from his pocket and handed it over. My fingers shook as I typed my own name into the search bar: Delia Shaw. When the results loaded, my breath caught. The first headline was dated March 2026: Missing for Eighteen Months, Chicago Tech Executive Delia Shaw Declared Dead by Court. I clicked it. “…Delia Shaw, 31, former Vice President of Valiant Group, went missing on September 15, 2024. Her husband, Richard Clifford, reported her disappearance… After extensive searches yielded no results, Clifford filed a petition… On March 11, 2026, the Cook County Circuit Court officially declared her dead.” I stared at the words husband, Richard Clifford, reported her disappearance. A grim laugh caught in my throat. He filed the report. He locked me in a cellar and then walked straight into a police station to report me missing. I scrolled down. The second headline, August 2026: Following Death Declaration of Late VP Delia Shaw, Husband Richard Clifford Marries Sabrina Heiress Viola Sabrina in Private Ceremony. There was a photo. Richard in a tailored tuxedo, beside a woman in a sweeping white gown, her arm looped through his, smiling radiantly. I zoomed in on her face. Viola Sabrina. I knew her. We’d crossed paths once at a business gala three years ago. Early thirties, the only daughter of Edward Sabrina, heiress to Sabrina Enterprises. I remembered the way she looked at Richard back then—a look that made me question things, a look Richard dismissed when we got home. You’re overthinking it, babe. She’s just being polite. Do you not trust me? I had apologized, feeling foolish. I kept scrolling. Third headline, January 2027: Estate of Declared Deceased Delia Shaw Settled; Husband Richard Clifford Inherits Full Assets. Everything. My shares, my properties, my savings. Everything. Except for one thing. I backed out of the search and typed in another term: Shaw Family Trust. Only a few old articles popped up, with no records of any changes. A cold smile touched my lips. The Shaw Trust. My father had set it up before he died, hiring the best estate lawyers in the state to make it airtight. The terms were absolute: any transfer, modification, or termination of the trust required the beneficiary to sign in person, in front of at least three witnesses and a notary, with biometric verification and a video recording. Miss one step, and the funds remained locked. That was why Richard hadn’t killed me. That was why he spent three years asking me, “Have you signed yet?” Eight hundred million dollars. I handed the phone back to the clerk. “Thank you.” I turned to leave. “Hey,” the kid called out behind me. “Do you… do you need something to eat? You look…” He didn’t finish the sentence. I paused. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a warm, real meal. In the cellar, it was cold bread and a cup of water twice a day. If Richard was in a foul mood, sometimes not even that. “Give me some instant ramen,” I rasped. “Hot.” Three minutes later, I was huddled outside the convenience store, holding a steaming paper cup. When the first sip of hot broth hit my throat, my stomach cramped violently. Acid flared, and I nearly threw up. It had been too long since I’d had anything warm. I forced myself to keep drinking. The hot liquid slowly made its way down, like a thin line of fire thawing out my frozen internal organs. When I finished the last noodle, I set the cup down. I stood up. And began the long walk toward the heart of Chicago. I had to find someone. 3 North Chicago. A gritty, older residential neighborhood. I stood before a peeling, rusted security door and knocked. Thump. Thump. Thump. From inside came the scuff of slippers on hardwood, followed by a loud, irritated voice: “Who the hell is knocking this early?” The door swung open. A woman stood there—short hair, sharp jawline, military posture. She held a mug of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten bagel in her mouth. Dana Gallagher. Former Captain in the Army Special Forces. After retiring, she’d set up a small private security firm in the city. Just enough to pay the bills. We had huddled in the same trenches, survived freezing nights in the mountains of Afghanistan, and trusted each other with our lives. Dana stared at me. The bagel slipped from her mouth, dropping right into her coffee mug and splashing it all over her shirt. She didn’t blink. Her eyes went wide, her lips parted slightly, holding the dripping mug mid-air as coffee spilled over the rim. “…Delia?” her voice cracked. I leaned against the doorframe, a faint smile touching my lips. “Can I borrow some coffee?” Dana dropped the mug. It shattered on the floor, splashing dark liquid everywhere. She lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders with a grip tight enough to break bone. Then she really saw me—the hollow cheeks, the sunken eyes, the skeletal frame, and the blood-soaked fabric wrapped around my wrist. Her lips trembled. “What the actual—” She stopped herself, wrapping an arm around me and dragging me inside. An hour later, I had showered and changed into some of Dana’s clothes. The sleeves swam on me, and the waistband of her pants could have fit two of me. I sat on her sofa, looking at a spread of food—Dana had practically emptied her fridge. “Eat slowly,” she said, sitting across from me. I didn’t reply. Rice, roasted chicken, hot soup—things I hadn’t touched in three years. I ate quietly, but my fork didn’t stop until I finished three helpings. Only then did I set the utensils down. “Ask,” I said, meeting her eyes. Dana stubbed out her cigarette. “You first. Where the hell have you been for three years?” “Locked in a basement.” Dana froze. My voice was flat, as if I were reciting someone else’s story. “Richard. September 15, 2024. He drugged my drink. When I woke up, I was in a cellar. Shackled. No light. Cold bread and water twice a day. He hired a guard to torture me periodically—water, electric shocks, other things. After every session, he’d show up and ask if I was ready to sign over the trust.” My voice didn’t waver. Dana’s cigarette burned down to her fingers, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Three years,” I said. “He kept me down there for three years.” Dana’s jaw clenched, her face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. She slammed her hands onto the table, standing up so fast her chair scraped hard against the wall. “I’ll kill that piece of—” “Sit down,” I said. She was breathing heavily, her fists white. “Sit down,” I repeated, holding her gaze. “And let me finish.” She slowly sat back down, teeth gritted. “I need to know what happened while I was gone,” I said. “From the outside.” Dana took a long drag of a fresh cigarette before speaking. “September 2024, Richard went to the police and reported you missing. He left your phone, wallet, and ID at home—which makes sense now. The police investigated for months but found nothing. They found your car near the river upstate, door open, keys in the ignition.” “A setup,” I noted. “Yeah. And everyone bought it. At the time, things at Valiant Group weren’t going well, and everyone knew you were under immense pressure.” I remained silent. Three years ago, Valiant Group indeed faced a massive cash flow crisis. I had been working eighty-hour weeks trying to keep it afloat. Richard had chosen the perfect moment. “In 2025, the search stalled. I went to General Briggs—” “Walter Briggs?” “Yes. The General. I knew something was off. You aren’t the type to just vanish without a word, no matter how bad things get. The General agreed and had some people quietly look into it. But they couldn’t find anything. Richard played the grieving husband perfectly—crying to the cops, doing local news interviews.” I tapped my fingers on the table. “Then, in March 2026, Richard petitioned the court to declare you dead. Once the ruling went through, he inherited everything—your shares, your properties, your bank accounts.” “How much?” “He liquidated your shares for about forty million, plus another thirty million in real estate and savings. Around seventy million total.” “And then?” “August 2026, he married Viola Sabrina.” “When did he start seeing her?” Dana set her cup down, her eyes cold. “I did some digging later. Their affair started in early 2024. At least six months before you disappeared.” Six months. For half a year before he threw me into that hole, my husband had been sleeping with another woman. He had cooked my dinners, kissed me goodnight, and left a light on for me when I worked late—all while planning my living burial. I took a sip of my coffee. It was cold. “What about the Sabrinas’ background?” “Edward Sabrina’s only daughter. Sabrina Enterprises dominates real estate and development in Chicago. Wealthy, connected, powerful. When your company’s supply chain collapsed back then, I looked into it later—someone had sabotaged your vendors.” “Viola?” “I don’t have direct proof, but the timeline matches perfectly.” I set my cup down. “And the trust?” Dana paused. “How did you know—” “I guessed. There’s only one reason he kept me alive for three years.” Dana nodded. “The Shaw Trust. Eight hundred million dollars. The terms are ironclad—no signature, no money. He couldn’t touch it, even with a death certificate, because your father had structured it to be entirely separate from your personal estate.” “So he couldn’t kill me.” “He needed you alive to sign.” I leaned back into the sofa, my eyes half-closed. “Where is General Briggs now?” “Still in Chicago. He retired last year, but he still has major sway. He never stopped looking into your case. He just mentioned it to me last month.” “Get me a meeting with him.” “When?” “Today.” Dana stared at me for a few seconds, then stood up to grab her keys. At the door, she paused. “Delia.” “Yeah?” “What’s the plan?” I opened my eyes. The coldness in them made Dana stiffen. “For one thousand and ninety-five days, he asked me if I was going to sign,” I whispered. “Now, it’s my turn to ask the questions.”

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To save myself from a lot of unnecessary drama, I always pretend I’m married. It started out as a simple shield. One afternoon, while out shopping with my coworker Rachel, I spotted a coat that I absolutely fell in love with. It was gorgeous, but the price tag was steep—nearly four thousand dollars. The sales associate was laying on the charm, practically begging me to try it on, when I waved my hand and let the lie slip naturally: “Oh, thank you, but I’d better not. My husband would lose his mind if I bought this. Even if I took it home, I’d just end up having to return it.” I didn’t think twice about it. But the very next morning, a courier package arrived at the office. When I tore open the box, my heart stopped. It was the exact coat. Rachel’s eyes went wide. She snatched the card tucked inside the tissue paper and read it aloud: “To my beautiful wife: If you love it, you should have it. You deserve every beautiful thing in this world. —Your loving husband.” I stood there, completely frozen. My husband was a ghost. A phantom. A convenient excuse. I’ve never even been in a serious relationship, let alone walked down an aisle. Where on earth did this husband come from? 1 For a second, I thought Rachel was playing a trick on me, making up the words on the fly. I snatched the card from her hand, but there they were—two lines of elegant, flowing handwriting, staring back at me. “Natalie, look at you, playing the humble wife!” Rachel nudged me, grinning. “Here you are, always complaining about how strict your husband is, and then he goes and drops four grand on a coat without blinking!” A few other coworkers started drifting over to my desk. “Wow, Natalie, I had no idea your husband was this loaded!” “Seriously, talk about low-key.” I forced a stiff smile, my mind racing so fast I couldn’t find my voice. I had been at this marketing firm for three months, and my “married” persona was airtight. Whenever there was a happy hour I wanted to skip, or a tedious weekend project I wanted to dodge, I’d sigh and say, “I’d love to, but my husband has plans for us.” It was the perfect boundary. But the reality was that I was a textbook case of a late bloomer. I hadn’t even held a man’s hand, let alone built a life with one. I peeked into the box. Even the size was correct. Who could have sent this? A tiny, narcissistic part of me wondered if I had a secret admirer. But the only person who had been there when I saw the coat was Rachel. I watched her closely as she gushed over the fabric. She seemed entirely genuine, completely devoid of any secret, knowing looks. I spent the rest of the day in a haze of anxiety. As soon as I got home, I called the boutique’s customer service line. An order of that size had to have a paper trail. But after a few moments of typing, the representative sighed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This purchase was made anonymously. The buyer requested full privacy protection, so we don’t have any billing details on file.” Anonymous. I stared at the coat hanging on my door for a long time before finally shoving it into the darkest, deepest corner of my closet. The next morning, Rachel eyed my plain knit sweater. “Natalie, where’s the coat? I was dying to see you style a four-thousand-dollar piece today!” “Oh,” I laughed nervously, “it’s way too nice for a regular Tuesday at the office. I don’t want to ruin it.” I certainly wasn’t going to wear something when I didn’t know who bought it. I tried to lose myself in my spreadsheets, but an hour later, the receptionist buzzed my line. “Natalie, there’s a package for you at the front desk.” A cold prickle of dread washed over me. Sure enough, when I opened the small, heavy parcel, it was a limited-edition designer vault containing every single shade of a luxury lipstick line. The card inside bore the same message: Your loving husband. Rachel gasped from the desk next to mine. “Oh my god! Isn’t this the vault we were looking at online last week? The one you said you wanted so badly?” She was right. And I remembered exactly what I had said to her: “I’d buy the whole set in a heartbeat, but my husband would roll his eyes. He constantly tells me my vanity is already overflowing.” Rachel shook her head, green with envy. “He tells you no, and then he buys the entire collection anyway? Natalie, what kind of fairy-tale marriage are you hiding?” Fairy-tale. That was one word for it. Another word was terrifying. I didn’t even know who this person was. My head throbbed as I shoved the lipsticks into my desk drawer. “Hey, are you okay?” Rachel asked, her tone shifting to concern. “You look pale. Did you and the mister have a fight?” I leaned into the excuse, offering a weak, miserable nod. “Ah, that explains it,” Rachel said, satisfied with her own deduction. “He’s trying to buy his way out of the doghouse. Honestly, with peace offerings like these, you should let him stay there a bit longer.” I didn’t answer. I quietly noted the tracking number on the shipping label, logged onto the courier’s website, and initiated a live chat with customer support. Ten minutes later, the prompt popped up: 【We apologize, but this shipment was dispatched under an anonymous corporate account. No sender information can be disclosed.】 Can you even do that with standard mail? I was still staring at the screen when the receptionist’s voice echoed through the office. “Natalie! You’ve got flowers!” 2 Flowers? I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like lead. A delivery guy was standing by the glass doors of our lobby, holding an enormous, breathtaking arrangement of white roses and delicate hydrangeas. “Are you Natalie?” the guy asked, checking his clipboard. “These are from your husband.” I stood there like a statue. By the time I snapped out of it, the courier was already halfway down the corridor toward the elevators. I ran out after him. “Wait! Please, wait!” He stopped, turning around with a look of mild amusement. “Yes, ma’am?” “Who placed the order? Do you have a name?” “Your husband,” he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “No, I mean—can I please see the account details on your tablet? Just the username, or a phone number?” The courier looked hesitant, but when he saw the sheer panic in my eyes, he relented and scrolled through his delivery app. The sender’s profile was entirely blank. “Look, all I know is the order came through our premium dispatch. The arrangement was five hundred dollars, and the guy left a three-hundred-dollar tip for a direct hand-delivery. Your husband is incredibly generous, ma’am.” I handed his tablet back, my hands trembling. I managed to murmur a thank-you before retreating back to the office. Naturally, my coworkers swarmed. “That bouquet must have cost a fortune!” “First the coat, then the vault, now this? Your husband is setting the bar impossibly high.” “Look, there’s a card. What does it say?” I looked down at the small piece of cardstock nestled in the blooms. Please don’t be angry anymore, sweetheart. My fingers shook so hard I nearly dropped the arrangement. “Natalie, you have to forgive him now,” Rachel teased. “I don’t care what he did. A man who loves you this much deserves a clean slate.” I couldn’t hear her over the roaring in my ears. The coat. The makeup. The flowers. The only person who knew about those exact conversations was Rachel. And the moment I let her believe I was “fighting” with my husband, a bouquet arrived asking for forgiveness. Was she doing this? Was it some elaborate, incredibly expensive prank to expose my lie? But Rachel was a junior copywriter living in a studio apartment with two roommates. She didn’t have thousands of dollars to throw away on a psychological game. None of it made sense. My mind was a chaotic mess, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, I felt a desperate need to ground myself. I decided to visit my grandfather. Grandpa’s house was always my sanctuary. He cooked a massive dinner, and I sat beside him on the sofa, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. It was only then that I realized he wasn’t wearing his hearing aid. “Grandpa,” I said, raising my voice. “Where is your hearing aid?” He turned his good ear toward me, blinking. “Oh, that old thing? It fell right into the lake yesterday while I was casting my line. Don’t worry about it. I can get by just fine without it.” “Of course you can’t,” I insisted, pulling out my phone to search for the best models on the market. “Don’t go spending your hard-earned money on me, Natalie,” he muttered, patting my hand. I ended up staying the night in my old bedroom. The next morning, a sharp knock at the front door woke me from a restless sleep. I rubbed my eyes and padded down the hallway. Grandpa was already opening the door to a delivery driver holding a small cardboard box. “Sign here, please.” Grandpa looked at the label, confused. “Natalie, did you order something? It’s already here?” I froze, the last remnants of sleep instantly vanishing. I rushed forward. There, in the courier’s hand, was a box from a high-end medical supply company. Inside was the exact top-of-the-line hearing aid I had been researching the night before. But I hadn’t placed the order. I had only added it to my cart. A cold sweat broke out across my back. 3 “Ma’am? Can you sign for this?” the driver prompted. Grandpa reached for the pen, but I grabbed his wrist. “Actually… I think there’s been a mistake. We didn’t order this. I need to refuse the delivery.” This was for my grandfather. I couldn’t risk him using something that came from an unknown, potentially dangerous source. As I pushed the box back toward the driver, my eyes caught the shipping label. Tucked under the plastic sleeve was a small, familiar note. Only the best for Grandpa. —Your Grandson-in-law. The breath left my lungs in a sharp gasp. After sending the confused driver away, I took half the day off, drove my grandfather to a local clinic, and bought him a certified hearing aid in person, using my own savings. On the drive back, I held his hand. “Grandpa, if you get any packages over the next few weeks—anything at all—promise me you won’t open them. Call me immediately.” He didn’t quite understand the urgency, but he nodded, sensing the terror in my voice. “Alright, sweetheart. I promise.” When I finally went into the office that afternoon, I was running on pure adrenaline. How did this person know my grandfather’s address? More importantly, how did they know about the hearing aid? I had only researched it on my phone the night before, while sitting in Grandpa’s living room. Could my phone be tapped? It was the only logical explanation. Someone was monitoring my search history, my location, perhaps even my microphone. I left work early, went straight to an electronics store, and bought a brand-new phone with cash. I did a factory reset on my old device and sold it to a refurbished tech kiosk. It was a massive hit to my bank account, but the peace of mind was worth every penny. For the next four days, the silence was deafening. No packages. No flowers. No notes. I finally began to breathe again. But on the fifth night, I fell into a deep, vivid dream. I was standing in a room filled with soft, golden light. A man was standing in front of me. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes so expressive they made my throat tight. He looked at me with an expression of profound, aching sorrow. “Wife,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You won’t wear the coat. You won’t touch the makeup. You even sent back the hearing aid for your grandpa. Do you hate my gifts? Or do you just not want anything to do with me?” He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush my cheek, though I couldn’t feel his touch. “It’s your birthday today. If you don’t like my choices, I’ll just give you money. Buy whatever makes you happy.” I bolted upright in bed, gasping for air, my chest heaving. It was morning. The alarm on my phone was blaring. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. Today was indeed my birthday. I forced myself to get ready and head to work. I sat at my desk, chewing on a piece of toast while reviewing a marketing proposal, when my phone vibrated in my palm. I tapped the screen, and my heart stopped. It was an alert from my banking app. Deposit Received: $1,000,000.00. One million dollars. I stared at the screen, convinced it was a glitch, a decimal point error. I logged out and logged back in. The balance was real. The available funds were there. Under the transaction details, there was a single memo: Happy Birthday, my love. The words from my dream echoed in my head: I’ll just give you money. Buy whatever makes you happy. My hands began to shake violently. I sat there, paralyzed, as my entire understanding of reality began to crumble. “Natalie? Are you okay?” Rachel asked, waving a hand in front of my face. I slammed my phone face-down on the desk. “Yes! Yes, I’m fine. Just… a headache.” My god. What was happening to me? Where did one million dollars come from? Was it possible to have a husband I had somehow completely forgotten? “Hey, I saw your calendar,” Rachel said gently. “It’s your birthday today. What are your plans?” I picked up the phone again, staring at the impossible number of zeros. None of the physical gifts had been fake. The coat was real wool. The lipsticks were real wax and pigment. Was this money real, too? Could I actually spend it? I took a deep, shaky breath. “You know what? It’s my birthday. Dinner and drinks are on me tonight. Everyone is invited.” The office erupted into cheers. “Natalie, seriously?” Rachel asked, her eyes wide. “Are you sure? We have a pretty large team.” “I’m sure,” I said, a strange, reckless confidence washing over me. “My husband is traveling for work, so I have some extra cash to burn.” I sent a reservation link to our group chat—a high-end French restaurant downtown. Rachel gasped when she saw the menu prices. “Natalie, are you insane? This place is incredibly expensive!” I just smiled. But deep down, I was terrified. What if my card declined? 4 But the transaction went through effortlessly. When the waiter returned my card after processing a fifteen-thousand-dollar bill, my coworkers looked at me as if I were royalty. “Natalie, seriously, what does your husband do?” Rachel whispered, leaning in over her empty champagne glass. “This is insane.” “He’s just… in finance,” I lied, my voice hollow. “Lots of international travel.” I barely heard the rest of their chatter. I was too busy staring at my hands. We went back to my place for cake. As Rachel lit the candles, she urged me to make a wish. I closed my eyes. If this was some bizarre, inexplicable superpower where whatever I thought of manifested into reality, I wanted to test the limits. I want more, I thought fiercely. Give me enough money to never have to worry again. I blew out the candles. Later that night, after everyone had left and the apartment was quiet, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I snatched it up, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was another bank notification. Deposit Received: $100,000,000.00. One hundred million dollars. And the memo: I will always give you everything you want. I got out of bed, pacing the floor of my tiny apartment. This wasn’t a dream. This was terrifying. If the government saw this kind of money appearing in a middle-class girl’s account, they’d think I was funding a cartel. I needed to go to the police. Even if they locked me up, at least I’d be safe from whatever supernatural force was tracking my every thought. I resolved to go to the precinct first thing in the morning. But as I reached to put my phone down, my finger accidentally swiped open my photo gallery. My breath caught. There were new photos in my camera roll. Dozens of them. And they weren’t of me alone. They were candid, beautiful photos of me and the man from my dream—the dark-haired man with the sorrowful eyes. We were laughing on a beach, sharing coffee in a diner, holding hands under a canopy of autumn leaves. I had no memory of these moments. I had never seen this man in my waking life. I kept the lights on all night, sitting in the corner of my living room with a kitchen knife in my hand, waiting for the sun to rise. At 6:00 AM, I took a cab to the local police precinct. The station was quiet, smelling of stale coffee and floor wax. A young officer at the front desk looked up at my pale face and dark circles. “Can I help you, ma’am?” “I… I need to report something,” I stammered, gripping the edge of the desk. “My phone has been compromised. Someone is adding photos to my gallery, and I’ve had… a large amount of money deposited into my account from an untraceable source.” The officer frowned, pulling over a notepad. “How much money?” “One hundred and one million dollars.” He stopped writing. “Excuse me?” From the back room, another officer walked out, holding a clipboard. “What’s going on, Briggs?” I froze. Briggs. The name struck a chord deep in my chest. I stared at the second officer’s face—the sharp jawline, the slight scar over his left eyebrow. Suddenly, my head exploded with pain. Memories—sharp, violent, and fragmented—flooded my brain. I saw a crowded street, the screech of tires, the smell of burning rubber, and then… nothingness. My vision blurred, the room began to spin, and before I could call out, the world went completely black.

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I was using Connor’s phone to order DoorDash when my finger accidentally swiped onto our chat history. What met my eyes was a blinding wall of blue dots. For seven years, every single voice note I had ever sent him sat there, flagged by that tiny, unplayed blue circle. But he had replied to every single one. His responses were always the same: Sounds good. Love you, babe. In a meeting. I accidentally backed out of our thread and saw the contact he had pinned to the very top of his list. The name read: Carol – R&D. Carol’s voice notes were all a minute long—the maximum length allowed. And there wasn’t a single blue dot next to them. Connor hadn’t just listened to them; he had replied to each one with painstaking detail. Raining and you don’t have an umbrella? Don’t move. I’m getting in the car to pick you up right now. That sushi place wasn’t good? I’ll take you to that French bistro uptown tomorrow instead. Sixty seconds. Carol’s sixty seconds bought her a drive across the city in the pouring rain with an umbrella. My sixty seconds—even when I was sobbing in the dark, begging for help—bought me nothing but a dismissive, automated brush-off. Later, I dragged my suitcase out the front door. I sent him one last voice note: “Connor, we’re over.” Three seconds later, his reply came through. Sounds good. Looking at those two words, a laugh escaped my lips, light with a sudden, bone-deep relief. He really didn’t tap it to listen. Not even this time. … 1 I stared at that blinding wall of blue dots, tears instantly blurring my vision. My thumb trembled as I scrolled up. The screen was packed with those unread markers, making my chest tighten as if it were filled with crushed glass. Every breath tasted like copper. Seven whole years. Every voice note I’d sent him was left unheard. But he hadn’t always been like this. In the first two years we were together, he was different. Back then, I was the one pinned to the top of his messages. He’d look at me, smiling, and say, “Evie, your voice is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard in my life.” Even if I sent a silly three-second voice note just to tease him, he’d listen to it a dozen times. Maybe it was the nostalgia, a lingering filter of who he used to be, that made me foolishly believe that even if his replies had grown short and sparse, he was still paying attention. I thought he was just busy, but still making an effort to respond to everything. But now, those blue dots mocked me. He hadn’t opened a single one. Yet, he had answered every time. My hand shook as I tapped into his chat with Carol. The most recent messages were from this afternoon. Carol had sent a fifty-nine-second audio clip. In the background, her voice sounded playful, whining about how bitter the office coffee was. Connor had replied: I know you hate bitter things. That bag of pour-over I brought back from my last business trip is in your left desk drawer, second one down. I left some of that toasted coconut creamer you like in there, too. Help yourself. Carol sent another quick audio note, just a few seconds. Connor wrote back: Be good. I’m taking you to that private tasting menu this weekend. You know, the one with the two-week waitlist? I actually got the chef to curate it just for you. He remembered she hated bitter coffee. He remembered her favorite coconut creamer. He was even willing to pull strings and reserve an exclusive chef’s table just because she whined about an office Keurig. But what about me? A few days ago, when my fever spiked to 103 degrees, I lay shivering on the cold hardwood floor, barely able to breathe. I managed to record a voice note, begging him to bring home some fever reducers. He replied instantly: Sounds good. But that night, I lay there until dawn, shivering and cramping in agony. Connor never showed up. When he finally walked through the door the next afternoon, he was holding a takeout bag from that upscale French bistro uptown. He looked exhausted, brushing a hand over my hair. “Evie, the servers at the office crashed last night. I had to pull an all-nighter. I brought you some soup from downtown on my way back.” It turned out his “all-nighter” was spent driving across the city to eat French cuisine with another girl. It turned out his “sounds good” wasn’t a promise. It was just a way to make me go away. The sound of the shower running in the bathroom stopped. My breathing hitched, but with a terrifying, quiet calm, I exited his messages, switched back to the DoorDash app, and ordered two simple bowls of chicken ramen. The moment I set the phone down, Connor walked out of the bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. He walked over, pressing a natural kiss to the crown of my head. He smelled of fresh body wash. “Evie, did you order the food? I’ve been in meetings all day and I’m exhausted. Thanks for keeping it simple tonight.” His tone was gentle. Perfectly pleasant. Just like it had been every single day for the past seven years. I looked up at his face, so close to mine, and didn’t pull away. “Yeah. It’s on the way.” While we were eating, Connor reached across the table and took my hand. “Evie, this Friday is our seven-year anniversary. You didn’t forget, did you?” He looked into my eyes, his expression soft. “I booked that French restaurant you’ve been wanting to try. I don’t have to work late that day. I’ll come home early, pick you up, and we’ll celebrate properly.” My heart skipped a beat. In that split second, looking at his handsome, familiar face, I had a sudden, dizzying illusion that the boy who used to run through three blocks in the freezing rain just to buy me hot roasted nuts because I mentioned them in a three-second voice note had returned. I wondered… was I just overthinking things? Maybe he was just a manager now, used to delegating, used to scanning and replying to everyone as quickly as possible to keep things moving. Maybe that was why he didn’t have time to actually tap the play button on my voice notes? And Carol… maybe she really was just a junior employee he felt responsible for mentoring? Like a desperate gambler, I let myself lie. I gave him—and us—one last chance. Friday came. I wore the red dress he had bought me for our very first date. Connor actually left work early, looking sharp in a tailored suit. He waited for me by the entryway, and when I walked down the stairs, a genuine flash of admiration crossed his eyes. He opened the passenger side door for me, carefully shielding my head with his hand. “Evie, you look beautiful tonight.” The car radio played the old indie songs we used to love. The atmosphere was warm, thick with the sweet nostalgia of our early days. Until the car’s Bluetooth screen suddenly flashed. Incoming Call: Carol – R&D. The moment he hit answer, a girl’s panicked, tearful voice echoed through the speakers: “Connor… a pipe burst in my apartment… there’s water everywhere, and the outlets are submerged, they’re throwing sparks. I’m so scared, I don’t know what to do, I can’t go inside…” The smile vanished from Connor’s face. He slammed on the brakes. At a busy intersection where U-turns were strictly prohibited, he yanked the steering wheel, forcing the car around. He hit the gas, only then turning to look at me. I sat frozen in the passenger seat. His brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with an intense, raw anxiety he didn’t even try to hide. “Evie, Carol is all alone in the city. She has no one else to call. A flooded apartment with exposed wiring is incredibly dangerous. I have to go check on her.” He pulled the car over to the curb and hit the brakes hard. He didn’t even think to hand me the umbrella. He just urged me out: “It’s hard to turn around up ahead. Just get off here and take an Uber to the restaurant. Order whatever you want and wait for me. I’ll handle this and come straight to you, okay, babe?” Before I could even open my mouth, I was ushered out of the car. The icy autumn wind, heavy with freezing rain, cut right through my trench coat. I stood on the waterlogged sidewalk, watching his car tear into the curtain of rain like an arrow, its red taillights quickly dissolving into a blurry crimson dot. The cold rain lashed against my face. Suddenly, my stomach churned, and a sharp, familiar ache flared up in the lower right side of my abdomen—right where the scar had barely healed. Two weeks ago, on a night just as rainy and brutal as this one. I had a sudden, acute attack of appendicitis. The pain was so agonizing I was rolling on the freezing floor, unable to even stand. I desperately held down the record button, weeping into the phone: “Connor, my stomach hurts so bad… please help me, please come home and take me to the hospital…” I sent three voice notes in a row. Three minutes later, he replied with two words: In a meeting. That night, I had to drag myself to the front door, barely conscious, just to unlock it for the paramedics. The surgeon told me later that if I had arrived twenty minutes later, the appendix would have ruptured, and I might not have made it. And now, a leaky pipe in Carol’s apartment was a life-or-death emergency in his eyes. The truth finally broke through: he didn’t love me anymore. It had started with the very first dismissive word, the very first unplayed voice note. The freezing wind blew away the last shred of denial in my mind. I didn’t call an Uber to the expensive French restaurant. Instead, I turned around, walked into the subway station, and went home. When I pushed the door open, I went straight to the bedroom. This time, without a single moment of hesitation, I reached into the deepest corner of the closet and dragged out the large black suitcase.

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I thought I was marrying for love. Instead, I walked straight into a slaughterhouse, all carefully arranged just for me. The fiancé I’d loved for three years slipped an organ donation form between the pages of our marriage paperwork and tricked me into signing it — all to save his adopted sister, a girl he shared no blood with. When the anesthesia wore off, I was missing a kidney, and I’d been thrown out into a thunderstorm like garbage. They thought I was as good as dead. What they didn’t know was that I clawed my way back out of hell on nothing but the will to get even. I was going to cut my way to them, step by step, and make every single person in this conspiracy pay. Pain. A tearing, ripping agony spread from my lower back, like a rusty saw dragging back and forth across my nerves. I forced my eyes open. The blinding surgical lights made my head spin. The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant. This wasn’t the bridal suite Sebastian and I had set up together. This was a cold, sealed underground operating room. “You’re awake?” A familiar, ice-cold voice sounded by my ear. I turned my head with effort. Sebastian stood over me in a perfectly tailored couture suit, looking down at me. He held a glass of red wine, and his eyes had none of their old warmth. All that was left was a sneer that chilled me to the bone. “Sebastian… what happened to me? My stomach hurts so badly…” My voice was hoarse. I struggled to sit up, only to find my hands and feet strapped down to the bed. Panic seized my heart in an instant. “Don’t thrash around. We just took out one of your kidneys. If the wound splits open, you could actually die.” Sebastian took a sip of his wine, his tone as casual as if he were chatting about the weather. Boom! My mind exploded. I stared at him, refusing to believe it. “What did you say? What kidney?!” “Thank you for the kidney, by the way.” A sugary-sweet voice came from behind Sebastian. Grace stood there in designer hospital pajamas, her cheeks rosy. There wasn’t a trace left of the “end-stage uremia” frailty she’d shown before. She wrapped herself around Sebastian’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “See, Sebastian, I told you. As long as you asked, she’d hand over her worthless life for you. A kidney’s nothing.” Sebastian tapped her nose affectionately. “Silly girl. If it saves you, I’d take more than a kidney. I’d take her whole life if I had to.” A cold went through my entire body, as if I were falling into a bottomless pit. “Sebastian! Have you lost your mind?! I’m your fiancée! We’re getting married tomorrow!” I thrashed like a madwoman, the straps cutting bloody welts into my wrists. “Married?” Sebastian soffed and looked at me like I was an idiot. “Susan, go look at yourself in a mirror. A broke nobody with no money and no power — you thought you were good enough to walk through the doors of my family’s home?” He pulled a document from his jacket pocket and slammed it down across my face. “Take a good look. This is the Voluntary Organ Donation Consent Form, signed in your own handwriting.” The sharp edge of the paper sliced the corner of my eye. I stared at the document. The signature line — that really was my handwriting. Then I remembered. Three days ago, Sebastian had handed me a thick stack of tedious prenuptial property agreements to sign, saying it was his family requirement. I trusted him completely, so I signed without reading a single word. So that was it. That death warrant had been buried in the pile. “This is assault! This is a crime! I’m calling the police!” I screamed in despair, tears bursting from my eyes. “Go ahead. Call them.” Sebastian leaned down and grabbed my chin, his eyes venomous. “You signed the consent form. A private doctor did the surgery. Who do you think the cops will believe — some hysterical woman, or the legal team of the Cross Group?” “Let me go! Give me my kidney back!” I shook my head wildly, wishing I could bite a chunk out of him. “You’re too loud.” Sebastian flung my chin away in disgust and tossed a check onto me. “That’s a million dollars, for one kidney. You’ve never seen that much money in your life, have you? Take the money and get out of this city. If I ever see you again, it won’t just be a kidney I take.” He turned to the two bodyguards at the door. “Throw her out.” “Yes, Mr. Cross.” Two big men came over, roughly unstrapped me, and dragged me off the bed like a dead dog. The wound split open instantly, blood soaking through the hospital gown. “Sebastian! Even as a ghost, I will never let any of you go!” My curses were sealed behind the heavy iron door. Late night. Howling wind and pouring rain. The bodyguards dumped me on a deserted mountain highway and drove off. Cold rain mixed with blood and ran into the mud. I curled up on the ground, convulsing with pain, my consciousness slipping away bit by bit. Just when I thought I would die in that storm — Two blinding high beams cut through the curtain of rain. A black Rolls-Royce Phantom screeched to a stop right in front of me. The car door opened. A pair of polished, handmade leather shoes stepped into a puddle. A black umbrella opened over my head, blocking out the downpour. I struggled to open my eyes. What I saw was a face so cold and sharp it looked like a god’s. The man wore a black trench coat, and his presence was so powerful that even the rain around him seemed to freeze. “Susan?” His low voice was strangely clear in the rainy night. I didn’t know him. but I knew he was my only hope of survival. I clutched the hem of his coat, my knuckles white. “Save me…” The man looked down at me, something dark and unreadable churning in his deep eyes. “Do you want to die? Or do you want revenge?” he asked. “Revenge…” I bit down hard, my mouth full of the taste of blood. “I want them to pay… blood for blood.” A cold, hard curve lifted at the corner of his mouth. “Get in.” He bent down, scooped me up into his arms, and carried me into the endless dark.

When I woke again, the first thing I saw was a lavish European-style domed ceiling. I was lying on a soft, enormous bed. The wound on my back had been cleaned and re-dressed with fresh gauze. “Now that you’re awake, get up and take your medicine.” By the floor-to-ceiling windows, the man from last night stood with his back to me, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Who are you?” I propped myself up and watched him warily. He turned around. The sunlight traced the sharp line of his jaw. “Kane Blackwood.” I sucked in a sharp breath. Kane Blackwood. The man at the helm of the Blackwood business empire, the true uncrowned king of this city. And the Cross family is nothing but a second-rate clan that only survives under the protection of the Blackwood family. “Mr. Blackwood, why did you save me?” I forced myself to stay calm. Kane walked to the sofa and sat down, crossing his legs, his sharp eyes studying me. “Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Just then the bedroom door opened, and a doctor in a white coat walked in, his face grim. “Mr. Blackwood, the lab results are back.” The doctor handed Kane a report, then turned to look at me with a flicker of pity in his eyes. “Ms. Susan, were you drinking some kind of ‘nourishing soup’ that Sebastian made for you every day?” I blinked, then nodded. “Yes. He said I was run-down and needed to build up my body for when we tried for a baby. Why?” The doctor sighed. “That wasn’t nourishing soup at all. We found high concentrations of a chronic immunosuppressant and heavy-metal toxins in your blood.” “What does that mean?” My head buzzed. “It means they didn’t just steal your kidney. They wanted you dead, too.” Kane spoke coldly, tossing the report onto the nightstand. “Taken over time, that poison would have made your remaining kidney fail fast. Within six months, you’d die of kidney failure.” Boom! It hit me like a hammer. My mind went blank. My whole body trembled, my stomach lurched, and I felt like I was about to throw up. The image of Sebastian gently watching me drink that soup every day turned, in that instant, into the most terrifying nightmare in the world. They didn’t just want my organs. They wanted to erase the evidence — to shut me up forever. “Ugh—” I leaned over the edge of the bed, dry-heaving, tears falling uncontrollably onto the carpet. So cruel! So vicious! “Done crying?” Kane’s voice held no warmth at all. “Tears won’t kill Sebastian.” My head snapped up. I wiped the tears off my face and bit down on my lip until I tasted rust. “Mr. Blackwood, help me.” I stared at him dead-on. “I know Blackwood family and Cross family are fighting over the land on the south side of the city. Help me destroy the Cross family, and I’ll do anything.” Kane narrowed his eyes, as if appraising my worth. “You have nothing left. What do you think you have to bargain with?” “I have the Cross family’s most fatal weakness in my hands!” I gasped out. “If I can prove they tricked me into the donation and harvested my organs illegally, the Cross Group’s stock will crash. They’ll never get that land on the south side!” Kane let out a quiet laugh, but the amusement never reached his eyes. “Susan, you’re too naive. The Cross family did this, which means they prepared for everything. That consent form you signed in your own hand is their shield. If you go out there now and start talking, they’ll turn it around on you and have you charged with extortion.” I froze. He was right. Black ink on white paper. How was I supposed to flip that? Kane stood, walked to the bed, and leaned down over me, his presence overwhelming. “I can give you the best medical care, the most professional PR team, and the best lawyers. But on one condition. You have to become a blade sharp enough to drive straight into the Cross family’s heart. So — do you have the nerve?” Looking into his fathomless eyes, the hatred inside me grew like wildfire. “I have the nerve,” I answered without hesitation. “Good.” Kane straightened up. “Let the games begin.”

Kane’s methods were clean, decisive, and shockingly fast. That very afternoon, an explosive topic suddenly appeared on social media and instantly blew up across the whole internet. The headline was lurid: “Prospective Heiress Demands Massive Prenup Payment, Fails, Then Flees With a Million Overnight!” The attached photo was an engagement shot of me and Sebastian, with a screenshot of a one-million-dollar check transfer underneath it. The poster claimed to be an insider close to the Cross family, bitterly condemning me as a materialistic, vain woman who’d thrown away years of love for money — who’d even fled with the cash the night before the wedding, leaving the Cross family humiliated. The comment section was nothing but slut-shaming and vicious abuse aimed at me. “Holy crap, this woman has no shame. She bailed for a million?” “Feel so bad for Sebastian, treating a gold-digger that well and getting stabbed in the back.” “Someone dig up her info! Make sure she can never show her face in society again!” I watched the endless stream of hateful comments refreshing on the tablet and laughed coldly. So the Cross family were afraid I’d cause trouble. They’d struck first, trying to nail me to the pillory and strip me of any chance to speak. “How does it feel?” Kane leaned against the doorframe with a glass of wine, watching me. “Cheap tactics.” I tossed the tablet aside, picked up my own phone, and logged into my verified, real-name social media account. I didn’t write a long defense. I just posted one photo. In it, I was wearing a baggy hospital gown, my face pale as paper, my lower back wrapped in thick gauze with blood soaking through it. The sight was shocking. The caption was a single line: “I didn’t run from the wedding. I’m just learning how to live the rest of my life with only one kidney.” Tap. Send. In under five minutes, the post shot straight to the trending list. Everyone was stunned. “Wait, what?! Missing a kidney?!” “That wound looks terrifying — she just had surgery, right?” “So the runaway-bride story turned into a kidney-harvesting story? This plot twist is insane!” The Cross family PR team moved fast. Sebastian’s mother — Mrs. Cross, the woman who’d always looked down her nose at everyone — replied directly in my comments from her main account: “Susan, why are you playing the victim? You donated that kidney to Grace of your own free will! That million was the ‘recovery fee’ you demanded yourself! Now you’ve taken the money and come online to stir up the crowd. Do you have any conscience left?” Her words sounded righteous, but they were full of holes. My fingers flew across the screen. I immediately posted a second time. It was a clip of high-definition dashcam footage. In the video, on a wild, stormy night, two big men threw me onto a muddy highway like trash. My wound split open, and blood ran across the ground. Caption: “Madam Cross, is this what you call ‘taking the money of my own free will’?” The moment that video dropped, the entire internet erupted. Public opinion flipped in an instant. “What the hell, that’s literally attempted murder!” “Dumping someone fresh out of surgery into a thunderstorm in the middle of the night — the Cross family are pure evil!” “Boycott the Cross Group! Investigate the Cross family!” The Cross Group’s official account was buried under hundreds of thousands of furious comments, and the stock dipped in the closing minutes of trading. I seized the momentum and typed out a third post, tagging Sebastian directly. “Sebastian, do you dare show the whole internet the original copy of that Organ Donation Consent Form I signed in my own handwriting? Let everyone see exactly who’s listed as the recipient on it.” Checkmate. He’d buried that form in the marriage paperwork to trick me into signing it. Whether he produced it or refused to, his crime of fraudulent donation would be locked in. The whole internet was waiting for Sebastian’s response. Ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was Sebastian. I hit accept and put it on speaker. “Susan, you’ve grown a spine. You dare come after me online.” Sebastian’s voice carried a cold, murderous edge. “Where’s the original? Too scared to produce it?” I shot back, ice in my voice. “Heh.” Sean let out a cruel laugh. “I am scared. But are you brave enough to gamble with your parents’ lives?” My heart clenched. “What did you do?!” From the other end came my mother’s shrill, sobbing cry: “Susan! A whole gang of thugs came out of nowhere and smashed up our little diner! Your dad got beaten until he was coughing up blood, and now they’ve dragged him into a car!” “Sebastian! You animal!” I screamed, losing control. “Delete every post right now. Post a video saying you made it all up, that you’re mentally ill. Otherwise, you’ll never see your father again as long as you live!” The line went dead. My whole body went limp, and the phone slipped from my hand. Despair flooded over me like a tide.

Ding. A video landed on my phone. My father, his face covered in blood, was pinned to the floor of a van by two big men, barely conscious. Madam Cross sent a voice message: “Susan, if I don’t see your apology video in ten minutes, the next thing I send you will be your father’s finger.” I shook so hard I couldn’t control it, huge tears splashing down onto the screen. I couldn’t beat them. They had money and power. Wiping out my whole family would be as easy as crushing an ant. With trembling hands, I opened the camera on my phone and pointed it at my own ashen face. “I’m sorry. My name is Susan, and the posts I made earlier were all—” A large, well-defined hand suddenly reached over and snatched the phone away. “That’s all the backbone you’ve got?” Kane looked down at me, his eyes terrifyingly cold. “He’s holding my dad hostage! What am I supposed to do?! I can’t gamble with my father’s life!” I screamed, breaking down, reaching for the phone. Kane caught my wrist and hauled me up off the floor. “There’s no turning back from revenge. If you back down now, they’ll think you’re weak and easy to crush — and tomorrow they’ll come for your whole family!” He looked straight into my eyes, spacing out each word with unquestionable authority. “I’ve already sent my best security team to rescue your parents. What you need to do right now is go and win your fight.” I froze, staring at him blankly. He pressed a gold-embossed invitation into my hands. “Eight o’clock tonight. The Cross Group’s annual product launch — also Sebastian’s first public appearance as he formally takes over as CEO.” A flash of ruthlessness crossed Kane’s eyes. “Go. Find their weak spot, and deal them a fatal blow. As for your parents — I give you my word on the Blackwood family’s name. Not a single hair on their heads will be touched.” Looking at the certainty in his eyes, my chaotic heart somehow steadied. Eight o’clock that night. The grand ballroom of the International Hotel downtown. The place was packed with the rich and famous. A wall of media cameras hemmed the stage in. Sebastian stood under the spotlight in a white suit, delivering his speech with cocky confidence. “The Cross Group will dedicate itself in the future to—” Bang! I shoved the heavy ballroom doors open. I walked in wearing the bold red dress Kane had prepared for me, stepping forward on four-inch heels, one stride at a time. Lips red as fire, face cold as ice. The whole room fell dead silent in an instant. Every camera swung toward me in unison. “It’s Susan! The fiancée who leaked everything online!” The smile on Sebastian’s face froze. Madam Cross shot up from her front-row seat and pointed at me, screaming. “Security! Who let her in?! Throw this crazy woman out!” I showed no fear. I walked straight to the press table closest to the stage and picked up a reporter’s spare microphone. “No need. I’ll say one thing, then leave.” My voice carried clearly through the speakers into every corner of the room. I looked at Sebastian, his face livid up on the stage, and a cruel smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Sebastian — after Grace got my kidney transplanted, has she been taking her anti-rejection medication on schedule?” Sebastian’s pupils contracted sharply. “What are you getting at?” “I forgot to mention something.” I toyed with a strand of my hair, my tone as light as if I were discussing the weather. “My blood type is extremely rare — a Bombay phenotype, with a recessive genetic mutation. My organs carry an extremely strong tendency toward delayed hyperacute rejection.” “Once it triggers, she’ll have less than three months left.” The whole room broke into an uproar. The reporters fired their shutters like mad. Madam Cross covered her mouth in horror. “You’re lying! You vicious witch, you’re cursing my daughter!” I ignored her hysterics. I locked my eyes on Sebastian, swaying on the stage, and added softly — at a volume only the two of us could hear, but enough to shatter his soul: “Unfortunately, the only cure for this kind of rejection is produced by exactly one elite lab in Switzerland. And its founder happened to be a lifelong friend of my late grandfather — close as brothers.” I lifted my chin slightly, savoring the pure terror that surged into Sebastian’s eyes. “Sebastian. Now is the moment for you to get down on your knees and beg me.”

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Three years into my marriage, my husband’s family stole my dad’s accident settlement money and used it to buy a luxury mansion. At the housewarming party, my mother-in-law decided my parents’ memorial portraits were “bad luck” and threw them in the trash. My husband told me to just let it go. His sister held up her phone and live-streamed herself calling me a jinx to the whole internet. They thought I had no one in my corner. They thought I deserved to be crushed under their heels. I didn’t fight. I didn’t argue. I just quietly wiped the mud off the portraits—and pulled out a yellowed IOU for ten million. The rain came down in sheets. I knelt beside the trash bins in the mansion complex, digging through the reeking kitchen garbage with my bare hands. Rainwater mixed with slop splashed across my face. My fingers got sliced open on broken glass, blood streaming down with the mud and water. But I couldn’t feel the pain. I only felt cold. Cold straight to the bone. Ten minutes ago, I’d just set my parents’ memorial portraits in the spare bedroom of the new house. Today was the housewarming party. It was also the first day Kairo and I moved into the new place after getting married. I just wanted my mom and dad to see my new home. But the moment I turned to go get water in the kitchen, the portraits vanished. My mother-in-law, Beverly, stood in the living room directing the housekeeper to spray air freshener. “Why would anyone bring junk frames like that into a new house? Smells like death.” “Bad luck to keep them around. Better to just throw them out.” I tore downstairs like a madwoman. Finally, in a black garbage bag at the very bottom, my hand found that familiar wooden frame. The glass was already shattered. My parents’ faces were smeared with vegetable scraps and grease. That was the last thing I had left of them in this world. I took off the expensive coat Kairo had bought me before the wedding and carefully wrapped the portraits up. Like I was holding two frightened children. I carried them, step by step, back to that brightly lit mansion. Standing at the door, I didn’t push it open right away. Rainwater ran down my bangs and into my eyes. I blinked, but didn’t move. Something in the bag pressed against my palm—the corner of that waterproof pouch. I glanced down at my hand. Took a deep breath. And pushed the door open.

The hall was full of glittering guests, every one of them dripping in gold and designer clothes. The Sinclair family’s relatives and business partners were holding champagne, celebrating that my father-in-law Richard’s company was about to go public. And celebrating the family moving into this fifty-million-dollar luxury mansion. The moment I pushed the door open, the laughter died. I was soaked through, black sludge dripping off the hem of my dress. In my arms, a filthy bundle. I looked like a ghost who’d wandered into a high-society party. Beberly frowned, disgust flickering in her eyes. “Juliette, what the hell is wrong with you? Do you know what day this is? You show up looking like that just to ruin everything for me?” Kairo strode over quickly. He was wearing a tailored suit today, his hair styled to perfection. He reached out to pull me close, but the second he touched my sludge-covered sleeve, he flinched back without thinking. “Juliette, stop making a scene.” He lowered his voice. “Mom just thinks it’s bad luck to keep memorial photos in a new house. Go upstairs and clean up first, before you embarrass us in front of everyone.” I looked at him. This was the man I’d loved for three years. Before we got married, he’d held my hand and said, “From now on, my family is your family. My parents are your parents.” But now, my parents’ portraits were thrown in the trash. And all he felt was that I’d embarrassed him. “I’m making a scene?” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the silent hall it was crystal clear. “Beverly threw my parents’ memorial portraits in the trash, and you call that bad luck?” A wave of whispers swept through the hall. His sister, Tracy, let out a scornful laugh. She held up her phone, mid-livestream, and shoved the camera right into my face. “So your whole family’s dead, and you just had to drag two photos of corpses into our new house.” “A perfectly nice housewarming party, and you’ve turned it into a funeral.” “Everyone online is watching. Let’s let them judge—who brings this kind of bad luck into their new family?”

My fingertips went stiff. The edge of the frame inside the coat pressed into my palm. Like my dad’s thin, withered hand right before he died. When he handed me an old account book, he’d said, “Juliette, don’t ever use a debt of gratitude to pressure someone unless you’ve truly got no other choice. But if someday someone walks all over you, don’t go playing the bigger person on your dad’s behalf either.” Back then I just nodded. I thought I’d never have to use it. I thought the Sinclair family had truly accepted me. I walked over to the long banquet table. There sat a massive three-tier fondant cake, with “Congratulations on the Sinclair Family’s New Home” written across it. I gently set the bundle from my arms onto the table. Unwrapped the coat. The shattered frame emerged, carrying a sharp, sour, rotting smell. The wealthy women around me covered their noses and stepped back. Beverly’s face went livid. “Juliette! You get that filthy thing out of here right now!” “The ones who should get out of here are all of you.” From the soaked bag, I pulled out an old account book sealed in a waterproof pouch. On the first page, a yellowed IOU was tucked inside. Borrower: Richard Sinclair. “You still recognize this handwriting, don’t you?” I slapped the IOU down on the table. The corner of the paper quickly soaked through with the champagne on the table. Richard’s hand jerked, the wine glass trembling. Wine spilled onto his designer leather shoes. He instinctively reached out to grab the IOU. I let out a cold laugh and pinned his hand down hard with the account book. His hand was nailed there, unable to move. The sound in the hall seemed to be choked off all at once. I stared into his eyes and spoke slowly. “Ten million.”

“Dad.” Kairo’s voice tightened. “Is… is this real?” Richard’s throat bobbed, his face shifting from red to white. Beverly lunged forward. “You’re talking nonsense! What ten million? A broke little orphan girl like you—where would you get ten million?” “Ten million from twelve years ago and ten million today—are those the same thing?” I ignored her and flipped open the inner flap of the account book. An old photograph slipped out. In the photo, my dad stood at the entrance of a run-down factory. Beside him was a much younger Richard, his face full of eager flattery. On the back, in my dad’s handwriting: witnessed by my best buddy. Richard stared at that photo like he’d seen a ghost. “This account book…” His voice went hoarse. “Your dad really left it to you?” I didn’t answer. I just laid the photo and the IOU side by side, so every guest at the table could see clearly. A few of the wealthy wives standing beside Beverly leaned in. When they saw the amount and the signature, their expressions changed. “Ten million? Richard, that’s no small number.” Richard suddenly snatched his hand back, forcing himself to look calm. “That’s ancient history! Your dad did help me out back then, but that was an investment! Business has ups and downs—how can you call it a loan?” Those words were as good as admitting he’d taken the money. Beverly caught on immediately, straightening her back again. “Exactly! If your dad really treated it as a loan, why didn’t he come collect all these years? Now that you’ve married into our Sinclair family, eating our food, living under our roof, you start digging up old debts?” Tracy’s phone camera nearly jabbed me in the face. “You all hear that? This woman’s just a gold digger! Bringing up a debt from over a decade ago to extort our family!” I looked into the camera and suddenly felt how absurd it all was. Every brick in this mansion was soaked in my dad’s blood and sweat. All I’d done was set down two memorial portraits. And they still complained they took up space. I closed the account book, then opened it again. “Richard, if you’ve really forgotten, I can help you remember—page by page.”

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In the iron cage of an underground fighting pit, my heat cycle hit without any warning. Up on the high platform, my so-called fated mate — the uncrowned king of the Night Faction, Maximilian Cross — covered his nose in disgust and pulled his beloved Tiffany into his arms. “A defective little runt who can’t even shift, and she thinks she has the right to smell like that? Let the beasts tear her apart in that cage.” The whole crowd burst out laughing. The half-shifted beasts, eyes blazing red, drooled as they lunged toward me. Just when I’d given up all hope, a pair of blood-soaked combat boots came crashing through the iron bars. Jax — Maximilian Cross’s illegitimate brother, the one they called the Mad Dog — stepped in front of me, putting himself between me and those half-shifted beasts. He wrapped his oversized coat tight around my naked, trembling body. His burning breath spilled against the curve of my neck. “Why are you shaking? If he doesn’t want you — I do.” Inside the underground fighting pit, my hands were bound behind my back. They’d thrown me into the center of an iron cage caked in mud and dried blood. Riiip— The wire mesh tore through the back of my shirt, leaving a wide strip of bare skin exposed to the freezing air. I was shaking from the cold — but deep inside my body, a strange, feverish heat was running wild. So hot. It felt like ten thousand ants were crawling through my bones. This was the scent of a mate bond awakening. In the world of the Night Shifters, every adult female released her own unique pheromones on the night of her awakening — a signal meant to draw in her fated mate. I tilted my head back, my vision blurring as I looked up at the VIP platform ten meters above me. That was where Maximilian Cross sat. The new ruler of the Night Alliance. The black wolf alpha with the purest bloodline. The man my family had promised me to since before I was born. Right now, he was staring down at me from above. He held a glass of deep crimson liquor in his hand, his eyes as cold as if he were looking at a pile of garbage. My pheromones drifted upward through the ventilation system. It was an unbearably sweet scent — intoxicating, almost sinful. I watched Maximilian’s brow snap into a hard frown. Even the guards standing beside him had their breathing go ragged from the smell. “Maximilian…” I forced his name out of my throat, my fingernails digging hard into the mud. “Save me…” Maximilian didn’t move. But the woman beside him — Tiffany — let out a coy little laugh and pressed her hand over her nose, using the moment to melt against Maximilian’s chest. “Max, that smell is disgusting. Has Serena lost her mind? She’s a half-blood who can’t even shift, and she’s seriously trying to force her pheromones out in a place like this? Is she trying to seduce those filthy pit beasts?” Maximilian let out a cold laugh and slowly tipped his glass. The red liquid poured down and splashed into the mud right in front of me. “Serena. You make me sick.” Maximilian’s voice came through the speakers and filled every corner of the underground arena. “Did you really think pulling a cheap stunt like this — throwing your scent around — would force me to claim you as my mate? A defective reject like you isn’t even worth the dirt on my shoes.” A sharp, ugly wave of laughter exploded through the crowd. Maximilian’s younger brother Dante was standing just outside the cage. He smashed an iron rod against the bars with a cocky grin, the clanging ringing straight through my skull. “You hear that, you worthless little freak?! My brother thinks you’re filthy! Stay in that cage and let those wild beasts have their fun with you!” Dante hit the switch. The gate at the far end of the cage began to grind open. Three half-beasts crawled out — eyes burning red, minds long gone from months of rage-serum injections. Ropes of foul-smelling drool hung from their jaws as they locked onto me. To them, my pheromones were the most potent aphrodisiac in existence. I stumbled backward in desperation until my back hit the cold iron mesh. Nowhere left to go. “Maximilian!” I screamed until my throat tore. “You felt it! I am your fated mate!” Rejecting a fated mate bond had consequences — the bloodline would turn on itself, punishing the one who refused. I saw the tendons in Maximilian’s hand go taut against his glass. For just one second, the color drained from his face. But he held it back. He would rather endure the agony of the bond’s backlash than take a single step down from that platform for me. “Open the gate.” Maximilian’s voice was ice. All three half-beasts roared and charged. A rough hand clamped around my ankle and yanked — hard. I screamed as my whole body was dragged through the mud. Another hand clawed at what was left of my shredded clothes. I squeezed my eyes shut. I gave up. And then — BOOM——!! A deafening blast. Every light in the underground fighting pit went dark at once. Only the emergency lights remained, blazing red and strobing wildly through the black. From ten meters up, a dark figure dropped from the stands like a phantom — a crushing, devastating force that slammed straight down onto the top of the iron cage. The cage was built from reinforced steel. He caved it in with a single stomp. The man landed in front of me like a true predator. I hadn’t even gotten a clear look at his face before I heard it — a sickening crack of shattering bone. The half-beast that had been gripping my ankle never got the chance to scream. He stomped its skull into nothing. Blood and brain matter splattered across my body. The other two half-beasts froze, instinct screaming at them to run. He didn’t give them the chance. His black combat knife swept through the air in a single fluid arc. Two heads hit the ground at the same time. Silence. The entire arena went dead quiet. Through the thick stench of blood, a scent hit me — aggressive, sharp, like cold pine and gunpowder smoke. His pheromones wrapped around me like a wave crashing over everything. The burning fever raging inside me stilled for just a moment the instant I caught that scent. Then it shifted into something deeper. Something that made my legs go weak. He turned around. The dark red lights caught the sharp angles of his face. His narrow eyes burned with something raw and unrestrained — madness and possession, all at once. Jax. Maximilian’s unspeakable half-brother—the most dreaded and bloodthirsty mad dog in the entire Alliance. He shrugged off his blood-soaked black coat and wrapped it around my naked, trembling body. His rough fingertips brushed across my cheek. I shivered. “Why are you shaking?” Jax scooped me up out of the mud with one arm and pulled me tight against his chest. He lowered his head, his lips almost grazing my ear, his voice low and rough. “They don’t want you. I do.”

Up in the stands, Maximilian finally snapped back to reality. He shot to his feet, his face pale with fury. “Jax! Put her down! Who the hell said you could touch her!” Jax didn’t even look back. He carried me through the arena floor, his combat boots stepping over bodies and blood without breaking stride. Dante came charging down with a dozen heavily armed guards, guns trained on Jax’s head. “You crazy bastard! You got a death wish?! Put that trash down!” Jax stopped. He slowly raised his eyes. The look in them was pure, crystallized murder. “Dante.” Jax’s voice was quiet, but every person in that room felt it crawl up their spine. “Which hand did you use to flip that switch?” Dante blinked. He took half a step back without thinking, then forced his voice loud to cover it. “The hell does it matter which hand?! Shoot him! Kill him!” The guards never got to pull their triggers. Jax vanished. The world spun. He had me locked against his chest, shielding me completely. A second later, a scream tore through the air. “AAAGH——!!” Dante dropped to his knees. His right wrist was bent at a grotesque angle, the bone punching clean through the skin, blood spraying in pulses. Jax stepped back into place, his black knife dripping. He glanced up at Maximilian with cold, flat eyes, and let a slow, cruel smile cross his lips. “Maximilian. Your dog got loose. I handled it for you.” Maximilian was shaking with rage. He pressed a hand hard against his chest — the searing pain of a rejected mate bond tearing through him. “Jax… You’re going to start a war with the entire Alliance over a defective omega?!” Jax looked down at me. I was curled inside his coat, the drug and his pheromones overwhelming me. I couldn’t stop myself — I pressed closer against him and let out a soft, desperate sound. Jax’s throat moved. The hunger in his eyes was almost violent. He tightened his arms and pulled me fully against him. “So what if I do?” He laughed, cold and sharp. “She’s mine. Even if she were worthless — especially then — none of you pieces of trash get to put your hands on her.” He turned and walked out of the arena, carrying me with him. Behind us: Maximilian’s furious roar, and Dante’s screaming. The black SUV tore through the storm. The privacy partition rose between the front seat and the back, sealing us off completely. In that small, closed space — just me and Jax. The fever inside me surged back with a vengeance. This was what happened when a mate bond awakened with nowhere to go. My skin was burning. Every nerve in my body was screaming for something I couldn’t name out loud. “Hot…” Without thinking, I pulled the coat open, baring stretches of pale skin. Mud and blood still clung to me, but somehow it only made everything feel more raw, more exposed. Jax slammed the brakes. The SUV let out a sharp screech on the empty mountain road and skidded to a stop in the pouring rain. He spun around and grabbed my wrist, pinning me hard against the leather seat. “Serena, look at me. Really look at me!” Jax’s voice was rough and ragged. His eyes were bloodshot, barely holding back something wild that was about to break loose. I stared up at him through a haze, my gaze drifting to the bob of his throat and the hard lines of muscle beneath his collar. I couldn’t make out a word he was saying. All I knew was that the cool, clean scent coming off him was the only thing easing my pain. I was like a dying fish, instinctively clawing toward water. I pulled free from his grip, threw my arms around his neck, and pressed my body against his burning chest. “Please… I need…” I was crying, searching blindly for his lips, kissing and biting at his jaw and the side of his neck without any sense of what I was doing. Crack. The last thread of Jax’s self-control snapped clean. “You asked for this.” He let out a low growl, took control, and slammed his palm against the back of my head, crushing his mouth down onto mine. It was a kiss built on hunger and force. He pried my lips open and pushed in deep, greedily sweeping through every inch of my mouth. His tongue was aggressive, relentless — like he wanted to consume me whole. “Mmph…” I couldn’t breathe, but my body melted completely. His large hand slid down along my waist, rough with calluses, leaving trails of fire everywhere it touched. His touch was possessive — rough, yet carrying a tenderness so faint it was almost invisible. Rip. The last scrap of fabric on my body tore away. He lowered his head, his hot mouth trailing down my neck, pressing deep red marks into my collarbone and chest. The marks of a beast claiming what was his. “It hurts…” I couldn’t take the intensity. Tears spilled down my face one after another. Jax went completely still. He lifted his head and looked at my tear-streaked face. The wildness in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by something raw and aching. He drew in a long breath, forced the fire inside him back down, and pulled his coat tightly around me again. “Hold on a little longer.” His voice was so hoarse it was barely audible. “Not yet. Your body’s too weak — it can’t survive a full bonding mark.” He pulled me into his arms, slipping one hand inside my clothes, his warm palm pressing flat against the back of my neck. A steady flow of pure, soothing energy poured into me. The primal force of a top-tier Alpha. He was using his own power to forcibly suppress the heat burning through my body. It was an incredibly dangerous thing to do. One wrong move and the energy could turn on him. But he didn’t even flinch. I didn’t know how much time passed. Eventually, the fire inside me died down. I leaned against his chest and let my eyes fall shut. In the blur between waking and sleep, I felt his lips press softly against my forehead. “Rest. I’m here. No one’s touching you.”

When I woke up, I was lying in a large, soft bed. The sharp smell of antiseptic hung in the air. “You’re awake. Stop playing dead.” A sarcastic voice cut through the silence beside the bed. I opened my eyes to find a scrawny old man in a white coat, his hair a wild mess, drawing blood from my arm with a syringe. This was the most notorious doctor in the underground black market — known simply as “the Ghost Doctor.” Jax was leaning against the doorframe, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, watching me with a heavy, unreadable gaze. “How is she?” The Ghost Doctor dropped the blood sample into a set of strange-looking vials and watched the liquid change color. A cold smirk crossed his face. “How is she? It’s a miracle she’s still breathing.” He turned and fixed his eyes on me. “Girl — did you drink some kind of bitter black medicine every single day when you were little? Did your family tell you it was good for your health?” I froze. I nodded without thinking. “Yes… my foster mother said I was born weak. She said it would help regulate my blood.” “Bullshit!” The Ghost Doctor slammed the vial down on the table. “That was Soullock Herb — a poison specifically designed to suppress high-grade shifter bloodlines! You’ve been taking it for fifteen years. Fifteen years, and it ground what should have been an extraordinary bloodline down to nothing!” The words hit me like a lightning strike. My whole body went cold. “What did you just say?” Jax stepped forward, his expression dark and dangerous. “Explain. All of it.” The Ghost Doctor pointed to the deep gold color swirling inside the vial, his voice trembling. “She’s not some defective. She never was. She’s a Blood Healer — a gift that comes along maybe once in a century. Her blood, her pheromones — they can purify the feral rage in any shifter.” I sat on the bed, completely hollow. My mind had gone blank. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of cold stares and cruelty from my own family. Fifteen years of being called worthless. I had always thought I was just unlucky — that I’d been born without the ability to shift. So it was true — someone had deliberately destroyed me. “There’s more.” The Ghost Doctor pulled out a specialized scalpel and walked over to me. “Girl, give me your left hand.” I reached out my left hand, trembling. He pressed the tip of the blade gently against the inside of my wrist, drawing a shallow cut, then dripped a blue liquid into it. In an instant, a strange black inscription surfaced beneath my skin — like a venomous snake coiling around my veins. “A Mate Interference Curse.” The Ghost Doctor stared at the inscription and drew a sharp breath. “This is one of the most vile forbidden spells in existence. Someone forcibly twisted your fated mate bond. The reason you caught Maximilian’s scent during your awakening — that was this curse at work.” My head snapped up. I stared at Jax, disbelief written all over my face. “Then my true mate is…” The Ghost Doctor let out a cold laugh. “Still don’t get it? That bastard Maximilian didn’t just steal the throne that rightfully belonged to Jax — he used this filthy trick to try and steal Jax’s fated mate too.” The cigarette in Jax’s hand crumbled to ash. A wave of murderous energy exploded from him, and every pane of glass in the room began to rattle violently. It all made sense now. That was why Maximilian suffered such a violent backlash when he rejected me in the arena. He was never my mate to begin with. He had forced himself into that place, and fate was making him pay for it. And that was why, in my darkest moments, catching Jax’s scent had made me feel safe. Because he was where I truly belonged. “Can it be broken?” Jax’s eyes were locked on the Ghost Doctor, his voice cold as ice. The Ghost Doctor wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It can. But it requires the blood of the true mate, combined with a dual-cultivation ritual to fully shatter the Soullock Herb’s seal. The process will be extremely painful. And…” “And what?” “And the moment the seal breaks, her presence will be exposed instantly. The entire Night Alliance will know she exists. Maximilian’s half-beast soldiers — the ones already on the edge of madness — will come for her like sharks smelling blood.” Jax crossed to the bed and stood over me, looking down. His gaze was deep and dangerous, like an abyss ready to swallow its prey whole. “Serena.” His long fingers tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Are you scared?” I looked at him. The weakness and tears in my eyes faded away, replaced by a hatred carved straight to the bone. Fifteen years of lies. The humiliation in that arena. Maximilian. Tiffany. And the woman who called herself my foster mother. I grabbed Jax’s hand and dug my nails into his skin. “I’m not scared. I want the seal broken. I want every single one of them to pay in blood.” Jax smiled. “Good. I’ll help you.”

Maximilian’s retaliation came faster than I expected. The preparations to break the seal would take three days. In those three days, the entire Night Alliance descended into chaos. Because Maximilian had forcibly rejected his fated mate — even if the bond had been a fake one — his bloodline began showing severe signs of rejection. The elite guard he controlled through the dominance of his bloodline started breaking down en masse, erupting into fits of uncontrollable rage. Every day, half-beasts were losing control and attacking people in the streets. Maximilian was losing his grip. And Tiffany, that fool, decided to deflect the blame by spreading rumors through the Alliance — claiming that I, the so-called “cursed one,” had stolen a sacred relic from the Cross family and brought this disaster down on them all. She even showed up with a squad of fully armed mercenaries and surrounded the Ghost Doctor’s underground clinic. “Serena! Get your ass out here, you little bitch!” Tiffany stood in the pouring rain, a megaphone in her hand, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “You throw yourself at some other man, betray Max, and now you want to destroy the whole Alliance? Get out here and face what’s coming to you!” I stood in front of the clinic’s security monitors, staring coldly at Tiffany’s twisted face. Jax was on the couch behind me, calmly running a cloth along the blade of his combat knife. “Want me to go out there and twist her head off?” he said, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. “No.” I stood up. A cold flash crossed my eyes. “My enemies. My revenge.” I shoved open the clinic’s iron door and walked out. The rain was pouring down in sheets. Tiffany spotted me and stumbled back two steps, jabbing her finger in my direction. “You actually came out! Grab her! Dead or alive, I don’t care!” More than a dozen mercenaries raised their weapons and closed in on me. I didn’t move. I stood in the rain and slowly closed my eyes. Over these past three days of treatment, the Soullock Herb’s toxins had been nearly purged from my system. The power of the Blood Spirit Healer was awakening inside my veins. My eyes snapped open. My pupils bled into a deep, unnatural crimson. An invisible wave of psychic force — absolute, crushing, unstoppable — exploded outward from my body. Thud. Thud. Thud. The mercenaries at the front of the charge dropped like they’d been hit by a sledgehammer. Blood poured from their eyes, their ears, their noses. They were dead before they hit the ground. Tiffany screamed and stumbled backward, landing hard in the mud. “You — what did you do?! You’re supposed to be useless!” I walked toward her, slow and steady, and looked down at her from where she sat in the dirt. “You’re pathetic, Tiffany. Maximilian would rather suffer the backlash than touch you, and you still crawl around protecting him like a dog.” “Shut up!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. I crouched down and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. “Go tell Maximilian to say his prayers. Everything he owes me — everything he owes Jax — I’m coming to collect. Every last bit of it, with interest.” I slapped her across the face. Hard. The force sent her skidding across the ground. Tiffany spat out a bloody tooth, then scrambled on her hands and knees back to the car. I hadn’t noticed Jax move, but he was standing behind me now. He was holding a black umbrella, angled so that I was sheltered beneath it. “Does your hand hurt?” He lifted the hand I’d hit her with and pressed his lips gently against my knuckles. My heart skipped. “No,” I said. “Then let’s go home.” Jax’s eyes darkened. His voice carried a quiet authority that left no room for argument. “Tonight, we break the last seal.”

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Everyone thought Susie Summers was a pushover. She’d been married to Henry Ziegler for three years — working for him at the office by day, serving him in bed by night. Even when she caught Henry fooling around with Lena Hampert right there in the office, the coworkers watching were sure she’d sweep it under the rug like always. Three years of being ground down had finally broken something loose in Susie. She was done. But before she could throw the divorce papers in Henry’s face, William, The CEO of the Luis Group, showed up. He dropped to his knees in front of everyone, eyes red, begging Susie to come back. The moment she kicked the door open, Susie saw the most revolting thing she’d ever witnessed in her life. Henry’s tie was crooked. Lena was draped all over him, one strap of her dress hanging halfway off her shoulder. Documents were scattered across the desk, and the air reeked of perfume. Susie’s head started ringing — but her hands moved faster than her brain. Her phone was already out, the record button pressed. “Susie?” Lena reacted first, shrieking and stumbling backward, making a show of pulling up her strap. But her eyes were gleaming with satisfaction. Henry turned around. His expression shifted — then curled into a cold smirk. “What are you doing here?” “Dropping something off.” Susie raised her phone and walked toward them, one slow step at a time. “Figured I’d get you both on camera. So you won’t forget how pathetic you looked.” Her voice was completely calm. Calm enough to surprise even herself. Three years she’d stood up with this man. Today, she didn’t have to anymore. Henry lunged for the phone. Susie stepped back, and with her other hand pulled a folded letter from her bag and snapped it against his chest. “Sign it. And expect divorce papers from my lawyer.” Henry stared down at the letter. Then he let out a short, sharp laugh. “You? Quit? Divorce me? Susie, have you lost your mind? You got this job through my connections. You think you can survive without me?” Lena sauntered over then, dabbing at her eyes, her voice dripping with fake innocence. “Sis, you’ve got it all wrong. Henry and I were just going over some work stuff—” “Shut up.” Susie cut her off, her tone was ice cold. “Call me that one more time and I’ll make you regret it.” Lena’s face went pale. Then the tears started falling, and she spun toward Henry. “She’s being so mean to me…” Henry exploded. He grabbed the resignation letter and tore it apart, throwing the pieces at Susie’s face. “You’ve got some nerve! You’re useless — all you do is cause scenes and embarrass me. If you walk out that door, you leave with absolutely nothing. And don’t think for a second you’ll get anywhere near the kids!” Susie smiled. It was a cold smile. Cold all the way through. For three years she had put up with everything — the cooking, cleaning, raising the kids, pulling late nights, getting belittled and pushed aside — all because Henry introduced her as “my wife.” She had shrunk herself into nothing more than his accessory. But not today. “I’m taking the kids,” Susie said, word by word. “And you’re not getting your hands on everything we have. And what you two just did in here? Everyone’s going to know about it.” “You’re threatening me?” Henry grabbed a mug off the desk and hurled it to the floor. Glass exploded across the tile. “You think I won’t have security drag you out of here right now?” Susie didn’t flinch. She just held her phone up higher. The footage on the screen was crystal clear. Out in the hallway, a crowd had gathered. Coworkers were craning their necks, their faces a mix of amusement and nosiness. Not one of them stepped forward. Susie wasn’t surprised. They’d been waiting for her to fall on her face ever since her first day here. “Susie, just let it go.” Lena’s voice softened into something sweet and poisonous. “Henry has been so good to you. Aren’t you grateful? The only one looking bad right now is you.” Susie turned to look at her, eyes sharp. “Cut the innocent act, Lena. You weren’t worried about looking bad three years ago when you crawled into Henry’s bed, were you?” “That’s a lie!” Lena screamed. “That never happened!” “Didn’t it?” Susie laughed, lifting the phone. “The angle on this is pretty clear. Want me to send it to the whole company and let everyone decide?” Lena went pale as a sheet of paper and threw herself at Henry, sobbing harder than ever. Henry was shaking with rage, opening his mouth to lay into Susie — when a sudden ripple moved through the crowd. “Mr. Luis is here!” Everyone stepped back at once, parting like a wave. Susie looked up. William was walking down the corridor toward them. His suit was immaculate. His expression was dark — the kind of dark that settles in right before a storm. His gaze swept past everyone in the room and landed directly on her. Susie’s heart slammed against her ribs. William—her college crush, the boy who once said, “Susie, wait for me. I’ll come back and marry you”—was now the CEO of the Luis Group. And her direct boss. She never thought their paths would cross again. “What’s going on here?” William stepped into the doorway, his voice was dangerously low. Henry instantly slapped on a smile. “Mr. Luis, it’s nothing—just family stuff, me and my wife—” Susie didn’t let him finish. She held her phone out to William. “Mr. Luis. This is the evidence.” William looked down at the screen. The footage showed Henry and Lena tangled together—too disgusting to describe. His expression darkened with every passing second. His fingers tightened around the phone until his knuckles went white. The office fell into an eerie silence. You could hear everyone breathing. Henry scrambled to explain. “Mr. Luis, don’t listen to her—she just wants to get back at me—” “Shut up.” William raised his head, his voice cold as ice. “Henry. Lena. You’re both fired.” “What?” Henry and Lena stared, the color draining completely from their faces. “Mr. Luis, you can’t do this!” Henry blurted out. “She’s my wife! She’s my wife! Don’t let her fool you!” William didn’t even look at him. His gaze shifted back to Susie. Then, in front of everyone, he dropped to one knee.

The moment William went down on one knee, the entire office seemed to freeze. Everyone went still. The panic on Henry’s face hadn’t even faded before it twisted into a sneer. Lena’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes nearly bulging out of her head. The executives crowded at the doorway turned to stone—some of them forgot to breathe. “Mr. Luis, are you insane?” Henry’s voice cracked. “Kneeling for her? She’s nothing! A washed-up, worn-out wife who lived off my charity!” William didn’t acknowledge him. He looked up, his gaze locked on Susie—eyes full of emotions. Guilt. Tenderness. And something deeper, something that looked like obsession. “Don’t go.” His voice was quiet. But every word hit like a hammer. Susie’s eyes went red. She bit down hard on her lip, her hands balling into fists at her sides, fingernails digging into her palms. The pain kept her grounded. “William, get up.” Her voice was shaking. “I’m not getting up.” He didn’t move. His back stayed perfectly straight. “Three years ago, I wasn’t in a position to do this. Today I am. Susie—if you resign, I’ll stay right here on my knee until you change your mind.” Henry shoved forward and jabbed a finger in Susie’s face. “You skank— seducing my boss! I knew something was off with all that overtime you were pulling! Now it makes sense! You’ve been sleeping with Mr. Luis this whole time!” Susie knocked his hand away and pulled out her phone, letting out a cold laugh. “Sleeping with him? Henry, are you blind? You had photos of me and Mr. Luis saved on your own phone. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?” Henry went pale. “You kept old photos of me and Mr. Luis for three years,” Susie said, her voice raised higher, “just waiting for a moment like this to use against me? That’s really something, Henry. You get caught cheating, and your first move is to flip it around and say I slept my way to the top?” Lena suddenly threw herself at Susie, grabbing her arm. Tears appeared from nowhere. “Sis, please—don’t do this! Henry just made a mistake, one stupid mistake. Please forgive him! If you won’t, I’ll get down on my knees and beg you!” And then she actually knelt, her knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. Susie looked down at her. Not a single flicker of emotion in her eyes. “Lena, are you done?” Her voice was unnervingly calm. “Being a homewrecker is your hobby now? You’ve been hitting on Henry since sophomore year of college. Did you really think I didn’t know?” Lena’s crying stopped dead. Her pupils shrank. “You…” Her lips trembled. She couldn’t get the words out. “How did I find out?” Susie laughed coldly. “Those explicit messages you sent him—did you think deleting them meant they were gone forever? Those monthly allowance transfers—did you really think switching accounts would make them untraceable?” Lena’s face went white as paper. Henry snapped. He grabbed Susie’s arm and yanked. “Shut your mouth! Say one more word and I’ll make sure you walk out of this marriage with nothing. And don’t even think about seeing our kid.” “Don’t you dare touch my child.” Susie’s voice was slow and deliberate, her eyes cold as a blade. “Henry, I’ve put up with you for three years—all for the sake of our child. Today you threw away the last shred of decency yourself. Don’t blame me for what comes next.” She pulled her hand away and turned to William. “Mr. Luis, get up.” William still didn’t move. “Promise me you won’t quit.” Susie took a deep breath. The tears finally came. She wiped her face, her voice rough and raw. “Fine. I won’t quit. But you have to promise me one thing.” “Name it.” “Give me the worst project in the Luis Group. I want three months to claw back every cent Henry and Lena have swallowed over the years—every last penny.” William paused for a second. Then a slow smile curling on his lips. He stood and extended his hand toward Susie. “Deal.” Susie didn’t shake his hand. She turned and stared at Henry and Lena, forced an unflattering smile. “Henry. Lena. Listen closely.” “From today on, it’s war between us. I won’t stop until it’s over.”

The office was dead silent. Henry’s face had drained to white. Lena’s legs were visibly shaking. Susie’s words had cut into them like a blade driven straight to the bone. “Susie, have you lost your mind?!” Henry forced himself to shout. “I dare you to come after me!” Susie ignored him. She reached into her bag and pulled out the resignation letter. She tore it slowly, one strip at a time. Each tear of paper rang out sharp and clear in the office. When she was done, she tossed the scraps into the air. They fluttered down and landed all over Henry and Lena. “You—” Henry was shaking with rage. “You’re out of your damn mind!” “Out of my mind?” Susie laughed coldly. “I’ve never been clearer, Henry. You embezzled three point four million dollars from the company and laundered it through Lena’s account. Did you really think William didn’t know?” Henry’s pupils shrank. His lips trembled. “That’s a lie…” “And you.” Susie turned to Lena. “You’ve been at the Luis Group for less than two years, and you’ve already been skimming kickbacks behind Henry’s back—colluding with suppliers, falsifying accounts, pocketing the difference. Did you think William didn’t know?” The color drained from Lena’s face. “Susie, don’t you dare make up lies about me!” “Make up lies?” Susie held up her phone and gave it a little wave. “Want me to pull up the bank statements, the wire transfers, and your chat logs with Henry and put them on display for the whole company?” Henry lunged for the phone. William stepped in front of him, his gaze was glacial. “Don’t even think about laying a finger on her.” Henry froze. Lena suddenly burst into tears and dropped to her knees. “Mr. Luis, it’s not like that—Susie set me up! She’s jealous of me—” “Jealous of you?” Susie crouched down and looked Lena straight in the eye. “Jealous of what, exactly? Jealous that you’re better at being a mistress than I ever was? Or jealous that you stabbed your own sister in the back without a trace of shame?” Lena’s skin crawled under that stare. Her sobs died in her throat. “Enough.” William spoke. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that left no room for argument. “Henry. Lena. Get out.” Henry’s head snapped up. “William, you’d really fire me? I’m your brother-in-law—” “Brother-in-law?” William’s eyes went dark. “You think you deserve that title?” Henry’s face turned iron-gray. His knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists. “Fine. Fine. You’ll both regret this. And let me tell you something, William—Susie was pregnant with my child once. You think she’s so innocent? She’s nothing but a—” SMACK. A hard slap landed across his face. It was Susie. Her eyes were red, her hand still trembling, but she stood perfectly straight. “Say one more word, Henry, and I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in prison.” Henry clutched his face, stunned and furious. “You hit me?” “So what if I did?” Susie’s voice was ice. “I’ve put up with you for three years. That ends today. Henry, everything you took from me—I’m going to take it back. Every single piece.” Lena scrambled to her feet, shrieking like she’d snapped. “Susie, who do you think you are?! You’re nothing but a washed-up—” “Shut up.” William Luis’s voice cut through the room. Low. Frigid. Everyone went still. He walked toward Henry and Lena, his gaze was as cold as winter ice. “Henry, you owe the company $3.4 million. Pay it back within three days, or I’ll see you in court. Lena, every kickback you pocketed—I want it all back by tomorrow, or things will get a lot worse for you.” Henry panicked. “William, you can’t—” “I can.” William cut him off. “Effective today, the Luis Group is officially terminating both of you. Security, escort them out.” Two security guards stepped in from the doorway and grabbed Henry and Lena, dragging them toward the exit. Lena shrieked, “Let go of me! Susie, you better watch your back—This isn’t over—” Her voice grew fainter and fainter, until it finally faded at the end of the hallway. The office fell silent. There was only Susie and William left. Susie finally gave out. Her legs buckled, and she dropped into the chair. She raised her hand to cover her face, her shoulders trembling slightly. William stood in front of her. He was quiet for a long moment before speaking, his voice cracked. “Susie, I’m sorry.” “Don’t say sorry.” Susie lowered her hands. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying. “Your kneeling in front of me just now—pretend it never happened.” “I can’t pretend it never happened.” William looked at her, his eyes were full of nothing but pain. “These past three years—I’m the one who wronged you. If I had shown up sooner—” “William.” Susie cut him off, her voice eerily calm. “Everything I went through these past three years has nothing to do with you.” “It has everything to do with me.” William crouched down and took her hand. “I know you hate me. I left without a word—that was on me. But can you give me a chance—” “A chance to do what?” Susie pulled her hand away. “To forgive you? To fall in love with you all over again?” William had no answer. Susie let out a laugh—hollow and sad. “William, do you have any idea what my life looked like these past three years? Henry hitting me, scolding at me every single day. Lena making my life hell. They even threatened my child—” She couldn’t finish the sentence. The tears came before she could stop them. William felt as if something was being carved out of his chest. He reached out to wipe her tears, but Susie turned her head away. “Don’t touch me.” Her voice was raw. “I don’t need your pity.” “It’s not pity.” His voice came out rough. “It’s because I care about you.” Susie looked at him, then suddenly laughed. “You care about me? William, where was that when you walked out without saying a word?” William said nothing. “Forget it.” Susie stood up. “It’s all in the past. All I want now is to focus on work, build the Luis Group into something, and then—” “And then what?” “And then take my child and leave this place.” She turned away. “And never come back.” William suddenly grabbed her wrist. “Don’t go.” Susie looked back. His eyes were rimmed red. “Susie, I know I have no right to ask for your forgiveness.” William’s voice dropped to almost nothing. “But these past three years, I never stopped looking for you. When I found out you’d married Henry, I thought you did it to get back at me—” “I didn’t.” More tears fell. “I married Henry because I was pregnant with your child.” William went completely still. “I was pregnant. You were gone. I couldn’t find you.” Susie wiped off the tears. “Henry said he’d marry me. Said he’d take care of the baby. I believed him. And look how that turned out.” William’s hand started to shake. “Where is the child?” His voice trembled. “Where?” “At home.” Susie took a slow, deep breath. “With my parents. Henry never met him.” William’s eyes went red. “Susie, I—” “Don’t.” Susie shook off his hand. “William, I don’t need you to make it up to me. I just need your help—help me grow the Luis Group, make sure Henry and Lena pay for what they did.” “And after that?” “After that, we’re even.” William watched her walk away, a weight sitting heavy in his chest. Then he spoke. “What’s the child’s name?” Susie’s steps faltered. “Susie.” William moved closer. “What’s his name?” Susie didn’t turn around. But her voice softened. “Willson.” “Willson?” “Yeah. Willson.” Susie turned around, her eyes blurred with tears. “He’s the only thing that’s kept me going in this life.” William stood frozen, his Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes turning red. “Susie.” His voice was hoarse. “Wait for me. I’ll build the Luis Group into something bigger and make Henry and Lena pay. And then—” “And then what?” “And then I’ll beg you to give me another chance.” Susie looked at him without a word. She turned and walked toward the door, stopping at the threshold. “William, some mistakes can’t be forgiven just because you are sorry.” The door closed. The office fell silent again, with only William left inside.

The moment the door shut, William slammed his fist down on the desk. Three years. It had taken him three years to piece together everything Susie had been through. The day she married Henry, he was overseas closing an acquisition deal. By the time he flew back, it was already the day after her wedding. He went to wait for her outside her office building — and all he saw was her, walking alone in the rain with a baby bump. He hadn’t dared go up to her. He figured she must hate him. Hate him for vanishing without a word, for never giving her any explanation. So he stayed in the shadows, watching as Henry berated her, as Lena humiliated her, as her coworkers isolated her. It broke his heart. Then, three months ago, he finally dug up the evidence that Henry and Lena had conspired to drain Susie’s family company dry. He caught a flight back that same night, moved as fast as he possibly could to acquire the Luis Group, and took the position of CEO. He thought that would be enough to protect her. But she had quit. William leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes stinging. The moment Susie walked out of the office, he’d nearly lost it — nearly rushed over and pulled her into his arms. She was still so thin, still so beautiful. But the light in her eyes had dimmed so much compared to three years ago. He remembered how she used to laugh in college — her eyes curving into little crescents. They’d been in love back then. He’d thought she was it for him. Then his father got gravely ill. The family business was seized by his uncle. He had no choice but to go abroad and take over the mess. He’d sent her a breakup text, not wanting to drag her down with him. He spent years grinding, clawing for power, until he finally took back everything that was his. He’d assumed she would wait for him. Instead, he heard she had gotten married. William closed his eyes, his fingers tracing the surface of his phone screen. On it was a photo he’d secretly taken of her — she was feeding a child, the soft curve of the side of her face was so heartbreakingly gentle. He suddenly stood up, grabbed his jacket, and headed out. Susie had just gotten home. She was sitting on the couch with her son Willson in her arms, staring blankly at nothing. He was only two and a half years old but already knew how to say “Mama.” His eyes looked exactly like William’s. She looked down at him, and tears fell. “Willy, Mommy’s so tired.” He raised his tiny hand and wiped her cheek. “Mommy don’t cry. Willy be good.” Susie pulled him closer. Then the doorbell rang. She wiped her eyes and walked over to answer it. The moment she opened the door, she froze. William was standing there, with a large bag of groceries in his hand, and his suit jacket soaked through with rain. “How did you—” “I looked up your address.” His voice was gentle. “You’re living here?” Susie said nothing. She was renting the top-floor unit in an old building — no elevator, dim hallways, paint peeling off the walls in patches. After the divorce, Henry had transferred the ownership of their house, the car, and every last dollar of their savings to somewhere else. This was all she could afford. William looked into her eyes, his throat felt tight. “Susie. I’m sorry.” “Sorry for what?” “Sorry I didn’t protect you.” He stepped inside, and when he spotted the child sitting on the couch, his footsteps faltered. “Is that… Willson?” Susie shifted her body to block his view. “Leave.” “I’m not leaving.” William set the bag down and crouched, staring at the boy’s face. “He looks just like me. Susie, you can’t lie to me.” Susie bit her lip, her eyes burning red. “William, enough. You walked out on me without a single word, without any explanation. And now you just show up at my door — you think that makes it better?” William stood up, his voice was rough. “My dad was seriously ill back then. I didn’t want you suffering alongside me. I thought—” “You thought I’d wait for you?” Susie let out a cold laugh. “And while I was waiting, Henry and Lena gutted my family’s company. While I was waiting, they told me to get rid of the baby and crushed me under their feet.” William grabbed her hand. “Susie, I know everything. For three years, I’ve been keeping tabs on it all. I know what Henry did to you. I know how Lena treated you.” “Then why didn’t you come back sooner?” “I was afraid.” William dropped to his knees in front of her, his voice breaking. “I was afraid you’d hate me. Afraid you wouldn’t forgive me.” Susie looked at him, tears streaming down her face. “William, I do hate you. I hate you for making me carry all of this alone for three years.” “I know.” William clutched the hem of her skirt. “So give me the chance to make it right. Susie, starting today, I won’t let you carry anything alone ever again.” Susie looked at him in silence. Finally, she picked up the child, turned, and walked inside, leaving only one sentence behind. “William, focus on building the Luis Group first.” The door shut. William knelt outside, listening to the baby’s cries drifting through the door, and Susie’s choked, trembling voice trying to soothe them. He clenched his fists, his eyes burning red. “Just wait, William,” he whispered to himself. “Everything I owe her — I will pay it back.”

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