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Bianca and I were locked in a staring contest when that metallic, grating voice echoed in our heads, demanding we make a choice. I’m the Shadow Reaper; she’s the Light Reaper. Because our soul-collection quotas were essentially breaking the scales of the Underworld, some bottom-tier “Domestic Goddess System” decided to hijack us. The options it presented were a joke. Choice A: Marry a billionaire but live a strictly “split-the-check” lifestyle. Choice B: Become a blue-collar girl drowning in ten million dollars of debt. The System clearly thought we’d claw each other’s eyes out for Choice A. It expected a display of greed, a hunger for the high life. Instead, Bianca shoved me aside with a dramatic flourish. “I’ll take A! I’m a delicate flower, I can’t handle manual labor. This cushy gig is mine!” The System hissed with mechanical satisfaction. [Light Reaper has successfully bound to Scenario A. Shadow Reaper is automatically assigned the Debt-Ridden Scullery Maid script.] Then, it whispered in my ear with a synthesized sneer: [Do you see? This is human nature. Thousands of years as partners, and she betrays you for a paycheck. Disgusting.] I kept my mouth shut, burying the smirk that threatened to twitch at the corners of my lips. This idiotic System didn’t understand a thing. The “split-the-check” lifestyle this billionaire practiced wasn’t just stingy—it was psychotic. In his world, the wife pays “rent” for doing housework. If she gets pregnant and misses work, she has to reimburse him for the lost productivity. Bianca wasn’t going there to be a wife. She was going there to conduct a manual audit of his soul. She was carrying the “Karmic Ledger,” the most potent tool in the Veil. If that man tried to nickel-and-dime her for a single cent, she’d shave a decade off his life for every transaction. As for me? I glanced at my “Debt-Ridden” script. The creditor’s name? Benson Caldwell. The very same billionaire. Nice move, partner. We were hitting him from both ends. If we didn’t squeeze the marrow out of this miser’s bones by the time we were done, we’d be a disgrace to the Reapers. … The moment I looked down to hide my smile, the System’s voice boomed in my mind. [Detection: Host Nina Blackwood is showing a passive attitude and non-compliant emotions. Administering Level One Electric Shock!] Zzzzzzt— A bolt of lightning surged down my spine, exploding into my nerve endings. I gritted my teeth, clutching the hem of my shirt until my knuckles turned white. This goddamn Domestic Goddess System. It wasn’t just blind; it played dirty. Before I could even catch my breath as the current faded, the world around me dissolved. When I opened my eyes, the cold, comforting mist of the Underworld was gone. In its place was the stench of damp rot and mildew. Bang! The rusted iron door of the basement was kicked open. Three men with full-sleeve tattoos swaggered in. The leader was twirling a heavy rubber truncheon in his hand. “Nina Blackwood, right? You think you can hide? You really thought you could dodge Mr. Caldwell’s money?” I narrowed my eyes as the memories of this “identity” flooded my brain. This version of me was a fresh college grad who’d taken out a predatory loan to pay for her brother’s terminal illness. With the interest, it had spiraled into a staggering ten million dollars. And the man holding the leash was Benson Caldwell. “Talk! You deaf?” When I didn’t answer, the man swung the truncheon, catching me hard on the shoulder. Pain flared, a dull throb that made my vision swim. My gaze went icy. [Warning! Host must maintain the ‘Humble Debtor’ persona. Use of supernatural force is strictly prohibited. Violation will result in immediate erasure!] The System’s red lights flashed frantically in my mind. I took a shaky breath and recoiled, pressing my back against the moldy wall. “I… I don’t have the money.” “No money?” The leader laughed, pulling a contract from his jacket. “Then you pay with your life. Mr. Caldwell says the Caldwell Group is short on janitors. Sign this, and you’ll work off the debt. Interest is zero point five percent—daily. If you don’t finish paying, you don’t leave. Ever.” I scanned the document. It wasn’t a labor contract; it was a bill of sale. No benefits, no insurance, abysmal wages, and every cent earned was automatically garnished. It even charged for “equipment wear and tear” and “oxygen consumption.” This was the Miser King’s handiwork, no doubt about it. With a trembling hand, I signed the name. The man smirked, tucking the paper away. “Smart girl. Six a.m. tomorrow, Caldwell Tower. Every minute you’re late, we add ten grand to the principal.” Once they left, I leaned against the wall and exhaled a cloud of frustration. To “motivate” me, the System decided to project a live feed of the other side directly into my brain. The screen in my mind showed a luxury sedan pulling into the most expensive estate on the outskirts of the city. My best friend, Bianca Frost, was standing in a gilded living room, looking intentionally awkward in an ill-fitting designer gown. Sitting across from her on a leather sofa was Benson Caldwell. He held a thick stack of papers, his expression as cold as a morgue. “Ms. Frost, if we are to be married, we need to establish the ground rules.” He tossed the documents onto the coffee table. “This is the Pre-Nup and the Post-Marital Cost-Sharing Manifesto. One hundred and twenty-eight clauses.” Bianca stared at the sheer volume of the stack, her lip twitching. “One hundred… and twenty-eight?” “Correct.” Benson’s long fingers tapped the mahogany surface. “I don’t support parasites. Water, electricity, groceries, HOA fees, and even toilet paper consumption will be split fifty-fifty. Since you currently have no income, I will front these costs at market interest rates. You will work off the balance through domestic labor.” Bianca’s eyes widened. “Work it off? What am I, the maid?” “Ms. Frost, watch your tone,” Benson frowned. “This is the epitome of modern female independence. You expected a free ride? I’m afraid the Caldwell family doesn’t do charity.” Bianca looked like she wanted to flip the table. She was the Light Reaper. She’d spent millennia being worshipped and feared; she wasn’t built for this kind of disrespect. However, the System shrieked: [Warning! Host must maintain the ‘Gold-digging Trophy Wife’ persona. Accept the agreement or face Level Two Electric Shock!] In the feed, Bianca’s body stiffened. She gritted her teeth and picked up the pen. “Fine… I’ll sign.” Benson offered a thin, surgical smile. “Excellent. By the way, tonight’s dinner ingredients cost eighteen hundred dollars. Your share is nine hundred. I’ve started a ledger for you.” I watched the scene, my fingers tracing the cracks in the basement wall. Benson Caldwell. What a charming little accountant you are. You better pray your soul is made of sturdier stuff than your balance sheet, because we’re about to bankrupt you in ways you can’t imagine. The System forced me awake before dawn. [Attention, Host! One hour until your shift begins. Please depart immediately. Work diligently to repay your debt!] I dragged my malnourished body to the Caldwell Tower, arriving just before six. I was assigned to the maintenance department. My official title? Restroom Technician. My supervisor was a middle-aged woman with sharp, triangular eyes that raked over me with pure disdain. “So you’re the one who owes Mr. Caldwell ten million?” She threw a sour-smelling uniform at my face. “You’ve got the face of a home-wrecker, no wonder you’re in deep. Get changed! Scrub every toilet on this floor. If I catch a whiff of anything unpleasant, I’m docking you two hundred.” I silently picked up the uniform and went to the supply closet. The restrooms were a disaster zone—clearly sabotaged. Water and muddy footprints covered the floor, and the stalls were… unspeakable. I grabbed the mop, and the System chimed in: [Detection: Host is undergoing labor reform. Please maintain a smile and demonstrate the positive spirit of the working class!] I forced a grimace that looked more like a snarl and started scrubbing. While I was on my knees, digging grime out of the tile grout, a pair of bespoke Italian leather shoes appeared in my field of vision. I looked up the sharp crease of the trousers to meet Benson Caldwell’s eyes. He was flanked by a group of executives in tailored suits, all of them looking at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of their shoes. “This is the one?” Benson’s voice was like ice. The supervisor hurried over. “Yes, Mr. Caldwell. This is her. She’s slow, but we’re breaking her in.” Benson gave a cold laugh. He lifted his foot and ground his sole into the patch of floor I had just cleaned, leaving a heavy, black smear. “Typical bottom-feeder,” he mused. “The stench of poverty follows her like a shadow. You can smell it from across the hall.” The executives chuckled obediently. My knuckles turned white around the scrub brush. [Warning: Endure! Resistance will result in mission failure!] I took a breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Caldwell. I’ll clean it up immediately.” Benson pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his fingers, and dropped it onto the wet floor. “Clean it? You aren’t even worth the tile you’re kneeling on. That handkerchief cost three thousand dollars. You’ve offended my sight. Add it to her tab.” He turned and swept away with his entourage. I stared at his retreating back and flicked on my “Spectral Sight.” Above Benson’s head, the golden aura of his immense wealth was being strangled by a creeping, black fog. That was karmic debt. And that debt was growing with every cruel word, every act of exploitation, visible to my eyes even if he was blind to it. “Three thousand dollars,” I whispered, picking up the handkerchief and tossing it into the bucket of filthy water. “Benson Caldwell, the Underworld is keeping receipts.” Meanwhile, the System switched the feed back to Bianca. She was currently wearing an apron, shoveling dirt in the middle of a massive estate garden. Benson had decided that grocery costs were “inflated,” and in the spirit of their “partnership,” she was required to grow her own vegetables. He was charging her interest on the seeds he “lent” her. “Faster, Ms. Frost,” the butler said, standing in the shade with a stopwatch. “Mr. Caldwell said that if the lady of the house can’t handle a little yard work, she doesn’t deserve to eat his rice. If this patch isn’t finished today, your water bill for dinner will double.” Bianca was drenched in sweat, her manicured hands covered in mud. She was a Reaper! For three thousand years, she had carried the Staff of Mourning and the Soul-Hook. She had never touched a shovel in her life. [Warning! Light Reaper’s emotional levels are critical. Murderous intent detected! Please calm down. You are a ‘Virtuous Wife.’ A wife is patient and hardworking!] Bianca looked like she wanted to bite through her own tongue. She slammed the shovel into the earth. “Fine! I’ll plant it! I’ll plant enough to bury all you bloodsuckers!” she screamed internally, though her face wore a tight, pained smile. “Of course, Butler. I’ll work harder.” That night, Benson came home. He sat at the head of the dining table with a wagyu steak and a glass of vintage red. In front of Bianca sat a bowl of plain, watery noodles. “Today’s ingredient budget was exceeded,” Benson said, slicing his steak. “Since you have no income, you get the basics. The noodles are fifty dollars—after all, I employ a Michelin-starred chef, and his labor isn’t cheap.” Bianca looked at the bowl. Her stomach let out a pathetic growl. “Benson… could I at least have an egg?” she asked, her voice trembling with forced humility. Benson stopped eating and looked at her. “An egg? Ms. Frost, you need to learn contentment. Do you know what an organic egg costs these days? Five dollars. Add in the preparation, the gas, and the wear on the plate, and that’s twenty dollars. Do you have twenty dollars?” Bianca was silent. She had no money. Her Underworld currency was useless here, and the System had locked her powers. “Then shut up and eat your noodles,” Benson huffed. “And wash the dishes when you’re done. Don’t use more than three drops of soap. Water flow stays at level one. Otherwise, there’s a fine.” Bianca lowered her head, shoving the overpriced noodles into her mouth. Tears hit the broth, making it saltier. She was screaming in my head: [Nina! Nina! I’m going to kill him! I’m going to drag him to the eighteenth level of hell and loop his torment on repeat!] I replied from my cramped janitor’s bunk: [Patience. Let him play his games. The harder he plays, the harder he falls.] I was hungry too, but I was looking at the shredded documents I’d scavenged from Benson’s trash earlier. They contained the Caldwell Group’s darkest secrets. Benson’s cruelty didn’t just persist; it escalated. A week later, it was the annual Metropolis Charity Gala. Bianca was required to attend, but Benson refused to provide a dress. “You’re my wife, you represent the Caldwell name. But you’re the one wearing the clothes, so you pay for them.” Penniless, Bianca was forced to wear a gown she’d fashioned out of an old maid’s uniform. I was hauled to the gala as “temporary help.” My job wasn’t serving drinks. I was a human side-table. The ballroom was a sea of gold and silk. I was dressed in a cheap, high-slit dress, forced to kneel on the plush carpet next to Benson’s VIP booth, my arms raised high, holding a heavy silver tray laden with expensive wine and fruit. My knees throbbed. My arms were numb. But the System warned me: one wobble, one slip, and I’d get a Level One shock. Benson sat on the leather sofa, his arm around a woman dripping in diamonds and haute couture. It was his “Untouchable Muse,” the famous starlet Serena Valentine. “Benson, is this really your new wife?” Serena pointed at Bianca, giggling behind her hand. “She looks like a beggar. How embarrassing for you.” Benson glanced at Bianca with total indifference. “She’s a roommate I share a contract with. She needs discipline. She thought marrying into money meant a free ride. She needs to learn how hard it is to earn a living.” Bianca gripped her skirt until her knuckles turned white. The guests whispered and snickered. Serena’s eyes then fell on me. “Oh, this tray is so… unique,” she purred, reaching out to take a glass from my tray. As her fingers touched the crystal, she intentionally flicked her wrist. Splash— A full glass of red wine soaked my face and chest. “Oops! My hand slipped!” Serena cried out theatrically. “Why were you holding it so unstable? You’ve ruined my view. Can you even afford the dry cleaning for this atmosphere?” Before I could speak, Benson’s boot connected with my shoulder. “Useless!” I tumbled backward, the tray clattering as everything shattered on the floor. Benson stood over me, pointing a finger. “This carpet is handmade Persian silk. This section alone is worth fifty thousand. Add Serena’s distress fee and the price of the wine, and that’s two million. Put it on her tab.” I lay on the glass-strewn floor, my palms sliced open. I looked up, staring straight at Benson. At that moment, Bianca broke. She lunged forward, trying to help me up. “This is too much! She did it on purpose!” Slap! Benson’s backhand sent Bianca reeling. “Silence!” He stepped on Bianca’s hand as she tried to push herself up. “In this house, money is the law. Do you have money? No? Then stay on your knees.” [Warning! Light Reaper is attempting to attack the Male Lead. Initiating Body Control Protocol: Kneel and Apologize!] Bianca’s body jerked, her limbs locking into a forced, robotic motion. Slowly, she was forced down until she was kneeling before Benson and Serena. Her eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated humiliation. “I’m… sorry,” she forced out through clenched teeth. Serena smiled triumphantly. “Benson, you’re so masculine. A real man of principle.” Benson looked down at both of us. “Remember this. This is the fate of the poor. You want dignity? Try being born rich in your next life.” The System’s voice chimed in: [Ding! New Mission: Reform Benson Caldwell. Make him feel the ‘Warmth and Inclusion of a Home.’ Reward: $500 debt reduction.] Bianca and I locked eyes. In that split second, we saw the same thing: an ocean of blood. Reform him? Fine. We’d give him a “warmth” he’d never forget. After the gala, Benson used the “contract violation” as an excuse to strip Bianca of her last few pieces of jewelry, including a ring left by her mother. I was thrown into the damp, dark basement of the villa for “reflection.” But in that darkness, I smelled something familiar. The scent of restless souls. I opened my Spectral Sight. In the walls and beneath the floorboards, I saw them: distorted spirits sealed in concrete. The Caldwell fortune wasn’t built on genius; it was built on a foundation of bones. No wonder he needed to siphoning our luck—he was running out of his own. Benson Caldwell, your invoice is due.

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It was April Fool’s Day, and a stupid game with friends turned south. The penalty for losing was a “dare”: I had to text the person at the top of my contact list and ask to borrow money. I didn’t think twice. I pulled up my messages with Nicole and typed: “Hey, can you Venmo me fifty bucks for dinner?” Nicole had always been generous, the kind of woman who didn’t blink at a three-figure bar tab. I expected a quick transfer and a playful jab. Instead, she took a screenshot of my request and posted it to her Instagram Stories. The caption read: “And they say chivalry isn’t dead. Imagine being a man who has to beg his girl for fifty bucks. #DeadbeatStatus #GetAJob.” My blood ran cold. I called her immediately, my voice trembling with indignation. She picked up on the third ring, her tone maddeningly dismissive. “Relax,” she said, her voice airy. “Parker had my phone. He’s just a kid, Jackson. He was being playful for April Fool’s. He didn’t mean anything by it. I’ll make him apologize, okay? I’ve got a meeting. Bye.” The line went dead. Seconds later, I saw Parker—her twenty-something “executive assistant”—update his own Story. It was a selfie of him grinning, Nicole’s designer bag visible in the background. The text overlay said: “Accidentally cyber-bullied the boss’s husband. Oops! Good thing the boss loves me too much to stay mad. I better watch out or she might have to ‘punish’ me again. Sorry, Mr. Boss Man! ;)” It wasn’t an apology; it was a territorial marking. It was a slap in the face. I didn’t scream. I didn’t type out a furious reply. I simply tapped the little heart icon on his post, a silent acknowledgment of the war he’d declared. Then, I whispered to the empty room, to the woman who was currently cooing at a boy on the other end of a silent line: “The engagement is off. You can have him.” 1. “What did you just say?” Nicole’s voice dropped an octave, the playful chatter of the boy in the background suddenly cut short. I opened my mouth to repeat it, but Parker’s voice chirped in before I could. “Oh my god, Nicole, it’s April Fool’s! He’s totally messing with you. Everyone at the firm knows his family’s real estate empire went bust. He’s not going anywhere—where would he go? He knows a golden goose when he sees one.” I heard the audible sigh of relief through the speaker. Nicole’s tension evaporated. “Since when did you start making jokes about breaking up?” she asked, her tone returning to that patronizing lilt. “Stop being dramatic. I’m busy. Go out with your friends, have a good time. Put it on my card.” She hung up. In the past, my friends would have cheered, calling her a “boss babe” who spoiled me. But today, they sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at their drinks. They remembered how, when my father’s business first collapsed, Nicole was the one who threatened to ruin anyone who called me a “gold digger.” She used to say she hated the way people looked at our bank accounts instead of our hearts. She told me she wanted me to feel safe with her, unburdened by the shadow of my family’s debt. And now, she wasn’t just letting someone else say those things—she was handing him the keys to her digital life. She had given him the intimacy that used to be mine alone. Looking back, I realized the rot had been setting in for a while. But Nicole and I… we had history. When we were skiing in the Swiss Alps and that shelf of snow gave way, she hadn’t let go of my hand. She had risked her life to pull me into that crevice, saving us both from the avalanche. I told her then that she had a “get out of jail free” card for life. No matter what happened, I owed her a chance. I decided to go home. I wanted to talk, to find the woman I’d almost died with. But when I walked into our penthouse, my heart hit the floor. Parker was sitting on our Italian leather sofa, wearing a silk robe and one of my custom-formulated charcoal face masks. The mask was part of a private clinical set Nicole had commissioned specifically for my skin sensitivity. It was personal. It was ours. Nicole looked up from her laptop, seeing my frown. “He’s staying the night,” she said simply. “He lost a bet with his friends, and the dare was to find someone to take him in for the night. I figured, why not? We have the space.” My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. Years ago, my best friend from college got kicked out of his apartment after a messy breakup. I’d asked if he could crash in the guest room for a few days. Nicole had thrown a fit, claiming she “hated having strangers in her sanctuary.” She told me this house was a collection of our exclusive memories, and she didn’t want anyone else’s energy staining it. I had never invited anyone over since. I took a deep breath. “I don’t want him here, Nicole. Tell him to leave, or I will.” 2. Nicole blinked, startled by the steel in my voice. She reached out to grab my hand, but Parker beat her to the punch. “Hey, man, look,” Parker said, his eyes welling up with practiced vulnerability. “You’ve lost everything. You’re more alone than I am. Don’t get upset because of me. If I’m the problem, I’ll go. I’ll just find a bench somewhere.” He looked at Nicole, a single tear escaping. “I’m so sorry, Nicole. I overstepped. I’ll leave right now.” Nicole’s hand snapped to his wrist, holding him in place. “You’re not going anywhere,” she snapped. Then she turned to me, her eyes flashing with disappointment. “This is my house, Jackson. I pay the mortgage. If I say he stays, he stays.” “Nicole—” “I know you’re still sensitive about the Instagram thing,” she interrupted. “But your jealousy is showing, and it’s pathetic. We are colleagues. You don’t need to try and ‘alpha’ him to prove your worth to me. If you can’t handle being a grown-up, go for a walk. I’m not stopping you.” I looked at her, truly seeing her for the first time in months. Back in college, Nicole was a human lie detector. She could spot a “pick-me” guy from a mile away and would shut them down with brutal efficiency if they ever tried to undermine me. Now, her own assistant was mocking me to my face, and she was calling it “competition.” She was gaslighting me in the home she once promised would be my refuge. “We’re done,” I said, the words feeling like shards of glass in my throat. “And you’re right. I should leave.” I packed a single suitcase, ignoring the burn of tears in my eyes. As I reached the front door, I heard their voices drifting from the living room. “Nicole, are you sure? Did you really just kick him out for me?” There was a two-second pause. “He just needs to clear his head,” Nicole said, her voice sounding bored. “He’ll realize soon enough that he has no other options. Without me, he’s nothing. A little reality check will do his ego some good.” My heart gave one final, agonizing throb. She didn’t know. My father had called me last week. The offshore venture we thought was dead had been acquired by a tech giant. Our family was back in the top tier of the Fortune 500. I had planned to surprise her at the engagement party—to silence the critics who called her a “sugar mama.” But the first person to look down on me was her. I booked a flight to London for three days from now. If she wanted to be rid of the “deadbeat,” I would oblige her. I posted a short status: The engagement is officially canceled. My phone blew up. Most people thought it was an April Fool’s prank. I didn’t reply to any of them. The next morning, a text from Nicole popped up: [Going through with the act, are we? Fine. Bring the ring to the office. Give it back.] I didn’t hesitate. I caught a cab to her headquarters. When I walked in, the receptionist—a woman who used to bring me coffee and call me “Mr. Todd”—looked right through me. “You’ll need to make an appointment, sir. Please wait in the lobby.” The first move of her “reality check.” She wanted me to feel the loss of my status. I considered leaving the ring at the desk, but I couldn’t. The diamond was a vintage heirloom from her mother. Her mother had loved me, and even if Nicole had forgotten who I was, I owed that memory a dignified end. I waited for an hour. When I finally was called in, I opened the door and was immediately hit by a bucket of ice-cold water. I stood there, drenched, shivering, as Parker burst into laughter, holding an empty janitorial pail. “Sorry, man!” Parker giggled. “Where I’m from, we have a tradition. If you say something ‘unlucky’ on April Fool’s, you have to get doused to wash away the bad juju so the universe doesn’t take you seriously.” I looked at Nicole. She was sitting behind her mahogany desk, watching me with a smirk that bordered on affection. No anger. No reprimand. “There,” she said. “You’ve had your little tantrum, and Parker got his revenge for you being mean to him last night. Are we done? You’re not seriously giving the ring back, Jackson. I don’t have time to shop for a new fiancé.” She thought a few pretty words and a “prank” would reset the clock. But looking at her now, I felt a deep, visceral surge of disgust. I took the ring box and threw it. It hit her square in the chest before bouncing onto the desk. “I’m not the one throwing things away, Nicole. I’m the one moving on.” 3. Nicole stiffened, her smirk vanishing. “Jackson, are you serious?” I took a shaky breath, the cold water seeping into my skin, but the fire in my chest was hotter. “Yes. I’ve never been more serious in my life.” Her eyes reddened instantly. “Fine! Go! Don’t you dare come crawling back when you realize the world doesn’t give a damn about a man with an empty bank account!” “I won’t,” I said. “I promise you that.” I walked out of that office like a drowned rat, feeling the weight of a dozen mocking stares from the staff. By noon, Nicole had updated her relationship status. She didn’t just announce the breakup; she announced a new engagement. To Parker. My feed was flooded with photos of them. Nicole taking him to a tailor for a custom tux. Nicole picking out a new ring. She was giving him the “royal treatment,” even skipping a global board meeting to be with him. The year before, I’d asked her to come with me to my final suit fitting. She’d stood me up, claiming a “client emergency.” I found out later through the office grapevine the client was just Parker wanting to go to a specific steakhouse. I’d told myself it was just business. I had been so blind. I was about to turn off my phone when a message came from an unknown number. [Hey big brother, I accidentally broke this old watch. Nicole said it was just some junk you left behind and told me to throw it out. Thought you might want to dig it out of the trash.] Attached was a photo. My heart stopped. It was the vintage pocket watch my grandparents had given Nicole before they passed. It was their most prized possession, a symbol of their blessing for our marriage. I drove to the bridal boutique like a madman. When I burst in, I found Nicole surrounded by her friends. They were drinking champagne, looking at me with predatory amusement. “I told you he’d show up,” one of them laughed. “He doesn’t care about a watch. He just can’t stand being replaced.” I ignored them, my eyes locked on Nicole. “Where is the watch? Give it back to me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that really what you want to talk about right now?” I didn’t answer. I stepped toward her, reaching for the pocket of her blazer where I saw a metallic glint. Before my hand even touched her lapel—SLAP. My head snapped to the side. My cheek stung with a fierce, throbbing heat. Parker was standing there, rubbing his hand, his eyes wide and watery. “Nicole is my fiancée now. You can’t just put your hands on her, man. It’s disrespectful.” I looked at Nicole, waiting for the old her to emerge, for her to scream at him for touching me. Instead, she slid an arm around Parker’s waist and pulled him close. “He’s right,” she said coldly. “I am his now. Know your place, Jackson.” The room erupted in sharp, jagged laughter. “The little drama queen has no one left!” someone jeered. I swallowed the bile in my throat. “Fine. I’ll keep my distance. Just give me the watch. It belonged to my grandparents. It’s for the woman I’m going to marry, and that isn’t you.” Parker smirked. “Too late. It’s broken, so I tossed it in the dumpster out back.” Nicole frowned slightly, but she didn’t contradict him. I spent the next two hours in the blistering sun, digging through a commercial dumpster. The Nicole I knew once lost her own necklace in a park and cried for two days until I found it in the rain. This Nicole stood in the air-conditioned boutique, watching me through the glass with clinical indifference. When I finally gave up, covered in filth and heartbreak, Parker walked out of the store. He held the watch between two fingers, crinkling his nose in mock disgust, and dropped it into a pile of literal garbage at my feet. “Oh, oops! Found it. Sorry you spent two hours digging for nothing. My bad!” I snapped. I lunged forward and slapped him—hard. “You little piece of—” I didn’t finish the sentence. Nicole was there in a flash, shoving me backward with a force that sent me sprawling onto the pavement. “Enough!” she screamed. “He was playing a joke! It’s April Fool’s, for god’s sake! Why do you have to be so miserable? You’re lucky I don’t call the cops for assault!” She helped Parker up and led him to her car, never once looking back at my scraped, bleeding palms. I thought she was just venting. But when I got back to my hotel, two police officers were waiting for me. “Mr. Todd? We received a report of a physical assault in public. You’re coming with us.” 4. At the station, Nicole was holding an ice pack to Parker’s cheek. She looked at me with a face made of stone. “This is intentional harm,” she told the officer. “My fiancé has a mild concussion. I want to press charges. No settlements. I want the full three days of detention, the fine, and a public apology.” The pain in my head from the fall was getting worse. “They started it! He destroyed my property! Check the boutique’s security cameras!” But when they pulled the footage, it had been “cleaned.” The record showed me entering, standing around, and leaving. The incident with the water and the dumpster was nowhere to be found. Nicole had deleted the evidence. The officer shook his head. “If they won’t settle and you have no proof, my hands are tied.” I looked at the paperwork: three days in county jail, a $2,000 fine, and a court-ordered apology. My phone buzzed. A text from Nicole. [You care so much about your pride. If you apologize to him in front of my friends, I’ll drop this.] [You don’t want a criminal record following you around when you’re trying to find someone else to take care of you, do you?] I let out a jagged, hysterical laugh. Tears finally spilled over. “Officer,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’ll take the three days.” Nicole’s jaw dropped. “Jackson! Don’t be a martyr. Just say you’re sorry!” “I am sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I ever met you.” She grabbed Parker’s arm and stormed past me. As she went, she intentionally clipped my shoulder, sending me stumbling. My lower back hit the heavy metal door handle of the precinct. A sharp, white-hot spark of pain shot up my spine. I instinctively reached out, grabbing the hem of her coat to steady myself. She didn’t show concern. She didn’t flinch. “Stop acting,” she hissed. “I’m not falling for your pathetic plays for sympathy anymore. You want to be tough? Be tough in a cell.” She ripped her coat out of my hand and walked away. I hit the floor hard. The world began to tilt and fade. I woke up in a hospital bed. A concussion and a localized spinal contusion. The officer who escorted me looked sympathetic. “We need to contact your family or your emergency contact to settle the discharge.” “No,” I said, clutching the thin hospital blanket. “I’ll handle it myself.” I spent three days in that hospital under “custodial supervision.” I used the time to rebook my flight. The moment my time was up, I headed straight for the airport. As I sat in the back of the Uber, a message arrived. [I’m at the station to pick you up. I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Come out so we can go home.] I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, deleted every photo of us, and gripped my grandfather’s pocket watch—now dented but still ticking—as I boarded the plane to London. Goodbye, Nicole. We’re done.

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It was parent-teacher night at the Pre-K. The teacher had asked the kids to draw a picture titled “My Family.” My daughter, Megan, had drawn two houses. The teacher, smiling, asked her why she drew two homes. Megan said, “Mommy’s house has a puppy. My house doesn’t.” I was standing in the doorway of the classroom, holding a paper plate of cookies I’d brought for the staff. I froze. A few other parents glanced at me. I forced a polite, tight smile, walked in, and set the cookies on the teacher’s desk. On the drive home, Megan was singing in the backseat. I kept looking at her in the rearview mirror. The streetlights washed over her small, innocent face. I asked her, keeping my voice light, “Sweetie, where is Mommy’s other house?” She answered easily, kicking her little legs. “It’s near Grandma’s. It has a white door.” She even held up her hands to show me how big the door was. When my wife, Nicole, got home that night, I didn’t mention it. After she got out of the shower, I handed her Megan’s drawing. “The teacher said she did a great job today,” I said. Nicole took the paper. Her eyes scanned it, her fingers stalling for just a fraction of a second. Then, she laughed. “Kids draw the craziest things. Don’t read too much into it.” The next day, I took a half-day off work. I drove to the neighborhood where my mother-in-law lived, slowly cruising the streets until I found it. A brick duplex. With a white door. 1. I stood on the sidewalk beneath that building for twenty minutes. On the second-floor balcony, clothes were hanging on a drying rack. A floral sundress. A men’s button-down shirt. And a toddler’s onesie. I recognized the sundress. I bought it for Nicole last year for our anniversary. She told me it was too tight around the shoulders and that she had donated it. I took out my phone, snapped a photo, and zoomed in on the children’s clothing. Judging by the size, it belonged to a kid who was maybe a year old. Megan was four. Leaning against the driver’s side door of my car, I stared at the photo. I looked at it three times, memorizing every pixel, before I locked my screen and drove home. On the way, I called my friend Brooke. “Daniel, you sound awful. What’s going on?” she asked immediately. “I’m fine. I just need a favor,” I said, gripping the steering wheel. “You work in title insurance and escrow. Can you look up the deed history on a specific property for me?” “Sure. Who are we looking up?” “Nicole. My wife.” She went dead silent for two full seconds. “Give me the address,” she said softly. “I’ll call you back.” At four-thirty, I picked Megan up from Pre-K. She came skipping out of the double doors, clutching a lollipop. “Daddy! Ms. Higgins said I’m the best drawer in the whole class.” “Is that right? You’re so talented, bug.” “Daddy, next time I’m gonna draw you. I’ll draw you and the puppy.” “What puppy, sweetie? Daddy doesn’t know about a puppy.” “The puppy at Mommy’s house! He’s white and fluffy and his tail wags super fast. Mommy says his name is Marshmallow.” I knelt down on the pavement to tie her shoe. My fingers were trembling so badly I could barely loop the laces. “How many times has Mommy taken you to that house, Megan?” She counted on her little fingers. “A lot of times! Grandma takes me, and Mommy is there too.” “Grandma goes there too?” “Uh-huh. Grandma cooks dinner there. And there’s a man there, too.” “What kind of man?” “A tall man. He gave me strawberries.” I pulled the laces tight and stood up. My knees felt like water. Nicole got home early that evening, carrying a brown paper bag. “Whole Foods had a sale on Clementines,” she called out, setting them on the counter. I was at the stove, stirring pasta sauce. I didn’t turn around. “Did Megan finish her tracing homework?” she asked. “She did. She’s watching cartoons.” She walked up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her chin on my shoulder. “You work so hard for us, babe.” In the past, when she hugged me like this, I would lean back into her. Today, I stood entirely rigid. During dinner, Megan was a chatterbox. “Mommy, did Marshmallow get bigger? He looks fat.” Nicole’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. “Who’s Marshmallow, honey? Mommy doesn’t know.” “The fluffy white doggy!” Nicole shot a glance at me. I kept my head down, shoveling food into my mouth, my face a total blank. “You’re confused, sweetie,” Nicole said smoothly. “That’s Grandma’s neighbor’s dog.” Megan tilted her head. “But Grandma said it’s our very own doggy.” Nicole chuckled. “Grandma was just teasing you. Eat your chicken.” I picked up a piece of broccoli and put it on Megan’s plate. I didn’t say a single word. That night, when she went into the bathroom to wash her face, I took her phone from the nightstand. She used FaceID, but I knew her backup passcode. It was Megan’s birthdate. In her texts, there were three pinned threads. Me. Her mother. And a name: Travis. I tapped it. The most recent message was from 2:00 PM today. Travis: Marshmallow threw up again. Can you grab some chicken and rice on your way home? Nicole: Sure. But I probably can’t stay tonight. Travis: You’re not coming home again? Nicole: Megan has school stuff going on. I need to be here for her. Travis: Fine. But the baby misses you. You haven’t been here in three days. The baby. I scrolled up. A month ago. Travis had sent a video of a toddler sitting on a playmat, clapping his hands and babbling “Mama.” Nicole had replied with a heart-eyes emoji. I kept scrolling. Three months ago. Travis: The paperwork is done. I’ll show you later. Nicole: Good. Make sure he has my last name. Travis: I double-checked. The name looks good on paper. I backed out of the thread, locked the phone, and placed it exactly where I found it. The sound of the bathroom faucet running echoed in the quiet bedroom. She was humming a pop song. I sat on the edge of the mattress, my hands resting on my knees, my fingers twitching. It didn’t hurt. I couldn’t feel anything at all. I got up and walked down the hall to Megan’s room. She was fast asleep. I pulled her duvet up to her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She shifted in her sleep and mumbled, “Daddy… I want a puppy.” I quietly closed her door and went back to the master bedroom. Nicole came out, drying her hair with a towel. She saw me sitting on the bed, staring blankly at the wall. “What’s wrong? You feel sick?” “No,” I said. “Just a long day.” “Get some sleep, then. Don’t stay up too late.” She climbed into bed, set her alarm on her phone, rolled over, and was asleep in two minutes. I lay in the dark, my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. This woman had another man. She had another child. She had an entirely different home. And her mother didn’t just know about it—she took my daughter there to visit. The whole world knew. Except me. 2. The next morning, as Nicole was putting on her shoes in the foyer, I called out to her. “Nat, does your firm have any big off-sites coming up?” She didn’t look up from her heels. “Why the sudden interest?” “I was thinking of dropping Megan off at my mom’s for the weekend. Just the two of us could take a trip. A little getaway.” She stood up and smoothed her skirt. “Work is a madhouse right now. Let’s talk about it when this quarter wraps up.” “What exactly are you working on that’s draining you so much?” “Just a massive merger file. I’m stuck at the office every night.” She grabbed her keys and walked out. I stood in the hallway, listening to the deadbolt click. Last Wednesday, she said she was pulling an all-nighter at the office until 11:00 PM. I had checked her car’s GPS app—it had been parked near her mother’s street since 7:00 PM. The Friday before that, she claimed she was at a mandatory team-building dinner. I checked our credit card statement. The charge that night was at a BuyBuy Baby. Megan was four. She hadn’t needed anything from BuyBuy Baby in years. After dropping Megan at school, I didn’t head to the office. I drove straight to my mother-in-law’s house. Helen looked surprised when she opened the door. “Daniel? Why aren’t you at work?” “I took the morning off. Thought I’d drop by and see you.” I held up a box of pastries from her favorite bakery. Helen ushered me into the kitchen and poured me a cup of coffee. “Helen,” I said, keeping my voice conversational. “Megan told me yesterday that you take her over to a friend’s house nearby. A guy?” The coffee pot in Helen’s hand clattered against the ceramic mug. A dark splash stained the counter. “What guy? Kids just make up stories.” “She said he lives in the duplex down the street. The one with the white door. He has a little white dog.” Helen set the pot down and frantically grabbed a dish towel, wiping at the spill. “Oh, she must mean Gary downstairs. He has a dog.” “She said the man fed her strawberries.” Helen had her back to me. She wiped the exact same spot on the counter three times in a row. “Her memory is all jumbled up. Gary does grow strawberries on his patio.” I didn’t push it. I helped her wash the mugs, chatted about the weather, and left. Before I got in my car, I stood on the sidewalk and measured the distance. That duplex with the white door was less than a five-minute walk from Helen’s front porch. It was so close that if Helen stood on her balcony, she had a direct line of sight to the second-floor windows. I went back to my car, pulled out my laptop, and logged into the county property appraiser’s website. It’s public record in our state. I typed in the address. The duplex wasn’t a rental. It had been purchased fourteen months ago. The deed was listed under one name: Travis Miller. But right below it, in the financing section, there was no mortgage company listed. It was a cash sale. A cash sale. Nicole and I had a mortgage on our house. We paid $3,200 a month, and we still had twenty-two years left on the loan. She bought that man a house. In cash. I sat in the driver’s seat, my hands gripping the leather steering wheel until the leather creaked under my knuckles. In that exact moment, I wasn’t thinking about divorce. I wasn’t thinking about screaming. I wasn’t even thinking about kicking down that white door. I was thinking about how I budgeted my lunches every single day so I could afford Megan’s ballet classes, and wondering if that money even covered the cost of that damn dog’s food. At 2:00 PM, my phone buzzed. It was Brooke. Hey. I pulled the deep dive on your joint accounts like you asked. Her direct deposits from work are fine. But Daniel… last September, she liquidated her private stock options and took a massive withdrawal from the high-yield savings account you two rarely touch. $85,000. She wired it to an LLC. Eighty-five thousand dollars. Last September, she told me she got a massive bonus and wanted to use it to pay for her mother’s spinal surgery, out of pocket, so she could get the best surgeon. Her mom did have a bad back. But I had called the clinic out of curiosity back then—the out-of-pocket copay was barely ten grand. She used our savings and her bonus to buy him a house. I sat in my car until it was time to pick up Megan. As we walked back to the car, we passed a pet store window. Megan pressed her little hands against the glass, staring at a litter of puppies. “Daddy, look! That one looks exactly like Marshmallow!” “Do you want Daddy to buy you a puppy, Megan?” She gasped, her eyes going wide. “Really? You promise? No take-backs?” “I promise. But you have to promise Daddy something first.” “Anything! I promise!” “The next time Mommy takes you to that house, I want you to pay very close attention. When you come home, you tell Daddy exactly who was there and what they said. Can you do that?” She nodded vigorously and wrapped her arms around my legs. A four-year-old doesn’t know how to lie. She didn’t know that every little detail she brought back to me was a knife. And I, her father, was standing there, catching every single blade with my bare hands. That night, I cooked a huge dinner. Steak, roasted potatoes, asparagus. When Nicole walked in, she looked surprised. “Wow, what’s all this for?” “I’m just in a good mood,” I said smoothly. “Wanted to treat my girls.” “Did something happen at work?” “No. Just realizing how good life is right now.” She smiled, kicked off her heels, and sat down. Megan was swinging her legs under her booster seat. Out of nowhere, she asked, “Mommy, did Marshmallow like the squeaky toy you bought him?” Nicole’s fork froze again. This time, there was no smile. “Megan, Mommy told you, that’s Grandma’s neighbor’s dog. Stop bringing it up.” Her tone wasn’t a yell, but it was sharp. Hard. Megan’s bottom lip jutted out. She went quiet. I cut a piece of steak and put it on Megan’s plate. “Just eat, bug. No more talking.” Nicole looked at me. I met her gaze dead-on. She was the first one to look away. 3. For the next week, I didn’t say a word. I didn’t ask a single question. I went to work. I picked up my daughter. I cooked dinner. I kissed my wife good morning and good night. But I tore through every financial record in our house. Nicole made $14,000 a month after taxes. I realized she was only transferring 6,000 into our joint household account. The rest of it— 8,000 every single month—was being funneled into an external account. I traced the routing number. It belonged to Travis Miller. She had marked the recurring transfers as “Consulting Fees.” She also received quarterly commissions. Not a single cent of that had touched our joint account in three years. She was paying another man an $8,000 a month allowance. I dug up everything I could on Travis. He was three years younger than me. No LinkedIn. No registered employment. His Instagram was public—mostly geo-tagged within a two-mile radius of his duplex. He didn’t post much. Just aesthetic photos of his latte, some home-cooked meals, and captions like, Just another quiet Sunday. But I scrolled back to last spring. There was a photo of him sitting on a porch, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a hospital blanket. I cross-referenced the date with my own camera roll. That same day, I had taken Megan to the zoo. I had a photo of her eating cotton candy, sunburnt and happy. The same woman. Two families. My daughter at the zoo, his son on the porch. Parallel universes. I invited my mother-in-law out for lunch. “Helen, I need to ask you something straight,” I said as she sipped her iced tea. “Go ahead, Daniel. You know you can ask me anything.” “Is Nicole seeing someone else?” Her glass stopped inches from her mouth. Silence hung over the booth for five agonizing seconds. Then, she set the glass down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Daniel, who on earth has been feeding you this garbage?” “Megan told me everything last night.” Helen’s face shifted. The maternal warmth vanished, replaced by the deep, irritated panic of someone who realized the cover-up was failing. “You’re taking the word of a toddler? She doesn’t even know her left from her right.” “Helen, I went there. To the duplex. I saw the sundress I bought her hanging on the balcony.” Helen stopped talking. She set her fork down and stared out the diner window. When she finally spoke, her tone had completely changed. The denial was gone. “Daniel, I know you’re hurting right now. But you need to listen to me.” “Nicole is a good wife to you. You know that. She puts money in the joint account. She loves Megan.” I stared at her. “She wires that man eight thousand dollars a month.” Helen’s lips parted, but no sound came out. “Last year, she pulled eighty-five grand out of our savings. She bought him that house in cash. We have twenty-two years left on our mortgage.” Helen picked up her water glass and drank from it for a long, long time. “Travis treats her well,” she finally whispered. “Nicole works under so much pressure. She got suffocated here. You can’t blame a woman for needing room to breathe.” I laughed. It wasn’t a sound of amusement. “You knew, didn’t you? From the very beginning. Did this start three years ago when I was sent to the Chicago office for a month?” “Of course I knew.” Helen leaned forward, her voice urgent. “It’s been three years. Travis is a sweet boy. He pays attention to her. Ever since she met him, she’s had a spark back. She’s happy again.” She’s happy again. While I was at home, doing the laundry, meal-prepping, and giving our daughter baths, she was somewhere else, getting her spark back. When Megan was born, I sat in the hospital waiting room for twenty hours. When Nicole finally gave birth, she told her mother to stay in the room and told me to go home and shower. I thought she was just looking out for me because I looked exhausted. “Why did you take Megan to his house, Helen? What the hell is wrong with you?” “I was just taking the kid out for a walk! It’s good for her to be around people. Better than being cooped up.” Around people. I gripped my silverware so hard the veins in my hand bulged against the skin. “Helen. What exactly am I to you?” She sighed, looking deeply inconvenienced. “You are family, Daniel. Don’t make this a bigger tragedy than it is. Nicole isn’t abandoning you. She just had a momentary lapse in judgment regarding her feelings.” “Take a step back and think,” she continued, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “If you blow this up, what happens to Megan? Can you honestly raise a little girl all by yourself?” I stood up from the booth. “The check is paid, Helen. Enjoy your lunch.” “Daniel, sit down! Let me finish—” “I’ve heard everything I need to hear.” I grabbed my jacket and walked out of the diner. It had started pouring rain. I didn’t have an umbrella. I just stood in the parking lot, letting the freezing rain soak through my shirt. My phone vibrated. It was Nicole. “Hey babe,” she said cheerfully. “Some clients just flew in unexpectedly. We’re taking them to dinner. I’m going to be super late.” “Okay,” I said smoothly. “Have fun with your clients.” “Make sure Megan doesn’t eat too many snacks before dinner.” “I will. Don’t worry about us.” “Okay, gotta run. Love you.” I hung up the phone and got into my car. I sat there until it was time to pick up Megan. Sitting in the passenger seat was a bag of artisan coffee she had brought back from a “business trip to Seattle” last month. She had never been to Seattle. 4. When we got home, Megan sat on the living room rug to watch cartoons. I sat on the floor next to her, and she crawled into my lap. “Daddy, your shirt is all wet.” “Daddy got caught in the rain, bug.” She looked up at me with big, searching eyes. “Are you sad, Daddy?” A four-year-old knows nothing about the world, but they feel absolutely everything. “Daddy’s not sad. Daddy is just a little tired.” She put her tiny hands on my cheeks. “Smile for me, Daddy. Please?” I smiled. She leaned forward and pressed a wet, sloppy kiss to the tip of my nose. That night, I opened my laptop and created a new encrypted folder. Inside, I placed the screenshots of the wire transfers, the bank withdrawal history, the property tax records, and the photos of the duplex. For the next two weeks, I didn’t break character once. When Nicole said she had to work late, I told her not to push herself too hard. When she said she was going out of town, I packed her suitcase. I cooked. I smiled. I played the loving husband flawlessly. The only difference was that I began quietly moving my assets. I had a personal checking account from before we were married, with about $40,000 in it. I wire-transferred the entire balance to my mother. I took my expensive watches, my passport, and Megan’s birth certificate over to my mom’s house. “What are you doing with all this?” my mom asked, frowning at the lockbox. “Just keep it safe for me, Mom. There’s been a string of break-ins in our neighborhood.” She believed me. On the third week, a Saturday, Nicole announced she had to go into the office to finalize some briefs. I was in the kitchen pouring coffee. “Will you be home for lunch?” “Doubt it. Don’t wait up for me.” After the front door clicked shut, I waited exactly ten minutes. Then, I walked Megan over to our neighbor’s house, asking if she could host a playdate for a few hours while I ran errands. I drove straight to the duplex and parked in the grocery store lot across the street. Nicole’s SUV was parked in Travis’s driveway. At 10:30 AM, she walked out the front door. A man was walking right beside her. He was wearing a faded grey t-shirt, sweatpants, and slide sandals. His hair was messy. He looked incredibly comfortable. Settled. Nicole was holding onto his bicep. He leaned down and whispered something in her ear, and she threw her head back, laughing, playfully shoving his chest. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close as they walked into the breakfast diner on the corner. I held up my phone and pressed record. My hands were ice cold, but the camera didn’t shake. Not for a single second. I sat in the car and watched them eat through the diner’s glass window. Nicole reached over and wiped something off his cheek. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Last week, Megan burned her lip on a hot piece of pizza and got a blister. Nicole barely looked up from her phone. Kids are resilient, she had said. When they walked out of the diner, Travis’s shoelace was untied. Nicole stopped, knelt down on the dirty concrete, and tied his shoe for him.

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Seven years of emotional entanglement, and I was finally, utterly exhausted. It wasn’t a grand explosion that finished us. It was a notification on our seventh anniversary. A trending topic on social media that cut through the noise of my day: “New Celestial Discovery Officially Named: Parker Ward.” I clicked the link. The post was from my wife, Talia. The caption read: “Naming a star after you so that even in the vastness of the universe, you will never be lonely.” Benedicteath it, a comment from her junior colleague at the lab: “I’m so happy you decided to share this private romance with the world, Talia! You’ve made me the happiest man alive.” In the past, I would have spiraled. I would have called her a hundred times, demanding an explanation, begging for a reason why her “exclusive” love was being gifted to another man. But this time, I didn’t reach for the phone. I didn’t feel the familiar sting of tears. I just felt… done. 1. When Talia finally came home, I was out on the balcony, a cigarette burning between my fingers. She hated the smell. She used to wrinkle her nose and lecture me on lung capacity and the sanctity of our shared air. Because of her, I’d forced myself to quit years ago, enduring the shakes and the irritability of withdrawal just to keep her smiling. She saw me smoking now and paused, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. But she didn’t scold me. She reached into her bag and handed me a small, velvet-lined box. Her voice was flat, professional. “Happy seventh anniversary.” “Sorry I’m late. Things got crazy at the lab. I forgot to call.” “It’s fine,” I said, taking one last drag before stubbing the cherry out. I opened the box. It was a necklace—a delicate silver chain with a star-shaped pendant. I snapped the box shut. “I love it. Thank you.” Talia froze. Whatever excuse she had rehearsed died in her throat. She looked at me, waiting for the interrogation, the accusations, the inevitable fight. She expected me to be hysterical after seeing the news. I had expected that of myself, too. I had made reservations at the restaurant where I proposed. I’d bought fireworks. I’d taken the afternoon off to wait for her outside the Space Research Institute, wanting to surprise her. I didn’t find her. I found a headline instead. “Minor Planet 960306 officially designated the ‘Parker Ward Star.’ Lead Astronomer Talia Vaughn credits the discovery to a ‘significant personal inspiration.’” Talia’s post was the top result. “Named for you. Wear the sky like a crown. You are never alone.” The photo attached was of her and Parker at a dimly lit French bistro, their faces pressed close together. Parker was holding the framed celestial certificate, beaming. His comment—“Sharing our private romance with everyone, thank you, Talia!”—had ten thousand likes. I had tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and driven to our reserved dinner alone. I sat under the display of fireworks I’d paid for, eating two steaks by myself, a silent wake for a seven-year marriage that was already dead. As I reached for a second cigarette, Talia suddenly snatched the lighter from my hand. Her brow furrowed. “I thought you quit, Benedict.” “I felt like having one,” I said, putting the pack away and turning to head to the bedroom. She grabbed my wrist, her eyes searching mine, filled with a sudden, localized panic. “It’s our anniversary.” I looked at her, truly looked at her. “And?” Her grip tightened. “You didn’t get me anything? Are you really going to bed this early?” She leaned in to kiss me. Talia had always possessed this magnetic contradiction—cool, intellectual distance paired with a sudden, feline sensuality. Usually, when she initiated, I was a goner. But as she got closer, I smelled it. Not her perfume. Not the sterile scent of the lab. It was the smell of menthol cigarettes. Parker’s brand. I stepped back, tilting my head away from her lips. “You had a long day at work,” I said quietly. “Get some rest.” 2. I ignored her stunned expression and went to the bathroom to wash up. When I came out, my phone buzzed with a message. It was from Luke, my business partner and oldest friend. “Are you serious about the Paris move? Can you really leave Talia? If you fly back after two days because you miss her, I’m going to kill you myself.” I typed back immediately: “I’m serious. If I turn back this time, you have my permission to take me out.” Three years ago, our firm needed someone to spearhead the European branch. I’d discussed it with Talia, and we’d agreed it was a great move. But three days after I landed, she called me, crying, saying she had a stomach flu and couldn’t cope alone. I caught the next flight back. I stayed behind to keep her world steady, while Luke handled the travel. We had been together for twelve years—five dating, seven married. Since high school, I knew she was the kind of person who got lost in her work. I didn’t trust the world to look after her. Our friends often asked why a guy like me—someone who valued a warm home and a shared life—was with a woman who didn’t even know how to boil an egg. They said she was a great Muse, but a terrible wife. I always told them: “She saved me. Mentally and physically.” Because of my family history, I’d struggled with deep clinical depression in my twenties. At my lowest point, when I was ready to let the tide take me, she was the one who pulled me back. She was a slip of a girl, barely a hundred pounds, dragging my dead weight away from the edge. She went to every therapy session with me. Rain or shine. When I finally got better, I asked her, “Weren’t you scared? You were so young.” She’d just shrugged, looking out at the horizon. “I couldn’t stand the thought of someone with a smile like yours leaving the world. We have a long time left, Benedict. I want to see the world with you.” The Talia from back then probably never imagined she’d become the reason my depression flared up again. Life isn’t a multiple-choice test. And I was no longer the answer she was looking for. Luke, who had watched our entire history, sensed something was different. “The world is huge, Benedict. There’s better food, more interesting people, and a future that doesn’t involve you being a second-place trophy. July 1st is tomorrow. New month, new start.” A moment later, another text: “The Paris office opens in a week. Forget the girl, brother. Let’s get rich.” 3. The next morning, I woke up early for our monthly board meeting. To my surprise, Talia was in the kitchen, hovering over the stove. I blinked, momentarily disoriented. I only knew she could cook because of Parker’s Instagram. The kid loved documenting his life—especially the parts that belonged to me. He’d post photos of her making him spicy ramen during late-night shifts. He’d post about her picking him up in the rain. He’d post the carefully chosen gifts she bought for his birthday. Just like the star. He’d pouted that he wanted one, and she’d simply given it to him. I had spent the previous night in a fit of digital masochism, scrolling through Parker’s feed, watching the highlights of their “mentorship” turn into a full-blown romance. “Benedict, come eat,” Talia said, pulling me toward the table. “I made that oatmeal you like.” I picked up the spoon, took one bite, and set it down. She looked at me, confused. “What’s wrong?” I looked at the bowl. “I only eat it with brown sugar and honey, Talia. I like it sweet.” I’d told her once that sweet things helped with the dopamine. I had a sweet tooth that bordered on an addiction. She froze for a few seconds, her face flushing. “I… there are eggs in the kitchen. I’ll make those instead.” I shook my head. “Don’t bother. I’m in a hurry.” I’d seen Parker’s post from yesterday: “Yay! Talia promised to make me breakfast tomorrow. Savory oatmeal with poached eggs and sea salt. My favorite!” As I headed for the door, she grabbed my arm, her frustration finally boiling over. “Are you still sulking? Because of yesterday? I told you, it was a work emergency. I apologized.” “The research project is in its final phase, Benedict. As the lead, I can’t just put my personal life first. You’ve always supported my career. Why are you acting out now?” She was right. That was the dynamic we’d established. I loved her, so I was the shock absorber. I tolerated the forgotten birthdays, the missed anniversaries, the days where she wouldn’t even text to say she was alive. I told myself it was for her dream. Until the day she finished a major study and I went to pick her up. She was sitting in her car, laughing at her phone. The woman who always said texting was a “tedious waste of time” was typing a mile a minute, her face lit up with a genuine, effortless joy. That was the first time I heard his name. Parker. The “clumsy but brilliant” intern. That was the day I realized she didn’t hate texting. She just hated texting me. I pulled my arm out of her grasp. My gaze was level, empty. “I’m tired, Talia. These years… I’m just tired.” “We should—” I didn’t get to finish. Her phone rang. The ringtone was a theme from an anime I knew she didn’t watch. She didn’t even check the ID before answering. Her voice softened instantly. “Hey. What’s up?” She probably didn’t realize how her expression melted into something tender. Parker’s voice was loud enough for me to hear through the receiver. He sounded like a whining child. “Talia, I’m starving! When are you coming back to the lab? If I faint from hunger, it’s on your conscience.” Talia laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard in months. “You ate a mountain of wings last night. How are you hungry already?” “Fine, I’m coming now.” I felt a cold smirk tug at my lips. The boy on the phone seemed to sense something. “Oh, hey, tell your husband I said hi. Since I stole his star and kept you late for our celebratory dinner on your anniversary, I should probably buy him a drink or something. To say thanks.” 4. Talia’s eyes flickered with a brief, sharp guilt. She took a step back, clutching the phone. I didn’t say a word. I turned to leave. She hung up abruptly and chased after me, insisting on driving me to work. “The star… Parker was a huge part of that research,” she said as we got into the car. “I couldn’t just take all the credit. It was his birthday, and he mentioned wanting a star, so I figured it was a good way to reward his hard work.” “The dinner was a group thing, Benedict. It wasn’t just us. Don’t overthink it, okay?” I looked out the window. She had been working on this planetary research for three years. Parker had been there for three months. The lie was so insulting it was almost funny. She didn’t realize that whenever she lied, she fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. It was a tell I’d known since we were twenty. She dropped me off at the office, but before I could even get through the lobby, her phone rang again. Parker. A “crisis” at the lab. She looked at me with an apologetic shrug and sped off. It didn’t even hurt anymore. The rain started that afternoon. A typical Seattle deluge. I got soaked running to a meeting and by evening, I was shivering with a high fever. I was lying on the couch, drifting in and out of a sweat-soaked sleep, wanting to ask Talia for some Tylenol. I heard her in the bedroom, but she wasn’t getting medicine. She was changing her clothes. “Parker’s water heater burst,” she said, not looking at me. “He doesn’t know how to fix it. I’m going over to help.” I stared at her. I didn’t know whether to ask why an astrophysics genius couldn’t call a plumber, or why my wife was the designated handyman for her intern. She didn’t give me the chance. She was out the door in minutes. She didn’t notice the thermostat was set to sixty-five, or that her husband was shaking under three blankets. She wasn’t like the girl in college who used to scold me for running into air-conditioned libraries after soccer practice. “Do you think you’re invincible?” she’d barked, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a tissue. “You’re going to get a fever, and then I’m the one who has to nurse you back to health!” At the office the next day, Luke dropped a thick file on my desk. “Start memorizing. If you mess up the Paris transition, I’m kicking you out of the partnership.” I dove into the work like it was a lifeline. I stayed until the building was nearly empty. Before I left, I opened my email and saw the draft from my lawyer. The divorce papers were ready. I printed them out. Outside, the storm had turned into a nightmare. I drove to Talia’s institute, the papers sitting on the passenger seat. When I pulled into the underground garage, my phone buzzed. A notification from social media. Parker had posted a video. It was from a Comic-Con event a few weeks back. In the video, Parker had won a gaming tournament. In his excitement, he grabbed Talia in the middle of the crowded hall and kissed her. Deeply. The caption: “From the moment I met you, I wondered if I could ever have you openly. Now, I finally do.” I turned off the screen and leaned my head back, laughing at the ceiling of my car. Twelve years. We had spent our entire adult lives together. And yet, the woman in that video was a complete stranger. I started to put the car in reverse when I heard a muffled shout from a few rows over. 5. “Talia, please! Don’t do this to me…” “I love you… is that a crime? I’ve loved you since you gave that guest lecture at my school…” I followed the sound. Parker, tall and lanky, had Talia pinned against the side of her car. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of desperate youth. In a fit of dramatic despair, he leaned down and crushed his lips against hers. I saw her hands, which had been hanging at her sides, slowly rise. They slid up his chest and locked behind his neck. They stood there in the shadows of the garage, lost in a long, rain-slicked kiss. CRACK— A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the garage, followed by a roar of thunder that shook the concrete. “Who’s there!” Parker snapped. They both turned and saw me standing ten feet away. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the silence that followed. Talia looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her face went bone-white. “Benedict… Benedict, why are you here?” I walked toward them, one slow step at a time. “Sir, it’s not what it looks like,” Parker stammered, stepping in front of her. “It’s not her fault. I’m the one who loves her, it’s all—” I didn’t let him finish. I put every ounce of my twelve years of suppressed resentment into a single punch that sent him sprawling across the wet pavement. Then, I pulled my wedding ring off and threw it at Talia. It hit her shoulder and clattered to the ground. The shock seemed to snap her out of it. She shoved Parker away, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. “Benedict, let me explain! It’s not—” I cut her off, thrusting the divorce papers into her hands. “Talia. We’re done.”

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Tonight was my seventh gig at this VIP lounge. Under the pulsing, strobe-lit haze of the dance floor, my footsteps faltered. My eyes locked onto a woman in the center of the VIP booth, surrounded by male models and half-empty champagne flutes. It was Carol. The woman who had once been the center of my entire universe, and the architect of its ruin. One of the socialites draped over the leather sofa caught sight of me. Her manicured finger pointed in my direction, her voice dripping with lazy amusement. “Well, well, Carol. Isn’t that the pathetic, broke ex you dated for that little bet with Timothy?” Carol finally lifted her gaze. A flicker of irritation crossed her flawless features. “Calvin,” she said, her voice cutting through the bass of the club. “Do you really have no backbone at all? Scrubbing floors in a place like this to scrape by?” I didn’t dignify her mockery with a response. I just tightened my grip on my serving tray, adjusting the expensive bottles of liquor, and turned to leave. “Stop!” she commanded, her voice spiking. “You’re desperate for cash, aren’t you?” Carol swirled the amber liquid in her crystal glass. “Drink this bottle. For every bottle you manage to down, I’ll pay for it.” My knuckles went white around the neck of the bottle. A sharp, violent cramp twisted in my stomach, sending a cold sweat down my forehead. But I couldn’t say no. Nana was paralyzed, lying in a sterile, underfunded ward, waiting for her medical bills to be paid. And my own body, rotting from late-stage stomach cancer, didn’t have much time left. If I could just scrape together enough money to secure Nana’s care facility before I died… what was a little humiliation? I gritted my teeth, turned back to face her, and popped the cork. Dignity is a luxury of the living. In the face of pure survival, it is utterly worthless. My life was already a sinking ship; if burning it down could buy Nana a few more years, I would gladly strike the match. 1 “One bottle, two bottles, three… God, Carol, your little lapdog sure can drink.” The socialite next to Carol was laughing so hard she had to wipe away a tear, her hand clamped over her mouth. Carol’s eyes bore into me. She stared at the empty bottles lining the glass table, her expression darkening into something terrifyingly cold. “You really are cheap, Calvin. Just as money-hungry as you were back then.” I didn’t defend myself. I just held the final empty bottle out toward her, my voice mechanically hollow. “I finished them. Ten thousand dollars.” A second later, a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills was hurled violently into my face. The paper rained down around me, fluttering to the sticky club floor like dead leaves. The surrounding club-goers, drawn by the spectacle of flying cash, started to surge forward, their eyes greedy. Carol slammed her glass down, her voice ringing out with the absolute authority of old money. “Nobody moves.” She leaned forward, her eyes locked on mine. “You want the money, Calvin? Get on your knees. Pick it up. Every single cent.” I did it. Without a fraction of hesitation. I crawled on the liquor-stained floor, my hands trembling as I gathered the crisp bills one by one. Just as I reached for a bill near her designer heels, a stream of freezing liquid splashed against my forehead, running down my face and soaking my uniform. I looked up. Carol was staring down at me, holding an empty glass, a radiant, vicious smile playing on her lips. “Oops. My hand slipped,” she purred. “But that shouldn’t stop you from crawling for your cash, right?” I shook my head slowly, saying nothing. Perhaps she found my lack of resistance boring. After emptying her drink on me, she turned her back, and her entourage swept her away, disappearing into the VIP corridor. Watching her confident, untouchable silhouette fade into the neon lights, a sudden, violent spasm wracked my chest. I coughed, and a mouthful of blood spilled into my hands. It seeped through my fingers. Crimson, viscous, and glaringly bright under the club lights. A coworker rushed over, grabbing my arm to steady me. “Cal, are you out of your mind?!” he hissed, panicked. “You have terminal stomach cancer! Why didn’t you say anything? Downing three bottles of liquor… do you have a death wish?” I stared at the blood pooling in my palms, momentarily dazed. Does a poor man’s life even count as a life? Carol certainly didn’t think so. The bitter irony was that my stomach had been destroyed for her. Winter is always brutal when you’re poor. Four years ago, on a freezing, snow-swept night, I found Carol shivering on the street in a thin jacket. She told me her family had thrown her out. She said she had no home, nowhere to go. She begged me to take her in. I was soft-hearted. I said yes. For the months that followed, we split a single stale bagel into four pieces—she ate three, I ate one. Whenever I managed to afford hot soup, I gave it to her. In sub-zero temperatures, I drank freezing tap water from rusted pipes to silence my own hunger. That was how my stomach began to rot. But on the exact same day I was handed my terminal cancer diagnosis, I walked home to find her slipping into the back of a blacked-out Maybach parked outside our crumbling apartment building. That was the day I learned she was Carol Steward, the heiress to one of Manhattan’s wealthiest real estate dynasties. Her entire poverty-stricken act had been a game. A sick little dare she took after getting drunk with Timothy Montgomery. The bet had an expiration date. Time was up, so she packed her bags and left. From that moment on, the illusion shattered. I knew with agonizing clarity that we existed in two entirely different universes. She was a swan, perched high on a pedestal of generational wealth. I was the mud beneath her tires, meant only to be trampled on. The chasm between us wasn’t just made of unrequited love; it was made of that multi-million dollar car idling outside my pathetic life. We were never meant to fit. 2 Ignoring my coworker’s frantic pleas to go home, I meticulously smoothed out every single crumpled bill Carol had thrown at me. I tucked the money into the breast pocket of my shirt, right over my heart. Only then did I wipe the blood from my mouth and begin the long walk to the hospital. Three bottles of cheap liquor burned like battery acid in my veins. My steps were unsteady under the flickering streetlights, but the freezing night wind kept my mind devastatingly sharp. The doctor looked at my chart, letting out a heavy, defeated sigh. “Mr. Davis, do you have any idea what you’re doing to your body? Drinking like this… Working yourself to the bone. You had maybe three months left. At this rate, I’d be surprised if you make it another two weeks.” “Two weeks…” I murmured. “That’s enough.” I lowered my eyes, pulled the ten thousand dollars from my pocket, and slid it across his desk. “Please. Move Nana to a better room. Make her comfortable.” The doctor’s eyes grew glassy. “Mr. Davis, you have money now. You could use this for your own chemotherapy. It might buy you a little more time.” I shook my head. I knew my own body. I could feel the decay creeping into my bones. My time was already gone. All I could do now was run against the clock. Bleed myself dry to earn every last cent I could. Just a little more. So that when I was finally gone, Nana’s nursing home fees would be paid in full, and she wouldn’t be left alone in the dark. After sitting by Nana’s bedside for an hour, I turned to leave. It was time to start my eighth gig of the day. But as I rounded the corner of the hospital corridor, I collided hard with someone. A glass water bottle shattered against the linoleum with a deafening crash. The medical report I had been clutching slipped from my fingers. I bent down to grab it, but a manicured hand snatched it up first. I looked up. It was Carol, standing arm-in-arm with her newest pretty boy. “Late-stage gastric cancer… You’ve got to be joking,” the boy toy sneered, over-enunciating the words for dramatic effect. He leaned into Carol’s shoulder. “Care, is he actually trying to use a fake medical report to scam some sympathy out of you?” Carol stared at the paper. For a split second, her perfectly arched brows knitted together. Before she could speak, her boy toy chimed in again, his voice dripping with faux innocence. “Wait, is this the broke loser you dated for that bet four years ago? We literally just saw him at the club begging for ten grand, and now he’s conveniently lingering in a hospital with a cancer report? It’s honestly embarrassing how hard he’s trying to con you.” Carol’s friend, standing just behind them, scoffed in agreement. “Exactly. He’s probably still bitter about the bet and is just trying to bleed you dry.” When Carol remained silent, still staring blankly at the paper, her friend gasped. “Carol, don’t tell me you actually still care about this walking charity case.” That snapped her out of it. Carol’s posture straightened, a defensive sneer warping her mouth. “Are you insane? As if.” She crushed my medical report in her fist, ripped it down the middle, and threw the shreds directly into my face. “Calvin, stop dreaming. I am never coming back to you. Do you understand me? You couldn’t earn in your entire pathetic lifetime what I make passively in an hour.” Her arrogant, condescending face blurred. For a moment, it superimposed perfectly over the memory of the sweet, gentle girl who used to curl up against my chest in the dead of winter, whispering how proud she was of my hard work. I felt a profound sense of vertigo. I honestly couldn’t tell which version of her was the lie anymore. “You just want a payout, don’t you?” Carol looked down her nose at me. “Get on your knees and beg. Swear to God that you will never, ever show your face to me again, and I’ll wire you three hundred thousand dollars right now.” “That should be enough to fund your little retirement, right?” She was looking at me, but it felt like she was staring down at an insect. Three hundred thousand. It was enough. Enough to cover Nana’s care facility for years. Enough to finally pay for her spinal surgery. “Deal.” The calculation took less than a second. I nodded, closed my eyes, and sank to my knees on the cold linoleum. “I, Calvin Davis, swear I will never appear before Carol Steward again. If I break this vow, may I be struck down and die a miserable death.” “Whoa, hold on, he said it way too fast! I didn’t even get my camera app open.” The pretty boy held up his phone, his face painted with a sickeningly sweet smile that hid a venomous cruelty. “Care, make him say it again. I need to post this to my close friends.” Carol ruffled his hair, her eyes softening with indulgent affection. “If that’s what you want,” she purred. She looked back down at me. “Do it again. Say it slower. I’ll make it five hundred thousand.” I remained kneeling. The jagged shards of the broken glass bottle bit deep into my kneecaps, piercing my skin. I felt the warm trickle of blood sliding down my shins, staining the pristine white hospital floor red. I looked dead into Carol’s eyes, and spoke every single word with deliberate, agonizing clarity. “I, Calvin Davis, swear I will never appear before Carol Steward again. If I break this vow, may I be struck down and die a miserable death.” 3 Carol gave a satisfied little nod. “Five hundred thousand. It’ll be in your account by tomorrow afternoon.” I waited until the sound of their designer shoes clicked away down the hallway, fading into nothing. Only then did I press my hands against the bloody floor, trying to push myself up. My arms gave out. I crashed back down into the glass. More shards tore into my palms, my knees, my chest. But I couldn’t feel the sting. My heart had been hollowed out, scraped raw and left to rot until the phantom pain made it impossible to draw a full breath. Compared to that, the physical bleeding felt like nothing at all. When I finally dragged my broken body back to my cramped, freezing apartment, the thick, metallic taste of rust rose in my throat. I shoved a handful of cheap painkillers into my mouth, dry-swallowing them. It didn’t work. I collapsed over the sink and vomited a horrific amount of dark blood. Exhausted, I dragged myself to the cheap pink sofa in the corner of the room—the sofa we used to sit on, huddled under a single blanket, whispering promises about the future. Leaning my head back against the worn fabric, I suddenly started to laugh. It was a broken, grating sound. Back then, my heart bled for her. She had sat right here, crying, telling me how her parents hated her, how they always wished she was a boy, how she felt entirely invisible in her own home. I had resonated with her so deeply. I was an orphan. I never knew my parents. The only family I had was a sick, elderly woman who found me abandoned and raised me on pennies. I truly believed Carol and I were two fractured souls who had finally found home in each other. But it was all a beautifully spun lie. I was nothing but a billionaire heiress’s after-dinner entertainment. A fun little diversion to pass the time. The next afternoon, just as promised, the notification lit up my cracked phone screen. A wire transfer for $500,000. I practically sprinted to the hospital, slamming my palms down on the billing desk, demanding they prep Nana for the spinal surgery immediately. She had been paralyzed for ten years. Before I died, my only wish was to see her stand up again. As I watched the orderlies wheel Nana into the operating room, a genuine smile broke across my face—my first real smile in three years. But fifteen minutes later, the billing nurse walked over to me, her face pale and tight. “Mr. Davis… the funds you just transferred. They’ve been frozen by the bank. The system flagged the transaction for fraud. They suspect the money was obtained illegally. Hospital policy states we have to halt the procedure until the funds clear or you provide an alternate method of payment.” My blood ran cold. “But you know how dangerous it is to halt a surgery mid-operation,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly. “Given the patient’s advanced age, the risk of shock is incredibly high. You need to pay the remaining balance right now.” A bomb detonated in my skull. Frozen? How could it be frozen? Carol promised. Suddenly, the heavy doors of the OR swung open. The lead surgeon rushed out, ripping his mask down. “We’re losing her! The patient’s vitals just plummeted!” I didn’t stop to think. My vision tunneled. I bolted out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and screamed at the driver to take me back to the club from last night. When I burst through the doors, a coworker grabbed me, telling me Carol had taken her pretty boy across the street to the luxury shopping district. I ran. I shoved past security guards, ignoring the horrified stares of the wealthy patrons as I sprinted into high-end boutique after high-end boutique. I knew I looked like a deranged madman. My clothes were stained with dried blood and sweat. But I didn’t care. Time was slipping through my fingers like sand. Finally, inside a Tom Ford store, I saw her. I lunged forward and grabbed the sleeve of her silk blouse. Carol flinched, spinning around. When she saw it was me, her face contorted with rage. “Calvin! You literally swore a blood oath yesterday that you’d never show your face to me again. Aren’t you afraid of getting struck by lightning?” My eyes were bloodshot, my chest heaving as I gasped for air. “The money,” I choked out, my fingers digging desperately into her sleeve. “Why is it frozen?” Carol raised a brow. She casually inspected her nails. “Oh, that. Yeah, I called the bank this morning. Told them I was a victim of a wire scam and had them intercept it.” She laughed, a short, cruel sound. “Did you seriously think I was just going to hand you half a million dollars? God, you really are an idiot.” My grip on her arm tightened. My knuckles turned white. And then, slowly, the strength drained out of my hands. My fingers went slack. I dropped to my knees right there on the pristine marble floor of the boutique. I pressed my forehead to the ground, bowing so hard the impact echoed in the quiet store. “I am begging you…” My voice broke, reduced to a pathetic, ragged sob. “Carol. Thirty thousand. Just give me thirty thousand dollars. Nana is on the operating table right now. They stopped the surgery. She’s going to die.” “Do you remember her? Do you remember how she used to save her milk rations just so you could drink them? Don’t you remember?” Carol stared down at me, her eyes flashing with absolute disgust. She shoved my shoulder hard with the toe of her heel, knocking me backward. “Shut up! Stop bringing up the past! You are so obsessed with money you’ve completely lost your mind. Lying about your grandma being in surgery just to extort me?” She turned to the terrified sales associate. “I’ve seen enough grifters like him to last a lifetime. Wrap up that five-thousand-dollar belt Trent picked out. And call security to drag this piece of trash out of here.” I sat on the floor, staring at her, and suddenly, I smiled. She was willing to drop five thousand dollars on a belt for a boy she met three days ago, but she wouldn’t give a dime to the man who starved himself for three years to keep her alive. She didn’t realize that the pocket change she threw around could mean the difference between life and death for someone else. I was the fool. I actually believed the words of the woman who had already destroyed me once. When I finally staggered back into the hospital ward, the doctor was standing in the hallway. He looked at me, his eyes dark with grief, and slowly shook his head. “Mr. Davis. I am so sorry. The interruption in the surgery… her heart couldn’t handle the strain. It was a catastrophic failure.” “My deepest condolences.” As he walked past me, he gently squeezed my shoulder. I stood outside her room, my shoulders shaking in absolute, terrifying silence. I walked in, took one last look at Nana’s lifeless face beneath the white sheet, and walked out of the hospital without saying a single word. When I pushed through the revolving doors, the sky broke open. A torrential downpour washed over the city. It matched the absolute desolation inside my chest. I didn’t seek shelter. I let the freezing rain soak through my clothes to my skin, stumbling aimlessly until I reached the edge of the suspension bridge. Suddenly, my knees buckled. I vomited blood again. This time, it didn’t stop. The blood poured out of me as if an artery had burst, hot and thick, mixing with the freezing rain swirling around my boots. A blinding, agonizing fire ripped through my stomach. I closed my eyes, leaning my weight against the cold steel railing. The suffocating weight of absolute loneliness swallowed me whole. I was standing in a fog, completely untethered from the earth. The last person in the world who ever loved me was gone. Calvin Davis, I thought to myself. There is absolutely no reason for you to exist anymore. I stood there for a long time, letting the rain wash the blood from my chin. Finally, a faint, ghost of a smile touched my lips. I climbed over the railing. And I let go. I plummeted like a kite with a snapped string. Like a dead leaf blowing aimlessly in the wind, entirely unnoticed by the world. I hit the freezing black water, and the river swallowed me whole. It was over. Nana, I’m coming to see you. … Miles away, in the VIP lounge of the boutique, Carol sneezed. She looked out the rain-streaked window, a sudden, inexplicable wave of anxiety knotting in her chest. Her heart fluttered with a strange, dark panic. Suddenly, she desperately needed to know where Calvin was. She pulled out her phone and dialed her assistant. “Find Calvin Davis. Tell him to come see me right now. Tell him I’ll give him the thirty grand.” The line was dead silent for a second. Then, her assistant’s voice came through, trembling uncontrollably. “Ms. Steward… Calvin Davis… I think he jumped off the bridge. I was just driving past the hospital district. The police pulled a body out of the river. It… it looks exactly like him.”

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