Category: English

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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The sudden scream of police sirens slashed through the gridlocked interstate, freezing the blood in my veins. I clutched the medical transport cooler to my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Before I could even process the flashing red and blue lights, two SWAT officers materialized from the maze of idling cars. Their tactical rifles were lowered, but their eyes—cold, hard, and calculating—were locked dead on me. “We received a tip. You’re suspected of transporting a Schedule I narcotic,” one of them barked, his voice cutting through the hum of exhaust fumes. I stood paralyzed on the asphalt. Out of the corner of my eye, a flash of movement caught my attention. Standing safely behind the police line was Chase—our hospital’s newest surgical intern. He had a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking as he choked back a laugh. “Officers, that’s him!” Chase suddenly shouted, shoving his way to the front of the crowd. He pointed a manicured finger straight at me. “The fentanyl is in the cooler!” “It’s insulin!” I yelled, frantically popping the latch on the lid to show them. “I have a patient in diabetic ketoacidosis! His ambulance is trapped in this pile-up, and if I don’t get this into his veins in the next ten minutes, he’s going to die!” The SWAT officer stepped forward to inspect the vials. For a second, I thought the nightmare was over. Then, Chase shrieked. “He’s lying! ‘Insulin’ is his street code! It’s liquid fentanyl, I swear to God!” Chase stepped closer, a vicious, triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Smash the vials and test them! You’ll see!” My stomach plummeted into an icy abyss. Cold sweat dripped down my spine. He didn’t know. This arrogant, entitled kid had absolutely no idea the magnitude of the disaster he was causing. The life of the city’s Mayor was currently ticking down by the second in an ambulance two hundred yards away. If we missed this window, the fallout wouldn’t just be a tragedy. It would be a political earthquake, and the blood would be on my hands. 1 “Don’t break them!” I screamed, my voice cracking with pure panic. A massive semi-truck pile-up had turned the interstate into a parking lot, trapping the ambulance transporting Mayor Croft. I was his primary physician. Ever since he took office, I had handled every major medical issue he faced. Just fifteen minutes ago, Richard Halloway, the Mayor’s Chief of Staff, had called me in a panic: the Mayor was going into shock, his skin ice-cold, his consciousness fading. I had sprinted from the hospital with the emergency insulin kit. If I didn’t push those meds in less than ten minutes, his organs would begin shutting down. I glanced at my watch. The second hand was flying. Nine minutes. “Whether it is or isn’t, we’ll know once the lab tests it,” the officer said flatly, reaching for the cooler. I shook my head violently, wrapping my arms around the plastic box like it was my own child. “No! My patient does not have time for a lab test! I am begging you!” Chief of Staff Halloway had given me strict orders: the Mayor’s condition was highly classified. A leak to the press could tank the upcoming election. I couldn’t just scream the Mayor’s name on a crowded freeway. I had to prove my identity and get to that ambulance, now. Two hundred yards. Nine minutes. The SWAT officers didn’t care. They grabbed my arms and hauled me toward the back of their armored vehicle. I twisted around, glaring venom at Chase. “You were at the hospital! You saw me sign these out of the pharmacy vault! I have the requisition forms!” I was practically spitting the words. “Why are you doing this? Why are you lying to them? A man is dying! Do you have any concept of what that means?” Chase didn’t even look up. He was staring at his phone, scrolling through TikTok, giggling at something on the screen. When he heard me yelling, he let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Dr. Caldwell, why are you yelling at me? I was just bored. I thought it’d be a funny prank.” He smirked at the heavily armed officers. “How was I supposed to know these guys would take it so seriously?” The atmosphere instantly shifted. The SWAT officer nearest to Chase whipped around, his jaw clenched tight. “Filing a false police report, wasting emergency resources, and inciting a panic,” the officer growled, stepping into Chase’s personal space. “I can arrest you right here, kid.” Chase scoffed, completely unfazed. He crossed his arms, oozing the kind of bulletproof arrogance that only comes from generational wealth. “Oh, tone it down, G.I. Joe,” Chase sneered. “My dad is Richard Halloway, the Mayor’s Chief of Staff. You arrest me, or give me any more of that attitude, and he’ll have your badge by dinnertime.” He leaned back against the hood of a stalled sedan, looking entirely detached from the chaos he’d caused. I stared at the digitized numbers on my Apple Watch. My chest felt tight enough to snap ribs. “Officers, please listen to me,” I begged, stripping away every ounce of my professional pride. “Two hundred yards up this road. There’s a stranded ambulance. My patient is inside, and he is dying. Bring me there. Escort me at gunpoint if you have to. You can verify everything I’m saying the second we open those doors.” My eyes were stinging with unshed tears. I didn’t care about my dignity anymore. I just needed to save Mayor Croft. The lead officer paused, a flicker of doubt crossing his stoic face. He keyed his shoulder mic and quietly asked his captain for instructions. My hands shaking, I dug my phone out of my pocket. I pulled up the state medical board registry, my hospital ID, and my DEA license, shoving the screen toward the officer. He scrutinized the documents. He looked at me, then at the cooler. He gave a sharp nod, preparing to let me go. Then, Chase covered his mouth and let out a loud, theatrical gasp. “Wait! Officers, let me tell you a little story.” 2 Everyone turned to look at the intern. Chase cleared his throat, taking his sweet time. “Have you guys ever seen Breaking Bad? Because Dr. Caldwell is basically Walter White.” He leaned in, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “He cooks and deals out of the hospital’s sub-basement. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.” “Chase! You lying piece of—” I lunged forward, but the officers slammed me back against the armored truck. Chase was a nepo baby. He had coasted into his surgical internship on his father’s coattails. On his first week, the kid couldn’t even find a vein for an IV. I had spent hours covering for him, teaching him, trying to mold him into someone who wouldn’t accidentally kill someone. And this is how he repays me? Click. Cold steel clamped around my wrists. “Take the vials to the mobile lab unit. Now,” the captain ordered. Another officer ripped the cooler from my hands. “No! No, please, believe me!” I screamed, thrashing against the cuffs. “Just walk me to the ambulance! You’ll see the truth!” Tears were streaming down my face now. Eight minutes. If the Mayor died out here on this asphalt, the shockwaves would destroy everything. And I would be the one taking the fall. The captain looked at my tear-streaked face. He held up a hand, stopping the officer with the cooler. “Wait. You two, go up ahead. Check the ambulance.” He grabbed my bicep, preparing to march me up the shoulder. “Don’t go over there!” Chase suddenly shrieked, backing away with mock terror. “That ambulance is probably his cartel buddies! They’re definitely armed! If you walk him over there, it’s an ambush!” The air in the traffic jam went dead still. The horrific sound of safety catches clicking off echoed around me. Suddenly, I had three laser sights painting red dots across my chest. My chest seized up. I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted hot, metallic blood. “Chase!” I roared, the sound tearing my throat. “What do you get out of this?! Why are you doing this to me?!” Chase was laughing so hard he had to wipe away a tear. He sauntered over, leaning in close so only I could hear him over the idling engines. “Because I wanted to put you in your place,” he whispered, a nasty grin stretching across his face. “Last week in surgery? When I left those surgical scissors in that kid’s abdomen? You chewed me out in front of the entire O.R. staff.” His eyes darkened with pure spite. “Nobody talks to me like that. You made me look like an idiot.” My hands balled into fists inside the metal cuffs. Chase was utterly incompetent. He had no business holding a scalpel, but the hospital board—terrified of his father—forced me to let him scrub in. If I hadn’t double-checked the surgical cavity before closing, that eight-year-old boy would have been sewn up with stainless steel shears resting against his intestines. “You almost killed a child!” I hissed back. “Do you have a soul? You don’t deserve to wear that stethoscope!” Chase spat directly into my face. He pulled out his phone, framing us up for a selfie video, until the SWAT captain slapped the phone out of his hand. It clattered against the pavement. “So, you’re making this up?” the captain demanded, his voice dropping an octave. “You’re intentionally feeding us false intel?” “I was making an educated guess,” Chase shot back defensively, picking up his phone. “God, you guys have zero sense of humor. It’s pathetic.” He opened a mobile game, turning the volume all the way up. Chimes and digital explosions filled the tense air. “That’s your second warning!” the captain barked. “One more word, and you’re in the back of the cruiser!” My pocket vibrated. Siri announced a secure email. It was a high-priority clearance code from Richard Halloway, the Chief of Staff. He knew the traffic was brutal and was giving me emergency municipal authority to bypass the police lines. A text message immediately followed: [MAYOR CRITICAL. CRASHING. YOU HAVE 5 MINUTES TO GET HERE OR HE DIES.] 3 I awkwardly twisted my cuffed hands, managing to pull up the encrypted executive order on my screen. I thrust it toward the captain. The secrecy didn’t matter anymore. If I didn’t tell them the truth, the Mayor was dead. The captain took one look at the mayoral seal on the document, and the blood drained from his face. He frantically reached for his keys, unlocking my handcuffs. “Wait!” Chase suddenly lunged forward, shoving his phone screen between me and the captain. “Officers, I’m sorry! I lied about the drugs!” Chase yelled. “I’m actually reporting Dr. Caldwell for organ trafficking! Look! He’s fleeing the state!” On his screen were flawlessly rendered security stills. It showed me standing in the hospital’s transplant wing, handing a cooler to a man with face tattoos. It was entirely AI-generated. Deepfaked. Chase pointed a triumphant finger at my phone. “And look at him! Forging a municipal executive order! He’s trying to run! Arrest him, and you bust a massive black-market ring!” The captain stared at the AI images. He looked at Chase, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Organ trafficking is a federal offense. If this is real, he goes to prison for life,” the captain said, his voice deadly calm. “But if this is another one of your little jokes, son, I will personally see you charged with federal obstruction.” Chase tilted his chin up, his face an mask of untouchable privilege. “I’m just a concerned citizen reporting a crime,” he said smugly. “And like I said, my dad is the Mayor’s Chief of Staff. You can’t touch me.” I felt my sanity begin to fray. I looked at this sociopathic kid, completely incapable of understanding the reality he was destroying. “Are you out of your mind?!” I screamed at Chase. “The patient in that ambulance is Mayor Croft! He’s crashing! If he dies because you delayed me, your father’s career is over!” SMACK. Chase slapped me so hard my vision blurred. He jammed a finger into my sternum. “You piece of trash, don’t you dare threaten my dad!” he snarled, dropping the playful frat-boy act. “I’m calling him right now!” Chase pulled up his contacts and hit dial. It rang out. He tried again. Nothing. A crease formed between his perfectly tweezed eyebrows. On the sixth try, Richard Halloway finally answered. “Chase, I’m in a closed-door meeting with the Mayor right now. I can’t talk,” Richard’s voice echoed from the speaker. He hung up. Chase erupted into laughter, clapping his hands together like a seal. He actually started humming a little tune. “Well, well, well,” Chase sang out. “Didn’t you just say the Mayor was dying in an ambulance? But my dad is sitting right next to him at City Hall. Wow, Dr. Caldwell. Faking an emergency just to get out of a traffic jam. You must be a spy or something. Officers, you really need to search his phone!” The SWAT captain looked deeply conflicted. He keyed his mic, trying to reach the two officers he’d sent ahead to the ambulance. Static hissed back. No response. Just then, my phone rang. The Caller ID showed Richard Halloway’s private burner number. I instantly hit speakerphone. [Dr. Caldwell! Where the hell are you?!] Richard’s voice was hysterical, completely different from the calm tone he’d just used with his son. *[The Mayor is unresponsive! We’ve pushed epinephrine, we’ve done everything! It’s not working! We need that insulin!] * [What are you doing?! If he dies, I swear to God I will bury you under the jail!] The line went dead. He had issued my death sentence. Four minutes left. If I could just sprint those two hundred yards and push the syringe, the Mayor would live. If I couldn’t… it was over. For all of us. 4 A ragged sob tore itself from my throat. My knees hit the asphalt. I was practically begging the captain, the gravel biting into my skin. “I’m not lying! We are out of time!” I sobbed, pointing a trembling finger down the highway. “Handcuff me! Hold a gun to my head! Just walk me to that ambulance!” The captain grabbed my shoulders, hauling me to my feet. I could see the conflict warring in his eyes. A City Hall official had just confirmed the Mayor was in a meeting. But what if this was a covert medical transport? High-level politicians kept their health issues buried under layers of classification. If the Mayor died on this stretch of highway because a SWAT captain stopped his doctor… the captain’s life would be over, too. I tapped the face of my watch, my eyes wide with sheer terror. “Captain, he’s lying to you!” Chase yelled, grabbing the back of my coat. “That wasn’t my dad’s number!” He shoved his own phone screen at the captain, showing his recent calls. “Look! This is my dad’s real number! Caldwell is a fraud! He’s using my dad’s name!” “He uses a secure line for medical emergencies!” I shouted, my voice raw. “It’s a protocol line for the Mayor’s office! It doesn’t match his personal cell!” “Oh really? Then how do you explain it sounding exactly like him?!” Chase demanded. I stared dead into Chase’s eyes. For a fraction of a second, the intern faltered. He looked cornered. “Officer, please!” I pleaded. “Walk me down there! If I’m lying, I will plead guilty to whatever you want! Put me in federal prison! Just let me save my patient!” Two minutes and fifty seconds. The captain stared at me, then at the stalled traffic ahead. Finally, he gave a curt nod. We took one step before Chase threw his entire body in front of us. “He’s using a voice-changer!” Chase babbled, spittle flying from his lips. “It’s not my dad! It’s his little boyfriend on the other end! He catfishes people online all the time! I’ve seen him do it! Search his phone! You have to search his phone!” He gripped my collar, digging his heels into the pavement, physically restraining me from moving forward. “You are not leaving, Dr. Caldwell,” Chase hissed, leaning in so the cops couldn’t hear. “I know exactly who is in that ambulance. It’s someone you care about, right? You humiliated me in the O.R. Now I’m going to make sure your loved one suffers.” The world seemed to stop spinning. He knew. He knew I was trying to save someone. He didn’t know it was the Mayor, but he knew a life was on the line. And he was intentionally trying to let them die. Just to settle a bruised ego. A primal rage exploded inside me. I planted my hands on his chest and shoved him with every ounce of strength I possessed. Chase flew backward, hitting the asphalt hard. He immediately started wailing like a toddler. I didn’t look back. I clutched the cooler and sprinted down the shoulder of the highway, my lungs burning, the SWAT captain right on my heels. Ninety seconds. I can make it. I can save him. The two officers the captain had sent ahead were waving me toward the back of the ambulance. The rear doors were violently kicked open from the inside. Richard Halloway stood there, his face pale and slick with sweat. He grabbed my shirt and physically hauled me up into the rig. With every eye in the ambulance glued to me, I ripped open the cooler. My breath caught in my throat. My brain short-circuited. The emergency insulin auto-injectors were gone. Lying at the bottom of the ice box were two cherry lollipops. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I numbly pressed the answer button on my Bluetooth earpiece. “Oopsie, Dr. Caldwell,” Chase’s voice chirped in my ear, thick with smug satisfaction. “I think I might have accidentally dropped some candy in your little box earlier. Is the guy in the ambulance dead yet? Don’t worry, my dad will clean up your mess.” Richard stared into the empty cooler. All the color drained from his face, leaving behind a sickly, ashen gray. Over the sound of Chase’s giggling in my ear, a long, piercing tone filled the ambulance. The heart monitor flatlined. Mayor Croft was dead. And a suffocating, graveyard silence swallowed the ambulance whole.

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My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing in my pocket. A barrage of texts from his best friend. Are you seriously not going to take responsibility after sleeping with me? That was my first time! Say something! My stomach dropped. I was spiraling. How the hell was I supposed to handle this? Then, he cornered me, his jaw tight. “So, is this your excuse? Is this why you’ve dated every single guy in my inner circle?” I kept my head down, my fingers twisted tightly into a knot. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. I didn’t just date them. I slept with all of them. After all, I have severe prosopagnosia. I’m completely face-blind. 1 My boyfriend was a piece of trash. I had gone to the club to find him, only to pause outside the VIP booth when I heard his friends talking. “You’re marrying the Montgomery heiress soon, right? What are you going to do about Camille?” “She’s just a little plaything,” Tristan’s voice drifted out, casual and light. “I give her money, she warms my bed. It’s a transaction. When the time comes, I’ll cut her a check and send her packing.” The booth erupted in laughter. “Is she gonna cry? What if she clings to your leg and refuses to let go?” Through the parted velvet curtain, I saw Tristan shake his head, looking genuinely inconvenienced. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. She’s too docile. She’s so obsessed with me, I’m terrified she’ll threaten to do something drastic when I end it. It’s going to be a headache.” A chorus of drawn-out boos and mock sympathy filled the room. “You heartless bastard,” someone jeered. Tristan just shrugged, unfazed. “If you guys feel so bad for her, go ahead and try your luck. Whoever actually manages to bag her, I’ll buy you a massive gift. Consider it my wedding present to myself.” A new voice cut through the noise, out of place among the cheering. “You said it yourself, Tristan. You’re breaking up with Camille.” Tristan didn’t answer immediately. He lifted his gaze, lazily crushing his cigarette into the glass ashtray on the table. “Yeah. I said it.” He was wearing a deep V-neck shirt tonight. In the dim, pulsating neon light, the distinct dark red birthmark over his heart looked vivid, almost like a drop of fresh blood. My refined, handsome boyfriend. Right now, looking at him just made me feel sick to my stomach. The cheering was giving me a migraine. I blinked slowly, my eyes burning and aching with a sudden, heavy pressure. So, we weren’t in love? So, he just wanted my body? Liar. He had looked me in the eyes and promised he would love me and take care of me for the rest of his life. 2 My phone vibrated. A video file from Brady, Tristan’s absolute best friend. Come to me. I swear I’ll treat you better than he ever did. Men. They were all liars. He probably just wanted me to come over so he could get proof on camera to claim Tristan’s sick little reward. I locked my screen, sniffled, and turned around, pushing my way out of the club alone. But I didn’t know this part of the city well. The further I walked, the darker the streets became. My steps slowed until I slammed headfirst into a solid chest. “I’m sorry!” My nose throbbed from the impact. The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled over, making my voice come out as a pathetic, muffled whine. Before I could step back, long, masculine fingers forcefully wedged between mine. He possessed my hand, intertwining our fingers with an undeniable grip, and began leading me down the street. “Why so sad? Because of Tristan?” he asked. The streetlights were too dim. I couldn’t see his face clearly. Honestly, I’ve struggled to recognize faces since I was a kid. To make matters worse, Tristan and his inner circle had formed a private motorsport club, and they were always going out in matching sleek, black racing jackets with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders. Without a distinct marker, they were entirely interchangeable to me. Once, at one of their dimly lit house parties, I had followed the scent of Tristan’s signature Tom Ford cologne, only to realize too late that Brady was the one holding my hand, leading me out to the terrace to look at the stars. If Tristan hadn’t stormed out right at that second, Brady would have kissed me. Afterward, Brady claimed it was just a joke, though Tristan nearly threw a punch. Tristan had warned me then to stay away from Brady, claiming the guy was bad news. Whatever. They were all bastards. My silence seemed to give him the wrong idea. “Alright, I know he’s trash. Let me take you home. Wait here a second.” I didn’t wait. I slipped around the corner, quietly ordering an Uber on my phone, hiding in the shadows. But to my shock, a sleek car pulled up right in front of me. A familiar, impatient voice called out. “Why are you standing out here? Get in.” Under the flickering streetlamp, I blinked. The man was wearing the exact same racing jacket Tristan had on earlier. Oh… so he must have finished drinking and come out to find me. I had zero desire to speak to him. I turned on my heel to walk away, but he grabbed my arm and forcefully yanked me into the passenger seat. Panic flared in my chest. I swung my hand back and slapped him hard across the face. “Don’t touch me!” But this absolute psycho seemed to like it. His eyes lost focus for a second, the sting of the slap sending a visible shudder through him. It took him a moment to recover. His thigh muscles bunched as he effortlessly hauled me across the console, settling me onto his lap. He lowered his voice, coaxing me softly. “Baby girl, I was wrong.” He paused, his breath hot against my cheek. “Everything I said in there was bullshit. How could I ever let anyone else have you?” He grabbed my hand and brought it to his own cheek, gently mimicking a slap against his own skin. “My sweet girl. I love you. Only you.” I instinctively tried to pull back, but he caught my fingers, pressing open-mouthed kisses to each one, the slick heat of his mouth sending a shiver of pure electricity down my spine. “I’ll be so good to you.” He drove us to an unfamiliar penthouse. Tristan had a lot of real estate; I figured this was just one I hadn’t been to before. “This is your home now.” Before I could process that, he scooped me into his arms, carrying me into the master bedroom and tossing me onto the center of the massive bed. “Don’t turn it on,” he murmured, catching my hand as I reached for the bedside lamp. Instead, he leaned over, pressing a glass of dark liquor to my lips. “I love you, baby. I love you—” His voice sounded a little strange tonight. Deeper, rougher, somehow unfamiliar. I tried to turn my head away, but he descended on me with a storm of kisses, kissing me until my mind spun out into static. All I could think was: It’s this late, and we’re really going through the motions? Then, a bead of sweat fell onto my cheek. Was this really necessary? We’d been together long enough to skip this kind of frantic desperation. How much did he drink? I sighed internally, deciding to just get it over with so I could sleep. I had a massive thesis paper to work on tomorrow. I tilted my chin up and kissed his jaw. “Hurry up—” Just finish, so I can sleep. … He pulled my glasses off, setting them gently on the nightstand. Right at that moment, my phone started ringing. Without my glasses, the screen was a blur. It looked like… Tristan? Wait. If Tristan was calling me… who was currently kissing my neck? “Have you made up your mind?” the man above me asked softly. I tried to reach for my phone, but the heavy weight of the man pressed down, his fingers interlacing with mine, pinning my wrists to the mattress. “What are you—” Before I could finish, his mouth crashed down on mine, swallowing my words into a helpless moan. “Forget about it,” he whispered against my lips. “I’ll take care of everything.” 3 When I opened my eyes, the first thing I registered was the scorching heat of a mature male body pressed against my back. Without thinking, I reached a hand back. The man let out a low, sleep-heavy groan. Before my brain could even catch up, the world flipped upside down. He effortlessly pinned me to the mattress, dipping his head to kiss me, his voice gravelly and dark. “What, didn’t get enough last night?” My lower back ached so badly it felt like it belonged to someone else. Furious, I bit his shoulder. He let out a low, breathy laugh, leaning in to kiss me again. I shoved at his chest, my vision clearing just enough to focus on his bare skin. My heart instantly vaulted into my throat. There was no red birthmark. Who the hell did I sleep with last night?! I jerked backward so fast I cracked the back of my head against the headboard. The sharp pain brought instant tears to my eyes. The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He caught my hands, his tone immediately softening into a coaxing murmur. “Baby, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have scared you. Please don’t be mad.” I stared at him through a blur of tears. Seeing me cry, he immediately backed off. He dropped to one knee beside the bed, gently pulling my discarded shirt over my head and slipping my socks onto my cold feet. It was absolutely his fault. If it hadn’t been pitch black last night, if he hadn’t held me and whispered that he loved me, if he hadn’t dragged my hands down his abdomen… I mean, the abs felt identical to Tristan’s! And my brain had been thoroughly short-circuited by the kissing. Of course I hadn’t stopped him. …But who was he? I was paralyzed with panic. I’m a rational person, but I’m face-blind. I rely almost entirely on distinct physical markers to tell these men apart. A mole, a scar, a specific watch. But this man had no mole. And currently, he was buck naked, stripped of any identifying accessories. I had absolutely no idea who I was looking at. Once I was dressed, I blindly reached for my phone on the nightstand. My pupils dilated in sheer horror. It was 7:30 AM. Every single morning at 8:00 AM sharp, Tristan FaceTimed me. What the hell was I going to do?! The man had pulled his racing jacket back on. He had a gorgeous, broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted physique. The morning light caught the sharp, aristocratic bridge of his nose. He looked wealthy, dangerous, and absolutely not someone to mess with. He looked at me. “Moving your stuff over today?” Seeing my completely blank expression, a realization seemed to hit him. He let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Do you even know who I am?” It was a trap. A lethal, fatal trap. I stared at him, and then, slowly, large, heavy tears began rolling down my cheeks. “I’m not a bad person.” I had just made a tiny mistake that any visually impaired girl in a dark room might make. The man instantly panicked, stepping forward to wipe my tears. “Hey, don’t cry…” I locked eyes with him for one second, then threw my arms around his neck. Caught off guard, his hands instinctively dropped to my waist to catch me. I hooked my leg over him, straddling his hips. His breathing instantly turned harsh. “Baby, what are you—” Click. His face changed instantly. “Camille!” I scrambled off his lap, quickly swiping my hand over his abs one last time just for good measure. His left wrist was now securely fastened to the heavy iron headboard with a pair of fuzzy novelty handcuffs I’d spotted earlier. The only key was clenched tight in my fist. I had noticed the cuffs in the half-open nightstand drawer the night before. What kind of decent man keeps novelty cuffs by his bed anyway? “I wanted to ask you last night,” I said, blinking at him innocently. “Are you… stunted?” I held up my hands, measuring an imaginary distance in the air. “Shouldn’t all real men be twelve inches? Shouldn’t it be impossible to fit inside a Gatorade bottle?” The man, who had been violently yanking at the restraints, suddenly froze. He stared at me in absolute, utter disbelief. “What did you just say?” I straightened my shirt, nervously wringing my hands. “…Don’t be insecure about it. I promise I won’t tell anyone about last night.” The cuffed man went completely silent. He seemed to choke on his own air for several long seconds. “It’s not like I haven’t been with Tristan—” I lunged forward, clapping my hand over his mouth. “Shhhh! We are not talking about this!” To my horror, his tongue darted out and licked the center of my palm. I shrieked, yanking my hand back as if burned. “Psycho!” “Twelve inches is a medical anomaly,” he growled, his eyes burning into mine. “Stop reading those trashy romance novels.” Right on cue, my phone lit up. It was Tristan. I waved the glowing screen at the man chained to the bed. “Tristan’s calling. Gotta go.” Ignoring the kaleidoscope of murderous colors flashing across his face, I slipped out the door and let out a massive sigh of relief. That was too close. At least I wasn’t caught red-handed. 4 I carefully pushed open the door to my apartment. Dead silent. Thank God. Tristan wasn’t home yet. I tiptoed into the hallway, but as I passed the living room, a voice, colder than ice, drifted from the shadows. “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” My soul nearly left my body. Every hair on my arms stood up. Tristan was sitting rigidly on the sofa in the dark. He was still wearing the clothes from last night. God knows how long he’d been sitting there. He leaned forward, his nose twitching slightly. “Did you shower?” His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck. His sharp nose cut a handsome profile in the gloom. My deeply traitorous, newly-satisfied body actually went a little weak at the knees. It was his fault. He loved using that perfect nose of his in bed. Watching Tristan lean in, sniffing the air around me like a damn bloodhound, pure panic seized my chest. He couldn’t look any lower! If he looked lower, he’d see the fading hickeys! I threw my arms around his neck, burying myself deep against his chest, and burst into exaggerated, theatrical sobs. “You’re being so mean to me!” I wailed. The rigid tension in Tristan’s muscles didn’t completely fade, but the ice in his expression melted slightly. “Don’t try to act cute. It won’t work.” I pressed my face harder against his expensive shirt, finally exhaling. Yep. Definitely Tristan. I kept my head down, forcing my voice to tremble with a pathetic little hiccup. “I went to the club to find you last night—” His body went completely stiff. “You came to the club?” “…Why did you come looking for me?” “Someone sent me a pin drop. They said you wanted me to come get you.” I felt Tristan’s entire frame go rigid. He gripped my chin, forcing my head up, his dark eyes locking onto mine with terrifying intensity. “…What did you hear?” My eyes were genuinely red from holding my breath. I stared up at him pathetically. “I couldn’t find you. I went back to the university lab and worked on my models all night. I forgot my phone. And then I come home, and you jump scare me.” He exhaled a long, shaky breath, the fight draining out of him. He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly against him, instantly slipping back into his patronizing, lecturing tone. “I told you to stay away from the people in my circle. Every single one of my friends is a piece of trash. Stay away from them.” 5 Just as I thought I had survived the gauntlet, someone knocked on the door. Tristan clearly had no intention of answering it. But then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. My entire body turned to stone. On the screen, the name Brady flashed relentlessly. When I didn’t pick up, the text messages started rapid-firing across the lock screen. Where are you? I told you to wait for me outside the club last night. Why did you disappear? Tristan’s head snapped toward me, his eyes practically feral. “I thought you said you left your phone at the lab.” I had no words. He shoved me aside and stalked to the front door, ripping it open. I spun around, desperate to bolt to the bedroom, but a hand reached through the doorway and grabbed my arm. It was the exact same black racing jacket. “I told you to wait for me at the door last night. Where did you go?” ??? My vision literally swam. Staring at the identical face, I let my eyes drop to the green-dial Rolex on his wrist. I took a wild guess. “Brady?” Did he get out of the handcuffs that fast?! The man in the doorway narrowed his eyes, looking intensely displeased. “Where the hell did you go?” Wait. He was Brady??? Then who did I sleep with last night?!

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In this godforsaken hellscape known as the Enclave—a high-security compound hidden deep within the lawless borderlands—I am the caged bird, the delicate ornament kept by the kingpin, Dante Moretti. To everyone here, I am a broken thing. Blind. Deaf. A useless piece of porcelain. But beneath this shattered shell, I am a woman with a heart that has never stopped fighting for a way out. Dante likes me this way. He says a woman who can’t see his sins or hear the screams of his victims is the only kind of woman who can stay loyal. He doesn’t want trouble; he wants a statue. I still remember the last girl who knew too much. She tried to smuggle a message to the outside world. They skinned her alive that same night. Now, she’s the deep-red rug in Dante’s office—a constant, silent reminder of what happens to those who try to play hero. Right now, a man is screaming at my feet. It’s a gut-wrenching, soul-piercing sound—the cry of an undercover agent having his fingernails ripped out one by one. The agony should be vibrating through my eardrums, but I don’t flinch. Dante leans down, gently wiping a spray of hot blood from my cheek. His voice is a low, terrifying purr of satisfaction. “Only my Elena is truly good. You can’t hear them, and you can’t see the mess I make. That’s why you’re not afraid of me, is it?” I let his hand linger on my face, my expression a mask of vacant serenity. No sound escapes my throat. My heart hammers against my ribs, frantic and wild, threatening to burst through my skin, but I don’t let it show. Three years. For three years, I’ve survived this slaughterhouse by pretending the world is silent and dark. No matter the carnage, I must remain a void. One slip, one instinctive blink, and I’ll end up under his feet like the girl before me. Then, she arrived. A new “host” for Dante’s streaming empire. She waited until we were alone, slipping past the blind spots of the cameras. Then, with a cold, predatory smirk, she whispered into my ear: “Give it up, Elena. My system shows your stats. You aren’t blind. And you sure as hell aren’t deaf.” 1 In the quiet of the room, the new girl, Janet Emerson, pressed a grooming blade against my left eye. The cold steel hovered just millimeters from my pupil. One tremor of her hand, and I’d be blinded for real. I didn’t blink. I stared straight ahead, my gaze hollow and unfocused, my breathing as rhythmic as a sleeping child’s. “Stop acting, Elena Rossi,” Janet hissed, her voice vibrating with malice. She searched my face, looking for a crack. “My interface shows it all. Your hearing and vision are one hundred percent healthy. You’ve played the ‘broken doll’ for three years to trick a man like Dante. Did you really think no one would ever catch on?” She leaned closer, her breath smelling of expensive mints and desperation. “My ultimate objective is to become Dante’s one and only. Failure means my end. If I expose you, your throne beside him is mine.” Interface? Objective? The words sent a chill down my spine. I’d survived three years on raw instinct and careful planning, but I never expected to face something that defied logic—a girl who seemed to be playing a game with my life as the obstacle. Don’t panic. I shoved the terror into a dark corner of my mind, keeping my face a blank canvas of wood and stone. I pretended to be thirsty, my hands trembling slightly as they “groped” blindly across the table for a glass of water. Janet narrowed her eyes. She reached for a vase, pulled out a long-stemmed red rose, and laid it directly in the path of my hand. I saw the thorns. I saw them clearly. But I didn’t stop. I gripped the stem firmly. The thorns pierced deep into my palm. Blood welled up, hot and bright. I forced my body to shudder, letting out a soft, pathetic whimper. I pulled my hand back, cradling the bleeding palm against my chest, curling into the chair like a wounded animal. “Quite the actress,” Janet sneered, stepping back in disgust. She pulled a small metal cylinder from her pocket. “This is a sonic needle. It’s designed to send a pulverizing shockwave of pain directly into a functioning brain. A truly deaf person won’t feel a thing. Let’s see if you can keep that mouth shut when your nerves are on fire, Elena.” The needle was inches from my temple when the door was kicked open. The floor shuddered under a heavy tread. Dante stood there, dragging a blood-soaked man behind him. The man’s legs were twisted at impossible angles, leaving a smear of crimson across the hardwood. Dante tossed a bloody gold tooth onto the table. He loosened his tie, a dark grin playing on his lips. “Tough bastard. Broke two pairs of pliers before he spit out the tooth with the encryption codes.” Janet turned pale, her knees buckling as she collapsed to the floor, a dark stain spreading beneath her. I acted as if I heard nothing. Stumbling to my feet, I followed the scent of iron and sweat. When I bumped into Dante, I grabbed his lapels, burying my face against his chest as if seeking a harbor in a storm. Dante didn’t push me away, even though I was staining his bespoke suit with blood. He looked down at the trembling Janet, his eyes turning into shards of ice. Without a word, he snatched a letter opener from the desk and flicked his wrist. The blade whistled through the air, pinning Janet’s hand to the floor. “Agh!” Janet screamed, her face contorting in agony. Dante ignored her. He used his thumb to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. Then, he took my thorn-pricked hand and pressed his lips to the blood in my palm. “My bird has a delicate heart,” Dante murmured, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register as he looked back at Janet. “If you frighten her again, I’ll grind you into meat and feed you to the hounds in the yard. Am I clear?” 2 Dante was a man of infinite business. His criminal empire required constant maintenance—debts to collect, traitors to silence. Janet didn’t die after she was dragged out. Using some kind of advanced, “system-provided” medicine, her hand healed with impossible speed, the flesh knitting back together before the day was out. But the memory of the pain remained, twisting her features into a mask of pure hate. That afternoon, while Dante was in the basement cells personally dealing with a captured federal agent, I was left in the second-floor lounge. The lock clicked. Janet walked in, her face livid. “Dante’s busy. No cameras in here,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. She pulled a small spray bottle from her robe. “This is a high-potency truth serum. One breath, and it’ll feel like your internal organs are being scorched by a blowtorch. If you’re human, you won’t be able to stop yourself from screaming for help.” I sat on the sofa, staring into the middle distance, a perfect picture of silence. A second later, a sickly sweet scent hit my nostrils. The reaction was instantaneous. My throat burned. My stomach cramped so hard I felt my guts were twisting into knots. My muscles began to spasm uncontrollably. Sweat drenched my back in seconds, and a primal urge to shriek tore at my vocal cords. “Keep playing! Keep going!” Janet shoved a micro-camera into my face, her voice a jagged blade. “Tell me! Who sent you? What’s your contact code? Tell me, and I’ll give you the antidote. We’re from the same world, Elena. I can help you get out of this place!” Malicious lies wrapped in fake pity. I rolled off the sofa, my body coiling into a tight ball on the floor. I could only manage a series of desperate “hissing” sounds as the agony peaked. “Say it! Cry for help! Just one word and the torture stops!” Janet waved the antidote in front of my clouded eyes. Just as my vocal cords were about to betray me, I slammed my teeth shut and bit down—hard—on my own tongue. The sharp, localized tear of pain acted as an anchor, grounding me against the internal fire. I funneled the scream into a mouthful of dark, iron-tasting blood. Spit. A spray of warm blood and torn tissue hit Janet square in the face. “You little bitch!” Janet shrieked, wiping her eyes as the antidote bottle shattered on the floor. She grabbed a heavy brass poker from the fireplace and swung it at my head. “To hell with you! Die!” At that exact moment, a voice boomed from the hidden speakers in the corner. “Are you tired of having that hand, too?” It was Dante. His eyes were everywhere in this house. Janet froze, the poker trembling in mid-air. Hearing his voice, I seized the opening. I scrambled backward, “clumsily” knocking over a waist-high Ming vase. Crash. The porcelain shattered, shards slicing into my calf. I curled up in the wreckage, clutching my bleeding leg, sobbing silently. The door was kicked off its hinges. Dante stormed in, radiating a murderous aura. Seeing the blood on my leg and the iron rod in Janet’s hand, the beast in him broke its chains. “Get her out of here,” Dante said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he scooped me up. He looked at Janet with eyes that promised a slow death. “Whichever hand held that rod… take it. One finger at a time. Chop them off.” 3 By nightfall, Janet had crawled back. She was wearing black leather gloves. A few hours ago, she had used her “system” to exchange points for a numbing agent and a clotting serum. Since she didn’t have enough points for limb regeneration, she’d had to settle for sewing her own severed fingers back on with a needle and thread. The sheer madness of it told me one thing: her desire to kill me had become an obsession. Dante watched her like a scientist observing a rabid dog, idling spinning a combat knife in his hand. “Dante, sir… I’m more useful to you alive than dead,” Janet rasped, kneeling on the floor. “There’s a high-profile buyer in the Dubai circles. He’s looking for a perfect heart for a transplant. Type O-negative, pristine condition.” She looked up at me. “This woman is a waste. She’s blind, she’s deaf, she’s a burden. But a heart raised in a ‘hothouse’ like this? It’s perfect. Cut it out of her. The price a billionaire would pay is more than this Enclave makes in a month. Why keep a broken toy when you can have ten million dollars?” She was trading my life for her own. The room went silent. The spinning knife stopped. Dante used the blade to clean his nail, his gaze shifting to my chest. My blood ran cold, but I forced my expression to remain vacant. Suddenly, Dante rose. He walked to me, using the tip of the knife to flick open my collar, resting the cold steel against the skin over my heart. I flinched instinctively, my hands coming up in a confused, wandering motion to find the sharp object. In that same heartbeat—CRACK! Dante crushed a heavy whiskey glass right next to my right ear with his bare hand. Shards of glass sprayed my face, cutting into my cheek. I let out a muffled groan, tears welling up as I ducked away, clutching my face. It was a dual test of reflex and biology. If a person can hear, a sudden explosion of sound near the ear causes the heart to skip a beat and then skyrocket. The knife against my chest was there to catch the rhythm of my fear. My heart was racing. But I gritted my teeth, using every ounce of my training to decouple my physical reaction from the noise. I focused on the pain in my cheek, making my pulse erratic—the pulse of a person who is hurt and confused, not one who was startled by a sound. Dante stared at my bleeding face for ten agonizing seconds. Then, he let out a low, dark chuckle and tossed the knife onto the floor. “A mad dog who wags her tail for a bone shouldn’t try to tell me how to run my business,” Dante said, looking down at Janet. “My bird’s heart belongs to me. The last man who tried to harvest her organs is currently being digested by my dogs. Do you want to be next?” Whatever “system” Janet had must have been screaming a death warning, because she pressed her forehead to the floor and didn’t make a sound. Dante snapped his fingers. “Take her away. Clean her up. Put her in that couture evening gown I bought.” He grabbed my chin, leaning close to my ear. “Get ready, Elena. Tonight, we’re going to the underground auction on the high seas. After tonight, you’ll finally show the world what you’re worth.” Janet heard this and looked up, a silent, jagged grin spreading across her face. She knew it would be her last chance. 4 The yacht cut through the black waves of international waters. Inside the grand ballroom, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cigars and the presence of the world’s most dangerous men—arms dealers, black-market magnates, and fugitives. Dante sat at the head of the main table, his arm draped possessively around me. Janet, dressed as a cocktail waitress, was moving among the tables. “Dante, your tastes are getting weirder,” a Thai cartel boss laughed, gesturing toward me. “What’s the point of keeping a blind and deaf ornament? Why not let the boys have a turn?” Dante toyed with a high-stakes poker chip. “She can’t hear or see. That makes her the perfect vault for my secrets.” “Is that so? I don’t buy it.” The boss pulled a silver revolver from his waistband. He clicked the cylinder into place and pointed the barrel directly at my forehead. “Let’s see just how deaf this little doll really is.” BOOM! He fired. The bullet whistled past my ear, shattering a champagne tower behind me. Glass rained down like diamonds. Everyone in the room went still, their eyes locked on me. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even blink. Instead, as if feeling a sudden thirst, I slowly reached out and fumbled for my glass on the table. The room exploded into laughter. They were convinced. I was truly a broken thing. Just as a satisfied smirk touched Dante’s lips, the world turned upside down. “She’s lying! She’s faking everything!” Janet rushed into the center of the room, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Dante! You’re all being played! She isn’t just a fake—she’s a high-level mole! She’s been undercover for three years!” The laughter died instantly. Janet didn’t wait. She slammed a device onto the table, patching it into the yacht’s massive LED display. The screen flickered to life. It was surveillance footage. In a darkened room, a woman—clearly me—was wide awake. I had a micro-earpiece in one ear. My fingers were flying across a laptop keyboard, transmitting encryption codes and compound layouts. The evidence was undeniable. It was a checkmate. Every man in the room reached for his weapon. The tension was a physical weight. Dante’s relaxed mask shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. His face contorted with a primal, predatory rage. He lunged, grabbing me by the hair and slamming me face-down onto the poker table. My forehead hit the felt with a sickening thud. Dante snatched the Thai boss’s revolver. He emptied five chambers, leaving only one. He spun the cylinder. Click-click-click-click. The sound of the Russian Roulette wheel echoed in the silent hall. Dante hauled me up by the collar, shoving the barrel into the center of my brow. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a broken whisper. He didn’t scream. He mourned. “Year one,” he whispered. “You took a knife for me.” Click. He pulled the trigger. Empty. My body shuddered, cold sweat soaking my dress. “Year two,” he continued. “I killed two rivals just to keep you safe.” Click. Second shot. Empty. My muscles were coiled like springs, ready to snap. “Year three…” His voice broke. “Every night, you curled into my arms and told me you loved me.” Click! Click! Click! Three, four, five. He counted out the three years of lies with every pull of the trigger. Each empty click was a hammer blow to my soul. The cylinder stopped. Everyone knew. The last chamber held the live round. Dante’s finger tightened on the trigger. The barrel dug a red ring into my skin. He leaned in until our noses touched. “Elena,” he smiled, a tear finally escaping his eye. “This is the last one.” His finger moved. “Are you still not going to ask me to save you?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “424259”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the night of our seventh anniversary, I didn’t get a candlelit dinner. I got a call from the precinct. A couple had filed a criminal complaint against my company, claiming our flagship organic line had hospitalized their child with severe food poisoning. When I walked into the station, the world tilted on its axis. Standing there was Dorian—Lydia’s “one who got away,” the man who had haunted the periphery of our marriage for years. And standing right beside him, her hand resting protectively on his arm, was my wife, Lydia. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even have the grace to look guilty. She looked at me with a terrifying, flat calm and said, “We have a three-year-old son together. That’s the reality of the situation.” A jagged, hysterical laugh escaped my throat. We had reconciled four years ago, and for every second of those four years, she had kept this life—this child—a secret. The math was the cruelest part. The boy was three. She had betrayed me the moment she stepped back into our home. Lydia’s best friend actually had the audacity to pull me aside later to “soften the blow.” She told me I should be grateful that Lydia at least had the “decency” to hide the affair from me for so long. I reached into my bag and pulled out a tattered folder. Inside was the divorce agreement from four years ago—the one I had ripped up in a moment of weakness. Looking at it now, I felt like a fool who had mistaken a predator’s blink for a lover’s wink. “If that’s how it is,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash, “then she’s free to go live the life she’s already built with him.” Four years ago, I thought we had found our turning point. We’d been married for three years then, a volatile cycle of pain. She had sent me to the police station ten times because I’d gotten into fights with Dorian—her “soulmate.” And every time I came home, our arguments were so explosive she ended up in the ER eleven times from the sheer stress and physical toll of our mutual destruction. Then came the business trip to Dubai. The explosion happened at noon. I remember the roar, the heat, and the ceiling coming down. She threw herself over me, shielding me from the shrapnel that shredded her back. I used every ounce of my strength to hold up a collapsing support beam so she wouldn’t be crushed. We ended up in adjacent hospital beds, our hands stretched across the narrow aisle, gripping each other like lifelines. “No more fighting,” she had sobbed, her face pale against the white pillows. “I’ll send him away, Cade. I promise. Let’s just be us. Let’s have a real life, okay?” Looking at our shared scars, my heart broke for her. With trembling hands, I tore up the divorce papers I’d prepared. “One last try,” I had whispered. That day, Dorian was erased. He was fired, blocked, and scrubbed from her life. To prove her devotion, she even had my name tattooed over her heart, swearing she would never make me regret staying. Now, I realized those vows were just lines in a script she had long since stopped following. … Dorian eventually stormed out of the station, clutching his son and fuming. My legal team had dismantled his “evidence” within minutes. Facing my knowledge of food safety regulations and liability law, he looked like a panicked amateur. He was livid because he couldn’t play the victim. As we entered our house, I strode ahead. Lydia followed, her heels clicking sharply on the marble. “Could you not have been a little more empathetic?” she snapped, her brow furrowed. “Bullying a father and his sick child—is that who you are now?” “Bullying?” I spun around so fast she stumbled back. “My company’s formulas are pristine, Lydia. He clearly fed that kid something he shouldn’t have and tried to frame me for a payout. You’re telling me you couldn’t see through that? Who is bullying whom?” Lydia sighed, a sound of weary disappointment. “You know exactly how clean my manufacturing process is,” I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “And yet, you helped them file the report. You’re exactly who you’ve always been, aren’t you?” “Cade,” she said softly, shaking her head. “Sometimes you truly lack basic human empathy.” I froze. “The boy is three,” she continued. “Dorian is a first-time father. When a child is that sick, you don’t think straight. Instead of being understanding, you attacked a single father for a minor mistake. You…” She looked me up and down, a mocking curl hitting her lip. “Oh, right. I forgot. You’re a man who will never be a father. I guess I shouldn’t expect you to understand what it feels like to care about a child.” The world went white. The next thing I knew, the sound of a sharp crack echoed through the foyer. My hand was stinging. I had slapped her. “Lydia! Don’t you dare act like you don’t know why I’ll never be a father!” She flinched, her eyes dropping to the floor. The guilt finally flickered in her expression, but I wouldn’t let her hide. “College,” I barked. “You got drunk and picked a fight with the wrong people. They came at you with a broken bottle. I stepped in front of it. That bottle severed my vas deferens. I had to get a vasectomy because the damage was irreparable! I gave up my future for yours!” A bitter laugh choked me. “If I had known back then that you were fighting over Dorian that night, I would have let them move me out of the way. I would have never saved you.” “I… I’m sorry,” she stammered, looking small. “I shouldn’t have said that.” “You’ve said a lot of the wrong things over the last seven years.” I stared at her, feeling a coldness settle in my bones. “The truth is, you never cared. Not about me, and certainly not about this marriage. If you did, those words wouldn’t have been so easy to spit out. Tell me, do you ever say ‘the wrong thing’ to Dorian?” Silence. “That’s what I thought,” I whispered. “Cade—” “Stop lying, Lydia. You didn’t value our ‘last chance.’ You just got better at hiding the truth.” I looked at her chest, at the spot where my name was tattooed. I sneered. “You just said what you needed to say to keep your safety net while you kept him in the basement of your life.” “I moved him underground for us!” she suddenly shouted, her frustration boiling over. “In the last four years, did you ever see a shadow of them? No! I kept my lives separate so you wouldn’t be hurt!” I stared at her, horrified. “Lydia… listen to yourself.” “Enough, Cade.” She crossed her arms. “If you hadn’t been so petty and litigious today, you would never have found out. We could have gone on like this forever. We were happy. You’re the one destroying our peace.” When you reach the peak of fury, you don’t scream. You laugh. The report against my company should have been handled by the legal department. I only stepped in because the complainant’s number looked familiar. I had checked it. I had followed the trail. And it led straight back to her. Lydia sighed again, reaching out as if to touch my arm. “Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen. Don’t throw away everything we’ve rebuilt over a misunderstanding.” I laughed again, louder this time, and slammed a new set of divorce papers onto the console table. “If you actually valued ‘us,’ he wouldn’t exist in your world.” “What is this?” Her breath hitched as she saw the header. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. “Take it back.” She reached for the papers to tear them, but I pinned them down with my palm. “Four years ago was the last chance, Lydia. I meant it.” “Cade…” “Three days,” I said, my voice dead. “Give me your answer in three days.” I walked out without looking back. I left her standing there, her fingers trembling as they brushed the edge of the document. I waited two days. She didn’t call. She didn’t text. On the third day, I went back to the house to end it. But as I reached the door, I heard the sound of clinking glasses and laughter from inside. “Lydia, today’s the deadline for the papers,” a woman’s voice—one of her friends—said. “What’s the plan?” “The plan?” Lydia’s voice was cold, sharp. “He’s being dramatic. He’s the one who owes me an apology for this little stunt.” I froze, my hand tightening on the doorknob. “We’ve been married for seven years,” Lydia continued. “I know I overstepped by bringing Dorian around, but Cade is obsessed with me. We’ve been more ‘in love’ these last four years than most couples are in a lifetime. He’s used to me; he’s never actually threatened divorce before. He’s just trying to scare me.” She must have waved the papers in the air. “He hasn’t even considered how much this ‘performance’ is damaging our relationship.” I felt my heart hammering against my ribs, fueled by pure, unadulterated rage. One of her friends glanced toward the door. She saw the shadow but chose not to say anything. Instead, she asked, “But what if he’s serious this time?” Lydia laughed. “We’ve literally bled for each other, Sarah. People who save each other’s lives don’t just walk away. We’re bonded in a way you couldn’t understand.” “Then why did you have a baby with Dorian? I thought you were actually going straight this time.” I heard the clink of a toast. “A bond that deep doesn’t need to be fragile,” Lydia said. “We saved each other’s lives. He belongs to me, and I belong to him. He isn’t going anywhere.” I took a deep breath, my chest aching. I didn’t open the door. I turned around and walked away. It was time to stop playing games and start the litigation. As my team prepared the filings, a message from Lydia finally came through on the third day: [Instead of wasting time throwing a tantrum, you should focus on paying Dorian for the damages to his reputation.] Attached was a court summons. Dorian was suing my company for food safety violations. He wasn’t giving up. But I knew he didn’t have the brains to do this alone. I called Lydia immediately. “You’re the one who filed this for him, aren’t you?” Lydia let out a soft, melodic hum. She didn’t need to say yes. “And if I refuse to settle?” “Honey,” she said, her voice dropping into a patronizing purr, “you should think carefully. My firm’s top litigation team is handling this. Don’t be stubborn. Just sign the check and let it go.” I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. “This company was founded by my grandfather. It’s been a household name for a century. You want me to admit to a lie and destroy the Thorne family legacy just to give your lover a payday?” Lydia sighed. “Why must you make things so difficult for them?” “They are the ones making things difficult for me!” I shouted. “Dorian poisoned his own kid with something else just to get to me!” Silence. When she spoke again, her voice was ice. “Fine. Have it your way. Good luck, Cade.” The line went dead. My lead counsel, Parker, looked at me with worry. “Sir, Lydia’s firm just sent over the formal notice. Her team has never lost a case of this scale. We’re in trouble.” I straightened my tie. “Prepare the files. I’m handling the defense myself.” Parker’s eyes widened. On the day of the hearing, when I stepped up as both the defendant and the lead counsel, Lydia’s jaw practically hit the floor. She had forgotten—or perhaps never cared enough to know—that I held a law degree from the best school in the country. I had just chosen to run the business instead of practicing. My phone buzzed. A text from her. I ignored it. I tore her legal team apart. By the time I was finished, Lydia’s “invincible” lawyers looked like first-year interns. The judge dismissed Dorian’s claim with prejudice. As the courtroom cleared, Dorian was red-faced with fury. I glanced at Lydia. Her expression was unreadable, but as I walked toward the exit, she caught me at the door. She smiled, a strange, lingering look. “Mr. Thorne. You’re much more formidable than I remembered.” “What’s the matter, Lydia? Going to file an appeal for your boy toy?” “No,” she laughed. “If my husband is this brilliant, why would I fight him?” She turned to leave, tossing a final remark over her shoulder. “Good luck with the business, Cade. I hope it keeps growing.” I frowned. What is she playing at? That night, I stayed at the office. I personally audited the warehouse, checked the security feeds, and verified the fire safety protocols. I wanted to make sure there wasn’t a single crack in the foundation. Parker stayed late with me. “Thank god for you, sir. If they’d won, they would have drained our entire quarterly profit to pay that loser. Lydia actually tried to argue for a total asset seizure as compensation! Talk about biased. Whose wife is she, anyway?” One of the junior associates whispered, “Yeah, she’s clearly picked her side.” I stiffened, then forced a smile. “It’s fine. Let’s go home.” But as we walked out toward the parking lot, a deafening BOOM shook the ground. A wall of hot air slammed into my back. I spun around. The warehouse—my family’s legacy—was a pillar of fire reaching for the night sky. “My parents! Their things!” I screamed, lunging toward the flames. Parker and the others tackled me, pinning me to the pavement. “Sir! It’s too dangerous! You can’t go in!” “Everything is in there! The original records, the family archives—everything!” “Cade, stop! It’s gone!” The sirens drowned out my screams. Fire trucks and police cruisers swarmed the area. I watched the orange glow consume the only things I had left of my mother and father. My strength vanished. I stopped fighting. Then, I saw it. A black Rolls Royce parked just outside the police line. A familiar face appeared behind the tinted glass. Lydia was there, a slim cigarette between her fingers, watching the carnage with terrifying detachment. When she saw me look, she picked up the child in the backseat and blew me a playful kiss. In the driver’s seat, Dorian was finally grinning. Lydia stepped out of the car. “You embarrassed Dorian in court,” she said, her voice carrying over the crackle of the fire. “He needed a little compensation for his hurt feelings.” I couldn’t breathe. “The inventory is gone, but don’t worry—I’ll give you the money to rebuild later. Don’t blame him, Cade. This was my idea.” My throat tightened. That building wasn’t just inventory. It was my history. I remembered being five years old, my father holding my hand as he walked me through those aisles, telling me the story of how our family built something from nothing. Take care of it, Cade, they had told me. “Mom… Dad… I’m sorry,” I whispered. The world began to spin. The blackness crept into the edges of my vision. Lydia’s smug expression was the last thing I saw before it shattered. “Cade!” I heard her voice, suddenly sharp with panic, right before I hit the ground. When I woke up, I coughed up a spray of blood. I stared blankly at the doctor, then at Lydia, who was sitting by my bed. The doctor sighed. “Acute cardiac and pulmonary distress, triggered by extreme emotional shock. You have old scarring on your heart, Mr. Thorne. Why weren’t you taking care of yourself? One more night of stress like this and you could lose everything. Do you understand?” I closed my eyes. The old scarring. Another gift from Lydia. Back in college, when she was constantly getting into trouble with local thugs, I was always the one who stepped in. I’d been stabbed and beaten more times than I could count. The scar on my heart was from a fruit knife meant for her. I hadn’t known then that she was only in those fights to protect Dorian’s interests. Once the doctor left, Lydia grabbed my hand, her grip frantic. “Cade, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know… I…” Her voice broke. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I shouldn’t have let them burn the warehouse…” “Does it matter now?” I asked, staring at the ceiling. Twelve years of my life, gone in an instant because she wanted to soothe her lover’s ego. She looked frantic. “Cade, I’ll send him away. This time, I mean it. He’s gone.” Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it, and her face went pale. “I have to go. I’ll be right back.” “Where?” I asked, my eyes burning. “To Dorian?” She hesitated. “It’s not him. The baby has a fever.” “And what about me?” I grabbed her wrist, my fingers digging into her skin. “You burn down my life and you’re just going to walk out?” She paused, then slowly, one by one, she pried my fingers off her. “I’ll be back. I promise.” I watched her walk out. She had a home to go to. Dorian had a home. I had nothing. When Parker came to check on me, I was already dragging myself out of bed. “Sir! I’ll call the doctor!” “No.” I looked him dead in the eye. “We’re leaving. Now.” I stood in front of the house—the “reconciliation” home I had bought for Lydia. I was wrapped in a heavy coat, holding a torch. “Sir,” Parker whispered. “Are you sure?” I tossed the torch into the dry brush near the porch. “Positive.” I had carried her across this threshold once. I had thought we were building a sanctuary. Now, the memories were just poison. If I was leaving, I was leaving nothing behind. “Do you want to say goodbye to her?” “No.” A private jet was waiting at the local airfield. I handed him a signed set of papers. “Just give her these.” As the plane climbed into the night sky, the fire below was still raging. I didn’t look back. I was never coming back.

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It was past midnight. I was lying in bed, mindlessly scrolling through my phone, when I accidentally tapped into a late-night advice livestream on TikTok. The caller—a man with a digitally altered voice—was mid-confession. He was telling the host, and thousands of listeners, that he was having an affair. And not just with anyone. He was sleeping with the drunk driver who had struck and crippled his wife years ago. At the words car crash and crippled, my left hand instinctively reached across my chest, my fingers brushing against the flat, empty fabric of my right sleeve. The phantom ache of the amputated limb flared up, a dull throb echoing a nightmare I lived every single day. The man on the screen kept talking, his words a stream of casual cruelty. He confessed that he could only make love to his wife in pitch darkness. He said that whenever his hand brushed against the stump of her arm, he felt a wave of visceral disgust. He complained that ever since the accident, his wife had become a lifeless, suffocating presence. Nothing like the bright, vibrant girl he was seeing on the side. A cold prickle of unease washed over me. I reached out to swipe past the video, but his next sentence stopped my heart entirely. It felt like an ice pick driving straight through my ribs. “I mean, she lost her arm saving my mom’s life. But I can’t just sacrifice my own happiness forever out of gratitude, can I?” He sighed, the sound heavy with self-pity. “I admit I still love her. But I just can’t stand looking at her anymore. She’s half a ghost.” The words hit me like a physical blow. I froze. The pregnancy test I had been clutching in my hand slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor. Because five years ago, I threw myself in front of a speeding car to save my mother-in-law, and lost my right arm in the process. And the man in this livestream, the man complaining to the internet that my sacrifice had “ruined his life”—was Simon. My husband. The boy I had loved for twenty years. … 1 He was using a voice modifier, but the cadence of his speech, the slight pause he took before defending himself—it was unmistakably Simon. The live chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur. [Are you insane? You’re disgusted by the woman who saved your family?] [Sleeping with the driver who crippled her?! I don’t even have words for how evil that is.] [I hope karma destroys you, you absolute monster.] A violent chill seized my entire body. I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. The man who had always treated me like fragile glass, who swore he would protect me with his life, was currently venting his revulsion for me to fifty thousand strangers. When he talked about the young girl’s bubbly, energetic nature, his voice dripped with an unmistakable, sickening fondness. My stomach violently heaved. I scrambled out of bed, sprinting to the master bathroom, and threw up until there was nothing left but bitter bile. The bathroom door swung open. Simon—who was supposed to be at an academic conference two states away—rushed in. “Catherine? Honey, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” He gathered me into his arms. His hands, large and warm, instinctively reached for the stump of my right arm, massaging the scarred tissue with practiced ease. “I’m sorry I was away these past few days. No one was here to massage it for you. Has it been aching terribly?” His eyes were pooling with gentle, agonizing concern. But all I could hear, looping endlessly in my mind, was his voice from the livestream: Whenever I touch it, I feel disgusted. Five years ago, his mother and I were struck by a drunk driver. I pushed her out of the way and lost my arm. In the dark, suffocating months that followed, I tried to end my life more times than I could count. I swallowed pills. I took a razor to my remaining wrist. Every single time, Simon pulled me back from the ledge. He would hold me, his eyes bloodshot from crying, begging me to stay, swearing that if I died, he would follow me. Since then, unless he was traveling for work, he massaged my shoulder every morning and every night to ease the nerve pain. I had thought those moments were the purest expression of his love. Now I knew that every time he touched me, he was swallowing down bile. He leaned in to kiss my forehead. I flinched, pulling away. “What is it, Catherine?” he asked, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air. He rubbed his cheek against the curve of my neck. “Did I do something wrong? Are you upset with me?” I looked at him, forcing my voice to stay level. “You’re a tenured professor now. A public figure. Doesn’t it embarrass you to have a crippled wife?” “How could you even say that?” he murmured, pulling me tighter. “You gave up everything for my family. And we’ve been together since we were kids. Don’t you know how much I love you?” Staring into his eyes, a terrifying vertigo washed over me. Which Simon was real? The devoted husband rubbing my shoulder in the dead of night, or the man on the internet who wished I was dead? The urge to scream, to confront him about the affair, tasted like pennies on my tongue. But for a fleeting, tragic second, I actually wondered if I was the villain. Maybe I really was just a dead weight dragging down a brilliant, shining man. He ruffled my hair affectionately and pulled a velvet box and a small designer shopping bag from his coat pocket. “I passed by the boutique at the airport. Thought of you.” It was a bottle of high-end perfume and a delicate silver bracelet. It took me one glance to realize the fragrance was a sickly-sweet floral, the kind of scent a twenty-year-old girl would wear to a college party. It wasn’t me at all. When he stepped into the shower, I went through his coat pockets and found the receipt. He had spent ten thousand dollars on a custom, limited-edition jewelry set. The bracelet he gave me was listed at the bottom. It was the complimentary freebie given with the purchase. I stared at the crumpled slip of paper, and a hollow, broken laugh escaped my throat. When we were in college, I had casually pointed out a necklace in a shop window. Simon worked five part-time jobs, running himself into the ground just to buy it for me, telling me that Catherine deserves the absolute best. But now, the absolute best was for someone else. For Brianna. And I, his crippled wife, was only worthy of the scraps she didn’t want. From the bathroom, I heard him humming a soft lullaby over the sound of the running water. It was the song he had written for me years ago. He wasn’t singing it for me anymore. I sat in the dark living room until the sun came up. At dawn, my phone buzzed. The private investigator I had hired on a whim months ago—when Simon’s late nights first started—finally sent over the file. When I saw the name of the driver who hit me, the bottom fell out of my world. I first heard Brianna’s name two years ago. Simon used to come home rubbing his temples, complaining endlessly about his new grad student. “I’ve never met anyone so clumsy, Catherine. If she isn’t knocking over expensive lab equipment, she’s botching the data entry.” He had been on the verge of kicking her out of his research program. I was the one who felt bad for her. I was the one who told him to give her a little grace, to be patient. I never, in my wildest nightmares, imagined that my husband would fall in love with her. That he would love the girl who tore off my arm so much, he would cover up her crimes. 2 The next morning, Simon took a phone call, hastily threw on his coat, and rushed toward the door. “I made reservations for tonight,” he called out. “Don’t forget, it’s our anniversary.” He didn’t go to the university. He drove straight to a boutique pottery studio across town. Through the glass window, I saw Brianna. She was wearing heavy, youthful makeup and an over-the-top, frilly cottagecore dress—the exact aesthetic Simon used to mercilessly mock as childish and ridiculous. Yet now, looking at her, there wasn’t a trace of judgment in his eyes. When they walked up the steps, he actually bent down to lift the hem of her ridiculous dress so she wouldn’t trip. Inside, Brianna was clumsily smearing clay all over the worktable, her hands a mess. Simon, a man who demanded absolute perfection in his lab, wasn’t annoyed in the slightest. He stood behind her, enveloping her hands with his own, patiently guiding her fingers. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her temple. He was a man in his late thirties, grinning like a love-struck teenager. I stood rooted to the pavement outside, the cold seeping into my bones. It wasn’t that he had forgotten how to love. He just didn’t love me that way anymore. Driven by a morbid, masochistic curiosity, I pulled my baseball cap low, slipped on a medical mask, and walked into the shop, taking a seat in the far corner. Memories of our past flickered behind my eyes like a dying film reel. The shop owner noticed me staring at them and ambled over, leaning in with a conspiratorial smile. “Cute, right? I practically watched that girl wear him down. He used to be so cold and guarded, but she completely won him over. They come in at least once a week now.” At least once a week. During the most agonizing phase of my physical therapy, I had begged Simon to come to the rehab center with me just once. He told me the faculty board was breathing down his neck and he simply couldn’t spare the time. He had time. It just didn’t belong to me. The owner pulled out her phone and tilted the screen toward me. “Look at this. He stayed up for three nights straight rendering this AI animation for her birthday.” On the screen, a cartoon version of Simon stood in the pouring rain, holding an umbrella over Brianna’s head, waiting in an endless line to buy her favorite boba tea. I had known Simon for twenty years, and I had never seen that version of him. My vision blurred with hot tears. A few feet away, Brianna leaned back against his chest, her voice a sickly-sweet whine. “Can you please stay with me tonight? Don’t go home.” Simon didn’t even hesitate. “Okay.” “But isn’t it your anniversary? Won’t your… one-armed bandit get mad?” She was laughing. She was mocking my mutilation, and Simon just smiled, fondly tapping her nose. “She depends on me to survive,” he said softly. “She’d never dare throw a temper tantrum.” Brianna sighed, burying her face in his neck. “I’m so sorry, Professor. If I hadn’t been drinking that night, I wouldn’t have almost hit your mom. Thank God your wife stepped in…” I clamped my left hand clamped over my mouth, biting down hard on my own fingers to stop the sob from tearing out of my throat. So it was true. She had been driving drunk. Simon, a man who prided himself on absolute moral integrity, had buried the truth to protect her. When I was first trying to re-enter the world after the amputation, I couldn’t find a job anywhere. Desperate, I had swallowed my pride and begged Simon to pull some strings, just to get me a low-level administrative role in the university’s back office. He had frowned, his expression stern and disappointed. “Catherine, there are procedures for these things. You know I play by the rules.” But his sacred rules instantly disintegrated the moment Brianna needed him. “Don’t carry that guilt, Brianna,” Simon murmured, kissing her hair. “Maybe it was just Catherine’s fate. It has nothing to do with you.” He said it so casually. As if he were comforting her over a failed pop quiz, not the destruction of my entire life. Thinking of the nights I had laid on the bathroom tiles, bleeding out from my own wrists, I couldn’t take it anymore. I shot up from my seat. My chair tipped backward, crashing against the floor with a deafening clatter. From behind me, Simon’s voice called out, “Wait a second.” A spike of pure terror shot through me. I wasn’t ready to face him. I didn’t know how to play this. Was I supposed to scream? Cry? Play the martyr and give them my blessing? Footsteps approached. A hand reached out into my peripheral vision, holding a silver chain. “Miss, you dropped your necklace.” He didn’t recognize me behind the mask. He didn’t even recognize the necklace, which held the diamond wedding band I could no longer wear on my right hand. I looked down. On the hand extending my wedding ring to me, Simon was wearing a misshapen, brightly painted clay ring made by Brianna. My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from him. [Catherine, emergency faculty meeting came up. Going to have to cancel dinner tonight. I’m sorry.] In that split second, the shattered remains of my heart calcified into pure, unadulterated rage. I walked out of the shop, pulled out my phone, and dialed the university’s ethics hotline. “I need to report an inappropriate relationship between Professor Simon Hayes and his graduate student, Brianna Davis.” 3 To my surprise, he didn’t call me to scream or interrogate me. Instead, that evening, he simply unlocked the front door and walked Brianna straight into our living room. The moment she saw me, Brianna dropped to her knees, tears spilling down her heavily rouged cheeks. “Please, Mrs. Hayes, I’m begging you, don’t ruin my academic career! The accident was all my fault, I know that. I’ll do anything to make it up to you, I’ll be your servant—” Simon scowled, gripping her arms and pulling her forcefully to her feet. He poured her a glass of warm water, handing it to her before turning a cold glare on me. “Catherine, Brianna has no one else in this city. Your little phone call nearly destroyed my career, and you’re trying to destroy her future over a misunderstanding.” He spoke as if he had entirely forgotten how that car crash had destroyed my future. He leaned down, reaching out to hug me. As his arm extended, his sleeve rode up, revealing a cheap, bright pink hair tie around his wrist. He noticed my eyes track the movement and awkwardly tugged his cuff down to hide it. I stared him dead in the eyes, my voice dripping with venom. “I’m ruining her? Didn’t she ruin me? She drove drunk, crippled me, destroyed my career, and now she wants to steal my husband?” I swung my left arm with everything I had and slapped him directly across the face. The sharp crack echoed loudly through the silent living room. Simon froze, his head turned from the impact, the righteous indignation in his eyes fracturing. “You… you know?” he stammered. “About me and her…?” Brianna clutched at my shirt, sobbing violently. “I’m so sorry! I know it’s wrong, but fate is just so cruel. Two loving hearts just can’t stop themselves from being drawn together!” The words made me nauseous. Years ago, when Simon had knelt in front of my parents, begging for their blessing to marry me, he had used that exact phrase. Now, he had packaged it up and handed it to his shiny new toy. I started laughing. I laughed so hard that the tears began to stream down my face uncontrollably. “Simon, my God… my biggest regret in this life is fighting so hard to marry you.” He panicked. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around me in a crushing grip. “Catherine, listen to me, Brianna has nothing to do with us! We’re just soulmates, it’s a spiritual connection—” “Get your hands off me!” “I swear to God, Catherine, I have never slept with her! It’s purely platonic! My body has never betrayed you!” I thrashed violently against him, sinking my teeth into his shoulder until I tasted blood, but he refused to let go. His body might not have betrayed me, but his heart had packed its bags and left a long, long time ago. “I want a divorce, Simon.” I looked at him with absolute, dead calm. The frantic desperation on his face vanished, replaced instantly by a dark, surging anger. “Why do you always use divorce to threaten me?” he yelled, his voice echoing off the walls. “I told you, the title of my wife belongs to you and only you! Isn’t that enough?!” A blinding rage took over. I raised my left hand, aiming a vicious slap right at Brianna’s tear-stained face. I wanted to hurt the people who had dismantled my life. The slap never landed. Simon moved entirely on instinct. He shoved me backward, throwing himself in front of Brianna to protect her. I lost my balance. Having no right arm to catch myself, I went down hard, my side slamming violently into the sharp corner of the glass coffee table. For a fraction of a second, a flash of guilt crossed his face. “Catherine, stop being so hysterical.” I tried to push myself up, but my single arm was shaking too hard to support my weight. A deep, tearing pain bloomed low in my abdomen. It came in waves, sharp and agonizing. “Simon…” I gasped, clutching my stomach. “Help me up… I’m pregnant…” His pupils contracted. To my horror, beneath the shock, a flicker of genuine relief—even joy—flashed in his eyes. From behind his shoulder, Brianna spoke up, her voice small and delicate. “You don’t know, do you? The doctors said the trauma from the crash made you completely infertile.” The air left my lungs. For the past year, I had been religiously tracking my ovulation. I had choked down bowls of bitter, foul-tasting fertility teas every single morning, desperate to give Simon the family he said he wanted. And he had known. He had watched me torture myself, watching me act like an idiot, and said absolutely nothing. Before I could even find the breath to ask him why, Simon looked down at me, his expression hardening. “There’s no need to lie about a baby just to manipulate me into staying, Catherine.” He adjusted his collar, looking down at me as if I were a stranger. “Look, if you really want a child that badly, Brianna and I can have one for you. You can still be a mother.” The boy I had loved was gone. The creature standing in front of me wore his face, but he was a monster, delivering the most depraved insults with a calm, academic detachment. Using the last ounce of my strength, I pulled the divorce papers from my bag and hurled them at him. The pages fluttered, scattering across the floor. Simon just laughed. It was a cold, arrogant, dismissive sound. “We’ve known each other for twenty years, Catherine. You think I don’t know who you are? You are entirely dependent on me. You’ll never leave.” I stared up at him from the floor, the pain in my stomach intensifying, and realized I didn’t even have the energy to cry anymore. The boy I had spent twenty years loving finally, definitively, died right in front of me. 4 By the time the ambulance got me to the hospital, my dress was soaked through with blood. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. Brianna had sent me a video. It was Simon—the aloof, intellectual professor who claimed he couldn’t boil water—wearing an apron, carefully chopping vegetables to cook a meal for his precious girl. I miscarried that night. The morning I woke up, a notification popped onto my screen. Simon had transferred ten thousand dollars into my account. [Catherine, don’t worry, I won’t abandon you. But Brianna’s future is on the line. I need you to go to the dean’s office today and tell them your phone call was a misunderstanding. Tell them you had a mental breakdown and imagined it.] I didn’t reply. I hit block. Early the next morning, I hired a professional printing company and a few men. We marched right up to the main gates of the university and unfurled a massive red banner. “Brianna Davis: Innocent Grad Student by Day, Home-Wrecking Mistress by Night.” It was right in the middle of the morning rush. Within minutes, hundreds of students had gathered, pointing, whispering, and snapping photos. Brianna saw the banner and immediately burst into perfectly choreographed tears. As campus journalists rushed forward with recorders, Simon came sprinting out of the administration building, pushing through the crowd to shield her with his body. “I apologize to everyone for this disruption,” Simon announced, his voice projecting over the murmurs. “Ever since the car accident that took her arm, my wife has suffered from severe, untreated paranoia and mental illness.” He held up a stamped psychiatric evaluation for the cameras to see. It felt like someone had driven a stake through my chest, leaving a gaping hole for the winter wind to howl through. He had planned this. He had fabricated a psychiatric hold to discredit me, just in case I ever became a threat to Brianna. “To prove my absolute innocence, and to protect Ms. Davis from these baseless accusations,” Simon declared solemnly, “I am officially resigning from my tenure at this university, effective immediately.” He paused, looking deeply aggrieved. “I need to focus on getting my wife the psychiatric help she so desperately needs.” His eyes were sincere, his tone heavy with sacrifice. He looked exactly like the earnest young man who had promised my parents he would cherish me forever. But out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Brianna, making sure she was safe. The moment the crowd dispersed, he grabbed my left arm, dragging me ruthlessly into a secluded alleyway between two buildings. “What the hell is wrong with you, Catherine?” he hissed, pinning me against the brick wall. “I told you I wasn’t going to divorce you! Why can’t you just let her go?!” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “So refusing to divorce me is supposed to be a reward? Simon, you’re the one sleeping with another woman. Where do you get this absolute audacity?” The last shred of his patience snapped. “Because I’m sick of it!” he roared. “I’m sick of coming home every single day to look at your depressing, dead-eyed face! You used to be fun! You used to smile and laugh! Now look at you! All you do is wallow in self-pity!” Brianna came jogging into the alley, gasping for air between her dramatic sobs. “Professor! My parents saw the photos on Twitter… my dad almost had a heart attack!” Simon’s fury instantly melted into frantic, desperate panic. “Look at what you’ve done,” he snarled at me. “Apologize to her right now!” “Are you insane?” I spat. “She’s a homewrecker and a drunk driver. Why would I apologize for telling the truth?” Simon’s hand suddenly shot out. He gripped my right shoulder, his fingers digging viciously into the sensitive, scarred flesh right where my arm had been amputated. That spot was a web of damaged nerves. The slightest pressure sent blinding, white-hot agony shooting through my body. He used to massage it so gently, terrified of causing me pain. Now, he was intentionally crushing it, using my trauma as a weapon to force me to bow to the woman who crippled me. “Apologize!” he ordered. Cold sweat broke out across my forehead. The pain was unbearable, but I clamped my jaw shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing me scream. “Don’t push me, Catherine,” he whispered dangerously. “You can’t even dress yourself without help. Where exactly do you think you’re going to go if we divorce?” He leaned in close. “I’m going to say this one last time. I am not divorcing you. And I am not leaving Brianna.” The absolute certainty in his eyes was nauseating. He genuinely believed I was a pathetic, broken creature who would endure any humiliation just to keep him. The pain in my nerves was causing black spots to dance in my vision. I couldn’t breathe. Just to get his hand off me, I squeezed my eyes shut and choked out, “I’m sorry.” Satisfied, Simon released his grip. “Good girl. Go home and wait for me.” He adjusted his jacket. “I need to go do damage control with Brianna’s parents.” I nodded slowly. The moment they walked away, I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me straight to the airport. As I sat in the backseat, I opened my phone and set the emails I had drafted to send on an automated timer. Simon. I hope to God I never see your face again.

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