Category: English

We were getting ready to buy a house and get married, so the real estate agent showed us a crappy, 30-year-old fixer-upper that fit my budget. Chloe lost her mind right on the spot. She accused the agent of looking down on us. All of her friends lived in luxury high-rise condos. She threatened to break up with me if I dared to buy this run-down dump as our future home. Just as I was about to smooth things over and suggest we look elsewhere, a raspy, ancient voice suddenly echoed inside my head: “This girl has absolutely no eye for value! I’ve got 160 ounces of solid gold stashed inside these walls. That’s enough to buy ten of her friends’ luxury condos!” “Opportunity is literally slapping them in the face, and they’re throwing it away. No wonder they’re bound to be broke forever!” My entire body went stiff. I stared at the wall separating the living room and the bedroom, wondering if I was having a full-blown auditory hallucination. That wall was indeed noticeably thicker than the other walls in the apartment. 160 ounces of gold. At current market prices, that was worth nearly half a million dollars! Chloe shoved my shoulder. “What are you spacing out for? I am not living in this dump!” I snapped out of it. Marcus, our agent, was still standing there with a strained, polite smile. “Ma’am, I know it’s a bit old, but the location is unbeatable. It’s just five minutes from the subway, in a great school district, and most importantly, it’s a steal…” Chloe cut him off instantly. “A thirty-year-old piece of garbage? Eight hundred thousand dollars for barely 550 square feet? You call that a steal?” Marcus looked incredibly awkward. Chloe glared at me. “I’m putting my foot down, Ethan. If you buy this trash heap as our wedding house, we are done. I refuse to be the laughingstock of my friend group!” I opened my mouth to comfort her, but that raspy, old voice popped up again: “Hah! What a bunch of blind fools. I’ve also got three million dollars in cold, hard cash stuffed in the kitchen ceiling! With the gold in the walls, that’s a fortune. And they’re complaining about my house being old?” “Birds of a feather really do flock together. The girl is blind, and the guy is a spineless wimp. A match made in heaven!” My knees buckled. I almost fell to the floor. Three million dollars in cash in the ceiling?! I couldn’t help but glance upward. This was an old building, but a cheap drywall ceiling had been installed. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Marcus quickly stepped closer to me. “Sir, do you actually think the place has potential? The elderly owner is in a rush to sell. Her late husband was a senior accountant for a major multinational firm before he retired. He was a great guy, but he passed away suddenly and didn’t leave a will.” “The old lady is terrified of living here alone. She’s moving to Europe to live with her daughter, which is why she listed it so cheap. Market value is easily over a million.” An accountant? How did he get 160 ounces of gold? And why hide it in the walls? “What about the rest of the family?” I asked. “Just the one daughter. She’s already settled abroad. It’s not easy for her to fly back. The old lady said everything left in the house is a bonus. Furniture, appliances—do whatever you want with them. She’s not taking anything.” My heart skipped a beat. So the gold in the walls and the cash in the ceiling… were considered “bonuses”? Pretending to inspect the apartment, I strolled over to the thick wall and knocked on it twice. It sounded dull and hollow. Marcus chimed in. “The best thing about these old apartments is that you can remodel the layout easily. This wall between the living room and bedroom isn’t load-bearing. Knock it down, and you double the size of the living area. It’ll look brand new.” Afraid he’d notice my suspicion, I quickly pulled my hand back and walked into the bathroom, pretending to check the pipes. “Is the price negotiable?” Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Eight hundred thousand is already rock bottom. But man, if you’re seriously interested, I can talk to her and see if she’ll shave off another twenty or thirty grand.” Chloe stared at me in absolute disbelief. “Ethan, are you insane? Are you seriously thinking about buying this trash can?” “Can’t you see the paint peeling off the walls? The bathroom is microscopic, and the kitchen doesn’t even have a window! Do you honestly think this is all I deserve?” I opened my mouth, wanting to explain, but there was no way I could tell her about the hidden treasure in front of the agent. Just then, the old voice spoke up again, dripping with mockery: “Still trying to haggle? Do you have any idea how many people are eyeing my place?” “That bastard Derek next door—he tried to marry Arthur’s daughter years ago just to bleed them dry and steal their estate. He failed back then. But now that Arthur is gone, he’s coming for this house. He’s scheduling a viewing tomorrow. If you let him snatch it, don’t come crying to me!” My brain went entirely numb. The words spilled out of my mouth before I could stop them: “I actually love this place. Let’s sign the contract today.”

Marcus immediately started rummaging through his bag for the paperwork. “That’s amazing! If we sign today, we can finalize the paperwork tomorrow!” As soon as the words left his mouth, a loud, aggressive knock rattled the front door. Marcus went to open it. Standing in the doorway was a short, middle-aged man in his thirties wearing a navy windbreaker, holding the arm of an elderly woman with silver hair. “Derek? What are you doing here today?” Marcus gasped. Derek pushed his way inside, his eyes scanning Chloe and me. “The lady wanted to take a look today. We were worried tomorrow might be too late. The place isn’t sold yet, right?” Marcus looked embarrassed. “Well… actually, Ethan here is already negotiating. He’s very serious.” “Don’t waste your time,” Derek cut in smoothly. “I’ll add fifty grand. Eight hundred and fifty thousand, all cash. I can wire the money today.” The old voice in my head instantly panicked: “I told you! That piece of garbage Derek! Years ago, he begged to be a live-in husband, but Arthur saw right through him. Now that Arthur is dead, he’s sniffing around the house. What is he planning? Does he know Arthur left a secret stash?” Adrenaline rushed straight to my brain. “I’ll add two hundred thousand!” I yelled. The room fell dead silent. Chloe stared at me like I had grown a second head. Marcus’s jaw practically hit the floor. Derek let out a mocking sneer. “You? You can pull a million dollars out of your pocket?” Marcus looked torn. “Derek, Ethan was here first…” Derek patted his jacket pocket. “I have eight hundred and fifty thousand ready to go on my card right now. I’m just worried the guy who got here first is all talk and no cash.” I clenched my fists. I only had fifty thousand dollars in my savings. The rest would have to be borrowed. But thinking about the gold in the walls and the millions in the ceiling… “I will have the full amount ready within three days. Let’s sign the contract now.” Derek gave me a cold glare. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you sign and can’t produce the cash, you lose your deposit.” Marcus quickly added, “That is the policy, Ethan. Are you sure you don’t want to think it over?” Chloe finally snapped. She grabbed my arm, dragged me out into the hallway, and hissed under her breath: “Ethan, are you out of your mind?! A million dollars for this dump? Where are you going to get a million dollars? Has this agent completely brainwashed you?” Looking at her furious, tear-stained face, my mind raced. Should I tell her the truth? Would she even believe me? “Chloe, please trust me just this once. This house actually has…” “Has what?” Tears finally spilled down Chloe’s cheeks. “We’ve been together for three years, and you can’t even afford a decent apartment. My friends’ husbands all bought them brand-new, luxury places. I didn’t hold that against you, but now you’re forcing me into this disgusting, crumbling dumpster! If you sign that paper, we are done. I mean it!” She turned on her heel and ran down the stairs. When Marcus handed me the pen, my hand was shaking. After signing the papers and stamping my thumbprint, Marcus tucked the contract away, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re a man of action, Ethan! We’ll start the process tomorrow. Just make sure the full payment is wired within three days.” Derek sneered at me on his way out. “You’re willing to ruin your relationship over this trash heap? Did you find something hidden in here?” My chest tightened. The old voice laughed in amusement. “This dog actually has a good nose. Does he suspect there’s gold in the walls…?” I took a step forward, blocking his view, and pointed to the vintage, hand-carved wooden bed in the bedroom. “I won’t lie to you. I bought this place for that bed.” “That’s a rare antique,” I said, pretending to be an expert as I patted the wooden frame. “If it’s authentic, it’s worth more than the entire apartment.” Marcus’s cheek twitched. “Sir… are you serious?” “Anyway, the contract says everything left in the house belongs to me. This bed is mine now. No one touches it.” Derek’s eyes flickered with suspicion. He walked over to inspect the bed, running his fingers over the carvings. His brow furrowed as he looked back at me. I didn’t give him another second to think. I ushered both him and Marcus out of the door. “Alright, I’m heading out. See you tomorrow morning to finalize things.” I rode my bike down two blocks, pulled over by the curb, and called Chloe. On my seventh try, she finally picked up. “Did you sign it?” “Yeah.” After three seconds of silence, she let out a bitter laugh. “Ethan, we are over.” “Chloe, listen to me! Last night I had this crazy dream about my grandfather. He told me that inside the walls of this apartment, there is…” Before I could finish, she hung up on me. I let out a heavy sigh. Fine. If she didn’t believe me now, she would once I dragged the gold out and threw it at her feet.

By 11 PM, unable to sleep, I snuck back into the dark apartment through the fire escape. I clicked on my flashlight and pulled a metal detector out of my backpack. Crouching in front of the thick wall, I pressed the sensor against the plaster. “Beep. Beep. Beep.” My hand trembled. I moved the sensor to different spots. The top of the wall was silent. The middle gave a weak signal. But the lower I went, the sharper and louder the beeping became. I collapsed onto the floor, my back drenched in sweat, a manic grin spreading across my face. There really was something in the wall. I sat in the pitch-black living room, laughing like a lunatic. With this money, I’d never have to work another day in my life. Who cared about a breakup? Once I showed Chloe the money, we could buy ten luxury penthouses. But my smile quickly faded. I had signed a contract for a million dollars. I had to pay it in full within three days. I had fifty thousand. I was still short by nine hundred and fifty thousand. The gold was in the wall, and the cash was in the ceiling. But without the keys and ownership, I couldn’t start demolishing the place. Where the hell was I going to get nearly a million dollars in three days? I stared at my contacts on my phone. I stopped at the name Zach—a high school classmate who now ran a high-interest payday loan business. When the call connected, Zach stayed silent for a few seconds. “Bro, are you getting scammed? That run-down apartment complex is barely worth half a million.” “Just help me out with this. You set the interest rate.” Normally, I would never dare touch hard money lenders, but this was different. In three days, the keys would be mine, and I’d tear that wall down the very same night. With millions of dollars waiting for me, what was a high-interest loan? The day the funds cleared, my dad called me, furious. “Ethan, have you lost your mind?! Zach called and said you took out a massive loan to buy a property? Since when do you flip houses?” “Your mother hasn’t slept a wink! Our family has always lived honestly, step-by-step. You’ve been brainwashed by some slick agent! Cancel the deal and get our money back right now, do you hear me?!” I gripped my phone tightly and said nothing. My dad cursed a few more times before slamming the phone down. Finally, the three-day deadline arrived. I wired the million dollars to Marcus, received the deed and the keys, and immediately changed the locks. I shut the door, pulled the curtains tight, and prepared to dig.

At 6 PM, Chloe showed up. She stood at the doorway, her eyes red and puffy, her voice shaking. “Your dad called me. He said you took out a massive, dangerous loan to buy this trash heap. Ethan, are you mentally unstable?” “Come inside,” I said softly. “Come in, and I’ll show you why.” She hesitated for a few seconds, biting her lip, before stepping inside. I dragged her over to the thick wall, knelt down, and pressed the metal detector to the base. “Beep. Beep. Beep.” Chloe froze. “What is that?” “A metal detector.” I looked up at her. “There’s something inside this wall.” Her mouth fell open. “So… your dream was real?” “Yes,” I lied smoothly. “I had to make sure, so I tested it. There’s definitely something here. I’m breaking it open tonight. If it’s gold, we are getting married tomorrow, buying a penthouse, and leaving all your snobby friends in the dust.” Her eyes welled with tears, and she threw her arms around my neck. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered against my chest. “I found out two days ago. I was going to get an abortion after we broke up…” She looked up at me, tears streaming down her face. “Ethan, please don’t let me down.” “I won’t. Everything changes tonight.” By 9 PM, the neighborhood was completely quiet. I pulled a sledgehammer and a crowbar from my bag. Chloe sat on the dusty sofa, nervously wringing her hands. Before raising the hammer, I looked at the wall and whispered, “Sir, forgive me. Once I get the money, I’ll remodel this place beautifully.” But the old voice didn’t reply. A sudden wave of anxiety hit me. But I quickly brushed it off. The detector had beeped. It couldn’t be a mistake. I swung the hammer with all my might. “SMASH!” A huge chunk of plaster shattered, revealing red bricks underneath. I dropped the hammer and clawed at the bricks with my bare hands, sending debris showering to the floor. The space behind the brick wall was completely hollow. My hands froze in mid-air. “Where’s the gold?” Chloe asked, peering over my shoulder. I didn’t answer. Like a madman, I tore away the remaining bricks. The hole got wider and wider, revealing a completely empty space inside the wall. There was absolutely nothing there. “This is impossible…” My voice trembled violently. Chloe’s hopeful expression drained into a ghostly pale. “Ethan, stop joking. This isn’t funny.” I grabbed the crowbar and began violently smashing the kitchen ceiling. The thin drywall shattered instantly, showering my head and face in thick white dust. I reached my hand inside the gap, feeling around frantically. Nothing but dust. It was completely empty. I collapsed onto the pile of shattered bricks and drywall, my entire body shaking. Chloe stood nearby, covering her mouth as tears seeped through her fingers. “Ethan… where is the gold?” I opened my mouth, but my face was dead white. “Chloe, listen to me…” She snapped. She wiped her tears aggressively. “Ethan, I’m getting the abortion. Have a nice life!” She turned and bolted out of the apartment. I sat alone in the ruins of the living room. The gaping hole in the ceiling stared down at me like a hollow black eye. The room smelled of thick dust and old mold. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. It was my dad. I answered, only to hear my mother’s hysterical, sobbing voice: “Ethan, come to the hospital right now! Your father had a massive heart attack!” “The doctors said he needs emergency surgery immediately, and we don’t have enough money for the deposit…” The phone slipped from my hand, the screen shattering on the concrete floor. “But the detector beeped… how could there be nothing…” I mumbled to the empty room. I stared blankly at the demolished wall. Just as I was about to sink into complete, numbing despair, that familiar, raspy voice echoed in my head once again. And what it said made my adrenaline surge, freezing me in place.

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When the earthquake hit, I quickly dragged Chloe out through the back door of the motel. By the time we made it to the front street, covered in dust, we saw Mom and Dad kneeling in front of the half-collapsed building, crying hysterically. Just as we were about to run over, a firefighter turned around and yelled: “There are two girls trapped under here, but we can only pull one out first!” Without a second of hesitation, Mom screamed back: “Save the older one first! Please, save Chloe first!” Dad held Mom’s shoulders tightly, his voice trembling but firm: “Yes, save Chloe first! She’s always been weak, she can’t hold on much longer!” Hearing that, my hand, which was halfway raised to call out to them, froze in mid-air. Chloe pushed past me and ran toward them, shouting: “Mom! I’m here! I’m okay!” Mom looked up, her eyes lighting up instantly. She threw her arms around Chloe, sobbing. “My sweet girl! I thought I’d lost you forever!” Dad’s eyes were red, too. He rubbed his hands together anxiously, looking Chloe over. “Are you hurt anywhere? Does it hurt? Let me carry you to the doctor!” From beginning to end, not a single person looked back at me. I stood right behind them, barefoot, covered in blood, looking like a total mess. Finally, a paramedic noticed me and walked over. “Where’s your family, sweetie?” I looked at the three of them, huddled together and crying, and smiled faintly. “I don’t have any family. I came here alone.”

“Doctor, please check my daughter! She just scraped her arm on some falling debris!” In the medical tent, Mom’s frantic voice drowned out the groans of the other injured people around us. She held Chloe’s wrist tightly, pushing her toward the triage desk. Chloe was wearing a clean windbreaker. Aside from a bit of dust on her hem, she only had a tiny red scratch, less than an inch long, on her left forearm. It wasn’t even bleeding. The ER doctor looked up, his face exhausted. “Ma’am, you can just grab an antiseptic wipe from the station next door. Please clear the space for the severely injured.” “How can you say that?” Dad squeezed in from behind, looking furious. “Do you know how fast bacteria mutate these days? What if she gets tetanus?” “Chloe has always had a weak immune system. You can’t just brush us off like this.” Chloe shrank behind Dad, pulling gently on his sleeve. “Dad, I’m really fine. I just brushed against the door frame when I ran out.” “You were still traumatized, sweetie,” Mom said, stroking Chloe’s hair lovingly. She pulled an unopened bottle of Fiji water from her bag and handed it to her. “Here, drink some water to calm your nerves. When I saw that building collapse, my heart almost stopped.” I sat on a plastic stool less than two yards away from them. Blood was dripping from the bottom of my right foot. When we ran out, I was in such a hurry that I lost one of my sneakers. Stepping on shattered glass and sharp rocks, a deep, jagged gash had been ripped open across my entire right sole. The flesh was torn open, caked with dirt and gravel. A young nurse walked over to me with a trauma kit and gasped. “Sweetheart, this needs stitches. Is your family here? Someone needs to hold your leg down. It’s going to hurt without local anesthesia.” I looked down at the metal basin of saline water, which was quickly turning red with my blood. “No need,” I said quietly. “I can hold myself down.” The nurse hesitated, looking over at the three people fussing over Chloe just a few feet away. “Aren’t those your parents? You look just like them.” “No,” I said, lifting my right leg onto the sterile stand. “Please just stitch it up quickly. I’m in a hurry.” The nurse didn’t ask any more questions. She tore open the gauze and began cleaning the wound. A sharp, blinding pain shot straight to my brain. I bit my lower lip, refusing to make a sound. This wasn’t the first time. When I was eight, a massive blizzard hit our town overnight. Chloe and I both came down with a high fever at the same time. Our family only had one old truck back then, and the engine wouldn’t start. Dad spent forever trying to get it running in the freezing snow. Mom wrapped Chloe in layers of heavy blankets, carried her to the front seat, and then turned to me. “Nora, be a good girl. Just stay under the covers and sweat it out. You’ll be fine.” “Chloe is too fragile. If her fever stays this high, she’ll get pneumonia. We have to take her to the hospital first.” That night, I lay alone in a freezing room until dawn. By the time they returned the next morning with Chloe, whose fever had broken, I had already lost consciousness. I ended up on an IV drip in the hospital for a whole week. Instead of feeling sorry, they blamed me for kicking off my blankets at night, calling me a difficult child who always caused trouble. It was no different now. The nurse’s needle pierced my skin, pulling five stitches through the flesh. Sweat poured down my forehead. I grabbed a paper towel and wiped it away. By the time I hopped on one foot to the pharmacy counter to get my antibiotics and limped back, the three of them were already walking out of the tent. Dad was carefully guiding Chloe by her shoulder. Mom was holding a cotton swab, still gently dabbing ointment on a scratch that had already disappeared. I limped behind them, keeping a distance of about fifteen yards. “There’s a shuttle bus for evacuees up ahead. We’ll head back to the city and check into a hotel first,” Dad said, pointing toward the intersection. Chloe nodded. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, she stopped and turned around. “Wait, where’s Nora? Everything was so chaotic, I didn’t see where she went.” Mom followed her gaze and turned around. She finally saw me standing under the streetlamp, barefoot on one side, with my jeans soaked in blood. Her brow furrowed instantly. “Nora! Where on earth have you been idling around?” “Everyone is trying to evacuate, and you’re running off causing trouble! You even managed to lose a shoe!” Dad looked equally annoyed, walking over to tower over me. “Chloe is already shaken up. She doesn’t need you making her worry.” “Hurry up and get in line. Stop wasting everyone’s time.”

There was a long line in front of the shuttle bus. With so many people evacuating the disaster zone, the bus was packed in no time. When it was our turn, the driver blocked the door. “Only three seats left. The last person to board will have to stand.” Dad turned to look at a tired Chloe. “Chloe just went through a shock. She needs to sit down and rest.” Mom immediately chimed in, her tone matter-of-fact. “I get motion sickness easily, so I need a seat too. And David, your back has been acting up. You can’t stand for a three-hour drive on these mountain roads.” Instinctively, all three of them turned their eyes to me. I looked down at my right foot, which was wrapped in thick, white gauze. “Nora,” Mom said, softening her voice with her usual coaxing tone. “You’re young and healthy. Standing for a bit is nothing. Chloe was terrified today. Just let her have this, okay?” Dad urged from behind, “Get on the bus, Nora. People are waiting behind us. Don’t hold up the line.” Chloe tugged at my sleeve, looking apologetic. “Nora, why don’t you take the seat? I think I can manage.” Mom immediately pulled her back. “Manage what? You’re so fragile. If you stand for three hours, you’ll end up sick again.” “Nora has always been tough. She’ll be fine standing.” I looked at them, but didn’t say a single word. Gripping the handrail, I dragged my right foot—the one with five fresh stitches—onto the bus. I walked all the way to the aisle of the very back row and grabbed the overhead strap. The bus started. The mountain roads were winding and rough, causing the bus to sway violently. I had to shift all my weight onto my left leg, keeping my right foot slightly off the floor. But the rough motion kept bringing my injured foot into contact with the rubber floor. Every bump sent a sickening wave of pain straight up my leg. Through the reflection in the window glass, I could see the front rows. Mom was peeling a snack for Chloe, feeding her. Dad took off his jacket and gently draped it over Chloe’s lap. They were talking in soft, comforting whispers, soothing her. Not once did anyone turn around to check on me. No one even asked where the blood on my jeans had come from. During my junior year of high school, I won first place in the National Physics Olympiad. The award ceremony was held in the state capital, and parents were required to attend. I had placed the invitation on the living room table two weeks in advance. Mom had smiled and promised me back then: “Of course we’ll go. We’ll even buy you some new clothes as a reward.” But on the morning of the ceremony, Chloe complained of a mild headache. It was just a slight cold. Yet, Mom panicked instantly. She grabbed the thermometer and called Dad to take the day off. I stood in the living room, my backpack on, watching them run around in circles. “Mom, we need to leave. Our train departs in forty minutes,” I reminded her. Mom poured hot water for Chloe, not even turning her head. “Nora, Chloe is sick and needs us. You’ll have to go by yourself.” “But the advisor said a parent has to sign the registry.” “Just explain it to your advisor. Tell them there’s a family emergency. You’ve always been independent, Nora. You can handle this little thing on your own.” That day, I was the only student on the stage without a parent in the audience. Holding my trophy, the flashing lights from the cameras felt blinding and cold. When I got home, they were huddled around the TV, watching a comedy with Chloe. Their laughter spilled out through the cracks of the door, sounding incredibly loud. Suddenly, the bus slammed on its brakes. I lost my balance, and my right foot crashed heavily onto the floor. The stitches tore instantly. The blinding pain made my vision go black. I leaned heavily against the back of a seat, taking deep breaths for a long time before I could stand straight again. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out with one hand. It was an email from a university abroad. Dear Nora Vance, We are pleased to inform you that your exchange student application has passed the preliminary review. Please log into the portal within three days to confirm your final decision. Once confirmed, we will mail your visa documents and official acceptance package. I stared at the text in silence. Three months ago, I had secretly submitted this application. A full scholarship, with a two-year exchange program at the London School of Economics. It was my ticket to completely escape this place. In the front row, Chloe seemed to hear the commotion and turned around. “Nora, are you okay? That brake was so sudden.” Mom’s voice quickly followed. “She’s fine. She just needs to hold on tight.” “Chloe, stop turning around. It’ll make your motion sickness worse. Just close your eyes and sleep.” I tapped my screen, turning it off, and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “I’m fine,” I said, offering Chloe a small smile. “Go to sleep. Don’t worry about me.”

The bus dropped us off in front of a high-end restaurant downtown. Dad had booked a private room in advance, claiming they needed a fancy dinner to wash away the “bad luck” of the earthquake. I dragged my bleeding foot, slowly walking at the very back of the group. Several relatives were already waiting in the private room. Having heard about our narrow escape, they had rushed over to see us. “Oh, Chloe! Look how pale you are, you poor thing!” Aunt Beatrice gasped the moment she saw Chloe, pulling her into a tight hug. “I know,” Mom sighed, sitting down next to Chloe. “This child has never experienced anything so terrifying. When that building collapsed, I thought I was going to lose my mind.” “Thank God she’s safe. Chloe is truly blessed.” The relatives chimed in, praising Mom and Dad for being such dedicated parents. The room went quiet for a second when I pushed the door open and walked in. “Oh, Nora is back safely too,” Uncle Frank said dryly, his eyes falling on my jeans. “What happened to your leg? Why is there so much blood?” Dad was busy looking at the menu and didn’t even look up. “She probably just tripped. She never looks where she’s going anyway. Don’t worry about her, let’s order.” I sat down at the empty seat at the very edge of the table. The waiters started serving the food, and every single dish was seafood. Lobster, raw oysters, garlic shrimp. I didn’t eat shellfish. When I was twelve, I ended up in the ER with severe anaphylactic shock because Mom forced me to eat shrimp. Since then, I stayed far away from all shellfish. But in this family, that detail didn’t matter. Because Chloe loved seafood. “I can’t eat this,” I said, putting down my fork. Dad slammed his glass onto the table, his face turning dark. “Nora, what is your problem now?” “Today is a celebration for Chloe’s safe return. Everyone is happy, and you have to ruin the mood with that miserable face?” “We let you slide at home, but in front of your aunts and uncles, do you have no manners at all?” The atmosphere in the room froze instantly. The relatives exchanged glances, trying to defuse the tension. “David, come on. The girl just survived an earthquake, she’s probably still scared.” “Yeah, Nora is just quiet. Don’t get mad at her.” I sat quietly in my chair, listening to their labels. Quiet. Stubborn. Difficult. These were the labels I could never shake off at this table, or in this family. My phone vibrated in my pocket again. I pulled it out. It was an automated reminder from the university system, letting me know I had forty-eight hours left to confirm my enrollment. I opened the browser and typed in my credentials. Do you accept the offer for this exchange program? Once confirmed, this action cannot be undone. A dialogue box popped up in the center of the screen. I looked at the two options, my thumb hovering over the screen. “Nora,” Mom’s voice broke my thoughts. She pulled a debit card from her purse and slid it across the table. “This earthquake was a wake-up call. Your dad and I decided to sign Chloe up for some trauma therapy sessions once we get home.” “The sessions are quite expensive, so you won’t be going to your prep courses next month. Your grades are stable anyway; you can just study on your own.” She spoke casually, as if delivering a completely insignificant piece of news. “Take this card tomorrow and withdraw some cash. Oh, and stop by the mall to buy Chloe some new outfits. Hers got ruined in the debris.” I looked up from my phone screen to the debit card. This was my worth to them. Whenever they needed to weigh their options, I was always the one to be discarded, sacrificed, and treated as a tool. I took a quiet breath. My thumb pressed down firmly on Confirm. Enrollment confirmed. Thank you for your response. The green text flashed on the screen and then vanished. I locked my phone and slid it back into my pocket. “Okay,” I said, picking up the card and putting it in my other pocket. “I’ll go tomorrow.” Seeing how quickly I agreed, Mom’s expression softened a bit. “Make sure to box up the leftovers after dinner. Don’t let them go to waste.”

By the third day after we returned home, the living room was filled with shopping bags. They were all the new clothes and premium vitamins I had bought for Chloe the day before, just as Mom had ordered. Chloe sat on the sofa, unboxing them one by one. “This beige trench coat is gorgeous! I’ve wanted this forever,” she said, holding it up against herself with a bright smile. “As long as you like it, sweetie. You can wear it when you head back to school,” Mom said warmly, bringing over a plate of sliced fruit. I stood in the hallway leading to the balcony, holding a broom. Though my right foot still throbbed with a dull pain, I could finally walk slowly. According to the rules of this house, as long as I could move, the chores were my responsibility. “Nora, remember to water the plants on the balcony. Don’t forget,” Mom called out, not even looking back. I didn’t answer. I just quietly swept up the dust on the floor. Tomorrow was Monday. Chloe had been granted a week off from her college classes because her therapist recommended she rest. But as for me, I had already bought a one-way ticket to London for tomorrow afternoon. The express package containing my visa and documents had arrived yesterday. While they were all watching TV in the living room, I packed the documents into the deepest pocket of my backpack. I didn’t have many belongings. A few changes of clothes, some essential textbooks, and a three-year-old laptop. A single carry-on suitcase was enough to fit my entire past. After dinner, Dad came out of his study holding three concert tickets. “There’s a symphony concert at the civic center tomorrow night. The guest conductor is Chloe’s favorite.” “I managed to get three front-row tickets. Let’s go as a family and unwind.” Chloe jumped up in excitement. “Really? Oh my gosh, thank you, Dad!” She wrapped her arms around his, beaming like a little girl. Mom smiled warmly. “Perfect. Chloe can wear her new trench coat. She’ll look beautiful.” From start to finish, they never mentioned why there were only “three tickets.” Perhaps, in their minds, I was never meant to be included in events that required spending money or creating happy family memories. “Nora,” Dad finally seemed to remember I was in the room and turned to me. “We won’t be home for dinner tomorrow. Just make yourself some instant noodles.” “Also, remember to hang up the laundry in the dryer. And your sister’s cashmere sweater can’t go in the machine. Wash it by hand.” I stood by the kitchen door, looking at the sink piled high with dishes. “Okay,” I said, my voice incredibly calm. “I will.” The next afternoon, the weather was beautiful. Mom and Dad left early with Chloe. They said they were going to get Chloe’s hair done downtown before heading out for a nice dinner. The front door clicked shut, and the house fell into absolute silence. I took my time washing the last dish and dried my hands. Then, I walked back to my room and pulled out my old black suitcase. There wasn’t much of mine in this room anyway. I didn’t take anything they had bought for me, including the old, lagging phone. After performing a factory reset on it, I placed it right in the center of my desk. Next to it, I laid my spare house key. I took one last look at the room I had lived in for years. There was no attachment, no sadness. Only a profound sense of relief, like a heavy weight had finally been lifted from my shoulders. I wheeled my suitcase to the entryway and put on a pair of sneakers I had bought with my own savings. No note. No goodbye texts. I pushed the door open and stepped into the bright, warm afternoon sun. At 3:00 PM, I boarded the plane. I pulled out a cheap burner phone and inserted a new SIM card I had registered the day before. My old phone number had been permanently deactivated. Every contact associated with the Vance family was left on that old phone on my desk, wiped clean. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat. “Excuse me, miss, please fasten your seatbelt. We are preparing for takeoff,” the flight attendant said softly. I opened my eyes and smiled at her. “Thank you. I will.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “432638”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I’d just taken a bullet for my husband. Before I could even hit the ground, my adopted sister Sienna rammed her Ferrari into me at sixty miles per hour. Blood filled my mouth. Through the haze, I heard the doctor: “Her baby’s dead. Her uterus… ovaries… shredded and need to be removed.” “Elena, hold on! Please!” My mom was sobbing, but then she was whispering excitedly:”Elena’s a perfect match. Finally, we can give Sienna her heart transplant. Finally!” My husband Julian’s voice followed, calm now. “I’ll sign the consent forms. Sienna needs a strong heart to live her fast life. ” I couldn’t believe my ears. It was the very man I’d taken a bullet for. Seconds ago, he was roaring at the doctors: “Save my wife! I don’t give a damn about an heir!” Now, he was donated my heart without blinking. And my brother and dad? They were already discussing how to dump the accident footage into the Hudson. “Sienna is still young. We can’t let her go to prison, and we certainly can’t let her live as a criminal.” “Yes, Sienna is innocent. It’s Elena’s own fault for not being careful.” Something inside me went still. And just then, a cold, flat voice rang in my head— [Host. Mission ‘Sacrificial Lamb’ complete. Heartbreak Value: 100%. Return to real world?] I laughed, a bloody, wheezing sound. Their fake love? Their “protection”? They could keep it. I was done. … I tried to roll off the gurney. I wanted to smash my head against the floor, to die on my own terms before they could strip me for parts. But the nurses pinned me down like a stray dog in a kill shelter. They shoved the intubation tube down my throat, and a massive hit of propofol flooded my veins. Right before the world went black, the OR doors swung open. Sienna, the brat who’d just mowed me down in her red Ferrari, was being wheeled in on the next table. Isabella—my mother—was already holding the scalpel. She didn’t even look at me as she gave the order. “Forget the internal bleeding in Elana’s uterus. We don’t have time. Open her chest. Get that heart out and prep Sienna for the transplant.” I felt the cold bite of the steel sliding through my skin. I felt my ribs being pried apart. The last thing I heard before the darkness took me was Isabella whispering to the girl who’d tried to kill me. “Just a little longer, princess. When you wake up, you’ll be able to run as far as you want.” … When I finally opened my eyes again, I was back in a private suite at the Moretti clinic. No one was there. Dead silence. Of course it was. I let out a bitter sigh, the I asked, “System. I want to confirm the terms. ” “If this body dies, I’ll be back home, right? My heart will be fixed, and that hundred-mil bonus will hit my account?” [Confirmed, Host.] [Once you leave, you will be completely severed from this world. No return. No recall.] “Good.” The word hung in the air, barely a whisper. I let it settle. This was what I wanted… Say goodbye to the Moretti family. To Julian. To the life. I pulled the oxygen tube out without a second thought. And suddenly—nothing. No air. Just… collapsing. My throat squeezed shut like a fist, tighter, tighter, until I felt it—my own body turning against me, crushing me from the inside. And then, through the suffocation, something else broke through—memories I’d buried long ago, clawing their way up through the fading light. I remembered the day my parents and my big brother Dominic came for me, pulling me out of that dingy apartment. I could still feel the warmth of Dominic’s hand in mine—how he squeezed it. “Elena, we finally found you. From today on, you’re back to being the Moretti family’s little princess, and we’ll protect you forever. Nobody in this city touches you. Not ever.” The words blurred, faded—and in their place, another voice rose. “Elena, I’ll give you all of me—my heart, my future, everything I am and everything I’ll ever be. I don’t want to be anyone else’s—only yours.” Julian—the heir to this city’s biggest criminal throne—down on one knee in the rain, telling me I was the only light in his dark, blood-soaked world. Such pretty words. I’d been fool enough to believe once—grateful the mission failed, thinking I’d found a perfect family, a loyal husband, a loving home. All lies. Every bit of it. There was almost no air left in my lungs. They felt like they were collapsing into a vacuum—empty, shrinking, giving up. But I was smiling. Just let go. Let it end. I didn’t want to spend another second looking at all this fake love. The heart monitor flatlined, and the alarm shrieked like a banshee. My mom came charging in with a team of residents. “Elena! Damm it, what are you doing!”

Then she started pumping my chest, shocking me. I could feel her hands pressing down on my ribs, hear her ragged breath above me, feel the sweat dripping from her face onto my skin. Almost like she actually cared. Then, air was back into my lungs. I was shivering and alive again. And there was screaming. Her screaming. “Are you insane? Are you seriously that pathetic? You’d really throw your whole life away for a womb that doesn’t even work?” I stared at her, the pain in my chest was tearing through. “Is that all I lost, Mom?” I rasped. “Just my womb?” The room went tomb-quiet. Then the door exploded open— Julian burst in and dropped to his knees by the bed—then slapped himself, hard, across the face. “I’m sorry, El. It’s my fault. I didn’t protect you when that car came out of nowhere… you were hurt so bad, your heart just… it couldn’t take the trauma.” He was crying now, crawling to the edge of the bed to grab my hand. “The driver is gone. I handled it. I promise, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you. Your mom is the best doctor in the world. She’ll fix you.” My father leaned in, stroking my hair like I was some prized poodle. “He’s right, baby. Dominic is already working on a new treatment just for you. You’re still our princess. You’re a Moretti.” I looked at this pack of Oscar-winning liars and felt a chill settle into my marrow. In just two sentences, they’d turned Sienna’s attempted murder and their organ theft into a tragic accident. I let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Where’s Sienna? I saw her face behind the wheel. I want to ask her why she did it.” A beat of dead silence. Just the IV dripping. Steady. Relentless. Mom’s face hardened. “Are you insane? Sienna was with me at the club—she collapsed the second she heard. If a heart donor hadn’t shown up right when it happened, we’d have lost her.” I laughed. A small, hollow sound. She flinched. Turned her head away. Her voice trailed off. “I’ll let this slide. Once. I’ll put it down to trauma—to shock. But don’t you ever talk about your sister like that again.” There it was. The same old move. Shut me up before I get too close. Not this time. “What a coincidence. ” I looked at her. “My heart was damaged—and she gets a healthy heart at the exact same time.” Silence. The dead silence in that VIP suite was so heavy it was hard to breathe. Just then, a nurse stepped in. “Don Moretti. La principessa is awake. She wants to see all of you.” Silence, again. None of them moved. But I knew exactly how this would end. Three… Two… I started counting — the same way I always did. Then they scurried out like rats. Only Julian stayed. He looked at me with that nauseating guilt. “Go to her, Julian,” I said, voice flat. “Then come back and tell me how her new heart is beating.” “Fine. “He didn’t even argue. He turned and walked out. Click. The door closed. The room fell back into that cold, dead silence. Empty. Just me. I pulled out the phone I’d hidden under the mattress. Before I went under the knife, I’d used a System Wish to secure two video. Videos of them planning how to sacrifice me. I hit play. I watched, in that dark office, as Julian calmly signed the donation consent form. “It’s all for Sienna. Elena would want this.” “She doesn’t need to understand. “My brother chimed in. “I’ll cook up a cocktail. Then Elana won’t feel a thing, and she’ll never know about her damaged heart.” “Good. “My dad nodded, slow and deliberate. “The transplant is scheduled for tomorrow. I’ll have the legal team ready—death certificate, cremation, the works. By the time anyone asks, Elena Moretti never existed.” Then I played the second video. There it was. My own mother—slicing through my vessels, handing my heart over like a piece of meat—the same hands that held mine when I was a child. For Sienna. My blood was ice. And for the first time—I was glad I hadn’t died. If I left now, these bastards would go on living—perfect, bloody, untouched—with my heart as their trophy. Too easy. I wasn’t about to let that happen.

I was stuck in that sterilized hellhole for two weeks. They took turns “watching” me. Mom would swing by in her white coat, checking my vitals with those cold, surgeon’s eyes before rushing off to a “surgical emergency.” Julian would stay for ten minutes, staring at his watch until a “urgent business” call saved him. Even Lorenzo, the great Don Moretti, would just pat my hand, tell me I was a “brave girl,” and disappear to his office. I thought they were actually busy running an empire. Until I shuffled out of the room at that afternoon. Through the glass of the private recovery garden, I saw them. The whole “busy” Moretti clan. Lorenzo, the man who hadn’t stepped into a kitchen in twenty years, was sitting on a bench, laughing as he carefully shelled clams and fed them to Sienna. Isabella was fussing over a blanket, tucking it around Sienna’s legs. With a look of pure, maternal adoration—a look I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. Dominic was holding a glass of Sienna’s favorite juice like it was a holy relic. And there was Julian. My husband. He was leaning over the wheelchair, whispering something into Sienna’s ear that made her giggle. She looked radiant. My heart—my actual heart—was pumping life into her cheeks, making her glow while I looked like a corpse dragged out of a basement. “Careful, princess,” Isabella whispered, her voice soft enough to break my heart all over again. “Don’t eat too fast. Your new heart needs time to settle.” “But pop’s cooking is so good,” Sienna chirped, looking radiant. “I missed this so much while I was ‘sick’.” I just stood there. Clutching my cold IV pole, my stomach growling. For the last days, I’d been eating lukewarm delivery soup I ordered myself on my phone. Not once had any of them offered me a bite of “Pop’s cooking.” A surge of nausea hit me. I gripped my IV pole, steadying myself. For a second, I thought about walking in—sitting down at that table, making them see me. But what was the point? They’d already shown me exactly where I stood— I was nothing to them. I turned to shuffle back. But as I passed the nurse’s station, I heard a low whisper. “Is that the sister? The one in 402?” “Yeah. Dr. Isabella gave me strict orders. Keep her on a heavy regimen of iron and vitamin B12. We’re ‘fattening her up’.” “Why? She actually looks like a ghost.” “It’s the Don’s orders. If Sienna has a rejection crisis, they aren’t waiting for a donor. They’re going to use the sister as a living blood bank. Total transfusion if necessary. ” “That’s so cruel…” “I know.” The other nurse’s voice dropped even lower. “But Dr. Isabella said she’s just a ‘vessel’ now anyway—since she can’t carry an heir. And Sienna? Dr. Isabella called her ‘the precious little girl’. ” A metallic taste of blood surged up my throat. And the old memories came back—not gently, not asked for. Just hit me like a wall. I was ten, scraping my knee on the pavement. Isabella didn’t call for a nurse. She knelt down, sterilized it herself, and cried over it. She also called me her “precious little girl.” Before all of this, all I’d ever heard was: trash, beggar, unwanted orphan. I’d never had love like that before. And it hit me—so hard that I threw away the System’s mission just to stay with them forever—my chance to return to my original world, gone. For a long time, I thought it was a fair trade. Because my family loved me back just as much. Or so I told myself. Back then, Dad was just a small-time soldier—but he built the Moretti Syndicate from nothing. Every rival he took down, every dock he seized—it was all for my medical bills. And Dominic? My big brother used to spend his nights in the lab trying to synthesize “sweet medicine” for me because I hated the bitter taste of the standard stuff. He never complained. Never asked for thanks. Just brought me bottle after bottle, asking, “Is this one better?” They even saved Julian for me. Plucked him from a rival’s hit when we were kids — just so I’d have my “perfect prince”. The whole Syndicate knew: I was the untouchable princess. Loved like something sacred. But destiny is a bitch. I was snatched away. Trafficked by a rival crew. Seven years in the dark.

No one knew if I was alive. When Lorenzo finally burned half the city to bring me back, they all held me and wept. And Sienna—this stranger—stood not far away. “Don’t worry about Sienna,” Isabella had whispered, clutching my hand. “She’s just a girl we took in for ‘good luck’ while you were gone. She has a heart condition, and she looks like you, but you’re our only girl, Elena. You’re our soul.” I bought it. God help me, I’d believed their every word. From that, I treated Sienna like a sister. But slowly, the air in the house changed. If Sienna tripped, Isabella would scream at me, “Did you push her, Elena?” If Lorenzo cooked a rare family dinner, it was always the spicy Calabrian dishes Sienna loved, even though they tore my stomach apart. Dominic’s lab work shifted from my health to Sienna’s “miracle cure.” Even Julian, during our few fights, would snap, “Why can’t you be more like your sister? She’s sweet. She actually knows how to talk to a man without looking like she’s judging him.” A wave of suffocation hit me. I blinked. The memory faded. But the Heartbreak Value was ticking closer to the end. It hurts…so hurts. My stitches are coming undone, I can feel them ripping through me, one after another. I grab for the wall. Miss. My legs give out. I’m on the floor and I don’t even remember falling. The room spun—everything tilted. I curled into a ball on the cold floor, gasping, choking, air wouldn’t come. The pain—so white, so bright—I could feel myself slipping. Flickering. Like a dying bulb. “Mom…” I whispered into the dark. “Mom, please… it hurts…” Footsteps. From down the hall. Getting closer. Just as I was about to black out— I saw mom, dad, and Julian rushed toward me. I thought, for a second, they were coming to save me. Mom reached me first. She looked down at the blood soaking through my nightgown, at the way I was trembling in the middle of my own mess. Then her face twisted in a sneer of pure disappointment. “For God’s sake, Elena!” she barked, her voice like a whip. “I am so sick of this! Do you really have to go this far? Just because we were in Sienna’s room helping her with a panic attack, you have to tear your own stitches out?” I looked up at her, hardly. My mouth filling with blood. “Mom… I fell…” “You ‘fell’?” Lorenzo spat, standing behind her with his arms crossed. “You’ve been in this life your whole life. You don’t just fall. This — this is self-harm for attention.“ “It’s pathetic. You’re trying to guilt-trip us for saving your sister’s life.” Julian looked at the blood on the floor and then looked away, as if the sight of me was an inconvenience. “Get it together, Elena. You’re making Sienna feel guilty, and she’s the one with the weak heart. You’re being a monster.” Isabella grabbed my arm and yanked me up, ignoring the way I gasped as my wounds tore further. “I’m sedating you properly this time,” she hissed, shoving me back onto the mattress. “I won’t have you ruining your recovery—and our peace—with these little ‘accidents’ just to spite Sienna.” I lay there, staring at the ceiling as she prepped another needle. I stopped whispering “Mom.” I stopped feeling the pain. I looked at Isabella as the needle went in, and for the first time, I didn’t see my mom. I saw a dead woman walking. “That’s right,” I whispered as my eyes started to close. “Keep her safe. Keep my heart beating in her chest… because when I leave, I’m taking everything with me.”

A week later, they brought me “home.” If you call a fortress guarded by men with submachine guns home. I was confined to a wheelchair, my body still refusing to heal. They put me in the sunroom, supposedly for the “fresh air,” but it was really just a front-row seat to the Sienna Show. Sienna was out on the lawn, wearing a sundress, tossing a ball for the family’s Dobermans. She was running. Running with my heart, with my strength. Lorenzo stood on the patio, cigar in hand, watching her with a pride he’d never shown me. “Look at her,” he muttered to Dominic. “A true Moretti. Strength, fire, life. It was worth every cent.” Dominic nodded, tapping his tablet. “The rejection suppressants I made are holding. She’s a miracle, Pop.” I sat in the shadows, a ghost in a blanket. Suddenly, Sienna “tripped.” She went down on the grass with a sharp cry. In a heartbeat, the entire family scrambled. Lorenzo dropped his cigar. Isabella sprinted from the house. Julian was the first to reach her, scooping her into his arms like she was made of glass. “My chest!” Sienna sobbed, clutching at the spot where my heart lived. “It hurts! It’s Elena… I saw her looking at me from the window… her eyes were so mean… I got scared and lost my balance…” Julian’s head snapped toward the sunroom. The look he gave me was pure, unadulterated loathing. He carried her inside, the whole parade following him. A few minutes later, Lorenzo walked into the sunroom. He didn’t say a word. He just backhanded me across the face. Bang! The force threw my head back, the wheelchair skidding on the marble floor. My lip split, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. “You ungrateful little bitch,” the Don hissed. “We saved your life. We gave you the best care money can buy. And you’re going to sit here and hex your little sister with your jealousy?” “I didn’t do anything,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You exist. That’s doing enough.” He spat. “If I hear one more word about you upsetting Sienna, I’ll put you back in the basement where we found you. Got it?” I looked at my father—the man I’d once thought was a god—and I nodded. “Good.” He left. I sat there in the dark, my face throbbing, the internal stitches in my chest pulling with every ragged breath. I don’t know how long I lay there. Then—a soft voice sounded. Julian’s voice. From Sienna’s room. Just next door. “Miss me?” “Jules… stop,” Sienna whispered, though she was giggling. “My heart is racing. Mom said I shouldn’t get too excited.” “I can’t help it,” Julian’s voice was low, hungry. “I’ve been stuck playing ‘devoted husband’ to that corpse in the other room all day. I need to feel something real.” “You still love her, don’t you? The little princess?” “Love her?” Julian smirked, and the sound cut deeper than Lorenzo’s slap. “I married her because your father told me to. She was the backup. Now that you’re healthy… she’s useless.” “What about the fact that she can’t have kids now?” Sienna purred. “You’re the heir to the syndicate. You need a son.” “Then you’ll give me one,” Julian whispered. Then came their muffled moans—Her breathy gasps. His eager growls. And…the wet slick sounds of him pushing into her… I leaned my head against the cold wood of the doorframe. I didn’t cry. I just held the phone up, the camera lens peeking through the crack. I recorded every word. Every wet kiss. Every promise of my death. Then the “Heartbreak Value” in my head dinged. I was almost there.

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On the afternoon of my college graduation, I was scrolling through Instagram when I saw a post from a local wedding photographer. Ten years in the business, and this is a first! A couple skipping their college graduation to shoot their wedding portraits! Not only are they drop-dead gorgeous, but the bride was entirely focused on her groom’s comfort the whole time. She kept saying that marrying him was the greatest luck of her life. My camera’s memory card is maxed out, but capturing a love like this? Totally worth it. A dull ache throbbed behind my ribs. Earlier today, my girlfriend, Cecilia, had bailed on our graduation ceremony at the last minute. We hadn’t even taken a single photo together in our caps and gowns. Swallowing my disappointment, I tapped on the photo, expecting to see a stranger’s happy ending. My eyes landed on their faces. The air vanished from my lungs. One of them was Cecilia. The girl I had loved for four years. The girl who told me we would get married the second we both landed stable jobs. The other was Jace. My best friend. The golden boy of our graduating class. Just two hours ago, Jace had been texting me, telling me that there were plenty of fish in the sea, that if Cecilia couldn’t make time for my graduation, I should just dump her. And now, here he was. Fingers laced with my girlfriend’s, looking every bit the man about to step into his happily ever after. … 1 I stared at the screen until the edges of the photo blurred and doubled. My phone buzzed frantically. Our senior class group chat was exploding. Wait, since when are Cecilia and Jace a thing? Ngl, Jace looks incredibly hot in a tux. Cecilia looks gorgeous too, but isn’t she dating Gilbert? Love triangle much? A sharp, electric pain shot through my chest. My fingers trembled so violently I could barely type as I opened Jace’s chat. Are you with Cecilia? Read at 4:12 PM. No reply. I hit the call button on Cecilia’s contact. The dial tone stretched out—fifteen seconds that felt like a slow, agonizing century. Finally, a click. “Gilbert? What’s wrong?” I dug my nails into my palm, fighting to keep my voice from breaking. “Where are you? I need to ask you something.” I have chronic asthma, and whenever my emotions spike, my throat tightens, leaving my voice a raspy wreck. Cecilia always used to notice. She’d show up at my dorm with thermos cups of hot honey tea, rubbing my back until the tightness faded. Now, hearing the gravel in my voice, a note of panic slipped into hers. “What is it? Are you having trouble breathing again?” “Are you with Jace?” Before I could even finish the sentence, Cecilia let out a sharp gasp. Her breath hitched. “Gilbert, I—I’m tied up right now. I’ll call you later!” The line went dead. I stood frozen in the middle of my dorm room, the silence ringing in my ears. She had hung up fast. But not fast enough. In that split second before the call dropped, I heard it. A man’s low, breathless chuckle. Jace. The blood rushed to my head in a roaring wave. I dialed again. It went straight to voicemail. By the time my brain caught up with my body, I was already sprinting across campus. Jace lived off-campus in a luxury townhouse his parents had bought him freshman year. He had programmed my fingerprint into his smart lock himself. I remember feeling overwhelmed by the gesture, but he had just laughed, throwing an arm around my shoulder. “Man, I know how easily you get played,” he had said. “Consider my place your safe haven. We’re brothers.” Now, I was standing in the foyer of my brother’s safe haven, tears blurring my vision. The rhythmic thud against the headboard upstairs. The muffled moans. It was like taking a baseball bat to the skull. I practically ripped the bedroom door off its hinges. Jace was standing by the bed, pulling up his slacks. He didn’t flinch. He just looked at me, an amused smirk playing on his lips, and raised an eyebrow. “Well. Busted.” On the bed, Cecilia frantically pulled the sheets up, her face pale with panic. “Gilbert, please, it’s not what you think—” But the roaring in my ears drowned her out. My eyes were fixed on the massive, framed engagement portrait already leaning against the wall. A year ago, we had watched a viral wedding video, and I had absentmindedly murmured that I couldn’t wait for us to have photos like that. Cecilia hadn’t said much. But the next day, she handed me a gift box containing a silk tie. “Gilbert, I can’t afford a whole custom suit for you right now,” she had said, her cheeks flushed. “But when I get my promotion, I promise I’m going to buy you the sharpest tuxedo in the city. You’re going to be the most handsome groom.” Now, I was nothing but a spectator to her actual wedding. The white tulle of her dress in that portrait looked like spun glass, sharp enough to bleed me out. I lunged forward, grabbed the heavy frame, and smashed it onto the hardwood floor. Glass shattered, biting deeply into my palms. Blood dripped onto the pristine white rug. Cecilia scrambled off the bed, grabbing my bleeding wrist, her voice shrill. “Are you crazy?! You’re hurting yourself!” I shoved her away, a visceral roar tearing from my throat. “Don’t touch me!” Jace, still shirtless, stepped between us. He looked at me with bored pity. Every ounce of heartbreak inside me crystallized into pure venom. I ground my teeth. “How does it feel, Jace? Fucking your best friend’s girl? Are you that pathetic that you have to take my leftovers?” Jace’s jaw clenched. He swung, his fist connecting squarely with my jaw. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. He let out a cold laugh. “Jesus, Gilbert. Stop being so dramatic.” “Don’t touch him!” Cecilia shoved Jace hard, turning frantically to check my bruised face. The strap of her silk slip fell from her shoulder, revealing a constellation of fresh, dark bruises blooming across her collarbone. Jace stumbled back, but he didn’t look mad. He just looked at me with utter contempt. “Cecilia and I are merging our families’ portfolios,” Jace said, brushing off his shoulder. “It’s a corporate marriage. It’s strictly business. You two can keep playing house for all I care. Honestly, I’m being the best friend you could ask for. I’m letting you sleep with my future wife, and you’re throwing a tantrum?” I stared at him, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. “Merging portfolios?” Jace came from new money—a flashy, affluent background that had everyone on campus eager to get into his orbit. But Cecilia? She came from a standard, middle-class family. She couldn’t even make our graduation today because she was supposedly working a double shift at her entry-level desk job. Just weeks ago, I had joked about when we were going to turn our dating anniversary into a wedding anniversary. She had buried her face in my chest, laughing. “Once they take me off probation at work! I need to save up my own money so I can walk down the aisle with my head held high. You just focus on your career, Gilbert. I’m going to be the most beautiful bride.” Seeing the sheer confusion on my face, Jace burst out laughing. “God, Gilbert, you are even dumber than I thought.” He pointed a finger at Cecilia, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight. “She’s Cecilia Whitmore. Sole heiress to Whitmore Enterprises.” The room spun. “The whole school knew by the end of freshman year,” Jace continued relentlessly. “She bought everyone’s silence. She wanted to play ‘poor little rich girl,’ and you were the perfect, clueless prop. The guy she lived with every day, and you didn’t suspect a thing. You’ve been playing the idiot for four years.” The tears finally broke, spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. I swiped at them, but they kept coming. “Stop it, Jace! That’s enough!” Cecilia yelled, her voice cracking. She reached up, desperate to wipe the tears from my face. I stumbled backward, putting as much space between us as the room allowed. I looked at her—really looked at her—and felt absolutely nothing but a hollow void. “Is it true? You’ve been lying to me since day one?” Cecilia fell silent. For a long moment, she just looked at the floor. Then, she let out a long, heavy exhale. “Jace is right. I am a Whitmore.” Her tone was apologetic, yet beneath it, I could hear the unmistakable relief of a burden lifted. “That necklace you bought me for my birthday last year? I told you I didn’t want to wear it because it was too precious. The truth is, it turned my skin green. It was cheap. I hid my identity because I didn’t want you to be like every other guy, looking at my trust fund instead of me. Gilbert… you couldn’t even recognize the designer labels I wore. How could I ever actually marry you? I’d be the laughingstock of my social circle.” I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. My entire chest went numb. For four years, I had worked myself to the bone. Every spare hour between classes was spent bussing tables or tutoring. Cecilia knew my mother was sick. She knew I needed the money for her medical bills. She would sneak twenty-dollar bills into my wallet, then delete the Venmo notifications so I wouldn’t feel emasculated. Once, during a brutal summer heatwave, I caught her handing out flyers in a heavy, sweltering mascot suit outside a car dealership. She was practically dizzy from dehydration. I was devastated, begging her to quit. But she had just smiled brightly, wiping sweat from her forehead. “I’m not doing this for you, dummy! I’m saving up my dowry!” For her birthday, I ate instant ramen for three months to afford a delicate, niche-brand necklace. I was poor, so I used the only currency I had: my absolute sincerity. She was rich. So she used her money to test mine. Jace looked at me with mock sympathy. “Gilbert, you need to know your place. The Whitmore family practically owns half this state. You really think they’d let her marry a guy who scrubs dishes for minimum wage? I tried to tell you to find someone in your own tax bracket. Too bad you never listened.” A memory flashed: Jace telling me I was too obsessed with my girlfriend, that I needed to remember the brotherhood. But he had always covered my tab when we went out. He’d slip me extra cash, claiming it was a “delivery fee” for picking up his packages. I thought it was brotherly love. It was just charity. A wave of profound humiliation washed over me, burning my skin. I lunged forward, shoving Cecilia away. “You’re both disgusting!” I roared. Cecilia stumbled but quickly recovered, grabbing my arm and pulling me into a tight, suffocating hug. She spoke in that gentle, soothing tone she always used when I was stressed. “Shh, Gilbert, don’t cry. You’re the Valedictorian. You have to give your speech tomorrow. Honestly, it works out perfectly. You and Jace are best friends. We’ll basically be a family. You’ll never have to worry about your mother’s hospital bills again.” Jace leaned lazily against the wall, snorting. “Honestly, if I thought some random guy marrying you would hurt Gilbert’s career later, I never would have agreed to this merger. Don’t worry, man. Our brotherhood comes first. You and Cecilia can keep dating. My marriage to her is just ink on paper.” I shoved Cecilia backward so hard she hit the mattress. Then I turned and drove my fist into Jace’s face with everything I had left. “Go to hell!” I ran. I sprinted out of the townhouse, out into the humid evening air. Cecilia didn’t follow me. The next morning, I walked into the university auditorium. My eyes were swollen shut, my face pale and haggard. Before I could even find my seat, someone in the aisle recognized me. “Holy shit. Is that the guy who got cucked by his own best friend?” Before I could process the words, a hand clamped onto my arm, dragging me into a quiet hallway. It was Cecilia. Her eyes were blazing. “Jace is your best friend. How could you do that to him?!” she hissed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!” I yanked my arm away. Cecilia sneered, shoving her phone into my face. On the university’s anonymous Reddit forum, a post had thousands of upvotes. Someone had uploaded photos of Jace, claiming he had befriended a poor student just to sleep with his girlfriend. The comments were tearing Jace apart. Cecilia looked at me with sheer disgust. “Jace and I are just a corporate merger! Did you have to make this so incredibly ugly? He never looked down on you. He paid for half your meals! And this is how you repay him? You’re a parasite, Gilbert.” I told her I didn’t write the post. I didn’t care enough to write the post. But she just shook her head. Through the double doors, the Dean called my name to come to the stage. Cecilia took a step back, her voice dropping to a glacial whisper. “You’re going to regret this.” The commencement was being live-streamed to thousands of alumni. I forced myself to breathe, walking out to the center of the stage. I adjusted the microphone. I opened my mouth to speak. Suddenly, a voice roared from the back of the auditorium. “Get him off the stage! He’s a fraud!” “Expel him!” I flinched. Turning around, I looked at the massive projector screen behind me. Instead of my prepared slides, the screen displayed bank transfers, chat logs, and emails. They were entirely fabricated documents “proving” that I had hired ghostwriters for my senior thesis and bribed an administrator to secure the Valedictorian spot. The auditorium erupted into chaos. I gripped the podium. “This is a lie! I didn’t do this!” But the university administration panicked. The microphone was cut dead. Security guards marched onto the stage, grabbing me by the arms, dragging me off in front of a sea of booing parents and students. Backstage, Cecilia stood leaning against a brick wall, her arms crossed, watching me with dead eyes. I clenched my jaw, fighting the tears threatening to spill. “Is this what you wanted? To destroy my life?” Through the blur of my vision, I remembered the way she had looked at me when we found out my mother’s illness had returned. Her eyes had been so full of tears. “Gilbert, I’m going to work so hard. I’ll pay for Martha’s treatments. I just want you to marry me without any burdens.” Now, the woman standing in front of me was a stranger. Her voice was terrifyingly calm. “The best way to kill a PR crisis is to start a bigger one. If you hadn’t posted that hit piece about Jace, I wouldn’t have had to do this. You brought this on yourself, Gilbert.” By noon, my thesis was voided. My degree was officially revoked. I slumped against the wall of a campus alleyway, entirely broken. My phone vibrated violently in my pocket. Dozens of texts poured in. Backstabbing piece of shit. You framed Jace because you’re insecure. Kill yourself. I looked up. Jace was standing at the end of the alley, hands in his pockets, shrugging. “Gilbert, we’ve known each other for a decade. You know I don’t just sit back and take a hit.” When we were five, a group of older kids had cornered me in the sandbox. Jace had thrown rocks at them until they ran. When we were twelve, a convenience store owner accused me of stealing and locked me in the back room. Jace had thrown his heavy backpack at the man’s head, grabbed my shirt, and pulled me to safety. “Brothers for life,” he had panted, grinning. When we were eighteen, Jace gave up his lacrosse scholarship to spend six months studying with me, just so we could get into the same university. “You’re too soft, man,” he had joked. “Someone’s gotta watch your back.” Now, the boy who used to watch my back looked at me like I was a cockroach. “I’ve never been humiliated like this,” Jace said smoothly. “You stabbed me in the back on that forum. You got the whole school dragging my name. You had to pay the toll. It’s only fair.” It was Jace who had posted the rumors about himself. He played the victim, then released the “proof” that he and Cecilia had been engaged for months, painting me as the delusional, toxic ex who couldn’t let go. Seeing the dead, hollow look in my eyes, a flicker of hesitation crossed Cecilia’s face. She opened her mouth, stepping forward. Before she could speak, my phone rang. It was my mother. Her voice was thin, trembling like a leaf. “Gilbert… are you… did you ruin another man’s relationship?” The world stopped spinning. “Mom. No, I didn’t…” Before I could finish, a sharp, gasping wheeze came through the receiver, followed by the clattering sound of the phone hitting the floor. Then, nothing. Panic seized my chest. “Mom?! Mom!” Since the winter, my mother’s heart condition had deteriorated rapidly. She had been in the ICU three times. I had turned down a master’s program just to get a corporate job immediately, desperate for the health insurance to keep her alive. I sprinted to the hospital like a madman. By the time I reached her room, the monitors were screaming. Doctors were already running in. Through the chaos, she looked at me, her chest heaving violently. “Gilbert… tell me you didn’t do it…” Her eyes rolled back. The flatline tone pierced the air. “I didn’t! Mom, I swear I didn’t!” I screamed, dropping to my knees as the nurses shoved past me, wheeling her bed toward the surgical wing. I ran to the billing department, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I pulled out my debit card to authorize the emergency surgery deposit. The clerk swiped it. She frowned. She swiped it again. “Sir, this card is declining. The balance is zero.” “That’s impossible.” Every dime of my academic grants for the last four years was in that account. I had never touched it. I turned around. Jace was walking into the lobby, feigning surprise. “Oh, right. I forgot to mention,” Jace said lazily. “I had a chat with the financial aid office. Since you were expelled for academic fraud, they retroactively revoked your grants. Seized the funds. Best to leave that money for students who actually deserve it.” Tears streamed down my face. I pulled out my phone, dialing the HR director of the tech firm where I was supposed to start on Monday. I begged for an advance on my signing bonus. The response was glacial. “Mr. Joshua, we’ve received multiple reports regarding your disciplinary expulsion. Our offer of employment is formally rescinded.” The click of the phone hanging up felt like a bullet to the chest. I snapped. I lunged at Jace, grabbing him by the collar of his designer shirt, screaming, “What did I ever do to you?! Why are you doing this?!” Cecilia, having just walked through the sliding glass doors, saw me. She rushed over, tearing my hands off Jace and shoving me back. Her eyes blazed with fury. “I already had my assistant pay the hospital bill! Why the hell are you attacking Jace?!” I stumbled backward, the ground tilting beneath my feet. “Apologize to him,” Cecilia commanded, her voice cold and absolute. I looked up at her, the woman I had loved, entirely unrecognizable. She wrapped a protective arm around Jace. “He is my husband. You attacking him over and over is crossing a line I won’t tolerate. Apologize to him until he says it’s enough. Otherwise, I will walk over to that desk and withdraw the funding for your mother’s surgery right now.” Jace let out a soft, mocking laugh. “An apology is boring.” He looked down at me. “Remember our rule when we were kids, Gilbert? Whoever breaks the rules has to take a punishment. Get on your knees and beg. Then we’re square.” I thought of my mother. Her frail, hollowed-out face. Her gasping breath. I swallowed whatever pride I had left. I sank to my knees on the sterile linoleum floor. I bowed my head. My forehead hit the cold tile. Once. Twice. The dull thud echoed in the quiet lobby. Watching me completely shatter, a flash of something like guilt—or maybe just annoyance—crossed Cecilia’s face. “Alright, that’s enough. They just took your mom to the ward. Go see her.” Before walking away, Jace shot me a look so dark, so maliciously triumphant, that it sent a chill down my spine. I didn’t care. I scrambled to my feet and ran down the hallway toward the ICU. But as I rounded the corner, the doors swung open. A gurney was being pushed out. Covered entirely by a white sheet. The final thread of my sanity snapped. “You said she was going into surgery! Why is she—” The attending doctor looked at me, his face tight with regret. “Her vitals had stabilized. But a few minutes ago, a young man slipped into the room. We don’t know what he said to her, but her heart rate spiked massively. She suffered a massive cardiac rupture. I’m so sorry.” The memory of Jace’s dark, triumphant smile in the lobby hit me like a physical blow. My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the floor, pulling the sheet back just enough to see her face, and I screamed until my vocal cords tore. I walked back onto campus with Jace, the afternoon sun feeling entirely too bright. Everywhere we went, people were whispering, pointing, eating up the drama of Gilbert’s spectacular fall from grace. The vulgar jokes and sneers grating against my ears made my stomach turn. I frowned, opening my mouth to tell a group of frat guys to shut up. Suddenly, the wail of sirens cut through the quad. Three squad cars screeched onto the lawn, boxing us in. Officers poured out. “Jace Harrington? Cecilia Whitmore? You’re coming with us. You’re suspects in a homicide.”

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I had spent years grinding like a dog, and finally, it paid off. I was being promoted to head the new regional branch. And on that very same day, my lottery ticket hit a million-dollar jackpot. Just as I was preparing to share the incredible news with my wife, HR pulled me aside. They told me there was a red flag in my background check. That’s when I found out I had been “divorced” for months. When I got home and confronted her, my wife acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. Just so her high school sweetheart could secure a spot for his kid in an elite school district, she had filed for a quiet dissolution, forged my signature, and married him. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she said. “It’s just a piece of paper. We can get remarried next year.” I stared at her, ice water running through my veins. Wait. You’re telling me I’m already divorced? A massive promotion, a million-dollar jackpot, and I’m single? Dear God. It’s like you didn’t just throw me a bone—you handed me the keys to the kingdom. 1 The VP clapped me on the shoulder, his tone warmer than it had ever been. “Dan, the official transfer will be finalized in a few days. You’re going to be the director of the new facility in Ohio.” “Do a good job out there. That plant is our core project for the next five years. Your future is limitless.” I swallowed the surge of pure ecstasy, offering a polite, measured thank you. The moment I stepped out of his office, my first instinct was to call my wife, Gillian. I wanted to tell her that our long, exhausting grind was finally over. I could finally buy her that spacious suburban home she’d been obsessing over. I’d never have to listen to her parents complain about my lack of ambition ever again. But before I could even pull out my phone, Frank from HR intercepted me. “Dan, step into my office for a second. We have something we need to verify.” Frank’s expression was bizarre—a mix of awkwardness and a pity he was trying desperately to hide. I followed him into the records room. “For this promotion, we had to run a standard background and family background check.” Frank pointed to the marital status column on his screen, his brow furrowed. “Is everything okay at home? The system is flagging your marital status as ‘Divorced.’” I froze. I stared at the bold, red word—Divorced—completely blank. What? Divorced without my knowledge? Frank sighed. “Look, you need to get this sorted out quickly. If it’s a system glitch or a clerical error, we need proof. Otherwise, this background check won’t clear, and the promotion could be held up.” I walked out of the building in a daze. My mind was a chaotic static. We’d been married for three years, and I had poured my entire soul into Gillian. When her brother got into trouble, I was the one waking up at 2:00 AM to bail him out of jail. When her parents fell ill, I took unpaid leave to pull overnight shifts at the hospital. And now? I was divorced? I didn’t have a single memory of it. How could a divorce even happen without me being present, let alone signing a single document? Driving home, Frank’s pitying look burned in my mind. At a red light, I idly reached into the center console. Among the receipts was a Powerball scratch-off I’d bought on a whim at a gas station the day before. Mechanically, I pulled out my phone and checked the winning numbers. What the… A million dollars? Me—a guy whose greatest stroke of luck in thirty years was winning a free soda under a bottle cap—had suddenly hit the jackpot? A massive promotion, and now a million-dollar windfall? But the rush of joy was instantly chased by a bitter laugh. Yesterday, I would have sprinted home to celebrate with Gillian. Now, it just felt like a cruel joke. Upward mobility, wealth, and a burning house. I unlocked the front door. The house was cold and silent. A few minutes later, the lock clicked. Gillian walked in. When she saw me sitting on the couch in the dark, she startled slightly. “Home so early?” She tossed her designer bag onto the entryway table, kick-starting her shoes off. I looked at her face—still beautiful, still familiar—but a deep, icy chill settled in my chest. “Gillian, HR called me in today.” Her movements paused, though her voice remained breezy. “Oh? Is the promotion official?” I held her gaze, speaking deliberately. “They said my file shows I’m divorced.” “Gillian. Explain this to me.” She slipped into her house slippers and walked over. There wasn’t a shred of panic on her face—just a flicker of annoyance. “Your company seriously needs to mind its own business. Why are they digging into our personal lives?” I stood up, my voice cutting through the quiet room. “I’m asking you a question, Gillian! Don’t dodge it!” “When did we get divorced? How does the husband not know he’s divorced?” Gillian frowned, hanging up her coat. Her tone was as casual as if she were commenting on the weather forecast. “Well, since you found out, there’s no point in hiding it.” “I filed for an uncontested dissolution. I started the process six months ago, and the judge signed off on it recently.” My brain felt like it was detonating. I physically swayed. “Uncontested dissolution? Are you out of your mind?” “We’ve been married for three years! What did I ever do to deserve you secretly suing me for divorce?” Gillian sighed, stepping closer to me. “Dan, be reasonable. I didn’t have a choice.” “Damian was in a terrible bind. His daughter, Maisie, needs to get into that elite public school in Cherry Hills, but they strictly enforce residency. You have to own property in the district.” “But the deed has to be in a married couple’s name for the school board’s quick verification. He had no one else he could trust to help him.” My hands began to shake. The world felt entirely surreal. “So… to help his kid get into a better school, you divorced your husband and married him?” Gillian nodded, as if her logic was flawless. “Yes. Damian said it was the only way.” “I thought about talking to you first, but you’re so stubborn, and you’ve always had this irrational bias against Damian. You would have said no.” “I couldn’t let a child’s future be ruined just because of your insecurity. Filing the paperwork quietly was the fastest way.” I sank back onto the couch, a physical ache blooming in my chest. “And what about our assets?” Gillian pursed her lips, her tone light. “I told the court we had been living apart and our marriage was irretrievably broken. To speed up the process, I checked the box for an equal division of assets. I didn’t take a dime of your pre-marital savings or touch your name on this house. That’s why the judge signed off so quickly.” I let out a hollow laugh, tears stinging my eyes. For three years, I had worked eighty-hour weeks, skipping meals to save money for our future. I paid the mortgage. I did the chores. And she went behind my back, using the legal system to discard me like trash, all to play savior to another man’s child. “So, you two are officially married now?” Gillian nodded, a faint sigh of relief escaping her. “We signed the papers at the courthouse about a month ago. It’s almost fully processed.” “But Dan, don’t worry. Damian promised that as soon as Maisie’s school registration is fully locked in next year, he’ll divorce me. I’ll come right back, we’ll get remarried, and things will go right back to how they were.” She reached out, attempting to wrap her arms around my neck, just like she used to do whenever she wanted something. I flinched away, leaving her hands hanging in the air. Gillian’s face darkened instantly. “Dan, what is with this attitude?” “I already told you, it’s a paper marriage. It’s just administrative. Do you have to be this petty?” “Damian helped me so much back in college. Helping him out now is just being a decent human being. Don’t be so selfish.” I stared at her. It was like looking at a stranger. She had packaged her betrayal, her profound disrespect of our marriage, as an act of saintly charity. And I, the victim, was the “selfish” one. “Whatever. Stop throwing a tantrum.” Gillian stood up straight, smoothing down her shirt. “Get your head straight. Don’t let this ruin your work tomorrow.” Without another word, she headed to the bathroom to take a shower. Leaving me alone in the living room. I leaned my head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling. From the bathroom, the sound of running water echoed. Sitting in the dim light, my mind began to run the numbers. I had thought this was the worst day of my life. But as I really looked at it… this was the day I hit the trifecta. First: I was being promoted. Regional Director. Absolute authority, limitless budget, and a career-defining trajectory. Second: I was rich. A million dollars after taxes isn’t “retire tomorrow” money, but it was an incredible safety net. And the most beautiful part? I bought that lottery ticket after the legal date of our divorce. Under the law, that money was entirely, indisputably mine. Gillian had zero claim to it. Third: the house. In her rush to get a quick default divorce, she had waived all rights to the property. This meant I kept the house, kept my money, and effectively cut loose the entire parasitic Reynolds family. I started to laugh. What on earth was I crying for? Promotion. Fortune. Single. Men spend decades and millions trying to buy this kind of freedom. And it had dropped into my lap in a single afternoon. I stood up, rolling my shoulders. The heavy, suffocating weight in my chest evaporated. When I pushed the bathroom door open, Gillian was standing in front of the mirror, wrapping a towel around her wet hair. She startled, her brow furrowing. “I’m in the shower. What are you doing?” I didn’t apologize like I usually did. Instead, I walked up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist, pulling her close. I buried my face in the crook of her neck, letting my voice sound thick and heavy. “Babe… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.” “I calmed down and thought about it. You’ve always been so kind-hearted.” “Damian was in a tough spot, and you were just helping. I shouldn’t have let my jealousy get the better of me.” Feeling me yield, her posture relaxed completely. She let out a soft huff, her tone returning to its familiar, superior height. “I’m glad you finally understand. Damian really had no other options.” “It’s only for a year. Just be good this year and don’t make a scene.” I smiled into her shoulder, my grip tightening slightly. “Of course. You’re so good to me, I’ll do whatever you want.” “But you did keep me in the dark. Tonight… you owe me.” Gillian gave me a playful shove, a coquettish smirk playing on her lips. “Stop it. We aren’t legally married right now, you know. Watch yourself.” I ignored her weak resistance, lifting her up easily. “You said it yourself—our relationship isn’t broken. It’s just paperwork.” “Besides, you wouldn’t want me going to Damian’s place to make a scene and ruin Maisie’s school registration, right?” Gillian wrapped her arms around my neck, her eyes fluttering shut. “Fine, fine. You’re impossible.” That night, I didn’t hold back. I pulled out every stop, enjoying myself with an intensity I hadn’t felt in years. It was incredibly freeing. The next morning, the sun broke through the blinds. I woke up feeling lighter than air. I looked at Gillian, still fast asleep beside me. She was beautiful, sure. But incredibly, catastrophically foolish. I dressed quietly, feeling the stiff edge of the lottery ticket in my pocket. It was as if the universe had looked down at the three years of misery I’d endured with her family and decided it was time to balance the scales. I sat at the kitchen island, slowly sipping my coffee. My mind drifted back to the year we met. College seniors. We’d been in the same department for four years but barely spoke. Then we ended up at the same internship, and things naturally developed. Back then, Gillian didn’t have these calculating eyes. Her laugh was bright and genuine. I remembered the night our internship ended. We’d shared a cheap pitcher of beer at a college bar. She’d looked at me and said, “Dan, you’re so steady. Whoever marries you is going to feel so safe.” And I, riding a wave of liquid courage, had replied, “Why don’t you find out?” It was a natural progression from there. Graduation, the proposal, the wedding. Everything had followed a neat, uncomplicated script. I thought it was the kind of deep, quiet love people spent lifetimes searching for. Until Damian Ward re-entered the picture two years ago. Her high school sweetheart. They’d only dated for a few months back then, but those are the worst kind of men—like a stubborn burr stuck to your coat, impossible to shake off, constantly irritating. Damian had shown up with a little girl, playing the tragic role of the struggling single father. And the kid, Maisie, knew exactly how to play her part. She’d look at Gillian with wide eyes and whisper, “Miss Gillian, I miss my mommy.” And just like that, Gillian’s maternal instincts went into overdrive. I had tried to warn her early on. “Gillian, helping is one thing, but you’re crossing boundaries.” But she always dismissed me, claiming I was being overly sensitive. She was just visiting a lonely child. “Her mother abandoned her, Dan. How can you be so heartless?” Thinking back, I could only smile at my own stupidity. Once you let a boundary be crossed, it ceases to exist. I had been blinded by what I thought was love, believing that if I just took one step back, our home would remain intact. I hadn’t just taken a step back. I had backed myself right off a cliff. “Why didn’t you make me breakfast?” Gillian’s voice drifted from the bedroom door. She was leaning against the frame in her silk robe, her hair messy, rubbing her eyes. I looked at the empty coffee pot and the clean pans. “I figured you’d want to sleep in.” Gillian pulled out a stool and sat down, frowning when she saw only my dirty mug on the counter. She rolled her eyes, murmuring under her breath. “Well, whose fault is that after last night?” She looked at me expectantly. “I’m starving. Go fry me some eggs and heat up some milk.” A day ago, I would have already been at the stove, asking her exactly how she wanted her yolks. Instead, I sat perfectly still, swirling the last drop of coffee in my mug. “If you’re hungry, make it yourself. I have to get to the office.” Gillian blinked, clearly caught off guard by the refusal. I looked at her lovely face. I felt absolutely nothing. In fact, I wanted to laugh. Gillian, you really don’t get it, do you? You aren’t my wife anymore. Why on earth would I keep serving you? “I’ve got a busy day. Order some takeout and get some rest,” I said, my tone perfectly pleasant. I didn’t need to start a war. There was no point. But the days of me putting her on a pedestal were officially over. I sat in my car and shot a quick text to my VP, requesting a half-day for some personal errands. He replied instantly, telling me to take all the time I needed. He just wanted me ready for the transition. I drove straight to the state lottery headquarters downtown. I kept a low profile. The last thing I needed was the Reynolds family finding out. If they got wind of this money, they would drag me through every court in the state trying to claim a piece of it. The redemption process was surprisingly clinical. Paperwork, ID verification, tax forms. The clerks had seen it all; their faces didn’t even register a flicker of envy. Then, my phone buzzed in my hand. A direct deposit notification. Staring at the string of zeros in my bank account, I finally let out the breath I felt I’d been holding for three years.

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My mother was the unwilling heroine of a dark, toxic love story, and I was the physical proof of her coercion. Even when she and my father eventually settled into a life of quiet devotion, she could never look at me without disgust. She hated me. She despised me. “Every time I look at your face, it brings back those dark days,” she would snarl. “You owe me for this!” “Why does a child born of hate even exist? You are a constant, sickening reminder.” “You are rotten to the core. A parasite. One day, you’re going to drag this entire family down with you.” My father always told me that Mom didn’t truly hate me—she was just struggling to accept me. I believed him. And so, I took every beating and every scream without a word. I even played the fool every day, making myself look ridiculous and dim-witted, just to coax a tiny smile out of her. Until I was eleven, and they had my sister. My sister’s name was Jade. A precious, flawless stone. Staring at her birth certificate, and then looking at my own name, Rue—the regret, the sorrow—I finally woke up. My birth was a complete, unmitigated mistake. My mother had never loved me. She had never even considered trying. But that was fine. I would just have to learn how to stop loving her, too. 1 The nurse handed Jade’s birth certificate to my mother with a warm, genuine smile. “Jade. Such a beautiful, precious name.” My mother gazed at my baby sister wrapped in the swaddling blanket, her face softening into a gentle warmth I had never once seen directed at me. “Thank you,” my mother murmured. “We thought about it for a long time. Jade—like the precious green gem.” My eyes dimmed, and I bit down on my lower lip until it stung. If she was Jade, a precious gem… what was I? My name was Rue. When I was six, my teacher asked us to write an essay about the meaning behind our names. Usually, I loved writing, but that day, I was the only one who didn’t hand it in. Only after the teacher gave me a final warning did I muster up the courage to ask my mother, desperately hoping she would give me some beautiful, hidden meaning. My teacher had shown me the other kids’ essays. Every single name carried their parents’ hopes, their dreams, their love. I wanted that so badly. But she just shoved me away, her eyes flashing with irritation. “It means regret,” she snapped. “It means sorrow, a mistake. Your birth was a mistake! A sin!” That was the first time I couldn’t hold it in. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably right in front of her. Terrified I would anger her further, my father rushed in and carried me out of the room. He held me and comforted me until my tears finally stopped. He said, “Your mother is just bad at naming things, Rue. Don’t hate her.” I nodded. That night, I stayed up in the dark, searching my dictionary and the internet until I found another meaning: Rue is also known as the herb of grace. It represents strength, clear vision, and healing. It was the first time in my life I had ever lied, and I did it in my essay. I wrote that my mother had named me Rue because she wanted me to grow up strong, wise, and filled with grace. I wrote that she wanted me to overcome any hardship. Later, that essay was chosen as a model of excellence for the school district. But now, looking at the name Jade on my sister’s birth certificate, a quiet ache settled deep in my chest. Some people are born as precious gems, expected and adored from their very first breath. While I had to build a fragile, make-believe world out of lies just to feel a shred of warmth. I couldn’t keep lying to myself. My mother wasn’t bad at naming things. She just hadn’t cared enough to try for me. She wouldn’t spare me even a crumb of love. Yet, I still harbored a desperate, foolish hope. I reached out, tugging gently on my parents’ sleeves, and whispered, “Can I change my name?” “I don’t need a brand-new name. I can just share Jade’s theme. Can I be Ruby?” My father looked at the raw hope in my eyes, his face softening with pity. He turned to my mother, hesitating. “Maybe… maybe we should change it, Becca? Ruby matches Jade. They could grow up supporting each other, like sisters should.” My mother’s perfect brow furrowed in immediate disgust. “A bastard born of hate doesn’t deserve to share a name with our precious Jade.” “Besides, who wants her support? A damaged, rotten thing like her… we’ll be lucky if she doesn’t grow up to poison her sister.” My heart withered, and a faint, metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I had never done anything bad in my life. But in my mother’s eyes, I was always the villain. If something went missing, she accused me of stealing it. If a dress was torn, she said I ruined it. Even when the flowers on the balcony withered, she claimed my ‘bad energy’ killed them. I realized then that my father was wrong. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to love me. She despised me. She hated me. Having someone you hate constantly lingering in your sight is annoying. But having the person you love despise you is a slow, agonizing death. For everyone’s sake, I filled out the application my teacher had given me for the elite boarding school across the state. It was a strict, military-style academy with the best academic reputation, but it was hours away, and students were only allowed to leave during major holidays. When I got home that afternoon, my father waited until my mother was in the other room before slipping a few chocolate bars into my hands. “I bought these specifically for you, sweetie. Eat something sweet, and you’ll feel better.” “A name is just a label, Rue. It doesn’t define who you are. Don’t let it get to you.” “Your mother and I read your essay. It was beautiful. From now on, that’s exactly how we’ll think of your name, okay?” My hands trembled slightly with a sudden, overwhelming wave of joy. I didn’t know my mother had actually read my essay. Maybe she did care about me, deep down. Maybe she was just terrible at showing it. The dark cloud that had hung over me all morning evaporated instantly. I grabbed my writing journal from my desk, looking up at my father like a puppy eager for praise. “Dad! Look at my latest essay. Don’t you think it’s really good?” He took the notebook, scanning it briefly before giving me a warm pat on the head. “Very good, sweetie. You have a real gift with words.” I beamed, rummaging through my backpack. “And guess what? This one won—” Suddenly, a sharp, piercing cry echoed from the nursery. My father stiffened. His hand slipped, and my journal clattered to the floor, face down. “What’s wrong with Jade?” he cried, panic written all over his face as he bolted down the hallway. “What happened?” Only after checking every inch of my sister did he let out a long, ragged sigh of relief. “She’s not hungry, and her diaper is dry. Did you just miss Mommy and Daddy, sweetheart?” My mother’s voice drifted out, softer than silk. “Mommy and Daddy are right here, baby. No more tears. Look, watch Daddy make a silly pig face. Isn’t he funny?” Soon, the bright, ringing laughter of a happy family of three floated out of the nursery. I stood in the exact same spot for an hour, frozen like a ghost. Nobody remembered I was there. I pressed my hands tightly over my ears, but the laughter still clawed its way in, sharp and agonizing. Finally, I knelt and picked up my journal. The tears had already smudged the ink of my essay. The words of my secret achievement died in my throat. Dad, my essay won first place in the entire state. It was an essay about our family. Dad, when Mom is in a good mood, do you think you could show it to her? Using my sleeve, I wiped my face hard and locked myself in my bedroom. I pulled out one of the chocolate bars my father had given me and took a bite, desperate for the sweetness to drown out the pain. Within minutes, my lips began to swell, burning intensely. I looked at the wrapper. It was pineapple-flavored. My face went pale as I checked the rest of the chocolates. Every single one of them was filled with pineapple. He said he bought them specifically for me. So how could he forget that I am severely allergic to pineapple? I quietly dug through my drawer, found my emergency allergy medication, and swallowed it dry. I knew better than to tell my parents. When I was four, I had run a dangerous fever, vomiting and sweating through my sheets. When my mother finally touched my burning forehead, there was no fear or worry in her eyes. Only a deep, exhausting resentment. “Can you go one day without causing trouble?” she had spat. “Your body is so weak because I was miserable the entire time I was pregnant with you. Having you is just a never-ending punishment.” From that day on, I learned to find my own medicine when I was sick, ensuring I never, ever became a burden to her again. On my way back to my room, I passed the master bedroom. My parents were whispering, planning Jade’s one-month celebration. Who to invite, what catering to choose, how to decorate the venue, which host to hire. I stood in the shadow of the hallway, listening hungrily, pretending they were planning something for me. How beautiful it must feel to be loved like that. A month passed in a blur. At the center of the grand banquet hall stood a massive, beautifully frosted tiered cake. Next to it was a life-sized sign featuring my father, my mother, and baby Jade, with the words: Welcome to the world, our beautiful Jade! I stared at it with aching envy. My parents had never once celebrated my birthday. Because, as my mother always said, my birth brought nothing but suffering. I didn’t deserve to be celebrated. Yet, a small, selfless part of me was glad. I was glad Jade was born at a time when our parents were happy. I was glad she would never know the coldness of being hated by her own mother. I stared at the cake, swallowing hard, breathing in the sweet scent of vanilla and sugar, imagining what the rich, velvety cream would taste like. A passing guest sneered at me, whispering to her friend, “Whose kid is that? So greedy and ill-mannered.” I recognized her. She was a member of my mother’s yoga class. But she had no idea I existed. My mother never posted photos of me on social media; even if a sliver of my shadow appeared in the background of a photo, she would blur it out completely. My face burned crimson. I stepped back, my voice caught in my throat, wanting to say: I’m their daughter, too. But looking at the perfect family of three on the sign, the words died. Giving the cake one last, lingering look, I slipped backstage to find my parents. They were taking professional portraits of Jade. One moment they dressed her in tiny angel wings; the next, they placed her in a rustic basket like a precious little nestling. I had never had a professional photo taken. I watched them, my chest aching with a deep, childish longing. I wanted to walk over, but then I looked down at my faded, tight-fitting clothes. I was eleven now; I had already developed a fragile sense of pride and shame. I knew my clothes were old, small, and unflattering. Usually, I tried to ignore it, but standing in this glittering hall, the shame was suffocating. Just as I turned to slip away, my father called out to me. “Rue! Come here, let’s take a family photo.” In an instant, my world lit up. “Me? Can I really be in it?” A family photo. With me? My father reached out and patted my head. “Of course, sweetie. We’re a family, aren’t we?” I glanced timidly at my mother. She merely scoffed and turned her head away, but she didn’t say no. That was enough. I forced a bright, eager smile and stepped into the camera’s frame. I knew it! The sign outside didn’t have me because they must have just forgotten, or maybe because I was at school when they designed it! Once the flash went off, I was dizzy with excitement. I nervously wrung my fingers together and looked at my mother. “Mom, my teacher said I got accepted into the elite academy. But… if you don’t want me to go…” The enrollment form was signed, but I hadn’t turned it in yet. I was still holding on. In that moment, I knew that if my mother showed even the slightest hint of wanting me near, I would throw the form away and choose the local school. But before I could even finish my sentence, she shoved me aside roughly. “Go or stay, why would I care? Do whatever you want. I don’t give a damn.” “Now get out of here. Don’t you dare ruin your sister’s celebration.” I stumbled out of the room, my nose stinging with hot tears. For a fleeting second, I had actually thought she was starting to accept me. But it was okay. At least we were a family. At least I would have this photo. As I stood in the hallway, wondering if I could ask the photographer to print a small copy of the family photo for my desk, I heard voices from inside the dressing room. “Delete the ones with the older girl,” my father’s voice said. “If my wife sees them when she’s having a bad day, she’ll lose her temper again.” The photographer sounded confused. “If you’re just going to delete them, why did you invite her to join in the first place?” My father let out a heavy, weary sigh. “She’s getting older. If we don’t throw her a bone once in a while, she’ll start acting out.” “Do you think I like looking at her? Every time I see her face, I’m reminded of my own failures, of the terrible things I did to Becca.” “But we have to manage her. If she feels completely unloved, she might develop psychological issues, and that will only trigger Becca’s trauma. Giving her a little pity keeps her stable. It’s for the best.” Ah. So it was pity. It was a calculated performance, not love. Suddenly, I thought of Mrs. Gable, my fifth-grade teacher who always looked out for me. She would always frown and ask if I was eating enough, and the next day, she would bring me into her office to share a home-cooked lunch. I thought of the elderly couple next door. Whenever I was locked out of the house, they would take me in, run a warm bath, dress me in clean clothes, and call me their sweet girl. Only now did I realize how utterly hollow my father’s kindness had always been. He had never truly stood up for me. He watched silently as my mother tore me down, only playing the gentle savior afterward to ease his own guilt. In that entire house, there was not a single soul who cared. A wave of pure, physical nausea washed over me. I felt sick to my stomach. The very next morning, I submitted my enrollment form to the boarding academy. After passing the entrance exams, I was officially admitted. It wasn’t until move-in day that my father finally realized he didn’t even know which school I was attending. “Oh,” he said, looking at the address. “It’s so far. You won’t be able to come home on weekends.” I nodded quietly. “I’m staying in the dorms full-time. I won’t be back until the summer.” My mother slammed her fork onto the table with a deafening clatter. “Do you see this? A child born of hate is inherently cold-blooded. She can’t wait to abandon us.” “Ungrateful brat. Good riddance. I feel sick just looking at you.” I stood by the door, my knuckles turning white as I gripped my backpack straps. “Then you won’t have to look at me ever again.” And I meant it. Aside from the mandatory school closures during the winter holidays, I never went back. At first, the silence in my dorm room was agonizing. I would lie awake wondering if my birth really was a curse, if I truly was the bad seed my mother claimed I was. But soon, the grueling academic workload consumed my every waking hour. I had no time left to grieve them. Slowly, a beautiful thing happened: I realized I didn’t need their love anymore. And just like that, I stopped loving them back. I didn’t return for a prolonged stay until the summer after my middle school graduation. When my mother saw me, a flicker of surprise—perhaps even a passing shadow of guilt—crossed her face. “You’ve grown so tall,” she remarked quietly. “Yes,” I replied, my voice completely flat. “I’m five-foot-five.” “Oh,” she murmured, and the conversation died. During that stay, I noticed her hostility toward me had dulled significantly, though she still treated me with a cold, distant indifference. I only spoke when spoken to. Jade was growing up, too. She was sweet, and for some reason, she adored the quiet older sister she barely knew. She would drag her favorite toys to my room, offering them to me with wide, innocent eyes. “Rue-Rue, hold me!” she would squeak. But I rarely got to hold her for long. My mother was always hovering, watching me like a hawk, convinced I was waiting for the perfect moment to hurt her precious child. She would snatch Jade out of my arms, glaring at me with raw suspicion. “Don’t touch her!” Clasping Jade tight, she would whisper loudly as she walked away, “She’s dirty, sweetie. Touching her will make you sick.” “Don’t call her your sister. She is not a part of this family.” Not a part of this family. Years ago, those words would have shattered me. Now, they didn’t even leave a scratch. After my mother left the room, my father sighed. “Rue, your mother is just…” “Just very protective of Jade,” I finished for him, cutting him off. Toddlers are easily distracted, and Jade’s attention soon drifted to the grand piano in the living room. Recognizing her interest in music, my parents had spent a small fortune on a custom Steinway and hired the most prestigious instructors in the city. To be honest, her playing was terrible; she had absolutely no musical talent. But my parents would sit there, listening as if she were Mozart, showering her with endless, creative praises. They had never done that for me. Throughout my life, I had consistently ranked at the top of my class. Whenever I brought home a perfect report card, my mother would look at it and sneer, “Don’t get cocky. Someone will humiliate you next semester.” My father would offer a quick, performative smile before tossing the paper aside. “Great, great.” I pulled myself out of the memory. It didn’t matter anymore. Those old wounds had turned to stone. During my high school years, I practically erased myself from their lives. I spent short breaks at school, and during the long summer vacations, I worked long hours at local diners and bookstores, leaving before they woke and returning long after they had gone to sleep. Sometimes, my father would secretly try to slide some cash into my pockets. I took it. My mother only allowed me fifty dollars a week, claiming that giving me any more would turn me into a delinquent. The day after my high school graduation, I packed my bags and took a summer job at a summer camp that provided room and board. I stayed there until it was time to leave for college. I went back to the house one last time to retrieve my old academic certificates and writing awards. I wanted to take my history with me. As I walked up the driveway, I saw Jade playing in the yard. She looked up, her face lighting up with a brilliant smile. “Rue! You’re back!” “I’m trying to build a swing. Can you help me?” I looked at the crooked wooden board and the dangerously loose knots she had tied around the tree branch. With a sigh, I stepped forward and began tying the rope securely to the sturdy frame. Jade pointed upward. “Tie it higher, Rue! Higher!” “No, that’s too dangerous. This height is perfect.” She pouted. “Just a little higher, please?” I checked my watch; it was already five in the afternoon. She would only play out here for another hour before it got dark and she had to go inside for dinner. By tomorrow, she would have moved on to some other game. I told her I had to pack my things and warned her strictly not to touch the ropes myself. Back in my old room, I gathered my certificates. In the back of the closet, I found a cheap, painted piggy bank. I remembered it. I was four or five when my parents took me to a local carnival, and my father had won it for me. My mother had been in an unusually good mood that day, almost gentle. It was one of the very few warm memories of my childhood. After a moment of hesitation, I wrapped it in a sweater and packed it into my suitcase. I decided I would say a formal goodbye before I left. At the very least, they should know which city I was moving to. Just as I zipped my suitcase, a sickening, heavy thud echoed from the yard. Then came Jade’s piercing, terrified scream. My heart dropped. I bolted out of the house. One side of the swing’s rope was dangling uselessly in the air. Jade was sprawled on the grass, her face scraped and bleeding. Her nose was already swelling, and she had bitten through her lip, blood pouring down her chin. My mother was already there, cradling Jade, her face pale with horror. Before I could utter a single word of explanation, a vicious slap struck my cheek, the force of it throwing me hard against the dirt. My mother’s eyes were wild, bloodshot with rage. She struck me again and again. “I knew it! I knew you would try to kill her! You sick, evil monster!” “I should have smothered you the day you were born! Why won’t you just die?!” My father stood behind her, his face dark with disappointment. “I really wanted to believe you were a good kid, Rue. But you are rotten to the core.” “It wasn’t me!” I screamed, tasting blood. “She untied the ropes herself and tried to make it higher! I told her not to touch it!” My mother let out a cold, manic laugh. “Fine! You want to play innocent? I’ll give you a chance.” “Jade, tell Mommy the truth. Did you touch the ropes after Rue left?” Jade looked at me, her eyes wide with terror and guilt. She looked back at our mother’s furious face, panicked, and slowly shook her head. My mother turned back to me, her voice dripping with venom. “What else do you have to say for yourself?” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I wanted to tell them to check the security camera in the yard. But I realized it was pointless. They had already written the script. I was the monster. Nothing I said would ever change their minds. My mother handed the crying Jade to my father, then stormed into my bedroom. Within seconds, my belongings were being hurled out into the yard. My cheap piggy bank shattered against the concrete, its ceramic shards mixing with my old essays and certificates. My mother pulled a lighter from her pocket and struck a flame, dropping it onto the pile of my childhood. As the fire flared up, a wild, suffocating anger took hold of me for the first time in my life. I screamed at them, my voice cracking with years of unshed tears: “If you hated me so much, why didn’t you just abort me?!” “Why do I have to carry the weight of your hatred? How am I the guilty one here?!” “I didn’t choose to be born! You two are the ones who are sick! You are disgusting!” My mother flinched, a sudden, rare look of bewilderment crossing her face. But the anger in me died as quickly as it had flared, leaving only a cold, hollow emptiness. I looked at them, my voice dropping to a whisper. “This is the last time I will ever call you my parents.” “I am done.” I turned my back on them and picked up my suitcase. “Rue!” my mother screamed after me. “What do you think you’re doing? If you walk out that gate today, don’t you ever think about coming back!” I didn’t look back. “Good,” I said. And I walked out into the evening light.

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“An abortion is incredibly hard on your body,” the doctor said, her voice soft but heavy with professional concern as we stood outside the surgical suite. “If there’s any way you can keep the pregnancy, you should consider it. Are you sure you don’t want to talk this over with your husband first?” I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen, my fingers trembling slightly. I pulled up my thread with Greg and typed out a single sentence. I’m at the hospital. I’m planning to terminate the pregnancy. Within seconds, the reply came back: K. A single, cold letter. I turned the screen toward the doctor. She looked at the brief exchange, sighed quietly, and didn’t push any further. She simply nodded and went back inside to prepare for the procedure. I stared down at that single-letter reply. A bitter, hollow laugh bubbled up in my chest. It was pathetic, really. For the longest time, I had convinced myself that Greg was just a man of few words. Quiet. Reserved. But five years into our marriage, the truth had finally settled in my bones like a cold draft. He wasn’t naturally detached. He was just empty. He had spent every ounce of his warmth, his passion, and his energy on Sasha, his childhood best friend. By the time he came home to me, there was nothing left but dry embers. I had tried to voice my hurt before. I had fought for his attention, cried, and demanded better. But Greg would only look at me with that calm, faintly exhausted expression. “Sasha and I grew up together, Mona. We’re partners at work. Anything between us is strictly professional. Besides, this is what marriage is. It’s quiet. It’s stable. Can’t we just live a normal, peaceful life?” I hadn’t known how to argue against that. So, like a fool, I learned to live with the silence. Until three months ago. I was crossing the street when a distracted driver clipped me. The impact threw me onto the asphalt. As I lay there, the world spinning in and out of focus, my vision blurring, I managed to slip my phone out of my pocket with trembling fingers. I sent Greg a desperate text. His response was instantaneous: K. I waited. I waited as kind strangers gathered around me, as someone called 911, as the paramedics loaded me into the back of an ambulance. I waited through the blinding pain in the ER, through the stitches, and through the long, quiet hours in the recovery room. Greg never showed up. Panic had finally overridden my pride. Nursing the throbbing ache in my side, I dialed Sasha’s number, terrified that Greg had been in an accident on his way to see me. Sasha answered. When I finished explaining what had happened, she let out a soft, airy giggle. “Oh, Mona. Greg’s actually right here with me. I’ve been managing his personal accounts and texts for a while now. Did he seriously never tell you?” The world seemed to grind to a halt. “He’s just so incredibly busy with work,” Sasha continued, her tone dripping with casual intimacy. “He gets overwhelmed with notifications, so he logged his personal accounts onto my phone ages ago. I handle the clutter, filter through the noise, and only pass on the urgent stuff. I saw your messages, of course. But since it didn’t look like an absolute emergency, I just shot back a quick reply to clear the notification.” My phone slipped slightly in my sweaty palm. My entire body began to shake. Every single text. Every late-night confession. Every small, vulnerable update I had sent my husband over the last few years… he had never even seen them. The person reading them, the person sending back those dismissive, one-word replies, had been Sasha. Greg had no idea what I had been saying to him. “Mona? You’re not mad, are you?” Sasha’s voice was sweet, tinged with a delicate, childish pout. “I mean, if you really need him, I can totally tell him to head home to you.” I couldn’t breathe. I hung up without saying a word. I had spent years making excuses for his absence, chalking it up to a high-pressure career and an emotionally reserved personality. But the truth was far simpler, and far more brutal: he didn’t care enough to even look. He had handed my life, and my feelings, over to another woman to manage. … 1 I lay on the narrow hospital bed, staring blankly at the sterile ceiling tiles. The surgery had gone horribly wrong. Halfway through, I suffered a severe hemorrhage. My blood pressure plummeted, and the heart monitor began to emit a frantic, high-pitched wail. Through the haze of anesthesia, I heard nurses shouting, rushing out of the room to try and contact my emergency contact. They called Greg. Again and again. But the calls went straight to voicemail. Ultimately, the lead surgeon had to sign an emergency waiver to proceed with a life-saving intervention. They spent over two hours dragging me back from the edge of death. When my eyes finally fluttered open, the recovery room was silent and empty. No husband. No family. Not even a single missed call or text from him. But Greg had posted an update on social media just ten minutes prior. It was a photo of a cozy beach camping setup. A bonfire crackled in the center, casting a warm, golden glow over the two of them. Sasha was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes crinkled with genuine, radiant happiness. On the small blanket in front of them sat a tiny, rustic cake with the number 10,000 piped clumsily in white frosting. The caption was simple: Life is only thirty thousand days. You are my ten thousand. My thumb hovered over the screen, frozen. I stared at their smiling faces, and for the first time, the grief in my chest was replaced by a profound, deadening exhaustion. What on earth was I fighting for? Our marriage had become a joke. A pathetic, one-sided performance where I was the only actor on stage, and the audience was laughing at my desperation. I closed the social media app and opened our text thread—knowing full well who would likely read it first. I’m exhausted, Greg. I want a divorce. If you don’t reply by midnight, I’m taking your silence as your consent to end this. I won’t cause a scene, but the choice is yours. I kept my eyes on the clock. 11:57 PM. 11:58 PM. At exactly 11:59 PM, the status bar at the top of the chat finally flickered: Greg is typing… I let out a soft, humorless laugh. My fingers moved swiftly, blocking his number before the message could even come through. Did you really think I was giving you a second chance, Greg? We’re done. Once his contact was blocked, I dialed a different number. One I had kept memorized but had never dared to call. The line rang only once before a deep voice answered. He didn’t sound surprised to hear from me. “You won,” I said, getting straight to the point. “I know when I’ve lost. I agree to your terms.” There was a brief, heavy silence on the other end, followed by a low, quiet chuckle. “A man who fails you once will fail you forever, Mona,” Jude said, his voice smooth and steady. “If there’s no love left, you discard him. You can treat me the exact same way if I ever disappoint you.” He paused, then added, “My current project wraps up in three days. I’ll come collect you then.” After my vitals stabilized, the doctors discharged me. When I returned to our penthouse, the living room lights were surprisingly on. I pushed the door open and found Greg sitting on the leather sofa, flipping through some work documents. His tailored suit jacket was draped carelessly over the armrest. He looked like he had just gotten in. At the sound of the door, he looked up, setting the papers aside. “Sasha said you went to the clinic,” he said, his voice flat. “What was that about?” “I had an abortion.” Halfway through my sentence, Greg’s phone began to ring. Sasha’s name flashed across the screen, accompanied by a bright, cheerful ringtone that completely drowned out my voice. Greg glanced at the caller ID, and a soft smile instantly broke across his face—a genuine, warm expression I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. He answered, spoke softly for a minute, and hung up. Turning his attention back to me, he asked casually, “Sorry, what were you saying?” I looked at his calm, unaffected face, and a profound emptiness washed over me. Sasha had obviously passed on some version of the truth to him, but how she framed it was her choice, and his lack of curiosity was his. I let out a soft sigh. “Nothing.” I turned to walk toward the guest bedroom, but Greg stood up and followed me. He wrapped his arms loosely around my waist from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked. I froze under his touch. “What do you mean?” “Are you throwing a fit because I didn’t go to the clinic with you?” His tone was breezy, patronizing, like he was pacifying a petulant child. “Today was a big deal, Mona. It marked exactly ten thousand days since Sasha and I met. She’s sentimental about those kinds of milestones. It had to be celebrated today, not tomorrow. I couldn’t just walk away from that.” It took me a second to realize he was referring to the text I had sent before blocking him. He genuinely believed I had just gone for a routine checkup, and that my threat of divorce was nothing more than a childish tantrum because he was spending the day with Sasha. “I’m not throwing a tantrum, Greg. I’ve already drafted the separation agreement—” “I’ve got a lot on my plate at work right now, Mona. Don’t start acting like a dramatic teenager,” Greg interrupted, his voice instantly turning cold. He walked back to the sofa, gathered his papers, and spoke without looking at me. “There’s still stuff I need to handle at the office tonight. I went out of my way to come home and check on you. You’re a grown woman. I don’t mind indulging you once in a while, but don’t push it.” He snapped his car keys off the entryway table. The heavy front door clicked open and shut, and he was gone. I stood in the quiet hallway and laughed softly to myself. To him, every ounce of my pain, my loneliness, and my desperation was reduced to “throwing a fit.” He hadn’t taken the divorce threat seriously. He never took anything I said seriously. My needs were just background noise to his life. I went to the bedroom and opened my laptop. My attorney was incredibly efficient; after I laid out my terms, she didn’t take long to draft a fair, standard divorce agreement. I reviewed the document carefully, signed my portion, and emailed the digital file directly to Greg’s personal account. Not even a minute after sending it, a text popped up on my phone from Greg’s number. It was Sasha. Mona, if you’re trying to get Greg’s attention, this isn’t the way to do it. He absolutely despises these kinds of loyalty tests! A while back, I lost a bet and had a guy friend pretend to be my boyfriend just to see how Greg would react. Greg was furious. Once he found out it was just a joke, I had to apologize for days before he’d even speak to me. Trust me, you don’t want to play this card. I didn’t bother replying. A few minutes later, an email notification chimed. I opened the attachment. Greg’s signature was scrawled elegantly across the bottom of the divorce papers. Then came a voice note from Sasha, her tone light and deceptively innocent. “Hey Mona, Greg trusts me with his paperwork, so he signed it without really looking. Do you want me to explain to him what he just signed, or should we keep it between us?” I stared at his signature for a long time. I had guessed correctly. Sasha could pretend to play the peacemaker all she wanted, but her actions were thoroughly efficient at clearing her path. A bitter smile touched my lips as I forwarded the fully executed document back to my lawyer. Just then, a sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my lower abdomen, radiating through my body. The physical toll of the hemorrhage and the abortion was catching up to me. Exhausted, I curled into a tight ball on the bed, closed my eyes, and drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep. In the middle of the night, a sharp ringing woke me. The moment I answered, a panicked voice cried out, “Mona! You need to get down here right now! Something bad happened!” My instincts kicked in before my brain could process the pain in my stomach. I threw an oversized coat over my pajamas and drove to the shared location. It was a high-end private lounge downtown. I walked down the dimly lit hallway to find the VIP suite door slightly ajar. Inside, glasses clinked, and laughter filled the air. As I pushed the door open, a loud cheer erupted from the group. “Your turn, Sasha! Tell us a secret no one in this room knows!” Sasha’s cheeks were flushed pink, her eyes glazed with alcohol. She tilted her head, looked directly at Greg, and let out a coy laugh. “Oh, I have a good one. Greg and I have slept together.” The room froze. Every eye in the suite turned to look at the doorway—at me, standing there in my slippers, a faded coat thrown over my pajamas, my face completely devoid of color. In that split second, the pieces fell into place. The late-night phone call hadn’t been an emergency. It had been Sasha’s carefully staged show, timed perfectly so I would walk in on that exact sentence. Sasha’s eyes lit up when she saw me. She stood up, swaying slightly, and stumbled over to grab my hands. “Mona! You’re here! You seriously need to reign Greg in. He’s absolutely relentless. Every time we’re in bed, he completely wears me out and still wants more. How do you handle him at home? Come on, share your secrets!” A suffocating silence descended on the room. The looks on their colleagues’ faces shifted from awkward shock to pity, all of them staring at me to see how Greg’s discarded wife would react. A loud buzzing filled my ears, drowning out the ambient noise of the lounge. Before I could consciously register my anger, my hand flew out and struck Sasha across the face. The force of the slap sent her stumbling back, crashing onto the carpet. I took a step forward, grabbed a handful of her blonde hair, forced her face up, and delivered another sharp blow to her cheek. “Mona!” Greg surged to his feet. He crossed the room in two strides, grabbing my wrists and dragging me back with enough force to throw me off balance. He pinned my arms to my sides, his grip like iron. His eyes burned with an icy, suppressed fury. “Sasha is drunk and talking nonsense! Do you really have to be this dramatic and get violent?!” I struggled against his grip, but he didn’t budge. “Is she talking nonsense, Greg, or is she finally telling the truth because she’s drunk? How many times have the two of you slept behind my back? It’s disgusting!” “If you hate me so much, why didn’t you just sign the papers and let me go?” My voice cracked, tears finally spilling over my burning cheeks. “Why do you both get to humiliate me like this?!” A couple of people rushed over to help Sasha up. She clutched her cheek, sobbing hysterically. “My face… it hurts…” That was when we noticed a thin, jagged cut on her right cheekbone, likely from the sharp edge of the glass table she had tumbled against. A mixture of blood and tears began to trickle down her jawline. Seeing the blood, Greg’s self-control shattered. “Mona. Apologize. Now.” A white-hot rage flared in my chest. I had spent years avoiding conflict, swallowing my pride, and keeping the peace, but I was done being the victim. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I ripped my wrists from his grip, grabbed a half-empty bottle of Cabernet from the table, and threw the dark red liquid directly into Sasha’s face. The alcohol stung her raw cut. She screamed, recoiling in agony. Greg went rigid. “You are completely out of your mind! Someone cool her down!” Before I could even blink, a bucket of ice water—meant for chilling champagne—was dumped over my head. The shock of the freezing water hit me like a physical blow. My thin pajamas clung to my skin, and the biting cold seized my lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Before I could gasp for air, two of the venue’s security guards stepped forward and pinned my shoulders. A second bucket of ice water was poured directly over me. My body, already fragile and recovering from a major hemorrhage, shut down under the freezing assault. A sharp, blinding pain tore through my abdomen, and my vision swam with dark spots. Greg stood before me, looking down at my shivering form with complete detachment. “Are you clear-headed now? You can leave as soon as you apologize.” I stared up at him, unable to comprehend the cruelty of the man I had loved. Sasha was the one who had dragged my dignity through the mud in front of his colleagues. Yet my own husband stood there, defending her, demanding that I bow my head. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words were drowned out by a third cascade of ice water. I couldn’t even scream this time. The agony in my uterus was so intense that my legs gave out. I collapsed onto my knees, my head hanging low. Through the puddle of melting ice on the floor, I saw a faint pink swirl beginning to spread. Blood. It was trickling down my inner thigh, mixing with the frigid water. As a guard lifted a fourth bucket, my survival instinct finally overrode my pride. I couldn’t take any more. “I’m sorry…” I whispered, my teeth chattering violently. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.” The guard paused and set the bucket down. The hands holding my shoulders released me. Greg didn’t even look at me. He turned around, peeled off his jacket, wrapped it securely around Sasha’s shivering shoulders, and guided her out of the room. Only after his footsteps faded down the hall did anyone in the room dare to move. A few panicked hands reached down to pull me up from the wet floor. Someone looked down at the dark red stain spreading across the carpet and gasped. “Oh my god, there’s so much blood! Call an ambulance!” My vision blurred into a gray haze. The voices around me became muffled, echoing as if underwater, before the darkness finally swallowed me whole. When I woke up, I was back in a sterile hospital room, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor echoing in the quiet space. My OB-GYN walked in, holding a clipboard. Her expression was grim as she scanned my chart. “You were supposed to be resting, Mona,” she said, her voice heavy. “How could you let your body be subjected to freezing temperatures in your condition? The internal shock and trauma to your reproductive system are severe. I’m so sorry, but the damage is likely permanent. It’s highly improbable you’ll be able to carry a child in the future.” I stared at the wall. A single tear rolled slowly down my temple, dampening my hair. The door clicked open, and Greg walked in, looking slightly rumpled but composed. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking between us. The doctor turned to him, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses. “Are you her husband? How could you let this happen? She just had a miscarriage and a severe hem—” “Doctor,” I interrupted, my voice flat and hollow. “I understand the situation. Thank you for your help.” The doctor looked at me, then at Greg, sensing the suffocating tension in the room. She sighed, gave a few standard recovery instructions, and slipped out, closing the door behind her. It wasn’t that I wanted to protect Greg. It was just that I had already told him. I had texted him when I was pregnant. I had texted him when I decided to terminate it. He had never read those words because he had handed his life over to Sasha. And even if I spelled it out for him now, he would just see it as another drama, another “fit.” I didn’t have the energy to beg for his basic humanity anymore. I kept my face turned away from him. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be comforting Sasha?” Greg frowned, clearly irritated by my tone, but he chose not to argue. “My mother’s chronic condition flared up again. Once you’re discharged, I need you to go over and look after her. Honestly, Mona, as my wife, you’ve spent less time visiting her lately than Sasha has. Take this opportunity to make up for it.” I stared at him, momentarily speechless. His mother had been in and out of hospitals for years, and I was always the one who spent sleepless nights by her bedside, managing her medications and dealing with her difficult temperament. Yet in Greg’s eyes, Sasha was the attentive one. I remembered how his mother’s face would fall every time I walked into her hospital room, her first words always being, “Where’s Sasha?” I remembered how Sasha would send a single flower arrangement, and his mother would sigh, praising her thoughtfulness. Meanwhile, I had once stayed awake for three consecutive nights in the ICU, only for his mother to wake up, see Sasha standing there for five minutes, and thank her for taking such good care of her. To his family, Sasha was the beloved daughter-in-law they actually wanted. To them, I was barely status-equivalent to a hired nurse. But it didn’t matter anymore. The divorce papers were already signed. The duties, the expectations, the thankless title of being Greg’s wife—Sasha could have it all. Once I felt physically strong enough to stand without my knees buckling, I drove over to the Mercer estate. Jude was scheduled to pick me up tonight. I wanted to use this final visit to let Greg’s mother know about the divorce. Despite everything, I had spent five years as her daughter-in-law, and my upbringing wouldn’t allow me to just slip away without a proper goodbye. When I arrived, Mrs. Mercer was sitting on a wicker lounger on the patio, holding her phone up for a video call. “Mrs. Mercer,” I called out softly as I walked over. She gave me a cool, dismissive nod, barely glancing up before returning her attention to her screen. Her face instantly softened into a warm, doting smile. “Auntie! Greg told me you weren’t feeling well. I’m almost there!” Sasha’s voice chimed from the speaker, sweet and sugary. Mrs. Mercer beamed. “Oh, wonderful sweetie! I know how much you love those almond shortbread cookies. I’ll have the housekeeper put a batch in the oven right now so they’re warm when you get here.” Sasha squealed with delight, and the two of them chatted with an easy warmth that made them look like actual mother and daughter. The moment she hung up, Mrs. Mercer’s smile vanished. “Black tea, as usual?” Before I could answer, she gestured to the maid standing nearby. Within minutes, a cup of hot black tea was placed in front of me. I hated black tea. I had mentioned it gently during every single visit over the past five years, but Mrs. Mercer always served it to me anyway. I had once complained to Greg about it, trying to laugh it off, but he had dismissed me immediately. “My mother’s memory is failing, Mona. Besides, you’re there to take care of her, not to be pampered.” Her memory was failing, yet she remembered Sasha’s favorite cookies and ordered them prepared in advance. I visited three to four times a week, taking care of her through major health crises, and she couldn’t remember that I didn’t drink black tea. “Mona, let’s be honest with each other,” Mrs. Mercer said, adjusting her shawl. I looked up at her. “Sasha and Greg grew up right in front of my eyes. They’ve always been close, and they understand each other perfectly. You’ve been a dutiful caregiver these past few years, and you’re a decent woman, but you’re just so… rigid.” She took a sip of her own drink. “I’ve never really understood what Greg saw in you, but a marriage takes effort. Sasha has such a bright, lively personality. Greg always smiles more when she’s around. You really ought to learn from her. Maybe ask her for some advice on how to keep your husband happy.” My fingertips grew cold against the warm porcelain cup. My mother-in-law was telling me—with absolute sincerity—to ask another woman how to please my own husband. It was beyond absurd. It was insulting. I left the teacup untouched. “You don’t need to worry about that anymore, Mrs. Mercer. Greg and I are getting a divorce.” “Auntie!” A high-pitched, sweet voice echoed from the foyer, completely cutting off my words. Sasha came jogging out onto the patio, carrying a designer shopping bag, and immediately leaned down to hug Mrs. Mercer. “I just got here! Look what I found for you!” Mrs. Mercer’s face lit up instantly. “Oh, you sweet girl, you didn’t have to buy me anything!” After a few minutes of pampering, Sasha suddenly tapped her forehead. “Oh, I totally forgot! The firm we’re partnering with is hosting a major networking gala tonight, and Greg needs a plus-one. I have to run and get ready. I’ll make it up to you next time, Auntie!” Mrs. Mercer waved her off warmly. “Go, go. Business always comes first.” Sasha turned around, finally pretending to notice me sitting there. “Mona! I didn’t see you.” She stepped forward and slipped her arm through mine, her expression melting into a look of deep regret. “Mona, I feel absolutely terrible about what happened the other night. I was so drunk, and I said some really stupid things. Please don’t hold it against me. Let me make it up to you. Come to the gala with us, and I’ll clear the air with everyone. Please?” Before I could even voice a refusal, she practically dragged me toward her waiting car. When we arrived at the corporate headquarters downtown, Greg was standing near the entrance of the lobby. His eyes scanned me, and his brow instantly furrowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking after my mother today?” he asked, his tone demanding. Sasha playfully tapped his shoulder. “You said you needed a date, didn’t you? Since Mona was already there, I brought her along!” Greg didn’t say a word. He gave me a cold, critical sweep from head to toe, then turned on his heel and walked inside. He didn’t slow his pace, nor did he look back to see if I was keeping up. Sasha offered a sympathetic smile. “He’s just stressed. Don’t take it personally, Mona.” She practically pulled me through the glass doors. It wasn’t until we entered the venue that I fully understood the meaning behind Greg’s dismissive look. The gala was held in the penthouse ballroom. The city’s business elite moved through the crowd, dressed in tailored tuxedos and elegant evening gowns, their makeup flawless under the crystal chandeliers. I, on the other hand, was wearing a faded cotton t-shirt and jeans—the clothes I had thrown on hastily after leaving the hospital. My hair was tied up in a messy bun, and my face was entirely bare. Sasha had disappeared for a moment, only to return in a stunning, form-fitting cocktail dress and designer heels. She glided past me, offering a remorseful look. “Oh, Mona, I am so incredibly scatterbrained. I completely forgot to have a dress sent over for you. You don’t mind, do you?” I looked her dead in the eye, refusing to play along. “You brought me here on purpose just to humiliate me, didn’t you?” Sasha froze. She clearly hadn’t expected me to call her out so bluntly. Her practiced smile faltered, and her eyes instantly welled with tears. “Mona, that’s enough.” Greg stepped between us, having overheard my remark. He instinctively shielded Sasha behind his broad shoulders. “You didn’t give us any warning that you were coming. How was Sasha supposed to prepare a dress for you? Stop assuming the worst of her, and there’s absolutely no need to make a scene here.” My chest tightened. I didn’t want to come. Sasha had literally forced me into her car. Greg let out an irritated sigh. “You’re still holding a grudge over what she said when she was drunk. If you came here tonight just to show off and stake your claim in front of my associates, fine. Let’s get it over with.” Before I could protest, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the center of the ballroom. Out of polite professionalism, a few associates walked over to greet us despite my wildly inappropriate attire. Since my body was still healing and I couldn’t touch alcohol, I politely raised a glass of water instead. After a few minutes of superficial small talk, I slipped away and hid in a quiet corner of the terrace. I was scanning the room, looking for a way to leave quietly, when a sudden commotion broke out near the bar. I turned to see Greg fiercely gripping a middle-aged man’s wrist. With a sickeningly calm twist of his arm, he forced the man’s shoulder out of its socket. The dull pop of the joint dislocating was lost beneath the man’s agonizing scream. Sasha stood beside him, clutching her arm, her eyes wide and tearful. “Greg, please stop… he just… he touched me a little, but I’m fine. Really. You should go back to Mona…” But Greg didn’t let go. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles in his neck strained, his eyes burning with a primal, protective rage. I stood a few yards away, watching him, feeling a strange sense of detachment. The last time I had seen Greg this angry was when we were first dating. Some drunk guys had cornered me outside a diner, shouting crude things. When Greg arrived, he had merely stepped between us, his face cold, and delivered a calm, measured warning. He was a Mercer. His upbringing demanded absolute restraint, decorum, and poise. He prided himself on never losing his temper in public. Yet tonight, he had completely abandoned his precious decorum. In front of his most important business partners, he had physically mutilated a man for touching Sasha. Security quickly rushed in to handle the screaming man and quiet the crowd. Greg kept a protective hand on Sasha’s back as he led her away. As they passed my corner, he stopped. The residual anger was still visible in his eyes, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Did you do this on purpose?” I blinked, genuinely lost. “What?” “You knew exactly what would happen if you left her alone in a room like this. A young woman standing by herself is an easy target for predators.” He glared at me, his disappointment palpable. “Sasha is naive. She doesn’t know how to handle aggressive men. Because I had to stay by your side to keep you happy, I couldn’t watch over her. You should have known better, Mona. This was incredibly selfish of you.” I stared at him, really stared at him. The sharp jawline, the dark eyes that had once held my entire world—he looked exactly the same as the man I had fallen in love with years ago. But as I looked at him now, I felt absolutely nothing. The love hadn’t just faded; it had been completely hollowed out. “I never asked you to stay by my side, Greg.” My voice was quiet, steady, and entirely devoid of emotion. “In fact, I didn’t want to come here at all. Sasha practically forced me into her car. She brought me to a black-tie gala without even offering to let me change. I should be asking her what her intentions were. Was she trying to make me a laughingstock?” A few nearby guests began to whisper, their eyes darting between us. Sasha let out a soft sob, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face in Greg’s chest. “Mona… how can you lie like that? You were the one who insisted on coming along. I told you I didn’t have an extra gown on hand, and I asked if you mind. You literally told me it was fine…” My chest tightened. I couldn’t believe the ease with which she twisted the truth. She had physically pulled me into her vehicle, leaving me no room to refuse. I had never said it was fine. Before I could open my mouth to defend myself, Sasha raised her voice, ensuring everyone around us could hear. “I didn’t want to say anything! I didn’t want to cause a scene! But I don’t understand what I did to make you hate me so much, Mona. Did you seriously pay that man to come over and harass me?!” A collective gasp rippled through the nearby crowd. Greg’s face darkened, turning almost predatory. “Mona,” he growled. “How could you do something so malicious?” I looked at him. The words I didn’t do it caught in my throat, refusing to surface. Did it even matter if I denied it? The truth didn’t exist in Greg’s world. Only Sasha’s tears did. I could have presented a mountain of evidence, and he still would have found a way to dismiss it in favor of Sasha. A single tear from her carried more weight than my entire existence. The difference between being loved and being tolerated was stark. I lowered my gaze, letting my eyelashes shield the exhaustion in my eyes. After a long, quiet pause, I spoke. My voice was incredibly calm. “What do you want from me, Greg? An apology?” Greg didn’t say a word. He just stared at me with cold, unyielding judgment. I turned slowly to face Sasha. Under the watchful eyes of dozens of wealthy strangers, I bent my waist and bowed deeply to her. “I’m sorry. Is that enough?” The room went dead silent. No one had expected me to capitulate so easily—no tears, no screaming, just a clean, immediate submission. Sasha froze, a tear still wet on her cheek, completely caught off guard by my

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I had just finished making a pact with my best friend, Lucy, to apply to Georgetown together once our exam scores came out. And then, my phone rang. It was Lucy—calling from ten years in the future. “Did we make it?” I asked, my voice bubbling with excitement. “Did we get into Georgetown?” “Are we married ten years from now? Did we actually have that double wedding we always promised each other?” “Is my husband Dylan? And is yours as drop-dead gorgeous as a movie star?” In the face of my rapid-fire questions, the line went dead silent. Just for a second. Then, a shaky, trembling breath broke through. “No,” she whispered. “None of it.” “You didn’t get in. You ended up at some mediocre state school. And you never married Dylan.” “We didn’t have a double wedding, either. Because you died the night before I walked down the aisle.” I froze. On the other end, Lucy began to sob. “Erica… I’m so sorry. Dylan and I… we’re so sorry. We were already sleeping together before graduation.” “I was terrified you’d find out. To keep you from coming to Georgetown with us, I logged into your portal and changed your university preferences behind your back.” “I kept it a secret for ten years. You didn’t find out until the night before my wedding.” “You broke down. You jumped into the river. By the time they pulled you out… you were gone.” “I’ve spent countless nights drowning in regret. If I hadn’t done what I did, you’d still be alive…” My hand clenched around the phone, my heart dropping into a cold, bottomless pit. She tried to say more. But in the background, a painfully familiar male voice cut in. “Babe, the baby’s hungry.” Dylan. 1 They actually ended up together. After the call disconnected, I stared blankly at the ceiling for what felt like hours, hot tears slipping down my temples. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Dylan. He said his class was having a pre-graduation dinner tonight and asked if I wanted to come. He and Lucy were in AP English; I was in AP Calc. Different classes, but whenever they had group hangouts, they always dragged me along. Dylan and I grew up next door to each other. Lucy moved to our neighborhood later. She was beautiful, and since our homeroom teacher was worried about her walking home alone, she asked Dylan and me to keep her company. From then on, we did everything together. We walked, did homework, grabbed dinners. Even after we ended up in different tracks, we promised to remain a trio. Years of shared history couldn’t be a lie. So how did it turn into this ten years down the road? The weight of that phone call pressed hard against my chest. Stubborn and aching, I typed back a rejection. It’s your class dinner. It’d be weird if I showed up. I’ll pass. The moment I hit send, “Typing…” flashed at the top of the screen. It appeared and vanished, hesitating. A minute later, his reply came: You’re always at our hangouts. Everyone knows you. No one’s going to say a thing. And even if they do, the Crybaby will tear them a new one. You know how she gets when she’s defending people. “Crybaby.” That was his private nickname for Lucy. They had their special names for each other. For me, I was just “Erica.” Or “Erica.” I had actually thrown a tantrum about it once. Back then, Dylan would throw “Crybaby” around constantly, leaving me sitting there like a third wheel, unable to get a word in. It was Lucy who noticed my mood first. She’d stopped teasing Dylan, ran over, and asked what was wrong. When she figured it out, she tapped my forehead gently. “Oh, Erica, don’t be silly. I’ve been trying to shake that awful nickname forever. Why on earth would you want it?” “Besides, you and Dylan are going to end up together after graduation anyway. He’s too busy trying to keep you happy to dare call you something so stupid!” Dylan had nodded along eagerly, backing her up. I let myself be swept up in their sweet words, letting the jealousy fade. But seeing those words on my screen now, the tears I’d managed to stop came rushing back. Feelings don’t change overnight. The seeds of their betrayal must have been planted back then, growing quietly in the dark. Ten minutes later, regret set in. I still couldn’t bring myself to believe that the boy I grew up with could betray me so thoroughly. I ordered an Uber and headed to the venue. When I arrived at the restaurant, the private dining room was alive with laughter and music. I reached for the doorknob, but froze when I heard my name. Lucy’s voice carried clearly through the door, striking me like a physical blow. “Can we please do a different dare? Dylan is literally proposing to his almost-girlfriend tomorrow. It’s so inappropriate for us to kiss right now.” Her voice was coy, drawing a chorus of rowdy teasing from the room. “Oh, please! Like you guys haven’t been making out in the back of the classroom all semester? We can practically hear you guys during study hall!” “Yeah! She’s just the almost-girlfriend, not his wife. It’s your last night of freedom, make it count!” “Exactly! Kiss her! A hundred times if you want!” The rowdy encouragement grew louder. Lucy’s face must have been bright red as she turned to Dylan. Dylan raised an eyebrow, a lazy smirk in his voice. “Once Erica and I are official tomorrow, we won’t have opportunities like this. You sure you want to pass it up?” The tone was light, but the underlying tenderness was unmistakable. While they basked in their mutual heat, I stood on the other side of the wall, my world turning ice-cold. My feet felt glued to the floor. In a moment of pure, masochistic desperation, I forced myself to watch through the crack in the door. Dylan pulled Lucy onto his lap. They leaned in, exchanging a deep, practiced kiss. And when Dylan’s hand began to slip beneath the hem of her skirt— I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and ran, collapsing on the curb outside, sobbing uncontrollably. With trembling fingers, I dialed the future Lucy back. “Why?” I sobbed into the receiver. “Why did it have to be like this? We were supposed to be best friends!” A long, heavy silence stretched over the line. When she spoke, it was the same three words: “…I am so sorry.” “Erica, I’m not a good person. You looked at me through rose-colored glasses, but the truth is, I never saw you as my best friend.” My breath hitched. The crying stopped instantly. Lucy’s voice was quiet, hollow. “I was always jealous of you. You weren’t flashy, but you were better than me at everything.” “No matter how hard a task was, you handled it beautifully. Meanwhile, I ruined everything I touched.” “My mom, my teachers—they always used you to put me down. Even Dylan only had eyes for you. I wanted so badly to ruin you.” “So, on the day we submitted our college choices, I logged into your portal and changed your preferences. I wanted to make sure your perfect grades only got you into some third-rate state school while we went to Georgetown.” I suddenly remembered a time back in high school when she’d had a massive fight with her mother and got kicked out. I had offered to let her stay at my place. Instead, she had pushed me away like a wild animal, telling me to stop acting like a saint. At the time, I thought she was just stressed. I didn’t think twice about it. Now, the pieces finally fit. She had hated me all along. My voice was raw, barely a whisper. “Do you have any idea how much those applications meant to me?” “I knew. That’s why I chose that exact moment to destroy them. But Erica… do you think I’ve been happy?” “This call… this is my chance to make things right. Erica, please, this time, do not trust me. Okay?” The call cut off again. It took a long time for the fog in my mind to clear. By the time my vision focused, the tears on my face had dried into stiff, salty tracks. She was right. I shouldn’t waste another second of my life on these people. When Dylan came over later that evening, he brought a box of custard buns. “Your parents aren’t home, and I didn’t want you skipping dinner. The Crybaby said these are amazing, so I figured you’d love them. Don’t starve yourself.” He noticed I hadn’t moved, my eyes fixed on the side of his neck. There was a fresh, dark hickey there. A flash of panic crossed his eyes. He quickly covered it with his hand, offering a clumsy excuse. “Man, the mosquitoes in that restaurant were brutal…” “Right,” I said quietly. I took the plastic bag from him. “Thanks.” Then I closed the door in his face. Half an hour later, Lucy texted me. Erica, what’s wrong? Dylan said you seemed off when he dropped off the food. If something’s bothering you, don’t keep it bottled up. You always said I was your therapist! The memory of them in that dining room flashed in my mind, tightening my throat. Lucy sent another text, reminding me to eat the custard buns while they were warm. I looked down at the trash can. Inside, one of the buns had burst open, its yellow filling resembling a mocking, gaping mouth laughing at my stupidity. I absolutely hated custard buns. Neither of them had ever bothered to remember. The next day, I went to the private restaurant Dylan had booked three months in advance. But when he dropped to one knee, holding out a bouquet of lilies, I looked him in the eye and said, “No.” His body froze. He slowly stood up, his face contorting into a sudden, unprecedented rage. “Are you kidding me, Erica?” “We literally planned this! We agreed we’d get together after graduation. What the hell is this?” Lucy, who had been sitting nearby to “witness” the moment, panicked. Her chopsticks clattered onto the table. “Yeah, Erica, Dylan has waited so long for you. Do you have any idea how many girls he turned down over the years? You’re just joking, right?” “If you’re upset about something, just talk to us. There’s no need to hurt Dylan like this. We all know how crazy he is about you.” I didn’t say a word. I just watched them. Finally, a dry, cold laugh escaped my lips. He was “crazy about me,” yet he could pin Lucy against a wall and slide his hands up her skirt? Lucy’s eyes welled with tears. She lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Erica. This is between you two. I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. Please don’t be mad at me.” She played the victim flawlessly. I didn’t budge. “Enough!” Dylan snapped. He grabbed Lucy’s wrist, pulling her up from her chair. “You did nothing wrong, Lucy. Why are you apologizing to her?” “She’s been acting like a psycho all day.” He glared at me, his eyes dark with malice. “Let me tell you something, Erica. I offered you a chance, and you threw it back in my face. Don’t you dare come crawling back to me.” With that, he dragged a sobbing Lucy out of the restaurant. The cloying scent of lilies drifted into my nose. The bouquet was left on the empty chair. He had bought her favorite flowers for my proposal, and he still wondered why I said no. My knuckles turned white as I clenched my fists, a bitter wave washing over me. I sat in that empty restaurant until closing time. Dylan blocked my number. For the next few days, not a single word passed between us. I spent every waking hour researching schools and majors, determined to find a path that wouldn’t cross theirs. Before this, my parents had begged me to apply to colleges near where they worked in New York, but I had refused without a second thought. “Dylan, Lucy, and I are a package deal,” I’d told them. “We’re going to Georgetown together.” Truthfully, with my academic record, I could have easily gotten into Columbia. But to accommodate Lucy’s lower scores, I had aimed lower. What a joke. They didn’t deserve my sacrifice. The day before the final application deadline, Lucy and Dylan suddenly showed up at my doorstep. Lucy was holding a small bakery box, offering it like a peace offering. “Don’t take what happened the other day to heart, Erica. Dylan only yelled because he loves you so much and got hurt.” “We can’t let one emotional fight throw away eighteen years of friendship, right?” She nudged Dylan’s arm, prompting him to speak. He offered a couple of half-hearted, reluctant murmurs. Satisfied, Lucy got straight to the point. “We have to submit our final choices tomorrow. Have you decided? We’re still doing Georgetown, right? You didn’t forget our promise?” There was a frantic, desperate gleam in her eyes. Lucy wasn’t smart. She had never been good at hiding her emotions. It was almost funny. Because I had trusted her blindly, it had taken me eighteen years to notice the jealousy dripping from her every word. Taking a sip of water, I looked at her. “I didn’t forget.” Lucy let out a visible sigh of relief. “Great! Let’s go to the computer lab and submit together tomorrow, okay?” She wrapped her arm around Dylan’s as they turned to leave. As soon as the door clicked shut, the future Lucy called again. “Do not eat that cake. It’s laced with heavy-duty laxatives. That’s how she did it last time—you were stuck in the bathroom all morning, which gave her the perfect window to log onto your computer and change your submission.” Even though I had spent days processing her betrayal, hearing this sent a chill straight down my spine. The lengths she would go to destroy me. My stomach churned with sudden nausea. I slumped over the trash can, dry-heaving into the dark. The next morning, I woke up early. I logged onto the portal and submitted my application to Columbia. The entire process took less than an hour. On my way back, I ran into Dylan, who was carrying a bag of breakfast. It was from Lucy’s favorite bakery. It wasn’t hard to guess who it was for. I tried to walk past him, but he grabbed my wrist. He looked at the empty hands where my application folder should have been, his brow furrowing. “Erica, you told Lucy we were going to submit together today. Why did you go behind our backs?” I yanked my arm free, my voice deadpan. “I never promised her anything. Keep your guilt trips to yourself.” Dylan blinked, then nodded, his expression turning cold and accusatory. “I get it. You hate her. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how hostile you’ve been to her lately.” “I hate Lucy?” I let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Dylan, are you blind or just stupid? She brought me a cake laced with laxatives to make me sick, and you’re accusing me of being hostile?” Dylan froze for a fraction of a second, then immediately shook his head. “No way. She’s too innocent for that. Besides, she has a weak stomach herself; she’d never use something like that to hurt someone.” “You obviously just ate something bad and you’re blaming her sweet gesture. I actually feel sorry for her having to deal with you.” I bit my lower lip so hard the color fled. The defense I wanted to scream died in my throat. Slowly, my shoulders slumped. I turned away. His heart belonged to Lucy. Any explanation I offered would be a waste of breath. I went home and blocked them both. Then, I bought a plane ticket to New York to clear my head with my parents. When I finally returned to school to pick up my physical enrollment packet, I ran into Dylan and Lucy near the courtyard. They were holding hands. Seeing me, Lucy panicked and quickly pulled her hand away. “Erica, it’s not what you think… my hands were just cold, and Dylan was warming them up…” I walked past them without stopping. “I don’t care.” She scrambled to keep up. “You and Dylan love each other! You shouldn’t let a stupid misunderstanding ruin things!” “Who loves him?” I snapped, turning around. “Lucy, if you want him, he’s all yours. Keep me out of it.” She froze. Dylan stepped forward, shielding her behind him, his face dark. “What is your problem, Erica? We’re all going to the same college. We’re going to see each other every day. Do you really have to make things this miserable?” Looking at their unified front, I smiled. “Who said we’re going to the same college?” Dylan frowned, opening his mouth to ask what I meant. But before he could, the guidance counselor called out from across the lawn. “Erica! There you are! You’re the last one to pick up your package!” Before I could move, Dylan bolted past me, snatching the envelope from the counselor’s hands.

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When I listed the SUV we’d co-financed on a used car marketplace, the buyer messaged me, asking why I was dropping the price so aggressively just to get it off my hands. I stared at the screen, a dry, humorless smile touching my lips. “Because of a neck pillow.” Yesterday, I was running a 102-degree fever. A vicious flu had settled deep into my chest, making my head spin and my stomach churn as I sat trapped in the passenger seat. Desperate for a few minutes of relief, I reached down to recline the seat so I could rest my eyes. Dave’s hand shot out, catching my wrist. His brow furrowed in deep disapproval. “Don’t adjust that. That’s the exact angle Naomi needs. Last time you messed with it, her back flared up for days.” He reached over, lightly patting the blush-pink ergonomic memory foam pillow resting against the headrest, and lowered his voice to a coaxing whisper. “Just tough it out for a few more minutes, okay? We’re almost home. You know how bad Naomi’s cervical spine is. We have to be accommodating.” The gentle, protective way he touched that pillow sent a sharp, physical ache through my chest. Suddenly, the passenger seat of this car—the car that had supposedly been ours, the one he had driven me to and from work in for the last six years—felt so suffocatingly small I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t whine. I didn’t tell him how much my body ached, the way I normally would have. I just silently opened the door, stepped out into the damp chill, and climbed into the back seat. Dave glanced at me in the rearview mirror. I saw the exasperation in his eyes; he thought I was throwing a tantrum. He shook his head, let out a long sigh, and didn’t say another word. I looked down at my phone. A notification popped up: Your flight cancellation was successful. I locked the screen, closed my eyes, and let the fever pull me under. This ride with Dave had run its course. This was where I was getting off. … 1 The night my fever spiked to 102, Dave was the one who drove me home. It was pouring rain outside. I was huddled in the back seat, my coat pulled tight around my shivering shoulders, my burning forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window. Up front, sitting squarely in the passenger seat, was a beige lumbar pillow and a neatly folded lightweight throw blanket. They weren’t mine. They were Naomi’s. When I had first reached for the passenger door handle in the parking lot, Dave had physically blocked me. His voice was low, his expression tight with an unnatural awkwardness. “Jessica, you’re burning up. You’ll be able to lie down and stretch out in the back.” He paused. “Naomi’s back has been acting up again. The angle of that seat and the pillow… she needs it exactly how it is.” My fingers froze on the wet metal of the door handle. Of course I could sit in the back. But out of nowhere, a memory hit me. Six years ago, the day we drove this car off the lot, he had opened the passenger door for me with a bright, eager smile. “From now on, this is your throne. I’m going to be your personal chauffeur every day after work.” His eyes had been so full of promise then. And like a fool, I had believed him. Six years later, I was shivering in the back seat, while the passenger side was a shrine to another woman’s comfort. When we finally pulled up to our apartment building, Dave opened an umbrella for me. My legs were shaking from the fever. I leaned against the brick wall of the entryway, gasping for air, expecting him to guide me inside. Instead, he stopped abruptly. “Head on up,” he said. “I need to check on the car real quick.” I turned my head. Through the heavy sheet of rain, I watched him walk back to the SUV. I watched him open the passenger door, lean in, and meticulously adjust that beige pillow to make sure it hadn’t shifted. I watched him refold her thin blanket. Finally, I watched him reach up to the dashboard, carefully tilting the AC vents away from the seat. The rain was soaking right through the shoulders of his jacket, but he didn’t even seem to notice. I stood in the dim light of the stairwell, my throat tightening until it hurt to swallow. All this time, I had told myself he just wasn’t a detail-oriented guy. But he wasn’t incapable of paying attention. He was just paying attention to someone else. Once inside, I collapsed onto the sofa. My phone buzzed against my leg. Auto-Pay Successful: Auto Loan deduction of $485.00. The money came directly out of my checking account. I stared at the text message for a long time. The SUV was registered in my name. I had put down sixty percent of the down payment; he had put down forty. Because my credit score was higher and my income more stable, the financing was tied entirely to my bank account. In the beginning, he used to Venmo me his portion of the monthly payment like clockwork. The memos were always sweet. For our ride or Chauffeur fee. Over time, the cute memos stopped. Then the amounts became irregular. Sometimes he’d be short a hundred bucks and promise to get me on the next one. I never pressed him for it. I figured we were heading toward marriage anyway; there was no point in keeping a strict ledger between us. But now, the loan was bleeding out of my account every month, while the passenger seat had become Naomi’s exclusive property. I opened the car’s connected app on my phone. Registered Owner: Jessica. I clicked on the navigation history. The number one most frequented destination was Naomi’s office building. Number two was her physical therapy clinic. My own office was sitting at number three. I tapped into the Bluetooth logs. The device that had connected most frequently over the last thirty days wasn’t mine. It was Naomi’s iPhone. I suddenly thought about all the times lately that Dave had told me something was “on his way.” He was on his way to pick Naomi up from work. On his way to drop her at PT. On his way to get her prescriptions. Sometimes, he was even on his way to bring her back to our apartment to hang out while he finished some work. Meanwhile, when I worked late into the night, he would text me to just take an Uber home and he’d cover the fare. I realized then that “on the way” is a relative term. For some people, a man will cross three zip codes and call it a detour. For others, you only rate an Uber receipt. Dave walked into the living room, handing me a glass of warm water. He pressed his palm to my forehead. “Still burning up. Take your meds and get straight to bed.” His voice was as warm and steady as ever. Our friends always said Dave was one of the good ones—a caretaker, mild-mannered, deeply empathetic. I used to think so, too. It took me a long time to understand the truth. When a man’s gentleness is always reserved for someone else first, it isn’t love. It’s just charity. I took the glass from him without a word. Dave sighed, his shoulders dropping. “Are you still upset about the car thing? You know how fragile Naomi’s health is. She isn’t trying to steal your spot.” I stared at the surface of the water in the glass. “Did I say she was?” He blinked, clearly thrown by my flat tone. He was expecting a fight, expecting me to be shrill. “That’s not what I meant.” He sat down next to me, reaching out to pull me into his side. “I know it’s frustrating. Tell you what, when you kick this fever, I’ll take you out for omakase. Just the two of us. How does that sound?” If this had been the old me, I would have taken the out. I would have let him smooth it over. But tonight, sitting in the quiet of our living room, the desire to make excuses for him was completely, utterly dead. His phone lit up on the coffee table. The caller ID flashed: Naomi. Dave glanced at it, and by pure reflex, he stood up and walked out onto the balcony to answer. The sliding glass door didn’t latch all the way. Over the sound of the rain, I heard him lower his voice. “It’s fine, I’m already home. Yes, I put the pillow right back where it was. It didn’t move.” A pause. “I adjusted the vents, too. You won’t get any cold air on your neck when we drive tomorrow.” I gripped the glass of water, my knuckles turning white. When we drive tomorrow. She was going to be in my car again tomorrow. I sat there in the dim light, opened the Kelley Blue Book app, and entered the car’s VIN number to get an instant cash offer. Then, I logged into my banking app to check the exact payoff amount left on the auto loan, and the process for early settlement. It wasn’t a small amount of money. But if I added the refund I’d just gotten from canceling our upcoming vacation, plus my personal savings, it would be exactly enough. That vacation was supposed to be our last big trip before we started planning the wedding. I had spent weeks researching boutique hotels, booking flights, and mapping out itineraries. But just that morning, he had told me we couldn’t go. “We can take a trip anytime,” he had said. “But Naomi has a critical window for her physical therapy right now, and she needs me to drive her.” So I had quietly canceled everything, swallowing the disappointment, just like I was quietly looking up the car’s appraisal value now. When Dave came back inside, he pulled a blanket up over my shoulders and kissed the top of my head, whispering, “Don’t overthink things, okay?” I closed my eyes. I waited until I heard the shower running in the bathroom, then opened my eyes, took a screenshot of the car’s appraisal, and saved it to my photos. The passenger seat of that car hadn’t been mine for a long time. There was no reason for me to keep the car, either. By the next morning, my fever had broken, leaving me weak but clear-headed. When I walked into the entryway, I noticed a pair of pale pink, memory-foam house slippers sitting perfectly parallel on the rug. I didn’t own pink slippers. I opened the shoe cabinet. My own backup slippers had been shoved all the way to the back, collecting a fine layer of dust. The pink ones had been sitting front and center. Dave walked out of the kitchen holding a mug of coffee. Seeing me staring at the shoes, he explained, his tone casual and entirely unbothered. “Naomi hangs out here waiting for me sometimes. With her back issues, walking barefoot on the hardwood hurts her. I just grabbed those so she’d be comfortable. Don’t read into it, it’s just practical.” I nodded. I didn’t ask him why she felt entitled to wait for him in our home. I didn’t ask him why her things were taking priority over mine in my own shoe cabinet. I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge to grab my milk. There was a yellow Post-it note stuck to the inside of the door, written in Dave’s handwriting. Naomi’s Dietary Restrictions: No ice-cold drinks. No spicy food. Dairy-free only. I remembered last night, when he handed me my medicine. He had just tossed the blister pack on the coffee table and told me to take them. I reached for my usual carton of whole milk. It was gone. In its place was a carton of unsweetened almond milk. Dave walked up behind me. “Her stomach has been really sensitive lately. I figured you drink anything anyway, so I just swapped it out for the house.” I figured you drink anything anyway. I figured you’re healthy. I figured you’re the reasonable one. I poured myself a glass of the almond milk. It tasted thin and watery. I hated it. Seeing me drink it, Dave smiled and reached out to ruffle my hair affectionately. “Good girl. Let’s not keep score with someone who’s sick, right?” Holding the cold glass, a laugh suddenly bubbled up in my throat. I had been burning up with a 102-degree fever twelve hours ago. But the only thing taking up space in his brain was the fact that Naomi shouldn’t sit in a draft. I opened the medicine cabinet to look for DayQuil. All I found was a box of cold meds that had expired a year ago. He had no idea when my medicine expired. But Naomi’s specific prescriptions were always fully stocked in the glovebox of my car. My phone lit up. It was a message in his family’s group chat. Dave’s mother had texted: [How is Naomi’s neck today? Dave, make sure you don’t let the AC blow on her.] A minute later, Dave replied: [Don’t worry, Mom. I angled all the vents away from her seat last night.] An aunt chimed in: [Dave is always so thoughtful.] A cousin added: [Poor Naomi’s health is so fragile. You really do have to watch over her.] Not a single person asked why I hadn’t said anything in the chat last night. Not a single person knew I had been sick. I gripped my phone tightly. In his family’s ecosystem, she had stopped being an outsider a long time ago. And I—the girlfriend he was supposedly about to marry—felt like a spectator staring through the glass. Mid-morning, after Dave left for the office, I went into the study and pulled out our file cabinet. At the very bottom were the folders I kept for the car. The original bank statements from the down payment were still there. Sixty percent from me. Forty percent from him. I remembered the day we signed the paperwork. He had bumped his shoulder against mine and joked, You just sit pretty in the passenger seat. I’m your driver for life. Looking at those papers now just made my stomach turn. I booted up my laptop and started a new Excel spreadsheet. I meticulously logged every single transaction. The down payment, the monthly installments, the insurance premiums, the maintenance, the parking garage fees, even the random speeding tickets. I also created a column for the money he had transferred me over the years, logging every single Venmo and Zelle payment. I had never tracked our finances like this before. I always thought that in a real partnership, it didn’t matter who paid a little more or a little less. But it’s only when you’re truly preparing to walk away that you realize: money can be calculated down to the cent. The emotional toll, however, is a debt that can never be settled. Around noon, Dave came back to the apartment to grab a file he’d forgotten. I quickly Alt-Tabbed to a work presentation. He didn’t notice. He just walked up behind my desk, wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and rested his chin on my head. “Still feeling under the weather? Let me take you somewhere nice for dinner tonight.” If it weren’t for the memory of him obsessively checking that passenger seat last night, I might have let myself soften. “No thanks,” I said, my voice flat. “I have work to finish.” He let out a soft, patronizing sigh. “You always do this, Jessica. You push yourself too hard.” I stared at the blank PowerPoint slide on my screen. I didn’t turn around. He was right. I did push myself too hard. I pushed myself to understand him, to rationalize his behavior, to accept being placed last in his life, over and over again. But starting today, I was done. After Dave left, I reopened my banking tab. I clicked the button to initiate an early payoff for the auto loan. The system popped up a confirmation. I checked my email, but I deliberately did not click Sync to Shared Google Calendar. For years, our shared calendar had been the map of our lives together. Today was the first time I intentionally hid something massive from his view. Dave had originally promised to go with me today to try on wedding dresses. I had booked the appointment two weeks in advance. I had specifically cross-referenced his calendar to make sure it didn’t conflict with Naomi’s physical therapy days. I had asked him three separate times to confirm he had no conflicts. He promised he was clear.

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On the day of my mother’s second wedding, my new stepfather clapped me on the shoulder with a grin. “He’s a big boy now. Staying in the dorms will build some real character, don’t you think?” My mother kept quiet, her silence acting as her consent. I said, “Fine. I’ll pack my bags tomorrow.” My stepfather blinked, caught off guard by how easily I had folded. The next day, I moved out. By the third day, my dad transferred thirty percent of his company’s shares directly into my name. When my stepfather found out, his face turned a sickly shade of pale. He screamed at my mother over the phone: “Your kid is sitting on millions in assets! Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!” That was the moment my mother finally realized she’d been played. 01 On the day of my mother’s wedding, they rented out a private room at a local estate house. There were about six tables. My new stepfather, Gary Becker, was in his early forties. His hair was slicked back without a single strand out of place, and he carried a warm, practiced smile that never quite reached his eyes. He walked from table to table, clinking glasses, telling anyone who’d listen, “I struck gold here. Got a beautiful wife and a great son all in one package.” The relatives all laughed, telling my mom how lucky she was to have found such a caring man. I sat in the far corner of the room, picking at a bowl of mixed nuts, saying nothing. After finishing his rounds, Gary walked over and slid into the chair next to mine. He clapped me on the shoulder, giving me that warm, practiced grin. “Thomas, you’re a sophomore now, right?” “Yeah,” I said. “I wanted to run something by you.” He lowered his voice, casting a quick glance around to make sure no one was listening. “The academy has those student dorms, right? You’re a big boy now. Staying on campus would be a great way to build some independence. What do you think?” I looked at him. He was still smiling—that perfectly measured, friendly curve of the lips. Then I looked over at my mother. She was sitting at the head table, her fingers wrapped tight around her fork, staring down at the salmon on her plate. She didn’t look up. She had heard him. The room wasn’t that big; there was no way she hadn’t. But she kept her mouth shut. And silence, in our house, had always meant agreement. I looked back down, popped a cashew into my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll pack my bags tomorrow.” Gary blinked. He’d clearly prepared a whole speech—something about how ‘I only want what’s best for you’ and ‘boys need to toughen up.’ Now, he didn’t need any of it. “Oh… well, that’s great,” he stammered, offering a dry chuckle. “No need to rush, though. Take a few days to pack.” “No, tomorrow’s fine.” I stood up, grabbed a can of Coke, and walked out of the room. The hallway was quiet, the muffled laughter of the reception filtering through the heavy doors. I leaned against the cool drywall and took a sip. The soda was lukewarm and flat, sweet to the point of being nauseating. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a contact. It was saved simply as “Dad.” Our last call was four months ago—he’d called, and I hadn’t picked up. I stared at the name for ten seconds, then slid the phone back into my pocket. I didn’t call. The next morning, I started packing. My room was small—barely a hundred and twenty square feet, with a desk by the window and a couple of physical maps of the US pinned to the wall. I stuffed my clothes into a single suitcase, packed my textbooks into two cardboard boxes, and realized I didn’t have much else. My mother stood in the doorway, watching me. Her hand rested on the doorframe, her mouth opening twice as if to speak, but nothing came out. Finally, she managed, “Do you want to take the heavy comforter? The dorms get drafty in the winter.” “No.” “Well… I’ll transfer your allowance at the beginning of the month.” “Don’t worry about it. I have enough in my account.” She fell silent for a moment, then added, “You can always come back for dinner on weekends.” I hoisted my suitcase and stopped briefly as I passed her. “Bye, Mom.” She let out a soft “Yeah,” her voice barely a whisper. I didn’t look back. I called an Uber to take me to campus. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Moving out, kid?” “Just boarding.” “What year?” “Sophomore.” “Work hard. Get into a good college.” “I will,” I said. Outside, the September sun was baking the asphalt until it looked soft. I watched the maple trees flash past, neat and orderly. My phone buzzed. A text from my mom: Let me know when you get there. I replied with a quick K. Then I flipped the phone over, face down on my lap. From today on, that room wasn’t mine anymore. And that house probably wasn’t either. 02 The dorms were basic—eight-person rooms with squeaky metal bunk beds. By the time I arrived, the only spot left was the top bunk right next to the door. My roommate, Luke, who slept on the bottom bunk, was in the middle of a game on his phone. He didn’t even look up. “New guy? Top bunk is yours.” “Thanks,” I said. I slid my suitcase under the bed, made my bunk, and that was that. That night, lying in the dark, I stared at a patch of peeling paint on the ceiling, swaying gently in the draft from the window. Below me, Luke shifted, making the metal frame groan. “Hey, man,” Luke said. “Why’d you suddenly move into the dorms mid-semester?” “Things got crowded at home.” “Gotcha.” He didn’t push. I closed my eyes, but all I could see was my mother standing in the doorway. Her fingers had been dug so hard into the wood frame that her knuckles were white. She had wanted to keep me there. She just hadn’t said it. She had chosen Gary instead. My parents divorced when I was in eighth grade. It was simple, really. My dad was always traveling for his trading business, barely home two months out of the year. My mom raised me alone while working full-time, carrying the weight of the household for nearly eight years until she just couldn’t carry it anymore. They didn’t scream or throw things. They just sat down and talked. My mom said, “I’m exhausted.” My dad said, “Alright. You and the boy keep the house.” And that was the end of it. After the divorce, I stayed with my mom. My dad sent child support every month and wired extra money on holidays. Occasionally, he’d call to ask about my grades or if I was eating well, and I’d give him a brief “I’m fine.” We weren’t close. I didn’t hate him; I just didn’t know how to be close to someone I only saw a few times a year. My mom met Gary in March. A coworker had introduced them, saying he was a sales manager at a local firm, divorced, with a son who lived with his ex-wife. She said he was a stable, handy guy who knew how to treat a woman. The first time Gary came over, he brought a couple of nice bottles of wine and some imported fruit. He took off his shoes at the door, and when he noticed the kitchen faucet was dripping, he immediately grabbed a wrench from his car and fixed it. My mom smiled. “You’re pretty handy.” Gary grinned back. “Just basic husband skills.” When he saw me, he offered his hand. “You must be Thomas. Look at you—handsome kid, just like your mom.” I shook his hand but said nothing. After that, he started coming over more often—at least three times a week. He never showed up empty-handed. Brisket one day, fresh salmon the next, test prep books for me the day after. The smiles on my mom’s face grew more frequent. I didn’t object. She had been alone for three years; she deserved someone to keep her company. But the first night Gary stayed over, I walked out to the kitchen to grab a glass of water and heard him talking on the balcony. His voice was hushed, low and conspiratorial. “Don’t worry, everything’s set here. It’s a nice place, three bedrooms, good school district… Just her and the kid. He’s not an issue. Just a teenager, easy to handle.” I stood frozen in the middle of the dark living room, clutching my empty glass. The moonlight cut through the window, throwing a stark, pale square onto the hardwood floor. He didn’t see me. He hung up, yawned, and went back to the bedroom. I stood there for a long time, drank my water, and went back to my room. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I thought about telling my mom. But how could I put it into words? ‘Hey Mom, your new boyfriend thinks I’m “easy to handle” on the phone.’ Would she even believe me? She was finally happy again. If I said something now, she’d only think I was trying to ruin things. So, I kept quiet. They got their marriage license in May and held the reception in September. During those four months, Gary’s smiles around me grew more practiced, and his attentiveness to my mom grew more performative. Once, I came home early from school to grab something and caught him rifling through my mom’s desk drawer. He froze when he saw me, then quickly recovered with a smooth smile. “Your mom asked me to find a bank document. Said she left it in here.” “Oh,” I said. He smiled and slid the drawer shut. But I knew what was kept in that drawer. It was the deed to our house. From that day on, I started keeping my guard up. 03 I didn’t go home for my first weekend at the dorms. My mom called on Friday. “Come home for dinner this weekend. I’m making slow-cooked ribs.” “I can’t. There’s a school event.” “What kind of event?” “A club thing.” She hesitated. “Alright. Make sure you eat well. Don’t starve yourself.” “I won’t.” After hanging up, I sat on my bunk. Luke was eating instant ramen across from me. He looked up. “Not going home?” “No.” “Cool. Let’s shoot some hoops this afternoon.” “Sounds good,” I said. I went back the second weekend. Not because I wanted to, but because I’d left an important physics notebook in my room. I unlocked the front door around two in the afternoon. In the entryway, there was a pair of men’s sneakers—size 10. They weren’t mine. I walked inside and passed my old room. The door was wide open. I stopped dead. My desk was gone. The maps pinned to the wall were gone. The bedsheets had been changed to a blue plaid set that wasn’t mine. Where my desk used to be, there was a sleek new gaming setup with a high-end laptop and a mousepad branded with an esports team logo. On the nightstand sat a framed photo of a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, who bore a striking resemblance to Gary. My room had been completely overwritten. I stood in the doorway, my hand resting on the frame, unable to move. “Thomas? You’re back?” My mom stepped out of the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour. When she saw me standing there, she froze. “Oh…” She nervously rubbed the flour off her hands. “Gary said his son is going to start staying here on weekends. The boy lives with his ex-wife, but he comes by once or twice a month, and we had to give him a place to sleep…” “Where’s my stuff?” “We packed it up and put it in the storage closet. Everything is there, I promise. Nothing was thrown out.” I nodded slowly. “Where is my notebook?” “Which notebook?” “The blue one. My AP Physics notes.” She rushed to the storage closet and rummaged through it. Five minutes later, she pulled it out. There was a faint footprint on the cover. She wiped it with her sleeve. “It must have gotten stepped on when we were moving things.” I took it from her and flipped through the pages. The notes inside were intact. “I’m leaving.” “Stay for dinner! I’m making—” “No, thanks.” I turned and headed for the door. As I reached the entryway, the front door swung open. Gary walked in, followed by a boy. The kid was half a head shorter than me, round-faced, clutching a Starbucks cup. Gary blinked when he saw me, but the salesman smile snapped right back onto his face. “Thomas! You’re back! Perfect timing. This is my son, Zach. You two should get to know each other.” Zach glanced at me, didn’t say a word, and took a sip of his drink. I looked directly at Gary. “Gary, next time you decide to clear out my room, please let me know beforehand.” Gary’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before recovering. “Ah, look, that was my bad. Your mom said you were boarding now and wouldn’t be back much, so I just… but don’t worry, your things are perfectly safe. We kept everything.” “Right.” I looked down, changed back into my shoes, and walked out with my notebook. I was the only one in the elevator. I stared down at the footprint on my notebook. It was a size 10—the exact same size as the sneakers in the entryway. It hadn’t been “stepped on during the move.” Once outside the building, I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, pulled out my phone, and scrolled to “Dad.” This time, I didn’t hesitate. I pressed call. It rang six times before he picked up. “Thomas?” His voice sounded startled, completely unprepared. “Hey, Dad. Are you busy?” “No, no, not at all. What’s going on?” A wave of words rushed to my throat, but when I opened my mouth, only one sentence came out. “Nothing. Just wanted to see how you were doing.” There was a long pause on the other end. “I’m doing well,” he said softly. “What about you? How are you adjusting to the new school?” “It’s fine.” “And your mom… is everything alright over there?” “Everything’s great.” As I spoke, my fingers gripped the edges of the notebook so hard the paper creaked. “Dad, if you have some time… I’d really like to see you.” Another pause. Then he said, “Name the place and time, Thomas. I’ll be there.” 04 I met my dad at a quiet diner just down the street from campus. It was a Wednesday afternoon, and since I had no classes, I’d gotten permission from my counselor to leave campus, claiming a family emergency. When I walked in, he was already sitting in a booth by the window. Two steaming bowls of chili and some fries sat on the table. He looked thinner than the last time I’d seen him, with more gray in his hair, but his posture was still upright and strong. I slid into the booth, and he handed me a fork. “Eat first. We can talk after.” I took the fork and dug in without speaking. He did the same, but his eyes kept drifting back to me. It was a look I knew well—that cautious, searching gaze that quickly darts away the second you make eye contact. My mom used to look at me the exact same way. Halfway through the meal, he spoke. “You’ve lost weight.” “Dorm food isn’t great.” “Do you need money?” “No, I’m good.” He nodded, looking back down at his plate. I set my fork down. “Dad, my mom got remarried. Did you know?” His hand paused. “I heard.” “His name is Gary Becker. Do you know anything about him?” He looked up. His eyes had changed—the cautious, timid look was gone, replaced by something much heavier and sharper. “I know a few things.” “Like what?” Instead of answering directly, he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “First, tell me what’s going on at home.” I laid it all out for him, from beginning to end. Gary’s hushed phone call on the balcony about me being “easy to handle,” him rifling through the desk drawer for the deed, the sudden push to get me into the dorms on the wedding day, and my room being given to his son the very next week. I spoke in a flat, even tone, like I was reading a textbook. He listened in silence, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the table. “Are you absolutely sure about that phone call on the balcony?” he asked. “Positive. Every single word.” He took a deep breath, leaning back against the vinyl booth. “I had someone look into him,” my dad said. I looked up. “He’s not a sales manager. He was laid off from that company three years ago. Right now, he doesn’t have a steady job—just bounces around doing odd contract work. His ex-wife divorced him because he took all of their joint savings and threw it into some sketchy investment scheme that went completely under. She got custody of their son, and he’s been consistently late on child support payments ever since.” My knuckles turned white around my fork. “Does my mom know any of this?” “No.” He nodded, as if he had expected that. “When your mother and I divorced, I left the house to her. It’s worth at least half a million now. On top of that, my business has done very well over the last few years. I’ve wanted to set things up for you, but your mother made it clear she didn’t want me interfering in your life, so I didn’t want to force it.” He reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a thick manila folder, and slid it across the table. “Take a look.” I opened it. Inside was a stack of legal documents. One was a business registration for his trading company, listing him as the sole proprietor. Another was a share distribution agreement, and there, in bold letters, was my name, listed as holding a thirty-percent stake. Tucked between the papers was a black debit card. “I incorporated the business six years ago, and we started seeing significant profits last year. The company’s net worth is valued at just over three million. That thirty percent belongs to you—I’ve planned on giving it to you since the day you were born. And that card has fifty thousand dollars on it. It’s your college fund. I’ve kept it locked away until now.” I stared at the documents, my fingers trembling slightly. It wasn’t excitement; it was a strange, suffocating pressure in my chest. Six years. When he registered this company, I was only ten years old. That was the year he took me to the beach, and I’d found a smooth, grey stone and given it to him. He’d slipped it into his pocket and said, ‘Dad will keep this safe.’ I’d assumed he threw it away. Years later, I saw that exact stone sitting in his office desk drawer. “Dad,” I said, sliding the folder back. “I can’t take this yet.” He frowned. “Why not?” “The timing is wrong. If I take this now, Gary will notice, and my mom will be caught in the middle. It’ll make things impossible for her.” He studied me for a long moment. “What do you want to do?” “We wait. Let him show his hand first.” He fell silent. The food grew cold, a thin film settling over the gravy on our plates. Finally, he said, “Alright. We’ll do it your way. But if anything happens, you call me immediately.” “I will.” As I stood up to leave, he called out. “Thomas.” I turned back. His mouth opened, as if he wanted to say something meaningful, but he only managed, “Make sure you eat enough.” “I will,” I said. When I stepped out of the diner, the sun was dipping below the tree line, casting long shadows across the pavement. I looked back through the window. He was still sitting in the booth, pulling my half-eaten plate of food toward him, finishing it bite by bite. He looked so old. I turned and walked faster. 05 Over the next two months, I made a point of going home every other weekend. Not because I missed it, but because I needed to keep an eye on things. In mid-October, I went back to grab my winter coat. The moment I stepped through the door, I heard Gary’s voice booming from the living room. “…just a quick turnaround. Three months to get the principal back. I’ll handle my wife’s side of it…” As soon as he saw me walk in, he hung up, his face snapping back into its cheerful mask instantly. “Thomas! You’re back! Come on in, your mom’s in the kitchen.” I kicked off my shoes and walked toward the kitchen. My mom was chopping vegetables, her cuts uneven and rushed. “Hey, Mom.” “Oh, sweetheart! You’re home. Is it cold out?” “A bit. Mom, has Gary been asking you for money lately?” Her hand froze, the knife hovering over a carrot. “Who told you that?” “Just a guess.” She went back to chopping, the blade hitting the cutting board with heavy, rhythmic thuds. “He needs to keep some business cash flowing. It’s not much. Just fifteen thousand.” “And you gave it to him?” “…Yes.” “When?” “Last month.” I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, saying nothing. Fifteen thousand dollars. My mom worked at the local grocery store making minimum wage. That was nearly a year’s worth of savings for her. “What kind of business is it?” “Just business. Don’t worry about adult things, Thomas,” she said, keeping her back to me as she scraped the carrots into a bowl. Her shoulders were incredibly tense, the strings of her apron tied in a tight, messy knot. She wasn’t indifferent to losing that money. She was just terrified of admitting that she might never see it again. During dinner, Gary was insufferably attentive. He kept putting food on my plate, asking about my classes, telling me how “STEM majors are the future.” Zach sat beside him, eyes glued to his phone, ignoring everyone. I noticed a brand-new espresso machine on the kitchen counter—it looked expensive. The TV in the living room had also been upgraded to a massive smart TV. Meanwhile, my mom was wearing the same pilled sweater she’d had for three years. After dinner, I helped her wash the dishes while Gary and Zach watched a game in the living room, the volume turned up high. I lowered my voice. “Mom, has he asked for anything else?” She turned the sink faucet on full blast, the rushing water drowning out my voice. “Just wash the dishes, Thomas.” I didn’t press further. In early November, Luke’s mom came to drop off some extra blankets and left a bag of fresh apples for us. As Luke and I sat on the bleachers by the field eating the apples, he suddenly asked, “Your parents are divorced, right?” “Yeah.” “Same. Just me and my mom. My dad lives out of state, only sends money twice a year.” “Do you hate him?” He thought about it. “I used to. Not anymore. Hating him doesn’t change anything. You just have to live your life.” I chewed on my apple, not replying. “What about you?” Luke asked. “Who do you hate?” I swallowed. It tasted sour. “Nobody.” That night, I sent a text to my dad: Gary borrowed fifteen thousand from my mom. Said it was for business cash flow. He replied instantly: I’m on it. A minute later, another text arrived: Don’t get involved. I’ll handle this. I sent a brief K. Before my screen went dark, I saw the typing bubble on his contact light up, disappear, and light up again. He was writing and deleting, over and over. In the end, he didn’t send anything else. By late November, my mom called. Her tone was different this time—shaky, filled with a forced, fragile excitement. “Thomas, Gary says there’s an investment opportunity at the end of the year. If we put money in now, it doubles. He wants me to cash out my certificate of deposit.” “How much is in there?” “Thirty thousand.” I gripped my phone, my fingernails digging into my palm. Thirty thousand dollars. That was the money my mom had saved over three years of renting out our spare room, combined with the child support my dad had sent. She had scraped it together dollar by dollar. “Mom, don’t do it.” “But he says it’s guaranteed—” “Mom.” I took a deep, steadying breath. “Please. Trust me on this. Do not give him that money.” The line went silent for a long, agonizing moment. Finally, she whispered, “I’ll think about it.” The second she hung up, I called my dad. This time, I didn’t say ‘wait.’ “Dad,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

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