Category: English

On the morning of our third wedding anniversary, I sat on the edge of the bed, numbly waiting for the sun to rise. The screen of my phone lit up. It was my husband, Betts. Pinned at the very top of his iMessage app was a contact saved under the name “Babygirl.” The profile picture belonged to Sienna. A woman pushing thirty, entirely comfortable basking in the cringe-inducing affection of that nickname. I scrolled through their chat history. The words pierced my chest like needles. “Be careful crossing the street, okay?” “Bought you those strawberry cream lattes you love.” But the text that finally suffocated me was hers: “I’ve been waiting forever for you to drop her.” Betts had replied, whining about his own marriage. “Picking up your husband’s slack, buying you flowers in secret, acting like just a friend… every second of these three years has been pure torture.” When Betts finally woke up and saw his phone in my hand, he froze. Then, a smile of absolute relief washed over his face. “Since you already know, I guess I can stop pretending,” he said, his tone impossibly light. Just yesterday. On our actual wedding anniversary. He and Sienna had made it official. “I chased her for three years, and she finally said yes.” I could hear the barely contained thrill vibrating in his throat. “I’m sorry, but she and I… we’re meant to be.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just nodded, completely silent, and opened the drawer of my nightstand. I pulled out two copies of a divorce settlement. The date line at the top was blank. But at the very bottom, his signature was already there in black ink. He had signed it on the exact same day we picked up our marriage license, three years ago. 1 He snatched the papers from my hands, flipping them over twice as if looking for a trick. “What is this supposed to mean?” “Exactly what it looks like,” I said. “Three years ago, when you signed this, I told you. The day you figured out what you really wanted, just fill in the date.” He slammed the papers down on the nightstand. The crisp smack of the pages echoed in the quiet room. “Sienna had no idea I was after her these past three years,” he said, his jaw tightening. “She only agreed to be with me yesterday. I didn’t cheat. I never betrayed you.” I stood up and walked to the kitchen to pour a glass of water. “I know,” I said. “You came home on time every night. You spent your weekends here. You bought the obligatory jewelry for every holiday. You didn’t physically cheat.” He followed me out. “Then what the hell is this? You’ve just been sitting on a signed divorce paper for three years waiting to spring it on me?” I set my glass down on the marble counter. “Last night, you came home blackout drunk. When I was wrestling you into bed, you muttered her name twenty-three times.” That shut him up. I walked right past him, back into the bedroom. I picked up the two copies of the settlement, set them back on the nightstand, and laid a pen right next to them. “Fill in the date yourself. I’m going to work.” As I was slipping into my heels by the front door, he chased after me. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood, his voice thick with morning sleep and sudden panic. “You’re just going to leave?” I straightened my posture and looked back at him. “What else do you want me to do? You confessed your undying love to her yesterday. Have you even texted her good morning yet? Is she waiting for you? Did you guys plan your first real date?” His mouth opened, but nothing came out. “Let me help you out,” I said. “Today is Thursday. You two can grab dinner on Friday, maybe catch a movie over the weekend. I’ll come back on Monday to pack up the rest of my stuff.” When the front door clicked shut behind me, he didn’t come after me. The elevator arrived almost instantly. I stood inside the metal box, watching the digital floor numbers tick down, one by one. Lobby. The doors slid open. A delivery guy was standing right there, holding a massive, obnoxious bouquet of red roses, squinting at the shipping label. “Delivery for Sienna?” he looked up and asked. I told him he had the wrong person. He stepped aside, and I walked out the glass doors. The morning sun was blinding. 2 A white BMW was idling right outside the gates of my neighborhood. As I walked past it, the tinted window rolled down, revealing Sienna’s face. She offered me a fragile, little smile. It was fleeting, like it slipped out by accident, but also entirely calculated. “Hi,” she said softly. “Is Betts around?” I didn’t break my stride. I just walked around the hood of her car. She called out after me. “He drank way too much last night. I was so worried about him, so I just wanted to come check.” I stopped in my tracks. When I turned around, she was already stepping out of the driver’s seat. She was wearing a simple, flowing white sundress. Her hair was loose and casual, her face scrubbed entirely clean of makeup. I had seen this exact look a hundred times. In the hidden photo albums on Betts’s phone. Lingering around the lobby of his office building. “He did drink too much,” I said flatly. “He drank it inside my house.” She flinched. “Please, you have to understand, don’t misunderstand…” “There’s no misunderstanding,” I cut her off. “He got hammered, grabbed my hand, and called your name twenty-three times. He woke up this morning and told me he finally wore you down. You guys are together now. Congrats.” A furious flush crept up her neck and spilled onto her cheeks. “I am so, so sorry… I swear to God I didn’t mean to do this. I literally had no idea he was married. He never told me…” I just stared at her. Her eyes were already brimming with tears. Moisture clung to her eyelashes. She bit her lower lip, looking like a girl who had just been handed the most tragic, unfair hand in life, trying desperately to hold back her sobs. I knew this routine by heart. “Well, now you know,” I said. “He’s upstairs. Apartment 301. Go get him.” She stayed frozen, glued to the pavement. Footsteps pounded from the courtyard behind me, followed by Betts’s breathless voice. “Sienna?” I glanced over my shoulder. He had run out in his house slippers. His hair was a mess, his dress shirt wrinkled from sleeping in it. When he saw Sienna standing there, he hesitated for a fraction of a second before practically sprinting to her side. He stepped right in front of her, acting like a human shield. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, his voice dropping into a dark, defensive register. I actually laughed. A harsh, dry sound. “What am I doing?” He kept her tucked firmly behind his back, looking at me like I was a rabid dog about to lunge at her throat. “She doesn’t know anything,” he insisted. “I went after her. I lied to her and said I was single. If you’re mad, take it out on me. Leave her out of this.” Sienna tugged weakly at the back of his shirt, her voice trembling. “Betts, don’t be like this. She didn’t even say anything bad…” I laughed out loud this time. “She’s right, I haven’t even said anything yet,” I said. “But you’re really putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.” Betts glared at me, his brow furrowed in disgust. “Stop being so toxic.” “I’m toxic?” I looked at him, then at the half of Sienna’s face peeking out from behind his shoulder. “Sienna, didn’t you just apologize to me two minutes ago? You said you didn’t know he was married. He says he lied to you. So which one of you is full of crap?” The tears finally spilled down Sienna’s cheeks. Betts glanced back at her, his face darkening with rage as he turned back to me. “Enough,” he snapped. “I’ll sign the papers. Take whatever you want. Just back off.” I looked at the man I had married. Three years. He had never looked at me with that kind of intensity. He had certainly never used his body to shield me from the world. “Take what I want?” I echoed. “I don’t want a damn thing. The papers are blank, fill them out however you want. Your parents put down the deposit on the house, I paid the mortgage for three years. Do the math and Venmo me my half. The car is yours, take it. I’m just taking my clothes and leaving.” He was stunned into silence. Sienna stepped out from behind his shadow, her delicate fingers wrapping around his sleeve. “Betts, please, stop fighting… I’m fine, really…” Betts reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight. I looked at their intertwined fingers. Suddenly, the whole thing just felt exhausting. It was incredibly boring. “Whatever,” I said. “I’ll get my stuff on Monday. Have a nice life.” I turned my back and started walking down the sidewalk. I hadn’t made it fifteen steps before I heard the rapid clicking of sandals chasing after me. It was Sienna. She ran up, panting slightly, and grabbed my arm. “Please,” she whispered, her voice pathetic and small. “I really didn’t know he had a wife. If I knew, I never would have said yes to him. You have to believe me.” I looked down at the hand clutching my arm. Her manicure was flawless. Little sparkling rhinestones embedded in the gel. “Let go.” She didn’t. “Please don’t blame him, it’s all my fault.” I yanked my arm away violently. “Sienna,” I said, my voice dropping to a dead calm. “Do you want to know what I hate the most about you?” She stared at me, wide-eyed. “It’s not that you like him,” I said. “It’s the fact that every time you show your face, you pull this exact act. You know exactly what you’re doing, yet you pretend to be the biggest victim in the room. He chased you for three years. You didn’t say yes on day one, you didn’t say yes on day a thousand. You waited specifically until yesterday. Do you even know what yesterday was?” Her eyes flickered. A tiny, imperceptible flinch. “Our wedding anniversary.” She pressed her lips together, mute. “Every bouquet he bought you, every dinner reservation he made, every bullshit excuse he fed me. You enjoyed every single second of it. You didn’t know he was married? You’re telling me you didn’t notice that every time he came over to see you, he had to rush back to a house he shared with a woman?” The tears started flowing again, thick and fast. “I swear, I…” “Save it,” I cut her off. “I’m done watching the show.” I turned and walked away. She didn’t chase me this time. By the time I reached the bus stop, my phone buzzed. A text from Betts. “Papers are signed and dated. Left them on the shoe rack. Let me know before you come back to pack. I’ll take her out so you don’t have to see us.” I stared at the glowing pixels for a long time. The bus pulled up with a screech of air brakes. I climbed aboard and took a seat by the window. My phone buzzed one more time. Him again. “She’s been through a lot of pain because of this over the last three years. I’m not going to let anyone hurt her anymore.” 3 Sienna was standing at the bottom of the concrete steps outside the Family Court building. She had changed her outfit. A soft, powder-blue dress, her hair pulled back into an elegant half-up style. Still sporting that painfully clean, innocent aesthetic. When she saw me get out of the Uber, she took a deliberate step backward and kept her mouth shut. Betts was waiting at the top of the stairs, gripping a folder of documents so tightly his knuckles were white. I walked up the steps. He glanced at me but didn’t move an inch. “Let’s go,” I said. He turned and pushed through the heavy glass doors. I followed. Sienna didn’t come inside. She just stood by the entrance, a silent martyr. The clerk’s office was dreary, filled with rows of plastic chairs. We sat across the desk from a middle-aged woman wearing reading glasses. She was flipping through our paperwork, not even bothering to look up. “Reason for divorce?” “Irreconcilable differences,” I said. Betts snapped his head toward me. The clerk dragged a finger down the settlement agreement, stopping at a blank section. “Asset division needs to be explicitly stated. If there’s no spousal support, write zero.” I scribbled my direct deposit info on the page and handed over the printed stack of my mortgage payment receipts. The clerk skimmed it, grabbed her heavy metal stamp, and slammed it down. The thud echoed through the stale air. “Done,” she said, sliding two official decrees across the counter. “One for each of you. Keep them safe.” Betts just sat there, frozen. I reached out, grabbed both copies, opened mine to check the spelling, and then shoved his copy across the laminate desk. “Take it.” He stared at my face. He didn’t reach for the paper. I left it right in front of him, stood up, and started walking toward the exit. Just as I reached the doors, he called out. “Hold on.” I stopped. He caught up to me, standing right in my personal space, clutching the decree in his fist. All the color had drained from his face. “You’re really just going to walk away like this?” “What else?” I asked. “Did you want me to buy you guys a celebratory lunch?” He let out a sharp, unhinged laugh. It wasn’t the relieved smile from yesterday morning. This was something ugly. The corners of his mouth pulled back, but his eyes were completely hollow. “I regret it,” he spat out. “I regret marrying you.” I studied his face. Three years. This was the face I woke up next to every single morning. When he slept, his brow was always slightly furrowed. Sometimes he would roll over and blindly reach his hand out across the mattress. Whenever his hand brushed against me, he would pull it back, turn over, and face the wall. “Excuse me?” “I said I regret it.” He glared at me, forcing every word out through his teeth. “From the very beginning. Every single day of the last three years, I regretted it. But the thing I regret the absolute most is.” I slapped him across the face. The smack was explosive. The clerk at the desk jolted upright. The entire line of couples waiting for their paperwork turned to stare. He cupped his reddened cheek, utterly paralyzed. I shook out my right hand. My palm was stinging. “That was for making me waste three years of my life.” Before he could even process what happened, frantic footsteps clattered behind me. Sienna threw herself in front of him, spreading her arms wide like a mother hen shielding her chick. “What is wrong with you!” she screamed at me, her eyes manic and red. “You hit him! You absolute psycho!” I looked at her. Tears were spilling down her face, her lips quivering. Standing in front of him like that, she looked incredibly fragile. Incredibly brave. I let out a soft laugh. “Psycho?” She flinched back, then forced her spine straight. “He just told you the truth, and you hit him? Do you have any idea that for the past three years, he came over to my place every single night before going home to you? He told me he dreaded opening that door. He told me he couldn’t breathe in that house. He said being in the same room as you made his skin crawl.” “Sienna,” Betts hissed from behind her. “Stop.” She ignored him, practically vibrating with self-righteous fury. “Every single gift he bought you, I was the one who picked it out. He didn’t know what you liked, so he begged me to choose. Every bouquet of flowers he brought home, he brought to me first to make sure I liked it before he dared give it to you.” “Sienna!” She spun around to look at him, sobbing openly now. “My heart breaks for you,” she wailed. “I can’t stand watching her abuse you anymore.” Betts pulled her against his chest, burying her face in his shoulder. He looked over her head at me. It was a look I had never seen in my life. It was a volatile cocktail of hatred, fury, heartbreak, and guilt. It all twisted together until it formed three simple words. “Just leave.” I stood my ground. “I was already leaving,” I said. “You’re the one who told me to hold on.” He blinked, thrown off balance. Sienna lifted her tear-streaked face from his shirt. Looking at me, she whispered, “Please don’t be mad at him. He’s just having a really hard day.” I looked at the two of them. He was holding her. She was leaning on him. Standing right outside the Family Court, they looked like star-crossed lovers who had finally survived the war. The morning sun spilled over them, bathing them in a warm, golden light. I stuffed my divorce papers into my purse, turned around, and walked down the steps. After a few strides, I heard him call out from the top. “I’m sending a crew to pack up the house tomorrow. Make sure your stuff is gone by tonight.” I didn’t look back. “I saved your bank info. The money will hit your account by next week.” I kept walking. Just as I reached the edge of the sidewalk to hail a ride, I heard Sienna’s voice ringing out. “Wait!” I stopped and looked over my shoulder. She was practically jogging down the concrete stairs, panting heavily as she closed the distance. “Listen,” she said. “I’m sorry.” I stared at her face. Tears were still clinging to her cheeks. Her nose was flushed pink, her lips pressed tightly together. She looked the absolute picture of sincerity. “Sorry for what?” She hesitated. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry for blowing up like that just now. I didn’t mean to lose control, it’s just that it physically hurts me to see him suffer.” “Suffer from what?” She blinked, confused. “Suffer… from the last three years.” “What exactly happened to him these last three years?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Did he cheat on me? No. Did he hit me? No. Was he emotionally abusive to my face? No. He just didn’t love me. What part of that is a tragic, gut-wrenching trauma?” She opened her mouth, stammering. “Sienna,” I said. “If you felt so horrible for his suffering, what exactly were you doing for the last three years? He chased you. You strung him along. You kept him on the hook until the exact day of his wedding anniversary to finally give him an inch. Who is it that you actually feel sorry for? Him? Or yourself?” She was completely silenced. I turned away for the last time. She didn’t follow. As I stood under the shade of the bus stop, my phone vibrated. A text from Betts. “I’m wiring the money this afternoon. I’ll leave the apartment keys with the front desk. Grab them yourself. Don’t ever contact us again.” I stared at the harsh letters on the screen. The bus arrived with a heavy sigh of hydraulics. I got on, finding an empty seat near the back. My phone buzzed again. Him. “She’s not the malicious person you think she is. You have her all wrong.” I shoved the phone into my pocket. And for the first time that morning, the corner of my mouth tugged upward into a genuine smile. Finally. I was free. 4 There were four cardboard boxes stacked in the middle of my new studio apartment. I ripped the tape off the last one and started shoving my clothes into the wardrobe. The closet was a cheap wooden thing provided by the landlord. The hinges were shot, so if I packed too many sweaters, the doors popped open like a joke. My phone was tossed on the mattress, the screen glowing brightly. The movers had just left. The silence in the room was heavy and absolute. I sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the bedframe. I pulled the divorce decree out of my purse, stared at it for three seconds, and shoved it back in. I grabbed my phone blindly. The little notification dot on Instagram was annoying me. I tapped the app and scrolled past a few random posts until Sienna’s feed popped up. A photo of her and Betts. The two of them were sitting in a high-end restaurant. A decadent slice of cake sat between them, a single candle flickering. She had her hands pressed together, making a wish, smiling radiantly for the camera. The caption read: A belated anniversary. I dropped the phone face-down on the bed. Five seconds later, I picked it back up. I opened my camera and snapped a quick picture. Just the blank white wall of my studio, the stack of moving boxes in the corner, and a pile of clothes scattered on the floor. I typed out four words: Waking from a nightmare. Post. I threw the phone back down and went to tackle the kitchen boxes. Every pot and pan was wrapped in old newspaper. I unwrapped them one by one, wiped them down with a rag, and shoved them into the chipped cabinets. My phone started ringing. I ignored it. It rang again. I was fighting with a bottle of dish soap, twisting the stubborn pump until my palms were red and raw. The ringing didn’t stop. I slammed the plastic bottle down on the counter, walked over, and picked up the phone. Seventeen likes. Eight comments. Coworker A: You moved?? Coworker B: Congrats on the new place! A few old college friends had left thumbs-up emojis and party poppers. I scrolled down. And hit a comment from Betts. I didn’t even have time to read what he wrote because his name flashed across the screen. Incoming call. I swiped to answer. “What the hell is that post supposed to mean?” His voice barked through the speaker. I walked over to the window, phone pressed to my ear. My new place was in a rundown neighborhood. Down in the courtyard, someone had draped their laundry over the bushes, and two old ladies were sitting under a tree, aggressively gossiping. “What do you mean?” “‘Waking from a nightmare,’” he quoted, his tone dripping with venom. “Who exactly are you calling a nightmare?” I let out a dry laugh. “Who do you think?” Dead silence on his end for two beats. “Are you insane?” he snapped. “You’re the one who agreed to the divorce. You’re the one who drew up the papers. I didn’t force you into a damn thing. Who are you putting on a show for?” I said nothing. “Delete it,” he demanded. “Take it down right now.” “Why?” “What do you mean ‘why’?” “Why should I delete it?” I asked casually. “What are you so terrified of?” He choked on his words. Faintly, through the receiver, I heard Sienna’s voice. It was soft, muffled. Betts’s voice moved away from the phone for a second. “It’s nothing. Just sit there.” Then he was back, the phone close to his mouth. “You’ve been misunderstanding her for three years. That’s enough. We’re divorced. Stop acting like a bitter ex.” I leaned against the windowsill, watching the two old ladies below. They seemed to be arguing now. One was pointing a crooked finger; the other swatted it away and turned her back. “What exactly did I misunderstand?” “She has never done a single malicious thing to you,” he stated firmly. “It’s all in your paranoid head.” “She’s never done a single malicious thing,” I repeated slowly. “Then why did you just tell her to sit down and stay away from the phone?” Silence. “She saw you call me, didn’t she?” I pushed. “Did she ask you what was wrong with her big doe eyes? Did she tell you that it’s okay, she understands you have to deal with me? Did she beg you not to be angry with me because I’m just hurting?” “Shut up.” “Did I get the script wrong? I was just guessing her dialogue. It’s been three years. I have her routine memorized.” He hung up on me. I pulled the phone away. Call ended. One minute, forty-seven seconds. The Instagram notification dot lit up again. I refreshed the app and finally read his comment. Betts: We’ll see who the real nightmare was. Right beneath it, Sienna had replied. Just a single emoji—the monkey covering its eyes—and a short phrase: Stop it, you. I stared at that little monkey emoji for a very long time. My phone buzzed again. Not him this time. It was Rupert. Rupert was my oldest friend. We grew up on the same street. He went out of state for college, came back, and opened up a design studio. We barely saw each other more than twice a year these days. The last time I saw him was around Christmas. He dropped off a box of fancy pastries, claiming he “just happened to be driving by.” Rupert: What nightmare? I typed back: Nothing. He replied instantly: I saw Betts’s comment. What’s going on? I debated for a second, then typed: We’re divorced. The little typing bubble appeared on his end. It danced on the screen for a solid minute. Finally, a single word popped up: Oh. A second later, another text. Rupert: Did you eat yet? I looked at those words. Suddenly, a weird memory clicked into place. For the last three years, no matter what I posted on Instagram—a sunset, a work complaint, a meme—he would always reply with a text asking if I had eaten. Sometimes I said yes. Sometimes I ignored it. But he always asked. I didn’t reply. I tossed the phone on the bed and went back to the kitchen. The dish soap bottle was still refusing to pop open. I dug through my cardboard toolbox looking for a pair of pliers. The phone vibrated against the mattress. Rupert: I’m standing outside your gate. Which building? I froze. Stared at the text. I typed: How the hell do you know where I live? He replied instantly: I recognize the background in your photo. That ugly, crooked oak tree outside the window. There’s only one complex in this zip code with a tree that depressing. I walked back to the window and looked down. Right at the entrance of the courtyard, there it was. A massive, twisted oak tree leaning at a dangerous forty-five-degree angle. It had been half-dead for twenty years. Standing right beneath it was a guy in a grey hoodie, holding a plastic takeout bag, craning his neck to look up at the windows. I pushed the glass open and waved down at him. He spotted me, raised the plastic bag in a salute, and started walking toward the stairwell. Watching his broad shoulders disappear under the awning, another memory hit me out of nowhere. That crooked oak tree. He was standing under that exact tree on the day I got married, three years ago. I remember seeing him from the tinted window of the bridal car as we pulled away. Later that night, he had texted me: Are you happy? I never replied.

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The moment I asked Brian for a divorce, my knuckles turned a stark bone white around my phone. Tears stung my eyes, threatening to spill. I was shaking, every muscle trembling with a rage I could no longer suppress. The catalyst was a social media post from Vanessa, his supposed platonic best friend. She had locked the privacy settings so only I could see it. She deliberately posted a glaringly intimate photo. In the picture, Brian was asleep, his head resting on her pale bare thighs. Their fingers were tightly intertwined. The caption was pure provocation. It read, “Twenty years of friendship. No one can tear us apart.” What chilled me to the bone was the phone call she made late that night. There were no words on the other end at first. There was only the distinct sound of a man snoring. “Brian had a bit too much to drink and fell asleep at my place,” she said lightly. “You and the kid should not wait up.” When Brian came home the next day, he saw my darkened expression. Instead of showing an ounce of guilt, he frowned and tossed his phone onto the couch. “Check it if you want. I have a clear conscience,” he said, turning toward the bathroom. He tossed a freezing remark over his shoulder. “If you keep being this paranoid, we really can not go on living like this.” “If we can not go on, then we will not.” I finally let the words out. “Since you love spending the night at your best friend’s house so much, I will grant your wish. Let us get a divorce.” The air in the house instantly froze. Brian stopped in his tracks. He turned around, staring at me in absolute bewilderment. “What did you just say?” “I said, divorce.” After that, I dropped our son off at kindergarten. By the time I got back home, Brian had already left for work. I started packing my bags. My phone buzzed with a text from him. “I want beef stew for dinner tonight. We can talk about the nonsense you brought up this morning.” When he got off work and walked through the door. He saw the rich, savory beef stew steaming on the dining table. A smug smile crept onto his face. Seeing me walk out of the kitchen with an apron on, he slipped into his house shoes, walked over, and wrapped his arms around me. “Honey, I knew you would always take care of my needs,” he murmured softly. “Marrying you was the best decision I ever made.” “Where is Noah?” I pushed him away, my expression completely flat. “You did not marry the wrong person, but I definitely did.” “Noah is in his room playing on his tablet.” I set the last plate of roasted vegetables on the table and handed him a bowl of rice. “Eat up, then sign the papers.” “From now on, we go our separate ways.” Brian had just lifted his fork. He froze. His sharp brows knitted together in deep frustration. “I have explained this to you a hundred times. The company is doing layoffs, my projects are a mess, and I am under a ton of pressure. That is why I went to grab a drink with Vanessa.” “I had too much and crashed at her place for one night.” “Absolutely nothing happened between us.” “We are completely innocent.” “How many times do I have to say it before you get it through your head?” By the end of his speech, Brian was visibly agitated. I could not tell if he was genuinely angry because I was wronging him, or if this was the hysterical defensiveness of a liar caught in the act. But none of that mattered to me anymore. Seeing my absolute silence, Brian looked ready to explode. “You always do this. You act paranoid every single day. You never believe my explanations. If I really wanted to sleep with Vanessa, why would I have married you in the first place?” “Do you think I could not have had her?” Hearing that, my lips twitched into a mocking smirk. “She was young and pretty back then, so she bagged a rich guy. If she had not gotten a divorce, do you really think you would have ever stood a chance with her?” Crash! Brian furiously swept his plate off the table. Food scattered across the hardwood floor, still steaming. Right now, he looked like a wild beast whose deepest wound had just been ripped open. He glared at me, his eyes practically shooting daggers. “Mom, what happened?” Noah poked his little head out from his bedroom. “It is nothing, sweetie. Dad just accidentally dropped a plate.” “Be careful, Dad.” “I know.” Once Noah closed his door again, Brian forced down his boiling rage and lowered his voice. “You can accuse me all you want, but do not insult Vanessa.” “Our relationship is purely platonic. We are innocent.” “If you refuse to believe it, I have nothing left to say.” “Then do not say anything.” “It looks like you have lost your appetite anyway.” With that, I pulled out the divorce papers I had prepared earlier and slid them across the table. “I am walking away with nothing. I do not want your money.” “I only want Noah.” Brian let out a harsh bark of laughter. He grabbed the papers, ripped them into shreds, and chucked them into the trash bin. “You want to take my son?” “Not a chance in hell!” “You are always walking around with a miserable look on your face, acting like everyone owes you something. You make me sick. I am done eating.” “I am going to get a drink with Vanessa.” After Brian slammed the front door behind him, I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug deeply into my palms. Just as the tears were about to spill over, I threw my head back. Crying over a cheating man who no longer loved me was the most pathetic thing I could do. For the next two days, Brian did not come home. I did not bother asking where he was. On the third afternoon, I had just brought Noah back from kindergarten when I heard the front door click open behind me. I thought Brian was finally back. But when the door swung wide, his platonic soulmate walked right in. “Well if it isn’t the wifey. Long time no see.” “Where did you get that key?” “Brian gave it to me. He said he did not want to come home, so I am here to grab some clean clothes for him. I figured I would take Noah out for dinner while I am at it.” Vanessa acted like she owned the place. She strolled right past me and headed straight for our master bedroom. She opened the closet with practiced ease, pulled out two of Brian’s shirts, and then turned to my son with a sickly sweet smile. “Come on, Noah. Your dad is waiting for us at the restaurant.” “We are having steak tonight.” My son shook his head and ran over to hide behind my legs. “I am not going.” Vanessa pulled two fancy chocolates from her designer bag. “If you are a good boy and listen to me, I will give you these.” “You are a bad woman.” “I do not eat candy from bad people. It makes my tummy hurt.” Noah’s words actually made me laugh out loud. Vanessa’s face immediately dropped. She glared at me with pure venom. “He is just a child and you are already teaching him to say awful things like that? What kind of mother are you?” “My son is growing up. He knows right from wrong. If he thinks you are a bad woman, maybe you should take a good hard look in the mirror.” “Have you been doing things you should be ashamed of?” “What exactly have I done that I should be ashamed of?” “Enlighten me.” I ignored her obnoxious demand. Instead, I pointed toward the front door. “You are not welcome in my house.” “Your house?” A wicked sneer twisted Vanessa’s lips. “You poor, pathetic woman. Never mind this house.” “You are about to lose your husband.” She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, and smiled triumphantly. “Brian spent the last two nights at my place.” “So what?” I raised an eyebrow. “His heart is not with you anymore.” “And?” “Your little marriage is completely over.” She took a menacing step closer to me. “I am not afraid to tell you the truth. Yeah, I slept with Brian.” “He said you lie there like a dead fish. Zero fun at all.” “We try new things every single night, and…” While she was busy gloating, I raised my hand and slapped her across the face with everything I had. Smack! Vanessa was completely stunned. She clutched her cheek, staring at me in absolute shock. In her wildest dreams, she never thought I would actually hit her. “Sarah, you… you dared to hit me?” She glared at me, her entire body trembling with sheer outrage. “He and I are not legally divorced yet.” “I am still his wife.” “Who gave a cheap homewrecker like you the nerve to act this arrogant in front of me?” In the past, I held my tongue. I knew our marriage was on the rocks, but we had a five year old son. I wanted Noah to have a healthy, complete family. So even when Vanessa crossed the line, even when I suspected Brian was stepping out, I swallowed my pride. But Brian had only grown more brazen, treating me like absolute garbage. Now that I had made up my mind to leave him, I was not about to let this woman bark in my face. If I did not slap some sense into her, I would hate myself. Looking at her furious, unyielding face, I let out a cold laugh. “Your former husband cheated on you, kept a mistress, and treated you like dirt. Your life was miserable, so you came here to ruin ours. And poor stupid Brian actually thinks you are madly in love with him.” “He is just an idiot playing right into your hands.” “When he finally sees your true colors, he is going to regret ever looking your way.” Vanessa’s eyes went wide. She clearly did not expect me to know so much about her disastrous past. “You bitch. No one has ever laid a hand on me in my entire life.” “I will kill you!” I grabbed her wrist with one hand and raised my other hand to strike again. Just as I was about to deliver a second slap, a furious roar echoed from the doorway. “Sarah, stop it right now!” “Brian!” Vanessa, already playing the victim from the first slap, saw her savior. Her eyes instantly welled up with tears. They spilled down her cheeks in heavy drops. She looked so incredibly fragile and wronged that even a stranger might feel sorry for her. Having been through a marriage already, Vanessa knew exactly how to manipulate a man’s ego. She wrenched her hand out of my grip and practically threw herself into Brian’s chest. “She is so mean.” “I only came to get some clothes for you.” “I planned to just grab them and leave, so I wouldn’t upset her.” “But she refused to let me go.” “She even taught Noah to curse at me.” “And then she hit me.” “Look.” Tears streaming down her face, she tilted her head up and pointed at the red mark on her cheek. Brian looked utterly heartbroken as he wiped her tears away. He gently stroked her bruised skin. Then he asked in the softest, most sickeningly sweet voice imaginable, “Does it hurt?” “It hurts so much.” Vanessa shivered dramatically. Brian’s face turned dark as thunder. He grabbed Vanessa’s hand, marched up to me, and demanded coldly, “Did you hit her?” “I did.” I did not hesitate for a second. “You are acting like a complete lunatic! You are completely unreasonable!” I kept my mouth shut, staring him down. “Apologize to her right now.” He did not even ask what happened. He just ordered me to apologize. My gaze shifted to Vanessa. She was clinging to his arm like a parasite. Catching my eye, she flashed a triumphant smirk, but her voice remained pitiful. “Brian, let it go. Nobody has ever truly cared about me or protected me anyway. People like me are just destined to be bullied.” “I… I am used to it.” More tears. Brian wrapped his arm around her waist. “I didn’t protect you in the past, but I will protect you from now on. Nobody gets to bully you.” “Really?” He nodded firmly. “Thank God. I finally have someone in my corner.” Vanessa smiled through her tears. Brian glared at me. “I will give you one last chance. Apologize to Vanessa right now.” “Or… I let her slap you back.” “Pick one.” I scoffed. “You think she deserves my apology?” “So you are choosing the slap?” Before I could even reply, Brian turned to Vanessa. “Go slap her.” “Oh? But she is your wife.” “Is that… okay?” “I have got your back. She will not dare do anything.” “Hit her!” Vanessa walked toward me, a vicious gleam in her eyes, and slowly raised her hand. “Well then… I guess I will do it.” The moment the words left her mouth, her hand swung hard against my face. Smack! I did not dodge it. I needed this sting. I needed the physical pain to completely harden my heart against this man forever. Feeling the burning sensation spread across my cheek, I stared dead into Brian’s eyes. “Are you satisfied?” “Do not ever mess with Vanessa again.” “Or I will not let you off so easily next time.” With that final warning, he grabbed her hand and walked out the door. A few days later. Brian came home, shot me an icy glare, and slammed a new set of divorce papers onto the coffee table. “You wanted a divorce so badly, right?” “Here you go.” “Sign them and get out of my house.” I silently picked up the document and skimmed it. He was giving me zero financial support. But the worst part was the custody section. He wanted full custody of Noah. Seeing that, I slammed the papers down. “I do not care about the money. We agree on that. But I am keeping my son.” “Keep dreaming.” “You get no money and no kid.” Brian dropped onto the sofa, casually crossing one leg over the other, a smug grin on his face. “I talked to a lawyer. A woman like you, with no job, no income, and zero financial stability? No judge is ever going to give you custody.” “If you want to take this to court, bring it on.” “But… do you even have the money to hire a lawyer?” Looking at his arrogant, victorious face, I trembled with fury. I had been a stay at home mom for years. He was right. I had no money and no job. I knew he would fight me for Noah. But I never expected him to be this ruthless. He was trying to completely destroy me. Seeing me frozen in shock, Brian chuckled. “I worked my fingers to the bone all these years so you and our son could live comfortably.” “You had it too easy for too long, and you forgot your place.” “You want to cause drama every single day.” “Since you love throwing tantrums, I am giving you exactly what you want.” “Sign the damn papers.” “Then pack your trash and leave.” “Oh, and one more thing.” “Just so you know, once we are divorced, I am moving Vanessa in. Noah will call her Mom.” “You are forbidden from ever seeing him again.” “Just pretend you never gave birth to him.” Every single cell in my body was vibrating with raw anger. I carried that boy for nine months. I went through agonizing labor, practically touching death’s door to bring him into this world. And he was telling me to pretend he never existed? “Are you even human… or are you just a monster?” “How can someone be this cold blooded?” “I do not have a job or money because I did not want to work? Because I was lazy?” “You begged me to stay home to raise our child and manage the house. And now you are using my sacrifice as a weapon to steal my son?” “Are you not afraid karma is going to strike you dead for being this evil?” “Sarah, I am not being cruel.” “You forced my hand.” “You and Noah could have stayed in this house perfectly fine.” “You could have kept your title as my wife.” “But you kept provoking Vanessa over and over again.” “You knew her first marriage was a disaster. You knew she lost her baby before it was even born.” “Yet you poured salt on her wounds. You called her wicked and said God was punishing her by taking her child.” “I used to feel a little guilty about what I did to you, but now…” “I realize you are the most toxic person I know.” His words hit me like a truck. When did I ever say those horrific things to Vanessa? It was glaringly obvious. Vanessa had used his anger against me to whisper poisonous lies into his ear. I opened my mouth to defend myself. But I swallowed the words. What was the point of explaining? Our relationship was already dead and buried. “No matter what you say, I am not giving up my son.” I laid out my final boundary. “Then we go to court.” “Let the judge decide.” And just like that, the custody battle began. I had no money for a fancy attorney. I had to rely on legal aid. My public defender took one look at my financial situation and told me my chances of winning were practically zero. The final verdict matched her prediction. I lost. The judge granted full custody to Brian. The moment the gavel fell, it felt like the sun went out. Without my son, my life meant absolutely nothing. My mind went completely blank. I stumbled out of the courtroom like a soulless ghost, barely registering my surroundings. Suddenly, Vanessa’s mocking voice pierced the air. “From now on, I am Noah’s real mommy.” “Come here, Noah. Let us go.” I whipped my head around. Vanessa was gripping my son’s wrist tightly, beaming with malicious joy. Noah was crying, trying to pull away and run to me. But she scooped him up into her arms. “Mommy, please do not leave me!” He reached out for me, sobbing uncontrollably. I instinctively took a step toward him. Vanessa shot me a venomous glare. “Sarah, the court has made its ruling. If you dare come near him again, I will get a restraining order. You will never see his face again.” The color drained from my face. The world was spinning. “Mom!” “Stop crying.” Vanessa scolded him. “She is not your mother anymore. I am your mother.” “You are not my mom! You are a bad woman!” Smack! Vanessa slapped my five year old son hard across his tender face. My heart physically tore in half. “Do not you dare touch my son!” I screamed at her, lunging forward. Just then, Brian walked out of the courthouse restroom. Unaware of the slap, he scowled at me. “What are you screaming about now? Get lost.”

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My birthday gala was a surprise thrown by my older brother, Steven. I’d planned to use the occasion to introduce Steven Maxwell to my family. But he claimed he had an important business dinner and declined my invitation. So, I reluctantly dropped the idea. At the gala, a familiar figure suddenly appeared, instantly drawing the gaze of every socialite and reporter in the room. It was Steven. He wore a sharp, tailored suit, radiating an undeniable brilliance. He was a completely different person from the Steven I knew, who wore a worn-out tank top in our rented apartment while telling me stories. Even more surprisingly, he had a woman by his side. Steven leaned in and whispered, explaining that this was Steven Maxwell, a renowned rising star in the city, who had taken over his family’s empire at eighteen and, at twenty-two, married the shipping magnate’s daughter – the very woman now at his side. My brother added that Steven’s life had been nothing but smooth sailing, earning him much envy and admiration. That was when it hit me: Steven Maxwell’s “Maxwell” wasn’t just a surname. It was the Maxwell, of the city’s most powerful dynasty. 1 My family had been in politics for generations, originally old friends with the Maxwells. But then the Maxwell patriarch decided to venture into business, shifting from government to commerce. Our families now maintained only a basic, polite facade. Underneath, we even skipped exchanging courtesies during holidays. Simply put, the political elite looked down on merchants for their “new money” stench, while those in business found the politicians hypocritical and pretentious. As for me, I rarely set foot in the city, making few public appearances. My social media scarcely featured any photos of me. The outside world only knew of the Maxwells’ well-protected younger daughter, Aurora. They didn’t know I also used my mother’s maiden name, Luna Turner. After graduating college, I spent three years gaining experience in a rural town with my brother, which left me even more out of touch with city affairs. So, when I first met Steven and heard his last name was Maxwell, I didn’t give it much thought. But I never imagined. I wasn’t the only one concealing my identity. Seeing my prolonged silence, my brother frowned, turning his gaze to me. “What are you thinking about?” His voice pulled me back to reality. I was startled, then forced a smile, shaking my head. “I’m fine, just probably didn’t get enough rest.” My explanation sounded a little thin; my brother clearly didn’t buy it. He looked at me twice more but ultimately said nothing. Steven was no longer in the main ballroom, nor was my father. They had clearly gone to the study upstairs. I unconsciously frowned. “What does he want with Dad?” My brother’s knuckles, wrapped around a champagne flute, tightened slightly, his eyes dimming. “They want an arranged marriage.” “The Maxwells have a younger relative, about your age.” Suddenly, I froze, my heart churning with emotion. “So Steven is here to broker a deal?” “Yes, he wants to win Dad over.” The moment my brother’s words landed, I couldn’t help but let out a cynical laugh. A wave of absurdity washed over me. Round and round we went. Steven had lied to me, I had lied to Steven, and now he wanted his family’s junior to marry me? How dare he? What right did he have? Betrayal and resentment surged simultaneously. I clenched my fingers, letting my nails dig into my palm. As blood dripped from my fingertips to the floor. My brother’s frown deepened. This time, his voice was firm. “You know Steven Maxwell?” I didn’t deny it. Steven and I met in Willow Creek. Three years ago, my painting hit a wall. Coincidentally, my brother was heading to Willow Creek for a training stint, so he brought me along. He was busy every day, always on the go. I explored the entire town, but he couldn’t spare a moment. It was then that I met Steven. That day, I wandered around with my easel, eventually stopping at a small park. Willow Creek was undergoing urban development back then, and officials were often in the vicinity. Steven was among the crowd that day, wearing a hard hat, a white T-shirt, and jeans, looking somewhat out of place among the suited individuals. So much so that I overlooked their respectful attitude towards Steven. He stood among them, speaking animatedly, a faint smile occasionally playing on his lips. The sunlight falling on his shoulders seemed to make him glow. I was so captivated by the sight that by the time I realized it, his profile was already sketched onto my canvas. That was my first encounter with Steven. At the time, I thought it was just a chance meeting and was filled with regret. But I never imagined our second meeting would come so quickly. 2 I rear-ended a car, and the owner was Steven. He got out of the driver’s seat, his brow furrowed, and walked towards me. I thought he was coming to chew me out. But the next second, his magnetic, gentle voice filled the air: “Are you hurt?” I was instantly captivated. It was love at first sight with Steven. The moment I saw him, I couldn’t move. Later, when he often took me hiking to mountain peaks, he’d ask, “If I didn’t have this face, would you still love me?” He’d demand an answer but then wouldn’t care what it was. So much so that even today, I never said: “Steven, my feelings for you started with your looks and were cemented by your character.” But it’s a good thing I didn’t say it. Otherwise, everything that happened today would have been far too ironic. Later, we exchanged contact information. But neither of us reached out first. Until one night, half a month later, Steven got drunk, and the bar owner called me. I hailed a cab to the bar almost immediately. Terrified I’d arrive too late and Steven would be taken advantage of. After all, it’s dangerous for guys out alone these days, especially handsome ones. I didn’t take Steven home; I didn’t dare. My brother detested every man in my life, so my relationship with Steven had to be kept a secret from him. Steven was a good drunk; he didn’t cry or make a fuss, but he was too quiet. There were moments I thought he’d fallen asleep, but a quick glance showed he hadn’t; his deep eyes were fixed on the TV, unblinking. Until the clock struck midnight. Steven softly murmured, “Happy birthday to me.” Then he fell into a deep sleep. In that moment, I felt an indescribable mix of emotions—a deep ache, a heavy suppression. I ended up sitting in the living room all night. When I woke up the next day, I confessed my feelings to Steven. Steven didn’t seem surprised then; he smiled and agreed. As we spent more time together, I learned that Steven had seen me the first time I appeared in the park. And our second and third encounters had all been his deliberate planning. At the time, I was so angry I didn’t want to talk to him. Steven simply hugged me from behind, then bit my earlobe, muttering, “Baby, I just liked you too much, so I found ways to meet you.” “I want you to love me, to like me.” “I lied a lot to you, but that day really was my birthday.” His voice was laced with a hint of grievance by the end, and eventually, I surrendered. I loved Steven, so I was willing to compromise. We dated for three years, our relationship stable; we almost never argued. Steven indulged me without limits, and even when we occasionally disagreed, we always resolved it in bed. Even a week ago. This man was still sleeping next to me on the wooden bed in our rented apartment, holding me gently from behind. His thin lips brushed softly against my ear, saying: “Luna, you are this world’s gift to me.” “I love you so much.” But who could have imagined that Steven was married? After a long pause, my brother’s throat bobbed, his gaze fixed on me. “So, all those times you told me you were staying at a friend’s house, you were actually with Steven?” I nodded. “Yes.” Hearing this, my brother’s eyes darkened further. He silently lowered his head, finished the wine in his glass, then said hoarsely, “What are you going to do now?” I didn’t answer, just gave my brother a reassuring look. Then I turned and walked straight away. Steven wanted me to marry a junior from his family. Fine, I’d grant him his wish. I just hoped he wouldn’t regret it someday. 3 Just then, Steven had settled the marriage alliance intention with Mr. Maxwell, when his peripheral vision caught a familiar figure at the stairwell corner. Before he could get a good look, the person disappeared into the depths of the hallway. He frowned, his right hand instinctively reaching into his pocket for his phone. The top contact on his social media was Luna Turner; not even his nominal wife held that privilege. Luna had sent him a message that afternoon; he hadn’t read it yet. “Even though it’s my birthday today, you’re allowed to come home late, BUT! You absolutely must bring a gift.” After reading it, a faint smile played on Steven’s lips. His expression was clearly visible to Mr. Maxwell, who chuckled. “Everyone says Steven Maxwell is cold and unfeeling, a block of ice. It seems that’s not entirely true.” Steven looked up, a little belatedly, but his smile remained. “Just a little laugh, Mr. Maxwell.” Mr. Maxwell waved his hand, shaking his head. “Alright, I’m off to join my little princess. I still need to ask for her opinion on this marriage alliance. If she doesn’t agree, I’m out of options.” Steven nodded, saying nothing more about the alliance, leaving it at that. But he didn’t expect Steven Crosby to walk towards him. Steven Crosby was the Maxwell family’s adopted son, and perhaps out of gratitude, he was fiercely protective of his sister, Aurora. He worried about every little thing that might happen to her. From childhood, she had been shielded, everyone calling him a “sister’s boy.” The alliance with the Maxwell family. While Mr. Maxwell said he’d consider Aurora’s feelings, Steven Crosby’s approval was, in reality, far harder to win. “I hear from Father that you’re here to discuss my sister’s marriage to your nephew,” Steven Crosby went straight to the point. Steven didn’t deny it, nodding frankly. “So?” Steven Crosby scoffed. “Just give up already.” He lifted his eyes to Steven, a mocking curve playing on his lips. “Aurora won’t agree. Even if she says yes, I won’t let your Maxwell family cling to her.” His words were unapologetic. He didn’t care about Steven’s power or status, nor did he bother to save face for him. Steven also knew Steven Crosby’s background. Three years in Willow Creek. All to return now and rightfully take over from Mr. Maxwell. But an alliance between the two families would only bring benefits, not drawbacks. He couldn’t understand why Steven Crosby was so resistant, even showing hostility towards him. Steven narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the man before him. But before he could figure it out. His assistant hurried over, whispering in his ear: “Mrs. Maxwell is having an argument with someone in the backyard.” … I didn’t expect to run into Chloe Turner before I ran into Steven. Chloe recognized me almost instantly. Dressed in a haute couture gown, she directly blocked my path. “You must be Luna Turner, right?” I frowned. “You know me?” “Surprised?” Chloe looked at me with an easy smirk, her hand casually stroking her abdomen. “Steven Maxwell is my husband, in name. As his wife, I should be aware of all his activities, including—” She paused, then softly uttered three words: “His side chick.” Instantly, my fists clenched unconsciously. “So you knew about Steven and me all along?” Chloe smirked, nodding. “Yes, I knew all along.” “I know exactly what kind of person Steven Maxwell is—possessive, doesn’t like anyone interfering in his affairs, so there’s no need for me to stir up trouble.” “Anyway, he won’t shortchange me on what’s rightfully mine: love, status, power, position. What belongs to me, he hasn’t given to anyone else.” “What more could I want?” I opened my mouth, then fell silent for a moment. If Steven had given Chloe the love she deserved, what had he given me? Three years of companionship, what did it mean to Steven? Chloe noticed my daze and continued: “Luna Turner, do you know why Steven suddenly came back to the city?” 4 I hadn’t considered that question. Steven was always traveling between two cities, claiming it was for work, and for a man, putting his career first was perfectly understandable. I never demanded that Steven revolve around me. So, when he said he had to attend a business dinner and would miss my birthday, I didn’t say anything. But now, Chloe stared at me, her words crystal clear: “Because I’m pregnant.” A sudden crash echoed in my mind. My pupils constricted, and I looked up in disbelief, almost instinctively asking, “So what?” “What are you trying to brag about?” “Are you trying to tell me how much Steven loves you?” But on second thought, why would Chloe need to brag? She was Steven’s wife, and it was natural for her to be carrying his child. It was me. What was I? What standing did I have? “Did you know, Steven loves this child very much? The day he received the report, he established a charity foundation in its name, accumulating good karma for it,” Chloe boasted. No wonder. I gave a self-deprecating laugh. Willow Creek was still under development back then, so commercialization wasn’t severe, and it was by the sea. Lying on the beach at night, you could see many stars. At that time, Steven loved to watch the stars with me and play in the sand with the kids nearby. I thought he liked children, so I tentatively asked, “Steven, do you like kids?” But he looked at me deeply before saying: “No.” Now I finally understood. Steven didn’t dislike children; it was just that the person who would bear his child shouldn’t be me, couldn’t be me. I didn’t want to be entangled with Chloe any longer. Everything that happened today had caught me off guard; I needed to calm down. But as I turned to leave, Chloe suddenly grabbed my arm. I instinctively pulled my wrist back with force. She lost her footing, staggered back two steps, her heel slipping on the ground. She fell unsteadily onto the floor. A passing waiter immediately came to help her up. “Ms. Turner, are you alright—” “Get out!” Chloe snarled. She stood up and raised her hand, slapping me across the face. Her movement was too swift; I didn’t even have time to dodge. “Slap—” The slap landed squarely on my face. A burning sting instantly flared on my cheek. Steven arrived just in time to see this scene. He almost stepped forward immediately, but his assistant reminded him there were paparazzi nearby. After a moment of consideration, he stopped. I laughed, mocking myself. I had actually just been hoping Steven would come over, would stand up for me like he used to. But I’d forgotten. My Steven was dead. The Steven before me was just Chloe’s husband. I stepped past him, ready to leave. Steven said softly, “Come home, I’ll explain everything to you—” Mid-sentence, I calmly interjected, “No need.” “Steven, we’re over.”

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1 “Yes, I am the plagiarist. I will stop updating my comic and drop out of college to atone for my sins.” The moment I posted that final announcement, my loyal readers didn’t panic, but the manipulative little clout chaser definitely did. In my past life, I was just a quiet artist drawing a popular queer fantasy webcomic. Then she came along. An influencer with a massive following. She framed me for stealing her work, incited a massive internet hate campaign against me, and even got my publisher to publicly denounce me. She took my original universe, butchered the lore, and sold the movie and animation rights for millions. Nobody remembered that when she first started posting her comic, she claimed it was just a “humble homage” to my work. I couldn’t handle the crushing weight of the death threats and the global humiliation. I stood on the edge of the campus rooftop. I watched my sketchbooks flutter down into the abyss, and then I followed them. The moment gravity won, my final sight was my parents. Their eyes were completely shattered, red and screaming with despair. I fell into an endless, suffocating darkness, drowning in bitter regret and sheer hatred. Then I opened my eyes. And the first thing I saw was the notification for her newest chapter update. A sharp ringtone violently pulled me out of my trance. The dorm room was pitch black. The only light came from my monitor, reflecting off my bloodshot eyes. I frantically checked the date in the bottom corner of the screen. I was back. Exactly two weeks before everything went to hell. Which meant… I scrambled to open my creator dashboard. In my scheduled drafts folder, my newest chapter was sitting there. It was set to publish in exactly one hour. Without a single second of hesitation, I smashed the cancel button. In my previous life, that specific chapter was my absolute masterpiece. It perfectly tied together a massive plot twist I had been setting up for months. When it originally went live, my comment section exploded. “The storytelling is insane! Even the background characters have such tragic depth!” “Why did you have to kill him off so early? I am literally sobbing over my keyboard right now.” “The artwork is breathtaking. The look of repressed agony on his face ruined me.” Those were my day one readers. The ones who had been with me since I was a nobody. When the plagiarism accusations started flying, they were the only ones who stood in the trenches and fought for me. Looking at their old comments begging for an update, hot tears spilled down my cheeks. Thank you for believing in me. But their voices had been completely drowned out by Ivy’s rabid fanbase. One of my top readers, a girl who always sent me premium gifts on the app, had her real identity leaked online. She endured thousands of vicious messages, explicit deepfakes, and vile rumors. Her mental health completely collapsed, and she had to drop out of her university. Thinking about her, I opened my drafts again, staring at the panels I had painstakingly drawn frame by frame. A sudden, freezing prickle crawled down my vertebrae. I whipped my head around to look at my sleeping roommates. I didn’t know why, but it felt like invisible eyes were burning a hole in the back of my neck. But the room was totally still. In my past life, exactly three days after I posted this chapter, Ivy’s fans went on a total rampage. They posted timestamps showing that Ivy had updated her chapter exactly one hour before mine. The plot was identical. The platform, which had always ignored my emails, suddenly posted a massive public statement. They permanently banned my account and mass blocked anyone who tried to defend me. They blatantly took Ivy’s side. Her fans didn’t stop there. They tracked down my personal Instagram. “Thieves deserve to rot.” “Did your parents raise you just to steal other people’s talent?” “No wonder your art is garbage. Go beg on the streets, you brainless hack.” “You go to Western Arts Uni? We are calling the dean right now to get you expelled!” The school administration, terrified of bad PR, forced me into an indefinite suspension. The day I packed my bags to leave the dorms, I barely made it to the ground floor before someone threw a dripping trash bag right at my face. 2 It was garbage from the communal bathrooms. A sickening stench flooded my lungs. Before I could even wipe my eyes, a heavy boot slammed into my ribs. “You filthy thief! Stealing from our queen! We’ll teach you a lesson!” “Go eat dirt, psycho!” They pinned me to the concrete and kicked me relentlessly. They fractured two of my ribs and stomped on my dominant hand until my fingers snapped. After that day, I went from being a top tier artist to a broken shell who couldn’t even grip a stylus without shaking. Everywhere I went, the whispers and the venom followed. My fingers suddenly throbbed with a phantom pain. I looked down at my hands. They were perfectly fine. Unbroken. My heart rate slowly leveled out. My phone screen lit up, flashing a call from my boyfriend, Connor. Connor and I were both in the fine arts program. He was the golden boy of the campus. From the first week of freshman year, girls had been throwing themselves at him. I never cared about his hype, but out of nowhere, he started pursuing me. Obsessively. He waited outside my classes, brought me coffee, and flooded me with attention. Eventually, I gave in and agreed to date him. But a few months into our relationship, a new girl suddenly appeared in his orbit. Ivy. I didn’t realize it until right before my death, but Ivy was the mastermind behind the webcomic account that ruined my life. Ivy had this striking, almost unearthly aesthetic. Deep violet eyes, porcelain skin, and a tragic, delicate aura. She looked ethereal, completely untouchable by the real world. She transferred to our program a few months ago. Rumor had it her mother was a famous Hollywood screenwriter and her dad was a prestigious novelist. Within weeks, she was crowned the undisputed campus queen. She had just as many stalkers as Connor did. Connor swore they were just distant childhood family friends. He claimed they practically grew up in the same sandbox and viewed each other like siblings. So I brushed off their constant, overly intimate touching. Until the night he got too drunk at a frat party and accidentally dialed my number. I walked into the VIP room and found Ivy sitting right on his lap. They were sipping from the exact same glass of whiskey. Their lips were practically brushing. I walked right up to them, my face deadpan, and snatched the glass away. “Sharing a cup seems a bit inconvenient, doesn’t it?” “Actually, keeping me around is what’s inconvenient.” “We are done.” But the very next day, we were back together. He staged a massive public apology in the middle of the quad. He spelled out my name in expensive candles and shoved a giant bouquet of roses into my arms while a crowd cheered. I felt incredibly humiliated and completely trapped. I agreed to take him back just to escape the hundreds of staring eyes. But once a cheater, always a cheater. Every time I caught him getting too close to Ivy, he would pull another massive, manipulative stunt to force my forgiveness. I was completely exhausted by the toxic cycle. But I never knew how to break it. Now, with a second chance at life, my only goal was crystal clear. I was going to stay a million miles away from this pathetic, cheating duo. Connor’s name flashed on my screen again. I declined the call and went straight to his contact profile to delete him. But right before I hit block, I saw his newest status update. “Nothing is more beautiful than a girl chasing her dreams.” Attached was a photo of Ivy’s back. She was sitting at a cafe, drafting storyboards in a leather notebook and scribbling script notes. Something felt incredibly wrong. I zoomed in on the picture. The script she was writing was the exact same plot from my unpublished drafts folder. It wasn’t just a similar vibe. Her outline, the camera angles, the emotional beats, even the specific dialogue lines were identical. The only difference was that my story was about two male fantasy warlords, and hers was a traditional male and female romance. Sure, the High Fae fantasy genre had common tropes, but matching dialogue and panel pacing word for word? That was impossible. She literally just took my tragic male protagonist and slapped a dress on him! 3 This was exactly how she killed me in my past life. She published her chapter exactly one hour before my scheduled release. It locked me in as the undeniable thief. I always thought it was a freak coincidence or a massive leak. But looking at it now, something darker was happening. Every single plot twist in my comic came directly from my own brain at random hours of the night. They were purely mine. I rarely read other comics, let alone copied anyone. I searched up Ivy’s latest published chapter on the app. My eyes went entirely cold. She even copied the deliberate, unresolved cliffhanger I had written when I was suffering from writer’s block. Word for absolute word. My brain felt like a knot of barbed wire. I sat in the dark and thought about it all night long. By dawn, I made a ruthless decision. I permanently deleted every single unreleased file in my drafts folder. I was going to completely nuke my own storyline. I was shifting it from a sweet, slow burn romance into a highly toxic, agonizing psychological tragedy. I wanted maximum emotional damage. I spent the entire morning writing a brand new outline, drafting twisted new character motivations, and sketching rough character sheets. I had been posting art online since high school. Over the years, I had built a reputation as a veteran creator. Because my genre was a bit niche, I wasn’t mainstream famous. But my core audience was fiercely loyal. Since the day I signed my publishing contract, this comic had completely dominated the top ranking charts. It had been sitting at number one for months, beating the second place comic by tens of thousands of premium tips. My ultimate dream was to see my universe adapted into a beautiful animated series. I wanted to pick the voice actors and oversee the script myself. Even if a studio couldn’t capture every nuance, I had already mapped out exactly how to translate the subtle romantic tension to the screen. Every night before I fell asleep, I imagined my characters moving and breathing on a cinema screen. This specific story was inspired by a random moment from my teenage years. I saw two guys walking in front of me in the rain. The taller one playfully flicked the forehead of the shorter one. He laughed and said, “If you’re an angel, I’m definitely your downfall.” “I won’t just break your halo, I’m going to break your heart. That’s the only way you’ll never forget me.” That passing joke sparked my entire universe. I spent three years fleshing out the lore, breathing life into the words. And Ivy had stolen every single drop of it. In my past life, she used my soul to secure massive animation and film deals. And she let the studios butcher it. She made an absolute fortune while my life’s work was humiliated. My stoic, self sacrificing hero was rewritten into a whiny, boy crazy idiot who was willing to destroy the universe just to get a kiss. It was utterly psychotic! Thinking about that, an electric spark lit up my brain. Wait. Wouldn’t an unhinged, psychotic protagonist actually be a brilliant twist? If I rewrote the angel’s descent to earth as a descent into absolute madness, the lore would be incredibly rich. I downed two iced americanos and didn’t sleep for a second. I just typed and sketched like a machine. The ideas were bleeding out of my fingertips. By the second afternoon, my heart was hammering against my ribs. My nervous system was completely wired. The adrenaline rush was so intense it actually hurt. It felt like my brain and my physical body were violently wrestling for control over my own hands. The manic trance didn’t break until my roommate gently placed a cupcake on my desk. “Serena, you haven’t slept or eaten in thirty six hours. Are you trying to put yourself in the ER?” “Put the pen down. Eat something.” I violently snapped out of the trance, gasping for air. I exhaled deeply, feeling like my soul had been scooped out with a spoon. “Thanks for the sugar. I’ll eat it right after I upload this chapter.” My roommate wasn’t having it. She hit save on my software and physically closed my laptop lid. “You already update twice a day. What is the rush?” “If you don’t eat right now, I am calling your mom to tattle on you!” Defeated, I picked up the fork and started eating. 4 While I was chewing on the frosting, I aimlessly scrolled through social media and completely froze. A forgotten memory slammed into my chest. Back when Ivy first started gaining traction, a few eagle eyed readers pointed out that her lore felt way too similar to mine. She had responded to a comment directly. “I am just paying homage to Heavy Rain.” Heavy Rain was my pen name. “Is paying homage a crime now? Or does she own the copyright to the entire fantasy genre? Did she invent the universe?” That single comment started an absolute war. Remembering this, I quickly opened the app and found her creator profile. Her original replies were still public. Reader: “Why does your world building feel like it was directly copy pasted?” Ivy: “Haha, you caught me! I totally borrowed Heavy Rain’s vibe. I just thought her style was cute.” Reader: “Your villain’s backstory is exactly like Heavy Rain’s protagonist.” Ivy: “What can I say? I am her biggest fanboy! I practically worship her!” I took rapid screenshots of every single admission and finally let out a breath of relief. In my past life, she eventually deleted all the comments where she admitted to copying me, keeping only the vague, defensive ones. Those deleted comments later became the weapon her fans used to destroy me. They accused me of having a god complex, bullying a small indie artist, and gatekeeping the entire fantasy genre. I never gatekept anything. It was an entirely fabricated narrative. But the internet mob didn’t care about the truth. To them, my explanations were just pathetic excuses. “Thieves always lie through their teeth!” “She is actually sending her toxic fans to harass our princess on Instagram!” “Our princess is having panic attacks because of her! She needs to be held accountable. I need to know where she lives so I can handle her in person.” And they did. They found my university. They found my parents. The university was flooded with so many bomb threats and angry calls that they forced me out. My phone was bombarded with disgusting texts from strange men asking for my hourly rate. Ivy had posted my personal phone number on explicit hookup forums. Disgusting creeps tracked my location. One night, right outside the dorms, I was almost dragged into an unmarked van. If my roommate hadn’t screamed for campus security, I would have been… During that absolute nightmare, I called Connor begging for help. He just screamed at me through the phone. “Serena, you make me absolutely sick. I cannot believe I dated a fraud.” “Don’t you feel pathetic stealing from someone else? You can’t even draw your own stick figures! You call yourself an artist? You’re a parasite!” “I never want to see your ugly face again. Go jump off a bridge!” “Looking at you makes my skin crawl. I must have been blind to ever touch you.” I had smiled a broken, hollow smile, dropped my phone, threw my sketchbooks into the wind, and stepped off the ledge. When my skull cracked against the pavement, my eyes locked onto my parents’ faces, completely destroyed by grief. In that split second, the regret consumed me. If I could do it all over, I would burn the world down before I let them hurt me again. And now, the universe had handed me a second chance. This time, I just needed to figure out exactly how Ivy was getting access to my unreleased thoughts. Once I cracked that, she was finished. The suffocating memories made my chest tight. I couldn’t breathe. My heart seized with a sharp, terrifying pain. Something was deeply wrong. In that moment of intense pain, an unnatural, burning urge commanded me to open my laptop and upload my draft. I violently fought the urge, distracting myself by endlessly scrolling through my phone. A second later, Ivy’s new comic update popped onto my feed. A layer of freezing sweat coated my spine. Her brand new chapter was the exact same unhinged, psychotic plotline I had literally just hallucinated in my head!

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In Professor Rivera’s eyes, I was always a quiet one, a wallflower who never spoke up in class. I was far less favored than Gabrielle, the charming and outgoing junior student from the neighboring research group. To “force” me to change, Professor Rivera set a bizarre rule: during lab meetings, presentations had to exceed eighty decibels, or he’d refuse to sign off on my thesis. The first meeting, I bravely read my report aloud, but he scoffed at my trembling voice, then turned around and handed my research data to Gabrielle. The second meeting, I came prepared with throat lozenges, argued with Gabrielle with all my might, even pounded the table in my fervor, just barely managing to overshadow her. To my surprise, Professor Rivera simply tossed my thesis into the trash, coldly calling me “ill-mannered, like a fishwife,” and threatened to delay my graduation by a year for “reflection.” During that time, I barely scraped by, fixing phone screens under an overpass. By the third meeting, I remained silent throughout. Instead, I simply played a silent surveillance video on the projector. The entire room fell into a deathly hush, because on the screen, Professor Rivera was engaged in something utterly indecent with Gabrielle. 1 “Turn it off.” Professor Rivera’s voice was softer than the hum of the air conditioning. No one moved. On the projection screen, he had Gabrielle pinned against the edge of his desk, his right hand slipping beneath her white lab coat. Gabrielle’s head was thrown back, her mouth half-open as if gasping for air, but the video was silent. Twelve people sat in the meeting room, twelve pairs of eyes fixated on the screen. “I said, turn it off.” Leather shoes clicked on the floor, one measured step after another. I didn’t move. He walked to the projector and unplugged the data cable. Vince, a senior grad student, kept his head down, while Ava, a senior peer, was engrossed in her phone. Gabrielle sat in the front row, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her skirt. Professor Rivera turned around. “It’s AI-generated,” he declared. “I trust everyone here can tell the difference.” No one responded. He looked at me. “Skylar, where did you get this?” “Library Annex B corridor surveillance, October 17th, 9:13 PM.” “Who authorized you to access the surveillance footage?” I didn’t answer. He chuckled. “Unauthorized access, fabricating video, publicly displaying it in an academic setting,” he said. “Skylar, that’s defamation.” “That’s the truth.” “That’s a crime.” He pulled out his phone and dialed in front of everyone. “Officer Jenkins? It’s Professor Rivera. Can you send two officers to Room 706—yes, a student is playing an AI-generated, explicit video at a lab meeting, defaming a faculty member.” Gabrielle started to cry then. “Professor Rivera,” she whimpered, “if this video gets out, how can I ever show my face again?” “Don’t worry,” Professor Rivera patted her shoulder. “A fake can’t stand up to scrutiny.” Two campus security officers arrived. Professor Rivera pointed to the items on my desk: “Take her USB drive and laptop. That’s evidence.” “Those are mine.” “These are your tools of crime.” He pocketed the USB drive. A female officer approached and took my laptop. I cast one last glance at my peers, all of them looking down. “Vince.” His shoulder twitched, but he didn’t look up. “Ava.” She pretended to organize her notes. The male officer tugged my arm. “Come on, student, let’s go.” I stood up. As I reached the door, Gabrielle’s voice drifted over. “Skylar, I don’t know why you hate me so much. But doing this, you’re only hurting yourself.” I turned to look at her. I walked out. First floor of the administrative building, a windowless office. The officers told me to wait. I waited for four hours, going to the restroom once with a female officer accompanying me inside. At 11 PM, the door opened. A man sat down, his name badge reading “Dean Peterson, Student Affairs.” He opened a folder. “Skylar, do you understand the implications of your actions today?” “What implications?” “Illegally obtaining surveillance footage, publicly displaying a video suspected of being deepfake and explicit, and defaming your advisor. Any one of these is grounds for disciplinary action.” “That video is real.” “Our technical department has issued a preliminary assessment.” He flipped through the documents. “Conclusion: Traces of AI generation detected, deepfake not ruled out.” “They finished the assessment in ten hours?” “Professional team, highly efficient.” I stared at him. “Have you seen the video with your own eyes?” He didn’t answer. “Sign a statement of facts,” he pushed a paper toward me. “Admit to an operational error, playing the wrong file. The university will treat it leniently—a written reprimand, no permanent record.” I looked down at the paper. The main body was already typed out for me—admitting that due to emotional distress, I mistakenly played an AI-generated video at the lab meeting, causing damage to the reputation of Professor Rivera and Gabrielle, and expressing deep apologies. The blank space at the bottom awaited my signature. “What if I don’t sign?” “We’ll proceed through formal channels. Academic committee and internal affairs will get involved. The outcome, I won’t be able to control.” I stood up and walked to the door. “Skylar.” He called out to me, then hesitated. “Do you have any other copies?” 2 “Following an investigation, graduate student Skylar is found to have, on October 23, 2024, during a lab meeting, unauthorizedly obtained campus surveillance footage and publicly displayed a video suspected of being an AI-generated deepfake and explicit, severely damaging the reputation of Professor Rivera and Gabrielle—her student status is immediately suspended pending further proceedings.” The hearing lasted less than forty minutes. I sat at one end of the long table, facing five people—two department heads, two professors from the academic committee, plus Dean Peterson. Professor Rivera wasn’t there. Gabrielle was. “Since September, Skylar has been messaging me frequently,” her voice was small. “At first, it was just about research topics, but then it became… more.” She handed her phone to Dean Peterson. The screen displayed a series of chat messages: “How dare you take my data?” “Do you really think Professor Rivera cares about you?” “I have leverage over you; you’d better be smart.” “I didn’t send those.” “The records are all here.” Dean Peterson passed the phone around the committee. “Chat logs can be fabricated.” “You also said the surveillance footage was real,” Gabrielle looked down, wiping tears. “But the technical assessment says it’s fake.” Dean Lewis, sitting in the middle, took off his glasses. “Skylar, I understand you have grievances with your advisor, but no matter how serious, it shouldn’t be handled this way. Professor Rivera is a key faculty member in our department; his academic reputation affects the entire program’s development.” “So whatever he did doesn’t matter?” “You can voice your concerns through proper channels,” he put his glasses back on, “not through such… extreme means.” After the hearing, Dean Peterson handed me a stack of documents. Student status suspended. Lab access revoked. Email frozen. Dorm room to be vacated within three days. “What about my experiment data? The ones on the server.” “Research output generated with lab resources belongs to the research group. Your access has been terminated.” “I did that work.” “Follow the rules.” I went back to my dorm to pack. As I was carrying out the last load, Ava leaned against the hallway wall. “Professor Rivera held a meeting after you left,” she whispered. “He made us sign a joint statement—all present confirmed that the video was blurry and the content unrecognizable during playback.” “You signed?” She wouldn’t look at me. “Everyone signed.” I walked out with my suitcase. “Skylar,” she called after me. “Hmm?” “Why didn’t you sign that statement? At least you could have stayed.” “Because it was real.” She paused for a few seconds. “But no one cares if it’s real.” That night, I dragged my luggage to the underpass. My phone-screen-repair stall was still there, the folding table and plastic stools stacked in a corner. I set them up and arranged my tools. My phone lit up. Mom’s number. “Skylar, the university called home. Are you causing trouble there?” “I’m not causing trouble—” “They said you defamed your professor! Are you crazy? That’s your advisor!” “Mom, please listen—” “Listen! Your dad and I put you through grad school, is this how you repay us?” “That advisor, he—” “Advisor or not! If your professor has an issue with you, you fix it, don’t stir up trouble! What if you get expelled? Where do we put our faces?” “I haven’t been expelled.” “It’s only a matter of time if you keep this up! Apologize to your professor, you hear me? Kneel, write a confession, just settle this!” “Mom, in that video—” “I don’t care what video! You apologize!” The call ended. I squatted under the underpass, watching car lights drag long streaks across the pavement. The first customer was a middle-aged man in a hard hat, his phone screen cracked with a single line. “How much for a screen protector?” “Ten bucks.” “Cheap. I’ll take one.” 3 “That semantic segmentation paper of yours, Professor Rivera published it.” Vince sent a message, followed by a link. I clicked it. “Research on Semantic Segmentation Algorithm Based on Multi-modal Feature Fusion.” First author: Gabrielle. Second author: Professor Rivera. Corresponding author: Professor Rivera. My name wasn’t there. My phone vibrated again. Vince’s message: “What are you going to do?” I didn’t reply. I finished applying the screen protector and collected ten dollars. That evening, I went to the university’s academic integrity committee website, uploaded all my original code records and local version logs, and spent two hours writing a complaint letter. Three days later, an automated reply: Your complaint has been received and will be forwarded to the relevant department. Five more days passed, no news. I called the academic integrity committee. “Case number JB20241028-007.” “Please hold—this case has been transferred to your department for processing.” “Which department?” “Your department. The School of Information Engineering, the Departmental Academic Committee is responsible.” Head of the Departmental Academic Committee: Dean Lewis. I closed the webpage. Business dwindled after 9 PM. A pair of high heels stopped in front of me. Gabrielle. Beige trench coat, meticulously made up, a stark contrast to her unadorned appearance at the hearing. “Long time no see.” She squatted down to meet my gaze. “Here to get your screen fixed?” She smiled, took an envelope from her bag, and placed it on the folding table. “Professor Rivera asked me to give this to you.” A settlement agreement. Party A: Professor Rivera, Party B: Skylar. Content: Party B admits to playing an AI-generated false video due to emotional distress, causing severe reputational damage to Party A and Gabrielle. Party B voluntarily withdraws all complaints and issues a public apology. Compensation: Party A will pay Party B fifty thousand dollars for emotional distress and assist in contacting an advisor at another university. “Fifty grand?” “That’s a lot,” she tilted her head. “How much do you make fixing screens here in a day? A hundred? Two hundred? Fifty grand is enough for you to work for half a year.” “Your name is listed as the first author.” She blinked. “The results of a research group, the authorship is the advisor’s prerogative.” “I wrote the code, I ran the data.” “Resources you used in the research group, the output belongs to the research group.” She stood up, brushing dust from her knees. “Skylar, you no longer have student status. What good is having your name on a paper to you?” She pulled out her phone from her bag, found a photo, and held it in front of my eyes. A lawyer’s letter. The words “pursuing criminal charges” were crystal clear. “Skylar, what have you gained by causing all this trouble?” she leaned down, her voice soft as if comforting me. “Discipline, suspension, sleeping under a bridge. What was it all for?” I looked at her face. “What was it all for, for you?” Her smile froze for a moment. “What did you and he get? Authorship? Publication opportunities? Anything else?” “You—” “You know you’re not the first, right?” That was a guess. But her pupils contracted slightly, clearly illuminated by the streetlights. Her lips moved, then she ultimately composed herself, all emotion gone. “Sign within three days, or the lawyer’s letter goes to your home.” The click-clack of her heels faded into the distance. I folded the agreement and tucked it into the bottom of my toolbox. My phone lit up. An unsaved number. “Are you the one who played the surveillance video at the meeting?” “Who is this?” A long pause as the other person typed. “My name is Cecilia. Five years ago, Professor Rivera was my advisor too.” 4 “I shouldn’t have come to you.” Cecilia sat on a plastic stool, cradling a cup of soy milk she hadn’t touched. Short hair, a faded gray hoodie, she looked about six or seven years older than me. “How did you find me?” “It spread all over the university forum. The posts were deleted several times, but screenshots remained, and someone posted your location in the comments.” “Why did you come?” “Because I saw your name—and I just knew.” She finally took a sip of soy milk. “It was exactly like me back then.” “Exactly like what?” “That video is real, isn’t it?” I didn’t speak. “No need to answer.” She gave a bitter smile. “He did the same thing to me five years ago. I was in my third year of grad school, half my thesis written, and he brought in a junior student. Very compliant, very obedient. Later, my data was given to her, and when I confronted him, he said I wasn’t capable enough.” “Then what?” “I got held back for two years. The second year, he made me switch to an obscure, unwanted field and start from scratch. I couldn’t afford to waste any more time, so I dropped out.” “Did you report it?” “I went through all the internal channels, and it just vanished into thin air. I even wrote to the Department of Education—not a single reply.” “Why?” “No evidence.” She set down her cup. “No surveillance, no recordings, nothing but my word.” I pulled out my phone and accessed my cloud drive. The folder was empty. The activity log showed that last Friday at 3:17 AM, someone logged in remotely using my account and cleared all backups. The login device was a desktop computer. A lab computer. “They blocked all your escape routes,” Cecilia’s voice was soft. “Why did you come to me?” “Because I’ve regretted it for five years,” she said. “If someone had stood with me back then, maybe things would have been different.” She stood up, leaving the untouched soy milk on the table. “If you still want to fight this battle, find me anytime.” She left. The traffic on the overpass gradually thinned. I sat on the stool and started to pack up my tools. I rummaged to the very bottom of the toolbox—an old phone. This was my test phone for screen repairs, used to check touch sensitivity and fingerprint recognition after applying a new protector. It was linked to the same account as my main phone, syncing automatically. I pressed the power button. The screen lit up, 11% battery. I opened the file manager. In the sync records lay an MP4 file, synced on October 12th—the day after I copied the video from campus security. I opened it. The silent footage brightened. A corridor view, Professor Rivera’s office door ajar, the outlines of two people perfectly clear. I turned off the screen, gripping the phone tightly. A beam of headlights swept over. A black sedan pulled up across the road, engine still running. The driver’s side window rolled down. He got out, crossed the street, and pulled up a plastic stool to sit. “How’s business?” “How did you know I was here?” “Some of my students are your customers.” He crossed his legs. “That thing Gabrielle gave you, did you sign it?” “No.” “Skylar, I’ve been teaching for twenty years. Smart students take the money and leave. Unsmart ones—” his gaze swept over the old phone by my hand, “—insist on hitting a brick wall.” He stood up and brushed off his pants. “The lawyer’s letter will be sent the day after tomorrow. Defamation charges with civil damages—guess the amount?” He leaned down, his face close to mine, the streetlight casting his shadow over me. “Whatever you have, I’ll take. What I can’t take, I’ll make sure you have nothing left.” The sedan merged into traffic, its taillights disappearing around the bend. I looked down at my toolbox. The old phone screen faintly glowed through the gaps in my tools. 11% battery. One unscheduled backup. A number for a woman who dropped out five years ago. I pulled out the old phone and plugged it into my power bank. Then I sent Cecilia a message. “You said you regretted it for five years. If you could do it again—would you dare?” Two minutes later, she replied. “You found a way?” “I have.”

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1 I noticed Connor’s fitness tracker had been logging over twenty thousand steps a day for an entire week. I teased him about it, asking if he was secretly hitting the gym behind my back. He walked out of the master bathroom, roughly towel drying his wet hair. “The firm is pushing a massive new campaign. I’ve been running around meeting clients all day. I am absolutely dead on my feet.” He caught the thoughtful look in my eyes. Coming up behind me, he wrapped his arms around my waist, his voice dripping with that familiar affection. “What’s wrong? Scared I’m running away from you? Relax, babe. I’m yours. Always.” I forced a smile and kept my mouth shut. Later that night, long after his breathing leveled out in sleep, I unlocked his phone and opened his running app. His GPS route didn’t show client meetings. Every single day, a thick red line looped around the apartment complex where his ex lived. Lap after lap. Circle after circle. I quietly took a screenshot, opened my Instagram, and posted it to my close friends story. The caption read: “Congratulations to my husband on re-entering the dating market.” … My story had been live for less than three minutes when Connor’s calls started rolling in. I let it ring. He was relentless. My phone buzzed angrily against the glass coffee table, vibrating over and over. Finally, I swiped to answer, put him on speaker, and tossed the phone onto the sofa. “Justine, what the hell is wrong with you? Take that post down right now!” His voice was tight, barely suppressing a furious roar. I could hear the wind whipping through the receiver. He was definitely outside. I poured myself a glass of cold water, taking my time. “There’s nothing wrong with me. The caption is pretty self explanatory.” “Do you have any idea how many people are blowing up my phone? The guys from the office, our mutual friends! Everyone is asking what happened! Are you trying to publicly humiliate me?” “You humiliated yourself, Connor. Twenty thousand steps at a time.” Dead silence on the other end. When he finally spoke again a few seconds later, the anger had drained out of him, replaced by an exhausted, pleading whine. “Justine, please stop this. I am so burnt out from work. Can you just cut me some slack for once?” “Cut you some slack for jogging laps under your ex’s balcony?” “It is literally just a coincidence! The new development project is on the West End. All my clients are over there. I just decided to get some cardio in while I was in the neighborhood. Is that a crime?” “We have been married for three years, Connor. Since when do you run?” He choked on his words, completely out of ammunition. I was sick of listening to him scramble for lies. “If that is all you have to say, I am going to bed. My lawyer will email you the divorce papers in the morning.” “Justine!” he screamed into the phone. “You are ending our marriage over a freaking run? Are you insane?” I ended the call and immediately blocked his number. The apartment was beautifully quiet. I opened my phone again. My notifications were an absolute war zone. One of our mutual friends had cautiously replied to the story: “Justine, what did Connor do?” One of Connor’s frat brothers jumped into my DMs: “Yo Justine, aren’t you overreacting a bit? My boy has been stressed out of his mind with this new account. You really shouldn’t put him on blast like this.” I stared at the messages, let out a cold laugh, and didn’t bother typing a single word back. Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. I peered through the peephole. It was Connor. His hair was a messy disaster, his eyes bloodshot, and he was pounding his fists against the heavy wood. “Justine, open the damn door! Let’s talk about this like adults! Face to face!” I didn’t move a muscle. His pounding grew heavier, his voice echoing down the hallway loudly enough to make the neighbor across the hall peek out. “Justine, please! Just let me explain!” I turned my back on the door, walked into our bedroom, shoved my noise canceling AirPods in, and cranked up the volume. The banging faded into nothing. I lost track of time. When I finally pulled the earbuds out, the living room was completely silent. He had given up. I let out a long breath and was just about to head to the shower when my screen lit up again. It was Connor’s mother. 2 “Justine, what on earth is going on between you two? Married couples have spats, but airing your dirty laundry on social media? Threatening divorce? Were you raised with zero class?” Helen’s voice was exactly as sharp and venomous as it had been since the day we met. I listened to her rant, my face expressionless, refusing to interrupt. “Connor told me everything. He went for a jog. That is it. Why are you turning this into a massive circus and making our family look like fools in front of everyone?” “Did he happen to mention exactly where he was jogging, Helen?” “What does the location matter? It is a good thing he is staying active! You are his wife. You should be worried about how stressed he is, but instead, you are throwing a tantrum over nothing. Do you even care about him?” I let out a dark chuckle. “He was running laps around the apartment building of his ex, Lily. Twenty thousand steps a day. For an entire week.” The line went dead silent. A long moment passed before Helen cleared her throat, her tone turning defensive and rigid. “So… so what? It was probably just a coincidence! You know Lily has a weak heart. The poor girl is practically an invalid. Connor was probably just… checking in on her to make sure she was okay. Is that such a crime?” “Checking in on her by running in circles outside her window every single night?” “Why are you being so stubborn? He married you, didn’t he? Stop being so hysterical. Delete that ridiculous post, apologize to Connor, and we will pretend this never happened.” “I did nothing wrong. Why would I apologize?” “You…” Helen sputtered, choking on her rage. “Justine, let me make this very clear. The family name will not be dragged through the mud! If you want to remain a part of this family, you will fix this mess immediately!” She slammed the phone down. I stared at the darkened screen, feeling a freezing hollow sensation in my chest. This was the man I had married. These were the people I had tied myself to. Whenever anything went wrong, I was always the villain. I dragged my suitcase out of the closet and started tossing my clothes inside. I couldn’t stand to breathe the air in this apartment for one second longer. Just as I zipped the bag shut, my phone buzzed with an unknown caller ID. I hesitated, then swiped to accept. A soft, breathy female voice filtered through the speaker, sounding like she was on the verge of collapsing. “Is… is this Justine?” It was Lily. “It is Lily. Justine, please, you have to listen to me. Do not be mad at Connor. It is… it is not what you think.” Her voice was so frail it sounded like she was whispering through a dying lung. “He just heard that my heart condition flared up again. He was terrified I was going to pass out alone in my apartment, so he just… lingered around the neighborhood to make sure I was safe. I swear to you, we haven’t even seen each other face to face.” I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “So, I should be thanking him? Is that it? Thanking my husband for dedicating his precious free time to babysit his fragile ex while I am working myself into the ground?” “No, Justine, please don’t say that…” She sounded like she was about to burst into tears. “It is all my fault. Blame me, but don’t punish him. He only loves you. If you don’t believe me, I will swear on my life right now that I will never text him again!” What a brilliant performance. The ultimate damsel in distress. I scoffed into the mic. “I really don’t care if you text him or not. We are getting divorced.” I killed the call. I was done listening to their pathetic excuses. 3 I dragged my suitcase out to the curb, flagged down an Uber, and went straight to Roxy’s place. After I spilled the whole story, Roxy was so furious she hurled a throw pillow violently across her living room. “Are you kidding me right now? What is wrong with his mother? And what exactly is Lily suffering from? The Black Plague? Does Connor need to perform a goddamn healing ritual on her front lawn every night?” I sank deep into the cushions, too drained to formulate a sentence. “You are divorcing that trash! Tonight! We are not dragging this dead weight into the new year. I’ve got your back, babe, whatever you need.” Roxy shoved a mug of hot tea into my hands, rubbing my freezing knuckles. “You did the right thing putting him on blast! Let the whole city see what a lying snake he is!” I managed a weak, bitter smile. My phone buzzed. Another text from Helen. “Justine, come over for dinner tonight. I made that glazed pork you like. We are going to sit down as a family and talk this out like adults.” A second text immediately followed. “I invited Lily to join us. She is going to look you in the eye and clear this whole misunderstanding up, so you can stop being so paranoid.” I turned the screen toward Roxy. Roxy’s jaw literally dropped before her eyes narrowed into lethal slits. “Oh, this bitch is good. It is a total ambush. What is she expecting? You and the mistress holding hands over dessert, bonding over how much you both love her precious son?” “Get up,” Roxy demanded, suddenly yanking my arm. Her eyes were burning with a terrifying thrill. “We are going. And we are going to look drop dead gorgeous. I want a front row seat to whatever psychotic play this family is trying to put on.” By sunset, I was wearing a killer cherry red dress Roxy had pulled from her closet, my makeup flawlessly sharp. We pulled up to his parents’ suburban house together. Connor opened the door. His eyes lit up the second he saw me, but the relief vanished the moment he spotted Roxy glaring at him from my right. “Hey. You came.” He reached out to grab my hand, but I dodged him smoothly. “Roxy, this is family business. Why are you here?” Roxy crossed her arms, flashing a predatory grin. “What, scared I’m gonna eat all your groceries? Relax, I’ll Venmo you for the water.” Helen rushed out of the kitchen, plastering a painfully fake smile on her face. “Oh, Roxy! What a surprise. Come in, come in. Justine, sweetie, I made soup for you.” I slipped my heels off and stepped into the living room. My eyes immediately locked onto the girl sitting on the sofa. Lily. She was wearing an oversized white knit dress. Her skin was incredibly pale, her lips completely bare of color. She looked so pitiful and frail, like a strong gust of wind would snap her in half. When she saw me, she nervously got to her feet, offering me a trembling, fragile smile. “Hi, Justine.” I looked right through her, walking straight to the armchair across from her and sitting down. The dining table felt like a graveyard. Arthur, my father in law, sat stone faced at the head of the table. Helen aggressively piled food onto my plate, acting as the frantic peacekeeper. “Justine, look at you, you’ve lost weight. You need to eat. Work is important, but health comes first.” “And Connor,” she scolded, shooting her son a theatrical glare. “You are acting like a child. If you had a problem, you should have just talked to your wife instead of making her worry.” Connor instantly dropped his head, playing the role of the repentant boy perfectly. “I know. I’m sorry, babe. Please stop being mad.” I hadn’t picked up my fork. I just sat back and watched the family theater unfold. Under the table, Roxy tapped my ankle with her boot, shooting me a knowing look. 4 Helen cleared her throat, finally pulling the trigger. “Justine, the reason I asked Lily to join us tonight is so we can get everything out in the open and squash this silly rumor once and for all.” She gave Lily a pointed look. Lily caught her cue perfectly, her voice trembling like a dying bird. “Justine, I am so, so sorry for causing you so much stress.” Her eyes immediately filled with tears. “There is absolutely nothing going on between Connor and me. He just… he just pitied me.” “I was born with a severe heart defect. The specialists told me I wouldn’t make it past thirty. My parents passed away a long time ago, so I have been fighting this totally alone. A few weeks ago, my condition crashed. They handed me a terminal prognosis. Connor must have heard about it from our old college friends, and he just…” She choked on a sob, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. Connor practically leaped out of his chair to hand her a tissue, his eyes swimming with guilt and desperate affection. “Don’t push yourself, Lily. Take a breath.” Helen sighed heavily, shaking her head. “Such a tragic hand to be dealt. You see, Justine? Connor just has a bleeding heart. He couldn’t stand seeing her suffer. You are reading way too much into this.” Roxy actually snorted, nearly choking on her wine. She slammed her glass down, flashing a razor sharp smile. “Wow, Helen. That is some wild logic. So because he feels bad for his ex, he gets a free pass to completely trash his wife’s boundaries? What happens next week? He sees a homeless guy on the street and moves him into the master bedroom?” Helen’s face flushed purple. “Excuse me? Who taught you how to speak to adults?” “Just calling it how I see it,” Roxy fired back, staring Helen down without blinking. “Also, it is so crazy, because when Lily was doing her master’s degree in Europe, she looked incredibly healthy. Scuba diving, rock climbing, partying in Ibiza. Her Instagram grid looked like a Red Bull commercial. But the second she moves back to the States, she is suddenly on her deathbed?” All the blood instantly drained from Lily’s face. She stammered in absolute panic, “That… that was years ago. My heart started failing right after I flew back…” “Really?” Roxy raised an eyebrow. “What terrible timing.” Connor slammed his hand on the table, stepping up to shield Lily. “Back off, Roxy! Who do you think you are interrogating her like this? You don’t know a damn thing about her medical history!” “No, I don’t. But I know that a married man orbiting his ex girlfriend like a pathetic satellite is cheating!” “I didn’t cheat!” Connor roared, his neck turning red. “I was just jogging! Stop acting like a psycho!” The shouting match was seconds away from exploding. I finally opened my mouth. “Enough.” I didn’t yell, but the room instantly went dead silent. All four pairs of eyes snapped to me. I pulled out my phone, pulled up a specific webpage, and flipped the screen around for all of them to see. “I posted this on a local Reddit forum yesterday.” The title of the thread read: “My husband logs 20k steps a day, but his GPS shows he’s circling his ex’s apartment. What do I do?” There were already hundreds of comments. “Girl, throw the whole man away!” “Pack your bags. If you stay, you’re the clown.” “My ex did the exact same thing. Found out six months later he had a whole secret baby with her!” Connor and Helen looked like they were going to vomit. I scrolled past the comments and opened a specific direct message. A user named MidnightJogger had sent me a massive block of text. “Hey OP. I am pretty sure I know exactly who you are talking about. I live in the same building as your husband’s ex.” “There is this guy who runs laps around our courtyard every single night. He stays for hours. He always stops to stare up at the third floor balcony.” “Last night, I actually saw him bring a pharmacy bag up to her door. They were standing way too close. He was holding her.” Right beneath the text message was an attachment. The photo was slightly grainy, taken in the dim hallway lighting, but it was undeniable. Connor had his arm firmly wrapped around Lily’s waist. His face was buried in her hair. And Lily was leaning completely into his chest, looking like the happiest girl in the world.

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The plane was ten minutes from takeoff when I was blocked by several flight attendants. The reason: my deaf-mute daughter had handed out a stack of cards with pleas for help. “We’ve received a report that you’re suspected of child abduction. Please show your ID.” The flight attendant’s voice was undeniably serious. Before I could explain, my daughter suddenly unbuckled her seatbelt and rushed out. She knelt before the flight attendant, bowing repeatedly, desperately signing “sister save me.” The entire cabin immediately erupted. Passengers rose to take photos. “Willow, stop it! We still need to go abroad to see the doctor!” I was sweating profusely, frantically pulling out my ID and household register to prove my identity. But my daughter cried even harder, the bruises on her arms strikingly obvious as she struggled. The moment I was escorted off the plane, I watched, helpless, as she threw herself into another woman’s arms, laughing with innocent joy. The immense shock caused me to miss a step on the boarding ramp and fall, my consciousness plunging into darkness. When I opened my eyes again, the familiar scene replayed—flight attendants surrounded me, and my daughter was about to rush out. This time, I didn’t panic. In front of everyone, I dialed the police: “Police? Someone here is abducting my child.” … “I want to report a crime.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough to be heard throughout the cabin. The flight attendant froze, her hand holding the cards suspended in mid-air, her professional smile fracturing little by little. Willow’s hand paused on the seatbelt buckle, not pressing it. She turned to look at me, her eyes filled with confusion. I pulled out my phone, dialed 911 in front of everyone, and put it on speaker. “Hello, Capital 911, how may I help you?” I looked into the eyes of the flight attendant before me, saying each word clearly: “I want to report a crime. Flight CA989, Capital Airport T3 Terminal. Someone is abducting a child.” There was a second of silence on the other end of the line. The flight attendant’s face went white, and Willow’s eyes widened. Someone in the back row gasped. Seeing everyone’s reactions, I smiled. In my previous life, when I was suddenly surrounded by flight attendants, my mind went blank. All I could say was “no,” “I didn’t,” “she’s my daughter.” But no one listened. Only ten minutes remained until takeoff. The lead flight attendant held a pile of cards, her face grave, as she questioned me: “Ma’am, we’ve received a report that you’re a child trafficker. Please show your ID.” The cards were covered in children’s drawings, each with “HELP ME” and “child trafficker” scrawled on them. Before I could react, Willow had already darted out. She knelt before the flight attendant, bowing her head, her forehead hitting the aisle floor with loud thuds. Her face was drenched in tears, and she signed rapidly: “Sister, save me, she’s not my mother.” She signed quickly, forcefully, as if using all her strength to beg for help. Someone in the cabin understood sign language, and the place instantly erupted. “Oh my god, she’s saying she’s been abducted by a trafficker!” “Call a flight marshal!” “Record it! Don’t let her get away!” I stood up, flustered: “Willow! Stop fooling around!” “I’ve scheduled you for surgery abroad, time is of the essence!” I pulled out my ID, household register, birth certificate, surgery appointment… Taking them out one by one, my hands trembling, my voice shaking. The flight attendant skeptically took the documents. But Willow cried heartbrokenly. She rolled up her sleeves, her thin arms covered in bruises, purple and blue. Frantically signing: “Save me, save me.” Everyone, upon seeing the injuries on my daughter, instantly made me their prime suspect. I was helpless and desperate. “The surgery took eight months to schedule, if it’s delayed now, it’s truly lost!” “Willow! Tell them! I really am your mother!” But my daughter just cried endlessly; the moment I touched her, she shrieked and bit me. Her frantic behavior raised suspicions, and I was forcibly ordered off the plane, only to see my daughter run into another woman’s arms. In a daze, I missed a step on the boarding ramp and fell to my death. The call paused for a second, then immediately asked: “Madam, are you sure—” “I’m quite clear.” I cut her off, my voice as calm as if I were remarking on the good weather: “There’s a child trafficker on this plane. I saw it with my own eyes.” “The plane is taking off in ten minutes. I suspect the trafficker has other motives. For safety, please dispatch officers immediately.” After hanging up, I looked at the stack of cards in the flight attendant’s hand and smiled. “Isn’t there a child trafficker? I called the police for you. Go ahead and catch them.” When the call ended, the cabin was so quiet you could hear the hum of the air conditioning. The flight attendant still held the stack of cards, her face as if someone had pressed the pause button. Willow’s hand paused on the seatbelt buckle, not pressing it. She turned to look at me, her eyes filled with confusion. Someone in the back row gasped. Willow finally moved; she still rushed to the flight attendant and knelt. Her face tear-streaked as she signed: “Sister, save me. She’s lying; she’s really not my mother.” She signed quickly, forcefully. Someone stood up to block the aisle, someone else held a phone up, filming my face. I sat in my seat, unmoving. Watching Willow hug the flight attendant’s legs, watching her cry until her face was crimson. In my previous life, I hadn’t noticed anything was wrong with Willow. Willow has been deaf and mute since childhood. This trip was for a cochlear implant. I waited eight months in line, begged countless people, and spent all my savings. Miss this chance, and I’d have to wait another year. Willow is five and a half now; doctors said the window period is before she turns six. If we waited another year, she would miss the optimal timing and might never hear again. She started acting up after boarding the plane. First she wanted orange juice, then apple sauce, then a blanket. The flight attendants ran back and forth more than a dozen times. I thought she was nervous before surgery and didn’t pay much attention. Now I knew she wasn’t acting up; she was handing out those cards one by one. Over a dozen cards, each with “HELP ME” and “child trafficker” drawn on them. How did a five-year-old deaf-mute child, without help, manage that? The flight attendant helped Willow up and hugged her, then turned to me, her expression changed: “Madam, please show your ID again. We need to check it.” I didn’t speak again. I took out my ID and household register from my bag, handing them over one by one. My movements were slow, steady. The flight attendant took them, this time looking very carefully. She flipped through page by page, checking word by word. “Olivia Goodwin, female, 29 years old.” She read the information on the ID, then opened the household register. “Willow Goodwin, female, relationship to head of household—daughter.” She looked up at me, a trace of hesitation in her eyes. Just then, Willow began to sign again. She pointed to the bruises on her arm, crying heartbrokenly, her whole body trembling in the flight attendant’s embrace. “Save me! She’s really not my mom, she hits me every day!” The flight attendant looked down at Willow’s arm, her brows furrowed. Those bruises—black and blue—were shocking under the cabin lights. A woman nearby leaned over for a look, gasping, “Oh my goodness, how badly was she beaten?!” More people gathered. “This child is so pitiful.” “Just looking at her breaks my heart.” “Must be a stepmother, right? No birth mother would hit a child like that.” “Yes, yes, definitely a stepmother!” “Why aren’t the police here yet! Arrest this person immediately!” The voices grew louder, some even started pointing and cursing at me, wishing me dead. I sat in my seat, watching those people. In my previous life, I cried, explaining “I’m her biological mother,” but no one believed me. The flight attendant hesitated, then handed my documents back. “Madam, your documents are in order. However, the child’s accusations and injuries—” “I know.” I nodded. “You need to investigate.” “Yes, for the safety of passengers and the child, upon arrival at our destination, we will need to investigate you. Please cooperate.” “Now, our plane is about to take off…” As soon as she heard the plane was about to take off, Willow visibly panicked. She rolled up her sleeves, showing both her arms, frantically signing: “She’s not my mom! She’s a trafficker! Her suitcase has a bomb!” The person who understood sign language immediately shouted: “She says there’s a bomb on the plane!” The word “bomb” was like a fire thrown into an oil barrel. The flight attendant’s face instantly changed, her voice trembling, “Bomb?” Willow nodded frantically, tears streaming down her face, her fingers signing wildly: “Suitcase! The suitcase she’s carrying!” “There’s a bomb inside! She wants to blow up the plane!” The cabin completely erupted. “I want to get off the plane!” “Open the door! Open the door now!” “Fake, right? How could security let a bomb through?” “Can a child lie? She’s deaf and mute! She wouldn’t lie!” Some people started unbuckling their seatbelts, pushing towards the cabin door. Others pulled their suitcases from the overhead compartments, using them as shields. The flight attendant picked up her intercom, her voice trembling: “Captain, emergency situation, suspected explosive threat in the cabin. Request immediate evacuation!” There was a second of silence on the other end, then the captain’s voice: “Received. Initiate emergency protocol immediately. All passengers evacuate in an orderly manner.” “The plane is evacuating! Let’s go!” The flight attendant began organizing the evacuation. But panic still spread, turning the entire cabin into chaos. Willow was picked up by the flight attendant and moved towards the cabin door. She looked back at me. She smiled at me. That smile was not one a five-year-old child should have. I sat in my seat, unmoving. Two flight attendants rushed over, one on each side, grabbing my arms and pulling me from my seat. I didn’t struggle, letting them drag me towards the cabin door. “Let go of me.” My voice was very calm. “There’s a bomb threat on the plane, please cooperate!” “What if there’s no bomb in my suitcase?” No one paid attention to me. I was dragged out of the cabin door and pushed into the jet bridge. Behind me was a chaotic crowd; some were cursing, some were on their phones. I was pressed against the jet bridge wall by two flight attendants. Five minutes later, the police arrived. Three police cars, six officers. The jet bridge was cordoned off, and all passengers were taken to the waiting area for re-screening. I was led into an office by two police officers. The moment the door closed, the cold air from the AC hit me. The officer opposite me, a man in his forties with a square face, had a very stern expression. He sat down, opened his notebook, and looked at me. “Alright. What happened?” “My daughter said on the plane that I was a child trafficker, and that I had a bomb in my suitcase.” “Your daughter? Biological?” “Biological.” “Why would she say that?” I looked into his eyes: “Because someone taught her.” The officer frowned. “Who?” “I don’t know, that’s why I called the police.” He paused. “I called the police, saying there was a child trafficker on this plane.” I looked at his face. “The trafficker isn’t me, it’s the person who taught her.” “How do you prove that?” “First, the bruises on my daughter’s arms weren’t there when she bathed last night; the hotel surveillance can prove that.” “Second, those rescue cards, over a dozen of them, a five-year-old deaf-mute child couldn’t write them without being taught.” “Third—” I pulled out my phone, opened my chat history with Anna Chen, and handed it over. “This is an appointment I made eight months ago with a New York specialist, for today’s surgery.” “My daughter has congenital deafness. If she misses this, and we wait another year, the window period will pass.” “Would I, at this critical juncture, take her on a plane, then abuse her and let her accuse me?” The officer looked down at the phone, his brows furrowing deeper. “So you suspect—” “I suspect someone approached her before she boarded the plane, taught her to write cards, taught her to cry for help, taught her to say there was a bomb.” I looked into the officer’s eyes: “The goal was to cancel the flight and have me arrested as a criminal.” “I demand to review the surveillance footage from Terminal 3, this afternoon, to see who contacted my daughter.” Just then, the officer’s walkie-talkie buzzed. “Report, no explosives or suspicious items found in the luggage. Repeat, no explosives found.” The officer put down the walkie-talkie and looked up at me. “There was indeed no bomb in the suitcase.” “I know.” “Why did your daughter say there was?” “As I said, someone taught her.” The officer was silent for a few seconds, then closed his notebook. “We understand the situation. You can wait outside for now; please don’t leave the airport until the investigation is complete.” “What about the flight?” “It’s canceled. All passengers need to go through security again. Specific takeoff time will be announced later.” I closed my eyes. Eight months of waiting, gone. “Let’s go.” The officer stood up and opened the door. I walked out of the office, the lights in the waiting area stinging my eyes. Willow was surrounded by a group of people. A woman was holding her, while others offered water and wiped her tears. “So pitiful, such a small child.” “She has injuries on her body, look at her arms.” “Thankfully she was discovered, otherwise she really would have been taken abroad.” Someone saw me walk out, their face changed: “How did she get out? Not arrested?” “What are the police doing? Why aren’t they arresting someone like her?” The woman holding Willow took two steps back, as if afraid I’d snatch her. “Stay away from us! You monster!” Someone blocked my path, pointing a finger at me and cursing: “You dare to come out? Hitting a child like that, are you even human?” “Stepmother! Definitely a stepmother!” “Officers! Why aren’t you arresting her!” The voices grew louder, some even started pushing me. I stumbled a step, my back hitting the wall. Just then, the airport announcement boomed. “Attention all passengers, Flight CA989 has undergone security checks, and no explosives or suspicious items were found.” “This security incident was a false alarm. We apologize for any inconvenience caused. Please monitor future announcements for the flight’s updated departure time.” The waiting area was silent for a second. Then, the crowd immediately erupted. “What? False alarm?” “What the hell is going on? I’ve been waiting here for ages, and it turns out to be fake?” “Who called the police? Who said there was a bomb?” “How much trouble has this caused me! I have an urgent meeting to attend!” The waiting area was in complete chaos. “You’ll pay! You’ll pay me a hundred million!” A man in a suit rushed towards me, his face crimson. “My contract was delayed because of your messed-up situation! Can you afford to pay?!” “Exactly! You’ve wasted so much of our time!” “Call the police and arrest her! Her daughter said there was a bomb!” “Didn’t her daughter say it? What kind of child did she raise!” More and more people gathered around. Some held up phones, filming me; others pointed and cursed at me. The man in the suit reached out to push me. “I’m not the person you should be looking for.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough for those in the front row to hear. “If not you, then who! Your daughter said there was a bomb!” “Right! Your daughter said it!” “Then go find my daughter.” I looked at them. “She’s standing over there. Go ask her for a hundred million.” The man in the suit froze. “You… you’re trying to squirm your way out of this!” He grabbed my collar, pushing me against the wall, my head hitting the tile with a ringing thud. “Stop!” The police rushed out, pushing the man in the suit away.

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Right in the middle of a massive joint corporate press conference, I announced my divorce. The reason? A cheap, fluffy rabbit keychain dangling from my husband’s new assistant’s tote bag. Chaos erupted. Everyone in the venue was completely blindsided, desperately urging me to reconsider. “It is just a stupid keychain. If you hate it that much, just throw it away.” “Exactly. Just fire the assistant. There is absolutely no reason to throw your entire marriage away over this.” My husband, Simon, threw his billionaire CEO image entirely out the window. He dropped to his knees in front of flashing cameras, begging me not to abandon him. But looking at the pathetic display, I simply shook my head. “No. This marriage is over.” 1 “Mary, please. I am so sorry. Did I do something wrong? Please do not walk away from me.” The entire conference hall went dead silent the second Simon hit the floor. A heartbeat later, the press practically climbed over each other, camera shutters firing like machine guns. Nobody wanted to miss a scandal of this magnitude. Today was supposed to be the monumental merger announcement between the Belmont Group and Plana Industries. Simon and I were sitting at the main panel, fielding questions from top-tier financial journalists. Everything was going perfectly. Until I glanced to the side of the stage and saw Simon’s temporary assistant absentmindedly stroking the plush rabbit hanging from her bag. I leaned into my microphone, cutting Simon off mid-sentence, and declared that the Belmont-Plana partnership was terminated. I then announced our impending divorce. “Mary Belmont, have you lost your mind?!” My father shot out of his front-row seat, pointing a shaking finger at me. “Over a keychain?! You do not gamble a billion-dollar merger on a temper tantrum!” “Mary, sweetheart, listen to your father.” Simon’s mother rushed toward the stage, trying to do damage control. “If you do not like the girl, Simon will fire her right now. We do not throw away family ties over the hired help.” Simon and I were childhood sweethearts. From preschool to the corporate boardroom, I was the only woman he ever had eyes for. Everyone in the city knew Simon Plana worshiped the ground I walked on. After we got married, he took his loyalty to an extreme level just to make sure I never felt insecure. His drivers, his executive assistants, and his entire inner circle were strictly male. Even during corporate board meetings, female executives were required to sit at least ten feet away from him. It was a running joke in the financial district. They said that within a ten-foot radius of Simon Plana, not even a female mosquito was allowed to exist. Except for me. The only reason this girl was here today was because Simon’s actual assistant got into a fender bender on the highway. She was a last-minute substitute pulled from the event staff. Throughout the entire conference, Simon hadn’t spoken a single word to her. He barely even nodded in her direction. “Wow. I heard the Belmont heiress was insanely possessive, but this is actual clinical paranoia.” “Right? I have been watching the stage the whole time. Mr. Plana literally never even looked at the assistant. She is absolutely unhinged.” The whispers from the press pit grew louder, buzzing with malicious gossip. I ignored all of it, standing my ground. “Mary, stop this nonsense right now! Look at the absolute circus you have created!” My father, realizing I wasn’t backing down, stormed the stage. He raised his hand, fully intending to slap some sense into me in front of the entire city. I braced myself, ready to take the hit. But at the very last second, Simon lunged in front of me. The sharp crack of my father’s palm against Simon’s cheek echoed through the microphones. “Oh my god, Mr. Plana is literally taking a beating for her. He is so hopelessly in love.” “Where do you even find a guy like that? She is completely out of her mind to divorce him over a stuffed animal.” “Honestly, he is better off without her. She doesn’t deserve a man that devoted.” The crowd’s sympathy instantly shifted entirely to Simon. “Mary, whatever I did, I know it is my fault.” Simon ignored the trickle of blood in the corner of his mouth. The red handprint on his face was already swelling, but he just grabbed my hands, his eyes wide and desperate. “Just forgive me this one time. Please. We grew up together. We do everything together. You are literally a part of my soul. I cannot live without you.” I stared at his pleading face. I slowly pulled my hands out of his grip. “I am filing the papers tomorrow.” “Divorce? You open your mouth and demand a divorce over this piece of junk?!” My father, shaking with rage, marched over to the terrified assistant. He violently ripped the plush rabbit off her tote bag and threw it directly at my feet. I looked down at it. It was a remarkably cheap, ugly little toy. The stitching was crooked, exactly like something you would buy from a dollar-store bin. Simon was a man who obsessed over bespoke Italian suits and imported luxury goods. A tacky piece of synthetic fur like this was something he would normally order sanitized from his presence. To the naked eye, there was absolutely zero connection between this toy and my billionaire husband. But my resolve was made of iron. 2 “Mary, look at me.” My mother slipped onto the stage, wrapping a warm arm around my shoulders. She lowered her voice to a fierce whisper. “Tell me the truth. Did he hurt you? Because if he actually did something unforgivable, I will back your divorce a hundred percent.” My throat tightened. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. After all the screaming and public humiliation, my mother was the only person in the room who actually cared about my well-being. “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered back. “But it has nothing to do with that. Simon is perfectly fine. I am just… tired of him. I have had enough.” Hearing my blatant dismissal, my father practically vibrated with rage. He couldn’t even form words. My mother and Simon’s parents looked at me with profound disappointment. I didn’t care. I turned my back on all of them. “Simon, expect to hear from my lawyers by the end of the week.” I walked off the stage, leaving the flashing cameras and the shattered remains of our corporate empire behind. The moment I got home, I began drafting the legal framework for the separation. Unraveling the Belmont and Plana corporate assets was going to be a monumental nightmare. I was buried in spreadsheets when my phone buzzed frantically. It was my best friend, Zoe. “Mary, you need to get online right now. It is a complete bloodbath. Your announcement is the number one trending topic globally.” I clicked the link she texted me. It was a high-definition recording of the press conference. The comment section was a toxic wasteland of pure hatred directed at me. [This woman needs to be locked in a psych ward. Destroying a corporate merger over a cheap keychain? Insane.] [This is what happens when spoiled housewives sit at home with too much free time. They manufacture drama because their lives are too easy.] [Am I the only one who feels terrible for the assistant? She is just trying to do her minimum-wage job and suddenly she is the catalyst for a billionaire divorce. Talk about catching strays.] [Plot twist. The wife is definitely the one cheating. She just needed to manufacture a public excuse to play the victim before she gets caught.] [Actually, I work at a luxury hotel downtown. I have definitely seen her checking in with different men. Rich people are freaks.] There were a tiny handful of rational comments sprinkled in. [Guys, what if the CEO actually is sleeping with the assistant? The keychain might just be a coded excuse to keep the real scandal quiet for the sake of the company stocks.] But that tiny sliver of defense was obliterated ten minutes later. Someone leaked Simon’s highly classified personal schedule from the last three months. Simon was an infamous workaholic. His entire itinerary was broken down into ten-minute intervals. Every single second of his life was accounted for. He was either in high-level board meetings, attending public corporate galas, or at home with me. Furthermore, his business dinners were exclusively held in highly publicized Michelin-star restaurants. He never stepped foot in shady private clubs or VIP lounges. Hundreds of elite witnesses could vouch for his exact whereabouts. [Look at this schedule! The man barely has time to sleep, let alone maintain a secret mistress.] [He literally goes straight home to his wife every single night after working 16-hour days. He is the blueprint for a perfect husband.] To make matters infinitely worse, the assistant posted a tearful, shaky video from her apartment. In the video, she sobbed hysterically, explaining that she didn’t even work for Plana Industries. She was a low-level contractor hired by an external PR firm to manage the stage lights. She only stepped in to hand Simon a microphone because his real assistant crashed his car. She swore on her life she had never met Simon before today. The keychain was just a trinket she bought at a gas station. The internet went absolutely feral. [What a psychotic, rabid dog. She is just ruining innocent people’s lives for fun.] [She definitely got knocked up by another dude and is trying to burn her husband’s reputation to secure the bag.] [She is the heiress to the Belmont Group, right? I am boycotting all their products. I refuse to give my money to a clinically insane narcissist.] The digital mob was relentless. Within hours, Belmont Group’s stock took a catastrophic nosedive. 3 Because I publicly nuked the Plana merger, three of our biggest international development projects were instantly frozen by panicked investors. “Mary, I swear to God I didn’t mean for the schedule to get leaked.” I walked into the living room to find Simon sitting on my sofa. The second he saw me, his eyes welled with tears. He rushed over, grabbing my wrists in a desperate grip. “My PR team panicked and released it without my authorization. I already fired the guy who did it.” “I never wanted any of this public. Please, Mary. Just forgive me. Come back to me.” I looked at him with pure, unadulterated disgust. I ripped my hands out of his grip like he was coated in acid. “Mary Belmont, you have really done it this time.” My father stormed out of the kitchen, his face purple with fury. “You have single-handedly tanked the family legacy. The board is in a total panic.” “We are incredibly lucky Simon is a decent man. He is willing to forgive your psychotic episode and proceed with the merger.” My father grabbed my arm, forcibly dragging me toward his laptop on the coffee table. “Log into your account right now. You are going to post a public apology, beg for his forgiveness, and we are going to bury this disaster today.” He stood over me, radiating a terrifying ultimatum. If I didn’t type the apology, I was dead to him. Fine. I stared at the blank text box on my official social media page. I placed my fingers on the keys and typed a single sentence. [Seven days from now, I will host a live broadcast revealing the exact, undeniable truth behind my divorce. See you then.] I hit publish. “You… you absolute monster!” My father stared at the screen as the post went live. He clutched his chest, gasping for air as his face drained of color. “You are burning down everything your mother and I built! You are destroying us!” “Mary. I am so incredibly disappointed in you.” My mother walked into the room, staring at the viral post on her own phone. “I raised you better than this.” “Get out of my house! I am formally disowning you. The Belmont family has no daughter!” My father roared, winding up and backhanding me across the face with everything he had. The slap was devastating. It caught me right on the temple. My ears instantly erupted in a blinding, high-pitched ringing. The room spun wildly, fading into black as my knees buckled. When I finally opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room blinded me. Strangely, the suffocating anger that filled the room earlier had completely vanished. Everyone was smiling. “Mary, baby, how are you feeling? Does your head hurt?” Simon was sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping my hand so tightly it was cutting off my circulation. His eyes were shining with manic joy. “Mary, you are pregnant. We couldn’t believe it either. You are already six months along. How on earth did you not notice?” my mother asked, her voice trembling with happy tears. I froze completely. I forgot to even pull my hand away from Simon. My menstrual cycles had been an erratic, nonexistent mess for years due to severe PCOS. I never tracked them. I had gained a little weight recently, but with an anterior placenta hiding the bump, I just assumed it was stress bloat. Pregnancy was literally the last thing on my mind. Shortly after Simon and I got married, we spent a fortune at a fertility clinic. The specialists told us that due to severe blockages in my fallopian tubes, natural conception was a medical impossibility. Since we were both the sole heirs to our respective corporate empires, a lack of children was a massive crisis. I didn’t want to trap him in a dead-end lineage, so I offered him a clean divorce back then. When I handed him the papers, he had physically covered my mouth with his hand. He swore that he only wanted me. He promised we would live a beautiful life as a party of two, and leave our billions to charity when we died. Even his parents had held my hands and told me they loved me like their own blood. They promised that a child would never dictate my worth in their family. At the time, I wept in his arms. I truly believed I had found the perfect family. But now, right as I uncovered the sickening truth and wanted to burn his life to the ground, this impossible child decided to make its presence known. “Look, Mary. This is proof. The universe knows we belong together. Even God refuses to let us separate.” A single tear rolled down Simon’s cheek. “We are going to be parents, Mary. Everything is going to be perfect.” 4 “Exactly! I can’t believe I am actually going to be a grandfather.” My father, who had literally knocked me unconscious hours ago, was beaming with pride. “I need to go buy some baby name books. We will pick out a few options for both boys and girls.” The room was practically vibrating with wholesome, domestic joy. But looking at their smiling faces, my heart was a block of solid ice. “I am not keeping it. I am booking an abortion immediately.” My voice was flat and dead. “And regardless of what happens, I am divorcing him.” The joyous chatter instantly flatlined. The silence was deafening. My father dropped the glass of water he was holding. It shattered against the sterile floor. “You ungrateful wretch! Do you have any idea how broken your body is? Simon stayed with you when he knew you were barren. He sacrificed his own bloodline for you!” “Now, by some absolute miracle, you finally give him an heir, and you want to murder it?! If you want to act like a lunatic, you will do it after you deliver the child. Once the baby is born, I do not care if you drop dead in a ditch!” My father was practically hyperventilating, his face twisting in ugly fury. The door swung open. Simon’s parents rushed in, their faces tight with panic. “Mary, please listen to us. We just spoke to the chief obstetrician. The baby is perfectly healthy!” Mrs. Plana grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging into my skin. “The child has been inside you for six months and hasn’t given you a single complication. It is a literal angel sent from heaven. How could you be so cruel?” I didn’t flinch. I just hit the call button and demanded the nurses prep me for an induction termination. But because I was already in my second trimester, the procedure required a complex induction process. Without finding a severe fetal abnormality, the hospital ethics board flat-out refused to authorize it. I demanded a transfer to a private clinic. But the slap to my head had left me with severe vertigo. More importantly, Simon and my father placed a small army of private security outside my room. I was functionally a prisoner. I wasn’t even allowed to walk to the cafeteria. Every single day, they rotated shifts, employing a brutal mix of emotional manipulation, guilt trips, and outright threats to break my resolve. “Mary, look at me. I took that stupid keychain and burned it to ashes in the backyard. It means absolutely nothing.” Simon knelt by my bed, presenting me with a velvet jewelry box. “I swear on my mother’s life I have never met that assistant before. You know my schedule. I do not have the physical time to cheat on you.” “If you don’t believe me, I will have my IT department clone my phone, my servers, and the entire corporate security grid. You can hire your own private hackers to scrub my data. I am innocent.” He gestured to the mountain of designer shopping bags piled in the corner of the hospital room. “These are all the limited-edition pieces you mentioned liking last year. I bought them all to celebrate you becoming a mother. Whatever you want, I will buy it.” He rested his chin on my blanket, looking up at me with those sad, puppy-dog eyes. “Oh, by the way. I authorized the Plana legal team to temporarily freeze the Belmont merger assets. I know your family’s stock is hemorrhaging right now. If you keep pushing this divorce, Belmont Group will be bankrupt by Friday.” He buried his face in my sheets, his voice muffled but sharp. “But do not worry. As long as you have my child, I will never let your family starve. I love you more than anything, Mary.” He looked up, a perfect, devoted smile plastered on his face. My stomach violently turned. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from vomiting. He was holding my entire family hostage under the guise of true love. “Do not flatter yourself. My company will survive without your charity. And this parasite is coming out of me the second I find a clinic.” I stared coldly into his eyes. “As for the real reason I am dumping you… make sure you tune into the livestream.” Simon didn’t visit me after that conversation. The Belmont Group’s international projects began mysteriously failing, bleeding millions by the hour. I knew exactly who was pulling the strings. He was trying to starve me into submission. On the seventh day, my phone rang right as I was setting up my ring light. It was Simon. “Mary, call off the broadcast. Tell the world we are working it out, and I will instantly inject capital back into your father’s firm. We can pretend this ugly week never happened.” I didn’t say a single word. I hung up, blocked his number, and hit the ‘Go Live’ button on my app. Because of the massive media circus, my viewer count instantly skyrocketed past one million the second my face appeared on screen.

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1 I had a secret rose birthmark. At nineteen, I gave myself to my uncle Jack while drunk. The night stayed with me, but the next day he told me the family business had failed and he had ALS. I left the military to care for him. I sold my house, borrowed money, and struggled for five years. Debt collectors hurt me, but I saved every coin to extend his life. One day at work, I saw Jack in a smart uniform, talking happily with friends. He was supposed to be in a wheelchair. A comrade said he had faked his illness for five years, and I had nearly destroyed myself to help him. Jack replied coldly that he did it to discipline me for not being kind to Monica. He planned a fake recovery to send me back to the military, believing I had learned my lesson. He thought I would believe anything he said. I stood there in silence, tears falling. There would be no later for us. His disease was a lie, but I was truly broken. ……. Outside, the cold wind bit at me. It was freezing. I stood rooted to the spot, a senseless puppet, enduring the slow agony of five years of shattered faith. Each cut tore at my flesh and blood. Jack’s comrade, Lincoln, sighed. “Honestly, you’re truly heartless. That’s the child you raised yourself, the youngest ace sniper in the military district. She retired just because you told her to, and at just twenty-something, she’s worn out like an old woman. A few days ago, she even asked me for a loan, needing eight hundred dollars for your imported medicine.” Jack’s face immediately darkened. “You lent it?” Lincoln shook his head helplessly. “You gave strict orders, how would I dare? The girl stood outside my dorm for an entire afternoon, fainted from low blood sugar, and I still didn’t dare help her up. When she finally woke, she walked away, leaning against the wall.” What Lincoln didn’t say was, that day, I held my service pistol to my temple. I said, “Uncle Lincoln, there’s one bullet left in the chamber. If you don’t lend me the money, I’ll pull the trigger.” Jack’s medicine had been interrupted for seven days; he coughed up bloody phlegm from his lungs. But Lincoln just bit his lip, his eyes red, and disarmed me, pushing me out the door as if I were a plague. Turns out, he didn’t want to lend it, he couldn’t. Jack snorted coldly. “Listen closely. Until Monica returns from her recuperation in the capital, no one is to help Seraphina. Whether she kneels or begs, even if she dies in front of you, don’t even spare her a glance.” “Monica is sensitive, her depression has just improved. The ‘punishment’ for Seraphina for these five years, not a single day less. If anyone makes Monica unhappy, don’t blame me for being ruthless.” The private room fell silent. Someone awkwardly reminded him, “Commander, aren’t you afraid Seraphina will find out the truth and be heartbroken?” No sooner had the words left his mouth, Jack sneered, “Heartbroken? I raised her, I gave her life, what’s a little hardship? Monica is different; she has no family, suffered so much. It’s only right that I treat her well.” His gaze swept the room. “What’s said here today, if even a word reaches Seraphina’s ears outside this room, don’t blame me for abandoning old ties.” I leaned against the cold wall, my hands and feet numb. Turns out, these five years I risked my life for were nothing but a meticulously arranged torture. My future, my honor, merely required a slight frown from Monica to become a casual “it’s only right” from Jack. I wanted to laugh, but a metallic, rusty taste surged in my throat. A phone rang in the private room, and footsteps approached the door. I had no time to hide. As I hastily turned, I bumped into the manager delivering drinks. The bottle of military-issue liquor on the tray shattered. The manager’s face changed drastically, and he slapped me across the face. The private room door opened, and Jack quickly stepped out, but without even glancing my way, he opened his arms directly and caught Monica as she rushed into them. “How did you come back by yourself? Didn’t we agree I’d pick you up?” Monica’s laugh was clear and sweet. “I missed you, Jack! Wanted to surprise you!” I wore a mask, kneeling on the cold marble floor, less than a meter away from them. Monica’s dazzling diamond watch strap stung my reddened eyes. One of those tiny diamonds alone would be enough for three months of Jack’s imported medicine. The manager approached cautiously. “Commander Sterling, I’m so sorry… this drink, this idiot broke it.” Black military boots stopped in front of me. Jack frowned impatiently. “Alright.” He pointed at me. “Since you broke it, clean this carpet by hand. If Monica steps on even a shard of glass, you’ll swallow it, piece by piece.” I knelt down, moving my palms slowly across the carpet. Broken glass pierced my skin, leaving delicate streaks of blood. Monica let out a soft “hiss,” linking her arm through Jack’s. “Jack, my feet are tired.” “You’re delicate. I’ll carry you out. It’s dirty here.” The black military boots stepped over my hand, moving away without a pause. I knelt there, staring at my bloodied palm, and suddenly let out a low laugh. Tears mixed with warm fluid from my nose, dripping down together. The manager gasped. “What’s wrong with you? So much blood?” I stumbled to my feet, wiping my face haphazardly with my sleeve. The cuff instantly turned red. “Maybe… I’m dying.” Ignoring his startled expression, I turned, letting the blood drip behind me, forming a broken red line as I slowly shuffled out. Pushing open the front door, the sound of porcelain shattering came from the kitchen. Jack was struggling to prop himself up with his arms, trying to get out of the overturned wheelchair. Seeing me, his movements froze, he lowered his head, his eyes quickly reddening. “Seraphina… I just wanted to warm you a cup of milk… I’m so useless… just a cripple…” His speech was slurred, drool trickled from the corner of his mouth, accompanied by trembling hands and desperate eyes, looking exactly like an ALS patient tormented by illness for years. I suddenly remembered that before his “diagnosis,” Jack had severe germophobia. A man who meticulously wiped his service pistol three times a day, whose uniform couldn’t have a single crease, could, for Monica, play this sloppy, suffering act for five years. At this moment, I almost wanted to cut open his chest with a knife to see if his heart was made of stone. Seeing me silent, he slumped his shoulders in despair. “Seraphina… do you despise me now? Just leave… don’t bother with me anymore…” I silently walked over, righted the wheelchair, and helped him into it. Then, I fetched warm water to clean him up. He suddenly gripped my wrist, his gaze falling on my bloody, mangled palm. “How did this happen? Who hurt you?” I stared into his feigned anxiety. “Someone very much like you hurt me.” “At the Grand Imperial Hotel.” 2 Jack’s jaw tightened abruptly. I smiled again. “But I know that wasn’t you. Jack would never lie to me, right?” Jack’s gaze darted away. “Of course not. Seraphina is the most important person to me, I’d never lie to you.” I fiercely suppressed the bitterness in my eyes, then turned and pushed him out of the kitchen. After preparing and serving dinner, the living room was empty. The bedroom door was ajar, and hushed voices drifted out. “Good girl, Monica, I’ve prepared a big surprise for you tomorrow, a special birthday celebration.” On the other end of the line, Monica’s voice was sweet and soft. “But tomorrow… it’s also Seraphina’s birthday, isn’t it? Won’t she be sad if you don’t spend it with her?” “Silly girl. You’re the most important treasure to me. Seraphina stopped celebrating her birthday ages ago, she’s used to it.” Monica cheered. “I knew you were the best, Jack!” I stood by the door for a long time. Finally, I silently untied my apron and turned to leave. When Jack wheeled himself out, the house was already empty. On the dining table lay a bowl of noodle soup and an imported pill wrapped in foil. Usually by this time, I would have left for my night shift. His mind flashed back to my bloodless face, the grotesque wounds on my palm, and that spine so thin it looked like it would snap in two… A sudden, inexplicable panic seized his heart. He picked up his phone and quickly dialed a number. The next day, at the Military District Hospital. I took Jack for a re-examination. The attending physician’s expression was excited. “Miss Shen! A research institute in the capital has a special medicine that works wonders for ALS! I’ve secured a trial spot for Commander Sterling!” Compared to his excitement, I merely asked calmly, “What’s the recovery rate?” “Over eighty percent!” Jack obligingly reddened his eyes. “Seraphina… I can get better… I can continue to be with you…” I forced a faint smile. “If only one of us could live, Jack, I would always hope it was you.” Jack was stunned, his brows deeply furrowed. “Nonsense! We’ll both live well. Once I recover and return to the forces, you’ll still be the proudest sniper in the military district—” But I no longer wanted this “pride.” Nor did I want Jack anymore. The doctor, citing “complex examination procedures,” politely asked me to leave the office. I knew it was just an excuse to get rid of me. I stood at the corner of the hallway, watching Jack quickly change out of his hospital gown and walk steadily into the elevator. Downstairs, the familiar black military sedan had been waiting for a long time. I silently withdrew my gaze and turned to walk into another consultation room at the end of the hallway. “Miss Shen, your brain tumor has already compressed major nerves, and surgery is no longer an option.” The doctor sighed heavily. “Perhaps half a month ago… there might have been hope. It’s likely… just these last couple of days. Say your goodbyes to your family.” I sat quietly for a long time before slowly nodding. “After I die, please have me cremated directly. My ashes… please send them to the Sterling Family Residence in West Hill Military District, to Commander Jack Sterling.” Leaving the only money I had on me, I walked out of the hospital. My phone screen lit up, a new message popped up: “Come to the family residence and take a look.” The sender was Monica. I hailed a cab and went to the West Hill Family Residence. Five years. The single-family house in the military district compound, which I thought had long since changed hands, was now brightly lit, adorned like a fairytale castle. Guests filled the house, elegantly dressed. Monica, wearing a diamond-studded tiara and a pristine white haute couture gown, clung tightly to Jack’s arm. They were surrounded by people, standing before a six-tier cake. She clasped her hands together, her voice sweet: “My wish is to be Jack’s only little princess, forever and ever.” Jack smiled, taking a dark blue velvet box from his military uniform pocket. The moment the box opened. All the blood in my body felt as if it had frozen instantly.

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For our anniversary, my boyfriend gifted me a white gold Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet. My best friend, a luxury appraiser, took one look at it and shook her head. “It is a straight-up fake.” Fuelled by a nagging suspicion, I asked my boyfriend to send me a screenshot of the digital receipt. The image showed the official Van Cleef flagship store. Total amount spent was $7,500. But when I brought the screenshot to our girls’ brunch, they instantly spotted the glaring inconsistency. “The bracelet on your wrist is fake, but this receipt is one hundred percent real. That makes zero sense.” Sarah zoomed in on the image. “Babe, look at the bottom of the screenshot. There is a recommended products section.” She pointed directly at a targeted ad right below the receipt. “He definitely bought two bracelets. One real, one fake.” If he gave me the fake one… then who got the real one? … The mood at the table instantly plummeted. Just two days ago, I was flexing my relationship all over Instagram, posting aesthetic pictures of my beautiful new Van Cleef bracelet from every conceivable angle. Now, I was sitting here holding a cheap piece of metal. And the man I loved had bought the real diamond piece for someone else. “Nora, if he really wanted to drop that kind of cash on you, wouldn’t he take you into the boutique to pick it out together?” Jess asked gently. “A typical straight guy buying a last-minute gift would just grab whatever is trending. But Carter specifically hunted down the Guilloché white gold series. He either suddenly developed impeccable taste, or someone else picked it out for him.” Sarah grabbed my hand, her expression serious. “Your top priority right now is finding out exactly where that real bracelet went.” Their words planted a seed of absolute dread in my stomach. I pulled out my phone and stared at the screenshot Carter sent me that morning. I focused on the algorithm’s recommended items beneath his order confirmation. The product title read clearly in bold text. High-quality Van Cleef dupes so good your girlfriend will never know. Unless a user actively searched for counterfeit jewelry, the algorithm would never push such a specific product to Carter’s feed. Armed with a terrifying gut feeling, I knew I had to see the actual order history on his phone with my own eyes. 1 “Nora? What are you doing home so early?” Carter was lounging on the living room sofa. He opened his arms for a hug. “Did you go out shopping today? Tell me what you bought, I will reimburse you.” He looked at me with those soft, loving eyes, acting as if absolutely nothing in our world had changed. But there was an invisible, $7,500 receipt standing between us. Until I knew the truth, I could not bring myself to fall into his arms. “Carter.” He hummed in response, and I casually dropped the bait. “Jess was telling me about this amazing new skincare line. Can I use your account to order it?” Just like always, Carter agreed without a second of hesitation and tossed his unlocked phone straight into my hands. “Pick out whatever you want, baby. Consider it an extra weekend treat.” He pushed himself up from the sofa. “I am going to grab a hot shower. Just leave the phone on the nightstand when you are done.” I smiled and nodded. My fingers automatically typed in my birthday to keep the screen awake. Maybe I was just being paranoid. Carter was the ultimate catch, the kind of loyal guy everyone envied. He never guarded his phone, always told me exactly where he was, and never stayed out late. The bracelet thing had to be some bizarre misunderstanding. That fragile hope shattered into a million pieces three seconds later. I did not even have to dig through his shopping app. I just opened his delivery tracker. The moment his account loaded, a flood of unread notifications popped up. Your gift order is currently out for delivery. I clicked the tab. The screen was absolutely packed with orders going to another address. It started with imported snacks and expensive aesthetic home decor, then escalated to fine jewelry. The final nail in the coffin was an order placed just two days ago. A set of incredibly sheer, expensive lingerie. Carter had another woman. 2 I used my own phone to search for the best ways to catch a cheating partner. The internet provided hundreds of creative methods. Following their advice, I scoured Carter’s ride-share history, his food delivery apps, and his download logs. He had scrubbed everything spotless. It was not until I opened his messenger app and checked the hidden folder in the top right corner that I hit the jackpot. The contact name was Kitty Cat. The profile picture was an anime girl holding a bouquet of flowers. Carter’s last message to her was sent ten minutes ago. Baby, I just gave my phone to her so she can buy some crap. I will text you a bit later. She replied with an eye-roll sticker. All she does is shop. Nora seriously treats you like a walking ATM. She does not even appreciate how hard you work to provide for her. A second later, another text popped up. Kisses, hubby. See you later. Staring at the glowing screen, my hands began to shake uncontrollably. I scrolled up. They exchanged hundreds of messages a day. Even when Carter and I were sitting on the couch watching a movie, he was secretly texting her his review of the film. With me, Carter was always polite, polished, and composed. But in this hidden chat, he let his true colors show. He used this space to trash-talk his annoying clients, celebrate his financial wins, and even ask her opinion on what pajamas to buy. Nora does not have boobs as big as mine, the mistress texted. Give me the silk set with the deep V-neck. You can just buy her a similar colored crewneck set from a different brand. She is so clueless anyway. She will never even notice it is not the women’s version of the set. Three days after that text, Carter handed me the exact pajamas she had picked out. He had smiled perfectly and said, “The women’s set was out of stock, so I tracked down a similar one. Now we have matching couple pajamas.” I had thought it was incredibly sweet at the time. Now, reading the truth, my nails dug painfully into my palms. The nausea really hit when I saw Carter’s response to her. Well, your big boobs are entirely my doing anyway. The chat was a cesspool of explicit photos and filthy sexts. To my face, Carter swore I was his one and only. Behind my back, he was spending his days worshiping another woman. He had put an insane amount of effort into keeping me totally blind. Hearing the shower water shut off, I stopped scrolling and checked the timestamp of their very first message. It was from July 18th of last year. A perfectly innocent start. Carter had asked her, Do you guys carry pink climbing roses? My girlfriend loves them. Before locking his phone, I casually added two sets of ultra-premium La Mer skincare to his cart, checked out, and tossed the device onto the bed. A minute later, Carter walked out with a towel wrapped around his waist. “All done? Did you make sure to treat yourself?” “Yeah.” I glanced at him, quickly pivoting the conversation. “Carter, the flowers in the living room are wilting. Which shop do you usually buy them from? Send me their contact info.” I watched a microscopic flinch ripple across his face. That was all the confirmation I needed. His precious little mistress was the florist. “I will just pick some up on my way home from work tomorrow,” he said smoothly. “It is way too hot outside. I do not want you dealing with the traffic.” He was terrified to tell me, and I did not push him. When he leaned in to kiss my cheek, I put a hand on his chest and shoved him back gently. “I am exhausted today. Go sleep in the guest room.” Carter blinked, then gave me an affectionate pat on the head. “Alright. Get some rest, baby.” The moment he stepped into the guest room, his thumbs started flying across his screen. I watched the messages sync live to my laptop. Nora is acting completely psychotic tonight. I just bought her thousands of dollars in skincare, and she kicks me out of my own bedroom. She is so ungrateful. The other woman replied instantly. Come over to my place, hubby. I just got a brand new lace set delivered today. 3 Staring at the synchronized chat logs on my screen, everything felt like a hollow hallucination. I did not even notice Carter walk back into the master bedroom. “Nora, a client just called with an absolute emergency. I have to head back to the office and put out a fire.” “Nora?” I snapped back to reality and gave him a numb nod. “Don’t work too hard.” The next morning, I cornered Carter and insisted we go to the flower shop together. He tried every excuse to stop me, but he could not push too hard without looking suspicious. Out of options, he frantically texted a warning to his mistress and drove me to the boutique near his office. “It is right on my commute, which is why I always buy your bouquets here,” he lied effortlessly. I nodded, looking through the pristine glass storefront. I immediately recognized the woman from the profile picture. She had a stunning hourglass figure, flawless makeup, and an aura of mature, calculated seduction. “Mr. Cherry.” She strutted over in her stilettos, flashing Carter a sickeningly sweet look. “Is this your girlfriend? She is so cute.” Carter wrapped a stiff arm around my waist. “This is Nora. Nora, meet Katrina, the owner of the shop.” Katrina. Kitty Cat. It was definitely her. After asking what kind of floral arrangement I wanted, Katrina insisted we sit in the VIP lounge for some tea. She poured Carter a fragrant brew in an exquisite, hand-painted porcelain cup. Then, she handed me a flimsy plastic cup filled with plain tap water. “Nora, do you have any idea what kind of tea this is?” I gripped the cheap plastic, glancing at the amber liquid in Carter’s cup. Before I could even guess, Katrina cut me off. “A real connoisseur does not even need to taste it. One breath of the aroma tells you everything you need to know about the brew.” Katrina sat down entirely too close to Carter, her chin tilted up in sheer arrogance, her eyes locked onto mine. She was waiting for me to make a fool of myself. So I gave a careless shrug. “Looks like basic black tea to me.” Katrina let out a loud, mocking laugh. She grabbed Carter’s bicep, leaning into him. “Your girlfriend really doesn’t know her stuff, does she? Does she only categorize things by color?” “That is hilarious, Nora. You know there are more than just green and black teas in the world, right?” She reached under the table and pulled out a velvet-lined display box. “This is a highly exclusive strain of aged Oolong. But since you clearly do not understand luxury, you are better off sticking to your tap water. It probably all tastes the same to you anyway.” Katrina was practically radiating superiority. She was talking down to me like I was dirt on her shoe. Just like they did in their private chats. To them, I was just a clueless, uncultured peasant. “This is an excellent vintage, but Katrina…” Carter set his porcelain cup down, giving her a pointed, warning look. “Please do not speak to my girlfriend like that. She just doesn’t study tea. That doesn’t mean she is ignorant.” Once upon a time, I would have melted at that. I would have thought I had the best, most protective boyfriend in the world. Now, it just made my skin crawl. Did he honestly think I could not see their fingers secretly twisting together under the glass coffee table? “I have some errands to run. I am leaving. You can bring the flowers home yourself.” I slammed the plastic cup down and stood up. As I grabbed my purse, I made direct eye contact with Carter. He instantly read the pure fury in my eyes. He panicked and grabbed my wrist. “Let me drive you home.” Watching him beg me, Katrina’s triumphant smile cracked. She masked her jealousy with a sweet gasp. “Wait just a second! A fresh shipment of ice-blue roses just arrived in the back. Let me grab a few stems for Nora as an apology!” Ten seconds later, a loud, theatrical scream echoed from the back room. “Oh my god!” Carter dropped my wrist instantly. He sprinted toward the back room without a second thought. “What happened?! Are you bleeding? We need to sanitize that immediately!” His voice was raw with genuine panic. He grabbed Katrina’s hand, pressing his own palm over a tiny scratch on her finger. I stood by the heavy glass door, looking back at them. I said his name softly. “Carter.” “Nora, just catch an Uber home! I have to take Katrina to the ER. Those trimming shears were rusty, she could get tetanus!” He didn’t even look up at me. To save time, he simply scooped Katrina up into his arms bridal style. He treated me like a doorman, marching straight past me and out the door. Over his shoulder, I saw Katrina shoot me a smug, victorious glare. I saw exactly how much he truly cared about her. I stood alone in the sweltering afternoon heat, watching his car speed off toward the hospital. Then, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart. “I changed my mind. I will marry you.”

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