Category: English

My father-in-law rides home from the war with two women — a mother and her daughter — and announces they’ll be the new ladies of Ashworth Manor. The Earl of Ashworth, Richard, comes through the gates at midday. Behind him trail two figures on a single horse: a woman with a face that still turns heads, and a girl barely old enough to lace her own corset. They share the same dark eyes, the same careful smile. I stand behind Grace, my mother-in-law. My husband William stands across from me. His eyes land on the girl and stay there. He doesn’t blink. The great hall is packed. The air feels thick enough to chew. Richard hasn’t even removed his chainmail. His hand rests on the hilt of his sword. His voice scrapes like steel on stone. “Wife. This is Margery. She’ll be the new lady of this house.” He points to the older woman. Grace — the Countess of Ashworth, the woman who has run this estate for twenty years — doesn’t flinch. She steps forward and takes Margery’s hand like they’re old friends. “You must be exhausted from the road, sweetheart.” I watch the creases around Grace’s eyes. Every single one is arranged into the perfect shape of joy. Richard looks satisfied. He turns to William. “William. This is Agnes, Margery’s daughter. She’ll be your wife.” William’s face goes red. Not from shame. From excitement. His mouth opens — he nearly blurts out “I’ll do it” — but catches himself and swallows hard. He just nods. Hard. Nobody looks at me. I’m like one of the carvings on the pillars. There, but meaningless. Richard wants a new woman. William wants a new wife. This house is throwing two celebrations today. How festive. My nails dig into my palms inside my sleeves. I can’t feel the pain. Grace’s voice rises, bright and cheerful, the voice of a woman throwing a feast. “What wonderful news! The Earl and his heir, both blessed with new companions — the Lord has truly smiled on this family!” She waves the steward over. “Open the cellars. Bring up the wine we’ve been saving — the twenty-year vintage.” Then she turns and takes my hand. Her fingers are warm. Steady. “Clara, don’t just stand there. Go to the storeroom, take out the finest silks — the Flemish brocade, all of it — and have new gowns made for Lady Margery and Agnes. Spare nothing.” I look up and meet her eyes. They’re full of warmth, like the first sun of spring. But standing this close, all I feel is cold. I nod, numb. “Yes, Mother.” I turn toward the storeroom. The keys hang from my belt — a ring of brass keys, heavy enough to crush me. I pass William on my way out. I don’t exist to him. Every ounce of him is fixed on the girl called Agnes. She keeps her head down, cheeks flushed, stealing glances at him through her lashes. They already want each other. And me? What am I? I push open the heavy storeroom door. The smell of cedar and lavender hits me. Bolts of silk and brocade sit stacked in neat rows, gleaming faintly in the dim light. I stand there for a long time. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Cry? Scream? I don’t want to cry. I think I’ve already run out of tears. And screaming — what good would it do? Richard holds the title, the land, the power. William is next in line. They make the rules. My only purpose here has ever been to manage the household and be a quiet, obedient wife. Now he’s getting a new one. I run my hand over the cold silk. Flemish brocade, Italian velvet, each bolt worth more than my entire dowry. These are the finest fabrics in the county. Grace told me to take the best. I pull out a bolt of crimson brocade shot through with gold thread. It glitters in the shadows, stinging my eyes. I carry it out like I’m carrying a burning coal. The welcome feast fills the great hall. Loud. Bright. Suffocating. Richard and William sit at the head of the table. Margery and Agnes sit just below them, laughing, talking, glowing. Grace moves between the guests like a perfect hostess, pouring wine, serving food, smiling without pause. She looks genuinely happy. I set the silks aside and slip back to my seat. I don’t touch my food. Three cups of wine in, Richard starts talking. His tongue is loose, his voice too loud. He tells the story of how he found them — how Margery’s husband, one of his fellow soldiers, died in battle. How Agnes had no one to care for her. How giving her to William was an act of mercy. He speaks like he’s some kind of saint. William listens, nodding along, looking at Agnes with pity and desire mixing in his eyes. My stomach turns. I slip away from the table and walk back to my chambers. The courtyard is quiet. My two maids, Bess and Meg, stand under the eaves, their eyes rimmed red. They see me and open their mouths, then close them again. I wave them off and go inside. Everything in my room is exactly as I left it. Neat. Tidy. Our marriage certificate still sits under a stack of books on the desk, the red wax seal bright as blood. I sit down. I stare at nothing. I don’t know how long I sit there. The sky goes dark. The noise from the feast fades. Soft footsteps stop outside my door. It’s Bess. “My lady, it’s late. You should rest.” I don’t answer. Then — three knocks. Slow. Deliberate. That’s not how Bess knocks. My heart jumps. I stand. “Who’s there?” A voice, barely a whisper. Familiar. “Me.” Grace. I freeze, then cross the room and open the door. She stands in the corridor, still wearing the crimson gown she put on for the feast. But the smile is gone. Completely gone. In the moonlight her face is hard, her eyes sharp as a blade. She slips inside and shuts the door behind her. Slides the bolt. She doesn’t look at me. She goes to the window, tilts her head, listens. Nothing but the wind in the trees. “Mother, what — ” She turns, crosses the room in three steps, and grabs my wrist. Her grip is iron. It hurts. Her voice is low and fast. Half whisper, half command. “Clara. Pack your valuables. We’re leaving tonight.” —

My head goes blank. Like someone struck a bell inside my skull. “Leave?” I repeat the word like I’m chewing gravel. “Where?” “Away from here.” Grace’s eyes burn in the dark. “Somewhere they can’t reach us.” I stare at her. I cannot connect this woman — jaw set, eyes like flint — with the one who smiled her way through that feast just hours ago. “Why?” My voice comes out dry, cracked. “Don’t ask why.” Her tone shuts the door on the question. “This family has been rotten to the core for years. Today isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last. How long are you planning to wait? Until Agnes gives him an heir and they move you to some back room to rot?” Her words hit like a spike driven straight through my chest. I flinch. She’s right. What am I still hoping for? William’s guilt? Richard’s kindness? Grace lets go of my wrist and walks to my dressing table. She pulls open the drawer. She sweeps every brooch, earring, and bracelet into a cloth bundle she’s already prepared. Her hands move fast, not a second of hesitation. “Stop standing there.” She looks back at me. “Your dowry deed. Where is it? Everything valuable — land titles, shop leases, coin. Take it all. Leave nothing.” I snap awake. I rush to the bed, press a hidden panel in the headboard, and pull out a small oak box. My dowry deed. My mother put it in my hands the day I married. Every item, listed in her careful handwriting. Grace takes the box, opens it, scans the contents, and pulls out several sheets with the precision of a woman who knows exactly what she’s looking for. “The townhouse on South Street. The textile shop on West Lane.” She nods. “Good. These bring in rent.” She tucks the deeds inside her bodice. “The rest?” she asks. “Locked in the main storeroom.” “Foolish girl.” She mutters it under her breath, but there’s no venom in it. “You should never keep your things in a shared space. Never mind. Too late for that now.” She hands me the bundle of jewelry. “Go. Pack clothes — nothing fancy, pick things that are sturdy and won’t show dirt. And any ornaments, silverware, anything you can sell.” She pulls out a ring of keys from her own cloak. Her ring is twice the size of mine. Far more complex. “Mother, what are those?” “The household keys.” Her voice is flat. “I’ve managed this estate for twenty years. I know every shilling in this house better than Richard does. He runs his wars. I run the money. Tonight, I’m taking it all with me.” I stop breathing. I thought Grace just wanted to get us out. Away from the hurt. I didn’t realize she was planning to strip Ashworth Manor to the bone. “They’ll find out.” My voice shakes. “Find out?” Grace lets out a cold laugh. “By the time they find out, we’ll be a hundred miles away. I’ve spent twenty years building loyalty among every servant, every tradesman, every contact worth having. Richard thinks commanding soldiers makes him powerful. I’m about to teach him that running a household is harder than running an army.” She presses one of the keys into my palm. “This one opens the outer storeroom. His war spoils are in there — the gold, the silver — take it. The east wing has a hidden room full of Flemish tapestries and silver plate the family’s been hoarding for generations — take it. Under the west stables, there’s a cellar I spent three years digging in secret. That’s where the real money is. Not the kind that shows up in the ledgers. Take it.” I hold the cold key. My palm is slick with sweat. This is enormous. This is ripping Ashworth Manor up by its roots. “You afraid?” Grace tilts her head, studying me. I meet her eyes. I shake my head. Afraid? The moment William’s eyes landed on that girl, my heart died. And when your heart’s already dead, what’s left to fear? “No.” I say it, and I mean it. Grace’s face softens. Just barely. Like the first crack in winter ice. “Good girl.” She pats my shoulder. “Remember this. The only things a woman can count on are the money in her own hands, and another woman who’s been through the same hell. Men? They think they’re God’s gift. Let them float up there in the clouds. We’ll stay on the ground and live better than they ever could.” She straightens up. “Your maids. Can you trust them?” she asks. I nod. “Bess and Meg. They grew up with me.” “Bring them in. Tonight, if we pull this off, they come with us — set for life. If we fail, we all go down together. Let them choose.” I open the door. Bess and Meg are right outside, worry written all over their faces. I tell them everything. The two of them look at each other. Not one heartbeat of hesitation. They drop to their knees. “Wherever you go, my lady. We’re with you.” “Good.” Grace nods. “Bess — go to the outer courtyard. Find Holt, the steward. Give him this.” She hands over a worn silver pendant. “He’ll know what it means.” “Meg, you’re with me. Clara, stay here and pack everything you can carry. Move fast. We have two hours.” The night is thick and black. The whole manor is drowned in drunken sleep. Grace, me, and two maids — four women moving through the dark like mice, stripping the place clean. I open every chest and trunk. I find my mother’s gold coins, every piece she hid for me, and stuff them into a pouch strapped against my body. Then the clothes, the jewelry, anything worth a penny. I even glance at William’s prized ivory chess set in his study. And the mounted stag’s head above his desk — his first kill, his pride and joy. No. Too heavy. Let his precious Agnes dust those. I only want the money. Two hours later, Grace and Meg come back. Behind them, two silent, heavyset servants. Each one loaded down with bulging sacks. Grace looks tired, but her eyes are brighter than ever. “It’s done.” she says. “Holt has every cart and horse in this house lined up at the back gate. The rest of the servants have each been given a purse of silver and sent away. By morning, this manor will be an empty shell.” I look at her, and something close to awe rises in my chest. Every detail. Every angle. Covered. The beloved Countess. The woman everyone trusted and admired. Twenty years she played the perfect, dutiful wife. How many moves has she been hiding? “Let’s go.” One word from Grace, and we move — five women, loaded with bundles, slipping through the dark courtyard toward the back gate of Ashworth Manor. We don’t meet a single soul. The whole estate is as silent as a grave. —

The lane behind the back gate is pitch black. Can’t see a hand in front of your face. Holt — the steward who always has a pleasant word for everyone — stands at the far end like a stone tower. Silent. Three plain mule-drawn carts wait beside him, already piled high with bulging canvas sacks. The mules have their hooves wrapped in sacking so they won’t clatter on the stones. He sees us and bows, his voice barely a breath. “My lady. All is ready.” Grace nods and passes him a heavy bundle. “Holt. I owe you more than I can say.” “You owe me nothing, my lady.” He takes the bundle and loads it onto the cart. “The Earl lost his honor a long time ago. You’ve treated my family with nothing but kindness these twenty years. I’d lay down my life before I let anything happen to you.” His words are few, but every one lands like a hammer. Now I understand how long Grace has been weaving this web. How deep it goes. We climb into the middle cart. The compartment is small, crammed with goods, barely enough room to breathe. Grace, me, Bess, and Meg — four women pressed together in the dark. The whole space smells of gold and dust. “Holt.” Grace lifts the canvas flap and leans out. “Take the river route, head for the southern coast. My contact will meet you there. Once you’ve sold everything, take your family and sail for the Continent. Don’t come back. I’ve prepared all the letters you’ll need.” “Thank you, my lady.” He bows again. “God keep you safe.” He doesn’t ask where we’re going. That’s the kind of trust they share. No questions. The carter flicks the reins. The cart moves without a sound. Wheels grind softly over cobblestones. I lift the canvas and look back. The massive silhouette of Ashworth Manor shrinks into the darkness behind us. A sleeping beast. Three years of my life are in that house. Everything I once believed would be my home forever. Gone now. I drop the flap. My hands are ice. Grace takes my hand. “Don’t look back. We’ll have a new home.” I nod and lean against her shoulder. Neither of us sleeps that night. The cart rolls on until the sky turns grey, then stops at a crumbling dock on the riverbank. A small, flat-bottomed boat is waiting. A man in a wide-brimmed hat stands at the bow. We climb down and haul everything from the cart onto the boat, trip after trip. Every sack is shockingly heavy. I try to lift a small one and nearly throw out my back. Gold or silver — I can’t tell which. By the time the sun is up, the boat is loaded. The two servants kneel before Grace, then leave with the empty carts, heading in the opposite direction. Grace pays the carter a bag of silver. He leaves too. From start to finish, none of these people say a word more than necessary. They move like clockwork. On the boat, the four of us squeeze into the tiny cabin. The boatman rows from the stern. The current carries us downstream. Fog rises off the water. The riverbanks blur and fade. “Grace — where are we going?” I ask. “South. Somerset.” she says. “I bought a small house there years ago, with my own dowry money. Nobody knows about it.” She looks at me. Her gaze reaches somewhere far away. “Clara, when I married into Ashworth Manor, I was your age. My father traded me for Richard’s alliance in the wars. Your father traded you for a connection to the nobility. We’re the same.” I listen in silence. “I endured it for twenty years. I watched him bring home one woman after another. I raised his bastards as my own. I let him bleed my dowry dry to pay for his soldiers. I told myself — just hold on until William is grown, until he’s married, until my duty is done.” Her voice is perfectly calm. Like she’s telling someone else’s story. “But then I watched William look at Agnes. And I saw Richard all over again. Same hungry eyes. Same rotten blood. This family will never change. If I stay, I’ll watch you go through everything I went through. And I’d rather burn this place down than let that happen.” “I’m done.” She lets the word hang there, heavy as a stone. “Twenty years I swallowed it. Twenty years I smiled and said nothing while he did whatever he pleased. Well, he’s had his turn. Now it’s ours. And if no one’s going to hand us a way out — we’ll damn well make one.” The cabin is quiet. Nothing but the oar dragging through the water. I look at the grey streaking through Grace’s hair, and suddenly I understand. This isn’t impulse. She’s betting half a lifetime of silence on this one shot at freedom. “I’m with you, Grace.” I say. “All the way.” She smiles. A real smile. The kind I’ve never seen on her before — light, unburdened. “Good. Now — let me show you what we’re working with.” She pulls a stack of parchment from inside her cloak. “This is what we have.” She spreads them out. “I’ve been converting the estate’s assets into these for years.” Dozens of bills of exchange. Every single one worth a staggering sum. And underneath — land titles, property leases, scattered across the whole country. “Holt took the gold and the tapestries. Those are bulky, easy to trace. What we carry is this.” Grace taps the parchment. “Bills made out to no one by name. Once we reach Somerset, we take new names, and no one will ever find us.” “And this.” She hands me one more letter. I take it. At the top, in bold, furious handwriting, two words: LETTER OF DENUNCIATION. This isn’t Richard casting Grace out. This is Grace bringing Richard down. Below those words, she has laid out twenty years of his crimes. Stealing from the Crown’s war chest. Selling favors for bribes. Smuggling. Abuse. Every charge backed with evidence. Any single one could bring him before the Crown and destroy him. “I’ve had a hundred copies made.” Grace’s eyes go cold. “If we’re left in peace, this letter stays buried. But if he sends anyone after us — ” a thin, sharp smile crosses her face — “the Earl of Ashworth will find himself on trial for treason. And there won’t be enough left of him to bury.” I hold the letter. My hands are shaking. The woman in front of me is not a countess. Not just my husband’s mother. She’s a strategist. A general. Her battlefield was that household. Her army was loyalty and gold. And she just won the war.

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“A wolf-less RUNT has no place in the Alpha bloodline.” I was my elite family’s greatest shame. A weak, forgotten reject, tossed into the freezing border woods and left to be torn apart by Rogues. But when their claws pierced my flesh, the pain didn’t kill me. BLINDING LIGHTNING erupted from my veins, and the terrifying monster that had been sleeping inside my blood finally awake. “They have no idea. They just awakened the last pureblood STORM QUEEN…” …… “Evelyn Drake. Your time is up.” The High Priest’s voice was as cold as the black stones surrounding the altar. Tonight was my 18th birthday — my Awakening. For an Alpha’s daughter, this was a coronation. For me, it was a trial. I took a breath, my bare feet stinging against the jagged rock. Below me, my parents—the Alphas of the Storm Pack—watched with predatory greed. For eighteen years, they’d pushed me harder than any warrior, molding me into a weapon for this exact moment. One minute passed. Two. My bones didn’t snap; no fur sprouted from my skin. “Evelyn Drake,” the Priest announced, his voice echoing in the dead silence. “Failed. No wolf found.” The crowd erupted into a chorus of disgusted sneers. “So much for the ‘Chosen Genius’ prophecy.” “What a waste of resources.” “A literal parasite.” Then, my cousin Acacia stepped up. She had shifted earlier that evening into a rare, ethereal White Wolf. She slithered toward my fiancé, Blake, leaning into his chest. “Poor Evelyn,” she purred loud enough for everyone to hear. “A woman without a wolf doesn’t even have the right to mate. You’re just… human trash now.” I looked at Blake. He was the Storm Pack’s strongest warrior. My childhood protector. My supposed mate. He didn’t say a word. He simply shifted his gaze away, as if looking at me was an insult to his status. As I walked away, head high while my world crumbled, the Priest’s eyes burned into my back. “Strange,” he whispered. “Unless… something far more terrifying is suppressing her.”

“Move your trash to the servant’s cellar. Now.” The moment I stepped through the front door, my mother hurled a tattered black trash bag at my feet. It contained the few clothes I owned. “Acacia needs your suite for her post-Awakening recovery,” my father added, eyes glued to a tactical map. He didn’t even look up. “Since you’ve failed to shift, the Pack will no longer provide your refined meat or private trainers. Tomorrow, you report to the kitchens for scullery duty.” “I am your daughter,” I spat, my fingernails drawing blood from my own palms. “You are a failed investment,” he snapped, finally looking at me with pure vitriol. “We believed the prophecy was about you. Now we know it was Acacia all along.” I turned to leave, but stopped at the threshold as their voices dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Did we choose wrong?” my mother hissed. “The scent she had when we brought her home… it was so primal. How did she turn out to be a dud?” The blood drained from my face. Brought me home? I wasn’t their daughter.

I found Blake at the training grounds. The sun caught the gold in his hair, making him look every bit the “War God” the pack worshiped. “Evelyn, we need to sever the bond,” he said before I could speak. His voice was laced with a pity. “Acacia needs a strong Alpha to stabilize her new shift. You… you should find a nice human Omega to settle down with.” “Is it because she’s stronger?” I asked, staring directly into those eyes. “Or have you just been waiting for an excuse to crawl into her bed?” A flash of guilt, then anger, crossed his face. “Stop being so pathetic, Evelyn. It’s for the future of the Pack. Just be the bigger person for once to step aside.” “Step aside?” I let out a dry, jagged laugh. “I’ve bled for this pack for eighteen years, Blake. You’re not choosing the Pack. You’re choosing the shiny new toy.” Acacia appeared then, draping her arms around his neck. “Darling, don’t waste your breath on the wolf-less. We have an engagement ring to pick out.” As they walked away, the cold void in my chest didn’t break. It ignited. A flicker of something dark and ancient pulsed in my veins, answering the betrayal with a silent, deadly promise.

The Royal Academy list was posted. My name was missing. For centuries, the elite were sent to the capital to train under the Lycan King himself. It was the only way to escape the brutal politics of local packs. “You blocked my application,” I stated, finding Acacia in the main hall, preening in her new silk robes. “I simply filled the slot with someone worthy,” she smirked, tapping a scroll against my chest. “But the Pack is generous. We’ve assigned you a ‘glorious’ mission instead: The North Border Patrol.” The North Border. A 90% mortality rate. It was a dumping ground for the unwanted, infested with Rogues and shadows that even the King’s guards feared. “A maid on the front lines?” I gripped the scroll so hard it creaked. “You’re sending me there to die.” “I’m sending you to be useful,” she laughed. “Carry the warriors’ bags. Try not to scream too loud when the Rogues find you.” “Fine.” For eighteen years, I was the first on the training field and the last to leave. If they thought wolf-less made me easy prey, they were about to learn that a cornered girl with nothing to lose is far more dangerous than any beast.

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After dating, my sister Chloe stormed through the door and exploded. “What a complete loser! His salary is less than half of mine, and he had the nerve to tell me to stay local, get married this year, and pop out a kid next year.” “They set me up with *that*? Disgusting!” Mom and Dad rushed over to comfort her. “We won’t see him again. That matchmaker has terrible judgment, always setting you up with bottom-feeders.” I stared at the gift box by the door and quietly added, “He seemed nice. He went out of his way to drive you home and brought gifts for everyone.” Chloe’s eyes flickered. She suddenly laughed. “What? You interested in my leftovers?” She looked me up and down, her voice dripping with contempt. “Makes sense. You’re worse than me in every way. A guy like that is perfect for someone like you.” She waved her hand dismissively. “You want him? Take him. I’m not interested in a dead-end life in this backwater town anyway.” I silently added the contact info she’d forwarded to me. I didn’t mention that when he’d driven her home earlier, he’d been in our district supervisor’s car. And as far as I knew, his family owned over thirty properties in our county. *** Chloe’s anger hadn’t faded when her phone buzzed. After reading the message, her expression darkened further. “How annoying! He wants to take me to a movie tomorrow. I said no, but he won’t take the hint!” Mom quickly intervened. “Chloe, don’t reject him outright.” “This is a small town—everyone knows everyone. You shut him down today, and tomorrow someone’s gossiping about how working in a big city made you too stuck-up for the locals.” Dad nodded along. “Exactly. Relationships are complicated here. Who knows what connections his family has? If you offend the wrong person, it’ll make things difficult when you come back to visit.” Chloe’s eyes suddenly landed on me, her tone charitable. “Nina, you go instead.” “Just handle it for me. Don’t screw it up.” I didn’t argue. I just nodded. No one asked if I was willing. In this family, I’d never had the right to say no. To avoid screwing it up, I spent all night researching the movie Owen had chosen. Plot, foreshadowing, the director’s techniques—I filled an entire page with notes. The next day when we met, Owen clearly looked surprised to see me. I explained, “My sister had something come up. She asked me to apologize.” Then I casually mentioned a few things about the film. His eyes lit up. “I already bought the tickets, let’s not waste them.” After the movie, he enthusiastically discussed it with me for ages. Dinner was his treat. It was relaxed. Nothing like the sleazy lecturing Chloe had described. He was actually very considerate—serving me food, asking if I liked the taste. After dinner, he suddenly led me into a jewelry store next door and picked out two pendants. When I saw the price—nearly 10 grands—I froze and tried to decline. He smiled and shook his head, paying anyway. “Last time I brought gifts in a rush. Didn’t have time to get something special for you and your sister. Keep this one, and give the other to her for me.” I accepted the pendant, understanding clearly—he still cared about Chloe. After all, Chloe was beautiful and had a good job in New York. A top student. Me? I was plain at best. Completely ordinary. But I wasn’t planning to give Chloe the pendant just yet. When I got home, Chloe glanced at my hand and sneered. “Oh wow, he didn’t even buy you anything? Told you he was cheap. Can’t even spring for a gift when he takes you out.” I ignored her and went to my room, tucking the pendant safely in my bag. As soon as I sat down, a notification popped up—Owen had accepted my friend request from last night. I retouched my makeup, put on the pendant, and posted a photo to my social media. Less than two minutes later, Owen liked it. Outside my room, Chloe’s complaining continued. “Good thing I sent Nina. Otherwise, he would’ve driven me insane. Pathetic loser, thinking he can chase me. Doesn’t even know if he’s worthy.” Mom and Dad chimed in. “Exactly. You are so excellent—you’ll definitely find someone better.” “Just let Nina handle these things from now on.” I leaned against the door, feeling nothing. I’d gotten used to it long ago. Mom and Dad had me by accident. They always felt guilty toward Chloe, who should’ve been an only child. From childhood, they’d drilled it into me: “Nina, don’t compete with your sister. She’s older. You have to let her have her way.” Chloe took every kind of enrichment class growing up—music, chess, painting. She excelled at everything. I got yelled at by Mom for being “wasteful” just for wanting a workbook. Chloe had a high-paying job in New York, yet Mom and Dad secretly gave her an extra $1000 every month. When I wanted to leave and make something of myself, I’d secretly bought a train ticket, only for Mom and Dad to tear it to shreds. That night, I’d heard them talking in their room: “Chloe will get married eventually. We can’t burden her. Nina is obedient—she’ll take care of us when we’re old.” In their eyes, Chloe was always precious. And me? I was just there to take Chloe’s problems and absorb the hits meant for her. A week later, Owen invited Chloe to go hiking. She refused without a second thought and pushed me forward again. “Nina, you go. Tell him I’m busy with work.” I didn’t argue. I changed into workout clothes and went. During the hike, I kept a steady pace and waited whenever Owen fell behind. I handed him water and wiped his sweat. When we hit rough patches, I reminded him to be careful. The whole thing was relaxed—no forced pleasantries, just doing what felt natural. At the summit, Owen suddenly spoke. “Chloe said she’s busy, but really she just doesn’t like me, right?” My heart tightened. I was about to explain when he smiled. “I could tell something was off the first time we met. Today confirmed it.” “Chloe has never been nice to me. She’d never be as patient and genuine as you. I’m not going to force it.” He paused, his gaze turning serious. “Nina, you’re special. Want to give us a try?”

“Owen and I are together now.” When I told Chloe, I handed her the gold pendant from before. “This is for you. Thanks for letting me go on those dates.” Chloe gripped the pendant, her brow furrowed, her eyes full of suspicion. “You only take home three thousand a month, and you give half to Mom and Dad. How are you suddenly dropping money like this?” I gave her a simple-minded smile. “I used my savings. Finding someone in a small town isn’t easy. Owen makes six thousand a month, and he’s honest. If we get married and live carefully, we’ll be better off than most people.” She laughed, her voice dripping with mockery. “Oh wow, so I did you a favor?” “That’s all the ambition you’ve got? Picking up my leftovers and acting like you hit the jackpot?” I looked down and said nothing. I’d been listening to her ridicule for over twenty years. I was immune. Since Owen and I got together, we’ve met for dinner every Friday. But I was always late. It wasn’t on purpose. My supervisor, Mr. Clark, had been making my life hell ever since his divorce. Every time I was about to leave, he’d dump a pile of work on me and get handsy while “discussing” projects. That day, Owen came to pick me up from work so I wouldn’t be late. I’d just stepped out of the office building. Mr. Clark chased after me, pretending to hand me something, deliberately rubbing his fingers over my hand several times. I didn’t pull away. I even frowned slightly, looking helpless and wronged. I knew Owen could see everything from his car. He suddenly honked, his voice icy as he shouted out the window: “Who the hell are you? Why are you putting your hands on her?” Mr. Clark jumped back and hurried away. The next morning at work, the office was in chaos. Mr. Clark had been urgently transferred to a remote township. Everyone whispered that he’d pissed someone off—otherwise, why would he be reassigned so suddenly with no chance to appeal? That evening, Owen picked me up from work. I casually brought it up. He looked at me, his eyes soft. “That was me. I won’t let you be treated like that.” He came clean about his background. His dad was the top official at my agency’s parent department. His mom was the director of a private hospital. He said, “I didn’t mention it during the setup because I didn’t want to show off.” “I had a girlfriend in college. We were together for three years—really good together.” “But when we were about to graduate, she found out I was coming back to this county and said I had no ambition. She broke up with me.” “My parents are getting older and pushing me to settle down. That’s why I agreed to the setup.” Suddenly it made sense. No wonder such a quality guy needed a setup to find someone. Owen suddenly took my hand, his tone serious. “Nina, I’m telling you this because I’m not messing around. I’m serious about marriage.” I looked into his sincere eyes and nodded hard. In our second month together, I met Owen’s parents. They were wonderful people, clearly pleased with me, and even sent me home with a thoughtful gift. Six months flew by, and we decided to get our marriage license. When I told my parents about the wedding, they said they couldn’t help. Funny, considering how much of my paycheck I’d been handing over to them every month. On the wedding day, Owen’s parents spent a million dollars to hold a lavish ceremony at the best hotel in the county. Guests poured in—all prominent figures in the county. Even my supervisor came to offer congratulations. But right up until the ceremony started, Mom and Dad never showed. Just as I stood on stage in my wedding dress, barely holding it together, I received a message from them—just a few short lines: [Nina, we’re not coming. Chloe suddenly has a fever. We’re rushing to New York to take care of her. Your in-laws are just showing off, insisting on the most expensive venue. We looked at the smallest banquet hall there before—it’s barely bigger than a conference room. We’d be embarrassed to show up. Besides, Chloe’s illness is more important.]

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I was a top-tier lawyer at a Big Law firm, and I had never lost a case. But today, I saw my husband’s name on the courthouse docket screen. Under “Plaintiff” in today’s trial schedule: Dominic Hayes. The defendant was a luxury postpartum retreat center. Reason for suit: service dispute. But I wasn’t pregnant. I pulled the court filing and found out he’d booked a $40,000 postpartum package for some woman. Under “Emergency Contact,” it read: “Husband: Dominic Hayes.” Apparently, the woman was unhappy with the service, so Dominic sued the retreat center. I stood in the courthouse lobby and laughed. The intern beside me frowned. “Ms. Sterling, is everything okay?” I flipped my ID badge over, revealing the wedding photo taped to the back. “File a new case for me.” “Plaintiff: me. Defendant: Dominic Hayes. Cause of action: divorce.” I touched my face. My makeup was still intact. When I walked into the courtroom, my steps were steadier than they’d ever been. … I filed the case on the spot. The intern, Lina, looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Ms. Sterling, are you sure you want to file for divorce? The defendant… is your husband?” I told the clerk, “The evidence is clear and sufficient. Please schedule the hearing as soon as possible.” She recognized me, paused for two seconds, then stamped the paperwork. I took the receipt and walked out of the filing office. In the restroom at the end of the hallway, I splashed water on my face. The woman in the mirror had perfect makeup and dry eyes. But my hands were shaking. I used my attorney access to pull the full case file for Dominic’s lawsuit against the retreat center. The filing date was three days ago. I flipped to page seven. It’s a VIP Client Services Agreement. Client name: Mia Kensington. Emergency contact: Husband, Dominic Hayes. The signature was his handwriting. I knew it too well. Straight lines, the final stroke tilting slightly upward. I closed the file and walked to a quiet corner of the courthouse lobby. I dialed Dominic’s number. “Dom, my stomach hurts again.” A woman’s voice came through in the background, soft and whiny. “Be good. Give me a second.” Dominic lowered his voice. Then he spoke to me. “Elena, what’s up? Aren’t you in court today? Go do your thing.” His tone was casual. I didn’t mention the case file. “Can you come home for dinner tonight? My mom’s not doing well. I wanted to talk to you about transferring her to a different facility.” He went silent for two seconds. “Can’t tonight. Work dinner.” In the background, the woman spoke again. “Thank you, Dom~” The call ended. I stood there holding my phone, thinking about last month. I’d had a stomach flare-up that left me doubled over on the floor. I called him. He said, “Just take a pill. I’m in the middle of something.” Now, a woman said her stomach hurt. And he said, “Be good.” That afternoon, I used my attorney access to look up Mia Kensington’s information. Her registered address was out of state. But her current residence, I read three times: 188 Lakeshore Drive, Harborview Towers, Unit 2301. The lakefront penthouse Dominic had bought three months ago, supposedly for “employee housing.” He’d even asked me to co-sign the mortgage. I’d stood beside him when I signed. He kissed my forehead and said, “Thanks for doing this.” The apartment I co-signed for—he’d set up another woman in it. Dominic and I had been married for five years. We still lived in the cramped apartment he’d bought before the wedding. I’d suggested upgrading once. He said, “The place is fine. Save the money for the company.” I thought he was right. So I transferred my entire savings—$500,000—into his company. Then he turned around and bought another woman a lakefront penthouse. I scrolled through the details of the postpartum package: $40,000. The luxury tier. Postpartum recovery treatments, private nutritionist, 24-hour care specialist, private suite with a view. When my mom was hospitalized last year, Dominic said, “The costs are too high. Should we look at something more basic?” My mom’s care was $1,500 a month. The woman’s $40,000 package, he didn’t even blink. Near the end of the workday, the receptionist at the firm called my extension. “Ms. Sterling, someone’s here to see you.” I walked to the front desk and saw Dominic. Next to him stood a woman with a pregnant belly, one hand on her stomach, the other looped through Dominic’s arm. Dominic looked furious. He was gripping a court summons in his hand. The first words out of his mouth weren’t an explanation. They were an accusation. “Elena, have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea what a divorce lawsuit will do to my company’s reputation?” The pregnant woman stood behind him and looked up at me. There was no guilt in her eyes. Dominic had never come to my firm before. In five years of marriage, I’d won Best Trial Lawyer three times. I invited him to every ceremony. He said, “It’s just an award ceremony. What’s the point?” Today, because of a divorce summons, he showed up. He could sue a retreat center over a woman’s postpartum package. But he couldn’t show up for my achievements once. My gaze dropped to Mia Kensington’s belly. Dominic followed my line of sight, and his expression flickered. “I can explain this.” I was about to respond when Richard Croft, the managing partner, walked over. He pulled me aside and lowered his voice. “Elena, Mr. Hayes is friends with several of our biggest clients. Calm down. You’re wrapping up a state-level case right now. Filing for divorce at this moment could hurt your evaluation.” He wasn’t wrong. I was in the running for Top 40 Under 40 Trial Lawyers, the youngest in criminal defense. Any negative press could destroy my chances. I looked at Dominic. The corner of his mouth twitched. He knew I’d back down. In this marriage, he knew me too well. Every time, I was the one who gave in. I looked away and said to Richard, “I understand.” Then I turned and walked toward my office. Behind me, I heard Mia say softly, “Dom, she’s so scary. I’m afraid.” Dominic’s voice was low, but I heard every word. “Don’t be. I’m here.” I closed my office door and didn’t turn on the light. And stood in the dark for a long time.

Dominic came home at ten that night. It was the first time in a month he’d been home before ten. He sat on the couch with his legs crossed, his attitude unusually calm. “Elena, drop the divorce petition first. Let me explain.” He said Mia Kensington was his college junior. She got pregnant by her ex-boyfriend, who abandoned her. She had nowhere to turn, so she came to him for help. He was just helping her out of sympathy. “The baby isn’t mine.” I looked into his eyes, searching for any trace of a lie. His expression was sincere, as sincere as when he’d proposed five years ago. My heart wavered for a moment. Maybe this really was a misunderstanding? “If that’s true,” I said, “why did you write ‘husband’ as the emergency contact?” He paused. “The retreat center required married status for a discount. I just filled it in without thinking. It doesn’t mean anything.” “What about the lakefront penthouse?” “She’s alone with a baby on the way and has nowhere to live. I couldn’t just let her end up homeless.” “Then why didn’t you tell me?” He was quiet for a long time. “I was afraid you’d overthink it.” Last year, his female assistant sent him suggestive messages at midnight. I saw them and asked about it. He said, “You’re a lawyer. Why are you so paranoid?” Now he said he was afraid I’d overthink it. So he hid a woman, an apartment, a $40,000 postpartum package, and a lawsuit he filed as her “husband.” I said, “I’ll think about it.” He thought I was giving in. He reached out to touch my hair. But I moved away. His hand hung in the air, then dropped. The next morning, I ran into the judge overseeing the retreat center case in the courthouse hallway. He knew me. He came over to say hello, hesitated, then said something. “Ms. Sterling, your husband’s case—opposing counsel submitted evidence. Photos of your husband and that woman together, intimate photos spanning over two years. Your husband’s attorney confirmed the authenticity in court.” Over two years. Two years of intimate photos. Every word he said last night was a lie. In five years of marriage, Dominic and I had fewer than twenty photos together in my phone. They had enough intimate photos over two years to submit as evidence. Back at the firm, I pulled Dominic’s financial records from the past two years. Monthly flower deliveries. Recipient: Mia Kensington. Holiday luxury purchases. Not a single one shipped to our address. Last Valentine’s Day, I waited for him at home. He said he was working late. The records showed he spent $1,500 at a Michelin-starred restaurant that night. Dinner for two. I printed everything out and filed it neatly into a folder. My hands had stopped shaking. At noon, I went to see my mom at the hospital. She was lucid today, a rare moment of clarity. She grabbed my hand and suddenly said, “Elena, the last time Dom came to see me, he brought a girl with him. He said she was his sister. But I didn’t think so. The girl had a big belly.” My blood rushed to my head. He’d brought that woman to see my mom and lied to an Alzheimer’s patient and called her his “sister.” When I walked out of the hospital entrance, I saw Dominic’s car parked by the door. He was helping Mia Kensington out of the car. She had one hand on her lower back, the other looped through his arm. Dominic saw me and froze. Mia saw me too. She tightened her grip on his arm. Dominic tried to pull his arm away. Mia suddenly clutched her stomach and crouched down. “Dom, my stomach hurts so bad.” Dominic immediately crouched down to support her. “What’s wrong? Should we go to the ER?” He didn’t even glance at me again. I stood there and watched for ten seconds. Then I walked over, crouched down, and used the calmest voice of my entire legal career. “Ms. Kensington, when is your due date?” Mia looked up at me, tears still clinging to her lashes. “If you conceived during the period of my marriage to Dominic Hayes, I will subpoena you as a third party in the divorce proceedings. Your personal information will become part of the evidence in the judgment.” “Divorce judgments are public record.” Mia’s face went white. Dominic looked up at me, his lips moving. I stood up, took out my phone, and right in front of him, called the court clerk’s office. “Hello, this is Elena Sterling, attorney. Case number 2024-CV-3867. I’m filing to add a third party to the proceedings.” I turned and walked away. Behind me, Dominic called my name. But I didn’t look back.

When I got back to the firm, I started systematically organizing evidence for the divorce. Asset inventory, proof of infidelity, dissipation of marital assets—I documented everything. Five years of marriage. I’d invested $500,000 of my life savings into Dominic’s company. Lost income from cases I’d turned down, promotions I’d missed— I calculated it all and wrote it down on paper. That afternoon, Richard Croft called me into his office. “Elena, Mr. Hayes called the firm today.” “He said if you don’t drop the lawsuit, he’ll pull all his referrals from us. You know how connected he is.” Richard wouldn’t look at me. “Also, the recommendation letter you need for Top 40 Under 40—I have to sign it. Think carefully.” Richard had watched me go from intern to partner. Three years ago, I’d worked through the night on a death penalty defense case that won the firm a national award. He’d clapped me on the shoulder and said, “You’re the pride of this firm.” Now he was using my career to pressure me on Dominic’s behalf. I said, “Richard, you don’t have to sign the letter. But if the firm uses this to force me to drop the lawsuit, I’ll file a complaint with the bar association.” Richard’s face flushed red. He waved me out of his office. Three days later, Dominic came home again. This time, he brought flowers. White lisianthus was my favorite. He said, “Elena, I dropped the retreat center lawsuit. See? I’m making compromises.” I took the flowers. “What about Mia Kensington?” “I’ll handle it gradually. Just give me some time.” “Has she moved out of the lakefront penthouse?” “She’s far along now. It’s not a good time for her to move.” “Whose baby is it really?” “I had a paternity test done. It’s not mine.” “Where’s the report?” “At the office. I’ll bring it tomorrow.” “Do you have a digital copy on your phone?” He hesitated, unlocked his phone, scrolled for a while, then said he couldn’t find it. I reached out and took his phone. He instinctively pulled back, but then handed it over. I didn’t look at his messages with Mia Kensington and opened his Notes app. The top reminder was dated last month. “Mia’s due date in two months—book OB-GYN specialist. Right below it:Refill Elena’s stomach meds.” Two reminders, side by side. One was for another woman’s due date. One was for my prescription. He did remember me, but he’d put me second. I handed his phone back and dropped the flowers in the trash. He stared at me throwing them away, stunned. I said, “Dominic, do you know why I’ve never lost a case?” He didn’t answer. “Because I only take cases I can win.” I looked into his eyes. “But this marriage—I can’t win anymore.” He reached out to grab me. I stepped back, then went to the study and started packing to move out. I didn’t cry because I was past the point of crying.

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The day Chicago got its first snow of the season, Ethan Mercer told me he was getting married. Seven years. I knew the rules of that world. A woman who made her living in front of cameras had no place at the threshold of a family like his. The night we ended things, we were strangely calm. “The apartment and the car are yours,” he said. “The projects I promised you still stand. And that check for three million — I added a zero.” “Anything else you want?” “No.” I took his settlement money like the sensible woman I was, and disappeared from his life. Until three months later, on a live celebrity panel show, when Bianca Holt told the entire internet I was pregnant. …… “Zara — oh my God, are you pregnant?!” The studio erupted. The live comment feed went insane. [ ??? ] [ Did Bianca actually just say that on live TV? What is WRONG with her ] [ That’s just Bianca being Bianca, she’s so real for this ] [ The only thing I care about: who’s the father ] [ Who else? Her billionaire, obviously ] [ Bianca is SO cooked. Zara’s guy will bury her ] [ … ] I was facing the screen. I read every single one. The host broke into a sweat and stepped in. “Bianca, are you sure you didn’t mix something up?” Bianca was already doubling down. “I’ve been watching her all week — she hasn’t touched a drink, she went pale during the afternoon break, and she’s been pressing her hand to her stomach when she thinks no one’s looking.” She smiled at me. “I know the signs. I’m right, aren’t I, Zara?” Three months. I did the math. It would have been the last night before Ethan and I ended things. Seven years together, and we’d always been careful. He was consistent; when things went further than planned, I took care of it after. That last night, maybe because we both knew it was the last night, we didn’t stop until morning. I went straight to set the next day. In the chaos of filming, I forgot. Across the table, Bianca was still waiting for my answer. I slid my wrist out of her reach and said nothing. At the level I was at now, she wasn’t worth the energy. The host laughed nervously and dragged the conversation somewhere else. By the time I got into the car after filming, my publicist had her phone in my face before I’d even buckled my seatbelt. Twitter trending, top three: #ZaraVossPregnant #WhoIsZaraVossBillionaire #MercerGroup Ethan had always kept a low profile. But when it came to making sure the industry knew I was protected — that I had someone behind me — he’d never been subtle about it. That someone was him. It started the year I broke into the industry, when a well-connected actor used a scene as cover to slap me eighteen times across the face. I was too green to know it wasn’t about my performance. I didn’t even think I deserved to be upset. Ethan was furious. He said I was an idiot. Gently. The next day, the actor was blacklisted. I’d asked quietly, “He has people behind him. Are you sure you want to do that?” “The people behind him should be worried about crossing me,” he said. For seven years, he poured every resource he had into my career. Oscar winners cast as my co-stars. The best directors offering me first pick of their projects. On the red carpet, industry veterans stepped aside. “My Zara should only ever be at the top,” he used to say. I hadn’t let him down. I’d made myself a household name. Which meant that with an influence like mine, a trending topic about a pregnancy was almost certainly going to reach Ethan Mercer. It did. His number lit up my screen the second I walked into my agency. I stared at those digits — ones I knew by heart — and let it ring out. When it went to voicemail, I sent three texts. I’m going to the hospital tomorrow for a proper test. If I am, I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I won’t make this your problem.

It was already March, and the snow hadn’t stopped. Snow like this — thick and relentless — always brought me back to the night I first met Ethan. I was nineteen. A sophomore at NYU Tisch. He was the kind of investor that made school administrators straighten their spines and smile too hard. I was chosen to attend the fundraiser dinner. The reward was a supporting role in an upcoming production. A few glasses of whiskey in, the gentlemen in the room stopped pretending. They started pushing drinks on me. Ethan was at the head of the table. He tapped one finger against the side of his glass, unhurried. “That’s enough. Leave her alone.” Just that. No one pushed another drink on me for the rest of the night. I looked up, startled. He glanced over at the same moment. One second, in a room full of noise and flattery. Our eyes met. I thanked him and didn’t think much of it. A man like that had no reason to ever cross paths with someone like me again. But after that night, he kept appearing. Always the one rescuing me. A role stolen by the dean’s daughter — one word from him and it was returned. A blizzard night when I couldn’t get a cab — he drove me back to the dorms himself. My father’s surgery, the hospital out of O-negative blood — Ethan Mercer, in his tailored suit, donated four hundred cc’s without being asked. He was too good to me. Good enough to scare me. I was afraid it was just boredom. That I was a distraction for a man who had everything. I was the one who broke first. “What do you want?” I said. “Is it to sleep with me? Then let’s get it over with.” I reached for my buttons. “After that, we’re even.” He stilled my hands. Pulled my shirt closed. Let out a quiet breath. “Zara. What do you want?” My lashes trembled. I made myself hold his gaze. “I want to be loved like I’m enough,” I said. “Can you do that?” Ethan went still. Then, slowly, a smile. He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles. His voice was soft enough to undo a person. “Yes.” He wasn’t lying. He loved me the way I’d asked to be loved. But love isn’t everything. It wasn’t strong enough to close the distance between where he came from and where I did. Class is a wall you can’t charm your way through. No matter how high I climbed, I couldn’t make it disappear. The day we ended things, Chicago was under its first snow of the year. The night before, we moved through every room of the apartment. He cooked dinner. When I finished eating, he said: “I’m getting married.” A few seconds of silence. Then I set down my chopsticks and said, “Okay.” We sat there for a long time. The food went cold. Eventually he spoke. “The apartment and the car are yours. The projects I promised, still yours. That check — I added a zero.” “Anything else?” “No.” Ethan nodded. He stood, turned, and walked out into the snow. I watched his back until it was gone. Somewhere in that moment, I felt the faint pull of something I couldn’t name. We’d been together seven years and I didn’t think I’d ever said it out loud. Those three words. Seven years. Snow after snow after snow. I’d let myself believe we might grow old in it. I let myself believe there would still be time. What a shame. The snow thickened. His silhouette dissolved into white. My vision blurred. I touched my face, slow and dull, only then registering the cold. Tears.

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“I told you to SEDUCE Prince Alaric, not let him fuck you!” The whole kingdom knew Lycan king’s only son, Prince Alaric, was savage, bloodthirsty and coldly indifferent to women. Alpha Rowan feared his precious Seraphina would suffer if she married Alaric, so he forced me to pretend to be Seraphina and seduce him. “Just act slut enough, and Alaric will be so disgusted and dissolve the arrangement. Then I’ll come bring you home.” The morning after that one feral, ruinous night, I walked out of the Lycan Prince’s palace with one hand pressed flat against my lower back just to stay upright. Rowan rushed up to check my neck—no claiming mark, but covered in dark red bruises—and he exploded in rage. “I told you to perform,” he snarled, shaking where he stood. “Who told you to actually give yourself to him?!” “Are you that desperate for a male? You’d bait a man who kills without blinking?!” I met his fury with quiet, smoothing my collar back into place. “Alpha Rowan, you are wrong.” “Prince Alaric was…” I held his gaze. “…quite gentle.” Rowan lunged. His hand locked around my throat, grip designed to crush. “Gentle?” His voice cracked apart. “The man who put three Fated Mates in the ground—and you call him GENTLE?” “I sent you there for Blackwood Pack’s future. Not so you could offer yourself like some willing sacrifice!” “You belong to me. How DARE you let him touch you?!” I was forced to tilt my head back, face flushing red from the pressure building at my throat. But I didn’t fight him. I simply lowered my lashes and watched the rage consuming his face. “Alpha Rowan…” My voice stayed level. “Since the task is complete… the money you promised me…” He released me like I was something rotten, a sharp fling of his wrist. My legs buckled and I stumbled backward, colliding hard with the storage shelves behind me. He pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped his fingers. Then dropped the cloth into the fire basin at his feet—watched the fabric curl, blacken, dissolve. Three years ago, when my family was convicted of treason, it was him who had knelt in the snow outside the Council Hall for three days and three nights, begging his father to spare my life. He had promised—no title, no formal bond, none of that mattered. He would protect me for the rest of my life. And now he had sent me into another male’s bed—and wouldn’t honor the money he’d promised. He stared at me, pain and jealousy churning raw in his eyes. “If Grandfather hadn’t demanded the Alliance, and if Seraphina hadn’t been too terrified of Alaric to go herself, I never would have—” He caught the blankness on my face. Saw I was looking only at the purse at his belt. The guilt in his expression curdled immediately into rage. He ripped the purse free and hurled it at me. “You only want money? Fine. Consider it a reward.” Coins exploded across the floor, rolling into the dust at the room’s edges. “Take it and go scrub yourself clean.” “Alaric is dangerously perceptive. If he suspects the deception, don’t come crying to me.” He turned to leave. I braced against the shelves and slowly lowered myself to the floor. My fingers moved across the cold stone. One coin. Two. I gathered each coin, blew the dust from them, and pressed them carefully against my chest. Rowan stopped at the door. Looked back. The contempt on his face sharpened into something vicious. “Of course. A traitor’s daughter—even if it’s money earned from selling yourself, you still treasure it.” It does. Because this gold keeps Caden breathing. I looked at him steadily and said nothing else. “Alpha Rowan. The birth control pill—” Rowan went still. He turned. Something complicated moved through his eyes. Fleeting. As if remembering the ghost of the girl I used to be—who once dazzled the kingdom at banquets with a single look. Then my poverty stabbed him, and the flicker hardened into deeper revulsion. “What—afraid you’re carrying the Lycan Prince’s pup?” He almost laughed. “Relax. The pack healer said your body ran cold too long in captivity. You’ll never carry a pup. Not in this lifetime.” “Stop worrying about impossible things.” The den curtain slammed shut behind him. Cold wind flooded in. I clutched the gold tighter against my chest. This amount—added to what I’d saved before—was just enough for one month of Caden’s medicine. I pulled myself to the small table, poured a cup of tea that had long gone cold, pressed a pinch of cheap pain-dulling herbs to my tongue, and swallowed both together. Bitterness spread across my throat. I didn’t care what Rowan thought of me. As long as Caden survived, I would gladly spend the rest of my life as Alaric’s unseen slave.

Before dawn had even broken, rough hands were dragging me off my bed. “Leah. Alpha Rowan’s orders—there’s a Royal Banquet at the Royal Palace today. You’re to attend as the Miss Seraphina.” The servant’s grip was steel. It bruised. I held down the discomfort rising from yesterday’s injuries and let them paint my face. Seraphina was Rowan’s treasured childhood sweetheart—delicate and easily overwhelmed. She couldn’t endure the pressures of a Royal Banquet. Rowan had long used me as her stand-in—we were close enough in build that behind a veil, no one looked twice. In the carriage, Rowan sat with his eyes closed and gave me nothing—not a look, not a word. Only when we reached the royal palace’s gate did he speak, cold and precise. “Alaric will be there. Keep your head down and your mouth shut.” “If you let him see through the deception, you can start preparing a grave for your father.” At the mention of my father, my body went rigid. Father had been dead in prison for half a month—Rowan knew it, yet still used it to threaten me. I couldn’t tell him the truth. Caden still needed medicine. The fiction had to hold. “Yes,” I said quietly. The royal banquet was a sea of wine and conversation. I sat beside Rowan, eyes downcast, peeling grapes from the plate. A burning gaze never left my skin. I didn’t need to look up to know whose it was. Lycan Prince Alaric sat at the hall’s head—black robe, dark hair, an untouchable ferocity that his handsome did nothing to soften. He turned his goblet in slow circles. His eyes tracked every inch of me, without shame and without apology. He raised the goblet toward Rowan in a languid toast, but his gaze dragged across my body like a slow deliberate touch. “Alpha Rowan has excellent taste,” he said, faintly amused. “Your female companion may be fragile—but this figure…” “I feel as though I’ve encountered it before. Quite… memorable.” Rowan’s jaw turned to iron. He raised his cup and drank anyway, smiling through the humiliation. Under the table, his fingers drove a brutal pinch into my thigh. The pain jolted through me; my hand jerked and the grapes scattered to the floor. “Useless,” Rowan hissed under his breath. Three rounds of drink in, Lycan Prince Alaric rose from his seat. When he passed our table, his steps slowed almost imperceptibly. A jade pendant slipped from his sleeve—smooth, warm-toned, carved with a wolf sigil—and dropped precisely at my feet. Rare jade. Worth a year of medicine. The surrounding guests were all engaged in pleasantries, no one paying attention. I bent without thinking. The moment my fingertips touched the pendant, it was still warm from his skin. Alaric hadn’t moved on. His fingers lifted my chin, his thumb traced ambiguously across the corner of my lips. “These hands know exactly how to please a man.” “Keep this as your reward. Take it back and practice well.” Rowan’s grip on his goblet shattered the stem. Wine bled down his wrist. I kept my eyes down and said nothing. That jade could cover three years of Caden’s medicine. On the ride back, I tucked the pendant into my sleeve with care. “Hand it over.” Rowan’s voice cracked the silence. I stilled. I had no choice. I placed it in his open palm. Rowan held the jade pendant, then let out a cold laugh. “A jade pendant? Alaric’s being generous.” He glanced at me sideways. “You think this is a declaration? It’s how he collects females. A trick. You’re naive enough to treasure it.” He flicked his wrist. The pendant arced through the open carriage window and vanished into the dark drainage channel below the road. “No—that was—” I lurched for the window before I could stop myself, and Rowan caught me, yanking me back against his chest. “Shut up! It’s just a broken stone. Now it’s in the gutter where it belongs.” I pressed against the window frame, staring at the dark below. Cold flooded from my feet straight up through my skull. That wasn’t jade. That was Caden’s medicine. That was Caden’s last thread—the rope he was white-knuckling at death’s door. Rowan watched my devastation with something that looked like satisfaction. “Remember what you are,” he said quietly. “you’re just a substitute.” “Alaric wants Seraphina—the Pack Princess, the Alliance contract. Not you, Leah.”

By the time we returned to the Blackwood packhouse, it was the dead of night. Before I’d even reached my room, I heard it—the low, suppressed coughing from inside. Caden. My chest seized. I pushed the door open and was at his side in four steps. He was curled into himself on the narrow cot, his frame skeletal, cheeks blazing with fever-flush. “Leah…” he whispered, half-conscious, reaching for nothing. I pressed my palm to his forehead. Burning. The medicine was gone. The healer had been clear—without Moonflower to sustain him, he would not survive the winter. I turned out every pocket, every fold of my clothing. Only the few coins Rowan had thrown at me. Not enough to buy even a shred of Moonflower. I stood up, set my teeth together, and walked directly to the main house. Seraphina’s chambers blazed with lamplight. I knelt on the cold stone outside, forehead toward the door. “Alpha Rowan. I beg you. Caden won’t last the night—” “You promised me. You said if I followed your orders and went to Prince Alaric, you would keep Caden safe.” “Please. One Moon flower. Just enough to keep him breathing.” “As long as Caden lives, I will do whatever you ask of me—without a word of complaint.” Laughter and conversation drifted from inside the room. After a long silence, the door finally opened. Rowan walked out with Seraphina on his arm. Seraphina wore a thick fur cloak, her face rosy—where was there any sign of illness? “Leah. What scene are you making now?” I moved forward on my knees and caught the hem of Rowan’s coat. “Alpha Rowan. My brother is critical. He needs Moon flower to survive.” “I beg you—for the sake of how many times I’ve taken Miss Seraphina’s place—please save him!” Rowan’s brow creased faintly. “The storehouse does have several stalks of moonflower…” Seraphina cut him off with a soft, well-timed cough, pressing one hand to her chest. “Alpha Rowan, the healer said I must keep the moonflower tonic for my own strength.” Rowan’s attention snapped to her immediately. His hand steadied her elbow. “Seraphina’s health comes first. Naturally those Moonflower are reserved for her.” He looked back down at me, his tone turning almost gentle—the cruelty pressed beneath reason. “Caden’s illness is a bottomless pit, Leah. Moon flower only delays it. It’s a bottomless well.” I stared at him, unable to speak. I stared at him in disbelief. Seraphina only had a few coughs, while Caden was dying. “Alpha Rowan—Seraphina only needs the moonflower for recovery. My brother needs it to stay alive—” Rowan waved one hand without looking at me. “Seraphina’s worth cannot be weighed against your brother’s cursed life. Not one Moonflower—even if it’s the entire pack’s supply of medicine, as long as Seraphina needs it, she gets priority!” Seraphina leaned into his arm, tilting her gaze down at me. That small, winning smile. “Leah. it’s not that I won’t help you, but I truly cannot go without the moonflower tonic.” “How about this—I’ll have the kitchen save the used herb dregs for you, they should still have some medicinal properties.” Humiliation. Cold, deliberate, total humiliation. I pulled myself to my feet and wiped the tears from my eyes. “Don’t bother.” Rowan wouldn’t give me a way to survive—someone else would.

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I spent ten years at Hades’s side helping him, for love. Ten years, from the moment he was nothing — a fallen son of a forgotten bloodline, wandering the mortal roads with cracked sandals and an empty stomach — to the day he ascended Mount Olympus and claimed his seat among the gods. And through all of it, he called me Sister. Then came the day he led his chosen bride through the golden gates. And I fell ill. On the night I lay dying, he knelt at my side and gathered my cold, wasting hands in his. His eyes were rimmed red, and his voice, for all his divine power, cracked like a mortal man’s. “If the Fates grant us another life,” he swore, “I will give you your proper name. I will make you mine — before all of Olympus.” The Fates heard him. They gave me another life. I came back in the bloom of my sixteenth year, born once more into the House of Selen — a family of ancient and noble blood, revered across the divine realm. My father had decreed a sacred rite: I would stand upon the high balcony of our temple-house and cast the Golden Apple into the crowd below. Whoever caught it would become my husband. The courtyard was full. Demigods, heroes, young gods in their finest robes — all of them jostling and laughing and craning their necks toward me. And then I saw him. He was standing near the center of the crowd, just as I had known he would be. My fingers released the apple. It arced through the air — golden, gleaming, falling precisely where I had aimed it. Directly into his arms. But he stepped aside. A single, casual sidestep. And the apple tumbled past him and landed in the lap of a filthy, hollow-cheeked vagrant crouched in the shadows behind. The cheering stopped. Silence swallowed the courtyard whole. Every eye moved between me on the balcony, Hades standing still as marble in the crowd, and the stunned vagrant clutching the sacred apple with shaking hands. Hades lifted his face and looked up at me from across the distance. And in that moment, the memory struck me like lightning. I had lived this before. In our first life, we had grown up together — two children of neighboring divine houses, running through the same sunlit gardens. When his family’s power crumbled and he was cast out, left to wander without resources or patrons, I had quietly bled the treasuries of the House of Selen to fund his studies. I had fed him, sheltered him, believed in him. And something had grown between us. Something that felt, then, like love. He had promised me. He had said: I want to spend eternity with you. So when my father announced the apple-casting rite, I pulled Hades aside and asked him — begged him — to stand in the center of the crowd and catch what I threw. And I threw it perfectly. I calculated every breath of wind, every inch of distance. But he stepped aside. And the apple went to the vagrant. Just as now. In our first life, I had stood on that same balcony, burning with shame as the crowd murmured and stared. I had refused to honor the rite. I had rejected the vagrant — humiliated him, humiliated myself — and faced my father’s fury for it. Father made me kneel on the cold stone steps of the ancestor shrine for three days and three nights as punishment. And for what? For Hades’s sake. For his soft, practiced excuses. He had come to me afterward with red-rimmed eyes, clasping my hands, and told me the story of the woman named Minthe — daughter of the noble House of Su, who had saved his life on the road to his trials. She had asked for nothing except that he honor her with marriage. He had given his word. So he could not marry me. He was bound. Honorable. Sorry. And then he became everything I had helped him become. He won the Three Sacred Trials — the highest honor in the divine realm. He rose. He shone. And the woman he brought home in her gleaming white robes and golden crown was Minthe. I stood in the crowd and watched the man I had given everything to lead another woman beneath the laurel garland. Before I even had time to grieve, disaster found my own house. My father, facing political ruin, arranged a hasty marriage for me — a man older than my father, but stable, safe. And Hades appeared at my chamber door. He extended his hand and told me I deserved better than a rushed union. He told me he would protect me. He told me the House of Selen — that I — had been too good to him for him to allow this. So he brought me into his house. Not as a wife. Not as even a consort. Only as his Sister.

His new bride, Minthe, was less than pleased. Even under the pretense that I was merely Hades’s benefactress — his honored Sister, his childhood guardian — she looked at me as though I were a splinter lodged in her divine flesh. At first, I could not fully understand it. After all, it was Hades who had insisted on bringing me in. Hades who had defied gossip and whispers to install me in the east wing of his divine palace. By rights, her fury should have been aimed at him. But that is the way of things, even among the immortals. When a woman cannot reach the god who wronged her, she turns to the only other target within range. I will say this for Minthe: her methods were not subtle. She cut my allowances. She reduced my household to near nothing — jewels, fine cloth, even the most basic provisions. She left me stripped of comfort in what was, by all appearances, a palace of abundance. I might have endured it in silence. But the winter came, and she withheld the sacred fire. The eternal flame that warms an immortal’s wing was simply… not refilled. My handmaiden fell gravely ill with the cold. I had no choice but to go and ask. I found Minthe seated beside a roaring hearth, wrapped in furs, cracking open the roasted chestnuts that Hades had prepared for her with his own hands. She did not look up when I entered. “Oh — Sister has come to call,” she said, her voice airy and pleasant. “Have the servants been neglecting you?” I kept my tone even. “The eternal flame in the east wing has gone dark. My handmaiden has taken ill.” She laughed softly, tossing a shell into the fire. “Do forgive us, Sister. My lord has only recently secured his throne. There are so many offerings to make, so many alliances to maintain — the household has simply run short.” She looked up then, and her eyes were full of challenge. “I thought surely you, of all people, would understand. You were so generous with the House of Selen’s resources for so many years. Surely you don’t mind extending that generosity a little longer?” Her smile curved. “After all — Sister is a guest here. One ought to be grateful, ought one not?” Every word was a blade dressed in silk. I opened my mouth to answer. “My lord has returned.” Hades stepped through the door, still wearing his traveling cloak, snow-dusted and wind-cold from the outer reaches of Olympus. He saw me. He paused. Minthe rose immediately and folded herself into his arms. “My lord,” she said, her voice gone soft and wounded. “Sister has come to scold me for the household accounts. I have tried so hard to manage wisely, but there simply isn’t enough —” Hades frowned. He looked at me. “Sister,” he said, with the careful patience of someone managing a delicate situation, “Minthe bears a great many burdens. Please be patient a little longer. I will see to it that your needs are met.” I stared at him. He had the power to rearrange the very stars. And this was his answer. I said nothing. I said only: “Of course.” And I walked back to the dark and frozen east wing alone.

From that day, Minthe and I were at war. Not over Hades. I want to be clear about that. It was about dignity. Whatever I had once felt for that man, whatever foolish love had bound me to him in our first life — I did not come to his house for him. I came because I had nowhere else to go. And having come, I found I was owed at least the basic respect due to someone who had built the ground he stood upon. I had sustained him when he was nothing. The House of Selen had funded his rise. I would not be treated as a beggar in the halls I had helped to fill with light. So when she docked my provisions, I went to the treasury steward and argued my case. When she spread whispers about me among the serving nymphs, I confronted her directly. Every time, I was overruled. Hades’s law was simple: Minthe’s word was final. Once, she accused me of stealing her golden hairpin — made a scene that rattled the entire palace. I uncovered the truth within an afternoon: one of her own handmaidens had mislaid it. I brought the evidence before Hades and laid it out, clear and incontrovertible. He was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Sister, she is young. She does not always think before she speaks. Please — do not hold it against her.” I looked at him for a long moment. I felt something shift in me. When he had been a forgotten and powerless wanderer, I had shielded him from every slight. I had stood in front of him when others mocked him, and refused to let anyone diminish what I believed he could become. And now, enthroned and magnificent, he asked me to absorb every wound his wife inflicted and repay her with patience and grace. I began to understand that the world runs not on love, but on what is convenient. On what men are willing to protect when it costs them something. The worst came when Minthe poisoned me. It was not meant to kill. Only to humiliate — to leave me doubled over, weak and gasping, during a gathering of divine households. A small cruelty, carelessly deployed. When I discovered the source, something in me finally broke. I crossed the palace in three strides and struck her across the face. She screamed. She ran to Hades. That evening, Hades came to the east wing. He told me I must kneel before her and beg her forgiveness. I am Persephone of the House of Selen. My knees bend for the sky, for the earth, for my parents. For no one else. I refused. So Hades gave the order. His attendants surrounded me. They took up the iron-banded staves kept by the door. Once. Twice. Three times. The blows came down across my legs, and the pain finally drove me to my knees. Through blurring vision, I saw Minthe standing over me, and the corner of her mouth was curved into a smile. That night, Hades came alone to the east wing. He looked at my legs, which had lost all feeling. He sighed and reached for my hand. I pulled it away. He sat in silence for a moment. Then he spoke. “Sister. I am sorry for today. Truly.” “But Minthe — she saved my life, once. I swore an oath to her. I swore I would never allow her to suffer.” I looked at him. Saved your life. That is the coin she holds. And who carried you home through the winter storm when you collapsed, starving, in the road? Who sat with you through three nights of fever? Who poured the last of the family’s tungsten steel into the raging fire to forge the most resilient weapon for you? What coin do I hold? I did not say it. I was too tired. The cold and the injury worked together, and I sickened. Each day I grew weaker. The finest healers of Olympus came, and none of them could turn it back. The day I died, snow fell beyond the window like a blessing I no longer wanted. Hades knelt beside my bed, gripping my hand as though he could hold me to this world through sheer will. “Sister,” he said. “Forgive me. This life — I failed you completely.” “If the Fates grant another — I swear I will bring you home properly. With ceremony, with honor. I will give you your name.” I looked at him. My heart was perfectly still. What had I answered? I remembered. I used the last of my strength to pull my hand free, finger by finger. “Hades,” I whispered. “In the next life — let us never meet at all.” I closed my eyes. I heard him cry out behind me — a raw, torn sound, the voice of a god stripped to something human and helpless. And then I woke up. Back at the beginning. Standing on the temple-house balcony, the Golden Apple warm in my palm.

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Five years ago, I think my life is finally getting fixed—until I find out the evidence that put my adoptive sister Felicity in jail for running me over… was all a lie. Five years ago it came out that my adoptive sister, Felicity, was the one who’d run me over. My parents and my fiancé, Sebastian, stood by me like a wall. Felicity was thrown out that very night. Sebastian made sure she went to jail. Fast forward five years. Christmas Eve. My parents are supposedly abroad. Sebastian says he has to work late—another lastminute excuse. I’m used to it. I feed his disabled sister, Sammy, then head out alone to buy groceries for Christmas dinner. As I pass a flower shop, I see someone I shouldn’t. Felicity—alive, smirking into her phone. “Yeah, I’m buying flowers for my husband. He’s sacrificed so much. I have to spoil him,” she coos. “He’s a CEO. No matter how busy he is, he comes home to me every single day. Five years of marriage, and he’s never asked me to lift a finger. Today’s Christmas. He canceled everything. He’s cooking dinner for me and my parents.” I look up. There he is—Sebastian—walking toward her with grocery bags. And behind him? My parents, the ones who were supposed to be in another country. Sebastian doesn’t see me. He smiles and hooks his arm through Felicity’s. “Hey, honey. Who were you on the phone with?” he asks. Before she can answer, my parents flock to Felicity. My mother presses a candy apple into her hand like she’s a child. My father pats her arm, sighing. “I know you and Sebastian have been married for years, but on paper… it still says Leah’s name. That’s not fair to you,” he says. “You’ve been so patient.” Felicity glows. “It’s not hard,” she murmurs. “As long as I have Mom, Dad, and Sebastian… I’m happy.” Her voice is all humility and suffering, and my parents rush to comfort her. I stay in the shadows, shaking. Felicity never went to jail. She’s been living in the same city as me this whole time. My parents never left the country. They’ve been with her. And my marriage to Sebastian? A lie from the start. I don’t remember how I walk away. I clutch our marriage license and head to City Hall. The clerk frowns. “Ma’am… this license is forged. There’s no record of it here.” “The man on this document, Sebastian Vance? He’s already legally married to someone else.” “Felicity Carter.” The paper slips from my fingers. My hand won’t move. I make it home somehow and push the door open. The place is wrecked. The room I cleaned that morning is covered in Sammy’s waste. The vase on the table is shattered. Sammy’s leg is cut and bleeding, but she doesn’t seem to feel it—she just sits in the mess, grinning at me. This is almost every day. Five years of living in a lie. Five years of drowning in this nightmare. Sebastian built his company from nothing and he’s obsessed with saving money. So no nurse. Just me, taking care of his sister fulltime. “She’s my only family left,” he told me. “You have to be careful with her.” Five years ago I was a rich girl with a bright future. Now I count pennies before buying vegetables. I don’t cry. I fetch water, clean Sammy up, bandage her leg, scrub the floor. Then my phone rings. Sebastian. “Make two extra fish dishes tonight. Bring them to the office. I’m feeding the staff who are working late.” His voice is an order—no please, no thank you—and he hangs up before I can answer. Fish again. Neither of us likes fish. After we were “married,” Sebastian barely ate at home. But every few weeks he asks me to cook fish and take it to his office. I should have known. Felicity loved fish as a kid. Back when we all lived together, my parents used to ask me to cook it for her. Funny. When they first brought me home, they held me and promised I’d never suffer again.

Before I turned twelve, the world felt like nothing but hell. A drafty room. Bare cupboards. Endless chores. Endless beatings. The man who “raised” me was a gambler. Every time he lost, he took it out on me—pressing his cigarette into my arm, laughing at my screams. The woman was no better; she beat me for fun and hated to see me rest. I worked from dawn until midnight. Then, when I was twelve, the Carters found me. Light for the first time in that basement. And my real parents standing over me. It was the middle of summer. My wounds were festering. I smelled like rot. But they didn’t recoil. They held me. Their tears were warm against my neck. That was the first time I ever knew warmth. When I came home with them, I learned I had an adoptive sister. We’d been switched at birth. The people who’d abused me were her biological parents. My parents were good to her. I didn’t mind—I was grateful just to be warm. And then Sebastian arrived like a god. I was behind in school, never properly taught, bullied at every turn. He stood in front of me. He protected me. He taught me what I’d missed. He helped me belong. At sixteen, under the old oak, we promised forever. So when did it all start to fall apart? When Felicity turned eighteen and began faking depression—threatening to kill herself every other week. After that, somehow, I became the villain in their story. My parents looked at me differently. “Leah, Felicity is sick. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” they said, and that was all. Sebastian drifted away too. He paid more attention to Felicity. When I argued, he only frowned and said, “You’ve been way too spoiled.” Then the accident five years ago. I’d just finished my PhD ceremony and walked out of the building. A truck hit me. Bones shattered. I almost died. One foot still bears the limp. My parents stayed at my bedside for a week. Sebastian went after anyone responsible. When evidence showed Felicity had hired the driver, I thought every wrong would finally be made right. I didn’t know then that everything they did was to protect her. I look in the mirror now—bloodshot eyes, a mess of a woman, no trace of the proud girl who clutched her PhD. My chest tightens. I think of Professor Davis—he wanted me as his assistant once—and guilt blooms. My phone buzzes. A text from him. Leah. I’m leaving for France in a month. You were always my best student. Before I go, will you come with me as my assistant? I didn’t cry when my marriage turned out to be a lie. I didn’t cry when I saw my parents hand Felicity candy apples. I didn’t cry through five years of this nightmare. But seeing my professor—the man who treated me like a daughter—still care? I break. I type back before I can think. Thank you. Yes. I’ll come with you. He’s handling the visa and the tickets. I need to pack. That’s when I realize how little I own. Five years. Not one new piece of clothing. Because Sebastian said, “Be frugal.” I’ve been living like a nonperson. I’m still packing when the door opens. Sebastian walks in. He sees the empty dinner table and frowns. “Leah. What the hell?” “Did you feed Sammy? Why isn’t the fish ready?” He fires question after question—none of them asking if I’ve eaten. I look at him. My face is blank. “Why should I do any of it?”

Sebastian’s face freezes. He looks at me like I’m a complete stranger. “What did you just say?” His voice is sharp. “What do you mean, ‘why should you’?” “Leah, have you lost your mind? Are you insane? Do you even hear yourself?!” He snaps out of it fast. Then he swings his bag right at my face. I turn my head just in time to take it on the cheek, but he’s already yelling louder. “I bust my ass every single day! Who do I do it for?!” “I asked you to make one stupid fish dish, and now you’re having a breakdown?!” I feel blood on my lip. It’s split open. I wipe it slowly. Then I look at him. Not quite smiling. Not quite not. “First of all,” I say quietly. “Was that fish really for your employees?” “Second. Sammy is your sister. Not mine. Feeding her? Taking care of her? That’s your job.” Then Sammy hears the yelling from the other room. She starts crying. Stumbling out of bed. She trips and falls flat on the floor. And then she just wails. Loud. Loud enough that the neighbors come out to see what’s going on. Sebastian doesn’t go help his own sister. His face just turns red. Embarrassed. “Leah,” he hisses. “You really want to do this in front of everyone?” I don’t flinch. I pull out our marriage license. And I tear it in half right in his face. “Do what? Finally see you for what you are?” I let out a quiet laugh. “God, I really had you wrong.” “We’re done.” I grab my bag and head for the door. But the neighbors block me. “Sweetheart, we’ve known Sebastian for years,” one of them says. “That man works so hard.” “It’s your job as his wife to support him. Take care of his sister. Don’t make a scene on Christmas.” A few older women snicker. “Sebastian’s a CEO,” one of them scoffs. “And you? What do you even do all day—sit around and live off him? You should be thanking your lucky stars he married you.” “Without him, what would you even do?” I feel sick. They don’t know. None of them know. Sebastian gives me a thousand a month and calls it “frugal.” I work three jobs just to pay for Sammy’s medication and all the household bills. I’m not even angry anymore. I just turn to Sebastian. “Hey,” I say. “Do you really think I’m your wife? Like they all just said?” “Because from where I’m standing… you already have a wife. And it’s not me.” Sebastian stares at the torn pieces of paper on the floor. For a second, his face goes pale. Then something clicks behind his eyes. He laughs. A nasty little laugh. “Oh, I get it,” he says. “You’re mad about the wedding. The ceremony. That’s what this is about.” He pulls out his wallet. Throws fifty dollars on the ground. “Here. Go buy yourself something sweet, hand it out to the neighbors—call it a celebration or whatever.” “I have work to do. I don’t have time for your drama.” He walks away. Fast. Like he’s running. I don’t say anything else. I just turn to leave. But then I see Sammy, still on the floor, crying so hard she can barely breathe. She didn’t ask for any of this. I sigh. Help her up. Walk her back to bed. And when I’m changing her clothes, something falls out of her hand. A photo. A small wedding photo. And in it? Sebastian. In a tux. Holding hands with Felicity. In a white dress. Sammy sees the picture and lights up. “Lici!” she says, grinning. “Lici’s wedding! Lici gave Sammy candy!” I freeze. So much for being “too busy for a ceremony.” So much for “saving money” and “not caring about tradition.” They had a wedding. A real one. And I never even knew. Even Sammy was there. For five years, she’s never once said Felicity’s name like that. With happiness. Now she’s looking at a picture of Felicity with Sebastian… and smiling. The last bit of warmth inside me goes dark.

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I have a bad temper. Every time Hugo Vance does something that upsets me, the word *divorce* flies out of my mouth. And every time, on the last day of the divorce cooling-off period, he always bows his head and begs me to stay. The first time, I complained that our villa wasn’t grand enough. I casually mentioned divorce. He had me moved into Harbor Manor the next day. The second time, someone posted about an eighty-million-dollar piece of jewelry. I threw a fit because he didn’t buy me the same one. He rushed to contact an overseas auction house and put the exact same piece in my hands on time. The third time, I said the fertility medicine was too bitter and I wanted a divorce again. He brewed the medicine himself and fed it to me, then worked around the clock without rest. My friends all say I’m Hugo’s one weakness. His one exception. I thought his favoritism would always be my safety net. Then his first love-Luna Lane came back to the country. He came home thirty minutes late. And I mentioned divorce once more. Even my best friend tried to stop me. “Know when you can stop. Don’t be unreasonable.” I looked at the dark circles under Hugo’s eyes. For once, I held back my temper. I told myself this would be the last time I threatened divorce. But this time, the last second of the divorce cooling-off period passed. And Hugo still didn’t come home. The living-room light clicks on and he freezes when Hugo sees me sitting in the dark. “Still up.” His voice is quiet. “Waiting for you.” I’m calm. He loosens his tie and walks past without a word toward the kitchen. I stand and follow him. “Hugo.” He’s pouring a glass of water with his back to me. “This time, the cooling-off period,” I say, looking at his back, “is over.” “Hm.” He takes a sip. Just one “hm.” Seven days of waiting for an explanation—anything, even a perfunctory “don’t be silly”—and nothing. Anger flares inside me. I turn around, grab the vase off the entryway table, and smash it to the floor. *Crash—!* It shatters across the floor. He watches me, shock and anger in his eyes, but not the panicked rush he used to make to check if I’d hurt myself. “What are you doing?” Hugo’s face hardens. “Divorce.” I cover half my face and laugh, “Isn’t this how it always goes? I break things. You clean up. I say divorce, you bow. Every single time.” I step forward, my bare feet crunching on the broken porcelain. “Why aren’t you performing this time? Because the audience has changed? Your first love is back! Isn’t she?” “Is she waiting downstairs? Waiting for us to finish shouting so she can come upstairs and comfort you?” I press. “Hugo, tell me!” “Enough!” He barks. The doorbell rings the next second. His brothers and my friends flood in as if on cue. They take in the mess on the floor. The standoff between us. They wear the same expression: oh, not this again. “Sia, calm down!” Cade Foster (His best friend) steps between us. “Hugo’s been under a lot lately, The company stuff—” “Under a lot?” I cut him off, pointing at Hugo. “He has time to pick someone up from the airport, sit through a three-hour dinner, and come home half an hour late without so much as a word to me?” “Sia!” A friend grabs my arm and hisses, “Don’t keep on… we all know you’re hurting, but this is embarrassing.” “So what if that woman is back? You’re still his wife.” “Wife?” I fling her off. But tears are streaming down my face. “I’m like a child who throws a tantrum when she can’t get candy! And you—every one of you—” I point at each of them. “You all help him hold me down, telling me, ‘Be good, stop making a scene, candy tomorrow!’ But where’s the candy?!” I turn to Hugo. My voice shreds. “Where’s my candy?!” The candy that always comes after I threaten divorce. Why isn’t it here this time?

The living room tightens into a silence so dense I can hear my own breath. The tension stretches tight as a wire. Cade finally takes a step forward. “She knows Hugo has a bad stomach. She only asked me to bring him some medicine. She knows where the line is. What about you?” His chest heaves. Then he finally spits out the words that have been sitting on his tongue. “Besides asking for things, breaking things, and threatening divorce—what have you ever done for him? You can’t even give him a—” “A what?” I scream, cutting him off. Years of resentment and pain explode out of me. “You want to talk about children?!” “Cade, You can ask him! Ask Hugo why I can’t get pregnant!” I turn to Hugo. Tears and hatred crash down my face. “Tell him! Tell him about the flood five years ago! Tell him how you could have taken me first, but you stayed behind to save Luna’s damn cat! Tell him how you left me alone in waist-deep freezing water for five hours!” Cade freezes. I laugh, my whole body shaking. I point at Hugo. I point at all of them. “Those bitter fertility medicines—I threw up every time I drank them. Every time I make a scene, do you think it’s because I want to?” Cade is stunned by my outburst. He opens his mouth but can’t find the words. Hugo closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there’s nothing but raw, breaking pain underneath. His voice is hoarse as he tries to step closer. “Sia, that incident was an accident. I later—” “Later you made up for it, right?” I step back, avoiding him. “Fine. Make up for it. Send Luna away right now. I don’t want to see her in Harbor City. Or—divorce.” Divorce. I don’t know what else to say anymore. Silence swallows the room. Cade snorts and turns to Hugo. “Hugo, since she’s raised divorce, why not—” “Get out!” Hugo roars. I don’t know if he’s shouting at them or at me. But everyone is used to this scene by now. They exchange glances and file out. The huge space empties. Just Hugo and me. I stand in the middle of the wreckage. I wait. Like I have a hundred times before. I wait for him to walk over, pull me into his arms, and say in that helpless, indulgent voice: “Sia, stop it.” Or even just a lie. An explanation for why he secretly went to the airport to pick up Luna. An explanation for why, when I texted him that I felt like my heart was dying, he only sent an assistant with a bottle of painkillers. I would take anything. Even a lie. Seconds pass. At last he moves—but not toward me. He stoops and, silently and methodically as after every argument, begins to pick up the broken porcelain. As if sweeping up the pieces is the only salvageable thing left in our relationship. I watch his expressionless face. The place where my artificial heart sits in my chest—it tightens. Slowly I walk to him and crouch at his feet, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Look at me. Answer me one question.” He can’t look away. “All these years—when you held me, when you kissed me, when we were intimate…” I lean closer. “Was the person you’re thinking about me?” His Adam’s apple bobs. But no words come out. A silent admission. I nod. I stand up. The world tilts but I hold on. “…I won’t let her stay in Harbor City!” The words come out sharp. The last bit of stubbornness I have left. He finally looks up at me. His voice is thin with exhaustion. “Don’t do this, Sia. This is her hometown. What right do I have to make her leave?” Of course he has the right. He just won’t tell me that he paid for every cent of Luna’s art studies in Paris. That the venue for her exhibition, the promotion, even her clothes—every single expense went through his accounts. I saw it a month ago in a “casual” finance brief someone left on my desk. The numbers were crystal clear. When she wasn’t here, I could be his [line in the sand]. His [whole world]. With her back, the boundary shifted and his world found a new center. Between us, he couldn’t even be bothered to maintain the illusion of being torn. The fire that has been burning in my chest for so long—it suddenly goes out. I don’t say *divorce* again. I just turn around. One step at a time, I walk upstairs. My phone buzzes. I think it’s a text from him—An apology. But it’s my doctor, Dr. Lee. “Mrs. Vance, your artificial heart is long overdue for replacement. You cannot wait any longer. We advise that you forego the pregnancy.” I laugh. My hand drifts to my lower stomach. All these years, Hugo hired the best medical team to care for me. They made it possible for me to try for a baby even with an artificial heart. What he doesn’t know is that three months ago I refused to replace the failing artificial heart. I had a feeling I couldn’t explain—a fierce, animal certainty. Now I’m pregnant. And my heart is failing.

I go to the art gallery on the west side of the city. Luna looks surprised to see me. “Sia? What are you doing here? Hugo, he—” “He’s busy.” I cut her off. My eyes scan the paintings on the wall. “I heard your exhibition is opening. I came to take a look.” She’s the same as ever—always in that plain white dress. Sunlight pours through the glass roof and turns her into something unreal. “Sia, you and Hugo… are you… okay all these years?”” “Better than okay.” I lift my hand, making sure she sees the huge diamond on my ring finger. The one Hugo forced onto my hand this morning before he left. “He’s just so worried about me. I throw a little tantrum, and he spends hours making it up to me. So annoying.” “He insisted this ring suits me. Such a tacky taste man. Bad taste.” Luna’s eyes flick over the ring and a deeper smile curves her mouth. “Hugo’s always been careful with people he cares about.” She tilts her head slightly. “Just like back then… because my heart condition was bad, Hugo moved me to Harbor Manor to recuperate and even bought anther separate new house for you two as your home.” “You must have been so disappointed then,” she adds slowly. A chill skates across my fingertips. She keeps going, her voice full of fake apology. “Hugo was just worried about me living too far from the hospital. He said the manor was quieter, better for my recovery.” “So sorry for the trouble, Sia.” “I know you loved that manor,” she continues, “But you’re living there now. I guess that makes up for it?” “Back then, he came to see me every day. He said I was the only one who could make him forget his worries.” “Then I got better and went abroad to study.” She looks at me. “If I hadn’t, maybe I’d still be living in the manor.” She looks up at me, waiting for me to break. Am I supposed to collapse? Of course I should. How could I not? But the collapse happened long ago. Back then, I was drowning in grief over my mother’s death. I was recovering from my artificial heart surgery. I didn’t have the energy to notice anything else. Then Luna celebrated her recovery with a party at the manor. She posted a Moments update—deleted quickly but she had explicitly tagged me. The location was Harbor Manor. In the corner of the photo, I saw Hugo’s silhouette. All his friends were there. I drove straight to the manor. Through the iron gate, I could see lights. People moved and laughter leaked through. I heard someone joking: “Luna, Hugo’s kept you so well hidden in this manor for two years. what, not planning on finding a boyfriend?” A soft, teasing laugh followed. Then I heard Hugo murmur something indistinct. And a servant called out, “Mrs. Vance, your tea.” Mrs. Vance. No one in that room corrected her. I stood there in the dark. And suddenly I understood. Those nights when he said he had business trips, or late meetings—he spent them here, with another woman called “Mrs. Vance”, living in what was supposed to be our home. I stood there for a long time. Then I drove home. I waited for him to come back at dawn, I put a divorce agreement in front of him. No drama. Just the paper. “Hugo. Let’s get a divorce.” It was the first time I meant it. He looked panicked. “What happened? What are you talking about?” I laughed bitterly and made up a childish and petty lie. “This villa isn’t grand enough. I want to live in Harbor Manor. If not, divorce.” He stared at me for a long time. I took out my phone and applied for the divorce online in front of him. In a sense, I think waiting was a very agonizing process. On the last day of the divorce cooling‑off period, he put the keys to Harbor Manor in my hand. “Sia,” he said. “This is your home now.” Back then, I thought he had chosen me. I gave him one more chance. But really, he only gave me the manor because she was leaving. Becausa she has to pursu her dreams. The place she had lived was just something he could throw my way. “Sia?” Luna’s question pulls me back to the present. Luna is looking at me. Her eyes look curious. My heart lurches. My phone screen lights up by itself. It’s the app connected to my artificial heart. The heart rate graph spikes and dips. Alerts flash: “Abnormal emotional fluctuation detected. Please calm down immediately and avoid sustained stimulation.” I pause, dark the screen. “Really,” I hear my own dry voice. “I never knew there was a whole story behind it.” “Sia, you look so terrible… I heard from Hugo that you have an artificial heart. You can’t handle strong emotions. Should I call him to come get you?” “No!” My voice comes out too loud. A few people in the gallery turn to look. Luna reaches for my arm. “Sia, don’t get so worked up…” Her face is full of worry. Then she leans close to my ear. “You should take care of yourself. After all, your heart is still beating in my chest. ” “Healthy, and warm.”

Her last words fall into my ear, as a stone. Time seems to stop. The air in the gallery, the distant murmur of laughter, the riot of color on the walls—all of it drains away in an instant. I only hear the sudden, frantic thrum of the artificial heart inside my chest. That face—played so innocent, flickers with a flash of satisfaction. I clamp my hand down on her wrist. “How dare you—!” Luna lets out a soft *ah* of pain but doesn’t pull away. Then a tense voice cuts in from behind me. “What are you doing?” Hugo strides through the gallery doors. Every stride a burst of rare panic and anger. I watch him come forward. His eyes find Luna’s red-rimmed ones first. Then they land on me. His frown deepens. “Let her go.” Several people rush over, forming a circle around Luna. Protecting her. Luna’s voice is hoarse. “Hugo, don’t misunderstand. Sia just came to look at the paintings—” “Does she look like she’s here to see paintings?!” Cade shoves me aside. “This is exactly what Hugo’s spoiled out of her!” “If without Hugo and see who’ll bother with her then. Society will put her in her place in no time!” I grit my teeth and stay locked on Hugo’s face. He’s looking down at Luna’s wrist, cradling her hand like it’s fragile. That look—so focused, so full of concern—cuts into me, slicing away the last of whatever shaky sanity I have left. “Hugo—” I force the name out one syllable at a time, my throat raw, “My mother…was it really an accident? Was my heart really dead?” He falters and presses a thumb to his brow. “Sia…” he starts. “How many times are you going to drag this up? I told you. It was an accident. Who can guarantee a surgery is a hundred percent—” “I want the truth!” My voice rises. “Hugo, look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me—what really happened?!” “Enough!” His anger finally snaps free. I want to scream. I want to lose my mind. I want to demand the truth in front of everyone… But the artificial heart in my chest buzzes like a hive about to burst. My vision blurs. *Beep. Beep. Beep.* Hugo’s face—full of worry for her, was floats in front of me. How cruel. Even the right to go insane is being stolen from me because someone else wears my heart. Hugo grabs my arm. “Let’s go home.” I try to pull away. But I can’t move anymore. Fatigue closes my eyes for a beat. “Divorce,” I whisper, the last of my defiance. “This is the last time.” “Crazy. You’re absolutely crazy.” There’s nothing but disgust in Hugo’s eyes now. In the chaos, my bag gets knocked over. The divorce agreement falls out. The one I drafted long ago. The one I drafted so many times and never signed He bends, snatches up the papers, pulls a pen, and signs with a hard, precise stroke. He slams the pen and the signed document back at my feet. “As you wish.” — The madness drains out of me. I pick up the papers, brush off the dust, and without a word, walk out of the gallery.

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I descended the staircase of The Plaza in a twelve-foot silk train. My cheating boyfriend of seven years went white as a corpse. His bourbon glass shattered on the marble floor. “Aurelia?” he choked out. “This isn’t funny.” ········································ First week back after the Christmas break, we flew into the New York headquarters for the annual board meeting. The Chairman beamed as he flipped through last year’s performance reports. “Aurelia’s been grinding it out in London for three years. Doubled our profits over there. She’s the reason we’re celebrating tonight.” “Dominic, come on. Seven years with this girl. Isn’t it about time you brought her home and put a ring on it?” The other executives jumped in, laughing. “Seriously, Dominic. Seven years is a long time. You can’t keep a woman like Aurelia waiting forever.” I gripped my pen a little tighter. A thousand nights alone in that London flat, and I thought the finish line was finally in sight. But Dominic just pressed his fingers down on a printed transfer order already sitting in front of him. “Tessa is being reassigned to headquarters. Aurelia will continue in her current position in London.” His tone was cool. All business. “Tessa is still green. Some time at headquarters would be good for her development.” “Baby, you wouldn’t want people saying I play favorites with my own girlfriend, would you?” The room went dead quiet. Tessa was biting her lip, but she couldn’t hide the gleam in her eyes. “Dominic, I really don’t think this is right. Aurelia’s been waiting three years to come home…” Dominic turned his head toward me, his voice warm but every word a knife. “Aurelia, you’ve always understood the bigger picture. You get why I have to do this, right?” “Honey. New York and London aren’t that far. I’ll fly out every weekend. I’ll even bring your favorite caramel truffles.” I stared at the transfer papers in Tessa’s hands—the ones that should have had my name on them—and nodded at him. “You’re absolutely right, Dominic. A company has to have standards.” Dominic. Seven years of flights between two cities. I’m done waiting for a homecoming that was never coming. … The sky over Manhattan was gray when the meeting broke up. Everyone filed out fast, reading the room. Everyone except Tessa, who clutched her folder to her chest and hurried over to Dominic. Her eyes were glassy, lip trapped between her teeth. “Dominic, thank you so much for this chance. I just—I’m worried Aurelia might take it the wrong way…” Dominic didn’t even look up. He was still rubbing slow circles on the back of my hand. “This was a corporate decision. It has nothing to do with my relationship with Aurelia.” “Aurelia sees the bigger picture. She doesn’t lose her composure like you do.” Distant. Dismissive. Like Tessa was nothing to him. Tessa flicked a quick glance at me before bending forward in a rush of gratitude. “Yes, of course. I’ll work so hard, I promise. Aurelia… I’m sorry you’ll be stuck in London a little longer.” I didn’t say anything. I just slipped my hand out of Dominic’s. The second Tessa disappeared down the hall, Dominic got up, slow and unhurried. He pulled off his suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders. “Are you upset?” “Tessa is a kid fresh out of college. She’s never been exposed to a real corporate environment. She needs the HQ experience to grow.” “She’ll go back to London eventually, I promise. I’m actually doing this for you. Someday I’ll hand you back a sharp, capable executive.” I didn’t bother arguing. I picked up my bag and stood. He reached over and took it from my hand before I could stop him. “Come on, let me drive you to the hotel.” In the parking garage, the moment I slid into the passenger seat, he produced a small white box. “I had someone wait in line for these this morning.” He broke off a piece of caramel truffle and held it up to my lips. I kept my mouth closed. “I’m not hungry.” He pulled his hand back, a little stiff, and leaned across to reach for my seatbelt. His cologne was the sandalwood one I gave him for Christmas. But as he pulled the strap across me, something soft and pink caught my eye. A little fuzzy charm was clipped onto the buckle. He froze for a split second, then casually ripped it off. “Tessa. She grabbed some files from me yesterday and complained the belt was digging into her neck, so she stuck this thing on there.” He tossed the pink ball into the center console with a sigh. “Girls her age love this cutesy stuff. Honestly, it’s exhausting.” That compartment used to hold my allergy medication. Now my little orange bottle was shoved into the back corner, buried under chocolates and a mini Jellycat keychain. Every single thing in there was something Tessa liked. I thought about all those nights in London. How I’d rearrange my entire week just to see him for one dinner. I’d sleep at the office on Thursdays, burn through files all day Friday, and sprint to Heathrow to catch the last evening flight to New York. Sometimes storms grounded everything and I’d sit on a terminal bench until sunrise. He always used to say, “Baby, London is so far. You don’t have to keep flying back like this.” I thought he was worried about me. Now I realize he was worried I’d walk in on what he was doing while I was gone. Dominic didn’t notice anything was off. He started the car, his face perfectly composed. “Did you book your return flight yet? I won’t be able to drop you at the airport tomorrow.” “Tessa needs someone to walk her through the departments. I promised I’d take her around.” He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like me dragging a suitcase to the airport alone had become so routine he didn’t even register it anymore. I turned my head toward the window. “Dominic, I’ve bought one hundred and fifty-seven plane tickets over the last three years. Every single one of them had you at the other end.” “My mother told me before she died—if you knock on a door for seven years and no one answers, it’s time to find a different door.” Dominic slammed the brakes. He reached over and pinched my cheek. “Your mom was just worried about you. She didn’t mean it.” “I’ll expense every single one of those tickets for you. And didn’t I just promise in that meeting? From now on, I’m the one flying out. You won’t have to lift a finger.” He popped a chocolate into my mouth. Sweetness that was never meant for me melted on my tongue. “Come on, babe. Don’t be like this right now. Once the London project wraps, I’ll bring you home. I promise.” The car pulled up to my hotel. He didn’t even cut the engine. He glanced at his watch, then at me. “Aurelia, I’m slammed this afternoon. You go upstairs and rest, okay?” He leaned in to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I pulled back before he could touch me. “Dominic. Seven years. If you can’t follow through, I’m not waiting anymore.” Dominic laughed softly, his expression cooling. “Don’t say stupid things, baby. London gets damp this time of year. Don’t forget to take your medication.”

The next morning, I walked straight into headquarters and submitted my paperwork. The HR manager looked down at the form, then up at me, then broke into a grin. “Oh my God, Aurelia, congratulations! Ten days of wedding leave, approved.” “I knew it. Dominic was just being stubborn in that meeting yesterday. One night with you and he folds like laundry. He’ll be on his knees proposing before the week’s out.” A couple of coworkers passing by caught the tail end of it, and within thirty minutes the rumor had torn through every floor of the building. I went into the break room to grab coffee and ran into three senior VPs who’d known us since we first started dating. “Aurelia, honey, finally! Seven years and you’re making an honest man out of him. Better save us seats at the reception.” I just smiled politely. Didn’t confirm it. Didn’t deny it. “I still need to wrap a few things up. Let’s catch up later.” I headed to the executive floor to drop off my final report. I hadn’t even reached the Chairman’s office when I saw something through the crack in Dominic’s door that made my lungs lock up. Tessa was standing right up against his desk in a tight pencil skirt. Dominic was leaning forward, his hand sliding around to the small of her back. Her zipper must have been stuck, because he was working it slowly, patiently, his fingers lingering where they didn’t need to. “This skirt is inappropriate. Don’t wear it to the office again.” The words were a reprimand. His voice wasn’t. I had never heard him sound like that before. Tessa giggled and shifted closer into him. “But I wore it for you.” Dominic sighed and flicked her nose. “I thought I was getting a future executive. Looks like I got a handful instead.” I curled the corner of my mouth into something ugly, then raised my hand and knocked. They sprang apart. The moment Dominic saw it was me, the warmth drained from his face. “Aurelia? What are you still doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be on a flight to London today?” He spotted the folder in my hand and let out a long breath. “You still had reports to drop off? That’s grunt work. Tessa could have run down to grab them.” He reached for the folder, but Tessa cut in and snatched it from him first. “I’ve got it, Aurelia. Dominic was just telling me how fast I pick things up.” Dominic nodded, approving. “She’s right. Aurelia, she’s got real potential.” For a second they looked like the perfect mentor and mentee. Then the Chairman pushed the door open without knocking. The old man walked in laughing. “Dominic, you dog! Her wedding leave form just hit my desk.” “So where are we doing this thing, New York or London? We’ve got to throw you two the wedding of the century. Our golden couple.” Dominic’s hand went rigid on the desk. He looked up at me, first shocked, then something darker sliding into his eyes. “Sir, we haven’t finalized anything yet. Please don’t listen to office gossip.” The Chairman rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, read the room, and excused himself. The second the door clicked shut, Dominic was on his feet. “Aurelia. You’ve got some nerve. You filed wedding leave without saying a word to me?” “What is this? An ambush? Is this how we’re doing things now?” “You’ve always said you were a modern woman. Since when do you pressure me into marriage?” He wasn’t holding back in front of her. Tessa gasped on cue, pressing a hand to her chest. “Aurelia, I had no idea you submitted wedding leave…” “But Dominic, you and I were going to tour the new venue sites this afternoon. He won’t be able to help you plan anything…” Dominic shot me a look of pure disgust and swept the coffee mug off his desk. It was the mug I’d hand-painted for him one rainy weekend in London. “Tessa, I’m sorry you had to see that. Our afternoon schedule stands. Why don’t you step out for a minute?” Tessa arched an eyebrow and gave me a slow, deliberate smile on her way past. “No problem. I’ll meet you at our usual spot, Dominic.” The door closed behind her. Dominic loosened his tie and softened his voice. “Aurelia. Get whatever little games you’re playing out of your head.” “I’m in a critical phase of my career. I’m not blowing it up over something this petty.” “Take the leave. Go on a vacation, on me. Spend whatever you want. Relax somewhere nice.” “But if you’re dead set on getting married, you’d better start looking for another groom.” I didn’t cave the way I usually did. I lifted my chin and looked him dead in the eye. “Fine. You said it yourself.”

A full week went by, and I almost forgot Dominic existed. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. He was waiting me out, expecting me to crack first, to come crawling back with apologies the way I always did. But I was enjoying the silence. I even took a long walk along the Hudson on my lunch break one afternoon. I liked New York better than London. The breeze here was soft. Almost gentle. London’s wind was damp and heavy. It cut into you like broken glass. Three years in London and I never once felt like I belonged there. I used to wake up in the middle of the night with my heart pounding, remembering the promises Dominic had made to me on a Hamptons beach the summer we fell in love. Then, late Friday afternoon, my phone buzzed. “Seven p.m. tonight. Per Se, sixty-sixth floor. Happy anniversary.” I read the message three times. Something inside me wavered. Per Se’s Central Park view was glowing gold when I arrived. The city lights flickered on Dominic’s face as he sat across from me, looking every inch the man I’d fallen in love with. He pushed a velvet jewelry box across the table. “Seven years, baby. Happy anniversary.” My fingers had barely grazed the lid when his phone started buzzing. Tessa. Her name lit up the screen like a slap. Dominic answered. Her voice came through, trembling, choked with tears. “Dominic, the power just went out in my whole building. I’m so scared of the dark. I was trying to cut up an apple and I sliced my finger open, there’s blood everywhere—” Dominic’s entire face shifted. He gripped the phone hard. “You’re bleeding? How bad is it? Do you have Band-Aids in the apartment?” “Don’t move, okay? Don’t touch anything.” Three panicked questions in a row. I slid my hand back from the box. Whatever was inside didn’t matter anymore. He’d already forgotten I was across the table from him. Tessa let out another little shriek through the speaker. Dominic looked up. His voice was soft, but his mind was already halfway across the city. “Aurelia, Tessa’s all alone in New York. She doesn’t have family here. She’s probably terrified.” “She can’t handle this by herself. I have to go.” “Can you wait for me? I’ll be quick.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He was already grabbing his coat, already walking out. In London, I lived alone. I learned how to change light bulbs. How to unclog a garbage disposal. How to haul a new mattress up three flights of stairs by myself. I went from crying into my pillow every night to knowing which wrench to use on a leaky pipe. Not once did he show up. I stopped needing him a long time ago. Thirty minutes later, Tessa walked into the restaurant with a pristine Band-Aid wrapped around her pinky finger. She trailed behind Dominic like a scolded child, peeking out from behind his shoulder. “Aurelia, I’m so sorry. I’m such a mess. I completely ruined your anniversary.” Dominic pulled out the chair next to his for her. “Aurelia, Tessa used to work under you. Don’t make her feel awkward, okay?” The waiter arrived with our entrees. Dominic held up a hand to stop the dish with the seared scallops. “Take that back. Bring her the lobster bisque instead.” That was what he used to order for me. Every single date, for seven years. “Aurelia, your stomach’s been off lately. Keep it light tonight. Eat something gentle with Tessa.” I had no idea who had a bad stomach. It wasn’t me. He ordered himself a black truffle filet mignon. Carved off a piece with the serving knife and dropped it onto my plate. “Eat up, baby. You’ve been working too hard in London.” I stared down at the truffle shavings and my throat closed up. Dominic had forgotten I was allergic. Before London, I’d been rushed to the ER after one bite of a truffle pasta. He held my hand in the hospital bed and swore to me, on his life, that he would never let that food touch me again. Across the table, his head was bent over Tessa’s plate, patiently picking out sides for her. “Your stomach gets upset easily, Tessa. Don’t push yourself to eat something you don’t like.” I picked up my fork. Kept my face blank. Cut into the filet and ate it. Under the table, my other hand dug into my bag, pulled out the emergency antihistamine I always carried, and washed it down with red wine. Tessa’s hand “slipped” and knocked her wineglass sideways. A wave of red cabernet crashed across the front of her dress. “Oh no, my dress—” Her eyes welled up. Right on schedule. Dominic reacted instantly. He snatched the small silk-wrapped package sitting next to my plate. It was my seven-year anniversary gift to him. A silk pocket square I’d hand-embroidered over three sleepless nights in London. He ripped open the tissue paper, balled up the silk, and started dabbing at Tessa’s dress. “How are you this clumsy? I thought this was your favorite dress.” Tessa mumbled, cheeks pink. “It’s my favorite because of who gave it to me.” When he was done, Dominic tossed the stained handkerchief onto the table like a dirty napkin. He saw me staring at the crumpled silk and gave me an impatient look. “Oh, come on. It’s a piece of fabric. Her dress is ruined. She was about to cry.” “You’ve always seen the bigger picture. Don’t pick a fight over something this small. Please.” I smiled to myself. “You’re right. Waste not, want not.” I stood up and walked to the front of the restaurant to pay the check. Dominic caught up to me outside on the sidewalk and reached for my hand. “Aurelia, I’ll get you a new one tomorrow. Something nicer.” I sidestepped him and looked out at Park Avenue. “Dominic. There isn’t going to be a tomorrow.” He laughed softly, like he hadn’t heard a word. “Stop it. Go home and sleep it off.” I turned around and didn’t look back.

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