Category: English

Right before the drop tower launched, my best friend gave my boyfriend a quick look. In perfect sync, he unbuckled his safety harness and ran off with her. I was left sitting on the ride, completely frozen. My boyfriend stood in the safe zone, smiling. “Serena said you’re too chicken. She said the only way to cure your phobia is to face it head-on, so have fun riding it alone!” The ride shot up. As Serena watched my terrified, ridiculous expression, she burst into hysterical laughter, snapping photos of me with her phone. My boyfriend said something to her, a helpless smile on his face, before picking her up and hoisting her onto his shoulders so she could get a better angle for her photos. I couldn’t hear his words over the wind, but I could easily guess what he was saying. “Alright, once you’ve had your laugh, don’t tease her anymore. Chloe is sensitive, she’s pathetic enough as it is.” I have always been a coward. We grew up together for twenty years, and this was always their way of “helping me build courage.” When we were kids, Serena purposely threw rocks to attract a stray dog. Ethan carried Serena on his back and climbed up a wall, leaving me to be chased around the yard, sobbing in terror. In high school, Serena locked me in a room with two creepy older guys who started groping me. She and Ethan stood outside the door, giggling. … Every time I shook with fear, it was just entertainment for Serena. And Ethan would always stand behind her, lazily saying, “Don’t do it again next time.” But his “next time” was always just a green light for Serena to find a new way to torment me. As the drop tower climbed sixty feet into the air, the stomach-churning weightlessness hit me. But suddenly, I realized I wasn’t scared anymore. When the ride finally hit the ground, two pairs of hands reached out to help me up. I pushed them both away. “From now on, I don’t need either of you to help me build courage.”

Ethan laughed, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “Did you freeze up, Chloe? Your courage didn’t grow, but you look even dumber now.” Serena chimed in, banter rolling off her tongue smoothly. “Hey, I’m willing to take my time to help her get better.” I pressed my lips together, staring at the two of them putting on their little show. “This isn’t helping me. This is bullying.” Serena’s smile froze on her face. “Chloe, that’s actually so hurtful. I spend my free time trying to help you, and you call it bullying?” “Fine! How about I go ride the roller coaster? The one thing I’m absolutely terrified of. Would that make us even?” She turned and started walking toward the roller coaster. Ethan frowned, glared at me, and grabbed her arm. “Don’t force yourself. You cried last time. I’ll go with you.” I just stood there. Yet, just minutes ago, before we got on the drop tower, Ethan had looked at me and said: “You can’t be this childish, Chloe. It’s just an amusement park ride. You don’t need someone to hold your hand.” When the roller coaster came to a stop, Serena was buzzing with excitement. “Having someone ride with you is actually so fun! See, Chloe? It’s not even that scary!” But nobody was riding with me. Ethan looked at my expressionless face. “If you’re still mad, how about we ride the drop tower with you one more time?” But this time, they chose the double-seater drop tower—the “Lovers’ Express.” It was designed so that the riders had to face each other and hug tightly, or the seats would tilt during the drop. Engraved on the ride was the slogan: “Give your deepest trust to the one closest to you.” When the operator mentioned they only had room for two, Ethan glanced at me. “Chloe was pretty freaked out just now. Let’s not push her. Serena and I will go.” They laughed and strapped themselves in, facing each other. It was so strange. When they wanted a good laugh, I wasn’t allowed to be scared. But now, suddenly, my fear was convenient for them? I stared at them as they buckled their safety harnesses. “Ethan, the engagement ceremony in five days? Let’s call it off.” Ethan’s playful expression vanished, replaced by sudden panic. “Chloe, stop throwing a tantrum! We’ll talk when I get down!” Once the ride ended, they chased me all the way to the entrance of my neighborhood. My mom was sitting outside, chatting with the neighbors. Seeing me, she frowned. “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad time?” Serena suddenly walked up, looking incredibly hurt, and wrapped her arm around my mom’s. “Mrs. Miller, we were just trying to help Chloe with her anxiety like you asked. But she said I was bullying her, and now she wants to break up with Ethan.” Ethan caught up, adding, “You can’t just throw the word ‘breakup’ around so easily, Chloe.” My mom’s face darkened instantly. She grabbed my ear, pinching it hard. “Calling off the wedding just like that? Who do you think you are?!” The neighbors started whispering. My mom’s voice grew louder and harsher. “This girl is a coward. Ethan and Serena were nice enough to help her, and she’s being an ungrateful brat!” “Do you want to stay a useless loser hiding in this house for the rest of your life?!” As the neighbors stared and gossiped, my face burned as if I had been slapped. Ethan stepped in front of me, shielding me slightly. “It’s okay, Mrs. Miller. It doesn’t matter if Chloe is like this. I’ll protect her.” Hearing this, my mom got even angrier. She dragged me upstairs by my arm. The moment the front door slammed shut, my tears finally spilled onto the floor. “Mom, why am I your daughter, but you always believe other people over me?” My mom let out a cold sneer. “I gave birth to you. You think I don’t know what kind of pathetic creature you are?” “Ever since you were a kid, you’ve been terrified of everything. You’re nothing like Serena. You can’t do anything right… you’re just like your spineless father!” Her words carved into my bones like a knife. But I wanted to be brave too. When I was little, money was tight. My mom had high expectations, and she viewed my dad’s gentle nature as cowardice. She used to scream at him, saying his weakness was the reason we were poor. So, she tried to “toughen me up” since I was a toddler. When I was three and afraid of the dark, she locked me in the dark closet. I cried until I lost my voice. When she finally let me out, she beat me anyway. When I was afraid of water, she shoved my face into a basin. If I couldn’t hold my breath, another beating followed. She called it “desensitization.” But it only made me more terrified. Because making a mistake meant punishment, and punishment proved I was useless. Then, when I was eight, my dad decided he would rather lose custody of me than stay with my mom. He divorced her and left. From that day on, I didn’t dare to do anything wrong. I was terrified that if I messed up, my mom would abandon me too. Meanwhile, Serena, who grew up next door, was outgoing, charming, and always knew exactly what to say to please adults. My mom would always say wistfully, “I wish Serena were my daughter.” My mom pointed toward my bedroom, her voice dripping with disgust. “Go to your room and think about what you did.” “If you leave Ethan, who else is going to do charity work by marrying you?” She then dialed Serena and Ethan’s numbers. Her voice instantly softened, sweet and warm. “Serena, sweetie, I’ll make Chloe apologize to you guys. Come over for dinner tonight, okay?” I leaned against my bedroom door, wiped my tears, and called my friend. “Lucy, you’re leading that volunteer teaching program to the remote mountain school in five days, right? Do you still have an opening?” “Are you sure, Chloe? That place is totally off-grid. No signal, no Wi-Fi, and there are snakes. Aren’t you terrified of snakes?” “I’m not scared.” “But what about your engagement? How are you going to explain this to your mom? She’ll skin you alive!” I gripped my phone tightly. “Lucy, I want to run away. Just this once, I want to be brave for myself.”

Serena and Ethan arrived early, carrying heavy grocery bags. Ethan came to me first to apologize. “Chloe, we bought all your favorite foods. Don’t be mad anymore, okay?” I didn’t answer. When dinner was served, the table was covered in Serena’s favorites: mashed potatoes with sausage, ratatouille, and red wine braised beef. Serena gasped. “Oh my gosh, these are all my favorites! Thank you, Ethan, for driving all the way to get them, and thank you, Mrs. Miller, for cooking them!” But in front of me sat only a single ceramic pot. I lifted the lid. Inside was a bowl of live, crawling garden snails. I almost knocked the bowl off the table. Back in elementary school, some boys had stuffed snails into my backpack. When I reached in to grab my books, my fingers brushed against that slimy, wriggling texture. I had screamed and cried, and from that day on, they gave me a nickname: “Snail Girl.” Since then, I had been utterly terrified of them. But when my mom found out, she started forcing me to eat them. “It’s because you haven’t had them enough. Eat more, and you won’t be scared anymore.” Once, she forced me to swallow one. I vomited so hard I ended up in the ER with acute gastroenteritis. Back then, Ethan had snuck into my hospital room, gently stuffing a chicken leg into my hand. “Chloe, move in with me in the future. I promise I will never force you to eat anything you’re afraid of.” “It’s okay to be a little cowardly.” The sincerity in his eyes back then was the exact reason I fell in love with him. But now, he picked up one of the crawling snails with his fork and dropped it into my bowl. “They look scary, but they’re actually super nutritious. You can even eat them raw.” I stared at the crawling snail in my bowl, picked it up, and dropped it into Serena’s bowl. “Then she should eat it.” Ethan immediately grabbed it back and put it in my bowl. “How can you do that? Serena thinks they’re disgusting. Just looking at them gives her goosebumps.” My mom slapped the back of my head. “Just eat it and stop dragging your feet. Who are you pulling that miserable face for?” I stared at the bowl for a long time. Then, I picked up the snail and put it in my mouth. I felt like throwing up. But I forced myself to swallow. It turned out… it wasn’t actually that scary. They watched me, their faces filled with satisfaction, like scientists looking at a successful experiment. The dinner continued to be lively. Ethan picked the bones out of the fish for Serena, and my mom scooped soup for her. I sat there like an unwanted piece of furniture. Halfway through the meal, Ethan suddenly spoke up. “Oh, by the way, Chloe. For your team’s project presentation tomorrow at the office… why don’t you let Serena do it?” “You get so nervous in front of crowds. You’ll probably stutter.” For once in my life, I caught on instantly. I knew exactly what Ethan was doing. He pretended to care about my anxiety, but he also knew this project was a huge deal. He wanted to hand the spotlight to Serena. But I had stayed up for three consecutive nights to finish that deck. I didn’t care about showing off, but I wanted to try. Just once, I wanted to stand at the front. “I want to present it myself.” The table fell dead silent for a second. Ethan frowned. “Are you sure? There will be a lot of people tomorrow. Don’t freeze up on stage.” My mom gave me another disappointed look. “You can’t even speak clearly in front of your own relatives. Why bother?” “It’s fine if you embarrass yourself, but don’t embarrass Ethan.” I looked at them seriously. “Haven’t you guys always wanted me to be braver?” Serena tried to smooth things over. “I think it’s amazing that Chloe is taking this step. I support you!” That night, I stayed up until 2:00 AM practicing with the slides. But I never expected that when I stepped onto the stage the next day, several key data slides would be completely blank. I froze on stage. Ethan sat in the front row, watching me calmly for a few seconds. Then he stood up and spoke to the room. “Having the courage to stand on stage is the first step. But professional capability is about mastering your data and improvising under pressure.” At the same time, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was a Snapchat message from Serena: “Ethan and I deleted those two slides on purpose! In the real world, clients throw curveballs at you all the time. You need to learn how to improvise without panicking!” Dozens of eyes stared at me. My hands shook uncontrollably. No slides. No data. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I stumbled through it. I tripped over my words three times. It wasn’t a masterpiece, but I finished it. When I was done, Ethan and Serena looked visibly stunned. Stepping off the stage, I received a text from Lucy: “We’re leaving for the mountains the day after tomorrow. Have you made up your mind?” I replied: “Yes. I already bought my ticket.”

At the after-work happy hour, Serena had a few drinks and immediately started sharing embarrassing stories from my childhood. “You guys have no idea how much of a coward Chloe is.” “Back in middle school, some kids locked her in the gym equipment locker overnight. She just cried until her voice went hoarse. She didn’t even dare to knock on the door to ask for help!” A coworker wiped a tear from laughing. “Chloe, you’re literally a tragic pushover.” Serena nudged Ethan with her elbow. “Ethan, tell them. Am I lying?” Ethan looked at my humiliated face, hesitating for a moment. But Serena tugged at his sleeve, and he finally opened his mouth. “Yeah. When the teacher finally found her and asked what happened, she was so scared she just hid behind me and wouldn’t lift her head.” The entire table roared with laughter. My nails dug deep into my palms. I gathered every ounce of my courage. “Can you stop? I don’t like being laughed at.” The table went dead silent. A coworker leaned in and whispered to me, “Don’t pick a fight with Serena. Her family has connections. Even the boss told everyone to look out for her.” She paused, realizing something. “Wait, if you and Serena grew up together, you must know the boss too? Why are you…” I froze. I remembered how badly I wanted to be close to Ethan. I had worked myself to the bone to pass the interviews for this company. But when we ran into each other in the lobby on my first day, he didn’t even say hi. Later, he told me, “I don’t want people giving you special treatment just because of me, Chloe. You need to grow on your own.” I forced a tight smile at my coworker. “We just went to the same school. We aren’t close.” Later in the night, someone suggested going to an escape room. An asylum-themed escape room with a five-star horror rating. Clearly, it was targeted at me. When we were splitting into groups, everyone actively avoided me. One coworker joked, “We don’t want to get dragged down by you, Chloe.” In the end, only Ethan, Serena, and I were left. Ethan looked at me with conflict in his eyes, but ultimately stepped over to Serena’s side. “Chloe, this is a great chance to build your courage. Try doing it alone.” Everyone went in, paired up. Except me. I felt like I was eight years old again. My mom didn’t love me, and the neighborhood kids didn’t want to play with me. Whenever we played games, nobody ever picked me. I had wanted to go home back then, but my mom had dragged me back to the group. “You always shrink back like a sewer rat! If you acted more like Serena, people would actually want to play with you!” I had stood alone under a tree. Then, Ethan had walked over. “I’ll be in your group.” But the moment Serena’s partner left, Ethan immediately abandoned me to go to her. Twenty years later, I was still the one left behind. I used to think Ethan was the savior who would pull me out of my insecurity. But in reality, he had always held Serena’s hand, watching me drown in deep water. The staff member at the door asked me, “Ma’am, are you going in alone?” I clenched my fists. “Yes. Just me.” The heavy door pushed open, and everything went pitch black. The smell of bleach, flashing red lights, and mannequins draped in white sheets surrounded me. At a corner, Serena suddenly jumped out to jump-scare me. My foot slipped, and I fell hard, my forehead slamming against the sharp metal frame of a prop bed. The lights in the room flashed on instantly, followed by a chorus of laughter. “Oh my god, Chloe! You’re so easy to scare!” My knee was bleeding, and a huge bump was already forming on my forehead. I brushed the dust off my clothes, turned around, and walked straight out of the building. Ethan chased after me. “Are you mad? Serena only did that for your own good.” I swallowed the pain and shook my head. “I’m not mad.” He reached out, patted my bruised forehead, and smiled. “That’s my good girl.” The group dispersed. Ethan was going to drive Serena home. “Her apartment is in a sketchy neighborhood. It’s too dark for her to go alone.” “You can just Uber back, okay?” I looked into his eyes. “Why is it that when it comes to Serena, you never think she needs to ‘toughen up’?” His mouth opened, but no words came out. Suddenly, I had no desire to hear his excuse. “Forget it. Just go.” When I got home, my mom was sitting on the couch eating grapes. “Did Ethan drive you home?” “He went to drop off Serena.” My mom tossed a grape skin into the trash. “Look at how useless you are.” “Ethan has a great family, a great career. Serena fits him so much better. He must have been blind to choose you, and yet you’re still not satisfied.” I looked at my mom, really looked at her. “Mom, you’re right. Serena suits Ethan way better than I do.” “And she suits being your daughter way better, too.”

My mom snapped, standing up instantly. “You dare talk back to me? Who do you think wants you anyway?” “You’re just like your spineless father! You’ll never be half the girl Serena is!” I shut my bedroom door. She spent half the night screaming curses outside. I put on my headphones and began packing my bags. The next morning, I went out to buy supplies for the mountains. Snake repellent, bug spray, a first-aid kit… When I returned, the front door was slightly ajar. I heard laughter coming from the living room. First, it was Serena’s voice. “During the engagement party, when Chloe walks onto the stage, we should trigger a little prank to scare her. It’ll be great for her anxiety.” “Should we throw a fake snake or a dead rat?” Ethan went silent for a long time. Serena sounded annoyed. “Why are you making that face? If you’re going to take her side, then just ignore me!” He finally sighed. “Fine… but this is really the last time. I don’t want Chloe getting too traumatized.” He claimed he cared, yet he agreed to it anyway. My mom laughed along. “A little scare is good for her. She’s been talking back lately. This will teach her a lesson.” The afternoon sun was blazing hot, but I felt freezing cold. My own engagement party was going to be turned into a public humiliation prank. But it was fine. It really didn’t matter anymore. The room inside went quiet. I pushed the door open. Ethan immediately stood up, looking nervous, and wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “We were just planning the perfect engagement party for you, Chloe.” “Okay,” I murmured. Serena leaned in. “Hey Chloe, I’m taking Ethan out for a bachelor night tonight. You don’t mind, right?” “I don’t mind.” But at 2:00 AM, my phone rang. I had to drive to a bar to pick up the two of them, completely drunk. Serena’s makeup was smudged with tears as she clutched Ethan’s sleeve. “If you hadn’t refused to go to the same college as me… if you had just confessed to me back then, I wouldn’t have lied and said I didn’t like you.” Ethan covered his eyes with his hand, his voice thick and raspy. “I regret it too… I shouldn’t have gotten drunk and kissed Chloe just to make you jealous. I shouldn’t have stayed with her.” “But she looked so pathetic when she smiled…” I leaned against the doorframe of the bar, my knees going weak. On the night of our high school graduation, we had all gotten drunk. Ethan, completely wasted, had pulled me into an alley, kissed me, and whispered, “I love you so much.” That was the first time anyone had ever told me they loved me. I had felt like the luckiest girl in the world, my head spinning with joy. He had fallen asleep on my shoulder, and I hadn’t dared to move an inch, my heart racing all night long. Ten years. It was all a mistake. I let out a mocking laugh at myself. Of course. Why would anyone ever love a girl like me? I hauled both of them into the car and took them home. The next morning, Ethan and Serena came to pick up my mom, saying they were going to the venue early to set up. I knew they were going to set up their “surprise.” Ethan stood at the door, smiling. “Take your time getting ready, Chloe. No rush.” I nodded, watching their car drive away. Lucy was waiting for me at the train station. When I arrived, Ethan Snapchat-messaged me: “Take your time, we aren’t fully ready yet.” In the background of his voice note, I could hear Serena shrieking with laughter. “No, this fake rat doesn’t look real enough! Find another one!” So that was their surprise. I didn’t reply. My mom sent a voice note in the family WhatsApp group: “Chloe is always so slow and can’t handle big crowds. We’re delaying the start of the ceremony to let her prepare.” I smiled, muted my phone, and stepped onto the bus with Lucy. Right before my phone lost signal in the mountains, I received one last voice note from Ethan. “Where are you? You can come now. We’re ready.” In the background, Serena laughed, “Hurry up, Chloe! Your surprise is waiting!” I turned off my phone and never looked back. Meanwhile, at the hotel banquet hall. Ethan and the others waited. The double doors were suddenly pushed open. Serena screamed and threw the prop rat. But the only person standing at the door was the hotel manager. “Miss Miller asked me to deliver a message. She won’t be attending her engagement party. She hopes you all have a wonderful evening.” Ethan’s smile shattered. My mom froze in utter disbelief.

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I’m a first-year OB-GYN resident, and I have a secret: I can hear unborn babies talk. Today, a pregnant woman came in. Her amniotic fluid index was running dangerously low. Suddenly, a tiny voice echoed in my head. “Doctor, my dad has drugged my mom three times already. Save me!” The ultrasound probe in my hand trembled. I looked up. The man standing next to the pregnant woman was staring at his phone, laughing at some screen. I took a deep breath, carefully choosing my words. “There’s a slight issue with this report. I highly recommend a follow-up scan.” Immediately, their entire family stood up. A dozen eyes glared at me. “Doctor, are you saying there’s something wrong with our baby?” Right at that moment, the baby spoke again. “Doctor, the killer is standing right in front of you.” Hearing the commotion, the Attending Physician, Dr. Ronald Carter, walked over with a frown. He snatched the report and glanced at it. “The levels are within the normal range. Paige, stop talking nonsense.” I nodded slowly. Fine. Believe whatever you want.

“Are interns these days just desperate for commission?” Victor Vance snatched the ultrasound report from Dr. Carter’s hands and pointed a finger directly at my nose. “It says right here in black and white: ‘No obvious abnormalities.’” “You open your mouth and demand a re-scan. You just want to scam us into paying for more tests, don’t you?” His spit flew onto my mask. I looked at him, my gaze cold. “The amniotic fluid is low. While it’s technically at the borderline, the fetal heart rate is showing abnormal fluctuations.” “For the mother’s safety, a follow-up is the safest option.” “Bullshit!” Victor’s mother, Eleanor, shoved me aside and stepped in front of her son. “My son is a high-level executive who graduated from an Ivy League school! You think he can’t read a simple report?” “You put on a white coat and think you can curse my grandson?” “Keep this up, and I will report you to the medical board and get your license revoked!” Ignoring her screaming, I turned to look at Chloe Lindemann, who was lying on the examination table. She was an heiress to a massive family fortune, and Victor’s wife. Right now, she was gently holding Victor’s hand, her voice soft and submissive. “Honey, don’t be mad. It’s not worth ruining your day over.” She looked at me, her eyes filled with disapproval. “Dr. Sterling, I know you residents have performance targets to meet.” “But my husband wakes up in the middle of the night just to brew organic herbal pre-natal tea for me.” “He even tests the temperature of my drinking water himself.” “How could he ever harm me?” Chloe caressed her swollen belly, her face practically glowing with happiness. “Your unprofessional scare tactics are honestly disgusting.” I stared at her. In my ears, the baby’s crying was growing louder. “Doctor! It’s poison!” “It’s so bitter! It hurts!” “He’s been poisoning me since I was tiny! And these past few days, he added an even stronger drug!” “Doctor, please look at me!” I gripped the medical clipboard tightly. “Mrs. Vance, some damages are irreversible.” “If there’s really nothing wrong with your diet, why has the baby’s growth stalled compared to last month?” “Shut up!” Victor suddenly snapped, shoving me hard. My lower back slammed against the metal equipment cabinet. I gasped from the sharp pain. “Ronald!” Victor turned and yelled at Dr. Carter. “Is this how you train your staff?” “This isn’t over. I’m taking this straight to the hospital administration!” Dr. Carter’s face turned pale. He glared at me, then immediately put on a fake smile for Victor. “Mr. Vance, please calm down.” “Paige is new and doesn’t know the rules. I will handle this strictly.” Victor let out a cold snort and helped Chloe up. “Let’s go, babe. We’re not staying in this trash hospital.” Chloe’s best friend, Amber Davis, rushed forward to hand over her designer bag. “Exactly, Chloe. Let’s go to a private clinic. No need to waste time with this cheap doctor.” As Amber passed by me, she rolled her eyes. They walked out. The baby’s crying slowly faded into the distance. By the afternoon, a hospital-wide warning was issued against me. Dr. Carter called me into his office and screamed at me for half an hour. “Paige Sterling, have you lost your mind?” “Chloe Lindemann is the heiress of the Lindemann Group, and Victor Vance is the vice president!” “You offended them! Do you want our department to lose our annual funding?” I stood straight. “Dr. Carter, the fetal heart rate was indeed abnormal. I was only doing my job.” Dr. Carter slammed his hand on the desk. “Your job? Your job is to follow my orders!” “Starting tomorrow, you are out of the ultrasound room. Go to the inpatient ward and do grunt work.” “If you cause any more trouble, I won’t sign off on your residency certificate.” I said nothing, turned around, and walked out of the office.

By the time I finished my shift, it was pouring rain outside. I walked down to the parking garage, ready to drive home. Just as I turned the corner by a concrete pillar, I froze. Under the dim yellow lights, a car was parked in the far corner, its door half-open. Victor had a woman pinned against the car door, kissing her passionately. The woman’s arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Victor, babe… when is that ugly brat in that bitch’s stomach finally going to die?” Victor was breathing heavily, his hands wandering under her skirt. “Soon, Amber.” “I increased the dosage of the drug. In two weeks at most, it’ll be a stillborn.” “When that happens, all the shares of the Lindemann Group will be ours.” Amber giggled. “Then you’d better reward me really, really well.” Standing in the shadows, I pulled out my phone and pressed the record button. The faint glow of the screen lit up my face. You can’t save someone who is bent on self-destruction. But I would never let that innocent baby die without a fight. The next day, Chloe was admitted to the hospital. Because of some light spotting the night before, Victor had rushed her to my ward for preventive bed rest. The entire department now knew she was a billionaire heiress. The head nurse had specially arranged the best private suite for her. When I walked in with the Doppler fetal monitor and blood pressure cuff for routine checks, the room was packed. Several relatives were crowding around Victor, showering him with praise. “Oh, Victor is truly the perfect husband.” “Right? He even washes her feet himself. You can’t find a man like this nowadays even if you search with a flashlight.” Victor was indeed kneeling by the bed, holding a towel, meticulously wiping Chloe’s feet. He looked up and gave a warm, gentle smile. “Chloe is carrying my child and going through so much pain. Doing this is the least I can do.” Chloe leaned against the pillows, her eyes red with emotion. “Honey, you’re so good to me.” I walked to the bedside to check her chart. “Chloe Lindemann, I need to take your blood pressure and check the baby’s heart rate.” Seeing me, Chloe’s face instantly hardened. She pulled her feet out of the water basin, frowning. “Why is it you again?” “Is this hospital short-staffed? Why are they letting someone who was disciplined touch my belly?” Ignoring her attitude, I quickly pulled the privacy curtains and squeezed the ultrasound gel onto her skin. “Lift your shirt, please.” Victor stood up, dried his hands, and blocked my path. “Dr. Sterling, I haven’t settled yesterday’s account with you yet.” “You’d better keep your hands gentle. Don’t press that probe too hard. If you hurt my wife, I’ll make sure you regret it.” I let out a faint smirk. “Don’t worry, Mr. Vance. I only treat patients. I don’t watch dramas.” After recording the vitals, I wiped her belly with a paper towel. Just as I was about to leave, the door was pushed open. Amber walked in with a designer thermos, a massive fake smile plastered on her face. “Chloe, Victor! I brought you some soup!” She placed the thermos on the nightstand, her eyes locked onto Victor’s with a subtle, electric tension. “Victor spent half the night brewing this organic chicken herbal broth. He said it’s the best thing for the baby.” “I went to his house this morning specifically to grab it. It’s still hot.” Chloe took Amber’s hand, deeply moved. “Amber, thank you so much for going through all the trouble.” Amber teased, “Oh, come on. We’re practically sisters. Your baby is my godson.” Victor unscrewed the thermos and poured a bowl of the hot, rich soup. He blew on it gently and brought it to Chloe’s lips. “Drink up, sweetie. It’s hot. Drink it for our healthy baby.” In that exact split second, a terrified shriek exploded in my head. “No!” “Doctor, save me!” “It’s poison! He added two whole packets of it last night!” “My stomach hurts! It hurts so much!” Hearing the baby’s desperate cries, I stared at the bowl of soup. Chloe opened her mouth, ready to take a sip. “Don’t drink that!”

Before my brain could even process the thought, my body reacted. With a loud crash, I slapped the bowl right out of Victor’s hand. The boiling hot soup splashed all over the floor, and the ceramic bowl shattered into pieces. The room fell into a dead silence. Victor’s hand was scalded red. He flew into a blinding rage. “Are you fucking insane?!” Amber immediately started screaming. “Paige Sterling! What are you doing? Are you trying to murder Chloe’s baby?!” She frantically pulled out tissues to wipe Victor’s hand, her eyes filled with genuine panic and heartbreak. Chloe was frozen in shock. “Paige Sterling!” She threw off her blanket, not even bothering to put on shoes, and lunged out of bed. “Slap!” A stinging slap landed squarely across my face. “You miserable, jealous psycho!” Chloe pointed at my face, her entire body shaking. “You’re just jealous because my husband treats me like a queen!” “Yesterday you cursed my baby, and today you ruin the soup my husband stayed up all night to make!” “What the hell is wrong with you?!” Other patients and nurses outside gathered around the open door. Amber stood to the side, wiping fake tears to fan the flames. “Everyone, look at this! This doctor held a grudge because we reported her, and now she’s taking it out on a pregnant woman!” “Victor poured his heart into making that soup!” The onlookers started whispering and pointing at me. “That doctor is so malicious.” “Yeah, she just can’t stand seeing other people happy.” Holding my stinging cheek, I slowly turned my head. I looked at Chloe’s furious face, and then at Victor’s smug smirk. The baby’s voice in my head was now so weak it was barely a whisper. “Doctor… why did mommy hit you?” “It hurts…” I spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva and smiled. “Chloe.” I stared into her eyes, pronouncing every word clearly. “There was a bug in the soup. I was just trying to help.” “But since you love his ‘hard work’ so much…” “By all means, drink up next time.” I pushed through the crowd and walked out of the room without looking back. You can’t wake up someone who is pretending to be asleep. But I could make sure she woke up screaming when the reality hit her. After getting slapped, I became a total outcast in the department. Dr. Carter didn’t even let me do basic ward rounds anymore. He assigned me to hand out flyers and organize dusty, archived medical files. Everyone avoided me like the plague, terrified of getting on the bad side of the Lindemann Group. I, however, enjoyed the peace. During lunch break, I sneaked back into Chloe’s room. While they were out at a fancy restaurant, I used a syringe to collect the residue of the soup trapped in the cracks of the floor tiles. In the afternoon, I found Ethan, a close colleague of mine in the pathology lab, and asked him to run an expedited chemical analysis. When I got the results, my hands were shaking. The report clearly showed a high concentration of Mifepristone, along with an unidentified neurotoxic compound. Mifepristone was a powerful abortion pill. And Ethan had left a warning note at the bottom: “The neurotoxin shows signs of chronic accumulation. This suggests the patient has been microdosing this poison since early pregnancy.” This would 100% lead to severe fetal skeletal malformations and facial deformities. Victor never wanted this child to be born alive. He wanted a deformed baby to completely destroy Chloe’s mental state. I took a deep breath and folded the report. I didn’t give it to Chloe directly. She hated me right now. Victor could easily lie his way out of it, and she would believe him. So, during a shift change, I slipped the report into Chloe’s medical chart hanging at the foot of her bed. As long as she opened it, she would see the truth. However, I underestimated how cautious and evil these people could be.

By evening, just as I changed out of my white coat to go home, Dr. Carter stormed into the locker room, furious. “Paige Sterling! Get your ass out here!” He crumpled a few torn pieces of paper and threw them at my face. “Are you sick in the head?” “You forged a lab report and slipped it into a patient’s chart? What are you trying to pull?” I looked at the shredded paper on the floor. I could make out the words “Mifepristone.” Victor’s mother, Eleanor, was standing behind Dr. Carter, her hands on her hips. “Dr. Carter, is this how you train your residents?” “Using fake reports to terrify my daughter-in-law! You’re trying to kill us!” “If you don’t fire her today, I will sue this entire hospital!” Dr. Carter pointed a trembling finger at my face. “Paige, you’ve deeply disappointed me.” “To get revenge on a patient, you resort to such disgusting, underhanded tricks.” “You are suspended. Effective immediately.” “And I will make sure your residency certificate is never signed. You will never practice medicine in this lifetime!” I looked at them coldly. “Dr. Carter, if you want to know if that report is forged, you can easily verify it with the pathology lab.” Dr. Carter’s expression shifted, his eyes darting away guiltily. “Verify what? Haven’t you embarrassed us enough?” “Pack your things and get the hell out of my department!” I understood then. Dr. Carter didn’t care about the truth. He only cared about the Lindemann Group’s donations and his end-of-year bonus. I took off my white coat and tossed it into the trash can. “Fine.” I looked at the smug Eleanor, a cold smile playing on my lips. “I hope your family gets exactly what you deserve.” Carrying my box of belongings, I walked out of the hospital doors. The night air was freezing. I touched the voice recorder in my pocket. It held the audio and video of Victor and Amber from the parking garage. Now was not the time to flip the table. I had to wait for the most brutal consequence to run its course. Three days after I was suspended, late at night. I was in my rented apartment, putting together clues about Victor buying illegal drugs on the black market. Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently. It was the landline from the OB-GYN ward. I picked up, and Nurse Mia’s panicked, crying voice came through. “Dr. Sterling, you need to come back right now!” “Chloe’s water broke! She’s hemorrhaging!” “Dr. Carter is out of town for a conference, and we only have two junior residents on duty tonight. They can’t handle this!” I stood up instantly. “Where is Victor?” “Mr. Vance signed the consent form to save the mother.” “But Chloe is refusing! She’s screaming to save the baby at all costs!” I grabbed my jacket and rushed out the door. In my ears, that weak, tiny baby voice echoed. “Auntie…” “I’m so cold.” At 2:00 AM, the delivery room smelled heavily of iron and blood. I threw on sterile scrubs and burst in. Chloe’s blood pressure had plummeted to sixty. The heart monitor was letting out sharp, warning beeps. “Dr. Sterling! Thank God you’re here!” Mia’s hands were covered in blood, sweat pouring down her face. “Her contractions are too weak, and the baby’s heart rate is disappearing!” I quickly moved to the operating table. Chloe was deathly pale, her sweaty hair plastered to her forehead. When she saw me, a desperate surge of survival instinct flared in her hollow eyes. She grabbed my sleeve tightly. “Paige… save my baby.” “Victor said to save me, but I won’t let him. I want my baby.” Looking at the pool of blood beneath her, my expression remained cold. “Save your energy, Chloe. Push.” I pressed the Doppler probe onto her abdomen. The voice from inside was barely a whisper. “Auntie…” “I don’t want to die.” “But my hands and feet feel so weird…” “I can’t get out.”

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I am a child psychologist and school evaluator. Today, I was temporarily assigned to a prestigious private preschool to conduct admission evaluations. During the parent-child activity, a little girl clung to her mother, refusing to let go. She sobbed, saying her daddy had promised he would make it today. The woman knelt, wiping the tears from her daughter’s face. She whispered that her father was an antique conservator, currently working out of town on a high-security restoration project for a rare collection. My pen froze on the evaluation sheet. My husband is also an art conservator. Recently, he told me he was locked in an off-site, high-security project with strict NDAs, saying it wasn’t even convenient for him to take a FaceTime call. Before the activity started, the woman’s phone rang. She answered it and sighed. “Julian, Mary won’t stop crying. If you don’t show up soon, I won’t be able to handle her.” A low chuckle came from the other end of the line. My fingers clamped tightly around the clipboard. “I’m almost there. Even if the museum’s priceless artifacts shatter today, I’m putting you guys first.” Julian. That was my husband. The one who was supposed to be “locked in a high-security lab.” Ten minutes later, Julian ran onto the playground, holding a bouquet of sunflowers. He knelt, scooped the little girl into his arms, and leaned in to kiss the woman’s forehead. “I’m sorry I’m late.” Standing under the canopy with my evaluation sheet, I watched them. He looked up and saw me. His steps halted. The smile on his face froze. His arm tightened around the child. So, this was his exclusive, high-security project. He wasn’t restoring antiques. He was busy playing husband and father here.

Clara Miller looked at me, then turned her eyes to Julian. “Julian, do you know Ms. Carter?” Julian’s Adam’s apple bobbed. I stared at him, waiting for him to speak. Instead, he held Mary tighter and muttered, “Yes. She’s the evaluator here today for the preschool admission.” My fingers clenched the pen so hard the tip almost ripped through the evaluation form. Mary rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes red as she asked, “Daddy, who is Ms. Carter?” Julian avoided my gaze, stroking the child’s hair. “She’s the teacher who’s going to help evaluate you today.” Clara took Mary’s hand and spoke gently. “Mary, say hello to Ms. Carter.” Mary whispered, “Hi, Ms. Carter.” I looked at the little girl. The child was innocent. I lowered my gaze and wrote on the form: Severe separation anxiety. High level of dependency on primary caregiver. My pen lingered on the words “primary caregiver.” The teacher clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Our first parent-child activity is starting! Parents, please guide your little ones across the balance beam.” Mary immediately grabbed Julian’s sleeve. “Daddy, you promised you’d walk with me.” Julian glanced at me, then quickly looked away. Clara took half a step back. “It’s okay, Mary. Julian might be busy today. I can walk with you.” But Mary burst into tears. “No! Daddy promised yesterday he wouldn’t lie to me again!” Julian’s face shifted. He grabbed Mary’s hand and gently pulled Clara to his other side. “I’ll walk with you.” Standing under the canopy, I crumpled the corner of my evaluation sheet. I remembered my first follow-up appointment after my miscarriage. He had promised he would be there. But when the nurse called my name for the third time, I only received a text from him: An emergency came up at the project site. Back then, I replied: Work comes first. So, it wasn’t that he couldn’t make it. He just chose who was worth making time for. After the activity, Mary clung to Julian’s leg. The teacher praised her for being brave. She looked up at Julian, beaming. “Daddy, was I good?” Julian leaned down and kissed her head. “Very good.” I turned to leave, but Julian chased after me, pulling me into the corner of the hallway. He lowered his voice. “Chloe, don’t make a scene in front of the kid. You’re going to scare her looking like this.” I yanked my hand back. “Am I making a scene?” “How else should I look?” I demanded, staring into his eyes. “Should I smile while taking notes on my husband playing daddy to someone else’s child?” Julian looked away. “It’s not what you think.” “Mary’s situation is complicated. I’m just helping out.” “Does ‘helping out’ require Clara to call you her husband?” His face went pale, and he avoided my eyes. “Mary’s therapist said she needs to feel her parents are a united front to build a sense of security.” “On the phone, I was just playing along to calm Mary down. It was purely for her therapy.” I crossed my arms and glared at him. “Then what about earlier? Taking Clara’s bag and telling her she’s been working hard?” He whispered defensively, “She’s a single mother. It’s not easy for her. I was just—” “Just what?” I pressed. He let out an impatient sigh. “Chloe, you work in child psychology. You of all people should understand. We can’t break her sense of security.” I dug my nails into my palms. He was using my own profession to demand that I swallow his betrayal. He was entirely confident that I would endure this for the rest of the day. At the end of the hall, Mary ran out and threw herself into Julian’s arms, crying. “Daddy, is Ms. Carter going to take you away?” Julian knelt and held her close. “No. No one is taking me away.” I stood frozen in the hallway. He didn’t even look back.

Once Mary calmed down, Clara led her over and gave me a apologetic nod. “Ms. Carter, I’m so sorry. Mary was startled.” “She doesn’t have a father. Julian has helped us a lot, so sometimes she gets confused.” I stared at her. “Did you know Julian is married?” Clara lowered her eyes. “Yes. That’s why I’ve never asked anything of him on my own.” I gripped my clipboard. Before I could speak, Julian frowned and scolded me. “Chloe, don’t be so harsh.” I looked straight at him. “Am I the one being harsh here?” He went speechless. Clara spoke up softly. “Julian, stop. Ms. Carter has every right to be angry.” She shrank back, and Julian instinctively stepped in front of her, shielding her. I reached down, tapped the pause button on my phone’s voice recorder app, and sent a message to Adrian, my clinical director: Conflict of interest. Requesting immediate withdrawal from this on-site evaluation. But until my replacement arrived, the record could not be interrupted. The preschool director smiled and walked over. “Next is the family photo session. Ms. Carter, please continue recording Mary’s family interaction stability.” My hand holding the pen tensed. The observation had already begun. A sudden change in evaluators would ruin the assessment. I couldn’t just throw my clipboard down and storm out in front of the children. Julian glanced at me, remaining silent. A photo booth was set up in the center of the lawn. The teacher called out, “Mary’s mommy and daddy, come over! Mary, stand in the middle.” Mary ran over, holding Julian’s hand on one side and Clara’s on the other. Julian looked at me. Clara whispered, “Maybe we shouldn’t. Let’s not make things difficult for Ms. Carter.” Mary immediately panicked. “Daddy, are you leaving again?” Julian sighed and walked over to them. The photographer smiled. “Dad, lean closer to Mom. Perfect. Mary, smile for the camera!” Julian leaned closer to Clara. Clara didn’t move away. The sunlight fell beautifully over them. I looked down at the evaluation sheet. I remembered our wedding photo shoot. Julian had promised me that in every photo, he would always stand by my side. After the photos were printed, Mary ran to me with a small copy. “Ms. Carter, look! This is my mommy and daddy.” I looked at Julian in the photo. His lips were pressed in a tight line, but he didn’t say a word to deny it. I flipped to Mary’s enrollment application form. Under the “Family Guardian” section, it read: Julian. Relationship: Father. The signature was Julian’s. The date was three months ago. That day was our wedding anniversary. No wonder the preschool staff kept calling him Mary’s dad. I shut the folder and wrote the first line in the evaluation recommendation box: Highly recommend verifying the authenticity of the family relationships to prevent the child from internalizing false parental identities. Julian walked over, saw the words, and his face drained of color. He lowered his voice. “Chloe, don’t do this.” “You know she’s just a child.” “So?” I countered. “Because she’s a child, I’m supposed to help you write a better script for this play?” His brow furrowed deep. “That’s not what I meant.” Clara stood nearby, whispering, “Ms. Carter, I can explain.” “She really is dependent on Julian.” “I know it’s not the child’s fault,” I said, looking straight at Julian. “The adults are the ones to blame.” Julian didn’t argue, nor did he admit it. Mary tugged at his hand. “Daddy, does Ms. Carter not like me?” Julian knelt to soothe her. “No, Mary. You’re great.” “Then why isn’t she smiling?” Mary asked. Julian paused. “She’s just tired today.” I gripped my pen. He wouldn’t even admit that he was the reason I was tired.

Lunch was held in the classroom. The teacher reminded us to observe the children’s self-feeding abilities. Mary sat between Julian and Clara. She picked out the cilantro with her spoon. “Daddy doesn’t eat cilantro either.” Clara pulled a thermos out of her bag and handed it to Julian. “Your stomach has been acting up. Don’t drink ice water.” Julian took it and took a sip. He saw me, and his hand froze in mid-air. Last night at ten, I texted him to remind him to eat and take his medicine. He still hadn’t replied. I turned off my phone screen. Mary pulled out a hand-braided leather bracelet and held it up to me. “Ms. Carter, look! Daddy made this for me.” She pointed to Clara’s wrist. “Mommy has one too.” Clara was indeed wearing the exact same bracelet. Julian cleared his throat. “Mary, eat your lunch.” Mary kept talking. “Daddy said this bracelet won’t break. It means our family will never be separated.” I stared at Julian. He bit his lip, offering no explanation. For our tenth anniversary, I asked if we should upgrade my ring. He said he was too busy with his projects. So, he did have time. Just not for me. The classroom speakers began playing the pre-recorded video introductions of the kids. Mary’s voice echoed through the room. “My name is Mary.” “My mommy is Clara, and my daddy is Julian.” The classroom fell dead silent. Julian’s lips trembled. I watched him, waiting for him to speak. But he said nothing. Clara kept her head down, pressing a napkin to her lap, looking at neither of us. I wrote in the observation log: Role designations have become fixed. The child has fully internalized this father identity. Julian leaned in, whispering, “Can you please not write it so harshly?” I put down my pen. “How would you prefer I write it?” “She’s still young. If the report is too severe, the preschool will mandate psychological intervention.” I let out a soft laugh. “Oh, so you do know this will affect her?” Julian looked miserable. “Chloe, I know you’re hurting right now. But Mary has had it hard enough.” “And what about me?” I asked directly. He lowered his voice further. “Just let it slide for today. Bear with it for my sake.” Hearing those words, I gripped the back of my chair. When I was signing the paperwork alone in the hospital during my miscarriage, he had told me the exact same thing: Just bear with it for now. It turned out I was always the one expected to suffer in silence. I picked up my pen and looked at him. “Julian, do you expect me to fake an official psychological evaluation for you too?” His face stiffened. Clara chimed in. “Ms. Carter, just write whatever is professional.” “Julian is just worried about Mary.” I turned to her. “Clara, have you always been this understanding?” She clenched her napkin. “I just know I have no right to demand anything.” “But you’ve also never rejected anything, have you?” She fell silent. My phone vibrated. It was Adrian calling on WhatsApp. “Chloe, the preschool director just notified me that you have a personal relationship with the accompanying parent.” “You don’t have to force yourself to stay. Hand over the case and leave immediately. Whatever trouble comes up, I’ll handle it.” His voice carried a clear tone of protectiveness. I glanced at Julian, whose finger was being held by Mary, and replied coldly, “Okay. I’ll submit the conflict of interest form.” Julian stood up.

In the director’s office, the director said, “Ms. Carter, your records will be sealed.” “Since you have a personal relationship with Julian, you cannot continue with this evaluation.” Julian rushed in, blocking the desk. “Chloe, don’t let this ruin Mary’s enrollment.” I looked at him. “Even now, she’s the first person you think of.” He frowned. “She’s just a child.” “Then what am I?” I pressed, stepping closer. Silence filled the office. Julian didn’t answer. Outside the door, Mary’s cries broke out. “Daddy! Daddy, come out!” Clara’s voice was soft as she tried to comfort her. “Mary, don’t cry. Julian has his own home.” Mary cried harder. “But Daddy said I am his home too!” I turned back to Julian. “You said that?” Julian opened his mouth. “She was in a terrible state back then. I was only—” “Only comforting a child?” I interrupted. He went quiet. I clenched the hem of my coat. I had been waiting for him to admit his mistake, waiting for him to explain. After a long silence, he dropped a sentence: “Chloe, just don’t make things difficult for me today.” He truly believed I was the one who should always compromise. Clara’s voice came from outside. “Julian, you should stay with Chloe. I’ll comfort Mary, though it might take a while.” Every word she spoke was designed to push him out the door. Mary sobbed, “Daddy, don’t go. You promised you’d stay with me and Mommy today.” Julian lowered his head, turned around, and walked out of the office to kneel in front of Mary. I stood inside, watching his back. He said, “I’m not leaving.” Mary sniffled. “Really?” Julian wiped her tears. “Really. I’ll stay with you and Mommy today.” I let go of my clenched fists. I slid my wedding ring off my finger and set it on the desk. I pushed the spare house keys right next to the ring. Julian turned, saw this, and instantly rushed back in. “Chloe, what are you doing?” I said, “Julian, you don’t have to come home to explain anymore.” He reached out to grab my wrist. “Don’t be like this. I’ll come back later tonight and explain everything.” I stepped aside, dodging his hand. “You already have a home to go to.” “I’m done waiting.” His hand froze in mid-air. I ignored him and turned to the director. “Please give me the withdrawal form.” The director handed me the paper. I took the pen and wrote my name: Chloe Carter. Reason for withdrawal: Personal relationship with the primary caregiver, Julian, which compromises evaluation neutrality. Julian stared at the words “primary caregiver.” His knuckles turned white. I handed the form back to the director. “From this moment on, I am officially off this case.” Julian wanted to chase after me, but Mary’s crying voice stopped him. I grabbed my bag, walked right past him, and closed the office door behind me. Ten minutes later, Adrian received my full written statement. Julian probably didn’t realize that the “home” he had so carefully built for someone else was about to be torn down, piece by piece.

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I took the fall for my ex-husband’s mistress and spent eight years behind bars. The day I was released, my ex-husband, Julian Vance, showed up at a pharmacy with a swarm of reporters, kneeling before me to beg for a second chance. His eyes were red-rimmed as he held out a bouquet of vibrant roses. “Amara… I’ve waited eight years for you.” The reporters shoved their microphones in my face, urging me to kneel and thank him for his “devotion.” As Julian wrapped me in what looked like an affectionate embrace, he leaned close and whispered in a voice as cold as a venomous snake, “If you dare reject me, your father’s ventilator will be unplugged tomorrow.” I clenched my crippled right hand, ready to explode. Just then, an eight-year-old boy rushed over and threw his arms around Julian’s leg. “Daddy!” A heavily pregnant Chloe Mille suddenly dropped to her knees in front of me, tears streaming down her face. “The child is innocent…” Every camera instantly turned toward my bloodstained face. Then my own parents charged over. My mother slapped me so hard I crashed onto the floor. “You curse! Chloe is our real daughter!” I lay on the freezing tile, watching them surround the woman who had destroyed my life as they escorted her away like a hero. The pharmacy owner kicked me in the side. “Murderer. Get out!” As the rain poured down, I finally understood the truth. They hadn’t just wanted me to take the blame. They wanted me dead.

I spent eight long years in prison, taking the fall for my ex-husband’s mistress. The day I was released, he cornered me in a local pharmacy with a swarm of media cameras behind him. His eyes were red, and he dropped to his knees right in front of the flashing lenses, looking deeply devoted. “Amara, I have waited eight years for you. Let’s get remarried.” Dozens of blinding camera flashes went off in my face, nearly blinding me. Reporters aggressively shoved microphones right into my face. “Miss Sterling. Dr. Julian Vance has remained single for eight years just for you. He even wore your wedding ring to the International Medical Summit. You have been dodging him. Doesn’t your conscience hurt?” “As the felon who killed a patient back then, shouldn’t you be on your knees thanking Dr. Vance for his deep devotion now that you are out?” I stared at the man in front of me, dressed in his expensive, custom-tailored suit. My stomach churned with pure disgust. Eight years ago, I was the youngest chief trauma surgeon in New York. But just three days before Julian and I were supposed to register our marriage. His little assistant, Chloe Miller, made a fatal mistake during an operation. She accidentally severed a major artery, causing a VIP patient to bleed to death on the table. To protect Chloe, who was already pregnant with his child, Julian personally fabricated the surgical logs. He used my sick parents’ lives to blackmail me into taking the plea deal. Then, he played the righteous hero in court. Tears in his eyes, he personally testified against me and sent me to a maximum-security prison. He climbed to the top over my shattered bones. Now, he was the powerful Chief of Medicine at New York Grace Hospital. Meanwhile, my right hand had been brutally broken in prison by inmates he hired. The nerves were completely ruined. Now, my hand shook so badly I couldn’t even hold a medicine bottle steady. Julian remained on one knee on the dirty, muddy tile floor, holding a bouquet of bright red roses. The roses were dripping wet, their deep red color looking exactly like the blood that wouldn’t stop gushing from the patient’s artery on the operating table eight years ago. “Amara, come home with me. Whenever you’re ready, you can always come back to the hospital.” His voice cracked, his eyes brimming with tears. But as he leaned forward under the pretense of handing me the flowers. He whispered in my ear, his voice dropping to a freezing, ruthless murmur that only I could hear. “Amara, the hospital is up for the national prestigious ranking this week. If you dare reject me in front of these cameras, believe me, I’ll pull the plug on your father’s ventilator tomorrow.” My body went completely numb. Staring at this monster, my teeth rattled with pure rage. This was his so-called “deep devotion.” The reporters were still swooning over his greatness, some even tearing up at the scene. I clenched my crippled right hand, preparing to tear his hypocritical mask off even if it cost me my life. But a sudden cry broke the silence.

“Daddy! Mommy and I finally found you!” An eight-year-old boy pushed through the crowd and threw himself right into Julian’s arms. Chloe walked in elegantly, wearing a flowing dress that draped over her slightly swollen belly, flanked by two burly bodyguards. She still had that innocent, helpless look that made men want to protect her. She looked at me, a brief flash of smugness and contempt crossing her eyes. Then, turning to the reporters, her knees buckled, and she collapsed to the floor right in front of me. “Amara, it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t been young and stupid back then, I wouldn’t have caused you to make that mistake during the surgery…” She wept beautifully, her tears like tiny daggers stabbing right into my chest. “Julian has waited for you for eight years, and I’ve lived with guilt for eight years. But I beg you, the children are innocent. Leo needs a father, and the baby in my belly is about to be born…” The cameras instantly whipped around to capture Chloe’s tear-stained face. Gasps filled the room. “Oh my God, Chloe has carried this guilt for eight years? She’s too kind!” “Amara Sterling, Chloe is pregnant! You’re a convicted felon, how can you be shameless enough to try to tear their family apart?” I stared at the shouting little boy. I had been in prison for exactly eight years. Which meant Chloe had given birth to this child the exact year I was locked up. While I was taking the fall for her, absorbing the curses of the public, they were already celebrating their new baby. While my right hand was being systematically broken in that dark cell, Julian and Chloe were playing happy family. Before I could speak, a harsh roar cut through the crowd from the entrance. “Amara! You shameless bitch! Are you trying to ruin our family the second you get out of prison?” My biological parents pushed through the crowd, panting heavily. The moment my mother reached me, she didn’t hesitate. She swung her hand and slapped me hard across my right cheek! Slap. The sharp crack echoed through the pharmacy. The force of her blow sent me crashing to the floor. My forehead slammed against the sharp corner of a metal medicine rack. Hot blood immediately trickled down, blurring my vision. My mother trembled with rage, pointing a finger at my face. “You curse! You spent eight years in prison and dragged our family’s name through the mud! If Chloe hadn’t sent us money and medicine every single day, your father would have died of his stroke last month!” My father, leaning heavily on a cane, limped over. He cast a disgusted look at me, then obsequiously helped Chloe up. “Sweetheart, please don’t get upset. This ungrateful brat is just jealous of you. We don’t have a daughter like her! You are our real daughter!” Lying on the freezing floor, looking through a veil of my own blood, I watched my biological parents fuss over the woman who had ruined my life. They despised me. They hated me. They wished I had died in prison so they could comfortably enjoy the wealth Julian and Chloe threw at them. Julian hugged Chloe protectively. Before leaving, he looked down at me with pity. “Amara, your parents are just emotional right now. I still owe you for what happened back then. Here is ten thousand dollars and my business card. Take it.” He pulled a thick stack of bills from his bespoke suit pocket and threw them in my bloody face like he was tossing scraps to a stray dog. The green bills fluttered down through the air, hitting my swollen face. It stung. The happy family of three, flanked by my parents and escorted by the admiring press, marched out of the store. Tom, the pharmacy owner, walked over with a dark face. He snatched the mop from my hands and spat on the floor. “Amara, don’t bother coming in tomorrow. My shop is a small business. I can’t afford to keep an ungrateful felon around! Pack your trash and get out!”

Tom’s words struck like a thunderbolt, ringing in my ears. I looked at my right hand, covered in dirt and blood. The knuckles were severely swollen from rheumatoid arthritis, and my fingers trembled uncontrollably from the permanent nerve damage. Eight years ago, these hands performed high-precision brain surgeries. Now, I couldn’t even grip a broom. “Tom, please, don’t fire me.” I bent my back, discarding every ounce of my dignity, and grabbed the hem of Tom’s shirt. “I don’t need wages. Just give me some scraps and let me sleep in the back storage room. Please…” Tom violently shook me off, throwing me back onto the damp, cold floor. “Amara, I saw the news. You killed someone, and Julian and Chloe have been incredibly generous to you. Instead of being grateful, you humiliated them in public!” “My pharmacy is in a tight-knit community. If the neighbors find out I hired a killer, who will buy medicine from me? Get out! Now!” He tossed my battered backpack out into the street like garbage. The zipper had broken back in prison. My few old clothes spilled into the muddy puddles, instantly stained black by the dirty water splashed by passing cars. The storm finally broke, rain pouring down in sheets. I clutched my soaked backpack, limping down the streets of the small town. As I passed the corner convenience store, the young clerk who usually smiled and called me “Dr. Sterling” while asking for advice on cold meds was now pointing his phone at me, whispering to his coworker. “See her? That’s the ungrateful felon ex-wife from the news. She looks decent, but her heart is black. She actually tried to bully a pregnant woman.” “Stay away from her. People like her are bad luck. Absolutely disgusting.” He spat on the pavement, just inches from my foot. I lowered my head, letting my wet hair cover my face, and ran into the rain. I tried to find work elsewhere in town. Clinics, pharmacies, even small diners. But the moment I walked in, they would see my deformed hand. Then they would look at the viral video playing on their phones, and their faces would instantly turn sour. “Sorry, we don’t hire murderers.” “Get lost. Don’t ruin our business. You’re bad luck!” By midnight, the rain had stopped. I had nowhere to go. I huddled under the rusted metal roof of a bus stop, shivering from the cold. I pulled my right hand out of my sleeve, trying to touch it with my left. Between my thumb and index finger, there was a jagged, hideous scar that looked like a centipede. It happened on my first night in prison eight years ago. Several female inmates used rusty nails to pierce and shred my hand nerves, inch by inch. That night, I fainted from the pain three times on the cold concrete floor. I thought it was a random prison assault back then. But looking back now… Who else but Julian and Chloe would be so terrified of my surgical hands? They didn’t just want me to take the fall. They wanted to permanently cripple me, ensuring I could never return to an operating table, never use my skills to clear my name! I bit my lip so hard it bled, my nails digging deep into my palms. Julian. Chloe. You say you owe me, but you clearly want me dead!

At 5:00 AM, my cheap phone vibrated loudly, breaking the silence of the bus stop. I stared at the caller ID, a number burned into my very soul. Laughing dryly, I swiped to answer. “Amara, I heard you got fired from the pharmacy. You don’t even have a place to stay now?” Julian’s voice was as gentle and caring as ever. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the phone. “Did you put a tracker on me, Julian? Or are those reporters just your personal bloodhounds, watching me twenty-four hours a day so you can enjoy the show?” A soft chuckle came through the receiver, carrying the casual amusement of a predator playing with its prey. “Amara, you’re still as prickly as ever. I’m just looking out for you. In this world, who else actually gives a damn if you live or die?” “You’re thirty-two, you’ve spent eight years in prison, and your right hand is ruined. Do you honestly think any company in this country would hire you without my permission?” My breathing turned heavy, my eyes burning with absolute hatred. “You did this to me. Julian, you know exactly who altered those medical records, and you know exactly who hired those inmates to shred my nerves.” Julian’s voice suddenly turned freezing cold, carrying a sharp warning. “Watch your words, Amara. That case was closed years ago. If you start babbling about conspiracies now, people will just think you had a psychotic break in prison. Be a good girl. Come back to New York.” “I have already set everything up for you. There is an opening for a file clerk in the archives department at Grace Hospital. The pay isn’t high, but it’s enough to get you off the streets. And… Chloe is now the deputy chief of surgery. Since you’re so experienced, you can work as her personal technical advisor. Guide her a bit.” “You want me to assist the murderer who ruined my life? Guide her?” I laughed so hard tears came to my eyes, each word squeezed through my gritted teeth. “In your dreams, Julian! Even if I starve to death on this street, I will never go back to beg for your scraps or be your sick PR prop!” “Is that so?” Julian’s voice remained calm, almost pitying. “Amara, you’re always so stubborn. Do you really think you have a choice?” Before I could reply, loud, chaotic screaming erupted on his end of the line. Suddenly, my mother’s shrill, hysterical voice cut in. “Amara! You curse! Who did you offend out there?!” “The nursing home just threw your father and me out on the street with all our luggage! Your father still has his feeding tube in! They said our account is delinquent and pushed his wheelchair right onto the pavement!” “Julian said we could live here for free forever! Why did he change his mind? Did you offend him again, you ungrateful bitch? I swear, if your father dies on the street today, I will jump off the roof of this building! I’ll write a suicide note in blood blaming you!” My mother’s shrieking voice pierced through the speaker like a red-hot wire, wrapping tightly around my neck, making it impossible to breathe. I knew my parents too well. They were incompetent, selfish, and ignorant. When I got arrested, they didn’t hire a single lawyer for me. Instead, they forced me to confess quickly so I wouldn’t ruin my younger brother’s college prospects. Later, when Julian put them in a luxury nursing home. They immediately treated him and Chloe like their savior and viewed me as embarrassing garbage. If my father really died because his treatment was cut off, my mother would absolutely keep her word. She would commit suicide in front of the media to completely destroy whatever little reputation I had left. Julian took the phone back. His voice was smooth as silk again. “Amara, your parents are old. They can’t handle this kind of stress. If you get on the morning bus back to New York right now, the nursing home’s account will be funded in five minutes.” “You’re a smart girl. You know what to do. I’ll expect your employment paperwork in my office in three days.” The line went dead. The dial tone echoed in the empty bus stop, sounding like a chorus of mockery. I slowly bent over, burying my face in my knees, and finally let the tears pour out. Eight years ago, they stole my innocence, my career, and my hand. Eight years later, they were dragging me back to that hell, wanting to leash me like a dog at their feet just to show the world how “forgiving” they were. I squeezed the dirty, wet business card I had picked up from the puddle. Julian. Chloe. Since you refuse to let me go, since you are forcing me back to New York. Then I will see you in hell.

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Mom called me a evil kid for the breaking, the shaking, the screaming. She cursed me, beat me, she wished she’d never had me. And then I really died. Mom says I’ve always been a troublemaker. But I’m not. I swear I’m not. It’s just—my body won’t listen to me? The very first time Mom tried to nurse me, I nearly bit her nipple off. She screamed. Dropped me right on the bed. She still brings it up. Like it’s evidence. Like it proves I came out wrong. “Ava.” Smack. The wooden spoon cracks against my palm.”If you were half as easy as your sister—half, Ava—I swear I’d actually have a minute of peace in my life.” She’s not even raising her voice. Somehow that’s worse. She’s just… done with me. Completely over it. I dropped my soup again. My hand just—opened. Like it forgot how to hold things. I didn’t mean to. This is my thing. My stupid, broken, unfixable thing. At three, I couldn’t grip a crayon without launching it across the room. At eight, my pen would shoot off the page mid-word, like my fingers had a mind of their own. Now I’m ten. And it’s getting worse. Way worse. She dragged me to to her hospital. They stuck me with needles. Taped electrodes to my head. Ran every test you can think of. Everything came back clean. So that was that. She made up her mind: I was faking. A liar. A needy little brat begging for attention. And after that? Every time my body did the thing—the spasm, the jerk, whatever it was—she’d hit me, until my arms go numb. Until I stop crying. Because crying just makes her hit harder. I’ve stopped counting how many times. I hurt all the time now. Every breath, every move. But Mom’s a doctor. And doctors don’t lie. So if she says I’m faking… then I must be faking, right? It has to be my fault. So maybe she’s right. Maybe I really am just a bad seed. Then Mia had her asthma attack. Mom was screaming. “Ava! The inhaler! Now!” I ran. God, I ran so fast. And then, my hand jerked. The inhaler shot out of my fingers, sailed through the open window. Gone. Mom’s whole face went scarlet. She backhanded me so hard my ears rang and my cheek bounced off the wall. “Are you out of your mind?! If your sister dies because of you, Ava—I swear, I will never forgive you. Never.” She scooped up Mia. Slammed the door behind her. I heard the deadbolt slide. I crumpled to the floor. The sobs just ripped out of me. “Mommy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please. I’m sorry…” I can’t breathe now. Not like panic. Something else. It’s like the air itself is draining out of the room. Like someone pulled a plug somewhere and all the oxygen is leaking away. I try to stand. My legs are rubber. They buckle under me. My hands. My arms. The spots that always throb during an episode don’t even hurt anymore. They’re just gone. Numb. Dead weight. I squeeze my eyes shut. I wait. This always passes. Few minutes. Ten. Fifteen, tops. My stupid, broken body always settles down eventually. Hands me back the wheel. But this time something’s different. My head. Oh God, my head. It’s splitting open. I’m gonna be sick. No. No, no, no. I need to call her. I need to tell Mom something’s really wrong this time. I drag myself to the coffee table. My phone’s right there. I grab it. Hit her number. She picks up already irritated. “What now, Ava? Mia’s still on the nebulizer. Can you please—for once in your life—just leave me alone?” I fight to push the words out. “Mommy… I don’t… something’s wrong…” She scoffs. This awful, hollow little laugh. “Oh, here we go. Faking sick again? Trying to one-up your sister? You’ve pulled this a hundred times, Ava. A hundred. Every single test came back normal. So you tell me—why the hell should I believe you?” Mia’s voice drifts through in the background. “Mommy, I’m thirsty.” And just like that, Mom’s whole tone shifts. Warm. Gentle. “Hang on, baby girl. Mommy’s getting you water right now.” Then she’s back on me. Cold again. “I’m done, Ava. I already shortchange Mia because of you. I see fifteen patients a day. I come home dead on my feet. And you still won’t cut me a break. Every single time you pull something, I have to drop everything and deal with you. And Mia gets nothing. She’s actually sick right now, Ava. So what do you want from me? Huh? What more could you possibly want?” She hangs up. All I want is for her to believe me. Just once. I have never been lying.When my stomach hurt so bad I was rolling on the floor all night, crying into the carpet? She said I was dodging a math test. When I spiked a hundred-and-three fever? She said I’d pressed a heating pad to my forehead to trick the thermometer. Even the breathing thing—she says I’m just copying Mia.Putting on a show. But Mia wasn’t even having a real attack today. She was messing around with slime, accidentally inhaled some powder. That’s literally it. Mom said she’ll be home tonight. She promised she’d come back. I just have to hang on till then. She’ll see me. She’ll know. She’ll fix it. She has to. My eyes drift to the wall across from me. Mia’s wall. Plastered with her ribbons and trophies and photos. First place, piano. First place, spelling bee. Lead dancer in the spring recital. There she is in that picture. White tutu. Hair swept into a perfect bun. Beaming like the whole world belongs to her. My throat closes up. There’s a family photo tucked in the corner. The four of us—Mom, Dad, Mia, me. Except I look like I wandered in from a different family. I’m drowning in some cousin’s hand-me-downs. My hair’s a wreck. I’m smiling, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. Anyone can tell. Everybody loves Mia more. And honestly? I get it. If I had to choose between a kid like me and a kid like her—I’d choose her too. That white dress she’s wearing in the photo. God, it’s beautiful. If I could dance like that. If I could wear something that pretty. If I could stand on a stage and not have my body betray me in front of everyone. Would Mom love me then? The thought hits me somewhere deep, this raw, hollow ache that I don’t have words for. And then, out of nowhere, something sparks inside me. This tiny, desperate flame. I want to wear that dress. Just once. Just to know what it feels like. I start crawling. I pull myself across the floor. My fingernails catch on the wood. Everything hurts. But I think about that dress. How pretty it is. How it smells like Mom’s hugs. Mia’s room. The closet. The tutu. I’m almost there. Inch by inch. Dragging myself forward. My arms are trembling. My skull is throbbing so hard my vision blurs. But I keep going. My fingers find the tutu. I rip it from the hanger and wrap my whole body around it. I press it against my face and breathe. It smells like Mom. Her perfume. Like the hug I’ve been dreaming about for years—the one she used to give me. The one she stopped giving me so long ago I can barely remember what it felt like. I close my eyes. Breathe it in. Let it fill me up. And then I exhale. Long and slow. Like something inside me is finally, finally letting go. The pain drains away. Everything fades to black. I open my eyes—no. Wait. That’s not right. I’m not opening anything. I’m above. I’m curled up on the floor next to Mia’s bed. The white dress is bundled in my arms. My lips are parted. My eyes are half-shut. I look… peaceful. Like I’m sleeping. But I’m not sleeping. I’m floating. Right here. Right above my own body. I reach down and try to touch my face. My hand passes straight through. No. Mom is going to walk in and find me like this. Clutching Mia’s dress. She’s going to think I was going through Mia’s things again. Causing trouble. Being the problem child. She’s going to be so angry. I try to move. Try to shove myself back inside my body, back into my skin. I can’t feel anything. I can’t reach anything.

Mom doesn’t come home that night. Mia finishes her breathing treatment at the hospital. Then she spots some girl from her class in the waiting room. She latches onto Mom’s sleeve, bouncing. “Can I go to her house? Please? Pleeeease?” The girl’s mom is standing right there, all friendly. “She’s welcome to sleep over. Just one night. No big deal.” Mom says yes without blinking. Doesn’t even pause. The other mom tilts her head. “Don’t you have another daughter? She should come too.” Mom flicks her wrist. “Nah, that one’s tough. She can fend for herself.” Tough. That’s the word Mom gave me after every test came back clean. Like a label she slapped on and never peeled off. Like she resents herself for ever losing sleep over me—so now she overcorrects. Hard. I’m not sick. I’m not fragile. I’m not worth worrying about. I’m just tough. Mia’s the delicate one. Mia’s the one who matters. Mia stubs her toe and sobs for an hour straight. Mom scoops her up. Kisses her forehead. Holds her like she might shatter. I quit waiting for that a long time ago. I got used to it. The broken promises. The way she picks Mia over me, every single time, without flinching. Mia needs her. Work needs her. There’s always something bigger. Something better. Always a reason that isn’t me. Mom and Mia roll in the next afternoon. I drift toward the door before I even realize I’m doing it. My arms reach out—force of habit—ready to pull her shoes off the way I always did. It was never about love. It was survival. The thing I trained myself to do so she wouldn’t start yelling. My hands pass straight through her. Mom squints around the living room. “Ava? You still in bed? Get out here. Now.” She toes off her shoes. Wanders into the kitchen for water. The kettle is bone dry. Her whole face hardens. “Ava! Seriously? You do nothing. Absolutely nothing. You can’t even boil water? What the hell is wrong with you?” I hover behind her. Watching the rigid set of her shoulders. “Mom,” I whisper. “I can’t boil water anymore. I can’t do anything. I can’t move.” She doesn’t hear me. She never hears me. Then Mia starts screaming from the bedroom. “Mom! MOM! Get in here! Ava took my dress! My white tutu! I told her nobody’s allowed to touch it!” Mom bolts down the hall. And then she sees me. My body. Her eyes zero in on the white dress crumpled against my chest. Her face goes crimson. She wrenches the tutu out of my arms. Without it, my body just—collapses. Tips sideways like a sack of trash someone forgot to take out. Mom doesn’t even glance down at me. She’s too busy turning the dress over in her hands, hunting for damage. When she spots the creases where my fingers had been clutching the fabric, something in her snaps. She snatches a hardcover textbook off Mia’s desk and cracks it against my skull. “Don’t you EVER touch your sister’s things!” My body rocks to the side. Settles back. “How many goddamn times do I have to say it? Are your ears just decoration?” “Oh, you wanna play dead? Fine. I’ll give you a reason to be dead.” She grabs a wire hanger off the floor and starts swinging. Again. And again. And again. I don’t move. I just float there and watch. Watch the hanger come down. Watch my body absorb every blow. No twitch. No whimper. Nothing. I can’t feel any of it. So this is what dead feels like. No pain. No fear. No nothing. Mom finally burns herself out. She’s doubled over, chest heaving. She delivers one last kick to my shin. “Get up. Take that dress to the dry cleaner. Then sit your ass down and write me five pages on why you’re grounded. You don’t eat till it’s done.” I don’t move. She stands over me. Waiting. Her jaw clenches. I can see her gearing up for round two— Her phone goes off. The hospital. “Dr. Taylor? The little girl in bed seven is asking for you again. She’s saying you’re the only one she’ll let hold her during her shot. Any way you can swing by?” And just like that, Mom’s voice transforms. Honey-warm. Gentle. “Of course, sweetheart. Tell her I’m on my way.” She reaches for Mia’s hand. “C’mon, baby. You’re coming to the hospital with Mommy. We’ll grab pizza from the cafeteria tonight—whatever toppings you want, okay?” Mia hesitates. Looks back at me on the floor. Blinks. “But… what about Ava?” Mom rolls her eyes so hard her whole head moves. “Leave her. She wants to play dead? Let her play dead. She’ll come crawling out the second she’s hungry enough. Trust me.” Mia shrugs, lets out a little cheer, and skips out the door. It slams shut. The apartment goes still. I sink down beside my own body. The textbook cracked my head open. But there’s nothing leaking out anymore. Not a drop. Mom, I won’t stain the carpet this time. I won’t cry for food. I won’t be a troublemaker anymore.

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I spent two years as a human guinea pig for three pharmaceutical companies while selling my blood three times a week at a private blood bank. I finally scraped together the 800,000 dollars for my daughter’s bone marrow transplant. But on the day the hospital tried to deduct the surgical deposit, my account balance read zero. At the same time, a new post appeared on the Instagram of my husband’s first love, Tiffany. Thanks to a certain someone for buying me this ruby bracelet~ It’s a one-of-a-kind piece from the auction house worth $800,000, but all I have to do is show the slightest interest and he’ll buy it for me~ That day, I called Abner ninety-nine times. He didn’t pick up. All he sent was one cold message: Tiffany had a heart episode. I was just comforting her. Angel’s not going to die from waiting a few more days. I’ll have the hospital schedule the surgery next month. But Angel didn’t make it to next month. At three in the morning, she died in my arms. I held my daughter’s body and sent him one final message. Abner, I want a divorce. … It was already dark by the time I walked out of the private blood bank. The crook of my arm was riddled with needle marks—ugly, angry, grotesque. Two years. Between selling blood and enrolling in high-risk clinical trials at three different pharmaceutical companies, I had finally scraped together the 800,000-dollar deposit for Angel’s bone marrow transplant. My fingers trembled violently as I transferred the money into the designated account. The pain and weakness from chronic blood loss crashed over me in waves, but in that moment, the only thing I felt was hope. Yet the first call that came wasn’t the hospital telling me Angel’s surgery was a success. It was a nurse on the line: “Mrs. Anna, the deposit deduction failed. Insufficient account balance.” I froze. Fumbling, I opened my banking app. The number on the screen was a clean, merciless zero. Then I saw the new post on Tiffany’s Instagram. Thanks to a certain someone for buying me this ruby bracelet~ It’s a one-of-a-kind piece from the auction house worth $800,000, but all I have to do is show the slightest interest and he’ll buy it for me~ In the photo, a blood-red bracelet sat delicately against her slender wrist. I nearly lost my mind. The money I’d earned selling my own blood—my husband had taken it, without a word to me, to buy jewelry for his mistress. That was my daughter’s lifeline! I called Abner. He picked up quickly, his voice tired and impatient: “It’s Tiffany’s birthday. She’s been running herself ragged over the merger acquisition for the group, and today she worked herself into another heart episode. The least I can do is show some gratitude. Angel’s condition isn’t new—a few more days won’t kill her. I’ll arrange the surgery next month.” The hatred inside me drove me to the edge of collapse. I needed an explanation—I refused to let this go. I screamed at him, demanding to know why he’d touched that account. His tone was righteous, unapologetic: “You’re my wife. What’s yours is mine. What’s the big deal if I use it? You—” I hung up before he could finish. I had no strength left to fight. Angel lay in her hospital bed, every strand of hair long gone, her small fingers tugging at my sleeve, her voice full of expectation. “Mommy, when is Daddy coming? He promised to bring me that talking bunny doll…” I held her, burying my face against her tiny shoulder, breathing in the smell of disinfectant and IV fluid and, underneath it all, a faint trace of warm, milky sweetness. My eyes betrayed me and filled with tears. They were the only answer I could give. Just then, a text from Abner came through: Anna, if Tiffany’s father hadn’t saved me and my dad back then, the Byron family would have been finished. I can’t be ungrateful. You’re my wife—why can’t you just be understanding? Tiffany’s message followed right behind it— Anna~ Abner says you’re upset? I actually told him not to buy anything that expensive, but he insisted. You know how stubborn he is. How about I ask him to return the bracelet? Oh wait, I don’t think jewelry can be returned lol. Don’t be mad~ Worst case I’ll just give you the bracelet, though I’m not sure you’d still want it after it’s been on me~ The double meaning was impossible to miss. After all—wasn’t Abner himself a man she’d already had her hands on? I closed every message. A notification from the clinical trial center popped up: Mrs. Anna, the Phase III drug trial you enrolled in enters its final stage next week. Based on your current health indicators, continued participation poses severe risk. We advise withdrawal. I closed that too. At three in the morning, Angel’s cardiac monitor erupted in a shrill, piercing alarm. When I rushed in, she managed a smile for me, slowly lifting her hand as if trying to reach for mine. I knelt on the floor outside the resuscitation room, praying with every shred of my being, tears pouring down my face, my heart fracturing with every second. They worked on her for forty minutes. The doctor pulled down his mask and shook his head. My world collapsed entirely. I gathered my daughter’s still-warm body into my arms and sat motionless until dawn, as though my soul had been hollowed out completely. Every last trace of warmth inside me had gone cold. I shifted my numb body and sent Abner one final message— Abner, I want a divorce.

After sending the message, I used the last bit of money left in my pocket to purchase a double burial plot for me and Angel. Without Angel, I had no reason to go on living. When I stepped out of the morgue after finishing the paperwork, I ran into Abner in the corridor. He was helping Tiffany out of the elevator. She’d twisted her ankle, and he was crouching down to massage her foot, his expression focused and tender. I had just come from the morgue. The smell of that place clung to me, mingled with the chemical stench that seeped from my pores after years of drug trials. My hair was a tangled mess. I was gaunt beyond recognition. I watched the scene in front of me in silence and found, miraculously, that it didn’t hurt anymore. Perhaps my heart had already died alongside Angel. When Abner walked past carrying Tiffany, he brushed against me, frowned, and stepped aside. He didn’t recognize me. He even muttered something disgusted under his breath. It was Tiffany who recognized me. “Abner, I think the person you bumped into is Anna. You should apologize to your wife.” There was a subtle condescension laced through her tone. “Put me down, quick—before Anna gets jealous and throws another tantrum at you.” Abner said nothing. He didn’t put her down. He glanced back at me, his brow furrowed tight. “Anna, what happened to you? You look like—” His frown deepened. Tiffany finished his sentence for him: “Anna, why do you look like some stray dog that’s been thrown out? And what is that smell?” “Abner is a man of status, you know. Walking around like this—are you trying to embarrass him on purpose?” Tiffany’s words made Abner’s expression turn ice-cold. “If you’re doing this to disgust me, then congratulations. You’ve succeeded.” The revulsion on his face was unconcealed. The smell on me was from holding Angel’s body through the entire night. But Angel’s own father found it repulsive—sickening, even. A nurse passing by glanced at me curiously, then caught sight of Abner and Tiffany and let out a small gasp. “Isn’t that Mr. Byron! I’ve always admired the love between you and Miss Tiffany!” All these years, Abner had never once acknowledged my or Angel’s existence in public. He said the Byron family was in a critical period of expansion, that there were many enemies, and that we needed to pretend we had no connection to him—for our own protection. Yet he openly doted on Tiffany, took her to parties, brought her to family dinners. When people called Tiffany “Mrs. Byron,” he never corrected them. Not once. I looked into his eyes. He hesitated for less than a second. “Oh, thank you. I’m sure you’ll find a love of your own someday.” So he had never been afraid of any enemies. He was simply ashamed of me and Angel. We were an embarrassment to him. After the nurse left, he finally set Tiffany down and leaned in close, lowering his voice: “Anna, I didn’t mean it. But look at yourself—how could I possibly tell anyone you’re my wife?” “You know the company is expanding right now. This—this is humiliating.” Tiffany stood beside him with her hand over her mouth, laughing theatrically. “Anna, look at you, dressed like a homeless person. If people found out you were Abner’s wife, they’d probably pull out of their deals.” My gaze fell to the ruby bracelet on her wrist. Eight hundred thousand dollars. My blood. My life. My daughter’s life—traded for that eight hundred thousand. My eyes went red. I lunged toward her. But before I even touched her, she shrieked, clutching her chest and stumbling backward. “Abner! She’s going to hit me! My heart can’t take this—” Slap. Abner struck me across the face almost instantly, so hard that I slammed into the fire hydrant mounted on the wall. The back of my skull cracked against it and blood began to trickle down. He pulled Tiffany into his arms, then grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me into the corner. “Have you lost your mind! You know Tiffany has a heart condition! Do you just have to bully her! Is that it!” My phone slipped from my pocket. The screen was lit—a confirmation text from the cemetery: Your daughter’s double burial plot has been confirmed. Plot number C-0237. Abner glanced at it. The color drained from his face. He shoved me hard against the wall. “Anna, what the hell are you up to now! To compete with Tiffany for my attention, you’d actually use your own daughter as a curse! Have you no shame at all!”

With that, he turned away in disgust, tossing back a single sentence: “Deal with Angel’s situation yourself. As punishment, I’ll wait until Tiffany is stable before I come see you two.” I leaned against the wall, blood trickling down from the back of my skull. Angel’s last words echoed in my ears, over and over. “Mommy, don’t cry. Angel doesn’t need Daddy anymore. I just need you, Mommy…” I couldn’t afford even the cheapest painkillers. All I could do was clench my teeth against the agony radiating through my body and drag myself to handle Angel’s arrangements. I’d scraped together just enough for the remaining balance on the burial plot, but when I reached the counter, the bank card was declined again. I opened my banking app. Another zero. I called Abner. His voice was all fury: “You scared Tiffany into nearly having a heart attack yesterday. I brought in a specialist for a consultation. The fee came out of the family account. Do you have a problem with that?” I had no tears left. “Give me the money back. That was Angel’s—” “I told you I’ll handle Angel’s affairs!” He cut me off, then his tone suddenly shifted. “What about you, though—why did you stop going to that research institute job? They contacted me, said they recommended terminating your contract, but expected me to pay the penalty.” I went rigid. The clinical trial center had reached out to him. “They said the pay was quite good, but that your body couldn’t handle it anymore.” He paused, a note of mockery creeping into his voice. “But you look fine to me. And since you love money so much, I put in a word for you—told them you’d show up next week as scheduled.” My lips began to tremble. If I went back there, it would kill me. But I didn’t say it. In two years, I had never once told him what “clinical trials” actually meant. High pay meant high risk. Human testing for high-risk experimental drugs was, in essence, selling my life for money. The side effects had already hollowed out my liver and kidneys. My bone density had plummeted. My clotting function was in chaos. But I knew that even if I explained, he wouldn’t listen. He would only think I was making it up to compete with his precious Tiffany for attention. “Be a good girl. Go to the institute, cooperate with the tests. Might do you some good—clear out all that nonsense in your head.” His tone softened. “Once Tiffany’s condition stabilizes, I’ll come see you and Angel.” The line went dead. A message from the trial center followed immediately: Mrs. Anna, Mr. Abner has confirmed your continued participation in the Phase III project on your behalf. Please note: given your current liver and kidney indicators and overall health status, the risk level for this round of trials has been elevated to the highest category. The morgue attendant was pressing me too: “Ma’am, your daughter’s remains can only be preserved for seventy-two hours. Please complete the arrangements as soon as possible.” I checked the compensation for continuing the drug trial. It was exactly enough to cover the remaining balance on the double burial plot—enough to let me and my precious Angel be laid to rest together. So I replied to the trial center’s message. Received. I’ll be there on time. Then let this body—already rotted through by chemicals—buy me and Angel a place where we can finally sleep in peace.

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On the tenth day of the zombie siege, I leave the last protein bar for my husband and walk out of the safe house alone. A horde of zombies tackles me. Teeth and hands tear into my flesh. The pain is so intense I think it might kill me. Then I hear the snap of a clapperboard. “Cut! Good take. Extras, take five!” The zombies scatter in an instant. The safe house door swings open behind me. My husband, Damien Blackwell, steps out. Selene Hart, Hollywood’s newest It girl, comes laughing from behind a half-collapsed fake storefront. “Damien, you’re a genius!” she laughs. “You faked the apocalypse, and she actually bought it.” Damien sneers. “She tried to sabotage your audition behind our backs. I wanted her to feel desperate for once. Maybe now she’ll learn.” I lie on the ground and watch the extras pull off their zombie masks. Tears slide into the blood at my lips. What they don’t know is that I hate pain more than anything. So before I walked out of the safe house, I drank paraquat. I drank paraquat, a restricted-use herbicide with no antidote. Once it’s in your system, your lungs scar over until you suffocate. When I finally regain consciousness, I feel weightless. I hover in the air. I look down. The unmasked “zombies” drip with sweat. They pass around bottled water and joke around. “Holy shit, I’m roasting in this suit. But Mr. Blackwell pays well—way better than working as an extra on a real set!” “No kidding. Mr. Blackwell rented out the entire backlot just to cheer Miss Hart up!” I see it now: there is no outbreak, no apocalypse, just ten staged days of fear and starvation. Staged by my husband for his college sweetheart. He rented an abandoned LA studio lot and hired a hundred extras. I look down at the “me” on the ground. White foam has dried around my mouth. My eyes bulge from the pain. My fingernails claw bloody lines into the concrete. Damien walks over with an iced Americano. He nudges my leg with his expensive loafer. “That’s enough, Aria. We’re done here. Get up.” I don’t move. I can’t. Selene loops her arm through his and lowers her voice into something soft and practiced. “Damien, Mrs. Blackwell is quite the actress. She’s probably too embarrassed to face us.” “When she gave you her last protein bar and walked out to die, I almost shed a tear.” Damien scoffs. Pure disgust flashes in his eyes. “Everything with her is a performance. She just wants my attention.” “She crossed a line when she tried to ruin your audition!” “Aria only hears you when it hurts.” Selene covers her mouth and giggles. “Oh, come on. I’m not even that mad anymore.” Damien doesn’t even spare me a glance. He pulls Selene toward the exit. “Let her rot on the ground and think about what she did. Leave two guards. Once she apologizes, haul her back to the Malibu estate.” The heavy iron gates of the backlot slam shut. The lock clicks. I want to scream. I want to ask him what the hell is wrong with him. But I am already a ghost. An unseen force yanks me back. Like a heavy chain strapped to my chest. It drags me straight into the backseat of Damien’s Rolls-Royce Ghost. He sits in the driver’s seat. One hand rests on the steering wheel. Selene sits shotgun. She touches up her lipstick in the vanity mirror. “Damien, I start shooting tomorrow. The director says we need a new location…” “Take whatever you need. Any property owned by the company.” Selene leans over and pecks his cheek. “Damien, you’re so good to me. Everything with Aria has to become an ordeal.” Damien tugs at his silk tie and says nothing. But something strange flickers in his eyes—gone before I can even name it. “We just left Aria out there alone. What if something happens?” Selene applies another layer of lip gloss, her voice soft and sugary. Damien snorts. “There are guards everywhere. What could possibly happen? She’s been spoiled rotten—she can’t handle even the smallest setback.” “But… she threw up so much blood.” “Fake blood, obviously. You know she’s a drama queen. She’d do anything for attention.” Damien slams on the gas. “Forget her. Let her starve for a day. That will shut her up.” “Give her a day or two. She always comes back and apologizes.” I float in the backseat, staring at the back of his head. Damien Blackwell has no idea that behind that locked gate, my body is already lying there. He will never hear my voice again.

The backlot lights click off, one by one. The terrifying “zombie siege” looks pathetic in the dark—no screaming extras, no dramatic lighting, just cheap plastic props and half-finished sets sagging under the dry California wind. I float back to my body. The night guards start their final patrol. Flashlight beams sweep across the fake ruins. “Hey, we’ve got someone still here.” One of the guards swings his flashlight over. The beam lands on me. The other guy walks over. He kicks the sole of my shoe. “Hey! Wake up! We wrapped hours ago. You can’t sleep here. Get back to the lounge!” I don’t react. The guard crouches. He hesitates. Reaches out and presses two fingers against my neck. A second passes, then another. He jerks his hand back and scrambles to his feet.  “Ahhhhhhh!” A scream rips through the night. The kind that comes from the bottom of the throat. “She’s dead! Call 911! We got a dead body!” The guard stumbles and sprints toward the gate. Sirens wail. Flashing red and blue lights soon wash over the fake ruins. EMTs lift me onto a stretcher. One peels back my eyelids and checks my pupils. Then he shakes his head. “No vitals. She’s already in rigor.” Crime scene techs bag the evidence. They pry a tiny bottle from my clenched fist. A brown plastic vial. The label is half peeled off. But the EPA warning sign is still visible. “Paraquat?” A cop frowns and drops it into an evidence bag. “Restricted-use herbicide. Where the hell did she get this?” “Could be suicide. Run her ID. Notify the next of kin.” Meanwhile, Damien pulls into his Malibu estate. His phone suddenly rings. The screen lights up. An unknown local number. Caller ID says County Sheriff’s Department. He glares at the screen and hits decline. Two seconds later. The same number rings again. He snatches the phone off the dash. Tosses it into Selene’s lap. “Handle it. I don’t have time for this!” Selene nods politely. She swipes the screen and kills the call. Her eyes dart in thought. She opens his contacts. Pulls up “Aria”. Hits block without missing a beat. I hover in the backseat. Watching her fingers tap the screen. Smooth. Effortless. Like she’s been dying to do this for years. The Malibu estate. Damien just gets out of the shower. A towel wrapped around his waist. His phone buzzes. A text notification has been filtered into the spam folder. He picks it up. Frowns. Moves to tap it. Selene snatches it right out of his hand. “Damien, go dry your hair! I got this!” She unlocks the screen. Scans the message. [URGENT: Aria Blackwell declared deceased at 4:14 PM. Suspected cause: Paraquat poisoning (Suicide). Next of kin must report to the County Medical Examiner’s Office to identify the body.] Selene’s hand jerks. The phone nearly slips from her hand, barely missing the marble floor. Aria is actually dead? She stares hard at those words. Shock flickers across her face, then disappears. By the time she looks up again, her expression is smooth, but something brighter has already taken its place. She hits delete with no hesitation. Deleted Items. Trash. “Aria begging for forgiveness?” Damien asks, towel-drying his hair. “Nothing important!” Selene tosses the phone onto the table. Her smile is perfect again. “Just spam. Want me to dry your hair, babe?” Damien steps back, dodging her touch. “No. Get some sleep. I’m heading to the office. Stay here for a few days. I won’t be back.” He stops at the door. “Let me know when the location shoot is done. I’ll send a crew to clean up. Otherwise, that psycho Aria’s gonna throw another fit when she comes home!” I hover near the ceiling. Watching the whole thing play out. I always knew Selene was pure poison. Knew it from day one. But Damien, he just gave away my home. The house I decorated with my own hands. Let another woman move right in. And called me a psycho! I reach for a breath and find nothing. The good thing about being dead? Nothing hurts anymore. Emotions are trapped behind thick glass. You see the fire burning. But you don’t feel the heat. Just like that. I vanished twice in one day. First, my body died on that cold concrete floor. Second, Selene deleted the last proof I was still expected anywhere.

Three whole days. I haven’t come home. Or at least, the “me” they still think is alive hasn’t. I haven’t called anyone else, either. Damien sits on the leather sofa. His face is a thundercloud, ready to snap at any second. A bottle of Macallan 25 sits empty on the coffee table. The crystal ashtray overflows. He rarely smokes. Now the ashtray is overflowing. Rosa walks over with a breakfast tray. She sets it down carefully. “Mr. Blackwell, please eat something.” Damien slaps the coffee mug off the table. Ceramic shatters against the marble floor. Dark liquid splashes everywhere. “Where is Aria? Has she called? Texted? Anything?” he asks through gritted teeth. Every word drips with venom. Rosa trembles. The tray rattles in her hands. “No… Mrs. Blackwell hasn’t reached out. Maybe you should call her?” “Me? Call her? In her dreams!” Damien points at the walk-in closet. “Clear out her closet. All of it. Let’s see how long she can play tough!” Rosa doesn’t dare argue. She grabs garbage bags. She hauls them out, one trip at a time. She stops when she reaches the terrace. An orchid stands there. A rare Dendrobium orchid. Potted in simple clay. Green leaves. Strong roots. Damien planted it himself. On the night he proposed. He said, “Aria, orchids are the hardest things to keep alive. They need perfect light, perfect water and perfect temperature. One mistake and they die.” “That’s what finding you felt like.” “As long as this flower lives, we will never part.” And then, somewhere along the way, he changed his mind. But the flower just kept growing. Watering it was my first chore every morning. Rotating the pot. Wiping the leaves. In five years, it bloomed only twice. Tiny white flowers. With a soft scent I could barely catch. “This too?” Rosa asks softly, glancing back at him. “Trash it! Throw out everything she touched! I don’t want to see a trace of her in this house!” CRASH! The pot is shoved off the balcony railing. It smashes against the patio stones. Shattered into pieces. Soil. Roots. Five years of my care. Gone in one second. Floating in mid-air, I stare at the broken stem lying in the clay shards. Nothing reaches me in time. Not even this. Just then, the front door opens. Selene walks in. She is wearing a long ivory coat. I freeze. It was for our first anniversary. Damien flew to Paris and had a couture house make it just for me. The only one in the world. I could barely bring myself to wear it. It hung in the back of my closet. Kept safe in a dust bag. She dug it out. She’d even had the waist taken in to fit her. Damien freezes too. His eyes lock onto the coat. He frowns and swallows hard. “That coat…” Selene glides over. She loops her arm through his. Her voice is breathy and sweet. “Damien, I have a massive premiere event tonight. I had nothing to wear in the closet. So I borrowed one of Mrs. Blackwell’s. She won’t mind, right?” He looks at the coat a beat too long. Then his face closes. “It’s a coat, Selene. Wear it if you want.” His voice turns icy. “Thank you, Damien!” They walk toward the foyer. Selene catches something out of the corner of her eye. A battered leather suitcase sits by the hallway closet. It’s my memory box, packed with photos from my childhood, college, and wedding, along with the only thing my mother ever left me. An old locket, dark with age. Inside is a thumb-sized photo. The woman looks exactly like me. But her smile is so much brighter. Taken when my mom was twenty-three. She passed away at twenty-five. That locket was the only piece of jewelry she ever owned. “Oops. Why is this out here?” She nudges the suitcase with the pointed toe of her heel—too hard to be accidental. The suitcase tips over. Everything spills across the floor. Photos scatter down the hall. The locket rolls out, bouncing twice on the marble. And then, CRACK! A tiny sound. The locket snaps open and breaks into three pieces. The hinges shatter. The photo inside slips out and lands face down. I lunge forward. I reach out, desperate to catch it. My fingers pass right through the broken pieces. Through her. Through everything. I can’t hold anything anymore. Mom. That was the last thing Mom left me. The only proof she ever existed. Damien glances down at the broken pieces. Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “Rosa. Sweep that garbage out!” Rosa drops to her knees. Her hands shake as she gathers the pieces. Her tears hit the marble. “Sir… that belonged to Mrs. Blackwell’s mother. It was the only thing she had left of her. If she comes home and sees this…” “She’s out partying but not coming home!” Damien roars. “Throw it all out! Put it in the outside bins! And tell her that if she doesn’t come back now, she shouldn’t come back at all!” My ghost crouches beside the broken pieces. I watch Rosa cry. She uses a dustpan to scoop up the shattered pieces. My mother breaks across his marble floor, and the only word he has for her is garbage.

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The moment they shoved me out the window, I heard Kate laughing. “Say goodbye to your life of the Vegas Gambling King, bro.” That was John Miller speaking. My best friend. And Kate, my wife of three years, stood right beside him. His hand was sliding over her waist. She was still holding that bottle of champagne she’d drugged me with. Then they kissed. Slow. Triumphant. Hungry. And I started falling. From thirty floors. The Vegas neon blurred into a fog of light and shadow, exactly like the glory I’d seen when I first arrived here. The wind roared in my ears. Ten minutes ago, I was still at the table. The man across from me pushed five million toward me and asked if I had the guts to match it. I slid my stack forward with absolute confidence. “All in.” I flipped the cards. Perfect twenty-one. The crowd erupted. Confetti cannons fired. Golden paper rained from the ceiling. The Vegas celebrity Mr. Dawson raised my hand and thundered: “Vegas, welcome your new KING!” Fifty million in prize money. Ten years of gambling with zero losses. Then one glass of champagne. And everything went to zero. I was betrayed by my best buddy and the woman I thought was my true love. He forced me to sign the divorce papers, transferred my trillion-dollar fortune. I reached for her but she pushed me off the tallest building in Vegas. The new legendary gambling king of Las Vegas！falling on the very day of his coronation. … The Vegas neon still flickers. Just not for me anymore. I curl in the depths of an alley reeking of rot, both hands twisted at grotesque angles. Who am I? Where did I come from? My memories are like shredded playing cards scattered across the ground！impossible to piece together into anything whole. Only hunger is real. A soggy, half-eaten sandwich lands in front of me. I crawl toward it with everything I have. A filthy boot suddenly stomps on it. Sauce splatters across my face. “Bad luck. Even trash wants to steal my food.” The boot kicks my shoulder. I tumble backward. My skull cracks against concrete. The second kick is coming！ “STOP! I’ll call the police!” The light at the alley entrance splits open. A middle-aged man, broad-shouldered and thick-backed. Beside him, a girl holds up her phone, the cold screen-glow illuminating her tight jawline. The homeless man mutters and shuffles away. The girl crouches down. Streetlight gilds her hair with warm gold. “Sir, are you okay?” I stare at her blankly. Something churns in the depths of my memory！shattering wine glasses, the world spinning, a pushing palm, the weightlessness of falling！but I can’t catch a single clear face. “We can help you contact your family!” “I don’t know!” I curl into myself, trembling, hands over my head. “I don’t know anyone! Please don’t kill me… don’t kill me…” The girl and her father exchange glances. “Dad… I think he has amnesia. And his hands!” The middle-aged man lifts my deformed wrist, his brow furrowing deeply. “Both hands fractured. Without care, he won’t last a few days.” A few days. So that’s all my life is worth. The girl reaches toward me. Palm up. “Sir, I’m Leah. My father Sam runs a small bar nearby. You can stay for a while. Maybe you’ll remember something. Okay?” I stare at that hand. Hesitate for one heartbeat. Then slowly, slowly, I take it.

“Sean! Table three needs another round!” “Sean! Whiskey on the rocks!” “SEAN！” I weave through Sam’s bar, a tray loaded with glasses that don’t wobble an inch. I flick my wrist. Several menus fly out like they’ve been enchanted, arcing through the air before landing perfectly on tables across the room. I spin back. Ice cubes scatter from my shaker, clinking as they drop into a line of glasses behind the bar, casting rainbow halos. “Sean, you’re the man!” “Wooo, bro, do it again!” “Sean, King of the Vegas Bar! Sean, OUR KING!” The crowd roars. The atmosphere burns. Behind the bar, Sam and Leah watch from a distance, smiles pulling at their mouths. “Look at those moves,” Sam murmurs. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, who’d believe this was the beggar from that alley?” Leah’s eyes follow me. “He wanted to save enough to pay us back for the medical bills.” “Medical bills?” Sam laughs. “With what he’s done to our revenue, I should be paying HIM a bonus.” I carry drinks to a table of women in the corner. My fingers twist, and a rose appears from behind a bottle. “Your drink, miss.” Their laughter never stops. They don’t just order more！they stuff tips into my apron. Leah walks over, hands me a water bottle. “Dad couldn’t stop talking about how capable you are.” I reach for it. Our fingertips brush. We both freeze. She jerks her hand back, ears burning red. “This isn’t just ‘helping out.’ This bar was dying before you came！” The bar door EXPLODES open. A sloppy young man with a cigarette dangling from his lips storms in. His eyes are poisoned knives, stabbing straight at me. “Who the hell said you could touch MY bar stuff? Get the hell away!” He grabs my collar. Alcohol and casino-cigar stench blast my face. “You’ve got it wrong, sir. I’m the server here, and we’re actually closing the bar！” “Wrong my ass!” He slams me against the wall. “I’m Sam Peterson’s son! You think some damn dishwasher can tell ME what to do?!” Mike Peterson. Leah’s brother. The “good-for-nothing bastard son” Sam never talked about without sighing. He spots the cash in my apron pocket. Greed flashes. He snatches it. “That’s for the medical bills to pay back!” “Medical bills my ass!” He shoves me. “Pay your future boss first!” He shoves hard. I stagger back, my lower back crashing into the bar. And when my elbow knocks over a stack of dice, the dice scatter across the counter. In that instant, images flash！ Crystal chandeliers. Green felt. My fingers closing around the dice cup. Three dice inside. A flick of the wrist. The dice spinning against the cup walls, striking, falling. The reveal. Triple sixes. A tsunami of chips crashing toward me. The man across the table, face ashen, then eyes blood-red as he lunges！ Those red eyes in the images overlap with Mike’s furious ones in the reality. I grab a whiskey glass on instinct, scooping the scattered dice inside, wrist rotating. Then flick！ “AGH！!” Mike stumbles back, clutching his eye. The money scatters across the floor. I look down at the bar. The remaining dice sit in a perfect straight line, ordered by size. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. A straight. Mike stares in shock. “You！you did that on PURPOSE!” “No, I didn’t！” “Shut up! You’re DEAD tonight!” He swings again. The fist nears my face. I dodge on instinct, with the glass rim catching his temple. He jerks away and I flick the last die from the glass bottom into the air！ It spins. Falls. Lands in his gaping mouth. “GUH！!” He chokes, doubling over, coughing wildly. Money flies everywhere. I look at the counter. The remaining five dice have somehow flipped themselves over in the vibration. Six. Six. Six. Six. Six. A leopard. All sixes. “SEAN!” Leah rushes over, putting herself between us. “Mike! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Mike straightens, dice crumbs still at the corner of his mouth, eyes full of horror. “Leah, I’m your BROTHER! And you’re defending this punk！” “You stole his money and hit him, and YOU’RE the victim?” Mike’s face goes greenish. His fists crack. He looks at me, then at Leah shielding me, and suddenly smiles. That smile is a viper’s tongue. “Fine. Real fine.” He reaches to poke Leah when a group bursts through the door. “MIKE PETERSON! Where the hell are you hiding?! Get out here and PAY UP!” Mike immediately shrinks behind the bar, praying hands toward Leah. I comes following Leah out from behind the counter. A group of thug-looking men faces us. I instinctively pull Leah behind me. “Who are you?” The leader is young, well-dressed, a playful smirk on his lips. Behind him, a tall thin man toys with a deck of cards. The shuffling sounds like a snake hissing. “Who are we?” The leader snorts. “Damn, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.” Leah tugs my sleeve, voice trembling. “That’s Lucas Marsh! His father is the biggest crime boss in this district. We can’t mess with him.” Lucas slaps a contract on the table. “Your brother owes us over a hundred grand. Today he pays, or he dies.” “A hundred thousand? Didn’t we just pay off his debt months ago?” Leah’s hands shake as she picks up the contract. “Yeah, well, the idiot went straight back to the tables.” Lucas smirks. “Told you. A gambling dog can’t be saved. Debts must be paid. You still have this dump of a bar, right? Sell it to me. Might cover a fraction.” “But this is our last property! Without it, we have nowhere to live!” Lucas shrugs, swaggering toward Leah. One hand tilts her chin up. “Can’t sell the bar? Sell yourself then. With that face, working as my club’s top girl, you’d make a fortune！” I clamp his wrist. “Watch your hands.” Lucas jerks back, stumbling, face darkening. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He turns to Leah, voice sliding over her skin like a snake. “Listen here, you little bitch. This land has already been targeted by John Miller! Even if you don’t mortgage it to me, you’ll lose it sooner or later! And with my father’s connection to Miller, you won’t see a SINGLE DIME when that happens!” John Miller. That name is a burning needle stabbing into my temple. Head splitting. Images surging！ A suited man grabbing my right wrist, twisting hard. “Say goodbye to your ‘gambling god life,’ bro!” I shake my head violently, trying to drive out the visions. Mike tries to sneak away from behind the bar, but two sharp-eyed thugs spot him, dragging him before Lucas. “Please, Lucas! Give me a few more days, I swear I’ll pay!” Lucas sneers, nodding to his men. One kicks Mike’s leg, dropping him to his knees. Another flick opens a switchblade. CLICK！the blade extends. Cold steel presses against Mike’s fingers. “Sorry, kid. The boss needs money NOW. So every minute you waste, I cut off one finger.” Mike’s eyes dart around frantically. Then they fix the dice and cards on the bar. “WAIT! WAIT! Give me one more chance！” “Chance?” Lucas leans down. “You already burned my last shred of trust when you ran last time!” Mike’s gaze suddenly locks, like a drowning man grabbing his final straw. He looks at Leah. His lips tremble. He says something that freezes my blood: “Lucas, I’ll bet my SISTER to you! Didn’t you say she could be a stripper?” Leah stands frozen. Her eyes fill with shock and disbelief. “BROTHER! WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!” “Mike, you COWARD!” Lucas SLAMS the table, laughing wild and triumphant. “DEAL! It’s SETTLED!”

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I held my engagement invitation and went to find Nora, my friend of ten years. I pushed open her apartment door, and my eyes landed on the TV. On the screen, a video was playing of her and my fiancé, Dante, tangled together. My blood ran cold. Nora looked at me and smiled. “For the past three years, every time he said he was on a business trip, he was actually here with me.” I clutched the invitation in my hand and suddenly felt that everything I had given these past years was ridiculous. She picked up a pregnancy report from the table and waved it. “Two months. If you still want the wedding, you can be a free nanny for my baby.” The fingerprint lock beeped, and Dante walked in carrying chicken soup. Our eyes met, and his smile froze. I folded the invitation and slipped it into my pocket. From that moment on, there was no Nora and no Dante in my life. … “What were you doing here?” Dante changed out of his shoes and casually set the soup on the entry cabinet. His gaze swept over the report in Nora’s hand, then landed on my face. After a brief pause, he loosened his tie and sat beside Nora. “Since you’ve seen it, there’s no need to hide it anymore.” He looked at me. “The report is real. She’s pregnant with my child, almost two months.” The invitation in my pocket crumpled little by little in my grip. “So?” My voice was barely there. Dante frowned, clearly unhappy. “What kind of attitude was that? I hadn’t even blamed you for coming here uninvited.” He picked up a glass of water and took a sip, sounding completely justified. “You had two miscarriages. The doctor said your body was too weak now, it would be hard to get pregnant again.” “The Marchetti family needed an heir. Nora was willing to have the baby. She was helping us.” “When the child was born, it would call you Mom. You got a child for free. What was there to be upset about?” Ten years. I stayed by his side as he rose from an ignored son to the head of the family. I took bullets for him. I even lost two unborn children for him. And now he told me that cheating on me with my friend was for my own good. Nora leaned against his shoulder and gently touched her flat belly. “Aurora, I was an orphan. I always treated you like my own sister.” “In the future, the three of us would live together. My child would be your child.” She lifted her chin, her eyes full of triumph. “Didn’t you always want a family? Now it was complete.” Dante stroked her hair. “See how understanding Nora is. Not like you, always with that long face.” He pulled a document from his briefcase and tossed it onto the coffee table. “This was a supplementary agreement. I had a lawyer draft it.” “The wedding next month would go on as planned. You would still be Mrs. Marchetti.” “But to everyone else, Nora was my cousin. She would move into our home to rest during her pregnancy.” I stared at the document and didn’t reach for it. “Nora would live in our home as your cousin?” “Right.” Dante nodded. “I wasn’t comfortable with her living alone.” “What about after the baby was born?” I curled my lips slightly. “We would say it was your child. Nora was still young. She couldn’t be tied down by a baby.” Dante took out a pen and held it out to me. “I would give you an extra ten thousand dollars every month, just to take care of Nora and the baby.” “Aurora, don’t be greedy. I gave you the best life money could buy. What were you not satisfied with?” He looked into my eyes, sincere in a way that felt terrifying. He truly believed he had done nothing wrong. In his eyes, I was nothing more than someone without her own income, someone who couldn’t leave him. As long as he gave me a little, I should be grateful. Nora picked up the pen and pressed it into my hand. “Sign it, Aurora. If you didn’t, these ten years of your youth meant nothing.” “You didn’t even have a job. Without Dante, how would you live?” The pen dug into my fingers. I watched them echo each other, and suddenly this whole scene felt ridiculous. Ten years of youth, in exchange for an agreement that turned me into a free nanny for his mistress. I put the pen back on the table. “I didn’t sign.” Dante’s face darkened. “Aurora, don’t push your luck. I always felt guilty about the two children you lost.” “Take this child as compensation. What else were you making a fuss about?” He stood and looked down at me. “I gave you one last chance. Sign it.” I stood, took the invitation from my pocket, and threw it into the trash. “I would think about it.” I turned and walked toward the door. Behind me, Dante sat back down and handed the chicken soup to Nora. “I knew you would come around. Tomorrow, go pick a diamond ring.” “Nora liked pink diamonds. Pick one for her too.”

That night, I went back to the home I shared with Dante. I entered the password, and the lock gave an error beep. I froze, then entered it again. “Incorrect password.” The mechanical female voice echoed through the hallway. I stood outside the door, looking at the place I had walked in and out of for five years, and suddenly it felt completely unfamiliar. Two hours later, the elevator doors opened. Dante walked out, supporting Nora. When he saw me standing at the door, he frowned. “Why aren’t you going in? What are you doing out here?” I looked at him.“The password doesn’t work.” Dante slapped his forehead.“Nora said the old numbers weren’t lucky, not good for the baby, so I changed it.” He walked up and entered Nora’s birthday. The door opened. I followed them inside. My slippers were gone from the entryway. In their place was a pair of anti-slip maternity slippers. “Your slippers were too hard. I was afraid Nora might slip, so I had the maid throw them out,”Dante said casually, helping Nora toward the master bedroom. I walked to the bedroom door and froze completely. All my skincare products had been swept into the trash on the vanity. The closet doors were wide open, half of my clothes gone, replaced with Nora’s maternity wear. “Dante, what is this supposed to mean?” I pointed at the empty closet. Dante was pouring water for Nora and didn’t even look back. “Nora is pregnant. She can’t stand your perfume.” “I had the maid move your things to the guest room. You sleep there for the next few months.” Nora leaned against the headboard, touching her belly as she sighed. “Aurora, you’re not mad at me, are you? The doctor said my pregnancy is unstable. I need rest.” “The master bedroom has better light. It’s good for the baby. You’ve always been so good to me, you’ll give it to me, right?” I looked at her fake face and felt no urge to argue. The next morning, I sat at the dining table, drinking coffee. Dante walked out of the bedroom with his phone in hand. Right in front of me, he turned on speaker. “Hello, Viktor.” “Change the bride’s name on the welcome sign. Replace it with Nora.” My hand holding the spoon froze. There was a pause on the other end. “Boss, then Miss Aurora…” Dante pulled out a chair and sat down, glancing at me. “Aurora? She’ll be the bridesmaid.” He hung up and took a sip of his coffee. “Nora said she’s dreamed of wearing a wedding dress since she was a child. She’s pregnant now, her emotions can’t be affected.” “We’ve been together this long anyway. The wedding is just a formality. Let her have the bride’s place. Think of it as fulfilling her dream.” His tone was calm, like he was talking about something trivial. Nora walked out of the bedroom wearing my pajamas and wrapped her arms around Dante’s neck.“Dante, you’re so good to me.” She turned to look at me, smiling innocently.“Aurora, will you be my bridesmaid? I want you to witness my happiness with your own eyes.” Dante tapped the table, urging me.“Nora is talking to you. Don’t be so petty. It’s just a wedding dress.” I lowered my head and looked at the coffee in my cup. Ten years of devotion couldn’t compare to a single sentence from her. Even the place of the bride was taken from me. I put down the cup and took a napkin to wipe my lips.“Okay.” Dante smiled in satisfaction.“That’s more like it. A family should live in harmony.”

“Tonight is the gathering of the five families. Dress simple. Don’t steal Nora’s spotlight.” On the sofa was the cheap old dress he had thrown at me. Behind him stood Nora, dressed in a custom maternity gown, wearing my pink diamond necklace. “Dante, do I look good in this?”Nora lifted her skirt and spun around. Dante walked over and wrapped an arm around her waist. “You look beautiful. You’ll be the most stunning woman there tonight.” He turned to me, frowning slightly. “What are you standing there for? Go change. Don’t waste time.” I picked up the gray dress and walked into the guest room. When I came out, Dante had already left with Nora. I could only take a taxi to the hotel by myself. I pushed open the banquet hall doors and saw Dante holding a glass of wine, chatting and laughing with several family heads. Nora clung to his arm, soft and dependent. I walked over, about to stand behind Dante. “Mr. Marchetti, who is this?” One of the family heads pointed at Nora. Dante raised his glass, smiling brightly. “Let me introduce you. This is my fiancée, Nora.” Flattering voices rose around them. “Miss Nora is truly stunning. A perfect match for Mr. Marchetti.” Another family head recognized me.“Wait, then who is the lady behind?” The hall fell silent for a moment. Every gaze on me carried curiosity and mockery. Dante paused, not even turning his head.“Her? She’s my sister.” Ten years by his side, and I had become his sister. He did not even bother to give me a decent explanation. With one sentence, he erased everything about me. I stood in the corner, watching Nora receive everyone’s blessings. Midway through the banquet, Nora walked toward me with a glass of red wine.“Oh!” She suddenly slipped, and half the glass spilled onto my gray dress. The red liquid dripped down the fabric, leaving me a mess. “Aurora, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Nora covered her mouth, pretending to panic. Dante rushed over, shoved me aside, and pulled Nora into his arms. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your stomach?” He turned and glared at me, his voice sharp. “Why were you standing so close? You know she’s pregnant, and you still got near her!” “Go to the restroom and deal with that. Stop embarrassing yourself here.” I said nothing and turned toward the restroom. After the banquet, we waited for the driver in the parking lot. Nora suddenly cried out. “Ouch, Dante. I twisted my ankle. It hurts.” Without hesitation, Dante crouched down. “Get on. I’ll carry you.” Nora climbed onto his back, her arms wrapped around his neck. Over his shoulder, she looked at me walking behind them. Her lips moved silently. “You spent ten years with him, and it’s still not worth my three months.” I stopped, staring at their overlapping shadows. Dante turned back, impatience clear on his face.“Aurora, can you walk faster? The car keys are in your bag. Stop dragging your feet.” I stood there and didn’t move.“Give them to me!” His voice rose. I unzipped my bag, took out the keys, and threw them onto the ground with a sharp clatter. Dante froze. I didn’t look at him. I turned and walked to the roadside, stopping a taxi. When I got home, I opened my phone. There were more than three thousand photos in my gallery, all of them from my past with Dante. I selected them and deleted them, one by one, until nothing was left. I erased his number from my contacts as well. The last message popped up. It was from Dante. “Remember to try on the bridesmaid dress tomorrow. Nora wants pink.” I didn’t reply. In the corner of the living room, three packed suitcases stood quietly against the wall.

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The baby’s head is crowning. My husband tells me to push it back in. Because his dead brother’s widow is having a son next door, and only a son inherits in the Russo Family. “Hold on, amore,” Dante says, squeezing my hand. His eyes are soft. They’ve been soft for nine months. “Just a little longer.” I’m screaming. Sweat in my eyes, blood on the sheets, and I know — I have known since the second contraction came thirty seconds after the first — that something is wrong with this delivery. The pain is too sharp. Too fast. A nurse walks in with a syringe. I think it’s the epidural. Then Dante lets go of my hand. Steps back from the bed. The needle goes in. He checks his watch. “Adjust the dose,” he says, calm as ordering a drink. “She has to wait until Bianca delivers.” The room tilts. “Bianca’s at six centimeters,” he tells the nurse. “Buy me two hours.” I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Whatever’s in that syringe is already in my blood — my contractions stop mid-clench, like a hand closing around my uterus from the inside. The pain doesn’t stop. The labor stops. The baby — my baby — is stuck. I look at him. The man I married. The man who put his hand on my belly every night for nine months and whispered to her through my skin. His face is blank. I don’t cry. I don’t beg. I memorize his face exactly the way it looks right now — and I start counting every single thing I’m going to take from him. — They wheel me out of the delivery suite and down. Down past the lobby. Down into the basement of the Russo Family’s private clinic in Brooklyn. Gia is waiting at the door of what used to be a storage room. Dante’s little sister. Twenty-three years old, manicure fresh, holding a scalpel between two fingers like a cigarette. “Don’t blame Dante, cara,” she says, smiling at me. “Bianca’s carrying Marco’s son. The first male Russo of this generation. You understand.” I do understand. I’ve understood since the syringe went in. But I let my face do what they expect — wet, weak, terrified. “Even if you popped her out first,” Gia goes on, “she’d still just be a girl. The bylaws are the bylaws. No daughter wears the ring. So the boy comes out first.” She crouches in front of me and taps my cheek with the flat of the scalpel. “Get the doctor,” I rasp. “Please. She’s coming.” “She’s not coming for another three hours, sweetheart. The drug holds that long. Bianca’s already in the OR.” She stands, brushes off her knees. “Be a good girl. When her son is breathing, you can have yours.” To the soldier at the door: “If she screams, gag her.” The door shuts. One bare bulb. Concrete floor. My dress is already soaked through. They took my phone at admissions. Radiation, Dante said. Bad for the baby. I curl onto my side and breathe. In. Out. Counting. Three months ago, Dante’s older brother Marco wrapped his Maserati around a guardrail on the Belt Parkway. Left a wife three months pregnant. At the funeral, old Don Salvatore Russo — Dante’s grandfather, the Nonno, the head of the Family — gripped Bianca’s wrist with both hands and wept. The Russo name cannot die. You give us this boy. I remember standing there in black, twenty-six weeks along, putting a hand on the old man’s shoulder. Nonno, our baby will love you too. He didn’t look at me. I should have known then. I did know then. I just didn’t want to. Another contraction rips through me — the drug is fighting it, but my body is fighting back. I drag myself to the door and pound on it. “Help me — please — the baby’s coming —” A bored voice on the other side: “Shut up. Miss Gia said wait.” “My baby —” “If she dies, she dies. Shouldn’t have been a girl.” I slide down the door. I am not crying. I am making a list.

I don’t know how long I’m down there. Long enough that the blood under me goes from warm to cold to warm again with the next contraction. Long enough that I almost stop fighting the drug. Then the door opens. Not Gia. Not the soldier. Dr. Marino — the Russo Family doctor, the one who delivered Marco, the one who’s been my OB for nine months. He sees me on the floor and his face goes the color of paper. “Mrs. Russo? Madonna — Dante told me you were upstairs in the VIP suite —” I can’t speak. I point at my stomach. He drops to his knees and his hand goes between my legs and I hear him suck in a breath through his teeth. “You’re fully dilated. Your water broke God knows when. We need to move now.” He tries to lift me. The second I move, blood pours out of me in a hot rush and he almost drops me. “Help!” he shouts down the hall. “Hemorrhage —” Nothing. This whole clinic belongs to the Russos. Tonight they cleared it for Bianca. Every nurse, every doctor, every orderly is on the third floor, holding her hand while she pushes out the future of the Family. His phone has no signal in the basement. He hauls me up. “Stay with me. Stay with me, cara.” The stairwell is endless. Each step jolts the baby further down and not out. The drug is still in me — contractions come and go like a stutter. This is the worst possible way to deliver. I can feel her wedged. “Doctor —” My voice is air. “Save the baby. Promise me.” “You’re both walking out of here. Don’t talk.” He kicks open the first-floor OR. We both freeze. The room is empty. Not unstaffed. Empty. The surgical lights are gone. The table is gone. Monitors, anesthesia cart, crash cart — gone. There are bare outlets on the walls where machines used to be plugged in. Marino makes a sound like he’s been punched. “I checked this room six hours ago —” Heels on tile. Gia rounds the corner with two nurses. “Doctor. What are you doing down here? Bianca’s on three.” He points at the empty room. His hand is shaking. “Where is the equipment.” Gia’s face is innocent. Beautifully innocent. She’s good at this. “We moved it up. Bianca’s having a C-section. She needed the best of everything — what if there’s a complication? You can’t do major surgery in a regular OR.” Her eyes drift to me. She smiles. “Oh, is she in labor? She’ll have to wait. Bianca’s not done.” I look up at her. This girl I bought a twelve-thousand-dollar Birkin for last spring. This girl who linked her arm through mine on Madison Avenue and called me the sister I never had. I file her face away with Dante’s. The list is getting longer.

Marino runs into the nurse’s station and starts ripping open cabinets. Empty. Empty. Empty. “Hemostats — anything — gauze —” A nurse whispers, “It’s all upstairs. Mr. Russo’s orders. Everything goes to Mrs. Bianca.” He punches the cabinet. His knuckles split. He turns to me, and he’s crying. “Mrs. Russo. I’m sorry. I have nothing —” Gia pats his shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up, doc. She hasn’t even delivered yet. As soon as Bianca’s done, the equipment comes back down.” She glances at my belly. “And honestly? Even if the baby doesn’t make it — it’s a girl. The Family doesn’t lose anything.” I lift my head off the floor. I look her in the eye. I use the breath I’ve been saving. “Animal.” Her smile drops. She crouches down. Puts her mouth right next to my ear. Lowers her voice so only I hear. “Curse all you want. After tonight you’ll be too weak to lift a glass. Bianca’s taking your seat. Dante keeps you alive as a maid because he’s sentimental. Be grateful.” She straightens up. Beautiful again. Marino can’t take it. “Miss Gia, this is murder —” “Murder?” She laughs. “Doctor. Women die in childbirth all the time. It’s tragic.” She turns to the soldiers behind her. “Take Dr. Marino somewhere quiet. I’ll watch cara myself.” They drag him out. He’s fighting them, twisting back to me, shouting — “Mrs. Russo — press here — above the ankle bone, hard — it can bring the contractions back — don’t give up —” The door slams. Gia turns the lock. Pulls out her phone. FaceTime. “Fratellone — your wife’s about to deliver. Want to watch?” Dante’s face fills the screen. He’s outside Bianca’s OR. Behind him, doctors in scrubs sprint past. “Sera, not now. Bianca’s heart rate is dropping. The baby’s in distress.” Gia tilts the camera at me. The blood. The dress. The floor. “Look how much she’s bleeding, fratellone. I think she might die.” Dante glances. Looks away. “Tell her to hold on. The doctor comes down when Bianca’s done. Cara, I can’t leave.” The screen goes black. Gia pockets the phone and shrugs. “Hear that? In his heart, Bianca comes first. You’re a brood mare, amore. The mare doesn’t outlive her foal.” I close my eyes. She thinks I’ve given up. My right hand slides behind me, finds the inside seam of my dress. My father stitched a button in there the day before the wedding. Sera. The Russos are deep water. If anything goes wrong, press this. I’d laughed at him. Papa. Dante loves me. I dig my thumbnail under the cap. I press. No light. No sound. But my father’s soldati are thirty minutes out. Maximum. Thirty minutes. I look down at my belly, where my daughter is fighting to be born and dying in the trying. Hold on, baby. Hold on for Mama.

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