Category: English

Every siren High Priestess has a Heart Core. The queen swallowed my sister’s. But she forgot about the second one.” They gut my sister like a fish in front of me. She’s thrown into a basin full of pearls, her massive tail thrashing, casting this sick blue glow across every face in the room. Soldiers shove their hands all over her — rough, careless — tearing off her scales like they’re peeling bark off a tree. Blue scales scatter across the stone like broken glass. Then they slice her open. A man rams his fist inside her belly, roots around like he’s digging through a sack of grain, and pulls out a Core — glowing, pulsing, beautiful. And just like that, they stop. Got what they came for. All because some queen heard a bedtime story. Somewhere deep in the Endless Sea, there’s an ancient race — sirens. And inside every siren High Priestess, there’s a Heart Core. Swallow it, and you’ll be irresistible. Forever young. Forever beautiful. Queen Seraphina heard that and lost her goddamn mind. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Had to have it. So her husband — the great and mighty King Aldric — sent his army to the bottom of the sea to make his wife happy. They butchered everyone. Every siren they could find — ripped open, left floating belly-up in water so red it looked like sunset. My aunts. My cousins. My elders. All of them. Split open and thrown away like garbage. And my sister — my Caelia — they dragged her out and cut her apart while she was still breathing. I’m hiding beneath a reef, watching the whole thing. Blood in my eyes. Blood in my mouth. And every tear that rolls down my face turns hard — crystallizes into a tiny gem before it even hits the water. Siren tears do that. They turn into jewels. Mine are stained red. The last thing I hear is Caelia’s voice — soft, steady, even now — whispering to me from behind the rock where she shoved me to safety. ““Don’t cry, little one. Just… stay alive. Survive.”” Here’s the thing the world doesn’t know. They think there’s only one High Priestess per generation. One Core. But this time, there were two of us. My sister got the beauty. The grace. The Core that grants eternal youth. I got something else. I got blood that breeds monsters. Mindworms — thousands of them — born from my own flesh, fed on my own bone. Creatures that burrow into your brain and make you see things, feel things, dream things that aren’t real. Creatures that can fake a pregnancy. Creatures that can eat a man alive from the inside out. I drag myself to shore. The Ancient Siren Rite — splitting your tail into legs — is supposed to be agonizing, and let me tell you, that’s an understatement. It feels like someone’s taking a serrated blade to my spine and just pulling. But I do it. Because Caelia told me to stay alive. And I’m not staying alive to hide. I spend three months feeding the swarm. My blood. My bone marrow. Everything I have goes into breeding these things until a small silver-white serpent — barely the length of my forearm — coils around my wrist. It’s eaten every other creature I’ve raised. Thousands of them. It’s the last one standing. I call him Fang. And then I walk to the capital. I disguise myself as a dancer, bribe my way through the castle gates with a handful of Siren’s Tears — gems made from my own crying — and I buy every scrap of information I can get. King Aldric’s schedule. His habits. His weaknesses. His routine walks by the lake. That night, the moon lays itself across the water like a sheet of silver. I dance barefoot at the edge of Sunset Lake, my toes barely kissing the surface, sending ripples through the light. The scent that rises off my skin — it’s a siren thing. Sweet. Heavy. The kind of smell that makes you forget where you are. Hundreds of fireflies come spiraling out of the dark, drawn to it, swirling around me like I’m the center of the universe. I know he’s there. I can feel him watching from the bank. I keep dancing. When I finish, I turn — and our eyes meet. I let my face flood with surprise. My heart is hammering, but not for the reason he thinks. I scramble for my shoes like I’m about to bolt, and right on cue, his voice cuts across the water. “You — are you one of the court dancers? That was… I’ve never seen anything like it.” I keep my eyes down. Play dumb. “It’s a dance from my homeland, my lord. Most people haven’t.” The spring air has a bite to it. I let myself shiver — just a little. He notices. Of course he does. He takes the pale cloak off his own shoulders and drapes it over mine. Gentle. Almost careful. I look up at him with wide eyes. Let the blush come. It’s not hard — the cold does half the work. That scent thickens between us. The air turns warm and close. I catch the flash of something in his eyes. Fascination. Hunger. Then he straightens up and clears his throat, all business again. “The Queen loves dance. Her birthday’s coming up. You’ll perform this piece for her.” I drop to my knees on the cold stone. “Forgive me, Your Majesty — I had no idea who you were.” He waves it off, but his eyes won’t leave my face. “Get up. You’re fine. Just don’t let me down.” I thank him. Accept the assignment. Watch his back disappear into the night. Then I twitch my finger. A Mindworm — tiny, almost invisible — wriggles off my skin and burrows into his. By morning, every corridor in this castle is buzzing with the same story: the King met a dancer by the lake last night. A knock on my door. A stone-faced matron I’ve never seen before. It’s starting.

I’m brought straight to Queen Seraphina. The Gilded Hall is exactly what you’d expect — dripping with silk, gold everywhere, jewels stacked on jewels. And there she sits, alone on a raised platform like she’s holding court. Crown pins. Gemstone earrings. Rings on every finger. This is the woman who wiped out my bloodline because she wanted to look pretty forever. This is the woman who killed my sister. She takes one look at me and her face crumples with disgust. Presses her lacquered nails against her lips. “This ugly little thing is supposed to dance for me?” Before I came, I dotted my face with fake freckles. Dark ones. Clusters of them. Covered every inch. Because I know what Seraphina is. She’s the kind of woman who’d slit your throat for being prettier than her. If she saw my real face right now, I’d be dead by dinner. I kneel on the stone floor, nails biting into my palms so hard I almost bleed. Every cell in my body is screaming — kill her, kill her now — but I press it all down and make my voice small. “Your Majesty, I’ll wear a veil during the performance. You won’t have to see my face.” She snorts. “Well. You’re certainly no threat to anyone looking like that. If the King wants to send me a pet dancer, fine. I’ll take his little gift.” She flicks her wrist. The matron drags me out. I’m barely through the door when I nearly slam into Aldric. He glances at me — and I see the confusion flash across his face. This freckled, plain-looking girl is nothing like the moonlit beauty from last night. But the scent doesn’t lie. He knows exactly why I did it. He knows that if Seraphina had seen my real face, he’d be stepping over my corpse right now. Something dark crosses his expression. His jaw tightens. And for the first time — just barely — I see anger toward his queen flicker behind his eyes. I let the corner of my mouth lift. Just a fraction. That’s all it takes. One tiny seed of doubt. One hairline crack. It’ll sit in the back of his mind and fester — grow roots, spread, until it’s something he can’t dig out no matter how hard he tries. And when that day comes? All of Seraphina’s power, her family, her precious position — it’ll just mean she’s got further to fall. I go back to my room. Wash the fake freckles off. Seraphina. You wanted supernatural beauty? Eternal youth? I’m going to make sure everything you stole turns to dust in your hands. Fang slides up my wrist. I stroke his tiny head. “Soon,” I whisper. “She goes first. Straight to hell. To apologize to my sister in person.” The day of Seraphina’s birthday, the castle goes all out. Water lilies have bloomed overnight across the entire surface of Sunset Lake — which everyone takes as some kind of divine blessing. Lucky omen. Great sign. Aldric stands at the shore with Seraphina on his arm. She’s beaming. “So — my gift. When do I get it?” He nods. The music starts. I step onto the lily pads. Each step barely touches the water — light as breathing, precise as a blade. That scent rolls off me again, and the fireflies come pouring out of the darkness, hundreds of them, spiraling around my body like a living constellation. Every single person watching has gone slack-jawed. Frozen. Like they forgot how to blink. Every single person except Seraphina, who’s digging her nails into her own palms hard enough to draw blood. Mid-spin, my veil slips. And there it is. My real face. No freckles. No disguise. Just — me. I turn toward Seraphina and smile. The hatred in her eyes is so raw it’s almost a living thing. The dance ends. Nobody moves. Nobody makes a sound. Until I kneel in front of Aldric. “For the Queen’s birthday, this humble dancer offers her best. May your reign with the King be long, and may your joy never fade.” “Long live the Aurelia Empire!” I don’t know when Aldric let go of Seraphina’s hand. But it’s gone now. He reaches down toward me. His voice is soft. “Rise. You didn’t disappoint.” Seraphina’s jaw is clenched so tight I’m shocked her teeth don’t shatter. She forces a smile. “What a charming gift, my lord. I love it.” “Good,” Aldric says, barely looking at her. The Mindworm’s been doing its job — pulling his attention, stirring his emotions. But it’s too risky to leave in much longer. I curl my finger, ready to call it back — And that’s when a voice slices through the crowd. “Your Majesty — how about you give this beauty to me? Consider it a peace offering between our kingdoms.”

Aldric’s head snaps toward the voice. “Who said that?” “The Crown Prince of Valdris, Your Majesty,” Cedric murmurs from his side. A man steps forward — tall, broad, dressed head to toe in foreign finery. He moves like someone who’s never been told no. “King Aldric. I’m Prince Kaelen of Valdris.” “Hand her over, and I’ll guarantee a hundred years of peace. Not one drop of blood spilled between our nations.” Dead silence. Then gasps. Because this is insane — in the best possible way for everyone except me. One dancer for a century of peace? Any king with half a brain would take that deal in a heartbeat. Seraphina jumps in immediately. “My lord, surely this would be a wonderful opportunity for the girl. A prince’s consort — what more could she want?” Aldric hesitates. And I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. Logic says do it. Strategy says do it. Every political instinct he has is screaming take the deal. So why can’t he? I lift my face and look at him. Just look. Today I’ve painted shimmering marks near my eyes — they catch the light and make everything about my face more intense, more devastating. But right now, those devastating eyes are filling with tears. Something cracks inside him. I see it happen. “You’re too late,” he says. “She’s already mine.” Seraphina chokes. “My lord?!” Kaelen bows — disappointed but graceful — and backs away. My back is drenched in cold sweat. Thank god. Thank god I didn’t pull that Mindworm out in time. Without it nudging his emotions, he would’ve handed me over without blinking. No king in history turns down free peace for a girl he met two days ago. That afternoon, he declared me his in front of the entire court. That evening, the royal decree shows up at my door. I am now the Lady of the Moon. I leave the dancers’ quarters and look out over the castle grounds. In my chest, a vow settles like iron. Everything they did to you, Caelia — to our people — I will repay it. Every last drop. When I reach Moonstone Hall — my new chambers — Seraphina is already there. Waiting. She looks at my face and smiles. Poison dripping from every syllable. “You lied to me.” “If I hadn’t — would I have lived long enough to dance today?” She laughs, stroking the cat in her lap. “Fair point. You do know me well.” The smile vanishes. “But let me make something very clear. Title or no title. King’s bed or not. I will kill you whenever I feel like it.” I hold her gaze. Steady. Calm as still water. “So you’ve already picked how I die?” “A fire. A tragic accident. The Lady of the Moon, burned alive in her own chambers.” She leans forward. “Aldric and I go way back — childhood sweethearts. My father and brother fight his wars. You think he’ll shed a single tear over one dead mistress?” Her men grab me. Bind my hands. Bind my feet. Throw me to the floor. Oil splashes across the walls. The floor. My dress. The first spark drops and Seraphina laughs — loud, wild, free. “He’s drunk tonight. Dead drunk. No one’s coming for you, sweetheart.” I watch her walk away through the growing flames. My face doesn’t move. The fire erupts. The guards at my door grab their throats — blood gushing from their eyes, nose, mouth, ears — and crumple. Dead before they hit the ground. I step through the fire with Fang curled around my arm. My little insects have already laid a trail. I follow it — running, running — until I crash headfirst into someone’s chest. I look up. Wide eyes. Trembling lip. The terror on my face is flawless. Aldric crushes me against him, staring at the blaze over my shoulder. “Who the hell did this? Find them. NOW.” I bury my face in his chest and say nothing. He knows who did it. We both know he knows. But he’ll pretend — because Seraphina is his childhood bride, and her family has an army. He’s not going to punish her. Not for me. Not for a girl he barely knows. “I’m scared,” I whisper, pressing closer. Making myself as small and soft as possible. He’s really drunk. Flushed. I can smell the wine on every breath. And I’m a siren. Every part of me is designed to make men lose their minds. Add the Mindworm stoking his desire, and the look in his eyes shifts from concern to something much, much darker. He scoops me up and carries me straight to his chambers. It won’t take long for Seraphina to hear about this. And she will absolutely lose it. Right on schedule — I’ve barely settled in when her steward drops to his knees outside the door. “Your Majesty — the Queen is feeling terribly unwell. She’s begging to see you.”

I’m draped in nothing but a silk slip, looking up at Aldric through heavy lashes. My voice comes out low and sweet. “Are you going to go to her?” His eyes are glazed over. He stares at me like the rest of the world just… stopped existing. “With you right here… I can’t even remember her name.” I press my hand to my mouth and laugh — quiet, teasing. It’s just us in this room. Just candlelight and him looking at me like I’m the only real thing left. His breath is hot against my neck. His fingers trace my collarbone. And then — just like that — he’s out cold. On his forehead, a pale pink Mindworm is still wriggling its way deeper. I roll him onto the bed. Pull the blankets up to his chin. “Sweet dreams, Your Majesty. I made this one special.” Then I slide the pin from my hair and prick my fingertip. A few drops of blood onto a silk cloth — the rest goes straight into his mouth. Can’t waste the good stuff. This amount won’t kill him. Not yet. But give it time — night after night, drop after drop — and it’ll eat him from the inside like rust on iron. And here’s the beautiful part: no healer in this world can cure it. Only me. The moon’s directly overhead now, pouring silver through the window. I sit on the edge of his bed, counting minutes. A scratch at the windowsill. A spider — no bigger than my thumbnail. One of the thousand tiny spies I’ve seeded throughout this castle. She’s coming. I stand. Smooth my clothes. Walk outside. Seraphina is standing at the foot of the steps with what looks like half the castle’s staff behind her. Servants, stewards, guards — a whole damn army. This isn’t a jealous wife checking on her husband. This is a siege. I stand above her on the steps. Slowly — deliberately — I sweep my hair to one side, baring the fresh red mark on my neck. Moonlight on my skin. A smile on my lips. Sweet as sugar. “The King’s asleep. Maybe try again tomorrow?” Her face twists into something barely human. “You filthy — I will kill you with my bare hands!” I point — lazy, casual — at her belly. “Careful, Your Majesty. You don’t want to upset the baby.” She freezes. Mid-scream. Like someone hit pause. Here’s the thing about Seraphina. Aldric once promised her — give me a son, and I’ll make you the most powerful woman in the kingdom. Official. Permanent. Five years of marriage. Nothing. Not even a scare. She’s tried everything. Every healer, every remedy, every folk cure in every corner of the continent. Nothing works. And if she can’t produce an heir soon, that promise dies. “Guards! Drag this whore out of my sight and BEAT HER TO DEATH!” Yeah. I hit a nerve. I shake off the hands grabbing at me. “Your Majesty — take a breath. Maybe call a healer? Have them check?” I pause. Let the silence build. “Because this baby? I’m the only one who can keep it alive.”

Seraphina’s lying on a chaise in her private chamber. Half a dozen healers are on their knees in front of her. She’s propped up on one elbow, exhaustion carved into every line of her face, patience clearly gone. “Well? Am I pregnant or not?” “Without question, Your Majesty. Every sign points to a healthy pregnancy.” They say it in unison. Like a chorus. Seraphina shoots upright. Her eyes go glassy. “Really?” Her voice is shaking. Tiny. Careful — like she’s holding something so fragile that breathing wrong would break it. And I think — huh. So even someone like her can look this small. She turns to me, remembering my words. “And? Is it stable?” “Strong and steady, Your Majesty. Nothing to worry about.” She smiles. For one second, it’s genuine. Then she looks at me and the smile turns to murder. “Now that I’m carrying the King’s heir, I really shouldn’t have blood on my hands.” Pause. “But God, you make me want to.” She snaps her fingers. Her men lunge at me, fingers digging into my arms. I twitch one finger. Seraphina doubles over screaming, clutching her stomach. The healers rush in. Check her pulse. One by one, their faces drain white. They hit the floor. “Your Majesty — please — we’re losing the baby —” She goes dead pale. She just found out she’s pregnant. How can she already be losing it? She looks at me. All the venom’s gone. All the cruelty’s gone. What’s left is raw, naked terror. “Do something! Now!” “If you lose this baby — I’ll kill everyone you love.” My nails are buried in my palms. Everyone I’ve ever loved. That’s the funniest thing she’s ever said. They’re dead. All of them. She killed them. I’m the only one who crawled out of that grave. And I crawled out for her. I step forward. Dab a tincture on her wrists. Her color slowly comes back. The healer checks again. Stable. Crisis over. Here’s the truth: I don’t know the first thing about medicine. And Seraphina isn’t pregnant. The night she tried to burn me alive, I slipped a Mindworm inside her. A special one. It mimics every sign of pregnancy — fools every healer, even produces kicks in the later months. But it also feeds. Day and night. Draining the host from the inside out. And it answers to me. If I want her dead, she dies. One thought. That’s all it takes. But just Seraphina? That’s not enough. The men who actually butchered my people — they were her father and brother. Her brother. Duke Seraph. Those thick, greasy hands of his running up and down my sister’s tail. Ripping off scales like he was shucking corn. Scales and blood raining down while Caelia’s face twisted in silent agony. She never screamed. Not once. She clenched her jaw so hard she cracked her own teeth. By the time she died, they were shattered. I look at Seraphina’s happy, hopeful face and feel something cold settle in my chest. Every second of pain my sister felt — you’re going to pay back a hundred times over.

I get back to Aldric’s chambers. He’s still out cold. I slip off my outer gown, slide in beside him, and stare at the ceiling. I wonder what his face is going to look like when he finds out Seraphina’s pregnant. Because here’s the thing — he’s the one who had her poisoned. Years ago. Secretly. Made sure she could never conceive. The Ashfords are too powerful. Too much military muscle. If Seraphina produced a male heir, her father could use that kid as a puppet — stage a coup, take the throne from the inside. Does Aldric care about Seraphina? Sure. A little. Childhood sweethearts and all that. But the crown comes first. Always. He wakes up and stares at me for a long, dazed moment. That dreamy look — still swimming in last night’s visions. My Mindworm dreams are very good. I flutter my eyes open under his gaze. Shy smile. Little stretch. I’m reaching for his robe when Cedric’s voice comes through the curtain. “Your Majesty — the Queen’s sent word. The healers confirmed it this morning. She’s with child.” The smile dies on Aldric’s face. Just — gone. Like someone blew out a candle. “Has the news gotten out?” “She’s already sent a rider to Lord Commander Ashford.” I start to get up — give him space, play the considerate mistress — but he catches my hand. “Stay. You’re exhausted from last night. Rest here.” His thumb traces circles on my wrist. “I’ll find you somewhere better to live.” I thank him. Lie back down in his bed. Watch him walk out the door. Seraphina’s pregnant. The Ashfords are circling. Aldric’s buried in politics. Nobody’s paying attention to the dancer with no last name. Perfect. Prince Kaelen of Valdris — that’s my blade. I don’t just want a handful of deaths. You wiped out my entire species. I’m going to tear your kingdom apart from the inside. I write a note, let Fang carry it in his mouth, and send him to find Kaelen. Days pass. I move into nicer chambers. Things are quiet. Then Seraphina’s steward shows up at my door. “The Queen’s in terrible pain. She needs the Lady of the Moon. Immediately.” I run my fingers over Fang where he’s coiled on my desk. Tuck him into my sleeve. Head to the Gilded Hall. Inside, the incense is so thick it burns my eyes — but underneath it, I can smell the blood. So. Aldric made his move. Too bad. There’s nothing real in her belly. He can poison her all he wants — all it does is make her hurt. Nobody knows I saved her “pregnancy” that night. Aldric has no idea. I stand over Seraphina’s bed, watching her face crumple with pain, and pull out my silver needles with a calm, practiced hand.

The Mindworm doesn’t care about Aldric’s poison. Inside Seraphina’s belly, it keeps growing. Multiplying. Getting fat. “My baby — is it going to be okay?” The words barely come out.” She can barely get the words out. I make a show of checking her pulse. “Yeah. But it’s going to hurt.” Even half-dead, she can’t help herself. “If you’re lying, my father and brother will make you beg for death.” I slide the first needle in. Slow. Inch by inch. All the way in until it disappears under her skin. The pain must be unreal — I can see it eating her alive — but she can’t scream. Can’t move. All she can do is stare at me with those bloodshot eyes, shaking with rage. Her father and brother. Right. I’d love to see them try — considering they can barely keep themselves alive right now. I gave Kaelen a handful of Mindworms weeks ago. Told him to get them into the Ashfords’ food. Father and son both command the border army. Once the worms take hold, they get reckless. Aggressive. Stupid. They’ll overplay their hand, and when they do, their soldiers will lose faith. An army that doesn’t trust its generals is just a mob with swords. Ten whispers. One for each finger. I stop. Seraphina passed out three whispers ago. I wave toward the door. “Send the healers in.” But it’s not just healers who walk through that door. Aldric’s right behind them. The healer checks Seraphina through the curtain. Aldric and I stand side by side. His eyes are ice. “I didn’t realize you had hidden talents.” “A village remedy, Your Majesty. Nothing grand.” He doesn’t smile back. Just stares at the curtain. I wrecked his plan and he’s pissed. I’m still trying to figure out how to spin this when the healer speaks. “The Queen’s pregnancy is stable, Your Majesty.” Aldric’s face goes dark. But he walks over to Seraphina, takes her hand, and plays the loving husband. “You’ve been through so much, my love.” She gives him a weak, grateful smile. “For you and our child — it’s nothing.” I stand off to the side, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. He doesn’t look happy. He looks like someone forced him to swallow glass. “I should thank Lyra,” Seraphina says sweetly — so syrupy I nearly laugh. She knows she’s falling apart. Every healer in the kingdom couldn’t keep her pregnancy stable. Only I can. Aldric turns to me. The cold in his voice could freeze the lake solid. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

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Before our Mating Ceremony, my mate Damien withdraws our Mating Application overnight, then submits one with Nora. Nora, the younger sister of his late Beta. When I hear the news, there is only one day left before the deadline. Warrior Sam looks troubled as he explains for Damien. “Luna, Alpha says saving a life is the highest honor for our kind.” “It is a fake bond, just to let Nora stay in the Blackwood Pack for treatment. Only you can understand his intention.” I tear the application that was meant for our honeymoon into pieces. “I don’t understand, but I’ll let him have his way.” The scraps scatter across the floor. Sam’s face turns red. “Luna, Alpha, he also…” “Call me Healer Lola,” I say calmly. Sam freezes. His mouth opens, then he lowers his head. “Yes, Healer Lola.” “Alpha asked me to tell you, once Nora settles in the pack, he will end the bond with her and form a mate bond with you right away.” “He says you are the only one in his heart.” I gather the herbs on the table and place them into a box. “Who he keeps in his heart is his business.” “My application can only be submitted once.” “Go tell him, my mate slot has no backup.” Sam’s face goes pale. He wants to say something, but my phone rings. “Healer Lola, a patient’s condition just turned critical. We need you now.” “I’m on my way.” I hang up and put on my healer robe. Before I leave, I glance at Sam. “Anything else?” He shakes his head and steps aside. I walk out of the office. At the end of the hallway, I see Damien. He is in his combat uniform, standing by the window. Nora stands beside him, holding a coat, about to drape it over his shoulders. Damien does not turn around. He just looks out the window. Nora sees me. Her hand pauses in midair, and she gives me a smile. I look away and walk into the ward. Memories flood my mind. I have known Damien for twenty-two years. We grow up together. He drives away the male wolves who bully me. I mend his torn battle gear. He becomes Alpha, respected by the entire Blackwood Pack. I become the best healer. In everyone’s eyes, we are fated mates. He sets the largest room in the Pack House as our mate residence. The day we get the key, he lifts me up and spins me three times in our new home. He laughs. “Lola, this is our home from now on.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “Damien, welcome home.” I handle the entire renovation myself. As Alpha, Damien often goes to the border. I take half a month off and run across the whole territory to find materials. The day he returns, I cover his eyes. He opens them and looks at the new home. He says nothing for a long time. Then he pulls me into a tight hug. His eyes turn red. “Lola, you worked so hard.” I shake my head. “It’s not hard. I want to do it.” The day we submit our Mating Application, the whole pack celebrates. Damien’s mother holds my hand and places the Luna crown on my head. “Lola, I am your mother now. If Damien ever hurts you, tell me. I will deal with him.” I smile and nod. My eyes grow warm. Damien puts a ring on my finger and whispers in my ear. “Lola, you are my only mate.”

Nora appears one month after we submit our Mating Application. She is the sister of Ryan, Damien’s Beta who died. Ryan dies in a battle with another pack while protecting Damien. It has always been a thorn in Damien’s heart. Nora’s parents are long gone. Ryan is her only family. By pack rules, a lone wolf with no family is sent to the Neutral Lands. The conditions there are harsh, and there are no professional healers. Nora was born with a weak wolf. Damien brings her back from the Neutral Lands and settles her in the pack guesthouse. He tells me, “Lola, this is my responsibility.” I nod. “I understand.” I go with him to visit Nora. The girl is small and thin, wearing old clothes that do not fit. When she sees Damien, her eyes light up, then she lowers her head and speaks softly. “Brother Damien.” Damien hands her the food. “From now on, treat this place as your home.” Nora shakes her head. Tears fall. “I don’t have a home anymore.” Damien’s body stiffens. I walk over and take Nora’s hand. “Don’t cry. From now on, we are your family.” I take her to buy new clothes and bring her to eat good food. I even want her to move into our mate residence. Damien refuses.“It’s not convenient.” I think he is worried about me. Now I realize, he is worried about himself. Nora starts to look for Damien often. Today it is a headache, tomorrow a stomachache, the day after she cannot sleep. No matter what Damien is handling, he goes to her right away. Rumors start in the pack. They say Damien treats Nora better than me, his mate. I do not care. I trust Damien. I trust the bond we build over twenty years. Until the day we submit our Mating Application, we have a party. I wear a white dress and hold Damien’s arm. He looks handsome that day. Standing together, we receive nothing but blessings. A pack elder just walks up to us with a glass of wine when Damien’s phone rings. He glances at it. His expression changes. He says “Excuse me” and walks out with his phone. I stand there. My smile freezes on my face. The hall falls silent. All eyes are on me. Damien’s mother walks over and presses my hand. “Lola, ignore him. We continue.” I force a smile and drink the wine. It burns. Damien comes back soon. He walks to me and lowers his voice. “Lola, I need to go.” “Nora is at the guesthouse. Her wolf loses control. She hurts herself and loses a lot of blood.” My heart sinks. “How is she?” “I don’t know. The staff called. They say it is serious.” There is panic in his voice I have never heard before. I look at him. “Damien, today is our application day. She has been taken to the Healer House, and the healers will take care of her.” He avoids my eyes. “I know.” “But she’s in bad shape. She needs me now.” “I will explain when I come back.” He does not look at me again. He turns and leaves. I watch his back disappear at the door. I almost drop the glass in my hand. That night, I drink the rest of the wine alone. Damien does not come back. Early the next morning, I get a call from the Healer House. A wolf warrior is badly injured. I rush there, change into my healer robe, and work for eight hours straight. When it is over, it is already dark. I take off my robe and get ready to go home. In the hallway, I see Damien and Nora in a ward. Nora wears a hospital gown. Her face is pale. Her hands are wrapped in thick bandages. Damien holds a bowl of soup and feeds her one spoon at a time. “Eat a little more. You haven’t eaten all day.” Nora shakes her head. Her eyes fill with tears. “Brother Damien, I can’t eat.” “Am I useless? I only bring you trouble.” Damien puts the bowl down and gently touches her head. “Don’t think like that. I am here.” “Your brother is gone. I will take care of you for the rest of my life.” Nora cries harder. She leans into his arms, her shoulders shaking. “Brother Damien, you are so good to me.” Damien holds her and pats her back softly. I stand there and watch them. My phone alarm rings. It reminds me that today is my birthday. Damien hears it and looks up. He sees me. His expression stiffens for a moment, then he stands. “Lola, let me explain.” Nora sees me too. She peeks out from behind him and calls softly. “Healer Lola.” I look at them and suddenly feel it is ridiculous. I say nothing and turn to leave. Damien chases after me and grabs my hand. “Lola, don’t be mad.” “Nora, she just…” “Let go.” My voice is cold. He freezes. I shake off his hand and walk away without looking back. That night, I go back to our mate residence alone. I open a bottle of wine and sit on the floor. My phone is filled with dozens of messages from Damien. “Lola, I’m sorry.” “Lola, where are you?” “Lola, reply to me.” I do not reply to any of them. I just hold the bottle and drink it slowly. “Happy birthday, Lola.” I whisper to myself.

After that, we fall into a cold war. Damien comes to the Healer House every day to see me. I ask the other healers to tell him I am busy. So he waits outside my office from morning till night. Everyone in the Healer House sees it. One healer quietly asks me, “Lola, did you fight with Alpha Damien?” I shake my head. “No.” It is not a fight. It is disappointment. A week later, Damien blocks me in the parking lot. He leans against my car door. “Lola, what do you want?” His voice is tired. “Let’s talk.” I look at him and say nothing. He pulls the door open and pushes me into the passenger seat. Then he gets into the driver’s seat and starts the car. He drives fast. In the end, he stops in front of our mate residence. “Lola, I know I was wrong.” “That day, I shouldn’t have left.” “I shouldn’t have stayed with someone else on your birthday.” “But I had no choice.” “Nora, she… she is too pitiful.” “She has no parents since she was young. Her only brother is gone.” “She is alone here, with no one to rely on.” “If I don’t take care of her, she will die.” I listen to him and stay silent. He turns and looks at me. “Lola, you are the most generous, the kindest.” “You are not like her.” “You are strong and independent. Even without me, you can live well.” “But she can’t.” “If she leaves me, she won’t survive.” I finally lift my head and look at him. “So?” “So you sacrifice me to make her whole?” He is stunned by my question. “That’s not what I mean.” “Then what do you mean? Damien, tell me, what am I to you?” He falls silent. The air in the car turns cold. After a long time, he speaks. “Lola, you are the only she-wolf I want to form a mate bond with in this life.” “I love you.” He says he loves me. But those three words sound like a joke to me.

After that talk, Damien still gives Nora everything she asks for. Nora still accepts his care like it is only natural. The only change is that they start to avoid me. Damien stops coming to the Healer House to see me. He stops texting me and calling me. We are in the same pack, yet it feels like we are far apart. Sometimes, when I get off work and go home, I see his car parked under the guesthouse where Nora lives. It stays there the whole night. Sometimes, when I eat in the dining hall, I hear some wolves talking. They say Damien takes Nora to see a new movie. They say Damien buys Nora an expensive bag. They say Nora has already moved into our mate residence. I do not go to check. I am afraid they are all true. My heart feels like it is burning on fire. It hurts, but makes no sound. I cannot sleep. Night after night, I stay awake. When I close my eyes, I see Damien and Nora together. I lose a lot of weight. All the healers can see it. The Chief Elder of the Healer House calls me in. “Lola, something is wrong with you lately.” “Did something happen?” I shake my head. “No.” “Maybe I am just too tired from work.” The elder gives me leave and tells me to rest well. My heart feels empty. I do not know where to go. In the end, I go back to our mate residence. I think I need an answer. I also need an ending. I open the door. A scent that is not mine hits me. A pair of high heels sits by the shoe cabinet. Pink, with lace. It is Nora’s style. Damien’s coat is on the couch in the living room. I walk in step by step. The bedroom door is slightly open. Inside, there is a woman’s laughter and a man’s low voice. My legs feel heavy. I stand at the door, but I do not have the courage to push it open. At that moment, the door opens from inside. Nora walks out wearing my pajamas. When she sees me, she freezes for a second. Then she smiles.“Healer Lola, you’re back.” Her hair is wet. She smells like body wash. I look at her, my whole body shaking. “Where is Damien?” Nora feigns a shy look and points behind her.“Brother Damien is in the shower. He says he is very tired today.” I follow where she points. Inside the bedroom, our bed is a mess. Two empty glasses sit on the nightstand. A loud crack goes off in my mind. My wolf roars inside me. I turn and run. I do not know how long I run or where I go. There is only one thought in my head. I never want to go back to that place again.

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The night before my wedding, someone mailed me a VIP hotel keycard. Same room number where Liam proposed. I figured it was some romantic surprise he’d planned. I pushed open the door and caught him tangled up in bed with another woman. When he finished, he shoved her off him without a second thought. Lit up a cigarette, smirking like it was nothing. “No point hiding anymore—figured I’d let you catch us now so I don’t have to deal with it after we’re married.” He flicked ash on the nightstand and added one more thing. “Relax, you’re still gonna be my wife.” “You’ve been with me ten years, made enemies with half the old money families doing business for me—nobody else would touch you even if I dumped you.!” “Tomorrow happens exactly as planned, just—” “You get the wedding, she gets the marriage license.” He probably expected me to ask why. I didn’t say a word. Just slipped off my engagement ring, set it down, turned around and walked out. Next day, Liam stood at the church steps in his tux waiting for me. I didn’t bail, didn’t hide. Walked straight up with my biggest rival’s arm locked in mine and waved a marriage license in his face. “The wedding’s all yours—but the marriage license? Already gave it to him.” *** “Here she comes, here she comes—bride’s finally out.” Reporters swarmed the hotel entrance when I came downstairs. Camera flashes going off like crazy. “Miss Aria, how’s it feel on your big day?” “Miss Aria, any thoughts on this insane wedding Mr. Liam put together for you?” I kept my mouth shut and let security walk me to the car. Wedding was set for Sacred Heart Cathedral on the east side. Liam stood on the steps in his white tux wearing that smug-ass smile like he’d already won. Called me this morning saying he went seven rounds last night, body’s wrecked, needs sleep. Can’t pick up his own bride. He was dead certain I’d still show. His best man let out a whistle first. “She actually showed!” Elbowed Liam with this nasty grin plastered on his face. “Our boy’s got her trained right—out screwing around the night before and she still rolls up in her wedding dress. Now that’s what I call well-trained!” Another groomsman jumped in. “For real though, the way he was going at it last night would’ve put anyone else in the hospital, but here he is standing tall ready to get hitched—mad respect.” They all cracked up. Liam’s mouth twitched up. Voice flat as hell. “Aria’s been mine ten years—who the hell else would take her?” Glanced down at the ring I ditched last night. “She’s throwing a fit, that’s normal. But at the end of the day—” Paused, voice rock solid. “She’s still gonna walk right up and put her hand in mine.” His buddy threw him a thumbs up. Car door swung open and I stepped out in white. Sunlight hit the dress and scattered light everywhere. Something flickered in Liam’s eyes. Actually, it sounded genuine for once. “Damn, my wife looks hot in that dress.” Before he could even touch me, his phone buzzed. He checked the screen. Lips curved up like he couldn’t help it as he stepped away to answer. “What’s up? Told you to call later.” Some breathy, whiny voice came through. “Liam, I’m flying abroad this afternoon… so I booked us at Clerk’s Office in ten minutes—can you come real quick? I want the marriage license before I leave.” “Ten minutes?” Liam chuckled low. “That desperate?” … Liam hung up and his buddy walked over. “Who was that?” “Ivy.” Liam shoved his phone away, eyes lighting up. “She’s flying out this afternoon, won’t leave without getting the license first. Whined at me till I caved.” His buddy raised an eyebrow. “What about the wedding?” “What’s the rush?” Liam shrugged it off. “Wedding takes like an hour or two. I’ll hit Clerk’s Office first—ten minute thing. You know how Ivy gets. Don’t keep her happy, she’ll cry at the damn airport.” His buddy knew better than to push. Liam walked over, threw his arm around my shoulder and told the photographer to get ready. “Get a shot of this, something for the memories.” Click. Done. Checked his watch. “Alright, that’ll do. Gotta bounce or I’ll miss the appointment.” Turned and headed for another car. “Liam!” I stayed put and called his name. He stopped mid-step and looked back. Still had that cocky look like he controlled everything. “You walk out that door today,” I said every word clearly, “and I’m swapping out the groom.”

He froze for a second, then laughed—contemptuous and way too sure of himself. “Swap the groom? With who? You think this is some Netflix drama?” “Everyone in this city knows you’re mine.” “I mean… if you actually manage to find some idiot willing to marry you, sure, I’ll let you go—” Pulled open the car door and tossed back one last patronizing line. “Quit playing games. Be good, wait for me. Those other guys don’t mean shit, yeah?” The groomsmen behind me traded awkward looks. His buddy chased after him. “Liam, you’re seriously leaving—” “Cover for me, I’ll be back.” Liam slammed the door, voice urgent. “That girl’s a pain in my ass. Don’t need the drama.” Car peeled out. I just stood there. Wind catching my veil. Photographer stood there awkwardly holding his camera. Nobody said a word. I stared down at my bare ring finger. Slowly smiled. Liam, go ahead. Go get your license. This million-dollar wedding— I’m keeping it. I grabbed my dress and walked into the church. Guests seated, officiant ready, wedding march playing. Everything is perfect. Except no groom. Liam’s buddy caught up, forcing a smile. “Hey Aria, Liam had something come up, he’ll be right back. Just chill for a sec.” Another one jumped in with excuses. “Yeah yeah, our boy always knows what he’s doing. Your big day—he’ll show for sure.” “Totally, Liam never flakes on the important stuff.” They all talked over each other, making “groom ditched” sound like he ran out for coffee. I glanced at the church clock—10:40. “Fine. I’ll wait.” His buddy visibly relaxed and started getting people to bring me tea and dessert. I waited. But who I was waiting for—none of their damn business.

This wedding had three months of hype behind it. Pretty much every important relative on the groom’s side showed. I looked around, taking in every detail. White rose waterfall by the windows, crystal beads hanging from the vaulted ceiling… Even the font on the place cards was custom designed. Liam was like that—when he did something, he went all out. Chasing me was like that, planning this wedding was like that too. He turned this wedding into the talk of the town, made it the dream of every girl… Hell, even his cheating was that extreme. No wiggle room, no excuses. In his twisted logic, treating someone right and destroying them never conflicted. And me? I only had one option: suck it up. In the dressing room, my best friend Lily flew in from Australia to be my maid of honor, pissed as hell. “Is Liam out of his damn mind? Running off to get the license with another chick on his wedding day? Is his brain broken?” She huffed and dropped into the chair next to me, yanking at her bridesmaid dress. “I thought he was full of shit, but even if… why today?” Her voice burned with that secondhand rage. “When you guys planned this wedding together, he hit up every flower shop in the city just to pick your bouquet, and when you tried on dresses his eyes got misty before yours did.” “I was so jealous back then I went home and smacked my useless boyfriend!” She paused, voice dropping. “Who could’ve seen him pulling this?” I didn’t answer, just scrolled my phone. Ivy just posted on Instagram. Picture showed men’s dress shirt and women’s lingerie all over the floor. [Someone said he’d only stay ten minutes but couldn’t leave~] She geo-tagged it on purpose—wasn’t Clerk’s Office. Mutual friends already commenting: [Ivy, who are you trying to piss off?] Ivy replied: [Whoever’s in a wedding dress waiting on nobody!] I screenshot it, face blank. “Aria, stop waiting!” My friend snatched my phone. “Look at these trash people!” “You came running back from England right after graduation for him—you know how pissed your parents were?” “Liam was a nobody back then and you had the nerve to bet ten years with your parents! Now you’ve lost everything.” “If it weren’t for you busting your ass all these years doing his proposals, pulling investors, quietly flexing your shipping heiress status to get his projects funded, would he even have what he has today?” “And he turns around and screws the investor’s daughter!” “I had no idea he could fake it this good, kept the act up right till the night before the wedding to finally let you catch him cheating!” The more she talked the madder she got, eyes going red. “Aria, stop waiting. Live for yourself for once!” “Thanks for flying out today. As for my parents, after this wedding’s done, I’ll go home and take the L.” A bet’s a bet. Today’s the day I pay up for losing.

Lily and I headed to the balcony at the end of the hall for some air. About to push the door when I heard voices inside— The groomsmen, hiding out here smoking. “So like, is Liam actually not coming back?” “He said Ivy’s all over him, can’t get away, told us to stall.” One of them took a drag. “How long you think Aria’s gonna put up with this?” “You see her today? Wedding dress on, red carpet walked, groom bailed—and she didn’t even blink.” “Man’s lucky as hell to have a wife like that.” Another one sighed. “For real though, Liam’s got it good and doesn’t even know it.” “Liam’s not thinking about that right now. Ivy’s got him wrapped around her finger, man’s completely gone.” They all laughed. Then his buddy video-called him. “Liam, you finally picked up. Aria’s still waiting, you not coming back is kinda messed up, man.” Some sketchy sounds came through the phone. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Liam’s voice came out irritated and rough with that post-sex rasp. “Not gonna make it. Just keep the guests happy.” “Got it, got it, you do your thing.” His buddy grinned. “Aria’s way easier to handle anyway…” Before he could finish, I shoved the balcony door open. Their smiles froze instantly. His buddy tried hiding his phone behind his back. “A-Aria…” I looked at them. “Wedding starts in three minutes.” “What are you guys doing hiding out here?” “Three hundred guests sitting out there—you gonna make them wait? Or let them watch this trainwreck?” Soon as I said it, they all snickered. “Aria, come on.” One of them waved me off, still laughing. “Three minutes? Our boy Liam doesn’t finish that quick. He can’t make it back in—” “He’ll make it.” I cut him off and turned to leave. That’s when his buddy remembered the video call was still going and glanced at the screen. “Liam, Aria says the wedding starts in three minutes, better hurry your ass up.” Liam’s low laugh came through the phone— Voice lazy, still riding that high. “Three minutes?” “Does this woman not know me or something?” Some girl’s giggle came through, saying something soft and breathy. “Liam…” His buddy’s voice got quieter. “So… what do we—” Phone went silent for two seconds, then Liam’s annoyed voice cut through. “Go ahead without me, hold it down. I’ll be there when I’m done.” When he said “done,” some girl moaned in the background. His buddy quickly killed the call. The groomsmen scrambled to put out their cigarettes, straightened their suits, and filed out. His buddy caught up to me and said quietly, “Aria, after all these years, we all know what’s up with you and Liam. He does care about you, it’s just… guys, you know?” I didn’t look at him, didn’t say anything back. Truth is, up until yesterday I still didn’t want to believe he’d turned into the type who gets bored and trades up. Ivy’s some investor’s only daughter, just graduated college. Ever since he met her at that celebration dinner, something changed in his eyes. Back then I thought I was being paranoid. After ten years together, if I didn’t know him by now, I wouldn’t have stuck around this long. So all those sketchy moments, all those late-night texts he ignored—I chose to believe him. I refused to believe that us, right on the edge of making it, about to finally settle down— Would lose to some girl fresh out of college. But he got more and more reckless tearing off the mask. Stopped hiding it, even started making sure I’d notice. Then packaged his betrayal like some kind of gift. “A guy like me, how could I only have one woman? But my heart’s yours, and the wife spot? No one but you can have it.” Expected me to be grateful. Lily was right—he played me too well. Kept up the act right until the day before the wedding to finally rip off that last layer. Used the cruelest way possible to make me see it, hear it—what I really meant to him. Played me so good I had nowhere left to run. “Aria, when you walk down the aisle, take it slow, we’ll back you up from behind.” “Yeah yeah, Liam said once he’s done he’ll head over. Just go through the motions for now.” They thought I was just going through the motions. Thought I’d walk down that aisle alone in my wedding dress, stand in front of the priest, wait for a groom who might never show. Then smile and say “I do” to an empty spot where the groom should be. That’s the script Liam left for me. The groomsmen lined up on either side of me, still wearing those smug grins like they had it all figured out. The church doors slowly opened and someone stood there backlit. Then every single smile froze.

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The seventh time Sophia Sterling went in for intimate rejuvenation surgery, the doctor frowned. But if she didn’t do that, Adrian he won’t want to sex with her. “Miss, even for commercial wear and tear, you shouldn’t put your body through this.” She gripped the sheet, humiliation burning her cheeks. “My husband likes it.” The truth was, her marriage to Adrian Sterling had once read like a perfect campus romance. She was a housekeeper’s daughter. They met when she was ten. She fell for him at eighteen. On the night she came of age, she gave him everything. At twenty-four, Adrian threw her a fairy-tale wedding. Five years of marriage followed, and every one of them burned white-hot. They had christened his private helicopter, the beach house in the Hamptons, the rooftop of Sterling Tower — everywhere they went, they left traces of each other behind. Thousands of condoms over the years. Then came their seventh anniversary. Sophia wore something sheer. She tried to seduce him—nine times, from dusk to dawn. He stroked her sweat-damp back and said gently, “Let’s stop, Sophia. I’m tired.” The shame was instant, suffocating. She scoured the internet for solutions — toys, supplements, every trick in the book — but nothing sparked even a flicker of interest in his eyes. Except one thing: the surgery. Only after her intimate rejuvenation did Adrian show any interest again. After the seventh procedure, she came home still burning between her legs. He pushed her down onto the bed, and when his breathing grew ragged and his body tensed above hers, he whispered a name. “Bella.” Her blood turned to ice. It wasn’t her name. So it wasn’t that Adrian couldn’t perform. He simply had no interest in her anymore. A dull, throbbing ache spread through her chest. She stared up at the man moving above her, and tears rolled silently down her temples. One hot drop landed on his arm. He froze, as if startled awake, and cupped her face in both hands, pressing gentle kisses across her cheeks. “My love, why are you crying? Does something hurt?” He gazed at her with such focus that his dark eyes held nothing but her reflection. If she hadn’t heard the other woman’s name, she might never have doubted him. “Who is Bella?” The words came out before she could stop them. Adrian paused, then laughed. “You’re jealous? She’s just my secretary. If you don’t believe me, check my phone.” There were no secrets between them. There never had been. She typed his birthday. The top contact was “Wifey 💖.” She scrolled down. Found Bella’s chat. Mostly work. The only personal messages were Adrian asking Bella for gift advice for Sophia. But a woman’s instinct snagged on something else. 【Is Your wife still mad? The plane tickets to Hawaii are booked.】 【All women love jewelry. Don’t forget a gift for anniversary — I’ve already picked out a few options and left them in your office.】 【Still not in the mood for your wife? Maybe a change of scenery will bring back the spark.】 Her thumb froze. Her thumb hovered over the screen as a chill crawled through her body despite the summer heat. Adrian was fiercely territorial — about his personal space, about his inner world. Yet he discussed the most intimate details of their marriage with Bella. That crossed every boundary. The shower stopped. Adrian stepped out in a cloud of steam, water still trailing down the hard lines of his stomach before disappearing beneath the towel slung low around his hips. Someone had once warned Sophia, “Your husband is so handsome and successful. Women will throw themselves at him. You have to watch him.” She hadn’t worried then. She had watched it happen firsthand: a business rival had once sent a naked woman to Adrian’s hotel suite. The moment the door opened, his expression turned to ice. He shoved the woman out without a word, scrubbed himself raw with disinfectant ten times over, and drove home that same night. He knelt at Sophia’s feet. “My love, another woman touched me. I’m dirty. You won’t leave me, will you?” A man like that could never cheat. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. **Bella White** flashed across the screen. Adrian didn’t flinch. He answered in front of her. Then gave her an apologetic look. “Sorry, honey. The company needs me.” He dressed quickly and left. Thunder cracked outside. Sophia flinched and curled into herself beneath the sheets, making herself as small as possible. Adrian knew she was terrified of storms, but he didn’t come back. At midnight, her phone jolted her awake. She answered groggily. Adrian’s voice was breathless on the other end. “Sterling Group, 28th floor. The executive office.” She opened her mouth to ask if he needed documents. He cut her off. “Condoms. Ten minutes.” Her mind went blank. She drove through the rain. When she reached his office, the door was open a crack. Adrian—who went limp at the sight of her—had his secretary pinned beneath him. “Didn’t the wife satisfy you? You’re insatiable tonight.” Bella’s voice was breathy, teasing. “Any woman gets boring after ten years. Even one you love.” “Then why don’t you divorce her?” Adrian lit a cigarette. Smoke blurred his features. “She was my entire youth. I’ll love Sophia forever. I’m just not interested in her anymore.” The pain didn’t hit all at once. It seeped in slowly, numbing everything — her fingertips, her chest, the part of her brain that still wanted to scream. Sophia released the door handle without making a sound. Adrian, if you don’t love me, then let me go. She, Sophia Sterling, had always known how to walk away.

Sophia drifted through the rain like a ghost. She didn’t even remember leaving the Sterling tower. She left her car in the garage and walked all the way back to the mansion. The cold rain soaked through her thin clothes, seeping into her bones. She had never set foot in Adrian’s study. Not once. But tonight she pushed the door open. The first drawer she pulled held a torn pair of black stockings. Stained with something she didn’t want to name. Those weren’t hers. Every night Adrian claimed he had work, he was here. Pleasuring himself with his secretary’s stockings. Bile climbed her throat. She doubled over, dry-heaving onto the polished mahogany. Underneath the stockings, she found the divorce papers. Adrian had already signed them. Before the wedding, he had knelt before her. “If I ever betray you, you will leave me forever. I will die alone.” Her fingertip traced the dark stroke of his name. A dull, splintering pain bloomed behind her ribs. A flood of memories washed over her. When she was mocked as the housekeeper’s daughter, Adrian shielded her. “Who dares bully her?” When someone confessed to her, he announced to the world, “Sophia is my future wife.” When she felt she wasn’t good enough, he proposed five times. Five rings worth a fortune. She still kept them safe. By the time she came back to herself, her face was wet. Stroke by careful stroke, she signed her name beside his. Ten years of love. And in the end, Adrian had betrayed her anyway. A tear fell on the paper. She saw him again—the first time he proposed. When his mother had ordered Sophia out of the Sterling household, had thrown himself into the lake and threatened to drown unless they let her stay. After the staff had pulled him out, blue-lipped and shivering, he had pressed a ring into her palm and proposed for the first time. *Sophia, you are the only choice I will ever make. Forever.* The diamond had been just as bright then as it was now. Only the heart that had given it had changed. Sophia walked out to the manor’s private lake. She pulled the ring off her finger and let it fall into the dark water. It sank without a sound. Like their love had been swallowed, beyond any hope of rescue. She stood in the night wind until dawn broke. She collapsed in the foyer of the mansion. The maid screamed. Everyone knew Sophia was Adrian’s whole world. She fumbled for the phone and called him at once. The call connected, then dropped. She tried again. And again. Nine calls in a row before someone finally picked up. It was not Adrian’s voice on the other end. It was a woman’s moan. The maid froze, the phone shaking in her hand, and turned slowly toward Sophia. Sophia had woken at some point. She did not know when. She lay on the marble floor with her chest squeezed in a fist of pain, every breath a knife. She let out a soft, broken laugh. “He won’t come. Call an ambulance.” Her fever spiked. Seizures. The paramedics rushed her to the ER. Through the haze, she saw Adrian carrying a woman—Bella. He was lowering her onto a gurney with terrible, tender care. A doctor said, “Mr. Sterling, your friend just has a small tear from… enthusiasm. She’ll be fine.” But Adrian still panicked. “Call every specialist. Operate now.” “Sir, there’s only one OR left. Another patient is critical—” *“She can wait.”* His voice was ice. Sophia’s gurney was pushed against the corridor wall. A fire burned inside her—but it burned away every last ember of their youth. Of her love. Her belly cramped, sharp and wrong. A nurse gasped. “Blood! So much blood! This patient is miscarrying!” Adrian glanced over. He saw nothing but half a face, drained of all color. The nurse begged. *“Mr. Sterling, this patient won’t make it. Could we—”* “My friend is my love, she is badly hurt. As for the other… she was just unlucky.” Each word drove a knife into Sophia’s heart. In Adrian’s eyes, she meant nothing. She blacked out. When she woke, her abdomen still ached. A nurse looked at her with pity. *“I’m sorry, miss. Ten minutes earlier, and we could have saved your baby…”* The child she had waited ten years for. Dead. Killed by its own father. *Adrian,* she thought. *I wonder how you’ll feel when you find out.* She pressed her palm to her flat belly. *I’m sorry, little one. If there’s no love, better you never came.* Her tears had all run dry. Her voice was sandpaper. *“Can I see him?”* The four‑month fetus was tiny. No fingers or toes yet. Sophia took the body to the crematorium herself. The small urn fit in her arms. Afterward, she did two things. She filed for divorce at the courthouse. And she bought a plane ticket. One month away. She would leave Adrian. Forever.

Sophia carried the small urn back to the Sterling mansion. When she walked through the door, she saw them in the living room. Adrian—a man who scrubbed himself with disinfectant if another woman so much as touched him—knelt before Bella. He was putting stockings on her feet. Carefully. Like she was something precious. The air in the room reeked of intimacy. Then Bella saw Sophia at the door. She didn’t flinch. She smiled—just a flicker—before schooling her face into something innocent. “Mrs. Sterling.” Adrian went still. He stood and walked quickly to Sophia. “The maid said you weren’t feeling well this morning. I had something urgent. Are you all right now?” The concern in his eyes did not look fake. Those dark pupils held nothing but her reflection, as though she were the only thing in his world. “What were you busy with?” Sophia’s voice was dry. A flicker of something crossed his face. Not quite guilt. Closer to annoyance. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sterling,” Bella cut in. “I was hurt. Mr. Sterling cares about his employees — he took me to the hospital himself. That’s why he couldn’t make it home.” She tilted her calf forward. Beneath the dark stocking, faint bruising bloomed across her skin — the unmistakable shape of a man’s fingers, gripping hard. “I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Sterling.” “Sophia isn’t petty like that.” Adrian slid an arm around Sophia’s waist. “Right, My love?” His hand brushed the bag tucked against her side and met something hard. He frowned. “What’s in there?” “It’s your—” His phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and the apology was already on his lips before she had finished speaking. “Sorry, honey. There’s an emergency at the office.” He shot Bella a quick look, then walked out. Bella rose smoothly to her feet. She lifted her phone, screen tilted just enough for Sophia to see the conversation thread with Adrian still open. A photo of her in bunny lingerie. She sent him a photograph — herself in a barely-there bunny costume — and a single line of text. *Sir, are you in the mood for a little bunny tonight?* Then she walked toward Sophia. “I feel sorry for you. Holding onto old memories while men always crave something fresh.” She stepped closer. “Tell me, Mrs. Sterling. Who matters more to him? You… or me?” Her heels clicked away across the marble floor. Sophia walked to the window and stood there. In the driveway below, Adrian’s Maybach sat with its engine running, the chassis swaying in a slow, unmistakable rhythm. It went on for nearly an hour before the car finally pulled away from the estate. Her heart was too numb to hurt anymore. She remembered the second time Adrian proposed. A terrible accident. A massive pileup had torn through midtown New York. Adrian had thrown himself over her body, shielding her with his back. A length of rebar had punched clean through his shoulder. He hadn’t seemed to feel it. He had simply reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a ring, and held it up to her with blood on his teeth. “Sophia, I will be as brave as this every day for the rest of my life. I will protect you forever. Will you marry me?” “No,” she answered now, ten years later. “Adrian. I will not marry you.” She drove out to the cliffside highway alone. She stood at the guardrail and dropped the second proposal ring over the edge. It bounced once on the asphalt, rolled, and disappeared into the brush below. *Adrian. The life I owed you — I just gave it back.* The wind came up from the valley, and for an instant it sounded like a seventeen-year-old boy whispering *I love you*. Sophia stood at the top of the cliff. Her phone rang again and again. Until the battery died and the screen went black. Two hours later, Adrian found her. Two hours later, Adrian appeared at the top of the road — disheveled, breathing hard, his shirt damp through. “Sophia. My love. Why didn’t you answer? Do you know I almost went insane? You are my life.” Once, she had been kidnapped. The trauma never left him. He couldn’t bear to lose contact with her for even ten minutes. “I tore this whole damn city apart looking for you. Thank God I found you.” He was trembling. She watched him and felt nothing but disgust. How could a man love her with his whole heart while sleeping with someone else? “Let’s go home, baby.” He drove her down the mountain himself, his right hand never leaving hers. “Your hands are so cold. You know you can’t be out in the wind like this. How about I make you soup when we get home?” Back at the mansion, the man who never cooked for anyone put on an apron. He made her soup. She watched his back from the doorway and felt nothing. Then she turned and looked around the mansion. Their love was everywhere—their photos, the little ceramic figures he had brought her back from Provence, the first love letter he had ever written her, framed and hung in the hall. Once, every one of these things had been precious. Now they hurt to look at. She pulled them down, one by one, and dropped them into a black trash bag. Frames cracked. Glass splintered. She did not stop. The maids stared with worry written across her face. But Adrian didn’t notice. He was looking at his phone while he stirred the pot. When he came out with the soup, he blinked. “Did you throw something out? The room looks empty.” “Just a few things that didn’t matter.” “A lot of those pieces were getting old anyway,” he said easily. “Good time to refresh.” He never realized that the *old things* he was speaking of were the entirety of what they had been.

Thunder jolted Sophia awake. Adrian’s side of the bed was empty. She had always been terrified of storms. Adrian used to stay with her every time. Even if he was thousands of miles away on business, he would fly home overnight just to hold her, then leave again before dawn. But tonight there was only the rumble outside, and a thin, ghostlike sound bleeding through the wall — a woman’s stifled whimper, the soft, rhythmic creak of furniture against the floor. She forced herself out of bed and pushed open the door of the guest room across the hall. Two figures tangled together. Bella’s moans were cut short by a hand over her mouth. Adrian’s low voice: “Don’t wake my wife.” Outside, lightning split the sky. Bella flinched. “Easy,” Adrian murmured. “I’ve got you.” The same gentleness. The same patient hands. Just aimed at someone else now. Sophia walked back to her own bed and lay down. Tears slid into her hair as the thunder rolled. She stared at the ceiling until the storm passed and the gray of dawn began to seep through the curtains. She did not close her eyes once. — At dawn, the kitchen came alive. Adrian stood at the stove in an apron, smiling. “Everyone else is already at work, lazy girl. You just woke up?” Only then did Sophia notice the figure at the dining table. Bella sat behind a laptop, fingers tapping efficiently at the keys. “Good morning, Mrs. Sterling,” Bella said. “I’m here to coordinate work with Mr. Sterling.” Sophia did not want this woman anywhere near them today. Not on the day she planned to bury her child. “Get her out of my house,” she said quietly. Bella’s eyes welled up at once. For the first time in their marriage, Adrian did not take Sophia’s side. He frowned. “Sophia, Bella is here for work. She actually contributes. You stay at home all day. Can’t you be reasonable?” So that was what he truly thought of her. He softened immediately. “I’m sorry. Forget it. Didn’t you say you had somewhere you wanted to go today? Let’s not waste the morning.” — The GPS led them to Greenhill Cemetery. Bella followed in five‑inch heels. They climbed the stone steps. Bella’s eyes flickered with malice. She reached out, grabbed Sophia’s arm, and yanked backward. “Ah!” “Look out!” Adrian’s hand shot past Sophia. He caught Bella instead. Sophia lost her balance. She tumbled down the stone steps, clutching the urn in her bag. Her body scraped against rock. Bruises bloomed everywhere. “Sophia!” Adrian’s face went white. “I’m sorry—Bella was closer to me, so I—” “Help me up,” Sophia ground out. *“Mr. Sterling,”* Bella feigned panic. *“The car has a first‑aid kit. We should tend to Mrs. Sterling’s wounds. She might get infected.”* Adrian could not seem to look Sophia in the eye. He turned and hurried back down the path toward the car, leaving the two women alone on the empty stone steps. Bella stood over her like a victor. “Everyone says Mr. Sterling adores his wife.” Her voice was light, conversational. “Apparently not as much as they think.” She tugged her collar to one side. The skin along her throat and collarbone was littered with bruises and bite marks — fresh, deliberate, unmistakable. “He told me he’s bored of you. Can’t get excited looking at your body anymore. It must hurt, lying alone every night.” Sophia grabbed a tree trunk and pulled herself up. Her voice was flat. “You like my trash so much? Take it. But if he loves you so much, why won’t he divorce me?” Bella’s face twisted. She lunged. Sophia instinctively shielded the urn. Bella noticed. She grabbed the bag and threw it down the hillside. *Crack.* The urn split in two. “No!” Sophia’s heart tore apart. She slapped Bella across the face. Bella’s mouth curved. She dropped to her knees, sobbing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sterling. I didn’t mean to dirty your bag. Please don’t beat me to death.” “Sophia!” Adrian’s voice thundered. “What are you doing?” He had never used that tone with her before. “It’s just a bag. Is a bag more important than a person?” Bella crawled toward the broken pieces. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sterling — please, hit me, do whatever you want, just don’t fire me, my family needs me, let me clean it for you—” “Stop.” Adrian’s voice was cold. He picked up the bag and held it over the cliff. “Sophia. When did you become this cruel? Apologize to Bella.” “No!”Sophia couldn’t breathe. “Adrian! Do you know what’s in that bag? It’s your—” “I don’t care. Apologize.” He let the bag slip a fraction. Only the strap hung from his fingers. “I’m sorry!” Sophia’s nails dug into her palms. “I’m sorry!” She bowed ninety degrees to Bella. Then her knees hit the stone. She pressed her forehead to the ground. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Blood dripped from her forehead. “Is that enough? Adrian. Is that enough?” Her voice cracked. Each word came out like something bleeding. Even Adrian softened. He pressed his lips together, he opened his mouth— Bella staggered. She began to fall. “Careful!” Adrian caught her. The bag slipped from his hand. It tumbled down the cliff. Sophia did not move. “Adrian,” she said softly. “You’re going to regret this.” He didn’t hear. He was already carrying Bella down the hill. Sophia pulled the third engagement ring from her pocket. She turned it in her palm and ran her thumb along the inside of the band, where the engraving caught the light. *Forever, my Sophia.* A broken laugh escaped her. She drew her arm back and let the ring fly. “Adrian,” she whispered to the empty wind. “You are going to regret this.” She pushed herself to her feet. Her ankle screamed. She started limping, step by step, down the mountain alone. Then she heard footsteps. Several men rushed at her. One kicked the back of her knee. She crashed to the ground. A crack—her kneecap. Pain blinded her. “What do you want?” Her voice shook.

“I am Mrs. Sterling. If you touch me, Adrian will—” A laugh. A hand slammed across her face. *Slap.* Her ears rang. The man’s mouth moved, but the words came slow. “Guess who sent us?” He grabbed her chin. Forced her to look up. “Someone wants you to pay ten times over.” Slap after slap. Tears mixed with blood. The cuts on her face burned. But the bruises on her heart hurt worse. Then she fell into a complete coma. The man’s cold voice floated through. “The boss said—next time you do something stupid, offend the wrong person—it won’t be this easy.” She seemed to dreame of Adrian. Young Adrian holding her hand. “You’re so pretty. Will you be my wife when you grow up?” Teenage Adrian, fierce and possessive. “You’re mine. Only mine. Even our graves will be side by side.” Then grown Adrian—still handsome, still powerful. But his eyes held no love. “Ten years with the same body. I need something fresh. I still love you. I’m just bored.” Pain ripped her back to consciousness—in a hospital. Adrian sat by her bed. He looked very tired. “I’m so sorry, baby. I didn’t protect you. I’ve been here three days. If you hadn’t woken up, I would have lost my mind.” She didn’t look at him. She reached for her phone. “I’m calling the police. Three days ago, I was—” He snatched the phone and hung up. “They’re… Bella’s cousins. They heard she was bullied and took matters into their own hands. I’ve punished them.” “How?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “I sent them back to their hometown.” — The hospital room door cracked open. Bella’s tear‑streaked face peeked through. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sterling. If I hadn’t made you misunderstand, none of this would have happened. Please forgive me.” Sophia turned her face to the wall. She didn’t want to see that mask. Adrian’s voice was cold. “If you’re going to apologize, do it properly. Go kneel at the hospital entrance. You can stand up when my wife decides to forgive you.” Bella’s lips trembled. She looked at Adrian. He didn’t even glance her way. She walked out. She knelt on the pavement. She knelt at the hospital entrance from morning until the sky turned black. Adrian stayed by Sophia’s side the whole time. He changed her bandages. He wiped her body. He fed her. Every gesture was impossibly tender. It would have been perfect, if not for the way his gaze kept drifting toward the window — down, to the figure kneeling in the courtyard below. “I’m tired,” Sophia said. She pulled the blanket up and turned her back to him. “Rest well,” he said. He sounded relieved. The door opened and closed. Then, from the room next door, came the muffled sound of a woman’s whimper, followed by the rhythmic creak of a hospital bed. It went on until well past midnight. When the sky began to lighten, Adrian pushed open the door to Sophia’s room. Their eyes met. He startled. Then he smiled—soft, warm. “Sorry, Sophia. The company is going to be very busy for a while. I won’t be able to take care of you like I should. When this mess settles, I’ll take you around the world. Just the two of us.” The fresh mark on his neck was blinding. Sophia looked away. “”Sure.” — The days that followed were exactly as he said. He rarely came to the hospital. He did not visit. He did not call. On the day Sophia was discharged, he was not there. Sophia sat in the back of the Maybach. The driver hesitated. “Mr. Sterling has been very busy lately. He asked me to come get you. He—” Her phone buzzed. An invitation. A wedding. *Groom: Adrian Sterling* *Bride: Bella White* The photo showed them standing together. Smiling at the camera. Like lovers. So this was the “busy” Adrian had spoken of. He had been busy planning a wedding — with another woman — while his marriage to Sophia still legally existed. A moment later, the invitation was retracted. Bella sent a sticker — a cartoon face sticking out its tongue — followed by a message. “Sorry, Mrs. Sterling. Wrong person. You didn’t see that, did you?” Sophia stared at the screen until it went dark. She blinked her dry eyes. Then she gave the driver a new address. — The car stopped in front of the most extravagant hotel in New York. A sea of red roses spilled out from the lobby, cascading down the entrance steps — lavish, romantic, obscene. The guest list was small. Only Adrian’s closest friends had been invited. When they saw Sophia, their faces went rigid. “Sophia? What are you doing here?” She did not answer. She walked inside and stood at the back of the room, watching as Adrian knelt before Bella and recited his vows with the kind of sincerity that could break a woman’s heart. When it came time to exchange rings, Adrian opened the velvet box. It was empty. Bella swayed on her feet. She lifted her tear-filled eyes to Sophia. “Mrs. Sterling, he only did this out of pity. It’s a wedding in name only — I’ll leave him forever once it’s over. Please, could you just return the ring to me?” Adrian’s body went stiff. “Sophia. Let me explain.” Sophia took a step back. “Don’t come near me. You disgust me.” Her voice was steady and clear. “Adrian. Let’s get a divorce.” She turned and walked away, and the last thread of whatever she had once felt for him snapped clean. “Never! I will never divorce you!” Adrian abandoned the ceremony and chased after her. “Adrian!” Behind him, Bella let out a piercing wail. Then came the heavy, dull thud of a body hitting the floor. Adrian’s steps faltered. He turned and saw Bella lying in a pool of blood. “Bella!” She lay cradled in his arms, her voice fading to a whisper. “I never wanted a title. I just wanted one wedding — one beautiful illusion to carry with me for the rest of my lonely life. That’s all I ever asked for.” Her breathing grew thin. Adrian’s fingers were shaking. He looked back toward the door where Sophia had vanished, then down at the woman bleeding in his arms. “Sophia.” His voice cracked. “The ring. Give me the ring.” Sophia stared at him in disbelief. “You don’t believe me?” “Give it to me!”

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Seven years of marriage, and Sophia Wentworth had learned exactly what she was worth to Lucian Drake—down to the last dollar. Dinner together: fifty thousand. Coming home: a hundred thousand. Sharing his bed: a million. Sophia had never once crossed a line and played her role with flawless precision. Until the night of their seventh anniversary. Lucian sat in the leather armchair by the window, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. “My girlfriend wants me to propose,” he said, his tone as indifferent as a stock report. “Name your price, Sophia. How much to make you disappear?” He paused, and something that almost resembled hesitation flickered across his face. “If you’re not ready, you can wait. I’ll smooth things over with her and come back for you after.” Sophia’s fingers tightened around the ring box hidden behind her back—the engagement ring given to her by Lucian’s greatest rival. Then, she smiled and stepped forward and placed a divorce agreement on the coffee table. “Two dollars to buy me out,” Sophia said. Taking the bus from here to the church to married with the man who was her true lover. Two dollars is exactly the fare. — Lucian crushed the cigarette against the leather sofa. “Sophia.” His voice dropped. “This is your last chance to negotiate.” In seven years, the sentence she’d heard from him most often was “name your price”. It had started small—attending galas, picking up his girlfriend Stella from class, cooking Stella’s meals, managing Stella’s wardrobe, tracking Stella’s medication schedule. Each task was just one more line on the invoice. “Two dollars,” she said again. “Final offer.” She turned toward the door. Stella was already at the top of the staircase—eyes red, lower lip trembling with practiced perfection. She descended slowly, one hand trailing the railing, gaze fixed on Sophia. “Please don’t make her leave,” Stella whispered to Lucian, though her eyes stayed on Sophia. “I’m not trying to take your place. I swear I’m not.” Tears slid down her cheeks. In the corner of her mouth, barely visible, a smile curved upward. Sophia didn’t acknowledge the performance. She reached into her bag and pressed two Coachella tickets into Stella’s hands—she’d lined up at midnight to get them. “For you. I hope you enjoy it.” Then she opened her notebook. “Six a.m.—Stella takes her coffee with oat milk from the new café on Riverside Drive. Go early, the line gets long. Seven a.m., wake her up, lay out her clothes—no repeating outfits within the week. Eight a.m., drive her to class. Nine a.m., collect her dry cleaning—only the green blazer this week, she has a lunch on Thursday. Ten a.m., call her nutritionist to confirm Friday’s appointment. Noon, her preferred lunch order from—” She kept going. Through afternoon, through evening, all the way to three in the morning. Seven years of invisible labor, recited in a single, unbroken monologue, transferred from her keeping to his. When she finally stopped, the cigarette smoke had long since cleared. The room was very quiet. Something had shifted in Lucian’s eyes. He would have denied it if anyone had named it. “If you behave,” he said quietly, “you can stay.” She opened her mouth to answer. Then Stella screamed.

Stella had tumbled down the staircase. One moment she was at the top. The next she was sprawled across Sophia, both of them hitting the marble floor in a tangle of limbs. Pain detonated through Sophia’s left leg and skull simultaneously. Something warm and wet ran from her hairline. She lay still, blinking at the ceiling. Lucian crossed the room in three strides—and reached for Stella. He swept her into his arms, voice low and urgent. The room was very quiet. Sophia tried to push herself upright. She couldn’t. Lucian turned. “You couldn’t even keep her safe?” He hauled Sophia to her feet by her arm. “Apologize to her.” Sophia stood on a leg that was screaming and apologized. Ten times, as instructed, while Stella watched with glistening eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t finish Stella’s assignment on time. I’m sorry she scraped her hand on the railing. I’m sorry—” By the tenth apology, Sophia’s throat had gone dry and rough. She tasted iron at the back of her mouth. Then Stella’s voice, sweet and light: “Could Sophia walk to the bakery on the west side for me? The strawberry cake there is just divine—you know how delicate those strawberries are. She should walk. The fresh air will do her good.” Sophia was already reaching for her crutch before Lucian could answer. She made the trip three times that night. The first time, the cake had cooled by the time she returned. Unacceptable. The second time, her left foot had opened up and left a trail of blood across the pale marble. Stella screamed at the sight of it, then declared she didn’t want the cake anymore anyway. The third time, it was eight the next morning. Sophia’s clothes were torn. Her left ankle had swollen to twice its size. The place where her prosthetic connected to her right leg had worn through to raw flesh. Every step was broken glass in fire. But the cake was perfect. Not a single strawberry out of place. She placed it in Stella’s hands. Stella looked at it. Then set it on the floor in front of her little dog, Biscuit. “Oh, Sophia.” Wide, soft eyes. “I hope you’re not upset. I just… didn’t really want it anymore.” Sophia nodded. She turned to Lucian. She had been running on pure will for hours. Now she stood in front of him and let herself speak. “Is this enough?” Level, calm, precise. “Are you satisfied? Can we sign the divorce papers now?” Her legs gave out. The floor came up fast and she went down hard. The last thing she saw before the dark took her was Lucian Drake’s face—the face she had never once seen break—cracking open with something she couldn’t name. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands framing her face. His mouth was moving. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare.” She couldn’t hear him anymore. The dark was very quiet. And for the first time in seven years, so was she.

In the dream, her mother slapped her. The crack turned Sophia’s face sideways. She stood there, cheek burning, and did not raise her hand to touch it. “You have no right to die,” her mother said, shaking. “You are standing on your brother’s shoulders to survive. Every breath you take, he paid for.” “I never asked him to.” Her mother’s face crumpled. The slaps came harder. Sophia stood and received them, tears on her face—not from pain, but from the bewildering injustice of a life she had never been consulted about. Then her mother knelt. Sophia stared. She had never seen her mother kneel to anyone. “I know what you’ve suffered,” her mother said, voice breaking. “But this is what your grandfather left behind. You are the only one who can hold it. You must keep going—” The dream shattered. Sophia woke to antiseptic. Lucian sat in the chair beside her bed, eyes red-rimmed, jaw dark with stubble. “You were bleeding through your shoe,” he said. “Your foot. Why didn’t you say something? I could have driven you.” “Was there something you needed?” she asked. He poured water from the bedside pitcher and set it next to her. Then, very carefully: “Stella’s anxiety has been flaring. I’d like you to help her through it.” The doctor stepped forward, voice strained. “Mr. Drake—Mrs. Drake’s condition is critical. Every single indicator is negative. Any additional stress could be life-threatening. Stella’s anxiety disorder is a psychological condition. It requires medication and therapy, not—” Lucian looked over the doctor’s head at Sophia. “Help her one last time,” he said. “I’ll sign the divorce papers. Plus thirty million on top.” He gestured. Guards brought in reinforced restraints—the kind used for crisis situations, he would have said if anyone asked. Sophia looked at her own wrists. Old scars, layered over older scars. The record of every time she had been Stella’s anchor when Stella’s darkness turned violent. Lucian saw them. His voice came out strangely. “Does it hurt?” She stood, walked into Stella’s room, and did what was asked. She held Stella through the worst of the episode—the blows, the screaming, the wild grief of a woman whose pain was real even if her cruelty was calculated. When it ended, Sophia lay on the floor looking at the ceiling, breathing, waiting for her vision to clear. She checked her bank account from the hospital floor. Thirty million. Exactly as promised. She got up. Found Lucian’s sleeve and tugged it once. He knew immediately what she wanted. His expression closed off. “Seven years,” he said flatly. “You don’t throw seven years away over something this small.” “Something this small.” She let go of his sleeve, picked up her phone, and called a car. She thought she was about to walk out. She hadn’t counted on Stella blocking the door—again.

Stella was already in the doorway. Her arms opened wide and folded around Sophia in a hug that felt like being gripped by something with too many fingers. “I’m so sorry,” Stella breathed. “I keep hurting you. I don’t mean to. I really don’t.” She pulled back just far enough to look at Sophia’s face, eyes bright with tears. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make it right.” Through the open door: Lucian, and eight members of his security team, arranged in a quiet line. No way out. Sophia gave one small nod. Stella released her. In the brief moment of contact, her fingers had pressed hard enough to leave marks. Bruises bloomed across pale skin, visible even from where Lucian stood. “Does it hurt?” he asked. He sent for ointment. Sat beside her on the edge of the bed and applied it to the broken skin of her forearm—touch careful, face unreadable. “Where is my assistant?” Sophia asked. His hands stopped. “I let him go. He wasn’t right for the role.” “Don’t fire my staff without asking me.” He set down the ointment and looked at her the way he always looked at her when she pushed back—from slightly above, with the coldness of someone who has never had to recalibrate. “Everything you have came from me.” He pulled her close. “Have you fallen in love with that assistant?” Before she could answer, the hospital began to shake. A low tremor—something enormous clearing its throat underground. Then the walls moved. Windows rattled. Someone in the corridor screamed: “Landslide—get out—the hillside is going—” Sophia dropped into a crouch. Slabs of earth cracked loose and thundered down. One hit the exterior wall and blew it open like paper. Lucian reached for her. Then Stella’s voice cut through—high and terrified, from the middle of the corridor, sitting directly beneath a massive crystal chandelier swinging in wide, sickening arcs. Lucian’s hands stopped. He looked at Stella. He looked at Sophia. “Sophia—” She pushed him. Not hard. Not angrily. One firm, deliberate push toward Stella. “She needs you.” She watched him run. Watched him scoop Stella up. Watched him turn—just once—to look back at Sophia, his face stripped of everything. That was when the ceiling came down. The rubble hit in sections. First the plaster, then the support beams, then the weight of everything above. Sophia had no time to move, no direction to move in. She covered her head and waited. The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was Lucian Drake fighting back through the rubble toward her, his mouth forming her name over and over in the roar: “Sophia—” Then: nothing.

Sophia woke in a hospital bed—cleaner, quieter—and reached for her phone. “Can you help me file for divorce?” she asked. A pause—then a sound trying hard not to be laughter. “Now you ask me?” Low, amused. “You could have called me ages ago, Sophia.” “If you’re not willing—” “Don’t you dare hang up,” Ethan Harlow said immediately. “I’ll do whatever you need. Anything.” A beat. “Can you come soon? I miss you.” She hung up. Lucian appeared in the doorway. He crossed the room and took the phone from her hand. “Are you texting that assistant again?” “Is there something you needed?” He sat. Showed her his phone screen—a message from Stella, wanting to take Sophia out as a thank-you for the earthquake. His expression suggested he considered this generous. “No,” Sophia said. He stood and moved toward her—and Sophia was on her feet, arms crossed in front of her chest, three feet of space between them, before she registered she’d moved. They both froze. Lucian’s hands came up, empty. His face had gone pale—not with anger. With something else. “I wasn’t going to—” He stopped. Looked at his own hands. Then walked out. The door closed harder than he intended. Sophia sat on the edge of the bed. She thought about a three-year-old girl with the habit of reaching up to hold Sophia’s hand in the garden—gripping her fingers like she was the most important thing in the world. She had been. Lucian had taken her away one morning, promising she would be safe, that Stella loved children. Sophia had believed him. She stopped believing him the night she stood outside a closed door and heard Stella’s voice carrying clearly through the gap: “That was your first baby with Sophia. I didn’t mean for it to happen—she was right at the edge of the pool—” And Lucian’s voice, lower, but not low enough: “It’s done. What’s done is done. It’s not worth falling apart over one child.” Sophia had walked back to her room and sat on her bed. Outside the window now, blue fireworks lit the city. A drone display stretched across the skyline. Every billboard in Hartfield carried the same image: Lucian Drake, hand outstretched, diamonds and champagne, and beneath it the words: “Stella—marry me.” The comments were floods of congratulations. Everyone, it seemed, was relieved for him. So glad he’d finally found the right person. So glad to see him happy at last. Sophia closed the page. She opened the airline app and bought a one-way ticket. She was about to put her phone in her bag when it rang. She looked at the screen. Lucian. She answered because she assumed he needed something for Stella.

She was halfway to the departure terminal when her phone rang. She let it ring. It rang again. Seven times. Eight. On the ninth call, she answered. “Stella bet you to someone else,” Lucian said, voice stripped of everything except the bare information. “Twenty-four hours. Consider yourself loaned out. She didn’t realize she’d lose.” Sophia laughed—short, clear, bewildered. “Then will you sign the divorce papers after? I’d rather whoever picks me up doesn’t know I’m still technically married. It might make things awkward.” The line went dead. Seconds later, a message from Stella: “I’m so sorry! He promised he wouldn’t hurt you—he’s a harmless old man, I swear! I feel terrible about this!!” Sophia read it twice, changed into clothes she’d borrowed from a nurse’s locker, and walked out the back entrance of the hospital instead of the front. Twenty yards from the staff gate, she saw them—a wall of security contractors around the rear exit, and at their center, a heavyset man in his seventies, holding a document with Lucian’s signature on it. “Don’t be in such a rush, Mrs. Drake. We’ve still got twenty-four hours.” He had a device. The kind that sends electricity through the body in controlled pulses. Every nerve fires at once. You don’t fall from weakness—you fall because the human nervous system was not designed to receive that kind of input and stay upright. Sophia collapsed. Then she got back up. The twenty-four hours passed. At dawn, she was released. She walked back through the gate, up the steps, and into the villa where Lucian was waiting with a bowl of hot congee and an expression of complicated concern. She looked at him for a long time before she spoke. “Those men,” she said. “Were they yours?” She said it as a statement, not a question. “You booked a flight,” he said carefully. “Because Stella was jealous.” He crossed to her and gripped her arms. “You’ve been in love with me since you were ten years old,” he said, voice rough. “You followed me to secondary school. You confessed at sixteen. You begged to marry me at twenty. Sophia—” His voice cracked. “I will not let you leave.” He released her and walked away before she could answer. He didn’t see Stella in the corridor, listening. Didn’t see the flash of something vicious move through her expression before her usual wide-eyed softness slid back into place. Stella pulled out her phone. She composed a message—one line, carefully worded, designed to look accidental—and sent it to Lucian’s personal account. A message about the hotel reservation she’d made in the upmarket district of the city center, a room under a name he would recognize. Then she leaned against the wall and waited for the fallout.

Sophia’s phone buzzed. One message. No sender name—just a number she didn’t recognize, and a single attached image. Her grandfather. Hospital bed. Oxygen mask. Eyes closed. Below the image, four words: He’s still alive, Sophia. She stared at the screen. Her grandfather had died in front of her. She had held his hand. She had watched him go. But she couldn’t be sure. And Stella knew she couldn’t be sure. Lucian’s number appeared next: Stella’s on a ledge. Top floor of the Meridian. Live right now. Your grandfather’s condition depends on what happens next. Sophia pulled up the livestream. Sixty thousand viewers. Stella on a rooftop, mascara running, telling her followers she had loved the wrong person and had nothing left. The comments were flooding—don’t do it, we love you, please come down. Below the building: crash mats. Forty stories up, they were decorative at best. Unless someone was willing to be the second layer. Sophia was already moving. She drove to the Meridian. Took the elevator. Pushed open the roof access door into cold air—and saw exactly what Stella needed her to see. Lucian on one side of the ledge, arms out, voice low. Stella on the other, swaying, crying, looking not at Lucian but at the crowd below. Then Stella looked up. Found Sophia’s eyes. And smiled. Less than a second. Then the tears came back. Stella tipped forward. Sophia ran. The impact came in two stages—Stella’s weight hitting her from above, then both of them hitting the mats below. Something cracked in Sophia’s chest. She heard it before she felt it. She stayed conscious long enough to confirm Stella was breathing. Then she stopped. They were brought into the hospital at the same time. Stella was wheeled left. Sophia was wheeled right. Forty minutes later, the surgeon came out and found Lucian in the corridor. “Mr. Drake.” He kept his voice low. “We need to discuss Mrs. Drake’s treatment plan. Given her existing injuries and the impact trauma, there are several decisions that need to be made quickly.” Lucian frowned at the surgical consent forms the doctor held out. Kidney removal. Right cornea extraction. He looked up at the surgeon, whose eyes didn’t quite meet his, and was about to say something— Stella’s attending physician burst out of the other wing. “Mr. Drake—Stella’s hemorrhaging. She needs a transfusion immediately, but she’s having an episode. She’s torn out the IV line. She’s been calling your name—” Sophia’s surgeon stepped forward at exactly that moment, consent forms extended, pen already uncapped. Lucian’s jaw tightened. He took the pen, signed through the stack of forms without reading further, and ran toward Stella’s operating room.

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My father was the Pack’s bravest Warrior. The day he fell defending our borders against a rogue attack, half the territory came to honor him. The burial rites weren’t even cold before my mother collected the settlement — sixty thousand gold pieces — and bonded herself to the wealthiest Elite in the pack. I was left with my grandparents, just another forgotten pup no one bothered to claim. Three years later, the Alpha Council granted one sponsored placement into the Elite Guard to the bloodline of a fallen hero. My father had bled for that honor. It was mine. My stepfather gave it to his own son instead. That afternoon, he blocked the doorway and looked me over with the flat contempt of a wolf surveying something already dead. “Elara.” He held out a small pouch of coin. “Five hundred gold. Take it and go.” “And sign this.” He dropped a folded parchment at my feet. Voluntary Relinquishment of Bloodline Placement Rights. “After that, don’t let me see your face again.” I looked past him to my mother, Clara. A jade bracelet caught the light on her wrist — bright, expensive, blinding. Her eyes slid away from mine. “Elara, listen to your stepfather. Your brother Marcus is a better fit for the Guard.” I glanced at the sleek horses tethered in their courtyard, then down at my own tunic, washed so many times the color had given up entirely. So this is what my father’s life was worth. Five hundred gold. — My stepfather, Roland, went cold when I didn’t reach for the coin. He snatched the relinquishment parchment off the ground and snapped it against my cheek — the paper edge sharp enough to sting. “Don’t push me, girl.” His voice climbed. “You think you belong in the Elite Guard? A worthless pup like you?” My mother Clara stepped forward, catching his sleeve. “Darling, not in front of her.” Then she turned to me, her voice soft now, coaxing. “Elara, sweetheart. Roland’s only thinking of you. The Guard’s training is brutal. It’s no place for a girl.” Sweetheart. Three years of silence, and now sweetheart. The warmth of it almost reached me — until she kept talking. “Take the five hundred now. I’ll send you fifty gold a month after that.” My eyes dropped to the jade bracelet again. Green as envy, purchased with my father’s settlement. The memory surfaced without warning: the burial chamber, my father’s ash-box on the stone plinth, my mother weeping so hard her whole body shook — one hand pressed to her chest, the other quietly slipping his bank seal into her cloak pocket. I had thought she was overcome with grief. Now I wondered what, exactly, she had been mourning. “Elara.” Clara’s voice pulled me back. There was a flicker of something — guilt, maybe — in her eyes. “Do you remember what Father said to me before his last patrol?” My voice came out steadier than I expected. She stiffened. “He said if anything happened to him, I was to study hard and take the placement.” I held her gaze. “He said the Guard seat was mine. That he’d bought it with his own blood.” Roland waved a dismissive hand. “A dead wolf’s words. I’m the one keeping you fed now. I decide.” Clara’s expression closed like a shutter. When she looked at me again, the softness was gone. “Elara. Things are different now. Marcus has better scores. He’s more suitable.” Marcus. Her son. Her real child. The realization landed without drama, the way truths do when part of you already knew: I had never been her daughter. Not really. “Are you going to sign or not?” Roland’s brow furrowed. I didn’t look at the parchment. I didn’t look at the coin. I looked directly at him. “I’ll sign.” Clara’s eyes lit up. “The moment you return every coin of my father’s settlement. All sixty thousand. Not a piece short.”

My mother’s composure shattered. “Are you mad?” She was shaking. “That gold is for Marcus’s future — his bonding ceremony, his standing in the pack. You’ll get nothing. Nothing.” The word ‘Marcus’ landed in my stomach like a stone. All these years — had any of them truly thought of me as one of their own? Without my grandparents hauling salvage at the edge of pack territory to feed me, I would have disappeared into some forgotten corner long ago. Roland shouldered past her, smiling the way a wolf smiles when it has already decided what it’s going to do. “Bold little pup.” His gaze moved over me the way you’d measure livestock at a market. “Since you won’t be reasonable, I’ll stop being polite.” He grabbed me by the throat. The grip was absolute — I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t twist free. He dragged me like carrion toward the dirt track outside the gate, my knees dragging and cracking against the stones. I clawed at his hand, raking lines across his skin. “You little—” He released my throat to deliver a blow across my face instead. My ears rang. Half my face went numb. I hit the ground and tasted copper. Pack members appeared at the commotion, gathering along the road. Roland transformed instantly. One moment he was a man who had just struck a child; the next he was a pillar of wounded community leadership, pointing down at me with open palms. “Look at this! A hero’s daughter, and she’s turned against her own family!” “She’s willing to throw away her father’s honor for money. For a personal claim against me!” “I sheltered her for three years, gave her everything, and now she wants to extort sixty thousand gold from my household!” The crowd congealed around me. I pulled myself upright and looked at the faces — people I had called uncle, aunt, neighbor. “Fallen far, hasn’t she? Her father would be ashamed.” “Girl doesn’t know her place. No wonder nobody wants her.” “Roland took her in and she has the nerve—” Each word landed like a lash. I looked around for one voice. Just one. There wasn’t any. These same wolves had howled their grief at my father’s burial. Now they ground me into the mud to stay in Roland’s favor, and didn’t lose a step doing it. Clara stood to the side, face covered, making the sounds of a woman in distress. “I don’t know what to do with her anymore,” she said to no one in particular. “She was always difficult. I’ve tried so hard.” She played the aggrieved parent so effortlessly that something inside me simply stopped aching and went cold. Roland saw that the crowd was his, and grabbed my wrist to force my hand to the parchment. “You’ll mark this. Here, now. One way or another.” His grip was a vice; my wrist bones ground against each other. “Let go!” I fought, but a seventeen-year-old girl has no leverage against a fully ranked Elite male. He was going to take this from me. My father’s last gift. The only thing he’d left me. No. I bit down on Roland’s hand with everything I had. He howled and released me. I scrambled back — and then his second blow came, harder than the first, and I went down and stayed down. His men joined in. I curled small and took it. Then, through split vision, I looked up and met Roland’s eyes. Blood was running from my lip, but my voice came out level. “You’ll regret this.” Quiet. Simple. Everyone on that road heard it. Roland laughed. His men laughed. The crowd shuffled and smirked. “You’ll regret it?” He crouched down to my level, amused. “A fatherless runt is going to make me regret something?” “You’ll never stand up again, girl. Not in this pack. Not anywhere.”

Roland sent for the Elder. When I saw the familiar figure appear at the gate, my last ember of hope went out. The Elder had always played the kindly patriarch around me — clapping my shoulder at festivals, murmuring that I was a good, obedient pup. But I had known for years: he was Roland’s creature, kept comfortable by steady contributions from Roland’s coffers. Roland’s dominance in this territory ran through him. The Elder’s face now held nothing but flat authority. “Elara.” His voice was a blade. “Show respect to your elders and apologize to Roland and your mother. Now.” I set my jaw and said nothing. Apologize. For what? “Are you deaf, girl?” He raised his hand. Then my grandfather’s voice split the air. He came around the corner leaning on his walking staff, back more bent than I remembered, pace slower — but he put his thin body between me and the Elder without a moment’s hesitation. “Roland. You touch my granddaughter again and see what follows.” His voice trembled with age and shook with certainty, both at once. My throat closed. The whole world had let me go. He hadn’t. Roland’s men didn’t wait. They closed in and shoved my grandfather aside — an old man past seventy, handled like an obstacle in a road. “Grandfather!” I lunged, but hands clamped me from behind. He went down hard. His staff skittered away. He tried to rise; his knee was bleeding through the fabric, the stain spreading dark and fast. “You animals!” My voice cracked. “He is your elder!” The pack Elder looked on and pointed at me with two fingers. “This one needs a correction facility. Keep carrying on, and I’ll have her sent to one.” A correction facility. I went still. “Exactly.” His voice turned vicious. “A fatherless stray, no discipline, no worth. Better for the pack without her.” I understood then — this wasn’t only about the Guard placement. They intended to dismantle me entirely. Several of Roland’s men dragged me through the territory to the abandoned homestead at the edge of the old ward. My father’s house. The one we’d shared before everything ended. The contest ribbons I’d won as a pup still hung on the wall. His favorite cup still sat on the table, exactly where he’d left it. The iron lock struck home with a clang that echoed through the empty rooms. Through the door, Roland’s voice, almost pleasant. “The hero ceremony is the day after tomorrow, Elara.” My heart stopped for a beat. The day after tomorrow. So soon. “Marcus will take the stage and deliver the address. Once the ceremony’s official record is sealed, I’ll let you out.” A pause. “Sit here and think about your choices.” I listened to their footsteps fade. Marcus — Roland’s son — standing at my father’s memorial. Reading words from a prepared script. Wearing the honor my father had purchased with his life as if it were a costume. I threw myself at the door and pounded until my fists bled. Until I couldn’t anymore. I slid down the wood and sat on the floor of my father’s house, looking up at his portrait on the wall. He was in his Warrior’s gear. He was smiling the way he always smiled — like sunlight had decided to wear a face. “Dad.” My voice barely made a sound. “Do you see what your pack has done?” I didn’t understand. I had never understood. Why do the good ones fall, and the scavengers inherit everything they built? Night came. The old homestead went fully dark. I sat in the corner, hollow with hunger, hollower with despair. In two days, it would all be finalized. Marcus on the stage, the seal on the record, my father’s name handed over to someone who had never earned a single scar in his service. And I would be locked in here, watching it happen.

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At the wedding ceremony, the officiant invited the groom to share a few words. No one expected him to slap himself across the face in front of everyone. “This slap,” he declared, his voice cutting through the stunned silence, “is for my heartlessness. Three years ago, I listened to my parents and stayed home—and lost the one I truly loved.” I glanced at my parents, whose faces had tightened with barely suppressed anger. I gave a small shake of my head, willing them to hold back. Then he slapped himself again. “This second slap is for my cruelty. I destroyed a life that never had the chance to be born.” My entire body went rigid. Leo Lancaster and I had been together for three years. We had never had a child. “And this third slap,” he said, his voice dropping low, “is for my failure as a son.” He looked at me. Then at his own parents. “Mom. Dad. Elara—I’m sorry. The wedding will have to wait. Today, I have to go to the airport. I’m picking up Vivienne.” That day, I became the laughingstock of every elite family in Harbor City. The next morning, I held a press conference and announced two things: First: I was putting my marriage up for auction. Highest bidder takes all. Second: I was launching a full-scale hostile takeover of Lancaster Group—and I would not stop until it was bankrupt. …… The moment the announcement ended, the room erupted. Cameras and microphones surged toward me from every direction. “Ms. Hilton,” a reporter called out, “yesterday Mr. Lancaster said the wedding was merely postponed. Now you’re auctioning off your own marriage and openly targeting Lancaster Group. Are you declaring war on him?” “Ms. Hilton, rumor has it Mr. Lancaster pursued you for three full years, and you took three years to say yes. Can you really let go so easily?” I tightened my grip on the microphone. After a pause, I drew a slow breath and answered, “Leo Lancaster and I are enemies now. There is nothing left between us.” I glanced down at my phone. An unknown number had sent me a video. In it, Leo’s hands were removing the last piece of clothing from Vivienne Pierce’s body. On Leo’s wrist gleamed a Vacheron Constantin watch—the limited edition I had given him for his birthday. I raised my head. A cold smile curled at the corner of my mouth. I turned the phone screen toward the press. “You’ve all worked hard today. Allow me to offer you a gift.” Leo’s affair video was captured by dozens of media outlets simultaneously. Three hours later, it detonated across Harbor City. 【Lancaster Scandal: Groom Abandons New Wife to Meet Mistress — Explicit Video Leaked】 【Unbelievable: Leo Lancaster Ditches Billionaire Wife, Checks Into Hotel with Lover — Full Footage Exposed】 I was peeling fruit and scrolling through the headlines when Leo arrived at my door—with Vivienne in tow. He swept everything off the table with one furious arm. Then his hand closed around my throat, squeezing hard, demanding I apologize to Vivienne. “Elara Hilton,” he snarled, “I delayed the wedding by a few days. That’s it. And you leaked that video of me and Vivienne—do you have any idea what that’s doing to her? She just graduated. She can’t handle this kind of harassment.” I forced a slow breath past his grip. “You abandoned me at the altar in front of everyone,” I said. “Did you stop to wonder how I would handle that?” His fingers tightened. My face flooded with heat. “You,” he said, his voice dropping to something venomous, “are nothing but Shen’s dirty little secret. An illegitimate child. What do you have to lose?” My heart plummeted like a stone. When we first got together, he had said: Your background may be complicated, but I’ll have all of Lancaster Group stand behind you. I’ll make you the most powerful name in Harbor City. And now he was using the thing I feared most to twist the knife. So be it. If that’s how it is—then prepare yourself, Leo. The illegitimate child you looked down on is about to make you pay. Before the darkness closed in, I clenched the fruit knife in my hand and drove it into Vivienne Pierce’s right palm. “Leo Lancaster,” I said through gritted teeth, “I am not your seasoning. I was never something you could pick up and put down.” “Leo—blood!” Vivienne screamed, lunging forward. “You—you hurt her, you psycho!” I grabbed Vivienne’s wrist, held the blade up to her face, and met her eyes. “Before you come at me, make sure you know what you’re walking into.” Crack. A blow landed hard across my cheek. It burned like fire. “Vivienne is everything to me,” Leo said, his voice shaking with rage. “Touch me all you want—but if you ever lay a hand on her again, I will destroy your entire family.” I stood very still. The composure I had held together since yesterday fractured—slowly, like a web of hairline cracks splitting apart all at once. Once, when I was a child—locked outside in the rain by my stepmother and older brother—it was Leo who had held me and said those same words. Elara Hilton is the person I treasure most. Anyone who hurts her again will watch Lancaster Group vanish from this city. How laughable. I picked up my phone and called my assistant. “Put out a statement,” I said, my voice perfectly calm, my expression carved from iron. “Whoever has the means to bankrupt Lancaster Group—I will marry them.”

I turned to Leo and said, with quiet contempt, “Tell your father that the humiliation I’ve suffered will be repaid—by every last member of the Lancaster family.” The color drained from his face in waves. “Elara, don’t be ridiculous,” Vivienne cut in, looping her arm through Leo’s. “She’s an illegitimate child. He doesn’t have the reach to pull something like this off.” I let my gaze settle on Vivienne for a long moment, then stepped toward her slowly, deliberately. “Your punishment is coming,” I said quietly. “Soon.” I turned to the butler. “See them out.” I walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows and sat down at my desk. Then I gave the order: short Lancaster Group stock. Across the board. I watched the numbers shift on the screen, the graph dipping in real time, and felt the corner of my mouth lift. The humiliation of that altar—I was repaying it, inch by inch, in the only language that mattered. Three hours later, Lancaster Group’s stock had dropped three points. But it wasn’t enough. My phone buzzed. “Elara Hilton. Stop this. You’ll drag the whole Hilton Group down with you.” My father. Voice tight with fury. “You got dumped because you weren’t good enough. Come home. We’re going to go apologize to the old man Lancaster together.” I kept my tone even. “Father, if anyone is owed an apology—it’s me.” “Have you lost your mind? As of tomorrow, you’re no longer General Manager of the company. Your brother is taking over.” He hung up. Before I could set the phone down, it buzzed again. An old familiar number. I didn’t answer. I let it ring. It rang dozens of times before finally going silent. Then a string of long voice messages appeared on my screen. 【What happened at the wedding was my fault—I know that. But Dad has already dealt with me over it. You had no right to auction off your marriage like that. You’ve publicly embarrassed the Lancaster family, and my parents are furious. Get to the Lancaster estate immediately and apologize to them. On your knees.】 【As for shorting our stock—we’ll let that go for now. We can absorb the loss. But tomorrow morning, you will stand beside me in front of the cameras and confirm that the video of me and Vivienne was fabricated. You will play the loving husband. You will smile.】 I blocked Leo’s number without hesitation. The next morning, he was waiting outside my door. “You didn’t answer my calls. My parents are livid—if you don’t come and apologize, they have ways of making your life very difficult.” He paused. When I said nothing, his voice shifted, softened slightly. “I know I was wrong. I shouldn’t have walked out on our wedding. But you can’t just do whatever you want because you’re angry.” “Leo.” My voice came out flat. “Tell me about the child.” He went silent. At the ceremony, he had stood in front of everyone and admitted it—an unborn child, gone. But in three years, he had never once mentioned it to me. “That was a long time ago,” he said finally. “You need to let it go.” I threw the termination report at his face. “The procedure date,” I said, “was right in the middle of when we were supposed to be falling in love.” He stood there. Motionless. Who was it who had told me—just three years ago—that he had chosen to stay, that his heart belonged a hundred percent to me? Who had stood with both our families present and promised me the most extravagant, most unforgettable wedding Harbor City had ever seen—and then walked away, leaving me a public joke? He had been running between two people all along. And now he had the nerve to call me the reckless one. I watched his face cycle through expressions—caught, embarrassed, searching—and picked up my phone. “Keep shorting Lancaster Group,” I told my assistant. “And hire people to flood every platform with everything you can find on Vivienne Pierce.” “Ms. Hilton,” my assistant said, hesitating. “You—you should come in. Something’s happened.”

On the way to the office, my assistant sent a single message: Bad news. Be careful. I arrived to find a swarm of journalists blocking the entrance—cameras pointed at something in the middle of the crowd. I pushed forward. Two steps in, someone threw their arms around my legs. I looked down. Vivienne Pierce was on her knees in front of me, forehead nearly touching the ground. “Ms. Hilton,” she said, voice cracking, “I know you have power I can’t imagine. But if you’re going to destroy someone—destroy me. Please. Spare Leo. Spare his parents. They’re not young anymore. They can’t take this.” As she spoke, she uncapped a small bottle and raised it toward her lips, her expression fixed with a kind of frantic resolve. “If my life is what it takes to make this stop—then at least I’ll have died for something.” Every word was a carefully placed blade. The message was clear: I’m noble enough to sacrifice myself. You’re just a scorned woman with a grudge, throwing your weight around. She’d barely finished speaking before the reporters closed in. “Ms. Hilton, are you really going to drive them both to their graves?” “Ms. Hilton, murder is a crime—will you turn yourself in if she dies, or use your connections to walk free?” I looked down at Vivienne. My expression didn’t move. “I never intended to kill anyone,” I said, each word deliberate. “And that poison isn’t mine.” Vivienne leaned in—close enough that only I could hear—and whispered, “You’ll never win against me, Elara Hilton.” Then, before I could react, she grabbed my hand, forced the bottle into my grip, wrapped both our hands around it, and tipped the contents into her own throat. “Ah—” The cameras captured every frame of it. A second later, someone wrenched the bottle from my hand. A palm connected with my face—hard. I hit the ground. Leo stood over me, his eyes burning with something beyond rage. “How could you do this,” he breathed. “Vivienne is carrying our child—my family’s grandchild—and you—” I stared up at him from the pavement. Pregnant. So it had been going on that long. The two of them, together—long before today. Every platform picked up Vivienne’s “attempted suicide.” Comment sections overflowed with people saying I deserved to be left. My personal social media was buried under waves of abuse. And then came the petition—a viral post demanding my removal as General Manager of Hilton Group. It wasn’t just Vivienne’s handiwork. My half-brother and stepmother had their fingerprints all over it too. “Secretary Liam,” I said, keeping my voice level, “suppress every negative story about me. Commission some positive coverage.” There was a pause. “Ms.… Hilton…” “The board just released a statement,” she said quietly. “They’ve removed you as General Manager. Effective immediately. All company resources are frozen to you.” “…Understood.” Lancaster Group’s stock had already recovered. I set my phone down on the table. Slowly. It didn’t shatter because I made a choice to put it down carefully. I was still sitting with the wreckage when Leo walked through the door. “I’ve had the negative press about you taken down,” he said. “Elara—if you ask me, I can also get your father to reinstate your position. I know how much you’ve worked for it. I know how badly you want to lead Hilton Group.” He paused, watching me. “But you’d have to ask.”

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The night I was thrown out, there was blood pooling beneath me, and I was rushed to the emergency room. The doctor said my ectopic pregnancy had ruptured. Surgery was immediate, or I would die. With trembling hands, I dialed my husband Ryan’s number. But what came through the other end was his mistress Kate’s cheerful laughter: “Ryan! Oliver’s so happy today!” Oliver was their two-year-old illegitimate son. Then I heard Ryan speak in a voice colder than anything I’d ever heard from him: “Ellie, stop with the theatrics. Besides—” “You think some half-formed embryo matters more than a living child?” The line went dead. Later, I signed the divorce papers, changed every piece of contact information I had, and disappeared completely. Until one year later, when I ran into him at an industry summit—this time as a partner at a top architectural firm. He was clutching my medical records, on his knees in front of me, weeping. … … The first year Ryan transferred to the New York headquarters, he video-called me every night until midnight. The second year, it became once a week. The third year, the calls stopped entirely. All that remained were texts so short they read like office memos. I kept telling myself that marriage required trust. Until that afternoon, when he sent me a single message. “Ellie, Mom wants you to come back home. She says she needs to talk to you.” I thought his mother Elaine was ill. I took time off work and booked the earliest flight I could find. But when I walked into Elaine’s old house, the person sitting in the living room wasn’t a doctor. It was a woman I’d never seen before. She was young, blonde, wearing a loose beige knit dress, both hands cradling her belly. “Who is she?” I forced my voice steady, though it still trembled at the edges. “Ellie, sweetie, you understand.” Elaine sat by the fireplace, her voice so gentle it made my blood run cold. “I’m not asking you to divorce Ryan. I just think you should be generous enough to give Kate a proper place in this family.” “She’s been with Ryan in New York all this time. You know how much pressure he’s been under these past few years. She’s helped him enormously.” For a moment, I felt as though I’d been struck over the head. My entire body went rigid, and I couldn’t form words. Kate. Ryan’s secretary. The woman Ryan had sworn he only ever saw at the office. I shifted my gaze to her. Kate’s eyes were red-rimmed. She kept her head down, her voice as soft as milk diluted with water: “Ellie, I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” I looked at her belly. “So?” Her voice was light as a feather. “I’m pregnant. The baby needs a father.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Elaine was already barreling ahead, as though announcing some perfectly respectable arrangement. “Ryan is a responsible man. Ellie, you haven’t been able to conceive—no one’s blaming you entirely. We can find a doctor to help you along. But Kate’s baby can’t just go without recognition.” I sat on the sofa and suddenly found the room laughably unfamiliar. “Recognition?” Elaine nodded. “You’re still Ryan’s wife. No one’s going to take that away from you. It’s just that Kate and the baby deserve a respectable status too.” “Sounds like you’ve already made the decision for me.” I let out a short laugh. “Then you should be talking to the man who got her pregnant. Not me.” I stood, grabbed my coat, and walked toward the front door. Just as I reached it, I heard a car pulling up outside. A black Bentley stopped in front of the house. Ryan stepped out of the driver’s seat. The moment he saw me, the color drained from his face. The passenger door opened too. A little boy, maybe two years old, reached out his arms, calling in that high, milky voice: “Daddy! Up!” I stopped on the steps. Two years old. Ten months of pregnancy, plus two years. That lined up perfectly with Ryan’s first year in New York. The man who had video-called me every night until the small hours, who whispered “I miss you” over and over through the screen, who would order hot soup delivered to my door at midnight just because I mentioned my stomach felt off—during all of that, he had already fathered another woman’s child. Ryan stood frozen beside the car. He clearly hadn’t expected to find me walking out. “Ellie…” Then Kate rushed out of the house behind me and grabbed my arm. “Ellie, please don’t blame him. It was all my fault. That night—I’d had too much to drink, I threw myself at him. His heart has always been with you…” I shook her off. “Don’t touch me.” Ryan finally snapped out of it and strode toward me—but instinctively positioned himself in front of Kate. “Ellie, let me explain.” “Explain what?” I stared at him. “How you fucked her during the day and called me Honey on your phone at night?” Ryan’s face went sheet-white. He lowered his voice, a plea threading through it. “Don’t do this here. Mom’s right there.” I stared at him for two full seconds, then laughed. “What? You think this is embarrassing? Didn’t seem to bother you when you were cheating.” Elaine walked over too, the little boy in her arms, not a trace of guilt on her face. “Ellie, what’s done is done. Oliver is Ryan’s son, and Kate’s carrying another one. You can’t conceive—you can’t expect Ryan to have no heir.” I looked at Ryan. “You didn’t tell her?” Ryan wouldn’t meet my eyes. I stepped closer. “The year you drank yourself into a stomach hemorrhage trying to close that deal—I quit my project. I stayed in that hospital with you for three months, days and nights blurring together, until my body completely broke down. When my hormones crashed and the doctor told me to stop pulling all-nighters, who kept calling me at two in the morning saying he couldn’t cope alone?” But Elaine only frowned. “Ellie, don’t pin everything on Ryan.” Ryan said quietly: “Ellie, enough.” “It’s not enough,” I said. Kate hid behind him, eyes glistening. “Ellie, I really don’t want to hurt you. If you’re willing—I don’t need a wedding, I don’t need a ring, I don’t need to be called Mrs. Blackwell. The children can call you Mom. I’ll just stay and take care of them. All I want is to be near Ryan.” How touching. Ryan’s gaze softened the moment he looked at her. When he turned back to me, his voice had already gone cold. “Kate has already compromised this much. What more do you want?” I looked at him and almost didn’t recognize the man. “Ellie, if it weren’t for Kate helping me in New York these past two years, I’d never have gotten a foothold there. You stayed in Chicago drawing your blueprints. You have no idea how hard things were for me.” I nodded. “You’re right. I don’t.” All I knew was that his first round of startup capital came from me selling the house my grandmother left me. All I knew was that I waited for his weekly text until three in the morning, and that made me a fool. I reached into my bag and pulled out a black voice recorder. He’d given it to me before he left for New York. He’d said: “When you miss me, just listen to this.” Ryan’s face changed instantly. “All I know is you said to wait three years, and then you’d bring me out to join you.” I pressed play. Ryan’s voice—young and tender—floated out of the speaker. “Ellie, give me three years. I’ll bring you to New York. I’ll give you the home we’ve always wanted.” “Ellie, I love you. Forever.” The air went dead silent. Ryan lunged for it. “Ellie, don’t—” I let go. The recorder clattered onto the stone steps. Then I lifted my foot and brought it down, hard. A clean, sharp crack. I looked at him. “Ryan, we’re done.” I turned and walked away. His voice came from behind me. “Ellie!” But the next second, his footsteps were cut short by Kate’s gasp— “Ryan, my stomach—it hurts so bad…” Ryan turned instinctively to catch her. I didn’t look back. I flagged down a cab waiting at the curb and pulled the door shut cleanly behind me. “Airport.”

I went to the airport and bought the next available ticket back to Chicago. That apartment had been one we’d picked out together. Open kitchen, floor-to-ceiling windows, our fifth anniversary photo hanging on the wall. In the picture, I was smiling like an idiot, leaning against his shoulder, as if I actually had a home. When I pushed open the door, the silence was deafening. Two pairs of slippers in the entryway. His razor still in the bathroom. A sticky note on the fridge in his handwriting. “Don’t skip dinner. Love, R.” I stared at those words for a few seconds, peeled the note off, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it in the trash. I hauled out a suitcase. I didn’t touch a single thing of his. Of my own things, I took only my documents, a few changes of clothes, my laptop, and some design portfolios. I’d just zipped the suitcase shut when the electronic lock at the front door clicked open. Ryan stood in the doorway, windblown and haggard, his tie yanked loose, eyes bloodshot. He’d followed me here. When he saw the suitcase, he panicked. “Ellie, don’t do this.” I looked up. “Move.” He strode over and pressed his hand down on mine. “I admit I’m a bastard. I admit I was wrong. But I never once thought about divorcing you.” “Let go.” “No.” He pulled me into his arms, holding on so tight it was as though he thought I might vanish. “That time with Kate was genuinely an accident. The headquarters celebration—I blacked out. By the time I woke up, it had already happened.” I laughed coldly in his arms. “Then she got pregnant. The doctors said her body was fragile, that there was a high risk of miscarriage.” “What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just stand there and watch her die—watch the baby die.” He’d offloaded every ounce of responsibility onto accident and circumstance. I shoved him off me with everything I had, then slapped him across the face. The crack echoed through the living room. Ryan’s head snapped to the side. The skin reddened almost instantly. I stared at him. “Fine. The first child was an accident. What about the second one she’s carrying now? Did you black out for that one too?” He said nothing. In that single second, I had every answer I needed. He wasn’t some universally soft-hearted man. He was simply soft—for her. And through her, that child had become his weakness. Ryan clenched his jaw. “Ellie, do you have to be this cruel about it?” “Cruel?” I laughed. “Was it pretty when you were cheating?” He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “I told you—you’re my only wife. Most of the assets will stay with you. Kate doesn’t want anything. She just wants to give the children a complete family.” His shamelessness actually made me laugh. But midway through the laughter, tears started falling. “And what about me?” I asked. He blinked. “What?” “What am I? Your legal roommate? A decorative piece now that your career’s taken off? A free stepmother for you and Kate’s kids?” “Don’t say that.” “Then what do you want me to say?” My voice shook. “Congratulations? Should I throw her a baby shower? Or maybe just find myself a spot next to your family portrait?” “Ryan Blackwell—do you think that because you’ve made it to the top, you’re entitled to have both a wife and a mistress?” “What is this marriage to you? What am I to you?” “Then what exactly do you want me to do?” he snarled. “Strangle the two-year-old? Push Kate off a building?” Ryan lowered his voice. “Ellie, you never used to be this vicious.” A chill ran through me. “So refusing to accept a mistress and a bastard child makes me vicious.” My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number. I opened it. A photo. Kate lying in a hospital bed, face pale, an IV in the back of her hand. The caption read: “Ellie, I know Ryan went back to find you. I’m here alone in the hospital trying to save the baby. I’m really scared. But I don’t blame you. As long as you two are okay, I can endure anything.” A second message popped up immediately after. A photo of a share transfer agreement. Ryan had transferred thirty percent of Blackwell Group’s equity into the name of Oliver Blackwell. His two-year-old illegitimate son. I held the phone up to Ryan’s face. “This is what you meant by ‘most of the assets stay with me’?” Ryan saw the contents and his expression crumbled. “Listen to me—my mother forced me to sign that. She said the child needed security.” “The child needed security,” I repeated. “And what do my eight years count for?” “Ellie…” I didn’t want to hear another word. I grabbed the suitcase handle. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. City hall.” He froze. “What?” “We’re getting divorced.” I said it word by word. “If you don’t show, I’ll file. And while I’m at it, I’ll upload this agreement, Kate’s photo, and every wonderful thing you and your mother said today straight into the company’s internal system.” Ryan’s eyes reddened further. “Ellie, I can’t—” His phone rang. Kate’s name flashed on the screen. He didn’t answer. I looked back at him. “Pick up. Isn’t she all alone in the hospital, scared?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. The phone kept ringing. I dragged my suitcase toward the door. Ryan didn’t come after me. Because in the end, he answered the call. Kate’s weak sobbing drifted out from behind me. “Ryan, the doctor says the baby might not make it…”

The next day, Ryan didn’t show. At 9:07 a.m., he sent me a long message telling me not to be impulsive. “Kate had a bad night. I couldn’t leave.” “Ellie, I’m not signing any divorce papers. Let’s both cool down.” I didn’t reply. I contacted a lawyer directly and had litigation papers drafted. But I hadn’t expected Ryan to move faster than me. A week later, Blackwell Group held its annual gala. I was the lead designer at the Chicago division, responsible for the year’s most important commercial project. Attendance was mandatory. The venue was in Manhattan, where the New York headquarters was located. The moment I walked into the ballroom, I sensed the unusual stares. Someone whispered: “That’s her? Ryan’s wife?” “Heard they’ve been married for years and she still hasn’t had a kid.” “Kate’s already pregnant with the second one, and she’s still clinging to the Mrs. Blackwell title.” “If I were her, I’d take the money and go. How embarrassing.” I swept a cold glance across those gossiping faces and walked straight to my seat. Onstage, Ryan stood in a dark gray Tom Ford suit, delivering the annual summary. His gaze cut through the crowd and landed on me. A warning. I met it calmly. When the awards segment began, the host’s voice rang out. “This year’s Best Commercial Space Design Award goes to—Kate Miller!” My head snapped up. Kate wore a silver gown, her slightly rounded belly unmistakable under the lights. She glided onto the stage amid applause, accepted the trophy, eyes brimming with tears. “Thank you, everyone.” She gazed at Ryan through glistening eyes. “Especially Ryan. Without his guidance, I never could have completed this project.” Thunderous applause. I sat in my corner, shaking. That project—from concept to execution—had been mine alone. I’d bled over it through countless sleepless nights. Kate couldn’t even read a construction drawing. Ryan took the microphone. “There’s one more announcement tonight.” He looked at me, his tone as formal as a board meeting memo. “Due to personal health reasons, Ellie Blackwell will be taking indefinite leave. The position of Design Director at the Chicago division will be temporarily filled by Kate Miller.” A beat of silence, then murmurs rippled through the room. Some looked sympathetic, some watched for the spectacle, most were waiting for me to break. I finally understood. Ryan wasn’t trying to save the marriage. He was trying to make me submit. He’d stolen my work, hollowed out my position, and publicly trampled my dignity—all to send one message: without him, I was nothing. I stood up. No hysterics. No panicked flight. I walked to the front of the stage, step by step, and looked up at Ryan towering above me. “Mr. Blackwell, plagiarizing someone’s intellectual work is a legal violation. You’re aware of that, yes?” Ryan’s expression darkened. He lowered his voice. “Ellie, tonight is not the place for you to have a meltdown. Putting Kate’s name on the project was my way of compensating her.” “I can give you double the money if you want. Just stop making a scene.” “Compensating.” I smiled. “You take my life’s work, hand it to your mistress to pave her career, and expect me to applaud?” “Ryan Blackwell, you never cease to amaze me.” Kate spoke up softly from beside him. “Ellie, don’t blame Ryan. I wanted to prove myself. I’ll give you all the prize money. I really didn’t mean to take what’s yours.” Her words drew a wave of sympathetic murmurs. “Kate’s so gracious.” Another woman chimed in: “Honestly, Ellie’s being way too aggressive.” I looked at Kate. “You wanted to prove yourself? Then explain—right now—why the atrium skylight uses triangular steel framing. Why the fire egress plan went through three revisions.” Kate went white. “I… those details were a team effort…” I cut her off. “You don’t even know where the drawing files are stored.” Ryan stepped forward. “Enough.” I opened my mouth to speak, but a sudden, searing pain ripped through my lower abdomen. Like a blade being driven in from the inside. I doubled over instinctively, pressing my hand to my stomach. Cold sweat broke across my forehead. Ryan looked at me coldly. “The same act twice isn’t interesting anymore.” I could barely form words through the pain. “I’m not—” He turned to security. “Please escort my wife out.” Two guards approached, flanking me on either side. I tried to struggle, but my body had gone limp with pain. “Let go of me…” I gritted my teeth. “I need a hospital…” No one listened. Kate stood onstage and murmured: “Ryan, don’t—Ellie might really be unwell.” Ryan didn’t even glance at me. “She’s just trying to ruin tonight.” I was dragged out of the ballroom and deposited on the steps outside the hotel. As the doors swung shut, I heard Kate’s honeyed voice from within. “Ryan, the baby just kicked.” Applause and laughter seeped through the closed doors. I sat on the freezing steps, doubled over in pain. Then I felt something warm and wet spreading along my inner thigh. I looked down. Blood.

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My dead mother’s necklace showed up as the grand prize at tonight’s street race. Marcus promised he’d win first place and get it back for me. He broke his promise. He deliberately slowed down before the finish line to let Cole Montgomery win, just so he could take second place—and that Valentino gown. Charlotte had been eyeing it for months. Marcus looked at me, helpless but indulgent. “Charlotte’s twenty-first birthday is coming up. She only wants this gown. I promised I’d get it for her.” Charlotte twirled in the Valentino, smug and sweet. “Ophelia, isn’t it bad luck to keep a dead woman’s things?” Marcus tried to smooth things over. “When I propose, I’ll have a custom necklace made for you at Cartier. Better than your mother’s. How about that?” Too late. Because I’d sworn—whoever won back that necklace for me, I’d marry him. Three days from now, I’ll be Cole Montgomery’s wife. …… “Second place—Marcus Ashford. Prize: one Valentino limited-edition gown.” The crowd roared. Engines still rumbling. Tire smoke hung in the night air. I stood behind the crowd, watching someone hand Marcus the Valentino gown. My hands went cold. He’d actually done it. Broken his word. The scene before the race kept replaying in my head. Charlotte had cornered Marcus by his car at the starting line, dressed in a tight crop top and short skirt. Her eyes were wet, pleading. “Marcus, my birthday’s in three days. Could you win me that Valentino?” “Ophelia’s the legitimate heir—she got this huge party for her twenty-first. I’m just the stepdaughter. I can’t compete with her. But I want something beautiful too.” “My mom’s just her father’s mistress. Everyone looks down on us. But if I wear a beautiful gown won by you, people will finally respect me.” “I’m only asking this once. Please, Marcus.” Tears slid down her cheeks, landing on Marcus’s hand as he reached to brush them away. “Don’t cry, Charlotte. I’ll do it.” “But I promised Ophelia I’d win back the necklace. She said it was her mother’s.” Charlotte wiped her eyes fast, smiling. “It’s fine. The other racers all know you. We can buy it back for her.” “I’ll use all my savings to buy it for Ophelia.” She looked so small and careful it made Marcus ache. “Alright. I’ll win you that gown.” I closed my eyes. Hands in fists. I’d heard them talking before the race but couldn’t stop it. I’d held onto hope. Marcus and I grew up together. Our families had a verbal agreement about marriage. Three days from now, the Ashford Family were supposed to come propose. I thought—being his fiancée—he’d do this one thing for me. I was wrong. He threw the race to Cole Montgomery for Charlotte’s gown. “Oh no, Ophelia. Marcus lost. Cole Montgomery got your necklace.” “Wasn’t that your mom’s? What are you going to do? Cole hates Marcus—he’ll never sell it back.” So she knew. She’d suggested buying it back, already knowing Cole would refuse. I looked at her. “Charlotte, does Marcus know how vicious you are?” Her face changed. Before she could speak, Marcus walked up with people carrying the gown. Charlotte threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Marcus.”

The racing girls and other racers swarmed them. “That Valentino is limited edition. Can’t believe Marcus won it for you, Charlotte.” “Marcus is so good to you.” “I heard the Warren and Ashford Family are family friends. They’re arranging a marriage.” “So Marcus is marrying Charlotte? Lucky girl.” Charlotte smugly took the gown and headed to one of the cars to change. Marcus watched her go, indulgent, then turned to me. “Ophelia, I know I let you down. Charlotte said she only wants this gown for her birthday. I had no choice.” “You want the necklace—Cole won’t budge for some reason. But it’s fine. When I come to propose, I’ll have Cartier make you the same one. Better than your mother’s.” I blinked back tears. “I don’t think you’ll get the chance.” Marcus looked regretful, mumbling, not knowing what to do. Charlotte came back in the Valentino, tugging his sleeve and laughing. “Thank you, Marcus. This is the best birthday gift.” Then she tilted her head at me. “Ophelia, why hold onto the past? That necklace is pretty, but isn’t it creepy to keep a dead woman’s things?” “You wouldn’t actually make Marcus order a replica of a dead woman’s necklace for the proposal, would you? Isn’t that bad luck?” Marcus played mediator. “Alright, this is my fault. It’s just a necklace. I’ll get you several more. I’ll bring them when I propose. That should make up for it.” Marcus saw me staying quiet. His patience snapped. “How long are you going to sulk over a dead woman’s jewelry?” “Is your mother’s old necklace more important than Charlotte’s birthday? She’s your sister. Aren’t the living more important?” “You’re acting like a spoiled child. Where’s the grace of a Warren heir? Think about it.” “If you keep being this petty, you’re not fit to be a Marcus’s wife. I’ll have to reconsider this marriage.” After saying that, he opened the car door for Charlotte and drove off, tires screeching down the street. …… Three days later was Charlotte’s twenty-first birthday. Victoria had been planning it for months. After my mother died, Dad’s mistress Victoria moved into Mom’s bedroom. Charlotte was treated just like the legitimate heir. If it weren’t for my Grandfather, Dad would’ve made Victoria his official wife years ago. Charlotte’s birthday party had invited every socialite and heiress in New York. And this was also the day the Ashford Family were supposed to come to discuss the wedding date. Guests filled the house. Someone joked about when they’d get to attend our wedding. Marcus looked at me, uncomfortable, forcing a smile. “There will be a wedding. Just… the timing is a bit complicated.” A family friend spoke up. “Complicated? Wasn’t it supposed to be in one month? Is something wrong?” Marcus lowered his head, looking embarrassed. “Ophelia, we have discussed this. Your grandfather won’t let Victoria become your father’s official wife unless Charlotte marries well.” “Charlotte’s had it rough. I feel for her.” “So… I’ll marry Charlotte first. In one month.” The room went silent. Someone gasped. “Wait, you’re marrying Charlotte? What about Ophelia?” I stared at Marcus. “Is this the Ashford Family’ decision? And my father’s? You marry Charlotte instead?”

Marcus waved his hands quickly. “Charlotte needs me. She can’t survive without support. I have to marry her.” He stepped forward, urgent. “But Ophelia, you can still be with me. You’re the Warren Family’s heir. You’re Abel Sterling’s granddaughter. You don’t need a title to prove your worth.” “Charlotte said she won’t fight you for anything. She knows her place. She just needs the protection of being Mrs. Ashford.” “You’ll have everything you want. My love, my resources, everything. The only difference is Charlotte will have the legal title.” He said it like he was being generous. Like I should be grateful. The guests’ faces were priceless. “Is he suggesting she be his mistress?” “How could Robert Warren agree to this? His daughter becoming the mistress?” “If Abel Sterling finds out, he’ll tear the Ashford Family down.” Marcus’s face went red and white. Charlotte walked up in the Valentino, voice soft. “Ophelia, please forgive me.” “I need Marcus. I can’t make it on my own. But I promise I won’t take anything from you. You’ll always be special to him.” I laughed. “You’ve had it so hard, Charlotte? Victoria moved into my mother’s bedroom three days after she died. She took all of Mom’s jewelry.” “And you claimed my room because you said it had the best natural light. You live in the best suite in the Warren Family.” “Your clothes cost more than mine. You get first pick of jewelry and designer clothes. Where exactly have you suffered?” Everyone looked. Charlotte’s Valentino gown was from the street race—Marcus had won it for her. The worth of that gown spoke for itself. The crown on her head was from Cartier’s vault collection. Worth $500,000. Her shoes were Manolo Blahnik with rare pearls embedded in them. Compared to her,I wore something simple. Hearing this, the guests started whispering. “That outfit costs over a million dollars. Not even the heiresses in this city dress that extravagantly. How dare you say you are unloved?” “Just that crown is worth $500,000.” “That mistress’s wearing designer too. Those two dress better than most of us.” “Ophelia doesn’t even look as expensive as them.” Charlotte’s eyes filled with tears. She stepped back, looking at Marcus. “It’s not like that, Marcus. Today’s my birthday. Dad said I couldn’t lose face in front of everyone. That’s why I’m dressed like this.” “This crown and jewelry—Dad ordered them for Ophelia, not me.” I smiled slightly. “Dad ordered them for me? Pearl, make a note. After the party, go get all this jewelry and the crown from Charlotte’s room and bring it to mine.” My maid Pearl suppressed a smile. “Yes, Miss Warren.” Marcus snapped. “Enough, Ophelia. It’s just a crown. Why are you pushing your sister this far? You’re being petty. Where’s your grace as the Warren Family’s heir?” “I didn’t believe you’d treat Charlotte badly, but now I see it. When I’m not around, you must bully her constantly.” He stepped in front of Charlotte, gripping her hand tight. “She’s going to be Mrs. Ashford. She doesn’t need these things.” “Besides, when Charlotte marries me, your father said he’d transfer her share of the Warren assets—company stocks and cash worth a hundred million dollars. She won’t care about one or two pieces of jewelry.”

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My flight to London was supposed to leave in two hours. I found out at the gate that my first-class seat had been canceled. I called my assistant, and he stumbled over every word. “Ms. Kensington, I booked you the earliest first-class departure, but Preston’s new assistant — Genevieve — flagged it as unnecessary extravagance and switched it to a red-eye economy seat. Four hours later.” I didn’t say anything for a moment. Then I started asking questions. What I learned made my blood run cold. Ever since Genevieve Laurent walked into Kensington Enterprises, she’d been on a crusade. She killed the office espresso machines. She axed the catered Friday lunches. She slashed overtime Uber stipends down to nothing. People were coming out of pocket just to show up and do their jobs. The complaints from the floor had been building for weeks. Furious, I bought my own ticket, flew to London, closed the billion-dollar acquisition, and called Preston the moment I landed back on the tarmac. He brushed me off. “Genevieve is only trying to cut costs. She means well. You should actually be thanking her.” I laughed. I genuinely laughed. “If she’s so focused on saving money,” I said, “then I’ll save even more — I’ll fire both of you and cut two salaries at once.” The line went dead. Preston had hung up on me. I stared at my phone. The broke, disgraced son of a collapsed Wall Street dynasty — and he had the nerve to hang up on me. Three years ago, his father’s firm imploded overnight. The man jumped from the fourteenth floor. Preston had nothing left but a faded last name and an agreement my grandfather had made with his. Out of respect for the dead, I honored it. I brought him into the company, gave him a VP title, and let him rebuild whatever was left of his pride. This was how he paid me back. I booked the next flight home and opened my company Slack. What I found there was worse. One thread after another. My employees, venting in a channel they thought I never checked. “Genevieve literally stood over me while I printed contracts and counted the pages. I reprinted one sheet by accident and she docked $200 from my paycheck.” “No more Uber reimbursement after 9 PM. I’ve been splitting cabs with strangers to get home.” “Sales team is done. She capped client dinners at $15 per person. You can’t close a seven-figure deal over McDonald’s.” Kensington Enterprises wasn’t just a company. My grandfather built it from nothing over fifty years ago. Three generations of my family had poured everything into it — and the reputation we’d earned, with clients and employees alike, was the one thing money couldn’t manufacture. People trusted the Kensington name. That trust took decades. And Preston was letting this woman burn it to the ground. And then I found the one that stopped me cold. Preston and Genevieve had expensed a full week in Aspen — a “ski resort feasibility study.” Presidential suite. Private instructor. Michelin-starred dinners every night. Total damage to the company account: well over $200,000. And buried in the line items, charged to the company emergency fund — a $150,000 Bvlgari necklace. He used my money to buy jewelry for another woman. I closed my laptop. The flight home was eleven hours. I didn’t sleep for a single minute of it. The rage started as something almost laughable — my own fiancé, my own money, my own company. The sheer absurdity of it. By the time the wheels touched down in New York, I had made up my mind. Every single person who had played me for a fool was going to pay for it.

I didn’t call ahead. I walked into the Kensington Tower lobby in the same clothes I’d worn on the plane, and two men I had never seen before stepped directly into my path. “Badge or QR code,” the bigger one said. “No entry without Genevieve’s clearance.” I looked at him. “I’m Sloane Kensington. This is my building.” The two of them exchanged a glance. Then they laughed. “Sloane who? We answer to Preston and Genevieve. Nobody else.” Before I could respond, I heard heels on marble. Genevieve Laurent walked out of the elevator carrying a Starbucks cup, wearing a Chanel suit that I was fairly certain had been expensed to the company account. She moved through the lobby like she owned it — easy, unhurried, performing for the room. I watched her. And then I saw it. A small birthmark just below her left collarbone. The size of a coin. My mind snapped back ten years — to a manila folder on my desk, a charity trust application, a photograph of a teenage girl from a trailer park outside Odessa, Texas. Father in and out of prison. Drug debts. A caseworker’s note that said if funding didn’t come through, the girl would likely be sold off to cover what her father owed. I had approved that application without a second thought. I had been funding her anonymously ever since. The Ivy League tuition. The apartment deposits. The “fresh start” money every time she asked for it. That was no French socialite standing in my lobby. That was Brandy Jenkins.

“Brandy.” One word. I said it quietly. She froze mid-step. The Starbucks cup stopped halfway to her lips. I watched the color drain out of her face in real time. “That’s not my name,” she said. “Brandy Jenkins,” I said. “Odessa, Texas. Your father owed $40,000 to a local dealer and was three days away from handing you over to cover it. You were sixteen.” The lobby had gone completely silent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her voice was steady but her jaw was tight. “The Halo Trust Fund,” I said. “Anonymous donor. Except I’m the donor. I have every wire transfer, every tuition invoice, every lease co-sign going back ten years. The nose job. The veneers. The name change.” I tilted my head. “Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own investment?” Something shifted behind her eyes. The socialite act cracked — and what came through wasn’t embarrassment. It was rage. “You want a thank you?” Her voice came out sharp and ugly. “Is that what this is? You write a few checks and you think you own my whole life?” “I think you walked into my company under a fake identity,” I said. “That’s what I think.” “I earned everything I have.” She was shaking now. “Every single thing. You were born in a penthouse and you have no idea what it feels like to survive on someone else’s pity. Every dollar you sent made me sick.” “You want the truth? I’m glad I took it. I’d do it again.” She took a step toward me, chin up, voice dropping to something vicious and triumphant. “And I don’t need you anymore. I have Preston now. And when he takes over this company, everything you built — everything your precious grandfather bled for — is going to be ours.” I looked at her. “You think Preston can take my company.” “I think he already has.” She smiled. “You’ve been gone a month, Sloane. Look around.” I looked around. She wasn’t entirely wrong. New security at every entrance. New faces at the front desk. The espresso machines were gone, replaced with a sign about “wellness-aligned beverage policies.” Three employees I recognized from the senior floor were sitting in the lobby with cardboard boxes on their laps. “Get her out,” Genevieve said to the guards, like she’d been giving that order for months. “She’s trespassing.” “I am the majority shareholder of this building,” I said flatly. “And I have a restraining order filed this morning citing workplace harassment.” She pulled out her phone and showed me the document. “Preston signed it. Your name is on it. You come within fifty feet of this office, you’re in violation.” She tilted her head, mimicking my earlier gesture. “Did you really think he wouldn’t prepare?” The two guards grabbed my arms. I didn’t fight it. One of them twisted hard — too hard, deliberately — and I felt my knee buckle as they shoved me toward the door. The marble step caught me wrong and I went down, both palms hitting the floor, the impact cracking up through my wrists. I stayed there for a moment. On my knees. On my own floor. Around me, my employees looked away. Genevieve crouched down to my level, voice soft enough that only I could hear. “This is my house now, Brandy was a girl who needed saving.” She stood back up. “Genevieve Laurent takes what she wants.” The guards grabbed my arms again to drag me the rest of the way out.

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