Category: English

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

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

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

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At the Crestfall City gala, my father—Victor Steele, the current Don of the Steele crime Family—wanted me to lead the opening dance as the face of the Steele Family. The three childhood friends and my fiancé, I’d already secured as my partners avoided my eyes—every single one of them—and walked straight toward the impostor, that fake heiress in the Steele Family. “Noelle’s position is delicate.” they murmured. “She’s the adopted one. If she has no partner at our Family’s event, it would be humiliating.” I stood alone in the center of the ballroom, watching the girl who had stolen my life take my place. I stood frozen as Ashton Shaw—heir apparent to the Shaw Syndicate, future Godfather of the most powerful arms operation on the eastern seaboard—finally approached. I thought he was about to make our engagement public. Instead, he leaned close and murmured an apology against my ear. “You’re the true Steele heiress. You’re clever and ruthless. You don’t need my protection.” My eyes stung. I tugged at his sleeve. He pulled away and walked toward Noelle without looking back. When Noelle blushed and placed her hand in his, the crowd began to whisper: *“So she was waiting for Shaw all along. No wonder she refused everyone else.”* *“The Steel heir and the Shaw heir—a perfect match.”* The whole room turned to congratulate my father. His face was black as a thundercloud. No one knew that in my family, everyone was waiting for me to fall in love—so they could hand my inheritance to the adopted daughter. The opening dance was the face of the Steele Family. I’d lived twenty-two years outside this house. I’d only been claimed back three years ago. This was the first gala the Family had thrown in my honor since then—the first formal acknowledgment that I was the real heiress. Ashton knew exactly what tonight meant to me. But he still walked away. The room shifted. I stayed where I was, throat tightening, watching him guide her into the center of the floor. I watched Ashton lead Noelle into the center of the dance floor. The lights followed them. And the whispers followed me: *“I heard the Shaw and Steele families had an engagement in mind… I guess we know who the real heiress is now.”* *“Looks like Shaw came to give his future wife a public show of support…”* The music began. Ashton tilted his head down to catch something Noelle was saying. His expression had gone soft—softer than I had ever seen it. So that was what he looked like, when he cared. People only ever softened like that for someone they truly wanted to protect. I had only ever seen his cold, ruthless side—the man whose name made grown men in the Crestfall City underworld flinch. Now the side he showed to someone he thought was a hardened survivor who didn’t need softness. Because to him, the daughter who’d come crawling back into the Steele name twenty-two years late was calculating. Even my grief came across as theater. My aunt came to stand beside me, her voice loud enough for half the room to hear: “Well, well. Our true Steele heiress, standing all alone. Some people just aren’t born with the right luck.” “The moment you came home, your grandfather handed you everything that mattered. But Noelle—Noelle has that natural shine. The kind you can’t squash, no matter how hard you try.” Her words slid under my skin like a thin blade. I tightened my grip on my champagne flute. Ashton had told me, before the gala, that his position as the Shaw heir was complicated. Every move he made was a signal—read by every Family in the city. He couldn’t make a public statement without his parents’ —the Don and his consigliere— explicit approval. Which was why I’d planned ahead. I’d quietly secured all three of my childhood friends as backup—each one promising to stand up with me on the floor. Every one of them had agreed without hesitation. And when the lights came up, every one of them had walked to Noelle instead. I had predicted the beginning. I never saw the ending coming. Ashton hadn’t refused to dance with the Steele heiress. He’d just chosen the wrong one—Deliberately. There were no Family signals to consider after all. He simply hadn’t bothered to protect my standing within the Family, and instead spent every drop of his public influence making sure she felt safe—signaling to every capo and underboss in the room that she had his backing. And that I did not.

The first dance ended with applause. Noelle leaned into Ashton’s shoulder, her cheeks prettily flushed. The three childhood friends who had originally promised to be *my* partners were now crowding around them, champagne flutes extended like offerings. Ashton cut through the guests and walked toward me. He bent close. “”Noelle’s position in this Family is fragile. You know what happens to people without protection in our world.The moment you came back, everything fell into your lap—the succession shortlist, the status. She fought for years, and because of blood alone, it’s all gone.” “It was one dance,” he added. “You’ve always been generous.” “If word of tonight gets out,” I cut him off, “what will people say? That the Steele heiress couldn’t even hold her own family’s event together?” His brow furrowed. “You overthink everything. Who would dare laugh at Vivian Steele?” When I didn’t answer, his voice softened. “Vivian, you’re strong. You can stand on your own. But Noelle is different.” “If I hadn’t chosen her tonight—if people thought I didn’t value her—she’d become the Family’s castoff.” I lowered my gaze. What he didn’t know was that the succession battle inside the Steele Family had reached a knife’s edge. My father had made his position clear: either I married into a family as powerful as the Shaws, so Grandfather would have an excuse to remove me from the succession, or he would “arrange” a marriage to some backwoods nouveau riche and end the problem forever. I’d hoped to buy time. Stay on the board a little longer. But this one dance shattered every inch of ground I had left. Noelle came trotting over, her gaze expectant as she looked up at Ashton. “Ashton, will you introduce me to the other families? I’m not like Vivian. I don’t know how to work a room.” “She always keeps a little notebook, you know—recording which family’s son is great, which uncle has the rarest connections…” She caught herself, pressing her fingers to her lips. “I—I’m not calling her calculating… she’s just… thorough.” The smiles of the nearby wives cooled. “Recording each family’s value? The Steele heiress certainly has *strategic*.” “No wonder she clawed her way onto the succession list within three years of coming home.” The whispers drifted over like smoke. My blood went cold, degree by degree. That notebook was Grandfather’s assignment. When I first returned to the Family, he’d told me to study each family’s strengths—their connections, their influence. Ashton had even helped me with it. Yet he said nothing in my defense. Let me become the eye of the storm. Noelle tugged at Ashton’s sleeve. “Did I say the wrong thing again? I just admire how capable my sister is. I’m too stupid…” He patted her head. “It’s fine. Your sister has a big heart—she won’t hold it against you.” Then he led Noelle away to greet the other guests. “Ash—” The whispers around me drowned out my voice. “I actually felt sorry for her getting upstaged… turns out she really is that calculating.” I stood rooted in place. Cold to the bone. I remembered the heavy rain three years ago, the day I was first brought back to the Steele mansion. I had grown up in an orphanage, then adopted into a family with decent means—but nothing compared to Crestfall City’s true elite. The day I was claimed, Crestfall City was drowning in rain. I stood alone outside the ancestral estate gates. Grandfather had wanted to test me—kept the doors shut for nearly an hour. That was where I met Ashton Shaw. He’d walked up with an umbrella, stopped beside me, and said: “New to the family? Don’t worry—I’ll look out for you from now on.” Now he held his umbrella over someone else. I set down my glass and turned toward the terrace. The night wind was cold on my face. The composure I had forced myself to maintain cracked, just a little. Grandfather would be back in seven days. If tonight’s story reached him, it would be a mark against me in his eyes—proof that the heiress he’d bet on couldn’t command a room. I stood there a long while before walking back inside. Callum appeared suddenly, walking fast toward me. “Viv—don’t go over there.” I followed his gaze. Ashton and Noelle were still spinning across the dance floor. So he thought I was going to make a scene. Fight for a man. Of the three childhood friends, Callum was the only one who’d shared those years with me before the adoption—those winters in the state orphanage on the south side of the city. Back then, every time they handed out apples, I’d charge to the front and grab the biggest, reddest one. Then hand it to him. Because he was slow at everything. I was afraid he’d starve. Later, when I was adopted, I used every penny of my allowance to persuade my adoptive parents to pay for his education at an expensive arts academy. I pushed him up, step by step, until he became a respected appraiser. But even that—all that effort, all that soil I gave to a weed that grew from the same mud—could never compete with an untouchable moonlight that floated just out of reach. I tried to walk past him. His hand closed around my wrist from behind. “Be smart. Ashton already made his choice—if you go up there now, you’ll only humiliate yourself more.” “Let go!” I tried to wrench free. He gripped tighter. In the struggle, my heel caught. I lost my balance backward— My back slammed against a pillar. My knees hit the marble with a dull, sickening crack. Pain exploded through me. Callum froze. “Why do you have to be like this? These three years you’ve had everything at the Steele estate—what does Noelle even have left?”

Rowan Yates—heir to the Yates mineral operation, a family that supplied raw materials to half the syndicates on the coast—and Sterling Chase, whose family ran the dirtiest private equity fund in four states, heard the noise and walked over. “Miss Steele, there’s no need to hurt yourself to win sympathy, is there? Weakness isn’t a bargaining chip in this world—it’s a death sentence. Sterling gave a lazy smile. “Is there anything our Vivian Steele wouldn’t do? We’re probably all in that little notebook of hers—stepping stones for the great heiress.” Rowan pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Vivian, you’ve already taken everything from Noelle. She was actually happy tonight—for once. Can’t you stop performing for five minutes?” “If you really want the spotlight so badly,” he said evenly, “I’ll dance with you. Would that be enough to satisfy your ego?” I staggered to my feet. “Move.” “Vivian!” Rowan lost patience. His hand shot out and seized my wrist. “If it weren’t for Sterling and me looking out for you back then, you’d still be nobody!” I tried to pull away. He twisted harder— *Crack.* A soft, sickening sound. Pain exploded from my wrist. I doubled over. Rowan froze. He stared at his own hand as if he hadn’t meant to do that. “You…” His voice went tight. “You pulled that hard just to run after a man?” I bit down on my lip, clutching my right wrist with my left hand. Cold sweat slid down my temple, dripping into my eyes. Sterling pulled a thin, cold smile. “It’s nothing. Our Vivian has weathered worse storms. A little injury like this is nothing compared to what Noelle has suffered.” The pain made the edges of my vision go dark. But I looked at him and laughed. “You’re right. It’s not enough.” I let go of my wrist. The joint hung at a wrong angle, swelling fast. My forearm looked like a broken branch. Sterling’s lazy smile finally faded. He looked away. Rowan’s voice was tight. “Stay here. I’ll call a doctor.” “No.” I pulled the corner of my mouth. “If word gets out, Grandfather won’t be pleased.” “You’re insane.” Rowan’s voice shook with anger. “You only ever care about that damn dignity. Even when Noelle had a fever so high she was seizing, you locked her in the attic and kept entertaining guests—all for your perfect heiress image.” His chest heaved. “Always calculating. Always putting your reputation and your plans above everything else.” He turned and walked away. Sterling shook his head. “Vivian, it’s one dance. Nobody asked you. Did you really have to do this to yourself?” His eyes flickered with mockery. “Or are you still playing the game, waiting to see who breaks first?” I didn’t answer. I turned and walked toward the back corridor. The wind cut cold against my skin. I leaned against the wall and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. With my left hand, I touched my swollen wrist. The pain made me shudder. But this time, I didn’t let go. The bone still connected. The pain still connected. That was enough. At nine o’clock, I returned to the Steele estate—past the iron gates, past the armed guards who checked vehicles with mirrors on poles, past the dogs. My father was waiting in the study. The room smelled of cigar smoke and old leather—and beneath that, the metallic edge of something darker. “You saw what happened tonight,” he said. “Ashton Shaw doesn’t want to marry you.” I didn’t answer. “Your grandfather is old. Your marriage needs to happen soon.” “You also saw that I’ve just been humiliated,” I said. “I’m in no state to marry anyone right now.” He looked up. “Then what do you want?” “Give me the Crestfall City territory to run,” I said. “Three years. I’ll prove I can manage an operation.” After three years, I’ll marry whoever you choose.” He studied me. “Seven days. Your grandfather comes back in seven days. By then, I want to see you married to a ‘suitable’ match.”

The word “suitable” hung in the air. My father said it with a strange emphasis. The groom’s Family rank didn’t matter. Looks, talent, education—none of it. What mattered was that the man I married had to be someone Grandfather would never accept. Someone who would make him take away my inheritance for good. Either I married into a top‑tier family like the Shaws—powerful enough to rival the Steeles—or I married someone far from Crestfall City. Someone no one would approve of. But before Ashton Shaw gave his permission, which Crestfall family would dare take me? At ten‑thirty, I walked out of the Steele private clinic. My wrist had been set and wrapped in a white cast. The night air was cold. Two armored sedans—tinted windows, reinforced chassis, the kind that cost more than most houses—pulled up in sequence. Noelle Steele got out, leaning on Ashton Shaw’s arm. A small bandage wrapped her fingertip. She walked with a delicate limp, brow faintly creased—the picture of fragile suffering. Rowan Yates and Sterling Chase climbed out of the car behind them. “Vivian?” Noelle saw me, her lashes fluttering. Her eyes quickly dropped to my right arm, hanging in a sling. “What happened to you?” Ashton looked up at me. His gaze touched the white bandage. His brow twitched—barely. Rowan stood beside Noelle, his lips pressed into a thin line. Sterling leaned against his car door, hands in his pockets, watching like it was entertainment. “Dislocated wrist,” I said shortly. I started to walk past them. “Vivian.” Noelle’s voice was soft. “I heard from Father that your wedding is set for seven days from now.” The air went still. Ashton’s face stiffened. “Seven days?” His voice turned cold. “Vivian, what game are you playing? When did I ever agree to a wedding?” I stood in the shadows and said nothing. From the time I left my father’s study until now, barely an hour had passed. Noelle had not only learned the news—she had “accidentally” told exactly the person who most needed to hear it. “Ashton…” Noelle’s eyes reddened on cue, a single tear sliding with surgical precision down her cheek. “If you and my sister are really getting married, I’ll give you my blessing.” She lowered her head. “I just… didn’t expect it to be so soon…” Annoyance flickered across Ashton’s face. He looked at Rowan and Sterling. “Take Noelle inside. Don’t let her cut get infected.” Rowan nodded without a word and stepped forward. Sterling let out a lazy laugh. “We’ll make sure Miss Steele is well taken care of. As for you, Shaw—” he glanced at me, “you’d better be careful. Someone dislocated her wrist tonight and waited until now to see a doctor. Who knows what she’s plotting.” Ashton’s brow furrowed. He watched until the three of them disappeared through the clinic doors. Then he walked closer to me. His gaze landed on the white bandage—stark against my skin in the clinic’s fluorescent spill—and lingered for approximately two seconds. He didn’t ask how I’d been hurt. “Unconfirmed rumors don’t leak from your father’s study without purpose,” he said, ice in every syllable. “Vivian, don’t play these games with me.” I looked down at my arm, at least it made the contrast crystal clear. Some people get a paper cut—and three men mobilize like it’s a declaration of war. Others can have their bones snapped—and no one even asks what happened. I lifted my eyes to him. “Does it matter to you?” “Does it matter?” He almost laughed. He grabbed my chin and forced my head up. “You belong to me. Everyone in Crestfall City knows it—our Families have an understanding. A public betrothal signal. If you walk away now, you’re not just breaking a promise. You’re breaking a pact between crime families. That has consequences.  “His eyes burned with warning. “Cancel it.” “If necessary, hold a press conference. Publicly clarify it’s a rumor. I can pretend none of this ever happened.” “What if it’s not a rumor?” His fingers tightened on my jaw. “Vivian.” His voice dropped—dangerous, absolute. The voice of a future Don issuing a final warning. “Don’t test my patience. I am not a chess piece you can trap with a marriage. If you don’t want to end things between us—stop this.” “Then let’s break up,” I said. The air went dead. Ashton stared at me like I had lost my mind. He knew me too well. He knew the way I calculated every move, every word. Most of what I had learned—he had taught me himself. Over the past three years, he had shown me what lay behind the smiles of my so‑called relatives. He had taught me to be patient, to wait, to let go of unnecessary pride when the goal mattered more. “Vivian, in this world,” he used to say, “softness and naivety are the original sins.” I had learned well. So well that now he thought even my wedding date was just another move in a game to trap him. “Vivian, I taught you those skills to protect yourself. Now look at you. You’re no different from the people you wanted to escape.” I listened, and I almost laughed. Difference? The difference was that they calculated against others, and others calculated back. But at least they knew exactly what they were doing. And me? I had once really believed that he was teaching me so that one day I could stand beside him. The ache in my wrist pulsed. But the last wave inside my chest went still. “What I am now is no longer your concern.” I kept my voice level. “I’d advise you to keep your distance, Shaw.” “Vivian.” His voice came from behind me—cold, certain, the tone of a man who’d never once doubted his own authority. “You can walk away now. But the day you come crawling back to me—remember what I taught you. The prettiest surrender is pressing your own face into the dirt.” My stride didn’t falter. I got into the car. Darkness closed in around me. My phone screen lit up in the silence. A message from my father. Brief as a blade: *Wedding announcement sent to all families.* He was using public pressure and fait accompli to wall off every exit I had left. I turned off the screen and looked out the window toward the Steele estate, where the lights blazed in every window. The household staff was already working through the night—hanging decorations, preparing the ballroom. My groom still didn’t know who he was. But soon, everyone would.

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Five years ago, my wife and my best friend sent me to prison. Five years later, I picked up a designated driver order from them. My wife stared at me, stunned, “Luke, you’re released. Why didn’t you come find me?” Before she could finish, the drunk guy next to her pulled her in and kissed her. When she finally steadied the man, I recognized him—my old best friend who’d testified against me for sexual assault and sent me to prison. I pulled my cap lower and took the keys like a pro, “Ma’am, get in. Five-star rating when we’re done, please.” Vanessa slapped the keys out of my hand. Tears streaming, she grabbed my shoulders, “Luke, come home with me right now! Do you know how much Mom, Dad, and I missed you all these years?” I shook her hands off and bent down to pick up the keys. My prosthetic banged against the bumper. Vanessa’s eyes locked on my missing leg. Tears fell. I didn’t get why she was crying. After all, she was the lawyer who believed I’d raped her best friend and personally sent me to prison. …… “Luke, what the hell happened to your leg?” Vanessa’s voice woke up the drunk Greg. He sneered at me, “Well, well, if it isn’t Luke.” “When’d you get out? Should’ve told your boy. I’d have picked you up.” Greg leaned on Vanessa’s shoulder, half-lidded eyes on me. Vanessa wiped her tears and glared at Greg, “Greg, you’re drunk. Watch your mouth.” Greg shrugged and pulled Vanessa’s waist, dragging her into him, “I’m not talking shit. Luke here fucked up and went inside. I’ve been praying every day he’d turn his life around.” Vanessa gasped, “Greg, you’re wasted. Don’t move.” The concern in her voice—exactly like how she used to talk to me. After calming Greg down, she looked at my prosthetic again, “Your leg… what did you go through in there these five years?” Her eyes were bloodshot, but I ignored her. I walked straight to the driver’s seat. “Excuse me. Move.” My movements were clumsy. The wind lifted my pant leg, exposing the cheap metal frame. Vanessa covered her mouth. Tears kept falling. “Luke, don’t be like this. Come home with me. Let’s talk this through…” She reached for me. I dodged. “Ms. Attorney, are you taking this ride or not? If not, I’m canceling.” I pulled out my phone, all business. Greg laughed and yanked Vanessa into his arms. “Babe, why bother with this rapist?” “He didn’t even spare your best friend back then. He’s getting what he deserves now!” “If you ask me, losing one leg’s too light.” Greg reeked of alcohol. Every word stabbed my chest. Five years ago, this so-called best friend got me drunk and threw me into a hotel room. When I woke up, Mia was crying and running out half-dressed. My wife Vanessa burst through the door with the cops. She didn’t listen to a single explanation. Slapped me right there. Even more pathetic—she was a top attorney, and she personally represented Mia and sent me to prison. I pulled my thoughts back and looked at Vanessa. Greg had his arm around her. She frowned but didn’t push him away. “Greg, stop it.” She turned to me, “Luke, let’s continue the ride.” “Money’s tight for you now anyway.” I didn’t say anything. She was right—I was broke. After adjusting the seat, Vanessa helped Greg into the back. The whole drive was dead silent. Only Greg’s occasional mumbling broke the quiet. “Babe, my head hurts. Rub it for me…” Vanessa cooed at him softly. I stared ahead, foot steady on the gas. Half an hour later, we pulled up to a luxury villa complex. This place used to be home for Vanessa and me. “We’re here.” Greg pulled out several hundred dollars and threw them at my face, “Keep the change. Use the rest to buy a decent prosthetic.” “Stop limping around embarrassing yourself.” Smirking, he got out with Vanessa. Vanessa stared at the cash on the floor, frowning, “Luke, don’t take it personally. Greg’s drunk.” “Take the money. Tomorrow… come to the firm tomorrow. I’ll get you a real job.” I opened the door and only picked up exactly the fare. “I don’t take his dirty money.” “Ms. Attorney, don’t forget that five-star rating.” Greg lunged to hit me, but Vanessa stopped him. I walked into the night without looking back.

I went back to my rental. When I unstrapped the prosthetic, the skin beneath was chafed to a bloody ruin. Five years ago, right after I got locked up, Greg visited. He laughed like a maniac, “Luke, you know how wild Vanessa is in bed?” “Don’t worry. Stay inside. I’ll take real good care of your wife, your house, even your company.” I lost it and slammed the glass, screaming. That same night, some inmates dragged me into a blind spot with no cameras. They used metal rods to smash my leg inch by inch. “Someone paid good money for this leg.” I was bedridden for six months. The infection got so bad they had to amputate. Back then, I hated. But five years in prison turned that hate into nothing. The next morning, urgent knocking woke me up. I thought it was the landlord chasing rent. It was Vanessa. “Luke, I made you chicken soup and mashed potatoes.” She walked right in, “Don’t take Greg’s words to heart yesterday. That’s just how he is.” “I came to talk about your future.” I leaned against the doorframe, staring coldly, “What future does a designated driver have?” “Ms. Attorney, go home. Don’t dirty your designer clothes.” Vanessa turned around and sighed, “Luke, don’t talk like that. Just apologize to Mia and get her forgiveness. I’ll let you come back to the firm.” “You can’t practice law, but there’s a cleaning position available.” “30 grand a year. Enough to live on.” She lifted her chin slightly, waiting for me to be grateful. I couldn’t help but laugh, “Vanessa, you want me to apologize to someone who framed me?” Vanessa’s face darkened instantly, “Luke! You still won’t admit your mistake?” “If I hadn’t pulled strings for leniency as your wife, you think you’d only get five years?” She got more worked up and stepped forward to drag me out. I shoved her hand away, “Vanessa, did you actually read the case file back then?” “Why did the hotel hallway cameras conveniently break?” “And what drug was in the drink I had that night?” My questions made her freeze for a second. But quickly, she cut me off impatiently, “Enough, Luke! Are you saying Greg and Mia teamed up to frame you?” “I came here to help you. Don’t be ungrateful!” I pointed at the door, voice ice-cold, “I don’t need your help. Get the fuck out.” Vanessa’s eyes widened. She couldn’t believe I’d talk to her this way, “Luke, you’re delusional! Think you’re still that hotshot lawyer from before?” “You’re a cripple now! An ex-con!” She slammed the door and left. That afternoon, as I was about to take an order, the platform sent a notification. My driver account was permanently banned due to customer complaints. The complaint: disabled pervert driver attempted to assault female passenger. Didn’t need to guess who did it. Greg, you really couldn’t wait.

Before I could even lock my door, the landlord showed up with some thugs blocking the entrance, “Luke, someone’s paying ten times the rent for this place. Get the hell out now!” Before I could react, they threw me onto the street. My clothes and belongings landed all over me. Outside, it was pouring rain. My prosthetic throbbed in the water. A Maybach pulled up, splashing mud all over me. “The great attorney reduced to a dead dog? Luke, you’re pathetic.” Greg blew out a smoke ring. Vanessa rushed out of the car with an umbrella over my head, “Luke, stop being stubborn. Just admit your mistake and bow your head.” “I’ll not only give you a job, I’ll help with housing too. Why push yourself this far?” I braced myself on the ground and stood up. “I don’t need it. So can you two lovebirds fuck off?” Vanessa’s face went stiff. “Luke! When you went to prison, if Greg hadn’t been there for me, I would’ve killed myself!” “I’m trying to help you out of kindness. Do you have to be a porcupine about it?” “Even if you won’t accept my help, don’t break your parents’ hearts. They’ve been looking for you.” Right after she said that, two figures ran over from the distance. Mom and Dad didn’t even have umbrellas. They rushed over frantically. What I didn’t expect—the first thing my parents did when they saw me was slap me across the face. “You bastard, you actually got out! We don’t have a son like you!” “Greg’s our godson now. You rapist should’ve died in prison!” After getting out, I didn’t dare see my parents. I was afraid they’d be hurt by gossip. Never expected they’d already claimed Greg as their son. Greg quickly got out to help them into the car. “Godfather, Godmother, Luke still won’t admit his mistake. Won’t even apologize to the victim.” “Let’s just forget about him. You’ve got me and Vanessa at the firm now. You can retire in peace.” Mom and Dad looked at me with disgust, “Luke, if Greg hadn’t managed the firm all these years, our life’s work would be gone.” “If you still won’t admit your mistake, you’re on your own from now on!” The Maybach drove off. I limped into the night. Even my parents didn’t believe me. I really was a failure. But to survive, I went to a construction site for labor. The foreman looked at my prosthetic and waved me off. “Get lost. We don’t hire cripples. Who’s liable if something happens?” I grabbed his arm tight, “I’m strong. I’ll take half the pay. Just give me meals.” The foreman was getting annoyed and about to push me off. A cleaning lady nearby suddenly gasped, “You… you’re Mr. Luke?” I froze. I looked closely at the woman. The cleaning lady glanced around and pulled me to a corner. She took out a voice recorder from her pocket. “Mr. Luke, I’m so sorry. Greg gave me a hundred grand back then to break the cameras.” “But I secretly recorded audio. It’s got him and Mia plotting to frame you for assault.” “Don’t tell anyone I gave this to you. My conscience just couldn’t take it anymore, so I kept this hidden.” So that was it. Five years wrongfully imprisoned. My leg gone. Finally, the truth.

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It’s Christmas Eve, and my Alpha’s maid is on the phone—thanking me for giving her dying mother the donor heart that was supposed to keep me alive. “Thank you, Luna. You’re so generous. If Marcus hadn’t broken the rules for me tonight, if he hadn’t pulled the newest heart for my mom, I don’t know how I’d get through this.” I freeze. “You’ve got the wrong wolf. Marcus is visiting another pack tonight. He left before Christmas even started. And he’d never break pack law for anyone. He’s not that kind of Alpha.” Cassie’s voice doesn’t waver. “No mistake, Luna. The second Marcus saw my post on the pack feed begging for a heart, he was at the infirmary in five minutes. Straight from the airfield.” The line goes dead. A key turns in the front door. Marcus walks in. My voice shakes. “You said… you were visiting another pack tonight.” He’s silent for two long seconds. “I had a trip planned. But Cassie’s mother was dying. I couldn’t just leave her.” His voice drops lower. “And… that donor heart you were waiting for. I had it sent to Cassie’s mom.” “You’re younger than her mother. You can wait a little longer.” My eyes flood. I have heart failure from a silver wound. He knows. He knows how rare a matching donor is for a Luna whose heart was sliced by a silver blade. And he just—gave it away? When my parents begged him to pull strings months ago, he told them life was equal. No favors. No exceptions. Now he breaks pack law for his maid? It takes me forever to find my voice. “Marcus. I’m rejecting you. And I’m reporting you to the Council of Elders.” I turn to leave. He grabs my wrist. His face is cold. “Ivy. Don’t be ridiculous. I know you’re sick. I know you’re scared. I’m your Alpha, your mate—I’m more scared than you are. But Cassie’s mom is old. She couldn’t wait. Have a little compassion.” I stare at him. Then I howl it out of me. “Her mom couldn’t wait? What about ME? I do a silver purge every week, Marcus. I’m halfway in the grave. Who’s having compassion for ME? You KNOW if I don’t get this surgery I’m DEAD.” He frowns at me like I’m being dramatic. “Stop talking like that. You have me. You’re not going to die. The next heart comes through, it’s yours.” I look at him and something inside me dies quietly. “I’ve been on this list three years, Marcus. Three years. When my parents knelt on this floor and begged you—do you remember what you said?” Tears spill over. I can’t stop them. “You wouldn’t even look at them. You yelled at them. You said life is equal. You said taking shortcuts would dishonor you, that they were trying to drag you down. And I believed you. I told myself you weren’t cold, you were just honorable. I told myself I should be proud to be your Luna.” “So why does Cassie post once on the pack feed and the heart is hers?” My voice is shaking so hard I can barely get the words out. “Where did ‘life is equal’ go, Marcus?” His eyes slide away from mine. “Cassie’s only got her mother. No father. No pack family. If her mom dies, she has no one. I felt for her. I made a quick call.” I can’t breathe. “So because she can’t lose her mother, you trade my life for hers?” My whole body is shaking. “Your quick call cuts off MY life? I’m going to the infirmary right now. She’s giving that heart back.” “ENOUGH.” His hand cracks across my face. My head snaps. The room spins. My cheek burns like fire. I stare at him. Marcus’s face goes white. He reaches for me. I jerk back. I try to swing at him but my legs give out. He catches me, panicking now, dragging me to the bed, fumbling for my meds. His phone rings. He looks at the screen and answers without hesitation. A few low words. Then he looks at me, jaw tight. “Ivy, Cassie’s mom is rejecting the transplant. I have to go. Stay here. Don’t do anything stupid.” He grabs his keys and runs. He never even finishes finding my meds. The room is empty. I crawl off the bed. I drag myself along the wall to the medicine cabinet. I swallow the pills with shaking hands. Tears run down my face. This time, my Inner wolf goes silent. Something between us is dead.

Marcus is gone three days. No call. No mindlink. Nothing. I know exactly where he is, though. Because Cassie won’t stop posting on the pack feed. While I’m collapsed in bed shaking with fever, Marcus is at the infirmary holding Cassie’s hand all night. She posts a photo of their fingers laced together. Caption: Because of you, I have the strength to fight fate. While I’m dragging two slices of moldy bread out of the fridge, Marcus is taking Cassie out for a feast. Nine photos of food. Caption: He heard I’d never been to a real restaurant as a pup. So he said he’d take me to every one in the territory. While I’m rolling on the floor in pain, Cassie posts from a moon shrine. Caption: Someone came with me to pray for my mom. But honestly, I should thank the Moon Goddess for sending me this guardian angel. The pain comes in waves. Then I realize—today is my silver purge day. Marcus forgot. Of course he did. He’s too busy with his maid. When I took that silver blade meant for him and almost died in his arms, Marcus cried into my chest. He swore that if I died, he’d follow me into the next life. He wouldn’t break pack law for me, but he’d remember every dose, every appointment, every wave of pain. When did it change? When Cassie became his maid. He used to roll his eyes when he mentioned her. “Dumb little thing. Can’t do anything right. Cries every time I correct her. Exhausting.” Then it shifted. “Poor pup. Just her and her mom. She’s clawing her way up from nothing. Tough situation.” Then the corner of his mouth would lift when her name came up. “My maid—not the brightest, but she’s got grit. You know what I love about her, Ivy? She’s so full of life. I come home every day to a Luna who can barely sit up. It’s rare to see someone who—” He caught my eyes. “I didn’t mean you, Ivy. Don’t take it like that. Once you’re healthy again, you’ll have all that energy too.” He said that. And then he started coming home later. And later. And later. Too busy. Always too busy. Too busy doing pack rounds. Too busy training Cassie. Too busy to spend Christmas with his mate. But not too busy to pull strings for Cassie’s family. Not too busy to give away the heart I’d waited three years for. I drift in and out of consciousness. At some point I think I hear Marcus’s voice. Ivy, are you feeling any better? A girl peeks out from behind him. I jolt awake. It’s not a dream. Marcus is home. He brought Cassie with him.

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The day Lily was supposed to move into her dorm, my phone lit up with two notifications. The first was Ethan’s Instagram post. In the photo, he stood between Vanessa and Mia in the lobby of The Peninsula, champagne flutes raised, captioned: “Three days of celebration for our girl. Proud of you, sweetheart.” The second was an email from Morrison & Sons Funeral Home, asking me to select an urn. On Orientation Day, six men dragged my daughter into a restroom on the east side of campus. They found her face-down in a flooded urinal. Not a single inch of her left unmarked. Three days. I identified the body, hunted down every last one of those animals, and watched them get hauled away in handcuffs. I arranged the cremation. I signed the paperwork. I did it all alone. Ethan was nowhere. I called him over a thousand times. Not one picked up. Just a single automated text he’d set for when he was busy: “In a meeting. Don’t disturb.” The morning they slid Lily into the cremation chamber, I tried one final time. The phone rang three times before someone declined the call. I stood there in that sterile white room, clutching my dead daughter’s belongings in a plastic bag, and I remembered something she’d said last year. It was her birthday—another one he missed. She’d blown out the candles alone, then turned to me with those old, tired eyes no seventeen-year-old should have. “Mom, if I die someday and Dad still isn’t in home—don’t tell him. Don’t let him come to my funeral, okay?” Okay, baby. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, booked a one-way flight, and printed the divorce papers. We don’t need his absence anymore. …… The funeral home was cold. The woman behind the counter kept glancing at the door behind me as she handed over the urn. “Just you? Where’s her father? It’s the girl’s last journey—it’s cruel if he doesn’t show.” I looked at my phone. The lock screen showed my messages. Clean. Empty. No reply in three days. Only subscription alerts from apps I never opened. I tucked the phone away. “I don’t know where he is.” “Maybe busy.” “Too busy for his own child’s—” She caught herself, softened. “I’m sorry, honey. You shouldn’t be doing this alone.” I’d seen that look dozens of times in the past seventy-two hours. Pity. From the detective. From the hospital staff. From the school counselor who called me ma’am in that careful, gentle voice people use around the freshly destroyed. I had no tears left. I took the urn—warm from the kiln, impossibly light for everything it held—and walked out. Behind me, their voices carried across the parking lot. “God, that poor woman. Her daughter was supposed to start college that day—” “Full scholarship too. Top of the whole state on her practice exams.” “And the mother tracked those boys down herself. Didn’t sleep for three days.” “The husband never showed. Not once. Maybe she’s widowed?” …… The house was dark when I got home. Past midnight. No lights on, no dinner left out, no sign anyone lived here who might have worried. Twenty years of marriage, and I was used to this. If Ethan wasn’t at the firm, he was with Vanessa. With Mia. Driving them somewhere, fixing something, buying something. Present for them in all the ways he’d never been for us. Our share of his time? There was none. For eighteen years, Lily and I split one portion of undercooked affection between us, and pretended it was enough. Now Lily was gone. And a marriage built on perpetual absence meant nothing to me anymore. I set the urn on her desk and began packing her things. Every object I touched—her hairbrush, her SAT prep books, the stuffed rabbit she’d had since she was four—cut into me like dull glass, slow and ragged. Her phone buzzed. I froze. Then picked it up. A message from Mia. A photo: an amusement park. The one Lily had begged Ethan to take her to ninety-nine times. He’d promised ninety-nine times. Showed up zero. The hundredth time, Lily held my hand beneath the Ferris wheel and waited until dark. Across the river, fireworks went up—Ethan throwing Mia a birthday party. He’d forgotten it was Lily’s birthday too. After that night, Lily never asked again. The photo was slightly blurred, a candid shot, but clear enough to gut me. Ethan—my husband, who recoiled if a stranger brushed his sleeve—carrying Vanessa on his back in the rain. One hand holding her heels, the other gripping Mia’s hand. The three of them laughing, soaked, a portrait of something warm and whole. Something Lily and I never had. Beneath it, two voice messages. Mia’s voice, sweet and breathy: “Uncle Ethan, you said if I got into a good school, you’d grant me one wish. So here’s my wish—will you be my dad?” A long pause. Then Ethan’s voice, low and fond: “Alright.” “Then I’m calling you Dad from now on! Dad, you’re the best!” Giggles. Silver-bell laughter. And Ethan, amused, indulgent: “Settle down, I’m still carrying your mother here.” I stared at the screen until it went black. Then I opened my own phone. Typed nothing. Deleted nothing. Just stared at his empty chat for a long, long time. The booking confirmation chimed. Day three. Departure at dawn.

I didn’t know when Ethan came home. When I opened my eyes, daylight was already filling the bedroom. He sat at the kitchen table eating toast, scrolling through his phone like any other morning. “When did you get back?” My voice came out wrecked—sandpaper over gravel. My forehead burned. Carrying Lily’s urn through the rain without an umbrella had done its work. “An hour ago. Vanessa got caught in the rain yesterday, her cycle’s about to start—I stayed to make sure she was alright.” Stayed. All night. Same rain. Same city. Same hours I spent shaking with fever, alone with an urn still warm from the fire. I said nothing. My eyes drifted to his wrist. A braided band, red and gold. “Is that a blessing bracelet from St. Clement’s?” “Mm. Vanessa’s daughter had her move-in this week, so I stopped by the cathedral to pick one up. Seems to have worked—Mia’s feeling good about her placement.” Stopped by. St. Clement’s was forty minutes uphill on a single-lane road. No parking within a mile. “Then why’d you bring it back?” “Lily’s not starting until next year, right? Vanessa thought we could save the luck for her.” Next year. Lily was starting this year. She would never start at all. He didn’t remember. But he remembered Vanessa’s cycle down to the day. I managed a small smile. Said nothing. Waited for him to finish. Then: “Are you free this afternoon? I need you to take a case for me.” He looked up, surprised. “What kind of case? Important?” My throat locked. It took everything I had to push the words out, flat and steady. “Important. A friend’s daughter was dragged into a bathroom during move-in week and—I need those men to get the maximum sentence.” Ethan nodded. Didn’t refuse. “Sure. What time? Vanessa mentioned Mia left a pen at the registration office—it was her father’s, sentimental value. Let me grab that first, then I’ll head straight to you.” “Two o’clock. The hearing’s today. If you go now, there’s barely enough time.” “Can’t the case wait one—” “It can’t. Please. This means everything to me. I’ll buy Mia a new pen.” Ethan sighed. Patient. Gentle. Immovable. “It’s not about the pen, Claire. That’s the only thing Mia has left from her father. They’ve been through so much, those two. It’s a small thing—let me do this for them.” “It won’t take long.” I watched him leave. Thirty-five miles round trip, for a pen. Three hours passed. Then four. Then the final boarding call for the courtroom came and went. Ethan didn’t come. I wasn’t surprised. But I called anyway. Third attempt, he picked up. “Where are you?” My voice was so calm it frightened me. “I’m sorry—Mia’s classmates, some boys, they’ve been falsely accused of assault. It’s urgent, Claire, these kids could lose everything. Your friend’s daughter can appeal—let me handle this first.” I begged him to fight for his own daughter. He told me Mia’s friends mattered more. “Forget it,” I said. “There won’t be a next time.” I hung up. Called another attorney. Paid triple the retainer for an emergency appearance. He arrived with minutes to spare. But when I stepped into the courtroom, I froze. Ethan was already there. Sitting on the other side of the aisle. Suit pressed, files open, perfectly composed. My husband—representing the men who killed our daughter.

“Claire? You’re the plaintiff? Your friend’s daughter is the one making accusations?” Ethan’s brow creased the instant he saw me across the courtroom. So that’s what it was. The men who murdered my daughter—those were the innocent boys he was defending. And Lily, my dead child, was the liar. The accuser. I laughed. It came out sharp and ugly. “Do you believe her, or do you believe me?” Ethan hesitated. Just a beat. “Maybe your friend misled you. These things aren’t always what they seem.” He said everything by saying nothing. The case went exactly as I expected. Ethan Whitmore—the Ethan Whitmore, the defense attorney every prosecutor in the state feared. I knew better than anyone what he could do in a courtroom. There wasn’t a case he couldn’t win. The lawyer I’d hired at triple rate didn’t survive a single round of cross-examination. Every piece of evidence I’d spent three sleepless days collecting, Ethan dismantled with surgical precision, calling it circumstantial, insufficient, unreliable. He hadn’t read the victim’s file. Hadn’t looked at the name on the report. He’d taken Mia’s word—just Mia’s word—and built his entire defense around it. And he won. Not guilty. All six released. The men who held my daughter’s head underwater walked out of that courtroom free. I drove home in silence. Went straight to Lily’s room—half-packed boxes everywhere—and lay on her bed. The smell of her shampoo still clung to the pillow. Lavender and vanilla. The dam broke. I don’t know how long I cried before the overhead light snapped on. Ethan. Home already. Holding a pink box. “Why are you sleeping in Lily’s room?” He barely glanced around. Didn’t notice the half-empty shelves. “After court, Vanessa wanted to thank me for helping Mia—took me to dinner. She thought you might be upset about losing, so she sent this.” He held up the box. “Strawberry cake. Her and Mia’s favorite. They insisted.” He pushed it toward me. I didn’t take it. When Lily was five, she ate strawberries laced with residual pesticide. Went into anaphylactic shock. Nearly died on the way to the hospital. After that, strawberry was banned from this house. I’d told him a hundred times. He remembered every one of Vanessa’s preferences. Never once remembered ours. When I didn’t move, Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Still upset about the trial? Look—Mia explained everything. Those boys were innocent. The girl was—she had a reputation. Slept around. Probably negotiated a price and things went sideways—” The slap cracked through the room before I knew my hand had moved. He stumbled. Touched his cheek. Stared at me. “Do you have any idea,” my voice shook so badly the words barely held together, “that the girl you just called a slut is—” “Enough.” His tone was still level. Still reasonable. Still that calm, authoritative voice he used to shut down arguments. “Fine. I cost you the case. I’ll take responsibility for that. But don’t—” I looked at him and felt every drop of fury drain out of me at once, replaced by something vast and empty. “You’re right. You think what you want. I need to go out—move aside.” Lily’s school still had her belongings. I needed them back. Ethan shifted, then paused. Scanned the room for the first time. Something flickered across his face. “Where’s Lily? Haven’t seen her in a few days.” Three days. It took him three days to notice his daughter was missing. Three days during which he’d argued in court that she deserved what happened to her. “She’s out.” “Hm.” He didn’t ask where. I didn’t offer. I was reaching for my shoes when he spoke again. “Oh—Claire, Vanessa and Mia are coming over tonight. Pick up some lobster on your way back, would you? She loves it.” She loves it. I’m allergic to shellfish. “Sure.” Twenty-seven hours until my flight. I was done fighting.

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I drained my pure white wolf soul to build my Alpha’s empire, only for him to sever our mate bond, claim my best friend, and leave me to die on a muddy battlefield. But the Moon Goddess granted me a second chance. Reborn on my eighteenth birthday, the day of the Mate Selection Ceremony, I stand before the elite Alphas of North America. Lucius expects me to fall into his arms again so he can leech my power. Instead, I walk past the golden boy and point to the rusted iron cages on execution row. I claim Ryker, a poisoned, battle-scarred rogue chained in the shadows. Everyone thinks I have lost my mind. They assume my new mate is a dying stray who will drag me down to the dirt, leaving me vulnerable and weak. They couldn’t be more wrong. My feral rogue is hiding a world-shattering secret. He is the exiled Alpha King. …… Aurelia POV I drained my pure white wolf to build my Alpha mate’s empire. In return, he severed our bond, claimed my best friend, and left me to be torn apart by his warriors. But the Moon Goddess gave me a second chance. And this time, I am not choosing the golden Alpha. I am claiming the poisoned rogue in the iron cage. — Blood filled my lungs. I dragged my broken body across the soaked mud, reaching for the man I loved. My white wolf had completely vanished. I had drained every drop of my power into our Mate Bond, sacrificing my own life force to secure Lucius’s victory. “Lucius, we won,” I gasped, lifting my trembling, blood-stained hand toward him. Lucius calmly wiped his silver broadsword. He looked down at me, his eyes holding zero warmth. Then, he took a deliberate step back, intentionally avoiding my bloody fingers. He did not offer his hand. A pair of pristine white boots stopped beside him. Chloe. She was my best friend. “Ew, she’s a mess,” Chloe whined, scrunching her nose. She leaned her head against Lucius’s armored shoulder. Lucius wrapped a protective arm around her waist. He looked down at me. His eyes held zero warmth. “What are you doing?” I coughed, spitting a glob of black blood onto the mud. “Chloe? Help me up.” “Help you?” Chloe laughed, a high, grating sound. “Why would I help a dead weight? He doesn’t need you anymore.” “Thanks for the power, Aurelia,” Lucius sneered. He kicked dirt onto my face. “A supreme Alpha needs a real Luna. Not a dried-up husk. You have no wolf power left. You’re useless. Chloe is my true love. She will be my Luna! ” “What?” I widened my eyes and looked at my best friend. “Why? Chloe! We grew up together! You are my best friend!” My vision blurring. “I shared everything with you.” “I was your shadow!” Chloe spat, her face twisting into an ugly snarl. “The charity case Omega. ‘Look at Aurelia, so generous to the poor little Omega’. I hated every second of it!” “Your father even gave me a terrifying rogue captive as a mate. He expected me to share my power with a lowly prisoner! ” “But look at you now, Crystal Moon’s proud princess. You’re more pathetic than that dead rogue. ” I turned to Lucius. “Lucius, I choose you to be my mate! I shared my power with you! How could you betrayed me?” My lips trembled. Tears filled in my eyes. Everyone thought he was a prodigy. A once-in-a-generation talent. They didn’t know the truth. My Mate Bond possessed a rare genetic trait, Power Amplification and Sharing. I offered him the bond willingly. I let him siphon my strength, turning my pure wolf power into his destructive force. He built his entire reputation on my life force. But he was a parasite! Lucius smirked and spat out the cruel words. “I, Alpha Lucius Ramsey from Shadow Moon Pack, hereby, rejects you, Aurelia Delaney from Crystal Moon Pack, as my mate!” The golden thread of the Mate Bond in my chest snapped. A physical tear ripped through my heart. I screamed, arching my back. He severed our mate bond! Lucius turned to the five warriors of his pack behind him. They reeked of stale sweat, cheap liquor, and unwashed bodies. “Have fun with her, boys,” Lucius ordered, tossing them a pouch of gold coins. “She has no wolf left. She won’t last long.” Those warriors shifted into human forms. They grinned, revealing rotting teeth. They unbuckled their belts. “No,” I pleaded, trying to crawl away. My limbs felt like lead. “Lucius, don’t do this!” He walked away. He kissed Chloe passionately. They didn’t look back. Rough hands grabbed my hair. They tore my armor, ripping the leather from my skin. I fought. I bit a man’s wrist. I scratched another’s face. A heavy fist slammed into my jaw. The metallic taste of blood flooded my mouth. My vision swam. A rusted blade pierced my stomach. Pain eradicated all thought. The men laughed, pulling at my clothes. I stared at the red moon hanging above the slaughter. My blood soaked into the earth. I swear on the Moon Goddess, I vowed in my mind, my spirit fracturing. If I get another chance, I will tear their throats out. I will make Lucius beg for death. Darkness swallowed me. A sharp gasp tore from my throat. The scent of roasted pine and expensive floral perfume flooded my nose. My eyes snapped open. I stood upright. No mud. No blood. No freezing rain. I touched my stomach. Smooth silk. No stab wound. I ran my hands over my arms, feeling warm, unbroken skin. Crystal chandeliers blazed above me, casting golden light across a massive marble floor. A live string quartet played a cheerful waltz in the corner. Hundreds of wolves in tailored suits and designer gowns stared at me, waiting. The Crystal Moon Pack’s grand hall. My 18th birthday. The Mate Selection Ceremony. I closed my eyes, pressing a hand to my chest. The suffocating Mate Bond with Lucius did not exist. My pure white wolf soul roared inside me, full, powerful, and pristine. I was alive. I was eighteen again. Alpha Silas, my father, placed a heavy, warm hand on my shoulder. His voice boomed across the silent hall, vibrating with pride. “Aurelia, my sweetheart. Today you become a full member of our pack. Look at these Alphas. The strongest heirs in North America stand before you. Who do you choose for a mate?” I opened my eyes and scanned the crowd. Chloe was standing near the towering dessert table. She bit her lower lip, playing the innocent, supportive best friend. She wore the pale blue dress I bought her last week. Her eyes tracked Lucius with hungry desperation. I saw Lucius standing in the front row. He wore a custom-tailored black suit. His golden hair caught the chandelier light perfectly. He stood tall, projecting the aura of a genius Alpha. He looked confident, exactly like the man who left me to die in the mud. My inner wolf Snow bared her teeth. Kill him, she snarled in my mind, her claws scraping against my ribs. Not yet, I answered my wolf. Death is a mercy. Snow, I will strip them of everything they desire. Let’s watch them rot. I squared my shoulders. The naive, love-struck Aurelia died on that battlefield. The woman standing here was forged in betrayal. I lifted my chin, meeting the expectant gaze of the crowd. “It’s time to choose,” my father urged.

Aurelia POV My father’s question hung in the air. The grand hall buzzed with hushed whispers. Lucius stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking on the marble. His Shadow Moon pack members cheered from the sidelines, raising their glasses. He adjusted his silk tie and walked toward the dais with the swagger of a king claiming his throne. He extended his large hand to me, flashing that arrogant, practiced smile I once thought was charming. “Aurelia,” Lucius purred, his voice dripping with fake affection. “We both know there’s only one choice. Come to your Alpha. Let’s unite our packs and rule together.” The crowd murmured in agreement. It was the expected outcome. The perfect political match. The strongest Alpha and the only white wolf. I looked down at his outstretched hand. I remembered the blood on his armor. I remembered his cold eyes as the warriors tore my clothes. I felt a wave of nausea. I raised my hand and slapped his palm away with all my strength. The sharp smack echoed like a gunshot through the silent hall. Lucius’s smile vanished instantly. His hand dropped to his side. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking near his ear. The cheering from his pack members died in their throats. “What are you doing, Aurelia?” Lucius hissed through his teeth, trying to maintain his composure. “You’re embarrassing yourself.” “Don’t touch me,” I ordered. My voice carried a freezing command that made several lower-ranking wolves in the front row flinch. “Are you joking?” Lucius leaned closer, his eyes flashing with suppressed anger. “Stop playing games. We grow up together! Take my hand. Everyone is watching.” “You flatter yourself, Lucius,” I mocked, scanning him from head to toe with utter disgust. “I would rather mate with a rotting corpse than tie my soul to yours.” Gasps erupted across the room. My father gripped the armrest of his chair. “Aurelia! What happened? He is the strongest Alpha here!” Chloe stepped out of the crowd, her face pale, playing the sweet peacemaker. “Aurelia, Lucius is the famous genius Alpha. He is rich and strong. He can protect you. Don’t be foolish and ruin your future.” “Keep your advice, Chloe,” I snapped, glaring at her fake innocent face. “If you want him so much, take him. You two deserve each other.” Chloe’s eyes widened in feigned shock, but I caught the greedy spark hidden in her pupils. She took a half-step closer to Lucius. Lucius looked at me, his pride visibly bruised. He sneered, “You’ll regret this. Aurelia. No other Alpha here will dare to accept you as the mate after you insulted me.” “I don’t need your protection, and I don’t want any Alpha,” I said. I turned away from the elite crowd. I walked down the marble steps, heading toward the far wall of the hall. The iron cages lined the shadows. The execution row. My father displayed captured rogues and criminals during major ceremonies to show his absolute power. Tomorrow at dawn, they would be beheaded. The crowd parted for me, whispering in confusion and horror as I approached the filthy cages. I stopped in front of the last one. Inside sat a rogue. Ryker. Thick silver links pierced his collarbones, pinning him to the iron bars. Dirt and dried black blood coated his heavily scarred, muscular torso. He sat in the shadows, radiating a lethal, wild heat that made the surrounding air feel heavy. As I stepped closer, he lifted his head. Matted, jet-black hair stuck to his forehead, framing a razor-sharp jawline and hollowed cheeks. Silver poison made his massive frame tremble. Yet, thick, lethal muscles coiled across his broad chest and abdomen with every heavy breath. Jagged knife wounds carved through the intricate, dark runic tattoos covering his torso. A low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest, rattling the iron bars. He looked like a cornered beast, ready to rip my throat out the second I got within striking distance. He was Chloe’s mate in my past life. Chloe called him a terrifying monster. I remembered he was died of wolfsbane in my past life. It must be Chloe poisoned him to escape a lowly bond. But now I looked at him, my pulse hammered against my ribs. I felt zero fear. The brutal scars and archaic ink wrapping his muscular body looked primal. Intoxicating. Dangerously sexy. The heavy scent of pine, and dark iron flooded my lungs, overriding the sickeningly sweet perfumes in the room. My inner wolf whined, pacing in my mind. Not in fear. She said. “He will be our mate!” “Aurelia, step away from that filth!” my father roared, abandoning his throne and rushing forward. “He’s a rabid rogue! He’ll kill you!” “No, Dad!” I reached through the rusty bars. I grabbed the silver chain binding Ryker’s wrists. His golden eyes snapped to mine. They burned with a feral, terrifying intensity. He yanked the chain, pulling me flush against the iron bars. The metal bit into my collarbone. His face was inches from mine. His breath, hot and smelling of copper, fanned my cheek. “Leave, little princess,” Ryker rasped, his voice rough like grinding stones. “Before I bite your pretty face off. My blood is poison. You come any closer, and I will tear you apart.” I tilted my chin up, refusing to break eye contact. I saw his rage. The silver poisoning burning his veins. “Do it,” I challenged, tracing a finger over his bruised, bloody knuckle. “Bite me.” Ryker’s pupils dilated until his eyes were almost entirely black. His massive chest heaved. He leaned in, his nose brushing my jawline. He inhaled my scent, a possessive rumble vibrating in his throat. He didn’t bite. He didn’t push me away. I turned my head, looking back at the stunned crowd. Lucius stood frozen, his face purple with humiliation and fury. Chloe stared with her mouth open, unable to comprehend my actions. My father looked ready to order his guards to shoot the rogue. I raised my voice, ensuring every single person in the hall heard my final decision. “My mate,” I announced, pointing at the bloodied rogue in the cage. “It’s him. Rogue Ryker!”

Aurelia POV “Have you lost your mind?” Alpha Silas slammed his fist against the marble pillar. A hairline crack spider-webbed across the white stone. “Rogues are trash!” Silas roared, pointing a trembling finger at the cage. “We hand them to Omegas as punishment. You are my heir, Aurelia. Step away from that filthy cage. Stop joking!” I kept my hands wrapped around Ryker’s rusted chains. The jagged metal cut into my palms. Warm blood trickled down my wrists. I felt no pain, zero hesitation, only the thrumming anticipation of my wolf. “I am not joking, Dad,” I said, my voice echoing off the high ceiling. “I possess the only white wolf. I carry Alpha-level strength in my blood. I refuse to let another Alpha control my life. I claim this rogue.” Lucius’s face turned a violent, mottled red. The elite crowd stared at him. Whispers erupted behind crystal champagne flutes. The golden boy of the werewolf elite stood rejected. He needed a lifeline for his shattered pride. He grabbed Chloe’s arm. He yanked her out of the crowd and pinned her against his chest. “Fine! You want to breed with garbage?” Lucius sneered, his lip curling in disgust. “Go ahead. I will take this Omega. Chloe knows how to respect a real Alpha.” Chloe let out a high-pitched gasp. She played the startled, innocent victim perfectly. Her hands slid up his chest, resting flat against his tailored lapels. They settled against each other with practiced ease. A breeze from the open balcony swept past them. Their scents hit my nose. Sour musk of wolves who shared a bed. My stomach churned. The puzzle pieces from my past life clicked together. They had been sleeping together for months right under my roof. They made a fool of me while planning to drain my wolf force. “Oh, Lucius,” Chloe murmured. She projected her voice to ensure the entire hall heard her. She cast a pitying glance my way. “I accept. I will honor our bond. I would never shame you like she did.” Lucius leaned down. He bit the crook of her neck. A faint, anemic silver thread materialized between them. It signified their weak bond. Chloe winced. A flash of pain crossed her features. Lucius was already draining a fraction of her energy to soothe his bruised ego. Let her enjoy her prize. She would learn the true cost soon enough. The iron cage rattled behind me. Ryker yanked his wrists apart. The heavy chains groaned under the pressure. Black veins pulsed along his scarred collarbones, tracing the toxic liquid silver in his bloodstream. His golden eyes burned into mine. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Back off, crazy girl,” Ryker rasped. His massive chest heaved against the rusty bars. “I am pumped full of liquid silver and wolfsbane. My blood is toxic waste. You link your wolf soul to mine, the poison will travel through the bond. It will rip your heart apart. You will die.” He bared his fangs. I read the tension in his rigid shoulders. He worried the mate bond would pass his agony to me. This terrifying captive, beaten and poisoned, possessed more honor and kindness than the polished Alpha standing in the center of the room. I stepped closer and grabbed his bare shoulders. His skin scorched my palms like an open furnace. I shoved my hands into his matted hair. I dragged his face forward until his forehead hit the iron bars. I crashed my lips against his. Coarse stubble scraped my chin. He tasted like copper, rain, and raw danger. He froze. A guttural groan vibrated up his throat, rumbling directly against my mouth. His massive hands shot through the bars. He gripped my waist. His thumbs dug into the silk of my dress, pressing into my hip bones. He branded my skin with his feverish heat and pulled me flush against the iron, eliminating every inch of space between us. A low growl vibrated in his chest, claiming the bond. I pulled back a fraction of an inch. Our lips still brushed. “I dare the poison to try,” I whispered. I tilted my head. I sank my fangs into the thick muscle of his neck. Ryker roared. A raw, earth-shattering sound tore from his chest. I tasted the bitter ash of the wolfsbane rushing through his veins. My white wolf surged forward to meet it. Pure, blinding light erupted from my core. Thick golden threads burst from my chest. They wrapped around Ryker’s massive torso. Our souls fused in a violent collision of magic. The golden light rushed into his bloodstream. It struck an invisible wall inside Ryker. A heavy seal locking away his true nature. My white wolf slammed into the barrier. The seal trembled under the impact. A single, jagged crack split the surface. Only a tiny fragment of the lock broke away. But a shockwave of suffocating pressure exploded from the cage. The rusted iron bars warped outward, groaning under the force. Marble tiles cracked and spider-webbed beneath my feet. The crystal chandeliers above us swayed, sending glass raining down onto the screaming crowd. The pressure hit the hall like a physical blow. Alphas dropped to their knees. They clutched their chests, fighting to breathe. Betas collapsed onto their stomachs, gasping for air against the floorboards. Gammas and omegas whimpered, covering their ears and curling into balls. The terrifying aura crushed the room. It forced every single head to bow. I stood inside the center of the storm, remained perfectly safe, anchored to Ryker’s chest. The air around us hummed with lethal electricity. Ryker’s golden eyes glowed. The black veins on his neck vanished, replaced by the gold of our unbroken bond. Lucius fell to one knee. He grabbed his throat, struggling to pull oxygen into his lungs. His golden aura flickered under the rogue’s power. His face turned an ashen gray. He stared at the chained man in the cage. “That pressure…” Lucius choked out, his whole body trembling. Blood dripped from his nose, spotting the pristine marble floor. “That is no rogue… What the hell is he?”

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Mom and Dad emptied their savings,every dollar from the last twenty years,to buy me a condo in Los Angeles. They did it over my brother Jason’s objections. I moved in with my heart full. One month later, the SCE app pinged with a new bill notification. The amount due: $15,000. I’m cooked. I drove straight to the SCE customer service center in Rosemead and asked them to pull a Usage Report. The woman behind the counter looked at the printout and shook her head. “Ma’am, your bill is system-generated. All usage data comes directly from the Smart Meter assigned to your unit. There’s no error.” To figure out what was going on, I unplugged every single appliance in the place. Fridge. Microwave. Washer-dryer combo. AC unit. Everything disconnected. I even started charging my phone at the office in Culver City. The second month’s bill came in. $15,000. I graduated from UCLA a few months ago. I’m a junior product manager at a tech startup, barely clearing six figures a year. Fifteen thousand dollars a month in electricity is more than most people’s mortgage. There’s no way I can pay this. SCE sent an Overdue Notice first. Then a Collections Warning. Then they reported it straight to the credit bureaus. My score cratered overnight,780 down to 520. With a lawsuit breathing down my neck, Mom and Dad borrowed money to bail me out. They went to a small storefront lender on Vermont Avenue. I found out later it was a predatory lender charging over 400% APR. I tried to sell the condo. But the electric bill situation had already spread through the building. Listed on Zillow for two months,not a single showing. What realtor would touch a unit with a $15,000 monthly electric bill and no explanation? Especially in a market as cold as LA’s. The bills kept stacking. I pulled every breaker in my panel. Refused to use a single watt. Sat in the dark eating cold food. Went downstairs to the 24 Hour Fitness to shower. Third month’s bill arrived. $15,000. Jason didn’t buy it. He drove over an hour from Rancho Cucamonga and stood at my door, ripping into me. “Emily, you’re nothing but an ungrateful leech. Using your electric bill as a scam to bleed Mom and Dad dry.” “They spent their entire lives getting up before dawn to run that laundromat. And this is how you repay them?” Mom and Dad gave up on me after that. Changed the locks at the house in Boyle Heights. Left me to fend for myself. Within months, the predatory loan’s compounding interest plus the SCE debt snowballed past $150,000. The collectors stopped calling. They showed up in person. In the parking structure of my own building, they beat me to death. — I open my eyes. I’m standing in the lobby of the condo building. Sunlight pours through the glass doors. The security guard at the front desk scrolls through his phone. This is moving day. After graduating from UCLA, I spent three months searching Zillow. Studio apartments at $2,200 a month. One-bedrooms at $2,800. Buying was out of the question,a fixer-upper in Boyle Heights starts at $600K. So when Mom and Dad said they wanted to buy me a condo outright, I thought it was the only shot I’d ever have at owning a home. How could I possibly say no? And now, here I am again. Dad dangles a set of keys in front of my face, that familiar warmth crinkling around his eyes. “Emily, what are you spacing out for? Don’t tell me you’re so touched you short-circuited.” “Our Emily finally has her own place! Get up there and check it out!” The memories of my death slam into me all at once. The concrete floor of the parking structure. The taste of blood in my mouth. The sound of ribs caving in under someone’s boot. A violent shudder rips through my body. I force the words out fast. “Dad! Jason just got married last month. You guys already helped him buy a house in Rancho Cucamonga.” “And now a condo for me the very next month? That’s way too much money!” “Maybe we should… return it?” Dad blinks. Then bursts out laughing. “Sweetheart, you think this is Costco? You can’t return a condo.” Mom laughs too, takes the keys from Dad’s hand, and presses them into my palm. Her hand is warm. Her grip leaves no room for argument. “Emily, whatever your brother gets, you get too.” “We don’t play favorites. That’s our bottom line. Non-negotiable.” “Your dad and I need to get back to the shop to close out the books. Go on up and see your new home.” We don’t play favorites. I push open the door with a weight sitting heavy on my chest. The condo is brand new. Dark hardwood floors. White quartz countertops. Stainless steel appliances. Even the bathroom tile is this year’s trend. The air smells like fresh paint and new furniture. Mom and Dad clearly spent serious money. They said if they were going to do it, they’d do it right. Turnkey. Move in and enjoy. I scan every inch of the unit. One bedroom, one bath, living room, kitchen. I check each room carefully. No high-draw appliances. No space heater. No server rack. No mining rig. Even if you added everything together, there’s no way it hits $15,000 a month. I open my phone. Pull up the SCE app. My brain goes white. The screen shows that since the account activated, this unit has consumed 237 kilowatt-hours. 237 kWh is what a normal American household uses in an entire month. I’ve had the keys for one hour. “That’s impossible… What the hell is going on?” I tear through everything I can find. SCE’s FAQ. Reddit’s electrical forums. Every Google result about abnormal electric bills. Anything. Any explanation at all. Then something catches my eye. A news article: “Man’s Electric Bill Triples Overnight , Turns Out His Neighbor Was Stealing Power Through the Walls” It hits me like a freight train. Of course. Last time around, I searched my own unit inch by inch. Every outlet, every wire,nothing wrong. I even pulled every single breaker in my panel, and the Smart Meter kept spinning. But if someone tapped into my electrical system from outside my unit… everything would make perfect sense. I get on Yelp and find the highest-rated licensed electrical inspection company in all of Los Angeles. A guy named Mike, runs his own firm out of Pasadena. Been in the business for decades. Mike shows up, takes one look at the building, and his expression darkens. “Ms. Rivera, auditing the electrical system of an entire building is no small job.” “I’ll need access to every single unit, which means you need written authorization from the HOA board first. And the cost,a full-building audit runs eight to ten thousand dollars, minimum. You sure you want to do this?” I check my banking app. Balance: $487.32. I clench my jaw, open Capital One, and max out my credit card. Then I download Affirm and finance the rest through Buy Now Pay Later. If I can’t spend this money now, what I’ll pay later is my life. After putting down the deposit, I spend two solid days going door to door. Knocking. Explaining. Pleading. Practically begging every neighbor to let Mike’s team in. Then I track down the HOA president,Mrs. Patterson, a woman in her sixties with hair dyed an aggressive blonde,and sweet-talk her into signing the authorization letter. Mike’s team begins the full-building audit. My heart is in my throat. Unit by unit. Floor by floor. Panel by panel. When Mike finishes the last unit on the top floor, I’m waiting for him in the hallway, eyes wide, desperate for an answer. Any answer. A mislaid wire. An illegal splice. A neighbor secretly running a grow house. Anything. As long as it explains this. But Mike just stands there. His face is grim. He lets out a long breath. “Ms. Rivera… nobody’s stealing your power. Every unit in this building is clean.” He pauses. Something close to pity flickers in his eyes. “All the usage is coming from your unit. I’m sorry… I honestly can’t explain it.” —

My eyes go wide. That’s impossible. Last time, I stripped the place bare. Not a single appliance left. Not even a USB charger. There was nothing left to draw power. This time around I haven’t gone that far, but all I’ve got running is a fridge, a washer-dryer combo, and a few LED lights. That’s 30 to 40 kWh a month, tops. There’s no universe where it hits 237 in a single hour. Mike packs up his Fluke meter and shakes his head. “Ms. Rivera, I’ve been doing this for twenty years. Never seen anything like it. I’d recommend you contact SCE and have them send a field engineer to check your Smart Meter.” He signs the invoice on his iPad and walks out without looking back. I sink to the floor. Last time, I called everyone I could think of. SCE customer service,at least twenty calls. The LA Department of Building and Safety came out twice. I filed reports with LAFD and LAPD. When I had nowhere left to turn, I called the State Attorney General’s consumer complaint hotline. Every single person told me the same thing: “We don’t see any irregularity in your account, ma’am.” Nothing. Nobody found anything. Ding-dong. The Ring doorbell chimes. A push notification lights up my screen. Jason stands in the hallway. His tie is loose, his face like a storm cloud. He must have driven over an hour from Rancho Cucamonga to get here. The second I open the door, his eyes sweep the freshly renovated interior. Every detail registers as resentment and rage. “Emily, congrats. You finally won one.” “I’ve still got twenty-eight years left on my mortgage. Four grand a month just in principal and interest. But Mom and Dad? They drop cash on a condo for you. No loan. No payments. Just here you go.” “Must feel pretty damn good, huh?” I crack a bitter smile. I don’t feel good. I feel like crying. Growing up, Mom and Dad always said “We don’t play favorites.” But Jason got Sylvan Learning Center. I taught myself at the public library. The college fund only had his name on it. Even the laundromat’s succession plan was quietly decided at the dinner table,all his. Me? I walked into the Financial Aid Office alone to figure out my student loans. The one time they actually give me something better than my brother, and it turns out to be this. SLAM. I shove the door shut. The deadbolt clicks twice. Jason kicks the door from the outside, curses his way down the hall. The elevator dings somewhere at the end of the corridor. I stare at my phone. The numbers on the SCE app are still climbing. Fast. Anger. Injustice. Hurt. Confusion. Every emotion hits at once. I dig through the coat closet by the door and pull out the sledgehammer I borrowed on moving day. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. I swing like I’ve lost my mind. The quartz countertop. The hardwood floor. The IKEA PAX wardrobe. The Casper mattress and its frame. Mike says it’s my power? Fine. I’ll smash everything to pieces. I’ll find whatever’s pulling electricity if it kills me. Shrapnel bites into my skin. Sharp, searing pain. I don’t feel it. I just keep swinging. When there’s nothing left to break, I pull out my phone with trembling hands. The SCE app reads: 2,500 kWh. “How is this possible?” The place is destroyed. Everything reduced to rubble. But the number keeps climbing. I refuse to accept this. I post an emergency ad on Craigslist,$500 cash for someone to tear out the walls. Two hours later, three day laborers show up. Two Mexican guys and a young Guatemalan, picked up straight from the Home Depot parking lot. They brought their own tools. Nothing left in the apartment. Electricity still surging. Maybe the answer is inside the walls. They work the entire day. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom. Every partition wall demolished. The unit is gutted. Nothing remains but bare wooden stud frames and four load-bearing walls. Shredded drywall hangs in strips. Wires dangle from gaps in the ceiling like a nest of dead snakes. I stand in the wreckage, hands shaking, and open my phone. This time. It has to stop. The SCE app number is still climbing. Ice floods my veins from the base of my spine to the top of my skull. —

This time, it isn’t just me. All three day laborers are staring at the screen, passing my phone between them. One of the Mexican guys mutters in Spanish,”Esto es imposible”,then switches to English. “Lady, there’s literally nothing left in here. How the hell is it still pulling juice?” The Guatemalan kid crosses himself, barely above a whisper. “Señorita… tal vez este lugar está maldito.” Maybe this place is cursed. He doesn’t finish the sentence. The other two are already packing up their tools. No invoice. They don’t even collect the full $500. All three file out single-file. The last one through the door makes the sign of the cross on the doorframe. I stare at the hollow shell of the condo. Bare studs. Dangling wires. Debris everywhere. Nothing but despair. I grew up in America. I studied engineering at UCLA. I have never believed in the supernatural. But right now, I can’t think of another explanation. What am I supposed to do? Am I going to drown in six figures of debt all over again? Ding-dong. The Ring doorbell. This time it’s Mom and Dad. They’re standing at the door holding two Whole Foods bags, all smiles. Inside: my favorite avocados and a box of Porto’s guava cheese pastries. “Emily, it’s been crazy at the shop. A new employee ruined a customer’s Armani suit in the wash,cost us two grand. We just now got a chance to come see you.” “So? How’s the new place? Feeling settled in?” I let out a hollow laugh. Don’t answer. They peer past me into the unit. The smiles freeze on their faces. Dad pushes through the door. He takes in the rubble, the exposed stud frames, and goes rigid. “We paid for turnkey! How did it end up like this? It looks worse than a fixer-upper!” I pull out my phone, open the SCE app, and hand it to them. The color drains from both their faces. Dad kicks a half-broken IKEA chair across the floor. “That goddamn realtor! I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him! Emily, don’t worry,Dad’s going to handle this. I’ll report him to the BBB myself!” Mom doesn’t say a word. She quietly pulls a roll of Bounty and some Hefty trash bags out of the grocery bag, kneels down, and starts picking up debris. Watching her small frame bent over that wreckage, I can’t hold it together anymore. Last time, I dragged them down with me. Pushed them straight into the arms of a predatory lender to cover my debts. I will not let that happen again. I pick through the bedroom rubble until I find a pen and a blank sheet of printer paper. I start writing my Last Will and Testament. If I can’t figure out the cause, the condo goes to the LA County Public Administrator after I die. Donated to Habitat for Humanity. That way, no matter how high the bills climb, none of it touches Mom and Dad. I’m halfway through when something catches my eye under the remains of the desk. A length of Romex wire. Yellow sheathing. 12-gauge. This wire has no business being here. The condo’s circuits all run from the breaker panel through the ceiling and down into the walls. There is no legitimate wiring path under a desk. My heart slams against my ribs. Could this be it? The source of everything? I grab the wire and pull, trying to trace where it leads. No matter how hard I tug, I can’t reach the end. “Emily, what are you doing?” Mom’s voice. Right behind me. I spin around. Her eyes are locked on the yellow wire in my hand. That warm, Whole-Foods-bag-carrying mother expression is gone. Replaced by something cold. Something I’ve never seen on her face before. A knot tightens in my gut. A terrible thought, still shapeless, begins to form. I force a smile. Keep my voice light. “Just tidying up the bedroom, Mom. Didn’t want you doing all the cleanup by yourself.” Mom studies me for a long beat. Then she snatches the wire from my hand, shoves it back into the rubble, and grabs my arm to pull me out of the bedroom. “You need rest, Emily. You’ve been running yourself ragged.” I try to circle around her, back toward the wire. She’s faster. She plants herself between me and the rubble, both hands clamping around my wrists like a pair of vice grips. Her strength is terrifying,way more than a woman her size should have. The look on her face. The way she’s blocking me. The panic inside me swells. Why does she keep stopping me from checking that wire? What is she hiding? The memories of my death crash through me again. Concrete floor. Blood in my mouth. The wet crack of bone under someone’s heel. Something in me snaps. I wrench free of her grip, grab the yellow Romex wire, and yank with everything I have. The next second, my pupils shrink to pinpoints. —

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Five years after my firefighter husband died saving me, I walk into his baby’s 100-day party , and he’s not dead. I am. Eason freezes mid-laugh, his hand still on the baby’s cheek. He sees me. And behind him, all our old friends — the ones who cried with me, who told me to move on — they step in front of him like a wall. “Jenna, don’t. He had a reason for faking his death.” I look at these people. These perfect actors. And my voice comes out calm. “The three times I swallowed sleeping pills out of guilt and had my stomach pumped… you were all laughing at me, weren’t you？” No one says a word. No one looks at me. Then Charlotte , his childhood best friend, the one holding the baby — starts crying. Her body’s still soft from birth. “I’m sorry, Jenna. The baby needs his dad. Please don’t take him away. I just love him too much.” I should scream. Throw things. Lose my mind. But I feel nothing. Five years of guilt, of grief, of thinking I killed the man I loved , it all just died. Right here. Right now. Behind Charlotte, a big screen plays their photos. Pregnancy. Birth. First cry. This party. And one photo on top.Charlotte in a loose maternity dress. Ethan on his knees, ear to her belly. The caption: Finally. I stare at the timestamp.July 23, 2019. Seven days after the fire. Seven days after they told me he was gone. After the official report said I caused his death. After the headlines called me the wife who killed a hero. After his parents screamed at me ,  Why aren’t you dead? After my own mom whispered, Maybe don’t come home for a while. The neighbors talk. So I took the pills.The first time, the landlord found me. Nurses whispered while they pumped my stomach — That’s her. The one who got her husband killed.No one ever asked why I ran into that fire. I got a call that night. Unknown number. A man’s voice said Ethan was trapped in an old warehouse. I heard Ethan groan in the background. So I ran in.I saw him. I pulled at him. Then a beam collapsed. He pushed me away. Shoved me. And then the fire took him. No body. Nothing. For five years, I believed it was my fault. But while I was crying over a grave that didn’t exist, Ethan was right here. Watching Charlotte’s belly grow. I grab a glass of champagne from a waiter and walk straight toward the main table. Charlotte hugs the baby tighter. Ethan jumps up, blocking her. “Jenna. Let me explain.” All those friends stand up too. Forming a wall. “He had to disappear. Someone was after him.” “It was to protect you.” I laugh.Do they really think I’m going to throw champagne at a baby? I sit down at an empty table nearby. Raise my glass to them. “Your baby’s beautiful. I mean it.”Weirdly, I do. Because Charlotte wasn’t just his childhood friend. She was my only friend in this city.

I’ve always been a loner. So after college, I moved to this city by myself and started from nothing. The first time I rented an apartment, I got scammed out of all my savings. I was squatting on the sidewalk with my suitcase, crying, when Charlotte handed me a tissue. “I have an extra bedroom. I’ll rent it to you cheap. Want it?” She smiled with her eyes all crinkled, like an angel. Later I found out she didn’t need a roommate. She just felt bad for me. We cooked together, binge-watched shows together, complained about work and our bosses together. She always said: “Jenna, you’re way too quiet. You need to smile more.” She’s the one who introduced me to Ethan. “He’s my childhood friend. Firefighter. Super reliable. You’re alone here, so if you ever need anything, call him.” She winked. “But don’t get any ideas. He’s mine.” I didn’t have any ideas back then. But Ethan chased me hard. Breakfast every day. Waiting for me after work. If I worked late, he’d sit in his car downstairs until midnight. He said, “Charlotte’s like a sister to me. You’re the one I want. It’s different.” I believed him. The day I said yes to being with him, Charlotte stayed quiet for a long time. Then she hugged me and cried. “You have to be happy. Otherwise I’ll never forgive myself.” I thought that was a blessing. Now I know. It was a warning. I down the rest of my champagne. The cheap alcohol burns my throat, makes me cough so hard my eyes water. “Enough, Jenna! If you have a problem, take it out on me. Don’t do this here.” Ethan’s voice. Angry. Familiar. He pushes past the people blocking him and walks over, his eyebrows twisted tight. “Five years and you’re still like this. You have to embarrass me in front of everyone?” He thinks I came to ruin his party. The disgust in his eyes is almost too much. I don’t know how to explain that I literally walked into the wrong room. I point at my work suit. “I’m here for my company’s year-end dinner. Wrong room.” But Ethan doesn’t believe me. He grabs my wrist. Hard. It hurts. “Stop pretending. I’m sorry about what happened. After the party, I’ll drive you home.” Charlotte’s face goes pale. She stands up with the baby. “Ethan…” He turns to her, softer. “Charlotte, I just don’t want her causing a scene in front of the baby. Don’t worry.” But his grip on my hand doesn’t loosen. I pull free. Step back. Force a smile. “Not appropriate. Your wife and kid are watching.” He acts like he didn’t hear. Reaches for me again. It’s insane. Five years apart, and he’s changed so much. He used to be so careful about boundaries. When we were dating, a female coworker kept finding excuses to be around him. One time it was raining. She asked for a ride. He called her an Uber instead and drove me home the long way. Next day, he announced at work: “I have a girlfriend. Don’t hit me up for personal stuff. Work only.” He pissed off his boss. Didn’t care. He shut down every possibility of anything shady. Except Charlotte. Eight out of ten of our dates got interrupted by her calls. Lost keys. Broken pipe. Feeling lonely and wanting to drink. Even on our anniversary. Candles lit at the restaurant. Charlotte called. “Charlotte’s stomach hurts really bad. I’m going to check on her. Jenna, eat without me. I already paid.” When I complained, he’d ruffle my hair and smile. “Why are you jealous? She’s like my little sister. She’s alone here. Just be cool.” But I’m not a cool person. I’m so uncool that seeing Charlotte walk around in his shirt — my shirt — would keep me up all night. “Ethan! That’s my pajama shirt!” “Don’t overthink it. She took a shower and didn’t have clothes. She’s been my friend since we were kids.” To make me feel secure, he bought a ring. Got down on one knee. “Jenna, marry me. I’m only going to love you my whole life.” I believed him. So when Charlotte sent me a photo late at night — her in my pajamas, leaning on Ethan’s shoulder, both of them watching a movie on the couch — I told myself it was just the angle. They’re like siblings. Then I’d lie awake all night. Get up and scroll through their chat history. Charlotte always started the conversations. Ethan replied short, but he never said no. Once I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed his phone to send her a message about boundaries. He snatched it out of my hand so fast. That was the first time he really yelled at me. “Jenna! You’re checking my phone? What do you think I am? Charlotte’s my family. Don’t be so disgusting!” He slammed the door. The phone screen was still on. Open to his chat with Charlotte. Her last message: “Ethan, I miss you.” He didn’t reply. But thirty minutes later, Charlotte posted a photo on Instagram. Two hands, fingers laced together. A river view at night. The caption: Some things don’t need words. I stared at that photo. Recognized the watch on Ethan’s wrist. I gave him that for his birthday.

Everything comes rushing back, and my chest starts to ache. This champagne is cheap, but damn, it hits hard.My head is spinning. Ethan’s face blurs into two.I just want out of here. I turn to leave — and trip.Next thing I know, my feet are off the ground. He picks me up, holding me sideways. “You can barely stand and you’re acting like you’re fine?” He’s actually walking out the door with me in his arms. In front of every single person here.The whole place explodes. Charlotte’s parents jump up from their seats, their faces dark. Her dad yells, “Ethan! Put her down! What the hell is wrong with you? You know what day this is?” Her mom starts crying. “My daughter just had your baby and you pull this? Are you serious?” Charlotte’s just standing there holding the baby, tears streaming down her face. She’s biting her lip, not saying a word. Just looking at Ethan with this broken look. Anyone watching would call us trash. Ethan stops. He looks down at Charlotte. Something flickers in his eyes. I struggle. “Put me down!” He holds me tighter. Then looks up at Charlotte’s parents. “Mom, Dad. Jenna’s drunk. I’m taking her home. I’ll be right back.” Charlotte finally breaks. “Ethan… are you picking her? Fine. I’m leaving. I’m taking the baby and going.” She heads for the door with the baby. Total chaos. Ethan’s face goes white. He shouts, “Charlotte! Don’t. I’m just dropping her off. You’re my wife. Forever.” That sounds familiar. He used to say, “Charlotte’s like a sister. You’re the one I love the most.” I close my eyes. I’m so tired. Home? I don’t even have a home. He shoves me into the car. My stomach turns upside down. I start dry heaving. It’s not from the champagne. It’s a reflex. Five years of nightmares built into my body. The fire that killed Ethan , it happened on our third anniversary. I made a reservation. Waited for him to get off work. Nine o’clock. Nothing. His phone went straight to voicemail. Ten o’clock. A call from a number I didn’t know. A guy’s voice, breathing hard. “Hey… Ethan’s trapped in that old warehouse on the west side. Fire’s bad. He told me to tell you… he loves you.” In the background, I heard fire crackling. And Ethan’s voice, far away, screaming. “Jenna, don’t come in.” I lost my mind. I ran. Fire trucks outside. Police tape everywhere. Someone yelled, “Ethan’s still in there!” I didn’t think. I ran inside. Through all the smoke, I saw him lying by some shelves. I lunged to pull him up. Then a beam broke and fell. He shoved me as hard as he could. The blast knocked me flying. When I turned around, there was nothing but fire. Later, the report said I ran in without permission and messed up the rescue. That Ethan died because of me. His parents tore up our marriage license and threw me out. My mom called me, crying. “Sweetheart, I know you’re hurting. But your brother’s got a girlfriend now. Her family heard about you… they think it’s bad luck. Just… stay away for a while, okay?” Even my own people didn’t want me.

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I waited eight years for him to say “I do” — until he handed my bouquet to his assistant. The bouquet landed in Ella Morgan’s arms almost by accident. Lana Shaw’s carefully aimed throw sailing perfectly into the crowd — but it bounced off the other fingertips, then tumbled once in the air, and fell into Ella Morgan’s lap like fate correcting a mistake. Every eye in the room turned knowingly toward Nate Sinclair. It was involuntary, collective, the way a room full of people who’d watched a couple orbit each other for eight years would naturally look to the man and think: *now.* The chanting started almost instantly. “Put a ring on it! Put a ring on it!” “Eight years, Quinn! No more excuses!” “Kiss her! Propose! Do *something!*” Someone pushed Nate forward. He stumbled a step, then steadied himself. Ella felt her cheeks flush. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She waited for the words she had been waiting eight years to hear. This was it. The moment they had engineered with surgical precision — every detail coordinated with Lana months in advance. And he was supposed to say *I will marry you.* Nate reached her. The noise swelled around them — whistles, applause, someone banging a fork against a champagne flute. But Nate only reached down and calmly took the bouquet from her hands. He turned with casually and easily, as though the gesture meant nothing, and handed it to the bridesmaid beside him —his assistant, Rain Chambers. “She caught it first,” Nate said. He smiled, easy and familiar, and ruffled Ella’s hair. “Be good, baby. Next time.” The spotlight followed the flowers away. It found Rain Chambers — Nate’s assistant, who had no business being a bridesmaid at this wedding — clutching the flowers with an expression of perfect, rehearsed surprise. Ella stood alone in the center of the floor. The applause had shifted, scattered, refocused on the pretty girl with the bouquet and her shy, delighted smile. Ella’s hands hung empty at her sides. She smiled. It was a quite small Nate didn’t know. There would be no next time. Her wedding was next week.

Lana’s face darkened. She was already striding across the floor, her bridal train gathered in one fist, the other hand rising like she intended to slap someone. Ella caught her wrist before she could raise her hand. “Lana,” Ella said quietly, “the wedding isn’t over.” “That woman did it on purpose!” Lana turned. Her eyes were redder than Ella’s. “I told every bridesmaid that bouquet was for you—” “Lana.” Ella squeezed her hand, her voice was quiet, steady. “Your wedding isn’t over yet.” The crowd had already moved on. The spotlight followed Rain, who clutched the bouquet and glanced at Nate with shining eyes. Nate had already stepped back to the edge of the crowd, at ease. The officiant, a seasoned old family priest, cracked a joke and the warmth returned to the room. Lana bit her lip, turned away, and finished her vows. Through the reception, Ella sat at the bridal table. She felt the stares—the pity, the curiosity. On the other side of the room, Nate laughed with his friends. Rain sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The distance between them had long since crossed the line of what was appropriate for an assistant. She hadn’t been a bridesmaid originally. But the groom’s side had been short a groomsman at the last minute, and someone suggested Rain. Nate brought her everywhere now. “Experience,” he called it. Even to her girlfriend’s best friend’s wedding. When Lana and her new husband reached their table for toasts, Lana hugged Ella hard. Her voice dropped to a whisper only Ella could hear. “That woman has been circling him for six months. I had someone look into her — she’s calculating, Ella. Every move is deliberate. And Nate, he—” “Lana.” Ella patted her back and cut her off. “You’re the most beautiful bride today. Don’t waste it on this.” Lana huffed but said nothing more. — The night wore on. Guests filtered out in twos and threes. The music softened. The staff began clearing tables. Finally, Nate walked over, calm and unhurried. “Ready to go?” He took her bag from her hands, then reached to put his arm around her shoulder. Ella shifted sideways, just out of reach. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll call a car.” He didn’t seem to notice her evasion. He nodded. “Fine.” The car slipped into the dark city streets. Neon signs blurred past the window. Ella’s own reflection stared back at her—carefully made up, but the exhaustion under her eyes was unmistakable. “Earlier,” Nate said, “Rain got the bouquet first. She’s young. Probably just wanted some wedding luck.” He shrugged. “You can’t blame her. Don’t take it to heart.” Ella said nothing. She watched the city lights bleed into one another. After a moment, he glanced at his phone, then at her. “Are you mad?” He leaned closer. “I said next time, didn’t I? Our wedding will be better than Lana’s. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?” His fingers threaded through her hair and rubbed the back of her neck—gentle, soothing, like calming a restless pet. The ache spread through her chest like something dissolving. Every time. It was always the same. Soft words, empty promises of “next time.” And then he assumed the storm had passed. “Nate,” she said, watching his reflection in the glass. “Yeah?” “Lana and I made a vow when we were children.” Her voice was flat. “Whoever got married first — the other one’s wedding had to happen within a week.” “We were going to be each other’s maid of honor. We were going to be the first to witness each other’s happiness.” The car went quiet. His hand stopped moving on her neck. “That was kid stuff,” he said, and laughed. “You can’t be serious. Plans change. Venues, schedules, catering—these things take months, sometimes a year. We’ll plan properly. I’ll give you the perfect wedding. What’s the hurry?” He didn’t explain why he hadn’t been able to make a single public commitment tonight. He just skipped straight to “how to plan a perfect wedding.” Ella thought of a fitting room, one month before tonight. Lana spinning her around in front of a three-way mirror, eyes bright and brimming. “Ella, you look incredible in this. I designed it just for you.” The dress had been champagne-colored silk, with tiny pearls stitched along the waistline. Lana had spent weeks on it. “When it’s your turn,” Lana had said, her voice cracking, “I’m making you the most beautiful wedding gown anyone’s ever seen.” Nate had been there that day. He’d been answering emails on his phone, head down, thumbs flying. At Lana’s declaration, he’d glanced up briefly, smiled. “Looks nice.” Then his eyes had dropped back to the screen. In that moment, surrounded by champagne silk and her best friend’s joy, Ella had felt it clearly for the first time — the quiet, creeping grief of eight years without an answer. The car pulled into the parking garage. The engine cut. Nate unbuckled his seatbelt. He seemed to consider the evening resolved — the small unpleasantness of the bouquet addressed, the apology delivered, normalcy restored. He leaned across the console toward her, angling for a kiss. Ella lifted her hand and pressed it gently against his shoulder. He froze. “I’m tired, Nate,” she said.

He looked at her. Held the silence for a few seconds. Then he patted her shoulder, casual as ever. “Being maid of honor is exhausting. Get some rest.” He paused. “Rain said she can’t find a car. It’s late — not safe for a girl to be out alone. I’ll swing by and drop her off.” “Okay,” Ella said. Her voice was flat. He didn’t move right away. He seemed to be waiting—for her to tell him to be careful, like she always did. Or to complain, with a little hurt in her voice, that it was too late to go out. But Ella just opened the car door and stepped out. The car pulled away behind her. She closed the door and collapsed onto the sofa. She lay there for a long time. Then she got up and walked toward the bedroom. She passed the room they had called “the nursery.” Her steps slowed. They had planned it when they bought this house four years ago. A nursery. But there was no child now. The room had filled, instead, with boxes and clutter. She walked inside. On the dusty crib, she found a stack of old things. Love letters in his handwriting. Movie tickets. Amusement park passes. Instant photos from their trips together. At the bottom was a photo from their college graduation. He was carrying her on his back under a cherry blossom tree. She had her arms around his neck. Her hair and the pink petals flew in the wind. On the back, he had written in bold, careless strokes: *I’ll carry you forever. That’s a promise.* The weak light from the living room fell on those words. Cold. Like a silent mockery. Like a joke that had stopped being funny a long time ago. From downstairs, she heard the faint sound of a car pulling into the garage. She stayed where she was, just listening. The key turned in the lock. Footsteps, deliberately light. After a moment, the door pushed open. He stood in the doorway. “Not asleep yet?” She didn’t turn around. She stayed crouched by the crib. “No.” “What made you dig these out?” His voice was light. “Feeling nostalgic?” She didn’t answer his question. She asked quietly, “Did you get her home?” He paused. Then he explained, “Yeah. She lives far. It really is hard to get a taxi there.” “Oh.” She looked down again and carefully stacked the photos back in place. “It’s late,” he said again. This time he reached out to pull her up. She didn’t take his hand. She pushed herself up on her knees, wincing a little. Her legs had gone numb from crouching so long, and she swayed. “Nate.” “Yeah?” He stopped walking. “Let’s break up.” He stopped moving. He looked at her for two seconds. Then he laughed. He reached up and loosened his tie. “Still thinking about the bouquet? Don’t be so sensitive.” His voice was patient, the way you soothe a child throwing a tantrum. “Fine. I’ll order you a bigger one tomorrow, okay? Now go wash up and get some sleep. I have an early meeting.” He turned and walked toward the bathroom. “One week,” Ella said to his back. Her voice was quiet. “I’m getting married.”

His hand, resting on the bathroom door handle, froze. A few seconds passed. Then he turned around. The indulgent warmth on his face had been stripped away entirely. “Ella. Enough.” He lifted his hand and pressed his fingers against his temple. “Marriage is a major decision. You don’t just throw it together because you’re upset.” “October twenty-eighth,” she added calmly. “The venue is booked. The dress is ready.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “This is Lana, isn’t it? She’s been in your ear again. She rushed into her own wedding, and now she thinks everyone else should do the same?” “Ella, think clearly. Don’t let her drag you into something stupid. We’ve been together for eight years—” “Nate.” She cut him off. “The invitations go to print tomorrow.” A muscle twitched beneath his eye. “You think this is going to work? This will only make me think you’re childish. Irrational.” His voice climbed, each word landing harder than the last. “I’m at a critical point right now — the family is in the middle of a power shift, and this is supposed to be the moment I prove myself. A wedding right now would split my focus and throw off everything I’ve been working toward.” “Are you really that desperate to get married?” The words hit her like stones flung across the room. Once, this tone would have made her flinch. Would have sent her scrambling to explain, to apologize, to retreat. Not anymore. But now she felt nothing in her chest but calm. His attention had always been expensive. There was only so much of it to go around — between the deals that needed closing, the family politics that needed navigating, and the pretty assistant who required late-night check-ins, birthday surprises, and the occasional business trip that conveniently included a spa resort. What was left for the girlfriend was never much. craps. Crumbs swept to the edge of the table. Ella met his gaze and nodded. “Yes. All our friends are married now. I want to be married too.” She turned and walked into the bedroom. On the nightstand, there was still a fashion magazine from six months ago. The cover headline read: *“Every Bride-to-Be Must Read! The Perfect Three-Month Wedding Countdown Guide.”* She had bought it in a rush of excitement, flipped through a few pages, and then set it down when Nate said — as he always said — *no rush.* It had not been opened since. In the darkness, she stared at the blurred outline of the ceiling. Her phone buzzed softly. The screen lit up. A message from Lana. 【Still awake? I can’t stop thinking about that woman’s face. It makes me so angry. What is Nate even thinking?】 What was he thinking? Nothing special. Nothing new. He was exactly who he had always been. The world doesn’t always bloom just because you wait. Another long text came in. 【Remember our vow? No more than a week apart. I meant it.】 【But that idiot of yours stood there with the bouquet in your hands and still didn’t get it. Eight years, not eight months. Forget it. This time, I’m giving you permission to break the promise.】 Ella’s fingers paused for a second. Then she typed back. 【Babe, have I ever broken a promise to you?】

Nate moved out the next day. He packed a bag and moved into the small apartment near the office. The one he used when work ran late. He said her sudden talk about marriage made him feel suffocated. He needed space. Fine. She needed space too. She quietly spent the following days putting things in order. The apartment — the one they had picked out together five years ago, furnished together, built a life in together — she listed it with a real estate agent. The day she handed the keys to the agent, she went home and sorted through the last of her things. In an old magazine, she found a project file. One of Nate’s current deals. She hesitated, then decided to bring it to him. His studio was not far. She could drop it off. When she arrived at his apartment, the door was shut. Muffled laughter came from inside. More than one person. She raised her hand to knock. A familiar voice drifted out, pitched in that particular register of feminine distress — just helpless enough to be charming: “Mr. Sinclair, it’s all my fault. I’ve never caught a bouquet before — I had no idea it would cause such a fuss. Now everyone in the office group chat is talking. Several coworkers asked me privately if you and I are…” She paused. “You really need to clear things up for me in the group. Otherwise, I’ll be too embarrassed to show my face.” Ella’s hand froze in midair. Before Nate could answer, one of his friends cut in, laughing. “Come on, Rain. Do you actually want him to clear it up? Or are you just trying to get him to say something else?” A ripple of knowing laughter. Rain’s voice came back, mock-offended and sweet: “You’re terrible!” Not a trace of genuine annoyance. “Enough,” Nate said. His voice was easy. Indulgent. “Don’t tease her. It’s not important. People will forget about it in a few days.” *People will forget about it in a few days.* The words opened a door in her memory. Early in their relationship, Ella had stopped by the office to help Nate with some paperwork. He had forgotten himself — draped an arm over her shoulder in the hallway. A colleague spotted them. That same afternoon, he had posted a calm message in the company group chat. *Just clearing up a misunderstanding, everyone please stay focused.* She had understood back then. She had stopped going to his office. Now she understood something else. It wasn’t office romance he minded. It was being seen with *her*. A woman who couldn’t help his career. Nothing to his ambition. Nothing but love — and love, apparently, was not a currency that spent well in public. Another friend spoke up, confused. “Wait, Nate. How did you smooth things over with Ella? I actually got a wedding invitation this morning. This is too sudden.” A brief silence. Then Nate laughed — short, cool, hollow. “The small stuff, I can indulge. But this time, she needs to learn on her own that throwing a tantrum doesn’t get results.” “So you’re really not going?” someone asked. Nate didn’t answer. Silence was its own answer. Then another friend spoke, more carefully. “Nate, are you sure you want to let it go this far? We’ve been waiting to drink your wedding toast for years.” He paused. Then he said, half joking, half probing, “Unless… you have other plans? Like, with a certain secretary?” “Mr. Vic~” Rain drew out his name in a teasing voice. “Don’t joke like that. Mr. Sinclair knows what he’s doing.” Those last words — soft, intimate, loaded. Nate did not correct her. A murmur of shared, masculine amusement filled the room. Someone else chimed in, “To be fair, Nate’s already more loyal than most. After all these years, anyone else would have run out of patience.” “What does Ella even do for you? She just gives you trouble. Not like our Rain here. Smart, capable, shows up when it counts…” Rain interrupted, playing coy. “Don’t say that.” The motion-sensor light in the hallway had gone dark again. Ella stood in the blackness, the project file pressed against her chest. After a long moment, she bent down. Slid the envelope beneath the door with the toe of her shoe. Quietly. Precisely. Then she turned and walked away.

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My stepfather was drugged. I became his only cure. When he woke up, Grandfather told him we weren’t blood‑related and ordered him to marry me. But Lucian believed an arranged marriage would ruin his one chance at real love. He got drunk and lay down on the train tracks. I saved him off, but I lost both my legs for him. He finally agreed to the wedding, his eyes red. But on our wedding night, he locked me in The Cage—his underground club where men paid to use women like broken dolls. They strapped me to a bed. They gave me injections and whipped me. He just sat in the shadows, smoking, watching like it was entertainment. After endless rounds of that, I found my chance. I set the curtains on fire. The whole place went up—him and me together. Then I opened my eyes. I was back on the night he was drugged. *This time, My father, I’m letting you have your real love story.* — A man’s hand on my waist yanked me awake. I opened my eyes flew open to meet Lucian Ashford’s bloodshot gaze. His eyes were thick with hunger—bottomless, primal. The kind of look I remembered from The Cage. Instinctively, I looked around. No rusted shackles bolted to the walls. No stained mattress reeking of sweat and iron. No muffled screams bleeding through concrete. No unnameable smell of sweat and blood and cheap perfume hanging in the air. Just his save private apartment, the bodyguard’ heavy boots shifting behind the door. This wasn’t The Cage. Lucian’s fingers dug into my hip bone hard enough to bruise. “Can’t you understand me? Take off your clothes!” He was too close. So close that my vision blurred and I was dragged back to my past life—to The Cage. To the men he’d sent in. The weight of bodies pressing me into that filthy mattress. Foul breath against my neck. Greasy hands tearing fabric from skin while the sound of his lighter flicked somewhere in the dark—click, click—the ember of his cigarette glowing like a single red eye watching from the corner of the room. I forced the memories down and sank my teeth into Lucian’s arm with everything I had. “Get off me!” The sharp pain snapped him back. His gaze dropped to my crooked collar, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before disgust swallowed it whole. “Elara Ashford, you’re revolting.” His voice dripped with contempt—the voice of a man who ordered executions without blinking. “Don’t think that sleeping with me will make me want you.” A stab of pain lanced through my chest. I thought of how I had died in my previous life. The flames eating through The Cage. The smoke filling my ruined lungs while Lucian burned beside me. I wanted nothing more than to grab the gun I knew he kept in the nightstand drawer and put a bullet between his eyes. But I couldn’t. Grandfather liked him. In this life, I wasn’t going to destroy myself for him again. I swallowed the nausea clawing up my throat. “Where’s your mistress? I’ll go get her.” Lucian froze. Even drugged out of his mind, the calculating instinct of a man who ran an empire never fully shut off. “How do you know I have a girlfriend?” “Is now really the time for that?” He stared at me for two long seconds, his eyes sharp with suspicion even through the haze of whatever was coursing through his blood. Then he gave me an address. “Thirty minutes. I want to see her.” I said nothing more. I took the armored sedan from the garage—the one with bulletproof glass and the Ashford crest discreetly etched into the door panel—and drove like a madwoman the entire way. In the rearview mirror, a black SUV tailed me for three blocks before peeling off. One of Lucian’s men, making sure the Don’s stepdaughter wasn’t running. I made it back with her in twenty. Serena Cross’s legs were trembling when she stepped out of the car. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her voice pitched to a delicate quiver. “Lucian, I don’t know what I did to offend her—she drove so fast the whole way, I was terrified.” Gone was the cutting edge she’d used on me in the car—the sneer, the hissed warning to *stay away from what’s mine*. And the surprise on her face when she saw Lucian’s flushed skin was perfectly measured. Not a fraction too much, not too little. “Lucian, are you alright? Are you feeling unwell? Let me take you to the hospital—” Before she could finish, he pulled her inside. The door slammed shut in my face. The deadbolt turned. Through the thick wood, I heard the sound of fabric tearing. My heart finally settled. My hands were still gripping the steering wheel, white‑knuckled. This time, the twisted fate between Lucian Ashford and me would go no further. —

Serena Cross was my classmate. She was on a hardship scholarship—couldn’t even afford a couple of dollars for a hot meal most days. I always lied and said I’d ordered too much food so she’d eat with me. When she said she spent the holidays alone, I brought her home to Ashford Estate. Past the iron gates. Past the guards with holstered weapons who nodded at me without expression. Even though we had Mrs. Clark (Ashford Estate housekeeper) to cook for us, Serena would wake up early every morning to help in the kitchen. In the evenings, she’d ask each person’s preferences and prepare dinner herself. I thought I’d found a lifelong friend. Until the necklace Lucian had given me vanished. I tore through the entire estate before finding it shattered on the kitchen floor. That necklace was his gift to me—one of the few things that proved the man who now commanded killers had once been capable of tenderness. I’d treasured it like nothing else. Only Serena had known where I kept it. And she was the only person I had ever told about my shameful feelings about my stepfather. When I confronted her, she knelt outside the front door in thin clothes, insisting it was an accident, saying she had nowhere else to go. I had her things thrown out anyway. She rose from the ground and limped toward the gate. And ran into Lucian at the entrance. He was coming back from whatever business of mafia handled at two in the morning—his knuckles raw, his shirt cuffs rolled to the elbow. He saw her shaking, barely able to stand, and his pity got the better of him. I was furious—but more terrified that he’d learn about my feelings and pull away from me forever. So I let her scheme succeed. I just never imagined they would become lovers. Serena started sending me photos of them together. Intimate ones. His lips on her neck. Her hand on his chest. The kind of photos that made my stomach turn. Each image a knife twisted slowly between my ribs. I tried to tell Lucian what she had done. His eyes went cold. He dismissed me with a wave of his hand. “People like you, who only understand arranged marriages and family alliances—you don’t know what real love is. Stay out of my business.” Things turned ugly. Lucian moved out of the Estate entirely—took a safehouse on the east side of the city. Grandfather said nothing, but I saw the disappointment in his eyes. Tonight, Grandfather had asked me to deliver documents to him. That was the only reason I’d stumbled upon his drugged state. But remembering the provocative look Serena shot me before walking through his door—that slow, victorious smile—I understood. This had all been her trap. A girl from nothing, with ties to bottom-feeder gangs, scheming her way into the most powerful crime family in Northgate City. Drugging the Don was the most direct route. In my past life, I had ruined her plan. This time, I would watch Lucian walk right into it. —

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