Category: English

A bone-deep chill swept through me, settling into my marrow. In that moment of clarity, I realized the man I truly needed to find—the real father of my child—was the last person I ever wanted to see. The fuse for this explosion was lit at a high-school reunion dinner, where my husband, Mark, had spent the last hour treating me like a sideshow attraction. He’d had too much bourbon, his arm draped possessively yet dismissively over the back of my chair as he described my “genetic gifts” to a table of leering men. He boasted about my “maternal constitution,” claiming my breast milk was a miracle elixir—part beauty secret, part performance enhancer for men who wanted to “regain their edge.” The table erupted. Drunk on expensive scotch and toxic entitlement, the men began to hoot and holler, demanding to see the “liquid gold” for themselves. That’s when Tinsley, Mark’s lifelong “best friend” and the woman who had been a thorn in my side since our wedding day, stood up. She swirled her wine, a predatory glint in her eyes as she sauntered over to me. “Andie, sweetie, Mark shows us the photos of you pumping every day,” she purred, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. “He says we’re all family, so there’s no harm in sharing. I have to say, those pictures are… quite provocative.” She turned to Mark, her tone shifting to a playful, mocking lilt. “Why don’t we let the boys have a taste of the real thing? A live auction for a fresh bottle. Who’s the highest bidder, Mark? Where do we start the opening price for your wife’s… services?” The room dissolved into a roar of crude laughter. Tinsley stood there, basking in the attention, waiting for Mark to shut it down. Instead, Mark took the glass from her hand, his expression unreadable. “Drinking isn’t good for your health, Tins. I’ll finish this for you.” Then, he leaned back, his eyes cold as they landed on me. “It’s all in good fun, right? Let’s start the bidding at a penny.” … 1 “Looking at those photos, it’s not just the milk—the wife is a total knockout!” “Mark, you lucky bastard. No wonder you’re always so full of energy.” “A penny for a miracle cure? Count me in for the charity drive!” “I’m gonna bid high, take it home, and pretend my old lady looks like Andie for once…” The sounds of their muffled, greasy laughter scraped against my eardrums like sandpaper. I sat there, frozen, watching the scene play out like a car crash in slow motion. Tinsley was practically sitting in Mark’s lap now. She’d pick up a piece of food she didn’t like, take a tiny bite, and then drop the remains into Mark’s bowl. Without a second thought, Mark would pick it up and eat it. It was a small gesture, but it cut deeper than the insults. When we first started dating, Mark told me he was a germaphobe. He said he couldn’t stand the thought of “bodily fluids.” On the night of our first kiss, he made me use antiseptic mouthwash three times before he’d let his lips graze mine for a fraction of a second. He had maintained that cold, sterile distance for years. But with Tinsley, the rules didn’t apply. “Andie, why are you just sitting there?” Tinsley asked, her voice cutting through the noise. “You’re the girl who’d do anything for Mark, right? Everyone knows the story—how you have a paralyzing fear of heights, but the moment Mark said he’d only marry a woman who’d skydive with him, you jumped without a second thought. This is just a little game.” “Yeah, don’t be a buzzkill,” one of the men added. “If Tinsley hadn’t told us to call you ‘Mrs. Dalton,’ we wouldn’t even know who you were.” “Tinsley was always the one meant for that seat,” another voice muttered, loud enough for me to hear. “If you hadn’t snuck your way in…” The malicious whispers were cut short when Tinsley glanced at Mark with a look of practiced modesty. “Stop it, guys,” she sighed, though her eyes were dancing. “Even if I do send Mark my bikini photos every night to help him… ‘unwind,’ Andie is still his wife. I’m just his little sister. That’s all I’ll ever be.” The longing in her voice was palpable. Mark reached out and placed a bowl of hand-peeled shrimp in front of her. “If they want to speak the truth, let them. In this circle, Tinsley, your word is law.” The men exchanged knowing smirks. Under the table, my fingernails dug into my palms until I drew blood. She’s just a sister, Andie. She’s high-strung, she’s a tomboy, you need to be more understanding. That had been Mark’s mantra for three years. Today, the lie finally fell apart. Tinsley reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a breast pump. “Well, Andie? Since you’re being shy, let me help you.” She reached for the collar of my silk blouse, her movements aggressive. I shoved her away instinctively. Tinsley let out a sharp cry, stumbling back and falling perfectly into Mark’s waiting arms. She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, then shot me a look of pure, triumphant malice. Mark’s face contorted with disgust as he shielded Tinsley. “Andie, have you lost your mind? It was a joke! A game!” “She’s my sister,” he hissed. “The least you could do is show her some respect.” Sister. The word tasted like ash. “Since you’re so reluctant to play along with Tinsley’s kindness,” Mark said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register, “we’ll skip the pump. We’ll just go straight to the auction. Highest bidder gets it fresh, right from the source. After all, you’re so ‘generous’ with me, what’s the difference doing it in front of the boys?” He let out a short, harsh laugh. “Opening bid: one cent.” 2 “I’ll bid five cents!” one man shouted, leaning forward. “After all, when I was short on cash for that merger, Andie emptied her personal trust to lend me five million. She hasn’t even asked for it back. It’s the least I can do!” “Ten cents!” another yelled. “Mark gave me the rights to that downtown development project—the one worth a hundred million—just for being a ‘good brother.’” My heart stopped. That land… Mark had told me his company was on the verge of bankruptcy. He said he needed that deed to save the Dalton legacy. I had poured every cent of my own company, Becket Global, into securing that bid, only to hand it to him on a silver platter. He told me we lost the bid to a competitor. He didn’t lose it. He gave it away to his drinking buddies. “That’s nothing,” a third man laughed, his voice oily. “Mark gave me the deed to that private cemetery plot—the one where Andie’s father is buried. We cleared out the old man and the rest of her ancestors last week. Dug ’em up and tossed ’em in a ditch somewhere out in the sticks. For that kind of friendship, I’ll bid a whole dollar. But not a penny more. She isn’t worth the extra change.” The room erupted in a bidding war of insults. Tinsley giggled, leaning her head against Mark’s shoulder, watching me bleed out emotionally. She stood up slowly, her eyes locking onto mine. “Since everyone wants a taste, I shouldn’t be the villain. Why don’t we just forgo the bidding and let everyone share? Andie is such a ‘giving’ person, I’m sure she won’t mind.” She looked back at Mark with a playful wink. I was shaking so hard the water glass in my hand shattered against the floor. The sound was like a gunshot. I looked at the man I had loved, the man who had sat silently through this entire nightmare. “Mark,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Are you really okay with this?” Mark frowned, but when Tinsley gave his hand a little squeeze, his expression hardened into a mask of indifference. “Why not? If it wasn’t for that ‘heirship contract’ you signed with my mother, Tinsley would be the one standing here. You’ve given me the child. But you haven’t even begun to pay back what you took from her.” Took from her? If his mother hadn’t drugged me and locked me in a room with him, I would never have been in this position. And Mark hadn’t been drugged. He knew exactly what he was doing that night. I fought back tears, my jaw aching from the tension. “Mark, your mother told me the company was failing. She told me I was signing a medical release for your surgery. She said she’d only sign the consent forms for your life-saving operation if I stayed and took care of you.” Mark’s face stiffened for a split second, a flicker of unease crossing his eyes, before he shouted over me. “Lies! All of it! This is just another one of your schemes to drive a wedge between me and Tinsley. When I was in that accident, Tinsley was the one who paid the bills! You were out spending the money my mother got from liquidating the company! You drugged me to get pregnant and secure your spot in this family. Tinsley is the only one who ever defended you, and now I see exactly who the monster is.” His gaze softened as he looked at Tinsley, then turned back to me, frigid. “My child will be raised by a woman like Tinsley. As for you and that little brat… you can both rot for all I care.” Tinsley stiffened slightly at the mention of the baby. Her voice turned unnaturally sweet. “Mark, the baby is innocent. He’s yours, after all. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of. But… with Andie’s ‘unstable’ mental state, I worry she might hurt him in private. If it were me…” She let the sentence hang, heavy with implication. I knew what she wanted. Tinsley was infertile; she wanted my son to complete her image of the perfect life. And Mark’s mother wanted my bloodline to inherit Becket Global. They wanted the money, the legacy, and the child—but they wanted me gone. “Andie,” Mark said, his voice flat. “For the sake of the boy, you’re handing him over to Tinsley. Only a woman as pure as her can raise a son of mine to be a decent man.” 3 I felt the blood drain from my face. My legs felt like lead. The men were still circling, waiting for their “prize.” I lowered my head, my voice barely a whisper. “And what if Toby… what if he isn’t yours, Mark? What if he’s only mine?” The words were lost in the roar of the room. Mark saw my lips move, and for a moment, a flash of genuine terror crossed his face. Tinsley, sensing the shift, took a jade bracelet from her wrist and dropped it. Clink. The pale green stone shattered into two pieces on the hardwood floor. My heart stopped. That was my mother’s bracelet—the only thing she gave me before she died. I remembered her thin, frail hand clutching mine in the hospital, her eyes burning with a final, desperate light. “Andie, if you’re ever in trouble, send this to 187 East Bay. Keep it safe. Promise me!” I had kept it in a biometric safe. Only two people knew the code. The coldness in the room turned into a blizzard. “Oops!” Tinsley cried, feigning shock. “I’m so clumsy. Mark said this was just some piece of junk he found, so I thought I’d play with it. Now that it’s broken, I guess it belongs in the trash. You don’t mind, do you, Andie?” I dropped to my knees, gathering the shards. The sharp edges sliced into my fingers, but I didn’t feel the pain. I just held them tight. Mark’s eyes flickered to my bleeding hands, but Tinsley’s voice pulled him back. She pointed at the front of my blouse, where my milk was starting to leak through the silk—a physical reaction to the stress and the thought of my baby. “Look! She can’t wait!” Tinsley laughed. “I won’t keep the boys waiting any longer. Let’s see how ‘miraculous’ she really is.” Mark looked at me, a flash of genuine revulsion crossing his face at the sight of my damp clothes. The men began to close in like wolves. I scrambled back, pulling my phone from my pocket. I’d been dialing a number for twenty minutes. It finally connected. I threw the phone onto the table in front of Mark. “You love being ‘Mr. Dalton,’ don’t you, Mark? But let’s remind everyone who owns the chair you’re sitting in. Becket Global is 99% mine. And your mother is on the line.” Mark froze at the sight of the caller ID. He picked it up with trembling hands. The background noise of a high-stakes bridge game on the other end went silent. “Mother?” “Get home. NOW,” a sharp, authoritative voice barked through the speaker. At least, in this one moment, Beatrice Dalton would protect what was hers—the “propriety” of her family name. Mark’s face was a study in repressed rage, his knuckles white as he gripped the phone. In total silence, flanked by a smug Tinsley and a phalanx of disappointed men, we left. The moment we stepped into the Dalton manor, Beatrice was there, a forced smile on her face. She pulled me toward the dining table, her voice thick with maternal manipulation. “Andie, dear. Your mother and I were best friends. She wanted this marriage for you. She wanted you to have a good life with Mark.” She leaned in, her eyes narrowing. “Mark is a successful man. There are temptations everywhere. If a woman can’t hold her husband’s heart, what use is she? And Tinsley… she’s like a daughter to me. You need to stop being so paranoid. It’s unseemly. Mark saved your life once; you should be showing him your gratitude.” “A man is the head of the house, Andie. You need to lean on him. And since you aren’t doing anything with those shares, you should transfer them to Mark. Prove to him that you’re a devoted wife.” Mark sat to the side, looking like a pouting child. Beatrice kicked his leg under the table, and he looked away with a huff. 4 I stayed silent. But a different kind of silence was bothering me. The house was too quiet. Beatrice kept talking, her voice droning on until… “Andie, if you won’t think of yourself, think of the baby. Do you really want him raised by a mother who’s a—” The baby. Toby was usually a whirlwind of noise by this time. He should have been crying for a feeding. My stomach dropped. I sprinted toward the nursery and threw open the door. My vibrant, happy boy was lying in his crib, his breathing shallow, his face swollen and red. I gathered him into my arms, his tiny body limp. As I turned to run, I collided with Mark in the doorway. I fell to the floor, curling my body around Toby to protect him. “Mark, please!” I screamed, looking up at him with pure desperation. “Take him to the hospital! Something is wrong!” Beatrice stood behind Mark, placing a hand on his shoulder, pulling back the hand he had instinctively reached out toward me. “Mark, a house needs order,” she said coldly. “Andie was very disrespectful tonight. She needs to learn her place.” She looked down at me, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “I gave him a little peanut butter before you got back. Just a taste. I figured a little ‘lesson’ would remind you who runs this house. It’s just a minor allergy, Andie. Stop being dramatic.” “A minor allergy?” I gasped. Toby was gasping for air. “He’s anaphylactic, you monster!” “Mark,” Beatrice said firmly. “Think of how much Tinsley has suffered because of this woman.” Mark looked at me, then at his mother. Slowly, he withdrew his hand. The hesitation in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, stony resolve. I gathered every ounce of strength I had and tried to bolt past them, but Mark blocked the way. He shoved me back into the nursery and locked the door from the outside. I screamed. I begged. I threw myself against the wood until my shoulders were bruised and my voice was gone. Mark stood on the other side, his silhouette visible through the frosted glass, silent and unmoving. When the house finally went quiet, I heard his footsteps fade away. I slumped against the door, my heart shattered. Toby’s tiny hand reached out from his swaddle, feebly grasping my finger. Even in his distress, his little face tried to form a weak, innocent smile, as if trying to comfort me. I looked at my son, his life slipping away, and I looked at the large floor-to-ceiling window. I stripped the silk curtains and the heavy bedding, knotting them together into a makeshift rope. I strapped Toby to my chest with my scarf and climbed out into the night. I hit the ground hard. I didn’t realize I’d lost my shoes until I was running down the asphalt of the gated community, my bare feet bleeding. I flagged down the first car I saw. The window rolled down, revealing a sharp, elegant jawline and a pair of eyes that seemed to see right through me. He looked at me, then at the baby in my arms. “Miss Becket?” he asked, his voice a rich baritone. “What happened?” Before I could answer, he was out of the car. He didn’t ask questions. He took Toby from my arms and sprinted to the passenger side. “Get in. Now.” At the hospital, he was a blur of motion, carrying my son into the ER while I stumbled behind him. I waited outside the ICU, clutching the business card he had pressed into my hand before he stepped away to handle the paperwork. Zavier Knight. Watching Toby through the glass, hooked up to a dozen tubes, a tidal wave of fury rose within me. If they wanted a war, I would give them a massacre. I pulled out my phone and sent a single encrypted message. Then, after a moment of hesitation, I put the broken shards of the jade bracelet into an envelope and addressed it to the address my mother had given me years ago. 187 East Bay. The next morning, every official social media account for Becket Global posted the same message: “Celebrating the return of our CEO. We are giving away $1 million to 100 random followers who share this post. The Queen is back.”

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A line of glowing text drifted across my vision, shimmering like a glitch in the air: She’s been through three lifetimes and she still hasn’t realized her mother is faking the illness. I froze. Today was the morning of the National Merit Finals—the single most important day of my academic life. And yet, here I was, locked in my own bedroom. My mother was having another “episode.” She claimed her prosopagnosia—her face blindness—had flared up again. She screamed that I wasn’t her daughter; she claimed I was her mother-in-law, the woman who had tormented her for years. “I won’t let you out to hurt me again!” she shrieked through the heavy wood of the door. “Stay in there, you old hag!” I hammered on the door, my voice cracking. “Mom, it’s me! It’s Julie! I have to leave for the exam right now. Please, Mom, look at me!” But she just kept muttering to herself, a rhythmic, terrifying chant about how she had to protect herself. Desperation clawed at my throat. I looked at the third-story window, actually considering the jump. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d done this. Years ago, on the day of my Ivy League prep camp interview, she’d caught me at the door. That time, she’d “mistaken” me for my father’s mistress. She’d lunged at me, tearing at my blazer, screaming that I was a home-wrecker. She’d dragged me by my hair, her sharp, manicured nails digging into my cheeks, leaving two deep scars that took months to fade. I’d always forgiven her. Because she was sick. Because when the “episodes” passed, she would collapse in tears, cradling me and whispering, “I’m so sorry, baby. Mommy is so sorry she breaks down when you need her most…” 1 I stood in the center of my room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Faking? It couldn’t be. Ever since my father left, Linda had been fragile, drifting in and out of reality. But that text… it was still there, floating in the air like a live social media feed only I could see. I shook my head violently, trying to clear the hallucination. Stress. It had to be the stress. I looked up, and the text scrolled faster. [It’s already 7:30. At this rate, she’s just going to jump again. What a waste.] [The first two times she jumped, she hit the pruned hedges downstairs. Ended up paralyzed from the waist down. Spent the rest of her life in a wheelchair.] I lurched back from the window as if the glass had turned red-hot. I couldn’t jump. I couldn’t risk the hedges. I turned back to the door, my palms bleeding from where I’d bitten them. “Mom! It’s the finals! I am not Grandma! You’re confused!” I screamed. “I spent a whole extra year studying for this after the ‘accident’ last year. Open the door!” The text accelerated into a blur. [Why is she still begging? Is she serious?] [Linda’s acting is top-tier. If I didn’t have the bird’s-eye view, I’d be fooled too.] [She doesn’t even know that the ‘accident’ last year—getting stuck in the elevator for twenty-four hours—was Linda’s handiwork.] [Think about it, Julie. Who gets face blindness only during life-changing moments? Who mistakes their own daughter for a mistress? Only a naive kid would buy this.] My hand, raised to strike the door again, went limp. The hair on my arms stood up. The elevator. Last year. I had missed the exams because I was trapped in a metal box between the fourth and fifth floors of our building. I’d screamed until my throat bled, but no one came. [Linda saw the ‘Out of Order’ sign. She tore it off and watched the elevator doors close on her daughter. She heard her screaming and just… went to get a latte.] [And when she was finally ‘rescued,’ Linda just said she’d been at her sister’s place. Total lie.] The world seemed to tilt. I remembered the maintenance man’s face when the firefighters finally pried the doors open. He had been muttering, “I know I taped the warning sign right there…” I’d thought I was just unlucky. A cold, oily sensation washed over me. I remembered when my father offered to pay for me to study in London. Linda had thrown a fit, saying she couldn’t bear to be apart from me. I thought it was love. I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. It wasn’t love. It was a cage. She didn’t want me to have a future. She wanted me right here, under her thumb, broken. I looked at the clock. 07:50. The exam started in seventy minutes. The testing center was across town. I backed up to the far wall, my eyes fixed on the old mahogany door. I tucked my shoulder, gathered every ounce of rage and betrayal I possessed, and charged. CRACK. My shoulder screamed in protest, but I didn’t stop. CRACK. THUD. On the third hit, the frame splintered. I burst into the hallway, stumbling into the light. 2 Linda was standing by the foyer, a look of pure, cold shock crossing her face before she quickly masked it with a mask of trembling terror. “You!” she gasped, shrinking back. “You old witch! What are you doing out of your room?” [Look at her. Award-winning performance.] [Good luck, Julie. You’re dealing with a pro.] I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I reached up and wiped a stray tear with the back of my hand, my eyes hard as flint. I didn’t have time to process the trauma. Not yet. I ducked back into my room to grab my bag. I’d left my ID and my admission ticket right in the center of my desk last night. The desk was empty. I tore through my drawers, threw my books on the floor, my heart rate spiking. They were gone. And for the first time, I didn’t need a floating text to tell me where they were. I walked back into the living room. Linda was still cowering in the corner, playing the victim. “Where are they?” I asked, my voice dangerously low. “My ID. My ticket.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, you hag—” “Stop it,” I snapped. “The act is over, Linda. If you really thought I was Grandma, why would you steal a high schooler’s ID? Does Grandma have a National Merit ticket? Does she?” Linda froze. The “fear” drained from her face, replaced by a cold, vacuous expression that made her look like a stranger. Then, she let out a dry, mocking snort. “Well,” she said, her voice perfectly normal. “If you’re so smart that you figured it out, why don’t you go find them yourself?” My fists clenched so hard my nails drew blood. We lived in a three-bedroom apartment filled with twenty years of clutter. I had sixty minutes. She was playing a game with my life. The wall clock ticked. 08:00. I was shaking, a primal urge to scream rising in my chest. Linda didn’t care. She sat down on the velvet sofa, picked up the remote, and turned on a morning talk show. She reached for a bowl of almonds and started snacking. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she said, eyes on the TV. “I just thought you were looking a little too stressed. Too tense. I wanted to give you a little break. I took the papers, sure.” I took a step toward her. “Where. Are. They.” She popped an almond into her mouth and chewed slowly. “I honestly don’t remember where I put them. Somewhere safe.” I grabbed her wrist, my vision tunneling. “Mom! Stop this! This is my life! Just tell me where they are!” A frantic pounding at the front door broke the tension. I ran to open it. Standing there, drenched in sweat and looking frantic, was my father. “Julie? Why aren’t you at the center?” Thomas gasped. “I’ve been waiting outside the gates since seven. I thought… after last year… I thought something happened.” Seeing him, the dam finally broke. I sobbed, pointing at Linda. “She took them, Dad! She locked me in my room and hid my ID and my ticket! She won’t let me go!” My father’s face turned a shade of purple I’d never seen. He stepped into the room and towered over the sofa. “Linda! I’ve put up with your’ episodes’ for fifteen years for the sake of our daughter, but this is the line. This is her future! What the hell is wrong with you?” The moment he attacked, Linda’s “calm” evaporated into a screeching fury. “Oh, here we go! The two of you ganging up on me! After everything I’ve sacrificed? I gave up my youth to raise this girl, and all I get is a husband who cheats and a daughter who turns on me!” “I’m going to kill myself! I’ll do it right now!” 3 She made a theatrical dash toward the wall, as if to throw herself against it. I turned pale and moved to stop her, but my father held me back. He looked at her with a weary, soul-crushing disgust. “Linda, enough,” he said, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet. “You can scream, you can cry, you can play the martyr. I stayed away because I thought you were at least a good mother. I thought that despite our mess, you loved her.” “We’ll stay,” he continued, glancing at the clock. 08:10. “If she misses this, she’ll stay in-state for college. She’ll stay right here with you. Is that what you want? To ruin her just to keep her?” Linda stopped her histrionics. She sat back down, smoothing her hair. “If she misses it, she can just retake it next year,” she muttered. “What’s the big deal?” I felt a hollow, aching despair. I wanted to hit her. I wanted to scream until the windows shattered. My father saw the look on my face. He turned back to Linda, his voice like ice. “Linda, if Julie doesn’t make it to that exam today, the five thousand dollars a month in alimony? Gone. I will burn that money before I give you another cent. I’ll tie you up in court for the next ten years. You won’t get a dime.” That hit home. Linda’s lifestyle was expensive—the designer bags, the daily trips to the spa, the high-end hair salons. She spent money like water, yet somehow my five-hundred-dollar textbook fees were always “too much.” She faltered, her eyes darting around. “I… I really did lose them. I hid them and I don’t remember where…” My knees went weak. I felt like I was falling. “I didn’t do it on purpose!” she whined. “Why is everyone being so mean?” My father growled, “Don’t expect another penny from me.” My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Mrs. Adler, my honors advisor. “Julie? Where are you? The doors are opening, and you’re the only one not checked in.” I broke down, the words tumbling out through my tears. “Mrs. Adler, I can’t find my ID. My mother… they’re gone. I don’t know what to do.” I expected a lecture. I expected her to tell me it was over. Instead, her voice was calm. “Julie, listen to me. Get down here right now. The state changed the regulations this year. We have an on-site verification system for emergency lost documents. As long as I can vouch for your identity and we have your digital record, we can issue a provisional pass. But you have to be here before the final bell.” “Really?” I wiped my eyes, a spark of hope igniting in my chest. I didn’t look at Linda. I grabbed my pens and ran. When we reached the elevator, I saw the silver doors and felt a phantom sensation of suffocation. I veered toward the stairs. “The stairs, Dad. We’re taking the stairs.” He didn’t ask why. He just ran with me. 08:18 We made it to the testing center in record time, my father driving like a man possessed. Mrs. Adler was waiting by the gate. “Most students don’t know about the emergency policy,” she whispered as she rushed me toward the administration office. “We don’t broadcast it because we don’t want kids being careless, but for a student like you? We make it work.” In ten minutes, I had a temporary pass in my hand. Mrs. Adler walked me to the door of the hall. “Go get ’em, Julie. Show them what you’re made of.” I turned to thank her, but a commotion at the security gate stopped me. My mother was there, breathless, her face contorted. “Wait! Officer! I need to report something!” My father’s face fell. I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. Linda pointed a trembling finger at me. “I’m her mother! I have to tell the truth! Julie is planning to cheat! She has notes hidden in her clothes!” The crowd of parents waiting outside fell silent. All eyes turned to me—judgmental, suspicious, shocked. Linda sobbed, her voice carrying across the lawn. “Julie, honey, I love you, but I can’t let you do this! Success means nothing if you steal it! Please, give the officers the notes!” Before I could move, she lunged forward, reaching into the pocket of my hoodie and pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. “See! Look! These are her cheat sheets!”

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Right after the final AP exams, a local news reporter interviewed the first student to walk out of the testing center. While the school’s top student smiled at the camera and said this year’s questions weren’t too hard, I walked out right behind him, my face pale, clutching my stomach, and wiping away tears. This starkly contrasting image was screenshotted by netizens and became the internet’s newest viral meme for exam season: “The Smiling Valedictorian and the Crying Slacker.” The comments section was ruthless: “The smiling nerd in the front is so handsome, and the crying slacker in the back really knows how to put on a tragic show.” Me: Gee, thanks a lot. Y’all are so sweet for complimenting my crying skills. 01 During the two days of our final exams, my period hit me like a truck. After the very last subject, my classmates couldn’t wait to throw a massive senior wrap party. Because I was in agonizing pain, I skipped it. As a result, a rumor spread like wildfire that I had bombed the exams so badly I had a mental breakdown and couldn’t even show my face at the party. 02 I slept like the dead at home all night, completely oblivious to the drama. The next morning, I went to school for yearbook signing and senior photos, only to find everyone looking at me with weird, pitying eyes. I didn’t care much, though, because I had something far more important to do today. I was eagerly looking for Ethan Cole. We had made a promise that once finals were over, we would officially start dating. But when I finally found him, he was tucked away in a corner of the hallway, kissing my desk-mate, Hailey Morgan. Their eyelashes fluttered, their cheeks were flushed, and the kiss looked incredibly tender and sweet. Seeing this, my brain instantly short-circuited. After all, just two days ago, Ethan had texted me. He wrote: “Riley, just thinking about you becoming my girlfriend in two days keeps me up at night! I won’t let you down. Let’s meet at the top!” Had the world really spun off its axis in just forty-eight hours? 03 I stood frozen in place. For a second, I didn’t know if I should march up and slap him, or just turn around and walk away. If I slapped him, I didn’t entirely have the moral high ground. Even though the whole senior class knew Ethan and I liked each other, technically, we weren’t officially together yet. But just walking away made my blood boil. While I was hesitating, Ethan spotted me. He instinctively shoved Hailey away and sprinted over to me, looking panicked. “Riley, listen to me, I can explain.” I crossed my arms and sneered. “Go ahead. I’m listening.” How could he possibly spin this into something acceptable? Ethan opened his mouth, seeming to realize how absurd his next words were going to sound. But he said them anyway. “At the wrap party yesterday, you didn’t show up, and Hailey confessed her feelings to me.” I replied that I didn’t go yesterday, and he didn’t even bother to text me once. Turns out, he was busy getting confessed to. I clenched my fists. “And then you two got together?” “No, I didn’t say yes,” Ethan said in a low voice. “She got drunk yesterday and kissed me. Today, she asked me to return that kiss to her so she could have closure, which is why I…” I was dumbfounded. I stared at Ethan. “Do you think I’m an idiot?” Ethan shook his head, offering a bitter smile. “No, I’m telling the truth. Honestly, my head is a total mess right now.” “You don’t need to be conflicted,” Hailey suddenly spoke up from the side. She walked up to me, her voice hoarse. “I was drunk and out of line yesterday when I kissed Ethan. Today, I practically begged him to return the kiss. None of this is his fault. He’s just too much of a gentleman. Don’t blame him.” I was utterly speechless. After delivering her lines, Hailey wiped the tears from her face and smiled tragically at Ethan. “Thank you for letting me leave high school with no regrets. My crush on you ends here. I wish you happiness, Ethan.” With that, Hailey choked back a sob and walked away. Ethan looked at me, then looked at Hailey’s retreating, weeping figure. He gritted his teeth and said, “I’m sorry, Riley. Wait for me, I’ll explain everything properly later.” Then he actually chased after Hailey, leaving me standing alone in the wind. 04 By the time my best friend Savannah Mitchell ran over, I was still standing there like a statue. She practically tackled me, almost knocking me to the floor. Savannah grabbed my shoulders, shaking me back and forth, sobbing loudly. “Riley, you idiot, what happened?! How could you drop the ball at the most critical moment of your life? Waaaah!” I looked at Savannah in confusion. She was genuinely bawling, massive tears rolling down her cheeks and splashing onto the floor. “I know you’re hurting the most right now, and I should be comforting you, but I just can’t hold it in! I’m so sad! Riley, you jerk, you’re usually so arrogant and confident! How could you bomb the finals? You total failure, waaaah!” In no time, Savannah had soaked the shoulder of my shirt with her tears. I looked at her scrunched-up, crying face. “Sav, stop howling. Who told you I bombed the exams? I did perfectly fine.” I pulled out a tissue and wiped her face. Savannah pouted. “Really? Then why didn’t you answer any of my calls last night?!” “I was exhausted after the tests. I went home, skipped dinner, and crashed. I didn’t hear my phone.” Savannah looked at me with red eyes. “Then… did you actually finish the AP Calculus section? Did you write real answers?” I nodded. “I finished the whole thing. I answered everything seriously and even had thirty minutes left over to check my work.” Savannah’s lips curled up into a wobbly smile, but then she frowned again. “But last night, Hailey said you looked awful after the math exam. She said you told her the test was incredibly hard, that you only knew the multiple-choice, and you guessed on all the free-response questions.” “Hailey said that?” Savannah nodded. “She announced it in front of the whole class at the party! Also, you haven’t been on social media since yesterday, right? A news crew caught you on camera. You went viral.” I was completely lost. “What are you talking about?” I only missed one party. How did a whole season of television drama happen in one night? Seeing my blank face, Savannah pulled out her phone and showed me a video. In the video, a reporter was interviewing the first student out of the testing center. I knew the guy—Carter Hayes from Class 2, the genius who was constantly battling me for the #1 rank in our grade. Because Carter was incredibly good-looking, the video had blown up online. While Carter was smiling at the camera saying the exam wasn’t that difficult, I walked out in the background, my face pale, clutching my stomach, and wiping away tears. Someone took a screenshot of this dramatic contrast, creating the ultimate meme: “The Smiling Valedictorian and the Crying Slacker.” The comments were wild: “The smiling nerd in the front is so handsome, and the crying slacker in the back really knows how to put on a tragic show.” Me: Gee, thanks a lot. Y’all are so sweet for complimenting my crying skills.

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Mag and I were more than just best friends; we were sisters by choice. We had walked into the Whitman family together, marrying brothers in a joint ceremony that felt like a fairytale, and by some miracle of timing, we both fell pregnant within weeks of each other. Mag’s husband, Derek, was a rising star in the local police department—brave, handsome, and dedicated. I had married Simon, a brilliant orthopedic surgeon with hands that could mend shattered bones. On our first wedding anniversary, I went to the medical center to pick up our prenatal screening reports. On the way back, the world splintered. A massive collision turned my car into a cage of twisted metal. Mag had been with me but had stepped out just minutes before to grab us a couple of iced lattes. She was the lucky one; she missed the impact by a heartbeat. The aftermath was a blur of red. I was hemorrhaging, the lower half of my body soaked in a terrifying warmth as I lay on the asphalt, the life draining out of me. My face went ghost-white as the realization set in. With trembling fingers, I reached for my phone and dialed Simon. I needed him. I needed my husband, the doctor. He declined the call. Twice. On the third attempt, he finally picked up. His voice was a jagged edge of impatience. “Jane, can you stop for once? You just had your checkup this morning, I know you’re fine. Don’t waste hospital resources on your drama. Lucy is here; she sliced her wrist open trying to fix a pipe at her place, and I’m right in the middle of cleaning the wound. Stop bothering me!” He didn’t wait for a reply. The line went dead. In the end, it was Mag who saved me. She came running back, lattes forgotten, screaming for help as she saw me in the wreckage. She called Derek, sobbing, begging him to get an ambulance and find the hit-and-run driver. Derek’s response was a bucket of ice water. “Do you have any idea what the penalty is for filing a false police report, Mag? Enough. I’m at Lucy’s helping her with a plumbing emergency. Stop wasting my time!” The bystanders were too shocked by the carnage to move. Mag, eight months pregnant and terrified, didn’t wait. She dragged me. She literally hauled me toward the hospital, fueled by a desperation that defied physics. Because of that grueling journey, she lost her baby. After the emergency surgery, she insisted on being my blood donor. When I finally woke up and saw her pale, hollowed-out face, we didn’t need words. We looked at each other and shared a bitter, broken smile. “Mag,” I whispered. “I’m divorcing him.” “Me too,” she said. 1 The moment I woke up and found my resolve, I sent Simon a one-sentence text: I want a divorce. The phone that he had ignored during my dying moments suddenly rang within seconds. It was a miracle. When I pressed ‘accept,’ his voice exploded in my ear, thick with fury. “Jane! Just because I won’t indulge your tantrums, you’re jumping straight to divorce? The baby was fine this morning. You’re telling me you had a miscarriage right after I hung up? Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think this is a game?” “I have a job to do! I save lives, Jane. I don’t play house. It just so happens that today, my patient was Lucy!” “Use your head! She cut her wrist. Do you know how easily that can turn into a fatal hemorrhage? That is a human life!” “My child and this marriage aren’t bargaining chips for you to use when you’re feeling insecure. Stop trying to compete for my attention like we’re in some twisted drama!” He slammed the phone down before I could even draw a breath to speak. My hand, still connected to an IV drip, fell weakly to the bedsheet. Three years of dating. One year of marriage. A baby we had almost met. I never imagined it would all end because of Lucy Fontaine—the girl who had haunted our marriage under the guise of being his “childhood best friend.” I remembered seeing her at the hospital earlier that morning. She’d seen me struggling with my bags and offered to call me an Uber. I hadn’t thought twice about it. I’d even thanked her for being kind. But the ride had been wrong from the start. A sudden, violent swerve into oncoming traffic, and then the world exploded as a semi-truck plowed into the passenger side where I sat. The driver had walked away with a few scratches and fled the scene, leaving me to bleed out in the middle of the road. I had never been so scared. Scared of dying, but even more scared for the life inside me. I had cried, I had begged, and my husband had hung up on me three times. Usually, he answered even when he was in clinic because he was paranoid about the pregnancy. But today, when the nightmare was real, I only got a cold text: [In clinic. Do not disturb.] I knew Lucy was his “patient” because I’d seen her name on the triage screen before I left. Through the tears and the pain, I had tried one last time. When he finally answered, I could feel the life slipping away. I could barely find my voice. “Simon… there was an accident… outside the hospital… please, help me… the baby…” I could feel the heat of the blood. It was everywhere. There was a long silence on the other end, punctuated by Lucy’s soft, melodic giggle in the background. Ten seconds. It felt like a century. Finally, Simon spoke. “I’m finishing Lucy’s bandages. Being a doctor means prioritizing injuries, Jane. Can you please stop being so manipulative?” He hung up, protecting his time with her like it was sacred. Since when did a minor laceration require a top-tier surgeon to do the bandaging personally? The physical agony went numb, replaced by a cold, hollow realization. A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat, mixing with the salt of my tears. At the moment I was ready to give up, Mag had appeared. She had seen the texts. She had heard his voice. She had grabbed my phone and screamed into a voice note: “You don’t deserve to be a father! Go to hell! You and your ‘precious’ Lucy deserve each other. Don’t you dare ever show your face to Jane again!” Mag saved me. But the cost was her own son. 2 Now, she sat by my bed. Her surgery was over, but she looked like a ghost of herself. Her lips were trembling, and her face was drained of all color. Her tears splashed onto my hand, heavy with a guilt she didn’t deserve. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “If I hadn’t been so selfish… if I hadn’t wanted that coffee… I should have been in the car with you. I should have protected you.” I reached out to her, my heart breaking for her more than for myself. Before I could speak, her husband Derek called. She put it on speaker. “Did you just scream at my brother?” Derek’s voice was sharp, accusatory. “What is wrong with you, Mag? He’s a doctor; he doesn’t choose his patients. Stop letting your delusional friend brainwash you.” “And a miscarriage? Really? That’s the lie you’re going with? You were eight months along, Mag. You don’t just ‘have a miscarriage.’ You couldn’t lose that baby if you ran a marathon. It’s pathetic.” “If I wasn’t busy fixing Lucy’s plumbing, I’d come over there and give you both a reality check. You don’t throw around the word ‘divorce’ unless you mean it. You want out? Fine. Let’s do it. See who blinks first.” He hung up. Mag stared at the black screen for a long time. I looked at her, seeing my own reflection in her shattered eyes. “It’s over, Mag. Maybe the universe is telling us that these men were never ours to keep. You’ve lost so much blood… you need to rest. Your health is the only thing that matters now.” We clung to each other, two broken women in a sterile room, letting out the screams we had kept muffled for years. Our devotion had been a weapon, and in the end, it had pierced us both through the heart. Looking back, the end was written into the beginning. Simon had insisted on getting married on Lucy’s birthday. It was a petty, transparent move to get a reaction out of her after she’d moved away. The Whitman brothers hadn’t married us for love; they had married us to fill a void Lucy left behind. We were placeholders. Trophies to show her what she was missing. And we were fools. We believed them when they said she was just “like a sister.” We even followed their instructions to post our wedding photos on Instagram, making sure the privacy settings were adjusted so that only Lucy could see how “happy” they were. Even now, even though we were literally in the hospital where Simon worked, he couldn’t be bothered to type my name into the patient registry to see if I was telling the truth. Trust wasn’t just broken; it had never existed. I realized that too late. And the price was far too high. 3 I lay in bed, scrolling through social media. Predictably, Lucy had already posted her “victory” lap. It was a photo of the three of them—Simon, Derek, and Lucy—grinning. There was a picture of a fixed pipe and a shot of her wrist, wrapped in a perfect, surgical bandage tied with a literal bow. Caption: [So grateful for my guys. Friendship really is thicker than blood. Another one for our book of memories! #TrioForLife #Blessed] I took a shaky breath and showed it to Mag. She looked at it for two seconds before let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Three’s a crowd, right? I guess their ‘special memories’ don’t include the two wives they left bleeding in the street.” She wiped her eyes. “When we divorce them, they’re going to need a custom-made bed for the three of them, aren’t they?” Lucy had cross-posted to every platform. The comments were nauseating. [I’d kill for one guy like that, and you have two?] [Tell me your secrets! I must have been a villain in a past life, because you’re clearly the main character.] My throat felt like it was filled with glass. I couldn’t even cry anymore. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, my voice rasping. “I’m calling the lawyer. We’re drafting the papers today.” I had the documents printed and sent to the hospital. I asked a nurse I knew to hand-deliver Simon’s copy to his office. I sent Mag’s copy via courier to Derek’s precinct. The tracking showed they were delivered and signed for. Twenty-four hours passed. Silence. Four years of our lives didn’t even warrant a phone call in return. The bitterness settled into my bones as the sun began to set. Eventually, I lost my patience and called Simon. It rang for a long time before he picked up. Before I could say a word, he snapped. “What now? I haven’t even finished with you yet, and you’re calling me? Why the hell did you send those papers to my office? Do you want the whole hospital to know you’re having a jealous meltdown?” I sighed, a deep, weary sound. “If you had bothered to ask the nurse who delivered them, Simon, you would have known I’ve been a patient here for two days. You would have known about the surgery.” He didn’t listen. He wasn’t even focused. In the background, I heard Lucy’s playful voice. “Adrian! This lipstick you bought me is gorgeous! I love it so much, can I get the red one too?” Simon quickly covered the receiver, but it was too late. I let out a cold laugh. “I see why you haven’t had time to sign. You’re busy. I won’t keep you.” “Wait!” he shouted, sensing I was about to hang up. “Don’t start this again! I’m only doing this because I didn’t want you to overthink things. I’m with my brother! He was fixing her plumbing, and she’s just thanking us with dinner. Are you really this paranoid?” “She’s a single woman living alone; she can’t even change a pipe without calling my husband? And you’re calling me immature? I’m exhausted, Simon. You’re telling me I’m ‘corrupting’ Mag? Derek is just as much of a coward as you are.” His voice rose to a roar. “You’re acting like a child! Grow up!” Then, Lucy’s voice drifted in again, sweet and poisonous. “Don’t be mad, Simon. Pregnancy hormones make women so sensitive. I only learned to be independent because I had no one to lean on. I wish I could be a soft little girl like Jane, but I have to be strong.” Simon’s voice softened instantly as he spoke to her. “It’s okay, Lucy. If you ever need anything, you just text me. I’ll be there in a heartbeat. We’ve known each other forever; don’t let outsiders get to you.” Outsiders. The word hit me like a physical blow. Four years. A child. And I was the “outsider.” I hung up. I didn’t say goodbye. I just sat there, shaking, as the reality finally, fully sank in. Mag saw me spiraling and grabbed my hand. “Don’t cry for that piece of trash,” she hissed. “I’ve already texted Derek. The second we’re discharged, we’re going to the courthouse. No more excuses.” 4 We spent two weeks in the hospital. In those fourteen days, neither of them called. Neither of them came by the house to see why we weren’t there. Our hearts, already shattered, turned to stone in the face of their indifference. We got our answer when Lucy posted a new album. Dozens of photos from a spontaneous beach trip. They looked like a happy, sun-drenched family. The contrast to our sterile hospital room was violent. The caption read: [Always remember, we are family by choice, not by blood. Forever.] I looked at Simon’s beaming face in the photos and felt… nothing. The love had finally died. I sent him a final text. I’m out of the hospital. Meet us at the courthouse tomorrow morning. Tell Derek to be there too. He tried to call immediately. I blocked him. Mag and I checked out of the hospital together. Our first stop wasn’t home; it was the police station to report the hit-and-run from two weeks ago. When we explained the situation, the officer behind the desk frowned. “It’s been two weeks? Why are you just now reporting this? The trail is cold, ma’am.” I looked him in the eye, my voice steady. “My husband is a surgeon who told me I was ‘faking it.’ My friend’s husband is a detective who told her the same. We’ve been in surgery and recovery. We had no one else.” The officer’s expression shifted to one of deep, simmering anger on our behalf. “I see. We’ll do our best.” Mag and I moved into the small apartment I’d owned before the wedding. We were weak, our bodies still healing, but we managed. Simon finally realized he was blocked and called me from Derek’s phone. His voice was a thunderclap of rage. “Where the hell are you? The house is a mess! You’re pregnant, Jane, you shouldn’t be running around. Hasn’t two weeks been enough time for you to calm down? How long is this act going to last?” “And even if you’re mad at me, why are you dragging Mag into this? She and Derek were fine until you started this ‘divorce’ nonsense! How can you be so toxic? You’re so miserable that you have to ruin everyone else’s happiness?” Mag snatched the phone from my hand. “You’re the toxic one, you prick! Being married to you was the biggest mistake of our lives. Tell Derek: if he isn’t at the courthouse tomorrow, he’s a dead man. We’re done. We’re making room for you and your ‘sister’ to finally be the happy family you want.” She hung up and blocked that number, too. The next morning, we were the first ones at the courthouse. But we weren’t met by the brothers. We were met by Lucy. She was dressed in a soft, white sundress, her eyes red and watery. She walked up to us, looking like a wounded bird. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I came to apologize for them. I know you’ve misunderstood everything. It’s not what it looks like.” “The trip… it was a promise we made five years ago. I wasn’t there to finish it then, so we did it now. I told them to check on you before we left, I had no idea they hadn’t messaged…” Even now, she was marking her territory. Five years ago. Longer than you. Mag’s grip on my hand tightened until it hurt. I looked Lucy up and down and gave her a thin, lethal smile. “Is that so? Tell me, Lucy, did you give them permission to get divorced today? Are they allowed to be here?” “Or are you here to sign for them?” Lucy’s phone buzzed in her hand. Her eyes flickered, and suddenly, she lunged toward me. It was a clumsy, obvious move. Instinctively, I put my hands out to push her away. Lucy collapsed onto the sidewalk, her palms scraping against the concrete, a tiny bead of blood appearing. I reached out to help her, confused, but then I heard a roar from across the parking lot. “JANE! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” Simon was charging toward us. Before I could process it, he shoved me aside with enough force to send me crashing into Mag. He didn’t check on me. He went straight to Lucy, cradling her “injured” hand. Only then did he look at me—and his eyes dropped to my stomach. The color drained from his face. “Where… where is the baby, Jane?” Derek was walking up behind him, phone to his ear, looking distracted. “Listen, I can’t do this today. The precinct just called. Someone reported a major hit-and-run from two weeks ago—they’re calling it attempted murder. I have to go.” Then he looked at Mag. He looked at her flat stomach. He stopped dead. His phone slipped from his hand, the screen shattering on the pavement. “What’s going on? Mag? Honey, what happened?”

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I was in the middle of trying to wrench my wrist from his grip when the strange, glowing text began scrolling across my field of vision. The floating characters hovering in midair like a phantom chat room told a bizarre story: they said the charming boy I had grown up with was going to con me, leaving me utterly bankrupt and destitute. They also said that this moment—right now—was the very last time the man holding my wrist would ever try to keep me. If I let him go today, he would lock his heart away forever. “We grew up under the same roof. You practically raised me. Don’t you think this whole arrangement is sick?” Only seconds ago, I had been sneering those exact words at him. This was my third time trying to run away from our wedding, and my third time being dragged back. I thought he was finally going to give up. But the second I processed the meaning of the glowing words floating in front of me, my hand shot out. I tightly gripped his fingers just as he was about to release me. “Everett, let’s get married,” I heard myself say, the words tumbling out in a rushed, desperate breath. His grip on me was still painfully tight, his dark eyes swirling with an exhaustion and profound loneliness he couldn’t hide. “Do you really hate the idea of marrying me that much?” His weary voice from moments ago was still echoing in my ears. 1 Everett Cross froze. For a long second, he just stared at me, before his thick lashes fluttered down, casting shadows over his cheekbones. He let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “Is this your new tactic to trick me?” He couldn’t mask the crushing disappointment in his tone. “Gemma, I won’t force you anymore.” He pulled his arm from my grasp and pointed toward the heavy, open oak doors of the estate. “You were right before. I’ve been too controlling. My need to keep you safe became a cage.” He swallowed hard. “So, right now… I’m giving you the freedom you want.” Beneath the icy, untouchable exterior of the billionaire CEO, there was a faint, nearly imperceptible tremor in his voice. [Even though the male lead is saying this, he’s actually terrified she’s going to walk out that door, right?] [Yeah, but compared to forcing her to stay and making her hate him even more, he’d rather rip his own heart out and let her go.] [God, I’m sobbing. He’s dying a thousand deaths inside but acting completely unbothered. Does the villainess even have a soul?!] I stared at the floating comments, my throat suddenly dry. Instinctively, I reached out and caught the hem of his tailored suit jacket, tugging it gently. “Everett… do you really want me to leave?” He clearly hadn’t anticipated the question. He stiffened, a heavy silence falling between us before he let out a long, ragged sigh. “Gemma, I’m just terrified you’re going to be used. Tyler is manipulative, and his depth of cruelty… you’re not equipped to handle him.” Perhaps fearing his words were too harsh, that they would spark another one of my rebellious explosions, he reached out and gently smoothed my hair. His tone softened, becoming excruciatingly tender. “I just wanted to find a way to stay by your side and protect you, but I completely ignored how you felt about it. That’s my fault.” With that, he turned to the head butler and ordered that, effective immediately, all security details keeping me on the estate were dismissed. Before he walked up the grand staircase, he paused, giving me one last, lingering look. 2 That night, sleep completely evaded me. My mind was a cinematic loop of Everett’s final, devastating glance. He was the son of my late father’s army buddy. When Everett was twelve and his father passed away, he was brought into the Astor household. I was seven. I still remember the first time I saw him. He was a tall, impossibly straight-backed boy, like a pine tree after a storm. He reached his hand out to me, his eyes bright, his expression fiercely serious. “Gemma, from now on, I’m going to protect you.” And for all these years, he absolutely did. Every time I got into trouble, every time someone at my elite prep school tried to bully me, Everett was the one standing like a fortress between me and the world. Everything was fine. Perfect, even. Until my father, on his deathbed, unilaterally declared that Everett and I were to be married. That changed everything. His protection morphed into something suffocating. He managed my life with an airtight grip that left me gasping for air. So, naturally, I fought tooth and nail to escape. It didn’t help that Tyler was constantly whispering in my ear, convincing me that Everett was just playing the long game to steal the Astor fortune. “Gemma, has he ever actually confessed to you? Has he ever said the words ‘I love you’? No. He just wants a painless way to inherit your family’s empire.” “The second you say ‘I do’ to Everett Cross, he’ll swallow you whole. There won’t be anything left of you.” Truthfully, I hadn’t believed Tyler at first. I had marched straight into Everett’s study, mustered every ounce of my courage, and demanded, “Do you even like me?” He had remained silent. To me, silence meant no. My pride was shattered. I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. And then, fueled by Tyler’s insidious encouragement, I ran away from the wedding. Twice. When Everett dragged me back the second time, I screamed at him until my voice broke. “Why are you doing this?!” Everett just looked at the floor. “Gemma, I don’t want you to get hurt.” Hypocrite, I had thought. Dressing up his greed in the noble robes of duty and obligation. But I refused to be trapped in a loveless marriage. From that day on, I never gave him a kind look or a soft word. This most recent escape attempt was my third. The wedding was exactly one month away. I thought that if Everett finally let me go, I would feel an overwhelming sense of euphoria. But sitting alone in my vast, quiet bedroom, I just felt hollow. Like a massive piece of my foundation had just caved in. Two soft knocks at the door pulled me from my thoughts. Thinking it was him, I bolted for the door, not even bothering to put on my slippers. When I pulled it open, it was only the butler. “Miss Gemma, Mr. Cross asked me to bring you some warm milk.” “He said that if you go to bed on an empty stomach, you struggle to sleep.” Beneath the warm ceramic mug was a folded slip of paper. There was only one line written on it. Drink it while it’s warm. I added the vanilla bean and cinnamon you like. The handwriting was a little messy, the strokes hesitant, as if he had agonized over the words before writing them. I held the warm mug in both hands and looked down the long, shadowed hallway. Usually, he was the one who brought the milk. Even though I routinely slammed the door in his face, he would still stand on the other side, his voice soft and unwavering. But tonight, his bedroom door at the end of the hall remained firmly shut. I suddenly remembered the floating text: this was the very last time he would ever try to keep me. Was he really going to just wash his hands of me forever? [The male lead finally lets go, and suddenly the villainess doesn’t want to run? Human nature is truly twisted.] [Honestly, if she just waited until after the wedding and experienced his… heavenly endowments… she’d never want to leave that bed, let alone the house.] [Right?! He’s been holding back for a decade. If they actually do the deed, her eyes are going to roll into the back of her head.] [She’s so clueless. If he didn’t obsessively love her, why would he be hand-washing the silk nightgowns she throws out…?] [Wait, hand-washing? Like… the way I’m thinking?] I read the comments, my face suddenly flushing with a violent, inexplicable heat. It was true that in all these years, there had never been another woman by Everett’s side. Just me. But for years, I hadn’t just been cold to him; I had been downright cruel. I had made it my mission to despise him. If I changed course now… would he even accept it? 3 The next morning, I cornered his assistant for his schedule. He had a business dinner that evening. I knew his stomach was sensitive. Whenever he drank at these corporate functions, he would spend half the night in agonizing pain. In the past, I used to gleefully hope he felt sick so he’d be too distracted to micromanage my life. Thinking about it now made me feel sick to my own stomach. Grabbing my car keys from the foyer, I drove straight to the restaurant. Since I had literally never once gone to pick him up from anything, I decided to text him a warning. What time are you finishing up tonight? The reply was almost instantaneous. [?] I scrolled up. Our entire text history was a graveyard of Everett checking in on me, asking if I was safe, asking if I had eaten. I had ignored ninety percent of them. Biting my lower lip, I typed: There’s something I really need to talk to you about. It took a long time for the three typing dots to appear and disappear before he finally replied: Gemma, I’ve already lifted the security detail. If you want to leave, you can go anywhere you want. I will also make the announcement tomorrow that the wedding is canceled. He thought I was coming to demand he call off the wedding. No. I just want to know which private dining room you’re in. I’m coming to take you home. The typing bubble hovered on the screen for what felt like an eternity. A full two minutes later, he sent the address and room number. Drive safe. If you’re tired, call the driver. Don’t force yourself. The phantom comments were having a field day: [LMAO Everett really thought she was coming to dump him! He was probably rewriting that text fifty times trying not to sound devastated.] [But why is the villainess suddenly acting like a decent human being? Suspicious.] [I don’t trust it. Gemma, if you don’t love him, please just leave him alone!] I started the engine. The entire drive there, my phone buzzed every ten minutes with Everett asking for my location. For a man who wore an expression of untouchable ice in boardrooms, he was an absolute mother hen in private. After handing my keys to the valet, I walked into the lobby to catch the elevator. The doors chimed open on the ground floor. Tyler was standing inside. His eyes lit up with predatory surprise. “Gemma! What are you doing here? Did you come to see me?” “No.” Perhaps sensing the absolute frost in my voice, he stepped forward as the elevator doors closed, trapping us in the small, mirrored space. “Did that control freak forbid you from talking to me?” He moved closer, boxing me in between his body and the cold metal wall. To anyone looking in, it would look incredibly intimate. My skin crawled, and I instinctively raised my hands to shove him away. Before I could, he grabbed my wrists. “Are you punishing me? Just because I couldn’t pick you up yesterday? You wouldn’t even answer my calls.” He flashed his signature boyish smile. “But I knew you’d soften up eventually. Since you came all this way to find me, I forgive you.” “Don’t worry, Gemma. I’ve got everything arranged this time. I won’t let that orphaned parasite drag you back to his cage.” “Tyler,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I’m an orphan too.” His expression faltered. He opened his mouth to pivot— Ding. The elevator doors slid open. Everett was standing right there. He took one look at Tyler trapping me against the wall, holding my wrists, and whatever fragile hope had been in his eyes died instantly. 4 [Oh no no no no! The tiny shred of hope our boy had just got obliterated! His internal monologue right now: ‘Of course. Her texting me was a trick. The person she really wanted to see was Tyler all along.’] [Everett is literally shattering into a million pieces.] [Gemma, open your mouth! Explain! Speak!] Just as the elevator doors began to slide shut again, I violently shoved Tyler backward and bolted out into the hallway. I jogged straight up to Everett, blocking his path. The lighting in the corridor was dim. He kept his eyes cast downward, a self-deprecating smile twisting his lips. “Did you come to find me so I would give you my blessing to be with him?” He finally looked up at me. His gaze was a volatile mix of obsession, defeat, and profound sorrow. “Gemma, if doing that will finally make you happy, I’ll…” “I had no idea he was even going to be here.” I cut him off, my words tumbling over each other in my panic. “I came here for you. It has nothing to do with anyone else. And what I said yesterday? I meant it. I want to marry you. It’s not out of spite, and I’m not just ‘softening up.’ Can you please stop trying to pave an exit route for me every time you look at me? I’m not leaving.” Everett froze. He stood rooted to the carpet, looking at me as if I were speaking a language he couldn’t comprehend. A delayed wave of heat rushed to the tips of my ears. What am I doing? Did I just aggressively propose to him in a hallway? For a moment, the air between us was thick and awkwardly silent. “Gemma, why are you degrading yourself to please him?” Tyler had stepped out of the elevator, strolling over to us with an infuriatingly arrogant swagger. The floating text was moving at warp speed now. [This toxic waste of space is back. So annoying.] [Honestly, the person actually trying to steal the Astor money is standing right there.] [Poor Gemma. Blind as a bat. Manipulated for years, and in the original timeline, she gets her entire inheritance drained by this absolute loser.] My chest tightened painfully. Bastard. Play with my feelings all you want, but try to steal my money? Absolutely not. Seeing my silence, Tyler reached his hand out toward me, his eyes burning with what he probably thought was undeniable charisma. “Come here, Gemma. I’ll take you away from him.” His voice was grating on my last nerve. It was only in this exact moment, bathed in the dim hallway light, that total clarity washed over me. I had never had romantic feelings for Tyler. Never. He was the one who was constantly orbiting me, showering me with strategic affection. The only reason I had ever even entertained the idea of running away with him was out of sheer teenage rebellion—a desperate bid to break free from Everett’s iron grip. With my heart suddenly feeling lighter than it had in years, I took a deep breath and reached out, lacing my fingers through Everett’s. He flinched in surprise, his fingers stiffening against mine. “Tyler, I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m getting married.” Tyler stared at me in disbelief. I didn’t want to look at his face for another second. Pulling Everett by the hand, I marched us straight out of the building. It wasn’t until we were sitting in the plush leather seats of his Maybach that my racing heart began to settle. The comments were practically cackling. [In the dark corner where Gemma can’t see, Everett’s mouth is literally twitching he’s smiling so hard LMAO.] [His brain right now: ‘She held my hand hehe. She initiated it! Did you hear that? She wants to marry me!’] [Look at him trying to act so normal while his soul is doing backflips.] I turned my head to look at him. Everett was sitting ramrod straight. Like a perfectly behaved schoolboy. Aside from the tips of his ears, which were burning a brilliant shade of crimson, his expression was completely, impeccably stoic. 5 When I walked out of the kitchen carrying the can of hangover drink, Everett was leaning heavily against the corner of the living room sofa, his eyes closed in a light doze. He had yanked his tie loose, and the top buttons of his crisp dress shirt were undone, exposing the sharp, incredibly appealing lines of his collarbone. I hadn’t allowed myself to openly stare at him like this in years. It hit me then that the comments weren’t exaggerating. Everett Cross was built like a Greek god. “Ev. Drink this before you sleep.” I sat on the edge of the sofa cushion and gently nudged his shoulder. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes fluttered open, his dark gaze still a little hazy from the alcohol. I scooped up a spoonful of the warm broth and brought it to his lips. He obediently parted them and swallowed it down. Spoonful by spoonful, the only sound in the massive, quiet house was the soft clink of the porcelain spoon against the bowl. Just as I leaned in to offer him another bite, a few loose strands of my hair slipped over my shoulder and somehow looped themselves tightly around one of his open shirt buttons. When I tried to pull back, a sharp pain bit into my scalp. “It’s caught. It’s pulled tight,” Everett murmured, his voice suddenly gravelly. He reached up, his large, warm hand covering mine to stop me from yanking it. I had to lean forward, my face practically hovering over his lap, to give him slack. “It hurts.” “Because it’s tangled. Gemma, relax.” His fingers brushed against my neck as he worked at the knot. “If it’s your first time dealing with a knot like this, the more you move, the more it’s going to hurt.” His breath brushed against my cheek, warm and laced with the sharp scent of expensive whiskey. It made my face burn. There was a large, decorative mirror on the wall opposite the sofa. I caught our reflection—the way I was bent over him, the way his larger frame seemed to envelop me entirely. It looked… scandalous. “You’re moving too slow. Hurry up.” “Alright… I’ll go faster.” I could feel the subtle movements of his fingertips working the button, grazing my collarbone. My heart hammered against my ribs. “Got it.” Finally, the tension at my scalp released. I immediately tried to push myself up, but I had been kneeling in that awkward position for too long. My leg had fallen completely asleep. As soon as I put weight on it, my knee buckled, and I collapsed directly onto Everett’s lap. In my sheer panic, my hands flailed, desperately grabbing for anything to break my fall. I heard Everett let out a sharp, muted groan. His hands clamped down on my waist like iron vises, the heat of his palms searing through my thin silk top. “Everett,” I gasped, staring wide-eyed at where my hand had landed. “What is that…?”

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To give his son a complete family, he found me—a woman who bore a faint, passing resemblance to his unforgettable first love. For three years of our marriage, I was the quiet woman behind the scenes for both father and son. Virtuous, considerate, empathetic, and above all, I maintained an incredibly stable emotional state. One day, I went to pick up his son from school and overheard him telling his classmates that I was just his nanny, and that his real mom was coming back soon. My heart leaped with joy. She’s back? Fantastic. That means I can take my payout and get the hell out of here. It was a Friday, the day Caleb Vance usually picked up his son. This was their weekly father-son bonding time, and Caleb would typically take him to a family-friendly restaurant for dinner. For three years, it had been a routine without fail. But today, Caleb called me last minute, claiming he had an urgent business trip and needed me to pick up Leo. I rushed from the hospital straight to the kindergarten. The classroom was mostly empty, save for three or four kids still waiting for their parents. Leo was surrounded in the center of the room, the other kids staring in awe at the custom-engraved silver locket around his neck. “Wow, Leo, your necklace is so cool!” “Where did you get it? I’m gonna ask my mom to buy me one too.” Leo lifted his chin, looking incredibly proud. “My mom custom-designed this just for me. You can’t buy it anywhere.” “Whoa, your mom is amazing.” “She can bake little bear cookies and design jewelry! I wish she was my mom.” “I want your mom too. She’s so nice, my mom is so strict.” Except for Fridays and extremely rare circumstances, I was always the one who dropped off and picked up Leo. Leo was much more mature than kids his age, and a bit withdrawn. Afraid that he might be isolated at school, I often baked homemade pastries to hand out to his classmates. Because of that, Leo was very popular at school, and everyone naturally assumed I was his mother—even though he had never once called me that. I did bake the bear cookies, but I certainly didn’t know how to design jewelry. I silently pulled back the foot I had just stepped into the classroom with. Sure enough, a second later, Leo’s childish but distinctly disdainful voice rang out: “I’m not talking about her!” “She’s not my mom, she’s just our nanny.” “My real mom is a jewelry designer, and she’s super famous!” The kids let out a collective gasp of awe, crowding around Leo and chattering excitedly, asking all about his amazing mother. Standing by the back door, watching Leo passionately brag about his mother, I didn’t feel much of a stir in my heart. In a way, his words were harsh, but they weren’t exactly wrong. It was just… a bit too blunt. Ever since I got together with Caleb, taking care of him and his son became my only full-time job. Though the work was essentially the same as a live-in nanny, Caleb and I had signed the papers. We were legally married. At the very least, I shouldn’t be called a nanny. I was a stepmother, at worst. Leo was the child of Caleb and a brilliant designer named Ashley. But right after Ashley recovered from childbirth, she vanished without a trace, leaving them without even a legal marriage certificate. As Leo grew older, Caleb began to realize the gap in their family dynamic. So, he started looking for a stepmother to give Leo a complete home. Relying on a face that looked thirty percent like Ashley’s, I stood out among a sea of candidates. From the very first day I stepped into their lives, Leo knew I wasn’t his mother, and I never once tried to replace her. After all, Caleb and I were just a contract couple, bound for three years. For these three years, he got a stand-in wife, Leo got a stepmother, and I got three million dollars. I had no reason to refuse. I was desperate for the money. On the drive back, I pretended I hadn’t heard a thing. I asked Leo how his day was and what he wanted for dinner, just like always. I knew my place. I only took what was mine, and I didn’t care about anything that didn’t concern me. Leo kept a straight face and rattled off a few dishes. I caught him secretly swallowing back saliva, and I had to suppress a smile. If nothing else, my cooking skills were genuinely top-notch. Over the past three years, both the Vance men had filled out quite nicely. Once we got home, Leo immediately locked himself in his room. I didn’t mind. I walked straight into the kitchen and started cooking. When the three dishes and a soup were ready, I went to call him for dinner. Before I could even knock, I heard bright laughter coming from inside. Leo was on a video call. He had it on speaker, so I could hear everything perfectly. I heard Caleb’s voice, and another woman’s voice. She called Leo “baby,” and Leo called her “Mom.” Leo excitedly told her how jealous all his classmates were of his necklace. I had assumed the necklace was just another gift Caleb bought to humor him; things like that had happened before. Even though Ashley had been gone for years, Caleb carefully maintained a connection between her and Leo, all so that if Ashley ever returned, she could seamlessly step back into her son’s life. But now it seemed the necklace really was designed by Ashley. After six years, Caleb had finally found her. Today’s supposed “business trip” was just him rushing off for love. How deeply romantic. I had no intention of interrupting their beautiful family reunion, so I quietly sat back at the dining table and scrolled through my phone. Only after I was sure Leo had hung up did I go back to knock on his door. After dinner, as I was clearing the table, Leo sat in his chair, looking like he wanted to say something but swallowing the words. Leo looked almost exactly like a miniature Caleb—handsome and aristocratic. But Leo’s eyes were much prettier, probably because they were still so pure. They looked a lot like the eyes etched into my memory, though still not quite a match. I leaned against the table and smiled at him. “Is there something you want to tell me, sweetie?” Leo bit his lip, ultimately saying nothing, and scurried back to his room. I didn’t care, nor did I have the energy to pry. My job was strictly to ensure he was well-fed, dressed, and safe. Anything beyond that wasn’t my business, and wasn’t within my control. Later that night, wrapped in a blanket on the living room sofa, I sobbed uncontrollably while watching a sad movie. When Caleb walked through the door, that was exactly the state he found me in—my face completely swollen from crying. He looked shocked. I felt deeply awkward. I quickly stood up, my voice thick with congestion. “Why are you back so suddenly?” He walked over to me, his gaze settling on me with a quiet, gentle weight. Even his voice was much softer than usual. “Why are you up so late?” I pointed at the TV. “Watching a movie.” He stared at me for a moment, let out a soft sigh, and reached out to pat my head. Before I could dodge his hand, his phone rang. The caller ID read: Ashley. He stepped out onto the balcony to take the call. I tactfully retreated to the kitchen, waiting until he hung up before walking back out. “Caleb, let’s go file the divorce papers next week.” Ashley was back, and our contract was expiring soon anyway. I thought Caleb would agree instantly. After all, my usefulness as a stand-in had run its course. But Caleb’s expression instantly turned freezing cold. “You want a divorce that badly?” “I’m busy next week.” With that, he ignored me entirely and walked straight into Leo’s room. I stood there, completely baffled. Caleb and I called ourselves husband and wife, but it was really an employer-employee relationship. He paid me, I did the job. Now that the contract was up and he had successfully found his true love, shouldn’t we quickly terminate the agreement so everyone could be happy? What kind of mood swing was this? Over the weekend, Caleb spent both days working overtime at the office. Leaving early and coming back late, he gave me no chance to bring up the divorce again. On Monday morning, he suddenly shoved a small velvet box into my hand, claiming it was just some trinket he picked up at an auction. I was in a rush to get Leo to school, so I casually tossed it into my purse. As usual, I brought a batch of freshly baked cookies to the kindergarten. The kids swarmed me, sweetly chirping, “Thank you, Chloe!” Leo stared at me quietly for a moment before pushing past the kids and walking into the classroom. After drop-off, I had the driver take me to the hospital. When I reached the room, Mia was standing by the window, doing her morning yoga routine. She smiled brightly when she saw me. “What delicious food did you bring today?” I shook the insulated thermos in my hand. “Your favorite. Chicken and wild rice soup.” We each poured a bowl and sat on the edge of the bed to eat. I pulled out my phone, opened a photo gallery, and handed it to her. “This is our house in Asheville. I already hired someone to deep-clean it.” “When you’re discharged next week, take Noah there first and see if we need to buy any new furniture. As soon as I wrap things up here, I’ll come meet you guys.” Mia looked through the photos, saying nothing, only nodding. Holding my bowl, I turned to look out the window. Through the glass, the sky was a brilliant blue. Fluffy white clouds drifted slowly with the wind, and the willow branches swayed gently. “Chloe, we really dragged you down.” I watched those glowing white clouds and asked out of nowhere, “Mia, do you think Noah will like the yard?” Mia paused for a second before her gaze turned distant and soft. She smiled. “He will. He always loved places with a breeze.” I smiled too. “That’s good.” Mia didn’t say anything else, just let out a soft sigh. We sat together on the edge of the bed, watching the clouds, the trees, and the sun. We watched the people sitting on the hospital benches change from a mother and daughter, to a married couple, and then to a lonely old man. Just like the passing strangers in everyone’s lives, always coming and going in such a rush. I said softly, “Mia, you and Noah never dragged me down.” “Without you and Noah, Chloe wouldn’t even exist in this world.” “We are a family. We have been for ten years.” That afternoon, I went to the grocery store and then headed to pick up Leo, but his teacher told me he had been picked up that morning. She said Leo left with his mom and dad. Sitting back in the car, I thought about it and decided I should probably call Caleb just to be safe. Even though it was highly likely he and Ashley had picked him up, when it came to a child, I couldn’t be too careful. Just as I was about to dial, I noticed a red notification dot on Caleb’s Instagram feed. I clicked on his profile. Posted five minutes ago. It was a 9-photo grid. The center photo was a joyful selfie of a family of three. The background was a sunny beach, and they were all wearing matching outfits. I could tell Leo was genuinely thrilled. It was the first time in three years I had ever seen him smile with such pure, unbridled joy. It was also the first time I’d ever seen Caleb wear such bright colors. Standing next to Ashley, his usual stern aura had melted away, leaving him looking incredibly soft and warm. They were a picture-perfect family. Since Instagram had already confirmed it for me, there was no need to make the call. With Caleb and Leo out of town, I essentially had a mini-vacation. Every day, I cooked, took food to the hospital to eat with Mia, and then we’d take relaxing walks together. It was wonderfully peaceful. Caleb’s call came in the dead of night. I was fast asleep when the ringtone jolted me awake. Caleb’s voice sounded utterly exhausted, mixed with the sound of Leo crying frantically in the background. “Chloe, can you come to the pediatric urgent care right now?” Caleb explained that Leo hadn’t been sleeping well for the past few days, and after playing out in the ocean wind, he had suddenly spiked a massive fever. They were at the clinic now, but Leo was crying hysterically and refusing to let the doctors examine him. I checked the pitch-black sky outside the window, got out of bed, and started packing a bag. Leo had always had terrible sleep quality. When I first moved into the Vance house, he would frequently wake up in the middle of the night screaming in terror. I spent countless nights pacing the floor, holding him and singing lullabies until dawn to get him back to sleep. He had improved significantly over the last two years, but he was still incredibly particular about his bed. If he ever had to sleep away from home, he absolutely needed his specific pillow, his favorite blanket, and his own pajamas, or he wouldn’t sleep a wink. In the past, whenever Leo traveled with his grandparents, I always packed these things in advance. Since I was always the one handling it, Caleb simply had no idea. Even from down the clinic hallway, I could hear Leo’s wails. His voice was completely hoarse. I had assumed Ashley would be there, but to my surprise, it was only Caleb and Leo in the room. Caleb’s face visibly relaxed the second he saw me. “You’re here.” Leo was thrashing on the examination bed, his little face beet-red—whether from the fever or the crying, I couldn’t tell. I had Caleb lift him up while I quickly swapped the scratchy hospital sheets for his blanket and pillow from home, then quickly changed Leo into his own pajamas. I pulled Leo into my arms, lying down sideways next to him and gently patting his back. Slowly, his crying died down. He curled up against my chest, his little fist gripping the edge of my shirt, murmuring “Mom.” I touched his burning cheek. He was completely delirious from the fever. I wasn’t his mom. I was just his nanny. After a bit more soothing, Leo finally fell into a deep, stable sleep. The nurses successfully started an IV, and Caleb and I collapsed onto the small waiting sofa. Caleb handed me a cup of water, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry for waking you up.” I shook my head. “It’s fine. It’s my job.” “Next time you take him out of town, just remember to bring his pillow, pajamas, and blanket.” Caleb looked at me for a long moment before asking, “Did you ever open that little box I gave you?” “Not yet. Was it something important?” I pulled the velvet box out of my purse and clicked it open. Inside sat a stunning diamond ring. Caleb suddenly reached over and covered my hand with his. “Chloe, don’t divorce me. Please.” I had no idea what happened between Caleb and Ashley to make him abandon the woman he had waited six long years for, only to turn around and propose to me. But I knew one thing for certain: it wasn’t because he was madly in love with me. Caleb Vance was a terrifyingly disciplined and pragmatic man. Every decision he made was calculated, the optimal choice after weighing all the pros and cons. But I had no desire to analyze his underlying motives. I never liked wasting energy on things that didn’t matter. I pulled my hand out from under his and placed the ring on the coffee table. “Caleb, we are a contract couple. The contract is over, and so are we.” He sat beside me, acting as if he hadn’t heard a word I said, and continued explaining on his own: “Chloe, if you’re worried about Ashley, you don’t have to be.” “She and I are completely finished. We only went on this trip because she wanted to see Leo. After this, we won’t be in contact anymore.” “Having you by my side these past few years has brought me so much peace, and Leo relies on you completely. Can’t we just keep living our lives together, just like this?” I looked at Caleb, my expression completely flat. “No.” “Whatever is going on with you and Ashley, I don’t know, and I don’t care. But there is no ‘us’.” The only reason I ever agreed to be his contract wife was to afford Mia’s medical treatments. Now that Mia was better, we had our own lives to live. We were going to settle down in a house with a breeze. Caleb clearly hadn’t expected such a blunt rejection. A flash of genuine hurt crossed his eyes. “Chloe… do you really have absolutely no feelings for me?” I offered a small smile. “I do. I feel profound gratitude toward an incredibly generous employer.” I meant that from the bottom of my heart. If it weren’t for the three million dollars he gave me, Mia and I would have been dead a long time ago. Because of that, for three years, I poured my soul into taking care of him and his son. Whatever they needed, whenever they needed it, I was there. But that was where it ended. I thought I had made myself perfectly clear, but Caleb still refused to accept it. “You don’t have to answer me right now. I’m not in a rush.” “It’s late. I’ll have the driver take you home to sleep. I’ve got things handled here.” Because Leo’s fever had burned for so long, it triggered a mild case of pneumonia, requiring him to stay in the hospital for a few days. Caleb practically moved his office into the hospital room, staying by his son’s side around the clock. Ashley, on the other hand, never visited once. Every day, I cooked meals at home and delivered them to the ward. One afternoon, I was spoon-feeding Leo his lunch when my phone suddenly rang. It was the main hospital. They told me Mia had suffered a massive, sudden brain hemorrhage and was currently in emergency surgery. My hand gave out. The bowl crashed to the floor, the shattering porcelain making Leo jump. Caleb was just walking through the door. He rushed over to me, asking what was wrong. My hands were shaking violently. My brain completely short-circuited, and even pulling oxygen into my lungs felt impossible. How could this happen? When I saw her yesterday, she was perfectly fine. She was supposed to be discharged tomorrow. Everything was getting better. How?

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Reunion is a word for lovers in movies. For me, it was a car crash in slow motion. It was New Year’s Eve. The circus tent smelled of sawdust, cheap popcorn, and the stale sweat of a thousand strangers. I was mid-act, balancing on a unicycle, the clown makeup itching against my skin, when the ghost of a career-ending injury screamed back to life. My left leg—the one held together by spite and bad memories—gave way. I hit the stage hard. The impact sent my oversized plastic mask skittering across the boards, exposing my face to the harsh spotlight. The audience roared with laughter. To them, it was part of the show. But in the front-row VIP section, the laughter died in one woman’s throat. Hedy Lennon stood up, her face draining of color until she looked like a marble statue in her silk Dior coat. She didn’t just walk; she stormed the stage. She stared down at my mangled left leg, her voice a shrill, jagged thing that pierced through the muffled music. “Trace? Silas Trace? The world-class fencer? What the hell happened to you?” “The day you got out of prison, I was standing at the front gates in a wedding dress,” she screamed, her confusion turning into a volatile brand of rage. “I waited for hours. Why did you sneak out the back like a coward?” Her best friend, a woman whose name I’d buried years ago, stepped up behind her, sneering at my tattered costume. “Hedy spent seven years tearing this city apart looking for you, Trace. And all this time, you’ve been hiding in the dirt, playing the fool? You’re pathetic. You don’t deserve her.” Deserve her? The word tasted like copper in my mouth. I looked at Hedy—the woman I once thought was my North Star—and felt a wave of nausea. Seven years ago, her “soulmate” and childhood best friend, Patrick, lost the national fencing finals to me. In a fit of psychopathic pique, he set the arena on fire. People died. Lives were incinerated. And Hedy? She knelt at my feet and begged me to take the fall. “Patrick is fragile, Trace. Prison will kill him. You’re strong. You’re a hero. Just help him this once.” What she didn’t know—what she never cared to find out—was that on my very first night in that cell, the guards Patrick had bribed broke my leg with a lead pipe. They didn’t just break the bone; they pulverized my future. 1 Hedy grabbed my collar, her knuckles white, and hauled me upward. The movement was violent, jarring the old nerves in my hip. I broke into a cold sweat, my body trembling with a rhythmic, uncontrollable tremor. “Let go,” I wheezed, pushing feebly at her expensive sleeves. “I don’t know who you think I am. Get off me.” My defiance was a match tossed into a pool of gasoline. Hedy’s hand flashed—a sharp, stinging crack against my cheek. My head snapped to the side. “Don’t know me?” she hissed, her eyes wild. “Look at me, Trace. Say that again. You’d rather live like a stray dog than be with me? You’d rather be a literal clown than face your life?” The irony was a physical weight. She was mourning my “fall” while forgetting she was the one who pushed me off the cliff. “Hedy, darling, please. Everyone is watching. Let’s give the man some dignity.” The voice was smooth, like expensive bourbon poured over glass. Patrick approached, draped in a bespoke charcoal suit that probably cost more than the circus tent. He looked radiant, healthy, and entirely untouched by the fire he’d started. “Trace. It’s been a long time. Look at you… what a tragedy.” He spoke with the feigned sympathy of a saint, but as he leaned in, the heel of his polished Italian loafer ground down onto my fingers where they braced against the floor. I felt the skin break, the small bones of my hand groaning under his weight. “Get… away!” I gasped, the pain lancing up my arm. I shoved him with everything I had left. It wasn’t much of a push, but Patrick played his part perfectly. He gasped, clutching his chest, and stumbled back into the velvet curtains. “Trace… your strength… it’s still so much…” he wheezed, sliding to the floor. Hedy’s face transformed instantly. The fury she had for me turned into a desperate, frantic terror for him. She dropped me like trash and lunged for Patrick. “Patrick! Oh my god, breathe. Is it your heart?” She fumbled in her clutch for a pill bottle, her eyes darting back to me with pure, unadulterated loathing. “Trace, you monster! Patrick has had a heart condition ever since the stress of that fire. Didn’t you know? You’ve been gone for years and you’re still trying to hurt him!” I wanted to laugh. Heart condition? The man had run like a gold-medalist sprinter the night he lit the match. Patrick and I were once the “Golden Pair” of the fencing world. Partners. Brothers. And he had dismantled my life piece by piece, only to have the woman I loved hand him the tools. The circus owner, seeing the wealthy Lennon heiress in a state of distress, rushed over to wash his hands of me. “Miss Lennon, I am so sorry! This cripple is just a temp worker. If he’s laid a hand on your friend, he’s fired. Do whatever you want with him!” “What did you call him?” Hedy snapped, rounding on the owner. “You don’t get to insult what belongs to me.” The owner paled, stammering an apology. I tried to crawl away, my ruined leg dragging behind me like a dead weight. But Hedy’s security team moved faster. Two men in black suits pinned my shoulders to the mud-slicked ground, shoving my face into the grime. Hedy walked over, looking down at me. Her expression was a terrifying blend of tenderness and psychosis. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve become, Trace,” she whispered. “You’re mine. I’m taking you home. The Lennon estate can afford to keep a pet.” “Let me go! I’m not going anywhere with you!” My protests were muffled by the dirt. They hauled me up like a carcass and threw me into the back of a black limousine. As the privacy glass slid up, I saw Patrick standing behind Hedy. The “weakness” was gone. He offered me a slow, predatory grin and ran a thumb across his throat. 2 The Lennon estate was exactly as I remembered it—monumental, cold, and dripping with old-money arrogance. Seven years ago, I walked through these doors as an honored guest. Now, I was cargo. “He reeks,” Hedy said, wrinkling her nose as she gestured toward the fountain in the center of the courtyard. “He smells like animals and failure. Clean him before you bring him inside.” The guards didn’t hesitate. They stripped the tattered clown suit off me, leaving me shivering and exposed in the freezing midnight air. My left leg, twisted and scarred, was laid bare under the floodlights. The shame was a sharper blade than the cold. “Turn it on,” one of the guards muttered. A high-pressure hose hit me with the force of a physical blow. The water was near freezing, laced with bits of ice that stung like buckshot. I gritted my teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. As the grime washed away, the map of my imprisonment was revealed: the jagged scars across my back, the cigarette burns on my ribs, the legacy of Patrick’s paid thugs. “You really did go to hell, didn’t you?” Hedy stared at the scars, her eyes flickering with something like confusion. “How many prison brawls did it take to ruin you like this? Where is the man I used to know? The one who was gentle, the one who was strong? You’ve turned into something ugly, Trace.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell her that her “soulmate” had ordered those scars. To her, I was just a fallen idol who had chosen to be broken. After thirty minutes of freezing torment, when my lips were blue and my heart felt like a dying bird, she signaled them to stop. They tossed me a set of clothes and a long wooden box. “Patrick went out of his way to have a custom prosthetic made for you,” Hedy said, her voice softening. “He’s so forgiving. After everything you’ve done to him, he still wants you to walk again. Stop being so ungrateful.” Patrick doing something out of the goodness of his heart? I’d sooner believe in ghosts. “I won’t wear it,” I rasped. “It won’t fit.” “You’ll do what you’re told,” Hedy snapped. The guards pinned me down, forcing my stump into the prosthetic. “AGH!” The scream ripped out of me before I could stop it. The interior of the socket wasn’t padded. It was lined with hard, sharp ridges—it wasn’t a medical device; it was an iron maiden for a leg. Every inch of it ground into my sensitive nerves. Hedy flinched at the sound, but she didn’t stop them. “Stop being dramatic. You’re just not used to it. You used to be so graceful, Trace. Now you walk like a monster. Fix it. Walk for me.” “Guards, take him around the courtyard. A hundred laps. Don’t let him stop.” The next hour was a blur of agony. Blood began to seep from the edges of the prosthetic, staining my pants. I was shaking so hard I could barely see. Hedy watched from the porch, her brow furrowed as she noticed the red trail I was leaving. “Patrick? Is that supposed to happen? It looks… wrong.” Patrick stepped out, wrapping a cashmere throw around her shoulders, blocking her view of my blood. “It’s a high-performance athletic model, Hedy. It requires a ‘break-in’ period. Like new shoes, but more intense. The skin has to toughen up. Once the scar tissue forms, he’ll be back on the fencing strip in no time. I’m doing this for him, honey. I want my friend back.” Hedy sighed, leaning into him. “You’re too good to him, Patrick. Truly.” She looked at me, her voice cold again. “Keep going, Trace. Don’t waste Patrick’s kindness.” 3 I collapsed on lap sixty. When I came to, I was lying on a Persian rug in the formal dining room. My leg had been crudely bandaged, and the metallic prosthetic sat like a dead limb beside me. Hedy and Patrick were finishing a steak dinner. “Oh, he’s awake,” Patrick said, setting down his wine. “Perfect timing. Why don’t you join us, Trace? Hedy, maybe he can help serve the soup? It’ll help with his balance.” Hedy didn’t even look up from her plate. “Good idea. Trace, go to the kitchen. Bring out the tureen of tomato bisque.” I hauled myself up, using a chair for leverage. Every movement felt like a hot knife twisting in my hip. I took the heavy ceramic tureen from the chef, my hands trembling. I walked toward the table, one agonizing step at a time. As I reached Patrick, I looked into his smug, beautiful face. And I flipped my wrists. CRASH. The scalding red soup poured directly over Patrick’s head, soaking his white shirt and burning into his skin. “AAAHHHHH!” Patrick shrieked, clutching his face as he fell backward off his chair, writhing on the floor. “Patrick!” Hedy screamed. She lunged forward, shoving me out of the way to get to him. I didn’t have the balance to catch myself. I hit the floor hard, my bandages tearing open. Blood blossomed across the cream-colored rug. “You did that on purpose!” Hedy screamed, her eyes red with fury. “He tries to help you, he tries to give you a life, and you try to disfigure him? You’re sick! You’re absolutely vile!” I lay there in the mess of soup and my own blood, and for the first time in years, I laughed. It was a hollow, jagged sound. “Yeah,” I spat, looking her in the eye. “I’m vile. I’m a piece of trash. So why keep me? If I’m such a lost cause, Hedy, let me go. Let me rot in the street where I belong. Don’t let me stain your perfect house any longer.” Something in her expression broke. She looked at me not with pity, but with a terrifying, obsessive ownership. “You want to leave? You think it’s that easy?” She took a deep breath, her voice dropping to a whisper. “If you want to act like an animal, I’ll treat you like one.” “Security! Put him in the kennel. And don’t let him out until I say so.” I was dragged out and shoved into a narrow, rusted iron cage in the back of the estate. Then the Seattle rain began—a torrential, freezing downpour. My leg began to swell, the infection throbbing in time with my heartbeat. I curled into a ball, my fever rising until the world started to tilt. Through the haze, I saw a pair of polished shoes. Patrick stood there with a black umbrella, a bandage over half his face. He signaled the guards to leave. “Look at you,” he hissed. “The champion. The prodigy. Now you’re just a dog in a cage.” I looked up, my vision blurring. “Why, Patrick? Why do you hate me this much?” “I hate you because she looked at you the way she should have looked at me,” he snarled. “But don’t worry. By the time I’m through, you won’t even remember your own name. And Trace? In this rain, with that fever… let’s see if you even make it to morning.” 4 When I opened my eyes again, a cool hand was pressed to my forehead. I was in a sterile hospital room. Hedy was sitting by the bed, looking exhausted but strangely relieved. “Trace… thank god. You’ve been out for two days. You scared me.” She sounded so much like the girl I used to love that for a split second, I forgot. I forgot the cage, the fire, the prison. I thought I was home. “Hedy… I…” “I know,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “I shouldn’t have put you in the cage. But Trace, you were so stubborn. I only asked you to take the fall because I wanted to break that pride of yours. I wanted you to need me. To stay with me forever.” The sweetness of her voice made my skin crawl. It was the logic of a kidnapper. “But Patrick is right,” she continued. “Your disability has made you bitter. We’re going to fix it.” The door clicked open. Patrick walked in, followed by a man in a white lab coat. My blood turned to ice. Dr. Crane. He was the same doctor who had “treated” me in the prison infirmary. The one who had purposefully delayed my surgery until the tissue died. “What is this?” I tried to scramble back, but I was tethered to an IV. Patrick smiled, a look of pure, saintly concern. “Trace, the infection in your stump was bad. Dr. Crane says the bone is uneven, which is why the prosthetic hurts. We’re going to do a revision surgery. We just need to… take a few more inches off. Clean up the bone. Then you’ll be able to wear that ‘high-performance’ leg I bought you.” They wanted to cut me again. More of me, gone. “No! Get him away from me!” I screamed. “He’s in your pocket, Patrick! He’s the one who crippled me in the first place! Hedy, listen to me—they’re trying to kill me!” I tried to throw myself off the bed, but Hedy’s hands were like iron on my shoulders. “Trace! Stop it!” she yelled. “Patrick flew in the best orthopedic specialist in the country for you! And you’re accusing him of murder? You’re delusional!” “I’m not! Search his records! Look at the prison logs!” I grabbed her wrists, begging. “Hedy, please. Just this once, believe me. He’s lying to you!” “Enough!” She shoved me back. My head hit the headboard, and the room spun. “The prison has rotted your brain, Trace. You’re not well.” She took the surgical consent form from Dr. Crane. Her pen hovered over the paper. “No… Hedy, don’t. Please…” She signed it with a flourish. “It’s for your own good. When you wake up, we’ll start over. A clean slate.” She waved her hand. Two orderlies moved in, strapping me down to the gurney with thick leather belts. “No! You’ll regret this! Hedy, I swear to God, you’ll regret this!” My screams echoed down the hallway as they wheeled me away. She didn’t look back once. The heavy doors of the OR swung shut. The surgical lights flared to life, blinding me. Dr. Crane began to slowly put on his gloves, humming a tune. “Don’t take it personally, Silas,” Crane whispered, leaning over me. “Patrick paid a lot of money for you to ‘accidentally’ never wake up from this one. A shame, really. You should have picked a different girl.” The surgical saw roared to life, a high-pitched whine that filled my skull.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “450736”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was born with a ridiculous kind of gravity. But instead of pulling objects toward me, I pull luck. Anyone who spends a little time in my orbit—whether we shake hands or just share a cup of coffee—inevitably stumbles into a windfall. Their stocks skyrocket. Their dead-end projects suddenly get green-lit. Miracles fall into their laps. The cruel irony? None of that luck ever rubbed off on me. I remained spectacularly, chronically broke. Until three years ago, when Richard St. James, the patriarch of the St. James real estate empire, tracked me down. His eyes were bloodshot when he begged me to marry his daughter, Gemma. He told me his family’s legacy was bleeding out, teetering on the edge of a catastrophic bankruptcy, and that I was the only one who could stop the hemorrhage. He promised that if Gemma ever treated me poorly, I could walk away with zero contest. In the meantime, I’d receive a hundred thousand dollars a month in walking-around money. I figured I had nothing to lose and no assets to be scammed out of. Plus, the man was offering me a lifeline. I said yes. Over the next three years, the St. James empire didn’t just avoid going under; they dominated the market and went public with a valuation that made Wall Street salivate. I traded my cramped, windowless Bronx apartment for a sprawling Hamptons estate with a heated infinity pool. Which brings me to a sunny Tuesday afternoon. I was doing laps in that very pool when I caught the voices of Gemma and her best friend lounging on the terrace. “Toby flies back next week,” her friend said, the ice clinking in her glass. “What are you going to do about your… charity case husband?” Gemma’s voice was as smooth and unbothered as a silk sheet. “I’ll wire him fifty grand and tell him the company’s accounts are frozen again. He’s gullible enough to believe it.” “And if he refuses to sign the divorce papers?” Gemma scoffed, a sound dripping with aristocratic disdain. “Please. The man married me for a paycheck. If he dares to make a scene, I’ll make sure he leaves with nothing.” Hearing that, I broke the surface of the water, pushing my wet hair back, and rested my arms against the imported Italian tile of the pool’s edge. “So,” I called out, wiping water from my eyes. “When are we signing those papers?” I knew for a fact that Gemma’s biggest corporate rival was currently being squeezed to the brink of liquidation. I figured it was the perfect time to go offer my services. … “My father was desperate. He threw five million dollars at some mystic who claimed this guy had a ‘Midas aura.’” Gemma let out a breathy, condescending laugh. “It’s been three years. We both know the St. James IPO was my doing.” “I’ve already booked the restaurant,” Gemma continued. “The night Toby lands, I’m proposing.” That was my cue. I pushed myself up from the water, elbows braced on the ledge. “So, when do we get this divorce over with?” Both women jumped, nearly spilling their mimosas. Gemma’s face drained of color. “What… how long have you been in there?” I casually shook the water from my hair. “As your kept husband, I have a strict regimen to maintain this physique. One hour of cardio a day.” I offered a tight, utterly hollow smile. “Let’s skip the pleasantries, Gemma. When do we sign? I’d hate to delay my search for a new sugar mama.” Gemma recovered quickly, her shock hardening into a sneer. “You’re a fraud, Kieran. Without me, you’re nothing but a street rat.” I looked at her, a strange, quiet pity settling in my chest. If only she knew. I wasn’t a fraud. I really was a human rabbit’s foot. Whoever touched me, prospered. Just never me. And frankly, three years in the St. James manor had suffocated me. Richard had been good to me, yes. The allowance, the black card, the designer clothes. But Gemma? In three years of marriage, I doubt we had exchanged more than three hundred words. Mostly variations of fine, okay, and don’t wait up. I was treated like an expensive porcelain figurine. Put me on a shelf, dust me off occasionally, and ignore me. Fine. I got to live in a mansion and swim in a private pool. But right now, I couldn’t wait to cut the cord. I hauled myself out of the pool, dripping onto the pristine deck, and walked inside. Ten minutes later, I returned, fully dressed, holding two copies of a divorce agreement I’d had a lawyer draft months ago, just in case. “Sign them,” I said, dropping the papers on the glass patio table. “Let’s make this a clean break.” Gemma stared at the documents, a muscle feathering in her jaw. “You’re serious?” “Wasn’t it your idea?” I tilted my head. “What, are you going to miss my lucky touch?” Her expression darkened. She glared at me as if I were a stain on her rug. “All you do is eat, sleep, and drain my accounts. What luck have you ever brought me? You can’t even win a hand of blackjack when you’re dealt twenty. You aren’t a lucky charm, Kieran. You’re a goddamn jinx.” My eyes widened. Calling me a gold-digger was one thing. Calling me a jinx? She had officially crossed the line. I tapped the paper against her chest. “Sign it. This is happening. But remember this moment, Gemma. Remember that it was me who decided to walk away.” The second I turned my back on her, I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled to a number I’d had saved for three years. Never called. Never texted. Rowan Mercer. The CEO of the Mercer Group. Gemma’s most ruthless, hated rival. The line rang twice before a voice, low and textured like crushed velvet, answered. “Hello?” “Rowan Mercer?” I asked, keeping my stride even as I walked down the long driveway. “This is Kieran. Gemma St. James’s soon-to-be ex-husband.” A beat of absolute silence. “Why is Gemma’s husband calling me?” “Because I want to marry you.” Another pause. Slower this time. “…Excuse me?” “You’ve had a massive city zoning permit for the Hudson Yards project stalled in bureaucratic hell for three years, haven’t you?” Rowan’s tone shifted, the temperature dropping a few degrees. “How do you know about that?” “Come down to your lobby. I’m standing across the street from your headquarters. Shake my hand, and you’ll have that permit approved in ten minutes.” Three minutes later, the revolving doors of the Mercer tower spun, and a woman in a sharply tailored black trench coat stepped out into the Manhattan wind. Rowan was taller than Gemma, with striking, deep-set eyes that looked like they could cut glass. She crossed the street, stopped directly in front of me, and didn’t say a word. She just held out her hand. I took it. Her grip was firm, her skin cool. Ten seconds later, she let go. Almost instantly, the phone in her coat pocket buzzed. She pulled it out, read the screen, and I watched the faint, almost imperceptible widening of her pupils. “The permit,” she murmured, staring at the email. “It’s signed.” I smiled. “Believe me now?” She studied my face for three long seconds, dissecting me. “What do you want?” “Like I said. Marriage.” “Why?” “Because Gemma just told me I’m a jinx who ruins everything I touch,” I said, lifting my chin, letting the cold wind hit my face. “I want to show her just how high a ‘jinx’ can elevate her worst enemy.” When we walked out of the City Clerk’s office later that afternoon, I had a marriage certificate tucked into my jacket. Rowan slid her copy into her briefcase and glanced at me. “Do you need to go back for your things? I’ll have my driver take you.” “No, if you come, it’ll just cause a scene.” She didn’t push it. She simply instructed her driver to take me back to the Hamptons and stepped out of the black SUV. “Call me if you need anything.” I gave her the address, feeling a strange flutter of adrenaline in my chest. Twenty minutes later, I walked through the double doors of the St. James estate. Toby was sitting on the velvet sofa, wearing a crisp white button-down, two Louis Vuitton suitcases parked by his feet. Gemma sat next to him, the space between them virtually non-existent. Pippa, Toby’s sister and Gemma’s constant shadow, was draped over an armchair, swirling a glass of Pinot Noir. All three heads snapped toward me. Toby spoke first. His voice was soft, overly sweet, like artificial syrup. “Oh, Kieran, you’re back. I was just about to help pack your things. I didn’t want you to have to do it all by yourself.” He offered a sickeningly sympathetic smile. “I heard Gemma gave you fifty thousand? That’s more than enough for someone with your… background to start over.” I stopped dead in the foyer and turned to face him. “Someone with my background?” Toby covered his mouth, feigning a giggle. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t be so sensitive.” Pippa chimed in, swirling her wine. “You’re too kind, Toby. The guy is a con artist. He leeched off the St. James family for three years, and now he’s walking away with fifty grand? He could buy a whole farm back in whatever trailer park he crawled out of.” Gemma didn’t move from the sofa, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward in a smirk. I dropped my duffel bag onto the hardwood floor. The heavy thud echoed in the massive, vaulted room. “Toby, do you know why I married into this family in the first place?” He tilted his head, playing dumb. “For the money, obviously.” “Because your future father-in-law got down on his actual knees and begged me,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “He said the St. James empire was burning to the ground and I was the only one who could put out the fire. Now that the house is saved, you’re trying to throw me out into the cold?” Toby’s face faltered. He looked nervously at Gemma. Gemma stood up, smoothing the front of her designer slacks, and walked toward me. She looked down her nose, a queen addressing a peasant. “Don’t try to paint yourself as a martyr, Kieran.” “Do you have any idea how much money you’ve burned through? A hundred grand a month. The black card charges. You’ve cost me millions.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “I don’t care if you think you’re a lucky charm or a curse. Not a single thing that belongs to the St. James family is leaving this house. That Tom Ford suit you’re wearing? Paid for with my money. Take it off before you walk out that door.” I looked down at the dark wool of my suit jacket. Her father had bought it for me. Richard had picked it out himself, paid for it from his personal, private account. But I was too exhausted to explain the nuances of her own father’s kindness to her. “Fine.” I nodded. “But while we’re doing the math, shouldn’t we calculate the billions of dollars in market cap I helped your family generate over the last three years?” Gemma scoffed. “You generated? You slept till noon and swam in my pool. What exactly did you ‘generate’?” Toby stood up, hovering safely behind Gemma’s shoulder. “Just give it a rest, Kieran. Gemma’s giving you three days to wire back every cent you spent during the marriage, or we’re calling the police and pressing fraud charges.” Police? Fraud? I stared into Gemma’s eyes. There wasn’t a flicker of hesitation in them. Only a cold, clinical disgust. Three years. I had anchored her sinking ship, turned a dying legacy into a Wall Street titan. I hadn’t expected love. But I had expected basic human decency. Instead, she was trying to destroy me. I took a deep breath, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my phone. “Who are you calling?” Gemma snapped, her brow furrowing. I ignored her. I hit the contact I’d saved barely two hours ago. It rang once. “Is there a problem?” Rowan’s voice was crisp. “Wife,” I said, grinding the word out between my teeth. “Gemma is demanding I pay her back for three years of living expenses. Says if I don’t give her the millions she claims I spent, she’s calling the cops.” Silence hummed through the receiver for two seconds. “Text me her routing number.” “What?” “Tell her to wait right there. She’ll have it in ten minutes.” I lowered the phone and looked right at Gemma. “Wait right here.” Seven minutes later, Gemma’s phone vibrated on the coffee table. She picked it up, glancing at the screen. Her face went ashen. She snapped her head up to look at me, her eyes wide with shock. “Who… who just wired me ten million dollars?” Toby stepped forward, his voice shrill. “Ten million? Kieran, who the hell gave you ten million dollars? Did you find some desperate old widow to leech off of?” I picked up my duffel bag and turned to face him. “Take a wild guess.” “You—” Toby’s face flushed an ugly, blotchy red. I let out a low laugh. “You called me a street rat, Toby. But this street rat just got a ten-million-dollar buyout. Tell me, golden boy… how much is Gemma paying you?” The red drained from his face, leaving him pale and sickly. Gemma marched toward me, her eyes flashing dangerously. “You’re crossing a line, Kieran.” “Me? Crossing a line?” I tilted my head, studying the woman I used to share a bed with. “You threatened me with the police, Gemma. But let me give you a piece of advice. You don’t mistreat a lucky charm and expect to get away with it. Just wait.” Rowan’s driver dropped me off outside a sleek, glass-fronted luxury high-rise overlooking the East River. Now that her massive development project was finally unblocked, Rowan was drowning in meetings, but she still managed to call me to discuss the wedding logistics. I sat cross-legged on the leather sofa of my new apartment, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. “Whenever works for you,” I said casually. “It’s not like you married me because you’re swept off your feet.” “You needed a weapon to use against Gemma. I needed my project green-lit. It’s a mutually beneficial transaction.” If my cursed luck would just work on myself, I wouldn’t have needed to marry Rowan to slap Gemma in the face. On the other end of the line, Rowan was quiet for a long moment. “Right,” she finally said. On my third day in the high-rise, I was curled up on the couch eating an apple when my phone lit up with a notification. Toby had posted a picture on Instagram and tagged me. I opened the app. Toby’s caption read: #StJamesGroup hits a new all-time high! Finally helped Gemma close the European logistics deal that’s been stalled for three years. She said it’s the best engagement present she could ask for! So grateful the universe brought me back to New York. And thankful that a certain someone finally left the picture. Once you take out the trash, the blessings start pouring in. The photo was a close-up of their intertwined hands resting on a white tablecloth at some Michelin-starred restaurant. A massive, gaudy diamond ring sat heavily on Gemma’s finger. The comments were flooded with verified accounts and obvious PR bots: “Toby is the real lucky charm! He lands and immediately secures a massive international deal. Way better than that imposter who leeched off her for years.” “Did you hear the ex tried to extort ten million from Gemma on his way out? Actual garbage human.” “Gemma is too nice. I would have let him rot in jail for fraud.” Some of Gemma’s more rabid socialite followers had found my old Instagram account and were spamming a photo of me by the pool from last summer. “Con artist! Pay her back!” “Thinks he’s Midas, actually just a parasite. Disgusting.” I stared at the screen, tapping my finger rhythmically against my phone case. This “European logistics deal” that had been stalled for three years… I remembered it perfectly. Back when Richard first brought me into the house, I’d been wandering through Gemma’s home office and had absentmindedly dragged my hand across a thick, leather-bound folder on her desk. The deal was approved three days later. At the time, Gemma had just shrugged it off as “good market timing.” And now Toby was claiming the credit? My phone buzzed in my hand. A text from Rowan. Do you want my PR team to handle this? I thought about it for a second, then typed back: No. Let them dig their own graves. By the way, you’re bidding against St. James for that AI tech contract tomorrow, right? Yes. Why? I’m coming with you. I sent a little black cat emoji. Let’s show them exactly whose luck is running out. The next morning, I walked into the conference room at the Four Seasons, where the Mercer Group and St. James Group were going head-to-head for the biggest AI infrastructure contract of the decade. I was wearing a bespoke, deep crimson suit. My lucky color. When I strolled in, my leather shoes clicking softly against the marble, Toby, who was sitting next to Gemma at the negotiation table, practically leaped out of his chair. “How did you get in here? This is a closed corporate bidding, Kieran, not a soup kitchen.” “I’m here for the entertainment,” I said, pulling out the empty chair right next to Rowan and sitting down. The entire room went dead silent. Gemma’s eyes narrowed into slits. Her gaze shifted from my red suit to Rowan’s impassive face, and a muscle ticked in her jaw. Toby covered his mouth, laughing into his hand. “Kieran, did you really come here to cheer for Rowan? You can’t even read a balance sheet. Aren’t you embarrassed sitting there?” “Oh, this is too good,” Pippa chimed in, suddenly appearing from the sidelines, her phone held high. She was live-streaming. “Hey guys, look who it is! The fraud of the century, crashing a corporate buyout to beg for scraps.” Pippa shoved the phone lens right into my face. I could see the comments on her screen scrolling at lightspeed: “Omg is that the guy who scammed Gemma St. James?” “Why is he sitting next to Rowan Mercer? Does she really want St. James’s sloppy seconds?” “Mercer’s bid is 15% higher than St. James. No way they win. What is she doing, hoping this guy uses his voodoo magic?” “Toby is the real king. Send the scammer home!” Pippa read one of the comments aloud and laughed hysterically. “Hear that, Kieran? The whole internet knows you’re a jinx. Just leave before security drags you out.” I barely glanced at the screen. Instead, I looked down at the thick stack of contract papers resting on the table in front of Rowan. “Touch it,” Rowan said quietly, sliding the binder a fraction of an inch toward me. I placed my palm flat against the heavy cardstock cover. Just a light, lingering touch. Toby burst out laughing. “What are you doing? Blessing the paperwork? God, you really think you’re some kind of wizard, don’t you? It’s pathetic.” The words had barely left his mouth when Rowan’s assistant practically sprinted into the room, leaning down to whisper frantically in Rowan’s ear. Rowan looked up. Her eyes met mine, and the very corner of her mouth curved upward. Toby noticed the exchange and his face pinched. “Don’t tell me you’re actually falling for his grift, Rowan.” He leaned across the table, his voice loud, meant for the room. “Ms. Mercer, as a professional courtesy, I’d advise you to check your wallet. He spent three years in our house doing absolutely nothing but sleeping and spending. All this ‘lucky charm’ nonsense is smoke and mirrors. He conned Gemma, and if you keep him around, he’ll run Mercer Group into the ground.” Rowan’s gaze shifted to Toby. Her eyes were like glacial ice. “Mr. Toby… whatever your last name is. A man who can’t even recite the index numbers of his own project proposal has no right to lecture me on fraud.” Toby’s face flushed an angry, mottled pink. “You—” “Furthermore,” Rowan cut him off smoothly, “I do not require outside counsel on Kieran’s character. How I operate my business and my life is none of your concern.” The room fell into a stunned silence. At that exact moment, the heavy oak doors of the conference room swung open. Mr. Caldwell, the CEO of the tech firm fielding the bids, walked in with a wide, beaming smile, trailed by his legal team. “Apologies for the delay, everyone. Traffic on the FDR was a nightmare.” Gemma stood up immediately, smoothing her jacket, extending a hand to greet him. But Caldwell walked right past her. He marched directly to Rowan Mercer, holding out a sleek leather folder. “Ms. Mercer. It’s a pleasure. My board of directors just held an emergency vote. We are unanimously awarding the contract to the Mercer Group.”

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I stood there, a cold smile playing on my lips, watching this father and son put on a spectacular display of grief for our late, “beloved” nanny. They didn’t know yet. They had no idea that the nanny, who had supposedly died in a “tragic accident,” was very much alive. She had faked her death for one simple reason: she was pregnant with my father-in-law’s child. And yet, right in front of me, my husband was preparing to bury my custom, limited-edition Mercedes-Maybach in the dirt. He wanted to use it as a grave offering for her. When I demanded to know what the hell he thought he was doing with my car, he turned to me, his eyes bloodshot, and screamed that Mia had only ever been able to sneak drives in it while she was alive. Now that she was dead, he was going to let her drive it for eternity. If I stopped him, he said, he would divorce me. But the thing that truly froze the blood in my veins was my ten-year-old son. He charged at me, kicking me hard in the shin, screaming at me to stop fighting a dead woman over a stupid car. He called me cruel. He said if I kept being so evil, he wouldn’t be my son anymore. Seeing their true faces in the harsh light of day cleared my head entirely. I had the divorce papers drawn up that very night. 1 “Excuse me? Care to repeat that?” I honestly thought the wind had distorted his words. “I said, I’m burying the Maybach. It was Mia’s favorite. She’s taking it with her.” Theo stood at the edge of a massive, gaping trench in the wasteland just outside the Chicago city limits. His knuckles were white around the handle of a shovel, his eyes rimmed with a manic, bloodshot grief. Behind him, the diesel engine of an excavator idled loudly. My custom Maybach—one of only a handful ever manufactured in that specific pearl finish—was already suspended in the air by heavy industrial straps. “Theo, that is my vehicle. What gives you the right?” “What gives me the right?” He whipped around. The sorrow in his eyes instantly boiled over into absolute fury. “Victoria! It’s a piece of metal! Are you really going to put a material object above Mia’s eternal peace?” “When she was alive, she could only sneak behind the wheel to feel the leather when you were out of town on business! She adored this car, but she was terrified to even leave a fingerprint on it!” “She raised our son for five years! Now she’s gone! And you can’t even part with a single damn car for her?” “Did you think of her as just a dog?” I stared at the man I had married, and a laugh escaped my throat. “A dog?” “Theo, have you completely lost your mind?” “She was an employee. I paid her a premium salary, on time, with full benefits, every single month. Raising my son was her job description, not an act of martyrdom.” “That car is worth half a million dollars. It’s a global limited edition! Why on earth would I bury it for a nanny?” I had hit a nerve. Theo flinched, then doubled down. “Half a million? So what? How much do you pull in every quarter, Victoria? It’s just a car! Mia poured her heart and soul into this family, doesn’t she deserve at least that?” “Is money the only thing you’re capable of seeing?” I took a slow step toward him. My eyes trailed over the Patek Philippe on his wrist, the bespoke Italian wool of his suit, and finally rested on his self-righteous, indignant face. “Before you say another word, I suggest you take a long look in the mirror. From the shoes on your feet to the watch on your wrist—which piece of it didn’t come from my bank account?” “You play the role of the ascetic, starving-artist literature professor at the university so well that you’ve actually started to believe it yourself. That Bentley you drive to campus every day to impress your undergrads? I bought that, too.” Theo looked as if I’d backhanded him. The color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, ashen gray. Even the roar of the excavator cut out. The operator poked his head out of the cab, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Keep digging!” Theo roared over his shoulder, the veins in his neck bulging against his collar. “This car goes in the ground today! I gave the order!” He turned back to me, chest heaving. “If you don’t agree, we’re getting a divorce!” 2 I didn’t even get a chance to open my mouth. A heavy, breathless figure launched itself out of the SUV parked nearby. It was my son, Oliver. Ten years old. And fed to nearly a hundred and sixty pounds by the “loving” hands of Mia. He barreled up to me, lifted his heavy leg, and kicked me viciously right below the knee. “You’re a bitch! Why couldn’t it be you who died!” “She bought me fried chicken and milkshakes! She played video games with me! All you do is starve me! You call me fat! You make me do diets! You don’t even love me!” “She’s dead! And you’re fighting her for a car! Can’t you just be a good person for once? If you keep being mean, Dad and I are leaving you!” He wailed as he screamed at me, snot and tears mixing on his flushed cheeks. He looked exactly like a boy who had just lost his mother. No. He looked more heartbroken than if he had lost me. I looked at the two of them. My husband. My son. Over a nanny. One was red-eyed, ready to bury my prized possession in the mud. The other was ready to disown me over junk food and screen time. Suddenly, the absurdity of it all washed over me, and I smiled. A genuine, terrifyingly calm smile. “Alright then. Let’s get a divorce.” 3 Theo froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to agree, let alone with such chilling ease. “What… what did you just say?” “Divorce,” I repeated, my tone as conversational as if I were ordering a coffee. “Isn’t that what you wanted? I agree.” His lips trembled. For a second, the great professor was entirely out of words. Looking at him standing there in the dirt, I just felt a profound sense of secondhand embarrassment. Did he really think he could use divorce as a bargaining chip against me? Fine. Let him play his hand. I looked at his dumbfounded expression and the corner of my mouth ticked up. “I do have one condition, though.” “What condition?” “You leave with nothing.” I held his gaze, unblinking. “You sign a post-nuptial agreement voluntarily forfeiting all marital assets. The penthouse you live in, the cars you drive, the joint accounts—all of it.” “Do that, and you can do whatever you want with this car.” Theo’s face flushed a violent, ugly purple. “Victoria, are you insane? I am your husband! Oliver is your son! You’re going to throw us out on the street with nothing?” “You were the one who asked for the divorce,” I said, a cold laugh escaping me. “I’m giving you exactly what you asked for. Are you complaining about the terms now?” “You—” I looked at his sputtering, panicked face, and let my disappointment show. “Theo, I always thought you were above it all. I didn’t realize you were this greedy.” “You want to bury my car, divorce me, and still take my money?” “Is your profound spiritual connection with Mia really that cheap? It can’t even hold a candle to some real estate and cash? Where is your pride, Professor?” 4 Truthfully. Dealing with hypocrites who wrap themselves in intellectual superiority is child’s play. It only took a few well-placed strikes to his fragile ego to make him throw everything away just to save face. Right on cue, Theo began to shake with righteous indignation. “Fine! I’ll leave with nothing! Do you think I care about your filthy money? Keep your penthouse, keep your cars! I don’t want a dime from you. All I want is Oliver!” “Victoria, look deep inside yourself. Do you even deserve to be a mother? Aside from throwing money at him, what have you ever given Oliver? In your cold heart, your quarterly earnings reports will always matter more than your own flesh and blood!” His voice took on a vindictive, almost euphoric edge. “Mia might have been a nanny on paper, but she had a Master’s degree! She understood literature! She talked to Oliver about Rimbaud and Keats, about the meaning of life. She had depth. She had a soul!” “And you? Your brain is nothing but contracts, profit margins, and cold calculation. You reek of corporate greed!” “How could you ever compete with Mia?” “Since we’re getting divorced anyway, I don’t care if you know the truth—” “In my heart, me, Mia, and Oliver… the three of us were the real family!” A family? Technically, he wasn’t wrong. If Mia had lived to give birth to my father-in-law’s baby, she literally would have been Theo’s stepmother. What a beautifully twisted little family tree. Thinking about that, I actually had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. 5 Mia had worked in our home for five years. Three days ago, she abruptly packed a bag, claiming there was a family emergency back in her hometown down south. That same evening, I received a hysterical phone call from her sister. She told me Mia had slipped and fallen at home, and hadn’t survived. The next morning, Theo and I flew down to pay our respects. But her family was incredibly evasive. They claimed it was a strict local tradition to scatter the ashes at sea immediately upon death. They refused to hold a service. They practically shoved us out the door and told us to fly back to Chicago. The whole thing reeked. My intuition flared. I put my lead investigator on it immediately. I didn’t expect much. But what he uncovered? It was an absolute masterpiece. 6 Mia wasn’t dead. She was pregnant. My investigator sent me a clipped file of security footage from inside my own home. The timestamp was from a month ago, during the three weeks I had taken Oliver to a specialized health and fitness camp in Switzerland. I had given Mia paid time off. But the footage showed her and Theo in my living room. They had opened a five-thousand-dollar bottle of my Bordeaux. They were drinking, quoting 19th-century poetry at each other, the tension thick and heavy. Eventually, they both got blackout drunk. Theo stumbled off toward the master bedroom first, swaying dangerously. Mia, her eyes glazed and a lovesick smile on her face, stared after him. “Oh, Theo… I love you so much… I’ve been waiting to give myself to you…” She dragged herself up from the carpet. She meant to follow him into the master suite, but the wine had completely wrecked her equilibrium. She took a wrong turn down the hall and stumbled right into the guest bedroom. The guest bedroom where my father-in-law, Richard, happened to be staying for the weekend while he was in the city running errands. The next morning, the hallway camera caught it in high definition. My father-in-law carried a disheveled, half-dressed Mia out of the guest room and dumped her onto the living room sofa. He didn’t even leave a note. He packed his bag and took the first train back out of the city. My investigator attached several medical documents to the video file, his accompanying message brief and professional: “Shortly after this, Ms. Mia discovered she was pregnant.” “Based on the HCG levels in her clinic reports, the conception date aligns perfectly with the night of the security footage. The father… is unequivocally Mr. Richard Wright.” “However, it appears Ms. Mia genuinely believes the child belongs to your husband, Theo.” “My working theory is that she panicked, assuming you would find out and force her into an abortion. She staged her death to go off the grid, intending to have the baby in secret, and likely planned to return later to force Theo’s hand using the child as leverage.” I had sat in the dark of my office last night, staring at those files in absolute silence. Today, my original plan had been to hand this folder to Theo and let him see the truth. But now? Now, I had a much better idea. 7 The courthouse. The heavy thud of the judge’s stamp. Two copies of a divorce decree, the ink still fresh. Theo’s mouth worked silently, as if the reality of it was finally snagging in his throat. “Let’s go,” I said, sliding my copy into my Birkin bag and turning on my heel. “I’m taking you somewhere.” “Victoria, it’s too late for regrets now,” he said, trying to maintain his icy facade. I opened the door to my chauffeured car and looked back at him, an amused glint in my eye. “It’s about Mia. Are you coming or not?” The color drained from Theo’s face. He hesitated for two agonizing seconds before grabbing Oliver’s hand and climbing in. The car glided into a run-down, working-class neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, pulling up to a bleak apartment complex. Theo frowned at the peeling paint. “Why the hell did you bring me to a place like this?” I didn’t answer. I just walked up the concrete stairs to the third floor and knocked on a battered metal door. The moment the door opened. Theo froze, looking as though a bolt of lightning had struck him squarely in the chest. Because the person holding the door open was Mia. “Mia… you… you’re alive?” Oliver let out a shriek of pure joy and threw his heavy body forward. “Mia!” But Mia instinctively flinched and stepped out of his way. She stared at me, all the blood leaving her face. She immediately scrambled past the boy and buried herself in the arms of a still-paralyzed Theo, trembling violently. “Ms. Croft, please! Please let me go! Have mercy on the baby in my belly! I won’t ask for a single penny, I swear!” 8 “What?!” Theo snapped out of his shock, staring down at the woman cowering against his chest. “Mia, you’re pregnant?” “Whose is it?” Tears spilled from Mia’s eyes instantly. She played the tragic heroine to perfection. “Theo, my love… that night… we were both so drunk…” A flicker of confusion crossed Theo’s face. “But… I was so blackout drunk that night, I didn’t even think I…” “You are the only man I have ever been with!” Mia cried, cutting him off with a sob. “Theo, do you really not believe me?” Whatever fragile thread of logic Theo was holding onto snapped under the weight of her devoted tears. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, holding her as if she were made of spun glass. His eyes were fierce with protective rage. “I believe you! Of course I believe you!” “Mia, you are my soulmate. How could I ever doubt you?” A microscopic flash of triumph crossed Mia’s face before she turned back to me, her eyes wide and pleading. “Ms. Croft, I only faked my death because I was terrified you would use your power to force me to get rid of Theo’s baby!” “But Theo and I truly love each other. I don’t care about the money or the status…” I was already sick of the community theater performance. I cut her off. “Relax. Theo and I finalized our divorce an hour ago.” I paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to ensure the next words hit with maximum impact. “He gave up all his assets. He has nothing but the clothes on his back and custody of Oliver. Since you love him so much, he’s all yours.” 9 The face of the ethereal, poetry-loving muse cracked right down the middle. She yanked her head up from Theo’s chest. The tears were still on her cheeks, but her voice hit a shrill, panicked pitch. “What? He gave up all his assets?” “Why would you do that?! How am I supposed to feed my baby? Dirt?” Theo hurriedly tried to smooth things over. “Mia, sweetheart, don’t panic. I’m a tenured professor. I have a stable salary. I would never let you or our child starve.” Mia shoved him away, a look of pure disgust twisting her features. “Provide? With your miserable professor’s salary? Do you know what diapers cost?” “Mia, have you forgotten?” Theo pleaded, desperate to prove his worth. “I don’t just teach! I have my avant-garde ceramics gallery!” “My sculptures sell for tens of thousands of dollars each! It’s more than enough to give you a beautiful life!” He looked deeply into her eyes, making a solemn vow. “Just focus on a healthy pregnancy. When the baby turns one month old, I’m going to host a massive gallery exhibition! Every single dollar I make that night will be my gift to you and our child!” I actually had to bite my tongue to stop myself from laughing in his face. The only reason anyone ever stepped foot into that pretentious little gallery was to kiss the ring of Victoria Croft. Those so-called “art pieces” were just polite bribes from businessmen trying to get a meeting with me. Did he honestly think his lumpy clay pots had actual market value? God, he was stupid. I turned and walked away. As I descended the dark, smelling stairwell, I pulled out my phone and called my PR director. “Put an absolute embargo on the news of my divorce.” “Keep it out of the press until the opening night of his little art exhibition.” “I want them to feel exactly what it’s like to fall out of the sky and hit the concrete.”

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Through the haze of cigarette smoke, she crushed out her ember and delivered the reason for the divorce—she had fallen in love with our son’s classmate. I agreed without a second’s hesitation. I had already lived through this once. In my previous life, I had been the stubborn fool who refused to let go. I had clung to the wreckage of our marriage, only for her young lover to be whisked away into a marriage of convenience by his own family. The fallout broke her. She spiraled into alcoholism and eventually suffered a massive stroke that left her paralyzed. For ten years, I was her shadow. I cared for her every need, day in and day out, until I finally nursed her back onto her feet. And the very first thing she did once she could walk again? She took our son by the hand and forced me into a divorce. “It’s your fault for not letting her go back then!” my son had screamed at me. “Mom wouldn’t have gotten sick, and my life wouldn’t have been this pathetic!” Under the pressure of his suicide threats, I finally signed the papers. Later, she married their former male housekeeper, while I was diagnosed with a terminal illness. That mother and son duo coldly rejected every single one of my pleas for help. In my final moments of consciousness, I felt nothing but a vast, freezing desolation. But then, I opened my eyes. I was back on the day she asked for the divorce. This time, I calmly exhaled two words: “Okay. Fine.” 1 She snapped her head up, her face a mask of shock. “What did you say? Say that again!” I spewed a large piece of pot roast into my mouth, chewing casually. “I said the divorce is fine. We split the assets fifty-fifty. Any objections?” She knit her brows, looking down in silent contemplation. She didn’t speak. I served myself a massive bowl of mashed potatoes and began eating with a vengeance. In my last life, I had gone three days without a drop of water or a bite of food before the illness finally took me. Now, I was going to eat my fill. Mona sighed, a look of weary condescension on her face. “David, I’m being serious. I’m in love with Jordan, and he feels the same way about me.” “I know there’s a twenty-five-year gap between us, but our souls are entwined. As my partner for the first half of my life, you should respect my choice. You should give us your blessing.” I nodded. “Sure. Honestly, I’m tired of living with you anyway.” She froze again. Then, a flicker of genuine delight crossed her features. “You’re… you’re not just saying that? You’re not planning to make a scene?” I gave her a silent shrug of confirmation. She rubbed her hands together, visibly vibrating with excitement. “Good. I’m glad you’ve reached this level of self-awareness! I suppose twenty years with me rubbed a little bit of class off on you after all.” “Look, we’ll split the assets three ways. One for you, one for me, and one for our son. That’s more than fair, and it’s my way of doing right by you.” “I’m staying with Mom,” our son, Lucas, chimed in suddenly, not looking up from his phone. “She can manage my share of the money.” Mona let out a sharp, triumphant laugh. “Perfect! That means two-thirds for me, one-third for you. Really, David, it’s a generous deal. You’ve been a stay-at-home dad for twenty years; you haven’t exactly contributed to the household income. You’ve lived off me all this time. Taking a third is plenty. Be grateful.” Lucas waved his phone in the air. “Dad, I recorded you saying you’d agree to the divorce. Don’t even think about backing out.” 2 I looked at my son. Quietly. Steadily. A phantom ache throbbed in my chest. This was my flesh and blood. Once, I believed we were a team. In the previous timeline, when Mona first brought up the divorce, my first thought was of him. He was studying for the Bar exam. He needed his mother’s academic connections and her financial backing. I knew Mona—if I divorced her then, she would have washed her hands of him to pursue her “true love.” And I was just a fifty-year-old man with no career, no savings, and a resume that had been blank for two decades. I couldn’t help him. I feared he’d fail his exams, lose his social standing, and never find a partner. So, I bit my tongue. I endured the humiliation. I kept the hollow shell of a marriage together just for his sake. How was I rewarded? Years later, he was the one who drove me to a dilapidated shack in the middle of nowhere and left me to rot. He didn’t even buy me a bag of rice, let alone take me to a doctor. When I begged him over the phone, he had responded with ice in his voice: “If you die, you die. A useless man like you doesn’t contribute anything to society anyway. You’re just wasting oxygen.” Remembering that, I smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, Lucas. I’m not going to fight your mother for you. Even if you wanted to come with me, I wouldn’t take you.” His expression shifted for a split second, then curdled into a sneer. “Give it a rest. No matter what you say, I’m not choosing you. What can you even do for me?” “Jordan is like a brother to me. Once he marries Mom, we’ll be closer than ever. He’s got a Master’s degree, he’s young, he’s brilliant—he’s actually a match for a professor like Mom. When you stand next to her, you look like her gardener.” He stuck his tongue out at me like a petulant child. “I’ll have two cultured, educated people taking care of me now. I don’t need you.” He tossed his fork onto the table and sauntered back to his room. I looked at the remnants of the dinner he’d mostly inhaled. I looked at the laundry drying on the balcony that I had scrubbed. I looked at the potted plants he bought and never watered. I looked at the pet turtle he cried for and then never fed. I had done everything for him. And in his eyes, all that effort was worthless because it didn’t come with a salary. His mother was a professor, so even if she did nothing, she was a giant. I had no job, so even though I carried his entire world on my shoulders, I was trash. A son like this? I didn’t want him anymore. 3 After finishing my meal, I walked out the door. At the bottom of the stairs, I ran into Mona and Jordan. They were laughing, no longer bothering to hide it. They stood there, fingers entwined, glowing with a nauseatingly sweet intimacy. I acted as if they were invisible, brushing past them. “Hey, Dave!” Jordan called out. He beamed at me, his smile bright and predatory. “Going out, Dave?” “You might want to stay out late. I’d hate for you to come home too early and see something you can’t handle. Like… this.” He leaned in and kissed Mona deeply, making a wet, deliberate sound that would have made any husband’s blood boil. Mona looked slightly uncomfortable, her eyes darting around. When he finished, Jordan grinned again. “By the way, Mona said she’s buying me a massive estate in the Hamptons. Did you know? Have you ever even stayed in a place like that? Probably not.” “Tell you what, after the divorce, you can come over and be our housekeeper. That way, you can finally see how the other half lives.” He winked, as if he were wishing me well. The first time I met Jordan, he had that same innocent, sweet smile. He said he wanted to prep for his exams and asked if my wife could tutor him. Three weeks into those “sessions,” I heard his heavy breathing coming from her study. “I just love the taste of a sophisticated, mature woman,” he had whispered. Last time, I tried to stop them. This time, I was going to make sure they got exactly what they deserved: each other. I hailed a car and went straight to a labor agency. I hired six men and drove them out to my parents’ old farm in the countryside. It was the only thing they had left me. It had been abandoned for over a decade, overgrown with weeds. This was the place where I had died in the other life. When Lucas threw me out, I slept on the floor with the insects for days. In that life, Lucas had pointed to a hole in the floorboards and laughed. “You never guessed, did you? Mom hid over a million dollars in cash! All those ‘consultation fees’ and gifts from students’ parents over the years… she stashed the kickbacks right here in this dump!” One point two million dollars. She hadn’t touched a dime of it when she was paralyzed. She let Lucas blow her pension on parties while I worked odd jobs to pay for her physical therapy. And then, the moment she recovered, she dug it up to buy herself a new husband. She wouldn’t even give me ten thousand for my treatment. Well, this time, I was taking what was mine. 4 After securing the money in a safe, private location, I took a week-long solo trip. I spent those seven days slowly ticking off the regrets of my past life. Mona sent me daily texts, her patience wearing thin. [I’m sick of looking at your junk. Get back here and move it out!] [How much longer are you going to hide?] When I finally returned, I looked like a different person. My skin was clear, my eyes were bright. The neighbors all commented that I looked ten years younger. “I’m getting divorced,” I told them with a grin. “Turns out, not being a servant to an old woman is great for the complexion.” They roared with laughter. Naturally, the conversation turned to the local gossip—how a certain young man managed to stomach the idea of kissing an aging professor. My apartment was on the second floor. I could see Jordan standing on the balcony, looking down and spitting toward us in a fit of pique. I pushed the door open and went to change my shoes, only to find my slippers were gone. Fine. I didn’t need them. I scanned the living room. Everything had been replaced. Even the curtains were different. Jordan swaggered out of the kitchen. “Hey, Dave. Your taste was hideous, so I tossed everything. You don’t mind, do you? I mean, you’re moving out anyway, right?” I remained calm. “Actually, I’m glad you did. I was tired of looking at that stuff too.” His face flushed red. Young men are so impatient; one sentence and he was already losing his cool. “David! Your wife doesn’t want you! How can you even show your face here? Look! The wedding photos are of me and her now. The family photos are me, her, and Lucas. There’s no room for you!” I glanced at the photos. I chuckled. “If I recall correctly, the papers haven’t been filed yet. Legally, I’m still the only husband in this house.” “So what? She doesn’t love you!” he screamed, loud enough for the whole building to hear. Just then, the front door—which hadn’t been latched—was kicked open. A middle-aged couple burst in. “Jordan!” the man yelled. He was trembling with rage, his eyes bloodshot. Jordan turned pale. “Dad? Mom? What are you doing here?” He looked at me, realization dawning. “You! You snake!” Before he could finish, his mother slapped him across the face. “We worked ourselves to the bone to put you through school, and this is how you repay us? Being a homewrecker? Get your things. You’re coming home!” Mona walked in from work just then, her academic composure ready to “negotiate.” She was met with a flurry of insults and nearly caught a stray fist from Jordan’s mother. They scuffled until the couple dragged a sobbing Jordan out the door. I sat there, sipping a cup of tea, until the house was quiet again. Mona wiped a smear of blood from her nose. She looked at me with cold, dead eyes. “We’re going to the lawyer this afternoon. I’m giving Jordan a legal title. I’m making this official.” I smiled. “You think his parents will let that happen?” “That’s my problem! You just sign the papers, and everything else is fine!” I shook my head. “I’ve thought about it for a few days. I’ve decided I’m not divorcing you.” 5 Mona’s face transformed into a mask of fury. “You… what?” I held up my hands. “You were right. I’m just a house husband. Jordan said if we divorce, I’ll end up as a janitor. So why would I leave? I don’t care what you do or who you see anymore. I’m staying for the status.” She slammed her hand on the table, her face contorting. “You have to leave!” This desperate rage was exactly like her old self. In the other life, I had stayed because I still loved her. This time, staying was just a strategy. “Mona, you’re a professor. You’re supposed to be the smart one. Let’s look at the math. What did I get out of this marriage?” “Did I get diamonds? Wealth? A life of leisure? No.” “I got twenty years of grocery shopping, scrubbing toilets, and raising an ungrateful brat who treats me like dirt.” She stared at me, her bravado slowly leaking away. She opened her mouth to speak several times, but nothing came out. Finally, she managed, “I offered you a third of the money!” I set down my tea. “You have eighteen thousand dollars in your savings account. A third is six thousand. How long is that supposed to last me? I don’t even have a place to live.” “This house was mine before we married!” I nodded. “Exactly. Divorce has zero benefits for me. So, go ahead and play with whoever you want. I truly don’t care anymore.” “You’re being unreasonable! Greedy! You’re a small-minded, petty man! Marrying you was the biggest mistake of my life!” I looked her in the eye. “Get his things out of here. If I have to do it, I won’t be gentle.” I walked into the master bedroom and began tossing Jordan’s designer clothes out into the hallway. Lucas came home and unleashed a barrage of profanity at me. I simply put on my noise-canceling headphones, sat on the couch, and started a movie. At dinner, the two of them sat at the table, glaring at me with sour faces. “Where’s dinner?” Lucas snapped. I shrugged. “Are you joking? After the way you’ve treated me, you expect me to cook for you?” I went to the door, picked up the takeout I’d ordered for one, and went into my room to eat. This went on for three days. Finally, Lucas snapped. “I can’t take it anymore, Mom! Just give him what he wants!” “This apartment isn’t even that nice, and your savings are chump change anyway!” “I’m sick of his cooking! When Jordan moves in, he’ll cook for us!” “You have to decide now! Jordan’s parents are trying to send him out of state!” Five minutes later, Mona knocked on my door. “Fine. If you sign the divorce papers today… you can have the apartment and the savings. All of it.”

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