Category: English

1 Eight years of love, and every time I visited a new city, I sent a postcard to Nate Holloway. I never wrote grand declarations of love. Instead, I wrote one simple thing I wanted to do with him. Watching the sunset by the dunes. Having breakfast in the historic district. Seeing a real, heavy snowfall in the North. He kept those cards in a vintage tin box in his study. By now, they filled two entire layers. This year, Nate finally promised to finish the very last one with me. But a week before we were set to leave, he announced he was joining a celebrity travel show called The Perfect Pair—as the partner for Serena. “She’s been preparing for this show for months,” he told me, his voice flat and practical. “They can’t just swap her out at the eleventh hour.” I looked at him, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. “And our promise?” Nate was silent for a beat. Then, he let out a sharp, impatient breath. “To be honest, Elena, I haven’t actually read any of those postcards.” My heart stuttered. “My assistant filed them away for me,” he continued. “Don’t make this sound like some grand betrayal. It’s a few pieces of cardstock.” At the show’s press conference, the host asked Nate who his dream travel partner would be. Serena stood just below the stage, looking up at him with expectant eyes. Nate took the microphone without a second’s hesitation. “We met far too late in life,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall. “So I want to make up for every second of lost time.” The room erupted in applause. I was sitting in the front row, my fingers trembling as I gripped the final postcard. I had intended to give it to him today. It read: “If we don’t go this year, I won’t wait for the next.” After the cameras stopped rolling, Nate caught me backstage. He frowned, noticing my pale face. “Why do you look like that? Serena is just a work partner. I’ll be back as soon as the season wraps.” But the shoot was ninety days. Ninety days from now would be our eighth anniversary. He wanted me to wait until then to even discuss our wedding. I thought about that tin box, filled with messages he had never bothered to open. It didn’t feel like a collection of promises anymore. It felt like a mountain of evidence of a one-sided life. It wasn’t that the cards had been lost in the mail. It was that for eight years, the recipient had never actually been waiting for them. “The production crew needs to take the tin.” Nate’s assistant, wearing white gloves, leaned over the desk to pick up the box. I slammed my hand down on the lid. “Who authorized this?” “I did.” Nate stood in the doorway, his press pass still dangling from his wrist. “The show needs a ‘recurring motif’—something to thread the ninety days together. These cards are perfect.” The metal edge of the box bit into my palm. “These cards are about us, Nate.” “There’s nothing private in there. Just names of places.” Serena stepped out from behind him, clutching a production schedule. “Please don’t misunderstand, Elena. The director just wants me to pull a random card at each stop. Then Nate and I will fulfill the ‘wish’ on the card. The audience will love the sentimentality.” She already knew the “gameplay.” And Nate claimed he hadn’t read a single one. I didn’t move my hand. “Did you read them, Serena?” She bit her lip, glancing at Nate. “Was I not supposed to? The assistant said it was fine. I only looked at the top few.” “I told her she could,” Nate said, walking toward the desk. “They were sent to me. I get to decide what happens to them.” “If I give someone a gift, can’t I take it back when it’s treated like trash?” “Elena, don’t start a scene before we even film.” He always used my full name when he was losing his patience. Serena looked down at her schedule, shifting her arm. On her wrist was a crimson braided cord bracelet. I had made that for Nate years ago. It had a tiny, worn brass clasp. I stared at her wrist. “Is that bracelet part of the ‘show’ too?” Serena instinctively covered it. “Nate said the reception in the mountains is spotty. He gave it to me for good luck. If it bothers you, I’ll take it off right now.” She fumbled with the clasp but didn’t actually undo it. “Leave it,” Nate said, placing his hand over hers. “It’s just a string. She’s not going to be petty about it.” But I was petty. Or maybe I was finally just tired. That cord had lived on his keychain for seven years because he’d said wearing it was “childish.” Now, it was on her wrist. The assistant stood awkwardly by the desk. “Mr. Holloway, the director is waiting for the ‘unboxing’ shots.” Nate gently pried my hand off the lid and picked up the tin. The bottom scraped against the mahogany desk with a dull, heavy thud. I stepped in front of the door. “You can do the show. You can give her the bracelet. But you are not taking the cards.” He studied me for a long moment. Then he handed the tin back to the assistant and grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the hallway. “Elena, after the show is over, I’m taking you to Cape Point.” That was the destination on the very last card. I looked up at him. “You read it?” “I read it.” “Then you know what I wanted to do there?” “Watch the sunrise,” he said, his voice softening. He was right. For a split second, a foolish spark of hope flickered in my chest. Maybe the “I never read them” comment was just a defensive lie from the press conference. He pulled two train tickets from his wallet and pressed them into my hand. “The morning train, ninety days from now. I’ve already booked it. This time, nothing changes.” The paper was warm from his pocket. The destination: Cape Point. I checked the date twice before I finally stepped aside. Serena followed the assistant out. As she passed me, she paused. “Don’t worry, Elena. I’m just borrowing the cards for ninety days. When we get to the Cape Point episode, I’ll make sure Nate leaves the very last one for you.” “Cape Point is part of the show?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Nate gripped the door handle. “The director changed the finale location. It’s actually better this way—I can scout it out for us first.” “Then what are these tickets for?” “They’re still valid. We’ll go again after we wrap.” He reached out and took one of the tickets back from me. “Serena gets motion sickness. I’m going to use this one to reserve her a specific seat for the production travel. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.” The door shut in my face. I looked down at the remaining ticket in my hand. The passenger name wasn’t mine. It was Serena’s. 2 “The assistant booked the wrong name. It’s not a big deal, Elena.” Nate dropped a new ticket onto the dining table. The destination was still Cape Point, but the date had been pushed back by three months. I didn’t touch it. “Three months from now is hurricane season.” “Then we’ll reschedule.” “You said ninety days.” “The shoot needs pick-up shots. We can’t lock in a date yet.” Nate’s mother, sitting at the head of the table, pushed a plate of grilled shrimp toward Serena. “Work isn’t a game, Nate. It’s generous of you to offer her a make-up trip at all. Elena can’t expect the world to revolve around a postcard.” This dinner was supposed to be my send-off. Tomorrow, I was leaving for the Pacific Northwest to archive a series of old travel journals. Mrs. Holloway had insisted I come over tonight, saying it was “family time.” Now, my usual seat was occupied by Serena’s pill organizer. Her cardigan was draped over the back of the chair. “Elena, dear, sit over there,” Mrs. Holloway said, pointing to a small chair near the kitchen door. “Serena’s digestion is delicate; she needs to be close to Nate so he can look after her.” Nate began peeling a shrimp. He did it with practiced precision—snapping the tail, then sliding the vein out. I was the one who taught him that. I used to be terrified of the sharp shells. He dropped the clean meat into Serena’s bowl. “Nate, stop,” Serena giggled. “Elena is leaving tomorrow. You should be taking care of her.” “She can feed herself,” Nate said without looking up. Mrs. Holloway smiled. “They’ve been together eight years, Serena. They don’t need all that fuss. You’re the guest. Don’t be shy.” I pulled out the chair by the kitchen. The table leg pressed against my ribs. It was so cramped I could barely move my elbows. Nate glanced at me once, then swapped my water for a bowl of soup. “No chives, just the way you like it. Drink it while it’s hot.” It was wild mushroom bisque, my favorite. The small porcelain spoon rested against the rim. He remembered that I only liked using the short-handled spoons. I took a sip. The temperature was perfect. “What time do you leave tomorrow?” he asked. “Seven in the morning.” “I’ll drive you.” “Doesn’t the crew meet at six?” “I’ll drop you at the station first, then head to the set.” His hand found my knee under the table, squeezing gently through my skirt. “Elena, I know you’re upset. When I get back, we’ll finally do it. We’ll have the wedding.” I gripped the spoon. “Do you actually want to get married, Nate?” “It’s been eight years. Who else would I marry?” Mrs. Holloway set her fork down with a sharp clack. “We can talk about the wedding, but the public announcement has to wait. The show is in its peak promo cycle. We can’t have Serena looking like the ‘other woman’ in the press.” Serena immediately pushed her bowl away. “Mrs. Holloway, it’s fine. Maybe I should just quit the show. My health might not even hold up for ninety days anyway.” Her pill box tipped over, spilling white tablets across the tablecloth. Nate stood up instantly to help her gather them. “The doctor said you need to stay calm,” Nate said, his voice laced with genuine worry. “Don’t joke about quitting.” “But Elena doesn’t like me being here.” “She didn’t say that.” He snapped the pill box shut and turned to me. “Elena, tell her.” Two pairs of eyes bore into me. I pushed the soup bowl away. “I don’t like my life being sidelined. That doesn’t mean I don’t like her.” Mrs. Holloway’s face darkened. “It’s a seat at a table, Elena. Serena saved Nate’s life during that rockfall. She’s fragile. What exactly is it costing you to be a little bit graceful?” The rockfall. Every time Serena needed something, someone brought up the time she pulled Nate out of the way of a slide on a hiking trip years ago. “I can give up a seat,” I said quietly. “I can’t give up being his fiancée.” Nate’s brow furrowed. “Nobody is asking you to.” “Then announce the engagement tomorrow. Before the show airs.” Serena gripped the edge of the table. Nate’s mother beat him to the punch. “The show is branded as a ‘Perfect Pair’ romance. You want Nate to blow up the production and ruin Serena’s reputation just for a status update?” “I just want the truth.” “The truth is that I’m marrying you,” Nate said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “What’s the difference if the world knows today or in three months?” I looked at him. “There’s no difference for you. There is for me.” He picked up the new train ticket, folded it, and tucked it into my coat pocket. “Wait ninety days. Just stop bringing it up.” After dinner, he actually did drive me home. He even came inside and made me a bowl of noodles. No cilantro, one perfectly poached egg. He handed me the chopsticks. “You haven’t eaten since the table. You’ve been doing that since we were twelve—starving yourself when you’re stubborn.” I stayed silent. We grew up on the same block. He knew every one of my triggers, and he knew that a simple bowl of noodles was usually enough to make me stay. Halfway through the meal, his phone rang. It was the director. “Bind the cards according to the route? Yeah, that’s fine. Just don’t lose them.” I snapped my head up. “You can’t bind them.” He covered the receiver. “It’s just a hole punch and some twine, Elena. It’s for the shots.” “The paper will tear.” “I’ll buy you a new set after the show.” I put the chopsticks down. “There is no ‘new set’ of those cards, Nate.” Nate didn’t answer me. He spoke into the phone. “Go ahead with the plan.” The assistant arrived ten minutes later with a confirmation slip. At the bottom, it stated that the owner of the materials authorized the production to cut, punch, and style the ninety-six postcards. Nate signed it and capped the pen. I reached for the paper, but he had already handed it back to the assistant. 3 “The production needs you on-site.” The director slid a crew badge across the table. It labeled me as a Route Consultant. I didn’t touch it. “I agreed to provide my journals and data for the Oregon Coast segment. I didn’t agree to be on camera.” “You won’t be,” Serena said, sitting close to Nate. “There’s a road closure at Cape Point. You’re the only one who knows the local guides. If you don’t come, the finale is dead.” “Change the location,” I said. The director shook his head. “The network already teased the Cape Point finale. We’re locked in.” Nate took the badge and hung it around my neck. “It’s only for seven days, Elena. Just help Serena navigate the final stretch.” The plastic badge felt heavy against my collarbone. “That stretch was my gift to you, Nate.” “Which makes you the expert.” “You’re asking me to lead her through my own wishes?” “It’s a job,” Nate said firmly. The director flipped through a binder. “Ms. Brooks, you’ve already been paid for the consulting. You signed off on the route. If you walk now, you’re stalling a crew of fifteen people. Don’t make this harder for Nate.” I had only signed off on the data. But somewhere in the fine print, “on-site support” had been added. Serena reached out to touch the badge. “Forget it. I’ll walk it myself. If something happens to me, it’s nobody’s fault.” Nate blocked her hand. “You had a flare-up last time we were in the mountains. I’m not letting you risk it.” He looked at me. “Elena, she saved my life. I’m not going to gamble with her safety just because you’re in a mood.” “What about my feelings, Nate?” “You’re family. You should be the one who understands me best.” Because you’re not an outsider, you don’t need to be cared for. He had used that excuse for years. I ripped the badge off and set it on the table. “I’m not going. I don’t accept this.” Nate didn’t get angry. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out an old camera. It was a vintage silver Leica with a tiny piece of blue tape on the side. My camera. The one I’d lost two years ago. “I got it fixed,” he said. I took it, my thumb brushing the power button. The roll of film I’d never finished was still inside. Two years ago, it had been water-damaged, and every shop said it was a lost cause. Nate must have hunted down a specialist. “When did you find it?” “Six months ago.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I wanted to give it to you at Cape Point.” He put the badge back in my palm. “Take it with you. When the cameras stop, I’ll send everyone else away. It’ll just be us for the last card.” The screen flickered to life. For a second, my resolve crumbled. It was only seven days. Maybe after the show, he really would come back to me. I put the badge back on. Serena picked up her water glass, stopping just before she took a sip. “Nate, is this the camera you asked my cousin about? The one who specializes in old optics?” Nate nodded. “Yeah. He did a great job.” “No wonder he sent it to my place,” Serena said, leaning back. “I actually tested it out with a few rolls. The clarity is amazing.” I froze. I scrolled through the digital gallery. The most recent photo was of Serena standing by a window, wearing one of Nate’s white button-downs. The next was of her curled up on a sofa, covered in the grey cashmere throw I’d given Nate for his birthday. The timestamp was the night before the press conference. “You were at his house?” “We were going over the schedule,” Serena said smoothly. “I spilled coffee on my shirt, so he lent me one. Don’t overthink it, Elena.” Nate took the camera and deleted the photos. “The director and the assistant were there, too. We weren’t alone.” “And the blanket?” “She fell asleep. I just threw it over her.” The blanket I’d bought him when I first moved in. He’d hated the color, but he’d never let the housekeeper take it away. Now, it was just something to “throw over” someone else. I took the badge off again. Nate grabbed my hand. “I got your camera fixed. What more do you want?” “I want out.” “Stop being childish.” “I’m not going to the Cape, and I’m not waiting for a wedding.” He looked at me for a few seconds, then actually laughed. “Another breakup threat, Elena?” “This isn’t a threat.” “Fine.” He shoved the camera into my bag. “We’ll talk when you get back from the PNW. For now, do your job.” The director handed me the new production book. The cover was glossy. Nate & Serena: 100 Wishes at Cape Point. Inside, tucked into the back sleeve, was my final postcard. Its four corners had been neatly clipped off to fit the frame. 4 “The last card doesn’t go on camera.” I pulled the postcard out of the binder. The postmark for Cape Point was already obscured by a production sticker. The director signaled the cameraman to hold. “Elena, this is the finale. Everything is set.” At the end of the Cape Point boardwalk, a rustic wooden wall had been erected. Ninety-five of my postcards had been punched with holes and strung on twine. The ocean breeze whistled through the holes, making the paper clatter like dry leaves. Serena, in a flowing white dress, stood by the wall, waiting for Nate. I clutched the final card. “You’ve already ruined the others. This one stays with me.” Mrs. Holloway stepped out of the production trailer. “The cards were a gift to Nate. They’re his property. We aren’t stopping production because of a tantrum.” The director leaned in, whispering, “The network executives are on-site. If we don’t have the final card, the whole narrative arc collapses.” Serena walked over to me, looking pained. “Elena, I’ll only read the location. I won’t read the message on the back. Okay?” “No.” “Then you read it,” she said, handing me her microphone. “Stand off-camera and read it. I won’t take the credit.” Nate grabbed the mic and clicked it off. “She’s not going on camera.” It was a rare moment of protection. He draped his jacket over my shoulders and pressed his hand to the back of my neck. “It’s windy. Go to the car. Give me the card, and I promise, no one will read the message.” “And after the shoot?” “We stay. Just us.” “Just us?” “Yes.” He pulled a small paper bag from his pocket. Inside were two pieces of almond biscotti and a thermos of hot water. He knew I got car-sick and couldn’t eat anything heavy. “Trust me one last time, Elena.” The warmth of the thermos seeped into my skin. He held out his hand. I placed the card in it, and he closed my fingers over his for a second. “When the sun goes down, I’ll walk you to the lighthouse.” Eight years. This was all I had ever wanted. I nodded. Nate tightened the jacket around me and walked toward the wooden wall. The cameras started rolling. Serena pulled the first card from the tin. “Wish one: hot donuts in the historic district.” She read it with practiced charm. Nate stood beside her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the wind caught it. The second card. The third. Words I had written in private, intended for his eyes only, were being broadcast to a crew of twenty. The director gave a “keep going” signal. Finally, Serena held up the empty tin. “There’s one left.” I gripped the railing of the boardwalk. Nate looked at me. “Elena, give it to me.” “You promised no cameras.” “We just need the shot of me placing it. No reading.” “I don’t believe you.” Mrs. Holloway marched over. “Nate has kept everyone waiting for forty minutes just to coddle you. Enough is enough.” The director took off his headset. “Elena, if we stop now, everyone’s flights have to be rebooked. Can you afford that?” Serena stood by the wall, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have done this. Nate, just delete my scenes.” Nate’s jaw tightened. “It’s not your fault.” He walked to me and held out his hand. “The last time, Elena.” “No.” “Elena.” His voice was low and dangerous. The crew was watching. Mrs. Holloway was glaring. Serena was the picture of a tragic heroine. Nate pulled out his phone and played a voice memo. It was from three years ago, a message I’d left him while I was at the Cape alone. “Nate, the lighthouse is glowing. I saved a spot for you. Next time, you have to be here with me, okay?” He turned the screen off. “I remembered.” I stared at him. “You kept that for three years?” “I listen to it whenever I can’t sleep on the road.” It was a sweet, lethal hook. It was so sweet I almost forgot that every other card on that wall was now a prop for him and Serena. He opened his palm. “Give me the card. Let’s finish this so I can take you to the lighthouse.” I gave it to him. Nate turned back to the cameras. Serena took the card, but she didn’t put it in the tin. The director gestured for her to flip it over. “Serena, read it. The emotion is right there.” I stepped forward. Nate blocked me with his arm. “It’s just work,” he hissed. Serena looked down and read the words. “If we don’t go this year, I won’t wait for the next.” She paused, then looked up at Nate with a scripted, longing gaze. “Nate, will you finish this journey with me?” The network executives started clapping. Mrs. Holloway handed Nate a commemorative wax seal. Per the script, he was supposed to stamp the final card and hand it to Serena. I grabbed his sleeve. “If you stamp that, Nate, we’re done.” He looked down at me, his voice a whisper. “The cameras are on. Don’t force me to choose here.” “I’m only asking once.” “After the shoot.” He pulled his arm away, took the stamp, and pressed it into the red wax. The red seal landed right in the center of the card, obliterating my name. My hand stayed frozen in the air for a second before I dropped it to my side. When the director yelled “Cut,” I didn’t wait. I pulled a signed Termination of Licensing Agreement from my bag and handed it to the network rep. The data for the second half of the season—the Pacific Northwest leg—was mine. Without my signature, they couldn’t use a single word of it. Mrs. Holloway’s face went white. “You had this ready the whole time?” “I was just preparing to take my life back,” I said. I took off the crew badge and dropped it into the empty tin box, followed by the keys to Nate’s house. The wax on Serena’s card was still wet. Nate caught me at the exit of the boardwalk. “Where are you going?” “The lighthouse.” “Give me thirty minutes to wrap.” I pulled my wrist away. “I’m not waiting anymore, Nate.” Nate watched me walk away. For the first time, he didn’t follow. He looked down at the tin, where my house keys sat on top of the train ticket. The name on the ticket had been corrected. He thought I was just throwing a fit. But an assistant came running up, breathless. “Mr. Holloway, Elena just handed in her transit pass. She booked a one-way ferry off the Cape. It left ten minutes ago.”

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1 The final seal had just been pressed onto the three-hundred-million-dollar merger when Piper Montgomery suddenly grabbed a thick red permanent marker. With a playful, erratic flourish, she drew a lopsided rabbit right across the signature page. The crimson ink bled through the representatives’ names, slashing across the anti-counterfeit watermark. The conference room fell into a tomb-like silence. The lead negotiator for the other side surged to his feet, his chair screeching against the hardwood. “This original copy is void.” Piper looked as if she’d been struck. Her lower lip trembled, and tears pooled in her eyes with practiced ease. “Piper didn’t mean to. Piper just thought the page looked so empty… I wanted to draw a little bunny…” My fiancé, Harrison Reed, stepped in front of her instantly, shielding her from the room’s collective glare. He didn’t even glance at the ruined contract—the culmination of two years of my life’s work. Instead, he turned a cold, accusing stare toward me. “Natalie Ross, you’re the Chief Legal Counsel. If there’s an issue with the document, the responsibility lies with you.” His voice was clinical, devoid of the warmth we’d shared just that morning. “Draft a legal opinion immediately. State that the document was flawed prior to the signing. Take the hit for the legal department. Don’t drag Piper into this.” In my past life, this was where my heart had failed me. I had softened. I had signed the admission of negligence for Piper, pressing my professional seal onto a lie. Later, when the deal collapsed and the firm suffered catastrophic losses, I was the one disbarred and exiled from the industry. Harrison had even taken the money I’d saved for my mother’s life-saving surgery to plug the holes Piper’s “accidental” leaks had caused. My mother died the night before her operation. Six months later, a “traffic accident” took my life, too. I blinked, the sterile light of the boardroom snapping me back to the present. I looked at the liability statement Harrison was shoving toward me, and I felt a ghost of a smile touch my lips. “Fine,” I said. Harrison’s expression relaxed slightly, a hint of smugness returning to his eyes. A second later, I hit the remote, activating the official livestream that had been set up for the signing ceremony. The screen on the wall flickered to life. The viewer count—already at three hundred and seventy thousand—was skyrocketing. I pivoted the camera directly toward Piper Montgomery. “Miss Montgomery,” I said, my voice echoing in the silent room. “Could you say that again for the record? Tell the shareholders exactly who destroyed this contract.” The sob Piper was preparing hitched in her throat. Harrison’s face went white. He lunged for the remote, but I stepped aside, switching the feed to a panoramic view of the room. This wasn’t just a private meeting; it was a room full of Vanguard Group executives, Luminary Dynamics representatives, public notaries, and the financial press. Everyone saw it. They saw Piper Montgomery deliberately pick up that marker and deface the finalized original. It wasn’t a spilled glass of water. It wasn’t a mix-up of papers. She had uncapped the pen and spent ten full seconds scribbling over the signature block. “Natalie, turn that damn thing off!” Harrison hissed, his voice a low, vibrating warning. I ignored him. “Miss Montgomery, you said you didn’t mean to. Then tell me, why did you spend so much time drawing on the signature page?” Piper retreated behind Harrison, her eyes red-rimmed. “Piper didn’t know it was important. There were so many papers on the table… how was I supposed to tell them apart?” Xavier Blackwood, the CEO of Luminary Dynamics, let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Every page is numbered. The cover literally says Strategic Partnership Agreement in bold letters. There is a notary sitting right next to you. Are you telling me, Miss Montgomery, that you’re illiterate?” Piper’s crying intensified. Harrison rubbed her shoulder, his heart clearly bleeding for her. “Mr. Blackwood, she’s just a junior intern fresh out of college. She’s innocent, perhaps a bit behind her years emotionally. Surely we don’t need to bully a young girl over a piece of paper?” “A piece of paper?” Xavier’s voice turned like a blade. “This original was printed on specialized security paper. Both our overseas authorized signers are here today, and their certifications are valid for this window only. To redo this requires an entire cross-border approval process. We’re looking at a thirty-day delay, minimum. Harrison, you’re calling a three-hundred-million-dollar contract ‘a piece of paper’?” Harrison looked trapped. Naturally, he turned his venom back on me. “Why wasn’t the legal department guarding the documents? If an intern could reach them, it means your protocol is flawed.” It was the same script as last time. If Piper ruined a contract, it was because Legal didn’t hide it well enough. If Piper leaked a bid price, it was because the system didn’t have enough pop-up warnings. Every sin she committed was transformed into someone else’s failure. I picked up the liability statement Harrison had drafted and tore it in half. “The documents were under the custody of the notary,” I said, my voice steady. “They were placed on the table for final sealing. Piper Montgomery crossed the security line and took the files without authorization. The liability is crystal clear. I will not issue a false legal opinion, and I certainly won’t stake my career on a lie for her.” Piper let out a soft, whimpering sniffle. “Does Natalie hate me? I know you and Harrison are getting married soon, but I really wasn’t trying to take anything from you…” The moment she spoke, she tried to pivot a massive corporate disaster into a petty catfight over a man. The livestream comments began to blur past—some calling her out, others wondering if I was just a jealous “career woman” picking on the help. Harrison, of course, chose the narrative that fed his ego. “Natalie, this is a place of business, not a venue for your insecurities. Turn off the stream and apologize to Piper, and I might consider not citing you for unauthorized filming.” I slid the emerald engagement ring off my finger and placed it on the mahogany table. “First,” I said, “the equipment belongs to the firm, and today’s ceremony was always intended to be a public broadcast. No confidential terms were displayed. Second, the person who destroyed the contract owes the firm and our partners an apology, not me. And third…” I looked him dead in the eye. “Our engagement is over.” Harrison froze. I didn’t give him time to process. I turned to the security detail at the door. “Secure the damaged contract, the room’s CCTV footage, and the marker used by Miss Montgomery. As of now, her access to firm documents and internal systems is suspended.” As the guards moved toward her, Piper instinctively tightened her grip on that red marker. The movement was fast, almost feline. But it didn’t escape me. “This pen is Piper’s,” she said. For the first time, she wasn’t crying. Her voice sounded tight. “Can I please have it back?” I looked at the marker. It was slightly thicker than a standard Sharpie. I shook my head slowly. “No.” 2 Harrison managed to cut the feed ten minutes later, but the damage was done. The clip was already trending under the tag #InternRuins300MDeal. By the afternoon, an emergency crisis meeting was called. Piper sat in the corner of the room, her eyes swollen like bruised peaches. Harrison slammed an incident report onto the table in front of me. “Legal failed in its oversight. Natalie Ross bears primary responsibility. Piper Montgomery, due to lack of experience, will receive an internal warning.” I flipped to the last page. It was already stamped by the VP’s office—Harrison’s office. All it needed was my signature. “The investigation hasn’t even started, and you’ve already reached a verdict?” I asked. Harrison leaned back, his expression one of bored annoyance. “If we let this drag on, it hurts the firm’s image. Piper is an intern; she can’t pay back three hundred million dollars. What do you want, Natalie? To see her in a cage?” “Liability isn’t about whether someone can afford the damages,” I replied. “It’s about who caused them. Whether she’s broke or not doesn’t change the facts.” Piper’s tears started again. “I’ll work hard to earn the money back. But I only make four thousand a month… it will take so many years…” The other executives shifted uncomfortably. She was playing them perfectly, acting as if we were asking her for a check right this second. She was dragging the conversation away from why she crossed the security line and why she took the pen to the paper, and turning it into a narrative of “The Big Bad Corporation vs. The Poor Little Intern.” Harrison’s heart, predictably, melted. “Enough. Natalie, she knows she made a mistake. You’re only holding onto this because she relies on me, isn’t it?” I closed the report. “If you’re so eager to call this an accident, perhaps you can explain why an administrative intern was seated at the signing table in the first place?” In a firm like Vanguard, an intern shouldn’t have been within twenty feet of that inner circle. Harrison’s eyes shifted. “I invited her to observe. For her professional development.” “And who authorized her temporary clearance?” “I did.” “And who allowed her to cross the security perimeter?” “I wasn’t paying attention.” “And who asked Legal to falsify a report after the fact?” Harrison slammed his palm against the table. “Are you cross-examining me, Natalie?” “I am documenting facts.” I opened my laptop and cc’d the incident log to the Board of Directors’ Audit and Risk Committee. Harrison glared at me, his face turning a mottled red. In my previous life, I had been terrified of hurting our relationship, and even more terrified that the Reed family would withdraw their financial support for my mother’s medical care. I had kept quiet. And when the firm finally looked for someone to blame, Harrison had used every document I had signed to bury me while he walked away clean. Not this time. Every directive, every overreach—I was putting his name on all of it. After the meeting, Xavier Blackwood caught me in the hallway. “Natalie, Luminary can give Vanguard forty-eight hours.” I looked at him. “And then?” “If you can produce an independent investigation proving this wasn’t a coordinated act of commercial sabotage, we’ll reschedule. If not… the deal is dead.” He paused, lowering his voice. “And Natalie? Check that marker.” I met his gaze. “What did you see, Xavier?” “When she was ‘drawing,’ she held the end of the pen with two fingers, perfectly upright. She wasn’t holding it like a child. She was holding it like she was trying not to block a lens.” 3 Back in my office, I moved with surgical precision. First, I revoked Harrison’s power of attorney over my personal accounts. Second, I transferred my mother’s surgery funds into a hospital-managed escrow account. Third, I called the florist and the caterer and canceled the wedding. In my last life, I had kept our finances semi-merged. Harrison had told me that since we were going to be family, there was no need for “walls.” When Piper “accidentally” leaked Vanguard’s internal bidding floor, causing our suppliers to gouge our prices, Harrison had drained a hundred and twenty thousand dollars from my account to cover her initial “restitution.” My mother never got her surgery. On the day she passed, I sat in that sterile hospital hallway and called Harrison twenty-seven times. He never picked up. At three in the morning, he finally texted: Piper had an emotional breakdown after she realized what she’d done. I’m with her. We’ll talk about your mom later. That “later” never came. My phone buzzed. Harrison’s name flashed on the screen. “Natalie, did you seriously just cancel the deposit on the venue?” “I did.” “Over a ruined contract? You’re being vindictive.” “I’m being professional. You asked me to commit fraud for your girlfriend.” There was a silence. Then, his voice softened into that manipulative, ‘reasonable’ tone I used to mistake for love. “Natalie, I know you have your principles. but people are more important than rules. Piper has a trauma-induced regression issue. When she’s stressed, she retreats. She isn’t faking it.” “Who diagnosed her?” I asked. “What?” “Which hospital? Which doctor? What is the clinical name of her condition?” He had no answer. Piper had never shown a single medical record. She just said she felt like a “baby” when things got hard, and Harrison had built a cathedral of excuses around her. “Harrison-bear says Piper doesn’t have to prove she’s sick,” a soft, sugary voice came through the phone. She was with him. “Why does Natalie want to see Piper’s papers? Do you want to prove Piper is a bad girl?” I didn’t engage. “Piper, your system access is suspended. Do not come into the office tomorrow.” Harrison cut back in. “I’ve already signed a special authorization. She’ll be at her desk at nine.” “During an investigation into a security breach, involved personnel must be sidelined.” “I’m the VP of Operations. I decide who is sidelined.” “Fine,” I said, and hung up. I saved his authorization email and my risk disclosure into the evidence folder. He thought he was exercising power. He didn’t realize he was just signing his own confession. The next morning, Piper showed up in a pink pinafore dress with a stuffed bunny clipped to her lapel. The moment she saw me, she scurried behind Harrison. “Don’t let the mean lady scold Piper,” she whispered. I didn’t even look at her. I turned to the IT manager. “Who restored her email and project permissions?” The manager looked pained. “Mr. Reed signed off on it, Natalie. I didn’t have a choice.” I nodded. “Understood.” Two hours later, a roar of chaos erupted from the Supply Chain department. Vanguard’s internal “red-line” pricing—the absolute limit we could pay our vendors—had been “mistakenly” sent to an external email address. The projected loss? Sixty-eight million dollars. 4 Piper was sitting in the Supply Chain office, hyperventilating. “Piper just clicked the wrong name! The email looked so much like Mr. Miller’s… Piper got confused!” The recipient was happy@apex-supply.com. The internal manager was happy@vanguard.com. On the surface, it looked like a classic auto-fill error. Harrison arrived and immediately went into ‘knight in shining armor’ mode. “Recall the email. Now.” The IT manager shook his head. “It’s an external server. They’ve already downloaded the attachment.” Harrison turned to me. “Send a cease-and-desist. State it was an accidental transmission and forbid them from using the data.” “I can send the letter,” I said, “but that doesn’t change the fact that a trade secret has been compromised.” “Then what do you suggest, Natalie?” “A full data-leak investigation. Forensic imaging of the mail servers and a background check on the recipient.” Piper raised a trembling hand. “Piper is so sorry. Piper is a bad girl again.” The Supply Chain manager looked like he was about to have a stroke. “Do you have any idea how much this ‘mistake’ is going to cost us in vendor negotiations?” “But Piper said sorry,” she chirped, looking up with wide, innocent eyes. “My mommy said if you say sorry, you have to be forgiven.” Harrison actually nodded. “She apologized. She’s clearly distraught.” I looked at him and felt a wave of nausea. In my last life, I thought he was just kind-hearted. Now I saw the truth: he didn’t love Piper because she was weak; he loved her because her weakness made him feel powerful. Every time she cried “Harrison-bear,” it fed his pathetic hero complex. He didn’t care who got sacrificed on the altar of his ego. “Natalie, categorize this as a system-prompt error,” Harrison commanded. “Blame IT for not having better filters. Don’t pursue Piper.” “If that’s your directive,” I said, pulling a risk confirmation form from my folder. “Sign here. Confirming that despite my explicit recommendation to suspend her access, you personally authorized her to handle sensitive files. You are assuming all legal and financial liability for this leak.” Harrison’s face darkened. “Are you threatening me?” “I’m performing my fiduciary duty to the board.” He snatched the pen and scribbled his name. “Fine. Let’s see what ‘consequences’ your little paper trail actually brings.” As he led Piper away, I signaled IT to mirror the server logs immediately. The results came back within the hour. The external email had been registered three months ago. The domain was owned by a shell company called “Beacon Consulting.” Their physical address? The same floor, in the same building, as Apex Equities—Vanguard’s biggest rival. I didn’t say a word to Harrison. That evening, I got a text from Eleanor Walsh, the Chair of the Audit Committee. 8:00 PM. Parking Garage, Level 3. Eleanor was the daughter of Vanguard’s founder. She was sharp, lived mostly in London, and rarely waded into daily office politics. When I met her, she skipped the pleasantries and handed me two folders. “Vanguard has lost its last two major bids,” she said. “Apex Equities beat us both times. Their bids were less than one percent lower than our internal floor.” I flipped through the reports, a chill crawling down my spine. In my last life, I was so distracted by the wedding and Piper’s antics that I never looked at the bigger picture. “You think we have a mole?” I asked. “I don’t think it, Natalie. I know it.” Eleanor looked at me with iron in her eyes. “I’ve been waiting for them to reach for the bait one last time. Are you going to help me catch them?”

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1 After graduation, I moved to Seattle to start my career. To save on the city’s astronomical rent, I called my brother, Jason, asking if I could crash at his place. He was away on a month-long business trip but told me I could move in immediately. There was just one condition: I had to look after his “new addition.” “I got a new little black dog,” Jason told me over the phone, his voice distracted. “He’s a bit anti-social, so I’ve got him tethered inside. He can be a real brat. If he doesn’t listen, don’t be afraid to be firm with him.” I arrived at the old brick apartment building in the Hilltop district. I’d visited once years ago, so I remembered the trick to the place. I found the spare key tucked under a chipped ceramic planter and let myself in. The layout was exactly as I remembered, but the atmosphere felt heavy, almost stagnant. “Hey, puppy!” I called out, clicking my tongue. “Where’s the little troublemaker?” Hearing a faint rustle from the master bedroom, I smiled and pushed the door open. “Who’s a bad boy? Who wants a belly rub?” The room was shrouded in dim light, the heavy curtains drawn tight. A man was standing by the window. He was wearing a thin, wrinkled white shirt, his frame lean and sharp. Around his ankle, a sleek, black electronic monitor pulsed with a faint red light. His eyes were vacant, staring into a void I couldn’t see. His dark hair fell over a pale, aristocratic face—the kind of face that belonged on a billboard, cold and unreachable. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice a low, jagged rasp. I slammed the door shut, my heart hammering against my ribs. I pulled out my phone and pulled up Jason’s last message. New addition. Black hair. Tied up. Everything matched. It took me exactly thirty seconds to accept the horrifying reality: my brother was a psychopath. He had kidnapped a grown man—a beautiful, blind, broken man—and was keeping him like a pet. 2 But Jason was my brother. He was my only family, and I had already signed the contract for my new job in the city. I couldn’t run, and I couldn’t call the police—not yet. I decided the only thing I could do was care for this poor soul in the meantime. As the sister of a kidnapper, I didn’t dare reveal my identity. I told him I was the new housekeeper. His response was a cold, “Get out.” A temper. Well, who wouldn’t have a temper if they were being held captive in a dingy bedroom? I called Jason, trying to keep my voice steady. “Hey, about the… guest in your house. What’s his name? I want to make sure I take care of him properly.” “Are you losing it?” Jason barked. “His name is Dog. Don’t start treating him like a person. You call him ‘Dog,’ and he’ll come wagging his tail. Don’t be a weirdo, Sophie.” I felt the blood drain from my face. Jason had even stripped him of his name. I couldn’t fathom how my brother—the boy who’d worked his way out of our small town into the big city—had become this twisted. Was the city really this soul-crushing? I’d have to wait until Jason got back. Then, I’d find a way to get him professional help—or turn him in myself. “Jason,” I choked out, “he has dignity! How can you call him that?” He hung up on me, telling me to just feed the “mutt” and stop being dramatic. I couldn’t bring myself to call a human being “Dog.” I searched through the hallway cabinets until I found a discarded wallet. Inside was an ID card. The man in the photo had piercing, soulful eyes and an air of quiet power. His name was Elias Hawthorne. According to the ID, he was from Chicago. Jason had snatched him from halfway across the country. My brother was more dangerous than I’d ever imagined. 3 Ever since I’d claimed to be the housekeeper, Elias stopped asking questions. He spent most of his time sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the dark. He looked like a man waiting for the end. I went to make dinner, but the fridge was a wasteland. All that was there were a few bottles of expensive red wine. No wonder he was so thin. Beneath that shirt, his collarbones looked like they could cut glass. The vibrant man from the ID photo had been hollowed out. I wore a mask and a hoodie to the grocery store, avoiding every security camera I could. If Jason eventually went down, I needed to make sure I wasn’t caught in the blast radius. I came back and whipped up a hot, three-course meal. I invited Elias to the small dining table. He walked out, his face like a thundercloud. The monitor on his ankle was flashing red. The display on the wall—part of some high-tech security system Jason must have installed—showed his status: Irritated. “Didn’t they tell you the rules?” Elias said, his sightless eyes fixed on a corner of the room. “I didn’t ask you to cook. Get out.” “…They?” I whispered. He didn’t answer, as if my stupidity wasn’t worth his breath. My hands shook as I held the tray. My brother wasn’t just a kidnapper; was he part of a syndicate? Was “they” a whole organization of psychos? 4 In the dim light, I noticed the scars on Elias’s arms. Some were old bruises from bumping into furniture, but others were sharp, thin nicks. Jason was a monster. Elias didn’t notice my scrutiny. He smelled the food, but instead of eating, he lashed out, sweeping the plate off the table with a violent crash. “Are you deaf?” he snapped. “Leave.” Despite his blindness, his presence was suffocating. I felt myself trembling under his glare. My brother’s debt was now mine to pay. I thought about the brother I used to know, and I decided I would save him from himself by saving Elias first. “Just eat something,” I said softly, my voice firm. “If you don’t, you won’t have the strength to run when the time comes.” The monitor on his ankle flickered. His health vitals were at a critical low. The “Mood” light was a solid, angry red. Hostility. Disgust. I was out of options. I called Jason again. He was going to be gone for a month; if his “pet” died on my watch, I didn’t want to know what he’d do. I told him the “dog” refused to eat and was acting out. “Then force his mouth open!” Jason shouted. “When I’m home, he’s a angel, wagging his tail at my feet. Why is he giving you such a hard time? He’s testing you. He’s a high-maintenance breed, Sophie. Don’t let him get skinny. If I come home to a bag of bones, I’m taking it out on both of you!” 5 I went back to Elias with a fresh plate. He moved to swat it away for the sixth time. He was starving, his skin a sickly, translucent grey. It looked like he was trying to commit suicide by hunger. Something inside me snapped. I grabbed his wrists, pinning them to the table. “Eat,” I growled, “or I’ll start hitting.” Elias tilted his head, his blind gaze somehow projecting a terrifying authority. He let out a low, dark chuckle. “You really have no idea who you’re talking to, do you? What exactly do you think your ‘position’ is here?” I laughed, a jagged, bitter sound. Jason said he was a “good boy” who wagged his tail. This man was a captive with the ego of a king. I pinched his chin, forcing his mouth open. “The puppy is being naughty. The puppy needs to be punished.” He froze, clearly never having been treated with such blunt, physical force. In his shock, I managed to shove a few spoonfuls of risotto into his mouth. His throat worked as he swallowed. “You…!” I softened my grip and brought a glass of warm water to his lips, patting his back gently. “There we go. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not like them. I’m the good one.” In our struggle, some of the water and food had spilled onto his dark shirt, clinging to his skin. Elias couldn’t see the mess, but he could feel it. His face was a mask of shock and lost control. “You’re a mess,” I said. “Go clean yourself up.” I watched him stumble back to his room. I went to the guest room to unpack and look over my new hire paperwork. I’d been recruited by a branch of the Hawthorne Group. I knew my immediate manager, but I hadn’t bothered to look up the C-suite execs. I’d never be in the same room as people that powerful anyway. I stretched and called Jason for my daily report. “The brat just threw a fit, but I got some food in him. Sent him to the shower.” Jason screamed through the phone. “Are you insane? He can’t shower by himself! He’s terrified of water! The idiot is going to drown! Get in there and save him!” 6 I realized the bedroom had gone silent. I sprinted down the hall and burst into the master bath. A silhouette was slumped in the garden tub, submerged. He wasn’t moving. My career! My life! My brother’s soul! Everything was flashing before my eyes. I lunged forward, slipped on the wet tile, and went flying. I ended up landing right in the tub, splashing down directly into his lap. I scrambled to grab his head, pulling him above the surface. “Please don’t die! Please don’t die!” Elias sputtered, coughing violently as he took in air. His chest heaved. His eyes, clouded with water and confusion, locked onto mine. Thank God. My life wasn’t over. Ignoring every social boundary, I tried to haul him out of the tub. “It’s okay, baby. From now on, we’re doing sponge baths.” But he was slick with soap and water. I couldn’t find a grip, my hands sliding over his damp skin. My hand landed on something… firm. Elias shoved me away, his face turning a deep, burning crimson. “Get out!” he rasped. “I’m fine!” “You almost died!” I yelled back, refusing to budge. We sat there in the tub, a standoff in lukewarm water. Then, I sneezed. Elias took a ragged breath. He braced himself against the wall, his hands trembling as he felt for the edge of the tub, carefully stepping around my legs to get out. He stood in the center of the bathroom, dripping, trying to reclaim some shred of dignity. “I don’t know who sent you,” he said, his voice shaking with fury, “but leave. Now.” The cold air hit him, and he realized he was completely exposed. He froze. “…Can you see me?” he asked quietly. I looked him up and down, my voice flat. “Don’t flatter yourself. I grew up with a brother. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Now, finish up. I’m staying right here to make sure you don’t sink again.” The monitor on his ankle began to chime a warning. The red light was strobing. Rage. Humiliation. Mortification. The words cycled rapidly on the wall display. I played dumb until he grabbed a towel, fumbling his way back to the bedroom. “I’m going to make sure they fire you,” he hissed as he left. I just rolled my eyes. I’d already hidden the landline and cut the Wi-Fi. Jason was an amateur; he’d forgotten to sever the “pet’s” connection to the world. Luckily, I was there to fix his mistakes. 7 Deprived of a phone and full of carbs, Elias finally slumped onto the bed. He glared into the darkness, hurling insults at me. I started singing him a lullaby Jason had taught me for the “dog.” “Go to sleep, little puppy, close your eyes…” The sheer absurdity of the song seemed to break him. He pulled the covers over his head and went silent. Jason had mentioned the “puppy” had some breathing issues at night, so I didn’t dare leave him alone. I dragged a chair to the corner of the room and watched him until his breathing evened out. The next morning, before work, I threw open the curtains. Sunlight flooded over his brooding form. He was staring at the ceiling, his eyes rimmed with red. “Morning, sunshine,” I said. “Get some Vitamin D.” Elias stiffened, clutching the duvet. “You… you slept in here? Are you a psychopath?” He reached for something on the nightstand to throw at me, but I’d already padded every sharp corner with foam and cleared away anything dangerous. He was fragile. He was blind. He needed protection. His hand landed on a plush toy I’d bought—a squeaky purple eggplant. He squeezed it, and it let out a pathetic wheeze. His face went cold. “What is this?” “A toy,” I said encouragingly. “Do you like it? I’m here to give you the love the others didn’t.” He ripped the toy in half. He stood up, looming over me. “Get out of my house. Right. Now.” “It’s our house now,” I said with a sigh, reaching up to pat his cheek. “We’re both just lost souls here.” My work alarm went off. I ducked under his arm and headed for the door. “I’ve set up a camera. Behave yourself. No ‘accidents’ on the rug, or I’ll have to put you in timeout when I get home.” The monitor on his ankle flashed a violent, blinding red. 8 During my lunch break, I checked the feed. I’d bought a cheap, $9.99 robotic camera ball that rolled around the floor. On the screen, Elias was sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked defeated. He’d punched his pillow a few times, but now he was just staring. I toggled the remote and bumped the camera into his foot. “Lunchtime,” I said through the speaker. “I left it in the microwave. Go heat it up.” “Go away,” he muttered. “Eat, or I’ll come home and make a scene. Be a good boy. Please?” I rolled the camera over his toes. He looked like he wanted to scream. Finally, he stood up, feeling his way along the wall toward the kitchen. He managed to eat his first full meal without a fight. I hit the “Applause” button on the app. A burst of canned cheering filled the apartment. “You fed yourself! Look at you! Such a big boy!” Elias’s voice was like ice. “Shut. Up.” After lunch, he felt his way to the bathroom. Jason had told me the “dog” was still working on “potty training” and needed encouragement. I rolled the camera right into the doorway. “Aim true, honey. Hold on tight. If you mess up the floor, I’m kicking you.” Elias: “…” 9 There were two weeks left until Jason was supposed to return. Because of the steady diet, the hollows in Elias’s cheeks were filling out. His health index was climbing. Aside from the moments I “supervised” his private time, his mood was surprisingly stable. I couldn’t help but brag to Jason. “The guest is doing much better. He’s up to 155 pounds now.” “What?” Jason yelled. “You’re turning my dog into a pig! He’s supposed to be lean! If I come home to a fat dog, you’re in trouble!” Weight management. Right. I found the muzzle I’d bought at the pet store. I went into the bedroom and strapped it onto Elias’s face. He looked up, stunned. “It’s 2 AM,” I whispered. “Owner’s orders. It’s time for a walk.” “Who gave you orders?” I didn’t say Jason’s name. I just tugged on his arm. “Don’t make me get the belt.” I couldn’t take him to the park—someone might recognize him. So, I made him walk the stairs of the apartment building. Eighteen flights, up and down. By the second round, we were both gasping for air. When we got back, Elias went straight to the shower without a word. He seemed genuinely angry. But since he’d learned the layout of the bathroom, I wasn’t worried about him drowning anymore. I fell asleep on the sofa, exhausted. In my half-sleep, I felt something warm and wet on my hand. My fingers felt itchy. I opened one eye. Elias was kneeling beside the sofa. His hair was damp, and his vacant eyes were fixed on my lap. He reached out, tentatively finding my hand. He pressed it to his lips, then, dissatisfied, gave my knuckles a sharp, tiny nip. I stayed still, pretending to sleep. He whispered to himself, “Why are you mad? Why… didn’t you watch me wash?” 10 Hearing him say something so bizarre made my skin crawl with second-hand embarrassment. I rolled over, pretending to wake up. Elias froze, then silently felt his way back to the bedroom. I immediately texted Jason, panicking. The “pet” was getting weird. He was crossing boundaries! Your dog bit me. What do I do? Get a tetanus shot! Don’t die in my apartment! Jason replied. Was human saliva even that dangerous? I was close to tears. Jason, please, just let him go. This is wrong. Think about your future, your degree… Jason was so angry he called me on FaceTime. “What do you mean ‘let him go’? It’s a dog, Sophie! A toy poodle can’t survive on the streets of Seattle!” He looked at the background behind me and paused. “Wait. Where are you? That’t not my place.” I thought he was joking. I panned the camera around the room. “Jason, you’ve been gone three weeks. You don’t recognize your own living room?” Jason let out a shaky breath. “Oh, no. Sophie… I moved last month. Didn’t I tell you?” A cold realization washed over me. “Jason… if this isn’t your house… whose house is this?” “Sophie,” he whispered, “I think you’ve been breaking and entering.” 11 After a frantic half-hour of “debriefing” with my brother, he was the one crying. “Sophie, you just started a job at a Fortune 200 company! That’s the Hawthorne Group! Your life, your career… it’s all over!” “How was I supposed to know?” I wailed. “You told me the dog was black and tied up! He was wearing a shirt!” “Why would a dog wear a shirt?!” We made a plan. Jason, who was apparently a better hacker than he was a brother, would scrub the local security footage. I just had to stay calm, stop treating Elias like a pet, apologize, and disappear. “He’s just a vulnerable, blind man,” Jason sighed. “You’ll never see him again. It’s not like his sight is going to miraculously return. I heard the Hawthorne heir went blind in an accident and disappeared from the hospital because he couldn’t handle the pity. If the guy you’ve been torturing is just some random shut-in, he’s probably too traumatized to even report you. You’re a literal home-invasion lunatic.” 12 I decided to make amends. That night, I didn’t sleep in his room. I stayed in the guest room, but at 3 AM, I heard him coughing. I ran in instinctively and rubbed his back. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his silk pajamas rumpled, exposing a shoulder. I handed him some warm water. He couldn’t see it, so he reached for my hand, his fingers interlacing with mine. He gripped me like a drowning man, so hard it hurt. He drank slowly, droplets of water falling onto his chest. He looked so cold, so I draped a cardigan over him. “I called for you,” he rasped. “Many times. You weren’t there.” “I was in the other room.” “Why? You’re supposed to be right here. Is this how you ‘care’ for me?” He still thought I was the housekeeper. I couldn’t tell him the truth—that I was a criminal. I had to be a “reformed” criminal before I left. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hawthorne,” I said politely. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” He turned his head sharply toward my voice. “What did you just call me?” “Mr. Hawthorne?” “Before… you called me ‘sweetheart.’ You called me ‘good boy.’” I bowed my head in a silent apology. “I was being unprofessional. I’m sorry.” Elias let out a sharp, cold laugh. He pushed the water away and climbed back into bed, pulling the covers over his head. The monitor on his ankle was strobing red. Anger. Extreme Agitation. It made sense. A sane man who had been treated like a poodle for two weeks was finally getting the apology he deserved. He was rightfully pissed. “I’ll be going now, sir,” I said. “Please don’t… report me.” Silence from the bed. The monitor light cycled from red to blue to red like a traffic light. I went back to my room and fell into a deep sleep. Around 4 AM, the room felt hot. I hung my hand over the edge of the bed, and suddenly, I felt something wet and warm lick my palm. I mumbles, thinking of Jason’s dog. “Not now, Shadow. It tickles.” I heard a low, soft, “Woof.” Wait. There wasn’t a dog here. I snapped my eyes open. The room was pitch black. I saw a flash of pink light from a monitor disappearing through the doorway. I must be dreaming, I told myself, and fell back asleep. 13 The next morning, I was rushing to make breakfast. My phone, sitting on the coffee table, started ringing. Elias was sitting there, his hands fumbling over the device. To my horror, he managed to answer it. “Hello? Is this Sophie Turner?” a loud voice asked. “I’m the realtor. Do you want to see that studio apartment today? Your boyfriend mentioned you wanted something close to the Hawthorne Building.” “You have the wrong number,” Elias said, his voice cold. “She already has a home.” He hung up. He turned toward me, his vacant eyes narrowed. Before he could speak, the realtor called back. “Look, my time is valuable! Is this Sophie? Your boyfriend’s number is dead, so I called this one…” Elias interrupted. “What is her last name?” I lunged for the phone and cut the call. “Wrong number! My name is… Mary. Mary Smith.” My heart was beating so hard I thought it would explode. Jason, that idiot, had used my real name with the realtor. To distract Elias, I clicked my tongue and tapped the table. “Breakfast time!” I’d made two different meals. Elias was usually a picky eater—oatmeal and nothing else. I’d been forcing him to eat eggs and bacon. Elias usually resisted, sometimes to the point of tears and soaked shirts, which I’d then make him “clean up.” But today, he sat down quietly. He put on his napkin. He felt for the bowl. He took a sip and his face fell. “Oatmeal?” He felt around the table. There was only one bowl. “Mr. Hawthorne,” I said professionally. “I realized your previous palate was much more refined. I’ve returned to your original menu. You seem much happier.” I had to get to work. “I’ll be back later to clean up. Please don’t touch the dishes, I don’t want you to get your hands dirty.” He looked confused, but then a look of realization dawned on his face. 14 At lunch, I couldn’t help myself. I opened the camera app. Elias was sitting at the table like a statue. When he heard the camera move, he tilted his head. “You’re late. I finished my lunch.” The dishes on the table were my leftovers from breakfast. The milk was gone. The plate from my sandwich was licked clean. Not a crumb remained. “Elias! That was trash! Your lunch was in the fridge!” “You told me to ‘handle the leftovers,’” he said simply. Did I? I couldn’t remember. “I need to use the restroom,” he added. Jason had complained the “dog” was messy, so I’d made him report every time he went. I rolled the camera into the bathroom, then turned it away to give him privacy. “You’re really not going to… supervise me anymore?” he asked quietly. “You’re just… leaving me alone?” The cheap speaker was fuzzy. I thought he said, “You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” “I’m done controlling you!” I shouted at the phone. “You’re free!” Something crashed in the bathroom.

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After twenty years of being the dirty little secret, the billionaire finally decided he wanted to be a father. He stood there, clutching a black card linked to a billion-dollar trust, tears streaming down his face as he lamented the “lost years.” He’d even brought the press, spinning a narrative that the last two decades were merely a “test of character” and that I was destined to be the sole heir to the Bennett empire. My mother, draped in brand-new designer silk, sobbed as she shoved me toward the cameras, desperate to get her own face into the frame. In my previous life, I was blinded. I was a girl starved for affection, and I ran into his arms, thinking I had finally found a home. I didn’t realize until I was strapped to a cold surgical table that I wasn’t a daughter. I was a “bio-tank”—a walking pharmacy of matching blood and organs, kept on ice to ensure my father’s immortality. This time, as I opened my eyes to the flashes of the cameras, I knew one thing: blood is thicker than water, but it’s a hell of a lot harder to clean off the floor. 1 “Jade, honey, get home right now! Your father is finally coming for you!” My mother’s voice, shrill with a manic sort of joy, jolted me awake. The physical sensation of the phone pressed against my ear felt impossibly real. I had been reborn into this exact moment. In my last life, I had dropped everything and sprinted home. I had spent twenty years yearning for the man who shared my DNA. Arthur Bennett was a titan of industry, a man with more wealth than some small nations. My mother, Cynthia, was just one of his many “distractions”—a fact I’d known since I was old enough to speak. Arthur was notorious. He had dozens of illegitimate children scattered across the coast, but he only ever acknowledged the two sons born to his late socialite wife. For him to publicly claim me was supposed to be the ultimate coronation. But the memory of the needles made my skin crawl. My first instinct was a cold, hard rejection. “Mom, I’ve been a ‘secret’ for twenty years. I’m used to it. I don’t want to meet him.” “Are you insane?” she hissed, her voice dropping to a sharp whisper. “You’re a data entry clerk making peanuts, Jade! You could be a princess. He has fifty other kids—if you don’t take this spot, someone else will!” She was right about the competition, but she didn’t mention the cost. I looked at my modest cubicle, my lukewarm coffee, and my boring, safe life. It was heaven compared to what came next. I wondered then—did she know? Did she know I was being sold as a literal life-support system? “Then you go be a ‘princess,’ Mom. You’ve wanted to be Mrs. Bennett since the nineties anyway.” I hung up and went back to my spreadsheet. I knew they wouldn’t stop, but I didn’t expect the circus to arrive within the hour. Thirty minutes later, the office was buzzing. My coworkers were crowding around my desk, eyes wide. “Jade, are you freaking kidding me? You’re the Jade Bennett?” “What are you talking about?” I asked, though my stomach was already turning. “Go look outside! There’s a fleet of black SUVs and a Rolls Royce blocking the street!” I walked out the front doors of the office building and walked straight into a trap. There stood Arthur Bennett and Cynthia, framed by a dozen suited security guards. “Jade,” Arthur said, his voice rich and fatherly. He looked at me with a practiced expression of regret. “I’ve spent far too long away from you. Come home, sweetheart.” The crowd gasped. Arthur looked incredible for a man in his mid-fifties—he had the tanned, taut skin of a man thirty years younger, thick dark hair, and the physique of an athlete. I looked at his radiant health and felt sick. I knew exactly whose vitality he had stolen to look that way. “Jade, say something! It’s your father!” my mother urged, dabbing at her dry eyes. “I don’t have a father,” I said, my voice steady. “I have a biological donor I’ve never met. Please leave.” I wasn’t the naive girl I used to be. 2 “The car is ready, Miss Bennett!” the guards shouted in unison, pulling open the heavy door of the Rolls. I turned my back on them and headed back toward the building. “You are not walking away from this!” My mother grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging into my skin as she tried to haul me toward the car. “Jade, use your brain! Look at him! He’s a billionaire!” The coworkers I’d known for years were watching, some filming on their phones. Some were laughing, assuming I was just a rebellious daughter playing hard to get. “I loved your mother for years,” Arthur said, loud enough for the reporters to hear. He let two perfect tears roll down his cheeks. “Circumstance kept us apart. Please, Jade. Let me make it up to you.” The cameras clicked frantically. It was the perfect American melodrama. Arthur signaled to an assistant, who stepped forward holding an oversized prop check. It was a grotesque display—a symbolic gesture of a hundred-million-dollar trust fund. “This is yours, Jade. Whether you call me father or not. It’s for the years I missed.” The crowd erupted. “It’s like a movie!” someone yelled. My mother slapped the back of my head. “Take it! Don’t be a fool!” I looked at Arthur’s “loving” face and felt a chill. The mask was so perfect. “Mom, if you want the life, take the check and go,” I said. “Besides, I remember you mentioned once that you hadn’t broken up with your ex when you got pregnant. Are we even sure he’s the one?” My mother’s face turned a violent shade of red. She twisted my arm harder. “You shut your mouth! How dare you!” I was lying, mostly. But I needed to sow doubt. I needed him to think I was a liability, a scandal waiting to happen, so he would go find some other “blood bag” among his many bastards. “Jade, don’t be cruel to your mother. She’s a saint,” Arthur said, his voice smooth as silk. The crowd hummed with sympathy. They were already writing the headlines: The Long-Lost Heir and the Star-Crossed Lovers. “We’ve already run the DNA, Jade,” Arthur said, pulling a folded lab report from his jacket and showing it to the live-stream camera. “You’re mine. And I’m not letting you waste your life in a cubicle. It’s for your own good.” My mother’s grip became iron. I couldn’t break free. Just as the guards moved in to “assist” me, my boyfriend, Noah, appeared. He came charging through the crowd, his work boots heavy on the pavement. “Get your hands off her!” he roared, prying my mother’s fingers away from my arm. He stepped in front of me, his broad shoulders forming a shield. “She said no. Can’t you people hear?” “Get lost, you grease monkey!” my mother screamed. “You were fine for her when she was a nobody, but you’re a nobody now!” I grabbed Noah’s hand, trying to pull him toward the safety of the office. “Ten thousand dollars to whoever helps get my daughter into that car!” my mother yelled to the crowd. Greed is a powerful motivator. My coworkers—people I’d shared lunch with—suddenly blocked my path. They swarmed us, pulling Noah away and shoving me toward the open door of the Rolls Royce. I was hoisted up and thrown onto the leather seat. “See you tomorrow for the reward!” my mother shouted to the office staff as the door slammed shut and the car sped away. 3 In my last life, I thought I had gone from Cinderella to a Princess. I didn’t realize I was actually being moved into a high-tech slaughterhouse. I remembered waking up in that “bedroom” for the first time—a room filled with more medical monitors than furniture. “Dad? Why is there a dialysis machine in here?” I had asked, so innocently. Who expects their father to be a predator? He had looked at me with pure contempt. “Did you really think a gutter-rat like you could just walk into the Bennett family? You have my blood, yes. But you have your mother’s soul. You aren’t a daughter, Jade. You’re an insurance policy.” He didn’t need to explain further. The doctors moved in. Strapped to that bed, I learned the truth. Arthur was obsessed with “The Singularity.” He believed that the blood of his own offspring, harvested under specific conditions, was the key to reversing his cellular aging. I became his private tap. Every two weeks, they took 500cc. He grew younger, his skin glowing with my stolen life, while I became a ghost—pale, brittle, and exhausted. When I begged for mercy, he just laughed. “I have dozens of kids, Jade. But your markers are the only ones that don’t trigger my immune system. You should feel honored. You’re making history.” I spent twenty years as a human battery. When my blood finally slowed and my marrow gave up, he didn’t even bury me. He had the doctors harvest my organs to give to his “real” sons, who were just as obsessed with longevity as he was. The memory of the cold steel scalpel made my entire body vibrate with terror. I wouldn’t let it happen again. 4 The car pulled up to a sprawling estate in the Hamptons. It was a fortress of glass and limestone. “Arthur, is this for us?” my mother cooed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Arthur gave her a look of mild amusement. “It’s a start. A little something to make up for the lost years.” My mother practically swooned into his arms. I watched her, wondering if she knew the price. The house was beautiful, but the security was terrifying. There were guards every ten feet. Not even a fly could leave without a clearance code. Arthur left us there, retreating to his “private wing.” “Mom,” I said, my voice dead serious. “Do you really want me here? Do you know what he is?” “I know he’s a billionaire, Jade! I’ve spent twenty years dragging you through cheap apartments and dating losers. It’s my turn to be taken care of.” My mother was beautiful, in a sharp, desperate way. She had caught Arthur’s eye decades ago, but the moment I was born a girl, he had vanished. He had cut her off, even getting me kicked out of a private preschool when I was three because he didn’t want to pay the tuition. I still remember that day. The headmistress had literally picked me up mid-nap and put me on the sidewalk in the snow. I didn’t even have shoes on. I had cried for my teddy bear, but the gates stayed locked. My mother had tried to use me as leverage for years, and when it failed, she had vented her frustration on me. She’d had a string of “boyfriends”—middle-management types who treated her like a toy and me like a nuisance. “Mom, I’m scared. I want to leave. Help me,” I pleaded, watching her face for a glimmer of real maternal love. “What do you want to do?” she asked, her eyes narrowing. “I have a plan. The guards change shifts every six hours. There’s a blind spot near the service gate. If you distract them, I can get out.” She paused, then nodded. “Okay. If you’re that miserable, I’ll help you.” I felt a spark of hope. Maybe I was wrong about her. At midnight, the plan went into motion. My mother stormed out the front door, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Arthur, you coward! Come out here! You think you can lock me in this gilded cage without a dime to my name?” She started smashing expensive vases against the limestone pillars. The guards rushed toward her, trying to restrain the screaming woman. I slipped out through the side garden, staying low, moving toward the gate. I climbed the fence, my heart hammering against my ribs. I dropped down onto the grass on the other side, ready to run into the woods. Suddenly, floodlights blinded me. “Honey, your ‘blood bag’ almost got away! What’s my bonus for this one?” It was my mother’s voice. She was standing next to Arthur, a smug, cruel smile on her face. She knew. She had always known. “Get her,” Arthur commanded. “Take her to the lab. We’re starting the cycle tonight.” “Mom! Why?” I screamed as the guards pinned me to the dirt. “I’m your daughter!” “You’ve been a burden for twenty years, Jade. It’s time you paid me back,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “Arthur says as long as I keep you ‘compliant,’ he’ll keep me young too. Why should your organs go to waste inside you when they could do some real good for your father?” She sounded so casual, as if she were talking about donating old clothes to Goodwill. I felt a surge of pure, acidic grief, and then I vomited blood onto the grass. 5 The “escape” had failed, but that was fine. I knew a frontal escape was impossible in a fortress like this. The whole thing had been a test—a final confirmation of my mother’s soul. Now, I had no debts. No guilt. The next morning, I was moved to the medical wing. It was exactly as I remembered it. Sterile, cold, and smelling of ozone and death. “Jade, if you cooperate, this will be painless,” Arthur said, standing over my bed. “But make no mistake—you aren’t leaving.” “Arthur, darling, you should take an extra dose today,” my mother chirped, leaning against the doorframe. “After that little stunt she pulled, she deserves to feel a bit lightheaded.” She turned to him, her eyes sparkling with greed. “And since I’m her mother, our blood is similar, right? You should give me a little bit of whatever you’re having. I want to look twenty again.” Arthur smiled at her—a shark’s smile. “Of course, Cynthia. I’ll make sure you get exactly what’s coming to you.” “Father,” I said. It was the first time I’d used the word. He didn’t look happy; he looked bored. “If I’m going to be your ‘life source,’ I have conditions,” I said, staring him down. “If you want my blood to stay ‘pure,’ you need to keep me happy. Stress affects the cortisol levels, you know. It ruins the ‘product.’” He paused, intrigued. “Go on.” “I want the run of this floor. No locks on the inside. I want the finest food, the best clothes. If I’m going to die slowly, I want to live like a Bennett while I do it.” “You want freedom?” he sneered. “Within these walls. I’m not stupid. Just let me have the life you promised the press. And one more thing.” “What?” “I want you to kill her,” I said, nodding toward my mother. “Right here. In front of me.” The room went silent. “Jade! You bitch!” my mother screamed, lunging forward. A guard caught her by the hair. “She sold me out,” I said calmly. “I can’t produce ‘happy’ blood while I’m looking at the woman who traded my life for a Botox treatment. Kill her, and I’ll be your perfect little battery.” Cynthia turned to Arthur, her face pale. “Arthur, tell her she’s crazy! We’re a team!” Arthur looked at me, then at the aging woman screaming in his ear. He saw a daughter who was as cold-blooded as himself. He liked it. “Well,” Arthur whispered. “You always were a bit of a loudmouth, Cynthia.”

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I was the breakout star of The Connection, the girl the tabloids called “America’s Sweetheart.” To the viewers, I was the delicate, soft-spoken girl-next-door who looked like she’d bruise if you touched her too hard. The “Truth or Dare” bonfire night had just begun when Mason Hayes reached for the microphone. “Lily Sinclair,” he said, his voice cutting through the crackle of the flames. “Do you really think everyone here is as blind as the audience?” The clearing went dead silent. All eight camera operators pivoted toward me in perfect synchronization. The host’s practiced smile froze on her face. Mason gripped the mic, his tone dripping with a calculated, gentle pity. “You act so pure in front of the cameras, but behind the scenes? You’ve been playing four of us at the same time.” The live chat on the monitors must have been hemorrhaging. I could almost feel the vitriol through the screen. “I knew she was too good to be true.” “Mason got burned last season, and now he’s being played again?” “Look at that innocent face. She’s a total shark.” The director’s voice crackled in the host’s earpiece, urging her to get me to explain. My throat felt tight. I opened my mouth to say I hadn’t done anything—to defend myself—when the return monitor tucked behind a camera flickered. A tiny line of white text scrolled across the bottom, invisible to the others. [Don’t defend yourself. His chat logs are forged.] [A girl last season was forced out exactly like this. The more you explain, the more guilty you look.] My breath hitched. I gripped my microphone, my knuckles white, and let a single tear spill over. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. The entire set gasped. I kept my head down, my voice trembling with just the right amount of fragility. “I… I honestly didn’t know how to handle all these relationships.” 1 The live stream exploded. “She admitted it!” “A total fraud.” “Kick her off the show. This is disgusting.” Mason blinked, caught off guard for a split second, before a smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He leaned in for the kill. “You play the victim so well, Lily. Every time a guy gets close, your eyes go red. But in private? You’ve been stringing me along, along with Owen, Jude, and Hudson. You gave everyone hope. You never said no to anyone.” On the sofas around us, the mood shifted. Owen frowned at me, his brow furrowed in hurt. Jude’s face darkened, his jaw tight. Hudson instinctively leaned back, creating distance between us. Mason was watching me, a flicker of triumph dancing in his eyes. I looked up at him, my voice soft, almost pleading. “Mason… could you teach me then?” He narrowed his eyes. “Teach me what?” With tears still shimmering on my lashes, I looked like a drowning girl reaching for a lifeline. “Teach me how to invite Ivy to the garden on the third night, then slip Tess an anonymous card at dawn on the fourth, all while making the entire world believe you only have eyes for me?” Ivy’s head snapped up. Tess’s face went pale. Mason’s expression turned icy. “Lily, don’t try to change the subject,” he snapped. I shook my head, my eyes wide and guileless. “I’m not. I just… I truly felt like you were much better at managing these things than I am.” The comment was a needle, popping the balloon of his moral superiority. Mason let out a sharp, cold laugh and pulled a second phone from his pocket. “Fine. Since you want to play it this way, I don’t have to protect you anymore.” He held the screen up to the main camera. “Take a look, everyone. Look at what ‘America’s Sweetheart’ really sends behind your backs.” 2 The director cut to a close-up of the phone screen. It was a screenshot of The Heartbox—the show’s official internal messaging system. My profile picture was clear. The timestamp read: Day 5, 10:17 PM. The messages scrolled by for the world to see: “You’re different from the others to me.” “Don’t tell Owen.” “I can’t make it too obvious on camera.” “Let’s meet privately after the show wraps, okay?” A collective intake of breath hissed through the studio. The chat was now a war zone. “How can she wash this away?” “Owen is just a backup. Poor guy.” “She almost had me with those tears. She’s a pro.” “Get her off! She’s polluting the show!” The host looked sick. The production crew was in a frenzy. Through the chaos, I sat on the sofa, head bowed, my fingertips ice cold. The forge was high quality. It looked identical to the app interface. Mason’s voice was heavy with feigned heartbreak. “Lily, I didn’t want to destroy you. But you can’t treat people’s hearts like poker chips.” I looked up, my eyes rimmed with red. “What day was that?” He hesitated. “Day five. 10:17 PM.” “And it was through The Heartbox?” “Of course.” He smirked. “It’s the official system. Did you think there wouldn’t be a record?” I gripped the mic tighter. “Is that the original photo? No cropping? No editing? No changes to the words?” My voice was tiny, terrified. Mason looked directly into the lens, his tone ironclad. “I swear on my reputation. The screenshot is real. Not a single word has been changed.” The return screen flickered again. [Keep going.] I lowered my eyes. “Is there more?” Mason scoffed. “You want more?” “If there is… can you just show it all at once?” My voice shook. “I don’t want to be dragged through the mud one piece at a time.” The comments sneered at me. “Now she’s scared.” “Classic gaslighter behavior.” “Even her breakdown is an act.” Empowered by the invisible digital mob, Mason pulled up three more screenshots. The second was to Owen: “I only feel safe when I’m with you.” The third to Jude: “Don’t choose anyone else tomorrow. It would break my heart.” The fourth to Hudson: “Vote for me tonight. I want our date to be private.” Every single one had my face on it. Every single one was timestamped within the last three days. Owen closed his eyes, leaning his head in his hands. Jude let out a sharp, mocking huff. Hudson looked at me, his voice low and disappointed. “Lily, if these are real, you owe us an explanation.” I didn’t explain. I just looked at Mason. “You’re sure I sent these?” “Yes.” “Between day five and day seven?” “Exactly.” “On The Heartbox?” “Yes.” “And these are the original files on your phone?” Mason’s patience snapped. “Lily, are you just trying to stall?” I bit my lip, another tear falling. “I’m just… I’m afraid I remembered it wrong.” He laughed, a cold, jagged sound. “You didn’t remember it wrong. You just can’t keep the lie going anymore.” The director finally signaled the host to cut to a commercial break. But before the music swelled, Mason added one final blow. “If she stays on this show, it’s an insult to everyone else here.” 3 The backstage conference room was stifling. The executive producer, the showrunner, the host, and the core cast sat around a long mahogany table. Mason sat across from me, his blazer draped over the back of his chair, his face having returned to that mask of calm, gentle concern—as if he hadn’t just tried to execute me on live television. The producer turned a tablet toward me. The top three trending topics on X were all my name. #LilySinclairExposed #MasonHayesBetrayedAgain #TheInnocentActCrumbles The showrunner sighed. “Lily, the internet is on fire. It’s not that we don’t want to hear your side, but the optics are a disaster.” “So?” I asked. He avoided my gaze. “We think it’s best if you ‘suspend’ your filming. We’ll call it a personal break while we ‘investigate.’” Suspend filming. A polite way of saying “disappear.” Once I left that house, they could edit the remaining footage however they wanted. The audience would take my departure as a confession. Just like what happened to Riley Brooks last season. Mason spoke up, his voice smooth as silk. “Lily, I really don’t want to push you into a corner.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is a draft for a public statement.” I looked down. I, Lily Sinclair, acknowledge that my behavior during filming was inappropriate and caused distress to my fellow cast members. I am voluntarily withdrawing from the show and accept full responsibility for my actions. I almost laughed. They wanted me to sign my own death warrant for a crime I didn’t commit. My fingers brushed the edge of the paper, trembling. Everyone was watching, waiting for me to make the problem go away. The return monitor in the corner of the room—a feed from the observation deck—flashed a line of text. [Don’t sign. Make him confirm the source and the threat.] I shifted my gaze back to Mason. “If I sign this… you really won’t release any more screenshots?” A flash of victory sparked in his eyes. “If you leave, I’ll delete everything.” “You’ll tell your fans to stop attacking me?” “I’ll do my best to calm them down.” “You won’t bring me up again?” Mason smiled kindly. “I’ll give you your dignity, Lily.” I looked him in the eye. “You said I was playing multiple people. Specifically, who?” He leaned back. “Owen, Jude, and Hudson.” “And you have the complete logs for all of them?” “I do.” “And I initiated all of them?” “Of course.” “All on The Heartbox?” “Yes.” “No fakes? No edits?” Mason’s “gentle” mask cracked slightly. “Lily, stop playing the victim.” I lowered my head, looking cowed. The room fell into a heavy silence. The producer spoke up, weary. “Lily, just sign. We’ll try to make the final edit as kind to you as possible.” I looked at him. “And if I don’t?” The air in the room curdled. Mason’s voice dropped an octave, turning lethal. “Then I’ll release the entire archive. At that point, it won’t just be about the show. You’ll have to worry about whether you can ever show your face in public again. Think about your future.” I took a soft, shaky breath. “Mason. Are you absolutely certain that the screenshots you showed were from the official Heartbox system?” He sneered. “Positive.” “And the logs can be verified in the backend?” “Check them all you want.” I nodded and picked up the statement. Everyone relaxed. Mason’s shoulders dropped. Then, slowly and deliberately, I tore the paper in half. “Then let’s check.” 4 The production team didn’t want to do the verification live. The showrunner pulled me into a corner, his voice a low hiss of fury. “Lily, don’t make this any uglier than it already is.” I looked him dead in the eye. “I wasn’t the one who made it ugly.” “We can check internally—” “And then what?” I interrupted. “If the screenshots are fake, will you release the unedited footage? Will you admit you tried to force me to sign a confession? Will you tell the world Mason used forgeries to blackmail me?” He was silent. I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Exactly. You won’t. That’s why we’re doing this live. We’re doing it so everyone sees the truth in real-time.” Mason, of course, refused at first. But he had already said “check them all you want” on camera. To back out now would be an admission of guilt. At 1:00 AM, the show went back live for a “Heartbeat Verdict” special. Officially, it was to “address the controversy.” In reality, the five million viewers tuning in were there to watch my public execution. Mason had changed into a crisp white button-down. His hair was perfectly styled. He sat under the studio lights looking like the hero of a tragedy. The host followed the script. “Lily, do you admit to maintaining multiple romantic involvements during filming?” I gripped my mic. “I admit that I didn’t handle certain misunderstandings well.” Mason jumped in immediately. “It wasn’t a misunderstanding. It was a calculated deception.” The chat went wild. “Stop with the wordplay.” “Just sign the exit papers.” “Mason is being so patient with her, what a guy.” He pushed a fresh copy of the statement toward me. “Lily, just sign it. I don’t want you to be humiliated more than this.” The camera zoomed in on my hand. The pen was right there. In the control room, the director was counting down to the close-up of the signature. I picked up the pen. Mason’s lips twitched into a smirk. Then, I put the pen down. “I’m requesting an on-site forensic verification.” The studio went silent. I turned to the host. “Mason says these messages came from The Heartbox. I am requesting that the technical team pull the raw backend logs right now.” Mason’s face stiffened for a fraction of a second. “Furthermore,” I continued, “I have already contacted my legal counsel and the local authorities regarding digital forgery and character defamation.” The host nearly dropped her cue cards. The control room was in shambles. I looked directly into the main lens. “I am officially requesting that the network secure all raw footage from tonight, including the unedited segments before the break, the security footage from the conference room, and the raw audio from all cast microphones. No one is to delete, replace, or edit the source files.” The chat froze for a few seconds before erupting in a different direction. “Police?” “She sounds like she’s for real.” “Check the logs! If he’s right, he has nothing to fear!” Mason recovered quickly. “Check them,” he said, laughing humorlessly. “I’d love to see how long you can keep up this performance.” The head of IT was brought onto the set. Two technicians wheeled out a server-linked terminal and patched it into the giant LED wall. The network’s legal rep arrived, looking pale. I sat there, my tears dry now, my hands perfectly still. Mason was staring at me, a flicker of genuine unease finally surfacing in his eyes. I looked at the big screen. “Start with the first one. Day five, 10:17 PM. Check if my account ever sent Mason Hayes the message: ‘You’re different from the others to me.’” The sound of the ‘Enter’ key echoed through the silent studio. Every camera pivoted to the screen.

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1 My brother and I were born with matching port-wine stains. Mine is a jagged, dark violet mask that crawls across my right cheek, pulling at the corner of my eye. Growing up, the kids at school called me “The Phantom.” My brother, Austin, has his on his calf. In a world of jeans and cargo pants, no one ever knew it was there. My parents always looked at me with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. “We just don’t have the money for the lasers, Cade,” my dad would say, his eyes fixed on the TV to avoid looking at my face. “You’re a man. Looks don’t matter as much for you. If you want it gone, you’ll have to earn it.” So, I became obsessed with money. While Austin was out playing varsity soccer and blowing his allowance on sneakers, I was the kid collecting scrap metal, mowing lawns in the sweltering heat, and working double shifts at the local cannery. I lived on peanut butter sandwiches and tap water, saving every nickel. Austin didn’t care about his mark; he lived for the moment, always asking for advances on a “lifestyle” he couldn’t afford. The summer after high school graduation was my breaking point. I had spent two months on a grueling warehouse assembly line, working twelve-hour shifts until my bones ached. But I did it. I finally had the fifteen thousand dollars for the surgery. I walked into the house, buzzing with the kind of hope I hadn’t felt in eighteen years. In the living room, Austin was standing there in a pair of board shorts, grinning. He looked radiant. My father was staring at him, his eyes glistening with pride. “Look at our boy. You look incredible, Austin. No more hiding. You can go to college and finally be the man you were meant to be.” My mother smoothed Austin’s hair, her voice thick with emotion. “A fresh start for my baby. You’re going to be the king of that campus.” I froze. “How did Austin pay for the surgery?” The room went dead silent. Austin’s eyes darted to the floor. My stomach dropped. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s okay. I worked for it. I saved enough for mine, too.” My mother sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “Cade, honey… the day of Austin’s procedure, the surgeon said there were complications. We needed a specialist, and the insurance wouldn’t cover the extra costs. We had no choice. We had to use the money in your savings account to cover the balance.” I felt like the floor had vanished. “My money? That was ten years of work.” “Cade, you’re so strong,” my older sister, Becca, piped up, reaching into her bag. She pulled out a pair of expensive-looking designer sunglasses and handed them to me like a consolation prize. “Besides, you’re the smart one. Men don’t need to be pretty to succeed. Wear these when you start classes. They’ll cover the worst of it.” I touched the rough, dark skin on my cheek. At that moment, I was suddenly, violently grateful that the university I had chosen—the one that gave me a full ride—was three thousand miles away. My mother kept staring at Austin, her eyes welling up again. “Austin, I’m so sorry we made you wait this long. I know how much you suffered, carrying that mark on your leg. I know how it hurt your confidence. Now, you can finally be yourself.” My father nodded solemnly. Austin wrapped them both in a hug. I wanted to scream. What about me, Mom? You want your son to walk into college with confidence, but am I not your son? I’m the one who was called a monster. I’m the one who was isolated, bullied, and told by every girl I ever liked that I was a “creep” before I even opened my mouth. Did you think I wasn’t hurting? The words died in my throat. It was useless. Austin had always been the priority. When I was twelve and Dad lost his job, they cut my advanced math tutoring but kept Austin’s expensive club soccer. When we graduated, they bought Austin a brand-new iPhone as a reward. They gave me Dad’s old, cracked model. Austin was the “Golden Boy”—sunny, charming, and easy to love because his life was easy. I was the “Responsible One,” which was just code for the one they could ignore. I was the one who cleaned the house while they went to Austin’s games. My reward for being “good” was always just a pat on the head and a request for more help. My father pulled out his phone, fumbling with the camera. “Let’s get a picture of the new Austin. I want this on the photo wall. Something to look at when you’re away at school.” “Dad, get my good side!” Austin joked, striking a pose. They all laughed, a warm, tight-knit unit. Becca noticed me standing in the shadows. She looked a bit guilty. “Come on, Cade. Get in the photo.” She knew I hated cameras. She knew there wasn’t a single photo of me on that wall because I couldn’t stand to see the “Phantom” staring back. I shook my head. The warmth in the room curdled instantly. “Seriously, Cade? The attitude?” Dad’s face hardened. “Your sister just bought you a three-hundred-dollar pair of glasses and you haven’t even said thank you. Now you’re going to ruin Austin’s celebration?” “He’s just upset about the money,” Austin muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Is that it?” Dad barked. “You think that money was yours? We’ve fed you and housed you for eighteen years. Everything in this house belongs to the family. You’re brothers. Who cares who gets the surgery first? It’s not like we said we’d never help you.” My mother began to sob into her hands. “It’s our fault! We’re just poor, failed parents! Is that what you want to hear, Cade? Do you want us to get on our knees and beg for your forgiveness because we tried to help your brother?” “Cade, just apologize,” Becca hissed, giving me a pointed look. The weight of their collective disappointment felt like lead in my lungs. I looked at their faces—the people who were supposed to love me most—and realized I was an intruder in their home. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. “I’m sorry, Mom. Dad.” I stepped into the frame, forcing a rigid, grotesque smile for the camera. They barely looked at the photo before they started huddling around the screen, debating which one to post. Austin complained that his hair looked messy in the one with me in it. The photo with me was deleted seconds later. That night, Austin decided we needed to celebrate at The Diamond Grill, the most expensive steakhouse in town. My parents hesitated—it was way out of their budget—but Austin just looked at me with a smirk. “Cade, I saw Grandma give you a graduation card yesterday. I saw the cash.” He grinned, pulling a red envelope out of his pocket—my envelope. “I figured you’d want to treat the family. Since I’m the one who had the big surgery and all.” “Give that back,” I said, my heart racing. “Oh, don’t be such a miser,” Dad laughed, clapping Austin on the back. “He’s got you there, Cade. You’ve always been the stingy one. Let’s go. Steak is on the ‘Phantom’ tonight!” They went to change, laughing and chatting, leaving me alone in the living room. They didn’t care that those few hundred dollars were my only bridge to college. I stood there, frozen, until they had been gone for ten minutes. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Mom: Cade, you’re always the slowest. We’re almost there. Get a move on. They hadn’t even realized I wasn’t in the car. It started to pour. I didn’t have a car, so I ran to the bus stop, soaked to the bone, and arrived at the restaurant shivering. “There he is. Took your sweet time,” Mom remarked as I sat down. The table was already covered in half-eaten appetizers. They hadn’t waited for me to order. Austin had ordered everything he liked—calamari, shrimp cocktail, loaded fries. “Here, have some of this salad,” Becca said, pushing a plate toward me. “Austin forgot he was allergic to the walnuts and ordered it anyway. Good thing we caught it. Go ahead, Cade.” I looked at the wilted greens and the stray pieces of walnut. My family had forgotten that Austin and I were twins. We shared the same DNA. We shared the same allergies. I pushed the plate away. “Jesus, Cade,” Dad snapped. “Stop being so dramatic. You act like you’re too good for a five-star restaurant. If you’re going to pout, don’t eat.” Austin chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I forgot. Cade likes the cheap stuff. Remember in high school? I’d ask him if he wanted to go for burgers, and he’d just sit in the cafeteria eating plain white bread and an apple to save a buck.” The table erupted in laughter. “Our Cade,” Mom wiped a tear from her eye. “No taste for the finer things. Just a simple boy.” “At least Austin has some class,” Dad added, looking at me with a sigh. “You should learn from your brother. He’s generous. He’s got spirit. You’re just… small, Cade. You’ve always been small-minded.” My chest ached so sharply I thought I might collapse. I was ‘stingy’ because you told me I had to pay for my own life, Dad. I was ‘small’ because I was trying to survive you. I looked down at my phone and sent a message to the freshman group chat for Saint Jude’s University: Does anyone know if the work-study program allows for early arrival on campus? On the way home, the rain turned into a deluge. We only had two umbrellas. Becca gave hers to Austin and huddled under the other with my parents. They hurried to the car. I was the last one out. Before I could even reach the door, Austin rolled down the window. “Hey, Cade! I really want one of those gourmet milkshakes from that place two blocks over. The car won’t fit in that alley. Go grab four and then just Uber home? We’ll see you there!” The car sped off before I could say a word. I walked through the freezing rain for twenty minutes. When I reached the shop, I bought the four shakes, and then, for the first time in my life, I bought a fifth one for myself. It was thick, sweet, and expensive. It tasted like rebellion. I didn’t get home until 10:00 PM. The house was warm and smelled like popcorn. “Cade, finally,” Becca said as I walked in, dripping wet. “Can you go make some ginger tea for Austin? He’s been sneezing and we don’t want him getting sick before the big trip.” “No,” I said quietly. “Excuse me?” “I’m tired,” I said, walking past her. “You’re just lazy,” my mother yelled from the couch. “You’re nothing like your brother. I don’t know how we’re going to count on you when we’re old.” I didn’t hear the rest. I closed my door and locked it. The next morning, the house was full of excitement. They were planning a pre-college vacation. “Let’s go to the ranch in Montana,” Dad suggested. “Austin always wanted to go horseback riding.” “What about the coast?” Mom countered, showing Austin photos on her phone. “You’ve never seen the Pacific, honey. The weather is perfect this time of year.” They went back and forth for twenty minutes before Mom glanced at me. She looked like she wanted to say something, but stopped. “Don’t bother,” Dad said. “He never wants to go anyway. He’s always been antisocial.” “Yeah, Cade,” Austin laughed. “Don’t blame us. We didn’t invite you because you’d just complain about the cost. Remember that camping trip in middle school? You refused to go.” I remembered. I remembered that Dad told me I had to pay for my own campsite and gear out of my savings. “Money shouldn’t come between family,” he had told me back then, “but Austin’s a kid, he doesn’t have a cent. We’ll pay for him. You’ve got your little stash.” I hadn’t wanted to spend three hundred dollars of my surgery fund, so I stayed home. I spent that weekend looking at their Facebook photos, crying in my room. After that, they stopped asking. I checked my phone. A message from the university: Yes, Cade. We have early-move-in slots for work-study students starting next week. I felt a surge of relief. I took my last bit of hidden cash and booked a one-way Greyhound ticket to the city. I planned to leave while they were on their trip. But then, the day before they were supposed to leave, Mom came into my room. Her face was soft, almost maternal. “Cade,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “We’ve been thinking. We want to take you to the clinic tomorrow. We talked to Austin’s surgeon. He thinks he can do a preliminary laser treatment on your face. It won’t fix it, but it might fade it a little before you head off to school.” My eyes stung. A lump formed in my throat, thick and painful. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, in their own messed-up way, they did care. “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered. The next day was a dream. They took me out for a massive breakfast. Mom kept touching my shoulder, asking if I was nervous. Becca took the day off work to be there. Austin was nowhere to be seen. For a few hours, I felt like a son. But when we got back from the clinic, the mask fell off. “Cade,” Mom said, her voice dropping into that familiar, pleading tone. “Austin realized yesterday that he messed up his college applications. He didn’t get into the main campus. He only got into the community college extension.” I felt a cold shiver. “He’s been crying all night. He’s devastated. Cade… we were wondering… could you stay home for a year? Do a gap year with him at the community college? Just to support him?” The world turned gray. “You know how sensitive he is,” she continued, her eyes red. “I’m afraid if you go off to that big university alone, he’ll spiral. He needs his brother. And besides, Saint Jude’s is so far. Maybe you could reapply next year to somewhere closer? Somewhere like State Tech?” Mom, I got into Northwestern. I’m the valedictorian. How do you not know that? “No,” I said. My voice was trembling. “I won’t do it.” I stood up and walked to my room, the tears finally spilling over. I didn’t say another word for the rest of the night. The next morning, I was on the balcony, hidden by the laundry, when I heard Becca and Mom talking in the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Mom,” Becca said. “I talked to Austin. He’s fine now that he knows Cade is staying. He’s already looking at classes they can take together.” “But Cade seemed so upset…” “Oh, please. Cade is the ‘Good Son.’ He always folds. Remember when he wanted to transfer high schools because of the bullying? Austin cried for five minutes about being lonely, and Cade stayed. He’ll do it again. Just go on the trip, have fun, and we’ll handle the paperwork when we get back.” I heard the front door click shut. I walked into my room, pulled my suitcase from under the bed, and started packing. This was the last time I would ever be the “Good Son.”

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1 Before the birthday party even officially started, Elena mirrored her phone to the massive LED screen in our private lounge. She opened our “Inner Circle” group chat and launched an anonymous poll. The prompt read: Tonight, should I stay to blow out the candles with my boyfriend, or go to the midnight premiere with my best friend? A thirty-second countdown appeared. The numbers flickered and jumped with aggressive speed. Best Friend: 17 votes. Boyfriend: 1 vote. Everyone in the room assumed that solitary vote was mine—a desperate, pathetic plea for my own girlfriend’s time on my thirty-fourth birthday. Elena leaned back against the velvet sofa, a sharp, satisfied smile playing on her lips as she watched the results. “Well,” she said, her voice airy and unbothered. “Majority rules.” Evan immediately pressed the movie tickets into her palm, his boy-next-door grin widening. “Looks like the people have spoken, Elena. I need you more.” I stood there in my favorite white linen shirt, positioned behind a tiered cake that hadn’t even been lit yet. Someone in the back of the room let out a mocking whistle. “Don’t be a sore loser, Noah,” someone shouted. “It’s just a poll.” That was the theme of our relationship. For three years, our lives had been a series of democratic humiliations. If we fought, a poll decided who should apologize first. After a party, a poll decided who she’d drive home. Once, when I asked her if she actually loved me, she turned that into a poll too. “Let’s see what the jury says,” she’d joked. I used to believe that if I could just win once—if just one time the bar for ‘Boyfriend’ would outstrip the rest—she would finally choose me with conviction. But I never won. Not once. And certainly not tonight. Elena stood up and reached for her trench coat. As she brushed past me, she reached out and playfully pinched my ear, a condescending gesture she used for her golden retriever. “Be a good boy. I’ll make it up to you when I get back,” she whispered. I stared at the poll results on the screen until the blue light burned my retinas. I reached into my pocket and turned off my phone. Then, I pushed the silver cake knife across the table toward her. “Don’t bother,” I said. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the laughter in the room. “Elena, I’m abstaining. From everything.” The lounge went silent for a heartbeat. Elena’s hand froze near my face. Evan was the first to break the tension with a light, dismissive chuckle, as if I’d just made a joke in poor taste. “Come on, Noah. Don’t be like that. It’s your birthday.” Elena pulled her hand back, her brow furrowing into a sharp line. “Noah, everyone is watching. Don’t start a scene just because the numbers didn’t go your way.” In the past, the second she used that tone—that warning “Noah”—I would have folded. I would have swallowed my pride to keep the peace, to stop the friends from whispering that I was “too sensitive” or “controlling.” But this time, I didn’t flinch. I reached out and began pulling the unlit candles out of the cake, one by one, dropping them onto the table like spent shell casings. “The only one making a scene here isn’t me,” I said. Evan immediately caught Elena’s sleeve, his expression shifting to one of wounded nobility. “Elena, forget it. Maybe we should just stay. I don’t need to see the movie that badly.” He said the words, but his fingers were white from how tightly he was gripping the tickets. The group chat notifications started chirping again. The “Inner Circle” was already weighing in. “The poll is final. No exceptions,” someone called out. “Let the man have his tantrum, Elena. You can celebrate with him tomorrow.” Elena checked her Cartier watch. The movie started in twenty minutes. She stood there for a moment, the silence stretching thin, before she finally slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m driving him,” she said, her voice hardening. “If you still want to have a birthday, wait for me here. Stop making me play mediator every single time we go out.” I looked up at her, really looked at her. “I said don’t bother, Elena. I won’t be here.” She acted as if she hadn’t heard me, turning on her heel and heading for the door. Evan followed close behind, pausing briefly at my side to let out a performative sigh. “Noah, you know how much she hates being pressured to choose,” he whispered, just loud enough for me to hear. The door clicked shut. The music in the lounge surged back to life. On the giant screen, the poll was still frozen. Best Friend: 17. Boyfriend: 1. That lonely “1” felt like the last shred of my dignity, hanging there for everyone to mock. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A new poll had been posted in the group chat. This one wasn’t anonymous. Place your bets: How many minutes until Noah crawls back and apologizes? 10 Minutes. 30 Minutes. Tomorrow morning. Evan had already voted for “10 Minutes.” A few others joined in with laughing emojis. “Don’t give him that much credit. Five minutes max.” “He can’t breathe without Elena.” Elena didn’t vote. But she didn’t stop them, either. Then, a message popped up from one of the guys: “Wait, that ‘Boyfriend’ vote earlier… that was Noah voting for himself, right?” Evan replied with a ‘shushing’ emoji. “Who else would bother?” I stared at the screen until the words blurred. They didn’t even believe I had a single ally in that room. My chest felt hollow, a cold ache spreading through my limbs. I hit the “Leave Group” button. My gold party hat was still sitting on the table. A spilled drink had soaked into the paper, making it limp and soggy. I grabbed my jacket and walked out. “Hey, Noah! You actually leaving?” someone yelled. I didn’t look back. The hallway was long, lined with floor-to-ceiling glass. My reflection followed me—the crisp white shirt, the red-rimmed eyes, the empty hands. I looked like a clown who had finally realized the circus was over. Elena didn’t get back until 1:00 AM. I was in the middle of the living room, packing the last of her things into a cardboard box. In three years, she had colonised every square inch of my apartment. Her stilettos in the foyer, her expensive serums cluttering the bathroom vanity, her hair ties lost in the sofa cushions. Even the throw pillows I’d picked out had been replaced with the beige ones she preferred. The smart lock chimed, and she stepped in, bringing with her the chill of the night and a faint, woody scent. It was Le Labo Santal 33. Evan’s signature scent. She saw the boxes, and her face instantly darkened. “Again with this? The ‘packing’ routine?” I pulled a strip of packing tape across the box, the screeching sound filling the silence. “The rest will be ready for pickup tomorrow.” She marched over and slammed her hand down on the lid of the box. “Noah, I gave you an out tonight. I gave you a chance to be the bigger person. How long are you going to keep this act up?” I looked up at her. “It’s not an act. I’m clearing out the clutter.” Elena let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “I go to one movie with Evan and you’re throwing away a three-year relationship? You saw the poll, Noah. The group decided. It wasn’t just me.” My fingers stalled on the tape. “So, in your mind, you’re the victim of democracy? You didn’t actually make a choice?” She scoffed. “I followed the rules we’ve always had.” The rules. I remembered the first poll, three years ago. She had finally agreed to go public with us. But then Evan posted a poll in the group: Does Elena going public right now ruin the vibe of the group? Yes: 15. No: 2. Elena had kissed my cheek that night and said, “Let’s just wait a few months, babe. Everyone thinks it’s too soon. It’s better this way.” I waited three months. By the time Evan’s birthday rolled around, she posted a nine-photo grid on Instagram. The first photo was of her and Evan. Then came the New Year’s Eve parties where I sat in the back of the car while Evan took the front seat because of a poll. The anniversaries that were moved because the “Inner Circle” had a conflict. The first slice of every cake. I was constantly a line item on a ballot, and I was constantly vetoed. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my old backup phone. I unlocked it and opened a hidden folder. Inside were 276 screenshots. Three years of every poll, every mockery, every time I had been voted out of my own life. Elena blinked, looking at the screen. “Why on earth would you keep those?” “To make sure I never convince myself I was imagining it,” I said quietly. “And to remind myself why I have to leave.” Her face went rigid. “You’re being incredibly dramatic, Noah.” “Am I?” I gave her a tired smile. “Compared to watching my worth jump up and down in a bar graph every Friday night? This is the most dignified I’ve been in years.” Elena looked away, her jaw tight. “You used to be so much easier to be around. You weren’t so… keeping score.” “I used to believe that eventually, you’d choose me without needing a majority to tell you it was okay.” The room went quiet. I pushed the box toward her feet. “By the way, that one vote tonight? The one for ‘Boyfriend’?” Elena looked at me, her eyes flickering with a momentary doubt. “What about it? We all know you voted for yourself.” “I didn’t,” I said. “I never even took my phone out of my pocket. I stopped voting for myself a long time ago.” I didn’t know who had cast that lone vote, and frankly, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time in three years, I didn’t care about the outcome. Elena stared at me for a long time, her expression unreadable. Then, she suddenly kicked the cardboard box aside. “Fine. You want to clear everything out? Go ahead. Be miserable.” Her phone lit up on the counter. A message from Evan. Is Noah still throwing his fit? Should I come over tomorrow and apologize so he feels better? Elena didn’t even try to hide the screen from me. She typed back instantly: He’s still acting out. We’ll talk tomorrow. I watched her thumbs move across the glass and felt a strange, jarring sense of comedy. To her, I wasn’t heartbroken. I wasn’t disillusioned. I was just acting out. Like a child who needed a nap. I leaned down, straightened the box, and finished sealing it. “Elena, we’re done. Properly.” She was already walking toward the bedroom, her back to me. She let out a cold, hollow laugh. “You’ve said that a dozen times, Noah. You never actually go anywhere.” The next day at noon, my friend Miles called me. His voice was hesitant, laced with an awkwardness that told me he’d already been briefed. “Hey, Noah. Elena reached out. She said you left some stuff at the lounge last night. She mentioned you aren’t picking up her calls, so she asked me to tell you.” I stayed silent. Miles quickly added, “Look, I’ll go with you. We’ll grab it and get out. Easy.” But when I walked into the lounge, I realized it was an ambush. The room was packed with the “Inner Circle.” Miles’s face fell. “She told me it was just us,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t know the whole squad was going to be here.” Elena was sitting in the center of the booth. Evan was next to her, his eyes red-rimmed, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. There was a small cake on the table with a single candle lit. The moment he saw me, Evan stood up. “Noah, man, I am so sorry.” He picked up a glass of scotch and walked over to me. “Last night was stupid. I shouldn’t have made a joke about the tickets. Please, don’t break up with Elena because of me.” Elena looked up, her gaze steady and expectant. “Evan apologized, Noah. Stop being so stuck-up about it. We all just want to clear the air.” As if on cue, the giant LED screen flickered to life. Someone at the bar was holding their phone up, laughing. The familiar poll layout appeared. Should Noah drink a peace-offering shot with Evan to officially move on? The countdown hadn’t even finished, but the results were already a landslide. Yes: 18. No: 0. The game was rigged before it even began. Evan looked at the screen, then back at me with a pained expression. “Guys, don’t. Noah’s going to feel uncomfortable.” Elena pushed a shot glass toward me. “Drink it, Noah. Let it go.” I looked down at the amber liquid. In the past three years, I had swallowed so many of these “peace offerings.” I drank to not be the “party pooper.” I drank to “give her a graceful exit.” I drank to prove I wasn’t jealous, to make sure Elena didn’t have to frown at me. I picked up the glass. Elena’s expression softened. Evan let out a visible breath of relief. Then, I turned the glass over and poured the scotch directly into the ice bucket. The sound of the liquid hitting the ice was sharp and final. The room went dead. I set the empty glass back on the table. “I’m not drinking to this. And you don’t need to notify me when you decide a situation is ‘over.’” Elena’s face turned stormy. “Noah, are you really going to be this difficult?” “Difficult?” I looked her in the eye. “You guys launch a poll to force me to toast the guy who spends his life undermining me. You force me to be ‘big-hearted’ so you don’t have to feel guilty about being shitty. And then you have the nerve to ask me why I’m not being ‘dignified’?” Evan’s eyes welled up. “I really just wanted us to be friends, Noah.” He turned to leave. “Elena, I should go. I’m clearly making things worse.” Elena moved instinctively, reaching out to grab his arm to keep him there. It was a reflex. So fast she didn’t even realize she was doing it. I saw it clearly. She didn’t need a poll. Her body had been choosing him for years. Miles grabbed my arm. “Let’s go, Noah.” I nodded. But as I reached the door, Elena chased after me, grabbing my wrist. “You aren’t leaving until we finish this conversation.” I shook her off. “It is finished. I’m breaking up with you. He’s ‘sorry.’ You guys can keep the ‘Inner Circle’ exactly the way it is.” “I didn’t agree to a breakup!” she snapped, her voice trembling with rage. I smiled, and it was the first time in years I felt like I had the upper hand. “What, do we need to take a vote on that too?” My phone buzzed. A new poll from the group chat. Betting pool: Will Noah come crawling back tonight? Yes. Absolutely Yes. There wasn’t even a third option. I held the screen up to Elena’s face. “Look. They’ve already scripted my return for me. They don’t even see me as a person anymore, Elena. I’m just an outcome.” Elena’s face paled. Evan was standing behind her, calling her name softly. “Elena, don’t fight with him because of me.” She didn’t follow me this time. I walked out of the club and into the overcast afternoon. My phone vibrated with a text from the moving company. We’re confirmed for 3:00 PM tomorrow. Moving day was grey and heavy. I stood in the hollowed-out living room, watching the movers stack the last of the boxes against the wall. There were pale outlines on the paint where the pictures used to hang—ghostly reminders of a life that had been stripped away. The landlord called, sounding confused. “Noah, Elena contacted me. She said you were just having a spat and told me not to process the lease termination yet.” I dropped my spare key into an envelope. “Process it. According to the contract.” The landlord hesitated. “She said you’d regret it.” “That’s her opinion,” I said, and hung up. The doorbell rang. On the security monitor, Elena was standing in the hallway. She was wearing the same black dress from the night before, her eyes tired. She didn’t ring again. She just sent a text. Open the door. Stop trying to scare me with this moving nonsense. Noah, my patience is wearing thin. I didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, another one: What exactly do you want from me? I looked at those words and remembered three years ago, the first time I had backed down. I had asked her the same thing. “Elena, what do you want from me?” She had told me: “I just want you to stop being so sensitive.” I guess everything comes full circle eventually. Only the person feeling the sting had changed. When the movers finally opened the door to leave, Elena was still there. She didn’t look at me first. She looked past me at the empty apartment. The shoe rack was gone. The coffee table was gone. I was even holding the ceramic pot with the snake plant she’d always complained was “ugly.” Her composure finally broke. “You’re actually doing this?” “Yeah.” She reached out to grab my suitcase. “Where are you even going?” I stepped back, out of her reach. “That’s none of your business.” Elena gritted her teeth. “Noah, don’t push this too far. I sent Evan home last night. I told them no more polls. What else do you want?” I looked at her. To her, simply stopping the abuse was the same thing as making amends. I pulled out my old phone and opened a screen. I had created one last poll of my own. Is Elena worth Noah looking back? Option 1: Not worth it. Option 2: Never look back. Total votes: 1. I had selected Option 2. Elena saw the screen, and her face went white. “This is childish. You’re being immature.” “I learned from the best,” I said. “You let them decide my life 276 times, Elena. Now, it’s my turn to vote.” Her voice turned icy. “Don’t you dare.” I tucked the envelope into her coat pocket. Inside were the keys, the silver watch she’d given me for our first anniversary, and the movie ticket from the night before, torn in half. “I vote you out,” I said. Elena grabbed my wrist, her grip desperate. “Noah!” The mover lingered by the elevator, looking awkward. I looked down at her fingers. In the past, if she held me like this, I would have softened instantly. Even if I was choking on my own resentment, I would have stayed just to feel chosen. But now, I just felt a profound sense of too late. I pried her fingers off, one by one. “Don’t touch me.” Elena froze. Her hand stayed suspended in the air, the shock of being rejected finally sinking in. At that moment, her phone buzzed. It was a screenshot from Evan. Another poll. Betting pool: How many days until Noah comes back? 3 days. 1 week. 2 weeks max. Evan’s avatar was already glowing under “3 days.” Elena’s fingers trembled. She tried to lock the screen, but it was too late. I’d already seen it. The last bit of dull ache in my chest finally went cold. I took the old phone and pressed it into her palm. “Let them keep betting,” I said. “I’m not playing the game anymore.”

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I adopted a lab specimen—a lizard hybrid. I raised him with a tenderness that bordered on the sacred, taming the wildness in his blood with soft words and steady hands. Later, the lab reclaimed him by force. As they dragged him away, he screamed, a raw, guttural sound that tore through the sterile hallway. He asked me when he’d see me again. I lied. I whispered, “Just one day.” I didn’t see him again for seven years. When I finally did, he had become the Archon—the supreme commander of the Hybrid Coalition. He was arrogant, cold, and notoriously ruthless. Yet, the moment his eyes landed on me, his composure shattered. A heartbeat later, his thick, snow-white tail lashed out, coiling around my waist and hoisting me off the floor. He stared at me, his face a mask of frozen stone. “That ‘one day’ lasted a lifetime, didn’t it?” 1 On the day of my release, I spent the entire drive staring out the window. The sky over the city was a bruised, heavy grey. A bitter winter wind whipped against the glass, carrying enough grit to make the air feel like sandpaper. Seven years is long enough for the familiar to become alien. The skyline had grown jagged with new steel, and the world I once knew had been overwritten. Sarah, my former mentor, was at the wheel, her voice a constant hum over the heater’s rattle. “I nearly dropped my phone when you called,” she said, glancing at me. “You have no idea how much the world has flipped upside down while you were inside.” “I can see that,” I murmured. “Remember the old Institute? The Eve Project? It’s gone. The Hybrids took power three years ago and tore the place down to the studs. The board of directors? Executed. Every last one of them.” She paused, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Elena, are you even listening?” I blinked, pulling myself back from the grey horizon. “Sorry, Sarah. I’m here.” She sighed, her expression softening into something like pity. “You know… if you were still with 0207, things would be different for you.” She bit her lip, a flicker of awe crossing her face. “Though I suppose we have to call him ‘His Excellency the Archon’ now.” 2 The string of numbers—0207—sent a dull ache through my chest. It had been a lifetime since I’d heard his designation. “0207” had been a specimen. Back then, I was a lead researcher at the prestigious Eve Institute. 0207 was the first project I ever handled from the beginning. He was a lizard-type hybrid, a complex cocktail of reptilian genes. He was highly intelligent but physically frail, plagued by what the Institute called “emotional and psychiatric deficits.” But he possessed two things the military coveted: incredible regenerative cells and terrifyingly potent psychic abilities. After a series of failed trials, the board ordered him “decommissioned.” I couldn’t do it. I intercepted his cryo-tank right at the door of the incinerator and fought for the right to foster him. For a year after that, I raised him in my own way. At the time, his mental state was that of a confused child. I named him Silas. I taught him to read, sat by his bed until he fell asleep, and held him through the violent tremors when his powers spiked out of control. Then came the accident. The Institute noticed his skyrocketing potential and moved in to reclaim their “property.” I had no legal standing, no rights, and no way to fight back. The last time I saw Silas, he was hysterical. He fought so hard to stay with me that the sedatives barely touched him. He tore his claws through the electronic collar meant to suppress his emotions, the alarms screaming in the small room. He slammed his face against the heavy steel muzzle they’d forced onto him until it was bent and deformed. Half his face was a ruin of blood and torn scales. The floor was slick with the dark, emerald-green fluid of his lifeblood. It took a dozen guards to pin him down. The director, watching through the glass, grew impatient. “If you can’t secure him, just put a bullet in him. We’ll harvest the tissue post-mortem.” My blood ran cold. The guards leveled their rifles at Silas’s head. Panic, sharp and blinding, surged through me. I forced my face into a mask of calm, stepped over the blood-slicked floor, and pulled Silas into a tight embrace. “Be good, Silas,” I whispered into his ear, my voice trembling. “Go with them for now. I’ll come get you soon.” Silas finally went still. He shifted his pale green eyes toward me, his pupils dilating until the black swallowed the emerald. It took him a long time to find his voice through the muzzle. “…How… long?” “One day,” I lied, my heart breaking. “…One day?” “Yes,” I promised, stroking his hair as they dragged us apart. “Just one day.” 3 I never saw him again. Not for seven years. The traffic light turned red, and Sarah brought the car to a halt. Her voice snapped the thread of my memory. “Do you have a place to stay? If not, my guest room is yours.” Sarah Brooks had been my closest friend since grad school. We’d climbed the ranks at Eve together. Looking at her sleek car and expensive coat, it was clear she had navigated the new world order quite well. I didn’t turn her down. I had nowhere else to go. “Thank you. I appreciate it.” Sarah’s apartment was in the heart of the city—a high-rise with a view of the sprawling metropolis. She led me inside and went to make coffee. In the living room, there was a floor-to-ceiling aquarium filled with jellyfish. They drifted like ghostly umbrellas, illuminated by soft neon lights. “You still like jellyfish,” I noted. Sarah moved with the practiced ease of someone who hadn’t spent seven years in a cell. “I don’t know if I like them. They’re just… calming. Something to look at when the world gets too loud.” She set a mug in front of me, her eyes searching mine. “And you? How was it? When you vanished, the lab was a mess of rumors. People said you sold 0207 to the highest bidder and ran off with the cash. But then the news of your arrest hit, and…” I tightened my grip on the warm mug. “A lot happened, Sarah.” Sensing my wall going up, she backed off. “Right. It’s in the past. Let’s look forward. You need a job. My pharmaceutical firm is looking for a senior consultant. You were our star researcher, Elena. I know you can handle it.” I hesitated. “Sarah, I’ve been out of the loop for a long time. The technology…” She pressed a hand to my shoulder. “You have the instincts. Just try, okay?” 4 The next morning, I walked into Sarah’s corporate headquarters. Since the Hybrid Uprising, the industry landscape had shifted. Sarah’s company, Brooks Biotics, had survived by pivoting early to Hybrid healthcare. I spent the day buried in manuals, familiarizing myself with the upgraded lab equipment. By the time I looked up, the sun was beginning to set. I packed my bag and headed for the elevators. As I reached the lobby, the main doors hissed open. The light was hitting the glass at an angle, turning the lobby into a cathedral of orange and gold. A group of people walked in, but I only saw the man at the center. My heart stopped. Seven years hadn’t changed Silas’s face much, but everything else was different. He wore a sharp, black military-style uniform. His waist-length white hair had been shorn into a modern, jagged cut that partially veiled his eyes. On his fingers, he wore heavy rings—conductors for his psychic output. He looked lethal. He looked powerful. I froze at the top of the short stairs leading to the lobby, watching him from twenty yards away. I heard the frantic whispers of the receptionists. “Is that the Archon? What is he doing here?” “I heard he’s personally overseeing the new nerve-regeneration project. The R&D department is going to have a long night…” Silas moved with a predatory grace, flanked by aides. As he approached the private elevators, he stopped. Just before the doors slid shut, he turned his head and looked directly toward the stairs. It was a casual glance. Indifferent. His eyes swept over me for half a second before he turned back. The doors closed, and he was gone. 5 That night, the dreams returned. I hadn’t dreamt of Silas in years, but now my subconscious was a flood of the past. I dreamt of us walking through the woods behind the old lab, the sun dappling through the canopy. I dreamt of the way he’d struggle with a pen, carefully tracing my name on a piece of paper. I dreamt of the quiet afternoons when he’d shift into his larger, reptilian form, his massive white tail coiling protectively around my arm while he slept, his forehead pressed against mine. And I dreamt of the blood. The muzzle. His pale face through the rain. I woke up cold and hollow. The weeks passed in a blur of routine. I moved out of Sarah’s place and found a small, nondescript apartment near the office. I ate alone, slept alone, and kept my head down. Two months later, Sarah stopped by my desk. “Elena, are you free tonight? There’s a gala for the Coalition’s top donors. I need you there as my technical lead.” I nodded. It was part of the job. The gala was held in a ballroom that felt more like a palace. Champagne-colored marble, crystal chandeliers, and a fountain that flowed with liquid gold. The room was a mix of humans and Hybrids, all dressed in silks and velvet, dancing as if the war had never happened. I took a glass of wine and retreated to a quiet corner. I felt like a ghost haunting a party I wasn’t invited to. Then, the room went quiet. The heavy thud of combat boots echoed against the marble. I looked up. Silas walked in. He was in full dress uniform now, looking every bit the sovereign. The hard, pearlescent scales along his jaw caught the light like diamonds. He was no longer the boy who cried for me. He was a king. I couldn’t look away. And as if he felt the weight of my stare, his eyes snapped to mine. I looked down immediately, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I gathered the courage to look up again, he had disappeared into the crowd. Sarah came back a few minutes later, nudging me with her elbow. “You should go say hello.” “I don’t think so,” I said, my voice thin. “He’s our biggest client, Elena. For the sake of the firm, you need to make contact. Unless… it’s too much for you?” “Next time,” I said. “I’m not ready.” “Fine.” She raised her glass and wandered back into the fray. I turned to leave, but a man intercepted me. “Excuse me… Miss Miller?” I turned to see a face that looked vaguely familiar. A researcher from the old days. “It really is you,” he said, beaming. “It’s been so long.” “I’m sorry, have we…?” “The academic forum seven years ago. You gave that brilliant lecture on neural plasticity,” he said, handing me a business card. “I never forgot it.” “Oh, right. Good to see you again,” I said, forcing a smile. Before I could say another word, a shadow fell over us. The air in the immediate vicinity seemed to drop ten degrees. The conversations around us died out. I turned around and found myself staring into eyes the color of a cold mountain lake. Silas was standing inches away, his face partially in shadow. “A small world indeed,” he said. His pupils were narrowed into dangerous vertical slits. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” 6 I knew that look. Silas was furious. The man beside me stammered, “O-of course not, Your Excellency. We were just… catching up.” Silas didn’t look at him. He was staring at me, waiting for me to speak. I swallowed hard and lowered my head. “…Your Excellency.” Silas let out a short, cold laugh. The sound made the people nearby flinch. He held out his hand. His fingers were long and elegant, the rings at the base of his knuckles glowing with a faint, pulsing light. “In human etiquette, a handshake signifies goodwill,” he said, his voice a low drawl. “Isn’t that right?” It was a lesson I had taught him. The irony was like a physical blow. I reached out, my fingers barely brushing his for a fraction of a second before I tried to pull away. Silas didn’t let go. He kept his hand suspended in the air for a long moment after I retracted mine, his fingers slowly curling into a fist. A brave—or perhaps stupid—bystander asked, “Archon, do you and Miss Miller… know each other?” “Yes,” Silas said, tilting his chin up, his tone deceptively light. “We know each other very well. Though I’m not quite sure what I should call her these days.” He stepped toward me, closing the distance until I was forced to look up at him. “Researcher?” he mused. “Teacher?” “Elena?” He leaned down, his lips inches from my ear. His breath was cool, and his voice was a sharp, clear whisper that only I could hear. “…Mother?”

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1 My roommate used my identity to catfish a girl named Sierra Miller. When he finally got caught, he cornered me in our dorm, begging me not to blow his cover. He claimed his family was in a medical crisis—his grandmother was dying—and that was the only reason he’d deceived her. He’d accepted massive wire transfers from her, money he could never hope to pay back. In my past life, I was a fool. I let pity cloud my judgment. I went along with the lie and stayed with Sierra to protect him. But after we got married and the truth eventually bled out, she turned into a monster. She spent years systematically breaking me. “Did you really think I loved this face?” she’d screamed, her voice jagged with contempt. “Your looks are nothing compared to the person I thought Jackson was. Give him back to me!” Then came the crash. The fire. The darkness. And then, the light. I opened my eyes to find myself back in senior year. I was standing outside the dorm lounge when Sierra intercepted me. She leaned in close, her designer perfume cloying and suffocating, as she brandished her phone. The screen was filled with flirtatious texts I had never sent. “Hey, babe,” she whispered, her eyes searching mine with a predatory sweetness. “Why are you acting like you don’t know me?” I looked at her, my heart like a stone in my chest. “Get lost,” I said. The playful smirk on Sierra’s face faltered, then turned into something sharper. She looked at the photos on her screen, then back at my face, comparing every line of my jaw, every curve of my brow. “Interesting,” she laughed, though there was no humor in it. “One second you’re calling me ‘wifey’ and ‘sweetheart’ over text, and the next you’re telling me to get lost? That’s cold, even for a guy like you.” Her almond-shaped eyes danced with a challenge. Her voice was pitched just loud enough for the passing students to slow down and stare. I didn’t blink. “You’ve got the wrong guy. Move.” Sierra let out a sharp, frustrated laugh, but she quickly smoothed her expression. She softened her tone, reaching for that practiced vulnerability. “I’m sorry, babe. I know you weren’t ready for us to meet in person yet. But I love you too much to wait. I couldn’t help myself. Please don’t be mad.” She tapped her screen rapidly. “Look, I just Zelled you fifty grand. It’s a peace offering. Let me take you out to a real dinner, okay? Somewhere expensive.” I had spent years watching her look at me with nothing but icy boredom. Seeing her this desperate, this fawning, was almost pathetic. “Do you even know my name?” I asked. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She looked up, confused. “Miles?” I let out a dry, mocking breath. “Didn’t you check the name on the bank account when you sent the money? It’s not mine.” Sierra reached out to ruffle my hair, but I jerked back. Her hand hung in the air for a second before she slowly curled her fingers into a fist. She forced another smile. “Silly. You told me you were using your parents’ secondary card because you didn’t want them tracking your spending. You told me to send it to your roommate’s account for safekeeping.” I stared at her, genuinely amazed by the level of self-delusion. “We’ve been ‘dating’ for months. Did you ever once FaceTime him?” Sierra froze. She shook her head slightly. “So, you’ve never seen his face. You decided the person you’re in love with is me based on a few photos, and you’re sending six-figure sums to a stranger? Did you skip every orientation seminar on fraud prevention?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a cold whisper. “You’re being catfished. It’s a pig-butchering scam. If I were you, I’d call the cops.” Sierra still didn’t want to believe it. She was convinced I was just throwing a tantrum because she’d surprised me. She looked hurt, her lower lip trembling slightly. “Babe, stop it. We have something special. We were going to meet eventually. Besides…” She lowered her voice, a suggestive glint returning to her eyes. “You sent me those photos. The ones where you’re… barely dressed. I couldn’t resist. But don’t worry, I promise I won’t touch you until you say I can.” My blood turned to ice. “What photos?” She handed me her phone. On the screen was a shot taken through the frosted glass of the dorm showers. It was me, mid-change, a silhouette of muscle and skin, unmistakable to anyone who knew me. “That’s you, Miles. Only you could have sent that. Stop playing games.” I ignored her, scrolling through the chat history. There was Jackson, using my face as his avatar, whining like a spoiled child. Jackson (as Miles): “Babe, these internships are killing me. Look how much weight I’ve lost.” Sierra had responded instantly with a wire transfer of $131,452.00. Sierra: “I’ll take care of you, baby. My dad just bought me that villa in the hills—the one with the infinity pool. Why don’t we just move in together after graduation?” Jackson: “Hmph. I know what you women want. I’m not ready for that yet. Let’s talk after finals.” I felt a wave of nausea. In my last life, I never saw these messages. I’d assumed Jackson had just lifted photos from my Instagram. I didn’t realize he’d been stalking me in our own living space, taking candid shots of me while I was vulnerable. I took a picture of her screen with my own phone and immediately emailed it to the Dean of Students. Subject: Urgent – Privacy Violation and Harassment. An individual has been taking non-consensual, private photos of me in the dorms and distributing them. I expect a full investigation. If the university cannot handle this, I am calling the police. 2 When I got back to the room, Jackson was there, looking shifty as he stepped in from the balcony. I ignored him, sitting at my desk and opening my laptop. After a few minutes of agonizing silence, Jackson shuffled over. “Hey, Miles. That girl downstairs… who was she?” I kept my voice flat. “Some rich girl getting scammed by a catfish. I told her to call the police.” Jackson’s entire body went rigid. His phone began to buzz incessantly in his pocket—notifications from Sierra, no doubt—but he didn’t dare look at it. Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice raspy. “Miles… we’re best friends, right?” “Of course.” I turned my chair around, offering him a thin, sharp smile. In my previous life, I really did believe that. I felt for him. I knew his family was broke, and when he told me his grandmother was dying, I agreed to step in and play the part of Sierra’s boyfriend to save him from prison. I found out later that while his grandmother was sick, he hadn’t spent a dime on her. He’d used Sierra’s money for a designer wardrobe, a nose job, and a ticket to an MBA program in London. By the time he returned to the States, he was a different man. Back then, Sierra and I fought constantly. She hated that I wasn’t the “sweet, needy” boy she’d met online. At a New Year’s Eve party, she’d mocked me in front of everyone, calling me a “beautiful, brainless statue.” Jackson had been there, swirling a glass of expensive scotch. He’d laughed and said, “That’s because the guy you were talking to wasn’t Miles. It was me.” He’d winked at me then, acting like he’d done me a favor. “Miles is gorgeous, but he’s got the personality of a wet brick. I had to be his wingman just to get you two to the altar. You should probably put me at the head table when you renew your vows.” He’d made it sound like a harmless prank. But Sierra had stared at him, and I watched the light change in her eyes. When we got home that night, I told her everything. I thought she would understand. Instead, she turned on me. “So it was Jackson all along? The one who actually knew my soul? Why did you lie to me, Miles?” “Because he was going to go to jail!” I’d shouted. “He couldn’t pay you back!” “I didn’t care about the money!” she screamed. “I cared about the person on the other end of the phone! Do you think you’re so special just because of your face? His personality made you look like trash.” After that, she chased Jackson. She dragged me to every event where he might be. Once, when I was delirious with a 103-degree fever, she literally forced me into the car to attend his engagement party. “You’re faking it,” she’d hissed. “You’re just jealous he’s the one I actually want. You should be thanking him for helping a loser like you land someone like me.” “Sierra, he scammed you,” I’d whispered, shivering in the passenger seat. “He stole from you.” “Then I wish he’d kept stealing!” I remembered sitting at that wedding, watching Jackson—now polished, handsome, and married to a wealthy tech executive—while I wasted away. I found out from an old classmate that his grandmother had died in a state facility, alone and in pain, because the bills hadn’t been paid. The memory made my stomach turn. I had been a martyr for a sociopath. In that life, I finally tried to leave her. On the drive home from that wedding, Sierra lost her mind. She’d jerked the steering wheel, aiming the passenger side—my side—directly into a concrete barrier at eighty miles per hour. 3 “Miles, my grandma… she’s in the ICU. I was desperate…” I leaned back, watching Jackson spin the same lies he had used before. I felt nothing but a cold, clinical boredom. Suddenly, the door swung open. Our RA, Marcus, walked in, followed by a campus security officer. “Is everyone here?” Marcus asked, his face grim. “If anyone’s missing, give me their names. I need them back here now.” Our other two roommates were easy to track down. One was a pre-med student who lived in the library; the other was already working a tech internship and lived with his girlfriend most weekends. They were back within twenty minutes. Jackson was trembling. “What’s going on, Marcus?” Marcus shut the door and looked at the four of us. “Someone has been taking surreptitious photos of Miles in this suite and distributing them online. This is a felony-level privacy violation. If the person responsible steps forward now, we can handle this through the university. If not, the police are waiting downstairs.” Jackson’s knuckles turned white. Based on the reflections in the glass and the laundry pile in the background of the photo, we narrowed the time frame down to last Sunday. The pre-med roommate immediately pulled up his logs. “I was in the 24-hour lab all weekend. I have keycard swipes and security footage to prove I never came back to the room.” The tech intern showed photos of himself at a hiking trail three hours away. All eyes turned to Jackson. Jackson forced a shaky laugh. “Miles, man, you must be confused. Didn’t you ask me to take a picture of your back last weekend? You said you wanted to send it to some girl you were talking to. Maybe she’s the one who leaked it?” The room went silent. Everyone looked at me. Marcus sighed, looking disappointed. “Miles, if you’re involved in some kind of online drama, you need to be honest. Sending explicit photos to strangers is dangerous.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “I didn’t ask him to take anything. I don’t have a ‘girl’ online. I have no idea what Jackson is talking about.” Jackson panicked. “Miles, come on! You told me you had a crush on Sierra Miller from the West Campus. You were too shy to talk to her, so I offered to help you out. I’ve been ghostwriting your texts for months. Did you forget?” I remembered that basketball mixer from the first life. Jackson had asked me who I thought was the prettiest girl there. I’d pointed to Sierra. He’d laughed at the time, saying Vivian Harper was way more my type, but that Sierra was “loaded” and wore shoes that cost more than his tuition. He was using a three-year-old casual comment to build a house of lies. I looked him dead in the eye. “So, let me get this straight. Because I supposedly liked a girl, you decided to take non-consensual photos of me while I was changing? And you decided to use my identity to solicit over a hundred thousand dollars from her?” Jackson’s face went from pale to ash-gray in a heartbeat. 4 In the Dean’s office, Jackson broke down in tears. “Miles, please. Just this once. I was trying to help you at first, I swear! But then my grandma got the diagnosis. My parents don’t care about her—they left her to rot. She’s the only person who ever loved me. Sierra has so much money, she didn’t even miss it. It all went to the hospital.” He sobbed so convincingly that even the Dean looked a bit swayed. “Miles,” the Dean said softly. “If the photo was only sent to this one girl, perhaps we can bring her in to mediate? If she’s willing to settle this privately, it might be better for everyone’s future.” I looked at Jackson. He hadn’t had his plastic surgery yet. His features were plain, his jawline soft and uneven. In my past life, Sierra claimed she would have chosen him regardless of his looks. I wondered if she’d feel the same way seeing the “real” him—the one who hadn’t yet been sculpted by her own money. I nodded to the Dean. Sierra arrived ten minutes later. She stormed into the office, heading straight for me. “Miles! What is this? Your Dean says we’re both ‘victims’? Is your roommate trying to steal the money I gave you?” She glared at Jackson. “Hey! Have some dignity. That money was for Miles. Who do you think you are, trying to skim off his account?” Jackson looked like he’d been slapped. He’d spent hundreds of nights whispering “sweet nothings” to this girl until three in the morning. Jackson (as Miles): “I love you, babe.” Sierra: “I love your soul. Even if you didn’t look like a model, it wouldn’t matter. We’re soulmates.” He’d actually started to believe her. He thought she loved him. “Sierra,” Jackson whispered, his eyes red. “It’s me. I’m the one you’ve been talking to. I was just trying to bring you and Miles together, but then—” Sierra froze. Then, she let out a screech of pure disgust. “Shut up! Don’t you dare lie to me! Why would I ever talk to someone like you? You think I’m that bored?” She turned to the Dean. “He’s a liar. I saw his ID. I saw the student portal. I knew I was talking to Miles.” I watched her with a detached fascination. She was so desperate to distance herself from the “ugly” truth. She was exactly who she’d always been: selfish, shallow, and quick to blame everyone else for her own stupidity. “Don’t get so worked up,” I said calmly. “You and Jackson clearly have a lot in common. You should give him a chance. I’m sure you’re not so superficial that you only care about a face, right?” Sierra looked like she was going to explode. “He looks like a thumb! Who would date that? It’s embarrassing! Jackson, you’re a creep. You used Miles’s face because you knew no one would ever look at you otherwise. I want my money back, and I want you expelled. I’m calling my father’s lawyers.” Jackson’s face shattered. The “soulmate” who promised to love him forever was now calling him a “thumb.” “Dean,” Jackson gasped, “can Miles leave? I need to talk to Sierra. Privately. About the money.”

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1 My mother was the Davenport family’s dirty little secret, a “kept woman” hidden away in a gilded cage until the day she died. After she passed, the Davenports finally brought me into their world—not out of love, but out of some twisted sense of obligation. My half-brother, Elliot, hated the very sight of me. On my first night, he forced me to stay outside in the freezing rain. “The mistress’s brat,” he spat, his eyes cold enough to draw blood. “Enjoy the view while you can, because I’m going to make sure you’re out on the street where you belong.” He spent the next three years systematically breaking me. He shredded my school clothes, “lost” my mother’s few belongings, and locked me in the damp darkness of the basement whenever I stepped out of line. Then came Sebastian Archer. He was Elliot’s sworn rival, the one person Elliot couldn’t touch. When Sebastian started pursuing me, the bullying miraculously stopped. “I’ve got you now,” Sebastian whispered, pulling me into his expensive car. “No one’s ever going to hurt you again.” I thought I had finally found my sanctuary. On the night of my eighteenth birthday, I gave him everything. I gave him the only thing I had left that hadn’t been tainted by the Davenports. But the next morning, the dream didn’t just end—it shattered. I stood outside the cracked door of a private lounge at the club, clutching a bottle of hangover pills. Sebastian had mentioned a stomach ache the night before; I had stayed up worrying about him. Then I heard Elliot’s voice, sharp with a cold, mocking laugh. “So, did touching that piece of filth actually make you sick?” The room went quiet for a heartbeat before Sebastian’s lazy, velvet drawl filled the space. “It wasn’t that bad. Honestly, once the lights are out, they all feel the same.” Crude laughter erupted from the guys around them. “Did you get the video?” Elliot asked. I heard the dull thud of a phone being tossed onto a mahogany table. “High definition,” Sebastian replied, his voice devoid of the warmth that had sustained me for months. “She’d had a few drinks. Boring as a dead fish, really. I felt dirty just being near her.” The pill bottle slipped from my fingers, hitting the carpet with a soft thud. I felt as if someone had poured liquid nitrogen through my veins. The night before, when he held me, his voice had been thick with emotion. “Natalie,” he’d murmured, kissing the tears from my eyes. “Natalie, I love you.” I had believed him. I had believed him with every shattered piece of my soul. After my mother died, I hadn’t trusted a single person—until Sebastian. He was the golden boy, the one who saw me when everyone else looked through me. But he didn’t see me. He saw a pawn. He saw a way to spit in Elliot’s face by “sampling” the girl Elliot despised. I had been so desperate for love that I forgot a girl like me—a girl born from a scandal—was never loved for free. “What if she comes crying to you?” Elliot asked, his voice dripping with malice. Sebastian let out a dry snort. “Let her cry. I’m bored with her anyway.” I knelt down and picked up the pills. My nails dug into my palms until the skin broke, but I couldn’t feel it. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an email from the Helsinki Institute of Art Restoration. Months ago, my mentor had urged me to apply for an international apprenticeship. He told me I had a rare gift for restoring ancient manuscripts—a steady hand and a patient soul. It was a three-year commitment, a total blackout from my life here, but it came with a full scholarship. I had hesitated because Sebastian talked about a future together. God, I was a fool. I tossed the pills into a nearby trash can and hit ‘Reply’ on the email. [Professor, I’m in. I’ll take the position.] I walked home alone in a torrential downpour. By the time I reached the Davenport estate, I was soaked to the bone. The rain blurred my vision, stinging like needles. Elliot was in the foyer when I walked in. He looked at me and scoffed. “Who are you performing for now? That pathetic ‘drowned rat’ look won’t work on me.” I looked up at him. For years, I thought if I was just quiet enough, just “good” enough, he would eventually see me as a sister. But standing there, shivering and hollowed out, I realized he didn’t hate me for anything I’d done. He just needed a place to dump his rage, and I was the perfect vessel. I didn’t say a word. I just walked past him and went upstairs. I was leaving. There was nothing left to say. 2 The next morning, my phone exploded. Dozens of texts from unknown numbers. Screenshots of the university’s Greek-life forum. The headline was a jagged blade to my chest: “The Davenport Bastard Spends a Night with Archer. Proof Inside.” The video was censored, but I recognized the room instantly. It was the place where he’d promised to marry me. The comments section was a cesspool. “Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Like mother, like daughter.” “I guess being a mistress’s kid is a transferable skill.” “Sebastian has low standards. I wouldn’t touch that trash with a ten-foot pole.” A cold shiver raced down my spine. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours, and they had already torn my dignity to shreds for the world to see. Before I could close the browser, my door was kicked open. My father stood there, his face a mask of livid fury. Elliot followed closely behind him. My father hurled his phone at my feet, his hand trembling with rage. “Natalie! I brought you into this house to give you a life, not to drag the Davenport name through the mud!” The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. I was the one who had been recorded without consent. I was the one being publicly shamed. And yet, their only concern was the “shame” I’d brought upon their precious name. “Sebastian recorded it without my knowledge,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from underwater. My father paused, but Elliot just laughed. “You’re a slut, Natalie. You crawled into his bed yourself. Now you’re crying because he took a souvenir?” I stared at Elliot, my eyes burning. “You told him to do it, didn’t you?” Elliot’s expression shifted. He leaned in close, his voice a lethal whisper. “So what if I did? Do you really think anyone is going to take the word of a mistress’s daughter over ours? You’re nothing here.” He straightened up, his contempt radiating off him like heat. It was the truth—the most brutal kind. No one would believe me. My father sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “I’ll have the lawyers scrub the internet. Stay home for a few days. Don’t go to campus.” I looked at him, disbelief washing over me. “And then what?” He frowned. “What do you mean, ‘and then what’?” “That’s it? I’m humiliated, harassed, and my private life is on a public forum, and you’re just going to ‘scrub the internet’ and move on?” My father looked away. “The Archers are a powerful family, Natalie. We can’t afford a war right now. Just… deal with it.” My heart turned to ash. My mother had been wrong. The Davenports didn’t owe me a life; they only knew how to take one away. After my father left, Elliot picked up the phone he’d dropped, scrolling through the comments with a smirk. “See? This is what happens when you forget your place.” Something snapped. I grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from my nightstand and hurled it at him. It shattered against the doorframe, narrowly missing his head. Elliot’s face went dark. “You little bitch. You want to play that way?” He lunged for me, grabbing my wrist so hard I heard the joint pop. He dragged me out of the room and down the stairs. He threw open the door to the basement, the smell of damp concrete and neglect rising to meet us. “Elliot, let go of me!” He shoved me inside and slammed the heavy oak door. “Stay there until you learn how to apologize.” The click of the deadbolt echoed in the silence. Darkness swallowed me. I slumped against the cold wall, my body shaking uncontrollably. When I was little, my mother worked late shifts. I used to wait for her in our tiny, cramped apartment, terrified of the dark. She’d bought me a small, cheap nightlight—a little plastic star. “Don’t be scared, Nat,” she’d say. “Mommy’s coming back.” But she wasn’t coming back. Not this time. 3 The next day, I went to campus anyway. I had to sign my final departure papers in person. I wore a heavy hoodie, a mask, and kept my head down, entering through the side door of the library. But it didn’t matter. Within minutes, someone recognized me. A group of girls blocked the hallway. “Look, it’s the star of the forum,” one of them sneered, pulling out her phone to record me. “Everyone, look! The Davenport slut actually showed her face.” I put my hand up to block the camera. She laughed. “What are you hiding for? We’ve already seen everything.” My hands were shaking so violently I could barely breathe. I tried to push past them, but someone shoved me from behind. My bag hit the floor, spilling my folders everywhere. My acceptance letter from Helsinki slid across the tile. Someone picked it up. “The Helsinki Institute? She’s trying to run away?” “Probably because she can’t show her face in this country anymore.” I lunged to grab it, but the girl held it high above her head. “Give it back!” I cried. Suddenly, a hand reached out and snatched the letter from her grip. It was Adrian Brooks. He was a graduate assistant for my mentor and famously cold-blooded. He handed the letter back to me, his expression unreadable, then turned to the crowd. “Distributing non-consensual imagery is a felony in this state,” Adrian said, his voice calm but carrying a terrifying weight. “Harassment and invasion of privacy are also actionable offenses. I’ve recorded your faces. If you don’t clear this hallway in three seconds, I’m taking this to the Dean and the police.” The girls paled and scattered instantly. I knelt down, shoving my papers back into my bag. My throat felt like it was filled with glass. “Thank you,” I whispered. Adrian looked down at me. “Don’t thank me. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Those five words broke the dam. For days, everyone had asked me why I wasn’t more careful. Why I had “let” him in. Only Adrian said the truth: that it wasn’t my fault. I went to my mentor’s office and signed the final documents. He looked at me with pity. “The program was supposed to start next week, but there’s a spot on a flight leaving the day after tomorrow at 4:00 AM. Can you make it?” I didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” “Good,” he said. “Get out of here, Natalie. Don’t let these people destroy your future.” As I left campus, the sun was setting. I was waiting at the bus stop when a black SUV pulled up, its headlights blinding me. Sebastian jumped out, looking frantic. “Natalie! Are you okay?” I backed away, my entire body tensing. He reached for me, but I flinched so hard he froze. “I just… I wanted to make sure you were safe,” he stammered. I looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the hollow shell of a boy playing at being a man. I didn’t say a word. I just turned and walked into the rain, the water masking my tears. 4 Back at the Davenport house, I began to pack. I had nothing worth taking except for my mother’s things: her journals, a few photos, and her silver locket—the one shaped like a lily of the valley. It was the only thing she had from her own mother. On her deathbed, she’d pressed it into my hand. It was my only anchor. But when I opened my jewelry box, it was gone. Panic flared in my chest. I tore my room apart, but it was nowhere. I found one of the housekeepers in the hall. She wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Mr. Elliot was in your room this afternoon,” she whispered. I flew down the stairs. The Davenports were hosting a small “welcome home” soirée for Sienna, their “perfect” adopted daughter who had just returned from a semester in Paris. She was at the center of a circle of admirers, glowing in a designer dress. And there, hanging around her neck, was my mother’s locket. The world went white. I pushed through the crowd. “Give it back.” Sienna touched the locket, her expression one of faux innocence. “Oh, this? Elliot gave it to me as a welcome-home gift. It’s vintage, isn’t it?” I turned to Elliot, who was standing nearby with a drink in his hand. “That belongs to my mother. You had no right to take it.” Elliot’s eyes were cold. “You live under this roof, you eat our food, you wear clothes we paid for. Everything you own belongs to this family.” “I don’t care about anything else,” I hissed, my voice trembling. “But that stays with me.” Sienna grabbed Elliot’s sleeve. “Elliot, please don’t fight. I’ll just give it back…” She stepped toward me, her voice dropping so only I could hear. “You really are pathetic, Natalie. No mother, a father who hates you, and now Sebastian’s used you up. You’re nothing.” I stared at her. She smiled, sweet as honey. “You want the locket? Then get on your knees and beg me for it. Show everyone how much it means to you.” I looked at the silver lily. It was all I had left of the woman who loved me. I closed my eyes and, in front of the cream of local society, I let my knees hit the floor. “Please,” I whispered. “Give it back.” A murmur went through the room. I saw Elliot’s expression flicker. Sebastian had appeared in the doorway, watching the scene with a look of dawning horror. Sienna laughed, unhooked the locket, and held it out. As I reached for it, she let go. The silver chain snapped as it hit the marble floor. The delicate lily charm rolled across the tile, stopping at Elliot’s shoe. “Oops,” Sienna chirped. “My hand slipped.” Something in me snapped. The last thread of my sanity evaporated. I lunged forward and slapped Sienna so hard her head snapped back. She screamed, clutching her face, tears streaming down instantly. “Elliot! She attacked me!” Elliot’s face contorted with rage. He shoved me back with such force that I hit the edge of a mahogany table. Pain flared in my side, and black spots danced in my eyes. Sebastian rushed forward, but he went straight to Sienna, helping her up. I watched them and began to laugh—a broken, jagged sound. I crawled toward the locket, but Elliot stepped on it. “Apologize,” he barked. “For what?” I spat, looking up at him. “You’re throwing a tantrum over a piece of junk from a dead woman,” Elliot sneered. I stood up, fueled by a sudden, icy clarity. I stepped forward and slapped Elliot, too. The sound cracked through the silent room like a gunshot. “You can hurt me, Elliot,” I whispered, my voice shaking with fury. “You can humiliate me. But you do not get to disrespect my mother.” Elliot’s eyes burned with a dark, vengeful light. “Fine. You care about this so much?” He picked up the silver locket and, with a violent motion, hurled it against the stone fireplace. The silver charm shattered. My heart felt like it did the same. I tried to run for the pieces, but the security guards held me back. “Hold her down,” Elliot commanded, his voice cold as the grave. “Make her stay there until she apologizes.”

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