Category: English

The year I was thrown back to my eighteenth birthday, I found myself sitting at a high school desk, assigned to be the burnout’s lab partner all over again. She still hated school. She slept through lectures, ditched class to smoke behind the bleachers, and spent every free second huddled in the dark neon glow of the local arcade. But this time, I didn’t chase after her. I didn’t lecture her or try to manage every second of her life like I had in my past life. Until one afternoon, my eyes caught the parent signature scrawled across the top of her failed history exam. Two sharp, aggressive words— Roxanne Blake. I froze, the air knocked from my lungs. So… the daughter Roxanne and I had… she’s already this old? Staring at that signature, a cold numbness spread through my veins. The defiant, leather-jacket-wearing girl sitting next to me wasn’t Roxanne. It was Roxanne’s daughter. 1 I finally understood what The System meant when it told me I had to “go back and correct the timeline.” Years ago, I was pulled into this world with one mission: to drag a delinquent out of the gutter and push her to the pinnacle of success. That delinquent was Roxanne. After I left, I heard she lived a brilliant life. She built an empire, achieving massive wealth and fame at a shockingly young age. I thought my mission was a perfect success. I went back to my original world in peace. Who could have guessed that nearly two decades later, her daughter would inherit her teenage rebellion, taking up the mantle of the local burnout? In fact, she’d surpassed her mother. She was the undisputed queen of the bad crowd. I let out a slow, heavy breath. Now, I had to straighten out this wild sapling. Keep her from growing crooked. Keep her from tearing her own world apart. When I left this timeline back then, it was sudden. Tragic. The System never told me the baby had survived. Time moves differently in my reality. By my count, I had only been gone for three years. But here, my child was almost grown. Before the weight of it could fully crush me, a flash of fire-engine red burst through the classroom door. Silhouetted against the hallway light, she was slender but stood with a rigid, defensive posture. Her jawline was sharp, her skin porcelain-pale. Her glaringly bright red hair was pulled into a high, messy ponytail, and a heavy black stud pierced her upper cartilage. She wore her signature scowl like armor. She marched toward me, her voice dropping to a freezing register. “Move.” I looked up, colliding with her dark, heavy eyes. I lost my breath for a second. She looked exactly like Roxanne. But taller. Colder. And far more untamable. I stood up quietly and let her into the seat. Ruby slid her long legs under the desk, crossed her arms, and immediately buried her face to sleep. I just sat there, studying her profile. This was the first time I’d seen her since I had been dropped back into this world. For two weeks, she hadn’t shown her face at school. I’d heard rumors she was either haunting the arcade or running with a bad crowd downtown. But Roxanne had too much money. A massive donation to the school board ensured her daughter’s name stayed on the roster. I sighed inwardly. A stubborn mother. A hardheaded daughter. This was going to be a nightmare. Ruby slept through the entirety of AP Calculus. When the bell rang, she suddenly sat up, clutching her stomach. All the color drained from her face. I frowned, leaning in instinctively, my voice dropping low. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?” The girl cut her eyes at me, her voice dripping with venom. “Back off.” So rude. How the hell had her mother raised her? My hand moved faster than my brain. Before I realized what I was doing, my palm landed squarely on her upper back in a firm, disciplinary pat. Smack. The entire classroom went dead silent. Every pair of eyes in the room locked onto us. My hand hovered in mid-air. I couldn’t pull it back, but I couldn’t leave it there either. I forced myself to lie through my teeth. “Your hair, Ruby. It’s too bright. It’s distracting me from my notes.” Ruby’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the edge of the desk. Her jaw clenched so tight I thought it might shatter, and her eyes burned with absolute fury. She was half a second away from exploding, but the warning bell for the next period rang. The homeroom teacher walked in, catching the tail end of the tension. “Ruby? Are you trying to get me to call your mother in for another chat?” That stopped her. She swallowed the rage, her shoulders tense, and dropped her head back down onto her arms, simmering in silence. The kid behind me tapped my shoulder, his glasses reflecting the fluorescent lights with sheer awe. “Dude, you’ve got a death wish. Nobody makes Ruby back down.” I offered a dry, tight smile. Ruby wasn’t the type to just take a hit. Before she had lowered her head, she muttered a vicious promise under her breath: “After school. You’re dead.” Fine. I’ll wait. But when the final bell rang, Ruby bolted. She left in such a rush she didn’t even grab her denim jacket. I waited. And waited. The classroom emptied out, the hallways fell silent, and the janitors started their rounds. I finally slung my backpack over my shoulder to leave. Just as I turned, her jacket on the desk began to vibrate. She’d left her phone. This reckless kid. What was she in such a hurry for? I pulled the phone from the pocket. The screen lit up with a caller ID that made my heart stop. Roxanne. I didn’t want to answer it. But the phone rang. And rang. Relentlessly. In the final seconds before it went to voicemail, I swiped the screen. 2 “Where are you?” The woman’s voice was crisp, authoritative, carrying a heavy chill through the receiver. “Ma’am…” I cleared my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to say her name. After a long, suffocating pause, my face flushed hot, and I gathered my courage. “Hello, ma’am. I’m a classmate of Ruby’s—” She cut me off before I could finish. “Right. Tell her to come home.” Click. The line went dead. I stood in the empty classroom, gripping the phone. Roxanne. Do you really have so little patience left for her? As I stood there wondering how to return the phone, a flurry of text messages popped up on the lock screen. “Ruby, got the cake. Come pay for it.” “Rubes, where are you?” An address followed. I stared at the lock screen. I tried her birthday. Incorrect. I tried her mother’s birthday. Incorrect. I tried the birthday of the cat we used to have. Incorrect. Finally, guided by some ghost of a memory, I typed in my birthday. The phone unlocked. My chest seized. A wave of thick, suffocating sorrow clawed its way up my throat. After eighteen years of being gone… Someone in this world still remembered me. I rubbed my eyes hard, memorized the address, and headed out into the fading afternoon light. When I arrived at the bakery, Ruby and a group of her friends were being physically shoved out the door by the owner. The man was red in the face, waving a pair of tongs. “Fucking freeloaders! Get out of my shop!” “Kids these days, lying through your teeth!” “If you don’t have the cash, just say it! Don’t give me this ‘I forgot my phone’ crap!” Seeing their leader get humiliated, a few of the girls—sporting heavily dyed hair and torn jeans—grabbed the metal patio chairs, ready to start a riot. I sprinted forward and grabbed Ruby’s arm, pulling her back. “No fighting.” “I brought your phone.” Ruby looked at me. Her eyes were a storm of complicated emotions. But she snatched the phone, tapped her digital wallet, and paid the man. The owner’s demeanor flipped instantly. He muttered apologies and rushed to box up the cake. I stood on the sidewalk, waiting. I could hear the whispers from her friends behind me. “Is that the new boyfriend?” “No way. She was just with that college guy last week.” “Probably dumped him. Ruby never keeps a guy around for more than seven days.” I frowned. Who taught her to treat people so recklessly? I looked through the bakery window. Ruby was sitting at a small table, her posture perfectly straight, writing on a small card with absolute focus. I thought she was writing a note for some boy. I stepped closer. When I saw the words, my feet rooted to the floor. Happy Birthday, Mom. She had written it, crossed it out. Written it again. Crossed it out again. The ink was bleeding into the heavy paper. She didn’t know what to say to her. Finally, she settled on a single, distant line: Wishing CEO Blake continued success. My heart ached with a bitter, acidic sting. This kid. She wasn’t nearly as rebellious as she pretended to be. She remembered her mother’s birthday. She remembered that Roxanne hated sweets—the cake had zero fondant, and she had specifically ordered the lowest sugar option. She was so much more thoughtful, so much more fragile than I could have imagined. Before I left, I looked at her. My voice was very soft. “Your mom is waiting at home for you to have dinner.” That woman… she always hated being alone. Especially on her birthday. Go home. Keep her company. Ruby didn’t answer. She picked up the box and turned toward the door. But right before she walked out, she glanced back at me. Her voice was barely a whisper, light as dust. “Thank you.” Watching her walk away into the dusk, I couldn’t help but think of Roxanne. It was a lifetime ago. When Roxanne was a delinquent, she was far more feral than her daughter. Wild, reckless, a total firecracker. She would sleep through tutoring sessions, and the second her friends called, she’d bolt. Nine times out of ten, I’d catch her in the alley behind the local dive bar. And when I caught her, I’d drag her back by the collar. We lived across the hall from each other back then. Once I started tutoring her, her mother essentially handed over total custody of her life to me. Her mom had given me this heavy, old wooden yardstick. She used to hit Roxanne with it, but it never did any good. By the time it was passed to me, the numbers had worn completely off the wood. But somehow, that stupid piece of wood worked. Whenever Roxanne saw me holding it, she’d shrink back and quietly follow me to the library. During our senior year, she finally settled down. And miraculously, she got into a top university. The day the acceptance letters came in, both she and her mother cried. Roxanne had thrown her arms around my neck, burying her face in my chest, her tears soaking right through my shirt. Her “thank you” carried a weight that shattered me. She looked up at me and said, “I’ll listen to you from now on. Always.” 3 During the first few years we were together, she was addicted to online gaming; I would literally pull the ethernet cord out of the wall. When she tried to skip lectures to hang out at the campus bar, I would physically march her back to the lecture hall. Once, she secretly got a massive, intimidating sleeve tattoo. I grabbed her by the ear, threatening to drag her to a laser removal clinic. She panicked and furiously scrubbed at her arm with a wet napkin. “It’s a temporary decal! It’s fake! God, Kieran, you’re psycho.” I managed her life like that, every single step of the way. For four years. By the time we graduated college, Roxanne had collected every academic award and recommendation letter a professor could write. Everyone on campus knew Roxanne had a terrifyingly strict boyfriend. But I didn’t care. Dragging someone from the bottom to the absolute top is never a gentle process. After graduation, she started her own tech firm. Once the company started taking off, her new way of relieving stress was alcohol. The pressure was crushing, and she would disappear into high-end lounges, drinking until she was numb. Her medical reports were full of red flags. Severely damaged stomach lining. Chronic bleeding ulcers. One night, I dragged her out of a VIP booth. Before I could even open my mouth to lecture her, she violently wrenched her arm out of my grip. Her eyes were ice-cold. She looked at me, enunciating every single word. “Kieran. You control way too much.” “Aren’t you exhausted?” I just stared at her. The silence stretched, suffocating and heavy. Finally, she let out a long, ragged sigh. “I’m tired, Kieran.” “Being managed by you all these years… I’m just so goddamn tired.” My throat tightened, the words turning to ash. But Roxanne didn’t have the patience to coddle my feelings anymore. She didn’t say another word. She just turned around and walked away. I stood frozen on the pavement. My fists clenched at my sides. I thought about it for a very, very long time that night. The truth was, managing her all those years… It wasn’t just exhausting for her. It exhausted me, too. I knew people whispered behind my back. They called me controlling, suffocating, a tyrant. I heard it all. And I also knew that sometimes, when she was with her wealthy new friends, she would softly agree with them. “Yeah, it’s a lot. I really should have found someone a bit softer.” Once she hit the pinnacle of her success, different kinds of people started orbiting her. Things happened. Things I didn’t want to know about. But the whispers always found their way to me. I never asked. And she never explained. I just grew quieter, shrinking myself down to take up less and less space in her life. I pulled myself out of the memory. I finished the last bite of a cheap muffin I’d bought and stepped out of the bakery. Outside, Ruby’s friends were still lingering. When they saw me, they swarmed. “Hey, school boy. It’s late. Ruby said we should walk you to the bus stop.” I glanced up at the flickering streetlights. I didn’t decline. Along the walk, through their scattered gossip, I began to piece together what Ruby’s life had been like all these years. “Honestly, I feel bad for Ruby. Her dad died a long time ago.” “Her mom is literally always working. It’s like she lives in a hotel. Nobody is ever home.” “They have this massive, gorgeous house, but when Ruby got super sick last winter, she was practically dying in bed and there wasn’t even anyone to get her a glass of water.” My fingers curled into fists, my nails biting into my palms. Roxanne. Is this how you take care of my daughter? “But Ruby is fiercely loyal.” “Her mom acts like she doesn’t exist, but Ruby still buys her a custom birthday cake every single year.” “She acts all tough, but my mom says Ruby is way more mature than the rest of us.” I thought about how she acted in the classroom. The second the teacher threatened to call her mother, all the fight drained out of her. It wasn’t because she was scared. It was because she knew her mom was busy. She didn’t want to be a burden. She didn’t want her mom to have to come clean up her messes. The dyed hair, the fake piercings, the manufactured rebellion… It was all just a desperate plea for her mother to look at her. My chest physically ached. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Watch,” one of the girls scoffed. “She’s taking that cake home, but her mom won’t even touch it.” “It happens every year. Tomorrow, Ruby will bring the whole thing to school for us to eat.” “A whole custom cake, and her mom won’t take a single bite.” “I don’t know how someone can be that cold.” My heart twisted into a violent knot. So this was it. This was what my child had endured for the last eighteen years. That night, I lay in my cramped, freezing apartment, tossing and turning. My mind was consumed by the image of Ruby’s lonely, defensive posture. I couldn’t sleep. “System,” I whispered to the dark ceiling. “I want to use one of my lifelines to see what Ruby is doing right now.” 4 When I was sent back, The System granted me three “lifelines”—three chances to bend the rules of reality. Once I used all three, I would be permanently ripped from this world. But the anxiety gnawing at my bones was too much. I had to know she was okay. A holographic projection shimmered into existence in my dark room. In the projection, Ruby had just walked through the front door of a sprawling, immaculate mansion. She was holding the cake box by the string, staring at a figure sitting on the living room sofa. A woman in a sharply tailored designer suit sat there, bathed in the blue light of an iPad. She was buried in her emails. She didn’t even look up to acknowledge her daughter walking in. A long, suffocating silence stretched across the room. Ruby’s knuckles turned white around the bakery string. She looked at the back of the sofa and called out softly, “Mom—” “I’m home.” She said it twice. Nothing but silence. Ruby lowered her eyes. She just stood there in the foyer, looking utterly defeated. Watching from my bed, I felt a violent surge of anger. I wanted to shatter the projection, grab Roxanne by the collar, and shake her. It took a painfully long time before Roxanne finally set the iPad face down on the glass table and turned her head. Gold-rimmed glasses made her gaze look incredibly sharp. Her eyes were dead. Devoid of any warmth. Looking at her own flesh and blood, her face betrayed absolutely zero emotion. “Let’s eat.” There were several dishes set out on the long dining table. It was obvious she had been waiting for a while. Ruby set the cake box on the table and reached out to untie the ribbon. Roxanne’s icy voice cut through the air before she could open it. “Don’t bother.” “You know I don’t eat sweets.” That was the cake my daughter spent an hour agonizing over for you. No fondant. Low sugar. Ruby’s hand froze mid-air. She stared at her mother’s stone-cold profile. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed back every explanation, every defense. She quietly sat down and began to eat. The massive dining room was dead silent, save for the hollow clinking of silverware against porcelain. “How are your classes?” Roxanne asked without looking up. Better than yours ever were, I thought bitterly. Even when my daughter skips class, she still aces the exams. “Fine,” Ruby muttered. “Your homeroom teacher called. Said you haven’t been in class for two weeks.” Roxanne finally looked up, her gaze pinning Ruby down. “What exactly are you doing with your time?” Ruby fell silent. When the silence dragged on too long, Roxanne’s tone dropped to a dangerous octave. “You’re out roaming the streets with those degenerates, aren’t you?” Ruby clenched her hands in her lap, her voice barely audible. “Yeah.” “Do I give you an allowance so you can play pretend with a bunch of street trash?” “Look at yourself. What are you turning into?” Roxanne’s eyes locked onto the glaring red hair. Her brow furrowed in deep, visible disgust. The air in the room was suffocating. Suddenly, Ruby stood up, her chair screeching violently against the hardwood. Her hands balled into fists. “All you do is throw money at me! Why the hell do you care who I hang out with?” “You think I don’t care? You want me to just sit back and watch you rot in the gutter with them?” Roxanne slowly raised her eyes. The light caught the edge of her glasses, glinting like a blade. That kind of look… aimed at a teenage girl… It was far too heavy a burden. “I’d rather rot in the gutter than end up completely alone like you!” Ruby screamed, her voice cracking. “You’re pathetic, Mom. You’re more pathetic than me.” “In this entire world, besides my dad, has anyone ever actually loved you?” Ruby didn’t wait for an answer. She snatched her jacket off the chair and bolted out the front door. The massive, cavernous house fell dead silent. Leaving Roxanne entirely alone. She just sat there at the head of the table. Her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her back looked impossibly rigid, but the loneliness radiating from her was deafening. I watched her for a few more seconds. Then, I willed the projection to follow Ruby. Once she left the property, the visual feed glitched out. All I knew was that she had gotten into a cab. My face hardened. I called out to the void in my room. “System. Transport me to Ruby’s location.” Oakwood Cemetery. Ruby was sitting cross-legged on the frozen grass in front of my headstone. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her knees, holding herself together. I stood a few yards away, watching her trembling shoulders. A sharp, physical pain tore through my chest. She sat there for a long time. Finally, she lifted her head. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her voice was broken, scattering into the winter wind. “Dad.” “Mom… she hates me.” The raw, choked sob in her voice made my eyes burn. So Roxanne didn’t just resent me. She couldn’t even bring herself to love our daughter. “Dad, can I just come find you…?” The wind swallowed the rest of her words. Leaving only a devastating, overwhelming grief. I clenched my fists. My chest felt like it was caving in. Unable to bear it a second longer, I stepped out from the shadows and spoke, my voice thick. “Ruby.” She whipped around. She stared at me. Her dark eyes were swimming in tears, wide and terrified. Like a puppy that had been kicked out into the rain. I crouched down beside her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. My heart was breaking. “Sweetheart.” “Did that stubborn old woman make you cry again?” She instinctively tried to flinch away from my touch. But when she heard the words, she froze entirely. She looked at me, her eyes darting across my face, full of desperate suspicion. I let out a soft sigh. “When you were born, we had a cat at home.” “Three years old. He had a black patch shaped like a thumbprint right beneath his left ear.” “Do you remember?” “Your mom and I found him when we were in college.” “We named him Marble.” “Did he ever… have kittens?” Tears rapidly welled up in Ruby’s eyes, spilling over her lashes. She wiped her face aggressively with the back of her sleeve and choked out, “No.” She still couldn’t let herself believe it. “How can you prove you’re my dad? You look like you’re my age.” I looked at her face—a face that mirrored Roxanne’s so perfectly. A thousand words clawed at my throat, but none of them could explain the impossible.

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Ever since the diagnosis, the voice had been on a relentless loop. A cold, synthetic voice inside my head, practically weeping as it begged me not to hold on. “Please, just get a divorce.” “She slept with her intern the moment you were diagnosed. This marriage isn’t worth the slow, excruciating compromise!” “Without her, without this marriage, you’ll finally be free.” I woke up in a cold sweat, gasping. Beside me, Lucy immediately pulled me into her arms. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Are you hurting?” Lucy’s eyes were filled with nothing but raw concern. We were childhood sweethearts; we knew each other inside out. Since we got married, everyone in our neighborhood praised her as the perfect wife. Her? Having an affair? While she went to fetch me a warm glass of water, I reached for her phone. The passcode used to be my birthday. Now, it had been changed. Just then, the doorbell rang. Late at night, a drunken man was shouting her name outside our door. When he saw me, his grin turned mockingly wide. “Hey, brother-in-law. I just came to get something from Lucy. Do me a favor and check under her pillow. See if there’s a pair of men’s boxers there?” I didn’t say a word. I just felt a sharp, stabbing pain bloom behind my eyes. He was the intern the voice in my head had warned me about. Brody. … Before Brody could say anything else, Lucy had already called a cab and shoved him inside. When she walked back into the room, I was tearing the bed sheets apart, searching. “What are you looking for?” she asked, letting out a soft, casual laugh. “You’re really going to believe the ramblings of a drunk?” She actively lifted her pillow. “See? Anything there?” She reached out to wrap her arms around my waist, but I quietly stepped back. “A man gets wasted, calls you repeatedly, and shows up at our door in the middle of the night. Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” I stared at her, trying to catch even a flicker of guilt. But she only sighed, her face softening into a look of deep, exhausted pity. “I know you’re sick, Gary. It makes you paranoid. He’s young. He got drunk and did something stupid. It happens. Please, don’t let these thoughts ruin what we have, okay?” That was the first night we slept in separate rooms. The next morning, I didn’t make her breakfast. The silence between us froze over, thick and unyielding. By the fourth day of our cold war, Lucy hadn’t come home, and it was past midnight. Agonized, I called her phone repeatedly. When someone finally picked up, it wasn’t her. It was Brody. “Gary? You need something from Lucy?” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “I’m calling my own wife. Do I need to clear that with you?” “Whoa, man, no need to be so aggressive. I didn’t mean anything by it… It’s just that Lucy’s pretty drunk, and honestly, given how sick you are, are you sure you’re in any condition to come get her?” The line went dead. I threw on a jacket and took a cab to a private lounge downtown. Before I even opened the heavy double doors of the private room, I heard the rowdy cheering inside. “Take a shot! Take a shot!” Through the glass pane, I saw Brody walk up to Lucy with a shot glass. She pulled him in by the collar, cupping his face, and leaned in—pressing her lips to his, transferring the alcohol from her mouth to his. Bang! I kicked the door open. The rage in my chest was a physical fire, and the laughter in the room died instantly. “Gary?” Lucy frowned, her eyes scanning my pale face. “What are you doing here?” I nodded toward the innocent-looking kid beside her. “Your little friend practically dared me to come. You think I’d stay home?” Brody scrambled to defend himself. “Lucy, I swear, when you went to the restroom, he kept calling… I just didn’t want him to worry, so I told him we were at a business dinner…” Lucy didn’t look angry at him at all. Instead, she patted the back of his hand reassuringly. “It’s not your fault.” She stood up and walked toward me. “Have you made enough of a scene? Are you satisfied now?” Without waiting for my reply, she brushed past me and walked out. I tried to follow her, but a sudden, blinding pain exploded in my skull. I slid down against the wall, clutching my head. “Lucy… it hurts… I’m hurting so bad…” That night, I was rushed to the hospital and admitted. Lucy ran around handling the paperwork, getting the medications, doing everything she could. By the time she could finally sit down, dawn was breaking. She sat by my bedside, exhausted, pulling the blanket over my hand with the IV drip. “Listen to the doctor, okay? You’re going to be fine. Look at you, making such a massive deal out of nothing.” Her dismissive tone ignited a dry, hot anger in my chest. “Nothing? You think this is a minor thing, Lucy? If I hadn’t shown up tonight, would the two of you have ended up in bed together?!” “Gary!!” she yelled, her eyes suddenly bloodshot and terrifying. “Do you have any idea what it takes to close a client?! You sit at home all day doing absolutely nothing, so of course you have time to make up these sick fantasies! Do you have any idea how exhausting my job is?!” The words hung in the air. We both went completely still. When I was first diagnosed, the nausea had been unbearable. I lived in front of the toilet bowl, losing twenty pounds in a single month. She was the one who begged me to quit my job. “Just stay home and focus on getting better,” she’d said, holding my face in her hands. “Do you really think I can’t support my own husband? Don’t worry about the money.” Those sweet promises had curdled into the sharpest knives. A flash of regret crossed her eyes. She ran a hand through her messy hair, looking frustrated, and reached for my hand. “Gary, I didn’t mean it like that… What are you hungry for? I’ll go grab you something.” I stared at her, then slowly held out my palm. “Your phone.” She froze for a beat, forcing a dry chuckle. “What? Still don’t trust me?” I didn’t blink. “Your phone.” “Why did you change the passcode? What is in there that I’m not allowed to see?” Lucy shoved her hands into her pockets, her fingers clenching around something. She glared at me, her face contorting with sudden, ugly rage. Suddenly, she whipped the phone out and slammed it onto the floor. The screen shattered, shards of glass sliding right up to my bed. “Are you happy now?” she hissed. “Are we done throwing tantrums?” She walked out, slamming the door. The empty hospital room swallowed me whole. I stayed in that ward for seven days. Lucy never showed up. Every morning, the nurses looked at me with pity. Compared to the other patients whose bedsides were crowded with loving family members, I was a ghost. When it was time to discharge, the young nurse finally asked gently, “Do you want me to call your emergency contact? There are a lot of post-discharge instructions to go over.” I didn’t say anything, which she took as a yes. But deep down, a pathetic ember of hope flared up. Unfortunately, after four or five calls, Lucy never picked up. The nurse looked at me sympathetically. “Maybe she’s in a meeting?” I forced a smile, thanked her, and called an Uber myself. When the car pulled up to our apartment building, I looked up and saw the warm glow of the lights in our living room window. Lucy was home. Then why didn’t she answer? Was she just punishing me? A cold, quiet fury rose within me. I headed upstairs, determined to have it out with her. But the moment I opened the door, I froze. There was a pair of men’s leather dress shoes sitting neatly on the mat. Upbeat music was blasting from the speakers, so loud they hadn’t even heard the front door click. “Lucy, grab the bowls! Dinner is ready!” “Should we open that red wine I bought?” Brody’s voice floated out from the kitchen. I walked forward like a zombie, watching through the open doorway as Lucy wrapped her arms around his waist from behind while he wore an apron. “Smells amazing,” she murmured against his shoulder. “But honestly, I’d rather eat you first…” My mind went entirely numb. It felt as if they were the married couple, living their beautiful, domestic life, and I was just an intruder who had accidentally walked into the wrong apartment. Brody giggled, turning his head to kiss her lips. It was in that split second of turning that they finally saw me standing there. I slowly took a step forward. Lucy instinctively stepped in front of Brody, shielding him. Tears had crept down my face, tasting salty and cold. When I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper. “Lucy… why?” Suddenly, I was ten years old again, standing in the doorway of my childhood home on a warm Tuesday afternoon. I had gotten out of school early, clutching a straight-A report card, desperate to show my parents. Instead, I walked in to find my father in the back bedroom with a woman from down the street, grunting like stray dogs in an alley. My mother had come home early that day, too. She was carrying two heavy bags of groceries, smiling warmly. “Go do your homework, sweetheart! I’m making lasagna tonight!” I never got to eat that lasagna. Because seconds later, she was chasing my father down the street with a butcher knife, while he scrambled to pull up his pants. I didn’t grab a knife. I just stood there, static as stone, watching Brody frantically gather his things and bolt out the door. Shortly after he left, Lucy walked past me holding a heavy black trash bag. “Gary, I… I’m just going to throw this out. I’ll be right back.” I snatched the bag from her hands. Before she could react, I ripped it open, dumping the contents onto the floor. Thigh-high stockings. Handcuffs. Lipstick. A spare toothbrush. Lace lingerie. A remote-controlled toy. The air in the room felt thick enough to suffocate us. Shaking, I walked over to the front door, turned the deadbolt, and locked it from the inside. “Starting today, you aren’t going anywhere,” I whispered. “If you try to walk out that door, we both die.” On the first day of our confinement, Lucy acted normal. She got down on her knees, crying, begging for forgiveness. She swore it was a temporary lapse in judgment. “…You were too sick for us to be intimate, and Brody was assigned to my team. Gary, I’m a human being. I have needs! I swear I’ll never do it again, please!” She repented like a devout sinner, clinging to my feet. She cleaned every corner of the house until it was spotless, cooking gourmet meals and brewing herbal soups for me. But by the third day, her phone wouldn’t stop ringing. She looked at me, her eyes pleading. “There’s a crisis at work, Gary. Please, just let me go for a few hours. I’ll come straight back. You can set a timer, track my location! You can monitor me the whole time!” I held her wrist so tightly my knuckles turned white. “Brody is at the office, isn’t he? You’re just going to see him.” Lucy let out a long, weary sigh, reaching up to gently stroke my hair. “Fine, fine. I won’t go. Stop overthinking. I’ll stay right here with you. I won’t leave.” We had one more day of fragile peace. Until the fifth day, in the dead of night. I heard the faint rustle of keys. I got out of bed to find Lucy quietly unlocking the front door. “What are you doing?” She jumped, startled, then rubbed her temples with a look of pure exhaustion. “Gary, you are ruining my life. I have so much work piling up. I promise you, the second I finish this meeting, I will come right back.” I lunged forward, grabbing her arm, shaking my head violently. “I won’t let you leave! You’re going to him, aren’t you? No!” Panic and madness consumed me. I threw my body against the door, completely out of my mind. “Gary! You are a literal psycho!” Lucy struggled against me. Finally, snapping under the tension, she swung her hand and slapped me hard across the face. Slap! My cheek burned. Her sneer pierced through the ringing in my ears. “Now I finally see why your dad left. Your mother was a lunatic, and so are you. Why don’t you just go join her in the grave?!” The heavy door slammed shut behind her, leaving me alone in the dark. My mother did go crazy after that day. She refused to sign the divorce papers, spending her days pacing the house, screaming curses, her face smeared with tears and saliva. She would beat me, scream at me, and I was too terrified to even cry out loud. Back then, Lucy would always find excuses to sneak me into her house. She would share her snacks and let me read her comic books. “Don’t be scared, Gary,” she’d whisper, her little hand squeezing mine. “I’ve got you. I’ll protect you.” When my mother finally took her own life, teenage Lucy was the one who stood by me through the funeral, kneeling beside me to thank every guest who came to offer condolences. “Gary, from now on, I am your family.” She had been the sole light in my dark world. She was the one who had stitched my childhood wounds closed. And now, she was the one ripping them open and pouring salt into them. Lucy didn’t answer my calls for the rest of the night. I didn’t sleep a wink. The next morning, her best friend called me. “Gary, this is messed up, even for you… Every woman makes mistakes. But exposing them online like this? How is Lucy supposed to show her face ever again?” Bewildered, I hung up and opened my laptop. That was when I saw it. Someone had leaked private photos of Lucy and Brody online under a sickening headline: Cheating Scum: A Love Story. There were uncensored photos and videos. In the office, in our bedroom, in her car, in a public park… Lucy, pouring all her passion into him. Those eyes, which used to look only at me, were filled with nothing but desire for another man. But I hadn’t posted those photos. Panicking, I tried calling her again. She still wouldn’t pick up. Desperate, I left a voicemail: “Tonight at eight. The Ferris wheel where I proposed. I’ll wait for you.” Hours later, a text came back. Okay. Eight o’clock. See you there. Those six words brought a tiny sliver of peace to my chest. I even reached for a tie—something I hadn’t touched since my diagnosis. I arrived two hours early, sitting on a bench beneath the massive wheel. Watching the couples and families pass by, a deep, aching envy hollowed out my chest. Years ago, we had been one of them. When the Ferris wheel was first built, Lucy had dragged me here, practically bursting with excitement. “Gary, they say if a couple kisses at the very top, they’ll stay together forever.” With her cheeks flushed, she had dropped to one knee in the small glass cabin, pulling out a ring. “Marry me,” she’d said. “I swear I’ll love you forever.” The memory was so vivid it burned. By the time I snapped out of it, Lucy was already sitting quietly beside me. “Gary…” she said softly. “Let’s go.” Her voice was flat. I followed her, reaching out to grasp her hand, but she pulled away. Even after we sat down inside the cabin and the wheel began to turn, she refused to look at me. After a heavy silence, I finally spoke. “The photos… I swear, I didn’t do that.” “You didn’t?” She let out a dry, mocking laugh, finally turning her eyes to me. “Gary, stop acting. Didn’t you want everyone to know? Well, congratulations. You got what you wanted.” “But let me tell you something,” she continued, her voice rising, echoing inside the small glass box. “You ruined his reputation. Now, I have to take responsibility for him!” Right there, in the very spot where she had promised to love me forever, she was telling me she had to take care of another man. It felt like ice water poured directly down my throat. I shook my head, desperate. “It wasn’t me! I swear to God, Lucy, it wasn’t me!” “You said you only loved me!” Her face turned cold as stone as she violently wrenched her hand from my grip. “I genuinely detest you right now, Gary. You make me sick.” Her words paralyzed me. Before I could process the pain, the cabin touched the ground. Lucy didn’t even wait for the attendant; she shoved the latch open, leaped out, and slammed the door shut from the outside, locking me in. A second later, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Brody. Since you love the Ferris wheel so much, why don’t you stay up there for a while? I looked toward the control booth. It was empty. Through the glass, I watched Lucy wrap her arm around Brody’s tall frame as they walked away into the night. Suddenly, a violent spasm of pain exploded in my brain. The world spun. I threw myself against the glass door, screaming in absolute terror. “Help! Please, help me!” “Stop the wheel! I’m sick! Help!” By the time the ambulance arrived, I had lost consciousness. I was vomiting blood, coating the floor of the cabin. With the very last thread of my consciousness, I felt myself being lifted onto a stretcher. “Where is his family? Do we have an emergency contact?!” I weakly gestured for the pen, signing the consent form myself. I managed a small, empty smile. “Sorry…” I whispered. “My family is all dead. There’s no one.”

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Grace hated it when I talked at the dinner table. “Chewing with your mouth open is incredibly rude,” she’d say, her voice flat and dismissive. Then she would slip her AirPods in, scrolling through videos on her screen, leaving me to swallow my words and my pride. After two years of this, we were nothing more than strangers sharing a lease, quietly passing the salt. I used to think adult love just naturally quieted down over time—that passion simply rusted into a dull, comfortable silence. Until the day I left work early and caught her at the noodle bar down the street, sitting in a corner booth with her new colleague, Troy. He was complaining about the scallions in his bowl, so she picked them out for him, one by one, with her own chopsticks. He was talking about a television show finale, and she listened, laughing and chatting with him for half an hour. It turned out she knew exactly how to make someone feel special. But my quiet heartbreak wasn’t even worth her putting down her fork. She had plenty of things she wanted to share—just not with me. That night, when she came home, she set her iPad on the table as usual and asked, “What are we watching tonight?” I put my fork down. “Nothing.” “Grace, I’m done sharing this table with you.” … When I put down my fork, Grace finally looked up at me. The reality show on her iPad was still laughing, but she hit pause. “You were at the noodle bar with Troy this afternoon, weren’t you?” A flicker of exhaustion crossed her face. She didn’t deny it. “We had to work late. We just grabbed a quick bite.” “It’s Troy’s first time leading a project on his own, and he’s incredibly stressed,” she continued, her tone reasonable, almost clinical. “As his director, it’s only natural for me to check in on him.” I didn’t let it go. “So picking the scallions out of his bowl is part of the job description too?” She hesitated. “He has a sensitive stomach.” “And talking about some drama series for thirty minutes? You…” Grace sighed, running a hand through her hair. “He was on the verge of a panic attack, Jesse. He needed a distraction.” Every excuse sounded perfectly logical, leaving me looking like the petty, paranoid partner. The fatigue in her eyes deepened, turning into a silent accusation. “Jesse, is this because you’ve been cooped up at home for too long? You’re starting to make mountains out of molehills.” My fingers curled into my palm. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “But every time you open your mouth, it’s about mundane household stuff.” “The electric bill, grocery prices, the leaky faucet, which coat needs to go to the dry cleaners. My work is exhausting enough. When I come home, I just want some peace and quiet while I eat.” “We’re adults. We don’t need to throw a tantrum over dinner.” Sitting across from her, I felt a sudden, hollow realization. I had become nothing but background noise to her—static that always interrupted when she wanted to relax. Seeing my silence, Grace stood up and ladled some soup into my bowl. “Don’t overthink things. Just eat.” It was the tone she used to quiet a difficult child. But her next words went cold much faster than the soup. “About the wedding… I think we’re going to have to push the date back again.” I looked up. Grace avoided my gaze, picking up her chopsticks. “The new project is at a critical stage. I can’t step away right now.” “What about the tuxedo fitting? The bridal boutique booked us for next week.” Her hand paused in mid-air. “Let’s cancel it for now. We’re getting married eventually anyway. There’s no rush.” She had no anticipation for our wedding. It hadn’t always been like this. I remembered when the cottonwood fluff drifted outside my grandmother’s porch. My parents were arguing over who had to take me, treating me like a piece of luggage they both wanted to leave behind. Grace had run through the pouring rain, shielding a warm paper bag of bagels under her coat, and thrust them into my arms. “From now on, you’ve got me.” So, years later, when the scaffolding collapsed at her construction site, I didn’t think twice. I threw myself forward and shoved her out of the way. The steel beams crushed my shoulder and my back, and the thick dust filled my lungs. When I woke up in the hospital, she was holding my hand, her whole body shaking as she wept. “Jesse, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.” She had cried so hard, with such fierce honesty. Maybe she hadn’t been lying then. But “making this up to you” slowly morphed into “I’ll marry you eventually.” Promises wear thin, until nothing is left but obligation. Before we could finish eating, Grace’s phone buzzed. Troy’s name lit up the screen. She shot me a brief, apologetic look, but she answered it anyway. The panicked voice on the other end was audible even to me—the client was changing the specs last minute, and Troy didn’t know how to handle it. Grace immediately stood up. “Take a breath. Let me look at it.” She walked into the study, closing the door halfway. I sat in the dining room, listening to her lowered, gentle voice as she broke down the problem step-by-step. She didn’t find his questions tedious. She didn’t mind that he was going in circles. Instead, she laughed softly, encouraging him. “You’re already doing better than most junior designers.” I sat alone at the table, my old back injury flaring up with a dull, throbbing pain. The soup went cold. The food congealed. The apartment was empty, save for the warm, patient murmur drifting from the study. I didn’t go in to confront her. What would be the point? She would have a hundred logical reasons ready. I stood up and scraped the leftovers into the trash. As I poured the cold soup down the drain, the steam rose and vanished in an instant—just like the years of resentment I had quietly accumulated. Once warm, now completely frozen over. I went back to the bedroom and pulled out a dusty hard drive from the back of the closet. It was filled with the interior design portfolios I had created years ago. I used to stay up all night working on these, my blood buzzing with excitement. Eventually, I had tucked them away, because Grace had told me my health was too fragile, that the doctor said I needed complete rest. “Don’t push yourself,” she’d said. “I’ve got us covered.” The screen glowed in the dark, illuminating the blueprints I had abandoned for two years. I created a new social media account and uploaded my first draft. The caption read: Even when you’re living alone, you still have to build a life. I stared at the words, a tight knot forming in my chest. After all that love, I was back to being just me. The next morning, Grace stopped me just as she was heading out the door. “Jesse, can you find an old file for me?” She was fastening her cufflinks, her eyes glued to her phone. “The blueprints for that early model unit we did. The client wants to use it as a reference.” “Sure,” I said. She didn’t say thank you. She took my helpfulness for granted, as if it were simply part of my function. At the bottom of the storage bin, under a layer of dust, was an old accordion folder. A few hand-written budget sheets fell out. It was my handwriting. Back when Grace was still trying to get her firm off the ground, I had pulled countless all-nighters with her. She drew the big picture; I filled in the details. She charmed the clients; I crunched the numbers. I handed the folder to her. She opened it, scanned a couple of pages, and smiled. “You always know where everything is. So reliable.” She was praising me, but only as one praises a well-oiled machine or a silent, ticking clock that keeps her life running on time. That evening, Grace took me to a company dinner. It wasn’t a planned invitation. Her team had been teasing her about never bringing her fiancé around, so she sent me a last-minute text: [If you’re free tonight, come grab dinner with the team.] I changed into a dark button-down shirt and put on the silver necklace she had bought me. As I fastened the clasp, I felt a stupid, childish spark of hope. The private dining room at the restaurant was buzzing. When Grace opened the door, all eyes turned to us. “Grace! Aren’t you going to introduce us?” “This is Jesse Ward,” she said, her voice casual. No mention of her fiancé. No affectionate titles. Just Jesse Ward. I sat beside her, listening to them talk about the new project. Troy was talking animatedly about how renovating older brownstones shouldn’t just be about historical charm; it needed to be about “shareability” and creating viral moments that young professionals would want to post on Instagram. His fingers swiped rapidly across his iPad screen. For a brief second, I saw my younger self in him—that burning belief that your ideas could change the world. I couldn’t help but chime in. “Average families don’t look for viral moments first.” The table fell quiet. “They care about whether the kitchen has enough counter space for prep, whether an elderly parent might trip on the stairs in the dark, and if there are enough outlets by the kids’ study desks.” “An old house isn’t just an Instagram backdrop. It’s a place someone has to live in every single day.” Troy blinked, then nodded earnestly. “That’s actually a really great perspective!” But Grace smoothly cut in with a polite chuckle. “Jesse used to be an assistant designer, so he’s still a bit sensitive about those minor details.” I sat there, suddenly not knowing where to put my hands. “But his health isn’t great, so he stepped away from the industry a while ago.” With that, she steered the conversation right back to Troy. They kept talking, and I sat in silence. I felt like an old, folded blueprint. Full of useful information, but shoved in a drawer because no one wanted to bother opening it up. After dinner, Troy was waiting for an Uber by the curb. “Mr. Ward, what you said earlier… it was actually more practical than half the stuff we discuss in our official meetings.” Before I could reply, Grace stepped up and handed him her coat. “It’s freezing tonight, and didn’t you just get over a cold?” “Oh, no, I’m fine,” Troy insisted, but Grace naturally draped the wool coat over his arm anyway. “Keep it on.” I, too, had worn her coats before. When my back injury flared up, she used to wrap me up so tightly, warning me not to catch a chill. But tonight, the cold wind whipped down the collar of my shirt. The dull ache in my shoulders began to burn, and she didn’t even glance my way. On the drive home, Grace wouldn’t stop talking about Troy. She talked about his ambition, his drive, how refreshing it was to see a young designer with so much fire. “Unlike so many people who just let themselves get ground down by life.” I wanted to ask her: Do you mean me? When we got home, I pulled out my passport, my bank cards, and packed a few clothes. The canvas duffel bag was small, and even after putting everything in, there was still empty space. I had lived in this apartment for so long, yet the things that actually belonged to me were pathetic. I texted an old friend from my design days, asking if he knew of any cheap rentals. [You’re moving? Any specific neighborhood?] [Doesn’t matter if the light is bad. Just need a place to sleep.] Grace walked out of the shower and saw me sitting on the edge of the bed. “Why aren’t you asleep yet?” I slid the duffel bag under the bed with my foot. “Just about to.” She was so used to me being there. She had no idea that I was already calculating exactly how much it would cost me to leave her. Grace’s firm had landed the model unit renovation for an old apartment complex. The client’s budget was razor-thin, but their demands were high. They wanted high-end functionality without the high-end cost. Her team had been stuck for days. Troy had proposed a trendy, modern overhaul—an open-concept kitchen, arched doorways, full-wall built-ins, and smart LED lighting. It sounded beautiful on paper, but the building’s load-bearing walls couldn’t be touched, the old plumbing couldn’t be easily rerouted, and the natural light was terrible. The moment those pretty renderings hit the actual construction site, they were going to crumble. Grace came home incredibly late that night. I was just about to shut down my laptop when she did something rare—she sat down right next to me. “Jesse,” she said, handing me her iPad. “You know these old building layouts better than anyone. Take a look at this. Just as a favor to me.” “You don’t have to deal with the client. Just give me some feedback. It won’t take much out of you.” Whenever she needed me, she was masterfully precise with her boundaries. Just a little. Just this once. But my doctor had been explicit. No all-nighters. No prolonged desk work. Avoid dust and heavy construction sites. The old nerve damage in my back was connected to my respiratory tract; when it flared up, the pain felt like a hot blade pressing into my chest. She looked at me, a trace of her younger self lingering in her eyes. I remembered the early days of her startup, when she would curl up on my grandmother’s porch with her laptop, her eyes bloodshot. Jesse, I don’t want to fail. The echo of that old tenderness was a powerful trap. My heart softened. “Email it to me.” Grace let out a long sigh of relief. “Thank you so much.” I worked straight through the night until the sun came up. I rerouted the traffic flow, slashed the material costs, and drew up a list of affordable alternatives. By the end, my shoulder was throbbing so violently my fingers went numb. I popped a couple of painkillers and kept going. At four in the morning, I sent the completed files to Grace. Her reply came almost instantly. [You’re a lifesaver! Thank you!] Not a single word asking how I was feeling. I was in so much pain. The next afternoon, the client demanded an unscheduled on-site inspection. Grace was stuck in an external meeting, leaving Troy to lead the team to the site alone. He couldn’t decipher several of my critical structural notes, and the contractor was about to tear down a wall they weren’t supposed to touch. The contractor called Grace. Two minutes later, she called me. “Jesse, can you run down there?” I was lying in bed, my voice raspy and thin. “Grace, I really don’t feel well today.” There was a pause on the line. “The site is only ten minutes from the apartment.” “This project is crucial for the firm. Troy is still new; he can’t handle a crisis like this. Please, Jesse.” My lingering love for the craft overrode my body’s warnings. I got up and dressed. The dust in the old building was suffocating. The stairwell was narrow, and the elevator was broken. By the time I climbed to the sixth floor, cold sweat was dripping down my spine. The unit was a chaotic mess. The contractor, the client, and the design team were shouting over each other. Troy stood in the corner, his face pale. I grabbed the blueprints out of the contractor’s hands and pointed out three specific modifications that would blow the budget. I explained the exact plumbing layout, the structural load limits, and the alternative storage solutions. The client peppered me with technical questions, and I answered them one by one. My throat felt like sandpaper; my lungs burned. “Now this is a plan we can actually build,” the client representative finally said, satisfied. By the time Grace arrived, the situation had stabilized. She walked through the door and immediately rushed over to Troy, who was standing by the wall with red eyes. “Are you okay? Did they scare you?” “I was just so afraid of ruining everything,” Troy whispered. She smoothed his hair back gently. “You did great.” I stood there, surrounded by drywall dust, holding myself up against the wall, trying to breathe. That night, I went to the ER to get put on oxygen. I had to wait two hours in the crowded waiting room before they called my name. While I was hooked up to the machine, an old colleague sent me a screenshot of Grace’s company group chat. The credits for the approved model unit plan read: [Lead Designer: Troy Kent] [Project Director: Grace Porter] My name wasn’t anywhere on it. I texted Grace. [Why is Troy’s name on my design?] She called me back immediately. “Jesse, don’t take this the wrong way.” “You’re not in the industry anymore. Having your name on it doesn’t do anything for you.” “Troy is just starting out. He needs this win to establish himself. Besides, we’re getting married. My successes are your successes anyway, right?” So my sleepless nights, my physical pain, were just currency to buy someone else’s future. My name was something she could just erase. The doctor walked over and reviewed my chart. “You can’t keep pushing yourself like this, Mr. Ward. If you keep ignoring these flare-ups, the damage is going to become permanent.” I nodded quietly, opened my phone, and signed the lease on that dark, cramped apartment. Then another text came from Grace. [The team is celebrating the project approval tonight. Since you’re not feeling well, you should stay home and rest.] I took a deep breath of oxygen and typed back: [Okay.] The day before I was supposed to move, the bridal boutique called. “Hi, Mr. Ward, just calling to confirm your tuxedo fitting next week. Ms. Porter’s assistant said you both would be coming in.” Before I could answer, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from Grace. I switched over. Her voice was hurried, frantic. “Jesse, I won’t be home for dinner tonight.” “Some senior designer just embarrassed Troy in front of the client. He’s a mess. I have to take him to meet an important contact to smooth things over.” She spoke rapidly, as if trying to head off any argument. “And I’ll be out of town for the next few days. We have to secure the follow-up contract.” I pressed my hand against the cool glass of the window. The bridal shop was still holding on the other line. “What about our fitting?” “Jesse, can we please put the wedding stuff on hold for five minutes? You know how overwhelmed I am right now. I promised I’d marry you, and I’m not going back on my word.” It didn’t sound like love. It sounded like a debt she was begrudgingly agreeing to pay. Her voice softened slightly, carrying a hint of irritation. “Just let me get through this busy stretch, okay? Don’t make things harder for me right now.” When was it ever not “right now”? During her startup phase, it was the hardest time for the business. When she got her footing, she was too busy expanding. Now, with the new project, it was a critical transition. I switched back to the bridal boutique. “Mr. Ward? Are we still on for next week?” Below my window, a neighbor was walking a golden retriever, carrying a bag of groceries, moving at a slow, peaceful pace. The world was moving forward, warm and messy, while I had spent years frozen in place, waiting. “Cancel it,” I said. The clerk sounded confused. “Would you like to reschedule?” “No. Just cancel.” That night, I came down with a fever. The old injury flared, a dull, rusted hook digging into my spine, making every breath shallow and painful. I went to the medicine cabinet, only to realize I had used the last of my prescription and forgotten to refill it. I was always refilling things in this house, but my own needs were always the easiest to overlook. I sent Grace a message: [I’m really sick, and I’m out of medication. Can you stop by the pharmacy on your way back?] No reply. I forced myself out of bed and drove to the urgent care clinic myself. By the time I finished my IV drip and walked out, it was pouring rain. I stood under the clinic’s awning, shivering, without an umbrella. As I pulled out my phone to call a rideshare, a familiar black SUV rolled slowly past the entrance. It was moving slow enough for me to see into the passenger seat. Troy was sitting there, wrapped in Grace’s wool coat. She was leaning over, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, her eyes filled with a soft, focused warmth. Rain splattered against my face. On my screen, the message—I’m really sick—still sat there, unread. After my accident, Grace had sobbed at my bedside, murmuring over and over how terrified she was of losing me. The irony of human nature is so cruel. When we think we’re about to lose something, we cherish it with our lives. But once it’s safely ours, we don’t mind watching it bleed. The next morning, Grace left for her business trip with Troy, just as planned. It made moving out remarkably easy. I left the apartment spotless. I washed and folded the table linens. I organized her seasonal clothes by color. I put expiration labels on all the food in the fridge. Just as I had done a thousand times over the last two years. I made sure her life was perfectly ordered, and then I quietly extracted myself from it. The mover looked around the kitchen. “Are we leaving all the cookware?” “Yes,” I said. “Leave it.” I only took my drafting board and my measuring tape. Before I got into the truck, I forwarded the bridal shop’s cancellation confirmation to Grace, along with a short note: [Grace, you don’t have to marry me anymore.] When she saw the message, she was at a dinner lounge, drinking to protect Troy. A client had been pressuring Troy to drink, and his face had gone pale. Grace had snatched the glass from his hand and downed it in one go. Her phone buzzed in her hand. When she read the words, her brow furrowed. Her first instinct was annoyance. Again? Why does he have to throw a fit right now? She shot back a quick reply: [Stop acting out. We’ll talk when I get home.] A few days later. Around ten at night, Grace walked through the front door, exhausted from her trip. The apartment was pitch black. She assumed I was asleep. “Jesse, I’m home,” she called out. She flipped the light switch. The souvenir gift box she was holding slipped from her fingers and crashed to the floor. Her eyes widened in shock.

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In the fifth year of my marriage to Ruby, I suddenly began to see the leaderboards in everyone’s minds. On my mother’s leaderboard, I was number one. On my best friend’s, I was number two—right behind his newborn son. Even the owner of the bagel shop downstairs ranked me sixth. Heart full of warmth, I looked at Ruby’s. Number one: her mother. Number two: Darren. It was me! I was second. I smiled for an entire day. Until my eyes drifted down to number six: Oliver. A name I had never heard in my life. I told myself it didn’t matter. I was second; he was only sixth. But over the next few days, his name crept upward, slot by slot, until he was almost neck-and-neck with me. That night, Ruby came home and wrapped her arms around me as usual. “I missed you,” she whispered. I looked at the leaderboard floating above her head. Oliver, now sitting at number three, was still climbing. “Ruby,” I said quietly. “Who is Oliver?” Her arms around my waist stiffened for a fraction of a second. … The pause was too brief, so fleeting it felt like a trick of my imagination. Ruby quickly looked down at me, her expression smooth and effortless. “A new designer on my team. He’s assisting me with the latest project, so I’m showing him the ropes.” She smiled, reaching up to ruffle my hair the way she always did. “Why do you ask? You’re not actually getting jealous of a coworker, are you?” I looked up at her. Above her head, Oliver’s name sat firmly in the number three spot. It didn’t even flicker. If he were just a coworker, my sudden question should have caused at least a tiny ripple in her mind. A momentary panic, or even mild annoyance. But there was nothing. I mumbled a quiet “Oh,” and took a sip of water. I kept the glass pressed against my lips for a long time, staring into the dark liquid. The next morning, Ruby left twenty minutes earlier than usual. She claimed the morning rush hour had been brutal lately. The kitchen island still held a warm glass of milk and a perfectly fried egg, the crusts of my toast carefully trimmed off. She had done this every single morning of our five-year marriage. I stood by the door, waving goodbye and telling her to drive safe with a smile. But the moment her taillights vanished around the corner, a strange impulse took over. I opened the location-sharing app on my phone. Her car wasn’t heading toward her office. Instead, it detoured, stopping in an unfamiliar residential neighborhood for about fifteen minutes before starting up again. I stared at the flashing red dot, my chest tightening. The third day, it was the exact same time, the exact same detour. By the fourth day, I no longer stood by the window to wave. I just watched her go, then watched the GPS dot crawl to that same quiet street and pause. Every morning she left, Oliver’s name edged a fraction closer to mine. It wasn’t a sudden leap—just a slow, agonizing crawl. But it was enough to leave me hollowed out with anxiety all day long. It happened at night, too. Twice she told me she had to work late, but her location hovered over an unfamiliar apartment complex miles away from her office. I stared at the street address until my eyes burned. One evening, I sat at the dining table, watching her lean over the counter making pour-over coffee. A sweet, floral scent of lavender syrup slowly filled our apartment, seeping into every corner of the home we built together. It was a flavor I had never bought. A scent that didn’t belong to us. Ruby brought the mug over, placing it near my hand. There was a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of tension in her eyes. “Try it,” she said. I took a sip. It was sweet, velvety, with a subtle floral creaminess. It was nothing like the bold, black americanos we had both drank for years. I looked up. “Since when do you like lavender?” She hesitated, just a beat too long, before laughing it off. “Just wanted to try something new for a change.” That split second of hesitation felt like a needle pricking my eye. Later that night, while she was in the shower, she left her phone on the sofa. The screen was still unlocked, open to her Notes app. I only meant to glance at it. Lavender syrup to milk ratio: 3 to 7. He prefers it a little sweeter. He. Not a name. Just a simple, devastating pronoun. My finger hovered over the glass screen, completely frozen. The sound of running water continued in the bathroom. I slid the phone back exactly where it had been, pretending I had seen nothing. That night, we curled up on the couch to watch a movie. She leaned back against my chest. On screen, people were laughing, but I couldn’t process a single line of dialogue. Her phone buzzed. She picked it up, and a soft, barely visible smile touched the corners of her lips as she typed a brief reply. The whole thing took less than five seconds. But in those five seconds, Oliver’s name surged forward on her leaderboard, landing right against my heels in the number two spot. I could feel her chest press against me, her heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t because of me. When she put the phone down, she reached out and wrapped her arms tighter around my waist, pulling me close. It felt like compensation. Or perhaps, she was trying to hold down a secret. I couldn’t sleep. The yellow glow of the streetlights cut through the gap in the curtains, painting the contours of her face. She was sleeping peacefully, her features relaxed, a faint, contented smile gracing her lips. I used to love watching her sleep. But that night, my gaze drifted upward. The leaderboard hung silently above her head. Number one: Her mother. Number two: Darren. Number two: Oliver. A tie. I stared at our names sitting side by side, feeling as if I’d been hit squarely in the chest. Five years of marriage, balanced perfectly on the scales against a man she had known for God knows how long. I gently lifted her hand off my waist, turned over to face the cold drywall, and kept my eyes wide open until the sun came up. The next morning, while doing the laundry, I found a crumpled receipt in her coat pocket. The name of the cafe was unfamiliar. The timestamp read 7:48 AM. Exactly during those twenty minutes she’d been leaving early. I carefully smoothed out the slip of paper. Two lavender lattes. We only ever drank black coffee. She hadn’t been practicing a new flavor for herself. She was learning how to make it exactly the way another man liked it. Sunlight streamed over the edge of the laundry basket, but my fingertips went entirely cold as I held the thin paper. After a long moment, I folded the receipt back up and slipped it into her pocket. Then I sat on the balcony, pulling my knees to my chest, unable to move for hours. The leaderboard didn’t lie. The receipt didn’t lie. The only liar in this house was her. I looked up the coffee shop online. Navigating through the tagged photos on Instagram, I easily found Oliver’s profile. He was a film photographer. His feed was filled with pictures of stray cats, moody skies, city lights reflecting off the river, and pour-over setups. He looked quiet, clean-cut, like a fresh, blank sheet of paper. I scrolled down his feed, post by post. When I hit a photo of the riverfront at night, my thumb froze. I knew that exact spot. Ruby and I had walked that path a thousand times during our college years. The iron railings, the vintage streetlamps, the distant silhouette of the bridge—I could have drawn them from memory with my eyes closed. The caption was simple: “Someone brought me to see the best view in the city.” My breath hitched. That was my place. Our place. And she had taken someone else there to trace our footsteps. I kept scrolling. I found a photo of his desk. Tucked into the corner of the frame was a fountain pen—black body, platinum clip. It was the Montblanc I had bought for Ruby. When she got accepted into her dream graduate program, I spent months scrimping and saving to buy her that pen. She had kissed my wrist and promised, “I’ll use this every single day, and every time I do, I’ll think of you.” Months ago, she told me she lost it at the office. I had torn the apartment apart trying to find it for her. It wasn’t lost. She had given it away. I touched my wrist, feeling a cold chill seep into my skin. In another post, Oliver shared a screenshot of an obscure indie documentary—the exact one Ruby had suddenly started watching. I had begged her to watch movies with me for years, but she always complained they were boring, that she’d rather just sleep. It took me five years, and I couldn’t change a single habit of hers. Oliver had been in her life for three months, and she had already rewritten her taste in coffee, movies, and hobbies. I looked up toward our bedroom closet. She’d bought so many new clothes recently—sharper tailoring, brighter colors, moving away from her usual muted palette. Once, I had pulled her toward a mirror in a department store, picking out a beautiful light-gray trench coat for her. She’d dismissed it: “Who has the energy to dress up like that?” I had bought us couple’s gym memberships; she never went once. I bought her luxury hand creams, which she left untouched because she “hated the sticky feeling.” But lately, she was going to pilates, wearing expensive perfume, and keeping her hands meticulously soft. Five years of marriage couldn’t inspire her to change. But the moment Oliver arrived, she reinvented herself. It wasn’t that she was incapable of effort. She just didn’t want to make it for me. That afternoon, I dug out our wedding video. Ruby, in her white dress, stood under the soft lights holding my hands, her eyes brimming with tears. “You’ll always be my number one,” she said into the microphone. “If there ever comes a day when you aren’t, it means I’m no longer in this world.” I had wept like a child. She wiped my tears away as our friends and family clapped. I shut the laptop, flipping the screen down. When I looked back up at the empty room, Oliver’s name was pressing tightly against mine on her leaderboard. She came home very late that night. There was a faint red mark on the side of her neck. Before I could even ask, she laughed it off quickly. “My new coat’s collar is so stiff, it kept rubbing against my skin all day.” She headed straight for the shower, washing away whatever scent she carried, changed into her silk pajamas, and climbed into bed, wrapping her arms around me from behind. “Hey, handsome. Hard day?” She kissed my cheek, her breath warm, her movements practiced and familiar. Just like every other night for the past five years. But once she fell asleep, I looked above her head. Number two: Oliver. Number three: Darren. I had finally been displaced. Right on the night she held me, called me her husband, and kissed my cheek. I lay there in the dark, my eyes dry. No tears came. Only a deep, radiating coldness that slowly spread through my limbs. The next morning, I opened Oliver’s photo of the riverfront again. The streetlamps, the railing—they looked more and more familiar. Then it clicked. Just around that bend was the little Italian bistro we used to frequent back in college. It wasn’t just the Montblanc pen. It wasn’t just the taste of lavender. Even the streets we had walked hundreds of times had been recycled for someone else. I stared at the photo for a long time. I didn’t feel anger, nor did I feel resentment. I only had one clear thought: I needed to go see it for myself. I wanted to see how much sincerity she had left when she used our sacred places to charm another man. Over the weekend, I suggested we go back to that old bistro near campus. “It’s been so long. I really miss their lasagna,” I said. Ruby agreed instantly. The owner, an old Italian man, recognized us immediately, his face lighting up. “Look who finally decided to come back! The newlyweds!” Ruby laughed, pulling out a chair for me. She ordered all my favorites—garlic bread, baked ziti, and spicy sausage penne, even remembering to tell the kitchen no onions, just the way I liked it. She chatted with the owner about our college days, how I used to sit by the window to study, and how I’d drink two bowls of minestrone when I was nervous before finals. She acted so natural, as if nothing had changed. But I kept my eyes on her leaderboard. Oliver sat firmly at number two, unmoving. I laughed, I joked, I desperately tried to piece our history back together. But over the course of the meal, my name didn’t budge even a millimeter. Halfway through the meal, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. “I need to take this,” she said. Through the glass window, I watched her stand on the sidewalk, her back to me, one hand tucked casually into her pocket, her posture loose and relaxed. At some point, she ducked her head and laughed. I knew that laugh too well. It was defenseless, soft, the kind of laugh she reserved only for those closest to her. I looked down at the food on the table. It was everything I loved. But the steam was fading, and though she was standing just outside the door, her heart was miles away. On her leaderboard, Oliver’s name was slowly drifting closer to the number one spot. When she came back inside, she picked up on my mood instantly. Her instinct to compensate kicked in immediately. She put food on my plate, apologizing softly, claiming a client had called with an emergency. Then, as if sensing my skepticism, she added, “For our anniversary next month, I took three days off. I’m taking you to Maui—the trip you’ve been wanting for years.” The moment she said it, I instinctively looked at her leaderboard. My name actually budged upward, just a tiny fraction of an inch. A bittersweet realization hit me. She wasn’t being sweet because her love for me had returned. She was doing it out of guilt. Three days in Hawaii was the price she was willing to pay for peace of mind—a glossy receipt to settle the tab on her betrayal. I forced a smile. “That sounds great.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounded like a stranger’s. As we left the restaurant, I saw a young couple on the sidewalk. The boy was holding the girl’s hand, his smile bright and unburdened. Above his head, the girl’s name sat cleanly in the number one spot. No other names. It was the same with the elderly couple crossing the street near our apartment. The wife gently supported her husband’s arm, her leaderboard showing him as her undisputed number one, a ranking untouched by the decades. I stood frozen on the sidewalk. So that’s what it looks like to be someone’s priority. I turned to look at Ruby. She was staring down at her phone, typing away. Number one: Her mother. Number two: Oliver. Number three: Darren. I had never once been her number one. Back home, she retreated to her home office, claiming she had work to wrap up. I sat alone in the living room without turning on the lights. In the silence of the dark, I finally made a decision. I wasn’t going to wait around anymore. I wasn’t going to watch myself slide further down her list until I vanished entirely. I unlocked my phone, went back to Oliver’s social media, and tracked down a tagged photo from his company’s office. It showed the coffee shop he visited almost every single afternoon. The very next day, I arrived at that cafe early. I ordered a black coffee and took a seat in the back corner. Shortly after noon, Oliver walked in. He had neatly styled hair, wore a clean white button-down, and carried himself with a quiet, unassuming grace. He ordered a lavender latte. He looked incredibly ordinary. Yet, my eyes immediately locked onto the leaderboard above his head. Number one: Ruby. My wife was the most important person in his life. And he was fast becoming the most important person in hers. Their leaderboards locked together like a closed circuit, a perfect circle. And I was left standing on the outside. Oliver sat down and opened his laptop, beginning to edit some design drafts. I stood up to use the restroom. As I walked past his table, my eyes caught the back of his phone. Inside the clear plastic case was a Polaroid of two silhouettes standing shoulder-to-shoulder by the river. The railing, the streetlamp… I knew them intimately. Then I saw the silver chain bracelet on his wrist. I recognized the brand instantly; it was from the boutique where Ruby bought all my jewelry. I walked into the restroom, stared at my reflection in the mirror for a few seconds, and turned on the tap. I splashed cold water onto my face, watching it drip off my chin. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. When I returned, I picked up my coffee, walked over to his table, and sat down opposite him. “Hi there. Mind if I sit? I notice you’re a regular here too.” Oliver blinked in surprise, then offered a polite, warm smile. “Sure, go ahead. Yeah, I love their lavender lattes.” I stared at the milky, pastel-colored coffee in his cup, feeling a dull ache grind deep into my chest. We chatted idly for a few minutes—about cats, the weather, and the cafe’s pastries. He spoke softly, with a gentle, non-threatening cadence. The kinder he seemed, the tighter my throat felt. I kept my tone casual. “Are you here alone today?” Oliver looked down, a soft blush spreading across his cheeks. “No, actually. My girlfriend had a meeting nearby, but she’s stopping by to pick me up soon.” Girlfriend. The word echoed in my mind, freezing me in place. He didn’t know. He had absolutely no idea. In his world, Ruby was his sweet, unattached girlfriend. Not someone’s wife. Not a woman with a home and a husband. And I, in this alternate reality she had crafted for him, had been completely erased. I didn’t even exist. Oliver’s phone buzzed. He picked it up, his voice softening into an affectionate hum. “Hey. Yeah, I’m at our usual spot. You’re almost here? Perfect.” Hanging up, he gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry about that. She’s here. She’s really wonderful, you’d like her.” Before I could find my voice, the bell above the door chimed. Ruby walked in. She was holding a cardboard carrier with two lavender lattes. Her eyes scanned the room, landing effortlessly on Oliver, a relaxed, beautiful smile gracing her face. Then her gaze shifted a mere inch to the left. When she saw me, her entire body went rigid. The smile froze on her face, the color draining from her skin until she was paper-white. Next second, her fingers went limp. The cardboard carrier crashed to the floor. The plastic lids popped off, and coffee splattered across the hardwood. The sweet, cloying scent of lavender instantly filled the air. The entire cafe fell dead silent. Oliver looked at her, then back at me, entirely bewildered. Ruby stood by the entrance, rooted to the spot like a ghost. I slowly stood up and walked toward her, stepping over the pale coffee pooling across the floor like the remains of a dream that was never mine. I stopped a foot away from her and looked up at her leaderboard one last time. Number one: Oliver. Number two: Her mother. Number three: Darren. I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Ruby.” “Do you have any idea where I rank in your heart?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “479996”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I have been blown into literal, microscopic pieces four times. All because some brain-dead protagonist insisted on playing his stupid little “reform the villain with love” game. For the first four loops, he cried his eyes dry, and the villain still flattened the world anyway. Fifth loop. Watching him prep his tear ducts to dive into the villain’s parents’ arms and play the victim, I didn’t hesitate. I kicked him straight into a sewer drain. Get lost. If love can’t tame this little monster, then my fists will have to teach her some manners. 1 The fifth time the wealthy Henderson couple came to the Greenwood Orphanage to adopt a child, Nicky was already squeezing the hem of his shirt, his eyes rimmed with red, preparing to launch himself into Richard’s arms. He’d been working on those tears all morning; they were right on the verge of spilling. I stood right behind him, expressionless, and casually stuck my foot out. Smack! Nicky made a spectacularly pathetic sound as he face-planted straight into a muddy puddle, muddy water splashing everywhere. Before anyone could process what had just happened, I stepped forward, planting my foot squarely on Nicky’s back, and plastered a sweet, innocent, completely harmless smile across my face. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Henderson,” I pitched my voice high, sounding sickeningly sweet. “I’m Connor, the most well-behaved kid in this whole place.” Richard froze. Diana stared. Only the semi-transparent chat overlay hovering in my vision began scrolling frantically like a broken stock ticker: [LMAO holy shit, why is the Demon Child stepping up?] [Didn’t he beat up the orphanage bully just two days ago?] [Seven years old and the undisputed king of the yard. Even the stray dogs lower their heads when he walks by.] [If this kid gets adopted, the Henderson house is going to implode in three days.] [I’m dying. But wait, is this the protagonist’s fifth attempt at the quest?] Yes. The fifth time. Under my sole, Nicky was thrashing wildly in the mud, muffled, pig-like squeals escaping his throat. Without breaking my sweet smile, I shifted more weight onto my heel, grinding it right into his lower spine. During the first four loops, Nicky had used this exact pathetic, tragic routine to worm his way into the Henderson family. He’d sworn up and down that he would plant the seeds of love and peace in the black heart of their naturally sociopathic daughter, Beatrix. And how did that go? The first time, she locked him in a cellar for three days and then, on a whim, blew up the harbor bridge. I happened to be selling flowers on that bridge. Vaporized. The second time, he tried to hug her during one of her manic episodes and got his lung punctured with a kitchen knife. In her panic, she triggered a chemical plant alarm. I was working an illegal shift in that factory. Blown to pieces again. The third time, the fourth time… Goddamn it. I was just a nameless extra in this godforsaken story, yet I’d been dragged down to a horrific, scattered death four times because of these two lunatics! And let me tell you, getting blown to bits hurts like hell. That sheer despair of having your internal organs instantly vaporized by superheated gas, before you can even scream—I experienced that four times. Four. If love can’t reform that little psycho, then it’s my turn. After all, I know a thing or two about throwing a punch. “Oh, my… what a bright-looking boy,” Richard finally found his voice. Looking at my face, which was lightly splattered with mud, a flicker of paternal warmth softened his eyes. Diana cleared her throat, her gaze drifting down to the writhing mud-man beneath my shoe. “What is that… under your foot?” I glanced down. “Oh, this is just Nicky. He really, really loves playing in the mud.” I smiled with pure, unadulterated innocence. I lifted my foot and casually hauled Nicky out of the puddle by his collar. Nicky’s face was caked in foul-smelling silt, bubbles blowing from his mouth. He snapped his eyes open, staring at me with the sheer, unbridled fury of a high-dimensional player whose spellcast had been rudely interrupted: “Connor! You absolute psych—” Quick as lightning, I clapped my hand over his mouth and pulled him into a tight, suffocating hug. “Oh, Nicky, I know you’ll miss me! But this nice gentleman and lady… they look so warm. It’s like I’m seeing the mom and dad from my dreams.” I managed to squeeze out two perfect, crystalline tears. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. Richard was entirely sold. He was already on the verge of a nervous breakdown dealing with his psycho daughter at home; he desperately needed a sweet, sensible son to restore some balance to his life. “We’re taking him,” Richard said, his tone leaving no room for argument. The director stood nearby, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. “Mr. Henderson… Connor is… well, he’s a very energetic boy.” 2 No shit. Last month, some street thugs came trying to shake down the neighborhood, and I chased them three blocks wielding a loose brick. Is that energetic? That’s a feral honey badger. “Energetic is good. It means he’s healthy,” Diana declared, sealing the deal. The paperwork was finalized in record time. Before leaving, I went to the restroom to change my clothes. Nicky blocked the door. He had washed his face, but muddy water was still dripping from his hair, making him look like some vengeful swamp monster. “Connor, do you have any idea what you’re doing?” Nicky hissed, his voice dropping to a cold, menacing whisper. “This is my quest! Only I can save Beatrix! You’re just a low-dimensional NPC—what the hell are you interfering for?” I shut off the squeaking faucet, turned around without a word, and slapped him across the face. Crack! Sharp, clean, and incredibly loud. Nicky spun halfway around from the force of it. He clutched his cheek, staring at me in sheer disbelief. “You… you hit me?” “Damn right I did, you absolute moron.” I shook out my tingling wrist and stepped into his personal space. “Save her? With what? That brain of yours that’s leaking radioactive waste? For four loops, what did you do besides cry and beg, ‘Oh, big sister, please don’t do this!’? Did you accomplish a single useful thing?” I grabbed him by the collar, slamming him hard against the tiled wall. “I was blown to pieces four goddamn times because of your precious storyline. This time, you’re going to stay right here in this orphanage, eating your bland cafeteria mush. If you so much as poke your head out to play hero, I’ll send you to the afterlife myself.” A flash of genuine terror crossed Nicky’s eyes, but he still tried to grit his teeth. “Beatrix is insane! She ends up killing her own parents! You think you’re going to survive your first night in that house?” “Don’t lose sleep over it,” I said, releasing his collar and smoothing out his crumpled shirt. “Monsters deserve bigger monsters. You don’t reason with a rabid dog; you use a heavier stick.” I pushed open the restroom door. Diana was standing at the end of the hallway, waving me over. I instantly flipped the switch back to my sweet-child persona and trotted over. The chat overlay flared wildly in the air: [Holy shit, that slap felt so good to watch!] [Sweet! I’ve wanted to punch Nicky’s self-righteous face since loop one.] [But can our Demon Child actually handle Beatrix? She isn’t some orphanage weakling.] [She’s a seven-year-old genius who can cook up homemade explosives. Don’t get cocky and get vaporized, kid.] I watched the comments scroll, a cold smirk forming in my mind. Homemade explosives? How fitting. Before I got blown up in my past life, my day job in the underground market was bomb disposal. We climbed into the Hendersons’ stretched Rolls-Royce. The air conditioning was freezing. Richard took my hand, patting the back of it. There was a faint, guilty nervousness in his eyes. “Connor, don’t be scared when we get to the house. You have an older sister, Beatrix. She’s…” He paused, seemingly digging through his vocabulary for any positive word he could find. “She’s usually very quiet. Just… occasionally, she has a very… spirited personality.” Spirited? I rolled my eyes so hard they almost went into the back of my skull. Pushing her Ivy League private tutor out of a second-story window and breaking his legs, pouring concentrated acid into her nanny’s thermos, dissecting the neighbor’s purebred Tibetan Mastiff alive… You call that spirited? That is textbook antisocial personality disorder. “That’s okay, Dad!” I chimed happily. “I love spirited sisters. I’ll make sure to take excellent care of her.” From the front passenger seat, Diana glanced at me through the rearview mirror. Her gaze was complicated—probably thinking I was just a naive, foolish kid walking straight into a meat grinder. 3 The car glided smoothly into the gated enclave nestled in the hills. From a distance, I could see the massive European-style estate sprawling like a sleeping beast in the shadows. The car had barely come to a halt, and before the chauffeur could even open the door—BOOM! A dull, heavy explosion echoed from the second floor of the villa, followed immediately by the sharp, agonizing screech of shattering glass. Richard’s face drained of all color instantly. Diana threw her door open and bolted toward the house. I followed at a leisurely pace. The moment I stepped through the grand double doors, a thick, choking stench of gasoline hit my nostrils. The foyer was a war zone. Priceless Ming dynasty porcelain lay shattered across the marble floor; the luxury leather sofas were slashed to ribbons, their foam stuffing spilling out like guts. Our middle-aged butler was clutching his bleeding forehead, practically crawling down the spiral staircase, shaking like a leaf. “Sir! Ma’am! Miss Beatrix… she’s having another episode!” The air in the foyer turned to ice. The maids and servants were huddled in the corners, terrified to make a sound. I looked up, following the sweep of the grand staircase. Standing by the second-floor balustrade was a little girl. That was Beatrix. She was wearing a pristine, custom-tailored black dress, her long dark hair half-veiling her face. If you ignored the red plastic gas can she was casually dangling from her left hand, she looked like a delicate little Victorian princess. Her skin was porcelain-pale, her features exquisitely delicate. But her eyes… those eyes were entirely devoid of life. They were like twin pools of stagnant water, hiding a violent, chaotic madness that threatened to swallow everything. She was flicking a heavy silver Zippo in her right hand. Flick. A flame danced. Snap. Darkness. In the absolute silence of the foyer, the rhythmic metallic clicking sounded like a countdown to execution. The chat went absolutely wild: [HIGH ALERT! HIGH ALERT!] [Nicky literally pissed his pants at this part in the previous loops.] [Beatrix’s stare is unreal. Chills down my spine.] [Get out of there, Demon Child! Don’t try to face her head-on, she will actually light the place up!] Richard was shaking with a mixture of terror and rage. He pointed a trembling finger upward. “Beatrix! What are you doing now? Put that lighter down!” Beatrix tilted her head. She didn’t even spare her father a glance. Instead, her eyes locked onto me, tracking me like a predator spotting prey. “Is this the new toy you bought me?” Her voice had the sweet clarity of a child, but her tone was bone-chillingly cold. “He looks kind of stupid.” A cruel, twisted smile touched her lips. “I’ll count to three. Get out of my house, or I’ll burn him along with the rest of this place.” She raised the Zippo. Flick. The flame reflected in her pitch-black eyes. Richard gasped, instinctively grabbing my shoulder to push me back toward the door. “Connor, get out! Go! Now!” I didn’t budge. I just stared up at that smug, arrogant little brat on the landing, and a wave of pure, unadulterated irritation surged straight to my head. The phantom agony of being vaporized four times over screamed in my mind. This was the little parasite responsible. I took a deep breath. Then, under the horrified stares of everyone in the room, I calmly unbuttoned the cheap, oversized jacket the orphanage had given me, slipped it off, and tossed it onto the ruined leather sofa. “Connor? What are you doing?” Richard stammered. I rolled my neck, my joints popping with a satisfying series of cracks. “Nothing, Dad. Just going up to introduce myself to my new sister.” I stepped forward, walking over the shards of glass and porcelain, heading straight for the stairs. “Stop!” Diana yelled. “Are you insane? Come back here!” I ignored her. Beatrix watched me ascend. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper, manic glee. “You aren’t afraid of dying?” She laughed, tossing the silver Zippo toward the Persian rug doused in gasoline. “Then burn.” The split second the lighter left her fingers, I burst into a sprint. Adrenaline flooding my seven-year-old body, I vaulted up the remaining steps like a predator. In mid-air, my foot connected perfectly with the falling lighter. Clack! The silver Zippo flew backward like a bullet, smashing against the wall and breaking into pieces. Beatrix froze. For the first time, her mask of cold, calculated indifference cracked. 4 Before she could even process the sight, I was in her face. The raw, terrifying strength of my past-life muscle memory exploded from this tiny seven-year-old frame. I grabbed her by the collar of her expensive designer dress and shoved her back with everything I had. Thud! Her back slammed hard against the solid oak balustrade. I didn’t give her a second to breathe. I clamped my hand around her throat, driving her upper body backward, dangling her out over the edge. A collective gasp echoed from the foyer below. Richard’s eyes rolled back, and he fainted right onto the floor. The butler let out a screech like a dying chicken. “Miss Beatrix!” Dangling five meters above the ground, Beatrix’s feet lost contact with the floor. If I let go, she would plummet onto the hard marble below. It wouldn’t kill her, but it would definitely shatter a few bones. I looked down at her, watching the panic finally leak into her pale face. “Toy?” I bared my teeth in a savage grin. “Today, kid, I’m going to teach you what a real machine feels like.” The chat was moving so fast it was practically lagging: [HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT HOLY SHIT!!!] [Is this a drama? This feels like an action movie!] [Incredible! Beat her down, Demon Child!] [Oh my god, goosebumps! This is the best twist ever!] Beatrix’s face began to flush red from the lack of air. She clawed at my wrist, trying to pry my fingers loose. But it was useless. My grip was like a steel vice. Just as I was about to haul her back and deliver a couple of solid slaps to her cheeks, she stopped struggling. Her flushed face suddenly twisted into an incredibly eerie, manic grin. Looking at me, her eyes held no fear of death—only a sick, triumphant madness. Shit. What’s that sound? My stomach dropped. The next instant, her right hand, which had been hanging limply at her side, snapped up with terrifying speed. A small, black object pressed firmly against my ribs. Bzzzt. The low hum of electrical current crackled at point-blank range. It was a custom-modified, high-voltage pocket taser. Beatrix stared at me, her voice raspy but trembling with a sickening thrill. “Got you, little mouse.” She pulled the trigger without a second thought. BZZZZT! A high-voltage shock surged directly into my side. Blue arcs of electricity crackled between us. Any normal seven-year-old would have been on the floor foaming at the mouth, losing control of their bladder. But my grip didn’t waiver. Damn. Did it hurt? Absolutely. The sensation of my muscles seizing up surged straight up my spine. But compared to having my organs vaporized and my bones turned to ash four times? This electricity was nothing more than a cheap, crappy massage. I locked my eyes onto hers and grinned. In my rush, I’d bitten my lip, and blood was smeared across my teeth. “That all the voltage you got?” my voice came out raw and mockingly cold. “Did you forget to eat breakfast?” As Beatrix’s pupils dilated in sheer, unadulterated horror—as if she were looking at an actual demon—I tightened my grip on her collar, hoisted her up, and drove my forehead violently into her nose. Crack! The dull, sickening sound of cartilage meeting bone. She let out a high-pitched shriek. Her hand went limp, and the modified taser slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the marble floor below and breaking in two. A torrent of dark red blood erupted from her nose, painting her pale, perfect face. I hauled her back over the railing like a wet rag and threw her hard onto the floor of the hallway. Before she could even try to crawl away, I straddled her waist, pinned her down, and began raining slaps down on her face. Slap! Slap! Slap! The sharp cracks echoed loudly through the cavernous estate. “You want to play with fire? You want to shock me? You think you’re hot shit, huh?” One blow after another. No fancy techniques—just raw, therapeutic, physical education.

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Ever since my husband started spending his off-duty days at his late partner’s widow’s house, I noticed our daughter, Lucy, had started writing “My father is dead” in her school essays. The school counselor called me to confirm. I stood in the hospital hallway, silent for a long moment, before I whispered, “Yes. A long time ago.” On Father’s Day, Lucy’s class made cards. Instead of a standard folded card, she folded her paper into a paper airplane and wrote four neat words on the wing: Deliver to Heaven. During the parent-teacher open house, the classroom walls were covered with essays titled My Father. Lucy’s read: My dad died on a battlefield called “Next Door.” There is a lady there who never stops crying, so Daddy had to stay. He never came back. Every time she finished one of these essays, she would clutch her eraser so hard in her tiny fist that her palm would sweat, turning the rubber slick and gray. Eventually, Garrett noticed something was wrong. He rushed home, holding a bouquet of supermarket roses, desperate to celebrate Lucy’s eighth birthday. But when he opened the door, his eyes fell directly on the new notebook left open on the coffee table. The title was written in her careful, childish pencil strokes: If Dad Were Still Alive. … “Norah, is this how you’re raising our daughter?” Garrett stared at the open notebook, his chest heaving under his flannel shirt. The lead pencil script stared back at him: If Dad Were Still Alive. The easy, practiced smile he’d walked in with vanished. His eyes widened, dark with a sudden, sharp anger. “I am standing right here, healthy and breathing, and you’re letting her write that I’m dead?!” He whipped his head toward me, his voice booming in the quiet of our living room. He threw the birthday cake he’d been holding onto the coffee table. The plastic box cracked, and the frosted edge slumped against the cardboard. “I didn’t teach her that,” I said quietly. “She wrote it herself.” Garrett ground his teeth, reaching down to grab the notebook as if he were going to rip it to shreds. But as his fingers brushed the page, his eyes caught the loops of Lucy’s handwriting. He froze, then slowly let his hand drop. He had no idea. He didn’t know this wasn’t the first time Lucy had buried him in her stories. Ever since he brought his fallen partner’s widow, Heidi, and her son, Toby, back to our city, the father Lucy once knew had ceased to exist. I didn’t offer any further explanation. I just stood there, looking at him with a cold, detached indifference. Hearing the shouting, Lucy crept out of her bedroom. She was wearing her faded, twice-washed cotton pajamas, her small frame partially hidden behind my hip. She didn’t rush to throw her arms around his neck the way she used to. She didn’t cry or shrink away from his anger, either. She just watched him. Her eyes were flat, calm, and utterly vacant. Like she was looking at a stranger on the subway. That kind of look is far more agonizing than any tearful tantrum. Garrett’s breath hitched. The roar of his anger seemed to choke him, dying somewhere in his throat under the weight of her indifference. He pulled at his collar, trying to swallow his irritation, and reached into the paper shopping bag he’d brought. He pulled out a sleek, white shoe box. “Lucy, sweetie, come here,” he said, forcing his voice into a gentle, coaxing register. “Daddy was passing by the mall today, and I finally got you those ballet slippers. The ones you wanted.” “You have your level exam next month, right?” “Come on, try them on. Let’s see if they fit.” Those were the satin slippers Lucy had stared at through the glass window of the dance boutique for three months. Every time we walked past, Garrett had promised, Next time, kiddo. Next time for sure. A few months ago, she would have leapt with joy, wrapping her arms around his waist. Now, she didn’t even twitch. Garrett sighed, dropping to one knee with the practiced patience of a man used to dealing with crises. He popped the lid off the box, reaching out to gently grasp her ankle. But before his fingers could brush her skin, his pocket vibrated. A soft, melancholic piano ringtone cut through the room. Everyone at his private search-and-rescue firm knew that ringtone. It was reserved for one person: Heidi. Garrett’s hand jerked back as if he’d been burned by dry ice. He stood up in a single, fluid motion, his fingers already sliding the phone from his pocket. “Heidi? What’s wrong?” There was a frantic tenderness in his voice, an immediate, protective panic he couldn’t hide even if he tried. Through the receiver, Heidi’s breathy, fragile whimpering carried into the quiet room. “Garrett… I’m so sorry. I know I shouldn’t call. But Toby… his asthma is flaring up again, and he’s crying, begging for you. I can’t lift him, and I’m just so scared. I don’t know what to do.” I stood there, listening to the same clumsy, rehearsed melodrama she had used a hundred times before. A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. Garrett’s expression shifted instantly. There was no hesitation. No pause to look at his daughter, who was still standing in her faded pajamas. He tossed the ballet shoes onto the carpet and grabbed his car keys from the entryway table. “Norah, keep an eye on Lucy. Toby’s having a severe attack. I have to get over there right now.” He spoke with the absolute conviction of a martyr, convinced that abandoning his own child to play savior to another man’s son was his moral duty. The heavy front door clicked shut. He didn’t look back once. The apartment descended into a graveyard silence. Lucy walked forward, her bare feet silent on the rug. She looked down at the satin ballet slippers lying askew on the carpet. Then, she bent down, picked them up by the ribbons, and dropped them into the kitchen trash can. “Mom,” she said, her voice light, almost conversational. “Dead people don’t buy shoes, do they?” My chest tightened so sharply it felt like a physical tearing of flesh. The air in my lungs tasted like copper. I knelt down, pulling her small, fragile body against mine, burying my face in her soft hair. “No, baby,” I whispered. “They don’t.” After Lucy fell asleep, I sat alone in the dim light of the study. I pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk. Lying there was an official, stamped transfer notice from the state medical board. I was a senior pediatric orthopedic surgeon. For years, I had turned down fellowships at prestigious research hospitals in Chicago, all to keep our family in this city for Garrett’s career. But I was done drowning in this swamp. I picked up a red felt-tip pen and drew a thick, heavy circle around a date fifteen days from now. The absolute deadline to report for my new position. In fifteen days, Lucy and I would be gone. We would live our lives as if Garrett Davies had never existed. Ten days left. I had just finished a grueling six-hour emergency reconstruction surgery, my shoulders aching under the weight of my scrubs. When I stepped out of the elevator on our floor, I froze. Our front door was propped wide open. The hallway echoed with the gruff, loud voices of moving men. I rushed inside, and the sight turned my blood to ice. The living room was in shambles, cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly. In the hallway, two men in overalls were maneuvering Lucy’s upright Steinway piano out of her study. Garrett, dressed in his off-duty clothes, was gesturing toward the door. “Careful with the corners,” he warned them. “That instrument is worth more than my truck.” I had worked three years of consecutive holiday night shifts to buy that piano for Lucy’s fifth birthday. Lucy wiped the keys down every single night; it was her absolute sanctuary. “Garrett, what the hell are you doing?” I marched over, placing my body directly between the movers and the door. Seeing me home early, a flicker of guilt crossed Garrett’s face, but it was quickly replaced by that familiar, defensive righteousness. “Norah, don’t make a scene,” he said, stepping closer. “Heidi just moved into a new apartment. Toby’s classmates have been bullying him because he doesn’t have a dad, and his child therapist said learning an instrument would help heal his emotional trauma.” He paused, clearing his throat. “Heidi’s a single mother. She can’t afford something like this. Lucy hasn’t even been playing much lately anyway. We’re just letting Toby borrow it.” I listened to his absurd, twisted logic, a cold laugh escaping my throat. He was taking the physical manifestation of my hard work and his daughter’s joy to heal another woman’s child. How did he manage to make such blatant betrayal sound like a charitable act? If this had been a year ago, I would have screamed. I would have grabbed the movers, threatened to call the police, and fought him tooth and nail. Instead, I pulled out my phone and switched on the video camera, recording the movers’ faces, the piano, and Garrett standing in our living room. “What are you doing?” Garrett snapped, reaching out to snatch the phone. I took a step back, keeping my arm out of his reach. “Documenting this,” I said, my voice deadpan. “This piano is marital property. You are transferring assets to a third party without my consent. I have every right to keep a record for my attorney.” Garrett’s face darkened, his jaw tightening. “Norah, when did you become so cold and calculating?” he hissed. “This is Patrick’s son! Patrick died so I could walk out of that collapse alive! It’s a piece of wood and some strings. Are you really going to be this petty?” His phone buzzed. A second later, a notification popped up on my screen—a money transfer of five thousand dollars. “There,” he said, gesturing to my phone. “Consider it bought out. You can take Lucy to Target and get her one of those electric keyboards to practice on.” He turned back to the movers. “Keep going. Take it down.” As the door clicked shut behind them, the sudden emptiness of the study felt like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. An hour later, Lucy came home from school. She carried her backpack into the hallway and stopped right outside her study. The space where her piano had stood was empty, leaving four deep, rectangular indentations in the hardwood floor. She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask me where it went. She simply walked into her room, pulled out the creased notebook Garrett had almost torn, and sat down at her small desk. With a pencil, she began to write her fourth essay. The title was: The Dead Dad Took My Piano, Too. I stood in the doorway, watching her small, solitary shoulders. My eyes burned with a dry, aching heat. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a notification from social media. I opened the app to find Heidi’s latest post. In the photo, Toby was sitting in front of Lucy’s Steinway, a brilliant, triumphant grin on his face. The caption read: Patrick is watching over us from heaven. Toby finally has his first piano. Thank you to our dearest Captain Garrett, for being the light that keeps us going. At the bottom of the post was a single blue thumbs-up from Garrett. I stared at the screen for a long time, then slowly tapped the “like” button myself. Then I switched over to my banking app and transferred the remaining balance for the down payment on the townhouse I’d leased near my new hospital. Just as the transaction cleared, a text from Garrett popped up. Once Toby’s settled in, I have a long weekend off next month. I’ll take Lucy to Disneyland to make it up to her. Stop teaching her to hold grudges, Norah. I stared at the word “Disneyland.” A hollow, mocking smile touched my lips. I didn’t reply. He didn’t realize there would be no next month. Three days left. Today was the award ceremony for the statewide youth art competition. Lucy sat in the front row of the museum auditorium, wearing a navy blue velvet dress I’d bought her for the occasion. Her eyes were fixed on the double doors at the back of the hall. I sat beside her, holding her damp, slightly trembling little hand. My heart ached with a dull, persistent throb. I knew Garrett wouldn’t show up, but children have a stubborn, tragic capacity for hope. “Mom,” Lucy whispered, her eyes never leaving the doors. “Daddy promised. He said he’d be here to watch me get my ribbon.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I just squeezed her fingers. Ten minutes before the presentation began, my screen lit up with a text from Garrett. Got called into an emergency briefing. Can’t make it. Tell Lucy I’m sorry. A familiar excuse. A familiar betrayal. I turned the phone face down on my lap and remained silent. Lucy glanced back one last time. “Maybe he’s just stuck in traffic.” The ceremony proceeded with agonizing efficiency. The announcer took the microphone, his voice echoing off the high gallery ceilings. “And now, we are thrilled to present our Grand Prize for the elementary division!” Lucy’s grip on my fingers tightened. “The winning piece—Daddy in the Fire!” The massive projector screen behind the stage lit up, displaying Lucy’s watercolor painting. It was a painting she had spent two weeks working on, depicting Garrett in his heavy rescue gear, his back to a wall of golden-red flames. It was her love letter to her father, filled with the awe and devotion she used to feel for him. Lucy gasped, half-rising from her seat. “Mom! That’s my painting!” I smiled, preparing to guide her toward the stage. But then the announcer continued: “Let’s welcome our winner to the stage—young Toby Walsh!” The smile froze on Lucy’s face. On the bottom right corner of the projected image, the digital label read: Toby Walsh, Age 8. Her name, Lucy Davies, had been completely erased. She stood frozen in the aisle, her mouth slightly open, but no sound came out. Behind us, a parent leaned over to whisper to another, “Why is that little girl standing up? I thought they called a boy named Toby?” Lucy heard them. Slowly, her small shoulders slumped, and she sank back into her seat, bowing her head. My hands clenched into fists. I stood up and marched straight toward the VIP family seating area. Heidi was already standing, fussing over Toby’s little bow tie. I stepped directly into her path. “Heidi. Stop right there.” Heidi looked up, the triumphant smile still lingering on her lips. “Oh, Norah! You’re here too?” “That painting belongs to my daughter,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Why is your son’s name on it?” Heidi shrank back half a step, her shoulders pulling in, adopting her signature posture of defensiveness. “Norah, please don’t do this here… Garrett took care of the registration. I didn’t know anything about it…” Then, she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me, a sharp, ugly malice glinting in her eyes. “But honestly, Norah, does it really matter who painted it? What matters is who Garrett wants to give the world to. Your daughter can stay up all night painting, but with one word from Garrett, her hard work belongs to my Toby. He loves us, Norah. No matter how mad you get, you can’t change the fact that he doesn’t care about either of you.” “You shameless bitch.” The words left my mouth just before my hand connected with her cheek. The slap cracked loudly through the gallery. Heidi’s head jerked to the side, and she let out a sharp, theatrical wail, clutching her face. Before I could grab her arm to drag her to the event organizers, a heavy force shoved me from the side. “Norah! Have you lost your mind?!” I stumbled back several steps, the small of my back colliding hard with the edge of a wooden bench. A sharp pain shot up my spine, forcing me to double over. I looked up through a haze of pain. It was Garrett. He was standing there, shielding Heidi and Toby behind his broad shoulders, his eyes wild and red with anger. Heidi clung to his back, sobbing loudly. “Garrett, it hurts… please don’t blame Norah, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let Toby accept the award. I’ll give it back…” Seeing the red mark blooming on Heidi’s cheek, Garrett’s fury boiled over. He pointed a finger at my face. “Norah, what is wrong with you? Attacking someone in public? Look at you—you’re acting like an unhinged, hysterical lunatic!” I steadied myself against the bench, forcing myself to stand tall. “Garrett, that painting took Lucy weeks to finish. You put Toby’s name on her art, and now you’re pushing me to defend this woman?” “It’s just a damn drawing!” Garrett yelled, cutting me off. “Lucy can draw another one! Toby lost his father. He gets bullied at school. He needs this kind of recognition to build his confidence!” “Patrick died saving my life! What is so wrong with giving his son a little win?” “You’re an adult, Norah, and you have absolutely no grace, no compassion. To strike Heidi like this? You are completely out of your mind!” Hysterical. Out of my mind. My daughter’s art had been stolen. Her tribute to her father had been handed to another child by that very father. And when I demanded justice, her father threw me to the ground to protect the thief. I stopped talking. There was nothing left to say. On stage, the coordinators escorted Toby to the microphone. He held the trophy aloft, posing in front of Lucy’s painting, smiling for the cameras. Heidi stood by Garrett’s side, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on her lips. When she went up to accept a sponsor’s bouquet, she spoke into the microphone, her voice trembling with mock emotion. “Toby wouldn’t be here today without his mentor, Captain Garrett Davies… He has been more than family to us…” Garrett watched them, letting out a long, emotional sigh. “Mom.” A small, quiet voice called out from behind me. I turned. Lucy was standing a few feet away. She was looking at Toby with his trophy, at Garrett with his arm resting protectively near Heidi’s waist, and at me, still clutching my bruised back. “Lucy…” I reached out, trying to pull her to me. But she took a step back. Slowly, she reached up to her chest, unpinning her contestant badge. With methodical, quiet precision, she tore the paper tag into tiny, unrecognizable shreds, letting them flutter into the trash can beside her. She brushed her hands together, clearing away the dust. “Mom, let’s go home.” Her little face was incredibly tight, her chin trembling as she fought back her tears. My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. I walked over, wrapped my arms tightly around her, and without another word, we walked out of the museum. I didn’t stay to argue. Arguing with a man who has chosen to be blind is a waste of breath. When we got home, Lucy sat in her room for hours. Eventually, she opened her notebook and began to write. The title of her fifth essay was: Dad Gave the Painting of Him to Someone Else, and He Hurt Mom for Them. I opened my phone and rescheduled our flight. I changed our departure to the day after tomorrow. I couldn’t spend another second in this city. The day before we were set to leave. I took Lucy to the downtown shopping district to purchase a few essentials for our move. The mall was crowded, filled with the low hum of shoppers and soft pop music. As we walked past a glass-fronted pizza parlor, Lucy suddenly stopped. I followed her gaze through the glass window. There was Garrett. He was sitting at a booth, carefully cutting a small piece of pizza with a knife and fork. He blew on it gently before feeding it to Toby, who giggled. Heidi sat beside him, looking like the picture of maternal bliss. She reached over with a napkin, tenderly wiping a smudge of marinara sauce from the corner of Garrett’s mouth. A perfect, happy family. Looking at them, I actually felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in my throat. This was the “urgent department emergency” he had claimed kept him from answering my texts. The lie was so bare, so pathetic. Lucy’s small fingers tightened around the hem of my coat. “Mom,” she whispered. “I thought Dad was working.” “He isn’t,” I said, a cold numbness settling over me. “Let’s go.” Before we could turn away, a deafening siren began to wail through the concourse. A split second later, a massive explosion shook the first-floor food court. The blast shattered the glass partitions of the nearby storefronts, and a wall of thick, black smoke and orange flames came rolling through the atrium. Panicked screams erupted instantly. The crowd transformed into a stampeding herd, rushing blindly toward the exits. “Lucy!” I screamed, lunging forward to grab her hand. But the crowd was a chaotic tidal wave. A heavy-set man slammed into my shoulder from behind, sending me crashing hard onto the polished tile floor. My hand slipped. Her fingers slid out of mine. “Mom!” By the time I managed to scramble to my feet, the smoke had already risen to the second level, making it hard to breathe. “Lucy!” I screamed, coughing violently. Through a gap in the dark smoke, I saw her. She had tripped and fallen behind a heavy display counter near a structural pillar. A fallen metal advertising board had pinned her down, trapping her in a dead end. At that moment, a figure came charging through the smoke. It was Garrett. His training took over immediately as he began directing people toward the fire exits. Then, he saw her. He looked right at his daughter trapped behind the counter. I saw the sudden, violent conflict flare in his eyes. But that hesitation lasted less than two seconds. From the other side of the corridor, Heidi’s voice pierced the chaos. “Garrett! Help us! Toby’s trapped under the display shelf!” Garrett froze. He looked back at Lucy, who was coughing in the rising smoke. “Lucy, stay there!” he roared across the din. “Daddy’s going to get Toby out, and then I’m coming right back for you!” And then, right before my eyes, he turned his back on his own daughter and ran toward the other woman. He scooped Toby into his arms, threw his jacket over Heidi’s head, and ran toward the emergency stairs. In a moment of life and death, he had abandoned his daughter. Again. I stared at the empty space where he had stood, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth as I bit through my lip. Wait. He had told her to wait, trading her survival for theirs. Through the choking black smoke, Lucy watched the direction her father had vanished. Her small body went completely still. She stopped crying. She stopped calling out. Slowly, she let her small hand drop from her face, allowing the toxic smoke to fill her throat. A single tear cut through the soot on her cheek. Her lips moved, forming silent words. Mom, Dad went to save someone else… I don’t have a dad anymore. That silent whisper snapped the last thread of my sanity. I let out a raw, guttural scream. Grabbing a heavy red fire extinguisher from the wall, I swung it with manic strength, shattering the display counter blocking her path. “Lucy!” “Mom is here!” “I’ve got you!” I pulled her limp, semi-conscious body into my arms, wrapped my wet coat over her face, and charged blindly through the emergency exit. The moment we burst into the cool air of the street, the first sirens of the fire department were arriving. I ran straight to an arriving ambulance, climbing inside with my oxygen-deprived daughter. At the hospital, the red light of the emergency room flared to life. I collapsed onto a plastic chair in the waiting room, my hands shaking. I pulled out my phone and opened the chat with my divorce attorney. I’ve signed the papers. File it. Cut every single tie. Then, I opened the airline app. I changed our flights from tomorrow morning to the very next flight leaving tonight. I was leaving. And Garrett Davies would never find us again.

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My father always said I was a liar. In preschool, when a plastic truck got stepped on, I said I wasn’t the one who broke it. He told the teacher I was lying. Our next-door neighbor, Mr. Peterson, came over to borrow a wrench and noticed a dark purple bruise on my father’s calf. When he asked what happened, I said Mom had kicked him. My father laughed it off, claiming he’d just walked into the coffee table, and told Mr. Peterson that I just loved to make things up. When Grandpa Hank asked if my dad was good to me, I told him the truth: “No, he’s not my real dad.” My father chimed in from the doorway, “Hank, I told you, the kid has a vivid imagination. He can’t tell fact from fiction.” Grandpa Hank just sighed, rubbed my hair, and let it go. I was five when my father applied for a major promotion at the county utility commission. Because it was a government-adjacent role handling public funds, they sent representatives to our house to conduct a routine background and character check. That was the day everyone finally realized that everything I had ever said was true. 1 On the day of the interview, three people came to our house. There was Mr. Burke, a stern-looking man in his late forties who led the questions. A young woman named Lucy, who sat with a laptop to take notes. And an older gentleman with thinning silver hair who sat quietly at the end of our sofa. Mr. Burke started with the basics, asking my father standard questions: date of birth, where he grew up, his parents’ names, and when he and my mother got married. My father answered effortlessly, his smile warm and perfectly measured. Mr. Burke nodded, noting down a few things, before turning to me. His expression softened. “And what about you, buddy? Is your dad good to you?” The living room fell dead silent. “He hits me,” I said. “A lot.” My mother’s hand froze as she set down a teacup. My father’s smile didn’t slip, but I noticed his fingers tremble slightly against his knee. He let out a soft, helpless laugh—the sound of a patient, wounded parent. He looked at Mr. Burke and shook his head. “You see what I have to deal with, Mr. Burke? He’s like this all the time. Not a single word out of his mouth is true.” He gently pulled up my sleeve, exposing my bare arm. It was smooth, pale, and completely unmarked. “You be the judge, Mr. Burke. If I beat him every day, would he look like this?” Mr. Burke looked at my arm and remained silent. My father kept going, his voice growing thick with emotion. “He’s been doing this since he was three. His preschool teacher said he pushed another child off the slide, and he absolutely refused to admit it. The moment I try to discipline him, he goes around telling everyone I abuse him.” Tears began to well up in my father’s eyes, his voice cracking. “Since the day he was born, I’ve given him everything. Food, clothes, toys—he’s never wanted for anything. And this is how he repays me, by badmouthing me to anyone who will listen… I don’t know what I did to make him hate me so much.” My mother sighed beside him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s true, Mr. Burke. He’s had this issue since he was a toddler. We even took him to see a child psychologist—” “I’m not sick,” I said. The room went quiet again. I looked straight at Mr. Burke. “He really does hit me. It hurts.” Mr. Burke studied me for a long moment. “Where does he hit you, Toby?” I had to think about it. My thighs. But that was in the summer when I wore shorts, and the bruises had faded. My ears. But the redness from having my ears pulled vanished quickly; they weren’t red now. “He just does,” I said quietly. My father didn’t say another word. He just stared at me, tears streaming down his cheeks. They looked so incredibly real. Mr. Burke sighed and turned to my father, his tone turning sympathetic. “Kids say hurtful things when they’re angry. We understand.” He closed his notebook, looking ready to wrap up. But the silver-haired older gentleman, who had been silent the entire time, suddenly spoke. “And why does your father hit you?” 2 The moment the question hung in the air, my father’s quiet weeping stopped. My mother’s hand hovered over her teacup. All eyes in the room landed on me. I looked at my father. “Because he’s not my real dad,” I said. “My real dad didn’t look like him.” My father’s face drained of color. It was only for a fraction of a second before his wounded, pitying expression returned. He shook his head. “This boy… I honestly don’t know what to do with him anymore.” Mr. Burke finished packing up his briefcase and said they would head back to verify the information. The silver-haired man was the last to leave. He paused at the doorway, turning back to give me a long, searching look. It felt like he was trying to see right through me, searching for something hidden deep beneath the surface. But he didn’t say anything. The second the front door clicked shut, my father grabbed my arm, dragging me down the hallway and throwing me into the bathroom. The light flickered off. The door locked from the outside. In the pitch black, his muffled voice drifted through the wood. “Say one more word like that, and you’re sleeping on the floor in there tonight.” I sat on the tile, leaning against the base of the toilet. I didn’t cry. I was used to the dark. But my mind kept returning to that old man’s eyes. He was different from the others. Others looked at me like I was a broken toy. He looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. Since I was three, my father had been building this narrative. The first time was in preschool. When a toy got broken and the teacher asked who did it, I said it wasn’t me. My father was called in. In front of the teacher, he pinched my cheek hard and said, “Don’t believe a word he says, Ms. Davis. He’s a pathological liar.” I cried, protesting my innocence, but he pinched me again, laughing it off. “See? There he goes again.” The second time was Mr. Peterson. He saw the dark purple bruise on my father’s thigh and asked about it. I told him Mom had done it. My father laughed, blamed the doorframe, and later cornered me. He squeezed my thigh until I whimpered. “Speak up again, and I’ll sew your mouth shut.” After Mr. Peterson left, he locked me in the bathroom for the entire afternoon. From then on, I never spoke of Mom hitting him again. But my father didn’t stop. He made sure to warn everyone about my “condition.” Teachers, neighbors, relatives. Every time someone looked at me, there was a strange, pitying skepticism in their eyes. That’s the dishonest boy. When I was three, Grandpa Hank asked me, “Is your dad good to you, Tobes?” I said no. “He’s not my real dad.” My father shook his head sadly. “I told you, Hank. The boy can’t help himself.” Grandpa Hank sighed, patted my head, and left. At four, I told him again. This time, Grandpa Hank didn’t even sigh. He just looked at me with a profound, aching pity. Not because he thought I was being abused, but because he thought I was mentally ill. On my fifth birthday, I blew out my candles and made a wish. I wished for just one person to believe me. Just one. But nobody did. They all believed him. He knew how to play the victim, how to cry, how to wrap his arms around me in public and whisper, “The poor kid was just born a little off.” And all I could do was repeat the same phrase over and over: “He’s not my real dad.” Like a broken toy that only knew one line. 3 Until the investigators came and I said it again. I thought this would be the moment. But the look on Mr. Burke’s face told me he didn’t believe me either. That night, my father didn’t hit me. Instead, he made me kneel on the concrete of the back porch for two hours. The early autumn breeze was freezing. My knees felt like they were cracking under my weight. My mother stayed in the living room, watching TV, never looking out. When Grandpa Hank called to check in, my father answered smoothly. “Oh, everything’s fine, Hank. Toby is just taking a bath.” When he hung up, he walked out to the porch and knelt down to meet my eyes. “Toby,” he whispered, his voice as soft and sweet as a lullaby. “If you ever say those crazy things to the investigators again, I’ll have you committed to an institution. They lock kids like you in rooms with straightjackets, and you never get to leave. Do you understand me?” I nodded. He smiled and patted my head. “Good boy. I’ll go warm up some milk for you.” He got up and went inside. I kept kneeling. As the wind swept over me, a memory flickered— My real dad had warmed up milk for me, too. It was the only memory I had from when I was barely a year old. He was wearing a white pajama top, carrying a warm mug from the kitchen, blowing gently on it to cool it down before handing it to me. They were not the same man. I knew it with absolute certainty. But no one believed me. Thirty-five days passed after the investigators left. I thought they were gone for good. My father thought so too. He stopped wearing high-necked sweaters and went back to his loose t-shirts. He started shouting at my mother again, throwing dishes, sliding back into his old skin. My mother started drinking again, smashing glasses when she had too much. Everything returned to the way it had always been. Except for Grandpa Hank. He started visiting more often. He would bring boxes of pastries, watching me eat in silence. Sometimes he would sigh out of nowhere, stroke my hair, and whisper, “My poor boy.” I didn’t know if he believed me or not. I didn’t care anymore. One afternoon, I was playing in the dirt in the front yard. The doorbell rang. My father went to open it, and the cheerful greeting died in his throat. Mr. Burke was standing on the porch. It was the same three people: Mr. Burke, Lucy, and the silver-haired older gentleman. But this time, the older man walked in first. “Mr. David Henderson,” Mr. Burke’s tone was strictly professional. “We need to follow up on a few details. May we come in?” My father’s smile was stiff, but he stepped aside. “Of course, of course. Please.” My mother came out of the kitchen. When she saw them, her face went pale, but she quickly masked it. “Mr. Burke, is there a problem with the background check?” “Just a routine follow-up,” Mr. Burke said. “Please, have a seat.” But they didn’t sit on the sofa. The silver-haired man walked straight over to me and knelt down. “Toby,” he said softly. “Last time, you said this man isn’t your real father.” “Do you have any proof?” I remembered. I had seen my real dad when he was taking a shower once. On the left side of his chest, there was a birthmark. A small, heart-shaped mark. I opened my mouth to speak— But my father let out a sudden, loud laugh. It was a cold sound that made the hair on my arms stand up. “Walter, you’re seriously going to listen to a five-year-old’s fantasy? The kid is a pathological liar. What ‘proof’ could he possibly have?” The old man, Walter, ignored him. He kept his eyes fixed on me. They were incredibly bright. “Don’t be afraid, Toby. Take your time.” Looking into Walter’s eyes, I realized something. He was serious. He actually wanted to hear what I had to say. “My real dad,” I said, “had a heart-shaped birthmark on the left side of his chest.” “He doesn’t have one.” My father’s laughter died instantly. His face went white as paper.

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I spent our wedding night sitting upright in an armchair, watching the sky outside the floor-to-ceiling windows turn from ink-black to a pale, bruising gray. Early the next morning, Jessica walked in, tossing a cardboard box onto the duvet. Inside were fifty scratch-off lottery tickets. “Go ahead, Larry,” she said, her voice dry and thick with fatigue. “Scratch them. Whatever you win, I’ll match it ten-fold and wire it to your father’s company.” I reached for the quarters on the vanity with numb fingers. First card: Try again. Second card: Try again. Third card: Not a winner. Jessica leaned against the doorframe, a faint, mocking smile on her lips. “Is this really the extent of your talent? You seemed a lot bolder last night when you poured that glass of Pinot Noir over Dan’s head.” I looked at the silver shavings on my fingers. “I won’t do it again.” She paused, surprised by my docility, then walked over and patted my head, the way one might soothe a temperamental golden retriever. “Good. Remember that. Keep your hands off Dan.” She pulled a titanium card from her purse and tapped it against my cheek. “This is more than enough to bail out your dad’s firm.” My eyes dropped. “I don’t want it.” She didn’t know my father was dead. Dead men don’t have payroll to meet. … Jessica’s brow furrows. “Larry, stop playing hard to get. I told you, Dan is just my assistant. You throwing a scene in front of our investors didn’t hurt him—it humiliated me. I withheld the wire to teach you a lesson.” I look at her collarbone. There is a faint, plum-colored bruise there. She sees me looking, and her lips twitch into a smug, fleeting smile. “I understand,” I say. She looks at me, searching my face. “You understand what?” “That I was being childish.” She softens slightly, a look of vindication settling over her features. “Good. You need to stop expecting everyone else to clean up your messes.” She looks nothing like the girl who first came to my father’s house for Sunday dinner. My dad had spent all day making roast beef. Afterward, he took her into his study, placed my hand in hers, and said, “Larry is stubborn, Jessica. I’ve spoiled him, and his temper gets the best of him. Please, look out for him.” Jessica had squeezed my hand. “I promise, Mr. Westfield. I’ll always stand by him.” But now, she uses my father’s survival as a leash. Her phone buzzes on the nightstand. She glances at the screen and answers, her voice softening instantly. “What is it, Dan? … I’ll be right there.” She hangs up. “Dan’s having an allergic reaction to some seafood. I have to go check on him.” She walks to the mirror, adjusting her collar. “You were spoiled, Larry. You’re used to everyone bowing to you. But now that we’re married, you need to learn to bend.” I stand there, watching her, then look down at my own phone. Twenty-three missed calls from an unknown number. “Are you going to the hospital?” I ask. She stops, looking at me through the mirror. “What? Checking up on me already?” “No,” I say softly. “Just take the card with you. Buy him a new tie while you’re out.” Her expression darkens. She strides over, grabbing my chin. “Do you have to be so incredibly passive-aggressive right now?” She lets go with a harsh laugh. “Fine. Since you’re in such a generous mood, the wire can wait another three days. When you learn to speak to me with a little respect, I’ll release the funds.” Ever since our family’s supply chain collapsed, everyone in the city knew Jessica was our only hope. And because of that, she became utterly convinced I could never leave her. She started ignoring my calls, showing up to galas with Dan on her arm, and silencing my protests with a cold threat: One more word, Larry, and the money gets delayed. She turns on her heel. “Scratch the rest of those cards. I want to see them on the counter tomorrow morning. And wipe that miserable look off your face. It’s depressing.” The heavy oak door slams shut. The house falls dead quiet. I walk into the walk-in closet, pull out a battered leather duffel bag, and begin folding my shirts. Jessica doesn’t know. My father, driven to the edge by loan sharks, went up to his office rooftop. He lost his footing. He fell eighteen stories. He died on impact. The next morning, I walk out of the villa carrying my bag. Robert, the butler, stops me at the iron gates. “Mr. Westfield, where are you going?” “Just out.” Robert looks at my bag, his face tightening with worry. “Mrs. Davenport gave strict instructions. If you leave the house, you have to let her know.” I pull out my phone and dial Jessica’s number right in front of him. It rings six times before she picks up. “What is it now?” she asks, her voice dripping with irritation. “I’m leaving the house.” “Where are you going?” “The hospital.” “The hospital? For god’s sake, Larry, stop playing sick for attention.” “I have things to take care of.” She scoffs. “Fine. Just don’t bring any of that hospital misery back into my house.” “Okay,” I say. I hang up and look at Robert. He sighs, stepping aside. At the county morgue, the coroner hands me a clipboard. “Mr. Westfield, here is the autopsy report and the cremation consent form.” I take the pen. My father had hundreds of friends when he was wealthy. But standing here today, I am the only one left to sign his name away. My hand trembles so hard the pen barely touches the paper. “Is there any other family we should call?” the coroner asks gently. I dig my fingernails into my palm until the pain sharpens my focus. My hand steadies. “No,” I say. “Just me.” “When can we proceed with the cremation?” The coroner takes the clipboard back, glancing at the empty hallway behind me. “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.” “Thank you.” When I step outside, the autumn sun is blindingly bright. It reminds me of the afternoon my father went in for his first biopsy years ago. Jessica had canceled a merger meeting to sit with me in the waiting room. My palms had been slick with sweat, and she had wrapped her hands around mine. “Don’t be scared,” she had whispered. “I’ve got you.” Later, my dad had patted her shoulder. “Jessica, Larry is a bit fragile under pressure. I’m relying on you to look after him.” She had looked at me with genuine warmth. “Don’t worry, sir. As long as I’m here, he’ll never have to carry the weight alone.” And now, here I am, signing his death warrant in the same hospital while she buys ties for another man. My phone vibrates. It’s Bill Davis, our company’s head accountant. “Larry, the wire from Davenport Enterprises still hasn’t cleared.” “I know, Bill.” “Larry, you have to talk to her. Please. We can’t reach your father, and the creditors are at the door. We can’t let the firm collapse.” “Bill,” I interrupt quietly. “How much is left in the operating account?” “Less than ten thousand dollars.” “Use it to pay out severance to the staff. Tell everyone to go home today.” There is a long pause. “Larry… what do you mean?” “We’re filing for Chapter 7. We’re liquidating.” On the other side of town, Jessica is stepping out of a boutique with Dan. Her assistant, Diana, stands by the idling town car, speaking in a low voice. “Ms. Davenport, there’s been some news from Westfield Logistics. It seems Mr. Westfield senior has…” Dan is holding the car door open, a subtle smile playing on his lips. Jessica frowns. “What news?” “It seems there was an incident—” “Did Larry tell you to say that?” Jessica cuts her off, her voice cold. Diana hesitates. “No, ma’am, it came from—” “That’s enough,” Jessica says, waving a hand dismissively. “I told you, I don’t want to hear about the Westfields’ dramatic ploys to get my attention. All I care about is whether Larry has called to apologize. Let him stew for a few days. He’ll learn.” I walk into the funeral home. The director shows me the options. “This solid mahogany vault is beautiful. It’s moisture-resistant. Eight thousand dollars.” I hand him my debit card. “This is fine.” The machine beeps. Declined. I close my eyes, remembering that I used the last of my savings to clear his final medical bills yesterday. My dad spent his whole life trying to shield me from the cold realities of the world. And now that he’s gone, I can’t even afford to buy him a decent final resting place. “Give me a moment,” I tell the director. I sit on the steps outside and open a luxury consignment app on my phone. I list the Rolex and the bespoke Dunhill suits Jessica had bought me over the years. I price them to sell. Within ten minutes, the notifications chime. Sold. Paid. I suppose that was the only real value of her love in the end—it bought my father a sliver of dignity. I transfer the funds to my card and walk back inside. “Try this one.” The transaction goes through. I sit on a stone bench outside the crematorium, cradling the heavy mahogany box in my lap. It feels so small, yet my arms ache from the weight of it. My phone rings. Jessica’s name flashes on the screen. “Larry, where the hell are you?” she demands. “Outside,” I say. “I just got an alert from my concierge. You sold the Rolex I got you for our anniversary? And your formal suits? Are you completely out of your mind?” I look down at the dark wood in my arms. “I needed the money.” She lets out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I told you, Larry. Walk through the front door, apologize to me, and twenty million dollars will be in your account within the hour.” “No, thank you.” “Larry!” her voice rises, sharp and dictatorial. “I gave you a way out of this. Don’t push me.” “Jessica, let’s get a divorce.” The line goes dead silent. Ten seconds pass, filled only with the faint sound of her breathing. “What kind of game is this?” she asks, her voice dripping with condescension. “Your father’s company is on the verge of ruin. You think you’re in a position to ask for a divorce?” I don’t say anything. She takes my silence as surrender. “There’s a charity gala tomorrow night. Get yourself together and be ready by seven. And don’t wear one of those drab, depressing black suits. If you behave yourself, I might consider releasing five million on Friday.” She hangs up before I can answer. I look at the small photograph of my father I keep in my wallet. He’s smiling, standing on a dock with a fishing rod in hand. It was taken five years ago, right around the time Jessica asked for his blessing to marry me. I remember him holding her hand, looking at her with tears in his eyes. “Please, take care of my boy.” And she had looked him in the eye and said, “I promise, Mr. Westfield. He will never suffer as long as I live.” I slowly slip the platinum band off my left ring finger. The next day, I spend the morning in the quiet chapel of the funeral home. At five in the afternoon, Isabel calls. “Larry? Where are you? Jessica’s driver is looking for you.” “I’m not coming, Isabel.” “Larry, stop it,” she sighs. “I know things are tense, but Dan is going to be there. If you don’t show up, people will talk. Jessica said if you don’t come tonight, she’s completely cutting off the Westfield accounts.” I watch the small fire flicker in the iron hearth of the chapel, throwing long shadows across the stone floor. “Tell her I’m busy,” I say, and hang up. I watch the last of the embers die down, then stand and brush the gray soot from my coat. Tomorrow is the burial. I need to make sure the plot in Westlake Cemetery is ready. The next morning, a cold, gray drizzle falls over the city. I stand alone under a black umbrella, watching two cemetery workers lower the mahogany box into the earth. I thought I would cry, but my throat is raw and my eyes are dry as bone. I lay a bundle of white chrysanthemums on the wet grass. “Goodbye, Dad.” The rain smears the glass of his framed portrait. I reach out to wipe it away, but my fingers are freezing, completely numb. I remember a rainy afternoon years ago when I had a high fever. My dad had carried me on his back to the clinic, and Jessica had held the umbrella over us, her own shoulder soaking wet so not a single drop would touch me. And now, on the day I bury him, she is nowhere to be found. By the time I get back to the Davenport estate, it’s noon. My black wool coat is heavy with rainwater, the cuffs stained with cemetery mud. I push open the front door. The sound of a daytime talk show echoes through the foyer. Jessica is curled up on the velvet sofa, her head resting on Dan’s shoulder. Draped over Dan’s lap is a cream-colored cashmere throw—the one my dad had bought me for my twenty-fifth birthday. “Keep warm, Larry,” my father had joked back then. “Even when you have a wife, you have to look after yourself.” And now, that very blanket is keeping Dan warm in my home, next to my wife. My hands clench into fists at my sides. A primitive urge flares up inside me to tear it off him, to scream at them to get out. But I just look away. It doesn’t matter. My father is gone. A piece of fabric means nothing. Hearing my footsteps, they both look up. Jessica’s face hardens the second she sees me. “So you finally decided to crawl back?” She looks at my mud-splattered boots, her brow furrowing with disgust. “Why are you wearing all black? Who died?” She brushes a piece of lint off her sleeve, as if looking at me is physically exhausting. I look down at the mud on my cuffs. I don’t say a word. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, the raw grief will tear through me. I turn toward the stairs. Jessica springs up, grabbing my wrist. Her grip is white-hot and tight. “I’m talking to you, Larry! You hang up on me, block my texts, and now you walk in here looking like a ghost. Do you think I have infinite patience for your tantrums?” “Let go,” I say quietly. She laughs, tightening her grip until my bones ache. “Are you still trying to punish me for withholding the money? Let me tell you something, Larry. You missed the gala last night. The Westfield deal is dead. This morning, I personally instructed our bank to pull the emergency credit line.” She leans in, her breath warm against my ear. “Your father is probably hiding from debt collectors in some dark alley right now. You want to save him? Kneel. Beg me. Maybe I’ll throw him a bone.” I look at her, my face completely blank. My father is in the ground. No one can hurt him now. Dan stands up from the sofa, adjusting his shirt with a soft, patronizing smile. “Larry, listen to Jessica. Just apologize and let’s move past this. Your father isn’t young anymore. He can’t handle that kind of stress. If something terrible happens, you’ll have to live with the guilt.” Jessica lets go of my wrist, dismissing me with a wave of her hand. “Go change. We’re going to my family’s estate for dinner.” Right then, her phone on the coffee table begins to vibrate. It’s Isabel. Jessica sighs and answers. “What is it, Isabel?” Isabel’s voice is trembling so violently I can hear it from where I stand. “Jessica… where are you?” “At home. Why?” “You need to go to the police station. Now.” Jessica’s brow furrows. “Why would I go to the police station?” “Detective Miller just called me. Your father-in-law’s file is being closed, and they need a family member to sign the final release forms. He couldn’t reach Larry, so he called me.” Isabel takes a ragged, shaking breath. “Charles fell from his office roof three days ago, Jessica. The burial was this morning.” The living room falls into a suffocating, dead silence. Jessica’s hand freezes mid-air, the phone still pressed to her ear. Slowly, she turns her head. Her eyes travel down to my black coat, to the dried gray mud on my cuffs, to the hollow emptiness in my eyes. The realization hits her like a physical blow. “No,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Isabel, stop playing these stupid games.” She stares at me, her face pale. “Larry, tell her she’s lying. Tell me this is just another stunt to get the money! Say something!” I look at her. Even now, her first instinct is to assume I’m manipulating her. I don’t offer an explanation. I simply reach into my coat pocket, pull out a folded piece of paper, and place it on the glass table. Jessica looks down. It’s a death certificate. The time of death is printed clearly in black ink. It was the exact hour she had switched her phone to silent to sit in a hospital room with Dan. The phone slips from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor.

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Coming back from a business trip, I pointed to the limited-edition dirt bike that had just been delivered to the garage. “Howard, have the flatbed tow this over to my apartment around noon. I’m taking it out to the outer loop this weekend.” He didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at me with a cold, unblinking gaze. “My mom and Izzy are out this afternoon. You don’t need to drive them anywhere.” I nodded. “I know.” “Oh, and grab that new riding gear from my room and load it up too.” He didn’t answer. He just glared at me, his eyes dark and hostile. I paused. “Do you not know how to call a flatbed?” “Never mind. I’ll just call the towing service myself.” When the tow truck driver arrived and we started loading the bike and gear, Howard suddenly flew off the handle. “What do you think you’re doing, taking off with something this expensive? Did you even ask for my permission?” I was stunned. My mom and sister had always hated bikes. They had been terrified of motorcycles since they were kids. I was the only one in the family who rode. My dad had custom-ordered this off-road bike from Europe and had it shipped over specifically for me. Howard was just our driver. Did he honestly think living on the estate made him the man of the house? 1 “Howard, my mom and sister have zero interest in riding. This bike was bought for me.” “If you’re so interested, I can let you take it for a spin sometime.” His face fell, sneering at me with pure disdain. “Even if they don’t ride it, you have no right to just cart it away.” “You’re twenty-eight years old. No wife, no real career, still living off your parents’ dime. Aren’t you embarrassed?” My temper flared. “You’re the driver, Howard. Stick to your job and mind your own business.” He shut his mouth, but he kept staring at me like I owed him a million dollars. I didn’t care to indulge him. I told the tow truck driver to finish loading. As I walked out the door, I caught him muttering under his breath: “Twenty-eight and still acting like a spoiled brat. Your mother might coddle you, but I won’t.” I swallowed my anger. My mom suffers from severe motion sickness. We have gone through at least ten drivers in the past few years. Howard wasn’t exactly a pleasant guy, but he was the smoothest driver we’d ever had. My mom and sister could actually ride in the back without getting sick. That was the only reason I let it slide. The next morning, my mom came back from her morning run. The moment she stepped through the door, Howard rushed over, eagerly offering to take her coat and water bottle. When she politely declined, he turned around to pour her a glass of water. As she drank it, a smug, self-satisfied grin crept across his wrinkled face. Then, my sister Izzy came downstairs. Howard immediately started fussing over her. “Izzy, I got those fresh pastries you like from the bakery down the street.” “Izzy, the weather app says it’s going to pour today. Make sure you drive carefully.” “Izzy, what do you want for dinner tonight? I can pick up whatever you need.” I travel constantly for work. Even when I am home, I’m out early and back late, so I rarely interacted with him. Whenever he looked at me, his face was a mask of irritation and cold resentment. I had assumed he was just a miserable guy by nature. I hadn’t realized he was playing a double game. At the dinner table, Howard sat himself down right next to my mother. “Diana, that brand-new dirt bike you got yesterday? Elliot packed the whole thing up and took it to his place.” My mom smiled at me warmly. “Those bikes can be dangerous in the wind, sweetie. Don’t ride too fast, and please wear your helmet.” I took a bite of my food. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m only riding on weekends. It’s staying in my apartment garage.” My mom said affectionately, “Alright. If you want, I can order you a road cruiser for your daily commute. It’ll be easier for getting to the office.” Howard slammed his fork down. “Diana, you’re going to ruin him if you keep doing this.” “A twenty-eight-year-old grown man, unmarried, no real ambition, still begging his family for toys. Aren’t you worried people will laugh?” Izzy looked up, her fork pausing. “Howard, my brother spends our family’s money. Why do you care?” My mom chimed in, “I like spoiling my son. Who has a problem with that?” Howard’s face turned a deep, angry purple, but he didn’t dare snap at them. Instead, he directed a look of pure venom at me. I stood up. “What is your problem?” “My mother can spoil me all she wants. Since when does our driver get to tell us how to run our lives?” Howard’s face flushed a deep red. “Diana, look at how he talks to me!” “I’m only speaking up for the good of this family. A grown man acting like a parasite—I can’t say a word about it?” I scoffed. “You’re overstepping, Howard. My dad bought me that bike, and my parents own this house.” “You’re just the hired help. Do you actually think you own the place?” He gasped, clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack. “You have the nerve to bring up the house? Your sister is the one who’s going to inherit this estate and carry on the family legacy. This house is her security.” “You’re a man. You’re supposed to build your own life. How can you be so shameless as to try and steal your sister’s inheritance?” Izzy’s face darkened. “Howard, that’s enough. I’ve never accused my brother of trying to take anything from me. Stop trying to drive a wedge between us.” My mom pushed her chair back, her voice cold. “Howard, you don’t make the decisions in this house.” Howard choked on his words. “Diana, Izzy… I was only trying to help.” “A boy needs discipline. Twenty-eight and still lounging around the family estate—what kind of woman would ever want to marry him?” Seeing that he wouldn’t drop it, my mother’s tone grew ice-cold. “Howard. Know your place.” 2 Howard finally shut up. But the look he gave me was dripping with resentment and unearned arrogance. That evening, in our family group chat, my mom and sister both sent me a Zelle notification. Ten thousand dollars each. Mom: “Elliot, honey, don’t listen to a word Howard said. You will always be my baby.” Izzy: “Seriously, Elliot. The driver is acting so bizarre lately. A couple of weeks ago, he literally pushed his son’s contact card on me.” My heart skipped a beat. “You didn’t add him, did you?” A brief pause. Izzy: “Somehow he got my number and added me first. But don’t worry, I blocked and deleted him immediately.” I thought back to Howard’s behavior toward my mother and sister this morning. It all clicked. He was trying to make a play for my mother, while simultaneously setting up his son to marry my sister. A double jackpot. He wanted to swallow our family whole. But my parents were happily married. My dad just spent most of the year overseas managing our international branches. Howard must have assumed my mother was a lonely divorcée or a wealthy widow. An audio message from my dad popped up in the chat. His voice was tight with barely suppressed rage: “You two just sat there and let some hired hand bully my son?” My mom and sister replied almost instantly, their voices trembling with guilt: “I’ll fire him first thing tomorrow!” I jumped in to stop them. “Wait until we find a replacement.” My mom’s motion sickness was no joke, and Howard really was a remarkably smooth driver. I figured we could tolerate him for just a little longer while we quietly scouted a new agency. The next morning, my mom left early to visit a high-end domestic staffing agency, and Izzy went to her office. I had pulled an all-nighter finishing a project proposal and had only just fallen asleep when a racket outside my door jolted me awake. It was the obnoxious, heavy thudding of sneakers stomping up the stairs, followed by a loud, grating voice boisterously shouting in the hallway. It was impossible to sleep through. I threw open my bedroom door, my face clouded with exhaustion and irritation. “Howard, keep it down. Some of us are trying to sleep.” A completely unfamiliar, gravelly voice barked back. “It’s the middle of the day, what are you still sleeping for? Get over here and help me unpack my bags.” I rubbed my bleary eyes. Standing in our hallway was a heavy-set, sunburned young man, looking at me with pure arrogance. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” Howard emerged from the guest room next door, his chin held high. “This is my son, Dustin. You’d better show him some respect from now on.” I let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. I didn’t care if his son was the president. “Howard, this is my house. You are our driver. And you’re telling me to show your son respect?” Howard smirked, looking down his nose at me. “You’re a twenty-eight-year-old freeloader who doesn’t even have a real career. What right do you have to talk down to anyone?” “Who knows who’ll be running this house soon anyway.” Dustin sized me up from head to toe, a look of disgust on his face. “Just as useless as my dad said.” “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to pack your bags. Tomorrow, you’re out of here.” “Your sister is the one keeping this place. A grown man trying to squeeze his sister out of her own inheritance? Have some shame.” I kicked away the duffel bag Dustin had tossed onto the floor. “Get out of my house right now, or I’m calling the police for trespassing.” Howard pointed a finger at me, his face turning red as he screamed. “Don’t you dare act ungrateful! Your mother has carried you for twenty-eight years, that’s long enough! It’s time for you to get out.” “Your sister is staying. The house belongs to her. What are you trying to steal?” “A grown man with no job, no drive, and you actually think you have a right to this estate?” “Go look in a mirror and see if you even deserve to stand here!” His toxic words made my blood boil. “Howard, you’re fired. Both of you, get the hell out of my house.” Howard didn’t even flinch. “You don’t have the authority to fire us.” “Who was there to take care of your mother when she was sick? Did you spend a single dime? Did you lift a single finger?” “I’ve bled for this household, while you’ve done nothing but leach. What gives you the right to raise your voice to me?” I didn’t waste another breath. I pulled out my phone to dial 911. Dustin lunged forward, snatched the phone out of my hand, and slammed it onto the hardwood floor, shattering the screen. “You little punk. You don’t know when to play nice.” “I guess we’ve spoiled you too much. Today, I’m going to teach you who really runs this place.” 3 He shoved me aside and barged into my room, ripping open my closets and drawers. “Look at all these luxury watches, these designer sneakers. A worthless freeloader doesn’t deserve any of this. It’s mine now.” Howard stood by, cheering him on. “That’s right, Dustin! Take it all. He doesn’t deserve a dime of it.” “Twenty-eight years old, no job, just squandering his family’s money. It’s pathetic.” This was the absolute limit. I grabbed a heavy broom from the utility closet and began swinging it wildly, striking them wherever I could. “Thieves! Parasites! Get the hell out of my house!” I managed to force them out, slamming the heavy front door shut. Finally, the house was silent. But the adrenaline was surging, and any hope of sleep was completely gone. After restoring some order to my room, I headed downstairs to find something to eat. When the elevator doors opened into the lobby of our building, I walked into a crowd of residents gathered in a tight circle. In the center stood Howard and Dustin. Their clothes were torn, their faces smudged, and they looked completely disheveled. I kept my head down, trying to walk past them without making a scene. But someone stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Don’t you dare walk away. You need to apologize to Howard and his son right now.” “We live in a civilized society. Assault is a crime.” Howard let out a pathetic, trembling sob. “Elliot… Diana works so hard to keep this family afloat, and you just walk off with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of custom bikes.” “Every day, it’s designer shoes, lavish vacations… you’re draining your mother dry.” “I tried to talk some sense into you, and you threw me out. You even tried to force Diana to sign the deed of the estate over to your name.” “Poor Izzy… she’s the one who’s supposed to inherit the house. It’s her security!” He wiped away a tear, sniffled, and put on a masterclass of tragic suffering. The surrounding neighbors immediately flared up with self-righteous anger. “Young man, you can’t behave like this. Your mother has severe health issues. If Howard hadn’t been taking care of her, who knows what would have happened?” “He works tirelessly for your family, and you just throw him out like garbage?” “You’re twenty-eight! No career, no family of your own, just mooching off your mother?” “And trying to steal your sister’s inheritance? How pathetic.” “Look at the bruises on Howard and his boy. Stepfathers really have it rough.” “Howard gave his heart and soul to that house, only to end up with a delusional stepson who wants him gone. What a nightmare.” I stood there, my hands shaking with absolute rage at their web of lies. “What the hell are you talking about? He is our driver!” Howard cried even harder. “My feelings for Diana are real! I never cared about her money!” “I poured everything into that home. What do you know about sacrifice, you spoiled brat?” An elderly neighbor, Mr. Henderson, shook his head with pity. “Son, you should be grateful. Having someone step up to take care of your mother is a blessing.” “At twenty-eight, you should be out making a life for yourself, not staying home trying to cheat your sister out of her house.” Others chimed in: “Exactly. And calling him ‘the driver’ to devalue him? How cold-hearted.” “Howard, you need to stand up for yourself. He’s only walking all over you because you’re too soft.” “Go to the clinic, get your injuries documented, and call the police. Let everyone see what an abusive, lazy, freeloading coward he is!” Howard frantically shook his head. “No, no, please, don’t call the police. It’ll ruin his future, and Diana would be devastated.” He lowered his head, the picture of martyr-like restraint. “I… I can take it. I’m used to it. Keeping the peace in the family is what matters.” The crowd’s anger boiled over, turning entirely on me. I felt physically sick. My mother? His partner? Did my mother have any idea this lunatic was spinning these fantasies? The crowd of onlookers was growing, and their venomous whispers began to pelt me like stones. “Go ahead, call the police!” I shouted, my voice raw. “This is slander and defamation. Let’s see who ends up ruined!” Howard pointed a trembling finger at me. “Elliot, don’t push it. I know you have friends in the local department. Are you really that determined to destroy my life?” He pulled up his sleeve. “Look at these bruises! He did this to me!” Then he tugged at Dustin’s shirt collar. “Dustin only wanted to protect his dad, and he got beat up too.” “Dustin, I’m so sorry. Your father is useless. I couldn’t protect you from these people. I’ve failed you, son.” Dustin lunged forward and struck me across the face. “Elliot, you’ve already ruined my happiness, and now you’re torturing my dad?” “You lazy piece of trash, karma is going to get you!” My head snapped back from the blow. It was the first time I had ever been hit like that in my life, let alone under such a humiliating, fraudulent pretext. Blinded by rage, I swung back and hit him. The moment I did, Dustin grabbed me by the hair and began raining punches down on me. “I’ll teach you to lay hands on my dad!” I tried to fight back, but two men from the crowd suddenly grabbed my arms from behind, pinning them. “That’s it, buddy! Teach this punk a lesson!” “We’ve got him pinned! Hit him!” Thankfully, the sound of sirens cut through the chaos. Two police officers rushed into the lobby, pulling Dustin and the men holding me apart. Every muscle in my body ached, my face burning where Dustin had struck me. I clenched my fists, trembling. “Officer, I want to press charges for assault, battery, and defamation.” But before I could finish, Howard dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Elliot, I can’t protect you anymore. Not after what you did to my son. You’ve broken my heart.” “You have a sick, obsessive attachment to your mother. You can’t stand any other man being near her.” “Ever since I started caring for Diana, you’ve been acting like a psychopath.” “And my poor Dustin… he and Izzy are deeply in love, but you threatened to kill yourself if they didn’t break up.” “You just wanted to steal the trust fund and the house that Dustin and Izzy were supposed to share.” “Today, Dustin just came to visit his father, and you beat him half to death. And now you want to put us in jail?” “You’re trying to destroy us!” The surrounding neighbors immediately stepped up to back his story. “We saw the whole thing, Officer. This kid started it. Howard and his son were just defending themselves.” “The kid is unstable. He attacked them right in front of us. God knows what he does behind closed doors.” “Poor guys. I heard they were already planning the wedding, and the family was going to put Dustin’s name on the deed.” “Izzy is the real victim here, having a leech of a brother who wants to steal her life.” I was losing my mind. These people were weaving a fantasy that threatened to drag my entire family into the mud. “You’re both insane!” I screamed. The officer turned to me, his expression grave. “Is any of this true, sir?” “It’s a complete lie! He is a driver hired through an agency. If you don’t believe me, call the agency right now.” “This other guy broke into my apartment, threatened me, and tried to steal my personal belongings.” “I hired a driver, not a father figure, so I fired him on the spot.” “Then they come down here and make up this ridiculous story. Our relationship with Howard is strictly employer-employee. My mother is happily married, and my sister has never even met this man’s son.” The officer pulled out his notepad and made a call to the agency. “Howard Briggs? Yes, he was terminated from our registry six months ago.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “479984”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

“Guys, to help my daughter get into a top medical school, I only eat half a dinner roll every day…” In front of the camera, my mom sobbed like her heart was breaking while holding up a hard, dried-out roll. Viewers sent tips one after another, praising this great single mother. But they did not know that she had just picked that roll out of the trash, and that two days ago she had spent the tip money on a thirty-eight-thousand-dollar Thermage treatment. Now, to sign an outrageously expensive influencer performance contract, she had secretly hidden my admission letter, forcing me to give up my combined undergraduate, master’s, and doctoral medical program and stay behind as a prop for her livestream sales. I looked at her stiff face and silently pressed the record button. One “Guys, to send my daughter to medical school, I’ve worn this pair of shoes for three years, until the soles are worn through, and I can’t even bear to buy myself a new pair of socks…” Under the harsh ring light, Diane Carter sobbed at her phone camera like her heart was breaking. She held up a pair of filthy canvas shoes with holes in them, while that face, freshly pumped with hyaluronic acid and not fully de-swollen yet, forced out a few tears. On the screen, comments like “great mother,” “I’m crying,” and “This poor lady has had it so hard” flew by rapidly, and the special effects for sports cars and yachts sent as tips connected into one glowing stream, nearly lagging the video until it dropped frames. I had just pushed open the front door when Diane Carter lunged at me like a shark smelling blood. She clamped down on my arm, her nails digging into my flesh, and dragged me in front of the camera. “Jane! Kneel down! Bow to everyone watching!” she raised her voice, a disgusting fanaticism in it, “If they hadn’t sent tips, how could you have what you have today? Hurry up and show everyone how grateful you are!” Doug Carter, my uncle, sprawled across the couch cracking sunflower seeds. Seeing that I did not move, he spat the shells onto the floor and shouted in his rough, hoarse voice, “Jane Miller! What are you staring for? Your mom picks through trash every day for you, so what’s wrong with asking you to bow? You really are an ungrateful brat!” The tone in the livestream instantly shifted. “Why does this daughter look so cold?” “She’s way too ungrateful. What a waste of her mom’s good intentions.” “Do college students these days learn nothing at all?” Diane Carter’s hand pressed down on my shoulder like an iron clamp, shoving with all her strength, trying to force me to the floor. As she pushed me down, she cried to the camera, “Guys, don’t blame her. The child is just shy. Deep down, she’s actually very thoughtful…” I stared at her expressionlessly. Yesterday, she had just swiped thirty-eight thousand dollars at a downtown beauty clinic for Thermage, and today she was here holding up a pair of torn shoes she had picked from the trash, crying about being poor. I could even smell the expensive perfume on her, mixed with the sour stink coming from those old shoes, and it made me nauseous. I did not say a word. With a sudden jerk, I shook off her hand, strode to the corner, and yanked the router’s power cord out. Snap. The ring light went out. The phone screen instantly went black, showing a disconnected network alert. The room fell deathly silent. Even the sound of Doug Carter spitting sunflower seed shells stopped midair. “You little bitch! What are you doing!” Diane Carter froze for two seconds, then the mask of the loving mother shattered on her face, and she screamed. She grabbed the heavy glass ashtray from the table and hurled it at me. I dodged sideways. The ashtray smashed against the wall, scattering broken glass all over the floor. “Are you crazy? How dare you cut off my money!” Diane Carter flew into a rage and raised her hand to slap me. I caught her wrist and stared at her coldly. “Where’s my admission letter?” Diane Carter yanked herself free, rubbed her wrist, and sneered, her mean and vicious face completely exposed. “Admission letter? What admission letter? I haven’t seen it.” “The delivery confirmation text was sent to my phone, and the signer was you.” I gritted my teeth and said each word slowly, “Give it to me. That is my admission letter to a top medical school’s combined undergrad, master’s, and PhD program.” “Combined program? Like hell!” Doug Carter jumped up from the couch and pointed at my nose as he cursed, “By the time you graduate, you’ll be thirty! It’ll be way too late! Did your mom raise you this big just so you could go off to another city and live the good life? Hurry up and stay local, get some community college diploma, and shoot more videos while you’re young to help your mom make money!” Diane Carter snorted coldly, walked to the TV cabinet, pulled open a drawer, took out a thick stack of documents, and slapped it onto the coffee table. “You want the admission letter, right? Fine.” Diane Carter pointed at the documents, lifting her chin high, “Sign this first.” I lowered my head and glanced over it. Starlight MCN Agency Influencer Incubation and Exclusive Management Contract. “This company sees the potential in our account. The boss said that as long as you sign, stay local, and cooperate with building your ‘medical girl’ persona, you’ll sell products in the livestream every day, and you’ll be guaranteed to make millions a year!” Diane Carter’s eyes glittered with greed, as if she could already see mountains of gold and silver, “I’ve already agreed for you. At tomorrow’s graduation party, you’ll sign in front of the whole internet!” “I got into a top medical school.” I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms, “I’m not becoming an influencer. Give me the admission letter.” “Top school, my ass! Can you eat it?” Diane Carter slammed the table, spit flying, “Let me tell you, Jane Miller, I’ve already put my fingerprint on this contract, and the advance payment has already come through! If you don’t sign, I’ll burn that admission letter like trash! You can forget about walking out of this house for the rest of your life!” Doug Carter chimed in from the side in a sarcastic tone, “Jane, a person should know how to be grateful. Your mom has paved a path of stardom for you, something countless people beg for and never get, so don’t be stupid. If you really piss your mom off, you won’t even get to attend community college.” I looked at the two hateful people in front of me, then glanced at the contract on the table that looked just like a deed selling me off. If I tried to snatch it by force now, I had no idea where the admission letter was hidden. Diane Carter was meticulous, and there was no way she would leave something this important out in the open. There were still exactly seven days before the medical school registration deadline. I took a deep breath and slowly loosened my clenched fists. Fighting them head-on was a dead end, so I had to change my approach and take back the life that belonged to me. Two There were still seven days before the medical school registration deadline. Diane Carter completely dropped the act. She cut up my meal card, forcibly took away my new phone, and double-locked the security door from the outside. I was shut tight inside a bedroom of less than ten square meters, becoming a product waiting to be sold for the highest price. At eight in the morning, Doug Carter arrived right on time for work. He dragged a chair over to block the bedroom door, held a cheap cigarette between his lips, and slammed a stack of printed A4 papers into my face. The sharp edges of the paper scraped across my cheek, leaving a red mark. “Memorize it! If you can’t recite it today, don’t even think about getting a sip of water!” The papers scattered all over the floor. They were all tragic scripts written by the MCN agency. The lines were disgusting to the extreme: “To save up my tuition, my mom picked up one hundred thousand plastic bottles under the blazing sun until blood blisters covered both her hands…” “I don’t deserve to study in a big city. I want to stay and repay my mom. Everyone, please place more orders to support my mom…” I stared coldly at Doug Carter. “These are all made up. Aren’t you afraid karma will come for you?” “Karma, my ass! This is what viewers love to watch!” Doug Carter took a hard drag from his cigarette and blew a thick cloud of smoke straight into my face, choking me until I coughed, “Stop acting so noble. Was it easy for your mom to raise you? Now it’s time for you to repay her! Memorize it properly, and don’t make me use force. If you mess up tomorrow’s signing ceremony, I’ll break your legs!” Looking at his face as he abused borrowed power, I forced down the fire in my chest. The admission letter was still in their hands. If I fought them head-on, I could not even get through this door. I had to change tactics. I took a deep breath and pulled in all my thorns. I crouched down, picked up the scripts from the floor one by one, lowered my eyes, and softened my voice. “I’ll memorize it.” That afternoon, Diane Carter came home. Her face, which had just received Thermage, was still not fully de-swollen and had a stiff, plastic quality, but it could not hide the smugness at the corners of her eyes. As soon as she entered, she skillfully set up the ring light and phone stand. “Have you memorized it?” She glanced at me sideways, her gaze like she was looking at an item about to be converted into cash. I nodded and put on a wronged, obedient expression. “I memorized it. Mom, as long as you give me the admission letter, I’ll do whatever you say. I don’t want to make you angry anymore.” Diane Carter snorted and reached out to jab my forehead. “At least you know what’s good for you. If you’d done this earlier, wouldn’t everything have been fine? You just had to ask for a beating.” The livestream started. Diane Carter changed faces in one second. One moment she was mean and sharp, and the next her eyes were red, tears coming on command, her acting worthy of an Oscar winner. “Guys, my daughter has finally grown up. She feels sorry for me and says she wants to stay local to keep me company, because she can’t bear to let me suffer alone…” As she wiped her tears, she pinched my arm hard and dragged me into the shot. I lowered my head and followed the script’s requirements, forcing out two tears, my voice choked. “Thank you, Mom. I’m not going to Boston anymore. I want to stay by Mom’s side and take good care of you. Everyone, please support my mom’s livestream.” The comments exploded instantly, the screen full of praise. “This is so touching! Mother and daughter are connected by heart!” “This is what a good daughter looks like. Family comes first!” “Support single mothers! Everyone, hurry and order that laundry detergent!” Diane Carter stared fixedly at the sales numbers in the backend as they soared, the corners of her mouth twitching wildly, so close to losing even her fake crying act. As soon as the livestream ended, Diane Carter immediately tossed the phone aside, sprawled out on the couch, and let out a long breath. “Doug, see that? This damn girl just needed to be taught a lesson.” Diane Carter crossed her legs smugly, picked up her teacup, and took a huge sip, “Once we sign that ten-million-dollar performance contract with the agency tomorrow, we’ll completely turn our lives around!” Doug Carter hurried over to light her cigarette and pour water, grinning so hard his face wrinkled. “Diane, by then you’ll be a huge influencer. Will you need bodyguards when you go out? Once that advance payment comes in, can we move into a bigger house?” “Of course!” Diane Carter laughed until the flesh on her face trembled, “Once the money hits the account, I’m going to buy a Porsche first, then get myself a heavy gold bracelet. As for that girl, we’ll just find some community college and put her name down. In this life, she belongs to me alive, and she’ll be my money tree when she’s dead!” Wild laughter burst out in the living room. They had no idea that when I had lowered my head to pick up the script earlier, I had already slipped an old phone out from the gap in the mattress. It was a broken old phone with a cracked screen, one Diane Carter had thrown away long ago. It had no SIM card, but the recording function still worked perfectly. At that moment, it was lying quietly in the pocket of my loose pajamas. The screen glowed faintly, and the red dot on the recording button was blinking at a steady rhythm. I lowered my head, listened to them shamelessly carve up my life in the living room, and the corner of my mouth curved into a faint, cold smile. Go ahead and act. The higher you climb, the harder you shatter when you fall. Three At noon, the asphalt was hot enough to fry an egg. Heat waves warped the air, and even the cicadas in the trees sounded weak. “Bend down! Why are you dragging your feet picking up trash? Haven’t you eaten?” Diane Carter shoved the phone in my face and cursed through gritted teeth in a low voice, “Look more miserable! Where are your tears? Squeeze them out! Do you want your admission letter or not?” I wore an old, faded school uniform, carried a dirty woven sack, and walked along the scorching road. Doug Carter stood nearby holding a reflector, wiping sweat nonstop, his shirt soaked through. “Hurry up! We still need to post the teaser after filming, and tonight we have to livestream sales. This sun is going to dry people out.” I bent down to pick up an empty water bottle from the ground. The moment I straightened, I smoothly closed my eyes, let my legs go weak, and fell stiffly onto the burning road. My elbow scraped open, the pain burning hot, but I forced myself not to move. “Oh, damn!” Doug Carter was so startled that he almost threw the reflector away and took a step back. Diane Carter walked over and kicked me in the calf without the slightest mercy. “What are you playing dead for? Get up! We have to finish filming this today! The viewers are waiting to watch you suffer!” I lay with my eyes closed, completely still, my breathing faint. “Diane, she looks like she really fainted. The sun is brutal. Don’t let anyone die. She still has to sign tomorrow, and if her face gets scraped up, we’ll be in trouble.” Doug Carter sounded a little nervous. “What rotten luck!” Diane Carter cursed as she put away her phone, “This damn girl is just delicate. Drag her under the shade. Don’t delay me from making money.” Doug Carter dragged me like a dead dog to the shade by the roadside. Through half-closed eyes, I saw Diane Carter impatiently open the livestream backend. “Doug, look. Yesterday’s tips plus sales brought in over eighty thousand!” Diane Carter’s voice was shaking, her eyes glued to the numbers on the screen. Doug Carter immediately leaned in, rubbing his hands with an extremely fawning smile. “Diane, about the split we agreed on… You get the meat, but your little brother should at least get some soup, right?” “You won’t be shorted. I’ll transfer you twenty thousand. Go spend it. I have to save the rest to buy a heavy gold bracelet to keep up appearances. I’m about to be a big influencer, so I can’t not have a decent piece of jewelry.” “Thanks, Diane! With you, there’s always meat to eat!” Just as the two of them were enthusiastically dividing the spoils, a cool female voice suddenly cut in. “Well, Diane, Doug. The sun is this harsh, and you’re out here counting money?” My heart stirred. It was Aunt Rose. She was the only clear-headed person in the family. She had started her own business years ago and had long since seen through Diane Carter’s vain and greedy nature, so she rarely interacted with them. Diane Carter jumped in fright, hurriedly shut off the screen, and forced a dry laugh. “Rose, why are you back? I just brought Jane out to film some material. The child is in poor health and fainted from heatstroke.” “Is that so?” Rose Carter walked over in high heels and looked down at me from above. I opened my eyes slightly and met her sharp gaze. She gave me a nearly imperceptible wink. “Her face is so pale that she’s almost dehydrated. Diane, making money can’t be so urgent that it has to be right this second, can it?” Rose Carter took a bottle of Evian mineral water from her limited-edition bag and crouched down, “Jane, let me help you drink some water.” She twisted open the cap and brought it to my lips. Using her body as cover, she quickly slipped a stiff card into my palm. I understood at once, tightened my fingers around it, and smoothly hid it in my sleeve. Rose Carter lowered her voice, speaking so quickly that only the two of us could hear. “Downtown, Ethereal Time Medical Spa. She got a hundred-thousand-dollar membership there two days ago and did a thirty-eight-thousand-dollar Thermage treatment. Go check.” I swallowed the water, coughed weakly twice, and took the chance to grab her wrist. “Thank you, Aunt Rose.” Rose Carter stood, patted her hands, and said mockingly, “Diane, she’s already like this, so what are you still filming? Hurry and take her home to rest. Don’t actually let something happen and delay your pitiful livestream tonight.” Diane Carter rolled her eyes and impatiently came over to shove me. “Enough playing dead. Get up!” I supported myself against the tree trunk and stood, pretending to be dizzy and unsteady. “Mom, I’m fine. It’s just these clothes… they’re not quite right.” “What’s not right?” Diane Carter glared. “They’re too clean.” I looked at her, my tone so sincere that no one could find a flaw, “Viewers are clever now. This school uniform is old, yes, but it has no patches and isn’t tattered enough. If you want a good effect, we should go to a workwear market and buy two pieces of truly ragged clothing, preferably with oil stains. The livestream sales tonight will be more convincing, and they’ll believe you really have nowhere left to turn.” Diane Carter froze, then her eyes lit up. “That’s right! Why didn’t I think of that? The more ragged the clothes, the more tips!” She slapped her thigh. “Your brain still works fast. Go. Go buy them right now!” Doug Carter cut in, “Diane, should I go with her?” “Why would you go? You still have to help me set up the livestream room. Those shabby props haven’t been arranged yet.” Diane Carter took a hundred dollars from her bag and tossed it at me, “Take it! Buy the most broken, filthiest ones! If you don’t do it right, you get no dinner tonight!” “Got it, Mom.” I picked up the money from the ground, answered with lowered brows and obedient eyes, then turned and walked toward the bus stop. The instant I turned the corner, I straightened my spine, and the fear on my face vanished completely. I opened my palm, and the business card was slightly damp with sweat. Ethereal Time Medical Spa. I gave a cold laugh and directly raised my hand to hail a taxi. “Sir, downtown, please.” The blade for my counterattack was already in my hand. Four “Welcome to Ethereal Time.” Inside the most high-end beauty clinic downtown, the air conditioning was turned so cold it felt like an ice cellar, and the air was filled with the fragrance of expensive essential oils. Wearing an old, washed-out T-shirt, I walked in, completely out of place beside the glittering crystal chandeliers and leather sofas in the lobby. The receptionist wore delicate makeup, looked me up and down, and the professional fake smile at the corners of her mouth instantly collapsed. “Little girl, we’re not hiring summer workers here. There’s a fast-food place to the left outside.” “Ma’am, I’m here to pick something up for my mom.” I immediately put on a timid expression, nervously pinching the corner of my shirt, my shoulders shrinking slightly, “My mom’s name is Diane Carter. She had a treatment done here two days ago and said she left something behind.” “Diane Carter?” The receptionist looked at me suspiciously, then turned to type on the keyboard, “What are the last four digits of her phone number?” “8868, and her birthday is…” I recited the numbers smoothly, even controlling my speaking pace just right. The receptionist stared at the screen for a while, and her attitude instantly made a one-eighty-degree turn, her smile blooming like a flower. “Oh, so you’re Ms. Carter’s daughter! Ms. Carter is our black-gold VIP. She just recharged a hundred thousand with us. Wait a moment, and I’ll go check the locker in the VIP room for you.” “Thank you.” Watching the receptionist click away down the hallway in her high heels, I immediately dropped that timid expression. I had to move fast. I leaned into the front desk. The computer screen was not locked. I took out my phone, aimed it at the screen, and snapped three photos in a row. A hundred-thousand-dollar recharge record. A thirty-eight-thousand-dollar Thermage charge detail. Time, name, amount, all perfectly clear. My gaze swept quickly across the bottom right corner of the screen. This beauty clinic and the mall used an integrated VIP system. Among Diane Carter’s linked spending records lay an electronic invoice copy from yesterday afternoon. First-floor Chow Sang Sang jewelry store. Purchase of forty-two thousand dollars. Heavy traditional-style gold bracelet. I tugged the corner of my mouth, only feeling that it was absurd to the extreme. In the livestream, she held up half a moldy roll and cried about being poor, asking viewers who saved every penny to send her tips, then turned around and transformed their hard-earned money into hyaluronic acid in her face and a gold bracelet on her wrist. Click. The invoice copy also went into my photo album. The clicking of high heels sounded from the hallway. I immediately pulled back, tucked my phone into my pocket, and stood obediently in place. “I didn’t find anything. Did Ms. Carter remember the wrong place?” The receptionist came out empty-handed, looking apologetic. “Maybe. I’ll go back and ask her. Thank you.” I bowed and left quickly. Half an hour later, at the Southside workwear wholesale market. I spent twenty dollars buying two old work shirts stained with oil. I thought they were not tattered enough, so I stomped on them hard in a mud puddle by the road and even used a rock to grind the cuffs open. The dirtier and more pitiful they were, the more Diane Carter would like them. When I got back to the door of our apartment, I had just taken out my key when my hand stopped. The security door was slightly ajar, not fully closed. Through the crack came Doug Carter’s deliberately lowered voice. “Diane, Mr. Walsh from the MCN agency said that tomorrow’s graduation party is also the signing ceremony, so there has to be a shocking highlight. Did you prepare those eye drops?” I took back the key, smoothly pulled out the old phone, pressed the record button, and placed the microphone close to the crack in the door. “Do I need you to teach me? I prepared them ages ago.” Diane Carter’s voice carried undisguised smugness and greed, “Tomorrow I’ll wear those ragged clothes onstage. As soon as that damn girl signs, the ten-million-level performance contract takes effect. By then, the advance payment will be enough for us to buy a big luxury apartment downtown. Who would still live in this crappy complex?” “That sounds great!” Doug Carter rubbed his hands, his tone greedy, “But Diane, tomorrow I’ll personally watch the livestream moderators, and I’ve already contacted the paid commenters, so the atmosphere will absolutely be pushed to the peak. It’s just that the hush money and hard-work fee…” “Are you trying to kill me with all your demands? Did I owe you in a past life?” “PayPal received, twenty thousand dollars.” The mechanical phone alert rang clearly inside the apartment. Diane Carter snorted coldly. “Take this twenty thousand for now. Keep your mouth shut and don’t run your mouth outside. Especially not in front of that damn girl. If she knows I used her admission letter to make a deal with the agency, she’ll definitely raise hell.” “Thanks, Diane! With you, there’s always meat to eat!” Doug Carter laughed in an extremely fawning way, “Don’t worry. As long as the money is in place, I’m mute. Tomorrow, I’ll definitely take the lead in the livestream and scold that little bitch for being ungrateful, forcing her with all the public pressure to sign that contract that sells her life away! She’ll sign whether she wants to or not!” “She dares not sign? The admission letter is in my hands, and she has no say in it!” Diane Carter said viciously. I stood outside the door, listening coldly as the two of them shamelessly carved up my life. The recording time jumped to three minutes and twenty seconds. I pressed stop, renamed the audio file, encrypted it, and saved it. High-spending bills. The gold bracelet invoice. The recording of profit sharing. The chain of evidence for my counterattack was fully formed. I took a deep breath, rubbed my face, and once again put on that meek, submissive expression. I pushed open the door. “Mom, Doug, I’m back with the clothes.” I lifted the stinking, filthy work shirts in my hand and stood in the entryway with my head lowered. Diane Carter covered her nose in disgust and waved repeatedly, like she was chasing flies away. “Take them away, hurry! Throw them on the balcony! Tomorrow at the graduation party, you’ll wear this onstage. Act properly for me, got it? If you dare mess up, I’ll kill you!” “I got it, Mom.” I answered obediently. Under my lowered eyes, there was nothing but ice.

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