Category: English

Every single day, I cracked open a fresh durian in the private suite of the comatose heiress. I’d eat it while crying from the sheer, pungent deliciousness of it, and without fail, her EKG monitor would spike in a tiny, subtle wave. Right next to me, her spirit would hover, practically weeping with longing. “I would literally die for a bite of that,” she’d moan, her translucent face twisted in agony. “I swear to God, I am waking up just so we can go halves on one of those. I need it.” Nobody knew that I’ve lived in a world of whispers since the day I was born. I see souls. I hear them when they think they’re screaming into the void. So, when my adoptive brother, Wyatt, refused to marry the comatose crown jewel of Manhattan’s elite, I was the only one who saw her spirit standing right there in the room. Her face was a ghostly, pale blue, and her eyes were burning with absolute, unadulterated hatred as she glared at Wyatt. “He is so incredibly heartless,” she hissed. “The doctors literally said I’d be awake within six months. If anyone stepped up to take care of me right now, I’d hand them two hundred million dollars the second I opened my eyes, just to spit in this bastard’s face!” My eyes lit up. I timidly raised my hand. “What if… I marry her?” It wasn’t about marrying into high society. I just really, really wanted that two hundred million. … I fully expected Wyatt to put a stop to it. After all, we had a history. His favorite pastime since childhood was making my life a living hell, just to watch me squirm. But this time, he simply burst out laughing and shoved me forward. “Go ahead. You’re just a parasite anyway. It’s about time you went and scrubbed bedpans for a living.” He sneered, looking down his nose at me. “Look at you, so desperate you’re begging to marry a vegetable. How pathetic can you get?” I kept my head down, swallowing the insult. If playing the part of a desperate charity case meant escaping this house and pocketing two hundred million dollars, I’d gladly play it for the rest of my life. Isla Benson’s spirit, however, was absolutely livid. She floated right behind Wyatt, throwing wild, useless punches at the back of his head. “You absolute hypocrite!” she screamed. “You told me your brother Logan was the one who bullied you! It was all a lie. You’re a manipulative snake, and I was blind enough to let you play me!” The temperature in the room dropped noticeably as her anger flared. I instinctively shivered, pulling my collar tighter, and stepped toward her father, Mr. Benson. “I’m the biological son of the Mercer family,” I said quietly, my voice steady despite my nerves. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Benson, I am willing to take my brother’s place and marry Isla.” Mr. Benson looked exhausted, the lines of grief deeply etched into his face. Ever since Isla’s car accident, the family had maintained a public facade that she was recovering quickly. If Wyatt backed out of the engagement now, it would expose their vulnerability, make them a laughingstock in the tabloids, and inevitably crash the family company’s stock. I was, quite literally, a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Mr. Benson grabbed my hands, his eyes wide with desperate hope. “Are you sure, son? You do realize Isla is entirely unresponsive right now. We can’t file the legal marriage papers or hold a proper ceremony yet.” He paused, searching my eyes. “But if you take care of her, if you act as a husband should… I promise you, when she wakes, your place in this family will be set in stone.” I nodded, offering a gentle, reassuring smile. “I know how to care for people, sir. I looked after my grandparents when they were bedridden. I have plenty of experience.” Beside me, Isla’s ghost frowned, drifting closer to study me. A wave of icy air washed over my back, making me stiffen. I pretended not to notice her, focusing entirely on selling myself to her father. “I can cook, I know how to turn a patient to prevent bedsores, and I have a lot of patience…” My parents eagerly chimed in, desperate to seal the deal. “Oh, absolutely! Logan is built for manual labor,” my mother said, her tone dripping with casual cruelty. “He’s perfect for looking after your daughter. As his parents, we give our full blessing. You can take him with you today.” They couldn’t wait to throw me out, treating me like a bag of trash they were finally allowed to dump. As the door closed behind us, Wyatt’s sharp, mocking laughter echoed down the hallway. “A freak who talks to walls and a brain-dead corpse. A match made in heaven.” Isla’s spirit hovered near the ceiling, shaking her head in disgust. “He is so toxic. To think I actually believed he was the sweet, innocent one.” She drifted down, looking at me with a soft, lingering gaze. “I really was blind. But don’t worry, Logan. When I wake up, I’m giving you that money. I’ll make sure Wyatt watches you take every single cent.” I watched her float through the solid oak door, silently praying to whatever forces were listening: Please, let her remember that promise when she wakes up. Half an hour later, I was standing in the ultra-private VIP suite, looking at the physical Isla. She looked fragile, her skin nearly translucent under the harsh hospital lights, her breathing kept steady only by the rhythmic hum of the machines surrounding her. Mr. Benson wiped a tear from his eye. “The brain trauma was severe. The surgery was successful, but recovery takes time. The doctors said it could be six months, or it could be three years.” He sighed, looking at his daughter. “We wanted a partner for her, someone to keep her company. Wyatt didn’t get it. We could easily hire a dozen world-class nurses. We didn’t need him to scrub bedpans; we needed him to care.” He explained that patients in vegetative states often responded best to familiar voices and emotional connection. Having someone talk to her, keeping her mind stimulated, was crucial for her recovery. But because of the sensitive nature of her condition, they couldn’t trust an outsider, and Mr. Benson was too busy keeping the board of directors from panicking. Wyatt had been the logical choice. But the universe had handed the duty to me. Isla’s spirit stood by the edge of the bed, her expression wistful. “I really thought Wyatt would stand by me. I never expected him to abandon me the second things got ugly.” She looked at me, sighing. “I just wanted someone reliable to read me the financial news every morning. Is that really so hard to find? I wonder if this guy is actually up for it…” Listening to her complain, I began to understand the mechanics of her situation. Her consciousness had simply detached from her physical form. The day she woke up would be the day her spirit finally snapped back into place. I turned to Mr. Benson and laid out my plan. “I’m going to read her the Wall Street Journal every morning,” I said, counting the points on my fingers. “I’ll play her favorite movies and operas in the background. I’ll describe the weather to her daily and introduce different scents to keep her sensory pathways active.” I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “And if you don’t mind, Mr. Benson, I’d like to handle her daily sponge baths myself. It will help her get used to my presence.” Both Mr. Benson and Isla’s spirit looked at me like I was selling them a dream. They clearly didn’t believe I had the patience to follow through. But by the next afternoon, I had already proven them wrong. When Mr. Benson walked into the suite, he found Isla looking neat and presentable, her hair softly brushed. A newly released film was playing quietly on the television, and I was sitting by her side, gently explaining the plot points. On my lap was an iPad, where I was pausing every few minutes to read her the latest market updates. Near her pillow, a mug of freshly brewed herbal tea filled the room with a warm, spiced aroma, masking the sterile smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol. I had even set up a small cot in the corner of the room. “You don’t have to sleep here, Logan,” Mr. Benson said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re allowed to go back to the estate.” I smiled gently. “Honestly, Mr. Benson, anywhere is better than my parents’ house. And being here 24/7 helps establish a routine. It’s better for her.” I caught Isla’s ghost out of the corner of my eye. Her expression had softened dramatically. “Wyatt would have complained about the cot within five minutes,” she murmured, watching me adjust the IV lines with practiced ease. “This Logan kid is actually… incredibly decent. Maybe this accident wasn’t entirely a curse.” It seemed I had officially passed the heiress’s test. From then on, things became much easier. I paid close attention to where her spirit drifted. She rarely left the room, likely because staying close to her physical body kept her grounded. She only ventured out when the weather was exceptionally clear. Now that her feelings for Wyatt had turned to ash, she spent all her time hovering around me. Whenever I cared for her body, her ghost would chatter away right beside me. “How did Logan find out I love opera? He must have done some serious digging. I love it.” “But why does he keep bringing me apples? Doesn’t he know my absolute favorite fruit is durian? I am so sick of the smell of Red Delicious.” The very next day, I walked into the room carrying a massive, thorny durian. I cracked it open right in front of her bed. “Alright, Isla,” I whispered, looking at her sleeping face. “Let’s see how many sweet pods we got inside this one today.” As the days blended into weeks, I grew bolder. I started gently holding her hand, moving her fingers to form silly shapes—a peace sign, a thumbs-up. At first, her spirit would screech in protest. “Stop that! Nobody has ever dared to treat me like a doll! Do I look like a toy to you?” But eventually, she grew used to it. She’d roll her eyes, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she watched me. When the rich, buttery scent of the durian filled the room, Isla’s ghost stared at it with wide, desperate eyes. Her survival instinct seemed to surge. “I want it so bad… I swear, I am waking up. I’m going to sit down and eat a whole one of those with Logan.” As she spoke, the green line on the EKG monitor spiked in a clear, rhythmic wave. I took a bite of the creamy fruit and smiled. “You know, Isla, this is actually the first time in my life I’ve ever eaten a durian. Back at my parents’ house, I only got the bruised apples and moldy oranges Wyatt didn’t want.” The ghost froze, staring at me. I had grown so accustomed to her presence that I began to treat her like a real friend, pouring my heart out during the quiet hours of the night. “Your dad thinks I’m working myself to the bone, so he gave me a ten-thousand-dollar bonus,” I murmured, staring at the ceiling. “But honestly? At home, I had to cook and clean for my parents, Wyatt, and my grandparents when they were sick. Coming here and only having to look after you feels like a vacation.” Isla’s spirit drifted down, hovering just inches above my face, searching my eyes in absolute silence. I told her everything during those long nights. I talked about the quiet emotional abuse from my parents, the way Wyatt would intentionally break things and blame me, and the suffocating isolation of growing up as the black sheep. When I finished venting, I felt lighter. But Isla’s spirit looked like she was on the verge of tears. “Are his parents completely insane? Why would anyone treat their own flesh and blood like garbage while worshiping an adopted brat?” She clenched her fists. “Just wait until I wake up. I am going to ruin that entire family for what they did to you.” A small wave of warmth bloomed in my chest. I didn’t care about revenge, but knowing someone—even a ghost—was in my corner meant the world to me. After that night, the bond between us grew even stronger. I kept up the act of pretending I couldn’t see her, but I made sure to fulfill every little complaint she voiced. By the fourth month, a miracle happened. I was gently stretching her fingers, a part of our daily physical therapy, when her index finger suddenly twitched against my palm. Isla’s spirit gasped, staring at her own hand. “My reflexes… my muscles are actually responding!” she cried out. “The neural pathways are repairing themselves. Am I finally going back?” Overjoyed, I immediately called Mr. Benson. The news of her potential recovery spread like wildfire. Within hours, a team of world-class specialists descended upon the suite. But along with the doctors came Wyatt. He marched into the room, sparing a brief, disgusted glance at Isla before grabbing my collar and dragging me out into the hallway. “I heard she’s waking up,” he spat. When I didn’t answer right away, he slapped me across the face. The sting was sharp and sudden. “You actually think you’re marrying into the Benson family now, don’t you? Who do you think you are, looking at me like that?” Isla’s spirit was practically vibrating with rage beside us. “Logan, what are you doing? Hit him back! I’ve got your back!” she screamed, swinging wildly at Wyatt’s face. “Are you an idiot? Punch him!” But her fists passed through him like mist, leaving nothing but a sudden, chilly draft. Wyatt poked his finger hard into my chest, his voice low and threatening. “The second she opens her eyes, you’re out of here. I’m going to make sure she believes I was the one who stood by her bedside every single day.” He smirked, adjusting his designer jacket. “Everyone knows I’m the one she actually loves. When she wakes up, she’s marrying me.” Isla’s ghost scoffed. “If my brain retains even a fraction of my memories from this state, I would rather die than marry you.” But then she paused, a sudden look of panic crossing her face. “Wait… will I actually remember this? What if my soul’s memories don’t transfer back to my physical brain? What if I forget everything Logan did for me?” She turned to me, her voice trembling. “Oh my god. If I forget… and I actually end up believing Wyatt was the one who saved me… what do I do?” I rubbed my stinging cheek, my stomach dropping. I didn’t care who Isla married, but if Wyatt stole the credit for my months of sleepless nights, my two hundred million dollars would vanish into thin air. Isla smacked her own forehead. “Wait, my dad! My dad knows what Wyatt is really like. He’d never let me marry that idiot.” She sighed in relief. “Yes, as long as my dad is around, he’ll tell me the truth. He knows Logan was the one here.” But Wyatt was already one step ahead. He cornered Mr. Benson in the hospital corridor later that afternoon, his voice dripping with performative sincerity. “You know Isla’s temperament better than anyone, sir,” Wyatt argued, his expression a perfect mask of devotion. “She’s incredibly stubborn. Once she’s set on me, she won’t change her mind. When she wakes up, you can’t force her to marry a stranger she has absolutely no feelings for.” He leaned in. “She’s surviving a miracle. As her father, shouldn’t you support her happiness instead of trying to control her life?” To my horror, Mr. Benson looked genuinely swayed. He pulled me aside later, his expression deeply apologetic. “Logan… Isla won’t have any memory of who was actually by her side during the coma.” He lowered his voice. “If we tell her it was Wyatt, it aligns with her pre-accident feelings. It makes the transition easier for her, and the marriage can proceed smoothly. It’s the best outcome for everyone.” He patted my shoulder. “I will compensate you generously. As long as you keep quiet, no one will ever know the truth.” Seeing no other choice, I nodded submissively. Beside me, Isla’s spirit was practically tearing her hair out. “Logan! Have some self-respect! Why are you just giving away everything you worked for?” I wanted to speak up, but a lifetime of survival had taught me that people like me didn’t win against people like Wyatt. I had no leverage, no power, and no family backing me. Once Wyatt secured Mr. Benson’s compliance, he immediately went to the press to solidify his narrative. Within days, headlines flooded the media: Devoted Fiancé’s Love Awakens Comatose Heiress. “Our wedding will proceed the moment she is discharged,” Wyatt was quoted in a front-page interview. “I am just grateful my love was enough to bring her back to me.” The public was enchanted by the romantic narrative. With the constant intervention of the medical team and Isla’s own fierce, stubborn will, her vitals reached near-perfect levels. Her brain activity was fully restored. She was ready to wake up. Isla’s spirit hovered near my bed on her final night, her eyes filled with a quiet, profound sadness. “Logan, I hope I remember,” she whispered, her translucent fingers reaching out to hover over my cheek without touching it. “Please, God, don’t let me forget how good you were to me. Don’t let me mistake that monster for my savior.” I wanted to tell her I hoped so too. But some things were entirely out of my hands. The next morning, I woke up, and the room felt empty. I looked toward the corner where she usually hovered. The air was still. My heart skipped a beat. She was back in her body. I immediately called for Mr. Benson and the doctors. Within minutes, Wyatt and my parents arrived, trailing a swarm of select media outlets they had tipped off. The room was packed, everyone holding their breath as the lead neurologist began the waking procedure. With a soft, long beep from the monitor, Isla’s eyelids fluttered. Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes. The room was silent, nobody wanting to startle her as she adjusted to the light. She moved her fingers slightly, her throat working as she tried to swallow. She stared at the ceiling, her brow furrowing as if she were sorting through a massive, chaotic filing cabinet in her mind. I gripped the edge of my jacket, silently praying. Please remember. Please. If she had forgotten… everything I had done for the last six months would become Wyatt’s stepping stone to ultimate power. Wyatt couldn’t contain himself. He shoved past the doctors, throwing himself toward the edge of the bed. “Isla! You’re awake!” he cried, forcing tears into his eyes. “I’m right here, my love. I never left your side. For six months, I was here, caring for you, waiting for you to come back to me. You remember, don’t you?” Isla’s gaze remained vacant, drifting over his face without a spark of recognition. My stomach plummeted. She had forgotten. My mother leaned close to my ear, her voice a cruel whisper. “Stop dreaming, Logan. Mr. Benson already made the deal. The second she confirms she doesn’t remember, Wyatt takes over. Pack your things and get lost before you embarrass us.” I watched Isla look at Wyatt, her expression unreadable. The weight of defeat pressed heavily on my chest. I turned around, ready to slip out of the room unnoticed. But then, Isla spoke. Her voice was raw, cracked from months of disuse, but her question cut through the room like a knife.

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The day I went with my mother to pay our respects at her friend’s funeral was the day I ran into my grown-up self. I was only eight, but there she was, standing in the gray, damp chill of the alleyway behind the chapel. I stared at her, my heart hammering against my ribs, and began pepper-spraying her with questions about the future. “Did we finally pay off all the family debts? Does Dad still have to work out of state?” “Is Mom not having to work so hard anymore?” “What about me? Did I grow up okay? Did I get into the college of my dreams?” The older version of me didn’t smile. Instead, a sudden, violent fury flashed across her face, tightening her jaw. “That man doesn’t deserve to be called a father,” she spat, her voice a harsh, low whisper. “You and Mom have been completely blind. He never owed a dime to his company. He was living across the state, playing cozy family with his mistress while she carried his baby. Every time he called us, that woman was right there next to him, whispering and laughing in the background.” “And we were the fools, working ourselves to the bone to send him money, funding their happy little family of three while we waited by the door like loyal dogs.” “When the truth finally broke, it destroyed Mom. She died of a broken heart. And you—you worked yourself to death trying to pick up the pieces, leaving yourself with a terminal illness and less than six months to live. You have to wake Mom up, Sadie. You have to save her before it’s too late.” … The words cut off sharply, leaving a ringing silence in the narrow brick alley. I stood frozen, staring at the woman who possessed my exact eyes, my exact features. My mind scrambled for footing, and my voice cracked as I tried to push back against her words. “That’s not true. He wouldn’t.” For as long as I could remember, Dad had been the anchor of our home. He was the one who took care of everything. He cooked elaborate, three-course dinners from scratch every single night, never repeating a recipe. He hand-washed Mom’s delicate clothing. He was like Santa Claus, always pulling little surprise gifts and trinkets out of his coat pockets to make us laugh. Then, two years ago, the nightmare started. Dad was supposedly framed by a colleague, leaving him with a massive corporate debt. To pay it off, he had to take a grueling, low-paying relocation assignment in a remote town halfway across the country. Before he left, terrified that Mom and I would struggle, he sold his condo—the only property in his name—and transferred every single dollar of the sale into Mom’s bank account. How could a man like that have another family? I opened my mouth to demand answers, but a soft, familiar voice drifted from behind me. “Sadie, sweetheart? Why are you standing out here by yourself?” “The service is about to start. We should get inside.” I grabbed Mom’s hand, my fingers icy, and refused to budge. “Mom, I just saw someone. She looked exactly like me, but older. She said Dad is lying to us. She said—” Before I could finish, Mom looked toward the end of the alley where I was pointing. It was completely empty. The grey afternoon mist had swallowed any trace of another person. Mom sighed, a look of profound pity washing over her face as she reached down to stroke my hair. “Oh, Sadie. Are you missing your father that much? You’re starting to see things.” “Anyone in this world might lie to me, sweetheart, but never your father. You can rest easy on that. He even called this morning just to make sure our drive was safe. Don’t let your imagination run wild.” A warm, gentle smile spread across Mom’s face. But as I stared at her, a tiny chill prickled the back of my neck. Her smile was beautiful, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. I fell silent. Deep down, I wanted to believe she was right. They had known each other since they were teenagers, loving each other for nearly two-thirds of their lives. How could I doubt my own father just because of a stranger claiming to be my future self? “Yeah. You’re right, Mom,” I muttered, squeezing her hand. “Let’s go. We need to be there for Aunt Evelyn.” Within minutes, the strange encounter in the alley was pushed to the back of my mind. But that night, after the funeral service had ended and we had checked into our hotel room, Dad’s FaceTime call came through. His face appeared on the screen, looking as exhausted as always, though he managed to force a warm smile. “How are you guys holding up? Is Evelyn okay? I know she was my friend, but it means the world that you went in my place. Thank you both so much for making the trip.” Mom smiled, her voice light with a teasing edge. “Why so polite all of a sudden, Daniel? Don’t tell me you’ve got a guilty conscience.” For some reason, her words hung in the air, heavy with a double meaning I couldn’t quite grasp. But she quickly changed the subject. “Anyway, when are you coming home? Next month is Sadie’s birthday. She really misses you.” Hearing this, Dad let out a long, heavy sigh through the speaker. “I’m still buried under this debt, Claire. The company keeps me on a tight leash; they’re terrified I’ll run if they let me take time off. But don’t worry, I’ll find a way to make it back for her birthday. I won’t disappoint her. Just make sure you two take care of yourselves.” Mom handed the phone over to me. I chatted with him for a minute, telling him to stay safe, just like I did every week. But right as I was about to say goodbye, a woman’s voice cut through the background, clear and intimate. “Dan, can you grab me a towel, would you?” Dad’s screen shook violently. My breath caught. My fingers went completely numb, the phone slipping from my hand as I abruptly ended the call. “What’s wrong, Sadie?” Mom asked, looking up from her book with a puzzled frown. My mind was a complete blank. A wild, desperate urge rose in my chest to tell her exactly what I had just heard. But I had no proof. She would never believe a child’s ears over her husband of twelve years. I forced a tight nod, trying to steady my breathing. “Nothing, Mom. I’m just really tired. Can we turn off the lights?” Mom switched off the lamp and climbed into bed, wrapping her arm around me. But as she slept, I lay wide awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling until dawn. The next morning, I made up an excuse about wanting to play in the courtyard and slipped back to the alleyway. Sure enough, she was there, waiting. Her expression was hollow, as if she already knew. “Now you believe me,” she said quietly. I didn’t answer. I just leaned my head against the cold brick wall, my chest aching. It took a long time before I could find my voice. “What do I have to do to help Mom?” She stepped closer, placing a gentle, sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “You’re only eight, Sadie. You shouldn’t have to carry this weight. But I’m out of options. You have to get Mom’s phone. We need evidence. We need to show her the truth.” When I returned to the hotel at noon, I sat silently at the table, picking at my lunch. Mom noticed my quietness and reached across the table to touch my hand. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Is it too boring here? Aunt Evelyn is going through a terrible tragedy, and we need to stay and support her. Just two more days, okay?” I nodded quietly. “Mom, can I play a game on your phone?” As expected, she didn’t hesitate. She unlocked her phone and handed it to me. Once I had it in my hands, I slid onto the hotel bed and opened Dad’s Instagram profile. It was completely empty—the settings were locked to only show posts from the last three days. Next, I opened her TikTok. In their direct messages, Mom’s side of the conversation was a vibrant, endless stream of photos and videos of our daily life. Dad’s replies, however, were cold, one-word text messages. Okay. Nice. Sure. My fingers trembled as I navigated back to his main profile. I searched through his page but found nothing out of the ordinary. Just as I was about to give up, I tapped on his “Profile Views” history. There, among the list of users, was a profile picture that made my blood run cold. It was an image I had seen once before, tucked away in the hidden leather compartment of Dad’s glove box. The day I had accidentally discovered it, Dad had panicked, snatching it away before quickly masking his fear with a warm smile. He had knelt down and held my shoulders. “Sadie, what did you see?” I had told him the truth, and he had remained quiet for a long time before speaking. “That’s just a photo from a very important friend of mine, so Daddy keeps it safe. You have good friends at school who give you gifts, right? Don’t you keep them safe too?” I hadn’t understood what he meant back then, so I had simply nodded. But that night, Mom and Dad had a massive, screaming fight over that photo. It was the first time I had ever seen my mother cry so bitterly. “Daniel, are you still not over her? Have you ever thought about how this affects me and our daughter?” Dad had dropped to his knees, clutching her hands. “Claire, I swear you’re overthinking this. There is nothing going on. I cut things off with her years ago. It’s just you and Sadie now. Please, let’s just live our lives. Sadie is still so young—you don’t want this to affect her, do you?” Mom had eventually yielded, letting him pull her into a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry, Claire. I promise I will never do anything to make you doubt me again.” Mom had stayed quiet for a long time, staring into the dark. “Is it really over?” she had whispered, almost to herself. Remembering that night, I tapped on the woman’s profile. Her feed was filled with dozens of videos. Though her face was always cropped out or obscured, a man’s arm was constantly visible in the frame—pouring her drinks, holding her hand, cradling her stomach. And on that wrist was a familiar silver watch, right next to a distinct mole. It was unmistakably Dad. My hands shook violently, the screen blurring. But the warning from my future self echoed in my mind, drowning out the urge to cry. Screenshot everything. Save the proof. Three days passed in a blur of silence. On the drive home, I stared out the window, watching the highway lines blur. Mom noticed my distant mood and reached over to squeeze my hand. “What’s wrong, baby? If you really hate trips like this, I won’t drag you along next time. Nothing is more important to me than how you feel.” My eyes welled with tears. She was such a good, kind woman, yet in the original timeline, she had spent her final years trapped in a miserable, exhausting marriage before dying of cancer. No, I thought, blinkering away the tears. I have to wake her up. Before I could say a word, Mom’s phone rang. The caller ID flashed: Dan. “Claire, I’m home,” his voice boomed warmly through the car speakers. “What do you guys want for dinner? I’ll whip something up.” Mom’s tone was flat, completely devoid of its usual warmth. “Anything is fine. Why don’t you ask your daughter? She’s been in a mood all day.” She handed the phone to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to say his name. Seeing my silence, Mom didn’t force me. She rattled off a few of my favorite dishes and hung up. For the remaining three hours of the drive, neither of us spoke a word. But Mom’s grip on my hand only grew tighter. When we finally pulled into our apartment building’s parking lot, I saw Dad waving at us from the entrance. “You must be exhausted,” he said, pulling a bouquet of red roses and a porcelain doll from behind his back like a magician. “Do you like them?” Mom took the flowers, though she gave him a light, reprimanding look. “We have debts to pay, Dan. Why are you wasting money on things like this?” Dad looked at her with pure devotion. “I’m young, Claire. We’ll pay it off. Besides, I can’t let my wife suffer.” To anyone else, we looked like the picture-perfect, happy family. But I refused to touch the doll, walking right past him without saying a word. Mom sighed, turning to him with a helpless look. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She’s been acting strange ever since we left.” A flicker of panic crossed Dad’s eyes before he quickly brushed it off. “Just tired, probably. Let’s go up. I kept dinner warm.” The apartment was spotless. Because Mom had a mild dust allergy, Dad was always meticulous about deep-cleaning the place whenever we were gone for more than a few days. “Go wash your hands. I’ll plate the food.” It was a beautiful four-course meal, but I couldn’t look at it. My mind was flooded with the videos I had seen on that woman’s TikTok. She loved fish, but she was incredibly picky about it—no fishy smell, not too soft. And of all the things Dad cooked, his absolute specialty was pan-seared sea bass. Now I knew exactly who he had perfected that recipe for. A wave of hot, suffocating anger rushed through me. In a single, swift motion, I swept my arm across the table, sending the plates clattering to the floor. Both of them froze. But instead of yelling at me, they immediately rushed forward, terrified I had been burned. Dad dragged me to the kitchen sink, running cold tap water over my hands, frantically calling out to Mom to find the first-aid kit. He looked so genuinely concerned, so incredibly loving. And yet, this was the man who would ruin our lives. I yanked my hands away, ran to my room, and slammed the door. Mom followed me inside a moment later. “Sadie, sweetheart, what is going on? Talk to me. Did something happen?” Through the door, I heard the click of the lock as Dad went downstairs to take out the trash. The moment he was gone, I grabbed Mom’s arm. “Dad is lying to us!” I cried, my voice trembling. “He doesn’t have any debts—he has another family! I heard a woman’s voice on his phone the other night. And I took screenshots on your phone. Mom, please, don’t let him fool you anymore!” Mom didn’t move. She just sat on the edge of my bed, gently wiping the remaining water from my hands with a soft towel. “Mom, don’t you believe me?” I begged, tears streaming down my face. “I’m not lying! It’s all—” Mom let out a long, quiet sigh, her hand reaching up to stroke my hair. “Sadie… I know. I know everything.”

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The girl sitting across from me was someone I’d met only a handful of times, yet the look in her eyes was a mixture of pity and quiet satisfaction. “Derek is only with you for revenge,” she said, pushing a manila folder across the polished table. “He made a bet with the guys. He said he’d make you fall in love with him, just to watch you break.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “And he’s not some uneducated grease monkey working for minimum wage. He’s the youngest heir to the Lockhart fortune.” I stared at the documents, the photographs, the bank statements. Slowly, my hand drifted down to rest against my still-flat stomach. Inside my pocket, my fingers tightened around the folded ultrasound results I’d received just two hours ago. 01 I don’t even remember how I walked to the auto repair shop where Derek worked. He was sitting on the hood of a banged-up sedan, running a hand through his messy hair. He flicked his bangs out of his eyes and let out a dry, mocking laugh. “That old lady texted me again,” he said to the guy standing next to him. “Asking what I want for dinner.” “Her cooking is so incredibly bland,” he continued, scoffing. “Everything she makes tastes like cardboard.” The other guy chuckled, clearly enjoying the show. “Hey, your one-year anniversary is in three days, right? For that fake birthday you made up, she emptied her pockets to buy you that ten-thousand-dollar watch. What do you think she’s going to buy you this time?” Derek made a clicking sound with his tongue. “That piece of garbage? It’s not even worth a fraction of the tax on my real watches. If I wore that out, you guys would laugh me out of the city.” “So where is it?” “I tossed it to a pretty waitress at the club last weekend.” The two of them burst into laughter. I looked down and realized my hands were shaking. On my phone screen, Derek’s last text message glared back at me: Anything you make is perfect, babe. I love your cooking. 02 A year ago, a group of drunk, rowdy guys had started a fight at the bar where my friend worked. I was the one who called the police. During the chaos, when one particularly arrogant punk tried to lung at her, I had kicked him square in the face, leaving a pair of nasty scratches on his cheek. A few weeks later, I was having dinner at a quiet diner when another brawl broke out. In the middle of the screaming and shattering glass, a heavy wooden chair came flying toward me. Before I could react, someone threw himself in front of me, taking the blow. It was him—the arrogant punk from the bar. I brought him back to my tiny apartment to clean his cuts. The fierce, dangerous edge he usually wore vanished completely. Instead, he looked at me with a soft, vulnerable expression. “I had to pay for the damages at the bar,” he murmured, looking down at his hands. “I’m completely broke now. And because I stepped in to protect you, I lost my job.” He looked up, those beautiful, puppy-dog eyes filled with a desperate plea. “Norie… can I stay here for just a few days?” I looked into those eyes and sighed, unable to turn him away. Later, he told me he had found a job at a local auto shop. He said he wanted to change, to build a real life. With his very first paycheck, he bought me a bouquet of wild flowers. “Norie, please don’t make me leave.” And then, slowly, the boundaries blurred. “Norie, I got a bonus today. It’s all yours.” “Norie, can I kiss you?” “Norie, I love you.” … Chelsea told me the diner fight had been set up from the start. A carefully orchestrated play designed specifically for me. “He made a bet with us,” she said calmly. “He wanted to date you for exactly a year, and then dump you on the anniversary after telling you the whole truth.” I sat in silence for a long time. “Why are you telling me this now?” She shrugged. “Because you just saved my little sister’s life in the ER earlier today. Call it professional courtesy, or karma. Besides, I bet my new Porsche on this game. I’d hate to see him win.” 03 I clutched the crumpled piece of paper—the lab results confirming I was two months pregnant—and walked the gray streets of Boston, retracing my steps over and over. By the time the shadows of dusk settled over the city, I finally opened the door to our apartment. Derek immediately threw his arms around me, burying his face in my neck and whining like he always did. “Where were you? You said you’d be home early to cook!” I looked at his bare wrist. “The watch I bought you… why do you never wear it?” He stiffened for a fraction of a second. “Oh… it’s just too precious. I’m afraid I’ll scratch it at the shop. I keep it locked away safely.” To buy him that watch for his birthday, I had taken on extra freelance consulting work at night. I worked my day job, then stayed up until two or three in the morning, staring at a glowing screen. One morning, I had fainted from exhaustion on a crowded subway car during rush hour. Even then, I only allowed myself to take an hour off before heading back to the office. It had taken me nearly three months of starving my own needs to save up that money. I forced a tight smile, gently pushed him away, and walked past him into the bedroom. He frowned, following close behind. “Did that idiot manager of yours yell at you again? I told you that company is garbage. You need to quit…” I spun around, my voice sharper than it had ever been. “And which company isn’t garbage, Derek? The Lockhart Group?” “They framed me for corporate espionage. They fired me and sued me for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Overnight, I went from having a career to being completely bankrupted, blacklisted from the entire industry. Is that your idea of a good company?” He froze, the color draining from his face. Not long after the night at the bar, the general manager of the Lockhart Group had shown up at my office with a team of high-powered corporate lawyers. They accused me of leaking proprietary trade secrets, claiming I had caused millions in damages. I was fired, my savings were seized, and my reputation was thoroughly ruined. I had spent the last year believing I was just a casualty of corporate politics, a convenient scapegoat for some executive’s mistake. I never imagined it was all because I had offended the golden child of the Lockhart family. A boy five years younger than me playing a twisted game of revenge. I closed my eyes, feeling a profound exhaustion settle into my bones. “Derek, let’s not do this anymore—” The sharp ring of his phone cut me off. Derek answered, spoke in low, hushed tones, and then hung up. He looked at me, his voice softening into that sweet, familiar cadence. “The shop just got a major delivery. They need me to go in for an emergency shift.” I stared at him for a long, quiet moment, searching his face for any flicker of the boy I thought I loved. I swallowed the words rising in my throat. “Okay.” Derek didn’t come home that night. Instead, my phone buzzed with a new photo from Chelsea. Under the dim, amber lights of a VIP lounge, Derek was leaning close to a stunning young woman. He was taking a glass from her hand, his nose nearly brushing against hers. I turned off the screen. In that photo, a single bottle of champagne on the table cost more than the watch I had nearly killed myself to buy him. For the past year, I had skipped buying coffee, walked past bakeries, and counted every penny. When he casually mentioned he wanted cherries, I bought the organic ones at twelve dollars a pound. When he needed a jacket for the winter, I took him to the mall and spent three hundred dollars on a coat without a second thought. But when it came to myself, I spent hours comparing prices online before buying a pair of twenty-dollar canvas sneakers. What had he been thinking when I handed him that watch with such hope and love in my eyes? God, even his birthday was a lie. I curled up on the bed, clutching the duvet to my chest, and let the tears fall in the dark, silent room. 04 The next morning, I left the apartment early. My landlord called to ask if I wanted to renew the lease. I stared at the peeling paint on the hallway wall. “No, I won’t be renewing. I’ll be out in… a week.” The apartment was tiny, barely big enough for the two of us. Yet, during our quietest nights, Derek would gently stroke my stomach and whisper in my ear, “Do you think we’ll have a baby one day? If we do, this place is going to be way too small for them to run around.” “I’m going to work so hard, Norie. I’m going to buy a big house for you and our baby.” The memory made my chest ache so violently I had to lean against the wall, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When I stood up, the world spun, and I nearly collapsed. A colleague caught my arm, her eyes full of worry. “Nora, are you okay? You look pale. Let me drive you home.” The moment I unlocked the front door, Derek grabbed me, pinning me against the wall with a cold, furious expression. “Why haven’t you been answering my texts? Why did you decline my calls?” “And who the hell was that guy who just dropped you off? Why were you smiling at him?” I stared at him blankly. My mind kept looping back to how incredibly realistic his acting was. If I hadn’t seen the evidence, if I hadn’t heard his voice on that recording, I would have sworn he was madly, desperately in love with me. “Derek, don’t you ever get tired of this?” He blinked, his grip tightening on my wrists. “What are you talking about?” “Are you tired of me?” The image of him and that girl in the VIP lounge flashed behind my eyes. I lowered my gaze, pulling my hands free. “Yes.” Anger flared in his eyes. He leaned in, trapping me against the wall again, and bent his head to kiss me. I jerked my head to the side to avoid him, and a sudden wave of nausea hit me. I gagged. He froze, looking at me with pure disbelief. “Am I disgusting to you now?” “You didn’t seem disgusted when that guy was touching you! You smile at him like that, but you can’t even stand my touch?!” My colleague had only been helping me carry my bags. But I didn’t care to explain. I struggled to push him away. His fury only mounted. “What kind of loser is he anyway? Is that who you’re downgrading to?” “Am I not enough to satisfy you anymore, or are older women just that desperate when they’re lonely?” I froze. The exact words from the recording echoed in my mind: Just a lonely, desperate older woman. My eyes stung with hot tears. Before I could stop myself, I raised my hand and slapped him across the face. The sharp sound cracked through the small room. The air instantly turned to ice. He stared at me, his jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. After a long, agonizing moment, he let go of me, turned on his heel, and walked out, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled. I slid down against the wall, burying my face in my knees as my strength drained away. 05 At eight that evening, my boss called, demanding I meet a client at a high-end private club downtown. “If we close this deal, I’ll make sure you get a ten-thousand-dollar bonus at the end of the month!” I dragged my exhausted body out of bed. “Fine. I’ll be there.” When I pushed open the door to the private VIP suite, my heart stopped. Sitting on the plush leather sofas were the very same men I had hoped to never see again. The man in the center, Brody, let out a loud laugh. “Well, look at that. I wondered who Davies was talking about when he said he was sending his best project manager. It’s Nora.” His lips curled into a nasty smirk. “We’re old friends, aren’t we?” They were. Six months ago, these same men had cornered me in a private room, claiming Derek had gotten into a fight with one of them and demanding seventy thousand dollars in damages. Remembering the bruises Derek had tried to hide and his terrified, silent behavior, my protective instincts had flared. I had cried out, “This is extortion!” Brody had laughed, holding up a bottle of expensive whiskey. “Do you know who we are? Extortion? If I wanted to, I could have him ruined permanently.” My blood had run cold. Then Brody had smiled. “But I don’t like being hard on pretty women. Drink this, and we’ll call it even.” I had stared at the row of bottles for what felt like an eternity before picking them up, one by one. By the end, I was violently ill, vomiting onto the polished floor while they stood around me, pointing and laughing. “Look at how pathetic she is.” “Like a dog.” “So sad.” When the bottles were empty, Brody had knelt down, studying my tear-streaked, pale face. “She really is an idiot,” he had muttered. They left me there. I had lain in my own sickness until the morning cleaning crew kicked me awake. I had never told Derek. I wanted to protect him. And now, here they were again. I clenched my fists, but as I glanced around the room, my eyes caught on a jacket draped over the arm of the sofa. It was Derek’s designer jacket. My gaze snapped back to Brody’s face. Suddenly, a memory clicked—a graduation photo Chelsea had shown me of Derek’s friends from his time studying in London. The guy laughing right behind Derek in the photo… was Brody. A wave of intense dizziness washed over me. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the pain kept me grounded. Brody smiled. “Since we’re old friends, let’s play by the old rules.” He slid a bottle of heavy liquor across the table. “Finish this, and I’ll sign the contract.” I stared blankly at the closed doors around the suite. The bathroom door was shut. The door to the adjoining private room was shut. Where was Derek? Was he hiding behind one of those doors, watching me? What expression was on his face right now? I opened the bottle, poured a full glass, and raised it. Then, I threw the amber liquid straight into Brody’s face. Gasps echoed through the room. Brody wiped the alcohol from his eyes, his expression turning venomous. Before I could even register his movement, his hand came flying down, slamming into my face. I crashed hard onto the floor. My ears rang, and a dull throbbing started in my temple. “Nora,” Brody sneered, looking down at me. “I tried to be nice.” A sharp, terrifying cramp flared in my lower abdomen. I clutched my stomach, my entire body beginning to shiver. So this was my punishment. My punishment for slapping the Lockhart family’s precious little prince earlier today. I remembered the last time I had been forced to drink. Derek and I had just had a massive fight because I called him irresponsible and lazy. The proud little prince had been offended, so his friends had punished me to make him feel better. Was he watching me now, lying bruised on the floor? Was he finally satisfied? I slowly pushed myself up. Without looking at anyone, ignoring my boss’s frantic shouts, I turned and walked out of the room. By the time I unlocked the door to my apartment, every ounce of strength had left my body. 06 Derek didn’t come back until the first pale light of dawn began to creep through the windows. He was wearing the exact same jacket I’d seen on the sofa at the club. When he saw me sitting in the dark living room, he startled. “Why are you up so early?” When I didn’t reply, his expression softened into something resembling guilt. “Are you still mad? I… I lost my temper yesterday. I know he was just a colleague. I’m sorry, Norie.” He walked over and knelt beside me, burying his face in my lap. “Let’s make up, okay? Norie, please.” I placed my hands on his shoulders and firmly pushed him away. As his brow furrowed in confusion, I turned my laptop toward him and hit play. He froze. On the screen, a video was playing. It was me, kneeling on the floor of that VIP room six months ago, covered in alcohol and my own sickness, while his friends laughed hysterically in the background. Derek’s face went entirely white. When I had returned home last night, I found his personal laptop—the one he usually kept locked in a drawer—sitting on the coffee table. Prompted by some dark instinct, I had opened it. The password hadn’t been hard to guess. It was the date of our fake one-year anniversary. And there, in a folder, I found the video. He lunged forward, grabbing my hands. “Norie, please, let me explain—” I yanked my hands back, my vision blurring with hot, stinging tears. “Was it fun?” My voice trembled, breaking as I looked at him. “Did you feel powerful watching me like this? Did it make you feel good?” I grabbed the laptop and slammed it down onto the floor in front of him, the plastic casing cracking. “You’re a monster, Derek.” Panic flared in his eyes. “No, Norie, it’s not like that…” “Stop,” I whispered, my voice completely dead. “Stop acting, little prince. I know everything.” “We’re done. It’s over.”

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After witnessing the devastating wreckage of my mother’s marriage, I somehow fell backward through time. I woke up ten years in the past, staring into the eyes of my mother as she was then—young, hopeful, and entirely unbroken. She looked at me with a breathless, desperate excitement. “Nicola,” she whispered, gripping my shoulders, “tell me. When your father finishes his deep undercover assignment, does he finally give us the wedding he promised? Is it a beautiful church ceremony, or something on the beach? Did we manage to buy that house in the San Francisco school district?” I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of the truth. I had to break her heart to save her. “There was no wedding, Mom. We never got the house. And Dad… Dad already has a wife.” The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. Her hands slid off my shoulders. Panic flared in my chest. I thought she didn’t believe me. I grabbed her wrists, my voice shaking. “Mom, please. You have to leave Kevin. Being near him will destroy you. His real child is my classmate, Olivia. He isn’t some secret operative living in poverty. He’s the heir to the massive Westfield fortune in San Francisco. He’s been playing poor, playing hero, just to lie to you. Eventually, Olivia’s mother will find out about you. She’ll have you fired, throw us out on the street, and the depression will consume you until you end your own life.” My mother’s eyes welled with tears, a sharp, crystalline red rimming her lids. “Today is your fifth birthday, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You saw him, didn’t you? You saw Dad taking a woman and a little girl to Disneyland. Go find them. Talk to the woman. Once you ask her, you’ll understand everything.” … Carrying my five-year-old self in her arms, my mother walked toward Olivia’s mother, Victoria, amidst the swirling colors and cheerful music of Disneyland. When Victoria realized that little Nicola and Olivia were classmates at the prestigious preschool, her face lit up. She warmly invited us to join them for Dole Whips at a nearby kiosk. Victoria eagerly ordered a pineapple soft-serve cone. Noticing my mother’s gaze lingering on her baby bump, she offered a soft, maternal laugh. “My husband is absolutely paranoid,” she said, cradling her stomach. “Now that I’m pregnant, he barely lets me touch anything cold. I had to sneak this. I was dying for a treat.” My mother’s voice was barely a whisper. “When are you due?” “Sometime this month. It’s a boy.” My mother forced a smile. “Your husband must be thrilled.” “Oh, he’s ecstatic. You’d think it was our first, the way he fusses over every little thing.” “You two must be very close,” my mother murmured, the words hollow and heavy with a quiet sorrow. The compliment hit its mark; Victoria’s smile widened with smug satisfaction. “We have our moments. A few years ago, I threw a tantrum and ran off to study in London. He flew across the Atlantic just to drag me back. And because I wanted to feel like a princess, he actually sat through ninety-nine different wedding photo shoots with me.” Standing beside them, my heart ached as I recalled the stories my mother used to whisper to me on cold nights. She had moved to San Francisco for college, falling head over heels for a penniless, charming boy. They married right after graduation. To protect his “secret undercover work,” she had agreed to no wedding, no honeymoon—just a marriage certificate filed quietly at city hall. Even the photo on their marriage certificate was photoshopped because he “couldn’t risk a public photo.” The day after their wedding, he supposedly flew out of the country on a mission. He wasn’t even there when I was born. He had never held me. For years, she comforted herself, pretending his absence was the price of his noble, dangerous work. But the truth, when it finally arrived, would tear her open. Victoria continued her sweet, trivial complaints. “He’s almost too good to me. He booked the most expensive private postpartum suite in San Francisco. He won’t let me lift a finger. Honestly, he’s spoiling me to death.” I watched my mother’s hand begin to tremble. I remembered her telling me how she had gone back to work just days after giving birth to me, unable to afford the time off. That rushed recovery had ruined her health, leaving her with chronic pain. She worked three hundred and sixty-five days a year, never letting herself rest. “What about your husband?” Victoria asked suddenly, turning her bright, curious eyes toward my mother. “Couldn’t he take off for her birthday?” My mother managed only a bitter, strained smile. Victoria seemed to take that as a sign of marital trouble and offered a patronizing pat on the arm. “Well, men are all the same, aren’t they? Actually, while I was in London, my husband kept a girl on the side here. But the funniest part? He pretended to be dirt poor the entire time. He was terrified she’d find out about his money and try to sue him for child support. Can you imagine? A billionaire CEO, eating at greasy diners and driving a beat-up sedan just to keep up the act. I almost felt sorry for the poor girl.” My mother squeezed her eyes shut for a fraction of a second, then forced a whisper. “Is that so? What happened to her?” Victoria shrugged, taking another lick of her ice cream. “I think she had a daughter. He even gave her some fake, unregistered marriage certificate to keep her quiet. She’s probably rotting away in some run-down suburb right now. Honestly, she is pathetic. He convinced her he was doing some highly classified government work so he wouldn’t have to buy her a house or pay for anything. What do you think she actually wanted from him? Surely she didn’t think it was real love?” Before my mother could answer, a chillingly familiar voice drifted from behind us. “Victoria. I told you, no cold treats.” I spun around. There he was. My father, ten years younger, standing in the California sun. He was looking down at Victoria, his expression a mix of tender adoration and mock exasperation. “The doctor said no ice cream, honey. It’s not good for the baby.” Victoria leaned into his chest, pouting playfully. “Just one bite, Kevin. Don’t be such a tyrant.” I stole a glance at my mother. Her face was as white as printer paper, her eyes locked onto his back. Then, Kevin looked up. His eyes brushed over my mother—and then over me. There was no flash of recognition. No guilt. His gaze was entirely blank, cold, and empty, as if we were nothing more than scenery. I braced myself, expecting my mother to scream, to demand answers, to tear the illusion apart. But she didn’t. She simply tightened her arms around my five-year-old self, silent and trembling. Only after Kevin and Victoria walked away did her strength break. She sat on a park bench, tears silent and heavy rolling down her cheeks. She handed me her phone. A text message from Kevin glinted on the screen: Don’t make a scene. Go home. I reached up, using my sleeves to wipe the tears from her face, but they wouldn’t stop. “Don’t cry, Mom,” I whispered. “He isn’t worth your tears.” That night, Kevin showed up at our cramped, drafty apartment on the edge of the city. The moment he stepped through the door, my mother unleashed years of suppressed rage, her fists raining down on his chest as she sobbed. “Why did you lie to me? What am I to you? A joke? Do you have any idea what our daughter has been through? The other kids call her a bastard! They say she doesn’t have a father!” Kevin stood there, absorbing her blows in silence. After a long moment, he reached into his coat pocket and slid a sleek black credit card into her hand. “There’s a million dollars in this account. Take it. Just don’t go to Victoria. Don’t ruin this.” A million dollars. For years, to keep up his elaborate lie of a struggling government contractor, he had never sent her more than a thousand dollars at a time, leaving her to count pennies for groceries. Now, he tossed a million dollars at her feet like loose change. My mother looked down at the plastic card, a hollow, bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Kevin… ten years of my life, ten years of lies, and you think I’m worth a million dollars?” “That’s not what I mean,” he said, his voice flat but defensive. “Nicola is starting school soon. You’ve always wanted a place in a good school district. I’ll arrange a house for you. I just can’t do it right now. Victoria is keeping close tabs on our finances…” She threw the card directly at his face. “Get out. And don’t ever come back.” “Diana, please. Just be reasonable. I have my reasons…” I stepped forward, putting my small body between them, and shoved his hip. “Get out! Leave my mother alone!” Kevin froze. His eyes narrowed as he looked down at me, then up at my mother. “Who is she? Why is she calling you mother?” My mother didn’t owe him an explanation. With a sudden burst of strength, she pushed and shoved him until he was out the door, slamming it lock and deadbolt behind him. When the apartment fell silent again, my mother stood by the window, staring out at the smog-shrouded city. “Every time he told me he was flying out for a dangerous assignment… he was taking them on vacation, wasn’t he?” I looked down, my heart heavy. I nodded. While my mother stayed up late, crying and praying he would survive his “undercover missions,” he was in Aspen, holding Victoria close under the falling snow. To the high society of San Francisco, Kevin Westfield was the devoted, doting husband of a lifetime. The next morning, my mother went to her accounting firm, only to be handed a pink slip. With tuition fees looming for the upcoming school term, panic seized her. “You can’t do this!” her voice cracked. “You have no grounds to fire me. I’ll sue!” Her manager shrugged, not even looking up. “Go ahead. But a single call from Mr. Westfield’s office can make any lawsuit disappear. Save your energy.” Defeated, she walked back to our apartment, only to find our belongings piled on the curb. The landlord stood by the door, arms crossed. “I’m terminating the lease. You need to pack up and leave today.” My stomach dropped. Victoria had found out. “Mom, we have to go back to Eugene,” I urged. I knew my presence had altered the timeline, speeding things up. Victoria played the cool, detached wife in public, but behind closed doors, she was ruthlessly vindictive. She wouldn’t stop until she had ruined my mother entirely. But at twenty-eight, my mother was stubborn. She had spent five years building a life in San Francisco, and she refused to run. We checked into a cheap motel, and she spent the night submitting resumes online. By morning, every single one had been rejected. One recruiter even scoffed over the phone, “Why are you looking for a job? Isn’t being Mr. Westfield’s mistress paying enough?” Victoria had taken to social media, painting my mother as a scheming home-wrecker who had extorted a million dollars from her husband. The internet court of public opinion was merciless. My mother tried to fight back, posting screenshots of her text messages with Kevin to prove she had genuinely believed they were married. Within minutes, her posts were flagged for terms-of-service violations and permanently deleted. That afternoon, little Nicola came home from preschool, sobbing. “The other kids wouldn’t play with me today. They said my mommy stole Olivia’s daddy…” My mother held her tightly, weeping into her hair. “I’m so sorry, baby. It’s my fault… I’m so sorry.” After running into wall after wall, she finally gave in. We packed our bags to leave for Eugene. But just hours before our train was scheduled to depart, little Nicola spiked a dangerously high fever. Forgetting the train, my mother scooped her up and ran through the rain to the nearest hospital. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re severely understaffed today,” the triage nurse said flatly. My mother dropped to her knees on the cold tile floor. “Please, doctor, please! She’s only five! She can daily breathe!” The doctor looked at her with a mixture of pity and exhaustion. “Ma’am, it’s not that I don’t want to help. But Mr. Westfield’s eldest daughter has a mild fever, and his family has called every pediatric specialist in this wing over to their private suite.” My mother went completely pale, then ran out of the hospital like a woman possessed. She hailed a cab, dragging us from clinic to clinic, hospital to hospital, begging on her knees. “Please, save my daughter!” But the answer was always the same: every pediatric specialist in the city had been summoned to the private medical center owned by the Westfield-Harrington family. Her mind went entirely blank. With trembling fingers, she dialed Kevin’s number. “Kevin… Nicola is dying… Please, help her. I beg of you, help her…” On the other end of the line, Kevin’s voice was cold, transactional. “If you want a doctor, you will go live on social media. You will apologize to Victoria, and you will publicly admit that you were my mistress.” I knew the devastating toll this public humiliation would take on her. I grabbed her hand, shaking my head, begging her to refuse. But she barely hesitated. “Fine,” she whispered. She turned to me, her eyes bloodshot but fierce with maternal instinct. “I don’t care what they call me, Nicola. As long as you are safe.” Kevin, determined to soothe Victoria’s vanity, even paid to boost the live stream’s reach. Within minutes, thousands of strangers flooded the chat, throwing vile, venomous insults at my mother. She stood before the camera, admitting to crimes she never committed, her dignity ground into the dust. The hashtag #DianaTheHomeWrecker instantly trended to the top of the local charts. Only then did Kevin look satisfied. He waved a hand to summon a physician. But at that exact moment, Victoria clutched her stomach, groaning in pain. Instantly, the room shifted. Nobody cared about us anymore. The doctors and nurses swarmed around Victoria, pushing my mother aside. Desperate, my mother grabbed a doctor’s coat. “Please, just take a quick look at my daughter! She’s burning up!” The doctor violently shoved her hand away. “Mrs. Westfield is having contractions! Get out of the way!” My mother stumbled backward, slamming into the concrete wall. I rushed to catch her. “Mom, are you okay?” She didn’t even feel the pain. She scrambled to her feet, stumbling after the gurney as they wheeled Victoria away. “Please! Just look at her for one second!” Suddenly, a surgeon burst out of the delivery room, his face pale. “Mr. Westfield, your wife is hemorrhaging! We need a transfusion immediately!” Kevin grabbed him by the collar. “Then get the blood from the bank!” The surgeon wiped sweat from his brow. “But she has a rare Rh-negative blood type. Our current supply is depleted…” My mother froze. Horror washed over her, and she tried to pull little Nicola away. But Kevin’s eyes slowly drifted down to my younger self. A terrible, manic hope lit up his face. “Nicola… Nicola has Rh-negative blood too, doesn’t she?” My mother backed away, shielding me. “No. No, Kevin. She is only five years old. She doesn’t have enough blood to give. You cannot touch her!” Kevin’s assistant stepped forward, his voice tentative. “Sir, maybe I can call other hospitals. We might find a volunteer. The child is far too young.” “There’s no time,” the doctor urged. “Mr. Westfield, you need to make a decision now. Her blood pressure is plummeting.” From inside the room, Victoria’s screams echoed down the hall, sharp and terrifying. Before my mother could run, three of Kevin’s bodyguards pinned her against the wall. “Kevin, you monster!” my mother screamed, thrashing against their grip. “She is five years old! You will kill her!” I lunged forward to pull her free, but a bodyguard’s boot caught me in the chest, sending me crashing hard onto the linoleum floor. Kevin wrenched little Nicola from my mother’s desperate grasp. “Kevin, let her go! If you take her blood, she will die!” Through the double doors of the operating room, a nurse’s voice trembled. “Mr. Westfield, she’s too small. We can only take 100 milliliters at most. Any more and she’ll go into hypovolemic shock.” Kevin’s face was a mask of cold determination. “What is a hundred milliliters going to do? Take two hundred.” “But sir, that goes against every medical protocol—” “I said take it!” his voice cut like glass. “I will take full responsibility!” Within minutes, little Nicola’s whimpering cries leaked through the door, growing fainter with every passing second. My mother stopped fighting. Her body went limp, her gaze vacant, her soul turning to ice. “Kevin,” she whispered, her voice dead. “If anything happens to her, I will spend the rest of my life hating you.” An hour later, Victoria was wheeled out of the delivery room. Despite the supposed emergency, her cheeks were flushed with healthy color. She looked down at my mother with a cruel, mocking smile. “Why the long face, Diana? Didn’t Kevin ever tell you? The only reason he let you carry that girl to term was to keep her around as my personal blood bank.” My mother stared at Kevin, her eyes wide with a horrifying realization. “I’ll be generous and give you the truth,” Victoria murmured, leaning in close. “That car crash you had when you were seven months pregnant? It wasn’t an accident. Kevin arranged it. But when the lab results came back and showed the baby’s blood type matched mine… well, he decided to let her live. You should thank your lucky stars she was useful to me.” I closed my eyes as the memories rushed back. My mother had told me about that crash. She had spent a week in the dark ward, shivering with fear, completely alone. All this time, she thought she had survived a tragedy. But it was calculated. He had never wanted me to be born. When we were finally allowed into the recovery room, my mother scooped little Nicola into her arms. Her face was a mask of cold, unreadable stone. She turned to look at me, her eyes hollow. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.” A lump formed in my throat. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s not too late. We can still fix this.” While little Nicola was receiving fluids, Victoria’s security detail wheeled in two gurneys from the morgue, containing the unclaimed bodies of an adult woman and a small girl. It was a silent, monstrous threat. Step out of line, and this is where you end up. Something inside my mother snapped. She didn’t cry. With a terrifyingly calm resolve, she tipped over the bedside monitor, ripped the wires, and threw them onto the oxygen valves. Within seconds, a fire flared in the corner. In the chaos of the smoke and the blaring alarms, she grabbed little Nicola and me and ran into the night. Across town, Kevin was staring at the deeds to a house in the city’s finest neighborhood, waiting for his assistant to prepare the paperwork for Diana’s signature. Then, he looked out the window. A thick column of black smoke was rising from the hospital’s top floor. His assistant burst into the office, pale and breathless. “Sir…” Kevin’s heart skipped a beat. “What is it?” “There’s… there’s a fire in Diana’s ward.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “478330”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ever since I was a child, I noticed a strange pattern: whatever I wished for, my stepsister got double. She took everything from me, and even my own mother loved her more. Until the day I decided to fight back. “I want a twenty-six-year-old boyfriend.” The next day, she brought home a fifty-two-year-old bald man. “I want to lose ten pounds.” She dropped twenty, landing herself straight in the ICU. My stepfather knelt before me, sobbing, “Please, I beg you, stop wishing!” I smiled. “I wish to stay up late for six hours every single night.” My stepsister lost her mind on the spot. 01 A single line of text popped up on my phone screen. System activated. User may make one wish per day. I stared at it for three seconds, locked my screen, rolled over, and went back to sleep. I’d seen enough of these annoying, intrusive spam ads to last a lifetime. But the next morning, the words were still there. It wasn’t a pop-up. There was no close button, no redirect link. It was just a line of white text against a black background, hovering at the very top of my screen like it had been nailed there. I tried taking a screenshot. The text didn’t show up in the image. I tried taking a photo of my phone with an old camera and sending it to a colleague; in the photo, the screen looked completely normal. I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then, I typed out four words: I want a hundred dollars. Nothing happened. I tried again, rephrasing it: I wish for a hundred dollars. The text on the screen shifted. Wish granted. I waited all day, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred. That evening, when I walked into the kitchen, my mother slapped a hundred-dollar bill onto the table. “For you,” she said, her eyes glued to her own phone screen. “Go buy a decent coat. Stop walking around looking like a stray.” I picked up the bill. Before I could even feel the warmth of the paper, she spoke again. “Oh, by the way, I bought Dulcie that winter coat she wanted. The two-hundred-dollar one. It looks gorgeous on her.” My fingers tightened around the bill. Two hundred. I got one hundred; she got two hundred. My mother didn’t even look up. “Don’t go getting upset. Hers was on sale. It was originally over three hundred.” I wasn’t upset. I was just remembering things. When I was seven, it was my birthday, and I closed my eyes and wished for a Barbie doll. The next day, my mother brought one home for me. That same afternoon, Dulcie received two. “Her aunt mailed them to her,” my mother had explained back then. “It has nothing to do with you.” When I was nine, I got straight A’s on my report card and wished for a new pair of running shoes. That weekend, my mother took me to the mall and bought them. But as we were checking out, Dulcie pointed to another pair on the shelf and said they were pretty. My mother looked at the price tag, bought them, and then pointed to another pair nearby, saying those looked nice too. She bought both. Two pairs. I got one pair; she got two. When I was twelve, I wished for a bedroom of my own. We moved into a new house that year, and I was given the tiny box room. Dulcie got the massive bedroom right next to the master suite, complete with an attached study nook. “She’s starting middle school soon,” my stepfather had argued. “She needs a proper space to study.” My mother had nodded in agreement. I hadn’t said a word. Looked at individually, every single one of those incidents had a perfectly rational explanation. A gift from an aunt, a sale at the mall, a practical academic need. But what if you lined them up side by side? I wanted one; she got two. I wanted a share; she got double. Every single time. It was too consistent to be dismissed as a series of coincidences. I sat on the edge of my bed, unlocking my phone. The text was still hovering there. System activated. User may make one wish per day. I stared at it, the silence of the room pressing in on me. How long had this system actually been active? I remembered childhood birthdays, the smoke of the candles, the silent promises I whispered into the dark behind my eyelids. Every single one of those wishes had come true. And every single time, Dulcie had received double. I had never connected the two. I had spent my entire life believing the fault lay with me. I thought I wasn’t good enough. I thought I wasn’t likable. Dulcie was the sweet one, the one who knew exactly what to say to make people smile, the one who was inherently easier to love. My mother loved her more because she deserved to be loved. I didn’t. But looking at the cold white text on my screen, a sudden, sharp clarity cut through years of quiet resentment. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough. It was just how the rules were written. I got one; she got two. It wasn’t favoritism, and it wasn’t luck. It was a mechanism, a hidden gear turning in the background of our lives. And now, the gear was waiting for me to turn it. I locked my phone and lay back down on the bed. Through the thin drywall, I could hear Dulcie’s bright, melodic laughter. She was Facetiming my mother from her room, talking about how warm her new two-hundred-dollar coat was. I closed my eyes. Only one thought echoed in the quiet of my mind: I finally know how to use this. 02 My name is Gwen. I’m twenty-two. My mother, Helen, divorced my father when I was six. A year later, she married my stepfather, Robert. Robert had a daughter of his own. She was a year younger than me, and her name was Dulcie. It was a fitting name. She was, in every sense of the word, sweet. When we first moved in together, I was a quiet, sullen seven-year-old. Dulcie, at six, already knew how to charm. The moment she met my mother, she started calling her “Mom” in a voice as soft and sweet as spun sugar. Helen ate it up. “Look at Dulcie, she’s so considerate,” Helen would say, her fingers gently braiding Dulcie’s hair while I watched from the doorway. “Why can’t you try to be more like her?” I would just stand there, silent. How was I supposed to do that? Was I supposed to call a strange man “Dad”? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Robert didn’t seem to care anyway; his entire world revolved around Dulcie. Over the years, the dynamics of our household shifted into a quiet, suffocating routine. It wasn’t an overt, screaming kind of favoritism; it was a slow, daily erosion. Take dinner, for instance. If Helen made pork chops, Dulcie always reached for the first one. It wasn’t a rule, just a habit of her quick hands. But if I ever reached first, Dulcie would quietly set her fork down, lower her head, and stare at her plate in silence. Then Helen would shoot me a look. I knew that look by heart. It meant: You’re the older sister. Just let her have it. Or take clothes. When the seasons changed and Helen took us shopping, Dulcie would try on three sweaters and declare them all beautiful. Helen would buy all three without hesitation. When it was my turn, I’d try on one. Helen would glance at the price tag and sigh, “This is a bit expensive, Gwen. Let’s find something else.” Dulcie would chime in, “Gwen, that color doesn’t really suit you anyway. The gray one over there would look much better.” The gray one was half the price. Helen would immediately beam. “See? Dulcie has such an eye for these things.” It happened so often that the boundaries blurred. I couldn’t tell where her malice ended and my paranoia began. But there was one memory that remained crystal clear. It was my fifteenth birthday. Helen had ordered a small sheet cake, just big enough for the four of us. Before I blew out the candles, she told me to make a wish. I closed my eyes and silently wished for a phone. Back then, almost everyone in my class had one, and I was tired of being the odd one out. A few days later, Helen handed me a phone. It wasn’t new; it was her old, cracked upgrade. “Make it work,” she said simply. “And don’t go bringing it to school to mess around.” I swallowed my disappointment and took it. That same week, Dulcie came home carrying two brand-new phones. One was a gift from Robert; the other, she claimed, she had won in a school raffle. Two. I got a cracked hand-me-down; she got two brand-new upgrades. At the time, I accepted it as my lot in life. But looking back now, the pattern was flawless. Fifteen years, and the math had never failed once. Did Dulcie know? I wasn’t sure. But I remembered a detail. Every year on my birthday, after the candles were blown out, Dulcie would lean in close, her eyes wide and curious, and whisper, “Gwen, what did you wish for?” I’d tell her that if I said it out loud, it wouldn’t come true. She’d just smile, her eyes curving into crescent moons. “Well, you have to tell me next time, okay?” Next time. Every single year, she asked. I used to think she was just being a sister. Now, I realized she was verifying her inventory. My phone screen flickered in the dark. Remaining wishes today: 1. I didn’t rush. I needed to test the parameters of the system first. I opened my notes app and created a simple spreadsheet. On the left, I wrote my wish; on the right, I left a blank column to record what Dulcie received. In the first row, I typed: $100. On the right, I wrote: $200 (Winter coat). The timeline matched perfectly. But I needed more data. I opened the system and typed: I wish for someone to send me a bouquet of flowers tomorrow. Wish granted. The next afternoon, a delivery courier arrived at our apartment with a modest arrangement of wildflowers. The card read, “Thank you for being a valued customer,” sent from an online nursery where I had purchased a ceramic planter months ago. I took a photo of the flowers. When I got home from work that evening, there were two massive, elaborate arrangements sitting on the entryway table—one of deep red roses, the other of delicate baby’s breath, both arranged in heavy glass vases. Helen was arranging them, a proud smile on her face. “Some guys from Dulcie’s office sent them. She really is popular wherever she goes.” Dulcie was curled up on the couch, taking photos of the bouquets for her social media. When she saw me walk in, she offered a sweet, sympathetic smile. “Oh, Gwen, you got flowers today too? What a strange coincidence.” I looked at her smile and said nothing. One bouquet for me; two for her. A strange coincidence indeed. Back in my room, I opened my spreadsheet and filled in the second row: 1 bouquet -> 2 bouquets. The data was conclusive. The rule was absolute: I wish for X, and Dulcie receives 2X. No exceptions. I closed the spreadsheet, unlocked the system interface, and stared at the glowing white text. It was time for her to return what she had taken from me over the last fifteen years. But I had to be careful. She had been receiving double benefits for so long that she had grown comfortable. If the supply suddenly cut off, she’d notice. But what if the wishes weren’t beneficial? What if I wished for something negative? If I wished for hardship X, would she receive hardship 2X? I sat on my bed, planning my first move. It had to be precise, devastating, and entirely disconnected from me. I stayed up all night thinking. By the time the sky turned gray outside my window, I was smiling. 03 Before leaving for work the next morning, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time. Twenty-two, and I had never been in a relationship. It wasn’t for a lack of interest from others; I just didn’t have the mental bandwidth. Surviving the quiet warfare of my household took every ounce of energy I had. Dulcie was different. She had been dating since she was eighteen, swapping boyfriends as easily as she swapped seasons, each one wealthier and more attentive than the last. And every time, Helen would sigh happily and say, “Dulcie really knows how to choose them.” I never replied. Today, I was going to make my first real wish. But before I did, I had to lay the groundwork. During breakfast, I casually brought up a fake detail. “Mom, a colleague of mine offered to set me up with someone. I’m thinking about meeting him.” Helen’s fork paused mid-air. She glanced at me. “What’s his deal?” “Nothing crazy. He’s twenty-six, works in corporate.” Helen let out a soft, dismissive grunt. “Twenty-six? You’re only twenty-two, Gwen. Why are you looking for someone so much older?” Dulcie, who was quietly sipping her smoothie next to her, looked up at me but remained silent. “It’s just a coffee date,” I said, shrug shrugged. “It doesn’t mean we’re getting married.” “Whatever,” Helen said, turning back to her food. The conversation didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had planted the phrase “twenty-six-year-old boyfriend” firmly in Dulcie’s ears. Back in my room, I unlocked my phone and opened the system. Taking a deep breath, I typed: I wish to have a twenty-six-year-old boyfriend. Wish granted. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stared at those words. It wasn’t anxiety; it was pure, cold anticipation. Double of twenty-six is fifty-two. That afternoon, a guy from another department actually messaged me on the company Slack. We had chatted briefly during a seminar a few weeks back. He asked if I wanted to grab coffee over the weekend. He was twenty-six, worked in marketing, and had a kind, ordinary face in his profile picture. That was my portion. Now, I waited for Dulcie’s. The following evening, I walked home from the subway and heard a strange voice in the living room the moment I opened the front door. It was deep, slightly raspy, and carried an unpleasant, oily slide to it. I took off my shoes and walked into the space. Sitting on our sofa was a man. He had a severe receding hairline, a prominent beer belly, and wore a tight, faded polo shirt that strained against his midsection. He had his legs crossed comfortably, holding a mug of tea Helen had brewed for him. Dulcie was sitting beside him, her face completely drained of color. Helen was standing near the kitchen doorway, looking equally pale. Robert sat at the dining table, staring silently at the floor. When the man saw me enter, he let out a loud, hearty laugh. “Ah, this must be the older sister! Great to meet you. I’m Howard, Dulcie’s boyfriend.” Howard. Fifty-two years old if he was a day. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Dulcie’s hands were shaking. She reached out, desperately tugging at Howard’s sleeve. “I told you, you need to leave. Stop saying these things.” Howard looked at her, his expression a picture of mild confusion. “What do you mean, sweetheart? You’re the one who added me on that app yesterday. You said you liked mature, established men. That’s why I’m here.” Dulcie’s face flushed a deep, humiliated red before turning a sickly shade of gray. “I didn’t! I don’t even know who you are!” Howard pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and held the screen up to Robert. “Look for yourself, sir. Is this your daughter’s profile or not?” Robert leaned forward, glanced at the screen, and slammed his coffee mug onto the table with a sharp crack. “Dulcie, explain this.” Dulcie’s voice pitched into a desperate, panicked shriek. “Dad, I swear I don’t know him! I have no idea how he got my account! He added me yesterday, we exchanged two messages, and suddenly he’s showing up at our apartment demanding to meet my parents! I tried to stop him—” “Why didn’t you just block him?” Robert demanded. Dulcie’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. I stood by the entryway, taking in the scene. The system’s logic was far more precise than I had anticipated. It wasn’t just a simple mathematical doubling of a number. I wished for a twenty-six-year-old boyfriend, and I received a normal, age-appropriate relationship. Dulcie received a man twice that age—delivered into her life in a way she could neither prevent nor explain away. That was the true meaning of “double.” It wasn’t just the quantity that multiplied; it was the gravity of the consequences. Howard sat back, taking another sip of his tea, looking entirely like a man who believed he was visiting his future in-laws. Finally, Helen spoke, her voice strained. “Dulcie… be honest with us. Have you been talking to strangers on those online apps again?” “Mom!” Tears welled in Dulcie’s eyes. “I swear I haven’t!” She looked at me, and for a split second, her eyes held an expression I knew all too well. It was a plea for help. Whenever she got into trouble as a kid, she’d look at me exactly like that. It meant: Gwen, say something to save me. In the past, I always had. Now, I slowly slipped my hands into my coat pockets. “I’m going to my room,” I said quietly. “Have a good night.” As I turned the corner, I heard Dulcie call out behind me, “Gwen!” I didn’t look back. I shut my bedroom door, leaned against the wood, and took three long, steady breaths. My phone screen lit up. Daily wishes exhausted. Resetting tomorrow. A small, quiet smile touched my lips. What should I wish for tomorrow? Through the wall, I could hear Dulcie’s muffled sobs, Robert’s rising anger, and Howard’s oily voice repeating, “Hey now, let’s all calm down and talk this out like adults.” I opened my spreadsheet and added the third entry: 26-year-old boyfriend -> 52-year-old bald man. Status: Verified. I already knew what my next wish would be. 04 Howard didn’t leave until nearly eleven that night. When Robert finally pushed him out the door, Howard turned back and shouted down the hallway, “Call me, Dulcie! I’ll be waiting!” The door slammed shut with a force that rattled the frames on the wall. I lay in bed, listening to the muffled chaos in the living room. Robert was shouting, Helen was trying to play peacemaker, and Dulcie was crying. The crying lasted for about forty minutes before the apartment finally fell into an uneasy silence. I figured the drama would simmer down by morning. But when I stepped out of my room the next day to pour a glass of water, Dulcie was already sitting at the dining table. Her eyes were swollen to the size of walnuts. When she saw me, she said nothing. I remained silent too. Helen walked out of the kitchen, setting a bowl of oatmeal in front of Dulcie. She gently patted her head. “Don’t think about it anymore, sweetie. That man was clearly a lunatic. It has nothing to do with you.” Dulcie stared at her bowl, took a tiny bite, and then slowly set her spoon down. “Mom, something feels wrong.” Helen paused. “What do you mean?” Dulcie glanced at me. Just a brief, flickering look, before she quickly averted her eyes. “Nothing,” she muttered. “It’s just… it all feels too coincidental.” I stood by the water dispenser, holding my glass, entirely still. Helen didn’t catch the underlying tension, continuing to ramble about whether Howard had harvested Dulcie’s information from some dating application. But I caught it. Dulcie was starting to suspect me. She had no proof, but her instincts had always been sharp. That was the most dangerous thing about her; she wasn’t just a good actress, she was highly perceptive. She could smell an anomaly from a mile away. I needed to act faster. I went to work, performed my duties, and came home at my usual time. But when I walked through the door that evening, the air in the apartment felt heavy. Helen was sitting on the sofa, her expression dark. Robert sat beside her, staring blankly at the television screen without changing the channel. Dulcie was nowhere to be seen. “Gwen, sit down,” Helen said, her voice unusually formal. I put my bag down and sat on the armchair opposite them. “Dulcie told me something today,” Helen began, pausing to gauge my reaction. “She thinks you hired that man to humiliate her.” I said nothing. “She says you’ve been acting strange lately. She says you keep staring at her, and that you’ve been writing things down in a notebook.” My chest tightened slightly. The spreadsheet. I had kept the record on my phone’s secure folder, but she must have noticed me typing immediately after the incidents occurred. “I didn’t hire anyone,” I said flatly. “Then explain how that man showed up here yesterday,” Helen demanded, her voice rising. “That’s Dulcie’s business. How would I know?” “You’re her sister—” “I’m her stepsister,” I corrected. “And since when is her dating life my responsibility?” Helen blinked, momentarily stunned. Robert spoke up, his tone cold. “Gwen, your mother isn’t accusing you. She’s just asking. There’s no need to be defensive.” I looked at Robert. This man had lived under the same roof as me for fifteen years, and we had barely spoken a hundred words to each other. Every single one of those words had been some variation of “Your mother didn’t mean it that way,” “You’re overthinking,” or “You’re the older sister.” I stood up. “Are we done? I have things to do.” “Stop right there,” Helen snapped. I paused, but I didn’t turn around. “What is wrong with you lately?” Helen asked, her tone shifting to one of deep frustration. “Dulcie says you’ve changed.” “She said I’ve changed?” “She says the way you look at her is different.” I turned slowly to face my mother. “Mom, in fifteen years, have you ever asked me how I was doing? Just once? Have you ever asked if I was happy, or if there was anything I wanted? Have you ever cared?” Helen’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. “You never did. Whenever Dulcie says something, you believe it without question. The moment she claims I’ve ‘changed,’ you haul me in for an interrogation. It’s been fifteen years of this.” The living room fell into a dead silence. Robert lowered his head, avoiding my gaze. Helen’s lips pressed into a thin line, her voice dropping an octave. “I’m not interrogating you, I’m just—” “Save it,” I interrupted. “I get it.” I went into my room and locked the door behind me. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pulled out my phone. The system interface was glowing. Remaining wishes today: 1. Dulcie was trying to turn my mother against me to keep me in line, just like she did when we were kids. Whenever she made a mistake, she’d cry, point her finger at me, and Helen would instantly take her side. I used to swallow it. Not today. I opened the input box and typed: I wish to lose ten pounds. Wish granted. I set my phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and closed my eyes. The double of ten pounds was twenty. Dulcie only weighed about a hundred and ten pounds. I wanted to see if she’d still have the energy to cry to my mother when twenty pounds vanished from her frame. 05 The effects manifested even faster than I had anticipated. By the third day after the wish, I stepped onto the scale and saw that I had lost four pounds. It was a healthy, gradual descent, the kind that felt natural and didn’t leave me feeling drained. Dulcie’s experience, however, was entirely different. When I came home on the third evening, she wasn’t in the living room. Helen was in the kitchen stirring a pot of soup. When she saw me, she handed me a bowl. “Your sister hasn’t had much of an appetite lately. Take this to her room, will you?” I carried the bowl down the hall and knocked on Dulcie’s door. When the door opened, I barely recognized her. In just three days, her cheeks had hollowed out. Her collarbones protruded sharply beneath her shirt, and the delicate bones of her wrists looked like fragile twigs. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, her voice barely a whisper. “Just leave it on the desk.” I set the bowl down and glanced around. There were three untouched takeout containers sitting by her trash can. “Are you not eating?” I asked. “I can’t,” she muttered, her eyes shot through with thick red veins. “Everything I swallow, I throw right back up.” She stared at me, her gaze intense and fearful. “Gwen… do you think I’m sick with something?” “You should probably see a doctor,” I replied neutrally. “I’m going tomorrow.” I nodded and stepped out, closing the door behind me. As the latch clicked, I heard the faint, wet sound of her dry-heaving inside. By the fifth day, I was down six pounds. My skin looked clear, my energy was high, and my clothes fit with a comfortable, loose drape. A few people at work commented on how rested I looked. Dulcie had lost twelve pounds. She had gone to the clinic, gotten blood work done, and run a battery of tests. The results were completely normal. There was no physical illness, no infection, no underlying pathology. But she still couldn’t keep food down. Even a sip of water made her nauseous. Her weight continued to plummet. On the seventh day, I came home to an empty apartment. I called my mother’s phone. It rang through several times before she finally picked up, her voice trembling. “Gwen… Dulcie collapsed. We’re at the hospital. Get over here now.” When I arrived at the emergency room, Dulcie was lying on a gurney, a clear line running from an IV bag into her bruised arm. Her face was completely devoid of color. Her skin seemed stretched tight over her cheekbones, and her eyes looked like two dark, sunken hollows. Helen sat on a plastic chair by the bedside, clutching Dulcie’s limp hand, her eyes rimmed with red. Robert stood out in the hallway, speaking in hushed, urgent tones with a doctor. As I walked toward them, I caught the tail end of the doctor’s assessment. “…extreme weight loss has led to severe dehydration and hypoglycemia. We can’t find any organic cause, so we’re keeping her for observation.” Robert nodded slowly. When he turned and saw me, the look on his face wasn’t anger. It was fear. “You’re here,” he muttered. “Yes.” “Go inside. See your sister.” I stepped into the curtained cubicle. Dulcie’s eyes fluttered open. When she saw me, her dry lips parted slightly. “Gwen.” “Yeah.” “I’ve lost so much weight.” “I see that.” “I’m scared,” she whispered, her voice like paper scraping against stone. “I can’t control it. It just keeps dropping, and nothing I do stops it.” I stood at the foot of the bed, observing her. I had looked at this face for fifteen years. For as long as I could remember, it had been covered in a bright, effortless smile. She smiled at Helen, she smiled at Robert, she smiled at strangers, and she smiled at me. I never knew how much of that sweetness was real. But there was no sweetness left now. Just a terrified twenty-one-year-old girl lying in a hospital bed, wasting away. “Get some rest,” I said after a long silence. “The doctors will figure it out.” I turned and walked back into the hallway. Robert intercepted me before I reached the exit. “Gwen, wait.” I stopped. “Let’s talk,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Just the two of us. Tomorrow morning.” His eyes were wide, scanning my face as if searching for a crack in a mask. It was a look I had never seen on him before. “Okay,” I said. “Tomorrow.” I walked toward the elevators. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Current wish progress: Lose 10 lbs (6 lbs achieved, 4 lbs remaining). Double effect active. The process was still running. Dulcie had already lost twelve pounds; she had eight more to go. Twenty pounds total. For someone of her size, losing twenty pounds wouldn’t kill her, but it would push her body to the absolute brink of collapse. I walked out of the hospital lobby. Outside, a cold rain was starting to fall. I stood on the sidewalk, letting the chill settle into my skin. I didn’t open my umbrella. This isn’t your fault, I reminded myself. For fifteen years, every bit of double fortune she received was carved out of my life. My toys, my shoes, my space, my mother’s affection. It was all hers, doubled, while I starved. Now, the balance was simply shifting. I wiped the rainwater from my face and walked toward the bus stop. Robert wanted to talk tomorrow. I knew exactly what he was going to say. But I wasn’t afraid. 06 Robert asked to meet me at a small, quiet diner near our apartment. At 7:30 AM, the place was mostly empty, save for a few regulars at the counter. He sat in a booth in the back, two plates of scrambled eggs and toast untouched between us. Neither of us picked up a fork. A full minute of heavy silence passed before he finally spoke. “Gwen, I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.” “Go ahead.” “Does what’s happening to Dulcie have anything to do with you?” I stared at him. “What could I possibly have to do with it?” “She suddenly wastes away to nothing, and the doctors have no explanation. Before that, some fifty-year-old stranger shows up at our house claiming to be her boyfriend. These things only started happening recently.” He paused, leaning in. “Are you… doing something to her?” I picked up my coffee mug and took a slow sip. “Robert, do you honestly think a regular office worker like me has the power to make someone lose twenty pounds by magic? Or force a stranger into her life?” He stared at me, his eyes dark with suspicion. “I don’t know how you’re doing it. But I know that none of these bizarre things are happening to you. They’re only happening to her.” “Maybe it’s just a run of bad luck.” “Gwen.” His voice was low, but it vibrated with a quiet, desperate rage. “Dulcie is my daughter. She’s lying in a hospital bed. Don’t sit there and talk to me about bad luck.” I set my mug down. “And I’ve lived in your house for fifteen years, Robert. How many times did you look out for me in all those years?” He didn’t answer. “Dulcie got whatever she wanted. If I wanted something, you didn’t even look up. When my mother ignored me, you pretended not to see. When Dulcie took my things, you told me to let it go because I was older.” “That was different—” “How was it different?” My voice remained level, but the words were sharp. “On my fifteenth birthday, my mother gave me her cracked, discarded phone. That same day, Dulcie got two brand-new ones. Do you remember that?” His jaw clenched. “When we moved when I was twelve, I got the closet-sized room, and she got the master-adjacent suite. You said she was starting middle school and needed a study space. I was starting middle school too, Robert. Do you remember that?” He looked away, his gaze dropping to the laminate table. “Every year, every single time, I got one share and she got two. You and my mother acted like it was the natural order of the world. In fifteen years, did either of you ever look at me and ask, ‘Gwen, does this hurt?’” The diner’s refrigerator hummed loudly in the silence. Robert kept his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly together, his knuckles white. “I admit,” he said, his voice thick, “we could have paid more attention to you. But Gwen, those were decisions made by adults. You can’t take your anger out on Dulcie. You can’t destroy her life.” “I’m not destroying anything.” “Then why is this happening to her?” “I don’t know.” He raised his head, his eyes rimmed with red. “You really expect me to believe that?” “I don’t care what you believe,” I said, meeting his gaze without flinching. He couldn’t read me. He had spent fifteen years ignoring my existence; he had no idea what my lies sounded like, or what my truth looked like. To him, I was a stranger who happened to sleep down the hall. “Gwen, please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “If anything happens to her…” “Robert,” I cut in, “do you realize you’re doing the exact same thing my mother used to do?” He froze. “Whenever Dulcie cried, my mother blamed me. Now that Dulcie is sick, you’re blaming me. To both of you, the problem is always me.” I slid out of the booth and stood up. “Ask Dulcie about the things she’s taken from me over the years. Once you have those answers, then you can come talk to me.” I grabbed my coat and walked out. My hands were trembling as I stepped onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t fear; it was a decades-old anger that had finally found its way to the surface. I took a deep breath, refusing to let the tears fall. I wouldn’t cry in front of him. I wouldn’t cry in front of anyone. When I got home, Helen was sitting on the sofa. She looked up as I entered, her mouth opening as if to speak, but she hesitated. I walked over and stood in front of her. “Mom, do you think I’m behind what’s happening to Dulcie too?” She avoided my eyes. “I didn’t say that.” “But you believe it. You knew Robert was meeting me this morning, didn’t you?” She remained silent. “Mom, let me ask you something.” She finally looked up at me. “Who do you think I am?” Her lips parted slightly. “You’re my daughter.” “Then why have you never once stood by my side?” She had no answer. I nodded slowly. “Understood. Watch closely then.” I walked into my room and locked the door. Sitting on the bed, I pulled out my phone. The system was active. Remaining wishes today: 1. Dulcie was trying to use Robert and Helen to crush me, just like she always did. Whenever she ran into trouble, she’d cry, point her fin

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When my mother discovered that my father was sleeping with her best friend, Violet, her immediate reaction was to file for divorce. My mother had a moral allergy to betrayal. “A man who’s tainted himself,” she told me, her voice trembling but hard, “is a man I won’t tolerate for another second.” In my past life, I supported her. I hired the most aggressive, expensive divorce lawyer I could find. I backed her decision to walk away without a single dime of alimony or equity, just so she could sever ties with that piece of trash as quickly as possible. But three days after the papers were signed, my mother was diagnosed with stomach cancer. To pay for her treatments, I sold my condo. I maxed out my credit cards. I worked five different jobs, sleeping in two-hour shifts. In the end, completely broken, I knelt in the freezing rain outside my father’s corporate headquarters, begging him for a loan to save her life. He walked out, looked down at me in front of his entire executive team, and threw a crumpled hundred-dollar bill at my feet. “I thought your mother was above it all,” he sneered. “She didn’t want a cent in the divorce. Why are you here playing the victim now?” That very night, sitting in a sterile hospital corridor, I opened Instagram. There was a post from Violet. She was posing in front of a $150,000 Porsche 911. Beside her was a boy my age, wearing a $50,000 gold Rolex. And beneath it, a comment from my father, using his verified account: For the two of you, no price is too high. That was the moment the ice settled in my veins. That was when I learned the truth. He and Violet had been sleeping together since the second month of my parents’ marriage. That boy in the photo—his illegitimate son—was exactly one month younger than I was. My father had never let me set foot in his company. He always fed me lines about “avoiding nepotism” and “building my own character.” It was a lie. He had already decided, long ago, to leave his entire empire, his fortune, and his fatherly devotion to his bastard son. Later, my mother died. The cancer ate her away, and I had to bury her in the cheapest cemetery on the outskirts of the city. A week later, my father stood at a massive press conference for his new product launch, his fingers intertwined with Violet’s. “The person I have to thank the most for standing by me all these years,” he announced to the flashing cameras, “is this remarkable woman.” In that moment, something inside me shattered completely. I took the kitchen knife I had hidden in my coat, walked right up to the stage, and drove it through both of their cheating hearts. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the exact afternoon my mother first brought up the divorce. Her eyes were red-rimmed as she looked at me. “Joanna, I want a divorce. Will you support me?” This time, I didn’t reach for a lawyer’s business card. I reached out and gripped her hand, my fingers digging into her skin. “Mom,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Smart women don’t file for divorce.” “They aim for widowhood.” … All the color drained from my mother’s face. Her hand violently jerked, and her porcelain teacup hit the hardwood floor, shattering into a dozen jagged pieces. “Joanna, what… what are you saying?” I stared unblinking into her eyes, enunciating every single word. “I said, smart women don’t divorce. They just wait to be widows.” Smack! The next second, my mother slapped me across the face. Hard. “Are you out of your mind?! That is your father!” “He’s nothing to me!” I lost control. I grabbed my own mug from the coffee table and hurled it against the living room wall. Ceramic shards exploded across the room. In my past life, I had thought the same way she did. I thought that even if my parents split up, I would still be Richard Evans’s daughter. That delusion lasted until the day she was diagnosed with cancer, until the day I crawled to him for money. I had gone to his favorite upscale steakhouse, hoping to catch him in a good mood. Instead, I found him, Violet, and a young man sitting in a private booth, laughing together like the perfect, happy family. That was the day the blinders came off. I realized that just weeks after he had sworn his vows to my mother, he was already in Violet’s bed. They even had a kid. Derek, the boy who was born a mere thirty days after me. All these years. While my father preached to me about “independence” and kept me entirely shut out of Evans Holdings, he was secretly keeping Derek right by his side. He gave Derek the General Manager title. He gave him the core acquisitions to lead. Everyone at the corporate office knew Derek was the heir apparent. Only my mother and I—like two oblivious fools—had been kept in the dark for twenty entire years. I had been blind with rage that day in the restaurant. I stormed the table and demanded answers. My father just looked at me. His eyes were completely devoid of guilt. Cold. Reptilian. “Listen to me very carefully, Joanna,” he had said, lowering his voice. “I built this empire. I made this money, and I decide who gets it.” “My legacy is going to Derek.” “As for you?” He let out a low, mocking chuckle. “Don’t hold your breath for a single dime. And if you make a scene today, I’ll make sure you lose that little marketing job of yours. Let’s see how you pay for your mother’s chemo when you’re unemployed.” For my mother’s sake, I swallowed my pride. I swallowed my humanity. I begged him for a fifty-thousand-dollar loan. I promised to sign a promissory note, at four percent interest, to be paid back in a year. He just looked at me with profound disgust. “I thought your mother was the picture of integrity. She wanted to walk away with nothing, right?” “So let her keep her integrity. Don’t come crawling to me.” Violet, sitting beside him, had the nerve to sigh sympathetically. “Joanna, sweetie, I don’t mean to overstep, but you’re an adult now. You can’t just run to Daddy for a handout every time life gets hard. He works so tirelessly for what he has.” I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled. And then, my father reached into his Prada money clip, pulled out two crumpled hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them onto the floor by my sneakers, like he was tipping a bathroom attendant. “Here. That should cover a few boxes of painkillers. Now get the hell out of my sight.” Security dragged me out. I wandered back to the oncology ward like a ghost. But that night, I saw Violet’s post. The Chanel tweed suit. The gleaming white, custom-ordered Porsche. The passenger seat overflowing with Ecuadorian roses that cost a hundred bucks a stem. And Derek, holding up his wrist to casually flex a fifty-thousand-dollar Rolex. And my father’s comment: For the two of you, no price is too high. My phone nearly slipped from my frozen fingers. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Because for the last two decades, even when my mother helped him build his business from scratch, even when they lived in a damp basement apartment, even when she worked herself into stomach ulcers just to keep his dream afloat—he had never bought her a single luxury gift. The year Evans Holdings broke its first major profit margin, he bought her a thin, 18-karat gold chain from a mall kiosk. And my mother had cried tears of joy. She wore it every day like it was the Hope Diamond. Yet he dropped millions on Violet and Derek without blinking. With trembling fingers, I scrolled through the rest of Violet’s page. The Porsche was just a drop in the bucket. Hermès Birkin bags for Valentine’s Day. A private yacht charter for her birthday. A sprawling ten-million-dollar estate in the Hamptons. When Derek turned eighteen, my father had even hired a pyrotechnics company to set off a private fireworks display over the water. But when I asked for a fraction of that to save his legal wife’s life? He couldn’t spare it. I stared at those photos as my tears hit the screen, blurring the smiling faces. The hatred I felt for my father calcified in my chest, growing heavier with every passing hour until dawn. But the thing that truly broke my psyche was the product launch after her death. When he held Violet’s hand and smiled for the press. “She is the love of my life. The woman I am most grateful for.” And my mother? The woman who starved with him, who bled for him, was buried alone in a muddy plot near the highway. That was the moment my sanity snapped. I took the knife. I drove it into them. I watched them scream, watched them bleed, watched them beg. And I felt no remorse. Only an overwhelming, intoxicating wave of relief. Thank God. Thank God for second chances. This time, I was going to strike first. I pulled myself out of the memories and looked at my mother, sitting frozen in the living room. I told her everything. Every single detail of my past life. The timeline of the affair. The hidden son. My father leaving her to die. The way she had curled into a fetal position on the hospital bed, refusing the imported painkillers because they were too expensive. I thought that hearing all this would immediately cure her of her desire to walk away clean. But she just sat there, eyes red, shaking her head in denial. “No… he wouldn’t be that cruel…” “When he was in that car wreck… your grandmother saved his life… our family saved him. He swore on his life he would be good to me forever…” “But he still cheated, didn’t he?” Looking at her desperate attempts to cling to a shattered reality made my chest ache. “Mom, people change. The man you married doesn’t exist anymore.” “If you don’t believe me, let’s go get you a full physical. Right now.” My mother blinked, startled. “What?” “You don’t believe me?” I stared her down. “Then let’s go check.” “According to the timeline, you should be in the early stages of stomach cancer. It’s still highly treatable.” “If the biopsy comes back completely clean, I will never mention the word ‘divorce’ again.” That finally moved her. I grabbed my keys and drove her straight to the private hospital downtown. But fate has a twisted sense of humor. As we walked through the VIP lobby, we ran right into them. Violet. My father. And a young man who looked exactly my age. Derek. My father was patting the boy’s shoulder, his expression a portrait of paternal pride and worry. “You’ve got to stop skipping meals for the sake of the project, kid. When you passed out today, you scared the hell out of me and your mother.” Derek smiled, looking suitably sheepish. “Come on, Dad. I’m just trying to take some of the pressure off your shoulders.” Dad. That single syllable was a lightning bolt striking my mother right between the eyes. All the color drained from her face. She swayed, her knees buckling. I reached out to catch her, but she shoved my hands away. She stared at my father from across the lobby, her eyes wide, torturing herself with the sight. “All these years… your father always kept you at arm’s length,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I thought it was just his personality. I thought he was just a stoic man. I never knew… I never knew it was because he was pouring all his love into another child…” The tears finally spilled over, trailing through her makeup. “No wonder he suddenly had to ‘travel for business’ constantly during my second month of pregnancy.” “No wonder Violet was always ‘vacationing in Europe’…” “They were together the whole time.” “My god. I’ve been a blind, pathetic fool for twenty years.” Watching her shatter broke my heart all over again. But I didn’t try to soften the blow. I didn’t try to make excuses for him. Because she needed this. She needed her heart to completely die. Only then could we win. Only then would my second chance mean anything. Across the room, my father laughed at something Derek said, clapping him on the back with deep, unabashed affection. “That’s my boy. Once this acquisition goes through, I’m putting you in charge of the entire West Coast division.” “Eventually, all of Evans Holdings is going to be yours anyway.” At those words, my mother stopped crying. She wiped the wetness from her cheeks. When she looked up, the devastation in her eyes had been replaced by a sheet of absolute, glacial ice. “Joanna. You were right.” “Smart women don’t file for divorce.” “They aim for widowhood.” She straightened her posture, lifting her chin. “I swallowed broken glass for years to help build this life. I’ll be damned if I hand it over to them on a silver platter.” A fierce, burning pride swelled in my chest. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard. “Don’t worry, Mom. We’re going to flip the board on them. What belongs to us, no one is ever going to touch.” My mother was a woman of her word. From that moment on, she completely abandoned the idea of divorce. She began conservative treatments for the early-stage cancer, taking her medication in secret, while dedicating every other waking moment to strategizing how to destroy Richard and Violet. Know thy enemy, she said. She hired a high-end private investigator to track their every move. When she saw the surveillance photos of Violet taking my father out for massive, grease-laden meals—knowing full well he suffered from severe hypertension—my mother’s eyes gleamed with a toxic fury. “Men are so cheap,” she muttered, staring at the photos. “You spend your life trying to keep them healthy, and they resent you for it. They’d rather eat garbage in the gutter because it tastes like freedom.” She didn’t wallow in grief this time. Starting the very next day, the dinner table at our house underwent a radical transformation. For years, my mother had rigidly served him bland, heart-healthy meals—steamed fish, organic greens, clear broths. Now? It was a parade of everything he loved and everything his cardiologist had strictly forbidden. Thick-cut, heavily marbled ribeyes seared in butter. Loaded potato skins with extra bacon. Rich, creamy pastas. At night, she started casually leaving out a bottle of top-shelf bourbon and a bucket of ice. My father was genuinely stunned the first time he sat down to dinner. “Diane, what’s all this?” My mother smiled at him, the picture of maternal warmth. “I used to worry so much about your diet, but honestly? Life is short. Happiness is what matters most.” “I see how stressed you are with the IPO coming up. I just want you to be able to relax and enjoy yourself at home.” Those words hit exactly the right note for his bloated ego. He cut into his steak, chewing with a look of absolute bliss. “You finally get it. All that boiled rabbit food you used to make… it was killing my soul.” “Diane, I really like this new side of you.” My mother just smiled, scooping another spoonful of buttery mashed potatoes onto his plate. “If you like it, eat as much as you want, honey.” It didn’t stop at the food. She stopped nagging him about smoking. She stopped asking if he had taken his blood pressure medication. She stopped waking up at midnight to make him herbal tea for his stomach. One night, he stumbled in at 2:00 AM, reeking of expensive scotch, clutching his chest and complaining of a tightness in his breath. In the old days, my mother would have panicked and driven him straight to the ER. This time? She just slowly poured him a glass of ice water and handed him a scotch on the rocks. “It’s just the corporate stress,” she cooed softly. “Have a nightcap to take the edge off. You’ll sleep it off.” Far from being angry at her negligence, he woke up the next morning claiming he felt like they were newly dating again. He said the house finally felt like a home, that he finally felt free to be a man. My mother didn’t say a word. She just kept her head down, dutifully smoothing the collar of his dress shirt. “As long as you’re happy.” The morning light hit her face, painting her as the ultimate, devoted, traditional wife. But I was standing in the doorway. I saw it. When she lowered her eyes, I saw the venom. The absolute, calculating coldness. And I saw the little notebook locked in her vanity drawer, where she was meticulously tracking his rapidly expanding waistline and his skyrocketing blood pressure readings. Meanwhile, I wasn’t sitting idle. If my father really did drop dead, Violet and Derek wouldn’t just stay in the shadows. They would smell blood in the water. They would swarm in to claim the shares, the company, and the “Evans” legacy. My job was to make sure that while they were still a dirty little secret, I cemented my position as the only legitimate heir to the Evans empire. I needed to build a fortress so high that if Derek ever tried to step into the light, he would look like an absolute clown. With that in mind, I dialed my college roommate, Kira. She was a rising star on TikTok, with a solid half-million followers. Her entire brand was built on viral “man-on-the-street” interviews, asking provocative questions that generated massive engagement. She picked up on the second ring. “Jo! What’s up?” “Kira, I’ve got a story for you,” I said, skipping the pleasantries. “Want something that’s guaranteed to break the algorithm?” I could practically hear her ears perk up. “How big are we talking?” I looked out my bedroom window, a slow smile curving my lips. “Big enough to turn a mortal man into an absolute god on the internet.” The next afternoon, I met her at her usual shooting spot downtown. As soon as her camera guy hit record, Kira put on her professional, bubbly persona. She walked up to me, pretending we were strangers. “Excuse me, miss! We’re doing a quick street interview. You can either take this hundred-dollar bill, or answer one question!” I pretended to hesitate. “I’ll take the question.” “Awesome. You look like someone who grew up in a really loving household. What’s the best love story you know?” I looked down, playing the part of the slightly shy, immensely blessed daughter. “I guess… my parents.” “My mom told me that when they first met, my dad had absolutely nothing. When he started his first business, they lived in a terrible basement apartment. The walls literally sweat in the winter, and they never had enough money for heat.” “But even when they were literally starving, my dad never let my mom feel unloved.” “Now… well, his company is pretty big. He’s surrounded by a lot of wealth and a lot of temptation.” I paused right there. I looked directly into the camera lens and smiled—the soft, confident smile of a golden child who had never known a day of trauma. “But he’s never, ever strayed. He always says my mom is the only woman who matters.” The comment section on the live stream immediately started moving faster. Emojis and comments praising this “unicorn man” began to flood in. Kira played her part perfectly, her eyes wide with exaggerated curiosity. “Oh my god, that is so sweet! Would you mind showing us a picture of them? I’m dying to see what true love looks like!” “Sure.” I pulled out my phone and pulled up a carefully selected family photo. I made sure to zoom in slightly on my father’s face. The second the camera focused on the screen, Kira gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth. Give the girl an Oscar. “Wait a second!” “Isn’t that… isn’t that Richard Evans? The CEO of Evans Holdings? The guy from the Forbes feature last month?” I manufactured a look of perfect, innocent shock. “You know my dad?” That single sentence acted like a match dropped in a powder keg. The live stream exploded. The viewers who had just been scrolling for cute interviews suddenly rushed to Google “Richard Evans.” Within minutes, the chat was flooded with stats about Evans Holdings—the upcoming IPO, his billion-dollar net worth, the rags-to-riches founder story. That night, I quietly funneled thirty thousand dollars into targeted algorithmic boosts. Marketing agencies, drama channels, and relationship influencers started ripping the clip and reposting it. Within twenty-four hours, the entire internet was talking about me and my father. They called me the luckiest girl alive—a billionaire heiress who didn’t have to fight a dozen half-siblings for an inheritance. They praised my father as the last good man in corporate America. They lauded him for his devotion, creating wild narratives about how he refused to have a second child to protect his wife’s health, how he was a beacon of fidelity in a sea of corrupt billionaires. But when my father saw the trending topics, he wasn’t happy. He was absolutely livid. He stormed into the house, his face purple with rage, and slammed his phone down onto the marble kitchen island. “Joanna, have you lost your damn mind?!” He crossed the room in three massive strides, looming over me. “We are weeks away from an IPO! Who gave you the right to turn my personal life into a circus for a bunch of teenagers on the internet?” “If the media digs into this and finds anything—anything—that spooks the investors, the stock will tank! Can you afford to take that responsibility?” Before I could answer, he raised his hand and slapped me across the cheek. “From this moment on, you are grounded. You stay in this house, and you keep your mouth shut!” My cheek burned. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t explain. I didn’t even look angry. I just calmly reached into my tote bag, pulled out a manila folder, and slid it across the marble counter toward him. My father glared at it, then yanked it open. As his eyes scanned the medical letterhead, the rage drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, jarring shock.

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I am a senior brand standards auditor for a national beverage franchise. When corporate ran its quarterly lottery to select locations for surprise audits, my sister’s store was drawn. To keep things unbiased, I grabbed a discount voucher on our mobile app and went in undercover. But after I stood in line for three hours, the kid at the register kept skipping my number. I swallowed my rising anger and asked him what the delay was. He didn’t even look up, just rolled his eyes. “Sorry, pal. Store policy is that promo orders go dead last. If you can’t wait, cancel the order. Nobody’s forcing you to buy.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Is this really how you treat paying customers? Aren’t you worried I’ll report you to corporate?” He sneered, unpinning his name tag and slamming it onto the marble counter right in front of me. “Go ahead and report me. I’m the assistant manager here, and the manager is my girlfriend. What I say goes.” He leaned in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Imagine being too broke to buy a five-dollar drink without a coupon. What year is it? Still scraping for pennies like a starving street dog.” Before I could reply, he grabbed a black Sharpie, scribbled on a piece of cardboard, and slapped it onto the front door. [PROMO USERS AND DOGS NOT ALLOWED] Fine. You want to play hardball? I unzipped my windbreaker, pulled out my official corporate badge, and pressed it against the glass counter. “Surprise audit. Get your manager out here right now.” … When I first found out we were auditing Lauren’s store, I actually felt a wave of relief. I figured it would be an easy, pleasant afternoon. That was before I spent three hours standing near the pick-up counter, watching customer after customer who had ordered long after me walk out with their drinks while my number was completely ignored. With closing time fast approaching, I couldn’t afford to wait any longer. I approached the counter and spoke to Cody as politely as I could manage. “Excuse me, how much longer for my order? I have an urgent meeting to get to.” Cody looked up, his face twisted in annoyance. He slammed a plastic cup onto the counter, spilling sticky syrup over the edge. “Stop nagging! You’re using a two-dollar promo voucher. Do you honestly think you’re royalty here? We literally lose money on orders like yours. Letting you wait until the end of the shift is doing you a favor.” The sheer disdain in his eyes left me stunned. This was Cody. My sister Lauren’s boyfriend. Whenever Lauren talked about him, she described him as the most patient, sweet-natured man she’d ever met. She praised him to high heaven. But the hostile, arrogant face staring back at me didn’t have a single drop of patience in it. Even worse, the other employees simply kept their heads down, pretending not to see me being mistreated. I suppressed my anger and pressed him. “The promotion was launched by your own corporate office, and the queue numbers are generated automatically. Are you really not afraid of a customer complaint?” Cody hadn’t expected me to push back. He let out a cold laugh, gesturing to his name tag. “I told you, go ahead and complain! I’m the assistant manager, and the manager is my girlfriend. I run this place. If you can’t wait, cancel it. It’s hilarious—who still begs for a couple of bucks off in this day and age? It’s pathetic.” Cody had been fast-tracked into this store, landing the assistant manager role within two weeks of hiring. I had personally pulled strings at headquarters to make that happen for my sister. Now, that favor was swinging back like a boomerang, striking me straight in the face. My chest tightened with fury. But because I was undercover, I couldn’t blow my cover entirely and make a massive scene. I looked at the order screen; there was only one customer left ahead of me. I forced myself to swallow the humiliation and wait. As Cody prepared the final drink, he deliberately slowed his movements to a crawl, wiping down the counters with painful sluggishness. When he finally finished, I stepped forward to claim my beverage. Instead of handing it to me, he pulled up a chair, crossed his legs, and started scrolling through videos on his phone. Seeing my stunned expression, he gasped dramatically, mocking me with an insincere apology. “Oh, I am so incredibly sorry! I completely forgot about our prestigious voucher-holding VIP. My hands are just so sore from making drinks all day. You’ve already waited two hours anyway, so a few more won’t hurt, right?” He smiled, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. I was utterly speechless. In all my years of auditing, I had never encountered an employee this brazenly hostile. Thinking of how many regular customers must have suffered under this kind of treatment, I slammed my hand onto the counter. “Cody, is this really the attitude you think is acceptable? Get your manager out here. Now!” My voice shook with rage. Cody rolled his eyes and spat a sunflower seed shell onto my shoe. “Look, pal, don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re a nobody scraping by on discount codes. You think you have the right to demand to see the manager?” He suddenly grinned, as if a lightbulb had gone off in his head. “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to hit on my girlfriend, aren’t you? Hoping to land yourself a successful woman. Too bad for you. With a face like yours, even a shelter dog wouldn’t look twice.” Seeing that I wasn’t backing down, he grabbed the thick marker, wrote the sign, and hung it right in front of my face. The words burned into my eyes: Promo users and dogs not allowed. Cody then walked back to the utility sink near the restroom, filled a cup with tap water, and shoved it toward me. “Here. For a couple of bucks, toilet water is about all you deserve. Now get out before I have you thrown out.” I didn’t take the cup. Instead, I stared at him, a cold, dark laughter bubbling up in my chest. I ripped off my windbreaker, pulled out my high-tier auditor credential, and threw it hard onto the counter. “You want me to drink toilet water? Cody, open your eyes and look at who the hell I am.” The moment he saw the official corporate seal on the gold-bordered badge, Cody’s face drained of color. He froze. But a second later, he burst into a hysterical laugh, doubling over. “Oh man, where did you buy this cosplay? You seriously think spending two dollars on a fake ID makes you a corporate auditor? Hey guys, look at this clown! He’s totally serious!” The other employees covered their mouths, giggling. A couple of customers waiting nearby cast sympathetic, mocking glances at me, as if I had just pulled out a toy badge instead of a real corporate license. “That’s enough!” I barked, my voice echoing through the lobby. I took a step toward the employee-only swinging doors. “This is an unannounced inspection. I am auditing the kitchen.” Cody leaped forward, blocking my path. He snatched my badge from the counter and tossed it straight into the trash can, raising his voice to drown me out. “Are you insane? You think a random customer can just walk into our food prep area?” A young kid working the register gave me a sympathetic look and gently pulled me aside by my sleeve. “Hey, look, man, I’ll be honest with you,” he whispered. “Our regional auditor is actually Cody’s brother-in-law. They already talked. We know the audit isn’t happening until next month. Just go. The manager is crazy about Cody, and he’s basically going to own this place soon. You’re only going to get hurt if you push this.” I’m going to get hurt? I stared at the smug, smirking face of Cody and almost laughed out loud. The rumor about the audit happening next month was a false lead we had intentionally leaked to see how the franchise operated when they thought they were safe. I just hadn’t expected to uncover a rot this deep. I raised Lauren. When our mother walked out and our dad was too busy drinking away his grief, I was the one who made her school lunches, who worked double shifts at a local diner to pay her college tuition. I was practically her father. I taught her how to stand, how to speak, how to survive. To see her name and her brand weaponized like this felt like a physical blow. Without a word, I raised my phone and took a clear photo of the filthy counter and the discriminatory sign. “Believe what you want about my badge,” I said, taking a deep breath to steady my voice. “But based on your conduct alone, this store has failed its evaluation. Tell your manager she needs to contact the regional director immediately.” I turned to leave, done trying to reason with them. But before I could even cross the threshold, Cody lunged forward. His hand flew out and struck me across the face. Slap. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he screamed, grabbing for my collar. “Taking unauthorized photos of our store is illegal! Give me the phone, or you aren’t leaving this room!” My head spun from the force of the blow. My cheek burned. Instinct kicked in, and I grabbed his forearm, locking it in place. “Cody, this is an official corporate investigation. Drop your hand!” “Official investigation? Stop hiding behind a fake title! I don’t give a damn about your little act!” Cody wrenched his arm free, snatched my phone out of my grip, and threw it violently onto the tiled floor. It shattered into pieces. “Oh, look at that. Your little auditor phone is broken. Where’s your corporate security now, huh?” he mocked, stepping on the screen for good measure. “Liars like you only understand force. Even if you were a real auditor, one word to my girlfriend and you’d be fired by dinner.” Before I could recover, a customer waiting in line shouted impatiently, “Alright, seriously, it’s just a discount code. Businesses have to make money. Do you have to be this dramatic?” “Exactly,” another chimed in. “The economy is bad enough without people making a scene over a cheap drink. If they don’t want your coupon, just go somewhere else. You’re holding up the line.” Hearing the customers side with Cody made a cold chill settle deep in my bones. At this point, this was no longer a minor issue of customer service or coupon policy. This was physical assault, destruction of property, and a blatant cover-up of franchise policy violations. I had spent my career building a reputation for fairness and integrity. I took pride in keeping our brand clean. I never could have imagined that my own sister would use the reputation I bought with my sweat and blood as a shield to run a corrupt, abusive business. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my backup work phone, and dialed Lauren’s number. It rang for a long time before she picked up, her voice sounding groggy and annoyed. “What is it, Tyler?” “Get to your store right now,” I commanded, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. “Otherwise, this business is—” Before I could finish, the line went dead. When I tried to call back, it went straight to voicemail. Cody, watching the entire exchange, let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Wow. I thought you were best friends with the boss, but she won’t even take your calls. Get lost, loser. Don’t make me call the cops to drag you out.” The remaining customers murmured in agreement, telling me to stop blocking the counter. My hands shook. Just as the weight of the betrayal threatened to crush me, a sharp voice cut through the noise from the doorway. “What is going on here? Why is there a crowd gathered at noon?” I turned, and a spark of hope lit up in my chest. It was Tiffany, Lauren’s business partner. I stepped toward her, catching her attention. “Tiffany, thank god. I’m conducting a surprise audit today, and Cody has refused to cooperate. He assaulted me and destroyed my work phone.” Tiffany blinked, looking from me to Cody. Of everyone in Lauren’s circle, Tiffany knew my face and my role at corporate the best. But just as I braced myself to finally put an end to this nightmare, Tiffany coldly took a step back, brushing my hand off her sleeve. “I’m sorry, who are you? Do I know you?” I froze. I pushed my hair back, thinking she just hadn’t recognized me in my casual clothes. “Tiffany, it’s me. Tyler. Lauren’s brother. We sat down to discuss the franchise expansion just last week. Have you forgotten?” “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.” Tiffany distanced herself further, turning to Cody and giving him a warm pat on the back. “Great job, Cody. We can’t let random scammers and grifters into our store.” She turned back to me, her voice dripping with deliberate malice. “Especially the cheap ones who can’t even afford a basic franchise fee. We have to keep the riffraff out.” My heart sank. Last month, Tiffany had asked to borrow fifty thousand dollars from me to fund a new location. With my own finances tight, I had to decline. I never realized she was harboring this much resentment. Cody beamed with triumph, throwing me a nasty smirk. “Even Tiffany says she doesn’t know you. What are you going to do now, you pathetic liar? If I were you, I’d die of embarrassment.” A wave of laughter rippled through the onlookers. The weight of their stares felt like ice water poured down my back. Tiffany was my sister’s closest friend, and she was also the first college student I had ever personally sponsored when I started making decent money. When she first moved to the city, she cried to me about how she couldn’t find a job. I helped her draft her resume, taught her how the business worked, and introduced her to my network. I had never asked for anything in return. I only wanted to help them build a life. But all I had done was feed the wolves. Exhausted, I pulled out my backup walkie-talkie and dialed our department channel. “This is Tyler. Send a team to the North Gate branch. Franchise management is actively resisting a scheduled audit.” The dispatcher’s voice came back instantly, crisp and urgent. “Copy that, Tyler. We have a unit nearby. ETA two minutes.” Cody put his hands on his hips and laughed louder. “Calling backup? You really committed to this roleplay, didn’t you? It’s honestly hilarious.” He leaned over the counter, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Let me tell you a little secret. Lauren and her dad have already worked out a deal with headquarters. Once they finalize the paperwork, I’m taking over your spot at corporate.” My brain went numb. I stared at him. “What did you say?” Cody grinned, savoring my shock. “Your dad said you’re just a naive workaholic. Since you’re bound to get married and leave the family anyway, your high-paying corporate job should stay in the family—meaning, with me. He said you’re a curse anyway. You jinxed your mother when you were born, and it’s about time the people who actually tolerate you got a return on their investment.” “Shut up!” The rage erupted. I lunged forward and slapped Cody across the face. His head jerked back. He clutched his cheek, his eyes wide with disbelief, which quickly turned into pure, unadulterated venom. “You broke trash… you actually hit me? You dared to lay a hand on me?!” He turned to the kitchen staff, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Grab him! Pin him down and beat him! Whoever hits him the hardest gets triple pay today!” The eyes of the kitchen staff lit up. “Assault is a felony!” I warned, backing away, but none of them hesitated. They swarmed out from behind the counter, tackling me to the floor. Fists and fingernails rained down on my face, tearing at my skin. A sharp kick to my ribs took my breath away, leaving me gasping on the cold tile. Tiffany looked slightly uneasy, tugging at Cody’s sleeve. “Maybe that’s enough, Cody. You’re too important to get dirty over a piece of trash. Just let him crawl away.” “Let him go?” Cody’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice wild. “Nobody has ever hit me like that! A worthless loser who lives on coupons thinks he can touch me?” He pointed at the staff. “Keep going! Don’t stop! If I see anyone slacking, you’re fired!” My ears rang. My entire body throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. Just as my vision started to blur, the screech of tires echoed from the street. Several official black corporate utility vans pulled up to the curb, their doors flying open. “Stop right now! Step away from him!” My colleagues slammed through the entrance. The lead inspector took one look at me lying in a pool of my own blood and turned on Cody, his face white with fury. “Do you have any idea who he is? He is our lead senior auditor!” Cody crossed his arms, raising his chin defiantly. “Oh, please. What is this, a sequel? Where did he hire you actors? My girlfriend’s brother is the lead auditor, and he’s a respected executive, not some coupon-scraping bum!” Before the words had even fully left his mouth, the crowd outside was shoved aside. Lauren pushed through, looking frantic. “Tyler—”

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Five years of marriage, and my husband had never sat through a single one of my solos. Tonight was my debut at Carnegie Hall. It was also my swan song. I had gone out of my way to mail the ticket to his office, leaving it right on his keyboard with a hand-written sticky note. Ten minutes before the curtain rose, I peeked through the slit in the heavy velvet drapes, looking down at the third row. At his seat. Empty. My phone buzzed in my palm. A notification from Instagram. It was a photo of a rowdy crowd clinking glasses at a dive bar. Center stage was Roxy, holding her bass guitar, sporting a wild, carefree grin. The caption read: “Eighteenth show for my favorite indie band. Perfect attendance record unlocked.” Eighteen shows. My cello journey had taken me from local recitals to state competitions, from national stages to an invitation to debut at Carnegie Hall. For every single performance, I had saved him the best seat in the house. Every single time, it sat empty. Yet he could memorize every one of Roxy’s rehearsal schedules, every grungy venue she played. He was even the first to comment and congratulate her when she got a new set of guitar strings. Meanwhile, the day I won the National Gold Medal, his only response was a text: “Nice. Congrats. Out with clients right now, talk later.” That night, he stayed out until 2:00 AM celebrating Roxy’s EP release. Tonight’s final piece was called The Fade Out. As the final note dissolved into the silence of the hall, I bowed deeply toward that empty seat in the third row. This is the last time, Daniel, I ever play for you. 1 “Charlotte, grab some warm water. Roxy drank too much and her stomach is killing her.” At 2:00 AM, the motion-sensor light in the foyer flickered to life. Daniel stood in the doorway, supporting a thoroughly drunk, alcohol-soaked Roxy. Without even kicking off his shoes, he guided her straight to our sofa. I stood in the middle of the living room, still wearing the black silk performance gown I had just taken off my cello rack. Roxy leaned heavily into Daniel’s chest, her eyes half-lidded. “Dan… did I ruin your night again?” “Of course not. Don’t talk. Just breathe, okay?” Daniel looked up at me. “What are you just standing there for? Get some water.” “The filtered water pitcher is on the counter. The glasses are in the cabinet.” I didn’t move. Daniel’s brows furrowed. “What is wrong with you tonight? Where are your manners?” Manners. Hospitality. We had been married for five years. This was my home. He dragged another woman into our space in the dead of night and lectured me on playing the good hostess. “Dan, don’t yell at her,” Roxy murmured, tugging weakly at his sleeve. “Didn’t she have that big show tonight? She must be exhausted.” She was the one to bring up the performance. Daniel finally took a proper look at me, sweeping his eyes over my gown. “So, your show is over?” “Yes.” “Was there a crowd?” “It was alright.” “I told you, classical music is a dying art. Nobody wants to sit through that anymore, but you treat it like gold.” He slipped his coat off and draped it over Roxy’s shoulders. “Unlike Roxy’s gigs. They literally sold out of standing-room-only tickets tonight.” My eyes drifted down to Roxy’s wrist. Something silver was wrapped around it, catching the dim living room light. A cello string. Specifically, a custom gut core string imported from Germany. I had waited six months for the set. Just yesterday, I had opened my case and realized my spare was missing. “Where did you get that string on your wrist?” I took two steps forward, staring intently at her hand. Roxy flinched, pulling her hand back. Daniel instantly shielded her arm behind his back. “I took it.” He looked at me, completely unbothered. “You have a ton of spares lying around in your case, so I grabbed one. Roxy said the thickness looked cool as a braided bracelet. Fit her whole rock aesthetic.” “That is my custom spare.” “It’s just a string, Charlotte. I’ll buy you ten more tomorrow.” Buy ten more. He had no idea what it even was. To him, it was just a cheap wire he could replace with a quick online order. “If that string breaks, my entire acoustic balance is ruined.” “Can you stop being so incredibly dramatic?” Daniel’s voice rose. “Roxy had the biggest night of her career. What’s wrong with borrowing a string? You’re both musicians. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” Both musicians. I had played since I was five. For twenty years, I hadn’t let a single scratch touch my fingers. Roxy barely knew three basic chords and relied on social media presence and cheap marketing to play dive bars. And he put us in the same category. “Oh… I’m so sorry, Charlotte. I didn’t know it was that important.” Roxy’s eyes welled with tears as she struggled to untie the tight knot around her wrist. “I’ll take it off right now.” She yanked at the stiff gut string, but instead of loosening, it bit deep into her skin, leaving a harsh red mark. She gasped, wincing. Daniel immediately grabbed her hand to stop her. “Stop. You’re hurting yourself.” He whipped his head around, glaring at me. “Are you insane, Charlotte? Tormenting her over a piece of string? How much was it? I’ll transfer you double right now.” I watched him hold her close, shielding her like a fragile treasure, and a sudden wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. It was so incredibly pathetic. A knot of nausea tightened in my stomach. “Don’t bother.” I turned toward the bedroom. “Charlotte, get back here!” Daniel snapped after me. “You still haven’t brought her any water! Where did you get this awful attitude lately?” “I’m tired.” Without looking back, I stepped inside, shut the door, and turned the lock. Daniel’s muffled, irritated voice leaked through the wood. “Just ignore her. Always wearing that miserable face, acting like the world owes her something.” “Dan… did I make her mad?” “She’s always been cold and lifeless. No wonder nobody wants to listen to her play.” No wonder nobody wants to listen. Sitting in the pitch-black bedroom, I pulled out my phone. The Carnegie Hall official social media account had posted a recap ten minutes ago. #CharlotteSymphonyDebutSoldOut The comments were flooded with praise, calling the finale, The Fade Out, a haunting masterpiece that reached straight into the soul. But the seat in the dead center of the third row had remained empty from start to finish. I closed the app and opened my travel program. I booked a one-way ticket to Berlin for tomorrow afternoon. Outside the door, the sound of Roxy dry-heaving was followed by the frantic, soothing murmur of Daniel rubbing her back. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just let it out. I’ll grab the mop.” He was a man who wouldn’t even pick up a spilled salt shaker. Yet here he was, in the middle of the night, cleaning up another woman’s vomit. I placed my phone face down on the nightstand. “You’re right,” I whispered into the dark, answering his earlier question. It wasn’t worth getting angry over. Because I was done. 2 “Charlotte, I’m so incredibly sorry about last night. I ruined your Persian rug.” The next morning at nine. I opened the bedroom door to find Roxy sitting at the dining table, eating a bowl of oatmeal. She was wearing one of Daniel’s oversized white button-downs, her hair thrown up in a messy bun. On the table were freshly baked bagels and lox from the bakery down the street—the ones that required a thirty-minute line on weekend mornings. Daniel must have queued up early just for her. “Where is he?” I walked over to the kitchen island to pour myself a glass of water. “Dan went to the office,” Roxy said, stirring her bowl. “He said he had a huge investor meeting today.” I held my glass, keeping my back to her. “You really look down on me, don’t you, Charlotte?” Roxy set her spoon down, resting her chin in her hands as she stared at me. “You think I’m just some cheap bar singer with no class, right?” “I don’t think about you at all.” “Well, Dan thinks I have way more raw talent than you.” She offered a small, provocative smile. “He says your music is like stagnant water. Mine is alive.” I paused mid-sip. “He’s right.” Roxy didn’t expect me to agree so easily. Her smug smile faltered. I set my glass down. Walking over to the sofa, I reached under the mahogany coffee table and peeled off a small black plastic square hidden in the gap. A smart voice recorder I’d bought a few days ago. I had started noticing things going missing around the apartment. Drafts of my sheet music. Rare, out-of-print classical CDs. “What is that?” Roxy’s face shifted. Ignoring her, I synced the device to my phone via Bluetooth and pressed play. The time-stamp on the file was 3:15 AM. Right after I had locked myself in the bedroom last night. Daniel’s voice filled the quiet room. “You done throwing up? Here, rinse your mouth.” “Dan… was that cello string really a big deal to Charlotte? Did I mess up?” “A big deal? Please, it was just sitting in her case gathering dust. She only acts like a grand artist because her family has money.” “But she had her big debut tonight and you skipped it. She’s going to be furious.” “She literally shoved the ticket down my throat. Besides, listening to her play the cello is like sitting through a funeral. It’s nowhere near as thrilling as watching you smash guitars on stage.” Roxy’s giggles echoed through the speaker. “You’re terrible, Dan. Oh, by the way, that melody sketch you showed me in your office? I ended up using it for my new single dropping next month. Your wife won’t notice, will she?” “She hasn’t written anything new in ages; she probably forgot that scrap of paper even existed. Use it. Consider it my sponsorship for your dreams.” The audio cut off. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Roxy’s knuckles turned white as she clutched her spoon, her gaze locked onto the small recorder in my hand. “Did you hear that?” I slipped the device into my pocket. “Your raw talent is nothing more than the trash I threw in my wastebasket.” “You wiretapped us!” Roxy bolted upright, knocking her chair backward with a loud clatter. “This is my home.” I looked at her with absolute stillness. “You stole from me. Catching a thief in my own house is only fair.” That melody was a piece I had written for Daniel on our first anniversary. Back then, his startup was struggling, and he was pulling all-nighters. I had wanted to compose something light and soothing to ease his mind. He had glanced at the sheet music for two seconds before scoffing: “I don’t read sheet music, Charlotte. You’re casting pearls before swine here.” As it turned out, he wasn’t illiterate. He just found it more valuable to gift my work to another woman. The smart lock at the front door beeped. Daniel walked in, carrying a small bakery box with a strawberry shortcake—Roxy’s favorite. “Roxy, is your stomach feeling any better? I bought that cake—” He froze as he noticed the overturned chair. “What’s going on here?” He rushed forward, instinctively stepping in front of Roxy. “Charlotte, what the hell is wrong with you now?” “Dan, I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to apologize to her,” Roxy whimpered from behind him, her voice cracking. “But she had this recorder… she called me a thief. She said I stole her music…” Daniel glared at me, his eyes dark with disbelief. “You put a recording device in our apartment?” He looked at me as if I were the one committing some unspeakable sin. “Yes.” “Are you out of your mind, Charlotte? You’re spying on me now?” “If I didn’t, how would I have known that my husband was giving away my hard work to his mistress as a cheap token?” Daniel slammed the bakery box onto the kitchen island. The impact crushed the cardboard, and whipped cream splattered against the sides of the box. “Watch your mouth! She is not my mistress!” He pointed a finger directly at my face. “That scrap paper had been gathering dust in the study for months. Roxy needed a hook for her chorus. What’s the big deal if I let her borrow it?” “It belonged to me.” “You’re my wife! What’s yours is mine. Why can’t I make a decision to help a friend out?” His sheer, unadulterated entitlement made me want to laugh. “If everything that’s mine is yours,” I looked him dead in the eyes, “then do me a favor. Get this stranger out of my house. Now.” Daniel’s face flushed an angry crimson. “Charlotte, do not push your luck.” “Get out.” “Fine. Great.” Daniel let out a bitter, dry laugh and grabbed Roxy’s hand. “If there’s no room for us here, we’re leaving.” Without a single word of explanation, he pulled Roxy out of the apartment and slammed the door shut. The force of the slam sent a shudder through the wall, tilting our wedding portrait. “Why do you always have to ruin the mood?” He had said the exact same thing years ago when I asked him to stop smoking in the house. “I won’t,” I whispered to the empty room. “Never again.” 3 I started packing. I didn’t have many clothes; everything fit easily into a single suitcase. The only things that truly mattered were my cello and my manuscript notebooks. While I was wrapping them in the study, my phone rang. It was Mr. Harris from the music shop. “Charlotte, about those custom Heidenau gut strings you wanted—there are none left in the US. The German manufacturer says it’ll be at least three months.” “Is there any way to rush it?” “Even with a rush fee, they can’t speed up the process. They’re entirely handmade,” Mr. Harris sighed. “I know you have the finals in Berlin coming up. Going without a spare is a massive risk.” “I understand. Thank you anyway, Mr. Harris.” I hung up and stared at the empty slot in my hard-shell case. The string Roxy had stolen to make her little bracelet was a rare, low-C gut string. The Berlin competition wasn’t just a contest. It was my final audition for the Berlin Philharmonic. If a string snapped mid-performance without a backup, it would be a catastrophic end to my career. I had to get it back. I opened the location-sharing app on my phone. Daniel’s icon was parked at “The Nocturne” Livehouse. I grabbed my keys and went out. At 3:00 PM, the venue was closed to the public, the interior dim and cavernous. Staccato notes of a bass guitar echoed from the stage. I pushed open the heavy double doors. Daniel was sitting in the front row, a beer in hand, staring up at Roxy. She was tuning her bass on stage. The German gut string had been snipped into short, frayed pieces, dangling from the peghead of her bass like cheap fringe. She had cut it. Something snapped in my brain. A physical, high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I marched down the aisle, my footsteps echoing sharply on the wooden floor. Daniel turned, his forehead folding into a tight frown. “Are you following me now?” Ignoring him, I walked straight up the side steps of the stage. “Charlotte, what the hell are you doing?” Daniel dropped his beer, rushing up the steps to block me. I shoved past him and reached for the neck of Roxy’s bass. “Charlotte! Stop! You’re breaking my guitar!” Roxy shrieked, backing away. “Give me my string back!” “What string? I already cut it up for the headstock!” she yelled, dodging behind Daniel. “Charlotte, that’s enough!” Daniel lunged from the side, grabbing me by the shoulders and shoving me backward. “Don’t touch her!” His instinct to protect her was instantaneous. Unthinking. My heel caught on a loose cable, my ankle twisted, and I tumbled backward. To my right was a heavy, raw iron speaker stand. Crash. My right wrist slammed directly against the sharp, metallic corner of the stand. A blinding, white-hot agony shot from my wrist straight up to my shoulder. I collapsed onto the floor, instantly drenched in a cold sweat. The entire room fell dead silent. “Dan… why did you push her? I think she’s really hurt.” Roxy’s voice was small, shaking behind him. Daniel looked down at me. There was no concern in his eyes. Only deep, exhausting irritation. “Stop acting. It wasn’t even that hard of a push.” He casually adjusted his cuffs. “You came up here like a lunatic. Roxy scares easily, Charlotte. Don’t take your issues out on her.” My right hand was shaking violently, entirely limp. I couldn’t even lift it off the floor. This was my bowing hand. My life. Gritting my teeth, I used my left hand to push myself up. The skin around my wrist was already turning a deep, sickening shade of purple, swelling rapidly. Daniel finally saw it. His eyes flickered, and he took a half-step forward before freezing. “Why didn’t you watch where you were going?” he asked, his voice suddenly hollow. “Let’s go to the ER. I’ll drive.” “No.” Supporting my broken right arm with my left, I stared at him. “Daniel.” “What?” “That string… I had someone track it down in Munich. I waited six months to get it.” I looked at the frayed silver threads on Roxy’s bass. “It cost twelve hundred dollars.” Daniel’s face went completely blank. “And your little friend just turned it into trash.” “Charlotte… I really didn’t know…” Roxy whimpered, shrinking further behind him. “Does ignorance exempt you from the law?” I pulled out my phone with my left hand and tapped out three numbers. “911? I’d like to report a crime. Someone has intentionally destroyed over a thousand dollars’ worth of my property.” 4 Daniel lunged forward, snatching the phone from my hand and ending the call. “Are you insane, Charlotte? Calling the cops? Haven’t you embarrassed us enough?” He stared at me, eyes wide with anger. “It’s just money! I will pay you back! Do you really have to be this vindictive?” “Yes.” I looked him straight in the eyes. “Have your lawyer call me tomorrow.” I turned and walked off the stage, never looking back. Daniel’s furious shout followed me out the door. “Charlotte! You walk out that door today, and I am done chasing after you!” I paused. I didn’t turn around. “I won’t scare her anymore,” I said to the empty lobby. “You two deserve each other.” At the Mount Sinai emergency room. The doctor stared at my X-ray, his face grim. “A hairline fracture of the distal radius. There’s also severe swelling threatening the carpal tunnel. What do you do for work?” “I’m a cellist.” I leaned back in my chair, my voice flat. The doctor let out a long sigh. “That’s a problem. We need to put you in a cast immediately. No movement for at least a month, followed by intensive physical therapy.” “I have a competition in Berlin next week.” “Forget about it.” He slid the films back toward me. “You can’t even hold a fork right now, let alone draw a bow. If you try to play through this, you risk permanent nerve damage. You’ll never play again.” Never play again. I traced the cold, hard plaster cast on my right arm with my left fingers. Twenty years of late nights and early mornings. The calloused fingertips, the bleeding knuckles, all for that golden ticket to Berlin. All shattered by a single, careless push from Daniel. My phone buzzed in my bag. I pulled it out with my left hand. It was Claire, my manager. “Charlotte, have you seen Instagram?” “No. What happened?” “Roxy just dropped her new single, ‘An Unfinished Poem.’ Listen to the melody in the chorus.” I tapped the link Claire sent. It was a sloppy production with overprocessed, whiny vocals. But the eight-bar melody in the hook—I could write it in my sleep. It was the exact composition I had labored over, sitting at the piano on our first anniversary. Under the credits, it read: Composed by Roxy. And the biggest investor behind the track was Daniel’s gaming studio. They were launching a massive joint campaign, using her song as the title theme for his upcoming game. “That’s your arrangement, isn’t it?” Claire’s voice shook with anger. “I’m calling our legal team. We’re suing them.” “Don’t rush.” I leaned against the cold tiles of the hospital corridor. “Let them launch the game. Let them spend every penny they have on marketing. Then we strike.” “How’s your wrist? I heard you went to the ER.” “It’s broken.” I looked out the window at the passing headlights. “I can’t go to Berlin.” A long, heavy silence stretched over the line before Claire let out a sharp curse. “Charlotte, you should have left that bastard years ago.” “I know.” I hung up and opened Instagram. Daniel had posted thirty minutes ago. It was a photo of Roxy in the recording studio, side-by-side with his company’s new game poster. The caption read: “True genius shouldn’t be hidden in the dark. Congrats on the hit, Roxy.” True genius. He had stolen my soul to build a pedestal for his muse. I opened his contact info. His last text to me from last night stared back at me: “Just because your little recital was a bust doesn’t mean you get to take it out on Roxy.” Using only my left thumb, I typed slowly but steadily: “I want a divorce.”

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After a brutal day at work, I dragged my exhausted, soaking-wet body home through a torrential downpour. My fever had spiked to 102, leaving me too weak to even think about making dinner. Mason, who had told me he’d be out late at a business dinner, suddenly rushed through the front door. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet, pulled out the Tylenol, and without even looking up at me, said, “Sadie caught a cold in the rain today. Make her some warm chicken broth. I’m heading over to drop off the medicine, and I’ll take the soup to her.” Right then, my phone buzzed. A viral post on my feed caught my eye: At what exact moment did you realize they didn’t love you anymore? I glanced at Mason’s hurried back, then typed a reply in the comments: Right now. But luckily, I don’t love him anymore either. 1 My comment instantly drew a flurry of replies. Everyone was asking why. Mason didn’t notice how flushed my face was, or how miserably I was shivering on the sofa. He went into the bedroom, grabbed a fresh change of clothes, and called out, “She can’t take care of herself when she’s sick. I won’t be back tonight.” “Once you finish the broth, make sure to lock the windows and doors. Get some rest.” My fever-addled brain felt like a crashed, obsolete computer, taking several seconds to process his words. “I don’t feel well,” I croaked. “If you want something for her, make it yourself.” Each breath felt like fire scraping against my lungs. I was burning up, but I forced my eyes open, trying to find the strength to stand, find my own medicine, and go to bed. Mason turned, giving me a cold, dismissive look. “Sadie’s sick, and now suddenly you’re sick too?” he scoffed. “Norah, you really will say anything to get my attention, won’t you?” That morning, I’d had a critical client presentation. I hadn’t had time to clear the kitchen and had asked him to help out. He’d sat at the dining table, barely glancing at me, and said with cool indifference, “You know I hate being in the kitchen. Just because we have nothing in common lately, you don’t need to pick fights to get my attention.” I’d stood there, stunned for a few seconds, but with no time to argue, I’d rushed out the door. I’d assumed that no matter how annoyed he was, he’d at least handle that small chore. But when I walked in tonight, those same dirty dishes were still sitting in the sink, soaking in greasy water. The laundry basket was overflowing, untouched. Even the bag of trash I’d forgotten to take out in my rush was still sitting quietly in the corner of the entryway. Normally, I would have lost my temper. We would have had a screaming match. But tonight, I didn’t have the strength. And honestly, I no longer cared enough to try. “Norah, why are you sitting there acting so brooding?” Mason grumbled, his irritation mounting. “You come home and you can’t even clean up the place? Go look at other people’s girlfriends. Who else is as lazy as you? Asking you to make a simple broth is like asking for your kidney.” His words felt like a serrated blade slicing into the deepest, most vulnerable part of my chest. It physically hurt to breathe. “Mason, I told you, I’m actually—” Before I could finish, his phone rang. He didn’t look at me again. He turned his back to me to answer it, and Sadie’s bright, slightly congested voice echoed into the room. “Hey, Boss! I finally picked out the car I want. The dealer said if I’m serious, I can pick it up tomorrow… cough, cough…” “I get it. Stop talking,” Mason’s voice softened instantly, thick with concern. “Don’t worry about anything while you’re sick. Just tell my assistant which model you want, and I’ll have him handle the paperwork.” He grabbed the entire first-aid kit from the shelf, not even bothering to look inside for what he actually needed, and headed for the door. “Mason…” My throat was so dry, so raw. Every word felt like glass tearing at my vocal cords, and hot tears spilled over my cheeks. “Leave… leave me some medicine.” He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “Norah, stop acting out,” he said without turning around. “Sadie has a hundred and point four fever. If she doesn’t get medicine right now, it could turn into something serious. You can’t take responsibility for that.” The door clicked shut behind him. He left, completely unaware of the comment I had just posted under that viral thread: Because when I came home soaking wet, burning up with a 102-degree fever, he took all his warmth and all the medicine to go care for another woman. In that single second, I realized that loving or not loving… it doesn’t even matter anymore. 2 Outside, the storm raged on, wind howling against the windowpanes. Every local pharmacy and convenience store had closed early due to the severe weather. With no way to buy medicine, I could only manage a quick wash before collapsing onto the bed. But the fever burned in my bones, making sleep impossible. In my misery, I unlocked my phone and stared at the replies to my comment. A user had replied: Oh sweetie, why did you walk home in the rain? Why didn’t you ask your boyfriend to pick you up? Or call an Uber? When the storm had hit that afternoon, I’d called Mason repeatedly. He’d ignored every call. It wasn’t until right before clock-out that he sent a brief text: I’m tied up with something. Can’t make it. Figure out your own way home. Because of the flash flood warnings, rideshare prices had skyrocketed, and no drivers were accepting trips. Desperate, I’d had to unlock a city bike and ride home through the stinging rain, just like many of my stranded coworkers. Before I could type out a response, another user replied to her comment: Never rely on anyone but yourself, OP. If you have the means, buy your own car. A car is a girl’s ultimate shield. With your own set of wheels, you never have to wait on anyone else. Then, she attached a screenshot of a lifestyle influencer’s post. This is a lifestyle blogger I follow. She got caught in the rain today and caught a cold, so her boyfriend bought her a brand-new car on the spot. He said he never wants her to have to look out the window in a storm and envy the people sitting dry inside a car. Looking at the screenshot, my freezing fingertips began to tremble. The “lifestyle blogger” was Sadie Thompson—Mason’s executive assistant. Driven by some masochistic curiosity, I opened her TikTok account. Sadie had been documenting her daily life since she started at Mason’s company last fall. In almost every video, there was a familiar, towering silhouette. At first, Mason only showed his hands—his well-manicured, long fingers, or his deep, resonant voice narrating in the background. It was enough to gain her thousands of followers. The comments were filled with fans shipping them. One comment read: Your boss is so incredibly sweet to you! Asking for a friend… when do we get to hear wedding bells? Sadie had liked the comment and replied with just two words: Take a guess. She never clarified her relationship with Mason, letting the internet play matchmaker. I scrolled down, my eyes stopping on the video she’d uploaded just today. It showed Mason sitting on an unfamiliar, plush sofa, leaning over a bowl of hot soup, gently blowing on it to cool it down for her. She giggled behind the camera, asking, “Hey, Boss, can I ask you a quick question?” “Why do you think every girl needs her own car?” In the video, his eyes were incredibly soft, looking at her with a tender, focused devotion. “Because a car represents a woman’s independence,” he said. “Once you have your own car, you can go wherever you want, whenever you want. You’ll never be tied down by anyone or anything, and you’ll never have to look at someone else driving by in the rain and wish you were in their passenger seat.” My mind drifted back to last year, during a similar storm. When Mason picked me up from work, I’d casually mentioned, “Maybe I should buy a car? That way, you won’t have to take such a long detour to get me.” He’d shaken his head, smiling warmly. “If you have your own car, how am I supposed to play the doting boyfriend?” he’d said. “Don’t overthink it. Picking you up is never a chore. I’d gladly drive out of my way for you for the rest of my life.” Yet, just last month, when I was running late and asked him for a quick ride to the office, he’d frowned, his tone lecturing and cold: “You’re an adult, Norah, not a schoolchild. Having your boyfriend drive you to work every single day—don’t you think that’s a bit embarrassing?” I returned to the comment section on my phone. I typed a short reply: You’re entirely right. It’s time I started relying on myself. 3 Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe that was the exact moment my feelings for Mason died completely. I turned off my phone and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I finally drifted awake, the first thing I heard was the sharp, panicked voice of my best friend, Fiona. “Norah, are you out of your mind? You have a massive fever and you didn’t take anything? Why didn’t you call me?” Her voice shook, a mix of fury and pure, raw terror. “If I hadn’t decided to swing by and check on you, you would’ve ended up in the ICU with pneumonia!” “I’m sorry…” I whispered, feeling terrible for worrying her. But my voice was so raspy it sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “Save your breath, your throat is raw,” Fiona snapped, though she gently placed a cool cloth on my forehead. Then she began pacing, muttering under her breath. “And where the hell is Mason? I called him five times and he didn’t even pick up. He used to lose his mind if you so much as sneezed. Now he’s a ghost?” I closed my eyes, remembering our junior year of college. I’d spiked a sudden, terrifying fever in the middle of the night. When Fiona found me, it was 3:00 AM. She couldn’t get me to the clinic alone, so she called Mason. It was the coldest night of the year. Mason had sprinted down the empty, frozen streets with me slung over his back, his voice shaking and raw with tears. “Norah, please stay with me. I’m getting you to the hospital. Just hold on, baby, please, we’re almost there.” By the time we reached the emergency room, he was drenched in sweat, tears streaming down his face, his eyes wide with terror. When I woke up, the nurse had smiled gently. “You’ve got a good one, sweetie. He loves you to pieces. Make sure you hold onto him.” I’d looked through the glass. Mason was slumped in a hard plastic chair in the hallway, his clothes disheveled, fast asleep. “He was terrified his snoring would wake you up,” the nurse added. “No matter how much I told him to sleep in the extra chair in here, he refused. He insisted on staying out there.” Back then, his love was loud, proud, and undeniable. I had thought, in my naive twenty-year-old heart, that I would marry him. I never could have imagined that love could be as fleeting as a firework. Five years. That was all it lasted. I stayed in the hospital for two days. Mason didn’t call once. I didn’t care. On the day I was discharged, I looked at Fiona. “Are you free today? I want to go look at cars.” Fiona stared at me, dumbfounded. “But Mason drives you everywhere. Why do you need a car?” I swallowed hard, then told her everything that had happened over the last few days—including how he’d taken my medicine to give to Sadie. Fiona’s face went red with fury. “Are you kidding me? What an absolute scumbag! He’s basically stepping out on you, and he left you burning up with a fever to play hero to another woman? I hope he rots! Break up with him. Right now!” Breaking up was a given. I’d just been too physically exhausted to handle the logistics. I nodded, pulled out my phone, and sent him a simple, direct breakup text. “Now,” I said, looking up at Fiona. “Will you come car shopping with me?” I didn’t just need a car. I needed a new place to live. Now that we were over, I couldn’t spend another night in his apartment. I wasn’t picky about the car or the apartment. I signed the paperwork for a compact SUV and found a fully furnished loft that was ready for immediate move-in. Once the lease was signed, I treated Fiona to dinner, and then went back to Mason’s apartment to pack my bags. Fiona insisted on waiting in the car downstairs, just in case. I didn’t expect anyone to be home. But when I unlocked the door, I saw Mason sitting on the sofa, his expression dark and stormy. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, his voice tight. “You haven’t been home in two days!” 4 His reaction actually surprised me. I hadn’t realized he still cared whether I came home or not. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. “Why did you leave the sink full of dirty dishes before you left?” he snapped. “The laundry is overflowing, and you didn’t even bother to take out the trash. It’s practically rotting in the hallway.” “Just because you don’t own this place doesn’t mean you can treat it like a dumpster.” I stared at him, listening to his furious accusations, a bitter numbness spreading through my chest. From the very first day I’d moved in, I had quietly taken on the role of keeping this house running. I cooked, I cleaned, I did the laundry. I was even the one who made sure the utility bills were paid on time. How could he stand there and act like I’d done nothing? How could he be so utterly blind to everything I’d contributed? I looked at him, a cold, self-deprecating smile touching my lips. “Mason, am I your maid?” “When you begged me to move in, you promised I wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You said you’d take care of all the housework.” “But the reality is, I’ve done everything. What exactly have you done?” He’d said he hated the smell of grease, so I never asked him to step foot in the kitchen. He’d said he was too exhausted from work, so I never asked him to sweep a floor. I handled it all, believing that he appreciated my quiet efforts. Instead, he just looked at me with deep annoyance. “Sadie manages to keep her place absolutely spotless, and she never complains,” he muttered defensively. “Norah, why can’t you be more like her? Just grow up a little. Stop whining about every little chore. Honestly, with this attitude, who would even want to marry you?” We’d been together for five years. Our friends had asked us countless times when we were finally going to tie the knot. Every time they did, I would look at him, waiting, hoping. I wanted the proposal. I wanted to see myself in his future. But he would always brush it off with a casual smile. “No rush. Let’s wait a bit.” Six simple words to easily dodge the question. The memory made my chest ache, but I managed a quiet laugh. “Mason, we broke up. Whatever happens to me in the future is none of your business.” “I came back today to get my bags, not to listen to your lectures.” Mason’s face shifted through a dozen emotions, settling on a look of sheer disbelief. “Norah, are you actually serious?” “Do you even know—” Before he could finish, there was a light knock on the door. The lock clicked, and Sadie walked in, using her own spare key. “Mason! Are you ready to coach me?” she asked brightly. “I want to practice driving before the evening rush hour hits.” Then, she noticed me standing there. Her cheerful expression faltered, replaced by a delicate, fragile look of concern. “Oh, hi, Norah. You’re back. I… I didn’t mean to intrude. I can just go practice on my own…” “Wait,” Mason cut in, his protective instincts immediately flaring. “I don’t want you driving alone. I’ll come with you.” He turned back to me, his jaw tight. “Norah, think about this carefully. If you walk out that door today, don’t expect me to beg you to come back.” “And don’t expect me to forgive you or try to patch things up.” He turned on his heel and walked out. A small, victorious smile played at the corners of Sadie’s mouth. “We’ll be on our way then, Norah…” she said softly. “Oh, by the way, I left some organic peaches in the fridge. They’re incredibly sweet. Help yourself!” Her tone was so warm, so natural, as if she were the lady of the house welcoming a houseguest. I didn’t say a word. Once the door closed behind them, I went into the bedroom and finished packing my bags. Later that evening, when Mason finally returned, the building’s property manager stopped him in the lobby. “Oh, Mr. Gallagher. Your girlfriend, Norah, removed herself from the building’s community portal today. She said any future maintenance issues should go through you. Could you re-join the thread so we can keep in touch?” Mason froze, the words sinking in like lead. “Why would she leave the portal?” The manager looked at him, completely baffled. “Well… she said you two broke up. Since she doesn’t live here anymore, there was no reason for her to stay in the group.”

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In art class, the teacher told us to draw the sun. I picked up a red crayon and dragged it across the heavy construction paper. Just one stroke. Suddenly, the entire class turned to look at me. It happened in perfect, terrifying unison. The warm smile on Mrs. Gallagher’s face died. “Valerie,” she asked, her voice tight. “Why are you drawing the sun red?” I froze, the waxy stick hovering over the paper. “Isn’t the sun always red?” The moment the words left my mouth, the classroom plunged into a suffocating silence. Thirty pairs of eyes locked onto me, unblinking, heavy with a bizarre, creeping dread. 01 Up until that Tuesday afternoon, I had always considered myself perfectly normal. The sun is red. Blood is red. The grass is green, and the sky is blue. These were universal truths, the kind of absolute certainties you learn in kindergarten. But right now, the way my classmates were looking at me, you’d think I had just confessed to a brutal murder. Mrs. Gallagher was usually the most soft-spoken teacher at school. She was always going on about how color was the universe’s greatest gift to humanity. But now, as she slid my drawing out from under my hands, her fingers were trembling. On the paper sat a half-finished sun. Just a raw, crimson arch. I hadn’t even had the chance to fill it in. She stared at that red semicircle, all the blood draining from her own face. “Valerie, what color do you see when you look at it?” Instinctively, I glanced out the window. The late afternoon sunlight was slicing through the glass. Behind a thin veil of clouds, the sun hung heavy in the sky, glowing like a piece of iron left too long in the forge. Deep, undeniable red. I opened my mouth. Under the desk, Rowan kicked me. Hard. I whipped my head toward him. He didn’t make a sound, but his lips formed one exaggerated, desperate word: Green. The sharp pain in my shin snapped me out of my daze. I swallowed the truth that was sitting on my tongue. “Green,” I lied. But Mrs. Gallagher wasn’t going to let it go. She pushed the plastic box of crayons toward me. “Then why did you reach for the red one?” I stared at the crayons scattered on my desk. The wrappers had their names printed in neat black letters. Crimson. Scarlet. Vermilion. Yet, when the rest of the class looked at those harmless little sticks of wax, their eyes were wide with pure, unfiltered terror. They looked at the box like it was a nest of venomous spiders waiting to strike. “I grabbed the wrong one,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. Mrs. Gallagher looked at me for a long, agonizing time. Out in the hallway, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed. The heavy oak door swung open, and two people in crisp white lab coats stepped in. They wore lanyards marking them as staff from the district medical office, and one of them carried a sleek, silver aluminum case. Someone in the back row gasped softly. Rowan’s hand clamped down on my wrist beneath the desk. His grip was bruising. “Don’t look,” he hissed through clenched teeth. I didn’t understand what he meant. A second later, the medic popped the latches on the silver case and pulled out a heavy cardstock color palette. There were a dozen circular swatches on it. The first was forest green. The second was navy blue. The third was a searing, violent red. The medic held the card right at my eye level. “Valerie. Please state the color of the third circle.” 02 A cold sweat broke out across my back as I stared at that red dot. The truth hit me with the force of a physical blow: The problem wasn’t that I drew the sun the wrong color. The problem was that I could see a color they couldn’t. Or, more accurately, a color they had been trained never to acknowledge. The quiet in the room was absolute. Everyone had stopped breathing, waiting for my sentence. My mind was racing. If I said red, those people in the lab coats were going to take me away. If I said green, they probably wouldn’t believe me. I had already shown my hand. Just then, Rowan stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. “She has low blood sugar,” he said smoothly. Mrs. Gallagher frowned. Rowan didn’t even look at me. He just reached over and picked up the half-eaten granola bar sitting by my notebook. “She skipped breakfast. Her hands have been shaking all period. That’s why she grabbed the wrong crayon.” The medic turned a cold gaze on him. “Please do not interfere with an active Primary Screening, young man.” Rowan held his ground, his expression completely flat. “I’m not interfering. I’m just reminding the faculty that Primaries exhibit dilated pupils, heightened agitation, and an instinctive aversion to green light when exposed to the Contraband Spectrum. Valerie doesn’t have any of those symptoms.” I sat completely still. How did he know all the clinical terminology? The medic was quiet for a moment. Then, he pushed the color card a fraction of an inch closer to my face. “Answer the question.” The third circle was practically touching my nose. Up close, the red seemed to shift. The edges vibrated. A sudden, nauseating illusion washed over me—it wasn’t just a block of color. It looked like an eyelid, squeezed shut. Don’t look. Rowan’s warning echoed in my head. I blinked hard, and when I opened my eyes, I let my gaze unfocus, shifting slightly to the left. “Gray,” I said. The medic’s eyes flickered. “Gray?” Mrs. Gallagher asked, her voice trembling with relief. I nodded. “It looks kind of muddy. Like an ashy gray.” The medic slowly lowered the card and snapped it back into the silver case. “Status: Observation Pending.” I could hear the collective exhale from the classroom. But before the medical team left, one of them peeled a small, neon-green sticker off a sheet and slapped it onto the back of my student ID hanging from my bag. It read: Suspected Primary. Re-evaluation mandated within 24 hours. When the final bell finally rang, nobody rushed the door like they usually did. They stayed glued to their seats until the medics were long gone. Only then did the whispers start. “Did she really draw the Banned Hue?” “Is Primary-sight contagious?” “I heard that if you see red, your eyes split open in the middle of the night.” I gripped the straps of my backpack, my heart pounding so hard my ribs ached. As Rowan walked past my desk to leave, he dropped a single sentence into the space between us. “Don’t go home tonight.” 03 I didn’t listen to him, of course. I had to know if my parents were in on this. On the walk home, I really looked at my city for the first time. I mean, really looked at it. Every billboard lining the highway depicted the sun as a bright, cheerful green. The children’s hospital had a massive banner draped over its entrance: Protect Viridian Vision. Keep the Contraband Spectrum Away. On the bus, the little TV screen played a PSA on a loop. A little girl in a sterile white room picked up a red balloon. In the next frame, thick black liquid was oozing from her tear ducts. A warm, maternal voiceover chimed in: Parents, monitor your child’s optic health. At the first sign of Primary tendencies, contact the Verdant Initiative immediately. A deep chill settled into my bones. These things had always been there. It was like living with a smudge on your glasses—you eventually stop seeing it. My brain had been automatically ironing out the absurdity of the world to make it livable. Until I dragged that red crayon across the paper, the thin membrane of my reality hadn’t torn. When I unlocked the front door, the house smelled like garlic and olive oil. Mom was at the kitchen island, slicing tomatoes. The sharp blade cut through the flesh, and bright crimson juice bled out onto the wooden cutting board. I stared at that puddle of red. “Mom,” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual. “What color are tomatoes?” Her hand stopped in mid-air. She turned her head slowly. “Why would you ask that?” I shrugged, dropping my backpack on a dining chair. “Just talking about color theory in art class.” She studied my face for a few agonizing seconds. Then, a bright, artificial smile stretched across her lips. “Green, sweetie. Obviously.” My stomach dropped. She scraped the chopped tomatoes into a white porcelain bowl. The red juice slid down the sides, vivid and striking. She acted like it was entirely invisible. “Didn’t Mrs. Gallagher teach you that? Most fruits and vegetables fall under the Viridian scale.” I forced a tight smile. “Yeah. She did.” Dad got home right before dinner. He worked as an archivist at the City Observatory and was a man of very few words. I poked at my pasta. “Dad, the sun looked a little weird today.” The clink of his fork hitting the edge of his plate sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room. He looked up. “Weird how?” Mom stopped eating, her eyes darting between us. Suddenly, the recessed lighting in the kitchen felt blindingly harsh. I picked up my water glass, hiding behind it. “Just… greener than usual, I guess.” Dad stared at me for a long time. “The sun is green, Valerie,” he said, his voice heavy with warning. “Stop reading that garbage on the internet.” His tone was sharp, final. Mom immediately jumped in to smooth things over. “She’s just making conversation, Richard. Don’t snap at her.” But that night, when I crept out of my room at 2 AM to get a glass of water, I saw a faint, warm glow seeping out from under my parents’ bedroom door. It wasn’t the harsh white of a lamp. It was red. I held my breath and tiptoed closer. The door was cracked open just an inch. Dad was sitting on the edge of the mattress, holding a rusted vintage tobacco tin. Inside the tin were a few scattered items. A faded crimson hair ribbon. A Polaroid of a sunset. And a red crayon—the exact same brand I had used in class today. Mom was sitting beside him, her face buried in her hands. “She’s seeing it again,” she whispered, her voice breaking. Dad closed the tin, his jaw tight. “I’ll take her to the Verdant Initiative in the morning.” 04 I didn’t sleep. I just watched the digital clock on my nightstand shift from 3:00 to 4:00 to 5:00. Just before dawn, my phone buzzed on the mattress. A text from an unknown number. If you see red, go to the third floor of the old library. My first thought was Rowan. My second thought was that it was a trap. But staying in my bedroom meant a one-way trip to the Verdant Initiative. When I heard Mom’s footsteps approaching my door to wake me up, I had my backpack strapped tight. I slipped out the window, quietly dropping onto the fire escape of the vacant apartment next door. We lived on the third floor. As I scrambled down the rusted iron grating, my foot slipped. I caught myself, but the jagged metal sliced my palm open. Blood welled up immediately. Rich, bright, terrifying red. I hit the alleyway just as an old woman out for a morning walk rounded the corner. She saw me, her eyes dropping to my bleeding hand, and physically recoiled. She wasn’t scared that I had fallen. She was staring at the color. “She’s leaking the Banned Hue!” she gasped, her voice rising in panic. My heart stalled. I took off sprinting. Behind me, her shrieks echoed down the street. “Primary! We have a Primary! She’s contaminated!” The security guard at the end of the block blew his whistle and started chasing me. I threw myself into the morning rush-hour crowd on the sidewalk. People were wearing headphones, drinking coffee—but the second they heard the word Primary, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Drops of my blood hit the pavement. For the first time, I realized the sheer magnitude of the city’s phobia. People yanked out their phones to record me. A man in a suit pulled a can of green aerosol spray from his briefcase and aimed it at the blood on the concrete. The mist settled over the red droplets, instantly neutralizing them into a dull, muddy brown. Like it was eating the color. I ran until my lungs burned, slipping through alleys until I reached the back gates of the high school. Rowan was leaning against the brick wall. When he saw my hand, his casual posture vanished. “Are you insane?” he snapped, grabbing my wrist. “You’re bleeding in broad daylight?” I couldn’t even speak, just gasped for air. He pulled a roll of thick tape from his jacket—olive green—and quickly wrapped it around my palm. Once the crimson was hidden beneath the drab green, the suffocating panic in the air seemed to dissipate. “You sent the text?” I asked, catching my breath. He nodded. “Come with me.” I didn’t move. “Why are you helping me?” Rowan looked at me. Then, he reached up and pinched a contact lens out of his left eye. His natural eye was a pale, striking hazel. But ringing the very outer edge of his iris was a distinct, glowing circle of crimson. “Because I see it too,” he said. 05 The old municipal library had been condemned for years. The city claimed the foundation was failing, but Rowan had picked the locks a long time ago. He led me through the back doors, past rows of rotting, dust-covered bookshelves, and up to the third-floor reading room. Heavy blackout curtains were nailed to the window frames. In the center of the room sat an ancient, humming film projector. The walls were completely plastered in photographs. And everywhere I looked, I saw it. Real, unapologetic red. Sunsets, blooming roses, old American flags, stop signs, blood. The color hit my retinas so hard it almost physically hurt, like a muscle unclinching after years of being locked tight. Tears pricked my eyes. It was overwhelmingly beautiful. Rowan handed me a paper cup of water. “Don’t cry,” he said quietly. “Tears make the Bleed more obvious.” “The Bleed?” He pointed to his left eye. “When you can see the Banned Hue, your eyes start to reflect it. It forms a red ring around the iris. That’s how the Verdant Initiative spots us in crowds.” “But why?” I asked, wiping my face. “Why are they so terrified of a color?” Rowan flipped a switch on the projector. A grainy, pixelated news broadcast flickered onto the blank wall. The timestamp in the corner read seventeen years ago. A news anchor was standing outside an observatory, speaking frantically. …reports globally confirming an anomalous reddening of the solar body. Meteorologists are attributing this to a severe atmospheric refraction event. Officials urge the public to remain calm and stay indoors… The camera cut to the sky. It was a massive, blood-red sun. It was heavier, darker than the sun I had drawn. It looked oppressive. It looked like something behind the light was trying to peer through. The video abruptly cut to static. The next slide was a sterile government graphic. WARNING: Visual exposure to the Crimson Spectrum causes severe neurological decay, aggressive psychosis, and mass hysteria. For your safety, the Verdant Protocol is now active. Rowan killed the projector. The room fell into shadows. “After that day, history was scrubbed. The archives were wiped. They declared the sun was green, and red became illegal. Anyone whose brain still processed the true spectrum was labeled a Primary.” A cold dread coiled in my stomach. “So… the entire world is brainwashed?” “It’s more like a blindfold,” Rowan said, leaning against a desk. “Their optic nerves are still receiving the red light. But their brains have been violently conditioned to reject it. They edit it out in real-time.” I thought of Mom slicing the tomatoes. She wasn’t blind to it. She was lying to herself. Or maybe, her brain was lying to her to keep her safe. 06 Rowan explained that the school ran hidden screenings every year. The kids who failed and got sent to the Verdant Initiative rarely came back the same. If they did, they were quiet. They didn’t laugh too loud, they never got angry, and they wore entirely beige or gray wardrobes. “They call it a ‘Successful Alignment,’” Rowan said bitterly. He pulled a manila folder from a filing cabinet and handed it to me. It was a list of names. At the very bottom, I saw my own. Valerie. Status: Extreme Risk of Secondary Awakening. I stared at the black ink, my blood running cold. “What does a secondary awakening mean?” Before Rowan could answer, the floorboards out in the hallway creaked. We both froze. The library had been boarded up for years. Nobody came here. The footsteps stopped right outside the reading room door. “Valerie. Sweetheart, come out.” It was Mom. My heart hammered against my ribs. Rowan instantly shoved the projector under a tarp and pulled me down behind a massive oak bookcase. The heavy door groaned open. Mom stood in the doorway. She looked exhausted, her hair messy, the dark circles under her eyes stark in the dim light. In her hand, she held the red crayon from my desk. “I know you’re in here,” she said softly. “Don’t listen to Rowan. He’s going to get you killed.” Rowan’s grip on my wrist tightened. Mom took a step into the room. She didn’t look toward the bookcases. She was staring at the walls, at the hundreds of photographs bleeding red. “These things,” she whispered, her voice shaking, “they lie to you.” I couldn’t stop myself. I stood up from behind the bookcase. “What about you, Mom? Why were you hiding this exact same crayon in a lockbox last night?” She flinched as if I’d hit her. Slowly, she turned to me, her eyes welling with tears. “I hid it so you wouldn’t remember, Valerie.” “Remember what?” A tear spilled down her cheek. “When you were six years old, you looked right at it. The Red Sun. And it looked back at you.” A sudden, sharp spike of pain drove through my temples. Flashes of memory, disjointed and bright. A rooftop. Searing red light. Mom screaming, holding me down. Dad yelling at me to keep my eyes shut. “They almost took you away that night,” Mom sobbed. “The Verdant Initiative… they saved you.” Rowan let out a harsh, cynical laugh, stepping out from the shadows. “They severed a piece of her visual cortex. You call that saving her?” Mom’s face twisted in rage. “Shut your mouth!” She raised her hand, pointing the red crayon at him. The moment she did, the wax tip of the crayon began to glow. A deep, unnatural luminescence. And on the walls around us, the red in every single photograph began to physically bleed. Wet, crimson lines dripping down the wallpaper. 07 Rowan grabbed my hand and yanked me toward the fire exit. Mom didn’t chase us. She just stood amidst the bleeding photographs, screaming my name. “Valerie! Do not go to the observatory!” I hesitated, my sneakers skidding on the dust, but Rowan pulled me harder. “Don’t listen to her! The Initiative has her wired!” We burst through the emergency exit and tumbled out into the overgrown alley behind the library. The moment we hit the street, the city’s emergency sirens began to wail. A low, synthetic voice boomed from the PA speakers mounted on the streetlights. Alert. Suspected Primary active in Sector 4. All citizens, maintain Viridian Focus. Do not engage with anomalous light sources. We sprinted toward the high school campus. On the football field, the faculty was already lining the students up. Everyone had their heads bowed, holding up translucent green visors to their faces, filtering out the world. Mrs. Gallagher was standing at the front of the sophomore line. She looked terrified, her face pale and drawn. She saw me running across the periphery. Her lips parted. I braced myself for her to scream, to alert the guards. Instead, she deliberately opened her hand. Her green visor dropped into the grass. On the back of the plastic shield, she had written two words in black marker: WEST WING. Rowan saw it too. “She used to be an oil painter,” he panted as we ran. “She must still have a trace of the Bleed left in her.” We changed direction, sprinting toward the school’s west wing—the old science and photography labs. The campus was crawling with people trying to stop us. Security guards brandishing aerosol cans of green fog. Medics with silver cases. And the ‘Aligned’ students. The Aligned kids were the worst. Their eyes were vacant, flat, but they moved with terrifying, coordinated speed. One of them stepped directly into my path. It was Chloe, the junior class president. She was usually bubbling with anxiety about college apps. Now, she just stared at me, her face a blank mask. “The old sight only brings pain, Valerie,” she recited monotonously. “The cure makes it better.” She lunged, her fingers curled into claws, aiming straight for my eyes.

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